transcriber's note: obvious mis-spellings and printing errors have been corrected. table of contents, list of illustrations and page numbers, each of which is not included in the original, are supplied. illustration captions marked with ° are supplied. all other inconsistencies are as in the original.} [illustration] true stories of wonderful deeds pictures and stories for little folk [illustration] chicago m.a. donohue & company. 407-429 dearborn street. table of contents page the royal oak 2 bonnie prince charlie 5 nelson and hardy 7 watt and the kettle 9 queen victoria and her soldiers 11 the relief of lucknow 13 grace darling 15 david livingstone 17 the battle of waterloo 19 the charge of the light brigade 22 the coronation of king edward vii 24 war 26 a boy's heroic deeds 28 a cat's extraordinary leap 31 a brave queen 33 king alfred and the cakes 36 not angles, but angels 38 hereward the wake 40 canute 42 the brave men of calais 44 wat tyler 47 bruce and the spider 50 richard and blondel 53 the white ship 55 joan of arc 57 afloat with a tiger 59 queen margaret and the robbers 63 william caxton 67 sir philip sidney 69 the "revenge" 73 the pilgrim fathers 75 guy fawkes 77 cromwell and his ironsides 79 the spanish armada 81 the defence of lathom house 84 the outlawed archers 86 elizabeth and raleigh 88 list of illustrations page king charles in hiding 1 king charles in the oak 4 prince charles at the battle of culloden 6 nelson on the "victory" at trafalgar 8 watching the boiling kettle 10 queen victoria visits her wounded soldiers 12 the highlanders entering lucknow 14 grace darling rows out to the wreck 16 the meeting of stanley and livingstone 18 british soldiers at the battle of waterloo 20 the charge of the light brigade 21 aftermath of battle° 23 king edward vii and queen alexandria 25 spying on indians° 27 saved from the flood 28 queen boadicea 32 queen boadicea and her soldiers 35 king alfred forgets the cakes 37 the english prisoners at rome 39 hereward and his men attack the normans 41 canute orders the tide to stop 43 queen phillipa pleads for the men of calais 45 the men of calais are spared° 46 wat tyler° 47 young king richard quells the rebellion 49 bruce watching the spider 51 richard lion heart fighting in the holy land 52 blondel sings beneath richard's window 54 prince william returns to save his sister 56 joan at the head of the army 58 afloat with a tiger° 60 the robbers discover queen margaret and the prince 64 the robber brings help to queen margaret 66 caxton in his printing shop 68 sir philip sidney° 69 martyred for praying° 70 sir philip sidney and the dying soldier 72 death of sir richard grenville° 74 the pilgrim fathers entering the new world 76 the arrest of guy fawkes 78 cromwell leads his ironsides to battle 80 drake is told that the armada is approaching 82 the little "revenge" fights fifty spanish galleons 83 the countess receives the banners 85 cloudsey shoots an apple from the head of his son° 87 raleigh spreads his cloak before elizabeth 89 [illustration: king charles in hiding] =the royal oak= there is in shropshire a fine oak-tree which the country people there call the "royal oak". they say it is the great-grandson, or perhaps the great-great-grandson of another fine old oak, which more than two hundred years ago stood on the same spot, and served once as a shelter to an english king. this king was charles ii, the son of the unlucky charles i who had his head cut off by his subjects because he was a weak and selfish ruler. on the very day on which that unhappy king lost his head, the parliament passed a law forbidding anyone to make his son, prince charles of wales, or any other person, king of england. but the scottish people did not obey this law. they persuaded the young prince to sign a paper, solemnly promising to rule the country as they wished; then they crowned him king. as soon as the parliament heard of this they sent cromwell and his ironsides against the newly-crowned king and his followers, and after several battles the scottish army was at last broken up and scattered at worcester. charles fled and hid in a wood, where some poor wood-cutters took care of him and helped him. he put on some of their clothes, cut his hair short, and stained his face and hands brown so that he might appear to be a sunburnt workman like them. but it was some time before he could escape from the wood, for cromwell's soldiers were searching it in the hope of finding some of the king's men. one day, charles and two of his friends had to climb into the tall oak to avoid being caught. they had with them some food, which proved very useful, for they were obliged to stay in their strange hiding-place for a whole day. the top of the oak-tree had been cut off some few years before this time, and this had made the lower branches grow thick and bushy, so that people walking below could not easily see through them. it was a fortunate thing for charles, for while he was in the tree, he heard the soldiers beating the boughs and bushes in the wood as they searched here and there, and even caught glimpses of them through the leaves as they rode about below. when they had gone, without even glancing up into the tall oak-tree, he came down, and rode away from the wood on an old mill-horse, with his friends the wood-cutters walking beside him to take care of him as best they could. the saddle was a poor one, and the horse's pace jolted charles so much, that at last he cried out that he had never seen so bad a steed. at this the owner of the horse jestingly told him that he should not find fault with the poor animal, which had never before carried the weight of three kingdoms upon its back. he meant, of course, that charles was king of the three kingdoms of england, and scotland, and ireland. carried by the old horse, and helped by the poor wood-cutters, charles at last reached the house of a friend. here he hid for a time, and then went on to try and escape from the country. this time, so that he might not be discovered, he was dressed as a servant, and rode on horseback, with a lady sitting on a cushion behind him, as was then the fashion. after several more dangers he managed to get on board a ship and sailed away to france. [illustration: king charles in the oak] =bonnie prince charlie= prince charlie was the grandson of king james ii, who was driven away from the throne of england because he was a selfish man and a bad ruler. the young prince tried to win the crown back again. he came over to scotland from france, with only seven followers; but soon a great many of the scots joined him, for he was so gay, and handsome, and friendly, that all who saw him loved him. they called him "bonnie prince charlie". but though the prince and his followers were very brave, they had no chance against the well-trained soldiers of king george of england. they won a few victories; then they were thoroughly beaten in the battle of culloden. thousands of brave scots were slain, and the prince had to fly for his life. after this, for many weeks, he hid among the moors and mountains from the english soldiers who were trying to find him. he lived in small huts, or in caves, and many times had nothing but the wild berries from the woods to eat. once he stayed for three weeks with a band of robbers, who were very kind to him; and though the king offered a large sum of money to anyone who would give him up, not one of his poor friends was false to him. at last, a young and beautiful scottish lady, named flora macdonald, helped him to escape. she gave him woman's clothes, and pretended that he was her servant, called betty burke. then she took him with her away from the place where the soldiers were searching, and after a time he reached the sea, and got safely away to france. [illustration: prince charlie at the battle of culloden] =nelson and hardy= lord nelson was one of the greatest seamen that ever lived. he commanded the british fleet at the battle of trafalgar, when the navies of france and spain were beaten, and england was saved from a great danger. he did not look like a famous admiral on board his ship, the _victory_, that day. he was a small man, and his clothes were shabby. he had lost one arm and one eye in battle; but with the eye which remained he could see more than most men with two, and his brain was busy planning the course of the coming fight. just before it began, he went over his ship, giving orders to the crew, and cheering them with kind words, which touched the hearts of the rough men, who loved their leader and were proud of him. "england expects every man to do his duty" was the last message he sent them. every man did his duty nobly that day, though the battle was fierce and long; but it was the last fight of the brave commander. he was shot in the back as he walked the deck with his friend captain hardy, and was carried below. he lay dying for several hours, but, in spite of his great pain, his one thought was of the battle. "how goes the day with us?" he asked of hardy; and when told that many of the enemies' ships were taken, he cried eagerly, "i am glad. whip them, hardy, as they have never been whipped before." later, when his friend came to tell him that the victory was won, nelson pressed his hand. "good-bye, hardy!" said he, "i have done my duty, and i thank god for it." these were the last words of one of england's bravest sons. [illustration: nelson on the "victory" at trafalgar] =watt and the kettle= there was once a little scotch boy named james watt. he was not a strong child, and could not always run and play with other boys, but had often to amuse himself at home. one holiday afternoon little james amused himself in this way. he held a saucer over the stream of steam which came from the spout of a boiling kettle, and as he watched he saw little drops of water forming on the saucer. he thought this was very strange, and wondered why it happened, for he did not know that steam is just water changed in form by the heat, and that as soon as it touches something cold it turns again into water. he asked his aunt to explain it, but she only told him not to waste his time. if she could have foreseen the work which her nephew would do when he became a man, she would not have thought he was wasting his time. when james watt grew up, he was as much interested in steam and its wonderful power, as he had been as a boy. he was sure it could be made of great service to men. it was already used for driving engines, but the engines were not good, and it cost much money to work them. watt thought they could be improved, but it was long before he found out the way to do this. often, he sat by the fire watching the lid of the kettle as it was made to dance by the steam, and thinking of many plans; and at last a happy thought came to him. his plan enabled great improvements to be made in the working of engines, and now steam drives our trains and ships, our mills and factories, and is one of our most useful servants. [illustration: watching the boiling kettle] =queen victoria and her soldiers= queen victoria was always proud of her brave soldiers. in time of war, she gave orders that news of them was to be sent to her every day, and when the generals returned home, they were commanded to visit her, and to tell her of the bravery of the troops. during the long war with the russians in the crimea, the british soldiers suffered greatly from the freezing winds, and rain, and snow, of that cold land. when queen victoria heard of this, she and her children worked with their own hands to make warm clothing for them. a great many of the wounded and sick men were sent home in ships, to be nursed in the english hospitals, and the queen paid several visits to the poor fellows as they lay there. moving from one bed to another, she cheered them with hopeful words, and listened gladly to their stories of the battles in which they had fought. when she saw that the hospitals were crowded, and not very comfortable, she told parliament that better ones ought to be provided, and after a time this was done, and the fine hospital of netley was built, of which the queen laid the first stone. once, queen victoria herself gave medals to some wounded and disabled soldiers who had fought very bravely. some of these men could not raise their arms to salute their queen; some could not walk, but had to be wheeled in chairs to her side; but all were proud to receive their medals of honour from her hands. "noble fellows," she wrote of them afterwards, "i feel as if they were my own children." [illustration: queen victoria visits her wounded soldiers] =the relief of lucknow= during the time of the terrible indian mutiny, when most of the native troops rose against their british rulers, and vowed to kill every white person in the land, many cruel deeds were done. a great number of white people were slain before the british troops could come to their rescue, but in some places they managed to hold out until help reached them. this was the case in the city of lucknow, where the british governor with a small body of troops, and a great many women and children, took refuge in the government house from a vast host of rebels who came to attack them. many of the brave defenders were killed by the shot and shell of the enemy. many others, and especially the little children, fell sick and died, for the heat was very great, and there was no good water to be had. then, after many days, a small body of white soldiers fought their way into the city, and brought help and hope to the rest of the party. they were only just in time. had they come a few days later they would have found the government house a heap of ruins, and their friends dead, for the rebels were making a mine under the building and meant to blow it up with gunpowder. but alas! the newcomers were not strong enough to fight their way out of lucknow with a crowd of helpless women and children and sick folk, so they, too were now shut in. for two months longer they held out. then at last, when they had almost lost hope, the great sir colin campbell with his brave highlanders and other soldiers defeated the rebels, and brought the band of sick, starving, and weary people safely away. [illustration: the highlanders entering lucknow] =grace darling= on a small rocky island, off the north coast of england, there is a lighthouse. a man named william darling was once keeper of this lighthouse, and his daughter grace lived with him. every day grace darling helped her father to trim the lamps, so that at night they might shine brightly, and warn sailors to steer their ships away from the dangerous rocks, upon which they would have been dashed to pieces. one stormy night grace woke with the sound of screams in her ears. the screams came from the sea, so she knew that some ship must be in distress. she roused her father, but they could see nothing in the darkness. when daylight came, they found that a ship had been wrecked upon the rocks some way off, and a few people were clinging to the masts. grace wished to go at once in a boat to save them; but at first her father hung back, for the wind and sea were wild, and he feared that the small boat would be overturned by the great waves. then grace ran to the boat, and seized an oar, for she could not bear to let the poor men die without trying to save them; and the father could not let his brave, daughter go alone, so he followed, and they rowed off. it was hard work pulling against the strong sea, and several times the small boat was almost sunk. but at last it reached the wreck, and william darling managed to land upon the rock, and with great care and skill helped the half-frozen people into the small boat. then they were taken to the lighthouse, where grace warmed and fed them, until the storm ceased, and they could return to their homes. [illustration: grace darling rows out to the wreck] =david livingstone= at one time many people believed that the middle of africa was a sandy desert, where nothing could live but camels and ostriches. but they were mistaken. the great traveller, david livingstone, journeyed into this unknown country, and he found that it was not a desert but a beautiful land, where many tribes of black people dwelt. he also saw that these people were often seized by strangers, and taken away to be sold as slaves. this sight filled him with sadness, and he made up his mind to put a stop to this cruel traffic. he worked hard, tracing the courses of the rivers, finding the best tracts of land, and teaching the natives. then he urged his countrymen to send others after him to settle in this fair country, to help the natives to learn useful trades, and to drive away the slave-merchants. for some years he was quite alone, with his black servants, in the midst of this wild land. his friends grew anxious, and sent mr. stanley, another great traveller, to look for him. stanley marched for nearly a year before he found livingstone. the old explorer was white and worn with sickness and hardship, and he was overjoyed to clasp once more the hand of a white man, and to hear again the english tongue. but he would not return to england. he said his work was not yet done, and he set out once more on his travels. it was his last journey. one morning his servants found him dead upon his bed. since that time much has been done to make central africa a prosperous land. other white men have followed where livingstone led, and wherever they have settled, the wicked slave-trade has been stopped. [illustration: the meeting of stanley and livingstone] =the battle of waterloo= fields of waving corn, green woods, fruitful orchards, a pretty farmhouse and a few cottages--such was the plain of waterloo. and there, on a summer sunday, nearly a hundred years ago, was fought a famous battle, in which the british troops under the duke of wellington beat the french army, and broke the power of the great napoleon for ever. "we have them," cried napoleon as he saw the british drawn up before him. he thought it would be easy to destroy this army, so much smaller than his own, before their friends the prussians, who were on the way to help them, came up. but he was mistaken. wellington had placed his foot-soldiers in squares, and though the french horsemen, then the finest soldiers in the world, charged again and again, these little clumps of brave men stood fast. on his favourite horse "copenhagen", wellington rode to and fro cheering his men. "stand firm, my lads," cried he. "what will they say to this in england?" not till evening, when the prussians came, would he allow them to charge the french in their turn. then, waving his cocked hat over his head, he gave the order, "the whole line will advance", and the impatient troops dashed forward. the french bravely tried to stand against this terrific charge, but they were beaten back, and the battle of waterloo was ended. sixty thousand men lay dead or wounded under the fruit-trees, and among the trampled corn and grass at the end of that terrible day. [illustration: british soldiers at the battle of waterloo] [illustration: the charge of the light brigade] =the charge of the light brigade= forward the light! such was the order given during a great battle to the leader of a band of six hundred british soldiers. forward! and there in front was a line of cannon ready to shoot them down as they came, while on the hills on either side of the valley were the guns and riflemen of the russians. "surely someone has blundered! my men are sent to certain death," thought the leader of the light brigade. "forward! attack!" the order was repeated, and with the obedience of well-trained soldiers the brigade started. "theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die: into the valley of death rode the six hundred." on every side thundered the enemy's guns, and shot and shell fell thick and fast, but on through all rode the brave horsemen, on till they reached the cannon at the end of the valley. the smoke of the enemy's fire closed round and hid them from their watching comrades, but now and again the scarlet lines could be seen cutting down those who tried to stop their charge. "flashed all their sabres bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wonder'd." [illustration: aftermath of battle°] and then only, when the strange order had been obeyed, when their duty had been nobly done in the face of death, did the light brigade--all that was left of it--turn to ride back. alas! there were not then six hundred. barely two hundred brave men, wounded, and blackened by smoke and powder, reached the british camp. the rest of the noble band lay dead or dying in the valley of death. "when can their glory fade? o the wild charge they made! all the world wonder'd. honour the charge they made! honour the light brigade, noble six hundred!" =the coronation of king edward vii= never had a country a more popular king than king edward vii, nor a more gracious queen than queen alexandra, and never was a happier day for the english people than that on which king edward was crowned. a few days before the date fixed for the coronation the king suddenly became ill, and a great gloom fell over the country, for it was feared that he might never be crowned. but though his illness was severe he soon began to get better, and when he was out of danger the hearts of his subjects were filled with joy and thankfulness. guns were fired, church-bells pealed, and glad shouts and cheers rang out from the happy crowds which lined the streets of london, through which the king and queen, in the midst of their gay procession, drove to westminster abbey. inside the gray old abbey was one of the most brilliant gatherings the world has ever seen. princes and princesses from other lands were there, in their robes of state; peers and peeresses, in velvet, and ermine, and glittering diamonds; grave statesmen; and soldiers in their gay uniforms. it was a grand and solemn scene when, before them all, the aged archbishop of canterbury drew near to the king, and with trembling hands placed the crown upon his head. "the lord give you a fruitful country, and healthful seasons, victorious fleets and armies, and a quiet empire." these are the words that the old man said when he had crowned the king, and each one of us will pray that all these blessings may indeed rest upon king edward vii, and the great empire over which he rules. [illustration: king edward vii and queen alexandra] =war.= over the broad, fair valley, filling the heart with fear, comes the sound of tramping horses, and the news of danger near. 'tis the enemy approaching, one can hear the muffled drum, and the marching of the soldiers, as on and on they come. soon the air is rent in sunder, bullets flying sharp and fast, many stout hearts fail and tremble, every moment seems their last. on the ground lie dead and dying, young and old alike must fall; none to come and aid the sufferer, fight they must for freedom's call. many are the anxious loved ones praying for the war to cease, waiting for the right to conquer, bringing freedom, rest, and peace. e.s. [illustration: spying on indians°] a boy's heroic deeds. may 31st, 1889, is a day that will long be remembered with horror by the people in the beautiful valley of the conemaugh, in pennsylvania. on that date occurred the terrible disaster which is known to the world and will be named in history as the "johnstown flood." [illustration: saved from the flood.] for many days previous to that date it had been raining hard, and great floods extended over a vast region of country in pennsylvania, new york and the district of columbia. never before had there been such a fall of rain in that region within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. the waters in the river and creeks of that beautiful valley rose rapidly and overflowed their banks, while the people looked on in wonder, but seemingly not in fear. suddenly there appeared to their wondering gaze a great bay horse galloping at break-neck speed and bearing a rider who waved his hands to them and cried: "south fork dam will burst. to the hills for your lives." only a few heeded his words of warning, while many mocked and jeered. on dashed the rider to warn still others of the impending danger, and, alas, to be himself and horse dashed to death by the massive timbers of a falling bridge. south fork dam did break, and the mighty waters of conemaugh lake were hurled with resistless force upon the doomed people of that beautiful valley. the terrible details of the appalling disaster would fill several volumes larger than this. on rushed the mighty waters, sweeping onward in their flood dwellings, churches and buildings of every description, whether of wood, brick or stone, until johnstown was reached and destroyed. the town was literally lifted from its foundations. thousands of men, women and children were caught up and swirled away in the pitiless flood, and their agonizing but vain appeals for help could be heard amidst the mighty roar of the waters. many acts of heroism were performed by brave men and women--yes, and boys--in rescuing victims of the flood. only one of them concerns us here. charles hepenthal, a schoolboy, seventeen years of age, who was on his way to bellefonte from his home at east liberty, pa., on the evening of the flood, stood quietly among the passengers on the express train, as they crowded to view the terrible havoc done by the flood. as the flood reached the train, at sang hollow, a small frame house came pitching down the mad tide, an eddy floated it in, near to the train, so close that the wailing cries of an infant were heard, piercing their way through the roar. charles hepenthal's heart was touched and his courage was equal to the emergency. he determined to rescue that little wailing waif from a watery grave. strong men urged him to desist, insisting that he would only sacrifice his own life for nothing--that it was impossible for any one to survive in the surging waters. but the boy was resolved. he cut the bell cord from the cars, tied it fast to his body, and out into the whirling gulf he went; he gained the house, secured the infant and returned through the maddened waters with the rescued babe in his arms. a shout went up from the passengers on the train. "wait!" he cried; "there is still another in the house, i must save her!" and, seizing a plank to use as a support, he plunged again into the surging waters. ah! his struggle this time was harder, for his precious load was heavy. in the floating house on his first visit he found a little girl, apparently ten years old, disrobed and kneeling beside her bed, on which lay the screaming infant, praying to her father in heaven to save her and her baby brother from the fury of the flood. "god has heard my prayer," she cried, as charles entered the door. "oh, save the baby, quick," and then fainted away on the floor. when charles had landed the babe in safety and returned again for the girl, he found her still unconscious on the floor, and the water was fast flowing in at the door. in another minute she would have been drowned. but the brave boy's manly arms were soon around her, and with his precious load the young hero fought his way back to land and was given three times three cheers and a "tiger" by the passengers of the day express. a cat's extraordinary leap. in the latter part of 1880, at a time when the washington monument had reached a height of 160 feet, an adventurous and patriotic cat ascended the interior of the shaft by means of the ropes and tubing. when the workmen arrived at the upper landing the next morning, and began to prepare for the day's work, pussy took fright and, springing to the outer edge, took a "header" of 160 feet to the hard earth below. in the descent which was watched closely by two score of men, the cat spread herself out like a flying squirrel and alighted on all fours. after turning over on the ground a few times in a dazed manner, she prepared to leave the grounds and had gotten almost beyond the shadow of the monument, when a dog belonging to one of the workmen pounced upon her and killed her, she, of course, not being in her best running trim, after performing such an extraordinary feat. one of the men procured the body of the dead feline, smoothed out her silky coat, and turned the remains over to a representative of the smithsonian institution, who mounted the skin and placed it under a glass case. the label on the case tells this wonderful story in a few words: "this cat on september 23, 1880, jumped from the top of washington's monument and lived." [illustration: queen boadicea] =a brave queen= long ago, when this country was a wild land, there lived a beautiful and brave queen named boadicea. her husband, the king, was dead, but she had two daughters whom she loved very much. boadicea was queen of a part of britain. there were no large towns in her land, but there were forests of fine trees, and fields of corn, and wide stretches of grass-land where many cattle and sheep roamed and fed. her people were called iceni. they were tall and strong, with blue eyes and yellow hair. the men were brave fighters and good hunters. they hunted the bears and wolves which lived in the forests, and they fought the foes of their beautiful queen. they made spears to fight with, and strange carts called war-chariots to fight in. these chariots were drawn by swift horses, and, upon the wheels, long sharp knives were fixed. the iceni drove the chariots very fast among their foes, and the knives cut down and killed many of them. the romans from over the sea were the most dangerous enemies of boadicea and her people. in those days the romans were the best fighters, and the strongest and wisest people in the world. they came in ships to britain. they had been told that it was a good country, and they hoped to take it for themselves. some of them came to boadicea's land, and took a part of it and of her riches. and when she tried to stop them from doing this, they seized her and the two princesses and beat them cruelly. this wicked act made the iceni very angry. from all parts of the land, fierce fighting-men came marching in haste to avenge themselves on their enemies, bringing with them their spears and their war-chariots. when all were gathered together, they fell upon the romans. there were so many of them, and they were so fierce, that the romans could not stand against them. thousands were killed, and the rest ran away to their ships. but there were many more romans in other parts of britain, and when these heard how their friends had been beaten, they came marching in haste to punish the iceni. the iceni did their best to get ready to defend themselves, but many of their brave men had been slain and others were wounded and weary, so they could not hope again to win a victory over their strong foes. before the battle, queen boadicea, with her fair hair waving in the wind, stood before her soldiers and spoke to them. she told them of the wrong which the romans had done, and begged them to fight bravely for their country. then she got into her chariot, and with her daughters lying at her feet, drove to and fro, so that all might see them. and the soldiers shouted, and promised to fight to the end for their brave queen. they did fight long and bravely, until most of them were killed, but their foes were too strong for them. when queen boadicea saw that her brave soldiers were beaten, she drank some poison which killed her. she thought it better to die than to be again taken prisoner by the cruel romans. [illustration: queen boadicea and her soldiers] =king alfred and the cakes= once, when good king alfred of england was forced to flee from his strong foes the danes, he hid himself in a wood. in this wood, there was a small cottage, and alfred asked the woman who lived there if he might go in and rest. now the woman did not know the king, but she saw that he was an english soldier, and that he was very tired, so she let him come in and sit in her kitchen. upon the hearth before the fire, some cakes were baking, and the woman told the stranger that if he watched them, and took care that they did not burn, she would give him some supper. then she went away to do her work. at first, king alfred watched the cakes carefully; when they were well cooked on one side he turned the other to the fire. but, after a time, he began to think of his country, and of his poor people, and then he forgot his task. when the woman came back, the cakes were black and burnt. "you are an idle fellow," cried she angrily. "you would be quite ready to eat the cakes, but you will not take the trouble to watch them." while she was loudly scolding, her husband came home. he knew king alfred. "hush, wife!" cried he. "it is our noble lord the king!" when the woman heard this, she was much afraid, and she begged alfred to forgive her. the king smiled, and said: "i will gladly forgive you for your scolding, good wife, if you will forgive me for spoiling your supper." [illustration: king alfred forgets the cakes] =not angles, but angels= in old days the people of england were not all free, as they are now. sometimes young men, and women, and little children were sold as slaves, and had to work hard for their masters. many of these slaves were sent to rome, for the romans thought the tall, fair angles very beautiful, and liked to have them as their servants. once, a wise and good preacher, named gregory, was walking through the market-place in rome, when he saw a group of slaves standing there, waiting to be bought. among these slaves were some pretty boys with long yellow hair, and blue eyes, and white skin. this was a strange sight to gregory, for most of the people in his land had dark hair, and brown skin. "who are these boys?" asked he of a man who was standing by. "they are angles from over the sea," replied the man. "surely not angles, but angels," said the preacher, looking kindly into the boys' faces. "do they come from england?" "from heathen england, where men do not know the true god," said the man. "some day they shall be taught to know god, and then indeed they shall be angels," said gregory. now gregory did not go away and forget this. when he became a great man and bishop of rome, he sent a good preacher, named augustine, to england, to preach to the people there, and to teach them to be christians. [illustration: the english prisoners at rome] =hereward the wake= when william of normandy came over the sea, and took the crown of england, many english people would not call him king. the young lord hereward was one of these. he and his men made for themselves a "camp of refuge" among the reeds and rushes on the marshes. all day they lay there, hidden from view by the mists which rose from the watery ground, and at night they came out, and attacked the normans in their tents, and burned their towns. hereward was called "the wake" because he was so watchful and wide-awake that the normans could not catch him. they were always trying to find him, but they did not know the safe paths over the marshes which he and his men used, and when they tried to cross, they sank with their horses in the soft muddy ground, and had to turn back. but at last a false friend of the english showed them the way to the "camp of refuge", and then hereward had to flee to save his life. he went with a few friends to the sea-shore, and there he found some fishermen who were going to sell fish to the norman guards in an english town. the fishermen took hereward and his men into their boats, and covered them with straw; then they set sail. the norman guards bought the fish as usual, and had it served for dinner. while they were eating it, the english soldiers came quietly from the boats, and killed most of them before they could get their swords to defend themselves. when the english people in the place saw this, they gladly joined hereward and made him master of their town. [illustration: hereward and his men attack the normans] =canute= there was once a king of england, named canute, who was a brave and clever man. but he had many lords in his court who were very foolish. they feared their master, and wished to please him, and because they knew that he was somewhat vain of his strength and cleverness, they thought he would like to be told that he was great, and wise, and powerful. so they praised him every day, and told him that all he did and all he said was good. they said he was the greatest king on earth, and there was nothing in the world too hard for him to do if he chose. at last king canute tired of their vain words. one day, as he walked with his lords on the sea-shore, one of them told him that even the waves would obey him. "bring a chair," said canute, "and place it close to the water." the chair was brought, and set upon the sand, and the king sat down and spoke to the waves. "i command you to come no farther," cried he. but the waves came on and on, until they wetted canute's feet, and splashed his chair. then the king rose and went to his lords, who were standing a little way off, staring at their master, and talking in low tones about his strange conduct. "learn from this to keep your tongues from idle praise," said he sternly. "no king is great and powerful but god. he only can say to the sea: 'thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.'" [illustration: canute orders the tide to stop] =the brave men of calais= many years ago, king edward iii of england took the town of calais from the french king. he could not take it by force, for the walls were very strong, but he succeeded by another plan. he placed his soldiers all round the walls, and would let no one go into the town to take food to the people. inside the walls, the people waited bravely, but at last all their food was eaten, and then they knew that if they tried to hold the town any longer they would starve. so the governor sent word to king edward that he would give up the city, and begged him to have mercy on the people. but edward was angry. "tell your masters," said he to the messenger, "that i will not spare the people unless six of the chief men come out to me, with their feet bare, and ropes around their necks." at this sad news, the poor starving people cried aloud. but soon six brave men were found who were ready to die for their countrymen, and, with their feet bare and ropes around their necks, they went out to the place where king edward was waiting, with queen philippa and the english nobles. "great king!" said the men, "we bring you the keys of our town, and we pray you to have mercy on us." but the king would not listen. "take them away and cut off their heads," he cried angrily. and when his nobles begged him to spare such brave enemies he would not listen to them. [illustration: queen philippa pleads for the men of calais] then queen philippa, whose heart was filled with pity for the poor men, fell upon her knees. "my lord," she cried, "if you love me, give me the lives of these men." king edward could not bear to see his beautiful queen in tears upon the ground, so he raised her, saying: "lady, i wish you had not been here, for i cannot say you nay. take the men, they are yours." then queen philippa joyfully led the brave men away, and gave them food and clothes, and sent them back to their friends. so they, and all the people of calais, were saved. [illustration: the men of calais are spared°] [illustration: wat tyler°] =wat tyler= in our days, all people in our land, except prisoners, are free to go where they will, and to do what work they please. in olden times it was not so. then, the poorer people were treated like slaves by the nobles; they had to work hard for their masters, and they were not allowed to move from one place to another without asking leave. this was hard, and it made the people very angry. in the days of the boy-king richard ii, a great many workmen made up their minds to obey the nobles no longer. they banded themselves together in a large army, chose a man named wat tyler for their leader, and marched to london. the mayor of london tried to stop them, by pulling up the drawbridge which crossed the river thames, but they forced him by threats to let it down again. then they rushed through the streets of london, frightening all the people they met by their wild looks and cries. they broke open the prisons, and set the prisoners free, and burned the palaces of the nobles, but they killed no man and robbed none. the nobles were much alarmed. with young king richard at their head, they rode out to meet this army, and to ask the people what they wanted. "we want to be free, and we want our children to be free after us," said wat tyler. "i promise you that you shall have your wish, if you will return quietly to your homes," said the king. at this, the people shouted with joy, and all might have been well; but the mayor, seeing wat tyler raise his hand, and fearing that he was going to strike the king, drew his sword, and killed the leader of the people. then the joyful shouts changed to cries and growls of anger. arms were raised, and the crowd began to press forward. in a minute the little band of nobles would have been attacked, but the boy-king saw the danger. boldly riding to meet the angry people, he put himself at their head. "what need ye, my masters?" cried he. "i am your captain and your king. follow me." the crowd stopped, surprised by this bold act; the loud cries ceased, and swords and staves were lowered. these rough men did not wish to harm their young sovereign, but to free him from the nobles who gave him evil counsel. they were greatly pleased to find him upon their side, and, with perfect trust and loyalty, they followed where he led; and so for a time the danger was past. [illustration: young king richard quells the rebellion] =bruce and the spider= robert bruce, king of scotland, sad and weary, lay upon the floor of a lonely cave among the hills. his mind was full of anxious thoughts, for he was hiding from the english soldiers, who sought to take him--alive or dead--to their king. the brave scots had lost many battles, and bruce began to fear that he would never make his dear country free. "i will give up trying," said he. just then a spider, hanging from the roof of the cave, by a long thread, swung before the king's eyes, and he left his gloomy thoughts to see what the little creature would do. the spider began to climb its thread slowly, pulling itself up little by little; but it had gone only a short way, when it slipped and fell to the end once more. again and again it started to climb, and again and again it slipped back, until it had fallen six times. "surely the silly little creature will now give up trying to climb so fine a thread," thought bruce. but the spider did no such thing. it started on its upward journey yet a seventh time, and this time it did not fall. up it went, inch by inch, higher and higher, until at last it reached the roof, and was safely at home. "bravo!" cried the king. "the spider has taught me a lesson. i too will try until i win." bruce kept his word. he led his brave men to battle, again and again, until at last the english were driven back to their own land, and scotland was free. [illustration: bruce watching the spider] [illustration: richard lion heart fighting in the holy land] =richard and blondel= in a gloomy prison, in a foreign land, lay richard i, king of england. he had been with some other kings to a great war in the holy land, where he had won battles, and taken cities, and gained much honour. men called him richard lion-heart, because he was as brave as a lion in fighting, and his soldiers loved him and would follow him into any danger. one strong city, called acre, held out for nearly two years against the armies of the other kings, but when richard arrived it gave way almost at once. because of his bravery, and his many victories, all men praised king richard, and this made some of the other kings hate him, for they were jealous that he should have more honour than they. when he was on his way back to england, one of these envious men seized him secretly, and threw him into prison. and now poor richard could fight no more, nor could he see the blue sky, and the green fields which he loved. one day, as he sat sad and lonely in his prison, he heard a voice singing, beneath the window. he started. "surely," said he, "that is the voice of my old friend blondel, and that is the song we used to sing together." when the song was ended, the king sang it again in a low voice. then there was a joyful cry from the man outside, and richard knew that it was indeed his friend. blondel had journeyed many days seeking his lost master. now he hastened to england, and told the people where to find their king, and very soon richard was set free, and went back to his own land. [illustration: blondel sings beneath richard's window] =the white ship= the night was dark, and a stormy wind was blowing, when the _white ship_ set sail from the shore of france. prince william of england and his sister and their young friends were going back to their own land, after a visit to the french king. the english king, henry i, with his courtiers, had sailed earlier, and had now almost reached home. but the prince would not go with them, he wished to make merry before starting. there had been eating, and drinking, and dancing, and singing on board the _white ship_, and everyone was merry. but the sailors had drunk so much wine that they could not see to steer aright. soon there was a crash, and the ship trembled. it had struck a rock, and was sinking. then the sounds of merriment were changed to cries of fear. "save us!" shrieked the terrified people. "save the prince," cried the captain, "the rest of us must die!" there was only one small boat on the ship, and prince william was put into this, and rowed away. but he had not gone far, when he heard his sister crying to him to save her. "go back!" shouted he. the boat was rowed back, but when it came near the ship, so many people jumped into it, that it was overturned and all in it were drowned. soon the _white ship_ sank also, and of all the gay company upon it only one man was saved. when king henry heard that his only son was dead, he was very sorrowful, and it is said that no man ever again saw a smile upon his face. [illustration: prince william returns to save his sister] =joan of arc= in a village in the green country of france, there once lived a girl named joan. she spent her days in sewing and spinning, and in minding her father's sheep. at that time there was a sad war in france, and the english had won many battles. joan was grieved to hear of the trouble of her country. she thought of it night and day, and one night she dreamt that an angel came, and told her to go and help the french prince. when joan told her friends of this dream, they laughed at her. "how can a poor girl help the prince?" asked they. "i do not know," replied joan; "but i must go, for god has sent me." so she went to the prince, and said: "sir, my name is joan. god has sent me to help you to win the crown of france." they gave joan a suit of white armour, and a white horse, and set her at the head of the army. she led the soldiers to fight, and the rough men thought she was an angel, and fought so bravely that they won many battles. then the prince was crowned king of france. when this was done, joan felt that her work was over. "i would that i might go and keep sheep once more with my sisters and my brothers; they would be so glad to see me," pleaded she. but the king would not let her go. so joan stayed; but her time of victory was past. soon, she was taken prisoner by the english, and cruelly burned to death. she died as bravely as she had lived, and her name will never be forgotten. [illustration: joan at the head of the army] afloat with a tiger. a traveler in faraway india relates the following thrilling adventure with a tiger: from the heavy rain which falls upon indian mountains the low-lying country is liable to such sudden floods that every year many beasts, and even human beings, are drowned ere they can make their escape to the higher grounds. on one occasion a terrible flood came up so suddenly that i had to spend a day and night in an open canoe in consequence, during which time i had good opportunities of seeing the good and bad effects produced by them. i lived at the time in a mat house, situated upon a hill which i supposed was quite above high-water mark, but an old mahometan gentleman having told me that, when he was a little boy, he recollected the water once rising higher than the hill, i took the precaution of keeping a canoe in a small ditch close at hand. the rainy season began, and daily the river rose higher. one morning we noticed that the mountain tops were covered with heavy banks of dark clouds, though no rain fell out on the plain where we were; but we noticed many animals, a leopard among others, sneak out of the high grass and make for hilly ground. the most curious thing, however, was the smart manner in which rats and even grasshoppers came scampering away from the threatening danger. these latter came in such crowds toward my bungalow that not only the fowls about the premises had a good feed on them, but kites and crows began to swoop down in such numbers that the air was filled with their cries and the noise of their rushing wings. [illustration: afloat with a tiger°] while watching the immense destruction of these insects we were startled by the outbreak of the thunderstorm high up on the mountains, but far above the peals of thunder rose the terrible sound of rushing water. animals now came tearing out of the lowlands too terrified to notice whither they went, so that i stood ready, gun in hand, in case any of the dangerous kind should try to seek an asylum on my particular hill; but with the exception of a huge wild boar, who had to be shot as he charged up the slope, all took refuge elsewhere. soon the water burst through the river bank, spreading over the country, sweeping down the tall grass jungle and surging and roaring round our hill. packing all that was valuable in small parcels, we gathered them in a heap, hoping that the flood would subside ere it reached the building. all round about large trees, uprooted by the terrible force of the deluge, were swept along, several animals vainly trying to keep a footing among their roots and branches. at last the water reached the steps of the house; so, pulling our boat close up, we stepped in with what we could save and hung to the wooden posts of the building, vainly trusting that the worst had come; but it was not so, for we soon had to leave go the post and pass the boat's rope round a tree. the water then rushed in, the house toppled over, and it and its contents were swept away by the flood. in a short time the tree began to shake and bend, so we knew that it was being uprooted; therefore, letting go the rope, we launched forth upon the seething waste of waters and were whirled away. onward we rushed through masses of logs, branches, the remains of houses, and such like wreck, having to be very careful that our frail vessel did not get upset or crushed. twice we made for the tops of hills that showed themselves above water, but on approaching them we found that they had been taken possession of by wild animals. here a tiger crouched on a branch of a tree, seemingly too much alarmed at his perilous position to molest the half-dozen deer that crowded timidly together right underneath his perch. up above him the smaller branches were stocked with monkeys, who looked very disconsolate at their enforced imprisonment. as we swept past, the tiger raised his head, gave a deep growl and showed his teeth, then crouched down again as if fully aware of his helplessness, and we had too much to think of ourselves to interfere with him. gaining the open country, the scene was one of desolation; but the current was not so strong, so we turned round, seeing the flood was going down, and by nightfall we had got back to where the house had stood. every vestige of the once pretty homestead had disappeared, with sheep and cattle, though the fowls had managed to find a roost on the topmost branches of some orange trees, which alone remained to mark the spot. as the moon rose, the mountaineers came down from the villages, and, embarking on rafts and in canoes, went round the different hills, shooting and spearing the animals that had swum there; and truly the sight of such a hunting scene was an exciting one. here a stout stag, defending himself with his antlers as best he might against the spearsmen, kept up a gallant fight till death. the tiger we had seen in the morning took to swimming, and on being wounded with a spear turned on the nearest canoe, upsetting the hunters into the water, where a desperate encounter took place; but he was eventually dispatched by a blow from an ax--not, however, before he had clawed some of his pursuers most severely. at daylight the water had entirely gone down, and a thick, muddy deposit covered all the lowland, while an immense number of snakes, scorpions, and other unpleasant creatures lay dead in all directions, upon which and the drowned animals vultures, crows and kites were feeding. =queen margaret and the robbers.= there were once two kings of england at the same time. one was henry vi. he was the rightful king, but a very weak and feeble man, and quite unfit to rule his kingdom. the other was young edward, duke of york, called edward iv. he was made king by some of the nobles, who grew weary of henry and his foolish deeds. a number of the english people were faithful to king henry, but many others went over to king edward's side, and there were quarrels between the two parties, which ended in a war. this war was called the war of the roses, because the followers of henry wore a red rose as their badge, and edward's friends wore a white one. in one battle, fought at hexham, the white roses beat the red ones, and king henry was taken prisoner and sent to the tower of london. his wife, queen margaret, with her little son, prince edward, escaped after the battle, and hid themselves in a wild forest. as they wandered among the trees, seeking some place where they might be safe from their enemies, they met a band of robbers. these rough men took away the queen's money and her jewels, tearing her necklace from her neck, and her rings from her fingers. then they began to dispute as to who should have most of the stolen goods. and while they quarrelled, queen margaret took her little boy by the hand and ran away to a thick part of the wood. there they stayed until the angry voices of the robbers could no longer be heard, and then, in the growing darkness, they came stealthily from their hiding-place. they wandered on, knowing not where to go, hoping much to meet some of their friends, and fearing still more to be found by their enemies, the soldiers of the white rose. but, alas! they saw no kind face, and night came on. then, as they crept fearfully from tree to tree, they met another robber. [illustration: the robbers discover queen margaret and the prince] the poor queen was much afraid that this robber, who looked very fierce, would kill her and the prince, because she had no riches left to give him. in despair she threw herself upon her knees before him, and said: "my friend, this is the son of your king. i give him into your care." the robber was much surprised to see the queen and the prince alone, with their clothes torn and stained, and their faces white from hunger and fatigue. but he was a kindhearted man, although his looks were rough, and before he became a robber he had been a follower of king henry, so he was quite willing to do his best for the little prince. he took the boy in his arms, and led the way to a cave in the forest, where he lived with his wife. and in this poor shelter, the queen and her son stayed for two days, listening to every sound, and fearing that their enemies would find them. on the third day, however, the friendly robber met some of the lords of the red rose in the forest, and led them to the cave. the queen and prince were overjoyed to see their friends, and soon they escaped with them to a place of safety. their hiding-place has been called "queen margaret's cave" ever since that time. if you go to hexham forest, you will be able to see it. [illustration: the robber brings help to queen margaret] =william caxton= in old days, books were not printed as they are now; they were written by hand. this took a long time to do, so there were not many books, and they were so dear that only the rich could buy them. but after a time, some clever men made a machine, called a printing-press, which could print letters. about that time, an englishman, named william caxton, lived in holland, and copied books for a great lady. he says his hand grew tired with writing, and his eyes became dim with much looking on white paper. so he learned how to print, and had a printing-press made for himself, which he brought to england. he set it up in a little shop in london, and then he began to print books. he printed books of all sorts--tales, and poetry, and history, and prayers, and sermons. in the time which it had formerly taken him to write one book, he could now print thousands. all sorts of people crowded to his shop to see caxton's wonderful press; sometimes the king went with his nobles. many of them took written books with them, which they wished to have put into print. some people asked caxton to use in his books the most curious words he could find; others wished him to print only old and homely words. caxton liked best the common, simple words which men used daily in their speech. caxton did a very good thing when he brought the printing-press to england, for, after that, books became much cheaper, so that many people could buy them, and learning spread in the land. [illustration: caxton in his printing shop] =sir philip sidney= when elizabeth was queen of england it was a time of great deeds and great men. the queen was brave and clever herself, so she liked to have brave and clever people around her. great soldiers, and writers, and statesmen went to her court; and when brave seamen came back from their voyages to unknown lands far away, they were invited by the queen to visit her, and tell her of all the strange places and people they had seen. in this elizabeth was wise, for men did their best to show themselves worthy of her favours. among all the great men at court, none was more beloved than sir philip sidney. he was called "the darling of the court". [illustration: sir philip sidney°] at that time, there was much trouble and many wars in some other countries, where people were fighting for the right to worship god in their own way. philip sidney heard of these things when he was a boy in his father's house, and his heart was stirred with pity. later, when he was in france, a great number of people were cruelly killed because they would not pray in the way which the king ordered. sidney never forgot the dreadful sights and sounds of that sad time, and when queen elizabeth sent an army to help the people of holland, who were fighting for their freedom, he asked for leave to go with it. this was granted to him, and he was made one of the leaders. [illustration: martyred for praying°] but alas! he went out to die. in one battle, a small band of the english bravely attacked a large army of their enemies. the horse which sidney was riding was killed under him, and as he mounted another, he was shot in the leg, and his thigh-bone was broken. the horse took fright and galloped away from the fight, but its wounded and bleeding rider held to his seat, and when he reached a place of safety was lifted from his horse, and gently laid upon the ground. he was faint from loss of blood, and in great pain, and his throat was parched with thirst. "bring me water," said he to a friend. this was not easy to do, for there was not a stream near at hand, and in order to get to one it would be necessary to pass where the shot from the enemy's cannons was falling fast. but his friend was brave and went through the danger. then he found some water, and brought it to him. sidney eagerly held out his hand for the cup, and as he was preparing to drink, another poor wounded soldier was carried past. this man was dying; he could not speak, but he looked with longing eyes at the water. sir philip saw the look, and taking the cup from his own lips, passed it to the soldier, saying: "thy need is greater than mine." the poor man quenched his thirst, and blessed him as he died. sir philip lived on for a few weeks, growing weaker every day, but he never came back to his own land, and the many friends who loved him. sidney was great in many ways; very fair to see, very wise and good, and very clever and witty. he was one of the bravest fighters, one of the finest poets, and one of the best gentlemen who ever lived. he will always be remembered for his brave deeds, and his wise sayings, but most of all do men bless his name for this act of kindness to his poor dying comrade. [illustration: sir philip sidney and the dying soldier] =the "revenge"= in the days of queen elizabeth, english sailors first began to find their way across the seas to new lands, from which they brought home many strange, and rich, and beautiful things. the spaniards sailed across the seas too, to fetch gold and silver from the mines in mexico, which belonged to the king of spain. sometimes the english ships met the spanish ones, and robbed them of their gold, for it was thought quite right and fair in those days to take every chance of doing harm to the enemies of england. of course the spaniards hated the english for this, and whenever they met english ships which were weaker than theirs they attacked them, and robbed them, killing the sailors, or taking them prisoners. once, a small ship, called the _revenge_, was sailing home to england, when it met with fifty great spanish vessels. the captain of the _revenge_ was sir richard grenville, and he had a great many sick men on board. there was no time to escape from the spanish ships, which soon surrounded the little _revenge_. so there were only two courses which sir richard could take. one was to give up his ship to the spaniards; the other was to fight with them till his men were all killed, or his ship sank. some of the sailors wished him to take the first course, but the others, and all the sick men, said: "nay, let us fall into the hands of god, and not into the hands of spain." this they said because they thought it better to die, than to be made prisoners by the cruel spaniards. sir richard made up his mind to fight. it was after noon when the firing began, and all night long, until daylight came, the little english ship kept the fifty spanish vessels at bay. then it was found that all the powder was gone, and all the english were dead or dying. and then only was the flag of the _revenge_ pulled down, to show that she surrendered to her enemies. the brave sir richard was taken on board a spanish ship, where he soon died of his wounds. these were his last words: "here die i, richard grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for i have ended my life as a good soldier ought. i have fought for my country and my queen, for honour, and for god." [illustration: death of sir richard grenville°] =the pilgrim fathers= there was a time when the people of england were not allowed to pray to god in the way they thought right, but were punished if they did not worship as the king ordered. this was very hard, and when james i was king, a little band of brave people, who found that they could not obey the king, left their country to make a new home across the sea, where they could be free. they are called the "pilgrim fathers". a hundred people--men, women, and children--set sail in a little ship called the _mayflower_ for the new world which a great explorer called columbus had discovered away in the west, and which we now call america. they had a long and stormy voyage, but at last, in mid-winter, they landed on the shores of north america, and set up their huts. at first they had much trouble, for the ground was frozen and barren. they suffered from hunger and sickness, and the wild indians who lived in that land came down upon them and tried to drive them away. but the pilgrim fathers did not lose courage. they were free, and they worked hard, and waited in patience for brighter days. by and by other ships from england brought food to keep them alive, and more people to help them. then they made friends with the indians, and when spring came they planted seeds and grew crops for themselves. after a time many other englishmen, who wished to be free, followed the pilgrim fathers, and settled in america. they founded the colonies of new england, which are now a part of the united states. [illustration: the pilgrim fathers entering the new world] =guy fawkes= in the time of james i, many of the english people were very hardly treated because of their religion. at last they could bear the ill-usage no longer, and they thought of a plan to get rid of the king and queen and their eldest son. many barrels of gunpowder were secretly put into a cellar under the parliament house, where james was to meet his lords and commons on november 5; and a man named guy fawkes was hired to set fire to it at the right time, and so to blow up the hall above, and all in it. all was ready, when one of the plotters remembered that a friend of his would be at the meeting next day. as he did not wish him to be killed, he sent him a letter, without signing his name, saying: "do not go to the house, for there shall be a sudden blow to many, and they shall not see who hurts them". the lord who received this letter took it to the king's council, and when king james saw it, he guessed what the "sudden blow" would be. men were sent to search the cellars, and there, on the very night before the deed was to be done, guy fawkes was found waiting till the time should come to set fire to the powder. he was cruelly tortured to make him tell all he knew, but he was a brave man, and he died without betraying his friends. since that time, every year, on the 5th of november, bonfires have been lighted in many places in england, and "guys" burned, to remind people how an english king was once saved from a great danger. [illustration: the arrest of guy fawkes] =cromwell and his ironsides= when charles i came to the throne of england, it was soon seen that he was as bad a king as his father james i had been. he did not care at all for the good of his country and his people, but thought only of his own pleasure. he took away men's money and lands, and if they offended him he took their lives too. englishmen would not bear this unjust treatment for long, and soon a war began between the king and the people, who were determined to be free. at first the king and his men were victorious everywhere, for they were all used to horses and arms, and fought so well and so bravely that the people could not stand against them. but at last a great leader arose among the people. this leader, who was called oliver cromwell, was a rough man, but he was just, good, and honest. he saw at once that the people would never gain the victory over the brave gentlemen-soldiers of king charles, unless they had obedient and well-trained men to fight for them. so he chose a band of plain, hard-working men who feared god, and loved duty and right, and he spent all his money in fitting them with arms and horses, and in training them sternly, until they became the finest soldiers the world has ever known. cromwell called his men his "lovely company", and others called them "ironsides", for they were strong and firm as iron, and were never beaten. it was these brave, sober, obedient soldiers who at last defeated the king's army, and won freedom for the people of england. [illustration: cromwell leads his ironsides to battle] =the spanish armada= the armada was a great fleet which the king of spain sent to attack england, in the days of queen elizabeth. there were more than a hundred ships, so large and high that they looked like towers on the sea; and they came sailing along arranged in the shape of a big half-moon. the great english admiral, sir francis drake, was playing at bowls when messengers came hurrying to tell him that the armada was approaching. he quietly finished his game, and then set sail to fight the spaniards. his fleet was not so large as the armada, and the ships were small, but they were light and fast. they met the armada in the english channel, and sailed round it, attacking any ship that dropped out of line, and speeding away before the clumsy spanish vessels could seize them. in this way they did much harm to the enemy. then, one night, when it was dark, and the spanish vessels were lying quietly at anchor, admiral drake sent eight blazing fire-ships into their midst. in great fear, the spaniards cut their anchor-ropes, and sailed out to the open sea, and the english ships followed, firing upon them as they fled. for two days the english chased the flying spaniards. then their powder and shot failed, and a storm arose; so they had to go back. the armada sailed on, hoping to escape, but the wild tempest tossed many of the great vessels on the rocks and cliffs of the coast, and dashed them to pieces. only a few, broken and battered, with starving and weary men on board, ever reached spain again. and so england was saved. [illustration: drake is told that the armada is approaching] [illustration: the little "revenge" fights fifty spanish galleons] =the defence of lathom house= lathom house is an old english castle. when the war broke out between king charles i and his people, the earl of derby, who was the master of this castle, went away to fight for the king. he left the countess at home with her children, with a small band of armed men to guard her and the castle. one day an army of the people's soldiers came to the castle, and the leader of the army sent word to the countess that she must give up the castle at once. but the countess was a brave woman. she replied that she would rather set fire to the castle, and die with her children in the flames, than give it up to the king's enemies. then began a fight which lasted many weeks. the large army outside the walls did their best to break a way in, but the small company inside defended the castle bravely. at last the leader of the besiegers brought a strong new gun, and it was soon seen that this would break down the walls. then one night the countess sent out a party of brave men, who seized the new gun and brought it into the castle, and so the worst danger was over. soon afterwards prince rupert, one of the king's generals, came with an army to help the countess, and lathom house was saved. the prince drove away the soldiers of the people, and took from them twenty-two banners, which he sent as a present to the countess, to show how much he admired her bravery. [illustration: the countess receives the banners] the outlawed archers. many years ago there dwelt in the forest of inglewood, in the north country, three yeomen, who had been outlawed for killing the king's deer. they were all famous archers, and defying every attempt to arrest them, they lived a free life in the green wood. but finally growing tired of this dangerous life, they went to the king to sue for pardon. it happened that the king's archers were exhibiting their skill by shooting at marks, which none of them missed. but one of the outlawed archers, named cloudesly, made light of their skill, and told the king that he could do better than any of his archers had done. "to prove the truth of my claim," he said, "i will take my son, who is only seven years old and is dear to me, and i will tie him to a stake, and lay an apple on his head, and go six score paces from him, and with a broad arrow i will cleave the apple in two." "now listen," said the king, "and do as you say; but if you touch his head, or his dress, you shall be hanged all three." "i will not go back on my word," said cloudesly; and driving a stake into the ground, he bound thereto his little son, and placed an apple on his head. all being ready he bent his bow, the arrow flew from the string, the apple was cleft in twain, and the child was unhurt. the king thereupon pardoned the three outlaws and received them into his service. [illustration: cloudsey shoots an apple from the head of his son°] =elizabeth and raleigh= sir walter raleigh was a favourite courtier of queen elizabeth. an old story tells us of the way he won her favour. one day, as the queen and her ladies were out walking, dressed in fine robes of silk and lace, they came to a miry puddle in the road. the queen stopped in dismay, for she did not like getting her feet wet and dirty. as she was thinking how best to step through the mud, a young man in a rich suit came along the road. directly he saw the queen, young raleigh, for it was he, sprang forward, and, taking off his velvet cloak, spread it over the mud for her to walk upon. elizabeth was much pleased; she rewarded raleigh with a post in the palace. there, one day, he wrote upon a window which he knew the queen would pass: "fain would i climb, but that i fear to fall". when elizabeth saw this, she added these words: "if thy heart fail thee, climb not at all". however, raleigh did climb very soon to a high place, for he was clever and brave as well as polite, and he served the queen in many ways. it is said that his ships first brought potatoes and tobacco to england from america, and that he was the first man in this country to smoke. one day, a servant brought a jug of ale into the room where raleigh was sitting and smoking. the man was much alarmed to see smoke coming from his master's mouth, and he quickly emptied the jug of ale over raleigh's head, to put out the fire which he thought was burning within him. [illustration: raleigh spreads his cloak before elizabeth] a little dusky hero by harriet t. comstock _author of "cedric the saxon," "tower or throne," etc._ new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers copyright, 1902, by thomas y. crowell & company. this little book is lovingly dedicated to philip and albert by their mother [illustration: colonel austin staggered to his feet, leaning upon the little shoulder.] contents i. george washington mckinley jones ii. the box from up north iii. the little gauntlet and sword iv. waiting in the turret chamber v. the boy up north vi. "war, g. w.!" vii. the battle on the hill-top viii. the colonel's body-guard ix. "i'se got de colonel!" x. in the tent hospital xi. "it's all yours, g. w.!" xii. a history-evening at oakwood a little dusky hero. i. george washington mckinley jones. scratch! scratch! scratch! went colonel austin's pen over the smooth white sheets of paper, sheet after sheet. the dead heat of tampa hung heavy within the tent; the buzz of the flies was most distressing; but the reports must be got off, and after them there were letters to be written to "the boy and his mother" up north, telling them--especially the boy--what a glorious thing it is to serve one's country under _any_ circumstances. the present circumstances were extremely trying, to be sure, but the firm brown hand glided back and forth over the long pages in a determined manner that showed how colonel austin believed in doing his duty. scratch! scratch! scratch! buzz! buzz! buzz! "good-mornin', sah!" it was a soft little voice, and it droned away into the buzz of the flies and the scratching of the pen so that the writer at the rough table took no heed. "good mornin', sah!" this time colonel austin turned. he was a firm believer in discipline, and the unannounced arrival annoyed him. he swung around and gazed sternly about six feet from the ground. there was nothing there! his eyes dropped and finally rested upon the very smallest, dirtiest, raggedest black boy he had ever seen. but the beautiful great eyes of the forlorn mite looked trustingly up at the surprised officer, and colonel austin noticed that the grimy cheeks were tear-stained though the childish lips were smiling bravely. "good mornin', sah!" again piped the soft voice. "why, good morning to you!" the colonel replied. he was always tender with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure before him touched his sympathy. "who are you, my small friend?" "george washington mckinley jones, sah." "just so; and where are your folks?" "no folks any more, sah. daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah, 'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. i jus' come from her buryin', sah." two slow tears fell from the soft brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks. colonel austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely. "and why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly. "i likes de look ob your face, sah, an' i'se hungry--i'se starved, i is--an' 'sides i want work!" the boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and childish-looking even for that. "work!" smiled the grave colonel, "what in the world can you do?" "why, sah, i'se de best shot you ebber saw; i reckon i'se what you call a real crack shot; dat's what i am, sah!" the ring of pride in the piping voice reached the colonel's heart. "oh! i see," he nodded. "you wish to be a soldier boy, is that it?" the grimy little applicant drew himself up to his extreme height, and replied with magnificent scorn. "no, sah! i does _not_ wish to be a sojer boy. i wish ter be one ob dem heroes, sah!" a joke was a rare thing in those dull, waiting days, and george washington mckinley jones was delicious. the colonel smoothed the smiles from his mouth as best he could. but not a quiver of mirth ruffled the dirt-stained countenance of the child. his severe stare sobered the colonel, and he asked in a gentle tone, "do you know what a hero is, my boy?" george washington drew his ragged coat about him with a gesture of patient pity, then answered with a slow, pained dignity. "co'se i knows what a hero is, sah. how could i know dat i wanted ter be one if i didn't? a hero is a pusson, sah, what ain't afraid to tackle a job too big fur other folks, an' goes right froo wid it or dies a-doin' it!" something in the quiet words drove all desire to laugh for good and all from the listening officer. "i have a character on my hands, evidently," he thought; aloud he said, "george washington mckinley jones, i presume you haven't any particular job in heroism in sight at present?" "no, sah. i jes' wants to go 'long wid de boys, an' watch out fur my chance. mammy done tole me heaps ob times dat if i jes' was wid sojers, i was boun'ter be a hero some day, shore. she 'lowed she had visions." "you shall have your chance, comrade!" the colonel got up and took the thin little hand in his. "if you have told me the truth, my boy, i will take you along with my regiment and give you a show." he called to an officer who was passing the tent. "martin!" the man stopped and touched his cap. "martin, we have a young volunteer here. he's no common soldier, please understand; he's enlisted as a hero. feed him up, give him all that he can hold, and let him report to me later." lieutenant martin's face never changed expression; he simply held out his hand gravely to george washington mckinley jones, saluted his superior officer, and led the volunteer out of the tent. while george washington ate, solemnly and long, investigations were made as to the truth of his story. colonel austin made them himself. he wished to make sure, for his sympathy was deeply enlisted, and he did not intend to be deceived. he found the little fellow had not departed from the facts in the least particular. he belonged to nobody; but every one who knew him had a kindly word for him. he was known as an honest, good-natured little waif, with a reputation for hitting the bull's-eye every time any one would lend him a gun at a rifle-match. upon the evidence gathered the boy was taken into the army as the "mascot of the ninth," and before long he was the pet of the men in that city of white tents, and became known as "g. w.," for who in that hot, lazy place could waste time in calling him all of his various historical national names? it was "g. w." here and "g. w." there. he danced for them and sang for them, and was never weary, never ill-tempered. when once he had had enough to eat--and for many days the men thought that he never could get enough--he became the healthiest and ruggedest of boys, and beyond doubt one of the happiest that ever breathed. ii. the box from up north. one day a box came from the north. it was addressed to "george washington mckinley jones, care of colonel austin;" but as g. w. was incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered it. "how you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he. "there's your name," said the messenger. "whar?" the patient messenger traced the boy's illustrious name. "what's dar 'sides my name?" "care of colonel austin." "oh!" said g. w., understandingly, "dat means i'se got ter take care ob it fur my colonel! i reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat foolishness out! co'se i'll take care of it." g. w. ran straight to colonel austin's tent. the officer was sitting inside, and, as it happened, alone. "hello, g. w., what have you there?" the boy held the big box out gravely. colonel austin read the address. "it's for you, my boy," he said. "open it and let us see what is inside. here, let us drop the tent-flap and keep the surprise to ourselves." when the colonel said the package was for him all doubt fled from g. w.'s heart. others might step from truth's narrow way--but his colonel? oh, never! the exciting thought that the box was really for himself made the sturdy little form quiver. his hands shook, and the big brown eyes stood open, as round as full moons. the heavy papers were off at last. upon the box itself lay a square white envelope, breathing forth a fragrance of violets, and stating as plainly as could be, in delicate lettering, that the contents of the envelope were also for g. w. "there's something for you in the letter--open that first," said the colonel. he was eyeing the scene with a strange look upon his face. "shall i read it for you, g. w.?" he added. "yes, sah! i guess you'll have to, sah, sump-in' seems de matter wid my eyes," said g. w. "you jes' read it, colonel. read it slow an' _exactly_ what it done say, kase i doan't want any mistake, sah, 'bout dis sort ob thing." "all right, old man,--just tell me if i go too fast." then the colonel began: "to george washington mckinley jones, _private in the ninth infantry_: "dear sir: the enclosed are for you. they were made in uncle sam's workshop, just where all the brave boys have theirs made"-"you reads too fast, colonel!" gasped g. w., tiny drops of perspiration standing out on his face. the colonel began again at the beginning, and then went on, reading slowly: "i am sure they will fit, because a little messenger brought me the measurements. accept them with our love, and wear them like the hero you will certainly be some day. there is just one way you can thank us; bring colonel austin home to us safe and sound, well and strong. see that he obeys you where this is concerned. we wish him to do his duty, but do not let anything happen to him. "god bless you, little soldier! that is the daily wish of "the boy and his mother." there was silence in the tent. then said the colonel, "well, why don't you open the box, g. w.?" the boy was kneeling before the box, but his eyes were fastened upon a photograph on the rude table. it was a photograph of "the boy and his mother," g. w. felt certain; and he was realizing that these two, far away in the unknown, had spoken to him. "open it, g. w.," again the colonel said. "you do it, sah! i clar i doan't dare!" the officer laughed, and cut the string. within the box, neatly folded, but in such a way as to hide none of their charms, lay trousers and jacket of army blue resplendent with flashing buttons. colonel austin took the garments out, and held them up at arms' length. they were small, but perfect. "lawd!" gasped g. w.; "for de lawd's sake!" a moment of breathless silence followed; then colonel austin said, "they are yours, g. w., try them on! you are 'one of the boys' now for sure and certain, buttons and all! see, there is a '9' on every button!" slowly the surprise cleared away in g. w.'s brain. he gave a low whistle, like the note of a bird, and struggled to his feet, for he was still on his knees by the box. "colonel," he whispered, "you ain't never tole me a lie--but dis here 'sperience done tries my mind! turn away yo' head, sah." colonel austin turned away his head and waited. behind his back arose a rustling, with mutters of impatience, as buttons refused to comply with the nervous efforts of awkward and trembling fingers. then came a long breath of content, as things began to run smoother, and presently a sigh of superhuman bliss; then a voice, new and deep, gasped forth: "look at me!" the colonel turned. there, his face and hands in a tremble, but all exultant, stood g. w. in the uniform of the ninth. the coat was buttoned crooked, the cap, which g. w. had discovered at the bottom of the box, was hind part before--but what of that? in all the army of the great republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face. "comrade, give us your hand!" there was a mistiness in the colonel's eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "you'll never disgrace the uniform, my boy,--it isn't in you to do it!" g. w. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in colonel austin's. "dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho! an', colonel, i'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de boy an' his mother tole me. i is sho! nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you while george washington mckinley jones knows what hisself am about! i'se goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay right plumb ober my heart, till i take yer back to dem two all right! now, sah, let me show de boys. lawd! i clar if my mammy"--the proud smile quivered--"should see me, i jes' reckon de visions she'd have would make her trimble!" iii. the little gauntlet and sword. the sunlight beat down upon tampa until every man in camp shed his coat in despair, but not one button did g. w. unfasten! he strutted and sweltered, and complained not. he gave daily exhibitions of his sharp-shooting--which, by the way, was an accomplishment truly remarkable. for the first time in his life he was absolutely and perfectly happy. while all "the boys" felt a personal interest in the child, it was a well-understood fact that he belonged to colonel austin. to that officer alone did g. w. report, and from him alone did he accept orders as to his outgoings and incomings. as the long languid weeks dragged on, g. w. became the life of the camp. his "break-downs," danced with wondrous grace and skill, set many a lazy foot shuffling in sympathy. he sang songs to a banjo accompaniment which made the listeners forget their pipes and cards, and set them to thinking of home--and other things. he appeared to be singularly innocent and child-like for such an uncared-for waif. he seemed to have gathered only good nature and a love for the brave and noble from his starved, cruel years. as colonel austin watched him from day to day he became more interested in him, and began to wonder what he should do with the odd little chap when the business with spain was settled, and life assumed its ordinary aspect once more. perhaps the colonel's hunger for the boy up north made him glad of the companionship; perhaps it was only his noble heart always yearning over the needy. be that as it may, the little black boy and the handsome young colonel became daily closer comrades. there was one regulation which colonel austin had insisted upon from the first. g. w., who was to sleep upon a mattress in his tent, was to go to bed early, as a child should. the men might bribe or coax him for a dance or a song during the day; but the little soldier had his orders to "turn in" at eight-thirty, and although g. w. often longed for an hour more, he obeyed like the hero he meant some day to be. love and a strong sense of duty governed the heart beating faithfully under the hot, trimly-buttoned uniform. he might wish to stay where the fun was, but he never varied his obedience by an extra five minutes. when it was possible the colonel took a few moments from duty or pleasure at the twilight hour, and followed g. w. into the tent. when the flap fell to after the pair, not a soldier but knew that the colonel was not to be disturbed except upon the most urgent business. when the colonel came out of the tent the look in his eyes made more than one man remember it. old general wallace was once known to have taken off his hat as he came face to face with g. w.'s colonel at the tent door, after one of those mysterious twilight talks. when the older man realized what he had done he jammed his hat down over his eyes, and, with an impatient laugh, said, "what in thunder is the matter with you, austin? you look like a methodist camp-meeting!" g. w.'s colonel saluted and passed on. one night when he went into the tent after g. w., he found the boy divested of his splendid regimentals, kneeling in a very scant and child-like costume before the table--which, by the way, was composed of two soap-boxes covered with a flag--and scanning the faces of "the boy and his mother." a strange yearning in g. w.'s eyes caused the officer to speak very gently. "what is it, old fellow? surely you are not envying the boy up north? you, a full-fledged soldier of uncle sam!" envy! why g. w.'s heart just then was filled with pity for that boy nearly as old as he, who was obliged to wear humiliating garments. actually there was lace on his collar. and the boy wore curls! not long ones, but curls nevertheless. g. w. had by this time acquired tact sufficient to forbid mention of these pitiful details, but he said slowly, "i'se right sorry fur de boy, colonel, kase he's 'bliged to stay away frum being wid you!" g. w. was too sincere to be laughed at, and the boy's father replied gently: "well, you see, comrade, it is this way: the boy is serving his country as well as you. he'd like to be here first-rate,--a drum-call sets him prancing like a war horse,--but there's the mother, you know. it would never do to leave her quite alone--he's taking my place by her side until the country needs me no longer and i may go home. there are a good many ways of serving, old man. "g. w., once i was walking through a gallery of an ancient castle, and i noticed among the armor and weapons which lined the walls a little gauntlet and sword. so very small were they that i questioned the guide, and he told me this story: 'in the dark days of long ago, when a man's castle had to be defended from his foes, and every one was on guard against an attack, there was a knight who had four sons and one fair daughter. three of the sons were great stalwart fellows, but the fourth was a crippled lad who lay upon his bed in the turret chamber week after week, dreaming his dreams and looking out across the wide parks over which he was never to ride to wage war against a cruel foe. the pretty sister sat much with him and wove wondrous stories from her busy brain to help while away the weary hours; and she got the father to have the slender gauntlet and sword made, so that the patient soldier upon the bed might the better believe himself like the strong, brave heroes of her tales. 'now it came to pass that a very wicked lord of an adjoining country wished to marry the pretty sister, and take her to his gloomy castle. to that the father and brothers said, "no!" they vowed that they would fight to the end rather than that the wicked lord should have his way. and soon they saw that they must indeed fight if they would keep her, for rumor reached them that the lord had raised a mighty company and was nearing their castle. then every man prepared himself for battle, and in the turret room the small warrior lay upon his bed with the gauntlet upon his hand, and the keen sword ready in case the foe should enter. day by day the fair sister, white and full of fear, knelt beside him, and tried to be brave for his dear sake. 'at length the day of conflict came. the two in the high room saw the banners of the wicked lord advancing, and the little brother said valiantly, "i will defend you!" 'the struggle came on. long and nobly did the knight and his men strive to keep back the terrible lord, and many fell in court-yard and hall. but at last the wicked lord and his followers triumphed, and with shouts of victory strode to the turret-room. 'there knelt the maid, her golden head bowed beside her brother. his left hand pressed her fair curls, but his right hand was ready for its task. the lord bent to grasp the prize for which he had fought, little heeding the crippled boy; but as his fingers were about to close upon the girl's arm the keen slender sword was raised in a hand made strong for the deed, and a desperate blow fell upon the wrist of the lord, and his hand was nearly severed from the arm. an awed silence followed the doughty deed. then out spoke the lord: "let no man touch the pair. of all warriors this cripple is the greatest, because in his weakness he has dared all things for love!"' "so you see, g. w., the poor young stay-at-home was a soldier, too!" said the colonel. "i have always loved to remember the story. and now i often think of the boy up north defending his mother from loneliness and foreboding--he is doing his share, g. w." g. w.'s soft, big, brown eyes were fixed upon his colonel's face. the great hero-tales of legend and history were new to his empty childhood, and this one thrilled him to his heart's core. "dat's a mighty fine story!" he mused. "when you was telling me dat story, colonel, it done seem as if nothing was mean in all de world; it seems like every one was brave!" "never reckon out any honest service, old man," the colonel went on; "very little things count in this world, and oftentimes the weakest do the greatest deeds. that little hero of long ago stretches forth a hand to every child who tries to do his part!" a gleam of admiration flashed into g. w.'s eyes. "well, i 'low dat de boy up north is a bigger soldier dan i 'magined. i knowed from de fust i done got to take care ob _you_, colonel, but now i jis' feel like i 'd be glad to do something fur de boy hisself!" colonel austin seemed to understand. "well," said he, "you and he are both taking care of me. you are helping him and he is helping you, and maybe some day you may tell each other all about it." there was surely one thing the colonel's two "boys" had in common: they both had the same devouring passion for hero-stories. during almost every spring evening of that year, by a bedside in a cool northern home, a pretty young mother had sat and told to an eager little lad thrilling tales of bravery and courage. always she began with the one the colonel had told to g. w.--the story of the crippled boy in the old castle turret. there was something in that legend that stirred jack austin in a wonderful manner. it had been hard for jack to be separated from his father from the first; but now, whenever he heard from his father's letters about g. w., and realized that among war's perils there could be a place for a small boy, his heart simply ached with longing. g. w., a boy little older than himself, was there beside daddy! but at this point jack always recalled the story of the gauntlet and the small sword, and stifled back the tears and looked lovingly at his pretty mother. no matter how he envied g. w., he would stay, patient, in his "turret chamber." his place was beside his mother until daddy came marching home. how many times his father had sent him that message! jack dreamed almost every night of his father coming home, keeping step to the cheerful drum; so he had marched away, and so he would return, with g. w. at his side! near his bed, at night, always lay jack's own splendid suit of make-believe soldier clothes. it was hard sometimes for him to think that they were make-believe clothes, while the suit of blue his mother had sent to g. w. were real, true ones, and worn by the dusky little soldier who lived in his dear father's tent. there often seemed to him an unendurable difference between g. w. and himself. poor little jack! he was braver than he realized when he turned away from this feeling and smiled up into his mother's face. but jack's mother knew all about this feeling. "and so you see, dear," the stories for jack always ended, "that though you are but mother's obedient little boy now, your chance in the great world's work will come!" and in the tent, beneath the glorious sunsets of tampa, at about the same time "daddy" would be sitting and smoking beside a small mattress bed, urging the same line of conduct upon another boy "hero" with a heart under the brown skin as pure and innocent as the one throbbing beneath the snowy night-gown so far away. "your chance will come, g. w.!" and both boys generally fell asleep with the resolve that they would do the things and bear the things of the present, and "wait" without a murmur, because heroes had done the same since the world began. iv. waiting in the turret chamber. it was never clear to g. w. why the "boys" were always anxious to be "going." for him the lazy, fun-loving life was never tedious or unpleasant. from all that he could gather by endless questioning, war was not half so agreeable, although he granted it must certainly be more exciting. "when will the order come for us to move?" that was the daily question in camp. at last it came! they were to sail at once. of course the president of the united states, whose illustrious name g. w. bore himself, meant all the thousands who were encamped in tampa; but to g. w. the order meant that _he_ and "de colonel" were to "pull up stakes" and sail away to that strange, mysterious cuba, and face war! the little dusky fellow in blue suddenly felt that his hands were pretty full. he it was who packed all the colonel's belongings, giving special care to the photograph. he polished up the guns and swords, and even his own buttons. he meant at least to command the respect of the foe. he often grew hot and tired, during those days, but never made a complaint. and when the hurried camp preparations were completed, it was g. w. and "de colonel" who marched down the long pier to the waiting transports. to g. w.'s mind, it was for them the cheers rang out, and for them did the band play the inspiring music that set his feet dancing. oh, it was the proudest moment of g. w.'s life so far. his buttons almost burst over his swelling chest. he was marching straight into the glorious future. he was going to be a hero without further delay. he saw "visions," like his mammy. somewhere, off in the misty distance, his "chance" was waiting for him; he felt as certain of it as he was that under his beloved uniform he was surely melting. the days in the crowded transport put little g. w.'s endurance to the test. but during the wretched hours one glance at the colonel's face gave him courage to suffer and be--still! his colonel saw it all. "bear up, old chap! heroes grin--and conquer things," said the officer, while his heart ached for the silent child; and in the end, through sea-sickness and a longing for old easy days, g. w. did grin and "conquer things." then they came to cuba! under the dark palms and cacti, once more the white tents were pitched; and facing the fact of approaching battles, the men made ready, but still lightened the heavy hours by song and joke, and boisterously welcomed the old comradeship of g. w. g. w. revived when once his feet touched solid land. "i doan't like de water," he explained; "it's shaky an' onsartain an'--an'--wet! dere's too much ob it too, an' when it gets wobbly, whar are yo?" so the boy cheerfully took up again his dancing and singing. war grew again to seem to him a matter of some other day. the regiment seemed merely to have shifted its pleasure-ground. to be sure, there were fewer hours alone with the colonel, for he was very busy, but g. w. followed him about at a distance whenever and wherever he could. if love could shield the young officer from harm, surely never was he safer. but presently g. w. began to form new and more personal ideas of war; his imagination, fed by the stories he had heard, sprang to life. perhaps war wasn't anything they would know about beforehand. that might be the reason for the look of anxiety he had noticed upon the face of his colonel. possibly war was like a great cloud hurled along by the hurricane--g. w. knew how _that_ looked. they might all be sitting by the camp-fire some night, when suddenly war would descend upon them and find them unprepared. with that thought g. w.'s face took on an expression of anxiety. he clung closer to his colonel; he did not intend that war should find his colonel unattended by body-guard. colonel austin often took heed of the faithful little shadow, and began to fear anew for the time when he might be obliged to "go to the front" and leave the boy behind. "g. w., you must never go beyond that point alone," he said one day, naming a hill a half mile or so distant. "these are not play-days, comrade; i want to feel that you are safe. i cannot afford to worry about you now. obedience first, old man, you know, and then you are on the way to being a hero." "yes, sah!" the small black hand gave the salute gravely. g. w. never by any possible chance forgot his military training. "but, colonel, you goes furder dan de hill right often." "that's true, g. w., but my duty calls _me_ beyond; _your_ duty bids you stay this side of the hill--that's the difference, g. w." "yes, sah! but how is i goin' ter take care ob you, wid you trapesing off de lawd knows whar?" colonel austin smiled. "you must try to be willing to trust me out of your sight, my boy," he said, "just as i have to trust you when you stay behind." "but, colonel, jes' 'spose war should attack you, wid me fur off? how does yo' 'spec i 'se goin' ter report to de boy an' his mother?" colonel austin saw trouble ahead unless he got g. w. into shape. "look here, old fellow," he replied, taking the young body-guard between his knees. "war isn't going to catch us napping. we'll know at what minute to point our guns at the enemy. we shall know and we shall obey our orders. and you'll know, and _you_ must obey _your_ orders, comrade. you must stay in your turret chamber, like the brave boy of old. you mustn't follow me past that point. if you do, g. w.,"--colonel austin had never threatened the boy before,--"unless you promise me, g. w., i'll tie the flaps of the tent upon you every time i leave it." the childish lips quivered in an un-soldier-like way. "i'll promise, colonel!" "all right, then, and give us your hand. comrade, you've taken a load from my mind." the days following grew to be hard days for the boy, so long petted by the regiment. food was scarce, and when there was plenty it was often of a kind that he turned from. the evenings in the tent were very long and lonely before he fell asleep. no stories now. his colonel's absences grew more frequent and more prolonged. g. w.'s only solace was to gaze at the picture of the boy and his mother. the half-mile hill became more and more every day a dread landmark. from that hated point of view he had to watch the colonel's tall figure disappear only too often, while he stayed behind to return ingloriously to the tent. where was the "chance" that was going to make him a hero if he must always stay behind in the place of safety? did the colonel think heroes were made on hill-tops a half mile from camp? g. w. grew sarcastic. he kept his buttons bright and his uniform brushed and trim; not because he loved it as when he expected to soon wear it as a hero, but because the colonel kept himself in order--his faithful g. w. could at least follow him in that. but at last came a thing that roused him from this mood. fever broke out in camp, and g. w. developed into a nurse of no mean order. he carried water and bathed aching heads. hot hands clung to him, forgetting how very small and weak he was. "sing to us, g. w.," often those weary, suffering fellows said, "and don't give us the jig-tunes, old man, but something soft." with his brown, childish face upraised g. w. would sing the old camp-meeting songs that his mother used to sing in the days of long ago before he had dreamed of being a hero. was it the religious thought in the quaint words, or the tender quality of the airs, or was it g. w.'s pathetic voice that had the power to quiet the delirium and make it possible for the tired sick men to rest? how can one tell? but as the boy sang stillness settled down over the rough hospital, and many a "god bless you, g. w.!" came from thankful lips. colonel austin watched the little comforter bustling to and fro, and with a grim smile he thought that the hero-side of g. w. was developing fast. the boy had grown thin, and an anxious, worn look made the small dusky face very touching; but weariness, disappointment, and bodily discomfort never dragged a complaint from the firm lips. v. the boy up north. just before the colonel and g. w. had been ordered by president mckinley to "move on," colonel austin had had the dear dusky little attendant photographed, dazzling uniform and all and had sent it to little jack who was playing his harder part away up in the northern home. underneath he had written, "my body-guard." after mrs. austin had gazed long and searchingly at the radiant little soldier, she had surprised her son by suddenly bursting into tears. "why, mamma-dear!" cried jack, "don't you like his looks?" "oh! i do indeed, jack; i like his looks so well that it almost breaks my heart--poor little fellow!" "poor little fellow?" jack fell to pondering. he examined every detail of the fascinating photograph--the suit of "real" soldier clothes, the straight, proud wearer with that look of exultation upon his round face. why "poor little fellow"? jacky would have given anything in the world--except his mother--to have been in his place. "mamma-dear," he sighed at last, "i'd rather be g. w. than president of the united states!" mrs. austin laughed and wiped away her tears. "that's because you are daddy's boy," she replied; "but poor g. w. has a hard way to travel through life, and your mother was wondering just where he will fit in when heroes are not required." "heroes are always required," jack answered sagely, "and i bet g. w. will be brave anywhere. he's got brave eyes." "i believe you are right, jack," said his mother. "put his photograph upon your table, and try to be the same kind of boy you think he is. he certainly is a dear little chap!" so upon the table in jack's room g. w.'s photograph was placed; and often and often when he was quite alone colonel austin's son visited with his father's small dusky body-guard until, on jack's side at least, the two became intimate friends. then into the northern home came daddy's letters telling of the approach of battle and the change of scene. nothing of g. w.'s doings was ever omitted by the colonel; he knew jack's hunger for hero-news. the little mother was less gay during those early days of summer; a shadow rested upon her sweet face, and she clung to jack with a sort of passion. jack was full of comfort and cheer when he was with her, but he had his hours of unhappiness too, and then he used to go into his room and stay with g. w. one day mrs. austin went to drive with a friend, and jack took that opportunity for a private drill, with g. w. to look on. up in his bright sunlit room he put on his soldier suit and marched to and fro with swelling chest and mighty stride. oh! if he were only to be with his father in the battles to come! he might keep danger away if he were with him. no one would hurt a little boy--he would go, in every battle, in front of his father! at last he went to the table and kneeling down scanned the likeness of g. w.--the boy who was filling his place, daddy's body-guard! he grew very unhappy as he looked at the small colored boy. "i'm a toy boy," he faltered, "and g. w. is a live soldier!" then he thought of daddy's last letter, in which he had written of the hill which marked g. w.'s boundary. "i bet that makes you turn hot and cold, g. w.," he mused. "oh, i know just how you feel!" the blue eyes searched deep into the pictured ones of brown. "oh! g. w., i wish you knew how to manage daddy as mamma-dear and i do! daddy'll let you do what's necessary always, if you just know how, but he's awful particular about being obeyed. i wish you could make him change his mind about that hill. of course they won't fight a battle _there_; if there was any danger of that daddy'd set your limit at camp! but, g. w., if you should go ahead and do a brave thing, like saving a life, he'd forgive you; he'd punish you, i guess, but he'd forgive you--mamma-dear and i'd make him, anyway. if _i_ were in your place, in the very clothes of the ninth, i'd dare a good sound punishing to be by daddy's side. i'd just ask him what he called me a body-guard for." the tears blinded jack's eyes, and through their gleam g. w.'s face seemed to grow rigid with disapproval. "i know," half sobbed jack, wiping his tears upon the sleeve of his blue "make-believe" coat; "daddy's trained you to think you _must_ obey; but, oh, i wish that particular old hill wasn't in cuba! "i'm going to tell you something, g. w.," jack went on. "once, the summer before daddy went away, i had a 'sperience with him. i was a year littler than i am now. he told me not on any account to go down to the river without him. i wanted to, for daddy had taught me how to swim and i wanted to float about and practise. every day i went near, to look at the water, and every night daddy would say, 'now remember, jack, for no reason go to the river without me.' but i went nearer and nearer, until one day i could see the other boys in, and then--i pulled off my clothes and in i went, too! i hadn't been in long when don grover--he's my best friend, but a year littler--got out further than any one else, and suddenly he put his arms right up in the air and screamed that he was a-drowning. we were all scared, and the other boys swam to the shore to get help. i couldn't think of anything but don, and i swam right out to him, and he didn't grab hold of me or anything, but let me kind of tow him in; and course it was awful far and we were nearly dead, and i kept thinking how i had disobeyed daddy, and seeing mamma-dear's mournful eyes. but don and i didn't talk, only just swam. when we got to the shore we crawled out and lay down and went to sleep, but when the boys came back with some men i waked up and told them to take don home and i could go alone. g. w., i was terribly fearful to go, for you know how particular daddy is about obeying and waiting in your own place of duty. "i ached, and my knees just fluttered. when i got there daddy and mamma-dear were sitting on the piazza, and the minute i looked at daddy i was sure he knew i had disobeyed. 'where have you been, jack?' he said, solemn. i said, 'swimming.' he got up, and mamma-dear began to cry, but daddy took me in the study and he--he whipped me, g. w., like anything, for disobedience. i wouldn't cry, because i _had_ been disobedient. "that evening don's father came over and told daddy how i tugged don in, and i saw daddy's eyes looking like two big steady stars, and the whipping was just nothing, and mamma-dear cried the same as if don and i were drowned dead. and, g. w., what do you think daddy did? when don's father finished, daddy came and said, 'you deserved the thrashing, jack, for not obeying, you know; but let me shake hands with you because you are a brave fellow,' and i almost choked. i said, 'don't mention it!' but i shook his hand like anything. oh, g. w., if only i could make you know just how to be a true body-guard to daddy! if you should go over that hill he'd punish you for disobeying, sure, but if some time you just _had_ to do it for a brave reason, he'd shake your hand, g. w." the boy in the photograph seemed to be listening to jack, and trying to understand him, and to be thinking about it, as if he knew that jack's very heart was in what he said. presently a slow smile lit up the features of the make-believe boy in blue. "g. w.," he whispered, "i'm not going to worry any more about daddy! you'll do the right thing by him, i'll bet! when you come home, g. w., you shall have half of everything i own. we're going to be brothers!" little jack austin ran down to meet his mother when she returned, with a cheery smile, because he had in his heart a sure trust that g. w. would save the day, no matter what the danger that threatened daddy! vi. "war, g. w.!" g. w.'s wanderings from camp became less and less frequent. he thought no longer of going anywhere but to the hill-top; and that detested limit became more hated as oftener and oftener the colonel passed beyond the faithful little guardian's gaze. "i'd jes' like to know whar de colonel goes _all_ de time!" sighed g. w. colonel austin was not unmindful of the boy, but evidently he was deep in business and anxiety. an occasional pat upon the little woolly head, or a word of cheer, was all the devoted comrade received; yet, with only that to feed upon, the childish devotion continually grew. he took to talking aloud to the boy and his mother, in the long silent hours of evening. they became as alive and intimate to him as he, all unknown to himself, had become to jack. he made solemn promises regarding the colonel which, had jack heard, would have set to rest any doubt as to g. w.'s capabilities of "managing the colonel." "doan you-uns be frettin'," he whispered one night when his own heart was like lead in his body; "you kin jes' keep on a-smilin' an' a-smilin'--i 'low i can take care ob de colonel. dat hill gets de best ob me, jes' fur de minute, but you min' i'm a-thinkin' 'bout dat ar hill! i'se goin' git de bes' ob dat der hill, yit!" one hot day when g. w. had smothered as usual his loathing for his limit, and followed at a respectful distance the tall, well-beloved figure of his colonel, he had a hard fit of sighing. "i reckon if de colonel knew 'bout how i is feelin' dis minute," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face, "he'd jes' holler back 'howdy' ter me." but the colonel not knowing of the faithful little henchman's nearness, sent back no word of loving cheer--did not once turn. the two were plodding along the road called the santiago road at the time, and the long strides of the officer presently put him beyond g. w.'s vision. suddenly g. w. sighed aloud. "he's gone!" there was a break in the soft voice. "i clar ter goodness, he's always gone! i'm bressed if i doan't wish de war would come an' be done wid! dese days done w'ar me to frazzles!" a low, deep, rumbling sound made g. w. start. by instinct, he crouched under some nearby bushes. "what's dat?" he muttered, his eyes growing round and full of inquiry. "dat ain't thunder!" the ominous, threatening sounds were drawing nearer, approaching over the road along which he had come, and along which he must return to camp. "lawd!" gasped g. w.; "jes' 'spose dat is war a-comin' an' a-ketchin' me alone by myself; good lawd!" the small face became terror-stricken. he clutched his hands in the pockets of his trousers. the rumble grew louder. suddenly the sun flashed upon a strange object being drawn up the rough trail. "cannoneers, forward!" came a full loud cry that echoed and re-echoed in g. w.'s brain. then the boy perceived, as far as his gaze could travel, soldiers and cannon filling the familiar road. he forgot his terror, and thrilled and palpitated as he gazed from his leaf-covered hiding-spot. then a new thought made him reel backward. was the entire american army marching away from camp, leaving him behind who was bound to return there? the colonel had left no orders for him; and the hill stood, as ever, between him and any following of the soldiers. then came a thought that relieved him--there would be the sick in camp; surely they could not join this rushing company and he would remain with them until the colonel remembered him. back toward camp he sped, keeping within the tangle of bushes and out of sight of the oncoming men; pushing and tumbling, he made his way as fast as his uniformed legs would carry him. when he reached camp, panting and heated, he found a scene of great excitement; and as far as he could judge, the men, both sick and well, were all there! the ninth, at least, had not gone over the hill-top! "what's goin' ter happen?" g. w. gasped. a boyish soldier who was writing a letter home looked up and answered, "war, g. w.! that's what's going to happen, and mighty quick, too." "and is us all goin' to de war?" g. w. sat down beside the soldier; indeed, his legs could hold him up no longer. "there are no orders yet, but i reckon we'll get our chance. two more transports are in, and a lot of guns." "i saw dem," said g. w., thrilling again. "miles ob dem an' millions of men! lawd, corporal!" then, after a pause, and very softly, he said, "say, corporal jack, if--if my colonel don't send orders back fur me to come ter him, an' if youse all get orders ter go on, will yer jes' fur my sake try ter find de colonel an' tell him a message? jes' tell him not ter fret 'bout me, cos i'se goin' ter remember de hill!" g. w. had never humiliated himself by allowing any one to suppose he cared to go beyond the hill-top. "an' jes' tell him i'll take care ob de picture!" there were tears rolling down g. w.'s upturned face. corporal jack laid down his pen and pad. "well!" he cried, "you're a brick, g. w. but the colonel is not going to forget you, g. w. brace up and hold on. and just give us your hand, comrade!" the two clasped hands gravely; then corporal jack went on with his letter, and g. w. passed into colonel austin's tent, to have all things ready in case there came an order to march. late that night, as g. w. lay upon his camp-bed (for he had been promoted from the humble mattress) in the dismantled tent, colonel austin entered. he was very weary, very pale. the boy upon the bed watched him silently. the moonlight was streaming in the opening, and the tall figure was distinctly outlined as the colonel paused within the doorway and glanced about the bare, disordered place. all at once he seemed to understand; a smile flitted across his worn face. he went over to the soapbox table, shorn of its gorgeous cover, the photograph alone adorning it. he took the picture, looked long and tenderly at the two faces, then slipping the card out of the frame he put it in his breast pocket. a moment later he came over to g. w.'s bed. the boy looked up trustingly. "i'se awake, colonel." "good for you, comrade. i want to have a little talk with you." a thin brown little hand slipped itself into the large firm one, and g. w. sat up. "g. w.," said the colonel, "i'm going to the front. you know what that means?" "i 'low i does, colonel. when does we start? i'se been a-workin' ter get ready." "but, comrade, _you_ are not to go!" the poor little body-guard had feared this. in his misery he looked up into the colonel's face and gulped helplessly. "don't take it that way, my child," said the colonel, smoothing the little woolly head burrowing back in the pillow; "it would be impossible for me to take a little fellow like you along. there's just a chance, you know, g. w., that i may not get back. i've thought lately that i did wrong to bring you from tampa; but you had nothing there, and we have had each other here, comrade, and _that_ ought to count for something." a tightening of the little hand replied. "if i shouldn't come back, my child," the colonel continued, "i want you to know that i have made all arrangements for you to be sent up to the boy and his mother. they'll look out for you, comrade, for they know that you are my little body-guard, and they will adopt you in their home--for your own sake too, g. w.; there's the making of a man in you, g. w., and you will not ever disappoint anybody, no matter what happens to me. during the coming days here, keep within your limits, my boy. obey orders, and you will be a hero indeed, for i know how much you want to go along to take care of me. by staying right here you are doing a harder thing." g. w. was sobbing forlornly. the colonel got up and paced the tent for a silent moment or two. "you've been the best kind of a comrade, g. w.," he went on, as he came back, while the listener drew his legs up and down under the coarse gray blanket, in an agony of sorrow. "and you're not going to fail me now, old fellow." "yes, sah! no, sah!" the pillow half stifled the words. presently poor g. w. sat up in bed again. "colonel," he said, "you jes' banish me out yo' mind! you do your work, an' be keerful to take keer ob yo'self. i'se goin' ter do what yo want an' keep in dem limits--but if yo' does _not_ come back frum dat front, i doan' think i can face dem two up norf! i'd jes' feel dat i hadn't done been no body-guard--fo de lawd, colonel austin, doan't ask me ter face de boy an' his mother 'thout you! i ain't goin' ebber ter forget what you don teach me, an' i'se nebber goin' ter shame yer while i lib, but i can't go 'thout you to dem--de lawd knows i can't." "under those circumstances i'll be obliged to come back, g. w." something choked the soldier's voice. then bending down he kissed the boy's dusky brow, as often he had kissed the white one of his own little son. "god bless you, comrade!" he whispered. "you've lightened many a burden for us all since you came among us. i trust you and i may be spared to meet again." then g. w. saw the tall form of the best friend he had on earth pass out of the tent, and fade away into the confusion and unreality of the moonlit night. vii. the battle on the hill-top. a strange atmosphere hung over the camp, an air of expectant waiting. the sick men tossed upon their beds bewailing their inability to be up and doing, and calling feverishly for "news!" but no news came; nothing to break the dismal monotony. everybody utilized g. w. the cook taught him to cook, and the nurses made him useful. the sick men smiled up at him as their only diversion. it was well for the boy that his days were filled with labor, and that he was too utterly weary at night to stay awake long. his dreams were filled far oftener than his waking thoughts with visions of the colonel. his dreams were always happy ones--then the colonel appeared well and jolly as g. w. had first known him. the little fellow hailed bed-time as the release from wretchedness. "now, then!" he would say to himself, as his lids grew heavy, "now i'se goin' ter see my colonel austin!" sometimes he would laugh aloud in his sleep, so very jolly was he, but there was no one to hear the sound in the empty tent. little g. w. had no folks now. his only good-night was the bugle-call, "all lights out!" but in the trenches at the front a brave man always included g. w. in his loving thoughts of home and dear ones; and up north the mother and the boy ended their evening prayer, "god bless daddy and g. w. keep them safe and bring them home to us very soon!" no one questioned g. w.'s goings and comings. if any thought was given, it was that he was probably obeying orders which colonel austin had left, and that he was proving himself a blessing where most boys would have been an annoyance and burden. so one day when he sauntered away from the cluster of tents, no one asked him where he was bound, or how soon he would be back. he passed along walking very straight as became a uniformed soldier, whistling a march-tune, now and then interrupting himself to introduce a clear flute-like note. something had happened to g. w. the day was oppressively hot, but his languor and sadness had vanished. he felt strong and happy; everything was beautiful, life was full of keen interest. "i 'low somethin' is goin' ter occur!" he said to himself; "i has feelin's like my mammy used ter have. sure's i'se a-walkin' here, the front is off dere 'yond de hill! dat's whar de colonel always went, an' dat's why he fix de top like a stun wall fur me. i 'clar i'se goin' up ter jes' look. what's i worth if i doan't take some chances ter find out news 'bout my colonel austin? lawd! it seems like forty-seben years since he done walk away like a dream!" now, strange to say, before g. w. had started on this tramp, besides donning his entire uniform, he had taken his gun, a small but perfect one that some of the officers had given him as a reward for excellent target-shooting; and also he had filled his canteen with water in true soldier fashion. under the blazing sun his hot coat and trousers became almost unendurable, and except for his new feeling of strength and joyousness, his precious gun would have become a burden. suddenly he stood still, and his face became rapt and eager. he gazed up to the tall trees under which he stood. "i'se clean forgot 'bout dat 'chance' ob mine fur ages; but, lawd! jes' s'pose it should come to-day!" he gasped. the remembrance that his mammy had said that if he wanted to be a hero he would have the "chance" filled him with a wild delight. for a moment he could not move, so great was his glad feeling--then with a cheery whistle he plodded on straight toward his hill-top. it was an unlikely spot for "chances." it was too near camp for the foe to be there; but irresistibly g. w.'s feet carried him forward. overcome at length by the heat, g. w. reached the summit, only to sink down at once in the tangle of bushes and pant and puff. but after a while he revived; and then peering through the undergrowth he gazed down upon the plain below that stretched beyond his limit. what had happened since last he had seen the spot? was he dreaming, or actually looking down upon something that was really taking place? g. w. stood up and steadying himself against a tree continued to gaze and gaze below. there was a big rude tent, with all sides open. within was a long table around which figures moved restlessly or stood strangely still. wagons were rolling up to this tent bringing burdens which turned poor little g. w. ill as he realized what they were. they were men! sick or wounded men! ready hands lifted the limp forms from the carts and laid them in long rows upon the ground; then, over and over again, as the fear-filled little watcher on the hill strained his eyes, he saw a man singled out from the lines and borne to the table. g. w. grew chill under the blazing sun as he looked, not comprehending what it meant. "i can't--think--what--dat--means!" he said aloud; "'pears like i am habin' a dream standin' up out-doors wid my clo'es on. lawd! how--i--does--wish--i--knew--what--dat--dar--means!" the poor little fellow rubbed his head in a hopeless, forlorn way, while his heart beat fast and chokingly. suddenly it came to him; like a flash the meaning became clear. there had been a battle! they were bringing in the dead and wounded from the front to that fearsome spot below. then g. w. shuddered as a new thought broke upon his brain. perhaps his colonel was there! the sudden idea took the form of a frenzy. he flung his arms up with a wild gesture, and then, alone on the hill-top, there was a battle on for g. w.--an exceedingly hard battle. "obey!" cried honor; "'tis the thing you are called to do! 'tis the thing you have promised!" "but the colonel may lie in the long row," pleaded love; "no one near him to tend just him; no one to give him a drink or hold his head or his hand; to follow him and stay by him. he is just one of a row!" g. w.'s sad little face turned gray. "you promised!" honor admonished. "he trusted you, with no doubt of your obedience!" "but they may have forgotten him. he may be lying out on the battle-field--and no one could find him as surely as you!" love sobbed in his ears. with a pitiful moan, the little body-guard gave up his promise! a disobedient, loving little black boy sped down from the hill-top, on the forbidden side, sobbing and crying. he flung all but his love for the colonel to the hot winds. he might be shot, he might lose his way endlessly, but he must go. with a bitter cry he flung off his coat and cap as he ran. the honor of a soldier's uniform was no longer for him. he paused only to take the precious up-north letter out of the pocket and crush it into his shirt front. viii. the colonel's body-guard tossing his canteen across his shoulder, and seizing his gun, g. w. tore on down the hill straight toward the gruesome place below, and right into it. no one noticed him. the surgeons were too busy to look up as he ran around the table scanning the faces upon the boards. the men carrying the helpless burdens, or ministering to their wants, had no time to question why a little black boy should suddenly be in among them. he made sure that he had looked into every face, and then, with a feeling of relief, was about to turn away from the sad scene, when a weak voice stopped him. "g. w.! thank god! come here!" g. w. turned; there upon a blanket under a tree waiting for his turn to be taken to the table was the boy who but a few days before in camp had told him that war was "mighty near." war had indeed drawn near in haste, and poor young corporal jack had gone down before the enemy's fire. "the colonel," gasped corporal jack, as g. w. came and bent over him; "he was shot, too. we fell side by side. we crawled back, but when the wagon came he made them take me; there was only room for one. he's a mile back on the roadside. g. w., get help and go for him, and tell him god bless him!" the weak voice ceased, for the men had come to carry him to the table. he tried to wave cheerfully to g. w., but the effort caused him to faint, and g. w. started away, trying to comprehend what he had heard. "my colonel's a mile back on the roadside!" that was all little g. w. had for a guide. but had his colonel been a hundred miles back, it would have made no difference to his body-guard. there was but one aim in g. w.'s heart: to reach his colonel, and save him for the boy and the mother up north! on he ran, grasping his little gun in a rigid clutch. he forgot to implore aid from those he met as he rushed. over the rough trail he sped like a deer. the fearful, ugly, swarming land-crabs scurried away from before him. "colonel!" he sobbed, "fore de lawd, colonel, where is you? i'se a-comin', colonel!--jes' you hold on!" a wagon bearing another pitiful load came by. "is colonel austin in dar?" he cried. some one knew him and called an answer: "no, g. w., your colonel isn't here!" on, on, again. what was that? a roar of cannon! g. w. shuddered, but gripped his gun and kept on, making forward. presently he began to meet more wounded men, singly, or in groups of two or three, trying with what strength remained in them to reach the rear. occasionally a man knew the boy, and gave him a friendly smile; once one asked him for a drink. "don't youse take much of it, captain," g. w. pleaded, holding the canteen to the parched lips, "cose dis is fur my colonel austin." be it to the man's eternal credit that, almost dying of thirst as he was, he handed back all but a mouthful of the blessed water. "thank you; that will help me to the camp. colonel austin is to the right of the road, a little further back, behind some bushes; he tried to come on with me, but fell. i'll send you help, for he cannot walk. god bless you, g. w." on through awful scenes the little black boy went. no one looked upon him with surprise. the small, familiar figure was part of the camp-life and war. again the little rescuer dashed on. and oh, go quickly now, g. w.! among the tangled bushes is a slinking, leaf-covered figure running as rapidly as you! hurry, tired feet! steady, little dusky hand! there is a deed for you to do which will make your name blessed up north, if only you are in time! ah, hist! a crackling among the bushes made g. w. pause. what was it? with a sudden impulse the boy crouched in the jungle and listened. after a moment a form, covered with leaves, half crawled, half ran, near where he was hidden. g. w. held his breath, and got his gun in position. he understood. he had heard of the foes' trick of covering themselves with leaves to escape attention, and he knew at once what he had to deal with. never was he calmer than he grew at that moment. but oh, look! the crawling form, in the open now, stopped, raised his gun, and took deliberate aim at something beyond. g. w. was as quick; and before there was time for the leafy form to draw the trigger, his own small sure hand had flashed forth a bullet! with a cry the wretched creature flung up his arms and fell back. g. w. stood up and wiped the perspiration from his cold, drawn face. his eyes were blazing, but the strange new calmness still possessed him. he pushed forward to find the object at which the spaniard's gun had been aimed. that it was "one of our boys" little g. w. of course knew; but he was _not_ prepared for the sight that presently rose before him. a bit beyond, leaning against a tree, bloodstained, dirt-begrimed, and faint, sat his colonel. at the first glimpse of him something like the ice of winter gave way in g. w.'s breast. the blood began to flow through his veins; the past was but a bad dream--he was once more a glad and loving little fellow. "colonel!" he whispered, like one coming out of sleep. "colonel, i'se here!" but colonel austin took no heed of the tender voice. ix. "i'se got de colonel!" g. w. stumbled onward and reached the tree, put his arm about the officer, and carefully held the canteen to his lips. a gurgle, the water was drained to the last drop; and then, oh, joy! the heavy eyes opened. it did not seem strange to colonel austin to see g. w.'s dusky face. it was but part of the troubled dream that held his heated brain. "hello, comrade!" he said. "just tell them i couldn't see the little corporal die. there was only room for one. he was crying for his mother, and he had been brave all day. the boy and his mother will--understand--by and by." "now you see heah, colonel," said poor little g. w. "you jes' stop dat kind ob talk. your laigs ain't hurt--it's your chist, an' you'se got ter git up an' come along!" g. w.'s voice was full of fright and determination combined. "no use, g. w.," groaned the colonel. "i tried it, and fell. help will be sent back, but it will be too late, my boy." "you get up, sah!" persisted g. w. "you'se got ter make a move fur de boy an' his mother! i'se goin' ter sabe yo' fur dem, sah, like i swar to. now stan' up, sah!" colonel austin staggered to his feet, leaning upon the little shoulder. the water had revived him, and g. w.'s words had recalled him to a sacred duty. the wound in his breast began to bleed again, and the crimson drops fell upon g. w. the man's weight, too, almost bowed the little boy down. but he set his teeth and smiled grimly. the undertaking seemed nearly big enough for a hero to tackle--and here he was just a disobedient, dishonored little black boy! "you'se doin' fine!" g. w. said, whenever colonel austin's steps flagged; "you'se done a mile _mos'_, colonel; dere ain't but a step or two furder. lean heavy, colonel,--yo' jes' ain't no heft at all!" and all the while the keen eyes were searching the underbrush for another leaf-clothed foe. once they stopped so that g. w. might tear his shirt in strips and bind it roughly over the bleeding wound. the blessed letter from up north fell out upon the ground. g. w. clutched it and put it in his trousers pocket; the sight of it gave him fresh strength. stumbling and swaying, the two went on again. no help came along the road. but dust-covered and near to death, the comrades at length reached the field hospital. it was growing dark when they came into the open space. lanterns were hanging around the great rough table, and the restless figures were still moving about. with rising hope little g. w. made a last rally. "come on, colonel," he panted; "you jes' hang on to me. we'se all right now. only you jes' come faster, colonel! you jes' _run_ now, colonel,--dere ain't no call ter act so back'ard here,--you'se on de road home!" the fainting man heard the brave soft voice, and he braced up and struggled yet again. they were nearing the tent opening, the lanterns flashed, and the moonlight fell full upon their faces. a soldier among the many who were lying out under the stars saw them and cried out: "look, boys! it's colonel austin and g. w." "yes, sah!" the boy said simply. "i'se got de colonel! here's de colonel!" "three cheers for g. w!" cried a weak voice. "g. w.'s saved the colonel!" the crowd of sufferers took up the quivering cry, and all around the tent spread the story of g. w.'s bravery. a surgeon glanced up--then with an exclamation rushed forward. "austin!" he shouted. "austin, let go of him, the boy is fainting! here, some one, lift g. w.! i've got the colonel!" that was all. for little g. w. the lights went out. the voices melted into silence. the colonel was safe! all was right. x. in the tent hospital. there were long, troubled dreams for little g. w.--dreams that were unlike those which used to come and cheer him in camp before he had given up his hopes of being a hero. these were full of terror--a longing for water, and visions of his dear colonel wounded and dying. sometimes a skulking figure, leaf-covered and terrible, stalked through those pain-filled visions. then he would shout for his gun. but always when he cried aloud, a voice familiar but distant called upon him to be calm and trust some one, whose name he had forgotten. at last there came a day when the dreams began to fade. voices not so distant reached him. then he tasted water, for the first time, he thought, in years! "thank you!" he said to some one holding the glass to his lips, but did not open his eyes. he was very tired. "g. w. is coming around all right," said a grave, quiet voice. "plenty of nourishment, nurse,--all that you can get for him. that boy mustn't slip through our fingers." the boy heard, but he did not stir. a new voice broke in upon the strange calm. "can't you speak to me, my child?" the simple question sent a thrill through the faithful heart. g. w. faintly unclosed his eyes. he must see who was speaking in that dear, dear voice. "colonel!" he whispered. "oh! my colonel!" then g. w.'s eyes opened wide. on the pillow of the bed next his own--for they were both lying in the tent hospital--he saw the face of colonel austin. the one face in the world that g. w. longed to see, and the one that he had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed was gone forever! little g. w. opened his lips with a gasp and an effort to speak. but memory rushed upon him. in that glance of recognition he remembered what he had done. "i done broke my word, colonel!" was what he said. two slow tears rolled down the dusky cheeks. "yes, g. w." "an' i follered you, colonel, like you tole me not to." "i know it--thank god!" if poor little g. w. had not been so weak he would have sprung up; he tried to, but fell limply back. "g. w., my child," said the colonel, moving a little nearer, "if you had not disobeyed and come after me i would not have been here. you took your orders from some one higher in command, g. w. we're going home soon, going home together. do you know what i am saying, g. w.? just as soon as we can travel we are going up north together to the boy and his mother!" things happened for dear little g. w. in snatches after that. pain-filled pauses and unconscious lapses and short, sudden, sharp throbs of happiness, made up life. the colonel gained his strength far sooner than g. w. he could have travelled, but he would not leave his little comrade. "i'll stay by the little chap until the end, or i'll take him home with me," he said to the doctor who urged his departure. "i'll never desert him." the "end" did not come to g. w., however. all at once he began to mend. white and weak, his eyes too large for his face, for fever had worn him to a shadow, colonel austin sat beside his bed retelling the old hero-stories, while g. w. smiled with closed eyes. sometimes the boy roused and asked a series of questions. "when is we goin' home, colonel?" "on the next transport, comrade." "i s'pose we has ter live in jes a house when we goes home?" sighed the boy. "why, g. w., a house isn't a bad thing--do you think so?" "i likes tents mighty well, i does!" said g. w. "well, old man, don't lose heart; you're not going to live in a house right away." "i spect de uniform wasn't nebber found up on de hill-top, colonel?" "no, my boy. there was no time to hunt up lost uniforms; it was all the boys could do to hunt up lost men." "colonel, what is i goin' ter do when dat transport comes in? no cloes, no nothin'!" colonel austin laughed, and many a sick man's face relaxed at the sound. "the colonel is laughing--g. w.'s better," murmured a weak voice, and the good news travelled around the hospital tent. "the boy and his mother are having a new suit made for you, g. w.," the colonel said. "the boy thought of it the first thing." when the transport came that was to carry the colonel, g. w., and several hundred others home, it had among its stores the new suit of blue for the destitute little soldier. if anything, it was more splendid than the first one, but it was wofully large for the poor little body-guard. when he first appeared in it the men were about to laugh, then grew suddenly silent as they saw the gray little dusky face, and remembered _why_ g. w. had so shrunk. but even g. w. smiled after a moment. he stood up by his cot, and put his hands in the pockets and spread wide the almost empty trouser-legs of the fine uniform. "i clar," said he, "if you'se all didn't see me a standin' on my feet, yo nebber would say dere were legs 'tached to my body!" "never mind, g. w.!" it was corporal jack who spoke. he, too, was going home on the transport, and the knowledge had put a pound or so of flesh on his bones. "never you care, g. w.! those shanks'll get you into god's country; and your rightful legs will grow again up there. lordy, g. w., if you only knew what is a-waiting for you!" g. w. smiled inquiringly. something was going to happen, as every one seemed to know. it was evidently an army secret, and the gossip of all the men, until g. w. drew near! then, smiling silence. xi. "it's all yours, g. w.!" the cool air was sweeping, like a breath of paradise, over the face of little g. w. they had brought him up on deck, for the transport was nearing home. colonel austin stood by, anxious; he did not like the look upon the thin, drawn countenance. "take a brace, g. w.!" he said, while he laid his fingers upon the weak pulse in the tiny wrist. sea-sickness had reduced the child to a mere skeleton. it had been worse than the fever. not even the thought that "up north" was within sight could arouse him now. "i see a long stretch of land, my boy," colonel austin went on, "and a fine white light-house on the farthest point. g. w., i'll bet you don't know what this light-house looks like!" "i bet i doesn't!" g. w. spoke in a whisper, his eyes shut. "in a few hours, g. w., we will swing into the bay." g. w. shuddered. the idea of _swinging_ into anything made him ill afresh. "and then they will put you on a litter, old man, and i will walk beside you up to--up to--are you listening, g. w.?" "yes, sah!" then a quiver passed over g. w.'s face. "i thought," he whispered, "i done thought i smelled land!" "and so you do, old fellow," said the colonel, cheerily. "here, let me lift you up. now, g. w., open your eyes! see the light-house shining like a slim white finger? that's montauk point, comrade, stretching along in the sea. they are going to land us here to rest a bit before we go home. are you understanding, my child?" g. w. lay staring at the scene with his great, round, soft eyes. the smell of the land was in his nostrils and presently he smiled a beautiful, satisfied smile, and colonel austin whispered, "thank god!" under breath. "colonel," g. w. said, low, "you jes' fetch my clo'es! i'se goin' ter land wid my soldier-clo'es all on. dat smell done cure me for sure! dat's a mighty fine smell, colonel, dat is!" some hours later the transport cast anchor in the lovely bay. in the early morning, when the sunlight danced upon the shining waves, never was there a fairer sight to greet sick, home-longing eyes. at last it was g. w.'s turn to be carried up the gang-plank. very gently they placed him upon the litter, and his colonel walked beside it and held the small, weak hand. g. w. closed his eyes, for the excitement made him tremble, and lately he had had trouble with growing tearful on every possible occasion, and had had to squeeze his eyelids together hard. they were carrying him along up somewhere--g. w. felt the upward motion. and now they were walking on even ground. presently the shouting he had noticed before began again. it came nearer and words became distinct. comrade was greeting comrade. there were welcomes for his colonel, a welcome to corporal jack--his mother was there, some one said; she was up in the general's tent. suddenly a few words startled g. w. they seemed to him to ring out of the confusion of greetings like an alarm: "oh, look! there are colonel austin and his little hero!" it was a woman's voice. the heavy brown eyes of the little fellow in blue on the litter opened. the procession of sick men was passing between lines of sympathizing people, but to g. w. they faded like visions. he turned his head and fixed his solemn gaze upon the one face in all the world dear to him. "colonel!" he gasped, "did yo' hear dem words--dem hero-words? yo' better tell dem dat it ain't so!" "why, my child, they know all about it. you are as big a hero as ever was brought home--didn't you know it?" "no, sah!" again the lids closed--the battle with tears was renewed. the next stage of little g. w.'s journey was made in an army ambulance. over the hills and down the sandy valleys the big wagon went softly until it stopped before the long hospital tent on the hill overlooking the merry waves. then g. w. was carried in and placed upon a bed, and a woman with a wonderful face came and bent over him. she wore a blue gown and a snowy cap and apron and kerchief. g. w. had never seen anybody in the world in the least like her. she stood and smiled down at him, and he smiled weakly up at her. "well, my little hero," she laughed in the most cheerful manner, as if it were quite a joke to see heroes carried about like babies, "it isn't so very bad! i think i can get you on your feet in--let me see--well, three days at the farthest." three days! if she had said three years the boy would have felt doubtful, for his legs were but waving strings. this smiling woman in blue and white fed him--about every two minutes, he thought; as soon as he had swallowed one thing she went away for another, and came back and fed him again; and he swallowed all the things down, and began soon to laugh as merrily as she. sure enough, upon the third day, and in the morning, too, she came walking up to g. w.'s cot with colonel austin, and over her arm hung the fine new uniform. "my boy," she laughed,--she always laughed,--and drew a screen about the bed, "we're going to put your clothes on you, and if you lean upon both colonel austin and me, i think you can manage to take a bit of a walk. we have something very important to show you." how he got into his dear blue clothes, g. w. never knew; but at length, and rather unsteadily, he was walking between the nurse and his colonel down the aisle of the tent. weak cheers followed him from rows of cots. thin hands waved him salutes. on the whole, it was rather jolly and inspiring. by the time he reached the door g. w. was walking more steadily, and the strong salt air put life into him at the first breath as he came outside in the sunlight. "just up this hill, now, g. w.,--can you make it?" asked the colonel. "take breath, go slowly, lean heavily. the last time you and i took a walk, comrade, i nearly bent you double. we're going to my tent." g. w. gazed about him. a city of snowy tents under a blue, blue sky. water everywhere round about, dancing in the sunlight and making a great roar as if constantly saluting the brave soldier boys who had come home to rest. down a hillside a troop of cavalry came galloping. the horses were to take a plunge in the ocean, and oh! how they loved the sport. g. w. shouted out weakly in pure delight. "dat's fine! dat's fine!" he gasped, waving his thin little brown hand as horses and riders tore past. then g. w. wearily asked, "whar did you say yo' tent is, colonel?" "right there, my boy." g. w. looked. "what's dat little tent fur, by de side ob it?" "that's yours, g. w." the nurse tightened her grasp of the trembling arm. "mine! dere's a flag a-flying on top, colonel! an' dere's a little horse a-pawin' in de front ob de tent-do', colonel!" "all yours, g. w! let's get on if you can, my boy!" at last the tents were reached. they entered g. w.'s. it was perfect. camp bed, soapbox table, flag-draped, a folding stool and all; and in the corner stood the little gun--the precious gun that had done such brave service for the colonel. "lie down now, g. w.," said the nurse; and the child promptly obeyed. he could take in the great scene just as well from the bed, and there was less danger of falling all in a heap if it got too overpowering. "my boy, there is some one waiting who wishes to see you," said colonel austin, presently; "may i bring the person in?" five minutes later two persons instead of one entered with g. w.'s colonel. one glance--and g. w. knew that he was in the presence of the boy and his mother! he struggled to get upon his feet, but the nurse's hand held him back; he merely gave a wan smile, and saluted gravely. "oh, g. w.!" cried the mother, holding her hands toward him from where she stood, the tears raining down from her bright eyes. "oh, g. w., you brave child, i did not know you were so _very_ small!" g. w. had never seen such a vision of loveliness as the lady was; but he was afraid of her. "how can i help kissing you, you blessed child!" she went on, coming close. kissing him! g. w. glanced about wildly. the lady's eyes filled up with bright tears anew. "no, i will not kiss you, g. w. of course not. you see i do not know very well just what it is safe to do with such small-sized heroes as you and jack!" she turned to the boy, who had stood motionless, looking on. "jack," she said, "it _is_ our g. w., daddy's body-guard." jack came forward. there was a suggestion of lace and curls about him perhaps, but his face gave g. w. a feeling of firm ground under his feet at last. "hello!" said jack, and held out a plump white hand. "hello!" g. w. replied, and laid his thin brown fingers slowly in the other's grasp. the moment while jack stood by the little soldier's bed was long enough for the two boys to eye each other well. jack spoke first. "you saved my father, g. w.,--you are a brick! whatever i've got, you can have half of it." "did you see dat hoss by de do'?" said g. w., after a moment. "dat hoss is mine! you--can--take--de fust ride! an' dis is my tent, my colonel give it to me, an' dis an' all dat i'se got b'longs ter you half!" then they smiled broadly into each other's faces, forgetting the onlookers. "we're going to be just like brothers," whispered jack austin. that was the thought that floated through the dusky little bodyguard's dreams that night as he slept in the little tent beside the colonel's. and the mother's words to the colonel mingled with jack's: "the boys'll have a good time!" and the tall light-house on the point blazed out its message to the sailors upon the sea, "all's well! all's well!" and to the brave soldier-boys sleeping within its shadow it sent down soft rays of light that breathed, "all's well! all's well!" on his cot poor weak little g. w., waking in the moonlight, smiled and sighed with content, then smiled again. xii. a history-evening at oakwood. "g. w., stand up in front of me, and answer!" g. w. took position and looked unflinchingly into the eyes of his colonel. the rapturous life at montauk was a thing of the past--the little body-guard never could think of it without his heart aching with happiness. it was the most glorious experience a boy ever had. the colonel wondered how g. w. had escaped being utterly ruined, for people had lost their heads over him, and even stern army men had shown a soft side toward the dusky little fellow. however, g. w. was a real hero, and such you simply cannot ruin. now the scene was changed. the colonel and g. w. were in the library of the home "up north;" they wore citizen's clothes and looked well and hearty. "g. w., do you remember what you once told me a hero was?" "yes, sah." "well, you proved yourself one, on a certain occasion, and i reckon you and i will never forget it." "no, sah!" "but, g. w., there are many kinds of heroes, as i have often told you. a fellow that can be a hero under _all_ circumstances is a chap worth knowing." "yes, sah!" all this sounded ominous, and g. w. pulled himself together. "well, my boy, you've got to go into a conflict again, another sort of a conflict, and i wish to heaven i could prepare you; but you'll have to battle it out, according to what is in you, as you did before, on the hill-top in cuba. i'm going to send you to school, my boy, with jack. it's a military school and the head master knows all about you, and _wants_ you there. the others don't know." "yes, sah!" the low voice had a tone that always unnerved the colonel--a tone of complete obedience, of complete understanding, and complete resignation. "you see, g. w., i want to fit you for life," the colonel went on. "i'm going to give you your chance. it's going to be a hard pull. the odds will be against you. it isn't just that it should be so, but it is so. your color, comrade, often will go against you, though your heart is the pure heart of a brave, honest child." "yes, sah." "of course," the deep voice went on, "i could buy favor for you at the school, by telling the story of your bravery--a sort of honor for you; but, g. w., i want you to win your own position there, just as you always have, so far. it will be a tussle, but i think you'd like to make the try?" "yes, sah." "because you'll have to tussle and try through life, you know, comrade." "yes, sah!" the firm white hand took the little brown one in a warm hold. "and i shan't bind you with any promises this time, g. w.," the colonel said. a warm color stole over g. w.'s dusky cheeks. he looked up and spoke unexpectedly to the colonel. "dere was two promises, colonel. i kep' de promise to de boy and his mother, sah. i kep' de promise to take care ob you, sah." the poor little body-guard, so long sick and torn with shame over his disobedience and tarnished honor, had thought the whole matter out to the comfort of his soul. he looked up fearlessly into his colonel's eyes. "so you did, g. w.," said the officer, humbly, but with a lighted face. "and god bless you, comrade!" the whole matter was clear to them both forever. * * * * * a week later the two boys went with colonel austin to enter the famous school where little g. w., as a private citizen of the republic he had served according to his strength, was to begin to hew out his fortunes, with the odds, as his colonel had said, against him. the head master greeted him cordially, and the other teachers followed the example. at the very outset the pupils were divided among themselves and withheld their verdict. the open comradeship of colonel austin's son was the thing that counted in the matter for the time being. the outcome of this school-life--not for their own boy, but for g. w.--was a grave matter with the colonel and the colonel's wife for those first weeks. "no one can hold out against his merry sweetness," said mrs. austin again and again. the question with the colonel was whether the little fellow had the sort of heroism to endure what he could not help. g. w. was undoubtedly "sweet," undoubtedly brave, but he was not "merry" those first months of school life. the work of lessons was bitter-hard for him, and the school routine most painful. never in his life before had he given a thought to his color. in the tampa days, before he had entered colonel austin's tent to "offer himself up on the altar of his country," there had never been a question as to his "position;" he had been just a "waif." his "army career" had placed him upon a pinacle where his color had served but to add to his glory. here, on the playground, except for jack and three or four others, g. w. was quietly ignored, and in a helpless way the little fellow felt it keenly, despite the colonel's warning. he tried to look ahead. he studied more and more diligently. he meant to be all the kinds of hero that colonel austin desired. "fo' de lawd!" he said one day in his room, as he scanned his trim figure in the gray school uniform before the glass. "fo' de lawd! i can't understand it." (g. w. was beginning to put the "d's" and "g's" on words now.) "i don't lie, and i ain't afraid of nothing--and i wouldn't do a mean thing any sooner dan dey! it's jes' my skin, and my skin's only a different color on the _outside_, de inside is jes'--is just de same." poor little g. w. "an' i'se getting 'long fine in my classes." (so he was, and at the cost of terrific strain and study.) "an' i likes--i like the--boys first rate--but nawthing in dis education's going to git de black off dis skin!" there was one hour in the school-day that george jones--he was "g. w." only to jack austin, and that in private--enjoyed thoroughly. this was an evening hour when one of the younger professors took the smaller pupils into a library and told them history stories; stories dealing with valiant deeds. there was a flavor of camp life and soldiering about many of the tales that george jones understood far better than the other boys. in the glow of his interest he generally forgot to notice if any boy edged away from him when he chanced to forget his "color" and drew too near; but colonel austin's son always noticed it, and his loyal heart ached. "oh! if i were only sure that daddy would think this was a good time to speak out!" jack often muttered between his teeth. "i wish these fellows knew how awfully white g. w. is inside!" but the colonel had warned jack against "speaking out" unless indignities to little g. w. should become unendurable. during one of these story hours in the library, g. w. had remained in the study-room to conquer a particularly knotty problem in addition, while jack, eager for the tale, which was to be an unusually splendid one, ran on ahead. it happened that when g. w. reached the room he was the last, and the others were clustered around professor catherwood. g. w. paused a moment to look for jack, but among those dark and light heads grouped close he could not distinguish him. just then the story plunged into the thick of interest, and g. w. took the nearest empty chair. unfortunately it was beside tom harding, a very quick-tempered but warm-hearted boy, who had, perhaps, more than any other pupil, made g. w.'s life at "oakwood" a grim experience. he glanced around as g. w. sat down. "please take another seat!" he said. for a moment the silence vibrated. g. w. arose and stood rigid, with downcast eyes. the master, too much disturbed to speak, was silent. but jack austin arose. "tom harding!" he said with flashing eyes, "george jones has a white heart and he is the bravest boy in this room! if you knew"-at this point g. w. went to jack's side. "don't you tell dat, jack!" he said. "don't yer! you know what de--the colonel said. don' yer displease de colonel!" but jack's blood was up. there was something in his young voice that quieted even g. w. he put his hand upon g. w.'s shoulder and kept it there while he spoke. "george is my legally adopted brother, boys. he saved my father's life down in cuba." then came the whole brave, pathetic story, broken here and there by a shake in jack's voice. "and when g. w."--jack had forgotten the more dignified name--"made up his mind on the hill-top to go down after my father, he plunged off where spaniards were hidden thick and bullets flying. he went alone, and he was awful little. and he went on, and wounded soldiers met him and told him my father was off helpless on the ground in some bushes, and he got near there and he saw a spaniard aiming his gun and g. w. aimed his and shot true, and the soldier the spaniard was going to shoot--was my father! and g. w. got my own father back to the tent hospital all alone and no one else on earth did it. my father says g. w. had a glorious, glorious hero-strength. my father and my mother and myself are never, never going to forget what g. w. did! and g. w. is going to have the best life my father can help him get! now isn't he brave and fine enough to be respected? is any one going to mind his brown color when his soul is as white--as white as snow? what would you have of a boy?" jack's voice failed him. g. w., by his side, stood with his back to the boys, even yet as rigid as a statue. for a second--stillness; then a stir in the group. tom harding came forward, his fine young face quivering with emotion. "i beg your pardon, george," he said. "_i_ will never make your life hard again!" "nor i! nor i! nor any of us!" it came like a shout. a smile beamed upon the face of little g. w. his simple, strong, sunny nature responded to the honest outburst. he turned to the boys. "i'se sorry about my skin," he said slowly, "since you-all don't like de color; but i like de--the color of yours, and i'se goin'--going ter learn all that de colonel wants me ter learn! i'se never going to disappoint de colonel!" professor catherwood raised his hand. "three cheers for _our_ hero!" said he. "i think," he went on, when the hurrahing had died down, "that two hero stories are almost too many for one evening; besides you've got a chance to know a live hero. i am sure no boy of oakwood will ever again fail to recognize the real article in the hero line, when he sees it. good-night!" since that evening g. w.'s only battles have been with his school-books. and but for the manly help of his honest school-mates, the far-off victory would seem even dimmer than it does to george washington mckinley jones. the golden hour series _a new series of books for young people, bound in extra cloth, with illuminated designs, illustrations, and title-pages made especially for each volume_ a little dusky hero. by harriet t. comstock. the caxton club. by amos r. wells. the child and the tree. by bessie kenyon ulrich. daisies and diggleses. by evelyn raymond. how the twins captured a hessian. by james otis. the i can school. by eva a. madden. master frisky. by clarence w. hawkes. miss de peyster's boy. by etheldred b. barry. molly. by barbara yechton. the wonder ship. by sophie swett. whispering tongues. by homer greene. through golden doors to english literature through golden doors to english literature a new series by jeannette marks _lecturer at mt. holyoke college_ the master-stories of english literature told for young readers. the author, who has been professor of english literature at mt. holyoke and the author of several successful books for both younger and older readers, has been occupied for a long time in making a selection of the best stories from the greatest english writers beginning with "beowulf" and the dawn of english letters. the present volume offers masterpieces chosen from the earliest english literature from the seventh to the fourteenth century, stories which are not readily accessible. the second volume will offer hero tales of the middle english period, from chaucer and others. in later volumes selections will be made from the masters of modern english literature. early english hero tales from 600 to 1340 other books in preparation _each illustrated, 12mo, cloth, 50 cents net_ harper & brothers, publishers [illustration: medieval london _from manuscript 16 f. ii in the british museum_] [illustration] early english hero tales told by jeannette marks wellesley m.a. lecturer at mt. holyoke college illustrated [illustration] harper & brothers new york & london copyright, 1915, by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published april, 1915 to h. m. c. contents chap. page introduction vii i. the first english hero 1 ii. welsh magic 9 iii. the battle at the ford 18 iv. cædmon the cowherd 30 v. the shepherd of lauderdale 41 vi. the boy who won a prize 48 vii. a fisherman's boy 57 viii. the werewolf 68 ix. at geoffrey's window 75 x. a famous kitchen boy 85 chronology 101 illustrations medieval london _frontispiece_ (from green's _short history of the english people_.) kings in armor _page_ 27 (from green's _short history of the english people_.) henry iii. sailing home from gascony, 1243 " 61 (from green's _short history of the english people_.) knight in armor " 87 (from green's _short history of the english people_.) introduction supposing you were asked to enter a great palace? and within that palace, you were told, were more than a thousand golden doors? and those doors opened into rooms and upon gardens and balconies, all of which were the most beautiful of palace rooms and gardens? and some were more beautiful than anything the world had ever known before? do you think you would go through the gate to that palace? and if you were told that in the palace were lamps so bright that they lighted not only the palace, but cast a glow over the whole world? and that these lamps hung from chains the ends of which you could not see, just as pryderi was not able to see the ends of the hanging golden chains in the palace which he entered? and once within the great palace you were not only better for being there, but also happier and stronger and more beautiful, and never any more could you be lonely? it sounds like an aladdin's lamp, does it not, which, once seen and touched, could bring so much beauty and power into our lives! indeed, it is aladdin's lamp--the lamp of men's minds and souls. and the great palace is the palace of english literature. over those doors are many names written--names never to be forgotten while the english tongue is spoken. and in that palace there is fairyland; there are giants and monsters; there are warrior heroes like beowulf, and saintly heroes like cuthbert; there are noble boys like alfred; there are poets, princes, lovely ladies, little children, spirited horses, faithful dogs; there are heard the sound of singing, the playing of the harp, the beat of feet dancing, cries of gladness, cries of sorrow, the rolling of the organ, the fluting of birds, the laughter of water, and the whisper of every wind that has blown upon the fields of the world; there are seen flowers of every marvelous and starlike shape, of every rainbow hue, and jewels as shining as the lamps hanging in the great palace, and fruits rare and strange filling the great palace with sweet fragrance and color; there are rooms unlike any rooms we have ever seen before; and the years are there--nearly two thousand--numbered and made beautiful; there, too, are wisdom and kindness and courage and faith and modesty and love and self-control, coming and going hither and yon through the wide hallways or on service bent up and down the narrow corridors. it is a palace of enchantment, is it not? yes, it is a palace of enchantment, and i can think of no greater happiness, no stronger assurance that we shall learn how to be our best selves and to rule ourselves, no greater inspiration to be wise and kind while we are boys and girls, and when we grow up no fuller promise of a good time and many kinds of happiness and pleasure, than just to take the gate into that palace, listen to its songs and poems and stories, taste of its fruits, hold some of its flowers in our hands, grow warm in its sunshine, dream in its moonlight, and watch the fairies dance with the feet that dance there, play with its jewels, listen to the whisper of the winds that blow around the world, lay our hands in the brave hands of love and courage, wisdom and kindness, who dwell there; knock on those golden doors where we would go in and be alone; and come out again, knowing that we have won the great enchantment, which is the companionship of beautiful and imperishable story and poem, song and play. it is a wonderful palace of english literature in which we shall see many marvels: the first english hero, beowulf, and the monster grendel; all the fortunes and misfortunes of the little, radiant-browed welsh boy called taliesin, the battle of the friends cuchulain and ferdiad, who were betrayed by the false irish queen maeve; how song came to our first great english poet, cædmon, in the cow-stall at the monastery of whitby (670); of the courage of a shepherd lad who had became a saint, and of even the seals who loved st. cuthbert (seventh century); of the young prince alfred who won a book as a prize (849-900); of havelok, the son of the king of denmark, who lived with fisherman grim at grimsby; of a man who was under enchantment as a wolf part of the week and whom marie de france called a werewolf; of all the marvels that geoffrey of monmouth (1147) saw from his window; and especially of the wonders which king arthur's magician, merlin, worked; and of the red and white dragons that came out of a drained pond; and of a famous kitchen-boy who became a great knight, and about whom sir thomas malory tells one exciting adventure in the _morte d'arthur_ (1469). what boys and girls will enter the gate with me? shall we go into the great palace to-day? and on what golden door shall we rap first that we may be admitted? j. m. south hadley, mass., _january, 1915_. early english hero tales early english hero tales i the first english hero [illustration] the first golden door we open in the great palace shows us a hero, and that is as it should be, for the english have always been brave. yet probably the poem about this first english hero is not the first poem. the first is a poem by the name of the "far traveller." "many men and rulers have i known," says this traveler; "through many strange lands i have fared throughout the spacious earth." this poem may not be of great value, but it is a wonderful experience to open this door and see back, back, back, thousands of years to the very cradle in which english literature was born. this first englishman was a wanderer, as all englishmen, despite their love of home, have been, or else they would not hold so many great dominions as they do to-day. then, too, there was "deor's lament," with its sad refrain, _thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg_ (that was overcome, so may this be) and its grave thought that "the all-wise lord of the world worketh many changes." one more poem, or, better, fragment, is spoken of in _beowulf_. "the fight at finnesburg" is full of the savagery and fierceness of warfare; it is even more wild and barbarous than "beowulf." now let us open the door over which is written _beowulf_. it is one of the oldest and rudest of the golden doors in the great palace of english poetry, but also one of the most precious. the pictures we are to see are beautiful sometimes. more often they are cruel and pitiless. * * * * * the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the air was as sweet-smelling as if it rose from fields of lilies, and it was the very springtime of the world some two thousand years ago. by song little widsith has seen his master bind all men and all beasts. not only the fish and worms forgot their tasks, but even the cattle stopped grazing, and, where they passed, men and children paused to listen. they were on their way to the great hall to have a sight of the hero, beowulf. behind them lay the sea and the coast-guard pacing up and down. before them, landward, rose a long, high-roofed hall. it had gable ends from which towered up huge stag-horns. and the roof shone only less brightly than the sun, for it was covered with metal. about the great hall toward which little widsith and the master were traveling was the village made up of tiny houses, each in its own patch of tilled ground and apple-trees, and with fields in which sheep and oxen and horses were pastured. narrow paths wound in and out everywhere. in front of the hall was a broad meadow across which the king and queen and their lords and ladies were used to walk. there was much going on that day in heorot. flocks of children were playing about the pretty paths. mothers and aunts and older sisters sat spinning in the open doorways. beyond the wide meadow young men and boys were leading or riding spirited horses up and down to exercise them. and all--men, women, and children alike--were talking about beowulf, who had come to kill the monster grendel and free the people of heorot. beowulf had not much more than entered the hall when the scôp, or singer, as little widsith's master was called, entered too. in those days singers were welcome everywhere. they saw beowulf stride mightily across the many-colored floor of heorot and go up to the old king. and they heard his voice, which sounded like the rumble of a heavy sea on their rock-bound coast. "hrothgar!" he said to the old king, "across the sea's way have i come to help thee." "of thee, beowulf, have we need," replied the old king in tears, "for heorot has suffered much from the monster." "i will deliver thee, hrothgar," said beowulf, in his great voice; "thee and all who dwell in heorot." "steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless our woods and wolf-haunted, robbed is our heorot, for to grendel can no man do aught. he breaks the bones of my people. and those of my people he cannot eat in heorot he drags away on to the moor and devours alive." and the old, bald-headed king, seated on his high seat in the hall between his pretty daughter and his tired queen, sighed as he thought of the approaching night. yet, now that beowulf had come, he hoped. together they gathered about the banquet. beowulf sat among the sons of the old king. the walls inside were as bright as the roof, and gold-gilded, and the great fires from which smoke poured out through openings in the roof were cheerful and warm. then little widsith's master was called up, and widsith placed the harp for him. clear rose the song from the scôp's lips, and all the company was still. for a while they forgot the monster which, even now with the falling dusk, was striding up from the sea, perhaps by the same path beowulf and widsith and the scôp had come. already it had grown dark under heaven and darker in the hall, and the place was filled with shadowy shapes. and now came grendel stalking from the cloudy cliffs toward the gold hall. it would have been hard for four men to have carried his huge head, so big it was. the nails of his hands were like iron, and large as the monstrous claws of a wild beast. and, since there was a spell upon him, no sword or spear could harm him. while others slept--even frightened little widsith, who had thought he could never sleep--beowulf lay awake, ready with his naked hands to fight grendel. suddenly the monster smote the door of heorot, and it cracked asunder. in he strode, flame in his eyes, and before beowulf could spring upon him or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping warrior and tore him to pieces. beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men in his body, gripped him, and the dreadful battle and noise began. the benches were overturned, the walls cracked, the fires were scattered, and dust rose in clouds from the many-colored floor as beowulf wrestled with grendel. the scôp had seized his harp and was playing a great battle song, but music has no power over such evil as grendel's. beowulf himself, who was struggling to break the bone-house of the monster in the din of the mighty battle, did not hear it, either. and the song was lost in the noise and dust which rose together in heorot. even the warriors, who struck grendel with their swords, could not help beowulf, for neither sword nor spear could injure the monster. only the might of the hero, himself, could do aught. at last, with the strength of thirty men, beowulf gripped the monster. and grendel, with rent sinews and bleeding body, fled away to the ocean cave where he had lived. and there in the cave, with the sea blood-stained and boiling above him, he died, outlawed for evil. * * * * * in the second part of this poem beowulf was living as king in his own land, and ruling like the great and brave king he was. but a huge old dragon who was guarding a treasure was robbed. so angry was the dragon that he left his heap of treasure and came down upon the land of king beowulf, burning it and terrifying the people. then beowulf, who had become an old man, felt that he must fight to save his people. he went out and slew the dragon, but was himself scorched to death by the fiery breath of the dragon. "beowulf" is the epic of our old english period. an epic is an heroic poem. in "beowulf" the story of beowulf's great deeds--such as his struggle with grendel and grendel's mother--and of his death is told. probably it was sung before the fifth century, when the english conquered britain, for england itself is not mentioned in this wonderful poem. indeed, the country described is that of the goths of sweden and of the danes. your geography will show you where sweden and denmark are. when the english forefathers came to england they brought this poem with them, perhaps in the form of short poems which were woven together by a christian northumbrian poet in the eighth century or thereabouts. it will be interesting to see how this wild moorland, over which grendel stalked and over which the dreadful dragon dragged his length, became, with the cultivation of the land and advancing civilization, the gentle and beautiful dwelling of the fairies. the fairies will not live where it is too wild. much is to be learned from this epic of the customs and the manners of the men who came to britain and conquered it. we can see these people as they lived in their sea-circled settlements, the ships they used to sail upon the sea, how their villages looked, and the boys and girls and grown-ups in them; the rocks and hills and ocean waves that made up their out-of-door world; the good times they had; their games and amusements. we come to know the respect that was given to their women; we see the bravery of the men in facing death, and we hear the songs they sang. "beowulf" is a great poem--english literature knows no poem that is more sacred to it--but it is a sorrowful poem, too. these people believed in fate, for christ had not yet been brought to them with his message of love and peace and joy. english poetry to-day is much more joyous--because it is christian poetry--than it ever could have been if england had remained a heathen land. yet english poetry still has much in common with "beowulf," in love of the sea and worship of nature, and a strange sense of fate. but we must close this door over which is written _beowulf_, for the great palace is full of many doors and many stories, and we have only just begun our journey from golden door to golden door. ii welsh magic on the other side of most of the golden doors through which we shall pass, our own tongue, english, is spoken. yet in this wonderful palace, full of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expression, there are two doors which when thrown open we may enter, but where our english would not be understood. they both admit us to the poems and prose of families of the same race--a race called celtic. over one door of this family, however, is written _cymric_, and all that is cymric is written and spoken in welsh. on the other door is _gaelic_, and all that is gaelic is irish and scotch. and the great palace of english literature, with its innumerable golden doors, would not be at all the same palace if it were not for these two little doors, for out of them has come much that is best in poetry and prose. the welsh were already in britain when the so-called "english" landed on the island, and these english, after one hundred and fifty years, succeeded in driving the welsh, or cymru, back to the mountains and coast on the west of the island. there they lived among the mountains, holding fast to their customs and to their songs and poetry. and by and by, when it was time for this miracle to happen, the little golden door over which was written _cymric_, or _welsh_, opened, and out of it there passed one of the most beautiful story-cycles the world has ever known, the tales about king arthur. but of this great story we shall hear later. this little golden door may be the oldest in all the palace, for long before the arthur story was born there were other tales which the cymru loved. there is a word "prehistoric" which accurately describes some of these stories known as _mabinogion_, which means, literally, tales for the children, or little ones. this famous book was translated from welsh into english by lady charlotte guest in 1838. among the oldest of these tales is "taliesin," which has behind it a prehistoric singer, a mythic singer. and now let us open that door over which is written _cymric_, or _welsh_, and look in. * * * * * long ago, at the beginning of king arthur's time and the famous round table, there lived a man whose name was tegid voel. his wife was called caridwen. and there was born to them a son, avagddu, who was the ugliest boy in all the world. when caridwen looked at avagddu, and knew beyond any doubt that he was the ugliest boy in all the world, she was much troubled. therefore she decided to boil a caldron of inspiration and science for her son, so that avagddu might hold an honorable position because of his knowledge. caridwen filled the caldron and began to boil it, and all knew that it must not cease boiling for one year and a day--that is, until three drops of inspiration had been distilled from it. gwion bach she put to stirring the caldron, and morda, a blind man, was to keep the caldron boiling day and night for the whole year. and every day caridwen gathered charm-bearing herbs and put them in to boil. and it was one day toward the close of the year that three drops of the liquid in the caldron flew out upon the finger of gwion bach, who was stirring the liquid. it burnt him, and he put his finger in his mouth. because of the magic of those drops he knew all that was going to happen. and he was afraid of the wiles of caridwen, and in fear he ran away. all the liquor in the caldron, except the three charm-bearing drops that had fallen upon the finger of gwion bach, was poisonous, and therefore the caldron burst. when caridwen saw the work of her whole year lost, she was angry and seized a stick of wood. with the stick she struck morda on the head. "thou hast disfigured me wrongfully," he said, "for i am innocent." "thou speakest truth," she replied; "it was gwion bach robbed me." and caridwen went forth after gwion bach, running. when little gwion saw her coming, because of the magic drops that had touched his finger, he was able to change himself into a hare. but thereupon caridwen changed herself into a greyhound, and there was a race fleeter almost than the wind. caridwen was nearly upon him when little gwion turned toward the river and became a fish. then caridwen changed herself from a greyhound into an otter, and chased little gwion under the water. so close was the chase that he had to turn himself into a bird of the air. whereupon caridwen became a hawk and followed him and gave him no rest in the sky. she was just swooping down upon him, and little gwion thought that the hour of his death had come, when he saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of the barn, and he dropped into the wheat and turned himself into one of the grains. and then what do you think happened? caridwen changed herself into a high-crested black hen, hopped into the wheat, scratching it with her feet, found poor little gwion bach, who had once been a boy, then in turn became a rabbit, a fish, a bird of the air, and was now a grain of wheat. caridwen swallowed him! but so powerful was the magic of those three drops of inspiration which had touched his finger, that little gwion appeared in the world again, entering it as a beautiful child. and even caridwen, because of his beauty, could not bear to kill him, so she wrapped him in a leathern bag and cast him into the sea. that was on the twenty-ninth day of april. where caridwen threw little gwion into the sea was near the fishing-weir of gwyddno by aberstwyth. and even as caridwen had the ugliest son in all the world, so had gwyddno the most unlucky, and his name was elphin. this year gwyddno had told elphin that he might have the drawing of the weir on may eve. usually the fish they drew from the weir were worth about one hundred pounds in good english silver. his father thought that if luck were ever going to come to elphin, it would come with the drawing of the weir on may eve. but on the next day, when elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir except a leathern bag hanging on a pole. one of the men by the weir said to elphin: "now hast thou destroyed the virtue of the weir. there is nothing in it but this worthless bag." "how now," said elphin, "there may be in this bag the value of an hundred pounds." they took the bag down from the pole, and elphin opened it, and as he opened it he saw the forehead of a beautiful boy. "behold a radiant brow!" cried elphin. "taliesin shall he be called." although elphin lamented his bad luck at the weir, yet he carried the child home gently on his ambling horse. suddenly the little boy began to sing a song in which he told elphin that the day would come when he would be of more service to him than the value of three hundred salmon. and this song of comfort was the first poem the little, radiant-browed taliesin ever sang. but when gwyddno, the father of elphin, asked him what he was, he sang again and told the story of how he had fled in many shapes from caridwen; as a frog, as a crow, as a chain, as a rose entangled in a thicket, as a wolf cub, as a thrush, as a fox, as a martin, as a squirrel, as a stag's antler, as iron in glowing fire, as a spear-head from the hand of one who fights, as a fierce bull, as a bristly boar, and in many other forms, only to be gobbled up in the end as a grain of wheat by a black hen. "what is this?" said gwyddno to his son elphin. "it is a bard--a poet," the son answered. "alas! what will he profit thee?" "i shall profit elphin more than the weir has ever profited thee," answered taliesin. and the little, radiant-browed boy began to sing another song: "wherefore should a stone be hard; why should a thorn be sharp-pointed; who is hard like flint; who is salt like brine; who is sweet like honey; who rides in the gale?" then bade he elphin wager the king that he had a horse better and swifter than any of the king's horses. thus elphin did, and the king set the day and the time for the race at the place called the marsh of rhiannedd. and thither every one followed the king, who took with him four-and-twenty of his swiftest horses. the course was marked and the horses were placed for running. then in came taliesin with four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had burned black, and he put them in the belt of the youth who was to ride elphin's horse. he told this youth to let all the king's horses get ahead of him; but as he overtook one horse after the other he was to take one of the burnt twigs of holly and strike the horse over the crupper, then let the twig fall. this the youth who rode elphin's horse was to do to each of the king's horses as he overtook it, and he was to watch where his own horse should stumble, and throw down his cap on that spot. thereupon the youth who rode elphin's horse, and all the king's riders, pricked forth upon their steeds, their horses with bridles of linked gold on their heads, and gold saddles upon their backs. and the racing horses with their shell-formed hoofs cast up sods, so swiftly did they run, like swallows in the air. blades of grass bent not beneath the fleet, light hoofs of the coursers. elphin's horse won the race. taliesin brought elphin, when the race was over, to the place where the horse had stumbled and where the youth had thrown down his cap as he had been told. elphin did as taliesin bade him and put workmen to dig a hole in this spot. and when they had dug the ground deep enough, there was found a large caldron full of gold. then said taliesin: "elphin, behold! see what i give thee for having taken me out of the weir and the leathern bag! is this not worth more to thee than three hundred salmon?" * * * * * in the _mabinogion_ stories, first collected and set down some time in the twelfth century, we live in a world of enchantment and fairies. those tales are full of gold--the gold of a wondrous imagination. it would be nice if we could keep this door, over which is written _welsh_, open long enough so that i might tell you the story of pryderi, too, and how pryderi found a castle where no castle had ever been, how he entered it and saw "in the center of the castle floor ... a fountain with marble-work around it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl on a marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end." what happened to him when he seized this cup, how the castle faded away, how the heroes of the story were changed to mice--for none of this can we hold open the golden door any longer. the ends of the golden chains of many a story are not to be seen by us. iii the battle at the ford it is interesting to think, is it not, that if it had not been for those two little celtic doors of gold over one of which was written _cymric_, or _welsh_, and over the other, _gaelic_, or _irish_, our great palace of english literature could not have been the same palace, nor half so beautiful. it is not only that there would not have been so many wonderful golden doors leading into story-land, but the stories themselves would not have been told in the same way. the scotch, too, who belong to the celtic family, are almost as great story-tellers as the welsh and irish. when the roman tacitus wrote about the welsh and irish he said, "their language differs little." and even their buildings, cæsar said, were "almost similar." what was true of their speech and their buildings was more true of the gifts they have left in the great palace. they have the same delightful way of telling a story; what they have to say naturally falls into conversations, and they are quick as a wink in the wit and fun and beauty and sadness of what they do say. this little golden door and the wonderful room beyond it were, perhaps, longer in being built than the welsh. these stories and poems of the irish were composed at the time of cæsar and the christian era. the epic cycle of conchubar and cuchulain is the first group of tales in irish literature. they are made up of prose with occasional verses here and there. the irish are very clever at invention, and these stories are among the most wonderful ever written or sung. among the best of these stories is one we shall open a door to listen to--the story of ferdiad and cuchulain in "the battle at the ford." the dialogue in "the battle at the ford" shows us plainly how great the irish dramatic gift has always been. they were born makers of plays. just see how the irish genius makes ferdiad and cuchulain talk, and how lifelike they are! the story is there, not much changed from what it was two thousand years ago, and shows all the irish sense of form. by sense of form is meant simply the story's way of expressing itself. you see, a story or poem is like a human being. it has not only thoughts, but also a body to hold these thoughts. it is because of these two golden doors, over which are written the words, _welsh_, _irish_, that english literature is likely to produce most of the great plays which will be acted, and most of the great novels. every christian and jewish boy and girl knows the bible story of david and jonathan--that jonathan who loved david as his soul, and david who loved jonathan more than a brother can love. this friendship of a king's son with the son of a shepherd was very beautiful and tender and pure. "the battle at the ford" is not so gentle a story, but it is, nevertheless, and despite the treachery of the queen and the sad end of ferdiad, the david and jonathan story of irish literature. * * * * * the men of ireland settled it that ferdiad and cuchulain should fight the next day. but when they sent messengers to fetch ferdiad he would not come, for he learned that they wanted him to fight against his friend cuchulain. then maeve, the queen, sent the druids after him, who by their hurtful poems about ferdiad should raise three blisters on his face--the blisters of shame, blemish, and reproach. so ferdiad had to come to answer the queen, maeve. she offered him great riches if he would fight against his friend cuchulain--speckled satins and silver and gold, with lands, horses, and bridles. but to maeve ferdiad replied, "if you offered me land and sea i would not take them without the sun and moon." for he loved his friend cuchulain so that there was no wealth which could tempt ferdiad to go out against him to wound him. "but," said maeve, "you shall have your fill of the jewels of the earth. here is my brooch with its hooked pin and my daughter, findabair." "nay," answered ferdiad, "these things and all things like unto them shall remain yours, for there is nothing i would take to go into battle against my friend cuchulain. nothing shall come between him and me--he who is the half of my heart without fault, and i the half of his own heart. by my spear, were cuchulain killed, i would be buried in his grave--the one grave for the two of us! misfortune on you, maeve, misfortune on you for trying to put your face between us!" then maeve considered how she should stir him up and thus get her own ends. aloud she said to her people, "is it a true word cuchulain spoke?" "what word was that?" asked ferdiad, sharply. "he said," answered maeve, "that there would be no wonder in it did you fall in the first trial of arms against him." then was ferdiad angry. "that had cuchulain no right to say! if it be true he said this thing, then will i fight with him to-morrow!" at that fergus left ferdiad and maeve, and went out in his chariot to tell cuchulain what had happened. "i give my word," exclaimed cuchulain, "for my friend to come against me is not my wish!" "ferdiad's anger is stirred up," said fergus, "and he has no fear of you." "be quiet," replied cuchulain, "for i can stand against him anywhere!" "it will go hard with you getting the better of him," answered fergus, "for he has the strength of a hundred." "my word and oath," said cuchulain, "it is i who will be victorious over ferdiad." then went fergus joyfully back to the encampment. but ferdiad, gloomy and heavy-hearted, slept only through the early part of the night. toward the end of night he told his driver to harness his horses. "ferdiad," said the driver, "it would be better for you to stop here, for grief will come of that meeting with cuchulain." yet the chariot was yoked and they went forward to the ford, and day and its full light came upon them there. then ferdiad slept while he waited for the coming of cuchulain. with the full light of day cuchulain himself rose up, and said to his driver, "laeg, yoke the chariot, for the man who comes to meet us to-day is an early riser." "the horses are harnessed," answered laeg. with that cuchulain leaped into the chariot, and about him shouted the people of the gods of dana, and the witches and the fairies. then ferdiad's driver heard them coming, the straining of the harness, the creaking of the chariot, the ringing of the armor and the shields, and the thunder of the horses' hoofs. "good ferdiad," said the driver, laying his hand upon his master, "rise up. cuchulain comes, and he is coming not slowly, but quick as the wind or as water from a high cliff or like swift thunder." and they saw cuchulain coming, swooping down on them like a hawk from a cliff on a day of hard wind. cuchulain drew up on the north side of the ford. "i am happy at your coming," said ferdiad. "till this day would i have been glad to hear that welcome," answered cuchulain; "but now it is no longer the welcome of a friend." then each spoke unfriendly words and each began to boast. "before the setting of the sun to-night," said ferdiad, "you will be fighting as with a mountain, and it is not white that battle will be." "you are fallen into a gap of danger," answered cuchulain, "and the end of your life has come." "leave off your boasting," shouted ferdiad, "you heart of a bird in a cage, you giggling fellow." but to this cuchulain replied, "you were my heart companion, you were my people, you were my family--i never found one who was dearer." "what is the use of this talk?" asked ferdiad. "good ferdiad," answered cuchulain, "it is not right for you to come out against me through the meddling of maeve. do not break your oath not to fight with me. do not break friendship. we were heart companions, comrades, and sharing one bed." and ferdiad answered: "do not be remembering our companionship, for it will not protect you this day. it is i will give you your first wounds." then began they with their casting weapons--their round-handled spears and their little quill spears and their ivory-hilted knives and their ivory-hafted spears, and these weapons were flying to and fro like bees on the wing on a summer's day. yet good as the throwing was, the defense was better, and neither hurt the other. there was no cast that did not hit the protecting shields, and by noon their weapons were all blunted against the faces and bosses of the shields. so they left these weapons and took to their straight spears. and from the middle of midday till the fall of evening each threw spears at the other. but good as the defense was, in that time each wounded the other. "let us leave this, now," said ferdiad. then each came to the other and put his hands around the neck of the other and gave him three kisses. and that night one inclosure held their horses and at one fire sat their chariot-drivers. and of every healing herb that was put on cuchulain's wounds cuchulain sent an equal share westward across the ford for the wounds of ferdiad. and of food and drink ferdiad sent a fair share northward to cuchulain and his men. and in the morning they rose up and came to the ford of battle. "what weapons shall we use to-day?" asked cuchulain. "to-day is your choice, for i made the choice yesterday," answered ferdiad. "then let us take our great broad spears, for so by the end of evening shall we be nearer the end of the fight." from the twilight of the early morning till the fall of evening each cut at and wounded the other, till, were it the custom of birds in their flight to pass through the bodies of men, they might have done so on this day. "let us stop from this, now," said cuchulain, "for our horses and men are tired and down-hearted. let us put the quarrel away for a while." so they threw their spears into the hands of their chariot-drivers, and each put his hand around the neck of the other and gave him three kisses. and that night they slept on wounded men's pillows their chariot-drivers had made for them. a full share of every charm and spell used to cure the wounds of cuchulain was sent to ferdiad. and of food ferdiad sent a share. again early on the morrow they came to the ford of battle, and there was a dark look on ferdiad that day. "it is bad you are looking to-day," said cuchulain. "it is not from fear or dread of you i am looking this way," answered ferdiad. "no one has ever put food to his lips, ferdiad, and no one has ever been born for whose sake i would have hurt you." "cuchulain," cried ferdiad, "it was not you, but maeve, who has betrayed us, and now my word and my name will be worth nothing if i go back without doing battle with you." and that day they fought with their swords, and each hacked at the other from dawn till evening. when they threw their swords from them into the hands of their chariot-drivers, their parting that night was sad and down-hearted. early the next morning ferdiad rose up and went by himself to the ford, and there clad himself in his shirt of striped silk with its border of speckled gold, over that a coat of brown leather, and on his head a crested helmet of battle. taking his strong spear in his right hand and sword in his left, he began to show off very cunningly, wonderful feats that were made up that day by himself against cuchulain. [illustration: kings in armor _ms. camb. univ. libr. ee. iii. 59_ c. a.d. 1245] but when cuchulain came to the ford, it was his turn to choose the weapons for the day. and they fought all the morning. by midday the anger of each was hot upon him, and cuchulain leaped up onto the bosses of ferdiad's shield, but ferdiad tossed him from him like a bird on the brink of the ford, or as foam is thrown from a wave. then did cuchulain leap with the quickness of the wind and the lightness of a swallow, and lit on the boss of ferdiad's shield. but ferdiad shook his shield and cast cuchulain from him. cuchulain's anger came on him like flame; and so close was the fight that their shields were broken and loosened, that their spears were bent from their points to their hilts; and so close was the fight that they drove the river from its bed, and that their horses broke away in fear and madness. then ferdiad gave cuchulain a stroke of the sword and hid it in his body. and cuchulain took his spear, gae bulg, cast it at ferdiad, and it passed through his body so that the point could be seen. "o cuchulain," cried ferdiad, when gae bulg pierced him, "it was not right that i should fall by your hand! my end is come, my ribs will not hold my heart. i have not done well in the battle." then cuchulain ran toward him and put his two arms about him, and laid him by the ford northward. and he began to keen and lament: "what are joy and shouting to me now? it is to madness i am driven after the thing i have done. o ferdiad, there will never be born among the men of connaught who will do deeds equal to yours! "o ferdiad, you were betrayed to your death! you to die, i to be living. our parting for ever is a grief for ever! we gave our word that to the end of time we would not go against each other. "dear to me was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to me your comely form, dear to me your clear gray eye, dear your wisdom and your talk, and dear to me our friendship! "it was not right you to fall by my hand; it was not a friendly ending. my grief! i loved the friend to whom i have given a drink of red blood. o ferdiad, this thing will hang over me for ever! yesterday you were strong as a mountain. and now there is nothing but a shadow!" iv cædmon the cowherd a very great modern poet, coleridge, who wrote "the ancient mariner," said that prose was words in their best order, but that _poetry was the best words in their best order_. this is a simple and good definition of poetry. yet there is even more than best words in their best order in the room beyond the door over which is written _poetry_. perhaps, however, beautiful words in their best order would always teach us to find what is beautiful and to love the good. i do not know. do you? cædmon's poem, written about 670, marks the beginning of english poetry in great britain, for "beowulf" was first sung in another land--the land of the conquerors of england--before it was brought to british soil. the verses of cædmon's poetry are as stormy as the sea which beats at the bottom of the cliffs of whitby, on which rose the monastery of streoneshalh. cædmon was at first a servant in this monastery, but when the power to sing came to him it lifted not only cædmon himself to something better than he had been; it has also lifted men and women ever since to better ways of thinking and feeling and to greater happiness than they would ever have had without english poetry. bede, who wrote about cædmon, said, "he did not learn the art of poetry from men, nor of men, but from god." cædmon sang many songs, chiefly songs about stories in the bible. our first poetry was religious. "dark and true and tender is the north," and true and tender is all great english poetry since that most precious of all the golden doors was thrown open in the great palace of english literature. almost more interesting than the stories which cædmon resung for the world is the story of the way the gift of song came to cædmon. * * * * * one day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat from which he had just leaped. he dug his toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of the rocky cliff above him. "what dost see, lad?" said his uncle, who was tossing his catch of fish to the sand; "creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?" "nay, uncle," answered finan, "there is no grendel in the clouds. last night at the hall a man sang to the harp that grendel was a moor-treader. also he told of the deeds of the hero beowulf, and he said that beowulf had killed grendel." finan's eyes were on the distant moor, which was the color of flame in the evening light. already twinkling above were little stars bright as the sheen of elves. there, he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf and giant and monster. there in the moor pools lived the water-elves. across its flame of heather strode mighty march-gangers like grendel, and in the dark places of the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above his pile of gold and treasure. there stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on which were carved the figures of beasts and birds and strange letters which told what gods the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion of christ was brought to england. there lived the wolf-man, too, so friendless and wild that he became the comrade of the wolves which howled in those dark places. there lived a bear, old and terrible, and the wild boar rooting up acorns with his huge curved tusks. nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree--more terrible tree than any in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. this was the gallows on which the village folk hung those who did evil. finan could see the tree where it stood alone in the sunset light. and he heard the rough cawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost. "caw, caw," croaked one raven, "ba-a-d man, ba-ad man." "caw, caw," sang another raven, "ba-ad." then they flapped their wings and settled to their sleep. "uncle," finan said, "i will go up the cliffside." the fisherman looked up. he heard the chanting from the church, and saw an immense white cross upright on the cliff's edge. but he knew not of what adventure little finan was thinking. "aye," he said, "go. perhaps you will see the blessed hild." so it came about that little finan climbed the cliff on that evening which was to prove a night wonderful in its miracle. there was born that night that which, like the love of christ, has made children's lives better and happier. finan reached the top of the cliff by those steps which were cut into it, and then took the main road, paved and straight, which led toward the great hall. he went along slowly under the apple-trees. he saw a black-haired welsh woman draw water. little children not so big as finan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, who were spinning in their doorways. he passed a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its supper. a cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw finan and greeted him. a jeweler was fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had polished. carpenters were leaving a little cottage which they were building. the road was full of men--swineherds and cowherds, plowboys and wood-choppers from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds--all on their way to the great hall. some men there were in armor, too, their long hair floating over their shoulders. inside the windows, which in those days contained no window-glass, torches and firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead would be passed. already a loud horn was calling all who would to come. suddenly something sharp stabbed finan, and he cried out. a man, a woman, and a little child came rushing from one of the household yards, flapping their garments and screaming: "the bees! the bees!" they had just found their precious hive empty. the bees had swarmed, and unless they could find them there would be no more sweet-smelling mead made from honey in that household that year. another bee stung finan. and there they were clinging to a low apple bough just above his head. they hung in a great cluster, like a bunch of dark grapes. "dame," said a cowherd, who was in the road, to the people who were crying out for their bees, "yonder lad knows where the bees are." finan rubbed his head and looked up at the angry, humming swarm. "aye," he said, and laughed. "throw gravel on the swarming bees," called the cowherd, cædmon. the man and woman and finan took handfuls of gravel from the roadside and flung them over the bees, and sang again and again, "never to the wood, fly ye wildly more!" then they laughed, and the bees swarmed. "now," said cædmon, who was a wise cowherd, "hang veneria on the hive, and if ye would have them safe lay on the hive a plant of madder. then can naught lure them away." when they reached the hall folk were already eating inside. little finan saw cædmon go in quietly, for cædmon was attached to the abbess hild's monastery and had a right to go in and eat. inside they were singing for the sake of mirth, and the torches and firelight were flaming. through the open window--for windows were always open then, and the word window meant literally "wind-eye"--finan saw the harp being passed from one to another. they sang many songs as the harp passed from hand to hand, songs of war and songs of home. but when the harp was passed to cædmon, who had charmed the bees, he shook his head sorrowfully, saying that he could not sing, and got up sad and ashamed and went out. little finan wanted to shout through the window to him to sing about the bees. he did not dare, for he was afraid of being discovered. instead he followed behind cædmon. he wished to ask him why he could not sing. this he did not dare to do, either, but he went on to the fold where the cowherd had gone to care for the cattle. and there on the edge of the fold the little boy, unseen by the cowherd, fell asleep. shortly afterward cædmon, too, fell asleep. it must have been near the middle of the night when the stars one and all were shining and dancing with the sheen of millions and millions of elves, and the sea down below the cliff was singing a mighty lullabye, that little finan started wide awake, hearing a voice speak. "cædmon," spoke a man who stood beside the sleeping cowherd, "sing me something." cædmon drowsily answered: "i cannot sing anything. therefore went i away from the mirth and came here, for i know not how to sing." again the mysterious stranger spoke. "yet you could sing." and finan heard the sleep-bound voice of cædmon ask, "what shall i sing?" "sing to me," said the stranger, "the beginning of all things." and at once cædmon began to sing in a strong voice, and very beautifully, the praise of god who made this world. and his song had all the beat of sea waves in it--sometimes little waves that lapped gently on the shore and bore in beautiful shells and jeweled seaweed. but more often its rhythm was as mighty as ocean waves that tossed big ships. then the wandering stranger, hearing the beauty of the song, vanished. cædmon awoke from his sleep, and he remembered all that he had sung and the vision that had come to him. and he was glad. he arose and went to the abbess hild to tell her what had happened to him, the least of her servants. in the presence of many wise men did hild bid cædmon tell his dream and sing his verses. and he did as he was told, and it was plain to all that an angel had visited cædmon. the abbess hild took him into the monastery, and she ordered that everything be done for him. and cædmon became the first and one of the greatest of english poets. and even as christ was born in a manger in bethlehem, english poetry was born in a cattle-fold in a town which was called streoneshalh, which means "bay of the beacon." and to mankind since cædmon, the first english poet, english song has been a beacon to all the world. * * * * * if you open a book written in the english of to-day, it is easy to read it--just as easy as to understand the speech we use among one another. but the english of fifteen or sixteen hundred years ago would be difficult to read. there is an illustration of this english in a line from "deor's lament": thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg. it is easy to pick this out word for word, and see that it means, "that was overcome (or overpassed), so may this be." the english in that great palace, some of whose doors are more than twelve hundred years old, is the same english, just as the oak-tree two hundred years old is the same oak-tree, though different, that it was when planted. but you would find it difficult to read the english in which cædmon wrote his great poems. old english poetry, too, seems as different from the poetry of to-day as the language we speak seems different from the language they used to speak. for one thing, old english poetry did not have rhymes. little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee, gave thee life and bade thee feed by the stream and o'er the mead; gave thee clothing of delight, softest clothing, woolly, bright; gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice? little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee? this poem was written somewhat over a hundred years ago by william blake, but it is modern and part of that brightest and most beautiful room of all english poetry--nineteenth century poetry. what is a rhyme? you can tell if you will study this stanza from "the lamb." you will see that "thee" of the first line rhymes with "thee" of the second, that "feed" and "mead" rhyme, and that "delight" and "bright" rhyme just as "voice" and "rejoice." old english poetry was different, too, in that it did not count the syllables in a line of poetry. if you drum on the table and count the syllables of the first and second lines, you will see that each has six, and the following six lines have seven syllables each, and the last two six each. then if you drum a little more you will see that each of the first two lines has three accents or stresses, and the following six four accents or stresses each. then, you ask, what was this old english poetry like? even if the syllables were not counted and there was no rhyme, it had accents just as our modern poetry has. every line was divided into half verses by a pause, as, for example: warriors of winters young with words spake. there are two accented syllables in the first half of this line, and one in the second. and now, instead of rhyme, what do you think the old english poetry had? alliteration. that is a big word, but it is not nearly so difficult as it seems, for it means simply the repetition of the same letter at the beginning of two or more words. here it is, the letter "w" that is repeated. it was poetry with alliteration and stress which little finan heard on that night so long ago when the angel came to cædmon and commanded him to sing. v the shepherd of lauderdale after cædmon's day there were more and more religious poets. very often the men who wrote the poetry and prose during the time of cædmon and of cuthbert lived in monasteries, where the life was a religious life. in the great palace of english literature there is a pretty story told about ealdhelm, who was a young man when cædmon died. this young man later became the abbot of malmesbury. he was not only a religious poet, but he also made songs and could sing them to music. he traveled from town to town, and, finding that the men at the fairs did not come to church as they should, he would stand on the bridge and sing songs to them in the english tongue, persuading them thus to come to hear the word of god. living at this same time--that is, during the latter half of the seventh century--was st. cuthbert, not so great a scholar as ealdhelm, but as great a wanderer. * * * * * there is a little valley between england and scotland called lauderdale--a little valley watered by a river which flows into the tweed. there cuthbert did not keep the flocks of his father as did david, yet, like david, he was a warrior lad. day and night cuthbert lived in the open, shepherding the sheep of many masters. there was not among the lads of that time a boy more active, more daring than cuthbert. he could walk on his hands, turn somersaults, fight boldly, and become a victor in almost every race. there was no other boy so active but that cuthbert was better at games and sports. and when all the others were tired he would ask whether there was not some one who could go on playing. then suddenly a swelling came on his knee and the poor little boy could play no longer, and had to be carried in and out, up and down, by attendants. this continued until one day a horseman, clothed in white garments and riding a horse of incomparable beauty, appeared before the sick boy and cured his knee. little cuthbert was now able to walk about once more, but never again did he play the games he used to play. not far from where cuthbert lived was the monastery of tiningham, by the mouth of the river tyne. some of the monks were bringing down on rafts wood which they had spent a long time felling and sawing up. they were almost opposite the monastery and were just about to draw the wood to the shore, when a great wind came up from the west and drove the rafts out toward the sea. there were five of them, and so quickly did they drift away that it was not more than a few minutes before they began to look in the distance as small as five little birds. those upon the rafts were in much danger of losing their lives. those in the monastery came out and prayed upon the shore for them. but the five rafts that now looked like the tiniest of birds went on drifting out to sea. and the populace, which had been heathens very lately, began to jest at the monks because their prayers were in vain. then said cuthbert: "friends, you do wrong to speak evil of those you see hurried away to death. would it not be better to pray for their safety?" "no!" shouted the people, angrily. "they took away our old worship, and you can see that nothing comes of the new." at this the young cuthbert began to pray, bowing his head to the ground. and the winds were turned around and brought the rafts in safety to the shore of the monastery. like david, this boy cuthbert was very near to god, and one night, while keeping the sheep of his masters, he saw angels descending from heaven. cuthbert was on a remote mountain with other shepherds, and keeping not only his sheep, but also the vigil of prayer, when a light streamed down from heaven and broke the thick darkness. then cuthbert made up his mind to serve god by entering a monastery. one day he was on a journey on horseback when he was not quite fifteen years old. he turned aside to the farmstead which he saw at some distance, and entered the house of a very good woman. he wanted to rest himself. but even more he wanted to get food for his horse. the woman urged him to let her prepare dinner for him. but cuthbert would not eat, for it was a fast-day. "consider," said the woman, "that on your journey you will find no village nor habitation of man; for indeed a long journey is before you, nor can you possibly accomplish it before sunset. wherefore, i beg of you to take some food before setting out, lest you be obliged to fast all day, or perhaps even until to-morrow." but cuthbert would not break his fast. night came on and he saw that he could not finish his journey, and there was no house anywhere in which to take shelter. as he went on, however, he noticed some shepherds' huts which had been roughly thrown together in the summer. he entered one of these to pass the night there, tied his horse to the wall, and set before the horse a bundle of hay to eat. suddenly cuthbert noticed that his horse was raising his head and pulling at the thatching of the hut. and as the horse drew the thatch down there fell out also a folded napkin. in the napkin was wrapped the half of a loaf of bread, yet warm, and a piece of meat--enough for cuthbert's supper. at last, followed by his squire, and with his lance in hand, the youthful shepherd-warrior, then but fifteen years old, appeared before the gates of the monastery of melrose. for cuthbert had decided to serve god in a religious life rather than upon the battle-field. there was not a village so far away, or a mountain so steep, or a cottage so poverty-stricken, but that the boy cuthbert, strong and energetic, visited it. most often he traveled on horseback; but there were places so rough and wild they were not to be reached on horseback. these places along the coast he visited in a boat. cuthbert thought nothing of hunger and thirst and cold. from the solway to the forth he covered scotland with his pilgrimages. this, of course, was in the seventh century--a long time ago--yet stories are still told there of the wonderful work of cuthbert. while he was young in the life of the monastery it was cuthbert's good fortune to entertain an angel unawares, as, perhaps, we all do sometimes. at the monastery cuthbert, so pleasant and winning were his manners, was appointed guest-master. going out one morning from the inner buildings of the monastery to the guest-chamber, he found a young man seated there. he welcomed him with the usual forms of kindness, gave him water to wash his hands, himself bathed his feet and wiped them with a towel and warmed them. he begged the young man not to go forward on his journey until the third hour, when he might have breakfast. he thought the stranger must have been wearied by the night journey and the snow. but the stranger was very unwilling to stay until cuthbert urged him in the divine name. immediately after the prayers of tierce--or the third hour--were said, cuthbert laid the table and offered the stranger food. "refresh thyself, master, until i return with some new bread, for i expect it is ready baked by this time." but when he returned the guest whom he had left at the table had gone. although a recent snowfall had covered the ground, and cuthbert looked for his footprints, none were to be found. on entering the room again, there came to him a very sweet odor, and he saw lying beside him three loaves of bread, warm and of unwonted whiteness and beauty. "lo," said cuthbert, "this was an angel of god who came to feed and not to be fed. these are such loaves as the earth cannot produce, for they surpass lilies in whiteness, roses in smell, and honey in flavor." by all human beings and creatures was cuthbert beloved. he usually spent the greater part of the night in prayer. one night one of the brothers of the monastery followed him to find out where he went when he left the monastery. st. cuthbert went out to the shore and entered the cold water of the sea till it was up to his arms and neck. and there in praises, with the sound of the waves in his ears, he spent the night. when dawn was drawing near he came out of the water and finished his prayer upon the shore. while he was doing this two seals came from out of the depths of the sea, warmed his feet with their breath and dried them with their hair. and when cuthbert's feet were warm and dry he stood up and blessed the seals and sent them back into the sea, wherein these humble creatures swam about praising god. vi the boy who won a prize you know what sort of stories bede was fond of telling--of course in latin. if you should be asked with whom english prose began, i think it would be safe to say, "with bede, who wrote the life of st. cuthbert and the ecclesiastical history." but that is not why you should say that bede began english prose, but because at his death he was busy finishing a book written in english and called _translation of the gospel of st. john_. when his last day came the good old man called all his scholars about him. "there is still a chapter wanting," said the youth who always took down all of bede's dictation, "and it is hard for thee to question thyself longer." "it is easily done," answered bede; "take thy pen and write quickly." and all day long they wrote. when twilight came the boy cried out, "there is still one sentence unwritten, dear master." "write it quickly," answered the master. "it is finished now," said the boy. "thou sayest truth," came the answer, "all is finished now." singing the praise of god, his scholars and the boy scribe about him, he died. alas that this english book that he bravely finished has been lost! bede was born about 673 and lived most of his life in the monastery at jarrow in northumbria in the north of england. with bede's death the home of english prose literature was changed from the north to the south, from northumbria to wessex, where there lived a noble boy called alfred. asser, the man who was his secretary after the boy grew up, has written a life of alfred. * * * * * from the very first this little boy was full of promise and very attractive. this fact is rather hard on some of us, is it not, who find it difficult to be good and to win the confidence of grown-up people. but the confidence of others is precisely what the boy alfred did win, and it was not because he was a molly-coddle, for no young prince ever swung a battle-ax more lustily than did alfred. when he was a little bit of a chap only five years old, he was taken to rome to see the pope. alfred was born in 849 at the town of wantage, so you know what year it was when he went to rome. the pope took a great fancy to him and hallowed him as his "bishop's son." just how old this charming boy was when he began to read we do not know. at that time, of course, all boys read latin, for there were no english books to read. but there is an old english couplet--a couplet is two lines of verse with a rhyme at the end of each line--which may tell the story of alfred's reading: at writing he was good enough, and yet as he telleth me, he was more than ten years old ere he knew his a b c. alfred may have been younger or older than this. we don't know, and the probability is that we never shall know. this little boy was much loved by his father, king ethelwulf, and his mother, queen osburh. he had many brothers and sisters, and was himself the fifth child. but he was a finer-looking boy than the others, and more graceful in his way of speaking and in his manners. from the time that he was a tiny child he loved to know things. and yet his parents and nurses allowed him to remain untaught in reading and writing until he was quite a big boy. but at night, when the gleemen sang songs to the harp in the royal villa, alfred listened attentively. he had memorized very early some splendid old english songs, such as "beowulf." he knew all about grendel, and all about the death of the warrior beowulf after his battle with the dragon. and he had listened to gentler songs, like the one of the cowherd, cædmon. he listened to the singing of poems which were full of the sea and full of war. saints, warriors, and pirates were the chief heroes. a roman poet, thinking of the warriors and pirates, called the english people "sea wolves." all their poetry was full of the sea, and it is still true that the english love the sea. * * * * * but you must not think of these people, in the midst of whom alfred was born, as just warriors. they loved their homes, and their poetry is full of love for their families and for the dear old home-place, wherever it happened to be. besides home-loving poetry, the gleemen sang many religious poems to which the little alfred listened. among them was the story of cædmon, as i have said. we hear, too, of warrior saints, good men who did not go out to slay a fire-spewing dragon lying on a heap of gold, as did beowulf, but who taught them how to fight the dragon of evil which lurks somewhere near or within us all the time. it is this sort of golden and every-day victory that not only cædmon, the cowherd, sings, but also cynewulf, who lived during the last half of the eighth century. cynewulf was a minstrel at the court of one of the northumbrian kings--just such a minstrel or gleeman as alfred sometimes listened to on many a night when he was committing to memory some stirring or beautiful anglo-saxon poem. this poet-singer loved the sea with all his heart, and his poetry is full of this love. and in our own day, eleven centuries later, tennyson wrote poems in their spirit not unlike old english poems. there is one called "the sailor boy" which resembles an anglo-saxon poem called "the seafarer." it is a spirited little poem and begins: he rose at dawn and, fired with hope, shot o'er the sultry harbour-bar, and reached the ship and caught the rope, and whistled to the morning star. god help me! save i take my part of danger on the roaring sea, a devil rises in my heart, far worse than any death to me. that devil is, of course, the devil of idleness, of uselessness. these stanzas are worth memorizing. you can see the spirit of a poet sometimes has a very long life. here is one of the old english riddles: on the sand i stayed, by the sea-wall near, all beside the surge-inflowing! firm i sojourned there, where i first was fastened. only few of men watched among the waste where i wonned on the earth. but the brown-backed billow, at each break of day, with its water-arms enwrapt me! little weened i then, that i e'er should speak, in the after-days, mouthless o'er the mead-bench.... what do you think that meant? a reed flute--a little flute on which one played a song. when christianity came to england, as it did in 597 with st. augustine, almost three hundred years before little alfred was born, it made men care less for warfare and more for christ. it is difficult to do what christ told us to do--love one another, and at the same time fight one another. and that we should love one another was the great new message of christianity. christ was in men's minds, however, in those olden days, not only our gentle saviour, but also a hero who went forth to war. * * * * * alfred knew all about warfare, but it was not for warfare that this gentle boy and brave man cared most. one day his noble mother, osburh, showed him and his brothers a book of poetry written in english. "whichever of you," she said, "shall the soonest learn this volume shall have it for his own." this book was a very beautiful book with an illuminated letter at the beginning of the volume. an illuminated letter is usually bright with gold as well as with other colors. of course the boy alfred wanted this wonderful book. he said before all his brothers, who were older than he, "will you really give that book to one of us, that is to say to him who can first understand and repeat it to you?" "yes," answered his mother, smiling, and assuring him that it was so. alfred thereupon took the book from her hand and went to his master to read it. and it was not so very long before he had it all by heart. then one day he brought the book to his mother and recited it. and so well did he do that he received the gift as his mother had promised him he should. we have taken a look through the golden door over which is written _old english poetry_. we know something of what the boy alfred learned from the book his mother gave him. by that time he had grown to be a large boy. when he was still a little boy he had been taken from his nurses and taught the use of arms and how to ride. all his training was teaching him how to be a soldier. yet there was something for which alfred cared even more. all about them in those days were the danes, the fiercest of fighting-men. government, the gentle religion of christ, peace, had been almost dislodged by these fierce, heathen danes. yet in the midst of the war-filled years of his boyhood and young manhood alfred was dreaming of what english books, of what education in their own tongue, might do for his people. and even in war times they were very busy just getting things together in order to live. they had to have food, they had to be warm, they had to have houses and clothes. in the woods they had pigs--wild-looking swine with tusks. in the fields they had cattle and sheep and chickens. from the sea they took fish. they made butter and cheese, ale and mead, candles, leather from skins, and they wove cloth and silk. they kept bees, too, as you know from what happened to little finan in the story of cædmon. besides all these things they had their carpenter's work, their blacksmith's, their baker's, hunting, woodcutting, the making of weapons, and a hundred and one other employments. still, despite all the warfare and the work, alfred, when he became king in 871, had time to do a great deal for the education of the boys and girls of those stirring days. the young king wrote in english and translated from latin into english so that the people might have books in their own tongue. and since bede's translation of the gospel of st. john was lost, alfred must be called the true "father of english prose." just as whitby and the stall in which cædmon saw the vision and learned how to sing was the cradle of english poetry, so was winchester the cradle of english prose. to accomplish this work the good king brought scholars from all over the world. asser, his secretary and biographer, has compared alfred to a most productive bee which flew here and there asking questions as he went. he made it possible for every free-born youth to learn to read and write english perfectly. indeed, this wonderful king made himself into a schoolmaster and took on the direction of a school in his own court. he translated from well-known books into english, among others bede's _history_ and pope gregory's _pastoral care_. although he freed his people from the fierce danes, through his love for a book he did more for his own times and for all times--more, almost, than any other english boy has ever grown up to do. vii a fisherman's boy when we say that we are english-speaking, it seems as if it were not necessary to say more than that. but the more we wander about in the great palace of english literature opening golden doors, the more do we realize that we cannot say that this palace was built by english hands alone. no, the men who built it were not only english, they were, as you know already, welsh, irish, scotch. indeed, the very word "english" was brought to england by an invader, just as the word "america" was brought to the north american continent by a discoverer. not only was this palace of english literature built by those who were welsh, irish, and scotch, as well as english, but also by danes and normans. the english came to britain in 449. about three hundred and fifty years later (790) the danes began to ravage northumbria, which you have come to know through the story of cædmon the cowherd. but the danes were of english stock, so to speak, and they neither changed the language nor altered things in the life of boys and girls and men and women. after all it was much the same life after they came as it was before. they brought with them some stories--just as the english "beowulf." among the danish-english stories were "havelok the dane" and "king horn," both written down about 1280, but told and sung much before that time. in her early days before she became a great world power, england had many conquerors. not only the english and the danes, but also the normans were her conquerors in 1066 under william the conqueror. english story-telling, as, for example, malory's "morte d'arthur," could never have been the same without the norman or french influence. if we pick up a handful of so-called english words, we shall see that some of these words are english, others are french, and still others latin in their origin. but the norman spoke french only for a while in england. he soon left the speaking and writing of french for that of english. however, there are many beautiful words, many strong words, many words of customs and manners which we should not find in the great palace of english literature but for the conquerors who came to england. there are several manuscripts in which the story of havelok is found. but the one which is written in an english dialect shows best how old the story is. * * * * * there was a king whose name was aethelwold, whose only heir was a tiny little girl. and the little girl's name was goldborough. alas, the king found he must die and leave his little girl fatherless! so he called to him the wisest and mightiest of his earls. the name of this earl was godrich. and the king made the earl promise that he would guard his little girl until she was twenty years old, and that then he would give her in marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive. but when the earl godrich saw how lovely little goldborough was going to be, and knew that he would have to give up the kingdom to her before long, he was angry, and took her from winchester to dover on the english seacoast and shut little goldborough up in a castle so that she could not get out. in denmark, just about this time, there lived a king whose name was birkabeyn who had one boy and two sweet little girls. he, too, realized that he had to die. so he called to him his wisest earl, a man by the name of godard, and charged him to care for his children until havelok, the boy, was old enough to rule the land. but this wicked earl shut little swanborow and helfled up in a castle and had them killed. and godard was just about to kill havelok, too, when he bethought him he would have somebody else do this terrible deed. the wicked earl sent for a fisherman who would, he knew, do his will. "grim," said the wicked earl, "to-morrow i will make thee rich if thou wilt take this child and throw him into the sea to-night." grim took the boy havelok and bound him and gagged him and took him home in a black bag. when grim carried the sack into his cottage, dame leve, his wife, was so frightened that she dropped the sack her husband had handed to her, and cracked poor little havelok's head against a stone. they let the boy lie this way until midnight, when it would be dark enough for grim to drown havelok in the sea. leve was just bringing grim some clothes that he might put on to go out and drown the king's son, when they saw a light shining about the child. "what is this light?" cried dame leve. "rise up, grim." in haste the fisherman rose and they went over to the child, about whose head shone a clear light, from whose mouth came rays of light like sunbeams. it was as if many candles were burning in that tiny fisherman's hut. they unbound the boy and they found on his right shoulder a king's mark, bright and fair like the lights. they were overcome by what godard had done and had almost led them to do. they fell upon their knees before the little boy and promised to feed and clothe him. and so they did, and they were very good to him and kept him from all harm. but grim and his wife became frightened, for fear that godard would discover that they had not drowned the child and would hang them. thereupon grim sold all that he had, sheep, cow, horse, pigs, goat, geese, hens--everything, in short, that was his. taking his money, he put his wife, his three little sons, and two pretty little girls and havelok into his fishing-boat and they set sail for england. [illustration: henry iii. sailing home from gascony, 1243 drawn by matthew paris _ms. roy. 14 c. vii_] the north wind blew and drove them down upon the coast of england near the river humber, and there grim landed, and the place is called grimsby to this day. then grim set himself to his old occupation of fishing, and he caught sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, porpoise, mackerel, flounder, plaice, and thornback. and he and his sons carried the fish about in baskets and sold them. yet while grim fed his family well, havelok lay at home and did naught. and when havelok stopped to think about that, he was ashamed, for he was a fine, strong boy. "work is no shame," said the king's son to himself. and the next day he carried to market as much fish as four men could. and every bit of fish did he sell and brought back the money, keeping not a farthing for himself. alas! there came a famine about this time, and grim had great fear on havelok's account lest the boy starve. "havelok," said grim, "our meat is long since gone. for myself it does not matter, but i fear for thee. thou knowest how to get to lincoln, and there they will give thee a chance to earn thy food. since thou art naked, i will make thee a coat from my sail." this he did, and with the coat on and barefoot the king's son found his way to lincoln. for two days the lad had no food. on the third day he heard some one crying, "bearing-men, bearing-men, come here!" havelok leaped forward to the earl's cook and bore the food to the castle. another time he lifted a whole cart-load of fish and bore it to the castle. the cook looked him over and said: "wilt thou work for me? i will feed thee gladly." "feed me," answered havelok, "and i will make thy fire burn and wash thy dishes." and because havelok was a strong lad and a good boy, as all kings' sons are not, he worked hard from that day forth. he bore all the food in and carried all the wood and the water, and worked as hard as if he were a beast. and he was a merry lad, too, for he knew how to hide his griefs. and the old story says that all who saw him loved him, for he was meek and strong and fair. but still he had nothing but the wretched coat to wear. so the cook took pity on him and bought him span-new clothes and gave him stockings and shoes. and when he had put them on he looked the king's son he was. at the lincoln games he was "like a mast," taller and straighter than any youth there. in wrestling he overcame every one. yet he was known for his gentleness. never before had havelok seen stone-putting, but when his master told him to try, havelok threw the stone twelve feet beyond what any one else could do. the story of the stone-putting was being told in castle and hall when earl godrich heard it, and said to himself that here was the tallest, strongest, and fairest man alive, and he would fulfil his promise and get rid of goldborough, the king's daughter, by giving her to havelok, whom he thought to be just a cook's boy. now havelok did not wish to marry any more than did goldborough, but they were forced to. and when they were married havelok knew not whither they could go, for he saw that godrich hated them and that their lives were not safe. therefore they went on foot to grimsby, and royal was their welcome. grim, the fisherman, had died. but his five children fell on their knees and said: "welcome, dear lord. stay here and all is thine." and that night as they lay on their bed in the fisherman's hut, goldborough discovered, because of the bright light which came from the mouth of havelok, that he was a king's son. and it was not long after this they all set sail for denmark, so that havelok, with the help of grim's sons and many others, might win back the kingdom of denmark. it was in the house of bernard brown, the magistrate of the danish town, that sixty strong thieves, clad in wide sleeves and closed capes, attacked him. bernard brown seized an ax and leaped to the door to defend his home. one of the thieves shouted at him, "we will go in at this door despite thee." and he broke the door asunder with a boulder. whereupon havelok took the great bar from across the door. and with the bar he slew several, yet the thieves had wounded him in many places, when grim's sons came upon the scene to defend their lord and saw the thieves treating havelok as a smith does his anvil. like madmen the three sons of grim leaped into the fight, and they fought until not one of the thieves was left alive. when earl ubbe heard of this he rode down to bernard brown's. then he heard the story of havelok's bravery and of the terrible wounds he had received, so that bernard brown feared he might die because of them. "fetch havelok quickly," commanded ubbe. "if he can be healed, i myself will dub him knight." when a leech saw the wounds of havelok he told ubbe that they could be cured. "come forth now," said ubbe to havelok, "thou and goldborough and thy three servants." and with rejoicing did ubbe bring them to his city. and about the middle of the night ubbe saw a great light in the tower where havelok was sleeping. he peered through a crack and he saw that the "sunny gleam" came from havelok's mouth. it was as if a hundred and seven candles were burning, and on havelok's shoulder was a clear, shining cross. "he is birkabeyn's heir," said ubbe, "for never in denmark was brother so like to brother as this fair man is like the dead king." and earl ubbe and his men fell at havelok's feet and awoke him. and very happy was havelok, and thankful to god. and then came barons and warriors and thanes and knights and common men, and all swore fealty to havelok. with a bright sword ubbe dubbed havelok knight and made him king. and the three sons of grim were also made knights. thereat were all men happy, and they wrestled and played, played the harp and the pipe, read romances from a book, and sang old tales. there was every sort of sport and plenty of food. finally they all, a thousand knights and five thousand men, set forth that havelok might take vengeance on the wicked earl godard. there was a hard fight, but at last they caught and bound earl godard. and he was hung on the gallows and died there. such was the end of one who betrayed his trust. the wicked earl godrich in england, who had robbed goldborough of her kingdom, heard that havelok was become king of denmark and also that he was come to grimsby. so he gathered all his army together and there was a great battle. and the battle was going against havelok, when the wicked hand of godrich was struck off. after that havelok and his men were victorious. then did they condemn the earl godrich to death. and he was bound to an ass and led through london and burned at the stake. such was the end of one who betrayed his trust. and after that havelok and goldborough reigned in england for sixty years. so great was the love of the king and queen for each other that all marveled at it. neither was happy away from the other. and never were they angry, for their love for each other was always new. viii the werewolf in the great palace of english literature over one of the golden doors hangs a horn of ivory, and a sword of which the name is durendal. above that door is written _chanson de roland_, which means the song of roland. often in the stillness of the early morning or at dusk the great palace rings faintly with the music from that ivory horn which belonged to roland, and which he sounded for the last time in the pass of roncevaux. or there is heard the clinking of durendal against the stone of the palace walls--no doubt the wind stirring it where it hangs beside the door it guards. "chanson de roland!" you see the story is french. the normans brought it with them when they came to conquer britain in 1066 under william of normandy. before the soldiers of william, the minstrel, taillefer, rode singing of "charlemagne, and of roland, and of oliver, and the vassals who fell at roncevaux." "roland, comrade," said oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, and charles shall hear it and bring hither again his army, and ... succor us." "nay, first will i lay on with durendal, the good sword girded at my side." "roland, comrade," urged oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, that charles may hear it." "god forbid that they should say i sounded my horn for dread of the heathen." "prithee look!" begged oliver. "they are close upon us. thou wouldst not deign to sound thy horn of ivory. were the king here we should suffer no hurt." oliver was wise and roland was brave, and the song that the minstrel taillefer chanted before the conquering hosts of william of normandy was a wonderful, stirring song. no doubt there flows in english veins to-day much of the courage of roland and the wisdom of oliver. although the english continued english, yet for a long time following the conquest of england by the normans songs were sung in french rather than in english. and ready and witty was all that was written down in french, for the literature of the normans was as brightly colored as a jewel and not grand and melancholy as was that of the anglo-saxons. "beowulf" was the battle song of the anglo-saxons, the "song of roland" that of the normans. melancholy was the poem of "beowulf." white and clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the "chanson de roland," even as roland's beloved sword durendal, which is heard clinking against the stone of the great palace of english literature. but "roland" represented only a fraction of the story-telling in the french poetry of that time. the most exquisite and delightful story-teller of that twelfth century collected and wrote here charming stories on english soil and dedicated them to henry ii., who died in 1189. her name was marie de france, and of her lays a rival poet wrote: all love them much and hold them dear, baron, count and chevalier, applaud their form and take delight to hear them told by day and night. in chief, these tales the ladies please; they listen glad their hearts to ease. marie de france's lays are based on british tradition. there are many of these delightful stories. among the most interesting of them is "the werewolf." * * * * * once upon a time in the days of king arthur--for later there are some lines in malory's "morte d'arthur" which tells us that this story must have been true--there lived a man who for part of the week was a wolf--that is, he had the form and the appetite of a wolf, and was called a werewolf. but nobody knew that he was a werewolf for three days in the week. not even his wife, whom he loved well and devotedly, knew what happened to her husband while he was away from her these three days every week. it vexed the wife very much that she did not know, but she was afraid to question her husband, lest he be angry. at last one day she did question him. "ask me no more," replied the husband, "for if i answered you you would cease to love me." nevertheless she gave him no peace until he had told her that three days in the week, because of a spell which was over him, he was forced to be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change coming over him he hid himself in the very thickest part of the forest. then the wife demanded to know what became of his clothes, and he answered that he laid them aside. the wife asked where he put them. he begged her not to ask him, for only the garments made it possible for him to return to human shape again. but the wife cried and begged until the knight, her husband, had told her all. "wife," he said, "inside the forest on a crossroad is a chapel. near the chapel under a shrub is a stone. beneath the stone is a hole, and in that hole do i hide my clothes until the enchantment makes it possible for me to take my human shape again." now the wife was not a good wife. instead of trying to help her husband to get free from the wolf shape he had to assume three days in every week, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid of him. and what is worse still, she betrayed him to another knight. she took this other knight into her confidence and told him where her husband hid his clothes when the spell came upon him and he took the form of a wolf. thereupon the knight to whom she had told this dreadful secret stole the clothes, and they hid them where the poor wolf could never find them again. after that these two wicked people were married, while the poor wolf wandered about in the forest, grieving, for he had loved his wife well and truly. some time after this the king was hunting one day in the forest, and his hounds gave chase to a wolf. at last, when the wretched beast was in danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn into a thousand pieces, he fled to the king, seized him by the stirrup, and licked his foot submissively. the king was astonished. he called his companions, and they drove off the dogs, for the king would not have the wolf harmed. but when they started to leave the forest the wolf followed the king and would not be driven away. the king was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking to the wolf. he therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, and at night he slept in the king's own chamber. all the courtiers came to love the wolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one any harm. a long time had passed when one day the king had occasion to hold a court. his barons came from far and near, and among them the knight who had betrayed the werewolf. no sooner did the wolf see him than he sprang at him to kill him. and had the king not called the wolf off he would have torn the false knight to pieces. every one was astonished that this gentle beast should show such rage. but after the court was over and as time went on they forgot the beast's savage act. at length the king decided to make a tour throughout his kingdom. and he took the wolf with him, for that was his custom. now the werewolf's false wife heard that the king was to spend some time in the part of the country where she lived. so she begged for an audience. but no sooner did she enter the presence-chamber than the wolf sprang at her and bit off her nose. the courtiers were going to slay the beast, but a wise man stayed their weapons. "sire," said the councilor, "we have all caressed this wolf and he has never done us any harm. this lady was the wife of a man you held dear, but of whose fate we none of us know anything. take my counsel and make this lady answer your questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf sprang at her." this was done. the false knight who had married her was brought also, and they told all the wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. then the king caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be fetched. but the wolf acted as if he did not see the clothes. "sire," said the councilor, "if this beast is a werewolf he will not change back into his human shape until he is alone." they left him alone in the king's chamber, and put the clothes beside him. then they waited for a long time. lo, when they entered the chamber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep sleep on the king's bed! quickly did the king run to him and embrace him, and after that he restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished the false wife and her second husband from the country. and they who were banished lived in a strange land, and all the girls among their children and grandchildren were without noses. * * * * * so close we this little golden door--not the less precious because little--over which is written in letters all boys and girls should love: _marie de france_, who wrote "the werewolf." ix at geoffrey's window among all the golden doors in the great palace of english literature about which we are coming to know something, and through some of which we have already passed, there was one golden window on the stairway of the palace. this window on the stairway of the palace looked out upon a busy town and down upon the windings of the river wye, and off upon hills and upon the ruins of a wonderful old abbey called tintern abbey, about which, some six hundred years later, an english poet called william wordsworth was to write a poem called "tintern abbey." wordsworth wrote "we are seven," and also this little poem about a butterfly: i've watched you now a full half-hour, self-poised upon that yellow flower; and, little butterfly! indeed i know not if you sleep or feed. how motionless! not frozen seas more motionless! and then what joy awaits you, when the breeze hath found you out among the trees and calls you forth again. this plot of orchard ground is ours; my trees they are, my sister's flowers; here rest your wings when they are weary; here lodge as in a sanctuary! come often to us, fear no wrong; sit near us on the bough! we'll talk of sunshine and of song, and summer days when we were young; sweet childish days that were as long as twenty days are now. but the golden window at which geoffrey sat was in monmouth, and he was called geoffrey of monmouth. that was some seven hundred years ago. no doubt the little town was very busy even in 1137 when geoffrey sat at his window and wrote his famous chronicle called _british history_. before geoffrey began to write down his marvelous stories, other stories and poems were written. in king alfred's time, when the home of english literature was shifted from the north to the south, two fine battle songs were written. they were the "song of brunanburh" and the "song of the fight at maldon." these were written in the tenth century. "the charge of the light brigade," composed some eight hundred years later by the poet tennyson, is like these old songs in its short, rapid lines and in its thought. every one should learn these lines from the poem alfred tennyson wrote: half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward the light brigade! charge for the guns!" he said: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward the light brigade!" was there a man dismayed? not tho' the soldier knew some one had blunder'd: theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. but we have been long enough away from that golden window by which geoffrey of monmouth sat and wrote his immortal stories. geoffrey was called a chronicler. and what he was supposed to be doing was jotting down accurately historical events year after year. some of the chronicles written in this way have become the chief sources of english history. among the men who wrote these chronicles were william of malmesbury and matthew paris. and between them came geoffrey himself. it will never be known, unless it should prove possible to roll time back some seven hundred years, just what geoffrey did see from his window as he looked out upon the busy town of monmouth, or all that went on in his nimble mind. in any event it is plain that he had the best of good times inventing or retelling stories in his chronicle. there is to be found the story of king lear and his three daughters, regan, goneril, and cordelia--lear, the hero of shakespeare's play, "king lear," written over four hundred years later. there, too, is the story of ferrex and porrex. geoffrey had a nimble quill pen with which to follow his nimble wit. he writes of julius cæsar and of how he came to great britain. what geoffrey of monmouth says may be ridiculous enough in the light of history, but there it is, and there is cæsar himself, not only looking upon the coast of britain but actually standing upon it. we become familiar, too, with many names known in stories about king arthur. perceval is one of these. and uther pendragon, who was the father of king arthur, is another. one of the marvelous facts about geoffrey is that when he looked out of that golden window he could see so much farther than just monmouth. he could see all the way to the sea, and on its shores that beautiful city tintagel, where queen igraine, the mother of arthur, lived. but in geoffrey's chronicle she was called igerna. a name is sometimes like a long, long journey, not only in its romance, but also because it takes you to other lands and other people, and passes, even as the road upon a long journey, through many changes. * * * * * geoffrey saw from his golden window not only tintagel, that beautiful south welsh city by the sea, but also a little village in north wales called beddgelert. this little village is set down in the midst of mountains like a lump of sugar in the bottom of a deep cup. outside this little village is a hill called dinas emrys. geoffrey looked northward out of his golden window in monmouth, and what do you think he saw? he saw the magician, merlin, the youth who had never had a father. and this lad was quarreling with another lad in caernarvon, a welsh city thirteen miles away from the little village of beddgelert. now vortigern had been attempting to build a tower on dinas emrys, but whatever the workmen did one day was swallowed up the next. then some wise men said to vortigern: "you must find a youth who has never had a father. you must sacrifice him and sprinkle the foundations with his blood." so vortigern sent men to find a boy who had never had a father and who should be brought him that they might kill him. when vortigern's messenger reached caernarvon, thirteen miles away from beddgelert and the hill dinas emrys, they found two boys playing games and quarreling about their parentage. and one of them, dabutius, was accusing the other, merlin, of having no father. they took him to vortigern. and vortigern said, "my magicians told me to seek out a lad who had no father, with whose blood the foundations of my building are to be sprinkled to make it stand." "order your magicians," answered merlin, "to come before me and i will convict them of a lie." it is a terrible thing to be convicted of a lie, and of course the magicians did not wish to come. but king vortigern made them come and ordered them to sit down before merlin. merlin spoke to them after this manner: "because you are ignorant what it is that hinders the foundations of the tower, you have told the king to kill me and to cement the stones with my blood. but tell me now, what is there under the foundations that will not suffer it to stand?" to this they gave no answer, for they were frightened. then said merlin, "i entreat your majesty would command your workmen to dig into the ground, and you will find a pond which causes the foundations to sink." this the king had done, and a pond was found there. then said merlin to the king's magicians, "tell me, ye false men, what is there under the pond?" but they were afraid to answer. merlin turned to king vortigern and said, "command the pond to be drained, and at the bottom you will see two hollow stones, and in them are two dragons asleep." the king had the pond drained, and he found all just as merlin said it would be. and as the king sat on the edge of the drained pond out came the two dragons, one red and one white, and, approaching each other, they began to fight, blowing forth fire from their nostrils. at last the white dragon got the advantage and made the red dragon fly to the other end of the drained pond. when king vortigern asked merlin to explain what this meant, merlin burst into tears. then commanding his voice, he spoke: "in the days that are to come gold shall be squeezed from the lily and the nettle, and silver shall flow from the hoofs of bellowing cattle. the teeth of wolves shall be blunted and the lion's whelps shall be transformed into sea-fishes." and unto this day nobody knows exactly what merlin meant, or what geoffrey thought he meant, although there has been much guessing. * * * * * geoffrey must have been very fond of looking out of his window and seeing merlin, for many a story he tells about him. there is the story of how merlin helped to remove the stones of the giants' dance from ireland. giants of old had brought them from the farthest coast of africa. they were mystical stones and had value to heal and cure men. when these stones were found too heavy to be lifted by human hands, merlin found a way, nevertheless, to lift them. then the stones of the giants' dance were carried across the sea and placed in england at stonehenge. it is an exciting story geoffrey tells about the giants' dance, yet i fear we know no more really how the big stones got to stonehenge than we know about the ribs of our solid earth. certainly those stones were set up in stonehenge even before men began recording history or geoffrey of monmouth sat in his golden window. and there is the story of the 40,060 kings who never existed--which is more almost than ever did exist. and of the coming of st. augustine to england, bringing with him the gentle religion of christ. it would be very nice if all this about merlin and the dragons and the giants' dance were what might be called true history. alas, it is not! in the first place, geoffrey tells stories which vary greatly from what was actually known to be history. then, too, this chronicle is full, as you have seen, of miraculous stories of one sort or another. and there are other reasons, also, why these delightful stories of geoffrey of monmouth must be taken with a pinch of salt. but it is because geoffrey did sit at his window in the little town of monmouth, writing these stories which have to be taken with a pinch of salt, that english story-telling began to grow. geoffrey's imagination was to english story-telling what the sunlight is in making a tulip grow. story-telling grew out of the chronicles, the so-called historical literature. the men of geoffrey's time said that "he had lied saucily and shamelessly." no doubt he had. yet these same men could not help reading the stories he told, for they were so interesting that all men read them. what he had done was to take several welsh legends, put them together cleverly, as a carpenter joins a delicate bit of woodwork, translate these welsh legends into latin and call the work a chronicle. not only was it read in england, but it was read all over the continent of europe, too. it had great success. geoffrey gaimer put these stories into french. the stories traveled to france. once there, other legends were added, and when geoffrey's chronicle turned up again in england it came back as the work of wace, a norman trouveur, or ballad-singer. but geoffrey's stories were too good to let drop even after they had been through so many hands. an english priest in worcestershire by the name of layamon, translating the french poem which wace had made out of geoffrey's prose stories, retold the stories in english poetry. that was in 1205, after geoffrey had died. geoffrey of monmouth must have been very happy as he sat in his sunny, golden window and heard about the tales he had written there. he must have chuckled many a time over what the world had made out of his nimble story-telling wits. english literature could not be at all the same, in either prose or poetry, if it were not for that golden palace door over which was written _welsh_ or that window upon the stairway where geoffrey sat. but it was the normans who brought the taste for history with them to england in 1066, when they conquered the land which had been king alfred's land. it was some time before the normans became what we call english in their feeling. probably the normans would never have become so strongly english in feeling if english patriotism, even after the conquest of 1066, had not remained very much alive. the english had written down in english some of the proverbs of their former king alfred. the parents of the chronicler, william of malmesbury, were both english and norman. and, strangely enough, layamon's "brut" is not unlike the poetry of the cowherd cædmon, the first of the great english singers, the first of english poets. perhaps this very hour the sun is shining down upon that golden window of geoffrey of monmouth, and laughing for joy because the man who "lied so saucily" was the first of the great english story-tellers. x a famous kitchen boy geoffrey's window is a very fascinating place to be--possibly the most interesting window the world has ever seen. it is not just one lifetime which has found that window interesting, but more lifetimes than we can count comfortably. sir thomas malory, who wrote his _morte d'arthur_ in 1469, fairly lived in that window; so did shakespeare when he wrote "king lear" in 1605, and even the modern poet, alfred, lord tennyson, who wrote "the charge of the light brigade," composed a series of poems called "idylls of the king," which return for their sources through malory to geoffrey at his window. there is one story, however, which geoffrey did not see as he looked out of his golden window--the story of the famous kitchen boy, or "gareth and linet." this tale is found in sir thomas malory's _morte d'arthur_, which was not completed until 1469, many years after the writing of geoffrey's chronicle in 1147. clear and sunshiny is the english of this wonderful book of malory's, and nowhere in the world can more beautiful, exciting, and marvelous stories be found than between the covers of the _morte d'arthur_. the _morte d'arthur_ was written about twenty years after the invention of printing by coster and gutenberg. sixteen years after the completion of the book by malory, caxton printed it in black letter in english. there is only one perfect copy of this book by caxton, the first of the english printers, and that is in brooklyn, new york. in the preface which caxton wrote for the _morte d'arthur_, he says that in this book will be found "many joyous and pleasant histories, and noble and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness and chivalries.... do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you good fame and renown." certainly that is what the kitchen boy did, and it brought him to good fame. * * * * * it was one day when king arthur was holding a round table court at kynke kenadonne by the sea. and they were at their meat, three hundred and fifty knights, when there came into the hall two men well clad and fine-looking. and, as the old story says, there leaned upon their shoulders "the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever they all saw, and he was large and long and broad in the shoulders, and well visaged, and the fairest and the largest-handed that ever man saw, but he fared as if he might not go or bear himself--" [illustration: knight in armor _ms. roy. 2 a. xxii_ late thirteenth century] the two men supported the young man up to the high dais upon which arthur was feasting. when the young man that was being helped forward was seen there was silence. then the young man stretched up straight and besought arthur that he would give him three gifts. "the first gift i will ask now," he said, "but the other two gifts i will ask this day twelve months wheresoever you hold your high feast." "ask," replied arthur, "and you shall have your asking." "sir, this is my petition for this feast: that you will give me meat and drink enough for this twelvemonth, and at that day i will ask mine other two gifts." "my fair son," said arthur, "ask better. this is but simple asking." but the young man would ask no more. and when the king, who had taken a great liking to him, asked him for his name, the young man said that he could not tell him. the king took him to sir kay, the steward, and charged him to give the young man the best of all the meats and drinks and to treat him as a lord's son. but sir kay was angry, and said: "an he had come of gentlemen, he would have asked of you horse and armor, but such as he is, so he asketh. and since he hath no name, i shall give him a name that shall be beaumains, that is fair-hands, and into the kitchen shall i bring him, and there he shall have fat brose every day, that he shall be as fat by the twelvemonth's end as a pork hog." and sir kay scorned him and mocked at him. on hearing this both sir launcelot, the greatest of the knights of the round table, and sir gawaine were wroth and bade sir kay leave his mocking. "i dare lay my head," said sir launcelot, "he shall prove a man of great worship." "it may not be by no reason," replied sir kay, "for as he is so hath he asked." beaumains, or fair-hands, was put into the kitchen, and lay there nightly as the boys of the kitchen did. the old book says: "he endured all that twelvemonth, and never displeased man nor child, but always he was meek and mild. but ever when he saw any jousting of knights, that would he see an he might." sir launcelot gave him gold to spend, and clothes, and whenever the boy went where there were games or feats of strength he excelled in them all. but always sir kay would taunt him with these words spoken to others, "how like you my boy of the kitchen?" and so fair-hands, the kitchen boy, continued in service for a year. at the close of the year came a lady to the court and told about her sister who was besieged in a castle by a tyrant who was called the red knight of the red laundes. but she would not tell her name, and therefore the king would not permit any of his knights to go with her to rescue her sister from the red knight, who was one of the worst knights in the world. but at the king's refusal, beaumains, or fair-hands, as he was called, spoke, "sir king, god thank you, i have been this twelvemonth in your kitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and now i will ask my two gifts that be behind." "ask, upon my peril," said the king. "sir, this shall be my two gifts: first, that you will permit me to go with this maiden that i may rescue her sister. and second, that sir launcelot shall ride after me and make me knight when i require it of him." and both these requests the king granted. but the maiden was angry because, she said, he had given her naught but his kitchen page. then came one to fair-hands and told him that his horse and armor were come for him. and there was a dwarf with everything that beaumains needed, and all of it the richest and best it was possible for man to have. but though he was horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, he had neither shield nor spear. then said sir kay openly before all, "i will ride after my boy of the kitchen." just as beaumains overtook the maiden, so did sir kay overtake his former kitchen page. "sir, know you not me?" he demanded. "yea," said beaumains, "i know you for an ungentle knight of the court. therefore beware of me." thereupon sir kay put his spear in the rest and ran straight upon him, and beaumains came fast upon him with his sword in his hand. and beaumains knocked the spear out of the knight's hand and sir kay fell down as he had been dead. beaumains took sir kay's shield and spear and rode away upon his own horse. the dwarf took sir kay's horse. just then along came sir launcelot, and beaumains challenged him to a joust. and so they fought for the better part of an hour, rushing together like infuriated boars. and sir launcelot marveled at the young man's strength, for he fought more like a giant than like a knight. at last he said, "fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine is not so great but we may leave off." "truly that is truth," said beaumains, "but it doth me good to feel your strength, and yet, my lord, i showed not the most i could do." then sir launcelot confessed to beaumains that he had much ado to save himself, and that beaumains need fear no earthly knight. and then beaumains confessed to sir launcelot that he was the brother of sir gawaine and the youngest son of king lot; that his mother, dame morgawse, was sister to king arthur, and that his name was gareth. after that launcelot knighted gareth, and gareth rode on after the maiden whose sister was kept a prisoner by the red knight. when he overtook her she turned upon him and said: "get away from me, for thou smellest all of the kitchen. thy clothes are dirty with grease and tallow. what art thou but a ladle-washer?" "damosel," replied beaumains, "say to me what you will, i will not go from you whatsoever you say, for i have undertaken to king arthur for to achieve your adventure, and so shall i finish it to the end or i shall die therefor." then came a man thereby calling for help, for six thieves were after him. even when beaumains had slain all the six thieves and set the man free from his fears, then the maiden used him despicably, calling him kitchen boy and other shameful names. on the next day beaumains slew two knights who would not allow him and the maiden to cross a great river. but all the maiden did was to taunt him. "alas," she said, "that ever a kitchen page should have that fortune to destroy even two doughty knights; but it was not rightly force, for the first knight stumbled and he was drowned in the water, and by mishap thou earnest up behind the last knight and thus happily slew him." "say what you will," said beaumains, "but with whomsoever i have ado withall, i trust to god to serve him or he depart." "fie, fie, foul kitchen knave," answered the maiden, "thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast." and so she continued to scold him and would not rest therefrom. and they came to a black land, and there was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner, and on the other side there hung a black shield, and by it stood a black spear great and long, and a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by. and before the knight of the black lands the maiden used beaumains despicably, calling him kitchen knave and other such names. and the black knight and beaumains came together for battle as if it had been thunder. after hard struggle beaumains killed the black knight and rode on after the damosel. "away, kitchen boy, out of the wind," she cried, "for the smell of thy clothes grieves me." and so ever despitefully she used him. yet he overcame the green knight, who was the brother of the black knight, and spared his life at the maiden's request. and it was after the vanquishing of the green knight that they saw a tower as white as any snow, and all around the castle it was double-diked. over the tower gate there hung fifty shields of divers colors, and under that tower was a fair meadow. and the lord of the tower looked out of his window and beheld beaumains, the maiden, and the dwarf coming. "with that knight will i joust," called the lord of the tower, "for i see that he is a knight errant." and before the knight the maiden used him despitefully. and ever he replied, patiently, "damosel, you are uncourteous so to rebuke me, for meseemeth i have done you good service." then did the heart of the maiden soften a little. "i marvel what manner of man you be," she said, "for it may never be otherwise but that you come of a noble blood, for so shamefully did woman never rule a knight as i have done you, and ever courteously you have suffered me, and that comes never but of gentle blood." "damosel," answered beaumains, "a knight may little do that may not suffer a damosel. and whether i be gentleman born or not, i let you wit, fair damosel, i have done you gentleman's service." she begged him to forgive her, and this beaumains did with all his heart. then they met sir persant of inde, who was dwelling only seven miles from the siege, and the maiden besought beaumains to flee while there was yet time. but he refused. and when sir persant and beaumains met they met with all that ever their horses might run, and broke their spears either into three pieces, and their horses rushed so together that both their horses fell dead to the earth. and they got off their horses and fought for more than two hours. and beaumains spared his life only at the maiden's request. then beaumains told sir persant that his name was sir gareth. and the maiden said that hers was linet, and that she was sister to dame lionesse, who was besieged. then the dwarf took word to the lady who was besieged, and the others came on after. "how escaped he," said the lady, dame lionesse, "from the brethren of sir persant?" "madam," said the dwarf, "as a noble knight should." "ah," said dame lionesse, "commend me unto your gentle knight, and pray him to eat and drink and make him strong. also pray him that he be of good heart and courage, for he shall meet with a knight who is neither of bounty, courtesy, nor gentleness; for he attendeth unto nothing but murder, and that is the cause i cannot praise him nor love him." all that night beaumains lay in an hermitage, and upon the morn he and the damosel linet broke their fast and heard mass. then took they their horses, and, riding through a fair forest, they came out upon a plain where there were many pavilions and tents and a castle and much smoke and a great noise. when they came near the siege beaumains espied upon great trees goodly knights hanging by the neck, their shields about their necks with their swords, and gilt spurs upon their heels. there hung high forty knights. "what meanest this?" said sir beaumains. "fair sir, "answered the damosel, "these knights came hither to this siege to rescue my sister, dame lionesse, and when the red knight of the red lands had overcome them he put them to this shameful death." then rode they to the dikes, and saw them double-diked with full warlike walls; and there were lodged many great lords nigh the walls; and there was great noise of minstrelsy; and the sea beat upon the side of the walls, where there were many ships and mariners' noise. and also there was fast by a sycamore-tree, and there hung a horn, the greatest that ever they saw, of an elephant's bone. therewith beaumains spurred his horse straight to the sycamore-tree, and blew so eagerly the horn that all the siege and the castle rang thereof. and then there leaped out knights out of their tents and pavilions, and they within the castle looked over the walls and out of windows. then the red knight of the red lands armed him hastily, and two barons set on his spurs upon his heels, and all was blood red, his armor, spear, and shield. "sir," said the damosel linet, "look you be glad and light, for yonder is your deadly enemy, and at yonder window is my sister, dame lionesse." then beaumains and the red knight put their spears in their rests, and came together with all their might, and either smote the other in the middle of their shields, that the surcingles and cruppers broke and fell to the earth both, and the two knights lay stunned upon the ground. but soon they got to their feet and drew their swords and ran together like two fierce lions. and then they fought until it was past noon, tracing, racing, and foining as two boars. thus they endured until evensong time, and their armor was so hewn to pieces that men might see their naked sides. then the red knight gave beaumains a buffet upon the helm, so that he fell groveling to the earth. then cried the maiden linet on high: "oh, sir beaumains, where is thy courage? alas! my sister beholdeth thee and she sobbeth and weepeth." when beaumains heard this he lifted himself up with great effort and got upon his feet, and lightly he leaped to his sword and gripped it in his hand. and he smote so thick that he smote the sword out of the red knight's hand. sir beaumains fell upon him and unlaced his helm to have slain him. but at the request of the lords he saved his life and made him yield him to the lady. and so it was that beaumains, or sir gareth, as his real name was, came into the presence of his lady and won her love through his meekness and gentleness and courtesy and courage, as every true knight should win the love of his lady. * * * * * so ends happily one of the charming stories of adventure and knighthood in one of the greatest cycles of romance the world has ever known. indeed, in that great palace we have entered, and some of whose golden doors we have been opening, there is no door more loved by human beings than the one over which is written _romance_, for boys and girls and their elders have always loved a romantic story, and always will. there are four great romantic stories in the palace of english literature. the first is _king arthur and the round table_, which geoffrey of monmouth discovered for us by his golden window. the second great romance is the story of charlemagne. this was in the twelfth century, and the most valiant story which grew out of the charlemagne cycle was that of roland. every one should know the story of roland and his famous sword, durendal. the third is the _life_ _of alexander_, which came to england from the east. and the fourth is the _siege of troy_, composed in the thirteenth century and written in latin. it takes many, many stories to satisfy our love of romance. as we pass through the golden door over which is written _romance_, one whole wall is filled with the names of lesser romances forgotten long, long ago. but the stories which sir thomas malory gave us in his _morte d'arthur_, written in 1469, will never be forgotten as long as the english language is spoken. chronology -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- | history | literature | science and art -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- | romans leave | st. augustine, | galen, the great | britain, 409-420. | 354-430. | doctor, d. 200. | coming of angles and | earliest gaelic lays,| baths of caracalla, 200-600| saxons, 449. | 200-300. | 215. | king arthur, d. 520. | st. patrick, d. 465. | great roman roads. | | merlin, 475-575. | underground churches | | taliesin, 500-560. | for christians, | | "traveller's song," | 250-260. | | widsith. | glass used in | | | cathedral | | | windows, 300. | | | first bells in | | | europe. | | | the first clock, | | | a water-clock, | | | 5th century. -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- | charlemagne, | beowulf, 7th century,| the first stone | 742-814. | formative period. | english churches, | first landing of | cædmon, late 7th | 680. | danes, 787. | century. | the organ used in a | alfred, 871-900. | judith. | church, 757. | battle of | the fight at | worms cathedral | brunanburh, 937. | finnesburg. | commenced, 996. | canute, 1016-1035. | st. cuthbert, d.686. | | macbeth, 1040-1057. | aldhelm, 655-709. | | edward the | _arabian nights_ | | confessor, 1042. | (traditions of), | 600 | harold, 1066. | c. 700. | 1066 | | "deor's lament." | | | bede, 670?-735. | | | cynewulf, c. | | | 725-800. | | | old german | | | alliterative | | | poetry, 8th | | | century. | | | nennius, historia | | | britonum, probl. | | | 9th century. | | | alfred's | | | translations, | | | after 871. | | | anglo-saxon | | | chronicle, | | | 875-1154. | | | _asser's life of | | | alfred_, 910. | | | poems "battle of | | | brunanburh," 937; | | | "battle of | | | maldon," 994. | | | first medieval | | | drama, 980. | | | aelfric's homilies, | | | 995. | | | early chanson de | | | gestes and | | | fabliaux, 1000 | | | and later. | -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- | william the | "chanson de roland," | striking clocks with | conqueror, | composed | wheels, late | 1066-1087. | 1066-1097? | 11th century. | the crusades, | archbishop anselm, | westminster hall and | 1095-1270. | 1093-1109. | london bridge | feudal system | william of guienne, | built, late 11th | in england. | the first | century. | _domesday book_, | troubadour, | wool manufactured | 1086. | late 11th | in england, early | william ii., | century. | 12th century. | 1087-1100. | william of | silk cultivated in | henry i., 1100-1135. | malmesbury, | sicily, 1146. | stephen, 1135-1154. | 1095-1142. | leaning tower of | civil war, | chansons | pisa commenced, 1066 | 1139-1142. | d'alexandre, | 1174. 1200 | henry ii., | 1050-1150. | | 1154-1189. | chronicle of | | thomas à becket, | geoffrey of | | d. 1170. | monmouth, 1137. | | richard i., | nibelungen lied, | | 1189-1199. | c. 1140. | | john, 1199-1216. | wace's "brut | | | d'angleterre," | | | 1155. | | | minnesingers. | | | arthurian legends, | | | 12th century. | | | giraldus cambrensis, | | | 1147-1216. | | | crestien de troyes, | | | 1140-1227. | | | gottfried von | | | strasburg. | | | marie de france, | | | lais, late 12th | | | century. | -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- | magna charta, 1215. | walther von der | university of paris | henry iii., | vogelweide, c. | charter, c. 1200. | 1216-1272. | 1170-1235. | the university of | the barons' war, | st. francis of | oxford charter, | 1262-1266. | assisi, 1182-1226. | c. 1200. | edward i., | wolfram von | the university of | 1272-1307. | eschenbach's | cambridge | wales subdued, 1282. | "parzival," early | charter, c. 1231. | william wallace, fl. | 13th century. | roger bacon, | 1296-1298. | the bestiary, early | 1214-1292. | edward ii., | 13th century. | (reference to | 1307-1327. | romance of the rose, | gunpowder.) | robert bruce, | 13th and 14th | cologne cathedral | 1306-1329. | centuries. | commenced, 1249. 1200 | battle of | havelok (english | first rag paper, c. 1350 | bannockburn, 1314, | version), 1300. | 1300. | edward iii., | bevis of hampton | first apothecaries | 1327-1377. | (english version), | in england, 1345. | scotland | c. 1300. | glass windows in | reorganized, 1328. | guy of warwick | general use, | opening of hundred | (english version), | 1345. | years' war | c. 1300. | | with france, 1337. | mabinogion, | | | 1250-1290. | | | king horn (english | | | version), 1250. | | | dante, 1265-1321. | | | jean de meung, b. | | | 1280. | -------+----------------------+----------------------+-------------------- transcriber's note: italics are indicated by _underscores_. small capitals have been rendered in full capitals. a number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note. the lance of kanana a story of arabia by harry w. french ("abd el ardavan") _with illustrations by garrett_ boston lothrop, lee & shepard co. copyright, 1892, by d. lothrop company copyright, 1916, by lothrop, lee & shepard co. the lance of kanana norwood press berwick & smith co. norwood, mass. u. s. a. encircled by the fiery, trackless sand, a fainting arab halted at a well held in the hollow of the desert's hand. empty! hope vanished, and he gasped and fell. at night the west wind wafted o'er the land the welcome dew, a promise to foretell: hers this result, for which she bade him stand. [illustration: "oh, kanana! oh, kanana!" cried the old man, angrily.] contents. chapter page i. the coward of the beni sads 11 ii. the old sheik's promise 20 iii. at the foot of mount hor 27 iv. the promise 38 v. led by a white camel 52 vi. kanana and the caliph 61 vii. a prize worth winning 74 viii. to seek the beni sads 86 ix. for allah and arabia 100 x. kanana's third mission 115 xi. the sacred girdle 125 xii. kanana's messengers 135 xiii. the lance of kanana 147 list of illustrations. "oh, kanana! oh, kanana!" cried the old man, angrily (page 21) _frontispiece_ kanana stood upon the very edge of the white porch 42 "dost thou believe kanana spoke in fear?" 68 the silent figure demanded and received respect 94 kneeling, he received the blessing 134 "i gave it to him," said kahled, solemnly 164 the lance of kanana i the coward of the beni sads kanana was an arab--a bedouin boy of many years ago, born upon the desert, of the seed of ishmael, of the tribe of beni sad. it seems well-nigh impossible that the bedouin boy could have lived who was not accustomed to the use of the sword and lance, long before he reached the dignity of manhood. the peculiar thing about kanana was that he never held a lance in his hand but once; yet many a celebrated sheik and powerful chieftain of his day lies dead, buried, and forgotten long ago, while the name of kanana is still a magic battle-cry among the sons of ishmael, and his lance is one of the most precious relics of arabia. the old mothers and the white-haired veterans love to tell the story of the lance of kanana; their black eyes flash like coals of fire when they say of it that it rescued arabia. the beni sads were a powerful tribe of roving bedouins. kanana was the youngest son of the venerable chief; the sheik who in the days of his strength was known from the euphrates to the sea as the "terror of the desert." by a custom older than the boyhood of king david it fell to the lot of the youngest son to tend his father's sheep. the occupation was not considered dignified. it was not to kanana's liking and it need not have lasted long; for the terror of the desert thought more of making warriors than shepherds of his sons, but greatly to his father's disgust kanana refused to exchange his shepherd's staff for a warrior's lance. it was not that he loved the staff, but that he objected to the lance. the tribe called kanana effeminate because he was thoughtful and quiet, where other boys were turbulent, and as he grew older and the boyish fancy became a decided conviction against the combats constantly going on between the different tribes, they even called him a coward and said that he did not dare to fight. there is but one name more bitter than "coward" to the arab. that name is "traitor," and after being called a coward almost all his life, the very last words which kanana heard from the lips of his countrymen came in frantic yells, calling him a traitor. to-day, however, it is always with throbbing hearts and flashing eyes that they repeat the story of the lance of kanana that rescued arabia. until he was five years old, kanana rolled about in the sand and sunshine, like the other children, with nothing on him but a twisted leather cord, tied round his waist. then, for five years, according to the custom of his people, he helped the women of his father's tent; shaking the goat-skin filled with cream till it turned into butter; watching the kedder upon the fire, drying the buttermilk to be ground into flour, and digging kemma, which grow like truffles, under the sand. after he was ten, for three years he watched the sheep and goats and the she-camels. that was the regular course of education through which all bedouin boys must pass. when he reached the age at which ishmael was sent away with hagar by abraham, he was supposed to drop all menial labor and take his place among men; making a position for himself according to the fighting qualities which he possessed. kanana's fighting qualities, however, were only exhibited in the warfare which now began between him and his father. there were at that time very few occupations open to the bedouin boy. the tribe was celebrated for its men of learning and boasted the most skillful physicians in all arabia; but they had all won their first laurels with the lance, and none of them wanted kanana. three times his father came to him with the question: "are you ready to be a man?" and three times kanana replied, "my father, i can not lift a lance to take a life, unless it be for allah and arabia." how he came by a notion so curious no arab could tell. the lad well knew the old decree that the hand of the ishmaelite should be against every man, and every man's hand against him. he knew that every arab of the desert lived by a warfare that was simply murder and robbery. was he not an arab, and an ishmaelite? alone, among the sheep and camels, he had thought out his own theory. kanana said to himself, "i am taught that allah created these animals and cares for them, and that i cannot please him if i allow them to suffer; it must be surely that men are more precious to allah than animals. why should we kill one another, even if we are arabs and ishmaelites?" the menial tasks still allotted to kanana grew more and more irksome. his punishment was far more keen than the tribe supposed; no one dreamed of the sharp cringe of pain with which he heard even the children call him a coward. there were some faculties which kanana possessed that made the warriors all envy him. he had a remarkable power over animals. no other beni sad could ride a camel or a horse so fast as kanana. the most refractory creature would obey kanana. then, too, kanana was foremost in the games and races. no other shepherd's eye was nearly so quick as kanana's to detect an enemy approaching the flocks at night. no other young bedouin, watching the ripening grain, could throw a stone from his sling so far and so accurately at the robber birds. these accomplishments, however, only made his father the more angry that kanana would not turn his gifts to some more profitable end. every year for three months--from planting to harvest-time--the beni sads encamped upon a river bank, on the outskirts of the great desert. the encampment numbered nearly five hundred tents set in four rows as straight as an arrow flies. these tents, of black goats'-hair cloth, were seven feet high in the center and five feet high on the sides. some of them were twenty feet broad, and each was divided by a beautiful hanging white damascus carpet. the men occupied one side, and the women and children the other. the favorite mare and the most valuable of the camels always slept by the tent, and the master's lance stood thrust into the ground at the entrance. far as the eye could reach, up and down the sluggish river, a field of ripening grain filled the narrow space between the yellow water and the silver-gray of the desert sand. here and there, through the grain-field, rose curious perches--platforms, constructed upon poles driven into the ground. upon these platforms watchers were stationed when the grain began to head, and there they remained, night and day, till it was harvested, frightening the birds away. once a day the women brought them food, consisting of buttermilk, dried and ground and mixed with melted butter and dates; these same women renewed the supply of stones to throw at the birds. the watchers were old men, women who were not needed in the tents, and little children; but all alone, this year, upon the most distant perch, sat kanana. there was not one of the tribe but felt that he richly deserved this disgrace; and kanana could see no way to earn their respect, no way to prove himself a brave fellow. he was glad that they had given him the most distant perch, for there he could bear his hard lot, away from jests and jeers. the women who brought the food stopped for a long time at some of the perches, reporting all the news, but they never troubled themselves to relieve kanana's solitude. the perches were too far apart for conversation. kanana had always time enough to think, and as the grain grew yellow this year, he came to two positive conclusions. he firmly resolved that before the reapers entered that field he would do something to convince his people that he was not a coward; failing that, he would hang his head in shame, acknowledge that they were right, and fly forever from their taunts. ii the old sheik's promise the sun was beating fiercely down upon kanana's perch, but he had not noticed it. the stones piled beside him for his sling were almost hot enough to burn his hand, but he did not realize it, for he had not touched them for a long time. the wooden dish of paste and dates stood in the shadow of the perch. he had not tasted them. the pile of stones grew hotter and hotter. the hungry birds ate and quarreled and ate with no one to disturb them. the bedouin boy sat cross-legged on his perch, heedless of everything, twisting and untwisting the leather cords of his sling, struggling to look into the mists that covered up his destiny. "hi, there! you slothful son of a brave father! look at the birds about you! are you dead, or only sleeping?" sounded the distant but shrill and painfully distinct voice of an old woman who, with two children much younger than kanana, occupied the next perch. kanana roused himself and sent the stones flying from his sling till there was not a bird in sight. then he sank into deep thought once more; with his head resting upon his hands he became oblivious to everything. suddenly he was roused by the sound of horses' hoofs upon the sandy soil, a sharp rustling in the drying grain. he looked up, as thoroughly startled as though he had been sleeping, to see approaching him the one person than whom he would rather that any or all of the tribe of beni sad should find him negligent at his post of duty. it was his father. "oh, kanana! oh, kanana!" cried the old man, angrily. "thou son of my old age, why didst thou come into the world to curse me? when thou shakest the cream, the butter is spoiled. when thou tendest the sheep, they are stolen! when thou watchest the grain, it is eaten before thy face! what shall a father do with a son who will neither lift his hand among men nor bear a part with women? and now, when all the miseries of life have taken hold upon me and the floods cover me, thou sittest at thine ease to mock me!" kanana sprang down from his perch. kneeling, he touched his forehead to the ground. "my father, slay me and i will take it as a mercy from thy hand. or, as i am fit for nothing here, bid me go, and among strangers i will beg. but thou shalt not, my father, speak of me as ungrateful, unfilial. i know of no flood of sorrow that has come down upon thee." "thou knowest not what they all know?" exclaimed the old man fiercely. "i know of nothing, my father. since i came into the field, three weeks ago, no one has spoken to me but to chide me." "then know now," replied the sheik reproachfully, "that of thy two brave brothers who went with the last caravan, one has returned, wounded and helpless, and the other, for an old cause of blood between our tribes, has been made a prisoner by raschid airikat. the whole caravan, with the white camel at its head, raschid has taken, and he has turned with it toward damascus." "thy part of the caravan was very small, my father," said kanana. "only four of the camels were thine, and but for the white camel they were all very old. their burdens, too, saving my brothers, were only honey and clay-dust, of little value." this was the simple truth, and evinced at least a very practical side to kanana's mind; but it was not the kind of sympathy which the sheik desired, and his anger burst out afresh against kanana. "ay, thou tender of flocks, and sleeper!" he cried. "wouldst thou teach me the value of camels and merchandise to comfort me? and hast thou fixed the price of ransom which airikat will demand, or slay thy brother? and hast thou reckoned up the value of the white camel which could not be bought for gold, as it brought to thy father and thy father's father all their abundance of good? answer me, if thou art so wise. oh, that i had a son remaining who could lift a lance against this airikat as bravely as he hurls his empty words at an old father!" "my father," said kanana earnestly, "give me a horse, a sack of grain, a skin of water, and i will follow after raschid airikat. i will not slay him, but, by the help of allah, i will bring back to thee thy white camel with my brother seated upon his back." the old sheik made a gesture of derision: "thou wisp of flax before a fire! thou reed before a whirlwind! get thee back to thy perch and thy birds, and see if thou canst keep awake till sundown. harvesting will begin with the daylight to-morrow. see that thou workest then." kanana rose to his feet. looking calmly into the old sheik's angry face, he replied: "my father, i will watch the birds till sundown. then let others do the reaping. kanana, whom thou scornest, will be far away upon the desert, to seek and find his brother." "did i not say i would not trust a horse to thee?" exclaimed the old man, looking at him in astonishment. "these feet of mine can do my bidding well enough," replied kanana. "and by the beard of the prophet they shall do it till they have returned to thee thy son and thy white camel. i would do something, oh, my father, that i, too, might have thy blessing and not thy curse. it is the voice of allah bids me go. now say to me that if i bring them back then thou wilt bless me, too, ay, even though still i will not lift a lance, unless it be for allah and arabia." the aged warrior looked down in a sort of scornful pity upon his boy, standing among the stalks of grain; half in jest, half in charity, he muttered, "yes, _then_ i will bless thee," and rode away. the harvesting began, as the old sheik had said, with the next daylight, but kanana was not among the reapers. few so much as missed him, even, and those who did, supposed that he had hidden himself to avoid their jests. only the sullen sheik, bowed under his affliction, thought often of kanana as he rode up and down the line. he remembered his looks, his words. he wondered if he could have been mistaken in the boy. he wished he had given him the horse and that he had blessed him before he went away. iii at the foot of mount hor the moment the sun sank into the billows of sand kanana had left his perch. from the loaded stalks about him he gathered a goat's-hair sack of grain and fastened it upon his back. there was no one to whom he need say farewell, and, armed only with his shepherd's staff, he started away upon the desert, setting his course to the north and west. before he had gone far he passed a lad of about his own age who had come from the encampment to hunt for desert-rats. had kanana seen him he would have made a wide détour, but the boy lay so still upon the sand that the first kanana knew of his presence was when a low sarcastic voice uttered his name. "kanana!" it exclaimed. "thou here! dost thou not fear that some rat may bite thee? whither darest thou to go, thus, all alone, and after dark, upon the sand?" fire flashed from kanana's eyes. his hand clutched his shepherd's staff and involuntarily he lifted it; but the better counsel of his curious notions checked the blow. it was so dark that the boy upon the sand did not notice the effect of his taunts and knew nothing of his narrow escape. he only heard the quiet voice of kanana as presently it meekly replied to his question: "i go to mount hor." it was an answer so absurd that the boy gave it no second thought and by the time that the footsteps of kanana had died away the rat-hunter had as utterly forgotten him as though he had never existed. to mount hor? kanana had only the most imperfect information to guide him. he knew that the beni sad caravan had been for some days upon the road southward, to mecca, when it was captured by raschid airikat and turned at an angle, northward, toward damascus. seen from a great distance, over the sea of sand, the solitary peak of old mount hor, where aaron, the great high priest of israel, was buried, forms a startling beacon. by day or night, it rises clear and sharp against the sky, guiding the caravans northward, from arabia to jerusalem and damascus, and southward from syria to medina and mecca; while the fertile oasis about it is the universal resting-place. kanana was not at all sure that the caravan would not have passed mount hor long before he could reach it; but if so, it must in time return that way, and, in any case, of all arabia mount hor was the one spot where he could be sure to gather further information from passing caravans. he knew his path upon that shifting sand as well as an indian knew his way through the trackless forests of new england. with the sun and stars above him, any arab would have scorned the idea of being lost in arabia, and through the long night with strong and steady strides kanana pressed onward toward mount hor. as the harvest moon rose above the desert, behind him, the bedouin boy was softly chanting from the second _sura_ of al koran: "god, there is no god but him; the living! the eternal. slumber doth not overtake him, neither sleep. and upholding all things, to him is no burden. he is the lofty and the great." his long, black shadow fell over the silver sand, and, watching it, he chanted the koran again: "god is god. whatever of good betideth thee cometh from him. "whatever of evil is thine own doing." suddenly a speck appeared upon the distant horizon. none but the keen eye of a shepherd would have seen it, in the night, but kanana watched it as it quivered and wavered, disappearing as it sank into a valley in the rolling sand, appearing again, like a dory on the ocean, each time a little nearer than before. kanana noted the direction the speck was taking, and he made a wide path for it; he crouched among the sand-shrubs when it came too near. first a small party of horsemen passed him, the advance guard of a moving tribe. then came the main body of men upon camels and horses; but the only sounds were made by the feet of the animals and the clanking of the weapons. the she-camels with their young followed; then the sheep and goats driven by a few men on foot; next, the camels laden with the tents and furniture; last of all the women and children of the tribe accompanied by another armed escort. from all that company there was not a sound but of the sand and the trappings. there was nothing but shadows, swinging, swaying shadows, moving like phantoms over the white sand, as the trailing train went gliding on, in that mysterious land of shadows and silhouettes. there was nothing in it that was weird to kanana, however. he hid himself simply as a precaution. he had often been a part of such a caravan, and he knew from experience, that if a solitary arab were found upon the desert, he would very quickly be forced to help drive the sheep and goats, and kept at it until he could make his escape. any arab boy would have hidden himself. long before kanana's next halt the sun was pouring down his furious heat. to his great good fortune he came upon a bowlder rising out of the sand; there he quickly made a place for himself where the sun could not reach him and lying down slept until night. only one who has walked upon a desert, hour after hour, parched with thirst and utterly exhausted in the fierce glare and heat can properly appreciate the bible picture of "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." had he not found this rock kanana would simply have dug a hole in the sand and forced himself into it. here and there as he pressed on, kanana saw grim skeletons of men and animals as they lay whitening among the sand-shrubs, but he paid them little attention. before the sun had set, upon the second day, he beheld the distant summit of mount hor cutting sharply into the blue sky. the sight renewed his strength. hour after hour he pressed onward, with his eyes fixed upon the tomb of aaron, a white monument upon the summit of the mountain, flashing like snow as the moon rose in the clear, blue-black sky. kanana did not pause again until he fell upon his knees beside the stream which rises in a spring upon mount hor, to die in the sand, not far from its base. he plunged into the water; then, dressing himself again, he lay down upon the bank to sleep. he awoke with the first gray lighting in the east, when the air of a desert is almost cold enough to freeze. he had now nothing more to do till he could obtain some information from passing caravans. it would soon be sunrise, the hour for morning prayer, and, to warm himself while he waited, he walked along the banks of the stream. they were blue as the very sky, with masses of forget-me-nots. suddenly kanana paused. he started back. his eyes dilated, and his hand trembled till the shepherd's staff fell, unheeded, to the ground. the next moment he dropped to the ground to examine the place more carefully. what was it? only some marks upon the grass where a caravan had camped. the herbage was matted here and there where the camels lay, and cropped short in little circles about each spot where they had eaten it as far as they could reach. caravans were continually resting for the day under the shadow of mount hor. there was nothing remarkable in the fact that a caravan had camped there, and had gone. they always move at night; not so much because it is cooler as because a camel will not eat at night, no matter how hungry he may be, and must be given the daylight or he will deliberately starve. a moment later kanana was upon his feet again with a triumph in his eyes which clearly indicated his satisfaction. the grass about the spot was unevenly cropped; there were straggling spears of green left standing in the center of each mouthful which the camel had taken. upon one side the bees were clustering on the matted grass. a multitude of ants appeared upon the other side. the imprint left by the forefoot of the camel showed that it had been extended in front of him, instead of being bent at the knee and folded beneath him. all this meant to the young arab that the camel was old, that it was lame in the left knee, that it had lost a front tooth, that its burden on one side was honey, on the other the dust of river clay, to be used in the manufacture of stucco. had one of his father's camels stood before him kanana could not have been more sure. nothing more was needed to assure him that raschid airikat, with the stolen camels, had left mount hor the night before, upon the trail leading southward into arabia. his eyes flashed with excitement. "my brother and the white camel are not ten hours from here, and they are on the road to mecca or medina," he exclaimed as his fingers tightened about the staff. his white teeth glistened in a smile, as he added, "they are mine, or i am a coward!" he stood there, motionless, for a moment, his dark eyes instinctively turning southward. the magnitude of his task lay vividly before him. he recalled his father's words: "thou wisp of flax before a fire! thou reed before a whirlwind!" they served to strengthen him. the first step which lay before him was enough to test the courage of a brave man, and yet it was only a step toward a grand destiny. suddenly starting from his revery, kanana exclaimed: "i will do it! or i will consent to be known forever as the coward of the beni sads!" and turning he ran up the rocky sides of old mount hor, toward the white tomb of aaron, whence he knew he could see far away over the great ocean of sand. it might be there would yet appear a speck upon the distant horizon, to guide him toward the retreating caravan. iv the promise up the steep sides of mount hor, kanana climbed, without waiting to look for a path. he saw nothing, heard nothing. he was all eagerness to reach the summit, in the faint hope that it might not be too late to see the departing caravan of raschid airikat. unless a camel is fresh, unusually large and strong, or constantly urged, it rarely makes more than two miles an hour. it was not over ten hours since the robber sheik had left the oasis, and some of the camels were very old and exhausted. it was a foolish hope, no doubt, and yet kanana hoped that anything so large as a great caravan might still be distinguishable. up, up, up he climbed--as fast as hands and feet could carry him. he no longer felt the cool air of early morning. he no longer looked about him to see the new sights of a strange oasis. he did not even pause to look away over the desert as he climbed. the highest point was none too high. he did not care how far he could see until he had gained the white tomb of aaron, upon the very crest. had he not been too thoroughly occupied with what was above him to notice what transpired about him and down below, he would have seen five arab horsemen reach the stream by which he slept, almost as he began to climb. they were mohammedan soldiers, thoroughly armed for war, and had evidently come from the northern borders of arabia, where the victorious mussulmans were triumphantly planting the banner of islam. they had been riding hard, and both men and horses were exhausted. they hurried to the water. the men hastily ate some food which they carried, and tethered their horses in arab fashion, by a chain, one end of which is fastened about the forefoot of the animal and the other end about the master, to prevent their being stolen while the master sleeps. the moment this was accomplished, the five men rolled themselves in their mantles, covering their faces, as well as their bodies, and lay down upon the grass to sleep. they were skilled in the art of making long journeys in the shortest possible time, and were evidently upon important business; for an arab is never in haste unless his mission is very important. before kanana reached the temple the men were soundly sleeping, and the horses, lying down to rest themselves, were still eating the grass about them, as a camel eats. panting for breath, and trembling in his eager haste, kanana reached the tomb of aaron: an open porch, with white pillars supporting a roof of white, like a crown of eternal snow upon the summit of mount hor. between the snowy pillars kanana paused. one quick glance at the sky gave him the points of the compass, and shading his eyes from the glowing east, he looked anxiously to the south and west. sand, sand, sand, in billows like great waves of an ocean, lay about him in every direction. far away there were low hills, and a semblance of green which, to his practiced eye, meant a grove of date palms upon the banks of a stream. but nowhere, search as he would, was there the faintest speck to indicate the caravan. he was still anxiously scanning those distant hills when the first rays of the rising sun shot from the eastern horizon, flashing a halo of glory upon the snow-white crown of old mount hor, before they touched the green oasis lying about its base. never, in all the ages, had the sun come up out of the arabian desert to see such a tableau as his first bright beams illumined aaron's tomb. all absorbed in his eager search, kanana stood upon the very edge of the white porch. one hand was extended, grasping his shepherd's staff, the other was lifted to shade his eyes. [illustration: kanana stood upon the very edge of the white porch.] in his eagerness to reach forward, one foot was far before the other, and the knee was bent, as though he were ready to leap down the steep declivity before him. his turban, a large square piece of cloth, was bound about his head with a camel's-hair cord; one corner was thrown back over his forehead, and a corner fell over each shoulder, like a cloak. his coat was sheepskins stitched together. summer and winter, rain and sunshine, the bedouin shepherd wears that sheepskin coat, as the best protection against both sun and frost. his bare feet rested firmly upon the white platform, and the arm that held the shepherd's staff was knotted with muscles which a strong man might have envied him. his beardless face was dark, but not so dark as to hide the eager flush which heightened the color in his cheeks, and his chest rose and fell in deep, quick motions from his rapid climb. his lips were parted. his dark eyes flashed, while the hand which shaded them stood out from his forehead as though trying to carry the sight a little farther, that it might pierce the defiles of those distant hills and the shadows of the date palm groves. the sun rose higher, and its full light fell across the young ishmaelite. it was the signal for the morning call to prayer, and from the minaret of every mosque in the realm of islam was sounding _la illaha il allah mahamoud rousol il allah_. kanana did not need to hear the call, however. he instantly forgot his mission, and, a humble and devout mohammedan, laid aside his staff and reverently faced toward mecca to repeat his morning prayer. standing erect, with his open hands beside his head, the palms turned forward, he solemnly began the _nummee allah voul-hamda_. with his hands crossed upon his breast he continued. then he placed his hands upon his knees, then sat upon the floor. then with his open hands upon the floor he touched his forehead to the platform as he repeated the closing words of the prayer. in this position he remained for some time, whispering a petition of his own for strength and courage to carry out the task which he had undertaken. there was something so solemn and impressive in the death-like stillness of the early morning, upon that solitary peak, that it almost seemed to kanana that, if he listened, he should hear the voice of allah, answering his prayer. suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp cry, and another and another in quick succession mingled with savage yells. it was not the voice of allah, for which he had been waiting, and kanana sprang to his feet and looked anxiously about him. the mountains of arabia are not high. among real mountains, mount hor would be but a rocky hill. looking down, for the first time, kanana saw the stream below him, in its border of blue forget-me-nots, and could clearly distinguish the five soldiers who had so quickly fallen asleep upon its banks. it was a fearful sight which met his eyes. the five men were still lying there, but they were no longer sleeping. they were dead or dying; slain by three bedouin robbers, who had crept upon them for the valuable prize of their horses, and who did not dare attempt to steal the animals while the masters were alive. it was almost the first time that kanana's eyes had rested upon a scene of blood, common as such scenes are among his countrymen, and he stood in the porch benumbed with horror, while the robbers tore from the bodies about them such garments as pleased them; then took their weapons, mounted three of the horses, and leading two rode quickly away to the north. there was no assistance which kanana could render the unfortunate men. the caravan was already a night's march ahead of him and every moment that he lost must be redeemed by hurrying so much the faster under the burning sun, over the scorching sand, when, at the best, it was doubtful if flesh and blood could stand what must be required of it. with a shudder he turned from the terrible scene and began to descend the mountain. soon he was upon the banks of the stream and passing close to the spot where the five bodies were lying. he would not run, but he hurried on, with his eyes fixed upon the ground before him. a faint sound caught his ear. he started, clutched his staff, and turned sharply about, thinking that the robbers had seen him and returned. it was only one of the unfortunate soldiers who had been left for dead. he had raised himself upon his elbow, and was trying to attract kanana's attention. "water! water! in the name of allah, give me water!" he gasped, and fell back unconscious. for a moment kanana was tempted to hurry on. he did not want to go there, any more than he wanted to delay his journey; but something whispered to him of the promises of the koran to those who show mercy to the suffering; that allah would reward even a cup of water given to the thirsty. it required no little courage of the bedouin boy, all alone under mount hor, but he resolutely turned back, filled with water the wooden cup which a shepherd always carries at his girdle, and poured it down the parched throat of the almost insensible man. "bless god for water!" he gasped. "more! give me more!" kanana ran to the brook and filled the cup again, but the poor man shook his head. it was too late. he was dying. suddenly he roused himself. he made a desperate struggle to call back his failing senses, and, for a moment, threw off the hand of death. he had almost given up, forgetting something of great importance. steadying himself upon his elbow, he looked into kanana's face and said: "you are a beardless youth, but you are an arab. listen to me. the mighty prince constantine, son of the emperor heraclius, is soon to leave constantinople, at the head of a vast army of turks and greeks and romans, like the leaves of the forest and the sand of the desert. he is coming to sweep the arab from the face of the earth and the light of the sun. we were bearing a letter to the caliph omar, who is now at mecca, telling him of the danger and asking help. if the letter does not reach him arabia is lost and the faithful are destroyed. would you see that happen?" too frightened to speak and hardly comprehending the situation, kanana simply shook his head. the man made another effort to overcome the stupor that had almost mastered him. he succeeded in taking from his clothing a letter, sealed with the great seal, and gasped: "in the name of allah, will you fly with this to the great caliph?" hardly realizing what he said, kanana solemnly repeated: "in the name of allah, i will." he took the letter and was hiding it in his bosom when the soldier grasped the cup of water, drank ravenously, and, with the last swallow, let the cup fall from lifeless fingers. minute after minute passed, but kanana did not move a muscle. his hand still touched the letter which he had placed in his bosom. his eyes still rested upon the lips that would never speak again. his sacred promise had been pledged to fly with that letter to the great caliph at mecca. it had been made in the name of allah. it had been given to the man now lying dead before him. there was no power that could retract it. it must be performed, and until it was performed no other consideration could retard his steps or occupy his thoughts. his lips parted and he muttered, angrily: "is this my reward for having given a cup of water to the thirsty?" then it suddenly occurred to him that the caravan which he longed most of all to follow was also upon its way southward, and that, for the present at least, for either mission the direction was the same, and the demand for haste was great. he caught his staff from the ground and set his face toward mecca, pondering upon the dying statement of the soldier till word for word it was fastened in his memory, and the thought that his mission was for allah and arabia urged him on. it was an easy task to follow the trail of the caravan. the bedouin would be a disgrace to the desert who could not recognize in the sand the recent footprint of one of his own tribe or of a camel with which he was familiar, and who could not tell by a footprint whether the man or camel who made it carried a burden, often what that burden was, always whether he was fresh or exhausted, walking leisurely or hurrying. so kanana hurried on, daily reading the news of the caravan before him as he went, testing his strength to the utmost before he rested, and starting again as soon as he was able; over the sand and over the hills, through groves and villages and over sand again; always toward mecca. v led by a white camel in the world-famous city of mecca, two men stood by the arch that leads to the immortal caaba. they were engaged in an earnest conversation, heedless of everything about them, when the distant cry of a camel driver sounded on the still air. both of the men started and looked at each other in surprise. one of them said: "a caravan at the gate at this time of day!" for it was several hours past midday and a caravan, in the ordinary course of things, reaches a city gate during the night or very early in the morning. arabia was seeing troubled times, and every one was on the alert for anything out of the accepted rule. the camel-driver's cry was repeated. the first speaker remarked: "they have left the burdened camels at the moabede gate and are entering the city." with an anxious look upon his face the elder of the two replied, "either they have been hard pressed by an enemy or it is important news which brings them over the desert in such haste, in this insufferable heat." the two men were evidently of great importance in the holy city. they were surrounded by powerful black slaves, who had all that they could do to keep the passers-by from pressing too close upon the elder man, in a desire to touch the hem of his garment. many, in passing, knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground. thus they waited the coming caravan. the first camel of an important caravan is led by a man who walks before it, through the narrow streets of a city, and his cry is to warn the crowd to clear the way; there being no sidewalks, and, indeed, but very little street. "there it comes," said the younger of the two, as the long line of drowsy camels appeared, swinging, swinging, swinging along the narrow street. "led by a white camel," added the elder, and they both looked down the street. the lead-camel was larger than the rest--much larger, and very much lighter colored; a sort of dingy white, like a sheep before shearing. the chief of the caravan sat upon his back, as unmindful of everything as though he were still upon the trackless sand. it is not impossible that the sheik was really sleeping, and unconsciously grasping his ugly lance, while his damascus blade hung ready by his side. he roused in a moment, however, for with many a grunt and groan the great, ungainly, and yet very stately, ships of the desert came slowly and drowsily to anchor in the court before the caaba. "_haji_," a naked little urchin muttered, looking up from his play; but he should have known better. _haji_ means pilgrims, and these were no pilgrims. there are seasons when this city is one mass of humanity. haji by hundreds and thousands throng the narrow streets, but these are bedouins of the desert, bound upon some other mission than worshiping before the caaba, kissing the black stone, or drinking the holy water of zemzem. the leader of the white camel gave a peculiar pull to the rope hanging over his shoulder, attached to the animal's bridle, and uttered a short, sharp word of command. slowly, very slowly, the dignified, dingy creature, towering high above him, acknowledged the receipt of the order, but he gave no evidence that he was making any arrangements to obey. his response was simply a deliberate grunt and a weird and melancholy wail that came gurgling out of his long, twisting throat. he would not have hurried himself one atom, even for the sheik upon his back. a white camel is to the arab what a white buffalo is to the indian and a white elephant to the ceylonese, and he fully appreciates his importance. he deliberately turned his woolly head quite about till his great brown eyes, with the drooping lids almost closed over them, could most conveniently look back along the line of lank, inferior camels, and gaunt and weather-beaten dromedaries, which had patiently followed him, day after day, to the temple court of immortal mecca. he was so long about it that the leader repeated the command and very slowly the camel brought his head back again, till his languid eyes looked drowsily down, in a sort of scornful charity, upon the insignificant mortal at the other end of his halter. he had stood in the court of mecca long before that man was born and would doubtless guide caravans to the same spot long after he was buried and forgotten. "you may be in haste, but i am not," he seemed to say, and dreamily turned his eyes toward the black-curtained caaba, as if to see how it had fared since his last visit. that caaba, the holy of holies of the mussulman, is the most revered and possibly the most venerable of all the sacred buildings on the earth; but the gentle, wistful eyes of the white camel were more practically drawn toward two or three date-palm-trees then growing beside it. when he had satisfied himself that the only green thing in sight was quite beyond his reach, he deliberately lowered his head, changed his position a little, and with another grunt and another melancholy wail sank upon his knees, then upon his haunches. with a deep sigh he lifted his head again still high above the head of his driver, and his drowsy eyes seemed saying to him: "poor man! i kept you waiting, didn't i?" then he quickly turned his head to the opposite side, deliberately poking his nose into the passing throng, till, with a grunt of recognition, it touched the garment of one who was hurrying on among the crowd. it was evidently a bedouin, but the wings of his turban were drawn together in front, so that no one could see his face. he responded to the greeting of the white camel, however, by laying his hand upon the creature's nose as he passed. it was a motion which no one noticed, and a moment later he was out of sight. he was following a boy who had led him directly to the arch, where the boy paused, pointed to the elder of the two men standing there, briefly observing: "it is he." the bedouin paused for a moment, as if struggling to collect his thoughts, then hurrying forward was the next to prostrate himself before the venerable man. as he rose he handed him a package, simply observing: "a message to the caliph omar." the great caliph quickly broke the seal and read; then, turning to the bearer, asked sharply, "and who art thou?" "i am kanana, son of the sheik of the beni sads," replied the bedouin boy, letting the wings of his turban fall apart that omar might see his face. "a beardless youth!" exclaimed the caliph. "and dost thou know aught of the import of this letter?" kanana repeated the dying words of the arab soldier, which had so often escaped his lips as he urged his weary feet toward mecca. "'tis even so," replied the caliph. "and how came living man to trust a boy like you to come alone, through the streets of mecca, with such an errand?" "i came alone with the letter from the oasis at mount hor," replied kanana, straightening himself up, with very pardonable pride, before the astonished eyes of the great caliph. then he related, briefly, how the letter came into his keeping, and the dangers and escapes of the three long weeks during which he carried it in his bosom; each rising and setting sun finding it a little nearer to its destination. "thou art a brave youth," said the caliph, "a worthy son of the terror of the desert. would to allah that every arab had thy heart, and heraclius himself, with all the world behind him, could not move the faithful from their desert sands. and they shall not be moved! no! by the beard of the prophet, they shall not be moved. hear me, my son; i will see more of thee. this is no place for conversation, where the wind bloweth into what ears it listeth. one of my slaves shall conduct you to my house. there i will meet you presently. go, and allah go with you." indicating the slave who should take kanana in charge, the caliph omar turned abruptly away and showed the letter to the man with whom he had been conversing. vi kanana and the caliph guided by the black slave, kanana passed out again under the arch, and walked the streets of mecca, caring less and thinking less concerning what transpired about him than any one, before or since, who for the first time stood in the holy city. he found the narrow streets densely crowded. soldiers and merchants, bedouins and city arabs mingled with an array of every tribe arabia could furnish. there were venders of all things pertaining to the necessities or luxuries of life; water-carriers with goatskins on their shoulders; fruit-criers with wooden trays upon their heads; donkeys laden with cumbersome baskets, beneath which they were almost lost to sight; camels carrying packs of a thousand pounds weight upon their backs, as though they were bundles of feathers; everything hustling and jostling, men and boys shouting and pushing for the right of way. they all turned out as best they could, however, for the savage black slave of the great caliph, and by keeping close behind him kanana always found an open space where he could walk without fighting for room. it was almost the first experience of the bedouin boy in real city life, and the very first time that his bare feet had ever touched the beaten sand of the unpaved streets of his most sacred mecca. he turned from the arch, however, without once glancing at the black-curtained caaba, the beitullah, or house of god, toward which three times a day he had turned his face in reverent devotion, ever since he had learned to pray. he followed the black slave onward through the streets, without so much as looking at the walls of the houses that crowded close on either hand. he had fulfilled his vow. the packet he had sacredly guarded through many a hardship and danger and narrow escape was safely delivered. now he was free to carry on the work for which he left the perch and the birds in the grain-field of the beni sad. sometimes he thought of the black slave before him, and wondered if, after all, he was quite free. and the thought troubled him. it seemed as though long years had passed since the day when his father met him with the news of raschid airikat's capture of his brother. he had suffered privations enough for a lifetime since then. more than once his life had hung by a slender thread. he could hardly imagine himself again sitting up on the perch, frightening the birds away, his life had so entirely changed; his determination to keep the vow he made his father had grown stronger every day; only he realized more the magnitude of the task he had undertaken; and he appreciated his father's words: "thou wisp of straw before a fire! thou reed before a whirlwind!" still he gathered hope, because he was beginning to understand himself. the dangers and hardships of one enterprise he had met and overcome, and under the very shadow of the caaba, the great caliph of mecca had called him brave. now he was eager for the next. there was no vital need of another interview with the caliph, and kanana thought that if he could only escape from the black slave, by darting into a crowded alley, he could go at once about his own important business. for the first time kanana looked about him. at the moment there was no opportunity, and while he watched for one, the slave turned suddenly into a great gate, crossed a court paved with limestone, lifted a reed curtain, entered one of the most substantial stone structures of mecca, and indicated to kanana the apartment in which he was to wait for the caliph. it was too late to escape. with all the patience and dogged submission to destiny so strongly developed in the bedouin, kanana sat down upon a rug. there were luxurious ottomans about the room, and divans taken from the palaces of persian princes, but the bedouin boy preferred the desert seat. much as though he were still upon the perch, he laid his staff beside him and buried his face in his hands. the magnificence in this chamber of omar's official residence only disturbed his thoughts. he became so deeply buried in his plans that he had entirely forgotten where he was, when the rattle of the reed curtain roused him and, starting from his dream, he found the great caliph entering. reverently touching his forehead to the floor, kanana remained prostrate until the caliph was seated. then he rose and stood leaning upon his staff while the old ruler silently surveyed him. it seemed to kanana that his very heart was being searched by those grave and piercing eyes. upon the shoulders of the caliph omar rested the fate of islam for future ages; his word was law wherever mohammed was revered. he could have little time to waste upon a shepherd boy; yet he sat for a long while, silently looking at kanana. when he spoke, it was only to bid him repeat, at greater length, the story of how he came by the letter and how he brought it to mecca. "my son," he said, when kanana had finished, "thou hast done what many a brave man would not have ventured to attempt. ask what reward thou wilt of me." "i would have the blessing of the caliph omar," kanana replied. "that thou shall have, my son; and camels, or sheep, or gold. ask what thou wilt." "i have no use for anything. i ask thy blessing, my father, and thy word to bid me go." "thou art a strange lad," replied the caliph. "thou art like, and yet unlike the terror of the desert. i command thee, my son, say what i can best do for thee." "give me thy blessing, then let me go, my father," repeated kanana, kneeling. "more than that, if i took it, i should leave at thy gate." omar smiled gravely at the boy's obstinacy. "if i can do nothing for thee, there is yet something which thou canst do for me. kahled is the greatest general who fights for the prophet. he will soon reach bashra, with thirty thousand warriors. he will turn to enter persia, but these letters must reach him, with my orders that he go again to syria. bashra is three weeks from here, and a company of soldiers will start to-night to carry the messages, while i send far and wide for the faithful to join him. it would be well, my son, for thee to go with the soldiers, to give the story to kahled by word of mouth." "the way is hard. the sand is deep and dry between mecca and bashra," said kanana. the caliph looked in some surprise upon the hardy bedouin boy. "hardship should not be hard to thee; but thou shall be carried as one whom the caliph would honor." "the way is dangerous. robbers and hostile tribes are like the sand about bashra," added kanana, who had often heard of the countries along the eastern borders of arabia. surprise became astonishment. the caliph exclaimed: "thou! son of the terror of the desert, speaking of danger?" "my father, i spoke for thy soldiers," replied kanana, quickly. "before they reach the sands of bashra they will be with the five who started with this letter. dost thou believe that kanana spoke in fear or cowardice? if so, give him the letters, and with thy blessing and the help of allah, he will deliver them to thy kahled, though every river run with fire, and the half of arabia stand to prevent him!" [illustration: "dost thou believe that kanana spoke in fear?"] "beardless youth!" cried the caliph. "i am too old for mockery." "my father, without a beard i brought that letter here, and he who guarded me will guard me still." "wouldst thou dare to go without an escort?" "i would rather have a sword i could not lift than have an escort," replied kanana. "by the beard of the prophet, my son, there is both foolishness and wisdom in thy words. thou shall take the messages by one route, and by another i will send the soldiers with copies. it may be that allah guides thy tongue. when wilt thou start?" "now," replied kanana. "that was well spoken," said the caliph. "what camels and servants shall be provided?" "my father," said kanana, "as i came a little way with the caravan which arrived to-day, i noted the white camel that took the lead. i never saw so great power of speed and endurance in a camel of the plain. the man who led him knew him well and was easily obeyed. i would have the two, none other, and the swiftest dromedary in mecca, with grain for fourteen days." the caliph shook his head: "it will be twenty days and more." "my father, the burden must be light that the sand lie loose beneath their feet, and small, that it tempt no envious eye." then, in the direct simplicity resulting from his lonely life, kanana added, "if it is a three weeks' journey for others, in fourteen days thy messages shall be delivered." the caliph summoned an officer, saying, "go to the caravan at the moabede gate. say that omar requires the white camel and the man who leads it; none other. bid ebno'l hassan prepare my black dromedary and food for the two for fourteen days. have everything at the gate, ready to start, in half an hour." then to a slave, he added, "give to the son of the terror of the desert the best that the house affords to eat and drink." without another word the caliph left the room to prepare the messages. the slave hurried to produce a sumptuous feast. the officer left the house to execute the orders of the man whose word was law. alone, kanana sat down again upon the mat and buried his face in his hands, as though he were quietly preparing himself to sleep. only a whisper escaped his lips. the words were the same which he had angrily spoken under the shadow of mount hor, but the voice was very different: "this is my great reward for giving a cup of water to the thirsty. _la illaha il allah!_" the slave placed the food beside him, but he did not notice it. not until the caliph entered again did he suddenly look up, exclaiming, "this shepherd's coat would not be fitting the dignity of the white camel. i must have an _abbe_ to cover it, and a mantle to cover my face, that mecca may not see a beardless youth going upon a mission for the great caliph." they were quickly provided. the camel and its driver were at the gate, with the black dromedary. all was ready, and with the mantle drawn over his beardless face, and the _abbe_ covering his sheepskin coat, kanana knelt and received the blessing of the caliph omar. as he rose from his knees, the caliph handed him, first the letters, which kanana placed in his bosom, and next a bag of gold which kanana held in his hand for an instant; then, scornfully, he threw it upon the mat, remarking, "my father, i have already received a richer reward than all the gold of mecca." the caliph only smiled: "let each one dance according to the music which he hears. my son, i see the future opening before thee. this is not thy last mission. i read it in thy destiny that thou wilt succeed, and succeed again, until the name of kanana be written among the greatest of those who have lifted the lance for allah and arabia. go now, and god go with thee." vii a prize worth winning there was a group of several people standing about the caliph's gate as kanana emerged. they were apparently waiting, in careless curiosity, to see the white camel start, and learn what they could of what was going on in official departments. the information they received was very meager, yet it proved sufficient for more than one. they saw the white camel rise, with the veiled messenger of omar upon its back. as the driver looked up to receive his first command their necks were bent in a way that betrayed their eagerness to hear. only one word was spoken, however. it was "tayf," the name of a city a short distance to the east of mecca. the camel-driver's cry sounded again through the streets, but the twilight shadows were gathering. there were few abroad, and the cries were not so loud or so often repeated as in the afternoon. when they ceased altogether, kanana had turned his back upon mecca forever. the night wind blew cool and refreshing from the surrounding hills as the little caravan moved out upon the plain, but kanana was ill at ease. it was still as death in the valley. far as the eye could penetrate the darkness they were all alone, except for five horsemen who left the gate of mecca not long after the white camel, and were now riding slowly toward tayf, a short distance behind it. ever and again kanana looked back at them. the faint shadows, silently moving onward through the gloom, were always there; never nearer; never out of sight. leaning forward, he spoke in a low voice to the driver, "you walk as though you were weary. the dromedary was brought for you. mount it, and follow me." "master," replied the driver, "the white camel is obstinate. he will only move for one whom he knows well." "you speak to the wind," muttered kanana. "do as i bid thee. hear my words. yonder black dromedary has the fleetest foot in mecca. he is the pride of the caliph omar. mount him, and if you can overtake me while i drive the white camel, you shall throw the dust of the desert in the face of raschid airikat, and have the white camel for your own." the driver started back, and stood staring at the veiled messenger of omar. the word, "mount!" was sternly repeated. then he quickly obeyed, evidently bewildered, but well satisfied that he would have an easy task before him, from the moment the white camel realized that a stranger was in command. kanana spoke, and the camel started. the dromedary moved forward close behind it without a word from the driver. the horsemen had approached no nearer while they waited, though kanana had purposely given them time enough to pass, had they not halted when he halted. they were still five silent shadows upon the distant sand. "faster," said kanana, and the long legs of the white camel swung out a little farther over the sand and moved more rapidly, in response. the dromedary immediately quickened its pace without urging, and, a moment later, from far in the distance, the night wind brought the sound of horses' hoofs through the silent valley. it was very faint, but distinct enough to indicate that the shadows behind them had broken into a canter. the camel-driver gave little heed to his surroundings. he was too thoroughly engrossed in the prospect of owning the white camel to care who might be coming or going in a way as safe as that from tayf to mecca. kanana, however, who could walk through the streets of the holy city without so much as knowing what the houses were made of, would have heard the wings of a night-moth passing him, or seen a sand-bush move, a quarter of a mile away. his life as a shepherd had, after all, not been wasted. "faster," said kanana, touching the camel's neck with his shepherd's staff, and without even the usual grunt of objection, the animal obeyed. the sand began to fly from his great feet as they rested upon it for an instant, then left it far behind; the bedouin boy sat with eyes fixed on the path before him, and his head bent so that he could catch the faintest sounds coming from behind. the mantle that had covered his face fell loosely over his shoulder. the dromedary lost a little ground for a moment, but gathering himself together, easily made it up. the driver was too sure of the final result to urge him unduly at the start. soon enough the white camel would rebel of his own accord, and till then it was quite sufficient to keep pace with him. the sound of horses' hoofs became sharper and more distinct, and omar's messenger knew that the five shadows were being pressed to greater speed, and were drawing nearer. "faster!" said kanana, and the white camel broke into a run, swinging in rapid motions from side to side, as two feet upon one side, then two on the other were thrown far in front of him and, in an instant, left as far behind. still the dromedary made light work of keeping close upon his track, evidently realizing what was expected of him; but the driver saw with dismay how quickly the camel responded to the word of his rider, how easily the man sat upon the swaying back--how carefully he selected the best path for the animal, and how skillfully he guided him so that he could make the best speed with the least exertion. many a night kanana had run unsaddled camels about the pastures of the beni sads, guarding the sleeping sheep and goats, little dreaming for what he was being educated. the sound of horses' hoofs grew fainter. they were losing ground, but now and then the listening ear caught the sharp cry of an arab horseman urging his animal to greater speed. "they are in earnest," muttered the bedouin boy, "but they will not win the race." "faster!" said kanana; the camel's head dropped till his neck lost its graceful curve, and the great white ship of the desert seemed almost flying over the billowy sand. for a moment the dromedary dropped behind. the driver had to use the prod and force him to the very best that was in him, before he was able to regain the lost ground. the sound of hoofs could no longer be heard, and kanana was obliged to listen with the utmost care to catch the faintest echo of a distant voice. "they are doing their best and are beaten, but we can do still better," he said to himself with a deep sigh of relief, as he watched the desert shrubs fly past them in fleeting shadows, scudding over the silver-gray sand. the music of the sand, as it flew from the camel's feet and fell like hail upon the dry leaves of the desert shrubs, was a delightful melody, and hour after hour they held the rapid pace; over low hills and sandy plains; past the mud village and the well that marks the resting-place for caravans, a night's journey from mecca, without a sign of halting; and on and on, the dromedary always just so far behind, always doing his best to come nearer. if by urging he was brought a little closer to the camel, the driver heard that low word, "faster!" and in spite of him the camel gained again. would he never stop? the sounds from behind had long been lost when, far in advance, appeared the regular caravan from tayf. they approached it like the wind. only the mystic salaam of the desert was solemnly exchanged, then, in a moment, the trailing train as it crept westward was left, disappearing in the darkness behind them. when it was out of sight the white camel suddenly changed its course, turning sharply to the north of east and striking directly over the desert, away from the hills and the beaten track to tayf which he had been following. the driver could not imagine that such a man as sat upon the white camel had lost his way. he silently followed till they passed a well that marked the second night's journey from mecca toward persia. the driver and dromedary would very willingly have stopped here; but the camel glided onward before them through the changing shadows of the night, as though it were some phantom, and not a thing of flesh and blood. by dint of urging, the driver brought the dromedary near enough to call: "master, we are not upon the road to tayf." "no," said kanana, but the camel still held his course. driven to desperation, as the eastern sky was brightening, the driver called again: "master, you will kill the camel!" "not in one night," said kanana; "but if you value your own life, come on!" faster still and faster the white camel swept toward the glowing east, but the dromedary had done his best. he could not do better. more and more he fell behind, and in spite of every effort of the driver, the pride of the caliph was beaten. fainter and fainter grew the outline of the white camel against the morning sky, ever swinging, swinging, swinging, over the silver-gray sea, with a motion as regular and firm as though it had started but an hour before. as the red disc of the fiery sun rose out of the desert, however, the driver saw the camel pause, turn half about, till his huge outline stood out in bold relief against the sky, and then lie down. quickly kanana dismounted. he caressed the camel for a moment, whispering, "we are two days and a half from mecca! thou hast done better than i hoped. thou didst remember me yesterday in the temple court. to-night thou hast cheerfully given every atom of thy strength to help me. to-morrow we shall be far apart. allah alone knows for what or for how long; but if we ever meet again thou wilt remember me. yes, thou wilt greet thy kanana." the boy's dark eyes were bright with tears as he gave the camel the best of the food provided for him; then, with sand in stead of water performing the morning ablution, he faced toward mecca. when the dromedary and his rider reached the spot, the veiled messenger of omar was solemnly repeating his morning prayer. viii to seek the beni sads all in vain the camel driver sought to obtain one glimpse beneath the mantle, to see the face of the caliph's messenger or to learn anything of their destination. he prepared their very frugal breakfast without a fire, and, when it was eaten, in the humble, reproachful tone of one who felt himself unjustly suspected, he said: "my master, why didst thou deceive me, saying we should go to tayf? didst thou think that i would not willingly and freely lead the white camel anywhere, to serve the great caliph?" "there were other ears than yours to hear," replied kanana. "there were only beggars at the gate, my master. dost thou believe i would be treacherous to a servant of omar and the prophet?" "i believe that every child of ishmael will serve himself," replied kanana; "but that had nothing to do with what i said. before we start to-night, i will lay out your path before you, to the very end. as for the beggars, where were your senses? for three days, in disguise, i journeyed with the caravan of raschid airikat, as it came to mecca. i saw in him a treacherous man, and when he yielded to a command he must obey and gave me the white camel and his driver, i knew that he would take them back again by stealth and treachery, if he were able to. have i no eyes, that i should spend three days with the caravan and then not recognize the servants of airikat, though they were dressed as beggars and slunk away, with covered faces, into the shadows of the caliph's gate? they did not cover their feet, and by their feet i knew them, even when they deceived you, one of their own. to them i said, 'go, tell your master that his white camel is on the way to tayf.'" "my master," said the driver, respectfully, "the sheik airikat is as devout as he is treacherous and brave. he gave the sacred camel and thy servant willingly, at the command of omar, for the service of allah and arabia. i do not think he would deal treacherously." kanana did not reply, for far away over the desert, to the east, there was a little speck of dark, like a faint shadow, upon the sand. he sat in silence watching it through the folds of his mantle, as it grew larger and larger, and a long caravan approached. the camels were worn out from a long journey. their heads hung down, and their feet dragged languidly over the sand. their slow progress had belated them, and the sun would be several hours above the desert when they reached the oasis by the well, which the two had passed before daylight. as they drew nearer it could easily be seen that the camels bore no burdens but necessary food, in sacks that were nearly empty, and that their riders were savage men from the eastern borders of arabia. "master, do they see us?" muttered the driver. "they have eyes," replied kanana. and they had. a fresh dromedary and a white camel alone upon the desert, were a tempting prize. they evidently determined to appropriate them; for, leaving the main body of the caravan standing in the path, twenty or more turned suddenly, and came directly toward them. "master, we must fly from them," whispered the driver. "if they were behind us i would fly," replied kanana, "for every step would be well taken; but my path lies yonder." he pointed directly toward the caravan. "and i would not turn from it though devils instead of men were in the way." "it is the will of allah. we are lost," muttered the camel-driver, and his arms dropped sullenly upon his knees, in the dogged resignation to fate so characteristic of the bedouin. kanana made no reply, but, repeating from the koran, "'whatever of good betideth thee cometh from him,'" he rose and walked slowly to where the white camel was lying. upon the high saddle, which had not yet been removed, hung the inevitable lance and sword, placed there by the officer of the caliph. leaning back against the saddle to await the approach of the caravan, the bedouin boy threw his right hand carelessly across the hilt of the damascus blade, exposing, almost to the shoulder, the rounded muscles of the powerful arm of--a shepherd lad. the caravan drew nearer and finally halted when the leader was less than ten paces from the white camel. his envious eyes had been gloating over the tempting prize as he approached; but gradually they became fastened upon that hand and arm, while the fingers that were playing gently upon the polished hilt seemed to beckon him on to test the gleaming blade beneath. he could not see the beardless face, protected by the mantle. how could he know that that hand had never drawn a sword? the whole appearance indicated a man without one thought of fear, and the savage chief realized that, before the white camel became his prize, some one beside its present owner would doubtless pay a dear price for it. he was still determined to possess it, but the silent figure demanded and received respect from him. [illustration: the silent figure demanded and received respect.] instead of the defiant words which were upon his tongue, he pronounced the desert greeting. kanana returned the salutation, and immediately asked, "did the dust from kahled's host blow over you when your foot was on the sand of bashra?" the sheik drew back a little. it was a slight but very suggestive motion, speaking volumes to the keen eye of the bedouin boy. he had been leaning forward before, more than is natural even to one tired out with sitting upon a camel's back. it was as if in his eagerness he was reaching forward to grasp the prize. now he seemed suddenly to have lost that eagerness. quickly, kanana took advantage of the hint. he drew from his bosom the letter of the caliph, sealed with the great seal of mohammed, which every mussulman could recognize, and calmly holding it plainly in view, he continued: "the beak of the vulture has whitened, instead of the bones he would have plucked. the tooth of the jackal is broken, and not the flesh he would have torn. raschid airikat is neither at damascus nor mecca. to-morrow morning he will be at tayf. he would have you meet him there. say to him, 'the fool hath eaten his own folly. the veiled messenger of the prophet, sitting upon the sacred camel, glides with the night wind into the rising sun; for the fire is lighted in hejaz that at bashra shall cause the camels' necks to shine.'" a decided change came over the savage face of the arab sheik. he sat in silence for a moment, then, without a word, drove the prod into his camel. there was a grunt and a gurgling wail, and the tired animal was moving on, followed by all the rest. kanana and his camel-driver were left alone. when they were well out of hearing the driver prostrated himself before kanana, touching his forehead to the ground, and asked: "master, who was that sheik, with all his warriors, and who art thou that they should cower before thy word?" "i am no one to receive your homage. stand upon your feet!" almost shouted kanana. "i never saw nor heard of them until to-day." he breathed a deep, quivering sigh, and leaned heavily upon the saddle; for every muscle in his body shook and trembled as the result of what had seemed so calm and defiant. he tried to replace the letter in his bosom, but his hand trembled so that he was obliged to wait. "thou knewest that he was of the tribe of raschid airikat, and that he came from bashra," said the driver. "i knew nothing," replied kanana, petulantly, in the intense reaction. "how long have you been a man, well taught in killing other men, not to see what any cowardly shepherd boy could read? were not their lances made of the same peculiar wood; and their camel saddles, were they not the same, stained with the deep dye of bashra? who should come out of the rising sun, with his camel licking the desert sand, if he came not from bashra? who should be going toward mecca at this season, without a burdened camel in his caravan, if he went not to meet his chief for war? why did airikat crowd his caravan, day and night, if he expected no one?" "but, master, airikat is at mecca, not at tayf," said the camel-driver. "bedouin, where are your eyes and ears?" exclaimed kanana, scornfully. "your paltry beggars at the caliph's gate carried my message swiftly. we had not left the gate of mecca out of sight when on the road behind us came airikat and four followers. while you were struggling to reach the white camel, they did their best to overtake us both, but we outstripped them. we kept upon the way till we had passed the nightly caravan. they would have to rest their horses at the well, and the caravan would halt there, too. they would inquire for us, and the caravan would answer, 'we passed the white camel running like the wind toward tayf.' enough. airikat with his horsemen cannot reach there before the next sunrise, and when he learns the truth he will be five days behind us. from him and yonder caravan by the help of allah we are safe. if you would learn a lesson, by the way, let it be this: that man can conquer man without a sword or lance. sleep on it." setting the example, kanana removed the camel's saddle, fastened his hind foot to his haunch with the twisted rope so that he could not rise, and sank upon the sand beside him, laying his head upon the creature's neck. the last words which he heard from his driver were: "master, thou art mightier than airikat and all his warriors." the sun beat fiercely down all day upon his resting-place; but kanana's sleep was sweeter than if the cool starlight had been over him, or a black tent of the beni sads; because, for that one day at least, his head was pillowed upon the white camel's neck. it was late in the afternoon before he woke, and the sun was setting when the little caravan was again prepared to start. they were ready to mount when the driver came to the white camel. he laid his hand upon the dingy haunch, and said, in a voice that was strangely pleading for a fierce bedouin: "master, do not crowd him over-hard to-night. he obeys too willingly. he is tired from a long journey. it is four weeks since he has rested. i would rather you would kill me than the white camel." kanana thought for a moment, then taking his shepherd's staff from the saddle, he replied: "you can tell better than i how he should be driven. mount him, and i will ride the dromedary." to the driver this was only arab sarcasm, and he hesitated till kanana silently pointed his staff toward the saddle, and the driver was more afraid to refuse than to obey. kanana turned and mounted the dromedary. as the camel rose to his feet, a strange temptation sent the blood tingling to the driver's finger-tips. the dromedary was unarmed. the messenger of omar held only a shepherd's staff. almost unconsciously his hand clutched the hilt of the damascus blade, betraying the fact that it was better used to holding such a thing than the rope that led the white camel through mecca. quickly the driver looked back, to see kanana quietly watching him. instantly his hand dropped the hilt, but it was too late. scornfully kanana said: "lo! every child of ishmael, from the devout raschid to the faithful camel-driver, will serve himself. nay, keep the hand upon the sword. perchance there will be better cause to use it than in defying me. from here our paths must separate. i promised that to-night i would lay out your course for you. it is northward, without swerving, for ten nights, at least." "and whither goest thou, my master?" "that only allah can direct, from day to day. _la illaha il allah!_" "and what is my mission to be?" asked the driver, anxiously. "it is to seek the beni sads; to find the aged chief, the terror of the desert; to say to him, 'kanana hath fulfilled his vow.' he hath not lifted the lance against airikat; but thy white camel is returned to thee, bearing thy first-born upon his back. go, and god go with thee!" "who art thou?" cried the man upon the white camel, starting from his seat as the dromedary gave the usual grunt, in answer to the prod, and moved away. the bedouin boy turned in the saddle, tore off the _abbe_ and the mantle that covered him, and clad in the sheepskin coat and desert turban answered: "i am thy brother kanana, the coward of the beni sads!" ix for allah and arabia "kanana! our kanana!" cried the brother, striking the camel's neck. the dingy dignity of the great white camel was ruffled by the blow received, and he expressed his disapproval in a series of grunts before he made any attempt to start. "kanana! kanana!" the brother called again, seeing the dromedary already merging into the shadows; but the only response he received was from the shepherd's staff, extended at arm's length pointing northward. "my young brother shall not leave me in this way. he has no weapon of defense and only a little of the grain." again he struck the camel a sharp blow as the animal began very slowly to move forward. the black dromedary was hardly distinguishable from the night, and was rapidly sinking into the deepening shadows before the camel was fairly on the way. "go!" cried the rider savagely, striking him again, and the camel moved a little faster; but he made slow and lumbering work, for he was not at all pleased with his treatment. the rider's eyes were fixed intently upon the dim outline sinking away from him. the last he saw of it was the hand and arm, still holding the extended shepherd's staff, pointing to the north. then all was lost. he kept on in that direction for an hour, but it was evident that he had begun in the wrong way with the camel, and that he was not forcing him to anything like his speed of the night before. it was beyond his power to overtake the dromedary, and doubly chagrined he gave up the race and turned northward. the path before kanana was the highway between persia and mecca. at some seasons it was almost hourly traversed, but at midsummer only absolute necessity drove the arabs across the very heart of the desert. in the height of the rainy season there were even occasional pools of water in the hollows, here and there. later there was coarse, tough grass growing, sometimes for miles along the way. little by little, however, they disappeared. then the green of each oasis shrank toward the center, about the spring or well, and often before midsummer was over, they too had dried away. the prospect of loneliness, however, was not at all disheartening to kanana. he had no desire to meet with any one, least of all with such parties as would be apt to cross the desert at this season. if a moving shadow appeared in the distance, he turned well to one side and had the dromedary lie down upon the sand till it passed. the black dromedary was fresh, and the bedouin boy knew well how to make the most of his strength while it lasted; but it was for allah and arabia that they crossed the desert, and kanana felt that neither his own life nor that of the dromedary could be accounted of value compared with the demand for haste. he paid no heed to the usual camping-grounds for caravans, except to be sure that he passed two of them every night till the dromedary's strength began to fail. each morning the sun was well upon its way before he halted for the day, and long before it set again he was following his shadow upon the sand. more and more the dromedary felt the strain. when twelve nights had passed, the pride of the caliph was anything but a tempting prize, and kanana would hardly have troubled himself to turn out for a caravan even if he had thought it a band of robbers. the bedouin boy, too, was thoroughly worn and exhausted. for days they had been without water, checking their thirst by chewing the prickly leaves of the little desert vine that is the last sign of life upon the drying sand. no dew fell at this season, and kanana realized that it was only a matter of hours as to how much longer they could hold out. morning came without a sign of water or of life, as far as the eye could reach. the sun rose higher, and kanana longed for the sight of a human being as intensely as at first he had dreaded it. nothing but the ghastly bones of men and animals bleaching among the sand-shrubs showed him that he was still upon the highway to bashra. out of the glaring silver-gray, the fiery sun sailed into the lusterless blue of the dry, hot sky, leaving the two separated by the eternal belt of leaden clouds that never rise above a desert-horizon and never disperse in rain. kanana halted only for his morning prayer, and, when it was finished, the petition that he added for himself was simply "water! water! o allah! give us water." each day the heat had become more intense, and to-day it seemed almost to burn the very sand. as kanana mounted again and started on, his tired eyes sought anxiously the glaring billows for some sign of life; but not a living thing, no shadow even, broke the fearful monotony. there were gorgeous promises, but they did not deceive the eyes that had looked so often along the sand. there were great cities rising upon the distant horizon, with stately domes and graceful minarets such as were never known throughout the length and breadth of arabia. and when the bells ceased tolling in kanana's ears, he could hear the muezzin's call to prayer. then the bells would toll again and he would mutter, "water! water! o allah! give us water." he had no longer any heart to urge the tired dromedary to a faster pace. he knew that it would only be to see him fall, the sooner, upon the sand. the tired creature's head hung down till his nose touched the earth as he plodded slowly onward. the sun rose higher. it was past the hour when they always stopped, but neither thought of stopping. waiting would not bring the water to them, and the bedouin boy knew well that to lie on the desert sand that day meant to lie there forever. the dromedary knew it as well as his master, and without a word to urge him, he kept his feet slowly moving onward, like an automaton, with his nose thrust forward just above the sand, as though he too were pleading: "water! water! o allah! give us water." his eyes were closed. his feet dragged along the sand. kanana did not attempt to guide him, though he swayed from side to side, sometimes reeling and almost falling over low hillocks which he made no effort to avoid. kanana could scarcely keep his own eyes open. the glare of the desert was blinding; but their last hope lay in his watchfulness. he struggled hard to keep back the treacherous drowsiness, but his head would drop upon one shoulder, then upon the other. he could have fallen from the saddle and stretched himself upon the sand to die without a struggle, had it not been for the caliph's letter in his bosom. again and again he pressed his hand upon it to rouse himself, and muttered, "by the help of allah, i will deliver it." each time that this roused him he shaded his eyes and sought again the sand before him; but glaring and gray it stretched away to the horizon, without one shadow save that of the forest of low and brittle sand-shrubs. the burning sky grew black above him, and the desert became a fiery red. the dromedary did not seem like a living thing. he thought he was sitting upon his perch in the harvest field. the sun seemed cold, as its rays beat upon his head. he shivered and unconsciously drew the wings of his turban over his face. no wonder it was cold. it was the early morning under mount hor. yes, there were all the blue forget-me-nots. how the stream rippled and gurgled among them! he started. what was that shock that roused him? was it the robbers coming down upon him? he shook himself fiercely. was he sleeping? he struggled to spring to his feet, but they were tangled in something. at last his blood-shot eyes slowly opened and consciousness returned. the dromedary had fallen to the ground, beside--an empty well. kanana struggled to his feet and looked down among the rocks. the bottom was as dry as the sand upon which he was standing. he looked back at the dromedary. its eyes were shut. its neck was stretched straight out before it on the sand, its head rested upon the rocks of the well. "thou hast given thy life for allah and arabia," kanana said, "and when the prophet returns in his glory, he will remember thee." he took the sack of camel's food from the saddle and emptied the whole of it where the dromedary could reach it. then he cut the saddle-straps and dragged the saddle to one side. it was all that he could do for the dumb beast that had served him. suddenly he noticed that the sun was setting. all the long day he must have slept, while the poor dromedary had crept onward toward the well. it had not been a healthful sleep, but it refreshed him, and combined with the excitement of waking and working for the dromedary, he found his tongue less parched than before. quickly he took a handful of wheat and began to chew it vigorously; a secret which has saved the life of many a bedouin upon the great sea of sand. for a moment he leaned upon the empty saddle chewing the wheat, watching the sun sink into the sand and thinking. "thirteen days," he muttered. "i said fourteen when i started, but we have done better than three days in two. if we did not turn from the way to-day, this well is but one night from bashra. _o allah! mahamoud rousol il allah!_ give thy servant life for this one night." the dromedary had not moved to touch the food beside him, and there was no hope of further help from the faithful animal. kanana stood beside it for a moment, laid his hand gratefully upon the motionless head, then took up his shepherd's staff and started on. sometimes waking, sometimes sleeping as he walked, sometimes thinking himself far away from the sands of bashra, sometimes urging himself on with a realization that he must be near his journey's end, he pressed steadily on and on, hour after hour. sometimes he felt fresh enough to start and run. sometimes he wondered if he had the strength to lift his foot and put it forward another time. sometimes he felt sure that he was moving faster than a caravan, and that he should reach bashra before morning. sometimes it seemed as though the willing spirit must leave the lagging flesh behind as he had left the dromedary, and go on alone to bashra. then he would press the sacred letter hard against his bosom and repeat, "by the help of allah i will deliver it!" and all the time, though he did not realize it, he was moving forward with swift and steady strides, almost as though he were inspired with superhuman strength. far away to the east a little spark of light appeared. it grew and rose, till above the clouds there hung a thin white crescent; the narrowest line of moonlight. kanana gave a cry of joy, for it was an omen which no arab could fail to understand. then the air grew cold. the darkest hour before the dawn approached, and the narrow moon served only to make the earth invisible. the dread of meeting any one had long ago left kanana's mind. first he had feared it. then he had longed for it. now he was totally indifferent. he looked at the sky above him to keep his course. he looked at the sand beneath his feet; but he did not once search the desert before him. suddenly he was roused from his lethargy. there were shadows just ahead. he paused, shaded his eyes from the sky and looked forward, long and earnestly. "it is not sand-shrubs," he muttered. "it is too high. it is not bashra. it is too low. it is not a caravan. it does not move. it has no beginning and no end," he added, as he looked to right and left. "it is tents," he said a moment later, and a frown of anxiety gathered over his forehead. "have i missed the way? no tribe so large as that would be tented near bashra. if i turn back i shall die. if i go on--_la illaha il allah!_" he murmured, and resolutely advanced. as he drew nearer, the indistinguishable noises of the night in a vast encampment became plainly audible, but he did not hesitate. following the arab custom for every stranger in approaching a bedouin camp, he paused at the first tent he reached, and standing before the open front repeated the mussulman salutation. some one within roused quickly, and out of the darkness a deep voice sounded in reply. then kanana repeated: "i am a wanderer upon the desert. i am far from my people." and the voice replied: "if you can lift the lance for allah and arabia, you are welcome in the camp of kahled the invincible." "_la illaha il allah!_" cried kanana. "guide me quickly to the tent of kahled. i am a messenger to him from the great caliph omar." the earth reeled beneath the feet of kanana as the soldier led the way. the general was roused without the formality of modern military tactics or even mohammedan courtesies. a torch was quickly lighted. kanana prostrated himself; then rising, he handed the precious packet to the greatest general who ever led the hosts of mohammed. kahled the invincible broke the seal, but before he had read a single word, the bedouin boy fell unconscious upon the carpet of the tent. as the soldiers lifted him, kanana roused for an instant and murmured: "by the dry well, one night to the southwest, my black dromedary is dying of thirst. in allah's name, send him water! he brought the message from mecca in thirteen days!" then the torch-light faded before his eyes, and kanana's lips were sealed in unconsciousness. x kanana's third mission a vast mohammedan army, with its almost innumerable followers, was marching towards syria, to meet the hosts of the emperor heraclius. like a pillar of cloud the dust rose above the mighty throng. armed horsemen, ten thousand strong, rode in advance. a veteran guard of scarred and savage men came next, mounted upon huge camels, surrounding kahled the invincible and his chief officers, who rode upon the strongest and most beautiful of persian horses. a little distance behind were thousands of fierce warriors mounted on camels and dromedaries. then came another vast detachment of camels bearing the tents, furniture, and provisions of the army; these were followed by a motley throng, comprising the families of many of the tribes represented in the front, while still another powerful guard brought up the rear. behind the body-guard of kahled and before the war-camels rode a smaller guard, in the center of which were two camels, bearing a litter between them. upon this litter lay kanana, shielded from the sun by a goat's-hair awning; for almost of necessity the army moved by daylight. it started an hour after sunrise, resting two hours at noon, and halting an hour before sunset. it moved more rapidly than a caravan, however, and averaged twenty-five miles a day. close behind kanana's litter walked a riderless dromedary. at the start it was haggard and worn. its dark hair was burned to a dingy brown by the fierce heat of the desert; but even kahled received less careful attention, and every day it gathered strength and held its head a little higher. the black dromedary was not allowed to carry any burden, but was literally covered with gay-colored cloths; decorating the pride of omar the great, that had brought the good news from mecca to bashra in less than thirteen days. nothing pleasanter could have been announced to that terrible army of veterans surrounding the valiant kahled, than that it was to face the mightiest host which the emperor heraclius could gather in all the north. there was not one in all that throng who doubted, for an instant, that kahled could conquer the whole world if he chose, in the name of allah and the prophet. many of the soldiers had followed him since the day, years before, when he made his first grand plunge into persia. they had seen him made the supreme dictator of babylonia. they had seen him send that remarkable message to the great monarch of persia: "profess the faith of allah and his prophet, or pay tribute to their servants. if you refuse i will come upon you with a host that loves death as much as you love life." once before had they seen him summoned from his triumphs in persia, because all of the mohammedan generals and soldiers in syria were not able to cope with the power of heraclius. they had seen him invested with the supreme power by the caliph abu-bekr, omar's predecessor, and watched while, single-handed, he fought and conquered the great warrior, romanus. most of them had been with him before the walls of damascus, when he besieged that magnificently fortified city upon one side, and fought and conquered an army of a hundred thousand men upon the other side, sent from antioch, by heraclius, for the relief of the great city. then they witnessed the fall of damascus, and followed kahled as he attacked and put to flight an army outnumbering his by two to one, and equipped and drilled in the most modern methods of roman warfare. they had fought with him in the fiercest battles ever recorded of those desert lands, and they only knew him as kahled the invincible. after abu-bekr had died and omar the great had taken his place, the proud soldiers saw their general unjustly deposed and given such minor work as tenting about the besieged cities, while others did the fighting, until he left syria in disgust. no wonder they were glad to see him recalled to take his proper place. they jested without end about the cowards who were frightened because heraclius had threatened to annihilate the mussulmans. and the march was one grand holiday, in spite of heat and hardships. as kanana lay in his litter and listened to these bursts of eloquence in praise of the general, he was often stirred with ardent patriotism and almost persuaded to cast his lot among the soldiers; but the same odd theories which before had prevented his taking up a lance, restrained him still. on the fourth day he left the litter and took his seat upon the black dromedary. kahled directed that costly garments and a sword and lance be furnished him, but kanana prostrated himself before the general and pleaded: "my father, i never held a lance, and allah knows me best in this sheepskin coat." kahled frowned, but kanana sat upon the decorated dromedary precisely as he left the perch in the harvest-field. he expected to take his place with the camp-followers in the rear, but found that he was still to ride in state surrounded by the veteran guard. indeed, he became a figure so celebrated and conspicuous that many a warrior in passing, after prostrating himself before the general, touched his forehead to the ground before kanana and the black dromedary. it might have made a pleasant dream, while sitting upon the perch in the harvest-field, but the reality disturbed him, and again he began to plan some means of escape. he carefully computed the position of the beni sad encampment, and determined the day when the army would pass but a few miles to the east of it. one who has not lived upon the desert, and seen it illustrated again and again, can scarcely credit the accuracy with which a wandering bedouin can locate the direction and distance to any point with which he is familiar; but even then kanana was at a loss as to how to accomplish his purpose when the whole matter was arranged for him, and he was supplied with a work which he could perform for allah and arabia, still holding his shepherd's staff and wearing his sheepskin coat. the army halted for the night upon the eve of the day when it would pass near the encampment of the beni sads. the tent which kanana occupied was pitched next that of kahled. he sat upon the ground eating his supper. all about him was the clatter and commotion of the mighty host preparing for the night, when he heard an officer reporting to the general that in three days the supply of grain would be exhausted. "my father," he exclaimed, prostrating himself before the general, "thy servant's people, the beni sads, must be less than a night's journey to the north and west. they were harvesting six weeks ago, and must have five hundred camel-loads of grain to sell. bid me go to them to-night, and, with the help of allah, by the sunrise after to-morrow it shall be delivered to thy hand." kahled had formed a very good opinion of the bedouin boy. he had noticed his uneasiness, and, suspecting that he would make an endeavor to escape, he had been searching for some occupation that should prevent it by rendering him more content to remain. he felt that a time might come when kanana, with his sheepskin coat and shepherd's staff, might be of greater value to him than many a veteran with costly _abbe_ and gleaming sword. the result was an order that, one hour after sunset, kanana should start, at the head of a hundred horsemen, with ten camels laden with treasure for the purchase of grain, with twenty camels bearing grain-sacks, and one with gifts from kahled to the terror of the desert, in acknowledgment of the service rendered by his son. when he had purchased what grain the beni sads would sell, he was to continue in advance of the army, securing supplies to the very border of syria. kanana was no prodigy of meekness that he should not appreciate this distinction. a prouder boy has never lived, in occident or orient, than the bedouin shepherd who sat upon the black dromedary and publicly received the general's blessing and command of the caravan. in any other land there might have been rebellion among a hundred veteran horsemen, when placed under command of a boy in a sheepskin coat, armed only with a shepherd's staff, but there was no man of them who had not heard wonderful tales of kanana's courage; and the shepherd who had left the harvest field six weeks before, known only as the coward of the beni sads, set his face toward home that night, followed by a hundred savage warriors who obeyed him as one of the bravest of all the bedouins. as the caravan moved rapidly over the plain, bearing its costly burden, it is hardly surprising that the beardless chief recalled his last interview with his angry father, when that veteran sheik refused to trust him with a single horse to start upon his mission; but he was none the less anxious to reach his father's tent and receive his father's blessing. xi the sacred girdle shortly after midnight five horsemen who rode in advance returned to report a large encampment, far away upon the left. then kanana took the lead as a brave bedouin chieftain should, and, followed by the caravan, approached the smoldering fires which betrayed the location of the camp. he rode directly toward the tent of the sheik, which always stands in the outer line, farthest from a river or upon the side from which the guests of the tribe will be most likely to approach. as he approached, a shadow rose silently out of the shadows. it sniffed the air. then there was a faint grunt of satisfaction and the shadow sank down into the shadows again. kanana slipped from the back of the dromedary without waiting for him to lie down, and, running forward to the white camel, whispered, "i knew that thou wouldst know me." the terror of the desert appeared at the tent door with a hand raised in blessing. kanana ran to his father with a cry of joy, and the white-haired sheik threw his arms about the neck of his son and kissed him, saying: "forgive me, kanana, my brave kanana! i said that thou hadst come to curse me with thy cowardice, and lo! thou hast done grander, braver deeds than i in all my years! verily, thou hast put me to shame, but it is with courage, not with cowardice." kanana tried to speak, but tears choked him. all alone he could calmly face a score of savage robbers, armed to the teeth, but suddenly he discovered that he was only a boy, after all. he had almost forgotten it. and in helpless silence he clung to his father's neck. the old sheik roused himself. "kanana," he exclaimed, "why am i silent? the whole tribe waits to welcome thee. ho! every one who sleepeth!" he called aloud, "awake! awake! kanana is returned to us!" far and near the cry was repeated, and a moment later the people came hurrying to greet the hero of the beni sads. not only had the brother returned with the white camel and a glowing account of his rescue by the veiled messenger of the caliph, but a special officer had come, by a passing caravan, bearing to the terror of the desert a bag of gold and the congratulations of omar the great, that he was the father of such a son. now the gifts from kahled the invincible arrived, and the hundred horsemen obeying the voice of kanana. the beni sads could scarcely believe their eyes and ears. torches were lighted. fires were rekindled and, before sunrise, the grandest of all grand bedouin feasts was in full glory. vainly, however, did the old sheik bring out the best robe to put it on him; with a ring for his hand and shoes for his feet; in a custom for celebrating a son's return which was old when the story of the prodigal was told. kanana only shook his head and answered, "my father, allah knows me best barefooted and in this sheepskin coat." the bedouin seldom tastes of meat except upon the occasion of some feast. when a common guest arrives, unleavened bread is baked and served with _ayesh_, a paste of sour camel's milk and flour. but kanana was not a common guest. for one of higher rank coffee and melted butter is prepared, but these were not enough for a welcome to kanana. for one still higher a kid or lamb is boiled in camel's milk and placed in a great wooden dish covered with melted fat and surrounded by a paste of wheat that has been boiled and dried and ground and boiled again with butter. twenty lambs and kids were thus prepared, but the people were not satisfied. nothing was left but the greatest and grandest dish which a bedouin tribe can add to a feast in an endeavor to do honor to its noblest guest. two she-camels were killed and the meat quickly distributed to be boiled and roasted. all for the boy who had left them, six weeks before, with no word of farewell but the parting taunt of a rat-catcher. while the men were eating the meat and drinking camel's milk and coffee, the women sang patriotic songs, often substituting kanana's name for that of some great hero; and when the men had finished and the women gathered in the maharems to feast upon what was left, the terror of the desert, roused to the highest pitch of patriotism, declared his intention to join the army of kahled, and nearly two hundred of the beni sads resolved to follow him. it was nearly noon when kanana and those who were with him went to sleep in the goat's-hair tents, leaving the whole tribe at work, packing the grain-sacks, loading the camels, and cleaning their weapons for war. kanana performed his mission faithfully, little dreaming that kahled's one design in placing it in his hands was to keep him with the army for services of much greater importance. the time which the general anticipated came when the hosts of kahled, joined by the mohammedan armies of syria and arabia, were finally encamped at yermonk upon the borders of palestine. kanana was summoned to the general's tent and, trembling like the veriest coward in all the world, he fell upon his face before the man to whom was entrusted the almost hopeless task of rescuing arabia. to kahled alone all eyes were turned and kanana trembled, not because he was frightened, but because he was alone in the tent with one who seemed to him but little less than god himself. kahled's words were always few and quickly spoken. "son of the terror of the desert," said he, "many conflicting rumors reach me concerning the approaching enemy. i want the truth. i want it quickly. what dost thou require to aid thee in performing this duty?" kanana's forehead still touched the ground. overwhelmed by this sudden order, an attempt to obey which meant death, without mercy, without one chance in a hundred of escape, he altogether forgot to rise. kahled sat in silence, understanding human nature too well to disturb the boy, and for five minutes neither moved. then kanana rose slowly and his voice trembled a little as he replied, "my father, i would have thy fleetest horse, thy blessing, and thy girdle." kahled the invincible wore a girdle that was known to every soldier and camp-follower of the army. it was of camel's-skin, soft-tanned and colored with a brilliant persian dye, which as far away as it could be seen at all, no one could mistake. it was part of a magnificent curtain which once hung in the royal palace of babylon. it pleased the fancy of the fierce warrior, and he wore it as a girdle till it became his only insignia. there was not a color like it within hundreds of miles at least, and when the people saw it they knew that it was kahled. "take what horse thou wilt," replied the general. "i give thee, now, my blessing." then he hesitated for a moment. had kanana asked a hundred camels or a thousand horsemen he would have added, "take them." as it was, he said, a little doubtfully, "what wouldst thou with my girdle?" in all the direct simplicity which clung to him in spite of everything, kanana replied: "i would hide it under my coat; i would that it be proclaimed throughout the army that some one has fled to the enemy with the sacred girdle, and that a great reward be offered to him who shall return to kahled any fragment of it he may find." without another word, the general unwound the sacred girdle, and kanana, reverently touching it to his forehead, bound it about him under his sheepskin coat. kneeling, he received the blessing, and leaving the tent, he selected the best of kahled's horses and disappeared in the darkness, alone. [illustration: kneeling, he received the blessing.] the next morning an oppressive sense of inaction hung about the headquarters. the only order issued accompanied an announcement of the loss of the sacred girdle. every soldier was commanded to be on the watch for it, to seize and to return at once to kahled, even the smallest fragment which might be found. for this the fortunate man was promised as many gold coins as, lying flat, could be made to touch the piece which he returned. xii kanana's messengers far and wide the impatient soldiers asked, "why is the army inactive?" "is not the motto of kahled 'waiting does not win'?" "has he not taught us that action is the soul and secret of success?" "does he not realize that the hosts of heraclius are bearing down upon us, that he leaves us sitting idly in our tents?" "is kahled the invincible afraid?" such were the questions which they put to their officers, but no one dared carry them to the general, who sat in his tent without speaking, from sunrise to sunset, the first day after the girdle disappeared. "is it the loss of his girdle?" "did he not conquer babylonia without it?" "does he not fight in the name of allah and the prophet? could a bright-colored girdle give him strength?" thus the second day went by. kahled the invincible was silent and sullen, and the impression grew and grew that in some way the safety and success of the whole army depended upon the recovery of that girdle. so intense was this sentiment, that when at midnight, after the third day, it was reported that a fragment of the girdle had been captured by some scouts, and was then being taken to the general's tent, the whole army roused itself and prepared for action. not an order had been issued, yet every soldier felt instinctively that the coming morning would find him on the march. it was midnight. for a day kahled had not even tasted food. he sat alone in his tent upon a persian ottoman. a bronze vessel from babylonia, filled with oil, stood near the center of the tent. fragments of burning wick, floating in the oil, filled the tent with a mellow, amber light. there was excitement without, but kahled did not heed it till a soldier unceremoniously entered, bearing in his hand a part of the curtain from the palace of babylon. with a sudden ejaculation kahled caught it from the soldier's hand, but ashamed of having betrayed an emotion, he threw it carelessly upon the rug at his feet, handing the soldier a bag of gold, and bidding him see how many pieces, lying flat, could touch it. the soldier worked slowly, carefully planning the position as he laid the pieces down, and kahled watched him as indifferently as though he were only moving men upon the arab's favorite checker-board. when every piece that could was touching the camel skin, the soldier returned the bag, half-emptied, and began to gather up his share. kahled deliberately emptied the bag, bidding him take the whole and go. he was leaving the tent when the general called him back. he had picked up the skin, and was carelessly turning it over in his hand. it was neatly cut from the girdle, in the shape of a shield, a little over a foot in width. "how did you come by it?" kahled asked indifferently. "we were searching the plain, a day's journey to the north," the soldier answered. "we were looking for travelers who might bring tidings of the enemy. we saw four strangers, syrians, riding slowly, and a shepherd who seemed to be their guide. upon his horse's front, hung like a breastplate, where every eye could see, was yonder piece of the sacred girdle. we dashed upon them, and the cowards ran. the shepherd was the last to turn. i was ahead, but not near enough to reach him, so i threw my lance. he fell from his horse and--" "you killed him?" shrieked the general, springing to his feet and dropping the camel skin. "no! no!" gasped the frightened soldier. "i only tried to. he wore a coat of sheepskin. it was too thick for my lance. he sprang to his feet, tore the lance from his coat, and ran after the rest, faster even than they could ride, leaving his horse behind." "'tis well," muttered the general, and he devoutly added, "allah be praised for that sheepskin coat!" the soldier left the tent, and going nearer to the light, kahled examined the fragment of the sacred girdle. it was double. two pieces had been cut and the edges joined together. he carefully separated them, and upon the inner side found what he evidently expected. these words had been scratched upon the leather, and traced with blood: "sixty thousand, from antioch and aleppo, under jababal the traitor, encamp two days from yermonk, north, waiting for manuel with eighty thousand greeks and syrians, now six days away. still another army is yet behind. thy servant goes in search of manuel when this is sent." "allah be praised for that sheepskin coat!" kahled repeated, placing the fragment in his belt, and walking slowly up and down the tent. "jababal is two days to the north," he added presently. "a day ago manuel was six days behind him. he will be still three days behind when i reach jababal, and while he is yet two days away, the sixty thousand in advance will be destroyed." an order was given for ten thousand horsemen and fifteen thousand camel riders to start for the north at once. the soldiers expected it, and were ready even before the general. four days and a night went by, and they were again encamped at yermonk; but jababal's army of sixty thousand men, was a thing of the past. again a strip of the girdle was discovered. this time it hung upon the neck of a camel leading into the camp a long caravan laden with grain and fruit. the camel-driver reported that one had met them while they were upon the way to supply the army of manuel. he had warned them that manuel would simply confiscate the whole and make them prisoners, and had promised that if they turned southward instead, to the camp of kahled, with the talisman which he hung about the camel's neck, they should be well received and fairly treated. from this talisman kahled learned that the army of manuel was almost destitute of provisions, and that a detachment with supplies was another five or six days behind. the general smiled as he thought how the bedouin boy had shrewdly deprived the hungry enemy of a hundred and fifty camel-loads of food, while he secured for himself an excellent messenger to his friends. during the night manuel's magnificent army arrived, and encamped just north of the mohammedans. manuel chose for his citadel a high cliff that rose abruptly out of the plain between the two armies, and ended in a precipitous ledge toward arabia. standing upon the brow of this cliff, a little distance from the tent of manuel, one could look far down the valley, over the entire mohammedan encampment. when morning dawned, the prince sent for the leading mohammedan generals to confer with him concerning terms of peace. he offered to allow the entire army to retire unmolested, if hostages were given that the arabs should never again enter syria. the mohammedan generals, who had been thoroughly dismayed at the sight of the grecian phalanx, thanked allah for such a merciful deliverance, and instantly voted to accept. the real authority, however, rested with kahled, who replied, "remember jababal!" with so many in favor of peace, manuel hoped for an acceptance of his terms, and proposed that they consider the matter for a day. kahled, with his hand upon the camel-skin in his belt, replied again: "remember jababal!" he realized that his only hope of victory lay in striking a tired and hungry enemy, and that each hour's delay was dangerous. less than half an hour later he was riding along the line of battle shouting the battle cry: "paradise is before you! fight for it!" the soldiers were ready, and there began the most desperate struggle that was ever waged upon the plains of syria. all day long the furious conflict raged. three times the bedouins were driven back. three times the cries and entreaties of their women and children in the rear urged them to renew the fight, and again they plunged furiously upon the solid grecian phalanx. night came, and neither army had gained or lost, but among the bedouin captives taken by the greeks were several who recognized kanana. they saw him moving freely about the enemy's camp. they learned that he was supposed to be a servant who had fled, with other camp-followers, at the time of the slaughter of jababal's army. they could see in it nothing but cowardly desertion. they said: "he was afraid that we should be conquered, and instead of standing by us to fight for arabia, he ran to the enemy to hide himself;" and in their anger they betrayed him. they reported to the greeks that he was a bedouin, of the army of kahled, not a syrian servant of jababal. kanana was quickly seized, bound and dragged into the presence of the prince. manuel had suspected that some one had betrayed both jababal and himself to kahled, and chagrined at the result of the first day's battle, he fiercely accused kanana. calmly the bedouin boy admitted that it was he who had given the information, and he waited without flinching as manuel drew his sword. "boy, dost thou not fear to die?" he exclaimed, as he brandished his sword before kanana. "i fear nothing!" replied kanana proudly. "take him away and guard him carefully," muttered the prince. "dying is too easy for such as he. he must be tortured first." the second day and the third were like the first. the army of the prophet fought with a desperation that never has been equaled. the ishmaelite counted his life as nothing so that he saw a greek fall with him. it was the fate of allah and arabia for which they fought, and they stood as though rooted to the ground, knowing of no retreat but death. again and again their general's voice rang loud above the clashing arms: "paradise is before you if you fight! hell waits for him who runs!" and they fought and fought and fought, and not a man dared turn his back. again and again the grecian phalanx advanced, but they found a wall before them as solid as the cliff behind them. when a bedouin lay dead he ceased to fight, but not before; and the moment he fell, another sprang forward from behind to take his place. xiii the lance of kanana the army of the prophet had not retreated one foot from its original position, when night brought the third day's battle to a close. kahled sank upon the ground among his soldiers, while the women from the rear brought what refreshment they could to the tired warriors. all night he lay awake beside his gray battle-horse, looking at the stars and thinking. flight or death would surely be the result of the coming day. even kahled the invincible, had given up all hope of victory. he was too brave a man to fly, but he was also too brave to force others to stand and be slaughtered for his pride. it was a bitter night for him, but as the eastern sky was tinged with gray, he at last resolved to make the sacrifice himself, and save such of his people as he could. the women and children, with the wounded who could be moved, must leave at once, taking all that they could carry with them, and scatter themselves in every direction. when they were well away, he, with such as preferred to stand and die with him, would hold the foe in check while the rest of the army retreated, with orders to march at once to mecca and medina, and hold those two sacred cities as long as a man remained alive. he breathed a deep sigh when the plan was completed, and rising, mounted his tired charger, to see that it was properly executed. it was the first time in his career that kahled the invincible had ordered a retreat, and his only consolation was that he was neither to lead nor join in it. in the camp of manuel the same dread of the coming day clouded every brow. food was entirely exhausted. horses and camels had been devoured. they had neither the means with which to move away, nor the strength to stand their ground. their solid phalanx was only what the enemy saw along the front. rank after rank had been supplied from the rear till there was nothing left to call upon. all that remained of the eighty thousand iron-hearted fighters--the pride of the emperor heraclius--as they gathered about the low camp fires, confessed that they were overmatched by the sharper steel of mohammedan zeal and bedouin patriotism. manuel and his officers knew that for at least three days no relief could reach them; they knew, too, that they could not endure another day of fighting. "if we could make them think that their men are deserting and joining us, we might frighten them," suggested an officer. "send for the spy," said manuel quickly, "and let it be proclaimed to the other prisoners that all who will join us shall be set free, and that those who refuse shall be slaughtered without mercy." haggard and worn kanana stood before him. for fifty hours he had lain bound, in a cave at the foot of the cliff, without a drop of water or a morsel of food. "i am about to torture thee," said the prince. "thou hast wronged me more than thy sufferings can atone, but i shall make them as bitter as i can. hast thou anything to say before the work begins?" kanana thought for a moment, then, hesitating as though still doubtful, he replied: "when the tempest rages on the desert, doth not the camel lay him down, and the young camel say to the drifting sand, 'cover me; kill me, i am helpless'? but among the captives taken by the prince, i saw an old man pass my cave. he is full of years, and for him i would part my lips. i hear that the prince will have the prisoners slain, but it is not the custom of my people to make the women, the old men, and the children suffer with the rest. may it please the prince to double every torture he has prepared for me, and in exchange to set that old man free?" "who is he?" asked the prince. "the one with a long white beard. there are not two," replied kanana. "and what is he to you?" kanana hesitated. "he shall die unless you tell me," said the prince, and kanana's cold lips trembled as he whispered: "he is my father." "'tis well," said manuel. "let him be brought." the old man entered, but paused at the opposite side of the tent, looking reproachfully at his son. he had heard from the other captives how they had discovered kanana, a deserter in the hour of danger, living in the tents of the enemy. even he had believed the tale, and he was enough of a patriot to be glad that they betrayed his son. "is this thy father?" asked the prince. "he does not look it in his eyes." kanana simply bowed his head. that look was piercing his heart far deeper than the threats of torture; but manuel continued: "you have offered to suffer every torture i can devise if i will set him free. but you have not compassed your debt to me. you gave to kahled the information by which he conquered jababal. you gave him information which prevented his making terms of peace with me. but for you i should be on my way to mecca and medina, to sweep them from the earth. but i like courage, and you have shown more of it than kahled himself. it is a pity to throw a heart like yours under a clod of earth, and i will give you an opportunity to save both yourself and your father. stand upon the brow of the cliff yonder, as the sun comes up. there, according to the custom of your people, wave this lance above your head. shout your own name and your father's, so that all of your people can hear, and tell them that in one hour thirty thousand arabs will draw the sword for the cause of heraclius. then throw the lance, and if your aim be good, and you do kill an arab, that moment i will set thy father free, and thou shalt be made a prince among my people. do not refuse me, or, after i have tortured thee, with red-hot irons i will burn out thy father's eyes, lest he should still look savagely upon thy corpse!" he had scarcely ceased speaking when the old sheik exclaimed: "my son! my kanana, i have wronged thee! forgive me if thou canst, but let him burn out my eyes! oh! not for all the eyes that watch the stars would i have a son of mine a traitor. thou wouldst not lift a lance before. i charge thee now, by allah, lift it not for any price that can be offered thee by this dog of an infidel!" kanana did not look at his father. his eyes were fixed on manuel, and when all was still, he asked: "will the prince allow his captive to sit alone till sunrise and consider his offer?" "take him out upon the cliff and let him sit alone," said manuel; "but have the irons heated for his father's eyes." kanana chose a spot whence he could overlook the valley, and whatever his first intentions may have been, he changed them instantly, with his first glance. he started, strained his eyes, and looked as far as his keen sight could pierce the gray light of early morning. then his head sank lower and lower over his hands, lying in his lap, till the wings of his turban completely covered them. he did not move or look again. in that one glance he had recognized the result of kahled's last resolve. in the gray distance he saw that laden camels were moving to the south. he saw the dark spots, most distant in the valley, suddenly disappear. they were folding their tents! they were moving away! kahled the invincible had ordered a retreat. kanana knew that to retreat at that moment meant death to arabia, but he did not move again till an officer touched him on the shoulder, and warned him that in a moment more the sun would rise. with a startled shudder he rose and entered manuel's tent. "is the word of the prince unchanged?" he asked. "if i speak the words and throw the lance and kill an arab, that moment will he set my father free?" "i swear it by all the powers of earth and heaven!" replied the prince. "give me the lance," said kanana. his father crouched against the tent, muttering: "for such an act, kanana, when i am set free i will find first a fire with which to heat an iron, and burn my own eyes out." kanana did not heed him. he took the lance, tested it, and threw it scornfully upon the ground. "give me a heavier one!" he exclaimed. "do you think me like your greek boys, made of wax? give me a lance that, when it strikes, will kill." they gave him a heavier lance. "the hand-rest is too small for a bedouin," he muttered, grasping it; "but wait! i can remedy that myself. come. let us have it over with." as he spoke he tore a strip from beneath his coat, and, turning sharply about, walked before them to the brink of the cliff, winding the strip firmly about the hand-rest of the lance. upon the very edge he stood erect and waited. the sun rose out of the plain, and flashed with blinding force upon the bedouin boy, clad in his sheepskin coat and desert turban, precisely as it had found him in the porch of aaron's tomb, upon the summit of mount hor. his hand no longer held a shepherd's staff, but firmly grasped a grecian lance, that gleamed and flashed as fiercely as the sun. upon mount hor he was bending forward, eagerly shading his eyes, anxiously looking away into the dim distance, searching the path of his destiny. now there was no eagerness. calmly he stood there. vainly the sun flashed in his clear, wide-open eyes. he did not even know that it was shining. not a muscle moved. why was he waiting? "are you afraid?" muttered the prince, who had come as near as possible without being too plainly seen from below. "remember your old father's eyes." kanana did not turn his head, but calmly answered: "do you see yonder a man upon a gray horse, moving slowly among the soldiers? he is coming nearer, nearer. that man is kahled the invincible. if he should come within range of the lance of kanana, i suppose that manuel would be well pleased to wait?" "good boy! brave boy!" replied the prince. "when thou hast made thy mind to do a thing, thou doest it admirably. kill him, and thou shalt be loaded down with gold till the day when thou diest of old age." kanana made no reply, but standing in bold relief upon the cliff, watched calmly and waited, till at last kahled the invincible left the line of soldiers, and alone rode nearer to the cliff. "now is your chance! now! now!" exclaimed the prince. slowly kanana raised the lance. three times he waved it above his head. three times he shouted: "i am kanana, son of the terror of the desert!" in the manner of the bedouin who challenges an enemy to fight, or meets a foe upon the plain. for a moment, then, he hesitated. the next sentence was hard to speak. he knew too well what the result would be. it needed now no straining of the eyes to see his destiny. all the vast army down below was looking up at him. thousands would hear his words. tens of thousands would see what followed them. "go on! go on!" the prince ejaculated fiercely. kanana drew a deep breath and shouted: "in one hour thirty thousand arabs will draw the sword in the army of heraclius!" then gathering all his strength, he hurled the lance directly at the great mohammedan general, who had not moved since he began to speak. throughout those two great armies one might have heard a sparrow chirp, as the gleaming, flashing blade fell like a meteor from the cliff. the aim was accurate. the bedouin boy cringed, and one might have imagined that it was even more accurate than he meant. it pierced the gray charger. the war-horse of kahled plunged forward and fell dead upon the plain. a fierce howl rose from the ranks of the ishmaelites. men and women shrieked and yelled. "kanana the traitor! a curse upon the traitor kanana!" rent the very air. such was the confusion which followed that, had the greeks been ready to advance, a thousand might have put a hundred thousand bedouins to flight. but they were not ready. kanana stood motionless upon the cliff. he heard the yells of "traitor!" hut he knew that they would come, and did not heed them. calmly he watched till kahled gained his feet, dragged the lance from his dying horse, and with it in his hand, hurried toward the soldiers. only once he turned, and for an instant looked up at the solitary figure upon the cliff. he lifted his empty hand, as though it were a blessing and not a malediction, he bestowed upon the bedouin boy; then he disappeared. with a deep, shivering sigh, kanana pressed one hand beneath his sheepskin coat. a sharp contortion passed over him, but he turned about and stood calmly, face to face with manuel. "you did well," said the prince, "but you did not kill an arab. it was for that i made my promise." "'and if you kill an arab,'" gasped kanana, "'that moment i will set your father free'! those were the prince's words! that was his promise, bound by all the powers of earth and heaven! he will keep it! he will not dare defy those powers, for i have killed an arab!" clutching the sheepskin coat, kanana tore it open, and, above a brilliant girdle, they saw a dagger buried in his bleeding breast. he tottered, reeled, stepped backward, and fell over the brink of the cliff. "you may as well go free," said manuel, turning to the sheik. "a monstrous sacrifice has just been made to purchase your liberty." turning abruptly he entered his tent to consider, with his officers, the next result. "i think they are flying," an officer reported, coming from the cliff. "the horsemen and camels are hurrying into the hills. only foot soldiers seem remaining in the front." "let every soldier face them who has strength to stand!" commanded the prince. "put everything to the front, and if they fly give them every possible encouragement." the order was obeyed, and the fourth day of battle began; but it was spiritless and slow. the bedouins, with their constantly thinning ranks, stood with grim determination where their feet rested, but they made no effort to advance. the wearied out and starving grecian phalanx simply held its ground. the prince was not there to urge his soldiers on. the voice of kahled did not sound among the mussulmans. an hour went by. suddenly there was an uproar in the rear of the army of heraclius. there was a wild shout, a clash of arms, and the watch-word of islam rang above the tumult, in every direction. ten thousand horse and twenty thousand war-camels poured in upon that defenceless rear, and, even as kanana had declared, in just one hour there were thirty thousand arabs wielding their savage swords in the army of heraclius. another hour went by. the battle cry of kahled ceased. the shout of victory rang from the throats of the mussulmans. manuel and all his officers were slain. the magnificent army of heraclius was literally obliterated. treasure without limit glutted the conquered camp. arabia was saved. quickly the soldiers erected a gorgeous throne and summoned kahled to sit upon it, while they feasted about him and did him honor as their victorious and invincible leader. the veteran warrior responded to their call, but he came from his tent with his head bowed down, bearing in his arms a heavy burden. slowly he mounted the platform, and upon the sumptuous throne he laid his burden down. it was the bruised and lifeless body of kanana. with trembling hand the grim chief drew back the sheepskin coat, and all men then beheld, bound about the bedouin boy, the sacred girdle! "i gave it to him," said kahled solemnly; "and upon the fragments you have returned to me, he wrote the information by which we conquered jababal and manuel. you saw him throw this lance at me; you called him 'traitor!' but about the hand-rest there was wound this strip. see! in blood--in his blood--these words are written here: 'do not retreat. the infidels are starving and dying. strike them in the rear.' it was his only means of reaching me. it was not the act of a traitor. no! it was the lance of kanana that rescued _arabia_." [illustration: "i gave it to him," said kahled, solemnly.] the end * * * * * american heroes and heroines by pauline carrington bouvé illustrated this book, which will tend directly toward the making of patriotism in young americans, contains some twenty brief, clever and attractive sketches of famous men and women in american history, among them father marquette, anne hutchinson, israel putnam, molly pitcher, paul jones, dolly madison, daniel boone, etc. mrs. bouvé is well known as a writer both of fiction and history, and her work in this case is admirable. "the style of the book for simplicity and clearness of expression could hardly be excelled."--_boston budget._ * * * * * the scarlet patch the story of a patriot boy in the mohawk valley by mary e. q. brush illustrated by george w. picknell "the scarlet patch" was the badge of a tory organization, and a loyal patriot boy, donald bastien, is dismayed at learning that his uncle, with whom he is a "bound boy," is secretly connected with this treacherous band. thrilling scenes follow in which a faithful indian figures prominently, and there is a vivid presentation of the school and home life as well as the public affairs of those times. "a book that will be most valuable to the library of the young boy."--_providence news._ * * * * * stories of brave old times some pen pictures of scenes which took place previous to, or connected with, the american revolution by helen m. cleveland profusely illustrated it is a book for every library, a book for adults, and a book for the young. perhaps no other book yet written sets the great cost of freedom so clearly before the young, consequently is such a spur to patriotism. "it can unqualifiedly be commended as a book for youthful readers; its great wealth of illustrations adding to its value."--_chicago news._ bill rozmiarek, juliet sutherland, charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. fifty famous people a book of short stories by james baldwin prefatory note one of the best things to be said of the stories in this volume is that, although they are not biographical, they are about real persons who actually lived and performed their parts in the great drama of the world's history. some of these persons were more famous than others, yet all have left enduring "footprints on the sands of time" and their names will not cease to be remembered. in each of the stories there is a basis of truth and an ethical lesson which cannot fail to have a wholesome influence; and each possesses elements of interest which, it is believed, will go far towards proving the fallibility of the doctrine that children find delight only in tales of the imaginative and unreal. the fact that there are a few more than fifty famous people mentioned in the volume may be credited to the author's wish to give good measure. contents saving the birds another bird story speaking a piece writing a composition the whistle the ettrick shepherd the caliph and the poet "becos! becos! becos!" a lesson in humility the midnight ride the boy and the wolf another wolf story the horseshoe nails the landlord's mistake a lesson in manners going to sea the shepherd-boy painter two great painters the king and the bees our first great painter the young scout the lad who rode sidesaddle the whisperers how a prince learned to read "read and you will know" the young cupbearer the sons of the caliph the boy and the robbers a lesson in justice the general and the fox the bomb a story of old rome saved by a dolphin "little brothers of the air" a clever slave the dark day the surly guest the story of a great story the king and the page the hunted king "try, try again!" why he carried the turkey the paddle-wheel boat the caliph and the gardener the cowherd who became a poet the lover of men the charcoal man and the king which was the king? the golden tripod saving the birds one day in spring four men were riding on horseback along a country road. these men were lawyers, and they were going to the next town to attend court. there had been a rain, and the ground was very soft. water was dripping from the trees, and the grass was wet. the four lawyers rode along, one behind another; for the pathway was narrow, and the mud on each side of it was deep. they rode slowly, and talked and laughed and were very jolly. as they were passing through a grove of small trees, they heard a great fluttering over their heads and a feeble chirping in the grass by the roadside. "stith! stith! stith!" came from the leafy branches above them. "cheep! cheep! cheep!" came from the wet grass. "what is the matter here?" asked the first lawyer, whose name was speed. "oh, it's only some old robins!" said the second lawyer, whose name was hardin. "the storm has blown two of the little ones out of the nest. they are too young to fly, and the mother bird is making a great fuss about it." "what a pity! they'll die down there in the grass," said the third lawyer, whose name i forget. "oh, well! they're nothing but birds," said mr. hardin. "why should we bother?" "yes, why should we?" said mr. speed. the three men, as they passed, looked down and saw the little birds fluttering in the cold, wet grass. they saw the mother robin flying about, and crying to her mate. then they rode on, talking and laughing as before. in a few minutes they had forgotten about the birds. but the fourth lawyer, whose name was abraham lincoln, stopped. he got down from his horse and very gently took the little ones up in his big warm hands. they did not seem frightened, but chirped softly, as if they knew they were safe. "never mind, my little fellows," said mr. lincoln "i will put you in your own cozy little bed." [illustration] then he looked up to find the nest from which they had fallen. it was high, much higher than he could reach. but mr. lincoln could climb. he had climbed many a tree when he was a boy. he put the birds softly, one by one, into their warm little home. two other baby birds were there, that had not fallen out. all cuddled down together and were very happy. soon the three lawyers who had ridden ahead stopped at a spring to give their horses water. "where is lincoln?" asked one. all were surprised to find that he was not with them. "do you remember those birds?" said mr. speed. "very likely he has stopped to take care of them." in a few minutes mr. lincoln joined them. his shoes were covered with mud; he had torn his coat on the thorny tree. "hello, abraham!" said mr. hardin. "where have you been?" "i stopped a minute to give those birds to their mother," he answered. "well, we always thought you were a hero," said mr. speed. "now we know it." then all three of them laughed heartily. they thought it so foolish that a strong man should take so much trouble just for some worthless young birds. "gentlemen," said mr. lincoln, "i could not have slept to-night, if i had left those helpless little robins to perish in the wet grass." abraham lincoln afterwards became very famous as a lawyer and statesman. he was elected president. next to washington he was the greatest american. another bird story a great battle had begun. cannon were booming, some far away, some near at hand. soldiers were marching through the fields. men on horseback were riding in haste toward the front. "whiz!" a cannon ball struck the ground quite near to a company of soldiers. but they marched straight onward. the drums were beating, the fifes were playing. "whiz!" another cannon ball flew through the air and struck a tree near by. a brave general was riding across the field. one ball after another came whizzing near him. "general, you are in danger here," said an officer who was riding with him. "you had better fall back to a place of safety." [illustration] but the general rode on. suddenly he stopped at the foot of a tree. "halt!" he cried to the men who were with him. he leaped from his horse. he stooped and picked up a bird's nest that had fallen upon the ground. in the nest were some tiny, half-fledged birds. their mouths were open for the food they were expecting their mother to give them. "i cannot think of leaving these little things here to be trampled upon," said the general. he lifted the nest gently and put it in a safe place in the forks of the tree. "whiz!" another cannon ball. he leaped into the saddle, and away he dashed with his officers close behind him. "whiz! whiz! whiz!" he had done one good deed. he would do many more before the war was over. "boom! boom! boom!" the cannon were roaring, the balls were flying, the battle was raging. but amid all the turmoil and danger, the little birds chirped happily in the safe shelter where the great general, robert e. lee, had placed them. "he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all." speaking a piece two children, brother and sister, were on their way to school. both were very small. the boy was only four years old, and the girl was not yet six. "come, edward, we must hurry," said the sister. "we must not be late." with one hand the little boy clung to his sister's arm, and with the other he held his primer. this primer was his only book, and he loved it. it had a bright blue cover, which he was careful not to soil. and in it were some odd little pictures, which he never grew tired of looking at. edward could spell nearly all the words in his primer, and he could read quite well. the school was more than a mile from their home, and the children trotted along as fast as their short legs could carry them. at a place where two roads crossed, they saw a tall gentleman coming to meet them. he was dressed in black, and had a very pleasant face. "oh, edward, there is mr. harris!" whispered the little girl. "don't forget your manners." they were glad to see mr. harris, for he was the minister. they stopped by the side of the road and made their manners. edward bowed very gracefully, and his sister curtsied. "good morning, children!" said the minister; and he kindly shook hands with both. [illustration] "i have something here for little edward," he said. then he took from his pocket a sheet of paper on which some verses were written. "see! it is a little speech that i have written for him. the teacher will soon ask him to speak a piece at school, and i am sure that he can learn this easily and speak it well" edward took the paper and thanked the kind minister. "mother will help him learn it," said his sister. "yes, i will try to learn it," said edward. "do so, my child," said the minister; "and i hope that when you grow up you will become a wise man and a great orator." then the two children hurried on to school. the speech was not hard to learn, and edward soon knew every word of it. when the time came for him to speak, his mother and the minister were both there to hear him. he spoke so well that everybody was pleased. he pronounced every word plainly, as though he were talking to his schoolmates. would you like to read his speech? here it is:- pray, how shall i, a little lad, in speaking make a figure? you're only joking, i'm afraid- just wait till i am bigger. but since you wish to hear my part, and urge me to begin it, i'll strive for praise with all my heart, though small the hope to win it. i'll tell a tale how farmer john a little roan colt bred, sir, which every night and every morn he watered and he fed, sir. said neighbor joe to farmer john, "you surely are a dolt, sir, to spend such time and care upon a little useless colt, sir." said farmer john to neighbor joe, "i bring my little roan up not for the good he now can do, but will do when he's grown up." the moral you can plainly see, to keep the tale from spoiling, the little colt you think is me- i know it by your smiling. and now, my friends, please to excuse my lisping and my stammers; i, for this once, have done my best, and so--i'll make my manners. the little boy's name was edward everett. he grew up to become a famous man and one of our greatest orators. writing a composition "children, to-morrow i shall expect all of you to write compositions," said the teacher of love lane school. "then, on friday those who have done the best may stand up and read their compositions to the school." some of the children were pleased, and some were not. "what shall we write about?" they asked. "you may choose any subject that you like best," said the teacher. some of them thought that "home" was a good subject. others liked "school." one little boy chose "the horse." a little girl said she would write about "summer." the next day, every pupil except one had written a composition. "henry longfellow," said the teacher, "why have you not written?" "because i don't know how," answered henry. he was only a child. "well," said the teacher, "you can write words, can you not?" "yes, sir," said the boy. "after you have written three or four words, you can put them together, can you not?" "yes, sir; i think so." "well, then," said the teacher, "you may take your slate and go out behind the schoolhouse for half an hour. think of something to write about, and write the word on your slate. then try to tell what it is, what it is like, what it is good for, and what is done with it. that is the way to write a composition." henry took his slate and went out. just behind the schoolhouse was mr. finney's barn. quite close to the barn was a garden. and in the garden, henry saw a turnip. "well, i know what that is," he said to himself; and he wrote the word _turnip_ on his slate. then he tried to tell what it was like, what it was good for, and what was done with it. before the half hour was ended he had written a very neat composition on his slate. he then went into the house, and waited while the teacher read it. the teacher was surprised and pleased. he said, "henry longfellow, you have done very well. today you may stand up before the school and read what you have written about the turnip." many years after that, some funny little verses about mr. finney's turnip were printed in a newspaper. some people said that they were what henry longfellow wrote on his slate that day at school. but this was not true. henry's composition was not in verse. as soon as it was read to the school, he rubbed it off the slate, and it was forgotten. perhaps you would like to read those funny verses. here they are; but you must never, _never_, never think that henry longfellow wrote them. mr. finney had a turnip, and it grew, and it grew; it grew behind the barn, and the turnip did no harm. and it grew, and it grew, till it could grow no taller; then mr. finney took it up, and put it in the cellar. there it lay, there it lay, till it began to rot; then susie finney washed it and put it in a pot. she boiled it, and boiled it, as long as she was able; then mrs. finney took it, and put it on the table. mr. finney and his wife both sat down to sup; and they ate, and they ate, they ate the turnip up. all the school children in our country have heard of henry w. longfellow. he was the best loved of all our poets. he wrote "the village blacksmith," "the children's hour," and many other beautiful pieces which you will like to read and remember. the whistle two hundred years ago there lived in boston a little boy whose name was benjamin franklin. on the day that he was seven years old, his mother gave him a few pennies. he looked at the bright, yellow pieces and said, "what shall i do with these coppers, mother?" it was the first money that he had ever had. "you may buy something, if you wish," said his mother. "and then will you give me more?" he asked. his mother shook her head and said: "no, benjamin. i cannot give you any more. so you must be careful not to spend these foolishly." the little fellow ran into the street. he heard the pennies jingle in his pocket. how rich he was! boston is now a great city, but at that time it was only a little town. there were not many stores. as benjamin ran down the street, he wondered what he should buy. should he buy candy? he hardly knew how it tasted. should he buy a pretty toy? if he had been the only child in the family, things might have been different. but there were fourteen boys and girls older than he, and two little sisters who were younger. what a big family it was! and the father was a poor man. no wonder the lad had never owned a toy. he had not gone far when he met a larger boy, who was blowing a whistle. "i wish i had that whistle," he said. the big boy looked at him and blew it again. oh, what a pretty sound it made! "i have some pennies," said benjamin. he held them in his hand, and showed them to the boy. "you may have them, if you will give me the whistle." "all of them?" "yes, all of them." "well, it's a bargain," said the boy; and he gave the whistle to benjamin, and took the pennies. little benjamin franklin was very happy; for he was only seven years old. he ran home as fast as he could, blowing the whistle as he ran. "see, mother," he said, "i have bought a whistle." "how much did you pay for it?" "all the pennies you gave me." "oh, benjamin!" one of his brothers asked to see the whistle. "well, well!" he said. "you've paid a dear price for this thing. it's only a penny whistle, and a poor one at that." "you might have bought half a dozen such whistles with the money i gave you," said his mother. the little boy saw what a mistake he had made. the whistle did not please him any more. he threw it upon the floor and began to cry. "never mind, my child," said his mother, very kindly. "you are only a very little boy, and you will learn a great deal as you grow bigger. the lesson you have learned to-day is never to pay too dear for a whistle." benjamin franklin lived to be a very old man, but he never forgot that lesson. every boy and girl should remember the name of benjamin franklin. he was a great thinker and a great doer, and with washington he helped to make our country free. his life was such that no man could ever say, "ben franklin has wronged me." the ettrick shepherd i in scotland there once lived a poor shepherd whose name was james hogg. his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had all been shepherds. it was his business to take care of the sheep which belonged to a rich landholder by the ettrick water. sometimes he had several hundreds of lambs to look after. he drove these to the pastures on the hills and watched them day after day while they fed on the short green grass. he had a dog which he called sirrah. this dog helped him watch the sheep. he would drive them from place to place as his master wished. sometimes he would take care of the whole flock while the shepherd was resting or eating his dinner. one dark night james hogg was on the hilltop with a flock of seven hundred lambs. sirrah was with him. suddenly a storm came up. there was thunder and lightning; the wind blew hard; the rain poured. the poor lambs were frightened. the shepherd and his dog could not keep them together. some of them ran towards the east, some towards the west, and some towards the south. the shepherd soon lost sight of them in the darkness. with his lighted lantern in his hand, he went up and down the rough hills calling for his lambs. two or three other shepherds joined him in the search. all night long they sought for the lambs. morning came and still they sought. they looked, as they thought, in every place where the lambs might have taken shelter. at last james hogg said, "it's of no use; all we can do is to go home and tell the master that we have lost his whole flock." they had walked a mile or two towards home, when they came to the edge of a narrow and deep ravine. they looked down, and at the bottom they saw some lambs huddled together among the rocks. and there was sirrah standing guard over them and looking all around for help "these must be the lambs that rushed off towards the south," said james hogg. [illustration] the men hurried down and soon saw that the flock was a large one. "i really believe they are all here," said one. they counted them and were surprised to find that not one lamb of the great flock of seven hundred was missing. how had sirrah managed to get the three scattered divisions together? how had he managed to drive all the frightened little animals into this place of safety? nobody could answer these questions. but there was no shepherd in scotland that could have done better than sirrah did that night. long afterward james hogg said, "i never felt so grateful to any creature below the sun as i did to sirrah that morning." ii when james hogg was a boy, his parents were too poor to send him to school. by some means, however, he learned to read; and after that he loved nothing so much as a good book. there were no libraries near him, and it was hard for him to get books. but he was anxious to learn. whenever he could buy or borrow a volume of prose or verse he carried it with him until he had read it through. while watching his flocks, he spent much of his time in reading. he loved poetry and soon began to write poems of his own. these poems were read and admired by many people. the name of james hogg became known all over scotland. he was often called the ettrick shepherd, because he was the keeper of sheep near the ettrick water. many of his poems are still read and loved by children as well as by grown up men and women. here is one:- a boy's song where the pools are bright and deep, where the gray trout lies asleep, up the river and o'er the lea, that's the way for billy and me. where the blackbird sings the latest, where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, where the nestlings chirp and flee, that's the way for billy and me. where the mowers mow the cleanest, where the hay lies thick and greenest, there to trace the homeward bee, that's the way for billy and me. where the hazel bank is steepest, where the shadow falls the deepest, where the clustering nuts fall free, that's the way for billy and me. why the boys should drive away, little maidens from their play, or love to banter and fight so well, that's the thing i never could tell. but this i know, i love to play in the meadow, among the hay- up the water, and o'er the lea, that's the way for billy and me. the caliph and the poet once upon a time there was a famous arab [footnote: ar'ab.] whose name was al mansur. he was the ruler of all the arabs, and was therefore called the caliph. [footnote: caliph (_pronounced_ ka'lif).] al mansur loved poetry and was fond of hearing poets repeat their own verses. sometimes, if a poem was very pleasing, he gave the poet a prize. one day a poet whose name was thalibi [footnote: thal i'bi.] came to the caliph and recited a long poem. when he had finished, he bowed, and waited, hoping that he would be rewarded. "which would you rather have" asked the caliph, "three hundred pieces of gold, or three wise sayings from my lips?" the poet wished very much to please the caliph. so he said, "oh, my master, everybody should choose wisdom rather than wealth." the caliph smiled, and said, "very well, then, listen to my first wise saying: when your coat is worn out, don't sew on a new patch; it will look ugly." "oh, dear!" moaned the poet. "there go a hundred gold pieces all at once." the caliph smiled again. then he said, "listen now to my second word of wisdom. it is this: when you oil your beard, don't oil it too much, lest it soil your clothing." "worse and worse!" groaned the poor poet. "there go the second hundred. what shall i do?" "wait, and i will tell you," said the caliph; and he smiled again. "my third wise saying is--" "o caliph, have mercy!" cried the poet. "keep the third piece of wisdom for your own use, and let me have the gold." the caliph laughed outright, and so did every one that heard him. then he ordered his treasurer to pay the poet five hundred pieces of gold; for, indeed, the poem which he had recited was wonderfully fine. the caliph, al mansur, lived nearly twelve hundred years ago. he was the builder of a famous and beautiful city called bagdad. "becos! becos! becos!" thousands of years ago the greatest country, in the world was egypt. it was a beautiful land lying on both sides of the wonderful river nile. in it were many great cities; and from one end of it to the other there were broad fields of grain and fine pastures for sheep and cattle. the people of egypt were very proud; for they believed that they were the first and oldest of all nations. "it was in our country that the first men and women lived," they said. "all the people of the world were once egyptians." a king of egypt, whose name was psammeticus, [footnote: psammeticus (_pro._ sam met'i kus).] wished to make sure whether this was true or not. how could he find out? he tried first one plan and then another; but none of them proved anything at all. then he called his wisest men together and asked them, "is it really true that the first people in the world were egyptians?" they answered, "we cannot tell you, o king; for none of our histories go back so far." then psammeticus tried still another plan. he sent out among the poor people of the city and found two little babies who had never heard a word spoken. he gave these to a shepherd and ordered him to bring them up among his sheep, far from the homes of men. "you must never speak a word to them," said the king; "and you must not permit any person to speak in their hearing." the shepherd did as he was bidden. he took the children far away to a green valley where his flocks were feeding. there he cared for them with love and kindness; but no word did he speak in their hearing. they grew up healthy and strong. they played with the lambs in the field and saw no human being but the shepherd. thus two or three years went by. then, one evening when the shepherd came home from a visit to the city, he was delighted to see the children running out to meet him. they held up their hands, as though asking for something, and cried out, "becos! becos! becos!" [illustration] the shepherd led them gently back to the hut and gave them their usual supper of bread and milk. he said nothing to them, but wondered where they had heard the strange word "becos," and what was its meaning. after that, whenever the children were hungry, they cried out, "becos! becos! becos!" till the shepherd gave them something to eat. some time later, the shepherd went to the city and told the king that the children had learned to speak one word, but how or from whom, he did not know. "what is that word?" asked the king. "becos." then the king called one of the wisest scholars in egypt and asked him what the word meant. "becos," said the wise man, "is a phrygian [footnote: phrygian (_pro_. frij'i an).] word, and it means _bread_." "then what shall we understand by these children being able to speak a phrygian word which they have never heard from other lips?" asked the king. "we are to understand that the phrygian language was the first of all languages," was the answer. "these children are learning it just as the first people who lived on the earth learned it in the beginning." "therefore," said the king, "must we conclude that the phrygians were the first and oldest of all the nations?" "certainly," answered the wise man. and from that time the egyptians always spoke of the phrygians as being of an older race than themselves. this was an odd way of proving something, for, as every one can readily see, it proved nothing. a lesson in humility one day the caliph, haroun-al-raschid, [footnote: haroun-al-raschid (_pro._ ha roon' al rash'id).] made a great feast. the feast was held in the grandest room of the palace. the walls and ceiling glittered with gold and precious gems. the table was decorated with rare and beautiful plants and flowers. all the noblest men of persia [footnote: per'sia.] and arabia [footnote: a ra'bi a.] were there. many wise men and poets and musicians had also been invited. in the midst of the feast the caliph called upon the poet, abul atayah, [footnote: a'bul ata'yah.] and said, "o prince of verse makers, show us thy skill. describe in verse this glad and glorious feast." the poet rose and began: "live, o caliph and enjoy thyself in the shelter of thy lofty palace." "that is a good beginning," said raschid. "let us hear the rest." the poet went on: "may each morning bring thee some new joy. may each evening see that all thy wishes have been performed." "good! good!" said the caliph, "go on." the poet bowed his head and obeyed: "but when the hour of death comes, o my caliph, then alas! thou wilt learn that all thy delights were but a shadow." [illustration] the caliph's eyes were filled with tears. emotion choked him. he covered his face and wept. then one of the officers, who was sitting near the poet, cried out: "stop! the caliph wished you to amuse him with pleasant thoughts, and you have filled his mind with melancholy." "let the poet alone," said raschid. "he has seen me in my blindness, and is trying to open my eyes." haroun-al-raschid (aaron the just) was the greatest of all the caliphs of bagdad. in a wonderful book, called "the arabian nights," there are many interesting stories about him. the midnight ride listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of paul revere. longfellow. the midnight ride of paul revere happened a long time ago when this country was ruled by the king of england. there were thousands of english soldiers in boston. the king had sent them there to make the people obey his unjust laws. these soldiers guarded the streets of the town; they would not let any one go out or come in without their leave. the people did not like this. they said, "we have a right to be free men, but the king treats us as slaves. he makes us pay taxes and gives us nothing in return. he sends soldiers among us to take away our liberty." the whole country was stirred up. brave men left their homes and hurried toward boston. they said, "we do not wish to fight against the king, but we are free men, and he must not send soldiers to oppress us. if the people of boston must fight for their liberty, we will help them." these men were not afraid of the king's soldiers. some of them camped in charlestown, [footnote: charles'town.] a village near boston. from the hills of charlestown they could watch and see what the king's soldiers were doing. they wished to be ready to defend themselves, if the soldiers should try to do them harm. for this reason they had bought some powder and stored it at concord,[footnote: concord (_pro_. kong'krd).] nearly twenty miles away. when the king's soldiers heard about this powder, they made up their minds to go out and get it for themselves. among the watchers at charlestown was a brave young man named paul revere. he was ready to serve his country in any way that he could. one day a friend of his who lived in boston came to see him. he came very quietly and secretly, to escape the soldiers. "i have something to tell you," he said. "some of the king's soldiers are going to concord to get the powder that is there. they are getting ready to start this very night." "indeed!" said paul revere. "they shall get no powder, if i can help it. i will stir up all the farmers between here and concord, and those fellows will have a hot time of it. but you must help me." "i will do all that i can," said his friend. "well, then," said paul revere, "you must go back to boston and watch. watch, and as soon as the soldiers are ready to start, hang a lantern in the tower of the old north church. if they are to cross the river, hang two. i will be here, ready. as soon as i see the light, i will mount my horse and ride out to give the alarm." and so it was done. when night came, paul revere was at the riverside with his horse. he looked over toward boston. he knew where the old north church stood, but he could not see much in the darkness. hour after hour he stood and watched. the town seemed very still; but now and then he could hear the beating of a drum or the shouting of some soldier. the moon rose, and by its light he could see the dim form of the church tower, far away. he heard the clock strike ten. he waited and watched. the clock struck eleven. he was beginning to feel tired. perhaps the soldiers had given up their plan. he walked up and down the river bank, leading his horse behind him; but he kept his eyes turned always toward the dim, dark spot which he knew was the old north church. all at once a light flashed out from the tower. "ah! there it is!" he cried. the soldiers had started. he spoke to his horse. he put his foot in the stirrup. he was ready to mount. then another light flashed clear and bright by the side of the first one. the soldiers would cross the river. paul revere sprang into the saddle. like a bird let loose, his horse leaped forward. away they went. away they went through the village street and out upon the country road. "up! up!" shouted paul revere. "the soldiers are coming! up! up! and defend yourselves!" [illustration] the cry awoke the farmers; they sprang from their beds and looked out. they could not see the speeding horse, but they heard the clatter of its hoofs far down the road, and they understood the cry, "up! up! and defend yourselves!" "it is the alarm! the redcoats are coming," they said to each other. then they took their guns, their axes, anything they could find, and hurried out. so, through the night, paul revere rode toward concord. at every farmhouse and every village he repeated his call. the alarm quickly spread. guns were fired. bells were rung. the people for miles around were roused as though a fire were raging. the king's soldiers were surprised to find everybody awake along the road. they were angry because their plans had been discovered. when they reached concord, they burned the courthouse there. at lexington, not far from concord, there was a sharp fight in which several men were killed. this, in history, is called the battle of lexington. it was the beginning of the war called the revolutionary war. but the king's soldiers did not find the gunpowder. they were glad enough to march back without it. all along the road the farmers were waiting for them. it seemed as if every man in the country was after them. and they did not feel themselves safe until they were once more in boston. the boy and the wolf in france there once lived a famous man who was known as the marquis de lafayette. [footnote: mar'quis de la fa yette'.] when he was a little boy his mother called him gilbert. gilbert de lafayette's father and grandfather and great-grandfather had all been brave and noble men. he was very proud to think of this, and he wished that he might grow up to be like them. his home was in the country not far from a great forest. often, when he was a little lad, he took long walks among the trees with his mother. "mother," he would say, "do not be afraid. i am with you, and i will not let anything hurt you." one day word came that a savage wolf had been seen in the forest. men said that it was a very large wolf and that it had killed some of the farmers' sheep. "how i should like to meet that wolf," said little gilbert. he was only seven years old, but now all his thoughts were about the savage beast that was in the forest. "shall we take a walk this morning?" asked his mother. "oh, yes!" said gilbert. "perhaps we may see that wolf among the trees. but don't be afraid." his mother smiled, for she felt quite sure that there was no danger. they did not go far into the woods. the mother sat down in the shade of a tree and began to read in a new book which she had bought the day before. the boy played on the grass near by. the sun was warm. the bees were buzzing among the flowers. the small birds were singing softly. gilbert looked up from his play and saw that his mother was very deeply interested in her book. "now for the wolf!" he said to himself. he walked quickly, but very quietly, down the pathway into the darker woods. he looked eagerly around, but saw only a squirrel frisking among the trees and a rabbit hopping across the road. soon he came to a wilder place. there the bushes were very close together and the pathway came to an end. he pushed the bushes aside and went a little farther. how still everything was! he could see a green open space just beyond; and then the woods seemed to be thicker and darker. "this is just the place for that wolf," he thought. then, all at once, he heard footsteps. something was pushing its way through the bushes. it was coming toward him. "it's the wolf, i'm sure! it will not see me till it comes very near. then i will jump out and throw my arms around its neck and choke it to death." the animal was coming nearer. he could hear its footsteps. he could hear its heavy breathing. he stood very still and waited. "it will try to bite me," he thought. "perhaps it will scratch me with its sharp claws. but i will be brave. i will not cry out. i will choke it with my strong arms. then i will drag it out of the bushes and call mamma to come and see it." the beast was very close to him now. he could see its shadow as he peeped out through the clusters of leaves. his breath came fast. he planted his feet firmly and made ready to spring. "how proud mamma will be of her brave boy!" ah! there was the wolf! he saw its shaggy head and big round eyes. he leaped from his hiding place and clasped it round its neck. it did not try to bite or scratch. it did not even growl. but it jumped quickly forward and threw gilbert upon the ground. then it ran out into the open space and stopped to gaze at him. gilbert was soon on his feet again. he was not hurt at all. he looked at the beast, and--what do you think it was? [illustration] it was not a wolf. it was only a pet calf that had come there to browse among the bushes. the boy felt very much ashamed. he hurried back to the pathway, and then ran to his mother. tears were in his eyes; but he tried to look brave. "o gilbert, where have you been?" said his mother. then he told her all that had happened. his lips quivered and he began to cry. "never mind, my dear," said his mother. "you were very brave, and it is lucky that the wolf was not there. you faced what you thought was a great danger, and you were not afraid. you are my hero." when the american people were fighting to free themselves from the rule of the king of england, the marquis de lafayette helped them with men and money. he was the friend of washington. his name is remembered in our country as that of a brave and noble man. another wolf story i "wolf! wolf! wolf!" three farmers were walking across a field and looking eagerly for tracks in the soft ground. one carried a gun, one had a pitchfork, and the third had an ax. "wolf! wolf! wolf!" they cried, as they met another farmer coming over the hill. "where? where?" he asked. "we don't know," was the answer, "but we saw her tracks down there by the brook. it's the same old wolf that has been skulking around here all winter." "she killed three of my lambs last night," said the one whose name was david brown. "she's killed as many as twenty since the winter began," said thomas tanner. "how do you know that it is only one beast that does all this mischief?" asked the fourth farmer, whose name was israel putnam. "because the tracks are always the same," answered david brown. "they show that three toes have been lost from the left forefoot." "she's been caught in a trap some time, i guess," said putnam. "samuel stark saw her the other morning," said tanner. "he says she was a monster; and she was running straight toward the hills with a little lamb in her mouth. they say she has a family of young wolves up there; and that is why she kills so many lambs." "here are the tracks again," said putnam. they could be seen very plainly, for here the ground was quite muddy. the four men followed them for some distance, and then lost them on the hillside. "let us call the neighbors together and have a grand wolf hunt tomorrow," said putnam. "we must put an end to this killing of lambs." all the other men agreed to this, and they parted. ii the next day twenty men and boys came together for the grand wolf hunt. they tracked the beast to the mouth of a cave, far up on the hills. they shouted and threw stones into the cave. but the wolf was too wise to show herself. she lay hidden among some rocks, and nothing could make her stir. "i will fetch her out," said israel putnam. the opening to the cave was only a narrow hole between two rocks. putnam stooped down and looked in. it was very dark there, and he could not see anything. then he tied a rope around his waist and said to his friends, "take hold of the other end, boys. when i jerk it, then pull me out as quickly as you can." he got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the cave. he crawled very slowly and carefully. at last he saw something in the darkness that looked like two balls of fire. he knew that these were the eyes of the wolf. the wolf gave a low growl and made ready to meet him. putnam gave the rope a quick jerk and his friends pulled him out in great haste. they feared that the wolf was upon him; but he wished only to get his gun. soon, with the gun in one hand, he crept back into the cave. the wolf saw him. she growled so loudly that the men and boys outside were frightened. but putnam was not afraid. he raised his gun and fired at the great beast. when his friends heard the gun they pulled the rope quickly and drew him out. it was no fun to be pulled over the sharp stones in that way; but it was better than to be bitten by the wolf. putnam loaded his gun again. then he listened. there was not a sound inside of the cave. perhaps the wolf was waiting to spring upon him. he crept into the cave for the third time. there were no balls of fire to be seen now. no angry growl was heard. the wolf was dead. putnam stayed in the cave so long that his friends began to be alarmed. after a while, however, he gave the rope a quick jerk. men and boys pulled with all their might; and putnam and the wolf were drawn out together. this happened when israel putnam was a young man. when the revolutionary war began he was one of the first to hurry to boston to help the people defend themselves against the british soldiers. he became famous as one of the bravest and best of the generals who fought to make our country free. the horseshoe nails i a blacksmith was shoeing a horse. "shoe him quickly, for the king wishes to ride him to battle," said the groom who had brought him. "do you think there will be a battle?" asked the blacksmith. "most certainly, and very soon, too," answered the man. "the king's enemies are even now advancing, and all are ready for the fight. today will decide whether richard or henry shall be king of england." the smith went on with his work. from a bar of iron he made four horseshoes. these he hammered and shaped and fitted to the horse's feet. then he began to nail them on. but after he had nailed on two shoes, he found that he had not nails enough for the other two. "i have only six nails," he said, "and it will take a little time to hammer out ten more." "oh, well," said the groom, "won't six nails do? put three in each shoe. i hear the trumpets now. king richard will be impatient." "three nails in each shoe will hold them on," said the smith. "yes, i think we may risk it." so he quickly finished the shoeing, and the groom hurried to lead the horse to the king. ii the battle had been raging for some time. king richard rode hither and thither, cheering his men and fighting his foes. his enemy, henry, who wished to be king, was pressing him hard. far away, at the other side of the field, king richard saw his men falling back. without his help they would soon be beaten. so he spurred his horse to ride to their aid. he was hardly halfway across the stony field when one of the horse's shoes flew off. the horse was lamed on a rock. then another shoe came off. the horse stumbled, and his rider was thrown heavily to the ground. before the king could rise, his frightened horse, although lame, had galloped away. the king looked, and saw that his soldiers were beaten, and that the battle was everywhere going against him. [illustration] he waved his sword in the air. he shouted, "a horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse." but there was no horse for him. his soldiers were intent on saving themselves. they could not give him any help. the battle was lost. king richard was lost. henry became king of england. "for the want of a nail the shoe was lost; for the want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the battle was lost; for the failure of battle the kingdom was lost;- and all for the want of a horseshoe nail." richard the third was one of england's worst kings. henry, the duke of richmond, made war upon him and defeated him in a great battle. the landlord's mistake when john adams was president and thomas jefferson was vice president of the united states, there was not a railroad in all the world. people did not travel very much. there were no broad, smooth highways as there are now. the roads were crooked and muddy and rough. if a man was obliged to go from one city to another, he often rode on horseback. instead of a trunk for his clothing, he carried a pair of saddlebags. instead of sitting at his ease in a parlor car, he went jolting along through mud and mire, exposed to wind and weather. one day some men were sitting by the door of a hotel in baltimore. as they looked down the street they saw a horseman coming. he was riding very slowly, and both he and his horse were bespattered with mud. "there comes old farmer mossback," said one of the men, laughing. "he's just in from the backwoods." "he seems to have had a hard time of it," said another; "i wonder where he'll put up for the night." "oh, any kind of a place will suit him," answered the landlord. "he's one of those country fellows who can sleep in the haymow and eat with the horses." the traveler was soon at the door. he was dressed plainly, and, with his reddish-brown hair and mud-bespattered face, looked like a hardworking countryman just in from the backwoods. "have you a room here for me?" he asked the landlord. now the landlord prided himself upon keeping a first-class hotel, and he feared that his guests would not like the rough-looking traveler. so he answered: "no, sir. every room is full. the only place i could put you would be in the barn." "well, then," answered the stranger, "i will see what they can do for me at the planters' tavern, round the corner;" and he rode away. about an hour later, a well-dressed gentleman came into the hotel and said, "i wish to see mr. jefferson." "mr. jefferson!" said the landlord. "yes, sir. thomas jefferson, the vice president of the united states." "he isn't here." "oh, but he must be. i met him as he rode into town, and he said that he intended to stop at this hotel. he has been here about an hour." "no, he hasn't. the only man that has been here for lodging to-day was an old clodhopper who was so spattered with mud that you couldn't see the color of his coat. i sent him round to the planters'." "did he have reddish-brown hair, and did he ride a gray horse?" "yes, and he was quite tall." "that was mr. jefferson," said the gentleman. "mr. jefferson!" cried the landlord. "was that the vice president? here, dick! build a fire in the best room. put everything in tiptop order, sally. what a dunce i was to turn mr. jefferson away! he shall have all the rooms in the house, and the ladies' parlor, too, i'll go right round to the planters' and fetch him back." so he went to the other hotel, where he found the vice president sitting with some friends in the parlor. "mr. jefferson," he said, "i have come to ask your pardon. you were so bespattered with mud that i thought you were some old farmer. if you'll come back to my house, you shall have the best room in it--yes, all the rooms if you wish. won't you come?" "no," answered mr. jefferson. "a farmer is as good as any other man; and where there's no room for a farmer, there can be no room for me." a lesson in manners one morning there was a loud knock at dean swift's door. the servant opened it. a man who was outside handed her a fine duck that had lately been killed, and said,--"here's a present for the dean. it's from mr. boyle." then, without another word, he turned and walked away. a few days afterward the man came again. this time he brought a partridge. "here's another bird from mr. boyle." now, mr. boyle was a sporting neighbor who spent a good deal of time in shooting. he was a great admirer of dean swift, and took pleasure in sending him presents of game. the third time, the man brought a quail. "here's something else for the dean," he said roughly, and tossed it into the servant's arms. the servant complained to her master. "that fellow has no manners," she said. "the next time he comes," said the dean, "let me know, and i will go to the door." it was not long until the man came with another present. the dean went to the door. "here's a rabbit from mr. boyle," said the man. "see here," said the dean in a stern voice, "that is not the way to deliver a message here. just step inside and make believe that you are dean swift. i will go out and make believe that i am bringing him a present. i will show you how a messenger ought to behave." "i'll agree to that," said the man; and he stepped inside. the dean took the rabbit and went out of the house. he walked up the street to the next block. then he came back and knocked gently at the door. [illustration] the door was opened by the man from mr. boyle's. the dean bowed gracefully and said, "if you please, sir, mr. boyle's compliments, and he wishes you to accept of this fine rabbit." "oh, thank you," said the man very politely. then, taking out his purse, he offered the dean a shilling. "and here is something for your trouble." the lesson in manners was not forgotten; for, always after that, the man was very polite when he brought his presents. and the dean also took the hint; for he always remembered to give the man a "tip" for his trouble. jonathan swift, often called dean swift, was famous as a writer on many subjects. among other books he wrote "gulliver's travels," which you, perhaps, will read some time. going to sea "i should like to be a sailor," said george washington. "then i could go to many strange lands and see many wonderful things. and, by and by, i might become the captain of a ship." he was only fourteen years old. his older brothers were quite willing that he should go to sea. they said that a bright boy like george would not long be a common sailor. he would soon become a captain and then perhaps a great admiral. and so the matter was at last settled. george's brothers knew the master of a trading ship who was getting ready to sail to england. he agreed to take the boy with him and teach him how to be a good sailor. george's mother was very sad. his uncle had written her a letter saying: "do not let him go to sea. if he begins as a common sailor, he will never be anything else." but george had made up his mind to go. he was headstrong and determined. he would not listen to any one who tried to persuade him to stay at home. at last the day came for the ship to sail. it was waiting in the river. a boat was at the landing, ready to take him on board. the little chest that held his clothing had been carried down to the bank. george was in high glee at the thought of going. "good-by, mother," he said. he stood on the doorstep and looked back into the house. he saw the kind faces of those whom he loved. he began to feel very sad. "good-by, my dear boy!" george saw the tears in his mother's eyes. he saw them rolling down her cheeks. he knew that she did not wish him to go. he could not bear to see her grief. he stood still for a moment, thinking. then he turned quickly and said, "mother, i have changed my mind. i will stay at home and do as you wish." then he called to the black boy, who was waiting at the door, and said, "tom, run down to the shore and tell them not to put the chest in the boat. send word to the captain not to wait for me, for i have changed my mind. i am not going to sea." who has not heard of george washington? it has been said of him that he was the "first in war, the first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." he was our most famous president. he has been called the father of his country. the shepherd-boy painter one day a traveler was walking through a part of italy where a great many sheep were pasturing. near the top of a hill he saw a little shepherd boy who was lying on the ground while a flock of sheep and lambs were grazing around him. as he came nearer he saw that the boy held a charred stick in his hand, with which he was drawing something on a flat rock. the lad was so much interested in his work that he did not see the stranger. [illustration] the stranger bent over him and looked at the picture he had made on the rock. it was the picture of a sheep, and it was drawn so well that the stranger was filled with astonishment. "what is your name, my boy?" he said. the lad was startled. he jumped to his feet and looked up at the kind gentleman. "my name is giotto," [footnote: giotto (_pro_. jot'to).] he answered. "what is your father's name?" "bondone." [footnote: bon do'na.] "and whose sheep are these?" "they belong to the rich man who lives in the big white house there among the trees. my father works in the field, and i take care of the sheep." "how would you like to live with me, giotto? i would teach you how to draw pictures of sheep and horses, and even of men," said the stranger. the boy's face beamed with delight. "i should like to learn to do that--oh, ever so much!" he answered. "but i must do as father says." "let us go and ask him," said the stranger. the stranger's name was cimabue.[footnote: cimabue (_pro_. she ma boo'a).] he was the most famous painter of the time. his pictures were known and admired in every city of italy. bondone was surprised when cimabue offered to take his little boy to florence and teach him to be a great painter. "i know that the lad can draw pictures wonderfully well," he said. "he does not like to do anything else. perhaps he will do well with you. yes, you may take him." in the city of florence [footnote: flor'ence.] little giotto saw some of the finest pictures in the world. he learned so fast that he could soon paint as well as cimabue himself. one day cimabue was painting the picture of a man's face. night came on before he had finished it. "i will leave it till morning," he said; "then the light will be better." in the morning, when he looked at the picture, he saw a fly on the man's nose. he tried to brush it off, but it remained there. it was only a painted fly. "who has done this?" he cried. he was angry, and yet he was pleased. little giotto came out from a corner, trembling and ashamed. "i did it, master," he said. "it was a good place for a fly, and i never thought of spoiling your picture." he expected to be punished. but cimabue only praised him for his great skill. "there are few men who can draw so good a picture of a fly," he said. this happened six hundred years ago, in the city of florence in italy. the shepherd boy became a very famous painter and the friend of many famous men. two great painters there was once a painter whose name was zeuxis. [footnote: zeuxis (_pro_. zuke'sis).] he could paint pictures so life-like that they were mistaken for the real things which they represented. at one time he painted the picture of some fruit which was so real that the birds flew down and pecked at it. this made him very proud of his skill. "i am the only man in the world who can paint a picture so true to life," he said. there was another famous artist whose name was parrhasius. [footnote: parrhasius (_pro_. pa ra'shl us).] when he heard of the boast which zeuxis had made, he said to himself, "i will see what i can do." so he painted a beautiful picture which seemed to be covered with a curtain. then he invited zeuxis to come and see it. zeuxis looked at it closely. "draw the curtain aside and show us the picture," he said. parrhasius laughed and answered, "the curtain is the picture." "well," said zeuxis, "you have beaten me this time, and i shall boast no more. i deceived only the birds, but you have deceived me, a painter." some time after this, zeuxis painted another wonderful picture. it was that of a boy carrying a basket of ripe red cherries. when he hung this painting outside of his door, some birds flew down and tried to carry the cherries away. "ah! this picture is a failure," he said. "for if the boy had been as well painted as the cherries, the birds would have been afraid to come near him." the king and the bees one day king solomon was sitting on his throne, and his great men were standing around him. suddenly the door was thrown open and the queen of sheba came in. "o king," she said, "in my own country, far, far away, i have heard much about your power and glory, but much more about your wisdom. men have told me that there is no riddle so cunning that you can not solve it. is this true?" [illustration] "it is as you say, o queen," answered solomon. "well, i have here a puzzle which i think will test your wisdom. shall i show it to you?" "most certainly, o queen." then she held up in each hand a beautiful wreath of flowers. the wreaths were so nearly alike that none of those who were with the king could point out any difference. "one of these wreaths." said the queen, "is made of flowers plucked from your garden. the other is made of artificial flowers, shaped and colored by a skillful artist. now, tell me, o king, which is the true, and which is the false?" the king, for once, was puzzled. he stroked his chin. he looked at the wreaths from every side. he frowned. he bit his lips. "which is the true?" the queen again asked. still the king did not answer. "i have heard that you are the wisest man in the world," she said, "and surely this simple thing ought not to puzzle you." the king moved uneasily on his golden throne. his officers and great men shook their heads. some would have smiled, if they had dared. "look at the flowers carefully," said the queen, "and let us have your answer." then the king remembered something. he remembered that close by his window there was a climbing vine filled with beautiful sweet flowers. he remembered that he had seen many bees flying among these flowers and gathering honey from them. so he said, "open the window!" it was opened. the queen was standing quite near to it with the two wreaths still in her hands. all eyes were turned to see why the king had said, "open the window." the next moment two bees flew eagerly in. then came another and another. all flew to the flowers in the queen's right hand. not one of the bees so much as looked at those in her left hand. "o queen of sheba, the bees have given you my answer," then said solomon. and the queen said, "you are wise, king solomon. you gather knowledge from the little things which common men pass by unnoticed." king solomon lived three thousand years ago. he built a great temple in jerusalem, and was famous for his wisdom. our first great painter a long time ago there lived, in pennsylvania, a little boy whose name was benjamin west. this boy loved pictures. indeed, there were few things that he loved more. but he had never seen any pictures except a few small ones in a book. his father and mother were quakers, and they did not think it was right to spend money for such things. they thought that pictures might take one's mind away from things that were better or more useful. one day benjamin's mother had to go to a neighbor's on some errand. so she told benjamin to stay in the house and take care of his baby sister till she came back. he was glad to do this; for he loved the baby. "yes, mother," he said, "i will watch her every minute. i won't let anything hurt her." the baby was asleep in her cradle, and he must not make a noise and waken her. for some time he sat very still. he heard the clock ticking. he heard the birds singing. he began to feel a little lonesome. a fly lighted on the baby's cheek, and he brushed it away. then he thought what a pretty picture might be made of his sister's sweet face and little hands. he had no paper, but he knew where there was a smooth board. he had no pencil, but there was a piece of black charcoal on the hearth. how pretty the baby was! he began to draw. the baby smiled but did not wake up. [illustration] as often as he touched the charcoal to the smooth board, the picture grew. here was her round head, covered with pretty curls. here was her mouth. here were her eyes, and here her dainty ears. here was her fat little neck. here were her wonderful hands. so busy was he with the drawing that he did not think of anything else. he heard neither the clock nor the birds. he did not even hear his mother's footsteps as she came into the room. he did not hear her soft breathing as she stood over him and watched him finish the wonderful drawing. "o benjamin! what has thee been doing?" she cried. the lad sprang up alarmed. "it's only a picture of the baby, mother," he said. "a picture of the baby! oh, wonderful! it looks just like her!" the good woman was so overjoyed that she caught him in her arms and kissed him. then suddenly she began to wonder whether this was right. "benjamin, how did thee learn to draw such a picture?" she asked. "i didn't learn," he answered. "i just did it. i couldn't help but do it." when benjamin's father came home, his mother showed him the picture. "it looks just like her, doesn't it?" she said. "but i am afraid. i don't know what to think. does thee suppose that it is very wrong for benjamin to do such a thing?" the father did not answer. he turned the picture this way and that, and looked at it from every side. he compared it with the baby's pretty face. then he handed it back to his wife and said:-"put it away. it may be that the hand of the lord is in this." several weeks afterward, there came a visitor to the home of the wests. it was a good old friend, whom everybody loved--a-white-haired, pleasant-faced minister, whose words were always wise. benjamin's parents showed him the picture. they told him how the lad was always trying to draw something. and they asked what they should do about it. the good minister looked at the picture for a long time. then he called little benjamin to him. he put his hands on the lad's head and said:-"this child has a wonderful gift. we cannot understand it nor the reason of it. let us trust that great good may come from it, and that benjamin west may grow up to be an honor to our country and the world." and the words of the old minister came true. the pictures of benjamin west made him famous. he was the first great american painter. the young scout when andrew jackson was a little boy he lived with his mother in south carolina. he was eight years old when he heard about the ride of paul revere and the famous fight at lexington. it was then that the long war, called the revolutionary war, began. the king's soldiers were sent into every part of the country. the people called them the british. some called them "red-coats." there was much fighting; and several great battles took place between the british and the americans. at last charleston, in south carolina, was taken by the british. andrew jackson was then a tall white-haired boy, thirteen years old. "i am going to help drive those red-coated british out of the country," he said to his mother. then, without another word, he mounted his brother's little farm horse and rode away. he was not old enough to be a soldier, but he could be a scout--and a good scout he was. he was very tall--as tall as a man. he was not afraid of anything. he was strong and ready for every duty. one day as he was riding through the woods, some british soldiers saw him. they quickly surrounded him and made him their prisoner. "come with us," they said, "and we will teach you that the king's soldiers are not to be trifled with." they took him to the british camp. "what is your name, young rebel?" said the british captain. "andy jackson." "well, andy jackson, get down here and clean the mud from my boots." andrew's gray eyes blazed as he stood up straight and proud before the haughty captain. "sir," he said, "i am a prisoner of war, and demand to be treated as such." "you rebel!" shouted the captain. "down with you, and clean those boots at once." the slim, tall boy seemed to grow taller, as he answered, "i'll not be the servant of any englishman that ever lived." [illustration] the captain was very angry. he drew his sword to hit the boy with its flat side. andrew threw out his hand and received an ugly gash across the knuckles. some other officers, who had seen the whole affair, cried out to the captain, "shame! he is a brave boy. he deserves to be treated as a gentleman." andrew was not held long as a prisoner. the british soldiers soon returned to charleston, and he was allowed to go home. in time, andrew jackson became a very great man. he was elected to congress, he was chosen judge of the supreme court of tennessee, he was appointed general in the army, and lastly he was for eight years the president of the united states. the lad who rode sidesaddle when daniel webster was a child he lived in the country, far from any city. he was not strong enough to work on the farm like his brothers; but he loved books and study. he was very young when he was first sent to school. the schoolhouse was two or three miles from home, but he did not mind the long walk through the woods and over the hills. he soon learned all that his teacher could teach; for he was bright and quick, and had a good memory. his father hoped that daniel would grow up to be a wise and famous man. "but," said he, "no man can rightly succeed without an education." so it was decided that the boy should go to some school where he might be prepared for college. one evening his father said to him, "daniel, you must be up early in the morning. you are going to exeter with me." "to exeter, father!" said daniel. "yes, to exeter. i am going to put you in the academy there." the academy at exeter was a famous school for preparing boys for college. it is still a famous school. but daniel's father did not say anything about college. there were no railroads at that time, and exeter was nearly fifty miles away. daniel and his father would ride there on horseback. early in the morning two horses were brought to the door. one was mr. webster's horse; the other was an old gray nag with a lady's sidesaddle on its back. "who is going to ride that nag?" asked daniel. "young dan webster," answered his father. "but i don't want a sidesaddle. i'm not a lady." "i understand," said mr. webster. "but our neighbor, johnson, is sending the nag to exeter for the use of a lady who is to ride back with me. he does me a favor by allowing you to ride on the animal, and i do him a favor by taking care of it." "but won't it look rather funny for me to ride to exeter on a sidesaddle?" "well, if a lady can ride on it, perhaps dan webster can do as much." and so they set out on their journey to exeter. mr. webster rode in front, and daniel, on the old gray nag, followed behind. the roads were muddy, and they went slowly. it took them two days to reach exeter. the people whom they met gazed at them and wondered who they could be. they scarcely noticed the sidesaddle; they noticed only the boy's dark eyes and his strong, noble face. his clothes were of homemade stuff; his shoes were coarse and heavy; he had no gloves on his hands; he was awkward and bashful. yet there was something in his manner and voice that caused everybody to admire him. daniel webster lived to become a famous orator and a great statesman. he was honored at home and abroad. the whisperers "boys, what did i tell you?" the schoolmaster spoke angrily. he was in trouble because his scholars would not study. whenever his back was turned, they were sure to begin whispering to one another. "girls, stop your whispering, i say." but still they would whisper, and he could not prevent it. the afternoon was half gone, and the trouble was growing. then the master thought of a plan. "children," he said, "we are going to play a new game. the next one that whispers must come out and stand in the middle of the floor. he must stand there until he sees some one else whisper. then he will tell me, and the one whom he names must come and take his place. he, in turn, will watch and report the first one that he sees whisper. and so we will keep the game going till it is time for school to be dismissed. the boy or girl who is standing at that time will be punished for all of you." "what will the punishment be, mr. johnson?" asked a bold, bad boy. "a good thrashing," answered the master. he was tired, he was vexed, he hardly knew what he said. the children thought the new game was very funny. first, tommy jones whispered to billy brown and was at once called out to stand on the floor. within less than two minutes, billy saw mary green whispering, and she had to take his place. mary looked around and saw samuel miller asking his neighbor for a pencil, and samuel was called. and so the fun went on until the clock showed that it lacked only ten minutes till school would be dismissed. then all became very good and very careful, for no one wished to be standing at the time of dismissal. they knew that the master would be as good as his word. the clock ticked loudly, and tommy jones, who was standing up for the fourth time, began to feel very uneasy. he stood on one leg and then on the other, and watched very closely; but nobody whispered. could it be possible that he would receive that thrashing? suddenly, to his great joy he saw little lucy martin lean over her desk and whisper to the girl in front of her. now lucy was the pet of the school. everybody loved her, and this was the first time she had whispered that day. but tommy didn't care for that. he wished to escape the punishment, and so he called out, "lucy martin!" and went proudly to his seat. little lucy had not meant to whisper. there was something which she wished very much to know before going home, and so, without thinking, she had leaned over and whispered just three little words. with tears in her eyes she went out and stood in the whisperer's place. [illustration] she was very much ashamed and hurt, for it was the first time that she had ever been in disgrace at school. the other girls felt sorry that she should suffer for so small a fault. the boys looked at her and wondered if the master would really be as good as his word. the clock kept on ticking. it lacked only one minute till the bell would strike the time for dismissal. what a shame that dear, gentle lucy should be punished for all those unruly boys and girls! then, suddenly, an awkward half-grown boy who sat right in front of the master's desk turned squarely around and whispered to tommy jones, three desks away. everybody saw him. little lucy martin saw him through her tears, but said nothing. everybody was astonished, for that boy was the best scholar in the school, and he had never been known to break a rule. it lacked only half a minute now. the awkward boy turned again and whispered so loudly that even the master could not help hearing: "tommy, you deserve a thrashing!" "elihu burritt, take your place on the floor," said the master sternly. the awkward boy stepped out quickly, and little lucy martin returned to her seat sobbing. at the same moment the bell struck and school was dismissed. after all the others had gone home, the master took down his long birch rod and said: "elihu, i suppose i must be as good as my word. but tell me why you so deliberately broke the rule against whispering." "i did it to save little lucy," said the awkward boy, standing up very straight and brave. "i could not bear to see her punished." "elihu, you may go home," said the master. all this happened many years ago in new britain, connecticut. elihu burritt was a poor boy who was determined to learn. he worked many years as a blacksmith and studied books whenever he had a spare moment. he learned many languages and became known all over the world as "the learned blacksmith." how a prince learned to read i a thousand years ago boys and girls did not learn to read. books were very scarce and very precious, and only a few men could read them. each book was written with a pen or a brush. the pictures were painted by hand, and some of them were very beautiful. a good book would sometimes cost as much as a good house. in those times there were even some kings who could not read. they thought more of hunting and fighting than of learning. there was one such king who had four sons, ethelbald, ethelbert, ethelred, and alfred.[footnote: eth'el bald, eth'el bert, eth'el red, al'fred.] the three older boys were sturdy, half-grown lads; the youngest, alfred, was a slender, fair-haired child. one day when they were with their mother, she showed them a wonderful book that some rich friend had given her. she turned the leaves and showed them the strange letters. she showed them the beautiful pictures, and told them how they had been drawn and painted. they admired the book very much, for they had never seen anything like it. "but the best part of it is the story which it tells," said their mother. "if you could only read, you might learn that story and enjoy it. now i have a mind to give this book to one of you" "will you give it to me, mother?" asked little alfred. "i will give it to the one who first learns to read in it" she answered. "i am sure i would rather have a good bow with arrows" said ethelred. "and i would rather have a young hawk that has been trained to hunt" said ethelbert. "if i were a priest or a monk" said ethelbald, "i would learn to read. but i am a prince, and it is foolish for princes to waste their time with such things." "but i should like to know the story which this book tells," said alfred. ii a few weeks passed by. then, one morning, alfred went into his mother's room with a smiling, joyous face. "mother," he said, "will you let me see that beautiful book again?" his mother unlocked her cabinet and took the precious volume from its place of safe keeping. alfred opened it with careful fingers. then he began with the first word on the first page and read the first story aloud without making one mistake. "o my child, how did you learn to do that?" cried his mother. "i asked the monk, brother felix, to teach me," said alfred. "and every day since you showed me the book, he has given me a lesson. it was no easy thing to learn these letters and how they are put together to make words. now, brother felix says i can read almost as well as he." "how wonderful!" said his mother. "how foolish!" said ethelbald. [illustration] "you will be a good monk when you grow up," said ethelred, with a sneer. but his mother kissed him and gave him the beautiful book. "the prize is yours, alfred," she said. "i am sure that whether you grow up to be a monk or a king, you will be a wise and noble man." and alfred did grow up to become the wisest and noblest king that england ever had. in history he is called alfred the great. "read, and you will know" "mother, what are the clouds made of? why does the rain fall? where does all the rain water go? what good does it do?" little william jones was always asking questions. "i want to know," he said; "i want to know everything." at first his mother tried to answer all his questions. but after he had learned to read, she taught him to look in books for that which he wished to know. "mother, what makes the wind blow?" "read, and you will know, my child." "who lives on the other side of the world?" "read, and you will know." "why is the sky so blue?" "read, and you will know." "oh, mother, i would like to know everything." "you can never know everything, my child. but you can learn many things from books." "yes, mother, i will read and then i will know." he was a very little boy, but before he was three years old he could read quite well. when eight years of age he was the best scholar at the famous school at harrow. he was always reading, learning, inquiring. "i want to know; i want to know," he kept saying. "read, and you will know," said his mother. "read books that are true. read about things that are beautiful and good. read in order to become wise. "do not waste your time in reading foolish books. do not read bad books, they will make you bad. no book is worth reading that does not make you better or wiser." and so william jones went on reading and learning. he became one of the most famous scholars in the world. the king of england made him a knight and called him sir william jones. sir william jones lived nearly two hundred years ago. he was noted for his great knowledge, the most of which he had obtained from books. it is said that he could speak and write forty languages. the young cupbearer i long, long ago, there lived in persia a little prince whose name was cyrus. [footnote: cyrus (_pro_. si'rus).] he was not petted and spoiled like many other princes. although his father was a king, cyrus was brought up like the son of a common man. he knew how to work with his hands. he ate only the plainest food. he slept on a hard bed. he learned to endure hunger and cold. when cyrus was twelve years old he went with his mother to media to visit his grandfather. his grandfather, whose name was astyages, [footnote: astyages (_pro_. as ti'a jeez).] was king of media, and very rich and powerful. cyrus was so tall and strong and handsome that his grandfather was very proud of him. he wished the lad to stay with him in media. he therefore gave him many beautiful gifts and everything that could please a prince. one day king astyages planned to make a great feast for the lad. the tables were to be laden with all kinds of food. there was to be music and dancing; and cyrus was to invite as many guests as he chose. the hour for the feast came. everything was ready. the servants were there, dressed in fine uniforms. the musicians and dancers were in their places. but no guests came. "how is this, my dear boy?" asked the king. "the feast is ready, but no one has come to partake of it." "that is because i have not invited any one," said cyrus." in persia we do not have such feasts. if any one is hungry, he eats some bread and meat, with perhaps a few cresses, and that is the end of it. we never go to all this trouble and expense of making a fine dinner in order that our friends may eat what is not good for them." king astyages did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. "well," said he, "all these rich foods that were prepared for the feast are yours. what will you do with them?" "i think i will give them to our friends," said cyrus. so he gave one portion to the king's officer who had taught him to ride. another portion he gave to an old servant who waited upon his grandfather. and the rest he divided among the young women who took care of his mother. ii the king's cupbearer, sarcas, was very much offended because he was not given a share of the feast. the king also wondered why this man, who was his favorite, should be so slighted. "why didn't you give something to sarcas?" he asked. "well, truly," said cyrus, "i do not like him. he is proud and overbearing. he thinks that he makes a fine figure when he waits on you." "and so he does," said the king. "he is very skillful as a cupbearer." "that may be so," answered cyrus, "but if you will let me be your cupbearer tomorrow, i think i can serve you quite as well." king astyages smiled. he saw that cyrus had a will of his own, and this pleased him very much. "i shall be glad to see what you can do," he said. "tomorrow, you shall be the king's cupbearer." iii you would hardly have known the young prince when the time came for him to appear before his grandfather. he was dressed in the rich uniform of the cupbearer, and he came forward with much dignity and grace. he carried a white napkin upon his arm, and held the cup of wine very daintily with three of his fingers. [illustration] his manners were perfect. sarcas himself could not have served the king half so well. "bravo! bravo!" cried his mother, her eyes sparkling with pride. "you have done well" said his grandfather. "but you neglected one important thing. it is the rule and custom of the cupbearer to pour out a little of the wine and taste it before handing the cup to me. this you forgot to do." "indeed, grandfather, i did not forget it," answered cyrus. "then why didn't you do it?" asked his mother. "because i believed there was poison in the wine." "poison, my boy!" cried king astyages, much alarmed. "poison! poison!" "yes, grandfather, poison. for the other day, when you sat at dinner with your officers, i noticed that the wine made you act queerly. after the guests had drunk quite a little of it, they began to talk foolishly and sing loudly; and some of them went to sleep. and you, grandfather, were as bad as the rest. you forgot that you were king. you forgot all your good manners. you tried to dance and fell upon the floor. i am afraid to drink anything that makes men act in that way." "didn't you ever see your father behave so?" asked the king. "no, never," said cyrus. "he does not drink merely to be drinking. he drinks to quench his thirst, and that is all." when cyrus became a man, he succeeded his father as king of persia; he also succeeded his grandfather astyages as king of media. he was a very wise and powerful ruler, and he made his country the greatest of any that was then known. in history he is commonly called cyrus the great. the sons of the caliph there was a caliph of persia whose name was al mamoun. [footnote: al mam'oun] he had two sons whom he wished to become honest and noble men. so he employed a wise man whose name was al farra to be their teacher. one day, after lesson hours, al farra rose to go out of the house. the two boys saw him and ran to fetch his shoes. for in that country, people never wear shoes in the house, but take them off at the door. the two boys ran for the teacher's shoes, and each claimed the honor of carrying them to him. but they dared not quarrel and at last agreed that each should carry one shoe. thus the honor would be divided. when the caliph heard of this he sent for al farra and asked him, "who is the most honored of men?" the teacher answered, "i know of no man who is more honored than yourself." "no, no," said the caliph. "it is the man who rose to go out, and two young princes contended for the honor of giving him his shoes but at last agreed that each should offer him one." al farra answered, "sir, i should have forbidden them to do this, but i feared to discourage them. i hope that i shall never do anything to make them careless of their duties." "well," said the caliph, "if you had forbidden them thus to honor you, i should have declared you in the wrong. they did nothing that was beneath the dignity of princes. indeed, they honored themselves by honoring you." al farra bowed low, but said nothing; and the caliph went on. "no young man nor boy," said he, "can be so high in rank as to neglect three great duties: he must respect his ruler, he must love and obey his father, and he must honor his teacher." then he called the two young princes to him, and as a reward for their noble conduct, filled their pockets with gold. the boy and the robbers in persia, when cyrus the great was king, boys were taught to tell the truth. this was one of their first lessons at home and at school. "none but a coward will tell a falsehood," said the father of young otanes. [footnote: otanes (_pro._ o ta'n ez).] "truth is beautiful. always love it," said his mother. when otanes was twelve years old, his parents wished to send him to a distant city to study in a famous school that was there. it would be a long journey and a dangerous one. so it was arranged that the boy should travel with a small company of merchants who were going to the same place. "good-by, otanes! be always brave and truthful," said his father. "farewell, my child! love that which is beautiful. despise that which is base," said his mother. the little company began its long journey. some of the men rode on camels, some on horses. they went but slowly, for the sun was hot and the way was rough. suddenly, towards evening, a band of robbers swooped down upon them. the merchants were not fighting men. they could do nothing but give up all their goods and money. "well, boy, what have you got?" asked one of the robbers, as he pulled otanes from his horse. "forty pieces of gold" answered the lad. the robber laughed. he had never heard of a boy with so much money as that. "that is a good story" he said. "where do you carry your gold?" "it is in my hat, underneath the lining," answered otanes. "oh, well! you can't make me believe that," said the robber; and he hurried away to rob one of the rich merchants. soon another came up and said, "my boy, do you happen to have any gold about you?" "yes! forty pieces, in my hat, said otanes. "you are a brave lad to be joking with robbers" said the man; and he also hurried on to a more promising field. at length the chief of the band called to otanes and said, "young fellow, have you anything worth taking?" otanes answered, "i have already told two of your men that i have forty pieces of gold in my hat. but they wouldn't believe me." "take off your hat," said the chief. [illustration] the boy obeyed. the chief tore out the lining and found the gold hidden beneath it. "why did you tell us where to find it?" he asked. "no one would have thought that a child like you had gold about him." "if i had answered your questions differently, i should have told a lie," said otanes; "and none but cowards tell lies" the robber chief was struck by this answer. he thought of the number of times that he himself had been a coward. then he said, "you are a brave boy, and you may keep your gold. here it is. mount your horse, and my own men will ride with you and see that you reach the end of your journey in safety." otanes, in time, became one of the famous men of his country. he was the advisor and friend of two of the kings who succeeded cyrus. a lesson in justice alexander [footnote: al ex an'der.] the king of macedon, [footnote: macedon (pro. mas'e don).] wished to become the master of the whole world. he led his armies through many countries. he plundered cities, he burned towns, he destroyed thousands of lives. at last, far in the east, he came to a land of which he had never heard. the people there knew nothing about war and conquest. although they were rich, they lived simply and were at peace with all the world. the shah, or ruler of these people, went out to meet alexander and welcome him to their country. he led the great king to his palace and begged that he would dine with him. when they were seated at the table the servants of the shah stood by to serve the meal. they brought in what seemed to be fruits, nuts, cakes, and other delicacies; but when alexander would eat he found that everything was made of gold. "what!" said he, "do you eat gold in this country?" "we ourselves eat only common food," answered the shah. "but we have heard that it was the desire for gold which caused you to leave your own country; and so, we wish to satisfy your appetite." "it was not for gold that i came here," said alexander. "i came to learn the customs of your people." "very well, then," said the shah, "stay with me a little while and observe what you can." while the shah and the king were talking, two countrymen came in. "my lord," said one, "we have had a disagreement, and wish you to settle the matter." "tell me about it," said the shah. "well, it is this way," answered the man: "i bought a piece of ground from this neighbor of mine, and paid him a fair price for it. yesterday, when i was digging in it, i found a box full of gold and jewels. this treasure does not belong to me, for i bought only the ground; but when i offered it to my neighbor he refused it." the second man then spoke up and said, "it is true that i sold him the ground, but i did not reserve anything he might find in it. the treasure is not mine, and therefore i am unwilling to take it." the shah sat silent for a while, as if in thought. then he said to the first man, "have you a son?" "yes, a young man of promise," was the answer. the shah turned to the second man: "have you a daughter?" "i have," answered the man, "--a beautiful girl." "well, then, this is my judgment. let the son marry the daughter, if both agree, and give them the treasure as a wedding portion." alexander listened with great interest. "you have judged wisely and rightly," said he to the shah, "but in my own country we should have done differently." "what would you have done?" "well, we should have thrown both men into prison, and the treasure would have been given to the king." "and is that what you call justice?" asked the shah. "we call it policy," said alexander. "then let me ask you a question," said the shah. "does the sun shine in your country?" "surely." "does the rain fall there?" "oh, yes!" "is it possible! but are there any gentle, harmless animals in your fields?" "a great many." "then," said the shah, "it must be that the sun shines and the rain falls for the sake of these poor beasts; for men so unjust do not deserve such blessings." the general and the fox there was once a famous greek general whose name was aristomenes. [footnote: aristomenes (_pro_. ar is tom'e neez).] he was brave and wise; and his countrymen loved him. once, however, in a great battle with the spartans, his army was beaten and he was taken prisoner. in those days, people had not learned to be kind to their enemies. in war, they were savage and cruel; for war always makes men so. the spartans hated aristomenes. he had given them a great deal of trouble, and they wished to destroy him. on a mountain near their city, there was a narrow chasm or hole in the rocks. it was very deep, and there was no way to climb out of it. the spartans said to one another, "let us throw this fellow into the rocky chasm. then we may be sure that he will never trouble us again." so a party of soldiers led him up into the mountain and placed him on the edge of the yawning hole in the rocks. "see the place to which we send all our enemies," they said. and they threw him in. no one knows how he escaped being dashed to pieces. some of the greeks said that an eagle caught him in her beak and carried him unharmed to the bottom. but that is not likely. i think that he must have fallen upon some bushes and vines that grew in some parts of the chasm. at any rate he was not hurt much. he groped around in the dim light, but could not find any way of escape. the rocky walls surrounded him on every side. there was no place where he could set his foot to climb out. for three days he lay in his strange prison. he grew weak from hunger and thirst. he expected to die from starvation. suddenly he was startled by a noise close by him. something was moving among the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. he watched quietly, and soon saw a large fox coming towards him. he lay quite still till the animal was very near. then he sprang up quickly and seized it by the tail. the frightened fox scampered away as fast as it could; and aristomenes followed, clinging to its tail. it ran into a narrow cleft which he had not seen before, and then through a long, dark passage which was barely large enough for a man's body. aristomenes held on. at last he saw a ray of light far ahead of him. it was the sunlight streaming in at the entrance to the passage. but soon the way became too narrow for his body to pass through. what should he do? he let go of the fox, and it ran out. then with great labor he began to widen the passageway. here the rocks were smaller, and he soon loosened them enough to allow him to squeeze through. in a short time he was free and in the open air. some days after this the spartans heard strange news: "aristomenes is again at the head of the greek army." they could not believe it. the bomb did you ever hear of king charles the twelfth, of sweden? he lived two hundred years ago, and was famous for his courage in defending his country. one day he was in the midst of a great battle. the small house in which he had taken shelter was almost between the two armies. he called to one of his officers and bade him sit down and write a short order for him. the officer began to write, but just as he finished the first word, a bomb came through the roof of the house and struck the floor close by him. he dropped the pen and sprang to his feet. he was pale with fear. "what is the matter?" asked the king. "oh, sir," he answered, "the bomb! the bomb!" "yes, i see," said the king. "but what has the bomb to do with what i wish you to write? sit down, and take your pen. when your country is in danger, you should forget your own safety." a story of old rome there was a great famine in rome. the summer had been very dry and the corn crop had failed. there was no bread in the city. the people were starving. one day, to the great joy of all, some ships arrived from another country. these ships were loaded with corn. here was food enough for all. the rulers of the city met to decide what should be done with the corn. "divide it among the poor people who need it so badly," said some. "let it be a free gift to them from the city." but one of the rulers was not willing to do this. his name was coriolanus, [footnote: co ri o la'nus.] and he was very rich. "these people are poor because they have been too lazy to work," he said. "they do not deserve any gifts from the city. let those who wish any corn bring money and buy it." when the people heard about this speech of the rich man, coriolanus, they were very angry. "he is no true roman," said some. "he is selfish and unjust," said others. "he is an enemy to the poor. kill him! kill him!" cried the mob. they did not kill him, but they drove him out of the city and bade him never return. coriolanus made his way to the city of antium, [footnote: antium (_pro._ an'shi um).] which was not far from rome. the people of antium were enemies of the romans and had often been at war with them. so they welcomed coriolanus very kindly and made him the general of their army. coriolanus began at once to make ready for war against rome. he persuaded other towns near antium to send their soldiers to help him. soon, at the head of a very great army, he marched toward the city which had once been his home. the rude soldiers of antium overran all the country around rome. they burned the villages and farmhouses. they filled the land with terror. coriolanus pitched his camp quite near to the city. his army was the greatest that the romans had ever seen. they knew that they were helpless before so strong an enemy. "surrender your city to me," said coriolanus. "agree to obey the laws that i shall make for you. do this, or i will burn rome and destroy all its people." the romans answered, "we must have time to think of this matter. give us a few days to learn what sort of laws you will make for us, and then we will say whether we can submit to them or not." "i will give you thirty days to consider the matter," said coriolanus. then he told them what laws he would require them to obey. these laws were so severe that all said, "it will be better to die at once." at the end of the thirty days, four of the city's rulers went out to beg him to show mercy to the people of rome. these rulers were old men, with wise faces and long white beards. they went out bareheaded and very humble. coriolanus would not listen to them. he drove them back with threats, and told them that they should expect no mercy from him; but he agreed to give them three more days to consider the matter. the next day, all the priests and learned men went out to beg for mercy. these were dressed in their long flowing robes, and all knelt humbly before him. but he drove them back with scornful words. on the last day, the great army which coriolanus had led from antium was drawn up in battle array. it was ready to march upon the city and destroy it. all rome was in terror. there seemed to be no way to escape the anger of this furious man. then the rulers, in their despair, said, "let us go up to the house where coriolanus used to live when he was one of us. his mother and his wife are still there. they are noble women, and they love rome. let us ask them to go out and beg our enemy to have mercy upon us. his heart will be hard indeed if he can refuse his mother and his wife." the two noble women were willing to do all that they could to save their city. so, leading his little children by the hand, they went out to meet coriolanus. behind them followed a long procession of the women of rome. coriolanus was in his tent. when he saw his mother and his wife and his children, he was filled with joy. but when they made known their errand, his face darkened, and he shook his head. for a long time his mother pleaded with him. for a long time his wife begged him to be merciful. his little children clung to his knees and spoke loving words to him. at last, he could hold out no longer. "o mother," he said, "you have saved your country, but have lost your son!" then he commanded his army to march back to the city of antium. [illustration] rome was saved; but coriolanus could never return to his home, his mother, his wife and children. he was lost to them. saved by a dolphin in the city of corinth [footnote: cor'inth.] there once lived a wonderful musician whose name was arion. [footnote: a r_i_'on.] no other person could play on the lyre or sing so sweetly as he; and the songs which he composed were famous in many lands. the king of corinth was his friend. the people of corinth never grew tired of praising his sweet music. one summer he went over the sea to italy; for his name was well known there, and many people wished to hear him sing. he visited several cities, and in each place he was well paid for his music. at last, having become quite rich, he decided to go home. there was a ship just ready to sail for corinth, and the captain agreed to take him as a passenger. the sea was rough. the ship was driven far out of her course. many days passed before they came in sight of land. the sailors were rude and unruly. the captain himself had been a robber. when they heard that arion had a large sum of money with him they began to make plans to get it. "the easiest way," said the captain, "is to throw him overboard. then there will be no one to tell tales." arion overheard them plotting. "you may take everything that i have," he said, "if you will only spare my life." but they had made up their minds to get rid of him. they feared to spare him lest he should report the matter to the king. "your life we will not spare," they said; "but we will give you the choice of two things. you must either jump overboard into the sea or be slain with your own sword. which shall it be?" "i shall jump overboard," said arion, "but i pray that you will first grant me a favor." "what is it?" asked the captain. "allow me to sing to you my latest and best song. i promise that as soon as it is finished i will leap into the sea." the sailors agreed; for they were anxious to hear the musician whose songs were famous all over the world. [illustration] arion dressed himself in his finest clothing. he took his stand on the forward deck, while the robber sailors stood in a half circle before him, anxious to listen to his song. he touched his lyre and began to play the accompaniment. then he sang a wonderful song, so sweet, so lively, so touching, that many of the sailors were moved to tears. and now they would have spared him; but he was true to his promise,-as soon as the song was finished, he threw himself headlong into the sea. the sailors divided his money among themselves; and the ship sailed on. in a short time they reached corinth in safety, and the king sent an officer to bring the captain and his men to the palace. "are you lately from italy?" he asked. "we are," they answered. "what news can you give me concerning my friend arion, the sweetest of all musicians?" "he was well and happy when we left italy," they answered. "he has a mind to spend the rest of his life in that country." hardly had they spoken these words when the door opened and arion himself stood before them. he was dressed just as they had seen him when he jumped into the sea. they were so astonished that they fell upon their knees before the king and confessed their crime. now, how was arion saved from drowning when he leaped overboard? old story-tellers say that he alighted on the back of a large fish, called a dolphin, which had been charmed by his music and was swimming near the ship. the dolphin carried him with great speed to the nearest shore. then, full of joy, the musician hastened to corinth, not stopping even to change his dress. he told his wonderful story to the king; but the king would not believe him. "wait," said he, "till the ship arrives, and then we shall know the truth." three hours later, the ship came into port, as you have already learned. other people think that the dolphin which saved arion was not a fish, but a ship named the _dolphin_. they say that arion, being a good swimmer, kept himself afloat until this ship happened to pass by and rescued him from the waves. you may believe the story that you like best. the name of arion is still remembered as that of a most wonderful musician. "little brothers of the air" the man of whom i am now going to tell you was famous, not for his wealth or his power or his deeds in war, but for his great gentleness. he lived more than seven hundred years ago in a quaint little town of italy. his name was francis, and because of his goodness, all men now call him st. francis. [illustration] very kind and loving was st. francis--kind and loving not only to men but to all living things. he spoke of the birds as his little brothers of the air, and he could never bear to see them harmed. at christmas time he scattered crumbs of bread under the trees, so that the tiny creatures could feast and be happy. once when a boy gave him a pair of doves which he had snared, st. francis had a nest made for them, and the mother bird laid her eggs in it. by and by, the eggs hatched, and a nestful of young doves grew up. they were so tame that they sat on the shoulders of st. francis and ate from his hand. and many other stories are told of this man's great love and pity for the timid creatures which lived in the fields and woods. one day as he was walking among the trees the birds saw him and flew down to greet him. they sang their sweetest songs to show how much they loved him. then, when they saw that he was about to speak, they nestled softly in the grass and listened. "o little birds," he said, "i love you, for you are my brothers and sisters of the air. let me tell you something, my little brothers, my little sisters: you ought always to love god and praise him. "for think what he has given you. he has given you wings with which to fly through the air. he has given you clothing both warm and beautiful. he has given you the air in which to move and have homes. "and think of this, o little brothers: you sow not, neither do you reap, for god feeds you. he gives you the rivers and the brooks from which to drink. he gives you the mountains and the valleys where you may rest. he gives you the trees in which to build your nests. "you toil not, neither do you spin, yet god takes care of you and your little ones. it must be, then, that he loves you. so, do not be ungrateful, but sing his praises and thank him for his goodness toward you." then the saint stopped speaking and looked around him. all the birds sprang up joyfully. they spread their wings and opened their mouths to show that they understood his words. and when he had blessed them, all began to sing; and the whole forest was filled with sweetness and joy because of their wonderful melodies. a clever slave a long time ago there lived a poor slave whose name was aesop. [footnote: aesop (_pro_. e'sop).] he was a small man with a large head and long arms. his face was white, but very homely. his large eyes were bright and snappy. when aesop was about twenty years old his master lost a great deal of money and was obliged to sell his slaves. to do this, he had to take them to a large city where there was a slave market. the city was far away, and the slaves must walk the whole distance. a number of bundles were made up for them to carry. some of these bundles contained the things they would need on the road; some contained clothing; and some contained goods which the master would sell in the city. "choose your bundles, boys," said the master. "there is one for each of you." aesop at once chose the largest one. the other slaves laughed and said he was foolish. but he threw it upon his shoulders and seemed well satisfied. the next day, the laugh was the other way. for the bundle which he had chosen had contained the food for the whole party. after all had eaten three meals from it, it was very much lighter. and before the end of the journey aesop had nothing to carry, while the other slaves were groaning under their heavy loads. "aesop is a wise fellow," said his master. "the man who buys him must pay a high price." a very rich man, whose name was xanthus, [footnote: xanthus (_pro_. zan'thus).] came to the slave market to buy a servant. as the slaves stood before him he asked each one to tell what kind of work he could do. all were eager to be bought by xanthus because they knew he would be a kind master. so each one boasted of his skill in doing some sort of labor. one was a fine gardener; another could take care of horses; a third was a good cook; a fourth could manage a household. "and what can you do, aesop?" asked xanthus. "nothing," he answered. "nothing? how is that?" "because, since these other slaves do everything, there is nothing left for me to perform," said aesop. this answer pleased the rich man so well that he bought aesop at once, and took him to his home on the island of samos. in samos the little slave soon became known for his wisdom and courage. he often amused his master and his master's friends by telling droll fables about birds and beasts that could talk. they saw that all these fables taught some great truth, and they wondered how aesop could have thought of them. many other stories are told of this wonderful slave. his master was so much pleased with him that he gave him his freedom. many great men were glad to call him their friend, and even kings asked his advice and were amused by his fables. one of aesop's fables an old cat was in a fair way to kill all the mice in the barn. one day the mice met to talk about the great harm that she was doing them. each one told of some plan by which to keep out of her way. "do as i say," said an old gray mouse that was thought to be very wise. "do as i say. hang a bell to the cat's neck. then, when we hear it ring, we shall know that she is coming, and can scamper out of her way." "good! good!" said all the other mice; and one ran to get the bell. "now which of you will hang this bell on the cat's neck?" said the old gray mouse. "not i! not i!" said all the mice together. and they scampered away to their holes. the dark day listen, and i will tell you of the famous dark day in connecticut. it was in the month of may, more than a hundred years ago. the sun rose bright and fair, and the morning was without a cloud. the air was very still. there was not a breath of wind to stir the young leaves on the trees. then, about the middle of the day, it began to grow dark. the sun was hidden. a black cloud seemed to cover the earth. the birds flew to their nests. the chickens went to roost. the cows came home from the pasture and stood mooing at the gate. it grew so dark that the people could not see their way along the streets. then everybody began to feel frightened. "what is the matter? what is going to happen?" each one asked of another. the children cried. the dogs howled. the women wept, and some of the men prayed. "the end of the world has come!" cried some; and they ran about in the darkness. "this is the last great day!" cried others; and they knelt down and waited. in the old statehouse, the wise men of connecticut were sitting. they were men who made the laws, and much depended upon their wisdom. [illustration] when the darkness came, they too began to be alarmed. the gloom was terrible. "it is the day of the lord." said one. "no use to make laws," said another, "for they will never be needed." "i move that we adjourn," said a third. then up from his seat rose abraham davenport. his voice was clear and strong, and all knew that he, at least, was not afraid. "this may be the last great day," he said. "i do not know whether the end of the world has come or not. but i am sure that it is my duty to stand at my post as long as i live. so, let us go on with the work that is before us. let the candles be lighted." his words put courage into every heart. the candles were brought in. then with his strong face aglow in their feeble light, he made a speech in favor of a law to help poor fishermen. and as he spoke, the other lawmakers listened in silence till the darkness began to fade and the sky grew bright again. the people of connecticut still remember abraham davenport, because he was a wise judge and a brave lawmaker. the poet whittier has written a poem about him, which you will like to hear. the surly guest one day john randolph, of roanoke, [footnote: ro'a noke.] set out on horseback to ride to a town that was many miles from his home. the road was strange to him, and he traveled very slowly. when night came on he stopped at a pleasant roadside inn and asked for lodging. the innkeeper welcomed him kindly. he had often heard of the great john randolph, and therefore he did all that he could to entertain him well. a fine supper was prepared, and the innkeeper himself waited upon his guest. john randolph ate in silence. the innkeeper spoke of the weather, of the roads, of the crops, of politics. but his surly guest said scarcely a word. in the morning a good breakfast was served, and then mr. randolph made ready to start on his journey. he called for his bill and paid it. his horse was led to the door, and a servant helped him to mount it. as he was starting away, the friendly innkeeper said, "which way will you travel, mr. randolph?" mr. randolph looked at him in no gentle way, and answered, "sir!" "i only asked which way you intend to travel," said the man. "oh! i have i paid you my bill?" "yes, sir." "do i owe you anything more?" "no, sir." "then, i intend to travel the way i wish to go--do you understand?" he turned his horse and rode away. he had not gone farther than to the end of the innkeeper's field, when to his surprise he found that the road forked. he did not know whether he should take the right-hand fork or the left-hand. he paused for a while. there was no signboard to help him. he looked back and saw the innkeeper still standing by the door. he called to him:--"my friend, which of these roads shall i travel to go to lynchburg?" "mr. randolph," answered the innkeeper, "you have paid your bill and don't owe me a cent. travel the way you wish to go. good-by!" as bad luck would have it, mr. randolph took the wrong road. he went far out of his way and lost much time, all on account of his surliness. [illustration] iii john randolph, of roanoke, lived in virginia one hundred years ago. he was famous as a lawyer and statesman. he was a member of congress for many years, and was noted for his odd manners and strong selfwill. the story of a great story two hundred years ago there lived in scotland a young man whose name was alexander selkirk. he was quarrelsome and unruly. he was often making trouble among his neighbors. for this reason many people were glad when he ran away from home and went to sea. "we hope that he will get what he deserves," they said. he was big and strong and soon became a fine sailor. but he was still headstrong and ill-tempered; and he was often in trouble with the other sailors. once his ship was sailing in the great pacific ocean, it was four hundred miles from the coast of south america. then something happened which selkirk did not like. he became very disagreeable. he quarreled with the other sailors, and even with the captain. "i would rather live alone on a desert island than be a sailor on this ship," he said. "very well," answered the captain. "we shall put you ashore on the first island that we see." "do so," said selkirk. "you cannot please me better." the very next day they came in sight of a little green island. there were groves of trees near the shore, and high hills beyond them. "what is the name of this island?" asked selkirk. "juan fernandez," [footnote: juan fernandez (pro. joo'an fer nan'dsz).] said the captain. [illustration] "set me on shore and leave me there. give me a few common tools and some food, and i will do well enough," said the sailor. "it shall be done," answered the captain. so they filled a small boat with the things that he would need the most--an ax, a hoe, a kettle, and some other things. they also put in some bread and meat and other food, enough for several weeks. then four of the sailors rowed him to the shore and left him there. alexander selkirk was all alone on the island. he began to see how foolish he had been; he thought how terrible it would be to live there without one friend, without one person to whom he could speak. he called loudly to the sailors and to the captain. "oh, do not leave me here. take me back, and i will give you no more trouble." but they would not listen to him. the ship sailed away and was soon lost to sight. then selkirk set to work to make the best of things. he built him a little hut for shelter at night and in stormy weather. he planted a small garden. there were pigs and goats on the island, and plenty of fish could be caught from the shore. so there was always plenty of food. sometimes selkirk saw ships sailing in the distance. he tried to make signals to them; he called as loudly as he could; but he was neither seen nor heard, and the ships came no nearer. "if i ever have the good fortune to escape from this island," he said, "i will be kind and obliging to every one. i will try to make friends instead of enemies." for four years and four months he lived alone on the island. then, to his great joy, a ship came near and anchored in the little harbor. he made himself known, and the captain willingly agreed to carry him back to his own country. when he reached scotland everybody was eager to hear him tell of his adventures, and he soon found himself famous. in england there was then living a man whose name was daniel defoe. [footnote: de foe'.] he was a writer of books. he had written many stories which people at that time liked to read. when daniel defoe heard how selkirk had lived alone on the island of juan fernandez, he said to himself: "here is something worth telling about. the story of alexander selkirk is very pleasing." so he sat down and wrote a wonderful story, which he called "the adventures of robinson crusoe." every boy has heard of robinson crusoe. many boys and indeed many girls have read his story. when only a child he liked to stand by the river and see the ships sailing past. he wondered where they had come from and where they were going. he talked with some of the sailors. they told him about the strange lands they had visited far over the sea. they told him about the wonderful things they had seen there. he was delighted. "oh, i wish i could be a sailor!" he said. he could not think of anything else. he thought how grand it would be to sail and sail on the wide blue sea. he thought how pleasant it would be to visit strange countries and see strange peoples. as he grew up, his father wished him to learn a trade. "no, no, i am going to be a sailor; i am going to see the world" he said. his mother said to him: "a sailor's life is a hard life. there are great storms on the sea. many ships are wrecked and the sailors are drowned." "i am not afraid" said robinson crusoe. "i am going to be a sailor and nothing else." so, when he was eighteen years old, he ran away from his pleasant home and went to sea. he soon found that his mother's words were true. a sailor's life is indeed a hard life. there is no time to play. every day there is much work to be done. sometimes there is great danger. robinson crusoe sailed first on one ship and then on another. he visited many lands and saw many wonderful things. one day there was a great storm. the ship was driven about by the winds; it was wrecked. all the sailors were drowned but robinson crusoe. he swam to an island that was not far away. it was a small island, and there was no one living on it. but there were birds in the woods and some wild goats on the hills. for a long time robinson crusoe was all alone. he had only a dog and some cats to keep him company. then he tamed a parrot and some goats. he built a house of some sticks and vines. he sowed grain and baked bread. he made a boat for himself. he did a great many things. he was busy every day. at last a ship happened to pass that way and robinson was taken on board. he was glad to go back to england to see his home and his friends once more. this is the story which mr. defoe wrote. perhaps he would not have thought of it, had he not first heard the true story of alexander selkirk. the king and the page many years ago there was a king of prussia, whose name was frederick; and because he was very wise and very brave, people called him frederick the great. like other kings, he lived in a beautiful palace and had many officers and servants to wait upon him. among the servants there was a little page whose name was carl. it was carl's duty to sit outside of the king's bedroom and be ready to serve him at any time. one night the king sat up very late, writing letters and sending messages; and the little page was kept busy running on errands until past midnight. the next morning the king wished to send him on another errand. he rang the little bell which was used to call the page, but no page answered. "i wonder what can have happened to the boy," he said; and he opened the door and looked out. there, sitting in his chair, was carl, fast asleep. the poor child was so tired after his night's work that he could not keep awake. the king was about to waken him roughly, when he saw a piece of paper on the floor beside him. he picked it up and read it. it was a letter from the page's mother:-_dearest carl; you are a good boy to send me all your wages, for now i can pay the rent and buy some warm clothing for your little sister. i thank you for it, and pray that god will bless you. be faithful to the king and do your duty._ the king went back to the room on tiptoe. he took ten gold pieces from his table and wrapped them in the little letter. then he went out again, very quietly, and slipped them all into the boy's pocket. after a while he rang the bell again, very loudly. carl awoke with a start, and came quickly to answer the call. "i think you have been asleep," said the king. the boy stammered and did not know what to say. he was frightened and ready to cry. he put his hand in his pocket, and was surprised to find the gold pieces wrapped in his mother's letter. then his eyes overflowed with tears, and he fell on his knees before the king. "what is the matter?" asked frederick. "oh, your majesty!" cried carl. "have mercy on me. it is true that i have been asleep, but i know nothing about this money. some one is trying to ruin me." "have courage, my boy," said the king. "i know how you must have been overwearied with long hours of watching. and people say that fortune comes to us in our sleep. you may send the gold pieces to your mother with my compliments; and tell her that the king will take care of both her and you." the hunted king what boy or girl has not heard the story of king robert brace and the spider? i will tell you another story of the same brave and famous king. he had fought a battle with his enemies, the english. his little army had been beaten and scattered. many of his best friends had been killed or captured. the king himself was obliged to hide in the wild woods while his foes hunted for him with hounds. for many days he wandered through rough and dangerous places. he waded rivers and climbed mountains. sometimes two or three faithful friends were with him. sometimes he was alone. sometimes his enemies were very close upon him. late one evening he came to a little farmhouse in a lonely valley. he walked in without knocking. a woman was sitting alone by the fire. "may a poor traveler find rest and shelter here for the night?" he asked. the woman answered, "all travelers are welcome for the sake of one; and you are welcome" "who is that one?" asked the king. "that is robert the bruce," said the woman. "he is the rightful lord of this country. he is now being hunted with hounds, but i hope soon to see him king over all scotland." "since you love him so well," said the king, "i will tell you something. i am robert the bruce." "you!" cried the woman in great surprise. "are you the bruce, and are you all alone?" "my men have been scattered," said the king, "and therefore there is no one with me." "that is not right," said the brave woman. "i have two sons who are gallant and trusty. they shall go with you and serve you." so she called her two sons. they were tall and strong young men, and they gladly promised to go with the king and help him. [illustration] the king sat down by the fire, and the woman hurried to get things ready for supper. the two young men got down their bows and arrows, and all were busy making plans for the next day. suddenly a great noise was heard outside. they listened. they heard the tramping of horses and the voices of a number of men. "the english! the english!" said the young men. "be brave, and defend your king with your lives," said their mother. then some one outside called loudly, "have you seen king robert the bruce pass this way?" "that is my brother edward's voice," said the king. "these are friends, not enemies." the door was thrown open and he saw a hundred brave men, all ready to give him aid. he forgot his hunger; he forgot his weariness. he began to ask about his enemies who had been hunting him. "i saw two hundred of them in the village below us," said one of his officers. "they are resting there for the night and have no fear of danger from us. if you have a mind to make haste, we may surprise them." "then let us mount and ride," said the king. the next minute they were off. they rushed suddenly into the village. they routed the king's enemies and scattered them. and robert the bruce was never again obliged to hide in the woods or to run from savage hounds. soon he became the real king and ruler of all scotland, "try, try again!" there was once a famous ruler of tartary whose name was tamerlane. like alexander the great, he wished to become the master of the whole world. so he raised a great army and made war against other countries. he conquered many kings and burned many cities. but at last his army was beaten; his men were scattered; and tamerlane fled alone from the field of battle. for a long time he wandered in fear from place to place. his foes were looking for him. he was in despair. he was about to lose all hope. one day he was lying under a tree, thinking of his misfortunes. he had now been a wanderer for twenty days. he could not hold out much longer. suddenly he saw a small object creeping up the trunk of the tree. he looked more closely and saw that it was an ant. the ant was carrying a grain of wheat as large as itself. as tamerlane looked, he saw that there was a hole in the tree only a little way above, and that this was the home of the ant. "you are a brave fellow, mr. ant," he said; "but you have a heavy load to carry." just as he spoke, the ant lost its footing and fell to the ground. but it still held on to the grain of wheat. a second time it tried to carry its load up the rough trunk of the tree, and a second time it failed. tamerlane watched the brave little insect. it tried three times, four times, a dozen times, twenty times--but always with the same result. then it tried the twenty-first time. slowly, one little step at a time, it crept up across the rough place where it had slipped and fallen so often. the next minute it ran safely into its home, carrying its precious load. "well done!" said tamerlane. "you have taught me a lesson. i, too, will try, try again, till i succeed." and this he did. of what other story does this remind you? why he carried the turkey in richmond, virginia, one saturday morning, an old man went into the market to buy something. he was dressed plainly, his coat was worn, and his hat was dingy. on his arm he carried a small basket. "i wish to get a fowl for to-morrow's dinner," he said. the market man showed him a fat turkey, plump and white and ready for roasting. "ah! that is just what i want," said the old man. "my wife will be delighted with it." he asked the price and paid for it. the market man wrapped a paper round it and put it in the basket. just then a young man stepped up. "i will take one of those turkeys," he said. he was dressed in fine style and carried a small cane. "shall i wrap it up for you?" asked the market man. "yes, here is your money," answered the young gentleman; "and send it to my house at once." "i cannot do that," said the market man. "my errand boy is sick today, and there is no one else to send. besides, it is not our custom to deliver goods." "then how am i to get it home?" asked the young gentleman. "i suppose you will have to carry it yourself," said the market man. "it is not heavy." "carry it myself! who do you think i am? fancy me carrying a turkey along the street!" said the young gentleman; and he began to grow very angry. the old man who had bought the first turkey was standing quite near. he had heard all that was said. "excuse me, sir," he said; "but may i ask where you live?" "i live at number 39, blank street," answered the young gentleman; "and my name is johnson." "well, that is lucky," said the old man, smiling. "i happen to be going that way, and i will carry your turkey, if you will allow me." "oh, certainly!" said mr. johnson. "here it is. you may follow me." when they reached mr. johnson's house, the old man politely handed him the turkey and turned to go. "here, my friend, what shall i pay you?" said the young gentleman. "oh, nothing, sir, nothing," answered the old man. "it was no trouble to me, and you are welcome." he bowed and went on. young mr. johnson looked after him and wondered. then he turned and walked briskly back to the market. "who is that polite old gentleman who carried my turkey for me?" he asked of the market man. "that is john marshall, chief justice of the united states. he is one of the greatest men in our country," was the answer. the young gentleman was surprised and ashamed. "why did he offer to carry my turkey?" he asked. "he wished to teach you a lesson," answered the market man. "what sort of lesson?" "he wished to teach you that no man should feel himself too fine to carry his own packages." "oh, no!" said another man who had seen and heard it all. "judge marshall carried the turkey simply because he wished to be kind and obliging. that is his way." the paddle-wheel boat more than a hundred years ago, two boys were fishing in a small river. they sat in a heavy flat-bottomed boat, each holding a long, crooked rod in his hands and eagerly waiting for "a bite." when they wanted to move the boat from one place to another they had to pole it; that is, they pushed against a long pole, the lower end of which reached the bottom of the stream. "this is slow work, robert," said the older of the boys as they were poling up the river to a new fishing place. "the old boat creeps over the water no faster than a snail." "yes, christopher; and it is hard work, too," answered robert. "i think there ought to be some better way of moving a boat." "yes, there is a better way, and that is by rowing," said christopher. "but we have no oars." "well, i can make some oars," said robert; "but i think there ought to be still another and a better way. i am going to find such a way if i can." the next day robert's aunt heard a great pounding and sawing in her woodshed. the two boys were there, busily working with hammer and saw. "what are you making, robert?" she asked. "oh, i have a plan for making a boat move without poling it or rowing it," he answered. his aunt laughed and said, "well, i hope that you will succeed." after a great deal of tinkering and trying, they did succeed in making two paddle wheels. they were very rough and crude, but strong and serviceable. they fastened each of these wheels to the end of an iron rod which they passed through the boat from side to side. the rod was bent in the middle so that it could be turned as with a crank. when the work was finished, the old fishing boat looked rather odd, with a paddle wheel on each side which dipped just a few inches into the water. the boys lost no time in trying it. [illustration] "she goes ahead all right," said christopher, "but how shall we guide her?" "oh, i have thought of that," said robert. he took something like an oarlock from his pocket and fastened it to the stern of the boat; then with a paddle which worked in this oarlock one of the boys could guide the boat while the other turned the paddle wheels. "it is better than poling the boat," said christopher. "it is better than rowing, too," said robert. "see how fast she goes!" that night when christopher went home he had a wonderful story to tell. "bob fulton planned the whole thing," he said, "and i helped him make the paddles and put them on the boat." "i wonder why we didn't think of something like that long ago," said his father. "almost anybody could rig up an old boat like that." "yes, i wonder, too," said christopher. "it looks easy enough, now that bob has shown how it is done." when robert fulton became a man, he did not forget his experiment with the old fishing boat. he kept on, planning and thinking and working, until at last he succeeded in making a boat with paddle wheels that could be run by steam. he is now remembered and honored as the inventor of the steamboat. he became famous because he was always thinking and studying and working. the caliph and the gardener there was once a caliph of cordova whose name was al mansour. one day a strange merchant came to him with some diamonds and pearls which he had brought from beyond the sea. the caliph was so well pleased with these jewels that he bought them and paid the merchant a large sum of money. the merchant put the gold in a bag of purple silk which he tied to his belt underneath his long cloak. then he set out on foot to walk to another city. it was midsummer, and the day was very hot. as the merchant was walking along, he came to a river that flowed gently between green and shady banks. he was hot and covered with dust. no one was near. very few people ever came that way. why should he not cool himself in the refreshing water? he took off his clothes and laid them on the bank. he put the bag of money on top of them and then leaped into the water. how cool and delicious it was! suddenly he heard a rustling noise behind him. he turned quickly and saw an eagle rising into the air with his moneybag in its claws. no doubt the bird had mistaken the purple silk for something good to eat. the merchant shouted. he jumped out of the water and shouted again. but it was no use. the great bird was high in the air and flying towards the far-off mountains with all his money. the poor man could do nothing but dress himself and go sorrowing on his way. a year passed by and then the merchant appeared once more before al mansour. "o caliph," he said, "here are a few jewels which i had reserved as a present for my wife. but i have met with such bad luck that i am forced to sell them. i pray that you will look at them and take them at your own price." al mansour noticed that the merchant was very sad and downcast. "why, what has happened to you?" he asked. "have you been sick?" then the merchant told him how the eagle had flown away with his money. "why didn't you come to us before?" he asked. "we might have done something to help you. toward what place was the eagle flying when you last saw it?" "it was flying toward the black mountains," answered the merchant. the next morning the caliph called ten of his officers before him. "ride at once to the black mountains," he said. "find all the old men that live on the mountains or in the flat country around, and command them to appear before me one week from to-day." the officers did as they were bidden. on the day appointed, forty graybearded, honest old men stood before the caliph. all were asked the same question. "do you know of any person who was once poor but who has lately and suddenly become well-to-do?" most of the old men answered that they did not know of any such person. a few said that there was one man in their neighborhood who seemed to have had some sort of good luck. this man was a gardener. a year ago he was so poor that he had scarcely clothes for his back. his children were crying for food. but lately everything had changed for him. both he and his family dressed well; they had plenty to eat; he had even bought a horse to help him carry his produce to market. the caliph at once gave orders for the gardener to be brought before him the next day. he also ordered that the merchant should come at the same time. before noon the next day the gardener was admitted to the palace. as soon as he entered the hall the caliph went to meet him. "good friend," he said, "if you should find something that we have lost, what would you do with it?" [illustration] the gardener put his hand under his cloak and drew out the very bag that the merchant had lost. "here it is, my lord," he said. at sight of his lost treasure, the merchant began to dance and shout for joy. "tell us," said al mansour to the gardener, "tell us how you came to find that bag." the gardener answered: "a year ago, as i was spading in my garden, i saw something fall at the foot of a palm tree. i ran to pick it up and was surprised to find that it was a bag full of bright gold pieces. i said to myself, 'this money must belong to our master, al mansour. some large bird has stolen it from his palace.'" "well, then," said the caliph, "why did you not return it to us at once?" "it was this way," said the gardener: "i looked at the gold pieces, and then thought of my own great necessities. my wife and children were suffering from the want of food and clothing. i had no shoes for my feet, no coat for my back. so i said to myself, 'my lord al mansour is famous for his kindness to the poor. he will not care.' so i took ten gold pieces from the many that were in the bag. "i meant only to borrow them. and i put the bag in a safe place, saying that as soon as i could replace the ten pieces, i would return all to my lord al mansour. with much hard labor and careful management i have saved only five little silver pieces. but, as i came to your palace this morning, i kept saying to myself, 'when our lord al mansour learns just how it was that i borrowed the gold, i have no doubt that in his kindness of heart he will forgive me the debt.'" great was the caliph's surprise when he heard the poor man's story. he took the bag of money and handed it to the merchant. "take the bag and count the money that is in it," he said. "if anything is lacking, i will pay it to you." the merchant did as he was told. "there is nothing lacking," he said, "but the ten pieces he has told you about; and i will give him these as a reward." "no," said al mansour, "it is for me to reward the man as he deserves." saying this, he ordered that ten gold pieces be given to the merchant in place of those that were lacking. then he rewarded the gardener with ten more pieces for his honesty. "your debt is paid. think no more about it," he said. the cowherd who became a poet i in england there was once a famous abbey, called whitby. it was so close to the sea that those who lived in it could hear the waves forever beating against the shore. the land around it was rugged, with only a few fields in the midst of a vast forest. in those far-off days, an abbey was half church, half castle. it was a place where good people, and timid, helpless people could find shelter in time of war. there they might live in peace and safety while all the country round was overrun by rude and barbarous men. one cold night in winter the serving men of the abbey were gathered in the great kitchen. they were sitting around the fire and trying to keep themselves warm. out of doors the wind was blowing. the men heard it as it whistled through the trees and rattled the doors of the abbey. they drew up closer to the fire and felt thankful that they were safe from the raging storm. "who will sing us a song?" said the master woodman as he threw a fresh log upon the fire. "yes, a song! a song!" shouted some of the others. "let us have a good old song that will help to keep us warm." "we can all be minstrels to-night," said the chief cook. "suppose we each sing a song in turn. what say you?" "agreed! agreed!" cried the others. "and the cook shall begin." the woodman stirred the fire until the flames leaped high and the sparks flew out of the roof hole. then the chief cook began his song. he sang of war, and of bold rough deeds, and of love and sorrow. after him the other men were called, one by one; and each in turn sang his favorite song. the woodman sang of the wild forest; the plowman sang of the fields; the shepherd sang of his sheep; and those who listened forgot about the storm and the cold weather. but in the corner, almost hidden from his fellows, one poor man was sitting who did not enjoy the singing. it was caedmon, the cowherd. "what shall i do when it comes my turn?" he said to himself. "i do not know any song. my voice is harsh and i cannot sing." so he sat there trembling and afraid; for he was a timid, bashful man and did not like to be noticed. at last, just as the blacksmith was in the midst of a stirring song, he rose quietly and went out into the darkness. he went across the narrow yard to the sheds where the cattle were kept in stormy weather. "the gentle cows will not ask a song of me," said the poor man. he soon found a warm corner, and there he lay down, covering himself with the straw. inside of the great kitchen, beside the fire, the men were shouting and laughing; for the blacksmith had finished his song, and it was very pleasing. "who is next?" asked the woodman. "caedmon, the keeper of the cows," answered the chief cook. "yes, caedmon! caedmon!" all shouted together. "a song from caedmon!" but when they looked, they saw that his seat was vacant. "the poor, timid fellow!" said the blacksmith. "he was afraid and has slipped away from us." ii in his safe, warm place in the straw, caedmon soon fell asleep. all around him were the cows of the abbey, some chewing their cuds, and others like their master quietly sleeping. the singing in the kitchen was ended, the fire had burned low, and each man had gone to his place. then caedmon had a strange dream. he thought that a wonderful light was shining around him. his eyes were dazzled by it. he rubbed them with his hands, and when they were quite open he thought that he saw a beautiful face looking down upon him, and that a gentle voice said,-"caedmon, sing for me." at first he was so bewildered that he could not answer. then he heard the voice again. "caedmon, sing something." "oh, i cannot sing," answered the poor man." i do not know any song; and my voice is harsh and unpleasant. it was for this reason that i left my fellows in the abbey kitchen and came here to be alone." "but you _must_ sing," said the voice. "you _must_ sing." "what shall i sing?" he asked. "sing of the creation," was the answer. then caedmon, with only the cows as his hearers, opened his mouth and began to sing. he sang of the beginning of things; how the world was made; how the sun and moon came into being; how the land rose from the water; how the birds and the beasts were given life. [illustration: caedmon signing in the cow byre] all through the night he sat among the abbey cows, and sang his wonderful song. when the stable boys and shepherds came out in the morning, they heard him singing; and they were so amazed that they stood still in the drifted snow and listened with open mouths. at length, others of the servants heard him, and were entranced by his wonderful song. and one ran quickly and told the good abbess, or mistress of the abbey, what strange thing had happened. "bring the cowherd hither, that i and those who are with me may hear him," said she. so caedmon was led into the great hall of the abbey. and all of the sweet-faced sisters and other women of the place listened while he sang again the wonderful song of the creation. "surely," said the abbess, "this is a poem, most sweet, most true, most beautiful. it must be written down so that people in other places and in other times may hear it read and sung." so she called her clerk, who was a scholar, and bade him write the song, word for word, as it came from caedmon's lips. and this he did. such was the way in which the first true english poem was written. and caedmon, the poor cowherd of the abbey, was the first great poet of england. the lover of men in the far east there was once a prince whose name was gautama. he lived in a splendid palace where there was everything that could give delight. it was the wish of his father and mother that every day of his life should be a day of perfect happiness. so this prince grew up to be a young man, tall and fair and graceful. he had never gone beyond the beautiful gardens that surrounded his father's palace. he had never seen nor heard of sorrow or sickness or poverty. everything that was evil or disagreeable had been carefully kept out of his sight. he knew only of those things that give joy and health and peace. but one day after he had become a man, he said: "tell me about the great world which, you say, lies outside of these palace walls. it must be a beautiful and happy place; and i wish to know all about it." "yes, it is a beautiful place," was the answer. "in it there are numberless trees and flowers and rivers and waterfalls, and other things to make the heart glad." "then to-morrow i will go out and see some of those things," he said. his parents and friends begged him not to go. they told him that there were beautiful things at home--why go away to see other things less beautiful? but when they saw that his mind was set on going, they said no more. the next morning, gautama sat in his carriage and rode out from the palace into one of the streets of the city. he looked with wonder at the houses on either side, and at the faces of the children who stood in the doorways as he passed. at first he did not see anything that disturbed him; for word had gone before him to remove from sight everything that might be displeasing or painful. soon the carriage turned into another street--a street less carefully guarded. here there were no children at the doors. but suddenly, at a narrow place, they met a very old man, hobbling slowly along over the stony way. "who is that man?" asked gautama, "and why is his face so pinched and his hair so white? why do his legs tremble under him as he walks, leaning upon a stick? he seems weak, and his eyes are dull. is he some new kind of man?" "sir," answered the coachman, "that is an old man. he has lived more than eighty years. all who reach old age must lose their strength and become like him, feeble and gray." "alas!" said the prince. "is this the condition to which i must come?" "if you live long enough," was the answer. "what do you mean by that? do not all persons live eighty years--yes, many times eighty years?" the coachman made no answer, but drove onward. they passed out into the open country and saw the cottages of the poor people. by the door of one of these a sick man was lying upon a couch, helpless and pale. "why is that man lying there at this time of day?" asked the prince. "his face is white, and he seems very weak. is he also an old man?" "oh, no! he is sick," answered the coachman. "poor people are often sick." "what does that mean?" asked the prince. "why are they sick?" the coachman explained as well as he was able; and they rode onward. soon they saw a company of men toiling by the roadside. their faces were browned by the sun; their hands were hard and gnarly; their backs were bent by much heavy lifting; their clothing was in tatters. "who are those men, and why do their faces look so joyless?" asked the prince. "what are they doing by the roadside?" "they are poor men, and they are working to improve the king's highway," was the answer. "poor men? what does that mean?" "most of the people in the world are poor," said the coachman. "their lives are spent in toiling for the rich. their joys are few; their sorrows are many." "and is this the great, beautiful, happy world that i have been told about?" cried the prince. "how weak and foolish i have been to live in idleness and ease while there is so much sadness and trouble around me. turn the carriage quickly, coachman, and drive home. henceforth, i will never again seek my own pleasure. i will spend all my life, and give all that i have, to lessen the distress and sorrow with which this world seems filled." this the prince did. one night he left the beautiful palace which his father had given to him and went out into the world to do good and to help his fellow men. and to this day, millions of people remember and honor the name of gautama, as that of the great lover of men. the charcoal man and the king there once lived in paris a poor charcoal man whose name was jacquot. [footnote: _pro._ zhak ko'] his house was small, with only one room in it; but it was large enough for jacquot and his wife and their two little boys. at one end of the room there was a big fireplace, where the mother did the cooking. at the other end were the beds. and in the middle was a rough table with benches around it instead of chairs. jacquot's business was to sell charcoal to the rich people in the city. he might be seen every day with a bag of charcoal on his back, carrying it to some of his customers. sometimes he carried three or four bags to the palace where the little king of france lived with his mother. one evening he was very late coming home. the table was spread and supper was ready. the children were hungry and could hardly wait for their father to come. "the supper will get cold," said charlot,[footnote: _pro._ shar lo'] the eldest. "i wonder why he is so late," said his little brother, blondel.[footnote: blon del'.] "there is to be a great feast at the queen's palace to-night," said the mother." there will be music and dancing, and many fine people will be there. perhaps your father is waiting to help in the kitchen." the next minute they heard his voice at the door: "be quick, boys, and stir the fire. throw on some chips and make a blaze." they did so, and as the flames lighted up the room, they saw their father enter with a child in his arms. "what's the matter?" cried the mother. "who is that child?" then she saw that the child's face was very pale and that he neither opened his eyes nor moved. "oh, what has happened? where did you find him?" "i'll tell you all about it," answered jacquot. "but first get a blanket and warm it, quick. that on the children's bed is best." "what a beautiful child!" said the mother, as she hurried to do his bidding. the two boys, charlot and blondel, with wondering eyes watched their father and mother undress the little stranger. his beautiful clothes were soaked with water, and his fine white collar and ruffles were soiled and dripping. "he must have some dry clothes. bring me your sunday suit, charlot." "here it is, mother." said charlot. soon the little stranger was clad in the warm clothes; the dry soft blanket was wrapped around him; and he was laid on the children's bed. then, being very comfortable, he began to grow stronger. the color came back to his cheeks. he opened his eyes and looked around at the small, plain room and at the poor people standing near him. "where am i? where am i?" he asked. "in my house, my little friend," answered jacquot. "_my little friend!_" said the child with a sneer. he looked at the fire on the hearth, and at the rough table and benches. then he said, "your house is a very poor place, i think." "i am sorry if you do not like it," said jacquot. "but if i had not helped you, you would have been in a worse place." "how did these clothes come on me?" cried the child. "they are not mine. you have stolen my clothes and have given me these ugly things." "stolen!" said the charcoal man, angrily. "what do you mean, you ungrateful little rascal?" "hush, jacquot," said his wife, kindly. "he doesn't know what he says. wait till he rests a while, and then he'll be in a better humor." the child was indeed very tired. his eyes closed and he was soon fast asleep. "now tell us, father," whispered charlot, "where did you find him?" the charcoal man sat down by the fire. the two boys stood at his knees, and his wife sat at his side. "i will tell you," he said. "i had carried some charcoal to the queen's kitchen and was just starting home. i took the shortest way through the little park behind the palace. you know where the fountain is?" "yes, yes!" said blondel. "it is quite near the park gate." "well, as i was hurrying along, i heard a great splash, as though something had fallen into the pool by the fountain. i looked and saw this little fellow struggling in the water. i ran and pulled him out. he was almost drowned." "did he say anything, father?" asked charlot. "oh, no! he was senseless; but i knew he wasn't drowned. i thought of the big fire in the queen's kitchen, and knew that the cook would never allow a half-drowned child to be carried into that fine place. then i thought of our own warm little house, and how snug we could make him until he came to his senses again. so i took him in my arms and ran home as fast as i could." "the poor, dear child!" said mrs. jacquot. "i wonder who he is." "he shall be our little brother," said blondel; and both the boys clapped their hands very softly. in a little while the child awoke. he seemed to feel quite well and strong. he sat up in the bed and looked around. "you want your mother, don't you?" said mrs. jacquot. "she must be very uneasy about you. tell us who she is, and we will carry you to her." "there is no hurry about that," said the child. "but they will be looking for you." "so much the better, let them look. my mother will not be worried. she has other things to do, and no time to attend to me." "what! your own mother, and no time to attend to her child?" "yes, madam. but she has servants to attend to me." "servants! yes, i think so," said jacquot. "they let you fall into the water, and you would have been drowned, if it hadn't been for me. but come, children, let us have our supper." they sat down at the table. the mother gave each a tin plate and a wooden spoon, and then helped them all to boiled beans. the father cut slices from a loaf of brown bread. the little stranger came and sat with them. but he would not eat anything. "you must tell us who your mother is," said mrs. jacquot. "we must let her know that you are safe." "of course she will be glad to know that," said the boy; "but she has no time to bother about me to-night." "is she like our mother?" asked chariot. "she is handsomer." "but ours is better. she is always doing something for us," said blondel. "mine gives me fine clothes and plenty of money to spend," said the stranger. "ours gives us kisses," said charlot. "ha! that's nothing. mine makes the servants wait on me and do as i tell them." "but our dear mother waits on us herself." the charcoal man and his wife listened to this little dispute, and said nothing. they were just rising from the table when they heard a great noise in the street. then there was a knock at the door. before mrs. jacquot could open it, some one called out, "is this the house of jacquot, the charcoal man?" "that is my tutor," whispered the little stranger. "he has come after me." then he slipped quickly under the table and hid himself. "don't tell him i am here," he said softly. in a few minutes the room was filled with gentlemen. they were all dressed very finely, and some of them carried swords. a tall man who wore a long red cloak seemed to be the leader of the company. he said to a soldier who stood at the door, "tell your story again." "well," said the soldier, "about two hours ago i was on guard at the gate of the queen's park. this charcoal man, whom i know very well, ran past me with a child in his arms. i did not--" "that will do, sir," said the man in red. "now, you charcoal man, where is that child?" "here!" cried the child himself, darting out from his hiding place. [illustration] "o your majesty!" said the man in red. "all your court has been looking for you for the past two hours." "i am glad to hear it, cardinal mazarin," [footnote: maz a reen'.] said the boy. "your mother is very anxious." "i am sorry if i have given her trouble. but really, i fell into the pool at the fountain, and this kind man brought me here to get me dry." "indeed!" said the cardinal. "but i hope you are now ready to come home with us." "i shall go when i please." "your mother--" "oh, yes, i know she is anxious, and i will go. but first i must thank these poor people." "please do so, your majesty." the boy turned toward the charcoal man and said:--"my friend, i am the king of france. my name is louis the fourteenth. i thank you for what you have done for me. you shall have money to buy a larger house and to send your boys to school. here is my hand to kiss." then he turned to the cardinal and said, "now, i am ready. let us go." not dressed in that way?" said the cardinal. he had just noticed that the king was wearing poor charlot's sunday suit instead of his own. "why not?" answered the little king. "think what your mother would say if she saw you in the clothes of a poor man's son." said the cardinal. "think of what all the fine ladies would say." "let them say what they please, i am not going to change my clothes." as the little king went out, he turned at the door and called to charlot. "come to the palace to-morrow," he said, "and you shall have your clothes. you may bring mine with you." louis the fourteenth became king of france when he was only five years old. he was called "the fourteenth" because there had been thirteen other kings before him who bore the name of louis. in history he is often called the grand monarch. which was the king? one day king henry the fourth of france was hunting in a large forest. towards evening he told his men to ride home by the main road while he went by another way that was somewhat longer. as he came out of the forest he saw a little boy by the roadside, who seemed to be watching for some one. "well, my boy," said the king, "are you looking for your father?" "no, sir," answered the boy. "i am looking for the king. they say he is hunting in the woods, and perhaps will ride out this way. so i'm waiting to see him." "oh, if that is what you wish," said king henry, "get up behind me on the horse and i'll take you to the place where you will see him." the boy got up at once, and sat behind the king. the horse cantered briskly along, and king and boy were soon quite well acquainted. "they say that king henry always has a number of men with him," said the boy; "how shall i know which is he?" "oh, that will be easy enough," was the answer. "all the other men will take off their hats, but the king will keep his on." "do you mean that the one with his hat on will be the king?" "certainly." soon they came into the main road where a number of the king's men were waiting. all the men seemed amused when they saw the boy, and as they rode up, they greeted the king by taking off their hats. "well, my boy," said king henry, "which do you think is the king?" "i don't know," answered the boy; "but it must be either you or i, for we both have our hats on." the golden tripod i one morning, long ago, a merchant of miletus [footnote: mile'tus.] was walking along the seashore. some fishermen were pulling in a large net, and he stopped to watch them. "my good men," he said, "how many fish do you expect to draw in this time?" "we cannot tell," they answered. "we never count our fish before they are caught." the net seemed heavy. there was certainly something in it. the merchant felt sure that the fishermen were having a good haul. "how much will you take for the fish that you are drawing in?" he asked. "how much will you give?" said the fishermen. "well, i will give three pieces of silver for all that are in the net," answered the merchant. [illustration] the fishermen talked in low tones with one another for a little while, and then one said, "it's a bargain. be they many or few, you may have all for three pieces of silver." in a few minutes the big net was pulled up out of the water. there was not a fish in it. but it held a beautiful golden tripod that was worth more than a thousand fishes. the merchant was delighted. "here is your money," he said. "give me the tripod." "no, indeed," said the fishermen. "you were to have all the fish that happened to be in the net and nothing else. we didn't sell you the tripod." they began to quarrel. they talked and wrangled a long time and could not agree. then one of the fishermen said, "let us ask the governor about it and do as he shall bid us." "yes, let us ask the governor," said the merchant. "let him decide the matter for us." so they carried the tripod to the governor, and each told his story. the governor listened, but could not make up his mind as to who was right. "this is a very important question," he said. "we must send to delphi [footnote: delphi (_pro_. del'fi).] and ask the oracle whether the tripod shall be given to the fishermen or to the merchant. leave the tripod in my care until we get an answer." now the oracle at delphi was supposed to be very wise. people from all parts of the world sent to it, to tell it their troubles and get its advice. so the governor sent a messenger to delphi to ask the oracle what should be done with the tripod. the merchant and the fishermen waited impatiently till the answer came. and this is what the oracle said:-"give not the merchant nor the fishermen the prize; but give it to that one who is wisest of the wise." the governor was much pleased with this answer. "the prize shall go to the man who deserves it most," he said. "there is our neighbor, thales,[footnote: thales (pro. tha'leez).] whom everybody knows and loves. he is famous all over the world. men come from every country to see him and learn from him. we will give the prize to him." so, with his own hands he carried the golden tripod to the little house where thales lived. he knocked at the door and the wise man himself opened it. then the governor told him how the tripod had been found, and how the oracle had said that it must be given to the wisest of the wise. "and so i have brought the prize to you, friend thales." "to me!" said the astonished thales. "why, there are many men who are wiser than i. there is my friend bias [footnote: bi'as] of priene. [footnote: prie'ne] he excels all other men. send the beautiful gift to him." so the governor called two of his trusted officers and told them to carry the tripod to priene and offer it to bias. "tell the wise man why you bring it, and repeat to him the words of the oracle." ii now all the world had heard of the wisdom of bias. he taught that men ought to be kind even to their enemies. he taught, also, that a friend is the greatest blessing that any one can have. he was a poor man and had no wish to be rich. "it is better to be wise than wealthy," he said. when the governor's messengers came to priene with the tripod, they found bias at work in his garden. they told him their errand and showed him the beautiful prize. he would not take it. "the oracle did not intend that i should have it," he said. "i am not the wisest of the wise." "but what shall we do with it?" said the messengers. "where shall we find the wisest man?" "in mitylene," [footnote: mit y l e'ne.] answered bias, "there is a very great man named pittacus. [footnote: pit'ta ous.] he might now be the king of his country, but he prefers to give all of his time to the study of wisdom. he is the man whom the oracle meant." iii the name of pittacus was known all over the world. he was a brave soldier and a wise teacher. the people of his country had made him their king; but as soon as he had made good laws for them he gave up his crown. one of his mottoes was this: "whatever you do, do it well." the messengers found him in his house talking to his friends and teaching them wisdom. he looked at the tripod. "how beautiful it is!" he said. then the messengers told him how it had been taken from the sea, and they repeated the words of the oracle:-"give not the merchant nor the fishermen the prize; but give it to that one who is wisest of the wise." "it is well," said he, "that neither a merchant nor a fisherman shall have it; for such men think only of their business and care really nothing for beauty." "we agree with you," said the messengers; "and we present the prize to you because you are the wisest of the wise." "you are mistaken," answered pittacus. "i should be delighted to own so beautiful a piece of workmanship, but i know i am not worthy." "then to whom shall we take it?" asked the messengers. "take it to cleobulus, [footnote: cle o bu'lus.] king of rhodes, [footnote: rhodes (_pro_. rodes).]" answered the wise man. "he is the handsomest and strongest of men, and i believe he is the wisest also." iv the messengers went on until they came at last to the island of rhodes. there everybody was talking about king cleobulus and his wonderful wisdom. he had studied in all the great schools of the world, and there was nothing that he did not know. "educate the children," he said; and for that reason his name is remembered to this day. when the messengers showed him the tripod, he said, "that is indeed a beautiful piece of work. will you sell it? what is the price?" they told him that it was not for sale, but that it was to be given to the wisest of the wise. "well, you will not find that man in rhodes," said he. "he lives in corinth, [footnote: cor'inth.] and his name is periander. [footnote: per i an'der.] carry the precious gift to him." v everybody had heard of periander, king of corinth. some had heard of his great learning, and others had heard of his selfishness and cruelty. strangers admired him for his wisdom. his own people despised him for his wickedness. when he heard that some men had come to corinth with a very costly golden tripod, he had them brought before him. "i have heard all about that tripod," he said, "and i know why you are carrying it from one place to another. do you expect to find any man in corinth who deserves so rich a gift?" "we hope that you are the man," said the messengers. "ha! ha i" laughed periander. "do i look like the wisest of the wise? no, indeed. but in lacedaemon [footnote: lacedaemon (_pro_. las e de'mon).] there is a good and noble man named chilon.[footnote: chilon (_pro_. ki'lon).] he loves his country, he loves his fellow men, he loves learning. to my mind he deserves the golden prize. i bid you carry it to him." vi the messengers were surprised. they had never heard of chilon, for his name was hardly known outside of his own country. but when they came into lacedaemon, they heard his praises on every side. they learned that chilon was a very quiet man, that he never spoke about himself, and that he spent all his time in trying to make his country great and strong and happy. chilon was so busy that the messengers had to wait several days before they could see him. at last they were allowed to go before him and state their business. "we have here a very beautiful tripod," they said. "the oracle at delphi has ordered that it shall be given to the wisest of wise men, and for that reason we have brought it to you." "you have made a mistake," said chilon. "over in athens [footnote: ath'ens.] there is a very wise man whose name is solon. [footnote: so'lon.] he is a poet, a soldier, and a lawmaker. he is my worst enemy, and yet i admire him as the wisest man in the world. it is to him that you should have taken the tripod." vii the messengers made due haste to carry the golden prize to athens. they had no trouble in finding solon. he was the chief ruler of that great city. all the people whom they saw spoke in praise of his wisdom. when they told him their errand he was silent for a little while; then he said:-"i have never thought of myself as a wise man, and therefore the prize is not for me. but i know of at least six men who are famous for their wisdom, and one of them must be the wisest of the wise." "who are they?" asked the messengers. "their names are thales, bias, pittacus, cleobulus, periander, and chilon," answered solon. "we have offered the prize to each one of them," said the messengers, "and each one has refused it." "then there is only one other thing to be done," said solon. "carry it to delphi and leave it there in the temple of apollo; for apollo is the fountain of wisdom, the wisest of the wise." and this the messengers did. the famous men of whom i have told you in this story are commonly called the seven wise men of greece. they lived more than two thousand years ago, and each one helped to make his country famous. fifty famous people who they were, what they were, where they lived, aesop fabulist greece 550--? b.c. alexander king macedon 356--323 b.c. alfred the great king england 849--901 al mansour caliph spain 939--1002 al mansur caliph persia 712--775 arion musician greece 6th century b.c. aristomenes general greece 685--? b.c. bruce, robert king sweden 1274--1329 burritt, elihu philanthropist connecticut 1811--1879 caedmon poet england 650--720 (?) charles xii king sweden 1682--1718 coriolanus general rome 5th century b.c. cyrus king persia 6th century b.c. davenport, a. legislator connecticut 1715--1780 everett, edward statesman massachusetts 1794--1865 franklin, benj. statesman pennsylvania 1706--1790 frederick the great king prussia 1712--1786 fulton, robert inventor new york 1765--1815 gautama prince india 562--472 b.c. giotto, bondone painter italy 1276--1337 haroun al raschid caliph bagdad 750--809 henry iv king france 1553--1610 hogg, james poet scotland 1770--1835 jackson, andrew president united states 1767--1835 jefferson, thos. president united states 1743--1826 jones, sir william scholar england 1746--1794 lafayette general france 1757--1834 lee, robert e. general virginia 1807--1870 lincoln, abraham president united states 1809--1865 longfellow, h. w. poet massachusetts 1807--1882 louis xiv king france 1638--1715 mamoun caliph persia 785--? marshall, john statesman virginia 1755--1835 otanes general persia 6th century b.c. psammeticus king egypt 7th century b.c. putnam, israel general connecticut 1718--1790 randolph, john statesman virginia 1773--1833 revere, paul patriot massachusetts 1735--1818 richard iii king england 1452--1485 st. francis saint italy 1182--1226 selkirk, alexander sailor scotland 1676--1723 solomon king jerusalem 10th century b.c. solon philosopher athens 6th century b.c. swift, jonathan author ireland 1667--1745 tamerlane conqueror tartary 1333--1405 thales philosopher miletus 6th century b.c. washington, g. president united states 1732--1799 webster, daniel statesman massachusetts 1782--1852 west, benjamin painter pennsylvania 1738--1820 zeuxis painter greece 5th century b.c. a few other famous people mentioned in this volume. astyages king media 6th century b.c. bias philosopher priene 6th century b.c. chilon philosopher sparta 6th century b.c. cimabue painter florence 1240--1302 cleobulus king rhodes 6th century b.c. defoe, daniel author england 1661--1731 mazarin cardinal france 1602--1661 parrhasius painter greece --400 b.c. periander king corinth 6th century b.c. pittacus philosopher mitylene 6th century b.c. sheba, the queen of 10th century b.c. the story of beowulf translated from anglo-saxon into modern english prose by ernest j. b. kirtlan b.a. (london), b.d. (st. andrews) author of a translation of 'sir gawain and the green knight' decorated and designed by frederic lawrence with introduction, notes and appendices new york thomas y. crowell company publishers to the memory of my father note as to use of appendix i have relegated to the appendix all notes of any considerable length. the reader is advised to consult the appendices wherever directed in the footnotes. he will then have a much clearer conception of the principal characters and events of the poem. introduction 'beowulf' may rightly be pronounced the great national epic of the anglo-saxon race. not that it exalts the race so much as that it presents the spirit of the anglo-saxon peoples, the ideals and aims, the manners and customs, of our ancestors, and that it does so in setting before us a great national hero. beowulf himself was not an anglo-saxon. he was a geat-dane; but he belonged to that confraternity of nations that composed the teutonic people. he lived in an heroic age, when the songs of the wandering singers were of the great deeds of outstanding men. the absolute epic of the english people has yet to be written. to some extent arthur, though a british king--that is to say, though he was king of the celtic british people, who were subsequently driven into the west, into cornwall and wales and strathclyde, by our saxon ancestors--became nationalized by our anglo-norman ancestors as a typical king of the english people. he has become the epic king of the english in the poetry of tennyson. it is always a mystery to the writer that no competent singer among us has ever laid hands upon our own saxon hero, king alfred. it is sometimes said that there is nothing new under the sun, that there is nothing left for the modern singer to sing about, and that the realm of possible musical production is fast vanishing out of view. certainly this is not true of poetry. both alfred and arthur are waiting for the sympathetic voice that will tell forth to the world the immortal splendour of their personalities. and just as the anglo-normans idealized arthur as a hero-king of the english nation, though he really fought against the english, so the saxon singer of beowulf has idealized this geatish chieftain, and in some way set him forth as the idealized chieftain of the teutonic race. beowulf is an anglo-saxon poem.--it consists of 3182 lines. it is written in the alliterative verse of our ancestors in the anglo-saxon tongue, which, though the mother-tongue of the english, is yet more difficult to read for the englishman than latin or greek. one wonders whether any genuine anglo-saxon epic existed, and has been destroyed in the passing of the centuries. the curious feature about this poem is that it concerns a man who was not an anglo-saxon. our poem is written in the west saxon dialect. the original poem was probably in northumbrian, and was translated into west saxon during the period of literary efflorescence in the west saxon court. we do not know whether it was a translation or whether it was original, though the latter is, i believe, the prevailing opinion. arnold has put forth what may be called the missionary theory of its origin. he believes that both the choice of subject and the grade of culture may be connected with the missionary efforts of the english church of those days to extend christianity in friesland and further east. 'it does not seem improbable that it was in the interest of the spread of christianity that the composer of beowulf--perhaps a missioner, perhaps a layman attached to the mission--was attracted to the scandinavian lands; that he resided there long enough to become thoroughly steeped in the folk-lore and local traditions; that he found the grand figure of beowulf the geat predominant in them; and that, weaving into an organic whole those which he found suitable to his own purpose, he composed an epic which, on his return home, must soon have become known to all the lovers of english song.' [1] dr. sarrazin thought this unknown poet might have been the famous cynewulf. arnold, chiefly on stylistic grounds, differs from this opinion. this is arnold's opinion: 'sagas, either in the danish dialect or that of the geats--more probably the latter--were current in the scandinavian countries in the seventh century. among these sagas, that of beowulf the geat must have had a prominent place; others celebrated hygelac his uncle, hnaef the viking, the wars of the danes and the heathobards, of the danes and the swedes. about the end of the century missionaries from england are known to have been busy in friesland and denmark, endeavouring to convert the natives to christianity. some one of these, whose mind had a turn for literature and dwelt with joy upon the traditions of the past, collected or learnt by heart a number of these sagas, and, taking that of beowulf as a basis, and weaving some others into his work, composed an epic poem to which, although it contains the record of those adventures, the heroic scale of the figure who accomplishes them all imparts a real unifying epic interest.' whatever may be the truth as to its origin, there it lies in the british museum in its unique ms. as a testimony to all ages of the genius of the anglo-saxon race. now it will be quite naturally asked, what do we learn from beowulf of the genius and spirit of that race from which we are sprung? the one outstanding fact, as it appears to the writer, is the co-operative principle. and this principle stands in almost violent opposition to the ruling principle of the modern world, in which society is divided into a number of mutually opposite sections or classes, whose interests clash with fatal results to individual and corporate well-being. in this poem we see the whole community, from the king to the churl, bound by one common interest. king and chieftain and thane and churl freely intermingle and converse. they eat and drink and sleep under one common roof, or at least in one common enclosure. tempora mutantur! but the idea of social interaction and mutual interdependence never found more vivid or real expression than in the pictures presented in beowulf of hart, the great hall of hrothgar, and in the court and township of hygelac, king of the geats. in the hall of hart hrothgar and his queen and his courtiers sit at the high table on the dais, and the lower orders at the long table down the hall. the spears and shields adorn the walls. after the evening meal, the singer, or scop, as he is called, to the accompaniment of the harp, tells forth the deeds of some ancient feud, such as that of finn and the danes or the fight at finnsburgh, or the feud of the danes and the heathobards, in which freawaru, hrothgar's daughter, and ingeld figure so tragically. then the benches are removed, and the rude beds are spread out on the floor of the great hall and they seek 'evening rest.' the whole is a picture of fraternal and paternal government. if grendel, the fen-monster, carries away one of their number, then there is weeping and lamentation. the king and the queen and the nobility and the commonalty are all concerned in the tragedy. the loss of one is the loss of all. when aeschere is slain by grendel's mother hrothgar thus bewails his loss: 'seek no more after joy; sorrow is renewed for the danish folk. aeschere is dead, he who was my wise counsellor and my adviser and my comrade in arms, when in time of war we defended ourselves; ... but now the hand lieth low which bestowed every kind of joy upon you.' and in the end of the poem it is said of beowulf that he was 'most gentle to his folk.' the king was king only 'for his folk.' the interest of his folk, their physical and moral well-being, was his chief solicitude. 2. but not only was this so within any one nation or tribe, but there was a sense of comradeship and mutual responsibility among those of various tribes and nations. when beowulf the geat hears in gautland of the raids of grendel upon hart, he commands his folk to make ready a boat that he may fare across the sea to the help of hrothgar, because 'he was lacking in warriors.' beowulf's whole mission in hart was the discharge of a solemn obligation of help from the strong to the weak. he announces to hrothgar that he is come 'to cleanse hart of ill,' and this he feels he must do. 'woe is me if i preach not the gospel!' cried st. paul. 'woe is me if i help not the weak and cleanse not the demon-infested palace of my kinsman!' cried beowulf. 'weird goes as he willeth'; that is, fate must be submitted to. and fate hath willed that he should help the weak and 'cleanse the ill.' 3. then there is the tremendous sense of loyalty on the part of the folk to their king or chieftain. the idea of the 'comitatus' bound the folk to their leaders. nothing more disgraceful could be conceived than the desertion of the leader. terrible were the reproaches hurled at the trembling cowards who had hurried away into the woods, to save their own skins, whilst their king beowulf wrestled with the dragon, the enemy of the people. 'yea, death is better for any earl than a life of reproach.' loyalty, a passionate loyalty to the king, was the greatest of virtues, and disloyalty and cowardice the greatest of vices. society was an organic whole, bound together by the bands of loyalty and devotion to the common good. 4. there is, too, the fatalistic note heard all through the poem. beowulf feels himself hard pressed by fate. the anglo-saxon called fate by the name 'weird,' which has survived in modern english in the sense of something strange and mysterious. weird was the god, or goddess of fate. again and again in the poem we hear the solemn, minor, dirge-like refrain, 'weird hath willed it'; 'goeth weird as she willeth' (chapter vi. p. 44). there is this perpetual overshadowing and almost crushing sense of some inscrutable and irresistible power that wieldeth all things and disposeth all things, which is, i believe, a pre-eminent characteristic of the anglo-saxon race, and accounts for the dare-devil courage of her sons upon the battle-field or on the high seas. we find it, too, in its morally less attractive form in the recrudescent pessimism of modern literature. thomas hardy is the lineal descendant in literature of the author of beowulf when he says: 'thus the president of the immortals had finished his sport with poor tess.' [2] 5. and closely allied to this sense of destiny is the sombre view of life that is characteristic of the teutonic peoples. there is none of that passionate joy in beauty and in love that we find in the celtic literature. life is a serious thing in beowulf and with us of the anglo-saxon race. the scenery of beowulf is massive and threatening and mist-encircled. angry seas are boiling and surging and breaking at the foot of lofty and precipitous cliffs. above the edge of the cliffs stretch mysterious and gloomy moorlands, and treacherous bogs and dense forests inhabited by malignant and powerful spirits, the foes of humanity. in a land like this there is no time for love-making. eating, drinking, sleeping, fighting there make up the business of life. it is to the celtic inflow that we owe the addition of love in our modern literature. the composer of beowulf could not have conceived the arthur saga or the tristram love-legend. these things belong to a later age, when celtic and teutonic elements were fused in the anglo-norman race. but we still find in our literature the sombre hues. and, after all, it is in the forest of sorrow and pain that we discover the most beautiful flowers and the subtlest perfumes. i desire to express my indebtedness to a. j. wyatt and william morris for their translations; to a. j. wyatt for his edition of the poem in the original; to thomas arnold for his terse and most informing work on beowulf; to the authors of articles in the encyclopaedia britannica and in chambers's encyclopaedia and the cambridge history of english literature. ernest j. b. kirtlan. brighton, november, 1913. the story of beowulf i the prelude now we have heard, by inquiry, of the glory of the kings of the people, they of the spear-danes, how the athelings were doing deeds of courage. [3] full often scyld, the son of scef, with troops of warriors, withheld the drinking-stools from many a tribe. this earl caused terror when at first he was found in a miserable case. afterwards he gave help when he grew up under the welkin, and worshipfully he flourished until all his neighbours over the sea gave him obedience, and yielded him tribute. he was a good king. in after-time there was born to him a son in the court, whom god sent thither as a saviour of the people. he saw the dire distress that they formerly suffered when for a long while they were without a prince. then it was that the lord of life, the wielder of glory, gave to him glory. famous was beowulf. [4] far and wide spread his fame. heir was he of scyld in the land of the danes. thus should a young man be doing good deeds, with rich gifts to the friends of his father, so that in later days, when war shall come upon them, boon companions may stand at his side, helping their liege lord. for in all nations, by praiseworthy deeds, shall a man be thriving. at the fated hour scyld passed away, very vigorous in spirit, to the keeping of his lord. then his pleasant companions carried him down to the ocean flood, as he himself had bidden them, whilst the friend of the scyldings was wielding words, he who as the dear lord of the land had ruled it a long time. and there, in the haven, stood the ship, with rings at the prow, icy, and eager for the journey, the ferry of the atheling. then they laid down their dear lord the giver of rings, the famous man, on the bosom of the ship, close to the mast, where were heaps of treasures, armour trappings that had been brought from far ways. never heard i of a comelier ship, decked out with battle-weapons and weeds of war, with swords and byrnies. in his bosom they laid many a treasure when he was going on a far journey, into the power of the sea. nor did they provide for him less of booty and of national treasures than they had done, who at the first had sent him forth, all alone o'er the waves, when he was but a child. then moreover they set a golden standard high o'er his head, and let the sea take him, and gave all to the man of the sea. full sad were their minds, and all sorrowing were they. no man can say soothly, no, not any hall-ruler, nor hero under heaven, who took in that lading. [5] ii the story i moreover the danish beowulf, [6] the dear king of his people, was a long time renowned amongst the folk in the cities (his father, the prince, had gone a-faring elsewhere from this world). then was there born to him a son, the high healfdene; and while he lived he was ruling the happy danish people, and war-fierce and ancient was he. four children were born to him: heorogar the leader of troops, and hrothgar, and halga the good. and i heard say that queen elan (wife of ongentheow) was his daughter, and she became the beloved comrade of the swede. then to hrothgar was granted good speed in warfare and honour in fighting, so that his loyal subjects eagerly obeyed him, until the youths grew doughty, a very great band of warriors. then it burned in his mind that he would bid men be building a palace, a greater mead-hall than the children of men ever had heard of, and that he would therein distribute to young and to old, as god gave him power, all the wealth that he had save the share of the folk and the lives of men. then i heard far and wide how he gave commandment to many a people throughout all the world, this work to be doing, and to deck out the folkstead. in due time it happened that soon among men, this greatest of halls was now all ready. and hart he called it, whose word had great wielding. he broke not his promise, but gave to them rings and treasures at the banquet. the hall towered on high, and the gables were wide between the horns, [7] and awaited the surging of the loathsome flames. not long time should pass ere hatred was awakened after the battle-slaughter, twixt father-in-law and son-in-law. [8] then it was that the powerful sprite who abode in darkness, scarce could brook for a while that daily he heard loud joy in the hall. there was sound of harping, and the clear song of the bard. he who knew it was telling of the beginning of mankind, and he said that the almighty created the world, and the bright fields surrounded by water. and, exulting, he set the sun and the moon as lamps to shine upon the earth-dwellers, and adorned the world with branches and leaves. and life he was giving to every kind of living creature. so noble men lived in joy, and were all blessed till one began to do evil, a devil from hell; and this grim spirit was called grendel. and he was a march-stepper, who ruled on the moorlands, the fens, and the stronghold. for a while he kept guard, this unhappy creature, over the land of the race of monsters, since the creator had proscribed him. on the race of cain the eternal lord brought death as vengeance, when he slew abel. nor did he find joy in the feud, but god for the crime drove him far thence. thus it was that evil things came to their birth, giants and elves and monsters of the deep, likewise those giants who for a long while were striving with god himself. and well he requited them. ii then he went visiting the high house after nightfall, to see how the ring-danes were holding it. and he found there a band of athelings asleep after feasting. and they knew not sorrow or the misery of men. the grim and greedy wight of destruction, all fierce and furious, was soon ready for his task, and laid hold of thirty thanes, all as they lay sleeping. and away he wended, faring homeward and exulting in the booty, to revisit his dwellings filled full of slaughter. at the dawn of day the war-craft of grendel was seen by men. then after his feeding they set up a weeping, great noise in the morning. the glorious lord, the very good atheling, sat all unblithely, and suffered great pain, and endured sorrow for his thanes, when they saw the track of the loathly one, the cursed sprite. that struggle was too strong, loathsome and long. and after but one night (no longer time was it) he did them more murder-bale, and recked not a whit the feud and the crime. too quick was he therein. then he who had sought elsewhere more at large a resting-place, a bed after bower, was easily found when he was shown and told most truly, by the token so clear, the hate of the hell-thane. he went away farther and faster, he who would escape the fiend. so he ruled and strove against right, he alone against all of them, until the best of houses stood quite idle. and a great while it was--the friend of the danes suffered distress and sorrows that were great the time of twelve winters. then was it made known to the children of men by a sorrowful singing that grendel was striving this while against hrothgar, and waged hateful enmity of crime and feud for many a year with lasting strife, and would hold no truce against any man of the main host of danes, nor put away the life-bale, or settle feud with a fee, nor did any man need to hope for brighter bettering at the hand of the banesman. the terrible monster, a dark death-shadow, was pursuing the youth and the warriors, and he fettered and ensnared them, and ever was holding night after night the misty moorlands. and, men know not ever whither workers of hell-runes wander to and fro. thus the foe of mankind, the terrible and lonesome traveller, often he did them even greater despite. and he took up his dwelling in the treasure-decked hall of hart in the dark night, nor could he come near the throne the treasure of god, nor did he know his love. [9] and great was the evil to the friend of the danes, and breakings of heart. many a strong one sat in council, and much they discussed what was best for stout-hearted men to do against the fearful terror. and sometimes they went vowing at their heathen shrines and offered sacrifices, and with many words pleaded that the devil himself would give them his help against this menace to the nation. for such was their custom, the hope of the heathen. and ever of hell they thought in their hearts; the creator they knew not, the judge of all deeds, nor knew they the lord god, nor could they worship the protector of the heavens, the wielder of glory. woe be to that man who shall shove down a soul through hurtful malice into the bosom of the fire, and who hopes for no help nor for any change--well shall it be with that one who after his death day shall seek the lord and desire protection in the embrace of the father. iii so beowulf, son of healfdene, ever was brooding over this time-care, nor could the brave hero avert woe. that conflict was too strong, loathsome and long, that terrible and dire distress, the greatest of night-bales which came to the people. then the thane of hygelac, [10] the good man of the geats, [11] heard from home of the deeds of grendel. and on the day of this life he was the strongest of main of all men in the world; noble was he and powerful. he bade a fair ship be made, and said that he would be seeking the war-king, the famous prince, over the swan path, and that he needed men. and the proud churls little blamed him for that journey, though dear he was to them. they urged on the valiant man and marked the omen. the good man of the geats had chosen champions of those who were keenest, and sought out the ship. and one, a sea-crafty man, pointed to the land-marks. time passed by; the ship was on the waves, the boat under the cliff, and the warriors all readily went up to the stern. and the currents were swirling, with sea and sand. and men were carrying on to the naked deck bright ornaments and splendid war-armour. then they shove forth the ship that was well bound together; and it set forth over the waves, driven by the wind, this foamy-necked ship, likest to a bird; until about the same time on the next day, the ship with its twisted stern had gone so far that the sailing men could see the land, the shining sea-cliffs, the steep mountains, and the wide sea-nesses. then they crossed the remaining portion of the sea. [12] the geats went up quickly on to the shore, and anchored the ship. war-shirts and war-weeds were rattling. and they gave god thanks for their easy crossing of the waves. then the ward of the swedes, who kept guard over the sea-cliffs, saw them carry down the gangways the bright shields and armour, all ready. and full curious thought tortured him as to who these men were. he, the thane of hrothgar, rode down to the beach on his charger, and powerfully brandished the spear in his hand and took counsel with them. 'who are ye armour-bearers, protected by byrnies, who come here thus bringing the high vessel over the sea, and the ringed ship over the ocean? i am he that sits at the end of the land and keep sea-guard, so that no one more loathsome may scathe with ship-army the land of the danes. never have shield-bearers begun to come here more openly, yet ye seem not to know the password of warriors, the compact of kinsmen. nor ever have i seen a greater earl upon earth, than one of your band, a warrior in armour. and except his face belie him, he that is thus weapon-bedecked is no hall-man; but a peerless one to see. now must i know your lineage before you go farther with your false spies in the land of the danes. now o ye far-dwellers and sea-farers, hear my onefold thought--haste is best in making known whence ye are come.' iv then the eldest gave answer, and unlocked his treasure of words, the wise one of the troop: 'we are of the race of the geats and hearth-comrades of hygelac. my father was well known to the folk, a noble prince was he called ecgtheow. and he bided many winters, ere as an old man he set out on his journeys away from the dwelling places. and wellnigh every councillor throughout all the world remembered him well. we through bold thinking have come to seek thy lord, the son of healfdene, the protector of the people. vouchsafe to us good guidance. we have a great business with the lord of the danes, who is far famed. nor of this shall aught be secret as i am hoping. well thou knowest if 'tis true as we heard say, that among the danes some secret evil-doer, i know not what scather, by terror doth work unheard-of hostility, humiliation, and death. i may give counsel through greatness of mind to hrothgar as to how he, the wise and good, may overcome the fiend, if ever should cease for him the baleful business and bettering come after and his troubles wax cooler, or for ever he shall suffer time of stress and miserable throes, while the best of all houses shall remain on the high stead.' then the watchman, the fearless warrior, as he sat on his horse, quickly made answer: 'the shield-warrior who is wide awake, shall know how to tell the difference between words and works, if he well bethink him. i can see that this band of warriors will be very welcome to the lord of the danes. go ye forth, therefore, bear weapons and armour, as i will direct you. and i will command my thanes to hold against every foe, your ship in honour, new tarred as it is, and dry on the sands, until it shall carry the dearly loved man, that ship with the twisted prow, to the land of the geats. to each of the well-doers shall it be given to escape scot-free out of the battle rush.' then they went forth carrying their weapons. and there the ship rested, fastened by a rope, the wide-bosomed vessel secured by its anchor. the boar [13] held life ward, bright and battle-hard and adorned with gold, over the neck-guard of the handsome beowulf. there was snorting of the war-like-minded, whilst men were hastening, as they marched on together till they caught sight of the splendid place decked out in gold. and it was the most famous of palaces, under the heavens, of the earth-dwellers, where the ruler was biding. its glory shone over many lands. then the dear one in battle showed them the bright house where were the brave ones, that they might straightway make their way towards it. then one of the warriors turned his horse round, and spake this word: 'time it is for me to go. may the almighty father hold you in favour, and keep you in safety in all your journeyings. i will go to the sea-coast to keep my watch against the fierce troops.' v the way was paved with many coloured stones, and by it they knew the path they should take. the coat of mail shone brightly, which was firmly hand-locked. the bright iron ring sang in the armour as they came on their way in their warlike trappings at the first to the great hall. then the sea-weary men set down their broad shields, their shields that were wondrous hard 'gainst the wall of the great house, and bowed towards the bench. and byrnies were rattling, the war-weapons of men. and the spears were standing in a row together, the weapons of the sea-men and the spear grey above. and the troop of armed men was made glorious with weapons. then the proud chieftain asked the warriors of their kindred: 'from whence are ye bringing such gold-plated shields, grey sarks and helmets with visors, and such a heap of spears? i am the servant and messenger of hrothgar. never saw i so many men prouder. i trow it was for pride and not at all for banishment, but for greatness of mind that hrothgar ye are seeking.' then answered the brave man, the chief of the geats, and spake these words, hard under helmet: 'we are the comrades at table of hygelac. beowulf is my name. i will say fully this my errand to the son of healfdene the famous chieftain, unto thy lord and master, if he will grant us that we may salute him who is so good.' then spake wulfgar (he was prince of the wendels [14]). his courage was known to all, his valour and wisdom. 'i will make known to the prince of the danes, the lord of the scyldings [15] the giver of rings the famous chieftain as thou art pleading, about thy journey, and will make known to thee quickly the answer which he the good man thinks fit to give me.' quickly he turned then to where hrothgar was sitting, old and very grey with his troop of earls. the brave man then went and stood before the shoulders of the lord of the danes. well he knew the custom of the doughty ones. wulfgar then spoke to his lord and friend: 'here are come faring from a far country over the wide sea, a people of the geats, and the eldest the warriors call beowulf. and they are asking that they may exchange words with thee, my lord. o gladman hrothgar, do not refuse to be talking with them. for worthy they seem all in their war-weeds, in the judgement of earls. at least he is a daring prince who hither hath led this band of warriors.' vi then spake hrothgar the protector of the danes: 'well i knew him when he was a child, and his old father was called ecgtheow. and to him did hrethel of the geats give his only daughter, and his son is bravely come here and hath sought out a gracious friend.' then said the sea-farers who had brought the goodly gifts of the geats there for thanks, that he the battle-brave had in his hand-grip the main craft of thirty men. 'and the holy god hath sent him for favour to us west danes, and of this i have hope, 'gainst the terror of grendel. i shall offer the goodman gifts for his daring. now make thou haste and command the band of warrior kinsmen into the presence. bid them welcome to the people of the danes.' then went wulfgar even to the hall-door, and spake these words: 'my liege lord, the prince of the east danes, commands me to say that he knows your lineage. and ye who are bold of purpose are welcome hither over the sea-waves. now may ye go in your war-weeds, under your visored helmets to see hrothgar. let your swords stay behind here, the wood and the slaughter-shafts and the issue of words.' then the prince rose up, and about him was many a warrior, a glorious band of thanes. and some bided there and held the battle-garments as the brave man commanded. and they hastened together under the roof of hrothgar as the man directed them. the stout-hearted man went forward, hard under helmet till he stood by the dais. then beowulf spake (and the byrny shone on him, the coat of mail, sewn by the cunning of the smith): 'o hrothgar, all hail! i am the kinsman and comrade of hygelac. [16] many marvels i have set on foot in the days of my youth. the affair of grendel was made known to me in my native land. sea-farers told how this best of all palaces stood idle and useless to warriors, after evening light came down under the brightness of heaven. then my people persuaded me, the best and the proudest of all my earls, o my lord hrothgar, that i should seek thee, for they well knew my main strength. for they themselves saw how i came forth bloodstained from the power of the fiend, when i bound the five, and destroyed the giant's kin, and slew 'mongst the waves, sea-monsters by night, and suffered such dire distress, and wreaked vengeance for the strife of the geats (for woe they were suffering), and i destroyed the fierce one. and now all alone i shall settle the affair of grendel the deadly monster, the cruel giant. and one boon will i be asking, o prince of the bright danes, thou lord of the scyldings, protector of warriors and friend of the folk, that thou wilt not refuse, since so far i am come, that i and my troop of earls, this crowd of brave men, may alone cleanse out hart. i have heard say also that the monster because of his rashness recks not of weapons. and, if hygelac the blithe-minded will be my liege lord, i will forgo to carry to the battle a sword, or broad shield all yellow; but i will engage by my hand-grip with the enemy, and strive for life, foe with foe. and he whom death taketh shall believe in the doom of the lord. and i doubt not he will fearlessly consume the people of the geats, if he may prevail in the war-hall as he has often done with the strong men of the danes. and thou shalt not need to hide my head if death take me, for he will seize me all bloodstained, and will bury the slaughter all bloody, and will think to taste and devour me alone and without any sorrow, and will stain the glens in the moorland. and thou needest not to sorrow longer over the food of my body. and if battle take me, send to hygelac this best of coats of mail, the noblest of garments. it is the heirloom of hrethel the work of weland [17]; and let weird go as it will.' vii hrothgar gave answer, the protector of the danes: 'o my friend beowulf, now thou hast sought us, for defence and for favour. thy father fought in the greatest of feuds. he was banesman to heatholaf amongst the wylfings, when for battle-terror the king of the geats could not hold him. thence he sought the folk of the south danes over the welter of waves. then first was i ruling the danish folk, and in my youthful days possessed the costly jewels, the treasure city of heroes. then heregar was dead, my elder brother not living was he, the child of healfdene. he was a better man than i was. then a payment of money settled the matter. i sent to the wylfings ancient presents over the sea-ridges. and he swore to me oaths. and it is to me great sorrow in my heart to tell any man what grendel hath done in hart through his malice, of humiliation and sudden horror. my hall-troop has grown less, the crowd of my thanes; weird [18] has swept them towards the terror of grendel. but easily may the good god restrain the deeds of the foolish scather. and drunken with beer the warriors full often boasted o'er the ale-cup that they would bide in the beer-hall the battle of grendel with the terror of swords. then was the mead-hall all bloodstained in the morning when dawn came shining, and all the benches were wet with gore, the hall with sword-blood. and so much the less did i rule o'er dear doughty ones whom death had taken. now sit down to the banquet and unbind thy thoughts, thy hopes to the thanes, as thy mind inspires thee.' then was there room made in the beer-hall for the geats all together. and there they went and sat down, the strong-hearted men, proud of their strength. and a thane waited on them, who bore in his hands the ale-cup bedecked, and he poured out the sparkling mead, while the clear-voiced bard kept singing in hart. there was joy to the heroes, and a very great gathering of danes and of geats. viii spake then unferth, the son of eglaf, who sat at the feet of the lord of the danes and opened a quarrel. (for the journey of beowulf, of the brave sea-farer, was vexation to him, for he could not brook that ever any other man than he himself should obtain greater fame in all the earth.) 'what!' said he, 'art thou that beowulf who didst contend with breca, and strovest for the mastery in swimming o'er wide seas, when ye two for pride were searching the waves and for foolish boasting risked your lives in the deep waters? no man could dissuade you from that sorrowful journey, neither friend nor foe, when ye two swam in the sea, when ye two enfolded the waves with your arms and measured the sea-ways and brandished your arms as you glided o'er the ocean. the sea boiled with waves the wintry whelming. and for seven nights long ye were toiling in the stress of seas. but he o'erpowered thee in swimming, for greater strength had he. then at the morning tide the sea bore him up to the land of the heathoremes. thence he was seeking the friend of his people his own dear country, the land of the brondings, the fair city of refuge, where he had his own folk, and a city and rings. the son of beanstan soothly fulfilled his boasting against thee. so do i deem it a worse matter, though thou art everywhere doughty in the rush of battle and grim warfare, if thou shalt be daring to bide near grendel a night-long space.' then beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'what! my friend unferth, drunken with beer, many things thou art saying about that breca and talkest of his journey. but soothly i tell thee that i had the greater strength in that swimming, and endurance in the waves. we two agreed when we were youngsters, and boasted (for we were both still in the days of our youth) that we in the ocean would be risking our lives. and so in deed we did. we had a naked sword hard in our hands when we were swimming. we two were thinking to guard us 'gainst whale fishes. nor over the sea-waves might he be floating a whit far from me, more quickly on the waters. then we together were in the sea for the space of five nights until the flood, the boiling waters drove us asunder. and the coldest of weather, and the darkening night, and a wind from the north battle-grim turned against us, and rough were the waves. and the mind of the mere-fishes was stirred when my shirt of mail that was hand-locked gave to me help against the foe. the decorated battle-robe lay on my breast all adorned with gold, and the doomã¨d and dire foe drew to the bottom, and fast he had me grim in his grip. still to me was granted that i reached to the monster with the point of my sword. and the mighty sea-deer carried off the battle-rush through my hand.' ix 'so then evil-doers did often oppress me. and i served them with my dear sword as was most fitting. not at all of the feasting had they any joy. evil destroyers sat round the banquet at the bottom of the sea, that they might seize me. but in the morning, wounded by my sword, they lay up on the foreshore, put to sleep by my weapon so that they hindered no more the faring of the sea-goers. light came from the eastward, the bright beacon of god. the waves grew less that i could catch sight of the sea-nesses, the windy walls. weird often saveth the earl that is undoomed when his courage is doughty. nevertheless it happened that i slew with my sword nine of the sea-monsters. nor have i heard under vault of heaven of a harder night-struggle, nor of a more wretched man on the sea-streams. still i escaped from the grasp of the foes, with my life, and weary of the journey. when the sea bore me up, on the flood tide, on the welling of waves, to the land of the finns. nor have i heard concerning thee of any such striving or terror of swords. breca never yet, nor either of you two, did such a deed with shining sword in any battle-gaming (not that i will boast of this too much), yet wast thou the slayer of thy brother, thy chief kinsman. and for this in hell shalt thou suffer a curse, though thy wit be doughty. and soothly i tell thee, o son of eglaf, that grendel that hateful monster never had done such terrors to thy life and humiliation in hart if thy mind and thy soul were as battle-fierce as thou thyself dost say. but he has found that he needed not to fear the feud the terrible sword-thrust of your people the danes. he taketh forced toll, and spareth none of the danish people, but joyfully wageth war, putteth them to sleep and feedeth on them, and expecteth no fight from the danes. but i shall ere long offer him in war the strength and the courage of the geats. let him go who can to the mead all proudly when morning light shall shine from the south, another day over the children of men.' then in the hall the giver of rings was grey-haired and battle-brave. the prince of the danes was hopeful of help. the guardian of the folk fixed on beowulf his firm-purposed thought. there was laughter 'mong heroes, din resounded, and words were winsome. wealtheow went forth, the queen of hrothgar, mindful of kinship and decked out in gold, she greeted beowulf in the hall. and then the lovely wife first proffered the goblet to the lord of the east danes, and bade him be blithe at the beer-drinking, he who was dear to all his people. and gladly he took the banquet and hall-cup, he the victorious king. the lady of the helmings [19] went round about every one of the youthful warriors, and proffered the costly cup, until the time came that the ring-adorned queen, most excellent in spirit, bore the mead-cup then to beowulf. she, the wise in words, greeted the geats and gave thanks to god that she had her desire that she might trust in any earl for help against such crimes. he gladly received it, he the battle-fierce warrior, from the hand of wealtheow, and then began singing, inspired by a warlike spirit. beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'i had intended at once to work out the will of this your people when i set forth over the sea and sat in my sea-boat with the troop of my people, or that i would fall in the slaughter fast in the fiend's grip. i shall yet acquit myself as befitteth an earl, or in the mead-hall await my last day.' and well the lady liked the words, the boasting of the geat. and that lovely queen went all decked out in gold to sit by her lord. then mighty words were spoken in the hall as before, by the people in joyance and the noise of the victors, until the son of healfdene [20] straightway would be seeking his evening rest. and he knew that a battle was doomed in the high hall to the monster when no longer they could see the light of the sun, or darkening night came stalking over all the shapes of shadows. the troop of warriors rose up, the lord greeted the other, hrothgar greeted beowulf, and wished him good health and the warding of that wine-hall, and he spake the word: 'since the time that i could lift my hand or my shield, never have i given the mighty hall of the danes into the care of any, except now to thee. have now and hold thou this best of houses, be thou mindful of honour, and show thyself courageous, and wakeful 'gainst foes. nor shalt thou lack joy if thou escapest from that brave work with life.' x then hrothgar departed with his troop of heroes, he the prince of the scyldings; out of hall went he, for the battle-chieftain would be seeking out wealtheow his queen, that they might go to rest. the glory of kings had appointed a hall-ward, as men say, against grendel. a thane was in waiting on the prince of the danes, and his watch was keeping against the giant. the lord of the geats readily trusted the proud strength, the favour of god. then doffed he the iron coat of mail and his helmet from his head, and gave his sword bedecked, the choicest of weapons, to a thane that was serving, and bade him to hold ready his armour. then the good man spoke some words of boasting: 'i reck not myself meaner in war-powers and works of battle than grendel doth himself. for i will not with sword put him to sleep and be taking his life away, though well i might do it. he knows not of good things, that he may strike me, or hew my shield, though brave he may be in hostile working--but we two by right will forbear the sword if he dare be seeking warfare without weapon, and then god all-knowing, the holy lord, shall adjudge the glory on whichever side he may think meet.' then the bold in fight got him to rest, and the pillow received the head of the earl, and many a keen sea-warrior lay down on his bed in the hall about him. none of them thought that he thence would ever seek another dear home, folk or free city where he was a child; for they had heard that fell death had taken, ere this too many, in that wine-hall, of the people of the danes. but the lord gave weavings of war-speed to the people of the geats, both comfort and help. so that they all overcame their enemies through the craft of one man and by his might only. and truly it is said that god almighty doth wield for ever the race of men. then came in the wan night the shadow-goer gliding. warriors were sleeping when they should have been keeping guard over that palace; all save one only. it was well known to men that their constant foe could not draw them into shadowy places when the creator was unwilling. but he, ever wakeful, in angry mood, and fiercely indignant against the foe, was waiting the issue. xi then came grendel, stalking from the moors among the misty hill-slopes, and he bore god's anger. and the wicked scather of human kind fully intended to ensnare a certain one in the high hall. so he wended his way under the welkin to where he knew that the best of wine-halls, the gold-hall of man, was adorned with gold plating. nor was that the first time that he sought out the home of hrothgar. nor ever in former or later days did he find a harder welcome from hall-thanes. then the creature bereft of all joy came to the great hall, and the door, strongly bound with fire-bands, soon sprang open at his touch. and the evil-minded one in his fury burst open the door of the palace. and soon after this the enemy, angry in mind, was treading o'er the doomã¨d floor. and a fearsome light streamed forth from his eyes likest to a flame. and he could see many a warrior in that palace, a troop of peace-lovers asleep together, a company of kinsmen, and he laughed aloud. then the terrible monster fully intended to cut off from life every one of them there, when he was expecting abundance of meat. but that fate was not yet, that he should lay hold of any more of human kind after that night. then did beowulf, kinsman of hygelac, see the dire distress, how the wicked scather would fare with sudden grip. nor did the monster think to delay, but at the first he quickly laid hold of a sleeping warrior, and tore him to pieces all unawares, and bit at the flesh and drank the streaming blood, and devoured huge pieces of flesh. and soon he had eaten up both feet and hands of the man he had killed. then he stepped up to the great-hearted warrior [21] where he lay on the bed, and took him in his hands. he reached out his hand against the enemy, and quickly received him with hostile intent, and sat upon his arm. the keeper of crimes soon was finding that he never had met in all the quarters of the earth amongst other men a greater hand-grip. and in mind and heart he was fearful, and eager to be gone and to flee away into darkness to seek the troop of devils. but that was not his fate, as it had been in days of yore. then the good kinsman of hygelac remembered the evening talk, and stood upright and laid hold upon him. his fingers burst. the giant was going forth, but the earl stepped after. the famous one intended to escape more widely, howsoever he might, and to flee on his way thence to the sloping hollows of the fens. that journey was sorrowful, which the harmful scather took to hart. the lordly hall resounded. and great terror there was to all the danes, the castle-dwellers, to each of the brave. and both the mighty guardians were fiercely angry. the hall resounded. then was it great wonder that the wine-hall withstood the bold fighters, and that it fell not to the earth, that fair earth-dwelling. but very firm it was standing, cunningly shaped by craft of the smith, within and without. then on the floor was many a mead-bench, as i have heard tell, decked out with gold, where the fierce ones were striving. nor did the wise danes formerly suppose that any man could break down a hall so noble and decorated with antlers, or cunningly destroy it, unless the bosom of flame swallowed it up in smoke. the roaring went up now enough. and an awful terror came to the north danes, to each one of those who heard weeping from the ramparts, the enemy of god singing a fierce song, a song that was empty of victory, and the captive of hell lamenting his sorrow. for he that was strongest of men in strength held him fast on the day of his life. xii the prince of earls would not at all let go alive the murderous comer, nor did he count his life as of use to any of the peoples. and many an earl of beowulf's brandished the old heirloom, and were wishful to defend the life of their far-famed liege-lord, if they might do so. and they knew not, when they entered the battle, they the hard-thinking ones, the battle-men, and they thought to hew on all sides seeking out his spirit, that not any choice iron over the earth nor any battle weapon could be greeting the foe, but that he had forsworn all victorious weapons and swords. and miserable should be his passing on the day of this life, and the hostile sprite should journey far into the power of devils. then he found out that, he who did crimes long before this with mirthful mind to human kind, he who was a foe to god, that his body would not last out; but the proud kinsman of hygelac had him in his hands. and each was loathsome to the other while he lived. the terrible monster, sore with wounds was waiting. the gaping wound was seen on his shoulder. his sinews sprang open; and the bone-lockers burst. and great victory was given to beowulf. thence would grendel, mortally wounded, flee under the fen-slopes to seek out a joyless dwelling. the more surely he knew he had reached the end of his life, the number of his days. joy befell all the danes after the slaughter-rush. so he had cleansed the hall of hrothgar--he who had come from far, the proud and stout-hearted one, and saved them from strife. he rejoiced in the night-work and in the glorious deeds. his boast he had fulfilled, this leader of the geats, which he made to the east danes, and likewise made good all the distresses and the sorrows which they suffered of yore from the foe, and which through dire need they had to endure, of distresses not a few. and when the battle-brave man laid down the hand, the arm and shoulder under the wide roof, that was the manifest token. xiii then in the morning, as i have heard say, was many a battle-warrior round about the gift-hall. came the folk-leaders from far and from near along the wide ways to look at the marvel. nor did his passing seem a thing to grieve over to any of the warriors of those who were scanning the track of the glory-less wight, how weary in mind he had dragged along his life-steps, on the way thence doomed and put to flight, and overcome in the fight at the lake of the sea-monsters. there was the sea boiling with blood, the awful surge of waves all mingled with hot gore. the death-doomã¨d one dyed the lake when void of joys he laid down his life in the fen for refuge. and hell received him. thence after departed the old companions, likewise many a young one from the joyous journeys, proud from the lake to ride on mares, the youths on their horses. and there was the glory of beowulf proclaimed. and many a one was saying that no man was a better man, no, none in the whole wide world under arch of the sky, of all the shield-bearers, neither south nor north, by the two seas. nor a whit did they blame in the least their friend and lord, the glad hrothgar; for he was a good king. meanwhile the famed in battle let the fallow mares leap and go faring forth to the contest, wherever the earth-ways seemed fair unto them and well known for their choiceness: and the thane of the king, he who was laden with many a vaunt, and was mindful of songs, and remembered a host of very many old sagas, he found other words, but bound by the truth. and a man began wisely to sing the journey of beowulf, and to tell skilful tales with speeding that was good, and to interchange words. he told all that ever he had heard concerning sigmund, [22] with his deeds of courage, and much that is unknown, the strife of waelsing; and the wide journeys which the children of men knew not at all, the feud and the crimes, when fitela was not with him, when he would be saying any of such things, the uncle to the nephew, for always they were comrades in need at all the strivings. they had laid low very many of the giant's race by means of the sword. and after his death-day a no little fame sprang up for sigmund when he, the hard in battle, killed the worm, the guardian of the hoard. he alone the child of the atheling, hazarded a fearful deed, under the grey stone. nor was fitela with him. still it happened to him that his sword pierced through the wondrous worm, and it stood in the wall, that doughty iron, and the dragon was dead. and so this monster had gained strength in that going so that he might enjoy the hoard of rings by his own doom. he loaded the sea-boat and bore the bright treasures on to the ship's bosom, he the son of waels. the worm melted hot. he was of wanderers the most widely famous in deeds of courage, amongst men, the protector of warriors. he formerly throve thus. then the warfare of heremod [23] was waning, his strength and his courage, and he was betrayed among the giants into the hands of the foes, and sent quickly away. and too long did whelming sorrow vex his soul. he was a source of care to his people, to all the nobles, and many a proud churl often was lamenting in former times the way of life of the stout-hearted, they who trusted him for the bettering of bales, that the child of their lord should always be prospering, and succeed to his father's kingdom, and hold the folk, the hoard and city of refuge, the kingdom of heroes, the country of the danes. but beowulf hygelac's kinsman was fairer to all men; but crime assailed heremod. [24] sometimes they passed along the fallow streets contending on mares. then came the light of morning and hastened forth. and many a stiff-minded messenger went to the high hall to see the rare wonder. likewise the king himself, the ward of the hoard of rings, came treading all glorious and with a great suite, forth from the bridal bower, and choice was his bearing, and his queen with him passed along the way to the mead-hall with a troop of maidens. xiv hrothgar spake. he went to the hall and stood on the threshold and saw the steep roof all decked out with gold and the hand of grendel. 'let thanks be given quickly to god for this sight,' said he. 'often i waited for the loathsome one, for the snares of grendel. may god always work wonder after wonder, he the guardian of glory. it was not long ago that i expected not a bettering of any woes for ever, when, doomed to blood, this best of all houses stood all stained with gore. now has this hero done a deed, through the power of the lord, which none of us formerly could ever perform with all our wisdom. lo! any woman who gave birth to such a son among human kind, may say, if she yet live, that the creator was gracious unto her in bearing of children. now, o beowulf, i will love thee in heart as my son. hold well to this new peace. nor shall there be any lack of joys to thee in the world, over which i have power. full oft i for less have meted out rewards and worshipful gifts to a meaner warrior, one weaker in strife. thou hast framed for thyself mighty deeds, so that thy doom liveth always and for ever. may the all-wielder ever yield thee good as he now doth.' beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'we framed to fight that brave work with much favour, and hazarded a deed of daring and the might of the unknown. i quickly gave you to see the monster himself the enemy in his fretted armour ready to fall. i thought to twist him quickly with hard grip on a bed of slaughter so that he should lie in the throes of death, because of my hand-grip, unless he should escape with his body. but i could not cut off his going when the creator willed it not. i cleft him not readily, that deadly fiend. he was too strong on his feet. nevertheless he left behind his hand as a life protection to show the track, his arm and his shoulders. but not by any means thus did that wretched creature get any help, nor by that did the evil-doer, brought low by sin, live any longer. but sorrow hath him in its fatal grip closely encompassed with baleful bands. there shall a man covered with sins be biding a mickle doom as the shining creator will prescribe.' then was the man silent, the son of ecglaf, in his boasting speech about deeds of battle, when the athelings looked at the hand high up on the roof, by the craft of the earl, and the fingers of the foe, there before each one. and each of the places of the nails was likest to steel, the claw of the heathen, the uncanny claw of the battle warrior. every one was saying that no very good iron, of any of the brave ones, would touch him at all, that would bear away thence the bloody battle-hand of the monster. xv then was it bidden that hart should be decked by their hands on the inside. and many there were of the men and wives who adorned that wine-hall the guest-chamber. and the tapestries shone along the walls brocaded with gold; many a wonderful sight for every man who stareth upon them. and that bright dwelling was greatly marred, though within it was fast bound with iron yet the door-hinges had sprung apart. the roof alone escaped all safe and sound when the monster turned to flight despairing of life and doomed for his crimes. nor will it be easy to escape from that fate, whosoever may try to, but he shall get by strife the ready place of the children of men of the soul-bearers, who dwell upon earth, by a fate that cannot be escaped where his body shall sleep after the banquet fast in the tomb. then was the time for healfdene's son to go into the hall, when the king himself would partake of the banquet. nor have i ever heard tell that any people in greater numbers bore themselves better about their treasure-giver. and the wealthy ones sat down on the bench and rejoiced in their feeding. and full courteously their kinsmen took many a mead-cup, they the stout-hearted hrothgar and hrothulf in the high hall. and within was hart filled with friends. and by no means were the danes the while framing treacheries. then the son of healfdene gave to beowulf the golden banner, the decorated staff banner as a reward for his conquest, and the helm and the byrny. and many a one saw the youth bear in front the bejewelled sword. beowulf took the cup in the hall. nor did he need to be ashamed of the fee-gift in the presence of warriors. nor have i heard tell of many men giving to others on any ale-bench, four gifts gold-decked, in friendlier fashion. the outside rim wound with wires gave protection to the head on the outer side around the crown of the helmet. so that many an heirloom [25] could not hurt fiercely the helmet that was hardened by being plunged in cold water when the shield-warrior should attack the angry one. the protector of earls commanded eight horses to be brought in under the barriers, with bridles gold plated. and a varicoloured saddle was fixed upon one of them, decked out with treasures, and this was the battle-seat of the high king when the son of healfdene would be doing the sword-play. never in the van did it fail the warrior so widely kenned when the helmets were falling. then the prince of the danes gave to beowulf the wielding of them both, of horses and weapons; and bade him well enjoy them. and thus in manly fashion the famous chieftain, the treasure-guardian of heroes, rewarded the battle onslaught with horses and treasures so as no man can blame them, whoever will be saying rightly the truth. xvi then the lord of earls as he sat on the mead-bench gave glorious gifts to each one of those who had fared with beowulf over the ocean-ways, and heirlooms they were; and he bade them atone for that one with gold whom formerly grendel had wickedly killed as he would have done more of them unless almighty god and the spirit of beowulf had withstood weird. the creator ruleth all of human kind, as still he is doing. and good understanding is always the best thing, and forethought of mind. and he who long enjoys here the world in these strife-days, shall be biding both pleasant and loathsome fate. then was there clamour and singing together in the presence of the battle-prince of healfdene, and the harp was sounded and a song often sung, when hrothgar's scop would tell forth the hall-mirth as he sat on the mead-bench. 'when fear was befalling the heirs of finn, [26] the hero of the half-danes, and hnaef of the danes must fall in the slaughter of the frisian people. not in the least did hildeburh need to be praising the troth of the jutes. for sinlessly was she deprived of her dear ones in the play of swords of children and brothers. by fate they fell, wounded by arrows. and she was a sad woman. nor without reason did the daughter of hoc [27] mourn their doom. when morning light came, and she could see under the sky the murder of her kinsmen where she before in the world had the greatest of joy. for warfare took away all the thanes of finn except a mere remnant, so that he could not in the place where they met fight any warfare at all with hengest, nor seize from the prince's thane the woful leavings by fighting. but they offered him terms, so that they all made other room for them on the floor, and gave them halls and a high seat that they might have half the power with the children of the jutes; and the son of folcwalda [28] honoured the danes every day with fee-givings, and bestowed rings on the troop of hengest, yea, even great treasures plated with gold, so that he would be making the kin of the frisians bold in the beer-hall. then they swore on both sides a treaty of peace. finn swore with hengest and all without strife that he held in honour the woful remnant by the doom of the wise men, and that no man there by word or work should break the treaty, or ever annul it through treacherous cunning, though they followed the slayers of their ring-giver, all bereft of their lord as was needful for them. but if any one of the frisians by daring speech should bring to mind the murderous hate between them, then should the edge of the sword avenge it. then sworn was that oath, and massive gold was lifted up from the hoard. then was hnaef, the best of the warriors, of the bold danes, ready on the funeral pyre. and the blood-stained shirt of mail was easily seen, the golden boar, in the midst of the flame, the iron-hard boar, [29] and many an atheling destroyed by wounds. some fell on the field of death. then hildeburh commanded her very own son to be thrust in the flames of the pyre of hnaef, his body to be burned and be put in the fire. and great was the moaning of the mother for her son, and dirge-like lamenting as the warrior ascended. and the greatest of slaughter-fires wound its way upwards towards the welkin and roared before the cavern. heads were melting, wounds burst asunder. then blood sprang forth from the wounds of the body. flame swallowed all, that most cruel of ghosts, of both of those folk whom battle destroyed. their life was shaken out. xvii 'then the warriors went forth to visit the dwellings which were bereft of friends, and to look upon the land of the frisians, the homesteads and the high town. and hengest was still dwelling with finn, that slaughter-stained winter, all bravely without strife. and he thought on the homeland, though he could not be sailing his ringed ship over the waters. the sea boiled with storm and waged war with the wind. and winter locked up the ice-bound waves till yet another year came in the court, as still it doth, which ever guards the seasons, and the glory-bright weather. then winter was scattered, and fair was the bosom of the earth. [30] and the wanderer strove to go, the guest from the court. and much more he thought of vengeance for the feud than of the sea-voyage, as to how he could bring about an angry encounter, for he bore in mind the children of the jutes. and so he escaped not the lot of mortals when hunlafing did on his arm the best of swords, the flashing light of the battle, whose edge was well known to the jutes. and dire sword-bale after befel the fierce-minded finn, even in his very own home, when guthlaf and oslaf lamented the grim grip of war and the sorrow after sea-journeys, and were charging him with his share in the woes. nor could he hold back in his own breast his fluttering soul. then again was the hall adorned with the bodies of foemen, and finn was also slain, the king with his troop, and the queen was taken. and the warriors of the danes carried to the ships all the belongings of the earth-king, such as they could find in the homestead of finn, of ornaments and jewels. they bore away also the noble wife hildeburh down to the sea away to the danes, and led her to her people.' so a song was sung, a lay of the gleemen, and much mirth there was and great noise from the benches. and cup-bearers offered wine from wondrous vessels. then came forth queen wealtheow in her golden circlet, where the two good men were sitting, the uncle and his nephew. and still were they in peace together, and each true to the other. likewise unferth the spokesman sat there at the foot of the lord of the danes. and each of them trusted unferth's good heart and that he had a great soul, though he was not loyal to his kinsmen at the sword-play. then spake the queen of the danes: 'take this cup, o my liege lord, thou giver of rings. be thou right joyful, thou gold-friend to men; do thou speak mild words to the geats, as a man should be doing. be glad of thy geats and mindful of gifts. now thou hast peace both near and far. there is one who told me that thou wouldst have the battle-hero for thy son. now hart is all cleansed, the bright hall of rings. enjoy whilst thou mayest many rewards, and leave to thy kinsmen both folk and a kingdom when thou shalt go forth to look on eternity. i know my glad hrothulf [31] will hold in honour this youth if thou, o hrothgar the friend of the danes, dost leave the world earlier than he. i ween that he will yield good to our children if he remembers all that has passed--how we two worshipfully showed kindness to him in former days when he was but a child.' then she turned to the bench where were her sons hrothric and hrothmund and the children of heroes, the youths all together. there sat the good man beowulf of the geats, by the two brothers. xviii and the cup was borne to them, and a friendly invitation given to them in words, and twisted gold was graciously proffered him, two arm-ornaments, armour and rings, and the greatest of neck-rings of which i heard tell anywhere on earth. ne'er heard i of better hoard jewels of heroes under the sky, since hama carried away the brosinga-men [32] to the bright city, ornaments and treasure vessel. it was he who fled from the cunning plots of eormanric [33] and chose eternal gain. hygelac of the geats next had the ring, he who was the grandson of swerting, when under the standard he protected the treasure and defended the plunder. and weird carried him off when he, because of pride suffered woes, the feud with the frisians. then carried he the jewels, the precious stones over the sea, he who was the ruling prince, and he fell under shield; and the life of the king and the coat of mail and ring together came into possession of the franks. and worse warriors plundered the slaughter after the war. and the corpses of the geats held the field of death. the hall resounded with noise when wealtheow spake these words in the midst of the court: 'enjoy this ring, dearest beowulf, and use this coat of mail, these national treasures, and good luck befall thee! declare thyself a good craftsman, and be to these boys gentle in teaching, and i will be mindful of thy guerdon for that thou hast so acted that men will esteem thee far and near for ever and ever, even as widely as the sea doth encompass the windy earth-walls. be a noble atheling as long as thou livest. i give thee many treasures. be thou kindly in deed to my sons, joyful as thou art. for here is each earl true to his fellow, and mild of mood, and faithful to his liege-lord. thanes are gentle, the people all ready. o ye warriors who have drunk deep, do as i tell you.' she went to the seat where was a choice banquet, and the men drank wine. they knew not weird, the fate that was grim, as it had befallen many an earl. then evening came on, and hrothgar betook him to his own quarters, the prince to his resting-place, and a great number of earls kept guard o'er the palace as often they had done in former days. they laid bare the bench-board and spread it over with beds and bolsters. and one of the beer-servants eager and fated went to his bed on the floor. and they set at his head war-shields, that were bright. and over the atheling, there on the bench was easily seen the towering helmet and the ringed byrny, the glorious spear. it was their wont to be ready for war both at home and in battle, at whatever time their lord had need of them. the season was propitious. xix then they sank down to sleep. and sorely some of them paid for their evening repose, as full often it had happened to them since grendel came to the gold-hall and did evil, until an end was made of him, death after sins. it was easily seen and widely known to men that an avenger survived the loathsome one, for a long time after the war-sorrow. a woman, the mother of grendel, a terrible wife, bore in mind her woes. she who was fated to dwell in the awful lake in the cold streams since cain became a sword-slayer to his only brother, his father's son. he then went forth marked for the murder, and fled from human joys and dwelt in the waste. and thence he awoke many a fatal demon. and grendel was one of them, the hateful fierce wolf, who found the man wide awake awaiting the battle. and there was the monster at grips with him, yet he remembered the main strength the wide and ample gift which god gave to him, and trusted in the favour of the almighty for himself, for comfort and help by which he vanquished the enemy and overcame the hell-sprite. then he departed abject, bereft of joy, to visit the death-place, he the enemy of mankind. but his mother, greedy and sad in mind would be making a sorrowful journey that she might avenge the death of her son. she came then to hart, where the ring-danes were asleep in that great hall. then soon there came misfortune to the earls when the mother of grendel entered the chamber. yet less was the terror, even by so much as the craft of maidens, the war-terror of a wife, [34] is less than that of men beweaponed--when the sword hard bound and forged by the hammer, and stained with blood, cuts the boar on the helmet of the foe with its edge. then in the hall, the hard edge was drawn, the sword over the seats, and many a broad shield, heaved up fast by the hand. and no one heeded the helmet nor the broad shield when terror seized upon them. she was in great haste, she would go thence her life to be saving when she was discovered. quickly she had seized one of the athelings fast in her grip when forth she was fleeing away to the fen-land. he was to hrothgar the dearest of heroes, in the number of his comrades by the two seas, a powerful shield-warrior, whom she killed as he slumbered, a youth of renown. beowulf was not there. to another the place was assigned after the treasure-gift had been bestowed on the famous geat. then a great tumult was made in hart, and with bloodshed she had seized the well-known hand of grendel her son. and care was renewed in all the dwellings. nor was that a good exchange that they on both sides should be buying with the lives of their friends. then was the wise king, the hoar battle-warrior, rough in his mood when he came to know that the dearest of his chief thanes was dead and bereft of life. and beowulf quickly was fetched into the bower, he, the man all victorious. and at the dawning went one of the earls, a noble champion, he and his comrades, where the proud man was waiting, to see whether the all-wielder will ever be causing a change after woe-spells. and the battle-worthy man went along the floor with his band of followers (the hall wood [35] was resounding) so that he greeted the wise man with words, the lord of the danes, and asked him if he had had a quiet night in spite of the pressing call. xx hrothgar spake, he the lord of the danes: 'ask not after our luck, for sorrow is renewed to the folk of the danes. aeschere is dead, the elder brother of yrmenlaf; he was my councillor and my rune-teller, [36] my shoulder-companion when we in the battle protected our heads; when troops were clashing and helmets were crashing. he was what an earl ought to be, a very good atheling. such a man was aeschere. and a wandering slaughter-guest was his hand-slayer, in hart. i know not whither that dire woman exulting in carrion, and by her feeding made famous, went on her journeys. she was wreaking vengeance for the feud of thy making when thou killedst grendel but yesternight, in a violent way, with hard grips, because all too long he was lessening and destroying my people. he fell in the struggle, gave his life as a forfeit; and now comes another, a mighty man-scather, to avenge her son, and the feud hath renewed as may seem a heavy heart-woe to many a thane who weeps in his mind over the treasure-giver. now lieth low the hand which availed you well, for every kind of pleasure. i heard land-dwellers, and hall-counsellors, and my people, say that they saw two such monstrous march-steppers, [37] alien-sprites, holding the moorland. and one of them was in the likeness of a woman as far as they could tell; the other, shapen wretchedly, trod the path of exiles in the form of a man, except that he was greater than any other man, he whom in former days the earth-dwellers called by name grendel. they knew not his father, whether any secret sprite was formerly born of him. they kept guard over the hidden land, and the wolf-slopes, the windy nesses, the terrible fen-path where the mountain streams rush down under mists of the nesses, the floods under the earth. and it is not farther hence than the space of a mile where standeth the lake, over which are hanging the frosted trees, their wood fast by the roots, and shadowing the water. and there every night one may see dread wonders, fire on the flood. and there liveth not a wise man of the children of men who knoweth well the ground. nevertheless the heath-stepper, the strong-horned hart, when pressed by the hounds seeketh that woodland, when put to flight from afar, ere on the hillside, hiding his head he gives up his life. [38] 'nor is that a canny place. for thence the surge of waters riseth up wan to the welkin when stirred by the winds, the loathsome weather, until the heaven darkens and skies weep. now is good counsel depending on thee alone. thou knowest not the land, the terrible places where thou couldest find the sinful man; seek it if thou darest. i will reward thee for the feud with old world treasures so i did before, with twisted gold, if thou comest thence, on thy way.' xxi beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'sorrow not, o wise man. it is better for each one to avenge his friend, when he is much mourning. each one of us must wait for the end of his world-life. let him work who may, ere the doom of death come; that is afterwards best for the noble dead. arise, o ward of the kingdom. let us go forth quickly to trace out the going of grendel's kinswoman. i bid thee do it. for neither in the bosom of the earth, nor in forests of the mountains, nor by the ways of the sea, go where she will, shall she escape into safety. do thou this day be patient in every kind of trouble as i also hope to be.' the old man leapt up and gave thanks to god, the mighty lord, for the words of beowulf. then was bridled a horse for hrothgar, a steed with twisted hair, and as a wise prince he went forth in splendid array. the troop of shield-warriors marched along. and the traces were widely seen in the forest-ways, the goings of grendel's mother over the ground. forwards she had gone over the mirky moorlands, and had borne in her grasp, bereft of his soul, the best of the thanes who were wont to keep watch over hrothgar's homestead. then beowulf, the atheling's child, stepped o'er the steep and stony slopes and the narrow pathways, and the straitened single tracks, an unknown way, by the steep nesses, and by many a sea-monster's cavern. and one of the wise men went on before to seek out the path, until all at once he found some mountain trees, overhanging the grey stones, a forest all joyless. and underneath was a water all bloodstained and troubled. and a grievous thing it was for all the danes to endure, for the friends of the scyldings, [39] and for many a thane, and distressful to all the earls, when they came upon the head of aeschere on the cliffs above the sea. the flood boiled with blood and with hot gore (the folk looked upon it). and at times the horn sounded a battle-song ready prepared. all the troop sat down. and many kinds of serpents they saw in the water, and wonderful dragons searching the sea, and on the cliff-slopes, monsters of the ocean were lying at full length, who at the morning tide often make a woful journey on the sail-path; and snakes and wild beasts they could see also. and these living things fell down on the path all bitter and angry when they perceived the noise, and the blast of the war-horn. and the prince of the geats killed one of them with his bow and arrows and ended his wave-strife, and he was in the sea, slower at swimming as death swept him away. and on the waves by fierce battle hard pressed, and with boar-spears savagely barbed, the wondrous sea-monster was assailed in the struggle and drawn up on the headland. and men were looking at the awful stranger. and beowulf put on him his armour, that was fitting for an earl, and by no means did he lament over his life, for the hand-woven coat of mail, which was ample and of many colours, was destined to explore the deeps, and knew well how to defend his body, so that neither battle-grip nor the hostile grasp of the treacherous one might scathe breast or life; and the white helmet thereof warded his head, that which was destined to search out the bottom of the sea and the welter of waters, and which was adorned with treasures and encircled with noble chains, wondrously decked and set round with boar-images, as in days of yore a weapon-smith had made it for him, so that no brand nor battle-sword could bite him. and by no means was that the least of aids in battle that the spokesman of hrothgar [40] lent him at need, even the hilted sword which was called hrunting. and it was one of the ancient treasures. its edge was of iron, and poison-tipped, and hardened in battle-sweat. and never did it fail in the fight any man who brandished it in his hands, or who dared to go on fearful journeys, to the field of battle. and that was not the first time that it was to do deeds of courage. and unferth did not think, he the kinsman of ecglaf, crafty of strength, of what he formerly had said [41] when drunken with wine, he had lent that weapon to a braver sword-warrior. he himself durst not risk his life in the stress of the waters and do a glorious deed. and thereby he lost his doom of famous deeds. but thus was it not with that other, for he had got himself ready for the battle. xxii beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'o kinsman of healfdene, [42] thou far-famed and proud prince, thou gold-friend of men, now that eager i am for this forth-faring, bethink thee now of what we two were speaking together, that if i should lose my life through helping thee in thy need, thou wouldst be always to me in the place of a father after my death. be thou a guardian to my kinsmen, my thanes, and my hand comrades, if battle should take me. and dear hrothgar, send thou the gifts, which thou didst give me, to hygelac. and the lord of the geats, the son of hrethel, when he looks on the treasure and perceives the gold, will see that i found a giver of rings, one good and open-handed, and that while i could, i enjoyed the treasures. and do thou let unferth, the man who is far-famed, have the old heirloom, the curiously wrought sword with its wave-like device, with its hard edge. i work out my fate with hrunting, or death shall seize me.' after these words the lord of the weder-geats courageously hastened, and by no means would he wait for an answer. the whelming sea received the battle-hero. and it was a day's while before he could see the bottom of the sea. and very soon the fierce and eager one who had ruled the expanse of the floods for a hundred years, she, the grim and greedy, saw that a man was searching out from above the dwelling of strange monsters. then she made a grab at him, and closed on the warrior with dire embrace. but not at first did she scathe his body, safe and sound. the ring surrounded it on the outside, so that she could not pierce the coat of mail or the interlaced war-shirt with loathsome finger. then the sea-wolf, when she came to the bottom of the sea, bore the ring-prince towards her house so that he might not, though he was so strong in soul, wield any weapon; and many a wonder oppressed him in the depths, many a sea-beast broke his war-shirt with his battle-tusks, and monsters pursued him. then the earl saw that he was in he knew not what hall of strife, where no water scathed him a whit, nor could the sudden grip of the flood touch him because of the roof-hall. he saw, too, a firelight, a bright pale flame shining. then the good man caught sight of the she-wolf, that monstrous wife, down in the depths of the sea. and he made a mighty rush with his sword. nor did his hand fail to swing it so that the ringed mail on her head sang a greedy death-song. then beowulf the stranger discovered that the battle-blade would not bite or scathe her life, but the edge failed the lord in his need. it had suffered many hand-blows, and the helmet, the battle-dress of the doomed one, it had often cut in two. that was the first time that his dear sword-treasure failed him. then he became resolute, and not by any means did he fail in courage, that kinsman of hygelac, mindful of glory. and this angry warrior threw away the stout sword, bound round with jewels with its wavy decorations, and with its edge of steel, so that it lay prone on the ground; and henceforth he trusted in his strength and the hand-grasp of might. so should a man be doing when he thinketh to be gaining long-lasting praise in fighting, and careth not for his life. then the lord of the geats seized by the shoulder the mother of grendel (nor at all did he mourn over that feud), and he, the hard in battle, threw down his deadly foe, when he was angry, so that she lay prone on the floor. but she very quickly, with grimmest of grips, requited him a hand-reward, and made a clutch at him. and the weary in soul, that strongest of fighters, he the foot-warrior stumbled and fell. then she sat on that hall-guest, and drew forth her axe, broad and brown-edged, and would fain be avenging the death of her child, of her only son. but on his shoulder was the coat of mail all woven, which saved his life and prevented the entrance of the point and the edge of the sword. and the son of ecgtheow, the prince of geats, would have surely gone a journey under the wide earth unless that warlike coat of mail had given him help, that hard war-net, and unless the holy god he the cunning lord, and the ruler in the heavens, had wielded the victory, and easily decided the issue aright; then he straightway stood up. xxiii then among the weapons he caught sight of a sword, rich in victories, an old weapon of the giants, and doughty of edge, the glory of warriors. it was the choicest of weapons, and it was greater than any other man could carry to the battle-playing, and all glorious and good, a work of the giants. and he seized it by the belted hilt, he the warrior of the danes, rough and battle-grim, and he brandished the ring-sword; and despairing of life, he angrily struck so that hardly he grasped at her neck and broke the bone-rings. and the point pierced through the doomed flesh-covering. and she fell on the floor. the sword was all bloody, and the man rejoiced in his work. shone forth the bright flame and a light stood within, even as shineth the candle [43] from the bright heavens. and then he looked on the hall, and turned to the wall. and the thane of hygelac, angry and resolute, heaved hard the weapon, taking it by the hilt. and the edge was not worthless to the battle-warrior, for he would be quickly requiting grendel many a war-rush which he had done upon the west danes, many times oftener than once when in sleeping he smote the hearth-comrade of hrothgar, and fed on them sleeping, of the danish folk, some fifteen men, and bore forth yet another one, that loathly prey. and well he requited him, this furious champion, when he saw the war-weary grendel lying in death, all void of his life as formerly in hart the battle had scathed him. his body sprang apart when after his death he suffered a stroke, a hard battle-swing; and then he struck off his head. right soon the proud warriors, they who with hrothgar, looked forth on the sea, could easily see, that the surging water was all stained with blood and the grey-haired ancients spoke together about the good man, that they deemed not the atheling would ever again come seeking the famous prince hrothgar glorying in victory, for it seemed unto many that the sea-wolf had destroyed him. then came noonday. the valiant danes left the headland, and the gold-friend of men [44] went homeward thence. and the strangers of the geats, sick in mind, sat and stared at the water. they knew and expected not that they would see again their liege-lord himself. then the sword began to grow less, after the battle-sweat, into icicles of steel. and a wonder it was that it all began to melt likest to ice, when our father doth loosen the band of frost and unwinds the icicles, he who hath power over the seasons, he is the true god. nor in these dwellings did the lord of the geats take any other treasure, though much he saw there, except the head and the hilt, decked out with jewels. the sword had melted, and the decorated weapon was burnt up. the blood was too hot, and so poisonous the alien sprite who died in that conflict. soon beowulf was swimming, he who formerly awaited the onset of the hostile ones in the striving, and he dived upwards through the water. and the weltering surge and the spacious lands were all cleansed when the alien sprite gave up his life and this fleeting existence. he the stout-hearted came swimming to shore, he the prince of the sea-men enjoying the sea-spoils, the great burden of that which he had with him. they advanced towards him and gave thanks to god, that glorious crowd of thanes, and rejoiced in their lord that they could see him once more. then was loosed quickly from that valiant man both helmet and shield. the sea became turbid, the water under welkin, all stained with blood. and rejoicing in spirit the brave men went forth with foot-tracks and passed over the earth, the well-known pathways. and a hard task it was for each one of those proud men to bear that head away from the sea-cliff. four of them with difficulty on a pole were bearing the head of grendel to the gold-hall, until suddenly, valiant and battle-brave, they came to the palace, fourteen of the geats marching along with their liege-lord who trod the field where the mead-hall stood. then this prince of the thanes, this man so bold of deed and honoured by fate, this battle-dear warrior went into the hall to greet king hrothgar. then over the floor where warriors were drinking they bore grendel's head, a terror to the earls and also to the queen. and men were looking at the splendid sight of the treasures. xxiv beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'lo, son of healfdene, lord of the danes, we have brought thee this booty of the sea all joyfully, this which thou seest as a token of glory. and i hardly escaped with my life, and hazarded an arduous task of war under water. and nearly was the battle ended for me, but that god shielded me. nor could i in that conflict do aught with hrunting, though the weapon was doughty. but the ruler of men granted me to see hanging on the wall a beauteous sword mighty and ancient (often he guides those who are bereft of their comrades), and i drew the weapon. and i struck in that striving the guardian of the house when i saw my chance. then that battle-sword that was all decked out, burned up so that blood gushed forth, the hottest of battle-sweat. but i bore off that hilt thence from the enemy, and wrought vengeance for the crimes, the deaths of the danes, as it was fitting. and here i bid thee to take thy rest all sorrowless in hart, with the troop of thy men and each of the thanes of thy people, the youth and the doughty ones. o lord of the danes, no longer need'st thou fear for them, because of earls' life-bale as before thou didst.' then was the golden hilt, the work of the giants, given into the hand of the old warrior, the hoary battle-chief. this work of the wonder-smiths went into the possession of the lord of the danes after the destruction of devils; and when the man of the fierce heart, the adversary of god guilty of murder, forsook this world, it passed to the best of world-kings by the two seas, of these who in sceden isle dealt out treasures. hrothgar spake and looked upon the hilt, the old heirloom on which was written the beginning of the ancient feud since the flood, the all-embracing ocean slew the giant race, when they bore themselves presumptuously. they were a folk strangers to the eternal god, to whom the ruler gave their deserts through whelming of waters. thus was there truly marked on the sword guards of shining gold, by means of rune-staves, set down and stated by whom that sword was wrought at the first, that choicest of weapons, with its twisted hilt, adorned with a dragon. then spake the wise man the son of healfdene, and all kept silence: 'he who doeth truth and right among the folk, and he who can recall the far-off days, he the old protector of his country may say that this earl was well born. thy fair fame is spread throughout the wide ways, among all peoples, o my friend beowulf. thou dost hold all with patience, and might, with the proud of mind. i will perform the compact as we two agreed. thou shalt be a lasting aid to thy people, a help to the heroes. not so was heremod [45] to the sons of egwela, the honour-full danish folk. [46] for he did not become a joy to them, but slaughter and death to the danish people. but in a fury he killed the table-companions his boon comrades; until he alone, the famous chieftain, turned away from human joys. and though the mighty god greatly exalted him by the joys of strength over all people and rendered him help, yet a fierce hoard of hate grew up in his soul; no rings did he give to the danes, as the custom was; and joyless he waited, so that he suffered troublesome striving and to his people a long time was baleful. do thou be learning by that example and seek out manly virtues. i who am old in winters sing thee this song. and a wonder is it to say how the mighty god giveth wisdom to mankind through wideness of mind, lands, and earlship. he hath power over all. sometimes he letteth the thought of man of famous kith and kin be turning to love, and giveth him earth-joys in his own country, so that he holdeth the city of refuge among men, and giveth him to rule over parts of the world, and very wide kingdoms, so that he himself foolishly never thinketh of his end. he dwelleth in weal; and neither disease nor old age doth deceive him a whit, nor doth hostile sorrow darken his mind, nor anywhere do strife or sword-hate show themselves; but all the world doth go as he willeth. xxv 'he knoweth no evil until his share of pride wasteth and groweth, while sleepeth the guardian, the ward of his soul. and the sleep is too deep, bound up in afflictions, and the banesman draweth near who shooteth cruelly his arrows from the bow. then in his soul under helmet is he stricken with bitter shaft. nor can he save himself from the crooked behests of the cursed ghost. and little doth he think of that which long he hath ruled. and the enemy doth covet, nor at all doth he give in boast the plated rings, and he then forgetteth and despiseth his fate his share of honour which god before gave him, he the wielder of wonder. and in the end it doth happen that the body sinks fleeting and doomed to death falleth. and another succeeds thereto who joyfully distributeth gifts, the old treasure of the earl, and careth not for terrors. guard thee against malicious hate, o my dear beowulf, thou noblest of men, and choose for thyself that better part, eternal wisdom. have no care for pride, o glorious champion. now is the fame of thy strength proclaimed for a while. soon will it be that disease or sword-edge or grasp of fire or whelming of floods or grip of sword or flight of arrow or dire old age will sever thee from strength, or the lustre of thine eyes will fail or grow dim. then forthwith will happen that death will o'erpower thee, o thou noble man. thus have i for fifty years held sway over the ring-danes under the welkin and made safe by war many a tribe throughout the world with spears and swords, so that i recked not any man my foeman under the sweep of heaven. lo! then there came to me change in my homeland, sorrow after gaming, when grendel, that ancient foe became my invader. and ever i bore much sorrow of mind through that feud. and may god be thanked, the eternal lord, that i lingered in life, till i looked with mine eyes on that head stained with sword-blood after the old strife. go now to thy seat and enjoy the feasting, thou who art glorious in war. and when morning cometh there shall be a host of treasures in common between us.' and the geat was glad of mind, and soon he went up to the high seat as the proud chief had bidden him. then renewed was fair chanting as before 'mongst these brave ones who sat on the floor. and the helmet of night grew dark over men. and the noble warriors arose. the venerable king wished to go to his bed, the old prince of the danes. and the geat, the shield-warrior, desired greatly to go to his rest. and straightway a hall-thane guided the far-comer, weary of his journey, he who so carefully attended to all his needs such as that day the ocean-goers would fain be having. and the great-hearted one rested himself. the house towered on high that was spacious and gold-decked. the guest slept within until the black raven heralded the joy of heaven. then came the sun, hastening and shining over the earth. warriors were hurrying and athelings were eager to go to their people. the bold-hearted comer would visit the ship far away. he the hardy one bade the son of ecglaf carry forth hrunting, and commanded him to take his sword, that lovely piece of steel. and he gave thanks for the lending, and said he reckoned him a good war-comrade and crafty in fighting. not at all did he blame the edge of the sword. he was a proud man. when ready for the journey were all the warriors, then beowulf the atheling, of good worth to the danes, went up to the dais where was hrothgar the faithful and bold, and greeted him there. xxvi beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'now we the sea-farers, that have come from afar, desire to say that we are hastening back to hygelac. and here have we been nobly waited on, and well thou hast treated us. and if i then on earth can gain a whit further greater heart-love from thee, o lord of men, than i have gained already, in doing war-deeds, thereto i'm right ready. and if i shall hear o'er the sheet of waters that terrors are oppressing those who sit round thee, as erewhile thine enemies were doing upon thee, i will bring here a thousand thanes, heroes to help thee. and i know that hygelac, the lord of the geats, the guardian of my folk, though young in years, will help me by word and works to bring to thee honour and bear spear to thine aid, the help of strength, if thou hast need of men. and if hrethric [47] the prince's child should ever take service in the court of the geat, he may find there many a friend. it is better for him who is doughty himself to be seeking far countries.' hrothgar spake and gave him answer: 'the all-knowing lord doth send thee words into thy mind. never heard i a man speak more wisely, so young in years, thou art strong of main and proud of soul, and of words a wise sayer. i reckon that if it cometh to pass that an arrow or fierce battle should take away the children of hrethel or disease or sword destroy thy sovereign, the protector of the folk, and thou art still living, that the sea-geats will not have to choose any better king, if thou wilt hold the kingdom of the kinsmen. thou hast brought about peace to the folk of the geats and the spear-danes, and a ceasing of the strife and of the enmity which formerly they suffered. and whilst i am ruling the wide kingdom, treasures shall be in common between us. and many a man shall greet another with gifts over the sea. [48] and the ring-necked ship shall bear over the ocean both offerings and love-tokens. i know the two peoples to be steadfast towards friend and foe, and blameless in all things in the old wise.' then in that hall the prince of the earls, the son of healfdene, gave him twelve treasures, and bade him be seeking his own people in safety and with the offerings, and quickly to come back again. then the king, the prince of the danes, he of good lineage, kissed the best of thanes, and embraced his neck. and tears were falling down the face of the old man. and the old and wise man had hope of both things, but most of all of the other that they might see each the other, those thoughtful men in council. for beowulf was so dear to him that he could not restrain the whelming in his bosom, but a secret longing fast in the bonds of his soul was burning in his breast against his blood. [49] so beowulf the warrior, proud of his golden gifts, went forth o'er the grassy plain rejoicing in treasure. and the sea-goer was awaiting her lord where she lay at anchor. and as he was going he often thought on the gift of hrothgar. he was a king, blameless in every way, until old age, that scather of many, bereft him of the joys of strength. xxvii so many a proud young warrior came to the seaside. and they were carrying the ring-net, the interlaced coats of mail. and the ward of the shore noticed the going of the earls, as he did their coming. [50] nor with evil intent did he hail the guests from the edge of the cliff, but rode up to them, and said that welcome and bright-coated warriors went to the ship to the people of the geats. then on the sand was the spacious craft laden with battle-weeds, the ringed prow with horses and treasures, and the mast towered high over hrothgar's gifts. and he gave to the captain a sword bound with gold, so that by the mead-bench he was by that the worthier because of the treasure and the heirloom. then he went on board, the deep water to be troubling, and finally left the land of the danes. and by the mast was one of the ocean-garments, a sail fast by a rope. the sea-wood thundered. nor did the wind hinder the journey of that ship. the ocean-goer bounded forth, the foamy-necked one, over the waves, the bound prow over the ocean streams, till they could see the cliffs of the geats' land, the well-known headlands. then the keel thronged up the shore, driven by the wind, and stood fast in the sand. and the harbour-master was soon on the seashore, who of yore eagerly had seen from afar the going forth of the dear men. and he made fast the wide-bosomed ship, by the anchor chains, so that the less the force of the waves could tear away that winsome ship. he commanded the treasure of the nobles to be borne up the beach, the fretted armour and the plated gold. and not far thence it was for them to be seeking the giver of treasure, hygelac, hrethel's son, for at home he dwelleth, he and his companions near to the sea-wall. and splendid was that building, and the prince was a bold king, and the halls were high, and hygd his wife was very young and wise and mature in her figure, though the daughter of hã¦reth had bided in that city but a very few years. but she was not mean nor niggardly of gifts and of treasures to the people of the geats. but thrytho [51] was fierce, for she had committed a terrible crime, that bold queen of the folk. there was none that durst risk that dire thing of the dear companions, save only her lord, that he should stare on her with his eyes by day; but if he did he might expect that death-bands were destined for himself, for after the hand-grip a weapon was quickly prepared, that the sword that was curiously inlaid should bring to light and make known the death-bale. nor is it a queenly custom for a woman to perform, though she might be peerless, that she should assail the life of a peace-wearer, of her dear lord, after a pretended insult. at least king offa, the kinsman of hemming, checked her in that. but otherwise said the ale-drinkers, namely that she did less of bale to her people and of hostile acts, since the time when she was first given all decked with gold to the young champion, [52] to her dear lord, since she sought the hall of offa over the fallow flood by the guidance of her father, where on the throne whilst she lived she well did enjoy her fate, that woman famous for good works. and she kept great love for the prince of heroes, and of all mankind he was, as i have learned by asking, the greatest by two seas. for offa was a spear-keen man in gifts and in warfare, and widely was he honoured. and he ruled his people wisely. and to him and thrytho eomã¦r was born to the help of heroes, he the kinsman of hemming, the nephew of garmund, was crafty in battle. xxviii then the hardy one himself, with his troop set forth to tread the seashore, going along the sands, the wide sea-beaches. the candle of the world shone, the sun that was shining from the south. and joyfully they journeyed, and with courage they marched along, to where they heard by inquiring, that the good prince of earls, the banesman of ongentheow [53] the young war-king, was giving out rings within the city. and quickly was made known to hygelac the coming of beowulf, that he the prince of warriors, the comrade in arms, was returning alive and hale from the battle-play, was coming to the palace. and straightway was there room made for the foot-guests on the floor of the hall by command of the king. and he that had escaped scot-free from the contest sat with the king, kinsman with kinsman, and the lord with courteous speech saluted the brave man with high-swelling words. and the daughter of hã¦reth [54] poured forth from the mead-cups throughout that great hall, for she loved well the people, and carried round the drinking-stoups to each of the warriors. and hygelac began to question his comrade as curiosity prompted him as to the journey of the sea-geats. 'how went it with thee, dear beowulf, in thy faring, when thou didst bethink thee suddenly to be seeking a contest o'er the salt waters, in battle at hart? and thou didst requite the widely known woe which hrothgar was suffering, that famous lord. and i brooded o'er that mind-care with sorrow-whelmings, for i trusted not in the journey of the dear man. and for a long time i bade thee not a whit to be greeting the murderous stranger, but to let the south danes themselves wage war against grendel. and i now give god thanks that i see thee safe and sound.' beowulf answered, the son of ecgtheow: 'o lord hygelac, it is well known to many a man, our famous meeting, and the battle we fought, grendel and i, on the wide plain, when he was working great sorrow to the danes and misery for ever. all that i avenged, so that no kinsman of grendel anywhere on earth needed to boast of that uproar by twilight, no not he of that kindred who liveth the longest, encircled by the fen. and first, to greet hrothgar, i went to the ring-hall. and straightway the famous kinsman of healfdene, when he knew my intention, gave me a place with his own son; and the troop was all joyful. nor ever have i seen greater joy amongst any hall-dwellers under the arch of heaven. sometimes the famous queen, [55] the peace-bringer of the folk, walked over the whole floor and encouraged the young sons. and often she gave to the man a twisted ring ere she went to the high seat. and sometimes for the noble band the daughter of hrothgar carried the ale-cups to the earls at the end of the high table. and i heard those who sat in that hall calling her freawaru as she gave the studded treasure to the heroes. and she, young and gold-decked, is betrothed to the glad son of froda. [56] the friend of the danes and the guardian of the kingdom has brought this to pass, and taken that counsel, so as to set at rest by that betrothal many a slaughter-feud and ancient strife. and often it happens that a little while after the fall of a people, the deadly spear seldom lieth at rest though the bride be doughty. and this may displease the lord of the heathobards and all of his thanes of the people, when he with his bride walketh over the floor, that his doughty warriors should attend on a noble scion of the danes, and the heirloom of the ancients should glisten on him, all hard, and the ring-sword, the treasure of the heathobards, whilst they might be wielding weapons. [57] xxix [58] 'till the day on which they risked their own and their comrades' lives in the battle. then said an old spear-warrior who remembered all that had happened, the death of men by spears (his mind was grim), and he began with sorrowful mind to seek out the thought of the young champion by broodings of the heart, and to awaken the war-bales, and this is what he said: "canst thou recognize, my friend, the dire sword which thy father carried to the battle, under the visored helm, on that last journey, when the danes slew him and had the battle-field in their power, when withergyld [59] lay dead after the fall of the heroes? now here the son of i know not which of the slayers, all boasting of treasures, goeth into the hall and boasteth of murder and carrieth the gift which thou shouldst rightly possess." then he exhorteth and bringeth to mind each of the occasions with sorrowful words, until the time cometh that the thane of the bride dieth all stained with blood for the deeds of his father by the piercing of the sword, having forfeited his life. but the other thence escapeth alive, for he knows the land well. then the oath-swearing of earls is broken on both sides when deadly enmities surge up against ingeld, and his love for his wife grows cooler after whelming care. and for this reason i reckon not sincere the friendliness of the heathobards towards the danes or the troop-peace between them, the plighted troth. 'now i speak out again about grendel, for that thou knowest full well, o giver of treasure, how went that hand-to-hand fight of the heroes. when the jewel of heaven glided over the world, then the angry sprite, the terrible and evening-fierce foe, came to visit us where we were dwelling in the hall all safe and sound. there was battle impending to hondscio, the life-bale to the doomed one. and he first fell, the champion begirt. for grendel was to the famous thane a banesman by biting, and devoured whole the dear man. nor would he, the bloody-toothed slayer, mindful of bales, go out empty-handed any sooner again, forth from the gold-hall; but he proved my strength of main, and ready-handed he grasped at me. an ample and wondrous glove hung fast by cunning bands. and it was cunningly fashioned by the craft of devils, and with skins of the dragon. and the fierce doer of deeds was wishful to put me therein, one among many. but he could not do so, for i angrily stood upright. and too long would it be to tell how i requited all evil to that scather of the people, where i, o my liege-lord, honoured thy people by means of good deeds. he escaped on the way, and for a little while he enjoyed life-pleasures. but his right hand showed his tracks in hart, and he sank to the bottom of the sea, all abject and sad of heart. and the lord of the danes rewarded me for that battle-rush with many a piece of plated gold, and with ample treasure, when morning came and we had set ourselves down to the feasting. and there was singing and rejoicing. and the wise man of the danes, who had learned many things, told us of olden days. and the bold in battle sometimes touched the harp-strings, the wood that was full of music, and sometimes he gave forth a song that was true and sad--and sometimes, large-hearted, the king related a wondrous spell well and truly. [60] and sometimes the old man encumbered by years, some ancient warrior, lamented his lost youth and strength in battle. his heart was tumultuous when he, of many winters, recalled all the number of them. so we rejoiced the livelong day until another night came down upon men. then was the mother of grendel quickly ready for vengeance, and came on a woful journey, for death had carried off her son, that war-hate of the geats. and the uncanny wife avenged her child. and aeschere, that wise and ancient councillor, departed this life. nor when morning came might the danish people burn him with brand, that death-weary man, nor lay the beloved man on the funeral pyre. for she bore away the body in her fiendish grip under the mountain-streams. and that was to hrothgar the bitterest of griefs which for long had befallen the prince of the people. then the prince, sad in mood, by thy life entreated me that i should do a deed, worthy of an earl, midst welter of waters, and risk my life and achieve glory. and he promised me rewards. i then discovered the grim and terrible guardian of the whelming waters, at the sea's bottom, so widely talked of. there was a hand-to-hand engagement between us for a while, and the sea boiled with gore; i cut off the head of grendel's mother in the hall at the bottom of the sea, with powerful sword. and i scarce saved my life in that conflict. but not yet was my doomsday. and afterwards the prince of earls gave me many gifts, he the son of healfdene. xxxi 'so in good customs lived the king of the people. nor had i lost the rewards, the meed of strength, for the son of healfdene bestowed upon me treasures according to my choice, which i will bring to thee, o my warrior-king, and graciously will i proffer them. again all favour depends on thee, for few chief kinsmen have i save thee, o hygelac.' he commanded them to bring in the boar, the head-sign, the battle-steep helmet, the hoary byrny, the splendid war-sword, and then he chanted this song: 'it was hrothgar, that proud prince, who bestowed upon me all this battle-gear. and a certain word he uttered to me, that i should first give thee his kindly greeting. [61] he said that hrothgar the king of the danes possessed it a long while. nor formerly would he be giving the breast-weeds to his son the brave heoroward, though dear he was to him. do thou enjoy all well.' then i heard that four horses, of reddish yellow hue, followed the armour. and thus he did him honour with horses and gifts. so should a kinsman do. by no means should they weave cunning nets for each other, or with secret craft devise death to a comrade. his nephew was very gracious to hygelac, the brave in strife, and each was striving to bestow favours on the other. and i heard that he gave to hygd the neck-ring so curiously and wondrously wrought, which wealtheow a daughter of royal birth had given him, and three horses also slender and saddle-bright. and her breast was adorned with the ring she had received. and beowulf, son of ecgtheow, so famous in warfare and in good deeds, bore himself boldly and fulfilled his fate, nor did he slay the drunken hearth-comrades. he was not sad-minded, but he, the battle-dear one, by the greatest of craft known to man held fast the lasting and generous gift which god gave him. for long had he been despised, so that the warriors of the geats looked not upon him as a good man, nor did the lord of troops esteem him as of much worth on the mead-bench. besides, they thought him slack and by no means a warlike atheling. then came a change from all his distresses to this glorious man. then the prince of earls, the battle-brave king, commanded that the heirloom of hrethel all decked out in gold should be brought in. for of swords there was no more glorious treasure among the geats. and he laid it on the bosom of beowulf, and gave him seven thousand men and a building and a throne. and both of them held the land, the earth, the rights in the land as an hereditary possession; but the other who was the better man had more especially a wide kingdom. and in after-days it happened that there were battle-crashings, and hygelac lay dead, [62] and swords under shields became a death-bane to heardred, [63] when the brave battle-wolves, the swedes, sought him out among the victorious ones and assailed with strife the nephew of hereric, and it was then that the broad kingdom came into the possession of beowulf. and he held sway therein fifty winters (and a wise king was he, that old guardian of his country) until on dark nights a dragon began to make raids, he that watched over the hoard in the lofty cavern, the steep rocky cave. and the path thereto lay under the cliffs unknown to men. and what man it was who went therein i know not, but he took from the heathen hoard a hall-bowl decked with treasure. nor did he give it back again, though he had beguiled the guardian of the hoard when he was sleeping, by the craft of a thief. and beowulf found out that the dragon was angry. [64] xxxii and it was by no means of his own accord or self-will that he sought out the craft of the hoard of the dragon who inflicted such evil upon himself, but rather because being compelled by miseries, the slave fled the hateful blows of heroes, he that was shelterless and the man troubled by guilt penetrated therein. and soon it came to pass that an awful terror arose upon the guest. [65]... and in the earth-house were all kinds of ancient treasures, such as i know not what man of great thoughts had hidden there in days of old, the immense heirlooms of some noble race, costly treasures. and in former times death had taken them all away, and he alone of the warriors of the people who longest lingered there, full lonely and sad for loss of friends was he, and he hoped for a tarrying, that he but for a little while might enjoy the ancient treasures. and this hill was quite near to the ocean-waves, and to the sea-nesses, and no one could come near thereto. and he the guardian of rings carried inside the cave the heavy treasures of plated gold, and uttered some few words: 'do thou, o earth, hold fast the treasures of earls which heroes may not hold. what! from thee in days of yore good men obtained it. deadly warfare and terrible life-bale carried away all the men of my people of those who gave up life. they had seen hall-joy. and they saw the joys of heaven. i have not any one who can carry a sword or polish the gold-plated cup, the dear drinking-flagon. the doughty ones have hastened elsewhere. the hard helmet dight with gold shall be deprived of gold plate. the polishers sleep the sleep of death who should make ready the battle grim, likewise the coat of mail which endured in the battle was shattered over shields by the bite of the iron spears and perishes after the death of the warrior. nor can the ringed byrny go far and wide on behalf of heroes, after the passing of the war-chief. 'no joy of harping is there, nor mirth of stringed instruments, nor does the goodly hawk swing through the hall, nor doth the swift horse paw in the courtyard. and death-bale hath sent away many generations of men.' thus then, sad at heart he lamented his sorrowful plight, one for many, and unblithely he wept both day and night until the whelming waters of death touched his heart. and the ancient twilight scather found the joyous treasure standing open and unprotected, he it was who flaming seeks the cliff-sides, he, the naked and hateful dragon who flieth by night wrapt about with fire. and the dwellers upon earth greatly fear him. and he should be seeking the hoard upon earth where old in winters he guardeth the heathen gold. nor aught is he the better thereby. and thus the scather of the people, the mighty monster, had in his power the hall of the hoard three hundred years upon the earth until a man in anger kindled his fury. for he carried off to his liege-lord the plated drinking-flagon and offered his master a treaty of peace. thus was the hoard discovered, the hoard of rings plundered. and a boon was granted to the miserable man. and the lord saw for the first time this ancient work of men. then awoke the dragon, and the strife was renewed. he sniffed at the stone, and the stout-hearted saw the foot-mark of his foe. he had stepped too far forth with cunning craft near the head of the dragon. so may any one who is undoomed easily escape woes and exile who rejoices in the favour of the wielder of the world. the guardian of the hoard, along the ground, was eagerly seeking, and the man would be finding who had deprived him of his treasure while he was sleeping. hotly and fiercely he went around all on the outside of the barrow--but no man was there in the waste. still he gloried in the strife and the battle working. sometimes he returned to the cavern and sought the treasure vessels. and soon he found that one of the men had searched out the gold, the high heap of treasures. the guardian of the hoard was sorrowfully waiting until evening should come. and very furious was the keeper of that barrow, and the loathsome one would fain be requiting the robbery of that dear drinking-stoup with fire and flame. then, as the dragon wished, day was departing. not any longer would he wait within walls, but went forth girt with baleful fire. and terrible was this beginning to the people in that country, and sorrowful would be the ending to their lord, the giver of treasure. xxxiii then the fiend began to belch forth fire, and to burn up the glorious palace. and the flames thereof were a horror to men. nor would the loathly air-flier leave aught living thereabouts. and this warfare of the dragon was seen far and wide by men, this striving of the foe who caused dire distress, and how the war-scather hated and harmed the people of the geats. and he hurried back to his hoard and the dark cave-hall of which he was lord, ere it was day-dawn. he had encircled the dwellers in that land with fire and brand. he trusted in his cavern, and in battle and his cliff-wall. but his hope deceived him. then was the terror made known to beowulf, quickly and soothly, namely that his very homestead, that best of houses, that throne of the geats, was dissolving in the whelming fire. and full rueful was it to the good man, and the very greatest of sorrows. and the wise man was thinking that he had bitterly angered the wielder of all things, the eternal god, in the matter of some ancient customs. [66] and within his breast gloomy brooding was welling, as was by no means his wont. the fiery dragon had destroyed by flame the stronghold of the people, both the sea-board and neighbouring land. and therefore the king of the weder-geats devised revenge upon him. now beowulf the prince of earls and protector of warriors commanded them to fashion him a glorious war-shield all made of iron. for he well knew that a wooden shield would be unavailing against flames. for he, the age-long noble atheling, must await the end of days that were fleeting of this world-life, he and the dragon together, though long he had held sway over the hoard of treasure. and the prince of rings scorned to employ a troop against the wide-flying monster in the great warfare. nor did he dread the striving, nor did he think much of this battle with the dragon, of his might and courage, for that formerly in close conflict had he escaped many a time from the crashings of battle since he, the victorious sword-man, cleansed the great hall in hart, of hrothgar his kinsman, and had grappled in the contest with the mother of grendel, of the loathly kin. nor was that the least hand-to-hand fight, when hygelac was slain there in the frisian land when the king of the geats, the friendly lord of the folk, the son of hrethel, died in the battle-rush beaten down by the sword, drunk with blood-drinking. then fled beowulf by his very own craft and swam through the seas. [67] and he had on his arm alone thirty battle-trappings when he went down to the sea. nor did the hetware need to be boasting, of that battle on foot, they who bore their linden shields against him. and few of them ever reached their homes safe from that wolf of the battle. but beowulf, son of ecgtheow, swam o'er the expanse of waters, miserable and solitary, back to his people, where hygd proffered him treasures and a kingdom, rings and dominion. she did not think that her son heardred would know how to hold their native seats against strangers, now that hygelac was dead. nor could the wretched people prevail upon the atheling (beowulf) in any wise to show himself lord of heardred or to be choosing the kingship. nevertheless he gave friendly counsel to the folk with grace and honour until that he (heardred) was older and held sway over the weder-geats. then those exiles the sons of ohthere sought him over the seas; they had rebelled against the lord of the swedes, the best of the sea-kings, that famous chieftain of those who bestowed rings in sweden. and that was life's limit to him. for the son of hygelac, famishing there, was allotted a deadly wound by the swing of a sword. and the son of ongentheow went away thence to visit his homestead when heardred lay dead, and left beowulf to sit on the throne and to rule the goths. and he was a good king. [68] xxxiv he was minded in after-days to be requiting the fall of the prince. he was a friend to the wretched eadgils, and helped eadgils the son of ohthere with an army with warriors and with weapons, over the wide seas. and then he wrought vengeance with cold and painful journeyings and deprived the king (onela) of life. [69] thus the son of ecgtheow had escaped all the malice and the hurtful contests and the courageous encounters, until the day on which he was to wage war with the dragon. and so it came to pass that the lord of the geats went forth with twelve others and inflamed with fury, to spy out the dragon. for he had heard tell of the malice and hatred he had shown to men, whence arose that feud. and by the hand of the informer, [70] famous treasure came into their possession; he was the thirteenth man in the troop who set on foot the beginning of the conflict. and the sorrowful captive must show the way thither. he against his will went to the earth-hall, for he alone knew the barrow under the ground near to the sea-surge, where it was seething, the cavern that was full of ornaments and filagree. and the uncanny guardian thereof, the panting war-wolf, held possession of the treasures, and an ancient was he under the earth. and it was no easy bargain to be gaining for any living man. so the battle-hardened king sat down on the cliff, and took leave of his hearth-comrades, he the gold-friend of the geats. and his heart was sad, wavering, and ready for death, and weird came very near to him who would be greeting the venerable warrior and be seeking his soul-treasure, to divide asunder his life from his body. and not long after that was the soul of the atheling imprisoned in the flesh. beowulf spake, the son of ecgtheow: 'many a war-rush i escaped from in my youth, in times of conflict. and well i call it all to mind. i was seven years old when the lord of treasures, the friendly lord of the folk, took me away from my father--and king hrethel had me in thrall, and gave me treasure and feasted me and kept the peace. nor was i a whit less dear a child to him than any of his own kin, herebald and hã¦thcyn or my own dear hygelac. and for the eldest was a murder-bed most unhappily made up by the deeds of a kinsman, [71] when hã¦thcyn his lordly friend brought him low with an arrow from out of his horn-bow, and missing the mark he shot through his brother with a bloody javelin. and that was a fight not to be atoned for by gifts of money; and a crime it was, and wearying to the soul in his breast. nevertheless the atheling must unavenged be losing his life. for so is it a sorrowful thing for a venerable man to see his son riding the gallows-tree when he singeth a dirge a sorrowful song, as his son hangeth, a joy to the ravens. and he, very old, may not give him any help. and every morning at the feasting he is reminded of his son's journey else-whither. and he careth not to await another heir within the cities, when he alone through the fatality of death hath found out the deeds. 'heartbroken he looks on the bower of his son, on the wasted wine-hall, become the hiding-place for the winds and bereft of the revels. the riders are sleeping, the heroes in the tomb. nor is any sound of harping, or games in the courts as erewhile there were. xxxv 'then he goeth to the sleeping-place and chanteth a sorrow-song, the one for the other. and all too spacious seemed to him the fields and the dwelling-house. so the prince of the geats bore welling heart-sorrow after herebald's death, nor a whit could he requite the feud on the murderer, nor visit his hate on that warrior with loathly deeds, though by no means was he dear to him. he then forsook the joys of life because of that sorrow-wound which befell him, and chose the light of god, and left to his sons land and towns when he departed this life as a rich man doth. then was there strife and struggle between the swedes and the geats, and over the wide seas there was warfare between them, a hardy battle-striving when hrethel met with his death. and the children of ongentheow were brave and battle-fierce, and would not keep the peace on the high seas, but round about hreosnaborg they often worked terrible and dire distress. and my kinsmen wrought vengeance for that feud and crime as all men know, though the other bought his life with a hard bargain. and war was threatening hã¦thcyn the lord of the geats. then i heard tell that on the morrow one brother the other avenged on the slayer with the edge of the sword, whereas ongentheow [72] seeketh out eofor. the war-helmet was shattered, and the ancient of the swedes fell prone, all sword-pale. and well enough the hand kept in mind the feud and withheld not the deadly blow. and i yielded him back in the warfare the treasures he gave me with the flashing sword, as was granted to me. and he gave me land and a dwelling and a pleasant country. and he had no need to seek among the gifthas or the spear-danes or in sweden a worse war-wolf, or to buy one that was worthy. 'and i would always be before him in the troop, alone in the front of the battle, and so for ever will i be striving, whilst this sword endureth, that earlier and later has often stood me in good stead, since the days when for doughtiness i was a hand-slayer to day raven the champion of the hugs. nor was he fated to bring ornaments or breast-trappings to the frisian king, but he the guardian of the standard, he the atheling, fell on the battle-field, all too quickly. nor was the sword-edge his bane, but the battle-grip broke the whelmings of his heart and the bones of his body. now shall my sword-edge, my hand and hard weapon, be fighting for the hoard.' beowulf moreover now for the last time spake these boastful words: 'in many a war i risked my life in the days of my youth, yet still will i seek a feud, i the old guardian of the people will work a glorious deed if the wicked scather cometh out from his earth-palace to seek me.' then he saluted for the last time each of the warriors, the brave wearers of helmets, the dear companions. 'i would not carry a sword or weapon against the dragon if i knew how else i might maintain my boast against the monster, as i formerly did against grendel. but in this conflict i expect the hot battle-fire, both breath and poison. therefore i have both shield and byrny. i will not flee from the warder of the barrow a foot's-space, but it shall be with me at the wall of the barrow as weird shall direct, who created all men. i am strong in soul so that i will refrain from boasting against the war-flier. await ye on the barrow guarded by byrnies, o ye warriors in armour, and see which of us two will better survive his wounds after the battle-rush. this is no journey for you nor fitting for any man save only for me, that he should share a conflict with the monster and do deeds worthy of an earl. i will gain possession of the gold by my courage, or battle and deadly evil shall take away your lord.' then the strong warrior, hard under helm, arose beside his shield and carried his shirt of mail under the rocky cliffs and trusted in the strength of himself alone. nor was that a coward's journey. then beowulf, possessed of manly virtues, who had escaped in many a conflict and crashing of battle when men encountered on foot, saw standing by the wall of the barrow an arch of rock, and a stream broke out thence from the barrow, and the whelming of that river was hot with battle-fires. nor could he survive any while near to the hoard unburnt because of the flame of the dragon. then in a fury the prince of the weder-geats let a torrent of words escape from his breast and the stout-hearted one stormed. and his war-clear voice resounded under the hoar cliffs. and hatred was stirred, for the guardian of the hoard recognized well the voice of beowulf. and that was no time to be seeking friendship. and the breath of the monster, the hot battle-sweat, came forth from the rock at the first and the earth resounded. the warrior, the lord of the geats, raised his shield under the barrow against the terrible sprite. now the heart of the dragon was stirred up to seek the conflict. the good war-king had formerly drawn his sword, the ancient heirloom, not slow of edge. and each of them who intended evil was a terror the one to the other. and the stern-minded one, he the prince of friendly rulers, stood by his steep shield, and he and the dragon fell quickly together. beowulf waited warily all in his war-gear. then the flaming monster bent as he charged, hastening to his doom. the shield well protected life and body of the famous warrior for a lesser while than he had willed it if he was to be wielding victory in that contest on the first day; but weird had not so fated it. and the lord of the geats uplifted his hand, and struck at the horribly bright one heavy with heirlooms, so that the edge stained with blood gave way on the bone and bit in less strongly than its master had need of when pressed by the business. then after the battle-swing the guardian of the barrow was rough-minded and cast forth slaughter-fire. battle-flames flashed far and wide. and the son of the geats could not boast of victory in the conflict. the sword had failed him, naked in the battle, as was unfitting for so well tempered a steel. and it was not easy for the famous son of ecgtheow to give up possession of the bottom of the sea, and that he should against his will dwell in some place far otherwhere, as must each man let go these fleeting days sooner or later. and not long after this beowulf and the monster met together again. the guardian of the hoard took good heart, and smoke was fuming in his breast. and fierce were his sufferings as the flames embraced him, he who before had ruled over the folk. nor at all in a troop did his hand-comrades stand round him, that warrior of athelings, showing courage in the battle, but they fled into a wood their lives to be saving. and the mind of one of them was surging with sorrows, for to him whose thoughts are pure, friendship cannot ever change. xxxvi wiglaf was he called, he who was the son of weohstan, the beloved shield-warrior, the prince of the danes and the kinsman of aelfhere. he saw his lord suffering burning pain under his visor. then he called to mind the favour that he (beowulf) had bestowed upon him in days of yore, the costly dwelling of the waegmundings [73] and all the folk-rights which his father had possessed. then he could not restrain himself, but gripped the shield with his hand, the yellow wood, and drew forth the old sword which was known among men as the heirloom of eanmund, the son of ohthere, and in the striving weohstan was banesman by the edge of the sword to that friendless exile and bore away to his kinsman the brown-hued helmet, the ringed byrny, and the old giant's sword that onela [74] had given him, the war-weeds of his comrade, and the well-wrought armour for fighting. nor did he speak of the feud, though he slew his brother's son. and he held possession of the treasures many years, both the sword and the byrny, until such time as his son should hold the earlship as his father had done. and he gave to the geats a countless number of each kind of war-weeds, when he in old age passed away from this life, on the outward journey. that was the first time for the young champion that he went into the war-rush with his noble lord. nor did his mind melt within him, nor did the heirloom of his kinsman at the war-tide. and the dragon discovered it when they two came together. wiglaf spake many fitting words, and said to his comrades (for his mind was sad within him): 'i remember the time when we partook of the mead, and promised our liege-lord in the beer-hall, he who gave to us rings, that we would yield to him war-trappings both helmets and a hand-sword, if such need befell him. and he chose us for this warfare, and for this journey, of his own free will, and reminded us of glory; and to me he gave these gifts when he counted us good spear-warriors and brave helmet-bearers, although our lord, this guardian of the people had it in his mind all alone to do this brave work for us, for he most of all men could do glorious things and desperate deeds of war. and now is the day come that our lord hath need of our prowess and of goodly warriors. let us then go to the help of our battle-lord while it lasts, the grim terror of fire. god knows well of me that i would much rather that the flame should embrace my body together with that of my lord the giver of gold. nor does it seem to me to be fitting that we should carry shields back to the homestead except we have first laid low the foe and protected the life of the prince of the weders. [75] and well i know that his old deserts were not that he alone of the youth of the geats should suffer grief and sink in the fighting. so both sword and helmet, byrny and shield shall be common to both of us together.' then he waded through the slaughter-reek, and bore the war-helmet to the help of his lord, and uttered a few words: 'beloved beowulf, do thou be doing all things, as thou of yore in the days of thy youth wast saying that thou wouldst not allow thy glory to be dimmed whilst thou wast living. now shalt thou, the brave in deeds and the resolute noble, save thy life with all thy might. i am come to help thee.' after these words came the angry dragon, the terrible and hostile sprite yet once again, and decked in his various hues of whelmings of fire, against his enemies, the men that he hated. and the wood of the shield was burnt up with the waves of flame, and his byrny could not help the young spear-warrior; yet did the youth bravely advance under the shield of his kinsman when his own had been destroyed by the flames. then again the war-king bethought him of glory, and struck a mighty blow with his battle-sword so that it fixed itself in his head, forced in by violence. and naegling, beowulf's sword old and grey, broke in pieces, and failed in the contest. it was not given to him that sharp edges of swords should help him in battle. his hand was too strong, so that it overtaxed every sword, as i have been told, by the force of its swing, whenever he carried into battle a wondrous hand-weapon. and he was nowise the better for a sword. then for the third time, the scather of the people, the terrible fire-dragon, was mindful of feuds, and he rushed on the brave man when he saw that he had room, all hot and battle-grim, and surrounded his neck with bitter bones. and he was all be-bloodied over with life-blood, and the sweat welled up in waves. xxxvii then i heard tell that the earl of the king of the people showed in his time of need unfailing courage in helping him with craft and keenness, as was fitting for him to do. he paid no heed to the head of the dragon (but the brave man's hand was being burnt when he helped his kinsman), but that warrior in arms struck at the hostile sprite somewhat lower in his body so that his shining and gold-plated sword sank into his body, and the fire proceeding therefrom began to abate. then the good king beowulf got possession of his wits again, and drew his bitter and battle-sharp short sword that he bore on his shield. and the king of the geats cut asunder the dragon in the midst of his body. and the fiend fell prone; courage had driven out his life, and they two together had killed him, noble comrades in arms. and thus should a man who is a thane always be helping his lord at his need. and that was the very last victory achieved by that prince during his life-work. then the wound which the earth-dragon had formerly dealt him began to burn and to swell. and he soon discovered that the baleful venom was seething in his breast, the internal poison. then the young noble looked on the giant's work as he sat on a seat musing by the cliff wall, how arches of rock, firmly on columns held the eternal earth-house within. then the most noble thane refreshed his blood-stained and famous lord, his dear and friendly prince with water, with his own hands, and loosened the helmet for the battle-sated warrior. and beowulf spake, over his deathly pitiful wound, for well he knew that he had enjoyed the day's while of his earthly joy: and the number of his days was all departed and death was coming very near. 'now,' said beowulf, 'i would have given battle-weeds to my son if any heir had been given to me of my body. i held sway over these peoples fifty years. and there was no folk-king of those who sat round about who dared to greet me with swords, or oppress with terror. at home have i bided my appointed time, and well i held my own [76], nor did i seek out cunning feuds, nor did i swear many unrighteous oaths. and i, sick of my life-wounds, can have joy of all this. for the wielder of men cannot reproach me with murder of kinsmen when my life shall pass forth from my body. now do thou, beloved wiglaf, go quickly and look on the hoard under the hoar stone, now that the dragon lieth prone and asleep sorely wounded and bereft of his treasure. and do thou make good speed that i may look upon the ancient gold treasures and yarely be feasting mine eyes upon the bright and cunning jewels, so that thereby after gazing on that wealth of treasure i may the more easily give up my life and my lordship over the people, whom i have ruled so long.' xxxviii then straightway i heard tell how the son of weohstan, after these words had been spoken, obeyed the behest of his lord, who was sick of his wounds, and carried the ring-net and the coat of mail adorned, under the roof of the barrow. and as wiglaf, exulting in victory, came by the seat, he saw many gems shining and shaped like the sun [77] and gleaming gold all lying on the ground, and wondrous decorations on the wall, and he saw too the den of the dragon, the ancient twilight-flier, and flagons standing there and vessels of men of days long gone by, no longer polished but shorn of adornment. and there also was many a helmet, ancient and rusty, and many arm-rings cunningly twisted. the possession of treasure and of gold on the earth may easily make proud all of mankind, let him hide it who will. likewise he saw the all-gilded banner lying high over the hoard, that greatest of wondrous handiwork and all woven by the skill of human hands. and therefrom went forth a ray of light, so that he could see the floor of the cave, and look carefully at the jewels. and there was no sign of the dragon, for the sword-edge had carried him off. then i heard tell how in that barrow one at his own doom [78] plundered the hoard, that old work of giants, and bore away on his arms both cups and dishes. and the banner also he took, that brightest of beacons. beowulf's sword, with its iron edge, had formerly injured him who had been the protector of these treasures for a long time, and had waged fierce flame-terror, because of the hoard fiercely welling in the midnight hour until he was killed. the messenger [79] was in haste, and eager for the return journey, and laden with jewels, and curiosity tormented him as to whether he would find the bold-minded prince of the geats alive on the battle-field, and bereft of strength where before he had left him. then he with the treasures found the glorious lord, his own dear master, at the last gasp, and all stained with blood. and he began to throw water upon him, until the power of speech brake through his mind, and beowulf spake, and with sorrow he looked upon the hoard. 'i would utter words of thanks to the lord and wondrous king, to the eternal god, for the treasures which now i am looking upon that i have managed to obtain them for my dear people before my death-day. now that i have in exchange for this hoard of treasure sold my life in my old age, and laid it down, do thou still be helping the people in their need, for i may no longer be lingering here. do thou bid the famous warriors erect a burial-mound, after the burning of the funeral pyre, at the edge of the sea, which shall tower aloft on whale's ness, as a memorial for my people, and so the sea-farers shall call it the hill of beowulf, even those who drive the high ships from afar through the mists of the flood.' then he the bold prince doffed from his neck the golden ring. and he gave it to his thane, to the young spear-warrior, the gold-adorned helmet, the ring, and the byrny, and bade him enjoy it well. 'thou, o wiglaf,' he said, 'art the last heir of our race, of that of the waegmundings. weird has swept away all my kinsmen to their fated doom, all the earls in their strength, and i shall follow after them.' now that was the very last word of the old warrior's breast thoughts, ere he chose the funeral pyre the hot wave-whelmings. and his soul went forth from his breast to be seeking the doom of the truth-fast ones. xxxix then had it sorrowfully come to pass for the young warrior that he saw his most beloved in a miserable plight on the earth at his life's end. likewise the terrible dragon, his slayer, lay there bereft of life and pressed sore by ruin. and the coiled dragon could no longer wield the hoard of rings, but the iron edges of the sword, well tempered and battle-gashed; the hammer's leavings [80], had carried him off, so that the wide-flier, stilled because of his wounds, fell to the earth near to the hoard-hall. and no more in playful wise at the midnight hour, did he drift through the air; this dragon, proud in his gainings of treasure, showed not his face, but was fallen to the earth because of the handiwork of the battle-warrior. and as i have heard, it would have profited but few of the mighty men, even though they were doughty in deeds of all kinds, though they should rush forth against the flaming breath of the poisonous scather, even to the very disturbing of the ring-hall with their hands, if they should have found the guardian thereof awake, and dwelling in the cliff-cave. then beowulf's share of lordly treasure was paid for by his death. and both he and the dragon had come to an end of their fleeting days. and not long after that, the laggards in battle, those cowardly treaty-breakers, ten of them together, came back from the woodlands, they who erewhile had dreaded the play of javelins when their lord had sore need of their help. but they were filled with shame, and carried their shields, and battle-weeds, to where the old prince was lying. and they looked on wiglaf; he the foot-warrior sat aweary near to the shoulders of his lord, and sought to rouse him by sprinkling water upon him, but he succeeded not at all. nor could he, though he wished it ever so much, keep life in the chieftain or avert a whit the will of the wielder of all things. every man's fate was decided by the act of god, as is still the case. then was a grim answer easily given by the young man to these who erewhile had lost their courage. wiglaf spake, he the son of weohstan, the sad-hearted. 'he who will speak truth may say that the lord and master who gave you gifts, and warlike trappings, in which ye are now standing, when he very often gave on the ale-bench to them who sat in the hall, both helmet and byrny, the prince to his thanes, as he could find any of you most noble far or near, that he wholly wrongly bestowed upon you war-trappings when war befell him. the king of the folk needed not indeed to boast of his army comrades, yet god, the wielder of victory, granted to him that alone he avenged himself with the edge of the sword when he had need of strength. and but a little life-protection could i give him in the battle, yet i sought to help him beyond my strength. the dragon was by so much the weaker when i struck with my sword that deadly foe. and less fiercely the fire surged forth from his head. too few were the defenders thronged around their lord when his fated hour came. and now shall the receiving of treasure, and the gift of swords, and all joy of home and hope cease for ever to men of your kin. and every man of you of the tribe must wander empty of land-rights, since noble men will learn far and wide of your flight and inglorious deed. death would be better for earls than a life of reproach.' xl then he bade them announce that battle-work at the entrenchment up over the sea-cliff where that troop of earls sat sorrowful in soul through the morning-long day, holding their shields and in expectation of the end of the day and the return of the dear man. and he who rode to and fro o'er the headland was little sparing of fresh tidings, but said to all who were sitting there, 'now is the joy-giver of the people of the geats fast on his death-bed, and by the deed of the dragon he inhabits the place of rest gained by a violent death. and by his side lieth the enemy of his life, sick of his dagger-wounds. nor could he inflict with the sword any wound on that monster. wiglaf sits over beowulf, he the son of weohstan, the earl over the other one who is dead, and reverently keeps ward over the loathã¨d and the belovã¨d. but there is an expectation of a time of war to the people, since to franks and frisians the fall of the king has become widely known. the hard strife was shapen against the hugs, when hygelac came with a fleet into the frisian lands [81] where the hetware overcame him in battle, and by their great strength and courage brought it to pass that the shield-warrior should stoop. he fell in the troop. nor did the prince give jewelled armour to the doughty ones. the mercy of the merewing [82] was not always shown to us. nor do i expect aught of peace or good faith from the swedish people. but it was well known that ongentheow [83] bereft hã¦thcyn the son of hrethel [84] of life over against ravenswood, when because of pride the warlike swedes first sought out the people of the geats. soon ongentheow the wise father of ohthere, the ancient and terrible, gave him (hã¦thcyn) a return blow, destroyed the sea-kings, and rescued his bride (queen elan) he the old man rescued his wife bereft of gold, the mother of onela and of ohthere, and then followed up the deadly foe until with difficulty they retreated all lord-less to ravenswood. and he attacked the remnant [85] with a great army, weary though he was with his wounds. and the live-long night he vowed woe upon the wretched troop, and said that on the morrow he would by the edge of the sword slay some and hang them up on the gallows-tree for a sport of the birds. but help came to the sorrowful in soul at the dawn of day, when they heard the horn of hygelac and the blast of his trumpet when the good man came on the track faring with the doughty warriors of the people. xli 'and the blood-track of both swedes and geats, the slaughter-rush of warriors, was widely seen how the folk stirred up the feud amongst them. the good man, wise and very sad, went away with his comrades to seek out a stronghold. earl ongentheow turned away to higher ground, for he the war-crafty one had heard of the prowess of hygelac the proud. he had no trust in his power to resist, or that he would be able to refuse the demands of the seamen, the ocean-farers, or defend the treasure he had taken, the children and the bride. [86] thence afterwards, being old, he sought refuge under the earth-wall. then was chase given to the people of the swedes and the banner of hygelac borne aloft; and they swept o'er the field of peace when the sons of hrethel thronged to the entrenchment. and there too, was ongentheow, he the grey-haired king of the people driven to bay at the edge of the sword, and forced to submit to the sole doom of eofor. and angrily did wulf, son of wanred, smite him with weapon, so that from that swinging blow blood-sweat gushed forth in streams under the hair of his head. yet the old swede was not terrified thereby, but quickly gave back a terrible blow by a worse exchange when the king of the people turned thither. nor could wulf the bold son of wanred give back a blow to the old churl, for ongentheow had formerly cut his helmet in two, so that he, stained with blood, fell prone perforce to the ground. but not yet was he doomed, but he raised himself up, though the wound touched him close. and the hardy thane of hygelac (eofor) when his brother lay prostrate, caused the broad sword, the old giant's sword, to crash through the wall of shields upon the gigantic helmet. then stooped the king, the shepherd of the people, mortally wounded. and there were many who bound up his kinsman and quickly upraised him when room had been made so that they might possess the battle-field, while one warrior was plundering another. one took the iron shield of ongentheow, and his hard-hilted sword, and his helmet, and carried the trappings of the old man to hygelac. and he received the treasures, and fairly he promised reward for the people, and he did as he promised. the lord of the geats (hygelac) son of hrethel, rewarded with very costly gifts the battle onset of eofor and wulf when he got back to his palace, and bestowed upon each of them a hundred thousand, of land and locked rings. nor could any man in the world reproach him for that reward, since they had gained glory by fighting; and he gave to eofor his only daughter, she who graced his homestead, to wed as a favour. and this is the feud and the enmity and hostile strife of men, which i expect the swedish people will seek to awaken against us when they shall hear we have lost our prince, he who in days of yore held treasure and kingdom against our foes after the fall of heroes, and held in check the fierce swede, and did what was good for the people and deeds worthy of an earl. now is it best for us to hasten to look upon our king and bring him who gave to us rings to the funeral pyre. nor shall a part only of the treasure be melted with the proud man, but there is a hoard of wealth, an immense mass of gold, bought at a grim cost, for now at the very end of his life he bought for us rings. and the brands shall devour all the treasures and the flames of the funeral fire, they shall enfold them, nor shall an earl carry away any treasure as a memorial, nor shall any maid all beauteous wear on her neck ring adornments, but shall go sad of soul and bereft of gold, and often not once only tread an alien land now that the battle-wise man (beowulf) has laid aside laughter, the games and the joys of song. and many a morning cold shall the spear in the hand-grip be heaved up on high, nor shall there be the sound of harping to awaken the warriors, but the war-raven, eager over the doomed ones, shall say many things to the eagle how it fared with him in eating the carrion while he, with the wolf, plundered the slaughtered.' thus then was the brave warrior reciting loathly spells. and he lied not at all in weird or word. then the troop rose up together, and all unblithely went under eagles' ness, to look on the wonder, and tears were welling. then they found him on the sand in his last resting-place, and bereft of soul, who had given them rings in days gone by, and then had the last day drawn to its close, for the good man beowulf, the warrior king, the lord of the weder-goths, had died a wondrous death. but before this they had seen a more marvellous sight, the dragon on the sea-plain, the loathsome one lying right opposite. and there was the fire-dragon grimly terrible, and scorched with fire. and he was fifty feet in length as he lay there stretched out. he had had joy in the air awhile by night, but afterwards he went down to visit his den. but now he was the prisoner of death, and had enjoyed his last of earth-cares. and by him stood drinking-cups and flagons, and dishes were lying there and a costly sword, all rusty and eaten through as though they had rested a thousand winters in the bosom of the earth. and those heirlooms were fashioned so strongly, the gold of former races of men, and all wound round with spells, so that no man could come near that ring-hall, unless god only, himself the true king of victories, gave power to open up the hoard to whom he would (for he is the protector of men) even to that man as it seemed good to him. xlii then was it quite clear to them that the affair had not prospered with the monster, who had hidden ornaments within the cave under the cliff. the guardian thereof had slain some few in former days. then had the feud been wrathfully avenged. and it is a mystery anywhere when a valiant earl reaches the end of his destiny, when a man may no longer with his kinsman dwell in the mead-hall. and thus was it with beowulf when he sought out the guardian of the cavern and his cunning crafts. and he himself knew not how his departure from this world would come about. and thus famous chieftains uttered deep curses until the day of doom, because they had allowed it to come to pass that the monster should be guilty of such crimes, and, accursed and fast with hell-bands, as he was, and tormented with plagues that he should plunder the plain. he (beowulf) was not greedy of gold, and had more readily in former days seen the favour of god. wiglaf spake, the son of weohstan: 'often shall many an earl of his own only will suffer misery, as is our fate. nor could we teach the dear lord and shepherd of the kingdom any wisdom so that he would fail to be meeting the keeper of the gold treasures (the dragon) or to let him stay where he had been long time dwelling in his cavern until the world's end. but he held to his high destiny. now the hoard is seen by us, grimly got hold of, and at too great a cost was it yielded to the king of the people whom he enticed to that conflict. i was within the cavern, and looked upon all the hoard, the decoration of the palace, when by no means pleasantly, room was made for me, and a faring was granted to me in under the sea-cliff. and in much haste i took a very great burden of hoard-treasures in my hand, and bore it forth hither to my king. he was still alive, wise and witting well. and he the ancient uttered many words in sadness, and bade me greet you, and commanded that ye should build after death of your friend a high grave-mound in the place of the funeral pyre, a great and famous monument, for he himself was the most worshipful of men throughout the earth, while he was enjoying the wealth of his city. let us now go and see and seek yet once again the heap of treasures, the wonder under the cliff. i will direct you, so that ye may look at close quarters upon the rings and the wealth of gold. let the bier be quickly made ready when we come forth again, and then let us carry the dear man our lord when he shall enjoy the protection of the ruler of all things.' then the son of weohstan, the battle-dear warrior, ordered that commandment should be given to many a hero and householder that they should bring the wood for the funeral pyre from far, they the folk-leaders, to where the good man lay dead. 'now the war-flame shall wax and the fire shall eat up the strong chief among warriors, him who often endured the iron shower, when the storm of arrows, strongly impelled, shot over the shield-wall, and the shaft did good service, and all eager with its feather, fear followed and aided the barb.' then the proud son of weohstan summoned from the troop the thanes of the king, seven of them together, and the very best of them, and he the eighth went under the hostile roof. and one of the warriors carried in his hand a torch which went on in front. and no wise was it allotted who should plunder that hoard, since they saw some part unguarded remaining in the hall, and lying there fleeting. and little did any man mourn when full heartily they carried forth the costly treasures. then they shoved the dragon the worm over the cliff-wall, and let the wave take him and the flood embrace that guardian of the treasures. then the twisted golden ornaments were loaded on a wagon, an immense number of them. and the noble atheling, the hoar battle-warrior, was carried to whales' ness. xliii then the people of the geats got ready the mighty funeral pyre, and hung it round with helmets and battle-shields, and bright byrnies as he had asked. and in the midst they lay the famous prince, and they lamented the hero, their dear lord. then the warriors began to stir up the greatest of bale-fires on the cliff-side. and the reek of the wood-smoke went up swart, over the flame, which was resounding, and its roar mingled with weeping (and the tumult of winds was still), until it had broken the body, all hot into the heart. and unhappy in their thinkings, and with minds full of care, they proclaim the death of their lord, likewise a sorrowful song the bride.... [87] and heaven swallowed up the smoke. then on the cliff-slopes the people of the geats erected a mound, very high and very broad, that it might be beholden from afar by the wave-farers; and they set up the beacon of the mighty in battle in ten days. and the leavings of the funeral fire they surrounded with a wall, so that very proud men might find it to be most worthy of reverence. and they did on the barrow rings and necklaces, and all such adornments as formerly warlike men had taken of the hoard. and they allowed the earth to hold the treasure of earls, the gold on the ground, where it still is to be found as useless to men as it always was. [88] then the battle-dear men rode round about the mound, the children of the athelings, twelve of them there were in all, and would be uttering their sorrows and lamenting their king, and reciting a dirge, and speaking of their champion. and they talked of his earlship and of his brave works, and deemed them doughty, as is fitting that a man should praise his lord in words and cherish him in his heart when he shall have gone forth from the fleeting body. so the people of the geats lamented over the fall of their lord, his hearth-companions, and said that he was a world-king, and the mildest, the gentlest of men, and most tender to his people, and most eager for their praise. appendices i general note on the poem this is the greatest poem that has come down to us from our teutonic ancestors. our only knowledge of it is through the unique ms. in the british museum. it has already been translated at least eight times as follows: 1. kemble, 1837. 2. thorpe and arnold (with the o.e. poem accompanying it). 3. lumsden, 1881 (in ballad form). 4. garnett, 1883. 5. earle, 1892. 6. william morris and a. j. wyatt, 1895. this is in poetic form, but abounds in archaisms and difficult inversions, and is sometimes not easy to read or indeed to understand. 7. wentworth huyshe, 1907. 8. a translation in 1912. author unknown. many of the persons and events of beowulf are also known to us through various scandinavian and french works as follows: scandinavian records. 1. saxo's danish history. 2. hrã³lf's saga kraka. 3. ynglinga saga (and ynglinga tã¡l). 4. skiã¶ldunga saga. as instances of identical persons and events: 1. skiã¶ldr, ancestor of skiã¶ldungar, corresponds to scyld the ancestor of scyldungas. 2. the danish king halfdan corresponds to healfdene. 3. his sons hroarr and helgi correspond to hrothgar and halga. 4. hrã¶lf kraki corresponds to hrothwulf, nephew of hrothgar. 5. frothi corresponds to froda, and his son ingialdi to ingeld. 6. otarr corresponds to ohthere, and his son athils to eadgils. with the exception of the ynglinga tã¡l all these records are quite late, hence they do not afford any evidence for the dates of events mentioned in beowulf. further scandinavian correspondences are seen in bã¶thvarr biarki, the chief of hrã¶lf kraki's knights. he is supposed to correspond to beowulf. he came to leire, the danish royal residence, and killed a demon in animal form. saxo says it was a bear. this demon attacked the king's yard at yule-tide, but biarki and beowulf differ as to their future, for biarki stayed with hrã¶lf kraki to the end and died with him. in the grettis saga the hero kills two demons, male and female. it is true that the scene is laid in iceland, but minor details of scenery, the character of the demons, and other similarities make it impossible to believe the two stories to be different in origin. they both sprang out of a folk-tale associated after ten centuries with grettis, and in england and denmark with an historical prince of the geats. french records 1. historia francorum and gesta regum francorum (discovered by outzen and leo). in a.d. 520 a raid was made on the territory of the chatuarii. their king theodberht, son of theodric i, defeated chocilaicus, who was killed. this chocilaicus is identified with the hygelac of our poem, and the raid with hygelac's raid on the hetware (= chatuarii), the franks, and the frisians. this helps us to estimate the date for beowulf as having been born somewhere about the end of the fifth century. 2. historia francorum, by gregory of tours. the author speaks of the raider as the king of the danes. 3. liber monstrorum. in this work the raider is rex getarum, king of the geats, who may correspond with the geats of our poem. the geats were the people of gautland in southern sweden. see appendix xi. origin of the anglo-saxon poem it was probably written in northumbrian or midland, but was preserved in a west saxon translation. there would seem to be some justifiable doubt as to the unity of the poem. though on the whole pagan and primitive in tone, it has a considerable admixture of christian elements, e.g. on pp. 29 and 30 and pp. 109-112, though the latter passage may be a late interpolation. generally speaking, the poetry and sentiments are christian in tone, but the customs are pagan. the author of the article in the cambridge history of english literature, vol. i., to whom i owe much, says: 'i cannot believe that any christian poet could have composed the account of beowulf's funeral.' one passage is very reminiscent of eph. vi. 16, viz. chapter xxv. p. 111; whilst page 25 (lower half) may be compared with cã¦dmon's hymn. there are also references to cain and abel and to the deluge. of chapters i.-xxxi. the percentage of christian elements is four, whilst of the remaining chapters (xxxii. ad fin.) the percentage is ten, due chiefly to four long passages. note especially that the words in chapter ii., 'and sometimes they went vowing at their heathen shrines and offered sacrifices,' et seq., are quite inconsistent with the christian sentiment attributed to hrothgar later in the poem. 'it is generally thought,' says the writer in the cambridge history of english literature, 'that several originally separate lays have been combined into one poem, and, while there is no proof of this, it is quite possible and not unlikely.' there are in the poem four distinct lays: 1. beowulf's fight with grendel. 2. beowulf's fight with grendel's mother. 3. beowulf's return to the land of the geats. 4. beowulf's fight with the dragon. competent critics say that probably 1 and 2 ought to be taken together, while beowulf's reception by hygelac (see 3 above) is probably a separate lay. some scholars have gone much further in the work of disintegration, even attributing one half of the poem to interpolators, whilst others suggest two parallel versions. summing up, the writer in the cambridge history of english literature says: 'i am disposed to think that a large portion of the poem existed in epic form before the change of faith, and that the appearance of christian elements in the poem is due to revision. the christianity of beowulf is of a singularly indefinite and individual type, which contrasts somewhat strongly with what is found in later old english poetry. this revision must have been made at a very early date.' the poem was built up between a.d. 512, the date of the famous raid of hygelac (chocilaicus) against the hetware (chatuarii), and 752, when the french merovingian dynasty fell; for, says arnold, 'the poem contains not a word which by any human ingenuity could be tortured into a reference to any event subsequent to the fall of the merovingians' (a.d. 752). ii the prelude the prelude would seem to be an attempt to link up the hero of the poem with the mythological progenitors of the teutonic nations. thomas arnold says: 'that sceaf, scyld, and beaw were among the legendary ancestors of the west saxon line of kings no one disputes. but this does not mean much, for the poem itself shows that the same three were also among the legendary ancestors of the danish kings.' ethelward, who wrote early in the tenth century, gives the ancestry of ethelwulf, the father of alfred. ethelward says: 'the seventeenth ancestor from cerdic was beo, the eighteenth scyld, the nineteenth scef.' ethelward also says: 'scef himself, with one light vessel, arrived in the island of the ocean which is called scani, dressed in armour, and he was a very young boy, and the inhabitants of that land knew nothing about him; however, he was received by them, and kept with care and affection as though he were of their own kin, and afterwards they chose him to be king, from whose stock the king athulf [ethelwulf] derives his line.' it may be noted that neither scyld nor scef is mentioned in the a.s. chronicle (a.d. 855). william of malmesbury, in his gesta regum, says that scef was so called from the sheaf of wheat that lay at his head, that he was asleep when he arrived, and that when he grew up he became a king in the town then called slaswic, now haithebi (rolls ed., 1. 121). mã¼llenhoff says: 'if we look closely into the saga, the ship and the sheaf clearly point to navigation and agriculture, the arms and jewels to kingly rule--all four gifts, therefore, to the main elements and foundations of the oldest state of culture among the germans [teutons?] of the sea-board; and if the bearer of these symbols became the first king of the country, the meaning can only be this, that from his appearance the beginning of the oldest state of culture dates, and that generally before him no orderly way of leading a human life had existed.' scyld (meaning shield) refers to the fact that the king was the protector of the people in war, and is therefore symbolical, like scef. the ship and the sheaf, the arms and the jewels and the shield--these are the symbols of that primitive civilization--the sheaf, the symbol of agriculture and food, the ship of commerce, the arms of warfare, the jewels of reward of bravery, and the shield of the protection of the people by the king. arnold mentions the fact that no writer not english mentions the saga of scef and scyld, and suggests that this is presumption for the english origin of the legend. i do not, however, think it is conclusive evidence. one is surprised that they are not mentioned in icelandic literature. yet somehow the impression on my mind is that these legends were probably brought by our saxon and danish ancestors from the continent, and are taken for granted as well known to the hearers of the song. i think they probably formed part of the legendary genealogy of our common germanic (teutonic) ancestors, and happened to find their way into literature only among the english, or have survived only in the english. iii 'brosinga mene' 'brosinga mene,' p. 82, is the 'brisinga-mã©n' mentioned in the edda, an icelandic poem. 'this necklace is the brisinga-mã©n--the costly necklace of freja, which she won from the dwarfs, and which was stolen from her by loki, as is told in the edda' (kemble). loki was a scandinavian demi-god. he was beautiful and cunning. he was the principle of strife, the spirit of evil; cp. job's satan. freya was the scandinavian goddess of love. she claimed half of the slain in battle. she was the dispenser of joy and happiness. the german frau is derived from freya. hama carried off this necklace when he fled from eormanric. the origin of this legend, though worked up in the edda, seems to have been german or gothic, and 'brosinga' has reference to the rock-plateau of breisgau on the rhine. it is probably a relic of the lost saga of eormanric (see appendix iv.), the famous ostrogothic king referred to in chapter xviii. eormanric is one of the few historical personages of the poem. iv eormanric gibbon mentions eormanric in his chapter xxv. of the decline and fall, and, in spite of chronological discrepancies, this eormanric is probably identical with the one mentioned in beowulf (chapter xviii.), in jornandes (chapter xxiv.), and in the edda. in jornandes the story is as follows. characters 1. ermanaric. 2. a chief of the roxolani tribe who was a traitor. 3. sanielh (= swanhild) wife of the chief. 4. sarus, } 5. ammius, } brothers of sanielh. ermanaric puts sanielh to death by causing her to be torn to pieces by wild horses, because of the treachery of her husband, the chief of the roxolani. her brothers, ammius and sarus, avenge her death by attacking ermanaric, but they only succeed in wounding him and disabling him for the rest of his life. in the edda the story is as follows. characters 1. gudrun, widow of sigurd and atli. 2. swanhild, daughter of gudrun by sigurd. 3. jonakur, gudrun's third husband. 4. sã¶rli, } 5. hamthir, } sons of gudrun and jonakur. 6. erp, } 7. jormunrek (eormanric). 8. randver, son of jormunrek. jormunrek hears of the beauty of swanhild and sends his son randver to seek her out for him in marriage. gudrun consents; on the way randver is incited by the traitor bicci to betray swanhild, and is then accused by him to the king. for this treachery jormunrek hangs randver and causes swanhild to be trampled to death by wild horses. then the three sons of gudrun set out to avenge their sister. on the way his two brothers kill erp, and are consequently unable to kill jormunrek. they only succeed in maiming him. saxo grammaticus, to whom we also owe the story of hamlet, tells a similar story. characters 1. jarmeric, a danish king. 2. swawilda (= swanhild), wife of jarmeric. 3. hellespontine brothers, brothers of swawilda. 4. bicco, a servant of jarmeric. bicco accuses swawilda to jarmeric of unfaithfulness. he causes her to be torn to pieces by wild horses. then her brothers kill jarmeric with the help of a witch, gudrun, hewing off his hands and feet. these three stories are evidently based on one common original. v marriage of freawaru and ingeld characters 1. freawaru, daughter of hrothgar the dane. 2. ingeld, son of froda, king of the heathobards. 3. froda, king of the heathobards. 4. a heathobard warrior. 5. son of the danish warrior who had killed froda. the heathobards were a people in zealand. there had been an ancient feud between the danes and the heathobards in which froda had been killed by a danish warrior. hrothgar hoped to appease the feud by the marriage of his daughter freawaru to ingeld. unluckily, the son of the danish warrior who had killed froda accompanied freawaru to ingeld's court. then an old heathobard warrior notices this and stirs up strife. the marriage fails in its object, and war breaks out again between the danes and the heathobards. beowulf predicts the course of events in his speech to hygelac (chapters xxviii. and xxix.). vi finn the finn episode (chapters xvi. and xvii.) is one of those events in beowulf that would be quite well known to the first hearers of the song, but to us is lacking in that clearness we might desire. fortunately, dr. hickes discovered a fragment entitled, 'the fight at finnsburgh,' on the back of a ms. of the homilies. from beowulf and from this fragment we are able to piece together an intelligible story. it is probably as follows: characters 1. finn, king of the north frisians and jutes. 2. hoc, a danish chieftain. 3. hildeburh, daughter of hoc. 4. hnaef, son of hoc. 5. hengest, son of hoc. 6. two sons of finn and hildeburh. 7. hunlafing, a finnish warrior. 8. guthlaf and oslaf, two danish warriors. finn abducts hildeburh, the daughter of hoc, the dane. hoc pursues the two fugitives and is killed in the mãªlã©e. twenty years pass by--hnaef and hengest, sons of hoc, take up the 'vendetta.' in the fighting hnaef and a son of finn and hildeburh are slain. a peace is patched up. hengest, son of hoc, is persuaded to remain as a guest of finn for the winter, and it is agreed that no reference shall be made by either side to the feud between them. then the bodies of hnaef, hildeburh's brother, and of her son are burnt together on the funeral pyre, 'and great is the mourning of hildeburh for her son.' but hengest is ever brooding vengeance. the strife breaks out anew in the spring. hengest is killed, but two of his warriors, guthlaf and oslaf, break through the enemy, return to finn's country, and slay him and carry off hildeburh. 'the fight at finnsburgh,' which is homeric in style, is the account of the first invasion of finn by hnaef and hengest, and wyatt fits it in before the finn episode on p. 75. mã¶ller places it after the phrase, 'whose edge was well known to the jutes,' on p. 79. vii hygelac hygelac, son of hrethel, was king of the geats, and uncle of beowulf, his sister's son. he was the reigning king of beowulf's fellow countrymen the geats during the greater part of the action of the poem. beowulf is often called 'hygelac's kinsman,' and when he went forth to his battle with grendel's mother (chapter xxii.), he bade hrothgar in case of his death send the treasures he had given to him to hygelac. hygelac married hygd, who is presented to us as a good queen, the daughter of hã¦reth. she was 'very young,' 'of noble character,' and 'wise.' she is compared, to her advantage, with thrytho, who was a shrewish woman. no one dared to look upon her except her husband. however, her second husband, offa, seems to have 'tamed the shrew' (see p. 120). hygelac has been identified with chocilaicus, who was killed in the famous raid on the chatuarii referred to in the historia francorum and the gesta regum, who are identified with the hetware of this poem (see p. 143 and appendix i.). the famous raid of hygelac upon the hetware in which he met his death is referred to five times in the poem, as follows: chapters xviii., p. 83; xxxi., p. 134; xxxiii., p. 142; xxxv., p. 151; xl., p. 172. on the death of hygelac his son heardred succeeded to the throne (chapter xxxi., p. 134); and, after a brief interval, he was killed in battle by onela (see appendix ix.). then beowulf succeeded to the throne of the geats (chapter xxxi., p. 134). hygelac died between a.d. 512 and 520. beowulf died about 568. he reigned fifty years. viii hã�thcyn and herebald it would seem doubtful as to whether this was deliberate or accidental. the poet says 'hã¦thcyn missed the mark' with his javelin and killed his brother herebald; but subsequently he speaks as though it had been deliberate murder. ix wars between the swedes and the geats characters 1. swedes 1. ongentheow, king of the swedes. 2. onthere, } 3. onela, } his two sons. 4. eadgils, } 5. eanmund, } two sons of ohthere. 2. geats, &c. 6. hã¦thcyn, king of geats. 7. hygelac, king of geats. 8. heardred, king of geats. 9. beowulf, king of geats. 10. eofor, } 11. wulf, } two geat warriors. ongentheow was a king of the swedes. the swedes are also called scylfings in the poem. the origin of the word 'scylfing' is doubtful. ongentheow went to war with hã¦thcyn, king of the geats and brother of hygelac; and ongentheow, who was well advanced in years, struck down his foe (chapter xl., p. 173) at the battle of ravenswood. this was the first time that the swedes invaded the geats. the geats retreated into the ravenswood at nightfall, but with the dawn they heard the horn of hygelac 'as the good prince came marching on the track.' ongentheow now was alarmed, for hygelac's prowess in battle was far-famed. he withdrew into some fortification, and was attacked by the geats. two brothers, eofor and wulf, assailed the veteran warrior. he defended himself with great vigour and killed wulf; but eofor came to the help of his brother and dealt ongentheow his death-blow over the guard of his shield. ongentheow's two sons were onela and ohthere. ohthere had two sons, eanmund and eadgils. these two sons of ohthere were banished from sweden for rebellion, and took refuge at the court of the geat king heardred. this greatly enraged their uncle onela, that they should resort to the court of their hereditary foes (see above). onela invaded the land of the geats (chapters xxxiii. and xxxiv., pp. 144 sq.) and slew heardred. then it was that beowulf became king of the geats. thus two geatish kings had been slain by the swedes, viz. hã¦thcyn and heardred. in revenge, later on, beowulf supported eadgils in his counter-attack on his own fatherland when eadgils killed his uncle onela. this story is confirmed by the scandinavian accounts in which athils (= eadgils) slew ali (= onela) on the ice of lake wener; cp. the phrase 'cold journeyings' (chapter xxxiv., p. 145). this is wyatt's version of the story. x sigmund sigmund (page 65) is the father and uncle of fitela. he is stated in beowulf to have killed a serpent who kept guard over a hoard of treasure. in the icelandic saga known as the vã¶lsunga saga, sigmund is represented as the father of sigurd, and 'it is sigurd who rifles the treasure of the niblungs and kills the serpent (fafnir), its guardian' (arnold, p. 69), and he carries it away on the back of his horse grani. sigmund is represented as the son of a vã¶lsung; that is, as beowulf has it, 'the heir of waels.' waels was afterwards forgotten, however, and waelsing was regarded as a proper name instead of a patronymic denoting descent from waels. in a similar way, as arnold points out, sigmund is pushed into the background to make room for his son sigurd (siegfried). 'and so in the german nibelungen lay it is sigurd (siegfried) who wins the hoard, but does so by defeating and killing its former possessors schilbung and nibelung' (arnold, p. 70). attempts have been made to claim a german origin for this saga, but in face of the evidence of beowulf and the vã¶lsunga saga and the edda there is, i think with arnold, little doubt but that its origin was scandinavian. possibly and probably we owe the later elaboration of the saga in the nibelungen lay to german influence. for discussion of the whole question see arnold's notes on beowulf, pp. 67-75, edit. 1898, cap. v. xi tribes mentioned in the poem 1. brondings. breca was a bronding. after his famous swimming-match with beowulf (chapter viii.), he is said to have sought out his 'pleasant fatherland the land of the brondings.' arnold suggests that they were located in mecklenburg or pomerania. 2. danes, also called bright-danes, ring-danes, spear-danes, because of their warlike character; and north danes, south danes, &c., because of their wide distribution. they are said to have inhabited the scede lands and scedenig and 'between the seas'; that is, they were spread over the danish islands, the southern province of sweden, and the seas between them. 3. jutes (eotenas), probably people ruled over by finn, king of friesland, and identical with the frisians. 4. franks and frisians. the franks were ancestors of the modern french. after the conversion of clovis (a.d. 496), they gradually encroached on the frisians. 5. frisians include the frisians, the franks, the hetware, and the hugs. friesland was the country between the river ems and the zuyder zee. 6. geats. they dwelt in the south of sweden between the danes and the swedes. bugge sought to identify them with the jutes, and held that gautland was juteland. he based this theory on certain phrases: e.g. chapter xxxiii., where the swedes (the sons of ohthere) are said to have visited the geats 'across the sea,' and again in chapter xxxv. the swedes and the geats are said to have fought 'over wide water'; but, as arnold points out, these phrases can be interpreted in such a way as not to be incompatible with the theory that they dwelt on the same side of the cattegat, i.e. on the northern side, and in the extreme south of sweden. the question as to whether they are identical with the goths of roman history is still an open one. arnold says, 'there is a great weight of evidence tending to identify the geats with the goths,' and he quotes evidence from gibbon (chapter x.). pytheas of marseilles, in the fourth century, says that, passing through the baltic sea, he met with tribes of goths, teutons, and ests. tacitus, in chapter xliii. of germania, speaks of the goths as dwelling near the swedes. jornandes traces the goths to scanzia, an island in the northern sea. it is probable, then, that the goths had a northern and indeed a scandinavian origin. if so, beowulf the geat was probably a goth. 7. healfdenes. the tribe to which hnaef belonged. 8. heathoremes. the people on whose shores beowulf was cast up after his swimming-match with breca. 9. ingwine. friends of ing--another name for the danes. 10. scyldingas. another name for the danes, as descended from scyld. 11. scylfingas. name for the swedes. 12. waegmundings. the tribe to which both beowulf and wiglaf belonged. 13. wylfings. probably a gothic tribe. xii page 135 the text here is much mutilated, and can only be restored by ingenious conjecture. grein and bugge and others have reconstructed it. on the whole bugge's text, which i have followed, seems to me the most reasonable. it is unfortunate that the text should be so imperfect just at this critical point in the linking up of the two great divisions of the story. in the ancient days some remote predecessors of the geats seem to have heaped up in the neighbourhood a pile of wonderful vessels jewel-bedecked, and treasures of all kinds, of inconceivable value. then the last of the race carries the treasure to a barrow or cavern in the cliffs near the site, in after-generations, of beowulf's palace, and delivers a pathetic farewell address (pp. 136 et seq.). the dragon finds the cavern and the treasure and appropriates it for three hundred years. then one of beowulf's retainers finds the treasure and takes a golden goblet while the dragon is sleeping, and offers it to his lord as a peace-offering. this brought about beowulf's feud with the dragon in which he met his death. books consulted beowulf, edited with textual footnotes, &c., by a. j. wyatt, m.a. (cantab. and london). pitt press, cambridge, 1898. the tale of beowulf, sometime king of the folk of the weder-geats. translated by william morris, a. j. wyatt. 1898. longmans. zupitza's transliteration of beowulf. a photographic reproduction of the manuscript. early english text society. encyclopaedia britannica. chambers's encyclopaedia. beowulf, notes on, by thomas arnold, m.a., 1898. longmans, green & co. this contains a good map of the scenes alluded to in the poem. history of early english literature, by the rev. stopford brooke. epic and romance, w. p. ker. ten brink's english literature. notes [1] see arnold, p. 115. [2] see conclusion of tess of the d'urbervilles. [3] see appendix ii. [4] not the hero of the poem. [5] cp. with this the 'passing of arthur,' as related by tennyson. the meaning is clear. cp. also appendix. [6] not the hero of this poem. [7] the gables were decorated with horns of stags and other beasts of the chase. [8] see appendix v., and chapters xxviii, and xxix. [9] wyatt's translation of 'ne his myne wisse.' [10] i.e. beowulf. [11] geats. the tribe to which beowulf belonged. they inhabited southern sweden between the danes on the south and the swedes on the north. see appendix xi. [12] literally, 'then was the sea traversed at the end of the ocean.' [13] frequent references are made to the device of the boar on shield and helmet; cp. p. 77, in description of hnaef's funeral pyre. [14] the name of a reigning danish dynasty. [15] for scyld cp. appendix ii. [16] hygelac, king of the geats at the time, and uncle of beowulf. [17] weland--'the famous smith of germanic legend,' says wyatt--who also refers us to the franks casket in the british museum. [18] weird was a peculiarly english conception. it means fate, or destiny. then weird became a god or goddess--cp. 'the seafarer,' an old english poem in which we find 'weird is stronger, the lord is mightier than any man's thoughts.' [19] i.e. wealtheow, hrothgar's queen, who was of this tribe. [20] healfdene was the father of hrothgar, king of the danes. [21] i.e. beowulf. [22] thus we see how sagas or legends came to be woven together into a song. see appendix x. [23] heremod was a king of the danes, and is introduced, says wyatt, as a stock example of a bad king. [24] wyatt's translation. [25] byrny was a coat of mail. swords were of greater value as they were ancient heirlooms, and had done good service. [26] see appendix vi. [27] i.e. hildeburh, wife of finn. [28] i.e. finn. [29] the boar then, as ever since, occupied a prominent place in heraldry. [30] see a similar passage in my version of sir gawain and the green knight, canto ii. 1 and 2. [31] hrothulf, nephew of hrothgar. [32] see appendix iii. [33] see appendix iv. [34] wyatt's translation. [35] that is, 'the harp.' [36] rune--literally, 'a secret.' [37] cp. the phrase 'welsh marches,' i.e. the boundaries or limits of wales. [38] cp. description of hunting in sir gawain and the green knight, canto iii. 2. [39] scyldings are the danes. [40] i.e. unferth. [41] cp. chapter viii. [42] i.e. hrothgar. [43] i.e. the sun. [44] hrothgar. [45] cp. pp. 66-68. [46] 'honour-full' is wyatt's translation. [47] hrethric, one of hrothgar's sons. [48] literally, 'the gannet's bath.' the sea is also 'swan's path,' 'sail-path,' &c. [49] a difficult phrase. refers perhaps to old feuds between danes and geats. [50] cp. chapter iii. [51] thrytho is referred to as a foil to hygd. thrytho was as bad a woman as hygd was good. she was a woman of a wild and passionate disposition. she became the queen of king offa, and it seems to have been a case of the 'taming of the shrew.' offa appears to have been her second husband. see below. [52] i.e. to offa. [53] i.e. hygelac; see appendices vii. and ix. [54] i.e. hygd, queen of the geats, hygelac's wife. [55] i.e. wealtheow, hrothgar's queen. [56] i.e. ingeld. see below. [57] another episode, viz. that of freawaru and ingeld. note also the artificial break of the narrative into chapters. see appendix v. hrothgar's hopes by the marriage of his daughter freawaru to ingeld of the heathobards was doomed to disappointment, cp. 'widsith,' 45-9. [58] numbers xxix. and xxx. are lacking in the ms. the divisions here are as in wyatt's edition. [59] withergyld--name of a heathobard warrior. [60] probably referring to the chanting of some ancient legend by the scop, or gleeman. [61] wyatt's translation. [62] hygelac was killed in his historical invasion of the netherlands, which is five times referred to in the poem. see appendix vii. [63] see appendix ix. [64] the ms. here is very imperfect. i have used the emended text of bugge, which makes good sense. see appendix xii. [65] here again the text is imperfect. [66] possibly a later insertion, 'the ten commandments' (wyatt). [67] beowulf saved his life by swimming across the sea, in hygelac's famous raid. see appendix vii. [68] see appendix ix. [69] see appendix ix. [70] see p. 138. [71] see appendix viii. [72] see appendices vii. and ix. [73] waegmundings--the family to which both beowulf and wiglaf belonged. [74] see appendix ix. [75] i.e. beowulf. [76] wyatt and morris's translations. [77] wyatt and morris translate 'sun jewels.' [78] wyatt's translation. [79] i.e. wiglaf. [80] i.e. it had been well hammered into shape. [81] yet another reference to hygelac's famous raid. see appendix vii. [82] merovingian king of the franks. [83] see appendix ix. [84] hrethel, king of geats, father of hygelac and grandfather of beowulf. [85] literally, 'the sword-leavings.' [86] see appendix ix. [87] text in ms. faulty here. wyatt and morris have adopted bugge's emendation. the sense is that beowulf's widow with her hair bound up utters forth a dirge over her dead husband. [88] probably the treasures that remained in the cavern. see previous chapter. this ebook was produced by john b. hare and carrie lorenz. heroic romances of ireland translated into english prose and verse, with preface, special introductions and notes by a. h. leahy in two volumes vol. ii @@{redactors note: in the original book the 'literal translation' is printed on facing pages to the poetic translation. in this etext the literal translation portions have been collated after the poetic translation, for the sake of readability. hence the page numbers are not sequential--jbh} preface to vol. ii it seems to have been customary in ancient ireland to precede by shorter stories the recital of the great tain, the central story of the irish heroic age. a list of fourteen of these "lesser tains," three of which are lost, is given in miss hull's "cuchullin saga"; those preserved are the tain bo aingen, dartada, flidais, fraich, munad, regamon, regamna, ros, ruanadh, sailin, and ere. of these, five only have been edited, viz. the tain bo dartada, flidais, fraich, regamon, and regamna; all these five are given in this volume. the last four tales are all short, and perhaps are more truly "preludes" (remscela) than the tain bo fraich, which has indeed enough of interest in itself to make it an independent tale, and is as long as the four put together. all the five tales have been rendered into verse, with a prose literal translation opposite to the verse rendering, for reasons already given in the preface to the first volume. a short introduction, describing the manuscript authority, is prefixed to each; they all seem to go back in date to the best literary period, but appear to have been at any rate put into their present form later than the great tain, in order to lead up to it. a possible exception to this may be found at the end of the tain bo flidais, which seems to give a different account of the end of the war of cualgne, and to claim that cuchulain was defeated, and that connaught gained his land for its allies. it may be mentioned that the last four tales are expressly stated in the text to be "remscela" to the great tain. introduction in verse when to an irish court of old came men, who flocked from near and far to hear the ancient tale that told cuchulain's deeds in cualgne's war; oft, ere that famous tale began, before their chiefest bard they hail, amid the throng some lesser man arose, to tell a lighter tale; he'd fell how maev and ailill planned their mighty hosts might best be fed, when they towards the cualgne land all irelands swarming armies led; how maev the youthful princes sent to harry warlike regamon, how they, who trembling, from her went, his daughters and his cattle won; how ailill's guile gained darla's cows, how vengeful fairies marked that deed; how fergus won his royal spouse whose kine all ireland's hosts could feed; how, in a form grotesque and weird, cuchulain found a power divine; or how in shapes of beasts appeared the magic men, who kept the swine; or how the rowan's guardian snake was roused by order of the king; or how, from out the water, fraech to finnabar restored her ring. and though, in greater tales, they chose speech mired with song, men's hearts to sway, such themes as these they told in prose, like speakers at the "feis" to-day. to men who spake the irish tongue that form of prose was pleasing well, while other lands in ballads sung such tales as these have loved to tell: so we, who now in english dress these irish tales would fain and seek their spirit to express, have set them down in ballad verse; and, though to celts the form be strange, seek not too much the change to blame; 'tis but the form alone we change; the sense, the spirit rest the same. contents the preludes to the raid of cualgne tain bo fraich page 1 the raid for dartaid's cattle page 69 the raid for the cattle of regamon page 83 the driving of the cattle of flidais page 101 the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain page 127 appendix irish text and literal translation of part of the courtship of etain page 143 tain bo fraich introduction the tain bo fraich, the driving of the cattle of fraech, has apparently only one version; the different manuscripts which contain it differing in very small points; most of which seem to be due to scribal errors. practically the tale consists of two quite separate parts. the first, the longer portion, gives the adventures of fraech at the court of ailill and maev of connaught, his courtship of their daughter, finnabar, and closes with a promised betrothal. the second part is an account of an expedition undertaken by fraech to the alps "in the north of the land of the long beards," to recover stolen cattle, as well as his wife," who is stated by o'beirne crowe, on the authority of the "courtship of trebland" in the book of fermoy, to have been trebland, a semi-deity, like fraech himself. except that fraech is the chief actor in both parts, and that there is one short reference at the end of the second part to the fact that fraech did, as he had promised in the first part, join ailill and maev upon the war of cualnge, there is no connection between the two stories. but the difference between the two parts is not only in the subject-matter; the difference in the style is even yet more apparent. the first part has, i think, the most complicated plot of any irish romance, it abounds in brilliant descriptions, and, although the original is in prose, it is, in feeling, highly poetic. the second part resembles in its simplicity and rapid action the other "fore tales" or preludes to the war of cualnge contained in this volume, and is of a style represented in english by the narrative ballad. in spite of the various characters of the two parts, the story seems to have been regarded as one in all the manuscripts which contain it; and the question how these two romances came to be regarded as one story becomes interesting. the natural hypothesis would be that the last part was the original version, which was in its earlier part re-written by a man of genius, possibly drawing his plot from some brief statement that finnabar was promised to fraech in return for the help that he and his recovered cattle could give in the great war; but a difficulty, which prevents us from regarding the second part as an original legend, at once comes in. the second part of the story happens to contain so many references to nations outside ireland that its date can be pretty well fixed. fraech and his companions go, over the sea from ulster, i.e. to scotland; then through "north saxon-land" to the sea of icht (i.e. the sea of wight or the english channel); then to the alps in the north of the land of the long-beards, or lombards. the long-beards do not appear in italy until the end of the sixth century; the suggestion of north saxon-land reaching down to the sea of wight suggests that there was then a south saxon-land, familiar to an irish writer, dating this part of the story as before the end of the eighth century, when both saxons and long-beards were overcome by charlemagne. the second part of the story is, then, no original legend, but belongs to the seventh or eighth century, or the classical period; and it looks as if there were two writers, one of whom, like the author of the egerton version of etain, embellished the love-story part of the original legend, leaving the end alone, while another author wrote an account of the legendary journey of the demi-god fraech in search for his stolen cattle, adding the geographical and historical knowledge of his time. the whole was then put together, like the two parts of the etain story; the difference between the two stories in the matter of the wife does not seem to have troubled the compilers. the oldest manuscript authority for the tain bo fraich is the book of leinster, written before 1150. there are at least two other manuscript authorities, one; in egerton, 1782 (published by professor kuno meyer in the zeitschrift für celt. philologie, 1902); the other is in ms. xl., advocates' library, edinburgh (published in the revue celtique, vol. xxiv.). professor meyer has kindly allowed me to copy his comparison of these manuscripts and his revision of o'beirne crowe's translation of the book of leinster text. the text of the literal translation given here follows, however, in the main o'beirne crowe's translation, which is in the proceedings of the royal irish academy for 1870; a few insertions are made from the other mss.; when so made the insertion is indicated by a note. for those who may be interested in the subsequent history of fraech, it may be mentioned that he was one of the first of the connaught champions to be slain by cuchulain in the war of cualnge; see miss faraday's translation (grimm library, page 35). persons in the story mortals ailill, king of connaught. medb (or maev), queen of connaught. findbar (or finnabar), their daughter. froech (or fraech), (pronounced fraych); son of a connaught man and a fairy mother. conall cernach (conall the victorious), champion of ulster. two irish women, in captivity in the alps, north of lombardy. lothar (or lothur), a follower of fraech. bicne, a follower of conall. immortals befind, fraech's fairy mother. boand (pronounced like "owned"), sister to befind; queen of the fairies. three fairy harpers. tain bo fraich the raid for the cattle of fraech now the news of the love of that maid to fraech, at his home where he dwelt, was brought, and he called his folk, and with all he spoke, and for speech with the maid he sought: and they counselled him thus: "let a message from thee be sent to thy fairy kin to entreat their aid when we seek that maid; a boon we may chance to win: for the wondrous robes of the fairy land, and for gifts from the fairies plead; and sure thy mother's sister's hand will give to thee all thy need." to mag breg,[fn#1] where his mother's sister dwelt, to boand he away hath gone, and she gave to him mantles of dark black-blue, like a beetle's back they shone: four dark-grey rings in each cloak she gave were sewn, and a brooch shone, bright with the good red gold in each mantle's fold; she gave tunics pale and white, and the tunics were bordered with golden loops, that forms as of beasts displayed; and a fifty she added of well-rimmed shields, that of silver white were made. [fn#1] pronounced maw brayg. then away they rode, in each hero's hand was a torch for a kingly hall, for studs of bronze, and of well-burned gold, shone bright on the spears of all; on carbuncle sockets the spears were set, their points with jewels blazed; and they lit the night, as with fair sunlight, as men on their glory gazed. by each of the fifty heroes' side was a sword with a hilt of gold; and a soft-grey mare was for each to ride, with a golden curb controlled; at each horse's throat was a silver plate, and in front of that plate was swung, with a tinkling sound to the horse's tread, a bell with a golden tongue. on each steed was a housing of purple hide, with threads of silver laced, and with spiral stitch of the silver threads the heads of beasts were traced, and each housing was buckled with silver and gold: of findruine[fn#2] was made the whip for each rider to hold, with a crook of gold where it came to the horse man's grip. [fn#2] pronounced "find-roony," the unknown "white-bronze" metal. by their sides, seven chase-hounds were springing at leashes of silver they strained, and each couple a gold apple, swinging on the fetter that linked them, sustained: and their feet with bronze sheaths had been guarded, as if greaves for defence they had worn, every hue man hath seen, or hath fancied, by those chase-hounds in brilliance was borne. seven trumpeters strode on the road before, with colour their cloaks were bright, and their coats, that shone with the gauds they wore, flashed back as they met the light; on trumpets of silver and gold they blew, and sweet was the trumpets' sound, and their hair, soft and yellow, like fairy threads, shone golden their shoulders round. three jesters marched in the van, their-crowns were of silver, by gilt concealed, and emblems they. carried of quaint device, engraved on each jester's shield; they had staves which with crests were adorned, and ribs down their edges in red bronze ran; three harp-players moved by the jesters' sides, and each was a kingly man. all these were the gifts that the fairy gave, and gaily they made their start, and to croghan's[fn#3] hold, in that guise so brave, away did the host depart. [fn#3] pronounced crow-han. on the fort stands a watchman to view them, and thus news down to croghan he calls: "from yon plain comes, in fulness of numbers, a great army to croghan's high walls; and, since ailill the throne first ascended, since the day we hailed maev as our queen, never army so fair nor so splendid yet hath come, nor its like shall be seen." "'tis strange," said he," as dipped in wine, so swims, so reels my head, as o'er me steals the breath divine of perfume from them shed." "a fair youth," said he, "forth with them goeth, and the grace of such frolicsome play, and such lightness in leap as he showeth have i seen not on earth till to-day: for his spear a full shot's length he flingeth, yet the spear never reacheth to ground, for his silver-chained hounds follow after, in their jaws is the spear ever found!" the connaught hosts without the fort to see that glory rushed: sixteen within, of baser sort, who gazed, to death were crushed. to the fort came the youths, from their steeds they leapt, for the steeds and the stabling cared, and they loosed the hounds that in leash they kept, for the hunt were the hounds prepared; seven deer, seven foxes and hares, they chased to the dun on croghan's plain, seven boars they drave, on the lawn in haste the game by the youths was slain: with a bound they dashed into bree, whose flood by the lawns of croghan flows; seven otters they caught in its stream, and brought to a hill where the gateway rose. 'twas there that fraech and the princes sat at the castle-gate to rest, and the steward of croghan with fraech would speak, for such was the king's behest: of his birth it was asked, and the men he led all truth to the herald spake: "it is idath's son who is here," they said, and they gave him the name of fraech. to ailill and maev went the steward back of the stranger's name to tell; "give him welcome," said they: "of a noble race is that youth, and i know it well; let him enter the court of our house," said the king, the gateway they opened wide; and the fourth of the palace they gave to fraech, that there might his youths abide. fair was the palace that there they found, seven great chambers were ranged it round; right to the walls of the house they spread, facing the hall, where the fire glowed red: red yew planks, that had felt the plane, dappled the walls with their tangled grain: rails of bronze at the side-walls stood, plates of bronze had made firm the wood, seven brass bolts to the roof-tree good firmly the vaulting tied. all that house had of pine been made, planks, as shingles, above were laid; sixteen windows the light let pass, each in a frame of the shining brass: high through the roof was the sky seen bright; girder of brass made that opening tight, under the gap it was stretched, and light fell on its gleaming side. all those chambers in splendour excelling, the midmost of all in the ring, rose a room, set apart as the dwelling of queen maev, and of ailill the king. four brass columns the awning supported for their couch, there was bronze on the wall; and two rails, formed of silver, and gilded, in that chamber encircled it all: in the front, to mid-rafters attaining, rose in silver a wand from the floor; and with rooms was that palace engirdled, for they stretched from the door to the door. 'twas there they went to take repose, on high their arms were hung; and down they sank, and welcome rose, acclaimed by every tongue. by the queen and the king they were welcome made, the strangers they turned to greet; and their courtesy graciously fraech repaid: "'twas thus we had hoped to meet." "not for boasting to-day are ye come!" said maev; the men for the chess she set: and a lord of the court in the chess-man sport by fraech in a match was met. 'twas a marvellous board of findruine fair was prepared, when they played that game, four handles, and edges of gold it had, nor needed they candles' flame; for the jewels that blazed at the chess-board's side, a light, as from lamps, would yield; and of silver and gold were the soldiers made, who engaged on that mimic field. "get ye food for the chiefs!" said the king; said maev, "not yet, 'tis my will to stay, to sit with the strangers, and here with fraech in a match at the chess to play!" "let thy game be played!" said ailill then, "for it pleaseth me none the less:" and queen maev and fraech at the chess-board sate, and they played at the game of chess. now his men, as they played, the wild beasts late caught were cooking, they thought to feed; and said ailill to fraech, "shall thy harpmen play?" "let them play," said fraech, "indeed:" now those harpers were wondrous men, by their sides they had sacks of the otter's skin, and about their bodies the sacks were tied, and they carried their harps within, with stitches of silver and golden thread each case for a harp was sewed; and, beneath the embroidery gleaming red, the shimmer of rubies showed! the skin of a roe about them in the middle, it was as white as snow; black-grey eyes in their centre. cloaks of linen as white as the tunic of a swan around these ties.[fn#4] harps of gold and silver and bronze, with figures of serpents and birds, and hounds of gold and silver: as they moved those strings those figures used to run about the men all round. [fn#4] this is the egerton version, which is clearly right here. the book of leinster gives: "these figures accordingly used to run," &c., leaving out all the first part of the sentence, which is required to make the meaning plain. they play for them then so that twelve of the people[fn#5] of ailill and medb die with weeping and sadness. [fn#5] the book of leinster omits "of ailill and medb." gentle and melodious were the triad, and they were the chants of uaithne[fn#6] (child-birth). the illustrious triad are three brothers, namely gol-traiges (sorrow-strain), and gen-traiges (joy-strain), and suan-traiges (sleep-strain). boand from the fairies is the mother of the triad: [fn#6] pronounced something like yew-ny. at every one of the harpers' waists was girded the hide of a roe, and black-grey spots in its midst were placed, but the hide was as white as snow; and round each of the three of them waved a cloak, as white as the wild swan's wings: gold, silver, and bronze were the harps they woke; and still, as they touched the strings, the serpents, the birds, and the hounds on the harps took life at the harps' sweet sound, and those figures of gold round the harpmen rose, and floated in music round. then they played, sweet and sad was the playing, twelve of ailill's men died, as they heard; it was boand[fn#7] who foretold them that slaying, and right well was accomplished her word. [fn#7] pronounced with sound of "owned." 'tis the three chants of child-birth give names to those three; of the harp of the dagda[fn#8] the children they be. [fn#8] the dagda seems to have been the chief god of the old celtic mythology. to those harpers a fairy is mother, of yore to that harp, men call child-birth, queen boand the three bore. they are three noble brothers, and well are they known; they are kindly and gentle, and tuneful of tone. one is joy-song, one sorrow's, one, "song that gives sleep," and the harp's strains, their father's, remembered they keep. for when boand was at bearing, came sorrow the first, from the harp, its strings tearing with cry, sorrow burst. then there came to her pleasure for birth of a boy; and a sweet smiling measure the harp played, 'twas joy. and she swooned in her anguish, for hard the third birth: from the harp, her pains soothing, sleep's strain came on earth. then from boand passed her slumber, and, "uaithne,"[fn#9] she cried, thy three sons, thou sharp child-birth, i take to my side. [fn#9] pronounced something like yew-ny. cows and women by ailill and maev shall be slain; for on these cometh sorrow, and joy, and sleep's strain: yea, and men, who these harpers, thy children, shall hear, by their art to death stricken, shall perish in fear." then the strains died away in the palace, the last notes seemed to sink, and to cease: "it was stately," said fergus, "that music." and on all came a silence, and peace. said fraech, "the food divide ye! come, bring ye here the meat!" and down to earth sank lothar, on floor he set his feet; he crouched, on haunches sitting, the joints with sword he split; on bones it fell unerring, no dainty part he hit! though long with sword he hewed, and long was meat by men supplied, his hand struck true; for never wrong would lothar meat divide. three days at the chess had they played; three nights, as they sat at the game, had gone: and they knew not the night for the sparkling light from the jewels of fraech that shone; but to maev turned fraech, and he joyously cried, "i have conquered thee well at the chess! yet i claim not the stake at the chess-board's side, lest thy palace's wealth be less." "for no lengthier day have i sat in such play," said maev, "since i here first came." "and well may the day have seemed long," said fraech, "for three days and three nights was the game!" then up started maev, and in shame she blushed that the chiefs she had failed to feed; to her husband, king ailill, in wrath she rushed: "we have both done a goodly deed! for none from our stores hath a banquet brought for the youths who are strangers here!" and said ailill, "in truth for the play was thy thought, and to thee was the chess more dear." "we knew not that darkness had come," said maev, "'tis not chess thou should'st thus condemn; though the day had gone, yet the daylight shone from the heart of each sparkling gem; though the game we played, all could meal have made, had men brought of the night advice, but the hours sped away, and the night and the day have approached and have fled from us thrice!" "give command," said the king, "that those wailing chants, till we give them their food, be stilled." and food to the hands of each they gave, and all with the meat were filled; and all things merrily went, for long the men with a feast were fed, for, as feasting they sat, thrice rose the day, thrice night above earth was spread. they brought fraech, when that banquet was ended, to the house of debate, which was near, and they asked of his errand: "in friendship, for a visit," said fraech, "am i here!" "and 'twas joy that we felt, when receiving this your host," said the king, "ye have brought much of pleasure to all, and with grieving, when ye go, shall your presence be sought!" "then," said fraech, "for a week we abide here." for two weeks in that dun they abode: and the connaught men pressed round to view them, as each eve home from hunting they rode. yet fraech was sad, with findabar a word he sought in vain; though he in truth from home so far had come that word to gain. fraech, as night was ending, sprang from out his bed; sought the brook, intending there to lave his head. there king ailill's daughter stood, and there her maid: they that hour from water sought the cleansing aid. "stay," he cried, and speaking caught the maiden's hand; "thee alone as seeking, i have reached this land: here am i who sought thee, stay, and hear me woo!" "ah! thy speech hath brought me joy," she said, "most true; yet, thy side if nearing, what for thee can i?" "maid!" he cried, "art fearing hence with me to fly?" "flight i hold disloyal," answered she in scorn; "i from mother royal, i to king was born; what should stay our wedding? none so mean or poor thou hast seemed, nor dreading kin of mine; be sure: i will go! 'tis spoken, thou beloved shalt be! take this ring as token, lent by maev to me! 'twas my mother who bid me to save it, for the ring she in secret would hide; 'tis as pledge of our love that i gave it, as its pledge it with thee should abide. till that ring we can freely be showing i will tell them i put it astray!" and, the love of each other thus knowing, fraech and finnabar went on their way. "i have fear," said the king, "that with fraech yon maid to his home as his wife would fly; yet her hand he may win, if he rides on the raid with his kine when the time draws nigh." then fraech to the hall of debate returned, and he cried: "through some secret chink hath a whisper passed?" and the king replied, "thou would'st fit in that space, i think!" "will ye give me your daughter?" said fraech: said the king, "in sight of our hosts she goes; if, as gift to suffice for her marriage price, thy hand what i ask bestows." "i will give thee what price thou dost name," said fraech, "and now let its sum be told!"' "then a sixty steeds do i claim," said the king, "dark-grey, and with bits of gold; and twelve milch-cows, from their udders shall come the milk in a copious stream, and by each of the cows a white calf shall run; bright red on its ears shall gleam; and thou, with thy harpers and men, shalt ride by my side on the cualgne[fn#10] raid, and when all thy kine driven here shall stand, shall the price of her hand be paid!" [fn#10] pronounced kell-ny. now i swear by the edge of my sword," said fraech, "i swear by my arms and shield, i would give no such pledge, even maev to take, were it her thou wert fain to yield!" and he went from the house of debate, but maev with ailill bent low in plot: all around us our foes," said the king, "shall close, if finnabar stays here not; many kings of erin, who seek that maid, shall hear of her borne away, and in wrath they will rush on our land; 'twere best that fraech we devise to slay; ere that ruin he bring, let us make our spring, and the ill yet unwrought arrest." "it were pity such deed should be done," said maev, "and to slay in our house our guest! 'twill bring shame on us ever." "no shame to our house," said king ailill, "that death shall breed!" (and he spake the words twice)--"but now hear my advice, how i plan we should do this deed." all the plot had been planned; to their house at last king ailill and maev through the doorway passed; and the voice of the king uprose: "'tis now that the hounds should their prey pursue, come away to the hunt who the hounds would view; for noon shall that hunting close." so forth went they all, on the chase intent, and they followed till strength of the hounds was spent, and the hunters were warm; and to bathe they went where the river of croghan flows. and, "'tis told me," said ailill, "that fraech hath won a great fame for the feats he in floods hath done: wilt thou enter these streams by our side that run? we are longing to see thee swim!" and said fraech: "is it good then indeed thy stream? and said ailill: "of danger no need to dream, for many a youth from the connaught court in its current hath bathed, and hath swum it in sport, nor of any who tried have we heard report that ill hath been found by him!" then fraech from his body his garments stripped, and he sprang down the bank, and he swiftly slipped in the stream: and the king's glance fell on a belt, left by fraech on the bank; the king bent low; in the purse saw his daughter's ring, and the shape of the ring could tell. "come hither, o maev," ailill softly cried; and queen maev came up close to her husband's side "dost thou know of that ring?" in the purse she spied the ring, and she knew it well. then ailill the ring from the purse withdrew, and away from the bank the fair gem he threw; and the ring, flashing bright, through the air far flew, to be lost in the flood's swift swell. and fraech saw the gem as it brightly flashed, and a salmon rose high, at the light it dashed, and, as back in the stream with the ring he splashed, at the fish went fraech with a spring: by its jole was the salmon secured, and thrown to a nook in the bank, that by few was known; and unnoticed he threw it, to none was it shown as it fell to the earth, with the ring. and now fraech from the stream would be going: but, "come not," said the king, "to us yet: bring a branch from yon rowan-tree, showing its fair berries, with water-drops wet." then fraech, swimming away through the water, brake a branch from the dread rowan-tree, and a sigh came from ailill's fair daughter; "ah! how lovely he seemeth," said she. fair she found him, swimming through that pool so black brightly gleamed the berries, bound athwart his back. white and smooth his body, bright his glorious hair; eyes of perfect greyness, face of men most fair: soft his skin, no blemish, fault, nor spot it flawed; small his chin, and steady, brave his brow, and broad. straight he seemed, and stainless; twixt his throat and chin straying scarlet berries touched with red his skin. oft, that sight recalling, findabar would cry: "ne'er was half such beauty, naught its third came nigh!" to the bank he swam, and to ailill was thrown, with its berries, the tree's torn limb: "ah! how heavy and fair have those clusters grown; bring us more," and he turned to swim; the mid-current was reached, but the dragon was roused that was guard to that rowan-tree; and it rose from the river, on fraech it rushed: "throw a sword from the bank!" cried he. and no man on the bank gave the sword: they were kept by their fear of the queen and the king; but her clothes from her finnabar stripped, and she leapt in the river his sword to bring. and the king from above hurled his five-barbed spear; the full length of a shot it sped: at his daughter it flew, and its edge shore through two tresses that crowned her head: and fraech in his hand caught the spear as it fell, and backward its point he turned. and again to the land was the spear launched well: 'twas a feat from the champions learned. though the beast bit his side as that spear was cast, yet fiercely the dart was flung, through the purple robe of the king it passed, through the tunic that next him clung! then up sprang the youths of the court, their lord in danger they well might deem, but the strong hand of fraech had closed firm on the sword, and finnabar rose from the stream. now with sword in his hand, at the monster's head hewed fraech, on its side it sank, and he came from the river with blade stained red, and the monster he dragged to the bank. twas then bree's dub-lind in the connaught land the dark water of fraech was named, from that fight was it called, but the queen and the king went back to their dun, ashamed! "it is noble, this deed we have done!" said maev: "'tis pitiful," ailill cried: "for the hurt of the man i repent, but to her, our daughter, shall woe betide! on the morrow her lips shall be pale, and none shall be found to aver that her guilt, when the sword for his succour to fraech she gave, was the cause why her life was spilt! now see that a bath of fresh bacon broth be prepared that shall heal this prince, and bid them with adze and with axe the flesh of a heifer full small to mince: let the meat be all thrown in the bath, and there for healing let fraech be laid!" and all that he ordered was done with care; the queen his command obeyed. then arose from fraech's trumpets complaining, as his men travelled back to the dun; their soft notes lamentation sustaining, and a many their deaths from them won; and he well knew its meaning; and, "lift me, my folk," he cried, "surely that keening from boand's women broke: my mother, the fairy, is nigh." then they raised him, and bore him where wild rose the sound; to his kin they restored him; his women pressed round: and he passed from their sight out of croghan; for that night from earth was he freed, and he dwelt with his kin, the sid-dwellers in the caverns of croghan's deep sid.[fn#11] [fn#11] pronounced sheed; sid is the fairy mound. all at nine, next morrow, gazed, for back he came, round their darling pressing many a fairy dame: brave he seemed, for healing all his wounds had got; none could find a blemish, none a sear or spot. fifty fairies round him, like in age and grace; like each form and bearing; like each lovely face. all in fairy garments, all alike were dressed; none was found unequal; none surpassed the rest. and the men who stood round, as they neared them, were struck with a marvellous awe; they were moved at the sight, and they feared them, and hardly their breath they could draw. at the liss all the fairies departed, but on fraech, as they vanished, they cried: and the sound floated in of their wailing, and it thrilled through the men, and they sighed. then first that mournful measure, "the ban-shee[fn#12] wail," was heard; all hearts with grief and pleasure that air, when harped, hath stirred. [fn#12] spelt "ban side," the fairy women. to the dun came fraech, and the hosts arose, and welcome by all was shown: for it seemed as if then was his birth among men, from a world to the earth unknown! up rose for him maev and king ailill, their fault they confessed, and for grace they prayed, and a penance they did, and for all that assault they were pardoned, and peace was made. and now free from all dread, they the banquet spread, the banqueting straight began: but a thought came to fraech, and from out of his folk he called to his side a man. "now hie thee," he said, "to the river bank, a salmon thou there shalt find; for nigh to the spot where in stream i sank, it was hurled, and 'twas left behind; to finnabar take it, and bid her from me that the salmon with skill she broil: in the midst of the fish is the ring: and none but herself at the task must toil; and to-night, as i think, for her ring they call ": then he turned to the feast again, and the wine was drunk, and the revellers sunk, for the fumes of it seized their brain, and music and much of delights they had; but the king had his plans laid deep, "bring ye all of my jewels," he cried-on the board they were poured in a dazzling heap. "they are wonderful, wonderful!" cried they all: "call finnabar!" said the king; and his daughter obeyed, and her fifty maids stood round in a lovely ring. my daughter," said ailill, "a ring last year i gave thee, is't here with thee yet? bring it hither to show to the chiefs, and anon in thy hand shall the gem be set." "that jewel is lost," said the maid, "nor aught of the fate of the ring i know!" then find it," said ailill, "the ring must be brought, or thy soul from thy limbs must go!" "now, nay!" said they all, "it were cruel that such fate for such fault should be found: thou hast many a fair-flashing jewel in these heaps that lie scattered around!" and said fraech: "of my jewels here glowing take thy fill, if the maid be but freed; 'tis to her that my life i am owing, for she brought me the sword in my need." "there is none of thy gems that can aid her," said ailill, "nor aught thou canst give; there is one thing alone that shall save her; if the ring be restored, she shall live! said finnabar; "thy treasure to yield no power is mine: do thou thy cruel pleasure, for strength, i know, is thine." "by the god whom our connaught land haileth, i swear," answered ailill the king, "that the life on thy lips glowing faileth, if thou place in my hand not the ring!" and that hard," he laughed softly, "the winning of that jewel shall be, know i well; they who died since the world had beginning shall come back to the spot where they fell ere that ring she can find, and can bear it to my hand from the spot where 'twas tossed, and as knowing this well, have i dared her to restore what for aye hath been lost!" "no ring for treasure thus despised," she said, "exchanged should be; yet since the king its worth hath prized, i'll find the gem for thee!" not thus shalt thou fly," said the king, "to thy maid let the quest of the ring be bid!" and his daughter obeyed, and to one whom she sent she told where the ring was hid: "but," finnabar cried, "by my country's god i swear that from out this hour, will i leave this land, and my father's hand shall no more on my life have power, and no feasting shall tempt me to stay, no draughts of wine my resolve shall shake!" "no reproach would i bring, if as spouse," said the king, "thou a groom from my stalls would'st take! but that ring must be found ere thou goest! "then back came her maid, and a dish she bore: and there lay a salmon well broiled, as sauce with honey 'twas garnished o'er: by the daughter of ailill herself with skill had the honey-sweet sauce been made. and high on the breast of the fish, the ring of gold that they sought was laid. king ailill and maev at the ring gazed hard; fraech looked, in his purse he felt: now it seemeth," he said, "'twas to prove my host that i left on the bank my belt, and ailill now i challenge all truth, as king to tell; what deed his cunning fashioned, and what that ring befell." "there is naught to be hidden," said ailill; "it was mine, in thy purse though it lay and my daughter i knew as its giver: so to river i hurled it away. now fraech in turn i challenge by life and honour's claim: say how from yon dark water that ring to draw ye came." "there is naught to be hidden," he answered, "the first day that i came, on the earth, near the court round thy house, was that jewel; and i saw all its beauty and worth: in my purse then i hid it; thy daughter, who had lost it, with care for it sought; and the day that i went to that water was the news of her search to me brought: and i asked what reward she would give me, if the gem in her hand should be placed; and she answered that i, if i found it, for a year by her love should be graced. but not then could the ring be delivered: for afar in my chamber it lay: till she gave me the sword in the river, we met not again on that day. 'twas then i saw thee open my purse, and take the ring: i watched, and towards the water that gem i saw thee fling: i saw the salmon leaping, the ring it caught, and sank: i came behind, and seized it; and brought the fish to bank. then i wrapped it up close in my mantle; and 'twas hid from inquisitive eyes; and in finnabar's hand have i placed it: and now there on the platter it lies!" now all who this or that would know to ask, and praise began: said finnabar, "i'll never throw my thoughts on other man!" now hear her word," her parents cried, "and plight to her thy troth, and when for cualgne's[fn#13] kine we ride do thou redeem thine oath. [fn#13] pronounced kell-ny. and when with kine from out the east ye reach our western land; that night shall be thy marriage feast; and thine our daughter's hand." "now that oath will i take," answered back to them fraech, "and the task ye have asked will do!" so he tarried that night till the morning's light; and they feasted the whole night through; and then homewards bound, with his comrades round, rode fraech when the night was spent, and to ailill and maev an adieu he gave, and away to their land they went. tain bo fraich part i literal translation fraech, son of idath of the men of connaught, a son he to befind from the side: a sister she to boand. he is the hero who is the most beautiful that was of the men of eriu and of alba, but he was not long-lived. his mother gave him twelve cows out of the sid (the fairy mound), they are white-eared. he had a good housekeeping till the end of eight years without the taking of a wife. fifty sons of kings, this was the number of his household, co-aged, co-similar to him all between form and instruction. findabair, daughter of ailill and medb, loves him for the great stories about him. it is declared to him at his house. eriu and alba were full of his renown and the stories about him. to fraech[fn#14] was idath[fn#15] father, a connaught man was he: and well we know his mother who dwells among the shee;[fn#16] befind they call her, sister to boand,[fn#17] the fairy queen; and alba ne'er, nor erin, such grace as fraech's hath seen. yet wondrous though that hero's grace, his fairy lineage high, for years but few his lovely face was seen by human eye. [fn#14] pronounced fraych. [fn#15] pronounced eeda. [fn#16] the fairies. [fn#17] pronounced with the sound of "owned." fraech had twelve of white-eared fairy-cattle, 'twas his mother those cattle who gave: for eight years in his home he dwelt wifeless, and the state of his household was brave; fifty princes, whose age, and whose rearing, and whose forms were as his, with him played; and his glory filled alba and erin till it came to the ears of a maid: for maev and ailill's[fn#18] lovely child, fair findabar, 'twas said, by tales of fraech to love beguiled, with fraech in love would wed. [fn#18] pronounced al-ill. after this going to a dialogue with the maiden occurred to him; he discussed that matter with his people. "let there be a message then sent to thy mother's sister, so that a portion of wondrous robing and of gifts from the side (fairy folk) be given thee from her." he goes accordingly to the sister, that is to boand, till he was in mag breg, and he carried away fifty dark-blue cloaks, and each of them was like the back of a black chafer,[fn#19] and four black-grey, rings on each cloak, and a brooch of red gold on each cloak, and pale white tunics with loop-animals of gold around them. and fifty silver shields with edges, and a candle of a king's-house in the hand of them (the men), and fifty studs of findruine[fn#20] on each of them (the lances), fifty knobs of thoroughly burned gold on each of them; points (i.e. butt-ends) of carbuncle under them beneath, and their point of precious stones. they used to light the night as if they were the sun's rays. [fn#19] the book of leinster gives "fifty blue cloaks, each like findruine of art." [fn#20] pronounced "find-roony," the unknown "white-bronze" metal. and there were fifty gold-hilted swords with them, and a soft-grey mare under the seat of each man, and bits of gold to them; a plate of silver with a little bell of gold around the neck of each horse. fifty caparisons[fn#21] of purple with threads of silver out of them, with buckles of gold and silver and with head-animals (i.e. spiral ornaments). fifty whips of findruine, with a golden hook on the end of each of them. and seven chase-hounds in chains of silver, and an apple of gold between each of them. greaves of bronze about them, by no means was there any colour which was not on the hounds. [fn#21] the word for caparisons is "acrann," the usual word for a shoe. it is suggested that here it may be a caparison of leather: "shoes" seem out of place here. see irische texts, iii. seven trumpeters with them with golden and silver trumpets with many coloured garments, with golden fairy-yellow heads of hair, with shining tunics. there were three jesters before them with silver diadems under gilding. shields with engraved emblems (or marks of distinction) with each of them; with crested staves, with ribs of bronze (copper-bronze) along their sides. three harp-players with a king's appearance about each of them opposite to these.[fn#22] they depart for cruachan with that appearance on them. [fn#22] the word for caparisons is "acrann," the usual word for a shoe. it is suggested that here it may be a caparison of leather: "shoes" seem out of place here. see irische texts, iii. 2. p. 531. the watchman sees them from the dun when they had come into the plain of cruachan. "a multitude i see," he says, "(come) towards the dun in their numbers. since ailill and maev assumed sovereignty there came not to them before, and there shall not come to them, a multitude, which is more beautiful, or which is more splendid. it is the same with me that it were in a vat of wine my head should be, with the breeze that goes over them. "the manipulation and play that the young hero who is in it makes--i have not before seen its likeness. he shoots his pole a shot's discharge from him; before it reaches to earth the seven chase-hounds with their seven silver chains catch it." at this the hosts come from the dun of cruachan to view them. the people in the dun smother one another, so that sixteen men die while viewing them. they alight in front of the dun. they tent their steeds, and they loose the chase-hounds. they (the hounds) chase the seven deer to rath-cruachan, and seven foxes, and seven hares, and seven wild boars, until the youths kill them in the lawn of the dun. after that the chase-hounds dart a leap into brei; they catch seven otters. they brought them to the elevation in front of the chief rath. they (fraech and his suite) sit down there. a message comes from the king for a parley with them. it is asked whence they came, they name themselves according to their true names, "fraech, son of idath this," say they. the steward tells it to the king and queen. "welcome to them," say ailill and maev; "it is a noble youth who is there," says ailill, "let him come into the liss (outer court)." the fourth of the house is allotted to them. this was the array of the house, a seven fold order in it; seven apartments from fire to side-wall in the house all round. a rail (or front) of bronze to each apartment; a partitioning of red yew under variegated planing all. three plates of bronze in the skirting of each apartment. seven plates of brass from the ceiling (?) to the roof-tree in the house. of pine the house was made; it is a covering of shingle it had externally. there were sixteen windows in the house, and a frame of brass, to each of them; a tie of brass across the roof-light. four beams of brass on the apartment of ailill and medb, adorned all with bronze, and it in the exact centre of the house. two rails of silver around it under gilding. in the front a wand of silver that reached the middle rafters of the house. the house was encircled all round from the door to the other.[fn#23] [fn#23] it should be noted that it is not certain whether the word "imdai," translated apartments, really means "apartments" or "benches." the weight of opinion seems at present to take it as above. they hang up their arms in that house, and they sit, and welcome is made to them. "welcome to you," say ailill and medb. "it is that we have come for," says fraech. "it shall not be a journey for boasting[fn#24] this," says medb, and ailill and medb arrange the chess-board after that. fraech then takes to the playing of chess with a man of their (?) people. [fn#24] this is the rendering in the yellow book of lecan, considered by meyer to be the true reading. the book of leinster text gives "aig-baig," a word of doubtful meaning. the eg. ms. has also a doubtful word. it was a beauty of a chess-board. a board of findruine in it with four ears[fn#25] and edges of gold. a candle of precious stones at illuminating for them. gold and silver the figures that were upon the table. "prepare ye food for the warriors," said ailill. "not it is my desire," said medb, but to go to the chess yonder against fraech." "get to it, i am pleased," said ailill, and they play the chess then, and fraech. [fn#25] the "ears" were apparently handles shaped like ears. the same word is used for the rings in the cloaks, line 33 above. his people were meanwhile at cooking the wild animals. "let thy harpers play for us," says ailill to fraech. "let them play indeed!" says fraech. a harp-bag[fn#26] of the skins of otters about them with their adornment of ruby (or coral), beneath their adornment of gold and silver. [fn#26] meyer translates this: "the concave part of the harp." it is from the music which uaithne, the dagda's harp, played that the three are named. the time the woman was at the bearing of children it had a cry of sorrow with the soreness of the pangs at first: it was smile and joy it played in the middle for the pleasure of bringing forth the two sons: it was a sleep of soothingness played the last son, on account of the heaviness of the birth, so that it is from him that the third of the music has been named. boand awoke afterwards out of the sleep. "i accept," she says, "thy three sons o uaithne of full ardour, since there is suan-traide and gen-traide, and gol-traide on cows and women who shall fall by medb and ailill, men who shall perish by the hearing of art from them." they cease from playing after that in the palace: "it is stately it has come," says fergus. "divide ye to us," says fraech to his people, "the food, bring ye it into the house." lothur went on the floor of the house: he divides to them the food. on his haunches he used to divide each joint with his sword, and he used not to touch the food part: since he commenced dividing, he never hacked the meat beneath his hand. they were three days and three nights at the playing of the chess on account of the abundance of the precious stones in the household of fraech. after that fraech addressed medb. "it is well i have played against thee (i.e. have beaten thee)," he says, "i take not away thy stake from the chess-board that there be not a decay of hospitality for thee in it." "since i have been in this dun this is the day which i deem longest in it ever," says medb. "this is reasonable," says fraech, "they are three days and three nights in it." at this medb starts up. it was a shame with her that the warriors were without food. she goes to ailill: she tells it to him. "a great deed we have done," said she, "the stranger men who have come to us to be without food." "dearer to thee is playing of the chess," says ailill. "it hinders not the distribution to his suite throughout the house. they have been three days and three nights in it but that we perceived not the night with the white light of the precious stones in the house." "tell them," says ailill, "to cease from the lamenting until distribution is made to them." distribution is then made to them, and things were pleasing to them, and they stayed three days and three nights in it after that over the feasting. it is after that fraech was called into the house of conversation, and it is asked of him what brought him. "a visit with you," said he, "is pleasing to me." "your company is indeed not displeasing with the household," said ailill, "your addition is better than your diminution." "we shall stay here then," says fraech, "another week." they stay after that till the end of a fortnight in the dun, and they have a hunt every single day towards the dun. the men of connaught used to come to view them. it was a trouble with fraech not to have a conversation with the daughter: for that was the profit that had brought him. a certain day he starts up at the end of night for washing to the stream. it is the time she had gone and her maid for washing. he takes her hand. "stay for my conversing," he says; "it is thou i have come for." "i am delighted truly," says the daughter; "if i were to come, i could do nothing for thee." "query, wouldst thou elope with me?" he says. "i will not elope," says she, "for i am the daughter of a king and a queen. there is nothing of thy poverty that you should not get me (i.e. thy poverty is not so great that thou art not able to get me) from my family; and it shall be my choice accordingly to go to thee, it is thou whom i have loved. and take thou with thee this ring," says the daughter, "and it shall be between us for a token. my mother gave it to me to put by, and i shall say that i put it astray." each of them accordingly goes apart after that. "i fear," says ailill, "the eloping of yon daughter with fraech, though she would be given to him on solemn pledge that he would come towards us with his cattle for aid at the spoil." fraech goes to them to the house of conversation. "is it a secret (cocur, translated "a whisper" by crowe) ye have?" says fraech. "thou wouldest fit in it," says ailill. "will ye give me your daughter?" says fraech. "the hosts will clearly see she shall be given," says ailill, "if thou wouldest give a dowry as shall be named." "thou shalt have it," says fraech. "sixty black-grey steeds to me, with their bits of gold to them, and twelve milch cows, so that there be milked liquor of milk from each of them, and an ear-red, white calf with each of them; and thou to come with me with all thy force and with thy musicians for bringing of the cows from cualgne; and my daughter to be given thee provided thou dost come" (or as soon as[fn#27] thou shalt come). "i swear by my shield, and by my sword, and by my accoutrement, i would not give that in dowry even of medb." he went from them out of the house then. ailill and medb hold a conversation. "it shall drive at us several of the kings of erin around us if he should carry off the daughter. what is good is, let us dash after him, and let us slay him forthwith, before he may inflict destruction upon us." "it is a pity this," says medb, "and it is a decay of hospitality for us." "it shall not be a decay of hospitality for us, it shall not be a decay of hospitality for us, the way i shall prepare it." [fn#27] this is thurneysen's rendering ("sagen aus dem alten irland," p. 121). ailill and medb go into the palace. "let us go away," says ailill, that we may see the chase-hounds at hunting till the middle of the day, and until they are tired." they all go off afterwards to the river to bathe themselves. "it is declared to me," says ailill, "that thou art good in water. come into this flood, that we may see thy swimming." "what is the quality of this flood?" he says. "we know not anything dangerous in it," says ailill, "and bathing in it is frequent." he strips his clothes off him then, and he goes into it, and he leaves his girdle above. ailill then opens his purse behind him, and the ring was in it. ailill recognises it then. "come here, o medb," says ailill. medb goes then. "dost thou recognise that?" says ailill. "i do recognise," she says. ailill flings it into the river down. fraech perceived that matter. he sees something, the salmon leaped to meet it, and caught it in his mouth. he (fraech) gives a bound to it, and he catches its jole, and he goes to land, and he brings it to a lonely[fn#28] spot on the brink of the river. he proceeds to come out of the water then. "do not come," says ailill, "until thou shalt bring me a branch of the rowan-tree yonder, which is on the brink of the river: beautiful i deem its berries." he then goes away, and breaks a branch off the trees and brings it on his back over the water. the remark of find-abair was: "is it not beautiful he looks?" exceedingly beautiful she thought it to see fraech over a black pool: the body of great whiteness, and the hair of great loveliness, the face of great beauty, the eye of great greyness; and he a soft youth without fault, without blemish, with a below-narrow, above-broad face; and he straight, blemishless; the branch with the red berries between the throat and the white face. it is what find-abair used to say, that by no means had she seen anything that could come up to him half or third for beauty. [fn#28]"hidden spot" (windisch after that he throws the branches to them out of the water. "the berries are stately and beautiful, bring us an addition of them." he goes off again until he was in the middle of the water. the serpent catches him out of the water. "let a sword come to me from you," he says; and there was not on the land a man who would dare to give it to him through fear of ailill and medb. after that find-abair strips off her clothes, and gives a leap into the water with the sword. her father lets fly a five-pronged spear at her from above, a shot's throw, so that it passes through her two tresses, and that fraech caught the spear in his hand. he shoots the spear into the land up, and the monster in his side. he lets it fly with a charge of the methods of playing of championship, so that it goes through the purple robe and through the tunic (? shirt) that was about ailill. at this the youths who were about ailill rise to him. find-abair goes out of the water and leaves the sword in fraech's hand, and he cuts the head off the monster, so that it was on its side, and he brought the monster with him to land. it is from it is dub-lind fraech in brei, in the lands of the men of connaught. ailill and medb go to their dun afterwards. "a great deed is what we have done," says medb. "we repent," says ailill, "of what we have done to the man; the daughter however," he says, "her lips shall perish [common metaphor for death] to-morrow at once, and it shall not be the guilt of bringing of the sword that shall be for her. let a bath be made by you for this man, namely, broth of fresh bacon and the flesh of a heifer to be minced in it under adze and axe, and he to be brought into the bath." all that thing was done as he said. his trumpeters then before him to the dun. they play then until thirty of the special friends of ailill die at the long-drawn (or plaintive) music. he goes then into the dun, and he goes into the bath. the female company rise around him at the vat for rubbing, and for washing his head. he was brought out of it then, and a bed was made. they heard something, the lament-cry on cruachan. there were seen the three times fifty women with crimson tunics, with green head-dresses, with brooches of silver on their wrists. a messenger is sent to them to learn what they had bewailed. "fraech, son of idath," says the woman, "boy-pet of the king of the side of erin." at this fraech heard their lament-cry. thirty men whom king ailill loved dearly by that music were smitten to die; and his men carried fraech, and they laid him in that bath, for his healing to lie. around the vat stood ladies, they bathed his limbs and head; from out the bath they raised him, and soft they made his bed. then they heard a strange music; the wild croghan "keen"; and of women thrice fifty on croghan were seen. they had tunics of purple, with green were they crowned; on their wrists glistened silver, where brooches were bound. and there neared them a herald to learn why they wailed; "'tis for fraech," was their answer, "by sickness assailed; 'tis for fraech, son of idath,[fn#29] boy-darling is he of our lord, who in erin is king of the shee!"[fn#30] and fraech heard the wail in their cry; [fn#29] pronounced eeda. [fn#30] the fairies. "lift me out of it," he says to his people; "this is the cry of my mother and of the women of boand." he is lifted out at this, and he is brought to them. the women come around him, and bring him from them to the sid of cruachan (i.e. the deep caverns, used for burial at cruachan). they saw something, at the ninth hour on the morrow he comes, and fifty women around him, and he quite whole, without stain and without blemish; of equal age (the women), of equal form, of equal beauty, of equal fairness, of equal symmetry, of equal stature, with the dress of women of the fairies about them so that there was no means of knowing of one beyond the other of them. little but men were suffocated around them. they separate in front of the liss.[fn#31] they give forth their lament on going from him, so that they troubled[fn#32] the men who were in the liss excessively. it is from it is the lament-cry of the women of the fairies with the musicians of erin. [fn#31] the liss is the outer court of the palace. [fn#32] "oo corastar tar cend," "so that they upset, or put beside themselves." meyer takes literally, "so that they fell on their backs" (?) he then goes into the dun. all the hosts rise before him, and bid welcome to him, as if it were from another world he were coming. ailill and medb arise, and do penance to him for the attack they had made at him, and they make peace. feasting commenced with them then at once. fraech calls a servant of his suite: "go off," he says, "to the spot at which i went into the water. a salmon i left there--bring it to find-abair, and let herself take charge over it; and let the salmon be well broiled by her, and the ring is in the centre of the salmon. i expect it will be asked of her to-night." inebriety seizes them, and music and amusement delight them. ailill then said: "bring ye all my gems to me." they were brought to him then, so that the were before him. "wonderful, wonderful," says every one. "call ye find-abair to me," he says. find-abair goes to him, and fifty maidens around her. "o daughter," says ailill, "the ring i gave to thee last year, does it remain with thee? bring it to me that the warriors may see it. thou shalt have it afterwards." "i do not know," she says, "what has been done about it." "ascertain then," says ailill, "it must be sought, or thy soul must depart from thy body." "it is by no means worth," say the warriors, "there is much of value there, without that." "there is naught of my jewels that will not go for the maid," says fraech, "because she brought me the sword for pledge of my soul." "there is not with thee anything of gems that should aid her unless she returns the ring from her," says ailill. "i have by no means the power to give it," says the daughter, "what thou mayest like do it in regard to me." "i swear to the god to whom my people swear, thy lips shall be pale (literally, shall perish) unless thou returnest it from thee," says ailill. "it is why it is asked of thee, because it is impossible; for i know that until the people who have died from the beginning of the world. come, it comes not out of the spot in which it was flung." "it shall not come for a treasure which is not appreciated,"[fn#33] says the daughter, "the ring that is asked for here, i go that i may bring it to thee, since it is keenly it is asked." "thou shalt not go," says ailill; "but let one go from thee to bring it." [fn#33] this is windisch's rendering (irische texte, i. p. 677: s.v. main). the daughter sends her maid to bring it. "i swear to the god to whom my territories swear, if it shall be found, i shall by no means be under thy power any longer though i should be at great drinking continually." (?)[fn#34] "i shall by no means prevent you from doing that, namely even if it were to the groom thou shouldst go if the ring is found," says ailill. the maid then brought the dish into the palace, and the broiled salmon on it, and it dressed under honey which was well made by the daughter; and the ring of gold was on the salmon from above. [fn#34] "dian dumroib for sar-ol mogreis." meyer gives "if there is any one to protect me." the above is crowe's rendering. ailill and medb view it. after that fraech looks at it, and looks at his purse. "it seems to me it was for proof that i left my girdle," says fraech. "on the truth of the sovereignty," says fraech, "say what thou did'st about the ring." "this shall not be concealed from thee," says ailill; "mine is the ring which was in thy purse, and i knew it is find-abair gave it to thee. it is therefore i flung it into the dark pool. on the truth of thine honour and of thy soul, o fraech, declare thou what way the bringing of it out happened." "it shall not be concealed on thee," says fraech. "the first day i found the ring in front of the outer court, and i knew it was a lovely gem. it is for that reason i put it up industriously in my purse. i heard, the day i went to the water, the maiden who had lost it a-looking for it. i said to her: 'what reward shall i have at thy hands for the finding of it?' she said to me that she would give a year's love to me. "it happened i did not leave it about me; i had left it in the house behind me. we met not until we met at the giving of the sword into my hand in the river. after that i saw the time thou open'st the purse and flungest the ring into the water: i saw the salmon which leaped for it, so that it took it into its mouth. i then caught the salmon, took it up in the cloak, put it into the hand of the daughter. it is that salmon accordingly which is on the dish." the criticising and the wondering at these stories begin in the house hold. "i shall not throw my mind on another youth in erin after thee," says find-abair. "bind thyself for that," say ailill and medb, "and come thou to us with thy cows to the spoil of the cows from cualnge; and when thou shalt come with thy cows from the east back, ye shall wed here that night at once and find-abair." "i shall do that thing," says fraech. they are in it then until the morning. fraech sets about him self with his suite. he then bids farewell to ailill and medb. they depart to their own territories then. tain bo fraich part ii unto fraech it hath chanced, as he roved from his lands that his cattle were stolen by wandering bands: and there met him his mother, and cried, "on thy way thou hast tarried, and hard for thy slackness shalt pay! in the alps of the south, the wild mountains amid, have thy children, thy wife, and thy cattle been hid: and a three of thy kine have the picts carried forth, and in alba they pasture, but far to the north!" "now, alack!" answered fraech, "what is best to be done?" "rest at home," said his mother, "nor seek them my son; for to thee neither cattle, nor children, nor wife can avail, if in seeking thou losest thy life; and though cattle be lacking, the task shall be mine to replace what is lost, and to grant thee the kine." "nay, not so," answered fraech, "by my soul i am sworn, that when cattle from cualgne by force shall be torn to king ailill and maev on my faith as their guest i must ride with those cattle for war to the west!" "now but vainly," she said, "is this toil on thee cast; thou shalt lose what thou seekest", and from him she passed. three times nine of his men for that foray were chosen, and marched by his side, and a hawk flew before, and for hunting, was a hound with a hunting-leash tied; to ben barchi they went, for the border of ulster their faces were set: and there, of its marches the warder, the conquering conall they met. fraech hailed him, the conquering conall, and told him the tale of his spoil; "'tis ill luck that awaits thee," said conall, "thy quest shall be followed with toil! "'twill be long ere the goal thou art reaching, though thy heart in the seeking may be." "conall cernach,[fn#35] hear thou my beseeching said fraech, "let thine aid be to me; i had hoped for this meeting with conall, that his aid in the quest might be lent." "i will go with thee truly," said conall: with fraech and his comrades he went. [fn#35] pronounced cayr-nach. three times nine, fraech and conall before them, over ocean from ireland have passed; through the land of north saxony bore them, and the south sea they sighted at last. and again on the sea billows speeding, they went south, over ichtian foam; and marched on: southward still was their leading: to the land where the long-beards have home: but when lombardy's bounds they were nearing they made stand; for above and around were the high peaks of alpa appearing, and the goal that they sought had been found. on the alps was a woman seen straying, and herding the flocks of the sheep, "let our warriors behind be delaying," said conall, "and south let us keep: 'twere well we should speak with yon woman, perchance she hath wisdom to teach!" and with conall went fraech at that counsel; they neared her, and held with her speech. "whence have come you?" she said: "out of ireland are we," answered conall: "ill luck shall for irishmen be in this country," she cried, "yet thy help i would win; from thy land was my mother; thou art to me kin!" "of this land we know naught, nor where next we should turn," answered conall.; "its nature from thee we would learn." "'tis a grim land and hateful," the woman replied, "and the warriors are restless who forth from it ride; for full often of captives, of women and herd of fair kine by them taken is brought to me word." "canst thou say what latest spoil," said fraech, "they won?" "ay," she said, "they harried fraech, of idath[fn#36] son he in erin dwelleth, near the western sea; kine from him they carried, wife, and children three here his wife abideth, there where dwells the king, turn, and see his cattle, yonder pasturing." [fn#36] pronounced eeda. out spoke conall cernach;[fn#37] "aid us thou" he cried: "strength i lack," she answered, "i can only guide." "here is fraech," said conall, "yon his stolen cows": "fraech!" she asked him, "tell me, canst thou trust thy spouse?" "why," said fraech, "though trusty, doubtless, when she went; now, since here she bideth, truth may well be spent." "see ye now yon woman?" said she, "with your herd, tell to her your errand, let her hear your word; trust in her, as irish-sprung ye well may place; more if ye would ask me, ulster reared her race." [fn#37] pronounced cayr-nach. to that woman they went, nor their names from her hid; and they greeted her; welcome in kindness she bid: "what hath moved you," she said, "from your country to go?" "on this journey," said conall, "our guide hath been woe: all the cattle that feed in these pastures are ours, and from us went the lady that's kept in yon towers." "'tis ill-luck," said the woman, "that waits on your way, all the men of this hold doth that lady obey; ye shall find, amid dangers, your danger most great in the serpent who guardeth the liss at the gate." "for that lady," said fraech, "she is none of my she is fickle, no trust from me yet did she win: but on thee we rely, thou art trusty, we know; never yet to an ulsterman ulster was foe." "is it men out of ulster," she said, "i have met?" "and is conall," said fraech, "thus unknown to you yet? of all heroes from ulster the battle who faced conall cernach is foremost." his neck she embraced, and she cried, with her arms around conall: "of old of the conquering conall our prophets have told; and 'tis ruin and doom to this hold that you bring; for that conall shall sack it, all prophecies sing." "hear my rede," she told him: "when at fall of day come the kine for milking, i abroad will stay; i the castle portal every eve should close: ye shall find it opened, free for tread of foes: i will say the weakling calves awhile i keep; 'tis for milk, i'll tell them: come then while they sleep; come, their castle enter, all its wealth to spoil; only rests that serpent, he our plans may foil: him it rests to vanquish, he will try you most; surely from that serpent swarms a serpent host!" "trust us well," answered conall, "that raid will we do! and the castle they sought, and the snake at them flew: for it darted on conall, and twined round his waist; yet the whole of that castle they plundered in haste, and the woman was freed, and her sons with her three and away from her prison she went with them free: and of all of the jewels amassed in that dun the most costly and beauteous the conquerors won. then the serpent from conall was loosed, from his belt it crept safely, no harm from that serpent he felt: and they travelled back north to the pictish domains, and a three of their cattle they found on the plains; and, where olla mae briuin[fn#38] his hold had of yore, by dunolly their cattle they drove to the shore. [fn#38] pronounced "brewin." it chanced at ard uan echach,[fn#39] where foam is hurled on high, that doom on bicne falling, his death he came to die: 'twas while the cows were driven that bicne's life was lost: by trampling hooves of cattle crushed down to death, or tossed; to him was loegaire[fn#40] father, and conall cernach chief and inver-bicne's title still marks his comrades' grief. [fn#39] pronounced "ard oon ay-ha," [fn#40] pronounced "leary." across the stream of bicne the cows of fraech have passed, and near they came to benchor, and there their horns they cast: 'tis thence the strand of bangor for aye is named, 'tis said: the strand of horns men call it; those horns his cattle shed. to his home travelled fraech, with his children, and and his cattle, and there with them lived out his life, till the summons of ailill and maev he obeyed; and when cualgne was harried, he rode on the raid. tain bo fraich part ii literal translation it happened that his cows had been in the meanwhile stolen. his mother came to him. "not active (or "lucky") of journey hast thou gone; it shall cause much of trouble to thee," she says. "thy cows have been stolen, and thy three sons, and thy wife, so that they are in the mountain of elpa. three cows of them are in alba of the north with the cruthnechi (the picts)." "query, what shall i do?" he says to his mother. "thou shalt do a non-going for seeking them; thou wouldest not give thy life for them," she says. "thou shalt have cows at my hands besides them." "not so this," he says: "i have pledged my hospitality and my soul to go to ailill and to medb with my cows to the spoil of the cows from cualnge." "what thou seekest shall not be obtained," says his mother. at this she goes off from him then. he then sets out with three nines, and a wood-cuckoo (hawk), and a hound of tie with them, until he goes to the territory of the ulstermen, so that he meets with conall cernach (conall the victorious) at benna bairchi (a mountain on the ulster border). he tells his quest to him. "what awaits thee," says the latter, "shall not be lucky for thee. much of trouble awaits thee," he says, "though in it the mind should be." "it will come to me," says fraech to connall, "that thou wouldest help me any time we should meet." (?) "i shall go truly," says conall cernach. they set of the three (i.e. the three nines) over sea, over saxony of the north, over the sea of icht (the sea between england and france), to the north of the long-bards (the dwellers of lombardy), until they reached the mountains of elpa. they saw a herd-girl at tending of the sheep before them. "let us go south," says conall, "o fraech, that we may address the woman yonder, and let our youths stay here." they went then to a conversation. she said, "whence are ye?" "of the men of erin," says conall. "it shall not be lucky for the men of erin truly, the coming to this country. from the men of erin too is my mother. aid thou me on account of relationship." "tell us something about our movements. what is the quality of the land we have to come to?" "a grim hateful land with troublesome warriors, who go on every side for carrying off cows and women as captives," she says. "what is the latest thing they have carried off?" says fraech. "the cows of fraech, son of idath, from the west of erin, and his wife, and his three sons. here is his wife here in the house of the king, here are his cows in the country in front of you." "let thy aid come to us," says conall. little is my power, save guidance only." "this is fraech," says conall, and they are his cows that have been carried off." "is the woman constant in your estimation?" she says. "though constant in our estimation when she went, perchance she is not constant after coming." "the woman who frequents the cows, go ye to her; tell ye of your errand; of the men of ireland her race; of the men of ulster exactly." they come to her; they receive her, and they name themselves to her, and she bids welcome to them. "what hath led you forth?" she says. "trouble hath led us forth," says conall; "ours are the cows and the woman that is in the liss." "it shall not be lucky for you truly," she says, "the going up to the multitude of the woman; more troublesome to you than everything," she says, "is the serpent which is at guarding of the liss." "she is not my country-name(?)," says fraech, "she is not constant in my estimation; thou art constant in my estimation; we know thou wilt not lead us astray, since it is from the men of ulster thou art." "whence are ye from the men of ulster?" she says. "this is conall cernach here, the bravest hero with the men of ulster," says fraech. she flings two hands around the throat of conall cernach. "the destruction has come in this expedition," she says, "since he has come to us; for it is to him the destruction of this dun has been prophesied. i shall go out to my house,"[fn#41] she says, "i shall not be at the milking of the cows. i shall leave the liss opened; it is i who close it every night.[fn#42] i shall say it is for drink the calves were sucking. come thou into the dun, when they are sleeping; only trouble. some to you is the serpent which is at the dun; several tribes are let loose from it." [fn#41] "to my house" is in the egerton ms. only. [fn#42] "every night" is in the egerton ms. only. "we will go truly," says conall. they attack the liss; the serpent darts leap into the girdle of conall cernach, and they plunder the dun at once. they save off then the woman and the three sons, and they carry away whatever was the best of the gems of the dun, and conall lets the serpent out of his girdle, and neither of them did harm to the other. and they came to the territory of the people of the picts, until they saw three cows of their cows in it. they drove off to the fort of ollach mac briuin (now dunolly near oban) with them, until they were at ard uan echach (high-foaming echach). it is there the gillie of conall met his death at the driving of the cows, that is bicne son of loegaire; it is from this is (the name of) inver bicne (the bicne estuary) at benchor. they brought their cows over it thither. it is there they flung their horns from them, so that it is thence is (the name of) tracht benchoir (the strand of horn casting, perhaps the modern bangor?). fraech goes away then to his territory after, and his wife, and his sons, and his cows with him, until he goes with ailill and medb for the spoil of the cows from cualnge. the raid for dartaid's cattle introduction this tale is given by windisch (irische texte, ii. pp. 185-205), from two versions; one, whose translation he gives in full, except for one doubtful passage, is from the manuscript in the british museum, known as egerton, 1782 (dated 1414); the other is from the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth century), in the library of trinity college, dublin. the version in the yellow book is sometimes hard to read, which seems to be the reason why windisch prefers to translate the younger authority, but though in some places the egerton version is the fuller, the yellow book version (y.b.l.) often adds passages, some of which windisch has given in notes; some he has left untranslated. in the following prose version as much of y.b.l. as adds anything to the egerton text has been translated, with marks of interrogation where the attempted rendering is not certain: variants from the text adopted are placed below the prose version as footnotes. the insertions from y.b.l. are indicated by brackets; but no note is taken of cases where the egerton version is fuller than y.b.l. the opening of the story (the first five lines in the verse rendering) is in the eleventh century book of the dun cow: the fragment agrees closely with the two later texts, differing in fact from y.b.l. in one word only. all three texts are given in the original by windisch. the story is simple and straightforward, but is a good example of fairy vengeance, the description of the appearance of the troop recalls similar descriptions in the tain bo fraich, and in the courtship of ferb. the tale is further noticeable from its connection with the province of munster: most of the heroic tales are connected with the other three provinces only. orlam, the hero of the end of the tale, was one of cuchulain's earliest victims in the tain bo cualgne. the raid for dartaid's cattle from the egerton ms. 1782 (early fifteenth-century), and the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth-century) eocho bec,[fn#43] the son of corpre, reigning in the land of clew,[fn#44] dwelt in coolny's[fn#45] fort; and fostered sons of princes not a few: forty kine who grazed his pastures gave him milk to rear his wards; royal blood his charges boasted, sprung from munster's noblest lords. maev and ailill sought to meet him: heralds calling him they sent: "seven days hence i come" said eocho; and the heralds from him went. now, as eocho lay in slumber, in the night a vision came; by a youthful squire attended, rose to view a fairy dame: "welcome be my greeting to you!" said the king: "canst thou discern who we are?" the fairy answered, "how didst thou our fashion learn?" "surely," said the king, "aforetime near to me hath been thy place!" "very near thee have we hovered, yet thou hast not seen my face." "where do ye abide?" said eocho. "yonder dwell we, with the shee:[fn#46] "in the fairy mound of coolny!" "wherefore come ye hereto me?" "we have come," she said, "a counsel as a gift to thee to bring!" "speak! and tell me of the counsel ye have brought me," said the king. "noble gifts," she said, "we offer that renown for thee shall gain when in foreign lands thou ridest; worship in thine own domain; for a troop shall circle round thee, riding close beside thy hand: stately it shall be, with goodly horses from a foreign land!" "tell me of that troop," said eocho, "in what numbers should we ride? " fifty horsemen is the number that befits thee," she replied: [fn#43] pronounced yeo-ho bayc. [fn#44] cliu, a district in munster. [fn#45] spelt cuillne, in y.b.l. it is cuille. [fn#46] the fairies, spelt sidh. "fifty horses, black in colour; gold and silver reins and bits; fifty sets of gay equipment, such as fairies well befits; these at early dawn to-morrow shall my care for thee provide: let thy foster-children with thee on the road thou makest ride! rightly do we come to help thee, who so valiantly in fray guardest for us soil and country!" and the fairy passed away. eocho's folk at dawn have risen; fifty steeds they all behold: black the horses seemed; the bridles, stiff with silver and with gold, firmly to the gate were fastened; fifty silver breeches there heaped together shone, encrusted all with gold the brooches were: there were fifty knightly vestments, bordered fair with golden thread: fifty horses, white, and glowing on their ears with deepest red, nigh them stood; of reddish purple were the sweeping tails and manes; silver were the bits; their pasterns chained in front with brazen chains: and, of fair findruine[fn#47] fashioned, was for every horse a whip, furnished with a golden handle, wherewithal the goad to grip. [fn#47] pronounced "findroony." then king eocho rose, and ready made him; in that fair array forth they rode, nor did they tarry till they came to croghan[fn#48] ay. scarcely could the men of connaught bear to see that sight, amazed at the dignity and splendour of the host on which they gazed; for that troop was great; in serried ranks the fifty riders rode, splendid with the state recounted; pride on all their faces glowed. "name the man who comes!" said ailill; "easy answer!" all replied, eocho bee, in clew who ruleth, hither to thy court would ride": court and royal house were opened; in with welcome came they all; three long days and nights they lingered, feasting in king ailill's hall. then to ailill, king of connaught, eocho spake: "from out my land {50} wherefore hast thou called me hither?" "gifts are needed from thy hand," ailill said; "a heavy burden is that task upon me laid, to maintain the men of ireland when for cualgne's kine we raid." [fn#48] pronounced crow-han. eocho spoke: "what gift requirest thou from me?" "for milking-kine," ailill said, "i ask"; and eocho, "few of these indeed are mine! forty sons of munster's princes have i in my halls to rear; these, my foster-sons, beside me m my troop have journeyed here; fifty herdsmen guard the cattle, forty cows my wards to feed, seven times twenty graze beside them, to supply my people's need." "if, for every man who follows thee as liege, and owns a farm, thou a cow wilt yield," said ailill, "then from foes with power to harm i will guard thee in the battle!" "keep then faithfully thy vows," eocho said, "this day as tribute shall to croghan come the cows." thrice the sun hath set and risen while they feasting there abide, maev and ailill's bounty tasting, homeward then they quickly ride: but the sons of glaschu met them, who from western donnan came; donnan, from the seas that bound it, irross donnan hath for name; seven times twenty men attacked them, and to battle they were brought, at the isle of o'canàda, fiercely either party fought; with his foster children round him, eocho bec in fight was killed, all the forty princes perished, with that news the land was filled; all through ireland lamentation rose for every youthful chief; four times twenty munster princes, weeping for them, died of grief. now a vision came to ailill, as in sleep he lay awhile, or a youth and dame approached him, fairer none in erin's isle: "who are ye?" said ailill; "conquest," said the fairy, "and defeat "though defeat i shun," said ailill, "conquest joyfully i meet." "conquest thou shalt have!" she answered: "of the future i would ask, canst thou read my fate?" said ailill: "light indeed for me the task," said the dame: "the kine of dartaid, eocho's daughter, may be won: forty cows she owns; to gain them send to her thy princely son, orlam, whom that maiden loveth: let thy son to start prepare, forty youths from connaught with him, each of them a prince's heir: choose thou warriors stout and stately; i will give them garments bright, even those that decked the princes who so lately fell in fight: bridles, brooches, all i give thee; ere the morning sun be high thou shalt count that fairy treasure: to our country now we fly." swiftly to the son of tassa sped they thence, to corp the gray: on the northern bank of naymon was his hold, and there he lay; and before the men of munster, as their champion did he stand: he hath wrought-so runs the proverb-evil, longer than his hand. as to corp appeared the vision: "say," he cried, "what names ye boast!" "ruin, one is called," they answered; "one, the gathering of the host!" an assembled host i welcome," answered them the gray corp lee; "ruin i abhor": "and ruin," they replied, "is far from thee; thou shalt bring on sons of nobles, and of kings a ruin great": "fairy," said corp lee, the gray one, "tell me of that future fate." "easy is the task," she answered, "youths of every royal race that in connaught's land hath dwelling, come to-morrow to this place; munster's kine they hope to harry, for the munster princes fell yesterday with connaught fighting; and the hour i plainly ten: at the ninth hour of the morning shall they come: the band is small: have thou valiant men to meet them, and upon the raiders fall! munster's honour hath been tarnished! clear it by a glorious deed! thou shalt purge the shame if only in the foray thou succeed." "what should be my force?" he asked her: "take of heroes seven score for that fight," she said, "and with them seven times twenty warriors more: far from thee we now are flying; but shall meet thee with thy power when to-morrow's sun is shining; at the ninth, the fated hour." at the dawn, the time appointed, all those steeds and garments gay were in connaught, and they found them at the gate of croghan ay; all was there the fay had promised, all the gifts of which we told: all the splendour that had lately decked the princes they behold. doubtful were the men of connaught; some desired the risk to face; some to go refused: said ailill, "it should bring us to disgrace if we spurned such offered bounty": orlam his reproaches felt; sprang to horse; and towards the country rode, where eocho's daughter dwelt: and where flows the shannon river, near that water's southern shore, found her home; for as they halted, moated clew[fn#49] rose high before. [fn#49] spelt cliu. dartaid met them ere they halted, joyful there the prince to see: all the kine are not assembled, of their count is lacking three!" "tarry not for search," said orlam, "yet provision must we take on our steeds, for hostile munster rings us round. wilt home forsake, maiden? wilt thou ride beside us?" "i will go indeed," she said. then, with all thy gathered cattle, come with us; with me to wed! so they marched, and in the centre of their troop the kine were set, and the maiden rode beside them: but corp lee, the gray, they met; seven times twenty heroes with him; and to battle they must go, and the connaught nobles perished, fighting bravely with the foe: all the sons of connaught's princes, all the warriors with them died: orlam's self escaped the slaughter, he and eight who rode beside: yet he drave the cows to croghan; ay, and fifty heifers too! but, when first the foe made onset, they the maid in battle slew. near a lake, did eocho's[fn#50] daughter, dartaid, in the battle fall, from that lake, and her who perished, hath been named that region all: emly darta is that country; tain bo dartae is the tale: and, as prelude, 'tis recited, till the cualgne[fn#51] raid they hail. [fn#50] pronounced yeo-ho. [fn#51] pronounced kell-ny. the raid for dartaid's cattle literal translation the passages that occur only in the yellow book (y.b.l.) are indicated by being placed in square brackets. eocho bec, the son of corpre, king of cliu, dwelt in the dun of cuillne,[fn#52] and with him were forty fosterlings, all sons of the kings of munster; he had also forty milch-cows for their sustenance. by ailill and medb messengers were sent, asking him to come to a conference. "[in a week,"][fn#53] said eocho, "i will go to that conference;" and the messengers departed from him. [fn#52] the eleventh century ms., the leabhar na h-uidhri, which gives the first four lines of this tale as a fragment, adds here as a note: "this is in the land of the o'cuanach": apparently the o'briens of cuanach. [fn#53] at samhuin day (egerton). one night eocho lay there in his sleep, when he saw something approach him; a woman, and a young man in her attendance. "ye are welcome!" said eocho. ["knowest thou us?"] said she, "where hast thou learned to know us?" "it seems to me as if i had been near to you." "i think that we have been very near to one another, though we have not seen each other face to face!" "in what place do ye dwell?" said eocho. "yonder in sid cuillne (the fairy mound of cuillne)," said she. "and, wherefore have ye come?" "in order to give thee counsel," said she. for what purpose is the counsel," said he, "that thou givest me?" "something," she said, "that will bring thee honour and renown on thy journey at home and abroad. a stately troop shall be round thee, and goodly foreign horses shall be under thee."[fn#54] "with how many shall i go?" said eocho. "fifty horsemen is the number that is suitable for thee," she answered. [fn#54] y.b.l. adds a passage that windisch does not translate: it seems to run thus: "unknown to thee is the half of what thou hast met: it seems to us that foreign may be thy splendour"(?) "to-morrow in the morning fifty black horses, furnished with bridles of gold and silver, shall come to thee from me; and with them fifty sets of equipment of the equipment of the side; and all of thy foster-children shall go with thee; well it becomes us to help thee, because thou art valiant in the defence of our country and our soil." then the woman left him. early in the morning they arise, there they see something: the fifty black horses, furnished with bridles of gold and silver tied fast to the gate of the castle, also fifty breeches of silver with embellishment of gold; and fifty youths' garments with their edges of spun gold, and fifty white horses with red ears and long tails, purple-red were all their tails and their manes, with silver bits (?)[fn#55] and foot-chains of brass upon each horse; there were also fifty whips of white bronze (findruine), with end pieces of gold that thereby they might be taken into hands.[fn#56] [fn#55] co m-belgib (?) windisch translates "bridles," the same as cona srianaib above. [fn#56] y.b.l. adds, "through wizardry was all that thing: it was recited (?) how great a thing had appeared, and he told his dream to his people." then king eocho arises, and prepares himself (for the journey): they depart with this equipment to cruachan ai:[fn#57] and the people were well-nigh overcome with their consequence and appearance: their troop was great, goodly, splendid, compact: [fifty heroes, all with that appearance that has just been related. "how is that man named?" said ailill. "not hard, eocho bec, the king of cliu." they entered the liss (outer court), and the royal house; welcome was given to them, he remained there three days and three nights at the feasting.] [fn#57] egerton here gives "ailill and medb made them welcome;" it omits the long passage in square brackets. "wherefore have i have been invited to come?" said eocho to ailill: "to learn if i can obtain a gift from thee," said ailill; "for a heavy need weighs upon me, even the sustenance of the men of ireland for the bringing of the cattle from cualgne." "what manner of gift is it that thou desirest?" said eocho. "nothing less than a gift of milking-kine," said ailill. "there is no superfluity of these in my land," said eocho; "i have forty fosterlings, sons of the kings of munster, to bring them up (to manhood); they are here in my company, there are forty cows to supply the needs of these, to supply my own needs are seven times twenty milch-cows [there are fifty men for this cause watching over them]. "let me have from thee," said ailill, "one cow from each farmer who is under thy lordship as my share; moreover i will yield thee assistance if at any time thou art oppressed by superior might." "thus let it be as thou sayest," said eocho; "moreover, they shall come to thee this very day." for three days and three nights they were hospitably entertained by ailill and medb, and then they departed homewards, till they met the sons of glaschu, who came from irross donnan (the peninsula of donnan, now mayo); the number of those who met them was seven times twenty men, and they set themselves to attack each other, and to strive with each other in combat, and [at the island of o'conchada (inse ua conchada)] they fought together. in that place fell the forty sons of kings round eocho bec, and that news was spread abroad over all the land of ireland, so that four times twenty kings' sons, of the youths of munster, died, sorrowing for the deaths of these princes. on another night, as ailill lay in his sleep, upon his bed, he saw some thing, a young man and a woman, the fairest that could be found in ireland. "who are ye?" said ailill. "victory and defeat are our names," she said. "victory indeed is welcome to me, but not so defeat," said ailill. "victory shall be thine in each form!" said she. ["what is the next thing after this that awaits us?" said ailill. "not hard to tell thee," said she] "let men march out from thy palace in the morning, that thou mayest win for thyself the cattle of dartaid, the daughter of eocho. forty is the number of her milch-cows, it is thine own son, orlam mac ailill, whom she loves. let orlam prepare for his journey with a stately troop of valiant men, also forty sons of those kings who dwell in the land of connaught; and by me shall be given to them the same equipment that the other youths had who fell in yon fight, bridles and garments and brooches; [early in the morning shall count of the treasure be made, and now we go to our own land," said she]. then they depart from him, and forthwith they go to [corp[fn#58] liath (the gray),] who was the son of tassach. his castle was on the bank of the river nemain, upon the northern side, he was a champion of renown for the guarding of the men of munster; longer than his hand is the evil he hath wrought. to this man also they appeared, and "what are your names?" said he: "tecmall and coscrad (gathering of hosts, and destruction)," said they. "gathering of hosts is indeed good," said corp liath, "an evil thing is destruction": "there will be no destruction for thee, and thou shalt destroy the sons of kings and nobles": "and what," said corp liath, "is the next thing to be done?" [fn#58] the egerton ms. gives the name, corb cliach. "that is easy to say," they said;[fn#59] "each son of a king and a queen, and each heir of a king that is in connaught, is now coming upon you to bear off cows from your country, for that the sons of your kings and queens have fallen by the hand of the men of connaught. to-morrow morning, at the ninth hour they will come, and small is their troop; so if valiant warriors go thither to meet them, the honour of munster shall be preserved; if indeed thine adventure shall meet with success." [fn#59] y.b.l. gives the passage thus: "assemble with you the sons of kings, and heirs of kings, that you may destroy the sons of kings and heirs of kings." "who are they?" said corp liath. "a noble youth it is from connaught: he comes to yon to drive your cows before him, after that your young men were yesterday destroyed by him, at the ninth hour of the morning they will come to take away the cows of darta, the daughter of eocho." "with what number should i go?" he said. "seven times twenty heroes thou shouldest take with thee," she replied, ["and seven times twenty warriors besides"]: "and now" said the woman, "we depart to meet thee to-morrow at the ninth hour." at the time (appointed), when morning had come, the men of connaught saw the horses and the raiment of which we have spoken, at the gate of the fort of croghan, [even as she (the fairy) had foretold, and as we have told, so that at that gate was all she had promised, and all that had been seen on the sons of kings aforetime], and there was a doubt among the people whether they should go on that quest or not. "it is shame," said ailill, "to refuse a thing that is good"; and upon that orlam departed [till[fn#60] he came to the house of dartaid, the daughter of eocho, in cliu classach (cliu the moated), on the shannon upon the south (bank). [fn#60] egerton version has only "towards chu till he came to the home of dartaid, the daughter of eocho: the maiden rejoiced," &c. from this point to the end the version in the yellow book is much fuller. [there they halted], and the maiden rejoiced at their coming: "three of the kine are missing." "we cannot wait for these; let the men take provision on their horses, [for rightly should we be afraid in the midst of munster. wilt thou depart with me, o maiden?" said he. "i will indeed go with thee," said she]. "come then thou," said he, "and with thee all of thy cows." [then the young men go away with the cows in the midst, and the maiden was with them; but corp liath, the son of tassach, met them with seven times twenty warriors to oppose their march. a battle was fought], and in that place fell the sons of the kings of connaught, together with the warriors who had gone with them, all except orlam and eight others,[fn#61] who carried away with them the kine, even the forty milch-cows, and fifty heifers, [so that they came into the land of connaught]; but the maiden fell at the beginning of the fight. [fn#61] y.b.l. inserts dartaid's death at this point: "and dartaid fell at the beginning of the fight, together with the stately sons of connaught." hence is that place called imlech dartaid, (the lake shore of darta), in the land of cliu, [where dartaid, the daughter of eocho, the son of corpre, fell: and for this reason this story is called the tain bo dartae, it is one of the preludes to the tain bo cualnge]. the raid for the cattle of regamon introduction the two versions of this tale, given by windisch in the irische texte, ii. pp. 224-238, are from the same manuscripts as the two versions of the raid of the cattle of dartaid; namely the yellow book of lecan, and the egerton ms. 1782. in the case of this tale, the yellow book version is more legible, and, being not only the older, but a little more full than the other version, windisch has translated this text alone: the prose version, as given here, follows this manuscript, nearly as given by windisch, with only one addition from the egerton ms.; the omissions in the egerton ms. are not mentioned, but one or two changes in words adopted from this ms. are mentioned in the foot-notes to the prose rendering. the whole tone of the tale is very unlike the tragic character of those romances, which have been sometimes supposed to represent the general character of old irish literature: there is not even a hint of the super-natural; the story contains no slaughter; the youthful raiders seem to be regarded as quite irresponsible persons, and the whole is an excellent example of an old celtic: romance with what is to-day called a "good ending." the raid for the cattle of regamon from the yellow book of lecan (a manuscript of the fourteenth century) when ailill and maev in the connaught land abode, and the lordship held, a chief who many a field possessed in the land of connaught dwelled: a great, and a fair, and a goodly herd of kine had the chieftain won: and his fame in the fight was in all men's word; his name was regamon. now seven daughters had regamon; they dwelt at home with their sire: yet the seven sons of king ailill and maev their beauty with love could fire: all those seven sons were as mani[fn#62] known; the first was as morgor hailed, for his love was great: it was mingar's fate that in filial love he failed: the face was seen of the mother-queen on the third; and his father's face did the fourth son show: they the fifth who know cannot speak all his strength and grace: the sixth son spoke, from his lips the words like drops of honey fell: and last came one who all gifts possessed that the tongue of a man can tell; for his father's face that mani had, in him was his mother seen; and in him abode every grace bestowed on the king of the land or the queen. [fn#62] pronounced mah-nee. of the daughters of regamon now we speak: two names those maidens bore: for as dunnan three ever known shall be; dunlaith[fn#63] was the name for four: and in breffny's land is the ford dunlaith, and the fame of the four recalls; the three ye know where the dunnan's flow in western connaught falls. with fergus, ailill and maev were met: as at council all conferred; "it were well for our folk," thus ailill spoke, "if the lord of that cattle-herd, that strays in the fields of regamon, would tribute to us pay: and to gain that end, let us heralds send, to his burg who may make their way, and bear to our court that tribute back; for greatly we soon shall need such kine when we in the time of war our hosts shall have to feed; and all who share in our counsels know that a burden will soon be mine, when the men must be fed of ireland, led on the raid for the cuailgne[fn#64] kine!" thus ailill spoke; and queen maev replied, "the men to perform that task right well i know; for our sons will go, if we for their aid but ask! the seven daughters of regamon do the mani in love now seek: if those maidens' hands they can gain by the deed, they will heed the words we speak." to his side king ailill has called his sons, his mind to the youth he shows. "best son," says maev, "and grateful he, from filial love who goes!" and morgor said, "for the love that we owe, we go at our sire's behest:" "yet a greater reward," thus mingar spake, "must be ours, if we go on this quest! for naught have we of hero-craft; and small shall be found our might; and of valiant breed are the men," said he, "with whom we shall have to fight. [fn#63] pronounced dun-lay. [fn#64] pronounced kell-ny. as men from the shelter of roof who go, and must rest in the open field, so thy sons shall stand, if they come to a land where a foe might be found concealed! we have dwelt till now in our father's halls, too tenderly cared for far: nor hath any yet thought, that to us should be taught the arts that belong to war!" queen maev and ailill their sons have sped, away on the quest they went, with seven score men for the fight, whom the queen for help of her sons had sent: to the south of the connaught realm they reached, the burg that they sought was plain for to ninnus land they had come, and were nigh to the corcomroe domain. "from our band," said mani morgor, "some must go, of that burg to learn how entrance we may attain to win, and back with the news return we must test the strength of the maidens' love!" on mingar the task was set, and with two beside him, he searched the land, till three of the maids they met: by springs of water they found the maids, drew swords, and against them leapt! "o grant our lives!" was the maiden's cry, "and your lives shall be safely kept!" "for your lives," he said, "will ye grant a boon, set forth in three words of speech?" "at our hands," said she, "shall granted be, whatever thy tongue shall teach; yet ask not cattle; those kine have we no power to bestow, i fear": "why, 'tis for the sake of the kine," he said, "that all of us now are here!" "who art thou then?" from her faltering broke: "mani mingar am i," he replied; i am son to king ailill and maev: and to me thou art welcome," the maiden cried; "but why have ye come to this land?" said she: for kine and for brides," he said, have we come to seek: and 'tis right," said she, such demands in a speech to wed: yet the boon that you ask will our folk refuse, and hard will your task be found; for a valiant breed shall you meet, i fear, in the men who guard this ground!" "give your aid," he said, "then as friends: but time," said she, "we must have for thought; for a plan must be made, e'er thy word be obeyed, and the kine to thy hands be brought: have ye journeyed here with a force of men? how great is the strength of your band?" "seven score are there here for the fight," he said, "the warriors are near at hand!" "wait here," said she; "to my sisters four i go of the news to tell: "and with thee we side!" all the maidens cried, "and we trust we shall aid thee well," away from the princes the maidens sped, they came to their sisters four, and thus they spoke: "from the connaught land come men, who are here at your door; the sons of ailill and maev have come; your own true loves are they!" "and why have they come to this land?" they said; "for kine and for brides, they say, have they come to seek:" "and with zeal their wish would we joyfully now fulfil if but powers to aid were but ours," they said, "which would match with our right good will: but i fear the youths in this burg who dwell, the plans that we make may foil; or far from the land may chase that band, and drive them away from their spoil!" "will ye follow us now, with the prince to speak?" they willingly gave consent, and together away to the water-springs the seven maidens went. they greeted mani; "now come!" said he, "and bring with you out your herds: and a goodly meed shall reward your deed, if you but obey my words; for our honour with sheltering arms is nigh, and shall all of you safely keep, ye seven daughters of regamon!" the cattle, the swine, and sheep together the maidens drove; none saw them fly, nor to stay them sought, till safe to the place where the mani stood, the herd by the maids was brought. the maidens greeted the sons of maev, and each by her lover stood; and then morgor spoke: "into twain this herd of kine to divide were good, at the briuin[fn#65] ford should the hosts unite; too strait hath the path been made for so vast a herd": and to morgor's word they gave heed, and his speech obeyed. now it chanced that regamon, the king, was far from his home that day, for he to the corco baiscinn land had gone, for a while to stay; [fn#65] pronounced brewin. with the firbolg[fn#66] clans, in debate, he sat; and a cry as the raiders rode, was behind him raised: to the king came men, who the news of that plunder showed: then the king arose, and behind his foes he rode, and o'ertook their flight, and on mani morgor his host pressed hard, and they conquered his men in the fight. "to unite our band," thus morgor cried, "fly hence, and our comrades find! call the warriors back from the cattle here, and leave the maids behind; bid the maidens drive to our home the herd as far as the croghan fort, and to ailill and maev of our perilous plight let the maidens bear report." the maidens went to the croghan fort, to maev with their news they pressed: "thy sons, o maev, at the briuin ford are pent, and are sore distressed, and they pray thee to aid them with speed": and maev her host for the war prepared, with ailill the warriors of connaught came; and fergus beside them fared, and the exiles came, who the ulster name still bore, and towards that ford all that host made speed, that their friends in need might escape from the vengeful sword. [fn#66] pronounced feer-bol. now ailill's sons, in the pass of that ford, had hurdles strongly set: and regamon failed through the ford to win, ere ailill's troops were met: of white-thorn and of black-thorn boughs were the hurdles roughly framed, and thence the name of the ford first came, that the hurdle ford is named; for, where the o'feara[fn#67] aidne folk now dwell, can ye plainly see in the land of beara[fn#68] the less, that ford, yet called ath[fn#69] clee maaree, in the north doth it stand; and the connaught land divideth from corcomroe; and thither, with regamon's troops to fight, did ailill's army go. [fn#67] pronounced o'fayra ain-ye. [fn#68] pronounced bayra. [fn#69] spelt ath cliath medraidi. ath is pronounced like ah. then a truce they made; to the youths, that raid who designed, they gave back their lives; and the maidens fair all pardoned were, who had fled with the youths, as wives, who had gone with the herd, by the maids conferred on the men who the kine had gained: but the kine, restored to their rightful lord, in regamon's hands remained; the maiden band in the connaught land remained with the sons of maev; and a score of cows to each maiden's spouse the maidens' father gave: as his daughters' dower, did their father's power his right in the cows resign, that the men might be fed of ireland, led on the raid for the cualgne[fn#70] kine. this tale, as the tain bo regamon, is known in the irish tongue; and this lay they make, when the harp they wake, ere the cualgne raid be sung. [fn#70] pronounced kell-ny. the raid for the cattle of regamon literal translation in the time of ailill and medb, a glorious warrior and holder of land dwelt in the land of connaught, and his name was regamon. he had many herds of cattle, all of them fair and well-shaped: he had also seven daughters with him. now the seven sons of ailill and medb loved these (daughters): namely the seven maine, these were maine morgor (maine with great filial love), maine mingar (maine with less filial love), maine aithremail (maine like his father), maine mathremail (maine like his mother), maine milbel (maine with the mouth of honey),[fn#71] maine moepert (maine too great to be described), maine condageb-uile (maine who combined all qualities): now this one had the form both of father and mother, and had all the glory that belonged to both parents. [fn#71] the name of maine annai, making an eighth son, is given in y.b.l., but not in the egerton ms. the seven daughters of regamon were the three dunann, and the four dunlaith;[fn#72] from the names of these is the estuary of dunann in western connaught, and the ford of dunlaith in breffny. [fn#72] so egerton, which windisch follows here; the reading of y.b.l. is dunmed for the daughters, and dumed for the corresponding ford. now at a certain time, ailill and medb and fergus held counsel together. "some one from us," said ailill, "should go to regamon, that a present of cattle may be brought to us from him; to meet the need that there is on us for feeding the men of ireland, when the kine are raided from cualgne." "i know," said medb, "who would be good to go thither, if we ask it of them; even the maine; on account of their love for the daughters." his sons were called to ailill, and he spoke with them. "grateful is he, and a better journey does he go," said maev, "who goes for the sake of his filial love." "truly it shall be that it is owing to filial love that we go," said mani morgor. "but the reward should (also) for this be the better," said mani mingar; "it stands ill with our heroism, ill with our strength. it is like going from a house into the fields, (going) into the domains or the land of foes. too tenderly have we been brought up; none hath let us learn of wars; moreover the warriors are valiant towards whom we go!" they took leave of ailill and medb, and betook themselves to the quest. they set out, seven times twenty heroes was the number, till they were in the south of connaught, in the neighbourhood of the domain of corcomroe[fn#73] in the land of ninnus, near to the burg. "some of you," said mani morgor, "should go to find out how to enter into the burg; and to test the love of maidens." mani mingar, with two others, went until he came upon three of the maidens at the water-springs, and at once he and his comrades drew their swords against them. "give life for life!" said the maiden. "grant to me then my three full words!" said mani mingar. "whatever thy tongue sets forth shall be done," said the maiden, "only let it not be cows,[fn#74] for these have we no power to give thee." "for these indeed," said mani, "is all that now we do."[fn#75] [fn#73] properly "coremodruad," the descendants of modh ruadh, third son of fergus by maev; now corcomroe in county clare. [fn#74]"only let it not be cows" is in the egerton ms. alone. [fn#75] "that we do" is egerton ms. (cich indingnem), y.b.l. has "cechi m-bem." "who art thou?" said she: "mani mingar, son of ailill and medb," said he: "welcome then," she said, "but what hath brought with you here?" "to take with us cattle and maidens," he said: "'tis right," she said, "to take these together; (but) i fear that what has been demanded will not be granted, the men are valiant to whom you have come." "let your entreaties be our aid!" he said. "we would desire," she said, "that it should be after that counsel hath been taken that we obey you." "what is your number?" said she: "seven times twenty heroes," he said, "are with us." "remain here," she said, "that we may speak with the other maidens": "we shall assist you," said the maidens, "as well as we can." they went from them, and came to the other maidens, and they said to them: "young heroes from the lands of connaught are come to you, your own true loves, the seven sons of ailill and medb." "wherefore are they come?" "to take back with them cattle and wives." "that would we gladly have, if only we could; (but) i fear that the warriors will hinder them or drive them away," said she. "go ye out, that ye may speak with the man." "we will speak with him," they said. the seven maidens went to the well, and they greeted mani. "come ye away," he said, "and bring your cattle with you. that will be a good deed. we shall assist you with our honour and our protection, o ye daughters of regamon," said he.[fn#76] the maidens drove together their cows and their swine, and their sheep, so that none observed them; and they secretly passed on till they came to the camp of their comrades. the maidens greeted the sons of ailill and medb, and they remained there standing together. "the herd must be divided in two parts," said mani merger, "also the host must divide, for it is too great to travel by the one way; and we shall meet again at ath briuin (the ford of briuin)." so it was done. [fn#76] windisch conjectures this instead of "said the warriors," which is in the text of y.b.l. king regamon was not there on that day. he was in the domain of corco baiscinn,[fn#77] to hold a conference with the firbolgs. his people raised a cry behind him, message was brought to regamon, and he went in pursuit with his army. the whole of the pursuing host overtook mani morgor, and brought defeat upon him. [fn#77] in the south-west of clare. "we all," said mani, "must go to one place, and some of you shall be sent to the cattle to summon the young men hither, and the maidens shall drive the cattle over the ford to cruachan, and shall give ailill and medb tidings of the plight in which we are here." the maidens went to cruachan, and told all the tale. "thy sons are at ath briuin in distress, and have said that help should be brought to them." the men of connaught with ailill, and medb, and fergus, and the banished men of ulster went to ath briuin to help their people. the sons of ailill had for the moment made hurdles of white-thorn and black-thorn in the gut[fn#78] of the ford, as defence against regamon and his people, so that they were unable to pass through the ford ere ailill and his army came; so thence cometh the name ath cliath medraidi[fn#79] (the hurdle ford of medraide), in the country of little bethra in the northern part of the o'fiachrach aidne between connaught and corcomroe. there they met together with all their hosts. [fn#78] literally "mouth." [fn#79] ath cliath oc medraige, now maaree, in ballycourty parish, co. galway (stokes, bodleian dinnshenchus, 26). it may be mentioned that in the dinnshenchus, the cattle are said to have been taken "from dartaid, the daughter of regamon in munster," thus confusing the raids of regamon and dartaid, which may account for o'curry's incorrect statement in the preface to leabhar na h-uidhri, p. xv. a treaty was then made between them on account of the fair young men who had carried off the cattle, and on account of the fair maidens who had gone with them, by whose means the herd escaped. restitution of the herd was awarded to regamon, and the maidens abode with the sons of ailill and medb; and seven times twenty milch-cows were given up, as a dowry for the maidens, and for the maintenance of the men of ireland on the occasion of the assembly for the tain bo cualnge; so that this tale is called the tain bo regamon, and it is a prelude to the tale of the tain bo cualnge. finit, amen. the driving of the cattle of flidais introduction the tain bo flidais, the driving of the cows of flidais, does not, like the other three preludes to the tain bo cualnge, occur in the yellow book of lecan; but its manuscript age is far the oldest of the four, as it occurs in both the two oldest collections of old irish romance, the leabbar na h-uidhri (abbreviated to l.u.), and the book of leinster (abbreviated to l.l.), besides the fifteenth century egerton ms., that contains the other three preludes. the text of all three, together with a translation of the l.u. text, is given by windisch in irische texte, ii. pp. 206-223; the first part of the story is missing in l.u. and is supplied from the book of leinster (l.l.) version. the prose translation given here follows windisch's translation pretty closely, with insertions occasionally from l.l. the egerton version agrees closely with l.l., and adds little to it beyond variations in spelling, which have occasionally been taken in the case of proper names. the leabhar na h-uidhri version is not only the oldest, but has the most details of the three; a few passages have, however, been supplied from the other manuscripts which agree with l.u. in the main. the whole tale is much more like an old border riding ballad than are the other three preludes; it resembles the tone of regamon, but differs from it in having a good deal of slaughter to relate, though it can hardly be called tragic, like deirdre and ferb, the killing being taken as a matter of course. there is nothing at all supernatural about the story as contained in the old manuscripts, but a quite different' version of the story given in the glenn masain manuscript, a fifteenth century manuscript now in the advocates' library, edinburgh, gives another complexion to the tale. the translation of this manuscript is at present being made in the celtic review by professor mackinnon; the version it gives of the story is much longer and fuller than that in the leabhar na h-uidhri, and its accompanying manuscripts. the translation as printed in the celtic review is not as yet (july 1905) completed, but, through professor mackinnon's kindness, an abstract of the general features of the end of the story may be given here. the glenn masain version makes bricriu, who is a subordinate character in the older version, one of the principal actors, and explains many of the allusions which are difficult to understand in the shorter version; but it is not possible to regard the older version as an abridgment of that preserved in the glenn masain ms., for the end of the story in this manuscript is absolutely different from that in the older ones, and the romance appears to be unique in irish in that it has versions which give two quite different endings, like the two versions of kipling's the light that failed. the glenn masain version commences with a feast held at cruachan, when fergus and his exiles had joined their forces with connaught as a result of the murder of the sons of usnach, as told in the earlier part of the manuscript. at this feast bricriu. engages in conversation with fergus, reproaching him for his broken promises to the ulstermen who had joined him, and for his dalliance with queen maev. bricriu, who in other romances is a mere buffoon, here appears as a distinguished poet, and a chief ollave; his satire remains bitter, but by no means scurrilous, and the verses put into his mouth, although far beneath the standard of the verses given to deirdre in the earlier part of the manuscript, show a certain amount of dignity and poetic power. as an example, the following satire on fergus's inability to keep his promises may be cited:-fergus, hear thy friend lamenting! blunted is thy lofty mind; thou, for hire, to maev consenting, hast thy valour's pride resigned. ere another year's arriving, should thy comrades, thou didst vow, three-score chariots fair be driving, shields and weapons have enow! when thy ladies, bent on pleasure, crowd towards the banquet-hall, thou of gold a goodly measure promised hast to grant to all! ill to-night thy friends are faring, naught hath fergus to bestow; he a poor man's look is wearing, never yet was greater woe! after the dialogue with fergus, bricriu, with the poets that attend him, undertakes a journey to ailill the fair, to obtain from him the bounty that fergus had promised but was unable to grant. he makes a fairly heavy demand upon ailill's bounty, but is received hospitably, and gets all he had asked for, as well as honour for his poetic talents. he then asks about ailill's wife flidais, and is told about her marvellous cow, which was able to supply milk to more than three hundred men at one night's milking. flidais returns from a journey, is welcomed by bricriu, who produces a poem in honour of her and her cow, and is suitably recompensed. a long conversation is then recorded between flidais and bricriu in which bricriu extols the great deeds of fergus, supplying thereby a commentary on the short statement at the beginning of the older version, that flidais' love to fergus was on account of the great deeds which had been told her that he had done. flidais declares to bricriu her love for fergus, and bricriu, after a vain attempt to dissuade the queen from her purpose, consents to bring a message to fergus that flidais and her cow will come to him if he comes to her husband's castle to seek her. he then returns to connaught laden with gifts. the story now proceeds somewhat upon the lines of the older version. bricriu approaches fergus on his return, and induces him to go in the guise of an ambassador to ailill the fair, with the secret intention of carrying off flidais. fergus receives the sanction of maev and her husband for his errand, and departs, but not as in the older version with a few followers; all the ulster exiles are with him. dubhtach, by killing a servant of maev, embroils fergus with the queen of connaught; and the expedition reaches ailill the fair's castle. fergus sends bricriu, who has most unwillingly accompanied him, to ask for hospitality; he is hospitably received by ailill, and when under the influence of wine reveals to ailill the plot. ailill does not, as in the older version, refuse to receive fergus, but seats him beside himself at a feast, and after reproaching him with his purpose challenges him to a duel in the morning. the result of the duel, and of the subsequent attack on the castle by fergus' friends, is much as stated in the older version, but the two stories end quite differently. the l.u. version makes flidais assist in the war of cualgne by feeding the army of ailill each seventh day with the produce of her cows; she dies after the war as wife of fergus; the glenn masain version, in the "pursuit of the cattle of flidais," makes the gamanrad clan, the hero-clan of the west of ireland, pursue maev and fergus, and rescue flidais and her cow; flidais then returns to the west with muiretach menn, the son of her murdered husband, ailill the fair. the comparison of these two versions, from the literary point of view, is most interesting. the stress laid on the supernatural cow is peculiar to the version in the later manuscript, the only analogy in the eleventh century version is the semi-supernatural feeding of the army of ireland, but in this it is a herd (buar), not a single animal, that is credited with the feat, and there is really nothing supernatural about the matter; it is only the other version that enables us to see the true bearing of the incident. the version in the glenn masain manuscript looks much more ancient in idea than that in the older texts, and is plainly capable of a mythic interpretation. it is not of course suggested that the glenn masain version is ancient as it stands: there are indeed enough obvious allusions in the text to comparatively late works to negative such a supposition, independently of linguistic evidence, but it does look as if the author of the eleventh century text had a super natural tale to work upon, some of whose incidents are preserved in the glenn masain version, and that he succeeded in making out of the traditional account a story that practically contains no supernatural element at all, so that it requires a knowledge of the other version to discover the slight trace of the supernatural that he did keep, viz. the feeding of the army of ireland by the herd (not the cow) of flidais. it is possible that the common origin of the two versions is preserved for us in another place, the coir annam, which, though it as it stands is a middle irish work, probably keeps ancient tradition better than the more finished romances. in this we find, following stokes' translation, given in irische texte, iii. p. 295, the following entries:-"adammair flidaise foltchain, that is flidais the queen, one of the tribe of the god-folk (the tuatha de danaan), she was wife of adammair, the son of fer cuirp, and from her cometh the name buar flidaise, the cattle of flidais. "nia segamain, that is seg (deer) are a main (his treasure), for in his time cows and does were milked in the same way every day, so that he had great wealth in these things beyond that of all other kings. the flidais spoken of above was the mother of nia segamain, adammair's son, for two kinds of cattle, cows and does, were milked in the days of nia segamain, and by his mother was that fairy power given to him." it seems, then, not impossible that the original legend was much as stated in the coir annam, viz. that flidais was a supernatural being, milking wild deer like cows, and that she was taken into the ulster cycle and made part of the tale of fergus. this adoption was done by an author who made a text which may be regarded as the common original of the two versions; in his tale the supernatural character of flidais was retained. the author of the l.u. version cut out the supernatural part, and perhaps the original embassy of bricriu; it may, however, be noted that the opening of the older version comes from the l.l. text, which is throughout shorter than that in l.u., and the lost opening of l.u. may have been fuller. the author of the glenn masain version kept nearer to the old story, adding, however, more modern touches. where the new character of bricriu comes from is a moot point; i incline to the belief that the idea of bricriu as a mere buffoon is a later development. but in neither version is the story, as we have it, a pre-christian one. the original pre-christian idea of flidais was, as in the coir annam, that of a being outside the ulster cycle altogether. the driving of the cattle of flidais from the leabhar na h-uidhri (eleventh-century ms.), the beginning and a few additions from the book of leinster (twelfth century) a land in west roscommon, as kerry known of old, was ruled by ailill fair-haired; of him a tale is told: how flidais,[fn#80] ailill's[fn#81] consort, each week, and near its end, to ro's great son, to fergus, her herald still would send; 'twas fergus' love she sought for; the deeds by fergus done, in glorious tales recited, had flidais' fancy won. [fn#80] pronounced flid-das. [fn#81] pronounced al-ill. when fergus fled from ulster, and connaught's land he sought, to ailill, king of connaught, this tale of love he brought: "now give me rede," said fergus, "how best we here should act, that connaught's fame and honour by none may stand attacked; say, how can i approach them, and strip thy kingdom bare, and yet the fame of ailill, that country's monarch, spare?" "'tis hard indeed to teach thee," cried ailill, sore perplexed; "let maev come nigh with counsel what course to follow next!" "send thou to ailill fair-haired to ask for aid!" said maev, "he well may meet a herald, who comes his help to crave let fergus go to crave it: no harm can there be seen; and better gifts from ailill shall fergus win, i ween!" so forth to ailill fair-haired went fergus, son of ro; and thirty, dubhtach[fn#82] leading, he chose with him to go; and yet another fergus his aid to fergus brought; mac oonlama[fn#83] men called him; his sire one-handed fought. [fn#82] pronounced doov-ta. [fn#83] spelt mac oenlama, son of the one-handed one. beside the ford of fenna, in kerry's north they came, they neared the hold, and from it rang welcome's loud acclaim: "what quest," said ailill fair-haired, "hath brought these warriors here?" "of ailill, son of magach, we stand," they said, "in fear; a feud we hold against him; with thee would fain abide!" "for each of these," said ailill, "who fergus march beside, if they were foes to connaught, for long they here might stay, and ne'er till peace was granted, i'd drive these men away: for fergus, naught i grant him a tale of him men tell that fergus 'tis whom flidais, my wife, doth love too well!" "it is kine that i ask for," said fergus, "and hard is the task on me set: for the men who have marched here beside me, the means to win life i must get." "i will give no such present," said ailill," thou comest not here as my guest: men will say, 'twas from fear that i gave it, lest my wife from my arms thou should'st wrest: yet an ox of my herds, and some bacon, if thou wilt, shall my hand to thee give; that the men who have marched here beside thee on that meat may be stayed, and may live!" "i eat no bread thus thrown me!" fierce fergus straight replied: "i asked a gift of honour; that gift thine hand denied." "avoid my house," said ailill in wrath, "now get thee hence! "we go indeed," said fergus; "no siege we now commence: yet here," he cried, "for duel beside yon ford i wait, if thou canst find a champion to meet me at thy gate." then up and answered ailill: "'tis mine this strife must be and none shall hurt mine honour, or take this task from me: none hold me back from battle!"--the ford for fight he sought: "now dubhtach, say," said fergus, "to whom this war is brought! or thou or i must meet him." and dubhtach said, "i go; for i am younger, fergus, and bolder far with foe." to the ford for the battle with ailill he hies, and he thrust at him fiercely, and pierced through his thighs; but a javelin by ailill at dubhtach was cast, and right through his body the shaft of it passed: and a shield over dubhtach, laid low in the dust, spread fergus; and ailill his spear at him thrust; and through fergus' shield had the spear made its way, when fergus mae oonlama joined in the fray, and his shield he uplifted, his namesake to guard; but at fergus mac oonlama ailill thrust hard, and he brake through the fence of mac oonlama's shield; and he leaped in his pain; as they lay on the field, on his comrades he fell: flidais forth to them flew, and her cloak on the warriors to shield them she threw. then against all the comrades of fergus turned ailill the fair-haired to fight, and he chased them away from his castle, and slew as they scattered in flight; a twenty he reached, and he slew them: they fell, on that field to remain; and but seven there were of that thirty who fled, and their safety could gain: they came to the palace of croghan, they entered the gates of that hold, and to maev and to ailill of connaught the tale of the slaughter they told. then roused himself king ailill, of connaught's land the king, with maev to march to battle, their aid to friends to bring: and forth from connaught's kingdom went many a lord of worth, beside them marched the exiles who gat from ulster birth: so forward went that army, and reached to kerry's land, and near the ford of fenna they came, and there made stand. while this was done, the wounded three within the hold lay still, and flidais cared for all, for she to heal their wounds had skill. to ailill fair-haired's castle the connaught host was led, and toward the foeman's ramparts the connaught herald sped; he called on ailill fair-haired to come without the gate, and there to meet king ailill, and with him hold debate. "i come to no such meeting," the angry chief replied; "yon man is far too haughty: too grossly swells his pride!" yet 'twas peaceful meeting, so the old men say, ailill willed; whose greeting heralds bore that day. fergus, ere he perished, first he sought to aid he that thought who cherished friendship's claims obeyed: then his foe he vainly hoped in truce to bind: peace, 'tis said, was plainly dear to connaught's mind! the wounded men, on litters laid, without the walls they bore to friendly hands, with skill to aid, and fainting health restore. at the castle of ailill the fair-haired the connaught-men rushed in attack, and to win it they failed: from his ramparts in defeat were his foes driven back: for long in that contest they struggled, yet naught in the fight they prevailed for a week were the walls of the castle of ailill the fair-haired assailed, seven score of the nobles of connaught, and all of them warriors of might, for the castle of ailill contended, and fell as they strove in the fight. "'tis sure that with omen of evil this castle was sought by our folk!" thus bricroo,[fn#84] the poisonous scoffer, in mockery, jeering them, spoke: "the taunt," answered ailill mae mata, "is true, and with grief i confess that the fame of the heroes of ulster hereafter is like to be less, for a three of the ulstermen's champions in stress of the fight have been quelled; and the vengeance we wait for from ulster hath long been by ulster withheld; as a pillar of warfare each hero, 'twas claimed, could a battle sustain; yet by none of the three in this battle hath a foeman been conquered, or slain! in the future for all of these champions shall scorn and much mocking befall: one man hath come forth from yon castle; alone he hath wounded them all-such disgrace for such heroes of valour no times that are past ever saw, for three lords of the battle lie conquered by mannikins, fashioned of straw!" [fn#84] spelt bricriu. the usual epithet of bricriu, "bricriu of the poison tongue," is indicated in the verse rendering. "ah! woe is me," said bricroo, "how long, thus stretched on ground, the length of father fergus hath here by all been found! but one he sought to conquer; a single fight essayed, and here he met his victor, and low on land is laid." then rose the men of ulster a hardy war to wage, and forward rushed, though naked, in strong and stubborn rage: against the castle gateway in wrathful might they dashed, and down the shattered portal within the castle crashed. then close by ulster's champions was connaught's battle formed; and connaught's troops with ulster by might the castle stormed; but fitly framed for battle were men whom there they met, wild war, where none showed pity between the hosts was set: and well they struck; each hero commenced with mighty blows to crush and slay, destruction was heaped by foe on foes. of the wounding at length and the slaughter all weary the champions had grown, and the men who the castle of ailill had held were at length over thrown: of those who were found in that castle, and its walls had defended so well, seven hundred by warriors of ulster were smitten to death, and they fell: and there in his castle fell ailill the fair-haired, and fighting he died, and a thirty of sons stood about him, and all met their death by his side. the chief of those who perished, by ailill's side who stood within his hold, were noodoo;[fn#85] and awley[fn#86] named the good; and feeho[fn#87] called the broad-backed; and corpre cromm the bent; an ailill, he from breffny to help of ailill went; a three whose name was angus-fierce was each warrior's face; three eochaid, sea-girt donnan[fn#88] had cradled erst their race; and there fell seven breslen, from plains of ay[fn#89] who came; and fifty fell beside them who all had donnell's name. [fn#85] spelt nuado. [fn#86] spelt amalgaid. [fn#87] spelt fiacho. [fn#88] irross donnan, the promontory of donnan (now mayo). [fn#89] mag ai, a plain in roscommon. for to ailill the fair-haired for warfare had marched all the gamanra[fn#90] clan, and his friends from the sea-girded donnan had sent to his aid every man; all these had with ailill been leaguered, their help to him freely they brought, and that aid from them ailill. took gladly, he knew that his hold would be sought; he knew that the exiles of ulster his captives from prison would save, and would come, their surrender demanding; that ailill mac mata and maev would bring all connaught's troops to the rescue: for fergus that aid they would lend, and fergus the succour of connaught could claim, and with right, as a friend. [fn#90] spelt gamanrad. hero clans in erin three of old were found; one in irross donnan, oceans donnan bound, thence came clan gamanra; deda's warlike clan nursed in tara loochra[fn#91] many a fighting man. deda sprang from munster; far in ulster's north oft from emain macha rury's[fn#92] clan went forth: vainly all with rury strove to fight, the twain rury's clan hath vanquished; rury all hath slain! [fn#91] temair luachra, an ancient palace near abbeyfeale, on the borders of the counties of limerick and kerry. "tara," as is well known, is a corruption of temair, but is now established. [fn#92] spelt rudraige. then rose up the warriors of ulster, the hold they had conquered to sack; and the folk of queen maev and king ailill followed close on the ulstermen's track: and they took with them captives; for flidais away from her castle they tore; and the women who dwelt in the castle away to captivity bore: and all things therein that were precious they seized on as booty; the gold and the silver they seized, and the treasures amassed by the men of that hold: the horns, and the goblets for drinking, the vats for the ale, and the keys, the gay robes with all hues that were glowing lay there for the raiders to seize: and much cattle they took; in that castle were one hundred of milk giving kine; and beside them a seven score oxen; three thousand of sheep and of swine. then flidais went with fergus, his wedded wife to be; for thus had maev and ailill pronounced their high decree: they bade that when from cualgne to drive the kine they went, from those who then were wedded should aid for war be sent. and thus it fell thereafter: when ireland went that raid, by milk from cows of flidais, the lives of all were stayed; each seventh day she sent it; and thus fulfilled her vows, and thus the tale is ended, men tell of flidais' cows. then, all that raid accomplished, with fergus flidais dwell and he of ulster's kingdom a part in lordship held: he ruled in mag i murthemne[fn#92], yea, more than that, he won the land where once was ruler cuchulain, sualtam's son: and by the shore of bali thereafter flidais died, and naught of good for fergus did flidais' death betide: for worse was all his household; if fergus aught desired, from flidais' wealth and bounty came all his soul required. in the days that followed, when his wife was dead, fergus went to connaught; there his blood was shed: there with maev and ailill he a while would stay; men had made a story, he would learn the lay! there he went to cheer him, hearing converse fair: kine beside were promised; home he these would bear: so he went to croghan, 'twas a deadly quest, there he found his slaughter, death within the west: slain by jealous ailill, fergus low was laid: flidais' tale is ended: now comes cualgne's raid! [fn#92] pronounced maw moortemmy the driving of the cattle of flidais literal translation flidais was the wife of ailill finn (the fair-haired) in the district of kerry.[fn#93] she loved fergus the son of rog on account of the glorious tales about him; and always there went messengers from her to him at the end of each week. [fn#93] kerry is the district now called castlereagh, in the west of the present county of roscommon. so, when he came to connaught, he brought this matter before[fn#94] ailill: "what[fn#95] shall i do next in this matter?" said fergus: "it is hard for me to lay bare your land, without there being loss to thee of honour and renown therewith." "yes, what shall we do next in the matter?" said ailill; "we will consider this in counsel with maev." "let one of us go to ailill finn," (said maev), "that he may help us, and as this involves a meeting of some one with him, there is no reason why it should not be thyself who goest to him: the gift will be all the better for that!" [fn#94] i.e. ailill of connaught. [fn#95] this sentence to the end is taken from the egerton version, which seems the clearer; the book of leinster gives: "what shall i do next, that there be no loss of honour or renown to thee in the matter?" then fergus set out thereon, in number thirty men; the two ferguses (i.e. fergus mac rog, and fergus mac oen-lama) and dubhtach; till they were at the ford of fenna in the north of the land of kerry. they go to the burg, and welcome is brought to them.[fn#96] "what brings you here?" said ailill finn. "we had the intention of staying with you on a visit, for we have a quarrel with ailill the son of magach." [fn#96] the book of the dun cow (leabhar na h-uidhri) version begins at this point. "if it were one of thy people who had the quarrel, he should stay with me until he had made his peace. but thou shalt not stay," said ailill finn, "it has been told me that my wife loves thee!" "we must have a gift of cows then," said fergus, "for a great need lies on us, even the sustenance of the troop who have gone with me into exile." "thou shalt carry off no such present from me," he said, "because thou art not remaining with me on a visit. men will say that it is to keep my wife that i gave thee what thou hast required. i[fn#97] will give to your company one ox and some bacon to help them, if such is your pleasure." "i will eat not thy bread although offered (lit. however)," said fergus, "because i can get no present of honour from thee!" [fn#97] l.l. and egerton make the end of this speech part of the story: "there was given to them one ox with bacon, with as much as they wished of beer, as a feast for them." "out of my house with you all, then!" said ailill. "that shall be," said fergus; "we shall not begin to lay siege to thee and they betake themselves outside. "let a man come at once to fight me beside a ford at the gate of this castle!" said fergus. "that[fn#98] will not for the sake of my honour be refused," said ailill; "i will not hand it (the strife) over to another: i will go myself," said he. he went to a ford against him. "which of us," said fergus, "o dubhtach, shall encounter this man?" "i will go," said dubhtach; "i am younger and keener than thou art!" dubhtach went against ailill. dubhtach thrust a spear through ailill so that it went through his two thighs. he (ailill) hurled a javelin at dubhtach, so that he drove the spear right through him, (so that it came out) on the other side. [fn#98] the end of the speech is from l.l.: the l.u. text gives the whole speech thus: "for my honour's sake, i could not draw back in this matter." fergus threw his shield over dubhtach. the former (ailill) thrust his spear at the shield of fergus so that he even drove the shaft right through it. fergus mac oen-laimi comes by. fergus mac oen-laimi holds a shield in front of him (the other fergus). ailill struck his spear upon this so that it was forced right through it. he leaped so that he lay there on the top of his companions. flidais comes by from the castle, and throws her cloak over the three. fergus' people took to flight; ailill pursues them. there remain (slain) by him twenty men of them. seven of them escape to cruachan ai, and tell there the whole story to ailill and medb. then ailill and medb arise, and the nobles of connaught and the exiles from ulster: they march into the district of kerry ai with their troops as far as: the ford of fenna. meanwhile the wounded men were being cared for by flidais in the castle, and their healing was undertaken by her. then the troops come to the castle. ailill finn is summoned to ailill mac mata to come to a conference with him outside the castle. "i will not go," he said; "the pride and arrogance of that man there is great." it was,[fn#99] however, for a peaceful meeting that ailill mac mata had come to ailill the fair-haired, both that he might save fergus, as it was right he should, and that he might afterwards make peace with him (ailill fair haired), according to the will of the lords of connaught. [fn#99] this passage is sometimes considered to be an interpolation by a scribe or narrator whose sympathies were with connaught. the passage does not occur in the book of leinster, nor in the egerton ms. then the wounded men were brought out of the castle, on hand-barrows, that they might be cared for by their own people. then the men attack him (ailill finn): while they are storming the castle, and they could get no hold on him, a full week long went it thus with them. seven times twenty heroes from among the nobles of connaught fell during the time that they (endeavoured) to storm the castle of ailill the fair-haired. "it was with no good omen that with which you went to this castle," said bricriu. "true indeed is the word that is spoken," said ailill mac mata. "the expedition is bad for the honour of the ulstermen, in that their three heroes fall, and they take not vengeance for them. each one (of the three) was a pillar of war, yet not a single man has fallen at the hands of one of the three! truly these heroes are great to be under such wisps of straw as axe the men of this castle! most worthy is it of scorn that one man has wounded you three!" "o woe is me," said bricriu, "long is the length upon the ground of my papa fergus, since one man in single combat laid him low!" then the champions of ulster arise, naked as they were, and make a strong and obstinate attack in their rage and in the might of their violence, so that they forced in the outer gateway till it was in the midst of the castle, and the men of connaught go beside them. they storm the castle with great might against the valiant warriors who were there. a wild pitiless battle is fought between them, and each man begins to strike out against the other, and to destroy him. then, after they had wearied of wounding and overcoming one another, the people of the castle were overthrown, and the ulstermen slay seven hundred warriors there in the castle with ailill the fair-haired and thirty of his sons; and amalgaid the good;[fn#100] and nuado; and fiacho muinmethan (fiacho the broad-backed); and corpre cromm (the bent or crooked); and ailill from brefne; and the three oengus bodbgnai (the faces of danger); and the three eochaid of irross (i.e. irross donnan); and the seven breslene from ai; and the fifty domnall. [fn#100] "the good" is in the book of leinster and the egerton text, not in the leabhar na h-uidhri: the two later texts omit nuado. for the assembly of the gamanrad were with ailill, and each of the men of domnan who had bidden himself to come to him to aid him: they were in the same place assembled in his castle; for he knew that the exiles from ulster and ailill and medb with their army would come to him to demand the surrender of fergus, for fergus was under their protection. this was the third race of heroes in ireland, namely the clan gamanrad of irross donnan (the peninsula of donnan), and (the other two were) the clan dedad in temair lochra, and the clan rudraige in emain macha. but both the other clans were destroyed by the clan rudraige. but the men of ulster arise, and with them the people of medb and of ailill; and they laid waste the castle, and take flidais out of the castle with them, and carry off the women of the castle into captivity; and they take with them all the costly things and the treasures that were there, gold and silver, and horns, and drinking cups, and keys, and vats; and they take what there was of garments of every colour, and they take what there was of kine, even a hundred milch-cows, and a hundred and forty oxen, and thirty hundred of little cattle. and after these things had been done, flidais went to fergus mac rog according to the decree of ailill and medb, that they might thence have sustenance (lit. that their sustenance might be) on the occasion of the raid of the cows of cualgne. as[fn#101] a result of this, flidais was accustomed each seventh day from the produce of her cows to support the men of ireland, in order that during the raid she might provide them with the means of life. this then was the herd of flidais. [fn#101] l.l. and egerton give "for him used every seventh day," &c. in consequence[fn#102] of all this flidais went with fergus to his home, and he received the lordship of a part of ulster, even mag murthemni (the plain of murthemne), together with that which had been in the hands of cuchulain, the son of sualtam. so flidais died after some time at trag bàli (the shore of bali), and the state of fergus' household was none the better for that. for she used to supply all fergus' needs whatsoever they might be (lit. she used to provide for fergus every outfit that he desired for himself). fergus died after some time in the land of connaught, after the death of his wife, after he had gone there to obtain knowledge of a story. for, in order to cheer himself, and to fetch home a grant of cows from ailill and medb, he had gone westwards to cruachan, so that it was in consequence of this journey that he found his death in the west, through the jealousy of ailill. [fn#102] l.l. and egerton give "thereafter," adopted in verse translation. this, then, is the story of the tain bo flidais; it[fn#103] is among the preludes of the tain bo cualnge. [fn#103] this sentence does not occur in the leabhar na h-uidhri. it is given as in the egerton version: the book of leinster gives "it is among the preludes of the tain." the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain (tain bo regamna) introduction this tale is given by the same two manuscripts that give the tain bo dartada and the tain bo regamon; namely the yellow book of lecan, and egerton 1782. the text of both is given by windisch, irische texte, ii. pp. 239-254; he gives a translation of the version in the yellow book, with a few insertions from the egerton ms., where the version in y.b.l. is apparently corrupt: miss hull gives an english translation of windisch's rendering, in the cuchullin saga, pages 103 to 107. the prose version given here is a little closer to the irish than miss hull's, and differs very little from that of windisch. the song sung by the morrigan to cuchulain is given in the irish of both versions by windisch; he gives no rendering, as it is difficult and corrupt: i can make nothing of it, except that it is a jeering account of the war of cualgne. the title tain bo regamna is not connected with anything in the tale, as given; windisch conjectures "tain bo morrigna," the driving of the cow of the great queen (morrigan); as the woman is called at the end of the egerton version. the morrigan, one of the three goddesses of war, was the chief of them: they were morrigan, badb, and macha. she is also the wife of the dagda, the chief god of the pagan irish. the yellow book version calls her badb in this tale, but the account in the tain bo cualnge (leabhar na h-uidhri facsimile, pp. 74 and 77), where the prophecies are fulfilled, agrees with the egerton version in calling the woman of this tale the morrigan or the great queen. the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain (also called "tain bo regamna") from the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth century) at dun imrid lay cuchulain,[fn#104] and slept, when a cry rang out; and in fear he heard from the north-land come ringing that terrible shout: he fell, as he woke from his slumber, with the thud of a weight, to the ground, from his couch on that side of the castle that the rising sun first found. he left his arms in the castle, as the lawns round its walls he sought, but his wife, who followed behind him, apparel and arms to him brought: then he saw his harnessed chariot, and laeg,[fn#105] his charioteer, from ferta laig who drave it: from the north the car drew near: "what bringeth thee here?" said cuchulain: said laeg, "by a cry i was stirred, that across the plain came sounding." "and whence was the cry thou hast heard?" "from the north-west quarter it travelled, it crossed the great cayll[fn#106] cooen road!" "follow on, on that track," said cuchulain, "till we know what that clamour may bode!" [fn#104] pronounced cu-hoolin. [fn#105] pronounced layg. [fn#106] spelt caill cuan. at the ford of the double wonder, at ah[fn#107] fayrta, the car made stand for a chariot rattled toward them, from the clay-soiled coolgarry[fn#108] land and before them came that chariot; and strange was the sight they saw: for a one-legged chestnut charger was harnessed the car to draw; and right through the horse's body the pole of the car had passed, to a halter across his forehead was the pole with a wedge made fast: a red woman sat in the chariot, bright red were her eyebrows twain a crimson cloak was round her: the folds of it touched the plain: two poles were behind her chariot: between them her mantle flowed; and close by the side of that woman a mighty giant strode; on his back was a staff of hazel, two-forked, and the garb he wore was red, and a cow he goaded, that shambled on before. [fn#107] spelt ath ferta, or more fully ath da ferta, the ford of the two marvels. [fn#108] spelt culgaire. to that woman and man cried cuchulain, "ye who drive that cow do wrong, for against her will do ye drive her!" "not to thee doth that cow belong," said the woman; "no byre of thy comrades or thy friends hath that cow yet barred." "the kine of the land of ulster," said cuchulain, "are mine to guard!" "dost thou sit on the seat of judgment?" said the dame, "and a sage decree on this cow would'st thou give, cuchulain?--too great is that task for thee!" said the hero, "why speaketh this woman? hath the man with her never a word?" "'twas not him you addressed," was her answer, "when first your reproaches we heard." "nay, to him did i speak," said cuchulain, "though 'tis thou to reply who would'st claim!" 'ooer-gay-skyeo-loo-ehar-skyeo[fn#109] is the name that he bears," said the dame. [fn#109] spelt uar-gaeth-sceo-luachair-sceo "'tis a marvellous name!" said cuchulain, "if from thee all my answer must come, let it be as thou wishest; thy comrade, this man, as it seemeth, is dumb. tell me now of thine own name, o woman." "faebor-bayg-byeo-ill,"[fn#110] said the man. "coom-diewr-folt-skayv-garry-skyeo-ooa is her name, if pronounce it you can!" then cuchulain sprang at the chariot: "would ye make me a fool with your jest?" he cried, as he leapt at the woman; his feet on her shoulders he pressed, and he set on her head his spear-point: "now cease from thy sharp weapon-play!" cried the woman. cuchulain made answer: thy name to me truth fully say!" "then remove thyself from me!" she answered: i am skilled in satirical spells; the man is called darry i mac feena[fn#111]: in the country of cualgne[fn#112] he dwells; i of late made a marvellous poem; and as fee for the poem this cow do i drive to my home." "let its verses," said cuchulain," be sung to me now!" "then away from me stand!" said the woman: "though above me thou shakest thy spear, it will naught avail thee to move me." then he left her, but lingered near, between the poles of her chariot: the woman her song then sang; and the song was a song of insult. again at the car he sprang, but nothing he found before him: as soon as the car he had neared, the woman, the horse, and the chariot, the cow, and the man disappeared. [fn#110] spelt faebor-begbeoil-cuimdiuir-folt-seenb-gairit-sceo-uath. [fn#111] spelt daire mac fiachna: he is the owner of the dun of cualgne in the great tain. [fn#112] pronounced kell-ny. at a bird on a bough, as they vanished, a glance by cuchulain was cast, and he knew to that bird's black body the shape of the woman had passed: as a woman of danger i know you," he cried, "and as powerful in spell!" from to-day and for ever," she chanted, "this tale in yon clay-land shall dwell!" and her word was accomplished; that region to-day is the grella dolloo,[fn#113] the clay-land of evil: its name from the deeds of that woman it drew. [fn#113] spelt grellach dolluid. "had i known it was you," said cuchulain, "not thus had you passed from my sight!" and she sang, "for thy deed it is fated that evil shall soon be thy plight!" thou canst. do naught against me," he answered. "yea, evil in sooth can i send; of thy bringer of death i am guardian, shall guard it till cometh thine end: from the under-world country of croghan this cow have i driven, to breed by the dun bull of darry[fn#114] mae feena, the bull that in cualgne doth feed. so long as her calf be a yearling, for that time thy life shall endure; but, that then shall the raid have beginning, the dread raid of cualgne, be sure." [fn#114] spelt daire mac fiachna. "nay, clearer my fame shall be ringing," the hero replied," for the raid: all bards, who my deeds shall be singing, must tell of the stand that i made, each warrior in fight shall be stricken, who dares with my valour to strive: thou shalt see me, though battle-fields thicken, from the tain bo returning alive!" "how canst thou that strife be surviving?" the woman replied to his song, "for, when thou with a hero art striving, as fearful as thou, and as strong, who like thee in his wars is victorious, who all of thy feats can perform, as brave, and as great, and as glorious, as tireless as thou in a storm, then, in shape of an eel round thee coiling, thy feet at the ford i will bind, and thou, in such contest when toiling, a battle unequal shalt find." "by my god now i swear, by the token that ulstermen swear by," he cried; "on a green stone by me shall be broken that eel, to the ford if it glide: from woe it shall ne'er be escaping, till it loose me, and pass on its way!" and she said: "as a wolf myself shaping, i will spring on thee, eager to slay, i will tear thee; the flesh shall be rended from thy chest by the wolf's savage bite, till a strip be torn from thee, extended from the arm on thy left to thy right! with blows that my spear-shaft shall deal thee," he said, "i will force thee to fly till thou quit me; my skill shall not heal thee, though bursts from thy head either eye!" i will come then," she cried, "as a heifer, white-skinned, but with ears that are red, at what time thou in fight shalt endeavour the blood of a hero to shed, whose skill is full match for thy cunning; by the ford in a lake i will be, and a hundred white cows shall come running, with red ears, in like fashion to me: as the hooves of the cows on thee trample, thou shalt test 'truth of men in the fight': and the proof thou shalt have shall be ample, for from thee thy head they shall smite!" said cuchulain: "aside from thee springing, a stone for a cast will i take, and that stone at thee furiously slinging, thy right or thy left leg will break: till thou quit me, no help will i grant thee." morreegan,[fn#115] the great battle queen, with her cow to rath croghan departed, and no more by cuchulain was seen. for she went to her under-world country: cuchulain returned to his place. the tale of the great raid of cualgne this lay, as a prelude, may grace. [fn#115] spelt morrigan. the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain literal translation when cuchulain lay in his sleep at dun imrid, there he heard a cry from the north; it came straight towards him; the cry was dire, and most terrifying to him. and he awaked in the midst of his sleep, so that he fell, with the fall of a heavy load, out of his couch,[fn#116] to the ground on the eastern side of his house. he went out thereupon without his weapons, so that he was on the lawns before his house, but his wife brought out, as she followed behind him, his arms and his clothing. then he saw laeg in his harnessed chariot, coming from ferta laig, from the north; and "what brings thee here?" said cuchulain. "a cry," said laeg, "that i heard sounding over the plains. "on what side was it?" said cuchulain. "from the north-west it seemed," said laeg, "that is, across the great road of caill cuan."[fn#117] "let us follow after to know of it (lit. after it, to it for us)," said cuchulain. [fn#116] or "out of his room." the word is imda, sometimes rendered "bed," as here by windisch sometimes also "room," as in the bruidne da derga by whitley stokes. [fn#117] lough cuan was the old name for strangford lough. they went out thereupon till they came to ath da ferta. when they were there, straightway they heard the rattle of a chariot from the quarter of the loamy district of culgaire. then they saw the chariot come before them, and one chestnut (lit. red) horse in it. the horse was one footed, and the pole of the chariot passed through the body of the horse, till a wedge went through it, to make it fast on its forehead. a red[fn#118] woman was in the chariot, and a red mantle about her, she had two red eye-brows, and the mantle fell between the two ferta[fn#119] of her chariot behind till it struck upon the ground behind her. a great man was beside her chariot, a red[fn#120] cloak was upon him, and a forked staff of hazel at his back, he drove a cow in front of him. [fn#118] the above is the egerton text: the text of y.b.l. gives "a red woman there, with her two eyebrows red, and her cloak and her raiment: the cloak fell," &c. [fn#119] it is not known certainly what the ferta were: windisch translates "wheels," but does not give this meaning in his dictionary: the ferta were behind the car, and could be removed to sound the depth of a ford. it is suggested that they were poles, projecting behind to balance the chariot; and perhaps could be adjusted so as to project less or farther. [fn#120] this is the egerton text; the y.b.l. text gives "a tunic forptha on him the meaning of forptha is unknown. "that cow is not joyful at being driven by you!" said cuchulain. "the cow does not belong to you," said the woman, "she is not the cow of any friend or acquaintance of yours." "the cows of ulster," said cuchulain, "are my proper (care)." "dost thou give a decision about the cow?" said the woman; "the task is too great to which thy hand is set, o cuchulain." "why is it the woman who answers me?" said cuchulain, "why was it not the man?" "it was not the man whom you addressed," said the woman. "ay," said cuchulain, "(i did address him), though thyself hath answered for him:" "h-uar-gaeth-sceo-luachair-sceo[fn#121] is his name," said she. [fn#121] cold-wind-and-much-rushes. "alas! his name is a wondrous one," said cuchulain. "let it be thyself who answers,[fn#122] since the man answers not. what is thine own name?" said cuchulain. "the woman to whom thou speakest," said the man, "is faebor-begbeoil-cuimdiuir-folt-scenbgairit-sceo-uath."[fn#123] "do ye make a fool of me?" cried cuchulain, and on that cuchulain sprang into her chariot: he set his two feet on her two shoulders thereupon, and his spear on the top of her head. "play not sharp weapons on me!" "name thyself then by thy true name!" said cuchulain. "depart then from me!" said she: "i am a female satirist in truth," she said, "and he is daire mac fiachna from cualnge: i have brought the cow as fee for a master-poem." "let me hear the poem then," said cuchulain. "only remove thyself from me," said the woman; "it is none[fn#124] the better for thee that thou shakest it over my head." thereon he left her until he was between the two poles (ferta) of her chariot, and she sang to him[fn#125] . . . . . . cuchulain threw a spring at her chariot, and he saw not the horse, nor the woman, nor the chariot, nor the man, nor the cow. [fn#122] y.b.l. corrupt; egerton version adopted here. [fn#123] little-mouthed-edge-equally-small-hair-short-splinter-much-clamour. [fn#124] not is it better for thee that" is in egerton alone. [fn#125] see the introduction for the omission of the poem. then he saw that she had become a black bird upon a branch near to him. "a dangerous[fn#126] (or magical) woman thou art," said cuchulain: "henceforward," said the woman, "this clay-land shall be called dolluid (of evil,)" and it has been the grellach dolluid ever since. "if only i had known it was you," said cuchulain, "not thus should we have separated." "what thou hast done," said she, "shall be evil to thee from it." "thou hast no power against me," said cuchulain. "i have power indeed," said the woman; "it is at the guarding of thy death that i am; and i shall be," said she. "i brought this cow out of the fairy-mound of cruachan, that she might breed by the black bull[fn#127] of cualnge, that is the bull of daire mae fiachna. it is up to that time that thou art in life, so long as the calf which is in this cow's body is a yearling; and it is this that shall lead to the tain bo cualnge." "i shall myself be all the more glorious for that tain," said cuchulain: "i shall slay their warriors: i shall break their great hosts: i shall be survivor of the tain." [fn#126] windisch is doubtful about the meaning of this word. he gives it as "dangerous" in his translation; it may also mean "magical," though he thinks not. in a note he says that the meaning "dangerous" is not certain. [fn#127] in egerton "the dun of cualnge." "in what way canst thou do this?" said the woman, "for when thou art in combat against a man of equal strength (to thee), equally rich in victories, thine equal in feats, equally fierce, equally untiring, equally noble, equally brave, equally great with thee, i will be an eel, and i will draw a noose about thy feet in the ford, so that it will be a great unequal war for thee." "i swear to the god that the ulstermen swear by," said cuchulain, "i will break thee against a green stone of the ford; and thou shalt have no healing from me, if thou leavest me not." "i will in truth be a grey wolf against thee," said she, "and i will strip a stripe[fn#128] from thee, from thy right (hand) till it extends to thy left." [fn#128] this word is left doubtful in windisch's translation. the word is breth in y.b.l. and breit in egerton. breit may be a strip of woollen material, or a strip of land; so the meaning of a strip of flesh seems possible. "i will beat thee from me," said he, "with the spear, till thy left or thy right eye bursts from thy head, and thou shalt never have healing from me, if thou leavest me not." "i shall in truth," she said, "be for thee as a white heifer with red ears, and i will go into a lake near to the ford in which thou art in combat against a man who is thine equal in feats, and one hundred white, red-eared cows shall be behind me and 'truth of men' shall on that day be tested; and they shall take thy head from thee." "i will cast at thee with a cast of my sling," said cuchulain, "so as to break either thy left or thy right leg from under thee; and thou shalt have no help from me if thou leavest me not." they[fn#129] separated, and cuchulain went back again to dun imrid, and the morrigan with her cow to the fairy mound of cruachan; so that this tale is a prelude to the tain bo cualnge. [fn#129] all this sentence up to "so that this tale" is from the egerton version. the yellow book of lecan gives "the badb thereon went from him, and cuchulain went to his own house, so that," &c. text of leabhar na h-uidhri giving the conclusion of the "courtship of etain" introduction the following pages give, with an interlinear word for word[fn#130] translation, the text of leabhar na h-uidhri, page 130 b. line 19 to the end of page 132 a. of the facsimile. the text corresponds to the end of the tale of the court ship of etain in vol. i., from page 27, line 21, to the end of the story; it also contains the poem which is in that volume placed on page 26, but occurs in the manuscript at the place where the first line of it is quoted on page 30 of vol. i. [fn#130] the irish idiom of putting the adjective after the noun is not always followed in the translation. it is hoped that the text may be found to be convenient by scholars: special care has been taken to make it accurate, and it has not, with the exception of the poem just referred to, been published before except in the facsimile; the remainder of the text of the l.u. version of the courtship of etain, together with the poem, has been given by windisch in the first volume of the irische texte. the immediate object of the publication of this text, with its interlinear translation, is however somewhat different; it was desired to give any who may have become interested in the subject, from the romances contained in the two volumes of this collection, some idea of their exact form in the original, and of the irish constructions and metres, as no irish scholarship is needed to follow the text, when supplemented by the interlinear translation. the translation may be relied on, except for a few words indicated by a mark of interrogation. the passage is especially well suited to give an idea of the style of irish composition, as it contains all the three forms used in the romances, rhetoric, regular verse, and prose: the prose also is varied in character, for it includes narrative, rapid dialogue, an antiquarian insertion, and two descriptive passages. the piece of antiquarian information and the resume of the old legend immediately preceding the second rhetoric can be seen to be of a different character to the flowing form of the narrative proper; the inserted passage being full of explanatory words, conid, issairi, is aice, &c., and containing no imagery. the two descriptions, though short, are good examples of two styles of description which occur in some other romances; neither of these styles is universal, nor are they the only styles; the favour shown to one or the other in a romance may be regarded as a characteristic of its author. the first style, exemplified by the description of mider's appearance, consists of a succession of images presented in short sentences, sometimes, as in this case, with no verb, sometimes with the verb batar or a similar verb repeated in each sentence, but in all cases giving a brilliant word-picture, absolutely clear and definite, of what it is intended to convey. the second style, exemplified here by the description of the horses that mider offers to eochaid, consists of a series of epithets or of substantives, and is often imitated in modern irish. these passages are usually difficult to translate, as many words appear to be coined for the purpose of the descriptions; but, in the best writings, the epithets are by no means arbitrary; they are placed so as to contrast sharply with each other, and in many cases suggest brilliant metaphors; the style being in this respect more like latin than english. absolutely literal translations quite fail to bring out the effect of such passages; for not only is the string of adjectives a distinctively irish feature, but both in english and in greek such metaphors are generally expressed more definitely and by short sentences. there is also a third style of description which does not appear in the prose of any of the romances in this collection, but appears often in other romances, as in the bruidne da derga, bricriu's feast, and the great tain; it resembles the first style, but the sentences are longer, yet it does not give clear descriptions, only leaving a vague impression. this style is often used for descriptions of the supernatural; it may be regarded as actual reproductions of the oldest pre-christian work, but it is also possible that it is the result of legends, dimly known to the authors of the tales, and represented by them in the half-understood way in which they were apprehended by them: the druidic forms may have been much more clear. such passages are those which describe cuchulain's distortions; the only passage of the character in this collection is in the verse of the sick-bed, vol. i. page 77. five of the romances in the present collection have no descriptive passages in the prose; the combat at the ford and the tain bo fraich show examples of both the first and the second form, but more often the first; the tain bo regamna, though a very short piece, also shows one example of each; for the description of the goblins met by cuchulain is quite clear, and cannot be regarded as belonging to the third form. there is also one case of the second form in the tain bo dartada, and two other cases of the first in the court ship of etain-one in the egerton, one in the leabhar na h-uidhri version. the best example of the first style is in the egerton version of etain (vol. i. page 12); the best example of the second is the description of cuchulain's horses (vol. i. page 128); a still better example of contrasts in such a description is in the courtship of ferb (nutt, page 23). the piece of regular verse contained in the extract should give a fair idea of the style of this form of composition. description is common in the verse, and it is in this case a prominent feature. it may be noted that lines 8, 16, 23, 26 will not scan unless the present diphthongs are divided, also that the poem has fewer internal rhymes than is usual in this regular verse. the two passages in rhetoric, for so i take them to be, are good examples of the style. an attempt has been made to divide them into lines, but this division is open to criticism, especially as some lines in one of the two passages cannot be translated, and the translation of some other lines is doubtful: the division suggested does, however, appear to me to give a rough metre and occasional rhymes. it is possible that, if attention is called to those lines which are at present untranslatable, something may be done for them. the verse translations given in vol. i. pages 27 and 29, give the meaning that i take the irish to bear where i can get any meaning at all. as to the text, the usual abbreviation for n has in general not been italicized, nor has that for fri; all other abbreviations, including acht, final n in the symbol for con, and that for or in the recognized symbol for for, have been italicized. in the rhetorics, owing to their difficulty, the abbreviation for n has been italicized throughout; the symbol for ocus is not italicised. a few conjectures have been inserted, the text being given as a foot-note; a conjectured letter supposed to be missing has been inserted in brackets, and a restoration by professor strachan of a few letters where the ms. is torn are similarly placed in brackets. the rest of the text is carefully copied from the facsimile, including the glosses, which are inserted above the words in the same places that they occupy in the manuscript. text with interlinear translation fecht n-aile asraracht eochaid airem ri temrach la n-alaind another time arose eochaid airem. king of tara on a beautiful day i n-amsir samrata frisocaib[fn#131] for sosta na temrach do imcaisiu maigi breg, in time of summer, mounted on heights of tara for viewing of plain of breg, [fn#131] a conjecture: ms. fosrocaib= fo-s-ro-od-gaib, an unknown compound. boi fo a li ocus fo bluth cach datha. am-imracacha inti was good its colour, and good blossom of every hue. when looked about the aforesaid eochaid imbi, co acca inn oclaech n-ingnad for sin sossad[fn#132] inna eoebaid around him, he saw the young warrior unknown on the height beside [fn#132] a conjecture: ms. tossad. chomairi. fuan corcair imbi, ocus mong or-budi fair co brainni him. tunic purple about him, and hair gold-yellow on him to edges a da imdae. rosc cainlech glas ina chind. sleg coicrind ina laim. of his two shoulders. eye lustrous gray in his head. spear five-pointed in his hand. sciath taulgel ina laim con gemaib oir forri. sochtais eochaid, ar ni shield white-bossed in his hand with gems of gold on it. was silent eochaid, for not fitir a bith isin temraig inn aidehi riam, ocus ni orslaiethe ind lis he knew of his being in the tara the night before, and not was opened the liss in trath sin. tolluid ar inchaib eochoda iarsain asbert eochaid iarom, at that hour. he came under protection of eochaid thereon; said eochaid then, fochen dond laech nad athgenmar. is ed doroehtmar or in welcome to the hero whom we know not. it is for that we have come, said the t-oclaech. ni tathgenmar or eochaid. atotgensa chetus ol in (young) warrior. we know thee not, said eochaid. i know thee indeed, said the t-oclaech. cia th'ainm seo? ol eochaid. ni airdairc son, ol se, warrior. what (is) thy own name? said eochaid. not illustrious that, said he, mider breg leith. cid dotroacht ol eochaid. do imbert fidcille mider of bri leith. what brought thee? said eochaid. to play at chess frit-su ol se. am maith se em, ol eochaid for fithchill. a fromad with thee, said he. i am good myself truly, said eochaid, at chess-play. its essaying dun ol mider. ata ol eochaid, ind rigan ina cotlud, is le in tech to us! said mider. is, said eochaid, the queen in her sleep, it is hers the house ata ind fithchell. ata sund chenae, ol mider, fidchell nad where is the chessboard. there is here yet, said mider, a chessboard which is not messo. ba fir on, clar n-argit ocus fir oir, ocus fursunnud cacha worse. was true that, a board of silver and men of gold, and shining in every hairidi for sin clar di liic logmair, ocus fer-bolg di figi rond credumae. direction on that board of costly stones, and a men-bag of woven chains of brass. ecraid mider in fidchill iarsin. imbir ol mider. ni immer acht set out mider the chessboard thereupon. play! said mider. not will i play, except di giull ol eochaid. cid gell bias and? ol mider. cumma lim ol for a stake, said eochaid. what stake shall be here? said mider. equal to me, said eochaid. rot-bia lim-sa ol mider mad tu beras mo thochell, eochaid. thou shalt have from me, said mider, if thou carry off my stake, l. gabur n-dub-glas ite cend-brecca, croderga, biruich, 50 horses of dark-gray, and they with dappled heads, blood-red, with ears pricked high, bruin-lethain, bolg(s)roin, coss choela, comrassa, faeborda,[fn#133] femendae,[fn#133] chests broad, nostrils distended, feet thin, strong, keen, ? vehement, aurarda, aignecha, so-(a)staidi,[fn#133] so very high, spirited, easily stopped, [fn#133] see bruidne da derga (stokes), 50, 51, faeborda, lit. with an edge on them; femendae? = lat. vehemens; soaistidi is the form adopted by stokes in his edition of the bruidne; egerton ms. gives soastaide. there is a gap here, a complete column being torn from the manuscript. the lost part obviously describes the issue of the chess game or games, and the penalties demanded by bochaid: what these penalties were is plain from the succeeding story. the work of mider and his folk in paying these penalties must also have been described: the next column (leabhar na huidhri, 131 b. of the facsimile) opens thus: iarsin doberar uir ocus grian ocus clocha for sin monai. fri etna thereupon is, placed earth and gravel and stones on the bog. over foreheads dam dano-batar fedmand la firu h-erind cosind n-aidchi sin, co of oxen then were yokes among men of ireland till that very night, when n-aicces la lucht in t-side for a formnaib. dognith it was seen (tblat they were) among people of the mounds on their shoulders. it was done samlaid la eochaid, conid de ata do som. echaid airem, ar so by eochaid, so that hence is to himself (the name of) echaid airem, for is aice toisech tucad cuing for muinelaib dam do ferand h-erind. is it is by him first was put yoke on necks of oxen for land of ireland. this ed dino and food ro boi im belaib in t-sluaig oc denam in tocuir: is then there word which was on lips of the host at making of the causeway: rhetoric-cuire illaim, put into hand tochra illaim, place (it) into hand aurdairc damrad trathaib iar fuin noble (are) oxen for hours after sunset for trom ailges very heavy request ni fes cuich les it is not known to whom (is) gain cuich amles de thochur dar moin lamraige. to whom harm from the causeway over moor of lamrach. ni biad isin bith tochur bad ferr mani bethe oca there would not be in the world a causeway which is better, if not (men) had been at n-descin forracbad de bochtae and iartain. iarsin dolluid the seeing them. was left on that account a breach there thenceforth. thereupon came in rechtaire co echaid ocus adfet scela in mor fedma, atconnaire the steward to echaid, and made known tales of the great serving band, that he saw fiadai, ocus asbert nad rabi for fertas in betha cumachta before him, and said that there was not on the chariot pole of life a power dodrosce de. am batar for a m-briathraib co n-accatar mider that excelled it. when they were at their talking they saw mider (come) chucu. ard chustal ocus droch gne fair. atrigestar eochaid, to them. high ? girt (he was), and evil face (was) on him.? rose ?[fn#134] eochaid, [fn#134] this is a possible rendering, taking the word as a deponent form of atregaim. it would be more natural to take the word as from adagur; being equivalent to ad-d-raigestar, and to mean "feared him," but this does not agree with eoebaid's general attitude. ocus ferais faelti fri. is ed dorochtmar ol mider. is toreda ocus is and gave welcome to him. it is for that we have come, said mider. it is cruel and is di-cheill no tai frim, mor decrai ocus mor aingcessa do thabairt form senseless thou art to me, great hardship and great suffering thy bestowing on me adethaind ni bad maith lat chena acht is bairnech mo menma frit. i used to get what seemed good to thee still but is angry my mind against thee. ni bara fri bure dait-siu on do-gignestar do menma for eochaid. not anger against anger: to thyself the thing that shall choose thy mind, said eochaid. gebthar dano, ol mider. inn imberam fidchill? for mider. cid gell it shall be done then, said mider. shall we play at chess? said mider. what stake bias and? for eochaid. gell adcobra cechtar da lina for shall be there? said eochaid. the stake that wishes each of the two parties, said mider. berar tochell n-echdach alla sin. rucais mo mider. is carried off stake of echaid in that very place. thou hast carried off my thocell, for eebaid. mad ail dam no-beraind o chianaib, stake, said echaid. if wish to me (had been) i could have carried it off long since, for mider. cacht cid adcobrai form-sa? for echaid. di laim im said mider. question what wishest thou from myself? said echaid. two arms about etain, ocus poc di ol mider. sochtais echaid la, sodain, ocus asbert, etain, and a kiss from her, said mider. was silent echaid thereon, and said, tis dia mis on diu, doberthar dait ani sin. in thou shalt come in a month from to-day, (and) shall be given to thee that very thing. the bliadain ria tuidecht do mider co echaid do imbert na fidehille boi oc year before the coming of mider to echaid for playing of the chess was he at tochmarc etaine, ocus nis n-etad leis. is ed ainm dobered mider wooing of etain, and nothing was found by him. this is the name used to give mider di: befind conide asbert: to her: fair-haired lady, so that thence he said: a be find in raga lim o fair-haired lady, wilt thou come with me i tir n-ingnad hi fil rind into a land marvellous, that is music? is barr sobarche folt and (thus) is the top of the head, of primrose the hair there, is dath snechta corp co ind: is colour of snow the body to the head: is and nad bi mui na tai, it is there not will be 'mine' or 'thine,' gela det and, dubai brai, white teeth there, black eyebrows, is li sula lin ar sluag,[fn#135] is colour of eyes number of our hosts, [fn#135] a conjecture by windisch. text gives sluaig the genitive singular, which does not rhyme. [fn#136]no is brece is dath sion and cech gruad: or is many-coloured is hue of foxglove there each cheek: [fn#136] the three glosses are interesting. it may be noted that the last two certainly follow the word (above the line in which it occurs) that they seem to gloss: it is therefore probable that the first does so too; the two lines of a couplet are on the same line in the manuscript. it {footnote p. 156} seems then possible that the gloss "it is many-coloured" refers, not to the foxglove, but to the preceding line, "the colour of eyes is number of our hosts," and that the writer of this gloss gave the same meaning to the rather hard description of the colour of the eyes as is given in the verse translation (vol. i. p. 26), i.e. that the eyes had changing lights and shapes. we must hope, for the credit of his taste, that he did not think of the cheeks as many-coloured or freckled, but his gloss of lossa does not seem happy. the meaning "growth" is taken from o'reilly's dictionary. no lossa is corcair maige cach muin,[fn#137] or growth? is purple of a plain each neck, [fn#137] a conjecture (str.), main, treasure, is in the text: this does not rhyme, nor give good sense; note, however, that muin has no accent-the text gives one. no is dath is li sula ugai luin: or is hue is colour of eyes (that of) eggs of a blackbird: cid cain deicsiu maigi fail though pleasant (is) seeing plains of fal (isle of destiny) annam iar gnais maige mair. a wilderness[fn#138] after knowledge of the great plain. [fn#138] this meaning for annam is doubtful; the sense of "seldom" is established for the word; the line possibly means "it will seldom be so after," &c. cid mesc lib coirm inse fail, though intoxicating to you (is) ale of the island fal, is mescu coirm tire mair, is more intoxicating the ale of the country great, amra tire tir asbiur, a wonder of a land the land i mention, ni theit oac and re siun. not goes a young man there before an old man. srotha teith millsi tar tir, streams warm (and) sweet through the land, rogu de mid ocus fin, choice of mead and wine, doini delgnaidi, cen on, men ? handsome, without blemish, combart cen pecead, cen col. conception without sin without crime. atchiam cach for each leth, we see all on every side, ocus ni-conn acci nech; and yet not sees us anyone temel imorbais adaim the cloud of the sin of adam do-don-archeil[fn#139] ar araim encompasses us from reckoning [fn#139] from tairchellaim. a ben dia ris mo thuaith tind, o woman, if thou wilt come to my people strong, is barr oir bias fort chind, it is top of head of gold shall be on thy head, inue ur, laith, lemnacht la lind pork unsalted, ale, new milk for drink rot bia lim and, a be find, a be find. shall be to thee with me there, o woman fair-haired. [a gap, 9 letters lost] i atumchotaise om aithech tige rag-sa, [a gap, thou obtainest me from my master of the house i will go, [9 letters lost] fetai, ni rag. is iarsin dolluid mider (l.u. 130 a.) co canst, not will i go. it is thereon came mider to echaid, ocus damair a thochell fochetoir co m-beth fôlo acai echaid, and yields his stake immediately that may be (cause) of reproach for him do echaid, is airi roic na comada mora, ocus issairi is to echaid, it is therefore he paid the great stakes, and on that account it is (that) fo anfis con atig a gell. conid iarsin giull adrubrad in tan tra under ignorance that he asked his wager. so that after that wager it was said when now ro boi mider cona muinter oc ic comad na aidehi, i. in tochor, ocus was mider and his folk at paying the stake of the night, that is, the causeway, and di-chlochad midi, ocus luachair tetbai, ocus fid dar breg: isse[fn#140] seo clearing stones off meath, and rushes of tethba and forest over breg: it is he this [fn#140] grammar not clear: perhaps the irish is corrupt (str.). an no foclad boi oca muinter amal atbert lebor drom snechta: what used to say was with his folk as says book of drom-snechta: rhetoric-cuirthe illand: put on the field: tochre illand: put close on the field airderg dararad: very red oxen: trom in choibden: heavy the troop clunithar fir ferdi. which hears ?really-manly buidni balc-thruim crand-chuir troops for strong heavy setting of trees forderg saire fedar of very red ?oaks[fn#141] are led [fn#141] reading daire for saire. sechuib slimprib snithib past them on twisted wattles: scitha lama: weary are hands, ind rosc cloina: the eye ?slants aside? fobith oen mna because of one woman duib in digail: to you the revenge, duib in trom-daim:[fn#142] to you the heavy ?oxen [fn#142] a conjecture. ms. gives trom-daim. tairthim flatho fer ban: splendour of sovereignty over white men: fomnis, fomnis, in fer m-braine cerpae fomnis diad dergæ ? ? ? fer arfeid solaig ? fri aiss esslind ? fer bron for-ti ? sorrow shall, come on the man? i. more ertechta inde ? lamnado luachair rushes for di thethbi over?two tethbas di-chlochad[fn#143] midi clearing stones from meath [fn#143] a conjecture. ms. gives dilecad (str.) indracht ? coich les, coich amles to whom the benefit, to whom the harm thocur dar clochach? moin.[fn#144] causeway over stony moor. [fn#144] the last line in the ms. is t d c m. dalis mider dia mis fochiallastar (i. rotinoil). echaid formna mider appointed a meeting for the end of a month. echaid assembled (i.e. collected)troops. laech la-erend com batar hi temrach, ocus an ro po dech do fiannaib of heroes of ireland so that they were in tara, and what was best of champions h-erind, cach cuaird imm araile im temrach immedon ocus a nechtair, of ireland, each ring about another, around tara im the middle, and outside it ocus is-tig. ocus in ri ocus in rigan immedon in taigi, ocus ind lis and within. and the king and the queen in the middle of the house, and its liss iatai fo glassaib, ar ro fetatar do t-icfad fer in mar cumacht. etain shut under locks, for they knew that would comie of insen the great might. etain boi ocon dail ind aidehi sin forsna flathi, ar ba sain dana disi dal. was dispensing that night to the princes, for it was meet then for her pouring (of the wine) am batar iarom fora. m-briathraib, co accatar mider chucu for when they were thereon at their talking they saw mider (come) to them on lar ind rigthige. ba cain som dogres ba caini dana inn aidehi sin. the floor of the royal palace. he was fair always, was fairer then on that night. tosbert im mod na slûag ateonnairc. sochsit uli iarom ocus he brought to amazement the hosts that he saw.[fn#145] were silent all thereon, and [fn#145] reading atcondairc (str.). ferais in ri faelti fris. is ed dorochtmar ol mider. an ro gella the king gave welcome to him. it is this we have come for, said mider. what was promised dam-sa or se, tucthar dam. is fiach ma gelltar, an ro gellad to myself, said he, let it be given to me. it is a debt if a promise is given, tucus dait-siu. ni imrordusa for echaid, ani sin co se. i have given to thee. not have i thought on, said echaid, that very thing up to now. atrugell etain fein dam-sa, ol mider, ticht uait-siu. thou hast promised etain herself to me, said mider, message (lit. a coming) from you. imdergthar im etain la, sodain. na imdergthar imut for mider, ni there was a blush on etain thereupon. let there be no blush on thee, said mider, not droch banas duit-siu. atu-sa, ol si, bliadain oc do chuingid com evil marriage-feast to thee. i am myself, said he, a year at seeking thee with mainib ocus setaib at aildem in ere, ocus ni tucus-sa treasures and jewels that are the most beautiful in ireland and not i took thee comad chomarlecud do echaid. ni -la-deoas damsa ce till there should be permission of echaid. not by good-will to me any dotchotaind. atrubart-sa frit-su ol si, conom rire echaid, getting thee. i myself said to thyself, said she, until echaid gives me up nit rius. atometha lat ar mo chuit fein, dia nom rire echaid. not will i come to thee. take me with thee for my own part, if me echaid will give up. nit ririub immorro, for echaid, acht tabrad a di laim not thee will i give up however, said echaid, but (i give) a placing of his two hands imut for lar in tige, amal ro gabais. dogentar for mider. about thee on floor of the house, as thou art. it shall be done! said mider. i. mider atetha a gaisced ina laim cli, ocus gabais in mnai fo a leth-oxail dess, that is, mider he took his weapons in his hand left, and took the woman under his shoulder right, ocus focois-le for forles in tige. conerget in-t-sluaig imon rig and carried her off over skylight of the house. pose up the hosts, about the king iar melacht forro, co n-accatar in da ela timchell na temra. is ed after a disgrace on them, they saw the two swans around tara. it is this, ro gabsat do sid ar femun. ocus luid echaid co fomno they took (the road) to elfmound about about femun. and went echaid with a troop fer n-erend imbi do sith ar femun i. sid ban-find. of men of ireland about him to elf mound about femun i.e. elfmound of the fair-haired women. b (a si com)[fn#146] arli fer n-erend, fochlaid each sid [a gap, 12 letters lost] that was the counsel of the men of ireland, he dug up each elf-mound. [fn#146] the letters in parentheses are a conjecture by strachan, to fill up a gap in the manuscript. tised a ben. do uadib, foce [a gap of 13 letters, rest of the version lost.] should come his wife to him from them. the cattle-raid of cualnge (tain bo cuailnge) an old irish prose-epic translated for the first time from leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan by l. winifred faraday, m. a. london published by david nutt at the sign of the phoenix long acre 1904 contents introduction the cattle-raid of cualnge (from leabhar na h-uidhri) cuchulainn's boyish deeds the death of fraech the death of orlam the death of the meic garach the death of the squirrel the death of lethan the death of lochu the harrying of cualnge (first version) the harrying of cualnge (second version) mac roth's embassy the death of etarcomol the death of nadcrantail the finding of the bull the death of redg the meeting of cuchulainn and findabair the combat of munremar and curoi the death of the boys (first version) the woman-fight of rochad the death of the princes the death of cur the number of the feats the death of ferbaeth the combat of larine mac nois the conversation of the morrigan with cuchulainn the death of long mac emonis the healing of the morrigan the coming of lug mac ethlend the death of the boys (second version) the arming of cuchulainn continuation (from the yellow book of lecan) the combat of fer diad and cuchulainn the long warning of sualtaim the muster of the ulstermen the vision of dubthach the march of the companies the muster of the men of ireland the battle on garach and irgarach the meeting of the bulls the peace introduction the cattle-raid of cualnge [note: pronounce _cooley_] is the chief story belonging to the heroic cycle of ulster, which had its centre in the deeds of the ulster king, conchobar mac nessa, and his nephew and chief warrior, cuchulainn mac sualtaim. tradition places their date at the beginning of the christian era. the events leading up to this tale, the most famous of irish mythical stories, may be shortly summarised here from the book of leinster introduction to the _tain_, and from the other tales belonging to the ulster cycle. it is elsewhere narrated that the dun bull of cualnge, for whose sake ailill and medb [note: pronounce _maive_.], the king and queen of connaught, undertook this expedition, was one of two bulls in whom two rival swineherds, belonging to the supernatural race known as the people of the _sid_, or fairy-mounds, were re-incarnated, after passing through various other forms. the other bull, findbennach, the white-horned, was in the herd of medb at cruachan ai, the connaught capital, but left it to join ailill's herd. this caused ailill's possessions to exceed medb's, and to equalise matters she determined to secure the great dun bull, who alone equalled the white-horned. an embassy to the owner of the dun bull failed, and ailill and medb therefore began preparations for an invasion of ulster, in which province (then ruled by conchobar mac nessa) cualnge was situated. a number of smaller _tana_, or cattle-raids, prefatory to the great _tain bo cuailnge_, relate some of their efforts to procure allies and provisions. medb chose for the expedition the time when conchobar and all the warriors of ulster, except cuchulainn and sualtaim, were at their capital, emain macha, in a sickness which fell on them periodically, making them powerless for action; another story relates the cause of this sickness, the effect of a curse laid on them by a fairy woman. ulster was therefore defended only by the seventeen-year-old cuchulainn, for sualtaim's appearance is only spasmodic. cuchulainn (culann's hound) was the son of dechtire, the king's sister, his father being, in different accounts, either sualtaim, an ulster warrior; lug mac ethlend, one of the divine heroes from the _sid_, or fairy-mound; or conchobar himself. the two former both appear as cuchulainn's father in the present narrative. cuchulainn is accompanied, throughout the adventures here told, by his charioteer, loeg mac riangabra. in medb's force were several ulster heroes, including cormac condlongas, son of conchobar, conall cernach, dubthach doeltenga, fiacha mac firfebe, and fergus mac roich. these were exiled from ulster through a bitter quarrel with conchobar, who had caused the betrayal and murder of the sons of uisnech, when they had come to ulster under the sworn protection of fergus, as told in the _exile of the sons of uisnech_. [note: 1 text in windisch and stokes's _irische texte_; english translation in miss hull's _cuchullin saga_.] the ulster mischief-maker, bricriu of the poison-tongue, was also with the connaught army. though fighting for connaught, the exiles have a friendly feeling for their former comrades, and a keen jealousy for the credit of ulster. there is a constant interchange of courtesies between them and their old pupil, cuchulainn, whom they do not scruple to exhort to fresh efforts for ulster's honour. an equally half-hearted warrior is lugaid mac nois, king of munster, who was bound in friendship to the ulstermen. other characters who play an important part in the story are findabair, daughter of ailill and medb, who is held out as a bribe to various heroes to induce them to fight cuchulainn, and is on one occasion offered to the latter in fraud on condition that he will give up his opposition to the host; and the war-goddess, variously styled the nemain, the badb (scald-crow), and the morrigan (great queen), who takes part against cuchulainn in one of his chief fights. findabair is the bait which induces several old comrades of cuchulainn's, who had been his fellow-pupils under the sorceress scathach, to fight him in single combat. the tale may be divided into:-1. introduction: fedelm's prophecy. 2. cuchulainn's first feats against the host, and the several _geis_, or taboos, which he lays on them. 3. the narration of cuchulainn's boyish deeds, by the ulster exiles to the connaught host. 4. cuchulainn's harassing of the host. 5. the bargain and series of single combats, interrupted by breaches of the agreement on the part of connaught. 6. the visit of lug mac ethlend. 7. the fight with fer diad. 8. the end: the muster of the ulstermen. the mss. the _tain bo cuailnge_ survives, in whole or in part, in a considerable number of mss., most of which are, however, late. the most important are three in number:-(1) leabhar na h-uidhri (lu), 'the book of the dun cow,' a ms. dating from about 1100. the version here given is an old one, though with some late additions, in later language. the chief of these are the piece coming between the death of the herd forgemen and the fight with cur mac dalath (including cuchulainn's meeting with findabair, and the 'womanfight' of rochad), and the whole of what follows the healing of the morrigan. the tale is, like others in this ms., unfinished, the ms. being imperfect. (2) the yellow book of lecan (ybl), a late fourteenth-century ms. the _tain_ in this is substantially the same as in lu. the beginning is missing, but the end is given. some of the late additions of lu are not found here; and ybl, late as it is, often gives an older and better text than the earlier ms. (3) the book of leinster (ll), before 1160. the _tain_ here is longer, fuller, and later in both style and language than in lu or ybl. it is essentially a literary attempt to give a complete and consistent narrative, and is much less interesting than the older lu-ybl recension. in the present version, i have collated lu, as far as it goes, with ybl, adding from the latter the concluding parts of the story, from the fight with fer diad to the end. after the fight with fer diad, ybl breaks off abruptly, leaving nearly a page blank; then follow several pages containing lists, alternative versions of some episodes given in lu (rochad's woman-fight, the warning to conchobar), and one or two episodes which are narrated in ll. i omit about one page, where the narrative is broken and confused. the pages which follow the healing of the morrigan in lu are altogether different in style from the rest of the story as told in lu, and are out of keeping with its simplicity. this whole portion is in the later manner of ll, with which, for the most part, it is in verbal agreement. further, it is in part repetition of material already given (i.e. the coming of the boy-host of ulster, and cuchulainn's displaying himself to the connaught troops). comparison of the versions a german translation of the leinster text of the _tain bo cuailnge_ will soon be accessible to all in dr. windisch's promised edition of the text. it is therefore unnecessary to compare the two versions in detail. some of the main differences may be pointed out, however. of our three copies none is the direct ancestor of any other. lu and ybl are from a common source, though the latter ms. is from an older copy; ll is independent. the two types differ entirely in aim and method. the writers of lu and ybl aimed at accuracy; the leinster man, at presenting an intelligible version. hence, where the two former reproduce obscurities and corruptions, the latter omits, paraphrases, or expands. the unfortunate result is that ll rarely, if ever, helps to clear up textual obscurities in the older copy. on the other hand, it offers explanations of certain episodes not clearly stated in lu. thus, for example, where lu, in the story of the sons of nechta scene, simply mentions 'the withe that was on the pillar,' ll explains that the withe had been placed there by the sons of nechta scene (as cuchulainn placed a similar with in the path of the connaught host), with an ogam inscription forbidding any to pass without combat; hence its removal was an insult and a breach of _geis_. again, the various embassies to cuchulainn, and the terms made with him (that he should not harass the host if he were supplied daily with food, and with a champion to meet him in single combat), are more clearly described in ll. some of the episodes given in lu are not told in the leinster version. of the boyish deeds of cuchulainn, ll tells only three: his first appearance at emain (told by fergus), culann's feast (by cormac), and the feats following cuchulainn's taking of arms (by fiacha). in the main narrative, the chief episodes omitted in ll are the fight with fraech, the fergus and medb episode, and the meeting of findabair and cuchulainn. the meeting with the morrigan is missing, owing to the loss of a leaf. other episodes are differently placed in ll: e.g. the rochad story (an entirely different account), the fight of amairgen and curoi with stones, and the warning to conchobar, all follow the fight with fer diad. a peculiarity of the lu-ybl version is the number of passages which it has in common with the _dinnsenchas_, an eleventh-century compilation of place-legends. the existing collections of _dinnsenchas_ contain over fifty entries derived from the _tain_ cycle, some corresponding with, others differing from those in lu. this version has also embodied a considerable number of glosses in the text. as many of these are common to lu and ybl, they must go back to the common original, which must therefore have been a harmony of previously existing versions, since many of these passages give variants of incidents. age of the versions there is no doubt that the version here translated is a very old one. the language in lu is almost uniformly middle irish, not more than a century earlier than the date of the ms.; thus it shows the post-thetic _he_, _iat_, etc. as object, the adverb with _co_, the confusion of _ar_ and _for_, the extension of the _b_-future, etc. but ybl preserves forms as old as the glosses:-(1) the correct use of the infixed relative, e.g. _rombith_, 'with which he struck.' (lu, _robith_, 58a, 45.) (2) the infixed accusative pronoun, e.g. _nachndiusced_, 'that he should not wake him.' (lu, _nach diusced_, 62a, 30.) (3) _no_ with a secondary tense, e.g. _nolinad_, 'he used to fill.' (lu, _rolinad_, 60b, 6.) (4) very frequently ybl keeps the right aspirated or non-aspirated consonant, where lu shows a general confusion, etc. ll has no very archaic forms, though it cultivates a pseudo-archaic style; and it is unlikely that the leinster version goes back much earlier than 1050. the latter part of the lu _tain_ shows that a version of the leinster type was known to the compiler. the style of this part, with its piling-up of epithets, is that of eleventh-century narrative, as exemplified in texts like the _cath ruis na rig_ and the _cogadh gaidhil_; long strings of alliterative epithets, introduced for sound rather than sense, are characteristic of the period. the descriptions of chariots and horses in the fer diad episode in ybl are similar, and evidently belong to the same rescension. the inferences from the facts noted in the foregoing sections may be stated as follows: a version of the _tain_ goes back to the early eighth, or seventh century, and is preserved under the ybl text; an opinion based on linguistic evidence, but coinciding with the tradition which ascribes the 'recovery of the _tain_' to senchan torpeist, a bard of the later seventh century. this version continued to be copied down to the eleventh century, gradually changing as the language changed. meanwhile, varying accounts of parts of the story came into existence, and some time in the eleventh century a new redaction was made, the oldest representative of which is the ll text. parts of this were embodied in or added to the older version; hence the interpolations in lu. the fer diad episode there is much difference between the two versions of this episode. in ybl, the introductory portion is long and full, the actual fight very short, while in ll the fight is long-drawn-out, and much more stress is laid on the pathetic aspect of the situation. hence it is generally assumed that ll preserves an old version of the episode, and that the scribe of the yellow book has compressed the latter part. it is not, however, usual, in primitive story-telling, to linger over scenes of pathos. such lingering is, like the painted tears of late italian masters, invariably a sign of decadence. it is one of the marks of romance, which recognises tragedy only when it is voluble, and prodigal of lamentation. the older version of the _tain_ is throughout singularly free from pathos of the feebler sort; the humorous side is always uppermost, and the tragic suggestions interwoven with it. but it is still a matter of question whether the whole fer diad episode may not be late. professor zimmer thinks it is; but even the greatest scholar, with a theory to prove, is not quite free. it will of course be noticed, on this side, that the chief motives of the fer diad episode all appear previously in other episodes (e.g. the fights with ferbaeth and with loch). further, the account even in ybl is not marked by old linguistic forms as are other parts of the tale, while much of it is in the bombastic descriptive style of ll. in the condition in which we have the tale, however, this adventure is treated as the climax of the story. its motive is to remove cuchulainn from the field, in order to give the rest of ulster a chance. but in the account of the final great fight in ybl, cuchulainn's absence is said to be due to his having been wounded in a combat against odds (_crechtnugud i n-ecomlund_). considering, therefore, that even in ybl the fer diad episode is late in language, it seems possible that it may have replaced some earlier account in which cuchulainn was so severely wounded that he was obliged to retire from the field. previous work on the '_tain_' up to the present time the _tain_ has never been either printed or translated, though the lu version has been for thirty years easily accessible in facsimile. dr. windisch's promised edition will shortly be out, containing the ll and lu texts, with a german translation of the former. the most useful piece of work done hitherto for the _tain_ is the analysis by professor zimmer of the lu text (conclusion from the book of leinster), in the fifth of his _keltische studien (zeitschrift für vergl. sprachforschung_, xxviii.). another analysis of the story, by mr. s. h. o'grady, appeared in miss eleanor hull's _the cuchullin saga_; it is based on a late paper ms. in the british museum, giving substantially the same version as ll. this work contains also a map of ancient ireland, showing the route of the connaught forces; but a careful working-out of the topography of the _tain_ is much needed, many names being still unidentified. several of the small introductory _tana_ have been published in windisch and stokes's _irische texte_; and separate episodes from the great _tain_ have been printed and translated from time to time. the fight with fer diad (ll) was printed with translation by o'curry in the _manners and customs of the ancient irish_. the story of the two swineherds, with their successive reincarnations until they became the dun bull and the white-horned (an introductory story to the _tain_ ), is edited with translation in _irische texte_, and mr. nutt printed an abridged english version in the _voyage of bran_. the leinster version seems to have been the favourite with modern workers, probably because it is complete and consistent; possibly its more sentimental style has also served to commend it. aim of this translation it is perhaps unnecessary to say that the present version is intended for those who cannot read the tale in the original; it is therefore inadvisable to overload the volume with notes, variant readings, or explanations of the readings adopted, which might repel the readers to whom it is offered. at the present time, an enthusiasm for irish literature is not always accompanied by a knowledge of the irish language. it seems therefore to be the translator's duty, if any true estimate of this literature is to be formed, to keep fairly close to the original, since nothing is to be gained by attributing beauties which it does not possess, while obscuring its true merits, which are not few. for the same reason, while keeping the irish second person singular in verses and formal speech, i have in ordinary dialogue substituted the pronoun _you_, which suggests the colloquial style of the original better than the obsolete _thou_. the so-called rhetorics are omitted in translating; they are passages known in irish as _rosc_, often partly alliterative, but not measured. they are usually meaningless strings of words, with occasional intelligible phrases. in all probability the passages aimed at sound, with only a general suggestion of the drift. any other omissions are marked where they occur; many obscure words in the long descriptive passages are of necessity left untranslated. in two places i have made slight verbal changes without altering the sense, a liberty which is very rarely necessary in irish. of the headings, those printed in capitals are in the text in the ms.; those italicised are marginal. i have bracketed obvious scribal glosses which have crept into the text. some of the marginal glosses are translated in the footnotes. geographical names as a considerable part of the _tain_ is occupied by connecting episodes with place-names, an explanation of some of the commonest elements in these may be of use to those who know no irish: ath=a ford; e.g. ath gabla (ford of the fork), ath traiged (ford of the foot), ath carpat (ford of chariots), ath fraich (fraech's ford), etc. belat=cross-roads; e.g. belat alioin. bernas=a pass, or gap; e.g. _bernas bo ulad_ or _bernas bo cuailnge_ (pass of the cows of ulster, or of cualnge). clithar=a shelter; e.g. clithar bo ulad (shelter of the cows of ulster). cul=a corner; e.g. cul airthir (eastern corner). dun= a fort; e.g. dun sobairche. fid=a wood; e.g. fid mor drualle (great wood of the sword-sheath). glass=a brook, stream; e.g. glass chrau (the stream of blood), glass cruind, glass gatlaig (gatt=a withe, laig=a calf). glenn=a glen; e.g. glenn gatt (glen of the withe), glenn firbaith (ferbaeth's glen), glenn gatlaig. grellach=a bog; e.g. grellach doluid. guala=a hill-shoulder; e.g. gulo mulchai (mulcha's shoulder). loch=a lake; e.g. loch reoin, loch echtra. mag=a plain; e.g. mag ai, mag murthemne, mag breg, mag clochair (cloch=a stone). methe, explained as if from meth (death); methe togmaill (death of the squirrel), methe n-eoin (death of the bird). reid, gen. rede=a plain; e.g. ath rede locha (ford of locha's plain). sid=a fairy mound; e.g. sid fraich (fraech's mound). sliab=a mountain; e.g. sliab fuait. i need perhaps hardly say that many of the etymologies given in irish sources are pure invention, stories being often made up to account for the names, the real meaning of which was unknown to the mediaeval story-teller or scribe. in conclusion, i have to express my most sincere thanks to professor strachan, whose pupil i am proud to be. i have had the advantage of his wide knowledge and experience in dealing with many obscurities in the text, and he has also read the proofs. i am indebted also to mr. e. gwynn, who has collated at trinity college, dublin, a number of passages in the yellow book of lecan, which are illegible or incorrect in the facsimile; and to dr. whitley stokes for notes and suggestions on many obscure words. llandaff, november 1903. this is the cattle-raid of cualnge i a great hosting was brought together by the connaughtmen, that is, by ailill and medb; and they sent to the three other provinces. and messengers were sent by ailill to the seven sons of magach: ailill, anluan, mocorb, cet, en, bascall, and doche; a cantred with each of them. and to cormac condlongas mac conchobair with his three hundred, who was billeted in connaught. then they all come to cruachan ai. now cormac had three troops which came to cruachan. the first troop had many-coloured cloaks folded round them; hair like a mantle (?); the tunic falling(?) to the knee, and long(?) shields; and a broad grey spearhead on a slender shaft in the hand of each man. the second troop wore dark grey cloaks, and tunics with red ornamentation down to their calves, and long hair hanging behind from their heads, and white shields (?), and five-pronged spears were in their hands. 'this is not cormac yet,' said medb. then comes the third troop; and they wore purple cloaks and hooded tunics with red ornamentation down to their feet, hair smooth to their shoulders, and round shields with engraved edges, and the pillars [note: i.e. spears as large as pillars, etc.] of a palace in the hand of each man. 'this is cormac now,' said medb. then the four provinces of ireland were assembled, till they were in cruachan ai. and their poets and their druids did not let them go thence till the end of a fortnight, for waiting for a good omen. medb said then to her charioteer the day that they set out: 'every one who parts here to-day from his love or his friend will curse me,' said she, 'for it is i who have gathered this hosting.' 'wait then,' said the charioteer, 'till i turn the chariot with the sun, and till there come the power of a good omen that we may come back again.' then the charioteer turned the chariot, and they set forth. then they saw a full-grown maiden before them. she had yellow hair, and a cloak of many colours, and a golden pin in it; and a hooded tunic with red embroidery. she wore two shoes with buckles of gold. her face was narrow below and broad above. very black were her two eyebrows; her black delicate eyelashes cast a shadow into the middle of her two cheeks. you would think it was with _partaing_ [note: exact meaning unknown. it is always used in this connection.] her lips were adorned. you would think it was a shower of pearls that was in her mouth, that is, her teeth. she had three tresses: two tresses round her head above, and a tress behind, so that it struck her two thighs behind her. a shuttle [note: literally, a beam used for making fringe.] of white metal, with an inlaying of gold, was in her hand. each of her two eyes had three pupils. the maiden was armed, and there were two black horses to her chariot. 'what is your name?' said medb to the maiden. 'fedelm, the prophetess of connaught, is my name,' said the maiden. 'whence do you come?' said medb. 'from scotland, after learning the art of prophecy,' said the maiden. 'have you the inspiration(?) which illumines?' [note: ir. _imbas forasnai_, the name of a kind of divination.] said medb. 'yes, indeed,' said the maiden. 'look for me how it will be with my hosting,' said medb. then the maiden looked for it; and medb said: 'o fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou the host?' fedelm answered and said: 'i see very red, i see red.' 'that is not true,' said medb; 'for conchobar is in his sickness at emain and the ulstermen with him, with all the best [note: conjectural; some letters missing. for the ulster sickness, see introduction.] of their warriors; and my messengers have come and brought me tidings thence. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' said medb. 'i see red,' said the maiden. 'that is not true,' said medb; 'for celtchar mac uithichair is in dun lethglaise, and a third of the ulstermen with him; and fergus, son of roich, son of eochaid, is here with us, in exile, and a cantred with him. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' said medb. 'i see very red, i see red,' said the maiden. 'that matters not,' said medb; 'for there are mutual angers, and quarrels, and wounds very red in every host and in every assembly of a great army. look again for us then, and tell us the truth. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' 'i see very red, i see red,' said fedelm. 'i see a fair man who will make play with a number of wounds(?) on his girdle; [note: unless this is an allusion to the custom of carrying an enemy's head at the girdle, the meaning is obscure. ll has quite a different reading. the language of this poem is late.] a hero's flame over his head, his forehead a meeting-place of victory. 'there are seven gems of a hero of valour in the middle of his two irises; there is ---on his cloak, he wears a red clasped tunic. 'he has a face that is noble, which causes amazement to women. a young man who is fair of hue comes ---[note: five syllables missing.] 'like is the nature of his valour to cuchulainn of murthemne. i do not know whose is the hound of culann, whose fame is the fairest. but i know that it is thus that the host is very red from him. 'i see a great man on the plain he gives battle to the hosts; four little swords of feats there are in each of his two hands. 'two _gae-bolga_, he carries them, [note: the gae-bolga was a special kind of spear, which only cuchulainn could use.] besides an ivory-hilted sword and spear; ---[note: three syllables missing] he wields to the host; different is the deed for which each arm goes from him. 'a man in a battle-girdle (?), of a red cloak, he puts ---every plain. he smites them, over left chariot wheel (?); the _riastartha_ wounds them. [note: the riastartha ('distorted one') was a name given to cuchulainn because of the contortion, described later, which came over him.] the form that appeared to me on him hitherto, i see that his form has been changed. 'he has moved forward to the battle, if heed is not taken of him it will be treachery. i think it likely it is he who seeks you: cuchulainn mac sualtaim. 'he will strike on whole hosts, he will make dense slaughters of you, ye will leave with him many thousands of heads. the prophetess fedelm conceals not. 'blood will rain from warriors' wounds at the hand of a warrior--'twill be full harm. he will slay warriors, men will wander of the descendants of deda mac sin. corpses will be cut off, women will lament through the hound of the smith that i see.' the monday after samain [note: samain, 'summer-end,' about the beginning of november.] they set forth, and this is the way they took: south-east from cruachan ai, i.e. by muicc cruimb, by teloch teora crich, by tuaim mona, by cul sibrinne, by fid, by bolga, by coltain, by glune-gabair, by mag trego, by north tethba, by south tethba, by tiarthechta, by ord, by slais southwards, by indiuind, by carnd, by ochtrach, by midi, by findglassa assail, by deilt, by delind, by sailig, by slaibre, by slechta selgatar, by cul sibrinne, by ochaind southwards, by uatu northwards, by dub, by comur southwards, by tromma, by othromma eastwards, by slane, by gortslane, by druim licce southwards, by ath gabla, by ard achad, by feraind northwards, by findabair, by assi southwards, by druim salfind, by druim cain, by druim mac n-dega, by eodond mor, by eodond bec, by methe togmaill, by methe eoin, by druim caemtechta, by scuaip, by imscuaip, by cend ferna, by baile, by aile, by bail scena, by dail scena, by fertse, by ross lochad, by sale, by lochmach, by anmag, by deind, by deilt, by dubglaiss, by fid mor, by colbtha, by cronn, to cualnge. from findabair cuailnge, it is thence the hosts of ireland were divided over the province to seek the bull. for it is past these places that they came, till they reached findabair. (here ends the title; and the story begins as follows:-this is the story in order when they had come on their first journey from cruachan as far as cul sibrinne, medb told her charioteer to get ready her nine chariots for her, that she might make a circuit in the camp, to see who disliked and who liked the expedition. now his tent was pitched for ailill, and the furniture was arranged, both beds and coverings. fergus mac roich in his tent was next to ailill; cormac condlongas mac conchobair beside him; conall cernach by him; fiacha mac fir-febe, the son of conchobar's daughter, by him. medb, daughter of eochaid fedlech, was on ailill's other side; next to her, findabair, daughter of ailill and medb. that was besides servants and attendants. medb came, after looking at the host, and she said it were folly for the rest to go on the hosting, if the cantred of the leinstermen went. 'why do you blame the men?' said ailill. 'we do not blame them,' said medb; 'splendid are the warriors. when the rest were making their huts, they had finished thatching their huts and cooking their food; when the rest were at dinner, they had finished dinner, and their harpers were playing to them. it is folly for them to go,' said medb; 'it is to their credit the victory of the hosts will be.' 'it is for us they fight,' said ailill. 'they shall not come with us,' said medb. 'let them stay then,' said ailill. 'they shall not stay,' said medb. 'they will come on us after we have gone,' said she, 'and seize our land against us.' 'what is to be done to them?' said ailill; 'will you have them neither stay nor go?' 'to kill them,' said medb. 'we will not hide that this is a woman's plan,' said ailill; 'what you say is not good!' 'with this folk,' said fergus, 'it shall not happen thus (for it is a folk bound by ties to us ulstermen), unless we are all killed.' 'even that we could do,' said medb; 'for i am here with my retinue of two cantreds,' said she, 'and there are the seven manes, that is, my seven sons, with seven cantreds; their luck can protect them,' (?) said she; 'that is mane-mathramail, and mane-athramail, and mane-morgor, and mane-mingor, and mane-moepert (and he is mane-milscothach), mane-andoe, and mane-who-got-everything: he got the form of his mother and of his father, and the dignity of both.' 'it would not be so,' said fergus. 'there are seven kings of munster here, and a cantred with each of them, in friendship with us ulstermen. i will give battle to you,' said fergus, 'in the middle of the host in which we are, with these seven cantreds, and with my own cantred, and with the cantred of the leinstermen. but i will not urge that,' said fergus, 'we will provide for the warriors otherwise, so that they shall not prevail over the host. seventeen cantreds for us,' said fergus, 'that is the number of our army, besides our rabble, and our women (for with each king there is his queen, in medb's company), and besides our striplings. this is the eighteenth cantred, the cantred of the leinstermen. let them be distributed among the rest of the host.' 'i do not care,' said medb, 'provided they are not gathered as they are.' then this was done; the leinstermen were distributed among the host. they set out next morning to moin choiltrae, where eight score deer fell in with them in one herd. they surrounded them and killed them then; wherever there was a man of the leinstermen, it was he who got them, except five deer that all the rest of the host got. then they came to mag trego, and stopped there and prepared their food. they say that it is there that dubthach sang this song: 'grant what you have not heard hitherto, listening to the fight of dubthach. a hosting very black is before you, against findbend of the wife of ailill. [note: findbennach, the whitehorned; i.e. the other of the two bulls in whom the rival swineherds were reincarnated.] 'the man of expeditions will come who will defend (?) murthemne. ravens will drink milk of ---[note: some kenning for blood?] from the friendship of the swineherds. 'the turfy cronn will resist them; [note: i.e. the river cronn. this line is a corruption of a reference which occurs later, in the account of the flooding of the cronn, as professor strachan first pointed out to me.] he will not let them into murthemne until the work of warriors is over in sliab tuad ochaine. '"quickly," said ailill to cormac, "go that you may ---your son. the cattle do not come from the fields that the din of the host may not terrify them(?). '"this will be a battle in its time for medb with a third of the host. there will be flesh of men therefrom if the riastartha comes to you."' then the nemain attacked them, and that was not the quietest of nights for them, with the uproar of the churl (i.e. dubthach) through their sleep. the host started up at once, and a great number of the host were in confusion, till medb came to reprove him. then they went and spent the night in granard tethba tuascirt, after the host had been led astray over bogs and over streams. a warning was sent from fergus to the ulstermen here, for friendship. they were now in the weakness, except cuchulainn and his father sualtaim. cuchulainn and his father went, after the coming of the warning from fergus, till they were in iraird cuillend, watching the host there. 'i think of the host to-night,' said cuchulainn to his father. 'go from us with a warning to the ulstermen. i am forced to go to a tryst with fedelm noichride, [note: gloss incorporated in the text: that is, with her servant,' etc.] from my own pledge that went out to her.' he made a spancel-withe [this was a twig twisted in the form of two rings, joined by one straight piece, as used for hobbling horses and cattle.] then before he went, and wrote an ogam on its ----, and threw it on the top of the pillar. the leadership of the way before the army was given to fergus. then fergus went far astray to the south, till ulster should have completed the collection of an army; he did this for friendship. ailill and medb perceived it; it was then medb said: 'o fergus, this is strange, what kind of way do we go? straying south or north we go over every other folk. 'ailill of ai with his hosting fears that you will betray them. you have not given your mind hitherto to the leading of the way. 'if it is in friendship that you do it, do not lead the horses peradventure another may be found to lead the way.' fergus replied: 'o medb, what troubles you? this is not like treachery. it belongs to the ulstermen, o woman, the land across which i am leading you. 'it is not for the disadvantage of the host that i go on each wandering in its turn; it is to avoid the great man who protects mag murthemne. 'not that my mind is not distressed on account of the straying on which i go, but if perchance i may avoid even afterwards cuchulainn mac sualtaim.' then they went till they were in iraird cuillend. eirr and indell, foich and foclam (their two charioteers), the four sons of iraird mac anchinne, [marginal gloss: 'or the four sons of nera mac nuado mac taccain, as it is found in other books.'] it is they who were before the host, to protect their brooches and their cushions and their cloaks, that the dust of the host might not soil them. they found the withe that cuchulainn threw, and perceived the grazing that the horses had grazed. for sualtaim's two horses had eaten the grass with its roots from the earth; cuchulainn's two horses had licked the earth as far as the stones beneath the grass. they sit down then, until the host came, and the musicians play to them. they give the withe into the hands of fergus mac roich; he read the ogam that was on it. when medb came, she asked, 'why are you waiting here?' 'we wait,' said fergus,' because of the withe yonder. there is an ogam on its ----, and this is what is in it: "let no one go past till a man is found to throw a like withe with his one hand, and let it be one twig of which it is made; and i except my friend fergus." truly,' said fergus, 'cuchulainn has thrown it, and they are his horses that grazed the plain.' and he put it in the hands of the druids; and fergus sang this song: 'here is a withe, what does the withe declare to us? what is its mystery? what number threw it? few or many? 'will it cause injury to the host, if they go a journey from it? find out, ye druids, something therefore for what the withe has been left. '---of heroes the hero who has thrown it, full misfortune on warriors; a delay of princes, wrathful is the matter, one man has thrown it with one hand. 'is not the king's host at the will of him, unless it breaks fair play? until one man only of you throw it, as one man has thrown it. i do not know anything save that for which the withe should have been put. here is a withe.' then fergus said to them: 'if you outrage this withe,' said he, 'or if you go past it, though he be in the custody of a man, or in a house under a lock, the ---of the man who wrote the ogam on it will reach him, and will slay a goodly slaughter of you before morning, unless one of you throw a like withe.' 'it does not please us, indeed, that one of us should be slain at once,' said ailill. 'we will go by the neck of the great wood yonder, south of us, and we will not go over it at all.' the troops hewed down then the wood before the chariots. this is the name of that place, slechta. it is there that partraige is. (according to others, the conversation between medb and fedelm the prophetess took place there, as we told before; and then it is after the answer she gave to medb that the wood was cut down; i.e. 'look for me,' said medb, 'how my hosting will be.' 'it is difficult to me,' said the maiden; 'i cannot cast my eye over them in the wood.' 'it is ploughland (?) there shall be,' said medb; 'we will cut down the wood.' then this was done, so that slechta was the name of the place.) they spent the night then in cul sibrille; a great snowstorm fell on them, to the girdles of the men and the wheels of the chariots. the rising was early next morning. and it was not the most peaceful of nights for them, with the snow; and they had not prepared food that night. but it was not early when cuchulainn came from his tryst; he waited to wash and bathe. then he came on the track of the host. 'would that we had not gone there,' said cuchulainn, 'nor betrayed the ulstermen; we have let the host go to them unawares. make us an estimation of the host,' said cuchulainn to loeg, 'that we may know the number of the host.' loeg did this, and said to cuchulainn: 'i am confused,' said he, 'i cannot attain this.' 'it would not be confusion that i see, if only i come,' said cuchulainn. 'get into the chariot then,' said loeg. cuchulainn got into the chariot, and put a reckoning over the host for a long time. 'even you,' said loeg, 'you do not find it easy.' 'it is easier indeed to me than to you,' said cuchulainn; 'for i have three gifts, the gifts of eye, and of mind, and of reckoning. i have put a reckoning [marginal gloss: 'this is one of the three severest and most difficult reckonings made in ireland; i.e. cuchulainn's reckoning of the men of ireland on the _tain_; and ug's reckoning of the fomorian hosts at the battle of mag tured; and ingcel's reckoning of the hosts at the bruiden da derga.'] on this,' said he; 'there are eighteen cantreds,' said he, 'for their number; only that the eighteenth cantred is distributed among all the host, so that their number is not clear; that is, the cantred of the leinstermen.' then cuchulainn went round the host till he was at ath gabla. [note: lu has ath grena.] he cuts a fork [note: i.e. fork of a tree.] there with one blow of his sword, and put it on the middle of the stream, so that a chariot could not pass it on this side or that. eirr and indell, foich and fochlam (their two charioteers) came upon him thereat. he strikes their four heads off, and throws them on to the four points of the fork. hence is ath gabla. then the horses of the four went to meet the host, and their cushions very red on them. they supposed it was a battalion that was before them at the ford. a troop went from them to look at the ford; they saw nothing there but the track of one chariot and the fork with the four heads, and a name in ogam written on the side. all the host came then. 'are the heads yonder from our people?' said medb. 'they are from our people and from our choice warriors,' said ailill. one of them read the ogam that was on the side of the fork; that is: 'a man has thrown the fork with his one hand; and you shall not go past it till one of you, except fergus, has thrown it with one hand.' 'it is a marvel,' said ailill, 'the quickness with which the four were struck.' it was not that that was a marvel,' said fergus; 'it was the striking of the fork from the trunk with one blow; and if the end was [cut] with one blow, [note: lit. 'if its end was one cutting.'] it is the fairer for it, and that it was thrust in in this manner; for it is not a hole that has been dug for it, but it is from the back of the chariot it has been thrown with one hand.' 'avert this strait from us, o fergus,' said medb. bring me a chariot then,' said fergus, 'that i may take it out, that you may see whether its end was hewn with one blow.' fergus broke then fourteen chariots of his chariots, so that it was from his own chariot that he took it out of the ground, and he saw that the end was hewn with one blow. 'heed must be taken to the character of the tribe to which we are going,' said ailill. 'let each of you prepare his food; you had no rest last night for the snow. and something shall be told to us of the adventures and stories of the tribe to which we are going.' it is then that the adventures of cuchulainn were related to them. ailill asked: 'is it conchobar who has done this?' 'not he,' said fergus; 'he would not have come to the border of the country without the number of a battalion round him.' 'was it celtchar mac uithidir?' 'not he; he would not have come to the border of the country without the number of a battalion round him.' 'was it eogan mac durtacht?' 'not he,' said fergus; 'he would not have come over the border of the country without thirty chariots two-pointed (?) round him. this is the man who would have done the deed,' said fergus, 'cuchulainn; it is he who would have cut the tree at one blow from the trunk, and who would have killed the four yonder as quickly as they were killed, and who would have come to the boundary with his charioteer.' 'what kind of man,' said ailill, 'is this hound of whom we have heard among the ulstermen? what age is this youth who is famous?' 'an easy question, truly,' said fergus. 'in his fifth year he went to the boys at emain macha to play; in his sixth year he went to learn arms and feats with scathach. in his seventh year he took arms. he is now seventeen years old at this time.' 'is it he who is hardest to deal with among the ulstermen?' said medb. 'over every one of them,' said fergus. 'you will not find before you a warrior who is harder to deal with, nor a point that is sharper or keener or swifter, nor a hero who is fiercer, nor a raven that is more flesh-loving, nor a match of his age that can equal him as far as a third; nor a lion that is fiercer, nor a fence(?) of battle, nor a hammer of destruction, nor a door of battle, nor judgment on hosts, nor preventing of a great host that is more worthy. you will not find there a man who would reach his age, and his growth, and his dress, and his terror, his speech, his splendour, his fame, his voice, his form, his power, his hardness, his accomplishment, his valour, his striking, his rage, his anger, his victory, his doom-giving, his violence, his estimation, his hero-triumph, his speed, his pride, his madness, with the feat of nine men on every point, like cuchulainn!' 'i don't care for that,' said medb; 'he is in one body; he endures wounding; he is not above capturing. therewith his age is that of a grown-up girl, and his manly deeds have not come yet.' 'not so,' said fergus. 'it would be no wonder if he were to do a good deed to-day; for even when he was younger his deeds were manly.' here are his boyish deeds 'he was brought up,' said fergus, 'by his mother and father at the ---in mag murthemne. the stories of the boys in emain were related to him; for there are three fifties of boys there,' said fergus, 'at play. it is thus that conchobar enjoys his sovereignty: a third of the day watching the boys; another third playing chess; [note: _fidchill_, usually so translated, but the exact nature of the game is uncertain.] another third drinking beer till sleep seizes him therefrom. although we are in exile, there is not in ireland a warrior who is more wonderful,' said fergus. 'cuchulainn asked his mother then to let him go to the boys. '"you shall not go," said his mother, "until you have company of warriors." '"i deem it too long to wait for it," said cuchulainn. "show me on which side emain is." '"northwards so," said his mother; "and the journey is hard," said she, "sliab fuait is between you." '"i will find it out," said cuchulainn. 'he goes forth then, and his shield of lath with him, and his toy-spear, and his playing-club, and his ball. he kept throwing his staff before him, so that he took it by the point before the end fell on the ground. 'he goes then to the boys without binding them to protect him. for no one used to go to them in their play-field till his protection was guaranteed. he did not know this. '"the boy insults us," said follomon mac conchobair, "besides we know he is of the ulstermen. ... throw at him!" 'they throw their three fifties of toy-spears at him, and they all remained standing in his shield of lath. then they throw all the balls at him; and he takes them, each single ball, in his bosom. then they throw their three fifties of hurling-clubs at him; he warded them off so that they did not touch him, and he took a bundle of them on his back. then contortion seized him. you would have thought that it was a hammering wherewith each little hair had been driven into his head, with the arising with which he arose. you would have thought there was a spark of fire on every single hair. he shut one of his eyes so that it was not wider than the eye of a needle. he opened the other so that it was as large as the mouth of a meadcup. he laid bare from his jawbone to his ear; he opened his mouth to his jaw [note: conjectured from the later description of cuchulainn's distortion.] so that his gullet was visible. the hero's light rose from his head. then he strikes at the boys. he overthrows fifty of them before they reached the door of emain. nine of them came over me and conchobar as we were playing chess. then he springs over the chessboard after the nine. conchobar caught his elbow. '"the boys are not well treated," said conchobar. '"lawful for me, o friend conchobar," said he. "i came to them from my home to play, from my mother and father; and they have not been good to me." '"what is your name?" said conchobar. '"setanta mac sualtaim am i," said he, "and the son of dechtere, your sister. it was not fitting to hurt me here." '"why were the boys not bound to protect you?" said conchobar. '"i did not know this," said cuchulainn. "undertake my protection against them then." '"i recognise it," said conchobar. 'then he turned aside on [note: i.e. to attack them.] the boys throughout the house. '"what ails you at them now?" said conchobar. '"that i may be bound to protect them," said cuchulainn. '"undertake it," said conchobar. '"i recognise it," said cuchulainn. 'then they all went into the play-field, and those boys who had been struck down there arose. their foster-mothers and foster-fathers helped them. 'once,' said fergus, 'when he was a youth, he used not to sleep in emain macha till morning. '"tell me," said conchobar to him, "why you do not sleep?" '"i do not do it," said cuchulainn, "unless it is equally high at my head and my feet." 'then a stone pillar was put by conchobar at his head, and another at his feet, and a bed was made for him separately between them. 'another time a certain man went to awaken him, and he struck him with his fist in his forehead, so that it took the front of his forehead on to the brain, and so that he overthrew the pillar with his arm.' 'it is known,' said ailill, 'that it was the fist of a warrior and that it was the arm of a hero.' 'from that time,' said fergus, 'no one dared to waken him till he awoke of himself. 'another time he was playing ball in the play-field east of emain; he alone apart against the three fifties of boys; he used to defeat them in every game in this way always. the boys lay hold of him therewith, and he plied his fist upon them until fifty of them were killed. he took to flight then, till he was under the pillow of conchobar's bed. all the ulstermen rise round him, and i rise, and conchobar himself. then he rose under the bed, and put the bed from him, with the thirty heroes who were on it, till it was in the middle of the house. the ulstermen sit round him in the house. we arrange and make peace then,' said fergus, 'between the boys and him. 'there was contention between ulster and eogan mac durtacht. the ulstermen went to the battle. he was left asleep. the ulstermen were defeated. conchobar was left [on the field], and cuscraid mend macha, and many more beside. their lament awoke cuchulainn. he stretched himself then, so that the two stones that were about him broke; in the presence of bricriu yonder it was done,' said fergus. 'then he arose. i met him in the door of the fort, and i wounded. '"alas! god save you, friend fergus," said he, "where is conchobar?" '"i do not know," said i. 'then he went forth. the night was dark. he made for the battlefield. he saw a man before him, with half his head on, and half of another man on his back. '"help me, o cuchulainn," said he; "i have been wounded and i have brought half of my brother on my back. carry it for me a while." '"i will not carry it," said he. 'then he throws the burden to him; he throws it from him; they wrestle; cuchulainn was overthrown. i heard something, the badb from the corpses: "ill the stuff of a hero that is under the feet of a phantom." then cuchulainn rose against him, and strikes his head off with his playing-club, and begins to drive his ball before him across the plain. '"is my friend conchobar in this battlefield?" 'he answered him. he goes to him, till he sees him in the trench, and there was the earth round him on every side to hide him. '"why have you come into the battlefield," said conchobar, "that you may swoon there?" 'he lifts him out of the trench then; six of the strong men of ulster with us would not have brought him out more bravely. '"go before us to the house yonder," said conchobar; "if a roast pig came to me, i should live." '"i will go and bring it," said cuchulainn. 'he goes then, and saw a man at a cooking-hearth in the middle of the wood; one of his two hands had his weapons in it, the other was cooking the pig. 'the hideousness of the man was great; nevertheless he attacked him and took his head and his pig with him. conchobar ate the pig then. '"let us go to our house," said conchobar. 'they met cuscraid mac conchobair. there were sure wounds on him; cuchulainn took him on his back. the three of them went then to emain macha. 'another time the ulstermen were in their weakness. there was not among us,' said fergus, 'weakness on women and boys, nor on any one who was outside the country of the ulstermen, nor on cuchulainn and his father. and so no one dared to shed their blood; for the suffering springs on him who wounds them. [gloss incorporated in text: 'or their decay, or their shortness of life.'] 'three times nine men came to us from the isles of faiche. they went over our back court when we were in our weakness. the women screamed in the court. the boys were in the play-field; they come at the cries. when the boys saw the dark, black men, they all take to flight except cuchulainn alone. he plies hand-stones and his playing-club on them. he kills nine of them, and they leave fifty wounds on him, and they go forth besides. a man who did these deeds when his five years were not full, it would be no wonder that he should have come to the edge of the boundary and that he should have cut off the heads of yonder four.' 'we know him indeed, this boy,' said conall cernach, 'and we know him none the worse that he is a fosterling of ours. it was not long after the deed that fcrgus has just related, when he did another deed. when culann the smith served a feast to conchobar, culann said that it was not a multitude that should be brought to him, for the preparation which he had made was not from land or country, but from the fruit of his two hands and his pincers. then conchobar went, and fifty chariots with him, of those who were noblest and most eminent of the heroes. now conchobar visited then his play-field. it was always his custom to visit and revisit them at going and coming, to seek a greeting of the boys. he saw then cuchulainn driving his ball against the three fifties of boys, and he gets the victory over them. when it was hole-driving that they did, he filled the hole with his balls and they could not ward him off. when they were all throwing into the hole, he warded them off alone, so that not a single ball would go in it. when it was wrestling they were doing, he overthrew the three fifties of boys by himself, and there did not meet round him a number that could overthrow him. when it was stripping that they did, he stripped them all so that they were quite naked, and they could not take from him even his brooch out of his cloak. 'conchobar thought this wonderful. he said "would he bring his deeds to completion, provided the age of manhood came to them?" every one said: "he would bring them to completion." conchobar said to cuchulainn: "come with me," said he, "to the feast to which we are going, because you are a guest." '"i have not had enough of play yet, o friend conchobar," said the boy; "i will come after you." 'when they had all come to the feast, culann said to conchobar: "do you expect any one to follow you?" said he. '"no," said conchobar. he did not remember the appointment with his foster-son who was following him. '"i'll have a watch-dog," said culann; "there are three chains on him, and three men to each chain. [gloss incorporated in text: 'he was brought from spain.'] let him be let slip because of our cattle and stock, and let the court be shut." 'then the boy comes. the dog attacks him. he went on with his play still: he threw his ball, and threw his club after it, so that it struck the ball. one stroke was not greater than another; and he threw his toy-spear after them, and he caught it before falling; and it did not hinder his play, though the dog was approaching him. conchobar and his retinue ---this, so that they could not move; they thought they would not find him alive when they came, even though the court were open. now when the dog came to him, he threw away his ball and his club, and seized the dog with his two hands; that is, he put one of his hands to the apple of the dog's throat; and he put the other at its back; he struck it against the pillar that was beside him, so that every limb sprang apart. (according to another, it was his ball that he threw into its mouth, and brought out its entrails through it.) 'the ulstermen went towards him, some over the wall, others over the doors of the court. they put him on conchobar's knee. a great clamour arose among them, that the king's sister's son should have been almost killed. then culann comes into the house. '"welcome, boy, for the sake of your mother. would that i had not prepared a feast! my life is a life lost, and my husbandry is a husbandry without, without my dog. he had kept honour and life for me," said he, "the man of my household who has been taken from me, that is, my dog. he was defence and protection to our property and our cattle; he was the protection of every beast to us, both field and house." '"it is not a great matter," said the boy; "a whelp of the same litter shall be raised for you by me, and i will be a dog for the defence of your cattle and for your own defence now, until that dog grows, and until he is capable of action; and i will defend mag murthemne, so that there shall not be taken away from me cattle nor herd, unless i have ----." '"then your name shall be cu-chulainn," said cathbad. '"i am content that it may be my name," said cuchulainn. 'a man who did this in his seventh year, it would be no wonder that he should have done a great deed now when his seventeen years are completed,' said conall cernach. 'he did another exploit,' said fiacha mac fir-febe. 'cathbad the druid was with his son, conchobar mac nessa. a hundred active men were with him, learning magic from him. that is the number that cathbad used to teach. a certain one of his pupils asked of him for what this day would be good. cathbad said a warrior should take arms therein whose name should be over ireland for ever, for deed of valour, and his fame should continue for ever. cuchulainn heard this. he comes to conchobar to ask for arms. conchobar said, "who has instructed you?" '"my friend cathbad," said cuchulainn. '"we know indeed," said conchobar. 'he gave him spear and shield. he brandished them in the middle of the house, so that nothing remained of the fifteen sets of armour that were in store in conchobar's household against the breaking of weapons or taking of arms by any one. conchobar's own armour was given to him. that withstood him, and he brandished it, and blessed the king whose armour it was, and said, "blessing to the people and race to whom is king the man whose armour that is." 'then cathbad came to them, and said: "has the boy taken arms?" said cathbad. '"yes," said conchobar. '"this is not lucky for the son of his mother," said he. '"what, is it not you advised it?" said conchobar. '"not i, surely," said cathbad. '"what advantage to you to deceive me, wild boy?" said conchobar to cuchulainn. '"o king of heroes, it is no trick," said cuchulainn; "it is he who taught it to his pupils this morning; and i heard him, south of emain, and i came to you then." '"the day is good thus," said cathbad; "it is certain he will be famous and renowned, who shall take arms therein; but he will be short-lived only." '"a wonder of might," said cuchulainn; "provided i be famous, i am content though i were but one day in the world." 'another day a certain man asked the druids what it is for which that day was good. '"whoever shall go into a chariot therein," said cathbad, "his name shall be over ireland for ever." 'then cuchulainn heard this; he comes to conchobar and said to him: "o friend conchobar," said he, "give me a chariot." he gave him a chariot. he put his hand between the two poles [note: the _fertais_ were poles sticking out behind the chariot, as the account of the wild deer, later, shows.] of the chariot, so that the chariot broke. he broke twelve chariots in this way. then conchobar's chariot was given to him. this withstood him. he goes then in the chariot, and conchobar's charioteer with him. the charioteer (ibor was his name) turned the chariot under him. "come out of the chariot now," said the charioteer. '"the horses are fine, and i am fine, their little lad," said cuchulainn. "go forward round emain only, and you shall have a reward for it." 'so the charioteer goes, and cuchulainn forced him then that he should go on the road to greet the boys "and that the boys might bless me." 'he begged him to go on the way again. when they come, cuchulainn said to the charioteer: "ply the goad on the horses," said he. '"in what direction?" said the charioteer. '"as long as the road shall lead us," said cuchulainn. 'they come thence to sliab fuait, and find conall cernach there. it fell to conall that day to guard the province; for every hero of ulster was in sliab fuait in turn, to protect any one who should come with poetry, or to fight against a man; so that it should be there that there should be some one to encounter him, that no one should go to emain unperceived. '"may that be for prosperity," said conall; "may it be for victory and triumph." '"go to the fort, o conall, and leave me to watch here now," said cuchulainn. '"it will be enough," said conall, "if it is to protect any one with poetry; if it is to fight against a man, it is early for you yet." '"perhaps it may not be necessary at all," said cuchulainn. "let us go meanwhile," said cuchulainn, "to look upon the edge of loch echtra. heroes are wont to abide there." '"i am content," said conall. 'then they go thence. he throws a stone from his sling, so that a pole of conall cernach's chariot breaks. '"why have you thrown the stone, o boy?" said conall. "to try my hand and the straightness of my throw," said cuchulainn; "and it is the custom with you ulstermen, that you do not travel beyond your peril. go back to emain, o friend conall, and leave me here to watch." '"content, then," said conall. 'conall cernach did not go past the place after that. then cuchulainn goes forth to loch echtra, and they found no one there before them. the charioteer said to cuchulainn that they should go to emain, that they might be in time for the drinking there. '"no," said cuchulainn. "what mountain is it yonder?" said cuchulainn. '"sliab monduirn," said the charioteer. '"let us go and get there," said cuchulainn. they go then till they reach it. when they had reached the mountain, cuchulainn asked: "what is the white cairn yonder on the top of the mountain?" '"find carn," said the charioteer. '"what plain is that over there?" said cuchulainn. '"mag breg," said the charioteer. he tells him then the name of every chief fort between temair and cenandas. he tells him first their meadows and their fords, their famous places and their dwellings, their fortresses and their high hills. he shows [note: reading with ybl.] him then the fort of the three sons of nechta scene; foill, fandall, and tuachell were their names. '"is it they who say," said cuchulainn, "that there are not more of the ulstermen alive than they have slain of them?" '"it is they indeed," said the charioteer. '"let us go till we reach them," said cuchulainn. '"indeed it is peril to us," said the charioteer. '"truly it is not to avoid it that we go," said cuchulainn. 'then they go forth and unharness their horses at the meeting of the bog and the river, to the south above the fort of the others; and he threw the withe that was on the pillar as far as he could throw into the river and let it go with the stream, for this was a breach of _geis_ to the sons of nechta scene. they perceive it then, and come to them. cuchulainn goes to sleep by the pillar after throwing the withe at the stream; and he said to the charioteer: "do not waken me for few; but waken me for many." 'now the charioteer was very frightened, and he made ready their chariot and pulled its coverings and skins which were over cuchulainn; for he dared not waken him, because cuchulainn told him at first that he should not waken him for a few. 'then come the sons of nechta scene. '"who is it who is there?" said one of them. '"a little boy who has come to-day into the chariot for an expedition," said the charioteer. '"may it not be for his happiness," said the champion; "and may it not be for his prosperity, his first taking of arms. let him not be in our land, and let the horses not graze there any more," said the champion. '"their reins are in my hands," said the charioteer. '"it should not be yours to earn hatred," said ibar to the champion; "and the boy is asleep." '"i am not a boy at all," said cuchulainn; "but it is to seek battle with a man that the boy who is here has come." '"that pleases me well," said the champion. '"it will please you now in the ford yonder," said cuchulainn. '"it befits you," said the charioteer, "take heed of the man who comes against you. foill is his name," said he; "for unless you reach him in the first thrust, you will not reach him till evening." '"i swear by the god by whom my people swear, he will not ply his skill on the ulstermen again, if the broad spear of my friend conchobar should reach him from my hand. it will be an outlaw's hand to him." 'then he cast the spear at him, so that his back broke. he took with him his accoutrements and his head. '"take heed of another man," said the charioteer, "fandall [note: i.e. 'swallow.'] is his name. not more heavily does he traverse(?) the water than swan or swallow." '"i swear that he will not ply that feat again on the ulstermen," said cuchulainn. "you have seen," said he, "the way i travel the pool at emain." 'they meet then in the ford. cuchulainn kills that man, and took his head and his arms. '"take heed of another man who comes towards you," said the charioteer. "tuachell [note: i.e. 'cunning.'] is his name. it is no misname for him, for he does not fall by arms at all." '"here is the javelin for him to confuse him, so that it may make a red-sieve of him," said cuchulainn. 'he cast the spear at him, so that it reached him in his ----. then he went to him and cut off his head. cuchulainn gave his head and his accoutrements to his own charioteer. he heard then the cry of their mother, nechta scene, behind them. 'he puts their spoils and the three heads in his chariot with him, and said: "i will not leave my triumph," said he, "till i reach emain macha." 'then they set out with his triumph. 'then cuchulainn said to the charioteer: "you promised us a good run," said he, "and we need it now because of the strife and the pursuit that is behind us." they go on to sliab fuait; and such was the speed of the run that they made over breg after the spurring of the charioteer, that the horses of the chariot overtook the wind and the birds in flight, and that cuchulainn caught the throw that he sent from his sling before it reached the ground. 'when they reached sliab fuait, they found a herd of wild deer there before them. '"what are those cattle yonder so active?" said cuchulainn. '"wild deer," said the charioteer. '"which would the ulstermen think best," said cuchulainn, "to bring them dead or alive?" '"it is more wonderful alive," said the charioteer; "it is not every one who can do it so. dead, there is not one of them who cannot do it. you cannot do this, to carry off any of them alive," said the charioteer. '"i can indeed," said cuchulainn. "ply the goad on the horses into the bog." 'the charioteer does this. the horses stick in the bog. cuchulainn sprang down and seized the deer that was nearest, and that was the finest of them. he lashed the horses through the bog, and overcame the deer at once, and bound it between the two poles of the chariot. 'they saw something again before them, a flock of swans. '"which would the ulstermen think best," said cuchulainn, "to have them dead or alive?" '"all the most vigorous and finest(?) bring them alive," said the charioteer. 'then cuchulainn aims a small stone at the birds, so that he struck eight of the birds. he threw again a large stone, so that he struck twelve of them. all that was done by his return stroke. "collect the birds for us," said cuchulainn to his charioteer. "if it is i who go to take them," said he, "the wild deer will spring upon you." '"it is not easy for me to go to them," said the charioteer. "the horses have become wild so that i cannot go past them. i cannot go past the two iron tyres [interlinear gloss, _fonnod_. the _fonnod_ was some part of the rim of the wheel apparently.] of the chariot, because of their sharpness; and i cannot go past the deer, for his horn has filled all the space between the two poles of the chariot." '"step from its horn," said cuchulainn. "i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear, the bending with which i will bend my head on him, and the eye that i will make at him, he will not turn his head on you, and he will not dare to move." 'that was done then. cuchulainn made fast the reins, and the charioteer collects the birds. then cuchulainn bound the birds from the strings and thongs of the chariot; so that it was thus he went to emain macha: the wild deer behind his chariot, and the flock of swans flying over it, and the three heads in his chariot. then they come to emain. "a man in a chariot is coming to you," said the watchman in emain macha; "he will shed the blood of every man who is in the court, unless heed is taken, and unless naked women go to him." 'then he turned the left side of his chariot towards emain, and that was a _geis_ [note: i.e. it was an insult.] to it; and cuchulainn said: "i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear, unless a man is found to fight with me, i will shed the blood of every one who is in the fort." '"naked women to meet him!" said conchobar. 'then the women of emain go to meet him with mugain, the wife of conchobar mac nessa, and bare their breasts before him. "these are the warriors who will meet you to-day," said mugain. 'he covers his face; then the heroes of emain seize him and throw him into a vessel of cold water. that vessel bursts round him. the second vessel into which he was thrown boiled with bubbles as big as the fist therefrom. the third vessel into which he went, he warmed it so that its heat and its cold were rightly tempered. then he comes out; and the queen, mugain, puts a blue mantle on him, and a silver brooch therein, and a hooded tunic; and he sits at conchobar's knee, and that was his couch always after that. the man who did this in his seventh year,' said fiacha mac fir-febe, 'it were not wonderful though he should rout an overwhelming force, and though he should exhaust (?) an equal force, when his seventeen years are complete to-day.' (what follows is a separate version [note: the next episode, the death of fraech, is not given in ll.] to the death of orlam.) 'let us go forth now,' said ailill. then they reached mag mucceda. cuchulainn cut an oak before them there, and wrote an ogam in its side. it is this that was therein: that no one should go past it till a warrior should leap it with one chariot. they pitch their tents there, and come to leap over it in their chariots. there fall thereat thirty horses, and thirty chariots are broken. belach n-ane, that is the name of that place for ever. _the death of fraech_ they are there till next morning; then fraech is summoned to them. 'help us, o fraech,' said medb. 'remove from us the strait that is on us. go before cuchulainn for us, if perchance you shall fight with him.' he set out early in the morning with nine men, till he reached ath fuait. he saw the warrior bathing in the river. 'wait here,' said fraech to his retinue, 'till i come to the man yonder; not good is the water,' said he. he took off his clothes, and goes into the water to him. 'do not come to me,' said cuchulainn. 'you will die from it, and i should be sorry to kill you.' 'i shall come indeed,' said fraech, 'that we may meet in the water; and let your play with me be fair.' 'settle it as you like,' said cuchulainn. 'the hand of each of us round the other,' said fraech. they set to wrestling for a long time on the water, and fraech was submerged. cuchulainn lifted him up again. 'this time,' said cuchulainn, 'will you yield and accept your life?' [note: lit. 'will you acknowledge your saving?'] 'i will not suffer it,' said fraech. cuchulainn put him under it again, until fraech was killed. he comes to land; his retinue carry his body to the camp. ath fraich, that was the name of that ford for ever. all the host lamented fraech. they saw a troop of women in green tunics [note: fraech was descended from the people of the sid, his mother bebind being a fairy woman. her sister was boinn (the river boyne).] on the body of fraech mac idaid; they drew him from them into the mound. sid fraich was the name of that mound afterwards. fergus springs over the oak in his chariot. they go till they reach ath taiten; cuchulainn destroys six of them there: that is, the six dungals of irress. then they go on to fornocht. medb had a whelp named baiscne. cuchulainn throws a cast at him, and took his head off. druim was the name of that place henceforth. 'great is the mockery to you,' said medb, 'not to hunt the deer of misfortune yonder that is killing you.' then they start hunting him, till they broke the shafts of their chariots thereat. _the death of orlam_ they go forth then over iraird culend in the morning. cuchulainn went forward; he overtook the charioteer of orlam, son of ailill and medb, in tamlacht orlaim, a little to the north of disert lochait, cutting wood there. (according to another version, it is the shaft of cuchulainn's chariot that had broken, and it is to cut a shaft that he had gone when he met orlam's charioteer. it is the charioteer who cut the shafts according to this version.) 'it is over-bold what the ulstermen are doing, if it is they who are yonder,' said cuchulainn, 'while the host is behind them.' he goes to the charioteer to reprove him; he thought that he was of ulster, and he saw the man cutting wood, that is the chariot shaft. 'what are you doing here?' said cuchulainn. 'cutting chariot-shafts,' said the charioteer. 'we have broken our chariots hunting the wild deer cuchulainn yonder. help me,' said the charioteer. 'look only whether you are to select the shafts, or to strip them.' 'it will be to strip them indeed,' said cuchulainn. then cuchulainn stripped the shafts through his fingers in the presence of the other, so that he cleared them both of bark and knots. 'this cannot be your proper work that i put on you,' said the charioteer; he was greatly afraid. 'whence are you?' said cuchulainn. 'the charioteer of orlam, son of ailill and medb,' said he. 'and you?' said the charioteer. 'my name is cuchulainn,' said he. 'alas!' said the charioteer. 'fear nothing,' said cuchulainn. 'where is your master?' said he. 'he is in the trench yonder,' said the charioteer. 'go forth then with me,' said cuchulainn, 'for i do not kill charioteers at all.' cuchulainn goes to orlam, kills him, cuts his head off, and shakes his head before the host. then he puts the head on the charioteer's back, and said to him: 'take that with you,' said cuchulainn, 'and go to the camp thus. if you do not go thus, a stone will come to you from my sling.' when he got near the camp, he took the head from his back, and told his adventures to ailill and medb. 'this is not like taking birds,' said she. and he said, 'unless i brought it on my back to the camp, he would break my head with a stone.' _the death of the meic garach_ then the meic garach waited on their ford. these are their names: lon and ualu and diliu; and mes-ler, and mes-laech, and mes-lethan were their three charioteers. they thought it too much what cuchulainn had done: to slay two foster-sons of the king, and his son, and to shake the head before the host. they would slay cuchulainn in return for him, and would themselves remove this annoyance from the host. they cut three aspen wands for their charioteers, that the six of them should pursue combat against him. he killed them all then, because they had broken fair-play towards him. orlam's charioteer was then between ailill and medb. cuchulainn hurled a stone at him, [note: apparently because the charioteer had not carried orlam's head into the camp on his back. or an alternative version.] so that his head broke, and his brains came over his ears; fertedil was his name. (thus it is not true that cuchulainn did not kill charioteers; howbeit, he did not kill them without fault.) _the death of the squirrel_ cuchulainn threatened in methe, that wherever he should see ailill or medb afterwards he would throw a stone from his sling at them. he did this then: he threw a stone from his sling, so that he killed the squirrel that was on medb's shoulder south of the ford: hence is methe togmaill. and he killed the bird that was on ailill's shoulder north of the ford: hence is methe n-eoin. (or it is on medb's shoulder that both squirrel and bird were together, and it is their heads that were struck from them by the casts.) reoin was drowned in his lake. hence is loch reoin. 'that other is not far from you,' said ailill to the manes. they arose and looked round. when they sat down again, cuchulainn struck one of them, so that his head broke. 'it was well that you went for that: your boasting was not fitting,' said maenen the fool. 'i would have taken his head off.' cuchulainn threw a stone at him, so that his head broke. it is thus then that these were killed: orlam in the first place on his hill; the meic garach on their ford; fertedil in his ---; maenan in his hill. 'i swear by the god by whom my people swear,' said ailill, 'that man who shall make a mock of cuchulainn here, i will make two halves of him.' 'go forth for us both day and night,' said ailill, 'till we reach cualnge. that man will kill two-thirds of the host in this way.' it is there that the harpers of the _cainbili_ [note: reference obscure. they were wizards of some sort.] from ossory came to them to amuse them. they thought it was from the ulstermen to spy on them. they set to hunting them, till they went before them in the forms of deer into the stones at liac mor on the north. for they were wizards with great cunning. _the death of lethan_ lethan came on to his ford on the nith (?) in conaille. he waited himself to meet cuchulainn. it vexed him what cuchulainn had done. cuchulainn cuts off his head and left it, hence it is ath lethan on the nith. and their chariots broke in the battle on the ford by him; hence it is ath carpat. mulcha, lethan's charioteer, fell on the shoulder of the hill that is between them; hence is gulo mulchai. while the hosts were going over mag breg, he struck(?) their ---still. [note: 2 something apparently missing here. the passage in ll is as follows: 'it is the same day that the morrigan, daughter of ernmas, came from the sid, so that she was on the pillar in temair cuailnge, taking a warning to the dun of cualnge before the men of ireland, and she began to speak to him, and "good, o wretched one, o dun of cualnge," said the morrigan, "keep watch, for the men of ireland have reached thee, and they will take thee to their camp unless thou keepest watch"; and she began to take a warning to him thus, and uttered her words on high.' (the rhetoric follows as in lu.)] yet that was the morrigan in the form of a bird on the pillar in temair cuailnge; and she spoke to the bull: 'does the black know,' etc. [note: a rhetoric.] then the bull went, and fifty heifers with him, to sliab culind; and his keeper, forgemen by name, went after him. he threw off the three fifties of boys who used always to play on him, and he killed two-thirds of his boys, and dug a trench in tir marcceni in cualnge before he went. _the death of lochu_ cuchulainn killed no one from the saile ind orthi (?) in the conaille territory, until they reached cualnge. cuchulainn was then in cuince; he threatened then that when he saw medb he would throw a stone at her head. this was not easy to him, for it is thus that medb went and half the host about her, with their shelter of shields over her head. then a waiting-woman of medb's, lochu by name, went to get water, and a great troop of women with her. cuchulainn thought it was medb. he threw two stones from cuince, so that he slew her in her plain(?). hence is ath rede locha in cualnge. from findabair cuailnge the hosts divided, and they set the country on fire. they collect all there were of women, and boys, and maidens; and cattle, in cualnge together, so that they were all in findabair. 'you have not gone well,' said medb; 'i do not see the bull with you.' 'he is not in the province at all,' said every one. lothar the cowherd is summoned to medb. 'where is the bull?' said she. 'have you an idea?' 'i have great fear to tell it,' said the herd. 'the night,' said he, 'when the ulstermen went into their weakness, he went with three twenties of heifers with him, so that he is at the black corrie of glenn gatt.' 'go,' said medb, 'and carry a withe [note: ir. _gatt_, a withe.] between each two of you.' they do this: hence this glen is called glenn gatt. then they bring the bull to findabair. the place where he saw the herd, lothar, he attacked him, so that he brought his entrails out on his horns; and he attacked the camp with his three fifties of heifers, so that fifty warriors were killed. and that is the death of lothar on the foray. then the bull went from them out of the camp, and they knew not where he had gone from them; and they were ashamed. medb asked the herd if he had an idea where the bull was. 'i think he would be in the secret places of sliab culind.' when they returned thus after ravaging cualnge, and did not find the bull there. the river cronn rose against them to the tops of the trees; and they spent the night by it. and medb told part of her following to go across. a wonderful warrior went next day, ualu his name. he took a great stone on his back to go across the water; the stream drove him backwards with the stone on his back. his grave and his stone are on the road at the stream: lia ualand is its name. they went round the river cronn to the source, and they would have gone between the source and the mountain, only that they could not get leave from medb; she preferred to go across the mountain, that their track might remain there for ever, for an insult to the ulstermen. they waited there three days and three nights, till they dug the earth in front of them, the bernas bo cuailnge. it is there that cuchulainn killed crond and coemdele and ---[note: obscure.]. a hundred warriors ---[note: obscure.] died with roan and roae, the two historians of the foray. a hundred and forty-four, kings died by him at the same stream. they came then over the bernas bo cuailnge with the cattle and stock of cualnge, and spent the night in glenn dail imda in cualnge. botha is the name of this place, because they made huts over them there. they come next day to colptha. they try to cross it through heedlessness. it rose against them then, and it carries a hundred charioteers of them to the sea; this is the name of the land in which they were drowned, cluain carptech. they go round colptha then to its source, to belat alioin, and spent the night at liasa liac; that is the name of this place, because they made sheds over their calves there between cualnge and conaille. they came over glenn gatlaig, and glass gatlaig rose against them. sechaire was its name before; glass gatlaig thenceforth, because it was in withes they brought their calves; and they slept at druim fene in conaille. (those then are the wanderings from cualnge to machaire according to this version.) _this is the harrying of cualnge_ (other authors and books make it that another way was taken on their journeyings from findabair to conaille, as follows: medb said after every one had come with their booty, so that they were all in findabair cuailnge: 'let the host be divided,' said medb; 'it will be impossible to bring this expedition by one way. let ailill go with half the expedition by midluachair; fergus and i will go by bernas ulad.' [note: ybl. bernas bo n-ulad.] 'it is not fine,' said fergus, 'the half of the expedition that has fallen to us. it will be impossible to bring the cattle over the mountain without dividing it.' that was done then, so that it is from that there is bernas bo n-ulad.) it is there then that ailill said to his charioteer cuillius: 'find out for me to-day medb and fergus. i know not what has brought them to this union. i shall be pleased that a token should come to me by you.' cuillius came when they were in cluichre. the pair remained behind, and the warriors went on. cuillius came to them, and they heard not the spy. fergus' sword happened to be beside him. cuillius drew it out of its sheath, and left the sheath empty. cuillius came to ailill. 'so?' said ailill. 'so indeed,' said cuillius; 'there is a token for you.' 'it is well,' said ailill. each of them smiles at the other. 'as you thought,' said cuillius, 'it is thus that i found them, in one another's arms.' 'it is right for her,' said ailill; 'it is for help on the foray that she has done it. see that the sword is kept in good condition,' said ailill. 'put it under your seat in the chariot, and a cloth of linen around it.' fergus got up for his sword after that. 'alas!' said he. 'what is the matter with you?' said medb. 'an ill deed have i done to ailill,' said he. 'wait here, while i go into the wood,' said fergus; 'and do not wonder though it be long till i come.' it happened that medb knew not the loss of the sword. he goes thence, and takes the sword of his charioteer with him in his hand. he makes a wooden sword in the wood. hence there is fid mor drualle in ulster. 'let us go on after our comrades,' said fergus. all their hosts meet in the plain. they pitch their tents. fergus is summoned to ailill to play chess. when fergus went to the tent, ailill began to laugh at him. [note: here follows about two columns of rhetoric, consisting of a taunting dialogue between ailill, fergus and medb.] *** cuchulainn came so that he was at ath cruinn before them. 'o friend loeg,' said he to his charioteer, 'the hosts are at hand to us.' 'i swear by the gods,' said the charioteer, 'i will do a mighty feat before warriors ... on slender steeds with yokes of silver, with golden wheels ...' 'take heed, o loeg,' said cuchulainn; 'hold the reins for great victory of macha ... i beseech,' said cuchulainn, 'the waters to help me. i beseech heaven and earth, and the cronn in particular.' the (river) cronn takes to fighting against them; it will not let them into murthemne until the work of heroes be finished in sliab tuath ochaine. therewith the water rose up till it was in the tops of the trees. mane, son of ailill and medb, went before the rest. cuchulainn smites them on the ford, and thirty horsemen of mane's retinue were drowned in the water. cuchulainn overthrew two sixteens of warriors of them again by the water. they pitch their tents at that ford. lugaid mac nois, descendant of lomarc allchomach, came to speak to cuchulainn, with thirty horsemen. 'welcome, o lugaid,' said cuchulainn. 'if a flock of birds graze upon mag murthemne, you shall have a duck with half of another; if fish come to the estuaries, you shall have a salmon with half of another. you shall have the three sprigs, the sprig of watercress, and the sprig of marshwort, and the sprig of seaweed. you shall have a man in the ford in your place.' [note: this and the following speech are apparently forms of greeting. cuchulainn offers lugaid such hospitality as lies in his power. see a similar speech later to fergus.] 'i believe it,' said lugaid. 'excellence of people to the boy whom i desire.' 'your hosts are fine,' said cuchulainn. it would not be sad for you alone before them,' said lugaid. 'fair-play and valour will support me,' said cuchulainn. 'o friend lugaid, do the hosts fear me?' 'i swear by god,' said lugaid, 'one man nor two dare not go out of the camp, unless it be in twenties or thirties.' 'it will be something extra for them,' said cuchulainn, 'if i take to throwing from the sling. fitting for you will be this fellow-vassal, o lugaid, that you have among the ulstermen, if there come to me the force of every man. say what you would have,' said cuchulainn. 'that i may have a truce with you towards my host.' 'you shall have it, provided there be a token on it. and tell my friend fergus that there be a token on his host. tell the physicians, let there be a token on their host. and let them swear preservation of life to me, and let there come to me provision every night from them.' then lugaid goes from him. fergus happened to be in the tent with ailill. lugaid called him out, and told him this. something was heard, namely ailill. ... [note: rhetoric, six lines, the substance of which is, apparently, that ailill asks protection also.] 'i swear by god i cannot do it,' said lugaid, 'unless i ask the boy again.' 'help me, [note: spoken by fergus?] o lugaid, go to him to see whether ailill may come with a cantred into my troop. take an ox with bacon to him and a jar of wine.' he goes to cuchulainn then and tells him this. 'i do not mind though he go,' said cuchulainn. then their two troops join. they are there till night. cuchulainn kills thirty men of them with the sling. (or they would be twenty nights there, as some books say.) 'your journeyings are bad,' said fergus. 'the ulstermen will come to you out of their weakness, and they will grind you to earth and gravel. "the corner of battle" in which we are is bad.' he goes thence to cul airthir. it happened that cuchulainn had gone that night to speak to the ulstermen [note: in ll and y bl this incident occurs later, and the messenger is sualtaim, not cuchulainn. lu is clearly wrong here.] 'have you news?' said conchobar. 'women are captured,' said cuchulainn, 'cattle are driven away, men are slain.' 'who carries them off? who drives them away? who kills them?' '... ailill mac matae carries them off, and fergus mac roich very bold ...' [note: rhetoric.] 'it is not great profit to you,' said conchobar, 'to-day, our smiting has come to us all the same.' cuchulainn goes thence from them; he saw the hosts going forth. 'alas,' said ailill, 'i see chariots' ..., etc [note: rhetoric, five lines.] cuchulainn kills thirty men of them on ath duirn. they could not reach cul airthir then till night. he slays thirty of them there, and they pitch their tents there. ailill's charioteer, cuillius, was washing the chariot tyres [note: see previous note on the word _fonnod_; the word used here is _fonnod_.] in the ford in the morning; cuchulainn struck him with a stone and killed him. hence is ath cuillne in cul airthir. they reach druim feine in conaille and spent the night there, as we have said before. cuchulainn attacked them there; he slays a hundred men of them every night of the three nights that they were there; he took a sling to them from ochaine near them. 'our host will be short-lived through cuchulainn in this way,' said ailill. 'let an agreement be carried from us to him: that he shall have the equal of mag murthemne from mag ai, and the best chariot that is in ai, and the equipment of twelve men. offer, if it pleases him better, the plain in which he was brought up, and three sevens of cumals [note: the _cumal_ (bondmaid) was a standard of value.]; and everything that has been destroyed of his household (?) and cattle shall be made good, and he shall have full compensation (?), and let him go into my service; it is better for him than the service of a sub king.' 'who shall go for that?' 'mac roth yonder.' mac roth, the messenger of ailill and medb, went on that errand to delga: it is he who encircles ireland in one day. it is there that fergus thought that cuchulainn was, in delga. 'i see a man coming towards us,' said loeg to cuchulainn. 'he has a yellow head of hair, and a linen emblem round it; a club of fury(?) in his hand, an ivory-hilted sword at his waist; a hooded tunic with red ornamentation on him.' 'which of the warriors of the king is that?' said cuchulainn. mac roth asked loeg whose man he was. 'vassal to the man down yonder,' said loeg. cuchulainn was there in the snow up to his two thighs, without anything at all on him, examining his shirt. then mac roth asked cuchulainn whose man he was. 'vassal of conchobar mac nessa,' said cuchulainn. 'is there no clearer description?' 'that is enough,' said cuchulainn. 'where then is cuchulainn?' said mac roth. 'what would you say to him?' said cuchulainn. mac roth tells him then all the message, as we have told it. 'though cuchulainn were near, he would not do this; he will not barter the brother of his mother for another king.' he came to him again, and it was said to cuchulainn that there should be given over to him the noblest of the women and the cows that were without milk, on condition that he should not ply his sling on them at night, even if he should kill them by day. 'i will not do it,' said cuchulainn; 'if our slavewomen are taken from us, our noble women will be at the querns; and we shall be without milk if our milch-cows are taken from us.' he came to him again, and he was told that he should have the slave-women and the milch-cows. 'i will not do it,' said cuchulainn; 'the ulstermen will take their slave-women to their beds, and there will be born to them a servile offspring, and they will use their milch-cows for meat in the winter.' 'is there anything else then?' said the messenger. 'there is,' said cuchulainn; 'and i will not tell it you. it shall be agreed to, if any one tell it you.' 'i know it,' said fergus; 'i know what the man tried to suggest; and it is no advantage to you. and this is the agreement,' said fergus: 'that the ford on which takes place (?) his battle and combat with one man, the cattle shall not be taken thence a day and a night; if perchance there come to him the help of the ulstermen. and it is a marvel to me,' said fergus, 'that it is so long till they come out of their sufferings.' 'it is indeed easier for us,' said ailill, 'a man every day than a hundred every night.' _the death of etarcomol_ then fergus went on this errand; etarcomol, son of edan [note: name uncertain. ybl has eda, ll feda.] and lethrinne, foster-son of ailill and medb, followed. 'i do not want you to go,' said fergus, 'and it is not for hatred of you; but i do not like combat between you and cuchulainn. your pride and insolence, and the fierceness and hatred, pride and madness of the other, cuchulainn: there will be no good from your meeting.' 'are you not able to protect me from him?' said etarcomol. 'i can,' said fergus, 'provided only that you do not treat his, sayings with disrespect.' they go thence in two chariots to delga. cuchulainn was then playing chess [note: _buanfach_, like _fidchell_, is apparently a game something like chess or draughts.] with loeg; the back of his head was towards them, and loeg's face. 'i see two chariots coming towards us,' said loeg; 'a great dark man in the first chariot, with dark and bushy hair; a purple cloak round him, and a golden pin therein; a hooded tunic with gold embroidery on him; and a round shield with an engraved edge of white metal, and a broad spear-head, with rings from point to haft(?), in his hand. a sword as long as the rudder of a boat on his two thighs.' 'it is empty, this great rudder that is brought by my friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; 'for there is no sword in its sheath except a sword of wood. it has been told to me,' said cuchulainn; 'ailill got a chance of them as they slept, he and medb; and he took away his sword from fergus, and gave it to his charioteer to take care of, and the sword of wood was put into its sheath.' then fergus comes up. 'welcome, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; 'if a fish comes into the estuary, you shall have it with half of another; if a flock comes into the plain, you shall have a duck with half of another; a spray of cress or seaweed, a spray of marshwort; a drink from the sand; you shall have a going to the ford to meet a man, if it should happen to be your watch, till you have slept.' 'i believe it,' said fergus; 'it is not your provision that we have come for; we know your housekeeping here.' then cuchulainn receives the message from fergus; anti fergus goes away. etarcomol remains looking at cuchulainn. 'what are you looking at?' said cuchulainn. 'you,' said etarcomol. 'the eye soon compasses it indeed,' said cuchulainn. 'that is what i see,' said etarcomol. 'i do not know at all why you should be feared by any one. i do not see terror or fearfulness, or overwhelming of a host, in you; you are merely a fair youth with arms of wood, and with fine feats.' 'though you speak ill of me,' said cuchulainn, 'i will not kill you for the sake of fergus. but for your protection, it would have been your entrails drawn (?) and your quarters scattered, that would have gone from me to the camp behind your chariot.' 'threaten me not thus,' said etarcomol. 'the wonderful agreement that he has bound, that is, the single combat, it is i who will first meet you of the men of ireland to-morrow.' then he goes away. he turned back from methe and cethe and said to his charioteer: 'i have boasted,' said he, 'before fergus combat with cuchulainn to-morrow. it is not possible for us [note: ybl reading.] to wait for it; turn the horses back again from the hill.' loeg sees this and says to cuchulainn: 'there is the chariot back again, and it has put its left board [note: an insult.] towards us.' 'it is not a "debt of refusal,"' said cuchulainn. 'i do not wish,' said cuchulainn, 'what you demand of me.' 'this is obligatory to you,' said etarcomol. cuchulainn strikes the sod under his feet, so that he fell prostrate, and the sod behind him. 'go from me,' said cuchulainn. 'i am loath to cleanse my hands in you. i would have divided you into many parts long since but for fergus.' 'we will not part thus,' said etarcomol, 'till i have taken your head, or left my head with you.' 'it is that indeed that will be there,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn strikes him with his sword in his two armpits, so that his clothes fell from him, and it did not wound his skin. 'go then,' said cuchulainn. 'no,' said etarcomol. then cuchulainn attacked him with the edge of his sword, and took his hair off as if it was shaved with a razor; he did not put even a scratch (?) on the surface. when the churl was troublesome then and stuck to him, he struck him on the hard part of his crown, so that he divided him down to the navel. fergus saw the chariot go past him, and the one man therein. he turned to quarrel with cuchulainn. 'ill done of you, o wild boy!' said he, 'to insult me. you would think my club [note: or 'track'?] short,' said he. 'be not angry with me, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn ... [note: rhetoric, five lines.] 'reproach me not, o friend fergus.' he stoops down, so that fergus's chariot went past him thrice. he asked his charioteer: 'is it i who have caused it?' 'it is not you at all,' said his charioteer. 'he said,' said cuchulainn, 'he would not go till he took my head, or till he left his head with me. which would you think easier to bear, o friend fergus?' said cuchulainn. 'i think what has been done the easier truly,' said fergus, 'for it is he who was insolent.' then fergus put a spancel-withe through etarcomol's two heels and took him behind his own chariot to the camp. when they went over rocks, one-half would separate from the other; when it was smooth, they came together again. medb saw him. 'not pleasing is that treatment of a tender whelp, o fergus,' said medb. 'the dark churl should not have made fight,' said fergus, 'against the great hound whom he could not contend with (?).' his grave is dug then and his stone planted; his name is written in ogam; his lament is celebrated. cuchulainn did not molest them that night with his sling; and the women and maidens and half the cattle are taken to him; and provision continued to be brought to him by day. _the death of nadcrantail_ 'what man have you to meet cuchulainn tomorrow?' said lugaid. 'they will give it to you to-morrow,' said mane, son of ailill. 'we can find no one to meet him,' said medb. 'let us have peace with him till a man be sought for him.' they get that then. 'whither will you send,' said ailill, 'to seek that man to meet cuchulainn?' 'there is no one in ireland who could be got for him,' said medb, 'unless curoi mac dare can be brought, or nadcrantail the warrior.' there was one of curoi's followers in the tent. 'curoi will not come,' said he; 'he thinks enough of his household has come. let a message be sent to nadcrantail.' mane andoi goes to him, and they tell their tale to him. 'come with us for the sake of the honour of connaught.' 'i will not go,' said he, 'unless findabair be given to me.' he comes with them then. they bring his armour in a chariot, from the east of connaught till it was in the camp. 'you shall have findabair,' said medb, 'for going against that man yonder.' 'i will do it,' said he. lugaid comes to cuchulainn that night. 'nadcrantail is coming to meet you to-morrow; it is unlucky for you: you will not withstand him.' 'that does not matter,' said cuchulainn. ... [note: corrupt.] nadcrantail goes next morning from the camp, and he takes nine spits of holly, sharpened and burned. now cuchulainn was there catching birds, and his chariot near him. nadcrantail throws a spear at cuchulainn; cuchulainn performed a feat on to the point of that spear, and it did not hinder him from catching the birds. the same with the eight other spears. when he throws the ninth spear, the flock flies from cuchulainn, and he went after the flock. he goes on the points of the spears like a bird, from each spear to the next, pursuing the birds that they should not escape. it seemed to every one, however, that it was in flight that cuchulainn went before nadcrantail. 'your cuchulainn yonder,' said he, 'has gone in flight before me.' 'that is of course,' said medb; 'if good warriors should come to him, the wild boy would not resist ----.' this vexed fergus and the ulstermen; fiacha mac fir-febe comes from them to remonstrate with cuchulainn. 'tell him,' said fergus, 'it was noble to be before the warriors while he did brave deeds. it is more noble for him,' said fergus, 'to hide himself when he flees before one man, for it were not greater shame to him than to the rest of ulster.' 'who has boasted that?' said cuchulainn. 'nadcrantail,' said fiacha. 'though it were that that he should boast, the feat that i have done before him, it was no more shame to me,' (?) said cuchulainn. 'he would by no means have boasted it had there been a weapon in his hand. you know full well that i kill no one unarmed. let him come to-morrow,' said cuchulainn, 'till he is between ochaine and the sea, and however early he comes, he will find me there, and i shall not flee before him.' cuchulainn came then to his appointed meeting-place, and he threw the hem [of his cloak] round him after his night-watch, and he did not perceive the pillar that was near him, of equal size with himself. he embraced it under his cloak, and placed it near him. therewith nadcrantail came; his arms were brought with him in a wagon. 'where is cuchulainn?' said he. 'there he is yonder,' said fergus. 'it was not thus he appeared to me yesterday,' said nadcrantail. 'are you cuchulainn?' 'and if i am then?' said cuchulainn. 'if you are indeed,' said nadcrantail, 'i cannot bring the head of a little lamb to camp; i will not take the head of a beardless boy.' 'it is not i at all,' said cuchulainn. 'go to him round the hill.' cuchulainn comes to loeg: 'smear a false beard on me,' said he; 'i cannot get the warrior to fight me without a beard.' it was done for him. he goes to meet him on the hill. 'i think that more fitting,' said he. 'take the right way of fighting with me,' said nadcrantail. 'you shall have it if only we know it,' said cuchulainn. 'i will throw a cast at you,' said nadcrantail, 'and do not avoid it.' 'i will not avoid it except on high,' said cuchulainn. nadcrantail throws a cast at him; cuchulainn leaps on high before it. 'you do ill to avoid my cast,' said nadcrantail. 'avoid my throw then on high,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn throws the spear at him, but it was on high, so that from above it alighted in his crown, and it went through him to the ground. 'alas! it is you are the best warrior in ireland!' said nadcrantail. 'i have twenty-four sons in the camp. i will go and tell them what hidden treasures i have, and i will come that you may behead me, for i shall die if the spear is taken out of my head.' 'good,' said cuchulainn. 'you will come back.' nadcrantail goes to the camp then. every one comes to meet him. 'where is the madman's head?' said every one. 'wait, o heroes, till i tell my tale to my sons, and go back that i may fight with cuchulainn.' he goes thence to seek cuchulainn, and throws his sword at cuchulainn. cuchulainn leaps on high, so that it struck the pillar, and the sword broke in two. then cuchulainn went mad as he had done against the boys in emain, and he springs on his shield therewith, and struck his head off. he strikes him again on the neck down to the navel. his four quarters fall to the ground. then cuchulainn said this: 'if nadcrantail has fallen, it will be an increase to the strife. alas! that i cannot fight at this time with medb with a third of the host.' here is the finding of the bull according to this version: it is then that medb went with a third of the host with her to cuib to seek the bull; and cuchulainn went after her. now on the road of midluachair she had gone to harry ulster and cruthne as far as dun sobairche. cuchulainn saw something: bude mac bain from sliab culinn with the bull, and fifteen heifers round him; and his force was sixty men of ailill's household, with a cloak folded round every man. cuchulainn comes to them. 'whence have you brought the cattle?' said cuchulainn. 'from the mountain yonder,' said the man.' 'where are their cow-herds?' said cuchulainn. 'he is as we found him,' said the man. cuchulainn made three leaps after them to seek speech with them as far as the ford. it is there he said to the leader: 'what is your name?' said he. 'one who fears you not(?) and loves you not; bude mac bain,' said he. 'this spear at bude!' said cuchulainn. he hurls at him the javelin, so that it went through his armpits, and one of the livers broke in two before the spear. he kills him on his ford; hence is ath bude. the bull is brought into the camp then. they considered then that it would not be difficult to deal with cuchulainn, provided his javelin were got from him. _the death of redg the satirist_ it is then that redg, ailill's satirist, went to him on an errand to seek the javelin, that is, cuchulainn's spear. 'give me your spear,' said the satirist. 'not so,' said cuchulainn; 'but i will give you treasure.' 'i will not take it,' said the satirist. then cuchulainn wounded the satirist, because he would not accept from him what he offered him, and the satirist said he would take away his honour unless he got the javelin. then cuchulainn threw the javelin at him, and it went right through his head. 'this gift is overpowering (?),' said the satirist. hence is ath tolam set. there was now a ford east of it, where the copper of the javelin rested; humarrith, then, is the name of that ford. it is there that cuchulainn killed all those that we have mentioned in cuib; i.e. nathcoirpthe at his trees; cruthen on his ford; the sons of the herd at their cairn; marc on his hill; meille on his hill; bodb in his tower; bogaine in his marsh (?). cuchulainn turned back to mag murthemne; he liked better to defend his own home. after he went, he killed the men of crocen (or cronech), i.e. focherd; twenty men of focherd. he overtook them taking camp: ten cup-bearers and ten fighting-men. medb turned back from the north when she had remained a fortnight ravaging the province, and when she had fought a battle against findmor, wife of celtchar mac uthidir. and after taking dun sobairche upon her, she brought fifty women into the province of dalriada. wherever medb placed a horse-switch in cuib its name is bile medba [note: i.e. tree of medb]; every ford and every hill by which she slept, its name is ath medba and dindgna medba. they all meet then at focherd, both ailill and medb and the troop that drove the bull. but their herd took their bull from them, and they drove him across into a narrow gap with their spear-shafts on their shields(?). [note: a very doubtful rendering.] so that the feet of the cattle drove him [note, i.e. forgemen.] through the ground. forgemen was the herd's name. he is there afterwards, so that that is the name of the hill, forgemen. there was no annoyance to them that night, provided a man were got toward off cuchulainn on the ford. 'let a sword-truce be asked by us from cuchulainn,' said ailill. 'let lugaid go for it,' said every one. lugaid goes then to speak to him. 'how am i now with the host?' said cuchulainn. 'great indeed is the mockery that you asked of them,' said lugaid, 'that is, your women and your maidens and half your cattle. and they think it heavier than anything to be killed and to provide you with food.' a man fell there by cuchulainn every day to the end of a week. fair-play is broken with cuchulainn: twenty are sent to attack him at one time; and he killed them all. 'go to him, o fergus,' said ailill, 'that he may allow us a change of place.' they go then to cronech. this is what fell by him in single combat at this place: two roths, two luans, two female horse messengers, [note: or 'female stealers.' (o'davoren.)] ten fools, ten cup-bearers, ten ferguses, six fedelms, six fiachras. these then were all killed by him in single combat. when they pitched their tents in cronech, they considered what they should do against cuchulainn. 'i know,' said medb, 'what is good in this case: let a message be sent from us to ask him that we may have a sword-truce from him towards the host, and he shall have half the cattle that are here.' this message is taken to him. 'i will do this,' said cuchulainn, 'provided the compact is not broken by you.' _the meeting of cuchulainn and findabair_ 'let an offer go to him,' said ailill, 'that findabair will be given to him on condition that he keeps away from the hosts.' mane athramail goes to him. he goes first to loeg. 'whose man are you?' said he. loeg does not speak to him. mane spoke to him thrice in this way. 'cuchulainn's man,' said he, 'and do not disturb me, lest i strike your head off.' 'this man is fierce,' said mane, turning from him. he goes then to speak to cuchulainn. now cuchulainn had taken off his tunic, and the snow was round him up to his waist as he sat, and the snow melted round him a cubit for the greatness of the heat of the hero. mane said to him in the same way thrice, 'whose man was he?' 'conchobar's man, and do not disturb me. if you disturb me any longer, i will strike your head from you as the head is taken from a blackbird.' 'it is not easy,' said mane, 'to speak to these two.' mane goes from them then and tells his tale to ailill and medb. 'let lugaid go to him,' said ailill, 'and offer to him the maiden.' lugaid goes then and tells cuchulainn that. 'o friend lugaid,' said cuchulainn, 'this is a snare.' 'it is the king's word that has said it,' said lugaid; 'there will be no snare therefrom.' 'let it be done so,' said cuchulainn. lugaid went from him therewith, and tells ailill and medb that answer. 'let the fool go in my form,' said ailill, 'and a king's crown on his head, and let him stand at a distance from cuchulainn lest he recognise him, and let the maiden go with him, and let him betroth her to him, and let them depart quickly in this way; and it is likely that you will play a trick on him thus, so that he will not hinder you, till he comes with the ulstermen to the battle.' then the fool goes to him, and the maiden also; and it was from a distance he spoke to cuchulainn. cuchulainn goes to meet them. it happened that he recognised by the man's speech that he was a fool. he threw a sling stone that was in his hand at him, so that it sprang into his head and brought his brains out. then he comes to the maiden, cuts her two tresses off, and thrusts a stone through her mantle and through her tunic, and thrusts a stone pillar through the middle of the fool. there are their two pillars there: the pillar of findabair, and the fool's pillar. cuchulainn left them thus. a party was sent from ailill and medb to seek out their folk, for they thought they were long; they were seen in this position. all this was heard throughout the camp. there was no truce for them with cuchulainn afterwards. _the combat of munremar and curoi_ when the hosts were there in the evening; they saw that one stone lighted on them from the east, and another from the west to meet it. they met in the air, and kept falling between fergus's camp, and ailill's, and era's. [note: or nera?] this sport and play went on from that hour to the same hour next day; and the hosts were sitting down, and their shields were over their heads to protect them against the masses of stones, till the plain was full of the stones. hence is mag clochair. it happened that curoi mac daire did this; he had come to help his comrades, and he was in cotal over against munremar mac gerrcind. he had come from emain macha to help cuchulainn, and he was in ard roich. curoi knew that there was no man in the host who could withstand munremar. so it was these two who had made this sport between them. they were asked by the host to be quiet; then munremar and curoi make peace, and curoi goes to his house and munremar to emain macha. and munremar did not come till the day of the battle; curoi did not come till the combat with fer diad. 'speak to cuchulainn,' said medb and ailill, 'that he allow us change of place.' it is granted to them then, and they change the place. the weakness of the ulstermen was over then. for when they awoke from their suffering, some of them kept coming on the host, that they might take to slaying them again. _the death of the boys_ then the boys of ulster had consulted in emain macha. 'wretched indeed,' said they, 'for our friend cuchulainn to be without help.' 'a question indeed,' said fiachna fulech mac fir-febe, own brother to fiacha fialdama mac fir-febe, 'shall i have a troop among you, and go to take help to him therefrom?' three fifties of boys go with their playing-clubs, and that was a third of the boys of ulster. the host saw them coming towards them across the plain. 'a great host is at hand to us over the plain,' said ailill. fergus goes to look at them. 'some of the boys of ulster that,' said he; 'and they come to cuchulainn's help.' 'let a troop go against them,' said ailill, 'without cuchulainn's knowledge; for if they meet him, you will not withstand them.' three fifties of warriors go to meet them. they fell by one another so that no one escaped alive of the abundance(?) of the boys at lia toll. hence it is the stone of fiachra mac fir-febe; for it is there he fell. 'make a plan,' said ailill. 'ask cuchulainn about letting you go out of this place, for you will not come beyond him by force, because his flame of valour has sprung.' for it was customary with him, when his flame of valour sprang in him, that his feet would go round behind him, and his hams before; and the balls of his calves on his shins, and one eye in his head and the other out of his head; a man's head could have gone into his mouth. every hair on him was as sharp as a thorn of hawthorn, and a drop of blood on each hair. he would not recognise comrades or friends. he would strike alike before and behind. it is from this that the men of connaught gave cuchulainn the name riastartha. _the woman-fight of rochad_ cuchulainn sent his charioteer to rochad mac fatheman of ulster, that he should come to his help. now it happened that findabair loved rochad, for he was the fairest of the warriors among the ulstermen at that time. the man goes to rochad and told him to come to help cuchulainn if he had come out of his weakness; that they should deceive the host, to get at some of them to slay them. rochad comes from the north with a hundred men. 'look at the plain for us to-day,' said ailill. 'i see a troop coming over the plain,' said the watchman, 'and a warrior of tender years among them; the men only reach up to his shoulders.' 'who is it yonder, o fergus?' said ailill. 'rochad mac fatheman,' said he, 'and it is to help cuchulainn he comes.' 'i know what you had better do with him,' said fergus. 'let a hundred men go from you with the maiden yonder to the middle of the plain, and let the maiden go before them; and let a horseman go to speak to him, that he come alone to speak with the maiden, and let hands be laid on him, and this will keep off (?) the attack of his army from us.' this is done then. rochad goes to meet the horseman. 'i have come from findabair to meet you, that you come to speak with her.' he goes then to speak with her alone. the host rushes about him from every side. he is taken, and hands are laid on him. his force breaks into flight. he is let go then, and he is bound over not to go against the host till he should come together with all ulster. it was promised to him that findabair should be given to him, and he returned from them then. so that that is rochad's woman-fight. _the death of the princes_ [note: or 'royal mercenaries.'] 'let a sword-truce be asked of cuchulainn for us,' said ailill and medb. lugaid goes on that errand, and cuchulainn grants the truce. 'put a man on the ford for me to-morrow,' said cuchulainn. there were with medb six princes, i.e. six king's heirs of the clanna dedad, the three blacks of imlech, and the three reds of sruthair. 'why should we not go against cuchulainn?' said they. they go next day, and cuchulainn slew the six of them. _the death of cur_ then cur mac dalath is besought to go against cuchulainn. he from whom he shed blood, he is dead before the ninth day. 'if he slay him,' said medb, 'it is victory; and though it be he who is slain, it is removing a load from the host: for it is not easy to be with him in regard to eating and sleeping.' then he goes forth. he did not think it good to go against a beardless wild boy. 'not so(?) indeed,' said he, 'right is the honour (?) that you give us! if i had known that it was against this man that i was sent, i would not have bestirred myself to seek him; it were enough in my opinion for a boy of his own age from my troop to go against him.' 'not so,' said cormac condlongas; 'it were a marvel for us if you yourself were to drive him off.' 'howbeit,' said he, 'since it is on myself that it is laid you shall go forth to-morrow morning; it will not delay me to kill the young deer yonder.' he goes then early in the morning to meet him; and he tells the host to get ready to take the road before them, for it was a clear road that he would make by going against cuchulainn. _this is the number of the feats_ he went on that errand then. cuchulainn was practising feats at that time, i.e. the apple-feat, the edge-feat, the supine-feat, the javelin-feat, the ropefeat, the ---feat, the cat-feat, the hero's salmon[-leap?], the cast ----, the leap over ----, the noble champion's turn, the _gae bolga_, the ---of swiftness, the wheel-feat, the ----, the feat on breath, the mouth-rage (?), the champion's shout, the stroke with proper adjustment, the back-stroke, the climbing a javelin with stretching of the body on its point, with the binding (?) of a noble warrior. cur was plying his weapons against him in a fence(?) of his shield till a third of the day; and not a stroke of the blow reached cuchulainn for the madness of the feats, and he did not know that a man was trying to strike him, till fiacha mac fir-febe said to him: 'beware of the man who is attacking you.' cuchulainn looked at him; he threw the feat-apple that remained in his hand, so that it went between the rim and the body of the shield, and went back through the head of the churl. it would be in imslige glendanach that cur fell according to another version. fergus returned to the army. 'if your security hold you,' said he, 'wait here till to-morrow.' 'it would not be there,' said ailill; 'we shall go back to our camp.' then lath mac dabro is asked to go against cuchulainn, as cur had been asked. he himself fell then also. fergus returns again to put his security on them. they remained there until there were slain there cur mac dalath, and lath mac dabro, and foirc, son of the three swifts, and srubgaile mac eobith. they were all slain there in single combat. _the death of ferbaeth_ 'go to the camp for us, o friend loeg' [said cuchulainn], 'and consult lugaid mac nois, descendant of lomarc, to know who is coming against me tomorrow. let it be asked diligently, and give him my greeting.' then loeg went. 'welcome,' said lugaid; 'it is unlucky for cuchulainn, the trouble in which he is, alone against the men of ireland. it is a comrade of us both, ferbaeth (ill-luck to his arms!), who goes against him to morrow. findabair is given to him for it, and the kingdom of his race.' loeg turns back to where cuchulainn is. he is not very joyful over his answer, my friend loeg,' said cuchulainn. loeg tells him all that. ferbaeth had been summoned into the tent to ailill and medb, and he is told to sit by findabair, and that she should be given to him, for he was her choice for fighting with cuchulainn. he was the man they thought worthy of them, for they had both learned the same arts with scathach. then wine is given to him, till he was intoxicated, and he is told, 'they thought that wine fine, and there had only been brought the load of fifty wagons. and it was the maiden who used to put hand to his portion therefrom.' 'i do not wish it,' said ferbaeth; 'cuchulainn is my foster-brother, and a man of perpetual covenant with me. nevertheless i will go against him to-morrow and cut off his head.' 'it will be you who would do it,' said medb. cuchulainn told loeg to go to meet lugaid, that he should come and speak with him. lugaid comes to him. 'so ferbaeth is coming against me to-morrow,' said cuchulainn. 'he indeed,' said lugaid. 'an evil day!' said cuchulainn; 'i shall not be alive therefrom. two of equal age we, two of equal deftness, two equal when we meet. o lugaid, greet him for me; tell him that it is not true valour to come against me; tell him to come to meet me to-night, to speak with me.' lugaid tells him this. when ferbaeth did not avoid it, he went that night to renounce his friendship with cuchulainn, and fiacha mac fir-febe with him. cuchulainn appealed to him by his foster-brotherhood, and scathach, the foster-mother of them both. 'i must,' said ferbaeth. 'i have promised it' 'take back (?) your bond of friendship then,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn went from him in anger. a spear of holly was driven into cuchulainn's foot in the glen, and appeared up by his knee. he draws it out. 'go not, o ferbaeth, till you have seen the find that i have found.' 'throw it,' said ferbaeth. cuchulainn threw the spear then after ferbaeth so that it hit the hollow of his poll, and came out at his mouth in front, so that he fell back into the glen. 'that is a throw indeed,' said ferbaeth. hence is focherd murthemne. (or it is fiacha who had said, 'your throw is vigorous to-day, o cuchulainn,' said he; so that focherd murthemne is from that.) ferbaeth died at once in the glen. hence is glenn firbaith. something was heard: fergus, who said: 'o ferbaeth, foolish is thy expedition in the place in which thy grave is. ruin reached thee ... in croen corand. 'the hill is named fithi (?) for ever; croenech in murthemne, from to-day focherd will be the name of the place in which thou didst fall, o ferbaeth. o ferbaeth,' etc. 'your comrade has fallen,' said fergus. 'say will you pay for this man on the morrow?' 'i will pay indeed,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn sends loeg again for news, to know how they are in the camp, and whether ferbaeth lived. lugaid said: 'ferbaeth is dead,' and cuchulainn comes in turn to talk with them. _the combat of larine mac nois_ 'one of you to-morrow to go readily against the other,' said lugaid. 'he will not be found at all,' said ailill, 'unless you practise trickery therein. any man who comes to you, give him wine, so that his mind may be glad, and it shall be said to him that that is all the wine that has been brought from cruachan. it grieves us that you should be on water in the camp. and findabair shall be put at his right hand, and it shall be said: "she shall come to you, if you bring us the head of the riastartha."' a messenger used to be sent to every hero on his night, and that used to be told to him; he continued to kill every man of them in. turn. no one could be got by them to meet him at last. larine mac nois, brother to lugaid, king of munster, was summoned to them the next day. great was his pride. wine is given to him, and findabair is put at his right hand. medb looked at the two. 'it pleases me, yonder pair,' said she; 'a match between them would be fitting.' 'i will not stand in your way,' said ailill; 'he shall have her if he brings me the head of the riastartha.' 'i will bring it,' said larine. then lugaid comes. 'what man have you for the ford to-morrow?' said he. 'larine goes,' said ailill. then lugaid comes to speak with cuchulainn. they meet in glenn firbaith. each gives the other welcome. 'it is for this i have come to speak to you,' said lugaid: 'there is a churl here, a fool and proud,' said he, 'a brother of mine named larine; he is befooled about the same maiden. on your friendship then, do not kill him, lest you should leave me without a brother. for it is for this that he is being sent to you, so that we two might quarrel. i should be content, however, that you should give him a sound drubbing, for it is in my despite that he comes.' larine goes next day to meet cuchulainn, and the maiden near him to encourage him. cuchulainn attacks him without arms. [note: this is apparently the sense, but the passage seems corrupt.] he takes larine's arms from him perforce. he takes him then between his two hands, and grinds and shakes him, ... and threw him till he was between lugaid's two hands ...; nevertheless, he is the only man who escaped [even] a bad escape from him, of all who met him on the tain. _the conversation of the morrigan with cuchulainn_ cuchulainn saw a young woman coming towards him, with a dress of every colour on, and her form very excellent. 'who are you?' said cuchulainn. 'daughter of buan the king,' said she. 'i have come to you; i have loved you for your reputation, and i have brought my treasures and my cattle with me.' 'the time at which you have come to us is not good. for our condition is evil, through hunger. it is not easy to me to meet a woman, while i am in this strife.' 'i will be a help to you. ... i shall be more troublesome to you,' said she, 'when i come against you when you are in combat against the men. i will come in the form of an eel about your feet in the ford, so that you shall fall.' 'i think that likelier than the daughter of a king. i will take you,' said he, 'between my toes, till your ribs are broken, and you will be in this condition till a doom of blessing comes (?) on you.' 'i will drive the cattle on the ford to you, in the form of a grey she-wolf.' 'i will throw a stone at you from my sling, so that it shall break your eye in your head; and you will be in that state till a doom of blessing comes on you.' 'i will come to you in the form of a hornless red heifer before the cattle. they will rush on you on the plains(?), and on the fords, and on the pools, and you will not see me before you.' 'i will throw a stone at you,' said he, 'so that your leg shall break under you, and you will be in this state till a doom of blessing comes on you.' therewith she goes from him. so he was a week on ath grencha, and a man used to fall every day by him in ath grencha, i.e. in ath darteisc. _the death of loch mac emonis_ then loch mac emonis was asked like the others, and there was promised to him a piece of the arable land of mag ai equal in size to mag murthemne, and the equipment of twelve warriors and a chariot worth seven cumals [note: a measure of value.]; and he did not think combat with a youth worthy. he had a brother, long mac emonis himself. the same price was given to him, both maiden and raiment and chariots and land. he goes to meet cuchulainn. cuchulainn slays him, and he was brought dead before his brother, loch. this latter said that if he only knew that it was a bearded man who slew him, he would kill him for it. 'take a battle-force to him,' said medb to her household, 'across the ford from the west, that you may go-across; and let fair-play be broken on him.' then the seven manes, warriors, go first, so that they saw him on the edge of the ford westward. he puts his feast-dress on that day. it is then that the women kept climbing on the men to look at him. 'i am sorry,' said medb; 'i cannot see the boy about whom they go there.' 'your mind will not be the gladder for it,' said lethrend, ailill's squire, 'if you could see him.' he comes to the ford then as he was. 'what man is it yonder, o fergus?' said medb. 'a boy who wards off,' etc. ... 'if it is culann's hound.' [note: rhetoric, four lines.] medb climbed on the men then to look at him. it is then that the women said to cuchulainn 'that he was laughed at in the camp because he had no beard, and no good warriors would go against him, only wild men; it were easier to make a false beard.' so this is what he did, in order to seek combat with a man; i.e. with loch. cuchulainn took a handful of grass, and said a spell over it, so that every one thought he had a beard. 'true,' said the troop of women, 'cuchulainn has a beard. it is fitting for a warrior to fight with him.' they had done this on urging loch. 'i will not make combat against him till the end of seven days from to-day,' said loch. 'it is not fitting for us to have no attack on the man for this space,' said medb. 'let us put a hero to hunt(?) him every night, if perchance we may get a chance at him.' this is done then. a hero used to come every night to hunt him, and he used to kill them all. these are the names of the men who fell there: seven conalls, seven oenguses, seven uarguses, seven celtris, eight fiacs, ten ailills, ten delbaths, ten tasachs. these are his deeds of this week in ath grencha. medb asked advice, to know what she should do to cuchulainn, for what had been killed of their hosts by him distressed her greatly. this is the plan she arrived at, to put brave, high-spirited men to attack him all at once when he should come to an appointed meeting to speak with medb. for she had an appointment the next day with cuchulainn to make a peace in fraud with him, to get hold of him. she sent messengers forth to seek him that he should come to meet her; and it was thus he should come, and he unarmed: 'for she would come only with her troop of women to meet him.' the messenger, traigtren, went to the place where cuchulainn was, and tells him medb's message. cuchulainn promised that he would do so. 'in what manner does it please you to go to meet medb to-morrow, o cuchulainn?' said loeg. 'as medb has asked me,' said cuchulainn. 'great are medb's deeds,' said the charioteer; 'i fear a hand behind the back with her.' 'how is it to be done then?' said he. 'your sword at your waist,' said the charioteer, 'that you may not be taken at an unfair advantage. for the warrior is not entitled to his honour-price if he is without arms; and it is the coward's law that he deserves in that way.' 'let it be done so then,' said cuchulainn. the meeting-place was in ard aignech, which is called fochaird to-day. now medb came to the meeting-place and set in ambush fourteen men of her own special following, of those who were of most prowess, ready for him. these are they: two glassines, the two sons of bucchridi; two ardans, the two sons of licce; two glasogmas, the two sons of crund; drucht and delt and dathen; tea and tascra and tualang; taur and glese. then cuchulainn comes to meet her. the men rise to attack him. fourteen spears are thrown at him at once. cuchulainn guards himself so that his skin or his ---(?) is not touched. then he turns on them and kills them, the fourteen of them. so that they are the fourteen men of focherd, and they are the men of cronech, for it is in cronech at focherd that they were killed. hence cuchulainn said: 'good is my feat of heroism,' [note: _fo_, 'good'; _cherd_, 'feat.' twelve lines of rhetoric.] etc. so it is from this that the name focherd stuck to the place; that is, _focherd_, i.e. 'good is the feat of arms' that happened to cuchulainn there. so cuchulainn came, and overtook them taking camp, and there were slain two daigris and two anlis and four dungais of imlech. then medb began to urge loch there. 'great is the mockery of you,' said she, 'for the man who has killed your brother to be destroying our host, and you do not go to battle with him! for we deem it certain that the wild man, great and fierce [note: literally, 'sharpened.'], the like of him yonder, will not be able to withstand the rage and fury of a hero like you. for it is by one foster-mother and instructress that an art was built up for you both.' then loch came against cuchulainn, to avenge his brother on him, for it was shown to him that cuchulainn had a beard. 'come to the upper ford,' said loch; 'it would not be in the polluted ford that we shall meet, where long fell.' when he came then to seek the ford, the men drove the cattle across. 'it will be across your water [note: irish, _tarteisc_.] here to-day,' said gabran the poet. hence is ath darteisc, and tir mor darteisc from that time on this place. when the men met then on the ford, and when they began to fight and to strike each other there, and when each of them began to strike the other, the eel threw three folds round cuchulainn's feet, till he lay on his back athwart the ford. loch attacked him with the sword, till the ford was blood-red with his blood. 'ill indeed,' said fergus, 'is this deed before the enemy. let each of you taunt the man, o men,' said he to his following, 'that he may not fall for nothing.' bricriu poison-tongue mac carbatha rose and began inciting cuchulainn. 'your strength is gone,' said he, 'when it is a little salmon that overthrows you when the ulstermen are at hand [coming] to you out of their sickness yonder. grievous for you to undertake a hero's deed in the presence of the men of ireland and to ward off a formidable warrior in arms thus!' therewith cuchulainn arises and strikes the eel so that its ribs broke in it, and the cattle were driven over the hosts eastwards by force, so that they took the tents on their horns, with the thunder-feat that the two heroes had made in the ford. the she-wolf attacked him, and drove the cattle on him westwards. he throws a stone from his sling, so that her eye broke in her head. she goes in the form of a hornless red heifer; she rushes before the cows upon the pools and fords. it is then he said: 'i cannot see the fords for water.' he throws a stone at the hornless red heifer, so that her leg breaks under her. then he sang a song: 'i am all alone before flocks; i get them not, i let them not go; i am alone at cold hours (?) before many peoples. 'let some one say to conchobar though he should come to me it were not too soon; magu's sons have carried off their kine and divided them among them. 'there may be strife about one head only that one tree blazes not; if there were two or three their brands would blaze. [note: meaning not clear.] 'the men have almost worn me out by reason of the number of single combats; i cannot work the slaughter (?) of glorious warriors as i am all alone. i am all alone.' *** it is there then that cuchulainn did to the morrigan the three things that he had promised her in the _tain bo regamna_ [note: one of the introductory stories to the _tain bo cuailnge_, printed with translation in _irische texte_, 2nd series.]; and he fights loch in the ford with the gae-bolga, which the charioteer threw him along the stream. he attacked him with it, so that it went into his body's armour, for loch had a horn-skin in fighting with a man. 'give way to me,' said loch. cuchulainn gave way, so that it was on the other side that loch fell. hence is ath traiged in tir mor. cuchulainn cut off his head then. then fair-play was broken with him that day when five men came against him at one time; i.e. two cruaids, two calads, derothor; cuchulainn killed them by himself. hence is coicsius focherda, and coicer oengoirt; or it is fifteen days that cuchulainn was in focherd, and hence is coicsius focherda in the foray. cuchulainn hurled at them from delga, so that not a living thing, man or beast, could put its head past him southwards between delga and the sea. _the healing of the morrigan_ when cuchulainn was in this great weariness, the morrigan met him in the form of an old hag, and she blind and lame, milking a cow with three teats, and he asked her for a drink. she gave him milk from a teat. 'he will be whole who has brought it(?),' said cuchulainn; 'the blessings of gods and non-gods on you,' said he. (gods with them were the mighty folk [note: i.e. the dwellers in the sid. the words in brackets are a gloss incorporated in the text.]; non-gods the people of husbandry.) then her head was healed so that it was whole. she gave the milk of the second teat, and her eye was whole; and gave the milk of the third teat, and her leg was whole. so that this was what he said about each thing of them, 'a doom of blessing on you,' said he. 'you told me,' said the morrigan, 'i should not have healing from you for ever.' 'if i had known it was you,' said cuchulainn, 'i would not have healed you ever.' so that formerly cuchulainn's throng (?) on tarthesc was the name of this story in the foray. it is there that fergus claimed of his securities that faith should not be broken with cuchulainn; and it is there that cuchulainn ... [note: corrupt; one and a half lines.] i.e. delga murthemne at that time. then cuchulainn killed fota in his field; bomailce on his ford; salach in his village (?); muine in his hill; luair in leth-bera; fer-toithle in toithle; these are the names of these lands for ever, every place in which each man of them fell. cuchulainn killed also traig and dornu and dernu, col and mebul and eraise on this side of ath tire moir, at methe and cethe: these were three [note: ms. 'two.'] druids and their three wives. then medb sent a hundred men of her special retinue to kill cuchulainn. . he killed them all on ath ceit-chule. then medb said: 'it is _cuillend_ [note: interlinear gloss: 'we deem it a crime.'] to us, the slaying of our people.' hence is glass chrau and cuillend cind duin and ath ceit-chule. then the four provinces of ireland took camp and fortified post in the breslech mor in mag murthemne, and send part of their cattle and booty beyond them to the south into clithar bo ulad. cuchulainn took his post at the mound in lerga near them, and his charioteer loeg mac riangabra kindled a fire for him on the evening of that night. he saw the fiery sheen of the bright golden arms over the heads of the four provinces of ireland at the setting of the clouds of evening. fury and great rage came over him at sight of the host, at the multitude of his enemies, the abundance of his foes. he took his two spears and his shield and his sword; he shook his shield and brandished his spears and waved his sword; and he uttered his hero's shout from his throat, so that goblins and sprites and spectres of the glen and demons of the air answered, for the terror of the shout which they uttered on high. so that the nemain produced confusion on the host. the four provinces of ireland came into a tumult of weapons about the points of their own spears and weapons, so that a hundred warriors of them died of terror and of heart-burst in the middle of the camp and of the position that night. when loeg was there, he saw something: a single man who came straight across the camp of the men of ireland from the north-east straight towards him. 'a single man is coming to us now, o little hound!' said loeg. 'what kind of man is there?' said cuchulainn. 'an easy question: a man fair and tall is he, with hair cut broad, waving yellow hair; a green mantle folded round him; a brooch of white silver in the mantle on his breast; a tunic of royal silk, with red ornamentation of red gold against the white skin, to his knees. a black shield with a hard boss of white metal; a five pointed spear in his hand; a forked (?) javelin beside it. wonderful is the play and sport and exercise that he makes; but no one attacks him, and he attacks no one, as if no one saw him.' 'it is true, o fosterling,' said he; 'which of my friends from the _síd_ is that who comes to have pity on me, because they know the sore distress in which i am, alone against the four great provinces of ireland, on the cattle-foray of cualnge at this time?' that was true for cuchulainn. when the warrior had reached the place where cuchulainn was, he spoke to him, and had pity on him for it. 'this is manly, o cuchulainn,' said he. 'it is not much at all,' said cuchulainn. 'i will help you,' said the man. 'who are you at all?' said cuchulainn. 'it is i, your father from the _síd_, lug mac ethlend.' 'my wounds are heavy, it were high time that i should be healed.' 'sleep a little, o cuchulainn,' said the warrior; 'your heavy swoon (?) [note: conjectural--ms. _tromthortim_.] of sleep at the mound of lerga till the end of three days and three nights, and i will fight against the hosts for that space.' then he sings the _ferdord_ to him, and he sleeps from it. lug looked at each wound that it was clean. then lug said: 'arise, o great son of the ulstermen, whole of thy wounds. ... go into thy chariot secure. arise, arise!' [note: rhetoric.] for three days and three nights cuchulainn was asleep. it were right indeed though his sleep equalled his weariness. from the monday after the end of summer exactly to the wednesday after candlemas, for this space cuchulainn had not slept, except when he slept a little while against his spear after midday, with his head on his clenched fist, and his clenched fist on his spear, and his spear on his knee; but he was striking and cutting and attacking and slaying the four great provinces of ireland for that space. it is then that the warrior of the síd cast herbs and grasses of curing and charms of healing into the hurts and wounds and into the injuries and into the many wounds of cuchulainn, so that cuchulainn recovered in his sleep without his perceiving it at all. now it was at this time that the boys came south from emain macha: folloman mac conchobair with three fifties of kings' sons of ulster, and they gave battle thrice to the hosts, so that three times their own number fell, and all the boys fell except folloman mac conchobair. folloman boasted that he would not go back to emain for ever and ever, until he should take the head of ailill with him, with the golden crown that was above it. this was not easy to him; for the two sons of bethe mac bain, the two sons of ailill's foster-mother and foster-father, came on him, and wounded him so that he fell by them. so that that is the death of the boys of ulster and of folloman mac conchobair. cuchulainn for his part was in his deep sleep till the end of three days and three nights at the mound in lerga. cuchulainn arose then from his sleep, and put his hand over his face, and made a purple wheelbeam from head to foot, and his mind was strong in him, and he would have gone to an assembly, or a march, or a tryst, or a beer-house, or to one of the chief assemblies of ireland. 'how long have i been in this sleep now, o warrior?' said cuchulainn. 'three days and three nights,' said the warrior. 'alas for that!' said cuchulainn. 'what is the matter?' said the warrior. 'the hosts without attack for this space,' said cuchulainn. 'they are not that at all indeed,' said the warrior. 'who has come upon them?' said cuchulainn. 'the boys came from the north from emain macha; folloman mac conchobair with three fifties of boys of the kings' sons of ulster; and they gave three battles to the hosts for the space of the three days and the three nights in which you have been in your sleep now. and three times their own number fell, and the boys fell, except folloman mac conchobair. folloman boasted that he would take ailill's head, and that was not easy to him, for he was killed.' 'pity for that, that i was not in my strength! for if i had been in my strength, the boys would not have fallen as they have fallen, and folloman mac conchobair would not have fallen.' 'strive further, o little hound, it is no reproach to thy honour and no disgrace to thy valour.' 'stay here for us to-night, o warrior,' said cuchulainn, 'that we may together avenge the boys on the hosts.' 'i will not stay indeed,' said the warrior, 'for however great the contests of valour and deeds of arms any one does near thee, it is not on him there will be the renown of it or the fame or the reputation, but it is on thee; therefore i will not stay. but ply thy deed of arms thyself alone on the hosts, for not with them is there power over thy life this time.' 'the scythe-chariot, o my friend loeg!' said cuchulainn; 'can you yoke it? and is its equipment here? if you can yoke it, and if you have its equipment, yoke it; and if you have not its equipment, do not yoke it at all.' it is then that the charioteer arose, and he put on his hero's dress of charioteering. this was his hero's dress of charioteering that he put on: his soft tunic of skin, light and airy, well-turned [note: lit. 'kneaded.'], made of skin, sewn, of deer-skin, so that it did not restrain the movement of his hands outside. he put on his black (?) upper-cloak over it outside: simon magus had made it for darius, king of the romans, so that darius gave it to conchobar, and conchobar gave it to cuchulainn, and cuchulainn gave it to his charioteer. the charioteer took first then his helm, ridged, like a board (?), four-cornered, with much of every colour and every form, over the middle of his shoulders. this was well-measured (?) to him, and it was not an overweight. his hand brought the circlet of red-yellow, as though it were a plate of red-gold, of refined gold smelted over the edge of an anvil, to his brow, as a sign of his charioteering, in distinction to his master. he took the goads (?) of his horses, and his whip (?) inlaid in his right hand. he took the reins to hold back his horses in his left hand. [note: gloss incorporated in text: 'i. e. to direct his horses, in his left hand, for the great power of his charioteering.'] then he put the iron inlaid breastplates on the horses, so that they were covered from forehead to forefoot with spears and points and lances and hard points, so that every motion in this chariot was spear-near, so that every corner and every point and every end and every front of this chariot was a way of tearing. it is then that he cast a spell of covering over his horses and over his companion, so that he was not visible to any one in the camp, and so that every one in the camp was visible to them. it was proper that he should cast this, because there were the three gifts of charioteering on the charioteer that day, the leap over ----, and the straight ----, and the ----. then the hero and the champion and he who made the fold of the badb [note: the badb (scald-crow) was a war-goddess. this is an expressive term for the piled-up bodies of the slain.] of the men of the earth, cuchulainn mac sualtaim, took his battle-array of battle and contest and strife. this was his battle-array of battle and contest and strife: he put on twenty-seven skin tunics, waxed, like board, equally thick, which used to be under strings and chains and thongs, against his white skin, that he might not lose his mind nor his understanding when his rage should come. he put on his hero's battle-girdle over it outside, of hard-leather, hard, tanned, of the choice of seven ox-hides of a heifer, so that it covered him from the thin part of his sides to the thick part of his arm-pit; it used to be on him to repel spears, and points, and darts, and lances, and arrows. for they were cast from him just as if it was stone or rock or horn that they struck (?). then he put on his apron, skin like, silken, with its edge of white gold variegated, against the soft lower part of his body. he put on his dark apron of dark leather, well tanned, of the choice of four ox-hides of a heifer, with his battle-girdle of cows' skins (?) about it over his silken skin-like apron. then the royal hero took his battle-arms of battle and contest and strife. these then were his battle-arms of battle: he took his ivory-hilted, bright-faced weapon, with his eight little swords; he took his five-pointed spear, with his eight little spears [note: in the margin: 'and his quiver,' probably an interpolation.]; he took his spear of battle, with his eight little darts; he took his javelin with his eight little javelins; his eight shields of feats, with his round shield, dark red, in which a boar that would be shown at a feast would go into the boss (?), with its edge sharp, keen, very sharp, round about it, so that it would cut hairs against the stream for sharpness and keenness and great sharpness; when the warrior did the edge-feat with it, he would cut equally with his shield, and with his spear, and with his sword. then he put on his head a ridged-helmet of battle and contest and strife, from which there was uttered the shout of a hundred warriors, with along cry from every corner and every angle of it. for there used to cry from it equally goblins and sprites and ghosts of the glen and demons of the air, before and above and around, wherever he used to go before shedding the blood of warriors and enemies. there was cast over him his dress of concealment by the garment of the land of promise that was given by his foster-father in wizardry. it is then came the first contortion on cuchulainn, so that it made him horrible, many-shaped, wonderful, strange. his shanks shook like a tree before the stream, or like a rush against the stream, every limb and every joint and every end and every member, of him from head to foot. he made a ---of rage of his body inside his skin. his feet and his shins and his knees came so that they were behind him; his heels and his calves and his hams came so that they were in front. the front-sinews of his calves came so that they were on the front of his shins, so that every huge knot of them was as great as a warrior's clenched fist. the temple-sinews of his head were stretched, so that they were on the hollow of his neck, so that every round lump of them, very great, innumerable, not to be equalled (?), measureless, was as great as the head of a month old child. then he made a red bowl of his face and of his visage on him; he swallowed one of his two eyes into his head, so that from his cheek a wild crane could hardly have reached it [to drag it] from the back of his skull. the other sprang out till it was on his cheek outside. his lips were marvellously contorted. tie drew the cheek from the jawbone, so that his gullet was visible. his lungs and his lights came so that they were flying in his mouth and in his throat. he struck a blow of the ---of a lion with his upper palate on the roof of his skull, so that every flake of fire that came into his mouth from his throat was as large as a wether's skin. his heart was heard light-striking (?) against his ribs like the roaring of a bloodhound at its food, or like a lion going through bears. there were seen the palls of the badb, and the rain-clouds of poison, and the sparks of fire very red in clouds and in vapours over his head with the boiling of fierce rage, that rose over him. his hair curled round his head like the red branches of a thorn in the gap of atalta (?). though a royal apple-tree under royal fruit had been shaken about it, hardly would an apple have reached the ground through it, but an apple would have fixed on every single hair there, for the twisting of the rage that rose from his hair above him. the hero's light rose from his forehead, so that it was as long, and as thick, as a warrior's whet-stone, so that it was equally long with the nose, till he went mad in playing with the shields, in pressing on (?) the charioteer, in ---the hosts. as high, as thick, as strong, as powerful, as long, as the mast of a great ship, was the straight stream of dark blood that rose straight up from the very top of his head, so that it made a dark smoke of wizardry like the smoke of a palace when the king comes to equip himself in the evening of a wintry day. after that contortion wherewith cuchulainn was contorted, then the hero of valour sprang into his scythed battle-chariot, with its iron points, with its thin edges, with its hooks, and with its hard points, with its sharp points (?) of a hero, with their pricking goads (?), with its nails of sharpness that were on shafts and thongs and cross-pieces and ropes (?) of that chariot. it was thus the chariot was, with its body thin-framed (?), dry-framed (?), feat-high, straight-shouldered (?), of a champion, on which there would have been room for eight weapons fit for a lord, with the speed of swallow or of wind or of deer across the level of the plain. the chariot was placed on two horses, swift, vehement, furious, small-headed, small-round, small-end, pointed, ----, red-breasted, ----, easy to recognise, well-yoked, ... one of these two horses was supple, swift-leaping, great of strength, great of curve, great of foot, great of length, ----. the other horse was flowing-maned, slender-footed, thin-footed, slender-heeled, ----. it is then that he threw the thunder-feat of a hundred, and the thunder-feat of four hundred, and he stopped at the thunder-feat of five hundred, for he did not think it too much for this equal number to fall by him in his first attack, and in his first contest of battle on the four provinces of ireland; and he came forth in this way to attack his enemies, and he took his chariot in a great circuit about the four great provinces of ireland, and he put the attack of an enemy among enemies on them. and a heavy course was put on his chariot, and the iron wheels of the chariot went into the ground, so that it was enough for fort and fortress, the way the iron wheels of the chariot went into the ground; for there arose alike turfs and stones and rocks and flagstones and gravel of the ground as high as the iron wheels of the chariot. the reason why he cast the circle of war round about the four great provinces of ireland, was that they might not flee from him, and that they might not scatter, that he might make sure of them, to avenge the boys on them; and he comes into the battle thus in the middle, and overthrew great fences of his enemies' corpses round about the host thrice, and puts the attack of an enemy among enemies on them, so that they fell sole to sole, and neck to neck; such was the density of the slaughter. he went round again thrice thus, so that he left a layer of six round them in the great circuit; i.e. soles of three to necks of three in the course of a circuit round the camp. so that its name in the foray is sesrech breslige, and it is one of the three not to be numbered in the foray; i.e. sesrech breslige and imslige glendamnach and the battle on garach and irgarach, except that it was alike dog and horse and man there. this is what others say, that lug mac ethlend fought along with cuchulainn the sesrech breslige. their number is not known, and it is impossible to count what number fell there of the rabble. but the chief only have been counted. these are the names of the princes and chiefs: two cruads, two calads, two cirs, two ciars, two ecells, three croms, three caurs, three combirge, four feochars, four furachars, four cass, four fotas, five caurs, five cermans, five cobthachs, six saxans, six dachs, six dares, seven rochads, seven ronans, seven rurthechs, eight roclads, eight rochtads, eight rindachs, eight corpres, eight mulachs, nine daigs, nine dares, nine damachs, ten fiachs, ten fiachas, ten fedelmids. ten kings over seven fifties did cuchulainn slay in breslech mor in mag murthemne; and an innumerable number besides of dogs and horses and women and boys and people of no consequence and rabble. for there did not escape one man out of three of the men of ireland without a thigh-bone or half his head or one eye broken, or without being marked for ever. and he came from them after giving them battle without wound or blood-stain on himself or on his servant or on either of his horses. cuchulainn came next day to survey the host and to show his soft fair form to the women and the troops of women and the girls and the maidens and the poets and the bards, for he did not hold in honour or dignity that haughty form of wizardry that had appeared to them on him the night before. therefore he came to show his soft fair form that day. fair indeed the boy who came then to show his form to the hosts, that is, cuchulainn mac sualtaim. the appearance of three heads of hair on him, dark against the skin of his head, blood-red in the middle, a crown gold-yellow which covers them. a fair arrangement of this hair so that it makes three circles round the hollow of the back of his head, so that each hair ----, dishevelled, very golden, excellent, in long curls, distinguished, fair-coloured, over his shoulders, was like gold thread. a hundred ringlets, bright purple, of red-gold, gold-flaming, round his neck; a hundred threads with mixed carbuncle round his head. four dimples in each of his two cheeks; that is, a yellow dimple, and a green dimple, and a blue dimple, and a purple dimple. seven gems of brilliance of an eye, in each of his two royal eyes. seven toes on each of his two feet, seven fingers on each of his two hands, with the grasp of a hawk's claws, with the seizure of a griffin's claws on each of them separately. then he puts on his feast-dress that day. this was his raiment on him: a fair tunic, proper; bright-purple, with a border with five folds. a white brooch of white silver with adorned gold inlaid over his white breast, as if it was a lantern full of light, that the eyes of men could not look at for its splendour and its brightness. a silken tunic of silk against his skin so that it covered him to the top of his dark apron of dark-red, soldierly, royal, silken. a dark shield; dark red, dark purple, with five chains of gold, with a rim of white metal on it. a sword gold-hilted, inlaid with ivory hilt of red-gold raised high on his girdle. a spear, long, grey-edged, with a spear-head sharp, attacking, with rivets of gold, gold-flaming by him in the chariot. nine heads in one of his two hands, and ten heads in the other hand. he shook them from him towards the hosts. so that this is the contest of a night to cuchulainn. then the women of connaught raised themselves on the hosts, and the women were climbing on the men to look at cuchulainn's form. medb hid her face and dare not show her face, but was under the shield-shelter for fear of cuchulainn. so that it is hence dubthach doeltenga of ulster said: 'if it is the riastartha, there will be corpses of men therefrom,' etc. [note: rhetoric, fifty-four lines.] fiacha fialdana from imraith (?) came to speak with the son of his mother's sister, mane andoe his name. docha mac magach went with mane andoe: dubthach doeltenga of ulster came with fiacha fialdana from imraith (?). docha threw a spear at fiacha, so that it went into dubthach. then dubthach threw a spear at mane, so that it went into docha. the mothers of dubthach and docha were two sisters. hence is imroll belaig euin. [note: i.e. the random throw of belach euin.] (or imroll belaig euin is from this: the hosts go to belach euin, their two troops wait there. diarmait mac conchobair comes from the north from ulster. 'let a horseman go from you,' said diarmait, 'that mane may come to speak with me with one man, and i will come with one man to meet him.' they meet then. i have come,' said diarmait, 'from conchobar, who says to medb and ailill, that they let the cows go, and make whole all that they have done there, and bring the bull [note: i.e. bring findbennach to meet the dun of cualnge.] from the west hither to the bull, that they may meet, because medb has promised it.' 'i will go and tell them,' said mane. he tells this then to medb and ailill. 'this cannot be got of medb,' said mane. 'let us exchange arms then, 'said diarmait, 'if you think it better.' 'i am content,' said mane. each of them throws his spear at the other, so that the two of them die, and so that the name of this place is imroll belaig euin.) their forces rush at each other: there fall three twenties of them in each of the forces. hence is ard-in-dirma. [note: the height of the troop.] ailill's folk put his king's crown on tamun the fool; ailill dare not have it on himself. cuchulainn threw a stone at him at ath tamuin, so that his head broke thereby. hence is ath tamuin and tuga-im-tamun. [note: i.e., covering about tamun.] then oengus, son of oenlam the fair, a bold warrior of ulster, turned all the host at moda loga (that is the same as lugmod) as far as ath da ferta: he did not let them go past, and he pelted them with stones, and the learned say ---before till they should go under the sword at emain macha, if it had been in single combat that they had come against him. fair-play was broken on him, and they slew him in an unequal fight. 'let some one come from you against me,' said cuchulainn at ath da ferta. 'it will not be i, it will not be i,' said every one from his place. 'a scapegoat is not owed from my race, and if it were owed, it would not be i whom they would give in his stead for a scapegoat.' then fergus mac roich was asked to go against him. he refuses to go against his foster-son cuchulainn. wine was given to him, and he was greatly intoxicated, and he was asked about going to the combat. he goes forth then since they were urgently imploring him. then cuchulainn said: 'it is with my security that you come against me, o friend fergus,' said he, 'with no sword in its place.' for ailill had stolen it, as we said before. 'i do not care at all,' said fergus; 'though there were a sword there, it would not be plied on you. give way to me, o cuchulainn,' said fergus. 'you will give way to me in return then,' said cuchulainn. 'even so,' said fergus. then cuchulainn fled back before fergus as far as grellach doluid, that fergus might give way to him on the day of the battle. then cuchulainn sprang in to grellach doluid. 'have you his head, o fergus?' said every one. 'no,' said fergus, 'it is not like a tryst. he who is there is too lively for me. till my turn comes round again, i will not go.' then they go past him, and take camp at crich ross. then ferchu, an exile, who was in exile against ailill, hears them. he comes to meet cuchulainn. thirteen men was his number. cuchulainn kills ferchu's warriors. their thirteen stones are there. medb sent mand of muresc, son of daire, of the domnandach, to fight cuchulainn. own brothers were lie and fer diad, and two sons of one father. this mand was a man fierce and excessive in eating and sleeping, a man ill-tongued, foul-mouthed, like dubthach doeltenga of ulster. he was a man strong, active, with strength of limb like munremar mac gerrcind; a fiery warrior like triscod trenfer of conchobar's house. 'i will go, and i unarmed, and i will grind him between my hands, for i deem it no honour or dignity to ply weapons on a beardless wild boy such as he.' he went then to seek cuchulainn. he and his charioteer were there on the plain watching the host. 'one man coming towards us,' said loeg to cuchulainn. 'what kind of man?' said cuchulainn. 'a man black, dark, strong, bull-like, and he unarmed.' 'let him come past you,' said cuchulainn. he came to them therewith. to fight against you have i come,' said mand. then they begin to wrestle for a long time, and mand overthrows cuchulainn thrice, so that the charioteer urged him. 'if you had a strife for the hero's portion in emain,' said he, 'you would be mighty over the warriors of emain!' his hero's rage comes, and his warrior's fury rises, so that he overthrew mand against the pillar, so that he falls in pieces. hence is mag mand achta, that is, mand echta, that is, mand's death there. [from the yellow book of lecan] on the morrow medb sent twenty-seven men to cuchulainn's bog. fuilcarnn is the name of the bog, on this side of fer diad's ford. they threw their twenty-nine spears at him at once; i.e. gaile-dana with his twenty-seven sons and his sister's son, glas mac delgna. when then they all stretched out their hands to their swords, fiacha mac fir-febe came after them out of the camp. he gave a leap from his chariot when he saw all their hands against cuchulainn, and he strikes off the arms of the twenty-nine of them. then cuchulainn said: 'what you have done i deem help at the nick of time (?).' 'this little,' said fiacha, 'is a breach of compact for us ulstermen. if any of them reaches the camp, we will go with our cantred under the point of the sword.' 'i swear, etc., since i have emitted my breath,' said cuchulainn, 'not a man of them shall reach it alive.' cuchulainn slew then the twenty-nine men and the two sons of ficce with them, two bold warriors of ulster who came to ply their might on the host. this is that deed on the foray, when they went to the battle with cuchulainn. _this is the combat of fer diad and cuchulainn_ then they considered what man among them would be fit to ward off cuchulainn. the four provinces of ireland spoke, and confirmed, and discussed, whom it would be fitting to send to the ford against cuchulainn. all said that it was the horn-skin from irrus domnand, the weight that is not supported, the battle-stone of doom, his own dear and ardent foster-brother. for cuchulainn had not a feat that he did not possess, except it were the gae bolga alone; and they thought he could avoid it, and defend himself against it, because of the horn about him, so that neither arms nor many edges pierced it. medb sent messengers to bring fer diad. fer diad did not come with those messengers. medb sent poets and bards and satirists [note: ir. _aes glantha gemaidi_, the folk who brought blotches on the cheeks (i.e. by their lampoons).] to him, that they might satirise him and mock him and put him to ridicule, that he might not find a place for his head in the world, until he should come to the tent of medb and ailill on the foray. fer diad came with those messengers, for the fear of their bringing shame on him. findabair, the daughter of medb and ailill, was put on one side of him: it is findabair who put her hand on every goblet and on every cup of fer diad; it is she who gave him three kisses at every cup of them; it is she who distributed apples right frequent over the bosom of his tunic. this is what she said: that he, fer diad, was her darling and her chosen wooer of the men of the world. when fer diad was satisfied and happy and very joyful, medb said: 'alé! o fer diad, do you know why you have been summoned into this tent?' 'i do not know indeed,' said fer diad; 'except that the nobles of the men of ireland are there. what is there less fitting for me to be there than for any other good warrior?' 'it is not that indeed,' said medb; 'but to give you a chariot worth three sevens of cumals [see previous note about _cumal_.] and the equipment of twelve men, and the equal of mag murthemne from the arable land of mag ai; and that you should be in cruachan always, and wine to be poured for you there; and freedom of your descendants and of your race for ever without tribute or tax; my leaf-shaped brooch of gold to be given to you, in which there are ten score ounces and ten score half-ounces, and ten score _crosach_ and ten score quarters; findabair, my daughter and ailill's daughter, for your one wife, and you shall get my love if you need it over and above.' 'he does not need it,' said every, one: 'great are the rewards and gifts.' 'that is true,' said fer diad, 'they are great; and though they are great, o medb, it is with you yourself they will be left, rather than that i should go against my foster-brother to battle.' 'o men,' said she, said medb (through the right way of division and setting by the ears), 'true is the word that cuchulainn spoke,' as if she had not heard fer diad at all. 'what word is this, o medb?' said fer diad. 'he said indeed,' said she, 'that he would not think it too much that you should fall by him as the first fruits of his prowess in the province to which he should come.' 'to say that was not fitting for him. for it is not weariness or cowardice that he has ever known in me, day nor night. i swear, etc., [note: the usual oath, 'by the god by whom my people swear,' understood.] that i will be the first man who will come to-morrow morning to the ford of combat.' 'may victory and blessing come to you,' said medb. 'and i think it better that weariness or cowardice be found with you, because of friendship beyond my own men (?). why is it more fitting for him to seek the good of ulster because his mother was of them, than for you to seek the good of the province of connaught, because you are the son of a king of connaught?' it is thus they were binding their covenants and their compact, and they made a song there: 'thou shalt have a reward,' etc. there was a wonderful warrior of ulster who witnessed that bargaining, and that was fergus mac roich. fergus came to his tent. 'woe is me! the deed that is done to-morrow morning!' said fergus. 'what deed is that?' said the folk in the tent. 'my good fosterling cuchulainn to be slain.' 'good lack! who makes that boast?' 'an easy question: his own dear ardent foster-brother, fer diad mac damain. why do ye not win my blessing?' said fergus; 'and let one of you go with a warning and with compassion to cuchulainn, if perchance he would leave the ford to-morrow morning.' 'on our conscience,' said they, 'though it were you yourself who were on the ford of combat, we would not come as far as [the ford] to seek you.' 'good, my lad,' said fergus; 'get our horses for us and yoke the chariot.' the lad arose and got the horses and yoked the chariot. they came forth to the ford of combat where cuchulainn was. 'one chariot coming hither towards us, o cuchulainn!' said loeg. for it is thus the lad was, with his back towards his lord. he used to win every other game of _brandub_ [_brandub_, the name of a game; probably, like _fidchill_ and _buanfach_, of the nature of chess or draughts.] and of chess-playing from his master: the sentinel and watchman on the four quarters of ireland over and above that. 'what kind of chariot then?' said cuchulainn. 'a chariot like a huge royal fort, with its yolcs strong golden, with its great panel(?) of copper, with its shafts of bronze, with its body thin-framed (?), dry-framed (?), feat-high, scythed, sword-fair (?), of a champion, on two horses, swift, stout(?), well-yoked (?), ---(?). one royal warrior, wide-eyed, was the combatant of the chariot. a beard curly, forked, on him, so that it reached over the soft lower part of his soft shirt, so that it would shelter (?) fifty warriors to be under the heavy ---of the warrior's beard, on a day of storm and rain. a round shield, white, variegated, many-coloured on him, with three chains ----, so that there would be room from front to back for four troops of ten men behind the leather of the shield which is upon the ---of the warrior. a sword, long, hard-edged, red-broad in the sheath, woven and twisted of white silver, over the skin of the bold-in-battle. a spear, strong, three-ridged, with a winding and with bands of white silver all white by him across the chariot.' 'not hard the recognition,' said cuchulainn; 'my friend fergus comes there, with a warning and with compassion to me before all the four provinces.' fergus reached them and sprang from his chariot and cuchulainn greeted him. 'welcome your coming, o my friend, o fergus,' said cuchulainn. 'i believe your welcome,' said fergus. 'you may believe it,' said cuchulainn; 'if a flock of birds come to the plain, you shall have a duck with half of another; if fish come to the estuaries, you shall have a salmon with half of another; a sprig of watercress, and a sprig of marshwort, and a sprig of seaweed, and a drink of cold sandy water after it.' 'that portion is that of an outlaw,' said fergus. 'that is true, it is an outlaw's portion that i have,' said cuchulainn, 'for i have been from the monday after samain to this time, and i have not gone for a night's entertainment, through strongly obstructing the men of ireland on the cattle-foray of cualnge at this time.' 'if it were for this we came,' said fergus, 'we should have thought it the better to leave it; and it is not for this that we have come.' 'why else have you come to me?' said cuchulainn. 'to tell you the warrior who comes against you in battle and combat to-morrow morning,' said he. 'let us find it out and let us hear it from you then,' said cuchulainn. 'your own foster-brother, fer diad mac damain.' 'on our word, we think it not best that it should be he we come to meet,'said cuchulainn, 'and it is not for fear of him but for the greatness of our love for him.' 'it is fitting to fear him,' said fergus, 'for he has a skin of horn in battle against a man, so that neither weapon nor edge will pierce it.' 'do not say that at all,' said cuchulainn, 'for i swear the oath that my people swear, that every joint and every limb of him will be as pliant as a pliant rush in the midst of a stream under the point of my sword, if he shows himself once to me on the ford.' it is thus they were speaking, and they made a song: 'o cuchulainn, a bright meeting,' etc. after that, 'why have you come, o my friend, o fergus?' said cuchulainn. 'that is my purpose,' said fergus. 'good luck and profit,' said cuchulainn, 'that no other of the men of ireland has come for this purpose, unless the four provinces of ireland all met at one time. i think nothing of a warning before a single warrior.' then fergus went to his tent. as regards the charioteer and cuchulainn: 'what shall you do to-night?' said loeg. 'what indeed?' said cuchulainn. 'it is thus that fer diad will come to seek you, with new beauty of plaiting and haircutting, and washing and bathing, and the four provinces of ireland with him to look at the fight. it would please me if you went to the place where you will get the same adorning for yourself, to the place where is emer of the beautiful hair, to cairthend of cluan da dam in sliab fuait.' so cuchulainn went thither that night, and spent the night with his own wife. his adventures from this time are not discussed here now. as to fer diad, he came to his tent; it was gloomy and weary that fer diad's tent-servants were that night. they thought it certain that where the two pillars of the battle of the world should meet, that both would fall; or the issue of it would be, that it would be their own lord who would fall there. for it was not easy to fight with cuchulainn on the foray. there were great cares on fer diad's mind that night, so that they did not let him sleep. one of his great anxieties was that he should let pass from him all the treasures that had been offered to him, and the maiden, by reason of combat with one man. if he did not fight with that one man, he must fight with the six warriors on the morrow. his care that was greater than this was that if he should show himself once on the ford to cuchulainn, he was certain that he himself would not have power of his head or life thereafter; and fer diad arose early on the morrow. 'good, my lad,' said he, 'get our horses for us, and harness the chariot.' 'on our word,' said the servant, 'we think it not greater praise to go this journey than not to go it.' he was talking with his charioteer, and he made this little song, inciting his charioteer: 'let us go to this meeting,' etc. the servant got the horses and yoked the chariot, and they went forth from the camp. 'my lad,' said fer diad, 'it is not fitting that we make our journey without farewell to the men of ireland. turn the horses and the chariot for us towards the men of ireland.' the servant turned the horses and the chariot thrice towards the men of ireland. ... 'does ailill sleep now?' said medb. 'not at all,' said ailill. 'do you hear your new son-in-law greeting you?' 'is that what he is doing?' said ailill. 'it is indeed,' said medb, 'and i swear by what my people swear, the man who makes the greeting yonder will not come back to you on the same feet.' 'nevertheless we have profited by(?) the good marriage connection with him,' said ailill; 'provided cuchulainn fell by him, i should not care though they both fell. but we should think it better for fer diad to escape.' fer diad came to the ford of combat. 'look, my lad,' said fer diad; 'is cuchulainn on the ford?' 'he is not, indeed,' said the servant. 'look well for us,' said fer diad. 'cuchulainn is not a little speck in hiding where he would be,' said the lad. 'it is true, o boy, until to-day cuchulainn has not heard of the coming of a good warrior [note: gloss incorporated in the text: 'or a good man.'] against him on the cattle foray of cualnge, and when he has heard of it he has left the ford.' 'a great pity to slander cuchulainn in his absence! for do you remember how when you gave battle to german garbglas above the edge-borders of the tyrrhene sea, you left your sword with the hosts, and it was cuchulainn who killed a hundred warriors in reaching it, and he brought it to you; and do you remember where we were that night?' said the lad. 'i do not know it,' said fer diad. 'at the house of scathach's steward,' said the lad, 'and you went ---and haughtily before us into the house first. the churl gave you a blow with the three-pointed flesh-hook in the small of your back, so that it threw you out over the door like a shot. cuchulainn came into the house and gave the churl a blow with his sword, so that it made two pieces of him. it was i who was steward for you while you were in that place. if only for that day, you should not say that you are a better warrior than cuchulainn.' 'what you have done is wrong,' said fer diad, 'for i would not have come to seek the combat if you had said it to me at first. why do you not pull the cushions [note: ll _fortchai_. ybl has _feirtsi_, 'shafts.'] of the chariot under my side and my skin-cover under my head, so that i might sleep now?' 'alas!' said the lad, 'it is the sleep of a fey man before deer and hounds here.' 'what, o lad, are you not fit to keep watch and ward for me?' 'i am fit,' said the lad; 'unless men come in clouds or in mist to seek you, they will not come at all from east or west to seek you without warning and observation.' the cushions [note: ll _fortchai_. ybl has _feirtsi_, 'shafts.'] of his chariot were pulled under his side and the skin under his head. and yet he could not sleep a little. as to cuchulainn it is set forth: 'good, o my friend, o loeg, take the horses and yoke the chariot; if fer diad is waiting for us, he is thinking it long.' the boy rose and took the horses and yoked the chariot. cuchulainn stepped into his chariot and they came on to the ford. as to fer diad's servant, he had not long to watch till he heard the creaking of the chariot coming towards them. he took to waking his master, and made a song: 'i hear a chariot,' etc. (this is the description of cuchulainn's chariot: one of the three chief chariots of the narration on the cattle foray of cualnge.) 'how do you see cuchulainn?' said he, said fer diad, to his charioteer. 'i see,' said he, 'the chariot broad above, fine, of white crystal, with a yoke of gold with ---(?), with great panels of copper, with shafts of bronze, with tyres of white metal, with its body thin-framed (?) dry-framed (?), feat-high, sword-fair (?), of a champion, on which there would be room for seven arms fit for a lord (?). a fair seat for its lord; so that this chariot, cuchulainn's chariot, would reach with the speed of a swallow or of a wild deer, over the level land of mag slebe. that is the speed and ---which they attain, for it is towards us they go. this chariot is at hand on two horses small-headed, small-round, small-end, pointed, ----, red-breasted, ----, easy to recognise, well-yoked. ... one of the two horses is supple(?), swift-leaping, great of strength, great of foot, great of length, ----. the other horse is curly-maned, slender-footed, narrow-footed, heeled, ----. two wheels dark, black. a pole of metal adorned with red enamel, of a fair colour. two bridles golden, inlaid. there is a man with fair curly hair, broad cut (?), in the front of this chariot. there is round him a blue mantle, red-purple. a spear with wings (?), and it red, furious; in his clenched fist, red-flaming. the appearance of three heads of hair on him, i.e. dark hair against the skin of his head, hair blood-red in the middle, a crown of gold covers the third hair. 'a fair arrangement of the hair so that it makes three circles round about his shoulders down behind. i think it like gold thread, after its colour has been made over the edge of the anvil; or like the yellow of bees on which the sun shines in a summer day, is the shining of each single hair of his hair. seven toes on each of his feet, and seven fingers on each of his hands, and the shining of a very great fire round his eye, ---(?) and the hoofs of his horses; a hero's ---in his hands. 'the charioteer of the chariot is worthy of him in his presence: curly hair very black has he, broad-cut along his head. a cowl-dress is on him open; two very fine golden leaf-shaped switches in his hand, and a light grey mantle round him, and a goad of white silver in his hand, plying the goad on the horses, whichever way the champion of great deeds goes who was at hand in the chariot. 'he is veteran of his land (?): he and his servant think little of ireland.' 'go, o fellow,' said he, said fer diad; 'you praise too much altogether; and prepare the arms in the ford against his coming.' 'if i turned my face backwards, it seems to me the chariot would come through the back of my neck.' 'o fellow,' said he, 'too greatly do you praise cuchulainn, for it is not a reward for praising he has given you'; and it is thus he was giving his description, and he said: 'the help is timely,' etc. it is not long afterwards that they met in the middle of the ford, and fer diad said to cuchulainn: 'whence come you, o cua?' said he (for [note: an interpolation.] _cua_ was the name of squinting in old gaelic; and there were seven pupils in cuchulainn's royal eye, and two of these pupils were squinting, and the ugliness of it is no greater than its beauty on him; and if there had been a greater blemish on cuchulainn, it is that with which he reproached him; and he was proclaiming it); and he made a song, and cuchulainn answered: 'whence art thou come, o hound,' etc. then cuchulainn said to his charioteer that he was to taunt him when he was overcome, and that he was to praise him when he was victorious, in the combat against fer diad. then the charioteer said to him: 'the man goes over thee as the tail over a cat; he washes thee as foam is washed in water, he squeezes (?) thee as a loving mother her son.' then they took to the ford-play. scathach's ---(?)came to them both. fer diad and cuchulainn performed marvellous feats. cuchulainn went and leapt into fer diad's shield; fer diad hurled him from him thrice into the ford; so that the charioteer taunted him again ---and he swelled like breath in a bag. his size increased till he was greater than fer diad. 'give heed to the _gae bolga_,' said the charioteer; he sent it to him along the stream. cuchulainn seized it between his toes, and wielded it on fer diad, into his body's armour. it advances like one spear, so that it became twenty-four points. then fer diad turned the shield below. cuchulainn thrust at him with the spear over the shield, so that it broke the shaft of his ribs and went through fer diad's heart. [_fer diad_:] 'strong is the ash from thy right hand! the ---rib breaks, my heart is blood. well hast thou given battle! i fall, o hound.' [_cuchulainn_:] 'alas, o golden brooch, o fer diad! ----, o fair strong striker! thy hand was victorious; our dear foster brotherhood, o delight of the eyes! thy shield with the rim of gold, thy sword was dear. thy ring of white silver round thy noble arm. thy chess-playing was worthy of a great man. thy cheek fair-purple; thy yellow curling hair was great, it was a fair treasure. thy soft folded girdle which used to be about thy side. that thou shouldst fall at cuchulainn's hands was sad, o calf! thy shield did not suffice which used to be for service. our combat with thee is not fitting, our horses and our tumult. fair was the great hero! every host used to be defeated and put under foot. alas, o golden brooch, o fer diad!' *** this is the long warning of sualtaim while the things that we have related were done, suallaith heard from rath sualtaim in mag murthemne the vexing of his son cuchulainn against twelve sons of gaile dana [note: ll, 'twenty-seven sons of calatin.' in the story as related earlier in ybl it is 'gaile dana with his twenty-seven sons.'] and his sister's son. it is then that sualtaim said: 'is it heaven that bursts, or the sea over its boundaries, or earth that is destroyed, or the shout of my son against odds?' then he comes to his son. cuchulainn was displeased that he should come to him. 'though he were slain, i should not have strength to avenge him. go to the ulstermen,' says cuchulainn, 'and let them give battle to the warriors at once; if they do not give it, they will not be avenged for ever.' when his father saw him, there was not in his chariot as much as the point of a rush would cover that was not pierced. his left hand which the shield protected, twenty wounds were in it. sualtaim came over to emain and shouted to the ulstermen: 'men are being slain, women carried off, cows driven away!' his first shout was from the side of the court; his second from the side of the fortress; the third shout was on the mound of the hostages in emain. no one answered; it was the practice of the ulstermen that none of them should speak except to conchobar; and conchobar did not speak before the three druids. 'who takes them, who steals them, who carries them off?' said the druid. ailill mac mata carries them off and steals them and takes them, through the guidance of fergus mac roich,' said sualtaim. 'your people have been enslaved as far as dun sobairce; their cows and their women and their cattle have been taken. cuchulainn did not let them into mag murthemne and into crich rois; three months of winter then, bent branches of hazel held together his dress upon him. dry wisps are on his wounds. he has been wounded so that he has been parted joint from joint.' 'fitting,' said the druid, 'were the death of the man who has spurred on the king.' 'it is fitting for him,' said conchobar. 'it is fitting for him,' said the ulstermen. 'true is what sualtaim says,' said conchobar; 'from the monday night of samain to the monday night of candlemas he has been in this foray.' sualtaim gave a leap out thereupon. he did not think sufficient the answer that he had. he falls on his shield, so that the engraved edge of the shield cut his head off. his head is brought back into emain into the house on the shield, and the head says the same word (though some say that he was asleep on the stone, and that he fell thence on to his shield in awaking). 'too great was this shout,' said conchobar. 'the sea before them, the heaven over their tops, the earth under their feet. i will bring every cow into its milking-yard, and every woman and every boy from their house, after the victory in battle.' then conchobar struck his hand on his son, findchad fer m-bend. hence he is so called because there were horns of silver on him. the muster of the ulstermen 'arise, o findchad, i will send thee to deda,' etc. [note: rhetoric, followed by a long list of names.] it was not, difficult for findchad to take his message, for they were, the whole province of conchobar, every chief of them, awaiting conchobar; every one was then east and north and west of emain. when they were there, they all came till they were at emain macha. when they were there, they beard the uprising of conchobar in emain. they went past emain southwards after the host. their first march then was from emain to irard cuillend. 'what are you waiting for here?' said conchobar. 'waiting for your sons,' said the host. 'they have gone with thirty with them to temair to seek eirc, son of coirpre niafer and fedelm noicride. till their two cantreds should come to us, we will not go from this place.' 'i will not remain indeed,' said conchobar, 'till the men of ireland know that i have awaked from the sickness in which i was.' conchobar and celtchar went with three fifties of chariots, and they brought eight twenties of heads from ath airthir midi; hence is ath fene. they were there watching the host. and eight twenties of women, that was their share of the spoil. their heads were brought there, and conchobar and celtchar sent them to the camp. it is there that celtchar said to conchobar: [note: rhetoric.] (or it was cuscraid, the stammerer of macha, son of conchobar, sang this song the night before the battle, after the song which loegaire buadach had sung, to wit, 'arise, kings of macha,' etc., and it would be in the camp it was sung.) it was in this night that the vision happened to dubthach doeltenga of ulster, when the hosts were on garach and irgarach. it is there that he said in his sleep: the vision of dubthach 'a wonder of a morning,' [note: rhetoric.] a wonder of a time, when hosts will be confused, kings will be turned, necks will break, the sun will grow red, three hosts will be routed by the track of a host about conchobar. they will strive for their women, they will chase their flocks in fight on the morning, heroes will be smitten, dogs will be checked (?), horses will be pressed (?), -------, ---will drip, from the assemblies of great peoples.' therewith they awoke through their sleep (?). the nemain threw the host into confusion there; a hundred men of them died. there is silence there then; when they heard cormac condlongas again (or it is ailill mac matae in the camp who sang this): 'the time of ailill. great his truce, the truce of cuillend,' etc. [note: rhetoric.] the march of the companies while these things were being done, the connaughtman determined to send messengers by the counsel of ailill and medb and fergus, to look at the ulstermen, to see whether they had reached the plain. it is there that ailill said: 'go, o mac roth,' said ailill, 'and look for us whether the men are all(?) in the plain of meath in which we are. if they have not come, i have carried off their spoil and their cows; let them give battle to me, if it suits them. i will not await them here any longer.' then mac roth went to look at and to watch the plain. he came back to ailill and medb and fergus the first time then that mac roth looked from the circuit of sliab fuait, he saw that all the wild beast came out of the wood, so that they were all in the plain. 'the second time,' said mac roth, 'that i surveyed the plain, i saw a heavy mist that filled the glens and the valleys, so that it made the hills between them like islands in lakes. then there appeared to me sparks of fire out of this great mist: there appeared to me a variegation of every different colour in the world. i saw then lightning and din and thunder and a great wind that almost took my hair from my head, and threw me on my back; and yet the wind of the day was not great.' 'what is it yonder, o fergus?' said ailill. 'say what it means.' [note: literally, 'is like.'] 'that is not hard; this is what it means,' said fergus: 'this is the ulstermen after coming out of their sickness. it is they who have come into the wood. the throng and the greatness and the violence of the heroes, it is that which has shaken the wood; it is before them that the wild beasts have fled into the plain. the heavy mist that you saw, which filled the valleys, was the breath of those warriors, which filled the glens so that it made the hills between them like islands in lakes. the lightning and the sparks of fire and the many colours that you saw, o mac roth,' said fergus, 'are the eyes of the warriors from their heads which have shone to you like sparks of fire. the thunder and the din and the noise(?) that you heard, was the whistling of the swords and of the ivory-hilted weapons, the clatter of arms, the creaking of the chariots, the beating of the hoofs of the horses, the strength of the warriors, the roar of the fighting-men, the noise of the soldiers, the great rage and anger and fierceness of the heroes going in madness to the battle, for the greatness of the rage and of the fury(?). they would think they would not reach it at all,' said fergus. 'we will await them,' said ailill; 'we have warriors for them.' 'you will need that,' said fergus, 'for there will not be found in all ireland, nor in the west of the world, from greece and scythia westward to the orkneys and to the pillars of hercules and to the tower of bregon and to the island of gades, any one who shall endure the ulstermen in their fury and in their rage,' said fergus. then mac roth went again to look at the march of the men of ulster, so that he was in their camp at slemon midi, and fergus; and he told them certain tidings, and mac roth said in describing them: 'a great company has come, of great fury, mighty, fierce, to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'i think there is a cantred therein; they took off their clothing at once, and dug a mound of sods under their leader's seat. a warrior fair and tall and long and high, beautiful, the fairest of kings his form, in the front of the company. hair white-yellow has he, and it curly, neat, bushy (?), ridged, reaching to the hollow of his shoulders. a tunic curly, purple, folded round him; a brooch excellent, of red-gold, in his cloak on his breast; eyes very grey, very fair, in his head; a face proper, purple, has he, and it narrow below and broad above: a beard forked, very curly, gold-yellow he has; a shirt white, hooded, with red ornamentation, round about him; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders; a white shield with rivets(?) of gold; abroad grey spear-head on a slender shaft in his hand. the fairest of the princes of the world his march, both in host and rage and form and dress, both in face and terror and battle and triumph, both in prowess and horror and dignity. 'another company has come there,' said mac roth; 'it is next to the other in number and quarrelling and dress and terror and horror. a fair warrior, heroic, is in the front of this company. a green cloak folded round him; a brooch of gold over his arm; hair curly and yellow: an ivory-hilted sword with a hilt of ivory at his left. a shirt with ---to his knee; a wound-giving shield with engraved edge; the candle of a palace [note: i.e. spear.] in his hand; a ring of silver about it, and it runs round along the shaft forward to the point, and again it runs to the grip. and that troop sat down on the left hand of the leader of the first troop, and it is thus they sat down, with their knees to the ground, and the rims of their shields against their chins. and i thought there was stammering in the speech of the great fierce warrior who is the leader of that company. 'another company has come there,' said mac roth; 'its appearance is vaster than a cantred; a man brave, difficult, fair, with broad head, before it. hair dark and curly on him; a beard long, with slender points, forked, has he; a cloak dark-grey, ----, folded round him; a leaf-shaped brooch of white metal over his breast; a white, hooded shirt to his knees; a hero's shield with rivets on him; a sword of white silver about his waist; a five-pointed spear in his hand. he sat down in front of the leader of the first troop.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'i know indeed,' said fergus, 'those companies. conchobar, king of a province of ireland, it is he who has sat down on the mound of sods. sencha mac aililla, the orator of ulster, it is he who has sat down before him. cuscraid, the stammerer of macha, son of conchobar, it is he who has sat down at his father's side. it is the custom for the spear that is in his hand in sport yonder before victory ---before or after. that is a goodly folk for wounding, for essaying every conflict, that has come,' said fergus. 'they will find men to speak with them here,' said medb. 'i swear by the god by whom my people swear,' said fergus, 'there has not been born in ireland hitherto a man who would check the host of ulster.' [note: conjectural; the line is corrupt in the ms.] 'another company has come there,' said mac roth. 'greater than a cantred its number. a great warrior, brave, with horror and terror, and he mighty, fiery-faced, before it. hair dark, greyish on him, and it smooth-thin on his forehead. around shield with engraved edge on him, a spear five-pointed in his hand, a forked javelin beside him; a hard sword on the back of his head; a purple cloak folded round him; a brooch of gold on his arm; a shirt, white, hooded, to his knee.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the putting of a hand on strife; he is a battle champion for fight; he is judgment against enemies who has come there; that is, eogan mac durthacht, king of fermoy is that,' said fergus. 'another company has come, great, fierce, to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'they have put their clothing behind them. truly, it is strong, dark, they have come to the hill; heavy is the terror and great the horror which they have put upon themselves; terrible the clash of arms that they made in marching. a man thick of head, brave, like a champion, before it; and he horrible, hideous; hair light, grey on him; eyes yellow, great, in his head; a cloak yellow, with white ---round about him. a shield, wound-giving, with engraved edge, on him, without; a broad spear, a javelin with a drop of blood along the shaft; and a spear its match with the blood of enemies along its edge in his hand; a great wound-giving sword on his shoulders.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'the man who has so come does not avoid battle or combat or strife: that is, loegaire the victorious, mac connaid meic ilech, from immail from the north,' said fergus. 'another great company has come to slemon midi to the hill,' said mac roth. 'a warrior thick-necked, fleshy, fair, before that company. hair black and curly on him, and he purple, blue-faced; eyes grey, shining, in his head; a cloak grey, lordly (?), about him; a brooch of white silver therein; a black shield with a boss of bronze on it; a spear, covered with eyes, with ---(?), in his hand; a shirt, braided(?), with red ornamentation, about him; a sword with a hilt of ivory over his dress outside.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the putting of a hand on a skirmish; he is the wave of a great sea that drowns little streams; he is a man of three shouts; he is the judgment of ---of enemies, who so comes,' said fergus; 'that is, munremar mac gerrcind, from moduirn in the north.' 'another great company has come there to the hill to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a company very fair, very beautiful, both in number and strife and raiment. it is fiercely that they make for the hill; the clatter of arms which they raised in going on their course shook the host. a warrior fair, excellent, before the company. most beautiful of men his form, both in hair and eyes and fear, both in raiment and form and voice and whiteness, both in dignity and size and beauty, both in weapons and knowledge and adornment, both in equipment and armour and fitness, both in honour and wisdom and race.' 'this is his description,' said fergus; 'he is the brightness of fire, the fair man, fedlimid, who so comes there; he is fierceness of warriors, he is the wave of a storm that drowns, he is might that is not endured, with triumphs out of other territories after destruction (?) of his foes; that is fedlimid ------there.' 'another company has come there to the hill to slemon midi,' said mac roth, 'which is not fewer than a warlike cantred (?). a warrior great, brave, grey, proper, ----, in front of it. hair black, curly, on him; round eyes, grey(?), very high, in his head. a man bull-like, strong, rough; a grey cloak about him, with a brooch of silver on his arm; a shirt white, hooded, round him; a sword at his side; a red shield with a hard boss of silver on it. a spear with three rivets, broad, in his hand.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the fierce glow of wrath, he is a shaft (?) of every battle; he is the victory of every combat, who has so come there, connad mac mornai from callann,' said fergus. 'another company has come to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'it is the march of an army for greatness. the leader who is in front of that company, not common is a warrior fairer both in form and attire and equipment. hair bushy, red-yellow, on him; a face proper, purple, well-proportioned; a face narrow below, broad above; lips red, thin; teeth shining, pearly; a voice clear, ringing; a face fair, purple, shapely; most beautiful of the forms of men; a purple cloak folded round him; a brooch with full adornment of gold, over his white breast; a bent shield with many-coloured rivets, with a boss of silver, at his left; a long spear, grey-edged, with a sharp javelin for attack in his hand; a sword gold-hilted, of gold, on his back; a hooded shirt with red ornamentation about him.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'we know, indeed,' said fergus. 'he is half of a combat truly,' said he, 'who so comes there; he is a fence(?) of battle, he is fierce rage of a bloodhound; rochad mac fathemain from bridamae, your son-in-law, is that, who wedded your daughter yonder, that is, findabair.' 'another company has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a warrior with great calves, stout, with great thighs, big, in front of that company. each of his limbs is almost as thick as a man. truly, he is a man down to the ground,' said he. 'hair black on him; a face full of wounds, purple, has he; an eye parti-coloured, very high, in his head; a man glorious, dexterous, thus, with horror and terror, who has a wonderful apparel, both raiment and weapons and appearance and splendour and dress; he raises himself with the prowess of a warrior, with achievements of ----, with the pride of wilfulness, with a going through battle to rout overwhelming numbers, with wrath upon foes, with a marching on many hostile countries without protection. in truth, mightily have they come on their course into slemon midi.' 'he was ---of valour and of prowess, in sooth,' said fergus; 'he was of ---pride(?) and of haughtiness, he was ---of strength and dignity, ---then of armies and hosts of my own foster-brother, fergus mac leiti, king of line, point of battle of the north of ireland.' 'another company, great, fierce, has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'strife before it, strange dresses on them. a warrior fair, beautiful, before it; gift of every form, both hair and eye and whiteness, both size and strife and fitness; five chains of gold on him; a green cloak folded about him; a brooch of gold in the cloak over his arm; a shirt white, hooded, about him; the tower of a palace in his hand; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders.' 'fiery is the bearing of the champion of combat who has so come there,' said fergus. 'amorgene, son of eccet salach the smith, from buais in the north is that.' 'another company has come there, to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. it is a drowning for size, it is a fire for splendour, it is a pin for sharpness, it is a battalion for number, it is a rock for greatness, it is ---for might, it is a judgment for its ----, it is thunder for pride. a warrior rough-visaged, terrible, in front of this company, and he great-bellied, large-lipped; rough hair, a grey beard on him; and he great-nosed, red-limbed; a dark cloak about him, an iron spike on his cloak; a round shield with an engraved edge on him; a rough shirt, braided(?), about him; a great grey spear in his hand, and thirty rivets therein; a sword of seven charges of metal on his shoulders. all the host rose before him, and he overthrew multitudes of the battalion about him in going to the hill.' 'he is a head of strife who has so come,' said fergus; 'he is a half of battle, he is a warrior for valour, he is a wave of a storm which drowns, he is a sea over boundaries; that is, celtchar mac uithechair from dunlethglaisi in the north.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a warrior of one whiteness in front of it, all white, both hair and eyelashes and beard and equipment; a shield with a boss of gold on him, and a sword with a hilt of ivory, and a broad spear with rings in his hand. very heroic has his march come.' 'dear is the bear, strong-striking, who has so come,' said fergus; 'the bear of great deeds against enemies, who breaks men, feradach find fechtnach from the grove of sliab fuait in the north is that.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a hideous warrior in front of it, and he great-bellied, large-lipped; his lips as big as the lips of a horse; hair dark, curly, on him, and he himself ----, broad-headed, long-handed; a cloak black, hairy, about him; a chain of copper over it, a dark grey buckler over his left hand; a spear with chains in his right hand; a long sword on his shoulders.' 'he is a lion red-handed, fierce of ----, who so comes,' said fergus. 'he is high of deeds, great in battle, rough; he is a raging on the land who is unendurable, eirrgi horse-lipped from bri eirge in the north,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'two warriors, fair, both alike, in front of it; yellow hair on them; two white shields with rivets of silver; they are of equal age. they lift up their feet and set them down together; it is not their manner for either of them to lift up his feet without the other. two heroes, two splendid flames, two points of battle, two warriors, two pillars of fight, two dragons, two fires, two battle-soldiers, two champions of combat, two rods (?), two bold ones, two pets of ulster about the king.' 'who are those, o fergus?' said ailill. 'fiachna and fiacha, two sons of conchobar mac nessa, two darlings of the north of ireland,' said fergus. 'another company has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'three warriors, fiery, noble, blue-faced, before it. three heads of hair very yellow have they; three cloaks of one colour in folds about them; three brooches of gold over their arms, three shirts ---with red ornamentation round about them; three shields alike have they; three swords gold-hilted on their shoulders; three spears, broad-grey, in their right hands. they are of equal age.' 'three glorious champions of coba, three of great deeds of midluachair, three princes of roth, three veterans of the east of sliab fuait,' said fergus; 'the three sons of fiachna are these, after the bull; that is, rus and dairi and imchath,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a man lively, fiery, before it; eyes very red, of a champion, in his head; a many-coloured cloak about him; a chain of silver thereon; a grey shield on his left; [a sword] with a hilt of silver at his side; a spear, excellent with a striking of cruelty in his vengeful right hand; a shirt white, hooded, to his knee. a company very red, with wounds, about him, and he himself wounded and bleeding.' 'that,' said fergus, 'is the bold one, unsparing; that is the tearing; it is the boar [note: ir. _rop_, said to be a beast that wounds or gores.] of combat, it is the mad bull; it is the victorious one of baile; it is the warlike one of the gap; it is the champion of colptha, the door of war of the north of ireland: that is, menn mac salchalca from corann. to avenge his wounds upon you has that man come,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth, 'and they very heroic, mutually willing. a warrior grey, great, broad, tall, before it. hair dark, curly, on him; a cloak red, woollen, about him; a shirt excellent; a brooch of gold over his arms in his cloak; a sword, excellent, with hilt of white silver on his left; a red shield has he; a spear-head broad-grey on a fair shaft [note: conjecture; the irish is obscure.] of ash in his hand. 'a man of three strong blows who has so come,' said fergus; 'a man of three roads, a man of three highways, a man of three gifts, a man of three shouts, who breaks battles on enemies in another province: fergrae mac findchoime from corann is that.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'its appearance is greater than a cantred. a warrior white-breasted, very fair, before it; like to ailill yonder in size and beauty and equipment and raiment. a crown of gold above his head; a cloak excellent folded about him; a brooch of gold in the cloak on his breast; a shirt with red ornamentation round about him; a shield wound-giving with rims of gold; the pillar of a palace in his hand; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders.' 'it is a sea over rivers who has so come, truly,' said fergus; 'it is a fierce glow of fire; his rage towards foes is insupportable: furbaidi ferbend is that,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'very heroic, innumerable,' said mac roth; 'strange garments, various, about them, different from other companies. famously have they come, both in arms and raiment and dress. a great host and fierce is that company. a lad flame red before it; the most beautiful of the forms of men his form; ... a shield with white boss in his hand, the shield of gold and a rim of gold round it; a spear sharp, light, with in his hand; a cloak purple, fringed, folded about him; a brooch of silver in the cloak, on his breast; a shirt white, hooded, with red ornamentation, about him; a sword gold-hilted over his dress outside.' therewith fergus is silent. 'i do not know indeed,' said fergus, 'the like of this lad in ulster, except that i think it is the men of temair about a lad proper, wonderful, noble: with erc, son of coirpre niafer and of conchobar's daughter. they love not one another; ---without his father's leave has that man come, to help his grandfather. it is through the combat of that lad,' said fergus, 'that you will be defeated in the battle. that lad knows not terror nor fear at coming to you among them into the midst of your battalion. it would be like men that the warriors of the men of ulster will roar in saving the calf their heart, in striking the battle. there will come to them a feeling of kinship at seeing that lad in the great battle, striking the battle before them. there will be heard the rumble of conchobar's sword like the barking of a watch-dog in saving the lad. he will throw three walls of men about the battle in seeking the lad. it will be with the affection of kinsmen that the warriors of ulster will attack the countless host,' said fergus. 'i think it long,' said mac roth, 'to be recounting all that i have seen, but i have come meanwhile (?) with tidings to you.' 'you have brought it,' said fergus. 'conall cernach has not come with his great company,' said mac roth; 'the three sons of conchobar with their three cantreds have not come; cuchulainn too has not come there after his wounding in combat against odds. unless it is a warrior with one chariot,' said mac roth, 'i think it would be he who has come there. two horses ... under his chariot; they are long-tailed, broad-hoofed, broad above, narrow beneath, high-headed, great of curve, thin-mouthed, with distended nostrils. two wheels black, ----, with tyres even, smooth-running; the body very high, clattering; the tent ... therein; the pillars carved. the warrior in that chariot four-square, purple-faced; hair cropped short on the top, curly, very black has he, down to his shoulders; ... a cloak red about him; four thirties of feat-poles (?) in each of his two arms. a sword gold-hilted on his left; shield and spear has he, and twenty-four javelins about him on strings and thongs. the charioteer in front of him; the back of the charioteer's head towards the horses, the reins grasped by his toes (?) before him; the chessboard spread between them, half the men of yellow gold, the others of white metal; the _buanfach_ [note: the name of a game; probably in the nature of chess or draughts.] under their thighs. nine feats were performed by him on high.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'an easy question,' said fergus. 'cuchulainn mac sualtaim from the _sid_, [note: cuchulainn was of fairy birth.] and loeg mac riangabra his charioteer. cuchulainn is that,' said fergus. 'many hundreds and thousands,' said mac roth, 'have reached the camp of ulster. many heroes and champions and fighting-men have come with a race to the assembly. many companies,' said mac roth, 'were reaching the same camp, of those who had not reached or come to the camp when i came; only,' said mac roth, 'my eye did not rest on hill or height of all that my eye reached from fer diad's ford to slemon midi, but upon horse and man.' 'you saw the household of a man truly,' said fergus. then conchobar went with his hosts and took camp near the others. conchobar asked for a truce till sunrise on the morrow from ailill, and ailill ratified it for the men of ireland and for the exiles, and conchobar ratified it for the ulstermen; and then conchobar's tents are pitched. the ground between them is a space, ----, bare, and the ulstermen came to it before sunset. then said the morrigan in the twilight between the two camps: [note: rhetoric, seven lines] *** now cuchulainn was at fedan chollna near them. food was brought to him by the hospitallers that night; and they used to come to speak to him by day. he did not kill any of them to the left of fer diad's ford. 'here is a small herd from the camp from the west to the camp to the east,' said the charioteer to cuchulainn. 'here is a troop of lads to meet them.' 'those lads shall come,' said cuchulainn. 'the little herd shall come over the plain. he who will not ---(?) shall come to help the lads.' this was done then as cuchulainn had said. 'how do the lads of ulster fight the battle?' 'like men,' said the charioteer. 'it would be a vow for them, to fall in rescuing their herds,' said cuchulainn. 'and now?' 'the beardless striplings are fighting now,' said the charioteer. 'has a bright cloud come over the sun yet?' 'not so,' said the charioteer. 'alas, that i had not strength to go to them!' said cuchulainn. 'there will be contest without that to-day,' said the charioteer, 'at sunrise; haughty folk fight the battle now,' said the charioteer, 'save that there are not kings there, for they are still asleep.' then fachna said when the sun rose (or it is conchobar who sang in his sleep): 'arise, kings of macha, of mighty deeds, noble household, grind your weapons, fight the battle,' etc. 'who has sung this?' said every one. 'conchobar mac nessa,' said they; 'or fachtna sang it,' said they. 'sleep, sleep, save your sentinels.' loegaire the victorious was heard: 'arise, kings of macha,' etc. 'who has sung that?' said every one. 'loegaire the victorious, son of connad buide mac ilech. sleep, sleep, except your sentinels.' 'wait for it still,' said conchobar, 'till sunrise ... in the glens and heights of ireland.' when cuchulainn saw the kings from the east taking their crowns on their heads and marshalling (?) the companies, cuchulainn said to his charioteer that he should awaken the ulstermen; and the charioteer said (or it is amairgen, son of eccet the poet, who said): 'arise, kings of macha,' etc. 'i have awakened them,' said the charioteer. 'thus have they come to the battle, quite naked, except for their arms only. he, the door of whose tent is east, has come out through it west.' 'it is a "goodly help of necessity,"' said cuchulainn. the adventures of the ulstermen are not followed up here now. as for the men of ireland, badb and net's wife and nemain [note: nemain was the wife of net, the war-god, according to cormac.] called upon them that night on garach and irgarach, so that a hundred warriors of them died for terror; that was not the most peaceful of nights for them. the muster of the men of ireland here ailill mac matae sang that night before the battle, and said: 'arise, arise,' etc [note: here follows a list of names.] as for cuchulainn, this is what is told here now. 'look for us, o my friend, o loeg, how the ulstermen are fighting the battle now.' 'like men,' said the charioteer. 'though i were to go with my chariot, and oen the charioteer of conall cernach with his chariot, so that we should go from one wing to the other along the dense mass, neither hoofs nor tyres shall go through it.' 'that is the stuff for a great battle,' said cuchulainn. 'nothing must be done in the battle,' said cuchulainn to his charioteer, 'that we shall not know from you.' 'that will be true, so far as i can,' said the charioteer. 'the place where the warriors are now from the west,' said the charioteer, 'they make a breach in the battle eastwards. their first defence from the east, they make a breach in the battle westwards.' 'alas! that i am not whole!' said cuchulainn; 'my breach would be manifest like the rest.' then came the men of the bodyguard to the ford of the hosting. fine the way in which the fightingmen came to the battle on garach and irgarach. then came the nine chariot-men of the champions of iruath, three before them on foot. not more slowly did they come than the chariot-men. medb did not let them into the battle, for dragging ailill out of the battle if it is him they should defeat, or for killing conchobar if it is he who should be defeated. then his charioteer told cuchulainn that ailill and medb were asking fergus to go into the battle; and they said to him that it was only right for him to do it, for they had done him much kindness on his exile. 'if i had my sword indeed,' said fergus, 'the heads of men over shields would be more numerous with me than hailstones in the mire to which come the horses of a king after they have broken into the land (?).' then fergus made this oath: 'i swear, etc., there would be broken by me cheeks of men from their necks, necks of men with their (lower) arms, arms of men with their elbows, elbows of men with their arms, arms of men with their fists, fists of men with their fingers, fingers of men with their nails, [nails] of men with their skull-roofs, skull-roofs of men with their middle, middle of men with their thighs, thighs of men with their knees, knees of men with their calves, calves of men with their feet, feet of men with their toes, toes of men with their nails. i would make their necks whizz (?) ---as a bee would move to and fro on a day of beauty (?).' then ailill said to his charioteer: 'let there come to me the sword which destroys skin. i swear by the god by whom my people swear, if you have its bloom worse to-day than on the day on which i gave it to you in the hillside in the boundary of ulster, though the men of ireland were protecting you from me, they should not protect you.' then his sword was brought to fergus, and ailill said: 'take thy sword,' etc. [note: rhetoric, twelve lines.] 'a pity for thee to fall on the field of battle, thick [with slain ?],' said fergus to ailill. the badb and net's wife and the nemain called on them that night on garach and irgarach; so that a hundred warriors of them died for terror. that was not the quietest of nights for them. then fergus takes his arms and turns into the battle, and clears a gap of a hundred in the battle with his sword in his two hands. then medb took the arms of fergus (?) and rushed into the battle, and she was victorious thrice, so that she was driven back by force of arms. 'i do not know,' said conchobar to his retinue who were round him, 'before whom has the battle been broken against us from the north. do you maintain the fight here, that i may go against him.' 'we will hold the place in which we are,' said the warriors, 'unless the earth bursts beneath us, or the heaven upon us from above, so that we shall break therefrom.' then conchobar came against fergus. he lifts his shield against him, i.e. conchobar's shield ochan, with three horns of gold on it, and four ----of gold over it. fergus strikes three blows on it, so that even the rim of his shield over his head did not touch him. 'who of the ulstermen holds the shield?' said fergus. 'a man who is better than you,' said conchobar; 'and he has brought you into exile into the dwellings of wolves and foxes, and he will repel you to-day in combat in the presence of the men of ireland.' fergus aimed on him a blow of vengeance with his two hands on conchobar, so that the point of the sword touched the ground behind him. cormac condlongas put his hands upon him, and closed his two hands about his arm. '----, o my friend, o fergus,' said cormac. '... hostile is the friendship; right is your enmity; your compact has been destroyed; evil are the blows that you strike, o friend, o fergus,' said cormac. 'whom shall i smite?' said fergus. 'smite the three hills ... in some other direction over them; turn your hand; smite about you on every side, and have no consideration for them. take thought for the honour of ulster: what has not been lost shall not be lost, if it be not lost through you to-day (?). 'go in some other direction, o conchobar,' said cormac to his father; 'this man will not put out his rage on the ulstermen any more here.' fergus turned away. he slew a hundred warriors of ulster in the first combat with the sword. he met conall cernach. 'too great rage is that,' said conall cernach, 'on people and race, for a wanton.' 'what shall i do, o warriors?' said he. 'smite the hills across them and the champions (?) round them,' said conall cernach. fergus smote the hills then, so that he struck the three maela [note: i.e. flat-topped hills.] of meath with his three blows. cuchulainn heard the blows then that fergus gave on the hills or on the shield of conchobar himself. 'who strikes the three strong blows, great and distant?' said cuchulainn. ... then loeg answered and said: 'the choice of men, fergus mac roich the very bold, smites them.' ... then cuchulainn said: 'unloose quickly the hazeltwigs; blood covers men, play of swords will be made, men will be spent therefrom.' then his dry wisps spring from him on high, as far as ---goes; and his hazel-twigs spring off, till they were in mag tuag in connaught ... and he smote the head of each of the two handmaidens against the other, so that each of them was grey from the brain of the other. they came from medb for pretended lamentation over him, that his wounds might burst forth on him; and to say that the ulstermen had been defeated, and that fergus had fallen in opposing the battle, since cuchulainn's coming into the battle had been prevented. the contortion came on him, and twenty-seven skin-tunics were given to him, that used to be about him under strings and thongs when he went into battle; and he takes his chariot on his back with its body and its two tyres, and he made for fergus round about the battle. 'turn hither, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; and he did not answer till the third time. 'i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear,' said he, 'i will wash thee as foam [note: reading with l.l.] (?) is washed in a pool, i will go over thee as the tail goes over a cat, i will smite thee as a fond mother smites her son.' 'which of the men of ireland speaks thus to me?' said fergus. 'cuchulainn mac sualtaim, sister's son to conchobar,' said cuchulainn; 'and avoid me,' said he. 'i have promised even that,' said fergus. 'your promise falls due, then,' said cuchulainn. 'good,' said fergus, '(you avoided me), when you are pierced with wounds.' then fergus went away with his cantred; the leinstermen go and the munstermen; and they left in the battle nine cantreds of medb's and ailill's and their seven sons. in the middle of the day it is that cuchulainn came into the battle; when the sun came into the leaves of the wood, it is then that he defeated the last company, so that there remained of the chariot only a handful of the ribs about the body, and a handful of the shafts about the wheel. cuchulainn overtook medb then when he went into the battle. 'protect me,' said medb. 'though i should slay thee with a slaying, it were lawful for me,' said cuchulainn. then he protected her, because he used not to slay women. he convoyed them westward, till they passed ath luain. then he stopped. he struck three blows with his sword on the stone in ath luain. their name is the maelana [note: i.e., flat-topped hills] of ath luain. when the battle was broken, then said medb to fergus: 'faults and meet here to-day, o fergus,' said she. 'it is customary,' said fergus, 'to every herd which a mare precedes; ... after a woman who has ill consulted their interest.' they take away the bull then in that morning of the battle, so that he met the white-horned at tarbga in mag ai; i.e. tarbguba or tarbgleo.[note: 'bull-sorrow or bull-fight,' etymological explanation of tarbga.] the first name of that hill was roi dedond. every one who escaped in the fight was intent on nothing but beholding the two bulls fighting. bricriu poison-tongue was in the west in his sadness after fergus had broken his head with his draughtmen [note: this story is told in the _echtra nerai_. (see _revue celtique_, vol. x. p. 227.)] he came with the rest then to see the combat of the bulls. the two bulls went in fighting over bricriu, so that he died therefrom. that is the death of bricriu. the foot of the dun of cualnge lighted on the horn of the other. for a day and a night he did not draw his foot towards him, till fergus incited him and plied a rod along his body. ''twere no good luck,' said fergus, 'that this conbative old calf which has been brought here should leave the honour of clan and race; and on both sides men have been left dead through you.' therewith he drew his foot to him so that his leg (?) was broken, and the horn sprang from the other and was in the mountain by him. it was sliab n-adarca [note: mountain of the horn.] afterwards. he carried them then a journey of a day and a night, till he lighted in the loch which is by cruachan, and he came to cruachan out of it with the loin and the shoulder-blade and the liver of the other on his horns. then the hosts came to kill him. fergus did not allow it, but that he should go where he pleased. he came then to his land and drank a draught in findlethe on coming. it is there that he left the shoulderblade of the other. findlethe afterwards was the name of the land. he drank another draught in ath luain; he left the loin of the other there: hence is ath luain. he gave forth his roar on iraird chuillend; it was heard through all the province. he drank a draught in tromma. there the liver of the other fell from his horns; hence is tromma. he came to etan tairb. [note: the bull's forehead.] he put his forehead against the hill at ath da ferta; hence is etan tairb in mag murthemne. then he went on the road of midluachair in cuib. there he used to be with the milkless cow of dairi, and he made a trench there. hence is gort buraig. [note: the field of the trench.] then he went till he died between ulster and iveagh at druim tairb. druim tairb is the name of that place. ailill and medb made peace with the ulstermen and with cuchulainn. for seven years after there was no wounding of men between them. findabair stayed with cuchulainn, and the connaughtmen went to their country, and the ulstermen to emain macha with their great triumph. finit, amen. the hero of the humber; or, the history of the late mr. john ellerthorpe (foreman of the humber dock gates, hull), being a record of remarkable incidents in his career as a sailor; his conversion and christian usefulness; his unequalled skill as a swimmer, and his exploits on the water, with a minute account of his deeds of daring in saving, with his own hands, on separate and distinct occasions, upwards of forty persons from death by drowning: together with an account of his last affliction, death, etc. by the rev. henry woodcock, author of 'popery unmasked,' 'wonders of grace,' etc. 'my tale is simple and of humble birth, a tribute of respect to real worth.' second edition. london: _s. w. partridge, 9, paternoster row; wesleyan book room, 66, paternoster row; primitive methodist book room, 6, sutton street, commercial road, e.; and of all booksellers._ 1880. alford: j. horner, printer, market-place. to the seamen of great britain, to whose skill, courage, and endurance, england owes much of her greatness, this volume-containing a record of the character and deeds of one, who, for upwards of thirty years, braved the hardships and perils of a sailor's life, and whose gallantry and humanity won for him the title of 'the hero of the humber,' is most respectfully dedicated, with the earnest prayer that they may embrace that benign religion which not only rescued the 'hero' from the evils in which he had so long indulged, and enriched him with the graces of the christian character, but also gave a brighter glow and greater energy to that courage, gallantry, and humanity by which he had been long distinguished. the author. preface to the second edition. mr. gladstone, in a recent lecture thus defines a hero: quoting latham's definition of a hero,--'a man eminent for bravery,' he said he was not satisfied with that, because bravery might be mere animal bravery. carlyle had described napoleon i. as a great hero. 'now he (mr. gladstone) was not prepared to admit that napoleon was a hero. he was certainly one of the most extraordinary men ever born. there was more power concentrated in that brain than in any brain probably born for centuries. that he was a great man in the sense of being a man of transcendent power, there was no doubt; but his life was tainted with selfishness from beginning to end, and he was not ready to admit that a man whose life was fundamentally tainted with selfishness was a hero. a greater hero than napoleon was the captain of a ship which was run down in the channel three or four years ago, who, when the ship was quivering, and the water was gurgling round her, and the boats had been lowered to save such persons as could be saved, stood by the bulwark with a pistol in his hand and threatened to shoot dead the first man who endeavoured to get into the boat until every woman and child was provided for. his true idea of a hero was this:--a hero was a man who must have ends beyond himself, in casting himself as it were out of himself, and must pursue these ends by means which were honourable, the lawful means, otherwise he might degenerate into a wild enthusiast. he must do this without distortion or disturbance of his nature as a man, because there were cases of men who were heroes in great part, but who were so excessively given to certain ideas and objects of their own, that they lost all the proportion of their nature. there were other heroes, who, by giving undue prominence to one idea, lost the just proportion of things, and became simply men of one idea. a man to be a hero must pursue ends beyond himself by legitimate means. he must pursue them as a man, not as a dreamer. not to give to some one idea disproportionate weight which it did not deserve, and forget everything else which belonged to the perfection and excellence of human nature. if he did all this he was a hero, even if he had not very great powers; and if he had great powers, then he was a consummate hero.' now, if we cannot claim for the late mr. ellerthorpe 'great powers' of intellect, we are quite sure that all who read the following pages will agree that the title bestowed upon him by his grateful and admiring townsman,--'the hero of the humber,' was well and richly deserved. he was a 'hero,' though he lived in a humble cottage. he was a man of heroic sacrifices; his services were of the noblest kind; he sought the highest welfare of his fellow-creatures with an energy never surpassed; his generous and impulsive nature found its highest happiness in promoting the welfare of others. he is held as a benefactor in the fond recollection of thousands of his fellow countrymen, and he received rewards far more valuable and satisfying than those which his queen and government bestowed upon him: more lasting than the gorgeous pageantries and emblazoned escutcheon that reward the hero of a hundred battles. the warrior's deeds may win an earthly fame, but deeds by mercy wrought, are heaven's own register within: not one shall be forgot. the scene of most of his gallant exploits in rescuing human lives was 'the river humber;' hence the title given him by a large gathering of his fellow townsmen. the noble river humber, upon which the town of kingston-upon-hull is seated, may be considered the thames of the midland and northern counties of england. it divides the east riding of yorkshire from lincolnshire, during the whole of its course, and is formed by the junction of the ouse and the trent. at bromfleet, it receives the little river foulness, and rolling its vast collection of waters eastward, in a stream enlarged to between two and three miles in breadth, washes the town of hull, where it receives the river of the same name. opposite to hedon and paul, which are a few miles below hull, the humber widens into a vast estuary, six or seven miles in breadth, and then directs it's course past great grimsby to the german ocean, which it enters at spurn head. no other river system collects waters from so many important towns as this famous stream. 'the humber,' says a recent writer, 'resembling the trunk of a vast tree spreading its branches in every direction, commands, by the numerous rivers which it receives, the navigation and trade of a very extensive and commercial part of england.' the humber, between its banks, occupies an area of about one hundred and twenty-five square miles. the rivers ouse and trent which, united, form the humber, receive the waters of the aire, calder, don, old don, derwent, idle, sheaf, soar, nidd, yore, wharfe, &c., &c. from the waters of this far-famed river--the humber--mr. ellerthorpe rescued thirty-one human beings from drowning. for the rapid sale of 3,500 copies of the 'life of the hero,' the author thanks a generous public. a series of articles extracted from the first edition appeared in '_home words_.' an illustrated article also appears in cassell's '_heroes of britain in peace and war_,' in which the writer speaks of the present biography as '_that very interesting book in which the history of ellerthorpe's life is told_. (p. 1. 2. part xi.) the author trusts that the present edition, containing an account of '_the hero's_' last affliction, death, funeral, etc., will render the work additionally interesting. the writer. _53, leonard street, hull, aug. 4th, 1880._ contents. chap. page i. his wicked and reckless career 1 ii. his conversion and inner experience 6 iii. his christian labours 14 iv. his staunch teetotalism 22 v. his bold adventures on the water 31 vi. his method of rescuing the drowning 44 vii. his gallant and humane conduct in rescuing the drowning 51 viii. the honoured hero 95 ix. his general character, death, etc. 116 x. the hero's funeral 122 the hero of the humber. chapter i. his wicked and reckless career as a sailor. the fine old town of hull has many institutions of which it is deservedly proud. there is the charter house, a monument of practical piety of the days of old. there is the literary and philosophical institute, with its large and valuable library, and its fine museum, each of which is most handsomely housed. there is the new town hall, the work of one of the town's most gifted sons. there is the tall column erected in honour of wilberforce, in the days when the representatives of the law were expected to obey the laws, and when the cultivation of a philanthropic feeling towards the negro had not gone out of fashion. there is the trinity house, with its magnificent endowments, which have for more than five centuries blessed the mariners of the port, and which is now represented by alms-houses, so numerous, so large, so externally beautiful, and so trimly kept as to be both morally and architecturally among the noblest ornaments of the town. there is the port of hull society, with its chapel, its reading-rooms, its orphanage, its seaman's mission, all most generously supported. there is that leaven of ancient pride which also may be classed among the institutions of the place, and which operates in giving to a population by no means wealthy a habit of respectability, and a look for the most part well-to-do. but among none of these will be found the institution to which we are about to refer. the institution that we are to-day concerned to honour is compact, is self-supporting, is eminently philanthropic, has done more good with very limited means than any other, and is so much an object of legitimate pride, that we have pleasure in making this unique institution more generally known. a life-saving institution that has in the course of a few brief years rescued about fifty people from drowning, and that has done so without expectation of reward, deserves to be named, and the name of this institution is simply that of a comparatively poor man--john ellerthorpe, dock gatekeeper, at the entrance of the humber dock.' such was the strain in which the _sheffield daily telegraph_, in a leader (march 17th, 1868), spoke of the character and doings of him whom a grateful and admiring town entitled 'the hero of the humber.' [sidenote: his nativity.] he was born at rawcliffe, a small village near snaith, yorkshire, in the year 1806. his ancestors, as far as we can trace them, were all connected with the sea-faring life. his father, john ellerthorpe, owned a 'keel' which sailed between rawcliffe and the large towns in the west riding of yorkshire, and john often accompanied him during his voyages. his mother was a woman of great practical sagacity and unquestionable honesty and piety, and from her young john extended many of the high and noble qualities which distinguished his career. much of his childhood, however, was passed at the 'anchor' public house, rawcliffe, kept by his paternal grandmother, where he early became an adept swearer and a lover of the pot, and for upwards of forty years--to use his own language--he was 'a drunken blackard.' when john was ten years of age his father removed to hessle. about this time john heard that flaming evangelist, the rev. william clowes, preach near the 'old pump' at hessle, and he retired from the service with good resolutions in his breast, and sought a place of prayer. soon after he heard the famous john oxtoby preach, and he says, 'i was truly converted under his sermon, and for sometime i enjoyed a clear sense of forgiveness.' his mother's heart rejoiced at the change; but from his father, who was an habitual drunkard, he met with much opposition and persecution, and being but a boy, and possessing a very impressionable nature, john soon joined his former corrupt associates and cast off, for upwards of thirty years, even the form of prayer. [sidenote: his love of the water.] ellerthorpe was born with a passion for salt water. he was reared on the banks of a well navigated river, the humber, and, in his boyhood, he liked not only to be on the water, but _in_ it. he also accompanied his father on his voyages, and when left at home he spent most of his time in the company of seamen, and these awakened within him the tastes and ambition of a sailor. he went to sea when fourteen years of age, and for three years sailed in the brig 'jubilee,' then trading between hull and london. the next four years were spent under captain knill, on board of the 'westmoreland,' trading between hull and quebec, america. afterwards he spent several years in the baltic trade. when the steam packet, 'magna charter,' began to run between hull and new holland, john became a sailor on board and afterwards captain of the vessel. he next became captain of a steamer that ran between barton and hessle. he then sailed in a vessel between hull and america. in 1845, he entered the service of the hull dock company, in which situation he remained up to the time of his death. [sidenote: his youthful career.] fifty years ago our sailors, generally speaking, were a grossly wicked class of men. a kind of special license to indulge in all kinds of sin was given to the rough and hardy men whose occupation was on the mighty deep. landsmen, while comfortably seated round a winter's fire, listening to the storm and tempest raging without, were not only struck with amazement at the courage and endurance of sailors in exposing themselves to the elements, but, influenced by their imagination, magnified the energy and bravery that overcame them. peasants gazed with wild astonishment on the village lad returned, after a few years absence, a veritable 'jack tar.' the credulity of these delighted listeners tempted jack to 'spin his yarns,' and tell his tales of nautical adventures, real or imaginary. hence, he was everywhere greeted with a genial and profuse hospitality. the best seat in the house, the choicest drinks in the cellar, were for jack. our ships of commerce, like so many shuttles, were rapidly weaving together the nations of the earth in friendly amity. besides, a romantic sentiment and feeling, generated to a great extent by the victories which our invincible navy had won during the battles of the nile, and perpetuated by nelson's sublime battle cry, 'england expects every man to do his duty,' helped to swell the tide of sympathy in favour of the sailor. under these circumstances jack became society's indulged and favoured guest; and yet he remained outside of it. 'peculiarities incident to his profession, and which ought to have been corrected by education and religion, became essential features of character in the public mind. a sailor became an idea--a valuable menial in the service of the commonwealth, but as strange and as eccentric in his habits as the walk of some amphibious animal, or web-footed aquatic on land. to purchase a score of watches, and to fry them in a pan with beer, to charter half a dozen coaches, and invite foot passengers inside, while he 'kept on deck,' or in any way to scatter his hard earnings of a twelvemonth in as many hours, was considered frolicsome thoughtlessness, which was more than compensated by the throwing away of a purse of gold to some poor woman in distress.' land-sharks and crimps beset the young sailor in every sea port; low music halls and dingy taverns and beer shops presented their attractions; and there the 'jolly tars' used to swallow their poisonous compounds, and roar out ribald songs, and dance their clumsy fandangoes with the vilest outcasts of society. 'it is a necessary evil,' said some; 'it is the very nature of sailors, poor fellows.' while the thoughtless multitude were immensely tickled with jack's mad antics and drolleries. generous to a fault to all who were in need, jack's motto was:- while there's a shot in the locker, a messmate to bless, it shall always be shared with a friend in distress. [sidenote: jack's frolics.] amid such scenes as these our friend spent a great portion of his youth and early manhood. the loud ribald laugh, the vile jest and song, the midnight uproar, the drunken row, the flaunting dress and impudent gestures of the wretched women who frequent our places of ungodly resort--amid such scenes as these, did he waste his precious time and squander away much of his hard earned money. but though a wild and reckless sailor, his warm and generous heart was ever impelling him to noble and generous deeds. if he sometimes became the dupe of the designing, and indulged in the wild revelry of passion, at other times he gave way to an outburst of generosity bordering on prodigality, relieving the necessities of the poor, or true to the instincts of a british tar standing up to redress the wrongs of the oppressed. chapter ii. his conversion and inner experience. when far away on the sea, and while mingling in all the dissipated scenes of a sailor's life, john would sometimes think of those youthful days--the only sunny spot in his life's journey--when he 'walked in the fear of the lord and in the comfort of the holy ghost.' serious thoughts would rise in his mind, and those seeds of truth, sown in his heart while listening to clowes and oxtoby, and which for years seemed dead, would be quickened into life. he had often wished to hear mr. clowes once more, and on seeing a placard announcing that he would preach at the opening of the nile street chapel, hull (1846), he hastened home, and, sailor-like, quaintly observed to his wife, 'why that old clowes is living and is going to preach. let's go and hear him.' on the following sunday he went to the chapel, but it was so many years since he had been to god's house that he now felt ashamed to enter, and for some minutes he wandered to and fro in front of the chapel. at length he ventured to go in, and sat down in a small pew just within the door. his mind was deeply affected, and ere the next sabbath he had taken two sittings in the chapel. about this time, the rev. charles jones, of blessed memory, began his career as a missionary in hull. he laboured during six years, with great success, in the streets, and yards, and alleys of the town; and scores now in heaven and hundreds on their way thither, will, through all eternity, have to bless god that primitive methodism ever sent him to labour in hull. the rev. g. lamb prepared the people to receive him by styling him 'a bundle of love.' john went to hear him, and charmed by his preaching and allured by the grace of god, his religious feelings were deepened. soon after this, and through the labours of mr. lamb, he obtained peace with god, and i have heard him say at our lovefeasts, 'jones knocked me down, but it was mr. lamb that picked me up.' [sidenote: his serious impressions.] [sidenote: his conversion.] being invited by two christian friends to attend a class meeting on the following sabbath morning, he went. as he sat in that old room in west street chapel, a thousand gloomy thoughts and fearful apprehensions crossed his mind, and casting many a glance towards the door, he '_felt as though he must dart out_.' but when mr. john sissons, the leader of the class, said, with his usual kind smile and sympathizing look:--'i'm glad to see you,' and then proceeded to give him suitable council and encouragement, john's heart melted and his eyes filled with tears; and, on being invited to repeat his visit on the following sabbath, he at once consented. one of the friends who had accompanied him to the class, said, 'now god has sown the seed of grace in your heart and the enemy will try to sow tares, but if you resist the devil he will flee from you,' and scarcely had john left the room _ere the battle began_. 'oh, what a fool' he thought, 'i was to promise to go again,' and when he got home he said to his wife, 'i've been to class, and what is worse, i have promised to go again, and i dar'nt run off.' mrs. ellerthorpe, who had begun to watch with some interest her husband's struggles, wisely replied, 'go, for you cannot go to a better place, i intend to go to mr. jones' class.' all the next week john was in great perplexity, thinking, 'what can i say if i go? if i tell them the same tale i told them last week they will say i've got it off by memory.' on the following sabbath morning he was in the street half resolved not to go to class, when he thought, 'did'nt my friend say the devil would tempt me and that i was to resist him? perhaps it is the devil that is filling me with these distressing feelings, but i'll resist him,' and, suiting his action to his words, in a moment, john was seen darting along the street at his utmost speed; nor did he pause till, panting and almost breathless, he found himself seated in the vestry of the primitive methodist chapel, west street. he regarded that meeting as the turning point in his spiritual history, and in the review it possessed to him an undying charm. there a full, free, and present salvation was pressed on the people. the short way to the cross was pointed out. the blessedness of the man whose transgression is forgiven was realized. the direct and comforting witness of the holy spirit to the believer's adoption was proclaimed. and there believers were exhorted to grow richer in holiness and riper in knowledge every day. and while john sat and listened to god's people, he felt a divine power coming down from on high, which he could not comprehend, but which, however, he joyously experienced. he joined the class that morning and continued a member five years, when he became connected with our new chapel in thornton street. around these services in the old vestry at west street, cluster the grateful recollections of many now living and of numbers who have crossed the flood. how often has that room resounded with the cries of penitent sinners and the songs of rejoicing believers? [sidenote: visits his mother.] soon after our friend had united himself with the people of god he paid a visit to his mother, who was in a dying state. it was on a beautiful sabbath morning, in the month of june, and while walking along the road, between hull and hessle, and reflecting on the change he had experienced, he was filled 'unutterably full of glory and of god.' that morning, with its glorious visitation of grace, he never forgot. his soul had new feelings; his heart throbbed with a new, a strange, a divine joy. peace reigned within and all around was lovely. the sun seemed to shine more brightly, and the birds sang a sweeter song. the flowers wore a more beautiful aspect, and the very grass seemed clothed in a more vivid green. it was like a little heaven below. 'as i walked along,' he says, 'i shouted, glory, glory, glory, and i am sure if a number of sinners had heard me they would have thought me mad.' but was he mad? did not the pentecostal converts 'eat their meat with gladness and singleness of heart, praising god?' did not the converts in samaria 'make great joy in the city?' did not the ethiopian eunuch, having obtained salvation, '_go on his way rejoicing_?' and charles wesley, four days after his conversion, thus expressed the joy he felt- i rode on the sky so happy was i, nor envied elijah his seat; my soul mounted higher in a chariot of fire as the moon was under my feet. and surely god's people have as much right to give utterance to their joy as the dupes of the devil have to give expression to theirs; and though the religion of the saviour requires us to surrender many pleasures and endure peculiar sorrows, yet it is, supremely, the religion of peace, joy, and overflowing gladness. mr. ellerthorpe was never guilty of proclaiming with the trumpet tongue of a pharisee, either what he felt or did, and though he kept a carefully written diary, extending over several volumes, and the reading of which has been a great spiritual treat to the writer of this book,--revealing, as it does, the secret of that intense earnestness, unbending integrity, active benevolence, and readiness for every good word and work by which our friend's religious career was distinguished,--yet of that diary our space will permit us to make but the briefest use. take the following extracts:-'january 1, 1852.--i, john ellerthorpe, here in the presence of my god, before whom i bow, covenant to live nearer to him than i have done in the year that has rolled into eternity.' [sidenote: his pious resolutions.] resolutions. '1st. i will bow three times a day in secret. 2nd. i will attend all the means of grace i can. 3rd. i will visit what sick i can. 4th. i will speak ill of no man. 5th. i will hear nothing against any man, especially those who belong to the same society. 6th. i will respect all men, especially christians. 7th. i will pray for a revival. 8th. i will guard against all bad language and ill feeling. 9th. i will never speak rash to any man. 10th. i will be honest in all my dealings. 11th. i will always speak the truth. 12th. i will never contract a debt without a proper prospect of payment. 13th. i will read three chapters of the bible daily. 14th. i will get all to class i possibly can. 15th. i will set a good example before all men, and especially my own family. 16th. i will not be bound for any man. 17th. i will not argue on scripture with any man. 18th. i will endeavour to improve my time. 19th. i will endeavour to be ready every moment. 20th. i will leave all my concerns in the hands of my god, for christ's sake. all these i intend, by the help of my god, diligently to perform.' that he always carried out these resolutions is more than his diary will warrant us to say. he sometimes missed the mark, and came short of his aim. he suffered from a certain hastiness of temper, and ruggedness of disposition, which, to use his own words, 'cost him a vast deal of watching and praying. but the lord,' he adds, 'has helped me in a wonderful manner, and i believe i shall reap if i faint not.' the following extracts from his diary will give some idea of his inner experience:-[sidenote: his diary.] [sidenote: his inner experience.] '_january 1850. 5th._--i feel the hardness of my heart and the littleness of my love, yet i am in a great degree able to deny myself to take up my cross to follow christ through good and evil report. _7th._--i feel that i am growing in grace and that i have more power over temptation, and over myself than i had some time since, but i want the witness of full sanctification. _8th._--what is now the state of my mind? do i now enjoy an interest in christ? am i a child of god? it is suggested by satan that i am guilty of many imperfections. i know it, but i know also if any man sin, etc. _feb. 18th._--i feel my heart is very hard and stubborn, that i am proud and haughty and very bad tempered, but god can, and i believe he will, break my rocky heart in pieces. _march 3rd._--this has been a good sabbath; we had a good prayer meeting at 7 o'clock, a profitable class at 9, in the school the lord was with us, and the preaching services were good. _4th._--last night i had a severe attack of my old complaint and suffered greatly for many hours, but i called upon god and he delivered me. _16th._--i am in good health, for which, and the use of my reason, and all the blessings that god bestows upon me, i am thankful. i am unworthy of the least of them. o that i could love god ten thousand times more than i do; for i feel ashamed of myself that i love him so little. _19th._--i am ill in body but well in soul. the flesh may give way, and the devil may tempt me, and all hell may rage, yet i believe the lord will bring me through. _april 6th._--to-day, in the haste of my temper, i called a man a liar. i now feel that i did wrong in the sight of god and man. i am deeply sorry. may god forgive me, and may i sin no more. _may 6th._--o god make me faithful and give to thy servant the spirit of prayer. like david, i want to resolve, "speak, lord; for thy servant heareth"; like mary i want to "ponder these things in my heart"; like the bereans i want to "search the scriptures" daily and in the spirit of samuel to say "speak, lord; for thy servant heareth." _may 20th._--i am at hessle feast, and thank god it has been a feast to my soul. i have attended one prayer meeting, two class meetings, three preaching services. bless god for these means of grace. my little book is full and i do trust i am a better man than when i began to write my diary. _29th._--my dear wife is very ill, but the lord does all things well. i know that he can, and believe that he will, raise her up again and that the affliction of her body will turn to the salvation of her soul. _30th._--i am now laid under fresh obligations to god. he has given me another son. may he be a goodly child, like moses, and grow up to be a man after god's own heart. _july 3rd._--this day the victoria docks have been opened. it has been a day of trial and conflict, for i ran the packet into a schooner and did â£10 damage. it was a trial of my faith, and through the assistance of god i overcame. _august 20th._--sunday.--how thankful i am that god has set one day in seven when we can get away from the wear and tear of life and worship him under our own vine and fig tree none daring to make us afraid. it is all of god's wisdom, and mercy, and goodness. _september 11th._--to-night i put my wife's name in the class book; may she be a very good member, such a one as thou wilt own when thou numbers up thy jewels. _october 11th._--i did wrong last night, being quite in a passion at my wife, which grieved her. lord help me and make me never differ with her again. _12th._--i feel much better in my soul this morning and will, from this day promise in the strength of grace, never to allow myself to be thrown into a passion again: it grieves my soul, it hurts my mind. 1851. _january 7th._--five years this day i entered my present situation under the hull dock company. then i was a drunken man, and a great swearer; but i thank god he has changed my heart. _18th._--this has been a very troublesome day to my soul. i have been busy with the sunken packet all day and hav'nt had time to get to prayer. my soul feels hungry. _29th._--this has been a day of prayerful anxiety about my son; he has passed his third examination, god having heard my prayer on his behalf. _feb. 24th._--i have been to the teetotal meeting and have taken the pledge, and i intend, through the grace of god, to keep as long as i live. _march 1st._--the rev. w. clowes is still alive. may the lord grant that he may not have much pain. while brother newton and i were in the room with him we felt it good; o the beauty of seeing a good man in a dying state. may i live the life of the righteous and may my last end be like mr. clowes's. _2nd._--the first thing i did this morning was to go and inquire after mr. clowes. i found that life was gone and that his happy spirit had taken its flight to heaven. _4th._--i am more than ever convinced of the great advantage we derive from entire sanctification; it preserves the soul in rest amid the toils of life; it gives satisfaction with every situation in which god pleases to place us.' [sidenote: his religious warmth.] sailor like mr. ellerthorpe was earnest, impulsive, enthusiastic, carrying a warm ardour and a brisk life into all his duties. he did not love a continual calm, rather he preferred the storm. he did not believe that because he was on board a good ship, had shaped his course aright, and had a compass never losing its polarity, that he would reach port whether he made sail or not, whether he minded his helm or not. he knew he couldn't _drift_ into port. with waterlogged and becalmed christians or those who heaved to crafts expecting to drift to the celestial heaven, he had but little fellowship. such he would cause to shake out reefs and have yards well trimmed to catch every breeze from the millenial trade winds. chapter iii. his christian labours. having become a subject of saving grace, mr. ellerthorpe felt an earnest desire that others should participate in the same benefit. nor was there any object so dear to his heart, and upon which he was at all times so ready to speak, as the conversion of sinners. he knew he did not possess the requisite ability for preaching the gospel, and therefore he sought out a humbler sphere in which his new-born zeal might spend its fires, and in that sphere he laboured, with remarkable success, during a quarter of a century. i now refer to the sick chamber. during all that time he took a deep interest in the sick and the dying; and for several years after his conversion, having much time at his disposal, he would often visit as many as twenty families per day, for weeks together. when cholera, that mysterious disease, with its sudden attacks, its racking cramps, its icy cold touch, and its almost resistless progress, swept through the town of hull, in the year 1849, leaving one thousand eight hundred and sixty,--or one in forty of the entire population,--_dead_, our friend was at any one's call, and never refused a single application; indeed, he was known as a great visitor of the sick and dying, and was often called in extreme cases to visit those from whom others shrank lest they should catch the contagion of the disorder. the scenes of suffering and distress which he witnessed baffled description. on one occasion he entered a room where a whole family were smitten with cholera. the wife lay cold and dead in one corner of the room, a child had just expired in another corner, and the husband and father was dying, amidst excruciating pain, in the middle of the room. john knelt down and spoke words of christian comfort to the man, who died in a few moments. [sidenote: he visits the sick.] for years, he was in the habit of accompanying mr. jones, when visiting the miserable garrets, obscure yards, and wretched alleys in hull, and was considered his 'right hand man,' in helping to hold open-air services. they often went in company to such wretched localities as 'leadenhall square,' then the greatest cesspool of vice in the port, and, well supplied with tracts, visited every house. during the intervals of public worship, on the sabbath day, when he might have been enjoying himself in the circle of his family, on a clean hearth, before a bright fire, he was pointing perishing sinners to the lamb of god. when our new and beautiful chapel in great thornton street was discovered to be on fire, at noon,--march, 1856, he was at the bedside of an afflicted woman, mrs. wright, speaking to her of her past sins and of a precious saviour. he had spent some time with her daily for months, but just at this time he became foreman of the victoria dock and could no longer pay his daily visits to the sick, which greatly distressed mrs. wright and others; but duty called him elsewhere and he obeyed its voice. he says, 'i durst not make any fresh engagements to visit the sick, and up to the present time (1867) i have rarely been able to visit, except on the sabbath day, all my time being required at the dock gates. but on the sabbath i love to get to the bedside of the sick; nothing does me more good; there my soul is often refreshed and my zeal invigorated.' those who are most averse to religion in life, generally desire to share its benefits in death. their religion is very much like the great coats which persons of delicate health wear in this changeable climate, and which they use in foul weather, but lay aside when it is fair. 'lord,' says david, 'in trouble they visited thee, they poured out a prayer when thy chastening was upon them.' [sidenote: accompanies mr. jones.] nor would we intimate that none truly repent of their sins and obtain forgiveness, under such circumstances. though late repentance is seldom genuine, yet, as mr. jay remarks, genuine repentance is never too late. god can pardon the sins of a century as easily as those of a day. our friend was the means, in the hand of god, of leading many, when worn by sickness and at the eleventh hour of life, to the lamb of god. his carefully kept diary records many such instances. we give one. he says, 'i remember one sunday coming from hessle with the rev. c. jones. our "hearts burned within us as we talked by the way," and when we got to coultam street, a number of well-dressed young men overheard our conversation, and began to shout after us and call us approbrious names. mr. j. talked with them, but to no purpose. four months after, mr. jones and myself went, as usual, to visit the inmates of the infirmary; mr. j. took one side and i the other, and when i came to a person who needed special counsel and advice, i used to call my friend to my aid. well, we met with a young man who burst into a flood of tears, and casting an imploring look towards mr. jones, he said, "o sir, do forgive me." "forgive you what?" said mr. j. "what have you done that you should ask _me_ to forgive you?" "sir," said he, "i am one of those young men who were so impertinent to you one sunday when you were returning from hessle; do forgive me, sir." "i freely forgive you," replied my friend, "you must ask god to forgive you, for it is against him you have sinned." we then prayed with him, and asked god to forgive him. he was suffering from a broken leg, and i often used to visit him after our first interview. he obtained pardon, and rejoiced in christ as his saviour. he was a brand plucked from the burning.' [sidenote: sick-bed repentance.] but mr. ellerthorpe also tells us that though he visited, during twenty-five years, hundreds of persons who cried aloud for mercy and professed to obtain forgiveness, on what was feared would be their dying beds, yet, he did not remember more than five or six who, on being restored to health, lived so as to prove their conversion genuine. the rest returned 'like the dog to its vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.' the sabbath-breaker forgot his vows and promises, and returned to his sunday pleasures. the swearer allowed his tongue to move as unchecked in insulting his maker as before. the drunkard thirsted for his intoxicating cups and returned to the scenes of his former dissipations; and the profligate, who avowed himself a 'changed man,' when health was fully restored, laughed at religion as a fancy, and hastened to wallow in the mire of pollution. he had scarcely a particle of faith in sick-bed repentances, but believed that in most instances they are solemn farces. deeply affecting and admonitory are some of the instances he records. he says, 'one night an engineer called me out of bed to visit his wife, who was attacked with cholera. while i was praying with _her_, _he_ was seized with the complaint. i visited them again the next day, when the woman died, but the husband, after a long affliction, recovered. he seemed sincerely penitent and made great promises of amendment. but, alas! like hundreds more whom i visited, he no sooner recovered, than he sought to shun me. at length he left the part of the town where he resided when i first visited him, as he said, "_to get out of my way_." but at that time, i visited in all parts of the town, and i often met him, and it used to pain me to see the dodges he had recourse to in order to avoid meeting me in the street.' he also records the case of a carter who resided in collier street. he was attacked with small pox, and was horrible to look at and infectious to come near, but being urged to visit him, 'i went to see him daily for a long time,' says john. 'one day when i called i found him, his wife, and child bathed in tears, for the doctor had just told them that the husband and father would be dead in a few hours. we all prayed that god would spare him, and spared he was. i continued to visit him thrice a day, and he promised that he would accompany me to class when he got better. at that time he seemed as though he would have had me ever with him. one day, as i entered his room, he said, "o mr. ellerthorpe, how i love to hear your foot coming into my house." i replied, 'do you think it possible that there will come a time when you will rather see any one's face and hear any one's voice than mine?' "never, no never," was his reply. i answered, 'well, i wish and hope it may never happen as i have supposed.' now, what followed? he went once to class, but i could not attend that night, having to watch the tide, and he never went again. i have seen him in the streets when he would go anywhere, or turn down any passage, rather than meet me; and when compelled to meet me he would look up at the sky or survey the chimney tops _rather_ than see me.' [sidenote: admonitory instances.] 'on one occasion, when visiting at the infirmary, going from ward to ward, and from bed to bed, i met with a young man, s. b----. he was very bad, and was afraid he was going to die. i talked with him often and long, pointing him to the saviour, and prayed with him. with penitential tears and earnest cries he sought mercy, and at length professed to obtain salvation. he recovered. one sunday, when at hessle, visiting my dying mother, i met this young man, and i shall never forget his agitated frame, and terrified appearance, when he saw me. he looked this way and that way; i said, 'well, b----, are you all right? have you kept the promises you made to the lord?' a blush of shame covered his face. i said 'why do you look so sad? have i injured you?' 'no, sir.' 'have you injured me?' 'i hope not,' was his reply. 'then look me in the face; are you beyond god's reach, or do you think that because he has restored your health once, he will not afflict you again? ah! my boy, the next time may be much worse than the last. and do you think god will believe you if you again promise to serve him? he looked round him and seemed as though he would have leaped over a drain that was close by.' [sidenote: his charity.] conscience is a busy power within the breast of the most desperate, and when roused by the prospect of death and judgment, it speaks in terrible tones. the notorious muller denied the murder of mr. briggs, until, with cap on his face and the rope round his neck, he submitted to the final appeal and acknowledged, as he launched into eternity, 'yes, i have done it.' but the cries of these persons seem to have arisen, not from an abhorrence of sin, but from a dread of punishment; they feared hell, and hence they wished for heaven; they desired to be saved from the consequences of sin, but were not delivered from the love of it. need we wonder that our friend had but little faith in a sick-bed repentance? scripture and reason alike warn us against trusting to such repentance, 'be not deceived; god is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. for he that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit shall of the spirit reap life everlasting.' while our friend felt that he would have been unworthy the name of a christian had he not felt more for the spiritual than for the temporal woes of his fellow creatures, yet the latter were not forgotten by him; and it sometimes grieved him that he could not more largely minister to the temporal wants of the poor, the fatherless, the orphans, and the widows, whom he visited. [sidenote: his self-denial.] and perhaps one of the most painful trials a visitor of the sick endures is, to go moneyless to a chamber that has been crossed by want, and whose inmate is utterly unable to supply his own necessities; but when the visitor can relieve the physical as well as the spiritual necessities of the sufferer, with what a buoyant step and cheerful heart he enters the abode of poverty and suffering! and his words, instead of falling like icicles on the sufferer's soul, fall on it as refreshing as a summer rain, warm as the tempered ray, and welcome as a mother's love. such a visitor has often chased despair from the abode of wretchedness, and filled it with the atmosphere of hope. [sidenote: gives up tobacco.] hence, that he might participate in this joy, and have wherewith to relieve the needy, mr. ellerthorpe abstained from the use of tobacco, of which, at one period of his life, he was an immoderate consumer. one sabbath morning, while he and mr. harrison were visiting the sick, they met two wretched-looking boys, fearfully marked with small pox (from an attack of which complaint they were beginning to recover), and crying for a drink of milk. their father, who was far advanced in life, could not supply their wants. john's heart was touched, and he thought, 'here am i, possessed of health, food, and raiment, while these poor children are festering with disease, but scantily clothed, and not half fed. a sixpence, a basin of milk, or a loaf of bread, would be a boon to them. can i help them?' he gave the old man sixpence, while he and mr. harrison told the milkman to leave a quantity of milk at the man's house daily, for which they would pay. it was with a radiant face, and a tremble of glad emotion in his voice, that our friend, in relating this circumstance to us one day, said:--'i felt a throb of pleasure when i did that little act of kindness, such as i had never felt before,' when, quick as lightning, the thought crossed his mind, 'why i smoke six pennyworth of tobacco every week!' and there and then he resolved to give up the practice. on the next friday, when mrs. ellerthorpe was setting down on paper a list of the groceries wanted, she proceeded, as usual, to say, 'tea--coffee--sugar--_tobacco_--,' 'stop,' said her husband, 'i've done with that. i'll have no more.' now, mrs. e. had always enjoyed seeing her husband smoke; it had often proved a powerful sedative to him when wearied with the cares of life, and the numberless irritations of his trying vocation, and therefore she replied, 'nonsense, you will soon repent of that whim. i shall get two ounces as usual, and i know you'll smoke it.' 'i shall never touch it again,' was his firm reply, and ever after kept his word. [sidenote: his teetotalism.] a world full of misery, both temporal and spiritual, surrounds us, and which might be effectually relieved, were all christians, many of whom are laggard in effort and niggard in bounty, to manifest a tithe of the self-denial which mr. ellerthorpe practiced. 'what maintains one vice, would support two children.' robert hall says:--it is the practice of self-denial in a thousand little instances which forms the truest test of character.' mr. fletcher, vicar of madeley, was on one occasion driven close for means to discharge the claims of the poor, when he said to his wife, 'o polly, can we not do without beer? let us drink water, and eat less meat. let our necessities give way to the extremities of the poor.' and at a meeting held the other night, a donation was announced thus:--'a poor man's savings from tobacco, â£5.' and are there not tens of thousands of professors who could present similar offerings if they, in the name and spirit of their great master, tried? do we not often come in contact with men who complain that they cannot contribute to the cause of god and humanity, who, at the same time, indulge in the use of snuff, tobacco, or intoxicating drinks; all of which might be laid aside to the gain of god's cause, and without at all lessening either the health, reputation, or happiness of the consumer? and are there not others, of good social position, who do not give as much to relieve the temporal sufferings of their fellow creatures, during twelve months, as it costs them to provide a single feast for a few well-to-do friends? the merchant who sold his chips and shavings, and presented the proceeds to the cause of god, while he kept the solid timber for himself, is the type of too many professors of religion! chapter iv. his staunch teetotalism. perhaps no class of men have suffered more from the evils of intemperance than our brave sailors, fishermen, and rivermen. foreigners tell our missionaries to convert our drunken sailors abroad, and when they wish to personify an englishman, they mockingly reel about like a drunken man. and what lives have been lost through the intemperance of captains and crews! the 'st. george,' with 550 men: 'the kent,' 'east indiaman,' with most of her passengers and crew: 'the ajax,' with 350 people: 'the rothsway castle,' with 100 men on board, with many others we might name, were all lost through the drunkenness of those in charge of the vessels. of the forty persons whom our friend rescued from drowning, a very large percentage got overboard through intemperance. we read that on the morning following the passover night in egypt, there was not a house in which there was not one dead, and it would be difficult to find a house in our land, occupied by sailors, in which this monster evil has not slain its victim, either physically or morally. [sidenote: his drunken father.] our friend, speaking of his own family, says:--'i owe my christian name to the favour with which drunkenness was regarded by my relatives. soon after i was born, one of my uncles asked, "what is the lad's name to be?" "thomas," replied my mother. "never," said my uncle, in surprise, "we had two thomas's, and they both did badly; call him john. i have known four john's in the family, and they _were all great drunkards, but that was the worst that could be said of them_." 'so it appears,' said our friend, 'that at that time it was thought no very bad thing for a man to get drunk, if he was not in the habit of being brought before the magistrate for theft, &c.' john's father was one of the four drunkards. in early life he became a hard drinker, and he continued the practice until a damaged constitution, emptied purse, a careworn wife, and a neglected family, were the bitter fruits of his inebriation. 'he drank hard,' says john, 'spending almost all his money in drink, and was at last forced to sell his vessel and take to the menial work of helping to load and unload vessels. at length he went to sea, and for a long time we heard nothing of him; nor did my mother receive any money from him. in old age he was quite destitute, and while it gave me great pleasure to minister to his necessities, it often grieved me to think of the cause of his altered circumstances.' nightly, when ashore, john, the elder, went to the public house, and it was his invariable rule never to return home until his wife fetched him. often, when mrs. ellerthorpe was in a feeble state of health, and amid the howling winds and drenching rains of a winter's night, would she go in search of her drunken husband, and by her winning ways and kind entreaties induce him to return home. she was known to be a god-fearing woman, and often on the occasion of these visits, her husband's companions--some of whom were 'tippling professors' of religion--would try to entangle her in religious conversation, but to every entreaty she had one reply, 'if you want to talk with me about religion come to my house. i will not speak of it here; for i am determined never to fight the devil on his own ground.' [sidenote: imitates his father.] and was this christian woman wrong in calling the public house the devil's ground? we have 140,000 of these houses in our land, and are they not so many reservoirs from whence the devil floods our country with crime, wretchedness, and woe? is it not there that his deluded victims, in thousands of instances, destroy their fortune, ruin their health, and form those habits which wither the beauty, scatter the comforts, blast the reputation, and bury once happy families in the tomb of disgrace? and is it not at the public house that the sounds of blasphemy, cursing, and swearing, sedition, uncleanness, laciviousness, hatred, quarrels, murders, gambling, revelling, and such like, are begun? and you might as reasonably expect to preserve your health in a pest-house, your modesty in a brothel, and high-souled principles amongst gamesters, as to expect to preserve your religious character undamaged amid the impure atmosphere of a public house. can a man go upon hot coals and his feet not be burnt? one hour spent around the drunkard's table has often done an amount of harm to the cause of god and the souls of men which the devotion of years could not undo. [sidenote: becomes a drunkard.] a youth, on being urged to take the pledge, said, 'my father drinks, and i don't want to be better than my father.' and, alas! for our friend, he early imbibed the tastes and followed the example of his father, for drink got the mastery of him. speaking of his boyhood, he says, 'i remember a man saying to my father, "your son is a sharp lad, and he will make a clever man, if only you set him a good example, and keep him from drink." to which my father replied, "o drink will not hurt him; if he does nothing worse than take a sup of drink he'll be all right; drink never hurt anyone." but, alas! my father lived to see that a "little sup" did not serve me, for i have heard him say with sorrow, "the lad drinks hard." but he was the first to set me the example, and if parents wish their children to abstain from intoxicating drinks, they should set the example by being abstainers themselves. the best and most lasting way of doing good to a family is for parents first to do right themselves.' but with such a training as john had, what wonder that he became a 'hard drinker.' for years previous to his marriage his experience was something like that of an old 'hard-a-weather' on board a homeward-bound indiaman, who was asked by a lady passenger, 'whether he would not be glad to get home and see his wife and children, and spend the summer with them in the country?' poor jack possessed neither home, nor wife, nor chick nor child; and his recollections of green fields and domestic enjoyments were dreamily associated with early childhood. and hence a big tear rolled down his weather-beaten but manly cheek as he said to his fair questioner, 'well, i don't know, i suppose it will be another _roll in the gutter, and away again_.' our friend was for years a 'reeling drunkard,' and often, during this sad period of his existence, he literally 'rolled in the gutter.' but when he experienced a saving change he at once became a sober man, and began to treat public houses after the fashion of the fox in the fable--who declined the invitation to the lion's den, because he had observed that the only footsteps in its vicinity were towards it and none from it. he further saw that to indulge in the use of intoxicating drinks, and then pray, 'lead me not into temptation,' savoured less of piety than of presumption. he attended a temperance meeting at which the rev. g. lamb spoke of the importance of christian professors abstaining for the good of others, as well as for their own safety. john felt that his sphere of action was limited in its range and insignificant in its character; yet he knew he possessed influence; as a husband and father, and as a member of civil and religious society, he knew that his conduct would produce an effect on those to whom he was related, and with whom he had to do. 'no man liveth to himself.' he knew how to do good, and not to have done it would have been sin. and that thought decided him. at the close of the meeting, persons were invited to take the pledge of total abstinence, but not one responded to the invitation. john saw, sitting at his right hand, a man who had been a great drunkard, and whose shattered nerves, unsteady hand, and bloodshot eyes, told of the sad effects of his conduct. placing his hand on this man's shoulder, he said, 'will you take the pledge?' 'i will if you will,' was the man's reply. 'done,' said john, and scarcely had they reached the platform, when about twenty others followed and took the pledge. [sidenote: signs the pledge.] his diary contains this record, 'february 24th, 1851. i have been to the teetotal meeting, and i have taken the pledge, and i intend, through the grace of god, to keep it as long as i live.' from that night john became a practical and pledged abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and induced many a poor drunkard to follow his example. no man stood higher than he in temperance circles. he adorned _that_ profession. in his extensive intercourse with his fellow men, he proved himself the fast friend and unflinching advocate of total abstinence, having delivered hundreds of addresses and circulated thousands of tracts, in vindication of its principles. a few years before his death, he was travelling from hull to howden, by rail; the compartment was full of passengers, and he began, as usual, to circulate his tracts and to speak in favour of temperance. [sidenote: the aged clergyman.] an aged clergyman present said, 'i always give you hull folks great credit for being teetotalers.' 'and why the people of hull more than the people of any other place?' asked john. 'because your water is filthy and dirty, and i never could drink it without a mixture of brandy.' 'that our water is dirty i admit,' said john, 'but i have drank it both with brandy and without, and if you felt as i feel, i am sure, sir, you would discontinue the practice of brandy drinking.' 'oh, i suppose you are one of those men who get all the drink you can and when you can get no more you turn teetotaller,' was the rejoinder. 'you are mistaken, sir; for i can call most of the persons present to witness, that i laid aside the intoxicating glass when i possessed the most ample means and every opportunity of getting plenty of drink, and at little or no cost to myself. but i saw that i should be a safer and happier man myself, and a greater blessing to others if i abstained, and therefore i signed the pledge; and you must pardon me, sir, when i say, that if you felt as i feel, you would, as a minister of the gospel, pursue the same course.' 'o!' said he, with indignation lowering in his countenance and thundering in his voice, 'i have taken my brandy daily for years, and it never did me any hurt.' 'granted,' replied our friend, 'but if you can drink with safety, can others? have you never seen the evil effects of tampering with the glass? have none of your acquaintances or friends fallen victims to drunkenness? let me give you a case, sir. one of my former employers had a son who, up to the twentieth year of his age, had never tasted intoxicating drinks. but he had a weak constitution and a slender frame, and the doctor ordered him to take a little brandy and water twice a day. he did so, and began to like it. he soon wanted it oftener, and told the man to make it stronger, and the man did as he was told. one day he had put but a few drops of water into a large glass of brandy, but the young gentleman said, 'did'nt i tell you to make it stronger? let the next glass be stronger.' he soon called _for the next glass_, and having swallowed it, said, in a rage, 'what a fool you are. i told you to let me have it stronger.' 'sir,' said the man, 'you can't have it stronger, for the glass you have just drank was "neat" as it came from the bottle.' 'and is that a fact,' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'has it come to this? am i to be a slave to that liquid? never! take it away, and from this day i'll never drink another glass.' this statement was listened to with marked attention by all the passengers, and when the train arrived at howden station, they gave forth a spontaneous burst of applause. the clergyman sat ashamed and speechless, and, on leaving the train, refused to shake hands with our friend who had administered to him this well-timed and well-merited rebuke. [sidenote: advocates total abstinence.] i have stated that our friend spoke at hundreds of temperance meetings, and his bluntness of manner, curt style of address, and nautical phrases, won for him a ready hearing. whenever he rose on the platform eyes beamed and hearts throbbed with delight. not that his hearers expected to listen to an eloquent speech, or to be amused by laughter-exciting and fun-making eccentricities, but he rose with the influence of established character, combined with an ardent temperament, a ready wit, and a face beaming with the sunshine of piety towards god and good-will to men. besides, there was a just appreciation of his many deeds of gallantry, some of which he occasionally related, and which rarely failed to fill his hearers with admiration for the brave heart that could prompt and the ready skill that could perform them. hence, he was listened to in the town and neighbourhood of hull with an amount of sympathy, attention, and respect which no other advocate of total abstinence, possessed of the same mental abilities, could command. [sidenote: forms a band of hope.] the _band of hope_ had a warm friend and powerful advocate in the person of mr. ellerthorpe, and it was in connexion with its services that he found his most congenial employment. 3,000,000 of the inhabitants of our country are now pledged abstainers from intoxicating drinks, and this number includes upwards of 2,000 ministers of the gospel. but thirty years ago this cause was regarded with disfavour even by the religious public. hence, when mr. ellerthorpe and others sought to form a band of hope in connexion with the primitive methodist sabbath school, great thornton street, hull, they met with much opposition from several members of the society, and also from some of the teachers in the school, who were 'tipplers,' and could not endure the idea of a band of hope. but the band was formed, with mr. ellerthorpe as president, and it soon numbered three hundred members. before his death he saw upwards of thirty of these juvenile bands formed in hull. he attended most of their anniversaries, throwing a flood of genial merriment, just like dancing sunlight, over his young auditors. hundreds of these 'cold water drinkers' sometimes listened to him on these occasions, and as he related some of the scenes of his eventful life, their young hearts throbbed and their eyes filled with tears. we cannot close this chapter of our little book without asking, were the motives which led our friend to sign the pledge, right or wrong? the celebrated paley lays down this axiom, 'that where one side is doubtful and one is safe, we are as morally bound to take the safe side as if a voice from heaven said, "this is the way, walk ye in it."' and is not total abstinence the only safe side for the abstainer himself? some men have a strong predisposition for intoxicating drinks, and they must abstain or be ruined. naturalists tell us that in order to tame a tiger he must never be allowed to taste blood. let him have but one taste and his whole nature is changed. and the men to whom i refer are humane, upright, chaste, kind to their children and affectionate to their wives, while they can be kept from intoxicating drinks, but let them taste, only _taste_, and their passions become so strong and their appetites so rampant, that they are inspired with the most ferocious dispositions, and perpetrate deeds, the mere mention of which would appal them in their sober moments. and where is the moderate drinker who can point to the glass and say, 'i am safe?' as that dexterous murderer, palmer, administered his doses in small quantities, and thus gradually and daily undermined the constitution of his victims, and, as it were, muffled the footfalls of death, so strong drink does not all at once over master its victims; but how often have we known it gradually, and after years of tippling, lead them captive into the vortex of drunkenness. [sidenote: total abstinence.] but admitting, for the sake of argument, that you can drink with safety to yourself, can you drink with safety to others? 'no man liveth to himself.' we are all a kind of chameleon, and naturally derive a tinge from that which is near us. our friend attributes his early drunkenness to the influence and example of his father. you should view your drinking habits in the light of these passages of scripture, 'look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.' 'it is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereat thy brother stumbleth or is made weak.' so that you may look at paley's saying, in its application to the use of strong drinks, again and again; you may examine it as closely as you like, and criticise it as often as you please, still it remains true, that to drink is _doubtful_, while to abstain is _safe_, and that we are as morally bound to choose the latter as if a voice from heaven said, 'this is the way, walk ye in it.' 'let us not, therefore, judge one another any more, but judge this rather that no man put a stumblingblock or an occasion, to fall in his brother's way.'--rom. xiv. 13. chapter v. his bold adventures on the water. [sidenote: swimming advocated.] that swimming is a noble and useful art, deserving the best attention of all classes of the community, is a fact few will dispute. 'swimming,' says locke, 'ought to form part of every boy's education!' it is an art that is easily acquired; it is healthy and pleasurable as an exercise, being highly favourable to muscular development, agility of motion, and symmetry of form; and it is of inconceivable benefit as the means of preserving or saving life in seasons of peril, when death would otherwise prove inevitable. mr. ellerthorpe early became an accomplished swimmer; he often fell overboard, and but for his skill in the art under consideration he would have been drowned. he also enjoyed the happiness of having saved upwards of forty persons, who, but for his efforts must, to all human appearance, have perished. to a maratime nation like ours, with a rugged and dangerous coast-line of two thousand miles, indented by harbours, few and far from each other, and with a sea-faring population of half a million, it seems as necessary that the rising generation should learn to swim as that they should be taught the most common exercises of youth. and yet 'this natatory art' is but little cultivated amongst us. on the continent, and among foreigners generally, swimming is practised and encouraged far more than it is in england. in the normal swimming school of denmark, some thirty years ago, there were educated 105 masters destined to teach the art throughout the kingdom. in france, vienna, copenhagen, stockholm, berne, amsterdam, &c., similar means were adopted, and very few persons in those countries are entirely destitute of a knowledge of the art. but so generally is this department of juvenile training neglected by us as a people, that _only one in every ten who gain their livelihood on the water_ are able to swim. [sidenote: hull swimming club.] mr. ellerthorpe, in a characteristic letter, says: 'i think no schoolmaster should regard the education of his scholars complete unless he has taught them to swim. that art is of service when everything else is useless. i once heard of a professor who was being ferried across a river by a boatman, who was no scholar. so the professor said, "can you write, my man?" "no, sir," said the boatman. "then you have lost one third of your life," said the professor. "can you read?" again asked he of the boatman. "no," replied the latter, "i can't read." "then you have lost the half of your life," said the professor. now came the boatman's turn. "can you swim?" said the boatman to the professor. "no," was his reply. "then," said the boatman, "you have lost the whole of your life, for the boat is sinking and you'll be drowned." now, sir, i think that if those fathers who spend so much money on the intellectual education of their children, would devote but a small portion of it to securing for them a knowledge of the art of swimming, they would confer a great blessing on those children, and also on society at large. i would have every one learn to swim females as well as males; for many of both sexes come under my notice every year who are drowned, but who, with a little skill in swimming, might have been saved. not fewer than forty men and boys were lost from the hull smacks alone during the year 1866, of whom twenty per cent, might have been saved had they been able to swim.' [sidenote: he learns to swim.] mr. ellerthorpe was, for many years, master of the 'hull swimming club,' and also of 'the college youth's swimming club,' and his whole life was a practical lesson on the value of the art of swimming. he contended that the youths of hull ought to be taught this art, and pleaded that a sheet of water which had been waste and unproductive for twenty years should be transformed into a swimming bath. the local papers favoured the scheme, and alderman dennison, moved in the town council, that â£350 should be devoted to this object, which was carried by a majority. the late titus salt, esq., who had given â£5,000 to the 'sailor's orphan home,' said at the time, 'i think _your corporation ought to make the swimming bath_ alluded to in the enclosed paper; _do ask them_.' 'the private individual who gives his _fifty_ hundreds to a particular institution,' to use the words of the _hull and eastern counties' herald, oct. 10th_, 1857, 'has surely a right to express an opinion that the municipal corporation ought to grant _three_ hundreds, if by so doing the public weal would be provided. if the voice of such a man is to be disregarded, then it may truly be said that our good old town has fallen far below the exalted position it occupied when it produced its wilberforce and its marvel.' for upwards of forty years mr. ellerthorpe was known as a fearless swimmer and diver, and during that period he saved no fewer than forty lives by his daring intrepidity. in his boyhood, he, to use his own expression, '_felt quite at home in the water_,' and betook himself to it as natively and instinctively as the swan to the water or the lark to the sky. 'this art,' to use the words of an admirable article in the _shipwrecked mariners' magazine_ for october, 1862, 'he has cultivated so successfully that in scores of instances he has been able to employ it for the salvation of life and property. perhaps the history of no other living person more fully displays the value of this art than john ellerthorpe. joined with courage, promptitude, and steady self-possession, it has enabled him repeatedly to preserve his own life, and what is far more worthy of record, to save not fewer than thirty-nine of his fellow creatures, who, humanly speaking, must otherwise have met with a watery grave.' [sidenote: his reckless daring.] it is but right to state that, in the early period of his history, a thoughtless disregard of his own life, and an overweening confidence in his ability to swim almost any length, and amid circumstances of great peril, often led him to deeds of 'reckless daring,' which in riper years he would have trembled to attempt. respecting most of the following circumstances he says, 'i look upon those perilous adventures as so many foolish and wicked temptings of providence. i have often wondered i was not drowned, and attribute my preservation to the wonder-working providence of god, who has so often 'redeemed my life from destruction, and crowned me with loving kindness and tender mercies.' and certainly we should remember that heroism is one thing, reckless daring another. two or three instances will illustrate this. a few years ago blondin, for the sake of money, jeopardized his life at the crystal palace, by walking blindfolded on a tight-rope, and holding in his hand a balancing pole. in so doing he was foolhardy, but not heroic. but a certain frenchman, at alencon, walked on one occasion on a rope over some burning beams into a burning house, otherwise inaccessible, and succeeded in saving six persons. this was the act of a true hero. when mr. worthington, the 'professional diver,' plunged into the water and saved six persons from drowning, who, but for his skill and dexterity as a swimmer, would certainly have met with a watery grave, he acted the part of a 'hero;' but when, the other day, he made a series of nine 'terrific plunges' from the chain pier at brighton--a height of about one hundred and twenty feet--merely to gratify sensational sightseers, or to put a few shillings into his own pocket, he acted the part of a foolhardy man. can we wonder that he was within an ace of losing his life in this mad exploit? and when john ellerthorpe dived to the bottom of 'clarke's bit,' to gratify a number of young men who had 'more money than wit,' and struggled in the water with a bag of coals on his back, he put himself on a par with those men who place their lives in imminent danger by dancing on ropes, swinging on cords, tying themselves into knots like a beast, or crawling on ceilings like some creeping thing! but when he used his skill to save his fellow creatures, he was a true hero, and was justified in perilling his own life, considering that by so doing the safety of others might be secured. we shall close this chapter by recording a few of his deeds of reckless daring. * * * * * [sidenote: john's first attempt at swimming.] 'my first attempt at swimming took place at hessle, when i was about twelve years of age. there was a large drain used for the purpose of receiving the water from both the sea and land. my father managed the sluice, which was used for excluding, retaining, and regulating the flow of water into this drain. it was a first rate place for lads to bathe in, and i have sometimes bathed in it ten times a day; indeed, i regret to say, i spent many days there when i ought to have been at school. i soon got to swim in this drain, but durst not venture into the harbour. but one day i accidentally set my dirty feet upon the shirt of a boy who was much older and bigger than myself, and in a rage he took me up in his arms and threw me into the harbour. i soon felt safe there, nor did i leave the harbour till i had crossed and recrossed it thirty-two times. the next day i swam the whole length of the harbour twice, and from that day i began to match myself with expert swimmers, nor did i fear swimming with the best of them. some other lads were as venturesome as myself, and we used to go up the humber with the tides, for several miles at once. i remember on one occasion it blew a strong gale of wind from s.w., several vessels sank in the humber, and a number of boats broke adrift, while a heavy sea was running: i stripped and swam to one of the boats, got into her, and brought her to land, for which act the master of the boat gave me five shillings. during the same gale a keel came ashore at hessle; i stripped and swam to her and brought a rope on shore, by the assistance of which, two men, a woman, and two children escaped from the vessel. the tide was receding at the time, so that they were enabled, with the assistance of the rope, to walk ashore. there are several old men living now who well remember this circumstance. [sidenote: swims across the humber.] 'soon after this occurrence, i remember one saturday afternoon, going with some other boys of my own age, and swimming across the humber, a distance of two miles. we started from swanland fields (which was then enclosed), yorkshire, and landed at the old warp, lincolnshire. here we had a long run and a good play, and then we recrossed the humber. but in doing so we were carried up as far as ferriby sluice, and had to run back to where we had left our clothes in charge of some lads, but when we got there the lads had gone, and we didn't know what to do. we sought for our clothes a full hour, when a man, in the employ of mr. pease told us that the lads had put them under some bushes, where we at last found them. we were in the water four hours. this was an act of great imprudence. 'on another occasion myself and some other lads played truant from school, and went towards the humber to bathe, but the schoolmaster, mr. peacock, followed us closely. he ran and i ran, and i had just time to throw off my clothes and leap into the water, when he got to the bank. he was afraid i should be drowned, and called out 'if you will come back i won't tell your father and mother.' but i refused to return, for at that time i felt no fear in doing what i durst not have attempted when i got older. [sidenote: swims in hessle harbour.] 'on several occasions some young gentlemen, who were scholars at hessle boarding school, got me to go and bathe with them. they had plenty of money, and i had none; and as they offered to pay me, i was glad to go with them. one day while we were bathing, the eldest son of mr. earnshaw, of hessle, had a narrow escape from drowning. i was a long way from him at the time, but i did all i could to reach and rescue him. he was very ill for some days, and the doctor forbade him bathing for a long time to come. this deterred us from bathing for awhile, but we soon forgot it. we agreed to have a swimming match, and the boy that swam the farthest was to have _sixpence_. we started at three o'clock in the afternoon from the third jetty below hessle harbour, and went up with the tide. one of the boys got the lead of me and i could not overtake him until we got opposite cliffe mill, about a mile and a half from where we started. he then began to fag, while i felt as brisk as a lark and fresher than when i began. i soon took the lead, and when i got to ferriby lane-end, i lost my mate altogether. however, i knew he was a capital swimmer, and i felt afraid lest he should turn up again, so i swam as far as melton brickyard, and fairly won the prize. i had swam about seven miles, and believe i could have swam back without landing. [sidenote: his exploits on the water.] 'when i was about fifteen years of age a steam packet came to hessle, bringing a number of swimmers from hull. soon alter their arrival a lad came running to me and said, "jack, there's some of those hull chaps bathing, and they say they can beat thee." i didn't like that; and when i got to them, a young gentleman said, pointing to me, "here is a lad that shall swim you for what you like." one of them said, "is he that ellerthorpe of hessle?" "no matter who he is," replied the young man, "i'll back him for a sovereign," when one of the young gentlemen called out, "it is jack ellerthorpe, i won't have aught to do with him, for he can go as fast feet foremost as i can with my hands foremost, he's a first-rate swimmer." by this time i was stripped, and at once plunged into the river. i crept on my hands and knees on the water, and then swam backwards and forwards with my feet foremost, and not one among them could swim with me. i showed them the "porpoise race," which consisted in disappearing under the water, and then coming "bobbing" up suddenly, at very unlikely spots. i then took a knife and cut my toe-nails in the water. the young gents were greatly delighted, and afterwards they would have matched me to swim anybody, to any distance. and i believe that at that time i could have swam almost any length; for after i had swam two or three miles my spirits seemed to rise, and my strength increased. when other lads seemed thoroughly beaten out, i was coming to my best, and the longer i remained in the water the easier and faster i could swim. [sidenote: swims to barrow.] 'it will be remembered by some who will read these pages, that about ... years ago a mr. burton was returned, as a member of parliament for beverley. he was a wild, drunken, half-crazy fellow, and i remember he came to hessle about two o'clock one afternoon, and drove full gallop, with postillions, up to my father's house. at that time my father was ferryman, and mr. burton wanted a boat to take him to barton. "but," said my father, "there is no water," when the member of parliament said, "won't money make the boat swim?" "i'm afraid not," was my father's reply. at that time, however, there was a ballast lighter at cliffe, and my father and i went to see if we could borrow the lighter's boat; we succeeded, and as it was a great distance from the water (the tide being low), my father asked the cliffe men to help in launching it, when about thirty of them came to his assistance. mr. burton left a guinea to be spent in drink for the men. we then started in the boat, and took mr. burton to barrow, there being no _usable_ jetty at barton. i was to run to barton for a post-chaise, but before we got to the shore the boat ran aground, so out of the boat i jumped, and away i ran, until i came to a pool of water, about twelve feet deep. almost mad with excitement, i sprang into it, and small as i was, soon crossed it and was ashore. mr. burton saw me in the water, and he was afraid i should be drowned, and when i returned with the chaise he gave me a sovereign, the first i ever had, so you may be sure i was mightily pleased. i found my father and the men drunk, and they gave me some rum. on being asked, "what mr. burton had given me," i evaded the question by saying "a shilling," for i was of opinion that if my father had known i had got so much as i had, he would have taken most of it to spend in drink. so i hastened home and gave the sovereign to my mother, and we were both highly delighted to possess so large a sum of money. 'the following amusing circumstance took place in 1836-7, when i belonged to the barton and hessle packet. one day we had put on board the "tow boat" a great number of fat beasts, belonging, if i remember rightly, to mr. wood, of south dalton. the "tow boat" was attached to the steamer by a large thick rope. we had not got far from barton when the boat capsized, and we were in an awful mess. the boat soon filled with water; some of the beasts swam one way and some another, while several got entangled in the rails attached to the boat's side, and were every moment in danger of breaking their legs. so seizing an axe i jumped into the water and cut away the rails, and then went in pursuit of the oxen, heading them round in the water and causing them, by shouts and gestures, to swim for the land. most of them were driven back to barton and landed safely, others swam across the humber and were landed at hessle. i was up to my chest in water and mud for nearly three hours swimming backwards and forwards after the beasts; sometimes i had hold of their tails, and anon had to meet them and turn them towards the shore. there are lots of people now living at barton who saw the affray, and who could describe it much better than i have done. [sidenote: john and the beasts.] 'a similar incident took place in 1844. i was captain of a ferry-boat plying between winteringham and brough. one sabbath-day i was taking a load of beasts from brough to winteringham, and when we had got about half way across the humber, the boat upset, and the beasts were thrown into the water. i was afraid they all would be drowned, and, in spite of all i could do, some of them were. i jumped overboard and drove some of them back to brough, while others swam to the lincolnshire side of the river. i was swimming about after the beasts for five hours, chasing them backwards and forwards, turning them this way and that, and doing what nobody but myself would have done. at length, several men came to our assistance, and when we had got the poor animals out of the water, we hastened to the public-house at the harbour-side, and got drunk. i kept my wet clothes on until they dried on my back. this was one of the most wretched days of my life. my anxiety about the beasts, the exhaustion brought on by my efforts to get them safe to land, and the sense of misery and degradation i felt when i thought of the plight i was found in on the blessed sabbath-day, i shall never forget. 'on one occasion i was helping to load the "magna charter," and being half drunk, i fell into hull harbour, with upwards of eight stones of coal on my back, but through foolish bravado i refused to let the bag drop into the water. after being in the water several minutes, i swam to the landing with the coals on my back, amid the deafening shouts of scores of spectators. i look back on this act of temerity with feelings of shame and unmixed regret.' [sidenote: he is cast overboard.] when sailing from hull to barton, one night in the year 1842, john was thrown overboard. the night was dark, the wind was blowing a heavy gale from the west, and every moment the spring-tide, then at its height, carried him further from the packet, which soon became unmanageable. the boat was launched, but the engineer, who had charge of it, became greatly agitated and much alarmed, and uttered the most piteous cries. 'i felt more for him than i did for myself,' says john, 'and though one moment lost in the trough of the sea, and the next on the crest of the billows, now near the boat and again fifty yards from it, i cried out, 'scull away. bob, scull away, thou'll soon be at me.' after being in the water half-an-hour i reached the boat in safety. all this time i had on the following garments, made of very stout pilot-cloth: a pair of trousers, a double-breasted waistcoat, a surtout coat, and a heavy great coat, which came down to my ancles, a thick shawl round my neck, and a new pair of wellington boots on my feet. i had in my pockets the following sums of money: â£25 in bank notes; 25 sovereigns; â£4 16s. 6d. in silver, and 8d. in coppers; also a tobacco-box, a large pocket knife, and a silver watch and guard. i made an attempt to throw off some of my clothes, but the thought of losing another man's money checked me. besides, the suit of clothes i had on was bran-new, and being a poor man, and only just earning a livelihood, i could not brook the thought of having to get a new "rigging." when a wave carried me a great way from the boat, i unbuttoned my coat and prepared to throw it off, that i might more easily swim to land. and when it seemed certain i should have to make this attempt, i felt for my knife, that i might cut off my boots, and i believe i could have done it; but, after a desperate effort, i approached within a few yards of the boat, when i again buttoned my coat. i felt confident i could have reached the shore--a distance of one mile--had i been compelled to make the trial. my wellington boots had nearly cost me my life, as they were heavy and difficult to swim in, and i never wore a pair after this fearful night.' [sidenote: his skill as a diver.] there is another department of the art now under consideration, in which our friend greatly excelled, namely, that of diving. there are few divers who do not feel a kind of exultation in their power over the element, and in their ability to move under the surface of the water with ease and pleasure. half a century ago, diving was a difficult and dangerous art, demanding great skill and endurance; but modern science has given the professional diver an almost perfect accoutrement, by means of which he can literally walk down to the bottom of the sea, and telegraph for as much air as he requires. hence, it has been utterly deprived of all dramatic element. properly managed, the thing is as easy as going up in a balloon, or going down a coal pit; but our friend excelled in 'real naked diving.' [sidenote: he dives in 'clark's bit.'] his first attempt at fetching anything from under water took place when he was about sixteen years of age. the vessel in which he then sailed was being painted at 'clark's bit,' castleford, when john accidentally let his brush fall overboard, and it sank to the bottom. the captain was furious for about an hour, when, having handed the lad another brush, he went into the town. john could not brook the hour's grumbling to which he had been subjected, and hence, scarcely had the master left the vessel, when he threw off his clothes and dived to the bottom of the 'bit,' a depth of twenty-six feet, and brought up the brush. he hastily put on his clothes, and when the master returned, john held up the brush, and with that comical twinkle of the eye and humorous expression of the countenance, so common with sailors, said, 'here's your brush. sir.' 'what brush?' asked the master. 'the brush i lost overboard an hour ago,' said john. 'that's a lie.' replied the master, 'how could you get it?' 'i dived to the bottom and brought it up,' was the lad's response. now clark's bit, in those days, was supposed to be of fabulous depth; indeed, the master, using a common expression, said, 'you can't have fetched it up from the bottom, for there is no bottom to clark's bit.' john was unabashed by this charge of falsehood, and with honesty beaming in every feature of his face, he answered with untrembling tongue, as he handed the brush to the master, 'throw it in again. sir, and i'll fetch it up.' the master refused to test the lad's honesty at the risk of losing his brush. however, several witnesses came forward and declared they had seen him plunge into the water and bring up the brush. from that time john was famous in the neighbourhood, as a great diver. 'at the time of this occurrence,' he writes, 'a number of young gentlemen were being taught, at a school at castleford, by the rev. mr. barnes. they had plenty of money, and i had little enough, and they would often, for the sake of seeing me dive to the bottom of the "bit," throw in a shilling, and sometimes half-a-crown. to gratify them, and for the sake of money, i often dived to the bottom, and never, that i remember, without bringing up the money. i got at last that i would not go down for less than a shilling, and i have sometimes got as much as five shillings a day. i have dived to the bottom of clark's bit hundreds of times, and there are numbers of people at castleford, at the present day (1868), who recollect these youthful exploits, which took place upwards of forty years ago. and i may add that, i have often had the impression that but for that paint-brush i should never have been the diver i afterwards became. god overruled these foolish acts, for good, and what i did for mere pleasure and gain, prepared me to rescue property and human life in after years.' [sidenote: he dives into a sunken vessel.] we will mention one instance of his prowess in saving property, which is well worthy of being recorded. 'the barque "mulgrave castle," says the writer of the article in the _shipwrecked mariners' magazine_, 'laden with timber from the baltic, was waterlogged in the humber; there was in the cabin of the vessel a small box containing money and papers which the captain was anxious, if possible, to secure. ellerthorpe dived into the cabin, groped his way round it, and after two or three attempts succeeded in bringing up the box and its contents.' this was in the year 1835. the writer of this sketch received the fact from an eye witness. chapter vi. his method of rescuing the drowning. for acts of pure, unselfish daring, in rescuing human life, the annals of our friend need not shun comparison with those of any other man within her majesty's dominion. it appears that, amid his wicked and wayward career, he had a 'deep and unaccountable impression' that one part of his mission into the world was to save human life. beyond dispute, one of the best swimmers of his time, he was never, after his boyhood, satisfied with swimming as a mere art. it was naught to him if it did not help to make his fellow men better, safer, and braver. it will be seen that the first person he rescued from drowning _was his own father_, and that event ever afterwards nerved him to do his best to save his fellow-creatures. indeed the desire to rescue the drowning burnt in his soul with all the ardour of an absorbing passion. it was the spring of his ready thoughts; it controlled his feelings and guided his actions; it prompted him to face the greatest difficulties without the least fear, and when in the midst of the most threatening dangers, it enabled him to summon up a calmness and resolution that never failed. [sidenote: his experience in the water.] the writer in _the shipwrecked mariners' magazine_ says, 'ellerthorpe's exploits in saving life date from the year 1820, and from that time to the present it may be safely asserted that he has never _hesitated_ to risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature. the danger incurred in jumping overboard to rescue a drowning person is very great. many expert swimmers shrink from it. ellerthorpe has encountered this risk under almost every variety of circumstance. he has followed the drowning, unseen in the darkness of the night, in the depth of winter, under rafts of timber, under vessels at anchor or in docks, from great heights, and often to the bottom in great depths of water, and what is very remarkable, never in vain. _fortuna fortes favet_ (fortune favours the brave), is an adage true in his case. he never risked his life to save another without success.' even to an experienced swimmer and diver, like our friend, the task of saving a drowning person is not easy, and the grip and grapple of some of those whom he rescued, had well nigh proved a fatal embrace, and it was only by the utmost coolness, skill, bravery, and self-control that he escaped. [sidenote: he carries the drowning in his arms.] but he shall tell _his own_ simple, noble tale. 'during the last forty-eight years i have done all that lay in my power to rescue my fellow-creatures, when in drowning circumstances. by night and by day, in darkness or in light, in winter or in summer, i was always ready to obey the summons when the cry, "a man overboard," fell on my ears. and i have had to rescue the drowning in widely different ways. sometimes i seized them tightly by the right arm, and then, hold them at arm's length, soon reached the land. in some instances they seized me by my shoulder or arm, when, leaving hold of them, and, throwing both my hands into the water, i managed to reach the shore. in other instances i found them so exhausted that they were incapable of taking hold of me, and in these cases, i had to carry them as a mother would carry her child. and in two or three instances, i thought they were dead, and, with feelings easier imagined than expressed, i bore them up in my arms; when suddenly, and with great strength, they sprang upon my head, and oftener than once, under these circumstances, i was on the point of being drowned. some of those whom i saved were much heavier and stronger than myself, and when they got hold of me i found it difficult, and sometimes impossible, to shake them off. when i rescued robert brown, the night was pitchy dark, and for some time i could not see him; and when i got to him he clutched me in such a manner as to prevent my swimming. when i seized the young woodman, i thought he was dead, but, after a few moments, he made a great spring at me, and clutched hold of my head in such a way as to prevent me swimming for some seconds. when pinioned closely, i generally adopted this plan, which proved to be the best under the circumstances:--i threw myself on my back and pushed the drowning person on before me, and in this way i managed to keep them up for a time, and with comparative ease to myself. i often said to persons in a drowning state, "now, hold fast by me, and don't exert yourself, and i'll make you all right." it was not often i could persuade them to act thus, but whenever they could, they got upon me; for "a drowning person will catch at a straw." i believe i have fetched out of the water not fewer than fifty drowning persons, and, with scarce an exception, they tried to seize me, and thus rendered their deliverance a matter of great difficulty. in fact, it would be comparatively easy to fetch a drowning man out of water if he would just take hold of one's arm, and thus keep himself from sinking, and let one tow him ashore. [sidenote: he searches for the drowning.] 'in many instances, as will be seen, i had to run a great distance, and when almost out of breath, i have plunged into the water, and in that state had to struggle with those on the point of drowning. i remember that, on one occasion, when staying at a public house in america, the landlord came running into the room, and cried out, "a man overboard." i ran 200 yards, and on reaching the spot i was out of breath, when in i plunged, but soon found i could not stay under the water for more than a few seconds. the water was clear and fresh, with long grass at the bottom; but alas! i could not find the young man, and he was drowned. i arrived too late to be of any service, for it was found afterwards that he had pulled himself on the bottom of the river with the long grass to a distance of fifty yards from the spot where he fell in. 'my first object, after i had plunged into the water, was to catch a sight of the drowning person, and if i could once do that, i always felt confident i should soon have him in my grasp. it is a most difficult thing to search for a drowning person, especially in muddy water. i had to make this attempt again and again, and sometimes the fear has crept over me that my exertions would be in vain, when i made the most prodigious and exhausting efforts. and that i have never failed, in a single instance, is to me a source of great gratitude to god, "in whose hand my breath is, and whose are all my ways."' [sidenote: an instance of his pluck.] 'i remember once i had my leg crushed between our packet and the pier, and for some days after i could not walk without the aid of crutches. one day i got down to the south end, but soon felt tired, and returned home; but after a short rest, i again went to the pier, when i was told that, during my short absence, a cabman, named sharpe, had fallen into the harbour and was drowned. i was filled with indescribable distress at the news, and said, "if i had been here i would have saved him, despite my broken leg. at least i would have tried." a man, who professed to be a great swimmer, was present, and he answered, "o, i can swim as well as you can," when my muscles began to quiver, and my blood to throb, and i replied, in no very good temper, i assure you. "i dispute that, unless you mean now that i have my broken leg. why did'nt you try to save him?" i always felt that i would much rather have the satisfaction of having tried to save a drowning person and fail, than have the miserable satisfaction of shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders and saying, "oh, i knew it would be of no use trying to save him; it was foolish to try." "i could have done it," never saved a drowning man. "i will try," has enabled me, under god, to save fifty of my fellow creatures. 'i do not wish to intimate that every man who sees a fellow creature drowning, ought to plunge into the water to rescue that person. indeed, i have seen two or three instances where men, who could not swim themselves, have jumped into the water to save the drowning, and in every instance the consequences have nearly been fatal. before a person makes such an attempt, he should have tested his own ability to swim. if he can float himself and believes he can save the drowning person, he ought to make the attempt, and god will help him. this is not mere theory, but what i have felt again and again. ever after my conversion to god, i used to pray, when plunging into the water, "lord help me," and knowing as i did, that prayer melts the heart and moves the arm of jehovah, i felt confident he would help me; and so he did; for i often, when in the water, felt a sweet consciousness that god was with me. he taught my hands to war with the waters, and my fingers to grasp my precious freight. when struggling with the boy woodman, these words came forcibly into my mind, and i repeated them in the water:- "when all thy mercies, o my god, my rising soul surveys, transported with the view, i'm lost in wonder, love, and praise." [sidenote: his grateful acknowledgment of god.] 'i always felt it my duty, after rescuing a drowning person, to go to the house of god at night, and return public thanks to the almighty. ministers in the town, and especially the wesleyan ministers, have often returned thanks to god from the pulpit, on the following sabbath. on the morning following the deliverance, i generally went to see the rescued person, and sought to improve the event by impressing their mind with the uncertainty of life and with the importance of being prepared for death. [sidenote: john's statement.] 'in the following list i have given, as far as my memory and knowledge enabled me, a true and faithful account of the persons whom i have rescued from drowning. extracts from newspapers, and letters from the parties themselves, and also from many who were eye-witnesses of their deliverance, have been freely used. there are several whom i have, at different times, saved from a watery grave, not included in this list, but as these events produced but little impression on my mind at the time of their occurrence, and as i am utterly unable to give either the names of the parties, or the time when i saved them, i can make no reliable mention of them at present, _though i hope_ to be able to do so at some future time. i sincerely believe, however, that if i had kept a strict account of all these deliverances, instead of having to record thirty-nine cases, i should have been able to have recorded upwards of fifty. i regret now that i did not keep such a record. every now and then i meet with persons who greet me as their deliverer. two young men have done so within the last four months. and very pleasant to my mind it is to meet a fellow creature whom i have been the means, in the hands of a wonder-working providence, of saving from a watery grave. but all the cases mentioned in the following chapter, except william earnshaw and captain clegg, have been signed by living witnesses, and most of them were reported in the local newspapers, at the time of their occurrence. many of these persons are still living; some of them i see almost daily, and _they_ can speak for themselves. if i have made a mistake in spelling their names, or in relating the time when, or the circumstances under which, i saved them, i shall be glad to be corrected. and if i have offered an unkind reflection on any of my fellow creatures, or recorded a boastful sentence respecting what my fellow townsmen have been pleased to call my "deeds of daring," i hope to be forgiven by god, whose i am and whom i serve. finally: as a large circle of my friends are anxious to have a true record of all the lives i have saved, i shall be highly pleased if any whom i have rescued, but whose names i have not recorded, will send me a few lines that may add to the interest of this little book, should a second edition be called for.' [illustration: signature of john ellerthorpe] chapter vii. his gallant and humane conduct in rescuing the drowning. _first._--john ellerthorpe.[1] (1820.) he was my father, and i was not more than fourteen years of age when i saved him. at the time he managed the ferry boat from hessle to barton. it required two persons to conduct the boat across the humber, and as it cost my father a shilling each time he employed a man to assist him across, he often took me with him instead of a man, and thus saved the shilling. one morning, he took mr. thompson, corn miller, to barton, and engaged to fetch him back at night; and there was this agreement between them, that my father was to receive the fare whether mr. t---returned or not. he did not return that night, though we waited for him until nine o'clock. the snow was then thick on the ground, the wind was blowing strong, and the waves were beginning to rise high in the humber, and i was sitting, half-asleep, at the corner of a comfortable hearth, before a bright fire, when my father called out, 'come, my boy, we'll be off.' we were soon in the boat, but had not got many yards, when my father fell overboard. i remember crying out most piteously, 'oh, my father is overboard,' when i instantly plunged into the water and soon had fast hold of him. he had sunk to the bottom, a depth of sixteen feet, for when he came up he was covered with mud. we came up close to the boat's side, and, making a tremendous spring, i got hold of the boat's gunnel, and after a few moments my father also got hold of it with both his hands. he was a heavy man, weighing about fifteen stones, and could not swim. i said to him, 'now, father, can you keep hold while i fetch the hull horse-boatmen?' whom we had left at the water-side house, when he replied, 'yes, but be very sharp, my lad.' i then swam to the house, and called out, 'my father is overboard;' and when i returned with the men, i was glad to hear him shout, 'i'm here.' john thrush, captain of the horse-boat, and luke dixon, soon got him into the boat, while mr. wood, the landlord, brought him a glass of brandy, which he drank. we could not persuade him to leave the boat, so we again started for home, and as a brisk wind was blowing at the time, in about fifteen minutes, we were safe in hessle harbour. my mother met us there, and i said, 'mother, my father has been overboard, fetch somebody to help him out of the boat.' he was stiff and cold, but with the aid of mr. wright we got him ashore. mr. w. brought him some mulled ale and a glass of rum, which i then thought very good. we then wrapped him in several thicknesses of warm clothing. i was much perished at the time, but soon felt all right. not long before this, my mother had given me a severe flogging for bathing so often; so i looked into her face and said, 'mother, i think you won't flog me for bathing again, will you?' to which she replied, 'oh, my lad, it was a good job that thou was there;'[2] when my father faintly added, 'yes, if he had not been there i should never have come to the top of the water.' and if he had he would have been drowned, for he could not swim a yard; and had he shouted, no one was near to render him assistance. but, thank god, i was there, and answered the end of a gracious providence, and that was enough. now, my father never liked to have this circumstance named, though i have often heard him say, 'that lad saved my life.' afterwards, my mother never liked him to cross the humber after dark, unless i was with him; so i often had to accompany him when i would much rather have been at a warm fireside, or asleep in bed. _witnesses_--john thrush, luke dixon. [footnote 1: those marked with a star distinguish the cases for which mr. ellerthorpe received the special medal of the royal humane society.] [footnote 2: john seems to have loved his mother with a tender, intense affection. in a letter dated october 14th, 1867, he says: 'it is fourteen years this day since my poor (but i trust now rich) mother was buried at hessle. the lord knows i was her darling son; but, alas! for many years i was no comfort to her. but years before her death christ washed me from my sins in his most precious blood, and now i entertain a hope of meeting her in heaven.'] _second._--william earnshaw.* (1820.) there were two brothers, robert and william, sons of mr. earnshaw, of hessle. they were about my own age, and, like myself, they were very fond of bathing. their mother used to blame me for taking them into the water so often; but it was less my fault than theirs, for they used to fetch me from school--and i have known them give the schoolmaster a shilling to let me go with them. one day, we went to bathe in the drain, and fearing our parents might see us, we went a long way up the bank and then began to swim; at length i heard some one call out 'william earnshaw is drowning!' i was then a hundred yards from him, but i hastened to the bank and ran as fast as i could, until i got opposite him, when i again plunged into the drain and swam to my young friend's rescue. his brother was weeping, and said, 'all is over with him,' and i thought so too. i could but just see the hair of his head, when i darted at him and gave him a great push, but he was too far gone to take hold of me, so i shoved him on and on, until his brother could reach him, when we put him on the bank and thought he was dead; but he soon began to breathe, and, after a while, came round. at that time i was in great disgrace with mrs. earnshaw, and afraid lest, if we told of william's narrow escape, she would never let us go together again, we vowed to keep the affair a profound secret. soon after this the two brothers were taken ill, and poor william died, and the doctor said this illness was brought on by their too frequent bathing. they didn't bathe half so often as i did, but it was evident their constitution could not bear the water so well as mine. mr. earnshaw was a rich man and very liberal, and, i believe, if he had known the real nature of the case, as i have described it, so far from blaming me, he would have rewarded me for what i did for his son. i kept the promise i made to william for upwards of forty years; but as mr. and mrs. earnshaw and their sons are dead, and as a large circle of my friends are wishful to have a list of the lives i have saved, i think i am not doing wrong in recording william's deliverance in this history of my life. _third._--robert pinchbeck.* (1822.) this case was very similar to the one i have just described. robert, who was about fifteen years old, was a companion and schoolfellow of mine, and was fond of imitating my exploits in the water. one day he told some boys that he could swim across hessle harbour; but, in making the attempt, he nearly lost his life. i was about forty yards ahead of him, when i heard some boys cry 'bob pinchbeck is drowning.' he had gone down thrice, and was quite exhausted when i got to him, and he was saved, as it were, by the skin of his teeth. i feared he might seize me, and, therefore, i did not take hold of him, but pushed him before until he reached the long grass on the harbour bank. he could not use his limbs, and i thought he was dead, but he soon revived a little. we took him to my father's house and sent for his mother and a doctor; but when they arrived, he was breathing nicely, and after a few hours, he walked home. his father, though vexed by his son's disaster, said to me, 'you must teach him to swim.' i tried hard to do so, but the water always frightened him, and he never made much out at swimming. a few years after this he died of the typhus fever, and i believe his soul went to heaven. _witnesses_--john campbell, francis pinchbeck. _fourth._--henry ibotson.* (1824.) henry, myself, and others had been bathing in hessle harbour, and i had just left the water and dressed, when a cry was raised, 'ibotson is drowning.' i sprang to him, when he seized me so tightly and closely, that we had a narrow escape from being drowned together. at length i got myself clear, and took him to the bank, amid the shouts and cheers of a great many spectators. we had great difficulty in walking home, and when we got there we had to be put to bed. mr. booth, gardener, of hessle, and who was the next person i rescued, says: 'you may have forgotten, but i well remember, that a few days previous to your saving my life, you saved the life of h. ibotson. it had well-nigh cost you your life, as he closed in upon you, and took you to the bottom.' a few days after henry came and thanked me most sincerely for what i had done, and wished me to teach him to swim. i began at once, and he soon got that he could swim across the drain; but it was a long time before he durst venture to swim across the harbour, in which he had so nearly been drowned.... now, i would ask, why did not some of these spectators render help in this time of need? could nothing have been done when they saw us sink together, again and again? within fifty yards there was a boat, with boat-hooks and staves, and could no use have been made of these, to lessen, the peril in which myself and the drowning youth were placed? i am convinced that great numbers of people are drowned through spectators not making a little effort at the time. _witnesses_--george twiddle, robert riplington. _fifth._--george booth. (1825.) he was bathing in the drain at hessle, when a large tide was being taken in, and he began to sink fast. i was at a great distance when the alarm was given, but i ran to his assistance, plunged into the water, and soon brought him safe to land. mr. booth's gratitude has given me the greatest satisfaction. i had not seen him for many years, and had forgotten the circumstance altogether, until i met him at the funeral of r. pease, esq., when he said, 'i'm glad to see you once more, mr. ellerthorpe. don't you remember when you leaped into the drain forty years ago, and saved my life?' and in a note i got from him, dated july 31st, 1867, he says, 'under the blessing of divine providence you were instrumental in saving my life. i was sixteen years of age, and in july, 1825, i was bathing in hessle drain, when a very large tide was being taken in. i shall ever have cause to thank you, as the instrument in god's hands, of saving me from a watery grave.'--george booth. _sixth._--robert clegg. (1825.) he was both owner and captain of the keel 'ann scarborough,' the vessel from which i lost the brush at clark's bit. he went one dark night to moreton, and as he did not return at the time expected, i felt very uneasy about him, and at last i went on the bank of the trent, in search of him. when i got near moreton-bite, i thought i heard a groan; and after a long search i found my captain, drunk, half in the water and half on the bank. the tide was half flood, and was then rapidly rising, and had it risen a foot and a half higher, he must have been drowned, as nothing could have saved him. i struggled with him for three quarters of an hour, and after great exertions, i got him fairly on the bank. we were then a mile and a half from our vessel, and did not get on board until three o'clock next morning. a doctor had to be got, and soon the captain began to recover. but the keel was delayed two days. he was afraid lest his wife should get to know the cause of this delay, and he bound me to keep the affair a profound secret. but he often said, afterwards, 'jack saved my life.' and i am quite sure i did, as no one came near us, and there was no other chance of his being rescued. i never allowed this case to be put in the list of those whom i have saved, but having given a true statement of the case, i think i shall be pardoned for giving it a permanent record here. _seventh._--name not known.* (1826.) [sidenote: the coachman.] he was a coachman, but his name i never knew. he was conducting some ladies on board the 'sir walter scott,' when, being drunk, he fell overboard, between the smack and the wharf, irongate, london. there were but seven feet depth of water, and i had to leap from a height of at least sixteen feet; but i succeeded in preserving him from what seemed certain death. he was covered with mud, but was soon washed, and got on some dry clothes. after i had changed my clothes, and drank a glass of whisky, i returned to the vessel, and the ladies and gentlemen gave me a thousand thanks. the captain's name was nisbet, and ever afterwards he would have given me almost anything; whenever i met him in london, he used to call the attention of his passengers to me, and tell them what i had done. many a time has he sent for me on board his vessel, and given me as much drink as i would take, and he used to say to the passengers, 'see! this young man jumped over our ship's rail, when there was not more than seven feet of water, and made a rope fast to a man when there was no other way of his being saved. if i had not seen it i could not have believed that any man could have done it.' he often said, 'whenever you want a berth come to me and i will give you one.' _witnesses_--thomas macha, richard boras. _eighth._--charles himsworth.* (1828.) at this time, himsworth and myself belonged to the brig 'jubilee,' of hull. we were bosom friends, and very fond of spreeing about, and spent much of our time when ashore in dancing parties and in ballrooms. whether at hull or in london, if we could but find a place where there was plenty of noise and a fiddle going, that was the place for us. we have often spent many days' hard earnings in a few hours, amid such scenes. on this occasion he fell from the bows of the 'jubilee' while a strong ebb tide was running. i jumped in after him, and we both went under a tier of vessels that were hung at the buoy, battle bridge, london. we came to the surface, but were soon carried under another tier of vessels, and had not the mate have come to our assistance we should have gone under a third tier, but he came at the last extremity and saved us. charles belonged to a very respectable family living at snaith, where i once called to see his mother, who was a widow. her son thomas and i became intimate friends, after i had rescued charles, and he often said he thought as much of me as he did of his own brother. alas! the two brothers met with untimely deaths. on the morning of january the 25th, 18--, i saw thomas put out to sea, and in about half an hour the boat capsized, and he and five other men were drowned. charles got married, and became master of a vessel, but alas! he and the crew were drowned. _witnesses_--william howarth, joseph johnson. _ninth._--john kent.* (1828.) he was a native of hull, and a shipmate of mine on board the 'westmoreland.' while in a state of intoxication he jumped overboard into the diamond harbour, quebec, intending to swim to land, but sank at a distance from the vessel. a boat, manned with foreigners, was passing at the time, and captain knill called to them to pick up kent. they pulled the boat towards him, but kent, in trying to lay hold of it, missed his grasp, and the next moment he was under the boat. the captain then called to us on the stage, and said, 'be sharp with your boat, or _the man_ will be drowned.' we did not then know who _the man_ was, but, with the quickness of true sailors, we were in the boat in a minute. by this time he had been carried to a great distance from the ship, as the ebb tide was running strong and fast. i was forward in the boat, and on reaching the spot where he was last seen, i plunged under the water, and in a moment i saw the man, and was surprised to find it was my friend, john kent. i dived to a depth of twenty-five feet, and had him right above me; i soon had hold of him, and though i had to swim against the ebb tide, we were soon at the boat's side, when i said to the men, 'never mind me, pull him into the boat,' but he had such fast hold of my arm that they had to pull us in together, and even then it was with great difficulty they broke his hold of me. he was so far gone that for a long time we did not know whether he was living or dead. at length he showed signs of life, but recovered slowly, and did not work for several days. after twenty-five years' separation, i met kent in the streets of hull, and he remembered, with every mark of gratitude, his wonderful deliverance. my arm was much bruised, and almost as black as a coal. i could not lift it as high as my head, and i said to the captain, 'i am afraid i shall not be able to work to-day,' when he kindly said, 'never mind the work, surely thou's done enough for one day; take care of thy arm,' and he gave me something with which to rub it. it remained stiff for a long time, and gave me great pain. i hope to be pardoned for adding that, i was a great favourite with captain knill, and spent many hours with him ashore when i ought to have been aboard taking in timber. he was a kind man and a good captain, and often, after my drunken sprees, he would call me down to the cabin and there talk to me as a father would talk to his son. and these friendly counsels produced a deep impression upon my mind, and did me far more good than a 'blowing up' would have done. through respect for him, i used to guard against drink, but alas! i was often overcome. i cherish an undying respect for the memory of my dear captain knill. _witnesses_--captain j. knill, john hickson. _tenth._--george williams.* (1830.) he was a sailor on board the ship 'rankin,' belonging, i think, to gilmore and rankin. he fell overboard with a timber chain round his neck, and went under a raft of timber. some men saw him fall overboard, and called for me. i ran as fast as i could, and had to step from one piece of floating timber to another; however, i soon reached him, and brought him up with the chain round his neck. he was completely exhausted, and it was half an hour before he could walk. this man's captain sent for me to give me some money for rescuing one of his crew; but fearing he might stop the sum out of the man's wages, i refused to go; for i did not want anything for what i had done. he was offended, and when ashore told captain knill of my refusal. so to please my captain, i went on board the 'rankin,' when the captain shook hands with me, and said, 'captain knill tells me you won't take any money for saving one of my crew. i think you ought. had you saved my life i would have given you twenty pounds, and i think you ought to take a sovereign for what you have done. now take it, and i will make him pay me back.' he then sent for the man, who looked wretched and seemed to think i had gone for money; and when his captain said, 'now, what are you going to give this man for saving your life,' he replied, 'i have nothing to give him.' i didn't want the poor man's money, nor would i have taken any if he had had his pockets full. i then went forward to the crew, when the captain sent us what sailors call 'a mess pot.' i drank a great deal of rum that night, for i had to sup first with one and then with another, and each drank to my good health, and when i left they gave me a good hearty 'english cheer'--such a cheer as only 'jolly sailors' can give. captain knill was pleased that i had been so firm in refusing to take any money from the poor man, and it was enough for me that _he_ was pleased. and i can declare, most solemnly, that hitherto i have not received so much as a halfpenny from any of those whom i have saved. i have got many a glass of grog, but never any money. _witnesses_--captain j. knill, john hickson. _eleventh._--mary ann day.* (1833.) she was a little girl, a native of ulceby, in lincolnshire, and fell from the 'magna charter' steamer into new holland harbour. i sprang in after her while the paddle-wheels of the steamer were in motion, and brought her ashore, though at a great risk of losing my own life. the noise of the paddle-wheels, the screams of the girl's mother, and the confusion and shouts of the passengers, made this a very exciting scene, but it was very soon over, and the little girl, having got some dry clothes on, her mother brought her to me, and said to her, 'now what will you give this gentleman for saving your life?' when she held out her little chin and, with a full heart, said, 'a _kiss_.' she gave me a kiss, and o, what a kiss it was. i felt myself well paid for my trouble; indeed, i made the remark at the time, that i was never better satisfied than when that child kissed me. 'it is said that cicero had two courtiers on whom he wished to bestow favours. to one he gave a golden cup, and to the other a kiss. but the one that got the cup was very dissatisfied. he said, 'in the kiss i see something more than the cup, though that is valuable, but in the kiss there is affection, and it betokens better things.' and i am sure i felt a greater sense of delight, and higher satisfaction at the moment when that grateful child kissed me, than i did when my fellow townsmen, with their wonted generosity, presented me with one hundred and thirty guineas, and other mementoes of my doings; all of which i prize most highly, and which i trust will be preserved as heirlooms in my family, as long as the name of ellerthorpe shall continue. i have been told that this girl is married and has a large family, and that she is now living between beverly and hull. whether this is true i cannot say, but i know she has never paid me a visit, which i think she might have done, supposing the above statement to be correct. should this meet her eye, it may refresh her memory, and i assure her she would meet with a hearty welcome from her former deliverer, now living at the humber dock-gate, hull. _witness_--captain oswald james teny. _twelfth._--henrich jenson.* (1833.) he was a foreigner, about forty years of age, and fell into the humber dock basin, one dark night, in the month of november. i was walking on the dock side at the time, when i heard a splash in the water, and in less time than it takes to write these few lines, i plunged in after him, and found him in a drowning state; i seized him, and with the assistance of some bystanders, soon had him safe on land. he rapidly recovered and i heard no more of him for years, when a man, a foreigner, called at my house and gave me the man's name and thanked me for saving his life. he said, 'if ever jenson comes to hull again, you may rest assured he will call and see you, and give you personal thanks.' i said i should be glad to see him, but that i should not take anything from him for the little service i had done him. this case was fully reported in the local papers at the time, and gave rise to a great deal of talk in the town of hull, and its vicinity, as many well remember. john barkworth, esq., timber merchant, of hull (who had known me from a boy), in company with some other gentlemen, met me one day, and said, 'well john, you have saved another man,' and turning to those with him, he said, 'here is a man that never stops, whatever kind of weather blows, but in he plunges and fetches the drowning person out. look at his last case! on a dark cold night in november, he hears a splash, and in he goes and saves a man. gentlemen, the town ought to do something handsome for him.' he gave me half-a-crown, and each of the other gentlemen gave me the same sum. as these gentlemen had plenty of money, and as none of them had any connection with the man i had saved, i accepted their gifts, and felt pleased that my services had been acknowledged in the manner i have described. _witness_--james smith. _thirteenth._--ashley taylor.* (1833.) he was seventy-five years of age, and fell from the landing place of the grimsby packet, opposite ----street, hull. at that time i belonged to the new holland steamer, and having lost my tide at four o'clock, p.m., i went down to meet the packet which arrived at seven o'clock at night. mr. r. curtis, mr. lundie, and myself, were walking near where the boat was expected to land, when we heard a great splash in the water, but could not see anything. we ran to the corner of pier-street, and there we saw something in the water, but nothing stirred. at length mr. lundie said, 'i believe it is a man overboard.' i then looked more closely, and sure enough it was a man. he had on one of those old fashioned great coats, with three or four capes, and which were worn by gentlemen's coachmen and boots, forty years ago; and as the capes were blowing about in all directions, it was with great difficulty i found his head. i had to turn him up and down, to the right and left, topsy-turvey, before i could get his head clear. i took him to the 'piles,' and held him there, until a young man, who now drives a cab in hull, came to our assistance with a boat. we took the old man to the humber dock watch-house, and sent for dr. buchan, who used the royal humane society's apparatus, and also gave the old man a steam or vapour bath. i stayed with him in my wet clothes till he spoke, and then i went home and got on some dry raiment. during my absence, they took this old man to mr. hudson's lodging house, in humber-street. the night was cold, and the old man had had a warm bath, and to expose him to the night air under such circumstances was enough to kill him. when i arrived from new holland, at nine o'clock next morning, a person met me and said, 'the old man is dead.' _witnesses_--richard curtis, richard lundie. _fourteenth._--richard chapman.* (1834.) unlike the last case, richard was a fine boy, only seven years old: he was the son of the late mr. chapman, pilot, and also brother of mr. chapman, painter, of hull. he fell into the water from the hull dock pier. at the time, i was on the deck of my packet, smoking a pipe, when i heard some one call out, 'a boy overboard.' i sprang from the deck, ran to the spot, plunged into the water, and in a few moments i had the boy safe ashore. i then hastened home, got on some dry clothes, and in less than half an hour i had started with the packet for new holland. when i returned, mr. chapman met me and said, 'john, was it you who saved my boy?' 'i can't say, but i know i saved somebody's boy, is he yours?' i replied. 'yes,' said the rejoicing father, 'i'm glad you were there, what am i in your debt?' 'nothing, mr. chapman. i am as pleased as you are, and you are quite welcome to what i have done,' was my reply. he then said, 'come in here and have something to drink,' when we went to the minerva hotel. mr. chapman pulled a handful of sovereigns from his purse and said, 'now do take something for saving my boy,' but i again refused, though i believe to this day he would gladly have given me â£10 if i would have taken that sum; but i never did take anything from anyone whom i have rescued, though often urged to do so. i think it was on this occasion that i received â£1 from the hull royal humane society. mr. collinson, a gentleman, was on the pier when i saved master chapman, and he came and asked me what was my name, to what ship i belonged, where i lived, &c. soon after, i was called by some gentlemen into the minerva hotel, where dr. wallis shook me by the hand and said, 'i have often heard of you, and it gives me great pleasure to see your face and hear your voice.' he gave me a note to take to the trinity house for â£1, which i got, and another which i took to watson and harrison's bank, where i got another sovereign. i felt pleased with these acknowledgments of my services, and oftener than once after this i was sent to the same places, and got â£1 each time, after i had rescued a human life. the funds of the trinity house were soon exhausted, and several gentlemen requested me to prepare a list of the persons i had saved from drowning at hull, new holland, barton, and hessle, and to get it signed by living witnesses. the persons saved by me, for which i had received no public acknowledgment, numbered five, and they gave me â£5. altogether i have received eleven sovereigns from the hull humane society for those i rescued in the humber, and at hull. _witnesses_--william collinson, thomas spence. _fifteenth._--robert leeson.* (1834.) he was a young gentleman returning from a musical festival, at york. he fell into new holland harbour; some said he was in a state of intoxication. i swam to his assistance and soon saved him. he was very ill, and i believe a doctor was fetched from barrow. when i returned, next morning, he had gone, but had left me _sixpence_ with which to get a glass of rum, which i hastily swallowed. my captain was provoked by (what _he_ thought) this man's niggardly gift, and said, 'john, why did you drink it? i would have given you a glass of rum without your being indebted to him.' i am told that this gentleman is often in hull; if he is, i am sorry he has never had gratitude enough to give me a call. i saved his life and he must know it. i may add that a man who could not swim, jumped overboard to rescue this gentleman, and i had almost as much trouble in saving him as i had in saving leeson. _witnesses_--james oswald, james sorry. _sixteenth._--joseph crabtree. (1834.) at this time i belonged to the 'magna charter' steamer, and was watchman for the night. when i went on board i was not quite sober, and i lay down on the forecastle. after a while i thought i heard something fall overboard, when i ran on to the deck, but could not see anything. i listened with bated breath, but not a sound could i hear; at length i shouted, but there was no answer. a plank had been put from the 'ann scarborough,' into our 'taffelrail,' and as this plank had fallen down, i thought it was its fall i had heard and nothing else. i got a boat hook and pulled the plank on board our vessel. but after a few moments i thought i heard something stir, and on taking a light i saw crabtree, who was engineer of the 'ann scarborough,' stuck in the mud, for the vessels were dry. i put down a ladder and went to help him, but he was so fast in the mud that i could do nothing with him. so i ran to lawson's tap-room and got, i think, robert hollowman and two other men, to help to get c. out of the mud. he was dead drunk, but we soon got him ashore, gave him some brandy, and he was very little worse. the case was kept a profound secret at the time, and for this reason--crabtree was afraid that if his master should get to know of the affair, he would lose his situation, and as we all thought the same, we promised not to tell any one of it. _seventeenth._--wilson.* (1835.) this boy fell into the humber dock basin, and sank between the 'calder' steamer and the wall. it was about three o'clock one sabbath afternoon, and hundreds of people were passing to and fro in search of pleasure. i was one hundred yards from the boy when the alarm was given, but i ran as fast as i could, and when i got to the spot, i found great difficulty in getting near because of the press of the people who were anxious to see the drowning youth. some one said, 'he went down just here,' and in i went, but i had a task to find him because of the thickness of the water. at last i saw him, and brought him up on one side of the packet, and caught hold of the paddle-wheels, when the people, who crowded the deck, rushed to see us, and gave the packet such a 'lurch over' that we were again dipped overhead in the water. i was never nearer being drowned than at this moment; but 'mercy to my rescue flew,' for the captain, who had been asleep in the cabin, rushed on deck, and seeing our peril, called out, 'you are drowning them,' and got them to stand on the other side of the vessel, which lifted us right out of the water. a man then came into the paddle-wheel and took us both out. i was then completely exhausted and quite insensible. when i came to myself i was in the watch-house of the humber dock company, and a doctor was watching over me and administering suitable medical treatment. i cannot tell how long i was in this state, but i had all my clothes pulled or cut off, and i was dangerously ill for several days. the boy was thought to be worse than i was, and in his case they used the royal humane society's apparatus for restoring animation to drowning persons. he soon recovered, but who he was or where he came from i never knew. i remember the doctor told me his name was wilson. this was regarded by the public as an act of great skill and bravery, and was much talked of at the time. mrs. daniel sykes sent me, through the medium of the editor of the rockingham newspaper, â£1 10s., and i think one of the clubs subscribed _threepence_. _witnesses_--isaac johnson, s. bromley. _eighteenth._--sarah harland.* (1835.) mrs. h. was a person of great strength and bulk of frame, weighing fourteen stones; she fell from the pier into the water. our packet had just arrived from new holland, and i was forward making the ... rope fast, when our engineer called out 'jack, jack, there is a woman overboard.' he ran aft as fast as he could, and when he got there, he saw me overboard. he often used to say, 'i don't know how that little fellow got past me, for i ran as fast as i could, and yet when i got there he was overboard.' i seized this woman with a firm grip, and bore her to the pier, amid the applause of crowds of people who witnessed the whole occurrence. some of them said i swam as fast with this big woman in my arms as i did when i went towards her; this i think was impossible, seeing i was but a little man, and that she was such a big heavy woman. isaac whittaker, esq., who saw me rescue her, gave me half-a-crown to get some grog with. but what pleased me far better was, the gratitude of mrs. h. she resided, if i remember rightly, in blanket row, and on going to see her, next morning, i found her ill in bed. she seemed full of gratitude, and that gave me great pleasure. i have often seen her since, and she always acknowledges me as saving her life. _witness_--robert todd. _nineteenth._--robert brown.* (1835.) he was a sailor, from north shields, and fell overboard, near the victoria hotel, hull, while on watch. it was the first night of dacrow's circus appearing in hull, and brown's mates had gone ashore, either to see the performance inside, or to hear the music in the streets. i was watchman that night on board the 'magna charter' steamer. a heavy gale was blowing from the north, accompanied with sleet storms. while closing the cabin door for the night, i heard a splash, and running aft, i called out, 'is anyone overboard?' but there was no answer, for the pier was deserted, the people having thronged to the circus. i could not see anything; but at last i thought i heard a voice, and plunging into the water, i soon found poor brown; indeed he seized me before i was aware of him, and got upon me in such a way that i could not swim, and, i must confess, i was in a great passion. at length i got one arm at liberty, and made for the shore. i turned round and round a great many times, and, at last, after a desperate struggle, which i shall never forget, we reached the steps at the end of the pier. brown took hold of the rail, walked up the steps, and seemed as if he didn't care about me; i was quite exhausted, and had to hold by the railings for several minutes before i could recover my breath. i then sat down on one of the steps and felt very ill, and i thought i should have died on the spot. i remember seeing the lights, and hearing the music from the shore, but there was no one near to render me any help. bye-and-bye i recovered a little and _crept_ to the top of the steps, where i found poor brown, crying most piteously. two men, joseph crabtree and john young, came from lawson's tap-room, and i asked them to get some drink for the youth, who was in a distressing state, and i would pay for it. they then took him to mr. lawson's, while i tried to make my way home; but scarcely had i started, when a great trouble stared me in the face, it was this: around the circus were thousands of people, and i thought,--what shall i do? i cannot get through that crowd, and if i once fall, i shall never get up again, and i felt that i had not strength to walk round the other way, and i didn't know what to do. however, i had not gone far when, who should i meet, but joseph spyby, our engineer. i said, 'o joe, do help me home, do; i have been overboard saving a young man, and i can scarcely stand. i feel very bad.' he replied, 'yes, thou has to be drowned, and the sooner the better. there never was such a fool as thou art. does thou think anybody but theeself would jump overboard a night like this? no! there is not another such a fool in england!' now, joe was a kind-hearted, humane man, and the first to help a poor fellow in distress; but such was the way in which he expressed himself as he helped me along the street that terrible night. he took hold of me and got me through the crowd as well as he could. we went to the humber tavern, where i got a glass of brandy, and then spyby took me home. i got a change of raiment and a little rest, and strange to say, i soon felt well again. for this case i received the royal humane society's silver medal, with their thanks on vellum. the case created considerable excitement in hull, and the late mr. loft (father of our late mayor), offered to become one of twelve persons to allow me â£2 per week to walk round the pier and docks, so as to be ready to rescue any who might fall into the water. _witness_--robert todd. _twentieth._--robert tether. (1836.) this young man, who is at present second engineer of the steam-ship, 'dido,' belonging to wilson and sons, hull, shall describe his own deliverance. he thus writes:--'about thirty years ago, and when i was about ten years of age, i was on board of a vessel whilst being launched from a ship-yard on the humber bank. by some means or other a check rope belonging to the vessel broke, and dragged me into the water. there was no means of my being saved but by the noble "hero," who immediately jumped into the water, with all his clothes on, and brought me to the shore, which was done at a great risk of his own life. i remember, also, that there was immense shouting and cheering, and that a band of musicians who had been playing at the 'launch,' when they saw mr. ellerthorpe bearing me ashore, began playing, "see the conquering hero comes."--robert tether, july 24th, 1867.' _twenty-first and twenty-second._--george emerson* and ann wise* (1836.) emerson, a porter, was conducting miss wise, from the 'magna charter,' over a plank, when the plank slipped, and both were precipitated into the water. the wind was blowing very strong, and the river was extremely rough at the time. i had just gone into the cabin to change my clothes, when, hearing such a screaming as i had never before heard, i sprang upon the paddle-box, and saw emerson, but knew nothing of the woman who had also fallen into the water, and whose mother was uttering the most heart-rending shrieks. i leaped from the paddle-box to save the man, when, to my surprise, i found i had thrown my legs right _across the woman's shoulders_! of course my _first object_ now, was to save _her_. i hastily dragged her to the side of the packet, and having put her hand round a piece of iron, i said to her, 'now hold fast there, for you are safe.' i then went to a distance in search of emerson, and having made a rope fast round him, i was able to hold him up with ease. but the shouting was as great as ever, and i thought,--surely there is some one else overboard! the fact was, the people could not see the woman holding by the iron, and in my efforts to save the man, they thought i had forgotten her; hence their wild shouts. the engineer came to the vessel's side and shouted, 'there is the woman yet,' when i replied, 'she's all right, come down to the paddle and take hold of her.' he came and took her out, when she had a basket on her arm and a pair of pattens in her hand, just as when she dropped into the water. she suddenly disappeared from the crowd, and i heard no more of her for seven years. mr. g. lee, editor of the 'rockingham, advertised the case in his paper for several weeks, asking the woman, from sheer gratitude, to let him know her name; but there was no response. when i was master of the 'ann scarborough,' sailing between barton and hessle, i had to fetch (one sunday afternoon) a gentleman's carriage from barton to hessle. we had scarcely started, when a young woman, who was a passenger, said to me, 'you don't know me, sir, but i know you.' 'and for what do you know me, something good or bad?' 'o good, sir; don't you remember jumping overboard and saving my life, at hull? i shall never forget you, and i have come here on purpose to thank you.' i then told her how we had advertised for her name, but could never hear a word of her, when she said, 'my mother and i were strangers in hull, and as soon as i had got some dry clothes on, we had to start by coach, for bridlington.' this woman's brother was gardener for mr. graborn, solicitor, barton, and we afterwards became very intimate friends. i have not heard from ann wise for many years, but if she is yet living in any part of england, it would gladden my heart to have one more acknowledgment from her. in relating this case at temperance meetings, i have sometimes created a little mirth, by remarking, 'i went in search of a man, and lo! and behold, i found a woman.' _witness_--robert todd. _twenty-third._--john bailey.* (1836.) he was fourteen years of age, and while playing at the hull ferry-boat dock, he fell overboard and had a very narrow escape from being drowned. when i first heard the cry, 'a boy overboard,' i was near the minerva hotel, and i at once ran to the scene of the disaster. he had been down twice, when i got there, but in a few moments i had hold of him, and brought him ashore, amid the cheers and shouts of hundreds of spectators. i narrowly escaped being drowned. bailey is now a labouring man in hull, and i believe the father of a large family. i often meet him, and he always seems glad to see me. i may here ask, was it not strange that amongst the hundreds of people who saw this drowning youth, not one was found to render him the least assistance? i do not write boastingly when i say this:--if i could run from the minerva hotel to the pier, and save this youth, after he had sank in the water twice, surely those who were near him at the moment when he fell in, might have rendered him some assistance? indeed some present said, 'we could have swam to him if we had tried.' then i would ask, 'why didn't they make a venture?' the conduct of these spectators i regard as being monstrous and unmanly. englishmen are generally thought to have a fair share of personal courage, but it is nevertheless a fact, that scores of them watched the struggles of this drowning youth, _but took care to watch them only from the shore_. can we wonder that hundreds are drowned every year along our coasts, if people act as these spectators did. _witnesses_--joseph crabtree, john young. _twenty-fourth._--richard lison.* (1836.) he was a boy, seven years of age, and fell into the junction dock, hull. when the alarm was given, i was at the other side of the present ... dock, a great distance from where the boy was, but i ran with all speed over the bridge, and when i got to the drowning child, i found he had sunk the third time, and i thought, o, what shall i do? i went in search of him; i dived here, and i dived there, and at length i found him. a cry of joy was raised by the spectators when they saw me fetch him from a great depth, and then carry him towards the shore, on reaching which, some of them received him, and took him to his mother. i heard no more of him until he had grown to manhood; since then he has manifested the warmest gratitude, and treated me with the utmost kindness and respect. for years he was in the employ of the hull dock company; i had many opportunities of watching his conduct, and always found him a faithful and trusty servant, doing his duty as well in his master's absence as in his presence. this made me think much of him, and i always felt a deep interest in his welfare. he is now in the employ of martin, samuelson and co., hull. _witness_--john lundie. _twenty-fifth._--george rickerby.* (1836.) he was a youth, and while playing on the east pier, hull, he fell overboard. i ran a great distance, and in an almost breathless state leaped from a height of fourteen feet, into seven feet depth of water. i had scarcely touched the water, when he clutched me firmly, and dragged me down, again and again, but i was eager to rescue him, and, thank god, i succeeded. he had fallen upon one of the buoys, and cut his head, which bled profusely, and before i got him ashore i thought he was dead. he continued to bleed for some time, and a doctor was sent for. there was great cheering by the spectators as they saw me bearing through the waters, this bleeding, but still living youth, and some ladies and gentlemen, who had been watching me from the minerva hotel, threw out of the window, several shillings and half-crown pieces. if my memory serves me rightly, i got â£1 10s. i thought myself handsomely rewarded; but what pleased me more was the gratitude of the boy's mother; for i have always considered gratitude the richest reward i could receive: more than grateful thanks for what i had done, this poor woman would have found it difficult to have given me, but most grateful she was, and i felt both satisfied and delighted. but let me explain: on going to see the boy, next morning, i found him very ill in bed, and his mother, thinking i had gone for something for saving her child's life, said, 'i have no money to give you, sir, but my husband's half-pay will be due in a few days, and i'm sure you shall have half of it.' i replied, 'i'm sure i have not come for anything you have, my good woman, for i never take money from those i save, or from their relatives.' she seemed overwhelmed with grateful feelings, and i had some difficulty in persuading her that i did not want money, and that i would not take it if offered me, and i believe, to this day, that if i had said to her, 'you must give me your eight-days' clock and your chest of drawers,' she would willingly have given them to me there and then. _witness._--richard curtis. _twenty-sixth._--miss hill. (1836.) this young woman, when landing at new holland, ran down the plank, when her foot slipped and she fell into the water, at the low side of the jetty. i sprang to her assistance, but she was fast among some pieces of timber. we were both in great peril, the tide was coming in, and had it reached a foot higher, we should both have been drowned. we were so placed as to be compelled to dive under water before we could reach the shore. i told her that there was no other way of our being saved, and that the attempt must be made at once, and without waiting for her consent, i grasped her in my arm, and under the water we went. the people thought we should have been drowned, but we soon got clear of the jetty; some threw us one thing and some another; at length james nicholson got into a boat, took us in, and landed us safe ashore. i went to a public house, where i got a glass of brandy, and borrowed the ostler's clothes, and i ailed nothing afterwards. the young woman remained at new holland all night, and took her departure next morning, without leaving behind her even a single expression of verbal gratitude for what i had done for her. for some time it was reported that she was the daughter of sir rowland hill, post-master general, but i wrote to that knight, and found that she did not belong to his family. she made a fine appearance and was well dressed, but when i think of the shabby way in which she left the scene of her distress, i can't call her a lady. i am devoutly grateful that i was the means of saving her, but the case would not have been made thus prominent, had not several gentlemen of hull, who were present on the occasion, refused to let the case slip. _witnesses_--robert todd, captain thomas oswell. _twenty-seventh._--hannah webster.* (1837.) this i regard as a most wonderful deliverance. some said she fell, others that she jumped, from the barton horse-boat into the ferry-boat dock, hull. thomas spencer, who was working at what was then called 'the knock-em-down jetty,' saw the woman drop into the water, and called out, 'a woman overboard.' i hastened to her and soon got her ashore, when she was completely exhausted, and we sent for a doctor. a gentleman came to me and said 'did you fetch yon woman out of the water?' 'yes, sir,' was my reply, when he made this strange and unaccountable remark--'if you had let her stop in i would have given you half-a-crown, but as it is, i shall not give you anything.' 'thank you, sir, but i'm glad she's out, notwithstanding; and i would rather save that woman than i would have all the half-crowns in hull,' was my indignant reply. i never stood to ask whether a drowning person was rich or poor, friend or foe, drunk or sober. if a person was overboard i did my best to rescue that person from drowning. we took this poor, despised woman to a house in humber-street, and i gave my word that all expenses should be paid. she lodged in mill-street, and was a widow, thirty seven years of age, and had two children. i went to see her next morning, but she had gone, so i had all expenses to pay. i have always thought this woman was one of those poor, unfortunate, and despairing ones, so touchingly described by hood:- 'mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be hurled, anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.' _witnesses_--william taylor, george horsefield. _twenty-eighth._--miss ellgard.* (1837.) this young woman, who, there is reason to suspect, was a similar character to mrs. webster, fell from mcdonald's wharf, into toronto bay, america. i had in charge at this time a vessel belonging to mr. garsides, and when walking down to the wharf, one cold night, in the month of october, i heard a heavy splash in the water, and the next moment a loud scream. i ran to the place and saw this woman struggling in the water. she was very difficult to get at, but at last i caught hold of her, and soon landed her on the wharf. a man was waiting to receive her, and they instantly walked off. a few days after, however, she called at mr. baker's, 'black swan' inn and asked for me, and on going to the door she told me that i had saved her life, and that she was twenty-nine years of age. now there had been some strange reports about her and the man who met her; indeed it was commonly believed, in toronto, that he had pushed her overboard. but she said, 'the report is false. i _fell_ overboard.' she thanked me very kindly; i urged her to tell me her name, which she did, after i had promised not to tell anyone; this made me suspect that there was something wrong in connection with her being overboard. she urged me to accept some money, but i would not for i am sure her gratitude amply satisfied me for what i had done for her. _witnesses_--thomas thomas, john baker. _twenty-ninth._--jane gough.* (1843.) when seven years old, she fell into hessle harbour; her mother gave the alarm, and in a few moments i was in the water and saved her. i remember but little about _this case_, but the girl's father often says, when referring to myself, 'that man saved my child's life twice, and the second time was as good as the the first.' i will explain the second case. miss gough, many years after her deliverance, married mr. shaw, a captain, and together they have brought up a family of children, in respectable circumstances. mrs. shaw knew me well, but i had not seen her for many years, when this strange event took place:--i was captain of the dock company's steamer, and on going one dark night into the victoria dock, i found a deep timber-laden vessel, with her stem upon the bank and her stern in the channel, and she was rapidly filling with water. i at once went to her assistance, and having fastened a strong rope to her, and then to my packet, i tried, first in one way and then in another, to pull her off, but she seemed immoveable; and i began to fear i should not accomplish my object. but i always believed in that little catch, 'have you not succeeded yet? try, try again.' and _we did_ try again; and after trying many ways but in vain, we put the tow-rope on board, and running our packet at full speed, off the vessel came. all this time there was no person on board except the captain's wife and her children. so i put them ashore, and went on board the vessel myself, and let go the anchor. now, i did not know who the woman was until she offered me a sum of money, for what i had done. i told her i did not want aught, and that she was heartily welcome to the timely service i had rendered her. she then said--and i shall never forget it--'mr. ellerthorpe, you don't seem to know who i am?' i said, 'no, i don't;' when, to my surprise, she answered, 'i am that little girl, jane gough, whom you saved from drowning in hessle harbour.' my feelings were indescribably pleasant and joyous. _witnesses_--jane shaw, john gough. _thirtieth._--william turner. (1844.) this deliverance took place one dark night, when we were rounding flambro head, and while a strong wind was blowing and a heavy sea rolling. turner, while doing something at the main sheet, fell over the vessel's side. i caught him, and got him on board, with a quickness that has always surprised me. mr. turner, who is at present foreman of the humber dock company, wharfage department, thus writes:--'i am one of the persons whom mr. ellerthorpe has saved from a watery grave. in the year 1844, and during a voyage from scarborough to hull, in the yacht, "gossamer," i fell overboard while crossing burlington bay. he sprang to my assistance and saved me, otherwise i should have been drowned. i remember also, when coming over the humber dock bridge, one night, about nine o'clock, i saw an old lady fall from a height of about twenty feet, into the lock-pit. soon after i heard a tremendous splash, and to my surprise, i found it was "our hero," who had plunged his carcase into the lock to rescue the old lady from her perilous position, which he did manfully. i also saw him rescue john eaby. in the great and terrible struggle which took place in the water, mr. ellerthorpe bore up with the greatest coolness imaginable, although at a great risk of losing his life.--william turner.' _thirty-first._--john ellerthorpe. (1846.) he was my son, and first-born child. mr. g. lee, the gentleman who first gave me employment in connection with the hull dock company, had engaged me to teach his son the art of swimming. we went to the stone ferry baths, for that purpose, and wishful that my own sons should learn this invaluable art, i took john with us. when we got to the baths, i found the water was too warm to bathe in, so mr. lee and myself went into one of the adjoining rooms and had a long conversation about swimming, while the two boys were left behind. at length i went to test the temperature of the water, it was remarkably clear, and, to my horror, i saw my son prostrate at the bottom of the bath! my feelings can be better imagined than described. instantly, and without either throwing off a single garment or putting my watch from my pocket, i plunged into the bath and brought him up. he was full of water, and frothed at the mouth, and was very ill for a long time after. _witness_--mr. g. b. lee, jun. _thirty-second._--thomas robinson.* (1846.) he belonged to a schooner, lying in the junction dock, hull. i was walking near the dock, when i saw a great many people running from every direction, and was soon told that a man had fallen overboard. i ran to the spot, and for some time i could not ascertain the nature of the case. at length the captain of the schooner, said, 'he went down close to the vessel, and has been seen twice.' instantly i dived to the bottom of the dock, but could not see him. i swam to and fro for some time, and at last saw him under the vessel; he seemed quite dead, but i seized him and brought him up. they were busy with the grappling irons, but as he was under the vessel, the probability is he would never have been got out of the water alive. i went home and got some dry clothes on, and when i returned and inquired how he was, i was told he rapidly recovered. i have never seen this young man, or heard a word of him from that day to the present. he was a sailor, and may have been in hull since then, but if he has, he never made himself known to me. _witnesses_--john moody, john kidd. _thirty-third._--watson.* (1846.) while going on the humber bank, to hessle, i passed some youths who were bathing, but took little or no notice of them until i had got about 300 yards past them, when i saw some men running from a field close by, and heard a youth call out, 'a boy is drowning.' i ran back, and swam to the lad, and soon brought him out and laid him on the bank. i drank a glass of grog and smoked a pipe, and then returned to hull, for a change of raiment. i caught a severe cold on this occasion, for i had got half way to hessle when i saved this boy, and had on my wet clothes for nearly three hours. i have never, that i am aware of, seen that boy since. nor am i quite certain about his name; some one said they called him watson; but a man who saw me save him told me he would let me know the boy's right name, but he never did. somebody disputed my saving the lad, so i got a paper signed by a man who witnessed the whole affair, and whose name was johnson. _witness_--mr. johnson. _thirty-fourth._--samuel davis. (nov. 6, 1850.) he was employed on board a 'mud tug' that was used for removing mud from hull harbour into the humber. i saw this tug in a sinking state, and called out to the men to escape from her at once. all left her and got into a boat, except davis; he was rather lame, but had time enough to make his escape as well as the rest. the men had not left the 'tug' more than five minutes, when she capsized, and davis was thrown into the water. i was on board a 'tow boat' at the time, and between the drowning man and myself, there lay three heavily-loaded ballast lighters. i turned my steamer astern, and by jumping from one lighter to another, i soon reached davis. i felt confident i could save him, and having a mud scraper in my hand, i threw the end of it to him, and said, 'now, don't be afraid, you'll soon be all right.' i did save him, but alas!--and my hand trembles while i write it--the first utterance that fell from his lips was a fearful oath, 'd---my eyes!' o, how grieved i was to hear a man, just at the point of death, utter such an expression. we soon got him on board of our packet, and put him in some warm and dry clothes. on friday night, december the 6th, 1867, a fire broke out in hull, and my son joseph, was there, and sprung the rattle, giving the alarm, and the first man that came to the spot was davis. one of my son's companions called out, 'ellerthorpe!' when davis said, 'is john ellerthorpe that young man's father?' 'yes,' was the reply. 'ah!' said davis, 'he saved my life, and but for him i should not have been here to-night.' i trust the lord will yet save him, and that i shall meet him and others whom i have rescued, at the right hand of the great judge. _thirty-fifth._--a boy--name unknown.* (1850.) at this time i was captain of the hull dock steam tug. one night, about eleven o'clock, the railway goods station was on fire, and i was summoned from my bed to go and remove our packet, which was moored close to where the fire had broken out. in the space of two hours, three men fell overboard, all of whom i rescued, with the assistance of others. soon after i had to take the dock company's fire-engine on board our packet, as they could not find enough water on shore. the wind was blowing a heavy gale, and before i could get the packet to a convenient place, sufficient water had been found, and the engine was not needed. while i was busy with the packet, a man was drowned, and i felt greatly distressed on his account. so i went and sat down on the paddle-box and placed a boat hook at my side, to be ready should any one fall into the water. i had not sat many moments when i saw a youth, about seventeen years of age, fall overboard. i jumped from the paddle-box on to the dock wall, and ran as fast as i could to the spot. while the fire was blazing before me i could see the boy distinctly, but when i got past the fire it was pitchy dark, and i lost all trace of the drowning youth. thousands of people were thronging and shouting in every direction, and i lost all hopes of saving the youth, who was now submerged in the water. but when i could not get any further, for the press of the people, i threw in the boat hook; it was eighteen feet long and the tide was very high. i knelt with one knee on the wall, and felt the boy at about fifteen feet under water. the hook caught the bottom of his waistcort, and i felt him take hold of it with both his hands. i never could ascertain the boy's name, but the whole case was fully reported in the local newspapers at the time, and hundreds, yea, thousands of people now in hull, well remember it. witnessed by thousands. _thirty-sixth._--george pepper.* (1852.) george was the son of my shipmate, who witnessed the whole affair. he was a scholar in the trinity house school, but it being easter monday, he had a holiday, and came to spend the afternoon on board, with his father. the packet started suddenly, and the rope by which she had been fastened to the pier, struck the boy, and overboard he went. the packet was in motion, but i leaped into the water, while george's father went to fetch a boat hook, but it is my opinion the boy would have been drowned had i waited for the hook. the boy's father was a good swimmer, but he has often told me that he always wanted to think a few moments before he durst leap into the water. however, i saved his son in a few moments, and without much difficulty; indeed, when his mother said to him, 'george, what did you think when you was in the water?' he replied, 'o, mother, i hadn't time to think, for mr. ellerthorpe caught me directly.' next morning, george was ready for school and i was ready for my work, and scarcely any one knew aught of the affair. the fact was, both pepper and myself were to blame in not warning the boy of the danger that had nearly cost him his life. george is now a young man, and sails, i believe, from the port of hull, and he seems to think as much of his deliverance now as he did fifteen years ago. _witness_--henry bolton. _thirty-seventh._--robert woodman.* (1854.) he was a youth belonging to the brig 'janet,' of south shields, which was leaving the victoria dock, hull, and he had the misfortune, while unfastening the check-rope, attached to the 'dolphin,' to fall overboard. for some time he struggled in the water, helpless, and it was apparent that he was drowning. at the time i was on board the dock company's tug, which was about thirty yards from the spot, when, fortunately, i happened to see the youth, and i immediately sprang into the water with all my clothes on. i succeeded in seizing the boy as he was sinking, and placed him in such a position as enabled me to keep him above the water, when i made the best of my way to the brig's boat, a few yards off. the poor lad, in his almost insensible state, got upon my head and clung to me tightly, and in a few moments, so entwined himself around my arms as to render me almost incapable of swimming, and the probability at that time was, that both of us would be drowned. i saw and felt my perilous position, as he threatened to draw me again into the water, by his desperate struggles; but at last, with the strength and force of desperation, i managed to reach the painter of the boat, which fortunately being 'taut' from the ring, enabled me to raise myself and the youth out of the water, and we were both got into the boat, though in a most exhausted condition; indeed i had to be conveyed home. the boy soon recovered and left the dock the next tide, and i never saw him again. but i wrote to the captain of the ship, and received this beautiful letter from the youth's father:- my dear sir,--the captain of the brig 'janet' has sent me the very kind letter from you, wishing to know the age and name of my boy, which i am glad to tell you. his name is robert woodman, and he is seventeen years of age. i live in london, and i am very sorry to tell you that it is not in my power to give you anything or i would most gladly have done so. but do accept my sincere thanks; and i do hope, sir, that if it should please god to spare my son to manhood, that he will in some way present you a proof of his gratitude for the great deed of daring that you have done for him; for the captain said the boy could not have been saved had it not been for you. please to accept my most grateful thanks for your great kindness to my poor boy. yours truly, woodman. now, i can truthfully say, that this letter paid me well for the great risk i had run, as it gave me great pleasure. some time after, the 'janet' returned to hull, and i went on board to see if i could find the youth, but the bird had flown, for the captain told me he had run away from his ship, and that he had no idea where he was. the captain was glad to see me and wanted me to have a glass of grog, but i refused, having become, a short time before, a pledged abstainer from all intoxicating drinks. _thirty-eighth._--ann martin.* (1860.) while the humber dock gate was being closed, this woman, who was forty-eight years of age, came up to the bridge, and refusing to wait until the proper time for passing, she attempted to step from one half of the bridge to the other, and in making the attempt, she fell, head first, into the water below. it was high tide at the time, and she was rapidly carried away by the stream. the night was dark and i was very ill, but when i heard that a woman was overboard, i ran to the spot; but alas! i could not see her, and for a moment i thought there was no chance of saving her. but knowing that assistance must be immediately rendered or the woman would be out of sight, and beyond the reach of help, i plunged into the water and soon brought her to the bridge. they let down a boat hook to which we both clung, and then a ladder, up which to ascend. but i told them i would rather have a boat, which was soon brought and we were landed in safety. while clinging to the hook, the woman, as might be expected, was full of alarm, but i knew she was safe enough, so to allay her fears, and wile away a few moments of painful, but unavoidable waiting, i jocosely said to her, 'hold fast now, missus. you are as safe now as though you were watching the pot boil over.' she afterwards told me that the most pleasant sensation she ever experienced in her life, was at the moment when she felt some one had hold of her in the water. this woman has manifested the liveliest gratitude for what i did for her, and she never crosses the bridge without calling at my house to enquire after me, and she often says, to my good wife, 'you know i aint right if i don't see the master about.' she was very poor at the time i saved her, but on the following christmas she brought me a _duck_ for my dinner. i refused to take it, for i knew she could not afford to give me it; but she said, 'you must take it; i meant giving you a goose, but i could'nt afford to buy one. now do take the duck, do, sir.' i saw it would grieve her if i refused, so i took it; _and this is the first, and only occasion that i have taken aught from those whom i have rescued_. and i am sure in this case, it was more blessed to give than it was to receive, for the woman was both satisfied and delighted. the gratitude of this poor woman, and also that of her family, seems unabated. _witness_--william turner. _thirty-ninth._--john eaby.* (july 30, 1861.) police constable green, 69, was on duty at the south-end about half-past ten o'clock, on the morning of the above date, and about one hour before high water, when he saw eaby, in a fit, fall from the quay into the humber dock basin. he immediately called out, 'a man overboard,' and with the assistance of another man, got the grapplings and caught hold of eaby by his clothes, but he being of great weight, they tore asunder, and he again dropped into the water. green then called for further assistance, when our friend ran to the rescue, and urged by eaby's fearful condition, and the benevolent feelings of his own noble spirit, he immediately jumped into the water and seized the drowning man. from the effects of the fit, the man struggled desperately. our friend tried to get a rope round him, but could not; he got his hand into his preserver's mouth, and would have drowned him, had not mr. ellerthorpe had so many opportunities of trial in such cases. eaby's first expression on coming out of his fit was, 'what are you doing here?' when his deliverer replied, 'havn't i as much right here as you have?' then eaby went off into another fit. by this time a boatman, named john tickells, came to our friend's assistance, and was joined by robert ash, gateman, humber dock, who slipped the grappling rope into the boat. they then both seized eaby, and got him into the boat and tied his legs, otherwise, so desperate was he, he would have split the boat up. they then assisted our friend into the boat. eaby struggled so desperately that the men had great difficulty in holding him in the boat. he was taken to his house, 20, dagger lane, where he was attended by mr. lowther, surgeon, accompanied by policeman green. he soon escaped, without clothes, and, followed along the street by a crowd of people, ran into no. 11, fish street, and got into one of mr. alcock's beds. he was thirty-seven years of age, and had been subject to fits for years, which were often very violent. _witnesses_--william turner, william steadman. this rescue--the last of a large number that mr. ellerthorpe was the honoured instrument of achieving--was witnessed by hundreds of spectators, who were filled with admiration and wonder. these were seen in their countenances and heard in their shouts of applause, as he struggled with this poor unfortunate man. not only so, but it led the public to raise a subscription for mr. ellerthorpe. two working men, mr. william turner, and mr. william steadman, who witnessed the humane and heroic conduct of their fellow townsman, took the initiative, and how hard they worked, and how nobly they accomplished their object, will be seen from our next chapter. the above list of thirty-nine persons saved by our friend, contains _three little girls_, _fifteen youths_, _six women_, and _fourteen men_, in the strength and vigour of their days; and _one old man_ burdened by the weight of seventy-five years. they were saved at the following places: (america,) quebec, _two_; toronto, _one_; barton, _one_; castleford, _one_; humber bank, _one_; burlington bay, _one_; london, _two_; new holland, _three_; hessle, _five_; hull, _twenty-two_. these deliverances took place in the following years: 1820, _two_; 1822, _one_; 1824, _one_; 1825, _two_; 1826, _one_; 1828, _two_; 1830, _one_; 1833, _three_; 1834, _three_; 1835, _three_; 1836, _seven_; 1837, _two_; 1843, _one_; 1844, _one_; 1846, _three_; 1849-50, _two_; 1852, _one_; 1854, _one_; 1860, _one_; 1861, _one_. but though eaby was the last person our friend actually rescued, his readiness to imperil his own life, that he might save the lives of others, did not expire on that ever memorable occasion. a clergyman called to see him, and amongst other things, said, 'now ellerthorpe, your work is done; god has honoured you above most men, be satisfied; remember the old adage, "the pitcher goes often to the well, but gets broken at last."' our friend shook his head and said, 'do you think, sir, i could see a man overboard and not plunge in after him? no, sir.' and though upwards of sixty-one years of age, and suffering acutely at times from his oft exposures in the water and cold, he yet thought as deeply and felt as strongly as ever for his drowning fellow creatures; and on two or three occasions his old zeal rose to furnace heat. in proof of this we give the following extracts from the hull papers: [sidenote: a sailor drowned.] a sailor drowned.--on monday last, an inquest was held at the parliament-street police-station by mr. p. f. thorney, the borough coroner, on view of the body of thomas bates, who had been a seaman on board the screw steamer 'irwell.' on saturday evening, about eight o'clock, the deceased fell from the forecastle deck of the above-named vessel into the humber dock lock pit. mr. john ellerthorpe, the foreman at the gates, immediately jumped in after him, and though both were taken out within five minutes, by the dock gateman, bates was pronounced to be dead by mr. lowther, surgeon, who was summoned to the spot. a verdict of accidental death was returned.--_hull news, feb. 14th, 1863._ respecting this case our friend says, 'mr. bates spoke to me in the water, and said, "i shall soon be all right," and i thought he would too. the water was piercingly cold, and i went and changed my clothes, and when i returned to see how the poor man was, dr. lowther had pronounced him dead. i never felt such a sense of distress as i did at that moment; i did my very best to save him; indeed, mr. lowther says, "the man died in an apoplectic fit." it was deeply distressing to see the poor widow, when her husband was pronounced dead; she was overcome by the suddenness of the stroke, and mr. dale brown kindly sent her home in a cab. this man, and ashly taylor (aged 75 years), are the only instances out of upwards of forty i have rescued, of death taking place in consequence of their being in the water.' a man in the humber dock.--yesterday a man, named george taylor, who is frequently employed in connection with the landing of fish, &c., and who resides in the 'trippett,' while in a fit fell into the humber dock, at the south-west corner, near to where the 'alster' steam vessel was lying. his fall was seen by some men who were standing near at the time and they at once got some boat-hooks to draw him out. mr. ellerthorpe, the foreman of the humber dock bridge, whose humanity and gallantry in saving people from drowning, has won for him the title of the 'hero of the humber,' was ready to plunge in after the poor fellow, had he not been readily recovered by the hooks. on being got on shore, he was brought into the bridge watch-house and properly attended to. before recovering he had several fits. he was eventually sent home wrapped in blankets.--_eastern morning news_, december 13th, 1866. man overboard.--about two o'clock on saturday, whilst mr. john ellerthorpe was busy at the mytongate bridge passing a vessel through, he heard something splashing in the water, which he thought was a dog. he called out to a lighterman, named george woolass and another man who were on board of the vessel, to bring a boat and get the animal out. a boat was obtained, and the splashing was found to be caused by a man who had fallen overboard. on getting him out it was found he belonged to one of the fly-boats, and had he remained many seconds more in the water he must have been drowned.--_hull advertiser_, march 2nd, 1867. [sidenote: his efforts in the watch-house.] we have seen in several instances, that our friend, after having rescued the drowning, remained with them until all fears of immediate death were totally dissipated. indeed his kindly ministrations in the watch-house of the humber dock company, have been scarcely less remarkable than his exploits in saving the drowning from the water. in that room is the 'royal humane society's apparatus for the recovery of persons apparently drowned or dead, accompanied with directions for the proper treatment of such cases.' and there our friend stood for hours together, in his wet clothes, during the piercing cold of winter and the oppressive heat of summer, endeavouring to restore suspended animation. he says, 'i always felt very anxious about those i had rescued, and in dangerous cases generally remained with them until they came round. by remaining in my wet clothes on these occasions i have often seriously damaged my health; but i felt so anxious about them that i often forgot altogether my own wet state. dr. henry gibson says i have seriously injured my constitution by these long exposures in wet clothing, and i am afraid he is right, and that it will shorten my days.' [sidenote: a remarkable instance.] we give one instance of his ministrations in this watch-house:-about three o'clock on the morning of july the 23rd, 1865, he suddenly awoke out of a profound sleep, and thought he heard a boy call out, 'there is a man overboard.' he sprang from his bed, threw up the window, but not a person could he see, not a sound could he hear, not a ripple on the water could he discern, to indicate danger. he concluded he had been dreaming, but when about to leave the window he saw one of his fellow workmen running with the grappling iron. the old spanish proverb says, 'that when a man's house is on fire he does not stay to consider if the shoe pinches,' and so absorbed was our friend by the fear that some one was drowning that, without shoes on his feet, and with nothing but his night shirt to cover him, he ran down stairs, leaped over two chains, thrown across the bridge, and in a few moments he was beside the man with the 'grapplings,' who had also heard the cry but could not tell whence or from whom it had come. the surrounding waters lay calm and undisturbed by a single ripple, and there was nothing to indicate that anyone had sunk. at our friend's request, his companion sprang into a boat, and let down the grappling iron, and, strange to say, brought up mr. thomas hogg, of ulceby, lincolnshire. they at first pronounced him dead, but after cleansing his mouth and nostrils he was thought to breathe; he was at once taken to the watch-house, where our friend, with fresh anxiety and awakened hope, applied the royal humane society's apparatus, and with complete success. the process was continued till six o'clock, when scores of persons were gathered round the watch-house. the man then said to mr. ellerthorpe, 'come master, it is time you were in your own house; you're not fit to be here amongst all these folks.' it was not till the man thus spoke that our friend was aware of his half-naked state. all did well on this occasion, but mr. ellerthorpe's conduct was exceptionally noble. [sidenote: his efforts on behalf of the brave.] the last to claim recognition and reward for his own humane and gallant deeds, mr. ellerthorpe has ever proved himself the first and foremost in securing them on behalf of others. the following letter, received in answer to an urgent appeal which he made on behalf of an aged and destitute couple, will illustrate what i mean:- office of committee of privy council for trade, marine department, _whitehall, 16th january, 1863_. sir,--i am directed by the lords of the committee of privy council for trade, to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 30th ult., calling attention to the fact that the late charles anderson, who lost his life in endeavouring to save the lives of others from shipwreck, has left a father and mother unprovided for, and to inform you that my lords have this day forwarded to the receiver of wreck, at hull, an order for the amount of five pounds (â£5) to be paid to the parents of the deceased. i am, sir, john ellerthorpe, esq., your obedient servant, humber dock gates, hull. james booth. [sidenote: his appeal to the board of trade.] in december, of the same year, he made a similar appeal to the board of trade, on behalf of some hull seamen, and received the following answer:- board of trade, whitehall, _4th february, 1864_. sir,--i am instructed by the lords of the committee of the privy council for trade to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 16th december last, calling their lordships' attention to the services rendered on the 4th december, by some fishermen of hull, to the crew of the schooner 'john thomas,' of carnarvon, and i am to inform you in reply, that my lords have presented the sum of five pounds (â£5) to be divided amongst the crew of the 'washer,' as a mark of their appreciation of their gallant conduct, and ten pounds (â£10) to the owners of the smack as compensation for loss of time, &c. the receiver of wreck has received instructions to pay the above-mentioned sums to the parties in question. i am, sir, john ellerthorpe, esq., your obedient servant, humber dock gates, j. h. farrer. kingston-upon-hull. the following letter explains itself:- humber lock gate, hull. _february 17th, 1863._ _to the secretary of the royal humane society._ sir,--i take the liberty of addressing you in consequence of an accident having occurred, last week, in the lock pit of the humber dock gates, of this town. a man fell from a steamer going out of the dock, whom i followed into the water in the hope of being able to save his life; but although he was not more than a minute and a half in the water, and he spoke to me when i had hold of him, the surgeon pronounced him to be dead when taken to the men's watch-house close by. a similar instance took place about three years ago. i wish to know if, in a case of this kind, a surgeon is justified in pronouncing life to be extinct without having previously used the means for restoring suspended animation. we have the royal humane society's apparatus always close at hand, but rarely used. having the honour to hold the society's silver medal, as well as its testimonial on vellum, and also a silver medal from the board of trade for saving life from drowning on many occasions, i feel much interest in this subject; and i shall feel much obliged if you will give me instructions how to proceed in the event of a similar case taking place. i believe the royal humane society issue printed instructions how to treat cases of suspended animation. if you will send me some of them i shall feel greatly obliged to you. i am, sir, with respect, your obedient servant, john ellerthorpe. our friend received the following answer:- royal humane society, office, no. 4, trafalgar-square, w.c. _february 18th, 1863._ sir,--in reply to your note of the 17th, i beg to say that in the course of ten days or so, i will send some of the instructions issued by this society for the treatment of those who are apparently dead from drowning, and you can place them in your room. of course i am unable to give an opinion as to whether the medical man called in, in the case you refer to, was or was not right, as i am not cognizant of the whole state of the case; but i will suggest that, in all future cases which you may have to treat, you will persevere in your attempts at recovery for at _least_ half-an-hour before you give up the patient as dead. yours faithfully, lambton j. h. young, mr. j. ellerthorpe. secretary. chapter viii. the honoured hero. [sidenote: the honoured hero.] no labour is ever lost that seeks to promote the welfare of men. at the outset there may be difficulties and opposition, but patience and perseverance will in the end bring their reward. and if the warrior rejoices in the number of his victories, the patriot in the extension of his country's liberties, the statesman in the success of his peculiar polity, and the philanthropist in the mitigation of human woes, how much purer and stronger must be the joy of the man who has been the means of saving the lives of his fellow-creatures? alexander, emperor of russia, whose armies had won many a victory on the field of battle, once rescued a man from drowning, and he ever afterwards said that _that_ was the happiest day of his life. as no living individual, perhaps, has saved so many lives, on so many separate and distinct occasions, and under equally perilous circumstances, as our friend, so we may infer that his personal joy was proportionately great. he always did his best to save human life, having made that one of the chief objects of his existence, and he reaped a rich recompense. he says, 'i always thought it as much my duty to try and save the drowning, as it was their duty to try and save themselves; and i always felt myself amply recompensed, and highly satisfied, when i got them out of the water and saw they were all right. physically, i often felt much exhausted by the efforts i had made, and could eat no food, nor could i take rest, for hours after rescuing the drowning. but i was filled with a pleasure i could not describe; sometimes my feelings found vent in tears, and at other times in loud and hearty laughter; and when questioned as to my feelings, i could only say, "i can't tell you how i feel." i had this thought and feeling running through me, throbbing within me, "i have saved a fellow creature from drowning." and that imparted to me a happiness which no amount of money, and no decorations of honour, could have given me; a happiness which no man can conceive, far less describe, unless he has himself snatched a fellow creature from a watery grave.' [sidenote: his personal joy.] [sidenote: the gratitude of those whom he rescued.] our friend also reaped a rich reward in the gratitude of many whom he had the pleasure of saving. and we have seen that he could receive no higher gratification than this. king charles, the first, had such an unhappy manner that, even in granting a favour, he often grieved those whom he obliged. and we know that almost as much depends upon the manner of doing a kindness, as upon the act itself. indeed, in some instances, even a frank and positive refusal will give less pain than an ungracious and grudgingly bestowed favour. now, we hesitate not to say that, what mr. ellerthorpe did, was kindly and generously done. and he always felt that the cheers of the multitude as he bore the rescued to the shore, and the spontaneous thanks of those whom he had saved, surpassed in value any tribute of money which could have been placed in his hands. wordsworth, referring to the overflowing gratitude which had gone beyond the worth of the trivial favours bestowed, says: 'alas; the gratitude of men hath oftener left me mourning.' but our friend performed the noblest deeds, and grateful returns were always as pleasant to him as cold water to a thirsty soul. he says, 'i was always well satisfied if they manifested gratitude, but i must confess, that when they never came near me, nor in any way communicated with me, as was the case with some whom i have saved,--for instance, mr. leeson and miss hill--i was not satisfied. my pleasure at the remembrance of what i did for them is mixed with pain. it may be a weakness of mine, but an ungrateful man is, in my opinion, one of the biggest sinners in the world. i hate ingratitude, and i can affirm, that no rewards i have received from societies and individuals have ever given me half the pleasure that the gratitude of some of those i rescued gave me.' and can we wonder that he should thus write? shakespeare says:- 'i hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood.' ingratitude for favours conferred is a most unnatural disposition, and is reproved even by the brute creation; for they manifest a strong instinctive feeling of gratitude towards their benefactors. 'the ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master's crib.' some time ago, a steamer sunk beneath the surging wave, with upwards of two hundred souls on board. the captain, who was as noble a man as ever steered a vessel, sank with the rest of the passengers and crew. fortunately, however, he came up again, and seizing a plank, he clung to it until rescued by a vessel that happened to be passing. 'ah,' said he, on telling the story afterwards, 'if my heart's affection ever clung to anything besides my wife, and my mother, and my child, it was to that plank; it saved my life.' and yet, some forgot our friend, whose skilful hand and brave heart bore them through the foaming waters to land. [sidenote: his services recognised by the great.] all did not. 'you shall lodge in my heart, and i will never ask you for rent,' said a grateful irishman to one who had done him a favour. and our friend found a welcome and a home in the warmest affections of many of those whom he rescued. the blessing of many who were literally ready to perish came upon him. w. turner, whom our friend saved in burlington bay, says, 'what a mercy it is that god has provided such a man as mr. ellerthorpe, to render assistance when assistance is required at his hands; for he is ever willing at any moment, and at the first call, to risk his life. i question whether there is such another man in the world. he has a good and kind heart, and in his general conduct displays kind feelings towards all and everybody. i hope he will remain long with us, and that at last we shall meet him in heaven, never to part again.' robert tether, speaking of his deliverance, says, 'some one said to me on the occasion, "my boy, you ought ever to remember that man," and i do remember him and will never forget him. if i had but a shilling in the world, john ellerthorpe should have half of it, if he needed it. i can say that from the time he delivered me i have always liked to see him, and i never think the place is right if i do not see him there. he shall never want if i can help him. may he live long, and always have plenty.' these, and similar expressions of gratitude, recorded on former pages of this work, were more valuable, in our friend's estimation, than stores of gold. [sidenote: his interview with lord wenlock.] though mr. ellerthorpe never urged his claims to public recognition, yet we rejoice to state that his humane and gallant deeds were not permitted to pass unnoticed and unrewarded. persons of high distinction, and of great authority in the social world, spoke to him words of greeting, commendation, and encouragement. lord wenlock, having had recounted to him some of the incidents recorded in the last chapter, said, 'how pleasant it is, ellerthorpe, to have the satisfaction, while living, of having done our fellow creatures good.' captain wilson, whose gallant conduct enabled him, during the american war, to re-capture his ship, 'emile st. pierre,' from a greatly superior force, and who received, for his valorous deed, a silver tea and coffee service from 170 merchants of liverpool, and also 2,000 guineas from the owners of the 'emile st. pierre,' paid a visit to hull, and requested to have an interview with mr. ellerthorpe. in company with captain hurst, he went to the humber dock gates to see him. they shook each others hand for some time; at length, captain wilson said, 'i'm glad to see you. i have often heard of your bravery in saving your fellow men from drowning, and i have sometimes wished i could see you; you are what i call a brave, clever fellow. they say i have done a clever action, but i may never do another. but your life has been crowded with deeds of gallantry. go on and prosper, my good fellow, and may god bless you; and rest assured if i again come near where you are, i shall come and see you.' it must have been a pleasing sight to have seen these two men, of brave hearts and noble deeds, grasp hands in recognition of each others services. towards the close of the year 1835 the following statement appeared in the hull newspapers:- 'we understand some gentlemen are interesting themselves in favour of ellerthorpe by representing his repeated exertions in the cause of humanity, and sending the particular cases to the royal humane society. we shall be ready to receive any subscriptions for the purpose of rewarding one so highly deserving recompense from his fellow men. ellerthorpe is married and has two children.'--_nov. 23, 1835._ the appeal to the royal humane society was sent, and mr. ellerthorpe received the following response:- society's house, _january 21st, 1836._ the secretary of the royal humane society is directed to inform john ellerthorpe that at an adjourned general court of the institution, held on the 18th inst., the honorary medallion of the society was unanimously conferred on him for his courage and humanity in saving the lives of nine persons at different times. john ellerthorpe, barrow, near barton-on-humber, lincoln. [sidenote: the medallion of the royal humane society.] the medallion bears this inscription:-[illustration: hoc pretium cive servato tvlit _j. ellerthorpe_, sit ob sow dovo dat _soc. reg. h.v.m._ 1836.] [sidenote: royal humane society's thanks on vellum.] the following testimonial, inscribed on vellum, accompanied the medallion:-[illustration] royal humane society, instituted 1774. for the recovery of persons apparently drowned or (dead). _patron_--the king. _patroness_--the queen. _president_--his grace the duke of northumberland, k.g. * * * * * at a general court holden at the society's house, chatham-place, blackfriars, on monday, the 18th day of january, 1836. colonel clitherow, _vice president_, in the chair, it was resolved unanimously- that the noble courage and humanity displayed by john ellerthorpe, a seaman of the new holland steam packet, on the 19th of november, 1835, in jumping overboard to the relief of a sailor, named robert brown, at hull, whose life he saved; and the repeated heroism which ellerthorpe has on former occasions manifested for the preservation of human life, wholly regardless of the risk he himself incurred, and by which he saved eight persons from drowning, has called forth the most lively admiration of this general court, and justly entitles him to the honorary medallion of the institution which is hereby unanimously awarded him. northumberland, _president_. besleley weshopp, _secretary_. james clitherow, _chairman_. [sidenote: appeals on behalf of mr. ellerthorpe.] in the year 1846, a number of merchants and gentlemen sought to secure for our friend the highest rewards the royal humane society could bestow; but to their application they received the following answer:- royal humane society, office no. 3, trafalgar square, _8th july, 1846_. dear sir,--in reference to your letter of yesterday's date, i beg to inform you that the pecuniary rewards of this society are limited to london and its environs. but honorary rewards are given for cases which may occur at any distance, upon the particulars being well authenticated by persons who witnessed the exertions of the claimant. should john ellerthorpe have risked his life on the occasion you now allude to, and thereby merit an _honorary_ testimonial from the society, i shall be most happy in submitting the particulars to the committee, on their being forwarded agreeably with the enclosed instruction paper. i remain, dear sir, h. d. r. pease, esq., j.p. yours very obediently, hesslewood, near hull. j. charlier, _sec._ a second application was made to the royal humane society, in 1852, when the following reply was returned:- royal humane society, office no. 3, trafalgar square, _28th september, 1852_. dear sir,--in reply to your letter of yesterday's date, i beg to inform you that the cases alluded to in the statement of john ellerthorpe are all _out of date_ for any reward from this society. perhaps you are not aware that he has already received the silver medal of this institution for the case in 1835, which was laid before the committee at the proper period, viz., within one month after the occurrence. i therefore beg to return you the statements, and remain, dear sir, yours obediently, j. charlier, jas. r. pease, esq., hesslewood, hull. _sec._ [sidenote: large congratulatory meeting in hull.] in the year 1861, and soon after our friend had rescued john eaby from a watery grave, the people of hull made an effort to reward their brave and gallant townsman, who had rescued from their own docks and around the pier, not fewer than twenty-three persons. a committee was formed, under the presidentship of mr. john symons, a member of the town council, and a man of untiring energy and philanthropic disposition. mr. symons thus states the origin and success of this movement:- 'hull, _sept 13th, 1867_, 72, queen street. dear sir,--i must apologise for my seeming neglect in not complying earlier with your request respecting mr. ellerthorpe: the fact is, my public duties allow me but little leisure for writing. however, i will try to refresh my memory as to the way in which that kind, humane, undaunted man, received recognition. in july, 1861, the local papers contained an account of a young man named eaby, who, while in an apoplectic fit, fell into the dock basin; the tide was running down rapidly and the wind was blowing strong. mr. ellerthorpe, while on duty at the dock gates, saw the man struggling and beating the water into foam; he immediately plunged from the wall, and after a fearful struggle between the two, the young man being violently affected, both were saved. this act was witnessed by several people, amongst whom were two warm-hearted working men, named steadman and turner. the following day they called upon me, with a written list of twenty-nine lives saved by mr. ellerthorpe. the account savoured of romance, but then it was signed by living witnesses, who corroborated the truth of the statements made. the men asked me to assist them in getting up some public demonstration in favour of mr. ellerthorpe. i told them i would lend my humble aid, but they must obtain some man of mark for their chairman, to take the initiative. they applied to several gentlemen, but in vain, all refused. they pleaded hard that i would act as chairman, and sooner than allow the thing to die away, i consented, although, at the time, entirely unused to address large public audiences. the mayor, w. hodge, esq., granted us the use of a large room at the town hall, and then we issued large placards calling upon the people to attend and publicly congratulate mr. ellerthorpe on his recent narrow escape, and likewise to open a subscription for presenting him with a testimonial. the meeting was a crowded one, but principally composed of working men. i was not in the least disheartened by this; for long before i had got through the list of persons saved by john ellerthorpe, the large county-court room rang with cheer after cheer pealing forth ever and anon. when, for the first time, was enrolled the long, distinguished list of lives saved from drowning by the hitherto obscure and humble servant of the humber dock company, such heroism and bravery 'touched' the souls of a few present who could afford to subscribe. [sidenote: councillor symon's account of the meeting.] the following letter from dale brown, esq., was then read:- pilot office, hull, _aug. 8, 1861_. sir,--having made an engagement for friday evening before i knew of your meeting, i cannot possibly attend. had one of our townsmen returned from india or the crimea, after destroying half as many lives as mr. ellerthorpe has been instrumental in saving, he would have been considered a 'hero,' and rewarded accordingly. surely it is more blessed to save than to destroy. should the object of the meeting be to raise a fund for acknowledging mr. ellerthorpe's gallantry, i shall gladly contribute my mite. i am, sir, yours obediently, mr. john symons. dale brown. i then recounted the interview with mr. ellerthorpe before attending the meeting, when i asked him 'what he wished in the matter,' when he made this reply, sir, i feel sufficiently rewarded in my own breast, without receiving any reward excepting the approbation of heaven, and the satisfaction of having won for myself the gratitude of my fellow townsmen.' this was responded to by loud and long cheering. i then called upon mr. w. turner to move the first resolution, and mr. steadman to second it, because they were the pioneers of the movement. _just at this crisis of the meeting john eaby came forward and publicly thanked ellerthorpe for what he had done_, which called forth the most exciting cheering. then the late rev. charles rawlings (wesleyan) rose from amongst the people, and, in a sententious speech delivered with a stentorian voice, asked, 'how much does the meeting feel towards a testimonial,' and offered the first donation as a proof of _his feeling_ for mr. ellerthorpe. our fears were then scattered to the wind; the vessel i saw was well launched. another gentleman, mr. henry taylor, came forward and said, in anticipation of a subscription being made towards a testimonial to mr. ellerthorpe, he had already collected a nucleus of â£35. a committee was then formed of which i was chosen chairman, mr. e. haller, secretary, and mr. taylor, treasurer. three cheers were then given for the success of the 'testimonial fund,' and when i rose and christened john ellerthorpe, 'the hero of the humber,' and 'champion life buoy of england,' the people rose _en masse_ cheering in the most enthusiastic manner. the next morning found the humber dock foreman a household word. i will not weary you with recapitulating the result of our labours. from the premier of england down to the humblest dock labourer, all vied with each other in subscribing to the homage of this valorous, humane man. and, sir, i think a moral may be drawn from this,--that no person, however humble he may be in his circumstances, but has it in his power to bless the world. one man can do so by deeds of valour, another by hard and plodding industry, and a third by thought and mental efforts. it has been well said, 'they build up a loftier population making man more manly.' it is evidently our duty to lend a helping hand in the hour of need, either by our wisdom, power, or benevolence. this thought should act as an incentive, more or less powerful, on each person, and make him restless until he becomes satisfied that he is doing something to ameliorate the condition of his fellow men. men should thus fulfil their mission until called to receive their reward, namely, 'rest for their souls under the tree of life.' i am, dear sir, yours respectfully, mr. h. woodcock. john symons. [sidenote: a working man's letter.] the following letter, addressed to mr. symons, is given as a specimen of the feeling with which the working men of hull regarded this movement:- hull, _aug. 9th, 1861_. mr. chairman,--i cannot let the present opportunity pass without thanking the committee for the movement they have taken in this affair. it shows that such acts of humanity may appear to slumber for a time in the breasts of englishmen until they can bear it no longer, then out it must come; and permit me to add that the moment i heard of the movement to present some token of respect to mr. ellerthorpe, it put me in mind of the time when i was a boy about eight years of age: i was sailing a small boat aside of the steps of what is commonly called, sand south end, in the old harbour, when i over-reached myself and fell in. a boy was with me at the time who ran up the steps and shouted out, 'a boy overboard.' a gentleman, who then lived in humber street, was sitting in his front room, he immediately ran out, leaped into the water, took hold of me just as i was going down for the third time, and saved my life from a watery grave. i have always reverenced that gentleman ever since. his name is mr. bean, and he was for several years an alderman for the borough. what, then, must be the feelings of the thirty-nine who have been saved at the eminent risk and peril of mr. ellerthorpe's life? we may help each other in a pecuniary point of view, but very few amongst us have the nerve, power, and ability to leap into the ocean and render assistance to our fellow men. i have therefore great pleasure in subscribing five shillings towards anything you may be disposed to present mr. ellerthorpe with. i am, my dear sir, your obedient servant, wm. allen. [sidenote: poetic tribute of respect to 'the hero.'] our friend's name had become familiar as a household word in all circles of society, in the town and neighbourhood of hull, and great numbers lent their influence to this effort to acknowledge the unequalled bravery of their fellow townsman, whom we must, henceforth acknowledge as the 'hero of the humber.' the 'hull daily express' contained the following poetic tribute of respect to our 'hero.' 'amid all changes evermore unfolded by mental throe, by accident of time, mankind shall venerate the men who moulded heroic actions with an aim sublime! o! ye who shine along life's desert places, who've lived for others' good to help and save, affection hails ye with profound embraces and bows before a brother truly brave! one whose gallant deeds in noble brotherhood, nobler far than warrior's valiant strife, have found their own reward in others' good and proved a blessing in preserving life. and who is he of whom this land is proud, whose name we honour and whose worth is known? he's one who does his duty in the crowd, a worker there--and yet he stands alone! without pretension, who by deeds endears his name afar beyond his native strand, a son of toil--yet one of nature's peers! whose worth's acknowledged in his native land! his is the praise well won for gallant action in saving life along our humber shore, and there are many hearths where recollection returns to him in blessings evermore! and he is worthy!--for in his soul implanted there is a noble usefulness--his choice for others' good, which bards of old have chanted to those who, like him, have made hearts rejoice. o! should these lines be found in after days- a tribute to his fair and honoured name- let such accord to him the meed of praise, tell of his bravery and his worth proclaim! all honour to thee, ellerthorpe, and thine, and as duty calls thee to thy post each morn, may good attend thee and its graces shine, and lead thee upward and thy name adorn.' [sidenote: vote of thanks from the royal humane society.] the following petition, signed by w. hodge, esq., mayor, and upwards of sixty of the leading ministers, merchants, and gentlemen of hull, was forwarded to the royal humane society:- to the honourable the court of the royal humane society. we, the undersigned, members of the municipal corporation, the trinity house, and the dock company at kingston-upon-hull, and merchants of that borough, beg most respectfully to submit to the consideration of your honourable court, the services of john ellerthorpe, now a foreman in the service of the dock company of this borough, who, during the course of the last forty years has, by the providence of god and his own intrepidity, rescued from a watery grave no fewer than twenty-eight persons, often at the great risk of his own life, as may be seen from the statement of particulars hereto annexed. on a former occasion, on the 18th of january, 1836, you were pleased to award to ellerthorpe a medallion and certificate on a representation being made to the society of his having saved eight persons from drowning while employed as a mariner in the new holland ferry. considering that the number of persons he has now saved amounts to twenty-eight, we take the liberty of bringing ellerthorpe's further claims before your notice, believing that you will think with us that his further successful exertions in the cause of humanity, in saving so many persons from drowning, merit some additional mark of your approval. we are, your honourable court's most obedient servants. in response to this appeal the society awarded to our 'hero' an especial vote of thanks, of which more _anon_. the following appeal was made to lord palmerston: yarmouth and rotterdam steam packet office, kingston-upon-hull, _30th august, 1861._ my lord,--the enclosed documents relate to a series of, perhaps, unequalled acts of daring on the part of an inhabitant, a working man, of this borough, in rescuing persons from drowning. he has succeeded, at the repeated risk of his own life, in saving no fewer than twenty-nine persons from a watery grave. the court of the royal humane society having, in respect of the twenty-ninth case, and in reply to the enclosed petition, awarded him their 'thanks on vellum,' a committee of his fellow townsmen has been organised to ensure for him some more substantial award. from your lordship's well-known appreciation of heroic benevolence, the committee has ventured to lay his case before you, in the hope that you would deem it worthy of your distinguished patronage. i have the honour to be, on the part of the committee, your lordship's most humble and obedient servant, edward haller, _hon. sec. 'ellerthorpe testimonial.'_ [sidenote: receives â£20 from the royal bounty.] in reply, _his lordship_ forwarded from the _royal bounty_ the handsome donation of â£20. the following is the letter announcing this gift:- 13632 treasury, whitehall, s.w., 61 17th _september_, 1861. sir,--i am commanded by the lords commissioners to her majesty's treasury to acquaint you that, upon the recommendation of viscount palmerston, the paymaster general has been authorised to pay you the sum of â£20, as of her majesty's royal bounty. i am, sir, your obedient servant, geo. w. hamilton. mr. john ellerthorpe, kingston-upon-hull. the board of trade was next appealed to as follows: hull, 8th _august_, 1861. _to the right honourable thomas milner gibson, president of the board of trade, london._ honourable sir,--i beg most humbly to lay before your honourable board the case of john ellerthorpe, foreman of the humber dock gates at this place, who saved the life of john eaby under most trying circumstances, and at great risk of his own life. on the 30th of july last the said john eaby was seized with a fit and fell into the dock basin, a depth of nearly twenty feet from the top. john ellerthorpe, hearing his cries for assistance, spontaneously leaped into the water, and after struggling with the man in that dangerous condition, eventually succeeded in saving his life. i likewise humbly beg to inform your honourable board that this is the twenty-ninth person's life the said john ellerthorpe has been the exclusive means of saving from a watery grave. if your honourable board should deem his actions of humanity worthy of your honourable board's notice, a committee of the working men of this town is in formation to present him with a memorial, and if your honourable board consider him worthy of any remuneration, i will communicate the same to the chairman of the committee, who will forward any information your honourable board may require. i remain your most humble and obedient servant, thomas rawlinson. 2, wellington-street, hull. [sidenote: receives a silver medal.] in answer to this appeal, the board of trade, through sir emmerson tennant, struck a silver medal to the honour of mr. ellerthorpe. the sovereign having awarded our 'hero' with a gift of â£20, and the royal humane society and the board of trade having decorated him with their marks of honour, it remained for the inhabitants of hull to show their appreciation of the humane and gallant deeds of their fellow townsman. such deeds as our 'hero' _had_ performed are not less heroic than feats of valour on the battle-field, and well deserve _public_ recognition as well as reward from private associations. * * * * * [sidenote: presentation meeting in hull.] the long-looked-for presentation took place in the music hall, jarratt street, hull, on wednesday evening, november the 6th, 1861. upwards of four hundred persons sat down to tea, and the local papers state that greater enthusiasm was, perhaps, never witnessed than during this remarkable meeting. the room was gaily decorated with bannarets, and suspended over the chair was a large flag, bearing the following motto:-'long live ellerthorpe, the hero of the humber!' grace having been chanted and justice done to the sumptuous tea, the public meeting began. mr. john symons occupied the chair, and he was surrounded on the platform by a large number of ministers, gentlemen, merchants, mechanics, and working men. [sidenote: chairman's address.] the chairman said:--it was a common custom of persons not novices situated similarly to himself, to preface their remarks by saying that some person of higher local distinction ought to occupy the honourable position as chairman, and that was his request to the committee. but as such a person was not secured, he felt proud of the position he occupied amongst them. he little thought that the movement would have proved so successful when he embarked in it, for with but little effort we have received the free-will offerings of â£170. of course printing, advertising, and other incidental expenses were incurred, and cannot be dispensed with in order to succeed in similar objects. the royal humane society had awarded to ellerthorpe an especial vote of thanks; the board of trade, through sir emmerson tennant, had struck a silver medal in his honour; and last, but not least, the popular premier of england had forwarded from the royal bounty the handsome donation of â£20. thus the movement so humbly began, resembled the 'little spring in the mountain rock,' which became a brook, a torrent, a wide rolling river. by narrating the lives saved by ellerthorpe's unprecedented bravery, they had struck a chord in the innermost recesses of the heart of the benevolent portion of the people. he was surprised to find that no one had recognised ellerthorpe's heroism before. during a period of forty years he had saved the lives of upwards of thirty persons. but however tardily it may appear to some, ultimately, eternal justice will assert itself. john ellerthorpe never required, never expected any public recognition of his services. the only praise sought by him was- 'what nothing earthly gives or can destroy, the soul's calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy.' in being the means of saving so many lives from premature death by drowning. never let it be said the days of chivalry were over in england while we have such a nobleman as a lord beauclerc[3] of scarborough, and a commoner called ellerthorpe at hull. he believed with those who say that the men who dares the 'tempests' wrath,' and the 'billows' madden'd play' on the errand of saving life, to be as great heroes as those who 'seek for bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth.' he would rather be a bearer of thirty blessings than the hero of one hundred fights. no true history of hull could be written which did not contain the record of ellerthorpe's name, and the glorious deeds he had performed. nor could he conclude without expressing the heartfelt hope that the 'hero of the humber' might long live to enjoy the splendid gifts about to be presented to him, and when disease shall overtake him in his declining days, may the contents of that purse procure for him the means whereby his pillow of affliction may be smoothed and softened. * * * * * the rev. c. rawlings then expatiated, in a most powerful address, on the life-saving labours of mr. ellerthorpe, which was listened to with a rapt attention, and when he resumed his seat it was amidst a tempest of applause. * * * * * mr. taylor, the treasurer, then presented the gold watch and guard, and a beautiful purse containing one hundred guineas. the watch bears the following inscription:- [illustration] presented to john ellerthorpe, _(by voluntary subscriptions) together with a_ purse containing one hundred guineas, he having saved twenty-nine persons from drowning. hull, nov. 6th, 1861. [sidenote: receives a purse of one hundred guineas.] the purse bears this inscription:- [illustration] this purse, containing one hundred guineas; also, a gold watch & guard, is presented to john ellerthorpe, _foreman of the humber dock gates_, by voluntary subscriptions, he having saved twenty-nine persons from being drowned. _hull, november 6th, 1861._ mr. alderman fountain, amid loud applause, and in a few appropriate words, then presented to mr. ellerthorpe the following vote of thanks, inscribed on vellum, from the royal humane society:- [sidenote: royal humane society's thanks.] [illustration] royal humane society, instituted 1774. supported by voluntary contributions. _patron_--her majesty the queen _vice patron_--h. r. h. the duke of cambridge, k.c., g.c., m.g. _president_--his grace the duke of argyll, k.t. * * * * * at a meeting of the committee of the royal humane society, holden at their office, 4, trafalgar square, on wednesday, the 21st of august, 1861. present--thos. eld. baker, esq., treasurer, in the chair. it was resolved unanimously- that the noble courage and humanity displayed by john ellerthorpe, foreman of the humber dock, in having on the 30th july, 1861, jumped into the dock basin at hull, to the relief of john eaby, who had accidentally fallen therein, and whose life he saved, has called forth the admiration of this committee, and justly entitles him to its sincere thanks, inscribed on vellum, which are hereby awarded, he having already received the honorary silver medallion of this institution for a similar act in 1835. argyll, _president_. lambton j. h. young, _secretary_. thos. eld. baker, _chairman_. [sidenote: medal from the board of trade.] the medal, which is said to be a fine specimen of artistic beauty and elegant workmanship, bears the following device:--one side of the medal represents a group on a raft. one of the men is seated on a spar, waving a handkerchief, as a signal to a small boat seen in the distance; another is supporting a sailor who appears in a drowning state. there is also a female holding a child in her arms, the sea having a stormy appearance. the group forms a most interesting allegory. on the obverse side is a large profile of her majesty, the border bearing the following inscription:- 'awarded by the board of trade for gallantry in saving life.--v.r.' engraved round the edge are the following words: 'presented to john ellerthorpe in acknowledgment of his repeated acts of gallantry in saving life. 1861.' it is enclosed in an elegant morocco case, the lid of which has inscribed upon it, in gilt letters:- 'board of trade medal for gallantry in saving life at sea, awarded to john ellerthorpe.' in presenting this handsome testimonial, mr. brown said:- he quite agreed with the chairman that the last great day alone would reveal the consequences of ellerthorpe's bravery. he had to present to him what he might fairly call a _national testimonial_, as it was from a branch of our national institutions--the board of trade. he had very great pleasure in presenting it to him, and he earnestly prayed that none of his children might ever have to do for him what he had done for his own father. he wished him long life to wear the _medal of honour_. [sidenote: the hero's address.] mr. ellerthorpe then advanced to the front of the platform, and with a heart throbbing with hallowed feeling and eyes filled with tears, he said; i cannot find words with which to express adequately the gratitude i feel at so much kindness having been extended to me, not only by the attendance of the large audience i see before me, but by the numerous testimonials that have been presented to me. i never expected any reward for what i have done, and i have before now refused many offers of rewards that have been made to me by the friends of many whom i have been the means, in the hands of god, of rescuing from a watery grave. i do, however, feel proud at receiving these testimonials, and i trust they will be preserved by my children, and by my children's children, as mementos of my country's acknowledgments of the service i have rendered my fellow-creatures; and yet i feel that i derive far more satisfaction from the consciousness that i have done my duty to my fellow-creatures, in their hour of danger, than i do from the splendid presents you have made me. i hope i shall ever be ready in the future to do as i have done in the past, should circumstances require it of me.--he was greeted with loud applause both at the commencement and conclusion of his speech. a vote of thanks was then passed to the treasurer and secretary, mr. taylor and mr. haller, who responded. the rev. j. petty also spoke. mr. pearson (ex-mayor) then moved a similar vote to the committee. in doing so, he said that it was most remarkable that they had allowed a man like ellerthorpe to have saved so many as thirty persons from drowning before any public recognition of his services had taken place. as it was, a hundred guineas were far below his merits, and he was sure that the merchants of the town had been remiss in their duty in respect to this matter. mr. rufford returned thanks on behalf of the committee. rev. c. rawlings proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, shaking him warmly by the hand, and congratulating him on the part he had taken in this noble movement. the chairman, in responding, said, he had merely done his duty in the matter; his work had been a pleasure to him, and he had received many valuable lessons, the good impressions of which he hoped would endure in his mind through life. seeing that we live surrounded with water, and that casualties are occurring almost weekly, he thought it was the duty of the people of hull to stimulate others to follow mr. ellerthorpe's example. he should always look back with pride and pleasure to that evening's meeting. 'when time, who steals our years away, shall steal its pleasures too, the memory of the past will stay, and all its joys renew.' he then called upon the audience to close the present meeting as they did the inaugurating meeting, by cheers for the 'hero of the humber and england's champion life buoy,' which was responded to by the company rising, _en masse_, cheering most tumultuously. the national anthem was then sung. mr. morrison, organist, and a party of vocalists, enlivened the proceedings, which were very liberally interspersed with enthusiastic applause on every mention of the 'hero's' name. [sidenote: list of subscriptions.] it is but right to state that the entire sum collected towards the 'ellerthorpe testimonial fund' amounted to â£197 10s., and that about â£133 in cash was handed over to the 'hero of the humber.' mr. hudson, artist, queen st., presented to mr. ellerthorpe a photograph portrait. [footnote 3: this brave nobleman was at scarborough during one of the most fearful and disastrous storms that ever swept the yorkshire coast. he had no sleep on the previous night on account of the storm, and on saturday he said to a friend 'i shall have a sound sleep to-night.' alas! before he closed his eyes in sleep, and while nobly endeavouring to rescue a number of drowning sailors, a huge wave carried him out to sea, and he perished in the 'mighty waters.'] chapter ix. mr. ellerthorpe's general character, death, etc. in physical stature, mr. ellerthorpe was about five feet seven inches high, and weighed about ten stones. his build was somewhat slender for a sailor. he stood erect. his countenance was hard and ruddy, and indicated long exposure to weather. his ordinary expression was indicative of kindness, blended with great firmness. when spinning his yarns, or describing his exploits, his eye kindled, and his face, lit up with smiles, was expressive of intense sympathy. to his wife (who has just followed him to the skies, july, 1880,) he proved himself a kind and provident husband, _i.e._ _houseband_, as trench renders the word. even during his wicked and drunken career he never forgot his matrimonial vow, to 'love, honour, and cherish' the partner of his life; and hence, he never but once took any portion of his regular wages to spend in drink, and the sum he then took was about fifteen shillings. of fourteen children, but four survive their parents, two sons and two daughters. the father strove hard to give them what is beyond all price--a good education. his eldest son, (who has long been on the metropolitan newspaper staff,) when a boy displayed a strong instinctive love of learning, and when, on one occasion, his father urged him to devote less time to his books, and to form the companionship of a a certain youth, he replied, 'no. he spends as much money in cigars as would buy a library, and consumes as much time in smoking them as would enable him to learn half a dozen dead languages.' [sidenote: hero's general character.] mr. ellerthorpe proved himself a good servant, discharging his duties faithfully and honourably. during fourteen years he occupied the responsible position of foreman of the humber dock gates, hull. and when it is borne in mind that hull is the third port in the kingdom, and that it is annually visited by 30,000 seamen in connection with its foreign and coasting traffic, and that, in the same time, about 20,000 small vessels, connected with the inland navigation, enter and leave the port, it will be seen that the duties of our friend were numerous and important. but the force and transparency of his character, his undoubted honesty, his indefatigable industry, and his unwearied attention to the duties of his office, won for him the confidence and respect of his employers, the esteem of his fellow workers, and the good opinion of the merchants of the port. dale brown, esq., says:- dock office, hull, _sept. 11th, 1867_. sir,--i have known mr. john ellerthorpe as an active, energetic, christian man, for upwards of eighteen years, and during the past six years he has been under my immediate control. his wonderful daring and success in saving the lives of drowning persons, have now become matters of history, and have been fully recognised by the late prime minister, lord palmerston, the royal humane society, and the local officials in hull, by whom he is best known and valued. i am, sir, yours very obediently, dale brown, _supt. dock master_. rev. henry woodcock. the following appeared in the hull newspapers, november the 9th, 1864. [sidenote: presentation to the hero.] 'presentation to the 'hero of the humber.'--on the 6th of november, 1861, a public presentation of a gold watch and a purse containing upwards of 100 guineas, was made to mr. john ellerthorpe, of hull, known thenceforth as the 'hero of the humber,' on account of his having saved twenty-nine persons from drowning. to commemorate that interesting event, as well as to add another to mr. ellerthorpe's well earned honours, a few friends met last evening at mr. rawlinson's, 'sykes head,' wellington street. after a well-served supper, mr. councillor symons, who, in the absence of mr. alderman fountain, presided, called upon mr. john corbitt (of the air and calder company), who presented to mr. ellerthorpe a purse containing twenty-three and a half guineas, subscribed by the leading shipping firms of hull. 'mr. corbitt said:--the subscription was proposed by mr. w. dyson, sen. (bannister, dyson, & co.), and has been most warmly and heartily taken up by all the leading firms, who were most ready and forward to mark their sense of the obligations of the shipping interest to mr. ellerthorpe's assiduous attention to duty, obliging disposition, and untiring activity at his post night and day (applause). all present knew how valuable those services were, and how much the dispatch of business depended upon them. it had been a pleasing duty to himself to receive the subscriptions, they were tendered in such a willing and hearty spirit (cheers). mr. corbitt then presented to mr. ellerthorpe the purse, which contained the following inscription:- [illustration] this purse, containing 23-1/2 guineas, _subscribed by trading merchants of hull_, was presented by mr. j. corbitt to mr. john ellerthorpe, for his unwearied zeal and attention to the requirements of the trade of the port by penning vessels in and out of the humber dock. nov. 8th, 1864. 'mr. ellerthorpe suitably acknowledged the presentation, and thanked mr. corbitt and the subscribers for their kindness. as for himself, he had certainly striven to secure the interests of the port, but he had only done his duty, as he hoped he ever should be able to do, without the prospect of any such reward as that. it, however, gave him unfeigned pleasure to find that anything he had done could be so highly appreciated. he hoped to live to advance the interests of the town and of commerce.--several loyal and complimentary toasts followed, and the proceedings throughout were of a most pleasant and agreeable character.' [sidenote: his declining health.] to the eye of a stranger, our friend's cheerful countenance and erect form, during the last few years of his life, indicated a robust state of health, giving the promise of a green old age. such, however, was not the case. his employment as foreman of the humber dock gates, was very arduous, exposing him to all kinds of weather, day and night, according to the tides, and he found it telling seriously upon his health. his frequent plunges into the water, in storm and in calm, at midnight as well as at midday, in times of chilling frost as well as in times of warmth, sometimes top-coated and booted, and at other times undressed, also helped to sap his naturally strong frame. [sidenote: his last affliction.] in a private note he remarked, 'it is with difficulty i can talk, at times, and my breathing is so bad, that i am now unable to address the band of hope children. the other night, and after i had been in bed about three hours, i was seized with an attack of shortness of breath which lasted four hours, and i thought i should have died in the struggle. but it pleased the lord to restore me, and since then i have felt a little better. i now suffer greatly from excitement, and need to be kept still and quiet, but my present situation does not allow me much quiet. in fact, i am afraid, at times, that i shall be forced to leave it, for i think, and so does dr. gibson, that the watching, night after night, let the weather be as it may, is too much for me. but i leave myself in the hands of god, knowing that he will never leave me nor forsake me.' dr. gibson, his medical attendant, wrote the writer thus:- hull, _26th sept., 1867_. dear sir,--i received your letter this morning, respecting john ellerthorpe, a man well known for many years past, and greatly esteemed by the people of hull, on account of his great daring, and humane and gallant conduct in saving such a large number of human lives from drowning. as his medical attendant, i regret to say, that his frequent plunges into the water, at all seasons of the year, and long exposure in wet clothes, have seriously injured his health and constitution. after the 'hero's' death the same gentleman wrote:--'mr. ellerthorpe had generously attempted to save the lives of others at the expense of abridging his own life.' mr. ellerthorpe knew the great source of religious strength and salvation, and trusting entirely in the merits of jesus christ, he found a satisfying sense of god's saving presence and power to the very last. he would often say, 'my feet are on the rock of ages. i cannot sink under such a prop, as bears the world and all things up.' his affliction, water on the chest, and an enlargement of the heart brought on by his frequent plunges into the water, and exposure to wet and cold, was protracted and very severe. he found great difficulty in breathing and had comparatively little rest, day or night, for five months. dr. gibson said to him on one occasion, 'mr. ellerthorpe, you cannot live long unless i could take out your present heart and give you a new one.' 'ah,' said he, with the utmost composure, 'that you cannot do.' often after a night of restlessness and suffering he would say to his dear wife:--'well, i have lived another night,' to which she would reply, 'o yes, and i hope you will live many more yet.' 'no,' he would say, 'i shall not live many more; i feel i am going, but it is all right.' [sidenote: his triumphant death.] during his last illness he had, as was to be expected, many visitors, but he loved those best who talked most about jesus. he seemed pained and disappointed when the conversation was about the things of earth, but he was delighted and carried away when it was about the things of heaven. when his medical adviser gave strict orders that visitors should not be allowed to see him, his pale face and lack-lustre eyes grew bright, and he imploringly said, 'do let those come who can pray and talk about jesus and heaven.' the ministers of his own denomination, the revs. g. lamb, t. ratcliffe, t. newsome, j. hodgson, f. rudd and others often visited him, and would have done so much more frequently, but for the nature of his complaint and the orders of his medical attendant. mr. john sissons, his first class leader, mr. harrison, his devoted companion and fellow labourer in the work of god, and others of his lay brethren, frequently visited him, and all testify to the happy state of soul in which they found him. the rev. j. hodgson, in one of his visits, found him in great pain, but breathing out his soul to god in short ejaculatory prayers. his old passion for the conversion of souls was strong in death. mr. hodgson told him of some good missionary meetings they had just been holding. 'and how many souls had you saved?' was the ready inquiry. 'you will soon be at home,' said mr. harrison, during his last visit, to which he replied, 'yes, i shall, my lad.' during the rev. t. newsome's visit mr. ellerthorpe expressed himself as wonderfully happy and anxiously waiting the coming of his lord. toplady's well known verse was repeated by the preacher:- 'and when i'm to die, to jesus i'll cry; for jesus hath loved me, i cannot tell why; but this i can find, we two are so joined, he'll not reign in glory and leave me behind.' 'ah,' said the dying man, now rich in holiness and ready for the skies, 'that is it.' he soon afterwards expired in the full triumph of faith, on july 15th, 1868. chapter x. the hero's funeral. the following account of the 'hero's' funeral is taken, unabridged, from _the eastern morning news_. [sidenote: his funeral.] [sidenote: the funeral procession.] all that was mortal of john ellerthorpe, 'the hero of the humber,' was on sunday consigned to the grave. well did his many noble actions entitle him to the proud and distinguished title by which he was so familiarly known. it may be questioned whether his career has any individual parallel in the world's history. the saviour of forty lives from drowning, during sixty-one years' existence, could not fail to be exalted to the position of a great hero, and the worship which was paid to his heroism assumed no exaggerated form, though it was intense and abiding. he bore his honours meekly, and his funeral partook of the character of the man, unpretending, simple, earnest. no funeral pomp, no feverish excitement, but a solemn, subdued spectacle was witnessed. the highest tribute which could be paid to departed worth was accorded to the memory of the hero of the humber. thousands of his fellow-townsmen followed the funeral _cortege_ on its way to the cemetery, and when the procession reached the last resting-place of the deceased, the number swelled into vast proportions, and a perfect consciousness of the solemnity of the event appeared to influence the conduct of the vast multitude. the silence was deep, and almost unbroken by any sound save the frequent exclamations of sincere regret. no man, however distinguished, has had more solemn homage paid to him than john ellerthorpe. there were many features of resemblance in the burial of captain gravill, and in the cemetery, not far from each other, now lie the remains of two men whose moral attributes and actions will ever stand conspicuous in the history of men. the announcement that the _cortege_ would leave the residence of the deceased at half-past twelve drew many hundreds to the house, anxious, if possible, to obtain a look at that which contained the body of him whose acquaintance numbers of them had esteemed it an honour to possess. at the time appointed the body was placed in the hearse, and the family and friends of the deceased, as they entered the coaches, were watched by hundreds who sympathised in no common degree with their deep affliction and irreparable loss. the coaches were followed by the gatemen of all the docks and others who had been associated with the deceased. mr. dumbell, the secretary of the dock company, mr. dale brown, superintendent dock master, and mr. gruby, headed the procession, thus evincing the deep respect they entertained for mr. ellerthorpe. contrary to expectation, the procession proceeded to the cemetery by the following route:--railway-street, kingston-street, edward's-place, waverly-street, thornton-street, park-street, and spring-bank. it had been expected that the procession would have gone along the market-place and whitefriargate, and thence to the place of interment, and the streets were thronged with an anxious multitude. the disappointment was very great. when the _cortege_ reached thornton-street, part of the congregation of the primitive methodist chapel at which the deceased had been in the habit of worshipping when in health, joined the procession, and at once began to sing. nothing could exceed the impression of the scene from this point. as the lowly strains arose tears were trickling down many a hard, rough face, whilst a spirit of holy quietude appeared to pervade others. few funerals have been characterised by greater impressiveness. all the avenues at the cemetery were crowded, and hundreds had been waiting or a long time to meet the procession. the funeral service was conducted by the rev. george lamb, for whom the deceased had long cherished a great affection, and it is needless to say the reverend gentleman was greatly affected. the coffin having been laid in the grave, and the burial service having been read, mr. lamb spoke as follows, amidst profound silence:-[sidenote: rev. g. lamb's address.] 'we have come here to-day, my friends, to perform the last duties over the body of the dear friend who has passed away, we doubt not, to a brighter and a better world. the hero of the humber, the man who has saved a large number of human beings from a watery grave, who has made many a family rejoice by his heroism, has himself succumbed to the hand of death. but, through the grace of the lord jesus christ he was not afraid to die. i have been frequently comforted as i have conversed with him during his last illness, and have heard him rejoice in the prospect of that hour, and seen his anxiety--yes, his anxiety to leave the present world because he had blooming hope of a brighter and better inheritance. my dear friends, you and i will soon finish our course. the great question we ought to ask ourselves individually is "am i prepared to die? if my corpse were here, where john ellerthorpe lies, where would my soul be? am i prepared for entering the mansions of everlasting bliss?" many of you know he lived a godless, prayerless and sinful life for many years, but by the gospel of the grace of god his heart became changed. he abandoned his evil ways, consecrated himself at the foot of the cross, to be the lord's for ever, and by god's saving mercy, he was enabled to hold on his way to the last, rejoicing in the prospect of that hour when he should leave the bed of affliction and this sinful world, to be carried into that clime and those blessed regions where he would be with the saved for ever. that god can change your hearts, my dear friends. oh, by the side of this open grave, may some here to-day be yielded to god; may you now consecrate yourselves and become the saved of the lord. god grant his blessing may rest upon the mourning widow and the bereaved family, and that they after the toils of the warfare of earth, may with their dear husband and father be found before the throne of god. may those who have long enjoyed the friendship of our departed brother be ultimately numbered with the blessed in in the kingdom to come.' [sidenote: farewell hymn.] before the mourners departed, the beautifully affecting hymn, beginning with 'farewell, dear friends, a long farewell,' was sung. we may state that most of the ships in the docks indicated respect by hoisting colours half-mast high.--_eastern morning news._ the end. j. horner, printer, alford. _works by the rev. h. woodcock._ wonders of grace; _or, the influence of the holy spirit manifested in upwards of 350 remarkable conversions. 2/-; 2/6._ 'favourably as mr. woodcock is already known by his previous writings, the present work will, we are persuaded, add to his reputation and increase his usefulness. the substance of the work is rich and precious almost beyond praise, and its literary workmanship bears unmistakable evidence of industry, intelligence, and judgment. its multitudinous facts, drawn from a variety of sources, are skilfully marshalled, are narrated in a lively and agreeable style, and the spirit with which it is animated is deeply religious. it is an exceptionally excellent book, as full of interest as a novel, and yet as religious as a liturgy. people of all ages and conditions will find in its pages a mass of pleasant, instructive, and wholesome reading, fitted in an eminent degree to promote their spiritual growth, and to nourish in their hearts an interest in revivals of evangelical religion.'--introductory note by the rev. c. c. m'kechnie, connexional editor. 'facts stranger than fiction stud the pages of this volume, and shed light upon the various ways in which god is pleased to draw men to himself. the work is written in a clear felicitous style, and affords about as agreeable readings as anyone can desire, while its rich illustration and forcible presentation of gospel truth, cannot fail but prove a blessing. it is in fact, as full of interest as a novel, and yet as religious as a liturgy.'--_christian ambassador._ london: s. w. partridge, 9, paternoster row; wesleyan book room, 66, paternoster row; primitive methodist book room, 6, sutton street, commercial road, e.; and of all booksellers. fifth thousand. 356 pages, cloth, 2/6; gilt edges, 3/popery unmasked: being thirty conversations between mr. daylight and mr. twilight. _in which the peculiar doctrines, morals, government, and usages of the romish church are truthfully stated from her own duly authorised works, and impartially tried by god's word, the only unerring rule of doctrine and duty._ notices and recommendations. 'this book is decidedly the best thing of the sort that has yet appeared. its range is comprehensive of the whole of the mighty subject, and it is literally crammed with fact and argument. every section is a species of moral demonstration. we defy cardinal wiseman and all his cardinals, archbishops and bishops, and clergy to boot, to refute this volume. in 350 pages we have a species of encyclopã¦dia. we know of no human hand from which popery has received a more powerful, death-dealing blow. would that a copy of this well crammed and very cheap volume might find a place in every british household.'--rev. j. campbell, d.d., in the _british standard_. 'this is a very admirable and seasonable book, displaying much reading and the soundest views. it sets forth, with much detail and in a popular and picturesque style, the many evils of popery' and the present danger of britain from this insidious foe. it would be difficult to find a better text-book for popular lectures and young men's classes, on the subject, and we cordially recommend it.'--_protestant bulwark._ 'a sensible, smart, and clever exposure of popery, with its irrational assumptions, and soul-destroying errors. the work is timely, and its circulation will do good.'--rev. w. cooke, d.d. * * * * * the brave young sufferers, 6d.; cloth, 9d. * * * * * the three soldiers, 6d.; cloth, 9d. 'the stories are full of pathos and moral beauty, and are in every respect likely to draw the hearts of the young to the love of god and goodness. we hope our sunday school managers will keep this little book in mind when providing their anniversary prizes.--rev. c. mckechnie, _primitive methodist magazine_. * * * * * student's handbook to scripture doctrines, 7s. 6d.; gilt, 8s. 6d. _works by sophia woodcock._ sayings and doings of good boys and girls. 160pp., limp cloth, 1s.; boards, 1s. 3d.; gilt edges, 1s. 6d. contents:--the new heart; prayer; true happiness; the right motive; for christ's sake; stretch it a bit, or true charity; mutual forbearance; right words; perseverance; the little boy and his lost shilling; the bible better than gold; the little cripple; the patient sufferer, &c., &c. * * * * * children leading adults to christ. 160pp., limp cloth, 1s.; boards, 1s. 3d.; gilt edges, 1s. 6d. contents:--christ for evermore; children leading adults to christ; the happiness of children leading adults to christ; praying children leading adults to christ; casual remarks of children leading adults to christ; kind words of children leading adults to christ; children leading sorrowful adults to christ; singing children leading adults to christ; influence of good examples leading adults to christ; dying children leading adults to christ. 'miss woodcock's charming little volumes are everything that could be desired. it would be difficult to find collections of stories and lessons at once so well suited to the tastes and capacities of children, and so likely to plant and foster right principles, and to mould and build up a good and noble character.'--rev. c. c. m'kechnie. 'our respected author is scarcely _fair_ in presenting this capital collection to the young of her own denomination only, as indicated in her preface. the excellence of her work commends it to the young of all denominations.'--_the christian age._ 'this little book is remarkably well adapted to convey moral and religious instruction to boys and girls from six to ten years of age. the stories are just of such a sort, and told in such a way, as are most likely to interest and impress the heart when the heart is most susceptible of impression.'--_christian ambassador._ 'our children are delighted with 'gems,' and we sincerely hope that it will have the large sale that it deserves.'--_dr. lamb, hull._ 'i can truly say of 'gems' that it is one of those books, interesting, pleasing, and profitable, that need multiplying to prevent youthful readers from getting an appetite for that senseless, vicious literature now so temptingly offered to them. if it be read as extensively as it deserves to be, by our young people, the authoress, i am sure, will be abundantly encouraged.'--_rev. joseph wood, m.a., secretary of the sunday school union._ london: wesleyan book room, 66, paternoster row: primitive methodist book room, 6, sutton street, commercial road, e.; and of all booksellers. [transcriber's notes: contractions are inconsistently used, such as both "did'nt" and "didn't," and have been retained as in the original in both cases. there were many printers errors and typos in this book. the obvious ones have been silently corrected. others that might be cases of old spellings have been retained. page 19--i suspect "of" is missing in the phrase, "that he would have been unworthy (of) the name of a christian" but i did not change it in the text. page 120--the paragraph that begins "after the 'hero's' death" was originally included in the preceding blockquote, but it doesn't seem to be part of the quoted letter, so i moved it out into the surrounding text.] hero tales from american history by henry cabot lodge and theodore roosevelt hence it is that the fathers of these men and ours also, and they themselves likewise, being nurtured in all freedom and well born, have shown before all men many and glorious deeds in public and private, deeming it their duty to fight for the cause of liberty and the greeks, even against greeks, and against barbarians for all the greeks."--plato: "menexenus." to e. y. r. to you we owe the suggestion of writing this book. its purpose, as you know better than any one else, is to tell in simple fashion the story of some americans who showed that they knew how to live and how to die; who proved their truth by their endeavor; and who joined to the stern and manly qualities which are essential to the well-being of a masterful race the virtues of gentleness, of patriotism, and of lofty adherence to an ideal. it is a good thing for all americans, and it is an especially good thing for young americans, to remember the men who have given their lives in war and peace to the service of their fellow-countrymen, and to keep in mind the feats of daring and personal prowess done in time past by some of the many champions of the nation in the various crises of her history. thrift, industry, obedience to law, and intellectual cultivation are essential qualities in the makeup of any successful people; but no people can be really great unless they possess also the heroic virtues which are as needful in time of peace as in time of war, and as important in civil as in military life. as a civilized people we desire peace, but the only peace worth having is obtained by instant readiness to fight when wronged--not by unwillingness or inability to fight at all. intelligent foresight in preparation and known capacity to stand well in battle are the surest safeguards against war. america will cease to be a great nation whenever her young men cease to possess energy, daring, and endurance, as well as the wish and the power to fight the nation's foes. no citizen of a free state should wrong any man; but it is not enough merely to refrain from infringing on the rights of others; he must also be able and willing to stand up for his own rights and those of his country against all comers, and he must be ready at any time to do his full share in resisting either malice domestic or foreign levy. henry cabot lodge. theodore roosevelt. washington, april 19, 1895. contents george washington--h. c. lodge. daniel boone and the founding of kentucky--theodore roosevelt. george rogers clark and the conquest of the northwest--theodore roosevelt. the battle of trenton--h. c. lodge. bennington--h. c. lodge. king's mountain--theodore roosevelt. the storming of stony point--theodore roosevelt. gouverneur morris--h. c. lodge. the burning of the "philadelphia"--h. c. lodge. the cruise of the "wasp"--theodore roosevelt. the "general armstrong" privateer--theodore roosevelt. the battle of new orleans--theodore roosevelt. john quincy adams and the right of petition--h. c. lodge. francis parkman--h. c. lodge. "remember the alamo"--theodore roosevelt. hampton roads--theodore roosevelt. the flag-bearer--theodore roosevelt. the death of stonewall jack--theodore roosevelt. the charge at gettysburg--theodore roosevelt. general grant and the vicksburg campaign--h. c. lodge. robert gould shaw--h. c. lodge. charles russell lowell--h. c. lodge. sheridan at cedar creek--h. c. lodge. lieutenant cushing and the ram "albemarle"--theodore roosevelt. farragut at mobile bay--theodore roosevelt. abraham lincoln--h. c. lodge. "hor. i saw him once; he was a goodly king. ham. he was a man, take him for all in all i shall not look upon his like again."--hamlet hero tales from american history washington the brilliant historian of the english people [*] has written of washington, that "no nobler figure ever stood in the fore-front of a nation's life." in any book which undertakes to tell, no matter how slightly, the story of some of the heroic deeds of american history, that noble figure must always stand in the fore-front. but to sketch the life of washington even in the barest outline is to write the history of the events which made the united states independent and gave birth to the american nation. even to give alist of what he did, to name his battles and recount his acts as president, would be beyond the limit and the scope of this book. yet it is always possible to recall the man and to consider what he was and what he meant for us and for mankind he is worthy the study and the remembrance of all men, and to americans he is at once a great glory of their past and an inspiration and an assurance of their future. * john richard green. to understand washington at all we must first strip off all the myths which have gathered about him. we must cast aside into the dust-heaps all the wretched inventions of the cherry-tree variety, which were fastened upon him nearly seventy years after his birth. we must look at him as he looked at life and the facts about him, without any illusion or deception, and no man in history can better stand such a scrutiny. born of a distinguished family in the days when the american colonies were still ruled by an aristocracy, washington started with all that good birth and tradition could give. beyond this, however, he had little. his family was poor, his mother was left early a widow, and he was forced after a very limited education to go out into the world to fight for himself he had strong within him the adventurous spirit of his race. he became a surveyor, and in the pursuit of this profession plunged into the wilderness, where he soon grew to be an expert hunter and backwoodsman. even as a boy the gravity of his character and his mental and physical vigor commended him to those about him, and responsibility and military command were put in his hands at an age when most young men are just leaving college. as the times grew threatening on the frontier, he was sent on a perilous mission to the indians, in which, after passing through many hardships and dangers, he achieved success. when the troubles came with france it was by the soldiers under his command that the first shots were fired in the war which was to determine whether the north american continent should be french or english. in his earliest expedition he was defeated by the enemy. later he was with braddock, and it was he who tried, to rally the broken english army on the stricken field near fort duquesne. on that day of surprise and slaughter he displayed not only cool courage but the reckless daring which was one of his chief characteristics. he so exposed himself that bullets passed through his coat and hat, and the indians and the french who tried to bring him down thought he bore a charmed life. he afterwards served with distinction all through the french war, and when peace came he went back to the estate which he had inherited from his brother, the most admired man in virginia. at that time he married, and during the ensuing years he lived the life of a virginia planter, successful in his private affairs and serving the public effectively but quietly as a member of the house of burgesses. when the troubles with the mother country began to thicken he was slow to take extreme ground, but he never wavered in his belief that all attempts to oppress the colonies should be resisted, and when he once took up his position there was no shadow of turning. he was one of virginia's delegates to the first continental congress, and, although he said but little, he was regarded by all the representatives from the other colonies as the strongest man among them. there was something about him even then which commanded the respect and the confidence of every one who came in contact with him. it was from new england, far removed from his own state, that the demand came for his appointment as commander-in-chief of the american army. silently he accepted the duty, and, leaving philadelphia, took command of the army at cambridge. there is no need to trace him through the events that followed. from the time when he drew his sword under the famous elm tree, he was the embodiment of the american revolution, and without him that revolution would have failed almost at the start. how he carried it to victory through defeat and trial and every possible obstacle is known to all men. when it was all over he found himself facing a new situation. he was the idol of the country and of his soldiers. the army was unpaid, and the veteran troops, with arms in their hands, were eager to have him take control of the disordered country as cromwell had done in england a little more than a century before. with the army at his back, and supported by the great forces which, in every community, desire order before everything else, and are ready to assent to any arrangement which will bring peace and quiet, nothing would have been easier than for washington to have made himself the ruler of the new nation. but that was not his conception of duty, and he not only refused to have anything to do with such a movement himself, but he repressed, by his dominant personal influence, all such intentions on the part of the army. on the 23d of december, 1783, he met the congress at annapolis, and there resigned his commission. what he then said is one of the two most memorable speeches ever made in the united states, and is also memorable for its meaning and spirit among all speeches ever made by men. he spoke as follows: "mr. president:--the great events on which my resignation depended having at length taken place, i have now the honor of offering my sincere congratulations to congress, and of presenting myself before them, to surrender into their hands the trust committed to me and to claim the indulgence of retiring from the service of my country. happy in the confirmation of our independence and sovereignity and pleased with the opportunity afforded the united states of becoming a respectable nation, i resign with satisfaction the appointment i accepted with diffidence; a diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task, which, however, was superseded by a confidence in the rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme power of the union, and the patronage of heaven. the successful termination of the war has verified the most sanguine expectations, and my gratitude for the interposition of providence and the assistance i have received from my countrymen increases with every review of the momentous contest. while i repeat my obligations to the army in general, i should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge, in this place, the peculiar services and distinguished merits of the gentlemen who have been attached to my person during the war. it was impossible that the choice of confidential officers to compose my family should have been more fortunate. permit me, sir, to recommend in particular those who have continued in service to the present moment as worthy of the favorable notice and patronage of congress. i consider it an indispensable duty to close this last solemn act of my official life by commending the interests of our dearest country to the protection of almighty god, and those who have the superintendence of them to his holy keeping. having now finished the work assigned me, i retire from the great theatre of action, and, bidding an affectionate farewell to this august body, under whose orders i have so long acted, i here offer my commission and take my leave of all the employments of public life." the great master of english fiction, writing of this scene at annapolis, says: "which was the most splendid spectacle ever witnessed--the opening feast of prince george in london, or the resignation of washington? which is the noble character for after ages to admire--yon fribble dancing in lace and spangles, or yonder hero who sheathes his sword after a life of spotless honor, a purity unreproached, a courage indomitable and a consummate victory?" washington did not refuse the dictatorship, or, rather, the opportunity to take control of the country, because he feared heavy responsibility, but solely because, as a high-minded and patriotic man, he did not believe in meeting the situation in that way. he was, moreover, entirely devoid of personal ambition, and had no vulgar longing for personal power. after resigning his commission he returned quietly to mount vernon, but he did not hold himself aloof from public affairs. on the contrary, he watched their course with the utmost anxiety. he saw the feeble confederation breaking to pieces, and he soon realized that that form of government was an utter failure. in a time when no american statesman except hamilton had yet freed himself from the local feelings of the colonial days, washington was thoroughly national in all his views. out of the thirteen jarring colonies he meant that a nation should come, and he saw--what no one else saw--the destiny of the country to the westward. he wished a nation founded which should cross the alleghanies, and, holding the mouths of the mississippi, take possession of all that vast and then unknown region. for these reasons he stood at the head of the national movement, and to him all men turned who desired a better union and sought to bring order out of chaos. with him hamilton and madison consulted in the preliminary stages which were to lead to the formation of a new system. it was his vast personal influence which made that movement a success, and when the convention to form a constitution met at philadelphia, he presided over its deliberations, and it was his commanding will which, more than anything else, brought a constitution through difficulties and conflicting interests which more than once made any result seem well-nigh hopeless. when the constitution formed at philadelphia had been ratified by the states, all men turned to washington to stand at the head of the new government. as he had borne the burden of the revolution, so he now took up the task of bringing the government of the constitution into existence. for eight years he served as president. he came into office with a paper constitution, the heir of a bankrupt, broken-down confederation. he left the united states, when he went out of office, an effective and vigorous government. when he was inaugurated, we had nothing but the clauses of the constitution as agreed to by the convention. when he laid down the presidency, we had an organized government, an established revenue, a funded debt, a high credit, an efficient system of banking, a strong judiciary, and an army. we had a vigorous and well-defined foreign policy; we had recovered the western posts, which, in the hands of the british, had fettered our march to the west; and we had proved our power to maintain order at home, to repress insurrection, to collect the national taxes, and to enforce the laws made by congress. thus washington had shown that rare combination of the leader who could first destroy by revolution, and who, having led his country through a great civil war, was then able to build up a new and lasting fabric upon the ruins of a system which had been overthrown. at the close of his official service he returned again to mount vernon, and, after a few years of quiet retirement, died just as the century in which he had played so great a part was closing. washington stands among the greatest men of human history, and those in the same rank with him are very few. whether measured by what he did, or what he was, or by the effect of his work upon the history of mankind, in every aspect he is entitled to the place he holds among the greatest of his race. few men in all time have such a record of achievement. still fewer can show at the end of a career so crowded with high deeds and memorable victories a life so free from spot, a character so unselfish and so pure, a fame so void of doubtful points demanding either defense or explanation. eulogy of such a life is needless, but it is always important to recall and to freshly remember just what manner of man he was. in the first place he was physically a striking figure. he was very tall, powerfully made, with a strong, handsome face. he was remarkably muscular and powerful. as a boy he was a leader in all outdoor sports. no one could fling the bar further than he, and no one could ride more difficult horses. as a young man he became a woodsman and hunter. day after day he could tramp through the wilderness with his gun and his surveyor's chain, and then sleep at night beneath the stars. he feared no exposure or fatigue, and outdid the hardiest backwoodsman in following a winter trail and swimming icy streams. this habit of vigorous bodily exercise he carried through life. whenever he was at mount vernon he gave a large part of his time to fox-hunting, riding after his hounds through the most difficult country. his physical power and endurance counted for much in his success when he commanded his army, and when the heavy anxieties of general and president weighed upon his mind and heart. he was an educated, but not a learned man. he read well and remembered what he read, but his life was, from the beginning, a life of action, and the world of men was his school. he was not a military genius like hannibal, or caesar, or napoleon, of which the world has had only three or four examples. but he was a great soldier of the type which the english race has produced, like marlborough and cromwell, wellington, grant, and lee. he was patient under defeat, capable of large combinations, a stubborn and often reckless fighter, a winner of battles, but much more, a conclusive winner in a long war of varying fortunes. he was, in addition, what very few great soldiers or commanders have ever been, a great constitutional statesman, able to lead a people along the paths of free government without undertaking himself to play the part of the strong man, the usurper, or the savior of society. he was a very silent man. of no man of equal importance in the world's history have we so few sayings of a personal kind. he was ready enough to talk or to write about the public duties which he had in hand, but he hardly ever talked of himself. yet there can be no greater error than to suppose washington cold and unfeeling, because of his silence and reserve. he was by nature a man of strong desires and stormy passions. now and again he would break out, even as late as the presidency, into a gust of anger that would sweep everything before it. he was always reckless of personal danger, and had a fierce fighting spirit which nothing could check when it was once unchained. but as a rule these fiery impulses and strong passions were under the absolute control of an iron will, and they never clouded his judgment or warped his keen sense of justice. but if he was not of a cold nature, still less was he hard or unfeeling. his pity always went out to the poor, the oppressed, or the unhappy, and he was all that was kind and gentle to those immediately about him. we have to look carefully into his life to learn all these things, for the world saw only a silent, reserved man, of courteous and serious manner, who seemed to stand alone and apart, and who impressed every one who came near him with a sense of awe and reverence. one quality he had which was, perhaps, more characteristic of the man and his greatness than any other. this was his perfect veracity of mind. he was, of course, the soul of truth and honor, but he was even more than that. he never deceived himself he always looked facts squarely in the face and dealt with them as such, dreaming no dreams, cherishing no delusions, asking no impossibilities,--just to others as to himself, and thus winning alike in war and in peace. he gave dignity as well as victory to his country and his cause. he was, in truth, a "character for after ages to admire." daniel boone and the founding of kentucky ... boone lived hunting up to ninety; and, what's still stranger, left behind a name for which men vainly decimate the throng, not only famous, but of that good fame, without which glory's but a tavern song,- simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong; 't is true he shrank from men, even of his nation; when they built up unto his darling trees, he moved some hundred miles off, for a station where there were fewer houses and more ease; * * * but where he met the individual man, he showed himself as kind as mortal can. * * * the freeborn forest found and kept them free, and fresh as is a torrent or a tree. and tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, because their thoughts had never been the prey of care or gain; the green woods were their portions * * * simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, though very true, were yet not used for trifles. * * * serene, not sullen, were the solitudes of this unsighing people of the woods. --byron. daniel boone will always occupy a unique place in our history as the archetype of the hunter and wilderness wanderer. he was a true pioneer, and stood at the head of that class of indian-fighters, game-hunters, forest-fellers, and backwoods farmers who, generation after generation, pushed westward the border of civilization from the alleghanies to the pacific. as he himself said, he was "an instrument ordained of god to settle the wilderness." born in pennsylvania, he drifted south into western north carolina, and settled on what was then the extreme frontier. there he married, built a log cabin, and hunted, chopped trees, and tilled the ground like any other frontiersman. the alleghany mountains still marked a boundary beyond which the settlers dared not go; for west of them lay immense reaches of frowning forest, uninhabited save by bands of warlike indians. occasionally some venturesome hunter or trapper penetrated this immense wilderness, and returned with strange stories of what he had seen and done. in 1769 boone, excited by these vague and wondrous tales, determined himself to cross the mountains and find out what manner of land it was that lay beyond. with a few chosen companions he set out, making his own trail through the gloomy forest. after weeks of wandering, he at last emerged into the beautiful and fertile country of kentucky, for which, in after years, the red men and the white strove with such obstinate fury that it grew to be called "the dark and bloody ground." but when boone first saw it, it was a fair and smiling land of groves and glades and running waters, where the open forest grew tall and beautiful, and where innumerable herds of game grazed, roaming ceaselessly to and fro along the trails they had trodden during countless generations. kentucky was not owned by any indian tribe, and was visited only by wandering war-parties and hunting-parties who came from among the savage nations living north of the ohio or south of the tennessee. a roving war-party stumbled upon one of boone's companions and killed him, and the others then left boone and journeyed home; but his brother came out to join him, and the two spent the winter together. self-reliant, fearless, and the frowning defiles of cumberland gap, they were attacked by indians, and driven back--two of boone's own sons being slain. in 1775, however, he made another attempt; and this attempt was successful. the indians attacked the newcomers; but by this time the parties of would-be settlers were sufficiently numerous to hold their own. they beat back the indians, and built rough little hamlets, surrounded by log stockades, at boonesborough and harrodsburg; and the permanent settlement of kentucky had begun. the next few years were passed by boone amid unending indian conflicts. he was a leader among the settlers, both in peace and in war. at one time he represented them in the house of burgesses of virginia; at another time he was a member of the first little kentucky parliament itself; and he became a colonel of the frontier militia. he tilled the land, and he chopped the trees himself; he helped to build the cabins and stockades with his own hands, wielding the longhandled, light-headed frontier ax as skilfully as other frontiersmen. his main business was that of surveyor, for his knowledge of the country, and his ability to travel through it, in spite of the danger from indians, created much demand for his services among people who wished to lay off tracts of wild land for their own future use. but whatever he did, and wherever he went, he had to be sleeplessly on the lookout for his indian foes. when he and his fellows tilled the stump-dotted fields of corn, one or more of the party were always on guard, with weapon at the ready, for fear of lurking savages. when he went to the house of burgesses he carried his long rifle, and traversed roads not a mile of which was free from the danger of indian attack. the settlements in the early years depended exclusively upon game for their meat, and boone was the mightiest of all the hunters, so that upon him devolved the task of keeping his people supplied. he killed many buffaloes, and pickled the buffalo beef for use in winter. he killed great numbers of black bear, and made bacon of them, precisely as if they had been hogs. the common game were deer and elk. at that time none of the hunters of kentucky would waste a shot on anything so small as a prairie-chicken or wild duck; but they sometimes killed geese and swans when they came south in winter and lit on the rivers. but whenever boone went into the woods after game, he had perpetually to keep watch lest he himself might be hunted in turn. he never lay in wait at a game-lick, save with ears strained to hear the approach of some crawling red foe. he never crept up to a turkey he heard calling, without exercising the utmost care to see that it was not an indian; for one of the favorite devices of the indians was to imitate the turkey call, and thus allure within range some inexperienced hunter. besides this warfare, which went on in the midst of his usual vocations, boone frequently took the field on set expeditions against the savages. once when he and a party of other men were making salt at a lick, they were surprised and carried off by the indians. the old hunter was a prisoner with them for some months, but finally made his escape and came home through the trackless woods as straight as the wild pigeon flies. he was ever on the watch to ward off the indian inroads, and to follow the warparties, and try to rescue the prisoners. once his own daughter, and two other girls who were with her, were carried off by a band of indians. boone raised some friends and followed the trail steadily for two days and a night; then they came to where the indians had killed a buffalo calf and were camped around it. firing from a little distance, the whites shot two of the indians, and, rushing in, rescued the girls. on another occasion, when boone had gone to visit a salt-lick with his brother, the indians ambushed them and shot the latter. boone himself escaped, but the indians followed him for three miles by the aid of a tracking dog, until boone turned, shot the dog, and then eluded his pursuers. in company with simon kenton and many other noted hunters and wilderness warriors, he once and again took part in expeditions into the indian country, where they killed the braves and drove off the horses. twice bands of indians, accompanied by french, tory, and british partizans from detroit, bearing the flag of great britain, attacked boonesboroug. in each case boone and his fellow-settlers beat them off with loss. at the fatal battle of the blue licks, in which two hundred of the best riflemen of kentucky were beaten with terrible slaughter by a great force of indians from the lakes, boone commanded the left wing. leading his men, rifle in hand, he pushed back and overthrew the force against him; but meanwhile the indians destroyed the right wing and center, and got round in his rear, so that there was nothing left for boone's men except to flee with all possible speed. as kentucky became settled, boone grew restless and ill at ease. he loved the wilderness; he loved the great forests and the great prairie-like glades, and the life in the little lonely cabin, where from the door he could see the deer come out into the clearing at nightfall. the neighborhood of his own kind made him feel cramped and ill at ease. so he moved ever westward with the frontier; and as kentucky filled up he crossed the mississippi and settled on the borders of the prairie country of missouri, where the spaniards, who ruled the territory, made him an alcalde, or judge. he lived to a great age, and died out on the border, a backwoods hunter to the last. george rogers clark and the conquest of the northwest have the elder races halted? do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas? we take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson, pioneers! o pioneers! all the past we leave behind, we debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world; fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, pioneers! o pioneers! we detachments steady throwing, down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep, conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go the unknown ways, pioneers! o pioneers! * * * * * * * the sachem blowing the smoke first towards the sun and then towards the earth, the drama of the scalp dance enacted with painted faces and guttural exclamations, the setting out of the war-party, the long and stealthy march, the single file, the swinging hatchets, the surprise and slaughter of enemies. --whitman. in 1776, when independence was declared, the united states included only the thirteen original states on the seaboard. with the exception of a few hunters there were no white men west of the alleghany mountains, and there was not even an american hunter in the great country out of which we have since made the states of illinois, indiana, ohio, michigan, and wisconsin. all this region north of the ohio river then formed apart of the province of quebec. it was a wilderness of forests and prairies, teeming with game, and inhabited by many warlike tribes of indians. here and there through it were dotted quaint little towns of french creoles, the most important being detroit, vincennes on the wabash, and kaskaskia and kahokia on the illinois. these french villages were ruled by british officers commanding small bodies of regular soldiers or tory rangers and creole partizans. the towns were completely in the power of the british government; none of the american states had actual possession of a foot of property in the northwestern territory. the northwest was acquired in the midst of the revolution only by armed conquest, and if it had not been so acquired, it would have remained a part of the british dominion of canada. the man to whom this conquest was clue was a famous backwoods leader, a mighty hunter, a noted indian-fighter, george rogers clark. he was a very strong man, with light hair and blue eyes. he was of good virginian family. early in his youth, he embarked on the adventurous career of a backwoods surveyor, exactly as washington and so many other young virginians of spirit did at that period. he traveled out to kentucky soon after it was founded by boone, and lived there for a year, either at the stations or camping by him self in the woods, surveying, hunting, and making war against the indians like any other settler; but all the time his mind was bent on vaster schemes than were dreamed of by the men around him. he had his spies out in the northwestern territory, and became convinced that with a small force of resolute backwoodsmen he could conquer it for the united states. when he went back to virginia, governor patrick henry entered heartily into clark's schemes and gave him authority to fit out a force for his purpose. in 1778, after encountering endless difficulties and delays, he finally raised a hundred and fifty backwoods riflemen. in may they started down the ohio in flatboats to undertake the allotted task. they drifted and rowed downstream to the falls of the ohio, where clark founded a log hamlet, which has since become the great city of louisville. here he halted for some days and was joined by fifty or sixty volunteers; but a number of the men deserted, and when, after an eclipse of the sun, clark again pushed off to go down with the current, his force was but about one hundred and sixty riflemen. all, however, were men on whom he could depend--men well used to frontier warfare. they were tall, stalwart backwoodsmen, clad in the hunting-shirt and leggings that formed the national dress of their kind, and armed with the distinctive weapon of the backwoods, the long-barreled, small-bore rifle. before reaching the mississippi the little flotilla landed, and clark led his men northward against the illinois towns. in one of them, kaskaskia, dwelt the british commander of the entire district up to detroit. the small garrison and the creole militia taken together outnumbered clark's force, and they were in close alliance with the indians roundabout. clark was anxious to take the town by surprise and avoid bloodshed, as he believed he could win over the creoles to the american side. marching cautiously by night and generally hiding by day, he came to the outskirts of the little village on the evening of july 4, and lay in the woods near by until after nightfall. fortune favored him. that evening the officers of the garrison had given a great ball to the mirth-loving creoles, and almost the entire population of the village had gathered in the fort, where the dance was held. while the revelry was at its height, clark and his tall backwoodsmen, treading silently through the darkness, came into the town, surprised the sentries, and surrounded the fort without causing any alarm. all the british and french capable of bearing arms were gathered in the fort to take part in or look on at the merrymaking. when his men were posted clark walked boldly forward through the open door, and, leaning against the wall, looked at the dancers as they whirled around in the light of the flaring torches. for some moments no one noticed him. then an indian who had been lying with his chin on his hand, looking carefully over the gaunt figure of the stranger, sprang to his feet, and uttered the wild war-whoop. immediately the dancing ceased and the men ran to and fro in confusion; but clark, stepping forward, bade them be at their ease, but to remember that henceforth they danced under the flag of the united states, and not under that of great britain. the surprise was complete, and no resistance was attempted. for twenty-four hours the creoles were in abject terror. then clark summoned their chief men together and explained that he came as their ally, and not as their foe, and that if they would join with him they should be citizens of the american republic, and treated in all respects on an equality with their comrades. the creoles, caring little for the british, and rather fickle of nature, accepted the proposition with joy, and with the most enthusiastic loyalty toward clark. not only that, but sending messengers to their kinsmen on the wabash, they persuaded the people of vincennes likewise to cast off their allegiance to the british king, and to hoist the american flag. so far, clark had conquered with greater ease than he had dared to hope. but when the news reached the british governor, hamilton, at detroit, he at once prepared to reconquer the land. he had much greater forces at his command than clark had; and in the fall of that year he came down to vincennes by stream and portage, in a great fleet of canoes bearing five hundred fighting men-british regulars, french partizans, and indians. the vincennes creoles refused to fight against the british, and the american officer who had been sent thither by clark had no alternative but to surrender. if hamilton had then pushed on and struck clark in illinois, having more than treble clark's force, he could hardly have failed to win the victory; but the season was late and the journey so difficult that he did not believe it could be taken. accordingly he disbanded the indians and sent some of his troops back to detroit, announcing that when spring came he would march against clark in illinois. if clark in turn had awaited the blow he would have surely met defeat; but he was a greater man than his antagonist, and he did what the other deemed impossible. finding that hamilton had sent home some of his troops and dispersed all his indians, clark realized that his chance was to strike before hamilton's soldiers assembled again in the spring. accordingly he gathered together the pick of his men, together with a few creoles, one hundred and seventy all told, and set out for vincennes. at first the journey was easy enough, for they passed across the snowy illinois prairies, broken by great reaches of lofty woods. they killed elk, buffalo, and deer for food, there being no difficulty in getting all they wanted to eat; and at night they built huge fires by which to sleep, and feasted "like indian war-dancers," as clark said in his report. but when, in the middle of february, they reached the drowned lands of the wabash, where the ice had just broken up and everything was flooded, the difficulties seemed almost insuperable, and the march became painful and laborious to a degree. all day long the troops waded in the icy water, and at night they could with difficulty find some little hillock on which to sleep. only clark's indomitable courage and cheerfulness kept the party in heart and enabled them to persevere. however, persevere they did, and at last, on february 23, they came in sight of the town of vincennes. they captured a creole who was out shooting ducks, and from him learned that their approach was utterly unsuspected, and that there were many indians in town. clark was now in some doubt as to how to make his fight. the british regulars dwelt in a small fort at one end of the town, where they had two light guns; but clark feared lest, if he made a sudden night attack, the townspeople and indians would from sheer fright turn against him. he accordingly arranged, just before he himself marched in, to send in the captured duck-hunter, conveying a warning to the indians and the creoles that he was about to attack the town, but that his only quarrel was with the british, and that if the other inhabitants would stay in their own homes they would not be molested. sending the duck-hunter ahead, clark took up his march and entered the town just after nightfall. the news conveyed by the released hunter astounded the townspeople, and they talked it over eagerly, and were in doubt what to do. the indians, not knowing how great might be the force that would assail the town, at once took refuge in the neighboring woods, while the creoles retired to their own houses. the british knew nothing of what had happened until the americans had actually entered the streets of the little village. rushing forward, clark's men soon penned the regulars within their fort, where they kept them surrounded all night. the next day a party of indian warriors, who in the british interest had been ravaging the settlements of kentucky, arrived and entered the town, ignorant that the americans had captured it. marching boldly forward to the fort, they suddenly found it beleaguered, and before they could flee they were seized by the backwoodsmen. in their belts they carried the scalps of the slain settlers. the savages were taken redhanded, and the american frontiersmen were in no mood to show mercy. all the indians were tomahawked in sight of the fort. for some time the british defended themselves well; but at length their guns were disabled, all of the gunners being picked off by the backwoods marksmen, and finally the garrison dared not so much as appear at a port-hole, so deadly was the fire from the long rifles. under such circumstances hamilton was forced to surrender. no attempt was afterward made to molest the americans in the land they had won, and upon the conclusion of peace the northwest, which had been conquered by clark, became part of the united states. the battle of trenton and such they are--and such they will be found: not so leonidas and washington, their every battle-field is holy ground which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. how sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! while the mere victor's may appal or stun the servile and the vain, such names will be a watchword till the future shall be free. --byron. in december, 1776, the american revolution was at its lowest ebb. the first burst of enthusiasm, which drove the british back from concord and met them hand to hand at bunker hill, which forced them to abandon boston and repulsed their attack at charleston, had spent its force. the undisciplined american forces called suddenly from the workshop and the farm had given way, under the strain of a prolonged contest, and had been greatly scattered, many of the soldiers returning to their homes. the power of england, on the other hand, with her disciplined army and abundant resources, had begun to tell. washington, fighting stubbornly, had been driven during the summer and autumn from long island up the hudson, and new york had passed into the hands of the british. then forts lee and washington had been lost, and finally the continental army had retreated to new jersey. on the second of december washington was at princeton with some three thousand ragged soldiers, and had escaped destruction only by the rapidity of his movements. by the middle of the month general howe felt that the american army, unable as he believed either to fight or to withstand the winter, must soon dissolve, and, posting strong detachments at various points, he took up his winter quarters in new york. the british general had under his command in his various divisions twenty-five thousand well-disciplined soldiers, and the conclusion he had reached was not an unreasonable one; everything, in fact, seemed to confirm his opinion. thousands of the colonists were coming in and accepting his amnesty. the american militia had left the field, and no more would turn out, despite washington's earnest appeals. all that remained of the american revolution was the little continental army and the man who led it. yet even in this dark hour washington did not despair. he sent in every direction for troops. nothing was forgotten. nothing that he could do was left undone. unceasingly he urged action upon congress, and at the same time with indomitable fighting spirit he planned to attack the british. it was a desperate undertaking in the face of such heavy odds, for in all his divisions he had only some six thousand men, and even these were scattered. the single hope was that by his own skill and courage he could snatch victory from a situation where victory seemed impossible. with the instinct of a great commander he saw that his only chance was to fight the british detachments suddenly, unexpectedly, and separately, and to do this not only required secrecy and perfect judgment, but also the cool, unwavering courage of which, under such circumstances, very few men have proved themselves capable. as christmas approached his plans were ready. he determined to fall upon the british detachment of hessians, under colonel rahl, at trenton, and there strike his first blow. to each division of his little army a part in the attack was assigned with careful forethought. nothing was overlooked and nothing omitted, and then, for some reason good or bad, every one of the division commanders failed to do his part. as the general plan was arranged, gates was to march from bristol with two thousand men; ewing was to cross at trenton; putnam was to come up from philadelphia; and griffin was to make a diversion against donop. when the moment came, gates, who disapproved the plan, was on his way to congress; griffin abandoned new jersey and fled before donop; putnam did not attempt to leave philadelphia; and ewing made no effort to cross at trenton. cadwalader came down from bristol, looked at the river and the floating ice, and then gave it up as desperate. nothing remained except washington himself with the main army, but he neither gave up, nor hesitated, nor stopped on account of the ice, or the river, or the perils which lay beyond. on christmas eve, when all the christian world was feasting and rejoicing, and while the british were enjoying themselves in their comfortable quarters, washington set out. with twenty-four hundred men he crossed the delaware through the floating ice, his boats managed and rowed by the sturdy fishermen of marblehead from glover's regiment. the crossing was successful, and he landed about nine miles from trenton. it was bitter cold, and the sleet and snow drove sharply in the faces of the troops. sullivan, marching by the river, sent word that the arms of his soldiers were wet. "tell your general," was washington's reply to the message, "to use the bayonet, for the town must be taken." when they reached trenton it was broad daylight. washington, at the front and on the right of the line, swept down the pennington road, and, as he drove back the hessian pickets, he heard the shout of sullivan's men as, with stark leading the van, they charged in from the river. a company of jaegers and of light dragoons slipped away. there was some fighting in the streets, but the attack was so strong and well calculated that resistance was useless. colonel rahl, the british commander, aroused from his revels, was killed as he rushed out to rally his men, and in a few moments all was over. a thousand prisoners fell into washington's hands, and this important detachment of the enemy was cut off and destroyed. the news of trenton alarmed the british, and lord cornwallis with seven thousand of the best troops started at once from new york in hot pursuit of the american army. washington, who had now rallied some five thousand men, fell back, skirmishing heavily, behind the assunpink, and when cornwallis reached the river he found the american army awaiting him on the other side of the stream. night was falling, and cornwallis, feeling sure of his prey, decided that he would not risk an assault until the next morning. many lessons had not yet taught him that it was a fatal business to give even twelve hours to the great soldier opposed to him. during the night washington, leaving his fires burning and taking a roundabout road which he had already reconnoitered, marched to princeton. there he struck another british detachment. a sharp fight ensued, the british division was broken and defeated, losing some five hundred men, and washington withdrew after this second victory to the highlands of new jersey to rest and recruit. frederick the great is reported to have said that this was the most brilliant campaign of the century. with a force very much smaller than that of the enemy, washington had succeeded in striking the british at two places with superior forces at each point of contact. at trenton he had the benefit of a surprise, but the second time he was between two hostile armies. he was ready to fight cornwallis when the latter reached the assunpink, trusting to the strength of his position to make up for his inferiority of numbers. but when cornwallis gave him the delay of a night, washington, seeing the advantage offered by his enemy's mistake, at once changed his whole plan, and, turning in his tracks, fell upon the smaller of the two forces opposed to him, wrecking and defeating it before the outgeneraled cornwallis could get up with the main army. washington had thus shown the highest form of military skill, for there is nothing that requires so much judgment and knowledge, so much certainty of movement and quick decision, as to meet a superior enemy at different points, force the fighting, and at each point to outnumber and overwhelm him. but the military part of this great campaign was not all. many great soldiers have not been statesmen, and have failed to realize the political necessities of the situation. washington presented the rare combination of a great soldier and a great statesman as well. he aimed not only to win battles, but by his operations in the field to influence the political situation and affect public opinion. the american revolution was going to pieces. unless some decisive victory could be won immediately, it would have come to an end in the winter of 1776-77. this washington knew, and it was this which nerved his arm. the results justified his forethought. the victories of trenton and princeton restored the failing spirits of the people, and, what was hardly less important, produced a deep impression in europe in favor of the colonies. the country, which had lost heart, and become supine and almost hostile, revived. the militia again took the field. outlying parties of the british were attacked and cut off, and recruits once more began to come in to the continental army. the revolution was saved. that the english colonies in north america would have broken away from the mother country sooner or later cannot be doubted, but that particular revolution of 1776 would have failed within a year, had it not been for washington. it is not, however, merely the fact that he was a great soldier and statesman which we should remember. the most memorable thing to us, and to all men, is the heroic spirit of the man, which rose in those dreary december days to its greatest height, under conditions so adverse that they had crushed the hope of every one else. let it be remembered, also, that it was not a spirit of desperation or of ignorance, a reckless daring which did not count the cost. no one knew better than washington--no one, indeed, so well--the exact state of affairs; for he, conspicuously among great men, always looked facts fearlessly in the face, and never deceived himself. he was under no illusions, and it was this high quality of mind as much as any other which enabled him to win victories. how he really felt we know from what he wrote to congress on december 20, when he said: "it may be thought that i am going a good deal out of the line of my duty to adopt these measures or to advise thus freely. a character to lose, an estate to forfeit, the inestimable blessing of liberty at stake, and a life devoted, must be my excuse." these were the thoughts in his mind when he was planning this masterly campaign. these same thoughts, we may readily believe, were with him when his boat was making its way through the ice of the delaware on christmas eve. it was a very solemn moment, and he was the only man in the darkness of that night who fully understood what was at stake; but then, as always, he was calm and serious, with a high courage which nothing could depress. the familiar picture of a later day depicts washington crossing the delaware at the head of his soldiers. he is standing up in the boat, looking forward in the teeth of the storm. it matters little whether the work of the painter is in exact accordance with the real scene or not. the daring courage, the high resolve, the stern look forward and onward, which the artist strove to show in the great leader, are all vitally true. for we may be sure that the man who led that well-planned but desperate assault, surrounded by darker conditions than the storms of nature which gathered about his boat, and carrying with him the fortunes of his country, was at that moment one of the most heroic figures in history. bennington we are but warriors for the working-day; our gayness and our guilt are all besmirch'd with rainy marching in the painful field; there's not a piece of feather in our host (good argument, i hope, we shall not fly), and time hath worn us into slovenry. but, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim, and my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night they'll be in fresher robes. --henry v. the battle of saratoga is included by sir edward creasy among his fifteen decisive battles which have, by their result, affected the history of the world. it is true that the american revolution was saved by washington in the remarkable princeton and trenton campaign, but it is equally true that the surrender of burgoyne at saratoga, in the following autumn, turned the scale decisively in favor of the colonists by the impression which it made in europe. it was the destruction of burgoyne's army which determined france to aid the americans against england. hence came the french alliance, the french troops, and, what was of far more importance, a french fleet by which washington was finally able to get control of the sea, and in this way cut off cornwallis at yorktown and bring the revolution to a successful close. that which led, however, more directly than anything else to the final surrender at saratoga was the fight at bennington, by which burgoyne's army was severely crippled and weakened, and by which also, the hardy militia of the north eastern states were led to turn out in large numbers and join the army of gates. the english ministry had built great hopes upon burgoyne's expedition, and neither expense nor effort had been spared to make it successful. he was amply furnished with money and supplies as well as with english and german troops, the latter of whom were bought from their wretched little princes by the payment of generous subsidies. with an admirably equipped army of over seven thousand men, and accompanied by a large force of indian allies, burgoyne had started in may, 1777, from canada. his plan was to make his way by the lakes to the head waters of the hudson, and thence southward along the river to new york, where he was to unite with sir william howe and the main army; in this way cutting the colonies in two, and separating new england from the rest of the country. at first all went well. the americans were pushed back from their posts on the lakes, and by the end of july burgoyne was at the head waters of the hudson. he had already sent out a force, under st. leger, to take possession of the valley of the mohawk--an expedition which finally resulted in the defeat of the british by herkimer, and the capture of fort stanwix. to aid st. leger by a diversion, and also to capture certain magazines which were reported to be at bennington, burgoyne sent another expedition to the eastward. this force consisted of about five hundred and fifty white troops, chiefly hessians, and one hundred and fifty indians, all under the command of colonel baum. they were within four miles of bennington on august 13, 1777, and encamped on a hill just within the boundaries of the state of new york. the news of the advance of burgoyne had already roused the people of new york and new hampshire, and the legislature of the latter state had ordered general stark with a brigade of militia to stop the progress of the enemy on the western frontier. stark raised his standard at charlestown on the connecticut river, and the militia poured into his camp. disregarding schuyler's orders to join the main american army, which was falling back before burgoyne, stark, as soon as he heard of the expedition against bennington, marched at once to meet baum. he was within a mile of the british camp on august 14, and vainly endeavored to draw baum into action. on the 15th it rained heavily, and the british forces occupied the time in intrenching themselves strongly upon the hill which they held. baum meantime had already sent to burgoyne for reinforcements, and burgoyne had detached colonel breymann with over six hundred regular troops to go to baum's assistance. on the 16th the weather cleared, and stark, who had been reinforced by militia from western massachusetts, determined to attack. early in the day he sent men, under nichols and herrick, to get into the rear of baum's position. the german officer, ignorant of the country and of the nature of the warfare in which he was engaged, noticed small bodies of men in their shirtsleeves, and carrying guns without bayonets, making their way to the rear of his intrenchments. with singular stupidity he concluded that they were tory inhabitants of the country who were coming to his assistance, and made no attempt to stop them. in this way stark was enabled to mass about five hundred men in the rear of the enemy's position. distracting the attention of the british by a feint, stark also moved about two hundred men to the right, and having thus brought his forces into position he ordered a general assault, and the americans proceeded to storm the british intrenchments on every side. the fight was a very hot one, and lasted some two hours. the indians, at the beginning of the action, slipped away between the american detachments, but the british and german regulars stubbornly stood their ground. it is difficult to get at the exact numbers of the american troops, but stark seems to have had between fifteen hundred and two thousand militia. he thus outnumbered his enemy nearly three to one, but his men were merely country militia, farmers of the new england states, very imperfectly disciplined, and armed only with muskets and fowling-pieces, without bayonets or side-arms. on the other side baum had the most highly disciplined troops of england and germany under his command, well armed and equipped, and he was moreover strongly intrenched with artillery well placed behind the breastworks. the advantage in the fight should have been clearly with baum and his regulars, who merely had to hold an intrenched hill. it was not a battle in which either military strategy or a scientific management of troops was displayed. all that stark did was to place his men so that they could attack the enemy's position on every side, and then the americans went at it, firing as they pressed on. the british and germans stood their ground stubbornly, while the new england farmers rushed up to within eight yards of the cannon, and picked off the men who manned the guns. stark himself was in the midst of the fray, fighting with his soldiers, and came out of the conflict so blackened with powder and smoke that he could hardly be recognized. one desperate assault succeeded another, while the firing on both sides was so incessant as to make, in stark's own words, a "continuous roar." at the end of two hours the americans finally swarmed over the intrenchments, beating down the soldiers with their clubbed muskets. baum ordered his infantry with the bayonet and the dragoons with their sabers to force their way through, but the americans repulsed this final charge, and baum himself fell mortally wounded. all was then over, and the british forces surrendered. it was only just in time, for breymann, who had taken thirty hours to march some twenty-four miles, came up just after baum's men had laid down their arms. it seemed for a moment as if all that had been gained might be lost. the americans, attacked by this fresh foe, wavered; but stark rallied his line, and putting in warner, with one hundred and fifty vermont men who had just come on the field, stopped breymann's advance, and finally forced him to retreat with a loss of nearly one half his men. the americans lost in killed and wounded some seventy men, and the germans and british about twice as many, but the americans took about seven hundred prisoners, and completely wrecked the forces of baum and breymann. the blow was a severe one, and burgoyne's army never recovered from it. not only had he lost nearly a thousand of his best troops, besides cannon, arms, and munitions of war, but the defeat affected the spirits of his army and destroyed his hold over his indian allies, who began to desert in large numbers. bennington, in fact, was one of the most important fights of the revolution, contributing as it did so largely to the final surrender of burgoyne's whole army at saratoga, and the utter ruin of the british invasion from the north. it is also interesting as an extremely gallant bit of fighting. as has been said, there was no strategy displayed, and there were no military operations of the higher kind. there stood the enemy strongly intrenched on a hill, and stark, calling his undisciplined levies about him, went at them. he himself was a man of the highest courage and a reckless fighter. it was stark who held the railfence at bunker hill, and who led the van when sullivan's division poured into trenton from the river road. he was admirably adapted for the precise work which was necessary at bennington, and he and his men fought well their hand-to-hand fight on that hot august day, and carried the intrenchments filled with regular troops and defended by artillery. it was a daring feat of arms, as well as a battle which had an important effect upon the course of history and upon the fate of the british empire in america. king's mountain our fortress is the good greenwood, our tent the cypress tree; we know the forest round us as seamen know the sea. we know its walls of thorny vines, its glades of reedy grass, its safe and silent islands within the dark morass. --bryant. the close of the year 1780 was, in the southern states, the darkest time of the revolutionary struggle. cornwallis had just destroyed the army of gates at camden, and his two formidable lieutenants, tarlton the light horseman, and ferguson the skilled rifleman, had destroyed or scattered all the smaller bands that had been fighting for the patriot cause. the red dragoons rode hither and thither, and all through georgia and south carolina none dared lift their heads to oppose them, while north carolina lay at the feet of cornwallis, as he started through it with his army to march into virginia. there was no organized force against him, and the cause of the patriots seemed hopeless. it was at this hour that the wild backwoodsmen of the western border gathered to strike a blow for liberty. when cornwallis invaded north carolina he sent ferguson into the western part of the state to crush out any of the patriot forces that might still be lingering among the foot-hills. ferguson was a very gallant and able officer, and a man of much influence with the people wherever he went, so that he was peculiarly fitted for this scrambling border warfare. he had under him a battalion of regular troops and several other battalions of tory militia, in all eleven or twelve hundred men. he shattered and drove the small bands of whigs that were yet in arms, and finally pushed to the foot of the mountain wall, till he could see in his front the high ranges of the great smokies. here he learned for the first time that beyond the mountains there lay a few hamlets of frontiersmen, whose homes were on what were then called the western waters, that is, the waters which flowed into the mississippi. to these he sent word that if they did not prove loyal to the king, he would cross their mountains, hang their leaders, and burn their villages. beyond the, mountains, in the valleys of the holston and watauga, dwelt men who were stout of heart and mighty in battle, and when they heard the threats of ferguson they burned with a sullen flame of anger. hitherto the foes against whom they had warred had been not the british, but the indian allies of the british, creek, and cherokee, and shawnee. now that the army of the king had come to their thresholds, they turned to meet it as fiercely as they had met his indian allies. among the backwoodsmen of this region there were at that time three men of special note: sevier, who afterward became governor of tennessee; shelby, who afterward became governor of kentucky; and campbell, the virginian, who died in the revolutionary war. sevier had given a great barbecue, where oxen and deer were roasted whole, while horseraces were run, and the backwoodsmen tried their skill as marksmen and wrestlers. in the midst of the feasting shelby appeared, hot with hard riding, to tell of the approach of ferguson and the british. immediately the feasting was stopped, and the feasters made ready for war. sevier and shelby sent word to campbell to rouse the men of his own district and come without delay, and they sent messengers to and fro in their own neighborhood to summon the settlers from their log huts on the stump-dotted clearings and the hunters from their smoky cabins in the deep woods. the meeting-place was at the sycamore shoals. on the appointed day the backwoodsmen gathered sixteen hundred strong, each man carrying a long rifle, and mounted on a tough, shaggy horse. they were a wild and fierce people, accustomed to the chase and to warfare with the indians. their hunting-shirts of buckskin or homespun were girded in by bead-worked belts, and the trappings of their horses were stained red and yellow. at the gathering there was a black-frocked presbyterian preacher, and before they started he addressed the tall riflemen in words of burning zeal, urging them to stand stoutly in the battle, and to smite with the sword of the lord and of gideon. then the army started, the backwoods colonels riding in front. two or three days later, word was brought to ferguson that the back-water men had come over the mountains; that the indian-fighters of the frontier, leaving unguarded their homes on the western waters, had crossed by wooded and precipitous defiles to the help of the beaten men of the plains. ferguson at once fell back, sending out messengers for help. when he came to king's mountain, a wooded, hog-back hill on the border line between north and south carolina, he camped on its top, deeming that there he was safe, for he supposed that before the backwoodsmen could come near enough to attack him help would reach him. but the backwoods leaders felt as keenly as he the need of haste, and choosing out nine hundred picked men, the best warriors of their force, and the best mounted and armed, they made a long forced march to assail ferguson before help could come to him. all night long they rode the dim forest trails and splashed across the fords of the rushing rivers. all the next day, october 16, they rode, until in mid-afternoon, just as a heavy shower cleared away, they came in sight of king's mountain. the little armies were about equal in numbers. ferguson's regulars were armed with the bayonet, and so were some of his tory militia, whereas the americans had not a bayonet among them; but they were picked men, confident in their skill as riflemen, and they were so sure of victory that their aim was not only to defeat the british but to capture their whole force. the backwoods colonels, counseling together as they rode at the head of the column, decided to surround the mountain and assail it on all sides. accordingly the bands of frontiersmen split one from the other, and soon circled the craggy hill where ferguson's forces were encamped. they left their horses in the rear and immediately began the battle, swarming forward on foot, their commanders leading the attack. the march had been so quick and the attack so sudden that ferguson had barely time to marshal his men before the assault was made. most of his militia he scattered around the top of the hill to fire down at the americans as they came up, while with his regulars and with a few picked militia he charged with the bayonet in person, first down one side of the mountain and then down the other. sevier, shelby, campbell, and the other colonels of the frontiersmen, led each his force of riflemen straight toward the summit. each body in turn when charged by the regulars was forced to give way, for there were no bayonets wherewith to meet the foe; but the backwoodsmen retreated only so long as the charge lasted, and the minute that it stopped they stopped too, and came back ever closer to the ridge and ever with a deadlier fire. ferguson, blowing a silver whistle as a signal to his men, led these charges, sword in hand, on horseback. at last, just as he was once again rallying his men, the riflemen of sevier and shelby crowned the top of the ridge. the gallant british commander became a fair target for the backwoodsmen, and as for the last time he led his men against them, seven bullets entered his body and he fell dead. with his fall resistance ceased. the regulars and tories huddled together in a confused mass, while the exultant americans rushed forward. a flag of truce was hoisted, and all the british who were not dead surrendered. the victory was complete, and the backwoodsmen at once started to return to their log hamlets and rough, lonely farms. they could not stay, for they dared not leave their homes at the mercy of the indians. they had rendered a great service; for cornwallis, when he heard of the disaster to his trusted lieutenant, abandoned his march northward, and retired to south carolina. when he again resumed the offensive, he found his path barred by stubborn general greene and his troops of the continental line. the storming of stony point in their ragged regimentals stood the old continentals, yielding not, when the grenadiers were lunging, and like hail fell the plunging cannon-shot; when the files of the isles from the smoky night encampment bore the banner of the rampant unicorn, and grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer, through the morn! then with eyes to the front all, and with guns horizontal, stood our sires; and the balls whistled deadly, and in streams flashing redly blazed the fires; as the roar on the shore swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres of the plain; and louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, cracked amain! --guy humphrey mcmaster. one of the heroic figures of the revolution was anthony wayne, major-general of the continental line. with the exception of washington, and perhaps greene, he was the best general the americans developed in the contest; and without exception he showed himself to be the hardest fighter produced on either side. he belongs, as regards this latter characteristic, with the men like winfield scott, phil kearney, hancock, and forrest, who reveled in the danger and the actual shock of arms. indeed, his eager love of battle, and splendid disregard of peril, have made many writers forget his really great qualities as a general. soldiers are always prompt to recognize the prime virtue of physical courage, and wayne's followers christened their daring commander "mad anthony," in loving allusion to his reckless bravery. it is perfectly true that wayne had this courage, and that he was a born fighter; otherwise, he never would have been a great commander. a man who lacks the fondness for fighting, the eager desire to punish his adversary, and the willingness to suffer punishment in return, may be a great organizer, like mcclellan, but can never become a great general or win great victories. there are, however, plenty of men who, though they possess these fine manly traits, yet lack the head to command an army; but wayne had not only the heart and the hand but the head likewise. no man could dare as greatly as he did without incurring the risk of an occasional check; but he was an able and bold tactician, a vigilant and cautious leader, well fitted to bear the terrible burden of responsibility which rests upon a commander-in-chief. of course, at times he had some rather severe lessons. quite early in his career, just after the battle of the brandywine, when he was set to watch the enemy, he was surprised at night by the british general grey, a redoubtable fighter, who attacked him with the bayonet, killed a number of his men, and forced him to fall back some distance from the field of action. this mortifying experience had no effect whatever on wayne's courage or self-reliance, but it did give him a valuable lesson in caution. he showed what he had learned by the skill with which, many years later, he conducted the famous campaign in which he overthrew the northwestern indians at the fight of the fallen timbers. wayne's favorite weapon was the bayonet, and, like scott he taught his troops, until they were able in the shock of hand-to-hand conflict to overthrow the renowned british infantry, who have always justly prided themselves on their prowess with cold steel. at the battle of germantown it was wayne's troops who, falling on with the bayonet, drove the hessians and the british light infantry, and only retreated under orders when the attack had failed elsewhere. at monmouth it was wayne and his continentals who first checked the british advance by repulsing the bayonet charge of the guards and grenadiers. washington, a true leader of men, was prompt to recognize in wayne a soldier to whom could be intrusted any especially difficult enterprise which called for the exercise alike of intelligence and of cool daring. in the summer of 1780 he was very anxious to capture the british fort at stony point, which commanded the hudson. it was impracticable to attack it by regular siege while the british frigates lay in the river, and the defenses ere so strong that open assault by daylight was equally out of the question. accordingly washington suggested to wayne that he try a night attack. wayne eagerly caught at the idea. it was exactly the kind of enterprise in which he delighted. the fort was on a rocky promontory, surrounded on three sides by water, and on the fourth by a neck of land, which was for the most part mere morass. it was across this neck of land that any attacking column had to move. the garrison was six hundred strong. to deliver the assault wayne took nine hundred men. the american army was camped about fourteen miles from stony point. one july afternoon wayne started, and led his troops in single file along the narrow rocky roads, reaching the hills on the mainland near the fort after nightfall. he divided his force into two columns, to advance one along each side of the neck, detaching two companies of north carolina troops to move in between the two columns and make a false attack. the rest of the force consisted of new englanders, pennsylvanians, and virginians. each attacking column was divided into three parts, a forlorn hope of twenty men leading, which was followed by an advance guard of one hundred and twenty, and then by the main body. at the time commanding officers still carried spontoons, and other old-time weapons, and wayne, who himself led the right column, directed its movements spear in hand. it was nearly midnight when the americans began to press along the causeways toward the fort. before they were near the walls they were discovered, and the british opened a heavy fire of great guns and musketry, to which the carolinians, who were advancing between the two columns, responded in their turn, according to orders; but the men in the columns were forbidden to fire. wayne had warned them that their work must be done with the bayonet, and their muskets were not even loaded. moreover, so strict was the discipline that no one was allowed to leave the ranks, and when one of the men did so an officer promptly ran him through the body. no sooner had the british opened fire than the charging columns broke into a run, and in a moment the forlorn hopes plunged into the abattis of fallen timber which the british had constructed just without the walls. on the left, the forlorn hope was very roughly handled, no less than seventeen of the twenty men being either killed or wounded, but as the columns came up both burst through the down timber and swarmed up the long, sloping embankments of the fort. the british fought well, cheering loudly as their volley's rang, but the americans would not be denied, and pushed silently on to end the contest with the bayonet. a bullet struck wayne in the head. he fell, but struggled to his feet and forward, two of his officers supporting him. a rumor went among the men that he was dead, but it only impelled them to charge home, more fiercely than ever. with a rush the troops swept to the top of the wall. a fierce but short fight followed in the intense darkness, which was lit only by the flashes from the british muskets. the americans did not fire, trusting solely to the bayonet. the two columns had kept almost equal pace, and they swept into the fort from opposite sides at the same moment. the three men who first got over the walls were all wounded, but one of them hauled down the british flag. the americans had the advantage which always comes from delivering an attack that is thrust home. their muskets were unloaded and they could not hesitate; so, running boldly into close quarters, they fought hand to hand with their foes and speedily overthrew them. for a moment the bayonets flashed and played; then the british lines broke as their assailants thronged against them, and the struggle was over. the americans had lost a hundred in killed and wounded. of the british sixty-three had been slain and very many wounded, every one of the dead or disabled having suffered from the bayonet. a curious coincidence was that the number of the dead happened to be exactly equal to the number of wayne's men who had been killed in the night attack by the english general, grey. there was great rejoicing among the americans over the successful issue of the attack. wayne speedily recovered from his wound, and in the joy of his victory it weighed but slightly. he had performed a most notable feat. no night attack of the kind was ever delivered with greater boldness, skill, and success. when the revolutionary war broke out the american armies were composed merely of armed yeomen, stalwart men, of good courage, and fairly proficient in the use of their weapons, but entirely without the training which alone could enable them to withstand the attack of the british regulars in the open, or to deliver an attack themselves. washington's victory at trenton was the first encounter which showed that the americans were to be feared when they took the offensive. with the exception of the battle of trenton, and perhaps of greene's fight at eutaw springs, wayne's feat was the most successful illustration of daring and victorious attack by an american army that occurred during the war; and, unlike greene, who was only able to fight a drawn battle, wayne's triumph was complete. at monmouth he had shown, as he afterward showed against cornwallis, that his troops could meet the renowned british regulars on even terms in the open. at stony point he showed that he could lead them to a triumphant assault with the bayonet against regulars who held a fortified place of strength. no american commander has ever displayed greater energy and daring, a more resolute courage, or readier resource, than the chief of the hard-fighting revolutionary generals, mad anthony wayne. gouverneur morris gouverneur morris. paris. august 10, 1792. justum et tenacem propositi virum non civium ardor prava jubentium, non vultus instantis tyranni mente quatit solida, neque auster dux inquieti turbidus hadriae, nec fulminantis magna manus jovis: si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinae. --hor., lib. iii. carm. iii. the 10th of august, 1792, was one of the most memorable days of the french revolution. it was the day on which the french monarchy received its death-blow, and was accompanied by fighting and bloodshed which filled paris with terror. in the morning before daybreak the tocsin had sounded, and not long after the mob of paris, headed by the marseillais, "six hundred men not afraid to die," who had been summoned there by barbaroux, were marching upon the tuileries. the king, or rather the queen, had at last determined to make a stand and to defend the throne. the swiss guards were there at the palace, well posted to protect the inner court; and there, too, were the national guards, who were expected to uphold the government and guard the king. the tide of people poured on through the streets, gathering strength as they went the marseillais, the armed bands, the sections, and a vast floating mob. the crowd drew nearer and nearer, but the squadrons of the national guards, who were to check the advance, did not stir. it is not apparent, indeed, that they made any resistance, and the king and his family at eight o'clock lost heart and deserted the tuileries, to take refuge with the national convention. the multitude then passed into the court of the carrousel, unchecked by the national guards, and were face to face with the swiss. deserted by their king, the swiss knew not how to act, but still stood their ground. there was some parleying, and at last the marseillais fired a cannon. then the swiss fired. they were disciplined troops, and their fire was effective. there was a heavy slaughter and the mob recoiled, leaving their cannon, which the swiss seized. the revolutionists, however, returned to the charge, and the fight raged on both sides, the swiss holding their ground firmly. suddenly, from the legislative hall, came an order from the king to the swiss to cease firing. it was their death warrant. paralyzed by the order, they knew not what to do. the mob poured in, and most of the gallant swiss were slaughtered where they stood. others escaped from the tuileries only to meet their death in the street. the palace was sacked and the raging mob was in possession of the city. no man's life was safe, least of all those who were known to be friends of the king, who were nobles, or who had any connection with the court. some of these people whose lives were thus in peril at the hands of the bloodstained and furious mob had been the allies of the united states, and had fought under washington in the war for american independence. in their anguish and distress their thoughts recurred to the country which they had served in its hour of trial, three thousand miles away. they sought the legation of the united states and turned to the american minister for protection. such an exercise of humanity at that moment was not a duty that any man craved. in those terrible days in paris, the representatives of foreign governments were hardly safer than any one else. many of the ambassadors and ministers had already left the country, and others were even then abandoning their posts, which it seemed impossible to hold at such a time. but the american minister stood his ground. gouverneur morris was not a man to shrink from what he knew to be his duty. he had been a leading patriot in our revolution; he had served in the continental congress, and with robert morris in the difficult work of the treasury, when all our resources seemed to be at their lowest ebb. in 1788 he had gone abroad on private business, and had been much in paris, where he had witnessed the beginning of the french revolution and had been consulted by men on both sides. in 1790, by washington's direction, he had gone to london and had consulted the ministry there as to whether they would receive an american minister. thence he had returned to paris, and at the beginning of 1792 washington appointed him minister of the united states to france. as an american, morris's sympathies had run strongly in favor of the movement to relieve france from the despotism under which she was sinking, and to give her a better and more liberal government. but, as the revolution progressed, he became outraged and disgusted by the methods employed. he felt a profound contempt for both sides. the inability of those who were conducting the revolution to carry out intelligent plans or maintain order, and the feebleness of the king and his advisers, were alike odious to the man with american conceptions of ordered liberty. he was especially revolted by the bloodshed and cruelty, constantly gathering in strength, which were displayed by the revolutionists, and he had gone to the very verge of diplomatic propriety in advising the ministers of the king in regard to the policies to be pursued, and, as he foresaw what was coming, in urging the king himself to leave france. all his efforts and all his advice, like those of other intelligent men who kept their heads during the whirl of the revolution, were alike vain. on august 10 the gathering storm broke with full force, and the populace rose in arms to sweep away the tottering throne. then it was that these people, fleeing for their lives, came to the representative of the country for which many of them had fought, and on both public and private grounds besought the protection of the american minister. let me tell what happened in the words of an eye-witness, an american gentleman who was in paris at that time, and who published the following account of his experiences: on the ever memorable 10th of august, after viewing the destruction of the royal swiss guards and the dispersion of the paris militia by a band of foreign and native incendiaries, the writer thought it his duty to visit the minister, who had not been out of his hotel since the insurrection began, and, as was to be expected, would be anxious to learn what was passing without doors. he was surrounded by the old count d'estaing, and about a dozen other persons of distinction, of different sexes, who had, from their connection with the united states, been his most intimate acquaintances at paris, and who had taken refuge with him for protection from the bloodhounds which, in the forms of men and women, were prowling in the streets at the time. all was silence here, except that silence was occasionally interrupted by the crying of the women and children. as i retired, the minister took me aside, and observed: "i have no doubt, sir, but there are persons on the watch who would find fault with my conduct as minister in receiving and protecting these people, but i call on you to witness the declaration which i now make, and that is that they were not invited to my house, but came of their own accord. whether my house will be a protection to them or to me, god only knows, but i will not turn them out of it, let what will happen to me," to which he added, "you see, sir, they are all persons to whom our country is more or less indebted, and it would be inhuman to force them into the hands of the assassins, had they no such claim upon me." nothing can be added to this simple account, and no american can read it or repeat the words of mr. morris without feeling even now, a hundred years after the event, a glow of pride that such words were uttered at such a time by the man who represented the united states. after august 10, when matters in paris became still worse, mr. morris still stayed at his post. let me give, in his own words, what he did and his reasons for it: the different ambassadors and ministers are all taking their flight, and if i stay i shall be alone. i mean, however, to stay, unless circumstances should command me away, because, in the admitted case that my letters of credence are to the monarchy, and not to the republic of france, it becomes a matter of indifference whether i remain in this country or go to england during the time which may be needful to obtain your orders, or to produce a settlement of affairs here. going hence, however, would look like taking part against the late revolution, and i am not only unauthorized in this respect, but i am bound to suppose that if the great majority of the nation adhere to the new form, the united states will approve thereof; because, in the first place, we have no right to prescribe to this country the government they shall adopt, and next, because the basis of our own constitution is the indefeasible right of the people to establish it. among those who are leaving paris is the venetian ambassador. he was furnished with passports from the office of foreign affairs, but he was, nevertheless, stopped at the barrier, was conducted to the hotel de ville, was there questioned for hours, and his carriages examined and searched. this violation of the rights of ambassadors could not fail, as you may suppose, to make an impression. it has been broadly hinted to me that the honor of my country and my own require that i should go away. but i am of a different opinion, and rather think that those who give such hints are somewhat influenced by fear. it is true that the position is not without danger, but i presume that when the president did me the honor of naming me to this embassy, it was not for my personal pleasure or safety, but to promote the interests of my country. these, therefore, i shall continue to pursue to the best of my judgment, and as to consequences, they are in the hand of god. he remained there until his successor arrived. when all others fled, he was faithful, and such conduct should never be forgotten. mr. morris not only risked his life, but he took a heavy responsibility, and laid himself open to severe attack for having protected defenseless people against the assaults of the mob. but his courageous humanity is something which should ever be remembered, and ought always to be characteristic of the men who represent the united states in foreign countries. when we recall the french revolution, it is cheering to think of that fearless figure of the american minister, standing firm and calm in the midst of those awful scenes, with sacked palaces, slaughtered soldiers, and a bloodstained mob about him, regardless of danger to himself, determined to do his duty to his country, and to those to whom his country was indebted. the burning of the "philadelphia" and say besides, that in aleppo once, where a malignant and a turban'd turk beat a venetian and traduced the state, i took by the throat the circumcised dog and smote him, thus. --othello. it is difficult to conceive that there ever was a time when the united states paid a money tribute to anybody. it is even more difficult to imagine the united states paying blackmail to a set of small piratical tribes on the coast of africa. yet this is precisely what we once did with the barbary powers, as they were called the states of morocco, tunis, tripoli, and algiers, lying along the northern coast of africa. the only excuse to be made for such action was that we merely followed the example of christendom. the civilized people of the world were then in the habit of paying sums of money to these miserable pirates, in order to secure immunity for their merchant vessels in the mediterranean. for this purpose congress appropriated money, and treaties were made by the president and ratified by the senate. on one occasion, at least, congress actually revoked the authorization of some new ships for the navy, and appropriated more money than was required to build the men-of-war in order to buy off the barbary powers. the fund for this disgraceful purpose was known as the "mediterranean fund," and was intrusted to the secretary of state to be disbursed by him in his discretion. after we had our brush with france, however, in 1798, and after truxtun's brilliant victory over the french frigate l'insurgente in the following year, it occurred to our government that perhaps there was a more direct as well as a more manly way of dealing with the barbary pirates than by feebly paying them tribute, and in 1801 a small squadron, under commodore dale, proceeded to the mediterranean. at the same time events occurred which showed strikingly the absurdity as well as the weakness of this policy of paying blackmail to pirates. the bashaw of tripoli, complaining that we had given more money to some of the algerian ministers than we had to him, and also that we had presented algiers with a frigate, declared war upon us, and cut down the flag-staff in front of the residence of the american consul. at the same time, and for the same reason, morocco and tunis began to grumble at the treatment which they had received. the fact was that, with nations as with individuals, when the payment of blackmail is once begun there is no end to it. the appearance, however, of our little squadron in the mediterranean showed at once the superiority of a policy of force over one of cowardly submission. morocco and tunis immediately stopped their grumbling and came to terms with the united states, and this left us free to deal with tripoli. commodore dale had sailed before the declaration of war by tripoli was known, and he was therefore hampered by his orders, which permitted him only to protect our commerce, and which forbade actual hostilities. nevertheless, even under these limited orders, the enterprise, of twelve guns, commanded by lieutenant sterrett, fought an action with the tripolitan ship tripoli, of fourteen guns. the engagement lasted three hours, when the tripoli struck, having lost her mizzenmast, and with twenty of her crew killed and thirty wounded. sterrett, having no orders to make captures, threw all the guns and ammunition of the tripoli overboard, cut away her remaining masts, and left her with only one spar and a single sail to drift back to tripoli, as a hint to the bashaw of the new american policy. in 1803 the command of our fleet in the mediterranean was taken by commodore preble, who had just succeeded in forcing satisfaction from morocco for an attack made upon our merchantmen by a vessel from tangier. he also proclaimed a blockade of tripoli and was preparing to enforce it when the news reached him that the frigate philadelphia, forty-four guns, commanded by captain bainbridge, and one of the best ships in our navy, had gone upon a reef in the harbor of tripoli, while pursuing a vessel there, and had been surrounded and captured, with all her crew, by the tripolitan gunboats, when she was entirely helpless either to fight or sail. this was a very serious blow to our navy and to our operations against tripoli. it not only weakened our forces, but it was also a great help to the enemy. the tripolitans got the philadelphia off the rocks, towed her into the harbor, and anchored her close under the guns of their forts. they also replaced her batteries, and prepared to make her ready for sea, where she would have been a most formidable danger to our shipping. under these circumstances stephen decatur, a young lieutenant in command of the enterprise, offered to commodore preble to go into the harbor and destroy the philadelphia. some delay ensued, as our squadron was driven by severe gales from the tripolitan coast; but at last, in january, 1804, preble gave orders to decatur to undertake the work for which he had volunteered. a small vessel known as a ketch had been recently captured from the tripolitans by decatur, and this prize was now named the intrepid, and assigned to him for the work he had in hand. he took seventy men from his own ship, the enterprise, and put them on the intrepid, and then, accompanied by lieutenant stewart in the siren, who was to support him, he set sail for tripoli. he and his crew were very much cramped as well as badly fed on the little vessel which had been given to them, but they succeeded, nevertheless, in reaching tripoli in safety, accompanied by the siren. for nearly a week they were unable to approach the harbor, owing to severe gales which threatened the loss of their vessel; but on february 16 the weather moderated and decatur determined to go in. it is well to recall, briefly, the extreme peril of the attack which he was about to make. the philadelphia, with forty guns mounted, double-shotted, and ready for firing, and manned by a full complement of men, was moored within half a gunshot of the bashaw's castle, the mole and crown batteries, and within range of ten other batteries, mounting, altogether, one hundred and fifteen guns. some tripolitan cruisers, two galleys, and nineteen gunboats also lay between the philadelphia and the shore. into the midst of this powerful armament decatur had to go with his little vessel of sixty tons, carrying four small guns and having a crew of seventy-five men. the americans, however, were entirely undismayed by the odds against them, and at seven o'clock decatur went into the harbor between the reef and shoal which formed its mouth. he steered on steadily toward the philadelphia, the breeze getting constantly lighter, and by half-past nine was within two hundred yards of the frigate. as they approached decatur stood at the helm with the pilot, only two or three men showing on deck and the rest of the crew lying hidden under the bulwarks. in this way he drifted to within nearly twenty yards of the philadelphia. the suspicions of the tripolitans, however, were not aroused, and when they hailed the intrepid, the pilot answered that they had lost their anchors in a gale, and asked that they might run a warp to the frigate and ride by her. while the talk went on the intrepid's boat shoved off with the rope, and pulling to the fore-chains of the philadelphia, made the line fast. a few of the crew then began to haul on the lines, and thus the intrepid was drawn gradually toward the frigate. the suspicions of the tripolitans were now at last awakened. they raised the cry of "americanos!" and ordered off the intrepid, but it was too late. as the vessels came in contact, decatur sprang up the main chains of the philadelphia, calling out the order to board. he was rapidly followed by his officers and men, and as they swarmed over the rails and came upon the deck, the tripolitan crew gathered, panic-stricken, in a confused mass on the forecastle. decatur waited a moment until his men were behind him, and then, placing himself at their head, drew his sword and rushed upon the tripolitans. there was a very short struggle, and the tripolitans, crowded together, terrified and surprised, were cut down or driven overboard. in five minutes the ship was cleared of the enemy. decatur would have liked to have taken the philadelphia out of the harbor, but that was impossible. he therefore gave orders to burn the ship, and his men, who had been thoroughly instructed in what they were to do, dispersed into all parts of the frigate with the combustibles which had been prepared, and in a few minutes, so well and quickly was the work done, the flames broke out in all parts of the philadelphia. as soon as this was effected the order was given to return to the intrepid. without confusion the men obeyed. it was a moment of great danger, for fire was breaking out on all sides, and the intrepid herself, filled as she was with powder and combustibles, was in great peril of sudden destruction. the rapidity of decatur's movements, however, saved everything. the cables were cut, the sweeps got out, and the intrepid drew rapidly away from the burning frigate. it was a magnificent sight as the flames burst out over the philadephia and ran rapidly and fiercely up the masts and rigging. as her guns became heated they were discharged, one battery pouring its shots into the town. finally the cables parted, and then the philadelphia, a mass of flames, drifted across the harbor, and blew up. meantime the batteries of the shipping and the castle had been turned upon the intrepid, but although the shot struck all around her, she escaped successfully with only one shot through her mainsail, and, joining the siren, bore away. this successful attack was carried through by the cool courage of decatur and the admirable discipline of his men. the hazard was very great, the odds were very heavy, and everything depended on the nerve with which the attack was made and the completeness of the surprise. nothing miscarried, and no success could have been more complete. nelson, at that time in the mediterranean, and the best judge of a naval exploit as well as the greatest naval commander who has ever lived, pronounced it "the most bold and daring act of the age." we meet no single feat exactly like it in our own naval history, brilliant as that has been, until we come to cushing's destruction of the albemarle in the war of the rebellion. in the years that have elapsed, and among the great events that have occurred since that time, decatur's burning of the philadephia has been well-nigh forgotten; but it is one of those feats of arms which illustrate the high courage of american seamen, and which ought always to be remembered. the cruise of the "wasp" a crash as when some swollen cloud cracks o'er the tangled trees! with side to side, and spar to spar, whose smoking decks are these? i know st. george's blood-red cross, thou mistress of the seas, but what is she whose streaming bars roll out before the breeze? ah, well her iron ribs are knit, whose thunders strive to quell the bellowing throats, the blazing lips, that pealed the armada's knell! the mist was cleared,--a wreath of stars rose o'er the crimsoned swell, and, wavering from its haughty peak, the cross of england fell! --holmes. in the war of 1812 the little american navy, including only a dozen frigates and sloops of war, won a series of victories against the english, the hitherto undoubted masters of the sea, that attracted an attention altogether out of proportion to the force of the combatants or the actual damage done. for one hundred and fifty years the english ships of war had failed to find fit rivals in those of any other european power, although they had been matched against each in turn; and when the unknown navy of the new nation growing up across the atlantic did what no european navy had ever been able to do, not only the english and americans, but the people of continental europe as well, regarded the feat as important out of all proportion to the material aspects of the case. the americans first proved that the english could be beaten at their own game on the sea. they did what the huge fleets of france, spain, and holland had failed to do, and the great modern writers on naval warfare in continental europe--men like jurien de la graviere--have paid the same attention to these contests of frigates and sloops that they give to whole fleet actions of other wars. among the famous ships of the americans in this war were two named the wasp. the first was an eighteen-gun ship-sloop, which at the very outset of the war captured a british brig-sloop of twenty guns, after an engagement in which the british fought with great gallantry, but were knocked to pieces, while the americans escaped comparatively unscathed. immediately afterward a british seventy-four captured the victor. in memory of her the americans gave the same name to one of the new sloops they were building. these sloops were stoutly made, speedy vessels which in strength and swiftness compared favorably with any ships of their class in any other navy of the day, for the american shipwrights were already as famous as the american gunners and seamen. the new wasp, like her sister ships, carried twenty-two guns and a crew of one hundred and seventy men, and was ship-rigged. twenty of her guns were 32-pound carronades, while for bow-chasers she had two "long toms." it was in the year 1814 that the wasp sailed from the united states to prey on the navy and commerce of great britain. her commander was a gallant south carolinian named captain johnson blakeley. her crew were nearly all native americans, and were an exceptionally fine set of men. instead of staying near the american coasts or of sailing the high seas, the wasp at once headed boldly for the english channel, to carry the war to the very doors of the enemy. at that time the english fleets had destroyed the navies of every other power of europe, and had obtained such complete supremacy over the french that the french fleets were kept in port. off these ports lay the great squadrons of the english ships of the line, never, in gale or in calm, relaxing their watch upon the rival war-ships of the french emperor. so close was the blockade of the french ports, and so hopeless were the french of making headway in battle with their antagonists, that not only the great french three-deckers and two-deckers, but their frigates and sloops as well, lay harmless in their harbors, and the english ships patroled the seas unchecked in every direction. a few french privateers still slipped out now and then, and the far bolder and more formidable american privateersmen drove hither and thither across the ocean in their swift schooners and brigantines, and harried the english commerce without mercy. the wasp proceeded at once to cruise in the english channel and off the coasts of england, france, and spain. here the water was traversed continually by english fleets and squadrons and single ships of war, which were sometimes covoying detachments of troops for wellington's peninsular army, sometimes guarding fleets of merchant vessels bound homeward, and sometimes merely cruising for foes. it was this spot, right in the teeth of the british naval power, that the wasp chose for her cruising ground. hither and thither she sailed through the narrow seas, capturing and destroying the merchantmen, and by the seamanship of her crew and the skill and vigilance of her commander, escaping the pursuit of frigate and ship of the line. before she had been long on the ground, one june morning, while in chase of a couple of merchant ships, she spied a sloop of war, the british brig reindeer, of eighteen guns and a hundred and twenty men. the reindeer was a weaker ship than the wasp, her guns were lighter, and her men fewer; but her commander, captain manners, was one of the most gallant men in the splendid british navy, and he promptly took up the gage of battle which the wasp threw down. the day was calm and nearly still; only a light wind stirred across the sea. at one o'clock the wasp's drum beat to quarters, and the sailors and marines gathered at their appointed posts. the drum of the reindeer responded to the challenge, and with her sails reduced to fighting trim, her guns run out, and every man ready, she came down upon the yankee ship. on her forecastle she had rigged a light carronade, and coming up from behind, she five times discharged this pointblank into the american sloop; then in the light air the latter luffed round, firing her guns as they bore, and the two ships engaged yard-arm to yard-arm. the guns leaped and thundered as the grimy gunners hurled them out to fire and back again to load, working like demons. for a few minutes the cannonade was tremendous, and the men in the tops could hardly see the decks for the wreck of flying splinters. then the vessels ground together, and through the open ports the rival gunners hewed, hacked, and thrust at one another, while the black smoke curled up from between the hulls. the english were suffering terribly. captain manners himself was wounded, and realizing that he was doomed to defeat unless by some desperate effort he could avert it, he gave the signal to board. at the call the boarders gathered, naked to the waist, black with powder and spattered with blood, cutlas and pistol in hand. but the americans were ready. their marines were drawn up on deck, the pikemen stood behind the bulwarks, and the officers watched, cool and alert, every movement of the foe. then the british sea-dogs tumbled aboard, only to perish by shot or steel. the combatants slashed and stabbed with savage fury, and the assailants were driven back. manners sprang to their head to lead them again himself, when a ball fired by one of the sailors in the american tops crashed through his skull, and he fell, sword in hand, with his face to the foe, dying as honorable a death as ever a brave man died in fighting against odds for the flag of his country. as he fell the american officers passed the word to board. with wild cheers the fighting sailormen sprang forward, sweeping the wreck of the british force before them, and in a minute the reindeer was in their possession. all of her officers, and nearly two thirds of the crew, were killed or wounded; but they had proved themselves as skilful as they were brave, and twenty-six of the americans had been killed or wounded. the wasp set fire to her prize, and after retiring to a french port to refit, came out again to cruise. for some time she met no antagonist of her own size with which to wage war, and she had to exercise the sharpest vigilance to escape capture. late one september afternoon, when she could see ships of war all around her, she selected one which was isolated from the others, and decided to run alongside her and try to sink her after nightfall. accordingly she set her sails in pursuit, and drew steadily toward her antagonist, a big eighteen-gun brig, the avon, a ship more powerful than the reindeer. the avon kept signaling to two other british war vessels which were in sight--one an eighteen-gun brig and the other a twenty-gun ship; they were so close that the wasp was afraid they would interfere before the combat could be ended. nevertheless, blakeley persevered, and made his attack with equal skill and daring. it was after dark when he ran alongside his opponent, and they began forthwith to exchange furious broadsides. as the ships plunged and wallowed in the seas, the americans could see the clusters of topmen in the rigging of their opponent, but they knew nothing of the vessel's name or of her force, save only so far as they felt it. the firing was fast and furious, but the british shot with bad aim, while the skilled american gunners hulled their opponent at almost every discharge. in a very few minutes the avon was in a sinking condition, and she struck her flag and cried for quarter, having lost forty or fifty men, while but three of the americans had fallen. before the wasp could take possession of her opponent, however, the two war vessels to which the avon had been signaling came up. one of them fired at the wasp, and as the latter could not fight two new foes, she ran off easily before the wind. neither of her new antagonists followed her, devoting themselves to picking up the crew of the sinking avon. it would be hard to find a braver feat more skilfully performed than this; for captain blakeley, with hostile foes all round him, had closed with and sunk one antagonist not greatly his inferior in force, suffering hardly any loss himself, while two of her friends were coming to her help. both before and after this the wasp cruised hither and thither making prizes. once she came across a convoy of ships bearing arms and munitions to wellington's army, under the care of a great two-decker. hovering about, the swift sloop evaded the two-decker's movements, and actually cut out and captured one of the transports she was guarding, making her escape unharmed. then she sailed for the high seas. she made several other prizes, and on october 9 spoke a swedish brig. this was the last that was ever heard of the gallant wasp. she never again appeared, and no trace of any of those aboard her was ever found. whether she was wrecked on some desert coast, whether she foundered in some furious gale, or what befell her none ever knew. all that is certain is that she perished, and that all on board her met death in some one of the myriad forms in which it must always be faced by those who go down to the sea in ships; and when she sank there sank one of the most gallant ships of the american navy, with as brave a captain and crew as ever sailed from any port of the new world. the "general armstrong" privateer we have fought such a fight for a day and a night as may never be fought again! we have won great glory, my men! and a day less or more at sea or ashore, we die--does it matter when? --tennyson. in the revolution, and again in the war of 1812, the seas were covered by swift-sailing american privateers, which preyed on the british trade. the hardy seamen of the new england coast, and of new york, philadelphia, and baltimore, turned readily from their adventurous careers in the whalers that followed the giants of the ocean in every sea and every clime, and from trading voyages to the uttermost parts of the earth, to go into the business of privateering, which was more remunerative, and not so very much more dangerous, than their ordinary pursuits. by the end of the war of 1812, in particular, the american privateers had won for themselves a formidable position on the ocean. the schooners, brigs, and brigantines in which the privateersmen sailed were beautifully modeled, and were among the fastest craft afloat. they were usually armed with one heavy gun, the "long tom," as it was called, arranged on a pivot forward or amidships, and with a few lighter pieces of cannon. they carried strong crews of well-armed men, and their commanders were veteran seamen, used to brave every danger from the elements or from man. so boldly did they prey on the british commerce, that they infested even the irish sea and the british channel, and increased many times the rate of insurance on vessels passing across those waters. they also often did battle with the regular men-of-war of the british, being favorite objects for attack by cutting-out parties from the british frigates and ships of the line, and also frequently encountering in fight the smaller sloops-of-war. usually, in these contests, the privateersmen were worsted, for they had not the training which is obtained only in a regular service, and they were in no way to be compared to the little fleet of regular vessels which in this same war so gloriously upheld the honor of the american flag. nevertheless, here and there a privateer commanded by an exceptionally brave and able captain, and manned by an unusually well-trained crew, performed some feat of arms which deserves to rank with anything ever performed by the regular navy. such a feat was the defense of the brig general armstrong, in the portuguese port of fayal, of the azores, against an overwhelming british force. the general armstrong hailed from new york, and her captain was named reid. she had a crew of ninety men, and was armed with one heavy 32 pounder and six lighter guns. in december, 1814, she was lying in fayal, a neutral port, when four british war-vessels, a ship of the line, a frigate and two brigs, hove into sight, and anchored off the mouth of the harbor. the port was neutral, but portugal was friendly to england, and reid knew well that the british would pay no respect to the neutrality laws if they thought that at the cost of their violation they could destroy the privateer. he immediately made every preparation to resist an attack, the privateer was anchored close to the shore. the boarding-nettings were got ready, and were stretched to booms thrust outward from the brig's side, so as to check the boarders as they tried to climb over the bulwarks. the guns were loaded and cast loose, and the men went to quarters armed with muskets, boarding-pikes, and cutlases. on their side the british made ready to carry the privateer by boarding. the shoals rendered it impossible for the heavy ships to approach, and the lack of wind and the baffling currents also interfered for the moment with the movements of the sloops-of-war. accordingly recourse was had to a cutting-out party, always a favorite device with the british seamen of that age, who were accustomed to carry french frigates by boarding, and to capture in their boats the heavy privateers and armed merchantmen, as well as the lighter war-vessels of france and spain. the british first attempted to get possession of the brig by surprise, sending out but four boats. these worked down near to the brig, under pretense of sounding, trying to get close enough to make a rush and board her. the privateersmen were on their guard, and warned the boats off, and after the warning had been repeated once or twice unheeded, they fired into them, killing and wounding several men. upon this the boats promptly returned to the ships. this first check greatly irritated the british captains, and they decided to repeat the experiment that night with a force which would render resistance vain. accordingly, after it became dark, a dozen boats were sent from the liner and the frigate, manned by four hundred stalwart british seamen, and commanded by the captain of one of the brigs of war. through the night they rowed straight toward the little privateer lying dark and motionless in the gloom. as before, the privateersmen were ready for their foe, and when they came within range opened fire upon them, first with the long gun and then with the lighter cannon; but the british rowed on with steady strokes, for they were seamen accustomed to victory over every european foe, and danger had no terrors for them. with fierce hurrahs they dashed through the shot-riven smoke and grappled the brig; and the boarders rose, cutlas in hand, ready to spring over the bulwarks. a terrible struggle followed. the british hacked at the boarding-nets and strove to force their way through to the decks of the privateer, while the americans stabbed the assailants with their long pikes and slashed at them with their cutlases. the darkness was lit by the flashes of flame from the muskets and the cannon, and the air was rent by the oaths and shouts of the combatants, the heavy trampling on the decks, the groans of the wounded, the din of weapon meeting weapon, and all the savage tumult of a hand-to-hand fight. at the bow the british burst through the boarding-netting, and forced their way to the deck, killing or wounding all three of the lieutenants of the privateer; but when this had happened the boats had elsewhere been beaten back, and reid, rallying his grim sea-dogs, led them forward with a rush, and the boarding party were all killed or tumbled into the sea. this put an end to the fight. in some of the boats none but killed and wounded men were left. the others drew slowly off, like crippled wild-fowl, and disappeared in the darkness toward the british squadron. half of the attacking force had been killed or wounded, while of the americans but nine had fallen. the british commodore and all his officers were maddened with anger and shame over the repulse, and were bent upon destroying the privateer at all costs. next day, after much exertion, one of the war-brigs was warped into position to attack the american, but she first took her station at long range, so that her carronades were not as effective as the pivot gun of the privateer; and so well was the latter handled, that the british brig was repeatedly hulled, and finally was actually driven off. a second attempt was made, however, and this time the sloop-of-war got so close that she could use her heavy carronades, which put the privateer completely at her mercy. then captain reid abandoned his brig and sank her, first carrying ashore the guns, and marched inland with his men. they were not further molested; and, if they had lost their brig, they had at least made their foes pay dear for her destruction, for the british had lost twice as many men as there were in the whole hard-fighting crew of the american privateer. the battle of new orleans the heavy fog of morning still hid the plain from sight, when came a thread of scarlet marked faintly in the white. we fired a single cannon, and as its thunders rolled, the mist before us lifted in many a heavy fold. the mist before us lifted, and in their bravery fine came rushing to their ruin the fearless british line. --thomas dunn english. when, in 1814, napoleon was overthrown and forced to retire to elba, the british troops that had followed wellington into southern france were left free for use against the americans. a great expedition was organized to attack and capture new orleans, and at its head was placed general pakenham, the brilliant commander of the column that delivered the fatal blow at salamanca. in december a fleet of british war-ships and transports, carrying thousands of victorious veterans from the peninsula, and manned by sailors who had grown old in a quarter of a century's triumphant ocean warfare, anchored off the broad lagoons of the mississippi delta. the few american gunboats were carried after a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, the troops were landed, and on december 23 the advance-guard of two thousand men reached the banks of the mississippi, but ten miles below new orleans, and there camped for the night. it seemed as if nothing could save the creole city from foes who had shown, in the storming of many a spanish walled town, that they were as ruthless in victory as they were terrible in battle. there were no forts to protect the place, and the militia were ill armed and ill trained. but the hour found the man. on the afternoon of the very day when the british reached the banks of the river the vanguard of andrew jackson's tennesseeans marched into new orleans. clad in hunting-shirts of buckskin or homespun, wearing wolfskin and coonskin caps, and carrying their long rifles on their shoulders, the wild soldiery of the backwoods tramped into the little french town. they were tall men, with sinewy frames and piercing eyes. under "old hickory's" lead they had won the bloody battle of the horseshoe bend against the creeks; they had driven the spaniards from pensacola; and now they were eager to pit themselves against the most renowned troops of all europe. jackson acted with his usual fiery, hasty decision. it was absolutely necessary to get time in which to throw up some kind of breastworks or defenses for the city, and he at once resolved on a night attack against the british. as for the british, they had no thought of being molested. they did not dream of an assault from inferior numbers of undisciplined and ill-armed militia, who did not possess so much as bayonets to their guns. they kindled fires along the levees, ate their supper, and then, as the evening fell, noticed a big schooner drop down the river in ghostly silence and bring up opposite to them. the soldiers flocked to the shore, challenging the stranger, and finally fired one or two shots at her. then suddenly a rough voice was heard, "now give it to them, for the honor of america!" and a shower of shell and grape fell on the british, driving them off the levee. the stranger was an american man-of-war schooner. the british brought up artillery to drive her off, but before they succeeded jackson's land troops burst upon them, and a fierce, indecisive struggle followed. in the night all order was speedily lost, and the two sides fought singly or in groups in the utmost confusion. finally a fog came up and the combatants separated. jackson drew off four or five miles and camped. the british had been so roughly handled that they were unable to advance for three or four days, until the entire army came up. when they did advance, it was only to find that jackson had made good use of the time he had gained by his daring assault. he had thrown up breastworks of mud and logs from the swamp to the river. at first the british tried to batter down these breastworks with their cannon, for they had many more guns than the americans. a terrible artillery duel followed. for an hour or two the result seemed in doubt; but the american gunners showed themselves to be far more skilful than their antagonists, and gradually getting the upper hand, they finally silenced every piece of british artillery. the americans had used cotton bales in the embrasures, and the british hogsheads of sugar; but neither worked well, for the cotton caught fire and the sugar hogsheads were ripped and splintered by the roundshot, so that both were abandoned. by the use of red-hot shot the british succeeded in setting on fire the american schooner which had caused them such annoyance on the evening of the night attack; but she had served her purpose, and her destruction caused little anxiety to jackson. having failed in his effort to batter down the american breastworks, and the british artillery having been fairly worsted by the american, pakenham decided to try open assault. he had ten thousand regular troops, while jackson had under him but little over five thousand men, who were trained only as he had himself trained them in his indian campaigns. not a fourth of them carried bayonets. both pakenham and the troops under him were fresh from victories won over the most renowned marshals of napoleon, andover soldiers that had proved themselves on a hundred stricken fields the masters of all others in continental europe. at toulouse they had driven marshal soult from a position infinitely stronger than that held by jackson, and yet soult had under him a veteran army. at badajoz, ciudad rodrigo, and san sebastian they had carried by open assault fortified towns whose strength made the intrenchments of the americans seem like the mud walls built by children, though these towns were held by the best soldiers of france. with such troops to follow him, and with such victories behind him in the past, it did not seem possible to pakenham that the assault of the terrible british infantry could be successfully met by rough backwoods riflemen fighting under a general as wild and untrained as themselves. he decreed that the assault should take place on the morning of the eighth. throughout the previous night the american officers were on the alert, for they could hear the rumbling of artillery in the british camp, the muffled tread of the battalions as they were marched to their points in the line, and all the smothered din of the preparation for assault. long before dawn the riflemen were awake and drawn up behind the mud walls, where they lolled at ease, or, leaning on their long rifles, peered out through the fog toward the camp of their foes. at last the sun rose and the fog lifted, showing the scarlet array of the splendid british infantry. as soon as the air was clear pakenham gave the word, and the heavy columns of redcoated grenadiers and kilted highlanders moved steadily forward. from the american breastworks the great guns opened, but not a rifle cracked. three fourths of the distance were covered, and the eager soldiers broke into a run; then sheets of flame burst from the breastworks in their front as the wild riflemen of the backwoods rose and fired, line upon line. under the sweeping hail the head of the british advance was shattered, and the whole column stopped. then it surged forward again, almost to the foot of the breastworks; but not a man lived to reach them, and in a moment more the troops broke and ran back. mad with shame and rage, pakenham rode among them to rally and lead them forward, and the officers sprang around him, smiting the fugitives with their swords and cheering on the men who stood. for a moment the troops halted, and again came forward to the charge; but again they were met by a hail of bullets from the backwoods rifles. one shot struck pakenham himself. he reeled and fell from the saddle, and was carried off the field. the second and third in command fell also, and then all attempts at further advance were abandoned, and the british troops ran back to their lines. another assault had meanwhile been made by a column close to the river, the charging soldiers rushing to the top of the breastworks; but they were all killed or driven back. a body of troops had also been sent across the river, where they routed a small detachment of kentucky militia; but they were, of course, recalled when the main assault failed. at last the men who had conquered the conquerors of europe had themselves met defeat. andrew jackson and his rough riflemen had worsted, in fair fight, a far larger force of the best of wellington's veterans, and had accomplished what no french marshal and no french troops had been able to accomplish throughout the long war in the spanish peninsula. for a week the sullen british lay in their lines; then, abandoning their heavy artillery, they marched back to the ships and sailed for europe. john quincy adams and the right of petition he rests with the immortals; his journey has been long: for him no wail of sorrow, but a paean full and strong! so well and bravely has he done the work be found to do, to justice, freedom, duty, god, and man forever true. --whittier. the lot of ex-presidents of the united states, as a rule, has been a life of extreme retirement, but to this rule there is one marked exception. when john quincy adams left the white house in march, 1829, it must have seemed as if public life could hold nothing more for him. he had had everything apparently that an american statesman could hope for. he had been minister to holland and prussia, to russia and england. he had been a senator of the united states, secretary of state for eight years, and finally president. yet, notwithstanding all this, the greatest part of his career, and his noblest service to his country, were still before him when he gave up the presidency. in the following year (1830) he was told that he might be elected to the house of representatives, and the gentleman who made the proposition ventured to say that he thought an ex-president, by taking such a position, "instead of degrading the individual would elevate the representative character." mr. adams replied that he had "in that respect no scruples whatever. no person can be degraded by serving the people as representative in congress, nor, in my opinion, would an ex-president of the united states be degraded by serving as a selectman of his town if elected thereto by the people." a few weeks later he was chosen to the house, and the district continued to send him every two years from that time until his death. he did much excellent work in the house, and was conspicuous in more than one memorable scene; but here it is possible to touch on only a single point, where he came forward as the champion of a great principle, and fought a battle for the right which will always be remembered among the great deeds of american public men. soon after mr. adams took his seat in congress, the movement for the abolition of slavery was begun by a few obscure agitators. it did not at first attract much attention, but as it went on it gradually exasperated the overbearing temper of the southern slaveholders. one fruit of this agitation was the appearance of petitions for the abolition of slavery in the house of representatives. a few were presented by mr. adams without attracting much notice; but as the petitions multiplied, the southern representatives became aroused. they assailed mr. adams for presenting them, and finally passed what was known as the gag rule, which prevented the reception of these petitions by the house. against this rule mr. adams protested, in the midst of the loud shouts of the southerners, as a violation of his constitutional rights. but the tyranny of slavery at that time was so complete that the rule was adopted and enforced, and the slaveholders, undertook in this way to suppress free speech in the house, just as they also undertook to prevent the transmission through the mails of any writings adverse to slavery. with the wisdom of a statesman and a man of affairs, mr. adams addressed himself to the one practical point of the contest. he did not enter upon a discussion of slavery or of its abolition, but turned his whole force toward the vindication of the right of petition. on every petition day he would offer, in constantly increasing numbers, petitions which came to him from all parts of the country for the abolition of slavery, in this way driving the southern representatives almost to madness, despite their rule which prevented the reception of such documents when offered. their hatred of mr. adams is something difficult to conceive, and they were burning to break him down, and, if possible, drive him from the house. on february 6, 1837, after presenting the usual petitions, mr. adams offered one upon which he said he should like the judgment of the speaker as to its propriety, inasmuch as it was a petition from slaves. in a moment the house was in a tumult, and loud cries of "expel him!" "expel him!" rose in all directions. one resolution after another was offered looking toward his expulsion or censure, and it was not until february 9, three days later, that he was able to take the floor in his own defense. his speech was a masterpiece of argument, invective, and sarcasm. he showed, among other things, that he had not offered the petition, but had only asked the opinion of the speaker upon it, and that the petition itself prayed that slavery should not be abolished. when he closed his speech, which was quite as savage as any made against him, and infinitely abler, no one desired to reply, and the idea of censuring him was dropped. the greatest struggle, however, came five years later, when, on january 21, 1842, mr. adams presented the petition of certain citizens of haverhill, massachusetts, praying for the dissolution of the union on account of slavery. his enemies felt that now, at last, he had delivered himself into their hands. again arose the cry for his expulsion, and again vituperation was poured out upon him, and resolutions to expel him freely introduced. when he got the floor to speak in his own defense, he faced an excited house, almost unanimously hostile to him, and possessing, as he well knew, both the will and the power to drive him from its walls. but there was no wavering in mr. adams. "if they say they will try me," he said, "they must try me. if they say they will punish me, they must punish me. but if they say that in peace and mercy they will spare me expulsion, i disdain and cast away their mercy, and i ask if they will come to such a trial and expel me. i defy them. i have constituents to go to, and they will have something to say if this house expels me, nor will it be long before the gentlemen will see me here again." the fight went on for nearly a fortnight, and on february 7 the whole subject was finally laid on the table. the sturdy, dogged fighter, single-handed and alone, had beaten all the forces of the south and of slavery. no more memorable fight has ever been made by one man in a parliamentary body, and after this decisive struggle the tide began to turn. every year mr. adams renewed his motion to strike out the gag rule, and forced it to a vote. gradually the majority against it dwindled, until at last, on december 3, 1844, his motion prevailed. freedom of speech had been vindicated in the american house of representatives, the right of petition had been won, and the first great blow against the slave power had been struck. four years later mr. adams fell, stricken with paralysis, at his place in the house, and a few hours afterward, with the words, "this is the last of earth; i am content," upon his lips, he sank into unconsciousness and died. it was a fit end to a great public career. his fight for the right of petition is one to be studied and remembered, and mr. adams made it practically alone. the slaveholders of the south and the representatives of the north were alike against him. against him, too, as his biographer, mr. morse, says, was the class in boston to which he naturally belonged by birth and education. he had to encounter the bitter resistance in his own set of the "conscienceless respectability of wealth," but the great body of the new england people were with him, as were the voters of his own district. he was an old man, with the physical infirmities of age. his eyes were weak and streaming; his hands were trembling; his voice cracked in moments of excitement; yet in that age of oratory, in the days of webster and clay, he was known as the "old man eloquent." it was what he said, more than the way he said it, which told. his vigorous mind never worked more surely and clearly than when he stood alone in the midst of an angry house, the target of their hatred and abuse. his arguments were strong, and his large knowledge and wide experience supplied him with every weapon for defense and attack. beneath the lash of his invective and his sarcasm the hottest of the slaveholders cowered away. he set his back against a great principle. he never retreated an inch, he never yielded, he never conciliated, he was always an assailant, and no man and no body of men had the power to turn him. he had his dark hours, he felt bitterly the isolation of his position, but he never swerved. he had good right to set down in his diary, when the gag rule was repealed, "blessed, forever blessed, be the name of god." francis parkman (1822-1893) he told the red man's story; far and wide he searched the unwritten annals of his race; he sat a listener at the sachem's side, he tracked the hunter through his wild-wood chase. high o'er his head the soaring eagle screamed; the wolfs long howl rang nightly; through the vale tramped the lone bear; the panther's eyeballs gleamed; the bison's gallop thundered on the gale. soon o'er the horizon rose the cloud of strife, two proud, strong nations battling for the prize: which swarming host should mould a nation's life; which royal banner flout the western skies. long raged the conflict; on the crimson sod native and alien joined their hosts in vain; the lilies withered where the lion trod, till peace lay panting on the ravaged plain. a nobler task was theirs who strove to win the blood-stained heathen to the christian fold; to free from satan's clutch the slaves of sin; these labors, too, with loving grace he told. halting with feeble step, or bending o'er the sweet-breathed roses which he loved so well, while through long years his burdening cross he bore, from those firm lips no coward accents fell. a brave bright memory! his the stainless shield no shame defaces and no envy mars! when our far future's record is unsealed, his name will shine among its morning stars. --holmes. the stories in this volume deal, for the most part, with single actions, generally with deeds of war and feats of arms. in this one i desire to give if possible the impression, for it can be no more than an impression, of a life which in its conflicts and its victories manifested throughout heroic qualities. such qualities can be shown in many ways, and the field of battle is only one of the fields of human endeavor where heroism can be displayed. francis parkman was born in boston on september 16, 1822. he came of a well-known family, and was of a good puritan stock. he was rather a delicate boy, with an extremely active mind and of a highly sensitive, nervous organization. into everything that attracted him he threw himself with feverish energy. his first passion, when he was only about twelve years old, was for chemistry, and his eager boyish experiments in this direction were undoubtedly injurious to his health. the interest in chemistry was succeeded by a passion for the woods and the wilderness, and out of this came the longing to write the history of the men of the wilderness, and of the great struggle between france and england for the control of the north american continent. all through his college career this desire was with him, and while in secret he was reading widely to prepare himself for his task, he also spent a great deal of time in the forests and on the mountains. to quote his own words, he was "fond of hardships, and he was vain of enduring them, cherishing a sovereign scorn for every physical weakness or defect; but deceived, moreover, by the rapid development of frame and sinew, which flattered him into the belief that discipline sufficiently unsparing would harden him into an athlete, he slighted the precautions of a more reasonable woodcraft, tired old foresters with long marches, stopped neither for heat nor for rain, and slept on the earth without blankets." the result was that his intense energy carried him beyond his strength, and while his muscles strengthened and hardened, his sensitive nervous organization began to give way. it was not merely because he led an active outdoor life. he himself protests against any such conclusion, and says that "if any pale student glued to his desk here seek an apology for a way of life whose natural fruit is that pallid and emasculate scholarship, of which new england has had too many examples, it will be far better that this sketch had not been written. for the student there is, in its season, no better place than the saddle, and no better companion than the rifle or the oar." the evil that was done was due to parkman's highly irritable organism, which spurred him to excess in everything he undertook. the first special sign of the mischief he was doing to himself and his health appeared in a weakness of sight. it was essential to his plan of historical work to study not only books and records but indian life from the inside. therefore, having graduated from college and the law-school, he felt that the time had come for this investigation, which would enable him to gather material for his history and at the same time to rest his eyes. he went to the rocky mountains, and after great hardships, living in the saddle, as he said, with weakness and pain, he joined a band of ogallalla indians. with them he remained despite his physical suffering, and from them he learned, as he could not have learned in any other way, what indian life really was. the immediate result of the journey was his first book, instinct with the freshness and wildness of the mountains and the prairies, and called by him "the oregon trail." unfortunately, the book was not the only outcome. the illness incurred during his journey from fatigue and exposure was followed by other disorders. the light of the sun became insupportable, and his nervous system was entirely deranged. his sight was now so impaired that he was almost blind, and could neither read nor write. it was a terrible prospect for a brilliant and ambitious man, but parkman faced it unflinchingly. he devised a frame by which he could write with closed eyes, and books and manuscripts were read to him. in this way he began the history of "the conspiracy of pontiac," and for the first half-year the rate of composition covered about six lines a day. his courage was rewarded by an improvement in his health, and a little more quiet in nerves and brain. in two and a half years he managed to complete the book. he then entered upon his great subject of "france in the new world." the material was mostly in manuscript, and had to be examined, gathered, and selected in europe and in canada. he could not read, he could write only a very little and that with difficulty, and yet he pressed on. he slowly collected his material and digested and arranged it, using the eyes of others to do that which he could not do himself, and always on the verge of a complete breakdown of mind and body. in 1851 he had an effusion of water on the left knee, which stopped his outdoor exercise, on which he had always largely depended. all the irritability of the system then centered in the head, resulting in intense pain and in a restless and devouring activity of thought. he himself says: "the whirl, the confusion, and strange, undefined tortures attending this condition are only to be conceived by one who has felt them." the resources of surgery and medicine were exhausted in vain. the trouble in the head and eyes constantly recurred. in 1858 there came a period when for four years he was incapable of the slightest mental application, and the attacks varied in duration from four hours to as many months. when the pressure was lightened a little he went back to his work. when work was impossible, he turned to horticulture, grew roses, and wrote a book about the cultivation of those flowers which is a standard authority. as he grew older the attacks moderated, although they never departed. sleeplessness pursued him always, the slightest excitement would deprive him of the power of exertion, his sight was always sensitive, and at times he was bordering on blindness. in this hard-pressed way he fought the battle of life. he says himself that his books took four times as long to prepare and write as if he had been strong and able to use his faculties. that this should have been the case is little wonder, for those books came into being with failing sight and shattered nerves, with sleeplessness and pain, and the menace of insanity ever hanging over the brave man who, nevertheless, carried them through to an end. yet the result of those fifty years, even in amount, is a noble one, and would have been great achievement for a man who had never known a sick day. in quality, and subject, and method of narration, they leave little to be desired. there, in parkman's volumes, is told vividly, strongly, and truthfully, the history of the great struggle between france and england for the mastery of the north american continent, one of the most important events of modern times. this is not the place to give any critical estimate of mr. parkman's work. it is enough to say that it stands in the front rank. it is a great contribution to history, and a still greater gift to the literature of this country. all americans certainly should read the volumes in which parkman has told that wonderful story of hardship and adventure, of fighting and of statesmanship, which gave this great continent to the english race and the english speech. but better than the literature or the history is the heroic spirit of the man, which triumphed over pain and all other physical obstacles, and brought a work of such value to his country and his time into existence. there is a great lesson as well as a lofty example in such a career, and in the service which such a man rendered by his life and work to literature and to his country. on the tomb of the conqueror of quebec it is written: "here lies wolfe victorious." the same epitaph might with entire justice be carved above the grave of wolfe's historian. "remember the alamo" the muffled drum's sad roll has beat the soldier's last tattoo; no more on life's parade shall meet that brave and fallen few. on fame's eternal camping-ground their silent tents are spread, and glory guards with solemn round the bivouac of the dead. * * * the neighing troop, the flashing blade, the bugle's stirring blast, the charge, the dreadful cannonade, the din and shout are past; nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal shall thrill with fierce delight those breasts that never more may feel the rapture of the fight. --theodore o'hara. "thermopylae had its messengers of death, but the alamo had none." these were the words with which a united states senator referred to one of the most resolute and effective fights ever waged by brave men against overwhelming odds in the face of certain death. soon after the close of the second war with great britain, parties of american settlers began to press forward into the rich, sparsely settled territory of texas, then a portion of mexico. at first these immigrants were well received, but the mexicans speedily grew jealous of them, and oppressed them in various ways. in consequence, when the settlers felt themselves strong enough, they revolted against mexican rule, and declared texas to be an independent republic. immediately santa anna, the dictator of mexico, gathered a large army, and invaded texas. the slender forces of the settlers were unable to meet his hosts. they were pressed back by the mexicans, and dreadful atrocities were committed by santa anna and his lieutenants. in the united states there was great enthusiasm for the struggling texans, and many bold backwoodsmen and indian-fighters swarmed to their help. among them the two most famous were sam houston and david crockett. houston was the younger man, and had already led an extraordinary and varied career. when a mere lad he had run away from home and joined the cherokees, living among them for some years; then he returned home. he had fought under andrew jackson in his campaigns against the creeks, and had been severely wounded at the battle of the horse-shoe bend. he had risen to the highest political honors in his state, becoming governor of tennessee; and then suddenly, in a fit of moody longing for the life of the wilderness, he gave up his governorship, left the state, and crossed the mississippi, going to join his old comrades, the cherokees, in their new home along the waters of the arkansas. here he dressed, lived, fought, hunted, and drank precisely like any indian, becoming one of the chiefs. david crockett was born soon after the revolutionary war. he, too, had taken part under jackson in the campaigns against the creeks, and had afterward become a man of mark in tennessee, and gone to congress as a whig; but he had quarreled with jackson, and been beaten for congress, and in his disgust he left the state and decided to join the texans. he was the most famous rifle-shot in all the united states, and the most successful hunter, so that his skill was a proverb all along the border. david crockett journeyed south, by boat and horse, making his way steadily toward the distant plains where the texans were waging their life-and-death fight. texas was a wild place in those days, and the old hunter had more than one hairbreadth escape from indians, desperadoes, and savage beasts, ere he got to the neighborhood of san antonio, and joined another adventurer, a bee-hunter, bent on the same errand as himself. the two had been in ignorance of exactly what the situation in texas was; but they soon found that the mexican army was marching toward san antonio, whither they were going. near the town was an old spanish fort, the alamo, in which the hundred and fifty american defenders of the place had gathered. santa anna had four thousand troops with him. the alamo was a mere shell, utterly unable to withstand either a bombardment or a regular assault. it was evident, therefore, that those within it would be in the utmost jeopardy if the place were seriously assaulted, but old crockett and his companion never wavered. they were fearless and resolute, and masters of woodcraft, and they managed to slip through the mexican lines and join the defenders within the walls. the bravest, the hardiest, the most reckless men of the border were there; among them were colonel travis, the commander of the fort, and bowie, the inventor of the famous bowie-knife. they were a wild and ill-disciplined band, little used to restraint or control, but they were men of iron courage and great bodily powers, skilled in the use of their weapons, and ready to meet with stern and uncomplaining indifference whatever doom fate might have in store for them. soon santa anna approached with his army, took possession of the town, and besieged the fort. the defenders knew there was scarcely a chance of rescue, and that it was hopeless to expect that one hundred and fifty men, behind defenses so weak, could beat off four thousand trained soldiers, well armed and provided with heavy artillery; but they had no idea of flinching, and made a desperate defense. the days went by, and no help came, while santa anna got ready his lines, and began a furious cannonade. his gunners were unskilled, however, and he had to serve the guns from a distance; for when they were pushed nearer, the american riflemen crept forward under cover, and picked off the artillerymen. old crockett thus killed five men at one gun. but, by degrees, the bombardment told. the walls of the alamo were battered and riddled; and when they had been breached so as to afford no obstacle to the rush of his soldiers, santa anna commanded that they be stormed. the storm took place on march 6, 1836. the mexican troops came on well and steadily, breaking through the outer defenses at every point, for the lines were too long to be manned by the few americans. the frontiersmen then retreated to the inner building, and a desperate hand-to-hand conflict followed, the mexicans thronging in, shooting the americans with their muskets, and thrusting at them with lance and bayonet, while the americans, after firing their long rifles, clubbed them, and fought desperately, one against many; and they also used their bowie-knives and revolvers with deadly effect. the fight reeled to and fro between the shattered walls, each american the center of a group of foes; but, for all their strength and their wild fighting courage, the defenders were too few, and the struggle could have but one end. one by one the tall riflemen succumbed, after repeated thrusts with bayonet and lance, until but three or four were left. colonel travis, the commander, was among them; and so was bowie, who was sick and weak from a wasting disease, but who rallied all his strength to die fighting, and who, in the final struggle, slew several mexicans with his revolver, and with his big knife of the kind to which he had given his name. then these fell too, and the last man stood at bay. it was old davy crockett. wounded in a dozen places, he faced his foes with his back to the wall, ringed around by the bodies of the men he had slain. so desperate was the fight he waged, that the mexicans who thronged round about him were beaten back for the moment, and no one dared to run in upon him. accordingly, while the lancers held him where he was, for, weakened by wounds and loss of blood, he could not break through them, the musketeers loaded their carbines and shot him down. santa anna declined to give him mercy. some say that when crockett fell from his wounds, he was taken alive, and was then shot by santa anna's order; but his fate cannot be told with certainty, for not a single american was left alive. at any rate, after crockett fell the fight was over. every one of the hardy men who had held the alamo lay still in death. yet they died well avenged, for four times their number fell at their hands in the battle. santa anna had but a short while in which to exult over his bloody and hard-won victory. already a rider from the rolling texas plains, going north through the indian territory, had told houston that the texans were up and were striving for their liberty. at once in houston's mind there kindled a longing to return to the men of his race at the time of their need. mounting his horse, he rode south by night and day, and was hailed by the texans as a heaven-sent leader. he took command of their forces, eleven hundred stark riflemen, and at the battle of san jacinto, he and his men charged the mexican hosts with the cry of "remember the alamo." almost immediately, the mexicans were overthrown with terrible slaughter; santa anna himself was captured, and the freedom of texas was won at a blow. hampton roads then far away to the south uprose a little feather of snow-white smoke, and we knew that the iron ship of our foes was steadily steering its course to try the force of our ribs of oak. down upon us heavily runs, silent and sullen, the floating fort; then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, and leaps the terrible death, with fiery breath, from her open port. * * * ho! brave hearts, that went down in the seas! ye are at peace in the troubled stream; ho! brave land! with hearts like these, thy flag, that is rent in twain, shall be one again, and without a seam! --longfellow the naval battles of the civil war possess an immense importance, because they mark the line of cleavage between naval warfare under the old, and naval warfare under the new, conditions. the ships with which hull and decatur and mcdonough won glory in the war of 1812 were essentially like those with which drake and hawkins and frobisher had harried the spanish armadas two centuries and a half earlier. they were wooden sailing-vessels, carrying many guns mounted in broadside, like those of de ruyter and tromp, of blake and nelson. throughout this period all the great admirals, all the famous single-ship fighters,--whose skill reached its highest expression in our own navy during the war of 1812,--commanded craft built and armed in a substantially similar manner, and fought with the same weapons and under much the same conditions. but in the civil war weapons and methods were introduced which caused a revolution greater even than that which divided the sailing-ship from the galley. the use of steam, the casing of ships in iron armor, and the employment of the torpedo, the ram, and the gun of high power, produced such radically new types that the old ships of the line became at one stroke as antiquated as the galleys of hamilcar or alcibiades. some of these new engines of destruction were invented, and all were for the first time tried in actual combat, during our own civil war. the first occasion on which any of the new methods were thoroughly tested was attended by incidents which made it one of the most striking of naval battles. in chesapeake bay, near hampton roads, the united states had collected a fleet of wooden ships; some of them old-style sailing-vessels, others steamers. the confederates were known to be building a great iron-clad ram, and the wooden vessels were eagerly watching for her appearance when she should come out of gosport harbor. her powers and capacity were utterly unknown. she was made out of the former united states steam-frigate merrimac, cut down so as to make her fore and aft decks nearly flat, and not much above the water, while the guns were mounted in a covered central battery, with sloping flanks. her sides, deck, and battery were coated with iron, and she was armed with formidable rifle-guns, and, most important of all, with a steel ram thrust out under water forward from her bow. she was commanded by a gallant and efficient officer, captain buchanan. it was march 8, 1862, when the ram at last made her appearance within sight of the union fleet. the day was calm and very clear, so that the throngs of spectators on shore could see every feature of the battle. with the great ram came three light gunboats, all of which took part in the action, harassing the vessels which she assailed; but they were not factors of importance in the fight. on the union side the vessels nearest were the sailing-ships cumberland and congress, and the steam-frigate minnesota. the congress and cumberland were anchored not far from each other; the minnesota got aground, and was some distance off. owing to the currents and shoals and the lack of wind, no other vessel was able to get up in time to take a part in the fight. as soon as the ram appeared, out of the harbor, she turned and steamed toward the congress and the cumberland, the black smoke rising from her funnels, and the great ripples running from each side of her iron prow as she drove steadily through the still waters. on board of the congress and cumberland there was eager anticipation, but not a particle of fear. the officers in command, captain smith and lieutenant morris, were two of the most gallant men in a service where gallantry has always been too common to need special comment. the crews were composed of veterans, well trained, self-confident, and proud beyond measure of the flag whose honor they upheld. the guns were run out, and the men stood at quarters, while the officers eagerly conned the approaching ironclad. the congress was the first to open fire; and, as her volleys flew, the men on the cumberland were astounded to see the cannon-shot bound off the sloping sides of the ram as hailstones bound from a windowpane. the ram answered, and her rifle-shells tore the sides of the congress; but for her first victim she aimed at the cumberland, and, firing her bow guns, came straight as an arrow at the little sloop-of-war, which lay broadside to her. it was an absolutely hopeless struggle. the cumberland was a sailing-ship, at anchor, with wooden sides, and a battery of light guns. against the formidable steam ironclad, with her heavy rifles and steel ram, she was as powerless as if she had been a rowboat; and from the moment the men saw the cannon-shot bound from the ram's sides they knew they were doomed. but none of them flinched. once and again they fired their guns full against the approaching ram, and in response received a few shells from the great bow-rifles of the latter. then, forging ahead, the merrimac struck her antagonist with her steel prow, and the sloop-of-war reeled and shuddered, and through the great rent in her side the black water rushed. she foundered in a few minutes; but her crew fought her to the last, cheering as they ran out the guns, and sending shot after shot against the ram as the latter backed off after delivering her blow. the rush of the water soon swamped the lower decks, but the men above continued to serve their guns until the upper deck also was awash, and the vessel had not ten seconds of life left. then, with her flags flying, her men cheering, and her guns firing, the cumberland sank. it was shallow where she settled down, so that her masts remained above the water. the glorious flag for which the brave men aboard her had died flew proudly in the wind all that day, while the fight went on, and throughout the night; and next morning it was still streaming over the beautiful bay, to mark the resting-place of as gallant a vessel as ever sailed or fought on the high seas. after the cumberland sank, the ram turned her attention to the congress. finding it difficult to get to her in the shoal water, she began to knock her to pieces with her great rifle-guns. the unequal fight between the ironclad and the wooden ship lasted for perhaps half an hour. by that time the commander of the congress had been killed, and her decks looked like a slaughterhouse. she was utterly unable to make any impression on her foe, and finally she took fire and blew up. the minnesota was the third victim marked for destruction, and the merrimac began the attack upon her at once; but it was getting very late, and as the water was shoal and she could not get close, the rain finally drew back to her anchorage, to wait until next day before renewing and completing her work of destruction. all that night there was the wildest exultation among the confederates, while the gloom and panic of the union men cannot be described. it was evident that the united states ships-of-war were as helpless as cockle-shells against their iron-clad foe, and there was no question but that she could destroy the whole fleet with ease and with absolute impunity. this meant not only the breaking of the blockade; but the sweeping away at one blow of the north's naval supremacy, which was indispensable to the success of the war for the union. it is small wonder that during that night the wisest and bravest should have almost despaired. but in the hour of the nation's greatest need a champion suddenly appeared, in time to play the last scene in this great drama of sea warfare. the north, too, had been trying its hand at building ironclads. the most successful of them was the little monitor, a flat-decked, low, turreted, ironclad, armed with a couple of heavy guns. she was the first experiment of her kind, and her absolutely flat surface, nearly level with the water, her revolving turret, and her utter unlikeness to any pre-existing naval type, had made her an object of mirth among most practical seamen; but her inventor, ericsson, was not disheartened in the least by the jeers. under the command of a gallant naval officer, captain worden, she was sent south from new york, and though she almost foundered in a gale she managed to weather it, and reached the scene of the battle at hampton roads at the moment when her presence was all-important. early the following morning the merrimac, now under captain jones (for buchanan had been wounded), again steamed forth to take up the work she had so well begun and to destroy the union fleet. she steered straight for the minnesota; but when she was almost there, to her astonishment a strange-looking little craft advanced from the side of the big wooden frigate and boldly barred the merrimac's path. for a moment the confederates could hardly believe their eyes. the monitor was tiny, compared to their ship, for she was not one fifth the size, and her queer appearance made them look at their new foe with contempt; but the first shock of battle did away with this feeling. the merrimac turned on her foe her rifleguns, intending to blow her out of the water, but the shot glanced from the thick iron turret of the monitor. then the monitors guns opened fire, and as the great balls struck the sides of the ram her plates started and her timbers gave. had the monitor been such a vessel as those of her type produced later in the war, the ram would have been sunk then and there; but as it was her shot were not quite heavy enough to pierce the iron walls. around and around the two strange combatants hovered, their guns bellowing without cessation, while the men on the frigates and on shore watched the result with breathless interest. neither the merrimac nor the monitor could dispose of its antagonist. the ram's guns could not damage the turret, and the monitor was able dexterously to avoid the stroke of the formidable prow. on the other hand, the shot of the monitor could not penetrate the merrimac's tough sides. accordingly, fierce though the struggle was, and much though there was that hinged on it, it was not bloody in character. the merrimac could neither destroy nor evade the monitor. she could not sink her when she tried to, and when she abandoned her and turned to attack one of the other wooden vessels, the little turreted ship was thrown across her path, so that the fight had to be renewed. both sides grew thoroughly exhausted, and finally the battle ceased by mutual consent. nothing more could be done. the ram was badly damaged, and there was no help for her save to put back to the port whence she had come. twice afterward she came out, but neither time did she come near enough to the monitor to attack her, and the latter could not move off where she would cease to protect the wooden vessels. the ram was ultimately blown up by the confederates on the advance of the union army. tactically, the fight was a drawn battle--neither ship being able to damage the other, and both ships, being fought to a standstill; but the moral and material effects were wholly in favor of the monitor. her victory was hailed with exultant joy throughout the whole union, and exercised a correspondingly depressing effect in the confederacy; while every naval man throughout the world, who possessed eyes to see, saw that the fight in hampton roads had inaugurated a new era in ocean warfare, and that the monitor and merrimac, which had waged so gallant and so terrible a battle, were the first ships of the new era, and that as such their names would be forever famous. the flag-bearer mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord; he is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; he hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; his truth is marching on. i have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; they have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; i can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; his day is marching on. he has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never beat retreat; he is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; oh! be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! our god is marching on. --julia ward howe. in no war since the close of the great napoleonic struggles has the fighting been so obstinate and bloody as in the civil war. much has been said in song and story of the resolute courage of the guards at inkerman, of the charge of the light brigade, and of the terrible fighting and loss of the german armies at mars la tour and gravelotte. the praise bestowed, upon the british and germans for their valor, and for the loss that proved their valor, was well deserved; but there were over one hundred and twenty regiments, union and confederate, each of which, in some one battle of the civil war, suffered a greater loss than any english regiment at inkerman or at any other battle in the crimea, a greater loss than was suffered by any german regiment at gravelotte or at any other battle of the franco-prussian war. no european regiment in any recent struggle has suffered such losses as at gettysburg befell the 1st minnesota, when 82 per cent. of the officers and men were killed and wounded; or the 141st pennsylvania, which lost 76 per cent.; or the 26th north carolina, which lost 72 per cent.; such as at the second battle of manassas befell the 101st new york, which lost 74 per cent., and the 21st georgia, which lost 76 per cent. at cold harbor the 25th massachusetts lost 70 per cent., and the 10th tennessee at chickamauga 68 per cent.; while at shiloh the 9th illinois lost 63 per cent., and the 6th mississippi 70 per cent.; and at antietam the 1st texas lost 82 percent. the loss of the light brigade in killed and wounded in its famous charge at balaklava was but 37 per cent. these figures show the terrible punishment endured by these regiments, chosen at random from the head of the list which shows the slaughter-roll of the civil war. yet the shattered remnants of each regiment preserved their organization, and many of the severest losses were incurred in the hour of triumph, and not of disaster. thus, the 1st minnesota, at gettysburg, suffered its appalling loss while charging a greatly superior force, which it drove before it; and the little huddle of wounded and unwounded men who survived their victorious charge actually kept both the flag they had captured and the ground from which they had driven their foes. a number of the continental regiments under washington, greene, and wayne did valiant fighting and endured heavy punishment. several of the regiments raised on the northern frontier in 1814 showed, under brown and scott, that they were able to meet the best troops of britain on equal terms in the open, and even to overmatch them in fair fight with the bayonet. the regiments which, in the mexican war, under the lead of taylor, captured monterey, and beat back santa anna at buena vista, or which, with scott as commander, stormed molino del rey and chapultepec, proved their ability to bear terrible loss, to wrest victory from overwhelming numbers, and to carry by open assault positions of formidable strength held by a veteran army. but in none of these three wars was the fighting so resolute and bloody as in the civil war. countless deeds of heroism were performed by northerner and by southerner, by officer and by private, in every year of the great struggle. the immense majority of these deeds went unrecorded, and were known to few beyond the immediate participants. of those that were noticed it would be impossible even to make a dry catalogue in ten such volumes as this. all that can be done is to choose out two or three acts of heroism, not as exceptions, but as examples of hundreds of others. the times of war are iron times, and bring out all that is best as well as all that is basest in the human heart. in a full recital of the civil war, as of every other great conflict, there would stand out in naked relief feats of wonderful daring and self-devotion, and, mixed among them, deeds of cowardice, of treachery, of barbarous brutality. sadder still, such a recital would show strange contrasts in the careers of individual men, men who at one time acted well and nobly, and at another time ill and basely. the ugly truths must not be blinked, and the lessons they teach should be set forth by every historian, and learned by every statesman and soldier; but, for our good fortune, the lessons best worth learning in the nation's past are lessons of heroism. from immemorial time the armies of every warlike people have set the highest value upon the standards they bore to battle. to guard one's own flag against capture is the pride, to capture the flag of one's enemy the ambition, of every valiant soldier. in consequence, in every war between peoples of good military record, feats of daring performed by color-bearers are honorably common. the civil war was full of such incidents. out of very many two or three may be mentioned as noteworthy. one occurred at fredericksburg on the day when half the brigades of meagher and caldwell lay on the bloody slope leading up to the confederate entrenchments. among the assaulting regiments was the 5th new hampshire, and it lost one hundred and eighty-six out of three hundred men who made the charge. the survivors fell sullenly back behind a fence, within easy range of the confederate rifle-pits. just before reaching it the last of the color guard was shot, and the flag fell in the open. a captain perry instantly ran out to rescue it, and as he reached it was shot through the heart; another, captain murray, made the same attempt and was also killed; and so was a third, moore. several private soldiers met a like fate. they were all killed close to the flag, and their dead bodies fell across one another. taking advantage of this breastwork, lieutenant nettleton crawled from behind the fence to the colors, seized them, and bore back the blood-won trophy. another took place at gaines' mill, where gregg's 1st south carolina formed part of the attacking force. the resistance was desperate, and the fury of the assault unsurpassed. at one point it fell to the lot of this regiment to bear the brunt of carrying a certain strong position. moving forward at a run, the south carolinians were swept by a fierce and searching fire. young james taylor, a lad of sixteen, was carrying the flag, and was killed after being shot down three times, twice rising and struggling onward with the colors. the third time he fell the flag was seized by george cotchet, and when he, in turn, fell, by shubrick hayne. hayne was also struck down almost immediately, and the fourth lad, for none of them were over twenty years old, grasped the colors, and fell mortally wounded across the body of his friend. the fifth, gadsden holmes, was pierced with no less than seven balls. the sixth man, dominick spellman, more fortunate, but not less brave, bore the flag throughout the rest of the battle. yet another occurred at antietam. the 7th maine, then under the command of major t. w. hyde, was one of the hundreds of regiments that on many hard-fought fields established a reputation for dash and unyielding endurance. toward the early part of the day at antietam it merely took its share in the charging and long-range firing, together with the new york and vermont regiments which were its immediate neighbors in the line. the fighting was very heavy. in one of the charges, the maine men passed over what had been a confederate regiment. the gray-clad soldiers were lying, both ranks, privates and officers, as they fell, for so many had been killed or disabled that it seemed as if the whole regiment was prone in death. much of the time the maine men lay on the battle-field, hugging the ground, under a heavy artillery fire, but beyond the reach of ordinary musketry. one of the privates, named knox, was a wonderful shot, and had received permission to use his own special rifle, a weapon accurately sighted for very long range. while the regiment thus lay under the storm of shot and shell, he asked leave to go to the front; and for an hour afterward his companions heard his rifle crack every few minutes. major hyde finally, from curiosity, crept forward to see what he was doing, and found that he had driven every man away from one section of a confederate battery, tumbling over gunner after gunner as they came forward to fire. one of his victims was a general officer, whose horse he killed. at the end of an hour or so, a piece of shell took off the breech of his pet rifle, and he returned disconsolate; but after a few minutes he gathered three rifles that were left by wounded men, and went back again to his work. at five o'clock in the afternoon the regiment was suddenly called upon to undertake a hopeless charge, owing to the blunder of the brigade commander, who was a gallant veteran of the mexican war, but who was also given to drink. opposite the union lines at this point were some haystacks, near a group of farm buildings. they were right in the center of the confederate position, and sharpshooters stationed among them were picking off the union gunners. the brigadier, thinking that they were held by but a few skirmishers, rode to where the 7th maine was lying on the ground, and said: "major hyde, take your regiment and drive the enemy from those trees and buildings." hyde saluted, and said that he had seen a large force of rebels go in among the buildings, probably two brigades in all. the brigadier answered, "are you afraid to go, sir?" and repeated the order emphatically. "give the order, so the regiment can hear it, and we are ready, sir," said hyde. this was done, and "attention" brought every man to his feet. with the regiment were two young boys who carried the marking guidons, and hyde ordered these to the rear. they pretended to go, but as soon as the regiment charged came along with it. one of them lost his arm, and the other was killed on the field. the colors were carried by the color corporal, harry campbell. hyde gave the orders to left face and forward and the maine men marched out in front of a vermont regiment which lay beside them; then, facing to the front, they crossed a sunken road, which was so filled with dead and wounded confederates that hyde's horse had to step on them to get over. once across, they stopped for a moment in the trampled corn to straighten the line, and then charged toward the right of the barns. on they went at the double-quick, fifteen skirmishers ahead under lieutenant butler, major hyde on the right on his virginia thoroughbred, and adjutant haskell to the left on a big white horse. the latter was shot down at once, as was his horse, and hyde rode round in front of the regiment just in time to see a long line of men in gray rise from behind the stone wall of the hagerstown pike, which was to their right, and pour in a volley; but it mostly went too high. he then ordered his men to left oblique. just as they were abreast a hill to the right of the barns, hyde, being some twenty feet ahead, looked over its top and saw several regiments of confederates, jammed close together and waiting at the ready; so he gave the order left flank, and, still at the double quick, took his column past the barns and buildings toward an orchard on the hither side, hoping that he could get them back before they were cut off, for they were faced by ten times their number. by going through the orchard he expected to be able to take advantage of a hollow, and partially escape the destructive flank fire on his return. to hope to keep the barns from which they had driven the sharpshooters was vain, for the single maine regiment found itself opposed to portions of no less than four confederate brigades, at least a dozen regiments all told. when the men got to the orchard fence, sergeant benson wrenched apart the tall pickets to let through hyde's horse. while he was doing this, a shot struck his haversack, and the men all laughed at the sight of the flying hardtack. going into the orchard there was a rise of ground, and the confederates fired several volleys at the maine men, and then charged them. hyde's horse was twice wounded, but was still able to go on. no sooner were the men in blue beyond the fence than they got into line and met the confederates, as they came crowding behind, with a slaughtering fire, and then charged, driving them back. the color corporal was still carrying the colors, though one of his arms had been broken; but when half way through the orchard, hyde heard him call out as he fell, and turned back to save the colors, if possible. the apple-trees were short and thick, and he could not see much, and the confederates speedily got between him and his men. immediately, with the cry of "rally, boys, to save the major," back surged the regiment, and a volley at arm's length again destroyed all the foremost of their pursuers; so they rescued both their commander and the flag, which was carried off by corporal ring. hyde then formed the regiment on the colors, sixty-eight men all told, out of two hundred and forty who had begun the charge, and they slowly marched back toward their place in the union line, while the new yorkers and vermonters rose from the ground cheering and waving their hats. next day, when the confederates had retired a little from the field, the color corporal, campbell, was found in the orchard, dead, propped up against a tree, with his half-smoked pipe beside him. the death of stonewall jackson like a servant of the lord, with his bible and his sword, our general rode along us, to form us for the fight. --macaulay. the civil war has left, as all wars of brother against brother must leave, terrible and heartrending memories; but there remains as an offset the glory which has accrued to the nation by the countless deeds of heroism performed by both sides in the struggle. the captains and the armies that, after long years of dreary campaigning and bloody, stubborn fighting, brought the war to a close, have left us more than a reunited realm. north and south, all americans, now have a common fund of glorious memories. we are the richer for each grim campaign, for each hard-fought battle. we are the richer for valor displayed alike by those who fought so valiantly for the right, and by those who, no less valiantly, fought for what they deemed the right. we have in us nobler capacities for what is great and good because of the infinite woe and suffering, and because of the splendid ultimate triumph. we hold that it was vital to the welfare, not only of our people on this continent, but of the whole human race, that the union should be preserved and slavery abolished; that one flag should fly from the great lakes to the rio grande; that we should all be free in fact as well as in name, and that the united states should stand as one nation--the greatest nation on the earth. but we recognize gladly that, south as well as north, when the fight was once on, the leaders of the armies, and the soldiers whom they led, displayed the same qualities of daring and steadfast courage, of disinterested loyalty and enthusiasm, and of high devotion to an ideal. the greatest general of the south was lee, and his greatest lieutenant was jackson. both were virginians, and both were strongly opposed to disunion. lee went so far as to deny the right of secession, while jackson insisted that the south ought to try to get its rights inside the union, and not outside. but when virginia joined the southern confederacy, and the war had actually begun, both men cast their lot with the south. it is often said that the civil war was in one sense a repetition of the old struggle between the puritan and the cavalier; but puritan and cavalier types were common to the two armies. in dash and light-hearted daring, custer and kearney stood as conspicuous as stuart and morgan; and, on the other hand, no northern general approached the roundhead type--the type of the stern, religious warriors who fought under cromwell--so closely as stonewall jackson. he was a man of intense religious conviction, who carried into every thought and deed of his daily life the precepts of the faith he cherished. he was a tender and loving husband and father, kindhearted and gentle to all with whom he was brought in contact; yet in the times that tried men's souls, he proved not only a commander of genius, but a fighter of iron will and temper, who joyed in the battle, and always showed at his best when the danger was greatest. the vein of fanaticism that ran through his character helped to render him a terrible opponent. he knew no such word as falter, and when he had once put his hand to a piece of work, he did it thoroughly and with all his heart. it was quite in keeping with his character that this gentle, high-minded, and religious man should, early in the contest, have proposed to hoist the black flag, neither take nor give quarter, and make the war one of extermination. no such policy was practical in the nineteenth century and in the american republic; but it would have seemed quite natural and proper to jackson's ancestors, the grim scotch-irish, who defended londonderry against the forces of the stuart king, or to their forefathers, the covenanters of scotland, and the puritans who in england rejoiced at the beheading of king charles i. in the first battle in which jackson took part, the confused struggle at bull run, he gained his name of stonewall from the firmness with which he kept his men to their work and repulsed the attack of the union troops. from that time until his death, less than two years afterward, his career was one of brilliant and almost uninterrupted success; whether serving with an independent command in the valley, or acting under lee as his right arm in the pitched battles with mcclellan, pope, and burnside. few generals as great as lee have ever had as great a lieutenant as jackson. he was a master of strategy and tactics, fearless of responsibility, able to instil into his men his own intense ardor in battle, and so quick in his movements, so ready to march as well as fight, that his troops were known to the rest of the army as the "foot cavalry." in the spring of 1863 hooker had command of the army of the potomac. like mcclellan, he was able to perfect the discipline of his forces and to organize them, and as a division commander he was better than mcclellan, but he failed even more signally when given a great independent command. he had under him 120,000 men when, toward the end of april, he prepared to attack lee's army, which was but half as strong. the union army lay opposite fredericksburg, looking at the fortified heights where they had received so bloody a repulse at the beginning of the winter. hooker decided to distract the attention of the confederates by letting a small portion of his force, under general sedgwick, attack fredericksburg, while he himself took the bulk of the army across the river to the right hand so as to crush lee by an assault on his flank. all went well at the beginning, and on the first of may hooker found himself at chancellorsville, face-to-face with the bulk of lee's forces; and sedgwick, crossing the river and charging with the utmost determination, had driven out of fredericksburg the confederate division of early; but when hooker found himself in front of lee he hesitated, faltered instead of pushing on, and allowed the consummate general to whom he was opposed to take the initiative. lee fully realized his danger, and saw that his only chance was, first to beat back hooker, and then to turn and overwhelm sedgwick, who was in his rear. he consulted with jackson, and jackson begged to be allowed to make one of his favorite flank attacks upon the union army; attacks which could have been successfully delivered only by a skilled and resolute general, and by troops equally able to march and to fight. lee consented, and jackson at once made off. the country was thickly covered with a forest of rather small growth, for it was a wild region, in which there was still plenty of game. shielded by the forest, jackson marched his gray columns rapidly to the left along the narrow country roads until he was square on the flank of the union right wing, which was held by the eleventh corps, under howard. the union scouts got track of the movement and reported it at headquarters, but the union generals thought the confederates were retreating; and when finally the scouts brought word to howard that he was menaced by a flank attack he paid no heed to the information, and actually let his whole corps be surprised in broad daylight. yet all the while the battle was going on elsewhere, and berdan's sharpshooters had surrounded and captured a georgia regiment, from which information was received showing definitely that jackson was not retreating, and must be preparing to strike a heavy blow. the eleventh corps had not the slightest idea that it was about to be assailed. the men were not even in line. many of them had stacked their muskets and were lounging about, some playing cards, others cooking supper, intermingled with the pack-mules and beef cattle. while they were thus utterly unprepared jackson's gray-clad veterans pushed straight through the forest and rushed fiercely to the attack. the first notice the troops of the eleventh corps received did not come from the pickets, but from the deer, rabbits and foxes which, fleeing from their coverts at the approach of the confederates, suddenly came running over and into the union lines. in another minute the frightened pickets came tumbling back, and right behind them came the long files of charging, yelling confederates; with one fierce rush jackson's men swept over the union lines, and at a blow the eleventh corps became a horde of panicstruck fugitives. some of the regiments resisted for a few moments, and then they too were carried away in the flight. for a while it seemed as if the whole army would be swept off; but hooker and his subordinates exerted every effort to restore order. it was imperative to gain time so that the untouched portions of the army could form across the line of the confederate advance. keenan's regiment of pennsylvania cavalry, but four hundred sabers strong, was accordingly sent full against the front of the ten thousand victorious confederates. keenan himself fell, pierced by bayonets, and the charge was repulsed at once; but a few priceless moments had been saved, and pleasanton had been given time to post twenty-two guns, loaded with double canister, where they would bear upon the enemy. the confederates advanced in a dense mass, yelling and cheering, and the discharge of the guns fairly blew them back across the work's they had just taken. again they charged, and again were driven back; and when the battle once more began the union reinforcements had arrived. it was about this time that jackson himself was mortally wounded. he had been leading and urging on the advance of his men, cheering them with voice and gesture, his pale face flushed with joy and excitement, while from time to time as he sat on his horse he took off his hat and, looking upward, thanked heaven for the victory it had vouchsafed him. as darkness drew near he was in the front, where friend and foe were mingled in almost inextricable confusion. he and his staff were fired at, at close range, by the union troops, and, as they turned, were fired at again, through a mistake, by the confederates behind them. jackson fell, struck in several places. he was put in a litter and carried back; but he never lost consciousness, and when one of his generals complained of the terrible effect of the union cannonade he answered: "you must hold your ground." for several days he lingered, hearing how lee beat hooker, in detail, and forced him back across the river. then the old puritan died. at the end his mind wandered, and he thought he was again commanding in battle, and his last words were. "let us cross over the river and rest in the shade." thus perished stonewall jackson, one of the ablest of soldiers and one of the most upright of men, in the last of his many triumphs. the charge at gettysburg for the lord on the whirlwind is abroad; in the earthquake he has spoken; he has smitten with his thunder the iron walls asunder, and the gates of brass are broken! --whittier with bray of the trumpet, and roll of the drum, and keen ring of bugle the cavalry come: sharp clank the steel scabbards, the bridle-chains ring, and foam from red nostrils the wild chargers fling! tramp, tramp o'er the greensward that quivers below, scarce held by the curb bit the fierce horses go! and the grim-visaged colonel, with ear-rending shout, peals forth to the squadrons the order, "trot out"! --francis a. durivage. the battle of chancellorsville marked the zenith of confederate good fortune. immediately afterward, in june, 1863, lee led the victorious army of northern virginia into pennsylvania. the south was now the invader, not the invaded, and its heart beat proudly with hopes of success; but these hopes went down in bloody wreck on july 4, when word was sent to the world that the high valor of virginia had failed at last on the field of gettysburg, and that in the far west vicksburg had been taken by the army of the "silent soldier." at gettysburg lee had under him some seventy thousand men, and his opponent, meade, about ninety thousand. both armies were composed mainly of seasoned veterans, trained to the highest point by campaign after campaign and battle after battle; and there was nothing to choose between them as to the fighting power of the rank and file. the union army was the larger, yet most of the time it stood on the defensive; for the difference between the generals, lee and meade, was greater than could be bridged by twenty thousand men. for three days the battle raged. no other battle of recent time has been so obstinate and so bloody. the victorious union army lost a greater percentage in killed and wounded than the allied armies of england, germany, and the netherlands lost at waterloo. four of its seven corps suffered each a greater relative loss than befell the world-renowned british infantry on the day that saw the doom of the french emperor. the defeated confederates at gettysburg lost, relatively, as many men as the defeated french at waterloo; but whereas the french army became a mere rabble, lee withdrew his formidable soldiery with their courage unbroken, and their fighting power only diminished by their actual losses in the field. the decisive moment of the battle, and perhaps of the whole war, was in the afternoon of the third day, when lee sent forward his choicest troops in a last effort to break the middle of the union line. the center of the attacking force was pickett's division, the flower of the virginia infantry; but many other brigades took part in the assault, and the column, all told, numbered over fifteen thousand men. at the same time, the confederates attacked the union left to create a diversion. the attack was preceded by a terrific cannonade, lee gathering one hundred and fifteen guns, and opening a fire on the center of the union line. in response, hunt, the union chief of artillery, and tyler, of the artillery reserves, gathered eighty guns on the crest of the gently sloping hill, where attack was threatened. for two hours, from one till three, the cannonade lasted, and the batteries on both sides suffered severely. in both the union and confederate lines caissons were blown up by the fire, riderless horses dashed hither and thither, the dead lay in heaps, and throngs of wounded streamed to the rear. every man lay down and sought what cover he could. it was evident that the confederate cannonade was but a prelude to a great infantry attack, and at three o'clock hunt ordered the fire to stop, that the guns might cool, to be ready for the coming assault. the confederates thought that they had silenced the hostile artillery, and for a few minutes their firing continued; then, suddenly, it ceased, and there was a lull. the men on the union side who were not at the point directly menaced peered anxiously across the space between the lines to watch the next move, while the men in the divisions which it was certain were about to be assaulted, lay hugging the ground and gripping their muskets, excited, but confident and resolute. they saw the smoke clouds rise slowly from the opposite crest, where the confederate army lay, and the sunlight glinted again on the long line of brass and iron guns which had been hidden from view during the cannonade. in another moment, out of the lifting smoke there appeared, beautiful and terrible, the picked thousands of the southern army coming on to the assault. they advanced in three lines, each over a mile long, and in perfect order. pickett's virginians held the center, with on their left the north carolinians of pender and pettigrew, and on their right the alabama regiments of wilcox; and there were also georgian and tennessee regiments in the attacking force. pickett's division, however, was the only one able to press its charge home. after leaving the woods where they started, the confederates had nearly a mile and a half to go in their charge. as the virginians moved, they bent slightly to the left, so as to leave a gap between them and the alabamians on the right. the confederate lines came on magnificently. as they crossed the emmetsburg pike the eighty guns on the union crest, now cool and in good shape, opened upon them, first with shot and then with shell. great gaps were made every second in the ranks, but the gray-clad soldiers closed up to the center, and the color-bearers leaped to the front, shaking and waving the flags. the union infantry reserved their fire until the confederates were within easy range, when the musketry crashed out with a roar, and the big guns began to fire grape and canister. on came the confederates, the men falling by hundreds, the colors fluttering in front like a little forest; for as fast as a color-bearer was shot some one else seized the flag from his hand before it fell. the north carolinians were more exposed to the fire than any other portion of the attacking force, and they were broken before they reached the line. there was a gap between the virginians and the alabama troops, and this was taken advantage of by stannard's vermont brigade and a demi-brigade under gates, of the 20th new york, who were thrust forward into it. stannard changed front with his regiments and fell on pickett's forces in flank, and gates continued the attack. when thus struck in the flank, the virginians could not defend themselves, and they crowded off toward the center to avoid the pressure. many of them were killed or captured; many were driven back; but two of the brigades, headed by general armistead, forced their way forward to the stone wall on the crest, where the pennsylvania regiments were posted under gibbon and webb. the union guns fired to the last moment, until of the two batteries immediately in front of the charging virginians every officer but one had been struck. one of the mortally wounded officers was young cushing, a brother of the hero of the albemarle fight. he was almost cut in two, but holding his body together with one hand, with the other he fired his last gun, and fell dead, just as armistead, pressing forward at the head of his men, leaped the wall, waving his hat on his sword. immediately afterward the battle-flags of the foremost confederate regiments crowned the crest; but their strength was spent. the union troops moved forward with the bayonet, and the remnant of pickett's division, attacked on all sides, either surrendered or retreated down the hill again. armistead fell, dying, by the body of the dead cushing. both gibbon and webb were wounded. of pickett's command two thirds were killed, wounded or captured, and every brigade commander and every field officer, save one, fell. the virginians tried to rally, but were broken and driven again by gates, while stannard repeated, at the expense of the alabamians, the movement he had made against the virginians, and, reversing his front, attacked them in flank. their lines were torn by the batteries in front, and they fell back before the vermonter's attack, and stannard reaped a rich harvest of prisoners and of battle-flags. the charge was over. it was the greatest charge in any battle of modern times, and it had failed. it would be impossible to surpass the gallantry of those that made it, or the gallantry of those that withstood it. had there been in command of the union army a general like grant, it would have been followed by a counter-charge, and in all probability the war would have been shortened by nearly two years; but no countercharge was made. as the afternoon waned, a fierce cavalry fight took place on the union right. stuart, the famous confederate cavalry commander, had moved forward to turn the union right, but he was met by gregg's cavalry, and there followed a contest, at close quarters, with "the white arm." it closed with a desperate melee, in which the confederates, charged under generals wade hampton and fitz lee, were met in mid career by the union generals custer and mcintosh. all four fought, saber in hand, at the head of their troopers, and every man on each side was put into the struggle. custer, his yellow hair flowing, his face aflame with the eager joy of battle, was in the thick of the fight, rising in his stirrups as he called to his famous michigan swordsmen: "come on, you wolverines, come on!" all that the union infantry, watching eagerly from their lines, could see, was a vast dust-cloud where flakes of light shimmered as the sun shone upon the swinging sabers. at last the confederate horsemen were beaten back, and they did not come forward again or seek to renew the combat; for pickett's charge had failed, and there was no longer hope of confederate victory. when night fell, the union flags waved in triumph on the field of gettysburg; but over thirty thousand men lay dead or wounded, strewn through wood and meadow, on field and hill, where the three days' fight had surged. general grant and the vicksburg campaign what flag is this you carry along the sea and shore? the same our grandsires lifted up- the same our fathers bore. in many a battle's tempest it shed the crimson rain- what god has woven in his loom let no man rend in twain. to canaan, to canaan, the lord has led us forth, to plant upon the rebel towers the banners of the north. --holmes. on january 29, 1863, general grant took command of the army intended to operate against vicksburg, the last place held by the rebels on the mississippi, and the only point at which they could cross the river and keep up communication with their armies and territory in the southwest. it was the first high ground below memphis, was very strongly fortified, and was held by a large army under general pemberton. the complete possession of the mississippi was absolutely essential to the national government, because the control of that great river would cut the confederacy in two, and do more, probably, than anything else, to make the overthrow of the rebellion both speedy and certain. the natural way to invest and capture so strong a place, defended and fortified as vicksburg was, would have been, if the axioms of the art of war had been adhered to, by a system of gradual approaches. a strong base should have been established at memphis, and then the army and the fleet moved gradually forward, building storehouses and taking strong positions as they went. to do this, however, it first would have been necessary to withdraw the army from the positions it then held not far above vicksburg, on the western bank of the river. but such a movement, at that time, would not have been understood by the country, and would have had a discouraging effect on the public mind, which it was most essential to avoid. the elections of 1862 had gone against the government, and there was great discouragement throughout the north. voluntary enlistments had fallen off, a draft had been ordered, and the peace party was apparently gaining rapidly in strength. general grant, looking at this grave political situation with the eye of a statesman, decided, as a soldier, that under no circumstances would he withdraw the army, but that, whatever happened, he would "press forward to a decisive victory." in this determination he never faltered, but drove straight at his object until, five months later, the great mississippi stronghold fell before him. efforts were made through the winter to reach vicksburg from the north by cutting canals, and by attempts to get in through the bayous and tributary streams of the great river. all these expedients failed, however, one after another, as grant, from the beginning, had feared that they would. he, therefore, took another and widely different line, and determined to cross the river from the western to the eastern bank below vicksburg, to the south. with the aid of the fleet, which ran the batteries successfully, he moved his army down the west bank until he reached a point beyond the possibility of attack, while a diversion by sherman at haines' bluff, above vicksburg, kept pemberton in his fortifications. on april 26, grant began to move his men over the river and landed them at bruinsburg. "when this was effected," he writes, "i felt a degree of relief scarcely ever equaled since. vicksburg was not yet taken, it is true, nor were its defenders demoralized by any of our previous movements. i was now in the enemy's country, with a vast river and the stronghold of vicksburg between me and my base of supplies, but i was on dry ground, on the same side of the river with the enemy." the situation was this: the enemy had about sixty thousand men at vicksburg, haines' bluff, and at jackson, mississippi, about fifty miles east of vicksburg. grant, when he started, had about thirty-three thousand men. it was absolutely necessary for success that grant, with inferior numbers, should succeed in destroying the smaller forces to the eastward, and thus prevent their union with pemberton and the main army at vicksburg. his plan, in brief; was to fight and defeat a superior enemy separately and in detail. he lost no time in putting his plan into action, and pressing forward quickly, met a detachment of the enemy at port gibson and defeated them. thence he marched to grand gulf, on the mississippi, which he took, and which he had planned to make a base of supply. when he reached grand gulf, however, he found that he would be obliged to wait a month, in order to obtain the reinforcements which he expected from general banks at port hudson. he, therefore, gave up the idea of making grand gulf a base, and sherman having now joined him with his corps, grant struck at once into the interior. he took nothing with him except ammunition, and his army was in the lightest marching order. this enabled him to move with great rapidity, but deprived him of his wagon trains, and of all munitions of war except cartridges. everything, however, in this campaign, depended on quickness, and grant's decision, as well as all his movements, marked the genius of the great soldier, which consists very largely in knowing just when to abandon the accepted military axioms. pressing forward, grant met the enemy, numbering between seven and eight thousand, at raymond, and readily defeated them. he then marched on toward jackson, fighting another action at clinton, and at jackson he struck general joseph johnston, who had arrived at that point to take command of all the rebel forces. johnston had with him, at the moment, about eleven thousand men, and stood his ground. there was a sharp fight, but grant easily defeated the enemy, and took possession of the town. this was an important point, for jackson was the capital of the state of mississippi, and was a base of military supplies. grant destroyed the factories and the munitions of war which were gathered there, and also came into possession of the line of railroad which ran from jackson to vicksburg. while he was thus engaged, an intercepted message revealed to him the fact that pemberton, in accordance with johnston's orders, had come out of vicksburg with twenty-five thousand men, and was moving eastward against him. pemberton, however, instead of holding a straight line against grant, turned at first to the south, with the view of breaking the latter's line of communication. this was not a success, for, as grant says, with grim humor, "i had no line of communication to break"; and, moreover, it delayed pemberton when delay was of value to grant in finishing johnston. after this useless turn to the southward pemberton resumed his march to the east, as he should have done in the beginning, in accordance with johnston's orders; but grant was now more than ready. he did not wait the coming of pemberton. leaving jackson as soon as he heard of the enemy's advance from vicksburg, he marched rapidly westward and struck pemberton at champion hills. the forces were at this time very nearly matched, and the severest battle of the campaign ensued, lasting four hours. grant, however, defeated pemberton completely, and came very near capturing his entire force. with a broken army, pemberton fell back on vicksburg. grant pursued without a moment's delay, and came up with the rear guard at big black river. a sharp engagement followed, and the confederates were again defeated. grant then crossed the big black and the next day was before vicksburg, with his enemy inside the works. when grant crossed the mississippi at bruinsburg and struck into the interior, he, of course, passed out of communication with washington, and he did not hear from there again until may 11, when, just as his troops were engaging in the battle of black river bridge, an officer appeared from port hudson with an order from general halleck to return to grand gulf and thence cooperate with banks against port hudson. grant replied that the order came too late. "the bearer of the despatch insisted that i ought to obey the order, and was giving arguments to support the position, when i heard a great cheering to the right of our line, and looking in that direction, saw lawler, in his shirt-sleeves, leading a charge on the enemy. i immediately mounted my horse and rode in the direction of the charge, and saw no more of the officer who had delivered the message; i think not even to this day." when grant reached vicksburg, there was no further talk of recalling him to grand gulf or port hudson. the authorities at washington then saw plainly enough what had been done in the interior of mississippi, far from the reach of telegraphs or mail. as soon as the national troops reached vicksburg an assault was attempted, but the place was too strong, and the attack was repulsed, with heavy loss. grant then settled down to a siege, and lincoln and halleck now sent him ample reinforcements. he no longer needed to ask for them. his campaign had explained itself, and in a short time he had seventy thousand men under his command. his lines were soon made so strong that it was impossible for the defenders of vicksburg to break through them, and although johnston had gathered troops again to the eastward, an assault from that quarter on the national army, now so largely reinforced, was practically out of the question. tighter and tighter grant drew his lines about the city, where, every day, the suffering became more intense. it is not necessary to give the details of the siege. on july 4, 1863, vicksburg surrendered, the mississippi was in control of the national forces from its source to its mouth, and the confederacy was rent in twain. on the same day lee was beaten at gettysburg, and these two great victories really crushed the rebellion, although much hard fighting remained to be done before the end was reached. grant's campaign against vicksburg deserves to be compared with that of napoleon which resulted in the fall of ulm. it was the most brilliant single campaign of the war. with an inferior force, and abandoning his lines of communication, moving with a marvelous rapidity through a difficult country, grant struck the superior forces of the enemy on the line from jackson to vicksburg. he crushed johnston before pemberton could get to him, and he flung pemberton back into vicksburg before johnston could rally from the defeat which had been inflicted. with an inferior force, grant was superior at every point of contest, and he won every fight. measured by the skill displayed and the result achieved, there is no campaign in our history which better deserves study and admiration. robert gould shaw brave, good, and true, i see him stand before me now, and read again on that young brow, where every hope was new, how sweet were life! yet, by the mouth firm-set, and look made up for duty's utmost debt, i could divine he knew that death within the sulphurous hostile lines, in the mere wreck of nobly-pitched designs, plucks hearts-ease, and not rue. right in the van, on the red ramparts slippery swell, with heart that beat a charge, he fell, foeward, as fits a man; but the high soul burns on to light men's feet where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; his life her crescent's span orbs full with share in their undarkening days who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise since valor's praise began. we bide our chance, unhappy, and make terms with fate a little more to let us wait; he leads for aye the advance, hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good for nobler earths and days of manlier mood; our wall of circumstance cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight, a saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right and steel each wavering glance. i write of one, while with dim eyes i think of three; who weeps not others fair and brave as he? ah, when the fight is won, dear land, whom triflers now make bold to scorn (thee from whose forehead earth awaits her morn), how nobler shall the sun flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air, that thou bred'st children who for thee could dare and die as thine have done. --lowell. robert gould shaw was born in boston on october 10, 1837, the son of francis and sarah sturgis shaw. when he was about nine years old, his parents moved to staten island, and he was educated there, and at school in the neighborhood of new york, until he went to europe in 1853, where he remained traveling and studying for the next three years. he entered harvard college in 1856, and left at the end of his third year, in order to accept an advantageous business offer in new york. even as a boy he took much interest in politics, and especially in the question of slavery. he voted for lincoln in 1860, and at that time enlisted as a private in the new york 7th regiment, feeling that there was likelihood of trouble, and that there would be a demand for soldiers to defend the country. his foresight was justified only too soon, and on april 19, 1861, he marched with his regiment to washington. the call for the 7th regiment was only for thirty days, and at the expiration of that service he applied for and obtained a commission as second lieutenant in the 2d massachusetts, and left with that regiment for virginia in july, 1861. he threw himself eagerly into his new duties, and soon gained a good position in the regiment. at cedar mountain he was an aid on general gordon's staff, and was greatly exposed in the performance of his duties during the action. he was also with his regiment at antietam, and was in the midst of the heavy fighting of that great battle. early in 1863, the government determined to form negro regiments, and governor andrew offered shaw, who had now risen to the rank of captain, the colonelcy of one to be raised in massachusetts, the first black regiment recruited under state authority. it was a great compliment to receive this offer, but shaw hesitated as to his capacity for such a responsible post. he first wrote a letter declining, on the ground that he did not feel that he had ability enough for the undertaking, and then changed his mind, and telegraphed governor andrew that he would accept. it is not easy to realize it now, but his action then in accepting this command required high moral courage, of a kind quite different from that which he had displayed already on the field of battle. the prejudice against the blacks was still strong even in the north. there was a great deal of feeling among certain classes against enlisting black regiments at all, and the officers who undertook to recruit and lead negroes were. exposed to much attack and criticism. shaw felt, however, that this very opposition made it all the more incumbent on him to undertake the duty. he wrote on february 8: after i have undertaken this work, i shall feel that what i have to do is to prove that the negro can be made a good soldier... . i am inclined to think that the undertaking will not meet with so much opposition as was at first supposed. all sensible men in the army, of all parties, after a little thought, say that it is the best thing that can be done, and surely those at home who are not brave or patriotic enough to enlist should not ridicule or throw obstacles in the way of men who are going to fight for them. there is a great prejudice against it, but now that it has become a government matter, that will probably wear away. at any rate i sha'n't be frightened out of it by its unpopularity. i feel convinced i shall never regret having taken this step, as far as i myself am concerned; for while i was undecided, i felt ashamed of myself as if i were cowardly. colonel shaw went at once to boston, after accepting his new duty, and began the work of raising and drilling the 54th regiment. he met with great success, for he and his officers labored heart and soul, and the regiment repaid their efforts. on march 30, he wrote: "the mustering officer who was here to-day is a virginian, and has always thought it was a great joke to try to make soldiers of 'niggers,' but he tells me now that he has never mustered in so fine a set of men, though about twenty thousand had passed through his hands since september." on may 28, colonel shaw left boston, and his march through the city was a triumph. the appearance of his regiment made a profound impression, and was one of the events of the war which those who saw it never forgot. the regiment was ordered to south carolina, and when they were off cape hatteras, colonel shaw wrote: the more i think of the passage of the 54th through boston, the more wonderful it seems to me just remember our own doubts and fears, and other people's sneering and pitying remarks when we began last winter, and then look at the perfect triumph of last thursday. we have gone quietly along, forming the first regiment, and at last left boston amidst greater enthusiasm than has been seen since the first three months' troops left for the war. truly, i ought to be thankful for all my happiness and my success in life so far; and if the raising of colored troops prove such a benefit to the country and to the blacks as many people think it will, i shall thank god a thousand times that i was led to take my share in it. he had, indeed, taken his share in striking one of the most fatal blows to the barbarism of slavery which had yet been struck. the formation of the black regiments did more for the emancipation of the negro and the recognition of his rights, than almost anything else. it was impossible, after that, to say that men who fought and gave their lives for the union and for their own freedom were not entitled to be free. the acceptance of the command of a black regiment by such men as shaw and his fellow-officers was the great act which made all this possible. after reaching south carolina, colonel shaw was with his regiment at port royal and on the islands of that coast for rather more than a month, and on july 18 he was offered the post of honor in an assault upon fort wagner, which was ordered for that night. he had proved that the negroes could be made into a good regiment, and now the second great opportunity had come, to prove their fighting quality. he wanted to demonstrate that his men could fight side by side with white soldiers, and show to somebody beside their officers what stuff they were made of. he, therefore, accepted the dangerous duty with gladness. late in the day the troops were marched across folly and morris islands and formed in line of battle within six hundred yards of fort wagner. at half-past seven the order for the charge was given, and the regiment advanced. when they were within a hundred yards of the fort, the rebel fire opened with such effect that the first battalion hesitated and wavered. colonel shaw sprang to the front, and waving his sword, shouted: "forward, 54th!" with another cheer, the men rushed through the ditch, and gained a parapet on the right. colonel shaw was one of the first to scale the walls. as he stood erect, a noble figure, ordering his men forward and shouting to them to press on, he was shot dead and fell into the fort. after his fall, the assault was repulsed. general haywood, commanding the rebel forces, said to a union prisoner: "i knew colonel shaw before the war, and then esteemed him. had he been in command of white troops, i should have given him an honorable burial. as it is, i shall bury him in the common trench, with the negroes that fell with him." he little knew that he was giving the dead soldier the most honorable burial that man could have devised, for the savage words told unmistakably that robert shaw's work had not been in vain. the order to bury him with his "niggers," which ran through the north and remained fixed in our history, showed, in a flash of light, the hideous barbarism of a system which made such things and such feelings possible. it also showed that slavery was wounded to the death, and that the brutal phrase was the angry snarl of a dying tiger. such words rank with the action of charles stuart, when he had the bones of oliver cromwell and robert blake torn from their graves and flung on dunghills or fixed on temple bar. robert shaw fell in battle at the head of his men, giving his life to his country, as did many another gallant man during those four years of conflict. but he did something more than this. he faced prejudice and hostility in the north, and confronted the blind and savage rage of the south, in order to demonstrate to the world that the human beings who were held in bondage could vindicate their right to freedom by fighting and dying for it. he helped mightily in the great task of destroying human slavery, and in uplifting an oppressed and down-trodden race. he brought to this work the qualities which were particularly essential for his success. he had all that birth and wealth, breeding, education, and tradition could give. he offered up, in full measure, all those things which make life most worth living. he was handsome and beloved. he had a serene and beautiful nature, and was at once brave and simple. above all things, he was fitted for the task which he performed and for the sacrifice which he made. the call of the country and of the time came to him, and he was ready. he has been singled out for remembrance from among many others of equal sacrifice, and a monument is rising to his memory in boston, because it was his peculiar fortune to live and die for a great principle of humanity, and to stand forth as an ideal and beautiful figure in a struggle where the onward march of civilization was at stake. he lived in those few and crowded years a heroic life, and he met a heroic death. when he fell, sword in hand, on the parapet of wagner, leading his black troops in a desperate assault, we can only say of him as bunyan said of "valiant for truth": "and then he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side." charles russell lowell wut's wurds to them whose faith an' truth on war's red techstone rang true metal, who ventered life an' love an, youth for the gret prize o' death in battle? to him who, deadly hurt, agen flashed on afore the charge's thunder, tippin' with fire the bolt of men thet rived the rebel line asunder? --lowell. charles russell lowell was born in boston, january 2, 1835. he was the eldest son of charles russell and anna cabot (jackson) lowell, and the nephew of james russell lowell. he bore the name, distinguished in many branches, of a family which was of the best new england stock. educated in the boston public schools, he entered harvard college in 1850. although one of the youngest members of his class, he went rapidly to the front, and graduated not only the first scholar of his year, but the foremost man of his class. he was, however, much more than a fine scholar, for even then he showed unusual intellectual qualities. he read widely and loved letters. he was a student of philosophy and religion, a thinker, and, best of all, a man of ideals--"the glory of youth," as he called them in his valedictory oration. but he was something still better and finer than a mere idealist; he was a man of action, eager to put his ideals into practice and bring them to the test of daily life. with his mind full of plans for raising the condition of workingmen while he made his own career, he entered the iron mills of the ames company, at chicopee. here he remained as a workingman for six months, and then received an important post in the trenton iron works of new jersey. there his health broke down. consumption threatened him, and all his bright hopes and ambitions were overcast and checked. he was obliged to leave his business and go to europe, where he traveled for two years, fighting the dread disease that was upon him. in 1858 he returned, and took a position on a western railroad. although the work was new to him, he manifested the same capacity that he had always shown, and more especially his power over other men and his ability in organization. in two years his health was reestablished, and in 1860 he took charge of the mount savage iron works, at cumberland, maryland. he was there when news came of the attack made by the mob upon the 6th massachusetts regiment, in baltimore. two days later he had made his way to washington, one of the first comers from the north, and at once applied for a commission in the regular army. while he was waiting, he employed himself in looking after the massachusetts troops, and also, it is understood, as a scout for the government, dangerous work which suited his bold and adventurous nature. in may he received his commission as captain in the united states cavalry. employed at first in recruiting and then in drill, he gave himself up to the study of tactics and the science of war. the career above all others to which he was suited had come to him. the field, at last, lay open before him, where all his great qualities of mind and heart, his high courage, his power of leadership and of organization, and his intellectual powers could find full play. he moved rapidly forward, just as he had already done in college and in business. his regiment, in 1862, was under stoneman in the peninsula, and was engaged in many actions, where lowell's cool bravery made him constantly conspicuous. at the close of the campaign he was brevetted major, for distinguished services at williamsburg and slatersville. in july, lowell was detailed for duty as an aid to general mcclellan. at malvern hill and south mountain his gallantry and efficiency were strongly shown, but it was at antietam that he distinguished himself most. sent with orders to general sedgwick's division, he found it retreating in confusion, under a hot fire. he did not stop to think of orders, but rode rapidly from point to point of the line, rallying company after company by the mere force and power of his word and look, checking the rout, while the storm of bullets swept all round him. his horse was shot under him, a ball passed through his coat, another broke his sword-hilt, but he came off unscathed, and his service was recognized by his being sent to washington with the captured flags of the enemy. the following winter he was ordered to boston, to recruit a regiment of cavalry, of which he was appointed colonel. while the recruiting was going on, a serious mutiny broke out, but the man who, like cromwell's soldiers, "rejoiced greatly" in the day of battle was entirely capable of meeting this different trial. he shot the ringleader dead, and by the force of his own strong will quelled the outbreak completely and at once. in may, he went to virginia with his regiment, where he was engaged in resisting and following mosby, and the following summer he was opposed to general early in the neighborhood of washington. on july 14, when on a reconnoissance his advance guard was surprised, and he met them retreating in wild confusion, with the enemy at their heels. riding into the midst of the fugitives, lowell shouted, "dismount!" the sharp word of command, the presence of the man himself, and the magic of discipline prevailed. the men sprang down, drew up in line, received the enemy, with a heavy fire, and as the assailants wavered, lowell advanced at once, and saved the day. in july, he was put in command of the "provisional brigade," and joined the army of the shenandoah, of which in august general sheridan took command. he was so struck with lowell's work during the next month that in september he put him in command of the "reserved brigade," a very fine body of cavalry and artillery. in the fierce and continuous fighting that ensued lowell was everywhere conspicuous, and in thirteen weeks he had as many horses shot under him. but he now had scope to show more than the dashing gallantry which distinguished him always and everywhere. his genuine military ability, which surely would have led him to the front rank of soldiers had his life been spared, his knowledge, vigilance, and nerve all now became apparent. one brilliant action succeeded another, but the end was drawing near. it came at last on the famous day of cedar creek, when sheridan rode down from winchester and saved the battle. lowell had advanced early in the morning on the right, and his attack prevented the disaster on that wing which fell upon the surprised army. he then moved to cover the retreat, and around to the extreme left, where he held his position near middletown against repeated assaults. early in the day his last horse was shot under him, and a little later, in a charge at one o'clock, he was struck in the right breast by a spent ball, which embedded itself in the muscles of the chest. voice and strength left him. "it is only my poor lung," he announced, as they urged him to go to the rear; "you would not have me leave the field without having shed blood." as a matter of fact, the "poor" lung had collapsed, and there was an internal hemorrhage. he lay thus, under a rude shelter, for an hour and a half, and then came the order to advance along the whole line, the victorious advance of sheridan and the rallied army. lowell was helped to his saddle. "i feel well now," he whispered, and, giving his orders through one of his staff, had his brigade ready first. leading the great charge, he dashed forward, and, just when the fight was hottest, a sudden cry went up: "the colonel is hit!" he fell from the saddle, struck in the neck by a ball which severed the spine, and was borne by his officers to a house in the village, where, clear in mind and calm in spirit, he died a few hours afterward. "i do not think there was a quality," said general sheridan, "which i could have added to lowell. he was the perfection of a man and a soldier." on october 19, the very day on which he fell, his commission was signed to be a brigadier-general. this was a noble life and a noble death, worthy of much thought and admiration from all men. yet this is not all. it is well for us to see how such a man looked upon what he was doing, and what it meant to him. lowell was one of the silent heroes so much commended by carlyle. he never wrote of himself or his own exploits. as some one well said, he had "the impersonality of genius." but in a few remarkable passages in his private letters, we can see how the meaning of life and of that great time unrolled itself before his inner eyes. in june, 1861, he wrote: i cannot say i take any great pleasure in the contemplation of the future. i fancy you feel much as i do about the profitableness of a soldier's life, and would not think of trying it, were it not for a muddled and twisted idea that somehow or other this fight was going to be one in which decent men ought to engage for the sake of humanity,--i use the word in its ordinary sense. it seems to me that within a year the slavery question will again take a prominent place, and that many cases will arise in which we may get fearfully in the wrong if we put our cause wholly in the hands of fighting men and foreign legions. in june, 1863, he wrote: i wonder whether my theories about self-culture, etc., would ever have been modified so much, whether i should ever have seen what a necessary failure they lead to, had it not been for this war. now i feel every day, more and more, that a man has no right to himself at all; that, indeed, he can do nothing useful unless he recognizes this clearly. here again, on july 3, is a sentence which it is well to take to heart, and for all men to remember when their ears are deafened with the cry that war, no matter what the cause, is the worst thing possible, because it interferes with comfort, trade, and money-making: "wars are bad," lowell writes, "but there are many things far worse. anything immediately comfortable in our affairs i don't see; but comfortable times are not the ones t hat make a nation great." on july 24, he says: many nations fail, that one may become great; ours will fail, unless we gird up our loins and do humble and honest days' work, without trying to do the thing by the job, or to get a great nation made by a patent process. it is not safe to say that we shall not have victories till we are ready for them. we shall have victories, and whether or no we are ready for them depends upon ourselves; if we are not ready, we shall fail,--voila tout. if you ask, what if we do fail? i have nothing to say; i shouldn't cry over a nation or two, more or less, gone under. finally, on september 10, a little more than a month before his death, he wrote to a disabled officer: i hope that you are going to live like a plain republican, mindful of the beauty and of the duty of simplicity. nothing fancy now, sir, if you please; it's disreputable to spend money when the government is so hard up, and when there are so many poor officers. i hope that you have outgrown all foolish ambitions, and are now content to become a "useful citizen." don't grow rich; if you once begin, you will find it much more difficult to be a useful citizen. don't seek office, but don't "disremember" that the "useful citizen" always holds his time, his trouble, his money, and his life ready at the hint of his country. the useful citizen is a mighty, unpretending hero; but we are not going to have any country very long, unless such heroism is developed. there, what a stale sermon i'm preaching. but, being a soldier, it does seem to me that i should like nothing so well as being a useful citizen. well, trying to be one, i mean. i shall stay in the service, of course, till the war is over, or till i'm disabled; but then i look forward to a pleasanter career. i believe i have lost all my ambitions. i don't think i would turn my hand to be a distinguished chemist or a famous mathematician. all i now care about is to be a useful citizen, with money enough to buy bread and firewood, and to teach my children to ride on horseback, and look strangers in the face, especially southern strangers. there are profound and lofty lessons of patriotism and conduct in these passages, and a very noble philosophy of life and duty both as a man and as a citizen of a great republic. they throw a flood of light on the great underlying forces which enabled the american people to save themselves in that time of storm and stress. they are the utterances of a very young man, not thirty years old when he died in battle, but much beyond thirty in head and heart, tried and taught as he had been in a great war. what precisely such young men thought they were fighting for is put strikingly by lowell's younger brother james, who was killed at glendale, july 4, 1862. in 1861, james lowell wrote to his classmates, who had given him a sword: those who died for the cause, not of the constitution and the laws,--a superficial cause, the rebels have now the same,--but of civilization and law, and the self-restrained freedom which is their result. as the greeks at marathon and salamis, charles martel and the franks at tours, and the germans at the danube, saved europe from asiatic barbarism, so we, at places to be famous in future times, shall have saved america from a similar tide of barbarism; and we may hope to be purified and strengthened ourselves by the struggle. this is a remarkable passage and a deep thought. coming from a young fellow of twenty-four, it is amazing. but the fiery trial of the times taught fiercely and fast, and james lowell, just out of college, could see in the red light around him that not merely the freedom of a race and the saving of a nation were at stake, but that behind all this was the forward movement of civilization, brought once again to the arbitrament of the sword. slavery was barbarous and barbarizing. it had dragged down the civilization of the south to a level from which it would take generations to rise up again. was this barbarous force now to prevail in the united states in the nineteenth century? was it to destroy a great nation, and fetter human progress in the new world? that was the great question back of, beyond and above all. should this force of barbarism sweep conquering over the land, wrecking an empire in its onward march, or should it be flung back as miltiades flung back asia at marathon, and charles martel stayed the coming of islam at tours? the brilliant career, the shining courage, best seen always where the dead were lying thickest, the heroic death of charles lowell, are good for us all to know and to remember. yet this imperfect story of his life has not been placed here for these things alone. many thousand others, officers and soldiers alike, in the great civil war gave their lives as freely as he, and brought to the service of their country the best that was in them. he was a fine example of many who, like him, offered up all they had for their country. but lowell was also something more than this. he was a high type of a class, and a proof of certain very important things, and this is a point worthy of much consideration. the name of john hampden stands out in the history of the english-speaking people, admired and unquestioned. he was neither a great statesman, nor a great soldier; he was not a brilliant orator, nor a famous writer. he fell bravely in an unimportant skirmish at chalgrove field, fighting for freedom and what he believed to be right. yet he fills a great place in the past, both for what he did and what he was, and the reason for this is of high importance. john hampden was a gentleman, with all the advantages that the accidents of birth could give. he was rich, educated, well born, of high traditions. english civilization of that day could produce nothing better. the memorable fact is that, when the time came for the test, he did not fail. he was a type of what was best among the english people, and when the call sounded, he was ready. he was brave, honest, high-minded, and he gave all, even his life, to his country. in the hour of need, the representative of what was best and most fortunate in england was put to the touch, and proved to be current gold. all men knew what that meant, and hampden's memory is one of the glories of the english-speaking people. charles lowell has the same meaning for us when rightly understood. he had all that birth, breeding, education, and tradition could give. the resources of our american life and civilization could produce nothing better. how would he and such men as he stand the great ordeal when it came? if wealth, education, and breeding were to result in a class who could only carp and criticize, accumulate money, give way to self-indulgence, and cherish low foreign ideals, then would it have appeared that there was a radical unsoundness in our society, refinement would have been proved to be weakness, and the highest education would have been shown to be a curse, rather than a blessing. but charles lowell, and hundreds of others like him, in greater or less degree, all over the land, met the great test and emerged triumphant. the harvard men may be taken as fairly representing the colleges and universities of america. harvard had, in 1860, 4157 living graduates, and 823 students, presumably over eighteen years old. probably 3000 of her students and graduates were of military age, and not physically disqualified for military service. of this number, 1230 entered the union army or navy. one hundred and fifty-six died in service, and 67 were killed in action. many did not go who might have gone, unquestionably, but the record is a noble one. nearly one man of every two harvard men came forward to serve his country when war was at our gates, and this proportion holds true, no doubt, of the other universities of the north. it is well for the country, well for learning, well for our civilization, that such a record was made at such a time. charles lowell, and those like him, showed, once for all, that the men to whom fortune had been kindest were capable of the noblest patriotism, and shrank from no sacrifices. they taught the lesson which can never be heard too often--that the man to whom the accidents of birth and fortune have given most is the man who owes most to his country. if patriotism should exist anywhere, it should be strongest with such men as these, and their service should be ever ready. how nobly charles lowell in this spirit answered the great question, his life and death, alike victorious, show to all men. sheridan at cedar creek inspired repulsed battalions to engage, and taught the doubtful battle where to rage. --addison. general sheridan took command of the army of the shenandoah in august, 1864. his coming was the signal for aggressive fighting, and for a series of brilliant victories over the rebel army. he defeated early at winchester and again at fisher's hill, while general torbert whipped rosser in a subsequent action, where the rout of the rebels was so complete that the fight was known as the "woodstock races." sheridan's plan after this was to terminate his campaign north of staunton, and, returning thence, to desolate the valley, so as to make it untenable for the confederates, as well as useless as a granary or storehouse, and then move the bulk of his army through washington, and unite them with general grant in front of petersburg. grant, however, and the authorities at washington, were in favor of sheridan's driving early into eastern virginia, and following up that line, which sheri dan himself believed to be a false move. this important matter was in debate until october 16, when sheridan, having left the main body of his army at cedar creek under general wright, determined to go to washington, and discuss the question personally with general halleck and the secretary of war. he reached washington on the morning of the 17th about eight o'clock, left there at twelve; and got back to martinsburg the same night about dark. at martinsburg he spent the night, and the next day, with his escort, rode to winchester, reaching that point between three and four o'clock in the afternoon of the 18th. he there heard that all was quiet at cedar creek and along the front, and went to bed, expecting to reach his headquarters and join the army the next day. about six o'clock, on the morning of the 19th, it was reported to him that artillery firing could be heard in the direction of cedar creek, but as the sound was stated to be irregular and fitful, he thought it only a skirmish. he, nevertheless, arose at once, and had just finished dressing when another officer came in, and reported that the firing was still going on in the same direction, but that it did not sound like a general battle. still sheridan was uneasy, and, after breakfasting, mounted his horse between eight and nine o'clock, and rode slowly through winchester. when he reached the edge of the town he halted a moment, and then heard the firing of artillery in an unceasing roar. he now felt confident that a general battle was in progress, and, as he rode forward, he was convinced, from the rapid increase of the sound, that his army was failing back. after he had crossed mill creek, just outside winchester, and made the crest of the rise beyond the stream, there burst upon his view the spectacle of a panic-stricken army. hundreds of slightly wounded men, with hundreds more unhurt, but demoralized, together with baggage wagons and trains, were all pressing to the rear, in hopeless confusion. there was no doubt now that a disaster had occurred at the front. a fugitive told sheridan that the army was broken and in full retreat, and that all was lost. sheridan at once sent word to colonel edwards, commanding a brigade at winchester, to stretch his troops across the valley, and stop all fugitives. his first idea was to make a stand there, but, as he rode along, a different plan flashed into his mind. he believed that his troops had great confidence in him, and he determined to try to restore their broken ranks, and, instead of merely holding the ground at winchester, to rally his army, and lead them forward again to cedar creek. he had hardly made up his mind to this course, when news was brought to him that his headquarters at cedar creek were captured, and the troops dispersed. he started at once, with about twenty men as an escort, and rode rapidly to the front. as he passed along, the unhurt men, who thickly lined the road, recognized him, and, as they did so, threw up their hats, shouldered their muskets, and followed him as fast as they could on foot. his officers rode out on either side to tell the stragglers that the general had returned, and, as the news spread the retreating men in every direction rallied, and turned their faces toward the battle-field they had left. in his memoirs, sheridan says, in speaking of his ride through the retreating troops: "i said nothing, except to remark, as i rode among them 'if i had been with you this morning, this disaster would not have happened. we must face the other way. we will go back and recover our camp.'" thus he galloped on over the twenty miles, with the men rallying behind him, and following him in ever increasing numbers. as he went by, the panic of retreat was replaced by the ardor of battle. sheridan had not overestimate the power of enthusiasm or his own ability to rouse it to fighting pitch. he pressed steadily on to the front, until at last he came up to getty's division of the 6th corps, which, with the cavalry, were the only troops who held their line and were resisting the enemy. getty's division was about a mile north of middletown on some slightly rising ground, and were skirmishing with the enemy's pickets. jumping a rail fence, sheridan rode to the crest of the hill, and, as he took off his hat, the men rose up from behind the barricades with cheers of recognition. it is impossible to follow in detail sheridan's actions from that moment, but he first brought up the 19th corps and the two divisions of wright to the front. he then communicated with colonel lowell, who was fighting near middletown with his men dismounted, and asked him if he could hold on where he was, to which lowell replied in the affirmative. all this and many similar quickly-given orders consumed a great deal of time, but still the men were getting into line, and at last, seeing that the enemy were about to renew the attack, sheridan rode along the line so that the men could all see him. he was received with the wildest enthusiasm as he rode by, and the spirit of the army was restored. the rebel attack was made shortly after noon, and was repulsed by general emory. this done, sheridan again set to work to getting his line completely restored, while general merritt charged and drove off an exposed battery of the confederates. by halfpast three sheridan was ready to attack. the fugitives of the morning, whom he had rallied as he rode from winchester, were again in their places, and the different divisions were all disposed in their proper positions. with the order to advance, the whole line pressed forward. the confederates at first resisted stubbornly, and then began to retreat. on they went past cedar creek, and there, where the pike made a sharp turn to the west toward fisher's hill, merritt and custer fell on the flank of the retreating columns, and the rebel army fell back, routed and broken, up the valley. the day had begun in route and defeat; it ended in a great victory for the union army. how near we had been to a terrible disaster can be realized by recalling what had happened before the general galloped down from winchester. in sheridan's absence, early, soon after dawn, had made an unexpected attack on our army at cedar creek. surprised by the assault, the national troops had given way in all directions, and a panic had set in. getty's division with lowell's cavalry held on at middletown, but, with this exception, the rout was complete. when sheridan rode out of winchester, he met an already beaten army. his first thought was the natural one to make a stand at winchester and rally his troops about him there. his second thought was the inspiration of the great commander. he believed his men would rally as soon as they saw him. he believed that enthusiasm was one of the great weapons of war, and that this was the moment of all others when it might be used with decisive advantage. with this thought in his mind he abandoned the idea of forming his men at winchester, and rode bareheaded through the fugitives, swinging his hat, straight for the front, and calling on his men as he passed to follow him. as the soldiers saw him, they turned and rushed after him. he had not calculated in vain upon the power of personal enthusiasm, but, at the same time, he did not rely upon any wild rush to save the day. the moment he reached the field of battle, he set to work with the coolness of a great soldier to make all the dispositions, first, to repel the enemy, and then to deliver an attack which could not be resisted. one division after another was rapidly brought into line and placed in position, the thin ranks filling fast with the soldiers who had recovered from their panic, and followed sheridan and the black horse all the way down from winchester. he had been already two hours on the field when, at noon, he rode along the line, again formed for battle. most of the officers and men then thought he had just come, while in reality it was his own rapid work which had put them in the line along which he was riding. once on the field of battle, the rush and hurry of the desperate ride from winchester came to an end. first the line was reformed, then the enemy's assault was repulsed, and it was made impossible for them to again take the offensive. but sheridan, undazzled by his brilliant success up to this point, did not mar his work by overhaste. two hours more passed before he was ready, and then, when all was prepared, with his ranks established and his army ranged in position, he moved his whole line forward, and won one of the most brilliant battles of the war, having, by his personal power over his troops, and his genius in action, snatched a victory from a day which began in surprise, disaster, and defeat. lieutenant cushing and the ram "albemarle" god give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, but sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! and let our ship of state to harbor sweep, her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, and her leashed thunders gathering for their leap! --lowell. the great civil war was remarkable in many ways, but in no way more remarkable than for the extraordinary mixture of inventive mechanical genius and of resolute daring shown by the combatants. after the first year, when the contestants had settled down to real fighting, and the preliminary mob work was over, the battles were marked by their extraordinary obstinacy and heavy loss. in no european conflict since the close of the napoleonic wars has the fighting been anything like as obstinate and as bloody as was the fighting in our own civil war. in addition to this fierce and dogged courage, this splendid fighting capacity, the contest also brought out the skilled inventive power of engineer and mechanician in a way that few other contests have ever done. this was especially true of the navy. the fighting under and against farragut and his fellow-admirals revolutionized naval warfare. the civil war marks the break between the old style and the new. terrible encounters took place when the terrible new engines of war were brought into action for the first time; and one of these encounters has given an example which, for heroic daring combined with cool intelligence, is unsurpassed in all time. the confederates showed the same skill and energy in building their great ironclad rams as the men of the union did in building the monitors which were so often pitted against them. both sides, but especially the confederates, also used stationary torpedoes, and, on a number of occasions, torpedo-boats likewise. these torpedo-boats were sometimes built to go under the water. one such, after repeated failures, was employed by the confederates, with equal gallantry and success, in sinking a union sloop of war off charleston harbor, the torpedo-boat itself going down to the bottom with its victim, all on board being drowned. the other type of torpedo-boat was simply a swift, ordinary steam-launch, operated above water. it was this last type of boat which lieutenant w. b. cushing brought down to albemarle sound to use against the great confederate ram albemarle. the ram had been built for the purpose of destroying the union blockading forces. steaming down river, she had twice attacked the federal gunboats, and in each case had sunk or disabled one or more of them, with little injury to herself. she had retired up the river again to lie at her wharf and refit. the gunboats had suffered so severely as to make it a certainty that when she came out again, thoroughly fitted to renew the attack, the wooden vessels would be destroyed; and while she was in existence, the union vessels could not reduce the forts and coast towns. just at this time cushing came down from the north with his swift little torpedo-boat, an open launch, with a spar-rigged out in front, the torpedo being placed at the end. the crew of the launch consisted of fifteen men, cushing being in command. he not only guided his craft, but himself handled the torpedo by means of two small ropes, one of which put it in place, while the other exploded it. the action of the torpedo was complicated, and it could not have been operated in a time of tremendous excitement save by a man of the utmost nerve and self-command; but cushing had both. he possessed precisely that combination of reckless courage, presence of mind, and high mental capacity necessary to the man who leads a forlorn hope under peculiarly difficult circumstances. on the night of october 27, 1864, cushing slipped away from the blockading fleet, and steamed up river toward the wharf, a dozen miles distant, where the great ram lay. the confederates were watchful to guard against surprise, for they feared lest their foes should try to destroy the ram before she got a chance to come down and attack them again in the sound. she lay under the guns of a fort, with a regiment of troops ready at a moment's notice to turn out and defend her. her own guns were kept always clear for action, and she was protected by a great boom of logs thrown out roundabout; of which last defense the northerners knew nothing. cushing went up-stream with the utmost caution, and by good luck passed, unnoticed, a confederate lookout below the ram. about midnight he made his assault. steaming quietly on through the black water, and feeling his way cautiously toward where he knew the town to be, he finally made out the loom of the albemarle through the night, and at once drove at her. he was almost upon her before he was discovered; then the crew and the soldiers on the wharf opened fire, and, at the same moment, he was brought-to by the boom, the existence of which he had not known. the rifle balls were singing round him as he stood erect, guiding his launch, and he heard the bustle of the men aboard the ram, and the noise of the great guns as they were got ready. backing off, he again went all steam ahead, and actually surged over the slippery logs of the boom. meanwhile, on the albemarle the sailors were running to quarters, and the soldiers were swarming down to aid in her defense; and the droning bullets came always thicker through the dark night. cushing still stood upright in his little craft, guiding and controlling her by voice and signal, while in his hands he kept the ropes which led to the torpedo. as the boat slid forward over the boom, he brought the torpedo full against the somber side of the huge ram, and instantly exploded it, almost at the same time that the pivot-gun of the ram, loaded with grape, was fired point-blank at him not ten yards off. at once the ram settled, the launch sinking at the same moment, while cushing and his men swam for their lives. most of them sank or were captured, but cushing reached mid-stream. hearing something splashing in the darkness, he swam toward it, and found that it was one of his crew. he went to his rescue, and they kept together for some time, but the sailor's strength gave out, and he finally sank. in the pitch darkness cushing could form no idea where he was; and when, chilled through, and too exhausted to rise to his feet, he finally reached shore, shortly before dawn, he found that he had swum back and landed but a few hundred feet below the sunken ram. all that day he remained within easy musket-shot of where his foes were swarming about the fort and the great drowned ironclad. he hardly dared move, and until the afternoon he lay without food, and without protection from the heat or venomous insects. then he managed to slip unobserved into the dense swamp, and began to make his way to the fleet. toward evening he came out on a small stream, near a camp of confederate soldiers. they had moored to the bank a skiff, and, with equal stealth and daring, he managed to steal this and to paddle down-stream. hour after hour he paddled on through the fading light, and then through the darkness. at last, utterly worn out, he found the squadron, and was picked up. at once the ships weighed; and they speedily captured every coast town and fort, for their dreaded enemy was no longer in the way. the fame of cushing's deed went all over the north, and his name will stand forever among the brightest on the honor-roll of the american navy. farragut at mobile bay ha, old ship, do they thrill, the brave two hundred scars you got in the river wars? that were leeched with clamorous skill (surgery savage and hard), at the brooklyn navy yard. * * * * how the guns, as with cheer and shout, our tackle-men hurled them out, brought up in the waterways... as we fired, at the flash 't was lightning and black eclipse with a bellowing sound and crash. * * * * the dahlgrens are dumb, dumb are the mortars; never more shall the drum beat to colors and quarters- the great guns are silent. --henry howard brownell during the civil war our navy produced, as it has always produced in every war, scores of capable officers, of brilliant single-ship commanders, of men whose daring courage made them fit leaders in any hazardous enterprise. in this respect the union seamen in the civil war merely lived up to the traditions of their service. in a service with such glorious memories it was a difficult thing to establish a new record in feats of personal courage or warlike address. biddle, in the revolutionary war, fighting his little frigate against a ship of the line until she blew up with all on board, after inflicting severe loss on her huge adversary; decatur, heading the rush of the boarders in the night attack when they swept the wild moorish pirates from the decks of their anchored prize; lawrence, dying with the words on his lips, "don't give up the ship"; and perry, triumphantly steering his bloody sloop-of-war to victory with the same words blazoned on his banner--men like these, and like their fellows, who won glory in desperate conflicts with the regular warships and heavy privateers of england and france, or with the corsairs of the barbary states, left behind a reputation which was hardly to be dimmed, though it might be emulated, by later feats of mere daring. but vital though daring is, indispensable though desperate personal prowess and readiness to take chances are to the make-up of a fighting navy, other qualities are needed in addition to fit a man for a place among the great sea-captains of all time. it was the good fortune of the navy in the civil war to produce one admiral of renown, one peer of all the mighty men who have ever waged war on the ocean. farragut was not only the greatest admiral since nelson, but, with the sole exception of nelson, he was as great an admiral as ever sailed the broad or the narrow seas. david glasgow farragut was born in tennessee. he was appointed to the navy while living in louisiana, but when the war came he remained loyal to the union flag. this puts him in the category of those men who deserved best of their country in the civil war; the men who were southern by birth, but who stood loyally by the union; the men like general thomas of virginia, and like farragut's own flag-captain at the battle of mobile bay, drayton of south carolina. it was an easy thing in the north to support the union, and it was a double disgrace to be, like vallandigham and the copperheads, against it; and in the south there were a great multitude of men, as honorable as they were brave, who, from the best of motives, went with their states when they seceded, or even advocated secession. but the highest and loftiest patriots, those who deserved best of the whole country, we re the men from the south who possessed such heroic courage, and such lofty fealty to the high ideal of the union, that they stood by the flag when their fellows deserted it, and unswervingly followed a career devoted to the cause of the whole nation and of the whole people. among all those who fought in this, the greatest struggle for righteousness which the present century has seen, these men stand preeminent; and among them farragut stands first. it was his good fortune that by his life he offered an example, not only of patriotism, but of supreme skill and daring in his profession. he belongs to that class of commanders who possess in the highest degree the qualities of courage and daring, of readiness to assume responsibility, and of willingness to run great risks; the qualities without which no commander, however cautious and able, can ever become really great. he possessed also the unwearied capacity for taking thought in advance, which enabled him to prepare for victory before the day of battle came; and he added to this an inexhaustible fertility of resource and presence of mind under no matter what strain. his whole career should be taught every american schoolboy, for when that schoolboy becomes a voter he should have learned the lesson that the united states, while it ought not to become an overgrown military power, should always have a first-class navy, formidable from the number of its ships, and formidable still more from the excellence of the individual ships and the high character of the officers and men. farragut saw the war of 1812, in which, though our few frigates and sloops fought some glorious actions, our coasts were blockaded and insulted, and the capitol at washington burned, because our statesmen and our people had been too short-sighted to build a big fighting navy; and farragut was able to perform his great feats on the gulf coast because, when the civil war broke out, we had a navy which, though too small in point of numbers, was composed of ships as good as any afloat. another lesson to be learned by a study of his career is that no man in a profession so highly technical as that of the navy can win a great success unless he has been brought up in and specially trained for that profession, and has devoted his life to the work. this fact was made plainly evident in the desperate hurly-burly of the night battle with the confederate flotilla below new orleans--the incidents of this hurly-burly being, perhaps, best described by the officer who, in his report of his own share in it, remarked that "all sorts of things happened." of the confederate rams there were two, commanded by trained officers formerly in the united states navy, lieutenants kennon and warley. both of these men handled their little vessels with remarkable courage, skill, and success, fighting them to the last, and inflicting serious and heavy damage upon the union fleet. the other vessels of the flotilla were commanded by men who had not been in the regular navy, who were merely mississippi river captains, and the like. these men were, doubtless, naturally as brave as any of the regular officers; but, with one or two exceptions, they failed ignobly in the time of trial, and showed a fairly startling contrast with the regular naval officers beside or against whom they fought. this is a fact which may well be pondered by the ignorant or unpatriotic people who believe that the united states does not need a navy, or that it can improvise one, and improvise officers to handle it, whenever the moment of need arises. when a boy, farragut had sailed as a midshipman on the essex in her famous cruise to the south pacific, and lived through the murderous fight in which, after losing three fifths of her crew, she was captured by two british vessels. step by step he rose in his profession, but never had an opportunity of distinguishing himself until, when he was sixty years old, the civil war broke out. he was then made flag officer of the gulf squadron; and the first success which the union forces met with in the southwest was scored by him, when one night he burst the iron chains which the confederates had stretched across the mississippi, and, stemming the swollen flood with his splendidly-handled steam-frigates, swept past the forts, sank the rams and gunboats that sought to bar his path, and captured the city of new orleans. after further exciting service on the mississippi, service in which he turned a new chapter in the history of naval warfare by showing the possibilities of heavy seagoing vessels when used on great rivers, he again went back to the gulf, and, in the last year of the war, was allotted the task of attempting the capture of mobile, the only important port still left open to the confederates. in august, 1864, farragut was lying with his fleet off mobile bay. for months he had been eating out his heart while undergoing the wearing strain of the blockade; sympathizing, too, with every detail of the doubtful struggle on land. "i get right sick, every now and then, at the bad news," he once wrote home; and then again, "the victory of the kearsarge over the alabama raised me up; i would sooner have fought that fight than any ever fought on the ocean." as for himself, all he wished was a chance to fight, for he had the fighting temperament, and he knew that, in the long run, an enemy can only be beaten by being out-fought, as well as out-manoeuvered. he possessed a splendid self-confidence, and scornfully threw aside any idea that he would be defeated, while he utterly refused to be daunted by the rumors of the formidable nature of the defenses against which he was to act. "i mean to be whipped or to whip my enemy, and not to be scared to death," he remarked in speaking of these rumors. the confederates who held mobile used all their skill in preparing for defense, and all their courage in making that defense good. the mouth of the bay was protected by two fine forts, heavily armed, morgan and gaines. the winding channels were filled with torpedoes, and, in addition, there was a flotilla consisting of three gunboats, and, above all, a big ironclad ram, the tennessee, one of the most formidable vessels then afloat. she was not fast, but she carried six high-power rifled guns, and her armor was very powerful, while, being of light draft, she could take a position where farragut's deep-sea ships could not get at her. farragut made his attack with four monitors,--two of them, the tecumseh and manhattan, of large size, carrying 15-inch guns, and the other two, the winnebago and chickasaw, smaller and lighter, with 11-inch guns,--and the wooden vessels, fourteen in number. seven of these were big sloops-of-war, of the general type of farragut's own flagship, the hartford. she was a screw steamer, but was a full-rigged ship likewise, with twenty-two 9-inch shell guns, arranged in broadside, and carrying a crew of three hundred men. the other seven were light gunboats. when farragut prepared for the assault, he arranged to make the attack with his wooden ships in double column. the seven most powerful were formed on the right, in line ahead, to engage fort morgan, the heaviest of the two forts, which had to be passed close inshore to the right. the light vessels were lashed each to the left of one of the heavier ones. by this arrangement each pair of ships was given a double chance to escape, if rendered helpless by a shot in the boiler or other vital part of the machinery. the heaviest ships led in the fighting column, the first place being taken by the brooklyn and her gunboat consort, while the second position was held by farragut himself in the hartford, with the little metacomet lashed alongside. he waited to deliver the attack until the tide and the wind should be favorable, and made all his preparations with the utmost care and thoughtfulness. preeminently a man who could inspire affection in others, both the officers and men of the fleet regarded him with fervent loyalty and absolute trust. the attack was made early on the morning of august 5. soon after midnight the weather became hot and calm, and at three the admiral learned that a light breeze had sprung up from the quarter he wished, and he at once announced, "then we will go in this morning." at daybreak he was at breakfast when the word was brought that the ships were all lashed in couples. turning quietly to his captain, he said, "well, drayton, we might as well get under way;" and at half-past six the monitors stood down to their stations, while the column of wooden ships was formed, all with the united states flag hoisted, not only at the peak, but also at every masthead. the four monitors, trusting in their iron sides, steamed in between the wooden ships and the fort. every man in every craft was thrilling with the fierce excitement of battle; but in the minds of most there lurked a vague feeling of unrest over one danger. for their foes who fought in sight, for the forts, the gunboats, and, the great ironclad ram, they cared nothing; but all, save the very boldest, were at times awed, and rendered uneasy by the fear of the hidden and the unknown. danger which is great and real, but which is shrouded in mystery, is always very awful; and the ocean veterans dreaded the torpedoes--the mines of death--which lay, they knew not where, thickly scattered through the channels along which they were to thread their way. the tall ships were in fighting trim, with spars housed, and canvas furled. the decks were strewn with sawdust; every man was in his place; the guns were ready, and except for the song of the sounding-lead there was silence in the ships as they moved forward through the glorious morning. it was seven o'clock when the battle began, as the tecumseh, the leading monitor, fired two shots at the fort. in a few minutes fort morgan was ablaze with the flash of her guns, and the leading wooden vessels were sending back broadside after broadside. farragut stood in the port main-rigging, and as the smoke increased he gradually climbed higher, until he was close by the maintop, where the pilot was stationed for the sake of clearer vision. the captain, fearing lest by one of the accidents of battle the great admiral should lose his footing, sent aloft a man with a lasher, and had a turn or two taken around his body in the shrouds, so that he might not fall if wounded; for the shots were flying thick. at first the ships used only their bow guns, and the confederate ram, with her great steel rifles, and her three consorts, taking station where they could rake the advancing fleet, caused much loss. in twenty minutes after the opening of the fight the ships of the van were fairly abreast of the fort, their guns leaping and thundering; and under the weight of their terrific fire that of the fort visibly slackened. all was now uproar and slaughter, the smoke drifting off in clouds. the decks were reddened and ghastly with blood, and the wreck of flying splinters drove across them at each discharge. the monitor tecumseh alone was silent. after firing the first two shots, her commander, captain craven, had loaded his two big guns with steel shot, and, thus prepared, reserved himself for the confederate ironclad, which he had set his heart upon taking or destroying single-handed. the two columns of monitors and the wooden ships lashed in pairs were now approaching the narrowest part of the channel, where the torpedoes lay thickest; and the guns of the vessels fairly overbore and quelled the fire from the fort. all was well, provided only the two columns could push straight on without hesitation; but just at this moment a terrible calamity befell the leader of the monitors. the tecumseh, standing straight for the tennessee, was within two hundred yards of her foe, when a torpedo suddenly exploded beneath her. the monitor was about five hundred yards from the hartford, and from the maintop farragut, looking at her, saw her reel violently from side to side, lurch heavily over, and go down headforemost, her screw revolving wildly in the air as she disappeared. captain craven, one of the gentlest and bravest of men, was in the pilot-house with the pilot at the time. as she sank, both rushed to the narrow door, but there was time for only one to get out. craven was ahead, but drew to one side, saying, "after you, pilot." as the pilot leaped through, the water rushed in, and craven and all his crew, save two men, settled to the bottom in their iron coffin. none of the monitors were awed or daunted by the fate of their consort, but drew steadily onward. in the bigger monitors the captains, like the crews, had remained within the iron walls; but on the two light crafts the commanders had found themselves so harassed by their cramped quarters, that they both stayed outside on the deck. as these two steamed steadily ahead, the men on the flagship saw captain stevens, of the winnebago, pacing calmly, from turret to turret, on his unwieldy iron craft, under the full fire of the fort. the captain of the chickasaw, perkins, was the youngest commander in the fleet, and as he passed the hartford, he stood on top of the turret, waving his hat and dancing about in wildest excitement and delight. but, for a moment, the nerve of the commander of the brooklyn failed him. the awful fate of the tecumseh and the sight of a number of objects in the channel ahead, which seemed to be torpedoes, caused him to hesitate. he stopped his ship, and then backed water, making sternway to the hartford, so as to stop her also. it was the crisis of the fight and the crisis of farragut's career. the column was halted in a narrow channel, right under the fire of the forts. a few moments' delay and confusion, and the golden chance would have been past, and the only question remaining would have been as to the magnitude of the disaster. ahead lay terrible danger, but ahead lay also triumph. it might be that the first ship to go through would be sacrificed to the torpedoes; it might be that others would be sacrificed; but go through the fleet must. farragut signaled to the brooklyn to go ahead, but she still hesitated. immediately, the admiral himself resolved to take the lead. backing hard he got clear of the brooklyn, twisted his ship's prow short round, and then, going ahead fast, he dashed close under the brooklyn's stern, straight at the line of buoys in the channel. as he thus went by the brooklyn, a warning cry came from her that there were torpedoes ahead. "damn the torpedoes!" shouted the admiral; "go ahead, full speed;" and the hartford and her consort steamed forward. as they passed between the buoys, the cases of the torpedoes were heard knocking against the bottom of the ship; but for some reason they failed to explode, and the hartford went safely through the gates of mobile bay, passing the forts. farragut's last and hardest battle was virtually won. after a delay which allowed the flagship to lead nearly a mile, the brooklyn got her head round, and came in, closely followed by all the other ships. the tennessee strove to interfere with the wooden craft as they went in, but they passed, exchanging shots, and one of them striving to ram her, but inflicting only a glancing blow. the ship on the fighting side of the rear couple had been completely disabled by a shot through her boiler. as farragut got into the bay he gave orders to slip the gunboats, which were lashed to each of the union ships of war, against the confederate gunboats, one of which he had already disabled by his fire, so that she was run ashore and burnt. jouett, the captain of the metacomet, had been eagerly waiting this order, and had his men already standing at the hawsers, hatchet in hand. when the signal for the gunboats to chase was hoisted, the order to jouett was given by word of mouth, and as his hearty "aye, aye, sir," came in answer, the hatchets fell, the hawsers parted, and the metacomet leaped forward in pursuit. a thick rainsquall came up, and rendered it impossible for the rear gunboats to know whither the confederate flotilla had fled. when it cleared away, the watchers on the fleet saw that one of the two which were uninjured had slipped off to fort morgan, while the other, the selma, was under the guns of the metacomet, and was promptly carried by the latter. meanwhile the ships anchored in the bay, about four miles from fort morgan, and the crews were piped to breakfast; but almost as soon as it was begun, the lookouts reported that the great confederate ironclad was steaming down, to do battle, single-handed, with the union fleet. she was commanded by buchanan, a very gallant and able officer, who had been on the merrimac, and who trusted implicitly in his invulnerable sides, his heavy rifle guns, and his formidable iron beak. as the ram came on, with splendid courage, the ships got under way, while farragut sent word to the monitors to attack the tennessee at once. the fleet surgeon, palmer, delivered these orders. in his diary he writes: "i came to the chickasaw; happy as my friend perkins habitually is, i thought he would turn a somerset with joy, when i told him, 'the admiral wants you to go at once and fight the tennessee.'" at the same time, the admiral directed the wooden vessels to charge the ram, bow on, at full speed, as well as to attack her with their guns. the monitors were very slow, and the wooden vessels began the attack. the first to reach the hostile ironclad was the monongahela, which struck her square amidships; and five minutes later the lackawanna, going at full speed, delivered another heavy blow. both the union vessels fired such guns as would bear as they swung round, but the shots glanced harmlessly from the armor, and the blows of the ship produced no serious injury to the ram, although their own stems were crushed in several feet above and below the water line. the hartford then struck the tennessee, which met her bows on. the two antagonists scraped by, their port sides touching. as they rasped past, the hartford's guns were discharged against the ram, their muzzles only half a dozen feet distant from her iron-clad sides; but the shot made no impression. while the three ships were circling to repeat the charge, the lackawanna ran square into the flagship, cutting the vessel down to within two feet of the water. for a moment the ship's company thought the vessel sinking, and almost as one man they cried: "save the admiral! get the admiral on board the lackawanna." but farragut, leaping actively into the chains, saw that the ship was in no present danger, and ordered her again to be headed for the tennessee. meanwhile, the monitors had come up, and the battle raged between them and the great ram, like the rest of the union fleet, they carried smooth-bores, and their shot could not break through her iron plates; but by sustained and continuous hammering, her frame could be jarred and her timbers displaced. two of the monitors had been more or less disabled already, but the third, the chickasaw, was in fine trim, and perkins got her into position under the stern of the tennessee, just after the latter was struck by the hartford; and there he stuck to the end, never over fifty yards distant, and keeping up a steady rapping of 11-inch shot upon the iron walls, which they could not penetrate, but which they racked and shattered. the chickasaw fired fifty-two times at her antagonist, shooting away the exposed rudder-chains and the smokestack, while the commander of the ram, buchanan, was wounded by an iron splinter which broke his leg. under the hammering, the tennessee became helpless. she could not be steered, and was unable to bring a gun to bear, while many of the shutters of the ports were jammed. for twenty minutes she had not fired a shot. the wooden vessels were again bearing down to ram her; and she hoisted the white flag. thus ended the battle of mobile bay, farragut's crowning victory. less than three hours elapsed from the time that fort morgan fired its first gun to the moment when the tennessee hauled down her flag. three hundred and thirty-five men had been killed or wounded in the fleet, and one vessel, the tecumseh, had gone down; but the confederate flotilla was destroyed, the bay had been entered, and the forts around it were helpless to do anything further. one by one they surrendered, and the port of mobile was thus sealed against blockade runners, so that the last source of communication between the confederacy and the outside world was destroyed. farragut had added to the annals of the union the page which tells of the greatest sea-fight in our history. lincoln o captain. my captain. our fearful trip is done; the ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: but o heart! heart! heart! leave you not the little spot, where on the deck my captain lies, fallen cold and dead. o captain. my captain. rise up and hear the bells; rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; for you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; o captain. dear father. this arm i push beneath you; it is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead. my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; my father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor win: but the ship, the ship is anchor'd safe, its voyage closed and done; from fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won: exult o shores, and ring, o bells. but i with silent tread, walk the spot the captain lies, fallen cold and dead. --walt whitman. as washington stands to the revolution and the establishment of the government, so lincoln stands as the hero of the mightier struggle by which our union was saved. he was born in 1809, ten years after washington, his work done had been laid to rest at mount vernon. no great man ever came from beginnings which seemed to promise so little. lincoln's family, for more than one generation, had been sinking, instead of rising, in the social scale. his father was one of those men who were found on the frontier in the early days of the western movement, always changing from one place to another, and dropping a little lower at each remove. abraham lincoln was born into a family who were not only poor, but shiftless, and his early days were days of ignorance, and poverty, and hard work. out of such inauspicious surroundings, he slowly and painfully lifted himself. he gave himself an education, he took part in an indian war, he worked in the fields, he kept a country store, he read and studied, and, at last, he became a lawyer. then he entered into the rough politics of the newly-settled state. he grew to be a leader in his county, and went to the legislature. the road was very rough, the struggle was very hard and very bitter, but the movement was always upward. at last he was elected to congress, and served one term in washington as a whig with credit, but without distinction. then he went back to his law and his politics in illinois. he had, at last, made his position. all that was now needed was an opportunity, and that came to him in the great anti-slavery struggle. lincoln was not an early abolitionist. his training had been that of a regular party man, and as a member of a great political organization, but he was a lover of freedom and justice. slavery, in its essence, was hateful to him, and when the conflict between slavery and freedom was fairly joined, his path was clear before him. he took up the antislavery cause in his own state and made himself its champion against douglas, the great leader of the northern democrats. he stumped illinois in opposition to douglas, as a candidate for the senate, debating the question which divided the country in every part of the state. he was beaten at the election, but, by the power and brilliancy of his speeches, his own reputation was made. fighting the anti-slavery battle within constitutional lines, concentrating his whole force against the single point of the extension of slavery to the territories, he had made it clear that a new leader had arisen in the cause of freedom. from illinois his reputation spread to the east, and soon after his great debate he delivered a speech in new york which attracted wide attention. at the republican convention of 1856, his name was one of those proposed for vice-president. when 1860 came, he was a candidate for the first place on the national ticket. the leading candidate was william h. seward, of new york, the most conspicuous man of the country on the republican side, but the convention, after a sharp struggle, selected lincoln, and then the great political battle came at the polls. the republicans were victorious, and, as soon as the result of the voting was known, the south set to work to dissolve the union. in february lincoln made his way to washington, at the end coming secretly from harrisburg to escape a threatened attempt at assassination, and on march 4, 1861 assumed the presidency. no public man, no great popular leader, ever faced a more terrible situation. the union was breaking, the southern states were seceding, treason was rampant in washington, and the government was bankrupt. the country knew that lincoln was a man of great capacity in debate, devoted to the cause of antislavery and to the maintenance of the union. but what his ability was to deal with the awful conditions by which he was surrounded, no one knew. to follow him through the four years of civil war which ensued is, of course, impossible here. suffice it to say that no greater, no more difficult, task has ever been faced by any man in modern times, and no one ever met a fierce trial and conflict more successfully. lincoln put to the front the question of the union, and let the question of slavery drop, at first, into the background. he used every exertion to hold the border states by moderate measures, and, in this way, prevented the spread of the rebellion. for this moderation, the antislavery extremists in the north assailed him, but nothing shows more his far-sighted wisdom and strength of purpose than his action at this time. by his policy at the beginning of his administration, he held the border states, and united the people of the north in defense of the union. as the war went on, he went on, too. he had never faltered in his feelings about slavery. he knew, better than any one, that the successful dissolution of the union by the slave power meant, not only the destruction of an empire, but the victory of the forces of barbarism. but he also saw, what very few others at the moment could see, that, if he was to win, he must carry his people with him, step by step. so when he had rallied them to the defense of the union, and checked the spread of secession in the border states, in the autumn of 1862 he announced that he would issue a proclamation freeing the slaves. the extremists had doubted him in the beginning, the conservative and the timid doubted him now, but when the emancipation proclamation was issued, on january 1, 1863, it was found that the people were with him in that, as they had been with him when he staked everything upon the maintenance of the union. the war went on to victory, and in 1864 the people showed at the polls that they were with the president, and reelected him by overwhelming majorities. victories in the field went hand in hand with success at the ballot-box, and, in the spring of 1865, all was over. on april 9, 1865, lee surrendered at appomattox, and five days later, on april 14, a miserable assassin crept into the box at the theater where the president was listening to a play, and shot him. the blow to the country was terrible beyond words, for then men saw, in one bright flash, how great a man had fallen. lincoln died a martyr to the cause to which he had given his life, and both life and death were heroic. the qualities which enabled him to do his great work are very clear now to all men. his courage and his wisdom, his keen perception and his almost prophetic foresight, enabled him to deal with all the problems of that distracted time as they arose around him. but he had some qualities, apart from those of the intellect, which were of equal importance to his people and to the work he had to do. his character, at once strong and gentle, gave confidence to every one, and dignity to his cause. he had an infinite patience, and a humor that enabled him to turn aside many difficulties which could have been met in no other way. but most important of all was the fact that he personified a great sentiment, which ennobled and uplifted his people, and made them capable of the patriotism which fought the war and saved the union. he carried his people with him, because he knew instinctively, how they felt and what they wanted. he embodied, in his own person, all their highest ideals, and he never erred in his judgment. he is not only a great and commanding figure among the great statesmen and leaders of history, but he personifies, also, all the sadness and the pathos of the war, as well as its triumphs and its glories. no words that any one can use about lincoln can, however, do him such justice as his own, and i will close this volume with two of lincoln's speeches, which show what the war and all the great deeds of that time meant to him, and through which shines, the great soul of the man himself. on november 19, 1863, he spoke as follows at the dedication of the national cemetery on the battle-field of gettysburg: fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. we are met on a great battle-field of that war. we have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. it is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. but in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. the brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. the world will little note or long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. it is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who have fought here, have thus far so nobly advanced. it is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from the honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. on march 4, 1865, when he was inaugurated the second time, he made the following address: fellow-countrymen: at this second appearing to take the oath of presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. then a statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued, seemed proper. now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. the progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself; and it is, i trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. with high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured. on the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. all dreaded it--all sought to avert it. while the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war--seeking to dissolve the union, and divide effects, by negotiation. both parties deprecated war; but one of them would make war rather than let it perish. and the war came. one eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the union, but localized in the southern part of it. these slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. all knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. to strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the union, even by war; while the government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. both read the same bible, and pray to the same god; and each invokes his aid against the other. it may seem strange that any man should dare to ask a just god's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. the prayers of both could not be answered that of neither has been answered fully. the almighty has his own purposes. "woe unto the world because of offenses, for it must needs be that offenses come; but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." if we shall suppose that american slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of god, must needs come, but which, having continued through his appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both north and south this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offenses come, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living god always ascribe to him? fondly do we hope-fervently do we pray--that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. yet, if god wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, "the judgments of the lord are true and righteous altogether." with malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as god gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan-to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, a lasting, peace among ourselves and with all nations. transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. [illustration: "it was rolf in his weapons"] the story of rolf and the viking's bow by allen french author of "the junior cup," "sir marrok," etc. illustrated by bernard j. rosenmeyer boston little, brown, and company 1918 _copyright, 1904_, by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved_ the university press, cambridge, u.s.a. to my brother hollis french preface from thirty to sixty years ago appeared the greater number of the english translations of the icelandic sagas. since then the reading of these heroic tales has so completely gone out of style that their names are rarely mentioned in schools or even colleges. what boy feels his blood stir at the mention of grettir? how many lovers of good reading know that the most human of all epics lie untouched on the shelves of the public libraries? the wisdom of njal, the chivalry of gunnar, the villainy of mord, the manhood of kari, the savagery of viga-glum, the craft of snorri, and the fine qualities of biarni, of biorn, of skarphedinn, of illugi, of kolskegg, of hrut, of blundketil--all these are forgotten in the curious turn of taste which has made the stories of a wonderful people almost a lost literature. for the icelanders were a wonderful people. to escape the tyranny of kings they settled a new land, and there built up the laws and customs in which we see the promise of modern civilization. few early peoples had such a body of laws; few developed such manhood. no better pictures of a law-abiding, rural, and yet valiant race have ever been made than in the tales which the icelanders had the skill to weave about their heroes, those men who, at home in their island, or so far abroad as constantinople, made the name of icelander respected. we read of these men and this people in stories which, somewhat too "old" for boys and girls, reveal the laws, customs, habits of a thousand years ago. the njal's saga, the grettir's saga, the ere-dwellers' saga, and the gisli's saga are perhaps the greatest of those which have been translated. they are reinforced by such shorter pieces as hen thorir's saga, and the stories of the banded men, the heath-slayings, hraffnkell frey's priest, and howard the halt. the spirit of those days is particularly well given in that wonderful fragment of thorstein staffsmitten which (not being part of any complete saga) has been drawn upon for the closing incidents of the present story. many other such incidents are preserved, a reference to one of which (in a footnote to--i think--the ere-dwellers' saga) gave the suggestion for the main plot of this book. at the same time, in contemporary writings, we may read of the life of other divisions of the scandinavian race; the story nearest to this book is the orkneyingers' saga. the main interest of all these tales is the same: they tell of real men and women in real circumstances, and show them human in spite of the legends which have grown about them. the sagas reveal the characteristics of our branch of the aryan race, especially the personal courage which is so superior to that of the greek and latin races, and which makes the teutonic epics (whether the niebelungen lied, the morte darthur, or the njala) much more inspiring than the iliad, the odyssey, or the aeneid. the prominence of law in almost every one of the icelandic sagas has been preserved in the following story; and the conditions of life, whether at home or abroad, have been described as closely as was possible within the limits of the simple narrative form which the sagas customarily employed. allen french. concord, massachusetts, _may, 1904_. table of contents chapter page i. of the lighting of the beacon 1 ii. of the soursops, and the curse which hung on them 20 iii. kiartan at cragness 28 iv. of einar and ondott 42 v. the summoning of hiarandi 53 vi. of what hiarandi should do 59 vii. how hiarandi received the lesser outlawry 64 viii. of schemings 78 ix. of the outcome of ondott's plottings 91 x. how rolf named witnesses for the death of hiarandi 101 xi. of rolf's search for one to surpass him with the bow 109 xii. of the trial of skill at tongue 121 xiii. of that robber 129 xiv. how rolf and einar summoned each other 145 xv. of suits at the althing 155 xvi. the act of distress 166 xvii. rolf and frodi fare abroad 175 xviii. how those two came into thraldom 180 xix. now men are shipwrecked 192 xx. how rolf won his freedom 206 xxi. how rolf won the viking's bow 230 xxii. now kiartan returns 253 xxiii. of the coming of earl thorfinn 271 xxiv. now rolf and grani quarrel 279 xxv. here rolf comes to cragness 295 xxvi. of grani's pride 313 xxvii. odd doings at cragness 335 xxviii. of that harvest feast 345 xxix. of the trial of grani's pride 369 xxx. of the saying of those two words 385 list of illustrations "it was rolf in his weapons" _frontispiece_ "'now einar dies if my father is hurt'" _page_ 58 "so tall was she that the vikings could not board her" " 184 "there he sat as if he were still alive, but there was no sight in his eyes" " 224 "grani took his sword and his shield, and they stood up to fight by the spring" " 405 the story of rolf chapter i of the lighting of the beacon in the time after iceland had become christian, and after the burning of njal, but before the deaths of snorri the priest and grettir the outlaw, there lived at cragness above broadfirth a man named hiarandi, called the unlucky. and well was he so named, for he got a poor inheritance from his father, but he left a poorer to his son. now the farm of cragness was a fertile fell, standing above the land round about, and girt with crags. below lay broadfirth, great and wide, and cragness jutted out into it, a danger to ships. it had no harbor, but a little cove among the rocks, where hiarandi kept his boat; and many ships were wrecked on the headland, bringing fortune to the owners of cragness, both in goods and firewood. and all the land about once belonged to the farm. rich, therefore, would have been the dwellers at cragness, but for the doings of hiarandi's father. he would always be striving at the law, and he was of ill judgment or ill luck, for what he gained at the farm he always lost. the older he grew, the more quarrelsome he became; and judgments heaped heavy on him, until at last he was so hard put that he must sell all his outlying lands. so the farm, from a wide estate, became only the land of cragness itself, and another holding of a few acres, lying inland on the uplands, within sight of cragness and the sea. in the time when hiarandi was young, iceland was still heathen. he sought his fortune in a trading voyage, and sailed west-over-the-sea, trading in the south isles as a chapman, trafficking in goods of all kinds. and he made money there, so that at last when he sailed again for home he counted on a fair future. but the ship was wrecked in a storm, and few of the men came ashore; and hiarandi himself was saved by means of a maid who dwelt at the place, who dragged him from the surf. so hiarandi came home on foot, his clothes in tatters, having lost money rather than gained it. then his father, whose losses pressed heavy on him, struggled no more with the world, but went to his bed and died. and in that summer when all iceland took to the new faith, hiarandi became master at cragness. hiarandi was a silent man, not neighborly, but hard-working. an unworldly choice he made of a wife, for he took that woman who had saved him from the waves; she was the daughter of a small farmer and brought neither dowry nor kinship of any power. so men said that hiarandi had no wish to rise in the world. he lived upon his farm, with two thralls and a bondservant; and husbanding his goods well, by little and little he made money which he put out at call, and so bade fair to do better than his father, for all his poor start in life. and a loving spouse he had in asdis, his wife, who one day bore him a son. they named the lad rolf, and he grew to be well knit; he was not powerful, but straight and supple, and of great craft in his hands. and from delight in the boy hiarandi changed his ways, and became more gay, going to fairs and meetings for the sake of rolf. and hiarandi taught the lad all he knew of weapon-craft, which was not a little. the lad was swift of foot; he was skilled in the use of the sword and javelin, but most he delighted in the use of the bow. and that was natural, for upon the cliffs sea-birds lived in thousands, hard to catch. the boy went down to their nests with ropes, and took eggs in their season, or the young before they could fly, and both for food. so skilled was he in this that he was called craggeir, the cragsman; and no man could surpass him, whether in daring or skill. but there were times when there were no eggs nor fledglings, and from his earliest boyhood rolf practised in shooting with his bow at the birds, and he kept the larder ever full. happy was hiarandi watching his son, and his pride in him was great. as the lad grew stronger, the father made for him stronger bows and heavier arrows, until at the age of fourteen rolf used the bow of a man. then one winter they went down together into the valley, father and son, and watched the sports and games on the frozen mere. there the men of the place played at ball, and great was the laughter or deep was the feeling. now hiarandi would not let rolf play, for often matters came to blows, and he would not have his son maimed. but when it came to shooting with the bow, hiarandi put rolf forward, and it was seen who was the best at that play. for though the men shot, rolf surpassed them all, not in distance but in skill. he hit the smallest mark at the greatest distance; and when hiarandi brought a pigeon and freed it, then rolf brought it down. no one there had seen such shooting. then those who were not envious named the lad rolf the bowman. but a man named einar stood by, and he lived on the land which hiarandi's father had sold. he was rich but covetous, and fond of show, and fond of praise. there lived with him one named ondott, an eastfirther who had left his district and come west, a man without property. he stood with einar and watched the games. "see," said einar, "how proud is hiarandi of his son!" "thou hast a son as well," said ondott. "how he will shine among these churls when he returns from his fostering in the south isles!" "aye," answered einar. "like an earl will he be, and no farmer of these parts will compare with him." "and as for the shooting of this lad," remarked ondott, "it is not so fine after all." "in the orkneys," said einar aloud, so that others should hear him, "they are better bowmen than here, and the earl will have my son taught everything." now some who stood by brought hiarandi this tale. "have a care," said they. "thy neighbor einar sets himself above thee." "then he must set himself high," answered hiarandi with a laugh, "for his land lies far lower than mine." then others carried that tale to einar, and he laid it up in his mind; but hiarandi forgot all that had been said, nor did he remember to tell of it to asdis when they had returned from the games. then the winter passed on with severe storms, and ships were wrecked on cragness rocks, but no men reached shore. and einar envied the more the riches that came to hiarandi from the wrecks, in firewood, timber, and merchandise. and once a whale came ashore, and that was great fortune. but one evening, as those at cragness sat within the hall, asdis came and stood beside her husband, and said, "listen to the wind." "there is no need to listen," said hiarandi. "the wind howls for a storm, and this night will be bad." then thurid the bondservant, who sat by the fire, looked up and said, "ships are off the land." "hearest thou that?" asked asdis in a low voice. "the woman is strange, but she forecasts well." "aye," answered hiarandi, "it is likely that ships will be on the rocks by morning. "now," asked asdis, "dost thou remember the time thou camest ashore, these many years ago?" "how should i forget it?" responded hiarandi. "but no one can rush into the water here," said asdis, "to save those who are wrecked." "that is true," quoth hiarandi. "i am sorry for the mariners, yet how is one to help?" then the bondservant raised her head and sang this song: "the sea brings money; money is bonny. bless then the sea which brings good to thee." after that she sat silent and sunken as before. "hear the hag," said asdis, shuddering. "but we prosper through the misfortunes of others." "what is to be done?" asked hiarandi. "it is in my mind," said asdis, "that if we made a fire-beacon, people could steer from shore and so into safe harbor farther up the firth." "now," quoth hiarandi, "that might be done." "wilt thou do it?" asked asdis. then the woman raised her head and sang again: "he is a fool who leaves old rule. set heart 'gainst head. how then butter thy bread?" then hiarandi said to asdis: "no man has ever yet set beacons against shipwreck. all men agree to take the fortune of the sea; and what is cast on a man's beaches, that is his by old custom." "thinkest thou that is right?" asked asdis. "moreover," went on hiarandi, "the sea is but giving me again what it took away." "never can the sea," answered asdis, "give thee true happiness through other men's misfortunes." "remember the boy," said hiarandi. "shall i leave him with nothing to begin the world with? for my own earnings bring me at most a mark of silver in the year." "for all that," replied asdis, "it is in my mind that to do otherwise were to do better. now canst thou have the heart that men should die longer on our rocks, and we not do our best to save them?" then hiarandi, answering nothing, rose and paced up and down before the fire. and the carline sang once more: "take what is given. no man is wise who asketh twice if earth or heaven sends him his prize." but asdis stood upright, and she sang: "suffer not wrong to happen long, lest punishment from heaven be sent." now in iceland all men loved the singing of skalds; but though hiarandi had heard the carline sing many times before, never had he heard rhymes from his wife. so he stood astonished. then the bondservant sang again: "ill will attend the beacon's lighting. bad spirit's guiding will bring false friend." but asdis sang with great vehemence: "let god decide what fate shall ride upon the wind. be thou not blind to duty's hest. my rede is best. list to the storm! go! save from harm the mariner whose fate is near. to others do as i did once to you." and it seemed to hiarandi as if she commanded him. moreover, as he listened, the storm roared louder. then he seized his cloak, and cried to his thralls, "up, and out with me to make a beacon!" though they dared not disobey, they grumbled, and they got their cloaks slowly. for they saw slipping away from them the fine pickings from the wreck, which brought them warm clothes and handsome. out they went with hiarandi into the storm, and kindled a great fire at the edge of the cliff. and rolf toiled too; but asdis did best of all, for she brought out in a kettle great strips of whale's blubber, and flung them on the fire. then the flames flared high and wide, as bright as day. and rolf sprang to the edge of the cliffs and gazed upon the water. then, pointing, he cried, "look!" down below was a ship; its sail flapped in rags, and the crew were laboring mightily at the oars to save themselves, looking with dread at the white breakers and the looming rocks. now in the strength of their fear they held the vessel where she was; and by the broad light of the fire every man of them was visible to the cragness-dwellers. to rolf that was a dreadful sight. but the bit of a sail was set, and men ran to the steering-oar to hold the vessel stiff; and behold, she moved forward, staggered past the rocks, made clearer water, and wore slowly out into the firth. even the thralls shouted at the sight. then hiarandi left one of the thralls to keep the fire, and went back to the hall with those others. there the carline still sat. "so he is safe past the rocks?" she asked, yet speaking as if she knew. "aye, safe," answered hiarandi. "now," said she, "thou hast brought thy evil fortune on thyself, and it will be hard to avoid the extreme of it." "i care not," answered hiarandi, "even though i suffer for a good deed." "nevertheless," said the carline, "the future may be safe, though without riches, if thou wilt be guided by me. wilt thou follow my redes?" "no advices of thine do i follow," replied hiarandi. "for methinks thou still servest the old gods, and canst work witchcraft. speak no more of this matter in my house; and practise not thy sorcery before my eyes, for the law gives death as punishment." "now," answered the woman, "like a foolish man, thou rushest on thy fate. and i see clearly that thou art not he who was spoken of in the prophecy. not a fortunate soursop art thou." "since the slaying of kol, who put the curse on all our stock," answered hiarandi, "has but one of the soursops prospered. how then should i be fortunate?" "two were to prosper," the woman replied. "and each was to put an end to the curse in his branch of thy race. snorri the priest is one of those two, as all men know. but thou art not the other; and i believe that thou art doomed to fail, even as thy father was." "so i have long believed," said hiarandi calmly. then the carline rose, and her eyes were strange, as if they saw beyond that upon which she looked. "more misfortune is coming than thou deemest," she said. "outlawry. mayhap even death. be warned!" "thou art a heathen and a witch," said her master. "be still!" but she said: "i will not abide the curse. hiarandi, i have worked long in thy house. give me now my freedom and let me go." "thou hast long been free to go," he replied. "take thy croaking to another man's board! but this little prophecy i give to thee, that no man will believe thine ill-speaking." "no great foresight hast thou in that," she answered. "never have i been believed." then she drew on her cloak and hooded her face. "thou wilt not go in the storm?" asked asdis. "all times are alike," the woman said. "heed thou this, hiarandi. beware the man who came in the ship thou didst save!" "he is one," answered hiarandi, "whom i fear not at all." "beware suits at law," said the carline again, and she turned to go. "it needs no great wisdom to say that," retorted hiarandi upon her. "but stay! i send not people from my door penniless. nothing is owing from me to thee, yet i will give a piece of money." "soon," answered thurid, "thou wilt need all thou hast." and she went out into the night. chapter ii of the soursops, and the curse which hung on them of those things which had been said, rolf heard all, yet he had not spoken. now he drew near to his father, and said to him: "explain to me, father, the things of which the woman spoke. what is the curse upon us, and can such a thing be true?" then hiarandi answered: "thou knowest we are of the soursops, who got their name when they sopped with sour whey the fire which was kindled to burn them in their house. now gisli, the first of us, slew kol, his wife's foster-father, for the sake of his sword graysteel, and kol laid the curse of misfortune on us. slayings arose by means of that sword; there came the outlawing of gisli, the grandson of the first gisli, and death fell in most branches of the house. fourteen years gisli was outlaw, even as has been, to this year, grettir the strong, who is the great outlaw of our day. but gisli was slain, and his brother, while his sister died. son of that sister is snorri the priest, who alone of us has prospered; for though no slayings have ever happened in our branch, unlucky are we all, as is plain to see." "i have often wondered," said rolf, "how it is that we live here in this great hall and have but us three and the servants to fill it. there are places for seven fires down the middle of the hall, yet we use but one. and all the benches were once used, since they are worn: seats for fifty men, and the women's seats besides." "once," said hiarandi, "my father had so many on his farm that nightly the hall was full. but those serving-men are einar's now, and all our riches have passed away to him. yet this house is the finest in all these parts. i was at the building of it in my youth, and" (here he made sure that the thrall was not listening) "i myself made the secret panels by which we can escape in case of burning. for since that burning so long ago, no soursop builds himself a house in which men may trap him." "but thou hast no enemies, father?" asked the lad. "no enemies, i hope," answered hiarandi, "but few friends, i am sure, since only frodi the smith, my mother's cousin, is of our kin; for i count not snorri the priest." "but why not snorri the priest?" asked rolf. "my father," answered hiarandi, "quarrelled with him and called him coward. for snorri would not take up at arms a suit my father lost at law." then rolf thought awhile. all men knew of snorri the priest, who was no temple priest at all but a priest of the law. for the title had come down from heathen times, when leaders had sway over all matters, both in religion and law, and to be priest was to be chieftain. but usage and the new religion changed that by degrees; so that to be priest now meant to be a giver of the law, with a seat at the quarter courts and at the althing, the great yearly gathering to which from all iceland men went to settle suits. and snorri the priest was well known as the richest man in broadfirth dales, the shrewdest and wisest in all things worldly, and a master at the law. "it would be well," said the lad, "to have snorri on our side." "it is better," said asdis, "never to go to the law. lawsuits and quarrels are bad things, and they bring a man's fortune to naught." and hiarandi added, "by law we have ever suffered." then rolf was silent, and thought of what had been said: how the old woman had prophesied trouble at the law, and by what man that trouble should come. and as he thought upon the words she and his father had spoken, he thought that they had spoken with knowledge, though of different kinds: for while the woman prophesied vaguely, his father had seemed to know who the man should be. "father," asked rolf, "knowest thou who the man is that came upon the ship?" "i know," answered hiarandi. asdis asked: "who then is he?" hiarandi said: "saw ye upon the ship, as it lay below us, the faces of any of the men?" "aye," answered they both, "for it was as clear as day." "saw ye then," asked hiarandi, "one who stood by the mast, a tall man with a great beard?" "i saw him," answered rolf. "he stood and held by a rope and the mast, and i thought he should be the captain; but he gave no commands, nor did any man heed him, for all worked of themselves." "yet, as i guess," said hiarandi, "the captain was he, and he was the man of whom the carline spoke." "who is he, then?" asked the boy. "listen," said hiarandi, "and i will tell thee of one in my family of whom i have never yet spoken. there were two of us when i was a lad, brothers; and the other was named kiartan. he was younger than i by a year, and different in all his ways; yet i have often thought that my father had not enough patience with him. for he sent him to bad companions rather than weaned him from them, and at last he drove him from the house altogether. then kiartan took to the sea--he was not bad, remember, but weak perhaps and foolish--took to the sea, and we saw him not for years. once only he came back, out at elbow, and asked my father for money. money he got, but gave the promise to ask nothing from the inheritance; and this was handselled before witnesses, my father giving much, the rest to come to me. then kiartan went away again, and not until this night have i seen him. but if that was his ship, then he has prospered." "yet it was he the woman meant?" asked rolf. "who else?" returned his father. "how should he," asked the boy, "bring trouble on thee?" "i see not," answered hiarandi, "how he should bring either evil or good." then he closed his mouth and became thoughtful, in a manner he had. asdis motioned rolf to be silent, and nothing more was said in the matter. chapter iii kiartan at cragness on the morning of the fifth day thereafter, as rolf stood by the gate of the enclosure which protected the farm buildings, he saw a man coming on a horse, and knew him for his father's brother kiartan. he was a big man, heavily bearded, dressed in bright-colored clothes and hung about with gold chains. his eye was bright and roving; his face was genial, and he looked about him as he came as one who is well contented. yet rolf liked him not. now kiartan rode up to the enclosure and saw the boy. "ho!" he cried, "come hold my horse and stable him." so rolf took the horse by the bridle and held him while the man dismounted. then the boy started to lead the beast to the stable. "where is thy mistress?" asked kiartan. "my mother is in the house," answered rolf. "now," kiartan cried, "i took thee for a stable-boy. but thy father had ever a love of the earth, and so perhaps hast thou. knowest thou me?" "thou art my uncle," replied the lad. "now," cried kiartan, staring, "what spirit told thee of me?" "five nights ago," answered rolf, "thou stoodst below on the deck of thy ship, and lookedst up at cragness. and our beacon saved thee." "aye," said kiartan. "we had work to save our lives, and a close miss we made of the tusks." but he never gave a word of thanks, either to rolf or to hiarandi, for the saving of his life. "thou art wise to stay at home, boy; for see how a sailor's life hangs ever on a thread. now stable the horse, and i will see thy mother. the farmer is likely in the field." so rolf stabled the horse, and called his father from his work; and hiarandi came, muttering (though he meant not that rolf should hear), "poor steel comes often home for a new edge." but he greeted his brother well, and bade him stay with them for the winter. "even for that am i come," answered kiartan. "for my cargo is already sold, and my ship laid up for the winter near hvamm, and i come home to my kinsman. no poor penny am i this time, to need any man's help. perhaps," and he looked about him, "i can even help thee." but the buildings were neat and weather-tight, and the farm was in no need of improvement. "i need nothing," said hiarandi, "and i even have money out at call there in the neighborhood where thy ship is laid. but come, the wife prepares the meal. lay aside thy cloak and be at home." and so kiartan entered on his wintering at cragness. quiet is the winter in iceland, when men have no work to do in the field, save the watching of horses and the feeding of the sheep and kine. weatherwise must a man be to prepare against the storms, which sweep with suddenness from off the water and enfold the land with snow. yet hiarandi's flocks were small, and his sheep-range was not wide, and both he and rolf were keen to see the changes in the weather; and as for their horses, they stayed ever near the buildings. so all were free to go to the gatherings which men made for games and ball-play, in times of fair weather. thither kiartan loved to go, dressed in his fine clothes, and talking much. but nights when he sat at home he would speak of his travels, and what a fine place the world was, and how little there was for a man here in iceland. he said it was nothing to be a farmer, but a great thing to rove the sea, and to live, not in this land where all were equal, but where there were kings, earls, and other great men. once as he spoke thus he provoked hiarandi to words. "meseems, brother," the farmer said, "that thou hast forgotten the way our forefathers thought. for it was to avoid kings and earls that they left their lands in norway and came over the sea hither. and those whom thou prizest so high are so little thought of here that we make nothing of them whatever." "now," answered kiartan, "thy neighbor einar thinks well of earls, for he has fostered his son with the earl of the orkneys." "the lad will understand little of our ways when he returns," replied hiarandi. "for all that," kiartan said, "i name the son of einar luckier than thy son here. a great court is held in the orkneys, and all matters are to be learned there." then hiarandi made response: "no court can teach good sense to a dolt, and no wisdom will flourish unless there be good ground for it to sprout. i have seen wise men bred in this little land, and fools that came out of norway." then kiartan talked not so much before hiarandi of the things he had seen, nor for a time before rolf either. but when there came again the great winter ball-play, to which all went, and rolf shot again with the bow before them all, and proved himself the most skilful, though not yet the strongest: after that kiartan made more of the lad. "men," said he to rolf one day when they were alone, "may be able to shoot farther than thou with the bow, for two did it. but none shot so surely. and some day thou wilt outshoot them as well." "i think not much of it," answered rolf. "now," said kiartan, "thou shouldst learn to prize thyself higher. for in the orkneys good archers are welcome in the earl's body-guard, and a man is honored and well paid." "yet he is no longer his own man," answered rolf. "what of that?" asked kiartan. "if for a few years he can see the world, and make his fortune also, then he is forever after a greater man at home. think more of thyself!" and at other times he spoke in the same strain, bidding rolf value himself higher. and he told of the great world, and described his journeys. for he had been, he said, as far as the great middle sea, had traded in italy, and had even seen rome. and rolf was greatly interested in those tales; for the lands across the sea were of moment to all icelanders, since many a man fared abroad often, and no man thought himself complete who had not once made the voyage. so he listened willingly, when kiartan told his tales at evening in the hall. the parents were inattentive; but sometimes hiarandi, and sometimes asdis, would interrupt the story, sending the lad to some task or to bed. now at last it draws toward spring, and the time approaches when kiartan must go away to his ship, to dight it for the voyage. and it was remembered afterward how one evening he drew hiarandi on to talk of his savings, and learned what money he had out at interest, and with whom. and kiartan spoke the oftener with rolf, praising him for the fine man he was growing to be. then at his last night at cragness the shipmaster said, as all sat together before the fire: "brother, thou knowest i must go away to-morrow." "aye," answered hiarandi. "now," said kiartan, "let me say to thee what is in my mind. take it not ill that i speak freely. but i think it wrong of thee that thou keepest here at home such a fine lad as is rolf thy son." and he would have put his hand upon the boy's shoulder, but rolf drew away. kiartan went on: "now i am going to the south isles. send rolf with me, and let him see the world." then hiarandi grew uneasy, and he answered: "speak no more of this. some day he shall see the lands across the main, but as yet he is too young." "nay," answered kiartan, "he is nearly full-grown. what sayest thou, rolf? wilt thou not go with me?" rolf answered: "i will be ruled by my father." "i have made much money," reasoned kiartan, "and thou canst do the same." "i care not for trading," replied rolf. "there are courts to be seen," said kiartan, "and thou mayest serve in them thyself." "i am not ready to be a servant," quoth rolf. "but thou mayest see wars and fighting," cried kiartan. "i have no quarrels of my own," answered the boy, "and i mix not in the affairs of others." now hiarandi and asdis had listened with both anger and fear,--anger that kiartan should so tempt the boy, and fear at what rolf might answer. but rolf spoke with wisdom beyond his years; and at his last response hiarandi smiled, and asdis clapped her hands. then kiartan started from his seat and cried: "out upon ye all for stay-at-homes!" and he would speak no more with them that night, but went to his locked bed and shut himself in. yet he spoke to the lad once more in the morning, out by the byre while rolf was saddling the horse. "surely," said kiartan, "thou didst not mean what thou saidst last night, for the fear of thy parents was in thy mind. now let me tell thee what we can do. i will go on for the lading of my ship, and that will take a fortnight's time. then i will wait for thee at the mouth of laxriver, and thou canst come thither and join me secretly." "now," said the lad, "if i tell my father this, he will give thee a beating. therefore i will remain silent until thy ship has sailed." then kiartan turned pale, and cursed, and made as if to strike his nephew. but rolf put his hand to his belt, and kiartan drew away. yet rolf had no knife. "i see," said rolf, "that thou art not quick at arms nor sure of thy own strength, even against me. and i knew thou wert a coward long ago, when i saw thee on thy ship's deck, giving no orders, but letting other men save thy ship and thyself. no great deeds of daring would i see with thee as shipmaster." when kiartan rode away, he was as glad at parting as were those of the house. "he is not changed," said hiarandi, "in all the years he has been gone." "where," asked asdis, "is the harm which he was to do us?" and she laughed, but rejoiced too soon. for after six weeks men came to hiarandi, sent from laxriverdale, where traders had given goods to kiartan upon his promise that hiarandi should pay. and it was discovered that kiartan had not only used the money which hiarandi had out at call in that region, but had obtained goods from other men creating debts. and he had filled all his ship at hiarandi's expense. then rolf told to his father his own tale of kiartan's secret offer, and hiarandi was bitterly wroth. and then began those troubles which thurid had foreseen. for when hiarandi refused to pay for the goods, but instead sought to regain his money from those who had supplied kiartan, the matter was brought to the law. and first at the quarter thing, and then at the althing, many small suits were disputed. but the end of the matter was, that hiarandi was beaten by the skill of lawyers; and he had to lose his money and pay more besides, and stood stripped of all which he had laid up against his age, or against that time when rolf should need a start in life. and the farmer was greatly cast down, recalling the misfortunes of the soursops, and how he himself had been always called the unlucky. but asdis and rolf strove to keep him in good heart. chapter iv of einar and ondott now the tale turns to speak of einar and his household, how they dwelt at fellstead, upon the low-lying land. einar was a rich man, and he kept a large household of many thralls and servants. and for his pleasure, that he might seem the greater in the eyes of his neighbors, he kept men who did no work, but bore arms wheresoever they went; yet it had never been known that einar brought any matter to bloodshed. he was not firm in any dealings, but he wished to be thought a great man. his holding was wide, for he owned all that the fathers of hiarandi had had. yet from his yard he often looked with no contented eye toward the hall of hiarandi, where it stood above the crags, looking far over firth and fell. now of the men of einar's household ondott had the ruling, for he pleased einar much, yet they were different in all outward ways. for einar was short and plump, given to puffing and swelling as he spoke, and of many smooth words; but ondott was tall and thin, lean-visaged and sour, and of surly speech. einar was fond of dress, while ondott went in simple clothes; yet they both loved money, and some accused ondott of hoarding, but einar spent freely, seeking to gain by gifts what his wit could not win for him. for he was not loved, and men thought little of his counsels. of the women at fellstead one old freedwoman was chief; and she held in especial care the daughter of einar, helga by name, who was yet young, being but thirteen years of age. she was of a sweet nature. now one morning helga stood with dalla the old woman before the women's door of the hall, and they saw where came toward them a woman much bent, and covered with a cape and hood; when she came near, they knew her for thurid from cragness. she begged them for lodging and work. dalla sent for einar. "how is it come," asked einar, "that thou hast left hiarandi?" "the man," said she, "calls upon his doom, and i will not stay to share it." and she told of the beacon, and how thereby a ship had been saved. "now," quoth einar, "hiarandi is a fool, so to break an old custom." "yet meseems," said helga timidly, "that it was a kind thing to do." "thou art but a child," he answered reprovingly. but she came closer to him and pulled his sleeve. "let not the old woman stay here," she whispered. "for i like not her looks, and i mistrust her." but ondott, who heard, said: "nay, let us keep the old carline, if only to spite hiarandi." and dalla added: "she is a good worker, and handy to have about the place. let us give her room." so einar bade thurid go within, and do what work was set her, in pay for her keep. but he asked her before he went away: "why camest thou here?" "a rat," said she, "will leave a house that is sure to fall, and seek one which will stand." then einar was greatly pleased with her, and bade give her a better cloak. so it was that thurid dwelt at fellstead, and paid well with her work for her keep; but at cragness she was missed, and the work was harder. yet thurid made no more prophecies, nor spoke of those which had been made. but it was known that the thralls of hiarandi were set to light beacons on stormy nights, and he was much laughed at by the dwellers at fellstead. and his thralls found it hard work, and became greatly discontented; yet since it was winter time, they had little else to do. now one of them was named malcolm, a scot, and he came one day to fellstead, when he was not needed at the farm. and ondott met him, and asked him in, and asked him questions of matters at cragness. as they spoke by the fire, thurid passed by, and she sang to herself: "evil and ill come together still." malcolm asked: "does the woman still make her rhymes with you?" "little have i heard her sing," answered ondott. "but what sang she with you?" then malcolm told of the singing of thurid and asdis, and of the prophecies of the old woman. and when he went away, ondott gave him a small piece of money and bade him come again. then ondott called thurid, and asked her of the things she had said at cragness, what they might mean. but he got little from her; for first she would not speak, and then she only muttered, and at last all she said was this rhyme: "no need to teach or trick or speech to him whose mind all wiles will find." and ondott could make nothing out of that; moreover, because it was kiartan whom hiarandi had saved, he thought that the farmer had strengthened himself by his deed. for only when the news came of the trick of kiartan in cheating his brother did ondott think that there might be something in the old woman's forecasting. and he and einar spoke cheerfully together of the misfortune to their neighbor. then summer drew on, and the quarter thing was held, and then came bad news to einar in his hall. for a seafaring man landed at hunafloi, and came across to broadfirth; and he brought word that in the orkneys kiartan had foully slain a man of broadfirth, whose nearest of kin was einar, so that it was einar's duty to follow up the blood-suit. here it must be said, for those who know not the customs of those days, that the death of a man called for atonement from the slayer, either his death or a payment in money, unless the slaying could be justified. the nearest of kin must take the suit against the slayer; and if the slayer should die, then his nearest of kin must take the defence. and the law is clearly shown by the case of the heath-slayings and other famous quarrels, when from small broils great feuds arose, from the duty of kinship and the unwillingness to pay blood-fines for another's deed. thus einar took upon him his duty, and vowed that kiartan should pay with either money or blood. all stood by and heard this, and they applauded. but ondott said: "come now outside with me and speak of this, but give the messenger food and bid him rest here the night." so that was done, and einar went out into the yard with ondott, and walked up and down with him. said ondott: "long are we likely to wait ere we lay hands on kiartan. for he hath set his own brother strong against him, and scarce will he dare return to iceland." "that may be true," said einar gloomily. "i like it not," said ondott, "that hiarandi should know this spite his brother has done thee, and yet be free himself. in the old days, which are not so long past, a man would have gone against hiarandi with weapons. and he hath no relatives to harm thee." "for all that," answered einar, "the men of the quarter would not like it. lawfully must vengeance be taken, or not at all. yet it is hard if my money and thy wit cannot rid me of these brothers, who anger me, and hiarandi more than kiartan." and he looked across at cragness with fretting. "well mayest thou say that," answered ondott, "for there stands hiarandi's hall, which he cannot fill, while thou in thine art cramped for room. it is plainly true what people say, that thou canst never come into the honor which should be thine, while thou livest here, where strangers take thee for hiarandi's tenant, or even his freedman." "they take me for his freedman!" cried einar. "now that is not to be borne! and i say to thee, get me hiarandi's house and i will reward thee well." then ondott laid a plan before him. it should be given out that kiartan was dead: the man who brought the news of the slaying might be bribed to swear to kiartan's death. then the blood-suit could be brought against hiarandi in place of kiartan; and all men knew that hiarandi had no money to pay the fine, so that he must sell his farm. "now," quoth einar in great delight, "i will lengthen thy name, and thou shalt be called ondott crafty." for that was a saying in those days, to lengthen a man's name by giving him a nickname. then they called from the house that man who had brought the news. because he was an outlander he was easily persuaded to swear to kiartan's death. einar gave him money, both for himself and to pay his passage outward. then witnesses were called to hear the oath; and on the morrow the man departed, and took ship for ireland, and he is out of the story. chapter v the summoning of hiarandi when that man who had brought the news and made the false swearing was well out of the country, then ondott bestirred himself to go against hiarandi. said he to einar: "it is time that we summon hiarandi soon to answer to the blood-suit, for the sitting of the althing draws nigh." to that einar assented, and on the morrow ondott bade two men arm themselves and go with them to cragness. "why need we men?" asked einar. "we must have witnesses to the summoning," answered ondott. "but it is not necessary to bear arms," said einar. "we will prepare ourselves," replied ondott, "as becomes thy dignity and as regards thy safety, for hiarandi hath a quick temper." then einar said no more, and they rode to cragness. but ondott knew well that at such summonings quarrels often arose; and he said privily to his men, hallmund and hallvard: "look that your swords be loose in their sheaths." they rode into the yard at cragness and called hiarandi from his house. hiarandi came, and with him rolf, bearing his bow, for he was about to go out for birds. "hiarandi," said einar, "we have come to speak of the blood-suit for the slaying of my kinsman." "that thy kinsman is slain i knew," answered hiarandi, "but i see not how it affects me in any way, so long as my brother be living." "but thy brother is dead," replied einar, and told that kiartan was shipwrecked in the orkneys. "this is the first i have heard of it," said hiarandi. then ondott spoke. "knowing thy suspicious nature," said he, "i brought with us the men who were witnesses to the oath the messenger made. thus canst thou know thy brother is truly dead." hallvard and hallmund said they had witnessed the oath. hiarandi answered no word, but looked from one to the other. "now," said ondott, "these same men will be witnesses to what we say here together." and this he said in a manner to provoke hiarandi, yet he still answered nothing. "is it not better," asked einar, "that this matter be settled here quietly, between neighbors, rather than be brought before the judges at the althing?" "quietly settled is always best," answered hiarandi. "yet i see not how this matter is to be settled at all, seeing i have no money to make atonement." "now," said ondott quickly to einar, "let me speak for thee in this affair." then einar gave the matter into the hands of ondott. "all men know," began ondott then, "that thou art poor, hiarandi." and he saw hiarandi flush with anger. then he went on to propose that an exchange be made of cragness for some parts of einar's land, much less in value. and he spoke with such words that hiarandi would feel insulted, and marked him grow ever redder in the face. when he had finished, hiarandi burst out upon him. "foolish are ye to suppose," cried hiarandi, "that i will ever give up this stead which my fathers have settled. let this matter come to the courts of law." ondott spoke to einar. "there is no reasoning with a madman. thou must recite the summons." then einar, who knew the law well, spoke the summons, and named the deed which was done on his kinsman, and made hiarandi answerable; and called him to appear before the quarter court at the althing, there to justify the slaying, or pay the blood-fine, or be made an outlaw. everything he said in due legal form, and ondott and the two men were named as witnesses. then he prepared to ride away, but ondott spoke once more. "if thou canst not keep land, hiarandi, better than thy father, then must thou lose this place in the end." hiarandi could not restrain his wrath. he spoke no word; but he strode to ondott, and smote with his staff. ondott warded the blow, but the arm was broken at the wrist. then ondott cried to hallvard and hallmund: "set upon him!" those two drew their swords, and in that moment hiarandi stood in danger of his life. but rolf had strung his bow and set an arrow on the string. he drew the shaft to its head, and aimed at einar, and cried: "now einar dies if my father is hurt!" [illustration: "'now einar dies if my father is hurt'"] they drew away hastily, and dared do no more, for they knew the aim of the lad. nothing more was done in violence; yet before he rode away did ondott summon hiarandi for that hurt to him. and there the matter rested, with two suits against hiarandi. then all was quiet until the time came for folk to ride to the althing. chapter vi of what hiarandi should do hiarandi spoke not at all of the suits against him, yet he was continually gloomy. and one day he said: "much better were it now, had i never lighted the beacon that night." "thou knowest," responded asdis, "that thou didst right." "still," said hiarandi, "summer gales oft bring wrecks, and one ship might pay the blood-fine for me." "for all that," asdis answered, "thou hast not now the heart to stop lighting the beacon." then on the second night thereafter came a storm; but nothing was said, except that hiarandi bade the beacon be lighted. yet he was gloomier than ever. one night rolf asked him: "why is it that thou art to answer for that deed which my uncle has done?" "one must answer for a kinsman's deed," answered his father, "when that kinsman is dead." "and what is the punishment," asked rolf, "for slaying?" "a fine or outlawry," replied hiarandi. "tell me of outlawry," begged rolf. "for i hear of outlaws who live and work among men, and of those who flee into hiding, and of those who go overseas." "there are outlaws of many kinds," answered hiarandi. "some outlaws are condemned not to leave a district, or even a farm; but some must leave iceland or else defend their lives. but most outlawries are like this, that a man must go abroad three winters, and then he is free to return. if he stays, his enemies may slay him if they can, and no man may ask atonement. thus they who burned njal in his house did fare abroad; but on the other hand gisli our ancestor lived in hiding, and would not go. and grettir the strong, as all men know, lives to-day an outlaw, in one district or another; and no man has taken him, though there is a great price set upon his head." "if thou art made outlaw," asked rolf, "what wilt thou do?" "ask me not," said hiarandi. "for the matter troubles me. if i go abroad, how will ye all live? and it will profit you nothing if i stay and am slain. yet if i am made outlaw, and go not, my goods and the farm are forfeit." as greatly as hiarandi feared the outcome of these suits, so were those at fellstead pleased by their hopes. and no one heard the carline thurid, who sang to herself when she heard ondott boast: "he laughs too soon who doth forget, soursop blood binds kinsmen yet." but asdis thought rightly in the matter. for she said to hiarandi: "what wilt thou do for thy defence at law? is there no lawyer to help thee?" "help is offered," answered her husband, "to those who have money. and i have none." "then wilt thou ask help of snorri the priest? there is no other to give thee counsel." "not close," replied hiarandi, "is the tie of blood between us, and small is the friendship. moreover, snorri draws ever to those who wax in fortune, and such is einar; and he helps little those whose fortunes wane, and such am i." "now," cried asdis, "be not as a man who sees his own doom, and stirs not to help himself. where is thy manhood? bestir thyself for my sake and rolfs, and do what thou canst for our good! now promise me that thou wilt ask help of snorri." thus she stirred hiarandi to shake off his gloom, so that he promised. and when the time came for him to ride to the althing, he went with a better heart. chapter vii how hiarandi received the lesser outlawry hiarandi travelled to the althing all alone; he had a good horse and stout clothes, but in nothing was he noticeable, so that men who passed him on the road gave him only the good-day, yet asked him not to join their company. and he saw how men of power rode with their thingmen behind them, all in colored clothes and well armed. he saw hrut, the famous swordsman, how he rode with eleven full-grown sons at his back, and men besides, so that all thought that a grand sight. and many others rode to the althing with great pride. then hiarandi recalled that his own father had ridden in holiday guise to bring his suits; and as he compared his father's state with his own, he who went alone and unnoticed, but at home was called the unlucky, then his heart was greatly cast down within him. he came to the thingvalla, where all the plain was a busy hive of men. and he found humble lodging at a booth, and stabled his horse under the cliff, and spent the night alone amid the throng. then on the morrow, at midday, he went out to have speech with snorri. at snorri's booth he was told that snorri was at talk with a client within. "then i will wait," said hiarandi, and sat down on a bench at the door. but it was bitter to him that he should sit there, a poor suitor, at the door of his kinsman. now he had not sat there long when he heard his own name spoken within, and he knew the voice of his neighbor einar. and einar was saying, "thou art not bound to hiarandi in any way." then he heard another voice, the voice of an old man--for snorri was advanced in years--saying: "small enough are the ties between myself and hiarandi." then hiarandi rose and walked away. and he forgot all he had promised his wife, and all she had said to him: how he should forget himself in struggling for her sake and rolf's. but that melancholy came over him which was his greatest weakness. "i am too late," he said to himself, "for einar is before me. my case is lost, and my farm too; for on whose side snorri is, on that side has fallen the judgment for this score of years. and the twists of the law are too hard for me to understand, since meseems right hath no place in a law-finding. yet i will defend myself as i may." then on the morrow the althing was opened, and the four quarter courts sat in their places, and the fifth court sat at the hill of laws. and hiarandi, as he went to the court of the westfirthers, saw where einar walked also thither with snorri, keeping close by his elbow, and laughing as he talked. ondott also was there, slinking behind like a fox. and on that very first day hiarandi's case was called early. now einar had men of the law as his friends, and they had taught him what to say. and he opened the case, speaking loud and clearly, and called on hiarandi to answer the charges. but hiarandi stood up alone, without counsel, and spoke for himself. soon he saw that the case went against him. for einar and his friends knew so much of the law that their wiles were many, and hiarandi was soon confused, so that his answers were not wise. and einar smiled where he stood, so that he confused hiarandi the more. then einar demanded judgment unless hiarandi had more to say. and he was about to give up his case. then came some one and stood at hiarandi's elbow, and said: "thou shouldst demand a stay in the proceedings." hiarandi looked at the man, but he was muffled in a cloak, so that his face was not to be seen. then hiarandi asked: "for what reason can i ask a stay?" the man replied: "it is always permitted to ask it, to get counsel." but hiarandi said: "no counsel can save me here. let an end come now." "foolish art thou," answered the man. "dost thou forget those at home? do as i bid!" then hiarandi asked a stay, and it was granted him until the morrow. but when he turned to ask the man his advice, he was gone, and hiarandi could not see him anywhere. then he went to beg help of those versed in the law, but they said he should have come sooner, for they were now too busy to help him. once more, thinking again of asdis and rolf, he went to ask help of snorri the priest; but he was not at his booth, and men said he would be at the courts all day. at that hiarandi went away again; and he wandered about the thing-field, seeing no one whom he could ask for help, but beholding everywhere men too busy with their own affairs to heed him. at last toward dusk his courage forsook him once more, and he went and sat down on the bank of the river, believing his case lost. as he sat there the light grew dim, and of a sudden he saw at his side the man muffled in the cloak. "now is seen," said the man, "the truth of the old saw: 'he that pleadeth his own cause hath a fool for his client.' for a sound case hadst thou, but it is well-nigh ruined beyond remedy." "what should i have done?" asked hiarandi. "thou shouldst have asked aid of snorri the priest." "but he," said hiarandi, "has been in talk with einar, who sues me." "since when," asked the man, "has snorri been used to pledge himself to all who come to him? hast thou forgotten he is of thy kin?" "we are both come," said hiarandi, "from the stock of gisli the outlaw. but if gisli was his uncle, so also was gisli the slayer of his father. so snorri is both against us and for us by the tie of blood; and he forgetteth and remembereth as he chooseth, or as his interest bids." then said the man: "thou givest him no good character. yet at least thou couldst have let him have the say, which way his interest lies." but hiarandi answered in bitter mood: "snorri casteth his weight where is the greater power, that his own strength may grow." "he would not thank thee should he hear thee," answered the stranger. "yet methinks that even in matters which concern his own advancement, he should be free to choose for himself." "now," asked hiarandi, "shall i go to snorri and crave his help?" "nay," replied the cowled man, "now it is too late. for this evening snorri holdeth counsel on weighty matters concerning chiefs from the south firths, who are to meet him at his booth." "why, then," asked hiarandi, "didst thou persuade me to ask a stay of judgment? for my fate meets me after all." "perhaps even i," said the man, "know more of the law than thou. now wilt thou be ruled by me?" "that i will," answered hiarandi quickly. "then shalt thou do thus and so," said the man. and he instructed hiarandi how he should speak on the next day. "and this shalt thou do even though thou seest snorri in company with einar.--nay, make no question, for else thou art ruined." and with this the man went away. in the morning all men go to the courts again; and hiarandi marks how einar walks with snorri, and they seem merry together, though einar laughs the most. nevertheless, hiarandi stands up when his case is called, and does as the cowled man had said, for he demands of einar what forfeiture he will name. "either," said einar, "that thou shalt pay down the worth of three hundreds in silver, or that thou shalt be outlawed." "now," said hiarandi, "it seems hard that so much shall be my punishment. but wilt thou take this offer, that we handsel this case to snorri the priest, and abide by his finding?" einar hesitated. but many standing by said that was fair; moreover, that was a custom much followed. and again, einar did not wish the outlawing of hiarandi; but he felt sure that snorri would lay a blood-fine, which must force hiarandi to sell his farm. and he thought his cause was sure, so he said after a moment: "i will." so they handselled the suit to snorri, striking hands together before the judges, and agreeing to abide by his decision. then snorri stood up to speak. einar smiled at him that he might remind him of their companionship, but snorri smiled not at all. "thus it seems to me," he said, and all men listened while he spoke--for snorri was one of those who had known the great men of old time, who had seen the great fight at the althing after njal's burning, and who had swayed its event. "thus it seems to me," said snorri. "the case of hiarandi was a good one at the beginning, yet he has well-nigh spoiled it. but the case of einar seems strong, yet it is weak. for he has named as witnesses two men of kin to the slain man; also he has not called a man who is nearer neighbor than one he has called. also these men are neither landholders, nor money owners, nor owners of sheep or cattle; but they live in einar's hall at his expense. now let einar say if all these things are not true." then einar had to speak; and he acknowledged that his witnesses, who should make the jury, were chosen as snorri had said. then snorri set those men out of the jury, and only six were left. "seven men are needed to make the tale of the witnesses complete," quoth snorri. "therefore it is plain that this case of the slaying shall fall to the ground, and no atonement shall be paid. but as to the case of the striking of ondott, that is another matter; and it is a case of contempt of the thing, for one who goes to serve summons in a suit is free to go and come unscathed, and is under the protection of the men of the quarter. therefore i doom hiarandi to the lesser outlawry, after this manner: he shall remain upon his farm for the space of one year, nor go beyond its limits more than the length of a bowshot, upon penalty of full outlawing. but shall he become a full outlaw, then his property, and the inheritance of his son, is not to be forfeit, but only hiarandi's life is to be in danger. and such is my finding." then snorri sat him down. then men murmured together, discussing the judgment; and all said that he knew the law to its uttermost quibble, and he knew men as well, for who told him that the jury was wrongly constituted? and einar was wroth, complaining that snorri was tender of his relative. but hiarandi was glad, and a weight fell from him, for he saw how he had been saved from all that threatened him. he went to snorri to thank him. snorri took his thanks, and smiled at hiarandi. "now is clearly seen," quoth he, "how much snorri thinks of his own honor, and how little of that of his kinsmen." hiarandi had nothing to answer. "and it is also plain," said snorri, "how i always favor the rich, but care nothing for poor men." "now i see," said hiarandi, "that thou wert the man in the cloak." "mayest thou perceive as well," responded snorri, "that thou hast a friend in the world who will help thee when he can." but he would take no more thanks, advising hiarandi to go home and set his affairs in order, since from the rising of the althing to its next sitting he must not quit his farm. "and take heed," quoth snorri, "that thou losest not thy life from carelessness, or from the wiles of thine enemies." then hiarandi betook himself home. chapter viii of schemings until the time when the althing must rise, hiarandi set his affairs in order, and was busy thereat. he arranged who should buy his hay, and who should supply him with this matter and that, although it was clear that many things must be done by the hands of rolf. also frodi the smith, kinsman of the cragness-dwellers, was to come to cragness whenever he might. thus it was all settled; and when the althing rose, then hiarandi withdrew upon his farm for the space of one year. but rolf had to see to the sheep-shearing, since the washing was best done beyond the farm, upon common land. also the selling of the wool came to rolf's lot, and he travelled to the market therewith. through the autumn he was much busied with his father's matters; and it rejoiced his parents that the lad, who had come now into his fifteenth year, was wise and foreseeing, and looked well to all that was trusted to his hand. then the winter drew nigh; and the hay was stored, and the time came when the sheep must be gathered from their summer pastures, when the frosts drove them down from the uplands. all men met at the great sheep-fold which the father of hiarandi had built; but hiarandi might not be there, because the fold was now on einar's land, full five bowshots from the boundaries of cragness. rolf went with the thralls to the separating of the sheep by means of their marks; but hiarandi sat at home, looking out at the gathering of people, and might not be at any of the doings. now ondott crafty had oversight of einar's sheep, and he examined the sheep's ear-marks, and said whose they were. rolf gave to the thralls the sheep to drive home; but frodi the smith, who was the mildest of men, took the sheep from the hands of ondott. this task rolf gave to frodi, because he would not himself have speech with ondott, who was now well of his broken arm, but whose temper was not improved by his hurt. now ondott came to a sheep which had torn its ear, so that the mark was scarred. then said ondott: "this sheep is einar's." "nay," said frodi, "i remember the wether, and he is hiarandi's." "looks not the mark," asked ondott, "like the mark of einar?" "yes," said frodi, "but the mark is scarred, and is changed." "now," quoth ondott, "call hiarandi hither, and let him decide." this he said with a sneer: but frodi answered gravely: "my cousin shall not break his outlawry for a sheep. but call rolf hither." "i call no boys to my counsel," answered ondott. "the matter is between thee and me." then frodi was perplexed, for in disputes and bargains he mixed little. "but," said he, "meseems this is best. drive the sheep to cragness, and let hiarandi see it." "now," said ondott, "i have no time for that. but draw thy whittle, and we can settle the matter here." then frodi looked upon his long knife, and said nothing. "why carriest thou the whittle, then," asked ondott, "if thou art not ready to use it?" "my whittle," answered frodi, "is to cut my bread and cheese, and to mend my shoes on a journey." then all the men who stood about hooted at the simple answer. ondott said: "betake thyself then to bread and cheese, but the sheep is ours." and he sent the sheep away to join einar's flock. now frodi was puzzled, and he said: "i will not follow up the matter, but will pay for the sheep out of mine own savings." but when he offered to pay, rolf and hiarandi were angered, for the wether was a good one. yet they could get no satisfaction from einar, although they might not blame frodi, knowing his peaceful nature. now, as the winter approached, came chapmen, traders, into the neighborhood, and laid up their ship near cragness; and all men went to chaffer with them. but hiarandi must stay at home. then for company's sake he sent and bade the shipmaster dwell with him for the winter; but ondott crafty, learning of it, won the shipmaster, by gifts, to stay with einar. and that pleased hiarandi not at all. then the winter came, and men had little to do, so they held ball-play on the ponds; yet hiarandi could not go thither. and the life began to irk him much. when spring drew near, frodi went back to his smithy, and the household was small. one day ondott said to einar: "still we sit here, and gaze at the house where we should live." "what is there to do?" asked einar. "nothing brings hiarandi from his farm, not even the loss of his wether. i have set spies to watch him, but he never comes beyond the brook which marks his boundary." "yet there is something to be done," answered ondott. "wait awhile." and the winter passed, and the chapmen began to dight their ship for the outward voyage. now malcolm the scot, the thrall of hiarandi, stood often on the crag when his day's work was done, and gazed at the ship of the chapmen. one evening ondott went thither to him, seeing that he was out of sight of the hall. "why gazest thou," asked ondott, "so much at the ship? wouldst thou go in her?" "aye," answered the thrall, "for she goes to my home. but i have not the money to purchase my freedom, though hiarandi has promised in another year to set me free." "wilt thou wait another year when thou mightest slip away now?" cried ondott. "but perhaps thou fearest that the shipmaster would give thee up." "that also," said the thrall, "was in my mind." then ondott said: "the shipmaster has dwelt with us the winter through, and i know well what sort of man he is. now i promise that if thou comest to him three nights hence, he will keep thee hidden, and no one shall see thee when they sail in the morning." the thrall hesitated, but in the end he did as ondott desired, and he gained his freedom by the trick. thus was the work at cragness rendered harder for those who remained, and frodi could not come to help. "hiarandi," said ondott to einar, "is at last coming into those straits where i wished him. now be thou guided by me, and i promise that in the end thy wishes will be fulfilled. come, we will go to cragness as before, and make offer to hiarandi to buy his land." and he persuaded einar to go. they went as before, with hallvard and hallmund. "shall we go armed?" asked the men. "nay," answered ondott, "only witnesses do i desire." now when hiarandi was called forth by einar, rolf also was by, but he saw that they of fellstead bore no arms. again ondott spoke in the place of einar. "hiarandi," said he, "all men can see what fortune is thine, since thy thrall has left thee and thy work is harder. truly thou art called unlucky. but einar pities thy condition, and he offers thus: take from him a smaller farm, and the difference in silver. and since this outlawry is from us, from the time ye two handsel the bargain thou art free to go where thou wilt, without fear of thy life." but hiarandi spoke to einar, and not to ondott. "why comest thou hither," he said, "like a small man to chaffer over little things? this outlawry irks me not, and in two months i am free to go where i wish. go home; and when thou comest again, find thy tongue and speak for thyself!" then he went indoors and left them. so einar and those others rode homeward, and he thought his journey shameful. "see," said he to ondott, "where thy counsels have brought me. i am mocked and sent away." "now," ondott replied, "that has happened which i desired, and i brought men to hear. for thou hast made a fair offer to hiarandi, and hast shown a good heart. now what happens to him is his own fault, and no man can blame us." then he commanded the two men that they should tell everyone what had been said, showing how einar had been generous, but hiarandi insulting. and when they reached the house, ondott said to einar in private: "thou shalt see that hiarandi hath sown the seeds of his own destruction. leave all to me." not many evenings thereafter, ondott put himself in the way of the second thrall of hiarandi, and spoke with him. "how goes all at cragness?" asked ondott. "hard," said the thrall, "for we are at the spring work; and hiarandi spares not himself, nor me either, and the work is heavy since my fellow is gone." "now, why not make thy lot lighter," asked ondott, "by taking service elsewhere?" "i am a slave," said the man, "and not a servant." he did not tell that his freedom had been promised him, for he thought that time far away, since it was three years. for hiarandi had the custom that a thrall should serve with him not for life, but for only seven years, and this man had been with him a less time than malcolm. "the life of a thrall," said ondott, "is very hard." "aye," said the man. "yet thy fellow went away," quoth ondott. "aye," answered the thrall, "but he fled over the sea. no ship is now outward bound, nor is there anyone to hide me. else might i also flee." "come to einar," said ondott. "there shalt thou be safe." "if thou sayest true," answered the thrall, "then it shall be done." "but thou must come," said ondott, "in the way i shall name. thus only shalt thou be of service to einar; but thou shalt be well rewarded if thou showest thyself a man of courage." "who will not dare much for his freedom?" replied the thrall. "but is harm meant to hiarandi?" "that is not thine affair," quoth ondott. then for a time they spoke together, and certain matters were agreed upon between them. chapter ix of the outcome of ondott's plottings now spring was well advanced, but the work was ever hard at cragness, and hiarandi grew very weary. so his melancholy gained on him again. there came a morning when he was troubled in his demeanor, and spoke little. "what ails thee this day?" asked asdis of him. "now," said hiarandi, "for all my words to einar, this life irks terribly. better to be an outlaw, and go where i will--as doth grettir the strong, who lives secure from all his foes." asdis answered: "and what use then couldst thou be to thy wife and son; and is not the time short enough until the ban leaves thee? be a man, and wait with patience a little while yet!" "yet something weighs upon me," pursued hiarandi, "for last night i dreamed, and the dream forebodes ill. methought i was working in the field, and i left my work and my land; some good reason i had, but it is not clear to me now. i did not go a bow-shot beyond the boundary, but from behind a copse wolves sprang out and fell upon me. as they tore me and i struggled, i awoke, yet the fear is heavy on me still." asdis laughed, though with effort, and quoth she: "now take thy boat and fish near the rocks this day. then no wolves can come near thee." "nay," answered hiarandi, "how canst thou ask me to fish when so much must be done on the farm?" "at least," said asdis, "work on the northern slope, at the ploughing, and away from the boundary." "the frost still lies there in the earth in places," replied hiarandi. "but on the south slope, where the sun lies, all is ploughed and to-day we must seed." "take thy sword, then," begged asdis, "and have it at thy side as thou workest. then no wolf will hurt thee." but hiarandi answered, "the day is fine and the wind soft. the sun and the air will clear my head, and we will laugh at this at even-tide. i will take no sword, for it gets in the way." then he called the thrall and rolf; and they took the bags of seed, and went out to work. now that was a fine spring day, so fine that the like of it seldom comes. old farmers in broadfirth still call such a day a day of hiarandi's weather. but asdis detained rolf, and spoke to him earnestly. "dreams often come true, and wolves in dreams mean death. see, i will lay by the door thy father's sword and thy bow, so that thou canst snatch them at need. be near thy father this day, for i fear he is 'fey' [as is said of those who see their fate and avoid it not], and watch well what happens." so rolf stayed near his father all that morning, working with him and the thrall at the sowing. but nothing happened; and the sun and the air cleared from rolf's head all fear of ill. yet hiarandi was still gloomy and absent-minded. then when they stopped for their meal at noon, and ate it as they sat together on a rock, rolf spoke to hiarandi, trying to take his mind from himself. "tell me," he begged, "what sort of man is that outlaw grettir the strong, and for what is he outlawed?" then hiarandi told the tale, and as he spoke he grew more cheerful. "grettir," said he, "is the strongest man that ever lived in iceland, and no three men can master him. for he himself hath said that he hath no fear of three, nor would he flee from four; but with five he would not fight unless he must. all his life he has been rough, impatient of control, and at home only amid struggles and slayings. yet for all that he is a man of ill luck rather than misdeeds, for he hath been greatly hated and provoked. and it is great harm for iceland that grettir ever was outlawed. "now this was the cause of his outlawing. once in norway grettir lay storm-bound with his companions, and they had had much ado to make the land at all. they lay under the lee of a dyke, and had no shelter nor wherewith to make fire, and the weather was exceeding cold, for winter was nigh. then night came on, and they feared they should all freeze; and when they saw lights on the mainland across the sound, they desired greatly to unmoor their ship and cross, but dared not for the storm. then grettir, to save the lives of the others, swam the sound, and came to the hall where those lights were, and therein people were feasting. then he went into the hall; but so huge is he, and so covered with ice were his clothes and hair and beard, that those in the hall thought him a troll. up they sprang and set upon him, and some snatched firebrands to attack him, for no weapons will bite on witch or troll. he took a brand and warded himself, and won his way out, but not before fire had sprung from the brands to the straw in the hall. and he swam back with his brand to his companions, but the hall burned up, and all those that were therein. now there were burned the sons of a man powerful here in iceland; and for that deed, before ever he returned, grettir was made outlaw. because of the injustice he would not go away for his three years, but stayed here. nigh sixteen years he has been outlaw now, and lives where he may, so that many rue his outlawry. and he is not to be overcome by either force or guile; great deeds, moreover, he has done in laying ghosts that walked, and monsters that preyed on men." now so far had hiarandi got in his story, when he turned to the thrall who sat thereby. "at what lookest thou, man?" "nothing," answered the thrall, and turned his face another way. "methought thou wert looking, and signalling with the hand," said hiarandi. "and is there something there in those willows on einar's land? what didst thou see?" "nothing," answered the thrall again. "nevertheless," said hiarandi, "go, rolf, and fetch me my sword; for i repent that i came without weapon hither." now rolf had seen nothing in the bushes; yet he went for the sword, and hastened, but the distance was two furlongs. then after a while hiarandi grew weary of waiting, and he saw nothing at all in the willows, so he said to the thrall: "now let us go again to work." but they had not worked long when the thrall looked privily, and he saw a hand wave in the willows. then he cried aloud: "good-bye, master," and he ran toward the place. hiarandi sprang from his work, and ran after the thrall. now the land at that place lay thus. at the foot of the slope was that brook which was hiarandi's boundary, and toward the sea on einar's land was the thicket of dwarf willows. and a gnarled oak grew at a place away from the willows, standing alone by itself. so when rolf came from the hall, bearing the sword, and having also his bow and arrows, he saw the thrall fleeing, and hiarandi running after. they reached the brook, and leaped it, and ran on, hiarandi pursuing most eagerly. the thrall ran well, but hiarandi used thought; for he turned a little toward the clump of willows, and cut the thrall off from them, where he might have hidden. yet he might not catch the man, who fled past the oak. then hiarandi heard the voice of rolf, calling him to stop; so he remembered himself, and stood still there at the oak, and turned back to go home. but men with drawn swords started up out of the willows, and ran at hiarandi. he leaped to the tree, and set his back against it to defend himself. and rolf, as he came running, saw how the men fell upon his father. the lad strung his bow as he ran, and leaped the brook, and laid an arrow on the string. when he was within killing distance, he sent his arrow through one of the armed men. then that struggle around hiarandi suddenly ceased, and the men fled in all directions, not stopping for their companion; but one of them carried a shaft in his shoulder, and a third bore one in his leg. and then rolf saw how the thrall had loitered to see what was being done, but he ran again when the men fled. rolf took a fourth arrow, and shot at the slave, and it stood in the spine of him. freedom came to the man, but not as he had deemed. then rolf ran to his father, who lay at the foot of the tree. he looked, and saw that hiarandi was dead. chapter x how rolf named witnesses for the death of hiarandi it happened that on that morning frodi the smith had travelled to cragness to see his kinsmen, and he arrived at the hour of misfortune. for he found asdis weeping and wringing her hands by the door of the hall, while below on einar's land rolf stood over the body of hiarandi. then frodi hastened down to rolf and wept aloud when he came there. when he could speak, he said: "come now, i will help thee bear hiarandi's body to the house, as is proper." but rolf had stood without weeping, and now he said: "let us bear him only to our own land, for a nearer duty remains than burial." and he and frodi carried hiarandi across the brook, and there laid him down; and asdis covered him with a cloak. then rolf said to frodi: "well art thou come, who art my only kinsman, and withal the strongest man in broadfirth dales. and i would that thou hadst with thee more weapons than thy whittle. art thou ready, frodi, to help me in my feud?" frodi said uneasily: "a man of peace am i, and never yet have drawn man's blood. i am loth to bare weapon in any cause. and meseems thou hast no feud against anyone; for hiarandi was lawfully slain, since he was beyond the limit which snorri set." "that is to be seen," quoth rolf, and he went to the edge of the brook. "yonder," said he, "stands the tree where my father was slain, and no step went he beyond it. [and that tree, until it decayed entirely, was known as hiarandi's tree.] now see," said rolf, "if i can throw an arrow so far." then he sent an arrow, and it fell short by three roods; and the second shaft went but two yards farther, so that fourteen yards more were needed. then rolf tried again, and put all his skill and strength into the effort, yet the arrow fell scarce a foot beyond the second. rolf dropped the bow and put his face in his hands. "i cannot do it," groaned he. "it is impossible to any man," said frodi. "he gives up easily," answered rolf, "who hath no heart in the cause. yet it remains to be seen if there are not men who can shoot farther than i. try thou for me." frodi replied: "i am strong for the working of iron and the lifting of weights, but to shoot with the bow is another matter. that requires skill rather than strength." "but try!" beseeched rolf. so frodi tried, but he failed lamentably. "said i not," asked he, "that i was not able? and now i say this, that by all thou art accounted the best archer in the district. for last winter, when we tried archery on the ice, and all did their uttermost, only surt of ere and thord of laxriver shot farther than thou, and that by not so much as a rood. yet thou art much stronger each month, while they are grown men, and their strength waxes not at all. and if they surpass thee by no more than a rood, no help is in them for this matter." rolf knew frodi spoke wisely, for that man must be found who could shoot three roods farther than himself. but he said: "would i were the weakest in all broadfirth dales, if only men might be found to surpass me by so much. but i will not leave this matter, and all the rest shall be done as is right." so rolf called frodi to witness that the man whom he had slain, well known to them both, was a man of einar's household. and rolf cast earth upon his face, as a sign that he acknowledged the slaying of him. then the two bore the body of hiarandi to the hall, where asdis prepared for the burial. but frodi and rolf went forth and summoned neighbors, men of property, who were not kinsmen of einar's, to be at cragness at the following morning. twelve men were summoned. and the cragness-dwellers did no more on that day. but at fellstead, although there were some wounds to be dressed, men were cheerful. for hiarandi was gone, and now only a boy stood between einar and the owning of cragness; and a boy would be easy to dispose of. the wounded men were sent out of the way, that they might not be accused of the slaying; and when dark came ondott sent and let bring the body of the man that was slain, and it was buried secretly. then he and einar spoke of the future, feeling no guilt on their souls, since all had been done lawfully. and no one noted how the old woman thurid sat in a corner and crooned a song to herself. now these were the words of her song: "a tree grows and threatens woes. let axes chop so that it fall. let fire burn its branches all. let oxen drag its roots from ground. let earth afresh be scattered round. let no trace stay of oaken tree,- so shall good fortune come to thee. but if the tree shall stand and grow, then comes to einar grief and woe." yet as she sat muttering the song to herself, einar went by and bade her be silent, for he was going to sleep. then she sang to herself: "to-night to sleep, some day to weep." after that she said no more. but on the morrow those witnesses whom rolf had summoned came together. they stood at hiarandi's side, as the custom was, and rolf named the head wound and the body wound by which he had been slain. then they went to the place of the slaying; they viewed the tree, and rolf named it as the spot to which hiarandi went farthest; and he called on those men to witness that the tree stood there; and the distance was measured, and the tree was put under the protection of the men of the quarter, so that it might not be cut. thus all was done that could be done, and the news was taken to fellstead. then einar said to ondott: "where were thy wits? had we last night destroyed the tree and smoothed the ground, no trial of bow-shooting might ever be made. now we may be proved in the wrong, and this slaying turn against us." ondott had nothing to say, save that no man could shoot that distance. and they dared not now cut the tree. that night hiarandi was laid in his cairn, which they made of stones, by the edge of the cliff where all mariners could see it. and he was remembered as the first man in iceland who lighted beacons against shipwreck, so that those who sailed by prayed for his soul. chapter xi of rolf's search for one to surpass him with the bow two vows rolf made before he slept that night: the first was that he would yet show his father's slaying unlawful; the second was that, so long as he might, he would neither stand, sit, nor lie, without weapon within reach of his hand. for hiarandi might have saved himself had he but had his sword. asdis and frodi, who stood by and heard the vows, might not blame him; for such was the custom of those days. then rolf begged frodi to stay with him to help finish the sowing, and that was done. and when the spring work was finished on the farm, then it was within six weeks of the sitting of the althing. but rolf felt that the work had to be done, for his mother's sake. then rolf set forth on that quest of his, to find a man to beat him at the bow. first he went to surt of ere, and begged him to try skill with him. then it was seen that rolf's strength had so waxed during the winter, that surt overshot him by no more than two yards. next rolf went to thord of laxriver, but that failed completely, for by now rolf could shoot even as far as thord. after that he went about in the dales, to find men who were good at archery; but though he heard of many with great names, those men proved to be nothing helpful to rolf, for none could surpass him at all. so he began to learn how much is a little distance, even so much as a palm's breadth, at the end of a race or of the fling of a weapon. and time drew on toward the sitting of the althing, so that rolf feared that he should be able to make out no case against einar. at last, after wide wanderings, he got himself back to cragness, and sat wearily at home for three days, with little to say or to do. that third morning asdis said to him: "leave, my son, thy brooding, and let this matter rest for a while. over-great are our enemies, yet mayhap in time our deliverance will come." rolf answered nothing but: "little comes to those who seek not." now frodi had gone for one night to his smithy, which was ten miles from cragness, beyond helgafell, at the head of hvammfirth, where there was a ferry by a little river. when he came back quoth he: "yesterday crossed at the ferry those two men who are most famous in all the south firths, and they had a great company with them." "who were they?" asked rolf at once, "and what kind was their following, whether fighting-men or not?" "fighting-men were they," answered frodi, "but on a journey of peace. for kari and flosi were on their way to visit snorri the priest at his hall at tongue. great would have been thy pleasure at seeing the brave array." "now, would i had been there!" cried rolf, springing up. "but i would have looked at more than the brave array. so farewell, mother, and farewell, frodi, for i too go on a visit to snorri the priest." they could not stay him; he took food and a cloak, with his bow, and went out along the firth on that long journey to tongue. for he said to himself that in that company or nowhere else in iceland would he find an archer to shoot for him. too long is it to tell of that journey, but it was shortened inasmuch as fishermen set rolf across hvammfirth. then he went from hvamm up to tongue, and came to the hall of snorri the priest. a great sight was that hall, for no other that rolf had seen was equal to it, and the hall at cragness might have been set inside it. long it was, and broad; wide were the porch-doors, and beautiful the pillars that flanked them. men went in and out, carrying necessaries from the storehouse which stood at another side of the great yard. and so noble was the housekeeping of snorri the priest, that at first rolf feared to enter the hall. but at last he asked a servant: "will it be taken well if i enter?" "who art thou," asked the man, "not to know that all are welcome at snorri's house?" so rolf went in where all were feasting, for it was the hour of the noonday meal. many men were there, and none took notice of rolf, save that when he sat down on the lowest bench one came and offered food. rolf would take none. he cast his eyes about the place, where twelve fires burned along the middle of the hall, where were seats for many people, and where continually servants went to and fro. all seats were filled save one or two. but at the further end of the hall, on the dais, sat a small man, gray-haired and thin-bearded, with bright eyes of a light blue. and that was snorri the priest, the greatest man in all the west of iceland. at his sides sat two other men: the one to his right was iron-gray, bearded and strong, a man of sixty summers; and to the left sat a younger man, with no gray in his light hair, slighter in body, and yet of vigorous frame. and it was strange that those two men sat together in peace, who once had been the bitterest of foes. for the older was burning-flosi, who had burned njal in his house; but the other was kari solmund's son, who had been njal's son-in-law, and alone of all the fighting-men had escaped from that burning. and his vengeance upon the burners was famous, for he followed them in iceland, and slew many; and great was his part in the fight at the althing, as may be read in njal's saga. but when the burners were outlawed and fared abroad, then kari followed them by land and sea, and slew them where he met them. no other vengeance is like to that which kari, alone, took for his own son, and for njal and his sons, grim the strong, and helgi the gentle, and skarphedinn the terrible. but kari missed flosi in his searchings; so that flosi came to rome, and was absolved from the sin of the burning, and so journeyed home. but kari came also to rome, and was absolved from the sin of his vengeance, and went home. then kari was wrecked at flosi's door, and went to his house for shelter, to put his manhood to the proof. but flosi welcomed him, and they were accorded; and friends they were thenceforth. now all this tale was known to rolf, as it was to all men in iceland, and as it should be known to all who read of the deeds of great men. so he sat and marvelled at those two, how noble they looked, men who had never done a guileful deed; and in that they were different from snorri, who had won his place by craft alone. rolf looked also at those others who sat by the dais, all men of station who looked like warriors, some one of whom might be the man who should help him against einar. and he took great courage, for there were the men of most prowess in all iceland. now one of the southfirthers had been telling a story of grettir the outlaw, how he flogged gisli the son of thorstein with birch twigs. but when the story was ended, snorri said: "mayhap my son thorod will tell us what he knoweth of grettir." then began a snickering among the servingmen, and those of tongue looked mighty wise. but thorod, snorri's son, got up from his seat and left the hall, saying he would not stay to be laughed at. when he was gone a great laughter rose, so that flosi asked to be told the cause of it. snorri said: "this will show all how grettir has wits in his head. some time ago i was wroth with my son, for he seemed to me not manly enough. so i sent him from me, bidding him do some brave deed ere he returned. and he went seeking an outlaw, to slay him. he found one who had been outlawed for an assault, but he was a lad; and the woman of the house where he worked sent my son further, to find grettir where he lurked on the hillside. and thorod found him and bade him fight. "'knowest thou not,' asked grettir, 'that i am a treasure-hill wherein most men have groped with little luck?' "but for all that my son would fight. so he smote with his sword, but grettir warded with his shield and would not strike in return. so at last when he was weary of such doings, grettir caught up thorod and sat him down beside him, and said: 'go thy ways now, foolish fellow, before i lose my patience with thee. for i fear thee not at all, but the old gray carle, thy father, i fear truly, who with his counsels hath brought most men to their knees.' so my son went away, and came home, and because the story pleased me i received him again." so they laughed again, southfirthers and westfirthers together, and joyous was the feast. but when all was quiet again, men saw that snorri wished to speak, and they listened. snorri called his steward, and said: "fetch a stool, and set it here on the dais, for a new visitor hath come to see me." then the steward fetched a carved stool, and set it on the dais. he put a cushion in it, and threw a broidered cloth over it. and all grew curious to see who should sit on that stool. then snorri said again: "few are my kindred on my mother's side, and not in many years hath one entered this hall. but one sits here whose face recalls the features of my mother thordisa. let that stranger under my roof who claims to bear the blood of the soursops, come forward to me!" rolf arose, and while all men stared at him, he walked to the dais and stood before snorri. chapter xii of the trial of skill at tongue snorri asked of rolf: "art thou the son of hiarandi my kinsman?" "his son am i," answered rolf. "so must thy father be dead," said snorri. "for i feared he would break his bounds." "it is yet to be proven," replied rolf, "whether he be lawfully slain or no." then flosi said: "let us hear this tale, for it hath not yet come to our ears. sit here before us, and tell what hath happened." so rolf sat there on the stool which had been prepared, and he told his story. all who sat there listened, and the men of the south firths drew up close. it was a new thing for rolf thus to speak before great men, and before fighting-men; but he bore himself well and spoke manfully, forbearing to complain, so that they murmured praise of him. and it seemed to them wrong that he had been so treated, and the younger men grew wroth. when rolf had finished telling of the death of hiarandi, one of the southfirthers sprang up and stood before the dais. that was kolbein the son of flosi, and he asked: "may i speak what is in my mind?" they bade him speak. "this place on broadfirth," said kolbein, "is not so far out of our way when we journey back. let us make a stop there, and pull this man einar out of his house, and so deal with him that he shall do no evil hereafter." this he said with fire, for he was a young man. but flosi answered: "now is seen in thee the great fault of this land, for we are all too ready to proceed unlawfully. and men can know by me how violence is hard repaid." all knew he spoke of the burning, and of that vengeance which took from him many kinsmen. "let us do nothing unlawful. what sayest thou, kari?" then kari said that nothing should be done without the law. and the young man sat down again. but kari called on snorri for his opinion. "methinks," said snorri, "that the lad hath some way of his own which may serve." "if that is all," answered kari, "then we will help him." "it is only," said rolf, "that one of you here will shoot with the bow three roods farther than i. thus can my father's death be proved unlawful, and einar stand punishable." with great eagerness the young men sprang up and got their bows. all said they would do their best to help the lad, but it was plain that they regarded the matter an easy one. so rolf took heart at their confidence. then all went out to the mead, where was good space for shooting. "but first," said kari, "let us get our hand in with shooting at a mark. then when we are limber we will shoot to show our distance." so that was done, and all thought that great sport, and a fine opportunity for each to show what man he was. the southfirthers and the westfirthers set apples on sticks and shot them off, and they shot next at the sticks themselves, and last they shot at a moving mark. then they called rolf to show his skill. flosi asked of kari: "thinkest thou the lad can shoot?" "slender is he," answered kari, "but strong in the arms and back, and his eye is the eye of an eagle. our young men will not find their task easy." rolf struck the apples, and then the sticks, and then the moving mark. then they swung a hoop on the end of a pole, and rolf sent his arrow through it, but most of the others failed. kari laughed. "ye forget," quoth he, "that the lad shoots at birds and cannot afford to lose his arrows. who among us hath had such training? but now let us try at the distance." so the ground was cleared for that, and the weaker bowmen shot first, and some good shots were made. rolf was called upon to say what he thought. he shook his head. "ye must do better," he said. then better bowmen shot, all those who were there except kari and kolbein. snorri would not shoot, but flosi did, and a great honor it was deemed that he should oblige the lad. but when all had finished, then rolf took his bow, and his arrow fell upon the farthest which had been sent, and split it. snorri laughed. "so hath my kinsman come here," he said, "and all for naught." but kari said: "kolbein and i have yet to shoot, and we are about alike in skill." so they shot one after the other, and they shot equally, so far that all were pleased, and some ran to measure the distance, finding it three roods and more beyond rolfs arrow. many cried that the matter was now settled. but snorri said: "let rolf shoot once more. mayhap he hath not yet done his best." then rolf took his bow again, and the arrow flew; it fell less than a rood behind the arrows of kari and kolbein. so it was proved that none there might help rolf in his need. then he was greatly cast down; and he wished to go away at once, but they detained him over night. no men could be kinder to him. and in the morning, when he was to start home, they offered him money, but he would take none. so snorri gave him a cape, and flosi a belt, and kari gave a short sword, handsome and well made; much was he honored by those gifts. snorri lent him a horse to take him to hvamm, and there boatmen set him again across the firth. weary and disheartened, he came to cragness on the morning of the second day, and without joy he entered the hall. there asdis met him in great trouble. "here has been," said she, "a great man and a rough, who made me feed him. misfortunes come to us from all sides, for frodi is away, and the man took our milk-ewe, and has driven it away before him, going toward the fells." "when was he here?" asked rolf. "not two hours ago." "i will seek him," said the lad, and turned from the house. "nay," cried asdis in alarm, "i beg thee, go not! for he was huge and fierce of aspect. thou art too tender to meet such as he. put up with this matter and let it pass." "mother," answered rolf, "i am sixteen years old, and since the death of my father i am a man in the eye of the law. wouldst thou have me less than a man in fact?" and he went his way after the robber. chapter xiii of that robber rolf followed that man who had stolen the ewe, and the way led first down into the dales, and then upward to the fells. there had been rain and the paths were soft, so that the tracks of man and sheep were clear. it was strange to rolf that the robber showed such boldness as to go on beaten ways. but when at last he reached the region where all the paths were grassy and tracks could no longer be seen, then rolf knew not what to do until he met a wayfarer. "hast thou seen," asked rolf, "one who goes driving a ewe?" "he is not far before thee," answered the man. "but what seekest thou with him?" "the ewe is mine," said rolf. "i will have it again." "thou art foolhardy," cried the man. "a life is more than a sheep. turn back!" "not i," quoth rolf, and he went on. then in a little while he saw the man before him, going without haste behind the ewe. and rolf marvelled at his confidence, for the man did not even look back to see if he were followed. so rolf strung his bow and went faster, going quietly until he was but fifty feet behind the man. and then he called to the robber. that man turned at once, drawing his sword. grim and harsh was he in face when he found he was followed, but when he saw a lad, alone, then he smiled. "seekest thou me?" he asked. and his voice was harsh, like his face, so that he was a man to terrify many. "that sheep is mine," said rolf. "leave it and go thy way." "go home, boy!" said the man. "i would not hurt thee." "once more," cried rolf, "i bid thee leave the ewe, else will i strive with thee for it." "what," sneered the man, "wilt thou set thyself against me? draw thy sword, then!" but the robber's sword was long and heavy, while rolf's was short and light. "nay," he responded, "but i will hurt thee with my arrows. take thy shield and defend thyself." "no shield do i need," sneered the man again, "against such as thou. shoot, and see if thou canst touch me!" so great was his contempt that he stung rolf to the quick. "let us see, then!" the lad cried. and in great heat of anger, at short range, rolf drove a shaft at the middle of the man's body. but behold! the man swung his heavy sword as lightly as a wand, and brushed the arrow aside! "once more!" quoth he. and then rolf shot again, and yet again, but each time the arrow was swept aside. and the robber called with jeers to shoot faster. so rolf sent his shafts as swiftly as he could, and it was astonishing to see how fast they followed each other; but though he shot half a score of times, each arrow, just as it reached its mark, was brushed aside. of them all, one touched the clothing on the robber's breast, so that it tore the cloth; and one, sent at the face, scratched the skin ere it was turned. when that was done, the man jeered no more, for he saw that rolf was closing in. and what might have happened is not known. but to rolf, even in his anger to be so foiled, there came admiration of the stranger's skill. "now," he thought, "such a thing is a marvel, for it is related of the men of old time, but not of the men of to-day. i had not deemed anyone so quick or so strong." then his own words told him who the man must be; he stopped advancing, and lowered his bow. but in a twinkle the man dropped his sword and strung his own bow, and he laid an arrow on the string. "now," cried he, "we have changed about, and can play the game the other way. perhaps thou also canst guard thyself." he drew the bow. "art thou minded to try?" rolf made no movement to ward himself. "thou art grettir the strong," he said. "grettir asmund's son am i," answered the man, "whom men call grettir the strong. perhaps thou art now the more minded to slay me, even as fools whom i meet from time to time. for nine hundreds in silver is the price set upon my head." "nay," answered rolf, "i would not slay thee." the man laughed mightily. "i owe my life to thee!" he cried. then he changed his manner suddenly. "go, leave me, boy, for my temper is short, and i might do thee a mischief!" and then he went on his way, still driving the ewe before him; but rolf remained in that place. after a time the lad gathered those of his arrows which were not broken, and turned back toward his home. but when he looked behind, and saw that a roll of land hid him from grettir, then he turned again, and followed after the outlaw. a long time rolf followed, warily at first, for grettir looked back once or twice; then the lad might go more boldly. and the outlaw led him up into the hills, where were rocks and crags and much barrenness, a region where men might lurk long and not be found. and grettir made a halt at a strong place, a shelf on the crags, protected from above by a sheer cliff, and reached only from one side. it seemed as if he had often been there before. while he made a fire, rolf lay at a distance, and wondered how he might steal nigher. only one vantage did he see which commanded the outlaw's lair: a great spur of rock which stood out from the cliff, but which it would be hard to reach. then grettir laid himself to sleep while it was yet day, and rolf crept forward till he was under the spur. from above no man might reach it; yet there were crevices here and there in the rock by which rolf could climb. so he slung his bow on his back and tried the ascent. but so slow must he climb, for fear of noise, that it was dark when he reached the flat top; and though grettir was scarce forty feet away, rolf could not see him at all. so he watched there through the night. ever at that little distance he heard grettir labor in his sleep, and oft the outlaw moaned and groaned. at times he started up and looked abroad, but he could see nothing by the light of the stars. but when dawn came, then grettir slept peacefully; and when it was broad day he still lay sleeping. his face in sleep was sad and noble, with signs of a hasty temper; his frame was great indeed. he lay so long that rolf at last strung his bow and shot an arrow into the ground by him. grettir started from his sleep, grasping his weapons and looking about for his foes. never in his life rolf forgot that sight, which few men had seen without ruing it, of grettir angry and ready for the fray. but grettir saw no one, for he looked about on the hillside below him. then rolf spoke: "here am i, grettir." then the outlaw saw him, and put up his shield against a second arrow. rolf said: "had i wished, i could have slain thee in thy sleep." "rather will i believe," answered grettir, "that thou hast shot thy last arrow, and missed." rolf showed him his full quiver, and grettir lowered his shield. "how camest thou here?" he asked. "i made sure that thou wert gone." "not very sure," answered rolf. "and how," asked grettir, "didst thou reach that place? i had weened no man could mount that rock." "i am but a boy," answered rolf, "yet men call me cragsman." "now i am well shamed," cried grettir, "that a boy hath so outwitted me! and this i believe, that thou mightest have slain me; for a good archer i found thee yesterday. still more will i say, that yesterday i had near suffered a hurt at thy hands, so that i was considering whether to retreat before thee, or to take my shield, and neither have i yet done before a single archer. now let me ask thee, why didst thou stop shooting then; and why didst thou not slay me here as i lay?" "because," answered rolf, "thou, or no man in iceland, canst give me the help i need." "come down," said grettir, "and we will eat together." so they breakfasted together, of dried meat and the milk of the ewe. "how was thy sleep there on the crag?" asked grettir. "no worse," answered rolf, "than thine here on the ledge. why didst thou sleep so ill?" then grettir answered soberly: "one of my few good deeds is so repaid that i see shapes in the dark, and my sleep is broken. for i slew glam the ghost who wasted thorhallstead, but ere i cut off his head he laid on me that spell. so i am a fearsome man in the dark, though in the day no man may daunt me. but what can i do for thee?" "let me see," answered rolf, "if with the bow thou canst shoot farther than i." "thou art a vain lad," said grettir, somewhat displeased. "for that alone earnest thou hither?" "be not wroth," begged rolf, "for i have the best of reasons." and he told the story of his father's death and of the need for a good archer. grettir smiled. "and couldst thou find no man," asked he, "who is within the law, to do this for thee?" then rolf told of the trial with those southfirthers at tongue, and grettir looked upon him with surprise. "so skilled art thou then?" he asked. "now string thy bow, and show me how far thou canst shoot." so rolf strung his bow, and shot along the hillside, and the arrow fell far away. "now do i wonder," said grettir. "let me see thy bow." and when he had looked on it he said: "that any one could shoot so far with such light gear i had not thought possible. thou art a good bowman. but what thinkest thou of my bow?" rolf took the bow of grettir in his hand, and a strange weapon it was. for it was shorter than his own bow, and scarcely shaped at all, but was heavy and thick, so that it had seemed not to be a bow, save for the string and the notched ends. "such a bow," said rolf, "saw i never." "canst thou string it?" asked grettir. then rolf tried, but he could scarce bend it a little way. yet grettir took it and strung it with ease. then he showed rolf his arrows, which were heavy, short, and thick, like the bow. he laid one on the string, and drew it to the head, and behold! it rushed forth with a great whir, and with such force that it might pierce a man behind his shield. and it flew far beyond the arrow of rolf, full five rood further. "what thou dost with skill," said grettir, "i do with strength." but rolf cried with great joy: "thou art the man i have been seeking!" then he asked: "wilt thou go with me and shoot an arrow before witnesses, to prove that my father was unlawfully slain?" "that i will," quoth grettir, "and joyfully too, for i see little of men. only one thing i require, that safe conduct be promised me to go and come, for i have enemies in thy dales." "how shall i get thee safe conduct?" asked rolf. "it must be granted," answered grettir, "by the quarter court at the althing." then they talked the matter over, and grettir advised rolf once more to seek snorri the priest, to find what steps should be taken. then it was bespoken where rolf should meet grettir again, and the outlaw offered to lay out in the hills north of the thingvalla, in the valley of the geysirs, and await tidings of the outcome of the suit. "now," said rolf, when he was ready to go, "keep the ewe for thy kindness's sake." "do thou take her," answered grettir. "for had i known that thy mother was a widow, i would never have taken the sheep. and the first booty is this, which ever i rendered again." so rolf returned toward home driving the ewe; and when he reached the highway which led to the south firths, there came riding a company, kari and flosi and their followers, and snorri the priest was with them. they asked tidings. then he told them of grettir, and those three chiefs left their horses, and sat down with rolf on the fell a little way from their company; they had talk what was to be done. for snorri declared he saw a flaw in the case, since grettir was an outlaw, and no outlaw had ever yet come into a suit at law. but at last he said: "now go thy way, and summon einar with a formal summons. [and he taught rolf the form.] but be thou sure that no mention is made of grettir. and i believe that, since no such case has ever yet been tried, it can lawfully be brought about that grettir may shoot." then those chiefs went their way, and rolf went his, and he came back to cragness. chapter xiv how rolf and einar summoned each other because of the state of matters at cragness, frodi the smith journeyed there frequently to see his relatives. here it must be told what kind of man he was. he was tall and heavy-jointed, with a long neck and a long face, and somewhat comic to look upon. frodi the slow was he by-named, for his movements were cumbersome and his mind worked slowly. but since that affair at the sheep-fold, many called him whittle-frodi. now rolf sends for him one day, and tells him all that had happened, and how he was sure of making einar an outlaw. and he asks frodi to go with him to the house of einar, to be witness to the summons. then said frodi: "let me say what i think of this affair. first thou shouldst ask a peaceful atonement. for in the beginning it seems that there is danger to thee, so great is the strength against thee. and in the second place such continual blood-feuds as daily go on are unchristian, and evil for the land." then rolf was thoughtful. "shall i have done all my seeking for nothing?" he asked. "more than that, shall i take money for my father's slaying?" "it is the custom of the land," said frodi, "and many men do it for the sake of peace." "i heard flosi say at tongue," said rolf, "how strife between neighbors was the greatest bane of this land. and i am half minded to do as thou sayest. but why has not einar offered me atonement, if any is to be paid? i tell thee, hard is his heart, and he is glad!" "at least," begged frodi, "let me ask einar what he will do." "so i will," answered rolf, "and a great sacrifice i make, to lay aside my grief and vengeance. nay, i even break my vow which i made before thee. but i think only scorn will be thy portion, and matters will be made worse." then they went together to the house of einar, and were seen from the hall as they entered the yard, and men came and stood in the porch as they approached. there were einar and ondott, and other men of the household. all bore weapons. but no one spoke when the cousins stood before them. "will no one here give us welcome?" asked frodi. ondott mimicked frodi's slow voice, and said: "be welcome." the men of einar laughed. "laugh not," said frodi mildly. "now, einar, it is known how hiarandi came by his death, and men say thou art responsible therefor." "i was not by at his slaying," answered einar. said rolf: "what is done by a man's servants, with his knowledge, is as his deed." and frodi said: "were it not better to atone rolf for the death of his father, rather than have bad blood between neighbors? for thou knowest this, that some day a man may be found to shoot an arrow beyond that little oak." now einar was plainly smitten by the answer of frodi, and the scorn went from his face, and he thought. and here may be seen how the evil which a bad man does is not half so much in quantity as the good which he mars. for ondott crafty saw what was in einar's mind, and he spoke quickly. "an award may be given, einar," said he, "which will honor you both. shall i utter it?" now einar was accustomed to the bitter jokes of ondott, and when he thought he saw one coming, he forgot his design of peace, and said: "utter the award." "but does rolf agree to it?" asked ondott. "i will hear it," answered rolf. "but if thou meanest to scoff, think twice, lest in the end it be bad for thee." meanwhile some of the women of the household had come out of the hall at its other end, by the women's door, and now stood near to hear what was said. helga the daughter of einar was there, but she hung back; nearest of all stood thurid the crone, listening closely. "now this i would award," said ondott, "if i were in thy place, einar. thy son grani is abroad, in the fostering of the orkney earl; but some day he will come home, and then will need men to serve him. let rolf give up his holding and become thy man; so canst thou protect him from all harm. then when thy son returns rolf shall be his bow-bearer, and shall be atoned by the honor for the death of his father." some laughed, but not for long, and so far was this from a jest that the most were silent. then thurid chanted: "for einar's son shall rolf bear bow. which in the end shall bear most woe?" but none paid attention, for rolf was gathering himself to speak. and he cried: "ill jesting is thine, ondott! now hear what i am come hither to say: outlaw shall einar be made, for that man is found who can make the shot beyond the little oak. and thus i summon einar." so he recited the summons. he named the deed and the place, and the wounds of which hiarandi had died. he named witnesses, those householders who had already been summoned. and he called einar to answer for the deed before the westfirther's court at the althing. ondott alone laughed when the summons was spoken in full. "so here are come a boy and a peaceling," quoth he, "to pick a quarrel with men." "heed him not," said frodi to rolf, "for he seeks cause to draw sword on thee." then rolf made no answer to ondott, but he and frodi turned away and started to go home. ondott whispered to einar: "a spear between the shoulders will settle this matter for good." and he signed to hallvard that he should have his spear ready to throw. einar stood irresolute. but the maid helga went forward quickly and walked by rolf's side. "may i go with thee to the gate?" she asked. great anger possessed him against all of einar's house, but the sight of her astonished him, and he said she might come. in silence they went to the gate of the yard; then helga stood there in the way while those two from cragness went homeward. and einar had already bidden that no violence be done, for fear of harming his daughter. he went into the hall and sat down in his seat, brooding over the outcome. ondott said: "too squeamish art thou." einar said: "if thou findest me not a way out of this, it will go ill with thee." now a way out of that would have been hard to find, had not one day ondott met that man who had set rolf on the right road as he pursued grettir. said the man: "so thy neighbor rolf won his sheep again from grettir the strong. that was a great deed!" then ondott learned of the stealing of the sheep, and how rolf had been seen driving it home again. he thought, and knew who must be that man who would shoot for rolf. then he went homeward with a light heart. "now," said he to einar, "thy defence is sure. but come with me, and we will summon rolf for those wounds he dealt, and that man he slew, when hiarandi was slain." "no court," answered einar, "will punish rolf for that." and he would not go, though he gave ondott permission to go in his stead. ondott took a witness and went to cragness, where rolf and frodi were at work in the yard. ondott recited the summons; rolf and frodi went on with the work, and answered naught. and now all is quiet until men ride to the althing. chapter xv of suits at the althing rolf journeyed to the althing, and as he went he fell in with the company of snorri the priest, and travelled with them. snorri heard how the summons had gone, and he asked whether rolf had said anything of grettir. rolf answered that he had not. then he told of the summons which ondott had made, and snorri laughed. it was not many days before they came to the thingvalla, and rolf saw that great wonder of iceland. for from the plain on which they journeyed a large part had fallen clean away, many yards down, and it lay below like the bottom of a pan. the great rift was the name of the western precipice, and there was no way down save by one steep path; snorri had held that path on the day of the battle at the althing, nor would he let flosi and the burners escape that way. when rolf had got down to the plain, he saw all the booths for the lodging of those who came to the althing, ranged along the river. he saw the places where the quarter courts were held, and he went to the hill of laws, where the fifth court sat to hear appeals. now the hill of laws is cut off from the plain by deep rifts, and men showed rolf where, to save his life, flosi had leaped one rift at its narrowest part, and that was a great deed. other wonders were to be seen. then on the second day the sitting of the courts began, and rolf watched closely for the calling of his suit. but that came not until the sitting was near its end. now snorri conducted the case of rolf, and all went in due order. einar answered what was said against him, that he was not present at the slaying of hiarandi. snorri called on the court to say whether einar were not answerable, because his men did the deed. the judges said he was. then it came to proving whether or not the slaying were illegal, and snorri said that a man had been found who could shoot the distance. and this he asked of the judges: "is it not true that when, before witnesses, an arrow is shot from the boundary and falls beyond the tree, that will prove the slaying unlawful?" "that is so," said the judges. "now say further," demanded snorri. "is it not true that in the moment when the slaying is proved unlawful, the guilt of einar is established, so that no suit at law is needed?" "that also is true," answered the judges. "now," said snorri, "one last thing do i ask, whether or not he who goes to make the proof by shooting an arrow, may go and come freely, whatsoever man he be?" "we see no reason why this may not be so," said the judges. "now give that decision here aloud in the open court," required snorri. but einar arose and said: "one exception only shall i ask to this, that no outlaw be allowed to take part in this suit, by shooting the arrow." then said snorri to rolf, "they have learned of grettir." he said to the judges: "well do i know that no outlaw is ever allowed to give witness in court, nor to sit on juries. but no such case as this has ever arisen, and it seems to me that an outlaw might be permitted to shoot." then there was great talking on both sides, for the greater part of an hour: it would be tedious to tell what was said. but the end was, that the judges were divided, so the question was referred to the lawman. and his answer was, that no outlaw might take part in a law matter in any way whatsoever. there was an end to rolf's hopes to prove einar guilty by the means of grettir. but snorri called all men to witness that when some day a man might be found to shoot the distance, then einar was guilty without going to law. now men began to whisper and say that the end of grettir's outlawry was but four years off, and then rolf could be justified. so einar tried to have a limit of three years set on that time when it was lawful to try the shooting; but snorri strove mightily against that, and that question went to the lawman, and he said that seven years should be the limit. that was the end of the suit, and rolf got no satisfaction at all. one more thing was done on that day, for snorri went to einar where he stood with ondott, and he asked of the second suit, for which rolf had been summoned. ondott spoke for einar. "we shall not bring that suit." "that is well," said snorri, "for ye had no case, and i could have a fine laid on you if the case was brought falsely." then he took rolf with him to his booth. but here is the trick which ondott had prepared. for the next day was the last of the sittings, and snorri was busy with many matters; but rolf stayed at the booth, much cast down. then toward the sunset hour the cases were all finished, and men left the courts, all save the judges, who stayed for the formal closing. then ondott brought forward the case against rolf, and summoned him into court, but no one was there to tell either snorri or the lad. nevertheless it was the law that the suit might go on, because lawful summons had been given. and einar stood up and said: "i take witness to this, that i give notice of a suit against rolf hiarandi's son, in that he slew by a body wound, by an arrow, my herdsman thorold. i say that in this suit he ought to be made a guilty man, an outlaw, not to be fed, not to be forwarded, not to be helped or harbored in any need. i say that all his goods are forfeited, half to me, and half to the men of the quarter, who have a right by law to take his forfeited goods; i give notice of this suit in the quarter court into which it ought by law to come. i give notice in the hearing of all men on the hill of laws. i give notice of this suit to be pleaded now, and of full outlawry against rolf hiarandi's son." all that was said in the manner laid down by law. then einar pushed the case, and no one was there to answer him. all steps were taken then and there, and judgment was called for and given, and in his absence rolf was made full outlaw, and his goods were declared forfeited. not till the court had risen, and nothing might be done, was the news brought to snorri and rolf. snorri was angry that he had been tricked, yet he could see no way to help himself. this one thing he brought about, that the judges declared that rolf, outlaw though he was, might shoot to prove his innocence, if he might but get himself safely to the spot. and snorri sought to comfort rolf, but the lad was dazed. "the farm is lost!" he cried. "thou canst win it back," answered snorri. "thou art young and thy strength will grow. before the seven years are past thou canst make that shot." "nay," said rolf. "i can never do it until i find some bow as strong as grettir's, yet which a common man may string. never have i found a bow too stiff for me, save his alone." "skill may beat strength," quoth snorri. "somewhere mayest thou find the bow thou dreamest of." "where?" demanded rolf. snorri was silent, for he feared no such bow was to be found. rolf sighed. "and my mother?" he asked next. "she shall live with me at tongue. and now," said snorri, "meseems best that thou goest home at once. thou knowest all that is to be done?" "i know," replied rolf; and snorri believed him, because to the priest all the ways of the law were so familiar that it seemed all men must know them. yet rolf did not know, and they meant different things. "shall i lend thee money," asked snorri, "or hast thou enough?" "i have plenty," said rolf; yet he had only enough for the journey, whereas much more was needed. then rolf took his leave of snorri, and gave him his thanks; and taking his horse, he went from the thingfield by the path up the great rift. and he passed two men of einar's, who spoke together that they were to start very early in the morning. from the top of the rift rolf looked down on that plain where all men were still busy, and which in years had brought misfortune on all his family. then at last he went his way. now those men of einar's went to their booth, and told that they had seen rolf departing. "hasten back at once," said ondott, "and find what direction he takes." and they went and watched. "he went northwest," said they, "and he took not the straight track toward home." "then he is gone elsewhere," quoth ondott, and seemed glad. "hurry, all of you, for he delivers himself into our hands." meanwhile rolf went northwest to the valley of the geysirs, and on the second day found grettir the strong cooking his food at a boiling spring. chapter xvi the act of distress rolf told grettir all that had happened, and much was the outlaw disappointed thereat. for he had counted upon going again among men, and had hoped to win glory from the shooting, so he was sorry on his own account. but also he consoled the boy. for he spoke of the great world over the sea, how there were places and peoples to be seen, and fame to be won. this is clearly seen by those who read the story of grettir, that all his life he sought fame, and his fate was lighter to him because he knew men would sing of him after his death. but no such thoughts uplifted rolf, since he grieved for his mother and for the loss of the farm, and it seemed no pleasure to go abroad. "now," said he, "far rather would i stay here in this island, until the time of outlawry is past. why may i not stay with thee?" "knowest thou not," asked grettir, "that if one fares abroad the outlawry is for three years, but if one stays it is twenty? and that is a third of most men's lifetime." "yet," said rolf, "i am minded to do it." for he cared not what happened to him. "now," said grettir, "listen to me, and learn what it means to be an outlaw. no man will take thee within his house, so soon as he knows who thou art. so must thou live in the open, like a beast, or else make hiding-places for thyself. and a miserable life it becomes after a while. no man mayest thou trust, lest he take thy head. well do i know that gisli thy ancestor lived an outlaw, fourteen years; yet he lived in holes and caves, and was slain at the end. he was the greatest outlaw of iceland before me, save only gunnar of lithend, who tried to stay in his home and was slain. but i have maintained myself sixteen years, and miserable have they been. too tender art thou of years and frame to bear the life. moreover, i know my mother mourns me at home. think then of thine, and put this idea from thee!" then rolf was ashamed that he had ever thought of such a thing. so he spent a night with grettir, there among the geysirs, and wonderful were the things that he saw. and in the morning they cooked again at the boiling spring. then, as they sat eating, grettir said by chance: "thou saidst thou art poor. did snorri give the money for the priest's dues, and the court's?" "what are those dues?" asked rolf. grettir cried: "has no money been paid for thine outlawry?" "none by me," answered rolf. "and thy neighbor einar," asked grettir. "what was he doing when thou earnest away?" "they were preparing for departure, so that i heard a groom say they would start before sunrise in the morning." then grettir sprang up, and went and caught rolf's pony; he saddled it, and brought it to the lad. "go home!" he cried. "too little dost thou know of the law. for if those dues were paid, then thou hadst a year in which to take ship. but they are not paid, so thy enemy can make thee full outlaw ten days after the rising of the althing, by executing the act of distress at thy house. three days are gone already, and thou art far from home. for this was einar hastening away. now take my advice, and go south, and ship thence." "nay," answered rolf, "first i must see my mother, and perhaps i can reach home in time. now fare thee well, grettir. when thy outlawry is finished, then thou shalt gain me my property again." but grettir said nay to that. "well do i know," said he, "that we two shall never meet again. for from here i go to the island of drangey, to keep myself if i may until my outlawry is over. no stronger place is there in iceland for defence. but hallmund the air-sprite, my friend, foretold i should never come out of my outlawry. thus i shall never again mix in this affair of thine." rolf could answer nothing. "and in my turn," said grettir, "thus i foretell thy fate. no man shall help thee here. with thine own strength and craft must thou regain thine own, or never more be master of thy fathers hall!" then rolf was heavy-hearted as he bade grettir farewell. and grettir did as he had said: he went to his home at biarg, and went thence with his brother illugi to drangey. how he fared there may be read in the grettir's saga. but rolf fared west to his home. he had lost much time, as grettir had feared; yet as he neared cragness on the eleventh day after the rising of the althing he saw no one, and it was just noon. and only at high noon might the act be executed which would make him full outlaw. so he rode into the yard. then there stepped out to meet him from the house ondott crafty, who came forward with a greeting. he spoke well to the boy, and bade him alight, yet seemed to wish to get very near. rolf dismounted on the further side of his horse. "what doest thou here?" he asked. "einar hath sent me," said ondott, still coming closer. "he biddeth thee come to his house, where somewhat can be said concerning this outlawry of thine, to make it easier for thee." but then asdis came running from the house. "flee!" she cried. "einar and his men are at the crags, and there they make thee outlaw. flee!" then ondott snatched at rolf with his lean arms, but the lad felled him with a buffet. rolf would have mounted his horse again to get away, but men appeared at the gate of the yard, so that there was no way out. then rolf passed quickly into the hall, and kissed his mother farewell, and leaped from a window at the other side, meaning to gain the cliffs. his way was all but clear; for spies had seen rolf's coming and reported it to einar, who sent his men to seize the lad. they had gone to right and left around the hall, while einar alone completed the act of distress at the crags; for thus the law said: it must be done at a barren spot where no shade fell, not far from the house of the outlaw. and einar completed the act, and started toward the house. he alone stood between rolf and his escape. so rolf ran at him, drawing his sword. but einar fled when he saw the lad's steel. then rolf ran up behind, put his sword between einar's legs, and tripped him. einar rolled over on his back. "mercy!" cried he, and made no attempt to ward himself. rolf laid the flat of his sword against einar's forehead; he shrank from the cold steel, but still did not struggle. "now," quoth rolf, "i go across the sea, yet thou shalt hear from me again. and if i meet in the outlands thy son, of whom thou boastest, i promise thee to put this sword to his forehead, but with the edge, and to draw his blood." by that, the men of einar were close at hand. rolf ran to the crags and let himself down at a place which he knew well. when men with spears came to the edge and looked after him, nothing of him was seen. chapter xvii rolf and frodi fare abroad rolf comes to frodi where he works in his smithy, there at the head of hvammfirth. now the weather is rough, and a strong sea rages among the islands at the mouth of the firth, and the tide-rips are bad. rolf comes into the smithy, and frodi greets him well. "how went thy suit at the althing?" asks he. then rolf tells him all, how he was now an outlaw, and how he escaped. "and men are out to catch me, for as i came down over the hill, i met one who said that armed men were at the ferry below, waiting for someone. now lend me thy boat, frodi, that i may cross to hvamm, and seek passage on that ship which is there outfitting." "remain with me overnight," answered frodi, "for the wind is rough." but rolf would not stay. "then," said frodi, "i will row with thee, to help against the wind, and coming back i can row easily alone." "thou wouldst thus come into danger for forwarding an outlaw," replied rolf, and on no account would he suffer frodi to go. so perforce frodi lent him the boat, and they bade each other god-speed, and rolf set out. that was a hard row in the face of the wind, yet rolf got safely to hvamm. then, desiring that his enemies should think him dead, he set the boat adrift, and the oars separately, and saw the waves carry them from the shore. then he went on his way to the ship which was fitting for the outward voyage; and because it was the law that no shipmaster might refuse passage to an outlaw, rolf was sure of safety. as he went he met a man of snorri the priest, and rolf sent by him a message to his master: "forget not thy promise to keep my mother till my return." and so he came to the ship, and was sheltered. but that boat drifted across the firth, and the wind and tide brought it again to frodi's smithy, where it lay and beat upon the beach. frodi went out and drew it up, and knew it as his own, and believed that rolf was drowned. he went back to his smithy, and sat there weeping. then came that way men of einar's, hallvard and hallmund, with ondott crafty; and seeing they were three, and frodi so mild of temper, they went into the smithy to taunt him with the misfortunes of rolf. because he wept, they fell to laughing, and asked him: "why weepest thou, whittle-frodi?" frodi told them that rolf was dead. "for he took my boat to row across the firth, and now is the boat come empty to land, without oars or thole-pins." then they laughed the more, and taunted him grievously, saying they were glad at the news, and mocking his weeping. so hallmund came near, and put his hand on frodi, calling him a fool. frodi seized the hand, and rose, and they all saw his face was changed. "never in my life," said frodi, "have i been angry till now!" he drew the man to him, and snapped the bones of his arm; then he raised him and cast him at hallvard, so that the two fell, but ondott remained standing. "now, ondott," quoth frodi, "here is the whittle which once thou badst me draw. let us see if it will cut!" but when he drew the whittle, ondott fled, and the others scrambled together out of the smithy. then frodi was afraid of the law, for he thought: "they will make me an outlaw for this assault." so he took his boat, and got new oars and thole-pins. then he fetched his money from his sleeping loft, and fared across hvammfirth to that same ship where rolf was. great was his joy when he saw rolf. "what dost thou here?" asked rolf. "i will go with thee," answered frodi. then he paid the shipmaster his faring, and paid rolf's also. two days thereafter they sailed down broadfirth, and saw cragness at a little distance. the cairn of hiarandi was to be seen at the edge of the cliff, but many persons were at work in the field. rolf knew that his enemies had already set up their household there; but the ship took him, heavy-hearted, east over the sea. chapter xviii how those two came into thraldom two earls ruled in the orkneys: brusi and thorfinn, half-brothers. of the islands, two thirds were under brusi, the elder; but besides his third thorfinn had inherited caithness and sunderland in scotland from his grandfather the scot king. so thorfinn lived on those lands, and brusi guarded all the isles; but thorfinn complained that the guard was ill-kept, since vikings harried oft in the isles, coming from norway or denmark. there was a man named ar the peacock, who was a thane of brusi the earl and lived on the mainland of orkney. now the mainland of orkney is an island, and ar ruled its northern end, having charge of the tribute to the earl and the keeping of order. he lived at that place called hawksness in hawkdale, below the downs and sheepwalks, where is good harbor in winter. forty men he kept, and a war-ship; his hall was great, and there was a stone church close by; fisher-folk and farmers lived in the same settlement. ar was a vain man and fond of show, kindly but weak. because he had no child he had taken to him a lad to foster, who was called grani the proud, ar's fosterling. grani was tall and fair, of sixteen summers, skilled in games but ignorant of war. he was dear to his foster-father's heart, and ar could deny him nothing. that war-ship of ar's was for the ward of the isles, and ar kept it at all times in readiness. one day news came that vikings were on the west coast, plundering and burning. ar sent for sweyn, the master of his ship. "thou shalt take the best of thy men," said ar, "and search for those vikings. and because earl thorfinn has complained that our work is ill-done, thou shalt take all pains." sweyn said he would. then grani stood before ar, and said: "thou hast many times promised i should go a-fighting. now may i go with sweyn, or wilt thou put me off yet another time?" ar remembered that he had heard of but one viking-ship, so he said: "thou mayest go." "thou hast promised me thralls when the next captives are taken. may i choose them from this ship?" "two thralls mayest thou have," answered ar, "but all orkneymen are to be freed." when they made ready to go, ar said to sweyn that grani should be guarded in the fight, and sweyn promised to look well to that. they went on board and sailed round into the open sea; there they passed first the great cliffs, and then cruised along the shore, looking for the ship of the vikings. now the ship of those chapmen who had given passage to rolf and frodi had a good voyage; those two broadfirthers were the only icelanders aboard. to them the orkneyingers boasted much of their land. "in spite of what ye say," quoth rolf to them, "the orkneys are no such safe place as iceland, as i see clearly, now that we are nearing land." "in what dost thou see it?" asked the others. "with us are no sea-robbers," answered rolf, "but ye have set a watch against vikings, and fear them." this the orkneyingers could not deny, for they had kept a look-out ever since they had neared the land. yet all their care did not avail them, for they met a ship in the pentland firth, a war-ship, weather-stained and hardy; shields hung along its sides, and it sailed swiftly. when the chapmen saw the shields taken from the rail, they knew that was a viking-ship. so the chapmen prepared to defend themselves. rolf got ready to fight; but when the vikings drew near, frodi sat himself down on a rowing bench, and looked troubled. "wilt thou not fight?" asked the shipmaster. frodi answered: "it is not clear to me what i should do." "shame on thee," cried the other, "if thou wilt not fight for the men who harbored thee!" [illustration: "so tall was she that the vikings could not board her"] so frodi, all without arms, stood up as the two ships came together, and knew not where to place himself. the vikings came leaping aboard, and all began fighting in confusion; but the vikings were many and were well armed, and the chapmen had no leader. men fell dead at frodi's side, and a viking came at him with brandished sword. frodi caught him and hurled him into the water. then he took those other vikings who came near him, and cast them overboard one after another; "and it is no affair of mine," thought he, "if they cannot swim." and he cleared a space about him, but one from a distance cast at him a throwing-axe; it struck him flatwise on the head, and down he fell. by this time the chapmen were ceasing to fight; but rolf saw frodi fall, and fought the harder, to avenge him. the vikings penned him by the rail, yet he broke through them; then when he passed near where frodi had fallen, frodi rose up and caught rolf by the waist, and said: "now sit we down comfortably here together, for we have done our part." that was the end of the fight, for no men fought more, and the vikings gave peace to them. now men began to shout from the water, where they were swimming. three were hauled up over the side. "how many," asked rolf of frodi, "threwest thou over?" frodi turned white and would not answer. then the vikings despoiled the ship of the chapmen and set her adrift, but the captives were set to row the war-ship. rolf and frodi toiled at one oar together, and sore was the labor, but not for long. for on the third day, as they rowed under a bright sky with no wind, they heard a clamor among the vikings, who cried that a long ship was bearing down on them--an orkney ship, great in size. some of the vikings snatched their shields from the bulwarks and armed themselves; but many, crying that no mercy would be shown, would take no shields, and instead cast off their shirts of mail, preparing to go into battle baresark. "never have i seen that," said rolf, "though much have i heard of it." for northmen, in danger of death, often went into battle bare of armor, fighting with fury and mindless of wounds. they believed that thus they came surely into valhalla; but that was a custom of the heathen, and was not done by christian folk. rolf and frodi were tied to their bench, and saw nothing of the orkneymen as they came up astern. but at last the splash of oars was heard; next a grapple came flying aboard; then of a sudden the orkney ship loomed alongside, and she was a big ship indeed. so tall was she that the vikings could not board her; but from her the orkneymen sent down arrows, stones, and spears. bodies of men fell among the rowers' benches, and rolf and frodi took each a shield, sat close together, and warded themselves against weapons. then the orkneyingers, having cleared the waist of the viking-ship of fighters, came tumbling aboard. that was a fight with method, for the orkneymen in two parties drove the vikings to the stem and the stern, and so either slew them or thrust them into the sea. very hot was the fighting, but it was short; the sixth part of an hour was not over when the fighting was finished. now that orkney ship was the ship of ar the peacock, and they who led the fighting were sweyn and grani. sweyn drove the vikings to the bow; but grani led those who fought in the stern, and two old fighting-men warded him, one on either side. grani did not know that they were guarding him. when the fighting was finished, sweyn and grani met in the waist, near where rolf sat. sweyn asked grani if he had any wound. grani said nay thereto. "but i gave wounds, and this has been a great fight." "now," said sweyn, "let us free those who worked at the oars." "remember," answered grani, "that i am to have thralls from the captives." but of those who had been taken with the ship, it was found that all the vikings were either dead or sore wounded; and all the rowers were orkneymen save only rolf and frodi. "no orkneymen can i give thee as thrall," said sweyn. grani answered: "then i take the two others." then rolf stood up and said: "icelanders are we. since when are icelanders enthralled in the orkneys, and why is this injustice?" "ye are captives," said grani. sweyn took him aside to speak with him; but he would not listen, and said, pouting: "ar promised me." "take them then," replied sweyn. grani said to rolf and frodi: "ye are my thralls; i will treat you well. what are your names?" rolf answered: "rolf hight i." "of what father and what place?" "a thrall," answered rolf, "hath no father and no home." frodi replied in like manner. "it is plain to see," said sweyn, "that these two should be free men." "let them win their freedom, then," answered grani. then a division of men was made, and sweyn took the chapmen with him in the large ship, but grani stayed on board the viking-ship as its master. they sailed together for the orkney coast. when night came grani called rolf and frodi, and bade them watch by turns while he slept. "i will be a good master so long as ye serve me well." rolf thought grani to be about his age, yet not so old in mind. much pleased was grani to own thralls. he seemed kindly, but petulant and uncertain. chapter xix now men are shipwrecked those two ships sailed together, all that day; but in the night they became separated, for there was a little wind. in the morning grani's ship was close to a shore, and that was the mainland of orkney. for miles great cliffs stood up out of the water, the wind fell, and there was a long ground-swell. then said grani: "often have i seen these cliffs from above; now it will be sport to see them from below. put in close, and sail along under the cliffs." those two old men who had warded him in the fight both spoke to him, saying it were better to keep away. but grani pouted and gave his order again. "all men say," quoth he, "that the water is deep there, and no harm can befall." then they sailed along under the cliffs, and a grand sight that was, to see them high above and stretching far ahead. rolf stood in the bow, and he looked first up at the cliffs, and then down into the green water. there came a great wave, larger than the others, and after it the water fell away. just before the ship, rolf saw a rock break the water with scarcely a ripple, for it was very sharp; sea-weed floated around its sides. another wave came and lifted the ship up, and the rock disappeared as if it had sunk down. rolf shouted in warning. but the wave passed, the ship rushed down into the hollow, and struck the rock. the planks tore apart beneath the bow, and all heard the splintering; then the water poured in, a wave lifted the ship, and she slid back into deep water. she began to sink. there was scarcely time to throw over oars and shields, and to leap after them into the water. the ship went down; the men were swimming, there under the wall of rock. they swam toward the cliff, and those who swam worst clung to the oars. but the cliff rose sharp from the water, only hand-hold was to be had, and the waves bruised the men as they tried to support themselves. eighteen men in all were there, and they swam in a line along the cliff for an hour, until at last they found a foothold where a shelf of rock jutted under water, and all might stand waist deep. then one of the men asked: "is the tide coming or going?" they watched to find out, and at last it was sure: the tide was coming. it rose above their waists, so that the smaller men were lifted by the waves; and it was lucky that there was no storm, for they would all have been killed. then the tide rose still higher, and men began to look anxious. there they stayed half an hour more, and the sea-otters swam about and looked at them. frodi said to rolf: "what dost thou think, and why look'st thou so at the cliffs above us?" "they seem to me like the cliffs at home. were we there i could climb up." "seest thou no way here?" asked frodi. "i see two ways," answered rolf, "yet neither seems good." grani asked: "what are my thralls saying?" "the water," said rolf, "will take thy thralls from thee." but one of the men had heard what had been said, and told grani. grani cried: "why dost thou not try the climb?" "send one of those," answered rolf, "who cares to save his life." this he said of a set purpose, for of the men some were heavy and some were old. they all shook their heads and said they could not win to the top of the cliff. grani said: "i will give thee thy freedom if thou wilt save us." "is there a farm above?" asked rolf. one of the men said: "within a mile." rolf still stayed where he was. "why dost thou not go?" cried grani. "what of the freedom of my fellow?" asked rolf. "he also shall be free," answered grani. then rolf essayed to climb the cliff by the way which seemed surest; he went up quickly until they lost sight of him, so that they began to say that now he was at the top, and would soon bring a rope. then something fell with a great splash in the water. "he hath reached the top and thrown down a rock," cried the men. but that was rolf himself, for he had fallen from near the top; presently they saw his head. all breathless and bruised, he swam to them and waited a while; then he sought to climb by the other way, and that was more in sight of the others; marvellous climbing they agreed it was. after a while he went again out of their sight, and in the end they heard him hail. so they were sure he was at the top. then they waited for him to bring the rope, and the water rose to the breastbone of frodi, who was tallest; but it was at the chin of the shortest, who had to float, while frodi held him. they stayed there a long time, and the water rose still higher; it was cold, and some of the men grew very faint. at last shouts were heard, and a rope came dangling down. then the shortest man climbed the rope, and he was glad. but others were too weak to climb, and had to be drawn up, one after another. grani would not go, but sent up the men in the order of their height. when he and frodi alone were left, grani said to frodi: "go thou next." "great is thy pride," answered frodi, "and thou wishest to do a brave deed, yet thy strength is not sufficient. for see, thou art blue about the lips, and i am holding thee upright. how shouldst thou stay alone after i have gone up? but i could stand here yet another hour. thou must go next." "i will stay to the last," answered grani. then the rope came down again. "i will not go," said grani. "then i shall tie thee by force, and send thee up," said frodi. but then was heard a great shouting, and there came a ship which had seen the work of rescue, and had put in shore. grani said: "i will go in the ship; they are sending a boat." when the boat came from the ship, grani went in it; but frodi climbed the rope and told rolf what had been said. that was a ship of chapmen, and its master asked grani who he was, and gave him food and drink, and carried him round the end of the mainland to hawksness; but those others who had reached the top of the cliff had no other way than to walk. four leagues they fared on foot, reaching hawksness after nightfall. meanwhile grani spoke much with the shipmaster, and they grew very friendly. they came to hawksness about the same time as the other men came from the moors, and they all walked up to the hall together. rolf walks with frodi, but the shipmaster goes with grani, and passes near them; the shipmaster sees them, but they do not mark him. then the shipmaster pulls at grani's sleeve, and draws him aside. the shipmaster asks: "those two who walk there are thy thralls?" grani said so. then the shipmaster said: "didst thou say thou wouldst set them free?" "aye," answered grani. "it hath come to my mind," said the other, "that they did not save thee, but i did. moreover, there was no need for climbing the cliff, for i should have been able to save ye all." "that is true," said grani. "now," quoth the shipmaster, "thou art very reckless of thy possessions if thou settest those thralls free." "truly," answered grani, "i will not free them." when they reached the hall sweyn had arrived before them, and the booty of the vikings lay in the hall; but ar was waiting anxiously for his foster-son, and welcomed him gladly. then a true tale was required of all that had happened. grani told each thing as it had come about. when he told of his thralls, ar said: "since those two are icelanders, who are close to us by ties of blood, it were better to have set them free." "thou didst not reserve any save orkneymen," answered grani. then he told of the wreck and the rescue. said ar: "so those two have their freedom in the end?" grani called rolf and frodi to the dais. "thou didst not save my life," said he. "that is true," answered rolf. "moreover," quoth grani, "the ship would have saved us all." "that also is true," said rolf. "therefore i see no reason," said grani next, "why i should set thee free." rolf and frodi answered nothing. "see," said grani to ar, "they make no objection; therefore i shall keep them as thralls. but i will give each of them what he cares to choose of the spoil, if thou permit." then permission was given, and the spoil of the vikings was spread out there before the dais; there were fine things of many kinds. but rolf put the gold and silver by, and took only a cloak. then said grani: "choose again." rolf took a belt. "choose again," repeated grani. rolf took a short sword. "choose yet again!" cried grani. but rolf would take nothing more, and frodi took naught but a cloak and a whittle. "a strange pair are ye," quoth grani. but ar called them to him and asked them why they had chosen so little. "we take only our own," answered rolf. "sea-worn cloaks and weapons," said ar, "are they dear to ye?" "his mother," said frodi, "made me my cloak, but the whittle belonged to my father." "and thy things," asked ar of rolf. "who gave them to thee?" "snorri the priest," answered rolf, "gave me the cloak, and burning flosi gave the belt; but if ye do not know these names--" "i know them both," said sweyn the sea-captain. "but who gave the sword?" "kari solmund's son," answered rolf, "and that name thou shouldst know best of all." sweyn cried: "i know the man himself, for he is an orkneyman by birth, tribute-taker here under earl sigurd, and of great fame. now tell us the story why he gave thee the sword." but rolf would tell nothing. then sweyn offered to buy rolf of grani, but he puffed out his lips and would not sell his thrall. so nothing came of that rescue by rolf, save to give him a name among the orkneyingers. now all men sit down for the evening meal. that shipmaster wishes to leave the hall, saying he must look to his ship; but grani will not let him go. then frodi sees him, and pushes rolf in the side. says frodi: "men said your uncle was dead." "so they did," answers rolf. but he does not attend, and falls to brooding. so frodi says that again. rolf asks him why. "who sits by the dais?" asked frodi. rolf looked on that shipmaster, and it was his father's brother, kiartan. chapter xx how rolf won his freedom now when that meal was ended, kiartan rose up and said that he must go; he thanked ar, and grani walked with him to the door. but as they passed by the bench whereon rolf and frodi were sitting, grani beckoned them to rise up, and he said to kiartan: "look on my thralls, now that thou canst see them closer, and tell me what thou thinkest of them." kiartan scarcely looked at them. "they seem a good pair," he answered. "it is fitting for thy dignity to have thralls." then he went away. frodi asked of rolf: "did he know us?" "he knew us well," answered rolf. "what wilt thou do?" asked frodi. "i see naught to do," said rolf. "for what he did against my father was done in iceland, so that i could not bring a suit at law here. moreover, no thrall can bring a suit in any land." "wilt thou claim kinship with him?" frodi asked. "wilt thou?" responded rolf. no more words were said, but it was seen in their eyes that for their pride's sake they would make no claim on kiartan. kiartan found that nothing was said in the matter; so he stayed there in the place, and won the friendship of ar by gifts, and traded with success. he ate often at the hall, and slept there whenever he would; but no word passed between him and those kinsmen, nor did they ever look at him. grani was proud that he owned thralls, and he commanded them to show what they could do. so rolf shot with the bow, and grani made him his bow-bearer. but frodi said he knew little of weapons; yet when they gave him a spear he shot it through two shields braced together against posts. he asked for work as a smith, but grani made him spear-bearer. and the youth often walked abroad with those other two attending him. ar was pleased with that show, but the thralls smiled grimly to each other. once kiartan saw that smile, and he said to grani privily: "thy thralls smile at thy back, and make as if they feel shame. now be careful lest they harm thee sometime when thou art alone with them. if i were thee, i would set them at the sheep-herding or the field-work." grani answered: "i fear no harm from them, and indeed i like them more every day. i cannot spare them." now the truth of the matter was this, that grani cast a great love upon rolf, and would have him as a friend, not thinking that no friendship can be between master and slave. he gave rolf gifts, everything but his freedom; he spoke much with rolf, yet the talk was most upon the one side, for rolf grew very silent. yet rolf went everywhere after grani, and did him much service of all kinds, being clever with his hands and wise in his ways; he knew a boat and all the modes of fishing; when it came to cliff-climbing, no man in that place was his match. grani often went seeking adventure with rolf and frodi; they managed in such wise that frodi did the work and rolf directed what should be done. when they went after birds frodi sat at the top of the cliff and held the rope, but on the cliff's face rolf would let grani take no risks. nay, sometimes it seemed as if rolf were the master and grani the man. but when other people were about, rolf did all that grani said. one day a bishop came to hawksness and visited the parish. he held service in the church, and lived at the hall for two days. when he was about to go away, he asked if any man needed from him counsel or comfort. frodi stood up. said he: "lord bishop, are all manslayings sinful?" the bishop answered: "state me the case, for some manslayings are blameless." so frodi spoke thus: "if a man is on a ship, and vikings come, and that man casts a viking overboard, and the viking is drowned--hath the man committed a mortal sin?" many men smiled at these words, for the story of frodi and the vikings had been told. the bishop said: "vikings are the worst plague of the land, and they deserve no mercy. since the viking came to take life, it was no sin to slay him." frodi drew a long breath, but he asked further: "if two vikings were drowned, what of that?" "it is the same," answered the bishop. "but if three men were thus drowned," asked frodi, "what then?" "even if thirty died," answered the bishop, "the answer is still the same." then frodi heaved a great sigh, and looked so relieved that all who stood by shouted with merriment. grani was pleased most of all, and he gave command that frodi should be called drowning-frodi. frodi liked that little, yet by that name he was called for a while. and grani was so pleased with all this that he boasted much about his thralls. one day he spoke of them with kiartan, and told how when they went away together rolf took the lead. "and he cares for me," said grani, "as if i were his brother; but so soon as others are by he is as any other thrall, and says no word unless spoken to." kiartan said: "in that he appears to me sly." "how should that be?" asked grani. "he seeks to gain influence over thee," answered kiartan. "nay," said grani, "he and i are friends." kiartan shook his head. quoth he: "in my country we have a saying: 'ill is a thrall for a friend.' moreover, to lack dignity at any time is not seeming in one of thy station." grani took those sayings much to heart; he went no more away alone with his thralls, but stayed where were other men. now that was the time when the summer had passed by and harvests were all in, but winter had not yet come and the weather was mild. men were saying that when winter should come, it would be with suddenness. there came a day when the wind was high, but it was as soft as summer. a man named thord the weatherwise came to ar and said: "see to it that all is ready for the winter!" and without more words departed. ar inquired of his men if the sheep were yet gathered in from the downs above the cliffs. it was answered that they were not. ar bade send a man quickly to warn the shepherds. it was told ar that the fishers had just come in, and that all the serving-men were busied at the beach, being much needed to save the catch of fish, for the waves were high. ar said to grani: "lend me one of thy thralls to take my message." "thou mayest have both of them," answered grani. so rolf and frodi prepared to go to the downs, and a long jaunt that would be. but when grani saw they were ready he felt desire to go with them, since he had not done much for some days, and needed action. so he said that rolf and frodi should wait till he could go with them. they went outside the hall to wait, and grani bound on his shoes. now kiartan had stood by and heard all that, and he said: "so thou goest out again with thy friends?" grani answered with pride: "i go with my thralls!" he went outside the hall and found rolf and frodi waiting. rolf looked him over, and seeing there was no one by, he said: "take thy cloak, for we may be benighted." "lo," answered grani, "the thrall gives orders to his master! we shall be back before men go to bed. no cloak is needed, and i forbid ye to take yours." so rolf and frodi left their cloaks behind, and went with grani to the moors. the moors were wide and rolling, and lay above those cliffs whereby they had once been wrecked. the three travelled not as had been their wont, all together; but grani went ahead, saying to himself they should remember that they were thralls. in going so he missed his way, and they came to the sheepcotes roundabout and late. there they found the men busy gathering in the sheep, making ready to drive them to the valleys when this gale should pass. some men said that would be on the morrow, for the wind was falling. even while they spoke the wind dropped completely, and there was a calm. "see," said grani, "the storm is over; it was but a gale." the head shepherd said he thought not so, and that more was to be looked for. "moreover, thy icelanders think the same, as i can see by their faces." "i ask not what they think," answered grani. "there is blue sky in the south." "thy thralls and i," replied the shepherd, "look to the north. and now i beg that thou wilt stay here overnight, for company's sake." "i see thou hast fear for me," said grani. "but i will return." "then hasten," begged the shepherd. but grani would not hurry, and started leisurely. the shepherd called a man, and privately told him he should guide those three, for he knew the moors. then the shepherd begged grani that the man might go to hawksness with him, for his work at the folds was done. the four started together. soon a little wind, thin and keen, began to blow from the north; it grew greater quickly until it was half a gale. by that time they were where they could see the sea, and grani looked out upon it. quoth he: "fog is coming from the water." now rolf had been silent so far, all that afternoon; yet he could be so no longer. said he: "not fog is that, but snow, and i beg thee to turn back." "lead forward!" said grani to the shepherd. so they went on as they had been going, another half-hour, and each minute the wind grew stronger. they neared the line of the cliffs, and walked parallel with them at a half-mile's distance. then that which had appeared to be fog on the water at last moved inland, so that they saw it coming like a wall. it left the sea, and swallowed up the land before it; then it swept upon them silently, and they bent before its onslaught. wind buffeted them and roared in their ears; a few snowflakes drove along the ground; then they were enfolded in the swirl of snow. all around them became one gray fleece, they could not see for a rod in front, and they shivered with the cold. they struggled onwards, bending to the wind; and night came down an hour before its time. the snow began to heap thickly, and now it was above the ankle, now a foot in depth; wonderful was that fall of snow. they walked one behind the other, the shepherd in front, then grani, rolf, and frodi, each so close as to touch the next one with his hand. the night grew black, and the wind was loud. then at last rolf shouted that they should stop. "why sayest thou that?" asked grani. "because i think we near the cliffs," said rolf. "i hear no surf," answered grani. but the guide thought that rolf was right. grani asked what they should do. rolf answered: "best stay here till morning." "shall i freeze?" asked grani. "let us turn away and walk further inland." "we cannot keep our direction," said rolf. "wilt thou never be silent?" asked grani. "we will go inland." so they sought to do so, and they walked for another while. then grani asked the shepherd if he knew where he was, and the man could not say. when they went on again, frodi pressed forward and took the place behind the shepherd; and when grani asked for the place frodi would not give it. so they walked thus for another while, their feet clogged by the snow, their faces stung with the wind, plodding with great effort and weariness. then at the end that happened which rolf had feared. for of a sudden the roar of the sea burst up at them from their very feet, and the guide, with a cry, sank in the darkness. frodi clutched at him, but caught only the cloak; the clasp broke, and the man fell to his death. those other three stood at the edge of the cliff, while below the sea thundered, yet they saw nothing. then rolf took grani by the arm and drew him away. frodi followed. the noise of the surf was suddenly lost in the wind, and no one would have known they were near the cliff. rolf led the way inland, and frodi walked last; they went very cautiously, and frodi was ever ready to seize on grani. at last they reached a mound. in its lee the wind was less, and the snow was piling deep; rolf scooped space for them all, and there they sat down side by side. after a space grani said, "it grows cold." frodi wrapped him in the guide's cloak. for another while they sat silent, until grani said again: "i am too weary to walk another step, yet if i sit here i shall freeze. frodi, what can we do?" frodi knew nothing which could be done. "either we should walk over the cliffs, or die of freezing in the first mile. we must stay here. take warmth from us." they sat closer to him, but still he was cold. after a while he said: "i am sorry we brought not our cloaks." they answered nothing. the snow heaped around them, yet grani fell to shivering. then he said: "i am sorry we turned not back." they still said nothing. at last grani could bear it no longer, and he cried: "rolf, if thou hast anything to say, say it before we all die!" rolf answered: "i have been thinking. what is this mound behind us?" "there is but one mound on all the heaths," answered grani. "men call it the barrow of a viking, who died off the coast, and was buried here with his ship, that he might forever look out upon the sea." "then," said rolf, "there is one thing we can do, and only one, to save our lives; and that is to break into the barrow." so they fell to digging with their hands at the mound, and they could have done nothing had the earth been frozen. but it was still soft; and they dug until they came to timbers, two feet within the mound. then frodi thrust his hands between the timbers, and strained at one, and rolf and grani tugged at his waist. the timber broke, and they fell back together in the snow; yet an entrance to the mound was thus made, and when they had enlarged it rolf went in first, and the others followed. within, the air was dead and close; they stayed at the entrance to breathe, yet the place was warmer, and it was a great relief not to feel the wind. but grani was still all of a shiver, so rolf went into the mound further, and they heard him stumbling and slipping in the darkness. after a while he came back to them and said: "here is wood for a fire." then they pulled stalks of grass and shook them free of snow; they found in the shepherd's cloak a flint and steel, and so made a fire at the mouth of the barrow. the wind bore the smoke away, and by degrees the air cleared in the mound. then with brands they went within, and cast the light about. the mound was made of a viking-ship, a small one, which had been borne there on the shoulders of men. it was propped upright with stones, and roofed over with timbers and planks; dirt had been cast over the whole. they climbed into that ship, and saw by the light of the torches where the old viking sat in the stern. he was in such armor as men had worn long before; he had a helm on his head, and held a sword in his hand, and was very stern of face. there he sat as if he were still alive, but there was no sight in his eyes. before him in the ship were precious things of gold and silver, cloths, and weapons. all the oars lay in their places as if ready for men to use them. very strange was that sight, and those three gazed at it in silence. "he looks," said frodi, "as if he would walk." [illustration: "there he sat as if he were still alive, but there was no sight in his eyes"] "now," said grani, "i remember the shepherds say he has been seen, and lights have burned at this mound sometimes of nights. yet he has never done harm." "if he is ever to do it, he will do it now," said rolf. "for he looks as if he mislikes us here." by that time the place was very smoky from the torches, so they went back again to the entrance and lay down to sleep; they took with them cloths and broidered hangings which had lain by the viking, and with these and the fire they made themselves warm. so, very weary from their walking, they fell asleep. in the middle of the night rolf and grani waked, and missed frodi from their side. moreover they heard a noise, which was not the howling of the storm, but was like the splintering of wood and the snarling of men's breaths as they wrestled in fight. then rolf snatched a torch from the fire and ran within the mound; grani followed, and they climbed on board the ship. there lay frodi and the viking together: they had been fighting all about the place, and the thwarts and oars were broken; in one place even the bulwark of the ship was torn away. but frodi had forced the viking into the seat where first he had sat; and there frodi held him, while the viking struggled still, glaring from glassy eyes, and frodi could do naught but keep him where he was. little more breath had frodi, but yet he held his grip on the viking's arms. then rolf drew his short-sword, and sprang in at the viking, and hewed at the neck of him, so that the head sprang off at the stroke; but no blood followed. frodi lay and breathed deeply, but rolf took the head of the viking and laid it at his thigh. with those heathen ghosts which did harm to man, there was no way to quiet them except to hew off the head and lay it at the thigh. and such things happened to many men, even as is here told; but the greatest ghost-layer, says sturla the lawman, was grettir the strong. when frodi had got his breath, they asked him how all that had come about. "nothing do i know about it," answered frodi, "save that he came and dragged me in my sleep hither, and sought to throttle me. i had much ado to master him." they went back and slept until the day came, but the storm was still so violent that they could not travel. then they made larger the entrance to the mound so that light came into the ship; and they buried the viking in the ground. now when they came to examine his treasures, grani and frodi were busy long, casting aside each thing for something better. but after rolf had searched for only a short while, he sat still and looked no further. grani saw that he had something. "what precious thing hast thou there?" asked he. "this," said rolf, "which i found on the back of the viking's seat." he showed them a bow which had hung there in a leathern case. of some foreign wood it was, tipped with horn, and bound at the middle with wire of fine gold to form a grip. it seemed very strong, cunningly made: a wonderful weapon. and there was a quiver with it, bearing thirty arrows, long and barbed for war. "now," said grani, "this is far better than jewels or fine cloths, and it is the best weapon here. thou shalt give it to me." rolf gave him the bow. and when they went again to look out upon the storm, the clouds were breaking and sunbeams were coming through. so they took the bow and some small gear, and started for hawksness, where they found ar nigh wild for fear; but their coming made him happy. and grani told all that had happened to them. said ar: "methinks thy thralls have saved thy life." "that is true," answered grani. "what wilt thou give them?" asked ar. "whatever they wish," answered grani. he called on rolf to say what gift he would like at his hands. "that bow and those arrows," said rolf. "now," asked grani, "which is dearest to thee, that bow, or thy freedom and frodi's?" "our freedom," answered rolf. "your freedom shall you have," said grani. then, before all who were in the hall, he spoke rolf and frodi free. chapter xxi how rolf won the viking's bow grani sent men to the viking's mound, and they fetched home all the precious things which were there, whether gold, silver, cloths or weapons. among these last was the viking's bill. that was a notable weapon, having a curving blade with a hook springing from its back, and set like a great spearhead upon a pole as high as a man's shoulder. grani kept all weapons; but he gave rolf and frodi things to the value of some hundreds in silver, and begged that they should remain with him in the hall of ar the peacock. yet rolf bore himself as if he expected more from grani than gold and silver, and said he could not stay in the hall. grani complained of that to ar. ar asked: "knowest thou not what he will have of thee?" said grani, "the bow, belike." "not so," answered ar. "well," grani said, "i will make amends to him by pressing him again to live here with us." "thou shalt never succeed with him in that," replied ar, "until thou hast said those words which will make him forget that he was once a thrall in this place. but this i beg thee, drive him not away from hawksness; for war with the scots is threatened in the spring, and all fighting-men will be of value." so grani did not press rolf to stay in the hall, and he asked: "where will ye live?" "we go," answered rolf, "to stay a while with that shipmaster who has been living here." but when they searched after kiartan, it was told that he had gone with his ship with great suddenness when he learned that rolf and frodi were set free. yet in his haste he had left merchandise, and had outstanding credits; so rolf took kiartan's lodgings, and said he would wait his return. then winter came on, and the place was snowed and frozen up, so that men had nothing to do save to hold sports on the ice, or to sit long of evenings in the hall, talking of many things. but now all was different from before, and rolf and grani came seldom together. one time when all were at games on the ice, grani sent for his bow, and it was brought out to him. men took it and handled it, admiring it much. "let us see," said grani, "what shooting we can do with it." he tried to string the bow. but it was with him as it had been with rolf and the bow of grettir: it would not bend for him, but was almost as stiff as a spear shaft. he got red in the face, first with trying and then with anger; at last he gave over and said that others should try. but though the strongest of the orkneyingers did their best, they could do no better than grani. thereat he felt better, and offered the bow to frodi. frodi held it in his hands, and turned it this way and that. "break it i might," quoth he, "but string it never." he offered the bow to rolf, saying: "do thou try it, for i have seen thee do with skill what others have failed to do with force." but rolf would not try to string the bow. so grani sent it back to the hall, and let bring the viking's bill, which had lain by his side in the ship. but when it was brought, it proved too heavy for any of the orkneyingers to wield. then said grani: "i will give the bill as a present to ghost-frodi." "why callest thou me that?" asked frodi. grani only said, "why should i not call thee so?" and he pressed the bill on frodi, who drew back. "i know nothing of weapons," said he. then all the orkneyingers shouted to see the strongest man drawing away from the bill; and when grani made him take it, they laughed the more, for he handled it, said all, as if it were the smithy broom. they called him ghost-frodi after that, thinking it fine that he who could master a spirit could not handle a weapon. now in that winter ar was continually sick with little fevers, and he would not let grani stir far from his side. one day a messenger from earl brusi came to say that ar should keep a watch for vemund the pitiless, who had been driven from the north, and had gone toward the south. now no one needed to be told who vemund was. for he was the worst of all vikings who had ravaged in the orkneys, since he not only took tribute, but burnt towns and slaughtered people wantonly. a baresark he was, with the strength of seven men, and so defended by magic that on him no steel might bite. only twenty men had he with him, but they had the power of fifty, being baresarks all, outlawed and reckless of life. they had first done great damage in norway, but were driven thence to the shetland isles, and thence to the northern orkneys, but now were coming further south. rewards and fame were sure to the men who could overcome those baresarks. grani begged of ar that he might go in the war-ship in search of them; but ar said no to that. ar gave orders that sweyn should keep the ship in readiness; men slept near the boat-stand, ready to launch her day or night. one night in a storm, fire was seen on that island which is off hawksness, where dwell only fisher-folk; the cottages were seen to burn to the ground, but the sea was high, and no one crossed over. in the morning a ten-oared boat left that little island, and went away eastward; that was a venturesome thing in a storm, and by that deed that was known for the boat of vemund the pitiless. then sweyn let launch the war-ship, and with all his men went after the baresarks. rolf made no offer to go, and grani watched the chase from the shore, angry that he must stay. the two ships drove away out of sight, and no one could say that the larger gained upon the smaller. nothing more was seen of them all that day. but in the night the baresarks gave sweyn the slip; they came straight back as they had gone, but sweyn went on, first east, then south, searching the coast. vemund's ship came to hawksness; and in the morning, behold, there it was off the landing, and the baresarks were just rowing it to shore. the fisher-folk left their cottages and ran to the hall, and all took hasty counsel. but when word was brought to ar of the baresarks, first he became red in the face, and then he lost power of speech, and there was no leader save grani. grani said: "this is no place for us to stay, for the baresarks will burn us alive. take ar and the women and children into the stone church, and let us men go also thither and defend it." then that was done; and when they reached the church, going hastily and in a body so that none should be left behind, they found rolf and frodi sitting at the door, with their weapons. then all went within the church, but rolf and frodi stayed outside. "come ye not inside?" asked grani. "all those riches which ar has in his hall," responded rolf, "are those to be burned or lost?" then grani said he would go back again, and called for men to help defend the hall. only nine came. but those, with rolf and frodi, went back to the hall; both the hall and the church were barred against the baresarks. those outlaws came up into the place; a strange crew they were, wearing no armor but skins of beasts, and wild to look on. they burned some huts, but the church and the hall they might not force. then, because they feared sweyn's return, and so dared not to lose time, they knew not what to do. men shot at them from the hall and the church; so the baresarks went back again to the shore, and took counsel together. now all the time in the hall frodi had walked up and down, looking very white and knocking his bill against everything, as if he were afraid. so when the outlaws went away, grani scoffed at him. "what dost thou with that bill," asked grani, "if thou canst not stand up like a man, and be ready for what comes?" "truly," answered frodi, "i feel strange inwardly, and my hands are cold. yet what dost thou with that bow, which is so handsome that man never saw finer, yet which no one in these islands has yet strung?" then grani took the quiver from his shoulders and laid down the bow. "i am justly rebuked," said he. he took a lighter bow. "now wilt thou take a smaller weapon?" "no man can say," answered frodi, "what he will do in time of trial. but i will keep the bill." now some voice was heard without, calling; they listened to what was said. that was a messenger from vemund, who made this offer: a champion should be sent out by the orkneyingers, to meet vemund, and whichever champion should fall, his side should yield itself into the other's hands. but if the orkneyingers refused, fire should be set to the hall and also to the roof of the church. and that was the same as offering them one small chance for their lives. grani asked: "what man will go out against vemund?" no one offered. then grani said: "he who goes against the baresark will die swiftest, therefore i am willing to go myself." all the orkneyingers cried out against that, saying they should die together within the hall; it might be sweyn would come in time to save them. then rolf spoke and said: "no man in this place, not even frodi our strongest, will have any chance against vemund, so long as we fight with steel weapons. for i have heard the ways of such men to be these: before fighting they look upon the weapons of the other champion, and when they look, by witchcraft they make steel or iron powerless against them. such a man is vemund named. yet if thou, grani, wilt give me what i desire, i will find a way to slay him." "anything i have," answered grani, "is thine." "give me then," said rolf, "the bow and arrows of the viking." then grani gave him the bow and the quiver, and rolf cried to the messenger to say to vemund that in half an hour one would meet him with the bow. at that great laughter rose among the outlaws, and those in the hall and in the church felt no confidence in rolf. but he said to frodi, "go to the forge and heat it." and he said to grani, "bring me here some silver." then when the forge was heated and the silver was brought, rolf said to frodi: "make me now three silver arrowheads, the best thou canst, after the pattern of these here in the quiver." so frodi made the arrow-heads quickly and with great skill, so that no one could have told them apart from the arrow-heads of iron, for they were black from the fire. and rolf first set a dish of whale-oil to heat by the forge, and then took the heads from three of the arrows. when the new arrow-heads were made, rolf bound them with sinews upon the shafts. a man said: "but what wilt thou do with the arrows if thou canst not string the bow?" rolf answered nothing. he took the whale-oil and oiled those three arrows. then he heated the oil hotter, and began to rub it on the bow. first he oiled the string and rubbed it long; then he oiled the wood. and the wood became darker with the oil, and took a finer polish; fresher it seemed, gleaming in the light of the forge. rolf rubbed for many minutes, and the bow became ever darker; he held it then over the forge, turning it in every way, and it took to itself the fire of the coals. then rolf oiled the string once more, heating it as well; and at last they saw he meant to string the bow. against his foot he set it, and bent it, and slipped the string up to the notch; it seemed as if a child could have done the deed, and the men burst out with a shout. then rolf took one of the old arrows and set it on the string; he drew the bow and shot the arrow along the hall. no one could see that it dropped in its flight; but it struck an oaken beam by the high seat, and when men came to measure it afterward, the arrow had entered the oak by the breadth of a palm. men spoke afterward of the sweet twang of that bow, like as if it were an harp. then the orkneyingers went out of the hall with much shouting, and stood upon a knoll which was between the hall and the church. the baresarks came near, and vemund stood out before them; he was a huge man, very hairy, with a great beard. he asked who was to come against him. "i," answered rolf. vemund laughed, and the other baresarks also, calling rolf a boy. "let me see thy weapons," said vemund. rolf showed him his quiver, and the baresark touched the point of each arrow with his finger. "wilt thou look upon my weapons?" asked vemund. rolf said he would not. "now," said he, "withdraw thy men to the beach, and let us begin." "thou art eager for death," said vemund with a grin. "i will do as thou sayest, and then will come at thee. thou mayest shoot as soon as thou wilt." vemund withdrew his men to the beach, and the orkneyingers went aside from the knoll. frodi wept before he left rolf, commending him to god. then rolf took those three arrows with silver points, and stuck them in the ground by his feet. by then vemund was ready to return; he bore no shield nor armor; he threw down his bow, and shouted that this should be between whatever weapons each man chose. then with sword in hand he began to walk to the knoll. rolf took an arrow from his quiver and laid it on the string. when vemund was nearer, rolf drew the bow; no bow had ever drawn harder, yet none had been so lively in his hand. the arrow sped; vemund turned not aside, but when the shaft struck on his breast the wood flew to splinters, and the point fell down. all the orkneymen cried out in fear, but the baresarks shouted. rolf took a second arrow and waited awhile. then he shot again, and the arrow struck vemund on the throat; it turned aside, and flew sliddering away. some of the orkneymen withdrew to the door of the church, crying that they should be let in. but the outlaws began to come forward. then rolf drew one of those arrows from the ground, and wiped the point, and made ready. when vemund was twenty paces away rolf shot for the third time. the arrow went in a level flight, and struck vemund on the breast; there it sunk to the feathers. those baresarks, coming behind, saw a foot of the shaft stand out from vemund's back. then vemund brandished his sword and ran at rolf; rolf took the second arrow and sent it at him. in the eye it struck him, and pierced to the brain; down fell the baresark, and died before he reached the ground. rolf took the third arrow and put it in his quiver. then the orkneyingers came running from the church with their weapons, and all rushed at the outlaws. grani shouted that the baresarks should lay down their arms; but they, fearing death, drew into a circle and would not yield. they began to cast spears at the orkneyingers. "shoot arrows at them," said grani to rolf. "i have done my share," quoth he. then the orkneyingers ran round that circle of outlaws, and did their best to pry into it; but they got only wounds. the baresarks began to grit their teeth and work themselves to anger as if they had been wolves; that was their way in battle. frodi went nearer to look at that sight. then one baresark shot a spear at frodi, and cut his shoulder so that it bled. at that frodi turned red, and took his bill, and went at that man. the baresark swung his sword, but frodi caught it with the bill and spun it aloft; then he hooked at the man with the back of the bill, and caught him by the neck, and pulled him down grovelling. an orkneyman pierced the outlaw as he lay. so the circle of the baresarks was broken, but they sought to draw again together. then frodi took his bill, and made at the two men to right and left of the opening; one he caught with the point of the bill, and pitched him sideways; that man fell on the circle at another place and broke it there. next frodi pitched the other baresark clean across the circle against the men at the other side; two fell at once. then grani shouted and rushed within the ring, and all the orkneyingers fell on the baresarks at every point. some were slain right there; some broke away and were chased about; one by one they died among the huts and the frames for drying fish. frodi, when he had done that much, stood by rolf and struck no more. when the fighting was finished the orkneyingers looked to their hurts, and it was found that no one was badly wounded. all said that the death of vemund the pitiless was not so bad by half as the living of him. now grani was very happy and talkative, and he praised his men much; but he seemed constrained before rolf, and spoke to frodi. "and thou saidst thou couldst not use the bill!" frodi answered, "so i thought, but it is no different from handling a pitchfork." grani whooped with laughter, and would tell that saying to others. frodi beseeched him: "cease thy talking, lest men give me a new nickname." but grani told frodi's words in the presence of many, and all cried that frodi should be called pitchfork frodi. he grumbled to rolf thereat. "better be glad," said rolf, "that nothing worse has come to thee than a sore shoulder and a new name." now sweyn came sailing back, angered that he had been tricked, but much afraid of what might have happened at hawksness in his absence. as for ar the peacock, he lay without speech until the morrow, when he came to himself; but he was a broken man ever after that shock. grani took the spoil from the baresark ship, and divided it into five parts. two parts he gave to those fishers whose houses the baresarks had burned; one part he divided among those who had wounds; the rest he sent to the lodging of rolf and frodi. grani took nothing for himself, nor did he go with the treasure to rolf; and men said among themselves that, during all these doings, rolf and grani had spoken to each other only when they must. from that time the viking's bow was rolf's own. those two arrows which had slain the baresark were hung up in the church; but rolf took the third arrow with the silver point, and bound it in the quiver with a silken thread. chapter xxii now kiartan returns as weakness grew on him, ar the peacock kept grani much by his side. one day ar said: "i see that thou art troubled at times. is aught weighing on thee?" grani answered: "rolf is on my mind." ar said: "put away the thought of him." "that i cannot do," replied grani, "for i feel i did wrong in enthralling him, and i cannot be easy until he hath forgiven me." "meseems," quoth ar, "that thou expectest rolf to come and say 'i forgive thee,' before ever thou hast shown him that thou art sorry." grani answered nothing. "go now," said ar, "and seek him out. confess thyself in the wrong." "it is hard to do that," responded grani. "thou art well named grani the proud," said ar; but then he added: "never have i blamed thee till now, but thou shouldst have done this thing at the very first. and the longer this estrangement lasts, the harder it will be to forget." grani made no answer, but communed for a while with himself; though it was hard to his pride, at last he decided to humble himself before rolf. he went to the dwelling of rolf and frodi; they were on the headland watching the fishing fleet, and thither grani followed. he sat down at the edge of the cliff beside those two, and had speech with frodi; but between him and rolf passed at the first only the good-day. frodi asked: "war with the scots is expected in the spring?" "aye," answered grani. "i would i were in iceland!" frodi said. "oh ye icelanders!" cried grani. "why is it ye always burn to return--whether ye love your foggy isle and plain men more, or our realm less?" "in your realm," answered frodi, "there are three pests which no icelander can bear. the first is your baresarks, which in iceland are held in restraint, but here they go at large. the second is your vikings, which dare not come to us, but here they harry the coasts. and the third is the habit of burning a man in his house, which by us has been done some few times in great matters, yet is always punished; but here it is done in any little quarrel, and little shame is felt for it. and if i leave this land without being burned, then i am lucky." grani laughed, and then rolf spoke. quoth he: "and as for our land of simple men against thy realm of kings and earls, all i know is that with us there is law to restrain all men. but if thy earls fall out, then the orkneys are rent with war. and at all times your lives lie in the power of the scots, who any summer day may come and sweep the land. nay, the winter is open: why may they not fall upon us now?" "it is possible," said frodi, but grani had nothing to reply. "and consider this," rolf said. "thou art grani, fosterling of ar the thane; thou hast honor, and a part of all spoils are thine. but ar is coming to his end, and some day another thane will rule here. when thy honors fall away, and thou must take thy place like other men: how then wilt thou think of the doings of kings and earls?" "i fear no misfortune," answered grani. "then," quoth rolf, "thou art fitted to be an icelander. and now i will say what i have many times thought: that thy speech is more of iceland than of this place. whence did ar take thee?" grani grew red, but answered: "thou hidest thy parentage." "true," replied rolf. "now i crave thy pardon for questioning thee." that was the end of that talk, for rolf drew within himself, and grani felt shame that he could not ask pardon so easily as the icelander; and the more he looked on rolf's countenance the more it seemed that they should be friends. he ceased speaking, and sat with his back half turned, trying to say the words; but for a long time they would not come. at length he said: "rolf." "aye?" rolf answered. grani said nothing for a while more; at length again he said, "rolf." "what is it?" rolf asked. but for a second time grani could not bring himself to speak. yet at last he made ready to speak without fail and ask forgiveness, and the words were on his tongue. then suddenly rolf rose, and pointed out upon the water, where a ship had come into view; and he cried, "at last cometh he for whom i have waited!" no need to ask whose ship that was, for grani saw that it was kiartan's. and weakly he put aside the chance to set himself right with rolf, and inquired instead why rolf waited there for kiartan so long. "tell me first," responded rolf, "why he cometh in such haste, with oars and sails both. he thinks that by this time i am surely gone; but his debts and goods will not flee from him, and he hath hours before sunset to make the harbor. can he be pursued by aught? let us watch the headland to the eastward." "there comes another ship," cried frodi. they watched that ship appear: a war-ship, long and low. grani cried that that must be a viking, and was for running to the hall; but rolf bade him wait. then there came a second war-ship, and two more together, and then a great ship, very large; after that the nose of yet another vessel pushed around the headland. "is earl thorfinn," asked grani, "coming to visit his realm?" "why should kiartan," responded rolf, "flee before the earl, who hath sold him permission to trade here? that is the fleet of the scots!" "more of them are in sight," said frodi. so they stayed only long enough to see that the fisher fleet, leaving nets and lines, was hurrying to the shore. those three left the headland and ran to hawksness; there they told the tidings and gathered men, arming all those who came to the hall. the women were sent into the church with the children, but the men went down to the beach. there the fishermen first made a landing, and hurried for their arms; but when all were gathered together they were very few against what must be the might of the scots. then the ship of kiartan neared the shore. frodi said to rolf: "before the scots come there will be time to claim thy due of him." "not in the face of this danger," answered rolf. kiartan ran his ship upon the beach, and his men leaped out and pushed her higher up the shingle. kiartan ran to ar, and begged protection. "fight thou with us," quoth ar. "we shall be but six score against six hundred." kiartan turned pale and bit his fingers. frodi said, "he is as big a coward as i." grani laughed. now when the scots neared the shore, the people gave way from the beach and drew a little up the hillside; and the nearer the scots came, the more the orkneymen withdrew. then when the scots were landing, some of the hawksness men threw away their arms and sat down where they were; and some fled away to the downs and the heather, where they might hide. but ar said he would not flee, and went back again to fight. those who went with him were only grani and sweyn, and rolf and frodi followed behind. "this is no icelanders quarrel," said ar. "we go to die, but the scots will give you peace." "nevertheless we will look on a while," answered rolf. then ar took his stand on that knoll whence rolf had slain the baresark; he had his church and his hall at his back, and thinking to die as became a man he seemed to gain his strength again, and shot arrows in marvellous wise. twenty he sent among the scots as they landed, and hurt a man with each; then he took his spear, and waited for the scots to come nearer. "now," said frodi to rolf, "shall we stay or go?" "if we stay," answered rolf, "we never see iceland again. yet i have not the heart to leave those three as they stand there." so he and frodi drew still nearer to ar, and stood at his back. but some archer in the fleet sent forth a shaft, and it smote ar; in the throat it smote him, and he fell. like a man he died there, near his father's hall; and the scots, shouting, began to come forward. "flee!" said sweyn to grani. "wilt thou flee?" asked grani. a spear struck sweyn in the leg, and down he sat. "here i stay," quoth he. "then here stay i," answered grani. but those fisher-folk who had thrown down their arms ran to grani in a crowd, and cried that he should not stay to be killed. some bore sweyn within the church, where no scot would slay him before the altar; and when grani saw that, he suffered himself to be pushed away. so he came to the hillside before ever the scots reached him; and when they began to shoot at him with arrows, he ran. and rolf and frodi ran along the hillside a little higher up. now the scots sent swift archers in chase. grani was armed and had heavy weapons; frodi was slow and rolf would not leave him; so the archers began to come up on them, and it looked bad for them. grani knew the country; he sought the best ways, calling to rolf that they should meet at the vale of the hermit. then he threw off his mail and ran freely, and shook off his pursuers in a little wood. but in that same wood rolf took the wrong course; for thinking he knew the way to the vale he led frodi where should be a glen with a growth of trees.--nothing was there of the kind, but a bare hillside rose, where was no cover, and the scots began to shout as they saw them close in front. now grani knew the way better. when he reached the copse he stood and looked where rolf and frodi ran on the hillside above him. then he heard a panting, and looked down. there was kiartan hiding in the fern. "look up now," said grani, "and see who runneth there above us." when kiartan saw rolf, first he started and then he looked sidewise at grani. "they can never escape," said he. "i will call them hither," replied grani. "that will bring us in danger!" kiartan cried. but grani leaped upon a boulder and prepared to shout. then as he stood there, kiartan snatched up a billet of wood and smote at him from the side: foul was that assault. the stroke fell on the shoulder, but grani twisted his arm and cast the billet aside; he smote in return, and kiartan fell. so grani shouted aloud to rolf, who stood on the hillside with frodi and studied his road. so many copses did rolf see that he knew not where to go, for most were but small clumps, where was no safety; and only one led to the hidden winding watercourse and the secluded dell. but when he heard grani and saw him, he turned thither, although he must go back a little way. he and frodi ran hastily, rushing down the hillside with much speed. and they saw they could avoid all but one of the scots. that man had run wide of their track, flanking them lest they should double back; now he ran in on them and prepared to strike with his sword. on that slope was no good footing; but the scot braced himself where the icelanders must pass, and they could hardly both escape him without a wound. but when rolf rushed down on him, with sword raised, and those two looked into each other's eyes, then the scot did not strike, but stood like stone. neither did rolf smite, but frodi struck hard with the butt of his bill; they left that scot lying in a heap, and sped downward into the hollow. there they found grani with kiartan, and grani had bound the shipmaster's hands behind his back. hastily they went into the copse, driving kiartan before them; they found the crooked watercourse and followed it among the stones; it was dry and they wet not their feet. so in a while they came to a little dell, nestled among the hills; the place was called the vale of the hermit. but no one lived there, only in one place had been a farm; the hall had been burned, but a storehouse still stood stout against the weather. thither they went and rested, knowing that no scot could find them in that place. grani loosed kiartan and bade him gather wood. "and if thou seekest to flee thou wilt carry an arrow in the ribs. make a fire, for i see beef is in the storehouse, drying, and the green hide hangs against the wall. we will sup." so kiartan gathered wood and made a fire. "one thing i fail to understand," said frodi to rolf: "why neither thou nor that scot smote at the other, and it was left to me to knock him down." "that was strange to me also," said grani. rolf said: "i knew that man, and he was malcolm, my father's thrall. for very astonishment we could not strike." "then i gave him a headache," quoth frodi, "to make him remember his manner of gaining his freedom." "preserve me from such headaches as thou dealest!" said rolf. "the butt of thy bill is worse than the point." then grani told why he had bound kiartan. "and now," said he, "thou canst take on him thy vengeance, whatever that may be." "call him here," said rolf. so kiartan was called thither and crouched thereby; it was plain that he expected to be killed. "in what has he offended thee?" asked grani. "now," answered rolf, "that which i say in his hearing will be to him the worst part of his punishment. he is my uncle, and through him my father came to his death." but when they looked to see him weep, or hear him blame himself, kiartan rose and thanked them that his life was spared. in loathing they bade him go into the storehouse and lie; then they laid themselves down inside the door, and slept. for the sake of air, they left the door wide. in the morning they found that kiartan was gone; and while they were asking where he might be, they heard his voice at a little distance, saying that there those three lay in that storehouse, and the scots should slay them. then was heard the rush of feet. chapter xxiii of the coming of earl thorfinn rolf shut the storehouse door, and frodi held it until it was barred. the scots could move neither frodi nor the bars, and knew not what to do. all within was dark, save for light from the crack of the door; and when the scots who stood before the crack felt frodi's bill, they stood back. then rolf shot arrows out through the crack, and the scots stood aside, so that those within could do no more. they heard the scots say that no time should be wasted for three men. "now," said frodi, "they will go away." "be not too hopeful," said grani. when smoke began to puff in, they knew that the thatch had been fired over their heads. "so," quoth frodi, "i shall be burned in the orkneys after all. seest thou, grani, why no icelander loves thy land?" they sat there a while and the place grew hot; then grani began to pace up and down. "would that i," he said at last, "had never seen the orkneys!" "what is this?" asked rolf. grani said after a silence: "i shall never speak again to my father, whom i have not seen these many years." next he said: "my sister must be almost a woman." after that said he: "peaceful was our home." frodi tried to comfort him, but grani would not listen. "let us die in the open," he cried, "and give an account of ourselves!" but when they tried to leave that smothering place, they found the scots had braced the door, and it could not be moved. then a corner of the roof fell down, and burned inside the storehouse. "now," cried grani in despair, "would i were once more on the home-field of fellstead, looking abroad on old broadfirth and the peaceful dales!" "a wonderful thing thou sayest!" exclaimed rolf. "let wonders be," said frodi. "but since we cannot leave this place by the front door, why not by the rear?" "how do that?" asked grani. frodi drew aside the heavy hide which hung at the back of the storehouse, against the rock of the hillside; there were a carved stone doorway and a black cave. "now," cried grani, "rightly is this place called the vale of the hermit; this was his house, though i never knew of it till now. let us be quick!" so they went into that cave and sat there, while the fire burned the storehouse quite away, and its roof-beams fell across the door of the cave and hid it. moreover the green hide did not burn through, and kept out the smoke; and a little air came in through a fissure of the rock. then the scots who watched went their way, and kiartan with them. when they were gone, those three thrust the hide and the beams aside from the cave-mouth, and leaped out over the embers. they were near stifled, and weak from the heat. those scots and kiartan went back to hawksness, and for what he had done they gave him his ship unplundered. but they plundered the hall and the church, and with the riches of ar they had both sport and quarrels, until all was divided. then they sent out vessels to ravage in the orkneys; but the main body, and the leader, sat there at hawksness, and because it was believed earl thorfinn thought them still in scotland, and no ship had been spared to go south and tell of them, they had no fear of him. for it would have been a great undertaking for any small boat to cross the pentland firth. but on a day when the earl sat in his hall, in thurso of caithness, his men came to him, saying: "there are messengers without, and they would speak with thee." but the men laughed. "why laugh ye?" asked the earl. "the messengers say they are from the orkneys, yet no ship has come, and they are the worst of scarecrows." "but bring them in," said the earl. so three men were brought before the earl. one was of middle height, and slender; he bore a bow. one was taller, and carried a sword. the third was as big as any man in that place, and he held in his hand a great bill. all in rags were those men, as if their garments had been scorched. they told the earl that the scots were in the orkneys, and the earl's men laughed mightily. "sailed ye across the firth?" asked the earl. "we rowed," answered they. "in what?" asked the earl. "and where is the boat?" "it sunk off the shore," said those men, "and we swam the last mile." "why are ye so burned?" they said they had been nigh burned to death. then the earl stilled the laughter of his men, and he leaned to that one who bore the bow; he was not much more than a lad. "where didst thou get," asked the earl, "that short-sword which thou wearest? for i know the weapon well, since once it belonged to earl sigurd my father." "that may be so," said the lad, "but it was given me out in iceland." "now," said the earl, "i know the man to whom my father gave the sword, and he went out to iceland. tell me what man gave it thee; if the name is the same, then will i believe this news of thine. but if the name is different, then ye three shall die for your false word." "a light matter on which to hang lives," quoth that one. "who knows how many have owned this sword? but i got it from kari, solmund's son." the earl smote his thigh. "and to kari my father gave it! up, men, and dight yourselves for war! this day we sail for the orkneys." so earl thorfinn sailed north, and with him went grani, rolf, and frodi, those bearers of the tidings. and before ever the scots were ready for them the orkneyingers closed in upon hawksness, and attacked the scottish fleet. some of the scots were away, and some were ashore; those who might fight lashed their ships in a line, as in a line the earl's ships bore down on them. that fight lasted not long, and all the scottish ships were taken; the scots who were on shore were hunted down, and as their ships came in from the other isles, they were taken one by one. kiartan's ship was still on the beach, and he was found in the church. chapter xxiv now rolf and grani quarrel now says the tale that rolf goes before the earl, and tells of kiartan's treachery. "thou shalt have thine own way with him," quoth thorfinn. "shall he die by the hands of my men, or what atonement wilt thou take?" "i ask not his death," said rolf. "give me his ship to return to iceland in, and his goods to repay my mother for all her sufferings." but of those sufferings, nor of all that kiartan had done, the earl did not ask until later. "thou art easy," said he, "upon him who sought thy life; but all shall be as thou sayest." then grani spoke apart with the earl, and after that thorfinn gave orders to his men. where the sward lay greenest (for no snow lay on southern slopes all that winter) they cut a strip of turf; its middle they raised and propped aloft on spears, but its ends were still in the ground. then the earl called rolf to come, and bade all men stand there and hear what grani had to say. before all, grani told that he had wrongfully enthralled rolf, and led by kiartan had treated him unfairly. his sorrow he confessed, and he asked for pardon. answered rolf: "for this i grant pardon readily enough." "meseems thou sayest that coldly, man," said the earl. "now here stands grani to swear blood-brothership with thee, under this turf. what sayest thou to that?" now blood-brothership was a sacred ceremony, and those who swore it must uphold each other until death, if once the oath was taken under such a strip of turf, by letting blood from the arms mingle in the ground. and no greater honor might one man do another than to offer blood-brothership. but again rolf spoke coolly, and said: "mayhap i am willing to do that." "come, then," said thorfinn. "lay aside thy sword, and step under the turf with grani." "once i swore," replied rolf, "never to leave weapon from my reach. and another oath i call to mind, which later i may tell thee here. now since blood-brothership is asked, here i name myself: rolf, son of hiarandi, of cragness above broadfirth in iceland. and remembering what grani said when we were like to be burnt together, i ask his true name, and his father's name, and his birthplace." "grani hight i," answered that one. "years long have i been fostered here, and i remember little of my childhood. but einar is my father, fellstead was our home, and the place is that same broadfirth out in iceland. so much i know and no more." then those who stood by saw rolf draw his short-sword and spring at grani. at his forehead rolf laid the sword, the flat to the skin. "thus," cried he, "i laid this sword to thy father's head. but thus" (and he turned the sword) "i lay it to thine, edge to thy flesh. and because i promised to do it, thus i draw thy blood!" he drew the sword lightly across grani's forehead, and the blood started out in little drops. then rolf dropped his arm, sheathed his sword, and stood quiet; but grani, white with rage, snatched a spear from one of the earl's men, and would have slain rolf had not the earl himself come between. "now," quoth thorfinn grimly, "here is an odd end to blood-brothership. the cause of this shall i hear, from first unto last." then rolf told the story of his father's wrongs and his own, and frodi said it all was true. grani, though he learned what his father had done, stood still and said no word, except that he cried at the end: "great insult hath rolf offered me in drawing my blood, and for that shall he pay with his." "meseems," answered the earl, "that the weight of blood-debt is still on thy side, and it is well for thee that rolf took not payment in full. and this i advise, that here ye two make up the feud; and all money atonements i will make to rolf, if so be i see ye accorded." "i will lay down the feud on these terms," said rolf, "if grani will get me my homestead again." but deep anger burned in grani that his offer of blood-brothership had been so answered, by the shedding of his blood. he strode to the spears that held the strip of turf, and cast them down. "my feud do i keep!" he cried. "then of thee," said the earl, "i wash my hands. but i will take rolf to me, to be of my bodyguard so long as he will." "lord earl," answered rolf, "i thank thee for the honor, but in the ship which thou hast given me i must return to iceland, there to clear me of mine outlawry by means of my bow." and then that meeting of men broke up, and rolf set himself to fit his ship for the outward voyage, and to hire sailors. he had wealth enough, in kiartan's goods, to pay for all his father had lost; but in the viking's bow he had that treasure which he most prized, for it should win him his honor again, and the homestead which his fathers had built. he provisioned his ship, and he hired men and a shipmaster, and soon was ready for the voyage outward. now the spring was early, without storms as yet. but grani went unhappily about, knowing that danger was preparing for his father, through rolf, and seeing not what could be done. for in that place, except rolf's ship, lay no vessels plying either north or south, and none to go to iceland. so there was no way for grani to send warning to einar, and no means by which he himself might go to iceland, to stand by his father's side. he would have challenged rolf to the holm, but holm-gangs and all duels were forbidden by the earl. and now came the day when rolf's ship was ready; the wind was fair from the east, and on the morrow they should start. then grani went and sat on the hillside at sunset, watching the men at a little distance as they worked about the ship where it lay upon the strand; but rolf and frodi had gone to the hall, and were feasting there with the earl and his men. grani thought: "to save my father i must sail on that ship. now the night will be dark, and the men will sleep at the huts, but rolf and frodi at the hall. naught hinders me from hiding myself on the ship, so that on the morrow they will sail with me." that pleased him well. but before dark rolf and frodi returned from the hall, having said farewell to the earl. the ship was then pushed off, and all men got them aboard; they anchored off the boat-steads, ready to sail at first twilight in the morning. then when grani saw his plan spoiled, in great uncertainty of mind he went to the hall and sat down on the lowest bench. quoth the earl: "come forward, grani, and sit here near the dais; for thou didst save my realm as much as did those other two who have just said farewell." "i know that well, lord," answered grani. "come, sit here by my side," said the earl, "and what thou askest in reward for thy deed, that i will give thee." so grani sat there by the earl's side until it was dark out of doors, and he knew the stars were out, but no moon. with the feast, thorfinn waxed joyous, for good tidings had come that day; and he began to press grani to name the reward he would have for crossing the pentland firth to bring him news. so grani said: "stretch forth thy hand now, earl thorfinn, and promise to grant me that thing which i ask, which shall take from no man his right or his own." so the earl stretched forth his hand in promise, and said: "ask what thou wilt." then all the orkneyingers listened while grani made his request. "oh earl," said he, "make me thine outlaw!" "nay," cried the earl, "what request is this? dost thou mock me and my power?" and his men were angry, and some drew their swords. but grani said most earnestly, "i mean no insult, but much lies on it that thou shouldst make me outlaw." wroth indeed were the orkneyingers, and thronged around grani to slay him; but the earl signed them to give peace, and sat with his eye on the youth, and thought. then at last he smiled in his beard, and said: "thou art a clever lad, and bold withal. here i grant thy desire." and he stretched out his hand and said: "outlaw do i make thee in all my lands--not to be fed, not to be forwarded, not to be helped or harbored in any need, save only by masters of ships outward bound. i grant thee three days' space to seek shelter, and here i give notice among my men of thy full outlawry." then grani thanked the earl with all his heart, and went from the hall; after him the earl's men scoffed, but still the earl smiled in his beard. now that night a small boat rowed to the side of rolf's ship, and a man climbed aboard, and the boatmen rowed the boat ashore again. one of the ship's men told rolf, who sent for that one who had thus come aboard. he stood before rolf in the starlight, wrapped in a cloak. rolf asked why he came aboard the ship in that manner. "outlaw am i," said that one, "and by law thou must give me shelter when it is claimed." "good is the law," quoth rolf, "and once it helped me ere now. but thy voice is muffled in the cloak, man. what is thy name?" "no-man is my name," answered the muffled man, "and here is my faring money." rolf laughed. "no-man's fare costs nothing," said he, and would not take the silver. "find thyself a place to sleep; thou art welcome here." so that one found himself a place to sleep, and early in the morning the ship set sail. now it is said that when the ship was gone the earl saw kiartan on the strand bewailing his loss. thorfinn ordered that kiartan be set in a galley as rower, and for two years did kiartan labor at the oar. then he escaped, and fled away southward; but he became thrall to a chapman, and was a thrall to the end of his days. so now he is out of the story. but that outlaw who had come on rolf's ship lay like a log all the first day, while the ship sped westward; and only at night did he rouse to take food. four days he did thus, while the ship ran before the wind until the faroe islands were well astern. then on a morning the man rose and walked by the rail, and looked upon the sea. rolf sent for him to come and speak to him, and when the man was face to face with him, behold, it was grani! then rolf stood and looked on him, and grani stood fast and looked on rolf. and rolf turned away and walked in the stern, but grani waited in the same place. at last rolf came back to him and said: "only one thing will i ask of thee. wast thou indeed outlaw of the earl?" grani stretched out his hand and swore to the truth. "outlaw was i, and the earl gave me but three days to quit his land." "now," said rolf, "thou art on my ship lawfully, and naught will i do against thee. we will leave it to the fates, which of us shall prosper in this affair." so grani was out of danger of his life. now that east wind lasted until they made iceland--a quick voyage. and they sailed along the south of the land, and rounded the western cape, and sailed across the mouth of faxafirth. but when they would round the cape into broadfirth the wind freshened, and blew them off the land a day's sail; there they lay when the wind dropped. but then the wind came from the west, and blew them back to the land, and drove them ever faster till there was a high gale. the smallest sail they could set split from the mast, the mast itself went next, and so they came to broadfirth and drove up it. night drew near, and the sailors were in fear of their lives. now frodi was in great uneasiness, and clung to his place, and looked upon the waters. sometimes he made as he would speak, and yet he said nothing. rolf and grani stayed at opposite sides of the ship, and were steadfast in all danger, though the waves washed over them. then rolf makes his way to grani, and says he: "now we near the land, and it is likely that we shall never need more of it than a fathom apiece, for burial. therefore here i offer thee peace, asking no atonement from thee or thy father, save only my farm again, if we twain get ashore." grani looks upon rolf, and his heart nearly melts: but he makes himself stubborn and drops his eyes. says he: "this is no time to speak of that." rolf clambers back to his place. the moon rises behind broken clouds, and he sees that the ship drives toward cliffs. chapter xxv here rolf comes to cragness now turns the tale to speak of einar, how he took possession of cragness (for he bought the share of the men of the quarter); and how snorri the priest sent for asdis that she should come to him for the sake of rolf her son, and wait the three years of his exile. but asdis answered the messenger of snorri: "i go to our little farm in the upland, where i can look upon my home. we will see if einar sends me away also from that." so she took what goods she might, and drove the milch ewe before her, and went to the turf hut in the upland, there to live alone. now einar might have sent her thence, and ondott was urgent with him that he should; but for very shame einar could not do that wrong, and that one good deed of his stood him after in stead, as the saga showeth. asdis over-wintered there, and folk brought her meal; but snorri sent her much provision and dried fish, to keep her. before they went away his men bought wood and drew it for her, and cut turf for burning; and on parting they gave her a purse of one gold-piece and six silver pennies, so asdis was safe from all want. but no happiness could come to her so long as each day she looked out upon the hall at cragness, and saw strangers there. einar abode in great pride at his new hall, and kept high state, sending to fetch whatever travellers came that way. and when harvest came he had a great feast, with all his house-carles and thralls and bonders and neighbors bidden; notable was the state of that feast. but ondott, when all were merry, and those who were bidden were saying that einar was a great chief, on account of his open-handedness--ondott let call for bows, and said that all should go down to the boundary. there by the brook he held a mock shoot; and one called himself rolf and made as if he would shoot to the oak tree, but shot into the brook, and wept, and besought others to shoot for him. the looser sort hooted and thought that sport, and shot toward the oak a little way. then they cried that hiarandi was lawfully slain, and rolf was outlaw. but the neighbors of the better sort liked that not, and changed their aspect of cheer, and went away early. einar said to ondott, "why didst thou such foolery?" "that we may know," said ondott, "who are of thy friends, and who thy ill-wishers. and now we know who are with us." einar let himself be pleased with that answer. so the harvest passed, and winter went by and spring came on, an early spring without storms. all men looked to their plowing and sowing; and einar took pleasure in the home-fields at cragness, which were so fertile. but he disliked the lack of storms, for since he came to cragness no wealth had come to him from wrecks, which he had counted on as part of his riches. and einar had no custom to light beacons, but all through that spring he and ondott looked for storms. men said that storms must come, and that early farers from overseas might be caught thereby. then at last that steady wind which had blown from the east first dropped, and then shifted, and blew hard from the west, a great gale. all men housed themselves, and a murky night came on. now in the hall at cragness the old crone thurid sat by the fire and sang to herself; and ondott, who was ever prowling to hear what men said, came behind her and listened. she sang: "bad luck and good are both abroad. if beacon light be set this night, comes cragness feud to quickest good." "hearest thou that?" said ondott to einar. he sang the song after her. einar asked, "shall we light the beacon?" for he was easily turned in his purposes. but ondott smote the old woman, and cried: "thou singest otherwise than when thou wert with hiarandi. ill was it with hiarandi when he made the beacon, and ill would it be with us!" he asked if he should thrust the woman from the house, but einar had not the heart for that. the old woman said she would go ere the light came again, and was silent for an hour. now it is said that had einar lighted the beacon, good would have come of it; for he who saves life is minded to continue in right doing. then after a while the carline sang again. she sang: "thy rocks beneath, men fight with death. go, see what woe lies there below!" einar hurries his men out into the storm, and himself after them. now though the gale continues the moon is bright at last, and men can see their way. on the rocks was a ship, and her timbers were breaking away from her and driving down into the cove to the lee. thither einar sent most of his men, to save what they could from the sea, of wood, chests, cloths, and all merchandise. but he watched from the cliffs, with ondott and hallvard and hallmund, to see if men escaped from the fury of the sea. he saw no living thing at all, until at the last one man came climbing the cliff toward him. that one had a rope around his waist; when he reached a shelf of rock he made the rope fast, and drew on it, and pulled up a long case and a bundle: he cast down the rope again, and drew up weapons, and cast again, and drew up clothes. "fishes he," asked einar, "with a hook on that rope?" said hallvard: "other men must be below, helping him." then that man threw down the rope again, and waited a while, and held the rope securely; it seemed as if a weight were on it. then another man climbed to his side, a large man, and they two pulled on the rope together, drawing it up. there came into sight what seemed a dead body; but now, where climbing was easier, those two carried the body to the top of the cliffs, and then drew up the case and the arms. einar and his men went thither in the moonlight, but ere they reached the place the men took the body between them, and carried it to the hall, and into the hall, those others following. einar went to the door to see what the men would do. they laid the body down before the fire, and einar saw it was a handsome youth. then the men looked about them as they stood; their backs were to einar, but the crone thurid saw their faces, and she hobbled up and said "welcome!" "there is no welcome for me here," said the shorter of those men, "till these strange hangings are gone from the hall, and it has been purged with the smoke of fire from their contamination." now einar thought he should know that voice. the seafarer said to the crone: "tell einar that here lies his son, who comes back to him so; and if the beacon had been lighted, grani had come in better wise, for i could have beached the ship in the cove. but yet i think he is not dead. and so farewell to cragness for a space." so those two turned to the door; and einar ran forward and cast himself on the body of his son, not looking at those men. but ondott looked on them, and they were rolf and frodi, spent with toil in the water and on the rocks. and when ondott bade his two men seize them, they were too weary to resist; so they were bound with ropes. now einar saw that grani was not dead, but stunned by some blow. he called the women and bade them bring cloths, and heat water, and use all craft to bring his son to life again. they set to work, and helga grani's sister came and looked on her brother's face for the first time since he had been a little boy. but ondott brought before einar those two, rolf and frodi, and said he: "here we have that ravening outlaw and his cousin; now what is thy will of them? shall they die here under the knife?" einar said: "nay, but rather set them free." ondott cried: "what is thy thought? here they have come again with designs on thee, and wilt thou let them go? and they will dispossess thy son of his heritage; wilt thou suffer that? rolf is out of the law, and no harm will come of the slaying." and ondott pressed einar with other reasons, saying that most of their men were at the cove for the jetsam, and hallmund and hallvard would never tell. now helga heard, and stood before her father, saying: "take not this sin on thy head, but rather let both the men go." yet einar's heart was turned to evil as he saw how but two of his men were there, and those of the trustiest; so that those cousins might be quickly slain, and buried, and none would know that they had come ashore from the wreck. "stand aside," quoth he to helga, "and let these foes of thy heritage die as they should." but helga stepped before rolf and frodi, and fronted the drawn swords of ondott and his men. "unlawful is such a deed," she cried, "until the morning light comes. for all night-slayings are forbidden, even of outlaws, and such slayings are murder." and when she saw her father waver again she told him how even the earl of the orkneys (and he was father of earl thorfinn) dared not slay those sons of njal who came into his hands, and so take the sin of midnight slaying on his soul; but he set them aside till morning should come. "aye," answered ondott, "and in the morning the twain were fled." that helga knew, and had the same thought in her mind; but she begged her father not to take such shame on himself, rather to let rolf and frodi lie in bonds till morning. and at last einar promised her that those two should not die until the day. rolf said to her: "i thank thee, maiden; and when i come into mine own again i shall not forget this. for it has been prophesied me that i shall yet sleep in my father's locked bed, and that means that this house shall be mine again." then ondott laughed. "not so is the prophecy to be read!" he cried. "throw them into the locked room of hiarandi for this night. to-morrow they shall sleep soundly elsewhere." so in that little room where rolf's fathers had slept he was cast with frodi, and there they lay on the floor, and had no comfort of that place because of their bonds. "now," grumbled frodi, "vikings have we escaped, and baresarks, and the scots, and all manner of dangers, and the sea, only to die here at last. what was that foolish tale of thine about a prophecy? i never heard of such a thing." "free me of my bonds," answered rolf, "and thou shalt learn why i made that pretence." frodi strove against his bonds, but they were too strong for him; and so those cousins lay there for a while. but outside in the hall the women worked over grani until at last he moved and groaned, and they saw that he would live. so for joy einar knew not what to do; and he became talkative, and walked about, and so stumbled on those things (the bundle, and the clothes, and the arms, and the case) which had been brought there with grani. when he examined them the arms pleased him right well, for in the case he found the marvellous bow of the viking. all admired the bow. but the old woman thurid muttered to herself as she saw them handling the bow, and at last drew near and asked to see it. the bow she handled, and the arrows she looked on; then at last she shuddered and let the bow fall, and sang of it: "enemy fierce to einar's fame, now lieth here. ere thee it pierce, or bringeth grame, fire it should sear. break it and burn! thus shalt thou turn ill from thy hall, ruin from all. --this i discern." einar looked with aversion on the bow where it lay, but ondott raised it and held it aloft. "now," asked he, "shall such a beautiful weapon be broken for a crone's rhymes?" all cried out that it should not be so; and einar took the bow, and hung it on his high seat, vowing to keep it. then he said to thurid she should be gone ere morning, as she had promised. the old woman took her cloak, and went to the door, but on the threshold she sang: "here got i one gray cloak, one winter's meat: these from einar here got i. --one gray cloak, one winter's meat, be given einar ere he die!" so she went out into the storm. now the moon had clouded again, and snow fell thickly, a blinding squall; so the old woman was bewildered, and very cold. she found herself a place by a rock, and sat there, singing verses, until at last she fell asleep. but while all were admiring the bow in the hall, helga came to the door of the locked bed, and took away the brace that closed it, and cast in a knife, and shut up the door again. rolf and frodi saw; and they conceived this plan, that rolf should hold the knife in his hands, and frodi should rub his bonds thereagainst. then that was done, and they freed themselves. "yet we are not out of the hall," said frodi, "and with helping grani the place will be awake all night." "now remember the prophecy which i coined," answered rolf. "look here and hold thy peace." and he showed frodi how a panel in the wall might be taken out, so that the way was free. "come then," frodi said. but rolf would not. "why stay we here in danger?" asked frodi. "i must have my bow," replied rolf. "how else shall i win my heritage again?" but when they tried the door into the passage which led to the hall, it could not be opened without great noise; and ever they heard the women walking about, as they tended on grani. "remember," said frodi at last, "the choice which grani once offered thee: the bow or thy freedom. freedom was then thy choice, and afterward thou didst win the bow. show now the like wisdom." so they stole away in the first light of the morning. chapter xxvi of grani's pride in the early morning grani slept quietly at last, and the household of einar had peace. then ondott called hallvard and hallmund, and bade them come with him. to the locked bed they went, but though the door was still secure, no sign of those two cousins was to be found, nor any way of their escape. and outside the wind had so drifted the snow that no marks of feet were to be seen. ondott and his men searched, and came at last to the cove where men watched for the wreckage. he asked if they had seen those two. thither had come, said the men, two whom they knew not, bearing between them old thurid the crone. now at that hour a spar from the ship had just come ashore, and in it was fixed a great bill, its blade driven so deep into the wood that with all their might three men could not draw it forth; they were about to hew it out with axes. then the taller of those two men came down to the shingle, and said naught to einar's men; but he laid hold of the bill and with one tug plucked it forth from the spar, and went off brandishing it and muttering to himself. next the two took the old crone again, and went away. ondott and his men hurried on their track, and when they had passed down into the hollows, there the marks of feet were found, pointing straight to the little hut on the hillside where asdis dwelt, a league away. so ondott took more men, and went thither, and knocked on the door. within were asdis, and frodi, and the carline thurid; but no sign of rolf was to be seen. frodi sat by the fire and handled the great bill, and thurid lay muffled on the floor as she was wont; there was a smell of cooking, while very pleased did asdis seem. "where is thy son?" asked ondott. "find him who can," answered asdis. they searched that place and found him not, and there was no room to have hidden a man. so ondott was angry, and he said to frodi: "give us that bill, which is einar's, since it came ashore on his beaches." frodi answered mildly: "i pray thee leave it me." but as he spoke he thrust the butt of the bill down upon the floor, where the earth was tramped as hard as any stone; and the butt made a great dent in the floor. ondott thought it best not to meddle with him, and went home empty-handed. grani lay two days sick and weary, but then he was himself again. neither einar nor any of his men told him how he came ashore, but spoke as if they had saved him. einar sent men everywhere to find rolf and seize him; yet in all the dales no man had seen or heard of him. so when grani asked if others got ashore from the wreck, einar answered: "that outlaw rolf, and his cousin frodi. and frodi is at his smithy again, there not far from the ferry to hvamm." "where is rolf?" grani asked. "no man knows save frodi," answered einar, "and he sayeth not." then spoke grani, lying on his bed. "father, rolf told a hard tale against thee in the orkneys: how thou slewest his father foully, and now holdest his land in spite of right. now tell me the truth of all this, ere i accept aught from thee." then einar was greatly frightened lest grani should learn the truth and despise him; he made as if he were offended, and went away, saying: "and canst thou think that of me?" but when he was out of grani's sight, he sought ondott in haste, and asked him what he should do. quoth ondott: "leave all to me. i will settle this." so he went to grani, and einar with him. einar said: "i have brought ondott to tell the truth, for thou wilt better believe some one else, speaking in my defence." then ondott told a long tale of hiarandi, how he was overbearing and insolent, and preyed on einar's crops and cattle. moreover hiarandi was a dangerous and violent man, going always armed, so that one day when he was in the act of theft and einar's men were about to seize him--but einar had commanded not to harm him--hiarandi had so attacked those men that to save their own lives they had slain him. and rolf had no right to the land, being outlawed at the althing. "now tell me," said ondott, "when ye twain were together in orkney, did not rolf offer peace if thou wouldst but get him this homestead again?" "twice he did that," answered grani. "see now," cried ondott, "the guile that is in him!" then grani believed all that ondott had said, and thought evil of rolf, and craved his father's pardon. einar forgave him. and when grani was well again einar showered him with kindnesses, for fearing lest his son should learn evil of him he did all that he might to earn grani's love, sparing neither words, deeds, nor money. einar gave the finest of clothes, and horses, and attendants, so that not with ar the peacock had grani had such state. wherefore he took to himself such pride as had been his in the orkneys. he went abroad among the iceland folk, and saw that they were a simple people, each man living upon his own farm and dressing in plain clothes, loving direct speech and homely ways. so grani missed the best that was in the people, but thought them mean-spirited. he dressed always in colored clothes, and had attendants with him, and expected such respect from men as he had received when he was ar's fosterling. now at cragness honor was always showed him; but the neighbors of einar were to grani blunt of speech, sometimes biting; and he loved them little, thinking them rough. two more matters troubled grani. for he had little happiness in his sister, who seemed almost always downcast, and as if disappointed in him. and ever deep within his heart lay that love of his for rolf, nor could he forget their comradeship, nor the dangers they had together borne. he took no great satisfaction, therefore, to be a princeling on his land, but away from it to be treated roughly, and always to have that desire to see his friend again. yet he never made to himself any confession of fault, believing rolf in the wrong, both toward himself and toward einar. so he hardened his heart and increased his outward pride, even while he was ever on the watch for news of rolf. now one day he rode abroad with ondott and his men, and they came to the hut on the hillside where dwelt asdis the mother of rolf. summer was come; asdis sat out of doors by the spring combing flax, with thurid cowled by her side. no welcome gave asdis to them, but asked their errand. "to learn whether thou hast news of thy son," ondott said. now that was not true, for they came thither by accident, having hunted higher up in the hills. but grani said nothing, wishing to learn of rolf. "ever thou liest in wait for blood," answered asdis. "but ask not me for news of rolf. rather of those who have been near the isle of drangey shouldst thou inquire, if none resembling my son have been seen on the island-top; and whether he, and grettir the strong, and illugi his brother, are likely to be won thence against their wills." "now," cried ondott, "i thank thee for this news. and one in that land-side, thorstein angle, he is my cousin; he will let me know if ever thy son comes thence." "if thorstein angle is thy cousin," said asdis, "that shows the saying true, that all rogues are akin. but if thou nearest aught from that region, i pray thee let me know if my son is well." now all the time thurid sat there, and combed no flax, nor said a word. "and yet," said ondott, "i hear that the woman works well at times." "speak not so loud in her presence," said asdis, "for methinks now she is tranced. mayhap when she comes to she will prophesy and tell me of my son." "nay," said ondott, "the woman is clean daft, so they say, ever since she left our house to wander in the cold. now who has split the wood that lieth here, and piled it against the house? for thou hast not done it." "i will tell thee," said asdis, and lowered her voice. "on that night the frost got in her brain, mayhap; for she was ever strange, but now she is little short of marvellous. sometimes she works with a man's strength; and at such times she splits wood, or carries water, or spades here in my little field. i have done no heavy work since she came. but she is very silent, nor hath any save me and frodi seen her face or heard her voice. such is her mood." "now let us ride hence," said ondott to grani. "asdis, i wish thee joy of thy mad-woman." "better live with her than alone," quoth asdis. so those men rode away, and they spread abroad the news that rolf was gone from broadfirth dales, for he was in drangey with grettir the strong, and none could draw them from that isle. steep were its rocks and high, to be scaled only by ladders, and three might hold the place against three hundred. word was also spread about of thurid the crone: how she had fits of man's strength, and did work for asdis. men saw her going with great strides, or working in the field; at a distance she seemed taller than before, and bigger across the shoulders; but when one came near she shrank within herself. moreover no one heard her voice now, save when she mumbled hoarsely. now on another day grani rode to the settlement at hvammferry, and on his way homeward came by the smithy of frodi. ondott was in his company, with hallvard and hallmund; they proposed that they should have sport with the smith, and take from him his bill. "sport mayest thou try," said grani, "but beware lest it turn out against thee." "he is soft as custard," quoth ondott. "otherwise was he in the orkneys," replied grani. but for all that ondott rode to the smithy-door, and called frodi to come out. he came, and leaned on the handle of his hammer, which was so big that no man had wielded it since he went away. he asked what they would of him. said ondott: "here is grani earl's fosterling to require something of thee." frodi said to him: "was then grani fostered by the earl?" and he fixed grani with his eye; but that one blushed and said naught. for he knew that his father had boasted of his fostering with the earl, and never had grani said nay thereto. asked ondott, "was he not?" frodi said, "he came last from the earl's court." so frodi, who might have spoken honor away from grani, made him feel more shame than if the truth had been said. "now," said ondott, "bring forth the bill which is einar's, and deliver it to us." "asks grani that?" frodi replied. grani said, "i ask nothing." and he spurred his horse a few rods away. frodi went within the smithy and brought out the bill, but set also a helm on his head. said he: "here is the bill for whomsoever wishes it." but grani said over his shoulder, "leave the bill with him. no use is it to us, for we have none that can wield it." then ondott was wroth that grani did not support him in that claim, and he said: "now, frodi, i call to mind that ere thou wentest away, thou didst assault me here in this smithy. outlaw will i make thee therefor." frodi made a sudden step, and behold! there he was within reach of ondott, holding the bill in such wise that he might have thrust ondott through, albeit frodi neither raised the weapon aloft nor brandished it. he said: "now for the love which has always been between us, be so kind as to speak me free of guilt in that matter, when i drew weapon on thee." in a fright ondott stretched forth his hand and spoke frodi free of that guilt. so frodi suddenly shifted the bill in his hand, and the point touched the ground; none who had not looked close would have supposed any threat had been made. said frodi: "see how kind ondott is to me, in asking no atonement, being in no danger from me. witness ye all that i am clear in that matter." grani smiled and rode away, and the men next; ondott followed, mightily vexed that that simple one had so bested him. now the time came for men to ride to the althing, and with all state einar rode thither with his son. then for the first time grani saw the power of that land which he had despised, for chiefs met there who were greater in riches than orkney thanes, having great followings, all richly dressed. but all were obedient to the law; and a wonderful thing that was, to see men of such power yielding in lawsuits to lesser men, and bringing no cases to weapons. and grani learned that his father was of no consequence at all in that place, for men passed him by and gave him no honor. yet for all that grani's pride grew, and he said that men should some day recognize him there. and he rode home moodily behind his company. now as men rode again toward the west, grani saw one man whom he had oft remarked at the thing: kolbein the son of burning-flosi, destined to be a leader among men. grani wished friendship with him greatly. and kolbein rode to grani and said: "keeps thy father his harvest feast this year as before, asking company thereto?" "yea," answered grani. "wilt thou come?" "gladly will i come," answered kolbein, "and will bring friends with me, if so be we shall be welcome." "welcome will ye all be," said grani, and rode home cheered. now when they were come to cragness, helga met them at the door and welcomed them in. they asked if aught had happened in their absence. said she, "nothing save that the carline thurid was here yestreen, and i am the first that has heard her speak since she left here in the spring." they asked what were her words. "i was here alone in the hall," helga said, "for all the women were making cheeses in the out-bower. and thurid came in and shuffled about the place, looking at things. i bade her be seated, for i would bring her milk and oat-cake; but when i brought them she had the great bow in her hands, and looked at it but would not eat. so i set the food away again; and when i returned she had the bow and the quiver, and was near the door as if to take them away. she said nothing when i asked what she did with those; so i stood in her way, thinking i was stronger than she. with one hand she set me aside, and i might resist her no more than if she were a man. so she bore the bow and arrows from the house, and i thought they were gone; but on a sudden she was back again, and laid them on the bench. and she said in a deep voice not like her own: "'not with women do i strive.' "then with great steps she went out of the hall, and came not again." those three, einar and ondott and grani, looked at each other with alarm. for if that bow, left in the ward of women, had thus been taken, men could know neither the day nor the hour when rolf might come, and make the shot at the oak-tree before witnesses, when all would be over with the house of einar. and ere aught was said einar took the bow and bestowed it under a settle, where it was well hid. then they praised their fortune that they had it still. so all sat down to meat, and ate gladly, for they had journeyed days long from the thing-field. then night fell, and they spoke of many things; at last einar asked his son: "what said to thee kolbein son of flosi, there ere our roads parted?" "he asked me," answered grani, "whether we hold the harvest feast as last year, and if he and his company would be welcome." says einar, rubbing his hands: "now the great folk come to alliance with us; and when a few chiefs have visited here, then thou mayest count thyself their equal in all things, even as thou art in wealth. of course thou badst him come?" "that i did," says grani. so ondott praised him. "men have marked thee, there at the thing, and seek to ally themselves with thee." but helga, who had listened, burst into tears. "what is it," asks grani, "that makes thee weep?" helga dashed the tears from her eyes, and stood before those two, her father and her brother. "much had i hoped," says she, "that wicked doings would cease in this house--for to mock the dead and the unfortunate is wicked. and if ye hold the feast as last year, and shoot at the boundary as then, laughing at hiarandi's fortune, then ye tempt your own fate, for such deeds go not unpunished long." "now," asked grani of his father, "hast thou so mocked that luckless man's fate?" einar said he had, and it was seen that grani thought that act far too strong. "yet see," said ondott, "what friends that brings you now, for from the house of flosi comes this offer of friendship." now as they spoke someone knocked at the door, and there was a housecarle of snorri the priest. "my master," said he, "passes on his way home from the althing, and sends me to ask: hold ye your harvest feast as last year, and will he and his company be welcome?" "oh, hold it not!" cried helga. then einar turned to grani. "the mightiest man in broadfirth dales offers now his friendship, and thy future is sure. shall we not hold the feast?" grani turns to the housecarle of snorri, and says: "beg thy master to come!" chapter xxvii odd doings at cragness now time wears toward harvest, and in the dales all is quiet and busy, so that men when they meet have little gossip, save only of the doings of thurid the crone. for she travelled far and wide in the night, and men saw her so distant from home that it was said she rode the wind; she was seen near the farm of burning-flosi, far to the east, and near the hall of snorri the priest, to the west. ever when seen in the dark she strode furiously; by day she was always bent and slow. old men spoke of her youth, when she was brisk and handy; it seemed as if her youth came again in these fits, foretelling her death. moreover by asdis's work nothing now lagged, and the field was plowed, sowed, and harrowed, so that never had such a crop stood on those poor acres, and that by the work of two women. some questioned whether indeed rolf were not about; but there was no place in the hut for hiding a man, howbeit busybodies pried about there much. now all that they found was what looked to be a grave, not far from the home-mead. so then the tale ran that rolf was dead, and there buried; but when questioned asdis would only laugh and say: "whether it is a grave, or the place where stood a little tree that i uprooted for fuel, that ye may guess." but she was always so blithe that it was sure her son still lived. now on a day word came to ondott from thorstein angle his cousin, that three men for sure dwelt on the island of drangey; they were grettir the strong and illugi his brother and some man unknown; but whether more men dwelt there no one could say, for so high were the cliffs that nothing could be seen from the mainland, and another three might for a twelvemonth lie there hidden. many believed that others were there. so ondott was satisfied that rolf lay in hiding there afar off, and would not trouble the cragness-dwellers for a long time to come. now came harvest rich and full, a bountiful year; men worked hard in the fields, the women too, and at night sleep was sound. there came a morning when it was found that cragness had been entered at night and the whole hall ransacked, its passages, lofts, and store-rooms. goods were taken from their places and laid aside; chests had been moved, opened, and emptied; and there was scarce a corner of the place but had been searched. yet gold and silver, whether in money, rings, or vessels, were left behind, nor were they even gathered together for booty. so it was seen that no common thief had been there, and men wondered wherefore that had been done. but grani sent all his men to work in the field, and the women to righting the house; then he took the bow from under the settle where it was hid with its arrows, and he thrust it within the dais whereon were the seats of honor. now a night passed again, and no one heard the dogs bark; but in the morning it was seen that the thief had come again, and all the settles were out of their places, as if one had searched beneath them. no other places were searched, and nothing had been taken; all thought it strange that the dogs had not barked. then another day passed, and men came home to sleep as tired as before; so then grani took the bow and hid it up under the thatch, when all had gone to their beds. in the morning nothing had happened save that the seats on the dais had all been moved, and the dais was found set up against the wall. now the dais was heavy, and that work had been done with much strength. while men were marvelling the neatherd came in, and said he had been awake early in the byre, with a sick calf. before sunrise he looked out of the window; the light was not strong, but he could see a little way. there he saw the crone thurid standing, near the house; but when he ran out to speak with her, she had moved toward the cliffs. whether she saw or heard him he could not say, but suddenly she began to go with long strides. a little mist hung above the crags; into that mist she went, seeming to walk upon the air; and while he stood astonished the mist wreathed around her, and she was lost from sight. he said to himself that was the end of the old woman; but in an hour, looking toward the upland, he saw her walking to the hut of asdis, and that matter he could not explain. grani sent all men about their work again; he took the bow from the hall, with its quiver, and carried them to the great store-house, and hid them beneath sacks of grain. then a night passed, and nothing happened; but on the second night noises were heard; men took lights and searched in the hall, finding nothing. yet in the morning it was seen that someone had been at work under the thatch of the hall, by every rafter; and it was a bold deed to do that ransacking in the dark, for a fall might mean death. no one had seen thurid nor any living soul; yet a tatter of cloth was found, like as it had been torn from the old woman's gray cloak. now grani takes the bow from the store-house, and thinks much by himself, and at last hides it in a haystack, an old one; and there the bow lies deep within. that night he sets men to watch in the store-house, and fetches dogs from a tenants farm, and hopes now to catch the thief. but one comes by night, and enters the store-house by the thatch, and takes the watchmen asleep, binding them with their heads in the bags that lay there. and all the store-house was searched and everything moved, and the thief away before day, but nothing taken. those dogs which had been brought and tied by the door had had their leashes cut, and were off to their master; but the dogs of the place had given no sign. those were the best watch-dogs in the dales, and had belonged to hiarandi. no footprints were found about the place, and the watchmen said but one person had been there, marvellous silent and strong. grani took much thought where now to hide the bow, and bespoke the matter with einar and ondott; but they found no better place than where it lay, so there they let it bide. and ondott went with men to the hut of asdis, and called for the woman thurid. asdis said she slept within, and would not come out. so ondott spoke to her from the doorway, as the crone lay within by the hearth; a bundle of rags she was. "is it thou that comest to our house," asked ondott, "making this mischief there?" "she speaks to no one save me," said asdis, "and never when questioned." "tell her," said ondott, "that if more searchings go on at cragness, we will hale the old woman before the bishop and exorcise her for sorcery, since there must be witchcraft in these doings. so take heed to her, goodwife, and thyself as well." "thou art brave," said asdis, "to threaten two women." so ondott rides away again, and that was the end of those happenings at cragness. some said the thief could not find what he sought; but some that thurid was the thief, and ondott had frighted her. time now fell for the harvest feast, and all preparations were made for receiving guests; great store of good things was made ready, and food and fodder for man and beast. comes at last helga to grani, and begs him not to hold the feast at all, for her mind misgives her because of it. he says that the guests must be on the way, and bids her work at the cooking, and forget those thoughts. she goes away sorrowful, and says no more of this to anyone. then on the morrow the guests are seen riding, both snorri the priest, that old man, and kolbein flosi's son, each with a large company. chapter xxviii of that harvest feast now einar's shepherd came in haste, and said the folk of the country-side were coming from all directions, and a great number would be at the feast. "yet many," said he, "bear weapons, and i know not what that may mean." so men looked, and it was seen that the farmers and bonders were coming over the hills, in small companies or large. those of keen eyes said that most carried short-swords. then ondott looked at those two large parties that came riding, one from the east and one from the north, and thought them very numerous. "meseems," said he, "that snorri and kolbein bring more men than they need." "fearest thou, ondott?" asked grani. "this only do i fear, that we have not enough food ready. only on going to church do men lay aside weapons; not strange were it if snorri and kolbein, coming from so far, bade their men bring longswords, spears, and shields. yet they wear no mail, and bear only the one weapon--clear token of peace. come, bid the women prepare more food; and do thou, father, let bring out more casks of ale, to welcome so many guests!" thus he shamed the household, and all went quickly to make ready more food and drink. then the neighbors began to arrive, some on horses and some on foot, all in holiday guise save that each man bore a single weapon. grani and einar welcomed each as he came; and then the companies of those chiefs rode in, and there was great bustle to receive them. the horses were taken to the stalls, and the men led within the hall. gracious to einar was snorri the priest, and he said fine words of grani's growth and fair looks, and the goodly house. kolbein was more silent, but looked about him much; and all those at cragness were pleased with their great guests, save only helga, who worked among her women and looked sad. when grani saw that, he sought to cheer her, bidding her mark the pleasure of the visitors. "methinks," said helga, "the old man smiles too much and the young man too little. little good does my heart prophesy of this visit." grani was impatient with her and left her alone. now guests continued to come in, a great number, so many that they were not all able to come into the hall; those of lesser condition sat outside on the mead. and the time drew near noon before all were there. so at last einar asked if more were to be seen coming, and his men looked abroad from the hilltop, and saw no one travelling. they saw only three living souls: two were asdis and thurid where they worked in the garden by the little hut across the valley, and one was a great man who lolled on a nearer hillside and seemed to look out upon broadfirth. something glittered in the grass by his side, but no one knew who or what it might be. so einar let call all forth from the house, and he stood on a stool, and spake to them. first he bade them welcome, and then he spoke of that custom which the last year had seen begun: shooting at the boundary in memory of his ownership of those lands and that hall. some, he knew, had been displeased thereat, yet he trusted that now they saw his reasons for it. "for in the sight of all," quoth einar, "i will have it known that my title is just, and will prove that all which made me master here was done within the law." very reasonable was that speech: snorri smiled and nodded graciously, and einar's folk applauded, but the others not so much. "now," einar said, "men claim that grettir the strong can make this shot and put me from my lands, but since the law allows no outlaw to meddle in suits, he may not make the trial. yet i invite all other men hither to prove me guiltless; therefore come ye with me to the brookside, and let all try who will. few do i think will assay, but all are free to it. in token of peace leave your arms here, and let us go down to the boundary." when they heard that, einar's men laid aside what weapons they had; but those strangers made as if they heard not, yet all together began walking to the meadow by the brook. and einar, when he saw they took no heed to his request, was of two minds: whether to say no more, or to ask them again to lay aside their swords. but that seemed a slight to his guests; so he spoke not of it again, and all together they went down the hillside, leaving at the hall only the women, still cooking for so many people. einar had given orders that no ribald mocking should be made in shooting, such as the baser of his men had done before, for all should be decorous. so bows were brought, the best there were; his bowmen made ready, and one by one they shot before the guests. snorri sat on a dais which einar had let make, and kolbein and einar sat on either hand; but grani stood. he was very anxious to see how near the arrows would fall to the oak; but the nearest fell roods away, and he said to himself, "now my father is completely justified, for not even grettir could shoot so much farther than these men." so he begged the visitors to shoot, and of snorri's men and kolbein's some few made the trial, but shot no better than those who assayed afore. grani was much pleased. then einar stood up with smiles, and said he, "let us now go to the feast, for it is ready at the hall." "here cometh one," said snorri, "who may wish to try; wait we here for yet a little while." men looked, and there was a great man coming down the hill, and they knew him for the huge fellow who had been lolling across the valley. on his shoulder he bore a bill with a shaft big as a beam. coming so, down the hillside above them, he looked so large that einar was uneasy, wondering what champion he should be; the sun was behind him, and he seemed like one who might do all manner of feats of strength, even to making the long shot with the bow. einar felt fear. but when the large man reached the first of the people, and they could see his face, then laughter began among them, and one cried aloud, "'tis only frodi the smith!" so frodi came before them, and einar was wroth because he had feared such an one, who was all softness. said einar: "what dost thou here with that great weapon at our feast, where no man comes in war? seekest thou to take up the feud for this land?" and he gave sign that his men should be near, ready to seize frodi if only cause were given. but frodi laid the bill at the feet of einar, and said: "i bring thee the bill which is thine own, since it came ashore on thy beaches. as for that feud, it is not mine, but it belongs to the nearest of kin. who knows where he is? let me stay here a space, i beg, and watch the shooting." "the shooting is past," said einar, "but stay if it pleases thee. as for that bill, keep it for thine own, if it is at all dear to thee." then he turned to snorri, and said, "shall we not go to the feast?" "but tell us of this great bill," said snorri. "and were there not perchance other heathen weapons which are thine, coming ashore in that great storm?" so grani told of the bill, how it had belonged to that dead viking; and he said there had been a bow with it, which was useless because no one could string it. "much would i like to see that bow," says snorri. grani knows not what to answer and looks at einar, and einar looks back at grani; but at last einar says: "old and useless is the bow, and it is in some out-of-the-way place. come now to the feast, for it is all ready." "it is not yet noon," answered snorri, "and before noon i am never ready to feast. but here comes another one down the hill, who may give us sport until we sit down." so men looked again up the hillside, and there was another figure coming, seen against the sun. (now in iceland, even in summer noon, the sun never stands overhead.) fast the figure strode, all muffled in a cloak which flapped in the wind; and so wild and large did the newcomer seem that again einar was afraid at the strange sight. but when it came near the figure dwindled, and the people laughed again, crying to make way for thurid. with slow and halting step the crone came through the lane of men to einar. "wishes the strange woman anything here?" asked snorri. "give her money," said einar to ondott, "and bid her begone." but she turned her back on ondott with his purse, and went nearer einar; and then she saw the bill which frodi had left lying at einar's feet. a strong shudder seized her, and there she stood shuddering, gazing beneath her hood at that great weapon. "what is wrong with the woman?" asked snorri as if impatient. "bid her to speak." "she speaks never," answered einar. but it seemed as if she were talking to herself, for first she began to mumble hoarsely, and then a little louder, and then at last she began to drone a song, in a cracked voice which, to those who had known her, seemed not her own. she sang thus: "here is come from foreign shore, a heathen weapon and one more. first the bill which can be swung by the peaceful smith alone; next the bow which can be strung nor by him nor anyone. yet i say in one of those, laid in spells by christ his foes, danger lies to einar's house." when she had sung thus, she drew her hood still closer over her head and crouched down there by the dais. mark now all that which next was said and done, as if those visitors knew the fearsome nature of einar, and played with it. first kolbein drew his feet away from the blade of the bill which lay before them; and he looked uneasy, saying to einar: "of human force i have no fear, but evil and witchcraft like i not." but snorri leaned forward and looked in the face of frodi. "tell us," says snorri the priest, "for what reason thou hast brought the bill here." answered frodi: "i live alone in my smithy, and the bill stands always in the corner. now sometimes it gives out a strong humming, there as i work, or as i sit by myself of nights; and at such times i think evil thoughts of vengeance, longing to do violence with the bill, until sometimes i fear i will snatch the weapon and rush forth and slay. and methinks the thing must be like the terrible bill of gunnar of lithend, which before every one of his slayings gave forth a singing sound. yet gunnar got his bill by the mere death of a man; but i won this in fight with a ghost, and so i fear more dreadful things will happen from mine than ever came from his. lest blood-guilt come on my soul i brought the bill hither, to restore it to its rightful owner." "but he gave it thee again," says snorri. "so," answered frodi, "i see no way at all to avoid that blood-guiltiness." "thou canst cast the bill in the sea," says snorri. on a sudden frodi started back from the bill, and clutched at the clothes on his breast, and cried: "heard ye how it hummed even then?" said grani, "i heard naught." but kolbein hitched his stool further away from the bill, saying: "i heard something." snorri looked upon einar, who was pale with fear. "now," said snorri, "what of that bow which, if shooting here at this boundary may cost thee thy life, is mayhap the greater danger to thee of the two?" einar answered nothing. "come," says snorri, "do this if thou wouldst avoid all evil: cast this bill and that bow into the sea." now the crone rose up again, and she sang this song: "bring ye here those weapons forth. lay them crossing, east and north, here upon the fateful ground where death hiarandi found. over them make ye the sign of the church, with holy wine. build ye then a fire great; ere the flames to coals abate, cast those weapons in them here. power of spells will disappear; no fate then need einar fear!" "now," said snorri, "this burning is the best counsel, for weapons cast in the sea would come again to shore." then thurid covered her head again and crouched down as before. but einar rose in a panic and bade grani fetch the bow, the arrows, and some wine. grani departed hastily, and ran to the hall, and called his sister, bidding her bring wine while he got the bow and arrows. "now," cried helga, "wilt thou mock the death of hiarandi, and jeer at rolf, who saved thy life here on the rocks?" "what sayest thou of saving my life?" asked grani. helga told how rolf and frodi had borne him to shore. "be comforted," said grani. "no man shoots with the great bow, for rolf, who alone can string it, is away. but witchcraft lies in it, and it shall be burnt. and when this feast is ended i will send for rolf, and offer him peace and friendship." "no peace comes from rolf," answers helga, "while we own his lands, nor friendship while we sit in his hall. violence meets violence, so says the good book." but she went and got the wine, and grani seized the bow and its quiver from out the rick, and bore all to the brookside again. there the fire was already built. snorri received the bow in his hands, for neither kolbein nor einar would touch it. the priest of snorri's household took the wine, to hallow it; and snorri drew the bow from its case. "let all give back," said he. "make space for the fire and the burning of the bow. let the crone say when all is ready." so all men gave space; and the home-men and the guests, mingled together, made a great circle round the spot where the bow should be burnt with the bill. at only one place the ring was broken: the shelving bank of the brook, where men might not stand. then thurid rose and began to circle the fire. thrice around it she walked, and snorri with the bow came down from the dais and stood near; but kolbein went and stood by grani, and frodi kept his place at the feet of einar. so when the cloaked woman had circled the fire three times, she stopped and said to snorri, "give me the bow." snorri gave it her. all watched to see what she would do, whether mutter spells or breathe upon it. but she looked at it carefully from end to end, and overlooked the string, and after that she raised it and shook it aloft. then first men saw any part of her, namely her arm, which was not withered, but firm and large, like a man's. when she spoke her voice was no longer cracked. "water hath not harmed thee, oh my bow! thou art the same as when thou slewest the baresark. now shalt thou do a greater deed!" and in a moment she set the end of the bow to her foot, and bent the bow, and slipped the string along, and the bow was strung! there stood the homefolk gazing, but the crone cast off the cloak. no woman was she at all, but rolf in his weapons! then frodi laid his hand on einar's knee, and said: "sit still!" kolbein set a knife to grani's throat, saying: "thy life if thou stirrest." and snorri cried on high: "where are ye, men of tongue and swinefell?" all those guests drew their short-swords; and it was seen that by every one of the homefolk was a man of snorri's or kolbein's, or haply two of them. they threatened death to all of einar's folk. rolf looked around on his enemies, and there was not one that could either fight or flee. so he took the quiver from snorri, and looked within it; he chose that arrow with the silver point, and snapped the silken thread that bound it, and drew the arrow forth. at no man he looked, but up to heaven. then he set the arrow on the string; he drew the bow and sped the shaft. high it flew, and far--across the brook, across the mead. it passed through the upper branches of the little oak, and fell to the ground three roods beyond. then in the sight of all rolf bowed his head, nor for a while could he speak at all. but when at last he turned again toward that high seat where einar sat, his eye fell first on ondott who stood by. said rolf: "bring me that fellow here!" yet when they would seize ondott he slipped away, and fearing death ran shrieking up the hill with men in chase. such was his speed that they caught him not, so great was his fright that he recked not where he was going, he ran to the cliffs, nor saw them; from their top he fell and died. "so is the greater villain gone," said rolf when all saw ondott fall, "but the less remains. einar, ondott hath made his choice of death and life; what choice makest thou? wilt thou bring this to the courts, where outlawry is sure; or wilt thou handsel the case to me, to utter my own award for the death of my father and the seizing of my land?" einar said quickly: "on thy mercy i rely, and i handsel all to thee, for i am too old to fare abroad." so he came down from the dais, and hastened to rolf, offering his hand and calling snorri to witness that handselling. there they struck hands before all those witnesses. said rolf: "now i hold in my hands thy death or thy life, even as once thou heldest my father at thy mercy. no pity hadst thou then. shall i spare thee now?" "it was all ondott's doing," said einar. "now," quoth rolf, "this do i award, and thy forgetting it will be thy death. thou shalt go to the little farm where my mother has lived, but now she is on her way to cragness. on those few acres thou shalt abide, and stay within all space a bowshot from it. the one ewe which is there thou mayest have; the store of meat which is in the loft is thine; my mother's gray cloak hangs by the door: take it. but thine own livelihood thou shalt earn from the soil when these are spent; and when thou comest from thy boundary farther than this bow can shoot, thy life is forfeit to me." einar accepted that award. then rolf turned to grani, and said: "grani, it lies in thy power to change all this by uttering two words." grani said nothing. "only two words," said rolf again. but still grani answered nothing, and rolf turned from him sadly. "proud is the heart of youth," quoth snorri. "come, let us sheathe our weapons. the sun stands at noon; now shall we execute the act of distress which will make rolf master of his own--yes, and of the half of einar's wealth, for the rest goes to the men of the quarter. let us go to the hall." so all men went to the hall; and there went not only those guests from afar, but also those from the dales. aye, and the men of einar left him, and went to the hall with the others. only grani stayed with his father, and helga whom anxiety had driven from the hall. "let us go to our new home," said einar. so they went, and from the first hilltop they saw how the act of distress was beginning at the crags; but from the second hilltop they saw that the act was finished. and when they rested on the long climb to the hut, whence asdis had gone to her own old home, they saw how outside the hall men were seated at the long tables, and the women passed the food and drink, and all was merry at cragness. chapter xxix of the trial of grants pride gay was that harvest feast, and all men learned how thurid had died in the snow on the night of the wreck. in her cloak had rolf lived, serving his mother, and he had travelled to tongue and swinefell in order to make the plan for gaining his own; but because flosi could not come he had sent kolbein his son. rolf gave great thanks to snorri and kolbein, and gifts beside; with all good wishes they parted on the morrow. then asdis took over the care of the household of her son, and frodi was bidden to live there with them. they began again the custom of hiarandi, to light beacons against shipwreck. so now rolf dwells at cragness in his honor, but at the hut on the upland those others live with little ease. rolf looks out sometimes at the little farm, and sees grani and his father working in the field to get in the small harvest, hay for the ewe and grain for themselves. now for asdis alone that store had been enough, but for three the outlook was not so good. once frodi saw rolf as he watched them working, and the smith said, "thou takest pleasure in the sight?" rolf asked, "rememberest thou what jewels grani wore, or his father, or helga, that time when they went away?" "grani and einar," said frodi, "had rings on their arms and brooches on their breasts, but helga wore none at all." "silver pennies also they had in their purses," said rolf. "what is their wealth to thee?" asks frodi. "much," answers rolf. now the time draws toward winter. the tale tells next how rolf kept many people by him in the hall, to do the field work and to tend the cattle and horses (but the sheep were in the fold, save twenty which had not come in). now some of those folk of einar still dwelt at cragness, having deserted their master, and none at the hall bade them either go or stay. yet both asdis and frodi showed them little favor, and one by one they slipped away to seek livings elsewhere, save only those two, hallvard and hallmund, men of loud talk, strong of growth but not given to work. evenings in the hall they spoke much, and frodi scowled thereat; but rolf sat in his seat and seemed neither to see nor to hear them. frodi said to him one day: "this one thing i mislike in thee, that thou keepest here those two who deserted their master." rolf asked: "was their master worth devotion?" "maybe not," says frodi, "yet ingrates are they both." "they are free," said rolf, "either to stay or go." frodi grumbled to himself, but said no more to rolf. now october comes in very cold, but no snow as yet; and all harvests are in. grani had stacked his neatly in ricks against the weather, for there was no room in the hut. there was a pen outside for the ewe; she was a good beast and never wandered, coming home at night. on a day rolf called hallvard and hallmund to him, and said: "it were not strange if grani's ewe were to break out of its pen and eat at my ricks, which stand not far away." and he looked hard at hallvard, who was the slyer of those two. said hallvard with a grin: "that is likely to happen." rolf gave them each a piece of money, and said: "beware of that ewe." on a morning not long after came those two, leading the ewe. "master, here have we found this ewe eating at thy ricks, nor know we whose it may be." said rolf: "the ewe is einar's. take it to him, and ask payment for the hay which has been eaten." so they take the ewe to einar, and bring back silver. "keep that for yourselves," rolf said, "but will the ewe stay now at home?" "her pen is not strong," hallvard said. so on the morrow those two came again, bringing the ewe a second time; rolf sent them for money as before. this time they brought back a gold arm-ring; so rolf knew that einar and grani had taken with them nigh empty purses, and he was glad. he took the ring, giving the men silver, and said to them as before: "will the ewe stay now at home?" hallvard answered, "we left grani strengthening the pen, but still it is not high." and on the morrow they brought the ewe, saying, "see how fat she hath gorged herself, master." then said rolf, "go now and say to einar: 'a third time hath thine ewe trespassed; now must thou pay not only damages, but the trespass fine, or else bring this to the courts.'" they went and brought back jewels, one arm-ring and two brooches; and hallvard said, "all that he had einar gave, rather than trust himself to the law." rolf gave them money, saying: "if the ewe wanders a fourth time, she will become mine. is her pen strong?" "grani has no more wood to make the pen higher," answered hallvard, "but he was tying her with a rope." "belike the rope is not strong," said rolf. and that seemed true; for on the morrow those two brought the ewe for the fourth time; they said she had again been eating at rolfs ricks. "go now," said rolf. "say to einar: 'pay me damages and another fine, or yield thine ewe.'" they went and returned, and said to rolf: "the ewe is thine." then rolf gave them silver rings, and they were well content. but frodi came to rolf, and said: "what is this thou hast suffered those two to do to thy neighbor? now einar will have no milk for the winter." rolf answered shortly: "he can use the pen of the ewe for firewood, and sell the hay for money." and he would speak no more of that. now october passed, and november came, and still there was no snow; the land was colder for that. one day when rolf stood and looked at the hut on the upland, hallvard came to him and said, "small cheer is there over yonder, master; yet i have heard that grani has sold his hay, and it is soon to be fetched from his farm." rolf answered: "see now how all their ricks stand in a line, and the wind is in that line, so that a fire which took the weathermost rick would burn them all. it was careless of grani to set them so." "for fire might come by chance," said hallvard, and he went and spoke with hallmund. now that night people were stirring in the hall, for a servingman was sick there; and in the early morning one came knocking at the door of rolfs locked bed, crying, "there is fire across the valley." so rolf threw on a cloak and went out; there was a great fire at the little farm, where the ricks were burning. in their light grani was seen, saving what he might; but einar stood by wringing his hands, and helga weeping. so while those of cragness stood and watched, hallvard and hallmund came up the hill and joined them. "where have ye been?" asks frodi. they had no good answer to give. when it was day rolf sent to inquire of einar if he had had great loss; hallvard was sent. "and ask if they will have any help of me; and mark how much they have saved and where it is bestowed." so hallvard went and returned again, and said that grani needed no help. "but," said he, "the old man would have taken help, yet the young man would not allow it. and they have saved no hay, and but little grain; it is there in the pen of the ewe." "now," rolf said privately to hallvard, "thou and hallmund shall take my shepherd and go into the hills, a day's journey; he shall show thee where are folded those twenty of my sheep which came not with the others, and which men call lost. send him then home before thee, and do ye twain drive the sheep.--and see to it," quoth rolf, "that those sheep do no damage to the fodder which grani saved." so that day those two took their staves, and went with the shepherd to do as rolf had bidden. on the second day the shepherd came again; but on the fourth came hallvard and hallmund, driving the sheep. now one of them was all bloody. "what hath happened to the ram?" asked rolf. "we came home," answered hallvard, "over the fell which is above einar's farm; we pastured the sheep as we came, yet there is now no good grazing, and the beasts were terribly thin. so when we came late at night near to grani's stead, and could not make cragness in the dark, we rested and let the sheep stray. in the morning, behold, the sheep had found the grain which grani had saved from the fire, and were eating the last of it when he came out by the first light. he saw the sheep, and drove them thence with fury; but the ram was obstinate, and would not leave the food, so grani wounded him. and he gave us hard words before we gathered the flock to come away." "take the sheep to the fold," said rolf, and he gave each of the men a piece of money. then he went in and sat down to meat; but frodi followed him and seemed much discontented. "what ails thee?" asked rolf. "this ails me," said frodi, "that thou hast no mercy upon them whose lot is hard enough. i cannot bear that thou shouldst use those base men to do such work against grani, whom once thou lovedst. for i perceive clearly that all this has been done with intention, both the trespassing of the ewe and the burning of the ricks; likewise this last happening is not by chance. what change is on thee, that thou doest so?" also asdis came and said: "thou art hard on those unfortunate ones, my son. leave this persecution and do what is worthy of thee." but rolf said to frodi: "hast thou forgotten that grani made thee thrall?" and of asdis he asked: "who slew hiarandi my father?" the law of vengeance came to their minds, and they were silent, yet not satisfied. then hallvard and hallmund came in and helped themselves to meat, and began talking loudly. said hallvard, "thou art called now, master, to avenge thy honor. einar spoke shame on thee while we were gathering the sheep to drive from his house, for he said thou hadst the hope to starve him and his children." "a great slander is that," quoth hallmund, wagging his head. "many a man hath died for such; and at least a money-fine should einar pay." "hold your tongues!" cried frodi in anger. but rolf rebuked frodi, and said to those twain: "i give thanks for your thought of mine honor. but i do not desire blood, only money-atonement for the slander. einar hath no money; but grani hath yet his sword, a fine weapon. now you who have my honor in your care, go to-morrow to grani. tell him i demand atonement; but if he sends me his sword his father's slander will be forgotten." those two looked at each other in doubt, for that would be a hard thing, to get from grani his sword. but frodi sprang from his seat, and cried: "what dost thou now, to insult grani so? never will an icelander yield his sword! call now to mind when ye two were comrades, and slept together, and fought the scots together, and crossed the pentland firth together in a little boat, and swam the last mile side by side. put all this in thy mind, and unsay what thou hast said." rolf answered: "all this i remember, and that is why i send for grani's sword." "then," frodi cried, "i leave thy roof now, nor ever are we friends again!" "frodi," answered rolf, "sleep one night more under my roof; then if thou art minded thou shalt leave me forever." then frodi called to mind his great love for his cousin, and yielded, and sat down. in the morning hallmund and hallvard sat late at meat. rolf said to them: "why linger ye here? do as i bade!" then they took swords, axes, and shields, and went to the hut across the valley, but had no heart in their going. now rolf watched from the hillside, and he saw them go into the farmyard, very slowly; and he waited a while, and saw them come out, very slowly. and they came back to cragness, and climbed the hill to him; and behold, they had not their arms any more, but were wounded, and complained as they came. "grani," said they, "has done this to us. now, master, avenge us on him!" "now," said rolf, "all is come about as i wished." and he bade bring his sword and his shield. "wilt thou then," asked frodi, "take up the quarrel of these wretched carles?" rolf put on his sword and took his shield; he made no answer to frodi, but he beckoned his housecarles and pointed to hallvard and hallmund. "whip me," said rolf to his servants, "these wretches from this place; if they wait till my return they shall feel the weight of my hand. but as for all the rest of you, bide ye here till i come again." hallvard and hallmund ran with all haste away along the cliffs, but rolf set out across the valley to the little farm. chapter xxx of the saying of those two words now the tale turns to speak of einar and his two children: how they went away from their home with but the clothes on their backs, and with purses nigh empty, and but little jewelry. they came to the hut, to make a home where there was no room for a fourth to sleep, and where there was but a rack of dried meat, and a gray cloak hanging by the door, and little else for comfort. grani looks about the farm, and sees how it has a good spring, and a small garden well tended, and a pen for the ewe. beyond the garden were the other crops; yet the hay had not been cut, nor the grain reaped, and there was nothing stored against the winter. said grani: "rolf awaited this turn of fortune, and why should he lay up food for us?" then he turned about, and looked off from the hillside. there he saw cragness, and the folk feasting; and he saw fellstead and many other farms. there lay broadfirth, and the sea beyond; fishing vessels were thereon. and he saw the ferry to hvamm, with all the four roads which led to it, where people travelled; but the little farm was far away from all these things. now it was a bright warm day, and the ewe bleated in the pasture, and the birds called each other above his head. then grani's heart fainted within him, and he cried to einar: "better hadst thou chosen exile for us all, rather than condemn us to die in this place!" einar sought to excuse himself to his son, but appeased him not. then helga said: "is this all thou didst learn in the orkneys, thus to meet the fate which thou hast brought upon thyself?" then grani was quiet, and went and fetched water, and wood which was there for the cooking (but there was no great store). after a while he said to his sister, "no more will i complain, though worse things come upon us." so in the following days he sets himself to work, and cuts the hay, and stacks it in ricks; and cuts and stacks the grain likewise, working hastily lest the snow should come. einar was of no account in such work, for his body was not used to it; but he watches the ewe upon the mead, and fetches water; and helga works at the house, and when the grain is reaped she begins to grind it in a handmill; a slow labor that was, to make flour each day for their bread. now when grani had finished harvesting he began to cut peat and stack it near the house. it was hard work, for the cold was severe and the ground freezing. einar began to complain as the cold came on; he was not warm enough under the gray cloak, but sat much of the day by the fire. he disliked his food and wanted better, although naught better was to be had. it was not easy to bear his complainings; but helga was patient, and grani sought to lighten her labors, doing woman's work. yet he was troubled for the shame of his life, and slept badly, and lost flesh. now hard frost and bitter winds came, but still no snow. grani's clothes were thin, and he was not used to the rough life; his hands cracked with the cold, all his joints ached, his feet were sore from his thin shoes, and it seemed as if he would perish with the wind. yet still he cut peat, hewing it from the frozen ground in a little boggy place; and he brought it home with fingers all bleeding. then helga bewailed the weather, how without snow the ground froze ever deeper: but though at first grani was minded to complain with her, he bethought himself and spoke cheerily. helga asked: "why dost thou conceal thy thoughts?" "the worst of my thoughts," said grani, "are so bad that i dare not dwell on them. but the better is that i must be manly; and i have a memory to help me." "what is that memory?" asked helga. so grani told of that time when he and his thralls were lost in the snow in orkney, and those two icelanders bore the cold, but he complained of it. "and they gave me the cloak and the warmth of their own bodies, yet i could not be brave. so now when i shiver in the cold i call to mind their hardiness, and strive to copy it." "that is well said," quoth helga, "and i will show courage, even as thou." so those two fortified each other; but einar's mind dwelt always on his misfortunes: the great state he had lost, and the trick that had betrayed him, and all those servants who had deserted him. "years long," said einar, "i fed many of those men, yet they all turned from me at the end. not one had the gratitude to follow me hither." "there is luck in that," answered grani, "for how could we feed them?" "most i hate hallvard and hallmund," said einar, "for i favored them in everything, but now they cling to rolf." "he will get small profit from them," says helga. now at the farm they took much comfort in their ewe, which never wandered far, and came home at night, sleeping always in the pen. but one morning she was gone and the pen broken down, and no trace of her was to be seen. then einar lamented greatly, since her milk was needed: he declared that she was stolen. but in the forenoon came those two, hallvard and hallmund, leading the ewe. "this beast," said hallvard, "was found eating from our masters ricks." "wherefore," asked grani, "ate she not from our ricks, which were nearer?" "i know not," said hallvard, "but she hath been at our ricks; and rolf has said: twenty in silver must you pay." grani took his purse; and though his father scolded he gave silver, all that he had, and hallvard and hallmund went away. now this happened again, and to redeem the ewe grani gave a gold ring. then he built up the pen again of double strength, so that a bullock could not have broken out; but on another morning the ewe was gone, and unless she were a goat she might not have jumped out. einar was terribly enraged with an old mans anger, and swore those two ruffians had killed the ewe; yet after a while they were seen coming, leading the beast. einar said to grani, "take now thy sword and slay them when they come." but grani held his tongue and heard those two quietly when they claimed trespass money; he gave them all the jewels that he had, and the twain went away. then einar cried, "i have no son at all, but two daughters; and no one will defend me from this shameful persecution." grani grew red as blood; but he said naught in answer, and tied the ewe in the pen. when he was alone helga came to him. asks she: "thinkest thou that the ewe broke out those two times, and leaped out the third?" he answers: "those two stole her, yet i cannot prove it, for there is no snow to show their tracks." "i blame not thy mildness at all," says helga, "rather do i praise it. but why art thou so quiet under injustice?" "i call to mind," says grani, "that when i enthralled rolf he never complained, but took what fortune brought him, seeing that he could not help himself. he bided his time and avenged his father; and i suffer in silence, to keep my father alive. that lesson which rolf set me, now i follow; i cannot resist him, save to my death, and what then would become of my father and of thee?" now there came another night, and in the morning the ewe was gone; that day grani yielded her to rolf, as already told, while einar upbraided him that he was so unmanly. and in the next days the old man was miserable, missing his milk, and not eating the broth helga made, though the broth was very good. he made himself sick with his anger and his selfishness, and went to bed in the middle of the day, and scolded from where he lay. "men tell," said he, "of gisli the outlaw, who entered his enemy's house and slew him for the slaying of his blood-brother. but nowadays no man will do such a deed--no, not to save his father." then grani started from his place, and said: "violence enough has been done in this feud, nor will i ever have hand in such." he went out of the house, and helga after him. she said to him: "be comforted, my brother." grani answered: "it is true that i might take rolf unawares, and slay him. but i remember when he was my thrall in the orkneys, going with me everywhere, and my life was daily in his hands. for when we were on the cliffs he might have cast me down, and no man would have known he did it. or when we were fishing he might have drowned me, and have sailed away in the boat. but he never did evil for evil, and i remember it now." then grani planned to sell his fodder, and the money would be welcome. but on another morning they woke in the hut with the crackle and glare of fire, and there were the ricks burning, all of them; grani could save little from the flames. now that was a great loss, and einar bewailed it, saying that since the wheat was gone they would all three starve. then by day they saw hallvard coming. "he comes to insult us," said einar, and egged grani on to meet him with his sword, and wound him for punishment. but grani received hallvard mildly, and said he had no need of help, and sent him away. "now," said einar, "we might have had help of rolf, and thou hast refused it." grani answered naught to his father, but afterward when helga asked why he sent hallvard away, grani said, "what help gave we to rolf when he was shipwrecked at our door? thou savedst his life, else he had been slain in our hall. for very shame we can take no help of him." now some days passed, and einar grumbled ceaselessly, so that life with him was well nigh unbearable; yet he was the cause of all their misfortune. in nothing that she did might helga please him; and though grani had grown thin with labor, his father did not spare the lash of his tongue. it was plain that they had not enough food to keep them through the winter, now that so much grain was gone, and their fate was much on grani's mind; yet he was cheerful. helga came to him at last, and said, "brother, give me of thy courage, for with my fathers harshness and our hard work i feel my heart failing me. on what thought dost thou sustain thyself?" "dost thou remember," asked grani, "that when we first came here i complained, and thou didst ask: had i learned no more in the orkneys than to bewail my fate?" "forgive me that saying," begged helga. "why not forgive?" grani said. "for i was reminded of a boast i made to rolf there on the cliff by hawksness, saying that i feared no misfortune. and he answered: then i was fitted to be an icelander. then, though i had dwelt so long in the orkneys, my heart warmed to my own land whose children love her so; and i resolved to show myself an icelander, for the sake of winning rolf's praise. therefore i strive, my sister, to be a true son of this dear iceland, and to bear my misfortunes even as rolf sends them." "mayhap," says helga, "rolf remembers also that boast of thine." "aye," says grani. "and mayhap," helga says, "he sends these trials only to test thee, for it is clear that they are of design." "so i have thought," grani answers. "either it is that, or it is revenge; yet rolf has no spite in him." "greatly dost thou praise him," helga says. "not overmuch," quoth grani. "and now i will say i repent my pride when i refused his friendship: first at hawksness, when he had done me that slight hurt, and then on the ship. but i have most shame that i offered him no atonement when i was prosperous here in iceland, and he was in hiding." "go to him now," cries helga. "ask forgiveness!" grani answers: "i asked it not when i might with honor; it were cowardice to do so when i am under his feet." now helga wished to argue against that; but their father called them, complaining, and there was no more of their talk. but grani, while helga tended on einar, ground corn in the handmill (but there was little of the grain left) and sang this song: "once i, most fortunate, met swords in fight. now, sin to expiate, i show this plight: grind corn to make my bread.- evil pursues my head." and it seemed to him that scarce ever had a warrior, not in thraldom, come to such fortune. then when he had ground enough meal for another day he stacked the grain carefully against the weather, and went about other tasks, and that night slept soundly. but in the morning, waking with the first light, he heard as it were a scuffling of feet close outside the door; when he opened he saw sheep there, a small flock, eating eagerly at the grain, which was almost all gone. in despair he rushed out upon them, and drove them away; they all fled before him but one lean old ram, who stood his ground and still would eat. then grani took a club and smote the ram, and wounded it, so that it ran away. next he saw how at a little distance were hallvard and hallmund, who came and excused them of the doings of the sheep, which had strayed while the men slept. grani answered nothing, though his sister wept; but einar was nigh out of his mind for anger and despair, and cursed those twain, and rolf their master, until grani took him and led him into the house, when those two drove the sheep away. einar was so spent with rage that he fell at last in a stupor; and grani went and gathered all that remained of the grain. there were but two measures of it left. then as he gleaned those few stalks from the ground, where the sheep had trodden them, and as he cleansed them of dust and saved every small particle: bitterness grew in him, and then wrath, and he nursed his wrath all that day. now helga was busy with her father, and saw not how grani brooded; there was not much food for him, but he fed on his despair. and he slept ill that night, and rose early, and went without food to dig in the garden for roots. there those twain found him, hallvard and hallmund, when they came into the yard that day for his sword. now his back was toward them, and they asked each other: "shall we rush on him and wound him, or slay him, and so search the place at our will for his sword?" that seemed to them the best counsel, and they stole upon him. he was so busy that he heard them not; and but for helga he had been slain. but she saw the men, and cried "beware!" so grani turned with his spade uplifted, and they rushed at him. then he dashed the sword from the hand of hallmund, and struck fiercely at hallvard. hallvard he wounded with the spade, but hallmund with his own weapon, and with their wounds they limped away. then all of grani's anger left him, and he sat in the house by the hearth, and his father waked and looked at him. said grani, "much didst thou do to hiarandi for my sake, and harshly has hiarandi's son repaid me for thy sake. but let us forgive each other, father, before the end of life comes to us." asked einar: "how comes the end of life now?" helga says from the doorway: "i see rolf coming across the valley, and he is armed." "thus comes the end," says grani, and they embraced and kissed each other all three, and grani made ready for death, and he went out to meet rolf. rolf came into the yard, and he had his sword and shield. says rolf: "what hast thou to say to me for the wounding of my house-carles?" grani looked on rolf, and remembered how he had loved him once, and loved him still, yet never might they be friends. "this offer will i make," said grani. "i will fare abroad, and never come back to trouble thee, if so be thou wilt give my father, while he lives, his winter's food." "hast thou nothing better to say?" asked rolf. "i will make this offer," said grani. "i will be thy thrall, and labor for thee, if only thou wilt maintain my father out of thine abundance." "canst thou say no better?" asked rolf again. grani remembered how he might have been friends with rolf, and would not; and how he should have asked forgiveness, and could not. "nothing better to offer have i," said he. "nothing worth offering." for he despised himself, and thought his life ended. [illustration: "grani took his sword and his shield, and they stood up to fight by the spring"] "take then thy weapons," said rolf, "and fight me here on the level space by the spring." so grani took his sword and his shield, and they stood up to fight by the spring and those in the hut heard the clash of steel. the two looked strangely fighting, grani gaunt and ragged, and rolf well fed and in holiday clothes. now grani thought to be slain quickly; but rolf seemed to have no power at first; yet he warmed to the strife, and began to strike manfully, and at last he smote away a part of grani's shield. then grani by a great stroke shore away the half of rolf's shield. "well smitten!" cried rolf, and they fought on; but grani found himself growing weak, and marvelled much that rolf smote no faster. "but if he means to tire me out," thought grani, "he can win me easily." then rolf drew away, and said: "my shoestrings are loose, i will tie them." so he laid aside his shield and sword, and knelt before grani to tie his shoes; grani might have slain him there, but he waited. and not to be tempted to that treachery, grani looked about; he saw the hut where were his father and sister, and looked off on the firth and the wide land, and waited for rolf to rise. then they fought again. but grani grew weary and desperate, and his thoughts grew hard. for there were his sister and father close at hand, and the world was beautiful. and while they fought slowly he thought that cruel, so to prolong death, since for rolf he was no match at all. he wished for death, and exposed his breast to rolf's strokes, and cared not what happened. but rolf drew away again, and said, "i am thirsty," and knelt down by the spring to drink. then in his great weariness grani gave way to an evil thought, and cried, "i will free my father, even if the deed be foul." and he heaved up his sword to slay rolf. but rolf rose upon his knees, looking fair in grani's face; and though rolf made no defence, grani stayed the sword in midair, and cast it far away. then he sat down on a stone and covered his face with his hands. rolf rose, and came to him, and said: "wherefore didst thou not slay me?" grani answered: "because once i loved thee." "grani, grani," cried rolf, "has thy pride at last come to its end? now once more i ask: what hast thou to say to me? "for the wounding of thy henchmen, and for all i ever did to thee since first we met," said grani, "only this i beg: forgive me!" "i forgive thee!" rolf cried, and there they embraced and made peace. this is the end of the tale, that frodi slept yet other nights at cragness than that one, and lived with rolf his life long. but grani took his father home to fellstead, and dwelt there, he and einar and helga. grani was ever the greatest friend of rolf, but einar never came into rolf's sight so long as he lived; and that was not long, for the old man was broken with his shame. then after that rolf took to wife helga the sister of grani, and the curse of the soursops never troubled their children. between the households of cragness and fellstead was ever the closest bond, and famous men are come of both rolf and grani. so here we end the story of rolf. _the summer vacation series_ four on a farm by mary p. wells smith _author of "the old deerfield series," etc._ illustrated. 12mo. $1.35 net it is a pleasing story, which will aid in making young people appreciate the beauties and the delights of country life.--_philadelphia press._ it would be well for american city youth if more such books descriptive of the joys and healthfulness of country life could be written.--_pittsburgh chronicle-telegraph._ _by the same author_ two in a bungalow illustrated. 12mo. $1.35 net the second volume in the "summer vacation series" is, like "four on a farm," a story of out-door life which tells the story of the first summer spent by the strongs in their bungalow on mount pisgah, near the hoosac tunnel, and describes the doings of sydney and clyde strong, eleven and six years old. they built a shack, went swimming, fishing, berrying, etc. the book is wholesome and natural: it will teach children to appreciate the joy and beauty of life out-of-doors and will make many a boy wish for equally happy summers on mount pisgah. little, brown & co., publishers 34 beacon street, boston _bright, lively, and enjoyable_ "jolly good times" series by mary p. wells smith 1. jolly good times; or, child life on a farm 2. jolly good times at school 3. jolly good times at hackmatack 4. more good times at hackmatack 5. jolly good times to-day 6. a jolly good summer 7. the browns 8. their canoe trip illustrated. cloth. each $1.35 net. these books ("jolly good times," etc.) give the best possible picture of new england child life about seventy-five years ago.--miss hunt, _supt. children's dept. brooklyn public library_. allow me to express, unasked, the zest and satisfaction with which i read "jolly good times." i am delighted that the joyous country life of new england is painted in its true colors for children.--col. thomas wentworth higginson. there is a fine fresh flavor of country life in what mrs. smith writes, and her characters, particularly her children, are thoroughly real and human.--r. h. stoddard in _new york mail and express_. a bit of real literature is "jolly good times at hackmatack." it has all the vividness of actual experience.--_new york tribune._ little, brown, & co., _publishers_ 34 beacon street, boston books by allen french the story of rolf and the viking's bow illustrated. 12mo. $1.35 net a stirring tale by the author of "the junior cup," presenting a vivid account of the old norse life and of the people of iceland.--_brooklyn eagle._ boys will follow the fortunes of rolf with ever-increasing attention, for his skill as a marksman, his intrepidity in scenes of peril, and his noble character make him a very engaging hero.--_boston beacon._ the author of this artistic story of iceland has caught the spirit of the times and men he depicts most happily.--_outlook_, new york. pelham and his friend tim illustrated by ch. grunwald. 12mo. $1.35 net one of the very best boys' books. in the two boys, who are the chief characters, he has drawn a picture of manliness and honesty. the plot centres about a mill strike and contains exciting scenes.--_providence journal._ a good, wholesome book for boys, especially to be recommended for the unobtrusive, matter-of-course way in which it makes character, instead of social station, the thing that counts.--_new york times._ heroes of iceland adapted from dasent's translation of "the story of burnt njal," the great icelandic saga, with a new preface, introduction, and notes. illustrated by e. w. d. hamilton. 12mo. $1.35 net he has preserved the spirit of the saga in the abridgment, and even in this form the northland epic makes better and healthier reading for boys than most of the books that are written specially for them.--_new york sun._ the reform of shaun illustrated by philip r. goodwin. $1.20 net two of the best dog stories that we have read in a long time.--_the churchman_, new york. little, brown, & co., _publishers_, boston _depicts the joys of country life_ summer vacation series by mary p. wells smith 1. four on a farm. 2. two in a bungalow. 3. three in a camp. illustrated. cloth. $1.35 _net_ each "four on a farm" is a pleasing story, which will aid in making young people appreciate the beauties and delights of the country.--_philadelphia press._ it would be well for american city youth if more such books like "four on a farm," descriptive of the joys and healthfulness of country life, could be written.--_pittsburgh chronicle-telegraph._ the author knows her ground, for she has reproduced the atmosphere of new hampshire farm life to perfection in "four on a farm."--_washington times._ "two in a bungalow" describes the usual vacation sports of swimming, fishing, berrying, in an interesting and instructive way and gives a pleasant picture of a vacation outing among the mountains.--_chicago post._ this series, as the name indicates, is made up of outdoor books, books that healthy, hearty, happy boys and girls like.--_christian register._ little, brown & co., _publishers_ 34 beacon street, boston this ebook was produced by john b. hare and carrie lorenz. heroic romances of ireland translated into english prose and verse, with preface, special introductions and notes by a. h. leahy in two volumes vol. i preface at a time like the present, when in the opinion of many the great literatures of greece and rome are ceasing to hold the influence that they have so long exerted upon human thought, and when the study of the greatest works of the ancient world is derided as "useless," it may be too sanguine to hope that any attention can be paid to a literature that is quite as useless as the greek; which deals with a time, which, if not actually as far removed from ours as are classical times, is yet further removed in ideas; a literature which is known to few and has yet to win its way to favour, while the far superior literature of greece finds it hard to defend the position that it long ago won. it may be that reasons like these have weighed with those scholars who have opened up for us the long-hidden treasures of celtic literature; despairing of the effort to obtain for that literature its rightful crown, and the homage due to it from those who can appreciate literary work for itself, they have been contented to ask for the support of that smaller body who from philological, antiquarian, or, strange as it may appear, from political reasons, are prepared to take a modified interest in what should be universally regarded as in its way one of the most interesting literatures of the world. the literary aspect of the ancient literature of ireland has not indeed been altogether neglected. it has been used to furnish themes on which modern poems can be written; ancient authority has been found in it for what is essentially modern thought: modern english and irish poets have claimed the old irish romances as inspirers, but the romances themselves have been left to the scholars and the antiquarians. this is not the position that irish literature ought to fill. it does undoubtedly tell us much of the most ancient legends of modern europe which could not have been known without it; but this is not its sole, or even its chief claim to be heard. it is itself the connecting-link between the old world and the new, written, so far as can be ascertained, at the time when the literary energies of the ancient world were dead, when the literatures of modern europe had not been born,[fn#1] in a country that had no share in the ancient civilisation of rome, among a people which still retained many legends and possibly a rudimentary literature drawn from ancient celtic sources, and was producing the men who were the earliest classical scholars of the modern world. [fn#1] the only possible exceptions to this, assuming the latest possible date for the irish work, and the earliest date for others, are the kindred welsh literature and that of the anglo-saxon invaders of britain. the exact extent of the direct influence of irish literature upon the development of other nations is hard to trace, chiefly because the influence of ireland upon the continent was at its height at the time when none of the languages of modern europe except welsh and anglo-saxon had reached a stage at which they might be used for literary purposes, and a continental literature on which the irish one might have influence simply did not exist. its subsequent influence, in the tenth and eleventh centuries, upon welsh, and through welsh upon the early breton literature (now lost) appears to be established; it is usually supposed that its action upon the earliest french compositions was only through the medium of these languages, but it is at least possible that its influence in this case also was more direct. in merovingian and early carlovingian times, when french songs were composed, which are now lost but must have preceded the extant chansons de geste, the irish schools were attracting scholars from the neighbouring countries of europe; ireland was sending out a steady stream of "learned men" to france, germany, and italy; and it is at least possible that some who knew the irish teachers realized the merit of the literary works with which some of these teachers must have been familiar. the form of the twelfth-century french romance, "aucassin and nicolete," is that of the chief irish romances, and may well have been suggested by them; whilst the variety of the rhythm and the elaborate laws of the earliest french poetry, which, both in its northern and southern form, dates from the first half of the twelfth century, almost imply a pre-existing model; and such a model is more easily traced in irish than in any other vernacular literature that was then available. it is indeed nearly as hard to suppose that the beautiful literature of ireland had absolutely no influence upon nations known to be in contact with it, as it would be to hold to the belief that the ancient cretan civilisation had no effect upon the liter ary development that culminated in the poems of homer. before speaking of what the irish literature was, it may be well to say what it was not. the incidents related in it date back, according to the "antiquaries" of the ninth to the twelfth centuries, some to the christian era, some to a period long anterior to it; but occasional allusions to events that were unknown in ireland before the introduction of christianity, and a few to classical personages, show that the form of the present romances can hardly be pre-christian, or even close translations into old or middle irish of druidic tales. it has therefore been the fashion to speak of the romances as inaccurate survivals of pre-christian works, which have been added to by successive generations of "bards," a mode of viewing our versions of the romances which of course puts them out of the category of original literature and hands them over to the antiquarians; but before they suffer this fate, it is reasonable to ask that their own literary merit should be considered in a more serious manner than has yet been attempted. the idea that our versions of the romances are inaccurate reproductions of druidic tales is not at all borne out by a study of the romances themselves; for each of these, except for a few very manifestly late insertions, has a style and character of its own. there were, undoubtedly, old traditions, known to the men who in the sixth and seventh centuries may have written the tales that we have, known even to men who in the tenth and eleventh centuries copied them and commented upon them; but the romances as they now stand do not look like pieces of patchwork, but like the works of men who had ideas to convey; and to me at least they seem to bear approximately the same relation to the druid legends as the works of the attic tragedians bear to the archaic greek legends on which their tragedies were based. in more than one case, as in the "courtship of etain," which is more fully discussed below, there are two versions of the same tale, the framework being the same in both, while the treatment of the incidents and the view of the characters of the actors is essentially different; and when the story is treated from the antiquarian point of view, that which regards both versions as resting upon a common prehistoric model, the question arises, which of the two more nearly represents the "true" version? there is, i would submit, in such cases, no true version. the old druidic story, if it could be found, would in all probability contain only a very small part of either of our two versions; it would be bald, half-savage in tone, like one of the more ancient greek myths, and producing no literary effect; the literary effect of both the versions that we have, being added by men who lived in christian times, were influenced by christian ideals, and probably were, like many of their contemporaries, familiar with the literary bequests of the ancient world.[fn#2] [fn#2] it seems to be uncertain whether or not the writers of the irish romances shared in the classical learning for which ireland was noted in their time. the course of study at the schools established for the training of the fili in the tenth and eleventh centuries was certainly, as has been pointed out, very different from that of the ecclesiastical schools (see joyce, vol. i. p. 430). no classical instruction was included in this training, but it is not certain that this separation of studies was so complete before what is called the "antiquarian age" set in. cormac mac cuninan, for example, was a classical scholar, and at the same time skilled in the learning of the fili. it should also be observed that the course at the ecclesiastical schools, as handed down to us, hardly seems to be classical enough to have produced a columbanus or an erigena; the studies that produced these men must have been of a different kind, and the lay schools as originally established by sanchan torpest may have included much that afterwards gave place to a more purely irish training. the tale of troy seems to have been known to the fili, and there are in their works allusions to greek heroes, to hercules and hector, but it has been pointed out by mr. nutt that there is little if any evidence of influence produced by latin or greek literature on the actual matter or thought of the older irish work. on this point reference may be made to a note on "mae datho's boar" in this volume (p. 173), but even if this absence of classical influence is established (and it is hard to say what will not be found in irish literature), it is just possible that the same literary feeling which made irish writers of comparatively late tales keep the bronze weapons and chariots of an earlier date in their accounts of ancient wars, while they described arms of the period when speaking of battles of their own time, affected them in this instance also; and that they had enough restraint to refrain from introducing classical and christian ideas when speaking of times in which they knew these ideas would have been unfamiliar. it may be, and often is, assumed that the appearance of grotesque or savage passages in a romance is an indication of high antiquity, and that these passages at least are faithful reproductions of druidic originals, but this does not seem to be quite certain. some of these passages, especially in the case of romances preserved in the leabhar na h-uidhri (the book of the dun cow), look like insertions made by scribes of an antiquarian turn of mind,[fn#3] and are probably of very ancient date; in other cases, as for example in the "boar of mac datho," where conall dashes anluan's head into ket's face, the savagery is quite in 'keeping with the character of the story, and way have been deliberately invented by an author living in christian times, to add a flavour to his tale, although in doing so he probably imitated a similar incident in some other legend. to take a classical parallel, the barbarity shown by aeneas in aeneid x. 518-520, in sacrificing four youths on the funeral pyre of pallas, an act which would have been regarded with horror in virgil's own day, does not prove that there was any ancient tale of the death of pallas in which these victims were sacrificed, nor even that such victims were sacrificed in ancient latium in pallas' day; but it does show that virgil was familiar with the fact that such victims used in some places to be sacrificed on funeral pyres; for, in a sense, he could not have actually invented the incident. [fn#3] see the exhibition of the tips of tongues in the "sick-bed of cuchulain," page 57. thus the appearance of an archaic element in an irish romance is in itself no proof of the druidic origin of that form of the romance, nor even of the existence of that element in the romance's earliest form: upon such a principle the archaic character of the motif of the "oedipus coloneus" would prove it to be the oldest of the greek tragedies, while as a matter of fact it seems to be doubtful whether the introduction of this motif into the story of oedipus was not due to sophocles himself, although of course he drew the idea of it, if not from the original legend of oedipus, from some other early legend. the most satisfactory test of the authorship of an irish romance, and one of the most satisfactory tests of its date, is its literary character; and if we look at the literary character of the best of the irish romances, there is one point that is immediately apparent, the blending of prose and verse. one, the most common, explanation of this, is that the verse was added to the original tale, another that the verse is the older part, the prose being added to make a framework for the verse, but a general view of some of the original romances appears to lead to a very different conclusion. it seems much more probable that the irish authors deliberately chose a method of making their work at once literary and suited to please a popular audience; they told their stories in plain prose, adding to them verse, possibly chanted by the reciters of the stories, so that while the prose told the story in simple language, the emotions of pity, martial ardour, and the like were awakened by the verse. they did not use the epic form, although their knowledge of classical literature must have made them familiar with it; the irish epic form is romance. they had, besides the prose and what may be called the "regular" verse, a third form, that of rose, or as it is sometimes called rhetoric, which is a very irregular form of verse. sometimes it rhymes, but more often not; the lines are of varying lengths, and to scan them is often very difficult, an alliteration taking the place of scansion in many cases. the rhetoric does not in general develop the story nor take the form of description, it usually consists of songs of triumph, challenges, prophecies, and exhortations, though it is sometimes used for other purposes. it does not conform to strict grammatical rules like the more regular verse and the prose, and many of the literal translations which irish scholars have made for us of the romances omit this rhetoric entirely, owing to the difficulty in rendering it accurately, and because it does not develop the plots of the stories. notable examples of such omissions are in miss faraday's translation of the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "great tain," and in whitley stokes' translation of the "destruction of da derga's hostel." with all respect to these scholars, and with the full consciousness of the difficulty of the task that has naturally been felt by one who has vainly attempted to make sense of what their greater skill has omitted, it may be suggested that the total omission of such passages injures the literary effect of a romance in a manner similar to the effect of omitting all the choric pieces in a greek tragedy: the rhetoric indeed, on account of its irregularity, its occasional strophic correspondence, its general independence of the action of the tale, and its difficulty as compared with the other passages, may be compared very closely to a greek "chorus." few of the romances written in prose and verse are entirely without rhetoric; but some contain very little of it; all the six romances of this character given in the present volume (counting as two the two versions of "etain") contain some rhetoric, but there are only twenty-one such passages in the collection altogether, ten of which are in one romance, the "sick-bed of cuchulain." the present collection is an attempt to give to english readers some of the oldest romances in english literary forms that seem to correspond to the literary forms which were used in irish to produce the same effect, and has been divided into two parts. the first part contains five separate stories, all of which are told in the characteristic form of prose and verse: they are the "courtship of etain," the "boar of mac datho," the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the "death of the sons of usnach" (book of leinster version), and the "combat at the ford" out of the book of leinster version of the "tain bo cuailnge." two versions are given of the "courtship of etain "; and the "sick-bed of cuchulain," as is pointed out in the special preface prefixed to it, really consists of two independent versions. it was at first intended to add the better-known version of the "death of the sons of usnach" known as that of the glenn masain ms., but the full translation of this has been omitted, partly to avoid making the volume too bulky, partly because this version is readily attainable in a literal form; an extract from it has, however, been added to the book of leinster version for the purpose of comparison. in the renderings given of these romances the translation of the prose is nearly literal, but no attempt has been made to follow the irish idiom where this idiom sounds harsh in english; actives have been altered to passive forms and the reverse, adjectives are sometimes replaced by short sentences which give the image better in english, pronouns, in which irish is very rich, are often replaced by the persons or things indicated, and common words, like iarom, iarsin, iartain, immorro, and the like (meaning thereafter, moreover, &c.), have been replaced by short sentences that refer back to the events indicated by the words. nothing has been added to the irish, except in the leabhar na h-uidhri version of "etain," where there is a lacuna to be filled up, and there are no omissions. the translations of the verse and of the rhetoric are, so far as is possible, made upon similar lines; it was at first intended to add literal renderings of all the verse passages, but it was found that to do so would make the volume of an unmanageable size for its purpose. literal renderings of all the verse passages in "etain," the first of the tales in volume i., are given in the notes to that story; the literal renderings of deirdre's lament in the "sons of usnach," and of two poems in "the combat at the ford," are also given in full as specimens, but in the case of most of the poems reference is made to easily available literal translations either in english or german: where the literal rendering adopted differs from that referred to, or where the poem in question has not before been translated, the literal rendering has been given in the notes. these examples will, it is believed, give a fair indication of the relation between my verse translations and the originals, the deviations from which have been made as small as possible. the form of four-line verse divided into stanzas has generally been used to render the passages in four-lined verse in the irish, the only exception to this rule being in the verses at the end of the "boar of mac datho": these are in the nature of a ballad version of the whole story, and have been rendered in a ballad metre that does not conform to the arrangement in verses of the original. the metre of all the irish four-lined verses in this volume is, except in two short pieces, a seven-syllabled line, the first two lines usually rhyming with each other, and the last two similarly rhyming,[fn#4] in a few cases in the "boar of mac datho" these rhymes are alternate, and in the extract from the glenn masain version of the "sons of usnach" there is a more complicated rhyme system. it has not been thought necessary to reproduce this metre in all cases, as to do so would sound too monotonous in english; the metre is, however, reproduced once at least in each tale except in that of the "death of the sons of usnach." the eight-lined metre that occurs in five of the verse passages in the "combat at the ford" has in one case been reproduced exactly, and in another case nearly exactly, but with one syllable added to each line; the two passages in this romance that are in five-syllabled lines have been reproduced exactly in the irish metre, in one case with the rhyme-system of the original. with the rhetoric greater liberty has been used; sometimes the original metre has been followed, but more often not; and an occasional attempt has been made to bring out the strophic correspondence in the irish. [fn#4] an example of this metre is as follows:-all the elves of troom seem dead, all their mighty deeds are fled; for their hound, who hounds surpassed, elves have bound in slumber fast. in the first volume of the collection the presentation has then been made as near as may be to the form and matter of the irish; in the second volume, called "versified romances," there is a considerable divergence from the irish form but not from its sense. this part includes the five "tains" or cattle-forays of fraech, dartaid, regamon, flidais, and regamna; which in the originals differ from the five tales in volume i, in that they include no verse, except for a few lines in regamna, most of which are untranslatable. the last four of these are short pieces written in a prose extremely rapid in its action, and crowded with incident. they are all expressly named as "fore-tales," remscela, or preludes to the story of the great war of cualnge, which is the central event in the ulster heroic cycle, and appear suited for rapid prose recitations, which were apparently as much a feature in ancient as they are in modern irish. such pieces can hardly be reproduced in english prose so as to bring out their character; they are represented in english by the narrative ballad, and they have been here rendered in this way. literal translations in prose are printed upon the opposite page to the verse, these translations being much more exact than the translations in the first volume, as the object in this case is to show the literal irish form, not its literal english equivalent, which is in this case the verse. the "tain bo fraich" is also, in a sense, a "fore-tale" to the great raid, but is of a different character to the others. it consists of two parts, the second of which is not unlike the four that have just been mentioned, but the first part is of a much higher order, containing brilliant descriptions, and at least one highly poetic passage although its irish form is prose. fraech has been treated like the other fore-tales, and rendered in verse with literal prose opposite to the verse for the purpose of comparison. the notes to all the five tana in the second volume accompany the text; in the first volume all the notes to the different romances are collected together, and placed at the end of the volume. the second volume also includes a transcript from the facsimile of that part of the irish text of the tale of etain which has not before been published, together with an interlinear literal translation. it is hoped that this arrangement may assist some who are not middle irish scholars to realise what the original romances are. the manuscript authorities for the eleven different romances (counting as two the two versions of "etain") are all old; seven are either in the leabhar na h-uidhri, an eleventh-century manuscript, or in the book of leinster, a twelfth-century one; three of the others are in the fourteenth-century yellow book of lecan, which is often, in the case of texts preserved both in it and the leabhar na h-uidhri, regarded as the better authority of the two; and the remaining one, the second version of "etain," is in the fifteenth-century manuscript known as egerton, 1782, which gives in an accurate form so many texts preserved in the older manuscripts that it is very nearly as good an authority as they. the sources used in making the translations are also stated in the special introductions, but it may be mentioned as a summary that the four "preludes," the tana of dartaid, regamon, flidais, and regamna, are taken from the text printed with accompanying german translations by windisch in irische texte, vol. ii.; windisch's renderings being followed in those portions of the text that he translates; for the "tain bo fraich" and the "combat at the ford" the irish as given by o'beirne crowe and by o'curry, with not very trustworthy english translations, has been followed; in the case of the fragment of the glenn masain version of "deirdre" little reference has been made to the irish, the literal translation followed being that given by whitley stokes. the remaining five romances, the "boar of mac datho," the leinster version of "deirdre," the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the egerton version of "etain," and the greater part of the leabbar na h-uidhri version of the same, are taken from the irish text printed without translation in irische texte, vol. i., the end of the leabhar na h-uidhri version omitted by windisch being taken from the facsimile of the manuscript published by the royal irish academy. i have to acknowledge with gratitude many corrections to o'beirne crowe's translation of the "tain bo fraich" kindly given me by professor kuno meyer; in the case of o'curry's translation of the "combat at the ford," similar help kindly given me by mr. e. j. quiggin; and in the case of the two versions of "etain," more especially for the part taken direct from the facsimile, i have to express gratitude for the kind and ready help given to me by professor strachan. professor strachan has not only revised my transcript from the facsimile, and supplied me with translations of the many difficult passages in this of which i could make no sense, but has revised all the translation which was made by the help of windisch's glossary to the irische texte of both the versions of "etain," so that the translations given of these two romances should be especially reliable, although of course i may have made some errors which have escaped professor strachan's notice. the three other romances which have been translated from the irish in irische texte have not been similarly revised, but all passages about which there appeared to be doubt have been referred to in the notes to the individual romances. it remains to add some remarks upon the general character of the tales, which, as may be seen after a very cursory examination, are very different both in tone and merit, as might indeed be expected if we remember that we are probably dealing with the works of men who were separated from each other by a gap of hundreds of years. those who have read the actual works of the ancient writers of the irish romances will not readily indulge in the generalisations about them used by those to whom the romances are only known by abstracts or a compilation. perhaps the least meritorious of those in this collection are the "tains" of dartaid, regamon, and flidais, but the tones of these three stories are very different. dartaid is a tale of fairy vengeance for a breach of faith; flidais is a direct and simple story of a raid like a border raid, reminding us of the "riding ballads" of the scottish border, and does not seem to trouble itself much about questions of right or wrong; regamon is a merry tale of a foray by boys and girls; it troubles itself with the rights of the matter even less than flidais if possible, and is an example of an irish tale with what is called in modern times a "good ending." it may be noted that these last two tales have no trace of the supernatural element which some suppose that the irish writers were unable to dispense with. the "tain bo regamna," the shortest piece in the collection, is a grotesque presentation of the supernatural, and is more closely associated with the great tain than any of the other fore-tales to it, the series of prophecies with which it closes exactly following the action of the part of the tain, to which it refers. some of the grotesque character of regamna appears in the "boar of mac datho," which, however, like regamon and flidais, has no supernatural element; its whole tone is archaic and savage, relieved by touches of humour, but the style of the composition is much superior to that of the first three stories. a romance far superior to "mae datho" is the leinster version of the well-known deirdre story, the "death of the sons of usnach." the opening of the story is savage, the subsequent action of the prose is very rapid, while the splendid lament at the end, one of the best sustained laments in the language, and the restraint shown in its account of the tragic death of deirdre, place this version of the story in a high position. as has been already mentioned, parts of the fifteenth-century version of the story have been added to this version for purposes of comparison: the character of the deirdre of the leinster version would not have been in keeping with the sentiment of the lament given to her in the later account. the remaining five romances (treating as two the two versions of "etain") all show great beauty in different ways. three of the four tales given in them have "good endings," and the feeling expressed in them is less primitive than that shown in the other stories, although it is an open question whether any of them rises quite so high as deirdre's lament. "fraech" has, as has been mentioned before, two quite separate parts; the second part is of inferior quality, showing, however, an unusual amount of knowledge of countries lying outside celtdom, but the first is a most graceful romance; although the hero is a demi-god, and the fairies play a considerable part in it, the interest is essentially human; and the plot is more involved than is the case in most of the romances. it abounds in brilliant descriptions; the description of the connaught palace is of antiquarian interest; and one of the most beautiful pieces of celtic mythology, the parentage of the three fairy harpers, is included in it. the "sick-bed of cuchulain" and the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "courtship of etain" seem to have had their literary effect injured by the personality of the compiler of the manuscript from which the leabhar na h-uidhri was copied. seemingly an antiquarian, interested in the remains of the old celtic religion and in old ceremonies, he has inserted pieces of antiquarian information into several of the romances that he has preserved for us, and though these are often of great interest in themselves, they spoil the literary effect of the romances in which they appear. it is possible that both the leabhar na h-uidhri version of "etain" and the "sick-bed" might be improved by a little judicious editing; they have, however, been left just as they stand in the manuscript. the "sick-bed," as is pointed out in the special introduction to it, consists of two separate versions; the first has plainly some of the compiler's comments added to it, but the second and longer part seems not to have been meddled with; and, although a fragment, it makes a stately romance, full of human interest although dealing with supernatural beings; and its conclusion is especially remarkable in early literature on account of the importance of the action of the two women who are the heroines of this part of the tale. the action of fand in resigning her lover to the weaker mortal woman who has a better claim upon him is quite modern in its tone. the nearest parallel to the longer version of the "sick-bed" is the egerton version of "etain," which is a complete one, and makes a stately romance. it is full of human interest, love being its keynote; it keeps the supernatural element which is an essential to the original legend in the background, and is of quite a different character to the earlier leabhar na h-uidhri version, although there is no reason to assume that the latter is really the more ancient in date. in the leabbar na h-uidhri version of "etain," all that relates to the love-story is told in the baldest manner, the part which deals with the supernatural being highly descriptive and poetic. i am inclined to believe that the antiquarian compiler of the manuscript did here what he certainly did in the case of the "sick-bed of cuchulain," and pieced together two romances founded upon the same legend by different authors. the opening of the story in fairyland and the concluding part where mider again appears are alike both in style and feeling, while the part that comes between is a highly condensed version of the love-story of the egerton manuscript, and suggests the idea of an abstract of the egerton version inserted into the story as originally composed, the effect being similar to that which would be produced upon us if we had got aeschylus' "choaphorae" handed down to us with a condensed version of the dialogue between electra and chrysothemis out of sophocles' "electra" inserted by a conscientious antiquarian who thought that some mention of chrysothemis was necessary. this version of the legend, however, with its strong supernatural flavour, its insistence on the idea of re-birth, its observation of nature, and especially the fine poem in which mider invites etain to fairyland, is a most valuable addition to the literature, and we have to lament the gap in it owing to the loss of a column in that part of the leabhar na h-uidhri manuscript which has been preserved. the last piece to be mentioned is the extract from the "tain be cuailnge" known as the "combat at the ford." this seems to me the finest specimen of old irish work that has been preserved for us; the brilliance of its descriptions, the appropriate changes in its metres, the chivalry of its sentiments, and the rapidity of its action should, even if there were nothing to stand beside it in irish literature, give that literature a claim to be heard: as an account of a struggle between two friends, it is probably the finest in any literature. it has been stated recently, no doubt upon sound authority, that the grammatical forms of this episode show it to be late, possibly dating only to the eleventh century. the manuscript in which it appears, however, is of the earlier part of the twelfth century; no literary modem work other than irish can precede it in time; and if it is the work of an eleventh-century author, it does seem strange that his name or the name of some one of that date who could have written it has not been recorded, as macliag's name has been as the traditional author of the eleventh-century "wars of the gaedhill and the gaill," for the names of several irish authors of that period axe well known, and the early middle irish texts of that period are markedly of inferior quality. compare for example the boromaean tribute which stokes considers to take high rank among texts of that period (revue celtique, xiii. p. 32). one would certainly like to believe that this episode of the "combat at the ford" belongs to the best literary period, with which upon literary grounds it seems to be most closely connected. but, whether this comparative lateness of the "combat at the ford" be true or not, it, together with all the varied work contained in this collection, with the possible exception of the short extract from the glenn masain "deirdre," is in the actual form that we have it, older than the norman conquest of ireland, older than the norse sagas. its manuscript authority is older than that of the volsunga saga; its present form precedes the birth of chretien de troyes, the first considerable name in french literature, and, in a form not much unlike that in which we have it, it is probably centuries older than its actual manuscript date. the whole thing stands at the very beginning of the literature of modern europe, and compares by no means unfavourably with that which came after, and may, in part, have been inspired by it. surely it deserves to be raised from its present position as a study known only to a few specialists, and to form part of the mental equipment of every man who is for its own sake interested in and a lover of literature. introduction in verse 'tis hard an audience now to win for lore that ireland's tales can teach; and faintly, 'mid the modern din, is heard the old heroic speech. for long the tales in silence slept; the ancient tomes by few were read; e'en those who still its knowledge kept have thought the living music dead. and some, to save the lore from death, with modern arts each tale would deck, inflate its rhymes with magic breath, as if to buoy a sinking wreck. they graft new morbid magic dreams on tales where beating life is felt: in each romance find mystic gleams, and traces of the "moody celt." yet, though with awe the grassy mound that fairies haunt, is marked to-day; and though in ancient tales are found dim forms of gods, long passed away; though later men to magic turned, inserting many a druid spell; and ill the masters' craft had learned who told the tales, and told them well; no tale should need a magic dress or modern art, its life to give: each for itself, or great, or less, should speak, if it deserves to live. think not a dull, a scribal pen dead legends wrote, half-known, and feared: in lettered lands to poet men romance, who lives to-day, appeared. for when, in fear of warrior bands, had learning fled the western world, and, raised once more by irish hands, her banner stood again unfurled; 'twas there, where men her laws revered, that learning aided art's advance; and ireland bore, and ireland reared these eldest children of romance. her poets knew the druid creeds; yet not on these their thoughts would rest: they sang of love, of heroes' deeds, of kingly pomp, of cheerful jest. not as in greece aspired their thought, they joyed in battles wild and stern; yet pity once to men they taught from whom a fiercer age could learn. their frequent theme was war: they sang the praise of chiefs of courage high; yet, from their harps the accents rang that taught to knighthood chivalry. their heroes praise a conquered foe, oppose their friends for honour's sake, to weaker chieftains mercy show, and strength of cruel tyrants break. their nobles, loving fame, rejoice in glory, got from bards, to shine; yet thus ascends cuchulain's voice: "no skill indeed to boast is mine!" they sang, to please a warlike age, of wars, and women's wild lament, yet oft, restraining warriors' rage, their harps to other themes were bent. they loved on peaceful pomp to dwell, rejoiced in music's magic strains,. all nature's smiling face loved well, and "glowing hues of flowery plains." though oft of fairy land they spoke, no eerie beings dwelled therein, 'twas filled throughout with joyous folk like men, though freed from death and sin. and sure those bards were truest knights whose thoughts of women high were set, nor deemed them prizes, won in fights, but minds like men's, and women yet. with skilful touch they paint us each, etain, whose beauty's type for all; scathach, whose warriors skill could teach emer, whose words in wisdom fall; deirdre the seer, by love made keen; flidais, whose bounty armies feeds the prudent mugain, conor's queen; crund's wife, more swift than conor's steeds; finnabar, death for love who dared; revengeful ferb, who died of grief fand, who a vanquished rival spared; queen maev, who connaught led, its chief. not for the creeds their lines preserve should ireland's hero tales be known their pictured pages praise deserve from all, not learned men alone. their works are here; though flawed by time, to all the living verses speak of men who taught to europe rhyme, who knew no masters, save the greek. in forms like those men loved of old, naught added, nothing torn away, the ancient tales again are told, can none their own true magic sway? pronunciation of proper names the following list of suggested pronunciations does not claim to be complete or to be necessarily correct in all cases. some words like ferdia and conchobar (conor) have an established english pronunciation that is strictly speaking wrong; some, like murthemne are doubtful; the suggestions given here are those adopted by the editor for such information as is at his disposal. it seems to be unnecessary to give all the names, as the list would be too long; this list contains those names in the first volume as are of frequent occurrence; names that occur less commonly, and some of those in the following list, have a pronunciation indicated in foot-notes. the most important names are in small capitals. list of names aife (ee-fa), pp. 117, 129, 1342 141, 148, an instructress of cuchulain, ferdia, and others in the art of war. cathbad (cah-ba), pp. 91, 92, 93, 95, a druid. cualgne (kell-ny), mentioned in the preface, introductions, the "combat" and elsewhere; a district corresponding to county louth. cuchulain (cu-hoo-lin), the hero of the "sick-bed" and the "combat," and of the ulster heroic cycle in general. deirdre (dire-dree), the heroine of the "exile of the sons of usnach." dubhtach (doov-ta), pp. 48, 97, 98, 107, an ulster hero. eochaid airem (yeo-hay arrem), the king in the "courtship of etain." eochaid juil (yeo-hay yool), pp. 63, 70, 76, 79, a fairy king killed by cuchulain. eogan mac durthacht (yeogan mac door-ha), pp. 43, 48, 93, 97, 101, 107; an ulster hero, the slayer of the sons of usnach. etain (et-oyn), the heroine of the "courtship of etain." ferdia (fer-dee-a), cuchulain's opponent in the "combat at the ford." the true pronunciation is probably fer-deed. fuamnach (foom-na), pp. 79 9, 10, 19, 26, a sorceress. laeg (layg), son of riangabra (reen-gabra), the charioteer and friend of cuchulain, frequently mentioned in the "sick-bed" and the "combat at the ford." laegaire (leary), pp. 42, 46, 67, an ulster hero. leabhar na h-uidhri (lyow-er na hoorie), frequently mentioned, the oldest irish manuscript of romance. it means the "book of the dun cow," sometimes referred to as l.u. mac datho (mac da-ho), king of leinster in the "boar of mac datho," the word means "son of two mutes." murthemne (moor-temmy), pp. 57, 59, 61, 73, 77, 78, a district in ulster, with which cuchulain is connected in the "sick-bed" (in the "combat" he is "cuchulain of cualgne"). naisi (nay-see), the hero of the "exile of the sons of usnach." scathach (ska-ha), pp. 117, 129) 131, 134, 141, 149, 151 a sorceress in the isle of skye, instructress of cuchulain in war. uathach (oo-ha), pp. 117, 129, 134; 141) 149, daughter of scathach. other prominent characters, in the pronunciation of whose names as given in the text no special assistance is required, are: ailill mac mata (al-ill), king of connaught. ailill anglonnach, lover of etain, in the "courtship of etain." conall cernach, conall the victorious, second champion of ulster after cuchulain. conor (properly spelt conchobar and pronounced con-ower), king of ulster. emer, wife of cuchulain, appears often in the "sick-bed." this name is by some pronounced a-vair, probably from a different spelling. fand, the fairy princess, in love with cuchulain, in the "sick-bed." fergus, son of rog, prominent in the "exile of the sons of usnach," and in "combat"; step-father to king conor, he appears in most of the romances. ket (spelt cet), son of mata, the connaught champion, appears in the "boar of mac datho." maev (spelt medb), the great queen of connaught. mider, etain's fairy lover, in the "courtship of etain." contents the courtship of etain mac datho's boar the sick-bed of cuchulain the exile of the sons of usnach the combat at the ford special note on the combat at the ford general notes the courtship of etain introduction the date which tradition assigns to the events related in the tale of the "courtship of etain" is about b.c. 100, two or, according to some accounts, three generations before the king conaire mor, or conary, whose death is told in the tale called the "destruction of da derga's hostel." this king is generally spoken of as a contemporary of the chief personages of what is called more especially the "heroic age" of ireland; and the two versions of the "courtship of etain" given in this volume at once introduce a difficulty; for the sub-kings who were tributary to eochaid, etain's husband, are in both versions stated to be conor, ailill mac mata, mesgegra, and curoi, all of whom are well-known figures in the tales of the heroic age. as conary is related to have ruled sixty years, and several of the characters of the heroic age survived him, according to the tale that describes his death, the appearance of the names of conor and ailill in a tale about his grandfather (or according to the egerton version his great-grandfather) introduces an obvious discrepancy. it appears to be quite impossible to reconcile the dates given to the actors in the tales of the heroic and preceding age. they seem to have been given in the "antiquarian age" of the tenth and eleventh centuries; not only do they differ according to different chronologers by upwards of a hundred years, but the succession of kings in the accounts given by the same chronologer is often impossible in view of their mutual relationships. the real state of things appears to be that the "courtship of etain," together with the story of conary, the lost tale of the destruction of the fairy hill of nennta,[fn#5] and the tale of the bull-feast and election of lugaid red-stripes as king of ireland, forms a short cycle of romance based upon ancient legends that had originally no connection at all with those on which the romances of the heroic age were built. the whole government of the country is essentially different in the two cycles; in the etain cycle the idea is that of a land practically governed by one king, the vassal kings being of quite small importance; in the tales of the heroic age proper, the picture we get is of two, if not of four, practically independent kingdoms, the allusions to any over-king being very few, and in great part late. but when the stories of etain and of conary assumed their present forms, when the writers of our romances formed them out of the traditions which descended to them from pro-christian sources, both cycles of tradition were pretty well known; and there was a natural tendency to introduce personages from one cycle into the other, although these personages occupy a subordinate position in the cycle to which they do not properly belong. even conall cernach, who is a fairly prominent figure in the tale of the death of conary, has little importance given to him compared with the people who really belong to the cycle, and the other warriors of the heroic age mentioned in the tale are little but lay figures compared with conary, ingcel, and mac cecht. a wish to connect the two cycles probably accounts for the connection of lugaid red-stripes with cuchulain, the introduction of conor and ailill into the story of etain may be due to the same cause, and there is no need to suppose that the authors of our versions felt themselves bound by what other men had introduced into the tale of conary. the practice of introducing heroes from one cycle into another was by no means uncommon, or confined to ireland; greek heroes' names sometimes appear in the irish tales; cuchulain, in much later times, comes into the tales of finn; and in greece itself, characters who really belong to the time of the trojan war appear in tales of the argonauts. [fn#5] a short account of this is in the story of king dathi (o'curry lectures, p. 286). the tale seems to be alluded to in the quatrain on p. 10 of this volume. there are very few corresponding allusions to personages from the small etain cycle found in the great cycle of romances that belong to the heroic age, but maccecht's name appears in a fifteenth-century manuscript which gives a version of the tale of flidais; and i suspect an allusion to the etain story in a verse in the "sick-bed of cuchulain" (see note, p. 184). it may be observed that the introduction of conor and his contemporaries into the story of conary's grandparents is an additional piece of evidence that our form of the story of etain precedes the "antiquarian age"; for at that time the version which we have of the story of conary must have been classical and the connection of conor's warriors with conary well-known. a keen eye was at that time kept on departures from the recognised historical order (compare a note by mr. nutt in the "voyage of bran," vol. ii. p. 61); and the introduction of conor into our version of the tale of etain must have been at an earlier date. the two versions of the "courtship of etain," the egerton one, and that in the leabhar na h-uidhri, have been compared in the general preface to the volume, and little more need be said on this point; it may, however, be noted that eight pages of the egerton version (pp. 11 to 18) are compressed into two pages in l.u. (pp. 23 and 24). references to the etain story are found in different copies of the "dindshenchas," under the headings of rath esa, rath croghan, and bri leith; the principal manuscript authorities, besides the two translated here, are the yellow book of lecan, pp. 91 to 104, and the book of leinster, 163b (facsimile). these do not add much to our versions; there are, however, one or two new points in a hitherto untranslated manuscript source mentioned by o'curry ("manners and customs," vol. ii. p 192 to 194). the leabhar na h-uidhri version is defective both at the beginning and at the end; there is also a complete column torn from the manuscript, making the description of the chess match defective. these three gaps have been filled up by short passages enclosed in square brackets, at the commencement of the prologue, on p. 28, and at the end of the l.u. version. the two first of these insertions contain no matter that cannot be found by allusions in the version itself; the conclusion of the tale is drawn, partly from the "dindshenchas" of rath esa, partly from the passage in o'curry's "manners and customs." the only alteration that has been made is that, following a suggestion in windisch (irische texte, i. p. 132), the poem on page 26 has been placed four pages earlier than the point at which it occurs in the manuscript. three very difficult lines (leabhar na h-uidhri, 132a, lines 12 to 14) have not been attempted; there are no other omissions, and no insertions except the three noted above. the prologue out of the l.u. version has been placed first, as it is essential to the understanding of any version, then follows the egerton version as the longer of the two, then the l.u. version of the courtship, properly so called. prologue in fairyland from the leabhar na h-uidhri etain of the horses, the daughter of ailill, was the wife of mider, the fairy dweller in bri leith.[fn#6] now mider had also another wife named fuamnach[fn#7] who was filled with jealousy against etain, and sought to drive her from her husband's house. and fuamnach sought out bressal etarlam the druid and besought his aid; and by the spells of the druid, and the sorcery of fuamnach, etain was changed into the shape of a butterfly that finds its delight among flowers. and when etain was in this shape she was seized by a great wind that was raised by fuamnach's spells; and she was borne from her husband's house by that wind for seven years till she came to the palace of angus mac o'c who was son to the dagda, the chief god of the men of ancient erin. mac o'c had been fostered by mider, but he was at enmity with his foster-father, and he recognised etain, although in her transformed shape, as she was borne towards him by the force] of the wind. and he made a bower for etain with clear windows for it through which she might pass, and a veil of purple was laid upon her; and that bower was carried about by mac o'c wherever he went. and there each night she slept beside him by a means that he devised, so that she became well-nourished and fair of form; for that bower was filled with marvellously sweet-scented shrubs, and it was upon these that she thrived, upon the odour and blossom of the best of precious herbs. [fn#6] pronounced bree lay. [fn#7] pronounced foom-na. now to fuamnach came tidings of the love and the worship that etain had from mac o'c, and she came to mider, and "let thy foster-son," said she, "be summoned to visit thee, that i may make peace between you two, and may then go to seek for news of etain." and the messenger from mider went to mac o'c, and mac o'c went to mider to greet him; but fuamnach for a long time wandered from land to land till she was in that very mansion where etain was; and then she blew beneath her with the same blast as aforetime, so that the blast carried her out of her bower, and she was blown before it, as she had been before for seven years through all the land of erin, and she was driven by the wind of that blast to weakness and woe. and the wind carried her over the roof of a house where the men of ulster sat at their ale, so that she fell through the roof into a cup of gold that stood near the wife of etar the warrior, whose dwelling-place was near to the bay of cichmany in the province that was ruled over by conor. and the woman swallowed etain together with the milk that was in the cup, and she bare her in her womb, till the time came that she was born thereafter as in earthly maid, and the name of etain, the daughter of etar, was given to her. and it was one thousand and twelve years since the time of the first begetting of etain by ailill to the time when she was born the second time as the daughter of etar. now etain was nurtured at inver cichmany in the house of etar, with fifty maidens about her of the daughters of the chiefs of the land; and it was etar himself who still nurtured and clothed them, that they might be companions to his daughter etain. and upon a certain day, when those maidens were all at the river-mouth to bathe there, they saw a horseman on the plain who came to the water towards them. a horse he rode that was brown, curvetting, and prancing, with a broad forehead and a curly mane and tail. green, long, and flowing was the cloak that was about him, his shirt was embroidered with embroidery of red gold, and a great brooch of gold in his cloak reached to his shoulder on either side. upon the back of that man was a silver shield with a golden rim; the handle for the shield was silver, and a golden boss was in the midst of the shield: he held in his hand a five-pointed spear with rings of gold about it from the haft to the head. the hair that was above his forehead was yellow and fair; and upon his brow was a circlet of gold, which confined the hair so that it fell not about his face. he stood for a while upon the shore of the bay; and he gazed upon the maidens, who were all filled with love for him, and then he sang this song: west of alba, near the mound[fn#8] where the fair-haired women play, there, 'mid little children found, etain dwells, by cichmain's bay. she hath healed a monarch's eye by the well of loch-da-lee; yea, and etar's wife, when dry, drank her: heavy draught was she! chased by king for etain's sake, birds their flight from teffa wing: 'tis for her da-arbre's lake drowns the coursers of the king. echaid, who in meath shall reign, many a war for thee shall wage; he shall bring on fairies bane, thousands rouse to battle's rage. etain here to harm was brought, etain's form is beauty's test; etain's king in love she sought: etain with our folk shall rest! [fn#8] the metre of these verses is that of the irish. and after that he had spoken thus, the young warrior went away from the place where the maidens were; and they knew not whence it was that he had come, nor whither he departed afterwards. moreover it is told of mac o'c, that after the disappearance of etain he came to the meeting appointed between him and mider; and when he found that fuamnach was away: "'tis deceit," said mider, "that this woman hath practised upon us; and if etain shall be seen by her to be in ireland, she will work evil upon etain." "and indeed," said mac o'c, "it seemeth to me that thy guess may be true. for etain hath long since been in my own house, even in the palace where i dwell; moreover she is now in that shape into which that woman transformed her; and 'tis most likely that it is upon her that fuamnach hath rushed." then mac o'c went back to his palace, and he found his bower of glass empty, for etain was not there. and mac o'c turned him, and he went upon the track of fuamnach, and he overtook her at oenach bodbgnai, in the house of bressal etarlam the druid. and mac o'c attacked her, and he struck off her head, and he carried the head with him till he came to within his own borders. yet a different tale hath been told of the end of fuamnach, for it hath been said that by the aid of manannan both fuamnach and mider were slain in bri leith, and it is of that slaying that men have told when they said: think on sigmall, and bri with its forest: little wit silly fuamnach had learned; mider's wife found her need was the sorest, when bri leith by manannan was burned. the courtship of etain egerton version once there was a glorious and stately king who held the supreme lordship over all the land of ireland. the name of the king was eochaid airemm, and he was the son of finn, who was the son of finntan; who was the son of rogan the red; who was the son of essamain; who was the son of blathecht; who was the son of beothecht; who was the son of labraid the tracker; who was the son of enna the swift; who was the son of angus of tara, called the shamefaced; who was the son of eochaid the broad-jointed; who was the son of ailill of the twisted teeth; who was the son of connla the fair; who was the son of irer; who was the son of melghe the praiseworthy; who was the son of cobhtach the slender from the plain of breg; who was the son of ugaine the great; who was the son of eochaid the victorious. now all the five provinces of ireland were obedient to the rule of eochaid airemm: for conor the son of ness, the king of ulster, was vassal to eochaid; and messgegra the king of leinster was his vassal; and so was curoi, the son of dare, king of the land of munster; and so were ailill and maev, who ruled over the land of connaught. two great strongholds were in the hands of eochaid: they were the strongholds of fremain in meath, and of fremain in tethba; and the stronghold that he had in tethba was more pleasing to him than any of those that he possessed. less than a year had passed since eochaid first assumed the sovereignty over erin, when the news was proclaimed at once throughout all the land that the festival of tara should be held, that all the men of ireland should come into the presence of their king, and that he desired full knowledge of the tributes due from, and the customs proper to each. and the one answer that all of the men of ireland made to his call was: "that they would not attend the festival of tara during such time, whether it be long or short, that the king of ireland remained without a wife that was worthy of him;" for there is no noble who is a wifeless man among the men of ireland; nor can there be any king without a queen; nor does any man go to the festival of tara without his wife; nor does any wife go thither without her husband. thereupon eochaid sent out from him his horsemen, and his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and his couriers of the boundaries throughout all ireland; and they searched all ireland as they sought for a wife that should be worthy of the king, in her form, and her grace, and her countenance, and her birth. and in addition to all this there yet remained one condition: that the king would take as his wife none who had been before as a wife to any other man before him. and after that they had received these commands, his horsemen, and his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries went out; and they searched all ireland south and north; and near to the bay of cichmany they found a wife worthy of the king; and her name was etain the daughter of etar, who was the king of echrad. and his messengers returned to eochaid, and they told him of the maiden, of her form, and her grace, and her countenance. and eochaid came to that place to take the maiden thence, and this was the way that he took; for as he crossed over the ground where men hold the assembly of bri leith, he saw the maiden at the brink of the spring. a clear comb of silver was held in her hand, the comb was adorned with gold; and near her, as for washing, was a bason of silver whereon four birds had been chased, and there were little bright gems of carbuncle on the rims of the bason. a bright purple mantle waved round her; and beneath it was another mantle, ornamented with silver fringes: the outer mantle was clasped over her bosom with a golden brooch. a tunic she wore, with a long hood that might cover her head attached to it; it was stiff and glossy with green silk beneath red embroidery of gold, and was clasped over her breasts with marvellously wrought clasps of silver and gold; so that men saw the bright gold and the green silk flashing against the sun. on her head were two tresses of golden hair, and each tress had been plaited into four strands; at the end of each strand was a little ball of gold. and there was that maiden, undoing her hair that she might wash it, her two arms out through the armholes of her smock. each of her two arms was as white as the snow of a single night, and each of her cheeks was as rosy as the foxglove. even and small were the teeth in her head, and they shone like pearls. her eyes were as blue as a hyacinth, her lips delicate and crimson; very high, soft, and white were her shoulders. tender, polished, and white were her wrists; her fingers long, and of great whiteness; her nails were beautiful and pink. white as the snow, or as the foam of the wave, was her side; long was it, slender, and as soft as silk. smooth and white were her thighs; her knees were round and firm and white; her ankles were as straight as the rule of a carpenter. her feet were slim, and as white as the ocean's foam; evenly set were her eyes; her eyebrows were of a bluish black, such as ye see upon the shell of a beetle. never a maid fairer than she, or more worthy of love, was till then seen by the eyes of men; and it seemed to them that she must be one of those who have come from the fairy mounds: it is of this maiden that men have spoken when it hath been said: "all that's graceful must be tested by etain; all that's lovely by the standard of etain." grace with etain's grace compare! etain's face shall test what's fair! and desire of her seized upon the king; and he sent a man of his people in front of him to go to her kindred, in order that she might abide to await his coming. and afterwards the king came to the maiden, and he sought speech from her: "whence art thou sprung, o maiden?" says eochaid, "and whence is it that thou hast come?" "it is easy to answer thee," said the maiden: "etain is my name, the daughter of the king of echrad; 'out of the fairy mound' am i" "shall an hour of dalliance with thee be granted to me?" said eochaid. "'tis for that i have come hither under thy safeguard," said she. "and indeed twenty years have i lived in this place, ever since i was born in the mound where the fairies dwell, and the men who dwell in the elf-mounds, their kings and their nobles, have been a-wooing me: yet to never a one of them was granted sleep with me, for i have loved thee, and have set my love and affection upon thee; and that ever since i was a little child, and had first the gift of speech. it was for the high tales of thee, and of thy splendour, that i have loved thee thus; and though i have never seen thee before, i knew thee at once by reason of the report of thee that i had heard; it is thou, i know, to whom we have attained." "it is no evil-minded lover who now inviteth thee," says eochaid. "thou shalt be welcomed by me, and i will leave all women for thy sake, and thine alone will i be so long as it is pleasing to thee." "let the bride-price that befits me be paid," said the maiden, "and after that let my desire be fulfilled." "it shall be as thou hast said," the king answered her; and he gave the value of seven cumals to be her brideprice; and after that he brought her to tara, whereon a fair and hearty welcome was made to her. now there were three brothers of the one blood, all sons of finn, namely, eochaid airem, and eochaid, and ailill anglonnach, or ailill of the single stain, because the only stain that was upon him was the love that he had for his brother's wife. and at that time came all the men of ireland to hold the festival of tara; they were there for fourteen days before samhain, the day when the summer endeth, and for fourteen days after that day. it was at the feast of tara that love for etain the daughter of etar came upon ailill anglonnach; and ever so long as they were at the tara feast, so long he gazed upon the maid. and it was there that the wife of ailill spoke to him; she who was the daughter of luchta of the red hand, who came from the province of leinster: "ailill," said she, "why dost thou gaze at her from afar? for long gazing is a token of love." and ailill gave blame to himself for this thing, and after that he looked not upon the maid. now it followed that after that the feast of tara had been consumed, the men of ireland parted from one another, and then it was that ailill became filled with the pangs of envy and of desire; and he brought upon himself the choking misery of a sore sickness, and was borne to the stronghold of fremain in tethba after that he had fallen into that woe. there also, until a whole year had ended, sickness long brooded over ailill, and for long was he in distress, yet he allowed none to know of his sickness. and there eochaid came to learn of his brother's state, and he came near to his brother, and laid his hand upon his chest; and ailill heaved a sigh. "why," said eochaid, "surely this sickness of thine is not such as to cause thee to lament; how fares it with thee?" "by my word," said ailill, "'tis no easier that i grow; but it is worse each day, and each night." "why, what ails thee?" said eochaid, "by my word of truth," said ailill, "i know not." "bring one of my folk hither," said eochaid, "one who can find out the cause of this illness." then fachtna, the chief physician of eochaid, was summoned to give aid to ailill, and he laid his hand upon his chest, and ailill heaved a sigh. "ah," said fachtna, "there is no need for lament in this matter, for i know the cause of thy sickness; one or other of these two evils oppresseth thee, the pangs of envy, or the pangs of love: nor hast thou been aided to escape from them until now." and ailill was full of shame, and he refused to confess to fachtna the cause of his illness, and the physician left him. now, after all this, king eochaid went in person to make a royal progress throughout the realm of ireland, and he left etain behind him in his fortress; and "lady," said he, "deal thou gently with ailill so long as he is yet alive; and, should he die," said he, "do thou see that his burial mound be heaped for him; and that a standing-stone be set up in memory of him; and let his name be written upon it in letters of ogham." then the king went away for the space of a year, to make his royal progress throughout the realm of ireland, and ailill was left behind, in the stronghold of fremain of tethba; there to pass away and to die. now upon a certain day that followed, the lady etain came to the house where ailill lay in his sickness, and thus she spoke to him: "what is it," she said, "that ails thee? thy sickness is great, and if we but knew anything that would content thee, thou shouldest have it." it was thus that at that time she spoke, and she sang a verse of a song, and ailill in song made answer to her: etain young man, of the strong step and splendid, what hath bound thee? what ill dost thou bear? thou hast long been on sick-bed extended, though around thee the sunshine was fair. ailill there is reason indeed for my sighing, i joy naught at my harp's pleasant sound; milk untasted beside me is lying; and by this in disease am i bound. etain tell me all, thou poor man, of thine ailing; for a maiden am i that is wise; is there naught, that to heal thee availing, thou couldst win by mine aid, and arise ailill if i told thee, thou beautiful maiden, my words, as i formed them, would choke, for with fire can eyes' curtains be laden: woman-secrets are evil, if woke. etain it is ill woman-secrets to waken; yet with love, its remembrance is long; and its part by itself may be taken, nor a thought shall remain of the wrong. ailill i adore thee, white lady, as grateful; yet thy bounty deserve i but ill: to my soul is my longing but hateful, for my body doth strive with me still. eocho fedlech,[fn#9] his bride to him taking, made thee queen; and from thence is my woe: for my head and my body are aching, and all ireland my weakness must know. etain if, among the white women who near me abide, there is one who is vexing, whose love thou dost hide; to thy side will i bring her, if thus i may please; and in love thou shalt win her, thy sickness to ease. ah lady! said ailill, "easily could the cure of my sickness be wrought by the aid of thee, and great gain should there come from the deed, but thus it is with me until that be accomplished: long ago did my passion begin, a full year it exceeds in its length; and it holds me, more near than my skin, and it rules over wrath in its strength. and the earth into four it can shake, can reach up to the heights of the sky and a neck with its might it can break, nor from fight with a spectre would fly. in vain race up to heaven 'tis urged; it is chilled, as with water, and drowned: 'tis a weapon, in ocean submerged; 'tis desire for an echo, a sound. 'tis thus my love, my passion seem; 'tis thus i strive in vain to win the heart of her whose love i long so much to gain. [fn#9] pronounced yeo-ho fayllya, see note, p. 166. and the lady stood there in that place, and she looked upon ailill, and the sickness in which he lay was perceived by her; and she was grieved on account of it: so that upon a certain day came the lady to ailill, and "young man," she said, "arouse thyself quickly, for in very truth thou shalt have all that thou desirest; and thereon did she make this lay: now arouse thyself, ailill the royal: let thy heart, and thy courage rise high; every longing thou hast shall be sated, for before thee, to heal thee, am i. is my neck and its beauty so pleasing? 'tis around it thine arms thou shalt place; and 'tis known as a courtship's beginning when a man and a woman embrace. and if this cometh not to content thee, o thou man, that art son to a king! i will dare to do crime for thy healing, and my body to please thee will bring. there were steeds, with their bridles, one hundred, when the price for my wedding was told; and one hundred of gay-coloured garments, and of cattle, and ounces of gold. of each beast that men know, came one hundred; and king eocho to grant them was swift: when a king gave such dowry to gain me, is't not wondrous to win me, as gift? now each day the lady came to ailill to tend him, and to divide for him the portion of food that was allotted to him; and she wrought a great healing upon him: for it grieved her that he should perish for her sake. and one day the lady spoke to ailill: "come thou to-morrow," said she, "to tryst with me at the break of day, in the house which lieth outside, and is beyond the fort, and there shalt thou have granted thy request and thy desire." on that night ailill lay without sleep until the coming of the morning; and when the time had come that was appointed for his tryst, his sleep lay heavily upon him; so that till the hour of his rising he lay deep in his sleep. and etain went to the tryst, nor had she long to wait ere she saw a man coming towards her in the likeness of ailill, weary and feeble; but she knew that he was not ailill, and she continued there waiting for ailill. and the lady came back from her tryst, and ailill awoke, and thought that he would rather die than live; and he went in great sadness and grief. and the lady came to speak with him, and when he told her what had befallen him: "thou shalt come," said she, "to the same place, to meet with me upon the morrow." and upon the morrow it was the same as upon the first day; each day came that man to her tryst. and she came again upon the last day that was appointed for the tryst, and the same man met her. "'tis not with thee that i trysted," said she, "why dost thou come to meet me? and for him whom i would have met here; neither from desire of his love nor for fear of danger from him had i appointed to meet him, but only to heal him, and to cure him from the sickness which had come upon him for his love of me." "it were more fitting for thee to come to tryst with me," says the man, "for when thou wast etain of the horses, and when thou wast the daughter of ailill, i myself was thy husband. "why," said she, "what name hast thou in the land? that is what i would demand of thee." "it is not hard to answer thee," he said; "mider of bri leith is my name." "and what made thee to part from me, if we were as thou sayest?" said etain. "easy again is the answer," said mider; "it was the sorcery of fuamnach and the spells of bressal etarlam that put us apart." and mider said to etain: "wilt thou come with me?" "nay," answered etain, "i will not exchange the king of all ireland for thee; for a man whose kindred and whose lineage is unknown." "it was i myself indeed," said mider, "who filled all the mind of ailill with love for thee: it was i also who prevented his coming to the tryst with thee, and allowed him not thine honour to spoil it." after all this the lady went back to her house, and she came to speech with ailill, and she greeted him. "it hath happened well for us both," said ailill, "that the man met thee there: for i am cured for ever from my illness, thou also art unhurt in thine honour, and may a blessing rest upon thee!" "thanks be to our gods," said etain, "that both of us do indeed deem that all this hath chanced so well." and after that eochaid came back from his royal progress, and he asked at once for his brother; and the tale was told to him from the beginning to the end, and the king was grateful to etain, in that she had been gracious to ailill; and, "what hath been related in this tale," said eochaid, "is well-pleasing to ourselves." and, for the after history of eochaid and etain, it is told that once when eochaid was in fremain, at such time as the people had prepared for themselves a great gathering and certain horse-races; thither also to that assembly came etain, that she might see the sight. thither also came mider, and he searched through that assembly to find out where etain might be; and he found etain, and her women around her, and he bore her away with him, also one of her handmaidens, called crochen the ruddy: hideous was the form in which mider approached them. and the wives of the men of ireland raised cries of woe, as the queen was carried off from among them; and the horses of ireland were loosed to pursue mider, for they knew not whether it was into the air or into the earth he had gone. but, as for mider, the course that he had taken was the road to the west, even to the plain of croghan; and as he came thither, "how shall it profit us," said crochen the ruddy, "this journey of ours to this plain?" "for evermore," said mider, "shall thy name be over all this plain:" and hence cometh the name of the plain of croghan, and of the fort of croghan. then mider came to the fairy mound of croghan; for the dwellers in that mound were allied to him, and his friends; and for nine days they lingered there, banqueting and feasting; so that "is this the place where thou makest thy home?" said crochen to mider. "eastwards from this is my dwelling," mider answered her; "nearer to the rising-place of the sun;" and mider, taking etain with him, departed, and came to bri leith, where the son of celthar had his palace. now just at the time when they came to this palace, king eochaid sent out from him the horsemen of ireland, also his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries, that they might search through ireland, and find out where his wife might be; and eochaid himself wandered throughout ireland to seek for his wife; and for a year from that day until the same day upon the year that followed he searched, and he found nothing to profit him. then, at the last, king eochaid sent for his druid, and he set to him the task to seek for etain; now the name of the druid was dalan. and dalan came before him upon that day; and he went westwards, until he came to the mountain that was after that known as slieve dalan; and he remained there upon that night. and the druid deemed it a grievous thing that etain should be hidden from him for the space of one year, and thereupon he made three wands of yew; and upon the wands he wrote an ogham; and by the keys of wisdom that he had, and by the ogham, it was revealed to him that etain was in the fairy mound of bri leith, and that mider had borne her thither. then dalan the druid turned him, and went back to the east; and he came to the stronghold of fremain, even to the place where the king of ireland was; and eochaid asked from the druid his news. thither also came the horsemen, and the wizards, and the officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries, to the king of ireland, and he asked them what tidings they had, and whether they had found news of mider and etain. and they said that they had found nothing at all; until at the last said his druid to him: "a great evil hath smitten thee, also shame, and misfortune, on account of the loss of thy wife. do thou assemble the warriors of ireland, and depart to bri leith, where is the palace of the son of celthar; let that palace be destroyed by thy hand, and there thou shalt find thy wife: by persuasion or by force do thou take her thence." then eochaid and the men of ireland marched to bri leith, and they set themselves to destroy that fairy dwelling, and to demand that etain be brought to them, and they brought her not. then they ruined that fairy dwelling, and they brought etain out from it; and she returned to fremain, and there she had all the worship that a king of ireland can bestow, fair wedded love and affection, such as was her due from eochaid airemm. this is that eochaid who ruled over ireland for twelve years, until the fire burned him in fremain; and this tale is known by the name of the "sick-bed of ailill," also as "the courtship of etain." etain bore no children to eochaid airemm, save one daughter only; and the name of her mother was given to her, and she is known by the name of etain, the daughter of eochaid airemm. and it was her daughter messbuachalla who was the mother of king conary the great, the son of eterscel, and it was for this cause that the fairy host of mag breg and mider of bri leith violated the tabus of king conary, and devastated the plain of breg, and out off conary's life; on account of the capture of that fairy dwelling, and on account of the recovery of etain, when she was carried away by violence, even by the might of eochaid airemm. the courtship of etain leabhar na h-uidhri version eochaid airemon took the sovereignty over erin, and the five provinces of ireland were obedient to him, for the king of each province was his vassal. now these were they who were the kings of the provinces at that time, even conor the son of ness, and messgegra, and tigernach tetbannach, and curoi, and ailill the son of mata of muresc. and the royal forts that belonged to eochaid were the stronghold of fremain in meath, and the stronghold of fremain in tethba; moreover the stronghold of fremain in tethba was more pleasing to him than any other of the forts of erin. now a year after that eochaid had obtained the sovereignty, he sent out his commands to the men of ireland that they should come to tara to hold festival therein, in order that there should be adjusted the taxes and the imposts that should be set upon them, so that these might be settled for a period of five years. and the one answer that the men of ireland made to eochaid was that they would not make for the king that assembly which is the festival of tara until he found for himself a queen, for there was no queen to stand by the king's side when eochaid first assumed the kingdom. then eochaid sent out the messengers of each of the five provinces to go through the land of ireland to seek for that woman or girl who was the fairest to be found in erin; and he bade them to note that no woman should be to him as a wife, unless she had never before been as a wife to any one of the men of the land. and at the bay of cichmany a wife was found for him, and her name was etain, the daughter of etar; and eochaid brought her thereafter to his palace, for she was a wife meet for him, by reason of her form, and her beauty, and her descent, and her brilliancy, and her youth, and her renown. now finn the son of findloga had three sons, all sons of a queen, even eochaid fedlech, and eochaid airemm, and ailill anguba. and ailill anguba was seized with love for etain at the festival of tara, after that she had been wedded to eochaid; since he for a long time gazed upon her, and, since such gazing is a token of love, ailill gave much blame to himself for the deed that he was doing, yet it helped him not. for his longing was too strong for his endurance, and for this cause he fell into a sickness; and, that there might be no stain upon his honour, his sickness was concealed by him from all, neither did he speak of it to the lady herself. then fachtna, the chief physician of eochaid, was brought to look upon ailill, when it was understood that his death might be near, and thus the physician spoke to him: "one of the two pangs that slay a man, and for which there is no healing by leechcraft, is upon thee; either the pangs of envy or the pangs of love. and ailill refused to confess the cause of his illness to the physician, for he was withheld by shame and he was left behind in fremain of tethba to die; and eochaid went upon his royal progress throughout all erin, and he left etain behind him to be near ailill, in order that the last rites of ailill might be done by her; that she might cause his grave to be dug, and that the keen might be raised for him, and that his cattle should be slain for him as victims. and to the house where ailill lay in his sickness went etain each day to converse with him, and his sickness was eased by her presence; and, so long as etain was in that place where he was, so long was he accustomed to gaze at her. now etain observed all this, and she bent her mind to discover the cause, and one day when they were in the house together, etain asked of ailill what was the cause of his sickness. "my sickness," said ailill, "comes from my love for thee." "'tis pity," said she, "that thou hast so long kept silence, for thou couldest have been healed long since, had we but known of its cause." "and even now could i be healed," said ailill, "did i but find favour in thy sight." "thou shalt find favour," she said. each day after they had spoken thus with each other, she came to him for the fomenting of his head, and for the giving of the portion of food that was required by him, and for the pouring of water over his hands; and three weeks after that, ailill was whole. then he said to etain: "yet is the completion of my cure at thy hands lacking to me; when may it be that i shall have it?" "'tis to-morrow it shall be," she answered him, "but it shall not be in the abode of the lawful monarch of the land that this felony shall be done. thou shalt come," she said, "on the morrow to yonder hill that riseth beyond the fort: there shall be the tryst that thou desirest." now ailill lay awake all that night, and he fell into a sleep at the hour when he should have kept his tryst, and he woke not from his sleep until the third hour of the day. and etain went to her tryst, and she saw a man before her; like was his form to the form of ailill, he lamented the weakness that his sickness had caused him, and he gave to her such answers as it was fitting that ailill should give. but at the third hour of the day, ailill himself awoke: and he had for a long time remained in sorrow when etain came into the house where he was; and as she approached him, "what maketh thee so sorrowful?" said etain. "'tis because thou wert sent to tryst with me," said ailill, "and i came not to thy presence, and sleep fell upon me, so that i have but now awakened from it; and surely my chance of being healed hath now gone from me." "not so, indeed," answered etain, "for there is a morrow to follow to-day." and upon that night he took his watch with a great fire before him, and with water beside him to put upon his eyes. at the hour that was appointed for the tryst, etain came for her meeting with ailill; and she saw the same man, like unto ailill, whom she had seen before; and etain went to the house, and saw ailill still lamenting. and etain came three times, and yet ailill kept not his tryst, and she found that same man there every time. "'tis not for thee," she said, "that i came to this tryst: why comest thou to meet me? and as for him whom i would have met, it was for no sin or evil desire that i came to meet him; but it was fitting for the wife of the king of ireland to rescue the man from the sickness under which he hath so long been oppressed." "it were more fitting for thee to tryst with me myself," said the man, "for when thou wert etain of the horses, the daughter of ailill, it was i who was thy husband. and when thou camest to be wife to me, thou didst leave a great price behind thee; even a marriage price of the chief plains and waters of ireland, and as much of gold and of silver as might match thee in value." "why," said she, "what is thy name?" "'tis easy to say," he answered; "mider of bri leith is my name." "truly," said she; "and what was the cause that parted us?" "that also is easy," he said; "it was the sorcery of fuamnach, and the spells of bressal etarlam. and then mider said to etain: wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? to dwell in the marvellous land of the musical spell, where the crowns of all heads are, as primroses, bright, and from head to the heel all men's bodies snow-white. in that land of no "mine" nor of "thine" is there speech, but there teeth flashing white and dark eyebrows hath each; in all eyes shine our hosts, as reflected they swarm, and each cheek with the pink of the foxglove is warm. with the heather's rich tint every blushing neck glows, in our eyes are all shapes that the blackbird's egg shows; and the plains of thine erin, though pleasing to see, when the great plain is sighted, as deserts shall be. though ye think the ale strong in this island of fate, yet they drink it more strong in the land of the great; of a country where marvel abounds have i told, where no young man in rashness thrusts backward the old. there are streams smooth and luscious that flow through that land, and of mead and of wine is the best at each hand; and of crime there is naught the whole country within, there are men without blemish, and love without sin. through the world of mankind, seeing all, can we float, and yet none, though we see them, their see-ers can note; for the sin of their sire is a mist on them flung, none may count up our host who from adam is sprung. lady, come to that folk; to that strong folk of mine; and with gold on thy head thy fair tresses shall shine: 'tis on pork the most dainty that then thou shalt feed, and for drink have thy choice of new milk and of mead. "i will not come with thee," answered etain, "i will not give up the king of ireland for thee, a man who knows not his own clan nor his kindred." "it was indeed myself," said mider, "who long ago put beneath the mind of ailill the love that he hath felt for thee, so that his blood ceased to run, and his flesh fell away from him: it was i also who have taken away his desire, so that there might be no hurt to thine honour. but wilt thou come with me to my land," said mider, "in case eochaid should ask it of thee?" "i would come in such case," answered to him etain. after all this etain departed to the house. "it hath indeed been good, this our tryst," said ailill, "for i have been cured of my sickness; moreover, in no way has thine honour been stained." "'tis glorious that it hath fallen out so," answered etain. and afterwards eochaid came back from his royal progress, and he was grateful for that his brother's life had been preserved, and he gave all thanks to etain for the great deed she had done while he was away from his palace. now upon another time it chanced that eochaid airemm, the king of tara, arose upon a certain fair day in the time of summer; and he ascended the high ground of tara to behold the plain of breg; beautiful was the colour of that plain, and there was upon it excellent blossom, glowing with all hues that are known. and, as the aforesaid eochaid looked about and around him, he saw a young strange warrior upon the high ground at his side. the tunic that the warrior wore was purple in colour, his hair was of a golden yellow, and of such length that it reached to the edge of his shoulders. the eyes of the young warrior were lustrous and grey; in the one hand he held a five-pointed spear, in the other a shield with a white central boss, and with gems of gold upon it. and eochaid held his peace, for he knew that none such had been in tara on the night before, and the gate that led into the liss had not at that hour been thrown open. the warrior came, and placed himself under the protection of eochaid; and "welcome do i give," said eochaid, "to the hero who is yet unknown." "thy reception is such as i expected when i came," said the warrior. "we know thee not," answered eochaid. "yet thee in truth i know well!" he replied. "what is the name by which thou art called?" said eochaid. "my name is not known to renown," said the warrior; "i am mider of bri leith." "and for what purpose art thou come?" said eochaid. "i have come that i may play a game at the chess with thee," answered mider. "truly," said eochaid, "i myself am skilful at the chess-play." "let us test that skill! said mider. "nay," said eochaid, the queen is even now in her sleep; and hers is the palace in which the chessboard lies." "i have here with me," said mider, "a chessboard which is not inferior to thine." it was even as he said, for that chessboard was silver, and the men to play with were gold; and upon that board were costly stones, casting their light on every side, and the bag that held the men was of woven chains of brass. mider then set out the chessboard, and he called upon eochaid to play. "i will not play," said eochaid, "unless we play for a stake." "what stake shall we have upon the game then?" said mider. "it is indifferent to me," said eochaid. "then," said mider, "if thou dost obtain the forfeit of my stake, i will bestow on thee fifty steeds of a dark grey, their heads of a blood-red colour, but dappled; their ears pricked high, and their chests broad; their nostrils wide, and their hoofs slender; great is their strength, and they are keen like a whetted edge; eager are they, high-standing, and spirited, yet easily stopped in their course." [many games were played between eochaid and mider; and, since mider did not put forth his whole strength, the victory on all occasions rested with eochaid. but instead of the gifts which mider had offered, eochaid demanded that mider and his folk should perform for him services which should be of benefit to his realm; that he should clear away the rocks and stones from the plains of meath, should remove the rushes which made the land barren around his favourite fort of tethba, should cut down the forest of breg, and finally should build a causeway across the moor or bog of lamrach that men might pass freely across it. all these things mider agreed to do, and eochaid sent his steward to see how that work was done. and when it came to the time after sunset, the steward looked, and he saw that mider and his fairy host, together with fairy oxen, were labouring at the causeway over the bog;] and thereupon much of earth and of gravel and of stones was poured into it. now it had, before that time, always been the custom of the men of ireland to harness their oxen with a strap over their foreheads, so that the pull might be against the foreheads of the oxen; and this custom lasted up to that very night, when it was seen that the fairy-folk had placed the yoke upon the shoulders of the oxen, so that the pull might be there; and in this way were the yokes of the oxen afterwards placed by eochaid, and thence cometh the name by which he is known; even eochaid airemm, or eochaid the ploughman, for he was the first of all the men of ireland to put the yokes on the necks of the oxen, and thus it became the custom for all the land of ireland. and this is the song that the host of the fairies sang, as they laboured at the making of the road: thrust it in hand! force it in hand! nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand: hard is the task that is asked, and who from the bridging of lamrach shall gain, or rue? not in all the world could a road have been found that should be better than the road that they made, had it not been that the fairy folk were observed as they worked upon it; but for that cause a breach hath been made in that causeway. and the steward of eochaid thereafter came to him; and he described to him that great labouring band that had come before his eyes, and he said that there was not over the chariot-pole of life a power that could withstand its might. and, as they spake thus with each other, they saw mider standing before them; high was he girt, and ill-favoured was the face that he showed; and eochaid arose, and he gave welcome to him. "thy welcome is such as i expected when i came," said mider. "cruel and senseless hast thou been in thy treatment of me, and much of hardship and suffering hast thou given me. all things that seemed good in thy sight have i got for thee, but now anger against thee hath filled my mind!" "i return not anger for anger," answered eochaid; "what thou wishest shall be done." "let it be as thou wishest," said mider; "shall we play at the chess?" said he. "what stake shall we set upon the game?" said eochaid. "even such stake as the winner of it shall demand," said mider. and in that very place eochaid was defeated, and he forfeited his stake. "my stake is forfeit to thee," said eochaid. "had i wished it, it had been forfeit long ago," said mider. "what is it that thou desirest me to grant?" said eochaid. "that i may hold etain in my arms, and obtain a kiss from her!" answered mider. eochaid was silent for a while and then he said: "one month from this day thou shalt come, and the very thing that thou hast asked for shall be given to thee." now for a year before that mider first came to eochaid for the chess-play, had he been at the wooing of etain, and he obtained her not; and the name which he gave to etain was befind, or fair-haired woman, so it was that he said: wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? as has before been recited. and it was at that time that etain said: "if thou obtainest me from him who is the master of my house, i will go; but if thou art not able to obtain me from him, then i will not go." and thereon mider came to eochaid, and allowed him at the first to win the victory over him, in order that eochaid should stand in his debt; and therefore it was that he paid the great stakes to which he had agreed; and therefore also was it that he had demanded of him that he should play that game in ignorance of what was staked. and when mider and his folk were paying those agreed-on stakes, which were paid upon that night; to wit, the making of the road, and the clearing of the stones from meath, the rushes from around tethba, and of the forest that is over breg, it was thus that he spoke, as it is written in the book of drom snechta: pile on the soil; thrust on the soil: red are the oxen around who toil: heavy the troops that my words obey; heavy they seem, and yet men are they. strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed red are the wattles above them laced: tired are your hands, and your glances slant; one woman's winning this toil may grant! oxen ye are, but revenge shall see; men who are white shall your servants be: rushes from teffa are cleared away: grief is the price that the man shall pay: stones have been cleared from the rough meath ground; whose shall the gain or the harm be found? now mider appointed a day at the end of the month when he was to meet eochaid, and eochaid called the armies of the heroes of ireland together, so that they came to tara; and all the best of the champions of ireland, ring within ring, were about tara, and they were in the midst of tara itself, and they guarded it, both without and within; and the king and the queen were in the midst of the palace, and the outer court thereof was shut and locked, for they knew that the great might of men would come upon them. and upon the appointed night etain was dispensing the banquet to the kings, for it was her duty to pour out the wine, when in the midst of their talk they saw mider standing before them in the centre of the palace. he was always fair, yet fairer than he ever was seemed mider to be upon that night. and he brought to amazement all the hosts on which he gazed, and all thereon were silent, and the king gave a welcome to him. "thy reception is such as i expected when i came," said mider; "let that now be given to me that hath been promised. 'tis a debt that is due when a promise hath been made; and i for my part have given to thee all that was promised by me." "i have not yet considered the matter," said eochaid. "thou hast promised etain's very self to me," said mider; "that is what hath come from thee." etain blushed for shame when she heard that word. "blush not," said mider to etain, "for in nowise hath thy wedding-feast been disgraced. i have been seeking thee for a year with the fairest jewels and treasures that can be found in ireland, and i have not taken thee until the time came when eochaid might permit it. 'tis not through any will of thine that i have won thee." "i myself told thee," said etain, "that until eochaid should resign me to thee i would grant thee nothing. take me then for my part, if eochaid is willing to resign me to thee." "but i will not resign thee!" said eochaid; "nevertheless he shall take thee in his arms upon the floor of this house as thou art." "it shall be done!" said mider. he took his weapons into his left hand and the woman beneath his right shoulder; and he carried her off through the skylight of the house. and the hosts rose up around the king, for they felt that they had been disgraced, and they saw two swans circling round tara, and the way that they took was the way to the elf-mound of femun. and eochaid with an army of the men of ireland went to the elf-mound of femun, which men call the mound of the fair-haired-women. and he followed the counsel of the men of ireland, and he dug up each of the elf-mounds that he might take his wife from thence. [and mider and his host opposed them and the war between them was long: again and again the trenches made by eochaid were destroyed, for nine years as some say lasted the strife of the men of ireland to enter into the fairy palace. and when at last the armies of eochaid came by digging to the borders of the fairy mansion, mider sent to the side of the palace sixty women all in the shape of etain, and so like to her that none could tell which was the queen. and eochaid himself was deceived, and he chose, instead of etain, her daughter messbuachalla (or as some say esa.) but when he found that he had been deceived, he returned again to sack bri leith, and this time etain made herself known to eochaid, by proofs that he could not mistake, and he bore her away in triumph to tara, and there she abode with the king.] mac datho's boar introduction the tale of "mac datho's boar" seems to deal with events that precede the principal events of the heroic period; most of the characters named in it appear as the chief actors in other romances; conor and ailill are as usual the leaders of ulster and connaught, but the king of leinster is mesroda mac datho, not his brother mesgegra, who appears in the "siege of howth" (see hull, cuchullin saga, p. 87), and the ulster champion is not cuchulain, but his elder comrade, conall cernach. the text followed is that of the book of leinster as printed by windisch in irische texte, vol. i.; the later harleian manuscript's readings given by windisch have been taken in a few cases where the leinster text seems untranslatable. there is a slightly different version, given by kuno meyer in the anecdota oxoniensia, taken from rawlinson, b. 512, a fifteenth-century manuscript, but the text is substantially that of the leinster version, and does not give, as in the case of the tale of etain, a different view of the story. the verse passages differ in the two versions; two verse passages on pages 37 and 46 have been inserted from the rawlinson manuscript, otherwise the rendering follows the leinster text. the style of the tale is more barbaric than that of the other romances, but is relieved by touches of humour; the only supernatural touch occurs in one of the variations of the rawlinson manuscript. some of the chief variations en in this manuscript are pointed out in the notes; the respectful men on of curoi mac dari, who seems to have been a munster hero, overshadowed in the accepted versions by the superior glory of ulster, may be noted; also the remark that ferloga did not get his cepoc, which seems to have been inserted by a later band of a critic who disapproved of the frivolity of the original author, or was jealous for the honour of the ulster ladies. mac datho's boar from the book of leinster (twelfth-century ms.) with some additions from rawlinson, b. 512, written about 1560 a glorious king once hold rule over the men of leinster; his name was mesroda mac datho. now mac datho had among his possessions a hound which was the guardian of all leinster; the name of the hound was ailbe, and all of the land of leinster was filled with reports of the fame of it, and of that hound hath it been sung: mesroda, son of datho, was he the boar who reared; and his the hound called ailbe; no lie the tale appeared! the splendid hound of wisdom, the hound that far is famed, the hound from whom moynalvy for evermore is named. by king ailill and queen maev were sent folk to the son of datho to demand that hound, and at that very hour came heralds from conor the son of ness to demand him; and to all of these a welcome was bid by the people of mac datho, and they were brought to speak with mac datho in his palace. at the time that we speak of, this palace was a hostelry that was the sixth of the hostelries of ireland.; there were beside it the hostelry of da derga in the land of cualan in leinster; also the hostelry of forgall the wily, which is beside lusk; and the hostelry of da reo in breffny; and the hostelry of da choca in the west of meath; and the hostelry of the landholder blai in the country of the men of ulster. there were seven doors to that palace, and seven passages ran through it; also there stood within it seven cauldrons, and in every one of the cauldrons was seething the flesh of oxen and the salted flesh of swine. every traveller who came into the house after a journey would thrust a fork into a cauldron, and whatsoever he brought out at the first thrust, that had he to eat: if he got nothing at the first thrust, no second attempt was allowed him. they brought the heralds before mac datho as he sat upon his throne, that he might learn of their requests before they made their meal, and in this manner they made known their message. "we have come," said the men who were sent from connaught, "that we might ask for thy hound; 'tis by ailill and maev we are sent. thou shalt have in payment for him six thousand milch cows, also a two-horsed chariot with its horses, the best to be had in connaught, and at the end of a year as much again shall be thine." "we also," said the heralds from ulster, "have come to ask for thy hound; we have been sent by conor, and conor is a friend who is of no less value than these. he also will give to thee treasures and cattle, and the same amount at the end of a year, and he will be a stout friend to thee." now after he had received this message mac datho sank into a deep silence, he ate nothing, neither did he sleep, but tossed about from one side to another, and then said his wife to him: "for a long time hast thou fasted; food is before thee, yet thou eatest not; what is it that ails thee? and mac datho made her no answer, whereupon she said: the wife[fn#10] gone is king mac datho's sleep, restless cares his home invade; though his thoughts from all he keep, problems deep his mind hath weighed. he, my sight avoiding, turns towards the wall, that hero grim; well his prudent wife discerns sleep hath passed away from him. [fn#10] the irish metre is followed in the first four verses. mac datho crimthann saith, nar's sister's son, "secrets none to women tell. woman's secret soon is won; never thrall kept jewel well." the wife why against a woman speak till ye test, and find she fails? when thy mind to plan is weak, oft another's wit avails. mac datho at ill season indeed came those heralds who his hound from mac datho would take; in more wars than by thought can be counted fair-haired champions shall fall for its sake. if to conor i dare to deny him, he shall deem it the deed of a churl nor shall cattle or country be left me by the hosts he against me can hurl. if refusal to ailill i venture, with all ireland my folk shall he sack; from our kingdom mac mata shall drive us, and our ashes may tell of his track. the wife here a counsel i find to deliver, and in woe shall our land have no share; of that hound to them both be thou giver, and who dies for it little we care. mac datho ah! the grief that i had is all ended, i have joy for this speech from thy tongue surely ailbe from heaven descended, there is none who can say whence he sprung. after these words the son of datho rose up, and he shook himself, and may this fall out well for us," said he, "and well for our guests who come here to seek for him." his guests abode three days and three nights in his house, and when that time was ended, he bade that the heralds from connaught be called to confer with him apart, and he spoke thus: "i have been," he said, "in great vexation of spirit, and for long have i hesitated before i made a decision what to do. but now have i decided to give the hound to ailill and maev, let them come with splendour to bear it away. they shall have plenty both to eat and to drink, and they shall have the hound to hold, and welcome shall they be." and the messengers from connaught were well pleased with this answer that they had. then he went to where the heralds from ulster were, and thus he addressed them: "after long hesitation," said he, "i have awarded the hound to conor, and a proud man should he be. let the armies of the nobles of ulster come to bear him away; they shall have presents, and i will make them welcome;" and with this the messengers from ulster were content. now mac datho had so planned it that both those armies, that from the east and that from the west, should arrive at his palace upon the selfsame day. nor did they fail to keep their tryst; upon the same day those two provinces of ireland came to mac datho's palace, and mac datho himself went outside and greeted them: "for two armies at the same time we were not prepared; yet i bid welcome to you, ye men. enter into the court of the house." then they went all of them into the palace; one half of the house received the ulstermen, and the other half received the men of connaught. for the house was no small one: it had seven doors and fifty couches between each two doors; and it was no meeting of friends that was then seen in that house, but the hosts that filled it were enemies to each other, for during the whole time of the three hundred years that preceded the birth of christ there was war between ulster and connaught. then they slaughtered for them mac datho's boar; for seven years had that boar been nurtured upon the milk of fifty cows, but surely venom must have entered into its nourishment, so many of the men of ireland did it cause to die. they brought in the boar, and forty oxen as side-dishes to it, besides other kind of food; the son of datho himself was steward to their feast: "be ye welcome!" said he; "this beast before you hath not its match; and a goodly store of beeves and of swine may be found with the men of leinster! and, if there be aught lacking to you, more shall be slain for you in the morning." "it is a mighty boar," said conor. "'tis a mighty one indeed," said ailill. "how shall it be divided, o conor?" said he. "how?" cried down bricriu,[fn#11] the son of carbad, from above; "in the place where the warriors of ireland are gathered together, there can be but the one test for the division of it, even the part that each man hath taken in warlike deeds and strife: surely each man of you hath struck the other a buffet on the nose ere now!" "thus then shall it be," said ailill. "'tis a fair test," said conor in assent; "we have here a plenty of lads in this house who have done battle on the borders." "thou shalt lose thy lads to-night, conor," said senlaech the charioteer, who came from rushy conalad in the west; "often have they left a fat steer for me to harry, as they sprawled on their backs upon the road that leadeth to the rushes of dedah." "fatter was the steer that thou hadst to leave to us," said munremur,[fn#12] the son of gerrcind; "even thine own brother, cruachniu, son of ruadlam; and it was from conalad of cruachan that he came." "he was no better," cried lugaid the son of curoi of munster, "than loth the great, the son of fergus mac lete; and echbel the son of dedad left him lying in tara luachra."[fn#13] [fn#11] pronounced brik-roo. [fn#12] pronounced moon-raymer. [fn#13] pronounced looch-ra. "what sort of a man was he whom ye boast of?" cried celtchar of ulster. "i myself slew that horny-skinned son of dedad, i cut the head from his shoulders." at the last it fell out that one man raised himself above all the men of ireland; he was ket, the son of mata, he came from the land of connaught. he hung up his weapons at a greater height than the weapons of any one else who was there, he took a knife in his hand, and he placed himself at the side of the boar. "find ye now," said he, "one man among the men of ireland who can equal my renown, or else leave the division of the boar to me." all of the ulstermen were thrown into amazement. "seest thou that, o laegaire?"[fn#14] said conor. [fn#14] pronounced leary. "never shall it be," said laegaire the triumphant, "that ket should have the division of this boar in the face of us all." "softly now, o laegaire!" said ket; "let me hold speech with thee. with you men of ulster it hath for long been a custom that each lad among you who takes the arms of a warrior should play first with us the game of war: thou, o laegaire, like to the others didst come to the border, and we rode against one another. and thou didst leave thy charioteer, and thy chariot and thy horses behind thee, and thou didst fly pierced through with a spear. not with such a record as that shalt thou obtain the boar;" and laegaire sat himself down. "it shall never come to pass," said a great fair-haired warrior, stepping forward from the bench whereon he had sat, "that the division of the boar shall be left to ket before our very eyes." "to whom then appertains it?" asked ket. "to one who is a better warrior than thou," he said, "even to angus, the son of lama gabaid (hand-in-danger) of the men of ulster." "why namest thou thy father 'hand-in-danger?" said ket. "why indeed, i know not," he said. "ah! but i know it!" said ket. "long ago i went upon a journey in the east, a war-cry was raised against me, all men attacked me, and lama gabaid was among them. he made a cast of a great spear against me, i hurled the same spear back upon him, and the spear cut his hand from him so that it lay upon the ground. how dares the son of that man to measure his renown with mine?" and angus went back to his place. "come, and claim a renown to match mine," said ket; "else let me divide this boar." "it shall never be thy part to be the first to divide it," said a great fair-haired warrior of the men of ulster. "who then is this?" said ket. "'tis eogan, son of durthacht,"[fn#15] said they all; "eogan, the lord of fernmay." "i have seen him upon an earlier day," said ket. "where hast thou seen me?" said eogan. "it was before thine own house," said ket. "as i was driving away thy cattle, a cry of war was raised in the lands about me; and thou didst come out at that cry. thou didst hurl thy spear against me, and it was fixed in my shield; but i hurled the same spear back against thee, and it tore out one of thy two eyes. all the men of ireland can see that thou art one-eyed; here is the man that struck thine other eye out of thy head," and he also sat down. "make ye ready again for the strife for renown, o ye men of ulster!" cried ket. "thou hast not yet gained the right to divide the boar," said munremur, gerrcind's son. "is that munremur?" cried ket; "i have but one short word for thee, o munremur! not yet hath the third day passed since i smote the heads off three warriors who came from your lands, and the midmost of the three was the head of thy firstborn son!" and munremur also sat down. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that strife will i give to thee," said mend the son of salcholcam (the sword-heeled). "who is this?" asked ket. "'tis mend," said all who were there. "hey there!" cried ket. "the son of the man with the nickname comes to measure his renown with mine! why, mend, it was by me that the nickname of thy father came; 'twas i who cut the heel from him with my sword so that he hopped away from me upon one leg! how shall the son of that one-legged man measure his renown with mine?" and he also sat down. [fn#15] pronounced yeogan, son of doorha. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that warfare shalt thou have from me!" said an ulster warrior, tall, grey, and more terrible than the rest. "who is this?" asked ket. "'tis celtchar, the son of uitechar," cried all. "pause thou a little, celtchar," said ket, "unless it be in thy mind to crush me in an instant. once did i come to thy dwelling, o celtchar, a cry was raised about me, and all men hurried up at that cry, and thou also camest beside them. it was in a ravine that the combat between us was held; thou didst hurl thy spear against me, and against thee i also hurled my spear; and my spear pierced thee through the leg and through the groin, so that from that hour thou hast been diseased, nor hath son or daughter been born to thee. how canst thou strive in renown with me?" and he also sat down. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that strife shalt thou have," said cuscrid the stammerer, of macha, king conor's son. "who is this?" said ket. "'tis cuscrid," said all; "he hath a form which is as the form of a king." "nor hath he aught to thank thee for," said the youth. "good!" said ket. "it was against me that thou didst come on the day when thou didst first make trial of thy weapons, my lad: 'twas in the borderland that we met. and there thou didst leave the third part of thy folk behind thee, and thou didst fly with a spear-thrust through thy throat so that thou canst speak no word plainly, for the spear cut in sunder the sinews of thy neck; and from that hour thou hast been called cuscrid the stammerer." and in this fashion did ket put to shame all the warriors of the province of ulster. but as he was exulting near to the boar, with his knife in his hand, all saw conall, the victorious enter the palace; and conall sprang into the midst of the house, and the men of ulster hailed him with a shout; and conor himself took his helmet from his head, and swung it on high to greet him. "'tis well that i wait for the portion that befalls me!" said conall. who is he who is the divider of the boar for ye?" "that office must be given to the man who stands there," said conor, "even to ket, the son of mata." "is this true, o ket?" said conall. "art thou the man to allot this boar?" and then sang ket: conall, all hail! hard stony spleen wild glowing flame! ice-glitter keen! blood in thy breast rageth and boils; oft didst thou wrest victory's spoils: thou scarred son of finuchoem,[fn#16] thou truly canst claim to stand rival to me, and to match me in fame! and conall replied to him: hail to thee, ket! well are we met! heart icy-cold, home for the bold! ender of grief! car-riding chief! sea's stormy wave! bull, fair and brave! ket! first of the children of matach! the proof shall be found when to combat we dart, the proof shall be found when from combat we part; he shall tell of that battle who guardeth the stirks, he shall tell of that battle at handcraft who works; and the heroes shall stride to the wild lion-fight, for by men shall fall men in this palace to-night: welcome, ket![fn#17] [fn#16] pronounced finn-hoom. [fn#17] the short lines of this rhetoric have the metre of the original irish. "rise thou, and depart from this boar," said conall. "what claim wilt thou bring why i should do this?" said ket. "'tis true indeed," said conall, "thou art contending in renown with me. i will give thee one claim only, o ket! i swear by the oath of my tribe that since the day that i first received a spear into my hand i have seldom slept without the head of a slain man of connaught as my pillow; and i have not let pass a day or a night in which a man of connaught hath not fallen by my hand." "'tis true indeed," said ket, "thou art a better warrior than i. were but anluan here, he could battle with thee in another fashion; shame upon us that he is not in this house!" "aye, but anluan is here! "cried conall, and therewith he plucked anluan's head from his belt. and he threw the head towards ket, so that it smote him upon the chest, and a gulp of the blood was dashed over his lips. and ket came away from the boar, and conall placed himself beside it. "now let men come to contend for renown with me!" cried conall. but among the men of connaught there was none who would challenge him, and they raised a wall of shields, like a great vat around him, for in that house was evil wrangling, and men in their malice would make cowardly casts at him. and conall turned to divide the boar, and he took the end of the tail in his mouth. and although the tail was so great that it was a full load for nine men, yet he sucked it all into his mouth so that nothing of it was left; and of this hath been said: strong hands on a cart thrust him forward; his great tail, though for nine men a load, was devoured by the brave conall cernach, as the joints he so gaily bestowed. now to the men of connaught conall gave nothing except the two fore-legs of the boar, and this share seemed to be but small to the men of connaught, and thereon they sprang up, and the men of ulster also sprang up, and they rushed at each other. they buffeted each other so that the heap of bodies inside the house rose as high as the side-walls of it; and streams of blood flowed under the doors. the hosts brake out through the doors into the outer court, and great was the din that uprose; the blood upon the floor of the house might have driven a mill, so mightily did each man strike out at his fellow. and at that time fergus plucked up by the roots a great oak-tree that stood in the outer court in the midst of it; and they all burst out of the court, and the battle went on outside. then came out mac datho, leading the hound by a leash in his hand, that he might let him loose between the two armies, to see to which side the sense of the hound would turn. and the hound joined himself with the men of ulster, and he rushed on the defeated connaughtmen, for these were in flight. and it is told that in the plain of ailbe, the hound seized hold of the poles of the chariot in which ailill and maev rode: and there fer-loga, charioteer to ailill and maev, fell upon him, so that he cast his body to one side, and his head was left upon the poles of the chariot. and they say that it is for that reason that the plain of ailbe is so named, for from the hound ailbe the name hath come. the rout went on northwards, over ballaghmoon, past rurin hill, over the midbine ford near to mullaghmast, over drum criach ridge which is opposite to what is kildare to-day, over rath ingan which is in the forest of gabla, then by mac lugna's ford over the ridge of the two plains till they came to the bridge of carpre that is over the boyne. and at the ford which is known as the ford of the hound's head, which standeth in the west of meath, the hound's head fell from the chariot. and, as they went over the heather of meath, ferloga the charioteer of ailill fell into the heather, and he sprang behind conor who followed after them in his chariot, and he seized conor by the head. "i claim a boon from thee if i give thee thy life, o conor!" said he. "i choose freely to grant that boon," said conor. "'tis no great matter," said ferloga. "take me with thee to emain macha, and at each ninth hour let the widows and the growing maidens of ulster serenade me[fn#18] with the song: 'ferloga is my darling.'" [fn#18] literally, "sing me a cepoc," or a choral song. and the women were forced to do it; for they dared not to deny him, fearing the wrath of conor; and at the end of a year ferloga crossed byathlone into connaught, and he took with him two of conor's horses bridled with golden reins. and concerning all this hath it been sung: hear truth, ye lads of connaught; no lies your griefs shall fill, a youth the boar divided; the share you had was ill. of men thrice fifty fifties would win the ailbe hound; in pride of war they struggled, small cause for strife they found. yet there came conquering conor, and ailill's hosts, and ket; no law cuchulain granted, and brooding bodb[fn#19] was met. dark durthacht's son, great eogan, shall find that journey hard; from east came congal aidni, and fiaman,[fn#20] sailor bard; three sons of nera, famous for countless warlike fields; three lofty sons of usnach, with hard-set cruel shields. from high conalad croghan wise senlaech[fn#21] drave his car; and dubhtach[fn#22] came from emain, his fame is known afar; and illan came, whom glorious for many a field they hail: loch sail's grim chief, munremur; berb baither, smooth of tale; [fn#19] pronounced bobe, with sound of 'robe.' [fn#20] pronounced feeman. [fn#21] pronounced senlay, with the light final ch. [fn#22] pronounced doov-ta. and celtchar, lord in ulster; and conall's valour wild; and marcan came; and lugaid of three great hounds the child. fergus, awaiting the glorious hound, spreadeth a cloak o'er his mighty shield, shaketh an oak he hath plucked from ground, red was the woe the red cloak concealed. yonder stood cethern,[fn#23] of finntan son, holding them back; till six hours had flown connaughtmen's slaughter his hand hath done, pass of the ford he hath held alone. armies with feidlim[fn#24] the war sustain, laegaire the triumpher rides on east, aed, son of morna, ye hear complain, little his thought is to mourn that beast. high are the nobles, their deeds show might, housefellows fair, and yet hard in fight; champions of strength upon clans bring doom, great are the captives, and vast the tomb. [fn#23] pronounced kay-hern. [fn#24] pronounced fay-lim. the sick-bed of cuchulain introduction the romance called the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the latter part of which is also known as the "jealousy of emer," is preserved in two manuscripts, one of which is the eleventh-century leabhar na h-uidhri, the other a fifteenth century manuscript in the trinity college library. these two manuscripts give substantially the same account, and are obviously taken from the same source, but the later of the two is not a copy of the older manuscript, and sometimes preserves a better reading. the eleventh-century manuscript definitely gives a yet older book, the yellow book of slane, now lost, as its authority, and this may be the ultimate authority for the tale as we have it. but, although there is only one original version of the text, it is quite plain from internal evidence that the compiler of the yellow book of slane, or of an earlier book, had two quite different forms of the story to draw from, and combined them in the version that we have. the first, which may be called the "antiquarian" form, relates the cause of cuchulain's illness, tells in detail of the journey of his servant laeg to fairyland, in order to test the truth of a message sent to cuchulain that he can be healed by fairy help, and then breaks off. in both the leabhar na h-uidhri and in the fifteenth-century manuscript, follows a long passage which has absolutely nothing to do with the story, consisting of an account how lugaid red-stripes was elected to be king over ireland, and of the bull feast at which the coming of lugaid is prophesied. both manuscripts then give the counsel given by cuchulain to lugaid on his election (this passage being the only justification for the insertion, as cuchulain is supposed to be on his sick-bed when the exhortation is given); and both then continue the story in a quite different form, which may be called the "literary" form. the cause of the sickness is not given in the literary form, which commences with the rousing of cuchulain from his sick-bed, this rousing being due to different agency from that related in the antiquarian form, for in the latter cuchulain is roused by a son of the fairy king, in the former b his wife emer. the journey of laeg to fairyland is then told in the literary form with different detail to that given in the antiquarian one, and the full conclusion is then supplied in this form alone; so that we have, although in the same manuscript version, two quite distinct forms of the original legend, the first defective at the end of the story, the other at its beginning. not only are the incidents of the two forms of the story different in many respects, but the styles are so absolutely different that it would seem impossible to attribute them to the same author. the first is a mere compilation by an antiquarian; it is difficult to imagine that it was ever recited in a royal court, although the author may have had access to a better version than his own. he inserts passages which do not develop the interest of the story; hints at incidents (the temporary absence of fergus and conall) which are not developed or alluded to afterwards, and is a notable early example of the way in which irish literature can be spoiled by combining several different independent stories into one. there is only one gem, strictly so called, and that not of a high order; the only poetic touches occur in the rhetoric, and, although in this there is a weird supernatural flavour, that may have marked the original used by the compiler of this form ' the human interest seems to be exceptionally weak. the second or literary form is as different from the other as it is possible for two compositions on the same theme to be. the first few words strike the human note in cuchulain's message to his wife: "tell her that it goeth better with me from hour to hour;" the poems are many, long, and of high quality; the rhetoric shows a strophic correspondence; the greek principle of letting the messenger tell the story instead of relating the facts, in a narrative of events (the method followed in the antiquarian version) is made full use of; the modest account given by cuchulain of his own deeds contrasts well with the prose account of the same deeds; and the final relation of the voluntary action of the fairy lady who gives up her lover to her rival, and her motives, is a piece of literary work centuries in advance of any other literature of modern europe. some modern accounts of this romance have combined the two forms, and have omitted the irrelevant incidents in the antiquarian version; there are literary advantages in this course, for the disconnected character of the antiquarian opening, which must stand first, as it alone gives the beginning of the story, affords little indication of the high quality of the better work of the literary form that follows; but, in order to heighten the contrast, the two forms are given just as they occur in the manuscripts, the only omissions being the account of the election of lugaid, and the exhortation of cuchulain to the new king. thurneysen, in his sagen aus dem alten irland, places the second description of fairyland by laeg with the antiquarian form, and this may be justified not only by the allusion to ethne, who does not appear elsewhere in the literary form, but from the fact that there is a touch of rough humour in this poem, which appears in the antiquarian form, but not elsewhere in the literary one, where the manuscripts place this poem. but on the other hand the poetry of this second description, and its vividness, come much closer to the literary form, and it has been left in the place that the manuscript gives to it. the whole has been translated direct from the irish in irische texte, vol. i., with occasional reference to the facsimile of the leabhar na h-uidhri; the words marked as doubtful by windisch in his glossary, which are rather numerous, being indicated by marks of interrogation in the notes, and, where windisch goes not indicate a probable meaning, a special note is made on the word, unless it has been given in dictionaries subsequent to that of windisch. thurneysen's translation has sometimes been made use of, when there is no other guide; but he omits some passages, and windisch has been followed in the rendering given in his glossary in cases where there would seem to be a difference, as thurneysen often translates freely. the sick-bed of cuchulain transcribed from the lost yellow book of slane by maelmuiri mac ceileachair into the leabhar na h-uidhri in the eleventh century every year the men of ulster were accustomed to hold festival together; and the time when they held it was for three days before samhain, the summer-end, and for three days after that day, and upon samhain itself. and the time that is spoken of is that when the men of ulster were in the plain of murthemne, and there they used to keep that festival every year; nor was there an thing in the world that they would do at that time except sports, and marketings, and splendours, and pomps, and feasting and eating; and it is from that custom of theirs that the festival of the samhain has descended, that is now held throughout the whole of ireland. now once upon a time the men of ulster held festival upon the murthemne plain, and the reason that this festival was held was that every man of them should then give account of the combats he had made and of his valour every summer-end. it was their custom to hold that festival in order to give account of these combats, and the manner in which they gave that account was this: each man used to cut off the tip of the tongue of a foe whom he had killed, and he bore it with him in a pouch. moreover, in order to make more great the numbers of their contests, some used to bring with them the tips of the tongues of beasts, and each man publicly declared the fights he had fought, one man of them after the other. and they did this also--they laid their swords over their thighs when they declared the strifes, and their own swords used to turn against them when the strife that they declared was false; nor was this to be wondered at, for at that time it was customary for demon beings to scream from the weapons of men, so that for this cause their weapons might be the more able to guard them. to that festival then came all the men of ulster except two alone, and these two were fergus the son of rog, and conall the victorious. "let the festival be held!" cried the men of ulster. "nay," said cuchulain, "it shall not be held until conall and fergus come," and this he said because fergus was the foster-father of cuchulain, and conall was his comrade. then said sencha: "let us for the present engage in games of chess; and let the druids sing, and let the jugglers play their feats;" and it was done as he had said. now while they were thus employed a flock of birds came down and hovered over the lake; never was seen in ireland more beautiful birds than these. and a longing that these birds should be given to them seized upon the women who were there; and each of them began to boast of the prowess of her husband at bird-catching. "how i wish," said ethne aitencaithrech, conor's wife, "that i could have two of those birds, one of them upon each of my two shoulders." "it is what we all long for," said the women; and "if any should have this boon, i should be the first one to have it," said ethne inguba, the wife of cuchulain. "what are we to do now?" said the women. "'tis easy to answer you," said leborcham, the daughter of oa and adarc; "i will go now with a message from you, and will seek for cuchulain." she then went to cuchulain, and "the women of ulster would be well pleased," she said, "if yonder birds were given to them by thy hand." and cuchulain made for his sword to unsheathe it against her: "cannot the lasses of ulster find any other but us," he said, "to give them their bird-hunt to-day?" "'tis not seemly for thee to rage thus against them," said leborcham, "for it is on thy account that the women of ulster have assumed one of their three blemishes, even the blemish of blindness." for there were three blemishes that the women of ulster assumed, that of crookedness of gait, and that of a stammering in their speech, and that of blindness. each of the women who loved conall the victorious had assumed a crookedness of gait; each woman who loved cuscraid mend, the stammerer of macha, conor's son, stammered in her speech; each woman in like manner who loved cuchulain had assumed a blindness of her eyes, in order to resemble cuchulain; for he, when his mind was angry within him, was accustomed to draw in the one of his eyes so far that a crane could not reach it in his head, and would thrust out the other so that it was great as a cauldron in which a calf is cooked. "yoke for us the chariot, o laeg!" said cuchulain. and laeg yoked the chariot at that, and cuchulain went into the chariot, and he cast his sword at the birds with a cast like the cast of a boomerang, so that they with their claws and wings flapped against the water. and they seized upon all the birds, and they gave them and distributed them among the women; nor was there any one of the women, except ethne alone, who had not a pair of those birds. then cuchulain returned to his wife; and "thou art enraged," said he to her. "i am in no way enraged," answered ethne, "for i deem it as being by me that the distribution was made. and thou hast done what was fitting," she said, "for there is not one of these woman but loves thee; none in whom thou hast no share; but for myself none hath any share in me except thou alone." "be not angry," said cuchulain, "if in the future any birds come to the plain of murthemne or to the boyne, the two birds that are the most beautiful among those that come shall be thine." a little while after this they saw two birds flying over the lake, linked together by a chain of red gold. they sang a gentle song, and a sleep fell upon all the men who were there; and cuchulain rose up to pursue the birds. "if thou wilt hearken to me," said laeg, and so also said ethne, "thou shalt not go against them; behind those birds is some especial power. other birds may be taken by thee at some future day." "is it possible that such claim as this should be made upon me?" said cuchulain. "place a stone in my sling, o laeg!" laeg thereon took a stone, and he placed it in the sling, and cuchulain launched the stone at the birds, but the cast missed. "alas!" said he. he took another stone, and he launched this also at the birds, but the stone flew past them. "wretched that i am," he cried, "since the very first day that i assumed arms, i have never missed a cast until this day!" and he cast his spear at them, and the spear went through the shield of the wing of one of the birds, and the birds flew away, and went beneath the lake. after this cuchulain departed, and he rested his back against a stone pillar, and his soul was angry within him, and a sleep fell upon him. then saw he two women come to him; the one of them had a green mantle upon her, and upon the other was a purple mantle folded in five folds. and the woman in the green mantle approached him, and she laughed a laugh at him, and she gave him a stroke with a horsewhip. and then the other approached him, and she also laughed at him, and she struck him in the like manner; and for a long time were they thus, each of them in turn coming to him and striking him until he was all but dead; and then they departed from him. now the men of ulster perceived the state in which cuchulain was in; and they cried out that he should be awakened; but "nay," said fergus, "ye shall not move him, for he seeth a vision;" and a little after that cuchulain came from his sleep. "what hath happened to thee?" said the men of ulster; but he had no power to bid greeting to them. "let me be carried," he said, "to the sick-bed that is in tete brecc; neither to dun imrith, nor yet to dun delga." "wilt thou not be carried to dun delga to seek for emer?" said laeg. "nay," said he, "my word is for tete brecc;" and thereon they bore him from that place, and he was in tete brecc until the end of one year, and during all that time he had speech with no one. now upon a certain day before the next summer-end, at the end of a year, when the men of ulster were in the house where cuchulain was, fergus being at the side-wall, and conall cernach at his head, and lugaid red-stripes at his pillow, and ethne inguba at his feet; when they were there in this manner, a man came to them, and he seated himself near the entrance of the chamber in which cuchulain lay. "what hath brought thee here?" said conall the victorious. "no hard question to answer," said the man. "if the man who lies yonder were in health, he would be a good protection to all of ulster; in the weakness and the sickness in which he now is, so much the more great is the protection that they have from him. i have no fear of any of you," he said, "for it is to give to this man a greeting that i come." "welcome to thee, then, and fear nothing," said the men of ulster; and the man rose to his feet, and he sang them these staves: ah! cuchulain, who art under sickness still, not long thou its cure shouldst need; soon would aed abra's daughters, to heal thine ill, to thee, at thy bidding, speed. liban, she at swift labra's right hand who sits, stood up on cruach's[fn#25] plain, and cried: "'tis the wish of fand's heart, she the tale permits, to sleep at cuchulain's side. [fn#25] pronounced something like croogh. "'if cuchulain would come to me,' fand thus told, 'how goodly that day would shine! then on high would our silver be heaped, and gold, our revellers pour the wine. "'and if now in my land, as my friend, had been cuchulain, of sualtam[fn#26] son, the things that in visions he late hath seen in peace would he safe have won. "'in the plains of murthemne, to south that spread, shall liban my word fulfil: she shall seek him on samhain, he naught need dread, by her shall be cured his ill.'" [fn#26] pronounced sooltam. "who art thou, then, thyself?" said the men of ulster. "i am angus, the son of aed abra," he answered; and the man then left them, nor did any of them know whence it was he had come, nor whither he went. then cuchulain sat up, and he spoke to them. "fortunate indeed is this!" said the men of ulster; "tell us what it is that hath happened to thee." "upon samhain night last year," he said, "i indeed saw a vision;" and he told them of all he had seen. "what should now be done, father conor?" said cuchulain. "this hast thou to do," answered conor, "rise, and go until thou comest to the pillar where thou wert before." then cuchulain went forth until he came to the pillar, and then saw he the woman in the green mantle come to him. "this is good, o cuchulain!" said she. "'tis no good thing in my thought," said cuchulain. "wherefore camest thou to me last year?" he said. "it was indeed to do no injury to thee that we came," said the woman, "but to seek for thy friendship. i have come to greet thee," she said, "from fand, the daughter of aed abra; her husband, manannan the son of the sea, hath released her, and she hath thereon set her love on thee. my own name is liban, and i have brought to thee a message from my spouse, labraid the swift, the sword-wielder, that he will give thee the woman in exchange for one day's service to him in battle against senach the unearthly, and against eochaid juil,[fn#27] and against yeogan the stream." "i am in no fit state," he said, "to contend with men to-day." "that will last but a little while," she said; "thou shalt be whole, and all that thou hast lost of thy strength shall be increased to thee. labraid shall bestow on thee that boon, for he is the best of all warriors that are in the world." [fn#27] pronounced, nearly, yeo-hay yool. "where is it that labraid dwelleth?" asked cuchulain. "in mag mell,[fn#28] the plain of delight," said liban; "and now i desire to go to another land," said she. [fn#28] pronounced maw mel. "let laeg go with thee," said cuchulain, "that he may learn of the land from which thou hast come." "let him come, then," said liban. they departed after that, and they went forward until they came to a place where fand was. and liban turned to seek for laeg, and she set him upon her shoulder. "thou wouldest never go hence, o laeg!" said liban, "wert thou not under a woman's protection." "'tis not a thing that i have most been accustomed to up to this time," said laeg, "to be under a woman's guard." "shame, and everlasting shame," said liban, "that cuchulain is not where thou art." "it were well for me," answered laeg, "if it were indeed he who is here." they passed on then, and went forward until they came opposite to the shore of an island, and there they saw a skiff of bronze lying upon the lake before them. they entered into the skiff, and they crossed over to the island, and came to the palace door, and there they saw the man, and he came towards them. and thus spoke liban to the man whom they saw there: say where he, the hand-on-sword, labra swift, abideth? he who, of the triumphs lord, in strong chariot rideth. when victorious troops are led, labra hath the leading; he it is, when spears are red, sets the points a-bleeding. and the man replied to her, and spoke thus: labra, who of speed is son, comes, and comes not slowly; crowded hosts together run, bent on warfare wholly. soon upon the forest plain shall be set the killing; for the hour when men are slain fidga's[fn#29] fields are filling![fn#30] [fn#29] pronounced, nearly, feega. [fn#30] irish metre approximately imitated in these stanzas. they entered then into the palace, and they saw there thrice fifty couches within the palace, and three times fifty women upon the couches, and the women all bade laeg welcome, and it was in these words that they addressed him: hail! for the guide, laeg! of thy quest: laeg we beside hail, as our guest! "what wilt thou do now?" said liban; "wilt thou go on without a delay, and hold speech with fand?" "i will go," he answered, "if i may know the place where she is." "that is no hard matter to tell thee," she answered; "she is in her chamber apart." they went therein, and they greeted fand, and she welcomed laeg in the same fashion as the others had done. fand is the daughter of aed abra; aed means fire, and he is the fire of the eye: that is, of the eye's pupil: fand moreover is the name of the tear that runs from the eye; it was on account of the clearness of her beauty that she was so named, for there is nothing else in the world except a tear to which her beauty could be likened. now, while they were thus in that place, they heard the rattle of labraid's chariot as he approached the island. "the spirit of labraid is gloomy to-day," said liban, "i will go and greet him." and she went out, and she bade welcome to labraid, and she spoke as follows: hail! the man who holdeth sword, the swift in fight! heir of little armies, armed with javelins light; spears he drives in splinters; bucklers bursts in twain; limbs of men are wounded; nobles by him slain. he for error searcheth, streweth gifts not small, hosts of men destroyeth; fairer he than all! heroes whom he findeth feel his fierce attack; labra! swiftest sword-hand! welcome to us back! labraid made no reply to her, and the lady spoke again thus: welcome! swift labra, hand to sword set! all win thy bounty, praise thou shalt get; warfare thou seekest, wounds seam thy side; wisely thou speakest, law canst decide; kindly thou rulest, wars fightest well; wrong-doers schoolest, hosts shalt repel. labraid still made no answer, and she sang another lay thus: labra! all hail! sword-wielder, swift: war can he wage, warriors can sift; valiant is he, fighters excels; more than in sea pride in him swells; down in the dust strength doth he beat; they who him trust rise to their feet weak ones he'll raise, humble the strong; labra! thy praise peals loud and long! "thou speakest not rightly, o lady," said labraid; and he then spoke to her thus: o my wife! naught of boasting or pride is in me; no renown would i claim, and no falsehood shall be: lamentation alone stirs my mind, for hard spears rise in numbers against me: dread contest appears: the right arms of their heroes red broadswords shall swing; many hosts eochaid juil holds to heart as their king: let no pride then be ours; no high words let there be; pride and arrogance far should be, lady, from me! "let now thy mind be appeased," said the lady liban to him. "laeg, the charioteer of cuchulain, is here; and cuchulain hath sent word to thee that he will come to join thy hosts." then labraid bade welcome to laeg, and he said to him: "welcome, o laeg! for the sake of the lady with whom thou comest, and for the sake of him from whom thou hast come. do thou now go to thine own land, o laeg!" said labraid, "and liban shall accompany thee." then laeg returned to emain, and he gave news of what he had seen to cuchulain, and to all others beside; and cuchulain rose up, and he passed his hand over his face, and he greeted laeg brightly, and his mind was strengthened within him for the news that the lad had brought him. [at this point occurs the break in the story indicated in the preface, and the description of the bull-feast at which lugaid red-stripes is elected king over all ireland; also the exhortation that cuchulain, supposed to be lying on his sick-bed, gives to lugaid as to the duties of a king. after this insertion, which has no real connection with the story, the story itself proceeds, but from another point, for the thread is taken up at the place where cuchulain has indeed awaked from his trance, but is still on his sick-bed; the message of angus appears to have been given, but cuchulain does not seem to have met liban for the second time, nor to have sent laeg to inquire. ethne has disappeared as an actor from the scene; her place is taken by emer, cuchulain's real wife; and the whole style of the romance so alters for the better that, even if it were not for the want of agreement of the two versions, we could see that we have here two tales founded upon the same legend but by two different hands, the end of the first and the beginning of the second alike missing, and the gap filled in by the story of the election of lugaid. now as to cuchulain it has to be related thus: he called upon laeg to come to him; and "do thou go, o laeg!" said cuchulain, "to the place where emer is; and say to her that women of the fairies have come upon me, and that they have destroyed my strength; and say also to her that it goeth better with me from hour to hour, and bid her to come and seek me;" and the young man laeg then spoke these words in order to hearten the mind of cuchulain: it fits not heroes lying on sick-bed in a sickly sleep to dream: witches before thee flying of trogach's fiery plain the dwellers seem: they have beat down thy strength, made thee captive at length, and in womanish folly away have they driven thee far. arise! no more be sickly! shake off the weakness by those fairies sent: for from thee parteth quickly thy strength that for the chariot-chiefs was meant: thou crouchest, like a youth! art thou subdued, in truth? have they shaken thy prowess and deeds that were meet for the war yet labra's power hath sent his message plain: rise, thou that crouchest: and be great again. and laeg, after that heartening, departed; and he went on until he came to the place where emer was; and he told her of the state of cuchulain: "ill hath it been what thou hast done, o youth!" she said; "for although thou art known as one who dost wander in the lands where the fairies dwell; yet no virtue of healing hast thou found there and brought for the cure of thy lord. shame upon the men of ulster!" she said, "for they have not sought to do a great deed, and to heal him. yet, had conor thus been fettered; had it been fergus who had lost his sleep, had it been conall the victorious to whom wounds had been dealt, cuchulain would have saved them." and she then sang a song, and in this fashion she sang it: laeg! who oft the fairy hill[fn#31] searchest, slack i find thee still; lovely dechtire's son shouldst thou by thy zeal have healed ere now. ulster, though for bounties famed, foster-sire and friends are shamed: none hath deemed cuchulain worth one full journey through the earth. yet, if sleep on fergus fell, such that magic arts dispel, dechtire's son had restless rode till a druid raised that load. aye, had conall come from wars, weak with wounds and recent scars; all the world our hound would scour till he found a healing power. were it laegaire[fn#32] war had pressed, erin's meads would know no rest, till, made whole from wounds, he won mach's grandchild, conna's son. had thus crafty celthar slept, long, like him, by sickness kept; through the elf-mounds, night and day, would our hound, to heal him, stray. furbaid, girt by heroes strong, were it he had lain thus long; ah! our hound would rescue bear though through solid earth he fare. [fn#31] the metre of these verses is that of the irish. [fn#32] pronounced leary. all the elves of troom[fn#33] seem dead; all their mighty deeds have fled; for their hound, who hounds surpassed, elves have bound in slumber fast. ah! on me thy sickness swerves, hound of smith who conor serves! sore my heart, my flesh must be: may thy cure be wrought by me. ah! 'tis blood my heart that stains, sick for him who rode the plains: though his land be decked for feast, he to seek its plain hath ceased. he in emain still delays; 'tis those shapes the bar that raise: weak my voice is, dead its tone, he in evil form is shown. month-long, year-long watch i keep; seasons pass, i know not sleep: men's sweet speech strikes not mine ear; naught, riangabra's[fn#34] son, i hear. [fn#33] spelt truim. [fn#34] pronounced reen-gabra. and, after that she had sung that song, emer went forward to emain that she might seek for cuchulain; and she seated herself in the chamber where cuchulain was, and thus she addressed him: "shame upon thee!" she said, "to lie thus prostrate for a woman's love! well may this long sickbed of thine cause thee to ail!" and it was in this fashion that she addressed him, and she chanted this lay: stand up, o thou hero of ulster! wake from sleep! rise up, joyful and sound! look on conor the king! on my beauty, will that loose not those slumbers profound? see the ulstermen's clear shining shoulders! hear their trumpets that call to the fight! see their war-cars that sweep through the valleys, as in hero-chess, leaping each knight. see their chiefs, and the strength that adorns them, their tall maidens, so stately with grace; the swift kings, springing on to the battle, the great queens of the ulstermen's race! the clear winter but now is beginning; lo! the wonder of cold that hangs there! 'tis a sight that should warn thee; how chilly! of what length i yet of colour how bare! this long slumber is ill; it decays thee: 'tis like "milk for the full" the saw saith hard is war with fatigue; deadly weakness is a prince who stands second to death. wake! 'tis joy for the sodden, this slumber; throw it off with a great glowing heat: sweet-voiced friends for thee wait in great number: ulster's champion! stand up on thy feet! and cuchulain at her word stood up; and he passed his hand over his face, and he cast all his heaviness and his weariness away from him, and then he arose, and went on his way before him until he came to the enclosure that he sought; and in that enclosure liban appeared to him. and liban spoke to him, and she strove to lead him into the fairy hill; but "what place is that in which labraid dwelleth?" said cuchulain. it is easy for me to tell thee!" she said: labra's home's a pure lake, whither troops of women come and go; easy paths shall lead thee thither, where thou shalt swift labra know. hundreds his skilled arm repelleth; wise be they his deeds who speak: look where rosy beauty dwelleth; like to that think labra's cheek. head of wolf, for gore that thirsteth, near his thin red falchion shakes; shields that cloak the chiefs he bursteth, arms of foolish foes he breaks. trust of friend he aye requiteth, scarred his skin, like bloodshot eye; first of fairy men he fighteth; thousands, by him smitten, die. chiefs at echaid[fn#35] juil's name tremble; yet his land-strange tale-he sought, he whose locks gold threads resemble, with whose breath wine-scents are brought. more than all strife-seekers noted, fiercely to far lands he rides; steeds have trampled, skiffs have floated near the isle where he abides. labra, swift sword-wielder, gaineth fame for actions over sea; sleep for all his watch sustaineth! sure no coward hound is he. the chains on the necks of the coursers he rides, and their bridles are ruddy with gold: he hath columns of crystal and silver besides, the roof of his house to uphold. [fn#35] pronounced, apparently, ech-ay, the ch like the sound in "loch." "i will not go thither at a woman's call," said cuchulain. "let laeg then go," said the lady, "and let him bring to thee tidings of all that is there." "let him depart, then," said cuchulain; and laeg rose up and departed with liban, and they came to the plain of speech, and to the tree of triumphs, and over the festal plain of emain, and over the festal plain of fidga, and in that place was aed abra, and with him his daughters. then fand bade welcome to laeg, and "how is it," said she, "that cuchulain hath not come with thee?" "it pleased him not," said laeg, "to come at a woman's call; moreover, he desired to know whether it was indeed from thee that had come the message, and to have full knowledge of everything." "it was indeed from me that the message was sent," she said; "and let now cuchulain come swiftly to seek us, for it is for to-day that the strife is set." then laeg went back to the place where he had left cuchulain, and liban with him; and "how appeareth this quest to thee, o laeg?" said cuchulain. and laeg answering said, "in a happy hour shalt thou go," said he, "for the battle is set for to-day;" and it was in this manner that he spake, and he recited thus: i went gaily through regions, though strange, seen before: by his cairn found i labra, a cairn for a score. there sat yellow-haired labra, his spears round him rolled; his long bright locks well gathered round apple of gold. on my five-folded purple his glance at length fell, and he said, "come and enter where failbe doth dwell." in one house dwells white failbe, with labra, his friend; and retainers thrice fifty each monarch attend. on the right, couches fifty, where fifty men rest; on the left, fifty couches by men's weight oppressed. for each couch copper frontings, posts golden, and white; and a rich flashing jewel as torch, gives them light. near that house, to the westward, where sunlight sinks down, stand grey steeds, with manes dappled and steeds purple-brown. on its east side are standing three bright purple trees whence the birds' songs, oft ringing the king's children please. from a tree in the fore-court sweet harmony streams; it stands silver, yet sunlit with gold's glitter gleams. sixty trees' swaying summits now meet, now swing wide; rindless food for thrice hundred each drops at its side. near a well by that palace gay cloaks spread out lie, each with splendid gold fastening well hooked through its eye. they who dwell there, find flowing a vat of glad ale: 'tis ordained that for ever that vat shall not fail. from the hall steps a lady well gifted, and fair: none is like her in erin; like gold is her hair. and so sweet, and so wondrous her words from her fall, that with love and with longing she breaks hearts of all. "who art thou?" said that lady, "for strange thou art here; but if him of murthemne thou servest, draw near." slowly, slowly i neared her; i feared for my fame: and she said, "comes he hither, of dechtire who came?" ah! long since, for thy healing, thou there shouldst have gone, and have viewed that great palace before me that shone. though i ruled all of erin and yellow breg's hill, i'd give all, no small trial, to know that land still. "the quest then is a good one?" said cuchulain. "it is goodly indeed," said laeg, "and it is right that thou shouldest go to attain it, and all things in that land are good." and thus further also spoke laeg, as he told of the loveliness of the fairy dwelling: i saw a land of noble form and splendid, where dwells naught evil; none can speak a lie: there stands the king, by all his hosts attended, brown labra, swift to sword his hand can fly. we crossed the plain of speech, our steps arrested near to that tree, whose branches triumphs bear; at length upon the hill-crowned plain we rested, and saw the double-headed serpent's lair. then liban said, as we that mount sat under: "would i could see--'twould be a marvel strange-yet, if i saw it, dear would be that wonder, if to cuchulain's form thy form could change." great is the beauty of aed abra's daughters, unfettered men before them conquered fall; fand's beauty stuns, like sound of rushing waters, before her splendour kings and queens seem small. though i confess, as from the wise ones hearing, that adam's race was once unstained by sin; yet did i swear, when fand was there appearing, none in past ages could such beauty win. i saw the champions stand with arms for slaying, right splendid was the garb those heroes bore; gay coloured garments, meet for their arraying, 'twas not the vesture of rude churls they wore. women of music at the feast were sitting, a brilliant maiden bevy near them stood; and forms of noble youths were upwards flitting through the recesses of the mountain wood. i saw the folk of song; their strains rang sweetly, as for the lady in that house they played; had i not i fled away from thence, and fleetly, hurt by that music, i had weak been made. i know the hill where ethne took her station, and ethne inguba's a lovely maid; but none can drive from sense a warlike nation save she alone, in beauty then displayed. and cuchulain, when he had heard that report, went on with liban to that land, and he took his chariot with him. and they came to the island of labraid, and there labraid and all the women that were there bade them welcome; and fand gave an especial welcome to cuchulain. "what is there now set for us to do?" said cuchulain. "no hard matter to answer," said labraid; "we must go forth and make a circuit about the army." they went out then, and they came to the army, and they let their eyes wander over it; and the host seemed to them to be innumerable. "do thou arise, and go hence for the present," said cuchulain to labraid; and labraid departed, and cuchulain remained confronting the army. and there were two ravens there, who spake, and revealed druid secrets, but the armies who heard them laughed. "it must surely be the madman from ireland who is there," said the army; "it is he whom the ravens would make known to us;" and the armies chased them away so that they found no resting-place in that land. now at early morn eochaid juil went out in order to bathe his hands in the spring, and cuchulain saw his shoulder through the hood of his tunic, and he hurled his spear at him, and he pierced him. and he by himself slew thirty-and-three of them, and then senach the unearthly assailed him, and a great fight was fought between them, and cuchulain slew him; and after that labraid approached, and he brake before him those armies. then labraid entreated cuchulain to stay his hand from the slaying; and "i fear now," said laeg, "that the man will turn his wrath upon us; for he hath not found a war to suffice him. go now," said laeg, "and let there be brought three vats of cold water to cool his heat. the first vat into which he goeth shall boil over; after he hath gone into the second vat, none shall be able to bear the heat of it: after he hath gone into the third vat, its water shall have but a moderate heat." and when the women saw cuchulain's return, fand sang thus: fidga's[fn#36] plain, where the feast assembles, shakes this eve, as his car he guides; all the land at the trampling trembles; young and beardless, in state he rides. blood-red canopies o'er him swinging chant, but not as the fairies cry; deeper bass from the car is singing, deeply droning, its wheels reply. steeds are bounding beneath the traces, none to match them my thought can find; wait a while! i would note their graces: on they sweep, like the spring's swift wind. high in air, in his breath suspended, float a fifty of golden balls; kings may grace in their sports have blended, none his equal my mind recalls. [fn#36] pronounced, nearly, fee-ga. dimples four on each cheek are glowing, one seems green, one is tinged with blue, one dyed red, as if blood were flowing, one is purple, of lightest hue. sevenfold light from his eyeballs flashes, none may speak him as blind, in scorn; proud his glances, and dark eyelashes black as beetle, his eyes adorn. well his excellence fame confesses, all through erin his praise is sung; three the hues of his high-piled tresses; beardless yet, and a stripling young. red his blade, it hath late been blooded; shines above it its silver hilt; golden bosses his shield have studded, round its rim the white bronze is spilt. o'er the slain in each slaughter striding, war he seeketh, at risk would snatch: heroes keen in your ranks are riding, none of these is cuchulain's match. from murthemne he comes, we greet him, young cuchulain, the champion strong; we, compelled from afar to meet him, daughters all of aed abra, throng. every tree, as a lordly token, stands all stained with the red blood rain war that demons might wage is woken, wails peal high as he raves again. liban moreover bade a welcome to cuchulain, and she chanted as follows: hail to cuchulain! lord, who canst aid; murthemne ruling, mind undismayed; hero-like, glorious, heart great and still battle-victorious, firm rock of skill; redly he rageth, foemen would face; battle he wageth meet for his race! brilliant his splendour, like maidens' eyes, praises we render: praise shall arise! "tell us now of the deeds thou hast done, o cuchulain! cried liban, and cuchulain in this manner replied to her: from my hand flew a dart, as i made my cast, through the host of stream-yeogan the javelin passed; not at all did i know, though great fame was won, who my victim had been, or what deed was done. whether greater or less was his might than mine i have found not at all, nor can right divine; in a mist was he hid whom my spear would slay, yet i know that he went not with life away. a great host on me closed, and on every side rose around me in hordes the red steeds they ride; from manannan, the son of the sea, came foes, from stream-yeogan to call them a roar arose. and i went to the battle with all at length, when my weakness had passed, and i gat full strength; and alone with three thousands the fight i fought, till death to the foes whom i faced was brought. i heard echaid juil's groan, as he neared his end, the sound came to mine ears as from lips of friend; yet, if truth must be told, 'twas no valiant deed, that cast that i threw, if 'twas thrown indeed. now, after all these things had passed, cuchulain slept with the lady, and he abode for a month in her company, and at the end of the month he came to bid her farewell. "tell me," she said, "to what place i may go for our tryst, and i will be there;" and they made tryst at the strand that is known as the strand of the yew-tree's head. now word was brought to emer of that tryst, and knives were whetted by emer to slay the lady; and she came to the place of the tryst, and fifty women were with her. and there she found, cuchulain and laeg, and they were engaged in the chess-play, so that they perceived not the women's approach. but fand marked it, and she cried out to laeg: "look now, o laeg!" she said, "and mark that sight that i see." "what sight is that of which thou speakest?" said laeg, and he looked and saw it, and thus it was that the lady, even fand, addressed him: laeg! look behind thee! close to thine ear wise, well-ranked women press on us near; bright on each bosom shines the gold clasp; knives, with green edges whetted, they grasp: as for the slaughter chariot chiefs race, comes forgall's daughter; changed is her face. "have no fear," said cuchulain, "no foe shalt thou meet; enter thou my strong car, with its sunny bright seat: i will set thee before me, will guard thee from harm against women, from ulster's four quarters that swarm: though the daughter of forgall the war with thee vows, though her dear foster-sisters against thee she rouse, no deed of destruction bold emer will dare, though she rageth against thee, for i will be there." moreover to emer he said: i avoid thee, o lady, as heroes avoid to meet friends in a strife; the hard spear thy hand shakes cannot injure, nor the blade of thy thin gleaming knife; for the wrath pent within thee that rageth is but weak, nor can cause mine affright: it were hard if the war my might wageth must be quenched by a weak woman's might! "speak! and tell me, cuchulain," cried emer, "why this shame on my head thou wouldst lay? before women of ulster dishonoured i stand, and all women who dwell in the wide irish land, and all folk who love honour beside: though i came on thee, secretly creeping, though oppressed by thy might i remain, and though great is thy pride in the battle, if thou leavest me, naught is thy gain: why, dear youth, such attempt dost thou make? "speak thou, emer, and say," said cuchulain, "should i not with this lady delay? for this lady is fair, pare and bright, and well skilled, a fit mate for a monarch, in beauty fulfilled, and the billows of ocean can ride: she is lovely in countenance, lofty in race, and with handicraft skilled can fine needlework trace, hath a mind that with firmness can guide: and in steeds hath she wealth, and much cattle doth she own; there is naught under sky a dear wife for a spouse should be keeping but that gift with this lady have i: though the vow that i made thee i break, thou shalt ne'er find champion rich, like me, in scars; ne'er such worth, such brilliance, none who wins my wars." "in good sooth," answered emer, "the lady to whom thou dost cling is in no way better than am i myself! yet fair seems all that's red; seems white what's new alone; and bright what's set o'erhead; and sour are things well known! men worship what they lack; and what they have seems weak; in truth thou hast all the wisdom of the time! o youth!" she said, "once we dwelled in honour together, and we would so dwell again, if only i could find favour in thy sight!" and her grief weighed heavily upon her. "by my word," said cuchulain, "thou dost find favour, and thou shalt find it so long as i am in life." "desert me, then!" cried fand. "nay," said emer, "it is more fitting that i should be the deserted one." "not so, indeed," said fand. "it is i who must go, and danger rusheth upon me from afar." and an eagerness for lamentation seized upon fand, and her soul was great within her, for it was shame to her to be deserted and straightway to return to her home; moreover the mighty love that she bare to cuchulain was tumultuous in her, and in this fashion she lamented, and lamenting sang this song: mighty need compels me, i must go my way; fame for others waiteth, would i here could stay! sweeter were it resting guarded by thy power, than to find the marvels in aed abra's bower. emer! noble lady! take thy man to thee: though my arms resign him, longing lives in me. oft in shelters hidden men to seek me came; none could win my trysting, i myself was flame. ah! no maid her longing on a man should set till a love full equal to her own she get. fifty women hither, emer! thou hast brought thou wouldst fand make captive, hast on murder thought. till the day i need them waits, my home within; thrice thy host! fair virgins, these my war shall win. now upon this it was discerned by manannan that fand the daughter of aed abra was engaged in unequal warfare with the women of ulster, and that she was like to be left by cuchulain. and thereon manannan came from the east to seek for the lady, and he was perceived by her, nor was there any other conscious of his presence saving fand alone. and, when she saw manannan, the lady was seized by great bitterness of mind and by grief, and being thus, she made this song: lo! the son of the sea-folk from plains draws near whence yeogan, the stream, is poured; 'tis manannan, of old he to me was dear, and above the fair world we soared. yet to-day, although excellent sounds his cry, no love fills my noble heart, for the pathways of love may be bent awry, its knowledge in vain depart. when i dwelt in the bower of the yeogan stream, at the son of the ocean's side, of a life there unending was then our dream, naught seemed could our love divide. when the comely manannan to wed me came, to me, as a spouse, full meet; not in shame was i sold, in no chessmen's game the price of a foe's defeat. when the comely manannan my lord was made, when i was his equal spouse, this armlet of gold that i bear he paid as price for my marriage vows. through the heather came bride-maids, in garments brave of all colours, two score and ten; and beside all the maidens my bounty gave to my husband a fifty men. four times fifty our host; for no frenzied strife in our palace was pent that throng, where a hundred strong men led a gladsome life, one hundred fair dames and strong. manannan draws near: over ocean he speeds, from all notice of fools is he free; as a horseman he comes, for no vessel he needs who rides the maned waves of the sea. he hath passed near us now, though his visage to view is to all, save to fairies, forbid; every troop of mankind his keen sight searcheth through, though small, and in secret though hid. but for me, this resolve in my spirit shall dwell, since weak, being woman's, my mind; since from him whom so dearly i loved, and so well, only danger and insult i find. i will go! in mine honour unsullied depart, fair cuchulain! i bid thee good-bye; i have gained not the wish that was dear to my heart, high justice compels me to fly. it is flight, this alone that befitteth my state, though to some shall this parting be hard: o thou son of riangabra! the insult was great: not by laeg shall my going be barred. i depart to my spouse; ne'er to strife with a foe shall manannan his consort expose; and, that none may complain that in secret i go, behold him! his form i disclose! then that lady rose behind manannan as he passed, and manannan greeted her: "o lady!" he said, "which wilt thou do? wilt thou depart with me, or abide here until cuchulain comes to thee?" "by my troth," answered fand, "either of the two of ye were a fitting spouse to adhere to; and neither of you two is better than the other; yet, manannan, it is with thee that i go, nor will i wait for cuchulain, for he hath betrayed me; and there is another matter, moreover, that weigheth with me, o thou noble prince!" said she, "and that is that thou hast no consort who is of worth equal to thine, but such a one hath cuchulain already." and cuchulain saw the lady as she went from him to manannan, and he cried out to laeg: "what meaneth this that i see?" "'tis no hard matter to answer thee," said laeg. "fand goeth away with manannan the son of the sea, since she hath not been pleasing in thy sight!" then cuchulain bounded three times high into the air, and he made three great leaps towards the south, and thus he came to tara luachra,[fn#37] and there he abode for a long time, having no meat and no drink, dwelling upon the mountains, and sleeping upon the high-road that runneth through the midst of luachra. then emer went on to emain, and there she sought out king conor, and she told conor of cuchulain's state, and conor sent out his learned men and the people of skill, and the druids of ulster, that they might seek for cuchulain, and might bind him fast, and bring him with them to emain. and cuchulain strove to slay the people of skill, but they chanted wizard and fairy songs against him, and they bound fast his feet and his hands until he came a little to his senses. then he begged for a drink at their hands, and the druids gave him a drink of forgetfulness, so that afterwards he had no more remembrance of fand nor of anything else that he had then done; and they also gave a drink of forgetfulness to emer that she might forget her jealousy, for her state was in no way better than the state of cuchulain. and manannan shook his cloak between cuchulain and fand, so that they might never meet together again throughout eternity. [fn#37] pronounced looch-ra: tara luachra is on the borders of limerick and kerry. the exile of the sons' of usnach introduction the version given in the following pages of the well-known tale of deirdre has been translated from the irish text of the book of leinster version as printed by windisch in irische texte, vol. i. readings from the two parallel texts of the book of lecan, and egerton, 1782, have been used where the leinster text is deficient or doubtful, but the older ms. has in the main been followed, the chief alterations being indicated in the notes. the only english translation hitherto given of this version is the unreliable one in atlantis, vol. iii. there is a german translation in thurneysen's sagen aus dem alten irland which may be consulted for literal renderings of most of the verse portions, which, however, are sometimes nearer the original than thurneysen's renderings. it was at first intended to place beside this version the much better known version of the tale given by the glenn masain manuscript and its variants; but, as this version is otherwise available in english,[fn#38] it has been thought better to omit most of it: a verse translation of deirdre's final lament in this version has, however, been added for the purpose of comparing it with the corresponding lament in the leinster text. these two poems are nearly of the same length, but have no other point in common; the lament in the leinster version strikes the more personal note, and it has been suggested that it shows internal evidence that it must have been written by a woman. the idea of deirdre as a seer, which is so prominent in the glenn masain version of the tale, does not appear in the older leinster text; the supernatural druidic mist, which even in the glenn masain version only appears in the late manuscript which continues the story after the fifteenth-century manuscript breaks off, does not appear in the book of leinster; and the later version introduces several literary artifices that do not appear in the earlier one. that portion of the glenn masain version immediately following after deirdre's lament is given as an instance of one of these, the common artifice of increase of horror at a catastrophe by the introduction of irrelevant matter, the tragedy of deirdre's death being immediately followed by a cheerful account of the relationships of the chief heroes of the heroic period; a still better example of this practice in the old irish literature is the almost comic relief that is introduced at the most tragic part of the tale of the murder of the son of ronan. [fn#38] see irische texte, vol. ii., and the celtic review, vol. i. 1904-1905. the exile of the sons of usnach book of leinster version in the house of feidlimid,[fn#39] the son of dall, even he who was the narrator of stories to conor the king, the men of ulster sat at their ale; and before the men, in order to attend upon them, stood the wife of feidlimid, and she was great with child. round about the board went drinking-horns, and portions of food; and the revellers shouted in their drunken mirth. and when the men desired to lay themselves down to sleep, the woman also went to her couch; and, as she passed through the midst of the house, the child cried out in her womb, so that its shriek was heard throughout the whole house, and throughout the outer court that lay about it. and upon that shriek, all the men sprang up; and, head closely packed by head, they thronged together in the house, whereupon sencha, the son of ailill, rebuked them: "let none of you stir!" cried he, "and let the woman be brought before us, that we may learn what is the meaning of that cry." then they brought the woman before them, and thus spoke to her feidlimid, her spouse: what is that, of all cries far the fiercest, in thy womb raging loudly and long? through all ears with that clamour thou piercest; with that scream, from bides swollen and strong: of great woe, for that cry, is foreboding my heart; that is torn through with terror, and sore with the smart. [fn#39] pronounced feylimid. then the woman turned her, and she approached cathbad[fn#40] the druid, for he was a man of knowledge, and thus she spoke to him: [fn#40] pronounced cah-ba. give thou ear to me, cathbad, thou fair one of face, thou great crown of our honour, and royal in race; let the man so exalted still higher be set, let the druid draw knowledge, that druids can get. for i want words of wisdom, and none can i fetch; nor to felim a torch of sure knowledge can stretch: as no wit of a woman can wot what she bears, i know naught of that cry from within me that tears. and then said cathbad: 'tis a maid who screamed wildly so lately, fair and curling shall locks round her flow, and her eyes be blue-centred and stately; and her cheeks, like the foxglove, shall glow. for the tint of her skin, we commend her, in its whiteness, like snow newly shed; and her teeth are all faultless in splendour and her lips, like to coral, are red: a fair woman is she, for whom heroes, that fight in their chariots for ulster, to death shall be dight. 'tis a woman that shriek who hath given, golden-haired, with long tresses, and tall; for whose love many chiefs shall have striven, and great kings for her favours shall call. to the west she shall hasten, beguiling a great host, that from ulster shall steal: red as coral, her lips shall be smiling, as her teeth, white as pearls, they reveal: aye, that woman is fair, and great queens shall be fain of her form, that is faultless, unflawed by a stain. then cathbad laid his hand upon the body of the woman; and the little child moved beneath his hand: "aye, indeed," he said, "it is a woman child who is here: deirdre shall be her name, and evil woe shall be upon her." now some days after that came the girl child into the world; and then thus sang cathbad: o deirdre! of ruin great cause thou art; though famous, and fair, and pale: ere that felim's hid daughter from life shall part, all ulster her deeds shall wail. aye, mischief shall come, in the after-time, thou fair shining maid, for thee; hear ye this: usna's sons, the three chiefs sublime, to banishment forced shall be. while thou art in life, shall a fierce wild deed in emain, though late, be done: later yet, it shall mourn it refused to heed the guard of rog's powerful son. o lady of worth! it is to thee we owe that fergus to exile flies; that a son of king conor we hail in woe, when fiachna[fn#41] is hurt, and dies. o lady of worth! it is all thine the guilt! gerrc, illadan's son, is slain; and when eogan mac doorha's great life is spilt, not less shall be found our pain. grim deed shalt thou do, and in wrath shalt rave against glorious ulster's king: in that spot shall men dig thee thy tiny grave; of deirdre they long shall sing. [fn#41] pronounced feena. "let that maiden be slain!" cried out the young men of ulster; but "not so!" said conor; "she shall in the morning be brought to me, and shall be reared according to my will, and she shall be my wife, and in my companionship shall she dwell." the men of ulster were not so hardy as to turn him from his purpose, and thus it was done. the maiden was reared in a house that belonged to conor, and she grew up to be the fairest maid in all ireland. she was brought up at a distance from the king's court; so that none of the men of ulster might see her till the time came when she was to share the royal couch: none of mankind was permitted to enter the house where she was reared, save only her foster-father, and her foster-mother; and in addition to these levorcham, to whom naught could any refuse, for she was a witch. now once it chanced upon a certain day in the time of winter that the foster-father of deirdre had employed himself in skinning a calf upon the snow, in order to prepare a roast for her, and the blood of the calf lay upon the snow, and she saw a black raven who came down to drink it. and "levorcham," said deirdre, "that man only will i love, who hath the three colours that i see here, his hair as black as the raven, his cheeks red like the blood, and his body as white as the snow." "dignity and good fortune to thee!" said levorcham; "that man is not far away. yonder is he in the burg which is nigh; and the name of him is naisi, the son of usnach." "i shall never be in good health again," said deirdre, "until the time come when i may see him." it befell that naisi was upon a certain day alone upon the rampart of the burg of emain, and he sent his warrior-cry with music abroad: well did the musical cry ring out that was raised by the sons of usnach. each cow and every beast that heard them, gave of milk two-thirds more than its wont; and each man by whom that cry was heard deemed it to be fully joyous, and a dear pleasure to him. goodly moreover was the play that these men made with their weapons; if the whole province of ulster had been assembled together against them in one place, and they three only had been able to set their backs against one another, the men of ulster would not have borne away victory from those three: so well were they skilled in parry and defence. and they were swift of foot when they hunted the game, and with them it was the custom to chase the quarry to its death. now when this naisi found himself alone on the plain, deirdre also soon escaped outside her house to him, and she ran past him, and at first he know not who she might be. "fair is the young heifer that springs past me!" he cried. "well may the young heifers be great," she said, "in a place where none may find a bull." "thou hast, as thy bull," said he, "the bull of the whole province of ulster, even conor the king of ulster." "i would choose between you two," she said, "and i would take for myself a younger bull, even such as thou art." "not so indeed," said naisi, "for i fear the prophecy of cathbad." "sayest thou this, as meaning to refuse me?" said she. "yea indeed," he said; and she sprang upon him, and she seized him by his two ears. "two ears of shame and of mockery shalt thou have," she cried, "if thou take me not with thee." "release me, o my wife!" said he. "that will i." then naisi raised his musical warrior-cry, and the men of ulster heard it, and each of them one after another sprang up: and the sons of usnach hurried out in order to hold back their brother. "what is it," they said, "that thou dost? let it not be by any fault of thine that war is stirred up between us and the men of ulster." then he told them all that had been done; and "there shall evil come on thee from this," said they; "moreover thou shalt lie under the reproach of shame so long as thou dost live; and we will go with her into another land, for there is no king in all ireland who will refuse us welcome if we come to him." then they took counsel together, and that same night they departed, three times fifty warriors, and the same number of women, and dogs, and servants, and deirdre went with them. and for a long time they wandered about ireland, in homage to this man or that; and often conor sought to slay them, either by ambuscade or by treachery; from round about assaroe, near to ballyshannon in the west, they journeyed, and they turned them back to benn etar, in the north-east, which men to-day call the mountain of howth. nevertheless the men of ulster drave them from the land, and they came to the land of alba, and in its wildernesses they dwelled. and when the chase of the wild beasts of the mountains failed them, they made foray upon the cattle of the men of alba, and took them for themselves; and the men of alba gathered themselves together with intent to destroy them. then they took shelter with the king of alba, and the king took them into his following, and they served him in war. and they made for themselves houses of their own in the meadows by the king's burg: it was on account of deirdre that these houses were made, for they feared that men might see her, and that on her account they might be slain. now one day the high-steward of the king went out in the early morning, and he made a cast about naisi's house, and saw those two sleeping therein, and he hurried back to the king, and awaked him: "we have," said he, "up to this day found no wife for thee of like dignity to thyself. naisi the son of usnach hath a wife of worth sufficient for the emperor of the western world! let naisi be slain, and let his wife share thy couch." "not so!" said the king, "but do thou prepare thyself to go each day to her house, and woo her for me secretly." thus was it done; but deirdre, whatsoever the steward told her, was accustomed straightway to recount it each even to her spouse; and since nothing was obtained from her, the sons of usnach were sent into dangers, and into wars, and into strifes that thereby they might be overcome. nevertheless they showed themselves to be stout in every strife, so that no advantage did the king gain from them by such attempts as these. the men of alba were gathered together to destroy the sons of usnach, and this also was told to deirdre. and she told her news to naisi: "depart hence!" said she, "for if ye depart not this night, upon the morrow ye shall he slain!" and they marched away that night, and they betook themselves to an island of the sea. now the news of what had passed was brought to the men of ulster. "'tis pity, o conor!" said they, "that the sons of usnach should die in the land of foes, for the sake of an evil woman. it is better that they should come under thy protection,[fn#42] and that the (fated) slaying should be done here, and that they should come into their own land, rather than that they should fall at the hands of foes." "let them come to us then," said conor, "and let men go as securities to them." the news was brought to them. [fn#42] literally, "it is better their protection, and their slaying, and coming for them to their own land, &c." if this reading is right (and three mss. agree), the extended words of the text seem to give the intention: it is, however, possible that the reading should be, "it is better their protection than their slaying" (oldaas for ocus), which would make sense at once. the idea of the text seems to be that the sons of usnach were, owing to cathbad's prophecy, thought of as fated men; and it was only a question where they should be put to death. "this is welcome news for us," they said; "we will indeed come, and let fergus come as our surety, and dubhtach, and cormac the son of conor." these then went to them, and they moved them to pass over the sea. but at the contrivance of conor, fergus was pressed to join in an ale-feast, while the sons of usnach were pledged to eat no food in erin, until they had eaten the food of conor. so fergus tarried behind with dubhtach and cormac; and the sons of usnach went on, accompanied by fiacha, fergus' son; until they came to the meadows around emain. now at that time eogan the son of durthacht had come to emain to make his peace with conor, for they had for a long time been at enmity; and to him, and to the warmen of conor, the charge was given that they should slay the sons of usnach, in order that they should not come before the king. the sons of usnach stood upon the level part of. the meadows, and the women sat upon the ramparts of emain. and eogan came with his warriors across the meadow, and the son of fergus took his place by naisi's side. and eogan greeted them with a mighty thrust of his spear, and the spear brake naisi's back in sunder, and passed through it. the son of fergus made a spring, and he threw both arms around naisi, and he brought him beneath himself to shelter him, while he threw himself down above him; and it was thus that naisi was slain, through the body of the son of fergus. then there began a murder throughout the meadow, so that none escaped who did not fall by the points of the spears, or the edge of the sword, and deirdre was brought to conor to be in his power, and her arms were bound behind her back. now the sureties who had remained behind, heard what had been done, even fergus and dubhtach, and cormac. and thereon they hastened forward, and they forthwith performed great deeds. dubhtach slew, with the one thrust of his spear, mane a son of conor, and fiachna the son of feidelm, conor's daughter; and fergus struck down traigthren, the son of traiglethan, and his brother. and conor was wrath at this, and he came to the fight with them; so that upon that day three hundred of the men of ulster fell and dubhtach slew the women of ulster; and, ere the day dawned, fergus set emain on fire. then they went away into exile, and betook them to the land of connaught to find shelter with ailill and maev, for they knew that that royal pair would give them good entertainment. to the men of ulster the exiles showed no love: three thousand stout men went with them; and for sixteen years never did they allow cries of lamentation and of fear among the ulstermen to cease: each night their vengeful forays caused men to quake, and to wail. deirdre lived on for a year in the household of conor; and during all that time she smiled no smile of laughter; she satisfied not herself with food or with sleep, and she raised not her head from her knee. and if any one brought before her people of mirth, she used to speak thus: though eager troops, and fair to see,[fn#43] may home return, though these ye wait: when usna's sons came home to me, they came with more heroic state. with hazel mead, my naisi stood: and near our fire his bath i'd pour; on aindle's stately back the wood; on ardan's ox, or goodly boar. though sweet that goodly mead ye think that warlike conor drinks in hall, i oft have known a sweeter drink, where leaps in foam the waterfall: our board was spread beneath the tree, and naisi raised the cooking flame: more sweet than honey-sauced to me was meat, prepared from naisi's game. [fn#43] a literal rendering of this poem will be found in the notes, p. 187. though well your horns may music blow, though sweet each month your pipes may sound, i fearless say, that well i know a sweeter strain i oft have found. though horns and pipes be sounding clear, though conor's mind in these rejoice, more magic strain, more sweet, more dear was usna's children's noble voice. like sound of wave, rolled naisi's bass; we'd hear him long, so sweet he sang: and ardan's voice took middle place; and clearly aindle's tenor rang. now naisi lies within his tomb: a sorry guard his friends supplied; his kindred poured his cup of doom, that poisoned cup, by which he died. ah! berthan dear! thy lands are fair; thy men are proud, though hills be stern: alas! to-day i rise not there to wait for usna's sons' return. that firm, just mind, so loved, alas! the dear shy youth, with touch of scorn, i loved with him through woods to pass, and girding in the early morn. when bent on foes, they boded ill, those dear grey eyes, that maids adored; when, spent with toil, his troops lay still, through irish woods his tenor soared. for this it is, no more i sleep; no more my nails with pink i stain: no joy can break the watch i keep; for usna's sons come not again. for half the night no sleep i find; no couch can me to rest beguile: 'mid crowds of thoughts still strays my mind; i find no time to eat or smile. in eastern emain's proud array no time to joy is left for me; for gorgeous house, and garments gay, nor peace, nor joy, nor rest can be. and when conor sought to soothe her; thus deirdre would answer him: ah conor! what of thee! i naught can do! lament and sorrow on my life have passed: the ill you fashioned lives my whole life through; a little time your love for me would last. the man to me most fair beneath the sky, the man i loved, in death away you tore: the crime you did was great; for, till i die, that face i loved i never shall see more. that he is gone is all my sorrow still; before me looms the shape of usna's son; though o'er his body white is yon dark hill, there's much i'd lavish, if but him i won. i see his cheeks, with meadow's blush they glow; black as a beetle, runs his eyebrows' line; his lips are red; and, white as noble snow i see his teeth, like pearls they seem to shine. well have i known the splendid garb he bears, oft among alba's warriors seen of old: a crimson mantle, such as courtier wears, and edged with border wrought of ruddy gold. of silk his tunic; great its costly price; for full one hundred pearls thereon are sewn; stitched with findruine,[fn#44] bright with strange device, full fifty ounces weighed those threads alone. gold-hilted in his hand i see his sword; two spears he holds, with spear-heads grim and green; around his shield the yellow gold is poured, and in its midst a silver boss is seen. fair fergus ruin on us all hath brought! we crossed the ocean, and to him gave heed: his honour by a cup of ale was bought; from him hath passed the fame of each high deed. if ulster on this plain were gathered here before king conor; and those troops he'd give, i'd lose them all, nor think the bargain dear, if i with naisi, usna's son, could live. break not, o king, my heart to-day in me; for soon, though young, i come my grave unto: my grief is stronger than the strength of sea; thou, conor, knowest well my word is true. "whom dost thou hate the most," said conor, "of these whom thou now seest?" "thee thyself," she answered, "and with thee eogan the son of durthacht." [fn#44] pronounced find-roony; usually translated "white bronze." "then," said conor, "thou shalt dwell with eogan for a year;" and he gave deirdre over into eogan's hand. now upon the morrow they went away over the festal plain of macha, and deirdre sat behind eogan in the chariot; and the two who were with her were the two men whom she would never willingly have seen together upon the earth, and as she looked upon them, "ha, deirdre," said conor, "it is the same glance that a ewe gives when between two rams that thou sharest now between me and eogan!" now there was a great rock of stone in front of them, and deirdre struck her head upon that stone, and she shattered her head, and so she died. this then is the tale of the exile of the sons of usnach, and of the exile of fergus, and of the death of deirdre. the lament of deirdre over the sons of usnach according to the glenn masain version also the conclusion of the tale from the same version i grieved not, usna's sons beside; but long, without them, lags the day: their royal sire no guest denied; three lions from cave hill were they. three dragons bred in mona's fort are dead: to them from life i go; three chiefs who graced the red branch court, three rocks, who broke the rush of foe. o loved by many a british maid! o swift as hawks round gullion's peak! true sons of king, who warriors swayed, to whom bent chiefs in homage meek. no vassal look those champions wore; full grief is mine that such should die! those sons, whom cathbad's daughter bore; those props, who cualgne's[fn#45] war held high. [fn#45] pronounced kell-ny. three bears of might, to war they came; from oona's walls, like lions, burst; three hero-chiefs, who loved their fame; three sons, on ulster's bosom nursed. twas aife[fn#46] reared them; 'neath her yoke a kingdom bowed, and tribute brought; they propped the war, when armies broke, those foster-sons, whom scathach[fn#47] taught. the three, who once from bohvan's skill all feats have learned that heroes know; king usna's glorious sons! 'tis ill that these afar from me should go. that i should live, with naisi dead, let none such shame believe of me; when ardan's life, when ainnle's fled, but short my life i knew would be. great ulster's king my hand had won; i left him, naisi's love to find; till naisi's funeral rites be done, i wait a little while behind. this widowed life no more i'll bear; the three rejoiced, when toil they faced; where'er 'twas found, the war they'd dare, and proffered fight with joy embraced. a curse on cathbad's wizard spell! 'twas naisi's death! and i the cause! none came to aid that king, who well to all the world might grant his laws. [fn#46] pronounced eefa. [fn#47] pronounced ska-ha. o man, who diggest low the grave, and from my sight my love would hide, make wide the tomb; its room i crave, i come to seek my hero's side. great load of hardship i'd endure with joy, if yet those heroes my companions were; no lack of house or fire could then annoy, no gloom i'd know with them, nor aught of care. ah! many a time each shield and guardian spear to make my couch have piled those noble three: o labouring man, their grave who diggest here, their hardened swords above well set should be. the hounds of all the three their masters lack, their hawks no quarry leave, nor hear their call; the three are dead, who battle's line held back who learned their skill in conall cernach's hall! their hounds i view; from out my heart that sight hath struck a groan; behind their leashes trail, 'twas mine to hold them once, and keep them tight;, now slack they lie, and cause me thus to wail. oft in the desert i and they have strayed, yet never lonely was that desert known for all the three a grave to-day is made, and here i sit, and feel indeed alone. i gazed on naisi's grave, and now am blind, for naught remains to see; the worst is spent; my soul must leave me soon, no help i find, and they are gone, the folk of my lament. 'twas guile that crushed them: they would save my life and died therefor; themselves three billows strong: ere usna's children fell in cruel strife, would i had died, and earth had held me long! to red-branch hall we made our mournful way; deceitful fergus led; our lives he stole; a soft sweet speech indeed he'd learned to say, for me, for them was ruin near that goal. all ulster's pleasures now are nothing worth i shun them all, each chief, each ancient friend; alone i sit, as left behind on earth, and soon my lonely life in death shall end. i am deirdre, the joyless, for short time alive, though to end life be evil, 'tis worse to survive. and, after she had made this lament, deirdre seated herself in the tomb, and she gave three kisses to naisi before that he was laid in his grave; and with heaviness and grief cuchulain went on to dun delga. and cathbad the druid laid a curse upon emain macha to take vengeance for that great evil, and he said that, since that treachery had been done, neither king conor nor any other of his race should hold that burg. and as for fergus, the son of rossa the red, he came to emain macha on the morrow after the sons of usnach had been slain. and, when he found that they had been slain, and that his pledge had been dishonoured, he himself, and cormac the partner of exile, king conor's own son, also dubhtach, the beetle of ulster, and the armies they had with them, gave battle to the household of conor; and they slew maine the son of conor, and three hundred of conor's people besides. and emain macha was destroyed, and burned by them, and conor's women were slain, and they collected their adherents on every side; the number of their host was three thousand warriors. and they went away to the land of connaught, even to ailill the great, who was the king of connaught at that time, and to maev of croghan, and with them they found a welcome and support. moreover fergus and cormac the partner of exile and their warriors, after that they had come to the land of connaught, never let pass one single night wherein reavers went not forth from them to harry and burn the land of ulster, so that the district which men to-day call the land of cualgne was subdued by them; and from that in the after-time came between the two kingdoms much of trouble and theft; and in this fashion they spent seven years, or, as some say, ten years; nor was there any truce between them, no, not for one single hour. and while those deeds were doing, deirdre abode by conor in his household for a whole year after the sons of usnach had been slain. and, though it might have seemed but a small thing for her to raise her head, or to let laughter flow over her lips, yet she never did these things during all that time. and when conor saw that neither sport nor kindness could hold her; and that neither jesting nor pleasing honour could raise her spirits, he sent word to eogan the son of durthacht, the lord of fernmay;[fn#48] as some tell the story, it was this eogan who had slain naisi in emain macha. and after that eogan had come to the place where conor was, conor gave command to deirdre that, since he himself had failed to turn her heart from her grief, she must depart to eogan, and spend another space of time with him. and with that she was placed behind eogan in his chariot, and conor went also in the chariot in order to deliver deirdre into eogan's hand. and as they went on their way, she cast a fierce glance at eogan in front of her, and another at conor behind her; for there was nothing in all the world that she hated more than those two men. and when conor saw this, as he looked at her and at eogan, he said: "ah deirdre! it is the glance of a ewe when set between two rams that thou castest on me and on eogan!" and when deirdre heard that, she sprang up, and she made a leap out of the chariot, and she struck her head against the stony rocks that were in front of her, and she shattered her head so that the brains leapt out, and thus came to deirdre her death. [fn#48] the irish is fernmag; written fearnmhuidh in the late manuscript of this part of the tale. this is the tree of their race, and an account of the kinships of some of the champions of the red branch, which is given here before we proceed to speak of the deeds of cuchulain: 'twas cathbad first won magach's love, and arms around her threw; from maelchro's loins, the battle chief, his princely source he drew; two, more in love she knew, of these the wrath was long and dread, fierce rossa, named the ruddy-faced, and carbre, thatched with red. to all the three were children born, and all with beauty graced, to cathbad, and to carbre red, and rossa ruddy-faced; a gracious three indeed were they to whom she gave her love, fair magach, brown the lashes were that slept her eyes above. three sons to rossa ruddy-faced as children magach bore; to carbre sons again she gave, the count of these was four; and three white shoots of grace were hers, on these no shame shall fall; to cathbad children three she bare, and these were daughters all. to cathbad, who in wizard lore and all its arts had might, three daughters lovely magach bore, each clothed in beauty white; all maids who then for grace were famed in grace those maids surpassed, and finuchoem,[fn#49] ailbhe twain he named, and deithchim named the last. [fn#49] pronounced finn-hoom, ail-vy, and die-himm. to finnchoem, wizard cathbad's child, was born a glorious son, and well she nursed him, conall wild, who every field hath won; and ailbhe glorious children bare in whom no fear had place, these ardan, ainnle, naisi were, who came of usnach's race. a son to deithchim fair was born, a bright-cheeked mother she; she bore but one: cuchulain of dun delga's hold was he: of those whom cathbad's daughters reared the names full well ye know, and none of these a wound hath feared, or therefore shunned a foe. the sons of usnach, who like shields their friends protected well, by might of hosts on battle-field to death were borne, and fell; and each was white of skin, and each his friends in love would hold, now naught remains for song to teach, the third of griefs is told. the combat at the ford introduction this version of the "combat at the ford," the best-known episode of the irish romance or romantic epic, the "war of cualnge," will hardly be, by irish scholars, considered to want a reference. it is given in the book of leinster, which cannot have been written later than 1150 a.d., and differs in many respects from the version in the fourteenth-century book of lecan, which is, for the purposes of this text, at least equal in authority to the leabbar na h-uidhri, which must have been written before 1100 a.d. mr. alfred nutt has kindly contributed a note on the comparison of the two versions, which has been placed as a special note at the end of the translation of the "combat." to this note may be added the remark that the whole of the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "war of cualnge" seems, to be subject to the same criticisms that have to be passed on the "sickbed" and the "courtship of etain" in the same volume, viz. that it is a compilation from two or three different versions of the same story, and is not a connected and consistent romance, which the version in the book of leinster appears to be. as an illustration of this, the appearance of conall cernach as on the side of connaught in the early part of the l.u. version may be mentioned; he is never so represented in other versions of the "war." in the description of the array of ulster at the end of l.u., he is noted as being expected to be with the ulster army but as absent (following in this the book of leinster, but not a later manuscript which agrees with the book of leinster in the main); then at the end of the l.u. version conall again appears in the connaught army and saves conor from fergus, taking the place of cormac in the book of leinster version. miss faraday, in her version of the "war" as given in l.u., notes the change of style at page 82 of her book. several difficulties similar to that of the position of conall could be mentioned; and on the whole it seems as if the compiler of the manuscript from which both the leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan were copied, combined into one several different descriptions of the "war," one of which is represented by the book of leinster version. this version shows no signs of patchwork, at any rate in the story of the "combat at the ford;" which has, ever since it was reintroduced to the world by o'curry, been renowned for the chivalry of its action. it forms one of the books of aubrey de vere's "foray of queen meave," and is there well reproduced, although with several additions; perhaps sufficient attention has not. been paid to the lofty position of the character, as distinguished from the prowess, that this version gives to cuchulain. the first verse, put in cuchulain's mouth, strikes a new note, contrasting alike with the muddle-headed bargaining of ferdia and maev, and the somewhat fussy anxiety of fergus. the contrast between the way in which cuchulain receives fergus's report of the valour of ferdia, and that in which ferdia receives the praises of cuchulain from his charioteer, is well worked out; cuchulain, conscious of his own strength, accepts all fergus's praises of his opponent and adds to them; ferdia cannot bear to hear of cuchulain's valour, and charges his servant with taking a bribe from his enemy in order to frighten him. ferdia boasts loudly of what he will do, cuchulain apologises for his own confidence in the issue of the combat, and gently banters fergus, who is a bit of a boaster himself, on the care he had taken to choose the time for the war when king conor was away, with a modest implication that he himself was a poor substitute for the king. cuchulain's first two stanzas in the opening dialogue between himself and ferdia show a spirit quite as truculent as that of his opponent; the reason of this being, as indicated in the first of these stanzas and more explicitly stated in the preceding prose, that his anxiety for his country is outweighing his feeling for his friend; but in the third stanza he resumes the attitude of conscious strength that marks all his answers to fergus; and this, added to a feeling of pity for his friend's inevitable fate, is maintained up to the end of the tale. in the fourth stanza, which is an answer to a most insulting speech from ferdia, he makes the first of those appeals to his former friend to abandon his purpose that come from him throughout the first three days of the fight; even in the fatal battle of the fourth day, he will not at first put forward all his strength, and only uses the irresistible gae-bulg when driven to it by his foe. the number of cuchulain's laments after the battle--there are five of these (one in prose), besides his answers to laeg--has been adversely criticised; and it is just possible that one or more of these come from some other version, and have been incorporated by a later hand than that of the author; but the only one that seems to me not to develop the interest is the "brooch of gold," which it may be noticed is very like the only lament which is preserved in the book of lecan text of the l.u. version. cuchulain's allusion to aife's only son in the first verse lament is especially noticeable (see note, p. 196). ferdia's character, although everywhere inferior to that of his victor, is also a heroic one; he is represented at the commencement of the episode as undertaking the fight for fear of disgrace if he refused; and this does appear to be represented throughout as the true reason; his early boasts and taunts are obviously intended to conquer a secret uneasiness, and the motif of a passion for finnabar with which cuchulain charges him hardly appears outside cuchulain's speeches, and has not the importance given to it in the leabhar na h-uidhri version. the motif of resentment against cuchulain for a fancied insult, invented by maev, which is given in the l.u. version as the determining cause, does not appear in the leinster version at all; and that of race enmity of the firbolg against the celt, given to him by aubrey de vere, is quite a modern idea and is in none of the old versions. his dialogue with maev suggests that, as stated in the text, he was then slightly intoxicated; his savage language to his servant gives the idea of a man who feels himself in the wrong and makes himself out to be worse than he is by attributing to himself the worst motives, the hope of pay; but as the battle proceeds he shows himself equal to cuchulain in generosity, and in the dialogue at the beginning of the third day's fight his higher character comes out, for while his old boastfulness appears in one passage of it, and is immediately repressed, the language of both heroes in this dialogue is noticeable for a true spirit of chivalry. the mutual compliments, "thy kingly might," "fair graceful hound" "gently ruling hound" recall the french "beausire"; it may be also noted that these compliments are paid even when ferdia is protesting against cuchulain's reproaches; similar language is used elsewhere, as "much thine arms excel" (page 122), and "cuchulain for beautiful feats renowned" (page 134). it may be considered that these passages are an indication that the episode is late, but it should be noticed that the very latest date that can possibly be assigned to it, the eleventh century, precedes that of all other known romances of chivalry by at least a hundred years. to this later attitude of ferdia, and to that maintained by cuchulain throughout the whole episode, nothing in french or welsh romance of approximately so early a date can be compared. is it not possible that the chivalric tone of the later welsh romances, like the "lady of the fountain," which is generally supposed to have come from france, really came from an irish model? and that this tone, together with the arthurian saga, passed to the continent? a great contrast to both the two heroes is afforded by the introduction of laeg with his cries of exultation, which come between the dying groans of ferdia and the fine prose lament of cuchulain, increasing the effect of both. laeg seems quite unable to see his master's point of view, and he serves as a foil for ferdia, just as the latter's inferiority increases the character of cuchulain. the consistency of the whole, and the way in which our sympathy is awakened for ferdia contrast with the somewhat disconnected character of the l.u. version, which as it stands gives a poor idea of the defeated champion; although, as mr. nutt suggests, the lost part may have improved this idea, and the version has beauties of its own. for the convenience of those readers who may be unacquainted with the story of the war, the following short introduction is given:-at a time given by the oldest irish annalists as a.d. 29, the war of cualnge was undertaken by maev, queen of connaught, against the kingdom or province of ulster. gathering together men from all the other four provinces of ireland, maev marched against ulster, the leaders of her army being herself, her husband ailill, and fergus the son of rog, an exile from ulster, and formerly, according to one account, king of that province. not only had maev great superiority in force, but the time she ed chosen for the war was when conor, king of ulster, and with him nearly all his principal warriors, were on their sick-bed in accordance with a curse that had fallen on them in return for a cruel deed that he and his people had done. one hero however, cuchulain, the greatest of the ulster heroes, was unaffected by this curse; and he, with only a few followers, but with supernatural aid from demi-gods of whose race he came, had caused much loss to the queen and her army, so that maev finally made this compact: she was each day to provide a champion to oppose cuchulain, and was to be permitted to advance so long as that combat lasted; if her champion was killed, she was to halt her army until the next morning. before the combat at the ford between cuchulain and ferdia, cuchulain had killed many of maev's champions in duel, and the epic romance of the "war of cualnge" gives the full story of these combats and of the end of the war. the episode given in the following pages commences at the camp of queen maev, where her chiefs are discussing who is to be their champion against cuchulain on the following day. the combat at the ford an episode of the cattle spoil of cualnge in the book of leinster version at that time debate was held among the men of ireland who should be the man to go early in the morning of the following day to make combat and fight with cuchulain. and all agreed that ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dire, was the man who should go; even the great and valiant champion of the men of irross donnand, for the manner in which he fought and did battle was like to the manner of cuchulain. they had got their skill in arms, and valour, and bravery from the same teachers, from scathach, from uathach, and from aife[fn#50]; nor had either of them advantage over the other except that cuchulain alone could perform the feat of the gae-bulg. yet ferdia was fenced by a horny skin-protecting armour, and this should guard him when he faced a hero in battle and combat at the ford. so to ferdia were sent messengers and heralds; but ferdia denied the heralds, and he refused to depart with them, for well he knew why it was he was called; even to fight against his own friend, his comrade and fellow-pupil cuchulain; and for that cause he came not with the heralds who were sent. [fn#50] pronounced scaha, ooha, and eefa: scaha and ooha end with a slight guttural like the ch in the scotch lock, difficult to express in english. and then did maev send to ferdia druids, and satirists and revilers, in order that against him should be made three crushing reproaches, and three satires; that the stains of shame, and of blemish, and of disgrace should be raised on his face; so that even if he died not at once, death should be his within the space of nine days if he went with them not. and for the sake of his honour, ferdia came at their call; for to him it was better to fall before the shafts of valour, of bravery, and of daring than by the stings of satire, of abuse, and of reproach. and he, when he arrived, was received with all worship and service, and was served with pleasant, sweet intoxicating liquor, so that his brain reeled, and he became gently merry. and these were the great rewards that were promised to him if he consented to make that combat and fight: a chariot of the value of four times seven cumals, and the equipment of twelve men with garments of all colours, and the length and breadth of his own territory on the choice part of the plains of maw ay; free of tribute, without purchase, free from the incidents of attendance at courts and of military service, that therein his son, and his grandson, and all his descendants might dwell in safety to the end of life and time; also finnabar the daughter of maev as his wedded wife, and the golden brooch which was in the cloak of queen maev in addition to all this. and thus ran the speech of maev, and she spake these words, and thus did ferdia reply: maev of rings great treasure sending,[fn#51] wide plains and woodlands bending i grant: till time hath ending i free thy tribe and kin. o thou who oft o'ercamest! 'tis thine what gift thou namest! why hold'st thou back, nor claimest a boon that all would win? [fn#51] the metre of this dialogue and rhyme-system are taken from the irish but one syllable has been added to each line. the exact irish metre is that given on page 129. ferdia a bond must hold thee tightly, no force i lend thee lightly; dread strife 'twill be; for rightly he bears that name of "hound." for sharp spear-combat breaketh that morn; hard toil it waketh the war cuchulain maketh shall fearless war be found. maev our chiefs, with oaths the gravest, shall give the pledge thou cravest; for thee, of all men bravest, brave bridled steeds shall stand. from tax my word hath freed thee, to hostings none shall lead thee, as bosom friend i need thee, as first in all the land. ferdia mere words are naught availing if oaths to bind be failing; that wondrous ford-fight hailing, all time its tale shall greet: though sun, moon, sea for ever and earth from me i sever; though death i win--yet never, unpledged, that war i'll meet. maev these kings and chiefs behind me their oaths shall pledge to bind me: with boundless wealth thou'lt find me, with wealth too great to pay. 'tis thou who oaths delayest; 'tis done whate'er thou sayest; for well i know thou slayest the foe who comes to slay. ferdia ere thou to slaughter lure me, six champions' oaths procure me; till these rewards assure me i meet, for thee, no foe: if six thou grant as gages, i'll face the war he wages, and where cuchulain rages, a lesser chief, i go. maev in chariots donnal raceth, fierce strife wild neeman faceth, their halls the bards' song graceth, yet these in troth i bind. firm pledge morand is making, none carpri min knew breaking his troth: thine oath he's taking; two sons to pledge i find. ferdia much poison, maev, inflameth thy heart; no smile thee tameth but well the land thee nameth proud queen of croghan's hold; thy power no man can measure; 'tis i will do thy pleasure; now send thy silken treasure, thy silver gifts, and gold. maev this brooch, as champion's token, i give of troth unbroken; all words my lips have spoken performed shall sunday see. thou glorious chief, who darest this fight, i give thee rarest of gifts on earth, and fairest, yea greater meed shall be. for findabar my daughter; all elgga's chiefs have sought her; when thou that hound shalt slaughter, i give in love to thee. and then did maev bind ferdia in an easy task; that on the next day he was to come to combat and fight with six of her champions, or to make duel against cuchulain; whichever of the two he should think the easier. and ferdia on his side bound her by a condition that seemed to him easy for her to fulfil: even that she should lay it upon those same six champions to see to it that all those things she had promised to him should be fulfilled, in case cuchulain should meet death at ferdia's hand. thereupon fergus caused men to harness for him his horses, and his chariot was yoked, and he went to that place where cuchulain was that he might tell him what had passed, and cuchulain bade him welcome. i am rejoiced at your coming, o my good friend fergus," said cuchulain. and i gladly accept thy welcome, o my pupil," said fergus. but i have now come hither in order to tell thee who that man is who comes to combat and fight with thee early on the morning of the day which is at hand." "we shall give all heed to thy words," said cuchulain. "'tis thine own friend," said fergus, "thy companion, and thy fellow pupil; thine equal in feats and in deeds and in valour: even ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare, the great and valiant champion of the men of irross donnan." "truly," said cuchulain, "i make mine oath to thee that i am sorry that my friend should come to such a duel." "therefore," said fergus, "it behoves thee to be wary and prepared, for unlike to all those men who have come to combat and fight with thee upon the tain be cuailgne is ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare." "i have stood here," said cuchulain, "detaining and delaying the men of the four great provinces of ireland since the first monday in samhain (november) till the beginning of the spring, and not one foot have i gone back before any one man during all that time, nor shall i, as i trust, yield before him." and in this manner did fergus continue to put him on his guard, and these were the words that he spoke, and thus did cuchulain reply: fergus rise, cuchulain! foes are near,[fn#52] all their covenant is clear; daman's ruddy son in rage comes the war with thee to wage. [fn#52] the metre is that of the irish; a literal rendering of the whole dialogue is given in the notes, p. 191. cuchulain here i stand, whose valiant toil erin's bands held back from spoil; never a foot of ground they won, never a foe they found me shun. fergus fierce is he in rage; his trust in his blade's deep searching thrust: plates of horn protect his side, pierced by none his strength who tried. cuchulain fergus, much thine arms excel; cease, this tale no longer tell land is none, nor battle-field where to his my strength must yield. fergus he is fierce, with scores can fight, spear nor sword can on him bite; from that strength, a hundred's match, hard 'twill be the prize to snatch. cuchulain yea! ferdia's power i know; how from foughten field we go; how was fought our piercing war, bards shall tell to ages far. fergus loss of much i'd little mourn could i hear how, eastward borne, great cuchulain's bloody blade proud ferdia's spoils displayed. cuchulain though in boasts i count me weak, hear me now as braggart speak: daman's son, of darry's race, soon shall i, his victor, face. fergus brought by me, hosts eastward came, ulster sought to hurt my fame; here have come, to ease my grief, many a champion, many a chief. cuchulain sickness conor's might withheld, else his sight thy host had quelled; less the shouts of joy had been, raised by maev, maw scayl's high queen. fergus greater deeds than done by me o cuchulain! thine shall be: daman's son thy battle nears; hear thy friend! keep hard thy spears. then fergus returned to where the army was encamped: ferdia, also went from maev and came to his own tent; and there he found his followers, and he told them how he had been bound to maev as in an easy task, that he was on the morrow to combat and fight with six of her champions, or to make duel with cuchulain, whichever of the two he might think the easier. also he told them how she had been bound by a condition that was easy for her to grant: that she should lay it on these same six champions to see that her promises to him of rewards should be fulfilled in case cuchulain met his death at ferdia's hand. there was no cheerfulness, or happiness, or even melancholy pleasure among the inmates of ferdia's camp that night: they were all cheerless, and sorrowful, and low in spirit; for they knew that whenever those two champions, those two slayers of hundreds met, one of the two must fall in that place, or that both of them should fall: and if one only was to fall they were sure that that one would be their own master; for it was not easy for any man to combat and fight with cuchulain on the tain bo cuailnge. now the first part of that night ferdia slept very heavily, and when the middle of the night had come his sleep had left him, and the dizziness of his brain has passed away, and care for the combat and the fight pressed heavily upon him. then he called for his charioteer to harness his horses, and to yoke his chariot; and the charioteer began to rebuke him, if haply he might turn him from his purpose. "it would be better for thee to stay!" said the charioteer. "be thou silent, o my servant!" said ferdia, and he then spoke the words that follow, and thus did his servant reply to him:-ferdia 'tis a challenge provoking to war, and i go where the ravens' hoarse croaking shall rise for my foe: with cuchulain still seeking the strife at yon ford; till his strong body, reeking, be pierced by my sword! servant nay, thy threats show no meekness; yet here thou should'st stay; for on thee shall come weakness, woe waits on thy way: for by ulster's rock broken this battle may be, and it long shall be spoken how ill 'twas to thee. ferdia an ill word art thou saying; it fits not our race that a champion, delaying from fight, should thee grace. then thy speech, my friend, fetter, no foe will we fear; but, since valour is better, his challenge we near. then ferdia's horses were harnessed for him, and his chariot was yoked, and he came forward to the ford of battle; but when he had come there he found that the full light of the day had not yet dawned, and "o my servant!" said ferdia, "spread out for me the cushions and skins that are upon my chariot, that i may rest upon them till i take the deep repose of refreshing sleep, for during the latter part of this night have i taken no rest, on account of the care that i had for this combat and fight." and the servant unharnessed his horses, and he placed together the cushions and the skins that were upon the chariot, so that ferdia might rest upon them, and he sank into the deep repose of refreshing sleep. now in this place i will tell of the acts of cuchulain. he rose not at all from his couch until the full light of the day; and this he did in order that the men of ireland should not be able to say that it was from fear or from dread that he rose, if it had been early that he had arisen. and when the full daylight had come, he commanded his charioteer to harness for him his horses, and to yoke his chariot: "o my servant!" said cuchulain, "harness for us our horses, and put the yoke to our chariot, for early rises the champion who cometh to meet us this day: even ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare." "the horses are harnessed," said the charioteer, "and the chariot is yoked; step thou into it, for it will bring no shame on thy valour." then did cuchulain, the fighter of battles, the skilful in feats, the winner of victory, that red-sworded hero, the son of sualtam, leap into his chariot. all around him screamed the bocanachs, and the bananachs, and the wild people of the glens, and the demons of the air; for it was the custom of the people of the wizard race of danu to raise their cries about him in every battle, on every stricken field, in every duel, and in every fight to which he went, that thereby in such fight the hatred, and the fear, and the avoidance, and the terror that men felt for him should be increased. in no short time the charioteer of ferdia heard the roar of cuchulain's approach; the clamour, and the hissing, and the tramp; and the thunder, and the clatter, and the buzz: for he heard the shields that were used as missiles clank together as they touched; and he heard the spears hiss, and the swords clash, and the helmet tinkle, and the armour ring; and the arms sawed one against the other, and the javelins swung, and the ropes strained, and the wheels of the chariot clattered, and the chariot creaked, and the hoofs of the horses trampled on the ground as that warrior and champion came forward in triumph to the ford, and approached him. then that servant of ferdia arose, and he placed his hand upon his lord: "arise now, o ferdia!" said the servant, "for here they come towards thee, even to the ford;" and this was the speech of the driver of the chariot of ferdia as he stood before him: lo! a chariot yoked with silver, creaking loud, draws nigh;[fn#53] o'er the chariot-wheels a man his perfect form rears high: the warlike car rolls on from far braeg ross, from braina's bounds; past that burg they ride whose wooded side the roadway rounds; for its triumphs high in triumph cry its song resounds. [fn#53] for a literal translation of the above poem and another rendering, see the notes. urged by hero-hound, and yoked by charioteer's hand true, flies the war-car southward ever; nobler hawk ne'er flew than he who speeds his rushing steeds, that chief of stubborn might; soon the blood to flow from slaughtered foe shall meet his sight; sure for us 'tis ill, for soon with skill he gives us fight. woe to him who here on hillock stands, that hound to wait; emain macha's perfect hound is he, foretold by fate: last year i cried that him i spied who guards his land from foe: that battle-hound, on whom are found all hues to glow: 'twas then from far i heard that car: its sound i know. "o my servant!" said ferdia, "wherefore is it: that thou hast continued in thy praise of this man ever since the time that i left my tent? surely it must be a reward that thou seekest at his hand, so greatly dost thou extol him; yet ailill and maev have foretold that it is by me he shall fall. certain it is that for sake of the fee i shall gain he shall be slain quickly; and 'tis full time that the relief that we wait for should come." thus then it was that in that place he spoke these words, and thus did his servant reply: ferdia 'tis time that i grant my assistance! be still: let thy praise of him sink: peer not, like a seer, at the distance; wilt fail me on battle-field's brink? though cualgne's proud champion, displaying his gambols and pride thou dost see; full soon shalt thou witness his slaying for price to be paid down to me. servant if he who this glory is showing be champion of cualgne indeed; 'tis not in retreat he is going; to meet us he cometh with speed: he comes, nor 'tis slowly he blunders, like wind his swift journey he makes; as stream, from the cliff-top that thunders; as bolt, from the storm-cloud that breaks. ferdia 'tis pay at his hand thou hast taken, so loudly resoundeth thy praise; else why, since our tent was forsaken, hast sung with such frequence thy lays? men, like thou, who, when foes are appearing, would to chant the foe's praises begin, will attack not, when battle is nearing, but the name of base cowards shall win. now the charioteer of ferdia was not long in that place before he saw a marvellous sight; for before his eyes came the beautiful five-pointed, four-peaked chariot, skilfully driven with swiftness and power. a canopy of green overspread it; thin and well-seasoned was the body of it; lofty and long were the spears that adorned it; well was it fashioned for war. under the yokes of that chariot sped forward with great bounds two great-eared, savage, and prancing steeds; bellies had they like whales, broad were their chests, and quick-panting their hearts; their flanks were high, and their hoofs wide; their pasterns fine, their loins broad, and their spirits untamable. the horse under one of the yokes was grey, with a long mane and with broad hind quarters; swiftly he galloped, and his leaps were great; the horse beneath the other yoke was black, his mane was in tufts, his back was broad, and eager was his pace. as a hawk, on a day when the wind bloweth hard, darts up from the furrow; as the gusts of the wind in spring sweep forward over a smooth plain upon a day in march; swift as a going stag at the beginning of the chase, after he hath been roused by the cry of the hounds; such was the pace of the two steeds that bore forward cuchulain and his chariot, touching upon the soil as rapidly as if the stones that they trod on were hot with the fire, so that the whole earth trembled and shook at the violence of their going. and cuchulain reached the ford, and ferdia awaited him on the south side of it, and cuchulain halted his horses upon the north. then did ferdia bid welcome to cuchulain: "o cuchulain!" said ferdia, i rejoice to see thine approach." "thy welcome would have been received by me upon an earlier day," said cuchulain, "but this day i cannot receive it as one from a friend. and ferdia," said he, "it were more suitable that it was i who bade welcome to thee rather than that thou shouldest welcome me; for out in flight before thee are my women, and my children; my youths, and my steeds, and my mares; my flocks, and my herds, and my cattle." "ah, cuchulain!" said ferdia, "how hast thou been persuaded to come to this fight and this battle at all? for when we were with scathach, with uathach, and with aife, thou wert mine attendant; thine was the office to whet my spears, and to make ready my couch." "'tis true indeed," said cuchulain, "but it was then as thy younger in years and in standing that it was my custom to perform this office for thee; and that is not my quality to-day; for now there is not in all the world any champion with whom i would refuse to fight." and then each of them reproached the other bitterly with breach of friendship, and there ferdia spoke the words which here follow, and thus did cuchulain reply: ferdia hound! why hither faring,[fn#54] strife with strong ones daring? as if home were flaring, woe shall come on thee! blood from out thee draining shall thy steeds be staining; thou, thy home if gaining, wounded sore shalt be. [fn#54] the metre is that of the irish. cuchulain hot with indignation, take i battle-station, face yon warrior nation, round their warlike king: they shall see me meet thee, count the strifes that greet thee, watch, as down i beat thee, drowning, suffering. ferdia here is one to shame thee; how 'twas i o'ercame thee, they who champion name thee long the tale shall tell. ulster, near thee lying, soon shall see thee dying; all shall say, with sighing, theirs the chief who fell. cuchulain thine shall be the choosing; say, what warfare using hosts shall see thee losing at the ford this fight? swords dost choose, hard-clashing cars, in conflict crashing? spears, thy life-blood splashing? 'tis thy death in sight. ferdia ere the twilight gleameth, red thy life-blood streameth: small thy stature seemeth, like a cliff thy foe. ulster's hosts who prated, and thy pride inflated; through them feel thy hated spectre sadly go. cuchulain down a chasm appalling thou to death art falling; one thy foe: yet galling weapons press thee sore. proud thou wert but lately, strife shall change thee greatly, thee as champion stately earth shall know no more. ferdia cease this endless vaunting, speech for ever flaunting, thou a chief! a taunting, giggling child thou art. none would pay, or fee thee, i as coward see thee; strength hast none to free thee, caged bird! quaking heart! cuchulain ah! in bygone story we, as peers in glory, sports and combats gory shared when scaha taught: thou, of all who nearest to my soul appearest! clansman! kinsman dearest! woe thy fate hath brought! ferdia naught this strife avails thee, glory fades, and fails thee; cock-crow loudly hails thee, high on stake thy head! cualgne's[fn#55] hound, cuchulain! faults thy soul bear rule in: thee to bitter schooling frantic grief hath led. [fn#55] pronounced kell-ny. "o my friend ferdia!" said cuchulain, "it was not right for thee to have come to the combat and the fight with me, at the instigation and the meddling of ailill and maev: none of those who came before thee have gained for themselves victory or success, and they all fell at my hand; neither shalt thou win victory or success from this battle, by me shalt thou fall." and it was in this manner that he was speaking, and he recited these words, and ferdia hearkened to him: come not near, thou powerful man![fn#56] o ferdia mac daman: worst of woe on thee is hurled, though thy fate shall grieve the world. [fn#56] the metre is that of the irish. come not near, nor right forget in my hand thy fate is set: those recall, whom late i fought, hath their fall no wisdom taught? thou for gifts wert passed in sale, purple sash, firm coat of mail; never maid, o daman's son! in this war of thine is won. findabar, maev's lovely child, with her form thy sense beguiled: brightly though her beauty glows, she no love on thee bestows. wouldst thou win the prize they bring, findabar, the child of king? many ere now that maid could cheat here, like thee, their wounds to meet. thou hast sworn, and plighted. troth, ne'er to fight me: keep thine oath: friendship's tie thee firm should hold, come not nigh me, champion bold. fifty chiefs, who sought that maid, fought me, fell, in earth are laid; well i know that tempting bait, all have found, and earned their fate. ferbay fell, though bold his boast, him obeyed a valiant host; quickly here his rage i stilled; cast my spear but once, and killed. cruel fate srub darry slew, tales of hundred dames he knew; great his fame in days of yore; silver none, 'twas gold he wore. though that maid, whom erin's best hope to gain, my heart would charm; south and north, and east and west i would keep thee safe from harm. "and, o my friend ferdia!" said cuchulain "this is the cause why it was not thy part to come here to the combat and the fight with me. it is because that when with scathach, with uathach, and with aife we abode, it was the custom with us that together we should go to every battle, and to every field of battle; to every fight and to every skirmish; to every forest and to all wildernesses; to all things dark and difficult." these were the words of his speech, and it was in that place that he recited these staves: tuned our hearts were beating, we, where chiefs were meeting, brotherly went: when slumbering one was our couch: we sought fierce fights, and fought. oft in woods that are far away joined we stood in our skilful play; scathach our feats had taught. and ferdia replied to him thus: o cuchulain! for beautiful feats renowned, though together we learned our skill; though thou tellest of friendship that once we found, from me shall come first thine ill; ah, recall not the time of our friendship's day: it shall profit thee nothing, o hound, i say. "for too long now have we thus waited," said ferdia; "tell me now o cuchulain! to what weapons shall we resort?" "thou hast the choice of the weapons till the night," said cuchulain, "because thou wert the first to reach the ford." "hast thou any remembrance," said ferdia, "of the weapons for casting, that we were accustomed to practise the use of when we were with scathach, with uathach, and with aife?" "i do indeed remember them," said cuchulain." "if thou rememberest them, let us resort to them now," said ferdia. then they resorted to their weapons used for the casting. they took up two shields for defence, with devices emblazoned upon them, and their eight shields with sharp edges such that they could hurl, and their eight javelins, and their eight ivory-hilted dirks, and their eight little darts for the fight. to and fro from one to the other, like bees upon a sunny day, flew the weapons, and there was no cast that they threw that did not hit. each of them then continued to shoot at the other with their weapons for casting, from the dawn of the morning to the full middle of the day, until all of their weapons had been blunted against the faces and the bosses of their shields; and although their casting was most excellent, yet so good was the defence that neither of them wounded the other nor drew the other's blood during all that time. "cease now from these feats, o cuchulain!" said ferdia, "for it is not by means of these that the struggle between us shall come." "let us cease indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time for ceasing hath arrived." and they ceased from their casting, and they threw the weapons they had used for it into the hands of their charioteers. "to what weapons shall we next resort, o cuchulain?" said ferdia. "thou hast the choice of weapons until the night," said cuchulain, "because thou wert the first to reach the ford." "then," said ferdia, "let us turn to our straight, well-trimmed, hard, and polished casting-spears with tough cords of flax upon them." "let us do so indeed," said cuchulain. then they took two stout shields of defence, and they turned to their straight, well-trimmed, hard, and polished casting-spears with the tough cords of flax upon them, and each of them continued to hurl his spears at the other from the middle of midday until the ninth hour of the evening: and though the defence was most excellent that each of them made, yet so good was the casting of the spears that each of them wounded the other at that time, and drew red blood from him. "let us desist from this now, o cuchulain!" said ferdia. "let us desist indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time has come." they ceased, and they threw away their weapons into their charioteers' hands; and each of them at the end of that fight sought the other, and each threw his arms about the other's neck, and gave him three kisses. their horses were in the same paddock that night, the men who had driven their chariots sat by the same fire, moreover the charioteers of both those warriors spread couches of fresh rushes for the two, and supplied them with such pillows as are needed by wounded men. and such folk as can heal and cure came to heal and to cure them, and they applied soothing and salving herbs and plants to their bruises, and their cuts, and their gashes, and to all their many wounds. and of every soothing and salving herb and plant that was brought for the bruises, the cuts, and the gashes, and all the wounds of cuchulain, he used to send an equal portion westward across the ford to ferdia, so that in case ferdia fell at his hand the men of ireland should not be able to say that it was owing to superiority in leech-craft that he had done it. and of each kind of food, and of pleasant, palatable, intoxicating drink that the men of ireland brought to ferdia, he would send a fair half northward across the ford to cuchulain; for the men who provided food for ferdia were more in number than they who provided food for cuchulain. all the army of the men of ireland helped to provide ferdia with food, because he was their champion to defend them against cuchulain; yet to cuchulain also food was brought by the people who dwell in the breg. and it was the custom with these that they came to converse with him at the dusk of each night. thus they remained that night, but early in the morning they arose, and repaired to the ford of combat. "what weapons shall we turn to to-day, o ferdia?" said cuchulain. "thou hast the choice of weapons until the night," answered ferdia, "because it is i who had my choice of them in the day that is past." "let us then," said cuchulain, "resort to our great, broad-bladed, heavy spears this day, for nearer shall we be to our battle by the thrusting of our spears this day than we were by the throwing weapons of yesterday: let our horses be harnessed for us, and our chariots yoked, that upon this day from our chariots and our horses we may fight." "let us turn to these indeed," said ferdia. they then took to them two exceedingly stout, broad shields, and they resorted to their great, broad-bladed, heavy spears that day. and each of them continued to thrust at, and to pierce through, and to redden, and to tear the body of the other from the dawn of the morning until the ninth hour of the evening; and if it were the custom for birds in their flight to pass through the bodies of men, they could have passed through the bodies of those warriors that day, carrying with them pieces of their flesh from their wounds into the clouds and to the sky around them. so when the ninth hour of the evening was come, the horses were weary, and the charioteers were weak; and they themselves, champions and heroes of valour as they were, had themselves become weary; and "let us cease now from this, o ferdia!" said cuchulain, "for our horses are weary, and our charioteers are weak; and now that these are weary, why should not we be weary too?" and then it was that he sang this stave: not like fomorians, men of the sea, stubborn, unending our struggle should be; now that the clamour of combat must cease, quarrels forget, and between us be peace. let us cease now indeed," said ferdia, "if the time for it hath come." they ceased, and they threw away their weapons into their charioteers' hands, and each of them at the end of that fight sought the other, and each threw his arms about the other's neck, and gave him three kisses. their horses were in the same paddock that night, the men who had driven their chariots sat by the same fire, moreover the charioteers of both those warriors spread couches of fresh rushes for the two, and supplied them with such pillows as are needed by wounded men. and such folk as can heal and cure came to examine into their wounds and to tend them that night, for they could do nothing more for them, so severe and so deadly were the stabs and the thrusts, and the gashes of the many wounds that they had, than to apply to them spells and incantations and charms, in order to staunch their blood, and their bleeding mortal wounds. and for every spell and incantation and charm that was applied to the stabs and the wounds of cuchulain, he sent a full half westward across the ford to ferdia; and of each kind of food, and of pleasant, palatable, intoxicating drink that the men of ireland brought to ferdia, he sent a half across the ford to cuchulain, in the north. for the men who brought food to ferdia were more in number than they who brought food to cuchulain, for all the army of the men of ireland helped to provide ferdia with food, because he was their champion to defend them against cuchulain; yet to cuchulain also food was brought by the people who dwell in the breg. and it was the custom with these that they came to converse with him at the dusk of each night. thus they rested that night: but early in the morning they arose, and repaired to the ford of combat; and cuchulain saw that an evil look and a lowering cloud was on the face of ferdia that day. "ill dost thou appear to me to-day, o ferdia!" said cuchulain. "thy hair hath been darkened to-day, and thine eye hath been dimmed, and the form and the features and the visage that thou art wont to have are gone from thee." "'tis from no fear or from terror of thee that i am what i am to-day," said ferdia, "for there is not in ireland to-day a champion that i am not able to subdue." and cuchulain complained and lamented, and he spoke the words that follow, and thus did ferdia reply: cuchulain is't indeed ferdia's face?[fn#57] sure his meed is dire disgrace; he, to war by woman led, comes his comrade's blood to shed. [fn#57] the metre is that of the irish. ferdia thou who warrior art indeed, champion tried! who wounds dost breed, i am forced the sod to see where my final grave shall be. cuchulain maev her daughter, findabar, who all maids excelleth far, gave thee, not at love's behest, she thy kingly might would test. ferdia gently ruling hound, i know that was tested long ago; none so great is known to fame, none, till now, to match it came. cuchulain all that's chanced from thee hath sprung, darry's grandchild, daman's son; woman's hest hath brought thee here swords to test with comrade dear. ferdia comrade! had i fled, nor found fight with thee, fair graceful hound, maev my word could broken call; croghan hold my fame but small. cuchulain none put meat his lips between, none to king or stainless queen yet was born, whose praise i'd gain, none whose scorn would win thy pain. ferdia thou who deep in wars dost wade, 'twas not thou, 'twas maev betrayed: back with conquest shalt thou ride, fault hast none thy fame to hide. cuchulain clots of blood my faithful heart choke; my soul is like to part: 'tis with little force my arm strikes, to do ferdia harm! "greatly although thou makest complaint against me to-day," said ferdia, "tell me to what arms shall we resort?" thine is the choice of weapons until the night," said cuchulain, "because it was i who had the choice in the day that is past." "then," said ferdia, "let us this day take to our heavy hard-smiting swords; for sooner shall we attain to the end of our strife by the edge of the sword this day than we did by the thrusts of our spears in the day that is gone." "let us do so indeed," said cuchulain. that day they took upon them two long and exceedingly great shields, and they resorted to their heavy and hard-striking swords. and each of them began to hew, and to cut, and to slaughter, and to destroy till larger than the head of a month-old child were the masses and the gobbets of flesh which each of them cut from the shoulders and the thighs and the shoulder-blades of his foe. after this fashion did each of them hew at each other from the dawn of the day until the ninth hour of the even, and then ferdia said, "let us desist from this now, o cuchulain!" "let us cease indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time has come." they ceased from their strife, and they threw from them their arms into the hands of their charioteers. pleasant and cheerful and joyous was the meeting of the two: mournfully, and sorrowfully, and unhappily did they part from each other that night. their horses were not in the same paddock, their charioteers were not at the same fire, and there they stayed for that night. it was early in the morning when ferdia arose, and he advanced alone towards the ford of combat. well did he know that the battle and the conflict would be decided that day; that upon that day and in that place one of the two would fall or that both would fall. and then, before cuchulain could come, ferdia put on the armour that he was to use for that battle in the conflict and fight. and this was the battle armour that he used for that conflict and fight; he put a kilt of striped silk, bordered with spangles of gold, next to his white skin, and over that he put his well-sewn apron of brown leather to protect the lower part of his body. upon his belly he put a great stone as large as a millstone, and over that great stone as large as a millstone he put his firm deep apron of purified iron, on account of the fear and the dread that he had of the gae-bulg that day. and his crested helmet that he used for battle and conflict and fight he put upon his head: there were upon it four jewels of carbuncle, each one of them fit to adorn it: also it was studded with enamels, with crystals, with carbuncles, and with blazing rubies that had come from the east. into his right hand he took his death-dealing sharp-pointed strong spear; upon his left side he hung his curved sword of battle with its golden hilt and its pommels of red gold: upon the slope of his back he took his great and magnificent shield with great bosses upon it: fifty was the number of the bosses, and upon each of them could be supported a full-grown hog: moreover in the centre of the shield was a great boss of red gold. upon that day ferdia displayed many noble, rapidly changing, wonderful feats of arms on high; feats which he had never learned from any other, either from his nurse or his tutor, or from scathach, or from uathach, or from aife, but which he himself invented that day for his battle with cuchulain. and cuchulain approached the ford, and he saw the many, rapidly changing, wonderful feats that ferdia displayed on high; and "o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "i mark those noble, rapidly changing, wonderful feats which ferdia displays, and i know that all of those feats will in turn be tried upon me; and for this reason if it be i who begin to go backwards this day, let it be thy part to rouse me by reproaches, and by evil speech, so that my rage and my wrath may be kindled, and increase. and if it be i that shall prevail, then do thou give to me praise and approval; and speak good words tome, that my courage may be the greater." "this indeed will i do, o cuchulain!" said laeg. then did cuchulain put on his battle armour that he used for the combat and fight. and that day he displayed noble, many-changing, wonderful, and many feats that he had learned from none: neither from scathach, from uathach, or from aife. and ferdia marked those feats, and he know that each in turn would be tried upon him. "o ferdia!" said cuchulain, "tell me to what arms we shall resort? "thine is the choice of weapons until the night," said ferdia. "then," said cuchulain, "let us try the feat of the ford."[fn#58] "let us do so indeed," said ferdia; but although he thus spoke, it was with sorrow that he consented, for he knew that cuchulain had ever destroyed every hero and champion who had contended with him at the feat of the ford. [fn#58] i.e. in which all weapons were allowed. mighty were the deeds that were done upon that day at the ford by those two heroes, the champions of the west of europe; by those two hands which in the north-west of the world were those that best bestowed bounty, and pay, and reward; those twin loved pillars of valour of the gael; those two keys of the bravery of the gaels, brought to fight from afar, owing to the urging and the intermeddling of ailill and maev. from the dawn till the middle of the day, each began to shoot at the other with his massive weapons; and when midday had come, the wrath of the two men became more furious, and each drew nearer to the other. and then upon a time cuchulain sprang from the shore of the ford, and he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, to strike at his head from above, over the rim of his shield. and then it was that ferdia gave the shield a blow of his left elbow, and he cast cuchulain from him like a bird, till he came down again, upon the shore of the ford. and again cuchulain sprang from the shore of the ford, till he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, to strike his head from above, over the rim of the shield. and ferdia, gave the shield a stroke of his left knee, and he cast cuchulain from him like a little child, till he came down on the shore of the ford. laeg saw what had been done. "ah!" said laeg, "the warrior who is against thee, casts thee away as a loose woman casts her child; he flings thee as high as the river flings its foam; he grinds thee even as a mill would grind fresh malt; pierces thee as the axe would pierce the oak that it fells; binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; darts upon thee even as the hawk darts upon little birds, so that never until time and life shall end, shalt thou have a call, or right, or claim for prowess or for valour: thou little fairy phantom!" said laeg. up sprang cuchulain, swift as the wind; quick as the swallow; fiery as the dragon; powerful as the lion; and he bounded into the air for the third time into the troubled clouds of it, until he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia, the son of daman, striving to strike his head from above, over the rim of the shield. and the warrior shook his shield, and he threw cuchulain from him, into the middle of the ford, just as if he had never been cast off at all. and then for the first time the countenance of cuchulain was changed, and he rose in his full might, as if the air had entered into him, till he towered as a terrible and wonderful giant, with the hero-light playing about his head; rising as a wild man of the sea; that great and valiant champion, till he overtopped ferdia. and now so closely were they locked in the fight, that their heads met above them, and their feet below them; and in their middles met their arms over the rims and the bosses of their shields. so closely were they locked in the fight, that they turned and bent, and shivered their spears from the points to the hafts; and cleft and loosened their shields from the centres to the rims. so closely were they locked, that the bocanachs, and the bananachs, and the wild people of the glens, and the demons of the air screamed from the rims of their shields, and from the hilts of their swords, and from the hafts of their spears. and so closely did they fight, that they cast the river from its bed and its course, so that there might have been a couch fit for a king and a queen to he in, there in the midst of the ford, for there was no drop of water left in it, except such as fell therein from off those two heroes and champions, as they trampled and hewed at each other in the midst of the ford. and so fierce was their fight, that the horses of the gaels, in fear and in terror, rushed away wildly and madly, bursting their chains, and their yokes, and their tethers, and their traces; and the women, and the common folk, and the followers of the camp, fled south-westwards out of the camp. all this time they fought with the edges of their swords. and then it was that ferdia found cuchulain for a moment off his guard, and he struck him with the straight edge of his sword, so that it sank into his body, till the blood streamed to his girdle, and the soil of the ford was crimson with the blood that fell from the body of that warrior so valiant in fight. and cuchulain's endurance was at an end, for ferdia continually struck at him, not attempting to guard, and his downright blows, and quick thrusts, and crushing strokes fell constantly upon him, till cuchulain demanded of laeg the son of riangabra to deliver to him the gae-bulg. now the manner of using the gae-bulg was this: it was set with its end pointing down a stream, and was cast from beneath the toes of the foot: it made the wound of one spear on entering a person's body; but it had thirty barbs to open behind, and it could not be drawn out from a man's body until he was cut open. and when ferdia heard mention of the gae-bulg, he made a stroke of his shield downwards to guard the lower part of his body. and cuchulain thrust his unerring thorny spear off the centre of his palm over the rim of the shield, and through his breast covered by horny defensive plates of armour, so that its further half was visible behind him after piercing the heart in his chest. ferdia gave an upward stroke of his shield to guard the upper part of his body, though too late came that help, when the danger was past. and the servant set the gae-bulg down the stream, and cuchulain caught it between the toes of his foot, and he threw it with an unerring cast against ferdia, and it broke through the firm deep apron of wrought iron, and it burst the great stone that was as large as a millstone into three parts, and it passed through the protection of his body into him, so that every crevice and cavity in him was filled with its barbs. "'tis enough now," said ferdia. "i have my death of that; and i have but breath enough to say that thou hast done an ill deed against me. it was not right that thy hand should be that by which i should fall." and thus did he cry, as he gasped out these words: hound, of feats so fair![fn#59] death from thee is ill: thou the blame must bear, thou my blood dost spill. help no wretch hath found down this chasm of woe: sick mine accents sound, as a ghost, i go. torn my ribs, and burst, gore my heart hath filled: this of fights is worst, hound! thou hast me killed. [fn#59] the metre is that of the irish. and after those words, cuchulain ran towards him, and with his arms and armour about him, carried him northwards across the ford, in order that the slain man might be on the north side of the ford, and not upon the western side together with the men of erin. then cuchulain laid ferdia down, and there it was that a trance and a faint and a weakness came upon cuchulain when he saw the body of ferdia, laeg saw his weakness, and the men of ireland all arose to come upon him. "rise up now, o cuchulain!" said laeg, "for the men of erin are coming towards us, and no single combat will they give to us, since ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, has fallen by thy hand." "how shall i be the better for arising, o my servant!" said he, "now that he who lieth here hath fallen by me?" and it was in this manner that his servant spoke to him, and he recited these words, and thus did cuchulain reply: laeg now arise, battle-hound of emania! it is joy and not grief should be sought; for the leader of armies, ferdia, thou hast slain, and hard battle hast fought. cuchulain what availeth me triumph or boasting? for, frantic with grief for my deed, i am driven to mourn for that body that my sword made so sorely to bleed. laeg 'tis not thou shouldst lament for his dying, rejoicing should spring to thy tongue; for in malice, sharp javelins, flying for thy wounding and bleeding he flung. cuchulain i would mourn, if my leg he had severed, had he hewn through this arm that remains, that he mounts not his steeds; and for ever in life, immortality gains. laeg to the dames of red branch thou art giving more pleasure that thus he should fall: they will mourn for him dead, for thee living, nor shall count of thy victims be small. great queen maev thou hast chased, and hast fought her since the day when first cualgne was left; she shall mourn for her folk, and their slaughter, by thy hand of her champions bereft. neither sleep nor repose hast thou taken, but thy herd, her great plunder, hast chased, though by all but a remnant forsaken, oft at dawn to the fight thou didst haste. now it was in that place that cuchulain commenced his lament and his moan for ferdia, and thus it was that he spoke: "o my friend ferdia! unhappy was it for thee that thou didst make no inquiry from any of the heroes who knew of the valorous deeds i had done before thou camest to meet me in that battle that was too hard for thee! unhappy was it for thee that thou didst not inquire from laeg, the son of riangabra[fn#60] about what was due from thee to a comrade. unhappy was it for thee that thou didst not ask for the honest and sincere counsel of fergus. unhappy it was for thee that thou hast not sought counsel from the comely, the fresh-coloured, the cheery, the victorious conall about what was due from thee to a comrade. well do these men know, that never, till life and time come to an end, shall be born in the land of connaught one who shall do deeds equal to those which have been done by thee. and if thou hadst made inquiry from these men concerning the habitations, the gatherings, the promises, and the broken faith of the fair-haired ladies of connaught; hadst thou asked them concerning spear-play and sword-play; concerning skill in backgammon and chess; concerning feats with horses, and chariots of war; they would have said that never had been found the arm of a champion who could wound a hero's flesh like the arm of ferdia; he whose colour matched the tints of the clouds: none who like thee could excite the croak of the bloody-mouthed vulture, as she calls her friends to the feast of the many-coloured flocks; none who shall fight for croghan or be the equal of thee to the end of life and time, o thou ruddy-cheeked son of daman!" said cuchulain. and then cuchulain stood over ferdia. "ah! ferdia," said cuchulain, "great was the treachery and desertion that the men of ireland had wrought upon thee, when they brought thee to combat and fight with me. for it was no light matter to combat and fight with me on the occasion of the tain bo cuailnge." and thus it was that he spoke, and he then recited these words: [fn#60] pronounced reen-gabra. 'twas guile to woe that brought thee; 'tis i that moan thy fate; for aye thy doom hath caught thee, and here, alone, i wait. to scathach, glorious mother, our words, when boys, we passed; no harm for each from other should come while time should last. alas! i loved thee dearly, thy speech; thy ruddy face; thy gray-blue eyes, so clearly that shone; thy faultless grace. in wrath for strife advances no chief; none shield can rear to piercing storm of lances of daman's son the peer. since he whom aife[fn#61] bore me by me was slain in fight, no champion stood before me who matched ferdia's might. he came to fight, thus trusting might findabar be won; such hopes have madmen, thrusting with spears at sand or sun. [fn#61] pronounced eefa. see note on this line. still cuchulain continued to gaze upon ferdia. and now, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "strip for me the body of ferdia, and take from him his armour and his garments, that i may see the brooch for the sake of which he undertook this combat and fight." then laeg arose, and he stripped ferdia; he took his armour and his garments from him, and cuchulain saw the brooch, and he began to lament and to mourn for him, and he spake these words: ah! that brooch of gold![fn#62] bards ferdia knew: valiantly on foes with hard blows he flew. curling golden hair, fair as gems it shone; leaflike sash, on side tied, till life had gone. [fn#62] the metre and the rhyme-system is that of the irish. see notes, p. 196. comrade, dear esteemed! bright thy glances beamed: chess play thine, worth gold: gold from shield rim gleamed. none of friend had deemed could such tale be told! cruel end it seemed: ah! that brooch of gold! "and now, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "open the body of ferdia, and take the gae-bulg out of him, for i cannot afford to be without my weapon." laeg came, and he opened ferdia's body, and he drew the gae-bulg out of him, and cuchulain saw his weapon all bloody and red by the side of ferdia, and then he spake these words: ferdia, i mourn for thy dying, thou art pale, although purple with gore: unwashed is my weapon still lying, and the blood-streams from out of thee pour. our friends in the east who have seen us, when with uathach and scathach[fn#63] we dwelled, can bear witness, no quarrel between us or with words or with weapons was held. scathach came; and to conflict inciting were her accents that smote on mine ear; "go ye all, where a swift battle fighting, german wields his green terrible spear! to ferdia, i flew with the story, to the son of fair baitan i sped, and to lugaid, whose gifts win him glory, "come ye all to fight german," i said. [fn#63] pronounced ooha and scaha. where the land by loch formay lies hollowed had we come, fit for fight was the place; and beside us four hundred men followed; from the athisech isles was their race. as beside me ferdia contended against german, at door of his dun; i slew rind, who from niul[fn#64] was descended, i slew rood, of finnool was he son. [fn#64] pronounced nyool. 'twas ferdia slew bla by the water, son of cathbad red-sworded was he: and from lugaid mugarne gat slaughter, the grim lord of the torrian sea. four times fifty men, stubborn in battle, by my hand in that gateway were slain; to ferdia, of grim mountain cattle fell a bull, and a bull from the plain. then his hold to the plunderers giving, over ocean waves spangled with foam, did we german the wily, still living, to the broad-shielded scathach bring home. there an oath our great mistress devising, both our valours with friendship she bound; that no anger betwixt us uprising should 'mid erin's fair nations be found. much of woe with that tuesday was dawning, when ferdia's great might met its end; though red blood-drink i served him that morning: yet i loved, though i slew him, my friend. if afar thou hadst perished when striving with the bravest of heroes of greece, 'tis not i would thy loss be surviving; with thy death should the life of me cease. ah! that deed which we wrought won us sorrow, who, as pupils, by scathach were trained: thou wilt drive not thy chariot to-morrow; i am weak, with red blood from me drained. ah! that deed which we wrought won us anguish, who, as pupils, by scathach were taught: rough with gore, and all wounded, i languish; thou to death altogether art brought. ah! that deed that we wrought there was cruel for us pupils, from scathach who learned: i am strong; thou art slain in the duel, in that conflict, with anger we burned. "come now, cuchulain," said laeg, "and let us quit this ford, for too long have we been here." "now indeed will we depart, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "but every other combat and fight that i have made hath been only a game and a light matter to me compared with this combat and fight with ferdia." thus it was that he spoke; and in this fashion he recited: wars were gay, and but light was fray[fn#65] ere at the ford his steeds made stay: like had we both been taught, both one kind mistress swayed; like the rewards we sought, like was the praise she paid. [fn#65] metre and rhyme-system of the irish imitated, but not exactly reproduced. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: like were our fights, oft fought, like were our haunts in play; scathach to each of us brought a shield one day. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: pillar of gold, loved well, low at the ford's side laid; he, when on troops he fell, valour unmatched displayed. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: lionlike, on he sped; high, in his wrath, he blazed; rose, as a wave of dread; ruin his onset raised. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: never, till hour of doom, ferdia's form shall fade; high as a cliff it loomed, now is but left his shade. three great armies went this raid,[fn#66] all the price of death have paid; choicest cattle, men, and steeds lie in heaps, to tell my deeds. [fn#66] the metre is that of the irish. widely spread their battle-line, less than half their host was mine; though to war stout croghan came, all i slew, for me a game! none the battle neared like thee, none of all whom banba nursed passed thy fame; on land, on sea, thou, of sons of kings, art first! special note on the "combat at the ford" the episode translated in the foregoing pages is not only one of the famous examples on which irish literature can fairly rest its claim to universal recognition, but it also affords an excellent instance of the problems involved when it comes to be studied critically. these problems, upon the solution of which must to some extent depend our estimate of the place of irish in the general development of european literature) axe briefly dealt with in mr. leahy's preface, as well as in his special introduction (supra, pp. 114, 115), but may perhaps be thought worthy of somewhat more detailed examination. the existence of two markedly different versions of the "tain bo cuailnge," one, obviously older, represented by the eleventh-century ms. leabhar na h-uidhri (l.u.), and the fourteenth-century ms. yellow book of lecan (y.b.l.); the other, obviously younger, by the twelfth-century book of leinster (l.l.), was pointed out by professor heinrich zimmer twenty-seven years ago in his study of the l.u. heroic saga texts (keltische studien v.: zeitschrift fã¼r vergleichende sprachforschung, vol. xxviii.). the conclusion that he drew from the fact, as also from the peculiarities disclosed by his analysis of the l.u. texts, is substantially that stated by mr. leahy: "on the whole it seems as if the compiler of the manuscript from which both the leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan were copied, combined into one several different descriptions of the 'war,' one of which is represented by the book of leinster version." he furthermore emphasised a particular aspect of this compiler's activity to which mr. leahy also draws repeated attention; he (the compiler) was a man interested in the historical and antiquarian rather than in the literary side of the texts he harmonised and arranged: hence his preference for versions that retain archaic and emphasise mythical elements; hence his frequent interpolation of scraps of historical and antiquarian learning; hence his indifference to consistency in the conduct of the story, and to its artistic finish. professor zimmer urged that the "compiler" was no other than flann, abbot of monasterboice, who died in 1047, and was regarded as the most famous representative of irish learning in his day. there has come down to us under his name a considerable mass of chronological and historical writing, partly in prose, partly in verse, and it seems certain that he was one of the chief artisans in framing that pragmatic redaction of irish myth, heroic legend, and historical tradition most fully represented by the two great compilations of the seventeenth century: the annals of the four masters, emphasising its antiquarian, historical side; keating's history, emphasising its romantic, legendary side. whilst professor zimmer's conclusion as to the personality of the l.u. compiler has been challenged, his main thesis has remained unshaken. on the whole, it can be asserted positively that the common source of l.u. and y.b.l. goes back to the early eleventh century; on the whole, that this common source itself utilised texts similar to those contained in the book of leinster. moreover, the progress of linguistic analysis during the past quarter-century has strengthened the contention that some of the elements used by flann (or another) in compiling his eleventh-century harmony are as old, in point of language, as any existing remains of irish outside the ogham inscriptions; in other words, being as old as the earliest glosses, they may date back to the eighth or even seventh century. in particular the l.u.-y.b.l. version of the "tain bo cuailnge" contains a large proportion of such elements and may, in the main, be treated as an eighth-century text. it must, however, be pointed out, and for this reason i have italicised the qualifying "on the whole," "in the main," that this conclusion does not enable us to declare dogmatically (1) that all portions of the l.u.-y.b.l. version must go back to the eighth century; (2) that all portions of the book of leinster version must precede the compilation of the common source of l.u. and y.b.l. for as regards (1), not only must the definitely ascertained activity of the eleventh-century compiler be taken into account, but also the possible activity of later scribes. if we possessed the complete text of the l.u.-y.b.l. redaction in both mss., we could at least be sure concerning the possible variations introduced during the two centuries that elapsed between the writing of the yellow book (early fourteenth century) and that of l.u. (late eleventh century). but most unfortunately both mss. are imperfect, the yellow book at the opening, l.u. at the close of our tale. thus of the special episode under consideration, the "combat at the ford," the older redaction is only extant in the fourteenth-century ms., and it is always open to impugners of its archaic character to say that it has been introduced there from the rival leinster version. again, as regards (2), whilst it is practically certain that the great mass of the leinster version was in existence before the time of the source whence both l.u. and y.b.l. are derived, and must therefore date back to the early eleventh century, it is by no means certain that this version was not considerably altered and enlarged before it came to be written down in the book of leinster some time before 1154. the older version of the "tain bo cuailnge" has been translated by miss winifred faraday (grimm library, no. xvi. 1904). in her introduction (p. xvii.) miss faraday argues against the assumption "that l.l. preserves an old version of the episode," and questions "whether the whole fer diad[fn#67] episode may not be late." the truth of this one contention would by no means involve that of the other; and again, both might be true without invalidating any of the conclusions drawn by mr. leahy (supra, p. 115). if the episode as we have it first took shape in the tenth century, it would be late as compared with much of the rest of the "tain," and yet it would be the earliest example in post-classic european literature of the sentiments and emotions to which it gives such fine and sympathetic expression. in comparing the two versions, the following fact is at once noticeable. the y.b.l. text occupies pp. 100-112 of miss faraday's translation, in round figures, 320 lines of 8 words to the line, or some 2600 words; the leinster version, omitting the verse, fills some 500 lines of 14 words, or 7000 words. up to a certain point, however, the actual meeting of the two champions, there is no difference between the versions in length; the prose of both runs to about 2200 words. but the whole of the actual fight (supra, pp. 129-153 in the leinster version) is compressed into a page and a half in the older redaction, some 800 words as against over 4000. obviously this cannot represent the original state of things; it would be psychologically impossible for any story-teller to carry on his narrative up to a given stage with the dramatic vigour, point, and artistically chosen detail displayed in the first portion of the y.b.l. version of the combat, and then to treat the culmination of the tale in such a huddled, hasty, scamped manner. the most likely explanation is that the original from which the y.b.l. scribe was copying was imperfect, and that the lacuna was supplied from memory, and from a very faulty memory. no conclusion can thus, i think, be drawn from the fact that the details of the actual combat are so bald and meagre in the only extant text of the older redaction. [fn#67] this is the spelling in y. b. l. in l.l. the name appears as one word, "ferdiad"; usually scanned as a dissyllable--though occasionally as a trisyllable. the spelling ferdia is the conventional one sanctioned by the usage of ferguson, aubrey de vere, and others; the scansion of the word as a trisyllable is on the same authority. if the two versions be compared where they are really comparable, i.e. in that portion which both narrate at approximately the same length, the older redaction will be found fuller of incident, the characters drawn with a bolder, more realistic touch, the presentment more vigorous and dramatic. ferdiad is unwilling to go against cuchulain not, apparently, solely for prudential reasons, and he has to be goaded and taunted into action by medb, who displays to the full her wonted magnificently resourceful unscrupulousness, regardless of any and every consideration, so long as she can achieve her purpose. the action of fergus is far more fully dwelt upon, and the scones between him and his charioteer, as also between him and cuchulain, are given with far greater spirit. the hero is indignant that fergus should think it necessary to warn him against a single opponent, and says roundly that it is lucky no one else came on such an errand. the tone of the older redaction is as a whole rough, animated, individualistic as compared with the smoother, more generalised, less accentuated presentment of the leinster version. but to conclude from this fact that the older redaction of the actual combat, if we had it in its original fulness instead of in a bald and fragmentary summary, would not have dwelt upon the details of the fighting, would not have insisted upon the courteous and chivalrous bearing of the two champions, would not have emphasised the inherent pathos of the situation, seems to me altogether unwarranted. on the contrary the older redaction, by touches of strong, vivid, archaic beauty lacking in the leinster version leads up to and prepares for just such a situation as the latter describes so finely. one of these touches must be quoted. cuchulain's charioteer asks him what he will do the night before the struggle, and then continues, "it is thus fer diad will come to seek you, with new beauty of plaiting and haircutting and washing and bathing.... it would please me if you went to the place where you will got the same adorning for yourself, to the place where is emer of the beautiful hair.... so cuchulain went thither that night, and spent the night with his own wife." there is indeed the old irish hero faring forth to battle as a lover to the love tryst! how natural, how inevitable with warriors of such absurd and magnificent susceptibility, such boyish love of swagger, how natural, i say, the free and generous emotion combined with an overmastering sense of personal honour, and a determination to win at all costs, which are so prominent in the leinster version of the fight.[fn#68] [fn#68] the trait must not be put down as a piece of story-teller's fancy. in another text of the ulster cycle, cath ruis na rig, conchobor's warriors adorn and beautify themselves in this way before the battle. the aryan celt behaved as did the aryan hellene. all readers of herodotus will recall how the comrades of leonidas prepared for battle by engaging in games and combing out their hair, and how demaretus, the counsellor of xerxes, explained to the king "that it is a custom with these men that when they shall prepare to imperil their lives; that is the time when they adorn their heads" (herodotus vii. 209.) the contention that the older redaction, if we had it complete, would resemble the younger one in its insistence upon the chivalrous bearing of the two opponents, may also be urged on historical grounds. the sentiment which gives reality and power to the situation is based upon the strength of the tie of blood-brotherhood; so strong is this that it almost balances the most potent element in the ideal of old irish heroism--the sense of personal honour and pre-eminence in all that befits a warrior. the tie itself and the sentiment based upon it certainly belong to pre-christian times, and must have been losing rather than gaining in strength during the historic period, say from the fourth century onwards. the episode of cuchulain's combat with ferdiad must have existed in the older redaction of the "tain" for the simple reason that a tenth and eleventh century story-teller would have found nothing in the feelings, customs, or literary conventions of his own day to suggest to him such a situation and such a manner of working it out. but--and this consideration may afford a ground of conciliation with miss faraday and the scholars who hold by the lateness of the episode--the intrinsic beauty and pathos of the situation, the fact of its constituting an artistic climax, would naturally tempt the more gifted of the story-telling class. there would be a tendency to elaborate, to adorn in the newest fashion, hence to modernise, and it is not only conceivable but most probable that the original form should be farther departed from than in the case of much else in the epic. alfred nutt. general notes the courtship of etain the translation of both versions of this romance has been revised by professor strachan, and the linguistic notes are due to him, unless otherwise stated. the rendering given in the text is noted as "doubtful," in cases where professor strachan does not assent. page 7 @@both line 17? line 17. "by a means that he devised," do airec memman, lit. "by a device of mind." compare airecc memman aith (meyer, hib. minora, p. 28). line 17. "so that she became well-nourished, &c.," lit. "till there came to her fatness and form;" sult probably means "fatness," and feth "form." page 8 line 25. "curvetting and prancing," tuagmar, foran. these are guesses by o'curry: curvetting may be right, but there is little authority for rendering foran as "prancing "; this word is doubtful. "with a broad forehead," forlethan, lit. "broad above," o'curry renders "broad-rumped." line 34. "upon the shore of the bay," forsin purt. windisch's rendering of port is "bank, harbour"; but it is doubtful whether the word means more than "place." page 9 the literal rendering adopted for the poem runs thus: etain is here thus at the elf-mound of the fair-haired women west of alba among little children to her on the shore of the bay of cichmaine. it is she who cured the eye of the king from the well of loch da lig, it is she who was drunk in a draught by the wife of etar in a heavy draught. through war for her the king will chase the birds from tethba, and will drown his two horses in the lake da airbrech. there shall be abundant and many wars through the war for thee on echaid of meath, destruction shall be on the elf-mounds, and war upon many thousands. it is she who was hurt in the land (?), it is she who strove to win the king, it is she as compared to whom men men speak of fair women, it is she, our etain afterwards. line 2. "west of alba" is literally "behind alba," iar n-albai: iar is, however, also used in the sense of "west of." line 14 is given by windisch "through the war over meath rich in horses"; this is impossible. the translation of line 17 is not quite certain; the literal translation of the ms. seems to be "it is she who was hurt and the land." da airbrech in line 12 may mean "of two chariots." page 10 literal translation of the quatrain: ignorant was fuamnach, the wife of mider, sigmall and bri with its trees in bri leth: it was a full trial were burned by means of manannan. page 11 line 5. "labraid the tracker." this is a very doubtful rendering, the text gives labradae luircc. line 25. "that he desired full knowledge of." there seems to be something with the irish here; the word is co fessta which could only be third singular subj. pass. "that it might be known," which does not make grammar. it should be co fessed or co festais, "that he (or they) might know." page 12 line 9. "his officers who had the care of the roads." a very doubtful rendering; the irish is tarraluing sligeth. line 29. "a bright purple mantle waved round her," lit. "a bright purple curling (?) mantle," but the sense of caslechta as "curling" is not certain. line 30. "another mantle." the word for mantle here is folai, in the former line it was brat. page 13 line 3. "as white as the snow." ba gilighuir mechto: not "whiter than the snow," as windisch's dict. gives it. line 17. "all that's graceful, &c.," cach cruth co hetain, coem cach co hetain. compare conid chucum bagthir cach n-delb. (l.u., 124b, 17, "courtship of emer "), and ir. text., iii. p. 356, 1. 4, from which it may be seen that the meaning is that etain is the test to which all beauty must be compared. page 14 line 19. "so long as they were," not "so long as he was." the irish is cein ropas, and ropas is the impersonal preterite passive. line 29. "the choking misery, &c.," lit. "he let come to him the slaodan of a heavy sickness:" slaodan is the cough of consumption. page 15 line 2. lit. "worse and worse," messa a cach. line 18. "his burial mound," a fert fodbuigh. compare zimmer, kuhn's zeitschrift, xxx. 9, for fotbuig. literal rendering of the dialogue: b. what hath happened to thee, o young man? long is thy bed of sickness, prostrate is thy full and splendid pace, however fair the weather may be. a. there is cause for my sighs; the music of my harp contents me not; neither does any milk please me, it is this that brings me into a pitiful state. e. tell me what ails thee, o man, for i am a maiden who is wise; tell me of anything which may be of benefit to thee that thy healing may be wrought by me. a. to speak of it is not possible for me (lit. "finds not room in me"), o maiden, lovely is thy form, there is fire of some one behind her eyes (?) nor are the secrets of women good. b. though the secrets of women are bad, yet, if it is love, the remembrance remains for long; from the time when the matter is taken into hand this thing is not deserving of its (?) recognition. a. a blessing on thee, o white maiden, i am not worthy of this speech to me; neither am i grateful to my own mind, my body is in opposition to me. wretched indeed is this, o wife of the king, eochaid fedlech in very truth, my body and my head are sick, it is reported in ireland. e. if there is among the troops of white women any one who is vexing thee, she shall come here, if it is pleasing to thee, there shall be made by my help her courtship. in verse 3, line 2, inniss dam gach dal, dal means no more than thing it is not an accusative from dal, a meeting. verse 4, line 3. meaning doubtful. verse 7, line 2. the confusion between eochaid airemm, the king in this story, and his brother eochaid fedlech is obvious. it may, as windisch thinks, be an indication that the poem is not part of the romance as originally composed, but other explanations are possible. line 4. "it is reported." not quite certain; irish is issed berair. page 17 line 11. "and great gain, &c." text defective, and meaning uncertain. line 13. rhetoric; the literal translation seems to be as follows, but some words are uncertain: it is love that was longer enduring (?) than a year my love, it is like being under the skin, it is the kingdom of strength over destruction. it is the dividing into quarters of the earth, it is summit (7) of heaven, it is breaking of the neck, it is a battle against a spectre. it is drowning with cold (or ? water), it is a race up heaven, it is a weapon under the ocean, it is affection for an echo; (so is) my affection and my love and my desire of the one on whom i have set (my love). page 18 line 2. the translation given is windisch's, "it is sorrow under the skin is strachan's rendering. line 5. translation uncertain. irish is dichend nime. line 8. is combath fri huacht (i read husce). literal rendering of the poem: arise, o glorious ailill, great bravery is more proper to thee than anything; since thou shalt find here what was wished by thee, thy healing shall be done by me. if it should please thee in thy wise mind, place hand about my neck; a beginning of courtship, beautiful its colour, woman and man kissing each other. but, if this is not enough for thee, o good man, o son of a king, o royal prince, i will give for thy healing, o glorious crime, from my knee to my navel. a hundred cows, a hundred ounces of gold, a hundred bridled horses were collecting, a hundred garments of each variegated colour, these were brought as a price for me. a hundred of each other beast came hither, the drove was great; these to me quickly, till the sum was complete, gave eochaid at the one time. line 14. of poem. "were collecting," ratinol. this is the rendering in windisch's dictionary, but is a doubtful one. line 18. imerge means "drove," not "journey," as in windisch. line 27 of text. "wrought a great healing, &c." irish, ro lessaig, "healed him" (windisch); "waited upon him" (strachan). page 19 line 17. "for fear of danger." baegal, "danger," has sometimes the sense of "chance," "risk." line 23. "that is what i would demand of thee." translation not quite certain irish, cid rotiarfaiged. page 20 line 2. "that both of us do indeed deem, &c." lit. "it is so indeed well to us both." line 22. for the incident compare bodleian dinnshenchas (nutt, p. 27): the introduction of crochen is a human touch which seems to be characteristic of the author of this version. the dinnshenchas account seems to be taken from the romance, but it gives the name of sinech as mider's entertainer at mag cruachan. line 25. "the fairy mound of croghan." irish, co sith sã­nighe cruachan; for sã­nighe read maighe, "to the sid of mag c." page 21 line 2. until the same day upon the year, &c.," on lo cu cele, "from that day to its fellow," i.e. "till the same day next year." line 10. "three wands of yew." this looks like an early case of a divining-rod. line 21. "hath smitten thee," rotirmass for ro-t-ormaiss, "hath hit thee." line 29. "they ruined," "docuas ar," an idiomatic phrase; "they overcame," an idiomatic phrase. compare annals of ulster under years 1175, 1315, 1516. page 22 line 2. "messbuachalla." this makes etain the great-grandmother of conary, the usual account makes her the grandmother, so that there is here an extra generation inserted. yet in the opening she and eochaid airem are contemporary with kings who survived conary! line 4. "the fairy host, &c." the order of the words in the original is misleading and difficult sithchaire and mider are the subjects to ro choillsiut and to doronsat. page 23 line 12. that there should be adjusted)" fri commus, lit. "for valuation," but commus has also the sense of "adjusting." page 24 line 4. "since he for a long time, &c.," fodaig dognith abairt dia sirsellad. see meyer's contributions, s.v. abairt. line 23. "to gaze at her." up to this point the l.u. version (exclusive of the prologue) bears the character of an abstract, afterwards the style improves. page 25 line 2. "but it shall not be in the abode, &c." windisch seems to have mimed the point here, he considers these lines to be an interpolation. page 26 line 5. following windisch's suggestion, this poem has been placed here instead of the later place where it occurs in the text. this famous poem has been often translated; but as there appear to be points in it that have been missed, a complete literal rendering is appended: o fair-haired woman, will you come with me into a marvellous land wherein is music (?); the top of the head there is hair of primrose, the body up to the head is colour of snow. in that country is no "mine" and no "thine"; white are teeth there, black are eyebrows, the colour of the eyes is the number of our hosts, each cheek there the hue of the foxglove. the purple of the plain is (on) each neck, the colour of the eyes is (colour of) eggs of blackbird; though pleasant to the sight are the plains of fal (ireland), they are a wilderness (7) for a man who has known the great plain. though intoxicating to ye the ale of the island of fal, the ale of the great country is more intoxicating a wonder of a land is the land i speak of, a young man there goes not before an old man. stream smooth and sweet flow through the land, there is choice of mead and wine; men handsome (?) without blemish, conception without sin, without crime. we see all on every side, and yet no one seeth us, the cloud of the sin of adam it is that encompasses us from the reckoning. o woman, if thou wilt come to my strong people, it is top of head of gold shall be on thy head, unsalted pork, new milk and mead for drink shalt thou have with me there, o fair-haired woman. line 2. hi fil rind. the meaning of rind (?) music) is uncertain. line 3. is barr sobarche folt and. this line is often translated as "hair is wreathed with primrose": the image would be better, but it is not the irish. barr is "top of head," and folt is "hair." line 4. is and nad bi mui na tai. muisse is in old irish the possessive of the first sing when followed by a noun it becomes mo, when not so followed it is mui; tai is also found for do. o'curry gave this line as "there is no sorrow nor care." lines 7 and 10. is li sula lin ar sluag and is li sula ugai luin are so similar that is li sula must mean the same in both, and cannot mean "splendour of eyes" in the first case unless it does so in the second. the idea in the first case seems to be that the hosts are reflected in the eyes; it is so rendered in the verse translation. a blackbird's egg has a blue ground, but is so thickly powdered with brown spots of all shapes that it looks brown at a distance. at first i was inclined to take the idea to be "hazel" eyes, but comparing line 7, it seems more likely that the idea is that all sorts of shapes appear in the pupil. line 12. the translation of annam as a "wilderness" is very doubtful, it more probably is "seldom"; and the line should be "seldom will it be so after knowledge of, &c." line 16. this has always been rendered "no youth there grows to old age." but the irish is ni thecht oac and re siun, and re siun can only mean "before an old (man)." the sense possibly is, that as men do not become feeble with advancing years, the younger man has not the same advantage over his elders in the eyes of women that he has in this world. line 17. teith millsi, "smooth and honey-sweet" (meyer, maccongl., p. 196). line 24. compare a story of some magical pigs that could not be counted accurately (revue celtique, vol. xiii. p. 449). line 31. muc ur, "unsalted pork"; see glossary to laws, p. 770; also macconglinne (kuno meyer), p, 99. page 27 line 23. "he ascended." fosrocaib for sosta: fosrocaib is an unknown compound (=fo-sro-od-gaib). perhaps frisocaib for sosta, "mounted on the heights." line 29. co brainni a da imdae, "to the edges of his two shoulders"; see braine, in meyer's contributions. page 28. line 19. "casting their light on every side," cacha air di = cacha airidi, "in every direction." line 25. "if thou dost obtain the forfeit of my stake," mad tu beras mo thocell. for tocell see zimmer, kuhn's zeitsch., xxx. 80. line 29. "eager" (?), femendae. see bruiden da derga (stokes), 50, 51. line 30. "easily stopped," so-ataidi suggested for sostaidi in the text: cf. bruiden da derga. the conjecture has not strachan's authority. page 29 line 19. literal translation of rhetoric: "put it in hand, place it close in hand, noble are oxen for hours after sunset, heavy is the request, it is unknown to whom the gain, to whom the loss from the causeway." line 28. "over the chariot-pole of life" seems to be a literal rendering of for fertas in betha. strachan renders "on the face of the world," which is of course the meaning of the simile. line 30. "high was he girt," ard chustal. the meaning of custal is not known; it was used of some arrangement of the dress. see ir. text., iii. 226; also l.u. 79a, 35, l.l. 97a, 40; 98a, 51; 253a, 30. line 31. "eochaid arose," atrigestar eochaid. strachan thinks it much more likely that this is "eochaid feared him," the verb coming from atagur. it is, however, just possible that the word might be a deponent form from atregaim, "i arise." eochaid does not elsewhere show any fear of mider, the meaning given agrees better with the tone of the story, and is grammatically possible. page 30 line 1. "all things that seemed good, &c.," lit. "i have been accustomed to get what seemed good to thee," adethaind ni bad maith. line 3. "anger for anger," bara fri bure. compare the word bura in meyer's contributions. line 25. "in order that eochaid should stand in his debt," lit. "that there might be cause of reproach for him to eochaid." line 32. "forest that is over breg." ms. fid dar bre, with mark of abbreviation. this is read to be dar breg. professor rhys (arthurian legend, p. 28) renders "to cover darbrech with trees." line 33. "as it is written in the book of drom snechta. "this is a conjecture by mrs. hutton as a restoration of the words in l.u., which is torn just here: the words appear to be amal atbert lebor drums. page 31 line 1. this rhetoric is very obscure; much of it cannot be translated. the text seems to be as follows, according to strachan: cuisthe illand tochre illand airderg damrad trom inchoibden clunithar fã­r ferdi buidni balc-thruim crandchuir forderg saire fedar sechuib slimprib snithib scã­tha lama indrosc cloina fo bã­th oen mna. duib in dã­gail duib in trom daim tairthim flatho fer ban fomnis fomnis in fer mbranie cerpiae fomnis diad dergae fer arfeid soluig fria iss esslind fer bron for-tã­ ertechta in de lamnado luachair for di thethbi dã­lecud (? diclochud) midi in dracht coich les coich amles ? thocur ? dar c? moin. apparent rendering: "place on the land, place close on the land, very red oxen, heavy troop which hears, truly manlike ? troops, strong heavy placing of trees, very red . . . is led past them with twisted wattles, weary hands, the eye slants aside (squints) because of one woman. to you the vengeance, to you the heavy ? oxen ? splendour of sovereignty over white men, . . . man sorrow on thee . . . of childbirth, rushes over tethba, clearing of stones from meath . . . where the benefit where the evil, causeway over . . . moor." it seems that the oxen were transformed people of mider's race; this appears from fã­r-ferdi, which is taken to mean "really men"; and duib in digail duib in trom-daim, which is taken to mean "to you the vengeance, to you heavy oxen." professor strachan disagrees with this, as daim, to be "oxen," should not have the accent, he makes trom-daim "heavy companies." he also renders clunithar fã­r ferdi buindi, as "which hears truth, manly troops." the rest of the translation he agrees to, most of it is his own. the passage from fomnis fomnis to lamnado seems untranslatable. page 32 line 1. lit. "no evil wedding feast (banais, text banas) for thee? mac datho's boar page 37 line 3. the rawlinson version gives, instead of "who was the guardian of all leinster," the variant "who would run round leinster in a day." this semi-supernatural power of the hound is the only supernatural touch in either version of the tale. line 6. the verse "mesroda son of datho" is from the rawlinson ms. the literal version of it is in anecdota oxoniensia, mediaeval series, part viii. p. 57. (this reference will in future be given as a.o., p. 57.) line 20. the list of the hostelries or guest-houses of ireland includes the scene of the famous togail da derga, in the sack of which conaire, king of ireland, was killed. forgall the wily was the father of emer, cuchulain's wife. the tale of the plunder of da choca is in the ms. classed as h. 3, 18 in the trinity college, dublin, library. page 38 the literal version of the dialogue between mac datho and his wife is given in a.o., p. 58, following the leinster text (there are only two lines of it given in the rawlinson ms.); but i note a few divergencies in the literal version from which the verse translation was made. verse 3, line 1. asbert crimthann nia nair, "crimthann nia nair has said" (a.o.). nia is "sister's son," and has been so rendered. nia is a champion, and this is the meaning given in the coir anmann; but nia has no accent in either the leinster or harleian manuscripts of the text. the coir anmann (ir. tex., iii. 333) says that nar was a witch. verse 4, lines 1, 2. cid fri mnai atbertha-su mani thesbad nã­ aire, "why wouldest thou talk to a woman if something were not amiss?" (a.o.). "why dost thou speak against a woman unless something fails on that account" seems as good a translation, and fits the sense better. verse 7, line 2. leis falmag dar sin tuaith, "by him ireland (shall be roused) over the people." the omitted verb is apparently "to be," as above. line 4 of the same verse is left untranslated in a.o., it is ata neblai luim luaith. it seems to mean "there is nothing on the plain for bareness (luim) of ashes," more literally, "there is a no-plain for, &c." verse 9, lines 2, 3. isi nã­m denã­ cutal. ailbe do roid dia. "it does not make sorrow for me; as for ailbe, "god sent him" seems to be the sense; but the meaning of cutal is obscure. page 41 line 8. "forty oxen as side-dishes," lit. "forty oxen crosswise to it" (dia tarsnu). the rawlinson ms. gives "sixty oxen to drag it" (dia tarraing). line 33. "the son of dedad." clan dedad was the munster hero clan, having their fortress in tara luachra; they correspond to the more famous clan rury of ulster, whose stronghold was emain macha. curoi of munster seems to have been a rival hero to cuchulain. page 42 line 20. "pierced through with a spear." the different ways in which ket claims to have conquered his rivals or their relations may be noted; the variety of them recalls the detailed descriptions of wounds and methods of killing so common in homer. there are seven victories claimed, and in no two is the wound the same, a point that distinguishes several of the old irish romances from the less elaborate folk-tales of other nations. arthur's knights in malory "strike down" each other, very occasionally they "pierce through the breast" or "strike off a head," but there is seldom if ever more detail. in the volsunga saga men "fall," or are "slain," in a few cases of the more important deaths they are "pierced," or "cut in half," but except in the later niebelungenlied version where siegfried is pierced through the cross embroidered on his back, a touch which is essential to the plot, none of the homeric detail as to the wounds appears. the same remark applies to the saga of dietrich and indeed to most others; the only cases that i have noticed which resemble the irish in detail are in the icelandic sagas (the laxdale saga and others), and even there the feature is not at all so prominent as here, in the "tain be cuailnge," and several other irish romances, though it is by no means common to all of them. it may be noted that the irish version of the "tale of troy" shows this feature, and although it is possible that the peculiarity is due to the great clearness and sharpness of detail that characterises much of the early irish work, it may be that this is a case of an introduction into irish descriptions of homeric methods. it may be also noted that six of ket's seven rivals are named among the eighteen ulster chiefs in the great gathering of ulster on the hill of slane before the final battle of the tain, angus being the only one named here who is not in the hill of slane list. two others in the hill of slane list, fergus mac lets and feidlimid, are mentioned elsewhere in this tale. several of these are prominent in other tales: laegaire (leary) is a third with cuchulain and conall in the feast of bricriu, and again in the "courtship of emer;" cuscrid makes a third with the same two principal champions in the early part of the "sick-bed;" eogan mac durthacht is the slayer of the sow of usnach in the old version of that tale; and celtchar mac uitechar is the master of the magic spear in the "bruiden da derga," and has minor romances personal to himself. page 45 the literal translation of the rhetoric seems to be: ket. "welcome, conall! heart of stone: wild glowing fire: sparkle of ice: wrathfully boiling blood in hero breast: the scarred winner of victory: thou, son of finnchoem, canst measure thyself with me!" conall. "welcome, ket! first-born of mata! a dwelling place for heroes thy heart of ice: end of danger (7); chariot chief of the fight: stormy ocean: fair raging bull: ket, magach's son! that will be proved if we are in combat: that will be proved if we are separated: the goader of oxen (?) shall tell of it: the handcraftsman (?) shall testify of it: heroes shall stride to wild lion-strife: man overturns man to-night in this house." page 46 the literal translation of the quatrain is in a.o., p. 63. the quatrain does not occur in the leinster version. page 47 line 4. "a great oak-tree." after the plucking up of the oak-tree by fergus, the rawlinson ms. adds: "others say that it was curoi mac dari who took the oak to them, and it was then that he came to them, for there was no man of munster there (before) except lugaid the son of curoi and cetin pauci. when curoi had come to them, he carried off all alone one half of the boar from all the northern half of ireland." this exploit attributed to curoi is an example of the survival of the munster account of the heroic age, part of which may be preserved in the tales of finn mac cumhail. page 48 the rawlinson manuscript adds, after mentioning the rewards given to ferloga but he did not get the serenade (cepoca), though he got the horses." literal translation of the final poem: o lads of connaught, i will not fill your heaviness with a lying tale; a lad, small your portion, divided the boar of mac datho. three fifties of fifty men are gone with troops of heroes; combat of pride for that ailbe, small the fault in the matter of the dog. victorious conor came (?), ailill of the hosts, and ket; bodb over the slaughters after the fight, cuchulain conceded no right. congal aidni there from the east, fiamain the man of harmony from the sea, (he who) suffered in journeys after that eogan the son of dark durthacht. three sons of nera (famous) for numbers of battle-fields, three sons of usnach, fierce shields: senlaech the charioteer, he was not foolish, (came) from high conalad cruachan; dubhtach of emain, high his dignity; berba baither of the gentle word; illan glorious for the multitude of his deeds; fierce munremur of loch sail; conall cernach, hard his valour; marcan . . . celtchar the ulsterman, man over man; lugaid of munster, son of three dogs. fergus waits great ailbe, shakes for them the . . . oak, took hero's cloak over very strong shield; red sorrow over red shield. by cethern the son of finntan they were smitten, single his number at the ford (i.& he was alone); the men of connaught's host he released not for the time of six hours. feidlimid with multitude of troops, loegaire the triumphant eastwards, was half of complaint about the dog with aed son of morna not great. great nobles, mighty (?) deeds, hard heroes, fair companions in a house, great champions, destruction of clans, great hostages, great sepulchres. @@line x2? in this poem may be noted the reference to cuchulain in line x2 in close connection with that to bodb the goddess of war, as indicating the original divine nature of cuchulain as a war-god also the epithet of lugaid, "son of three dogs." two of the dogs are elsewhere stated to be cu-roi and cu-chulain, the third seems uncertain. line 26, describing marcan, seems untranslatable; the irish is marcan sinna set rod son. the epithet of the oak in line 32 is also obscure, the irish is dairbre n-dall. the sick-bed of cuchulain page 57 line 2. "samhain." samhain was held on november 1st, and on its eve, "hallow-e'en". the exhibition of tips of tongues, on the principle of indian scalps, has nothing at all to do with the story, and is not mentioned in the usual descriptions of the romance. it is a piece of antiquarian information, possibly correct, and should serve to remind us that the original form of these legends was probably of a barbaric kind, before they were taken in hand by the literary men who gave to the best forms of the romances the character they now have. line 23. for the demons screaming from the weapons of warriors compare the book of leinster version of the "combat at the ford": pages 126, 143 in this volume. page 58 line 4. the delay of conall and fergus leads to nothing, it is perhaps an introduction from some third form of the story. line 19. leborcham is, in the story of deirdre, deirdre's nurse and confidant. line 26. "their three blemishes." this disfigurement of the women of ulster in honour of their chosen heroes seems to point to a worship of these heroes as gods in the original legend. it may, however, be a sort of rough humour intentionally introduced by the author of the form of the story that we call the antiquarian form; there are other instances of such humour in this form of the story. page 59 line 2. "like the cast of a boomerang." this is an attempt to translate the word taithbeim, return-stroke, used elsewhere (l.u., 63a., 4) for cuchulain's method of capturing birds. line 8. "i deem it as being by me that the distribution was made." the words "i deem it" are inserted, they are not in the text. it appears that what ethne meant was that the distribution by cuchulain was regarded by her as done by her through her husband. page 60 line 9. "dun imrith nor yet to dun delga." dun imrith is the castle in which cuchulain was when he met the war-goddess in the "apparition of the morrigan," otherwise called the "tain bo regamna." dun delga or dundalk is the residence usually associated with cuchulain. the mention of emer here is noticeable; the usual statement about the romance is that ethne is represented as cuchulain's mistress, and emer as his wife; the mention here of emer in the antiquarian form may support this; but this form seems to be drawn from so many sources, that it is quite possible that ethne was the name of cuchulain's wife in the mind of the author of the form which in the main is followed. there is no opposition between emer and ethne elsewhere hinted at. line 15. the appearance of lugaid red-stripes gives a reason for his subsequent introduction in the link between the two forms of the story. line 18. "near the entrance of the chamber in which cuchulain lay." it does not yet seem certain whether imda was a room or a couch, and it would seem to have both meanings in the antiquarian form of this story. the expression forsind airiniuch na imdai which occurs here might be rendered "at the head of the bed"; but if we compare i n-airniuch ind rigthige which occurs twice in "bricriu's feast," and plainly means "at the entrance of the palace," it seems possible that airinech is here used in the same sense, in which case imda would mean "room," as whitley stokes takes it in the "bruiden da derga." on the other hand, the word imda translated on page 63, line 11, certainly means "couches." line 27. "ah cuchulain, &c." reference may be made for most of the verses in this romance to thurneysen's translation of the greater part of it in sagen aus dem alten irland but, as some of his renderings are not as close as the verse translations in the text, they require to be supplemented. the poem on pp. 60, 61 is translated by thurneysen, pp. 84 and 85; but the first two lines should run:-ah cuchulain, under thy sickness not long would have been the remaining. and lines 7 and 8 should be: dear would be the day if truly cuchulain would come to my land. the epithet "fair" given to aed abra's daughters in line 4 by thurneysen is not in the irish, the rest of his translation is very close. line 32. "plain of cruach." cromm cruach is the name of the idol traditionally destroyed by st. patrick in the "lives." cromm cruach is also described in the book of leinster (l.l. 213b) as an idol to whom human sacrifices were offered. the name of this plain is probably connected with this god. page 61 line 30. "hath released her," irish ros leci. these words are usually taken to mean that manannan had deserted fand, and that she had then turned to cuchulain, but to "desert" is not the only meaning of lecim. in the second form of the story, fand seems to have left manannan, and though of course the two forms are so different that it is not surprising to find a contradiction between the two, there does not seem to be any need to find one here; and the expression may simply mean that manannan left fand at liberty to pursue her own course, which divine husbands often did in other mythologies. manannan is, of course, the sea god, the celtic poseidon. page 62 line 3. eogan inbir (yeogan the stream) occurs in the book of leinster version of the book of invasions as one of the opponents of the tuatha de danaan, the folk of the gods (l.l. 9b, 45, and elsewhere). line 15. "said liban." the text gives "said fand." this seems to be a scribal slip: there is a similar error corrected on page 79, line 21, where the word "fand" is written "emer" in the text. line 16. "a woman's protection." the "perilous passage," passed only by a woman's help, occurs elsewhere both in irish and in other early literatures. see maelduin, para. 17; ivain (chretien de troyes), vv. 907 sqq.; and mabinogion, "lady of the fountain" (nutt's edition, p. 177). line 28. "labra." labraid's usual title, as given to him by liban in both forms of the romance and once by laeg in the second description of fairyland, is labraid luath lamar-claideb, the title being as closely connected with him as {greek boh`n a?gaã°o`s mene'laos}with menelaus in homer. it is usually translated as "labraid quick-hand-on-sword," but the luath need not be joined to lam, it is not in any of the places in the facsimile closely joined to it, and others than liban give to labraid the title of luath or "swift," without the addition. the literal translation of the short pieces of rhetoric on pages 62, 63 are, "where is labraid the swift hand-on-sword, who is the head of troops of victory? (who) triumphs from the strong frame of his chariot, who reddens red spear-points." "labraid the son of swiftness is there, he is not slow, abundant shall be the assembly of war, slaughter is set when the plain of fidga shall be full." "welcome to thee, o laeg! for the sake of her with whom thou hast come; and since thou hast come, welcome to thee for thyself!" the metre of the first two pieces is spirited and unusual. the second one runs: ata labraid luithe cland, ni ba mall bid immda tinol catha, cuirther ar, dã­a ba ian mag fidgae. page 63 line 24. "fand." the derivations of the names of fand and of aed abra are quite in keeping with the character of the antiquarian form, and would be out of place in the other form of the romance. it may perhaps be mentioned that the proper meaning of abra is "an eyelash," but the rendering "aed abra of the fiery eyebrows," which has been employed in accounts of this romance, would convey a meaning that does not seem to have been in the mind of the authors of either of the two forms. for the literal translations of the three invocations to labraid, on pp. 63, 66, thurneysen (p. 87) may be referred to; but there would be a few alterations. in the first, line 2 should be "heir of a little host, equipped with light spears," if windisch's dictionary is to be followed; line 5 would seem to begin "he seeketh out trespasses" (oirgniu); and line 7 should begin, "attacker of heroes," not "an attacking troop," which hardly makes sense. in the second invocation the first line should alter labraid's title to "labraid the swift hand-on-sword-of-battle;" line 3 should end with "wounded his side." in line 6 and again in the third line of the third invocation, thurneysen translates gus as "wrath": windisch gives the word to mean "strength." line 4 of the third invocation is rendered "he pierceth through men" by thurneysen; the irish is criathraid ocu. criathraim is given by o'reilly as meaning "to sift": "he sifteth warriors" seems a satisfactory meaning, if o'reilly is to be relied on. page 65 labraid's answer to the three invocations seems to run thus, but the translation is doubtful, many words are marked unknown by windisch: "i have no pride or arrogance, o lady, nor renown, it is not error, for lamentation is stirred our judgment" (reading na ardarc nid mell, chai mescthair with the second ms.), "we shall come to a fight of very many and very hard spears, of plying of red swords in right fists, for many peoples to the one heart of echaid juil (?), (let be) no anbi of thine nor pride, there is no pride or arrogance in me, o lady." i can make nothing of anbi. page 66 thurneysen does not translate the rhetoric; the translation seems to run thus: great unprofitableness for a hero to lie in the sleep of a sick-bed; for unearthly women show themselves, women of the people of the fiery plain of trogach, and they have subdued thee, and they have imprisoned thee, and they have chased thee away (?) amid great womanish folly. rouse thyself from the contest of distress (gloss, "the sickness sent by the fairy women") for all is gone of thy vigour among heroes who ride in chariots, and thou sittest (?) in the place of the young and thou art conquered (? condit chellti if connected with tochell), and thou art disturbed (?) in thy mighty deeds, for that which labraid's power has indicated rise up, o man who sittest (?) that thou mayest be great. "chased thee away" in line 7, for condot ellat, perhaps connected with do-ellaim (?). page 67 thurneysen's translation (p. 91) of emer's lament may be referred to, but he misses some strong points. among these are: line 5. "woe to ulster where hospitality abounds." line 12. "till he found a druid to lift the weight." line 25. "were it furbaide of the heroes." line 27. "the hound would search through the solid earth." line 29. "the hosts of the sid of train are dead." line 30. "for the hound of the smith of conor." line 34. "sick for the horseman of the plains." note the familiarity with the land of the fairies which laeg is asserted to have in the first verse of the poem: this familiarity appears more than once in the literary form of the story. laeg speaks of the land of labraid as "known to him" in hisfirst description of that land, again in the same description laeg is recognised by labraid by his five-folded purple mantle, which seems to have been a characteristic fairy gift. also, laeg seems at the end of the tale to be the only one to recognise manannan. there is no indication of any familiarity of laeg with the fairy country in the antiquarian form. the different ulster heroes alluded to are mostly well-known; all except furbaide are in "mae datho's boar." furbaide was a son of conor; be is one of the eighteen leaders who assemble on the hill of slane in the "tain bo cuailgne." the smith of conor is of course culann, from whom cuchulain got his name. pages 68, 69 a translation of emer's "awakening of cuchulain" may be found in thurneysen, p. 92 but there are one or two points that seem to be noted as differing from the rendering there given. lines 3 and 4 seem to mean: "look on the king of macha, on my beauty / does not that release thee from deep sleep?" thurneysen gives "look on the king of macha, my heart! thy sleep pleases him not." mo crath can hardly mean "my heart." line 6 is in the irish deca a churnu co comraim! "see their horns for the contest!" instead of comraim thurneysen seems to prefer the reading of the second ms., co cormaim, and translates "their horns full of beer." churnu may mean trumpets as well as drinking-horns, and emer would hardly call on cuchulain to throw off a drunken sleep (line 21) and then take to beer! the following translation of lines 17 to 20 seems preferable to thurneysen's: "heavy sleep is decay, and no good thing; it is fatigue against a heavy war; it is 'milk for the satiated,' the sleep that is on thee; death-weakness is the tanist of death." the last line is tanaisi d'ec ecomnart. the tanist was the prince who stood next to the king; the image seems too good a one to be lost; thurneysen translates "weakness is sister to death." line 14 seems to mean "see each wonder wrought by the cold"; emer calls cuchulain's attention to the icicles which she thinks he is in danger of resembling. page 69 for the literal translation of liban's invitation see thurneysen, p. 93. line 14 should run: "colour of eyes his skin in the fight;" the allusion is, apparently, to a bloodshot eye. page 71 line 4. the plain of speech (mag luada) and the tree of triumphs (bile buada) are apparently part of the irish mythology; they appear again in laeg's second description of fairyland, which is an additional reason for keeping this poem where it is in the second version, and not following thurneysen in transferring it to the first. mag luada is sometimes translated as "moving plain," apparently deriving the word from luath, "swift." laeg's two descriptions of the fairyland are (if we except the voyage of bran) the two most definite descriptions of that country in irish literature. there is very little extravagance in these descriptions; the marvellously fruitful trees, the ever-flowing vat of mead, and the silver-branched tree may be noted. perhaps the trees of "purple glass" may be added, but for these, see note on line 30. the verse translation has been made to follow the original as closely as possible; for a literal translation thurneysen's versions (pp. 94 and 88) may be referred to, but some alterations may be made. the first description seems to begin thus: i went with noble sportiveness to a land wonderful, yet well-known; until i came to a cairn for twenty of troops where i found labraid the long-haired. there i found him on that hill sitting among a thousand weapons, yellow hair on him with beautiful colour, an apple of gold for the confining of it. and it ends thus: alas i that he went not long ago, and each cure (should come) at his searching, that he might see how it is the great palace that i saw. though all erin were mine and the kingship of yellow bregia, i would resign it; no slight trial; for knowledge of the place to which i came. the following points should also be noted: line 30 of this first description is tri bile do chorcor glain. this undoubtedly means "three trees of purple glass"; but do chorcor glan would mean "of bright purple"; and this last rendering, which is quite a common expression (see etain, p. 12), has been adopted in the verse translation. the order of the words in the expression in the text is unusual, and the adoption of them would give an air of artificiality to the description which is otherwise quite absent from it. lines 37 and 38 run thus: there are there thrice twenty trees, their tops meet, and meet not. lines 43, 44, rendering: "each with splendid gold fastening well hooked through its eye," are literally "and a brooch of gold with its splendour in the 'ear' of each cloak." the ears of a cloak, usually described as made of the peculiar white bronze, occur elsewhere in the tales, and there are different speculations as to their use and meaning. the most probable explanation is that they were bronze rings shaped like ears, and sewn into the cloak; a brooch to fasten the cloak being passed through the rings. this explanation has been suggested by professor ridgeway, and seems to fit admirably the passages in which these "ears" occur. compare fraech, line 33, in the second volume; also the "courtship of ferb" (nutt), p. 6. there are also a few corrections necessary to thurneysen's translation of the second description. lines 13 to 20 should run thus: a beautiful band of women;--victory without fetters;-are the daughters of aed abra; the beauty of fand is a rushing sound with splendour, exceeding the beauty of a queen or king. (the last line is more literally, "not excepting a queen or, &c.") i will say, since it hath been heard by me, that the seed of adam was sinless; but the beauty of fand up to my time hath not found its equal. for the allusion to adams sin, compare etain, p. 26. allusions like these show that the tales were composed in christian times. there seems no reason to suppose them to be insertions, especially in cases like this one, where they come in quite naturally. line 21 is literally "with their arms for slaying"; not "who warred on each other with weapons" as in thurneysen. page 76 for the cooling of cuchulain's battle-frenzy with water compare the similar treatment in the account of his first foray (l.u., 63a; miss faraday's translation, p. 34). for a literal translation of faud's triumph song over cuchulain's return see thurneysen's translation on page 97 of the work already referred to. thurneysen's translation is very close; perhaps the last verse should run: "long rain of red blood at the side of the trees, a token of this proud and masterful, high with wailing is the sorrow for his fiend-like frenzy." the description of cuchulain's appearance in verses 5 and 6 seems to point to a conception of him as the sun-god. compare the "sunlike" seat of his chariot on page 79. page 78 the literal translation of liban's rhetoric in welcome to cuchulain seems to be, "hail to cuchulain! king who brings help, great prince of murthemne! great his mind; pomp of heroes; battle-triumphing; heart of a hero; strong rock of skill; blood-redness of wrath; ready for true foes of the hero who has the valour of ulster (?); bright his splendour; splendour of the eyes of maidens; hail to cuchulain!" torc in the second line is glossed in the ms. by "that is, a king." cuchulain's account of his own battle is omitted by thurneysen, possibly because the account that he gives differs from that in the text, as is pointed out by windisch, ir. text., vol. i. p. 201). but it is quite in keeping with the hero's character that he should try to lessen his own glory; and the omission of this account destroys one of the features of the tale. the literal rendering is: i threw a cast with my light spear into the host of eogan the stream; not at all do i know, though renowned the price, the victory that i have done, or the deed. whether he was better or inferior to my strength hitherto i chanced not on for my decision, a throw, ignorance of the man in the mist, certainly he came not away a living man. a white army, very red for multitudes of horses, they followed after me on every side (?), people of manannan mac lir, eogan the stream called them. i set out in each manner when my full strength had come to me; one man to their thirty, hundreds, until i brought them to death. i heard the groan of echaid juil, lips speak in friendship, if it is really true, certainly it was not a fight (?), that cast, if it was thrown. the idea of a battle with the waves of the sea underlies the third verse of this description. page 79 five pieces of rhetoric follow, all of which are translated by thurneysen. a few alterations may be made, but all of them would be small ones. the verse translations given are, it is believed, a little closer to the text than thurneysen's. the metres of the first three pieces are discussed by professor rhys in y cymmrodor for 1905 (pages 166, 167). professor rhys reduces the second of these to a hexameter followed by three pentameters, then a hexameter followed by a pentameter. the other two reduce to hexameters mixed with curtailed hexameters and pentameters. the last two pieces of the five, not mentioned by professor rhys, show a strophic correspondence, which has been brought out in the verse translation; note especially their openings, and the last line of emer's speech, cia no triallta, as balancing the last line but four of cuchulain's speech, cia no comgellta. the last of these five pieces shows the greatest differences between the verse and literal translations. a literal translation of this would run: "wherefore now, o emer!" said cuchulain, "should i not be permitted to delay with this lady? for first this lady here is bright, pure, and clear, a worthy mate for a king; of many forms of beauty is the lady, she can pass over waves of mighty seas, is of a goodly shape and countenance and of a noble race, with embroidery and skill, and with handiwork, with understanding, and sense, and firmness; with plenty of horses and many cattle, so that there is nothing under heaven, no wish for a dear spouse that she doth not. and though it hath been promised (?), emer," he said, "thou never shalt find a hero so beautiful, so scarred with wounds, so battle-triumphing, (so worthy) as i myself am worthy." page 81 line 11. "fair seems all that's red, &c.," is literally "fair is each red, white is each new, beautiful each lofty, sour is each known, revered is each thing absent, failure is each thing accustomed." for a translation of the poem in which fand resigns cuchulain reference may be made to thurneysen (p. 101). a more accurate translation of the first verse seems to run thus: i am she who will go on a journey which is best for me on account of strong compulsion; though there is to another abundance of her fame, (and) it were dearer to me to remain. line 16 of poem, translated by thurneysen "i was true and held my word," is in the original daig is misi rop iran. iran is a doubtful word, if we take it as a form of aur-an, aur being the intensitive prefix, a better translation may be, "i myself was greatly glowing." page 82 line 26. "the lady was seized by great bitterness of mind," irish ro gab etere moir. the translation of etere is doubtful. page 83 for the final poem, in which fand returns to manannan, reference may as before be made to thurneysen's translation; but a few changes may be noted: line 1 should be, "see the son of the hero people of the sea." line 5 seems to be, "although" (lit. "if") "it is to-day that his cry is excellent." line 7 is a difficult one. thurneysen gives, "that indeed is the course of love," apparently reading rot, a road, in place of ret; but he leaves eraise untranslated; the irish is is eraise in ret in t-serc. might not eraise be "turning back," connected with eraim, and the line run: "it is turning back of the road of love"? lines 13 to 16 are omitted by thurneysen. they seem to mean: when the comely manannan took me, he was to me a fitting spouse; nor did he at all gain me before that time, an additional stake (?) at a game at the chess. the last line, cluchi erail (lit. "excess") ar fidchill, is a difficult allusion. perhaps the allusion is to the capture of etain by mider as prize at chess from her husband. fand may be claiming superiority over a rival fairy beauty. lines 17 and 18 repeat lines 13 and 14. lines 46 and 47 are translated by thurneysen, "too hard have i been offended; laeg, son of riangabra, farewell," but there is no "farewell" in the irish. the lines seem to be: "indeed the offence was great, o laeg, o thou son of riangabra," and the words are an answer to laeg, who may be supposed to try to stop her flight. page 85 line 24. "that she might forget her jealousy," lit. "a drink of forgetfulness of her jealousy," deoga dermait a heta. the translation seems to be an accepted one, and certainly gives sense, but it is doubtful whether or not eta can be regarded as a genitive of et, "jealousy "; the genitive elsewhere is eoit. there is a conclusion to this romance which is plainly added by the compiler: it is reproduced here, to show the difference between its style and the style of the original author: "this then was a token given to cuchulain that he should be destroyed by the people of the mound, for the power of the demons was great before the advent of the faith; so great was that power that the demons warred against men in bodily form, and they showed delights and secret things to them; and that those demons were co-eternal was believed by them. so that from the signs that they showed, men called them the ignorant folk of the mounds, the people of the sid." the exile of the sons of usnach page 91 the four pieces of rhetoric, at the beginning of this text are translated by thurneysen, sagen aus dem alten irland, pp. 11 and 12. in the first, third, and fourth of those, the only difference of any importance between the text adopted and thurneysen's versions is the third line of the third piece, which perhaps should run: "with stately eyes with blue pupils," segdaib suilib sellglassaib, taking the text of the yellow book of lecan. the second piece appears to run as follows: let cathbad hear, the fair one, with face that all love, the prince, the royal diadem, let he who is extolled be increased by druid arts of the druid: because i have no words of wisdom to oppose (?) to feidlimid, the light of knowledge; for the nature of woman knows not what is under her body, (or) what in the hollow of my womb cries out. these rhetorics are remarkable for the great number of the alliterations in the original. page 93 thurneysen omits a verse of cathbad's poem. a translation of the whole seems to run thus: deirdre, great cause of destruction, though thou art fair of face, famous, pale, ulster shall sorrow in thy time, thou hidden (?) daughter of feidlimid. windisch's dict. gives "modest daughter" in the last line; the original is ingen fial. but the word might be more closely connected with fial, "a veil." "modest" is not exactly the epithet that one would naturally apply to the deirdre of the leinster version, and the epithet of "veiled" or "hidden" would suit her much better, the reference being to her long concealment by conor. there shall be mischief yet afterwards on thy account, o brightly shining woman, hear thou this! at that time shall be the exile of the three lofty sons of usnach. it is in thy time that a violent deed shall be done thereupon in emain, yet afterwards shall it repent the violation of the safeguard of the mighty son of rog. do foesam is read in the last verse, combining the leinster and the egerton texts. it is through thee, o woman with excellence, (is) the exile of fergus from the ulstermen, and a deed from which weeping will come, the wound of fiachna, the son of conor. fiachna. is grandson to conor in the book of leinster account of the battle. fiacha is conor's son in the glenn masain version. it is thy fault, o woman with excellence, the wound of gerrc son of illadan, and a deed of no smaller importance, the slaying of eogan mac durthacht. there is no account of the slaying of eogan in the book of leinster version; and eogan appears on the hill of slane in the ulster army in the war of cualgne. the sequel to the glenn masain version, however, describes eogan's death at the hand of fergus (celtic review, jan. 1905, p. 227). thou shalt do a deed that is wild and hateful for wrath against the king of noble ulster; thy little grave shall be in that place, thy tale shall be renowned, o deirdre. page 95 line 13. "release me, o my wife!" eirgg uaim a ben. it is suggested that the vocative ben is "wife," not "woman." it occurs in seven other places besides this in windisch's dictionary, and in six of these it means wife (emer is addressed as wife of cuchulain in a deig-ben, in "sick-bed," 44). in the remaining case ("fled bricrend," 31) the word is abbreviated, and stands b in the text, which might be for be, "o lady," though we should have then expected the accent. i suggest that naisi, by giving to deirdre the name of "wife," accepts her offer, for no other sign of acceptance is indicated, and the subsequent action shows that she is regarded as his wife afterwards. line 30. "near to ballyshannon," and "which men to-day call the mountain of howth," are inserted as the modern names of the places. the words correspond to nothing in the irish. page 97 line 13. "fiacha." fiacha, the son of fergus, corresponds to illan in the better known version. there is no one in this version who corresponds to the traitor son, buinne. page 98 the "lament of deirdre," one of the finest of the older irish poems, has been rendered by thurneysen and by others, among which should be specially mentioned miss hull, in the cuchullin saga, pp. 50-51. o'curry's and o'flanagan's versions seem to be very far from correct, and it will be more convenient to give that literal translation which seems nearest to the original, instead of indicating divergencies. the literal translation adopted runs as follows: though fair to you seems the keen band of heroes who march into emain that they lately left (lit "after departing"), more stately was the return to their home of the three heroic sons of usnach. naisi, with mead of delicious hazel-nuts (came), to be bathed by me at the fire, ardan, with an ox or boar of excellence, aindle, a faggot on his stately back. though sweet be the excellent mead to you which is drunk by the son of ness, the rich in strife, there has been known to me, ere now, leaping over a bank, frequent sustenance which was sweeter. line 3 of the above stanza seems to be baithium riam reim for bra, taking reim from the egerton text. the allusion is to a cascade. when the noble naisi spread out a cooking-hearth on hero-board of tree, sweeter than any food dressed under honey[fn#69] was what was captured by the son of usnach. [fn#69] for "food dressed under honey" compare fraech, line 544, in the second volume. though melodious to you each month (are the) pipers and horn-blowers, it is my open statement to you to-day i have heard melody sweeter far than these. for conor, the king, is melody pipers and blowers of horns, more melodious to me, renowned, enchanting the voice given out by the sons of usnach. like the sound of the wave the voice of naisi, it was a melodious sound, one to hearken to for ever, ardan was a good barytone, the tenor of aindle rang through the dwelling-place. naisi is laid in his tomb, sad was the protection that he got; the nation by which he was reared poured out the cup of poison by which he died. dear is berthan, beautiful its lands, stately the men, though hilly the land, it is sorrowful that to-day i rise not to await the sons of usnach. dear the mind, firm, upright, dear the youth, lofty, modest, after going with him through the dark wood dear the girding (?) at early morning. dear his gray eye, which women loved, it was evil-looking against enemies, after circuit of the wood (was) a noble assembly, dear the tenor through the dark wood. i sleep not therefor, and i stain not my nails with red, joy comes not to my wakefulness, for the sons of usnach return not. the last line is the egerton reading. i sleep not for half the night on my bed, my mind wanders amidst clouds of thoughts, i eat not, nor smile. there is no leisure or joy for me in the assemblies of eastern emain; there is no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose in beholding fine houses or splendid ornaments. what, o conor, of thee? for me only sorrow under lamentation hast thou prepared, such will be my life so long as it remains to me, thy love for me will not last. the man who under heaven was fairest to me, the man who was so dear thou hast torn from me; great was the crime; so that i shall not see him until i die. his absence is the cause of grief to me, the shape of the son of usnach shows itself to me, a dark hill is above his white body which was desired before many things by me. his ruddy cheeks, more beautiful than meadows (?), red lips, eyebrows of the colour of the chafer, his teeth shining like pearls, like noble colour of snow. well have i known his splendid garb among the warrior men of alba; mantle of crimson, meet for an assembly, with a border of red gold. his tunic of satin of costly price, on it a hundred pearls could be counted, goodly the number (lit. "a smooth number" ? a round number), for its embroidery had been used, it was bright, fifty ounces of findruine (i.e. white bronze). a gold-hilted sword in his hand, two green spears with terrible points (?), a shield with border of yellow gold, and a boss of silver upon it. fair fergus brought injury upon us when inducing us to cross the sea; he has sold his honour for ale, the glory of his high deeds is departed. if there were upon this plain the warriors of ulster in the presence of conor, all of them would i give up without a struggle for the companionship of naisi, the son of usnach. break not to-day my heart (o conor!), soon shall i reach my early grave, stronger than the sea is my grief, dost thou not know it, o conor? page 103 for the literal translations of the poems in the glenn masain version see whitley stokes in irische texte, ii. 2, 172 sqq. stanzas 13 to 16 are not in lvi. (the manuscript which is the second authority used by stokes for this version, and is the chief authority for this part of the version). they are in the manuscript that stokes calls ii. (the version used by o'flanagan), which, like lvi., agrees pretty closely with the glenn masain text so far as the latter manuscript extends. stanza 22 is also from o'flanagan's manuscript. this verse is not translated by stokes, but it seems worth inserting. the literal translation of it is: i am deirdre without joy, it is for me the end of my life; since to remain behind them is the worst thing, not long life to myself. page 107 line 21. two passages, one describing fergus' sons born in connaught, the other summing up his deeds, are omitted, as it is not intended to reproduce this version in full. the combat at the ford the well-known translation by o'curry of this part of the book of leinster version of the "tain bo cuailgne" is given in the third volume of his "manners and customs," pp. 414-463. there are, as has often been pointed out, many inaccuracies in the translation, and the present version does not claim to correct all or even the greater part of them; for the complete version of the great tain by windisch which has so long eagerly been expected should give us a trustworthy text, and the present translation is in the main founded on o'curry; to whose version reference may be made for literal translations for such parts of the verse passages as are not noted below. a few more obvious corrections have been made; most of those in the prose will appear by comparing the rendering with o'curry's; some of the corrections in the literal versions adopted for the poems are briefly indicated. two poems have been literally translated in full: in these the renderings which have no authority other than o'curry's are followed by a query, in order to give an indication of the extent to which the translation as given may for the present be regarded as uncertain. for all the more valuable of the corrections made to o'curry's translation i am indebted to the kindness of mr. e. j. quiggin, fellow of caius college, cambridge. page 118 line 7 of the first stanza. o'curry gives this as "thou hast come out of every strife," which seems to be an impossible rendering; "take whatever is thy will" seems to be nearer the sense of the passage, and has been adopted. lines 5 to 8 of the fourth stanza are very uncertain; and the translation given, which is in part based upon o'curry, is very doubtful; a more trustworthy one has not, however, been arrived at. line 4 of the fifth stanza in o'curry's rendering means "here is what thou wilt not earn," i.e. "we can pay more than a full reward for thy services." lines 5 and 6 of the sixth stanza should be, "if my request be granted me i will advance, though i am not his match." line 2 of the eighth stanza, "not thine a pleasant smile for a consort." brachail in the next line is "guardian." line 10 of the last stanza. elgga is one of the names of ireland. page 121 line 1. maeth n-araig, "in an easy task," the force of which o'curry seems to miss, translating it "as he thought." there are several changes to make in o'curry's rendering of the dialogue between fergus and cuchulain. it should run thus: f. o cuchulain, manifest is the bargain, i see that rising is timely for thee; here comes to thee in anger ferdiad, son of daman, of the ruddy face. c. i am here, it is no light task valiantly delaying the men of erin; i have not yielded a foot in retreat to shun the combat of any one man. f. fierce is the man in his excited (?) rage because of his blood-red sword: a horny skin is about ferdiad of the troops, against it prevails not battle or combat. c. be silent, urge not thy story, o fergus of the powerful weapons! on any field, on any ground, there is no unequal fight for me. f. fierce is the man, a war for twenties, it is not easy to vanquish him, the strength of a hundred in his body, valiant his deed (?), spears pierce him not, swords cut him not. c. should we happen to meet at a ford (i.e. a field of battle), i and ferdiad of well-known valour, the separation shall not be without history, fierce shall be our edge-combat. f. better would it be to me than reward, o cuchulain of the blood-stained sword, that it was thou who carried eastward the spoils (coscur, not corcur) of the proud ferdiad. c. i give thee my word with boasting, though i am not good at bragging, that it is i who shall gain the victory over the son of daman, the son of dare. f. it is i who gathered the forces eastwards in revenge for my dishonour by the men of ulster; with me they have come from their lands, their champions and their battle warriors. c. if conor had not been in his sickness hard would have been his nearness to thee; medb of magh in scail had not made an expedition of so loud boastings. f. a greater deed awaits thy hand, battle with ferdiad son of daman, hardened bloody weapons, friendly is my speech, do thou have with thee, o cuchulain! page 124 line 7 of o'curry's rendering of the first stanza should run: "so that he may take the point of a weapon through him." stanza 2 of the poem should run thus: it would be better for thee to stay, thy threats will not be gentle, there will be some one who shall have sickness on that account, distressful will be thy departure to encounter the rock of ulster; and ill may this venture turn out; long will be the remembrance of it, woe shall be to him who goeth that journey. line 4 of the next stanza, "i will not keep back to please you." page 126 the literal rendering of the poem seems to be: i hear the creaking of a chariot with a beautiful silver yoke, the figure of a man with perfection (rises) from the wheels of the stout chariot; over breg row, over braine they come (?), over the highway beside the lower part of the burg of the trees; it (the chariot?) is triumphant for its victories. it is a heroic (?) hound who drives it, it is a trusty charioteer who yokes it, it is a noble hawk who scourges his horses to the south: he is a stubborn hero, he is certain (to cause) heavy slaughter, it is well-known that not with indexterity (?) is the bringing of the battle to us. woe for him who shall be upon the hillock waiting for the hound who is fitly framed (lit. in harmony"); i myself declared last year that there would come, though it be from somewhere, a hound the hound of emain macha, the hound with a form on which are hues of all colours, the hound of a territory, the hound of battle; i hear, we have heard. as a second rendering of the above in a metre a little closer to the original than that given in the text, the following may be suggested: shrieks from war-car wake my hearing, silver yokes are nigh appearing; high his perfect form is rearing, he those wheels who guides! braina, braeg ross past it boundeth, triumph song for conquests soundeth, lo! the roadway's course it roundeth, skirting wooded sides. hero hound the scourge hard plieth, trusty servant yoke-strap tieth, swift as noble hawk, he flieth, southward urging steeds! hardy chief is he, and story soon must speak his conquests gory, great for skilful war his glory; we shall know his deeds! thou on hill, the fierce hound scorning, waitest; woe for thee is dawning; fitly framed he comes, my warning spoke him thus last year: "emain's hound towards us raceth, guards his land, the fight he faceth, every hue his body graceth:" whom i heard, i hear. page 127 in o'curry's rendering of the dialogue between ferdia and his servant, line 3 should be, "that it be not a deed of prophecy," not "a deferred deed"; and line 6, with his proud sport." last stanza of the poem: it seems thou art not without rewards, so greatly hast thou praised him; why else hast thou extolled him ever since i left my house? they who now extol the man when he is in their sight come not to attack him, but are cowardly churls. page 128 line 34. "as a hawk darts up from the furrow." o'curry gives "from the top of a cliff." the word in the irish is claiss. page 129 the metre of this poem, which is also the metre of all the preceeding poems except the second in this romance, but does not occur elsewhere in the collection, may be illustrated by quoting the original of the fifth verse, which runs as follows: re funiud, re n-aidchi madit eicen airrthe, comrac dait re bairche, ni ba ban in gleo: ulaid acot gairmsiu, ra n-gabartar aillsiu, bud olc doib in taidbsiu rachthair thairsiu is treo. literal translation of the first two stanzas: what has brought thee here, o hound, to fight with a strong champion? crimson-red shall flow thy blood over the breaths of thy steeds; woe is thy journey: it shall be a kindling of fuel against a house, need shalt thou have of healing if thou reach thy home (alive). i have come before warriors who gather round a mighty host-possessing prince, before battalions, before hundreds, to put thee under the water, in anger with thee, and to slay thee in a combat of hundreds of paths of battle, so that thine shall the injury as thou protectest thy head. line 2 of the fifth stanza, "good is thy need of height." line 8 of the seventh stanza, "without valour, without strength." page 133 line 3. literally: "whatever be the excellence of her beauty." a similar literal translation for page 138, line 10, of the dialogue; the same line occurs in verse 3 on page 148, but is not rendered in the verse translation. page 134 line 18. "o cuchulain! for beautiful feats renowned." o'curry gives this as prose, but it is clearly verse in the original. page 138 lines 5, 6 of dialogue. "o cuchulain! who art a breeder of wounds" (lit. "pregnant with wounds"); "o true warrior! o true" (?accent probably omitted) "champion!" lines 7, 8. "there is need for some one" (i.e. himself) "to go to the sod where his final resting-place shall be." the irish of line 7 is is eicen do neoch a thecht, which o'curry translates "a man is constrained to come," and he is followed by douglas hyde, who renders the two lines: fate constrains each one to stir, moving towards his sepulchre. but do neoch cannot possibly mean "every man," it means "some man;" usually the person in question is obvious. compare page 125 of this romance, line 3, which is literally: "there will be some one who shall have sickness on that account," biaid nech diamba galar, meaning, as here, ferdia. the line is an explanation of ferdia's appearance, and is not a moral reflection. line 29. "o cuchulain! with floods of deeds of valour," or "brimming over with deeds, &c." page 141 line 9. "four jewels of carbuncle." this is the reading of h. 2, 17; t.c.d; which o'curry quotes as an alternative to "forty" of the book of leinster. "each one of them fit to adorn it" is by o'curry translated "in each compartment." the irish is a cach aen chumtach: apparently "for each one adornment." page 144 line 8 of poem. "alas for the departing of my ghost." page 146 lines 1, 2. "though he had struck off the half of my leg that is sound, though he had smitten off half my arm." page 148 line 5. "since he whom aife bore me," literally "never until now have i met, since i slew aife's only son, thy like in deeds of battle, never have i found it, o ferdia." this is o'curry's rendering; if it is correct, and it seems to be so substantially, the passage raises a difficulty. aife's only son is, according to other records, conlaoch, son of cuchulain and aife, killed by his father, who did not at the time know who conlaoch was. this battle is usually represented as having taken place at the end of cuchulain's life; but here it is represented as preceding the war of cualgne, in which cuchulain himself is represented to be a youth. the allusion certainly indicates an early date for the fight with conlaoch, and if we are to lay stress on the age of cuchulain at the time of the war, as recorded in the book of leinster, of whose version this incident is a part, the "son of aife" would not have been a son of cuchulain at all in the mind of the writer of this verse. it is possible that there was an early legend of a fight with the son of aife which was developed afterwards by making him the son of cuchulain; the oldest version of this incident, that in the yellow book of lecan, reconciles the difficulty by making conlaoch only seven years old when he took up arms; this could hardly have been the original version. line 23 of poem is literally: "it is like thrusting a spear into sand or against the sun." the metre of the poem "ah that brooch of gold," and of that on page 144, commencing "hound, of feats so fair," are unique in this collection, and so far as i know do not occur elsewhere. both have been reproduced in the original metre, and the rather complicated rhyme-system has also been followed in that on page 148. the first verse of the irish of this is dursan, a eo oir a fhirdiad na n-dam a belc bemnig buain ba buadach do lamh. the last syllable of the third line has no rhyme beyond the echo in the second syllable of the next line; oir, "gold," has no rhyme till the word is repeated in the third line of the third verse, rhymed in the second line of the fourth, and finally repeated at the end. the second verse has two final words echoed, brass and maeth; it runs thus do barr bude brass ba cass, ba cain set; do chriss duillech maeth immut taeb gu t-ec. the rhymes in the last two verses are exactly those of the reproduction, they are cain sair, main, laim, chain, the other three end rhymes being oir, choir, and oir. line 3 of this poem is "o hero of strong-striking blows." line 4. "triumphant was thine arm." page 149 lines 11 and 12 of the poem. "go ye all to the swift battle that shall come to you from german the green-terrible" (? of the terrible green spear). page 150 line 12. the torrian sea is the mediterranean. page 151 line 15. literally: "thou in death, i alive and nimble." line 23. "wars were gay, &c." cluchi cach, gaine cach, "each was a game, each was little," taking gaine as gainne, the known derivative of gand, "scanty." o'curry gives the meaning as "sport," and has been followed by subsequent translators, but there does not seem any confirmation of this rendering. page 153 line 10. banba is one of the names of ireland. end of vol. i. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see 14749-h.htm or 14749-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/4/14749/14749-h/14749-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/4/14749/14749-h.zip) the high deeds of finn and other bardic romances of ancient ireland by t. w. rolleston with an introduction by stopford a. brooke, m.a. ll.d. and with sixteen illustrations by stephen reid new york thomas y. crowell & company publishers ar craoibh connartha na gaedhilge i ngleann fhaidhle bronnaim an leabhar seo: beannacht agus buaidh libhse go deo preface the romantic tales here retold for the english reader belong neither to the category of folk-lore nor of myth, although most of them contain elements of both. they belong, like the tales of cuchulain, which have been similarly presented by miss hull,[1] to the bardic literature of ancient ireland, a literature written with an artistic purpose by men who possessed in the highest degree the native culture of their land and time. the aim with which these men wrote is also that which has been adopted by their present interpreter. i have not tried, in this volume, to offer to the scholar materials for the study of celtic myth or folk-lore. my aim, however i may have fulfilled it, has been artistic, not scientific. i have tried, while carefully preserving the main outline of each story, to treat it exactly as the ancient bard treated his own material, or as tennyson treated the stories of the mort d'arthur, that is to say, to present it as a fresh work of poetic imagination. in some cases, as in the story of the children of lir, or that of mac datho's boar, or the enchanting tale of king iubdan and king fergus, i have done little more than retell the bardic legend with merely a little compression; but in others a certain amount of reshaping has seemed desirable. the object in all cases has been the same, to bring out as clearly as possible for modern readers the beauty and interest which are either manifest or implicit in the gaelic original. [1] cuchulain, the hound of ulster. by eleanor hull. for stories which are only found in mss. written in the older forms of the language, i have been largely indebted to the translations published by various scholars. chief among these (so far as the present work is concerned) must be named mr standish hayes o'grady--whose wonderful treasure-house of gaelic legend, silva gadelica, can never be mentioned by the student of these matters without an expression of admiration and of gratitude; mr a.h. leahy, author of heroic romances of ireland; dr whitly stokes, professor kuno meyer, and m. d'arbois de jubainville, whose invaluable cycle mythologique irlandais has been much in my hands, both in the original and in the excellent english translation of mr r.i. best. particulars of the source of each story will be found in the notes on the sources at the end of this volume. in the same place will also be found a pronouncing-index of proper names. i have endeavoured, in the text, to avoid or to modify any names which in their original form would baffle the english reader, but there remain some on the pronunciation of which he may be glad to have a little light. the two most conspicuous figures in ancient irish legend are cuchulain, who lived--if he has any historical reality--in the reign of conor mac nessa immediately before the christian era, and finn son of cumhal, who appears in literature as the captain of a kind of military order devoted to the service of the high king of ireland during the third century a.d. miss hull's volume has been named after cuchulain, and it is appropriate that mine should bear the name of finn, as it is mainly devoted to his period; though, as will be seen, several stories belonging to other cycles of legend, which did not fall within the scope of miss hull's work, have been included here.[2] all the tales have been arranged roughly in chronological order. this does not mean according to the date of their composition, which in most cases is quite indiscoverable, and still less, according to the dates of the mss. in which they are contained. the order is given by the position, in real or mythical history, of the events they deal with. of course it is not practicable to dovetail them into one another with perfect accuracy. where a story, like that of the children of lir, extends over nearly a thousand years, beginning with the mythical people of dana and ending in the period of christian monasticism, one can only decide on its place by considering where it will throw most light on those which come nearest to it. in this, as in the selection and treatment of the tales, there is of course room for much difference of opinion. i can only ask the critic to believe that nothing has been done in the framing of this collection of gaelic romances without the consideration and care which the value of the material demands and which the writer's love of it has inspired. t.w. rolleston [2] there is one important tale of the finn cycle, the _pursuit of dermot and grania_, which i have not included. i have omitted it, partly because it presents the character of finn in a light inconsistent with what is said of him elsewhere, and partly because it has in it a certain sinister and depressing element which renders it unsuitable for a collection intended largely for the young. contents introduction cois na teineadh bardic romances i. the story of the children of lir ii. the quest of the sons of turenn iii. the secret of labra iv. king iubdan and king fergus v. the carving of mac datho's boar vi. the vengeance of mesgedra vii. the story of etain and midir viii. how ethne quitted fairyland the high deeds of finn ix. the boyhood of finn mac cumhal x. the coming of finn xi. finn's chief men xii. the tale of vivionn the giantess xiii. the chase of the gilla dacar xiv. the birth of oisín xv. oisín in the land of youth the history of king cormac xvi. 1. the birth of cormac 2. the judgment of cormac 3. the marriage of king cormac 4. the instructions of the king 5. cormac sets up the first mill in erinn 6. a pleasant story of cormac's brehon 7. the judgment concerning cormac's sword 8. the disappearance of cormac 9. description of cormac 10. death and burial of cormac notes on the sources pronouncing index illustrations "finn heard far off the first notes of the fairy harp" (frontispiece) "there sat the three maidens with the queen" "they made an encampment and the swans sang to them" "bear us swiftly, boat of mananan, to the garden of the hesperides" "there dwelt the red-haired ocean-nymphs" "they all trooped out, lords and ladies, to view the wee man" "fergus goes down into the lake" "a mighty shout of exultation arose from the ulstermen" "they rose up in the air" "she heard her own name called again and again" "and that night there was feasting and joy in the lonely hut" "they ran him by hill and plain" "dermot took the horn and would have filled it" "'follow me now to the hill of allen'" "they rode up to a stately palace" "the white steed had vanished from their eyes like a wreath of mist" introduction many years have passed by since, delivering the inaugural lecture of the irish literary society in london, i advocated as one of its chief aims the recasting into modern form and in literary english of the old irish legends, preserving the atmosphere of the original tales as much as possible, but clearing them from repetitions, redundant expressions, idioms interesting in irish but repellent in english, and, above all, from absurdities, such as the sensational fancy of the later editors and bards added to the simplicities of the original tales. long before i spoke of this, it had been done by p.w. joyce in his old celtic romances, and by standish o'grady for the whole story of cuchulain, but in this case with so large an imitation of the homeric manner that the celtic spirit of the story was in danger of being lost. this was the fault i had to find with that inspiring book,[3] but it was a fault which had its own attraction. [3] i gave this book--_the history of ireland_ (heroic period)--to burne-jones in order to interest him in irish myth and legend. "i'll try and read it," he said. a week afterwards he came and said--"it is a new world of thought and pleasure you have opened to me. i knew nothing of this, and life is quite enlarged. but now, i want to see all the originals. where can i get them?" i have only spoken of prose writing above. but in poetry (and in poetry well fitted to the tales), this work had already been done nobly, and with a fine celtic splendour of feeling and expression, by sir samuel ferguson. since then, a number of writers have translated into literary english a host of the irish tales, and have done this with a just reverence for their originals. being, in nearly every case, irish themselves, they have tried, with varying success, to make their readers realize the wild scenery of ireland, her vital union with the sea and the great ocean to the west, those changing dramatic skies, that mystic weather, the wizard woods and streams which form the constant background of these stories; nor have they failed to allure their listeners to breathe the spiritual air of ireland, to feel its pathetic, heroic, imaginative thrill. they have largely succeeded in their effort. the irish bardic tales have now become a part of english literature and belong not only to grown up persons interested in early poetry, in mythology and folk-customs, but to the children of ireland and england. our new imaginative stories are now told in nurseries, listened to at evening when the children assemble in the fire-light to hear tales from their parents, and eagerly read by boys at school. a fresh world of story-telling has been opened to the imagination of the young. this could not have been done in the right way if it had not been for the previous work of celtic scholars in ireland, and particularly on the continent, in france and germany. having mastered medieval irish, they have translated with careful accuracy many of the ancient tales, omitting and changing nothing; they have edited them critically, collating and comparing them with one another, and with other forms of the same stories. we have now in english, french, and german the exact representation of the originals with exhaustive commentaries. when this necessary work was finished--and it was absolutely necessary--it had two important results on all work of the kind mr rolleston has performed in this book--on the imaginative recasting and modernizing of the ancient tales. first, it made it lawful and easy for the modern artist--in sculpture, painting, poetry, or imaginative prose--to use the stories as he pleased in order to give pleasure to the modern world. it made it lawful because he could reply to those who objected that what he produced was not the real thing--"the real thing exists; you will find it, when you wish to see it, accurately and closely translated by critical and competent scholars. i refer you to the originals in the notes to this book. i have found the materials of my stories in these originals; and it is quite lawful for me, now that they have been reverently preserved, to use them as i please for the purpose of giving pleasure to the modern world--to make out of them fresh imaginative work, as the medieval writers did out of the original stories of arthur and his men." this is the defence any re-caster of the ancient tales might make of the _lawfulness_ of his work, and it is a just defence; having, above all, this use--that it leaves the imagination of the modern artist free, yet within recognized and ruling limits, to play in and around his subject. one of those limits is the preservation, in any remodelling of the tales, of the celtic atmosphere. to tell the irish stories in the manner of homer or apuleius, in the manner of the norse sagas, or in the manner of malory, would be to lose their very nature, their soul, their nationality. we should no longer understand the men and women who fought and loved in ireland, and whose characters were moulded by irish surroundings, customs, thoughts, and passions. we should not see or feel the landscape of ireland or its skies, the streams, the woods, the animals and birds, the mountain solitudes, as we feel and see them in the original tales. we should not hear, as we hear in their first form, the stormy seas between scotland and antrim, or the great waves which roar on the western isles, and beat on cliffs which still belong to another world than ours. the genius of ireland would desert our work. and it would be a vast pity to lose the irish atmosphere in the telling of the irish tales, because it is unique; not only distinct from that of the stories of other races, but from that of the other branches of the celtic race. it differs from the atmosphere of the stories of wales, of brittany, of the highlands and islands of scotland. it is more purely celtic, less mixed than any of them. a hundred touches in feeling, in ways of thought, in sensitiveness to beauty, in war and voyaging, and in ideals of life, separate it from that of the other celtic races. it is owing to the careful, accurate, and critical work of continental and irish scholars on the manuscript materials of irish law, history, bardic tales, and poetry; on customs, dress, furniture, architecture, ornament, on hunting and sailing; on the manners of men and women in war and peace, that the modern re-teller of the irish tales is enabled to conserve the irish atmosphere. and this conservation of the special irish atmosphere is the second result which the work of the critical scholars has established. if the re-writer of the tales does not use the immense materials made ready to his hand for illustration, expansion, ornament and description in such a way that ireland, and only ireland, lives in his work from line to line, he is greatly to be blamed. mr rolleston has fulfilled these conditions with the skill and the feeling of an artist. he has clung closely to his originals with an affectionate regard for their ancientry, their ardour and their distinction, and yet has, within this limit, used and modified them with a pleasant freedom. his love of ireland has instilled into his representation of these tales a passion akin to that which gave them birth. we feel, as we read, how deep his sympathy has been with their intensity, their love of wild nature, their desire for beauty, their interest in humanity and in character, their savagery and their tenderness, their fairy magic and strange imaginations that suddenly surprise and charm. whenever anything lovely emerges in the tale, he does not draw attention to it, but touches it with so artistic a pencil that its loveliness is enhanced. and he has put into english verse the irish poems scattered through the tales with the skill and the temper of a poet. i hope his book will win what it deserves--the glad appreciation of old and young in england, and the gratitude of ireland. the stories told in this book belong to three distinct cycles of irish story-telling. the first are mythological, and are concerned with the early races that are fabled to have dwelt and fought in ireland among these the tuatha de danaan were the final conquerors, and held the land for two hundred years they were, it is supposed, of the celtic stock, but they were not the ancestors of the present irish. these were the milesians (irish, scots or gaelic who, conquering the tuatha de danaan, ruled ireland till they were overcome by the english.) the stories which have to do with the tuatha de danaan are mythical and of a great antiquity concerning men and women, the wisest and the best of whom became gods, and who appear as divine beings in the cycle of tales which follow after them they were always at war with a fierce and savage people called fomorians, whom they finally defeated and the strife between them may mythically represent the ancient war between the good and evil principles in the world. in the next cycle we draw nearer to history, and are in the world not of myth but of legend. it is possible that some true history may be hidden underneath its sagas, that some of its personages may be historical, but we cannot tell. the events are supposed to occur about the time of the birth of christ, and seventeen hundred years after those of the mythical period. this is the cycle which collects its wars and sorrows and splendours around the dominating figure of cuchulain, and is called the heroic or the red branch or the ultonian cycle. several sagas tell of the birth, the life, and the death of cuchulain, and among them is the longest and the most important--the táin--the _cattle raid of cooley_. others are concerned with the great king conor mac nessa, and the most known and beautiful of these is the sorrowful tale of deirdré. there are many others of the various heroes and noble women who belonged to the courts of conor and of his enemy queen maev of connaght. the _carving of mac datho's boar_, the story of _etain and midir_, and the _vengeance of mesgedra_, contained in this book belong to these miscellaneous tales unconnected with the main saga of cuchulain. the second cycle is linked to the first, not by history or race, but by the fact that the great personages in the first have now become the gods who intervene in the affairs of the wars and heroes of the second. they take part in them as the gods do in the iliad and the odyssey. lugh, the long-handed, the great counsellor of the tuatha de danaan, is now a god, and is the real father of cuchulain, heals him of his wounds in the battle of the ford, warns him of his coming death, and receives him into the immortal land. the morrigan, who descends from the first cycle, is now the goddess of war, and is at first the enemy and afterwards the lover of cuchulain. angus, the dagda, mananan the sea-god, enter not only into the sagas of the second cycle, but into those of the third, of the cycle of finn. and all along to the very end of the stories, and down indeed to the present day, the tuatha de danaan appear in various forms, slowly lessening in dignity and power, until they end in the fairy folk in whom the irish peasants still believe. they are alive and still powerful in the third--the fenian--cycle of stories, some of which are contained and adorned in this book. in their continued presence is the only connexion which exists between the three cycles. no personages of the first save these of the gods appear in the heroic cycle, none of the heroic cycle appears in the fenian cycle. seventeen hundred years, according to irish annalists, separate the first from the second, more than two hundred years separate the second from the beginning of the third. the third cycle is called fenian because its legends tell, for the most part, of the great deeds of the féni or fianna, who were the militia employed by the high king to support his supremacy, to keep ireland in order, to defend the country from foreign invasion. they were, it seems, finally organized by cormac mac art, 227 a.d.(?) the grandson of conn the hundred fighter. but they had loosely existed before in the time of conn and his son art, and like all mercenary bodies of this kind were sometimes at war with the kings who employed them. finally, at the battle of gowra, they and their power were quite destroyed. long before this destruction, they were led in the reign of cormac by finn the son of cumhal, and it is around finn and oisín the son of finn, that most of the romances of the fenian cycle are gathered. others which tell of the battles and deeds of conn and art and cormac and cairbre of the liffey, cormac's son, are more or less linked on to the fenians. on the whole, finn and his warriors, each of a distinct character, warlike skill and renown, are the main personages of the cycle, and though finn is not the greatest warrior, he is their head and master because he is the wisest; and this masterdom by knowledge is for the first time an element in irish stories. if the tales of the first cycle are mythological and of the second heroic, these are romantic. the gods have lost their dreadful, even their savage character, and have become the fairies, full often of gentleness, grace, and humour. the mysterious dwelling places of the gods in the sea, in unknown lands, in the wandering air, are now in palaces under the green hills of ireland, or by the banks of swift clear rivers, like the palace of angus near the boyne, or across the seas in tir-na-n-óg, the land of immortal youth, whither niam brings oisín to live with her in love, as morgan le fay brought ogier the dane to her fairyland. the land of the immortals in the heroic cycle, to which, in the story of _etain and midir_ in this book, midir brings back etain after she has sojourned for a time on earth, is quite different in conception from the land of youth over the far seas where delightfulness of life and love is perfect. this, in its conception of an unknown world where is immortal youth, where stormless skies, happy hunting, strange adventure, gentle manners dwell, where love is free and time is unmarked, is pure romance. so are the adventures of finn against enchanters, as in the story of the _birth of oisín_, of _dermot in the country under the seas_, in the story of the _pursuit of the gilla dacar_, of the wild love-tale of _dermot and grania_, flying for many years over all ireland from the wrath of finn, and of a host of other tales of enchantments and battle, and love, and hunting, and feasts, and discoveries, and journeys, invasions, courtships, and solemn mournings. no doubt the romantic atmosphere has been deepened in these tales by additions made to them by successive generations of bardic singers and storytellers, but for all that the original elements in the stories are romantic as they are not in the previous cycles. again, these fenian tales are more popular than the others. douglas hyde has dwelt on this distinction. "for 1200 years at least, they have been," he says, "intimately bound up with the thought and feelings of the whole gaelic race in ireland and scotland." even at the present day new forms are given to the tales in the cottage homes of ireland. and it is no wonder. the mysterious giant forms of the mythological period, removed by divinity from the sympathy of men; the vast heroic figures of cuchulain and his fellows and foes, their close relation to supernatural beings and their doings, are far apart from the more natural humanity of cormac and finn, of dermot and goll, of oisín and oscar, of keelta, and last of conan, the coward, boaster and venomous tongue, whom all the fenians mocked and yet endured. they are a very human band of fighting men, and though many of them, like oisín and finn and dermot, have adventures in fairyland, they preserve in these their ordinary human nature. the connacht peasant has no difficulty in following finn into the cave of slieve cullinn, where the witch turned him into a withered old man, for the village where he lives has traditions of the same kind; the love affairs of finn, of dermot and grania, and of many others, are quite in harmony with a hundred stories, and with the temper, of irish lovers. a closer, a simpler humanity than that of the other cycles pervades the fenian cycle, a greater chivalry, a greater courtesy, and a greater tenderness. we have left the primeval savagery behind, the multitudinous slaughtering, the crude passions of the earlier men and women; we are nearer to civilization, nearer to the common temper and character of the irish people. no one can doubt this who will compare the _vengeance of mesgedra_ with the _chase of the gilla dacar_. the elaborate courtesy with which finn and his chief warriors receive all comers, as in the story of vivionn the giantess, is quite new, even medieval in its chivalry; so is the elaborate code of honour; so also is, on the whole, the treatment of women and their relation to men. how far this resemblance to medieval romance has been intruded into the stories--(there are some in which there is not a trace of it)--by the after editors and re-editors of the tales, i cannot tell, but however that may be, their presence in the fenian cycle is plain; and this brings the stories into a kindlier and more pleasurable atmosphere for modern readers than that which broods in thunderous skies and fierce light over dreadful passions and battles thick and bloody in the previous cycles. we are in a gentler world. another more modern romantic element in the fenian legends is the delight in hunting, and that more affectionate relation of men to animals which always marks an advance in civilization. hunting, as in medieval romance, is one of the chief pleasures of the fenians. six months of the year they passed in the open, getting to know every part of the country they had to defend, and hunting through the great woods and over the hills for their daily food and their daily delight. the story of the _chase of the gilla dacar_ tells, at its beginning, of a great hunting and of finn's men listening with joy to the cries of the hunters and the loud chiding of the dogs; and many tales celebrate the following of the stag and the wild boar from early dawn to the evening. then finn's two great hounds, bran and sceolaun, are loved by finn and his men as if they were dear friends; and they, when their master is in danger or under enchantment wail like human beings for his loss or pain. it is true cuchulain's horses weep tears of blood when he goes forth to his last battle, foreknowing his death; but they are immortal steeds and have divine knowledge of fate. the dogs of finn are only dogs, and the relation between him and them is a natural relation, quite unlike the relation between cuchulain and the horses which draw his chariot. yet finn's dogs are not quite as other dogs. they have something of a human soul in them. they know that in the milk-white fawn they pursue there is an enchanted maiden, and they defend her from the other hounds till finn arrives. and it is told of them that sometimes, when the moon is high, they rise from their graves and meet and hunt together, and speak of ancient days. the supernatural has lessened since the heroic cycle. but it is still there in the fenian. again, the fenian cycle of tales is more influenced by christianity than the others are. the mythological cycle is not only fully pagan, it is primeval. it has the vastness, the savagery, the relentlessness of nature-myths, and what beauty there is in it is akin to terror. gentleness is unknown. there is only one exception to this, so far as i know, and that is in the story of _the children of lir_. it is plain, however, that the christian ending of that sorrowful story is a later addition to it. it is remarkably well done, and most tenderly. i believe that the artist who did it imported into the rest of the tale the exquisite tenderness which fills it, and yet with so much reverence for his original that he did not make the body of the story christian. he kept the definite christian element to the very end, but he filled the whole with its tender atmosphere. no christianity and very little gentleness intrude into the heroic cycle. the story of christ once touches it, but he who put it in did not lose the pagan atmosphere, or the wild fierceness of the manners of the time. how it was done may be read in this book at the end of the story of the _vengeance of mesgedra_. very late in the redaction of these stories a christian tag was also added to the tale of the death of cuchulain, but it was very badly done. when we come to the fenian cycle there is a well-defined borderland between them and christianity. the bulk of the stories is plainly pagan; their originals were frankly so. but the temper of their composers is more civilized than that of those who conceived the tales of the previous cycles; the manners, as i have already said, of their personages are gentler, more chivalrous; and their atmosphere is so much nearer to that of christianity, that the new christian elements would find themselves more at home in them than in the terrible vengeance of lugh, the savage brutality of conor to deirdré, or the raging slaughterings of cuchulain. so much was this the case that a story was skilfully invented which linked in imagination the fenian cycle to a christianized ireland. this story--_oisín in the land of youth_--is contained in this book. oisín, or ossian, the son of finn, in an enchanted story, lives for 300 years, always young, with his love in tir-na-n-óg, and finds on his return, when he becomes a withered old man, st patrick and christianity in ireland. he tells to patrick many tales of the fenian wars and loves and glories, and in the course of them paganism and christianity are contrasted and intermingled. a certain sympathy with the pagan ideas of honour and courage and love enters into the talk of patrick and the monks, and softens their pious austerity. on the other hand, the fenian legends are gentled and influenced by the christian elements, in spite of the scorn with which oisín treats the rigid condemnation of his companions and of finn to the christian hell, and the ascetic and unwarlike life of the monks.[4] there was evidently in the fenian cycle of story-telling a transition period in which the bards ran christianity and paganism in and out of one another, and mingled the atmosphere of both, and to that period the last editing of the story of _lir and his children_ may be referred. a lovely story in this book, put into fine form by mr rolleston, is as it were an image of this transition time--the story or _how ethne quitted fairyland_. it takes us back to the most ancient cycle, for it tells of the great gods angus and mananan, and then of how they became, after their conquest by the race who live in the second cycle, the invisible dwellers in a fairy country of their own during the fenian period, and, afterwards, when patrick and the monks had overcome paganism. thus it mingles together elements from all the periods. the mention of the great caldron and the swine which always renew their food is purely mythological. the cows which come from the holy land are christian. ethne herself is born in the house of a pagan god who has become a fairy king, but loses her fairy nature and becomes human; and the reason given for this is an interesting piece of psychology which would never have occurred to a pagan world. she herself is a transition maiden, and, suddenly finding herself outside the fairy world and lost, happens on a monastery and dies on the breast of st patrick. but she dies because of the wild wailing for her loss of the fairy-host, whom she can hear but cannot see, calling to her out of the darkened sky to come back to her home. and in her sorrow and the battle in her between the love of christ and of faerie, she dies. that is a symbol, not intended as such by its conceiver, but all the more significant, of the transition time. short as it is, few tales, perhaps, are more deeply charged with spiritual meaning. [4] i speak here of the better known of the two versions of this encounter of the pagan with the christian spirit. there are others in which the reconciliation is carried still further. one example is to be found in the _colloquy of the ancients_ (silva gadelica). here finn and his companions are explicitly pronounced to be saved by their natural virtues, and the relations of the church and the fenian warriors are most friendly. independent of these three cycles, but often touching them here and there, and borrowing from them, there are a number of miscellaneous tales which range from the earliest times till the coming of the danes. the most celebrated of these are the _storming of the hostel_ with the death of conary the high king of ireland, and the story of the boru tribute. two examples of these miscellaneous tales of a high antiquity are contained in this book--_king iubdan and king fergus_ and _etain and midir_. both of them have great charm and delightfulness. finally, the manner in which these tales grew into form must be remembered when we read them. at first, they were not written down, but recited in hall and with a harp's accompaniment by the various bardic story-tellers who were attached to the court of the chieftain, or wandered singing and reciting from court to court. each bard, if he was a creator, filled up the original framework of the tale with ornaments of his own, or added new events or personages to the tale, or mixed it up with other related tales, or made new tales altogether attached to the main personages of the original tale--episodes in their lives into which the bardic fancy wandered. if these new forms of the tales or episodes were imaginatively true to the characters round which they were conceived and to the atmosphere of the time, they were taken up by other bards and became often separate tales, or if a great number attached themselves to one hero, they finally formed themselves into one heroic story, such as that which is gathered round cuchulain, which, as it stands, is only narrative, but might in time have become epical. indeed, the tàin approaches, though at some distance, an epic. in this way that mingling of elements out of the three cycles into a single saga took place. then when christianity came, the irish who always, christians or not, loved their race and its stories, would not let them go. they took them and suffused them with a christian tenderness, even a christian forgiveness. or they inserted christian endings, while they left the rest of the stories as pagan as before. later on, while the stories were still learned by the bards and recited, they were written down, and somewhat spoiled by a luxurious use of ornamental adjectives, and by the weak, roving and uninventive fancy of men and monks aspiring to literature but incapable of reaching it. however, in spite of all this intermingling and of the different forms of the same story, it is possible for an intelligent and sensitive criticism, well informed in comparative mythology and folklore, to isolate what is very old in these tales from that which is less old, and that in turn from that which is still less old, and that from what is partly historical, medieval or modern. this has been done, with endless controversy, by those excellent german, french, and irish scholars who have, with a thirsty pleasure, recreated the ancient literature of ireland, and given her once more a literary name among the nations--a name which, having risen again, will not lose but increase its brightness. * * * * * as to the stories themselves, they have certain well-marked characteristics, and in dwelling on these, i shall chiefly refer, for illustration, to the stories in this book. some of these characteristic elements belong to almost all mythological tales, and arise from human imagination, in separated lands, working in the same or in a similar way on the doings of nature, and impersonating them. the form, however, in which these original ideas are cast is, in each people, modified and varied by the animal life, the climate, the configuration of the country, the nearness of mountain ranges and of the sea, the existence of wide forests or vast plains, of swift rivers and great inland waters. the earliest tales of ireland are crowded with the sea that wrapt the island in its arms; and on the west and north the sea was the mighty and mysterious ocean, in whose far infinities lay for the irish the land of immortal youth. between its shining shores and ireland, strange islands--dwelt in by dreadful or by fair and gracious creatures, whose wonders maeldun and brendan visited--lay like jewels on the green and sapphire waters. out of this vast ocean emerged also their fiercest enemies. thither, beyond these islands into the unknown, over the waves on a fairy steed, went oisín with niam; thither, in after years, sailed st brendan, till it seemed he touched america. in the ocean depths were fair cities and well-grassed lands and cattle, which voyagers saw through water thin and clear. there, too, brian, one of the sons of turenn, descended in his water-dress and his crystal helmet, and found high-bosomed maidens weaving in a shining hall. into the land beneath the wave, mananan, the proud god of the sea brought dermot and finn and the fianna to help him in his wars, as is told in the story of the _gilla dacar_. on these western seas, near the land, lir's daughters, singing and floating, passed three hundred years. on other seas, in the storm and in the freezing sleet that trouble the dark waves of moyle, between antrim and the scottish isles, they spent another three centuries. half the story of the sons of usnach has to do with the crossing of seas and with the coast. even cuchulain, who is a land hero, in one of the versions of his death, dies fighting the sea-waves. the sound, the restlessness, the calm, the savour and the infinite of the sea, live in a host of these stories; and to cap all, the sea itself and mananan its god sympathise with the fates of erin. when great trouble threatens ireland, or one of her heroes is near death, there are three huge waves which, at three different points, rise, roaring, out of the ocean, and roll, flooding every creek and bay and cave and river round the whole coast with tidings of sorrow and doom. later on, in the fenian tales, the sea is not so prominent. finn and his clan are more concerned with the land. their work, their hunting and adventures carry them over the mountains and plains, through the forests, and by the lakes and rivers. in the stories there is scarcely any part of ireland which is not linked, almost geographically, with its scenery. even the ancient gods have retired from the coast to live in the pleasant green hills or by the wooded shores of the great lakes or in hearing of the soft murmur of the rivers. this business of the sea, this varied aspect of the land, crept into the imagination of the irish, and were used by them to embroider and adorn their poems and tales. they do not care as much for the doings of the sky. there does not seem to be any supreme god of the heaven in their mythology. neither the sun nor the moon are specially worshipped. there are sun-heroes like lugh, but no isolated sun-god. the great beauty of the cloud-tragedies of storm, the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, so dramatic in ireland, or the magnificence of the starry heavens, are scarcely celebrated. but the irish folk have heard the sound of the wind in the tree-tops and marked its cold swiftness over the moor, and watched with fear or love the mists of ocean and the bewilderment of the storm-driven snow and the sweet falling of the dew. these are fully celebrated. these great and small aspects of nature are not only celebrated, they are loved. one cannot read the stories in this book without feeling that the people who conceived and made them observed nature and her ways with a careful affection, which seems to be more developed in the celtic folk than elsewhere in modern europe. there is nothing which resembles it in teutonic story-telling. in the story of _the children of lir_, though there is no set description of scenery, we feel the spirit of the landscape by the lake where lir listened for three hundred years to the sweet songs of his children. and, as we read of their future fate, we are filled with the solitude and mystery, the ruthlessness and beauty of the ocean. even its gentleness on quiet days enters from the tale into our imagination. then, too, the mountain-glory and the mountain-gloom are again and again imaginatively described and loved. the windings and recesses, the darkness and brightness of the woods and the glades therein, enchant the fenians even when they are in mortal danger. and the waters of the great lakes, the deep pools of the rivers, the rippling shallows, the green banks, the brown rushing of the torrents, are all alive in the prose and song of ireland. how deep was the irish love of these delightful things is plain from their belief that "the place of the revealing of poetry was always by the margin of water." and the salmon of knowledge, the eating of which gave finn his pre-eminence, swam in a green pool, still and deep, over which hung a rowan tree that shed its red berries on the stream. lovely were the places whence art and knowledge came. then, as to all good landscape lovers, the beasts, birds, and insects of nature were dear to these ancient people. one of the things finn most cared for was not only his hounds, but the "blackbird singing on letterlee"; and his song, on page 114, in the praise of may, tells us how keen was his observant eye for animal life and how much it delighted him. the same minute realisation of natural objects is illustrated in this book when king iubdan explains to the servant the different characteristics of the trees of the forest, and the mystic elements that abide in them. it was a habit, even of teutonic poets, to tell of the various trees and their uses in verse, and spenser and drayton have both done it in later times. but few of them have added, as the irish story does, a spiritual element to their description, and made us think of malign or beneficent elements attached to them. the woodbine, and this is a strange fancy, is the king of the woods. the rowan is the tree of the magicians, and its berries are for poets. the bramble is inimical to man, the alder is full of witchcraft, and the elder is the wood of the horses of the fairies. into every tree a spiritual power is infused; and the good lords of the forest are loved of men and birds and bees. thus the irish love of nature led them to spiritualise, in another way than mythical, certain things in nature, and afterwards to humanise, up to a certain point, the noble implements wrought by human skill out of natural materials. and this is another element in all these stories, as it is in the folk-lore also of other lands. in the tale of the sons of turenn, the stones of the wayside tell to lugh the story of the death of his father kian, and the boat of mananan, indwelt by a spirit, flies hither and thither over the seas, obeying the commands, even the thought, of its steersman. the soul of some famed spears is so hot for slaughter that, when it is not being used in battle, its point must stand in a bath of blood or of drowsy herbs, lest it should slay the host. the swords murmur and hiss and cry out for the battle; the shield of the hero hums louder and louder, vibrating for the encouragement of the warrior. even the wheels of cuchulain's chariot roar as they whirl into the fight. this partial life given to the weapons of war is not specially celtic. indeed, it is more common in teutonic than in celtic legend, and it seems probable that it was owing to the norsemen that it was established in the hero tales of ireland. this addition of life, or of some of the powers of life, to tree and well and boulder-stone, to river and lake and hill, and sword and spear, is common to all mythologies, but the special character of each nation or tribe modifies the form of the life-imputing stories. in ireland the tree, the stream were not dwelt in by a separate living being, as in grecian story; the half-living powers they had were given to them from without, by the gods, the demons, the fairies; and in the case of the weapons, the powers they had of act or sound arose from the impassioned thoughts and fierce emotions of their forger or their wielder, which, being intense, were magically transferred to them. the celtic nature is too fond of reality, too impatient of illusion, to believe in an actual living spirit in inanimate things. at least, that is the case in the stories of the hero and the fenian cycles.[5] [5] everything, on the contrary, in the mythological cycle is gifted with life, all the doings and things of nature are represented as the work of living creatures; but it is quite possible that those in ireland who made these myths were not celts at all. what the irish of the heroic, and still more of the fenian cycle, did make in their imagination was a world, outside of themselves, of living spiritual beings, in whose actuality they fully believed, and in whom a great number of them still believe. a nation, if i may use this term, dwelt under the sea. another dwelt in the far island of the ocean, the isle of the ever-young. another dwelt in the land, in the green hills and by the streams of ireland; and these were the ancient gods who had now lost their dominion over the country, but lived on, with all their courtiers and warriors and beautiful women in a country underground. as time went on, their powers were dwarfed, and they became small of size, less beautiful, and in our modern times are less inclined to enter into the lives of men and women. but the irish peasant still sees them flitting by his path in the evening light, or dancing on the meadow round the grassy mound, singing and playing strange melodies; or mourns for the child they have carried away to live with them and forget her people, or watches with fear his dreaming daughter who has been touched by them, and is never again quite a child of this earth, or quite of the common race of man. these were the invisible lands and peoples of the irish imagination; and they live in and out of many of the stories. cuchulain is lured into a fairy-land, and lives for more than a year in love with fand, mananan's wife. into another fairy-land, through zones of mist, cormac, as is told here, was lured by mananan, who now has left the sea to play on the land. oisín, as i have already said, flies with niam over the sea to the island of eternal youth. etain, out of the immortal land, is born into an irish girl and reclaimed and carried back to her native shore by midir, a prince of the fairy host. ethne, whose story also is here, has lived for all her youth in the court of angus, deep in the hill beside the rushing of the boyne. these stories are but a few out of a great number of the loves and wars between the men and women of the human and the fairy races. curiously enough, as the stories become less ancient, the relations between men and the fairies are more real, more close, even more affectionate. finn and the fianna seem to be almost in daily companionship with the fairy host--much nearer to them than the men of the heroic cycle are to the gods. they interchange love and music and battle and adventure with one another. they are, for the most part, excellent friends; and their intercourse suffers from no doubt. it is as real as the intercourse between welsh and english on the borderland. there was nothing illusive, nothing merely imaginary, in these fairy worlds for the irish hero or the irish people. they believed the lands to be as real as their own, and the indwellers of fairyland to have like passions with themselves. finn is not a bit surprised when vivionn the giantess sits beside him on the hill, or fergus when king iubdan stands on his hand; or st patrick when ethne, out of fairyland, dies on his breast, or when he sees, at his spell, cuchulain, dead some nine hundred years, come forth out of the dark gates of sheol, high in his chariot, grasping his deadly spear, driven as of old by his well-loved charioteer, drawn by the immortal steeds through the mist, and finally talking of his deeds and claiming a place in the christian heaven--a place that patrick yields to him. the invisible worlds lived, loved, and thought around this visible world, and were, it seems, closer and more real to the celtic than to other races. but it was not only these agreeable and lovely folk in pleasant habitations whom the irish made, but also spirits of another sort, of lesser powers and those chiefly malignant, having no fixed dwelling-place, homeless in the air and drifting with it, embodying the venomous and deadly elements of the earth and the angers and cruelty of the sea, and the hypocrisy of them all--demons, some of whom, like the stepmother of the children of lir, have been changed from men or women because of wicked doings, but the most part born of the evil in nature herself. they do what harm they can to innocent folk; they enter into, support, and direct--like macbeth's witches--the evil thoughts of men; they rejoice in the battle, in the wounds and pain and death of men; they shriek and scream and laugh around the head of the hero when he goes forth, like cuchulain, to an unwearied slaughter of men. they make the blight, the deadly mist, the cruel tempest. to deceive is their pleasure; to discourage, to baffle, to ruin the hero is their happiness. some of them are monsters of terrific aspect who abide in lakes or in desolate rocks, as the terrible tri-formed horse whom fergus mac leda conquered and by whom he died. naturally, as a link between these supernatural worlds and the natural world, there arose a body of men and women in irish legend who, by years of study, gained a knowledge of, and power over, the supernatural beings, and used these powers for hurt to the enemies of their kingdom, or for help to their own people. some were wise, learned, and statesmanlike, and used their powers for good. these were the high druids, and every king had a band of them at his court and in his wars. they practiced what the middle ages called white magic. others were wizards, magicians, witches, who, like the children of cailitin, the foes of cuchulain, or the three mutilated women whom maev educated in evil craft to do evil to her foes, or the dread band that deceived cuchulain into his last ride of death, practised black magic--evil, and the ministers of evil. magic, and the doing of it, runs through the whole of irish story-telling, and not only into pagan but also into christian legend; for it was easy to change the old gods into devils, to keep the demonic creatures as demons, to replace the wise druids by the priests and saints, and the wizards by the heretics who gave themselves to sorcery. thus the ancient supernaturalism of the irish has continued, with modern modifications, to the present day. the body of thought is much the same as it was in the days of conor and finn; the clothing is a bit different. another characteristic of the stories, especially in the mythological period, is the barbaric brutality which appears in them. curiously mingled with this, in direct contrast, is their tenderness. these extreme contrasts are common in the celtic nature. a gael, whether of ireland or the western isles, will pass in a short time from the wildest spirits, dancing and singing and drinking, into deep and grim depression--the child of the present, whether in love or war; and in the tales of ireland there is a similar contrast between their brutality and their tenderness. the sudden fierce jealousy and the pitiless cruelty of their stepmother to the children of lir is set over against the exquisite tenderness of fionnuala, which pervades the story like an air from heaven. the noble tenderness of deirdre, of naisi and his brothers, in life and death, to one another, is lovelier in contrast with the savage and treacherous revenge of conor. the great pitifulness of cuchulain's fight with his dear friend ferdia, whom he is compelled to slay; the crowning tenderness of emer's recollective love in song before she dies on cuchulain's dead body, are in full contrast with the savage hard-heartedness and cruelties of maev, and with the ruthless slaughters cuchulain made of his foes, out of which he seems often to pass, as it were, in a moment, into tenderness and gracious speech. even finn, false for once to his constant courtesy, revenges himself on dermot so pitilessly that both his son and grandson cry shame upon him. of course this barbaric cruelty is common to all early periods in every nation; and, whenever fierce passion is aroused, to civilised nations also. what is remarkable in the irish tales is the contemporary tenderness. the vikings were as savage as the irish, but the savagery is not mingled with the irish tenderness. at last, when we pass from the hero cycle into the cycle of finn, there is scarcely any of the ancient brutality to be found in the host of romantic stories which gather round the chivalry of the fenians. there are other characteristics of these old tales on which i must dwell. the first is the extra-ordinary love of colour. this is not a characteristic of the early german, english or scandinavian poems and tales. its remarkable presence in scottish poetry, at a time when it is scarcely to be found in english literature, i have traced elsewhere to the large admixture of celtic blood in the lowlands of scotland. in early irish work it is to be found everywhere. in descriptions of nature, which chiefly appear in the fenian cycle and in christian times, colour is not as much dwelt on as we should expect, for nowhere that i have seen is it more delicate and varied than under the irish atmosphere. yet, again and again, the amber colour of the streams as they come from the boglands, and the crimson and gold of the sunsetting, and the changing green of the trees, and the blue as it varies and settles down on the mountains when they go to their rest, and the green crystal of the sea in calm and the dark purple of it in storm, and the white foam of the waves when they grow black in the squall, and the brown of the moors, and the yellow and rose and crimson of the flowers, and many another interchanging of colour, are seen and spoken of as if it were a common thing always to dwell on colour. this literary custom i do not find in any other western literature. it is even more remarkable in the descriptions of the dress and weapons of the warriors and kings. they blaze with colour; and as gold was plentiful in ireland in those far-off days, yellow and red are continually flashing in and out of the blue and green and rich purple of their dress. the women are dressed in as rich colours as the men. when eochy met etain by the spring of pure water, as told in this book, she must have flashed in the sunlight like a great jewel. then, the halls where they met and the houses of the kings are represented as glorious with colour, painted in rich patterns, hung with woven cloths dyed deep with crimson and blue and green and yellow. the common things in use, eating and drinking implements, the bags they carry, the bed-clothing, the chess-men, the tables, are embroidered or chased or set with red carbuncles or white stones or with interlacing of gold. colour is everywhere and everywhere loved. and where colour is loved the arts flourish, as the decorative arts flourished in ireland. lastly, on this matter, the irish tale-tellers, even to the present day, dwell with persistence on the colour of the human body as a special loveliness, and with as much love of it as any venetian when he painted it. and they did this with a comparison of its colour to the colours they observed in nature, so that the colour of one was harmonised with the colour of the other. i might quote many such descriptions of the appearance of the warriors--they are multitudinous--but the picture of etain is enough to illustrate what i say--"her hair before she loosed it was done in two long tresses, yellow like the flower of the waterflag in summer or like red gold. her hands were white as the snow of a single night, and her eyes as blue as the dark hyacinth, and her lips red as the berries of the rowan-tree, and her body as white as the foam of the sea-waves. the radiance of the moon was in her face and the light of wooing in her eyes." so much for the irish love of colour.[6] [6] i give one example of the way colour was laid on to animals just for the pleasure of it. "and the eagle and cranes were red with green heads, and their eggs were pure crimson and blue"; and deep in the wood the travellers found "strange birds with white bodies and purple heads and golden beaks," and afterwards three great birds, "one blue and his head crimson, and another crimson and his head green, and another speckled and his head gold." their love of music was equally great; and was also connected with nature. "the sound of the flowing of streams," said one of their bardic clan, "is sweeter than any music of men." "the harp of the woods is playing music," said another. in finn's song to may, the waterfall is singing a welcome to the pool below, the loudness of music is around the hill, and in the green fields the stream is singing. the blackbird, the cuckoo, the heron and the lark are the musicians of the world. when finn asks his men what music they thought the best, each says his say, but oisín answers, "the music of the woods is sweetest to me, the sound of the wind and of the blackbird, and the cuckoo and the soft silence of the heron." and finn himself, when asked what was his most beloved music, said first that it was "the sharp whistling of the wind as it went through the uplifted spears of the seven battalions of the fianna," and this was fitting for a hero to say. but when the poet in him spoke, he said his music was the crying of the sea-gull, and the noise of the waves, and the voice of the cuckoo when summer was at hand, and the washing of the sea against the shore, and of the tide when it met the river of the white trout, and of the wind rushing through the cloud. and many other sayings of the same kind this charming and poetic folk has said concerning those sweet, strong sounds in nature out of which the music of men was born. again, there is not much music in the mythological tales. lugh, it is true, is a great harper, and the harp of the dagda, into which he has bound his music, plays a music at whose sound all men laugh, and another so that all men weep, and another so enthralling that all fall asleep; and these three kinds of music are heard through all the cycles of tales. yet when the old gods of the mythology became the sidhe,[7] the fairy host, they--having left their barbaric life behind--became great musicians. in every green hill where the tribes of fairy-land lived, sweet, wonderful music was heard all day--such music that no man could hear but he would leave all other music to listen to it, which "had in it sorrows that man has never felt, and joys for which man has no name, and it seemed as if he who heard it might break from time into eternity and be one of the immortals." and when finn and his people lived, they, being in great harmony and union with the sidhe, heard in many adventures with them their lovely music, and it became their own. indeed, finn, who had twelve musicians, had as their chief one of the fairy host who came to dwell with him, a little man who played airs so divine that all weariness and sorrow fled away. and from him finn's musicians learnt a more enchanted art than they had known before. and so it came to pass that as in every fairy dwelling there was this divine art, so in every palace and chieftain's hall, and in every farm, there were harpers harping on their harps, and all the land was full of sweet sounds and airs--shaping in music, imaginative war, and sorrows, and joys, and aspiration. nor has their music failed. still in the west and south of ireland, the peasant, returning home, hears, as the evening falls from the haunted hills, airs unknown before, or at midnight a wild triumphant song from the fairy host rushing by, or wakes with a dream melody in his heart. and these are played and sung next day to the folk sitting round the fire. many who heard these mystic sounds became themselves the makers of melodies, and went about the land singing and making and playing from village to village and cabin to cabin, till the unwritten songs of ireland were as numerous as they were various. moore collected a hundred and twenty of them, but of late more than five hundred he knew not of have been secured from the people and from manuscripts for the pleasure of the world. and in them lives on the spirit of the fianna, and the mystery of the fairy host, and the long sorrow and the fleeting joy of the wild weather in the heart of the irish race. [7] this word is pronounced shee, and means "the folk of the fairy mounds." as to the poetry of ireland, that other art which is illustrated in this book, so fully has it been dwelt on by many scholars and critics that it needs not be touched here other than lightly and briefly. the honour and dignity of the art of poetry goes back in irish mythology to a dim antiquity. the ancient myth said that the nine hazels of wisdom grew round a deep spring beneath the sea, and the hazels were the hazels of inspiration and of poetry--so early in ireland were inspiration and poetry made identical with wisdom. seven streams of wisdom flowed from that fountain-head, and when they had fed the world returned to it again. and all the art-makers of mankind, and of all arts, have drunk of their waters. five salmon in the spring ate of the hazel nuts, and some haunted the rivers of ireland; and whosoever, like finn, tasted the flesh of these immortal fish, was possessed of the wisdom which is inspiration and poetry. such was the ancient irish conception of the art of poetry. it is always an art which grows slowly into any excellence, and it needs for such growth a quieter life than the irish lived for many centuries. poems appear but rarely in the mythological or heroic cycles, and are loosely scattered among the prose of the bardic tales. a few are of war, but they are chiefly dirges like the song of emer over the dead body of cuchulain, or that of deirdre over naisi--pathetic wailings for lost love. there is an abrupt and pitiful pain in the brief songs of fionnuala, but i fancy these were made and inserted in christian times. poetry was more at home among the fianna. the conditions of life were easier; there was more leisure and more romance. and the other arts, which stimulate poetry, were more widely practised than in the earlier ages. finn's song to may, here translated, is of a good type, frank and observant, with a fresh air in it, and a fresh pleasure in its writing. i have no doubt that at this time began the lyric poetry of ireland, and it reached, under christian influences, a level of good, i can scarcely say excellent, work, at a time when no other lyrical poetry in any vernacular existed in europe or the islands. it was religious, mystic, and chiefly pathetic--prayers, hymns, dirges, regrets in exile, occasional stories of the saints whose legendary acts were mixed with pagan elements, and most of these were adorned with illustrations drawn from natural beauty or from the doings of birds and beasts--a great affection for whom is prominent in the celtic nature. the irish poets sent this lyric impulse into iceland, wales, and scotland, and from scotland into england; and the rise of english vernacular poetry instead of latin in the seventh and eighth centuries is due to the impulse given by the irish monasteries at whitby and elsewhere in northumbria. the first rude lyric songs of cædmon were probably modelled on the hymns of colman. one would think that poetry, which arose so early in a nation's life, would have developed fully. but this was not the case in ireland. no narrative, dramatic, didactic, or epic poetry of any importance arose, and many questions and answers might be made concerning this curious restriction of development. the most probable solution of this problem is that there was never enough peace in ireland or continuity of national existence or unity, to allow of a continuous development of any one of the arts into all its forms. irish poetry never advanced beyond the lyric. in that form it lasted all through the centuries; it lasts still at the present day, and douglas hyde has proved how much charm belongs to it in his book on the _love songs of connacht_. it has had a long, long history; it has passed through many phases; it has sung of love and sorrow, of national wars and hopes, of ireland herself as the queen of sorrow, of exile regrets from alien shores, of rebellion, of hatred of england, of political strife, in ballads sung in the streets, of a thousand issues of daily life and death--but of world-wide affairs, of great passions and duties and fates evolving in epic or clashing in drama, of continuous human lives in narrative (except in prose), of the social life of cities or of philosophic thought enshrined in stately verse, it has not sung. what it may do in the future, if irish again becomes a tongue of literature in lofty poetry, lies on the knees of the gods. i wish it well, but such a development seems now too late. the irish genius, if it is to speak in drama, in narrative poetry or in an epic, must speak, if it is to influence or to charm the world beyond the irish shore, in a world-language like english, and of international as well as of irish humanity. these elements on which i have dwelt seem to me the most distinctive, the most irish, in the tales in this book. there are many others on which a more minute analysis might exercise itself, phases of feeling concerning war or love or friendship or honour or the passions, but these are not specially irish. they belong to common human nature, and have their close analogies in other mythologies, in other folk-tales, in other sagas. i need not touch them here. but there is one element in all the irish tales which i have not yet mentioned, and it brings all the others within its own circumference, and suffuses them with its own atmosphere. it is the love of ireland, of the land itself for its own sake--a mystic, spiritual imaginative passion which in the soul of the dweller in the country is a constant joy, and in the heart of the exile is a sick yearning for return. there are not many direct expressions of this in the stories; but it underlies the whole of them, and it is also in the air they breathe. but now and again it does find clear expression, and in each of the cycles we have discussed. when the sons of turenn are returning, wounded to death, from the hill of mochaen, they felt but one desire. "let us but see," said iuchar and iucharba to their brother brian, "the land of erin again, the hills round telltown, and the dewy plain of bregia and the quiet waters of the boyne and our father's dún thereby, and healing will come to us; or if death come, we can endure it after that." then brian raised them up; and they saw that they were now near by under ben edar; and at the strand of the bull they came to land. that is from the mythological cycle. in the heroic cycle it appears in the longing cry for return to ireland of naisi and his brothers, which drives them out of alba to their death; but otherwise it is rarely expressed. in the fenian cycle it exists, not in any clear words, but in a general delight in the rivers, lakes, woods, valleys, plains, and mountains of ireland. every description of them, and of life among them, is done with a loving, observant touch; and moreover, the veil of magic charm is thrown over all the land by the creation in it of the life and indwelling of the fairy host. the fianna loved their country well. when christianity came, this deep-set sentiment did not lessen. it grew even stronger, and in exile it became a passion. it is illustrated by the songs of deep regret and affection columba made in iona, from whose rocky shores he looked day after day towards the west while the mists rose over ireland. one little story of great beauty enshrines his passion. one morning he called to his side one of his monks, and said, "go to the margin of the sea on the western side of our isle; and there, coming from the north of ireland, you will see a voyaging crane, very weary and beaten by the storms, and it will fall at your feet on the beach. lift it up with pity and carry it to the hut, nourish it for three days, and when it is refreshed and strong again it will care no more to stay with us in exile, but to fly back to sweet ireland, the dear country where it was born. i charge you thus, for it comes from the land where i was born myself." and when his servant returned, having done as he was ordered, columba said, "may god bless you, my son. since you have well cared for our exiled guest, you will see it return to its own land in three days." and so it was. it rose, sought its path for a moment through the sky, and took flight on a steady wing for ireland. the spirit of that story has never died in the soul of the irish and in their poetry up to the present day. lastly, as we read these stories, even in a modern dress, an impression of great ancientry is made upon us, so much so that some scholars have tried to turn finn into a mythical hero--but if he be as old as that implies, of how great an age must be the clearly mythic tales which gather round the tuatha de danaan? however this may be, the impression of ancientry is deep and agreeable. all myths in any nation are, of course, of a high antiquity, but as they treat of the beginning of things, they mingle an impression of youth with one of age. this is very pleasant to the imagination, and especially so if the myths, as in ireland, have some poetic beauty or strangeness, as in the myth i have referred to--of the deep spring of clear water and the nine hazels of wisdom that encompass it. this mingling of the beauty of youth and the honour of ancientry runs through all the irish tales. youth and the love of it, of its beauty and strength, adorn and vitalize their grey antiquity. but where, in their narrative, the hero's youth is over and the sword weak in his hand, and the passion less in his and his sweetheart's blood, life is represented as scarcely worth the living. the famed men and women die young--the sons of turenn, cuchulain, conall, dermot, emer, deirdre, naisi, oscar. oisín has three hundred years of youth in that far land in the invention of which the irish embodied their admiration of love and youth. his old age, when sudden feebleness overwhelms him, is made by the bardic clan as miserable, as desolate as his youth was joyous. again, finn lives to be an old man, but the immortal was in him, and either he has been born again in several re-incarnations (for the irish held from time to time the doctrine of the transmigration of souls), or he sleeps, like barbarossa, in a secret cavern, with all his men around him, and beside him the mighty horn of the fianna, which, when the day of fate and freedom comes, will awaken with three loud blasts the heroes and send them forth to victory. old as she is, ireland does not grow old, for she has never reached her maturity. her full existence is before her, not behind her. and when she reaches it her ancientry and all its tales will be dearer to her than they have been in the past. they will be an inspiring national asset. in them and in their strange admixture of different and successive periods of customs, thoughts and emotions (caused by the continuous editing and re-editing of them, first in oral recitation and then at the hands of scribes), ireland will see the record of her history, not the history of external facts, but of her soul as it grew into consciousness of personality; as it established in itself love of law, of moral right, of religion, of chivalry, of courtesy in war and daily life; as it rejoiced, and above all, as it suffered and was constant, in suffering and oppression, to its national ideals. it seems as if, once at least, this aspect of the tales of ireland was seen by men of old, for there is a story which tells that heaven itself desired their remembrance, and that we should be diverted and inspired by them. in itself it is a record of the gentleness of irish christianity to irish heathendom, and of its love of the heroic past. for one day when patrick and his clerks were singing the mass at the rath of the red ridge, where finn was wont to be, he saw keelta, a chief of the fianna, draw near with his companions, and keelta's huge hounds were with him. they were men so tall and great that fear fell on the clerks, but patrick met with and asked their chieftain's name. "i am keelta," he answered, "son of ronan of the fianna." "was it not a good lord you were with," said patrick, "finn, son of cumhal?" and keelta said, "if the brown leaves falling in the wood were gold, if the waves of the sea were silver, finn would have given them all away." "what was it kept you through your lifetime?" said patrick. "truth that was in our hearts, and strength in our hands, and fulfilment in our tongues," said keelta. then patrick gave them food and drink and good treatment, and talked with them. and in the morning the two angels who guarded him came to him, and he asked them if it were any harm before god, king of heaven and earth, that he should listen to the stories of the fianna. and the angels answered, "holy clerk, these old fighting men do not remember more than a third of their tales by reason of the forgetfulness of age, but whatever they tell write it down on the boards of the poets and in the words of the poets, for it will be a diversion to the companies and the high people of the latter times to listen to them."[8] so spoke the angels, and patrick did as he bade them, and the stories are in the world to this day. [8] this is quoted with a few omissions, from lady gregory's delightful version, in her _book of saints and wonders_, of an episode in _the colloquy of the ancients_ (silva gadelica). stopford a. brooke st patrick's day, 1910 cois na teineadh (_by the fireside._) where glows the irish hearth with peat there lives a subtle spell- the faint blue smoke, the gentle heat, the moorland odours, tell of long roads running through a red untamed unfurrowed land, with curlews keening overhead, and streams on either hand; black turf-banks crowned with whispering sedge, and black bog-pools below; while dry stone wall or ragged hedge leads on, to meet the glow from cottage doors, that lure us in from rainy western skies, to seek the friendly warmth within, the simple talk and wise; or tales of magic, love and arms from days when princes met to listen to the lay that charms the connacht peasant yet. there honour shines through passions dire, there beauty blends with mirth- wild hearts, ye never did aspire wholly for things of earth! cold, cold this thousand years--yet still on many a time-stained page your pride, your truth, your dauntless will, burn on from age to age. and still around the fires of peat live on the ancient days; there still do living lips repeat the old and deathless lays. and when the wavering wreaths ascend, blue in the evening air, the soul of ireland seems to bend above her children there. bardic romances chapter i the story of the children of lir long ago there dwelt in ireland the race called by the name of de danaan, or people of the goddess dana. they were a folk who delighted in beauty and gaiety, and in fighting and feasting, and loved to go gloriously apparelled, and to have their weapons and household vessels adorned with jewels and gold. they were also skilled in magic arts, and their harpers could make music so enchanting that a man who heard it would fight, or love, or sleep, or forget all earthly things, as they who touched the strings might will him to do. in later times the danaans had to dispute the sovranty of ireland with another race, the children of miled, whom men call the milesians, and after much fighting they were vanquished. then, by their sorceries and enchantments, when they could not prevail against the invaders, they made themselves invisible, and they have dwelt ever since in the fairy mounds and raths of ireland, where their shining palaces are hidden from mortal eyes. they are now called the shee, or fairy folk of erinn, and the faint strains of unearthly music that may be heard at times by those who wander at night near to their haunts come from the harpers and pipers who play for the people of dana at their revels in the bright world underground. at the time when the tale begins, the people of dana were still the lords of ireland, for the milesians had not yet come. they were divided it is said, into many families and clans; and it seemed good to them that their chiefs should assemble together, and choose one to be king and ruler over the whole people. so they met in a great assembly for this purpose, and found that five of the greatest lords all desired the sovranty of erin. these five were bóv the red, and ilbrech of assaroe, and lir from the hill of the white field, which is on slieve fuad in armagh; and midir the proud, who dwelt at slieve callary in longford; and angus of brugh na boyna, which is now newgrange on the river boyne, where his mighty mound is still to be seen. all the danaan lords saving these five went into council together, and their decision was to give the sovranty to bóv the red, partly because he was the eldest, partly because his father was the dagda, mightiest of the danaans, and partly because he was himself the most deserving of the five. all were content with this, save only lir, who thought himself the fittest for royal rule; so he went away from the assembly in anger, taking leave of no one. when this became known, the danaan lords would have pursued lir, to burn his palace and inflict punishment and wounding on himself for refusing obedience and fealty to him whom the assembly had chosen to reign over them. but bóv the red forbade them, for he would not have war among the danaans; and he said, "i am none the less king of the people of dana because this man will not do homage to me." thus it went on for a long time. but at last a great misfortune befell lir, for his wife fell ill, and after three nights she died. sorely did lir grieve for this, and he fell into a great dejection of spirit, for his wife was very dear to him and was much thought of by all folk, so that her death was counted one of the great events of that time. now bóv the red came ere long to hear of it, and he said, "if lir would choose to have my help and friendship now, i can serve him well, for his wife is no longer living, and i have three maidens, daughters of a friend, in fosterage with me, namely, eva and aoife[9] and elva, and there are none fairer and of better name in erin; one of these he might take to wife." and the lords of the danaans heard what he said, and answered that it was true and well bethought. so messengers were sent to lir, to say that if he were willing to yield the sovranty to bóv the red, he might make alliance with him and wed one of his foster-children. to lir, having been thus gently entreated, it seemed good to end the feud, and he agreed to the marriage. so the following day he set out with a train of fifty chariots from the hill of the white field and journeyed straight for the palace of bóv the red, which was by lough derg on the river shannon. [9] pronounced eefa. arriving there, he found about him nothing but joy and glad faces, for the renewal of amity and concord; and his people were welcomed, and well entreated, and handsomely entertained for the night. [illustration: "there sat the three maidens with the queen"] and there sat the three maidens on the same couch with the danaan queen, and bóv the red bade lir choose which one he would have to wife. "the maidens are all fair and noble," said lir, "but the eldest is first in consideration and honour, and it is she that i will take, if she be willing." "the eldest is eva," said bóv the red, "and she will wed thee if it be pleasing to thee." "it is pleasing," said lir, and the pair were wedded the same night. lir abode for fourteen days in the palace of bóv the red, and then departed with his bride, to make a great wedding-feast among his own people. in due time after this eva, wife of lir, bore him two fair children at a birth, a daughter and a son. the daughter's name was called fionnuala of the fair shoulder, and the son's name was hugh. and again she bore him two sons, fiachra and conn; and at their birth she died. at this lir was sorely grieved and afflicted, and but for the great love he bore to his four children he would gladly have died too. when the folk at the palace of bóv the red heard that, they also were sorely grieved at the death of their foster-child, and they lamented her with keening and with weeping. bóv the red said, "we grieve for this maiden on account of the good man we gave her to, and for his friendship and fellowship; howbeit our friendship shall not be sundered, for we shall give him to wife her sister, namely aoife." word of this was brought to lir, and he went once more to lough derg to the palace of bóv the red and there he took to wife aoife, the fair and wise, and brought her to his own home. and aoife held the children of lir and of her sister in honour and affection; for indeed no one could behold these four children without giving them the love of his soul. for love of them, too, came bóv the red often to the house of lir, and he would take them to his own house at times and let them spend a while there, and then to their own home again. all of the people of dana who came visiting and feasting to lir had joy and delight in the children, for their beauty and gentleness; and the love of their father for them was exceeding great, so that he would rise very early every morning to lie down among them and play with them. only, alas! a fire of jealousy began to burn at last in the breast of aoife, and hatred and bitter ill-will grew in her mind towards the children of lir. and she feigned an illness, and lay under it for the most of a year, meditating a black and evil deed. at last she said that a journey from home might recover her, and she bade her chariot be yoked and set out, taking with her the four children. fionnuala was sorely unwilling to go with her on that journey, for she had a misgiving, and a prevision of treachery and of kin-slaying against her in the mind of aoife. yet she was not able to avoid the mischief that was destined for her. so aoife journeyed away from the hill of the white field, and when she had come some way she spoke to her people and said, "kill me, i pray ye, the four children of lir, who have taken the love of their father from me, and ye may ask of me what reward ye will." "not so," said they, "by us they shall never be killed; it is an evil deed that you have thought of, and evil it is but to have spoken of it." when they would not consent to her will, she drew a sword and would have slain the children herself, but her womanhood overcame her and she could not. so they journeyed on westward till they came to the shores of loch derryvaragh, and there they made a halt and the horses were outspanned. aoife bade the children bathe and swim in the lake, and they did so. then aoife by druid spells and witchcraft put upon each of the children the form of a pure white swan, and she cried to them:- "out on the lake with you, children of lir! cry with the water-fowl over the mere! breed and seed of you ne'er shall i see; woeful the tale to your friends shall be." then the four swans turned their faces towards the woman, and fionnuala spoke to her and said, "evil is thy deed, aoife, to destroy us thus without a cause, and think not that thou shalt escape punishment for it. assign us even some period to the ruin and destruction that thou hast brought upon us." "i shall do that," said aoife, "and it is this: in your present forms shall ye abide, and none shall release you till the woman of the south be mated with the man of the north. three hundred years shall ye be upon the waters of derryvaragh, and three hundred upon the straits of moyle between erinn and alba,[10] and three hundred in the seas by erris and inishglory, and then shall the enchantment have an end." [10] scotland. inishglory is an island in the bay of erris, on the mayo coast. upon this, aoife was smitten with repentance, and she said, "since i may not henceforth undo what has been done, i give you this, that ye shall keep your human speech, and ye shall sing a sad music such as no music in the world can equal, and ye shall have your reason and your human will, that the bird-shape may not wholly destroy you." then she became as one possessed, and cried wildly like a prophetess in her trance:- "ye with the white faces! ye with the stammering gaelic on your tongues! soft was your nurture in the king's house- now shall ye know the buffeting wind! nine hundred years upon the tide. "the heart of lir shall bleed! none of his victories shall stead him now! woe to me that i shall hear his groan, woe that i have deserved his wrath!" then they caught and yoked her horses, and aoife went on her way till she reached the palace of bóv the red. here she and her folk were welcomed and entertained, and bóv the red inquired of her why she had not brought with her the children of lir. "i brought them not," she replied, "because lir loves thee not, and he fears that if he sends his children to thee, thou wouldst capture them and hold them for hostages." "that is strange," said bóv the red, "for i love those children as if they were my own." and his mind misgave him that some treachery had been wrought; and he sent messengers privily northwards to the hill of the white field. "for what have ye come?" asked lir. "even to bring your children to bóv the red," said they. "did they not reach you with aoife?" said lir. "nay," said the messengers, "but aoife said you would not permit them to go with her." then fear and trouble came upon lir, for he surmised that aoife had wrought evil upon the children. so his horses were yoked and he set out upon his road south-westward, until he reached the shores of loch derryvaragh. but as he passed by that water, fionnuala saw the train of horsemen and chariots, and she cried to her brothers to come near to the shore, "for," said she, "these can only be the company of our father who have come to follow and seek for us." lir, by the margin of the lake, saw the four swans and heard them talking with human voices, and he halted and spoke to them. then said fionnuala: "know, o lir, that we are thy four children, and that she who has wrought this ruin upon us is thy wife and our mother's sister, through the bitterness of her jealousy." lir was glad to know that they were at least living, and he said, "is it possible to put your own forms upon you again?" "it is not possible," said fionnuala, "for all the men on earth could not release us until the woman of the south be mated with the man of the north." then lir and his people cried aloud in grief and lamentation, and lir entreated the swans to come on land and abide with him since they had their human reason and speech. but fionnuala said, "that may not be, for we may not company with men any longer, but abide on the waters of erinn nine hundred years. but we have still our gaelic speech, and moreover we have the gift of uttering sad music, so that no man who hears it thinks aught worth in the world save to listen to that music for ever. do you abide by the shore for this night and we shall sing to you." so lir and his people listened all night to the singing of the swans, nor could they move nor speak till morning, for all the high sorrows of the world were in that music, and it plunged them in dreams that could not be uttered. next day lir took leave of his children and went on to the palace of bóv the red. bóv reproached him that he had not brought with him his children. "woe is me," said lir, "it was not i that would not bring them; but aoife there, your own foster-child and their mother's sister, put upon them the forms of four snow-white swans, and there they are on the loch of derryvaragh for all men to see; but they have kept still their reason and their human voice and their gaelic." bóv the red started when he heard this, and he knew that what lir had said was true. fiercely he turned to aoife, and said, "this treachery will be worse, aoife, for you than for them, for they shall be released in the end of time, but thy punishment shall be for ever." then he smote her with a druid wand and she became a demon of the air, and flew shrieking from the hall, and in that form she abides to this day. [illustration: "they made an encampment and the swans sang to them"] as for bóv the red, he came with his nobles and attendants to the shores of loch derryvaragh, and there they made an encampment, and the swans conversed with them and sang to them. and as the thing became known, other tribes and clans of the people of dana would also come from every part of erinn and stay awhile to listen to the swans and depart again to their homes; and most of all came their own friends and fellow-pupils from the hill of the white field. no such music as theirs, say the historians of ancient times, ever was heard in erinn, for foes who heard it were at peace, and men stricken with pain or sickness felt their ills no more; and the memory of it remained with them when they went away, so that a great peace and sweetness and gentleness was in the land of erinn for those three hundred years that the swans abode in the waters of derryvaragh. but one day fionnuala said to her brethren, "do ye know, my dear ones, that the end of our time here is come, all but this night only?" then great sorrow and distress overcame them, for in the converse with their father and kinsfolk and friends they had half forgotten that they were no longer men, and they loved their home on loch derryvaragh, and feared the angry waves of the cold northern sea. but early next day they came to the lough-side to speak with bóv the red and with their father, and to bid them farewell, and fionnuala sang to them her last lament. then the four swans rose in the air and flew northward till they were seen no more, and great was the grief among those they left behind; and bóv the red let it be proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of erin that no man should henceforth presume to kill a swan, lest it might chance to be one of the children of lir. far different was the dwelling-place which the swans now came to, from that which they had known on loch derryvaragh. on either side of them, to north and south, stretched a wide coast far as the eye could see, beset with black rocks and great precipices, and by it ran fiercely the salt, bitter tides of an ever-angry sea, cold, grey, and misty; and their hearts sank to behold it and to think that there they must abide for three hundred years. ere long, one night, there came a thick murky tempest upon them, and fionnuala said, "in this black and violent night, my brothers, we may be driven apart from each other; let us therefore appoint a meeting-place where we may come together again when the tempest is overpast." and they settled to meet at the seal rock, for this rock they had now all learned to know. by midnight the hurricane descended upon the straits of moyle, and the waves roared upon the coast with a deafening noise, and thunder bellowed from the sky, and lightning was all the light they had. the swans were driven apart by the violence of the storm, and when at last the wind fell and the seas grew calm once more, fionnuala found herself alone upon the ocean-tide not far from the seal rock. and thus she made her lament:- "woe is me to be yet alive! my wings are frozen to my sides. wellnigh has the tempest shattered my heart, and my comely hugh parted from me! "o my beloved ones, my three, who slept under the shelter of my feathers, shall you and i ever meet again until the dead rise to life? "where is fiachra, where is hugh? where is my fair conn? shall i henceforth bear my part alone? woe is me for this disastrous night!" fionnuala remained upon the seal rock until the morrow morn, watching the tossing waters in all directions around her, until at last she saw conn coming towards her, and his head drooping and feathers drenched and disarrayed. joyfully did the sister welcome him; and ere long, behold, fiachra also approaching them, cold and wet and faint, and the speech was frozen in him that not a word he spake could be understood. so fionnuala put her wings about him, and said, "if but hugh came now, how happy should we be!" in no long time after that they saw hugh also approaching them across the sea, and his head was dry and his feathers fair and unruffled, for he had found shelter from the gale. fionnuala put him under her breast, and conn under her right wing and fiachra under her left, and covered them wholly with her feathers. "o children," she said to them, "evil though ye think this night to have been, many such a one shall we know from this time forward." so there the swans continued, suffering cold and misery upon the tides of moyle; and one while they would be upon the coast of alba and another upon the coast of erinn, but the waters they might not leave. at length there came upon them a night of bitter cold and snow such as they had never felt before, and fionnuala sang this lament:- "evil is this life. the cold of this night, the thickness of the snow, the sharpness of the wind- "how long have they lain together, under my soft wings, the waves beating upon us, conn and hugh and fiachra? "aoife has doomed us, us, the four of us, to-night to this misery- evil is this life." thus for a long time they suffered, till at length there came upon the straits of moyle a night of january so piercing cold that the like of it had never been felt. and the swans were gathered together upon the seal rock. the waters froze into ice around them, and each of them became frozen in his place, so that their feet and feathers clung to the rock; and when the day came and they strove to leave the place, the skin of their feet and the feathers of their breasts clove to the rock, they came naked and wounded away. "woe is me, o children of lir," said fionnuala, "we are now indeed in evil case, for we cannot endure the salt water, yet we may not be away from it; and if the salt water gets into our sores we shall perish of it." and thus she sang:- "to-night we are full of keening; no plumage to cover our bodies; and cold to our tender feet are the rough rocks all awash. "cruel to us was aoife, who played her magic upon us, and drove us out to the ocean, four wonderful, snow-white swans. "our bath is the frothing brine in the bay by red rocks guarded, for mead at our father's table we drink of the salt blue sea. "three sons and a single daughter- in clefts of the cold rocks dwelling, the hard rocks, cruel to mortals. --we are full of keening to-night." so they went forth again upon the straits of moyle, and the brine was grievously sharp and bitter to them, but they could not escape it nor shelter themselves from it. thus they were, till at last their feathers grew again and their sores were healed. on one day it happened that they came to the mouth of the river bann in the north of erinn, and there they perceived a fair host of horsemen riding on white steeds and coming steadily onward from the south-west "do ye know who yon riders are, children of lir?" asked fionnuala. "we know not," said they, "but it is like they are some party of the people of dana." then they moved to the margin of the land, and the company they had seen came down to meet them; and behold, it was hugh and fergus, the two sons of bóv the red, and their nobles and attendants with them, who had long been seeking for the swans along the coast of the straits of moyle. most lovingly and joyfully did they greet each other and the swans inquired concerning their father lir, and bóv the red, and the rest of their kinsfolk. "they are well," said the danaans; "and at this time they are all assembled together in the palace of your father at the hill of the white field, where they are holding the festival of the age of youth.[11] they are happy and gay and have no weariness or trouble, save that you are not among them, and that they have not known where you were since you left them at lough derryvaragh." [11] a magic banquet which had the effect of preserving for ever the youth of the people of dana. "that is not the tale of our lives," said fionnuala. after that the company of the danaans departed and brought word of the swans to bóv the red and to lir, who were rejoiced to hear that they were living, "for," said they, "the children shall obtain relief in the end of time." and the swans went back to the tides of moyle and abode there till their time to be in that place had expired. when that day had come, fionnuala declared it to them, and they rose up wheeling in the air, and flew westward across ireland till they came to the bay of erris, and there they abode as was ordained. here it happened that among those of mortal men whose dwellings bordered on the bay was a young man of gentle blood, by name evric, who having heard the singing of the swans came down to speak with them, and became their friend. after that he would often come to hear their music, for it was very sweet to him; and he loved them greatly, and they him. all their story they told him, and he it was who set it down in order, even as it is here narrated. much hardship did they suffer from cold and tempest in the waters of the western sea, yet not so much as they had to bear by the coasts of the ever-stormy moyle, and they knew that the day of redemption was now drawing near. in the end of the time fionnuala said, "brothers, let us fly to the hill of the white field, and see how lir our father and his household are faring." so they arose and set forward on their airy journey until they reached the hill of the white field, and thus it was that they found the place: namely, desolate and thorny before them, with nought but green mounds where once were the palaces and homes of their kin, and forests of nettles growing over them, and never a house nor a hearth. and the four drew closely together and lamented aloud at that sight, for they knew that old times and things had passed away in erinn, and they were lonely in a land of strangers, where no man lived who could recognise them when they came to their human shapes again. they knew not that lir and their kin of the people of dana yet dwelt invisible in the bright world within the fairy mounds, for their eyes were holden that they should not see, since other things were destined for them than to join the danaan folk and be of the company of the immortal shee. so they went back again to the western sea until the holy patrick came into ireland and preached the faith of the one god and of the christ. but a man of patrick's men, namely the saint mochaovóg,[12] came to the island of inishglory in erris bay, and there built himself a little church of stone, and spent his life in preaching to the folk and in prayer. the first night he came to the island the swans heard the sound of his bell ringing at matins on the following morn, and they leaped in terror, and the three brethren left fionnuala and fled away. fionnuala cried to them, "what ails you, beloved brothers?" "we know not," said they, "but we have heard a thin and dreadful voice, and we cannot tell what it is." "that is the voice of the bell of mochaovóg," said fionnuala, "and it is that bell which shall deliver us and drive away our pains, according to the will of god." [12] pronounced mo-chweev-ogue. then the brethren came back and hearkened to the chanting of the cleric until matins were performed. "let us chant our music now," said fionnuala. so they began, and chanted a solemn, slow, sweet, fairy song in adoration of the high king of heaven and of earth. mochaovóg heard that, and wondered, and when he saw the swans he spoke to them and inquired them. they told him they were the children of lir. "praised be god for that," said mochaovóg. "surely it is for your sakes that i have come to this island above every other island that is in erinn. come to land now, and trust in me that your salvation and release are at hand." so they came to land, and dwelt with mochaovóg in his own house, and there they kept the canonical hours with him and heard mass. and mochaovóg caused a good craftsman to make chains of silver for the swans, and put one chain between fionnuala and hugh and another between conn and fiachra; and they were a joy and solace of mind to the saint, and their own woe and pain seemed to them dim and far off as a dream. now at this time it happened that the king of connacht was lairgnen, son of colman, and he was betrothed to deoca, daughter of the king of munster. and so it was that when deoca came northward to be wedded to lairgnen she heard the tale of the swans and of their singing, and she prayed the king that he would obtain them for her, for she longed to possess them. but lairgnen would not ask them of mochaovóg. then deoca set out homeward again, and vowed that she would never return to lairgnen till she had the swans; and she came as far as the church of dalua, which is now called kildaloe, in clare. then lairgnen sent messengers for the birds to mochaovóg, but he would not give them up. at this lairgnen was very wroth, and he went himself to mochaovóg, and he found the cleric and the four birds at the altar. but lairgnen seized upon the birds by their silver chains, two in each hand dragged them away to the place where deoca was; and mochaovóg followed them. but when they came to deoca and she had laid her hands upon the birds, behold, their covering of feathers fell off and in their places were three shrunken and feeble old men and one lean and withered old woman, fleshless and bloodless from extreme old age. and lairgnen was struck with amazement and fear, and went out from that place. then fionnuala said to mochaovóg, "come now and baptize us quickly, for our end is near. and if you are grieved at parting from us, know that also to us it is a grief. do thou make our grave when we are dead, and place conn at my right side and fiachra at my left, and hugh before my face, for thus they were wont to be when i sheltered them on many a winter night by the tides of moyle." so mochaovóg baptized the three brethren and their sister; and shortly afterwards they found peace and death, and they were buried even as fionnuala had said. and over their tomb a stone was raised, and their names and lineage graved on it in branching ogham[13]; and lamentation and prayers were made for them, and their souls won to heaven. [13] see p. 133, _note_. but mochaovóg was sorrowful, and grieved after them so long as he lived on earth. chapter ii the quest of the sons of turenn long ago, when the people of dana yet held lordship in erinn, they were sorely afflicted by hordes of sea-rovers named fomorians who used to harry the country and carry off youths and maidens into captivity. they also imposed cruel and extortionate taxes upon the people, for every kneading trough, and every quern for grinding corn, and every flagstone for baking bread had to pay its tax. and an ounce of gold was paid as a poll-tax for every man, and if any man would not or could not pay, his nose was cut off. under this tyranny the whole country groaned, but they had none who was able to band them together and to lead them in battle against their oppressors. now before this it happened that one of the lords of the danaans named kian had married with ethlinn, daughter of balor, a princess of the fomorians. they had a son named lugh lamfada, or lugh of the long arm, who grew up into a youth of surpassing beauty and strength. and if his body was noble and mighty, no less so was his mind, for lordship and authority grew to him by the gift of the immortals, and whatever he purposed that would he perform, whatever it might cost in time or toil, in tears or in blood. now this lugh was not brought up in erinn but in a far-off isle of the western sea, where the sea-god mananan and the other immortals nurtured and taught him, and made him fit alike for warfare or for sovranty, when his day should come to work their will on earth. hither in due time came the report of the grievous and dishonouring oppression wrought by the fomorians upon the people of dana, and that report was heard by lugh. then lugh said to his tutors "it were a worthy deed to rescue my father and the people of erinn from this tyranny; let me go thither and attempt it." and they said to him, "go, and blessing and victory be with thee." so lugh armed himself and mounted his fairy steed, and called his friends and foster-brothers about him, and across the bright and heaving surface of the waters they rode like the wind, until they took land in erinn. now the chiefs of the danaan folk were assembled upon the hill of usnach, which is upon the western side of tara in meath, in order to meet there the stewards of the fomorians and to pay them their tribute. as they awaited the arrival of the fomorians they became aware of a company on horseback, coming from the west, before whom rode a young man who seemed to command them all, and whose countenance was as radiant as the sun upon a dry summer's day, so that the danaans could scarcely gaze upon it. he rode upon a white horse and was armed with a sword, and on his head was a helmet set with precious stones. the danaan folk welcomed him as he came among them, and asked him of his name and his business among them. as they were thus talking another band drew near, numbering nine times nine persons, who were the stewards of the fomorians coming to demand their tribute. they were men of a fierce and swarthy countenance, and as they came haughtily and arrogantly forward, the danaans all rose up to do them honour. then lugh said: "why do ye rise up before that grim and ill-looking band and not before us?" said the king of erinn, "we needs must do so, for if they saw but a child of a month old sitting down when they came near they would hold it cause enough to attack and slay us." "i am greatly minded to slay them," said lugh; and he repeated it, "very greatly minded." "that would be bad for us," said the king, "for our death and destruction would surely follow." "ye are too long under oppression," said lugh, and gave the word for onset. so he and his comrades rushed upon the fomorians, and in a moment the hillside rang with blows and with the shouting of warriors. in no long time all of the fomorians were slain save nine men, and these were taken alive and brought before lugh. "ye also should be slain," said lugh, "but that i am minded to send you as ambassadors to your king. tell him that he may seek homage and tribute where he will henceforth, but ireland will pay him none for ever." then the fomorians went northwards away, and the people of dana made them ready for war, and made lugh their captain and war-lord, for the sight of his face heartened them, and made them strong, and they marvelled that they had endured their slavery so long. in the meantime word was brought to balor of the mighty blows, king of the fomorians, and to his queen kethlinn of the twisted teeth, of the shame and destruction that had been done to their stewards, and they assembled a great host of the sea-rovers and manned their war-ships, and the northern sea was white with the foam of their oarblades as they swept down upon the shores of erinn. and balor commanded them, saying, "when ye have utterly destroyed and subdued the people of dana, then make fast your ships with cables to the land of erinn, and tow it here to the north of us into the region of ice and snow, and it shall trouble us no longer." so the host of balor took land by the falls of dara[14] and began plundering and devastating the province of connacht. [14] ballysodare = the town of the falls of dara, in co. sligo. then lugh sent messengers abroad to bring his host together, and among them was his own father, kian, son of canta. and as kian went northwards on his errand to rouse the ulster men, and was now come to the plain of murthemny near by dundealga,[15] he saw three warriors armed and riding across the plain. now these three were the sons of turenn, by name brian and iuchar and iucharba. and there was an ancient blood-feud between the house of canta and the house of turenn, so that they never met without bloodshed. [15] dundalk. then kian thought to himself, "if my brothers cu and kethan were here there might be a pretty fight, but as they are three to one i would do better to fly." now there was a herd of wild swine near by; and kian changed himself by druidic sorceries into a wild pig and fell to rooting up the earth along with the others. when the sons of turenn came up to the herd, brian said, "brothers, did ye see the warrior wh' just now was journeying across the plain?" "we saw him," said they. "what is become of him?" said brian. "truly, we cannot tell," said the brothers. "it is good watch ye keep in time of war!" said brian; "but i know what has taken him out of our sight, for he struck himself with a magic wand, and changed himself into the form of one of yonder swine, and he is rooting the earth among them now. wherefore," said brian, "i deem that he is no friend to us." "if so, we have no help for it," said they, "for the herd belongs to some man of the danaans; and even if we set to and begin to kill the swine, the pig of druidism might be the very one to escape." "have ye learned so little in your place of studies," said brian, "that ye cannot distinguish a druidic beast from a natural beast?" and with that he smote his two brothers with a magic wand, and changed them into two slender, fleet hounds, and they darted in among the herd. then all the herd scattered and fled, but the hounds separated the druidic pig and chased it towards a wood where brian awaited it. as it passed, brian flung his spear, and it pierced the chest of the pig and brought it down. the pig screamed, "evil have you done to cast at me." brian said, "that hath the sound of human speech!" "i am in truth a man," said the pig, "and i am kian, son of canta, and i pray you show me mercy." "that will we," said iuchar and iucharba, "and sorry are we for what has happened." "nay," said brian, "but i swear by the wind and the sun that if thou hadst seven lives i would take them all." "grant me a favour then," said kian. "we shall grant it," said brian. "let me," said kian, "return into my own form that i may die in the shape of a man." "i had liefer kill a man than a pig," said brian. then kian became a man again and stood before them, the blood trickling from his breast. "i have outwitted you now," cried he, "for if ye had killed a pig ye would have paid a pig's eric,[16] but now ye shall pay the eric of a man. never was greater eric in the land of erinn than that which ye shall pay; and i swear that the very weapons with which ye slay me shall tell the tale to the avenger of blood." [16] blood-fine. "then you shall be slain with no weapons at all," said brian; and they picked up the stones on the plain of murthemny and rained them upon him till he was all one wound, and he died. so they buried him as deep as the height of a man, and went their way to join the host of lugh. when the host was assembled, lugh led them into connacht and smote the fomorians and drove them to their ships, but of this the tale tells not here. but when the fight was done, lugh asked of his comrades if they had seen his father in the fight and how it fared with him. they said they had not seen him. then lugh made search among the dead, and they found not kian there. "were kian alive he would be here," said lugh, "and i swear by the wind and the sun that i will not eat or drink till i know what has befallen him." on their return the danaan host passed by the plain of murthemny, and when they came near the place of the murder the stones cried aloud to lugh. and lugh listened, and they told him of the deed of the sons of turenn. then lugh searched for the place of a new grave, and when he had found it he caused it to be dug, and the body of his father was raised up, and lugh saw that it was but a litter of wounds. and he cried out: "o wicked and horrible deed!" and he kissed his father and said, "i am sick from this sight, my eyes are blind from it, my ears are deaf from it, my heart stands still from it. ye gods that i adore, why was i not here when this crime was done? a man of the children of dana slain by his fellows." and he lamented long and bitterly. then kian was again laid in his grave, and a mound was heaped over it and a pillar-stone set thereon and his name written in ogham, and a dirge was sung for him. after that lugh departed to tara, to the court of the high king, and he charged his people to say nothing of what had happened until he himself had made it known. when he reached tara with his victorious host the king placed lugh at his own right hand before all the princes and lords of the danaan folk. lugh looked round about him, and saw the sons of turenn sitting among the assembly; and they were among the best and strongest and the handsomest of those who were present at that time; nor had any borne themselves better in the fight with the sea-rovers. then lugh asked of the king that the chain of silence might be shaken; and the assembly heard it, and gave their attention to lugh. and lugh said: "o king, and ye princes of the people of dana, i ask what vengeance would each of you exact upon a man who had foully murdered your father?" then they were all astonished, and the king answered and said: "surely it is not the father of lugh lamfada who has thus been slain?" "thou hast said it," said lugh, "and those who did the deed are listening to me now, and know it better than i." the king said, "not in one day would i slay the murderer of my father, but i would tear from him a limb day by day till he were dead." and so spake all the lords of the danaans, and the sons of turenn among the rest. "they have sentenced themselves, the murderers of my father," said lugh. "nevertheless i shall accept an eric from them, and if they will pay it, it shall be well; but if not, i shall not break the peace of the king's assembly and of his sanctuary, but let them beware how they leave the hall tara until they have made me satisfaction." "had i slain your father," said the high king, "glad should i be to have an eric accepted for his blood." then the sons of turenn whispered among themselves. "it is to us that lugh is speaking," said iuchar and iucharba, "let us confess and have the eric assessed upon us, for he has got knowledge of our deed." "nay," said brian, "but he may be seeking for an open confession, and then perchance he would not accept an eric." but the two brethren said to brian, "do thou confess because thou art the eldest, or if thou do not, then we shall." so brian, son of turenn, rose up and said to lugh: "it is to us thou hast spoken, lugh, since thou knowest there is enmity of old time between our houses; and if thou wilt have it that we have slain thy father, then declare our eric and we shall pay it." "i will take an eric from you," said lugh, "and if it seem too great, i will remit a portion of it." "declare it, then," said the sons of turenn. "this it is," said lugh. "three apples. "the skin of a pig. "a spear. "two steeds and a chariot. "seven swine. "a whelp of a dog. "a cooking spit. "three shouts on a hill." "we would not consider heavy hundreds or thousands of these things," said the sons of turenn, "but we misdoubt thou hast some secret purpose against us." "i deem it no small eric," said lugh, "and i call to witness the high king and lords of the danaans that i shall ask no more; and do ye on your side give me guarantees for the fulfilment of it." so the high king and the lords of the danaans entered into bonds with lugh and with the sons of turenn that the eric should be paid and should wipe out the blood of kian. "now," said lugh, "it is better forme to give you fuller knowledge of the eric. the three apples that i have demanded of you are the apples that grow in the garden of the hesperides, in the east of the world, and none but these will do. thus it is with them: they are the colour of bright gold, and as large as the head of a month-old child; the taste of them is like honey; if he who eats them has any running sore or evil disease it is healed by them; they may be eaten and eaten and never be less. i doubt, o young heroes, if ye will get these apples, for those who guard them know well an ancient prophecy that one day three knights from the western world would come to attempt them. "as for the skin of the pig, that is a treasure of tuish, the king of greece. if it be laid upon a wounded man it will make him whole and well, if only it overtake the breath of life in him. and do ye know what is the spear that i demanded?" "we do not," said they. "it is the poisoned spear of peisear, the king of persia, and so fierce is the spirit of war in it that it must be kept in a pot of soporific herbs or it would fly out raging for death. and do ye know what are the two horses and the chariot ye must get?" "we do not know," said they. "the steeds and the chariot belong to dobar, king of sicily. they are magic steeds and can go indifferently over land and sea, nor can they be killed by any weapon unless they be torn in pieces and their bones cannot be found. and the seven pigs are the swine of asal, king of the golden pillars, which may be slain and eaten every night and the next morning they are alive again. "and the hound-whelp i asked of you is the whelp of the king of iorroway, that can catch and slay any beast in the world; hard it is to get possession of that whelp. "the cooking spit is one of the spits that the fairy women of the island of finchory have in their kitchen. "and the hill on which ye must give three shouts is the hill where dwells mochaen in the north of lochlann. now mochaen and his sons have it as a sacred ordinance that they permit not any man to raise a shout upon their hill. with him it was that my father was trained to arms, and if i forgave ye his death, yet would mochaen not forgive it. "and now ye know the eric which ye have to pay for the slaying of kian, son of canta." astonishment and despair overcame the sons of turenn when they learned the meaning of the eric of lugh, and they went home to tell the tidings to their father. "this is an evil tale," said turenn; "i doubt but death and doom shall come from your seeking of that eric, and it is but right they should. yet it may be that ye shall obtain the eric if lugh or mananan will help you to it. go now to lugh, and ask him for the loan of the fairy steed of mananan, which was given him to ride over the sea into erinn. he will refuse you, for he will say that the steed is but lent to him and he may not make a loan of a loan. then ask him for the loan of ocean sweeper, which is the magic boat of mananan, and that he must give, for it is a sacred ordinance with lugh not to refuse a second petition." so they went to lugh, and it all fell out as turenn had told them, and they went back to turenn. "ye have done something towards the eric," said turenn, "but not much. yet lugh would be well pleased that ye brought him whatever might serve him when the fomorians come to the battle again, and well pleased would he be that ye might get your death in bringing it. go now, my sons, and blessing and victory be with you." then the sons of turenn went down to the harbour on the boyne river where the boat of mananan was, and ethne their sister with them. and when they reached the place, ethne broke into lamentations and weeping; but brian said, "weep not, dear sister, but let us go forth gaily to great deeds. better a hundred deaths in the quest of honour than to live and die as cowards and sluggards." but ethne said, "ye are banished from erinn--never was there a sadder deed." then they put forth from the river-mouth of the boyne and soon the fair coasts of erinn faded out of sight. "and now," said they among themselves, "what course shall we steer?" [illustration: "'bear us swiftly, boat of mananan, to the garden of the hesperides'"] "no need to steer the boat of mananan," said brian; and he whispered to the boat, "bear us swiftly, boat of mananan, to the garden of the hesperides"; and the spirit of the boat heard him and it leaped eagerly forward, lifting and dipping over the rollers and throwing up an arch of spray each side of its bows wherein sat a rainbow when the sun shone upon it; and so in no long time they drew nigh to the coast where was the far-famed garden of the golden apples. "and now, how shall we set about the capture of the apples?" said brian. "draw sword and fight for them," said iuchar and iucharba, "and if we are the stronger, we shall win them, and if not, we shall fall, as fall we surely must ere the eric for kian be paid." "nay," said brian, "but whether we live or die, let not men say of us that we went blind and headlong to our tasks, but rather that we made the head help the hand, and that we deserved to win even though we lost. now my counsel is that we approach the garden in the shape of three hawks, strong of wing, and that we hover about until the wardens of the tree have spent all their darts and javelins in casting at us, and then let us swoop down suddenly and bear off each of us an apple if we may." so it was agreed; and brian struck himself and each of the brothers with a druid wand, and they became three beautiful, fierce, and strong-winged hawks. when the wardens perceived them, they shouted and threw showers of arrows and darts at them, but the hawks evaded all of these until the missiles were spent, and then seized each an apple in his talons. but brian seized two, for he took one in his beak as well. then they flew as swiftly as they might to the shore where they had left their boat. now the king of that garden had three fair daughters, to whom the apples and the garden were very dear, and he transformed the maidens into three griffins, who pursued the hawks. and the griffins threw darts of fire, as it were lightning, at the hawks. "brian!" then cried iuchar and his brother, "we are being burnt by these darts--we are lost unless we can escape them." on this, brian changed himself and his brethren into three swans, and they plunged into the sea, and the burning darts were quenched. then the griffins gave over the chase, and the sons of turenn made for their boat, and they embarked with the four apples. thus their first quest was ended. after that they resolved to seek the pigskin from the king of greece, and they debated how they should come before him. "let us," said brian, "assume the character and garb of poets and men of learning, for such are wont to come from ireland and to travel foreign lands, and in that character shall the greeks receive us best, for such men have honour among them." "it is well said," replied the brothers, "yet we have no poems in our heads, and how to compose one we know not." howbeit they dressed their hair in the fashion of the poets of erinn, and went up to the palace of tuish the king. the doorkeeper asked of them who they were, and what was their business. "we are bards from ireland," they said, "and we have come with a poem to the king." "let them be admitted," said the king, when the doorkeeper brought him that tale; "they have doubtless come thus far to seek a powerful patron." so brian and iuchar and iucharba came in and were made welcome, and were entertained, and then the minstrels of the king of greece chanted the lays of that country before them. after that came the turn of the stranger bards, and brian asked his brethren if they had anything to recite. "we have not," said they; "we know but one art--to take what we want by the strong hand if we may, and if we may not, to die fighting." "that is a difficult art too," said brian; "let us see how we thrive with the poetry." so he rose up and recited this lay:- "mighty is thy fame, o king, towering like a giant oak; for my song i ask no thing save a pigskin for a cloak. "when a neighbour with his friend quarrels, they are ear to ear; who on us their store shall spend shall be richer than they were. "armies of the storming wind- raging seas, the sword's fell stroke- thou hast nothing to my mind save thy pigskin for a cloak." "that is a very good poem," said the king, "but one word of its meaning i do not understand." "i will interpret it for you," said brian:- "mighty is thy fame, o king, towering like a giant oak." "that is to say, as the oak surpasses all the other trees of the forest, so do you surpass all the kings of the world in goodness, in nobleness, and in liberality. "a pigskin for a cloak." "that is the skin of the pig of tuish which i would fain receive as the reward for my lay." "when a neighbour with his friend quarrels, they are ear to ear." "that is to signify that you and i shall be about each other's ears over the skin, unless you are willing to give it to me. such is the sense of my poem," said brian, son of turenn. "i would praise your poem more," said the king, "if there were not so much about my pigskin in it. little sense have you, o man of poetry, to make that request of me, for not to all the poets, scholars, and lords of the world would i give that skin of my own free will. but what i will do is this--i will give the full of that skin of red gold thrice over in reward for your poem." "thanks be to you," said brian, "for that. i knew that i asked too much, but i knew also thou wouldst redeem the skin amply and generously. and now let the gold be duly measured out in it, for greedy am i, and i will not abate an ounce of it." the servants of the king were then sent with brian and his brothers to the king's treasure-chamber to measure out the gold. as they did so, brian suddenly snatched the skin from the hands of him who held it, and swiftly wrapped it round his body. then the three brothers drew sword and made for the door, and a great fight arose in the king's palace. but they hewed and thrust manfully on every side of them, and though sorely wounded they fought their way through and escaped to the shore, and drove their boat out to sea, when the skin of the magic pig quickly made them whole and sound again. and thus the second quest of the sons of turenn had its end. "let us now," said brian, "go to seek the spear of the king of persia." "in what manner of guise shall we go before the king of persia?" said his brothers. "as we did before the king of greece," said brian. "that guise served us well with the king of greece," replied they; "nevertheless, o brian, this business of professing to be poets, when we are but swordsmen, is painful to us." however, they dressed their hair in the manner of poets and went up boldly to the palace of king peisear of persia, saying, as before, that they were wandering bards from ireland who had a poem to recite before the king; and as they passed through the courtyard they marked the spear drowsing in its pot of sleepy herbs. they were made welcome, and after listening to the lays of the king's minstrel, brian rose and sang:- "'tis little peisear cares for spears, since armies, when his face they see, all overcome with panic fears without a wound they turn and flee. "the yew is monarch of the wood, no other tree disputes its claim. the shining shaft in venom stewed flies fiercely forth to kill and maim." "'tis a very good poem," said the king, "but, o bard from erinn, i do not understand your reference to my spear." "it is merely this," replied brian, "that i would like your spear as a reward for my poem." then the king stared at brian, and his beard bristled with anger, and he said, "never was a greater reward paid for any poem than not to adjudge you guilty of instant death for your request." then brian flung at the king the fourth golden apple which he had taken from the garden of the hesperides, and it dashed out his brains. immediately the brothers all drew sword and made for the courtyard. here they seized the magic spear, and with it and with their swords they fought their way clear, not without many wounds, and escaped to their boat. and thus ended the third quest of the sons of turenn. now having come safely and victoriously through so many straits and perils, they began to be merry and hoped that all the eric might yet be paid. so they sailed away with high hearts to the island of sicily, to get the two horses and the chariot of the king, and the boat of mananan bore them swiftly and well. having arrived here, they debated among themselves as to how they should proceed; and they agreed to present themselves as irish mercenary soldiers--for such were wont in those days to take service with foreign kings--until they should learn where the horses and the chariot were kept, and how they should come at them. then they went forward, and found the king and his lords in the palace garden taking the air. the sons of turenn then paid homage to him, and he asked them of their business. "we are irish mercenary soldiers," they said, "seeking our wages from the kings of the world." "are ye willing to take service with me?" said the king. "we are," said they, "and to that end are we come." then their contract of military service was made, and they remained at the king's court for a month and a fortnight, and did not in all that time come to see the steeds or the chariot. at last brian said, "things are going ill with us, my brethren, in that we know no more at this day of the steeds or of the chariot than when we first arrived at this place." "what shall we do, then?" said they. "let us do this," said brian. "let us gird on our arms and all our marching array, and tell the king that we shall quit his service unless he show us the chariot." and so they did; and the king said, "to-morrow shall be a gathering and parade of all my host, and the chariot shall be there, and ye shall see it if ye have a mind." so the next day the steeds were yoked and the chariot was driven round a great plain before the king and his lords. now these steeds could run as well on sea as on dry land, and they were swifter than the winds of march. as the chariot came round the second time, brian and his brothers seized the horses' heads, and brian took the charioteer by the foot and flung him out over the rail, and they all leaped into the chariot and drove away. such was the swiftness of their driving that they were out of sight ere the king and his men knew rightly what had befallen. and thus ended the fourth quest of the sons of turenn. next they betook themselves to the court of asal, king of the golden pillars, to get the seven swine which might be eaten every night and they would be whole and well on the morrow morn. but it had now been noised about every country that three young heroes from erinn were plundering the kings of the world of their treasures in payment of a mighty eric; and when they arrived at the land of the golden pillars they found the harbour guarded and a strait watch kept, that no one who might resemble the sons of turenn should enter. but asal the king came to the harbour-mouth and spoke with the heroes, for he was desirous to see those who had done the great deeds that he had heard of. he asked them if it were true that they had done such things, and why. then brian told him the story of the mighty eric which had been laid upon them, and what they had done and suffered in fulfilling it. "why," said king asal, "have ye now come to my country?" "for the seven swine," said brian, "to take them with us as a part of that eric." "how do you mean to get them?" asked the king. "with your goodwill," replied brian, "if so it may be, and to pay you therefore with all the wealth we now have, which is thanks and love, and to stand by your side hereafter in any strait or quarrel you may enter into. but if you will not grant us the swine, and we may not be quit of our eric without them, we shall even take them as we may, and as we have beforetime taken mighty treasures from mighty kings." then king asal went into counsel with his lords, and he advised that the swine be given to the sons of turenn, partly for that he was moved with their desperate plight and the hardihood they had shown, and partly that they might get them whether or no. to this they all agreed, and the sons of turenn were invited to come ashore, where they were courteously and hospitably entertained in the king's palace. on the morrow the pigs were given to them, and great was their gladness, for never before had they won a treasure without toil and blood. and they vowed that, if they should live, the name of asal should be made by them a great and shining name, for his compassion and generosity which he had shown them. this, then, was the fifth quest of the sons of turenn. "and whither do ye voyage now?" said asal to them. "we go," said they, "to iorroway for the hound's whelp which is there." "take me with you, then," said asal, "for the king of iorroway is husband to my daughter, and i may prevail upon him to grant you the hound without combat." so the king's ship was manned and provisioned, and the sons of turenn laid up their treasures in the boat of mananan, and they all sailed joyfully forth to the pleasant kingdom of iorroway. but here, too, they found all the coasts and harbours guarded, and entrance was forbidden them. then asal declared who he was, and him they allowed to land, and he journeyed to where his son-in-law, the king of iorroway, was. to him asal related the whole story of the sons of turenn, and why they were come to that kingdom. "thou wert a fool," said the king of iorroway, "to have come on such a mission. there are no three heroes in the world to whom the immortals have granted such grace that they should get my hound either by favour or by fight." "that is not a good word," said asal, "for the treasures they now possess have made them yet stronger than they were, and these they won in the teeth of kings as strong as thou." and much more he said to him to persuade him to yield up the hound, but in vain. so asal took his way back to the haven where the sons of turenn lay, and told them his tidings. then the sons of turenn seized the magic spear, and the pigskin, and with a rush like that of three eagles descending from a high cliff upon a lamb-fold they burst upon the guards of the king of iorroway. fierce and fell was the combat that ensued, and many times the brothers were driven apart, and all but overborne by the throng of their foes. but at last brian perceived where the king of iorroway was directing the fight, and he cut his way to him, and having smitten him to the ground, he bound him and carried him out of the press to the haven-side where asal was. "there," he said, "is your son-in-law for you asal, and i swear by my sword that i had more easily killed him thrice than once to bring him thus bound to you." "that is very like," said asal; "but now hold him to ransom." so the people of iorroway gave the hound to the sons of turenn as a ransom for their king, and the king was released, and friendship and alliance were made between them. and with joyful hearts the sons of turenn bade farewell to the king of iorroway and to asal, and departed on their way. thus was the sixth of their quests fulfilled. now lugh lamfada desired to know how the sons of turenn had fared, and whether they had got any portion of the great eric that might be serviceable to him when the fomorians should return for one more struggle. and by sorcery and divination it was revealed to him how they had thriven, and that nought remained to be won save the cooking-spit of the sea-nymphs, and to give the three shouts upon the hill. lugh then by druidic art caused a spell of oblivion and forgetfulness to descend upon the sons of turenn, and put into their hearts withal a yearning and passion to return to their native land of erinn. they forgot, therefore, that a portion of the eric was still to win, and they bade the boat of mananan bear them home with their treasures, for they deemed that they should now quit them of all their debt for the blood of kian and live free in their father's home, having done such things and won such fame as no three brothers had ever done since the world began. at the brugh of boyne, where they had started on their quest, their boat came ashore again, and as they landed they wept for joy, and falling on their knees they kissed the green sod of erinn. then they took up their treasures and journeyed to ben edar,[17] where the high king of ireland, and lugh with him, were holding an assembly of the people of dana. but when lugh heard that they were on their way he put on his cloak of invisibility and withdrew privily to tara. [17] the hill of howth. when the brethren arrived at ben edar, the high king of the lords of the danaans gave them welcome and applause, for all were rejoiced that the stain of ancient feud and bloodshed should be wiped out, and that the children of dana should be at peace within their borders. then they sought for lugh to deliver over the eric, but he was not to be found. and brian said, "he has gone to tara to avoid us, having heard that we were coming with our treasures and weapons of war." word was then sent to lugh at tara that the sons of turenn were at ben edar, and the eric with them. "let them pay it over to the high king," said lugh. so it was done; and when lugh had tidings that the high king had the eric, he returned to ben edar. then the eric was laid before him, and brian said, "is the debt paid, o lugh, son of kian?" lugh said, "truly there is here the price of any man's death; but it is not lawful to give a quittance for an eric that is not complete. where is the cooking-spit from the island of finchory? and have ye given the three shouts upon the hill of mochaen?" at this word brian and iuchar and iucharba fell prone upon the ground, and were speechless awhile from grief and dismay. after a while they left the assembly like broken men, with hanging heads and with heavy steps, and betook themselves to dún turenn, where they found their father, and they told him all that had befallen them since they had parted with him and set forth on the quest. thus they passed the night in gloom and evil forebodings, and on the morrow they went down once more to the place where the boat of mananan was moored. and ethne their sister accompanied them, wailing and lamenting, but no words of cheer had they now to say to her, for now they began to comprehend that a mightier and a craftier mind had caught them in the net of fate. and whereas they had deemed themselves heroes and victors in the most glorious quest whereof the earth had record, they now knew that they were but as arrows in the hands of a laughing archer, who shoots one at a stag and one at the heart of a foe, and one, it may be, in sheer wantonness, and to try his bow, over a cliff edge into the sea. [illustration: "there dwelt the red-haired ocean-nymphs"] however, they put forth in their magic boat, but in no wise could they direct it to the isle of finchory, and a quarter of a year they traversed the seaways and never could get tidings of that island. at last brian fashioned for himself by magic art a water-dress, with a helmet of crystal, and into the depths of the sea he plunged. here, the story tells, he searched hither and thither for a fortnight, till at last he found that island, which was an island indeed with the sea over it and around it and beneath it. there dwelt the red-haired ocean-nymphs in glittering palaces among the sea-flowers, and they wrought fair embroidery with gold and jewels, and sang, as they wrought, a fairy music like the chiming of silver bells. three fifties of them sat or played in their great hall as brian entered, and they gazed on him but spoke no word. then brian strode to the wide hearth, and without a word he seized from it a spit that was made of beaten gold, and turned again to go. but at that the laughter of the sea-maidens rippled through the hall and one of them said: "thou art a bold man, brian, and bolder than thou knowest; for if thy two brothers were here, the weakest of us could vanquish all the three. nevertheless, take the spit for thy daring; we had never granted it for thy prayers." so brian thanked them and bade farewell, and he rose to the surface of the water. ere long his brethren perceived him as he shouldered the waves on the bosom of the deep, and they sailed to where he was and took him on board. and thus ended the quest for the seventh portion of the eric of kian. after that their hopes revived a little, and they set sail for the land of lochlann, in which was the hill of mochaen. when they had arrived at the hill mochaen came out to meet them with his three sons, corc and conn and hugh; nor did the sons of turenn ever behold a band of grimmer and mightier warriors than those four. "what seek ye here?" asked mochaen of them they told him that it had been laid upon them to give three shouts upon the hill. "it hath been laid upon me," said mochaen, "to prevent this thing." then brian and mochaen drew sword and fell furiously upon each other, and their fighting was like that of two hungry lions or two wild bulls, until at last brian drove his sword into the throat of mochaen, and he died. with that the sons of mochaen and the sons of turenn rushed fiercely upon each other. long and sore was the strife that they had, and the blood that fell made red the grassy place wherein they fought. not one of them but received wounds that pierced him through and through, and that heroes of less hardihood had died of a score of times. but in the end the sons of mochaen fell, and brian, iuchar, and iucharba lay over them in a swoon like death. after a while brian's senses came back to him, and he said, "do ye live, dear brothers, or how is it with you?" "we are as good as dead," said they; "let us be." "arise," then said brian, "for truly i feel death coming swiftly upon us, and we have yet to give the three shouts upon the hill." "we cannot stir," said iuchar and iucharba. then brian rose to his knees and to his feet, and he lifted up his two brothers while the blood of all three streamed down to their feet, and they raised their voices as best they might, and gave three hoarse cries upon the hill of mochaen. and thus was the last of the epic fulfilled. then they bound up their wounds, and brian placed himself between the two brothers, and slowly and painfully they made their way to the boat, and put out to sea for ireland. and as they lay in the stupor of faintness in the boat, one murmured to himself, "i see the cape of ben edar and the coast of turenn, and tara of the kings." then iuchar and iucharba entreated brian to lift their heads upon his breast. "let us but see the land of erinn again," said they, "the hills around tailtin, and the dewy plain of bregia, and the quiet waters of the boyne and our father's dún thereby, and healing will come to us; or if death come we can endure it after that." then brian raised them up; and they saw that they were now near by under ben edar; and at the strand of the bull[18] they took land. they were then conveyed to the dún of turenn, and life was still in them when they were laid in their father's hall. [18] cluan tarbh, clontarf; so called from the roaring of the waves on the strand. and brian said to turenn, "go now, dear father, with all speed to lugh at tara. give him the cooking-spit, and tell how thou hast found us after giving our three shouts upon the hill of mochaen. then beseech him that he yield thee the loan of the pigskin of the king of greece, for if it be laid upon us while the life is yet in us, we shall recover. we have won the eric, and it may be that he will not pursue us to our death." turenn went to lugh and gave him the spit of the sea-nymphs, and besought him for the lives of his sons. lugh was silent for a while, but his countenance did not change, and he said, "thou, old man, seest nought but the cloud of sorrow wherein thou art encompassed. but i hear from above it the singing of the immortal ones, who tell to one another the story of this land. thy sons must die; yet have i shown to them more mercy than they showed to kian. i have forgiven them; nor shall they live to slay their own immortality, but the royal bards of erinn and the old men in the chimney corners shall tell of their glory and their fate as long as the land shall endure." then turenn bowed his white head and went sorrowfully back to dún turenn; and he told his sons of the words that lugh had said. and with that the sons of turenn kissed each other, and the breath of life departed from them, and they died. and turenn died also, for his heart was broken in him; and ethne his daughter buried them in one grave. thus, then, ends the tale of the quest of the eric and the fate of the sons of turenn. chapter iii the secret of labra in very ancient days there was a king in ireland named labra, who was called labra the sailor for a certain voyage that he made. now labra was never seen save by one man, once a year, without a hood that covered his head and ears. but once a year it was his habit to let his hair be cropped, and the person to do this was chosen by lot, for the king was accustomed to put to death instantly the man who had cropped him. and so it happened that on a certain year the lot fell on a young man who was the only son of a poor widow, who dwelt near by the palace of the king. when she heard that her son had been chosen she fell on her knees before the king and besought him, with tears, that her son, who was her only support and all she had in the world, might not suffer death as was customary. the king was moved by her grief and her entreaties, and at last he consented that the young man should not be slain provided that he vowed to keep secret to the day of his death what he should see. the youth agreed to this and he vowed by the sun and the wind that he would never, so long as he lived, reveal to man what he should learn when he cropped the king's hair. so he did what was appointed for him and went home. but when he did so he had no peace for the wonder of the secret that he had learned preyed upon his mind so that he could not rest for thinking of it and longing to reveal it, and at last he fell into a wasting sickness from it, and was near to die. then there was brought to see him a wise druid, who was skilled in all maladies of the mind and body, and after he had talked with the youth he said to his mother, "thy son is dying of the burden of a secret which he may not reveal to any man, but until he reveals it he will have no ease. let him, therefore, walk along the high way till he comes to a place where four roads meet. let him then turn to the right, and the first tree that he shall meet on the roadside let him tell the secret to it, and so it may be he shall be relieved, and his vow will not be broken." the mother told her son of the druid's advice, and next day he went upon his way till he came to four cross roads, and he took the road upon the right, and the first tree he found was a great willow-tree. so the young man laid his cheek against the bark, and he whispered the secret to the tree, and as he turned back homeward he felt lightened of his burden, and he leaped and sang, and ere many days were past he was as well and light hearted as ever he had been in his life. some while after that it happened that the king's harper, namely craftiny, broke the straining-post of his harp and went out to seek for a piece of wood wherewith to mend it. and the first timber he found that would fit the purpose was the willow-tree by the cross roads. he cut it down, therefore, and took as much as would give him a new straining-post, and he bore it home with him and mended his harp with it. that night he played after meat before the king and his lords as he was wont, but whatever he played and sang the folk that listened to him seemed to hear only one thing, "two horse's ears hath labra the sailor." then the king plucked off his hood, and after that he made no secret of his ears and none suffered on account of them thenceforward. chapter iv king iubdan and king fergus it happened on a day when fergus son of leda was king of ulster, that iubdan, king of the leprecauns or wee folk, of the land of faylinn, held a great banquet and assembly of the lords and princes of the wee folk. and all their captains and men of war came thither, to show their feats before the king, among whom was the strong man, namely glowar, whose might was such that with his battle-axe he could hew down a thistle at one stroke. thither also came the king's heir-apparent. tiny, son of tot, and the queen bebo with her maidens; and there were also the king's harpers and singing-men, and the chief poet of the court, who was called eisirt. all these sat down to the feast in due order and precedence, with bebo on the king's right hand and the poet on his left, and glowar kept the door. soon the wine began to flow from the vats of dark-red yew-wood, and the carvers carved busily at great haunches of roast hares and ribs of field-mice; and they all ate and drank, and loudly the hall rang with gay talk and laughter, and the drinking of toasts, and clashing of silver goblets. at last when they had put away desire of eating and drinking, iubdan rose up, having in his hand the royal goblet of gold inlaid with precious many-coloured jewels, and the heir-apparent rose at the other end of the table, and they drank prosperity and victory to faylinn. then iubdan's heart swelled with pride, and he asked of the company, "come now, have any of you ever seen a king more glorious and powerful than i am?" "never, in truth," cried they all. "have ye ever seen a stronger man than my giant, glowar?" "never, o king," said they. "or battle-steeds and men-at-arms better than mine?" "by our words," they cried, "we never have." "truly," went on iubdan, "i deem that he who would assail our kingdom of faylinn, and carry away captives and hostages from us, would have his work cut out for him, so fierce and mighty are our warriors; yea, any one of them hath the stuff of kingship in him." on hearing this, eisirt, in whom the heady wine and ale had done their work, burst out laughing; and the king turned to him, saying, "eisirt, what hath moved thee to this laughter?" "i know a province in erinn," replied eisirt, "one man of whom would harry faylinn in the teeth of all four battalions of the wee folk." "seize him," cried the king to his attendants; "eisirt shall pay dearly in chains and in prison for that scornful speech against our glory." then eisirt was put in bonds, and he repented him of his brag; but ere they dragged him away he said, "grant me, o mighty king, but three days' respite, that i may travel to erinn to the court of fergus mac leda, and if i bring not back some clear token that i have uttered nought but the truth, then do with me as thou wilt." so iubdan bade them release him, and he fared away to erinn oversea. [illustration: "they all trooped out, lords and ladies, to view the wee man"] after this, one day, as fergus and his lords sat at the feast, the gatekeeper of the palace of fergus in emania heard outside a sound of ringing; he opened the gate, and there stood a wee man holding in his hand a rod of white bronze hung with little silver bells, by which poets are wont to procure silence for their recitations. most noble and comely was the little man to look on, though the short grass of the lawn reached as high as to his knee. his hair was twisted in four-ply strands after the manner of poets and he wore a gold-embroidered tunic of silk and an ample scarlet cloak with a fringe of gold. on his feet he wore shoes of white bronze ornamented with gold, and a silken hood was on his head. the gatekeeper wondered at the sight of the wee man, and went to report the matter to king fergus. "is he less," asked fergus, "than my dwarf and poet æda?" "verily," said the gatekeeper, "he could stand upon the palm of æda's hand and have room to spare." then with much laughter and wonder they all trooped out, lords and ladies, to the great gate to view the wee man and to speak with him. but eisirt, when he saw them, waved them back in alarm, crying, "avaunt, huge men; bring not your heavy breath so near me; but let yon man that is least among you approach me and bear me in." so the dwarf æda put eisirt on his palm and bore him into the banqueting hall. then they set him on the table, and eisirt declared his name and calling. the king ordered that meat and drink should be given him, but eisirt said, "i will neither eat of your meat nor drink of ale." "by our word," said fergus, "'tis a haughty wight; he ought to be dropped into a goblet that he might at least drink all round him." the cupbearer seized eisirt and put him into a tankard of ale, and he swam on the surface of it. "ye wise men of ulster," he cried, "there is much knowledge and wisdom ye might get from me, yet ye will let me be drowned!" "what, then?" cried they. then eisirt, beginning with the king, set out to tell every hidden sin that each man or woman had done, and ere he had gone far they with much laughter and chiding fetched him out of the ale-pot and dried him with fair satin napkins. "now ye have confessed that i know somewhat to the purpose," said eisirt, "and i will even eat of your food, but do ye give heed to my words, and do ill no more." fergus then said, "if thou art a poet, eisirt, give us now a taste of thy delightful art." "that will i," said eisirt, "and the poem that i shall recite to you shall be an ode in praise of my king, iubdan the great." then he recited this lay:- "a monarch of might is iubdan my king. his brow is snow-white, his hair black as night; as a red copper bowl when smitten will sing, so ringeth the voice of iubdan the king. his eyen, they roll majestic and bland on the lords of his land arrayed for the fight, a spectacle grand! like a torrent they rush with a waving of swords and the bridles all ringing and cheeks all aflush, and the battle-steeds springing, a beautiful, terrible, death-dealing band. like pines, straight and tall, where iubdan is king, are the men one and all. the maidens are fair- bright gold is their hair. from silver we quaff the dark, heady ale that never shall fail; we love and we laugh. gold frontlets we wear; and aye through the air sweet music doth ring- o fergus, men say that in all inisfail there is not a maiden so proud or so wise but would give her two eyes thy kisses to win- but i tell thee, that there thou canst never compare with the haughty, magnificent king of faylinn!" at this they all applauded, and fergus said, "o youth and blameless bard, let us be friends henceforth." and they all heaped before him, as a poet's reward, gifts of rings and jewels and gold cups and weapons, as high as a tall man standing. then eisirt said, "truly a generous and a worthy reward have ye given me, o men of ulster; yet take back these precious things i pray you, for every man in my king's household hath an abundance of them." but the ulster lords said, "nothing that we have given may we take back." eisirt then bade two-thirds of his reward be given to the bards and learned men of ulster, and one-third to the horse-boys and jesters; and so it was done. three days and nights did eisirt abide in emania, and all the king's court loved him and made much of him. then he wished them blessing and victory, and prepared to depart to his own country. now æda, the king's dwarf and minstrel, begged eisirt to take him with him on a visit to the land of faylinn; and eisirt said, "i shall not bid thee come, for then if kindness and hospitality be shown thee, thou wilt say it is only what i had undertaken; but if thou come of thine own motion, thou wilt perchance be grateful." so they went off together; but eisirt could not keep up with æda, and æda said, "i perceive that eisirt is but a poor walker." at this eisirt ran off like a flash and was soon an arrow flight in front of æda. when the latter at last came up with him, he said, "the right thing, eisirt, is not too fast and not too slow." "since i have been in ulster," eisirt replied, "i have never before heard ye measure out the right." by and by they reached the margin of the sea. "and what are we to do now?" asked æda. "be not troubled, æda," said eisirt, "the horse of iubdan will bear us easily over this." they waited awhile on the beach, and ere long they saw it coming toward them skimming over the surface of the waves. "save and protect us!" cried æda at that sight; and eisirt asked him what he saw. "a red-maned hare," answered æda. "nay, but that is iubdan's horse," said eisirt, and with that the creature came prancing to land with flashing eyes and waving tail and a long russet-coloured mane; a bridle beset with gold it had. eisirt mounted and bade æda come up behind him. "thy boat is little enough for thee alone," said æda. "cease fault-finding and grumbling," then said eisirt, "for the weight of wisdom that is in thee will not bear him down." so æda and eisirt mounted on the fairy horse and away they sped over the tops of the waves and the deeps of the ocean till at last they reached the kingdom of faylinn, and there were a great concourse of the wee folk awaiting them. "eisirt is coming! eisirt is coming!" cried they all, "and a fomorian giant along with him." then iubdan went forth to meet eisirt, and he kissed him, and said, "why hast thou brought this fomorian with thee to slay us?" "he is no fomor," said eisirt, "but a learned man and a poet from ulster. he is moreover the king of ulster's dwarf, and in all that realm he is the smallest man. he can lie in their great men's bosoms and stand upon their hands as though he were a child; yet for all that you would do well to be careful how you behave to him." "what is his name?" said they then. "he is the poet æda," said eisirt. "uch," said they, "what a giant thou hast brought us!" "and now, o king," said eisirt to iubdan, "i challenge thee to go and see for thyself the region from which we have come, and make trial of the royal porridge which is made for fergus king of ulster this very night." at this iubdan was much dismayed, and he betook himself to bebo his wife and told her how he was laid under bonds of chivalry by eisirt to go to the land of the giants; and he bade her prepare to accompany him. "i will go," said she, "but you did an ill deed when you condemned eisirt to prison." so they mounted, both of them, on the fairy steed, and in no long time they reached emania, and it was now past midnight. and they were greatly afraid, and said bebo, "let us search for that porridge and taste it, as we were bound, and make off again ere the folk awake." they made their way into the palace of fergus, and soon they found a great porridge pot, but the rim was too high to be reached from the ground. "get thee up upon thy horse," said bebo, "and from thence to the rim of this cauldron." and thus he did, but having gained the rim of the pot his arm was too short to reach the silver ladle that was in it. in straining downward to do so, however, he slipped and in he fell, and up to his middle in the thick porridge he stuck fast. and when bebo heard what a plight he was in, she wept, and said, "rash and hasty wert thou, iubdan, to have got into this evil case, but surely there is no man under the sun that can make thee hear reason." and he said, "rash indeed it was, but thou canst not help me, bebo, now, and it is but folly to stay; take the horse and flee away ere the day break." "say not so," replied bebo, "for surely i will not go till i see how things fall out with thee." at last the folk in the palace began to be stirring, and ere long they found iubdan in the porridge pot. so they picked him out with great laughter bore him off to fergus. "by my conscience," said fergus, "but this is not the little fellow that was here before, for he had yellow hair, but this one hath a shock of the blackest; who art thou at all, wee man?" "i am of the wee folk," said iubdan, "and am indeed king over them, and this woman is my wife and queen, bebo." "take him away," then said fergus to his varlets, "and guard him well"; for he misdoubted some mischief of faery was on foot. "nay, nay," cried iubdan, "but let me not be with these coarse fellows. i pledge thee my word that i will not quit this place till thou and ulster give me leave." "could i believe that," said fergus, "i would not put thee in bonds." "i have never broken my word," said iubdan, "and i never will." then fergus set him free and allotted him a fair chamber for himself, and a trusty servingman to wait upon him. soon there came in a gillie whose business it was to see to the fires, and he kindled the fire for iubdan, throwing on it a woodbine together with divers other sorts of timber. then iubdan said, "man of smoke, burn not the king of the trees, for it is not meet to burn him. wouldst thou but take counsel from me thou mightest go safely by sea or land." iubdan then chanted to him the following recital of the duties of his office:-"o fire-gillie of fergus of the feasts, never by land or sea burn the king of the woods, high king of the forests of inisfail, whom none may bind, but who like a strong monarch holds all the other trees in hard bondage. if thou burn the twining one, misfortune will come of it, peril at the point of spear, or drowning in the waves. "burn not the sweet apple-tree of drooping branches, of the white blossoms, to whose gracious head each man puts forth his hand. "the stubborn blackthorn wanders far and wide, the good craftsman burns not this timber; little though its bushes be, yet flocks of birds warble in them. "burn not the noble willow, the unfailing ornament of poems; bees drink from its blossoms, all delight in the graceful tent. "the delicate, airy tree of the druids, the rowan with its berries, this burn; but avoid the weak tree, burn not the slender hazel. "the ash-tree of the black buds burn not--timber that speeds the wheel, that yields the rider his switch; the ashen spear is the scale-beam of battle. "the tangled, bitter bramble, burn him, the sharp and green; he flays and cuts the foot; he snares you and drags you back. "hottest of timber is the green oak; he will give you a pain in the head if you use him overmuch, a pain in the eyes will come from his biting fumes. "full-charged with witchcraft is the alder, the hottest tree in the fight; burn assuredly both the alder and the whitehorn at your will. "holly, burn it in the green and in the dry; of all trees in the world, holly is absolutely the best. "the elder-tree of the rough brown bark, burn him to cinders, the steed of the fairy folk. "the drooping birch, by all means burn him too, the tree of long-lasting bloom. "and lay low, if it pleases you, the russet aspen; late or early, burn the tree with the quaking plumage. "the yew is the venerable ancestor of the wood as the companion of feasts he is known; of him make goodly brown vats for ale and wine. "follow my counsel, o man of the smoke, and it shall go well with you, body and soul." so iubdan continued in emania free to go and come as he pleased; and all the ulstermen delighted to watch him and to hear his conversation. one day it chanced that he was in the chamber of the queen, and saw her putting on her feet a very dainty and richly embroidered pair of shoes. at this iubdan gave a laugh. "why dost thou laugh?" said fergus. "meseems the healing is applied very far from the hurt," replied iubdan. "what meanest thou by that?" said fergus. "because the queen is making her feet fine in order, o fergus, that she may attract thee to her lips," said iubdan. another time it chanced that iubdan overheard one of the king's soldiers complaining of a pair of new brogues that had been served out to him, and grumbling that the soles were too thin. at this iubdan laughed again, and being asked why, he said, "i must need laugh to hear yon fellow grumbling about his brogues, for the soles of these brogues, thin as they are, he will never wear out." and this was a true prophecy, for the same night this and another of the king's men had a quarrel, and fought, and killed each the other. at last the wee folk determined to go in search of their king, and seven battalions of them marched upon emania and encamped upon the lawn over against the king's dún. fergus and his nobles went out to confer with them. "give us back our king," said the wee folk, "and we shall redeem him with a great ransom." "what ransom, then?" asked fergus. "we shall," said they, "cause this great plain to stand thick with corn for you every year, and that without ploughing or sowing." "i will not give up iubdan for that," said fergus. "then we shall do you a mischief," said the wee folk. that night every calf in the province of ulster got access to its dam, and in the morn there was no milk to be had for man or child, for the cows were sucked dry. then said the wee folk to fergus, "this night, unless we get iubdan, we shall defile every well and lake and river in ulster." "that is a trifle," said fergus, "and ye shall not get iubdan." the wee folk carried out this threat, and once more they came and demanded iubdan, saying, "to-night we shall burn with fire the shaft of every mill in ulster." "yet not so shall ye get iubdan," said fergus. this being done, they came again, saying, "we shall have vengeance unless iubdan be delivered to us." "what vengeance?" said fergus. "we shall snip off every ear of corn in thy kingdom," said they. "even so," replied fergus, "i shall not deliver iubdan." so the wee folk snipped off every ear of standing corn in ulster, and once more they returned and demanded iubdan. "what will ye do next?" asked fergus. "we shall shave the hair of every man and every woman in ulster," said they, "so that ye shall be shamed and disgraced for ever among the people of erinn." "by my word," said fergus, "if ye do that i shall slay iubdan." then iubdan said, "i have a better counsel than that, o king; let me have liberty to go and speak with them, and i shall bid them make good what mischief they have done, and they shall return home forthwith." fergus granted that; and when the wee folk saw iubdan approaching them, they set up a shout of triumph that a man might have heard a bowshot off, for they believed they had prevailed and that iubdan was released to them. but iubdan said, "my faithful people, you must now begone, and i may not go with you; make good also all the mischief that ye have done, and know that if ye do any more i must die." then the wee folk departed, very downcast and sorrowful, but they did as iubdan had bidden them. iubdan, however, went to fergus and said, "take, o king, the choicest of my treasures, and let me go." "what is thy choicest treasure?" said fergus. iubdan then began to recite to fergus the list of his possessions, such as druidic weapons, and love-charms, and instruments of music that played without touch of human hand, and vats of ale that could never be emptied; and he named among other noble treasures a pair of shoes, wearing which a man could go over or under the sea as readily as on dry land. at the same time æda, the dwarf and poet of ulster, returned hale and well from the land of faylinn, and much did he entertain the king and all the court with tales of the smallness of the wee folk, and their marvel at his own size, and their bravery and beauty, and their marble palaces and matchless minstrelsy. so the king, fergus mac leda, was well content to take a ransom, namely the magic shoes, which he desired above all the treasures of faylinn, and to let iubdan go. and he gave him rich gifts, as did also the nobles of ulster, and wished him blessing and victory; and iubdan he departed, with bebo his wife, having first bestowed upon fergus the magical shoes. and of him the tale hath now no more to say. but fergus never tired of donning the shoes of iubdan and traversing the secret depths of the lakes and rivers of ulster. thereby, too, in the end he got his death, for as the wise say that the gifts of faery may not be enjoyed without peril by mortal men, so in this case too it proved. for, one day as fergus was exploring the depths of loch rury he met the monster, namely the river-horse, which inhabited that lake. horrible of form it was, swelling and contracting like a blacksmith's bellows, and with eyes like torches, and glittering tusks, and a mane of coarse hair on its crest and neck. when it saw fergus it laid back its ears, and its neck arched like a rainbow over his head, and the vast mouth gaped to devour him. then fergus rose quickly to the surface and made for the land, and the beast after him, driving before it a huge wave of foam. barely did he escape with his life; but with the horror of the sight his features were distorted and his mouth was twisted around to the side of his head, so that he was called fergus wry-mouth from that day forth. and the gillie that was with him told the tale of the adventure. now there was a law in ireland that no man might be king who was disfigured by any bodily blemish. his people, therefore, loving fergus, kept from him all knowledge of his condition, and the queen let all mirrors that were in the palace be put away. but one day it chanced that a bondmaid was negligent in preparing the bath, and fergus being impatient, gave her a stroke with a switch which he had in his hand. the maid in anger turned upon him, and cried, "it would better become thee to avenge thyself on the riverhorse that hath twisted thy mouth, than to do brave deeds on women." fergus then bade a mirror be fetched, and when he saw his face in it, he said, "the woman spake truth; the riverhorse of loch rury has done this thing." [illustration: "fergus goes down into the lake"] the next day fergus put on the shoes of iubdan and went forth to loch rury, and with him went the lords of ulster. and when he reached the margin of the lake he drew his sword and went down into it, and soon the waters covered him. after a while those that watched upon the bank saw a bubbling and a mighty commotion in the waters, now here, now there, and waves of bloody froth broke at their feet. at last, as they strained their eyes upon the tossing water, they saw fergus rise to his middle from it, pale and bloody. in his right hand he waved aloft his sword, his left was twisted in the coarse hair of the monster's head, and they saw that his countenance was fair and kingly as of old. "ulstermen, i have conquered," he cried; and as he did so he sank down again, dead with his dead foe, into their red grave in loch rury. and the ulster lords went back to emania, sorrowful yet proud, for they knew that a seed of honour had been sown that day in their land from which should spring a breed of high-hearted fighting men for many a generation to come. chapter v the carving of mac datho's boar once upon a time there dwelt in the province of leinster a wealthy hospitable lord named mesroda, son of datho. two possessions had he; namely, a hound which could outrun every other hound and every wild beast in erinn, and a boar which was the finest and greatest in size that man had ever beheld. now the fame of this hound was noised all about the land, and many were the princes and lords who longed to possess it. and it came to pass that conor, king of ulster, and maev, queen of connacht, sent messengers to mac datho to ask him to sell them the hound for a price, and both the messengers arrived at the dún of mac datho on the same day. said the connacht messenger, "we will give thee in exchange for the hound six hundred milch cows, and a chariot with two horses, the best that are to be found in connacht, and at the end of a year thou shalt have as much again." and the messenger of king conor said, "we will give no less than connacht, and the friendship and alliance of ulster, and that will be better for thee than the friendship of connacht." then mesroda mac datho fell silent, and for three days he would not eat nor drink, nor could he sleep o' nights, but tossed restlessly on his bed. his wife observed his condition, and said to him, "thy fast hath been long, mesroda, though good food is by thee in plenty; and at night thou turnest thy face to the wall, and well i know thou dost not sleep. what is the cause of thy trouble?" "there is a saying," replied mac datho, "'trust not a thrall with money, nor a woman with a secret.'" "when should a man talk to a woman," said his wife, "but when something were amiss? what thy mind cannot solve perchance another's may." then mac datho told his wife of the request for his hound both from ulster and from connacht at one and the same time, "and whichever of them i deny," he said, "they will harry my cattle and slay my people." "then hear my counsel," said the woman. "give it to both of them, and bid them come and fetch it; and if there be any harrying to be done, let them even harry each other; but in no way mayest thou keep the hound." on that, mac datho rose up and shook himself, and called for food and drink, and made merry with himself and his guests. then he sent privately for the messenger of queen maev, and said to him, "long have i doubted what to do, but now i am resolved to give the hound to connacht. let ye send for it on such a day with a train of your nobles or warriors and bear him forth nobly and proudly, for he is worth it; and ye shall all have drink and food and royal entertainment in my dún." so the messenger departed, well pleased. to the ulster messenger mac datho said, "after much perplexity i have resolved to give my hound to conor. let the best of the ulstermen come to fetch him, and they shall be welcomed and entertained as is fitting." and for these he named the same day as he had done for the embassy from connacht. when the appointed day came round, the flower of the fighting men of two provinces of ireland were assembled before the dún of the son of datho, and there were also conor, king of ulster, and ailill, the husband of maev, queen of connacht. mac datho went forth to meet them. "welcome, warriors," he said to them, "albeit for two armies at once we were not prepared." then he bade them into the dún, and in the great hall they sat down. now in this hall there were seven doors, and between every two doors were benches for fifty men. not as friends bidden to a feast did the men of ulster and of connacht look upon one another, since for three hundred years the provinces had ever been at war. "let the great boar be killed," said mac datho, and it was done. for seven years had that boar been nourished on the milk of fifty cows; yet rather on venom should it have been nourished, such was the mischief that was to come from the carving of it. when the boar was roasted it was brought in, and many other kinds of food as side dishes, "and if more be wanting to the feast," said mac datho, "it shall be slain for you before the morning." "the boar is good," said conor. "it is a fine boar," said ailill; "and now, o mac datho, how shall it be divided among us?" there was among the ulster company one bricru, son of carbad, whose delight was in biting speeches and in fomenting strife, though he himself was never known to draw sword in any quarrel. he now spoke from his couch in answer to ailill: "how should the boar be divided, o son of datho, except by appointing to carve it him who is best in deeds of arms? here be all the valiant men of ireland assembled; have none of us hit each other a blow on the nose ere now?" "good," said ailill, "so let it be done." "we also agree," said conor; "there are plenty of our lads in the house that have many a time gone round the border of the provinces." "you will want them to-night, conor," said an old warrior from conlad in the west. "they have often been seen on their backs on the roads of rushy dedah, and many a fat steer have they left with me." "it was a fat bullock thou didst have with thee once upon a day," replied moonremar of ulster, "even thine own brother, and by the rushy road of conlad he came and went not back." "'twas a better man than he, even irloth, son of fergus mac leda, who fell by the hand of echbael in tara luachra," replied lugad of munster. "echbael?" cried keltchar, son of uthecar hornskin of ulster. "is it of him ye boast, whom i myself slew and cut off his head?" and thus the heroes bandied about the tales and taunts of their victories, until at length ket, son of maga of the connachtmen, arose and stood over the boar and took the knife into his hand. "now," he cried, "let one man in ulster match his deeds with mine, or else hold ye your peace and let me carve the boar!" for a while there was silence, and then conor king of ulster, said to logary the triumphant, "stay that for me." so logary arose and said, "ket shall never carve the boar for all of us." "not so fast, logary," said ket. "it is the custom among you ulstermen that when a youth first takes arms he comes to prove himself on us. so didst thou, logary, and we met thee at the border. from that meeting i have thy chariot and horses, and thou hadst a spear through thy ribs not thus wilt thou get the boar from me." then logary sat down on his bench. "ket shall never divide that pig," spake then a tall fair-haired warrior from ulster, coming down the hall. "whom have we here?" asked ket. "a better man than thou," shouted the ulstermen, "even angus, son of lama gabad." "indeed?" said ket, "and why is his father called lama gabad [wanting a hand]?" "we know not," said they. "but i know it," said ket. "once i went on a foray to the east, and was attacked by a troop, lama gabad among them. he flung a lance at me. i seized the same lance and flung it back, and it shore off his hand, and it lay there on the field before him. shall that man's son measure himself with me?" and angus went to his bench and sat down. "keep up the contest," then cried ket tauntingly, "or let me divide the boar." "that thou shalt not," cried another ulster warrior of great stature. "and who is this?" said ket. "owen mór, king of fermag," said the ulstermen. "i have seen him ere now," said ket. "i took a drove of cattle from him before his own house. he put a spear through my shield and i flung it back and it tore out one of his eyes, and one-eyed he is to this day." then owen mór sat down. "have ye any more to contest the pig with me?" then said ket. "thou hast not won it yet," said moonremar, son of gerrkind, rising up. "is that moonremar?" said ket, "it is," they cried. "it is but three days," said ket, "since i was the last man who won renown of thee. three heads of thy fighting men did i carry off from dún moonremar, and one of the three was the head of thy eldest son." moonremar then sat down. "still the contest," said ket, "or i shall carve the boar." "contest thou shalt have," said mend, son of sword-heel. "who is this?" said ket. "'tis mend," cried all the ulstermen. "shall the sons of fellows with nicknames come here to contend with me?" cried ket. "i was the priest who christened thy father that name. 'twas i who cut the heel off him, so that off he went with only one. what brings the son of that man to contend with me?" mend then sat down in his seat. "come to the contest," said ket, "or i shall begin to carve." then arose from the ulstermen a huge grey and terrible warrior. "who is this?" asked ket. '"tis keltcar, son of uthecar," cried they all. "wait awhile, keltcar," said ket, "do not pound me to pieces just yet. once, o keltcar, i made a foray on thee and came in front of dún. all thy folk attacked me, and thou amongst them. in a narrow pass we fought, and thou didst fling a spear at me and i at thee, but my spear went through thy loins and thou hast never been the better of it since." then keltcar sat down in his seat. "who else comes to the contest," cried ket "or shall i at last divide the pig?" up rose then the son of king conor, named cuscrid the stammerer "whom have we here?" said ket. "'tis cuscrid son of conor," cried they all. "he has the stuff of a king in him," said ket. "no thanks to thee for that," said the youth. "well, then," said ket, "thou madest thy first foray against us connachtmen, and on the border of the provinces we met thee. a third of thy people, thou didst leave behind thee, and came away with my spear through thy throat, so that thou canst not speak rightly ever since, for the sinews of thy throat were severed. and hence is cuscrid the stammerer thy byname ever since." so thus ket laid shame and defeat on the whole province of ulster, nor was there any other warrior in the hall found to contend with him. [illustration: "a mighty shout of exultation arose from the ulstermen"] then ket stood up triumphing, and took the knife in his hand and prepared to carve the boar when a noise and trampling were heard at the great door of the hall, and a mighty shout of exultation arose from the ulstermen. when the press parted, ket saw coming up the centre of the hall conall of the victories, and conor the king dashed the helmet from his head and sprang up for joy. "glad we are," cried conall, "that all is ready for feast; and who is carving the boar for us?" "ket, son of maga," replied they, "for none could contest the place of honour with him." "is that so, ket?" says conall cearnach. "even so," replied ket. "and now welcome to thee, o conall, thou of the iron heart and fiery blood; keen as the glitter of ice, ever-victorious chieftain; hail mighty son of finnchoom!" and conall said, "hail to thee, ket, flower of heroes, lord of chariots, a raging sea in battle; a strong, majestic bull; hail, son of maga!" "and now," went on conall, "rise up from the boar and give me place." "why so?" replied ket. "dost thou seek a contest from me?" said conall; "verily thou shalt have it. by the gods of my nation i swear that since i first took weapons in my hand i have never passed one day that i did not slay a connachtman, nor one night that i did not make a foray on them, nor have i ever slept but i had the head of a connachtman under my knee." "i confess," then, said ket, "that thou art a better man than i, and i yield thee the boar. but if anluan my brother were here, he would match thee deed for deed, and sorrow and shame it is that he is not." "anluan is here," shouted conall, and with that he drew from his girdle the head of anluan and dashed it in the face of ket. then all sprang to their feet and a wild shouting and tumult arose, and the swords flew out of themselves, and battle raged in the hall of mac datho. soon the hosts burst out through the doors of the dún and smote and slew each other in the open field, until the connacht host were put to flight. the hound of mac datho pursued them along with the ulstermen, and it came up with the chariot in which king ailill was driving, and seized the pole of the chariot, but the charioteer dealt it a blow that cut off its head. when ailill drew rein they found the hound's head still clinging to the pole, whence that place is called ibar cinn chon, or the yew tree of the hound's head. now when conor pursued hard upon king ailill, ferloga, the charioteer of ailill, lighted down and hid himself in the heather; and as conor drove past, ferloga leaped up behind him in the chariot and gripped him by the throat. "what will thou have of me?" said conor. "give over the pursuit," said ferloga, "and take me with thee to emania,[19] and let the maidens of emania so long as i am there sing a serenade before my dwelling every night." [19] the ancient royal residence of ulster, near to the present town of armagh. "granted," said conor. so he took ferloga with him to emania, and at the end of a year sent him back to connacht, escorting him as far as to athlone; and ferloga had from the king of ulster two noble horses with golden bridles, but the serenade from the maidens of ulster he did not get, though he got the horses instead. and thus ends the tale of the contention between ulster and connacht over the carving of mac datho's boar. chapter vi the vengeance of mesgedra atharna the bard, surnamed the extortionate, was the chief poet and satirist of ulster in the reign of conor mac nessa. greed and arrogance were in his heart and poison on his tongue, and the kings and lords of whom he asked rewards for his poems dared not refuse him aught, partly because of the poisonous satires and lampoons which he would otherwise make upon them for their niggardliness, and partly for that in ireland at that day it was deemed shameful to refuse to a bard whatsoever he might ask. once it was said that he asked of a sub-king, namely eochy mac luchta, who was famed for hospitality and generosity, the single thing that eochy would have been grieved to give, namely his eye, and eochy had but one eye. but the king plucked it out by the roots and gave it to him; and atharna went away disappointed, for he had looked that eochy would ransom his eye at a great price. now conor mac nessa, king of ulster, and all the ulster lords, having grown very powerful and haughty, became ill neighbours to all the other kingdoms in ireland. on fertile leinster above all they fixed their eyes, and sought for an opportunity to attack and plunder the province. conor resolved at last to move atharna to go to the king of leinster, in the hope that he himself might be rid of atharna, by the king of leinster killing him for his insolence and his exactions, and that he might avenge the death of his bard by the invasion of leinster. atharna therefore set out for leinster accompanied by his train of poets and harpers and gillies and arrived at the great dún of mesgedra the king, at naas in kildare. here he dwelt for twelve months wasting the substance of the leinstermen and in the end when he was minded to return to ulster he went before the king mesgedra and the lords of leinster and demanded his poet's fee. "what is thy demand, atharna?" asked mesgedra. "so many cattle and so many sheep," answered atharna, "and store of gold and raiment, and of the fairest dames and maidens of leinster forty-five, to grind at my querns in dún atharna." "it shall be granted thee," said the king. then atharna feared some mischief, for the king and the nobles of leinster had not seemed like men on whom shameful conditions are laid, nor had they offered to ransom their women. atharna therefore judged that the leinstermen might fall upon him to recover their booty when he was once beyond the border, for within their own borders they might not affront a guest. he sent, therefore, a swift messenger to conor mac nessa, bidding him come with a strong escort as quickly as he might, to meet atharna's band on the marches of leinster, and convey him safely home. atharna then departed from naas with a great herd of sheep and cattle and other spoils, and with thrice fifteen of the noble women of leinster. he went leisurely, meaning to strike the highroad to emania from dublin; but when he came thither the liffey was swollen with rain, and the ford at dublin might not be crossed. he caused, therefore, many great hurdles to be made, and these were set in the river, and over them a causeway of boughs was laid, so that his cattle and spoils came safely across. hence is the town of that place called to this day in gaelic the city of the hurdle ford. on the next day conor and the ulstermen met him, but a great force of the men of leinster was also marching from naas to the border, to recover their womenfolk, even as atharna had expected. the leinstermen then broke the battle on the company from ulster, and defeated them, driving them with the cows of atharna on to the sea cape of ben edar (howth), but they recovered the women. on ben edar did king conor with the remnant of his troop then fortify themselves, making a great fosse across the neck of land by which ben edar is joined to the mainland, and here they were besieged, with hard fighting by day and night, expecting that help should come to them from ulster, whither they had sent messengers to tell of their distress. now conall of the victories was left behind to rule in emania when conor set forth to leinster, and he now, on hearing how the king was beset, assembled a great host and marched down to ben edar. here he attacked the host of leinster, and a great battle was fought, many being slain on both sides, and the king of leinster, mesgedra, lost his left hand in the fight. in the end the men of leinster were routed, and fled, and mesgedra drove in his chariot past the city of the hurdle ford and naas to the fords of liffey at clane. here there was a sacred oak tree where druid rites and worship were performed, and that oak tree was sanctuary, so that within its shadow, guarded by mighty spells, no man might be slain by his enemy. now conall cearnach had followed hard on the track of mesgedra, and when he found him beneath the oak, he drove his chariot round and round the circuit of the sanctuary, bidding mesgedra come forth and do battle with him, or be counted a dastard among the kings of erinn. but mesgedra said, "is it the fashion of the champions of ulster to challenge one-armed men to battle?" then conall let his charioteer bind one of his arms to his side, and again he taunted mesgedra and bade him come forth. mesgedra then drew sword, and between him and conall there was a fierce fight until the liffey was reddened with their blood. at last, by a chance blow of the sword of mesgedra, the bonds of conall's left arm were severed. "on thy head be it," said conall, "if thou release me again." then he caused his arm to be bound up once more, and again they met, sword to sword, and again in the fury of the fight mesgedra cut the thongs that bound conall's arm. "the gods themselves have doomed thee," shouted conall then, and he rushed upon mesgedra and in no long time he wounded him to death. "take my head," said mesgedra then, "and add my glory to thy glory, but be well assured this wrong shall yet be avenged by me upon ulster," and he died. then conall cut off the head of mesgedra and put it in his chariot, and took also the chariot of mesgedra and fared northwards. ere long he met a chariot and fifty women accompanying it. in it was buan the queen, wife of mesgedra, returning from a visit to meath. "who art thou, woman?" said conall. "i am buan, wife of mesgedra the king." "thou art to come with me," then said conall. "who hath commanded this?" said buan. "mesgedra the king," said conall. "by what token dost thou lay these commands upon me?" "behold his chariot and his horses," said conall. "he gives rich gifts to many a man," answered the queen. then conall showed her the head of her husband. "this is my token," said he. "it is enough," said buan. "but give me leave to bewail him ere i go into captivity." then buan rose up in her chariot and raised for mesgedra a keen of sorrow so loud and piercing that her heart broke with it, and she fell backwards on the road and died. conall cearnach then buried her there, and laid the head of her husband by her side; and the fair hazel tree that grew from her grave by the fords of clane was called coll buana, or the hazel tree of buan. but ere conall buried the head of mesgedra he caused the brain to be taken out and mixed with lime to make a bullet for a sling, for so it was customary to do when a great warrior had been killed; and the brain-balls thus made were accounted to be the deadliest of missiles. so when leinster had been harried and plundered and its king and queen thus slain, the ulstermen drew northward again, and the brain-ball was laid up in the dún of king conor at emania. years afterwards it happened that the wolf of connacht, namely ket, son of maga, came disguised within the borders of ulster in search of prey, and he entered the palace precincts of conor in emania. there he saw two jesters of the king, who had gotten the brain-ball from the shelf where it lay, and were rolling it about the courtyard. ket knew it for what it was, and put it out of sight of the jesters and took it away with him while they made search for it. thenceforth ket carried it ever about with him in his girdle, hoping that he might yet use it to destroy some great warrior among the ulstermen. one day thereafter ket made a foray on the men of ross, and carried away a spoil of cattle. the host of ulster and king conor with them overtook him as he went homeward. the men of connacht had also mustered to the help of ket, and both sides made them ready for battle. now a river, namely brosna, ran between them, and on a hill at one side of this were assembled a number of the noble women of connacht, who desired greatly to look on the far-famed ultonian warriors, and above all on conor the king, whose presence was said to be royal and stately beyond any man that was then living in erinn. among the bushes, close to the women, ket hid himself, and lay still but watchful. now conor, seeing none but womenfolk close to him at this point, and being willing to show them his splendour, drew near to the bank on his side of the stream. then ket leaped up, whirling his sling, and the bullet hummed across the river and smote king conor on the temple. and his men carried him off for dead, and the men of connacht broke the battle on the ulstermen, slaying many, and driving the rest of them back to their own place. this battle was thenceforth called the battle of the ford of the sling-cast, or athnurchar; and so the place is called to this day. when conor was brought home to emania his chief physician, fingen, found the ball half buried in his temple. "if the ball be taken out," said fingen, "he will die; if it remain he will live, but he will bear the blemish of it." "let him bear the blemish," said the ulster lords, "that is a small matter compared with the death of conor." then fingen stitched the wound over with a thread of gold, for conor had curling golden hair, and bade him keep himself from all violent movements and from all vehement passions, and not to ride on horseback, and he would do well. after that conor lived for seven years, and he went not to war during that time, and all cause of passion was kept far from him. then one day at broad noon the sky darkened, and the gloom of night seemed to spread over the world, and all the people feared, and looked for some calamity. conor called to him his chief druid, namely bacarach, and inquired of him as to the cause of the gloom. the druid then went with conor into a sacred grove of oaks and performed the rites of divination, and in a trance he spoke to conor, saying, "i see a hill near a great city, and three high crosses on it. to one of them is nailed the form of a young man who is like unto one of the immortals. round him stand soldiers with tall spears, and a great crowd waiting to see him die." "is he, then, a malefactor?" "nay," said the druid, "but holiness, innocence, and truth have come to earth in him, and for this cause have the druids of his land doomed him to die, for his teaching was not as theirs. and the heavens are darkened for wrath and sorrow at the sight." then conor leaped up in a fury, crying, "they shall not slay him, they shall not slay him! would i were there with the host of ulster, and thus would i scatter his foes"; and with that he snatched his sword and began striking at the trees that stood thickly about him in the druid grove. then with the heat of his passion the sling-ball burst from his head, and he fell to the ground and died. thus was fulfilled the vengeance of mesgedra upon conor mac nessa, king of ulster. chapter vii the story of etain and midir once upon a time there was a high king of the milesian race in ireland named eochy airem, whose power and splendour were very great, and all the sub-kings, namely, conor of ulster, and mesgedra of leinster, and curoi of munster, and ailill and maev of connacht, were obedient to him. but he was without a wife; and for this reason the sub-kings and princes of ireland would not come to his festivals at tara, "for," said they, "there is no noble in ireland who is a wifeless man, and a king is no king without a queen." and they would not bring their own wives to tara without a queen there to welcome them, nor would they come themselves and leave their womenfolk at home. so eochy bade search be made through all the boundaries of ireland for a maiden meet to be wife of the high king. and in time his messengers came back and said that they had found in ulster, by the bay of cichmany, the fairest and most accomplished maiden in ireland, and her name was etain, daughter of etar, lord of the territory called echrad. so eochy, when he had heard their report, went forth to woo the maiden. when he drew near his journey's end he passed by a certain spring of pure water where it chanced that etain and her maids had come down that she might wash her hair. she held in her hand a comb of silver inlaid with gold, and before her was a bason of silver chased with figures of birds, and around the rim of it red carbuncles were set. her mantle was purple with a fringe of silver, and it was fastened with a broad golden brooch. she wore also a tunic of green silk, stiff with embroidery of gold that glittered in the sun. her hair before she loosed it was done in two mighty tresses, yellow like the flower of the waterflag, each tress being plaited in four strands, and at the end of each strand a little golden ball. when she laid aside her mantle her arms came through the armholes of her tunic, white as the snow of a single night, and her cheeks were ruddy as the foxglove. even and small were her teeth, as if a shower of pearls had fallen in her mouth. her eyes were hyacinth-blue, her lips scarlet as the rowan-berry, her shoulders round and white, her fingers were long and her nails smooth and pink. her feet also were slim, and white as sea-foam. the radiance of the moon was in her face, pride in her brows, the light of wooing in her eyes. of her it was said that there was no beauty among women compared with etain's beauty, no sweetness compared with the sweetness of etain. when the king saw her his heart burned with love for her, and when he had speech with her he besought her to be his bride. and she consented to that, and said, "many have wooed me, o king, but i would none of them, for since i was a little child i have loved thee, for the high tales that i heard of thee and of thy glory." and eochy said, "thine alone will i be if thou wilt have me." so the king paid a great bride-price for her, and bore her away to tara, and there they were wedded, and all men welcomed and honoured the queen. nor had she dwelt long in tara before the enchantment of her beauty and her grace had worked upon the hearts of all about her, so that the man to whom she spoke grew pale at the womanly sweetness of her voice, and felt himself a king for that day. all fair things and bright she loved, such as racing steeds and shining raiment, and the sight of eochy's warriors with their silken banners and shields decorated with rich ornament in red and blue. and she would have all about her happy and joyous, and she gave freely of her treasure, and of her smiles and loving words, if she might see the light of joy on the faces of men, but from pain or sadness that might not be cured she would turn away. in one thing only was sadness endurable to her and that was in her music, for when she sang or touched the harp all hearts were pierced with longing for they knew not what, and all eyes shed tears save hers alone, who looked as though she beheld, far from earth, some land more fair than words of man can tell; and all the wonder of that land and all its immeasurable distance were in her song. now eochy the king had a brother whose name was ailill anglounach, or ailill of the single stain, for one dark spot only was on his life, and it is of this that the story now shall tell. one day, when he had come from his own dún to the yearly assembly in the great hall of tara, he ate not at the banquet but gazed as it were at something afar off, and his wife said to him, "why dost thou gaze so, ailill; so do men look who are smitten with love?" ailill was wroth with himself and turned his eyes away, but he said nothing, for that on which he gazed was the face of etain. after that assembly was over ailill knew that the torment of love had seized him for his brother's wife, and he was sorely shamed and wrathful, and the secret strife in his mind between his honour and the fierce and pitiless love that possessed him brought him into a sore sickness. and he went home to his dún in tethba and there lay ill for a year. then eochy the king went to see him, and came near him and laid his hand on his breast, and ailill heaved a bitter sigh. eochy asked, "why art thou not better of this sickness, how goes it with thee now?" "by my word," said ailill, "no better, but worse each day and night." "what ails thee, then?" asked eochy. ailill said, "verily, i know not." then eochy bade summon his chief physician, who might discover the cause of his brother's malady, for ailill was wasting to death. so fachtna the chief physician came and he laid his hand upon ailill, and ailill sighed. then fachtna said, "this is no bodily disease, but either ailill suffers from the pangs of envy or from the torment of love." but ailill was full of shame and he would not tell what ailed him, and fachtna went away. after this the time came that eochy the high king should make a royal progress throughout his realm of ireland, but etain he left behind at tara. before he departed he charged her saying, "do thou be gentle and kind to my brother ailill while he lives, and should he die, let his burial mound be heaped over him, and a pillar stone set up above it, and his name written thereon in letters of ogham." then the king took leave of ailill and looked to see him again on earth no more. after a while etain bethought her and said, "let us go to see how it fares with ailill." so she went to where he lay in his dún at tethba. and seeing him wasted and pale she was moved with pity and distress and said, "what ails thee, young man? long thou hast lain prostrate, in fair weather and in foul, thou who wert wont to be so swift and strong?" and ailill said, "truly, i have a cause for my suffering; and i cannot eat, nor listen to the music makers; my affliction is very sore." then said etain, "though i am a woman i am wise in many a thing; tell me what ails thee and thy healing shall be done." ailill replied, "blessing be with thee, o fair one; i am not worthy of thy speech; i am torn by the contention of body and of soul." then etain deemed that she knew somewhat of his trouble, and she said, "if thy heart is set on any of the white maidens that are my handmaids, tell me of it, and i shall court her for thee and she shall come to thee," and then ailill cried out, "love indeed, o queen, hath brought me low. it is a plague nearer than the skin, it overwhelms my soul as an earthquake, it is farther than the height of the sky, and harder to win than the treasures of the fairy folk. if i contend with it, it is like a combat with a spectre; if i fly to the ends of the earth from it, it is there; if i seek to seize it, it is a passion for an echo. it is thou, o my love, who hast brought me to this, and thou alone canst heal me, or i shall never rise again." then etain went away and left him. but still in her palace in tara she was haunted by his passion and his misery, and, though she loved him not, she could not endure his pain, nor the triumph of grim death over his youth and beauty. so at last she went to him again and said, "if it lies with me, ailill, to heal thee of thy sickness, i may not let thee die." and she made a tryst to meet him on the morrow at a house of ailill's between dún tethba and tara, "but be it not at tara," she said, "for that is the palace of the high king." all that night ailill lay awake with the thought of his tryst with etain. but on the morrow morn a heaviness came upon his eyelids, and a druid sleep overcame him, and there all day he lay buried in slumbers from which none could wake him, until the time of his meeting with etain was overpast. but etain, when she had come to the place of the tryst, looked out, and behold, a youth having the appearance and the garb of ailill was approaching from tethba. he entered the bower where she was; but no lover did she there meet, but only a sick and sorrowful man who spake coldly to her and lamented the sufferings of his malady, and after a short time he went away. next day etain went to see ailill and to hear how he did. and ailill entreated her forgiveness that he had not kept his tryst, "for," said he, "a druid slumber descended upon me, and i lay as one dead from morn till eve. and morever," he added, "it seems as if the strange passion that has befallen me were washed away in that slumber, for now, etain, i love thee no more but as my queen and my sister, and i am recovered as if from an evil dream." then etain knew that powers not of earth were mingling in her fate, and she pondered much of these things, and grew less lighthearted than of old. and when the king came back, he rejoiced to find his brother whole and sound and merry, as ailill had ever been, and he praised etain for her gentleness and care. now after a time as etain was by herself in her sunny bower she was aware of a man standing by her, whom she had never seen before. young he was, and grey-eyed, with curling golden hair, and in his hand he bore two spears. his mantle was of crimson silk, his tunic of saffron, and a golden helmet was on his head. and as she gazed upon him, "etain," he said, "the time is come for thee to return; we have missed thee and sorrowed for thee long enough in the land of youth." etain said, "of what land dost thou speak?" then he chanted to her a song:- "come with me, etain, o come away, to that oversea land of mine! where music haunts the happy day, and rivers run with wine; where folk are careless, and young, and gay, and none saith 'mine' or 'thine.' "golden curls on the proud young head, and pearls in the tender mouth; manhood, womanhood, white and red, and love that grows not loth when all the world's desires are dead, and all the dreams of youth. "away from the cloud of adam's sin! away from grief and care! this flowery land thou dwellest in seems rude to us, and bare; for the naked strand of the happy land is twenty times as fair." when etain heard this she stood motionless and as one that dreams awake, for it seemed to her as if she must follow that music whithersoever it went on earth or beyond the earth. but at last remembrance came upon her and she said to the stranger, "who art thou, that i, the high king's wife, should follow a nameless man and betray my troth?" and he said, "thy troth was due to me before it was due to him, and, moreover, were it not for me thou hadst broken it already. i am midir the proud, a prince among the people of dana, and thy husband, etain. thus it was, that when i took thee to wife in the land of youth, the jealousy of thy rival, fuamnach, was awakened; and having decoyed me from home by a false report, she changed thee by magical arts into a butterfly, and then contrived a mighty tempest that drove thee abroad. seven years wast thou borne hither and thither on the blast till chance blew thee into the fairy palace of angus my kinsman, by the waters of the boyne. but angus knew thee, for the fairy folk may not disguise themselves from each other, and he built for thee a magical sunny bower with open windows, through which thou mightest pass, and about it were all manner of blossoming herbs and shrubs, and on the odour and honey of these thou didst live and grow fair and well nourished. but in the end fuamnach got tidings of thee, and again the druid tempest descended and blew thee forth for another seven years of wandering and woe. then it chanced that thou wert blown through the roof-window of the dún of etar by the bay of cichmany, and fell into the goblet from which his wife was drinking, and thee she drank down with that draught of ale. and in due time thou wast born again in the guise of a mortal maid and daughter to etar the warrior. but thou art no mortal, nor of mortal kin, for it is one thousand and twelve years from the time when thou wast born in fairy land till etar's wife bore thee as a child on earth." then etain was bewildered, and her mind ran back on many a half-forgotten thing and she gazed as into a gulf of visions, full of dim shapes, strange and glorious. and midir as she looked at him again seemed transfigured, taller and mightier than before, and a light flame flickered from his helmet's crest and moved like wings about his shoulders. but at last she said, "i know not what thou sayest if it be truth or not, but this i know, that i am the wife of the high king and i will not break my troth." "it were broken already," said midir, "but for me, for i it was who laid a druidic sleep on ailill, and it was i who came to thee in his shape that thy honour might not be stained." etain said, "i learned then that honour is more than life." "but if eochy the high king consent to let thee go," said midir, "wilt thou then come with me to my land and thine?" "in that case," said etain "i will go." and the time went by, and etain abode in tara, and the high king did justice and made war and held the great assembly as he was used. but one day in summer eochy arose very early to breathe the morning air, and he stood by himself leaning on the rampart of his great dún, and looking over the flowery plain of bregia. and as he thus gazed he was aware of a young warrior standing by his side. grey-eyed the youth was, and golden-haired, and he was splendidly armed and apparelled as beseemed the lord of a great clan of the gael. eochy bade him welcome courteously, and asked him of the cause of his coming. "i am come," he said, "to play a game of chess with thee, o king, for thou art renowned for thy skill in that game, and to test that skill am i come. and my name is midir, of the people of dana, whom they have called the proud." "willingly," said the king; "but i have here no chessboard, and mine is in the chamber where the queen is sleeping." "that is easily remedied," said midir, and he drew from his cloak a folding chessboard whose squares were alternate gold and silver. from a men-bag made of brazen chainwork he drew out a set of men adorned with flashing jewels, and he set them in array. "i will not play," then said eochy, "unless we play for a stake." "for what stake shall we play, then?" said midir. "i care not," said eochy; "but do thou perform tasks for me if i win and i shall bestow of my treasures upon thee if i lose." so they played a game, and eochy won. then eochy bade midir clear the plains of meath about tara from rocks and stones, and midir brought at night a great host of the fairy folk, and it was done. and again he played with eochy, and again he lost, and this time he cut down the forest of breg. the third time midir lost again, and his task was to build a causeway across the moor of lamrach. now at night, while midir and the fairy host were labouring at the causeway and their oxen drawing to it innumerable loads of earth and gravel, the steward of eochy stole out and hid himself to watch them, for it was a prohibition to see them at work. and he observed that the fairy oxen were not harnessed with a thong across their foreheads, that the pull might be upon their brows and necks, as was the manner with the gael, but with yokes upon their shoulders. this he reported to eochy, who found it good; and he ordered that henceforth the children of the gael should harness their plough-oxen with the yoke upon their shoulders; and so it was done from that day forth. hence eochy got his name of _airem_, or "the ploughman," for he was the first of the gael to put the yoke upon the shoulder of the ox. but it was said that because the fairy folk were watched as they made that noble causeway, there came a breach in it at one place which none could ever rightly mend. when all their works were accomplished, midir came again to eochy, and this time he bore a dark and fierce countenance and was high girt as for war. and the king welcomed him, and midir said, "thou hast treated me hardly and put slavish tasks upon me. all that seemed good to thee have i done, but now i am moved with anger against thee." "i return not anger for anger," said eochy; "say what satisfaction i can make thee." "let us once more play at chess," said midir. "good," said eochy, "and what stake wilt thou have now?" "the stake to be whatever the winner shall demand," said midir. then they played for the fourth time and eochy lost. "thou hast won the game," said he. "i had won long ago had i chosen," said midir. "what dost thou demand of me?" said eochy. "to hold etain in my arms and obtain a kiss from her," replied midir. the king was silent for a while and after that he said, "come back in one month from this day and the stake which i have lost shall be paid." but eochy summoned together all the host of the heroes of the gael, and they surrounded tara, ring within ring; and the king himself and etain were in the palace, with the outer court of it shut and locked. for they looked that midir should come with a great host of the danaan folk to carry off the queen. and on the appointed day, as the kings sat at meat, etain and her handmaids were dispensing the wine to them as was wont. then suddenly as they feasted and talked, behold, midir, stood in the midst of them. if he was fair and noble to look on as he had appeared before to the king and to etain, he was fairer now, for the splendour of the immortals clothed him, and his jewels flamed as he moved like eyes of living light. and all the kings and lords and champions who were present gazed on him in amazement and were silent, as the king arose and gave him welcome. "thou hast received me as i expected to be received," said midir, "and now let thy debt be paid, since i for my part faithfully performed all that i undertook." "i must consider the matter yet longer," said eochy. "thou hast promised etain's very self to me," said midir; "that is what hath come from thee." and when she heard that word etain blushed for shame. "blush not," said midir, "for all the treasures of the land of youth have not availed to win thee from eochy, and it is not of thine own will that thou art won, but because the time is come to return to thy kin." then said eochy, "i have not promised etain's self to thee, but to take her in thine arms and kiss her, and now do so if thou wilt." [illustration: "they rose up in the air"] then midir took his weapons in his left hand and placed his right around etain, and when he did so they rose up in the air over the heads of the host, and passed through a roof-window in the palace. then all rose up, tumultuous and angry, and rushed out of doors, but nothing could they see save two white swans that circled high in air around the hill of tara, and then flew southwards and away towards the fairy mountain of slievenamon. and thus etain the immortal rejoined the immortals; but a daughter of etain and of eochy, who was another etain in name and in beauty, became in due time a wife, and mother of kings. chapter viii how ethne quitted fairyland by the banks of the river boyne, where rises the great fairy mound now called newgrange, there stood long ago the shining palace of a prince of the people of dana, named angus. of him it is that the lines are written- "by the dark rolling waters of the boyne where angus óg magnificently dwells." when the milesian race invaded ireland, and after long fighting subdued the danaans in spite of all their enchantments and all their valour, the danaans wrought for themselves certain charms by which they and all their possessions became invisible to mortals, and thus they continued to lead their old joyous life in the holy places of the land, and their palaces and dancing-places and folk-motes seem to the human eye to be merely a green mound or rath, or a lonely hillside, or a ruined shrine with nettles and foxgloves growing up among its broken masonry. now, after angus and his folk had thus retreated behind the veil of invisibility, it happened that the steward of his palace had a daughter born to him whose name was ethne. on the same day fand, the wife of mananan the sea god, bore him a daughter, and since angus was a friend of mananan and much beloved by him, the child of the sea god was sent to brugh na boyna, the noble dwelling-place of angus, to be fostered and brought up, as the custom was. and ethne became the handmaid of the young princess of the sea. in time ethne grew into a fair and stately maiden now in the brugh of angus there were two magical treasures, namely, an ale-vat which could never be emptied, and two swine whereof one was ever roasted and ready to be eaten while the other lived, and thus they were, day and day about. there was therefore always a store of food of faery, charged with magical spells, by eating of which one could never grow old or die. it came to be noticed that after ethne had grown up she never ate or drank of the fairy food, or of any other, yet she continued to seem healthy and well-nourished. this was reported to angus, and by him to mananan, and mananan by his wisdom discovered the cause of it. one of the lords of the danaans, happening to be on a visit with angus, was rendered distraught by the maiden's beauty, and one day he laid hands upon her and strove to carry her away to his own dwelling. ethne escaped from him, but the blaze of resentment at the insult that lit up in her soul consumed in her the fairy nature, that knows not of good or evil, and the nature of the children of adam took its place. thenceforth she ate not of the fairy food, which is prohibited to man, and she was nourished miraculously by the will of the one god. but after a time it chanced that mananan and angus brought from the holy land two cows whose milk could never run dry. in this milk there was nothing of the fairy spell, and ethne lived upon it many long years, milking the cows herself, nor did her youth and beauty suffer any change. now it happened that on one very hot day the daughter of mananan went down to bathe in the waters of the boyne, and ethne and her other maidens along with her. after they had refreshed themselves in the cool, amber-coloured water, they arrayed themselves in their silken robes and trooped back to the brugh again; but ere they entered it, they discovered that ethne was not among them. so they went back, scattering themselves along the bank and searching in every quiet pool of the river and in every dark recess among the great trees that bordered it, for ethne was dearly loved by all of them; but neither trace nor tidings of her could they find, and they went sorrowfully home without her, to tell the tale to angus and to her father. what had befallen ethne was this. in taking off her garments by the riverside she had mislaid her fairy charm, and was become as a mortal maid. nothing could she now see of her companions, and all around was strange to her. the fairy track that had led to the riverside was overgrown with briars, the palace of angus was but a wooded hill. she knew not where she was, and pierced with sudden terror she fled wildly away, seeking for the familiar places that she had known in the fairy life, but which were now behind the veil. at length she came to a high wall wherein was a wicket gate, and through it she saw a garden full of sweet herbs and flowers, which surrounded a steep-roofed building of stone. in the garden she saw a man in a long brown robe tied about his waist with a cord. he smiled at her and beckoned her to come in without fear. he was a monk of the holy patrick, and the house was a convent church. when the monk had heard her tale, he marvelled greatly and brought her to st patrick himself, who instructed her in the faith, and she believed and was baptized. [illustration: "she heard her own name called again and again"] but not long thereafter, as she was praying in the church by the boyne, the sky darkened and she heard a sound without like the rushing of a great wind, and mingled in it were cries and lamentations, and her own name called again and again in a multitude of voices, thin and faint as the crying of curlews upon the moor. she sprang up and gazed around, calling in return, but nothing could she see, and at last the storm of cries died away, and everything was still again around the church except the singing voice of boyne and the humming of the garden bees. then ethne sank down swooning, and the monks bore her out into the air, and it was long until her heart beat and her eyes unclosed again. in that hour she fell into a sickness from which she never recovered. in no long time she died with her head upon the breast of the holy patrick, and she was buried in the church where she had first been received by the monk; and the church was called killethne, or the church of ethne, from that day forward until now. the high deeds of finn chapter ix the boyhood of finn mac cumhal in ireland long ago, centuries before the english appeared in that country, there were kings and chiefs, lawyers and merchants, men of the sword and men of the book, men who tilled their own ground and men who tilled the ground of others, just as there are now. but there was also, as ancient poets and historians tell us, a great company or brotherhood of men who were bound to no fixed calling, unless it was to fight for the high king of ireland whenever foes threatened him from within the kingdom or without it. this company was called the fianna of erinn. they were mighty hunters and warriors, and though they had great possessions in land, and rich robes, and gold ornaments, and weapons wrought with beautiful chasing and with coloured enamels, they lived mostly a free out-door life in the light hunting-booths which they made in the woods where the deer and the wolf ranged. there were then vast forests in ireland, which are all gone now, and there were also, as there still are, many great and beautiful lakes and rivers, swarming with fish and water-fowl. in the forests and on the mountain sides roamed the wild boar and the wolf, and great herds of deer, some of giant size, whose enormous antlers are sometimes found when bogs are being drained. the fianna chased these and the wolves with great dogs, whose courage and strength and beauty were famous throughout europe, and which they prized and loved above all things. to the present day in ireland there still remain some of this breed of irish hounds, but the giant deer and the wolf are gone, and the fianna of erinn live only in the ancient books that were written of them, and in the tales that are still told of them in the winter evenings by the irish peasant's fireside. the fianna were under the rule of one great captain or chief, and at the time i tell of his name was cumhal, son of trenmor. now a tribe or family of the fianna named the clan morna, or sons of morna, rose in rebellion against cumhal, for they were jealous and greedy of his power and glory, and sought to have the captaincy for themselves. they defeated and slew him at the battle of cnucha, which is now called castleknock, near the city of the hurdle ford, which is the name that dublin still bears in the irish tongue. goll, son of morna, slew cumhal, and they spoiled him of the treasure bag of the fianna, which was a bag made of a crane's skin and having in it jewels of great price, and magic weapons, and strange things that had come down from far-off days when the fairy folk and mortal men battled for the lordship of ireland. the bag with its treasures was given to lia, the chief of luachar in connacht, who had the keeping of it before, for he was the treasurer of cumhal, and he was the first man who had wounded cumhal in the battle when he fell. cumhal's wife was named murna, and she bore him two sons. the elder was named tulcha, and he fled from the country for fear of goll and took service with the king of scotland. the younger was born after cumhal's death, and his name was called demna. and because his mother feared that the sons of morna would find him out and kill him, she gave him to a druidess and another wise woman of cumhal's household, and bade them take him away and rear him as best they could. so they took him into the wild woods on the slieve bloom mountains, and there they trained him to hunt and fish and to throw the spear, and he grew strong, and as beautiful as a child of the fairy folk. if he were in the same field with a hare he could run so that the hare could never leave the field, for demna was always before it. he could run down and slay a stag with no dogs to help him, and he could kill a wild duck on the wing with a stone from his sling. and the druidess taught him the learning of the time, and also the story of his race and nation, and told him of his right to be captain of the fianna of erinn when his day of destiny should come. one day, while still a boy, he was roaming through the woods when he came to the mansion of a great lord, where many boys, sons of the chief men of ireland, were being trained in manly arts and exercises. he found them playing at hurling, and they invited him to join them. he did so, but the side he was on won too easily, so they divided again, and yet again, giving fewer and fewer to demna's side, till at last he alone drove the ball to the goal through them all, flashing among them as a salmon among a shoal of minnows. and then their anger and jealousy rose and grew bitter against the stranger, and instead of honouring him as gallant lads of gentle blood should have done they fell upon him with their hurling clubs and sought to kill him. but demna felled seven of them to the ground and put the rest to flight, and then went his way home. when the boys told what had happened the chief asked them who it was that had defeated and routed them single-handed. they said, "it was a tall shapely lad, and very fair (_finn_)." so the name of finn, the fair one, clung to him thenceforth, and by that name he is known to this day. by and by finn gathered round him a band of youths who loved him for his strength and valour and for his generous heart, and with them he went hunting in the forests. and goll, and the sons of morna, who were now captains of the fianna under the high king, began to hear tales of him and his exploits, and they sent trackers to inquire about him, for they had an inkling of who this wonderful fair-haired youth might be. finn's foster mothers heard of this. "you must leave this place," they said to him, "and see our faces no more, for if goll's men find you here they will slay you. we have cherished the blood of cumhal," they said, "and now our work is done. go, and may blessing and victory go with you." so finn departed with naught but his weapons and his hunting gear, very sorrowful at leaving the wise and loving friends who had fostered his childhood; but deep in his heart was a wild and fierce delight at the thought of the trackless ways he would travel, and the wonders he would see; and all the future looked to him as beautiful and dim as the mists that fill a mountain glen under the morning sun. now after the death of cumhal, his brother crimmal and a few others of the aged warriors of the fianna, who had not fallen in the fight at cnucha, fled away into connacht, and lived there in the deepest recesses of a great forest, where they hoped the conquerors might never find them. here they built themselves a poor dwelling of tree branches, plastered with mud and roofed with reeds from the lake, and here they lived on what game they could kill or snare in the wild wood; and harder and harder it grew, as age and feebleness crept on them, to find enough to eat, or to hew wood for their fire. in this retreat, never having seen the friendly face of man, they were one day startled to hear voices and the baying of hounds approaching them through the wood, and they thought that the sons of morna were upon them at last, and that their hour of doom was at hand. soon they perceived a company of youths coming towards their hut, with one in front who seemed to be their leader. taller he was by a head than the rest, broad shouldered, and with masses of bright hair clustering round his forehead, and he carried in his hand a large bag made of some delicate skin and stained in patterns of red and blue. the old men thought when they saw him of a saying there was about the mighty lugh, who was brother to the wife of cumhal, that when he came among his army as they mustered for battle, men felt as though they beheld the rising of the sun. as they came near, the young men halted and looked upon the elders with pity, for their clothing of skins was ragged and the weapons they strove to hold were rusted and blunt, and except for their proud bearing and the fire in their old eyes they looked more like aged and worthless slaves in the household of a niggardly lord than men who had once been the flower of the fighting men of erinn. but the tall youth stepped in front of his band and cried aloud-"which of ye is crimmal, son of trenmor?" and one of the elders said, "i am crimmal." then tears filled the eyes of the youth, and he knelt down before the old man and put his hands in his. "my lord and chief," he said, "i am finn, son of cumhal, and the day of deliverance is come." [illustration: "and that night there was feasting and joy in the lonely hut"] so the youths brought in the spoils of their hunting, and yet other spoils than these; and that night there was feasting and joy in the lonely hut. and crimmal said-"it was foretold to us that one day the blood of cumhal should be avenged, and the race of cumhal should rule the fianna again. this was the sign that the coming champion should give of his birth and destiny; he was to bear with him the treasure bag of cumhal and the sacred things that were therein." finn said, "ye know the bag and its treasures, tell us if these be they." and he laid his skin bag on the knees of crimmal. crimmal opened it, and he took out the jewels of sovranty the magic spear-head made by the smiths of the fairy folk, and he said, "these be the treasures of cumhal; truly the ripeness of the time is come." and finn then told the story of how he had won these things. "but yesterday morning," he said, "we met on our way a woman of noble aspect, and she knelt over the body of a slain youth. when she lifted her head as we drew near, tears of blood ran down her cheeks, and she cried to me, 'whoever thou art, i bind thee by the bonds of the sacred ordinances of the gael that thou avenge my wrong. this was my son glonda,' she said, 'my only son, and he was slain to-day wantonly by the lord of luachar and his men.' so we went, my company and i, to the dún of the lord of luachar, and found an earthen rampart with a fosse before it, and on the top of the rampart was a fence of oaken posts interlaced with wattles, and over this we saw the many-coloured thatch of a great dwelling-house, and its white walls painted with bright colours under the broad eaves. so i stood forth and called to the lord of luachar and bade him make ready to pay an eric to the mother of glonda, whatsoever she should demand. but he laughed at us and cursed us and bade us begone. then we withdrew into the forest, but returned with a great pile of dry brushwood, and while some of us shot stones and arrows at whoever should appear above the palisade, others rushed up with bundles of brushwood and laid it against the palisade and set it on fire, and the immortal ones sent a blast of wind that set the brushwood and palisade quickly in a blaze, and through that fiery gap we charged in shouting. and half of the men of luachar we killed and the rest fled, and the lord of luachar i slew in the doorway of his palace. we took a great spoil then, o crimmal--these vessels of bronze and silver, and spears and bows, smoked bacon and skins of greek wine; and in a great chest of yewwood we found this bag. all these things shall now remain with you, and my company shall also remain to hunt for you and protect you, for ye shall know want and fear no longer while ye live." and finn said, "i would fain know if my mother murna still lives, or if she died by the sons of morna." crimmal said, "after thy father's death, finn, she was wedded to gleor, lord of lamrigh, in the south, and she still lives in honour with him, and the sons of morna have let her be. didst thou never see her since she gave thee, an infant, to the wise women on the day of cnucha?" "i remember," said finn, "when i was, as they tell me, but six years old, there came one day to our shieling in the woods of slieve bloom a chariot with bronze-shod wheels and a bronze wolf's head at the end of the pole, and two horsemen riding with it, besides him who drove. a lady was in it, with a gold frontlet on her brow and her cloak was fastened with a broad golden brooch. she came into our hut and spoke long with my foster-mothers, and me she clasped in her arms and kissed many times, and i felt her tears on my face. and they told me afterwards that this was murna of the white neck, and my mother. if she have suffered no harm at the hands of the sons of morna, so much the less is the debt that they shall one day pay." now it is to be told what happened to finn at the house of finegas the bard. finn did not deem that the time had come for him to seize the captaincy of the fianna until he had perfected himself in wisdom and learning. so on leaving the shelter of the old men in the wood he went to learn wisdom and the art of poetry from finegas, who dwelt by the river boyne, near to where is now the village of slane. it was a belief among the poets of ireland that the place of the revealing of poetry is always by the margin of water. but finegas had another reason for the place where he made his dwelling, for there was an old prophecy that whoever should first eat of the salmon of knowledge that lived in the river boyne, should become the wisest of men. now this salmon was called finntan in ancient times and was one of the immortals, and he might be eaten and yet live. but in the time of finegas he was called the salmon of the pool of fec, which is the place where the fair river broadens out into a great still pool, with green banks softly sloping upward from the clear brown water. seven years was finegas watching the pool, but not until after finn had come to be his disciple was the salmon caught. then finegas gave it to finn to cook, and bade him eat none of it. but when finegas saw him coming with the fish, he knew that something had chanced to the lad, for he had been used to have the eye of a young man but now he had the eye of a sage. finegas said, "hast thou eaten of the salmon?" "nay," said finn, "but it burnt me as i turned it upon the spit and i put my thumb in my mouth" and finegas smote his hands together and was silent for a while. then he said to the lad who stood by obediently, "take the salmon and eat it, finn, son of cumhal, for to thee the prophecy is come. and now go hence, for i can teach thee no more, and blessing and victory be thine." with finegas, finn learned the three things that make a poet, and they are fire of song, and light of knowledge, and the art of extempore recitation. before he departed he made this lay to prove his art, and it is called "the song of finn in praise of may":- may day! delightful day! bright colours play the vales along. now wakes at morning's slender ray, wild and gay, the blackbird's song. now comes the bird of dusty hue, the loud cuckoo, the summer-lover; branching trees are thick with leaves; the bitter, evil time is over. swift horses gather nigh where half dry the river goes; tufted heather crowns the height; weak and white the bogdown blows. corncrake sings from eve till morn, deep in corn, a strenuous bard! sings the virgin waterfall, white and tall, her one sweet word. loaded bees of little power goodly flower-harvest win; cattle roam with muddy flanks; busy ants go out and in. through, the wild harp of the wood making music roars the gale- now it slumbers without motion, on the ocean sleeps the sail. men grow mighty in the may, proud and gay the maidens grow; fair is every wooded height; fair and bright the plain below. a bright shaft has smit the streams, with gold gleams the water-flag; leaps the fish, and on the hills ardour thrills the flying stag. carols loud the lark on high, small and shy, his tireless lay, singing in wildest, merriest mood of delicate-hued, delightful may.[20] [20] i am much indebted to the beautiful prose translation of this song, published by dr kuno meyer in _ériu_ (the journal of the school of irish learning), vol. i. part ii. in my poetic version an attempt has been made to render the riming and metrical effect of the original, which is believed to date from about the ninth century. chapter x the coming of finn and now we tell how finn came to the captaincy of the fianna of erinn. at this time ireland was ruled by one of the mightiest of her native kings, conn, son of felimy, who was surnamed conn of the hundred battles. and conn sat in his great banqueting hall at tara, while the yearly assembly of the lords and princes of the gael went forward, during which it was the inviolable law that no quarrel should be raised and no weapon drawn, so that every man who had a right to come to that assembly might come there and sit next his deadliest foe in peace. below him sat at meat the provincial kings and the chiefs of clans, and the high king's officers and fighting-men of the fianna, with goll and the sons of morna at their head. and there, too, sat modestly a strange youth, tall and fair, whom no one had seen in that place before. conn marked him with the eye of a king that is accustomed to mark men, and by and by he sent him a horn full of wine from his own table and bade the youth declare his name and lineage. "i am finn, son of cumhal," said the youth, standing among them, tall as a warriors spear, and a start and a low murmur ran through the assembly while the captains of the fianna stared upon him like men who see a vision of the dead. "what seek you here?" said conn, and finn replied, "to be your man, o king, and to do you service in war as my father did." "it is well," said the king. "thou art a friend's son and the son of man of trust." so finn put his hand in the kind's and swore fealty and service to him, and conn set him beside his own son art, and all fell to talking again and wondering what new things that day would bring forth, and the feasting went merrily forward. now at this time the people of the royal burg of tara were sorely afflicted by a goblin of the fairy folk, who was wont to approach the place at night-fall, there to work what harm to man, or beast, or dwelling that he found in his evil mind to do. and he could not be resisted, for as he came he played on a magic harp a strain so keen and sweet, that each man who heard it must needs stand entranced and motionless until the fairy music had passed away. the king proclaimed a mighty reward to any man who would save tara from the goblin, and finn thought in his heart, "i am the man to do that." so he said to the king, "shall i have my rightful heritage as captain of the fianna of erin if i slay the goblin?" conn said, "i promise thee that," and he bound himself by the sureties of all the provincial kings of ireland and of the druid kithro and his magicians. now there was among the following of conn a man named fiacha, who had been as a youth a trusty friend and follower of cumhal. he came to finn and brought with him a spear having a head of dark bronze with glittering edges, and fastened with thirty rivets of arabian gold, and the spear-head was laced up within a leathern case. "by this weapon of enchantment," said fiacha, "you shall overcome the enchanter," and he taught finn what to do with it when the hour of need should come. so finn took the spear, and left the strings of the case loose, and he paced with it towards night-fall around the ramparts of royal tara. and when he had once made the circuit of the rampart, and the light had now almost quite faded from the summer sky, and the wide low plains around the hill of tara were a sea of white mist, he heard far off in the deepening gloom the first notes of the fairy harp. never such music was made by mortal hand, for it had in it sorrows that man has never felt, and joys for which man has no name, and it seemed as if a man listening to that music might burst from time into eternity and be as one of the immortals for evermore. and finn listened, amazed and rapt, till at last as the triumphant melody grew nearer and louder he saw dimly a shadow shape playing as it were on a harp, and coming swiftly towards him. then with a mighty effort he roused himself from dreams, and tore the cover from the spear-head and laid the metal to his brow. and the demoniac energy that had been beaten into the blade by the hammers of unearthly craftsmen in ancient days thrilled through him and made him fighting-mad, and he rushed forward shouting his battle-cry, and swinging the spear aloft. but the shadow turned and fled before him, and finn chased it northward to the fairy mound of slieve fuad, and there he drove the spear through its back. and what it was that fell there in the night, and what it was that passed like the shadow of a shadow into the fairy mound, none can tell, but finn bore back with him next day a pale, sorrowful head on the point of fiacha's spear, and the goblin troubled the folk of royal tara no more. but conn of the hundred battles called the fianna together, and he set finn at his right hand and said, "here is your captain by birth-right and by sword-right. let who will now obey him hence-forward, and who will not, let him go in peace and serve arthur of britain or arist of alba, or whatsoever king he will." and goll, son of morna, said, "for my part i will be finn's man under thee, o king," and he swore obedience and loyalty to finn before them all. nor was it hard for any man to step where goll had gone before, so they all took their oaths of fian service to finn mac cumhal. and thus it was that finn came to the captaincy of the fianna of erinn, and he ruled the fianna many a year till he died in battle with the clan urgrenn at brea upon the boyne. chapter xi finn's chief men with the coming of finn did the fianna of erinn come to their glory, and with his life their glory passed away. for he ruled them as no other captain ever did, both strongly and wisely, and never bore a grudge against any, but freely forgave a man all offences save disloyalty to his lord. thus it is told that conan, son of the lord of luachar, him who had the treasure bag and whom finn slew at rath luachar, was for seven years an outlaw and marauder, harrying the fians, and killing here a man and there a hound, and firing their dwellings, and raiding their cattle. at last they ran him to a corner at cam lewy in munster, and when he saw that he could escape no more he stole upon finn as he sat down after a chase, and flung his arms round him from behind, holding him fast and motionless. finn knew who held him thus and said, "what wilt thou conan?" conan said, "to make a covenant of service and fealty with thee, for i may no longer evade thy wrath." so finn laughed and said, "be it so, conan, and if thou prove faithful and valiant, i also will keep faith." and conan served him for thirty years, and no man of all the fianna was keener and hardier in fight. there was also another conan, namely, mac morna, who was big and bald, and unwieldy in manly exercises, but whose tongue was bitter and scurrilous; no high brave thing was done that conan the bald did not mock and belittle. it is said that when he was stripped he showed down his back and buttocks a black sheep's fleece instead of a man's skin, and this is the way it came about. one day when conan and certain others of the fianna were hunting in the forest they came to a stately dún, white-walled, with coloured thatching on the roof, and they entered it to seek hospitality. but when they were within they found! no man, but a great empty hall with pillars of cedar wood and silken hangings about it, like the hall of a wealthy lord. in the midst there was a table set forth with a sumptuous feast of boar's flesh and venison, and a great vat of yew wood full of red wine, and cups of gold and silver. so they set themselves gaily to eat and drink, for they were hungry from the chase, and talk and laughter were loud around the board. but one of them ere long started to his feet with a cry of fear and wonder, and they all looked round, and saw before their eyes the tapestried walls changing to rough wooden balks and the ceiling to foul sooty thatch like that of a herdsman's hut. so they knew they were being entrapped by some enchantment of the fairy folk, and all sprang to their feet and made for the doorway, that was no longer high and stately but was shrinking to the size of a fox earth,--all but conan the bald, who was gluttonously devouring the good things on the table, and heeded nothing else. then they shouted to him, and as the last of them went out he strove to rise and follow, but found himself limed to the chair so that he could not stir. so two of the fianna, seeing his plight, rushed back and seized his arms and tugged with all their might, and if they dragged him away, they left the most part of his raiment and his skin sticking to the chair. then, not knowing what else to do with him in his sore plight they clapped upon his back the nearest thing they could find, which was the skin of a black sheep that they took from a peasant's flock hard by, and it grew there, and conan wore it till his death. though conan was a coward and rarely adventured himself in battle with the fianna, it is told that once a good man fell by his hand. this was on the day of the great battle with the pirate horde on the hill of slaughter in kerry.[21] for liagan, one of the invaders, stood out before the hosts and challenged the bravest of the fians to single combat, and the fians, in mockery, thrust conan forth to the fight. when he appeared, liagan laughed, for he had more strength than wit, and he said, "silly is thy visit, thou bald old man." and as conan still approached, liagan lifted his hand fiercely, and conan said, "truly thou art in more peril from the man behind than from the man in front." liagan looked round; and in that instant conan swept off his head and then threw down his sword and ran for shelter to the ranks of the laughing fians. but finn was very wroth because he had won the victory by a trick. [21] the hill still bears the name, knockanar. and one of the chiefest of the friends of finn was dermot of the love spot. he was so fair and noble to look on that no woman could refuse him love, and it was said that he never knew weariness, but his step was as light at the end of the longest day of battle or the chase as it was at the beginning. between him and finn there was great love until the day when finn, then an old man, was to wed grania, daughter of cormac the high king; but grania bound dermot by the sacred ordinances of the fian chivalry to fly with her on her wedding night, which thing, sorely against his will, he did, and thereby got his death. but grania went back to finn, and when the fianna saw her they laughed through all the camp in bitter mockery, for they would not have given one of the dead man's fingers for twenty such as grania. others of the chief men that finn had were keelta mac ronan, who was one of his house-stewards and a strong warrior as well as a golden-tongued reciter of tales and poems. and there was oisín, the son of finn, the greatest poet of the gael, of whom more shall be told hereafter. and oisín had a son oscar, who was the fiercest fighter in battle among all the fians. he slew in his maiden battle three kings, and in his fury he also slew by mischance his own friend and condisciple linne. his wife was the fair aideen, who died of grief after oscar's death in the battle of gowra, and oisín buried her on ben edar (howth), and raised over her the great cromlech which is there to this day. another good man that finn had was geena, the son of luga; his mother was the warrior-daughter of finn, and his father was a near kinsman of hers. he was nurtured by a woman that bore the name of fair mane, who had brought up many of the fianna to manhood. when his time to take arms was come he stood before finn and made his covenant of fealty, and finn gave him the captaincy of a band. but mac luga proved slothful and selfish, for ever vaunting himself and his weapon-skill and never training his men to the chase of deer or boar, and he used to beat his hounds and his serving-men. at last the fians under him came with their whole company to finn at loch lena in killarney, and there they laid their complaint against mac luga, and said, "choose now, o finn, whether you will have us, or the son of luga by himself." then finn sent to mac luga and questioned him, but mac luga could say nothing to the point as to why the fianna would none of him. then finn taught him the things befitting a youth of noble birth and a captain of men, and they were these:-"son of luga, if armed service be thy design, in a great man's household be quiet, be surly in the narrow pass." "without a fault of his beat not thy hound; until thou ascertain her guilt, bring not a charge against thy wife." "in battle, meddle not with a buffoon, for, o mac luga, he is but a fool." "censure not any if he be of grave repute; stand not up to take part in a brawl; have nought to do with a madman or a wicked one." "two-thirds of thy gentleness be shown to women and to those that creep on the floor (little children) and to poets, and be not violent to the common people." "utter not swaggering speech, nor say thou wilt not yield what is right; it is a shameful thing to speak too stiffly unless that it be feasible to carry out thy words." "so long as thou shalt live, thy lord forsake not; neither for gold nor for other reward in the world abandon one whom thou art pledged to protect." "to a chief do not abuse his people, for that is no work for a gentleman." "be no talebearer, nor utterer of falsehoods; be not talkative nor rashly censorious. stir not up strife against thee, however good a man thou be." "be no frequenter of the drinking-house, nor given to carping at the old; meddle not with a man of mean estate." "dispense thy meat freely, have no niggard for thy familiar." "force not thyself upon a chief, nor give him cause to speak ill of thee." "stick to thy gear, hold fast to thy arms till the stern fight with its weapon-glitter be well ended." "be more apt to give than to deny, and follow after gentleness, o son of luga."[22] [22] i have in the main borrowed standish hayes o'grady's vivid and racy translation of these adages of the fianna. (silva gadelica, engl. transl., p. 115.) and the son of luga, it is written, heeded these counsels and gave up his bad ways, and he became one of the best of finn's men. such-like things also finn taught to all his followers, and the best of them became like himself in valour and gentleness and generosity. each of them loved the repute of his comrades more than his own, and each would say that for all noble qualities there was no man in the breadth of the world worthy to be thought of beside finn. it was said of him that "he gave away gold as if it were the leaves of the woodland, and silver as if it were the foam of the sea," and that whatever he had bestowed upon any man, if he fell out with him afterwards, he was never known to bring it against him. sang the poet oisín of him once to st patrick:- "these are the things that were dear to finn- the din of battle, the banquet's glee, the bay of his hounds through the rough glen ringing. and the blackbird singing in letter lee, "the shingle grinding along the shore when they dragged his war-boats down to sea, the dawn-wind whistling his spears among, and the magic song of his minstrels three." in the time of finn no one was ever admitted to be one of the fianna of erinn unless he could pass through many severe tests of his worthiness. he must be versed in the twelve books of poetry and must himself be skilled to make verse in the rime and metre of the masters of gaelic poesy. then he was buried to his middle in the earth, and must, with a shield and a hazel stick, there defend himself against nine warriors casting spears at him, and if he were wounded he was not accepted. then his hair was woven into braids and he was chased through the forest by the fians. if he were overtaken, or if a braid of his hair were disturbed, or if a dry stick cracked under his foot, he was not accepted. he must be able to leap over a lath level with his brow and to run at full speed under level with his knee, and he must be able while running to draw out a thorn from his foot and never slacken speed. he must take no dowry with a wife. it was said that one of the fians, namely keelta, lived on to a great age, and saw st patrick, by whom he was baptized into the faith of the christ, and to whom he told many tales of finn and his men, which patrick's scribe wrote down. and once patrick asked him how it was that the fianna became so mighty and so glorious that all ireland sang of their deeds, as ireland has done ever since. keelta answered, "truth was in our hearts and strength in our arms, and what we said, that we fulfilled." this was also told of keelta after he had seen st patrick and received the faith. he chanced to be one day by leyney in connacht, where the fairy folk of the mound of duma were wont to be sorely harassed and spoiled every year by pirates from oversea. they called keelta to their aid, and by his counsel and valour the invaders were overcome and driven home, but keelta was sorely wounded. then keelta asked that owen the seer of the fairy folk might foretell him how long he had to live, for he was already a very aged man. owen said, "it will be seventeen years, o keelta of fair fame, till thou fall by the pool of tara, and grievous that will be to all the king's household." "even so did my chief and lord, my guardian and loving protector, finn, foretell to me," said keelta. "and now what fee will ye give me for my rescue of you from the worst affliction that ever befell you?" "a great reward," said the fairy folk, "even youth; for by our art we shall change you into young man again with all the strength and activity of your prime." "nay, god forbid," said keelta "that i should take upon me a shape of sorcery, or any other than that which my maker, the true and glorious god, hath bestowed upon me." and the fairy folk said, "it is the word of a true warrior and hero, and the thing that thou sayest is good." so they healed his wounds, and every bodily evil that he had, and he wished them blessing and victory, and went his way. chapter xii the tale of vivionn the giantess one day finn and goll, keelta and oscar, and others of the fianna, were resting after the hunt on a certain hill now called the ridge of the dead woman, and their meal was being got ready, when a girl of the kin of the giants came striding up and sat down among them. "didst thou ever see a woman so tall?" asked finn of goll. "by my troth," said goll, "never have i or any other seen a woman so big." she took her hand out of her bosom and on her long slender fingers there were three gold rings each as thick as an ox's yoke. "let us question her," said goll, and finn said, "if we stood up, perchance she might hear us." so they all rose to their feet, but the giantess, on that, rose up too. "maiden," said finn, "if thou have aught to say to us or to hear from us, sit down and lean thine elbow on the hill-side." so she lay down and finn bade her say whence she came and what was her will with them. "out of the world oversea where the sun sets am i come," she said, "to seek thy protection, o mighty finn." "and what is thy name?" "my name is vivionn of the fair hair, and my father treon is called king of the land of lasses, for he has but three sons and nine and seven score daughters, and near him is a king who hath one daughter and eight score sons. to one of these, æda, was i given in marriage sorely against my will. three times now have i fled from him. and this time it was fishermen whom the wind blew to us from off this land who told us of a mighty lord here, named finn, son of cumhal, who would let none be wronged or oppressed, but he would be their friend and champion. and if thou be he, to thee am i come." then she laid her hand in finn's, and he bade her do the same with goll mac morna, who was second in the fian leadership, and she did so. then the maiden took from her head a jewelled golden helmet, and immediately her hair flowed out in seven score tresses, fair, curly and golden, at the abundance of which all stood amazed; and finn said, "by the immortals that we adore, but king cormac and the poetess ethne and the fair women-folk of the fianna would deem it a marvel to see this girl. tell us now, maiden, what portion wilt thou have of meat and drink? will that of a hundred of us suffice thee?" the girl then saw cnu, the dwarf harper of finn, who had just been playing to them, and she said, "whatever thou givest to yon little man that bears the harp, be it much or little, the same, o finn, will suffice for me." then she begged a drink from them, and finn called his gillie, saltran, and bade him fetch the full of a certain great goblet with water from the ford; now this goblet was of wood, and it held as much as nine of the fianna could drink. the maiden poured some of the water into her right hand and drank three sips of it, and scattered the rest over the fianna, and she and they burst out laughing. finn said, "on thy conscience, girl, what ailed thee not to drink out of the goblet?" "never," she replied, "have i drunk out of any vessel but there was a rim of gold to it, or at least of silver." and now keelta looking up perceived a tall youth coming swiftly towards them, who, when he approached, seemed even bigger than was the maiden. he wore a rough hairy cape over his shoulder and beneath that a green cloak fastened by a golden brooch; his tunic was of royal satin, and he bore a red shield slung over his shoulders, and a spear with a shaft as thick as a man's leg was in his hand; a gold-hilted sword hung by his side. and his face, which was smooth-shaven, was comelier than that of any of the sons of men. when he came near, seeing among the fians a stir of alarm at this apparition, finn said, "keep every one of you his place, let neither warrior nor gillie address him. know any of you this champion?" "i know him," said the maiden; "that is even he to escape from whom i am come to thee, o finn." and she sat down between finn and goll. but the stranger drew near, and spake never a word, but before any one could tell what he would be at he thrust fiercely and suddenly with his spear at the girl, and the shaft stood out a hand's breadth at her back. and she fell gasping, but the young man drew his weapon out and passed rapidly through the crowd and away. [illustration: "they ran him by hill and plain"] then finn cried, red with wrath, "ye have seen! avenge this wicked deed, or none of you aspire to fianship again." and the whole company sprang to their feet and gave chase to that murderer, save only finn and goll, who stayed by the dying maiden. and they ran him by hill and plain to the great bay of tralee and down to the tribute point, where the traders from oversea were wont to pay their dues, and there he set his face to the west and took the water. by this time four of the fianna had outstripped the rest, namely, keelta, and dermot, and glas, and oscar, son of oisín. of these keelta was first, and just as the giant was mid-leg in the waves he hurled his spear and it severed the thong of the giant's shield so that it fell off in the water. and as the giant paused, keelta seized his spear and tore it from him. but the giant waded on, and soon the fians were floundering in deep water while the huge form, thigh deep, was seen striding towards the setting sun. and a great ship seemed to draw near, and it received him, and then departed into the light, but the fians returned in the grey evening, bearing the spear and the great shield to finn. there they found the maiden at point of death, and they laid the weapons before her. "goodly indeed are these arms," she said, "for that is the thunder spear of the king oversea and the shield is the red branch shield," for it was covered with red arabesques. then she bestowed her bracelets on finn's three harpers, the dwarf cnu, and blanit his wife, and the harper daira. and she bade finn care for her burial, that it should be done becomingly, "for under thy honour and protection i got my death, and it was to thee i came into ireland." so they buried her and lamented her, and made a great far-seen mound over her grave, which is called the ridge of the dead woman, and set up a pillar stone upon it with her name and lineage carved in ogham-crave.[23] [23] ogham-craobh = "branching ogham," so called because the letters resembled the branching of twigs from a stem. the ogham alphabet was in use in ireland in pre-christian times, and many sepulchral inscriptions in it still remain. chapter xiii the chase of the gilla dacar in the reign of cormac mac art, grandson of conn of the hundred battles, the order of precedence and dignity in the court of the high king at tara was as follows: first came great cormac, the kingly, the hospitable, warrior and poet, and he was supreme over all. next in order came the five kings of the five provinces of ireland, namely, ulster, munster, connacht, leinster, and mid-erinn. after these ranked the captains of the royal host, of whom finn, son of cumhal, was the chief. now the privileges of the fianna of erinn were many and great; to wit, in every county in ireland one townland, and in every townland a cartron of land, and in the house of every gentleman the right to have a young deer-hound or a beagle kept at nurse from november to may, together with many other taxes and royalties not to be recounted here. but if they had these many and great privileges, yet greater than these were the toils and hardships which they had to endure, in guarding the coasts of all ireland from oversea invaders and marauders, and in keeping down all robbers and outlaws and evil folk within the kingdom, for this was the duty laid upon them by their bond of service to the king. now the summer half of the year was wont to be ended by a great hunting in one of the forests of ireland, and so it was that one all-hallowtide, when the great banquet of finn in his dún on the hill of allen was going forward, and the hall resounded with cheerful talk and laughter and with the music of tympan and of harp, finn asked of the assembled captains in what part of erinn they should proceed to beat up game on the morrow. and it was agreed among them to repair to the territory of thomond and desmond in munster; and from allen they set out accordingly and came to the hill of knockany. thence they threw out the hunt and sent their bands of beaters through many a gloomy ravine and by many a rugged hill-pass and many a fair open plain. desmond's high hills, called now slievelogher, they beat, and the smooth, swelling hills of slievenamuck, and the green slopes of grassy slievenamon, and the towering rough crags of the decies, and thence on to the dark woods of belachgowran. while the great hunt was going forward finn with certain of his chief captains sat on a high mound to overlook it. there, with finn, were goll and art mac morna, and liagan the swift runner, and dermot of the love spot, and keelta, son of ronan, and there also was conan the bald, the man of scurrilous tongue, and a score or so more. sweet it was to finn and his companions to hear from the woods and wildernesses around them the many-tongued baying of the hounds and the cries and whistling of the beaters, the shouting of the strong men and the notes of the fian hunting-horn. when they had sat there awhile one of finn's men came running quickly towards him and said-"a stranger is approaching us from the westward, o finn, and i much mislike his aspect." with that all the fians looked up and beheld upon the hillside a huge man, looking like some fomorian marauder, black-visaged and ugly, with a sour countenance and ungainly limbs. on his back hung a dingy black shield, on his misshapen left thigh he wore a sharp broad-bladed sword; projecting over his shoulder were two long lances with broad rusty heads. he wore garments that looked as if they had been buried in a cinder heap, and a loose ragged mantle. behind him there shambled a sulky, ill-shapen mare with a bony carcase and bowed knees, and on her neck a clumsy iron halter. with a rope her master hauled her along, with violent jerks that seemed as if they would wrench her head from her scraggy neck, and ever and anon the mare would stand and jib, when the man laid on her ribs such blows from a strong ironshod cudgel that they sounded like the surges of the sea beating on a rocky coast. short as was the distance from where the man and his horse were first perceived to where finn was standing, it was long ere they traversed it. at last, however, he came into the presence of finn and louted before him, doing obeisance. finn lifted his hand over him and bade him speak, and declare his business and his name and rank. "i know not," said the fellow, "of what blood i am, gentle or simple, but only this, that i am a wight from oversea looking for service and wages. and as i have heard of thee, o finn, that thou art not wont to refuse any man, i came to take service with thee if thou wilt have me." "neither shall i refuse thee," said finn; "but what brings thee here with a horse and no horseboy?" "good enough reason," said the stranger. "i have much ado to get meat for my own belly, seeing that i eat for a hundred men; and i will not have any horseboy meddling with my ration." "and what name dost thou bear?" "i am called the gilla dacar (the hard gillie)," replied he. "why was that name given thee?" asked finn. "good enough reason for that also," spake the stranger, "for of all the lads in the world there is none harder than i am for a lord to get any service and obedience from." then turning to conan the bald he said, "whether among the fianna is a horseman's pay or a footman's the highest?" "a horseman's surely," said conan, "seeing that he gets twice the pay of a footman." "then i am a horseman in thy service, finn," said the gillie. "i call thee to observe that i have here a horse, and moreover that as a horseman i came among the fianna. have i thy authority," he went on, "to turn out my steed among thine?" "turn her out," quoth finn. then the big man flung his mare the rope and immediately she galloped off to where the fian horses were grazing. here she fell to biting and kicking them, knocking out the eye of one and snapping off another's ear and breaking the leg of another with a kick. "take away thy mare, big man," cried conan then, "or by heaven and earth were it not that finn told thee to let her loose i would let loose her brains. many a bad bargain has finn made but never a worse than thou." "by heaven and earth," said the gillie, "that i never will, for i have no horseboy, and i will do no horseboy's work." then conan mac morna took the iron halter and laid it on the stranger's horse and brought the beast back to finn and held it there. said finn to conan, "i have never seen thee do horseboy's service even to far better men than this gillie. how now if thou wert to leap on the brute's back and gallop her to death over hill and dale in payment for the mischief she hath wrought among our steeds?" at this word conan clambered up on the back of the big man's mare, and with all his might he smote his two heels into her, but the mare never stirred. "i perceive what ails her," said finn. "she will never stir till she has a weight of men on her equal to that of her own rider." then thirteen men of the fianna scrambled up laughing behind conan, and the mare lay down under them, and then got up again, they still clinging to her. at this the big man said, "it appears that you are making a sport and mockery of my mare, and that even i myself do not escape from it. it is well for me that i have not spent the rest of the year in your company, seeing what a jest ye have made of me the very first day; and i perceive, o finn, that thou art very unlike the report that is made of thee. and now i bid thee farewell, for of thy service i have had enough." so with downcast head and despondent looks the big gillie shambled slowly away until he had passed out of view of the fianna, behind the shoulder of the hill. having arrived here he tucked up his coat to his waist, and fast though be the flight of the swallow, and fast that of the roe-deer, and fast the rush of a roaring wind over a mountain top in mid-march, no faster are these than the bounding speed and furious flight of the big man down the hillside toward the west. no sooner did the mare see that her master had departed than she too dashed uncontrollably forward and flew down the hillside after him. and as the fians saw conan the bald and his thirteen companions thus carried off, willy nilly, they broke into a roar of laughter and ran alongside mocking them. but conan, seeing that they were being carried off in the wake of the big man of evil aspect, of whom none knew whence or who he was, he was terrified and began reviling and cursing, and shouted to finn, "a palsy seize thee, finn; may some rascally churl, that is if possible of worse blood than thyself, have thy head, unless thou follow and rescue us wheresoever this monster shall bring us." so finn and the fianna ran, and the mare ran, over bare hills and by deep glens, till at last they came to corcaguiny in kerry, where the gillie set his face to the blue ocean, and the mare dashed in after him. but ere he did so, liagan the swift got two hands on the tail of the mare, though further he could not win, and he was towed in, still clinging to his hold, and over the rolling billows away they went, the fourteen fians on the wild mare's back, and liagan haled along by her tail. "what is to be done now?" said oisín to finn when they had arrived at the beach. "our men are to be rescued," said finn, "for to that we are bound by the honour of the fianna. whithersoever they are gone, thither must we follow and win them back by fair means or foul; but to that end we must first fit out a galley." so in the end it was agreed that finn and fourteen men of his bravest and best champions should sail oversea in search of the gilla dacar and his captives, while oisín remained in erinn and exercised rule over the fianna in the place of his father. after a while, then, a swift galley was made ready by finn and stored with victual, and with arms, and also with gold and raiment to make gifts withal if need should be. and into the ship came the fifteen valiant men, and gripped their oars, while finn steered; and soon the sea whitened around their oarblades, and over the restless, rolling masses of the many-hued and voiceful billows, the ship clove her way to the west. and the fians, who were wont to be wakened by the twittering of birds over their hunting booths in the greenwood, now delighted to hear, day after day as they roused themselves at morn, the lapping of the wide waters of the world against their vessel's bows, or the thunder of pounding surges when the wind blew hard. at length after many days the sharpest-eyed of the men of finn saw far-off what seemed a mountain rising from the sea, and to it they shaped their course. when they had come to that land they found themselves under the shadow of a great grey cliff, and beneath it slippery rocks covered with seaweed. then dermot, who was the most active of the company, was bidden to mount the cliff and to procure means of drawing up the rest of the party, but of what land might lie on the top of that wall of rock none of them could discover anything. dermot, descending from the ship, then climbed with difficulty up the face of the cliff, while the others made fast their ship among the rocks. but dermot having arrived at the top saw no habitation of man, and could compass no way of helping his companions to mount. he went therefore boldly forward into the unknown land, hoping to obtain some help, if any friendly and hospitable folk could there be found. [illustration: "dermot took the horn and would have filled it"] before he had gone far he came into a wild wood, thick and tangled, and full of the noise of streams, and the sough of winds, and twittering of birds, and hum of bees. after he had traversed this wilderness for a while he came to a mighty tree with densely interwoven branches, and beneath it a pile of rocks, having on its summit a pointed drinking horn wreathed with rich ornament, and at its foot a well of pure bright water. dermot, being now thirsty, took the horn and would have filled it at the well, but as he stooped down to do so he heard a loud, threatening murmur which seemed to rise from it. "i perceive," he said to himself, "that i am forbidden to drink from this well" nevertheless thirst compelled him, and he drank his fill. in no long time thereafter he saw an armed warrior of hostile aspect coming towards him through the wood. no courteous greeting did he give to dermot, but began to revile him for roaming in his wood and wilderness, and for drinking his water. thereupon they fought, and for the rest of the afternoon they took and gave hard blows neither subduing the other, till at last as darkness began to fall the warrior suddenly dived into the well and was seen no more. dermot, vexed at this ending of the combat, then made him ready to spend the night in that place, but first he slew a deer in the wood, and made a fire, whereat he roasted pieces of the deer's flesh on spits of white hazel, and drank abundantly of the well-water, and then slept soundly through the night. next morning when he awakened and went to the well he found the champion of the well standing there and awaiting him. "it is not enough, dermot," said he angrily, "for thee to traverse my woods at will and to drink my water, but thou must even also slay my deer." then they closed in combat again, and dealt each other blow for blow and wound for wound till evening parted them, and the champion dived into the well as before. on the third day it went even so; but as evening came on dermot, watching closely, rushed at the champion just as he was about to plunge into the well, and gripped him in his arms. but none the less the champion of the well made his dive, and took down dermot with him. and a darkness and faintness came over dermot, but when he awoke, he found himself in a wide, open country, flowery and fair, and before him the walls and towers of a royal city. thither the champion, sorely wounded, was now borne off, while a crowd of his people came round dermot, and beat and wounded him, leaving him on the ground for dead. after night had fallen, when all the people of the city in the land undersea had departed, a stalwart champion, well-armed and of bold appearance, came upon dermot and stirred him with his foot. dermot thereon awoke from his swoon and, warrior-like, reached out his hand for his arms. but the champion said, "wait awhile, my son, i have not come to do thee hurt or harm. thou hast chosen an ill place to rest and slumber in, before the city of thine enemy. rise and follow me, and i shall bestow thee far better than that." dermot then rose and followed the champion, and long and far they journeyed until they came to a high-towered fortress, wherein were thrice fifty valiant men-at-arms and fair women; and the daughter of that champion, a white-toothed, rosy-cheeked, smooth-handed, and black-eyebrowed maid, received dermot, kindly and welcomefully, and applied healing herbs to his wounds, and in no long time he was made as good a man as ever. and thus he remained, and was entertained most royally with the best of viands and of liquors. the first part of every night those in that dún were wont to spend in feasting, and the second in recreation and entertainment of the mind, with music and with poetry and bardic tales, and the third part in sound and healthful slumber, till the sun in his fiery journey rose over the heavy-clodded earth on the morrow morn. and the king of that country, who was the champion that had aroused dermot, told him this was the land of sorca, and that he had showed this kindness to dermot for that he himself had once been on wage and service with finn, son of cumhal "and a better master," said he, "man never had." now the story turns to tell of what befell finn and the remainder of his companions when dermot left them in the ship. after a while, seeing that he did not return, and being assured that some mischief or hindrance must have befallen him, they made an attempt to climb the cliff after him, having noted which way he went. with much toil and peril they accomplished this, and then journeying forward and following on dermot's track, they came at last to the well in the wild wood, and saw near by the remains of the deer, and the ashes of the fire that dermot had kindled to cook it. but from this place they could discover no track of his going. while they were debating on what should next be done, they saw riding towards them a tall warrior on a dark grey horse with a golden bridle, who greeted them courteously. from him they enquired as to whether he had seen aught of their companion, dermot, in the wilderness. "follow me," said the warrior, "and you shall shortly have tidings of him." then they followed the strange horseman into the forest by many dark and winding ways, until at last they came into a rocky ravine, where they found the mouth of a great cavern opening into the hillside. into this they went, and the way led them downward until it seemed as if they were going into the bowels of the earth, until at last the light began to shine round them, and they came out into a lovely land of flowery plains and green woods and singing streams. in no long time thereafter they came to a great royal dún, where he who led them was hailed as king and lord, and here, to their joy, they found their comrade, dermot of the love spot, who told them of all his adventures and heard from them of theirs. this ended, and when they had been entertained and refreshed, the lord of that place spoke to finn and said:-"i have now, o finn, within my fortress the fifteen stoutest heroes that the world holds. to this end have i brought you here, that ye might make war with me upon mine enemy the champion of the well, who is king of the land bordering on mine, and who ceases not to persecute and to harry my people because, in his arrogance, he would have all the under world country subject to himself alone. say now if ye will embrace this enterprise and help me to defend my own: and if not i shall set you again upon the land of erinn." finn said, "what of my fifteen men that were carried away on the wild mare's back oversea?" "they are guarding the marches of my kingdom," said the king of sorca, "and all is well with them and shall be well." then finn agreed to take service with the king of sorca, and next day they arrayed themselves for fight and went out at the head of the host. ere long they came upon the army of the king of the well, and with him was the king of the greeks and a band of fierce mercenaries, and also the daughter of the greek king, by name tasha of the white side, a maiden who in beauty and grace surpassed all other women of the world, as the shannon surpasses all rivers of erinn and the eagle surpasses all birds of the air. now the stories of finn and his generosity and great deeds had reached her since she was a child, and she had set her love on him, though she had never seen his face till now. when the hosts were met, the king of the greeks said, "who of my men will stand forth and challenge the best of these men of erinn to single combat that their metal may be proved, for to us it is unknown what manner of men they be." the son of the king of the greeks said, "i will go." so on the side of finn, oscar, son of oisín, was chosen to match the son of the greek king, and the two hosts sat down peacefully together to watch the weapon-play. and tasha the princess sat by finn, son of cumhal. then oscar and the king's son stepped into their fighting place, and fierce was the combat that arose between them, as when two roaring surges of the sea dash against each other in a fissure of the rocks, and the spray-cloud bursts from them high into the air. long they fought, and many red wounds did each of them give and receive, till at last oscar beat the greek prince to the earth and smote off his head. then one host groaned for woe and discouragement, while the other shouted for joy of victory, and so they parted for the night, each to their own camp. and in the camp of the folk of sorca they found conan the bald and the fourteen men that had gone with him on the mare's back. but when night had fallen, tasha stole from the wizard of the greek king his branch of silver bells that when shaken would lay asleep a host of men, and with the aid of this she passed from the camp of the greeks, and through the sentinels, and came to the tent of finn. on the morrow morn the king of the greeks found that his daughter had fled to be the wife of finn, son of cumhal, and he offered a mighty reward to whosoever would slay finn and bring tasha back. but when the two armies closed in combat the fians and the host of the king of sorca charged so fiercely home, that they drove their foes before them as a winter gale drives before it a cloud of madly whirling leaves, and those that were not slain in the fight and the pursuit went to their own lands and abode there in peace; and thus was the war ended of the king of sorca and the lord of the well. then the king of sorca had finn and his comrades before him and gave them praise and thanks for their valour. "and what reward," he said, "will ye that i make you for the saving of the kingdom of sorca?" "thou wert in my service awhile," said finn, "and i mind not that i paid thee any wage for it. let that service even go against this, and so we are quits." "nay, then," cried conan the bald, "but what shall i have for my ride on the mare of the gilla dacar?" "what wilt thou have?" said the king of sorca. "this," said conan, "and nothing else will i accept. let fourteen of the fairest women of the land of sorca be put on that same mare, and thy wife, o king, clinging to its tail, and let them be thus haled across the sea until they come to corcaguiny in the land of erinn. i will have none of thy gold and silver, but the indignity that has been put upon me doth demand an honourable satisfaction." then the king of sorca smiled, and he said, "behold thy men, finn." [illustration: "'follow me now to the hill of allen'"] finn turned his head to look round, and as he did so the plain and the encampment of the fairy host vanished from his sight, and he saw himself standing on the shingly strand of a little bay, with rocky heights to right and left, crowned with yellow whin bushes whose perfume mingled with the salt sea wind. it was the spot where he had seen the gilla dacar and his mare take water on the coast of kerry. finn stared over the sea, to discover, if he might, by what means he had come thither, but nothing could he see there save the sunlit water, and nothing hear but what seemed a low laughter from the twinkling ripples that broke at his feet. then he looked for his men, who stood there, dazed like himself and rubbing their eyes; and there too stood the princess tasha, who stretched out her white arms to him. finn went over and took her hands. "shoulder your spears, good lads!" he called to his men. "follow me now to the hill of allen, and to the wedding feast of tasha and of finn mac cumhal." chapter xiv the birth of oisín one day as finn and his companions and dogs were returning from the chase to their dún on the hill of allen, a beautiful fawn started up on their path and the chase swept after her, she taking the way which led to their home. soon, all the pursuers were left far behind save only finn himself and his two hounds bran and sceolaun. now these hounds were of strange breed, for tyren, sister to murna, the mother of finn, had been changed into a hound by the enchantment of a woman of the fairy folk, who loved tyren's husband ullan; and the two hounds of finn were the children of tyren, born to her in that shape. of all hounds in ireland they were the best, and finn loved them much, so that it was said he wept but twice in his life, and once was for the death of bran. at last, as the chase went on down a valley side, finn saw the fawn stop and lie down, while the two hounds began to play round her and to lick her face and limbs. so he gave commandment that none should hurt her, and she followed them to the dún of allen, playing with the hounds as she went. the same night finn awoke and saw standing by his bed the fairest woman his eyes had ever beheld. "i am saba, o finn," she said, "and i was the fawn ye chased to-day. because i would not give my love to the druid of the fairy folk, who is named the dark, he put that shape upon me by his sorceries, and i have borne it these three years. but a slave of his, pitying me, once revealed to me that if i could win to thy great dún of allen, o finn, i should be safe from all enchantments and my natural shape would come to me again. but i feared to be torn in pieces by thy dogs, or wounded by thy hunters, till at last i let myself be overtaken by thee alone and by bran and sceolaun, who have the nature of man and would do me no hurt." "have no fear, maiden," said finn, "we the fianna, are free and our guest-friends are free; there is none who shall put compulsion on you here." so saba dwelt with finn, and he made her his wife; and so deep was his love for her that neither the battle nor the chase had any delight for him, and for months he never left her side. she also loved him as deeply, and their joy in each other was like that of the immortals in the land of youth. but at last word came to finn that the warships of the northmen were in the bay of dublin, and he summoned his heroes to the fight, "for," said he to saba, "the men of erinn give us tribute and hospitality to defend them from the foreigner, and it were shame to take it from them and not to give that to which we, on our side, are pledged." and he called to mind that great saying of goll mac morna when they were once sore bested by a mighty host--"a man," said goll, "lives after his life but not after his honour." seven days was finn absent, and he drove the northmen from the shores of erinn. but on the eighth day he returned, and when he entered his dún he saw trouble in the eyes of his men and of their fair womenfolk, and saba was not on the rampart expecting his return. so he bade them tell him what had chanced, and they said-"whilst thou, our father and lord, wert afar off smiting the foreigner, and saba looking ever down the pass for thy return, we saw one day as it were the likeness of thee approaching, and bran and sceolaun at thy heels. and we seemed also to hear the notes of the fian hunting call blown on the wind. then saba hastened to the great gate, and we could not stay her, so eager was she to rush to the phantom. but when she came near, she halted and gave a loud and bitter cry, and the shape of thee smote her with a hazel wand, and lo, there was no woman there any more, but a deer. then those hounds chased it, and ever as it strove to reach again the gate of the dún they turned it back. we all now seized what arms we could and ran out to drive away the enchanter, but when we reached the place there was nothing to be seen, only still we heard the rushing of flying feet and the baying of dogs, and one thought it came from here, and another from there, till at last the uproar died away and all was still. what we could do, o finn, we did; saba is gone." finn then struck his hand on his breast but spoke no word, and he went to his own chamber. no man saw him for the rest of that day, nor for the day after. then he came forth, and ordered the matters of the fianna as of old, but for seven years thereafter he went searching for saba through every remote glen and dark forest and cavern of ireland, and he would take no hounds with him save bran and sceolaun. but at last he renounced all hope of finding her again, and went hunting as of old. one day as he was following the chase on ben gulban in sligo, he heard the musical bay of the dogs change of a sudden to a fierce growling and yelping as though they were in combat with some beast, and running hastily up he and his men beheld, under a great tree, a naked boy with long hair, and around him the hounds struggling to seize him, but bran and sceolaun fighting with them and keeping them off. and the lad was tall and shapely, and as the heroes gathered round he gazed undauntedly on them, never heeding the rout of dogs at his feet. the fians beat off the dogs and brought the lad home with them, and finn was very silent and continually searched the lad's countenance with his eyes. in time, the use of speech came to him, and the story that he told was this:-he had known no father, and no mother save a gentle hind with whom he lived in a most green and pleasant valley shut in on every side by towering cliffs that could not be scaled, or by deep chasms in the earth. in the summer he lived on fruits and such-like, and in the winter, store of provisions was laid for him in a cave. and there came to them sometimes a tall dark-visaged man, who spoke to his mother, now tenderly, and now in loud menace, but she always shrunk away in fear, and the man departed in anger. at last there came a day when the dark man spoke very long with his mother in all tones of entreaty and of tenderness and of rage, but she would still keep aloof and give no sign save of fear and abhorrence. then at length the dark man drew near and smote her with a hazel wand; and with that he turned and went his way, but she, this time, followed him, still looking back at her son and piteously complaining. and he, when he strove to follow, found himself unable to move a limb; and crying out with rage and desolation he fell to the earth and his senses left him. when he came to himself he was on the mountain side, on ben gulban, where he remained some days, searching for that green and hidden valley, which he never found again. and after a while the dogs found him; but of the hind his mother and of the dark druid, there is no man knows the end. finn called his name oisín, and he became a warrior of fame, but far more famous for the songs and tales that he made; so that of all things to this day that are told of the fianna of erinn, men are wont to say, "so sang the bard, oisín, son of finn." chapter xv oisín in the land of youth it happened that on a misty summer morning as finn and oisín with many companions were hunting on the shores of loch lena they saw coming towards them a maiden, beautiful exceedingly, riding on a snow-white steed. she wore the garb of a queen; a crown of gold was on her head, and a dark brown mantle of silk, set with stars of red gold, fell around her and trailed on the ground. silver shoes were on her horse's hoofs, and a crest of gold nodded on his head. when she came near she said to finn, "from very far away i have come, and now at last i have found thee, finn, son of cumhal." then finn said, "what is thy land and race, maiden, and what dost thou seek from me?" "my name," she said, "is niam of the golden hair. i am the daughter of the king of the land of youth, and that which has brought me here is the love of thy son oisín." then she turned to oisín and she spoke to him in the voice of one who has never asked anything but it was granted to her, "wilt thou go with me, oisín, to my father's land?" and oisín said, "that will i, and to the world's end"; for the fairy spell had so wrought upon his heart that he cared no more for any earthly thing but to have the love of niam of the head of gold. then the maiden spoke of the land oversea to which she had summoned her lover, and as she spoke a dreamy stillness fell on all things, nor did a horse shake his bit nor a hound bay, nor the least breath of wind stir in the forest trees till she had made an end. and what she said seemed sweeter and more wonderful as she spoke it than anything they could afterwards remember to have heard, but so far as they could remember it, it was this:- "delightful is the land beyond all dreams, fairer than aught thine eyes have ever seen. there all the year the fruit is on the tree, and all the year the bloom is on the flower. "there with wild honey drip the forest trees; the stores of wine and mead shall never fail. nor pain nor sickness knows the dweller there, death and decay come near him never more. "the feast shall cloy not, nor the chase shall tire, nor music cease for ever through the hall; the gold and jewels of the land of youth outshine all splendours ever dreamed by man. "thou shalt have horses of the fairy breed, thou shalt have hounds that can outrun the wind; a hundred chiefs shall follow thee in war, a hundred maidens sing thee to thy sleep. "a crown of sovranty thy brow shall wear, and by thy side a magic blade shall hang. thou shalt be lord of all the land of youth, and lord of niam of the head of gold." as the magic song ended, the fians beheld oisín mount the fairy steed and hold the maiden in his arms, and ere they could stir or speak she turned her horse's head and shook the ringing bridle and down the forest glade they fled, as a beam of light flies over the land when clouds drive across the sun; and never did the fianna behold oisín, son of finn, on earth again. yet what befell him afterwards is known. as his birth was strange so was his end, for he saw the wonders of the land of youth with mortal eyes and lived to tell them with mortal lips. when the white horse with its riders reached the sea it ran lightly over the waves and soon the green woods and headlands of erinn faded out of sight. and now the sun shone fiercely down, and the riders passed into a golden haze in which oisín lost all knowledge of where he was or if sea or dry land were beneath his horse's hoofs. but strange sights sometimes appeared to them in the mist, for towers and palace gateways loomed up and disappeared, and once a hornless doe bounded by them chased by a white hound with one red ear, and again they saw a young maid ride by on a brown steed, bearing a golden apple in her hand, and close behind her followed a young horseman on a white steed, a purple cloak floating at his back and a gold-hilted sword in his hand. and oisín would have asked the princess who and what these apparitions were, but niam bade him ask nothing nor seem to notice any phantom they might see until they were come to the land of youth. [illustration: "they rode up to a stately palace"] at last the sky gloomed above them, and niam urged their steed faster. the wind lashed them with pelting rain, thunder roared across the sea and lightning blazed, but they held on their way till at length they came once more into a region of calm and sunshine. and now oisín saw before him a shore of yellow sand, lapped by the ripples of a summer sea. inland, there rose before his eye wooded hills amid which he could discern the roofs and towers of a noble city. the white horse bore them swiftly to the shore and oisín and the maiden lighted down. and oisín marvelled at everything around him, for never was water so blue or trees so stately as those he saw, and the forest was alive with the hum of bees and the song of birds, and the creatures that are wild in other lands, the deer and the red squirrel and the wood-dove, came, without fear, to be caressed. soon, as they went forward, the walls of a city came in sight, and folk began to meet them on the road, some riding, some afoot, all of whom were either youths or maidens, all looking as joyous as if the morning of happy life had just begun for them, and no old or feeble person was to be seen. niam led her companion through a towered gateway built of white and red marble, and there they were met by a glittering company of a hundred riders on black steeds and a hundred on white, and oisín mounted a black horse and niam her white, and they rode up to a stately palace where the king of the land of youth had his dwelling. and there he received them, saying in a loud voice that all the folk could hear, "welcome, oisín, son of finn. thou art come to the land of youth, where sorrow and weariness and death shall never touch thee. this thou hast won by thy faithfulness and valour and by the songs that thou hast made for the men of erinn, whereof the fame is come to us, for we have here indeed all things that are delightful and joyous, but poesy alone we had not. but now we have the chief poet of the race of men to live with us, immortal among immortals, and the fair and cloudless life that we lead here shall be praised in verses as fair; even as thou, oisín, did'st praise and adorn the short and toilsome and chequered life that men live in the world thou hast left forever. and niam my daughter shall be thy bride, and thou shalt be in all things even as myself in the land of youth." then the heart of oisín was filled with glory and joy, and he turned to niam and saw her eyes burn with love as she gazed upon him. and they were wedded the same day, and the joy they had in each other grew sweeter and deeper with every day that passed. all that niam had promised in her magic song in the wild wood when first they met, seemed faint beside the splendour and beauty of the life in the land of youth. in the great palace they trod on silken carpets and ate off plates of gold; the marble walls and doorways were wrought with carved work, or hung with tapestries, where forest glades, and still lakes, and flying deer were done in colours of unfading glow. sunshine bathed that palace always, and cool winds wandered through its dim corridors, and in its courts there played fountains of bright water set about with flowers. when oisín wished to ride, a steed of fiery but gentle temper bore him wherever he would through the pleasant land; when he longed to hear music, there came upon his thought, as though borne on the wind, crystal notes such as no hand ever struck from the strings of any harp on earth. but oisín's hand now never touched the harp, and the desire of singing and of making poetry never waked in him, for no one thing seemed so much better than the rest, where all perfection bloomed and glowed around him, as to make him long to praise it and to set it apart. when seven days had passed, he said to niam, "i would fain go a-hunting." niam said, "so be it, dear love; to-morrow we shall take order for that." oisín lay long awake that night, thinking of the sound of finn's hunting-horn, and of the smell of green boughs when they kindled them to roast the deer-flesh in fian ovens in the wildwood. so next day oisín and niam fared forth on horseback, with their company of knights and maidens, and dogs leaping and barking with eagerness for the chase. anon they came to the forest, and the hunters with the hounds made a wide circuit on this side and on that, till at last the loud clamour of the hounds told that a stag was on foot, and oisín saw them streaming down an open glen, the stag with its great antlers laid back and flying like the wind. so he shouted the fian hunting-cry and rode furiously on their track. all day long they chased the stag through the echoing forest, and the fairy steed bore him unfaltering over rough ground and smooth, till at last as darkness began to fall the quarry was pulled down, and oisín cut its throat with his hunting-knife. long it seemed to him since he had felt glad and weary as he felt now, and since the woodland air with its odours of pine and mint and wild garlic had tasted so sweet in his mouth; and truly it was longer than he knew. but when he bade make ready the wood-oven for their meal, and build a bothy of boughs for their repose, niam led him seven steps apart and seven to the left hand, and yet seven back to the place where they had killed the deer, and lo, there rose before him a stately dún with litten windows and smoke drifting above its roof. when they entered, there was a table spread for a great company, and cooks and serving-men busy about a wide hearth where roast and boiled meats of every sort were being prepared. casks of greek wine stood open around the walls, and cups of gold were on the board. so they all ate and drank their sufficiency, and all night oisín and niam slept on a bed softer than swans-down in a chamber no less fair than that which they had in the city of the land of youth. next day, at the first light of dawn, they were on foot; and soon again the forest rang to the baying of hounds and the music of the hunting-horn. oisín's steed bore him all day, tireless and swift as before, and again the quarry fell at night's approach, and again a palace rose in the wilderness for their night's entertainment, and all things in it even more abundant and more sumptuous than before. and so for seven days they fared in that forest, and seven stags were slain. then oisín grew wearied of hunting, and as he plunged his sharp black hunting-knife into the throat of the last stag, he thought of the sword of magic temper that hung idle by his side in the city of youth, or rested from its golden nail in his bed-chamber, and he said to niam, "has thy father never a foe to tame, never a wrong to avenge? surely the peasant is no man whose hand forgets the plough, nor the warrior whose hand forgets the sword hilt." niam looked on him strangely for a while and as if she did not understand his words, or sought some meaning in them which yet she feared to find. but at last she said, "if deeds of arms be thy desire, oisín, thou shalt have thy sufficiency ere long." and so they rode home, and slept that night in the palace of the city of youth. at daybreak on the following morn niam roused oisín, and she buckled on him his golden-hilted sword and his corselet of blue steel inlaid with gold. then he put on his head a steel and gold helmet with dragon crest, and slung on his back a shield of bronze wrought all over with cunning hammer-work of serpentine lines that swelled and sank upon the surface, and coiled in mazy knots, or flowed in long sweeping curves like waves of the sea when they gather might and volume for their leap upon the sounding shore. in the glimmering dawn, through the empty streets of the fair city, they rode forth alone and took their way through fields of corn and by apple orchards where red fruit hung down to their hands. but by noontide their way began to mount upwards among blue hills that they had marked from the city walls toward the west, and of man's husbandry they saw no more, but tall red-stemmed pine trees bordered the way on either side, and silence and loneliness increased. at length they reached a broad table-land deep in the heart of the mountains, where nothing grew but long coarse grass, drooping by pools of black and motionless water, and where great boulders, bleached white or stained with slimy lichens of livid red, lay scattered far and wide about the plain. against the sky the mountain line now showed like a threat of bared and angry teeth, and as they rode towards it oisín perceived a huge fortress lying in the throat of a wide glen or mountain pass. white as death was the stone of which it was built, save where it was streaked with black or green from the foulness of wet mosses that clung to its cornices and battlements, and none seemed stirring about the place nor did any banner blow from its towers. then said niam, "this, o oisín, is the dún of the giant fovor of the mighty blows. in it he keeps prisoner a princess of the fairy folk whom he would fain make his bride, but he may not do so, nor may she escape, until fovor has met in battle a champion who will undertake her cause. approach, then, to the gate, if thou art fain to undertake this adventure, and blow the horn which hangs thereby, and then look to thy weapons, for soon indeed will the battle be broken upon thee." then oisín rode to the gate and thrice he blew on the great horn which hung by it, and the clangour of it groaned drearily back from the cliffs that overhung the glen. not thus indeed sounded the _dord_ of finn as its call blew lust of fighting and scorn of death into the hearts of the fianna amid the stress of battle. at the third blast the rusty gates opened, grinding on their hinges, and oisín rode into a wide courtyard where servitors of evil aspect took his horse and niam's, and led them into the hall of fovor. dark it was and low, with mouldering arras on its walls, and foul and withered rushes on the floor, where dogs gnawed the bones thrown to them at the last meal, and spilt ale and hacked fragments of flesh littered the bare oaken table. and here rose languidly to greet them a maiden bound with seven chains, to whom niam spoke lovingly, saying that her champion was come and that her long captivity should end. and the maiden looked upon oisín, whose proud bearing and jewelled armour made the mean place seem meaner still, and a light of hope and of joy seemed to glimmer upon her brow. so she gave them refreshment as she could, and afterwards they betook them once more to the courtyard, where the place of battle was set. here, at the further side, stood a huge man clad in rusty armour, who when he saw oisín rushed upon him, silent and furious, and swinging a great battleaxe in his hand. but doubt and langour weighed upon oisín's heart, and it seemed to him as if he were in an evil dream, which he knew was but a dream, and would be less than nothing when the hour of awakening should come. yet he raised his shield and gripped the fairy sword, striving to shout the fian battle-cry as he closed with fovor. but soon a heavy blow smote him to the ground, and his armour clanged harshly on the stones. then a cloud seemed to pass from his spirit, and he leaped to his feet quicker than an arrow flies from the string, and thrusting fiercely at the giant his sword-point gashed the under side of fovor's arm when it was raised to strike, and oisín saw his enemy's blood. then the fight raged hither and thither about the wide courtyard, with trampling of feet and clash of steel and ringing of armour and shouts of onset as the heroes closed; oisín, agile as a wild stag, evading the sweep of the mighty axe and rushing in with flickering blade at every unguarded moment, his whole soul bent on one fierce thought, to drive his point into some gap at shoulder or neck in fovor's coat of mail. at length, when both were weary and wounded men, with hacked and battered armour, oisín's blade cut the thong of fovor's headpiece and it fell clattering to the ground. another blow laid the giant prostrate, and oisín leaned, dizzy and panting, upon his sword, while fovor's serving-men took off their master in a litter, and niam came to aid her lord. then oisín stripped off his armour in the great hall, and niam tended to his wounds, healing them with magic herbs and murmured incantations, and they saw that one of the seven rusty chains that had bound the princess hung loose from its iron staple in the wall. all night long oisín lay in deep and healing slumber, and next day he arose, whole and strong, and hot to renew the fray. and the giant was likewise healed and his might and fierceness returned to him. so they fought till they were breathless and weary, and then to it again, and again, till in the end oisín drove his sword to the hilt in the giant's shoulder where it joins the collar bone, and he fell aswoon, and was borne away as before. and another chain of the seven fell from the girdle of the captive maiden. thus for seven days went on the combat, and oisín had seven nights of healing and rest, with the tenderness and beauty of niam about his couch; and on the seventh day the maiden was free, and her folk brought her away, rejoicing, with banners and with music that made a brightness for a while in that forlorn and evil place. but oisín's heart was high with pride and victory, and a longing uprose in his heart with a rush like a springtide for the days when some great deed had been done among the fianna, and the victors were hailed and lauded by the home-folk in the dún of allen, men and women leaving their toil or their pleasure to crowd round the heroes, and to question again and again, and to learn each thing that had passed; and the bards noting all to weave it into a glorious tale for after days; and more than all the smile and the look of finn as he learned how his children had borne themselves in the face of death. and so oisín said to niam, "let me, for a short while, return to the land of erinn, that i may see there my friends and kin and tell them of the glory and joy that are mine in the land of youth." but niam wept and laid her white arms about his neck, entreating him to think no more of the sad world where all men live and move under a canopy of death, and where summer is slain by winter, and youth by old age, and where love itself, if it die not by falsehood and wrong, perishes many a time of too complete a joy. but oisín said, "the world of men compared with thy world is like this dreary waste compared with the city of thy father; yet in that city, niam, none is better or worse than another, and i hunger to tell my tale to ignorant and feeble folk that my words can move, as words of mine have done of old, to wonder and delight. then i shall return to thee, niam, and to thy fair and blissful land; and having brought over to mortal men a tale that never man has told before, i shall be happy and at peace for ever in the land of youth." so they fared back to the golden city, and next day niam brought to oisín the white steed that had borne them from erinn, and bade him farewell. "this our steed," she said, "will carry thee across the sea to the land where i found thee, and whithersoever thou wilt, and what folk are there thou shalt see, and what tale thou hast to tell can be told. but never for even a moment must thou alight from his back, for if thy foot once touch again the soil of earth, thou shalt never win to me and to the land of youth again. and sorely do i fear some evil chance. was not the love of niam of the head of gold enough to fill a mortal's heart? but if thou must go, then go, and blessing and victory be thine." then oisín held her long in his arms and kissed her, and vowed to make no long stay and never to alight from the fairy steed. and then he shook the golden reins and the horse threw its head aloft and snorted and bore him away in a pace like that of flowing water for speed and smoothness. anon they came to the margin of the blue sea, and still the white steed galloped on, brushing the crests of the waves into glittering spray. the sun glared upon the sea and oisín's head swam with the heat and motion, and in mist and dreams he rode where no day was, nor night, nor any thought of time, till at last his horse's hoofs ploughed through wet, yellow sands, and he saw black rocks rising up at each side of a little bay, and inland were fields green or brown, and white cottages thatched with reeds, and men and women, toil-worn and clad in earth-coloured garments, went to and fro about their tasks or stopped gazing at the rider in his crimson cloak and at the golden trappings of his horse. but among the cottages was a small house of stone such as oisín had never seen in the land of erinn; stone was its roof as well as the walls, very steep and high, and near-by from a rude frame of timber there hung a bell of bronze. into this house there passed one whom from his shaven crown oisín guessed to be a druid, and behind him two lads in white apparel. the druid having seen the horseman turned his eyes again to the ground and passed on, regarding him not, and the lads did likewise. and oisín rode on, eager to reach the dún upon the hill of allen and to see the faces of his kin and his friends. [illustration: "the white steed had vanished from their eyes like a wreath of mist"] at length, coming from the forest path into the great clearing where the hill of allen was wont to rise broad and green, with its rampart enclosing many white-walled dwellings, and the great hall towering high in the midst, he saw but grassy mounds overgrown with rank weeds and whin bushes, and among them pastured a peasant's kine. then a strange horror fell upon him, and he thought some enchantment from the land of faery held his eyes and mocked him with false visions. he threw his arms abroad and shouted the names of finn and oscar, but none replied, and he thought that perchance the hounds might hear him, and he cried upon bran and sceolaun, and strained his ears if they might catch the faintest rustle or whisper of the world from the sight of which his eyes were holden, but he heard only the sigh of the wind in the whins. then he rode in terror from that place, setting his face towards the eastern sea, for he meant to traverse ireland from side to side and end to end in the search of some escape from his enchantment. but when he came near to the eastern sea and was now in the place which is called the valley of the thrushes,[24] he saw in a field upon the hillside a crowd of men striving to roll aside a great boulder from their tilled land, and an overseer directing them. towards them he rode, meaning to ask them concerning finn and the fianna. as he came near, they all stopped their work to gaze upon him, for to them he appeared like a messenger of the fairy folk or an angel from heaven. taller and mightier he was than the men-folk they knew, with sword-blue eyes and brown ruddy cheeks; in his mouth, as it were, a shower of pearls, and bright hair clustered beneath the rim of his helmet. and as oisín looked upon their puny forms, marred by toil and care, and at the stone which they feebly strove to heave from its bed, he was filled with pity, and thought to himself, "not such were even the churls of erinn when i left them for the land of youth," and he stooped from his saddle to help them. his hand he set to the boulder, and with a mighty heave he lifted it from where it lay and set it rolling down the hill. and the men raised a shout of wonder and applause, but their shouting changed in a moment into cries of terror and dismay, and they fled, jostling and overthrowing each other to escape from the place of fear; for a marvel horrible to see had taken place. for oisín's saddle-girth had burst as he heaved the stone, and he fell headlong to the ground. in an instant the white steed had vanished from their eyes like a wreath of mist, and that which rose, feeble and staggering, from the ground was no youthful warrior but a man stricken with extreme old age, white-bearded and withered, who stretched out groping hands and moaned with feeble and bitter cries. and his crimson cloak and yellow silken tunic were now but coarse homespun stuff tied with a hempen girdle, and the gold-hilted sword was a rough oaken staff such as a beggar carries who wanders the roads from farmer's house to house. [24] glanismole, near dublin. when the people saw that the doom that had been wrought was not for them they returned, and found the old man prone on the ground with his face hidden in his arms. so they lifted him up and asked who he was and what had befallen him. oisín gazed round on them with dim eyes, and at last he said, "i was oisín the son of finn, and i pray ye tell me where he now dwells, for his dún on the hill of allen is now a desolation, and i have neither seen him nor heard his hunting horn from the western to the eastern sea." then the men gazed strangely on each other and on oisín, and the overseer asked, "of what finn dost thou speak, for there be many of that name in erinn?" oisín said, "surely of finn mac cumhal mac trenmor, captain of the fianna of erinn." then the overseer said, "thou art daft, old man, and thou hast made us daft to take thee for a youth as we did a while agone. but we at least have now our wits again, and we know that finn son of cumhal and all his generation have been dead these three hundred years. at the battle of gowra fell oscar, son of oisín, and finn at the battle of brea, as the historians tell us; and the lays of oisín, whose death no man knows the manner of, are sung by our harpers at great men's feasts. but now the talkenn,[25] patrick, has come into ireland and has preached to us the one god and christ his son, by whose might these old days and ways are done away with, and finn and his fianna, with their feasting and hunting and songs of war and of love, have no such reverence among us as the monks and virgins of holy patrick, and the psalms and prayers that go up daily to cleanse us from sin and to save us from the fire of judgment." but oisín replied, half hearing and still less comprehending what was said to him, "if thy god have slain finn and oscar, i would say that god is a strong man." then they all cried out upon him, and some picked up stones, but the overseer bade them let him be until the talkenn had spoken with him, and till he should order what was to be done. [25] talkenn or "adze-head" was a name given to st patrick by the irish. probably it referred to the shape of his tonsure. so they brought him to patrick, who entreated him gently and hospitably, and to patrick he told the story of all that had befallen him. but patrick bade his scribes write all carefully down, that the memory of the heroes whom oisín had known, and of the joyous and free life they had led in the woods and glens and wild places of erinn, should never be forgotten among men. and oisín, during the short span of life that yet remained to him, told to patrick many tales of the fianna and their deeds, but of the three hundred years that he had spent with niam in the land of youth he rarely spoke, for they seemed to him but as a vision or a dream of the night, set between a sunny and a rainy day. the history of king cormac chapter xvi i the birth of cormac of all the kings that ruled over ireland, none had a better and more loyal servant than was finn mac cumhal, and of all the captains and counsellors of kings none ever served a more glorious and a nobler monarch than did finn, for the time that he served cormac, son of art, son of conn of the hundred battles. at the time at which this monarch lived and reigned, the mist of sixteen centuries hangs between us and the history of ireland, but through this mist there shine a few great and sunlike figures whose glory cannot be altogether hidden, and of these figures cormac is the greatest and the brightest. much that is told about him may be true, and much is certainly fable, but the fables themselves are a witness to his greatness; they are like forms seen in the mist when a great light is shining behind it, and we cannot always say when we are looking at the true light and when at the reflected glory. the birth of cormac was on this wise. his father, as we have said, was art, son of conn, and his mother was named achta, being the daughter of a famous smith or ironworker of connacht. now before the birth of cormac, achta had a strange dream, namely, that her head was struck off from her body and that out of her neck there grew a great tree which extended its branches over all ireland and flourished exceedingly, but a huge wave of the sea burst upon it and laid it low. then from the roots of this tree there grew up another, but it did not attain the splendour of the first, and a blast of wind came from the west and overthrew it. on this the woman started from her sleep, and she woke her husband, art, and told him her vision. "it is a true dream," said art. "i am thy head, and this portends that i shall be violently taken from thee. but thou shalt bear me a son who shall be king of all ireland, and shall rule with great power and glory until some disaster from the sea overtake him. but from him shall come yet another king, my grandson and thine, who shall also be cut down, and i think that the cause of his fall shall be the armies of the fian host, who are swift and keen as the wind." not long thereafter art, son of conn, fell in battle with the picts and britons at the plain of the swine, which is between athenry and galway in connacht. now the leader of the invaders then was mac con, a nephew to art, who had been banished out of ireland for rising against the high king; and when he had slain art he seized the sovranty of ireland and reigned there unlawfully for many years. but before the battle, art had counselled his wife: "if things go ill with us in the fight, and i am slain, seek out my faithful friend luna who dwells in corann in connacht, and he will protect thee till thy son be born." so achta, with one maid, fled in her chariot before the host of mac con and sought to go to the dún of luna. on her way thither, however, the hour came when her child should be born, and the maid turned the chariot aside into the wild wood at the place called creevagh (the place of the twigs), and there, on a couch of twigs and leaves, she gave birth to a noble son. then achta, when she had cherished her boy and rejoiced over him, bade her handmaid keep watch over both of them, and they fell asleep. but the maid's eyes were heavy with weariness and long travelling, and ere long she, too, was overpowered by slumber, and all three slept a deep sleep while the horses wandered away grazing through the wood. by and by there came a she-wolf roaming through the wood in search of prey for her whelps, and it came upon the sleeping woman and the little child. it did not wake the woman, but very softly it picked up the infant and bore it off to the stony cave that is hard by to creevagh in the hill that was afterwards called mount cormac. after a while the mother waked up and found her child gone. then she uttered a lamentable cry, and woke her handmaid, and both the women searched hither and thither, but no trace of the child could they find; and thus luna found them; for he had heard news of the battle and the death of his king, and he had come to succour achta as he had pledged his word to do. luna and his men also made search for the infant, but in vain; and at last he conveyed the two sorrowing women to his palace; but achta was somewhat comforted by her prophetic dream. luna then proclaimed that whoever should discover the king's son, if he were yet alive, might claim of him what reward he would. and so the time passed, till one day a man named grec, a clansman of luna the lord of corann, as he ranged the woods hunting, came on a stony cavern in the side of a hill, and before it he saw wolf-cubs at play, and among them a naked child on all fours gambolling with them, and a great she-wolf that mothered them all. "right," cried grec, and off he goes to luna his lord. "what wilt thou give me for the king's son?" said he. "what wilt thou have?" said luna. so grec asked for certain lands, and luna bound himself to give them to him and to his posterity, and there lived and flourished the clan gregor for many a generation to come. so luna, guided by grec, went to the cave on mount cormac, and took the child and the wolf-cubs all together and brought them home. and the child they called cormac, or the chariot-child. now the lad grew up very comely and strong, and he abode with luna in connacht, and no one told him of his descent. ii the judgment of cormac once upon a time it happened that cormac was at play with the two sons of luna, and the lads grew angry in their play and came to blows, and cormac struck one of them to the ground. "sorrow on it," cried the lad, "here i have been beaten by one that knows not his clan or kindred, save that he is a fellow without a father." when cormac heard that he was troubled and ashamed, and he went to luna and told him what had been said. and luna seeing the trouble of the youth, and also that he was strong and noble to look on, and wise and eloquent in speech, held that the time was now come to reveal to him his descent. "thou hadst indeed a clan and kindred," he said, "and a father of the noblest, for thou art the son of art, the high king of ireland, who was slain and dispossessed by mac con. but it is foretold that thou shalt yet come to thy father's place, and the land pines for thee even now, for there is no good yield from earth or sea under the unlawful rule of him who now sits on the throne of art." "if that be so," said cormac, "let us go to tara, and bide our time there in my father's house." so the two of them set out for tara on the morrow morn. and this was the retinue they had with them: a body-guard of outlawed men that had revolted against mac con and other lords and had gathered themselves together at corann under luna, and four wolves that had been cubs with cormac when the she-wolf suckled him. when they came to tara, the folk there wondered at the fierce-eyed warriors and the grey beasts that played like dogs around cormac, and the lad was adopted as a pupil by the king, to be taught arms and poetry and law. much talk there was of his coming, and of his strange companions that are not wont to be the friends of man, and as the lad grew in comeliness and in knowledge the eyes of all were turned to him more and more, because the rule of mac con was not good. so the time wore on, till one day a case came for judgment before the king, in which the queen sued a certain wealthy woman and an owner of herds named benna, for that the sheep of benna had strayed into the queen's fields and had eaten to the ground a crop of woad[26] that was growing there. the king gave judgment, that the sheep which had eaten the woad were to be given to the queen in compensation for what they had destroyed. then cormac rose up before the people and said, "nay, but let the wool of the sheep, when they are next shorn, be given to the queen, for the woad will grow again and so shall the wool." "a true judgment, a true judgment," cried all the folk that were present in the place; "a very king's son is he that hath pronounced it." and they murmured so loudly against mac con that his druids counselled him to quit tara lest a worse thing befall him. so he gave up the sovranty to cormac and went southward into munster to rally his friends there and recover the kingdom, and there he was slain by cormac's men as he was distributing great largesse of gold and silver to his followers, in the place called the field of the gold. [26] woad is a cruciferous plant, _isatis tinctoria_, used for dyeing. so cormac, son of art, ruled in tara and was high king of all ireland. and the land, it is said, knew its rightful lord, and yielded harvests such as never were known, while the forest trees dripped with the abundance of honey and the lakes and rivers were alive with fish. so much game was there, too, that the folk could have lived on that alone and never put a ploughshare in the soil. in cormac's time the autumn was not vexed with rain, nor the spring with icy winds, nor the summer with parching heat, nor the winter with whelming snows. his rule in erinn, it is said, was like a wand of gold laid on a dish of silver. also he rebuilt the ramparts of tara and made it strong, and he enlarged the great banqueting hall and made pillars of cedar in it ornamented with plates of bronze, and painted its lime-white walls in patterns of red and blue. palaces for the women he also made there, and store-houses, and halls for the fighting men--never was tara so populous or so glorious before or since. and for his wisdom and righteousness knowledge was given to him that none other in ireland had as yet, for it was revealed to him that the immortal ones whom the gael worshipped were but the names of one whom none can name, and that his message should ere long come to ireland from over the eastern sea, calling the people to a sweeter and diviner faith. and to the end of his life it was his way to have wolves about him, for he knew their speech and they his, and they were friendly and tame with him and his folk, since they were foster-brothers together in the wild wood. iii the marriage of king cormac it happened that in cormac's time there was a very wealthy farmer named buicad[27] who dwelt in leinster, and had vast herds of cattle and sheep and horses. this buicad and his wife had no children, but they adopted a foster-child named ethne, daughter of one dunlang. now buicad was the most hospitable of men, and never refused aught to anyone, but he kept open house for all the nobles of leinster who came with their following and feasted there as they would, day after day; and if any man fancied any of the cattle or other goods of buicad, he might take them home with him, and none said him nay. thus buicad lived in great splendour, and his dún was ever full to profusion with store of food and clothing and rich weapons, until in time it was all wasted away in boundless hospitality and generosity, and so many had had a share in his goods that they could never be recovered nor could it be said of any man that he was the cause of buicad's undoing. but undone he was at last, and when there remained to him but one bull and seven cows he departed by night with his wife and ethne from dún buicad, leaving his mansion desolate. and he travelled till he came to a place where there was a grove of oak trees by a little stream in the county of meath, near where cormac had a summer palace, and there he built himself a little hut and tended his few cattle, and ethne waited as a maid-servant upon him and his wife. [27] pronounced bweé-cad. his name is said to be preserved in the townland of dunboyke, near blessington, co. wicklow. now on a certain day it happened that king cormac rode out on horseback from his dún in meath, and in the course of his ride he came upon the little herd of buicad towards evening, and he saw ethne milking the cows. and this was the way she milked them: first she milked a portion of each cow's milk into a certain vessel, then she took a second vessel and milked into it the remaining portion, in which was the richest cream, and these two vessels she kept apart. cormac watched all this. she then bore the vessels of milk into the hut, and came out again with two other vessels and a small cup. these she bore down to the river-side; and one of the vessels she filled by means of the cup from the water at the brink of the stream, but the other vessel she bore out into the middle of the stream and there filled it from the deepest of the running water. after this she took a sickle and began cutting rushes by the river-side, and cormac saw that when she cut a wisp of long rushes she would put it on one side, and the short rushes on the other, and she bore them separately into the house. but cormac stopped her and saluted her, and said: "for whom, maiden, art thou making this careful choice of the milk and the rushes and the water?" "i am making it," said she, "for one who is worthy that i should do far more than that for him, if i could." "what is his name?" "buicad, the farmer," said ethne. "is it that buicad, who was the rich farmer in leinster that all ireland has heard of?" asked the king. "it is even so." "then thou art his foster-child, ethne the daughter of dunlang?" said cormac. "i am," said ethne. "wilt thou be my wife and queen of erinn?" then said cormac. "if it please my foster-father to give me to thee, o king, i am willing," replied ethne. then cormac took ethne by the hand and they went before buicad, and he consented to give her to cormac to wife. and buicad was given rich lands and great store of cattle in the district of odran close by tara, and ethne the queen loved him and visited him so long as his life endured. iv the instructions of the king ethne bore to cormac a son, her firstborn, named cairbry, who was king of ireland after cormac. it was during the lifetime of cormac that cairbry came to the throne, for it happened that ere he died cormac was wounded by a chance cast of a spear and lost one of his eyes, and it was forbidden that any man having a blemish should be a king in ireland. cormac therefore gave up the kingdom into the hands of cairbry, but before he did so he told his son all the wisdom that he had in the governing of men, and this was written down in a book which is called _the instructions of cormac_.[28] these are among the things which are found in it, of the wisdom of cormac:- [28] _the instructions of cormac_ (tecosa cormaic) have been edited with a translation by dr. kuno meyer in the todd lecture series of the royal irish academy, vol. xv., april 1909. "let him (the king) restrain the great, let him exalt the good, let him establish peace, let him plant law, let him protect the just, let him bind the unjust, let his warriors be many and his counsellors few, let him shine in company and be the sun of the mead-hall, let him punish with a full fine wrong done knowingly, and with a half-fine wrong done in ignorance." cairbry said, "what are good customs for a tribe to pursue?" "they are as follows," replied cormac:- "to have frequent assemblies, to be ever enquiring, to question the wise men, to keep order in assemblies, to follow ancient lore, not to crush the miserable, to keep faith in treaties, to consolidate kinship, fighting-men not to be arrogant, to keep contracts faithfully, to guard the frontiers against every ill." "tell me, o cormac," said cairbry, "what are good customs for the giver of a feast?" and cormac said:- "to have lighted lamps, to be active in entertaining the company, to be liberal in dispensing ale, to tell stories briefly, to be of joyous countenance, to keep silence during recitals." "tell me, o cormac," said his son once, "what were thy habits when thou wert a lad?" and cormac said:- "i was a listener in woods, i was a gazer at stars, i pried into no man's secrets, i was mild in the hall, i was fierce in the fray, i was not given to making promises, i reverenced the aged, i spoke ill of no man in his absence, i was fonder of giving than of asking." "if you listen to my teaching," said cormac:- "do not deride any old person though you be young nor any poor man though you be rich, nor any naked though you be well-clad, nor any lame though you be swift, nor any blind though you be keen-sighted, nor any invalid though you be robust, nor any dull though you be clever, nor any fool though you be wise. "yet be not slothful, nor fierce, nor sleepy, nor niggardly, nor feckless nor envious, for all these are hateful before god and men. "do not join in blasphemy, nor be the butt of an assembly; be not moody in an alehouse, and never forget a tryst." "what are the most lasting things on earth?" asked cairbry. "not hard to tell," said cormac; "they are grass, copper, and a yew-tree." "if you will listen to me," said cormac, "this is my instruction for the management of your household and your realm:- "let not a man with many friends be your steward, nor a woman with sons and foster-sons your housekeeper, nor a greedy man your butler, nor a man of much delay your miller, nor a violent, foul-mouthed man your messenger, nor a grumbling sluggard your servant, nor a talkative man your counsellor, nor a tippler your cup-bearer, nor a short-sighted man your watchman, nor a bitter, haughty man your doorkeeper, nor a tender-hearted man your judge, nor an ignorant man your leader, nor an unlucky man your counsellor." such were the counsels that cormac mac art gave to his son cairbry. and cairbry became king after his father's abdication, and reigned seven and twenty years, till he and oscar, son of oisín, slew one another at the battle of gowra. v cormac sets up the first mill in erinn during the reign of cormac it happened that some of the lords of ulster made a raid upon the picts in alba[29] and brought home many captives. among them was a pictish maiden named kiernit, daughter of a king of that nation, who was strangely beautiful, and for that the ulstermen sent her as a gift to king cormac. and cormac gave her as a household slave to his wife ethne, who set her to grinding corn with a hand-quern, as women in erinn were used to do. one day as cormac was in the palace of the queen he saw kiernit labouring at her task and weeping as she wrought, for the toil was heavy and she was unused to it. then cormac was moved with compassion for the women that ground corn throughout ireland, and he sent to alba for artificers to come over and set up a mill, for up to then there were no mills in ireland. now there was in tara, as there is to this day, a well of water called _the pearly_, for the purity and brightness of the water that sprang from it, and it ran in a stream down the hillside, as it still runs, but now only in a slender trickle. over this stream cormac bade them build the first mill that was in ireland, and the bright water turned the wheel merrily round, and the women in tara toiled at the quern no more. [29] scotland. vi a pleasant story of cormac's brehon among other affairs which cormac regulated for himself and all kings who should come after him was the number and quality of the officers who should be in constant attendance on the king. of these he ordained that there should be ten, to wit one lord, one brehon, one druid, one physician, one bard, one historian, one musician and three stewards. the function of the brehon, or judge, was to know the ancient customs and the laws of ireland, and to declare them to the king whenever any matter relating to them came before him. now cormac's chief brehon was at first one fithel. but fithel's time came to die, and his son flahari,[30] a wise and learned man, trained by his father in all the laws of the gael, was to be brehon to the high king in his father's stead. fithel then called his son to his bedside and said:- [30] pronounced fla'-haree--accent on the first syllable. "thou art well acquainted, my son, with all the laws and customs of the gael, and worthy to be the chief brehon of king cormac. but wisdom of life thou hast not yet obtained, for it is written in no law-book. this thou must learn for thyself, from life itself; yet somewhat of it i can impart unto thee, and it will keep thee in the path of safety, which is not easily trodden by those who are in the counsels of great kings. mark now these four precepts, and obey them, and thou wilt avoid many of the pit-falls in thy way:- "take not a king's son in fosterage,[31] impart no dangerous secret to thy wife, raise not the son of a serf to a high position, commit not thy purse or treasure to a sister's keeping." [31] the institution of fosterage, by which the children of kings and lords were given to trusted persons among their friends or followers to bring up and educate, was a marked feature of social life in ancient ireland, and the bonds of affection and loyalty between such foster-parents and their children were held peculiarly sacred. having said this fithel died, and flahari became chief brehon in his stead. after a time flahari thought to himself, "i am minded to test my father's wisdom of life and to see if it be true wisdom or but wise-seeming babble. for knowledge is no knowledge until it be tried by life." so he went before the king and said, "if thou art willing, cormac, i would gladly have one of thy sons in fosterage." at this cormac was well pleased, and a young child of the sons of cormac was given to flahari to bring up, and flahari took the child to his own dún, and there began to nurture and to train him as it was fitting. after a time, however, flahari one day took the child by the hand and went with him into the deep recesses of the forest where dwelt one of the swine-herds who minded the swine of flahari. to him flahari handed over the child and bade him guard him as the apple of his eye, and to be ready deliver him up again when he was required. the flahari went home, and for some days went about like a man weighed down by gloomy and bitter thoughts. his wife marked that, and sought to know the reason, but flahari put her off. at last when she continually pressed him to reveal the cause of his trouble, he said "if them must needs learn what ails me, and if thou canst keep a secret full of danger to me and thee, know that i am gloomy and distraught because i have killed the son of cormac." at this the woman cried out, "murderer parricide, hast thou spilled the king's blood, and shall cormac not know it, and do justice on thee?" and she sent word to cormac that he should come and seize her husband for that crime. but before the officers came, flahari took a young man, the son of his butler, and placed him in charge of his lands to manage them, while flahari was away for his trial at tara. and he also gave to his sister a treasure of gold and silver to keep for him, lest it should be made a spoil of while he was absent. then he went with the officers to tara, denying his offence and his confession, but when cormac had heard all, and the child could not be found, he sentenced him to be put to death. flahari then sent a messenger to his sister, begging her to send him at once a portion of the treasure he had left with her, that he might use it to make himself friends among the folk at court, and perchance obtain a remission of his sentence; but she sent the messenger back again empty, saying she knew not of what he spoke. on this flahari deemed that the time was come to reveal the truth, so he obtained permission from the king to send a message to his swineherd before he died, and to hear the man's reply. and the message was this, that murtach the herd should come without delay to tara and bring with him the child that flahari had committed to him. howbeit this messenger also came back empty, and reported that on reaching dún flahari he had been met by the butler's son that was over the estate, who had questioned him of his errand, and had then said, "murtach the serf has run away as soon as he heard of his lord's downfall, and if he had any child in his care he has taken it away with him, and he cannot be found." this he said because, on hearing of the child, he guessed what this might mean, and he had been the bitterest of all in urging flahari's death, hoping to be rewarded with a share of his lands. then flahari said to himself, "truly the proving of my father's wisdom of life has brought me very near to death." so he sent for the king and entreated him that he might be suffered to go himself to the dwelling of murtach the herd, promising that the king's son should be then restored to him, "or if not," said he, "let me then be slain there without more ado." with great difficulty cormac was moved to consent to this, for he believed it was but a subterfuge of flahari's to put off the evil day or perchance to find a way of escape. but next day flahari was straitly bound and set in a chariot, and, with a guard of spearmen about him and cormac himself riding behind, they set out for dún flahari. then flahari guided them through the wild wood till at last they came to the clearing where stood the dwelling of murtach the swineherd, and lo! there was the son of cormac playing merrily before the door. and the child ran to his foster-father to kiss him, but when he saw flahari in bonds he burst out weeping and would not be at peace until he was set free. then murtach slew one of the boars of his herd and made an oven in the earth after the manner of the fianna, and made over it a fire of boughs that he had drying in a shed. and when the boar was baked he set it before the company with ale and mead in methers of beechwood, and they all feasted and were glad of heart. cormac then asked of flahari why he had suffered himself to be brought into this trouble. "i did so," said flahari, "to prove the four counsels which my father gave them ere he died, and i have proved them and found them to be wise. in the first place, it is not wise for any man that is not a king to take the fosterage of a king's son, for if aught shall happen to the lad, his own life is in the king's hands and with his life he shall answer for it. secondly, the keeping of a secret, said my father, is not in the nature of women in general, therefore no dangerous secret should be entrusted to them. the third counsel my father gave me was not to raise up or enrich the son of a serf, for such persons are apt to forget benefits conferred on them, and moreover it irks them that he who raised them up should know the poor estate from which they sprang. and good, too, is the fourth counsel my father gave me, not to entrust my treasure to my sister, for it is the nature of most women to regard as spoil any valuables that are entrusted to them to keep for others." vii the judgment concerning cormac's sword when cormac, son of art, son of conn of the hundred battles, was high king in erinn, great was the peace and splendour of his reign, and no provincial king or chief in any part of the country lifted up his head against cormac. at his court in tara were many noble youths, who were trained up there in all matters befitting their rank and station. one of these youths was named socht, son of fithel. socht had a wonderful sword, named "the hard-headed steeling," which was said to have been long ago the sword of cuchulain. it had a hilt of gold and a belt of silver, and its point was double-edged. at night it shone like a candle. if its point were bent back to the hilt it would fly back again and be as straight as before. if it was held in running water and a hair were floated down against the edge, it would sever the hair. it was a saying that this sword would make two halves of a man, and for a while he would not perceive what had befallen him. this sword was held by socht for a tribal possession from father and grandfather. there was at this time a famous steward to the high king in tara whose name was dubdrenn. this man asked socht to sell him the sword. he promised to socht such a ration as he, dubdrenn, had every night, and four men's food for the family of socht, and, after that, socht to have the full value of the sword at his own appraisement. "no," said socht. "i may not sell my father's treasures while he is alive." and thus they went on, dubdrenn's mind ever running on the sword. at last he bade socht to a drinking-bout, and plied him so with wine and mead that socht became drunken, and knew not where he was, and finally fell asleep. then the steward takes the sword and goes to the king's brazier, by name connu. "art thou able," says dubdrenn, "to open the hilt of this sword?" "i am that," says the brazier. then the brazier took apart the hilt, and within, upon the tang of the blade, he wrote the steward's name, even dubdrenn, and the steward laid the sword again by the side of socht. so it was for three months after that, and the steward continued to ask socht to sell him the sword, but he could not get it from him. then the steward brought a suit for the sword before the high king, and he claimed that it was his own and that it had been taken from him. but socht declared that the sword was his by long possession and by equity, and he would not give it up. then socht went to his father, fithel the brehon, and begged him to take part in the action and to defend his claim. but fithel said, "nay, thou art too apt to blame the pleadings of other men; plead for thyself." so the court was set, and socht was called upon to prove that the sword was his. he swore that it was a family treasure, and thus it had come down to him. the steward said, "well, o cormac, the oath that socht has uttered is a lie." "what proof hast thou of that?" asked cormac. "not hard to declare," replied the steward. "if the sword be mine, my name stands graved therein, concealed within the hilt of the sword." "that will soon be known," says cormac, and therewith he had the brazier summoned. the brazier comes and breaks open the hilt and the name of dubdrenn stands written within it. thus a dead thing testified in law against a living man. then socht said, "hear ye, o men of erinn and cormac the king! i acknowledge that this man is the owner of the sword." and to dubdrenn he said, "the property therein and all the obligations of it pass from me to thee." dubdrenn said, "i acknowledge property in the sword and all its obligations." then said socht, "this sword was found in the neck of my grandfather angus, and till this day it never was known who had done that murder. do justice, o king, for this crime." said the king to dubdrenn, "thou art liable for more than the sword is worth." so he awarded to socht the price of seven bondwomen as blood-fine for the slaying of angus, and restitution of the sword to socht. then the steward confessed the story of the sword, and cormac levied seven other cumals from the brazier. but cormac said, "this is in truth the sword of cuchulain, and by it was slain my grandfather, even conn of the hundred battles, at the hands of the king of ulster, of whom it is written:-"with a host, with a valiant band well did he go into connacht. alas, that he saw the blood of conn on the side of cuchulain's sword!" then cormac and fithel agreed that the sword be given to cormac as blood-fine for the death of conn, and his it was; and it was the third best of the royal treasures that were in erin: namely, cormac's cup, that broke if a falsehood were spoken over it and became whole if a truth were spoken; and the bell branch that he got in fairyland, whose music when it was shaken would put to sleep wounded men, and women in travail; and the sword of cuchulain, against which, and against the man that held it in his hand, no victory could ever be won. viii the disappearance of cormac in the chronicle of the kings of ireland that was written by tierna the historian in the eleventh century after christ's coming, there is noted down in the annals of the year 248, "disappearance of cormac, grandson of conn, for seven months." that which happened to cormac during these seven months is told in one of the bardic stories of ireland, being the story of cormac's journey to fairyland, and this was the manner of it. one day cormac, son of art, was looking over the ramparts of his royal dún of tara, when he saw a young man, glorious to look on in his person and his apparel, coming towards him across the plain of bregia. the young man bore in his hand, as it were, a branch, from which hung nine golden bells formed like apples. when he shook the branch the nine apples beat against each other and made music so sweet that there was no pain or sorrow in the world that a man would not forget while he hearkened to it. "does this branch belong to thee?" asked cormac of the youth. "truly it does," replied the youth. "wilt thou sell it to me?" said cormac. "i never had aught that i would not sell for a price," said the young man. "what is thy price?" asked cormac. "the price shall be what i will," said the young man. "i will give thee whatever thou desirest of all that is mine," said cormac, for he coveted the branch exceedingly, and the enchantment was heavy upon him. so the youth gave him the bell-branch, and then said, "my price is thy wife and thy son and thy daughter." then they went together into the palace and found there cormac's wife and his children. "that is a wonderful jewel thou hast in thy hand, cormac," said ethne. "it is," said cormac, "and great is the price i have paid for it." "what is that price?" said ethne. "even thou and thy children twain," said the king. "never hast thou done such a thing," cried ethne, "as to prefer any treasure in the world before us three!" and they all three lamented and implored, but cormac shook the branch and immediately their sorrow was forgotten, and they went away willingly with the young man across the plain of bregia until a mist hid them from the eyes of cormac. and when the people murmured and complained against cormac, for ethne and her children were much beloved of them, cormac shook the bell-branch and their grief was turned into joy. a year went by after this, and then cormac longed for his wife and children again, nor could the bell-branch any longer bring him forgetfulness of them. so one morning he took the branch and went out alone from tara over the plain, taking the direction in which they had passed away a year agone; and ere long little wreathes of mist began to curl about his feet, and then to flit by him like long trailing robes, and he knew no more where he was. after a time, however, he came out again into sunshine and clear sky, and found himself in a country of flowery meadows and of woods filled with singing-birds where he had never journeyed before. he walked on, till at last he came to a great and stately mansion with a crowd of builders at work upon it, and they were roofing it with a thatch made of the wings of strange birds. but when they had half covered the house, their supply of feathers ran short, and they rode off in haste to seek for more. while they were gone, however, a wind arose and whirled away the feathers already laid on, so that the rafters were left bare as before. and this happened again and again, as cormac gazed on them for he knew not how long. at last his patience left him and he said, "i see with that ye have been doing this since the beginning of the world, and that ye will still be doing it in the end thereof," and with that he went on his way. and many other strange things he saw, but of them we say nothing now, till he came to the gateway of a great and lofty dún, where he entered in and asked hospitality. then there came to him a tall man clad in a cloak of blue that changed into silver or to purple as its folds waved in the light, and with him was a woman more beautiful than the daughters of men, even she of whom it was said her beauty was as that of a tear when it drops from the eyelid, so crystal-pure it was and bright.[32] they greeted cormac courteously and begged him to stay with them for the night. [32] see miss hull's cuchulain, the hound of ulster, p. 175. the pair were mananan, god of the sea, and fand his wife, of whom a tale of great interest is told in the cuchulain cycle of legends. the sea-cloak of mananan is the subject of a magnificent piece of descriptive poetry in ferguson's congal. cormac then entered a great hall with pillars of cedar and many-coloured silken hangings on the walls. in the midst of it was a fire-place whereon the host threw a huge log, and shortly afterwards brought in a young pig which cormac cut up to roast before the fire. he first put one quarter of the pig to roast, and then his host said to him, "tell us a tale, stranger, and if it be a true one the quarter will be done as soon as the tale is told." "do thou begin," said cormac, "and then thy wife, and after that my turn will come." "good," said the host. "this is my tale. i have seven of these swine, and with their flesh the whole world could be fed. when one of them is killed and eaten, i need but put its bones into the pig-trough and on the morrow it is alive and well again." they looked at the fireplace, and behold, the first quarter of the pig was done and ready to be served. then cormac put on the second quarter, and the woman took up her tale. "i have seven white cows," she said, "and seven pails are filled with the milk of them each day. though all the folk in the world were gathered together to drink of this milk, there would be enough and to spare for all." as soon as she had said that, they saw that the second quarter of the pig was roasted. then cormac said: "i know you now, who you are; for it is mananan that owns the seven swine of faery, and it is out of the land of promise that he fetched fand his wife and her seven cows." then immediately the third quarter of the pig was done. "tell us now," said mananan, "who thou art and why thou art come hither." cormac then told his story, of the branch with its nine golden apples and how he had bartered for it his wife and his children, and he was now-seeking them through the world. and when he had made an end, the last quarter of the pig was done. "come, let us set to the feast," then said mananan; but cormac said, "never have i sat down to meat in a company of two only." "nay," said mananan, "but there are more to come." with that he opened a door in the hall and in it appeared queen ethne and her two children. and when they had embraced and rejoiced in each other mananan said, "it was i who took them from thee, cormac, and who gave thee the bell-branch, for i wished to bring thee hither to be my guest for the sake of thy nobleness and thy wisdom." then they all sat down to table and feasted and made merry, and when they had satisfied themselves with meat and drink, mananan showed the wonders of his household to king cormac. and he took up a golden cup which stood on the table, and said: "this cup hath a magical property, for if a lie be spoken over it, it will immediately break in pieces, and if a truth be spoken it will be made whole again." "prove this to me," said cormac. "that is easily done," said mananan. "thy wife hath had a new husband since i carried her off from thee." straightway the cup fell apart into four pieces. "my husband has lied to thee, cormac," said fand, and immediately the cup became whole again. cormac then began to question mananan as to the things he had seen on his way thither, and he told him of the house that was being thatched with the wings of birds, and of the men that kept returning ever and again to their work as the wind destroyed it. and mananan said, "these, o cormac, are the men of art, who seek to gather together much money and gear of all kinds by the exercise of their craft, but as fast as they get it, so they spend it, or faster and the result is that they will never be rich." but when he had said this it is related that the golden cup broke into pieces where it stood. then cormac said, "the explanation thou hast given of this mystery is not true." mananan smiled, and said, "nevertheless it must suffice thee, o king, for the truth of this matter may not be known, lest the men of art give over the roofing of the house and it be covered with common thatch." so when they had talked their fill, cormac and his wife and children were brought to a chamber where they lay down to sleep. but when they woke up on the morrow morn, they found themselves in the queen's chamber in the royal palace of tara, and by cormac's side were found the bell-branch and the magical cup and the cloth of gold that had covered the table where they sat in the palace of mananan. seven months it was since cormac had gone out from tara to search for his wife and children, but it seemed to him that he had been absent but for the space of a single day and night. ix description of cormac[33] [33] the original from the book of ballymote (14th century) is given in o'curry's ms. materials of irish history, appendix xxvi. i have in the main followed o'curry's translation. "a noble and illustrious king assumed the sovranty and rule of erinn, namely cormac, grandson of conn of the hundred battles. the world was full of all goodness in his time; there were fruit and fatness of the land, and abundant produce of the sea, with peace and ease and happiness. there were no killings or plunderings in his time, but everyone occupied his land in happiness. "the nobles of ireland assembled to drink the banquet of tara with cormac at a certain time.... magnificently did cormac come to this great assembly; for no man, his equal in beauty, had preceded him, excepting conary mór or conor son of caffa, or angus óg son of the dagda.[34] splendid, indeed, was cormac's appearance in that assembly. his hair was slightly curled, and of golden colour; a scarlet shield he had, with engraved devices, and golden bosses and ridges of silver. a wide-folding purple cloak was on him with a gem-set gold brooch over his breast; a golden torque round his neck; a white-collared shirt embroidered with gold was on him; a girdle with golden buckles and studded with precious stones was around him; two golden net-work sandals with golden buckles upon his feet; two spears with golden sockets and many red bronze rivets in his hand; while he stood in the full glow of beauty, without defect or blemish. you would think it was a shower of pearls that was set in his mouth, his lips were rubies, his symmetrical body was as white as snow, his cheek was ruddy as the berry of the mountain-ash, his eyes were like the sloe, his brows and eye-lashes were like the sheen of a blue-black lance." [34] angus óg was really a deity or fairy king. he appears also in the story of midir and etain. _q.v._ x the death and burial of cormac strange was the birth and childhood of cormac strange his life and strange the manner of his death and burial, as we now have to narrate. cormac, it is said, was the third man in ireland who heard of the christian faith before the coming of patrick. one was conor mac nessa, king of ulster, whose druid told him of the crucifixion of christ and who died of that knowledge.[35] the second was the wise judge, morann, and the third cormac, son of art. this knowledge was revealed to him by divine illumination, and thenceforth he refused to consult the druids or to worship the images which they made as emblems of the immortal ones. [35] see the conclusion of the _vengeance of mesgedra_. one day it happened that cormac after he had laid down the kingship of ireland, was present when the druids and a concourse of people were worshipping the great golden image which was set up in the plain called moy slaught. when the ceremony was done, the chief druid, whose name was moylann, spoke to cormac and said: "why, o cormac, didst thou not bow down and adore the golden image of the god like the rest of the people?" and cormac said: "never will i worship a stock[36] that my own carpenter has made. rather would i worship the man that made it, for he is nobler than the work of his hands." [36] the image was doubtless of wood overlaid with gold. then it is told that moylann by magic art caused the image to move and leap before the eyes of cormac. "seest thou that?" said moylann. "although i see," said cormac, "i will do no worship save to the god of heaven and earth and hell." then cormac went to his own home at sletty on the boyne, for there he lived after he had given up the kingdom to his son cairbry. but the druids of erinn came together and consulted over this matter, and they determined solemnly to curse cormac and invoke the vengeance of their gods upon him lest the people should think that any man could despise and reject their gods, and suffer no ill for it. so they cursed cormac in his flesh and bones, in his waking and sleeping, in his down sitting and his uprising, and each day they turned over the wishing stone upon the altar of their god,[37] and wove mighty spells against his life. and whether it was that these took effect, or that the druids prevailed upon some traitorous servant of cormac's to work their will, so it was that he died not long thereafter; and some say that he was choked by a fish bone as he sat at meat in his house at sletty on the boyne. [37] there are still wishing stones, which are used in connexion with petitions for good or ill, on the ancient altars of inishmurray and of caher island, and possibly other places on the west coast of ireland. but when he felt his end approaching, and had still the power to speak, he said to those that gathered round his bed:--"when i am gone i charge you that ye bury me not at brugh of the boyne where is the royal cemetery of the kings of erinn.[38] for all these kings paid adoration to gods of wood or stone, or to the sun and the elements, whose signs are carved on the walls of their tombs, but i have learned to know the one god, immortal, invisible, by whom the earth and heavens were made. soon there will come into erinn one from the east who will declare him unto us, and then wooden gods and cursing priests shall plague us no longer in this land. bury me then not at brugh-na-boyna, but on the hither-side of boyne, at ross-na-ree, where there is a sunny, eastward-sloping hill, there would i await the coming of the sun of truth." [38] this famous cemetery of the kings of pagan ireland lies on the north bank of the boyne and consists of a number of sepulchral mounds, sometimes of great extent, containing, in their interior, stone walled chambers decorated with symbolic and ornamental carvings. the chief of these mounds, now known as newgrange, has been explored and described by mr george coffey in his valuable work newgrange, published by the royal irish academy. _brugh_=mansion. so spake cormac, and he died, and there was a very great mourning for him in the land. but when the time came for his burial, the princes and lords of the gael vowed that he should lie in brugh with art, his father, and conn of the hundred battles, and many another king, in the great stone chambers of the royal dead. for ross-na-ree, they said, is but a green hill of no note; and cormac's expectation of the message of the new god they took to be but the wanderings of a dying man. now brugh-na-boyna lay at the farther side of the boyne from sletty, and near by was a shallow ford where the river could be crossed. but when the funeral train came down to the ford, bearing aloft the body of the king, lo! the river had risen as though a tempest had burst upon it at its far-off sources in the hills, and between them and the farther bank was now a broad and foaming flood, and the stakes that marked the ford were washed clean away. even so they made trial of the ford, and thrice the bearers waded in and thrice they were forced to turn back lest the flood should sweep them down. at length six of the tallest and mightiest of the warriors of the high king took up the bier upon their shoulders, and strode in. and first the watchers on the bank saw the brown water swirl about their knees, and then they sank thigh-deep, and at last it foamed against their shoulders, yet still they braced themselves against the current, moving forward very slowly as they found foothold among the slippery rocks in the river-bed. but when they had almost reached the mid-stream it seemed as if a great surge overwhelmed them, and caught the bier from their shoulders as they plunged and clutched around it, and they must needs make back for the shore as best they could, while boyne swept down the body of cormac to the sea. on the following morning, however, shepherds driving their flocks to pasture on the hillside of ross-na-ree found cast upon the shore the body of an aged man of noble countenance, half wrapped in a silken pall; and knowing not who this might be they dug a grave in the grassy hill, and there laid the stranger, and laid the green sods over him again. there still sleeps cormac the king, and neither ogham-lettered stone nor sculptured cross marks his solitary grave. but he lies in the place where he would be, of which a poet of the gael in our day has written:- "a tranquil spot: a hopeful sound comes from the ever-youthful stream, and still on daisied mead and mound the dawn delays with tenderer beam. "round cormac, spring renews her buds: in march perpetual by his side down come the earth-fresh april floods, and up the sea-fresh salmon glide; "and life and time rejoicing run from age to age their wonted way; but still he waits the risen sun, for still 'tis only dawning day."[39] [39] these lines are taken from sir s. ferguson's noble poem, _the burial of king cormac_, from which i have also borrowed some of the details of the foregoing narrative. * * * * * notes on the sources _the story of the children of lir_ and _the quest of the sons of turenn_ are two of the three famous and popular tales entitled "the three sorrows of storytelling." the third is the _tragedy of the sons of usna_, rendered by miss eleanor hull in her volume cuchulain. i have taken the two stories which are given here from the versions in modern irish published by the society for the preservation of the irish language, with notes and translation. neither of them is found in any very early ms., but their subject-matter certainly goes back to very primitive times. _the secret of labra_ is taken from keating's forus feasa ar eirinn, edited with translation by the rev. p.s. dineen for the irish texts society, vol. i. p. 172. _the carving of mac datho's boar_. this is a clean, fierce, fighting story, notable both for its intensely dramatic _dénouement_, and for the complete absence from it of the magical or supernatural element which is so common a feature in gaelic tales. it has been edited and translated from one ms. by dr kuno meyer, in _hibernica minora_ (anecdota oxoniensia), 1894, and translated from the book of leinster (twelfth century) in leahy's heroic romances. _the vengeance of mesgedra_. this story, as i have given it, is a combination of two tales, _the siege of howth_ and _the death of king conor_. the second really completes the first, though they are not found united in irish literature. both pieces are given in o'curry's ms. materials of irish history, and miss hull has printed translations of them in her cuchullin saga, the translation of the _siege_ being by dr whitly stokes and that of the _death of conor_ by o'curry. these are very ancient tales and contain a strong barbaric element. versions of both of them are found in the great ms. collection known as the book of leinster (twelfth century). _king iubdan and king fergus_ is a brilliant piece of fairy literature. the imaginative grace, the humour, and, at the close, the tragic dignity of this tale make it worthy of being much more widely known than it has yet become. the original, taken from one of the egerton mss. in the british museum, will be found with a translation in o'grady's silva gadelica. for the conclusion, i have in the main followed another version (containing the death of fergus only), given in the seancus mor and finely versified by sir samuel ferguson in his poems, 1880. _the story of etain and midir_. this beautiful and very ancient romance is extant in two distinct versions, both of which are translated by mr a.h. leahy in his heroic romances. the tale is found in several mss., among others, in the twelfth century book of the dun cow (leabhar na h-uidhre). it has been recently made the subject of a dramatic poem by "fiona macleod." _how ethne quitted fairyland_ is taken from d'arbois de jubainville's cycle mythologique irlandais, ch. xii. 4. the original is to be found in the fifteenth century ms., entitled the book of fermoy. _the boyhood of finn_ is based chiefly on the macgniomhartha fhinn, published in 1856, with a translation, in the _transactions of the ossianic society_, vol. iv. i am also indebted, particularly for the translation of the difficult _song of finn in praise of may_, to dr kuno meyer's translation published in _ériu_ (the journal of the school of irish learning), vol. i. pt. 2. _the coming of finn_, _finns chief men_, the _tale of vivionn_ and _the chase of the gilla dacar_, are all handfuls from that rich mine of gaelic literature, mr standish hayes o'grady's silva gadelica. in the _gilla dacar_ i have modified the second half of the story rather freely. it appears to have been originally an example of a well-known class of folk-tales dealing with the subject of the rescue of fairyland. the same motive occurs in the famous tale called _the sickbed of cuchulain_. the idea is that some fairy potentate, whose realm is invaded and oppressed, entices a mortal champion to come to his aid and rewards him with magical gifts. but the eighteenth century narrator whose ms. was edited by mr s.h. o'grady, apparently had not the clue to the real meaning of his material, and after going on brilliantly up to the point where dermot plunges into the magic well, he becomes incoherent, and the rest of the tale is merely a string of episodes having no particular connexion with each other or with the central theme. the latter i have here endeavoured to restore to view. the _gilla dacar_ is given from another gaelic version by dr p.w. joyce in his invaluable book, old celtic romances. _the birth of oisín_ i have found in patrick kennedy's legendary fictions of the irish celts. i do not know the gaelic original. _oisín in the land of youth_ is based, as regards the outlines of this remarkable story, on the laoi oisín ar tir na n-óg, written by michael comyn about 1750, and edited with a translation by thomas flannery in 1896 (gill & son, dublin). comyn's poem was almost certainly based on earlier traditional sources, either oral or written or both, but these have not hitherto been discovered. _the history of king cormac_. the story of the birth of cormac and his coming into his kingdom is to be found in silva gadelica, where it is edited from the book of ballymote, an ms. dating from about the year 1400. the charming tale, of his marriage with ethne ni dunlaing is taken from keating's forus feasa. from this source also i have taken the tales of the brehon flahari, of kiernit and the mill, and of cormac's death and burial. the _instructions of cormac_ have been edited and translated by dr kuno meyer in the todd lecture series of the royal irish academy, xiv., april 1909. they are found in numerous mss., and their date is fixed by dr meyer about the ninth century. with some other irish matter of the same description they constitute, says mr alfred nutt, "the oldest body of gnomic wisdom" extant in any european vernacular. (_folk-lore_, sept. 30, 1909.) the story of cormac's adventures in fairyland has been published with a translation by standish hayes o'grady in the _transactions of the ossianic society_, vol. iii., and is also given very fully by d'arbois de jubainvilie in his cycle mythologique irlandais. the tale is found, among other mss., in the book of ballymote, but is known to have been extant at least as early as the tenth century, since in that year it figures in a list of gaelic tales drawn up by the historian tierna. the ingenious story of the _judgment concerning cormac's sword_ is found in the book of ballymote, and is printed with a translation by dr whitly stokes in _irische texte_, iii. serie, 7 heft, 1891. pronouncing index the correct pronunciation of gaelic proper names can only be learned from the living voice. it cannot be accurately represented by any combination of letters from the english alphabet. i have spared the reader as much trouble as possible on this score by simplifying, as far as i could, the forms of the names occurring in the text, and if the reader will note the following general rules, he will get quite as near to the pronunciation intended as there is any necessity for him to do. a few names which might present some unusual difficulty are given with their approximate english pronunciations in the index. the chief rule to observe is that vowels are pronounced as in the continental languages, not according to the custom peculiar to england. thus _a_ is like _a_ in _father_, never like _a_ in _fate, i_(when long) is like _ee_, _u_ like _oo_, or like _u_ in _put_ (never like _u_ in _tune_). an accent implies length, thus _dún_, a fortress or mansion, is pronounced _doon_. the letters _ch_ are never to be pronounced with a _t_ sound, as in the word _chip_, but like a rough _h_ or a softened _k_, rather as in german. _gh_ is silent as in english, and _g_ is always hard, as in _give_. _c_ is always as _k_, never as _s_. in the following index an accent placed after a syllable indicates that the stress is to be laid on that syllable. only those words are given, the pronunciation of which is not easily ascertainable by attention to the foregoing rules. index æda is to be pronounced ee'-da. ailill " al'-yill. anluan " an'-looan. aoife " ee'-fa. bacarach " bac'-ara_h_. belachgowran " bel'-a_h_-gow'-ran. cearnach " kar'-na_h_. cuchulain " coo-_h_oo'-lin. cumhal " coo'wal, cool. dacar " dak'-ker. derryvaragh " derry-var'-a. eisirt " eye'sert. eochy " yeo'_h_ee. fiachra " fee'-a_k_ra. fianna " fee'-anna. finegas " fin'-egas. fionnuala " fee-on-oo'-ala, shortened in modern irish into fino'-la. flahari " fla'-haree. iorroway " yor'-oway. iubdan " youb'-dan. iuchar " you'-_h_ar. iucharba " you-_h_ar'-ba. liagan " lee'-agan. lir " leer. logary " lo'-garee. maev " rhyming to _wave_. mananan " man'-anan. mesgedra " mes-ged'-ra. midir " mid'-eer. mochaen " mo-_hain'. mochaovóg " mo-_h_wee'-vogue. moonremur " moon'-ray-mur. oisín " ush'-een (ossian). peisear " pye'-sar. sceolaun " ske-o'-lawn (the _e_ very short). slievenamuck " sleeve-na-muck'. slievenamon " sleeve-na-mon'. tuish " too'-ish. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 37315-h.htm or 37315-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37315/37315-h/37315-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37315/37315-h.zip) [illustration: _"and thrusting his sword through its head, laid it dead on the ground."--p. 4_] the boy's book of heroes. by helena peake. with original illustrations. london: frederick warne and co., bedford street, covent garden. new york: scribner, welford, and co. london: j. and w. rider, printers, bartholomew close. contents. page hereward--last of the saxons 1 the cid 17 louis ix., king of france 49 gustavus vasa, king of sweden 82 bertrand du guesclin 110 christopher columbus 144 the chevalier de bayard 192 sir martin frobisher 225 sir walter raleigh 242 sir philip sidney 257 a little boy's book of heroes. hereward.--last of the saxons. in the days of edward the confessor there lived in mercia a noble anglo-saxon youth named hereward. he was brave, stedfast, and spirited, but so violent and overbearing, so ready to quarrel and to use his sword, if everything he desired was not conceded to him at once that the youths he played and wrestled with around his home at bourne[1], resolved to make complaint of him to his father, leofric, the great earl of mercia. leofric was a very valiant man, and he had done king edward good service at the time of earl godwin's rebellion. he had three sons; of these hereward was the second; the eldest was algar, whom the confessor made lord over east anglia. leofric was very much grieved when he heard, day after day, of the unruly deeds of his son, and found that he paid little heed to the reproofs he so justly deserved. and if leofric was grieved, far more so was his wife, the saintly lady godiva, who passed nearly the whole of her time in the performance of good works, feeding and clothing the poor, nursing the sick, and praying long hours for those she loved, and it may be most of all for her wayward son, hereward. besides this, she gave large sums of money for the support of religious houses, and founded the monastery at coventry, which is said to have contained greater treasure of gold, silver, and jewels, than any other in england. but father and mother at last were wearied out, and leofric persuaded king edward to outlaw his turbulent son, as the only means of preserving peace in the neighbourhood of his castle of bourne. the youth, not the least dismayed when sentence was passed upon him, set out on his travels accompanied by one servant, named martin, as brave and as reckless as himself, and who followed him because he loved him. perhaps some of his relations were sorry after all to see him go, for they could not help admiring his free, brave spirit, and amongst those who cared for him was his uncle brand, abbot of peterborough, a very pious man, as the chroniclers say, but haughty and unbending to the enemies of his land. let us glance at hereward as he bade farewell for many a year to the home of his youth. he was of middle height, broad shouldered, and sturdy limbed, but active and graceful in all his movements. his features were handsome, his golden hair fell in long curls over his shoulders, according to the saxon fashion; one of his large eyes being blue and the other grey, gave a strange expression to his countenance. it is supposed that he lived chiefly in the woods and forests during the early days of his exile, but a few months after he quitted bourne, we find him "beyond northumberland" with the fleming, gilbert of ghent, who bore him good-will, and had sent for him as soon as he heard that he was outlawed. hereward had not been long in his friend's house, which was in some part of scotland, when an event occurred which redounded very much to his credit. it was the custom then for rich men to have various kinds of sports at christmas, easter, and whitsuntide, and they used to keep a number of wild beasts in enclosures, which were led forth at these seasons, that the noble youths assembled might try their strength against them. it was christmas time when hereward arrived "beyond northumberland." he had passed some joyous days hunting in the wintry forests, and had become a great favourite with the company, because he excelled in all manly sports, and could charm the ladies besides by singing sweetly, and playing on the harp, in the long winter evenings. but when he looked at the wild beasts in their cages, he only saw one that he thought he should like to fight with, and that was a huge white bear, which was known to be exceedingly fierce. and beyond this it was said that its parent was the famed norwegian bear, which lived far away in the pine woods of the north, and, according to the fable believed in at the time, was endowed with human sense, and could understand human speech. now it happened one day that the white bear broke the bars of its enclosure, and rushed out, killing and tearing to pieces all the animals that came in its path. this must have been very alarming, and worse still, it was making its way towards a room, opening out of the court where the women and children belonging to the house had taken refuge, and some knights in their terror had followed them, instead of trying to drive back the fierce creature with their lances. hereward had just come in from hunting, and saw at a glance what had happened; he went straight up to the bear, and thrusting his sword through its head, he laid it dead on the ground. his praises after this were sung far and wide; but amidst all the joy there was a secret plot made to destroy him by some of the knights who had shown themselves to be cowards, and were jealous of the bold deed he had performed. so one day they concealed themselves in the wood and tried to kill him as he came slowly along the mossy paths followed by his servant martin. the story tells how hereward slew two of these knights in self-defence, and another crept away, or was carried wounded to the house. soon after this he bade gilbert of ghent farewell; he said that he could not live happily where there were traitors, but those who loved him were grieved when he rode away, and the women shed many tears, remembering how he had saved them with his strong right arm from a cruel death. from scotland he went to cornwall, and there we are told he performed some brave deeds, and rescued a cornish princess by slaying in combat a fierce and cruel pict, a giant in height, whom her father had commanded her to marry against her own inclination. some time after he was heard of in ireland, where he took part in the warlike exploits of king ranald. whenever there was fighting he was sure to be found where the danger was thickest, and the name of "the wake" was given to him because he was always on the watch for his enemies, and could never be taken unawares. but in ireland he began to get homesick; he longed to see his brave father once more, and his mother, the lady of bourne, sitting amongst her maidens, or gliding amongst the sick like some comforting angel; he wanted to know if his relations had any kindly feeling left towards him. this longing became so strong that he asked the king to give him two ships, which ranald granted him readily in return for his services, and with these he set out for england. but he had not sailors enough on board, and since he could get no more to serve him in ireland, he sailed up northwards towards the orkneys. when he reached these islands a storm arose and one of his ships was wrecked on the shore of hoy. with the other vessel he hoped to get safe to england, but he had not been long at sea when the winds blew furiously, the waves dashed and foamed, and storm-tossed for many days he was at last driven on the shore of flanders. in this country he found a welcome, and married a noble flemish lady named torfrida. no part of his life, perhaps, was more peaceful than that which he spent in his new home: nevertheless, it appears that wherever he was, he always engaged in the wars that were carried on around him, and never failed to distinguish himself by his valour. whilst hereward had been wandering about all this time an outlaw, great changes had taken place in the affairs of england. on the death of edward the confessor the english had welcomed harold, son of earl godwin to the throne, quietly setting aside edgar atheling, who was too weak-minded to defend his right, or to have ruled had he been king. but harold had scarcely been crowned when william of normandy began making his vast preparations for the conquest of england. the terrible battle of hastings had been fought; harold the second was slain, and nearly all the bravest warriors amongst the english had fallen on the battle-field. and with the exception of a few valiant noblemen, it seemed as if the people of england had lost all spirit and would bow quietly to the norman yoke. leofric of mercia was dead; algar also had died, leaving two fair young sons, edwin and morcar, who at the time of the conquest were accounted the most powerful noblemen in the land, edwin being earl of mercia, and morcar, earl of northumberland. it must be remembered that mercia included all the midland counties of england. the brothers proclaimed edgar atheling king, and tried to persuade the londoners to rise; but their efforts were of no avail, and they were soon obliged to retire to their own lands. one day, some emigrants came to flanders and told hereward all that had happened in england. oh, how he wished he had been amongst the saxons on the day of battle! surely, if there had been many as brave and stern as he, the normans would have been driven back. and when he learned that some frenchmen had taken possession of the estate of bourne, which was now his own, and that they were cruelly oppressing his widowed mother, he only waited to bid torfrida farewell, and then set out for england, followed by martin, with the intention of avenging his mother's wrongs. it was late in the evening when he drew near the old house of bourne. some of the companions of his boyhood recognised him, and told him that william of normandy had given his estate to a low-born foreigner, and that a party of normans had just taken up their abode in the house. so hereward hastened on towards bourne, and sought out a house at the end of the long street which belonged to one percy where he thought he could lodge for the night. here he found a number of fighting men bewailing the misfortunes of england, and heard from them how the frenchmen had robbed his mother of all her treasures, and how his youngest brother, a youth of sixteen, had been slain defending her, and his head had been fastened up over the door of the house. and one amongst the company of warriors said, that if hereward, the outlawed son of leofric had been at home, this trouble would never have come upon bourne. now hereward, having formed a plan in his mind, did not make himself known yet: he only said that he had come from flanders, but the men perceived by the flash of his eye and his proud bearing that his spirit was kindled at their wrongs, and their hearts leaned towards him because he looked so brave and strong. after a while, the warriors dropped off one by one to sleep as the night wore on. hereward heard in the silence around, the sound of harps and joyful singing, and the clinking of goblets. he asked a boy what it was that he heard, and the boy said it was the merry-making of the guests in the lord's house above, where the youngest son had been killed only the day before. then hereward beckoned martin and percy to him, and by their means he covered his helmet and his shining coat of mail with some woman's robe of black stuff, and went out with martin, who was disguised in like manner, to the house of bourne. the first grievous sight that awaited him was the head of his young brother fixed up above the door. he could see through the windows the normans sitting at their feast in noisy merriment: they boasted loudly of their deeds, and spoke slightingly of hereward, whom they believed to be far away in flanders, although one flemish woman amongst the guests declared that if he had been there he could have overthrown them all. then hereward, the wake, the terrible, waited to hear no more; he rushed with martin on those unprepared men; a fearful struggle began, and of all the foreigners, it is said that not one was left there alive when the day dawned. such is the story told by the monk of ely, of the fierce and relentless manner in which bourne was rescued from the normans. the lady godiva was very thankful to know that she had yet a son to protect her. after this night of horror she removed to the abbey of croyland, where she lived praying and fasting, and tending the poor and sick until she died. in the year 1069 there was a rebellion throughout england. the english were angry and indignant when they saw how the conqueror bestowed all the high offices in the land upon his normans, whilst he trod their own liberties under foot. several bands of patriots assembled in the marshy lands of cambridgeshire, and there in the island of ely they formed entrenchments of earth and wood, and lived in security, often completely hidden by the mists that rose up from the stagnant waters. there, too, they were amongst friends; the abbey of croyland was in the marshes; peterborough was not far off northward, and as yet the monastery was held by the abbot brand, who prided himself on never having sought favour from the conqueror. meanwhile, hereward had returned to flanders, but he did not remain there long, and when he came back to england a second time, bringing with him his wife torfrida and his little daughter, his kinsmen welcomed him heartily, and asked him to lead them in the battles they hoped to fight with the normans. but notwithstanding the numerous warlike deeds he had performed, he was not what was called a legitimate "miles" or knight, and to be this it was requisite that he should receive knighthood according to the anglo-saxon custom. it was a law that every man desiring to be a lawful knight should go to some abbey, and the evening before the ceremony of knighthood was to take place, should confess his sins in deep penitence, and pass the whole night inside the church in prayer and mortification. the next morning he was to hear mass, and then offer up his sword upon the altar; this being done the gospel would be read, and the priest, having consecrated the sword, would place it on the neck of the warrior with his blessing.[2] the normans looked with much scorn on this manner of knighthood at the hands of a priest, but it may have been, as a modern french historian observes, that they did not like to see so many knights continually rising up amongst a people they had conquered. hereward went to peterborough,[3] with two of his band, winter and gwenoch, and persuaded his uncle to knight them all. and he told him that william had given the abbey to thorold, called "the fighting monk," but that brand would not believe for a long time. all the brave anglo-saxons rose up now to make a last effort to deliver themselves from the normans. the danes came to help them under objorn, brother of sweyn, king of norway. edgar atheling appeared from scotland with a number of brave men. the people of york put their norman governor to death; the fiercest struggles were in the north of england. hereward established himself with his followers in the island of ely, and had a fortress of wood constructed which served them for shelter, and was a point where other men of like mind could meet them from the forests and fastnesses around. and here they remained for a long time to the great annoyance of the normans who could not reach them because their horses constantly lost their footing in the marshes and bogs around. thorold set out for peterborough, but brand did not live to be despoiled of his abbey. hereward hearing that the fighting monk was coming, hastened to peterborough with some of his men, and when they found that the monks were not at all inclined to bar the entrance of thorold, they took all the crosses, and golden cups, the sacred robes and staffs belonging to the abbey, and carried them to their quarters in ely. and soon after this the monks of peterborough opened the gates to the normans. the danish warriors made their way to ely, but william found means to persuade sweyn to recall them, and he bribed objorn to retire by giving him large presents and the liberty of plundering the sea coast. the departure of the danes caused great vexation to the people in ely, because they carried away with them all the sacred treasures of peterborough. now taillebois, the angevin,[4] had many followers, and being a great boaster, he swore that he would quickly drive the outlaws out of their hiding places. the fighting monk was out in the marshes, and he told him that he meant to attack the english. hereward let him enter a forest of willows which served to protect the patriots from their enemies, but as taillebois went in on one side of the forest, he came out on the other side himself, and falling upon thorold and his men, who had remained behind, he took them all prisoners and kept them in the marshes, not releasing the abbot until he had paid him three thousand marks of silver. the young brothers, edwin and morcar, had not joined in this last rebellion, but they were not at all happy at king william's court; their hearts were with their brave kinsman and not with the conqueror of their land. at last edwin went to northumberland to lay his plans for another rising, and morcar fled to the island of ely, where hereward was still holding out bravely, although the saxon nobles in other parts of england had all given way. william was very uneasy so long as he could not gain possession of ely. in the hope of preventing the saxons from coming out of the island, he surrounded it with flat-bottomed boats and made a causeway to the extent of two miles. the workmen who were employed in constructing the causeway were much harassed by hereward and his men, and the king was persuaded by some of his nobles to place an old woman, believed to be a witch, in a wooden tower at the head of the works that she might use her spells against the enemy. hereward, on this, came out with his troop and set fire to the willows that grew closely around the tower, and thus the poor old woman perished in the flames. this seems to have been a very cruel act on the part of our hero, although, unhappily, in those days, the burning of witches was not considered a crime. the island remained blockaded for several months. at last the inmates of a monastery in the interior got very hungry because no provisions could be brought in, and they sent word to the king that they would show him how his troops might enter the island if he would promise not to deprive them of their property. two norman knights, gilbert de clare, and guillaume de larenne undertook to try the path; the king's troops poured in after them, and it is said that they put a thousand englishmen to the sword. all the nobles now surrendered except hereward, and william imprisoned morcar, and egelwine, bishop of durham, who had taken refuge in ely. morcar died in his prison,[5] and egelwine went mad, and as for the others "they suffered so much in their captivity that it had been better for them if they had been put to death the day they were taken."[6] hereward, with a few of his men, fought his way through the enemy and escaped from their pursuit by difficult paths to the lowlands of lincolnshire. there some saxon fishermen who were in the habit of carrying fish every day to the norman stations, along the marshes, concealed them in their boats by covering them up with straw. when the boats reached one of these strongholds, the normans little imagining that their greatest enemy was so near, purchased their fish as usual, and when it was cooked, sat down to dinner. they had scarcely begun to eat when hereward and his men rose up out of the straw, and with hatchets in their hands rushed suddenly upon them. there was a fierce conflict, and many of the normans were slain; those who survived fled in great terror and left their horses behind them ready saddled. then hereward, and the followers that remained to him, each chose a good steed for himself and galloped away into the forests. in the country around they found many friends, and before they came as far as huntingdon their company included a hundred well armed men, all of them faithful subjects of hereward and proud to share his exploits. their numbers increasing daily, they became so strong at last that gaimar, the french poet, says they might have assailed a city. and a very strong castle they did take, and found in it quantities of gold, silver, and armour, besides rich furs and stuffs. so for a while they went on fighting under their brave leader with spirit unquenched; often one englishman against three of the enemy. but hope died out even in the heart of hereward when the power of the conqueror became fully established in the land. his friends were either dead or in prison, or they had been sent blinded and maimed to their homes. the persuasions of a saxon lady, named alfrueda, helped to induce him to make peace, or rather a truce, with william, and he set out accordingly, followed by three of his comrades, for winchester, where the king was then living. but when he drew near the gates of the city, he thought that this manner of presenting himself before his sovereign was unworthy of his own high rank, and he turned back in order to provide a more dignified escort. the second time he approached winchester he was at the head of forty men, all clad in armour from head to foot, and mounted on handsomely accoutred horses. the king had a great admiration for the valour and constancy of hereward; he welcomed him gladly to his court, and suffered him to retain his estate at bourne. notwithstanding this, the normans were always trying to quarrel with the brave saxon, and one day oger, the breton, offended him so deeply that a combat took place between them, in which oger was wounded. then the enemies of hereward told the king that he had spoken evil of him, and persuaded him to arrest him for that and for having wounded oger. william seems to have been very ready to believe ill of his powerful subject, and ordered him to be imprisoned in bedford castle, where he remained a whole year. when hereward was released he went to live in his house at bourne, and was known by the name of "the lord of the fens." the monk who wrote his life in latin, asserts that he died peacefully in his home, but other documents have been found which prove that he did not meet his death in quiet, but in fierce conflict with his enemies. his house at bourne was frequently attacked by the normans. one day he was sitting outside the door, the weather was sultry, and he had fallen asleep. suddenly, he was awakened by the clash of weapons and the tread of horses, and found that he was surrounded by a party of bretons. he was without his coat of mail, and had only a sword and a short pike. undaunted amongst so many, he snatched up a shield that was lying near, and defended himself "like a lion." taillebois, his greatest enemy, was with the troop. when he perceived him he cried out that they were all traitors because he had made his peace with the king, and that if they sought his life or his goods they should pay dearly for either. terrible was the struggle that ensued; the normans fell around; hereward himself received four sword thrusts at once; it was raoul de dol, a breton knight, who rushed forward to give him the death blow; then, he made one last effort, and flinging his shield in the face of his foe, he fell back dead. the life of hereward was marked by many fierce deeds, and would that all anger and strife had been hushed before he died! his memory must be cherished because he loved his country so well, and it was great and noble of him, when all his partizans had laid down their arms in submission, to stand up alone in her righteous cause, and to be the last man to yield to the thraldom of a conqueror. the daughter of hereward was given in marriage by william to a valiant knight named hugh de evermere, to whom she brought the lands of bourne. torfrida ended her days in the abbey of croyland. footnotes: [1] bourne, then called brun, in lincolnshire. [2] see sharon turner. [3] peterborough was formerly called burgh. [4] angevin, a native of anjou. [5] see gaimar. [6] edwin, the brother of morcar, was slain by some of his own followers. the cid. according to the spanish chronicles the famous rodrigo diaz de bivar, known by the name of the cid, was born about the year 1026, in the city of burgos, the capital of old castille. his father, diego laynez, was descended from layn calvo, one of two judges by whom the country was governed after ordono, its king, had behaved very treacherously. when we first hear of rodrigo as a youth of gentle manners, but of great courage and bodily strength, don ferrando, a christian king, who traced his descent from the other judge, was ruling over castille. spain was then composed of many different kingdoms; the moors had been steadily gaining ground ever since they first set foot in the land, more than three hundred years before, whilst the christians had been trying as steadily to keep them back. now they held sway over by far the larger portion of spain; several of the great-cities, especially those in the south, were under the dominion of moorish kings, and were filled with beautiful buildings, many of which remain, to show what wonderful skill the arabian architects must have possessed. the moors lived in great splendour; their palaces and courts were paved with marble, and the walls were covered with arabesques in brilliant colours, or fretwork in gold[7]; the ceilings were often of cedar wood, inlaid with silver, ivory, or mother of pearl, and the chambers were filled with the fragrance of costly spices, which were kept always burning. then they had beautiful gardens blooming with roses and myrtles, where orange trees grew, and silvery fountains played into basins of white marble. the outside of their buildings was also richly ornamented, and sometimes with the strangest devices. the alhambra, the finest of all the moorish palaces, which still remains in its ancient splendour, was not built in the city of granada until nearly two hundred years after the death of the cid. the spaniards themselves were very brave, and inherited their valour from the visigoths, who were in possession of spain for a long time before the moors crossed over the sea from africa. the middle ages were not as dark for them as they were for the other nations of europe, because their moorish invaders taught them many useful arts and sciences, and also introduced into spain various fruits and trees which had hitherto only grown in the east, or in africa. amongst these was the pomegranate, with its shining dark green leaves, its beautiful crimson blossom, and its red, juicy fruit; then there was the palm-tree, which was cultivated in the fertile soil of valencia, until it reached the height of a hundred and fifty feet; and the strange-looking carob-tree, with leaves gloomily dark, and pods full of a sweet pulp, like manna in taste, which were given to the horses and mules. some of the moorish kings were merciful rulers, and rendered their subjects happy; still, as they were strangers and infidels, it was very natural for the spaniards to wish to drive them out of the land, and rodrigo de bivar is renowned for having regained more ground from them than any of the other great spanish captains. whilst rodrigo was still a youth, a quarrel arose between his father and a certain count gomez, during which the count gave his adversary a blow. laynez was old and feeble, and could not lift his sword, and he grieved over the insult with a spaniard's sense of shame and thirst for revenge. rodrigo, indignant at seeing his father treated thus scornfully, went out and defied the count to a combat, and slew him in the struggle. and when he came home and told his father how he had avenged the affront that had been offered him, the old man decreed that he should be considered thenceforth as the head of the house of layn calvo. alas! those were terrible times when men fired up at the slightest provocation, and thought their honour was at stake if an offence were not wiped out with the shedding of blood, and seldom or never gave the "soft answer that turneth away wrath." a little while after this, the moors, led by five of their kings, entered castille; they plundered the cities and carried away captive men, women, and children, besides seizing the cows and the sheep that were feeding in the pastures. they were going home in triumph when rodrigo, young as he was, came up with them in the mountains of oca, and put them all to the rout. "he rode to the hills of oca, where the moormen lay, he conquered all the moors, and took from their prey." his father being now dead, he went home to his mother, a noble lady, the daughter of the count of asturias, and told her how he had won back all that the moors had taken, and had made their five kings captive. his mother was very proud of his success, and rejoiced still more when she heard him say that it would not be fair to keep the kings in prison, and that he would send them all back to their own territory. and the moors were so touched by his generous conduct towards them that they resolved to pay tribute and to remain subject to the king of castille. the next event recorded in his life is his marriage with ximena, daughter of count gomez, whom he had slain. it is said that ximena, without any regard for the memory of her father, went to the king, don ferrando, and entreated him to allow her to be married to rodrigo de bivar, because she thought that he would one day be the richest and most powerful man in the realm. the marriage took place, and a short time after, don ferrando, of castille, and don ramiero, of arragon, had a quarrel about a city called calahorra, each laying claim to it as his rightful possession. as it seemed impossible to find out which king had the right on his side, it was agreed to decide the question by single combat, so don martin gonzalez, accounted the bravest knight in all spain, was chosen to fight for ramiero, and rodrigo de bivar was to fight for ferrando. before the day of the combat arrived, rodrigo set out on a pilgrimage to the holy shrine of st. james, at compostella, accompanied by twenty knights. the spaniards have a curious legend in reference to this journey which must not be passed over, although so many strange stories are told of the cid that it is difficult to discover how many of the events detailed in his life are really true. on the road to compostella the pilgrims found a leper struggling in a quagmire, and crying in vain for help. rodrigo hastened to his relief and dragged him out of the muddy water. then he set him before him on his own horse and continued his journey. when they arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, rodrigo seated the leper at supper next himself, and eat with him of all the viands that were served before them off the same plate. the knights to show their disgust at this, rose with one accord and left the supper room. nevertheless, rodrigo, feeling sure that no one else in the inn would have pity upon the poor leper or give him shelter, made him share his bed, but when he awoke at midnight he found him gone. after a while a figure appeared before him, clad in shining white garments, and a voice asked him if he were asleep or awake. "i am awake," replied rodrigo, "but who art thou, and whence is this fragrance and brightness?" the strange visitant, answered, "i am saint lazarus, the leper whom thou hast succoured and honoured for the love of god;" and he told him that when he felt a breath near him, such as he had felt that night, before he appeared, it would be a sign that he should succeed in whatever enterprise he was engaged in at the time; and he told him also that he should be feared both by christians and moors, and that his foes should never prevail against him. then the saint vanished, and rodrigo, wondering at the extraordinary vision, knelt down, and remained many hours in prayer, and at daybreak he set out on his pilgrimage once more, doing all the good he could along his journey. on the day fixed for the combat, rodrigo had not appeared at the spot where it was to take place, and his cousin alvar fanez, was preparing to fight in his stead. but at the very moment when the contest was to begin, he stepped forward and took his stand against the champion of arragon. they fought so fiercely that their lances were broken, and they were both severely wounded, and although gonzalez taunted his opponent by saying that he should never go back alive to his bride, doã±a ximena, rodrigo was more cruel to him than he need have been, and gave him his death wound as he lay, faint from loss of blood, upon the ground. then don ferrando came up and embraced rodrigo, and helped to unharm him himself; he was so glad that he could take possession of calahorra, but all the people of arragon sorrowed bitterly for the loss of gonzalez, their bravest knight. the counts of castille now grew jealous of rodrigo's renown, and plotted with the moors that a battle should take place, in which they hoped he might be killed and so stand no longer in their way. the affair was made known to the moors who were his vassals; they refused to share in the treason, and revealed the whole plot to their lord. the king was very angry when he heard of the treachery of his nobles, and to punish them, he ordered all the traitors to quit the kingdom at once. about this time rodrigo was knighted in the great mosque of coimbra, the king giving him his sword, the queen his horse, and the infanta fastening on his spurs. after this he was called ruy diaz, ruy being short for rodrigo; and his moorish vassals when they brought him tribute called him "el seid," the arabic for "the lord," so that he was known thenceforth by the name of the cid. not long after this don ferrando died, leaving his dominions divided amongst his five children. sancho had castille, alonzo leon, garcia gallicia, and their two sisters, the cities of tora and zamora. the brothers kept at peace for only two years, and then they went to war with one another. the cid remained faithful to the fortunes of don sancho, and one day during the war, when the king was being carried away prisoner by thirteen knights who were on the side of alonzo, ruy diaz chanced to come up with them in time, and being unarmed, he asked them to give him a lance. the knights refused at first, but afterwards gave him one, laughing at the idea that one man could hold out against so many. they soon found that they were mistaken, for the cid overthrew them one after another until only two were left, and thus freed don sancho from the power of his enemies. the war between the brothers unhappily lasted some years, and at last alonzo was defeated by sancho, and shut up in prison, whence he contrived to escape to the court of the moorish kings. sancho himself received a death blow from an unknown hand at the siege of zamora. before he died he prayed that his brother alonzo might come from the land of the moors and show favour to the cid, and that the hidalgos would entreat him to forgive whatever wrongs, he, don sancho, had done to him. alonzo returned from the land of the moors, and as soon as he arrived his sister urraca sent letters to all the nobles in the kingdom that they might render him homage. those of leon and gallicia were very glad to come and receive him for their king; then the castillians appeared, and they kissed his hands, all except the cid; but they were not all content, for alonzo had been suspected of having connived at the death of don sancho. when the king saw that the cid would not kiss his hand, he was vexed, and he asked him why he held back. and the cid replied that he would never render him homage until he had sworn with twelve of his hidalgos who were likewise suspected, that he had not connived at the death of don sancho. the king consented to take the oath in the great church of saint gadea, in burgos, and went thither on the appointed day with his sisters and all his court. the cid made him stand with the hidalgos on a high stage so that they might be seen by all the people in the church; then he took the book of the holy gospels and laid it on the altar, and when alonzo had placed his hand upon it, he asked him in the most solemn manner if he had anything to do with his brother's death. and he said that if it were so, and he denied the crime, he should die a like death himself, at the hands of one who was not a castillian, but would come from a strange land. at the end of every sentence the cid spoke, the king and his hidalgos answered, amen. it was an awful scene, and when alonzo heard the doom pronounced upon him if he did not speak the truth, he turned pale, and asked ruy diaz why he pressed him so much, because he made him take the oath three times. when he had sworn that he was innocent for the last time, the cid kissed his hand and acknowledged him for his king, and from thenceforth alonzo reigned over castille, leon, gallicia, and navarre, and was free from the attempts of his brother garcia since he had invited him to his court, and then shut him up in a strong castle, where he remained to the end of his days. it was a very long time, however, before he could look kindly on the cid, for he thought he had done him a great injury by making him take the oath so many times before his people. the first expedition of ruy diaz after this was against the kings of seville and cordova, in which he won great honour, and afterwards returned to castille laden with spoils. then he lay sick for a long time, and could not go with alonzo to fight the moors in another part of spain. and it happened that when the king was far away, a vast company of moors, thinking that all was quiet, entered castille and did great damage to the country. the cid, hearing of this, roused himself and gathered his strength and pursued them as far as the city of toledo. the castillians around toledo were very jealous of his power, and they complained to alonzo that ruy diaz had driven the moors into their territory on purpose to annoy them. alonzo flew into a great passion, and summoned the cid to his presence, and glad of an opportunity of vexing him, ordered him to leave the country of castille for ever, and all the fair domains he possessed. when the sentence was passed the cid's cousin, alvar fanez, and all his friends, kinsmen, and vassals, declared that if he must needs quit the land they would follow him into his exile and remain faithful to him all the days of their life. this comforted ruy diaz, although he did not desire that so many of those he loved should condemn themselves to wander in the land of the moors for his sake. he sent his wife ximena, and his two little daughters, elvira and sol,[8] to the convent of saint peter, of cardeã±a, where they would be safe; and one sad day he bade farewell to his home in castille and set out on his wanderings, the king having granted him nine days for his journey out of the country. the costly furniture of his palace in burgos had been all stored away; there were no people coming and going; no voices of children gladdened the empty halls; the birds were all gone from the perches, there would be no more pleasant pastime of hawking, the whole place was silent and desolate. when the cid saw this he knelt down and turned towards the east, and prayed that he might be victorious over the moors, and gain enough to requite his friends for their devotion. then he turned to the whole company and cheered them with the hope that he might yet be able to return to castille in honour. and an old woman, who stood by the door, repeated the spanish proverb, "go in a lucky moment, and you shall make spoil of whatever you desire." the mausoleum of the cid now occupies the spot where his palace stood, and his statue ornaments the gate of saint maria, which is the principal entrance into the city of burgos, and opens on to one of the bridges leading out into the suburb called vega. as ruy diaz came with his people through the streets of burgos, the citizens wept aloud; they were so grieved to see him depart, and to know that no house might afford him shelter even for one night. so when the dark came he was obliged to have a tent raised on the sandy plain and rest for a while there. at last he got to the convent of cardeã±a, and bade a long farewell to his wife and daughters, giving them a hundred marks of gold for their expenditure; and before he left he gave the abbot fifty marks of silver, and commended his family to his care, for he did not feel sure that he should ever see them again. then he pursued his journey, travelling all night because he had a long and difficult way to go before he could get to the land of the moors. the next day but one they crossed the river douro in wooden boats, and rested at a place called figueruela. and there in the night he either dreamed or had a vision of an angel coming to him who said, "cid, be of good cheer, for it shall be well with thee all thy life long; and thou shalt accomplish all that thou shalt undertake, and shalt become rich and honoured." the cid thought very much on what he had heard, and he arose and gave thanks for the mercy that had befallen him. the following day he reached the wild sierra, of miedes, and he said, "friends, let us mount our horses quickly, and cross the sierra and go out of the kingdom of don alonzo, for this is the ninth day, and it is time we were gone." so they passed the sierra in the dark night and then they were in the country of the moors. the whole company of the cid amounted to 400 horsemen, and 3,000 foot. they travelled by night, and hid by day until they reached the castle of castregon. ruy diaz concealed himself and his friends close by, and in the morning the moors, not knowing they were there, came out of the castle gates to go to their work; the spaniards rushed suddenly upon them, slaying some and dispersing the rest, and soon got possession of the castle where they found a quantity of gold and silver. but they could not stay in it because there was no water, and besides this, the moors all around were vassals of don alonzo. so the cid left the moors there whom he had taken prisoner in the skirmish, and went further on his way to meet with fresh adventures. during the whole time of his exile he remained loyal to the king who had so unjustly treated him, and did him good service, for he took many strong castles from the moors, and either drove the invaders out of the land or made them subject to castille. he shared with his company all the rich spoils he won, and after many brave exploits determined to send his cousin alvar to alonzo with a present of thirty arab horses, and a message entreating him to restore him to his favour, and to give back to his friends the estates they had lost by following him into his exile. when the king saw the beautiful arab horses, each with a fine sword mounted in silver hanging from its saddle, his face brightened, and he could not bring himself to refuse the gift. still he thought it was too soon yet to pardon the mighty cid, and only restored to his friends and relations their lands. ruy diaz got as far as the district of ternel in arragon, and there he settled himself in a fortress on a high rock which has been called ever since "the rock of the cid." from this stronghold he sallied forth from time to time against the moors, and forced numbers of them to pay tribute. and besides overcoming the moors, he served the king by punishing some great spanish lords who had been guilty of treason, and alonzo at last desired him to return to the court. the cid waited yet to take the strong castle of rueda from the moors, and then he came back to castille in honour, as he had hoped on the sorrowful day when he left burgos. all the king's displeasure passed away when ruy diaz came before him and delivered into his hands the rich treasures he had captured, and alonzo gave him many castles, and the right of keeping in future all the places he should win from the moors for himself. ruy diaz was chosen to lead the spanish army against toledo in the year 1032. this city was possessed by the moorish king yahia, and was considered so important a place, that all the christian sovereigns in spain made up their quarrels, and joined together to besiege it. yahia held out for three years, and then only yielded up the city on condition that he should reign over valencia instead. the first christian banner that entered toledo was the banner of the cid. a story is told by the spaniards how, when the army had to cross a ford of the tagus, that they might get nearer the city, and the river was so swollen that the horsemen feared to plunge into it, a monk of the order of st. benedict rode over first on an ass, after which the whole army passed over in safety. later on, castille was threatened by the almoravides, a nation of african moors. the moorish kings already settled in spain had many bitter quarrels amongst themselves; there was trouble and treason all over the land. yahia, who was protected by the cid, and called himself his friend, was murdered by a wicked alcayde named abeniaf soon after he had joined with ruy diaz to defend spain against the almoravides. abeniaf buried the treasures of the murdered king, and let some of the new invaders into valencia, for which service they made him wali, or governor of the city. the cid came with a great army of christians and moors, and lay siege to valencia, so incensed was he at the cruel death of yahia, and began by attacking the suburbs, because by gaining them he could close all round the city, and prevent the moors from going in or coming out. that siege of valencia was very terrible, the people died daily of hunger; they eat horses, dogs, cats, and mice, and when all the flesh was gone they had only a little wheat and garlic, and a few raisins and figs. in their sore need they implored some more of the almoravides to come to their aid, although a great quarrel had broken out between that people and abeniaf. the almoravides set out for valencia, but they were dismayed by a violent tempest which arose and turned back. then the besieged went almost mad through hunger and misery, and the cid came nearer its walls, thinking that famine would force them to yield. the longer the siege lasted, the more defiant did abeniaf become; besides which he governed the people very cruelly, and oppressed them in every way. the cid was very cruel too outside their walls, and showed them no mercy. he sent word to them that he would burn all persons who should dare to come out of the city, and it is said that several moors who tried to escape were burned by his command. many men, women, and children, too, came out whenever the gates were opened, and sold themselves to the christians for food. the price of a moor was a loaf and a pitcher of wine. at last abeniaf agreed to deliver up the place if no succour came within fifteen days, provided he might still continue in his office of wali. the people thought they might yet be saved, because they had entreated the king of saragossa to assist them, but no help came, and the gates were opened, and the christians poured in to the city. the cid entered with all the hidalgos and knights, and went up to the highest tower in the wall, whence he could look down on the whole of valencia; and the moors came to him, and they kissed his hands, and bade him welcome. the cid, in return, ordered that all the windows of the tower which looked towards the streets should be closed, that the spaniards might not annoy the moors by prying into their affairs, and commanded the christians to guard the people and to pay them the greatest honour. the moors were very grateful for his kindness, and rejoiced indeed that the city had been given up, for now the provision merchants could come inside the gates and they could buy food; and some of them were so famished that they went and plucked the grass and herbs from the field, and tried thus to satisfy their sharp hunger. it must have been a sad sight to have seen those who had survived the famine standing about like ghosts, whilst there was mourning in every house, and space had not been found to bury all the dead. the cid planted his banner on the alcazar, which was the name given to all royal houses and palaces in spain. he caused abeniaf to be seized by force, and after he had made him say where he had concealed the treasures of yahia he condemned him to be burnt alive, but showed mercy to his son when the moors entreated him not to include him in the punishment of his father; and had the cid put the innocent child to death it would have been as dreadful a crime as abeniaf was guilty of in murdering yahia. the city of valencia lay in a great plain which was called the garden, because it was covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, and trees, such as the mulberry, olive, orange, carob, and palm grew in its fertile soil. there were fair gardens lying between the walls and the shore. when the cid had taken up his abode in the vast and beautiful alcazar, the people began to cast off their sorrow and gloom, and to take part in the rejoicings made by the spaniards. valencia was now all his own. he suffered the moors to remain in the city and to keep all their herds and flocks; they were to give him a tenth part of their substance, and to retain all their customs; and he made a good man wali over them that they might be governed by their own laws. those who were not content with this arrangement, he ordered to go and dwell in the suburb of alcudia, outside the walls. from this time he was called the cid campeador, the latter title being given to one greatly renowned for his exploits. one day, hieronymo, a holy and learned man, "all shaven and shorn," came from the east to valencia, and desired to see the cid. he said that if he might once meet the moors on the battle-field, and have his fill of smiting them, he would be content. these were warlike words for a priest, but they pleased ruy diaz, and the very next day after the stranger arrived the mosques were changed into churches, and hieronymo was made bishop of valencia. the king of seville soon came with the almoravides to besiege the cid in his new abode. ruy diaz defeated him, and won from them his famed horse bavieca, although the chronicles say that bavieca was the horse he chose when a boy, because it was so fiery, and the name was given to it from his godfather exclaiming, "bavieca (meaning simpleton) thou hast chosen ill." after this he sent his faithful cousin alvar with a number of brave knights to fetch his wife and daughters from the convent of cardeã±a, where they had been all this time. the ladies were joyful indeed to hear that valencia was gained, and when they drew near, the cid came out on his horse bavieca, with a stately company to meet them, and he took them up to the highest tower of the alcazar, whence they could see all the fair city lying in its plain beside the sea, and its beautiful houses built by the moorish architects, its fountains and gateways, and its gardens filled with the brilliant flowers and luscious fruits of the east. doã±a ximena and her daughters had been in valencia about three months, when news was brought to the cid that king yusef was coming from morocco with 50,000 horsemen, and myriads of men on foot, to invest the city by sea and land. the campeador was not alarmed; he had his fortresses well manned, and the enormously thick walls of the city repaired, and he got in plenty of provisions, whilst a number of his vassals, christians and moors, came to his aid. the day before the battle he took his wife and elvira and sol to the tower, and showed them the moors as they gained their footing on shore. soon they began to enter the gardens, and ruy diaz told a very brave man to go down thither with two hundred knights, and show them a little play. so he went down, and soon drove them out of the gardens. the cid, being so often at war, had certain signals, by which the knights knew how many of them were to arm themselves and assemble, the signal being usually the ringing of a bell. early the next morning bishop hieronymo sang the mass and absolved all the christians from their sins; praying afterwards, warlike man that he was, to be the first to drive back the enemy. whilst it was still dark, the cid, well armed and mounted on bavieca, went out with his company at the gate which was called the gate of the snake. they loitered about at first, and then when the cid rang his bell the christians came out of their hiding-places amongst the narrow ways and passes, and the moors were shut in between their enemies and the sea. there was hard fighting that day; the moors, arming themselves in haste, made a firm stand, but before night they were overcome and fled to denia, leaving great riches behind them in the camp. ruy diaz, who had been wounded in the battle, rode joyfully back to the city when they were gone, still mounted on bavieca, and with his drawn sword still in his hand; and he sent king alonzo a present of three hundred horses laden with the gold and silver he had found amongst the spoils. yusef died soon after his defeat, and his brother bucar swore upon the koran, the book of their law, that he would take revenge upon the mighty castillian chief. the infantes of carrion, diego, and fernan gonzalez, vassals of king alonzo in castille, having heard how the power of the cid was increasing day by day, demanded his daughters in marriage, thinking by so doing they would become rich and powerful themselves. the cid was pleased with the proposal, but doã±a ximena did not like the idea of such a marriage at all; however, since the king had heartily approved of it, she dared say nothing against it. the weddings were performed by bishop hieronymo, and there were great rejoicings in valencia for eight days. each day had its festival, either in bull-fighting, or tilting, or shooting stones from the cross-bow, or they witnessed the performances of the moorish jugglers and buffoons, who were very clever in their art. then there were magnificent banquets in the alcazar, the tables being covered with silver dishes filled with rare and highly-seasoned meats. for two years the infantes lived with their wives at valencia in peace; but at the end of that time a misfortune happened, which caused them to break with their father-in-law, although it was no fault of his. the cid had a very large and lively lion, which afforded him great amusement, and was kept in an iron house, which opened into a high court behind the alcazar; three men had the charge of it, and it was their custom about mid-day to open the door of its house, and let it come into the court to eat its dinner, taking care before they left to fasten the door of the court securely. the cid used to dine in company every day, and after dinner he sometimes fell asleep, for he was getting old. one day a man came to him, and told him that many vessels had arrived before valencia, having on board a great host of the moors, and among them bucar, the african king, who had sworn to revenge the death of his brother. when the cid heard this he was very much pleased, for it was nearly three years since he had had a fight with the moors. he had his bell rung as a sign that all the honourable men in the city should assemble, and when they came to alcazar, and the infantes were there too, he told them the news, and agreed with them as to the manner in which they should repel the advance of their foes. when this was done he went quietly to sleep, and diego and fernan, and the rest of the company sat playing at tables[9] and at chess. it happened that the men who guarded the lion heard that the moors had come, and rushed to the palace to see if the news were true, forgetting in their anxiety to close the door of the court behind them. and lo and behold! the lion, when it had dined right royally, and saw the door open, walked out of the court and straight into the great hall where all the company were assembled. it certainly was an alarming sight, and the people did not know what to do, fearing that the lion might be roused to fury and tear some of them to pieces. diego and fernan gonzalez showed more terror and cowardice than all the rest, and diego ran and hid himself under the cid's chair, and very nearly died of fright in his undignified retreat, whilst fernan rushed out of a gallery which led into a court where there was a winepress, and entering therein he tumbled among the lees, which served him quite right. the others remained in the hall, and stood around the cid to guard him while he slept. the noise of their talking, however, at last awakened him, and he saw how the lion came towards him and licked his hand, and he asked what it meant. and when the lion heard his voice, it stood quite quiet, and the cid arose and took it by the neck as if it had been a hound, and made it go back to its iron house, calmly giving orders that it should be more strictly guarded in future. when the infantes came out of their hiding-places they must have felt very much ashamed, but they gave a very different version of the story to what had really happened. in the famous poem of the cid, which contains a great deal of historic truth, ruy diaz forbears reproaching his sons-in-law for their cowardice. be that as it may, they made the event a pretence for taking offence with him, as they were wicked and discontented men; they were tired of their wives, and thought that they ought to have wedded damsels of far higher rank than the daughters of the cid. so they said that he had arranged that the lion should come out of its den only to put them to shame before all the hidalgos; and their uncle, suero gonzalez, wickedly advised them to ask ruy diaz to let them take their wives to their home in carrion, that, once out of valencia, they might do with them whatsoever they pleased. in the meantime there was much noise in the city. bucar had landed his forces, and arrived in a plain about a league from valencia, which was called quarto; and there the cid gave him such a defeat that he was obliged to flee with his diminished army across the sea. ruy diaz was still kindly disposed towards his sons-in-law; and when the battle was over he thanked them for the share they had had in it, when they had really done nothing at all, and had only pretended to fight; such men were not worthy to have married the daughters of the cid! now they said that they had heard no news of their father and mother in carrion since they left castille; and they wanted to take their wives home, and tell their parents what honour they had attained to by marrying them. doã±a ximena had no faith in them, and she told her husband that they were not true-hearted; she was very loth to let her daughters go with them; nevertheless the cid trusted them still, and one day elvira and sol set out from valencia with the infantes; their parents, and a great and valiant company going with them two leagues on the road to castille. before they started, ruy diaz gave them presents worthy of a king. first of all, he gave them a quantity of cloth of gold, silk, and wool, a hundred horses richly caparisoned, and a hundred mules with gorgeous trappings; then he gave them ten goblets of pure gold, and a hundred vases of silver besides quantities of silver in plate and shields. a hundred well-appointed knights were to accompany them into castille; amongst whom were two very brave men, named martin pelaez and pero sanchez, whom the cid held in great esteem. last of all he gave the infantes each a golden-hilted sword to defend their wives with; these two swords he prized very much, because he had won them from the moors, and he had named them colada and tizona. when it was time to part, elvira and sol took a sorrowful leave of their parents, and the cid, as he turned away from them began to feel some misgivings in his heart, and to wonder if ximena had really been right in her distrust. the infantes, however, still promised to treat their wives with honour, and the cavalcade went on towards castille. on the way they were entertained by a moorish king, a vassal of the cid's, who could not do enough to show his pleasure in welcoming them, and so far all was well, and they went through the valleys until they reached the oak forest of torpes. when they arrived there the infantes told all the knights to go forward, and said they would stay for a while in the forest. elvira asked her husband diego why they remained there alone; he replied that she should soon see. then these wicked men took their wives by the hair and dragged them along until they came to the fountain of torpes, and there they beat them with the leathern girths of their saddles until the blood flowed from their wounds. and they took from them all the costly jewels, and robes of silk and ermine doã±a ximena had given them, and went on their way, leaving the poor ladies half dead by themselves in the forest, where the wild beasts might have come and devoured them. elvira and sol startled the birds in the branches overhead by the piteous cries they uttered in their terror and pain; then, finding that no one came to their aid, they said their prayers very fervently, and sank fainting to the ground. the cruel infantes mounted their horses, and took the mules which had carried their wives, and said aloud as they went out of the forest, "now we have done with the daughters of the cid! we demeaned ourselves by marrying them, and we are avenged of the affront their father put upon us by letting loose the lion." felez nuã±oz, however, the nephew of the cid, happened to pass that way, and he heard what the infantes said. he would have punished them on the spot, but he feared they would return and perhaps kill their wives; so he went into the deep oak glades, and kept calling his cousins by their names until he found them. then, in great sorrow to behold the terrible plight they were in, he gave them water to drink, and carried them to a part of the forest where they would be in greater safety, and made a soft couch for them of tender green leaves and grass, whereon they might rest, for they were utterly worn out. the knights had gone on their way, and when they saw the infantes coming towards them bringing with them the mules and the rich robes of their wives, they began to fear that some evil deed had been done, and they all crowded round them, taunting them with their cowardice, and threatening to fight them. the infantes wanted to be rid of them all, and declared that if the knights would go back to the forest, they would find elvira and sol by the fountain there unharmed. so martin pelaez and pero sanchez, and all the bravest men in the company returned thither; but when felez nuã±oz and his cousins heard their voices they were alarmed, thinking the infantes were near; and they kept quite still, so that the knights could not find them, and returned, very angry, to pursue the cowardly brothers, feeling sure that some foul deed had been done. diego and fernan, however, were already beyond their pursuit,--craven-hearted men can fly fast, and the knights set out at once for the court of don alonzo, and told their king all that had happened. now the ladies in the forest at first had nothing to eat, and were very near dying of hunger, when, by good fortune felez nuã±oz found his way to a village where he bought them food, and he kept them thus from starving for seven days; but could not make their misfortunes known to the cid because he feared to leave them by themselves in the wild forest. at last he found in his village a worthy man in whose house the cid had once lodged, and he brought two asses to the forest, and made the noble ladies mount them, and led them in safety to his own house, where his wife tended them kindly, rejoicing that she had them under her roof. here they wrote a letter to their father, which felez nuã±oz undertook to convey to him at valencia. on the road thither he met alvar fanez and pero bermudez, who were going to the king with a present from ruy diaz, of two hundred horses he had won in his battle with bucar, besides a number of swords and a hundred moorish captives. these knights were enabled to give don alonzo a faithful account of all that had happened, and the king was very indignant at the wickedness of his vassals, and appointed a day, three months from the time, when he would hear the matter through, and give judgment in his cortes at toledo. and alvar and pero set out in search of the cid's daughters, taking with them from alonzo two mules, with saddles richly adorned with gold, and jewelled robes for the sisters, so that they might return to valencia in the same attire they had worn when they started on their hapless journey. when they had found them at the good man's house, pero went on to valencia, and alvar remained with the knights who had followed him to guard his cousins. the indignation and anger of the mighty cid may be imagined when he heard how his children had been treated. doã±a ximena was more dead than alive, and she was thankful indeed when she had her dear daughters safe at home with her once more. great preparations were made for the day of trial. the walls of the palace, where judgment was to be given, were hung with cloth of gold, rich carpets were spread on the floor, and a great throne was placed in readiness for the king. the cid left hieronymo and martin pelaez in charge of his city, and set out betimes for toledo with so great a host of followers that it looked like an army. when he drew near alonzo came out to meet him, but he would not cross the tagus that night, and had candles lighted in the church of saint servans on the shore, and kept a vigil there a great part of the night with his friends. and he ordered one of his hidalgos to set a beautiful ivory chair he had won from the moors close beside the king's throne, and sent a hundred squires, each one an hidalgo, to stand around it all night to guard it, with swords hanging from their necks. there were many people in toledo who were friends of the infantes of carrion, and therefore ill-disposed towards the cid, and they thought he was taking a great liberty in having his chair set beside the king's throne: but alonzo honoured him, and he suffered it to remain. it was a stately meeting; we are told that when the day came ruy diaz wore a tunic of gold tissue, and over that a red skin with points of gold; this he always wore, and on his head he had a coif of scarlet and gold: his long beard, which was getting white, was tied up with a cord.[10] when he came into the hall, the king and all the people stood up, except those who were on the side of the infantes of carrion. alonzo gave judgment against those wicked men, and made them give up the golden-hilted swords colada and tizona, which they did not indeed deserve to keep. but the cid was not content when judgment was pronounced; he thought the dishonour was not yet wiped away, and he stood up and required that three knights should fight for his cause against three of carrion. when he said this the three brave knights named martin antolinez, pero bermudez, and nuno gustios, entreated him to let them fight on his side; and a terrible quarrel arose; the infantes said many rude things of the cid, and his haughty hidalgos would not suffer their insults to pass; they quarrelled and fought until the king could scarcely hear himself speak, and he rose from his seat and called the alcaydes, and went to confer with them in a chamber apart, while the cid and all the others remained in the hall. when he came back he sat down on his throne with great solemnity, and told the people to listen to the sentence, which decreed that a combat should take place three weeks from that day between the infantes and their uncle suero gonzalez on the side of carrion, and the three brave knights who were willing to fight for the cid. ruy diaz was now content; he rose from his seat and kissed the king's hand, and prayed that god might have him in his holy keeping for many good years, so that he might administer justice worthily, as he had done that day. in the midst of all this, messengers arrived at the palace from the kings of arragon and navarre, demanding the daughters of the cid in marriage for their sons, when the unhappy marriage they had made with the infantes of carrion should be dissolved. ruy diaz went back to valencia in joy, and told the glad news to his wife; adding that they need have no fear now for their daughters' happiness, because the princes of arragon and navarre were known far and wide to be honourable men. the combat took place on the appointed day. the cid lent colada and tizona to his knights, and diego and fernan gonzalez, and their uncle suero, were all three overcome and wounded in the presence of king alonzo; and, they crept away in disgrace and were never seen more, and carrion, after the death of don gonzalez, their father, went back to the crown of castille. when the three victorious knights returned safe and sound to valencia, and made known there the result of the combat, the joy of the cid was beyond all bounds, and as for doã±a ximena, and elvira, and sol, they would fain have kissed the feet of their valiant defenders. there was rejoicing in the city for eight days, and banquets were held every day, the silver dishes being filled with the flesh of many extraordinary animals, which were cooked in spain for the first time, having been sent to the cid with a number of rare and beautiful presents from the soldan, or sultan of persia. the soldan paid great court to ruy diaz, and made known to him how a vast army of christians had come out to the east and lay before jerusalem, hoping to conquer that city from the saracens; and that was the first crusade which had been preached by peter the hermit, when william rufus was reigning in england. the cid remained in peace at valencia for five years, and kept the moors so quiet that they no longer molested the christians, but lived with them on friendly terms. at the end of this time news came suddenly that bucar had stirred up all the chiefs in barbary to cross the sea in revenge for the victory that ruy diaz had gained over him in the field of quarto. the cid sent the moors who dwelt in the city to the suburb of alcudia, where he thought they had better remain until the affair was ended. his strength was failing fast; and one night, as he lay wakeful on his bed, his chamber was filled with a strange brightness and fragrance, and he had another wonderful vision, in which saint peter appeared to him, aged and white as snow, with a bunch of keys in his hand, and told him now to mind other things besides the coming of bucar, for that in thirty days he should die, and yet by the help of saint james he should conquer his foes after he was dead. when the vision disappeared the cid was lost in wonder, but he felt greatly comforted; and early in the morning he called the hidalgos around him and told them what he had seen, and how they should conquer the moors. the last day that he was able to rise from his bed he ordered the city gates to be shut, and repaired to the church of saint peter, where he spoke long and earnestly to the people assembled there, reminding them that, however great and honourable their estate in life might be, not one of them could escape death. then he took leave of them all, and confessed his sins at the feet of bishop hieronymo. from that time until his death, seven days afterwards, he took no nourishment except a little myrrh and balsam stirred in rose water, such as was used to embalm the dead bodies of kings in the east, and had been sent among the gifts of the soldan in a casket of gold. he bequeathed great riches to his knights, leaving a thousand marks of silver to those who had only served him one year, and he ordered four thousand poor persons to be clothed at his expense. on sunday, the 25th of may, 1099, the cid died, in the seventy-third year of his age. these were his dying words: "lord jesus christ, thine is the kingdom; thou art above all kings and all nations, and all kings are at thy command. i beseech thee to pardon my sins, and let my soul enter the light that hath no end." three days after his death king bucar came, and with him thirty-six kings or chiefs. it is said that fifteen thousand tents were pitched around valencia. as all was quiet inside the city, the africans thought that their enemy dared not come out against them. meanwhile the body of the cid had been embalmed and fixed in a wooden frame upright upon bavieca, and the frame being painted to represent armour, it looked really as if he were alive. a mournful procession went out at midnight from the gate towards castille. first the banner of the cid was carried, guarded by five hundred knights; then came one hundred more, around the body of their lord; and lastly, ximena followed sorrowfully with all her company, and three hundred knights in the rear. by the time they had all passed out the summer night was spent, and it was broad daylight. alvar funez now fell upon the moors with the forces that remained in valencia; and so great was the terror and uproar he caused that they fled towards the sea, leaving their riches for the spoils of the christians. the moors who had retired to the suburb saw the procession pass, and thought that their lord had gone forth alive. but when they entered the city from whence all the spanish knights had gone, they marvelled at the strange silence in the streets, until they saw written on the walls in arabic that the cid campeador was dead. from that day valencia remained in the power of the moors until it was won by king jayme of arragon, in the year 1238; but the city was always known by the name of "valencia of the cid." the body of ruy diaz was placed in his ivory chair at the right of the altar of saint peter in the church of cardeã±a. it was clothed in purple cloth which had been given to him by the soldan, and remained thus more than ten years. when that time had passed it was buried in a vault beside the grave of doã±a ximena, who only survived him three years. and bavieca, his favourite horse, was buried not far from his master, under some trees in front of the convent of saint peter of cardeã±a. footnotes: [7] like the alhambra court in the crystal palace. [8] _sol_, spanish for sun. [9] _tablas_, in the spanish tables, probably the game of draughts. [10] see southey's "chronicle." louis ix., king of france. the good king louis the ninth, commonly called st. louis, because he led so holy a life, was born at poissy, in the year 1215, whilst his grandfather, philip augustus, was still on the throne of france. poissy was a beautiful place, just as fontainebleau is now, where the kings of france used to go and hunt, and enjoy the sweet fresh air; and the queens passed many happy days with their little children, away from the cares and the splendour of the court. louis was always of a meek and gentle disposition, truthful and upright. his mother, blanche of castille, watched over him tenderly herself, and took care to place around him as early as possible the holiest and most learned men in france, in the hope that through their influence he might grow up to be a good king. blanche was a woman of great piety, and she was very clever and beautiful besides; she had many children, but although louis was always her favourite amongst them all, she did not indulge him either in luxury or pleasure, and used often to say to him, "my son, i love you more than i can tell; yet i would rather see you lying dead at my feet than know you were guilty of a mortal sin." louis did indeed try earnestly to be good, and to remember the words of his mother; he was obedient to his instructors, and is said to have understood latin well, and to have been versed in the works of the fathers of the church, and in the history of the kings who reigned before him; and that was knowing a great deal, for the times he lived in were called "the dark ages," because so very little was learnt or known, especially in europe. his amusements were hunting and fishing, and playing at chess, but he did not care for these as he cared for the services of the church, attending them daily with his little brothers, and loving the holy chants and hymns he heard there more than any songs of merriment. louis was only eleven years old when his father, king louis the eighth, died, after a reign of less than four years. he had then four brothers younger than himself--robert, john, alphonse, and charles; and one little sister named isabel. as he was so very young, his mother, queen blanche, governed his kingdom for him, and she had many troubles to contend with, on account of the quarrels and revolts of some of the most powerful nobles in the land. several of these refused to attend the coronation of louis, which took place at rheims, after he had been knighted, according to the custom of the time, at soissons. the ceremony was very solemn; queen blanche would not let it be made an occasion of rejoicing, because her heart was so full of sorrow for the death of her husband; and the day after she took louis to paris, and began at once to think what would be the best measures for securing his safety and the welfare of the country. it was at the siege of bellesme that louis gained his first experience in war, when he was only twelve years of age. the count de bretagne, foremost of the rebellious nobles, had invaded the territory of the king, and was causing great misery to the country people by laying waste their land and destroying their villages. to chastise him, and bring him to obedience, queen blanche set off in the depth of winter with her son louis and only a few followers, to lay siege to the castle of bellesme, where the count had first set up his standard of rebellion. the snow lay deep on the ground, and icicles hung from the trees along the road-side: the cold was intense, and the march was difficult in the short winter days, but little louis was as brave as he was gentle, and cared nothing for the cold and discomfort, nor did he tremble the least at the idea of the coming affray; his mother had taught him to endure manfully hardships and pain and fatigue, and to trust in god, whatever danger was at hand. the castle of bellesme exists no longer; its ruins have long crumbled away: in those days it was a strong fortress, surrounded by thick walls flanked with towers. the count of bretagne was inside the castle with all the bravest of his men, and the queen's party made two assaults upon it in vain. the cold had numbed the energies of the knights and the soldiers in the camp, and they were very nearly frozen to death. queen blanche then published a decree which promised large rewards to all persons who should cut down the trees in the forests around, and bring the wood to the camp. the peasants were soon seen joyfully bringing the wood on their shoulders and in carts: enormous fires were kindled, and the warmth so quickly restored the spirits of the besiegers, that before two days had passed, the greater part of the fortification was thrown down, and the haughty count de bretagne, seeing no hope of succour, was obliged to surrender. queen blanche and her little son treated the garrison with great kindness when they came out; and a treaty was soon after made, by which it was agreed that louis's brother john should marry, when he grew up, the daughter of the count de bretagne. whilst louis was growing out of childhood, and striving day by day to become more holy in the sight of god, the rebellions of the nobles were continually breaking out afresh, and had to be put down by force of arms, or the crown would have lost much of its power. this chapter, however, is not to be a record of all the disturbances that occurred in france during the early part of the good king's reign, but rather a description of the events which brought to light most strikingly his piety, his courage, and his patience. in the year 1233 louis was persuaded by his mother to bestow his hand on marguerite, daughter of raymond berenger, count of provence. raymond had four daughters, and marguerite was the most beautiful and talented of them all. her sister eleanor was married soon after to henry the third of england, and another sister, named beatrice, to louis's brother charles, count of anjou. the royal marriage was celebrated with great magnificence at sens; and when louis was twenty years of age he took the reins of government into his own hands: nevertheless queen blanche continued to influence him by her advice, and was obeyed by him until her death, on all occasions save one, as will be seen hereafter. the peace of the country was not really established until the year 1239, when some of the quarrelsome nobles had gone on a crusade to the holy land. the enterprise did not succeed; the christian army was entrapped and defeated by the saracens, and jerusalem became a possession of the sultan of egypt. the king was deeply grieved at the failure; he was always thinking of the miseries and oppressions the christians were forced to endure in the east, and resolved to go and help them as soon as he could leave his country in prosperity. when the rumour of this was spread in palestine, the sheik, or old man of the mountain, singled out the king of france for his victim, and despatched two of his assassins to paris, thinking thus to put an end to all idea of a fresh crusade. having boasted, however, of his intended deed before some of the knights templars, he was told by them that if he put louis to death, his brothers would certainly avenge the crime, and draw upon him the ill will of many nations besides france. the sheik now became as anxious to preserve the king's life as he had been to take it, and sent off in a great hurry two of his emirs to the court of france to warn louis of his danger. the king received the intelligence calmly, and only instituted another company of guards, who were armed with maces of brass. but when the assassins could not be discovered, notwithstanding the marks by which the emirs declared they would be known, these men hastened to marseilles, and luckily arrived there before the arabs set foot on shore. when they had told them how the sheik had determined not to take the king's life, they conducted them to paris, and all four were received with kindness by louis, and went back to the east much impressed with the magnificence of the french court; for although the king loved neither luxury nor pleasure, his court was always kept up with dignity and splendour. the sire de joinville, who was twenty-two years in his company, tells us how, at a great festival held at saumur, which was called a plenary court, the king wore a coat of blue samite, a species of satin, with overcoat and mantle of crimson samite, bordered with ermine, and strangely enough, a cotton cap on his head, which did not become him at all. his hair, which was fair, he wore short, according to the custom of the time. at this feast there were at least three thousand knights present, and so many robes of cloth of gold and of silk had never been seen before. king louis, his brothers, and the king of navarre sat at one table, joinville himself carving for them; the queen mother and her ladies sat at another, and the archbishops and bishops at a third; and to guard the king's table stood three of the greatest barons in the land; and to guard them stood thirty knights, in garments of rich silken stuff; and these again had a retinue of the royal officers behind them. during the whole time that the plenary courts were held, the king was obliged to dine in public, and it was an old custom, that before the dinner was ended, three heralds at arms, each with a rich cap in his hand, cried out three times, "bounty of the most powerful king!" and then threw gold and silver to the people, so that the poor had their share of the rejoicing as well as the rich. the king was seized with a dangerous illness at pontoise in the year 1244. this was a very great sorrow for his people, since it was feared that he would die, and they joined in solemn processions all over the kingdom, and went to the churches to pray to the almighty to restore him to health. queen blanche was the saddest of all, and passed her time between the sick chamber of her son, and the foot of the altar, where she knelt for hours in silent prayer. when louis felt that he was getting weaker, he sent for all the members of his household, and thanked them for their services; after which he recommended them to serve god with earnest and faithful hearts. then he sank into a lethargy, which those who were watching by his bedside at first mistook for death. the lethargy lasted several days, and then the king gave signs of returning life. the first words he spoke after opening his eyes were these:--"by the grace of god the light of the east has shone upon me from the height of heaven, and recalled me from the dead." he summoned the bishop of paris to his presence, and required him to affix the cross to his shoulder, as a sign that he bound himself to go on the crusade. the sorrow which had been forgotten when the king gave signs of recovery, now broke out afresh. the two queens, blanche and marguerite, threw themselves on their knees, and implored him with many tears not to go on the crusade; even the bishops, who stood by, tried to persuade him not to engage in so difficult an enterprise, but all in vain. louis would take no nourishment until the cross was really fastened to his shoulder; and his people heard of the vow he had taken in gloom and regret, for they thought if he once set sail for the holy land, they would never see him again. the king did not really recover until several months had passed, and then he wrote to the christians in the east to tell them that he was coming to their aid. but it was a long time yet before he was able to set out, because he loved his people very dearly, and wanted to provide everything for their comfort and happiness during his absence, when his mother, queen blanche, was to rule over them in his stead. he persuaded the most turbulent of the nobles to go with him on the crusade, and when the best measures had been taken for securing the peace of the kingdom, he made known that he was ready to redress every injury he had offered, it being the custom then for all good crusaders to make their peace with god and man before they embarked in their enterprise. louis then went with his brothers, robert of artois and charles of anjou, to the church of saint denis to receive his pilgrim's scrip and staff, and the oriflamme, or sacred banner of saint denis. this was a banner of flame-coloured silk, which was always carried before the french armies on solemn occasions for the encouragement of the soldiers. the king, having requested all holy persons to pray that his undertaking might prove successful, came back to paris, and heard mass at the great church of notre dame, and then went out of the city he was not to behold again for so long, followed by the clergy, the nobles, and multitudes of the common people. the crimson and the samite, the gold-embroidered garments with the ermines, were now laid aside for a plain grey robe trimmed with grey and white fur. the trappings of the king's horses were no longer adorned with gold, but the steel of their harness was polished until it shone like silver. louis computed before he left france how much his former luxuries had cost him yearly, and then caused the amount to be regularly distributed to the poor. at cluny, queen blanche bade her son a long sad farewell: it was the first time he had ever thwarted her wishes by refusing to give up the crusade, when she urged that a vow made in a time of extreme weakness was not binding. his young wife could not bring herself to part with him, and declared she would follow him to the end of the world. when all was ready, the king, with his brothers robert and charles, queen marguerite, and the young countess of anjou, and a vast number of crusaders of all nations, embarked at aigues-mortes, a port on the mediterranean, which had been constructed for the occasion. they took the direction of cyprus, and the winds being favourable, all the vessels except one, which was unhappily shipwrecked, reached the island in safety. here the crusaders remained during the winter. for two years before they arrived, the king's people had been bringing wine and various provisions for the army from the most fertile countries of europe, and had laid up their store in the island. the tubs of wine they had piled one upon the other, until they looked like great barns; and the wheat and the barley lay in heaps in the fields, green on the outside, where the warm rains falling softly upon them had made them sprout. the crusaders found an abundant supply of food in cyprus, without having recourse to their stores, and when in the spring they wanted to set out for egypt, they took off the outer covering of the heaps, and saw the wheat and the barley beneath, as fresh as if it had just been cut. the departure from the island was fixed for ascension day in the year 1249. the crusaders embarked towards evening at the port called limesson, where they had landed. the vessels large and small amounted to 1,650, and were thronged with a vast assembly of people of all callings and nations, 2,800 of them being knights. the next day the king sent a sealed packet into every vessel, with orders for it to remain unopened until the fleet had set sail; the purport of this was that they should proceed direct to damietta. the wind, however, blew against them, and forced them to return to the port; and when they had got out to sea again a few days after, a violent tempest arose from the side of egypt, and scattered all the vessels. louis himself was obliged to go back to the port of limesson, and found on arriving there that his fleet was diminished by one hundred and twenty vessels, and that the number of knights was reduced to seven hundred! but he would not suffer the followers who remained to him to be cast down, and on trinity sunday they set sail once more, and although in continual dread of another storm, they went on their way safely, until a sailor who knew the coasts of egypt, and served as a guide, warned them that they were before damietta, the great stronghold of the saracens in egypt. all the other vessels now crowded around the one which bore the king, who stood up among his people calm and trustful, encouraging them to persevere for the love of god, and not to flinch in the moment of danger. saleh, the sultan, was at some distance from damietta; he was supposed to be dying, and had confided the care of his army to the emir facardin. the saracens had seen the sea covered with masts and sails by seven o'clock in the morning, and had rung the bell of their great mosque to spread the alarm in the city: the christians heard the sound across the sea in the clear summer air. facardin ordered four corsair vessels to approach the fleet, but three of these ventured too near, and were overwhelmed by showers of stones from the larger vessels. the fourth went back to convey the tidings that the king of france had come with a number of foreign princes. at mid-day the fleet of the christians cast anchor in the roads of damietta. the port was full of men-of-war, and the flat country of egypt was covered with rich tents, whilst crowds of people on foot and on horse stood along the shore, sounding their twisted horns, and their great cymbals, two of which were a sufficient load for an elephant; and making, as the sire de joinville affirms, "a sound horrible to be heard!" a council was held on board the king's vessel, at which it was resolved to land the next day, although only a portion of the fleet had as yet arrived in the roads; but louis thought that delay would inspire fear, and perhaps afford the saracens the opportunity of destroying his army by degrees. so when it got dark, the crusaders lighted a great number of torches, and kept watch all night; and they confessed their sins one to another, and prayed for those they loved, and had left behind in europe; and as many as had quarrelled made friends, that they might be ready for death, if it should meet them in the struggle on the morrow. at daybreak they lifted anchor, and sailed for the island of giza, which was joined to damietta by a bridge of boats across the river nile. the king commanded his people to get down into the flat boats they had brought with them, because the large vessels could not approach the shore: the boat joinville was in soon distanced the one which bore the oriflamme, and was first to gain the land. suddenly the air was darkened by a flight of arrows from the bows of the saracens. louis, seeing this, gave orders for each man to disembark as he could, and jumped from his boat into the water, covered as he was by his armour, with his shield on his breast, and his sword in his hand. the water was deeper there than elsewhere, and he was immersed up to his shoulders, but the sight of the oriflamme safely landed encouraged him in his efforts, and he got to the shore before any of the others. although countless swords and pike points were aimed at him as he landed, the good king did not forget to kneel down for a moment on the sand, to thank the almighty for having preserved him thus far; then, rising, he would have rushed on the saracens at once and alone, if his knights, who were now gaining their footing on shore, had not prevented him. all the rest now followed; louis put his people in battle array as they landed, and ordered an attack to be made on some of the enemy's larger vessels. before the day was ended the christian army had driven the saracens from the western shores of the nile, and had got possession of the bridge of boats; they would have pursued their foes, but night coming on, the king sounded a retreat, and encamped on the ground he had conquered. meanwhile the poor queen and the countess of anjou had been in terrible anxiety and distress when they watched from their vessel afar the multitudes rushing into the water, and could not tell whether their husbands were alive or drowned. and great must have been their joy when the news was conveyed to him that those they loved so dearly were safe on shore, and that their efforts, as yet, had been crowned with success. early the next morning, which was sunday, the king was giving orders for the siege of damietta, when two christian captives came to the camp and told him that the city was deserted. the king could scarcely credit their words, and sent one of his knights to the spot to see if they were really true. the knight returned with the same account; the saracens had gone back to damietta in great distress the evening before, and on their arrival had heard that the sultan was dead. the rumour struck dismay into the heart of facardin, and he only waited to put the christian slaves who were in the city to death, and to burn the bazaars where the provisions were sold, and then he went out at the gates the same night with his army and the garrison; old men and women, children and sick persons following in the rear of the craven-hearted troops, until by daylight the whole city was deserted. damietta was now open to the christians; they had only to cross the bridge of boats and enter its gates. the king in his thankfulness thought that he ought not to enter the city as a triumphant warrior, but humbly, and clad as a pilgrim; and he walked thither barefoot, followed by the king of cyprus, who had joined the crusade, the patriarch of jerusalem, the legate, and all the bishops and priests who had accompanied the army. a mosque, where the saracens had worshipped, was hastily converted into a christian church, and a solemn chant of thanksgiving ascended from its altar. the crusaders had indeed reason to be thankful because damietta was so strong a place, protected by a double wall on the side of the nile, and by a triple one on the side of the flat country. the king determined to remain there until the autumn, and thus avoid marching in the great heat, and the danger which his army would be exposed to from the rising of the nile, for the river begins to rise in the month of june, and mounts higher and higher until september, overflowing the land along its course so that it looks like a great marsh, and the villages and trees appear like islands above the water. by november the fields are dry again and covered with a rich brown slime, and the people then begin to sow their corn. the soil being so fertile, in the winter months the valley of the nile presents the appearance of a beautiful garden; indeed, the natives are obliged sometimes to mix sand with the loam, or the fruits and vegetables would grow and ripen too quickly. when the water had risen to a certain height, the saracens used to open their dykes with great solemnity and let it flow over the land; and it was remembered with sadness in the christian camp how they had used it for the destruction of the crusading army in the enterprise which had failed only a few years before. the queen and her sister, with their ladies in attendance, were lodged in one of the palaces in the city, and the pilgrims who had come in the hope of reaching jerusalem in another; but the king remained in his tent outside with the army. the crusaders soon began to suffer from the intense heat of the climate, and the flies and noxious insects which infested the camp. the report of the sultan's death had been false. saleh was still living, but almost at his last gasp; and finding he could not dictate to the king of france the hour when a battle should take place between them, he devised a sure method of annoyance by offering a reward of a besant of gold for every head of a christian which should be brought to him. the arabs or bedouins undertook to perform this service. clad only in the skins of wild beasts, they would suddenly appear in the camp, and vanish on their swift-footed horses as soon as they were seen. on dark nights they used to put their ear to the ground, as the arabs do to this day, and listen if the night watch had gone its rounds before they began their dread work; and as there were always people sleeping on the outskirts of the camp, who had gone out in search of prey, scarcely a night passed but some heads were missing at daybreak. the king, to mislead them, ordered the night watch to be made by foot soldiers instead of horsemen, but it did not prevent the maurauders from coming, and at last the crusaders had to dig a deep trench all round the camp as a surer means of keeping them away. louis was anxiously awaiting the arrival of his brother alphonse, count of poitou, prince john being left in france to assist the queen-mother in the cares of the government. the count came at last, bringing with him the wife of robert of artois. the time was wearing on, and a council was held to determine which way they should next proceed. robert, who was as zealous in the crusade as louis himself, but who had not his brother's patience and calmness of mind, strongly advised that they should pursue the road to cairo, or babylon, as it was then called, and so aim a blow at the whole dominion of the sultan in egypt. the king yielded to his wishes, and leaving the queen and the princesses in the city, with a sufficient number of guards to protect them, he set out from damietta, although he was in weak health from the effects of the climate. the army crossed the bridge of boats, but it could only go slowly along; there were so many things, such as engines, arms, harness, and provisions, to be transported. the crusaders imagined that they were going to babylon, the great city of the east, on the banks of the euphrates; but the city they were approaching was only so named by some settlers from the eastern babylon, and was what is now called "old cairo," although in those days it was almost as great a place as memphis, the ancient capital of egypt. they were much astonished at the abundant vegetation on the shores of the nile, and the treasures to be found even in its waters; for the sire de joinville tells us how the country people used to throw their nets into the river at evening, and take them up in the morning filled with cinnamon, aloes, ginger, rhubarb, and things of a like nature; the common belief being that these riches dropped from the trees in the garden of paradise, and were wafted up the river to their feet! the egyptian fleet was stationed at massoura, a city nearly a third of the way between damietta and cairo. the sultan was now dead, but his widow would not let it be known until her son could arrive to take the government into his hands, for fear that the people should get discouraged. the crusaders had not gone far from damietta, when they found their passage barred by the thanis, a branch of the nile, the opposite shore of which was guarded by a body of five hundred saracen horsemen. the thanis was the river they had to cross; it was deep near its steep shores; there was no bridge, neither did they know of a ford, so they encamped on the ground which formed the extremity of the angle between the two rivers, only separated from the town of massourah by the stream and a part of the plain. their situation soon became very dangerous, because the saracens were constantly attacking their side which was unprotected by the waters: the machines of the enemy, too, were better than their own, and poured upon them a continual volley of stones, darts, javelins, arrows, and heavy pieces of wood. then at night the saracens would throw upon them their terrible greek fire, which appeared with a loud hissing noise, "like a fiery dragon flying through the air," and rendered the camp as light as day. the saracens were more skilful in the art of making fireworks than the europeans, and always employed them in warfare. the basis of the greek fire was naphtha, a clear, thin mineral fluid, which is very inflammable, and burns with much smoke. when it came, the christians would throw themselves down on the ground and hide their faces, and the king, whenever he heard it explode in the night, would rise in his bed and say, "blessed lord god, save my people!" and every night he would send round the camp to inquire who had been injured by it. sometimes it was put out with vinegar and sand, but it usually occasioned great harm, not only to the people in the camp, but also to the machines. the king, having tried in vain to construct a dyke, had now to think seriously of returning to damietta, or of remaining in this corner between the rivers, surrounded by the enemy, and almost in total want of provisions. he was about to retreat, notwithstanding the sorrow and disappointment it cost him to give up the enterprise, when a bedouin, who had abandoned the saracens, came to the camp and said that he knew of a ford which the horsemen might pass, and would show it to them for the sum of five hundred besants of gold, but not until he had the money safe in his hand. the king joyfully accepted his offer, and arranged that the duke of burgundy should be left with the infantry to guard the camp, whilst he, with his brothers and all the rest, should attempt the passage. the count of artois begged for the honour of passing first, and the king somewhat reluctantly granted him his request, on condition that he should not venture to fight until the whole army had assembled; he knew so well his brother's ardent spirit and rashness. before daybreak they all set out for the ford, with the arab marching at their head, and went out of the straight road to avoid being seen by their foes. the arab plunged into the water first of all, and as he knew the way perfectly it was not difficult for him to cross, but robert of artois did not find it so easy to effect a footing, the opposite shore being high and slippery from the richness of its soil. next to him went the templars, and then william, earl of salisbury, surnamed "longue epã©e," who had joined the crusade with two hundred english knights. ah! little those brave men knew they were going to their death, and that of all who crossed in hope and ardour that morning, only enough should survive to come back and tell the tale! the sight of the arabs fleeing who guarded the ford, made robert forget the oath he had sworn to his brother; he rushed after them in pursuit; the emir facardin coming out to ascertain the cause of alarm, was quickly surrounded and killed, and numbers of the saracens, in dismay at the loss of their leader, left their camp to their foes, and retired in disorder to massoura. meanwhile the king had passed the ford in his turn, with all the rest of the horsemen, and was greatly surprised that he did not find his brother and the advance guard waiting for him on the other side. fearing some misfortune had happened, he told ten of his knights to go in search of count robert, and remind him that he was to attempt nothing until the whole army had assembled. after this he set out quickly in the direction of the saracens; but what was his astonishment when he found that instead of being able to stand against them, he was surrounded by them on all sides, whilst the air was filled with their hideous cries, and the noise of their barbarous instruments! the saracens, terror-stricken at first by the approach of the christians, had now rallied in multitudes, and completely closed in the army of the crusaders between the river and the town of massoura. the king, undismayed, prepared for immediate battle, although his knights and nobles tried to persuade him that it would be hopeless to combat so large a force. just at that moment the constable imbert de beaujeu rode up to tell him that the count of artois was besieged in a house at massoura, and would perish if succour did not arrive. the king sent a body of troops to his aid, and promised that he would soon be with him himself; and then he turned to his people and exhorted them to keep their ranks firm; and told them that the soldiers of christ ought not to fear a set of miscreants like those who were crowding around them. the whole aspect of the king that day inspired courage; his face was calm, his eyes shone with a steadfast light; he had a helmet of gold on his head, which from his great height towered above the ranks of his army; his double-edged sword was so heavy, that to strike a blow with it, he had to grasp it with both hands. the signal being given, the bravest of the crusaders rushed on the saracens; others, less courageous, tried to regain the camp of the duke of burgundy, but were most of them drowned in the attempt. the king was sure to be found where the fight was the thickest, or where the weak were in want of succour; and once during the battle he was surrounded by six saracens, who seized the bridle of his horse, and yet he freed himself by his own aid alone. the duke of burgundy and his men heard the conflict going on from the opposite shore; they longed to fly to the king's assistance, but their very eagerness hindered them, and it was a long time before any of them could cross the river. when a body of the king's archers arrived on the plain, they found that louis had maintained his ground, and that the battle of massoura was won: yet, had it not been for the king's example, the day had been lost, so great was the fury and strength of the enemy. both christians and saracens were now utterly wearied out with fighting; the heat had been intense, and louis, having waited for all the wounded who could be assembled, set out at sunset for the saracen camp on the thanis. his golden helmet oppressed him, and he was glad to accept from joinville a casque of steel, which enabled him to breathe more freely. he had only gone a little way on the road when a prior of the knights hospitallers met him and asked if he knew where his brother was, the count of artois. "yes," replied the king, "i know that he is in heaven." and then he said that the lord should be praised equally for what he gave and for what he withheld; and in the dark of the evening his tears began to flow, not only for his own sorrow, but for that of the young countess of artois, who had only come out to the east to bid her husband a last farewell. for robert indeed was slain; deaf to the remonstrances of the grand master of the templars, an old man, whose advice had been well heeded, and to those of the earl of salisbury, he persisted in following the saracens to massoura, and had met there the fate he had drawn upon him by his untimely zeal and rashness. his brave companions perished with him, with the exception of the grand master, who lost an eye in the conflict, and one or two others; the englishman who bore the standard wrapped it around him as he fell. and as the king appeared to have known beforehand what had happened, so it is said the mother of the earl of salisbury had a vision of her son ascending to heaven, with a crown of glory on his head, before she received the tidings of his death. the king encamped that night close by the machines of the saracens, and on the second day after the battle of massoura, the struggle began afresh. the saracens had taken the victory to themselves, and had sent the news of their supposed triumph to cairo by their carrier pigeons. bondocar, the chief, who had rallied the troops in massoura appeared on the field in the coat of arms starred with lilies which robert of artois had worn. the greek fire was poured forth incessantly from the front line of the saracens as they came up in battle array; the king had the crupper of his horse covered with it once during the conflict, when he had gone to the rescue of his brother charles, who was in danger. the saracens were repulsed a second time, but the victory was dearly bought, so many men and horses being wounded, and the crusaders passed a dreary time before massoura, whilst their provisions grew less and less; and it being lent, they lost their strength by eating only roots, wheat, and fruit; fish they had in plenty at first, but to their horror they found out that they had fed on the dead bodies which the saracens had thrown into the river. a pestilence broke out, and the camp was like one vast hospital. the king, in mistaken zeal, had caused the bodies to be taken out of the water, that those of the christians might receive christian burial, and helped to bury them himself. this only increased the unwholesomeness of the air, and at last louis fell ill too. the crusaders now began to despair; the king had been as brave in misfortune as he had been on the battle-field, and had cheered the spirits of his followers: he visited the sick day and night, and sat beside the bedside of the dying, reminding them of their saviour's love, and comforting many a poor soul with the hope of heaven. it is recorded how one of the lowliest of the army declared as he lay dying that he could not depart until he had seen the kind face of his master bending over him once more. the saracens having prevented the approach of the vessels that were coming to the camp with provisions, the king, as a last resource, offered to give up the city of damietta to the sultan malek al moadhem, if he would agree to restore jerusalem to the christians, the counts of poiton and anjou remaining in egypt as hostages. the sultan would have no other hostage but the king himself, and louis would willingly have sacrificed himself for his people if his nobles had allowed him to do so. there was no alternative but to retreat to damietta, and the army decamped one spring night in the dark, the old people and the sick and wounded being carried out first, and the king leaving the camp the last of all with the barons gautier de chatillon and geoffray de sardines. he was so weak and ill that he could hardly sit upright on his little arab horse; yet he was the bravest among the brave in that troop which went slowly and sadly along in the dark, defending themselves as they could from the attacks of the arabs, who had been bribed for the purpose of molesting them. geoffray de sardines had to deal many a blow to keep the saracens from his master, who soon became too feeble to lift his sword, and they were in the greater danger because the whole of the egyptian army was behind them. at last they reached a little village, and the king, having fainted away, was carried into the first house they met with, whilst chatillon stood outside in the street defending it until he fell mortally wounded. when louis had recovered a little, philip de montfort came to him, and told him that he had seen an emir, to whom he had been sent on a mission once before, and if he liked he would make a treaty with him on the terms desired by the saracens. the king agreed to the plan; de montfort went to the emir, and all would have been well if a sergeant belonging to the french army, thinking to save the king's life, had not cried out to the knights who were standing around, "surrender, sir knights! the king commands you to do so!" the christian warriors, believing that the king had really commanded them to give way, lay down their swords, and the emir, seeing they were all prisoners, said there was no further need of a treaty. then cords and chains were thrown around them, and they were all conducted to massoura. the king was shut up in the house of a scribe; he was loaded with chains, and strictly watched, while the barons and knights were huddled together in a court which was open to the sky. king louis was very unkindly treated by the sultan at first; he was only allowed to have one attendant with him; this man, whose name was isambert, nursed him tenderly, dressed him, and made his bread; and said afterwards that he had never heard his master utter one word of complaint or impatience during the whole time of his captivity. it was a marvel how louis ever lived through his illness; his strength was almost spent; and at night, to add to his discomfort, he had nothing to cover him as he lay on his wretched bed but an old cloak, which a poor man had given him out of compassion in massoura. after a time, malek al moadhem, fearing the reproaches of the european nations, treated his captive more kindly; he had his chains removed and sent him his own physicians, and delicate food from his royal table, and to keep him warm he gave him two robes of black samite, trimmed and lined with fur, which were plentifully adorned with gold buttons. and best of all he allowed him to have his almoner and a priest with him, and something like joy came back to the poor king when the saracens brought him one day his missal, or book of prayers, which he had lost and never thought to see again. and so, comforted and strengthened by prayer, louis was not unhappy even within prison walls, away from all he loved, and waited patiently until the almighty should see fit to make a way for him to regain his liberty. and a way came at last: the sultan agreed to release him on condition of his giving up damietta and paying a ransom of a million besants of gold. louis agreed to the terms, but he said that the liberty of the king of france should not be bought with money, and that the gold should be paid for his people, and the city should be his own ransom. the sultan, struck with the spirit of his reply, reduced the sum he had asked by two hundred thousand besants, and a truce was concluded between the christians and the saracens of egypt and syria. it was arranged that half the ransom should be paid at once, and the other half as soon as the king should reach the port of acre in palestine, his brother alphonse remaining in egypt as hostage. louis was then set at liberty; he had recovered from his illness through the skill of the arabian physicians, and he repaired to acre where the queen and the princesses had already arrived, having quitted damietta a little while before. it was a joyful meeting, for marguerite had been very unhappy through all those long sad months at damietta, not only on account of the miseries of the crusaders, but also from the constant fear of falling into the hands of the saracens herself. and a little son who was born to her there received the name of "tristan," in memory of the sorrows she had endured. louis did not return to france at once, but remained some time at acre, in the hope of inducing the christian powers to enter into a league for the recovery of the holy land, and it was not until the news of his mother's death reached him, and his presence was required in his country, that he bade farewell to the east, where he had bravely striven for so much, and yet had gained so little. the king was received with great joy by his people on his return to france, but they were less happy when they saw the cross still on his shoulder, as a sign that he meant to engage in another crusade when the truce should have expired. as soon as he arrived he occupied himself in making good laws for his country, and was so greatly famed for his justice that other sovereigns were glad to benefit by his example. his laws against evil-doers were very severe; no murderer or thief dared abide in paris, and merchants and tradesmen who gave false measures were punished with extreme rigour. the king used often to sit beneath an oak in the bois de vincennes, or on a carpet spread in a garden, to hear the complaints and grievances of the common people, and to administer justice to them. he had always been charitable from his earliest years: a hundred and twenty poor persons were maintained in his house, and three poor old men, besides those who were crippled and lame, dined with him every day at his own table; the king would cut their bread and meat for them, and pour out their wine, and would serve them before he ate anything himself. and beyond this, he gave large sums to hospitals, religious houses, and colleges, and succoured widows and poor ladies and gentlemen, and all those who by reason of age or illness could no longer work for their living. the good king used to employ the morning with the affairs of the state; he dined at mid-day, and after dinner his readers would come to him, and he read the bible with interpreters, or the works of the fathers of the church: sometimes, instead of reading, he would converse with good and learned men, who always found a welcome at his court. in the evening, before he retired to rest, he used to assemble his children around him, and hear them repeat their prayers and the tasks they had learned during the day. then he would tell them of the deeds of good emperors and kings, and of the fate that generally befel those who were idle, or careless of the happiness of their subjects. at midnight he would rise from his bed to attend matins, and so afraid was he of being asleep when any of the church services began, that he had candles lighted which only burnt a certain time, that his servants might not fail to awaken him as soon as they were spent. his brothers used to share with him works of charity and holy offices. when baldwin ii., emperor of constantinople, sent him as a gift the crown of thorns supposed to be the one worn by our blessed saviour, and part of the word of the true cross on which he died, in return for the aid louis had afforded him when he was in great need, we read how the king received the sacred relics in the deepest humility, and bareheaded and barefoot carried the crown of thorns with his brother robert of artois to the church of notre-dame. it was to form a shrine for these relics that louis built the beautiful sainte chapelle in paris. again, we read how, when a new hospital was completed, the king carried in the first bed himself, with his son-in-law, the king of navarre, whilst his brothers conveyed the remainder of the sick people into the wards. the whole family were united in deeds of love and compassion. there was no office too lowly for louis to perform; no person, however mean and wretched, who had not a place in his heart. and if we except the harsh laws he made against the jews through his zeal for the christian faith, no sovereign ever showed more mercy and justice towards his people. one good friday, when the king was going his rounds to all the churches in paris, according to his custom, he saw on the other side of the way a leper who was shunned by every person he met. the king immediately crossed over the muddy road and gave the poor man some money, and kissed his hand to show that he loved him, although he was despised and avoided by all others. the king never resumed his costly robes after his return from the holy land, but wore dark-coloured garments of cloth and silk, and instead of handsome furs he only wore the skins of hares, rabbits, and squirrels, that he might have the more money to spare for his charities. in the summer of the year 1270 the christians set out once more from the port of aigues-mortes on the seventh and last crusade. bondocar had become a very powerful sovereign, and the saracens were making so great progress in the east, that all christian princes became alarmed, and were urged by the pope to hasten to the relief of palestine. the crusaders, with louis and three of his sons at their head, directed their course this time to tunis, hoping by gaining possession of that city to cut off all communication between the saracens of the east, and those of morocco and spain. as soon as they arrived before tunis the enemy came in sight, as if they were going to attack the camp, and then retired. just as they were vanishing in the distance two spanish slaves came and told the king that the lord of tunis had arrested all who were christians amongst his troops, and intended to cut off their heads directly the march should begin upon tunis. the next night three saracens appeared before the advance guard of the christians, and touching their turbans in token of respect, made known by signs that they demanded baptism. the king did not know what to think of the matter, and ordered them to be guarded in a tent; and a little while after a hundred more appeared, making the same signs. whilst they were amusing the soldiers by their odd gestures, other saracens rushed unexpectedly upon the camp, and after killing many of the christians, ran away before they could be captured. the army thought to revenge the affront on the three men, but they began to shed tears, and one of them declared that a captain of more than two thousand men like himself wanted to ruin him by treachery, and if the king would send one of the two others to the camp of the saracens, the whole army would pass over to the christians. the king did not dare to trust him, and thought it wisest to send them all away, for fear he should be guilty of shedding innocent blood. as the crusaders were making a very deep ditch the next day all around the camp, the entire body of the saracens came in sight, spreading from the sea on one side, to the country on the other. they meant to surround the army, but louis rushing out upon them, a skirmish ensued, and when a few of their number were slain, all the rest took flight. thus they kept on harassing and dodging the army; the christian warriors had no peace with them; and if ever they took off their armour they had to put it on again directly for some fresh alarm, although the saracens never ventured to give them battle. louis was desirous of waiting before tunis until the arrival of his brother charles, now king over sicily; and he prepared meanwhile by sea and land for the siege of the city, which was very strongly fortified. the delay proved the source of misfortune; the christians had worse evils to contend with than those occasioned by the saracens. the heat was intense, and the reflection from the sunlit mountains caused a dazzling light which almost blinded their eyes. when the wind blew it came loaded with burning sand, and the plague broke out on the coast. then the crusaders drooped one by one; the young count de nevers, the son whom louis loved best of all, was seized with the sickness and died, and on the day of his death the good saint louis fell ill himself. when he felt that he should never rise from his bed again, he set all his earthly affairs in order, and gave good advice to his children, telling them always to love one another, and maintain the peace of their country. for the rest of the time he lived he prayed in patience, and praised god for all that had befallen him throughout his life; and one night he uttered the word "jerusalem," adding, "let us go to jerusalem." it was to the heavenly jerusalem the king was going, the eternal city, where all weeping and sorrow and trouble should be hushed for ever. before he died he prayed long and earnestly for his people, that they might be delivered from their enemies, and last of all, with peace in his face, he lifted up his eyes to heaven and said, "lord, i will enter into thy house; i will adore thee in thy holy temple, and i will glorify thy name." when charles of anjou arrived at tunis a little while after the king had ceased to breathe, he was surprised to find that the camp was all silent, and that no one had come to meet him on the shore. and hastening to the royal tent, the sight that greeted him was the dead body of his brother clad in a hair shirt, and stretched on a bed of ashes; for thus had louis, in his humility, desired to die. charles shed many tears, and kissed the feet of his dead brother again and again, and the whole camp was filled with sorrowful faces, so dearly had the good king been loved by his followers. louis, having reigned over france for nearly forty-four years, left the kingdom to his eldest son philip, who carried on the crusade for a while with the other princes, and defeated the saracens on several occasions. by november, however, all the french crusaders had quitted the east, and philip occupied himself in the affairs of his own country. his father wrote him some instructions, which he was to read after his death, and which have been carefully preserved. the following maxims were amongst those they contained:- "dear son, the first thing i teach thee is to set thy heart to love god, for without him none can be saved. * * * * * "if god send thee adversity, receive it with patience, and thank the lord for it, and think that thou hast deserved it, and that it will turn to thy profit. if he give thee prosperity, thank him for it humbly, so as not to lose by pride or otherwise what ought to render thee better; for one ought not to abuse the gifts of god." "be kind and charitable to the poor, the weak, and those who are in trouble, and aid them according to thy power." "maintain the good customs of thy country, and destroy the bad ones. only have in thy company prudent and unambitious men. flee and avoid the company of the wicked." "listen willingly to the word of god, and keep it in thy heart. let no one be so bold as to speak a word which might lead to sin in thy presence." gustavus vasa, king of sweden. there was once a princess named margaret, daughter of waldemar, king of denmark, who on her father's death married haquin, king of norway. when her husband died she reigned over norway alone; and when her son olaus died she reigned over denmark too. margaret governed her people well, but she dearly loved power, and was not content with the countries she already possessed; so she went to war with her near neighbours, the swedes, and defeated and captured albert, their king. margaret kept him in prison seven years, and then only released him when he had agreed to give up his crown as the price of his liberty. in the year 1397 a great meeting of the states general of the three countries was held at a place called calmar, and there it was settled that denmark, sweden, and norway, should all be governed by one sovereign. after margaret's death the swedes were very unhappy for many years, because they were so sorely oppressed by the danes: they did not submit tamely, and a long series of troubles and wars ensued. when gustavus vasa, the great hero of the north, was born in the year 1490, sweden had in some measure freed itself from the danish yoke, and was governed by sten sture, a swede, who had the title of adminstrator. sture was a man of firm and upright character, who had never suffered the danes to triumph over him, although they were always trying to regain full power over his country, and had made a solemn vow with the russians to subdue it entirely. gustavus erickson, commonly called gustavus vasa, was born at the castle of lindholm, near stockholm. his father, erick johannson, was descended from the royal houses of vasa and sture, both of which came from the old norwegian kings, and were connected with many of the royal families of europe. they had always been renowned for their love of freedom, their steadfast spirit, and their valour. sten sture had given to erick johannson a beautiful estate, called castle-holm, and the island of aland, in the gulf of bothnia. he loved to have him with him at his court, and took charge of his little son gustavus, because he wanted to see him grow up worthy of his royal birth, and to teach him to love his unhappy country with all his heart; hoping that he might one day restore to it the freedom it had enjoyed before it was overcome by the ambitious northern queen. the boy was brought up simply and without luxury; he ate coarse food, and learned to hunt, and was allowed to climb about the mountains around lindholm as much as he liked, so that he grew very strong, and could endure great fatigue without a murmur, whilst he thoroughly enjoyed his sports and his liberty in the keen, fresh air. when john, the reigning king of denmark came in state to visit sture at stockholm, he was struck by the spirited bearing, and free, open nature of gustavus; and fearing that when he was older he might prove the source of danger to himself, he asked sture to let him take care of him, and bring him up at the danish court. sture, however, wisely declined his offer, and sent the child to aland to be out of danger, and watched over him until his death, when svante sture governed sweden in his place. gustavus was treated with great kindness by the new administrator, who loved peace, and only suffered good men to be around him, thus making his court a school for all knightly virtues. gustavus remained with him until he was eighteen, and then went to upsal to attend a school which had been founded there by the elder sture. a story is told of him which shows how deeply the teaching of his friend had taken root in his heart. in one of the divisions of the school he was accustomed to read the classics with a dane, who once happened to let fall some remarks against sweden. in a moment, the swedish youth drew his sword, plunged it through the book which was open before him, and rushed out of the place, never to return to it again. for all this, he was very happy at upsal, and they were merry days when a flock of students, in their red gowns, rushed out of the city gates to enjoy a holiday in the open country beyond. gustavus studied with great diligence, and was more learned than most of the other noble youths of his time, for in general they were quite content if they knew how to handle their weapons, and cared very little for learning out of books. gustavus made himself perfect in all knightly accomplishments, and could play on several musical instruments, which were all kept long afterwards, hung up in the castle of stockholm, in remembrance of the happy days of his youth. he never touched them after he had once given his whole thought to the rescue of his country, but i dare say, when his great work was done, and sweden was free and happy once more, and he looked at them as they hung on the walls, he seemed to hear all the old tunes which had gladdened his youth, and thought kindly of the companions of his early years, who had many of them died, or passed out of his sight. gustavus was tall, slender, and fairhaired; his countenance was open and expressed kindness; his temper was cheerful, and his courage could never be daunted: he had a wonderful memory to the very last hours of his life. when he had been in upsal six years he came back to the court of stockholm, where he went on with his studies, and lived until he was twenty-five years of age, beloved by his friends, and esteemed by all for his upright conduct. in the meantime a change had taken place in the affairs of denmark. king john was dead, and his son christiern the second had come to the throne. the new king suffered himself to be advised by his mother-in-law sigbritt, a spiteful and meddling dutchwoman; and he began his reign with many unjust actions towards the swedes, which provoked them to fight once more for their freedom. sten sture the younger had succeeded his father svante; he resolved to free his country from the bondage of denmark, and he spoke earnest words in the council house. "we must be firm," he said. "we must offer up our blood, and show the people who come after us, how dear to us was our freedom, rather than sit still with a weight upon our shoulders, which crushes us to the ground." and very soon the war began. king christiern came himself to the scene of action, and lay siege to stockholm. sture and gustavus erickson, who bore the banner of sweden, gained two victories over the danes; the king was in danger, being nearly surrounded by his enemies, and was obliged to think of returning to his own country. he made it appear as if he wished for peace, and agreed to meet sture in order to treat for terms, provided hostages were sent to his quarters in the persons of gustavus and five swedish statesmen of high rank. it was arranged that when these hostages reached his vessel at a place called krongshamm, he should present himself in the quarters of sture, and that when he returned to his vessel the swedes should be free to depart. although it was well known that the promises of christiern were not to be trusted, the six hostages set out in a boat with a crew of twelve men, but they had hardly got half-way when a danish vessel, having a hundred men on board, met them, and closed their path. the captain told them that the king wished to meet them at a place called elfsnabbe, where he had some important matters to discuss with them. gustavus replied with spirit that they had simply come as hostages, and had no power to transact business; they would therefore either await the king at krongshamm or return at once to their own quarters. the swedes soon found, however, that it was of no use to resist, and they were forced on board the danish vessel, and thus conveyed to the king. the tyrant rejoiced that he had gustavus vasa, the most dreaded of his enemies in his power, and without taking any heed of his promise, sailed with his booty to denmark as quickly as he could. the people of sweden were very sorrowful, and angry too when they knew gustavus had been thus captured, for his brave conduct and his success had already made them hope that better days were in store for them. sture also was grieved at christiern's breach of faith--the more so that he had been too generous to suspect him of such deceit--and only a short time before, when the king had been brought very low by sickness and famine, had sent him succour, and cared for him as if he had been his warmest friend instead of his most bitter foe. when the swedes arrived in denmark they were shut up in the citadel of copenhagen, and it was decided that they should be put to death at once. only, as they had been guilty of no crime, it was not easy to find a pretence for passing sentence upon them. whilst their fate was pending, sigbritt urged the king to spare their lives, saying, that so long as he had them in his power, he could impose upon the swedes laws more and more severe, with the threat of putting their countrymen to instant death if they did not obey them. christiern, as usual, followed the advice of his mother-in-law, which for once proved the source of blessing to sweden, and gustavus and his companions were only shut up in prison. gustavus had a kinsman at copenhagen of the name of banner, who was much attached to him, and feared that if he lived solely under the eye of the tyrant he would be exposed to many insults. so he prevailed with christiern to let him keep him in his castle of calloã«, a strong fortress in denmark, and made himself a surety for him to the amount of six thousand dollars. in the early part of the year 1520 christiern declared war. the swedes were prepared to resist him, for the peasants had come down from the mountains, and had flocked to the standard of sture until the army was increased to the number of 10,000 men. the cause of the king of denmark was strongly favoured by the pope and trolle, archbishop of upsal, who were both very angry because the protestant faith was daily gaining ground in sweden. trolle came of an ancient house, only second in rank and dignity to that of sture, and a long standing quarrel between these two houses served at the present moment to widen the breach between them. the swedes fought bravely, but they were soon overcome, and in a battle at bogisund, sture received a wound in the head, of which he died a few days after. the state of the country now seemed hopeless; its regular army only numbered 500 men; those who had crowded its ranks when the war began were brave-hearted men, eager to defend the right, but they were not trained and skilful soldiers. sture dead, and gustavus vasa in prison, there was neither ruler in the land nor leader in strife. the swedes began indeed to be disheartened; a few of the bravest clung to the hope that a fresh attempt might yet be made to resist the tyrant's power; some, less hopeful, thought it best to lay down their swords and submit; others again, said that they would rather die first. sture's widow, christina--herself of royal birth--and a woman of great spirit, came forward to revenge her husband's death, and to implore the swedes not to desert the cause of freedom. she sent her little son nil sture to dantzig to be out of danger, and went to stockholm, where she made the people swear rather to bury themselves beneath the ruins of the city, than become the slaves of the danish king. for a short time a little gleam of hope broke over the land, but christiern feeling assured that he could not really call himself king of sweden until he had stockholm in his power, resolved to come in person with a great fleet and besiege the capital. in the meantime gustavus was sorrowing for the troubles of his fatherland, and his face was clouded and sad when he followed his kinsman banner to the gay festivals of the danish court, and heard people tell how the king had triumphed over his countrymen, and was bending by degrees their proud spirit. he was heartily tired, too, of his prison, although he was guarded less strictly now than he had been at first, and was allowed to wander about by himself within one mile of the castle. during his lonely walks he revolved many plans in his mind, and at last one morning at sunrise he put on the disguise of a peasant, and made his escape from calloã«. the first day he wandered about a part of the country unknown to him, and the next day at noon he reached the town of flensburg, where he feared he should have been betrayed. but outside the town, for his good fortune, he found a number of saxon merchants who had been buying oxen in jutland, and were on their way back to germany; without much trouble he entered their service, and thus got safely out of denmark. in the september of the year 1519 he came to the free city of lubeck, where he made himself known at the council house, and asked to be received as a guest, secure from the tyranny of the danish king. soon after he arrived, banner came in search of him. he was very angry with gustavus for having escaped out of his hands, and exposed him to the king's wrath, and wanted him to return with him to denmark. gustavus promised to refund the six thousand dollars banner would be obliged to forfeit, but it was not likely that he would agree to go back to his gloomy prison. so he remained some months at lubeck, and heard there of the death of sture and the defeat of his countrymen. it was at this time, when martin luther, the great reformer, came to visit the city of lubeck, that gustavus vasa declared himself a convert to the protestant faith. the council at last promised to assist him with men and money, and granted him a merchant's vessel in which he reached the coast of sweden towards the end of may in the year 1520. as he approached stockholm, he found its haven filled by the danish fleet, and not caring to show himself yet, he landed at a promontory a short distance from calmar. stockholm was now possessed by the danes, king christiern had taken up his abode in one of the palaces, and christina had been forced to retire to the castle, which was strongly guarded, and still held out against the danes. gustavus entered the city secretly and found his way to the castle, where he was welcomed and received with great honour by sture's widow. he then went to the market place, and made himself known to the people who had assembled there in crowds, and he told them what a disgrace it was for them to be in bondage to christiern. the people listened in silence and hung their heads; it seemed as if all spirit had been crushed within them. so gustavus went back to the castle to see if he could arouse a better feeling there, but the german soldiers who were employed to guard it broke out into fury at the very idea of fighting, they were so utterly tired of all the misery of war, and they would have murdered gustavus on the spot if christina had not been there to protect him. he now saw that his only safety would be at the head of an army: the danes were all ready to besiege the castle, and it was therefore no longer a place to shelter him; but the moment for action was not yet come, and he roamed about in the country around stockholm in disguise, now in the forests and now in the fields, hiding by day and travelling by night, and mingling sometimes with the danes for the purpose of gaining news. and on sundays, when the peasants were in the churches, he would stand amongst them, and try to cheer them by telling them that happier days were in store for them when they should be free once more. still the people did not care to listen: they said that so long as they obeyed the king of denmark, they had salt and herrings in plenty; what more did they want? and sometimes when gustavus had turned away from them they would shoot after him with their arrows. such was the abject state they had been brought to by long-continued insult and oppression. besides this christiern had spies in all parts, and had set a heavy price upon the head of gustavus, and threatened all persons who should attempt to conceal him with the punishment of death. after escaping from many dangers, he came through ludermannland to the house of joachim brahe, a noble councillor of sweden, who had married his sister margaret. the meeting between brother and sister was full of joy, and gustavus hoped that brahe would have been prevailed upon to take up arms in the defence of his country, but the prudent statesman was not to be enticed. christiern, whose presence had for a time been required in denmark, was now on his way to stockholm, and brahe was one of the guests invited thither to behold the crown of sweden placed upon his head. he could see nothing but rashness and certain failure in the project of taking up arms against so powerful a foe. gustavus, therefore, bade his sister farewell with a heavy heart, and went on his way once more, and after wandering about some time longer in disguise, he retired to a country house at rafnã¤es, which belonged to his father, to think over in solitude what was best to be done. king christiern arrived in stockholm with his wife, leaving sigbritt to manage the affairs of denmark. with the help of the pope, and the archbishop of upsal, he had himself declared heir to the swedish throne before an immense concourse of people, and was crowned in their presence. before this he promised to release all captives, and conferred many marks of royal favour upon the chief men of stockholm. the first days after he was crowned were given up to knightly sports, and feasting, and merriment. but before three days had passed, the king's cruel temper got the better of him, and he withdrew from the scene of rejoicing to a secret council chamber, where he sat thinking over the best means of getting rid of the bishops and senators, and all men of high estate in sweden, that his own position on the throne might be quite secure. soon it appeared as if a shadow of gloom had fallen over the city, where all had been noisy mirth: the castle was suddenly filled with prisoners; bishops and statesmen were alike consigned to its dark dungeons; in all the market places scaffolds were erected; and the unhappy captives were told that they must die. the 8th of november in the year 1520 was the day on which the fearful deed began, a deed never equalled in horror in the annals of swedish history. early in the dark morning all the gates of the city were shut to prevent anybody from taking flight, and making the affair known in the country beyond. every new comer was let in, but no one was allowed to go out. the streets were guarded, and field-pieces were placed upon the great market place, levelled towards the people. the way from the castle to the market was lined with danish soldiers; trumpeters rode about the streets and proclaimed that all persons were to retire to their houses; and close their doors on pain of death. but the common people were horror-struck at these preparations they dared to disobey the king's orders, and crowded together to see what would happen next. towards noon the castle gates were opened, and bishops and nobles, councillors and burgomasters, were led between executioners and common soldiers to the appointed place on the market, just in front of the council house. the bishops were clad in their sacred robes, the councillors had not had time to take off the dress they wore in council. oh what a sad procession it was, as they came slowly along, with erect heads and a proud and calm demeanour worthy of their race! sobs and murmurs were heard amongst the crowd; the roughest of the soldiers and headsmen were touched with pity and respect as these innocent men, most of them grey-headed, walked to their death. as soon as they reached the market place, a speech was made to the mob in which it was declared that the king was deeply grieved to be obliged to have recourse to such severe measures, but that he felt himself bound to punish the swedes for the offence they had given to the pope by becoming protestants. and thus he made the terrible crime he was about to commit even worse, by his falsehood! one of the bishops, an aged man, then declared his innocence, and asked that a clergyman might be allowed to attend himself and his companions in their last moments; but his request was refused, and a noise was made to prevent his words from being heard by the people. then the headsmen began their dread work; the fourth victim was erick johannson the father of gustavus. in a little time the market place was filled with dead bodies and the streets streamed with blood. some of the mob, roused to a state of frenzy by the dreadful spectacle, made an attempt to rescue those of the doomed ones who were yet living, but they were cut down by the soldiers who had received orders to quell any outbreak on the part of the common people with the punishment of death. escape was not to be thought of, because the gates of the city were always kept closed; the frightened people crept into cellars and corners. and when the king heard that they had hidden themselves, he caused a decree of pardon to be read, so that many of them came out believing it to be true, and only fell into the trap he had thus artfully laid for them. ninety-four swedes fell the first day. for two days and two nights the corpses lay on the market place, and the cattle and the fowls strayed amongst them. to add to the horror the king caused the dead bodies of sture the younger and his son sten to be disinterred and thrown amongst the murdered to be buried with them. sture's widow, christina, did not escape the king's wrath; she was summoned to his presence and condemned to die, but some persons present asked the tyrant to spare her life, and she was only sentenced to be imprisoned for the rest of her days. in other parts of sweden deeds equally cruel were enacted. numbers of the peasants were deprived each of a leg and a hand, and, thus maimed, they were supposed to be able to till the land although they could not possibly fight. for these acts of cruelty and oppression christiern the second justly gained the title of the wicked, and his own people soon began to hate him as much as the swedes hated him for all the evil he had done. in the meantime gustavus was sought for in vain. he was still in his hiding-place at rafnã¤es, sending out his peasants now and then to collect news. and one sad day a grey-haired man came to the neighbouring castle of gripsholm which belonged to joachim brahe. it was brahe's steward; he had followed his master to stockholm, and had witnessed his unhappy fate. the old man could not speak for crying, and could only make known by signs the terrible events that had happened. soon after, a peasant came by, and told the same story. and gustavus sat in the lonely house, sorrowing for his father and his friends, and many of his kindred besides; yet although he was forsaken by all, and surrounded as it were by enemies, he would not give up hope, but only longed the more to succour his unhappy country. so one day he packed up all the money and valuable things he possessed, and taking them with him, left rafnã¤es on horseback with the idea of persuading the brave people of dalecarlia to stand by him in the struggle for freedom. this province, which was the scene of his adventures for some time, is bordered on its western side by norway: the mountain ridge which divides the sources of its two rivers dalef from lake fã¤mund in that country rises to between three and four thousand feet above the level of the sea. dalecarlia abounds in rivers and lakes; the winters there are long and severe; corn will not grow, and the tender bark of the pine trees is mixed with the scanty supply of rye or barley of which the people make their bread. wolves and bears frequent the forests, and fish is plentiful in all the lakes, except in those near fahlun, now the capital of the province, where the vapours for ever rising out of the great copper mine there, drive away to a distance birds, beasts, and fishes, and destroy, all verdure in the country around. fahlun lies in a wide valley between two lakes; the mine is a vast abyss, and is worked open to the sky, and besides copper produces gold, silver, vitriol, ochre, and brimstone. the natives of darlecarlia are hardy from the nature of their climate; they have always been very brave, trusting in their own strength, and having very little intercourse with the other people of sweden. at the time gustavus was amongst them they were so simple in their manners that the noblemen could scarcely be distinguished from the peasants. there was not a town then in the whole province, the people clustered together in villages, which were divided into parishes. some of these lay along the rivers and lakes, others were hidden among the mountains, and were only to be approached by the steepest and most difficult of paths. gustavus took with him as he supposed the most faithful of all his servants, but the cowardly man thought the fortunes of his master much too insecure to be followed, and contrived to get away from him with the valuable things it had been his duty to carry. gustavus soon found out his treachery, and pursued him until his horse could go no farther; then, being in great danger himself, he was obliged to leave the horse and the few things he had with him on the road and run for very life. thus, without friends or money, clad in a coarse peasant's frock, he wandered about the dark pine forests and the mountains, only occasionally finding a roof to shelter his head from the inclement winter nights, or food to satisfy his sharp hunger. still he never despaired, but trusted that god would let him live until he should have given back to his country the happiness it had lost for so long. on the last day of november he arrived at fahlun, and there he cut his hair short, and put on a round hat, such as the dalecarlians wore, and a rough woollen vest, and set out with an axe on his shoulder in search of work. in a little time he found employment in the mines of fahlun, by which he earned barely enough for his support; and finding that the noxious vapours and the closeness of the mines impaired his health, he left them, and wandered farther until he came to the house of a rich man named andres fehrson. here he was hired as a farm-labourer, and set to work in the barns. the other farm-servants soon began to watch the new comer with interest. in their intercourse with him they soon found that he was not quite like one of themselves; he had been observed, too, to wear a rich silken handkerchief, beneath his woollen vest, and they suspected that he was some nobleman in disguise. reports of this reached the ears of fehrson, and he desired that the stranger should come to him. the very moment he saw him he recognised him as a fellow student in the school at upsal, but although he was very glad to see his old comrade again, he dared not keep so dangerous a person in his house, and he urged him to go higher up the mountains and not to stay too long a time in one place. gustavus was therefore obliged to set out on his wearisome travels once more: the winter had set in with all its rigour, the lakes and rivers were frozen, and as he was crossing some ice between wika and torsanga, a part of it gave way, and he fell up to his shoulders in the water, and was very nearly drowned. however, he managed to clamber out, and he found his way to a cottage, where some kind peasants gave him food and shelter, and afterwards brought him to the country house of arendt fehrson, a relation of andres, who had served under gustavus in the war with the danes. this man appeared to receive him with respect and courtesy, but soon after his arrival he rode swiftly to one of his friends to tell him of the prize concealed in his house, and to ask him to join him in making the affair known to the king;--for it will be remembered that a heavy price had been set upon the head of gustavus--and the man who would have been base enough to betray him would have reaped great gain to himself. this friend was too honourable to listen to such a proposal, and fehrson, enraged at his refusal, went to another of his friends, an officer in the danish service, who had fewer scruples. fehrson passed the evening at his house in feasting and drinking, and it was planned between them that he should return home the next morning, accompanied by twenty men, and seize the fugitive by force. but barbro stigsdotter, the wife of fehrson, had guessed the treachery of her husband, for she had seen him ride past his own house as he came from magno wilson, and take the road which led to the officer's dwelling. touched with pity, she warned gustavus of his danger, and kindly provided him with a horse and sledge, so that he might fly at once. gustavus was very thankful to avail himself of the means of escape, and was soon flitting over the snow in his sledge beneath the starry sky in search of another place of refuge. the next morning, when arendt fehrson arrived with his twenty men, he was told that his guest had been missing since the evening before, and that no one knew whither he was gone. gustavus at last reached the house of a true friend, a swedish pastor, who helped him with good advice during the eight days he remained with him, and strengthened him in his resolve to arouse the dalecarlians. but he dared not stay longer in this part of the country, because arendt fehrson had already spread the report of his being alive; and the pastor drove him to the village of isale, where he was received into the cottage of an honest peasant named swen nilson, who did him good and faithful service. one day when gustavus was standing in the cottage, clad in his peasant's garb, which was beginning to be the worse for wear, a body of danish soldiers employed to track the fugitive, rushed in, breathless and anxious, and asked if a young nobleman, a well known traitor to the king, were not concealed about the place. nilson answered, no; and his wife, to remove suspicion, gave gustavus a sharp blow with a long wooden spoon, and scolded him loudly for standing idle instead of going to work in the barn with the others. gustavus took the hint, and hastened out of the cottage, thus escaping from his pursuers, who did not for one moment suppose that the general of the swedish army, and the descendant of kings, was concealed beneath so humble a disguise. [illustration: front. _gustavus vasa in the swedish peasant's hut.--p. 100_] after this swen nilson had the courage to drive his guest in a cart loaded with straw to rã¤ttwik. it was a dangerous journey: the danish soldiers guarded all the passes and bridges, and some of them plunged their weapons into the straw, and wounded gustavus severely in the leg as he lay covered up at the bottom of the cart. he bore the pain in silence, but unfortunately the blood dripped from the wound through the cart, and would have betrayed the fact that he lay hidden there, had not nilson thought of cutting open the heel of his horse, so that the blood appeared to be trickling from that. happily the hurt was not dangerous, and the moment after it was bound up on his arrival at rã¤ttwik, gustavus went to the church, where a great crowd of people had assembled, and without making himself known, he told them of the horrible cruelty of the king of denmark, and how sweden would never be free unless they roused themselves, as their brave ancestors would have done, to shake off the shameful bondage. the peasants listened in horror, they were moved by his words, and said they would take up arms as soon as they could find out how their neighbours were disposed in the matter. gustavus thought he had gained something, and went on joyfully to mora, the largest and most populous parish in the valley. the news of his coming got spread abroad, and the danish governor, who dwelt in the strong castle of westeras, began to tremble; he knew that the inhabitants of the valleys, if once aroused, could make themselves very terrible. so he doubled the heavy price already set upon the head of gustavus, and told the people around that none of the deeds reported to be done at stockholm had really been carried out, and that christiern was a most kind and merciful sovereign! it was christmas-time when gustavus arrived in mora: the peasants had come down from their distant mountain homes to make merry with their friends in the valley, and one day he went up to the top of a hill, and spoke to a vast concourse of people, who had followed him out of curiosity. here again some of the peasants were touched by his words; their eyes filled with tears, and they signified by their shouts and cheers that they were willing to aid him. but others were of a different mind; they did not want to go to war; the nobles had hitherto been chiefly the objects of the king's cruelty, and they thought that they should be left in peace themselves. they were very near fetching their weapons, and chasing the speaker by force from the spot. a turn of good fortune, however, came to gustavus whilst he was still at mora. a party of a hundred danes, having heard that he was there in the hope of rousing the peasants, rushed suddenly upon the place, making the air resound with their wild cries, and threatening to put every one they met to the sword if he were not given up. the peaceful people of mora were unused to be thus disturbed, and they hastened to ring the church-bells, which were only rung when some great danger was at hand. the wind carried the sound of the bells to the neighbouring villages, and in a little while some thousand armed peasants were seen pouring into mora. they stormed the great walled-in court around the pastor's house, where the danes (alarmed in their turn) had taken refuge, broke down its gates with heavy wooden stakes, and only spared the lives of the soldiers on condition that they should not attempt to lay hands on gustavus. this was the first time that arms had been taken up in his cause: it was a feeling of honour that prompted the dalecarlian peasants to defend him, because they said that they should have been ashamed if any one demanding their help had been taken by force from amongst them. gustavus, thankful to his preservers, now quitted mora, and took his way towards the western valleys, so that he might conceal himself in the wilder parts of the country, if the fury of his pursuers increased. many swedish nobles had already fled thither, and they came out of their hiding-places, and met together in the valley. and there came to mora an old man named lars olosson, who had always been faithful to his country, and another brave man came from the forest, and entreated the people to take up arms. the peasants now saw that they were in earnest, and they hastened to seek for gustavus, fearing that he might already have passed the boundary and entered norway. but swedish messengers can go on their errands very quickly, because all through their nine months of dreary winter the peasants wear long sliding-shoes, which enable them to flit over the snow with almost the speed of an arrow. these shoes are very strange looking things; they are long, narrow pieces of fir-wood, the one worn on the right foot being three feet in length, and that on the left foot seven. the messengers found gustavus in a parish called lima, and he was joyful indeed when he came back to mora, and saw that two hundred peasants were ready to follow him at once. their numbers soon increased, and he divided them into little companies, which had their headquarters, so that they could all fight in unity: they were hardy, long-lived men, and could be quite content to live upon coarse meal stirred in water, or a little bread made of the bark of the trees if they could get no better food. and gustavus still went up the steep mountain paths from cottage to cottage, and from one country house to another to try and persuade the people to help him, and before the ice had melted on the rivers and lakes the number of his followers had increased to several thousand. he chose sixteen of the youngest and bravest for his bodyguard, and maintained strict discipline amongst his men, although he was greatly beloved by them for his kindness of heart. the first attempt they made was on the strong castle of the governor of the koppar mountain, which they captured, together with the stores of provisions it contained. amongst these was a large chest full of money, which gustavus divided amongst his followers, and another day they captured some pieces of silk, which they made into banners, but they had neither powder nor balls as yet. now that gustavus had so large an army he wanted to begin the war by a bold stroke, and he drew off towards westeras, the governor of the strong fortress there, being at the time absent in stockholm. here he gained a great victory over the danes, which prepared the way to future success, but the manner in which a great part of his army rejoiced over the triumph they had won, was not at all to his taste. it happened thus: some of his troops had gone on in advance, and after a desperate struggle got possession of the place, whilst gustavus was still in the forest with the rear of his army. after the affray they found some huge casks of wine and brandy, which they carried off to the council house, and foolishly regaled themselves with until they all fell to quarrelling, or were heavy with sleep. the greatest disorder prevailed; the danes took advantage of the tumult to renew the attack; and would have recovered the fortress had not gustavus appeared with the rest of the army. he was very angry indeed with his men, and had to fight hard to drive back the danes, so that a great number of soldiers were killed on either side; and when the battle was over he caused the hoops to be removed from the casks of wine that remained, and let it all flow away on the ground in sight of his whole army. this was in the month of may in the year 1521, when the short swedish spring was changing to summer, and the land, having cast off its mantle of snow, looked fresh, and green, and full of hope. in the northern climes the flowers bloom, and the leaves come back to the trees very quickly, and a few weeks sunshine is sufficient to ripen the barley and the rye, or the corn, in the places where it will grow. after the battle of westeras the peasants armed themselves in the plains of sweden; the nobles headed them, and many officers deserted from the viceroy whom king christiern had left in stockholm to manage the affairs of the state. the viceroy and trolle were friends; they soon began to be greatly alarmed; but they could get no succour from denmark because the people there disliked them so much, and were getting so tired of the evil doings of their king. many battles were fought, and the swedes were not always successful, but at last gustavus got possession of stockholm after having besieged it three times; and a happy day came, when he entered the capital surrounded by senators, officers, and the first nobles in the land, and repaired to the great church, where--kneeling at the foot of the altar,--he thanked the almighty aloud, for having preserved him through so many dangers, and granted him success. and then he went to the palace, where he wept for those whom he had loved very dearly, and now missed on this day of his triumph. not only had his father and his brother-in-law perished in the massacre at stockholm, but his mother cecilia, and two of his sisters, had been cruelly put to death during the siege. it is said that if the siege had been raised their lives would have been spared, but these brave women knew in that case their country would have been lost, and they were content to die for its sake. in the year 1523 the danes would not have christiern to reign over them any longer, and made his uncle frederic, duke of holstein, king in his stead. christiern was forced to leave the country, and retired into flanders, with his wife and children. when sigbritt had to leave the royal palace, she did not dare venture out of it, even in disguise, and was carried to the vessel destined to receive her concealed in a large chest. the swedes, full of gratitude and love for their preserver, wanted him to be crowned king of sweden. gustavus, however, refused this honour, and governed the country for some time as administrator. but as the years went on and it was in danger from the plots made by the roman catholics and the friends of christiern, he yielded to the wishes of the people, and in june, 1527, was solemnly crowned king of sweden under the title of gustavus the first. he had long forgiven all the offences that had been offered him, whilst he remembered every little act of kindness that had been shown him when he was wandering about, a wretched fugitive, in hourly danger of his life. during the thirty-three years he reigned his great care was to make his subjects happy, and he was fully employed in setting his country in order, after the misery it had suffered for so many years. it was gustavus who settled the protestant faith throughout the land, and luther, and melancthon, and other great protestant divines, used frequently to visit his court. he wished to inspire his people with a taste for arts and sciences, and encouraged learning by inviting studious and clever men to stockholm: printing had been already introduced into sweden about the year 1483, when sten sture the elder founded the famous school or university at stockholm. the king employed his peasants in working fresh mines and salt springs; he caused hops to be grown in sweden, so that the iron sent out yearly in exchange for that produce might be kept in the country, and prove the source of comfort and wealth. any merchant or tradesman convicted of dishonesty was punished with extreme rigour, and the bad laws were done away with, and good ones ordained in their place. the palace was open to all who demanded audience, when the king was ever ready to hear complaints, or to give advice. he thought the bible the best of all books, and grounded his actions on its holy precepts; and the swedes were so happy under his just and merciful rule that they always cried when he went abroad, "long live gustavus, the best loved of kings!" soon after he came to the throne he married catherine, daughter of the duke of magnus, whose sister had just espoused the crown prince of denmark. catherine died young, and gustavus next married margaret, daughter of an ancient senator, the governor of east gothnia: this lady was amiable and beautiful, and made her husband and her children very happy. the king used to tell his children not to be proud of their high estate, saying, "one man is as good as another, and when the play is over we are all equal;" meaning, when the life of trial upon earth was ended. the only approach to vanity in his character was to be seen in his love for magnificent apparel; but this was quite an excusable fault, when it is remembered how content he was to wear the coarse peasant's dress in the days of his misfortunes. at the last assembly he convoked at stockholm in the year 1560, he was led into the senate house, where his four sons, erick, john, magnus, and charles, and all the orders in the kingdom were assembled. he then caused his will to be read, and made his children swear to obey it. erick was declared successor to the throne; john, possessor of finland; magnus of eastern gothnia; and charles of sudermania. in a few earnest words he urged his people to obey his successor and to preserve the greatest unity among themselves; since on that would depend their strength and their freedom: he said also, that if he had ever done any good, thanks for it were to be ascribed to god alone, and implored pardon for all the faults he had committed. very soon after this he died, leaving a name which is still cherished in the heart of every swede; for he was called not only the king, but the father and the instructor of his people. it must not be thought that his long reign was free from care, since he had constantly to preserve himself from the attempts that were made by the friends of christiern to take his power from him. when he came to the throne he found the country laid waste by the ravages of war, and its people almost without hope. he left sweden free and happy, an army ready to march at a moment's notice, and a treasury full of money; indeed, it is said, that after his death a great vaulted chamber was found so full of silver that the door of it could scarcely be opened. gustavus never forgot that he owed his success to the brave dalecarlians; and his watch word, when about to engage on any expedition attended with danger, was always, "god and the swedish peasants!" bertrand du guesclin, the hero of chivalry. about the year 1320 bertrand du guesclin was born in the castle of la motte bron, which stood in a picturesque part of bretagne, about six leagues from the city of rennes. his father, reynauld du guesclin, was a brave and loyal knight, who served god truly, and was very kind to the poor, giving them a great part of his substance, although he was not at all rich himself. bertrand was the eldest of ten children. unhappily his excessive ugliness made him an object of dislike to his mother, and she was not nearly so kind to him as she was to her other children. besides this, he was self-willed and savage, and his temper would break out into fits of violence which terrified his little brothers and sisters, and exposed him to the contempt of the whole household. this rough and repelling exterior, however, only hid for a time a generous nature and a feeling heart, and many were the tears poor bertrand shed in solitude, for he was too proud to let them be seen, when he rebelled against the harsh treatment he received on account of his ill-behaviour. one day the lady of la motte was seated at table in the dining-hall of the castle with her younger sons, guillaume and olivier, whilst bertrand was eating his dinner in a corner apart. it was very sad to know that the eldest son of the family behaved so rudely that his parents would not allow him to take his place at the table. but this day it happened that some chance word of ridicule reached him in his corner, and he arose in fury, and, rushing towards the table, commanded his brothers to make room for him at the upper end, where his place as the eldest child should have been by right. his brothers, surprised at the tone of his voice, obeyed, and his mother suffered him to sit in the highest place; but he had not been there long before his awkward and uncouth manners obliged her to order him to return to his corner. bertrand arose, and in his rage clenched his hand, and hit the oaken table so hard a blow that it overturned, and emptied the contents of the dishes into the laps of the persons seated around it. this passionate act of course called down a fresh torrent of reproaches on his head. in the midst of all the disorder a lady, who was a frequent visitor at the castle, entered the hall. she asked bertrand's mother why she was so angry. the lady of la motte answered her by pointing to her little son, who was now sobbing bitterly in his corner. the lady went up to him, and although he was sullen at first, she soon persuaded him to tell her his sorrows. she invited him to return to the table, and bertrand, to the astonishment of all who were present, took the dish of peacock which the steward was just bringing into the hall, and a goblet of wine, and served her with them himself, awkwardly it must be confessed, but in a spirit of gratitude for the few kind words she had spoken. the lady who had thus befriended him was the daughter of a jewish physician, but with her father had been converted to christianity. she was reputed to be very clever, and was skilled in an art which was much practised in those days, namely, that of foretelling future events by observing the lines in people's hands, very much in the same manner as gipsies pretend to tell fortunes, even in our own time. after dinner she called bertrand to her, and attentively examined his face and his hand, and presently told his mother that she ought to be proud of having such a son, instead of despising him, because she was convinced that when he grew up to be a man he would do great things for the glory of his country. from this day his mother looked more kindly upon him; she had him dressed for the first time in a manner suitable to his rank, and commanded the servants to treat him with the respect due to the eldest son of their master. bertrand's fiery temper, however, and his love of fighting, were a continual source of trouble and anxiety to his parents. before he was nine years of age he would often leave the castle without their knowledge, and collect all the children he met with on his way, and then fight them one by one, or try his strength against a number of them together. when he returned home, bleeding, and with torn and soiled garments, his mother would justly reprove him for behaving so little like a gentleman. at last his fighting propensities increased to such a pitch that the country people complained of him to his father, and the sire de la motte was obliged to order a forfeit to be paid by the parents of all children who were found in his company. nevertheless bertrand still contrived to get out of the castle secretly, and to lead the little villagers to their mimic battles. his father, as a last resource, shut him up in the dungeon of the castle, and in this dreary place he remained four months. but one evening a maid-servant, whose office it was to bring him his food twice a day, left the door open behind her, and bertrand managed to slip out, not forgetting in his haste to turn the key upon her, in case she should betray him to his parents. then he ran as fast as ever he could to a field, unfastened a mare from one of his father's ploughs, mounted it, laughing heartily the while at the ploughman, who was rushing after him, and galloped as far as rennes, without saddle or bridle, to the house of his aunt, a sister of the sire de la motte, who was married to a knight of great honour. his aunt had often heard of his misconduct at home, and was not at all pleased to see him arrive in such plight. she began scolding him in harsh words, when luckily for him his uncle intervened in his favour, reminding his wife that bertrand was only a child, and had done nothing yet to forfeit his honour. "he is brave and spirited," said the good knight; "let us keep him in our house, and see if we cannot transform him into a great captain for the glory of bretagne." bertrand remained with his uncle at rennes until he was sixteen, and learned from him all the accomplishments necessary for a knight. moreover, he learned to be gentle and courteous to those around him, and in these happier circumstances the good points of his character shone forth, and his violent temper was curbed, whilst his spirit remained free. it is related of him that he was so generous, that when he met with any poor persons, and had no money with him, he would give them some of the very clothes he wore, and if he had only a penny would share it with those who were in need. he found his greatest delight in listening to his uncle's stories of battles and sieges, and when some noble exploit was related, would clap his hands for joy, whilst his eyes shone like fire. a very great fault, however, still remained to him, and that was his love of fighting. one sunday it was announced in the city of rennes that a prize would be given to the youth who should acquit himself best in single combat. bertrand burned with impatience to enter the lists, and his aunt, fearing the temptation might prove too strong for him, carried him off with her to church, thinking he would certainly be safe there under her vigilant eye. as soon as bertrand saw that her attention was fully absorbed in listening to the sermon, he took the opportunity of slipping out of church, and ran at full speed to the market-place. here he was recognised by some of his opponents of former years, but he made them promise not to betray him to his aunt, and was just going to enter the lists, when a young breton, who had thrown twelve of his competitors to the ground, advanced proudly to claim the prize, which was a hat with feather and silver band. bertrand defied him to the combat, and after a long struggle succeeded in overthrowing him; but during the time he had happened to fall on his opponent, and in so doing had cut his knee severely with a stone. this accident caused him so much pain that he could hardly stand, and he begged his comrades to take him to a surgeon's, where his wound could be dressed. the prize was brought to him there, but he dared not accept it, for fear his aunt, of whom he always seems to have had a wholesome dread, should hear of what he had done. she had indeed missed him, and had sought for him everywhere, and she did not spare her reproaches when she discovered the state he was in. nevertheless she showed him greater kindness than he deserved, and nursed him until he had recovered from his wound. the knight at last persuaded his father to recall him to the castle of la motte bron. now bertrand tasted the real joy of home for the first time, for his father was so delighted at the improvement in his character that he no longer withheld his love from him, and every member of the household had a kind word for him; while in former times, when he was so very naughty and unruly, there had only been complaints and reproofs. the sire du guesclin took care that the martial studies of his son should be completed, and gave him a little horse, on which bertrand rode about to visit the great lords in the neighbourhood, and was present at the jousts and tournaments which were so often held at that time. du guesclin's poverty and youth prevented him, however, from entering the lists, and making known his courage and martial skill to the world. he grieved, too, because he was so ugly, and so humbly equipped, his famed steed being "little better than a miller's horse." the time came at last when he was enabled to distinguish himself. a great tournament was announced at rennes on the marriage of jeanne de penthiã¨vre, heiress to the duchy of bretagne, with charles de blois, who was nephew to the king of france. the sire de la motte bron judged it to be a fit occasion for the display of his dignity, and went with the nobles of bretagne to rennes, followed by a great number of his vassals; whilst poor bertrand, mounted on his insignificant horse, and easily recognised by the roundness and largeness of his head, his short nose, his strongly-marked eyebrows, and his square-set figure, was an object of ridicule to the peasants as they flocked along the road to rennes. the tournament used to be held in an open space inside the city, and the ladies, richly attired, looked on from the windows and balconies around. bertrand's eyes flashed when he reached the arena where the knights were already engaged, and heard the sound of the trumpets and the clashing of the weapons. "i shall never please the ladies," he said, as he had said many a time before, "but i will make my name to be feared by the enemies of my country." seeing one of his relations retire from the combat, he followed him to his house, and, throwing himself on his knees before him, implored him to lend him some armour and a horse. his cousin good-naturedly lent him a fresh horse, and armed him himself, and bertrand rushed back to the tournament, and, having entered the lists without naming himself, challenged a knight, and quickly overthrew him. another knight now came forward to avenge the vanquished one, and bertrand was just going to attack him, when he saw his father's arms upon his shield, and bowing low, withdrew, to the astonishment of the spectators. after this he challenged no fewer than fifteen knights without coming to grief himself. all the people present were now very anxious to know his name, and one of the ladies who sat in the great balcony entreated a norman knight to descend into the arena, and, if possible, remove the visor from the victor's face. the knight went down, and had just succeeded in removing the helmet from bertrand's head, when a strong arm suddenly lifted him off his horse and laid him in the dust. then reynauld du guesclin recognised his son, and hastened to embrace him in his pride and joy, and bertrand was proclaimed victor over all to the sound of the trumpets, and received the prize, which was a beautiful silver swan, life size. the prize, however, he did not keep for himself, but gave it to his cousin, whose kindness had enabled him to win so great renown. when bertrand was twenty years of age he was no longer contented with displaying his prowess in tournaments, but began to fight in good earnest, taking the part of charles de blois in a quarrel that lasted for a very long time between that prince and his rival, jean de montfort. jean de bretagne, known by the name of the good duke, had died without leaving any childhood, and was succeeded by his brother, guy, count of penthiã¨vre, whose daughter's marriage with charles de blois had occasioned the festivity at rennes. charles thus claimed the duchy in right of his wife; but guy was no sooner dead than his half-brother, jean de montfort, came forward, and maintained that his title to bretagne was a better one than that of his niece. this was not true, because the right of female succession had been fully established in the duchy, and the king of france and many of the breton nobles sided with charles, while the king of england sent assistance to de montfort. the wives of both princes were women of extraordinary spirit. jeanne, countess de montfort, defended her husband's rights whilst he lived, and after his death those of his son, who was likewise named jean; and once during the war, when she was shut up in the town of hennebon, she held out, like a brave and skilful general, against all the attacks of the enemy until sir walter manny arrived with succour from king edward the third of england. jeanne de penthiã¨vre was a woman of equal courage, but her pride and ambition caused her husband to risk the battle which cost him his life, and proved, as will be seen hereafter, the ruin of her own cause. du guesclin chose the side of charles de blois because he believed it to be the right one. "never," said he, "while i live, will i maintain an unrighteous cause." he was soon at the head of sixty men, in readiness to serve, and sold his mother's jewels that he might be able to buy horses, harness, and arms. his chroniclers tell us, however, how he very soon captured from an english knight, whom he met in a forest, a treasure consisting of jewels, which he gave to his mother in compensation for those she had lost. although gunpowder was known in those days, it was very little used; the chief weapons were swords, lances, battle-axes, cross-bows, and clubs; and every warrior defended himself with the shield. bertrand's name came to be feared by his enemies, as he had predicted in the days gone by: his first attempts in warfare were chiefly against the english, who held many of the fortresses in bretagne for jean de montfort. a story is told of the manner in which he gained possession of one of these, the castle of fougeray, which was a very important place. bertrand knew all the ins and outs of the castle, because in the chances of war he had once been a prisoner for a short time within its walls, and he disguised himself, and about twenty of his companions in arms, as wood-cutters, in white gowns reaching down to the knee, and with bundles of faggots on their shoulders, as he had often seen the poor peasants bringing wood to the castle. he divided his men, to make it appear that they were coming from different parts of the country to sell their wood, and waited for the time when the governor should have gone out of his stronghold with a part of the garrison. when all was ready they passed the night securely in the forest, and came out of it in the grey dawn of the morning with their bundles on their shoulders. the watchman of fougeray saw them dimly in the distance, and rang the bell, to give the alarm, but all fear vanished when it was seen that only wood-cutters were coming towards the castle. bertrand advanced to the drawbridge, and asked the porter if he did not want wood. the porter said that he did, and not suspecting any harm, let down the drawbridge at once. du guesclin laid down his heavy load of wood so as to prevent the bridge from being drawn up, and rushed on to the castle, shouting "guesclin," the war cry which afterwards became so terrible to his enemies. his comrades followed quickly at his summons; the unhappy porter fell wounded in the struggle, and as there were a hundred men in the place and bertrand had only sixty when all had come to his aid, the conflict was very sharp; women and children even throwing showers of stones on the heads of the bretons. du guesclin himself was severely wounded, and was found defending himself to the last, without his hatchet, when a party of cavalry belonging to charles de blois came up in time to secure possession of the castle. the whole affair may have been considered an ingenious trick, but i think it would have been more noble for bertrand to have ridden up openly to his enemies, clad in his armour, and with his sword in his hand, than to have deceived them by the woodcutter's guise. the war went on, and at last the king of england sent henry, the good duke of lancaster, to bretagne at the head of a large force, with orders to lay siege to rennes, the city where bertrand had passed the happiest days of his boyhood, and which had twice been the scene of his triumphs. besides all the great english nobles who had accompanied the duke, the army was increased by many breton gentlemen who had enlisted themselves on the side of jean de montfort, and lancaster made a solemn vow not to depart from rennes until he had planted his standard upon its walls. bertrand concealed himself in a forest near the city, and constantly harassed his enemies by rushing suddenly upon them, by day and by night, and always to the cry of "guesclin," until at last the duke of lancaster swore that if ever the brave breton captain fell into his hands, he would never let him free, however large a ransom might be offered for him. lancaster made several attempts upon rennes, but with little success. one day an english officer who had been captured by du guesclin, told him that his countrymen intended to undermine the city and open a breach. upon this news bertrand contrived one very dark night to glide with his bretons into the midst of the english camp, where all was silent, and set fire to some of the tents. the enemy, awakened by the usual cry of "guesclin," thought that charles de blois had fallen upon them with his army, and were very angry as they put out their fires to find it was only bertrand with his handful of men. the governor of rennes now gave orders that in all the houses near the ramparts little copper basins should be hung with one or two balls of brass in each, so that by the jingling of the metal, which the movement of the miners would cause, it might be known in what direction they were at work. by this means the garrison were enabled to work against them until the mine was pierced, and the besiegers found a body of troops ready to beat them back. the duke of lancaster now thought of another plan for subduing the people of rennes. knowing that they were almost without provisions, he caused two thousand pigs to be assembled in a field near the walls of the city, hoping that the hungry inhabitants would come out for the purpose of capturing them. the governor, however, was not to be outwitted, and had a sow attached by a rope to the gate of rennes, with its head downwards. the sow struggled so hard to free itself and grunted and squeaked so loud that the other pigs were naturally attracted to the spot. when the besieged saw that the pigs were coming in that direction they lowered the drawbridge, and cut the rope. the sow, thus released, ran joyfully back into the city, followed by all the other pigs, and it was certain that the famished people of rennes had a good meal that day and for many days after. du guesclin performed numerous acts of daring during the siege, and one day, when the bretons had eaten up the two thousand pigs and were very near dying of hunger again, he intercepted and captured a hundred waggons, loaded with wine, flour, and salt meat, which were on their way to the english camp; but when he found that the waggoners were supplying these provisions to the enemy at their own cost, he paid them liberally for all that he had seized. the duke of lancaster now prepared a huge machine which was often used in those times of warfare. this was a wooden tower on wheels, as high as the walls of the city, which contained a number of men inside, who shot surely from it with their arrows. the tower would have caused great havoc, had not bertrand one night crawled out with his bretons, and completely destroyed it by fire. winter was now coming on: the lengthened siege had lost the lives of many brave men, and henry of lancaster at last sent a herald to du guesclin to tell him that he desired to speak with him. the herald brought a written passport which, alas! bertrand was obliged to have read to him by one of his comrades. he had always been so heedless and disobedient in the old days at la motte, that no one had been able to teach him to read or write, and he had never succeeded in learning in after years, although some authors assert that he could really sign his name. bertrand dismissed the herald with a handsome present of clothes and money, and then repaired to the camp of the brave english duke. when there he was asked by lancaster, whom he owned for his master. "charles de blois," he replied promptly, "to whom bretagne belongs in right of his wife." the duke was much pleased with his boldness and resolution, and offered him a high rank in his army if he would consent to enter his service; but bertrand replied that nothing should ever shake him in his fidelity to charles de blois. lancaster now received orders from his father to raise the siege: yet he could not depart, in remembrance of the oath he had taken, and du guesclin proposed that he should enter the city with ten of his knights, and plant his standard on its walls. when this was done, du guesclin politely asked him where the war was to be carried on in future. "bertrand, my fair friend," replied the duke, "you shall soon know." he had scarcely gone past the barrier when he saw his standard thrown down into the moat; nevertheless he had kept his oath, and having raised the siege, he decamped with all his host, and went to pass the winter at auray. du guesclin was quick to resent an affront offered to any member of his family. the duke of lancaster with the brave sir john chandos was before dinan, which town bertrand, his brother olivier, and the governor who had defended rennes, had hastened to enter before the enemy could invest it. one day when all was quiet, olivier du guesclin had gone out of the town unarmed for the purpose of amusing himself in the open country, when he met with an english knight, who asked him his name, and behaved in a very haughty manner towards him, and made him walk on first, vowing that he should not escape until he had given him a thousand good florins. a breton knight, however, who had seen olivier made prisoner, hastened to tell du guesclin what had happened. bertrand instantly mounted his horse and rode off to the english camp, where he found the duke of lancaster in his tent playing at chess with sir john chandos, whilst several of the chief nobles were standing around looking on. they were all glad to see bertrand because they had a great respect for his valour, and it is true that he had many qualities which endeared him to his fellow-men, and gained for him friendships which lasted as long as life. du guesclin would not drink the wine they poured out for him until justice had been done to his brother. henry of lancaster was an upright man, and promised to settle the matter fairly. he summoned the offending knight to his presence, and ordered him to release olivier at once. but the knight, who was called thomas of canterbury, would not allow that the complaint made against him by bertrand was just, and threw down his iron glove in defiance. it was soon known in dinan that a terrible combat would take place between the two knights, and the people feared that du guesclin would fall, because the englishman was possessed of such extraordinary strength and skill. but a very beautiful young lady of noble family in dinan, named tiphaine de raguenel, whom bertrand married soon after the siege was raised, predicted that he would triumph over his foe. tiphaine was called an astrologer, because she professed to foretell by observing the stars in the heavens, whether people were to be prosperous in their lives or unfortunate; happy or miserable. this was very foolish, and we know better in our own times than to put faith in such a science; and even in dinan, when by chance tiphaine's predictions came true, the people looked upon her with distrust and called her a witch. the duke of lancaster with all his nobles came into the town to witness the combat, which ended to the great joy of the inhabitants of dinan in the triumph of bertrand, and the offending knight was ordered by lancaster to retire from his service. the siege of dinan was raised by our king edward, who had king john of france at this time a prisoner in the palace of the savoy. du guesclin went on fighting for charles de blois, until at last the younger jean de montfort got weary of the war, and proposed to his rival that the duchy of bretagne should be halved between them; and that rennes should be the capital of charles's dominions, and nantes the capital of his own. charles de blois was a man who loved peace; he agreed solemnly to divide the duchy as jean had proposed, and would have kept faith with him, had not his wife broken out into a violent passion as soon as she heard what he had done, and overruled him by saying that she would never consent to so shameful a settlement, and that she had married him to defend the whole of her duchy, and not the half of it. the war must have broken out again at once if the good offices of lancaster had not effected a truce for a time. when king john came back to france he invited du guesclin to enter his service, and gave him the command of a hundred lances. each lance, or man-at-arms, was attended by three archers, a man armed with a cutlass, and a page, so that a company of a hundred lances really included six hundred men. du guesclin had the permission to form his troop of the gentlemen of bretagne, of whom many were his relations and friends; and with these he set out hopefully to take part in a war which king john was carrying on in normandy against the wicked king of navarre. bertrand did the king good service in normandy, and captured the towns of mantes and meulan. at the latter place he lost all patience with the tardiness of the besiegers, and seizing a ladder, began to mount it with his sword in his hand, and his shield on his breast. he was just mounting the last steps and boasting to the baron of mereuil who was on the other side of the wall, that he would soon make him feel the strength of his arm, when the baron threw some heavy stones on the ladder, which dashed it to pieces, and bertrand fell with his head downwards into the ditch around the city wall. the ditch was full of water, and bertrand was taken out by his comrades half dead, but he scarcely waited for his injuries to be healed, before he began to fight with greater vigour than before, and a little while later gained the battle of cocherel over the captal de buche, who was fighting for the king of navarre, and took the captal prisoner. king john was now dead, and charles the wise was on the throne of france. the victory at cocherel had served to raise the spirits of the french, who had been much cast down by their defeats during the two last sieges, and the fame of du guesclin was spoken all over the country. but the war unhappily broke out in bretagne once more. jean de montfort, angry with his rival for his breach of faith, came with his army to invest the town of auray. the people there were in great need and misery, and lighted fires every night on the summits of their towers in token of their distress. charles de blois set off at once to assist them in their danger, but his wife at parting, charged him on no account whatever to agree to any division of the duchy. du guesclin and many brave nobles and knights hastened to join his army; and when they arrived in sight of auray, de montfort sent a herald to them to propose peace on the terms that had already been made, or to demand an immediate battle. charles de blois, weakly dreading the anger of his wife if he gave way, sent the herald back without an answer, although in his heart he was longing more than ever to be at peace. in the disastrous battle of auray which began soon after, and lasted for seven hours, charles de blois lost his life, the celebrated oliver du clisson an eye, and du guesclin his liberty. it was late in the day, and bertrand was left almost alone upon the battle field with the dead lying around him; he had been thrown from his horse, and surrounded by his enemies, but he had risen from the ground and defended himself single-handed to the last. now the blood was flowing from his wounds; his sword was broken; the handle had been wrenched off his battle-axe, and sir john chandos found him armed only with an iron hammer. it was useless for him to resist longer, and when he had given up the broken piece of his sword into the hands of the english knight, the battle was at an end. charles de blois had fought that day like one in despair. with his last breath he had said that he had long waged war against his conscience. and thus the feud was ended which had lasted for nearly twenty years; jean de montfort could have the whole duchy of bretagne for himself, and the unhappy widow of his rival had the sorrow of remembering that it was her own pride and unbending spirit which had cost her the life of her husband. the people of bretagne were so tired of war that when, a little while after, the treaty, which jean de montfort was making with jeanne, could not be settled, they assembled in a vast concourse and throwing themselves on the ground, implored the count to give them peace. the king of france did not suffer bertrand to remain a captive long. the country was at that time infested by bands of lawless men of various nations, who called themselves "free companies," and used to go about laying waste the orchards and fields, sacking and burning the castles of the nobility; and making war just as they pleased. the greater number of these men were disbanded soldiers, whose services were no longer needed now that the war was at an end. their power became very formidable when such men as sir hugh de caverlay, the green knight, sir matthew gournay, and many others who were renowned for their valour, joined them, and elected themselves their leaders. the thought occurred to king charles that du guesclin was the one man capable of ridding his country of so terrible a scourge, and he hastened to pay the hundred thousand francs which his enemies had required for his ransom, and told him that if he would consent to drive the free companies out of france, he might choose his own method of carrying out his purpose. du guesclin went to the camp where the free lances were assembled, and, as many of the leaders had already served under his banner, he found little difficulty in persuading them to go with him into spain on a crusade against the saracens, who still retained possession of a part of that country. but a war had already broken out between pedro the second of spain and his half brother, henry of trastamare. pedro had made himself hateful to his subjects by repeated acts of tyranny, and worst of all had suffered his wife, blanche de bourbon, to be cruelly murdered. this princess was very amiable and lovely; she was sister to the queen of france, and granddaughter to the good saint louis, and charles, indignant and sorrowful at her unhappy fate, thought the services of du guesclin would be better employed in driving pedro from the throne than in making war on the saracens. bertrand was therefore ordered to hasten to the assistance of henry of trastamare, and one day he collected all the free companies at a place called chalons sur saone, and marched from thence southwards, to the great delight of the french nation, taking avignon on his way, where the pope then resided, instead of at rome. the companies went to avignon to ask for absolution, because they had been excommunicated, that is to say, cut off from all fellowship with the church, on account of their lawless deeds. the pope readily granted them absolution, but he was not nearly so ready to give them a large sum of money--which they asked for in addition to the 200,000 gold florins which they had already received from du guesclin--and it was only after a long delay, that he could be persuaded to give them any money at all. the troops du guesclin led himself were called "the white company," because they all wore a white cross on their shoulder, as a sign that they meant to abolish the religion of the jews, which pedro was supposed to favour. pedro was very much alarmed at the approach of so vast an army; he happened to be engaged at the time in laying waste with fire and sword the lands belonging to his brother, whilst henry himself was hiding in a castle with his wife and children, and for a long while could not be made to believe that the french hero was really coming to his aid. du guesclin soon enabled him, however, to gain possession of several cities, and at a frontier town, called maguelon home, he took the title of king. and when the people of burgos (which was the christian capital of spain at that time) heard of the approach of the white company, they brought the keys of the city, and laid them at the feet of henry, and joyfully acknowledged that he was king over castille. henry made a triumphant entry into burgos, with bertrand, his deliverer, clad in complete armour by his side; they went to the palace, where a great banquet was served before them, with the richest viands, while the whole city was one scene of rejoicing and merriment, and wine flowed in the streets like water; the people were so glad to be freed from the tyranny of pedro the second. bertrand having thus placed henry of trastamare on the throne, urged him to send for his wife jeanne, that they might both be crowned the same day. and when the queen was seen approaching the capital, bertrand went out to meet her, accompanied by the bravest of his knights. as soon as the queen perceived that it was du guesclin who was advancing towards her, she alighted from her mule that she might render him the greater honour, and turning to his whole company, she exclaimed, "friends, and gentlemen, it may truly be said that we hold the crown of castille through you alone." henry and jeanne were crowned at burgos on easter-day of the year 1366, and the king, in gratitude for the services of du guesclin, gave him the duchy of molina, and made him constable of castille. pedro meanwhile was in great terror at the approach of his brother, and kept himself concealed with his treasures in a forest a hundred leagues long. one of his treasures was a table of pure gold, inlaid with jewels, and engraven with the portraits of charlemagne's twelve peerless knights. amongst the gems was a carbuncle, which is said to have had the peculiar property of shining by night as brightly as the sun shines by day; and one very dark night, when pedro was outside the walls of a city, and beset with dangers on every side, he was obliged to have his table fetched out from among his treasures, that he might discover by its light the means of escape. the stone may have possessed a singular brilliancy, but for the fact of its shining as brightly as the sunlight, i cannot vouch. it was said to have another strange property, that of changing colour and turning black directly poison approached it. the forest was near the town of cardonna, where pedro had taken refuge, immediately after the great city of toledo had surrendered to his brother. henry supposed him to be still in the town, and went in pursuit of him with du guesclin, hugh de caverlay, olivier de mauny, and many other valiant men. their way between toledo and cardonna lay through the long forest, which was full of wild beasts and snakes, and had neither villages nor houses of any kind in its depths. they were in this wild tract seven days, and lost many of their men there; some of them being devoured by the wild beasts, and others dying from the bites of the snakes. when they got to cardonna they found, of course, that pedro had fled, but they took possession of the town. now that henry had really been placed on the throne, bertrand thought he might carry out his original plan, and proceed to granada, which was the stronghold and capital of the moors in spain. the queen, however, with many tears implored him not to forsake her husband; she dreaded so much the anger and cruelty of pedro, when he should come out of his hiding-place. and pedro soon made himself dreaded once more, for he had found his way to guienne and entreated the black prince, who held his court in that province, to protect him, and assist him with troops; and had offered him his golden table, and part of his treasures as an equivalent for his aid; promising him, besides, a large sum of money to defray the cost of an army. the black prince, either out of compassion for the fallen king, or because he did not like to see his rival in league with france, agreed to assist him; and in the spring of the year 1367 crossed the province of navarre with pedro, and a large army of gascons, normans, and english, and entered castille. the fortunes of henry already began to decline: several of the companies withdrew from his service, and enlisted themselves in preference under the banner of the black prince. du guesclin urged the king not to risk a decisive battle too soon, but he would not listen to him, and the two armies met at najara, on the right bank of the river ebro. the watchword of the black prince's army was "guienne and st. george!" and that of king henry's, "castille and st. james!" the battle proved disastrous for the king of castille, his cavalry were forced to give way, and the rout becoming general he escaped from the field with very few of his followers. when bertrand saw the king's discomfiture, he stationed himself against a wall, and with a battle-axe defended himself so vigorously that several englishmen were overthrown by him; and at last his enemies dared not approach him, but only hurled at him their daggers and swords. the black prince, hearing of this, desired to see him, and went with his standard unfurled to the place where he stood. bertrand recognised the prince, and kneeling on one knee before him said, "to you, sire, the prince of wales, i surrender myself and to no other; for i will never be the captive of pedro, e'en though i die in my defence!" the prince received the submission of du guesclin graciously, and confided him to the keeping of the captal de buche, who in remembrance of his own capture by bertrand in the battle of cocherel, told him kindly that he might live with him at large, if he would give him his word not to escape. du guesclin, much pleased with the confidence reposed in him, swore, like a true knight, that he would rather die than break his word. for six months he remained with the english army, and during that time had no cause to complain of his treatment. but as soon as he arrived at bordeaux, where the black prince held his splendid court, he was shut up in the prison of hã¢. one morning whilst he was there, three pilgrims, who had arrived in bordeaux the evening before, had gone to hear mass in the church of notre dame. one of these pilgrims was henry of trastamare, who had disguised himself thus in the hope of journeying safely to the duke of anjou, to entreat him to support his cause. several knights happened to be in the church, who had fought with du guesclin in the battle of najara; they began talking of their common misfortunes, and henry, taking one of them apart, asked news of bertrand, and learned with sorrow that the black prince had made a vow never to ransom him or set him free. henry went home with the knight to whom he had spoken, and told him who he was, and persuaded him to procure him the means of seeing du guesclin. so the knight concealed the king in his house, and went to the prison of hã¢, and told the gaoler that he was going to bretagne to seek for money to pay his ransom, and that he greatly desired to see du guesclin before he started. the gaoler did not admit him at once, but only hinted that such things were not done without a bribe. the knight assured him that du guesclin was most liberal, and would amply reward him if he would procure the interview. the gaoler owned that he was so proud of his prisoner, that he hoped such a man might never go out of his hands, and after a little more delay he conducted the knight to bertrand, who thought that his visitor had come to borrow money, and was much surprised to hear that henry of trastamare was in bordeaux in the disguise of a pilgrim of st. james. he called the gaoler, and told him that there was a poor pilgrim in the city, a native of bretagne, and one of his own vassals, whom he wished to assist with money to enable him to complete his journey; and he begged him to take his seal and go to a certain italian jew in the city, and ask him for the sum of 400 florins. the gaoler fetched the money; du guesclin gave him a hundred florins for himself, and by noon the king was admitted into the prison. a more sumptuous dinner than was usually seen within its walls was served in his honour, and they lingered over it, talking of their misfortunes and of the king's project for seeking aid from the duke of anjou; du guesclin would not, however, on any account suffer him to ask the duke to pay his ransom. whilst they were at dinner the gaoler began to feel the pricks of his conscience, and he took his wife apart, and told her that he suspected some treason was going on between the pilgrim and du guesclin against his master the black prince, and that he must acquaint him with the whole affair. the gaoler's wife whispered her husband's intentions to bertrand, and the brave knight, with a dexterity similar to that he had employed, when as a boy he freed himself from the dungeon of la motte, did not suffer his keeper to pass through the prison wicket, but dealt him so heavy a blow with a stick that the poor man fell on his knees: then taking the keys from his pocket, he opened the door to henry, who quickly disappeared with his two companions and the knight who had accompanied him thus far. bertrand closed the door upon them, and keeping the keys, came back to the gaoler and, after giving him a good beating, shut him up in a room by himself, as a warning that the transaction was not to be breathed beyond the prison walls. the duke of anjou assisted henry, and enabled him to enter burgos a second time, whilst pedro was obliged to fly from the throne he had re-ascended after the battle of najara. many of the knights who had been taken prisoners in that contest were now ransomed, but du guesclin, "the scourge of the english," as he was called, was deemed too formidable an enemy to be set at large; and he might have remained in prison until his dying day, had not some of the english nobles, who held his qualities in high esteem, remonstrated with their prince in his favour, and taunted him by saying that he only retained his prisoner through fear. the black prince at last resolved to have an interview with his captive, and du guesclin, overjoyed at the prospect of obtaining his release, rose hastily at the prince's summons, and appeared before him in the soiled and coarse grey robe he wore in his prison, but which could not detract from the dignity of his bearing. he told the prince that he was indeed weary of his long confinement; "i have listened to the rats and mice long enough," he said, "and i would fain go where i can hear the birds sing once more." the prince told him that he would set him free that very day without a ransom, if he would swear never again to bear arms against him for france; or against pedro for henry. these conditions bertrand of course could not accept, and before the interview was ended he had spoken with so much honesty and candour, that the black prince could not but own the righteousness of his cause, and requested him to name his own ransom. bertrand fixed it at 100,000 gold florins, and when the prince asked him why he named so large a sum, he declared his ransom should not be less than 70,000 florins, adding that although he was a poor knight, the kings of france and castille would assuredly pay that sum for him; and that if they did not that the breton women would spin till they had gained the money for him. he was now set at liberty on condition of obtaining his ransom. the people of bordeaux flocked to see him when he came out of his prison, and the princess of wales, joanna the fair, journeyed expressly from angoulãªme to bordeaux that she might have the honour of entertaining him at a banquet, and presented him besides with 10,000 francs towards his ransom. sir john chandos and hugh de caverlay helped also to raise the sum required. chandos was always his friend, although he fought on the opposite side; and it may be that these brave men esteemed one another the more for clinging to what each one believed to be the right. du guesclin had hardly gone a league on his way homewards when he met a poor knight who was returning to his prison in bordeaux on foot, in a very forlorn condition, because he was unable to pay his ransom. bertrand not only gave him the money to pay it, but also enough to set him up in arms. the knight told him that the duke of anjou was then besieging the town of tarascon. bertrand was bound in honour not to fight; but he could not resist going to tarascon, to aid the duke with his advice, and made the besieged tremble at the very sound of his name. and there he was in the midst of all the danger, and the clashing of weapons, mounted on his horse, but with a peeled rod in his hand, instead of a sword, for his oath's sake! when he reached his own estate in bretagne, he begged his wife to give him her jewels, and all the valuable things she possessed; but she told him that a number of poor knights and squires, all taken at najara, had come to her in great distress, and that she had given them all she could find in the castle. bertrand was very glad that his wife had been so kind to the poor men, and had not sent them away empty handed. the sum for his ransom was raised amongst his relations and friends, and he had set out for bordeaux, when he met ten poor knights, whose ransoms he could not resist paying; preferring to remain a captive himself rather than to know that so many others were languishing in prison, away from their homes, and all whom they loved. when the black prince heard of bertrand's generosity, he did not shut him up in a dungeon again, but let him go about the city as he pleased on his word of honour that he would not escape. a day came when mules were seen approaching bordeaux loaded with 70,000 good gold florins which the kings of france and castille and the duke of anjou had sent to purchase his liberty. du guesclin, a free man once more, devoted himself entirely to the cause of henry, and defeated pedro in a great battle near toledo, notwithstanding the help afforded the spanish king by the moors. the fortunes of pedro now rapidly declined, the black prince not caring to aid him again, because he had not kept the promises he made before the battle of najara. after a battle fought near montiel,[11] in the south of spain, pedro took refuge in the castle of montiel, in which there was only one way of going in or coming out, and before this entrance le bã¨gue de vilaines, who was fighting for henry, stationed himself with his pennon. in this extremity it was arranged that pedro should make his escape from the castle at midnight with twelve of his companions. it was a dark misty night, and when pedro crept out of the castle, le bã¨gue, who stood waiting for him with three hundred men, could not see him, but fancied he heard the sound of footsteps. "who art thou?" he cried, "speak, or thou art a dead man." the first one addressed escaped in the darkness. the next who came, le bã¨gue believed to be the king, and asked him who he was with the dagger held close to his breast. then pedro, seeing he had no chance of escape, cried "bã¨gue, bã¨gue, i am the king, don pedro, of castille;" and surrendering himself to him he implored him to take him to some place where he should be beyond the reach of his half-brother. le bã¨gue took him to his own quarters, but he had not been there long before henry of trastamare and some of his followers entered the chamber where he was concealed; and in the furious struggle which ensued pedro was slain by the hands of his brother. thus died this unhappy king, whose many evil deeds gained for him the surname of "the cruel;" but henry was very wicked and cruel also to take his brother's life, and could not have been happy when he remembered montiel, although he had now undisputed possession of the throne. du guesclin was now at liberty to return to his own country. the king of castille parted from him with great regret, and gave him some handsome presents in token of gratitude for the services he had rendered him. du guesclin on his return, was constantly employed in the war which broke out again between england and france, and regained many of the places which the english had taken from the french. the time came when king charles thought that the wisest measure he could pursue would be to make bertrand, constable of france, which was the highest office in all the realm. bertrand was unwilling to accept so great an honour, saying that there were many men more worthy of it than himself. charles declared, however, that there was neither prince nor noble in the land who would not cheerfully obey the brave knight, and du guesclin was made constable. from that time he was surrounded by all the dignity and splendour of the court, and always sat at the table with the king. but certain it is when men have reached their highest estate, they are very often near a fall. bertrand was again employed in bretagne, when meeting with some reverses, he incurred the king's displeasure. charles, having listened to some evil reports which were spread against him, did not scruple to express his discontent, and bertrand took the matter so much to heart that he resigned his constable's sword, and was only induced to resume his office when the king found out that the reports were untrue, and tried to atone to him for the mistake he had made. in the year 1380, bertrand was sent to drive the english out of the south of france. he was very glad to go thither, because it always grieved him to make war on the people of his own province of bretagne. after reducing some places of little importance, he went to help his friend sancerre in the siege of the castle of randan, which was possessed by the english, and some gascons, who were unfriendly to france. the constable pressed the siege with vigour and vowed that he would never depart from the spot till the castle was taken. and he never did depart from thence alive, for he was seized with a violent fever, which in a short time proved fatal. the knowledge of his danger made the besiegers more anxious than ever to gain the fortress, and the garrison were obliged at last to agree to surrender on a certain day. the sire de roos, the governor of the castle, having been informed of the dangerous condition of du guesclin, desired to render up the keys into his own hands; and when the appointed day had arrived, he came out of the gates, followed by all the garrison. it was summer time, and the rays of the setting sun shone on their unfurled banners, as they went to the tent, where the dying constable lay. his knights were standing sorrowfully around him; they could not bear to think that he would never rise from his bed again, that his voice would never more cheer them on to victory. the english themselves shed tears at the mournful spectacle. when du guesclin had prayed that his sins might be forgiven him, he entreated the nobles and knights to be faithful to their king, and not make war, which would cause the blood of peasants, and defenceless old men, and women and children to be shed; remembering with sorrow how heedlessly he had himself waged war in the days of his youth. then dismissing them all except his friend du clisson, he asked for his constable's sword, and prayed him to deliver it into the hands of the king, and when they had bidden each other a last farewell, du clisson stood by him in tears and in silence until his spirit passed away. so died du guesclin, the hero of chivalry, a man with many failings, but brave and generous beyond comparison, and ever faithful to his friends. although the violence of his temper broke out at intervals all his life long, he could be kind and gentle. queens and princesses esteemed him for his respectful courtesy, and we like to read, how, when the black prince summoned him to his presence, the stern warrior was found playing merrily with his gaoler's children, inside the dreary walls of his prison. some authors assert that the governor of the castle of randan only laid the keys on the coffin of du guesclin; but the most probable account is that he really gave them into his hands before he died. charles the wise grieved sincerely for the loss the country had sustained, and ordered the remains of the constable to be interred in the church of saint denis with almost regal pomp. jeanne de laval, the second wife of du guesclin, founded several religious houses, and instituted services in memory of her illustrious husband. footnotes: [11] the green knight fell in this battle. christopher columbus. christopher columbo, or columbus, was born in the city of genoa, about the year 1436. his father, domenico columbo, earned the bread of his family by combing wool, which, however lowly it may be thought at the present time, was once a very honourable occupation, and was invented three hundred years after the birth of our lord by blaise, the good martyr-bishop of armenia, who to this day is regarded as the patron of woolcombers. christopher had two brothers, bartholomew, and diego, and one sister; of the latter there is nothing particular recorded. the three brothers loved one another dearly. bartholomew had a brave and ardent spirit, and was fond of an active life; in the troubles and dangers they shared in after years christopher would call him "another self;" and he said not long before he died that his brothers had always been his best friends. christopher as a child was quiet and thoughtful. he loved to stand on the shore of the beautiful bay spreading out at the feet of genoa, "the city of marble palaces," and to watch the waves under their different aspects; now dancing joyously in the sunshine; then great sea-horses, foaming and dashing with terrible noise on the sands; now again, loveliest of all, lying at rest as if tired, in the solemn quiet of night, and giving back myriads of golden gleams for every star that twinkled in the clear italian sky. and whilst christopher thus watched the sea, he had very strange ideas for a young child, for he thought that the whole of the world had not been discovered, and that beyond the great atlantic ocean, which he had only heard of, there were lands that had never yet been trodden by europeans. at the time he lived the portuguese had discovered the cape verde isles in the atlantic, much of the western coast of africa, and the cape of good hope. they wanted some of the gold, amber, and ivory, the rich silks, and the fragrant woods and spices of india, and to trade in these things they had to find out a way to the east by sea, because the venetians took care to keep the overland route to india clear for themselves. venice, on the eastern side of italy, and genoa, on the western side, shared all the commerce of that country, but they were not on friendly terms; and for years and years the genoese were trying to drive the turks, venetians, and spaniards out of the mediterranean sea, that they might carry on their own commerce without being molested. when domenico colombo found that his son christopher had a very strong desire to be a sailor, he did not force him to pass his life in combing wool, but sent him to a famed school at pavia, where he might learn such things as would be useful to him in the career he had chosen. so columbus learned diligently about the earth, the sea, and the stars, and something of drawing and mathematics beside. when he was fourteen he returned to genoa, and went to sea for the first time with one of his relations, who was likewise named colombo. this man was a corsair, and had many a bold skirmish with the turks and venetians. during several years christopher sailed with him from one place to another, and got used to a seafaring life. it happened in one of the skirmishes which took place between lisbon and cape st. vincent, that fire broke out in a huge venetian galley to which the vessel christopher commanded for his kinsman had been chained during the fight; the flames quickly spread to the spot where he stood, and to save his life he was obliged to jump from the deck into the waves. fortunately he had grasped an oar, and with this he was enabled to reach the shore of portugal, at the distance of two leagues from the burning vessels. from thence he went to lisbon, where he was kindly received by some genoese, and he determined to remain in that city, because there were better means there of studying and of carrying out the plans he was making for a voyage in search of unknown lands. the portuguese themselves were eager to make fresh discoveries: their mariners, sailing westward from the azores, had seen floating on the waters corpses belonging to a race of men unknown in europe, africa, or asia; besides these there were trunks and branches of strange trees, and huge sugar-canes which had been wafted through the atlantic by the gulf stream. all these objects made them think that only a portion of the inhabited world had yet been revealed to them. two centuries had passed since marco polo, the bold venetian explorer, had set out from constantinople for the land of the tartars. there he had found a friend in the great kublai khan, who ruled over tartary and china, and was sent by him on a mission to china and india, being thus the first european who visited china proper. on his return he told such extraordinary tales of the people he had seen, and their customs, that most men were afraid to believe in them, and thought they were pure inventions. years after, when the countries he had described became known to the europeans, it was found that he had spoken a great deal of truth, and his example caused fresh enterprises to be projected. men must not despair because they do not at once see the fruit of their labour: if they only undertake it in a true and steadfast spirit, it is sure to turn sooner or later to the benefit of their fellow-creatures. truly great men do not toil for themselves but for the good they may do to others; they sow the seed, and in god's time, not theirs, it will bear fruit. in lisbon columbus married doã±a felippa, the daughter of a poor but noble italian named perestrello, the governor of the island of porto santo, one of the madeiras, which had only lately been found. perestrello was a very famous navigator, and lost his life in the service of portugal. after his marriage columbus went to live in the house of his wife's mother, and she gave him all the charts her husband had drawn, and the accounts he had written of his voyages, which proved very useful to him because they made him familiar with all the parts of the world the portuguese had hitherto explored. so he lived on in lisbon, supporting his wife and his mother by making and selling maps and globes, besides which he used to send a part of the money he earned to his aged father at genoa, and helped his brothers also by enabling them to go to school. sometimes he would leave home for a while, and take part in the expeditions that were directed towards the coast of guinea, or he would visit porto santo, where he had a friend in pietro correo, who had once been governor of the island, and was married to his wife's sister. yet although he was made very happy by the birth of his son diego, it was sad to wait year after year without any chance of starting on his voyage; for, poor as he was, it was quite impossible for him to buy vessels and man them at his own expense. some of the ancient philosophers who flourished centuries before the birth of our lord had convinced themselves that the earth was round. that such is the case is shown by the appearance of a vessel after it has left the shore. at a certain distance the whole of it is seen; farther off only its hulk or body; at a greater distance still, the topmast alone is visible. this proves that something hides the lower part of the ship from the spectator, and that something, is the roundness of the earth. again--when an eclipse of the moon takes place the moon enters the shadow of the earth, and cannot get the light of the sun, which, reflected on her surface, gives her the bright silvery glow which makes her so lovely by night, and so we appear to lose the whole, or part of her face. now the shadow that is seen being round, the earth must be round from which it is cast. and when men found, in the days when very long voyages were undertaken, that by sailing and journeying in one direction they came back to the point whence they had started, they wanted indeed no further proof that such was the correct figure of the earth. thus it was natural for columbus to expect to reach the eastern shore of india, or of cathay (as china was then called) by sailing westward across the atlantic, never dreaming that the earth was so large as it is, and that the pathway he went would make known to the people of the old world the whole vast continent of america, and the pacific, the greatest of all oceans! having been refused assistance in his native city, he resolved at last to lay his plans before john the second of portugal. the king referred the matter to a council, where it was soon decided that the voyage could not be carried out, but columbus was not easily disheartened, as his patience during one-and-twenty years proved, and he begged the portuguese monarch so earnestly to assist him that he had almost been supplied with the vessels he required, had there not been in lisbon some persons who were very jealous of him, and wanted the glory of making the attempt themselves. these persons gained information of the proposed route, and then set out in secret to try it, not unknown, as it is said, to the king. but when they had been out at sea some time, and saw the waves spread out around them as far as sight could reach, they lost all courage, and put back to lisbon as quickly as they could, saying on their return that the voyage could never be tried. columbus was indignant at being treated thus: he had passed fourteen years of his life in waiting, and had thought and studied so much for the enterprise on which he had set his heart that he had made no fortune for himself. his gentle wife felippa was dead; and one day he bid farewell to his home in lisbon and quitted portugal with the idea of laying his cause before ferdinand and isabella of spain. first of all, however, he went to genoa, where he saw his father, and provided out of his own scanty means for the old man's comfort. when he arrived in spain he sought the favour and assistance of two powerful spanish nobles, the duke of medina sidonia and the duke of medina coeli. the latter was the kinder of the two; he was just going to give columbus three or four caravels, which lay opposite the port of cadiz, when he suddenly thought that the enterprise was so vast, that none but a king should direct it. he spoke so kindly, however, of columbus to queen isabella, that she desired him to repair to her court at cordova. when he arrived he found the city like a camp, and the king and queen entirely occupied in preparing for a grand campaign against the moors. one moorish city after another had indeed yielded to the spanish arms, but the invaders who had held ground in spain for nearly eight hundred years, were still in possession of much of the southern part of the country. at such a moment isabella had no time to listen to the demands of a needy adventurer like columbus, and his humble dress and his poverty made him an object of contempt in the eyes of the haughty spanish grandees. at last, through the efforts of the grand cardinal of spain, he was allowed to enter the presence of ferdinand. the king ordered him to plead his cause before a great council of learned monks at salamanca. during the time it was held, columbus was a guest in the convent of st. stephen, which was the foundation of the famous university of salamanca. the monks of the convent were kind to him; they entered into his plans, and believed that the voyage he proposed would lead to great discoveries; and prove the source of infinite benefit to mankind; but those who came to confer with them were not of the same opinion, and they tried, by quoting the holy scriptures, to convince columbus that he was in error. now columbus was a very devout man, and one strong inducement for him to undertake the voyage was, the hope of spreading the gospel in distant parts of the world, and he must have been greatly pained when sentence was passed against him, and his views except by a few, were misunderstood and treated as idle dreams. nevertheless he lingered on in spain, in the hope that his appeal for aid might be heard one day by isabella herself, who was of a more noble and generous character than her husband. so he followed the court from place to place as the seat of war changed, and in one campaign he bore an honourable part in the struggle with the moors; while part of the time he remained in spain he lived quietly at cordova, earning his bread by making charts, and maps, as he had done before at lisbon. when he heard that the city of granada, the stronghold of the moors, was to be invested by the spanish army, he determined to make one more appeal, for he was sure that the king and queen would be too busy to listen to him, when the siege had once begun. all they would do was to promise to hear him when they should be released from the cares of war, and columbus, grieving to think that he had wasted so many years of his life in useless waiting, made up his mind to leave spain for ever, and apply for aid at the court of france. from the time he left cordova little is known of him until he appeared at the gate of the convent of st. maria de rabida, which stood in the midst of a forest of pine trees, near the port of palos, in andalusia. his son diego was with him; the boy was both tired and hungry, for they had come a long way without resting. just as columbus was asking for some bread and water for him at the gate, friar juan perez, the guardian of the convent happened to pass by. the good friar welcomed the strangers kindly; he bade them enter, and in the course of conversation columbus opened his heart to him and told him about his plans, and his firm trust that by the grace of god he should be able to carry them out. friar juan had already thought on the subject himself, and he was so delighted with the ideas of columbus that he sent for two friends to confer with him: one was fernandez garcia, a physician of palos, who had a great longing to go in search of unknown lands; the other was martin alonzo pinzon, a merchant who had vessels of his own, and traded with many foreign ports. these were presently joined by some mariners of palos, who had had much experience at sea. friar juan persuaded columbus to stay a little longer in spain, and wrote a letter to queen isabella, hoping that his influence might induce her to sanction the enterprise, since he had once been her confessor, and had always been held by her in great esteem. the court had removed to santa fã©, and an honest pilot, named sebastian rodriguez, undertook to convey the letter thither. at the end of a fortnight he brought back an answer from the queen which gave hope and joy to columbus and his friends, and caused friar juan to saddle his mule in haste, and set out at midnight for the spanish court. isabella was indeed beginning to think the voyage worthy of consideration, and wished to talk on the subject with juan himself. and very soon she summoned columbus to santa fã©, and sent him some money to enable him to buy a mule for his journey, and a dress suitable to appear in at court, so that he might no longer be despised for his needy attire. columbus arrived in time to see boabdil, the last of the moorish kings in spain, deliver the keys of the alhambra into the hands of the spanish sovereigns: the hundred thousand moors, who had shut themselves up within the massive walls of granada, had been forced to yield; the crescent was thrown down, and the royal standard of spain was planted on the red towers of the most beautiful of moorish palaces. there were rejoicings and festivities without end among the spaniards, but columbus was sad and forlorn in the midst of all the gaiety; the courtiers were jealous of the favour isabella had shown him on his arrival, and although the king and queen kept their promise and listened to him once more, they were persuaded, by a haughty and powerful priest named talavera, now bishop of granada, to offer him terms which he could not accept. he began to feel utterly disheartened, and resolving again to leave spain and ask help from france, he mounted his mule and quitted santa fã©. he had reached the pass of pinos, two leagues from granada, when to his surprise a courier overtook him and recalled him to the court. some of his friends had at last persuaded isabella to grant him real assistance, and she became all at once so eager for the voyage to be carried out, that she declared her kingdom of castille should defray the cost of it, and offered to pledge her own jewels to furnish money besides. the king and queen then signed a decree by which columbus was to be supplied with vessels and men; to be named admiral of the fleet, and viceroy of all the lands he should discover; and to have a right to a tenth part of all the gold, silver, pearls, precious stones, and spices he might find within the limits of the land he was to rule over for the spanish sovereigns. besides this the title of don was to be prefixed to his name and to the name of his heirs. all the doubts, the long weary days of waiting, were at an end. in deep thankfulness and joy columbus went back to palos, from which port it was arranged that the fleet should set sail. and one may morning a royal decree was read in the porch of the largest church there which ordered the authorities of palos to have two caravels[12] ready for the sea within ten days, columbus himself having the right to fit out a third vessel. but now his troubles broke out afresh, no one would furnish barks, not a mariner could be pressed into the service; it was believed that all who engaged in such a voyage must surely perish. after tumults and disputes which lasted many weeks, martin pinzon and his brother came forward with a vessel of their own, and two other caravels were with the greatest difficulty procured. thus the days which still elapsed before the fleet could sail, so full of joy and hope for the admiral, were passed by the sailors and the friends they were to leave on shore in terror and deep gloom. at last, on friday, august the 3rd, in the year 1492, the caravels sailed at daybreak from the bar of saltes, near palos, having on board one hundred and twenty persons, who before starting had all joined in fervent prayer that god would protect them from danger, and grant them success. a favourable wind bore them in the direction of the canary islands. the vessel columbus sailed in was called the _santa maria_; the second, the _pinta_, was commanded by martin alonzo pinzon, and the third, the _niã±a_, by his brother vincent yaã±ez pinzon. when they had been out at sea three days the _pinta_ made a sign of distress; either by accident or through malice to columbus her rudder had been broken. martin pinzon repaired it as well as he could with cords, but the next day the wind broke them, and all the vessels put in towards the canary islands, and waited thereabouts three weeks whilst a new rudder was made for the damaged bark. this occasioned much loss of time, and news being brought that some portuguese ships were sailing towards the island of ferro, columbus set sail again in a great hurry, fearing that the jealousy of the king of portugal might even now prevent him from finishing his voyage. for three days the caravels were held in a deep calm, and all the men on board felt very anxious until the winds arose, and carried them on their way. the last land they saw was the island of ferro, and when they lost sight of that, the spirits of most of the mariners began to droop, and a wreck which they came upon a hundred and fifty leagues from ferro, did not tend to make them more hopeful. on the 14th of september they saw a heron and a water wagtail, which very much surprised them, as they were the first birds they had seen. the next night there fell from the sky, only four or five leagues from the vessels, a wonderful stream of fire, although the sea was calm, and the winds were asleep, and the currents steady to the northward. this was probably one of the meteors which are often seen in warm climates. after that, from day to day, they perceived an abundance of grasses and herbs on the surface of the water--which appeared to have been plucked only a short time before from some island or rock--the green patches looked almost like floating islands themselves. then they saw many tunny and gold fish, and a white bird of the tropics that never passes a night on the sea. they thought, too, that the waves were less salt than those they had crossed at first. all these signs made the mariners very desirous of going in search of islands, but columbus would not yield to their wishes, and pursued the steady course he had planned towards the west. on the 18th of september the captain of the swift-sailing caravel _pinta_ told the admiral that he had seen a number of large birds flying towards the north, and that he thought there was land in that direction. this time, however, columbus felt sure that the supposed land was nothing but a bank of clouds. the next morning a bird of the tropics alighted on the admiral's ship, and the day after two more came with a black bird which had on its head a tuft of white feathers; besides which, at dawn, three little singing birds had perched themselves on one of the masts, and only flew away at dark. their sweet song must have made some of the forlorn mariners think of their homes and the pine forest of palos and the gardens of southern spain, with their orange and pomegranate trees, whilst to others it may have said, "god, in his infinite love, has sent the little birds to cheer your hearts, and to tell you that land is near, and that you need not fear to tread the shore of strange men, since he is the father of all." there came a time, indeed, when these things vanished, and as the wind always blew from the east, the men despaired of ever being able to return to their homes. they began to reproach columbus bitterly for having led them, as they supposed, on a lost track, and distrusted the signs of land even when they were renewed by fresh patches of verdure appearing, and whole flights of singing birds coming to the caravels early in the morning, and flying away to their unseen nests at dusk. some of the seamen in their frenzy were so wicked as to make a plot to throw the admiral overboard, and they meant after that, to turn the vessel homeward, and to say, if they ever got back to spain, that he had fallen from the ship's side whilst gazing at the stars. columbus had enough to do to pacify the crews. to the gentle he spoke kind words; those who were eager for riches he flattered with hopes of gain, and the most violent of all he threatened with the severest punishment if they should attempt to prevent the voyage from being completed. at this time he was exposed to extreme danger, but he had a brave heart, and trusted in god, and did not feel afraid even when he knew that the plot had been made to take away his life. and although he was more anxious than any man on board, and passed many a sleepless night, looking vainly across the starlit sea for land, he never despaired of finding it at last. so the days passed in alternate hope and fear. once martin pinzon felt so sure that he saw land, that the crews of each vessel knelt down and chanted a solemn thanksgiving, "glory to god in the highest," such were the words that rose up in the calm evening air, but, alas! the land turned out to be only a cloud. when the mutiny was at its greatest height the heavenly father let the men who had murmured look on the blessed signs of land until their wicked thoughts passed away, and hope and trust came back to their hearts instead. for, on the 10th of october, there could be no doubt that they were near some shore. beside fresh herbs and grasses, they saw a green fish, which is only found near rocks, a reed and a carved stick, a little plank, and a branch of thorn covered with red berries, which looked as if it had only just been plucked. [illustration: _columbus pointing to the land.--p. 159_] after evening prayer on that day columbus ordered a careful watch to be made, and remained himself on the high stern of the _santa maria_ during the night. now and then he observed a glimmer of light, which he supposed came from the shore, and at two o'clock in the morning the firing of a gun from the _pinta_ was the signal that land had really been seen. not an eye closed that night; the sails were taken in, and the whole company on board the caravels waited in breathless suspense for the dawn. as the day broke, columbus perceived a level island stretching out before them covered with trees; the natives were already coming out of the woods and rushing towards the shore, evidently astonished at the sight of the strange vessels. the boats were manned and armed, and columbus, martin pinzon, and vincente, his brother, each got into a boat, columbus bearing the royal standard of spain, and the others banners with green crosses upon them. the natives stood around as they landed, and looked on, half fearful, in silence. columbus kissed the earth on which he first set foot, and planting the cross upon it, called it by the name of st. salvador.[13] then the spaniards hailed him as admiral, and swore obedience to him: those who had rebelled were now thoroughly ashamed of their wicked conduct, and entreated his pardon--a pardon he readily granted--for it was not in his noble nature to resent an injury done to himself. the spanish government had decreed a reward of 10,000 maravedis[14] to him who should first discover land; to this columbus added a promise of a doublet of silk or velvet. but although rodrigo de triana was the mariner who first saw land from the _pinta_, it was agreed by all that the admiral should have the prize, because it was he who had perceived the light, probably of some torch the natives had carried, at intervals, during the night. the island columbus first landed upon was one of the lucayos or bahamas; in his delight he fancied he had really reached the eastern shores of india, and hence it was that the natives of the new world were called indians. he stayed a day or two at the island, making friends with the dark-complexioned men, who soon lost all fear of the strangers, and regarded with great curiosity the cups, glass beads, and hawks' bells they gave them in exchange for the parrots, the balls of spun-cotton, and the cassava bread, made from a great root called "yuca," which they brought down to the shore. they were simple in their manners, and evidently thought the shining armour and weapons of the white man very strange. they did not know the use of iron, and taking the swords by the blades they cut themselves with them. some of them wore little ornaments of gold in their noses, and when the spaniards asked them by signs whence they got the gold, they answered by pointing to the south. columbus now resolved to go in search of the precious metal, and left the island, taking with him seven indians as interpreters. when he returned to his ship the natives crowded around him in their canoes, each of which, small or large, was made in one piece out of the trunk of a tree. after finding some little islands, he came upon the lovely island of cuba. here the caravels glided down a great shining river, with waters deep and clear, and anchored not far from the sea. it seemed to the mariners a fairy region, in which they forgot all the care and the terror of their voyage. trees, higher than any they had seen in europe, were covered with the most tempting fruits and brilliant flowers, birds of gay-coloured plumage sang on their branches or flitted about. the sunshine falling on the scales of the fish made them look like precious stones, and at night, fireflies flashed through the air, and moon and stars shone with a strange lustre unknown in europe. the cabins of the natives of cuba were more elegant in their construction than those of the other islands, and were all well covered with branches of palm trees. that the people were accustomed to fish was shown by the nets, made of the fibres of palm leaves, which were found in some of the empty dwellings. here was seen for the first time the "batata," or potatoe plant, which has since proved such a blessing to europe, and some spaniards, whom columbus, believing that he had indeed reached cathay, sent on a mission to the grand khan, tell how, when they came back from their fruitless journey, they met on the road numbers of people, men and women, who held in one hand a lighted brand, and in the other some leaves of a plant called "tabacas," rolled up in the form of a little cylinder, one end of which they lighted and the other they put into their mouths. it is needless to say that this was the origin of smoking amongst the europeans, and hence the city of havannah in cuba has always been famous for the manufacture of cigars. one night when the caravels were out at sea, not far from cuba, on a voyage of fresh discovery, the _pinta_ suddenly disappeared. the merchant martin alonzo pinzon was greedy of gain, and wanted to go to some island in search of gold by himself. one reason of his desertion is said also to have been his dislike of serving under another, after having been his own master for so many years. columbus had now only the two caravels, but he was not deterred from making fresh attempts, and he soon found the large island of haiti, or saint domingo, to which he gave the name of hispaniola, because it was like the fairest parts of spain. the land here was mountainous and rocky, but the rocks rose up out of forests. the harbour the caravels entered was surrounded by great trees, most of them being covered with fruit, which gleamed red, green, and golden in the bright sunshine of the tropics. the natives were very timid at first, as those of cuba had been, and fled from the coast on the approach of the strange vessels; but an indian woman who was captured and carried on board the _santa maria_ was treated so kindly that, when she went back to the shore, her own people began to lose all fear, and brought the spaniards many gifts of fish, fruit, and roots, and their famed cassava bread. another day, when columbus was cruising about the island, and a gale was blowing, he saved an indian from perishing as his fragile canoe, and the man thus rescued told the time tale of the kindness of the spaniards. columbus became very friendly with a chief, or cacique, named guacanagari, which is a terribly long name, and since he always remained true to the spaniards i will only call him in future the faithful chief, to distinguish him from others in the same island. the admiral had set out by sea to visit him in his own village, when a great disaster happened. it was christmas eve; the ocean was calm and smooth, and about an hour before midnight the caravel _santa maria_ was only a league from the cacique's dwelling. columbus, having passed many sleepless nights, had gone to rest; soon after the steersman, giving the helm in charge to one of the ship's boys, followed his example, and it was not long before the whole of the crew were sound asleep also. the vessel, thus left to a careless boy, was carried by currents on to a sandbank with such force that great seams opened in her sides. some of the mariners, roused to a sense of their danger, got down into their boat, and in the confusion rowed off to the caravel _niã±a_, which took them all on board. soon the admiral and the remainder of the crew had to take refuge there also; the _santa maria_ was firmly fixed in the sands, and was of no farther use as a ship. when the cacique heard of the misfortune he shed tears, and kindly sent a number of men in canoes to the admiral's assistance, and he helped himself to keep guard round the wrecked vessel, that none of the valuable stores it contained might be stolen. little boys who are safe at home at the merry christmas-time with all whom they love, may think of this first christmas of the brave and patient admiral, passed amidst all the horrors of shipwreck, and remember that if a simple and ignorant heathen could thus afford kindly help and sympathy to the distressed, how much more love and charity ought not those to show who call themselves the followers of christ! the cacique came on board the _niã±a_ to visit columbus, and a little while after, the admiral went to his village in return. when he was there he had a cannon and a harquebuss fired to show the might of the european arms. the indians were so terrified at the sound that they fell flat to the ground, but their spirits revived when they were told that such weapons would deliver them from the caribs, who were constantly threatening and tormenting their chief. the cacique gave columbus many extraordinary presents; one was a mask of wood, with eyes, ears, and mouth gilded: the indians were very fond of carving such masks. they were delighted with the gifts they received from the spaniards, and most of all with the hawks' bells, dancing merrily to the tinkling they made. they had so little idea of the real value of things that a string of the commonest glass beads had far greater worth in their eyes than a coronet of solid gold. columbus now began to think of returning to europe, but first of all he constructed a fort with the remains of the stranded vessel, to which he gave the name of navidad,[15] in memory of the christmas morning when his own life and the lives of his men had been so mercifully spared. some of the spaniards were to be left to guard the fort, and they were very glad to remain in the island; they had food in plenty, the natives were kindly disposed towards them, and to live at ease in a beautiful climate was far preferable to being tossed about on the stormy sea. when the moment of parting came, however, all were sorrowful, and they took a kindly leave of one another, wondering whether they would ever meet again. some time after columbus had set out on his journey home, he came in sight of the _pinta_. the merchant made many excuses for his desertion, but columbus passed them over with few words, and the vessels kept company until the _pinta_ again disappeared one dark night during a terrific storm, which surprised the caravels far out in the open sea. when it was at its greatest height columbus retired to his cabin, and wrote two copies of a description of the lands he had seen, then he wrapped them in wax, and put them into two casks, one of which he threw into the sea, and the other he placed on the poop of his vessel, that it might float if she sank. the storm abated, but columbus was not yet destined to return to europe in peace. he had touched at the island of st. mary, one of the azores, and half the crew had landed to return thanks to god for their escape from the tempest. as they were praying in a chapel they were seized by order of john of portugal, to whom the islands belonged. the king had watched the movements of columbus, and could not get over his jealousy of the spaniards for having succeeded in their attempt. after some trouble the seamen were set free, but even then another storm drove columbus to seek shelter in the river tagus, near the rock of cintra. whilst he was there, king john invited him to his court, which he was holding in a lovely spot, called the vale of paradise, a few leagues from lisbon. certain it is, that however unkind he had been hitherto, he received columbus as a friend, and treated him with honour, and would not listen to some wicked men around him, who advised him to put him to death. when columbus did arrive at palos on the 15th of march, 1493, the people flocked in crowds to welcome him, and he journeyed like a prince to barcelona, where the spanish court had taken up its residence for a time. but his greatest triumph was when he had entered the gates of the city, and went slowly along the crowded streets, surrounded by the noblest knights of spain, to the palace where ferdinand and isabella were seated under a golden canopy in readiness to receive him. and surely the people of barcelona had never looked upon so strange a procession before. six indians in their wild costume marched on in front; the animals belonging to the islands, live parrots, and other gaily plumed birds, till then unknown in europe, the golden ornaments and the weapons of the natives, strange plants, valuable resins and gums, all had their part in the show. when columbus arrived at the palace the king and queen would not suffer him to stand or kneel in their presence, but they knelt down themselves in the sight of all the people, and thanked god fervently for the wondrous spectacle before them, and the new world that the courage and constancy of a good man had given to leon and castille. whilst columbus remained in spain he was treated with the highest esteem and honour, and his sons, diego and fernando were appointed pages to prince juan, the heir to the spanish throne. martin alonzo pinzon arrived at the port of palos on the evening of the day columbus had landed amid crowds of welcoming faces. he was so jealous of his rival's glory, and so deeply mortified besides when he remembered his own mean conduct towards one who had always been kind to him, that he went on shore privately, and instead of taking part in the public rejoicings, repaired to his home, where he fell ill, and died soon after, as it is said, of grief. in the autumn of the same year columbus set out on his second voyage with a fleet of seventeen ships, and fifteen hundred men, amongst whom were _hidalgos_, merchants and adventurers, and several priests, intended to convert the indians to the christian faith. on his way to hispaniola he found some islands belonging to the group of the antilles. the first one he saw he called domenica, because he discovered it on a sunday. after that he came to a large and fertile island, to which he gave the name of guadaloupe, and there the spaniards saw for the first time the pine-apple. but although they found plenty of luscious fruits and sweet water, which refreshed them after their voyage, they were not at all happy there because they perceived from the remains of human bodies hanging about the dwellings that the natives of the island were cannibals, or caribs, who feasted on the flesh of their fellow creatures. columbus was in great alarm for fear some of his crew who had strayed into the forests should fall victims to this horrible practice; but happily, most of the men were absent on some warlike expedition, and had left their women to guard the island, and the missing mariners found their way back to the sea-shore. another of the larger islands discovered at this time now bears the name of porto rico. when the fleet arrived about a league from the settlement of navidad, all objects around were hidden in the darkness of night. columbus felt very anxious to know if the men whom he had left to guard the fort were alive and in safety, and he had two guns fired off to announce his arrival. the echo died away in silence, no answer came, and a terrible fear filled his heart. about midnight some indians came in a boat to the principal caravel, and asked to see the admiral. they had brought him a present of gilded masks from the faithful chief, and told how he lay sick in a little village near, having been wounded in an affray with another chief named caonabo, who dwelt on the mountains of cibao, and was called "the lord of the house of gold," because of the abundance of gold in that region. these indians gave very confused accounts of the spaniards who had been left in the fort. some of them were dead, they said, having been killed in a skirmish; others were dispersed. columbus did not know what to think. even when the day broke, the place seemed strangely silent and deserted, and at last he sent some of his people in a boat to the shore to gain tidings. alas! the fortress was a heap of ruins, the comrades of other days had all disappeared without leaving a trace behind. columbus soon learned that several of the spaniards had been faithless to the trust reposed in them, and after quarrelling amongst themselves had gone off to the mountains of cibao, tempted by the prospect of finding gold. the few who remained in the fort had been surprised by caonabo. he had rushed down upon them with his warriors, and had burnt all the dwellings of the white men, although the faithful chief had done his best to help to defend them: columbus heard from him that the reports of the fate of the spaniards were true. when the cacique visited columbus on board his ship he was greatly astonished at the sight of the animals which had been brought out to the west, such as cattle, pigs and calves, but most of all the indians wondered at the power and size of the horse, which was to tread their shores for the first time. besides these, columbus had brought to the island many domestic fowls, also vegetables and fruits which he hoped would flourish in the new soil; among the latter were oranges, lemons, and citrons, supposed to have grown originally in india and persia, and to have been introduced into europe by the arabs and moors. immediately on his arrival columbus founded the city of isabella on the north of the island. for a little time the work went on bravely, and then troubles arose. the provisions conveyed in the vessels were nearly all gone; the climate was found to be sultry and damp, and unhealthy for those who had lived in the drier air of spain. the young _hidalgos_, who had come out in the hope of gaining riches and fame, were angry and disappointed that they did not find gold at once in abundance. to appease their murmurs, columbus sent a very bold cavalier named alonso de ojeda to explore the famed mountains of cibao, with a band of men, of whom most were of noble birth. when they came back from their dangerous expedition, they told the admiral that they had seen gold in plenty glittering in particles amongst the sands of the mountain streams, and in the beds of the torrents. several ships returned about this time to spain, bearing samples of the gold thus discovered, besides various fruits and plants unknown in europe. the complaints of the settlers were again breaking out, when columbus, leaving the growing city of isabella in charge of his brother diego, who had accompanied him on the voyage, set out himself for the mountains of cibao with four hundred men, well armed, and a great multitude of indians. when they arrived at the foot of the mountain land, it was found that so large a force could not ascend the wild and difficult path which was used by the indians, and some brave young spanish gentlemen who had been used to all kinds of manoeuvres in the wars with the moors, and were very eager to win fresh renown, undertook to make a road by which the whole company could pass. thus in a few hours, by dint of hard labour, the first road in the new world was constructed, and it was called in honour of those who had made it, "el puerto de los hidalgos," "the gentleman's pass." when they came to the gorge of the mountain an immense plain spread out before them covered with lovely flowers, and with trees rising out of it, such as the graceful palm with its slender stem and feathery plume at the top, and the wide-spreading mahogany-tree with its dense foliage. the air was so balmy, and the whole scene was so beautiful, that columbus gave it the name of "vega real," which means royal plain. as they went higher up the mountains the way became rougher, and they lost the sweet flowers and fruits which had afforded them so much delight. some of them saw what it must be confessed gave them still greater pleasure, and that was the gold which sparkled in the sands of the streams. at the top of a steep hill they built a fort, which they called fort st. thomas, that there might be a place of refuge for those who should work the mines. caonabo did not at all like his "golden house" to be thus invaded, and took his revenge, as will be seen hereafter. the indians as yet were very willing to exchange gold for the glass beads and toys the spaniards gave them, and would search for it on purpose to bring it to them. one old man parted with two pieces of gold which weighed an ounce, and thought he was magnificently paid for it with a hawk's bell. when columbus returned to isabella, he found that the building of the city had been neglected: the workmen were either ill or weary of the task, and he gave orders that all who had come out to the island should assist in the labour. the proud spanish _hidalgos_ worked with very unwilling hearts, and never forgave columbus for submitting them to what they considered a great degradation. some of them were so disappointed with the new world and the difficulty of making themselves rich without any trouble that they fell ill and died, bitterly reproaching columbus until their last hour as being the cause of all their misfortunes. these troubles made the admiral very unhappy; still, amidst them all he had some joys, and one very great one, when after he had gone to coast along a part of cuba unknown to him, he came upon the large island of jamaica, with its high blue mountains and its groves of majestic trees. jamaica thus ranks third of the great islands made known to the europeans. here the natives made each of their boats out of the single trunk of a tree, and when they used for this purpose the enormous stem of a mahogany tree they had a very large boat indeed. columbus did not stay long at jamaica, but cruised about another part of cuba, and found some smaller islands near its coast, which were so lovely that he called them "the queen's gardens." on his way back to hispaniola he became very ill, and was senseless when his vessel reached the port of isabella. great was his joy, when he opened his eyes once more to find his brother bartholomew by his bedside; he had been sent to the island by the spanish sovereigns, and as he was very brave and clever he was well fitted to take the command of affairs whilst his brother was ill. the troubles in the island rapidly increased. the chiefs, with the exception of the faithful one, were ready to make war on the spaniards and drive them away. caonabo was the fiercest of all; he lay siege to the fort of st. thomas, but alonso de ojeda was inside with a few brave men, and harassed his army so much by his firearms that the indians at last withdrew in despair. ojeda afterwards captured caonabo in a very daring manner, and brought him bound to himself on his horse to the city of isabella, where he was imprisoned in the admiral's house. after this the indians were ordered to pay tribute in gold dust, which at first only made them resist the more; it seemed so hard to them to have to work from morning to night in search of gold, after the free and happy life, happy for them because it was idle, they had lived in their island before the strangers came. it was not until a battle had been fought on the lovely plain of the vega, and some of them had been killed by the firearms of the spaniards, which were far more destructive than their own weapons, that they consented with heavy hearts to bring their tribute. for everything that went wrong, columbus alone was unjustly blamed, and at last some unkind persons went to spain and told the king and queen that he had brought all the misery on the colony by his bad government. and a day came when he set out for spain himself to plead his cause with ferdinand and isabella; because, whatever his enemies had said, his conduct had always been loyal and upright, and the cause of all the unhappiness lay in the violent temper and the avarice of many of the men who had embarked with him for the sake of making themselves rich, instead of serving the king and queen, and promoting the glory of spain. the vessel he sailed in was crowded with criminals, discontented persons and indian captives; amongst the latter was the proud chief caonabo, but he died during the voyage. when columbus arrived this time in spain, there were neither triumphs nor rejoicings, and he wore as he landed the dress of a franciscan friar, a long robe, with a cord for a girdle, in sign of humility. he was soon cheered, however, by a kind invitation to court. ferdinand and isabella did not yet forget how much they owed to him, and they gave no heed to the complaints that had been made against him, while the massive gold ornaments he had brought with him, and the rich products of the islands induced them to hope that his discoveries would bring them great wealth in the time to come. he therefore lived in spain in some degree of comfort until the may of the year 1498, when after many tiresome delays he started on a third voyage with only six ships and took a different route to that he had gone before. from the cape verde isles he went south-west towards the region spreading out eight or ten degrees north and south of the equator, where the sea is smooth as glass, and the sun shines straight down, and there is not a breath of air to fill a sail. the heat on this occasion was intense, and the mariners very nearly died of thirst when their supply of water was exhausted and they could get no more. columbus therefore sailed westward, instead of going farther south as he had at first proposed, and one day, just three months after he had left spain, three mountains seemed to rise up out of the ocean afar, and as he came nearer he found to his joy that all the mountains rose from one island, to which in his thankfulness he gave the name of trinidad.[16] on this voyage he also discovered the mouths of the river orinoco, which it will be seen, by the map of south america, are not very far from the island of trinidad. still, columbus did not think when he landed, that he was treading the shores of a vast new continent, but imagined that it was a part of asia. after this he found the land the indians called paria. the natives here welcomed him kindly, and brought him bread and maize: they were tall and graceful, and their manners were gentle; they wore garments of cotton wrought so beautifully with colours that they looked like rich silks, and they carried targets besides bows and arrows. they had several kinds of liquors which they offered to the spaniards to drink. one was "white as milk," made from maize; others were nearly black, and tasted as if they were made from unripe fruit. the country was covered with flowers and fruit-trees; vines were twined from tree to tree and bright plumaged birds, chiefly parrots, flitted about. some of the natives wore collars of gold around their necks, and some had bracelets of pearls, the sight of which gave great satisfaction to the spaniards, for they thought they had discovered a new source of riches. columbus would have liked to have spent much time in exploring the coasts of paria, but his stores were nearly all consumed, and he was ill and almost blind from having strained his eye-sight during the dark nights of his voyages, and was therefore obliged to think of returning to hispaniola or san domingo, as it was called besides. along the north coast of paria he saw many islands, some of which afterwards became famous for their pearl fisheries, and in one little barren isle he got many beautiful pearls in exchange for hawks' bells, and pieces of broken china, which the indians thought very precious. at last, wearied out in mind and body he arrived at hispaniola, hoping to rest for a while in peace, but he found the colony in a state of rebellion; a wicked man named roldan, who had been raised to high estate by columbus, persuaded the people to rise up against the admiral of the indies and his brothers: the mines were no longer worked, the building of the city was left unfinished, and there was scarcely any food. and now we come to the saddest part in the whole story of columbus. some wretched convicts who had been sent out of spain to the island, and who were in league with roldan, contrived to make their escape and return to europe, where the false reports they spread reached the ears of ferdinand and isabella, and induced them to believe at last that he was not really worthy of the trust they had reposed in him. francesco bovadilla, a man who cared very little what he did, was therefore sent to hispaniola with orders to govern the island in his stead, whilst columbus himself was to be sent back to spain. it had happened that at the very moment the admiral was going to embark on his third voyage he was deeply affronted by a follower of one of his worst enemies in spain; and although he had endured many wrongs and injuries in a patient and forgiving spirit, he gave way this time to a violent fit of passion, and struck the time-serving creature repeatedly in his wrath. the news of this was of course conveyed to the king and queen, and this one act of passion on the part of columbus made them more inclined to believe in the reports of his ill conduct than all the complaints that had been spoken against him: they thought that if he were capable of such an action, there were more cruel and angry deeds to come; just as one little storm cloud hastening across the clear blue sky makes us dread that others, heavier and darker, are near. as soon as bovadilla arrived he settled himself in the admiral's house, columbus being absent at one of the forts, and laid hands on all the money, plate, jewels, and valuable things he could find. columbus disdained to question the acts of an unruly man like bovadilla, and journeying in haste and alone to st. domingo, he calmly resigned his command. he was then put in fetters, although for a long time no one could be found who would fasten them. at last this shameful office was performed by one of his cooks, a spaniard. his brother diego was already in chains on board a caravel: bartholomew would have resisted, but was advised by the admiral to submit calmly, and the three brothers, who were so loving and could have comforted one another in their misfortunes, were all kept apart. one day columbus saw an officer named villejo coming towards him in his prison followed by his guards. "where are you going to take me, oh, villejo?" he asked. "to the vessel, your excellency, to embark," he replied. "to embark!" exclaimed columbus, radiant with joy. "do you speak truth?" "by the life of your excellency i speak truth;" said he; and they went indeed on board the caravel which was to convey them to spain. during the voyage villejo and the captain of the vessel were very kind to him, and were grieved to see him in chains; they would have removed them, but columbus would not let them do so, saying that they had been placed upon him by order of the king, and his younger son fernando tells us that his father, stung at last by a sense of his wrongs, kept them ever after hung up in his room as a sign of the manner in which he had been rewarded for his services. yet let us hope that when he looked at them he forgave his enemies, since there are no injuries too deep to be forgiven, if we ourselves would receive pardon of our heavenly father for our many misdeeds. when columbus landed at cadiz thus shackled, a murmur of shame and indignation was breathed throughout spain. ferdinand and isabella ordered his fetters to be removed at once, and sent him a large sum of money to pay the expenses of a visit to court. and when he appeared in their presence, bowed down by illness and age, and worn out with the dangers and misfortunes he had gone through, and he saw tears in the eyes of isabella, who had once been his kindest friend, he knelt down and burst into a flood of tears himself. the queen consoled him with gentle words, and tried to atone by her kindness for the many affronts he had suffered. ferdinand always maintained that he had never given orders for columbus to be fettered, and that bovadilla had acted rashly on his own authority. be that as it may, the king was a stern and narrow-minded man; he did not like to see a foreigner filling the important office of viceroy of the indies, and he took care never to reinstate columbus in his former dignity, whilst he sent out a man named ovando to govern hispaniola instead of bovadilla. columbus now formed the project of finding a strait somewhere about the isthmus of darien, which should prove a shorter route to india than the voyage by the cape of good hope. although he was getting feeble and aged he had the same steadfast spirit which had enabled him to wait patiently all the best years of his life, and had helped him bravely through all his troubles, and he wanted yet to be of farther service to his fellow-men before he died. the portuguese under vasco de gama had already anchored opposite calcutta, and the trade with india was thus all their own, while the discovery of the west indian islands seemed to be less important. if anything more were to be done by columbus it must be begun at once, and the king and queen granted him four caravels with which to set out on his fourth and last voyage. the crews of all amounted to four hundred and fifty men. his brother bartholomew was with him and his younger son fernando; the elder one, diego, being left to manage his affairs in spain. the little fleet was to have gone straight to jamaica, but the principal vessel sailed so badly that it hindered the others, and columbus steered instead for hispaniola, hoping to exchange it for one of the fleet that had carried out ovando. he also asked to be allowed shelter in the harbour of san domingo, as he believed from certain signs in the atmosphere which he knew only too well, that a very great storm was near; but ovando would neither let him have a vessel nor take shelter. just at that time, the fleet which had brought out ovando was ready to sail, and was to convey to spain, the rebel and conspirator roldan, bovadilla, who had treated columbus so ill, and many persons who had led idle and wicked lives in the island. they had with them a great quantity of gold, some of which had been gained by the labour and miseries of the indians. amongst the gold that roldan was going to take to the king and queen was one enormous solid lump, which was said to have been found by an indian woman in a brook. although columbus was denied shelter himself he sent a message to the port, warning the men who were about to sail of the approaching storm, and entreating them to remain in the harbour until it was over. well had it been for them if they had listened to his advice, but they only laughed at it and boldly put out to sea. before two days had passed a terrible hurricane arose, the tempest burst over the ships, and all those men who had been the greatest enemies of columbus were swallowed up with their gold by the foaming waves. the few vessels which were not entirely destroyed returned to hispaniola in a shattered condition; only one was able to reach spain, and that strangely enough had on board a large sum of money which belonged by right to columbus, and had been despatched to spain by his agent. columbus kept close to the shore that night, but the tempest was terrible for him too; the caravels were dispersed and every one on board expected death, or thought that the others were lost. at last all the vessels, more or less damaged, arrived safely at port hermoso on the west of the island, and columbus stayed there some days to repair them. during an interval of calm he reached the gardens of cuba, but soon after this his troubles began afresh. for forty days he coasted along honduras, while the most fearful storms prevailed, and the whole time he could enter no port. the sea was tremendously high, heavy rains fell continually, and the thunder and lightning were so terrific that the mariners thought that the end of the world was coming; added to this the sails and rigging of the caravels were torn, and the provisions were spoiled by the damp. columbus grieved that his son fernando should be exposed to all these misfortunes. he says of him in a letter, "god gave him so great courage that he sustained the others, and if he put his hand to work, he did it as if he had been at sea for eighty years. it was he who consoled me; i had fallen ill and many a time was near the gate of the tomb. from a little cabin which i had caused to be constructed on the stern i directed the voyage. my brother was on the most wretched and dangerous of the vessels; great was my sorrow because i had brought him against his will." then he goes on to tell all his troubles; and laments that although he had served castille for so many years, he had not really a roof in the land he could call his own. he thought tenderly, too, of his son diego, in spain, and pictured the sorrow he would feel if he heard that all the vessels had perished. in the forty days the fleet only made seventy leagues; but at least they reached a cape where the coast made an angle and turned southwards, and the admiral in his joy and gratitude gave it the name of "gracias a dios."[17] now he sailed along the mosquito shore, the rivers of which abounded with tortoises and alligators, and in one of these rivers they lost some of their men who had gone in a boat to seek for provisions. this cast a great gloom over the rest, which had not passed away when they came to a beautiful island full of groves of cocoa nuts, bananas, and palms, and rested awhile between it and the main land. the indians on shore were very proud, for when the admiral refused the gifts they brought to the ship, they tied all the toys and bells the spaniards had given them together, and laid them on the sands. when columbus quitted the spot, he took seven of these indians with him as interpreters, and coasted along costa rica for several leagues, until he entered a great bay full of lovely islands. the natives here wore large plates of gold hanging from chains of cotton cord around their necks, and strange crowns made of the claws of beasts, and the quills of birds. they told the strangers that about seventy leagues off they would find veragua, a country which abounded in gold. and it seemed, indeed, as if they spoke the truth, for the nearer they came to that country the more gold they saw. the natives wore crowns of it on their heads, and rings of it round their wrists and ancles; their garments were embroidered with it; their tables and seats were ornamented with it. but columbus had not come out this time in search of gold, but to find the strait which should enable spain to trade with india at ease, and he left the land of promised riches and went on the way he thought would lead to his discovery. alas! it was soon found that the caravels were too leaky to sail with safety; they had been pierced through by a worm which infests the tropical seas, and can bore through the hardest wood;[18] and columbus was obliged to give up sailing, for the present, in search of the strait, and returned to seek for the gold mines of veragua.[19] it was now december, and again the caravels were overtaken by one of the terrible storms of the tropics. the poor mariners gave themselves up for lost; day and night they confessed their sins one to another, and made vows of what they would do if their lives were spared. the lightnings were so incessant that the sky glowed like "one vast furnace;" and they saw, too, for the first time a water-spout, which, advancing towards the caravels, threatened them with destruction; but the lord heard the prayers the terrified seamen sent up at the strange sight, and the column of water passed by without doing them any injury. in the midst of the storm there was an interval of calm, during which they saw many sharks; these fishes are supposed to scent dead bodies at a distance, and often draw near ships when danger is at hand. the sailors caught some of them, and took out of one a live tortoise, which lived some time on board one of the vessels; from another they took the head of a shark, which shows that these monsters sometimes eat one another. in the history which fernando wrote of his father, he says that the sufferings of all on board were very great for want of food; the provisions being spoiled by the damp, and they had to eat their biscuit in the dark, because it was so full of worms that it was too dreadful to behold by clear daylight. at last they entered a port which the indians called hueva, and went from thence along a canal for three days. when they landed they found the natives living in the trees like birds, their cabins being fastened to poles which were suspended from one tree to another. perhaps they did this on account of the wild beasts, the forest being full of lions, bears, racoons, tiger-cats, and sajinos, a species of wild boar which attack men. after a while the caravels anchored in the mouth of a river which was really in the country of the gold mines. the admiral sent his brother on shore to explore the land; and as he soon satisfied himself that there was gold to be found there in plenty, columbus at once began to form a settlement on the river, which he called belen, or bethlehem, after the star the wise men had seen in the east, because the caravels had arrived there on the feast of the epiphany. it was agreed that bartholomew should remain here while the admiral returned to spain to procure fresh vessels and supplies. so they built houses of wood, thatched with the leaves of palm trees, on a little hill not far from the mouth of the river, and eked out their scanty store of provisions with the pine-apples, bananas, and cocoanuts, which grew around them in plenty; and drank the wine the indians made from the pine-apple, and a sort of beer prepared from maize, or indian corn. when the rains ceased, however, columbus found that the river was so shallow, his crazy and worm-eaten ships could not get out and cross the bar, so that he was obliged to wait patiently until the rains should swell the river again and set him free. now it happened that quibain, the chief of the district, was very angry when he saw the spaniards had taken up their abode in his country, and ordered all his fighting men to be ready to drive them away. a brave man named diego mendez offered to reconnoitre the indian camp, and soon returned to tell columbus that he had seen a thousand indians who seemed to be arrayed for battle. after this, with only one companion, he contrived to get to the chief's village, pretending that he was a surgeon, and could cure a wound quibain had received in some skirmish. as he approached the house a horrible sight awaited him; for on a level plain in front of it the heads of three hundred men were fixed on poles. this was enough to give a terrible idea of the fury of quibain, if it were once roused. mendez was not allowed, however, to enter the cacique's dwelling; and went back to the settlement to tell columbus what he had seen, and the news he had heard that the indians were coming to burn their houses and ships. now, as we have said before, bartholomew columbus was a very brave man, and he set out from belen with diego mendez, and about seventy armed men in boats, and soon landed at the foot of the hill on which the chief dwelt. then he ascended the hill with only diego and four men besides, ordering the others to rush forward at the firing of a gun. bartholomew went alone to the spot where quibain was sitting in the open air, and pretending to look at his arm, held it tight until his comrade fired the gun which should summon the rest. he had much ado to hold the chief in his grasp, but he kept firm until he was bound hand and foot. the house was soon surrounded, and all the family of quibain were taken prisoners without the shedding of a drop of blood; and bartholomew returned to the settlement laden with spoils, amongst which were many massive gold ornaments, and two coronets of gold. quibain was committed to the care of the pilot of the fleet, and was tied by a strong cord to a bench in the pilot's boat. in the darkness of night the chief complained of the tightness of the cord, and the pilot, touched with pity, loosened it, holding the end of it in his hand. when he was looking another way for a moment, the wily indian plunged into the water and disappeared; the pilot of course was obliged to let go his hold or he would have been pulled in after him. columbus now thought that since the greatest enemy of the spaniards had thus perished, and the river was again filled by the heavy rains, he might safely return to spain, and he sailed out of the harbour. but quibain had not been drowned; he swam cleverly to the shore, and when he found his house deserted, he assembled all his warriors, intending to take his revenge. some of the spaniards who were to remain were straying carelessly about, when these wild men rushed out of their hiding places in the deep woods, and killed and wounded several of them. bartholomew and mendez soon drove them back with their fire arms; but diego tristan, the captain of one of the vessels, who had gone on shore with eleven men to get wood and water, was cruelly killed by the indians, and only one spaniard of the whole party survived to tell the tale. so the remainder shut themselves up in a fortress they made of a boat and some chests and casks, and defended themselves as well as they could by their fire arms. columbus, meanwhile, was pursuing his voyage, and meant to touch at hispaniola on his way to spain. some of the indian captives who were on board his ship, escaped; the others killed themselves in their despair. diego tristan not having returned to the admiral's vessel with his boat, a brave pilot swam to the shore and gained tidings of all that had happened. columbus now resolved to break up his settlement, and take all his people back to spain, but even this he could not do for a very long time. first of all a storm arose, as terrific as the previous ones had been: he was in the deepest anxiety, when one night he had fallen asleep, he heard, in a dream, a voice that consoled him for all that he had suffered, and reminded him of the never-failing mercy of god, so that when he awoke he had fresh hope and courage in his heart. and before long there was a calm, which enabled him to reach the fortress where his brother and his brave comrades were in such great distress. the caravel that was with them was too much damaged to be of farther use, and they were obliged to leave it behind. thankful indeed were the spaniards to leave the country of veragua, where they had gone through so many troubles and left many of their countrymen lying dead. they embarked in the three vessels that were left, but one of these was soon found to be in a very dangerous condition, and the whole company crowded on two wretched caravels. they could not reach hispaniola on account of the storms, and were glad to put into the harbour of st. gloria, at jamaica, where they gave up the struggle. the two vessels were now run aground and tied together, and cabins were constructed at the prow and stern, which were the only parts of the caravels above water. they were thatched with straw, to keep out the rain, and here for one long year columbus remained with his crew, forsaken and in much misery. the indians indeed brought them cassava bread, and fish and flesh, for which they gave them the usual toys and beads; but how were they to make known their distress to ovando, that he might send vessels to their relief? at last the brave and faithful mendez, the only one who would undertake such a perilous journey, ventured in a canoe with six indians and one spaniard to reach the island of hispaniola. the first time he tried he was surrounded by the savages and carried off by them, but he contrived to make his escape and returned alone to the harbour: it is not known what became of his companions. the second time he tried he succeeded in reaching the island. during his absence a number of the crew rebelled; columbus, rising from his sick bed, endeavoured vainly to pacify them, but they forsook him and went on shore, where they behaved very ill to the indians. eight months passed before columbus received any tidings of mendez, and he began to fear that he had been killed by the savages or had perished in his frail canoe. at last a messenger came from hispaniola, and said that ovando would send a vessel for the forlorn band as soon as he had one large enough to hold them all. when columbus knew that they would be rescued, in the greatness of his soul he offered a free pardon to the men who had rebelled, and offered to take them safely to spain if they would return to the path of duty; all that he required was that their ringleader should be kept a prisoner. but this bad man would not let them accept the pardon, and persuaded some of the indians to join them and take up their weapons against columbus. bartholomew, of the martial spirit, had to go on shore and quell the disturbance by force; after this their spirit was broken, and they confessed their misdeeds and asked columbus to forgive them. ovando sent two vessels, and columbus then took them all on board and gave them money to buy food and clothing, of which they were in sore need: he succoured alike those who had been faithful throughout and those who had rebelled, remembering how the merciful lord maketh the sun to shine on all. on his way to spain he touched at st. domingo, and embarked afresh. scarcely had he left the shore when the mast of his ship was carried away by a squall. storms went with him all the way home, and he was wearied out with pain and anxiety when he anchored in the harbour of st. lucar, never more to sail on the sea he loved so well. he only lived eighteen months after his arrival. the remainder of his life may be told in a few sad words. queen isabella, his friend and patron, died only a few days after his return to spain. the king refused to listen to his claim for the just reward of his services and those of his brave companions, and it reflects no honor on the spanish monarch that he allowed him to pass the last days of his useful life in poverty and neglect. on ascension day, the 6th of may of the year 1506, columbus died at valladolid. friends were around him as he sank to rest, saying, with his last breath, "lord, into thy hands i commend my spirit." and it may be that the hardships he had endured, and the insults and reproaches of his fellow-men, made him long more earnestly for that better land, fairer than the loveliest island that had risen up from the ocean before his astonished gaze, the land of the redeemed, where "the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them into living waters; and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." as if to make amends for the neglect he had experienced whilst on earth his remains were interred with great pomp in the convent of st. francis at seville. they were removed three times after that, and now rest in the cathedral of the havannah at cuba. he made by his will his son diego his heir, and ordered that one of his family should always reside at genoa, which shows that he preserved an affectionate remembrance of his native city until the last days of his life. his son fernando tells us that he had a long face, a bright complexion, an aquiline nose, and lively eyes of clear grey, which seemed to enforce obedience. his hair was fair in his youth, but began to turn white when he was only thirty years of age, which made him look much older than he really was. he was very frugal, and dressed with great simplicity. although naturally hasty in temper he treated all persons around him with extreme gentleness and kindness, and was always ready to succour those who were in trouble or need. he was sincerely religious, and never omitted to praise and to pray to god during his voyages either morning or night. in calm weather and in stormy the voices of the mariners chanting their matins and vespers rose from the lonely sea. sunday to him was always a day of rest, and he would never set sail on that day if he could avoid doing so. this chapter ought not to end without the relation of the well-known story of columbus and the egg. one day, after his triumphal return from his first voyage, he was dining at the table of the grand cardinal of spain, and one of the grandees present asked him if he did not think others could have found out the way to the new shore as well as himself. upon this columbus took an egg, and asked each person present to make it stand on the table. not one being able to do so, columbus took the egg, and, breaking one end of it, made it stand upright. then he said that if one showed the way it was easy enough for others to follow in his steps, just as the company assembled could each make the egg stand on the table now that he had shown them how to do it. footnotes: [12] a caravel was a small light bark, more fitted to sail on a river than to cross the stormy seas. [13] salvador, spanish for saviour. [14] a copper coin of spain, thirty-four of which are worth one real. [15] _navidad_, spanish for nativity. [16] trinidad, spanish for trinity. [17] gracias a dios, spanish for "thanks be to god." [18] see washington irving. [19] now called panama. the chevalier du bayard. pierre de terrail bayard was born in the year 1475, at the castle of bayard, in dauphinã©. his ancestors had long been feudal lords of the part of the province whence they took their name, and were always renowned for their valour and loyalty. the great-great-grandfather of pierre died in the battle of poictiers at the feet of his king, john of france: his great-grandfather fell at cressy; his grandfather at monthã©ri; and his father received so many wounds in an action with the germans that he could never after leave his castle of bayard. and when he was getting feeble, and felt that his days were numbered, he called his four sons around him, and asked each one of them what state of life he would choose for himself. the eldest replied that he would like always to live at the old castle of bayard, amongst his own people; so his father said to him, "very well, george, since you are so fond of home, you shall stay here and fight the bears." pierre, the second son, then thirteen years old, said that he desired to follow the profession of arms, as his father had done; and that he trusted through the grace of god to acquit himself with honour therein. the third son said he would like to have an abbey, like his uncle, the monseigneur of esnay, and the youngest wished to be a bishop, like his uncle of grenoble. the sire du bayard rejoiced very much at the choice little pierre had made, but as he could not decide at once where he should be trained for the service of his country, he sent in haste for his brother-in-law, the bishop of grenoble, that he might tell him the glad news and ask his advice in the matter. the bishop came, and made good cheer at the castle, several gentlemen of dauphinã© having been invited thither to render him honour. he was as much delighted as the sire du bayard at the thought that pierre would maintain the glory of his ancestors, and the day after his arrival advised that he should enter the service of charles, duke of savoy. the duke was then at chambã©ry, a place not far from the castle, and the bishop of grenoble proposed taking his nephew to him the next morning. thus it was settled that little pierre should leave his home for ever, and part with his brothers, his merry playmates in the woods and fields around bayard, and his gentle mother, who loved him perhaps above all her other sons; but his father felt that he was getting weaker every hour, and since he was not rich, he was very anxious to provide for the welfare of his children as far as he could before he died. first of all, however, it was agreed that pierre must be equipped as a page, and the bishop sent for his own tailor, bidding him bring with him satin and velvet, and all that was necessary for a page's dress in those days. the tailor had to work hard all night, and the next morning, pierre in his new habit went down into the courtyard and mounted a war-horse, which stood there ready saddled, while his father and all his guests looked on from the lower windows of the castle. the horse feeling so light a burden upon him grew restive, and it seemed each moment as if pierre must have been thrown, but to the delight and astonishment of all who beheld him, the boy, who had left school only a fortnight before, managed his horse, as an old french writer tells us, with as much skill as if he had been thirty years of age. the sire du bayard now bid him not to dismount, and gave him his blessing, after which all the rest of the people took leave of him. pierre's eyes filled with tears when his father looked so proudly and lovingly at him. "monseigneur, my father," he said, "i pray to our lord to give you a long and happy life, and to me grace, so that before you quit this world, you may hear good news of me." in the meantime his mother was weeping alone in a turret chamber of the castle; for although she was glad that he had chosen to follow a soldier's life for the honour of his name, she grieved bitterly at the thought of parting with him, and feared that she should never see him again. she came down into the courtyard by a back staircase, and there took leave of him with many tears, and gave him words of advice which he remembered so well all his life long that he gained both from his friends and from his foes the title of "the good knight, without fear and without reproach." these were some of the words she said: that he was to love and serve god, without giving him offence, as far as in him lay; and that he could do no good work in this world without his help and blessing. that he was to be gentle and courteous to all, casting away pride; humble, ready to serve his fellow creatures, and sober in eating and drinking. that he was never to tell a lie, or flatter, or be a tale-bearer, or be idle; that he was to be loyal in deed and speech, to keep his word; to succour the widows and orphans, for which the lord would repay him, and that he was to share with the needy such gifts as god might bestow upon him, since giving in honour of him made no man poor. when the noble lady had spoken thus, she gave her son a little purse, which contained a few pieces of gold, and then having implored a trusty servant of the bishop's to be careful of him, because he was so very young to leave home, she bade him a last farewell. the day after pierre's arrival at chambã©ry was sunday. after mass, a great banquet was served in honour of the bishop of grenoble, who was a very holy man, and much beloved by the duke of savoy. during the repast pierre stood beside his uncle and poured out his wine for him, and when it was ended he did not linger over the remains of the feast with the pages and youths belonging to duke charles's household, but hastened back to his lodgings and saddled his horse, and having mounted it, went down to the courtyard of the palace. the duke had remarked his graceful bearing during dinner, and now seated in a gallery was watching him in the court below. then the bishop told him how the sire du bayard, being too much enfeebled by his wounds to lift his sword again, had sent his little son pierre to him as a gift, and hoped that he would allow him to enter his service. the duke of savoy said that the present was both good and fair, and agreed to take young bayard into his service without delay. so the bishop returned home, and pierre was left alone amongst strangers. he must have sorrowed at first for the old life at castle bayard, and the watchful love of his mother, but whatever he felt, he began to fulfil his duties with an earnest heart, and was kind and gentle to all around him, and never forgot to pray morning and night that the almighty would give him grace to remain loyal and brave. pierre lived with the duke at chambã©ry for six months, and during that time he made himself beloved by every inmate of the house: he was a great favourite with the duchess of savoy, and had one little playmate, amongst the young maidens who were in attendance upon her, to whom he was much attached. when the six months had expired the whole party set off on their mules, according to the custom of travelling at that time, to visit king charles the eighth in the city of lyons. the king, struck with the reports he had heard of bayard's conduct, and the knightly grace he displayed in his presence, made him his own page, and had him lodged in the house of the seigneur de ligny, a prince of the house of luxembourg, to be trained with about thirty other noble youths in the use of arms. there was a squire belonging to the household of the duke of savoy who loved little pierre very much, and they had scarcely arrived at lyons before he told him that he knew he should never be able to keep him after the king had once seen him exercise in the meadow of esnay. king charles witnessed the wonderful evolutions he performed on his war-horse with the greatest delight; he was never weary of seeing him spur on the animal to fresh gambols; "pique,[20] pique, encore une fois!" he cried, and all the little pages echoing the words of the king, cried in their shrill voices, "piquez, piquez!" so that pierre was called long after by the familiar name of "piquet" in memory of the day. before the duke of savoy left lyons he gave a supper to the seigneur de ligny and some of the chief nobles in the city. the repast was enlivened by the music of the royal minstrels and singers: it was served early, and when it was ended the company played at various games all the remainder of the evening, and drank spiced wines before they separated. this was the usual manner of entertainment at that time, and if ladies were included in the invitations, there would be dancing until midnight, which was considered a very late hour. the years passed on, and pierre was very happy with his companions in the house of the seigneur de ligny. there was then living in burgundy a brave knight named claude de vauldrã©, whom the king summoned to lyons, in order that the young nobles of the city might contend with him, and thus give proof of the progress they had made in their martial studies. as soon as claude arrived he hung up his shield, and it was a custom that if any person touched a shield thus suspended, he gave a sign that he was ready to engage in combat with its owner. one day, as pierre was passing by, he sighed deeply, and said to himself, "ah, if i only knew how to equip myself for the combat, how gladly would i touch yonder shield, and so gain some real knowledge of the use of arms!" one of his comrades, bellabre, seeing him so full of care, asked him what he was thinking about; and when he told him of his desire, and his distress at having no money to buy horses and weapons, bellabre advised him to ask help from his uncle, the rich abbã© of esnay. bayard, with hope revived by this counsel, touched the shield, and after a sleepless night set off for esnay very early in the morning, in a little boat, with bellabre. they found the abbã© saying his matins. he grumbled terribly at first at his nephew's request, saying that the money given by the founders of the abbey was to serve god with, and not to be spent in jousts and tilting. bayard, however, prevailed upon him to provide him with a hundred crowns and two horses; and the abbã©, in a more softened mood, ordered a merchant of lyons to furnish him with all other things that he required. the greatest wonder was expressed in lyons that a youth not yet eighteen years of age should venture to contend with an experienced knight like claude vauldrã©; but when the day of trial came, bayard repelled the thrusts of his opponent in the most daring and fearless manner; and the ladies who sat in the balconies, watching the combatants in the arena below, exclaimed with one voice that he had done better than all the rest. one morning, soon after the tournament, the seigneur de ligny called pierre to him, and told him that as the war the french had long been carrying on in italy was to be continued, he should now enter his company, which was stationed at the little town of ayre, in picardy. the seigneur told him also that he would give him three hundred francs a year for his service, and three horses, richly caparisoned. bayard then went to take leave of the king, who bestowed on him, at parting, the finest horse in his stable; and last of all, he bade farewell with many tears to the good seigneur himself, whose house had been for him a second happy home. it is worthy of remark, throughout the life of the good knight, that in whatever circumstances he was placed, he always spoke of his happiness. and what _was_ the secret of that happiness, which neither the agony he endured when he lay disabled by wounds could take from him, nor the hardships and toil he had to go through during his numerous campaigns? surely it was his loving kindness to all around him, which sprang from his own love to almighty god and his son jesus christ. to do good is truly to be happy, and love begets love. bayard was dreaded by the enemies of his country because he was so steadfast and brave; but we never find that he had one personal enemy, or that he harboured a quarrelsome thought. as he drew near the little town of ayre, his future comrades rushed out on the road to meet him, they were so glad to have him amongst them, and the ladies flocked to the windows to welcome him as he passed along the streets. bayard had sent his servant on before to prepare a great supper at his lodgings, and there he entertained his new companions the night of his arrival. and very soon after he had a tournament cried in ayre, which lasted two days and attracted a vast concourse of people to the spot. it was the beautiful summer time, and the little town looked very gay with the banners streaming from its windows, and the bright armour of the knights and the jewels and silken robes of the ladies flashing in the sunlight. the trumpets were sounded, and bayard was the first to enter the lists against one of his neighbours of dauphinã©, who was a very rough man of arms. the good knight, before he vanquished him, broke his lance in five or six pieces. the trumpets sounded again in full clang, and in the next trial bayard very nearly had his arm broken, but he won from his opponent a little casque adorned with plumes. then came bellabre and a formidable scottish captain, named david fergus, who was greatly renowned for his strength and skill. when the first day's contest was over, there was joyous feasting and dancing in ayre until midnight, and the next morning all the knights went to mass, after which they dined together in good fellowship, and at two o'clock in the afternoon they repaired to the arena to complete the trial. and at evening, when they had all done their part in the sport, and the air was filled with shouting and merry talking, the trumpets were sounded to command silence, and to bayard was awarded the honour of decreeing the prizes. the young knight protested that he was not worthy of so great an honour, and was about to withdraw, but the people present insisted that he should adjudge them, and no other, because he had fought the best of all. so he gave the first prize, which was a bracelet of pure gold, to his friend bellabre; and the second one, a fine diamond, to the gallant scottish captain. it was usual for the knights to present the prizes they had thus won to the young maidens whom they had chosen for their brides. during the time pierre remained in ayre he made himself very much beloved by his liberality, and his readiness to help those who were in distress. many of his companions were poor, although they were of noble family, and if any one of them wanted setting up in arms, or was in need of money, bayard was sure to let him share the last crown piece he had in his purse. besides this, he never forgot the poor, and every morning he used to attend the service of the church, which made him happy for the day, and strong to overcome evil. when king charles the eighth undertook his expedition to naples, the good knight accompanied him with the seigneur de ligny, and in the battle of fornova, which the french gained over the italians on their way back to france, he displayed great valour, and had two horses killed under him at the first charge. whilst the french companies remained in italy they were allowed to amuse themselves in tilting and jousts, provided no particular warfare was going on at the time; and bayard had leisure to visit the duchess of savoy, at carignan, and held a great tournament there in honour of the favourite playmate of his childhood, who was now married to monsieur de fluxas, an officer belonging to the household of charles of savoy. and here he saw many who recalled the happy days at chambã©ry: it was a joyous meeting on both sides, and bayard remembered all those who had been kind to him when he first left the old castle of bayard, and to the master palfrenier,[21] who was very fond of him, he gave a horse worth fifty pieces of silver; and to the squire, who had been so loth to part with him in lyons, and had now retired from the service of the duke of savoy, he sent a mule, because the old man was ill with the gout, and could not walk. after the death of charles viii., the italian war was continued by his successor, louis xii., and bayard was constantly engaged in supporting the honour of the french arms. in the year 1503 louis declared war against ferdinand, of arragon, because he had behaved very badly to him by pretending to be his ally, whilst in reality he was planning to take from the french all the places they had conquered in italy. three great armies were prepared to invade the dominions of ferdinand on every side. the good knight served in the first: it was composed of 18,000 infantry, and 2,000 men-at-arms, and was destined for the recovery of the kingdom of naples, which had been wrenched out of the hands of the french by gonsalvo, the great captain. by the time the army arrived in the south of italy, the season was far advanced, and the french and the spaniards remained for a long time on the opposite shores of the river garigliano, near naples. pedro de paz, the leader of the spanish troops, was a man of the most daring courage, although in person he was so small, that it is said when he was on horseback his head was all that could be seen of him above the saddle. one day he formed a plan which, had it been carried out, would have caused very great loss to the french. this was to cross the garigliano with a hundred men-at-arms, at a place where he knew there was a ford, in the hope that the french would hasten thither to resist him, and leave his other troops to gain possession of a bridge of boats which had been thrown across the river. his plan was successful in the beginning; there was a sudden alarm in the french camp. the good knight who always liked to be where the danger was greatest, had a lodging close by the bridge; he happened to be there at the time with only one of his squires. having heard the noise, they were just going to arm themselves, and hasten to join in the affray, when bayard perceived 200 of the enemy's horse advancing towards the bridge. he told his companion to fly to the rest of the army and give the alarm, whilst he amused the spaniards until succour could arrive. the good knight then went alone to the bridge with his lance in his hand, and found the spaniards just ready to cross at the other end. but he did not let them advance, and kept the bridge single handed until his squire came back with 100 men-at-arms; the enemy thought at last his efforts could not be human! the men-at-arms, with bayard at their head, soon forced all the spaniards to quit their post, and chased them a good mile beyond it; they would have pursued them farther, but they saw several hundred men coming to the rescue, and they turned their horses in the direction of the camp. bayard was always the last to retreat; on this occasion he was far behind the others, his horse being so tired that it could only go very slowly on its way; and soon a body of spaniards bore down suddenly upon him, his horse was thrown into a ditch, and he was surrounded by twenty or thirty spanish knights, who kept crying "surrender, seã±or, surrender!" the good knight defended himself to the utmost, but he thought he should not be able to hold out long against so many, and fortunately his comrades, who had missed him just as they had reached the bridge, were seen hastening to the spot where he was so hardly pressed. directly the spaniards heard the quick tread of their horses they carried him off, and kept asking his name; but he only replied that he was a gentleman; because if they had known whom it was they had captured he might never have come out of their hands alive. a cry, however, rose on the air, "turn, spaniards, you shall not carry away thus the flower of chivalry!" the french came up, and a fierce struggle ensued. bayard mounted another horse, and soon extricated himself from his enemies, exclaiming the while, "france! bayard, whom you let go!" the spaniards were greatly vexed and discouraged when they found out how important a prize they had lost, and began at once to retreat, while the french rode home in the winter dusk joyful and triumphant to their camp. the good knight held out bravely against the foes of his country, but the enterprise did not succeed, and a treaty was made which obliged the french to withdraw all their forces from the kingdom of naples, and return by sea or land to their own country. bayard and another valiant knight named louis d' ars, were very indignant that such a treaty should have been made; they refused to sign it, and said they would rather stay in italy and perish by the sword than allow the italians to believe that all frenchmen were cowards; and they undertook to defend several small towns which remained to the french in naples, with a few followers who would not forsake them, and sold all their jewels and silver plate that they might be able to buy provisions and ammunition. thus, to the astonishment of europe, these two knights maintained the honour of their countrymen in italy, and did not give up the towns they had engaged to defend until the following year, when the king recalled them to france, and rewarded them in proportion to their services. the good knight was dangerously wounded some years later at the taking of brescia. this city had opened its gates to the victorious french three years before, but had been delivered into the hands of the venetians through the treachery of an italian count, who resided within its walls. as soon as the king's nephew, gaston, duke de nemours[22] heard of this, he marched forty leagues in the depth of winter, in the hope of recovering the town, having already sent bayard on in advance. the day after his arrival, they took possession of the citadel, which still held out for the french, and the next day they agreed to take the town by assault. the road leading down from the citadel to the rampart was very slippery on account of the heavy rains, and the duke was obliged to take off his shoes to prevent himself from falling; still he went bravely on, followed by the good knight and his men-at-arms. when the venetians saw bayard at the first rampart, they tried all they could to kill him; because, they said, if he were once overcome the others would never dare approach. bayard steadily gained his way, however, and cheered his men on to victory until he passed the rampart, and a thousand of the french were enabled to make their entrance into the town. but in doing this he received a pike-wound in his thigh; the pike going in so hard that the end of it broke, and the iron was left in the flesh. bayard told the captain beside him that he might lead off his men now that the town was won, but that he should never pass from the place again, and reckoned himself a dead man. the knowledge that the chevalier was severely wounded only served to make the french captains press on the assault with greater fury, and they fought their way into the public place, or square, where they killed many of the venetians, and obliged the others to lay down their arms. the good knight was left with two of his archers, who tried to staunch the blood that flowed from his wounds. when they saw that all the strongholds in the town were gained, they sought around until they found a wooden plank, or door, and on this they carried him into the best looking house they could see. this house belonged to an italian gentleman, who not very courageously had fled for safety to a monastery, and had left his wife and daughters in the town. the archers knocked at the door, and were allowed to carry in their burden, and they afterwards stationed themselves outside to prevent the enemy from entering. the italian lady received bayard very kindly; she was grieved to see him suffering so much, and went herself with one of the archers to fetch a good surgeon to dress his wound. it was nearly five weeks before he could rise from his bed, and during that time he had sent his _maã®tre d'hã´tel_ to seek for the lady's husband, so that the whole family might live happily together under his protection, their house being the only one in brescia that was neither sacked nor pillaged. and he said afterwards that although he had endured the greatest pain from his wound, he had never once been unhappy, because he had been with friends; it only vexed him to think that the french were getting nearer the spaniards every day, and that a battle would soon take place, in which he would not be able to assist; and he used to tell the duke de nemours, who came daily to see him whilst he remained in the town, because he loved him so much, that he would rather be borne to the battle-field in a litter than not be present at all. for it was the great object of the king of france to drive the spaniards out of lombardy, since he knew that as long as they were roving about in italy, his duchy of milan would never be secure. one day bayard found, to his joyful surprise, that he could walk once more, and his surgeon gave him leave to start at the expiration of two days for the french camp. according to the custom of the victorious french, the whole family were in reality the prisoners of bayard, and the italian lady was in great trouble of mind, thinking that he would demand at least ten or twelve thousand crowns for their ransom, which was more than they were able to pay. so on the morning of the day when the good knight was to depart after dinner, she came to him, and knelt down before him. bayard would not suffer her to kneel, so rising, she presented him with a purse which contained 1,500 ducats. when she had opened it, he laughed: "how many are there, madam?" he asked. the lady thought that he was laughing because there were so few, and began to make excuses; but when the chevalier found out that she wanted to pay her ransom, he declared that he would take nothing from her at all; that the welcome she had given him was worth more than a hundred thousand crowns, and that he should feel himself bound in gratitude to serve her until the end of his days. it was so unusual for the french to release their prisoners without a ransom that the italian lady was deeply moved; she went down on her knees, and kissing the hand of the good knight, she said, "flower of chivalry, may the lord reward you for what you have done!" she pressed him so hard however to accept the purse that bayard consented to take it out of esteem and respect for her, and her two daughters then came to bid him farewell. the damsels were very beautiful; they were skilled in embroidery, and could sing and play the lute and spinet, and many a time the chevalier, as he lay writhing in pain, had been cheered by their music. when they came in, they too would have knelt to thank him for his kindness and protection, but he made them rise, and dividing the ducats into three parts, he gave each of them a thousand for a marriage portion, and the five hundred that remained he gave to their mother for the relief of the religious houses in brescia, which had been plundered by the french. the maidens now produced the parting gifts they had prepared; the chevalier received them very graciously, and said that he should wear them as long as he lived; one was a bracelet made of gold and silver thread, and the other a purse of crimson worked in gold. then they all touched hands after the fashion of italy, and the good knight bade them farewell kneeling, and they all wept bitterly when he rode away from the door, they were so grieved to think they should never see him again. when bayard reached the camp of the duke de nemours, he found that his countrymen had arrived only that day before ravenna, and that the enemy were six miles off, but the next day they came nearer by two miles. the night but one before the famous battle of ravenna, several captains were at supper with the duke de nemours, talking the while of the contest which was so soon to take place. bayard was amongst the guests, and the duke told him that as the spaniards had a great respect for his talents, and were very anxious to know if he were in the camp, he thought it would be advisable for him to attempt some skirmish with them the next day, just to see how well they could fight. the good knight was delighted with the idea; "monseigneur," he replied, "i promise you on my word of honour that, god helping, i shall see them so close before noon, that i shall be able to bring you news." now the baron of bearne, the duke's lieutenant, coveted the glory of being the first to attack the enemy, and although the chevalier was known to rise very early in the morning, he thought that he would rise earlier still, and thus steal a march upon him. so as soon as soon as the supper was ended, he went to tell all his followers to be ready armed before break of day, charging them also to keep the matter a profound secret. when the good knight returned to his tent, he also arranged with some of the chief captains how the attack should be made, and then, they all went to rest until the trumpet should sound to awaken them at dawn. it was very early the next morning when they set out, carrying with them the banners of the duke of lorraine unfurled, in the hope that they would bring them good luck. they did not, of course, know that the baron of bearne had already gone the same path; but the sound of weapons clashing, and of horses' hoofs, soon fell upon their ears; the baron had indeed crossed the canal which lay between the two armies, and had advanced to the enemy's camp; but he had been discomfited, and was forced to retire. when bayard saw that neapolitans and spaniards were boldly crossing the canal in pursuit of the fugitives, he called to his comrades to fly to the aid of their countrymen, and rushed before any into the midst of a troop of one hundred and twenty men. his comrades loved him too well not to follow him, and he chased the enemy back right into the camp, and overthrew there numbers of their tents, although the spaniards were all astir and ready for battle. when he thought he had aroused them sufficiently, he sounded the trumpet for a retreat, and arrived in the camp of the duke de nemours with the news he had promised to bring him, but without having lost a single man. the duke now assembled all the captains and knights, and told them, that his uncle the king desired that a battle should take place at once, because he had heard that the venetians and swiss were about to descend into the duchy of milan; and it was agreed that the french army should pass the bridge of boats across the canal, and attack the enemy on the morrow. the next morning the duke came out of his tent at sunrise. "look, gentlemen!" he said to his companions, "how red the sun is!" and one of them, who was much beloved by him, replied, "do you know, monseigneur, what that signifies? that a great captain will fall to-day: it will be either you or cardonna, the viceroy." the duke only laughed at his remark, and went to watch the army passing the bridge with bayard and some other knights, while the spaniards, in great alarm, hastened to put the whole of their troops in battle array. just as the duke was telling the good knight, that they might fall an easy prey to their enemies, if any harquebussiers were concealed thereabouts, a body of from twenty to thirty spaniards appeared, amongst whom was pedro de pas. bayard was the first to speak. "gentlemen," said he, "you will linger about here like ourselves until the play begins. i entreat that not a harquebuss be fired on your part, and we will not fire upon you." pedro de pas then asked the name of the knight who had spoken, and was overjoyed to find that he was really in the company of the chevalier du bayard, who had gained so much renown in naples. the duke de nemours was a merciful man, and he offered to settle the quarrel by single combat with the viceroy, to spare the effusion of blood. his followers, however, thought that the risk was too great; and the army having crossed the canal by eight o'clock in the morning, the battle began. it lasted many hours, and was very terrible on both sides; and although the spaniards were defeated, the french bought their victory very dearly, with the life of their brave and good young prince, gaston of nemours. for the prediction of his friend had indeed been fulfilled, and he lay among the slain! the good knight fought all through that long battle like a hero; he had gone in pursuit of the enemy, and came back to the field late in the afternoon, to find that the duke was dead. a short time after this, the venetians, the swiss, and the army sent by the pope pressed forward, and the french were soon obliged to retire out of lombardy, only leaving garrisons in some of the strong castles. at pavia, bayard made himself very famous by defending a bridge of boats, during two hours against the swiss; he had two horses killed under him, and received a severe wound in the shoulder before he would give way. his companions thought that his wound was mortal, though he declared it was nothing, and they staunched it with moss, which they tore off the stems of trees, and with linen which they tore from their shirts. the good knight did not recover for a very long time after the french army had recrossed the mountains, and he went to his uncle the bishop of grenoble, in whose palace he was lodged and watched over, "like the precious stone set in pure gold." and he was so ill that he thought to his sorrow that he should die in his bed, instead of closing his eyes for ever on the battle-field; but all the people of grenoble prayed for him--his good uncle, nobles, merchants, monks, and nuns; there was not a voice that did not rise up in prayer to the almighty for his recovery. and after a long while his strength and spirit returned to him, and he remained some months at grenoble, greatly honoured for all the brave deeds he had achieved. in the battle of guinegatte, commonly called the battle of the spurs, from the speed with which the french soldiers took flight, the chevalier was made prisoner, but not until he had saved his countrymen from entire disgrace by his valour. henry the eighth was then at war with france, and maximilian, emperor of germany, was serving in the army of the english monarch for the pay of a hundred crowns a day. before henry and maximilian had arrived in the english camp, the earl of shrewsbury had begun the siege of perouane, a town on the borders of picardy, close by guinegatte. the besieged had defended themselves bravely, and the governor of the province had succeeded in forcing his way through the english camp, to bring them a large supply of bacon and gunpowder. he had got safely back again, when the french horsemen, who had advanced to protect him, were attacked suddenly by a body of english, whilst they were straying carelessly about without their helmets and cuirasses, because they were overpowered by the intense heat of the day. thus it was that they took flight, and that several noblemen amongst them of high rank were made prisoners. bayard retreated with great regret; he had only fourteen men-at-arms with him, and yet he often turned back and faced his enemies. at last they came to a little bridge, where only two horsemen could pass at a time, and below it there was a deep ditch full of water. the good knight then sent word to the camp, by an archer that he had arrested the enemy for at least half an hour, and that delay, would give the army time to get into order. the archer went straight to the camp, and bayard was left with his few men to guard the bridge. he was soon surrounded on all sides, and advised his people to surrender; and when they were all secured, he rode towards an english gentleman, who, either wearied with the fight or oppressed by the heat, was resting beneath a tree. bayard put his sword to his throat, and exclaimed, "surrender, man-at-arms, or you are a dead man!" the gentleman, naturally wishing to save his life, surrendered, and asked the stranger who he was. "i am the captain bayard," replied the knight, "and now i surrender to you, and give you my sword to hold, and entreat you to conduct me to some place of safety, and to have the kindness to let me have my sword, if we meet with any englishmen on our way, who may desire to kill me." the gentleman promised this, and they set off for the camp of king henry, and had really to defend themselves more than once, upon the road thither. bayard remained in the tent of his prisoner, who treated him well, but on the fifth day of his captivity, he said to him, "my gentleman, i wish you would lead me in safety to the camp of the king, my master, for i am utterly tired of being here." "how?" cried the other. "we have not yet agreed as to your ransom." "to my ransom, indeed!" said the knight; "but it is rather for me to think of yours, since you are my prisoner; and if i surrendered to you it was only to save my life. my gentleman," continued he, "whether faith is kept with me, or not, i feel assured that in some way i shall fight with you by and by." the gentleman did not quite relish the idea of a combat with the redoubtable bayard, so he replied in courteous terms, that he only wished to do what was right in the affair, and would consult with his captains. when the enemy knew that bayard was safe in the camp, they were as much pleased as if they had won another victory. the emperor of germany sent for him to his tent. "captain bayard, my friend," said he, "i have great pleasure in seeing you. would that i had many men like you! i think in a little while i should be able to avenge myself of all the tricks, your master has played me in times gone by." presently, he said to him, "methinks we have been at war together before, and i remember to have heard that bayard was one who never fled." "sire," replied the good knight promptly, "if i had fled i should not have been here." then bluff king harry came up and said, "truly, monsieur de bayard, if all men were like you, the siege which i have begun before this town, would soon be raised; but any way you are my prisoner." "sire," answered the chevalier, "i do not own it, and yet i would fain believe yourself and the emperor." the gentleman whose tent bayard had shared now appeared, and related the whole affair; and there was a discussion, as to which was really the prisoner. the emperor, whose advice governed the movements of the english army, at last decided in favour of bayard, but acquitted both on account of their mutual courtesy; and king henry said that the good knight might leave the camp, if he would promise on his word of honour to remain unarmed for six weeks. bayard was very grateful, both to the emperor and to the king, and went to divert himself in the country, in the best manner he could until the six weeks were passed. during this time the king of england tried by various means, to attach him to his service, but his trouble was thrown away; it would have been impossible for the chevalier to have entertained a disloyal thought. not long after this louis the twelfth died, and his cousin, francis, count of angoulãªme, was declared king of france. immediately after his coronation, the young king began to prepare secretly for the conquest of milan, that duchy having lately returned to the allegiance of the italian duke sforza. bayard was ordered to repair with three or four thousand men, to the borders of his native province of dauphinã©, and after performing several brave actions, he got down quietly into the plain of piedmont. prosper colonna, the pope's lieutenant, was there in the castle of carmaignolle. when he heard of the arrival of the chevalier, he exclaimed, in a tone of extreme scorn, "that bayard has crossed the mountains; i will take him as i would a pigeon in a cage!" the other french captains arrived in the plain, and the good knight advised that they should rest their horses that night, and attack colonna the next day at dawn in his castle. they had a large piece of water to cross before they could get to the place; but they knew of a ford, and two or three hours after midnight they mounted their horses in silence, and set out on the road. prosper was not alarmed, because he still thought that only bayard was there with his company, and he would have remained at carmaignolle, had he not received orders to change his quarters. he did not hurry himself in the least, and stopped on his journey to dine at a little town called villefranche. when the french arrived at the castle, they found to their disappointment that colonna was gone, and they all agreed to pursue him. the seigneur d'imbercourt was foremost in the troop; he soon reached the town; colonna was already there, and his people shut the gates. the good knight came up in time however to gain them, and although the enemy gave the alarm to a body of three or four thousand swiss, he made his way into the town, followed by his men-at-arms, and found the italian commander seated at his dinner. colonna was enraged at being thus captured, like "a pigeon in a cage" himself, instead of in battle; the good knight tried to cheer him up, and make the best of it, but the whole affair cost the signor, besides his liberty, 50,000 crowns worth of gold and silver plate, furniture, and money, and that was quite enough to make a man look sad. the french found a very large sum of money in the town, and nearly 700 beautiful coursers and spanish horses. francis had already crossed the mountains which separate france from italy. he was delighted to hear of the capture of colonna, and soon waged the tremendous battle of marignano with the swiss, who were the partizans of sforza and colonna, and were indignant that francis had succeeded in crossing the alps. marignano was situate about a league from the city of milan. the swiss were determined to defend the duchy to the last extremity, and had assembled a very large army. the battle began at four o'clock on a september afternoon in the year 1415, and was only discontinued when it was too dark to see to fight. the king passed the night in his armour on the carriage of a cannon, and was surprised at daybreak to find the enemy within a few paces of him in readiness to renew the attack. the young king and the chevalier fought at marignano side by side, and both displayed extraordinary valour; and when the victory was decided for the french, francis, to reward bayard for the great share he had had in it, received the honour of knighthood from his hands. the day of marignano, "the combat of giants," as an old italian hero called it, who had been in eighteen pitched battles, was disastrous indeed for the swiss, for it is said that when they began to retreat they left 10,000 of their comrades lying dead upon the battle-field. in the last charge that was made, bayard was mounted on a fiery courser, the first he had ridden having been killed under him. he was so closely beset that the bridle was torn from his horse, and the animal, thus freed from restraint, galloped off and made its way through the enemy's ranks; it would have carried its rider right into the midst of a troop of swiss, if its course had not been intercepted by a field full of vines entwined from tree to tree; the good knight but for this timely wall of defence, must assuredly have fallen into the hands of his enemies. he had not quite lost his senses in the rapid flight, and he glided down gently from his horse, threw away his arms and a part of his armour, and crawled along a ditch, in the direction as he supposed of the french camp. fortunately he was not mistaken; he soon had the delight of hearing the cry of "france! france!" in the distance, and was enabled to reach his companions, and rejoice with them over the great victory they had gained; although a victory bought with the lives of so many fellow creatures, cannot but bring a sharp pang of sorrow to the heart of every man. the fame of bayard had now risen to such a height, that nearly all the young nobles of france, begged to be allowed the honour of serving under him, in the defence of the town of mezieres. maximilian and ferdinand were both dead, and charles v. was emperor of germany and king of spain. charles, who was quite as ambitious as the young king of france, had ordered the count of nassau to advance towards the frontiers, and lay siege to the town of mousson. the men who defended it were cowards, and lay down their arms almost without fighting. the count, finding this success so easy, next besieged mezieres, and through this town the emperor intended his troops to have passed into france. but francis knew that if he suffered mezieres to be taken, it would be the most foolish thing he could do; it was like giving the enemy the key of the gate that kept them out of france. so he wisely ordered bayard to hasten to its defence; and although the good knight had only 1,000 men in the place, he obliged the count of nassau, and his 35,000 germans, to retire with shame and loss after a lengthened siege. the service he thus performed for his country was very great, and the king rewarded him for it with a hundred lances, and the collar of st. michael. in the year 1524 he was sent into italy to oppose the army of the constable de bourbon, who had left his own king to serve the emperor. bourbon was led to do this, on account of the many affronts he had received from the beautiful and haughty louisa, of savoy, the mother of francis i.; still, however great the cause of offence may be, it is quite inexcusable for a man to bear arms against his country. the chief command of the army was given to bonnivet: he was very brave, but so rash that his zeal often did more harm than good, and he was totally wanting in the judgment, and presence of mind a great captain ought to possess. lannoy, the viceroy of naples, had collected a large number of troops; to these were added the forces of the marquis of pescara, the general of the spaniards, and those of the traitor bourbon. bonnivet failed in his plan of attack, and was obliged to try and get back into france by crossing the valley of aosta; but on his way he received a bad wound in the arm, and could no longer lead on his men. in his distress he sent word to bayard that he alone could save the french army if he would. the good knight had thought the whole enterprise ill-judged, and when he set out at the head of his men-at-arms, he had not been cheerful and hopeful as he had been accustomed to be whenever he entered on a fresh campaign. nevertheless he swore in reply to bonnivet that he would either save the army or perish in the attempt; and as he had always courted the post of danger, he took the command of the rear, and made his men try bravely like himself to sustain the whole shock of the enemy's troops, whilst the rest of the army gained time to effect a retreat. this was at a place near romagnano. as bayard was thus striving he was wounded by a musket-ball, and the shock was so great that he uttered the word "jesus," and then said that it was all over with him on earth. faint from pain and loss of blood, he held on as long as he could to the bow of his saddle, but sank at last to the ground, and desired to be placed under a tree with his face turned towards the foe. and there the good knight lifted up the hilt of his sword, and kissed it as though it had been the cross, and saying, softly, "miserere mei, deus!" lay back pale and calm to wait for the approach of death. his faithful _maã®tre d'hã´tel_, who had followed him through many dangers, was with him now, and was almost beside himself with grief. "jacques, my friend," said the dying knight, "do not mourn for me. it is the will of god that i should quit this world where i have ever received a full measure of his grace, and far more honour than i deserved. the only regret i have in dying is, that i have not done all that i ought to have done, and if i had lived longer, i would have hoped to have made amends for my past faults. but as it is, i implore my maker to have mercy upon my poor soul, and trust through his great and boundless love that he will not judge me with rigour; feeling assured that thou, oh my saviour, hast promised pardon to all those who turn to thee with humble and contrite hearts." in this condition he was found by the constable de bourbon, who spoke to him thus; "monsieur de bayard, truly i pity you." "ah, monsieur," replied the chevalier, "do not pity me, but rather have compassion on yourself for having fought against your king, your country, and your oath." the marquis of pescara came by soon after, and was deeply grieved to see him in such a state; he ordered a tent to be pitched over him, and had him tended with the utmost care, but it was of no avail; a mortal blow had been struck, and the good knight rendered up his soul to god, as so many of his ancestors had done, upon the battle-field. pescara had his body embalmed and conveyed to his kinsmen in dauphinã©, and the duke of savoy decreed that royal honours should be paid to it on its mournful journey. when it reached dauphinã©, people of all ranks came out to meet it, and then returned to their houses and shut themselves up in sorrow and gloom. the body was interred at minimes, in a church founded by the bishop of grenoble. there was mourning throughout many lands when it was known that the good knight was dead. king francis was very much attached to him, and could not get over the loss he had sustained for a very long time. and the following year, when he had been obliged to surrender to lannoy after the battle of pavia, he exclaimed sadly within his prison walls, "ah, bayard, if thou hadst been alive, i should not have been here!" thus had the chevalier lived, faithful to the promise of his childhood; ever ready to risk his life in the service of his country, helpful and loving to all, joyous and light-hearted. when he was in the enemy's territory he strictly defrayed every expense he incurred, and very often left some kind remembrance for those who had served him: in success he showed mercy, and made himself as much beloved by the vanquished as by his own soldiers. he never wished for the highest place or envied the good fortune of other men. amid the spoils of war he seemed to desire nothing for himself, and one instance alone will suffice to show how far he was removed from any selfish feelings. during the war with the spaniards, he received notice one day that a large sum of money was on its way to the spanish commander. his own troops being in great want of necessaries he resolved to obtain this money, which was fair to do in warfare; so he sent some of his men to waylay the bearers of it in one part of the country, while his companion tardien watched for it in another. bayard had the good luck to seize the treasure, and found it to consist of 15,000 ducats. the spaniard who carried it was in great terror at having fallen into the hands of the enemy, and gave it up without a murmur. tardien was brave and merry-hearted, but he had the misfortune of being very poor, and he was terribly grieved on his return to the camp to find that he had not been the happy man to secure the money, and declared that the half of the sum would have redeemed his fortunes for ever. bayard was in a cheerful mood, and he asked his soldiers how much of the treasure they thought tardien ought to receive. they replied, "none at all." then bayard, after enjoying for a time the dismay of his companion in arms, called him to him, and gave him 7,500 ducats, the exact half of the sum they had captured. the good knight then divided the remainder amongst his soldiers, not keeping one farthing for himself, and sent the spaniard with an escort to a place of safety whence he could return to his own home. [illustration: _queen elizabeth's farewell to captain martin frobisher.--p. 225_] footnotes: [20] "piquer," an old french word, signifying "to spur on, to animate, or encourage." [21] _palfrenier_, "groom of the stables." [22] gaston was governor of milan. sir martin frobisher. one summer's day, in the year 1576, queen elizabeth stood at the window of her palace at greenwich, waving her hand in sign of farewell as two small barks and a pinnace glided gently down the river thames. the barks were the _gabriel_ and the _michael_. on board the first one was the gallant martin frobisher, who, after having waited fifteen years for funds to enable him to carry out his voyage, was now on his way in search of a north-west passage to china. little is known of the early days of frobisher, except that he was at doncaster, in yorkshire, and that he was well skilled in maritime knowledge, and one of the most experienced seamen of his time. the passage he proposed to find, he thought would enable his countrymen to reach the shores of china in far less time than by sailing as the portuguese always sailed, all round by the cape of good hope; and thus for years before he had started, he had been going from friend to friend, nobleman and merchant, in the hope of finding some one to help him to get together a fleet. at last he found a patron in ambrose dudley, the good earl of warwick, and with his help, and his own untiring efforts besides, he raised sufficient money to fit out the two vessels and the one small pinnace, which had provisions on board to last twelve months. after the little fleet had gone past the palace, queen elizabeth sent one of the gentlemen of her court on board the _gabriel_ to tell frobisher how much pleasure the enterprise afforded her, and to bid him come and take leave of her the following day. she was proud, too, to think that one of her subjects was brave enough to venture up into the icy seas and cold regions, the very idea of which had struck terror into the hearts of many a mariner, when he had met on the ocean great icebergs floating southwards, as though they were messengers sent to warn him of approaching the frozen seas. when frobisher had got as far as the shetland isles, he turned his course towards the west, and on the 11th of july, nearly four weeks after he had started, he came in sight of land, which he supposed to be the freeseland seen by a venetian, named zeno, two hundred years before. he could not land there because of the great blocks of ice which filled the sea near the shore, and they had much ado to keep clear of them, because there was a thick fog. here a great misfortune happened; the pinnace disappeared in the mist, and the services of the four men it had on board were thus lost. the company of the _michael_ also began to distrust the voyage, and to repent that they had engaged in it. under cover of the fog, they went off towards england, and were so wicked as to say on their arrival that the bark _gabriel_ had been cast away. thus forsaken, the brave captain went on alone; the mast of his vessel was broken, and the topmast was blown over; nevertheless he continued to sail towards the north-west, thinking that he must surely come to some shore. and nine days after he had seen freeseland, he came to a high piece of land, which he called queen elizabeth's; it was part of what is now called labrador. still more to the north he reached another foreland, with a great bay or passage of sea dividing two lands, but this was so blocked up with ice that he had to wait until it melted, or was carried away by currents. he called the passage "frobisher's straits," after himself, by which name it has been known ever since. if any little readers will unfold a map of north america and look just north of hudson's straits, they will see frobisher's straits, and how the land on either side is broken up into islands, some of which are named "hall's islands," after christopher hall, the master of the bark _gabriel_. frobisher thought as yet that the shores were all firm land; and when the ice broke up, he sailed sixty leagues along the strait, and there he landed. first of all he had to defend himself from some great deer, which ran at him in such a manner that he had a very narrow escape of his life. another time when he landed he went to the top of a hill, and saw from thence several objects in the distance which he thought were porpoises or seals, but when they came nearer he found that they were boats filled with men. the boats were made of sealskins, with a keel of wood inside. the men were of dark complexion, with long black hair, broad faces, and flat noses; the women's faces were painted in blue streaks. some of these people hid behind a rock, and were evidently watching for an opportunity of stealing his boat, but he hastened down the hill just in time to secure it, and went back to the vessel. it was terribly cold already; in one night the snow lay a foot thick upon the hatches: the brief summer of the northern regions was past. the natives soon began to come on board the bark, and to talk with the sailors in an unknown tongue; they brought the captain salmon and flesh which they eat raw themselves; also bearskins and sealskins, for which frobisher gave them toys, bells, and looking-glasses. they got very friendly with his men, although he warned them not to trust them too quickly; and one day five of the sailors were enticed by the savages to go in a boat to the shore, and neither men nor boat ever appeared again. what was to be done? frobisher was on board his bark, and now the only boat was gone, and he could not get to the shore. he thought that he must try and capture one of the sealskin boats of the natives, and he rang a low, sweet-toned bell, which was sure to be a great temptation to the wild men, and made signs that he would give it to him who should fetch it. the first bell he purposely threw into the sea, and then he rang another. the savages, getting more eager to secure the prize, crowded around him, and one came so very near that he had just put out his hand to grasp the bell, when the captain pulled him, boat and all, on board the bark. the poor savage was said to have been so angry at being captured, that he bit his tongue in two in his rage; he was brought to england as a specimen of the newly found race, but he fell ill soon after his arrival and died. as the cold was rapidly increasing, frobisher began to think of returning home to report what he had seen, and after many useless attempts to land, on account of the ice along the coasts, he told his men when next they could set foot on shore, that they were to bring him whatever they could find in memory of the region he had taken possession of in the queen's name. some of them brought him a few flowers, some only grasses, and one brought him a piece of black stone very like sea-coal, which from its weight seemed to be a mineral. frobisher did not think much of it at first sight, but he brought it with him to england. he arrived in his native country on the 2nd day of october, and all people praised him for his courage and perseverance; and it was thought that if another expedition were made, there would be every chance of finding the desired north-west passage to china. one day when he was with some friends in london, it happened that he had nothing to show for his voyage except the lump of coal. the wife of one of the adventurers who was present, threw by chance a piece of it into the fire, and it burned so long that at last it was taken out and quenched in a little vinegar, when lo! as if by magic, it appeared "like a bright marquisset" of gold. it was then shown to some gold finers in london, who tried it and found that it contained pure gold, and gave great hope that more might be found in the region whence it was brought. the gold finers even offered themselves to share in a fresh enterprise, so that a second voyage was proposed for the following year, queen elizabeth herself entering heartily into the scheme. the second expedition was fitted out in a more important manner than the first one had been. frobisher sailed in a tall ship of the queen's, which was called the _aid_, accompanied by the two barks _michael_ and _gabriel_. the vessels were provisioned for six months, and had on board in all 140 men, although many more would have liked to go on the voyage. they sailed northwards until they anchored in the bay of st. magnus, one of the orkney isles. the inhabitants fled in terror as soon as the ship's company landed, and only took heart when they heard for what purpose they had come. for few indeed were the visitors who came to those barren islands, except perhaps the pirates who roamed the northern seas. there is scarcely a tree amongst the whole group, and the people, having no wood, make their fires of turf and heather to cheer them during the long stormy winter. but the nights in these cold northern latitudes are made bright and beautiful by the aurora borealis, which flashes across the sky, and is of the same nature as lightning, only that it travels through a higher region of the air. sometimes it is purple and sometimes green, and where the air is driest it is red. when the aurorã¦, or northern lights, flicker in the sky, the inhabitants of the shetland isles call them, "the merry dancers." the gold finers were very glad that they stopped on their way at the orkneys, for in one of the islands they found a mine of silver. the vessels only stayed there one day, however, and then put out to sea, now drifting to the north and now to the west, as the wind shifted. they were seventy-six days without sight of land, but they met on their way trunks of trees, and monstrous fishes and fowls. at length the wind was prosperous, and they came to greenland, where the sea near the coast was again full of drift ice. one day whilst they were cruising about here they dropped a hook into the sea, and caught an enormous fish called a halibut, which is said to have furnished a whole day's food for the ship's company. it must have been a very large fish to have dined and supped 140 persons. all along the dreary shores the only living creatures they saw were some little birds. the weather, being very cold and stormy they made for frobisher's straits, and came again to the smaller of hall's islands, where the ore had been taken up the year before, but they only found this time one little piece. on the large island, however, they found plenty of what they supposed to be gold, and frobisher, with forty gentlemen and soldiers, ascended a steep hill, and planting a column or cross upon it, he sounded a trumpet, and called the place mount warwick, after the good earl. then they knelt down in a ring, and said their prayers and thanksgivings. as they were going back to their boats, they saw a number of savages making signs to them from the top of the hill, as if they wished to be friendly, but frobisher, remembering the fate of the five mariners, did not feel inclined to trust them, and he only held up two of his fingers to signify that two of their men should advance towards two of his own. this was done, and then they began to be more confident of each other's designs. the people here had a very odd way of bartering their wares: they would bring sealskins and raw flesh and lay them on the ground, and make signs that the strangers should do the same with the things they meant to exchange. then they went away, and if they liked the toys and the beads they saw on the ground, they came back in a little while and took them up, leaving their own wares behind them; and if they did not like them, they gathered up their property and departed. after passing through many dangers and tempests frobisher found a bay which he thought would be a good harbour for his ships, and he landed with his gold finers on a little island, where all the sands and cliffs glittered so brightly, that they thought they had indeed come to a land of gold. but when they tried it, to their great disappointment it turned out to be only black-lead. in the same sound they came to a small island, to which they gave the name of smith's island, because the smith belonging to the ship's company first set up his forge there. here they found a mine of silver, but they had a great deal of trouble to get it out of the rocks. soon after this frobisher marched upon the southern shore of the strait in search of ore with all his best men, and when he had appointed leaders, and told all those who were to follow them that they must be orderly and persevering, he made every man kneel down and thank god that he had preserved them hitherto from all dangers. then, with a banner flying, they marched towards the tops of the mountains, which were steep and very difficult to ascend. the whole land was silent; not a human being was to be seen, so they went back to their ships, and landed next on the northern shore. here they saw people, and found hidden under a stone such things as kettles made of fish-skins, knives of bone, and bridles. one of the savages took a bridle and caught with it a dog belonging to the strangers, to show how dogs were used to draw the sledges. five leagues from bear's sound, frobisher found a bay in which he could anchor, near a small island, which he named after the countess of warwick, and this was the farthest place he visited that year. there was plenty of ore in it, and frobisher set the miners to work, and worked hard himself also, that he might encourage the others by his example. and he sent the bark _michael_, in which he had come to the island, for the _aid_ and the rest of his people. they were very much astonished to see on the mainland the dwellings of the esquimaux; these were holes in the ground, shaped like an oven, and were usually made at the foot of a hill for shelter, and opened towards the south. above ground they built with whalebone, because they had no timber, and covered in the roof of it with sealskins, and strewed moss on the floor for a carpet. travellers of more recent date describe the huts of the esquimaux, as the people in these northern regions were called, as being made in the same manner. a winter hut is a hole hollowed out in the earth or snow, like a cellar; a large piece of ice serves for a door, and a lamp burns inside, where the family sleep on the skins of seals and sea-dogs. close by is a similar hole, where they eat the flesh of whales, seals, and sea-dogs--and all of it raw. the mariners who went with frobisher tell how the savages ate ice when they were thirsty, and could get no water. their dogs were not unlike wolves, and were yoked together to draw the sledges; the smaller ones they fattened and kept for eating. their weapons were made of bone, and their bow-strings of sinews; they clothed themselves in the skins of seals and sea-dogs, and sometimes even in garments made of feathers; for god, in his loving mercy, has given the fowls thicker feathers than those of more southern latitudes, and the animals warmer furs for the comfort of man, just as he has given luscious fruits to refresh his parched lips in tropical countries, and gigantic trees to shelter him from the intense heat of the sun. a captive, who had been taken by some of the mariners, was shown a portrait of the savage who had been enticed on board the _gabriel_ the year before. when he saw it, he began talking to it, and asking it questions, just as if it had been really alive. he told the strangers by signs that he had knowledge of the five men who were missing, and declared that they had not been eaten up by the savages. it is supposed that they lived the rest of their lives amongst the savages; and frobisher determined, as he could find no trace of them, that he would load his ships with the ore he had found, and return to england. he was very proud when all the labour was brought to an end, for with "five poor miners," and a few gentlemen and soldiers, they had carried on board almost two hundred tons of ore in twenty days. on the night of the 21st of august the whole company were ready to embark, and glad they were to return, for they were very weary, and the water began to freeze around their ships at night. the next day they took down their tents, lighted bonfires on the highest hill, and having marched round the island with their banner unfurled, they fired a volley of cannon in sign of farewell, and after having encountered several storms on their voyage, they reached milford haven about the end of september. when frobisher arrived in england he hastened to windsor, where he was very graciously received by queen elizabeth. a third expedition was planned for the next spring, both to search for gold and to try and discover the north-west passage. a strong fort was devised, the pieces of which were to be carried in one of the ships, and put together when they arrived in the new region, to which queen elizabeth gave the name of "meta incognita," or "unknown land." the fort was intended for the people to dwell in, who were to remain there during the winter, whilst twelve of the vessels out of the fifteen that composed the fleet were to come home laden with ore--that is to say, if it were to be found. all the captains bade the queen farewell at greenwich, and kissed her hand, and she gave to frobisher "a chain of fair gold," to show the delight she took in his enterprise. they left harwich for the third time on the 31st of may--frobisher sailed in the _aid_: the strictest order was to be observed during the voyage; the whole company on board were to serve god twice a day with the prayers of the church of england: the sailors were not allowed to swear, or to play at cards and dice. every evening all the fleet had to come up and speak with the admiral, and the watchword, if any came up in the night, was this, "before the world was god." and the answer from the other vessel was, "after god, came jesus christ his son." on the 20th of june, after having sailed fourteen days without sight of land, they came, at two o'clock in the morning, to the west of freeseland. frobisher took possession of it in the queen's name, calling it west england, and gave the name of charing cross to one of its high cliffs. the nights in the northern regions are never dark during the summer months. as far north as the vessels sailed the sun does not set until after ten o'clock, and it rises again before two, so that a great part of the night, the sky is filled with the rosy flush of sunrise and sunset. then, in the winter, when the days are as short as the nights are in summer, because the north part of the world is turned away from the sun, the moon and stars are wondrously bright, and with the northern lights enliven the long dark hours. the savages in west freeseland were like those in meta incognita; they were very timid, and fled at the approach of the strangers, leaving all their household goods behind them. amongst these the mariners found some dried herrings and a box of small nails, also some pieces of carved fir wood; but for whatever they took they left pins, knives, or looking-glasses in exchange. from freeseland they went towards frobisher's straits, and on the way one of the ships, called the _salamander_, struck a great whale such a blow with her stern that she stood quite still. a horrible noise rose up from the sea, and the next day the dead body of a whale was seen floating about. one night the vessels entered somewhere inside the straits, and found the whole place frozen into "walls, bulwarks, and mountains," which they could not pass: they had to stem and strike the rocks of ice to make their way at all. some of the fleet, where they found the sea open, entered in, and were in great danger. the bark _dennis_ struck against one of the rocks and sank within sight of the fleet. in her distress she fired a gun, and happily the whole of her crew were rescued in the boats that were sent to her aid. it was a great misfortune, nevertheless, because part of the fort was on board, and was thus lost. a violent wind from the south-east drove the ice on the backs of the vessels. the mariners and miners had never witnessed such peril before, and they were indeed in terrible plight, because they were shut in by blocks of ice on all sides, and had to fix cables, beds, and planks around their ships to protect them from them, or they would have been all cut to pieces. besides this they had to stand the whole night and the next day beating it off with poles, pikes, and oars--frobisher working hardest of all, and cheering his men by his kind words, and his brave, steadfast spirit. and those who were not strong enough to work prayed for the rest; which the weak can always do, whilst stronger men are doing god's will by helping their fellow-creatures; and prayer and work, blended in one, rise up an acceptable offering to the father in heaven. four of the vessels were out in the open sea, and during the storm the mariners were in great alarm for the safety of those shut up in the ice, and they too knelt praying for them around their mainmast. the wind at last blew from the north-west, and dispersed the ice, and the second night the ships in distress were seen of the four others. then the whole fleet veered off seaward, meaning to wait until the sun should melt the icebergs, or the winds drive them quite away, and when they had got out far into the sea, they took in their sails and lay adrift. on the 7th of july they thought they saw the north foreland of the straits, but there was a dense fog at the time; and the snow often fell in flakes so that they could not clearly see, although now and then the sun would shine on the vessels with intense heat. thus they were carried far out of the way, and the lands in that region were so much alike that frobisher took counsel with the captains of the fleet, to determine what part they had reached. the fogs lasted twenty days, and during that time they had indeed drifted sixty leagues out of their way into unknown straits. frobisher was very anxious to recover the position he had lost, and as soon as he saw the ice a little open he bravely led the way and anchored at last in the countess of warwick's sound. just as he thought all peril was past, he met a great iceberg, which forced the anchor through the ship's bows and made a breach. here they found, to their joy, two barks, which had been missing since the night of their greatest danger: it was a joyful meeting, and a good man, named master wolfall, who had left his living in his own country, and his wife and children, in the hope of converting the heathens in the new land, preached a sermon to the whole company, in which he told them to thank god for their deliverance, and reminded them that they should ever watch and pray, since none could tell how soon he might die. now that they were all assembled once more frobisher lost no time, but set at work at once to look for the ore. gentlemen and soldiers, all helped the miners in their labour, whilst the captains of the vessels sought out new mines, and the gold finers made trial of the ore. but when they wanted to raise the fort, so many parts of it had been destroyed in the storm that it was no longer fitted for its object, and although one of the brave captains wanted to remain there with only fifty men, it was found that a building large enough to hold them all could not be raised before the winter set in. the cold was now rapidly increasing; every night the ships' ropes were frozen so that no man might handle them without cutting his hands; besides this the vessels were leaky, and the ice at any moment might have blocked them in altogether, when all on board must have perished. thus frobisher was compelled to return to england without having found the passage he had hoped all his life to discover. it is said that if he had not had charge of the fleet, he would have sailed straight to the south sea, and thus pointed out a nearer route to china. before they left, they caused a house of lime and stone to be built, on the countess of warwick's island, which they hoped would remain standing until the following year, and they left in it bells, pictures, looking-glasses, whistles, and pipes for the delight of the savages, and an oven, with bread baked in it, that they might taste it and see how it was made. then they sowed peas and corn, and various sorts of grain, to see if they would grow; and they buried all the timber left of the fort, that it might be ready for them to use if they came to the place again. whilst the ships were being laden with the ore, the admiral wanted to find something else, and he went higher up the straits in a pinnace. it was then that he discovered that the land on either side was not all firm as he had imagined, but broken up into many islands. on the voyage home some of the vessels got scattered during the violent storms that arose, and they were kept long apart, but they all reached england by october of the year 1578. after this there is no account of frobisher until he went in his ship the _aid_ on an expedition to the west indies with sir francis drake, and was present at the taking and sacking of st. domingo. when philip ii. of spain sent the invincible armada to invade england, the english fleet prepared to resist it was divided into four squadrons, and frobisher commanded one of them in the ship called the _triumph_. lord howard of effingham, the lord high admiral of the fleet, was a witness of his gallant conduct on that occasion, and knighted him on board the _triumph_ whilst the action was going on. a little later he served under sir walter raleigh in an expedition directed towards the coasts of spain. and in 1594 queen elizabeth, having engaged to help king henry the fourth of france against the spaniards, he was sent with four vessels to protect the coasts of normandy and bretagne from their attacks. on being told that they had seized the fort of croysson, near brest in bretagne, and that sir john norris was trying to regain it, he hastened to land his troops and join the english and french. with the help he afforded the fort was taken; and although he was wounded severely during the assault, he brought back the fleet in safety to plymouth. soon after he arrived, however, his wound proved mortal, through the carelessness, as it is said, of his surgeon, and england lost the services of one of her bravest and most faithful officers. his chroniclers say of him that he was courageous, clever, upright, hasty, and severe. he was not the less a hero because he did not succeed in his undertakings; his attempts were made in an earnest and faithful spirit, and his example served to encourage other men to embark in fresh voyages of discovery, which proved more fortunate than his own. it is said that some of the ore he brought home the third time did not prove to be gold, and queen elizabeth therefore renounced the idea of a fourth expedition. in her wardrobe of jewels she preserved the bone of a strange fish, "like a sea-unicorn," the mariners had found on their second voyage, embedded in the ice. "the fish was twelve yards long," round like a porpoise, with a bone of two yards growing out of the snout or nostrils. sir walter raleigh. sir walter raleigh, famed as a soldier, a sailor, an author, and a courtier, was born in devonshire, in the year 1552. his father, walter raleigh, whose ancestors were known before the conquest, had an estate near plymouth; his mother was elizabeth, daughter of sir philip camperdown. he received the earlier part of his education at a school in the parish of budely; at the age of sixteen we find that he was a commoner at oxford, and already distinguished as an orator and a philosopher. a year later he went as a volunteer with one of his relations to help the protestants in france, and afterwards served in the netherlands under the prince of orange. raleigh had naturally a very active mind, and when he was not engaged in war, he would be busily employed in planning expeditions to the new world, some of which were carried out partly at his own expense. he had read the voyages of columbus and of vasco de gama with the deepest interest, and, like many other ardent men of his time, desired earnestly to follow in the path of those brave pioneers. in the year 1580 he commanded the royal troops in ireland at the time of desmond's rebellion. philip ii., to punish elizabeth for having helped his flemish subjects, sent a number of spaniards and italians to join the rebels. the spanish general was besieged in a fort he had built at kerry; he was forced to surrender, and the enemies of raleigh cast great blame on him for the cruelties exercised towards the unhappy prisoners, whilst in reality he was only carrying out the orders of lord grey, the deputy of ireland. in a dispute he had with lord grey on his return to england, raleigh defended himself so cleverly, that he drew upon him the attention of the queen; and an incident which occurred about this time served to bring him into great favour at court. the queen was out walking with some of her courtiers, and having come to a muddy place, she paused, as if in doubt whether to cross it or not. raleigh was present, and he immediately threw off a beautiful new cloak he wore, and spread it on the ground. the queen tripped lightly over it, much pleased with the gallant action, which she never forgot. raleigh was of middle height; he had dark hair, and was said to have been very handsome, although he had an exceedingly high forehead, and was "long-faced and sour-lidded." his dress as he stood amongst the courtiers would have consisted of a doublet of silk or satin fitting closely to the body, with enormous silken or velvet hose, richly ornamented; a peaked hat, and the cloak of gay hue, "fronted with gold and silver lace," would have completed the costume. raleigh was always richly attired; at one time of his life he had a suit of armour composed of solid plates of silver, with which he wore a belt adorned with precious stones; and sir walter scott describes a portrait he had seen of him which represented him clad in white satin, with a chain of very large pearls hanging around his neck. the queen in the course of time bestowed on him lands in ireland, both in the counties of cork and waterford. she also gave him an estate at sherborne, in dorsetshire, where he laid out some beautiful gardens. he asked so many favours for his friends, as well as for himself, that elizabeth once said to him soon after she had knighted him, "when shall you cease to be a beggar, sir walter?" "when your majesty ceases to be benevolent," he replied. the court life, however gay and pleasant, did not satisfy his eager spirit, and he rejoiced very much when the queen granted him a patent for the discovery and planting of new lands in america. for this purpose he fitted out two small vessels, which reached the coast of florida in the year 1585. they sailed northward as far as an island called roanoke, and found a tract of land on the continent, to which elizabeth gave the name of virginia, but it did not really become a flourishing colony until the reign of her successor. raleigh, like many other noble-minded men of his time, bore a great hatred to spain on account of her tyrannies; and when the invincible armada came to invade england, he was amongst the bravest of those who fought for their queen and their country. and the next year he held an important command under drake and norris in an expedition to place don antonio on the throne of portugal. when he returned to england, after having won great fame by his valour, he found that the young earl of essex was rising rapidly in the queen's favour. much jealousy existed between these two courtiers; they were constantly quarrelling, and the following incident will show how petty were the means used by essex to annoy his rival. the nobles used to make a very splendid appearance at the jousts and tournaments which were held on the queen's birthday, and on one of these occasions raleigh took it into his head to accoutre all his followers in orange-coloured plumes. essex hearing of this, got together a much more numerous cavalcade, decked all in the colour chosen by raleigh, and appeared at the head of his followers dressed in a complete suit of orange-colour, so that when he entered the tilt-yard in sight of elizabeth, the followers of his rival only looked "like so many appendages to his own train."[23] raleigh once set out at the head of a fleet with two of the queen's ships, and had the good fortune to capture a portuguese vessel which had a very rich cargo. it was in the year 1595 that he sailed with five vessels for the discovery and conquest of guiana,[24] a country of south america, which was called "el dorado," on account of the gold mines it was supposed to contain. this was an enterprise he had planned during some months that he had been living in retirement at sherborne, having incurred the displeasure of the queen. first of all he had sent out a captain to the spot, who made a favourable report of his voyage when he returned home. so raleigh put out to sea and landed in the island of trinidad, where he burnt the fort of saint joseph, which had been lately constructed by the spaniards, and took don antonio, the spanish governor, prisoner. he treated antonio very kindly, and gained from him some valuable information in reference to the country he desired to explore. he was now very eager to set out on his enterprise, and liked the idea of it all the better because it would undoubtedly be attended with danger. he left his ships at cariapan, in trinidad, and sailed with a hundred men in several small barks to find "the golden land." and before he returned to england he had sailed 400 miles up the river orinoco, which flows through guiana, thus being the first englishman who had ventured in that direction. sir walter raleigh wrote some strange accounts of the people he found in the new country. those that inhabited the mouth of the orinoco upon the northern branches of the river were called "tissitinas;" they were very brave, and talked slowly and sensibly. in dry weather they had their dwellings on the ground like most other people, but between may and september the orinoco rising thirty feet and overflowing the broken land, they lived up in the trees, as columbus had already found men living in other parts a century before. they never eat anything that was planted or sown, and for bread they used the tops of the palmitos.[25] the people dwelling on the branches of the orinoco called capuri, and macureo, were skilful makers of canoes, and sold them for gold and tobacco. when their chief, or king, died, they had the strange custom of keeping his body until all the flesh fell off its bones, and then they adorned the skull with gay-coloured feathers, and the limbs with gold plates, and hung up the skeleton in the house the chief had dwelt in when alive. the more gentle natives used to make war on the cannibals, but all tribes were at peace with one another, and held the spaniards for their common enemy when the english appeared amongst them. sometimes the adventurers suffered greatly from thirst and from the excessive heat of the climate, since guiana lies all in the torrid zone, the hottest part of the earth. in one district they passed through, which was low and marshy, the water that issued out of the boggy ground was almost red, and they could only fill their waterpots with it about noon, for if they filled them at morning or evening, it was as bad to drink as poison, and at night it was worst of all. the wine that was used in some parts was very strong; it was made of the juice of different fruits and herbs, and highly seasoned with pepper. the natives kept it in great earthen pots, which held ten or twelve gallons each. at one time during their travels the weather became fearfully hot. the rivers were bordered with high trees, which met overhead and shut out the air, so that they panted for breath; the currents were against them; the water was very unwholesome to drink, and their bread was all gone. they lived on fish, and the fruits they plucked along the banks of the rivers. the beautiful flowers of the tropics twined around the great trees in the shade, and there were birds flitting about, as sir walter writes, "crimson, carnation, orange, tawny, and purple!" still, they were in great want of bread, and an old native pilot whom they had taken, promised them that if they would enter a branch of the river on their right hand, with only their barge and wherries, and leave the galley they had come in to anchor in the great river, he would take them to a town, where they would find bread and poultry. so they set off in their wherries, and, because they thought the place was so near, they took no food with them at all. the day wore on, and still the pilot said "a little farther," until the sun was low in the sky, and they had glided down the stream forty miles. then all at once it became dark, because there is no twilight in the tropics; dark as pitch, they said; the river narrowed and the trees bent over it so closely, that they had to cut their passage through the branches with their swords. they distrusted the pilot, although the poor old man, who must have been somewhat out of his reckoning, still kept assuring them that they had only a little further to go; and an hour after midnight, to their great joy they saw a light, and heard the barking of dogs, and came to a village or town which was almost empty, because nearly all its inhabitants had gone to the head of the orinoco to trade for gold. here they found plenty of fish, and fowls, and indian wine, and bread, for which they gave the people things in exchange. raleigh says that the spaniards used to get a hundred pounds of cassava bread for a knife. there is frequent mention in his narrative of an old king named topiawari, whose son he brought with him to england. he was a hundred and ten years old, and had been taken prisoner by the spaniards under berreo, and led about by them in a chain for seventeen days, that he might guide them from place to place, for he was "a man of great understanding and policy." he purchased his freedom with a hundred plates of gold. this old king came fourteen miles on foot to see the english commander, and returned to his home the same day; which must have been a long journey for one who, as he touchingly observed himself, was "old, weak, and every day called for by death." a number of people came with him from the villages laden with provisions, and amongst these were delicious pine-apples in plenty. one of the people gave raleigh an armadillo, which he calls "a very wonderful creature, barred all over with small scales, with a horn growing out of it," the powder of which he was told cured deafness. raleigh found out, as he thought, where the mines were, and brought some spar with him to england, which was considered to afford satisfactory promise of gold. the old king told him of a mountain of pure gold which sir walter believed himself to have seen in the distance; it seemed to him like a white tower, and had a great stream of water flowing over the top of it. but since the rivers had begun to rise, and he had no tools to work the supposed mines with, he resolved to return to england, well pleased that he had found "el dorado;" and prepared to give a glowing account of the fertility of its soil, its valuable woods and rich gums, its different berries, which dyed the most vivid crimson and carnation hues, its cotton and silk, its pepper, sugar, and ginger, which flourished there as luxuriantly as in the west indian islands. just as the adventurers were about to return to trinidad, they encountered a terrific storm in the broad mouth of the river capuri, and were obliged to lie in the dark, close to the shore. at midnight, when the wind began to abate, raleigh says, "we put ourselves to god's keeping and thrust out into the sea, and left the galley to anchor until daylight. and so, being all very sober and melancholy, one faintly cheering another to show courage, it pleased god that the next day we descried the island of trinidad." when sir walter arrived in england he published an account of the discovery of the large and beautiful country of guiana. either he must have been carried away by the excitement of the adventure, or he must have wilfully exaggerated when he described the gold mines so confidently, since no one who followed him ever found so great a treasure of the precious metal as he declared was in existence. queen elizabeth could not be prevailed upon to give orders for the planting of a colony in the new land, much as she desired to increase her dominions, and so it was that the english did not really make a settlement in guiana until the year 1634. raleigh went after his return on a great expedition, which ended in the conquest of cadiz. in this essex had the chief command, but it was raleigh's courage and daring that assured the taking of the city. the favour he was held in at court now began to decline, and the great fame he had earned as a soldier and a navigator had made him many enemies. it is said that he connived with cecil for the downfall of essex, and he was charged by those who bore him ill-will with having taken pleasure in witnessing the execution of that nobleman. his own words, spoken just before his death on the scaffold many years later, will best vindicate him from such an accusation. he said that he was all the time in the armory of the tower, at the end where he could only just see essex. he shed tears at his death, and grieved that he was not with him, for he had heard that he had desired to be reconciled with him before he died. and it is natural to suppose that these two men, each one indeed at fault, would have been happier, one in dying and the other while he lived, if they had exchanged a few kind words, at which the old bitterness and hatred would have melted away. the remaining part of the life of sir walter raleigh was a succession of misfortunes and sorrows: at the death of the queen his good fortune may be said to have deserted him. the same year that james the sixth of scotland succeeded his cousin elizabeth, a plot was formed to place on the throne of england in his stead the lady arabella stuart, who was equally descended from henry the seventh with himself. the lords grey and cobham, sir walter raleigh, two catholic priests, and several others were accused of conniving at it, and arrested for high treason. how far raleigh was implicated it is difficult now to decide: it is probable that he knew of the plot, because he was the intimate friend of lord cobham. he was carried to winchester, where sentence of death was passed upon him, and he remained there a whole month, daily expecting to be led to the scaffold. at the urgent entreaty of lady raleigh the king commuted the sentence of death to imprisonment in the tower; and there, on the 15th of december, 1603, raleigh took up his abode, followed by his affectionate wife and his son walter, who had obtained permission to share his captivity. most english boys have looked on the rooms in the tower where this brave man passed more than twelve years, a large portion out of the life on earth, especially on the narrow sleeping-room, to enter which, he had to creep under a low stone archway. those years must have contrasted strangely with his past life, full of brave deeds and adventures in a land where all things seemed new. his friends and his enemies alike pitied him now that he was shut up within his gloomy walls. the young prince henry had a great regard for him, and admired his brilliant qualities. "surely," he used to say, "no man but my father would keep such a bird in a cage!" after his first despair was over he employed himself in making chemical experiments, in educating his children--for his second son carew was born in the tower,--and in writing several works, one of which, entitled "the history of the world," has been much admired. and when, after so many years had passed, and the doors of his prison were opened, he came out into the free air, "a worn, weak, and aged man," almost without fortune, haughty, and prone to take offence no more, but still brave and hopeful. he obtained his liberty chiefly through the interest of the duke of buckingham, whose services he paid with the sum of fifteen hundred pounds. he was released on condition of finding the gold mines of guiana, and having embarked in the enterprise all that remained of his own and his wife's fortunes he set sail for south america, taking with him his son walter, all the while the sentence of death once passed upon him was still hanging over his head. but failure and sorrow were in store for him: two of his ships abandoned him; sickness broke out amongst the crews of those that remained, sir walter raleigh was attacked by it himself, and was not able to land when they drew near the shore of guiana. he deputed captain keymis to land with the adventurers, and to repel any spaniards he might find near the mine. an affray took place in which young raleigh was killed; and keymis, attempting to keep a footing on shore, a second time was surprised by some spaniards who had been lying in wait for him. the failure of the enterprise and the disappointment of raleigh weighed so heavily upon him, that he killed himself in despair. raleigh thus went back to england in sorrow for the loss of his son, and with little hope left that his own life would be spared. when he landed in england he found that the king was very angry with him for having attacked the spaniards, because he was at peace with their sovereign; and that he intended to renew all his former accusations against him. this king james was led to do by gondemar, the spanish ambassador, who bore an extreme hatred to raleigh; it is even supposed that the spaniards in guiana had been secretly told to prepare to resist. james made a proclamation to the effect that he had forbidden all acts of hostility on land belonging to the spaniards. directly raleigh heard this he wrote a letter to the king in defence of his conduct. he was repairing to london, and was met on the road by sir lewis stukely, one of his relations, who told him that he was to arrest him. then it was that raleigh yielded to weakness which he repented of in after hours. he pretended that he was ill, that he had lost his reason, anything to delay the moment of his arrest. once he planned an escape to france, but when he had got in disguise from the tower docks as far as woolwich he was overtaken by some people in the pay of the government; and at greenwich was formally arrested by his kinsman, who had accompanied him in his flight. the next morning, august 7th, he was conducted to the tower, where he took a kind farewell of the king, and remained imprisoned there until the 28th of october. and on that day, as he was lying ill, the king's officers came at eight o'clock in the morning to convey him to westminster. thence he was taken to gate house, and the next morning to the old palace yard, where the scaffold was erected on which he was to die, that the king might preserve peace with spain! the people of england thought james was very unkind to condemn a man whose guilt had never been proved, and who was the most valiant and spirited in the whole land. and indeed the execution of raleigh has ever been considered unjust. he appeared upon the scaffold with a smiling countenance, and saluted all of his friends and acquaintances who were present. then he spoke in his own defence, but notwithstanding the deep silence around, his words were not heard by the lords arundel and doncaster, and some other lords and knights who sat at a window looking into the yard, and he begged them to come upon the scaffold. when he had saluted them all he thanked god for having brought him into the light to die, instead of suffering him to die in the dark prison of the tower. then he defended himself eloquently against the numerous charges that had been made against him, and ended by entreating all his friends to pray for him, because he said that since he had been a soldier, a captain, a sea-captain, and a courtier, he must needs have fallen into many sins. the lords and knights departed sorrowfully from the scaffold, and raleigh prepared for death; he gave away his hat, his wrought night-cap, and some money to some of those who remained near him. "i have a long journey to go," he said, "and therefore i will take my leave." and when he had taken off his black velvet gown and his satin doublet, he called to the headsman, and examined the axe, saying, as he felt along its edge, "this is a sharp medicine, but it is a physician for all disorders." being asked which way he would lay his head on the block, he said, "so the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lieth." a minute later his head was severed with two blows from his body; the story of his life was ended, and the unjust king could keep the peace he had purchased with the sacrifice of a man who, although faulty, had many of the attributes of true greatness. the body of sir walter raleigh was buried in st. margaret's church. his sorrowing widow kept his head in a case during her lifetime; it was afterwards buried with her son carew at west horsley, in surrey. raleigh was tenderly attached to his wife, and wrote her an affectionate and solemn letter during the early part of his imprisonment, in which he gave her some good advice. "if you can live free from want," he said, "care for no more, for the rest is but vanity. love god, and begin betimes; in him you shall have everlasting felicity. when you have travelled and wearied yourself with all sorts of worldly cogitations, you shall sit down in sorrow at the end.... teach your son also to serve and fear god whilst he is young, that the fear of god may grow up in him." footnotes: [23] this story is mentioned in the "british biography." [24] guiana was originally discovered to the europeans by vincent pinzon before the end of the fifteenth century. it was juan martinez, a spaniard, who first gave the name of el dorado to the city of manoa, in guiana. [25] a species of palm. sir philip sidney. sir philip sidney was born at penshurst in kent, in the year 1554. his father, sir henry sidney, was one of the best men that ever lived, and governed ireland for some time with extreme justice and prudence. his mother was mary, daughter of the duke of northumberland, who was beheaded for maintaining the cause of lady jane grey. she had the sorrow of seeing her brother lord guildford dudley also led to the scaffold; and after these terrible events lived much in retirement, devoting herself to the care and education of her sons philip and robert, and her daughter mary, afterwards countess of pembroke. under the guidance of such parents, the children at penshurst grew up in the closest bonds of family love. the grand old house they lived in was an abode worthy of a noble race. it had been given by edward the sixth to sir william sidney, the grandfather of sir philip. the park was famed for its beeches, chestnut trees, and oaks of stately growth; one of the latter, known by the name of "sidney's oak," remains standing to this day. rich pasture lands lay around, the streams abounded with fish, the gardens and orchards with flowers and fruit. here wandered sir philip with his beloved sister, his young brother robert, who succeeded to his uncle's earldom of leicester,[26] with the chivalrous raleigh, the poet spenser, the play-writer ben jonson, and all the good, brave, and clever men of that age. from his earliest childhood he was so sweet-tempered and intelligent that his father lovingly called him "the light of this family." he was very fond of study, and went first to school at shrewsbury, where we find he delighted his father greatly, when he was twelve years old, by writing him a letter in latin, and another in french. at the age of fifteen he went to christchurch, oxford, where he appears to have studied with much diligence during the short period of his college life. in the year 1571 an embassy was sent to the court of charles the ninth of france, in order to treat for a marriage between the king's youngest brother, henry duke of alenã§on, and queen elizabeth. the queen had already shown signs of regard for young sidney, whom in after years she called "the brightest jewel in her crown," and she allowed him to go abroad with the mission, for the purpose of acquiring a perfect knowledge of foreign languages. sir philip was in paris on the fatal day of saint bartholomew, but was safe in the house of his friend walsingham, then english minister at the french court, whilst the unhappy protestants were being cruelly massacred everywhere around him. he afterwards travelled through germany to vienna, where he made himself perfect in every martial exercise, going thence to study science at venice, to visit the poet tasso at padua, and lastly to rome. and whilst he was storing his mind with knowledge, and learning all accomplishments worthy of a true knight, he tried to lead a holy life, and, as far as it was in his power, to keep himself blameless in the sight of god and man; so that when he returned to england at the age of twenty, other men far older than himself looked up to him with respect, and he was considered the brightest ornament of the english court. during his travels in flanders, which at that time belonged to spain, he had grieved to see how unhappy the people were made by the duke of alva, the state minister of philip the second of spain. philip did not love his flemish subjects at all; they were mostly protestants, and he wanted to take their liberty from them and force them to become roman catholics. and when they began to rebel against his unjust treatment, he sent the cruel duke of alva to them, having first told him that he might do whatever he liked with them. alva arrived in brussels, and began by arresting and imprisoning the counts egmont and horn, two noble-minded men, who, after trying in vain to make peace between the king and the belgians, had taken the part of the protestants from a love of justice and mercy. count egmont had helped philip to win the great battle of st. quentin over the french, but he was compassionate as well as brave, and philip was so afraid that he would be too kind to the people of belgium that he advised alva secretly to get rid of him. alva kept the counts in prison in ghent for nine months, and then had them carried to brussels and beheaded, on the 4th of june, 1568, on a scaffold raised on one of the principal squares in the city. they died with courage, martyrs for the liberty of flanders, but their execution was a cruel injustice, and the people were nearly frantic with grief when the bloody deed was done. alva remained in flanders more than four years, and is said to have caused eighteen thousand protestants to be beheaded during that time. then holland rose in revolt; the prince of orange was made stadtholder, and alva, seeing that his day was over, went back to spain, where he must have been very unhappy when he thought over all his wickedness. the protestants in germany fared very little better than those in flanders, for when the emperor rudolf the second began to reign, he forbade them to worship according to their faith. sidney was sent on an embassy to rudolf, and did all he could whilst he was in germany to humble spain. the flemings asked elizabeth to be their queen; this she would not agree to, but she sent them some troops and some money, and sidney implored her to let him take the command in the enterprise, he wanted so much to be of service to his fellow-men, and to deliver those who were unjustly treated from their oppressors. the queen declared, however, that she could not spare him from her court, and he was obliged to wait patiently a little longer. meanwhile he took part in the amusements of the court, the jousts and the royal progresses from place to place, which were always attended with great show. to these must be added the masques, and the first time sir philip distinguished himself as an author was by writing a masque, entitled "the lady of may," which was performed before the queen at wanstead in essex. sidney was the patron of artists, musicians, and authors; he was a kind and sincere friend of the poet spenser, who had originally been brought from his home in ireland to the english court by sir walter raleigh. weary at last of remaining inactive, sidney planned, without the queen's knowledge, an expedition to america, in which he was to be joined by the bold navigator, sir francis drake. he had arrived at plymouth, whence the ships were to start, when elizabeth, having gained information of the projected voyage, sent messengers with letters to sidney, in which she desired him not to sail, and threatened to stay the whole fleet if he did not obey her. sir philip, already on the alert, contrived to intercept the messengers; their letters were taken from them by two soldiers disguised as sailors. the queen, finding threats useless, then sent a positive royal command to her favourite, which he was bound out of duty to his sovereign to obey, and thus he was fated never to see the beautiful new land in the west, with its growth of gorgeous flowers and rich fruits, its giant trees, and its bright-coloured birds, its wonderful landscapes, the beauty of which far exceeded the ideal formed of them. elizabeth's displeasure did not last long. it was the high esteem she held him in that made her so loth to let him quit england, and she was not offended with him when he had the courage to write her a letter in which he entreated her not to marry the duke of alenã§on, now duke of anjou, and pointed out the trouble such a union might bring upon england. the queen wisely followed his advice, and gave up all idea of a marriage which her subjects had very much disliked. sir philip, one day in the tilt-yard, had a dispute with lord oxford, in which both were to blame, but lord oxford the more so of the two. this caused sidney to withdraw for a time from court, and retire to a house he had at wilton, where he wrote "the arcadia," a pastoral romance, and some other works, which gained him the fame of a poet. he did not mean "the arcadia" to be published, nor did it appear in print until after his death. he wrote it to afford pleasure to his sister mary, and sent to her each part of it as he completed it. a time came when the flemings were again reduced to a state of extreme wretchedness. the great and good stadtholder was basely murdered, and the spanish troops were making rapid progress through the country. so they asked elizabeth again to be their queen and to send them succour. she refused the crown a second time, but agreed to help the flemings with troops on condition that the towns of flushing and brille should be placed in her hands. and sidney, to his great joy, was appointed governor of flushing, whither he went in november, 1585. the good count maurice of nassau received him as a brother, and he was made general of all the forces, english and dutch, in the town. soon he had to welcome there his uncle, the earl of leicester, who, by the favour of elizabeth, was entrusted with the command of the army. for some time sidney was obliged to remain inactive, but in the year 1586 he and count maurice surprised axel, a town on the way to antwerp, and the strongest place held by the spaniards in the netherlands. here he kept his soldiers in the strictest order. when they were marching they were enjoined to be silent, and a band of the choicest among them was stationed in the market-place for the security of the town. so many brave gentlemen were covetous of the honour of surprising gravelines, that sir philip sidney, not liking to risk the lives of all, persuaded his inferior officers to try their fortune by dice on the top of a drum. the lot fell upon sir william browne, and by this game of hazard[27] the lives of many englishmen were saved. on the 30th of august sidney went with his uncle to invest doesburg, a fortress on the river issel. this place was important because it opened the way to zutphen, and if zutphen were once taken, the english and dutch would command the river. doesburg was gained, and zutphen soon after surrounded; leicester guarding it by water, and sir philip sidney, count louis of nassau, and sir john norris, guarding it by land. news was brought to the english camp that a large supply of food was at a place called deventer, not far off, and leicester was resolved that it should not be brought into the town, whilst the garrison were equally resolved to receive it. on the morning of the 22nd of september, sidney advanced to the walls of zutphen with only 200 men. before he set out he was clad in complete armour, but meeting the marshal of the camp only lightly armed, he took off some of the armour that covered his legs. there was a mist at the time he set out, but when he had galloped quite close to the town, it dispersed, and he found a thousand of the enemy in readiness to receive him. the fight soon began, his horse was killed under him, and he mounted another. the battle was furious, and the spaniards, although they were five times as many as the english, were totally routed. in the last charge, sir philip was wounded severely in the thigh; his horse, being very mettlesome, rushed furiously from the battle-field, and carried him a mile and a half, wounded and bleeding, to the spot where leicester stood. when he lay in his anguish on the field, a bottle of water was brought to him that he might quench his thirst; but seeing a soldier near him, wounded like himself, look wistfully at it, he ordered it to be carried to him, saying, "this man's necessity is greater than mine." his friends and his soldiers were overcome with grief when his state became known; at the sight of his sufferings they almost forgot the glory of his triumph; yet amidst all his pain, he never ceased declaring that as long as he lived his life was the queen's, and not his own, and that his friends ought not to be discouraged. they laid him gently in his uncle's barge; slowly it glided down the river to arnheim, in gelderland, and whilst he lay patiently in it, he was heard to express the hope that his wound was not mortal, and that he might yet have time to become holier before he died. day after day he lay in great pain, but talking kindly the while to the friends who grouped lovingly around him, and tended by his wife, walsingham's daughter, who had hastened to arnheim as soon as she heard tidings of his disaster. when he felt he could only live a little time longer, he made his confession of christian faith, and settled his earthly affairs, remembering in his will all those whom he had loved. he took a tender farewell of his brother robert, telling him "to love his memory and cherish his friends, and to govern his own will by the word of his creator." and then having called for music, while sweet strains filled the chamber, silent with coming death, the spirit passed from this world. his remains were brought to england, and interred in the great church of st. paul, which eighty years later was destroyed by the fire of london. "blessed are the dead which die in the lord:" such were the words inscribed on his coffin; and the perfectness of his character, and the regard in which men held him, cannot be better expressed than in the language of the old chronicle which says, "as his life was most worthie, so his end was most godlie. the love men bore him, left fame behind him; his friendlie courtesie to many procured him good-will of all."[28] the poles after the death of their king, stephen balori, would have conferred the crown on sir philip sidney, because he was so justly renowned for his humane and upright spirit, but he thought that his first duty was to his sovereign, and the idea was renounced. footnotes: [26] the earl of leicester, the court favourite of queen elizabeth, was brother to lady mary sidney. [27] see "british biography." [28] holinshed. _j. and w. rider, printers, london._ an amateur fireman james otis [illustration: life-saving corps at work. _frontispiece._] an amateur fireman by james otis author of "toby tyler," etc. [illustration: jip and the fire-alarm.--_page_40] new york e. p. dutton & company 681 fifth ave. copyright e. p. dutton & co 1898 contents. chapter page i. the amateur 1 ii. 'lish davis 19 iii. jip's revenge 36 iv. sam the detective 54 v. tardy repentance 73 vi. an obstinate detective 92 vii. new lodgings 110 viii. jip collins's retreat 127 ix. the uniform 144 x. at headquarters 161 xi. sam's return 179 xii. the prisoner 196 xiii. the letter 215 xiv. the subpoena 233 xv. the trial 251 xvi. winning a medal 270 xvii. the blow-out 288 xviii. the exhibition drill 306 illustrations. page life-saving corps at work _frontispiece_ 'lish davis and seth 8 jip collins and the boys from brooklyn 34 jip and the fire-alarm--_title-page_ 40 seth catches the horse 68 sam going to philadelphia 136 the fire-engine going out 152 seth rescues the baby 272 the blow-out 298 presenting the medals 322 an amateur fireman. chapter i. the amateur. "i ain't sayin' as how i could run a whole fire, same as some of the chiefs do; but when it comes to drivin' an engine, dan roberts, an' doin' it in time to get the first water, or layin' hose, i wouldn't knuckle down to the biggest man in the department." "now see here, seth bartlett, what's the sense of talkin' that way? it would be a good deal better, an' i ain't the only one who says it, if you'd stick right to shinin', an' stop playin' fireman, for that's 'bout the biggest part of the work you do." "do you s'pose i count on shinin' boots for a livin' all my life?" "you've got to make a better fist at it than you have done for a year or more, else you'll never get into anythin' else. i tell you what it is, seth bartlett, when a man wants to hire a boy, he ain't pickin' out the feller that's failed up two or three times over; but he generally looks for the one what's makin' a go of it, whether it's shinin' or sellin' papers." "i ain't sayin' but you're right, dan, an' i s'pose it's a good thing for you to keep right on rememberin'; but it's different with me. i don't count on any one man hirin' me when i strike out for somethin' better'n shinin'." "oh, you don't, eh? what little game _have_ you got? goin' to run a bank, or keep a hotel, or do somethin' like that?" "you think you're funny, but you ain't. i'm goin' into the fire department when the right time comes, an' don't you make any mistake about it." dan laughed loud and long at this announcement, and seth gazed at him in grim silence until the explosion of mirth was somewhat subsided, when he said sharply: "i guess trade must have been pretty good with you to-day, else you wouldn't be feelin' so terrible funny." "well, it hasn't. i got stuck on four _heralds_ this mornin', an' five _expresses_ to-night. that comes pretty near cleanin' off all the profits, 'cause it's awful dull nowadays in my business, seth." "then i can't guess why you got so dreadful silly when i said i was goin' into the department some day." "it would make anybody laugh, seth, to hear a feller no bigger'n you talk of such things. you must be a man to get that kind of a job." "well, shan't i be in time--and not such a terrible long while either? i'm fourteen now, leastways, that's the way i figger it out, an' if i could get one of them early spring moustaches like sim jepson is raisin', folks would think i was a man when i wasn't only eighteen. don't you reckon all the firemen were boys once?" "yes," dan replied doubtfully, "i s'pose they was," and he added quickly as a sudden thought occurred to him, "but they had to know a good deal about the business before they could get a job." "course they did, an' it was a case of learnin'. that's jest what i'm doin' when i tend out on fires. i'm gettin' posted, an' by an' by when i'm old enough you'll see me in the department, that's all there is about it." seth bartlett and dan roberts were old friends, having made each other's acquaintance no less than three months previous, when the former, who had disagreed with jip collins on a matter regarding household affairs, was in search of a new roommate. seth owned, or believed he did, certain rights in a small shed situate in the rear of baxter brothers' carpenter shop, where he made his home. it was a rude affair, originally built for the purpose of sheltering mr. baxter's horse and carriage, but afterward used as a storage place for such odds and ends as accumulate in a carpenter's work-shop. seth had made his home in this shed for nearly a year, having been given permission to sleep there by one of the owners on a certain cold, stormy night, and he was not averse to telling his friends how he "worked the snap." this is his version of what may perhaps be called a business transaction: "i did start in to live with jim wardwell's folks. you see, business was mighty good for a spell, an' i got to feelin' way up toney where nothin' short of a reg'lar room would do me. i paid a dollar a week jest for sleepin' there. ten big, round plunks for ten weeks, an' then i tumbled to myself! you see, it was too rich for my blood when there come a long spell of bad weather, an' i wasn't takin' in more'n twenty-five cents a day, so i snooped 'round to see if i couldn't find somethin' that would be cheaper. then i struck this shed, an' i says to myself, says i, 'that's jest my size'; but i knew it wouldn't do to try to bite it out of the carpenter's ear 'less i had a pretty good story to put up. i waited four whole days till it turned 'round so cold that the hair on your head would freeze, an' long towards the middle of the afternoon it began to snow. then i said to myself that the time had come when i'd got to make the trade. i crawled into the carpenter's shop an' give him a pretty straight story. told him how bad business was--well, he could see for himself nobody would want boots shined in that weather. he said if i promised him i wouldn't freeze to death, 'cause he didn't want any dead bootblacks on his hands, i could come in for a spell. an' don't you think i wasn't fixed! all the shavings i wanted for a bed right there on the floor, an' if the boss of the astor house had got down on his knees beggin' me to come to his hotel to stop, i'd said 'no,' 'cause i couldn't be bothered with the airs they put on down that way. how long can i stay here? i ain't troublin' my head 'bout that. i don't let the man what owns the place see me any oftener than i can help, an' so long's i keep out of sight there ain't much chance of my bein' fired." seth's home in which he took so much pride was by no means as uncomfortable as one might suppose. with ample material in the shape of short lengths of boards, he had constructed a tiny apartment in one end with so great care that only such wind as was necessary for perfect ventilation found its way in to him, while his bed of shavings was more rest-inviting and probably more cleanly than was the well-worn mattress on which he had slept at mrs. wardwell's home. once having taken possession of this abode, seth set about making an honest penny out of his new possessions by allowing jip collins to become his roommate upon the payment of fifteen cents each week, and for several months these two lived in apparent harmony, although seth afterward said that "jip tired him" by finding so much fault with the fire department. then came the time when the lodger insisted upon the use of candles at night, and in smoking cigarettes inside the apartment, both of which luxuries or pleasures had been expressly forbidden by mr. baxter when he gave the bootblack permission to occupy the premises. jip had not departed in a friendly manner. he believed he had good cause for grievance against seth, and on the day he left the lodgings threatened with many a needless word to "make it hot" for the would-be fireman. then master bartlett had taken dan roberts as a tenant, and the two had been living as peacefully and comfortably as could be expected, save at such times as they heard of new and more startling threats from jip, up to this moment when the lodger took it upon himself to criticise his landlord's admiration of a fireman's calling. seth bartlett was not a general favorite among the merchants in the boot-blacking and newspaper business, owing to the general belief that he "put on airs" because of his acquaintance with 'lish davis, driver of ninety-four engine, which was stationed near mr. baxter's shed. when trade was dull, instead of joining his brother merchants in pitching pennies or such other games as they might chance to indulge in, seth spent his time about the engine-house, on the alert for an opportunity to be of benefit to some of the men, hoping thereby to so far earn their favor that he might be looked upon as a welcome visitor. during no less than two months had he thus apparently loitered around, bent on one object, and pursuing that steadily, without having been so fortunate as to attract particular attention. then on a certain day, elisha davis, the driver, called upon the small workman for a shine. seth's freckled face was radiant with delight as he entered the engine-house for the first time, and his big brown eyes wandered from the glittering machine, above the pole of which hung the shining harness, to the apparently complicated apparatus of brass and walnut over the house-watchman's desk. 'lish, as his comrades spoke of him, was not in the mood to wait until the boy's curiosity had been satisfied, for at any instant an alarm might summon him to duty, and he impatiently called upon seth to set about his work, or "clear out." never before had the bootblack spent so much time over a single pair of boots; he polished them with his brushes until they shone like mirrors, then hardened the gloss with a piece of flannel, and when it seemed as if his work had been done to perfection, blackened the brilliant surface again with the hope of improving what had apparently been a great success. "you're not any too quick about the job; but there ain't a lad around here that could have done it better," 'lish said approvingly, and would have given the boy a nickel, but that the latter drew back quickly. "i don't want anythin' for the shine; i'd like mighty well to give you one every day." "do you go around working for thanks?" the driver asked with no little surprise. "of course i take my pay from other folks; but i wouldn't let any fireman put up for a shine." "why not?" "'cause i'm jest the same as one myself--that is, i'm goin' into the department when i'm old enough." "stuck on the business, eh?" [illustration: 'lish davis and seth _page_ 8.] "that's jest the size of it!" seth cried enthusiastically. "i tend out on most all the fires in ninety-four's district, an' sometimes i get a chance to sneak inside the lines." "you do, eh? well, i'll have an eye out after this, and if i get my hands on you there won't be any more such sneaking." "now, what's the matter with my doin' a little thing like that? it don't hurt anybody, an' i pick up a good many points." "some day a falling wall will knock you down, or you'll find yourself under the wheels of an engine, and then your 'points' won't be of any particular advantage." "i can take care of myself as well as you, an' if i don't knock 'round when there's a fire, how am i ever goin' to learn the business?" "you don't want to learn what's a dog's life at the best. steer clear of it, lad, and put your mind on anything else, for a man don't last long at this kind of work; even if he doesn't get killed offhand, it's only a question of time--and in many cases a precious short time--before a fireman is laid on the shelf, worn out. now, clear away from here if you won't take pay for the shine, and remember that i'll have my eye out after this to see you don't get inside the lines." seth obeyed promptly with never a protest, and 'lish said to the watchman at the desk: "that's a decent kind of a lad, and if he hangs around here any more there's no reason why we shouldn't throw a job in his way now and then." "how does that fit in with the lesson you read to him?" "i didn't try to make it fit. if i can scare him out of the notion he's got in his head, it'll show he ain't suited for this kind of a life; but if he sticks at it, i'll believe it's worth while to give him a lift now and then." if seth could have heard this brief conversation he would, most likely, have indulged in the latest jig-step he had learned, and perhaps neglected his work as bootblack until hunger forced him to take up the brushes again; but he was ignorant of 'lish's good intentions, and went away with a heavy heart, yet having no idea of abandoning his efforts to "learn the business." he did not cease to spend his spare moments about ninety-four's house, and after 'lish davis had many times threatened the direst punishment if he persisted in such a course, but without effect, the members of the company came to look upon seth as a boy of pluck, who would one day force his way into the department. however, no one of ninety-four's men had given him an opportunity for doing other than blacking boots, and the boy was entirely ignorant of their friendliness toward him. such was the general position of affairs on the night when dan roberts believed it his duty to mildly reprove seth for spending so much time in what seemed to be idleness when he should be looking for customers. after the master of the shed-home had announced so positively that he would be a fireman in due course of time, dan, remembering how jip collins had lost his footing in the household, decided he had done his whole duty in the matter, and straight-way changed the subject of conversation by saying: "sam barney had mighty bad luck to-day. first off, somebody passed a lead dime on him, an' then he lost as many as fifteen cents at one slap." "how?" seth asked with no slight show of interest. "that's what he can't make out. he had the money in the same pocket where he always carries it, when all of a sudden it was gone." "somebody touched him." "must be, an' sam thinks he's got an idea who it is." "can't be any of the reg'lar gang, 'cause i don't know a feller what would do a trick like that." "sam's keepin' mighty close about it, an' i wouldn't wonder if he found the whole business out before long. he comes near to bein' a reg'lar detective, you know." "who? sam?" "sure." "but what does he know about the detective business?" "perhaps he's learnin' it same's you are the fireman's racket." this reduced seth to silence, and dan, fearing that he might have given offence, hastened to say in a most friendly tone: "of course if a feller studies over anything of that kind he'll soon come somewhere near knowin' a little about it, an' sam is posted in more ways than one." "then how does it happen he let anybody go through him?" "that's the funny part of it, an' the folks what did it must have been mighty slick, 'cause, you see----" dan was interrupted by the sound of footsteps near at hand, and ever on the alert against possible danger, seth made his way to the door of the shed as he asked sharply: "who's there?" "it's only me," a familiar voice replied, and he knew that the visitor was none other than the boy of whom he and his lodger had just been speaking. "dan was tellin' me you'd lost your money. didn't come up here reckonin' he or i'd got it, did you?" "i ain't any sich fool as that; but jip collins has been makin' a good deal of cheap talk this afternoon, an' i thought perhaps you'd like to know 'bout it." "he's allers doin' that, an' i reckon it's more wind than anythin' else." "i wouldn't wonder if this time he got right down to business, an' you ought'er keep a pretty sharp lookout, seth. these are too snug quarters for you to lose through a feller like jip." "come inside and set down," master bartlett said as his lodger joined him at the door of the shed. "dan an' me is here alone, an' you won't mind if it's dark, 'cause you see i promised mr. baxter straight out an' out that there shouldn't ever be any kind of a light inside. that's one of the things jip kicked about, you know." sam barney promptly accepted the invitation. being an old friend of seth's, he was familiar with the household arrangements, and despite the darkness made his way through the shed to the box-like home in one corner, where, after some difficulty, he found a block of wood that served as chair. seth threw himself upon the bed of shavings, and dan lounged negligently near the entrance. "i should think it would be kind er lonesome in here nights when it's like this," sam suggested as he tried in vain to distinguish the form of either of his companions. "well, it ain't, 'cause dan an' me don't spend a great deal of time settin' 'round after we once get in. we should have been asleep before this if he hadn't had considerable to say 'bout my tryin' to be a fireman. he'd jest got through when you came." "well, say, seth, you don't b'lieve you're ever goin' to get on to the department, jest 'cause you run to every fire ninety-four goes to, do you?" "i don't know why i can't be a fireman jest as easy as you can a detective, an' some of the fellers say you're workin' mighty hard to be one." "well, s'posen i am?" and sam spoke sharply. "i ain't kickin' against it; but was only sayin' that it's jest as easy for me to get what i'm tryin' for, as it is for you." sam's opinion on the subject may have differed from that of his host, but he refrained from making any reply, and at once began to speak concerning the purpose of his visit. "jip collins is goin' to work some kind of a racket on you, an' i reckon i can guess pretty nigh what it is. he was makin' a good deal of talk this afternoon, an' it seems as though the time had come when you'd better have your eyes open." "jip's allers had a good deal to say since i told him he couldn't sleep here any longer; but it never 'mounted to anythin'." "but look here, seth, this time i b'lieve he'll do some mischief. he's been tellin' that he'll give you a chance to show how much of a fireman you are, an' i heard him talkin' 'bout touchin' a match to shavings, so's to smoke you out, till i've made up my mind that he's goin' to set fire to this place." seth laughed derisively. "i ain't 'fraid of a feller like him." "then it's all right, an' no harm done in my tellin' you; but if i was in your place i'd keep my eyes open pretty wide. now, jip collins can't scare me a little bit; but yet if i was in a snap like this, an' i knew he'd threatened to set fire, it would kind er stir me up a bit." "don't you go to thinkin' i ain't glad 'cause you told me, sam, for i am, only it don't stand to reason a feller like jip collins can do much of anythin'." "don't you be so sure of that," dan roberts cried. "i've heard somethin' 'bout what jip's been sayin', though i never b'lieved he had it in his head to burn the place up; but this much is sure: if it could be done without his takin' too many chances, he's jest the kind of a feller what would try it. he claims that, accordin' to the trade, you give him the right to stay in this place jest as long as _you_ did, and that it was the same as swindlin' him when i come in." "he knows better than that. i told him we'd try it a spell, an' see how we got along; the very first night i went all over the business with him, an' said if we couldn't hitch together easy like, why we didn't want to stay in the same place, an' he was satisfied with it. now, i don't see how i can do anythin' if he's bent on settin' fire to the shed, more'n lookin' 'round pretty sharp before i go to bed." "if i owned this place same's you do, i should set up nights, 'cause then's when he'll try his game," sam said with an air of wisdom. "it ain't likely he'll come 'round here in the daytime; but after the men have gone away from the shop it wouldn't be anyways hard for him to get in an' strike a match to some of these shavin's." "but accordin' to that you couldn't do very much work, if you set up all night watchin' for jip collins. you'd have to sleep in the daytime. i don't see how a feller is goin' to earn his livin' any sich way." "i didn't say you ought'er do it," sam replied quickly; "but was only tellin' what i believed in. it ain't likely you'd have to stand watch many nights, 'cause the first time you caught jip you'd put an end to it by pretty nigh thumpin' the life out er him; then i don't reckon he'd come again." "do you s'pose he's countin' on doin' this all alone?" "no; he's got a couple of fellers from brooklyn that he's chummin' with jest now, an' most likely they're comin' into the game." "if they do, an' i should watch for jip till i caught him, there ain't any great show of my thumpin' him very bad if he's got two others to lend a hand." "you ain't scared of him, are you?" sam asked quickly. "not much i ain't; but i'll keep clear from that kind of a racket till i know somethin' 'bout it. i can't 'ford to have a row, don't you see, 'cause if any of ninety-four's men heard i was fightin' my way along, as likely as not they'd shut me off from goin' to the engine-house, an' then ag'in when the time comes for me to get into the department it would give me a black eye if i had the name of doin' sich things. i don't s'pose that would hurt a detective; but they're mighty careful what kind of fellers they have in the department, an' i don't count on havin' a bad mark to my name four years from now." "well, suit yourself about that, of course. it ain't any of my business, only i thought i'd tell you what jip's sayin', an' i've got to get along over towards hoboken." then, from the noise he made, his hosts understood that sam barney was making his way out of the apartment, and dan asked in a friendly tone if he had made any new discoveries regarding the theft of his money. "i'm follerin' up a pretty good clue now," sam replied in a tone calculated to give the hearer an impression that he could tell more if it was necessary, and then with a cheery "so long," he rapidly made his way across the lumber-yard to the street. chapter ii. 'lish davis. when their visitor had departed seth and dan held a long consultation as to the advisability of following sam's advice in the matter of standing guard during the hours of darkness. dan believed that, owing to his having made a study of the detective business, sam barney knew better than they what should be done toward warding off the threatened attack, and, regardless of the labor involved, he proposed that a sentinel be stationed just outside the shed door. "i'll go on guard until twelve o'clock, and you can sleep all that time; then i'll call you an' take my turn at it," dan said after they had discussed the matter in all its bearings for ten minutes or more. "how do you count on keepin' awake?" "that can easily be done, 'cause i'll walk 'round the yard, an' the nights are just about cold enough to make a feller want to move lively." "i don't believe jip collins would dare do what he threatens." "he would if he thought the game could be worked without too much risk, an' i tell you, seth, if both of us turn in an' go to sleep he might carry the whole shed away without our knowin' it." "all right; i'll 'gree to it, though if he should come 'round we mustn't have too much of a row, 'cause you remember what i told sam 'bout not wantin' to be taken for a fighter in this neighborhood, else i'll never get into the department." "you can be pretty certain i shouldn't tackle him alone, an' if them two fellers from brooklyn 'mount to anythin', why you an' i together wouldn't have too much of a show." then, after repeating that he was to be called at midnight in order to perform his full share of the labor, seth went into the box-like apartment, and dan began his work as watchman. during the first half-hour he paced to and from one end of the yard to the other, scrutinizing carefully every unfamiliar object, until it seemed to him the night was more than half spent. "i must have been here four hours now, an' sam barney left 'bout half-past seven, so i haven't got a great while to tramp 'round," he said to himself, and just at that moment the clock on a neighboring steeple struck the hour of eight. he was both surprised and discouraged at thus learning that the time was passing so slowly, and it suddenly came into his mind that he was very tired. it was foolish to keep constantly moving around, because if jip collins should come he would see the sentinel and make no effort to carry out his threats until the coast was clear. therefore it was that master roberts built a seat from pieces of board just inside the shed, and seating himself where he could have a full view of the yard while remaining unseen, he continued his duties in what appeared to him to be a much wiser, and certainly a more comfortable fashion. here he was protected from the chill wind, and as was only natural, here also he fell asleep even while saying to himself that nothing should tempt him to close his eyes even for a single moment. when the near-by clock struck the hour of twelve dan was still wrapped in slumber. at three o'clock in the morning his repose was most profound, and just at daylight seth shook him by the shoulder as he asked with a laugh: "how long have you been asleep?" dan's most intimate friends claimed that he never told a lie, and he was not tempted to do so on this occasion, even though the truth provoked mirth at his expense. "it couldn't have been a great while after eight o'clock. it didn't seem possible i'd go to sleep here, seth, an' sure i meant to keep my eyes wide open; but the first thing i knew it was done, an' i haven't woke up since." "well, that shows how much need there is to watch for jip collins. he's all wind, that feller is, an' likes to go 'round town braggin' what he'll do to us; but you'll find every night will be jest like this. as soon as it's dark he gets where he belongs, an' don't take the chances of bein' out too late. comin' up here in the night an' tryin' any funny business is too much for a coward like him, an' i tell you we might as well go to sleep as to stand guard." nothing could have been more convincing to dan than this experience. when the amateur detective left them it seemed positive jip collins would attempt to work mischief before daybreak, and had he been forced to lie down on the bed of shavings by the side of his landlord, dan roberts would have felt decidedly uneasy in mind. now, however, since he had kept such poor watch, and it was evident the enemy had not been in that vicinity, he came to look at the matter much as did seth. although no absolute decision was arrived at regarding what should be done in the future as to standing guard, it was understood between these two inmates of the shed-home, that such precaution was unnecessary. among his other conveniences for housekeeping seth had a tin biscuit-box which served him as cupboard, and the two were in the custom of bringing home at night sufficient for their breakfast next morning. it was necessary dan should be ready to begin business at a very early hour, and when the sun rose these two merchants were usually making ready for the day's work. on this particular morning, however, they lingered over the meal, having much spare time at their disposal because of seth's early awakening, and shortly after daybreak both set out, one to visit the newspaper offices and the other to loiter in the vicinity of the engine-house until the firemen should require his services, for now nearly all the company patronized the lad, whom they were pleased to call "the amateur." it is but right, however, to state that he was paid for such services. after that first morning when seth had refused to take money from 'lish davis, he was given to understand that when the members of the company wanted boots blacked they were to pay for the labor, otherwise some other of the fraternity would be called upon. seth begged for the privilege of "shinin' for the crowd free," declaring that he should not lose any money through such gratuitous labor, for he would be familiarizing himself with the indoor details of a fireman's life. to this, however, 'lish davis made answer: "see here, my son, you've got your living to earn, and can't afford to give up bread an' butter for the sake of getting on to our work. we'll pay for the shines, or you don't put your nose inside this house, and as for finding out what we do hereabout, why it's nothing but drudgery. cleaning harnesses, setting the machines to rights, and keeping the place neat as a new pin make up the bulk of the work. so take a nickel for every shine you give, or out you go, never to come back." from that hour seth had been paid regularly, and, thanks to such patronage, he was in a great measure independent of other customers, because there was seldom a day when he did not earn at least twenty-five cents from ninety-four's men. thus it can be understood that he was warranted in loitering near the engine-house until his patrons should be ready for his services, and on this particular morning the first man who came out of doors found him seated on his box, leaning against the building, whistling cheerily. "feeling pretty good this morning, ain't you, kid?" the fireman asked rather as a greeting than for the purpose of gaining information, and the boy replied in a tone of perplexity: "i ain't certain about that, mr. walters." "not sure whether you're feeling good or not?" "no, an' that's a fact. has mr. davis turned out yet?" "well, s'pose he has? do you want to consult with him?" "that's 'bout the size of it." "he's inside with the horses; go right through." in order that he might not be an unwelcome visitor, seth had had sufficient good sense never to enter the building without an express invitation or permission, and perhaps because he was thus scrupulous the men were all the more willing to admit him. "hello! what's up?" 'lish davis asked as the boy appeared thus unannounced. "if you ain't very busy i'd like to talk with you 'bout somethin' that's botherin' my pardner an' me a good bit since last night." "fire away, lad. i reckon i've got time enough to listen to the story, unless it is in more than one chapter." "it ain't so very long, an' i'll be quick as i can," seth replied, and then he told, without going too much into detail, of his trouble with jip collins, and of the latest threats which the boy had made, according to sam barney's statement, concluding by saying: "now, i don't believe jip's got sand enough to do any sich thing as settin' fire to the shed, an' it's sure he didn't try it last night, 'cause he had every chance; but i've been thinkin' 'bout it while i was waitin' for the house to be opened, an' it kind-er come into my mind that perhaps he might make a bluff at it." "i wouldn't be surprised at anything some of these young villains did," 'lish davis said after a brief time of reflection. "the general run of street boys get an idea into their heads, and don't stop to realize what the consequences may be. let me see, you live in the rear of baxter's carpenter shop, don't you?" "yes, sir." "there's a brick building butts up against the back end of that lot, so your only chance of getting out would be to come through the lumber-yard?" "yes, sir." "well, it wouldn't amount to very much as a fire; but in case one got started there, you and your partner would stand a good show of getting a dose." seth understood the driver to mean that there was danger of being suffocated by the smoke, and he admitted that such might be the case, but added: "we can't do as sam barney says, an' set up every night watchin', else when would we sleep?" "why don't you leave this place for two or three days, and find some other quarters?" "that never'd do, 'cause jest as soon as the fellers knew i'd gone, they'd snoop 'round, an' i'd be thrown out of a home mighty quick." "you might get baxter to let you put a lock on the shed; that would keep them out." "i wouldn't like to do it, 'cause you see i've got an idea the carpenter has forgot all about my sleepin' there, an' perhaps if i was to flash up so fresh askin' for a lock on the bedroom door he'd think it was 'bout time for me to skip." "well, look here, seth, you might as well give me a shine, and while you 're doing that i'll see if i can think of a way out for you. i'm inclined to believe the same as your detective friend does, that it stands you in hand to keep a pretty good watch, and i'll speak to the cop on this beat." seth set about his professional duties without delay, and by the time one boot had been polished so perfectly that it reflected surrounding objects almost as well as a mirror, the fireman asked abruptly: "how old are you, kid?" "fourteen, accordin' to the way i figger it." "don't you know?" "well, you see, old miss washburn--she was the woman that claimed to bring me up, though it's precious little she did towards it--wasn't no ways certain herself, but that's what she allowed, so it's good enough for me." "haven't got any folks, eh?" "well, i did have a mother, you know, till i was a couple of years old, so miss washburn says." "where's your father?" "you see, i never had one, leastways not what you would call a real father, 'cause when a man is a reg'lar gin-pig, no decent feller is goin' to own up that he's his relation. the last time i saw him he was goin' down on the island for ninety days, an' that was as much as three years ago." "you've still got the fool idea in your mind that you're going to be a fireman?" "it ain't any fool idea, mr. davis, 'cause it's a fact. that's jest what i count on bein'." "look here, my son, i've been thinking about you a considerable bit since i found it was no use trying to scare you out of the plan, and in a year's time or so, i reckon, between the captain and walters and me, we can get you in up to headquarters. now, don't jump so! i didn't mean we allowed you could go there as a recruit; but the captain was saying the other night that we might work it so's you could get some kind of a berth there--sweeping floors, washing windows, and the like of that, which, if you keep your ears and eyes open, would amount to the same as if you went into actual training. you ain't the lad i've got in my eye if you couldn't soon work your way into one of the classes." "if i only might!" seth replied emphatically, with a long indrawing of the breath. "if i only might!" "i allow we'll work it, lad; but you must grow a good bit 'twixt now and then." "i'm hopin' to get an early spring moustache before long. sim jepson's got one, an' i'm goin' to do the same as he did, 'cause the fellers say he put somethin' on to make the hair grow." the driver laughed long and loud at this announcement made in the gravest tone, and called upon every idle man in the building to come and hear the "amateur's" latest scheme for getting into the department. the boy's face flushed a deep red before 'lish davis was willing to cease laughing at or repeating the proposition; but finally he wearied of his sport, and, his boots having long since been polished, said in a serious tone: "i'll speak to the cop on this beat about your friend collins, and in the meantime make it your business to hunt him up. let the little scoundrel know you've told me; that i'm going to post the policeman, and that he'll get a mighty hot reception if he should try any of his firebug business. i reckon some such hint will knock the mischief out of his head, unless he's a born idiot." then mr. davis walked away, intent on the morning duties, and seth set about his regular work until all the company had been served, after which he started down-town in accordance with the plan proposed by the driver. owing to customers, and they were unusually plentiful on this day, it was not until late in the afternoon that he arrived at city hall square, where jip collins was most often to be found, and here he met his partner. dan was delighted at learning what steps had been taken for their safety, although because of the previous night's experience he had begun to doubt if their enemy would dare carry his threats into effect, and the two at once made search for master collins. he had been seen thereabouts within an hour by more than one of seth's acquaintances; but now although the two searched until nightfall it was impossible to accomplish their purpose. it seemed much as if jip collins, learning that seth was in the vicinity, believed it wisest to keep out of sight, and after the night had fully come dan said impatiently: "it's no use spendin' so much time on that duffer, 'cause he won't show up again to-night. we've told so many of the fellers what 'lish davis said, that jip will be sure to hear of it before he goes to bed, an' perhaps that will be just as well as if you had met him, 'cause there might have been a row. let's go up and get a bowl of five-cent soup and a piece of pie. i can stand a ten-cent spread to-night, an' business has been good enough with you." to this proposition seth assented, and the two made their way to a certain restaurant on chatham street, where, after an unusually profitable day's work, they were in the custom of feasting. if there was any one thing in which dan roberts excelled it was in his ability to eat very fast and for a long while. he ordered the waiter to bring him the pie and the soup at the same time, and it seemed to seth as if he had but just begun before his partner was finished. "i reckon i can take one more bowl of that soup, an' then be through before you are," he said, thoughtfully. "i made pretty near forty cents, an' it's kind'er tough if a feller can't spend fifteen of it, eh?" "go ahead if you want the soup, an' are willin' to pay for it. it don't make any difference to me, 'cause i'll stay here till you're filled plum full; but i tell you what it is, dan, you're gettin' into an awful habit of eatin'." "is that what you call a habit?" "course it is. if you didn't think about it every minute, you wouldn't be so hungry." "i'm pretty near starved all the time as it is, an' i don't know how i'd get along with any less," dan replied apologetically, and then, the soup having been brought, he gave his undivided attention to the pleasing task. after the feast the boys, having nothing of special importance to do, lounged leisurely towards their home in the shed, and it was nearly nine o'clock before they crept into the box that served as chamber, both feeling tired and sleepy. not until they were inside did seth realize that they had not searched the lumber-yard, and he insisted that they go at once to make certain no enemy was hidden near at hand. "what's the use of that?" dan asked petulantly. "you can be sure jip collins ain't anywhere 'round here, 'cause some of the fellers have told him what we said long before this, an' he'll give the place a wide berth." "you ain't sure he knows that i told 'lish davis 'bout the threats he was makin'." "well, he didn't come last night, an' you was the one that said he wouldn't dare to show his nose 'round." "i know it; but somehow or other, dan, it seems as if we ought'er look out a little sharper, 'cause he might be fool enough to try such a game." "an' if he did after tellin' everybody about it, he'd go up the river ten or fifteen years, sure--i ain't certain but that it would be a life sentence." "yes, i know all that, dan, but jip ain't the kind of a feller to figger on sich things, an' if he gets a notion right solid in his head, there's no knowin' how big a fool he might make of himself, so let's go out an' have a look 'round." it was with an ill grace that dan followed seth, and even then his share in the search was of but little service owing to the fact that he hurried from one part of the yard to the other without making an effort to ascertain if any one was secreted in the many convenient hiding-places near at hand. after ten minutes or more had been spent by the two boys, seth performing his work faithfully and dan shirking, the partners retired, and it was as if they had but just stretched themselves at full length on the bed of shavings when both were asleep. if dan had been acting the part of sentinel just inside the shed door an hour after the two retired, he would have seen in the gloom three dark forms emerge from behind a pile of boards which he had failed to look over carefully, and advance cautiously toward the shed door, halting when they were twenty feet or more away. had he been there he would have recognized one of these as jip collins, and most probably suspected that the other two were the boys from brooklyn spoken of by the amateur detective. he would also have heard the conversation which followed; but he did not because he was asleep, and the lad who was willing to commit a crime in order to compass his revenge found no impediment in the way. "they're snorin' by this time, that's certain," jip said to his comrades, "an' even if they wasn't we might talk here for an hour without their hearin', 'cause seth's room is in the farther end of the shed, and there's a whole pile of lumber between him an' the door. he don't believe in going out much after he's got inside the yard, for fear the carpenter will see him, so we can make up our minds that there's nothin' to stop us." "where do you count on starting the fire?" "right close by the shed door, of course. i know where to get a lot of shavings." "but it won't do to set it so near, because the fellers might be burned to death, an' that would be a pretty piece of business, jip collins." "gettin' scared, eh?" "you don't want to talk to me 'bout gettin' scared, a feller who'd let another only half his size back him down same's you did last night." [illustration: jip collins and the boys from brooklyn. _page_ 34.] "if you ain't scared, what are you makin' a row 'bout now? we 'greed to put a fire here so's to singe seth an' dan a little." "yes, i agreed to that much; but i don't count on killing 'em." "neither do i." "but how can you help it if you build the fire right close to the door, when there's no other way for 'em to get out?" "don't you s'pose they've got sense enough to wake up before the thing gets too far along?" "i've heard of folks bein' smothered to death while they was asleep, an' i ain't in this game if that's the way you're goin' to work it." "then back out if you're scared, an' i'll do it." without paying any further attention to his companions, jip made his way to the rear of the carpenter's shop, where he knew would be found an ample supply of light wood and shavings, and when he returned, his arms filled with the inflammable material, neither of his friends from brooklyn could be seen. chapter iii. jip's revenge. if jip collins had not accused the brooklyn boys of being afraid, it is doubtful if he would have dared to set fire to the shed. now it seemed to him as if he must carry out the proposed crime, or set himself down as a coward, and because of being deficient in bravery his one fear was lest such fact should be generally known. he was on the spot; the materials for kindling a blaze were in his arms, and it appeared at that moment to him as if it was absolutely necessary he should perform what he had so often threatened without really intending to do. the shavings and light wood were laid at the door of the shed. jip was careful not to place them in such a manner as would be best calculated to produce the fiercest blaze; but dropped them without heed, as if saying to himself that chance should decide whether the building caught fire or not. he drew several matches from his pocket, and looked around apprehensively, hearing in every noise the footsteps of an officer coming to drag him to prison. after thus hesitating several moments he understood beyond a peradventure that he was alone--that nothing save his own conscience prevented him from carrying into effect his plan of revenge. it should be said that at this moment jip failed to realize what might be the consequences of such an act. one of the brooklyn boys had suggested the possibility that those in the shed might be burned to death if the fire was started near the door; but to this jip had given little heed. he could not believe that two active lads like seth and dan would be overpowered by a little smoke, and felt assured the firemen would arrive so soon after the blaze had been kindled that very little damage could ensue. after this brief time of hesitation he turned toward the pile of wood and shavings once more, with a gesture as if impatient with himself for delaying. then he lighted a match, protecting the tiny flame with both hands until it was a sturdy blaze, after which, instead of holding it to the shavings, he threw it away. for one instant his conscience had triumphed; but it was only for an instant. he lighted another match, hurriedly this time, as if fearing he might not have the courage to apply it, and when it was fully on fire muttered to himself: "i'll drop it an' take the chances. if she burns, it's a go, an' if she don't, i've done as much as i've threatened." he suited the action to the words, and not daring to wait for the result, ran hurriedly into the deserted street. it was his intention to continue on, halting only when having arrived at his home; but now that the mischief might have been done he was so thoroughly alarmed that it seemed impossible he could leave the vicinity. partially concealing himself in a doorway he waited almost breathlessly, hoping fervently the match had been extinguished when it fell, and as the seconds passed, each one seeming a full minute, a great hope came into his heart, for he believed chance had decreed that the fire should not be kindled. then a stifled cry of fear burst from his lips, for he had suddenly seen a bright tongue of flame leap up, and he knew the crime had been committed in fact as well as spirit. at this moment he remembered the words of his friends from brooklyn as distinctly as if they had but just been spoken, and like a flash came the realization that perhaps he had done that which would result in the loss of human life. the flames increased until they were reflected on the wall of brick in the rear, and it seemed to jip as if the shed must already be in a blaze. "why don't somebody send in an alarm?" he said, speaking aloud in his anxiety, although there was no one at hand to hear him. "seth an' dan will be burned to death if the engines don't get here mighty soon!" then came the thought, for he believed the fire was already beyond control, that it would be impossible to rescue the boys--that he was indeed a murderer, for it seemed to him as if an exceedingly long time had elapsed since he first saw the tiny ray of light. now his one desire was that an alarm might be sent in, yet no one could be seen or heard in either direction. each moment of delay increased the peril, and when he had waited in most painful suspense for ten seconds it was impossible to remain inactive any longer. far down the street a red light could be seen, denoting the location of a fire-alarm station, and he ran toward it as he had never run before, so nervous when he would have opened the outer door of the box that for two or three seconds it was impossible to turn the handle. when he did so the sound of the warning gong, intended to notify the policeman on that beat that the box was being opened, caused him to start back in alarm, for he fancied the officers of justice were already on his trail. jip had many times seen a call rung in, and in the merest fraction of time he recovered from his fears as he understood the cause of this sudden noise. then he opened the outer door and pulled down the lever once; and from that instant until the first engine appeared, which was ninety-four, it seemed to him as if an hour had passed, although in fact the company of which seth considered himself in a certain degree a member, had responded to the call in less than three minutes. jip was standing by the signal-box when a rumble and roar in the distance told of the coming of ninety-four, and he watched as if fascinated the fountain of sparks which went up from the smoke-stack; listened to the sharp clicking of the horses' shoes on the pavement; to the din of the gongs, and the cries of startled pedestrians in the rear--hearing everything, seeing everything, but yet all the while as if in a dream. nearer and nearer came the puffing engine drawn by three plunging horses as if it had been no more than a toy, and then, his brain still in a whirl, jip heard as if from afar off, the question: "where's the fire?" "in baxter's carpenter shop!" the engine was some distance beyond him by the time he had answered the question, and from the opposite direction he heard the rush of a second on-coming machine; then here and there the rumble of wheels and hoof-beats of horses driven at their utmost speed, until it seemed as if by that one pull on the lever of the signal-box he had aroused the entire city. now seth and dan would be saved if they were yet alive. at that moment there was no hope in jip's mind that they could still be living. it was as if he had lighted that match an hour ago, so slowly had the seconds passed, and with the thought of them as dead--burned to death through his act--came wildest terror. he fancied every fireman on ninety-four had recognized him as they rode past in such mad haste, and knew him to be the one who had committed the crime. there was no place in his mind for any thought save that of his own danger, and instantly he started at full speed down the street, never daring to so much as glance behind him, although no man pursued. when the "joker," which is the name given by firemen to the combination-bell, in ninety-four's house rang out the number of the call sent in by jip, and as the horses, released by the mechanical trip moved by the joker, dashed out of their stalls, 'lish davis believed he knew beyond a question to what particular building they were summoned. instantly that which seth had told him came into his mind, and with it the painful thought that perhaps by his own neglect he had contributed to what might be a fatal disaster. "and i never so much as warned the policeman on this beat!" he said to himself as he leaped to his seat on the engine, snapped into place the belt that would hold him there, and with a quick jerk on the reins released the harness-catch. ninety-four had seldom left the house more quickly, and certainly the horses were never urged to a higher rate of speed than now, when 'lish davis charged himself with criminal neglect. during the minute and a half which intervened before they reached the station from which the alarm had been sent, the driver of ninety-four conceived an absolute affection for the boy who had so persistently followed up his idea of becoming a fireman, and, prompted by the prickings of his own conscience, perhaps, he muttered to himself: "the kid shall go into the department if i can put him there, providing it so be we find----" he did not finish the sentence, for at that instant it was to 'lish davis as if he must in a certain degree take upon himself the results of this night's work. when they dashed past the station he needed not jip's reply to tell him whence came the glow of light which could now be seen reflected on the taller buildings, and ninety-four got water a full two minutes before any other engine. "that little bootblack, seth bartlett, sleeps in the shed behind the shop," 'lish called hoarsely as the men ran swiftly through the lumber-yard, and, hearing the words even above the tooting of whistles, the sounding of gongs from the on-coming engines, and the puffing of steam, jerry walters cried: "i'll look out for him, 'lish!" every man heard the driver's cry, and knew that the amateur fireman was in danger. they also knew where he slept, having been given by the boy himself a description of his home, and with the first crash of jerry's axe as he burst in the door of the shed, the men set up a shout which sounded like music in 'lish's ears. it was jip collins who had started the fire, and he also was the means of saving the lives of seth and dan after the mischief had been wrought, for the firemen gained the box-like apartment not one moment too soon. all unconscious of the danger which threatened, the boys had slept on until the noisome vapor overcame without awakening them, and when jerry carried the two out into the street through the piles of lumber which were already beginning to blaze, he said to joe black as the latter advanced to help him take the apparently lifeless bodies to one of the patrol-wagons drawn up near at hand: "i'm afraid the amateur has got more of a dose than he can well stand." ten minutes later, when seth woke to consciousness, dan was lying by his side in the bottom of the wagon, and 'lish davis bent over him. "it must be that jip collins did what he threatened," he said, speaking with difficulty because of the parched, burning sensation in his throat. "ay, lad, that's what he did, and this town won't be big enough to hold him after daylight to-morrow morning." "but why are you here, mr. davis? what about the team?" "ben dunton is on hand, and i'm off duty for the time being till i can make sure whether you're alive or not." seth knew that ben dunton was 'lish's "relief," therefore the driver was not neglecting his duty by thus staying with him. "is it a bad fire?" he asked. "the shop and about half the lumber-yard will go. it's nothing to speak of, lad, save for the fact of its having been kindled that murder might be done." "i don't believe jip collins really meant to kill us. he most likely thought we would get out before it was very bad. is dan all right?" "there's nothing much the matter with me," master roberts replied in what he intended should be a cheery tone. "i've been awake quite a spell, an' thought you'd never open your eyes." "sure you're all right?" 'lish asked, shaking seth gently as if doubting whether the boy was fully conscious. "of course i am, an' now we're inside the lines there's a good chance for me to look 'round after points. i'm going into the yard to see what ninety-four's men are doin'." "i reckon you'll lay where you are for a spell," 'lish said with a grim smile, speaking half to himself, and in such a low tone that neither of the boys heard the words. seth attempted to rise; but had no more than gotten up on one elbow when a most violent nausea assailed him, and he fell back on the rubber blankets which had served as pillow, feeling much as he looked--desperately ill. "don't feel like wiggling 'round to any great extent, eh?" 'lish asked, understanding full well the boy's sensations, and so relieved at knowing his life had been saved that the temporary sickness seemed as nothing. "i don't see what makes me feel so bad," and seth did his best to speak in a careless tone. "if it so be you ever get into the department, lad, this ain't the first dose you'll take, nor the heaviest. it's the smoke which came nigh to strangling you, and there ain't a man that answers to ninety-four's roll-call who can't tell exactly how you feel." "i've got to brace up pretty soon, or dan an' me will have to walk 'round the streets the balance of the night, now our housekeepin' is broken up." "don't worry about that, lad. i reckon the captain will give you a shelter till daylight, and after that we'll see what can be done." then 'lish, understanding that he could render no assistance, left the two boys to join his comrades, who were fighting the fire as gallantly in the lumber-yard as they would have done at a palatial residence. "so jip collins had sand enough to try an' burn us out, didn't he?" dan said interrogatively. "i'll run across that duffer one of these days, and when i get through with him he won't set anybody else's shed on fire!" "the police will most likely get hold of him, 'cause mr. davis knows all about what he threatened, an' even if sam barney didn't let out the whole story, the driver will." having said this seth relapsed into silence, for his bodily condition was such that it seemed a severe exertion to so much as speak. the fire was subdued, but not extinguished, when the patrol-wagon was driven away with ben dunton on the front seat, and dan asked in a tone of awe: "do you s'pose they're goin' to carry us up to the engine-house?" "it seemed as though that was what mr. davis meant; but yet i'm afraid we're bound for the hospital." "well, say, you don't catch me inside of one! i ain't goin' to flock in with a lot of dyin' folks jest 'cause i've got a little smoke down my throat," and dan, who was not suffering as much as his partner, attempted to scramble to his feet, whereat ben dunton shouted gruffly: "lay still there, you two kids, or i'll come down and know the reason why!" "we ain't goin' to no hospital!" dan cried angrily. "who asked you to? you don't allow we're running an ambulance for such kids as you, eh?" "where are we goin'?" "lay still and you'll find out." seth had learned enough regarding a fireman's life to know that the first engine at the scene of a conflagration must be the last to leave, therefore wherever ben dunton might be taking them, there was little chance of seeing 'lish davis until the following morning. to the great delight of both the boys the patrol-wagon was drawn up in front of ninety-four's house, and dunton asked: "can you lads get out alone, or shall i lend a hand?" "are we goin' to stay here all night?" dan asked suspiciously. "of course you are. it's the captain's orders, and you're to have 'lish davis's bed." this was sufficient to cause a decided change in seth's condition. the fact that he was to sleep in the engine-house as if he had been a member of the department was so great an honor that for the time being his illness was banished. the boys alighted from the vehicle without assistance and followed ben dunton into the building, where a report was made to the house-watchman regarding the guests, who were then conducted to the floor above. "there's where you're to sleep," the fireman said, pointing to the driver's bed. "and you want to get in some precious big licks, for it ain't often 'lish davis puts himself out in this fashion for anybody, especially when he's likely to be on duty six or eight hours. no skylarking, now, but get between the sheets as quick as you know how." no second bidding was necessary, and five minutes later the two boys were enjoying a greater degree of comfort than they had ever fancied would be possible, seth refusing to join in the conversation which his partner would have started, in order to give himself wholly up to building air-castles, all based on the fire department with himself rising from the grade of recruit to that of battalion-chief. slumber closed their eyelids in due time, however, and they journeyed so far into the recesses of dreamland that neither heard the home-coming of ninety-four, nor the bustle consequent upon cleaning up and making ready for duty once more. it was seven o'clock in the morning when seth awakened, and for the first time since having been told he was to sleep in 'lish's bed, he realized how much inconvenience and possible discomfort he might have caused the driver. "say, dan, we did a mighty mean thing to sleep here, an' perhaps mr. davis had to set up all night. hustle your clothes on as quick as you know how, so's we can get down-stairs an' tell him we're ashamed of it." neither of the boys was feeling any the worse for the painful experience of the previous night, and in a remarkably short space of time they were ready to descend, but not by the stairs. for the first time in his life seth enjoyed the pleasure of sliding down the pole to the floor below, and this method of descending served to strengthen certain portions of the air-castles he had built just before falling asleep. the driver was found grooming one of the horses, and greeted the boys before either could speak, by saying cheerily: "well, how are you getting along after your dose of last night?" "first-rate, sir. we're as well as ever; but feelin' mighty mean to think we used your bed an' kept you up all night." "you didn't do anything of the kind, lad. we got back about four o'clock, and i found plenty of spare beds for the short nap i wanted. i reckon you lost everything you owned, eh?" "yes, sir; but that wasn't very much. my box, brushes, and what we had brought home for breakfast." "how will you get another outfit?" "i guess i've got money enough for a second-hand box and brushes; but if i haven't some of the fellers will lend me what's needed, an' i'm goin' now to pick up the things, so's to get back in time to do the shinin' here." "there are brushes and blacking belonging to the house, and you can use them this morning, which will give you a little extra towards buying a new outfit. haven't been to breakfast yet, have you?" "that don't count, even if we haven't, 'cause we can get something later," and seth, knowing where to find the tools of his trade, set about his customary morning's work, while dan lounged here and there, feeling that he was a very fortunate lad in thus being a guest of ninety-four's men. half an hour later, in company with dan, seth, richer by thirty cents, set out in search of a second-hand box and brushes. save in the way of questioning him concerning the boy who was believed to have started the fire in the lumber-yard, none of the men treated the bootblack other than in their customary manner, and seth departed with the fear in his mind that they were glad to be rid of him. no sooner had he gone, however, than 'lish davis addressed three or four of his comrades who were near at hand, saying emphatically: "look here, that boy seth is bent on getting into the department, and i tell you when a lad sticks to one thing as he's stuck to that for the last year, some one ought to lend him a hand." "you ain't thinking of getting him taken on here, are you, 'lish?" walters asked with a laugh. "i've got a plan in my head, and allow that the rest of you can help me through with it. if all hands of us turn to we can get the boy a job at headquarters, and he ain't the lad i've taken him to be if he don't put himself in the way of being received as a recruit when he's grown stouter and a little older. now, such a lift as that won't be much for us, and it may be the making of him." "do you allow it's a good idea, 'lish davis, to help a boy into the department when he might learn a trade which wouldn't be that of risking his life two or three times every day?" "would you turn tinker, or tailor, or candlestick-maker, jerry walters, in order to avoid risking your life two or three times a day?" "it's different with me, 'lish. i've been here so long i couldn't give it up." "and it would be almost as hard for that lad to give up his idea. i tried to frighten it out of him when he first came around here; but he didn't scare worth a cent, and i tell you again that he'll make a cracking good man for some company one of these days." "if there's anything i can do to help the thing along, you may count me in," walters replied, and the other members of the company who heard the remark pledged themselves to the same thing. "we'll let him hoe his own row till everything is ready, 'cause it may do harm if he gets to thinking somebody is trying to give him a lift." "what's to be done with the kid who started the fire?" "i repeated to the captain all the "amateur" told me, so i reckon he'll be attended to. is ben dunton in the house?" "upstairs asleep." "then i'm going out for a bit. i want to see the battalion-chief." "going to strike for seth while the iron's hot, eh?" "that's what i'm thinking of, jerry," and while seth bartlett was making ready to continue his business of blacking boots, 'lish davis began in his behalf the efforts which he believed would result favorably, so far as the boy's ambition was concerned. chapter iv. sam the detective. the sidewalk merchants in the vicinity of the post-office were well informed of seth bartlett's loss by the time he arrived in that section of the city. those who had not heard the story from dan roberts read an account of the destruction of baxter brothers' carpenter-shop in the morning papers during the early part of the day before the business rush began, and thus it was seth found himself the centre of a sympathizing crowd of acquaintances as soon as he crossed city hall park. master barney had but just returned from a journey supposed to have been taken in search of the boy who had robbed him, and he immediately cast aside his own business troubles in order to "work the case against jip collins," as he expressed it. sam was among the throng gathered to meet the homeless bootblack, and when others would have asked for further particulars regarding the conflagration, even though dan had given all the information in his possession, the amateur detective checked the curious ones by saying sharply: "this ain't any time to talk foolishness, 'cause if i'm goin' to take up this case i must get right down to it before jip has a chance to run very far." "what do you mean by takin' up the case?" seth asked in surprise, and dan roberts replied quickly: "sam says he's willin' to go after jip collins, an' will stick at it till he catches him." "that's what i've 'greed to, an' i'm in dead earnest, seth. of course you can't afford to pay a reg'lar detective a whole lot of money jest to find jip for you; but i can do the work as well, an' you needn't put out a cent more'n i'm called on to spend for expenses." "what do _you_ want of jip?" seth asked in surprise. "to have him 'rested for settin' fire to your shed, of course." "_i_ don't want anythin' of the kind. i reckon he's sorry enough for what he did without my tryin' to make more trouble for him." "do you mean to say you're willin' he should burn the shed an' come pretty nigh killin' you?" "course i ain't willin'; but now it's been done there's no need for me to try to put him in jail, 'cause it won't do any good, an' i'd feel bad to think any feller i knew was up to sing sing doin' time." it was evident that but few of the sidewalk merchants agreed with seth in the view he took of the matter. the majority of them believed jip should be pursued until captured, and then punished to the full extent of the law. some were inclined to the opinion that sam barney might possibly succeed in running down the culprit, but these credulous ones were the most intimate friends of the amateur detective, and by far the larger number of the throng thought a formal complaint should be lodged with the officers of the law against the boy who had so nearly caused the death of seth and dan. sam barney was literally astounded at the forgiving spirit which the would-be fireman displayed, and this first burst of astonishment soon gave way to something like anger. he said in what was intended to be a fine tone of irony: "well, you're too good, seth bartlett, that's what's the matter with you! here's dan been tellin' that you were jest about the same as dead when ninety-four's men got in there. the snuggest house in town burned, an' you thrown out of a home! after all that you've got the nerve to say there's no reason why we should catch jip collins! i ain't certain as you've got anythin' to do with it. s'posen the cops find out what was done--an' most likely ninety-four's driver that you claim is a chum of yours will tell 'em--how are you goin' to help it if they try to find him?" "i can't, an' that's a fact; but i haven't got to start the thing myself." "what would you do if you should meet him right here this very minute?" "i'm 'fraid i'd thump him." "'fraid!" sam repeated sarcastically. "why, you ought'er pound his head off, an' then have him jugged." "you see, it's jest like this, fellers," seth said in an apologetic tone as he looked around at his friends and acquaintances, understanding full well that they disapproved of his leniency. "it's jest like this: if a feller gets to fightin' on the street he's likely to be pulled in for it, an' then perhaps he has to go down to the island for ten days or so. now you all know i'm tryin' to work into the department, an' what kind of show would i stand if there was a record like that against me? fellers who get up a name for fightin' don't 'mount to very much, 'cordin' to what i've seen, an' that's why i said i was 'fraid i might thump jip. you see, what's done now will stand against me when i'm old enough to be a fireman, an' i've got to look out mighty careful for that. now, so far's puttin' jip in jail goes, i don't want anythin' to do with it." "i can't see how that's goin' to give you a bad name," some one of the throng cried. "i reckon it couldn't; but it might stand against jip when he grows up, an' if i should let sam take the case i'd be hurtin' jip more'n he did me, so it wouldn't be fair." "but you don't allow folks can go 'round settin' fire to houses an' tryin' to burn other people up without havin' to pay for it?" "course i don't, an' jip ought'er get it hot for what he's done; but i won't be the one to send him up the river." "if that's the way seth feels 'bout it we haven't got any right to kick," dan suggested, and sam barney cried sharply: "i say we have! jest 'cause seth is gettin' so awful good on account of wantin' to go into the department, there's no reason why we should let jip collins sneak away after what's been done, an' i'll take up the case on my own hook rather than see him wiggle out of it." "have you got the feller yet what stole your money?" dan asked in a meaning tone, whereat the remainder of the company set up a loud shout of derision, much to the amateur detective's discomfort. "if i haven't that's no sign i can't. i reckon i know enough 'bout the business to handle two cases at the same time, if i want to, an' you'll see if i don't pull jip collins over the coals before i'm a week older." then sam stalked away with the bearing of one who feels that he has been injured, and the remainder of the party discussed the events of the previous night without further reference to the arrest of the evil-doer. when the subject had been exhausted seth made inquiries concerning any bootblack's outfit which might be for sale, and half an hour later he was once more the owner of a box and brushes. "the fire has cost me seventy cents, besides the breakfast we lost when the place was burned," he said to dan, and the latter replied mournfully: "i'd have been willin' to give a good deal more'n that right out of my own pocket, poor as trade has been, than to lose the snuggest lodgin'-place in this town. we'll never find anythin' that will come up with that shed." "cryin' won't help out on it. what we've got to do is to hunt up another shanty where we can bunk in without givin' up too much money, for after havin' to buy a new outfit i can't afford to fool away good dollars payin' for a bed at a reg'lar lodgin'-house." "you'll never get anythin' that will come up to the shanty jip collins set on fire," dan replied sadly, and as the realization of their loss came to him with redoubled force now that the time had arrived when they must search for new lodgings, he gave way to anger against the boy who had wrought them so much mischief, as if believing this would mend matters. seth waited patiently until his partner had indulged in such outburst several moments, after which he said sagely: "now, look here, dan, scoldin' won't fix things the least little bit, an' there's no sense in keepin' on tellin 'bout how big a villain jip collins is. what we've got to do is to hustle, an' in the long run we'll find that will pay better'n ravin'. do you know of any place where we can stop for a night or two till i've had time to look 'round more?" "if i did i'd taken it long ago, instead of payin' you fifteen cents a week for half of your quarters." "well, we've got to find one; that's all there is to it. now, s'posen, instead of tryin' to do any more business to-day, we mosey right along about it." "where you goin'?" "i don't exactly know. we'll kind-er loaf 'round; that's the way i found the carpenter-shop, an' if it turns out we don't see a place, why, it'll be a case of puttin' up the stuff for one night's lodgin's." "i ain't sure as i've got money enough left to pay for a reg'lar bed." "i reckon i can squeeze out what'll pay the bills if you're broke. now, come on." unconsciously seth led the way toward ninety-four's house, not really being aware he was proceeding in that direction, and after walking several blocks in silence dan asked almost sharply: "are you countin' on their lettin' us hang 'round the engine-house?" "course not. the firemen can't do anythin' like that, you know. we was mighty lucky to get a bed there last night, an' wouldn't had it except that we'd been burned out." "then what are you goin' up this way for?" "there's jest as much chance 'round here as anywhere, an' of course i'd sooner live near ninety-four, 'cause i do a good deal of shinin' for the men. then ag'in, i don't want to lose run of 'em, for perhaps some day 'lish davis'll give me a lift into the department." "there's no use lookin' here, 'cause we'd known if there was any place that would suit us." "i ain't so sure of that. you see, we wasn't lookin' for one, an' now if we go along with our eyes open there's no tellin' but what we may run----" seth ceased speaking very suddenly, for at that instant the clanging of gongs could be heard far up the street, and dan exclaimed: "that sounds like ninety-four." "course it is. i'd know her if she was in the middle of a hundred, an' all of 'em comin' straight for me." there was no longer a thought in the mind of either of the boys regarding the necessity of finding a home that night. under no ordinary circumstances would seth have allowed himself to be prevented from getting possible "points," and although dan did not share in the aspirations of his friend, he was equally excited by the prospect of "going to a fire." the two waited breathlessly an instant, expecting ninety-four would continue straight on toward them, when from the opposite direction came the clatter of wheels and the booming notes of the gongs telling of the coming of a second engine, and they knew that at some point midway the two engines would be turned at right angles with their present course. "come this way! it looks to me as though ninety-four was slackenin' up!" master bartlett cried as he darted forward, and dan readily followed the advice, for while he did not approve of his friend's devotion to the fire department, he understood full well that seth was thoroughly conversant with all such matters as might be learned by an outsider. "there she goes, an' i wouldn't wonder if the alarm came from some of them big storage warehouses, for ninety-four is headin' straight toward them." the first engine had swung sharply around to the left, and the driver of the second was urging his horses forward at yet greater speed, in the hope, perhaps, of getting first water, when the two boys dashed up the street at their best pace, for to seth at least there was but one engine and one point of attraction at any conflagration, however extensive. while it is probable he could have "picked up as many points" from other companies, it did not so appear to him, and in his mind it was only from the crew of ninety-four he could gather such information as was most desired. before they neared the station from which the alarm had been sent the throng on the sidewalks, added to from nearly every house, had so increased that it was only by taking to the street regardless of the danger to be apprehended from hose-carts, hook-and-ladder trucks, patrol-wagons, or water-towers, that the boys could make any satisfactory headway, and because of their being thus hampered in their movements ninety-four's men had already begun their work when seth and dan arrived at a point outside the fire lines where they could see the machine. here a single policeman kept the crowd in check, and seth whispered excitedly to his partner: "now's our time! if we're anyways smart we'll get in before that copper can catch us. wait till somebody tries to pass, an' then scoot. don't stop if he yells, 'cause he won't dare leave here to chase us." "i thought 'lish davis said he'd have his eye out so's you couldn't get into the fire lines?" "that's what he said." "ain't you 'fraid he'll be mad if he finds you in there?" "he knows i've got to do this thing, else i'll never get posted on the business; but of course if we should sneak in an' he told us to march straight out ag'in, i'd feel as though i ought'er go. we won't stand very near ninety-four, an' then there'll be less chance of his knowin' we're around." the opportunity which seth desired came a few seconds later. two gentlemen who were curious to see the workings of the fire department nearer at hand than was possible while they remained outside the lines, approached the officer on duty with the idea that it was only necessary to bluster or threaten a little in order to pass him without difficulty, and while they were alternately entreating and threatening seth gave the signal. stooping until their heads were beneath the rope, the two boys darted up the street, which was covered with a veritable network of hose, and before the officer was fully aware of their intentions they were lost to his view amid the panting, quivering monsters of steel and iron whose mission is to save, rather than destroy. "there's 'lish davis on the engine!" dan said, speaking indistinctly because of his breath, which came thick and fast. "it looks to me as if he has seen us." "we'll keep over this way a bit where there's no danger of his comin'. watch our men try to get up that stairway! ain't they the dandies!" the fire was, as seth had first surmised, in a storage warehouse, and it appeared from the outside as if the entire second floor of the building was in a blaze. the men had battered in the doors only to be met by a mass of flames which seemed to roll in huge columns down the staircase to the new outlet which had thus been made, and just as the boys arrived the brave fellows were momentarily beaten back by the scorching element until they stood on the first landing in plain sight of seth and dan. jerry walters and joe black were at the nozzle, with ben dunton close in the rear, and at the moment seth called his partner's attention to the scene the captain of ninety-four shouted encouragingly: "now, hit it up, boys! get in there! get in! get in!" then it was the flames retreated momentarily, and those who were doing such gallant battle advanced step by step up the stairs seemingly into the very midst of the fiery cloud, until they were entirely hidden by the downpour of black smoke which came from the open doorway in volume sufficient to drive back even those on the sidewalk. while this desperate fight was in progress other men had raised a ladder and were prying open one of the iron shutters on the second floor in order to use more hose, and, yet trembling with apprehension for the safety of those friends who had last been seen in the very midst of the fiery element, seth involuntarily glanced toward the remainder of the company on the outside, while dan looked back to make certain 'lish davis was not preparing to drive them from their place of vantage. that which he saw reassured him so far as any immediate danger of such kind was to be feared, for the driver of ninety-four was unhitching his horses, knowing from the general appearance of the blazing building that the company had a long task before them. at that instant a crashing, rending noise as of an explosion sounded high above the din, and one of the iron shutters which the men had been trying to force open was hurled from its fastenings and thrown outward into the street, falling within half a dozen feet of where davis was busy with his horses. following it was a mighty rush of flame as if the interior was a seething mass of fire; loud shouts of command rang out, and then came even above all the din the clatter of a horse's iron-shod hoofs as he dashed madly away in affright. involuntarily seth had followed with his eyes the flight of the shutter, and, unconscious of even having made a movement, he sprang toward ninety-four as if in the time of danger that was his post of duty. he saw the heavy mass of metal as it struck the pavement, and instantly afterward was aware of what very few gave heed to because of the fact that all eyes were fixed upon the building, from whence might naturally be expected another explosion. the nigh horse of the team, one that had been in service only a few weeks, leaped forward in frantic terror, and by some strange mishap was dragging his driver behind him. at the moment seth had no thought of possible danger to himself. his mind was upon 'lish davis's peril to the exclusion of everything else, and almost involuntarily he sprang toward the maddened animal, dan close at his heels. it was by accident rather than good judgment that he succeeded in gaining a hold of the bridle just above the bit, swinging himself outward by aid of his elbow to avoid being struck by the beast's forefeet. his weight was not sufficient to bring the frightened animal to a standstill instantly; but he succeeded in checking his speed so far that the engineer of ninety-four had time to come to his assistance, and between the two the runaway was stopped. a buckle on davis's coat had caught in one of the rings of the harness, and this it was which held him prisoner after having been thrown from his feet by the animal's sudden plunge. "are you hurt?" seth asked anxiously, still retaining his hold of the bridle, and the driver replied grimly as he scrambled to his feet: "a man is bound to get a few knocks after such a course of treatment; but i reckon that all the harm which has been done is a little skin broken here and there. do you know, lad, it's a mighty dangerous thing to jump for a horse in that fashion?" [illustration: seth catches the horse. _page_ 68.] "i caught him all right, sir." "yes, that i know, else i wouldn't be standing on my feet this minute; but suppose you had missed your hold? he would have had you under his feet in a jiffy." "but he didn't, so i can't see as that counts very much; but all the same, i was willin' to take the chances." 'lish davis, having assured himself that he had spoken correctly so far as personal injuries were concerned, took charge of the horse; the engineer went back to his post, and seth, fearing lest he should be driven outside the line, was making his way toward the building once more with dan by his side when the driver shouted: "come back here, you young rattle-brain! how did you get inside the lines?" "crept under the rope when the copper wasn't lookin'. it ain't any very hard job to do that." "don't you know you're liable to be arrested for doing anything of that sort?" "well, we had to take the chances, you see, 'cause it wouldn't do to miss a fire like this," seth replied, half apologetically, and dan cried in his shrill tone: "it's mighty lucky for you, mr. davis, that he did sneak inside this once." "i ain't likely to forget that, you rapscallion; but it has got nothing to do with you lads being where you don't belong, and that's right about here." "please don't send us away!" seth cried imploringly. "we'll keep out of sight so the chief won't see us, an' nobody will know where we are." "i'll take precious good care you can't get into more mischief. come over here, both of you, an' stick right by ninety-four till i give the word to leave. don't you dare to so much as move till the engine does, an' if there's any more mishaps, steer clear of them instead of doing your level best to run into trouble. are you hearing what i'm saying?" "yes, sir," seth replied meekly, and then the boys obeyed readily, for mr. davis had stationed them in the very place above all others where they could see everything which occurred, and dan said in a tone of satisfaction: "it was a mighty good thing, your stoppin' that horse. you never had a better chance to see a fire than this is, an' we'd better hold on to it precious close." "that's a fact; but i ain't gettin' so many points as i might if we walked 'round." "you'd better be satisfied with what's a soft snap, even if you don't get points," master roberts replied grimly, and then he gave himself up to the pleasure of watching the battle between the firemen and the elements, for a third alarm had been rung in, and the number of men at work round about was more than either he or seth had ever seen engaged at any one time before. the hours passed to these two small but decidedly interested spectators as if they were composed of no more than one quarter the usual number of minutes, and when night came the conflagration was subdued but not extinguished. ninety-four had gotten first water, and, consequently, would be the last to leave the scene. here and there the companies dismissed from this particular duty were taking up their hose, or already driving away in order to be ready for the next alarm. the throng of spectators just outside the lines had diminished in number until no more than an hundred remained, and 'lish davis came up with the appearance of one who has already done his full duty. "hello, amateur! still here, eh?" "you told us to stay, sir." "i didn't allow that you'd hold on to go out with us. we're like to be here till well towards morning, an' if you lads have got the price of a bed about your clothes you'd better be leaving. if you haven't, i'll ante up something to hire one." "we've got the money, sir," seth replied; "but seein' 's we belong to ninety-four jest now, why can't we stay till she pulls out?" "please yourself, amateur, please yourself," was the grim reply, and as the driver turned away he muttered, "if that bloomin' little duffer don't get into the department it won't be 'lish davis's fault, an' that goes for a fact." chapter v. tardy repentance. seth was as happy and proud as a boy well could be. never before had he dared to remain very long near any particular engine lest some of the firemen should take it upon themselves to send him outside the lines, consequently all his "points" had been gathered as he moved from place to place. now, however, he was in a certain sense attached to ninety-four, and each member of the company had some kindly word with which to greet him, for it had become known to all that if the amateur did not actually save 'lish davis's life, he had assisted in preventing that gentleman from receiving severe injury. dan was enjoying the advantages thus arising from his partner's popularity, which was quite sufficient for him, since, not aspiring to become a fireman, he thought only of the present moment, and the privilege of remaining by the engine as if he were really a member of the department was some thing of which he could boast in the future among his comrades. it is true there was little of interest to be seen after the fire was apparently extinguished, when the men had nothing more to do than remain on the lookout for any smoldering embers which might be fanned into a blaze; but seth's interest was almost as great as when the flames were fiercest. shortly after sunset hot coffee and sandwiches were served to the weary firemen, and master bartlett believed he had taken a long stride toward the goal he had set himself, when the captain shouted: "come here, you two kids, and get your rations. while doing duty with ninety-four you're entitled to all that's going." dan ran forward eagerly, intent only on getting his share of the food, for he was very hungry; but seth walked slowly in order to prolong the pleasure of obeying the captain's command, and could almost fancy he was wearing the city's uniform. he stood by 'lish davis's side when the lunch was passed around, and that gentleman said grimly as seth blew on the steaming coffee to cool it: "you mustn't do that if you ever count on being a fireman, amateur." "why not?" and seth looked up in surprise. "because you must get used to hot things. supposing you could drink that while it was boiling? don't you reckon you'd stand the heat from a blaze better and longer than them who need to have it mighty nigh cold?" this seemed reasonable to seth, and without stopping to further consider the matter he instantly raised the cup to his lips, drinking the hot liquid until the pain was so great as to bring tears to his eyes. then he lowered the cup slowly, striving manfully to repress any sign of suffering, and the driver gazed at him admiringly. "that kid has got sand, eh?" davis said half interrogatively as he turned toward jerry walters, and the latter replied: "he showed it when he jumped for the horse. i believe if you should tell him to roll over on the embers in that 'ere cellar, he'd do it." "i guess you're right, jerry. here, amateur, don't try to drink any more of that coffee till it cools a bit! i was only stuffing you when i said you'd stand a better show of being a fireman if you could scald your throat without feeling it." this evidence of solicitude for his welfare was sufficient reward for all seth had suffered, and he glanced at dan as if to make certain that young gentleman was fully aware of the great honor which was being bestowed upon his partner. dan had no eyes except for the rapidly decreasing store of sandwiches, and no thought save as to how he might get his full share without appearing absolutely greedy, therefore all this by-play had passed while he remained in ignorance of it. once his hunger was appeased dan curled himself up on a bale of half-burned merchandise near at hand, and immediately fell asleep. for him this association with ninety-four's men was nothing of more importance than the gaining of a meal and so much of a night's lodging as might be possible; but to seth it was as if the gates guarding the approach to his desires had been left ajar, permitting him to obtain a glimpse of that goal he so ardently longed to reach, and he patrolled the ruins of the building as if upon his shoulders rested all the responsibility of making certain the fire had been wholly extinguished. not until fully an hour after midnight was the welcome word given for ninety-four to pull out, and seth awakened his partner lest he should be in the way of the tired men. "get a move on you!" he shouted in dan's ear as he shook him roughly. "there's nothin' more to be done here, an' we don't want to act like as if we was hangin' 'round, when the machine goes into her quarters." "why don't you kind er loaf here till they have hitched up, an' perhaps we'll get another chance to stay in the engine-house?" dan asked sleepily. "because i'd be ashamed to do anythin' like that. get up so's we can be off before they pull out." jerry walters had overheard this brief conversation, although neither of the boys was aware of the fact, and he asked as the two were making their way out through and over the debris into the darkness: "where are you kids going?" "i reckon it's time we was home," seth replied, giving his partner a warning shake lest he should say that which would seem to indicate that they were sadly in need of a bed. "what do you call home now the carpenter-shop has gone up in smoke?" "we haven't hired any house yet; but we've got our eye on one up in fifth avenoo, an' if the price ain't more'n we've got in our pockets, i reckon we'll take it." "where are you counting on sleeping to-night?" "most anywhere; it don't go hard with dan an' me to find a place," seth replied with an assumption of carelessness, and again shaking his partner to remind him that there must be no approach to begging. "look here, amateur, i don't reckon you know where you're going to sleep!" "we'll turn in somewhere; that part of it will be all right. so long!" "hold on here, you kid!" and jerry walters spoke in a tone which sounded unusually stern. "have you been with ninety-four's crew at this 'ere fire, or not?" "i reckon we have," seth replied, with a laugh. "then we'll take care you have a roof over your heads for the balance of this night. wait till 'lish davis shows up, and see what he has to say about letting the kid who pulled him out of a big hole go off to bunk in the streets. come back, i say, till the driver gets here." "we ain't begging for a bed, mr. walters," seth said decidedly, as he obeyed the command, "an' if we turn anybody out as we did last night----" "if you _was_ begging a bed i reckon you wouldn't get it from me; but since you're so mighty independent i'm just contrary enough to see that you have one. i reckon it won't strain the rules very hard if you sleep on the straw, an' that's about the best you'll get up at the house to-night, unless another alarm is sent in." at this moment 'lish davis returned with the horses, and jerry walters held a short, whispered conversation with him, at the conclusion of which the latter said gruffly: "amateur, go on with your partner up to the house--there's no need of your riding--an' wait there till i come. we ain't going to have any sulking jest because we've taken it into our heads to see that you get some sleep 'twixt now and morning." "we ain't sulkin', mr. davis," seth made haste to say, "an' we'll go wherever you say; but i don't want you to think we can't find a lodgin'-place." "get on with you!" the driver roared as if in a fury of passion, and when the boys obeyed he said in a low tone to jerry walters: "the amateur has got a good bit of spirit in him, and that's what i like to see. he shall come into the department, eh?" "i'd like to see him there, for sure, and hope you'll be able to work it." "i don't know as a fireman's life counts much to the city; but if it does something ought'er be done for the amateur, 'cause if it hadn't been for him there'd be one driver short in the department by this time." dan was in high glee at the prospect of spending another night in the engine-house, and said in a tone of satisfaction as the two made their way rapidly up the street: "this is great luck, eh?" "yes, though i almost wish we was to shirk for ourselves." "what's makin' you so foolish all of a sudden? don't you think a bed on the straw in ninety-four's house is better'n bunkin' in anywhere, or perhaps walkin' the streets for the rest of the night?" "of course it is; but i'm 'fraid the men will think we hung 'round for jest such a chance." "after your stoppin' that hoss in time to save 'lish davis from gettin' all mashed up, i don't reckon they can accuse you of coaxin' for a bed." seth made no reply to this remark. he appreciated the invitation which had been given, even more highly than did dan, yet feared it might appear to some of the company as if he should have gone away when the fire was gotten under control, and that by waiting when there was really nothing to be seen he had laid himself open to the possible charge of "hangin' 'round." if dan roberts expected seth would be petted and praised because of having rendered such a signal service to the driver of ninety-four, he was disappointed. the two boys arrived at the house a few moments in advance of the engine, and seth at once set about trying to make himself useful in the work of "cleaning up," with the result that he rendered no slight assistance to the weary men; but yet not one of them commented upon the fact, or even so much as thanked him. after the horses were cared for 'lish davis went to where seth was at work and said gruffly, as if offended: "i've shaken some straw out for you kids, an' when you're through with that job, turn in. don't get to skylarkin', but keep quiet." then the driver went upstairs. dan, who was not in favor of working save when it might be absolutely necessary, crept slyly to the straw and lay down; but seth continued at his self-imposed task, and gained much pleasure thereby, for the men treated the matter as if it was proper he should perform his share of the labor, which made it seem very much as if he was in fact a member of the company. not until fully an hour after the engine had arrived at quarters did seth "turn in," and then he was so weary that his eyes closed in slumber almost as soon as he was stretched at full length on the straw. the last thought in his mind was a pleasing one; none of the company had thanked him for assisting in the work, and this was exactly as he would have had it. it seemed to the boys as if they had no more than fallen asleep, although as a matter of fact they had both been in dreamland fully two hours, when the clanging of the gong, the thud of horses' feet on the floor, and the rapid movements of the men aroused them. seth had longed for and dreamed of just such an opportunity as this. to go out with ninety-four from quarters was very near to being a member of the department, and he made all haste to station himself by the big doors ready to follow the engine. "get out of there, amateur!" mr. davis shouted as he swung himself into the driver's seat. "one fire in a night is enough for you. lay down an' sleep; then you'll be in better trim to help with the clean-up when we get back." under no circumstances would seth have ventured to remonstrate against any order 'lish davis might give, and even had he been disposed to do so, there was not time. the driver had hardly ceased speaking before the doors were swung open, and ninety-four was drawn out with a rush and a clatter that sounded like sweetest music in seth's ears. "'lish kind er took the wind out of your sails that time, amateur," the house-watchman said with a smile as he closed the heavy doors. "ain't one fire in twenty-four hours enough for you?" "i did _so_ want to go out once with ninety-four, an' it seems too bad to miss this chance for i'm not likely to get another." "why not?" "'cause i can't expect to sleep here very often, an' there's no show of my happenin' 'round at the very minute an alarm comes in." "don't be so certain about that. you'll go out with them yet, or i'm mightily mistaken. you'd better take pattern by your partner, and get what sleep you can. that's a rule we in the department have, and it comes handy at times." dan had leaped from the straw when the alarm first sounded; but instead of making any attempt to follow the engine, crept back again with a smile of content. it is not probable he would have deprived himself of sleep even if permission had been given for him to ride on the engine. seth lay down by dan's side, and despite his disappointment was soon slumbering peacefully; but only for half an hour, because at the end of that time he was awakened once more by the noisy return of ninety-four. the alarm had been sent in for a small blaze in one room of an apartment house, and was extinguished almost immediately by the company whose quarters were nearest the signal station, therefore ninety-four's men had no labor to perform. however, it became necessary to wash down, make ready for a new fire in the furnace of the engine, roll ninety-four and her tender to their respective places on the floor, adjust the harness, start the clock once more (for it had been stopped by the weight set free when the first stroke of the alarm rang out), and replace the weight which fastened the horses in their stalls. in a portion of this work seth assisted while dan remained apparently asleep on the straw, and when the captain had sent in to headquarters the three-fours, followed by ninety-four's number, thus telling that she was again ready for duty, 'lish davis said to the amateur: "you didn't miss much that time, eh?" "i missed going out with the company, sir." "i don't allow that cuts any very great figger, for there'll be many another chance when you're in better trim than you were this night." "anyway, i've helped wash up twice, an' that counts for something, 'cause i'm just so much ahead on points." "take care you don't stick your nose too near a fire some time, and get one point too many," the driver said with a smile as he ascended the stairs wearily, and seth called after him: "i'd rather it would be that way, mr. davis, than never know anythin' about the business." "you'll do, amateur, you'll do, if you're driven with a tight curb, an' that's what i count on seein' that you have." then seth lay down on the straw once more, and slept soundly during the two hours which followed. it was seven o'clock in the morning when he finally arose, and although he would have been pleased to remain there a while longer, the boy knew it was time to begin his day's work. dan grumbled not a little because seth insisted he should "turn out," declaring he had hardly slept a wink; but, understanding he would not be permitted to remain there very many moments longer now the men were already astir, he arose to his feet and lounged lazily around until seth had polished the boots of those members of the company who called upon him for such service. 'lish davis came down-stairs just as seth, his labor finished, was on the point of leaving the building, and he stopped the boy by asking in a friendly tone: "where are you off to now, amateur?" "out chasin' nickels. it's time we hustled if we expect to find lodgin's between now an' night." "flash up here about three o'clock this afternoon, and if i ain't in, wait for me." "all right, sir." then seth went out of doors followed by dan, and when they were on the sidewalk master roberts asked curiously: "what do you s'pose he's got on hand for you at three o'clock?" "most likely he don't want his boots shined till then." "it must be somethin' more'n that," dan replied, sagely. "of course it ain't. what else could he want of me?" "perhaps he's goin' to give you somethin' for what you did last night." "i'll feel awful bad if he does." "i'd like to know why?" "'cause then it would seem all the more as if i was really an outsider; he wouldn't give jerry walters anythin' for helpin' him out of a scrape." "i don't see as--jimminey! but there's jip collins! ain't he got the nerve to be snoopin' 'round here? say, we can nab him easy as a wink if you say the word!" "i don't want to have him arrested. anything like that wouldn't bring back our lodgin's." to the great surprise of the boys jip collins appeared relieved rather than frightened at seeing them, and instead of running away advanced rapidly, almost eagerly. "look here, seth, i'm mighty sorry i set fire to your place the other night, an' if there's any way to square it i'll hump myself the best i know how," he cried while yet some distance away. "it's a big pity you wasn't took in this style before you touched her off, for then seth and me wouldn't be huntin' a place to sleep," dan said sternly before his partner could speak. "i know that," jip wailed, and seth fancied there was a ring of real sorrow in his tones. "i must have been crazy to do it, an' after the match was dropped in the shavings i hoped they wouldn't catch fire. then i sent in the alarm, 'cause the light kept growin' brighter, an' nobody else saw it." "but you touched her off all the same," and it could readily be seen that dan's anger was getting the best of him. "yes, i did, an' of course you can have me sent up the river for it; but what good will that do you? say, seth, won't you let me square it somehow?" "it's all over now, jip, an' the only way to fix things is by keepin' mighty straight after this. _i_ don't want to send you up the river, nor i won't; but if the cops get to know who did it i'm afraid they'll run you in without tryin' to see whether i want it done or not." "i know all that, seth; but i don't believe i'll get jugged if sam barney keeps quiet. he says he's taken up the case, an' is goin' to push it straight through so's to show how good a detective he can be when there's a chance to spread hisself." "how do you know that?" dan asked suspiciously. "bill dean told me so. i met him up to the erie basin, where i've been hidin'." "why didn't you stay there?" "i did till i was 'most starved, an' had to come out to earn some money so's to buy grub. bill was round there last night lookin' for a feller what runs on a canal-boat, an' jest the same as tumbled over me." "you'd stood as good a show of earnin' money over in brooklyn or jersey city as here, an' then there wouldn't be so much danger of runnin' across anybody who knew you." "i'm goin' to williamsburg; but wanted to talk with you fellers first, so come up here where i could see if you was in ninety-four's house." "what are you countin' on doin' right now?" seth asked in a friendly tone. "find joe carter an' try to get the ten cents he owes me, so's i'll have somethin' to buy the first lot of papers with." "joe's gone to baltimore to live; went off last night," dan said promptly, and an expression of disappointment came over jip's face. "is he the only feller who owes you anythin'?" seth asked. "yes, an' i reckon he's the only one who would try to give me a lift after what i've done. he was----" "where's them swell brooklyn chums of yours?" dan interrupted. "they went dead back on me after i started the fire, an' bill dean says they told sam barney all about it. if sam would only let up on me i'd show that i could be as square as any of the fellers." "i don't reckon you'll ever do that," dan cried angrily, and seth added soothingly: "i'll see sam to-day, an' do all i can to make him drop the case, 'cause it don't seem to me he's got any right to take it up unless i say the word. now, i'm goin' to lend you fifteen cents, jip, an' you needn't worry 'bout payin' it back for quite a spell. there's plenty of places to sell papers in where the fellers don't know you, an' after a while you can come 'round city hall again." "you're goin' to lend me money after what i did?" jip cried in astonishment not unmixed with fear, for he failed to understand why the boy he had tried to injure should be so generous. "i counted on your thumpin' me, an' i'd stood still to let you do it----" "if seth bartlett has gone crazy there's no reason why i shouldn't serve you out, jip collins!" and dan advanced threateningly. "_i_ ain't sich a chump as to pay a feller for tryin' to burn me to death, an' i'm goin' to knock your two eyes into one, 'stead of throwin' away good money on a duffer like you!" jip made no effort to defend himself, and dan had raised his hand to strike the first blow when seth stepped in front of him. "don't do anythin' like that, dan! jip is sorry, an' there's nothin' more he can do or say." "there's a good deal more i can do!" and by this time master roberts had worked himself into a towering passion. "go away, jip!" seth cried, clasping dan by the body in such a manner as to pin the boy's arms to his side. "clear out, an' after he gets over his mad a little he'll come 'round all right." "it would only be servin' me in decent shape if he should jest about knock my head off," jip replied penitently, making no move toward seeking safety in flight. "i won't have dan fightin' in the streets, an' there's no reason now why you should be thumped," seth cried, speaking indistinctly because of his efforts to hold master roberts in check. "get away as quick as you can!" "i'll go if you say the word, though i ain't certain but he'd better do what he's tryin' for. you're a jim dandy, seth bartlett, an' i'll square everythin' with you some day. i'm sleepin' in a boat up at the erie basin, an' i wish you'd come there to see me; i'd like to let you know how sorry i am for what i did." dan was making the most strenuous efforts to free himself from seth's grasp, and the latter held him captive only by the greatest exertion. "don't hang 'round here any longer, jip! get away quick, an' i'll see you again some time." "will you come up to the basin?" "yes, yes," seth replied hurriedly, hardly understanding the promise he made because of his anxiety to prevent a fight, and jip started off rapidly, crying as he ran: "you're a dandy, seth bartlett, an' i'll pay you off for this as true as i live!" not until jip was two blocks or more away did seth release his hold and turn to face dan in his wrath. chapter vi. an obstinate detective. dan was in a fine temper when seth finally released his hold, and after understanding that it would be useless to pursue the fugitive he turned upon his partner savagely. "a nice kind of a chump you are! let a feller burn your house down, an' then pay him fifteen cents for doin' it! after that, when i make up my mind to give him the dose he needs, you turn against me to help him! i s'pose that's what you call bein' a chum of mine?" "that's exactly what it is, dan," seth replied soothingly. "after you've cooled off a bit you'll be glad i didn't let you pitch into a feller who wouldn't raise his hands." "he didn't 'cause he don't dare." "if a feller had any spunk about him he would dare to do all he could while somebody else was thumpin' him. jip feels bad for what he did to us, an' would stand still to let you pound him; but it couldn't have done you any good, dan. you don't want to get the name of bein' a bruiser." "i'd be willin' to take 'most any kind of a name rather'n let jip collins off without so much as turnin' a hair on his head!" "that's the way you feel jest now 'cause you're off your base; but wait a couple of hours, an' then you'll talk different." "i won't if i live to be twice as gray-headed as ever methuselah was, for it's a downright shame to let him go with money in his pockets after tryin' to kill us." "he was hungry." "it would do him solid good to starve to death." "he turned in the alarm, an' if he hadn't done that we'd been burned to death." "i notice he didn't do it till the fire got a mighty good start, an' then i reckon it was only 'cause he grew scared. if you're so 'fraid of gettin' your name up for fightin', you might er stood still and let me have a whack at him. i don't see how that could have hindered your slippin' into the department. i wouldn't be quite so mad if you hadn't given him the money." "he was hungry, dan, an' i'd do that much for the biggest duffer in the town." dan made no reply to this remark; but with his hands plunged deep in his pockets walked swiftly away in the direction of city hall as if his one desire was to be free from his partner. seth was not minded to let him go while in a temper, but at the same time he knew full well that it would be useless to attempt to stop him with words, therefore he followed without further remark, biding his time until the proper moment should come when the "soft answer" could be given. without looking to the right or the left dan continued on, much as if bent on running away from his partner, until ten minutes had elapsed, when he halted suddenly, wheeled about and addressed seth with his usual friendly manner: "there's sam barney over by that alley!" glancing in the direction indicated by dan's outstretched finger, seth saw the would-be detective moving cautiously along, looking stealthily around, and otherwise behaving as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. "do you s'pose he's countin' on findin' jip collins in that fool way?" "i reckon he thinks he's doin' the detective act in great shape," dan replied with a laugh, all traces of ill-humor having vanished. "he says a feller in his line of business has to keep his eyes open every minute, an' sneakin' along in that style is what he 'most likely calls bein' wide awake." sam had arrived at the corner of the alley, and instead of walking boldly in to make a search, was standing where he might be partially screened by the building, craning his head forward for a single glance, and then drawing it back suddenly, repeating these movements about every thirty seconds with great regularity. dan gave full rein to his mirth, for this method of playing the detective seemed to him very comical; but seth checked him whenever his laughter became boisterous. "if he sees us pokin' fun at him we won't be able to make any kind of a trade, an' i don't want to stir the feller up till things are fixed." "what things?" "i want him to promise that he won't go prowlin' 'round the town after jip collins." "see here, seth, are you countin' on keepin' that racket up?" "if you mean am i goin' to give jip a lift by tryin' to keep that imitation detective quiet, i'll say 'yes.' we both have got good reason to be mighty ugly because he burned us out; but it's all over now, an' he's sorry. let's give him one more show--you an' i--an' if he goes wrong after this i won't say a word against your doin' whatever you like." the lines on dan's face hardened as if he was determined nothing should turn him from his purpose of punishing jip in such manner as he believed the latter's misdemeanors warranted; but after one glance at his partner the anger vanished. "go ahead, seth, an' fix it up to suit you; i'll do what i can this time, even if it does rub against the grain. it ain't because i'm feelin' sorry for jip; but jest to please you." "so long as you do what i ask it don't make very much difference whether it's for jip or me, an' you won't be sorry, old man. now we'll tackle sam, an' see if we can make him behave himself for a spell." "i reckon you'll find that a mighty hard job. he's stuck on the detective business as bad as you are on gettin' into the department, an' this is the kind of a case he don't get a whack at very often. i s'pose he thinks that catchin' jip would put him way up on the top notch." seth did not spend any time arguing the matter with his partner; but called loudly to the would-be detective: "hi! sam! come over here a minute!" master barney pretended not to have heard the summons, although the words rang out clear and distinct above the noises of the street; but continued his grotesque manner of reconnoitering the alley, and again seth shouted: "come over here, sam! there's no need of your bobbin' 'round in that style, 'cause nobody is in the alley except a couple of little kids, who wouldn't be very much frightened if you walked right up on 'em." this time sam turned, affected to be greatly surprised at seeing these acquaintances, and then crossed the street, apparently in an ill-temper. "don't you know any better'n to break up what a feller's fixin'?" he asked angrily as he stood before seth and dan. "i was doin' some mighty fine work, an' you've spoiled it all by yellin' so loud. now the folks in there know i'm 'round, an' won't so much as show theirselves." "do you reckon they believe you're a detective?" dan asked, trying in vain to check his mirth. "of course i do!" sam replied hotly. "folks have heard of me before this, an' it stands me in hand to keep out of sight all i can." "who did you think was in the alley?" seth asked. "i'm lookin' for more'n one in this town, an' counted on finishin' up two or three little jobs in the detective line before i lighted out to nab jip collins." "do you know where he is?" and seth appeared disturbed. "what kind of a detective do you allow i am if i don't know that? i've got it all figgered out, an' most likely i'll take a spin over to philadelphy to-night. if i do, you'll see him in court to-morrow mornin'." "oh, has he gone over there?" dan asked with a great show of interest, pursing his mouth into shape for whistling to prevent an outburst of laughter. "that's about the size of it; but he needn't think he can run away from me." "look here, sam," and now seth spoke in a serious tone; "jip didn't try to hurt anybody but dan an' me, an' we don't want you to bother him. we're willin' to give him a fair show, 'cause he'll take a big turn after this." "i can't help what you want," the detective replied obstinately. "when i know that a feller has been burnin' up houses it's my business to run him in, an' i'm goin' to do it." "what is it to you, so long as we're satisfied?" dan asked sharply. "see here, ain't i a detective?" "i ain't so certain of that," master roberts cried promptly. "i guess other people know it if you don't, 'cause i've had more'n one case in this town. now, so long as that is my business i'm bound to take up anythin' i hear about, an'----" "other detectives don't do that; they wait till the chief sends 'em out, or somebody hires 'em." dan's reply staggered sam for an instant; but he soon bethought himself of what seemed to be the proper answer, and replied: "that would be all right if i was on the force; but so long as i ain't it stands me in hand to work my way along, same's seth's tryin' to do in the fire department. if i can catch jip collins and send him up the river, it'll be a big feather in my cap." "would you be willin' to send a feller to jail so's you might get ahead in the business?" seth asked reproachfully. "course i would." "ain't there anythin' we can do to stop you from tryin' to run jip down?" "you might talk till you was black in the face, an' then i wouldn't let up." understanding that it was useless to hold any further converse with this obstinate detective in the hope of turning him from his purpose, seth motioned to dan, and set off down-town without a word to sam by way of adieu. "i'll be in philadelphy to-night, an' to-morrow mornin' jip collins will be in the lock-up!" master barney shouted vindictively, and, glancing back, dan saw him approaching the alley once more with cautious steps, as if it were beneath his dignity as an officer of the law to move in any other fashion. "it'll be all right if he goes to philadelphy," dan said sagely; "but i'm mightily afraid he won't get money enough to buy a ticket on the cars." "i don't believe he ever thought of goin' there till we talked with him, an' then only said it to let us believe he knew where jip was. sam ain't any kind of a detective; but he can make a lot of trouble for jip." seth was disturbed in mind because of the possibilities that master barney would work mischief for jip collins, and dan shared in such forebodings, although in a much less degree. the two were walking on in silence, each trying to devise some plan whereby it would be possible to divert the amateur detective from his purpose, when they suddenly came face to face with bill dean. "hello, where are you fellers goin'?" "to work." "kind-er late this mornin', eh?" "yes; but we'll make up for it by pluggin' in all the harder after we begin." bill hesitated an instant as if hardly daring to say that which was in his mind, and then asked in a meaning tone: "seen anybody in partic'lar this mornin'?" "yes, we saw jip, an' then run across sam barney," seth replied. "i suppose sam still holds to it that he'll pull jip in?" "yes, an' he counted on findin' him in philadelphy, 'cordin' to his talk." "look here, seth, you've got good reason to make it hot for jip after all he's----" "i wouldn't do a thing to hurt him, an' stand ready to give him a lift if he needs it." "you're straight as a die, seth bartlett, an' i'll bet you won't be sorry for lettin' up on him, for i'm thinkin' jip will run different after this." "i hope so; but he ain't out of the woods till somebody sets down on sam barney. we've been tryin' to make him stop; but he won't, 'cause he thinks it'll give him a big name if he arrests jip. he's up by sweeney's alley bobbin' round like a jumpin'-jack." "say!" dan cried, as a sudden and what seemed like a happy thought came into his mind. "sam says jip is in philadelphy; now, s'posen all hands chipped in enough to buy a ticket for him to go there? he'd never get back, 'cause he don't earn a dollar in a month, an' jip wouldn't be bothered." this plan appealed strongly to both seth and dan, and the latter asked as to the probable cost of such a scheme. this was a question neither of the boys could answer, and after some thought master dean agreed to make the necessary inquiries without delay. "dan an' me will ante up a nickel apiece to get rid of him, an' in case you don't have to pay too much, the other fellers who wouldn't want to see jip sent to jail ought'er put in the balance." master dean was quite as eager to aid jip as was seth, and without waiting to discuss the matter further started off on his errand of mercy. then the partners were at liberty to set about the work of the day; but it was now so late that they could not expect to earn very much money. "we'll come out mighty slim for supper, i'm thinkin'," dan said grimly. "you've got to knock off in time to meet 'lish davis at three o'clock, an' the trade in evenin' papers won't be much more'n begun by then." "you needn't go up with me if you don't want to--i can meet you after the day's work is over." "but i do want to go; i wouldn't miss knowin' what the driver has got to say, not if i went without supper an' breakfast too." "i could tell you all about it." "yes; but i want to hear for myself," dan replied decidedly, and thus the matter was concluded. seth worked industriously once he was in that section of the city where certain rights he claimed were respected by his brother artisans, and although the majority of the fraternity were fully occupied in discussing the question of what sam barney might succeed in doing, he refused to spend any idle time, however much interest he felt in the matter. dan also attended strictly to business, regardless of the many temptations to remain idle, and at two o'clock in the afternoon the partners had earned as much as would suffice to provide them with food during at least two days; but the question of lodgings yet remained to be settled. "we'll go up now to see what mr. davis wants, an' then we must hustle for lodgin's. there'll be no more hangin' 'round ninety-four's house after dark, 'cause it looks too much as if we was beggin'," seth said as he met dan, who reported that it wouldn't pay to buy another stock of papers that day. master roberts made no reply to this remark. he secretly hoped that it might be possible for them to sleep in the engine-house one more night at least, and believed seth was foolishly sensitive about the matter. according to his views on the subject, there was no good reason why they should not go even so far as to ask the firemen for a shelter, more particularly since they appeared to be so well disposed toward seth. the two boys arrived in the vicinity of the engine-house ten minutes before the time set, and seth insisted that they should not present themselves until the hour named, consequently both lounged around near by until the clock struck three, when they marched boldly up to the open door. the driver was on the lower floor as if awaiting their arrival, and greeted seth in a manner both familiar and kind: "so you've come, have you, amateur? i was beginning to think you'd struck a business rush, and i shouldn't see you before to-morrow." "you said we was to come at three o'clock, so i waited 'round till then." "afraid to get here ahead of time, eh?" "i thought it was best to do as you told us, though we've been loafin' outside for ten minutes." mr. davis chuckled audibly, as if in the statement was something very comical, and not until after several seconds had elapsed did he speak, when it was to ask: "well, what have you two kids done about finding a place where you can sleep?" "we're goin' to hustle lively after we leave here. we had to earn a little money first, an' it was pretty late when we got down-town, so we couldn't do any huntin'; but you can make certain some place will flash up before dark." "i wouldn't wonder if it did, amateur, i wouldn't wonder if it did. what made you late in getting down-town? i thought you left here earlier than usual." "so we did, sir; but we met jip collins, an'----" "the kid who started the fire in the lumber-yard?" "yes, sir, an' he's mighty sorry for what he did." then seth repeated what had been said by the repentant boy, and gave a detailed account of the interview with sam barney, all of which appeared wonderfully amusing, not only to 'lish davis, but to all the men on the floor. "and are you allowing to adopt this 'ere kid who is setting himself up as a firebug?" the driver asked when seth had concluded the story. "i'd like to give him one more show, for i don't believe he'll go wrong again, an' if we can get sam barney so far away that he can't come back, it may be done." "but what about us? we're bound to give up all such information as we may happen to run across, and it's a serious matter to keep a close tongue on anything of that kind." "have you _got_ to get jip arrested?" seth asked in alarm. "it's our duty, and i ain't so certain that he's reformed." "but you never can know till he's been given a chance, an' it would be mighty tough if he had to have it put down against him when he grows up, that he's been in jail." "i grant you all that, amateur, yet the law says man or boy must pay the penalty for arson, and it wouldn't be fair to make an exception in his case." "what do you mean by arson?" "that's the name given to the crime of setting fires, and when the trick is played in the night, in a building where people are living, it costs the criminal a good many years of his life." 'lish davis was speaking very seriously now, and seth literally trembled with apprehension for jip. "ain't there anything i can do to help the poor feller out of the scrape?" he asked in a tone which told that the tears were very near his eyelids. "that's what i can't say right on the spur of the minute; but i'll think the matter over, and it may be we'll see a way out if you're dead sure he won't try any more such games." "i don't believe he will, 'cause he's feelin' mighty bad, an' promises to be straight after this." "i've thought all along that he ought'er be sent up for startin' the fire," dan said with an air of exceeding wisdom; "but seth has been makin' such a row about givin' him another chance that i had to hold my tongue." "i wouldn't be surprised if the amateur was nearer in the right than you are, daniel, though the officers of the law may look at the matter in a different light. however, the young reprobate hasn't been caught yet, even if that keen-eyed detective of yours is on his track, and we'll drop the subject for a spell. what i wanted to see the amateur about was lodgings." dan's eyes sparkled, for he felt certain they were to be given quarters in the engine-house, and seth looked really distressed. "what's the matter?" 'lish davis asked in surprise as he noted the expression on the boy's face. "it don't seem to strike you right because i'm thinking of where you'll find a shelter." "i'm 'fraid it'll seem like as if dan an' i were beggin' for a bed. we can find one after a spell, an' it wouldn't be any new thing if we knocked around the streets a few nights." "now, don't distress yourself on the score of begging," the driver said with a hearty laugh. "i've come to know how thin-skinned you are on that point, and ain't counting on giving either of you the value of a pin. but it so happens that a friend of mine lives in the next block, and he's got a room in his attic that he's just dying to let. i was telling him about you kids, and he'll make what i call a fair trade." "do you mean that we're to hire a reg'lar room?" seth asked in surprise. "why not, if it comes cheap enough? now, this 'ere place i'm speaking of ain't very swell, and i don't allow he could let it to any but boys like you. he'll give a lease of it, with bed and such furniture thrown in as his wife can scare up, for fifty cents a week. by blacking ben dunton's and my boots five mornings a week you'll have the price earned, and it'll pay a heap better than skinning 'round the streets, likely to be moved on by a policeman a dozen times 'twixt sunset and sunrise." seth looked suspiciously at 'lish davis. the possibility of hiring a "reg'lar room" at such a low price had never before entered his mind, and he feared there might be something in regard to the transaction which was being kept a secret from him. "now, then, amateur, what are you staring at? do you think i'd give you any fairy story about the place? you'd better have a look at it before thinking it's a very big bargain," and the driver leaned back in his chair laughing heartily, although seth could not understand what had so excited his mirth. "we'll be mighty glad to get lodgin's at that price," dan said promptly, and mr. davis handed him a card, on the back of which was written an address, saying as he did so: "go to that place, and ask to see the room 'lish davis was talking about. if it suits you, take it, and if it don't there's been no great harm done." "you're mighty good to think of us in this way," seth said, feeling almost ashamed because of his previous mistrust. "yes, i reckon i am; but we'll hope it don't spoil me," and again the driver gave way to his mirth. chapter vii. new lodgings. dan was so eager to see the new lodgings that he could not wait with any degree of patience until seth had fully satisfied himself regarding certain matters connected with the leasing of them, but insisted on setting out at once, and his partner felt obliged to accompany him. arriving at the address given them by 'lish davis, they found affairs exactly as he had stated. the room which had been offered at such a low rental was in the attic of an old-fashioned, pitch-roof house, and although it was not such an apartment as could readily have been let to adults, to the boys it appeared as the acme of comfort and even luxury. mrs. hanson, the mistress of the dwelling, had provided a fairly good bed for the lodgers, and the clothing on it looked so rest-inviting that dan declared that it was hard to resist the temptation to "turn in" at once. there were two chairs, a rude stand on which were a water-pitcher and a basin, a small mirror, and an old table. the window boasted of a curtain; but the floor was carpetless, save for two well-worn rugs. dan, fearing lest seth might refuse to hire this very swell apartment because of the suspicion that some of ninety-four's men had agreed to pay a certain portion of the rental in order that it might be offered at an exceedingly low price, promptly announced his willingness to take the room, and when this had been done it seemed to master bartlett as if he was in duty bound to ratify the bargain. "we'll pay in advance," he said, as he counted out the required amount, thereby reducing his cash account to an exceedingly small margin. "there's no need of your doing anything like that," mrs. hanson replied kindly. "mr. davis says he'll guarantee that the rent is paid promptly, and that should be enough for me, without taking money before it is due." "mr. davis is mighty good, but there's no reason why he should back a couple of boys who are able to pay their own way. the rent is so cheap i was 'fraid he'd been puttin' up money on our account, so's we could afford to hire it." "he said you were mighty independent, and i guess he's right; but you needn't be afraid of getting any more than you pay for. this room couldn't be let to many people, and those who would be willing to live in such a place we would not want in the house, except in a case like yours, where a friend of ours says everything is as it should be. mr. davis is a very nice man." "you can jest bet he is," seth replied emphatically. "he's been mighty good to me." then, having counted the money and promised to give a receipt in due form for the same, mrs. hanson left her new lodgers, and dan cried when they were alone: "say, seth, this kind-er knocks the spots out er baxter's shed, eh? it ain't costin' me but ten cents a week more'n the other place did, an' that bed is worth three times them figgers. talk 'bout fifteen-cent lodgin's! why, the best i ever saw wasn't a marker alongside of this!" "it's fine, an' no mistake; but we've got to put up twenty-five cents every week for it." "that'll be all right. i owe you a quarter for this week's rent, an' i'll pay it to-morrow or next day; i've got enough in my pocket now, but kind-er reckoned on havin' a swell lay-out to-night for a celebration. hold on here, an' i'll go after some grub." "do you s'pose we ought'er thank mr. davis now for findin' the room for us?" "it'll do jest as well in the mornin', an' you're so 'fraid of hangin' 'round the engine-house that it don't seem as if you'd better go there for nothin' else but to tell him what we think of the place." seth would have been pleased could he have told ninety-four's driver what he thought of the new quarters, but dan's suggestion as to "hangin' 'round" was sufficient to prevent him from venturing out. then he tried to dissuade dan from squandering his money on a feast, arguing that it would be wiser to keep what he had lest there should be a sudden lull in business; but master roberts refused to listen. "unless you're 'fraid to trust me for my share of the rent, i'm goin' to spread myself to-night. it's too bad we hadn't known 'bout this before we come up-town, for then we might er knocked the eyes out er some of the fellers by showin' it to 'em." "i don't believe we'd better have too much company, or miss hanson will make a kick. it ain't likely she's willin' to have a crowd of fellers rushin' in and out for fifty cents a week." "i s'pose that's so; but all the same i'd like to have the gang see how we're fixed." then master roberts went out to make the purchases, and seth was left alone to familiarize himself with his seemingly luxurious surroundings. fully half an hour elapsed before dan returned, and then he was accompanied by master dean. "i found bill hangin' 'round ninety-four's house lookin' for you, an' thought the best thing i could do was to bring him right up here," dan said as he ostentatiously placed half a dozen small packages on the table. "ain't you fellers slingin' a terrible lot of style?" bill asked, as he gazed around him. "it strikes me that business must be boomin' if you can afford all this." "it'll only cost twenty-five cents a week for each one of us," seth replied, as if thinking something in the way of an apology was necessary. "what?" and master dean was so thoroughly astonished as to be unable to speak for several seconds. then he cried eagerly: "say, you don't want to take another feller in, i s'pose? i'd like to get sich a snap as this!" "i don't know as miss hanson would want to take another lodger. you might ask her, though, after we've been here a spell." "why not have it settled now?" "it seems to me as if you'd better hold off for a while till she sees how we flash up. 'cordin' to what she said, i don't believe we'd got in here if it hadn't been for mr. davis." "i'd like to come mighty well," bill said longingly, and then his attention was attracted to dan's movements. master roberts was busily engaged displaying his purchases on the table in such a manner as to make the greatest possible show, and there was no question but that he had succeeded in "layin' himself out in great shape." fully a pound of bologna sausage cut in thick slices, four large crullers, two smoked herrings, two ham sandwiches, a pint of peanuts, and four apples caused the shaky table to look as if literally laden with dainties. dan pushed it toward the bed, that one of the party might sit there, placed the two chairs at either end, and invited his companions to join in the feast. "pitch in an' fill yourselves way up full! this is the first swell house i ever lived in, an' i'm willin' to pay for style. after this i reckon seth an' me will skin along for grub same's we've allers done, but i'm goin' to have one blow-out if it takes every cent i've got." no second invitation was needed, and not until a goodly portion of the eatables had disappeared did either speak. then it was bill dean who broke the partial silence. "say, i've raised money enough to send sam barney to philadelphy, if you fellers come up with the nickels you promised." "how much will it cost?" and dan began searching his pockets for the contribution which had been promised in his name. "i can get the duffer over there for seventy-five cents, by sendin' him with the emigrants. i gave him a big stiff this afternoon 'bout how we fellers would give him a chance to show how much of a detective he is, an' he puffed 'way up, allowin' there wasn't many men on the force in this town who could beat him. he believes it's a great snap to go off huntin' after jip, an' hasn't got head enough to think of how he'll get back." "here's my nickel," and seth produced the money, dan following his partner's example. "i'll be glad if we can get rid of sam; but i'm 'fraid that won't settle things for jip." then he repeated all 'lish davis had said regarding the matter, and when he concluded master dean was looking remarkably serious. "if the firemen are goin' to run jip down, there ain't much show we can keep him out er trouble. don't you s'pose the driver would kind-er help somehow?" "from what he said this afternoon it didn't seem as if he would, but perhaps he'll change his mind after a while," dan replied, not minded to cloud this first merry-making in the new home by disagreeable thoughts, and attempted to change the subject of the conversation by speculating as to what sort of a welcome sam barney was most likely to receive from the philadelphia boys. "they'll think he's a mighty good feller till he lets out strong on what he can do in the detective business, an' then they'll tumble to him," bill dean replied with the air of one who has closed an argument finally. "so long as he leaves town we needn't bother our heads about him; it's jip i'm thinkin' of, an' it seems to me as if we ought'er see him mighty soon." "why?" dan asked in surprise. "because he must know what 'lish davis says, else he's likely to knock 'round ninety-four's house 'most any time." "why don't you hunt him up?" "it's too late to tackle the job to-night; but what's to stop all three of us from goin' to the erie basin after sam barney leaves town? of course you're countin' on seein' him off?" "i ought'er 'tend right out on business," seth replied thoughtfully; "but perhaps i can waste time enough for that." "course you can. if you don't get through with the shinin' at the engine-house as early as usual, i'll hold him over till the next train. then we can skip up to the basin, an' be back in time to start in with the last editions of the evenin' papers." after some reflection and many misgivings as to whether he was warranted in devoting so much of his time to others, seth decided to do as bill had suggested, and a place of meeting was agreed on. then master dean took his departure, after congratulating the partners on having found such pleasant quarters, and reminding them for at least the tenth time that they had promised to ask mrs. hanson if she would take another lodger. when they were alone once more seth set about clearing away the remnants of the feast, and while he was thus employed dan paced to and fro, admiring himself in the mirror as he passed and repassed it in such attitudes as he believed befitted a boy who was the lessee of such a swell apartment. seth was not in a mood for conversation. the question in his mind was as to whether he was bettering or weakening his chances for admission into the department by thus occupying regular lodgings. the argument was very equally balanced. in the first place, he had followed 'lish davis's advice, and by so doing it hardly seemed as if he could go astray; but as opposed to this was the fact that he was not as likely to be awakened by ninety-four when she responded to an alarm, and, consequently, his opportunities for getting points would scarcely be as good. however, he settled the matter with himself finally by reflecting that he had already taken the step, and could not well back out now after having agreed to occupy the apartment, therefore it was unwise to indulge in misgivings. there was no trouble in dan's mind; he was thoroughly well satisfied with the situation, and instead of discussing any possibilities, he congratulated seth and himself very heartily. "all this swellin' will cost us twenty-five cents a week, an' it stands us in hand to scoop the biggest good time out of it we can. i'm goin' to turn in, for what's the use of payin' for a bed if you only get into it for the sake of sleepin'? i want 'er lay awake a spell so's to know what a great racket i'm havin'." he had made his preparations for retiring while seth yet stood at the window looking out thoughtfully, and once beneath the clothing cried excitedly: "say, hurry up an' get in here! this is the greatest snap i ever struck! it's twice as soft as what we slept in over to ninety-four's house, an' when trade is dull i'll come up here an' snooze all the time." "you'll stand a good chance of goin' broke if you do," seth replied with a laugh, and then he joined his partner. dan was not able to remain awake very long for the purpose of realizing what a "great racket" he was having, for slumber closed his eyes shortly after he lay down, and the day had fully dawned before he was again aware of his surroundings. but for seth, master roberts might have slept until noon, and even when he was aroused the desire to linger in that rest-inviting bed was so great that he proposed to neglect work in order to remain there. "you go over to the engine-house, an' i'll stay here till you've finished your job there. i don't b'lieve papers will sell very well to-day." "see here, dan, if you're goin' to loaf in bed half the time it'll be best for us to stop swellin', else we shan't earn enough to pay the rent. you must come down to business, an' might as well begin now, for it won't be any easier to get up to-morrow." dan was disposed to grumble a little at thus being forced to arise; but once he had plunged his face into a basin of cold water his indolence vanished. the boys made a hearty breakfast from the remains of the previous night's feast, and then dan hurried away to purchase his stock of papers while seth went to the engine-house. "well, how did you sleep last night?" the driver asked as he entered. "great! that place is away up in g; but the only trouble is that i shan't know when ninety-four goes out." "it won't hurt if you don't. i've about made up my mind that such business must be stopped." seth looked at 'lish in pained surprise, and there was an ominous quivering of his lip as he asked: "what's the reason i can't turn out at the fires? i'll never get ahead if i don't pick up points." "that isn't the best way to do it, my boy," the driver said in a kindly tone. "i've been thinking about your plan of getting into the department, and come to the conclusion that, seeing's you're so set on it, we'd better lend a hand." the expression of sorrow on seth's face changed very suddenly as the driver ceased speaking an instant, and in its place came a flush of joy so great as to seemingly prevent him from speaking. "yes, amateur, all of us have taken up the idea that you're to be a fireman, though i don't say as it's the kind of a life a boy should hanker for, and we've been working to get you into a place where you can learn the business." "do you really mean that?" seth cried, fearing lest he had misunderstood the words. "i shouldn't be saying it if i didn't, amateur," davis continued, gravely. "of course you can't expect any promise of a place in the department till you've got more years on your head; but we've struck a plan which will work all right if you're the lad i've always taken you to be." seth was literally breathless now. it would have been impossible for him to speak, and seeing how great was the suspense mr. davis added quickly: "we've got a job for you up at headquarters. you'll be called on to sweep floors, wash windows, build fires, and do odd jobs generally; but at the same time you'll be in what's called the general school of instruction--where the men who want to get into the department are put on probation, so to speak. it's been promised us who run with ninety-four, that if you behave yourself you shall have a chance to learn the drill, and once that has been done, amateur, you'll be in shape to join us as soon's you've got size to your body." big tears of delight stood in seth's eyes as he stammered and hesitated in trying to give words to his gratitude, and understanding what was in his mind, 'lish davis added: "never mind about trying to say anything, amateur. we don't want thanks now, because we'll get them when you show yourself the kind of a boy we've claimed you are. it's a case of your picking up points all the time; but you'll have plenty of hard work, and mighty poor pay. you'll get two dollars a week and your grub. later i'm reckoning you can sleep in the building; but at the start it's a case of having a home elsewhere, and mrs. hanson's house about fills the bill." "two dollars every week is big money," seth managed to say. "not so much as it seems just now, because you'll need to come out a bit stronger in the way of clothes. we can't afford to have you go there togged out the way you are, because we've said you were a kid that belonged to us. all hands here have chipped in to buy a full suit like our own, with the exception of the brass buttons, and you must take it as a present from us. there'll be no squirming on account of accepting the present, otherwise you don't go on the new job. we'll have the togs ready in a couple of days, and from this out you'll do no more shining 'round the town. spend to-day and to-morrow in settling up your business, and then we'll launch you into the berth from which you'll come out a fireman, if it so be you 'tend right close to work. we've cracked you up mighty high, amateur, and if you don't toe the mark it'll be the same as proving us liars." again seth tried to speak, and again he failed, whereupon 'lish davis said gruffly: "i reckon you want time to think it over, amateur. take a spin 'round town closing out your boot-blacking business, and flash up here this evening. remember, there's to be no more running to fires except you get a straight invitation from some of ninety-four's men." "of course i'll black boots here same as i've allers done?" seth said in a tremulous voice. "it won't look well, amateur, it won't look well." "but i'd a good deal rather, mr. davis. you an' all hands here have been mighty good to me, an' there's no other way i can show how i feel about it." "you can keep your eyes wide open up to headquarters, and that'll do us more good than if you kept our boots in a regular patent-leather polish all the time." "please let me do somethin' for you, mr. davis. i'll get on up at headquarters as fast as any feller can; but i want to keep my job here so's to show how i feel on account of what you're doin' for me." all the members of the company who were on the lower floor had listened to this conversation, and now, when 'lish davis hesitated to give the desired permission, ben dunton cried: "let amateur manoeuvre as he likes, 'lish. i don't wonder he wants to do what he can, an' so long as he doesn't black boots anywhere except here, i can't see that it'll work any harm." "all right, amateur," mr. davis said after a brief hesitation; "you shall do as ben thinks is right, though there must be no more of that business outside of this house, 'cause you've just the same as begun to hatch into a fireman, and we can't afford to have it said we couldn't ante up enough to keep you going." seth was delighted at receiving such permission, for by thus being allowed to work for ninety-four's men it was as if he occupied a definite place among them; whereas if this had been denied it would have seemed almost as if he had been cast out. he blacked every pair of boots he could find, and at first refused to take pay for the labor; but 'lish davis prevented such gratuitous work by saying sternly: "take your pay like a man, amateur, and look pleasant about it. there'll be no chance for you to handle the city's money until after being at headquarters a month, and in the meantime you've got to pay your bills. i did count on lending you enough to pull through on; but perhaps this will be the best way. what about that firebug of yours? has the imitation detective caught him yet?" seth told of bill dean's plan to prevent sam from working mischief, and the story caused the men to laugh heartily. "that boy bill must have quite a head on his shoulders," 'lish davis said when his mirth had so far subsided that it was possible for him to speak. "you can tell the firebug that he'd better give this section of the city a wide berth for a spell, and if he walks a chalk-line it may be he won't be troubled about that crime of his. if he should get funny in that way again, however, we'll bring this case up in a jiffy, and he'll get a long taste of prison life." "then you will keep the officers from arrestin' him?" seth asked eagerly. "i didn't say that, amateur. it may happen that he won't be troubled while he does what is right; but there's been no promises made." when seth had finally finished the work of blacking boots to his satisfaction, he put the box and brushes away upstairs, and approaching 'lish davis, said in a whisper: "you've been awful good to me, an' i promise you shan't be sorry for it." "i believe you, amateur, i believe you, else i wouldn't have turned a hand in the business, even though you did do me a precious good turn the other night. you're now in a fair way to get into the department; but from this out it all depends upon yourself. keep moving as you've been doing since i first saw you, and it'll come out all right in the long run." then seth left the building on his way down-town, and it is safe to say that in all the city of new york there was not another as happy as he, for it seemed just then as if the goal he had set himself was very near at hand. chapter viii. jip collins's retreat. so excited was seth by this sudden and unexpected change in his fortunes that he could not bring himself to walk demurely down-town as he was in the custom of doing; but ran swiftly more than half the distance, repeating to himself over and over again: "i'm really goin' into the department after all!" he was so highly elated when he met dan that the latter instantly understood something of the utmost importance had transpired, and asked eagerly: "what's flashed up on you, seth? got a big job?" "indeed i have! i'm goin' into the department!" "wha--wha--what?" "i'm goin' into the department. mr. davis an' the rest of ninety-four's men have got me a job up at headquarters where i'll have a chance to learn all the business, an' then when i'm big enough, if my record is all right, i'll slip in for a fireman as easy as winkin'." "look here, seth, what kind of a stiff are you tryin' to give me?" dan asked sharply. "it's a straight tip, old man. mr. davis jest told me all about it, an' says i mustn't black boots any more except for ninety-four's men. he didn't even want me to do that; but i hung on till mr. dunton backed me up, an' he finally gave in. say, do you know they've bought a uniform for me jest like they wear, only there's no brass buttons on it." "oh, go 'way, seth. you've slipped your trolley." "no, it's all straight goods, dan. what kept me up there so long this mornin' was talkin' 'bout it. i'm to go to-night and get the clothes. the only thing that worries me is i can't pay for them myself." "anybody'd think to hear you talk that was hard luck. look here, seth, if what you've been givin' me is straight, you've struck a terrible snap, an' a feller who'd kick 'cause somebody gives him a suit of clothes, ought'er go bare-backed." "it would look a good deal better, dan, if i had the money to buy the things, rather than let them give 'em to me." "i ain't so certain 'bout that. the biggest part of it is gettin' 'em, an' if they're willin' to put up i'd say let 'em buy anythin' they wanted. look here, i can't quite get it through my head that things is the way you tell, 'cause it don't seem likely a boy could get in at headquarters." seth repeated to his partner all that 'lish davis had said, and when the story was concluded master roberts commented on it in this fashion: "you'll be out er sight, seth; that's all there is to it!" then, realizing how his brother news-venders might be surprised, he added, "come on quick, an' let's tell as many fellers as we can before we go to see bill dean ship sam barney to philadelphy!" seth was by no means averse to making known his good fortune, and very shortly afterward the two were surrounded by a throng of incredulous news-venders and bootblacks, the majority of whom insisted that "they wouldn't be stuffed with any such yarns, 'cause of course a feller as small as seth bartlett couldn't get a job in the department, even if it was only to sweep floors, wash windows, an' that sort of thing. besides, if he was taken on at headquarters, nobody would give him a show of learnin' the drill." bill dean called dan aside, and after first persuading him to cross his throat with his fingers in order that he should be put on oath, as it were, asked regarding the truth of the statements made. "it's jest as i said, an' he's goin' to have a reg'lar uniform, all but the buttons, to-night." "did you hear any of ninety-four's men say so?" "i wasn't there, of course; but you know seth bartlett don't go 'round shootin' his mouth off the way some of the fellers do, an' you can hang up to everythin' he says; so i'm certain it's true." "it must be," bill replied in a tone of conviction, and then approaching seth gravely he extended his hand, saying as the amateur fireman grasped it: "i'm mighty glad you've struck it so rich, old man, an' that's a fact. all of us know you've been runnin' to fires pretty reg'lar; but we never b'lieved you'd really get into the department." "i ain't there yet," seth replied modestly; "but mr. davis says it'll be my own fault if i don't get in, so you can make up your mind i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide." one by one seth's business acquaintances followed bill's example in the matter of giving credence to the wonderful story, until it was a generally accepted fact that no more than the truth had been told. there were some doubters, however; but they were so few in number that it seemed as if there was no longer any question regarding the matter, and during the half-hour which followed seth was kept busy answering the questions of the curious and, perhaps, envious ones. the astounding news brought by seth and dan had caused sam barney's friends and acquaintances to forget for the time being that this promising detective was about to depart from new york; but bill dean, who had taken it upon himself to thus aid jip collins, soon bethought himself of the business in hand, and reminded the others of their duty by saying: "look here, fellers, we mustn't hang 'round here much longer, else there won't be a chance of gettin' sam away to-day. he's got to go on the emigrant train, an' the railroad folks will look for him jest as i said, 'cause i made a good deal of talk 'bout his bein' a detective. you see i thought they'd be glad to have him go on their cars if we could make 'em b'lieve half as much as sam tells 'bout himself." thus reminded of their duty the young merchants set out in a body for the cortlandt street ferry, much to the annoyance of those pedestrians against whom they jostled and tumbled in their eagerness to make way through the crowded thoroughfare. the amateur detective was found at the corner of west street, where he had promised to await bill dean's coming, and one glance at the throng which had gathered to do him honor, as he believed, filled his heart with pride. "they're beginnin' to find out that i'm no slouch of a detective after all, hey?" he said in a confidential whisper to bill, and the latter replied in a matter-of-fact tone: "i ain't certain you'd have seen so many of 'em, sam, if it hadn't been that they was all in a bunch listenin' to the news 'bout seth bartlett, an' after hearin' it was in good trim for anythin'." "what's the news 'bout seth?" sam asked with mild curiosity. "why, he's goin' into the department." "who? seth bartlett?" "yep. that is, it's jest 'bout the same thing. ninety-four's men have found him a job up to headquarters where he'll have a chance to learn the business, 'cause there's what you might call a school for firemen up there." sam remained silent fully an instant gazing at his friend in open-mouthed astonishment, and then he said emphatically if not a trifle viciously: "i don't b'lieve a word of it; that's one of seth bartlett's yarns!" "he ain't the kind of feller that goes 'round lyin', an' it would be a chump trick for him to begin it now, 'cause if he don't flash up in that uniform by to-morrow night we'll know he's been stuffin' us." "well, maybe there's _somethin'_ in it," sam replied grudgingly, after a brief hesitation; "but it seems to me the fire department must be pretty hard up when they'll take in a feller like seth." "i don't know why he wouldn't make as good a fireman as you will a detective. he's been runnin' with ninety-four for more'n a year." "what does that 'mount to? he's never done anythin' same's i have, to show that he had the stuff in him." "they say he come pretty nigh savin' 'lish davis's life the other night when them storage warehouses burned." "oh, that's all in your eye. dan roberts told the yarn so's to make hisself solid with seth." there was no further opportunity for sam to cast discredit upon seth's story, because the time was near at hand when he should take his departure, and those who had contributed to this important event were eager to hear in what way he proposed to distinguish himself. "i'll catch jip collins an' send him up the river for five or ten years," he said in reply to the questions of his friends, "an' then i reckon people will find out whether i 'mount to anything as a detective, or not." "are you sure he's over in philadelphy?" one of the boys asked of sam. "course i am." "how did you find it out?" "it wouldn't be any use for me to try to tell, 'cause you couldn't understand it; but that's where the detective business comes in. i've figgered it all out, an' in less than half an hour from the time the train strikes the town i'll have him 'rested." some of those who were in the secret smiled; but bill dean and his friends refrained from any display of mirth, lest sam, grown suspicious of his own wisdom, should at the last moment refuse to leave the city. the would-be detective had desired to purchase his own ticket, but to this proposition those who had the matter in charge would not consent, and bill dean, in response to the suggestion made by several of the party, proceeded, as he expressed it, to "ship off sam." that he had spoken the truth when he told of having had a conversation with the railroad officials regarding master barney's departure, was proven when he approached the ticket-office, for the clerk recognized him at once, and when the money was placed on the ledge in front of him, immediately passed out that form of a ticket which would give to jip's pursuer a passage to philadelphia. master barney's companions were eager to see him on board the cars; but after learning that such pleasure must be purchased by paying for a passage across to jersey city and back, the majority of them decided the price was altogether too high. "it'll cost pretty nigh a dollar for this whole gang to go over," dan roberts said after making a hurried calculation, "an' sam ain't worth it. i'd like to see how he swings hisself in the cars; but don't count on puttin' out my good money for it." there were very many of dan's opinion in the party, and after some discussion it was decided that bill dean and seth bartlett should accompany the detective during this first stage of the journey, and these two were instructed to "remember all sam said, an' how he looked, so's to tell it to the rest of the crowd when they got back." the would-be detective gravely shook hands with his followers, and, after cautioning those who were to accompany him to remain at a respectable distance lest they interfere with his plans, stole on board the ferry-boat in a manner well calculated to attract the attention and excite the mirth of every one who saw him. "he thinks reg'lar detectives go snoopin' 'round in that style," bill said in a whisper to seth, "an' jest as long as he keeps up such a fool idea he'll never 'mount to anythin'. i ain't sayin' but what he might turn out to be quite a feller if he would only act decent." sam appeared to think it necessary that he remain by himself during the short voyage, and when the boat arrived at the jersey city slip refused to go on shore until after having satisfied himself, in his own grotesque fashion, that there were no enemies in the vicinity. he entered the depot much in the same manner, and peered into the car fully five minutes before venturing to take a seat, after which he said in a tone of satisfaction to his companions: "i reckon i've done this thing pretty nigh right so far, an' if i don't bring jip collins back with me it'll be 'cause some of them philadelphy people spoil my game." "are you reckonin' on stayin' there till you catch him?" bill asked with a wink at seth, and master barney replied confidently: "i can put my hands on him within an hour; but it may be we'll stay overnight so's i can bring him into town in the mornin'." "how are you countin' on gettin' your ticket to come back?" seth asked. "oh, i've got that figgered out. you see, jest as soon as i've nabbed jip i'll go to police headquarters an' tell 'em who he is, an' of course they'll see that i get back." bill had considerable difficulty in keeping his face straight during this portion of the conversation, and, fearing lest he might inadvertently betray the secret, made short work of the leave-taking. [illustration: sam going to philadelphia. _page_ 146.] sam was in the car with the ticket in his hand, and it was hardly probable he would do other than proceed to his destination as had been agreed upon, therefore bill said in an exceedingly friendly tone: "well, we'd better be goin', old man. i'll see you when you get back." until this moment seth had not realized that by supplying master barney with the means of transportation to philadelphia, they were virtually exiling him from his home, and his heart misgave him as such phase of the case suddenly presented itself. "look here, sam, s'posen it turns out that you don't find jip, how'll you get home?" he asked, and there was in his mind the thought that he would divide his scanty store of money with the alleged detective; but the latter soon made it plain that he was, or believed he was, able to take care of himself. "don't bother your head 'bout me, 'cause even if you have got a show of gettin' into the fire department, you ain't very well posted on the detective business. i'll get back without any of your help, an' i'll bring jip with me." all seth's sympathy fled, and without further attempt at leave-taking the two walked out of the car, glancing back from the door an instant at the alleged detective, who was looking as important and satisfied as a boy well could look. it was decided between bill and seth during the voyage across the river, that after having made a report to those who awaited their coming they would visit jip collins in his retreat at the erie basin. "there's only a few of us knows where he is, an' of course we've got to keep it a secret for a spell, so you, an' dan, an' i must give the other fellers the slip if we can." seth agreed to this after having been assured that there would be no difficulty in getting back to the engine-house as mr. davis had commanded, and once they were on the new york shore bill fulfilled his duty to his friends by giving a detailed account of all sam had said and done. some members of the party--and there were a few who considered master barney one of the most promising young detectives in the city--were fully satisfied with the manner in which he was reported to have borne himself when he set out to bring to a successful close this his first important case; but those who believed that sam's ability existed only in his own mind were inclined to ridicule his fantastic behavior, and one of the company was applauded loudly as he said: "if sam cavorts 'round philadelphy the same way he went on board the ferry-boat, they'll run him in for a lunatic, an' we'll never see him again till he turns over a mighty big leaf." then the would-be detective's acquaintances separated, each intent on his own business or pleasure, and there was nothing to prevent the three who were bent upon aiding jip collins, from proceeding on their errand of mercy. now that sam barney's departure was an accomplished fact, seth began to reproach himself with having aided in sending the boy so far from home that it might be many weeks before he could return, and while walking toward hoboken ferry gave words to these thoughts. bill dean, however, was not troubled with any pangs of conscience because he had in a certain degree deceived master barney. "it ain't us who sent him over there. he spouted up and told how jip was in philadelphy, an' we hadn't any call to tell him it wasn't so." "but how'll he get back?" "well, if i was in that town, or any other where the railroad folks only charge seventy-five cents to fetch me home, you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round the streets very long cryin' baby; i'd hustle an' earn money. that's the way sam can get back, an' the more you feel bad 'bout him the bigger fool you're makin' of yourself. i ain't stickin' up for jip collins, 'cause when he set fire to baxter's lumber-yard he knew he was doin' what would send him to jail; but at the same time 'twixt him an' sam i ain't certain but i'd rather give jip a boost." then bill discussed the affair in its different phases, laying great stress upon what was apparently to him a fact, that by giving sam barney an opportunity of learning that he was not really a detective, they were conferring a benefit upon him. as master dean presented the case, there had been no deception practised, because they could only have convinced sam of his error by betraying jip, who had placed himself in the hands of his friends, and master barney never once asked for information, but, instead, asserted that he knew where the fugitive was concealed. in this wise was the time spent during what was a reasonably long journey, and bill had hardly more than come to the end of his arguments when they arrived at the erie basin. "there's where jip is hidin'," master dean said as he pointed to a dilapidated boat lying at the opposite side of the basin, and at that moment dan and seth saw what at first sight appeared to be a dark-colored ball placed in the combing of the companionway hatch. when it suddenly disappeared, and a certain portion of it came again into view, they understood it was the head of the young gentleman they had journeyed thus far to visit, and dan shouted loudly: "hi! it's only us! don't get scared!" not until he had assured himself by actual survey that there were none other than these three friends in the vicinity, did the disconsolate-looking firebug venture to show himself, and then he came out on the deck with a certain humility that was in marked contrast with his former swagger. "is sam barney still on my trail?" he asked piteously, and that he might not be kept in suspense, bill gave a detailed account of the afternoon's proceedings so far as the detective was concerned. a long-drawn sigh of relief escaped from the fugitive's lips as he said: "i was terrible 'fraid he'd find me out up here, cause whether he's a detective or not, sam has a way of snoopin' 'round an' gettin' at things that other fellers don't want him to know. do you reckon i can show myself down-town now?" seth was forced to repeat what 'lish davis had told him, and again a gloom gathered on the firebug's face, but it was lightened somewhat when the amateur fireman added: "there's no reason, jip, why you can't come out an' earn your livin' so long's you walk straight, for i don't b'lieve anybody will try to 'rest you, now sam is away from the city; but remember what mr. davis said, that if you should do anythin' more crooked, this would all come up against you." "look here, seth, i know i did a mighty mean thing when i set fire to the shed in baxter's yard, an' whether you believe it or not, i was terrible sorry the minute the shavin's caught fire; but don't think i ain't been served out. it's awful to stay all night on this boat; i hear all kinds of noises an' it seems to me as if the place was reg'larly ha'nted. i'd almost rather go to jail than stay here any longer." "but you've got to live somehow, jip." "it won't be here. i've been thinkin' if i could get rid of sam barney i'd go over by the thirty-fourth street ferry. nobody knows me there an' it ought to be a good place for sellin' papers." bill dean thought this a wise plan, providing jip could find lodgings round about that locality, and then came the question as to how it would be possible for him to start in business again, for he confessed that all his money had been spent in the purchase of food. "what with helpin' sam barney off, layin' out for a spread last night, an' gettin' money together to pay the room-rent, this is kind of a tough week for me," dan said thoughtfully; "but i'll be willin' to chip in a nickel toward helpin' you along, jip." bill and seth made the same generous proposition, and when the money had been handed to the fugitive it was as if he found it difficult to swallow a certain lump which had arisen in his throat. "you fellers have been terrible good to me after i come pretty near killin' you, an' i want you to b'lieve i'm goin' to be straight. i'll try to show that i can be decent." "of course you can, jip," seth said soothingly, "and there's no need of your tellin' us 'bout it. jest plug right ahead an' do the best you know how; then things will come out all right, i'm certain. by the time sam gets back we'll take care he don't meddle with the case, an' i reckon mr. davis will fix the balance. when you goin' to leave here?" "jest as soon as i can. i made up my mind this noon that i'd let sam barney lug me off to jail rather than stay any longer." "then come with us, an' there'll be time for you to get in some of the evenin' trade if we hurry. bill an' dan will go over with you an' see if there's any fellers 'round the thirty-fourth street ferry that might make trouble, an' most likely i'll see you again to-morrow." at this point dan would have told the firebug of seth's good fortune, but that the latter checked him, believing at such a time the information had best be withheld, and the three good samaritans with their penitent friend set out for new york. chapter ix. the uniform. when jip collins and those who had befriended him arrived at the point nearest ninety-four's house, on their way to the thirty-fourth street ferry, seth halted to take leave of his companions, and knowing what he was about to do, dan urged that he be allowed to accompany him. "you're goin' down to get your uniform on, an' i want to see it the very first thing." "so you shall, dan; but i'd rather you wouldn't come with me now, 'cause there was nothin' said about my bringin' anybody. keep on with bill an' jip, an' i'll go over to our room jest as soon as i get through at the engine-house." this did not please master roberts; but bill dean urged that seth was in the right, and was very emphatic in the assertion that it would "be 'way off color to shove in" at such a time. therefore dan ceased to insist, although it was with a very ill grace that he accepted the situation. as a matter of course, once such a conversation was started, it became necessary to explain to jip what important business called seth away, and he said with a sigh: "i'm glad you're playin' in such luck, seth, for you're mighty square. i s'posed after what i'd done nobody would let me come 'round their houses, an' as for my gettin' into any department, why there never'll be a show of such a thing as that." "now don't you get down in the dumps, jip, 'cause you'll soon pull up where you was before. all that's needed is to go on straight from this out, an' show people you're sorry for meddlin' in such crooked business." after this attempt at consolation seth parted with his companions, and ten minutes later was standing before 'lish davis on the lower floor of ninety-four's house. "well, what have you done with your firebug?" the driver asked, and such of the men as were idle gathered around to hear the conversation. "we've shipped sam barney, an' jip's gone down thirty-fourth street way sellin' papers." "do you allow he'll run straight after this?" "i'm almost certain of it, mr. davis. he feels terrible bad, an' if sam gives him the chance he'll show that he can be a decent feller." "i hope so, because i hate to see a boy go wrong. do you know, amateur, that what's done while you're young hangs on after you get to be a man. then, when you're getting along swimmingly, up comes somebody and tells of the mean trick you played when you was a kid. it always counts against a man. now, i ain't saying that your firebug won't pull out of this, but he's taking the chances that it'll be thrown up in his face a hundred times 'twixt now and the next ten years, however straight he walks. if a boy would only bear that in mind i allow he'd be a heap more careful about what he did. howsomever, you ain't here for a lecture of that kind, and what's more you don't need one. i allow you're counting on that suit of clothes?" "i s'posed that was what you wanted me to come for, sir." "well, it was, amateur, it was; and if you'll go upstairs and look on my bed you'll find the togs laid out there. put 'em on, and come down to show us how you look." "are they new clothes, sir?" "of course they are. you don't allow that when this 'ere company takes it into their heads to fit out a kid they're going to do it on second-hand rigging, do you?" "i only asked the question 'cause i thought perhaps if they was all new i'd better wash my face an' hands first." "that's right, amateur; fix yourself out the best you know how. we want to see what kind of a looking kid we've taken on our hands." instead of immediately acting upon his own suggestion seth hesitated, and after a moment the driver asked: "what are you hanging in the wind now for? got anything on your mind?" "i'd like to know, sir, if i'm to be allowed to pay for these clothes when i get so i can earn money enough?" "bless your heart, amateur, when you're regularly in the department you shall come up and square the bills with ninety-four if it so be you're inclined; if not, why, what we do comes free as air, and we're glad to give you a boost. all the payment we want is that you'll do us credit. i'd like to have the boys up at headquarters, when they look at you, say to themselves, 'that kid belongs to ninety-four,' and in the saying of it i'd have 'em think you was way up--something out of the ordinary run of kids, don't you understand, amateur?" "if i can do anything to make you feel proud of me, mr. davis, i'll be mighty glad; but i promise you shan't be ashamed of having sent me there." "i ain't counting on the possibility of that, amateur, 'cause i believe i know you better. now, get along and put yourself into condition, 'cause there's no knowing how soon we may get a call." before looking at the new clothing seth washed his face and hands with scrupulous care, used the comb and brush again and again until positive each single hair was in its proper place, and then went to the floor above. he expected to see garments which somewhat resembled those worn by the firemen; but was unprepared for that which met his gaze. 'lish davis, if indeed it was he who ordered the uniform, had seen to it that each article was a facsimile, both as to texture and style, of what he himself wore, the one difference being that the buttons were plain black instead of gilt with raised letters. during several moments seth stood as if spell-bound, gazing at this, to him, first real evidence that he was in a certain degree, however remote, connected with the department, and perhaps never again will he feel the same honest pride which was his at that moment, for he knew without being told that he had gotten this far toward the goal he had set himself by straightforward dealing and careful attention to all the duties which might be expected of him. he did not say in so many words that he had earned them; but there was in his mind a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that they would not have been presented unless he had shown himself to be in some degree deserving. after a long survey of the garments, he put them on, and never was transformation more complete than when he was thus changed from a ragged boy of the street, to what, in the mirror at least, looked almost like a young gentleman. "they're mighty fine," he said to himself as he examined first one coat-sleeve and then the other. "they're mighty fine, an' it'll be a terrible big tumble for me if i can't satisfy 'em up to headquarters." then came the fear that now, having reached the threshold of the department, as it were, he might fail in his purpose, and seth literally trembled with apprehension until 'lish davis's voice was heard from below ordering him to "hurry up." "i won't go back on ninety-four's men," the boy said to himself resolutely. "it's jest as the driver says, all depends on me, an' knowin' what's to be gained i'm a chump if i can't pull through." then, acting on an impulse, he slid down one of the poles, instead of going by the way of the stairs, and suddenly stood before the entire company, who were awaiting his appearance. "well done, amateur, well done," 'lish davis cried in a tone of approbation. "i declare i wouldn't have known who it was if i'd met you sudden-like on the street. why, you're a corker, amateur, a regular corker!" "i do look pretty nice, an' that's a fact," seth replied complacently, whereat the men laughed heartily. then each member of the company in turn came forward and shook him by the hand, congratulating him upon his first appearance as a member of the department, at the same time that they wished him success in the effort to gain a permanent foothold among them. "you're a credit to us, amateur, and that much i must say. the money we spent on the toggery ain't been thrown away even if you do get fired out of headquarters after a spell. from this time forth you're much the same as a probationary fireman, and the bootblack part of it has disappeared, except when you're 'round here where there's no one to know what you're doing. though, mark you, lad, i'm not saying anything against a boy's shining boots for a living. if you hadn't done it well, and taken some pride in your calling, seth bartlett wouldn't be standing in that 'ere suit of blue this minute. now that we've launched you, as it were, amateur, i, and i'm speaking for my mates as well, want you to understand that it's a hard row ahead. you've got to work early and late; put up with a good many disagreeable things and look pleasant all the while; do considerable more'n your duty, and be always on the jump. keep up as we've known you, amateur, my boy, and you'll win." when this speech--for it could be called by no other name--was concluded, the driver's comrades applauded loudly, and then 'lish stepped back a few paces as if expecting seth to respond. the "probationary" fireman understood the movement; but the words in his mind would not come; instead of making what he considered a worthy reply, he said, and to him it sounded lame and poor: "i'll do my best so's you won't be ashamed of me." "that's all we're asking for, amateur, and to-morrow noon at twelve o'clock i've got leave of absence to take you up to headquarters. you're your own boss till then, and you'd better make the most of the holiday, 'cause it'll be a long spell before you get another." "there's only one thing i'd like to say, sir, an' that i s'pose i mustn't think of." "do you mean you're hankering to run to a fire with them good clothes on?" "i'd like to shift 'em an' go, sir, for----" at that instant the click caused by the opening of the electric circuit in the alarm was heard, followed by the striking of the joker. the weight fell--the lever flew up--the horses were released, and before seth could have spoken, even if he had had anything to say, the animals were under the swinging harness, while every man stood at his station. "get on, amateur; get on alongside the engineer. this may be the last time you'll run with ninety-four for quite a spell, and i'm minded to give you the advantage of it," the captain cried as 'lish davis sprang to his seat, snapped into place the catch on his belt, and released the harness. almost before the last word was spoken seth had leaped to the side of the engineer, and never a boy in new york city was more proud than he, when the ponderous engine, drawn by the plunging horses, left the building with a rattle and roar which could have been heard blocks away. in a uniform hardly to be distinguished from the members of the company the amateur was riding to his first fire in what seemed to him like an official capacity. one portion of his dream was being realized, and he said to himself as he clung to the rail, swung to and fro by the swaying of the ponderous machine, that when the time came for him to be regularly enrolled in the department he would use every effort toward being assigned to ninety-four. "you are our mascot, amateur," jerry walters, who stood next to seth, shouted at the full strength of his lungs in order that the words might be heard above the clanging of the gong and rattle of wheels, "and if you're to bring us good luck we shall get first water to-night." [illustration: the fire-engine going out. _page_ 152.] seth's heart sank. for the moment he believed walters was in earnest, and knew full well, having the location of each signal station in mind, that there were two engines whose houses were nearer the call than was ninety-four's. to get first water under such circumstances seemed impossible, and timidly seth reminded walters of the fact. "i know it, amateur, and am not counting that we'll win; but if we should, and if there be such things as mascots, then i'm free to admit you'll be a lucky one for us." perhaps 'lish davis had in his mind some idea similar to that expressed by walters, for although seth had seen him urge his horses to their utmost speed time and again, never before had he known him to press them so hard. the mass of steel and iron was drawn over the pavement as if it had been but a feather's weight, and 'lish davis guided the horses, without checking their speed in the slightest, around a sharp corner so suddenly that seth was nearly overthrown, while the clanging of gongs in the distance told of the approach of a second engine. "it's fifty-three!" jerry walters shouted in the boy's ear. "it's fifty-three, and we've got thirty seconds the start of her. how about getting first water now, amateur?" seth pointed straight ahead where could be seen a cloud of sparks arising from the stack of a third engine which was coming directly toward them. "yes, amateur, it's her or ninety-four; fifty-three is distanced, and i'll hold that you're bringing good luck to us if we do no more than beat one of 'em out." every man of that company, however eager he had previously been to be first at the scene of conflict, seemed now to outdo himself in activity. a cloud of black smoke issuing from the second floor of a dwelling located the fire, and ninety-four's tender was making a run for the nearest hydrant, passing the engine just as 'lish davis slackened speed. joe black had gained the desired spot in advance of his rival, and as ninety-four's tender dashed by, fifteen or twenty feet of the hose had been run off of the reel. then it was that jerry walters and 'lish davis gave vent to a loud cry of triumph, for joe black had made the connection. ninety-four's tender was stretching in just as the other company reached the hydrant, beaten by no more than ten seconds. "we've got first water, amateur, we've got first water!" jerry walters shouted as if having taken leave of his senses. "it ain't that we've never done such a thing; but this time it didn't belong to us, and we took it on your first run! if that ain't being a mascot for ninety-four i don't know what you will call it." then there was no time for congratulations or further discussion regarding the matter, for the men had work to do which could not be delayed, and seth was about to follow joe black when 'lish davis shouted: "come back here, amateur! come back! this is no time for you to be gettin' points when you're wearing the first decent suit of clothes you ever owned. get alongside and behave yourself. i didn't allow you was to do any work when the captain let you in on this trick." under other circumstances seth would have been grievously disappointed at being thus commanded to remain where he could see little or nothing of what was being done; but now he was so elated at the victory won that all else seemed but slight by comparison. "i s'pose you'd have gone in there if you was wearing the finest coat ever made, eh?" the driver asked gravely, and seth replied with another question: "wouldn't you, sir?" "what i'd do don't cut any figger, amateur. it's my business to go in there, but not yours yet a while. when the time comes that you're bound to step up with the foremost, i'm expecting to see you there, and wouldn't say a word that might hold you back. now you're playing the gentleman, and you'll stay with me; besides, it ain't going to turn out anything after all. a curtain or some such flummery is blazing. it can't be much more." in this surmise 'lish davis was correct. within ten minutes after ninety-four was ready for work word came to "shut off," and the men set about disconnecting the hose. so slight had been the fire that only two members of the company were detailed to do the overhauling--that, is to thoroughly go through the building from top to bottom to make certain no spark had been left which might be fanned into a flame--and the remainder of the men were ordered back to the house. "it's what we may call a howling success, this first run of yours, amateur," 'lish davis said as he drove leisurely homeward. "we've beat 'em all out, had little work to do, and it wasn't much more than good practice, with a precious fine record at the bottom of it. but don't you get puffed up thinking everything is going your way just 'cause you've started in easy and slick." "there's no reason why i should be puffed up, mr. davis, except that i've had a chance to do what i've been longin' for--and that is to go out with ninety-four as if i belonged to her." "_as if_ you belonged to her! that's what we allow you do, amateur. from this out, unless it so be you turn about wonderfully and go crooked, you're one of us--an honorary member, so to speak." "put down on the roll as the official mascot," jerry walters cried, whereat the remainder of the company laughed heartily, and in this jovial mood was ninety-four returned to her quarters; but seth was not allowed to take part in the washing-up lest he should soil his fine feathers. "i'm counting on your striking in at headquarters lookin' just as fine as silk, which you couldn't do if we let you hang 'round here helping with the dirty work," 'lish davis said when seth would have claimed it as his right to be allowed to assist in the labor. "you're to toddle straight home now, for you've hung 'round this house long enough; stay there till morning, come over here for a bit about your usual time, and then take a spell at swelling down-town until nigh on to twelve o'clock, when i'll be ready to go with you. well, why don't you start?" "i wanted to thank you for lettin' me run with ninety-four the first night i had my uniform on." "you needn't do anything of the kind. the captain happened to be soft just as the alarm struck, else you wouldn't have got away with us. now clear out, and take care you don't get into mischief." as seth went toward his lodgings he wondered whether the people whom he met in the street were not surprised at seeing him thus clad like a fireman, and so intent was he on walking erect with his shoulders thrown well back, that he might the better look the part he hoped one day to play, that he failed to observe dan roberts until the latter, suddenly recognizing his partner, shouted shrilly: "hi! seth! do you mean that's really you?" "don't make such a row on the street, dan, 'cause folks will wonder what's the matter. but say, i do look pretty fine, eh?" "fine? why, that's no name for it, old man. you're out of sight! where did you get 'em?" "this is the uniform i was tellin' you 'bout. mr. davis gave it to me when i was over to the engine-house, an' do you know i hadn't more'n got into it when there was an alarm, an' i rode to the fire on ninety-four jest as if i belonged to her." "no!" "i did for a fact." "well, if they let you do that there ain't much question 'bout your gettin' into the department." "mr. davis says it all depends on me now, an' you can bet i'll work mighty hard, dan roberts." "if you don't you're a bloomin' idjut! why, i wouldn't ever knowed you if i'd been goin' fast! i was kind-er loafin' along wonderin' when you'd be home, an' thinkin' of jip, so had time to look 'round. first off i couldn't make up my mind to holler, you looked so bloomin' swell. now, i don't see why i shouldn't go in for somethin' same's you did, an' flash up in sich style; but no, i'll stick to sellin' papers, that'll be the way with me, an' think i'm playin' in great luck if i get to own a stand on some corner." "you talk as if i was already in the department, instead of havin' to work my way up to it." "i only wish i was as near there. by the time you're captain of a company i'll jest about get so i can pay my own way, with never two cents ahead." "now, don't begin to jump on yourself 'cause it seems as if i was gettin' along pretty fast; but wait an' see how i pan out, an' as for doin' nothin' but sellin' papers, why, that's 'cordin' to the way you want it. there ain't any need of stickin' to sich business unless you hanker for it." "yes there is, except i'm willin' to starve," dan replied mournfully, and to raise him from the depths of despondency into which he had been plunged by a sight of the uniform, seth began to ask him questions concerning jip. "we left him down at the ferry. bill dean struck a feller there who promised to give jip a lift now an' then. i don't reckon he'll have any trouble, 'cause them as are sellin' papers down that way don't seem to have much sand to 'em. he's goin' to sleep with bill's friend, an' take it all in all i think he's gettin' along mighty well, considerin' it ain't a week since he burned us out. say, goin' into the house now, or do you count on swellin' 'round a spell first?" "we'll go home, dan, an' in the mornin', after i've shined for ninety-four's men, i'll meet you down-town." "what? you goin' to do any more shinin'?" "i am for them in that house, an' i'll keep it up till i get to be reg'larly in the department. they've done so much for me, dan, that if i should spend half my time as long as i live blackin' their boots, i wouldn't square things." "if i counted on bein' a fireman i'd be one; i wouldn't black boots for anybody." "neither will i when i'm really in the department; but i'm a long ways from there yet a while. come home, an' to-night i'll stand a spread so's to celebrate wearin' the new uniform." chapter x. at headquarters. when he first saw seth in his new uniform a certain feeling of envy came into dan roberts's heart; but he was not a fellow who could give himself up to this kind of thoughts very long, and within a few moments all that had passed away, leaving in its stead rejoicings that his partner had taken such rapid strides toward the desired end. before they had gained the seclusion of their own room dan was his old self once more, and from that moment it is safe to say he was never again envious of seth's good fortune, but sufficiently wise to profit by his partner's example. when they entered the house, mrs. hanson, who must have been informed by 'lish davis of the expected change in seth's condition, came to the door to see the boy in his uniform, and when she ceased her words of praise his cheeks were glowing red. "you'll cut a terrible swath down-town to-morrow morning," dan said sagely when they were alone. "here's a woman that never saw either of us till yesterday, an' she goes pretty nigh crazy over the way you look. i reckon sam barney would have a reg'lar fit if he should run up against you now." to seth's mind there was nothing wrong in admiring himself, or listening to words of praise from others, and he enjoyed to the utmost these speculations of his partner until master roberts, wearied of gazing at the amateur fireman, hinted broadly that if there was to be a spread set out in honor of the uniform, now was the time to "start her goin'." "how much did that lay-out cost you last night?" "twenty-three cents." "that's pretty stiff to pay for one supper; but it ain't every day i get a uniform, an' i guess i can stand it this once. we shan't spread ourselves in the same way ag'in, though," seth said thoughtfully, speaking half to himself, and then taking some coins from his pocket, he added, "you go out and buy the stuff. i'll wait here." "why don't you come with me?" "i'm 'fraid if ninety-four's men should see me they'd think i was runnin' 'round swellin'." "well, s'posen they should? haven't you got the right? wouldn't most any feller who's got as near into the department as you have?" "mr. davis said i was to go down-town to-morrow mornin', an' perhaps that's all he thought i ought'er do, so i'll hang on here instead of goin' out ag'in." dan was not averse to making the purchases, and so deeply occupied was seth with pleasant thoughts that it seemed to him master roberts had no more than left the room before he returned laden with packages. as on the previous night he was accompanied by bill dean, who exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction as he entered the room: "it seems like as if i'm allers 'round when you fellers are puttin' up swell lay-outs, don't it?" then getting a full view of seth for the first time he cried in an accent of unquestionable admiration, "well, i'll be jiggered! dan said you was lookin' mighty fine; but i never thought you could flash up like this! why, you're a reg'lar fireman already." "you wouldn't think that if you could hear what ninety-four's men say, an', besides, there's no brass buttons on this uniform, you know." "i ain't certain but it looks better without 'em. anyhow, you're way up in g." "he ought'er know it by this time," dan added with a laugh. "everybody has been tellin' him so, an' he come mighty near paralyzin' miss hanson. she jest threw up both hands when we opened the door." "well, i don't wonder; but say, i didn't come round to sponge off you fellers, 'cause i never thought of your havin' two such lay-outs one right after the other. i didn't know but you'd like to hear how we'd left jip, an' then agin i wanted to talk 'bout bunkin' in here with you fellers." "this is seth's spread; but you'll hold on an' get your share of it now you're here," and dan began to arrange the food on the table in the most tempting manner possible. "of course you'll stop," seth added, "an' even if you'd known we was goin' to kind of celebrate, what would be the harm in comin' 'round an' gettin' some?" "well, i don't want you to think i'm playin' it on you, that's all; but it struck me a little while ago that if we could make a trade with the woman what runs this house, it would come easier on all hands. now, that bed is plenty big enough for three, an' it ain't likely you'll be here much of the time, except to sleep, so why wouldn't it be a good idea to see how much extra she'll charge to let me in with you fellers?" seth knew of no good reason why bill should not be allowed to share their palatial quarters, providing mrs. hanson did not object. he knew master dean to be an industrious, well-intentioned boy, whose company, now that he was to be absent from home so much, might be desirable to dan, and at once signified his willingness that the landlady should be consulted. "i reckon dan will be lonesome here when i'm gone so much, an' perhaps it would be a good plan. s'pose you two fellers go down an' see what she's got to say." "why don't you tackle her?" master roberts suggested. "she'll be so busy lookin' at your uniform that perhaps you could make a better trade." seth hesitated only an instant, and then went down-stairs. when he returned his companions knew from the expression on his face, before he made a report, that the mission had been successful. "she says if we keep quiet an' don't have a crowd hangin' round, or too many visitors, that we needn't pay any more for three than we do for two. i didn't think that would be jest the square thing, an' besides, we couldn't divide half a dollar up in three parts, so i told her we'd call it sixty cents, an' that will make the lodgin' come mighty cheap for all hands of us." "when are you willin' i should come?" bill dean asked eagerly. "whenever you want to." "then i'll start right in to-night an' pay the same as you fellers do, for you've only got one day ahead of me." and thus the matter was settled to the manifest delight of the new lodger. the feast was an unusually satisfactory one on this particular evening. seth was as happy as a boy well could be because of the good fortune which had come to him through ninety-four's men; bill believed himself unusually lucky in having secured such desirable lodgings at an exceedingly low price; and master roberts had suddenly conceived an idea which seemed to him a remarkably happy one. not until his hunger had been appeased did dan give words to his new train of thoughts, and then he announced with the air of one who has made a great discovery: "if seth hadn't laid himself right out to get into the department, an' stuck to it whether the fellers were makin' fun of him or not, he wouldn't be wearin' that uniform now, would he? course not. if i keep on sellin' papers an' don't try to do anything else, i'll never get some other kind of a job, will i? course not. now, i've made up my mind to own a store on third avenoo where i'll sell papers, an' books, an' sich truck, an' keep a lot of kids to do the outside work." "an' you can do it, too, dan, if you stick right at it," seth replied confidently. "well, she goes from this out! i shan't spend any more money buyin' swell grub same's this is, an' if i don't get down-town every mornin' by daylight it'll be 'cause i'm broke up so bad i can't move." then the feasters discussed this new idea of dan's, approaching it from every point of view, until the third avenue store was to master roberts an accomplished fact; nothing stood between it and him save hard work and a strict adherence to his purpose. after this subject was exhausted a certain amount of their attention was given to jip collins's affairs. they speculated briefly as to what sam barney might be doing at that particular moment, or regarding matters connected with his departure, and it was not yet nine o'clock when all three were lying comfortably in bed, sleeping peacefully. dan awakened shortly after daybreak, and, strong in his purpose of one day owning a third avenue store, lost no time in making ready for business. he and bill dean started down-town before sunrise, and seth made his way to ninety-four's house, where he busied himself in doing such work as came to his hand. before seven o'clock he had blackened the boots of all the men, swept the floors, and groomed one of the horses. 'lish davis came down just as this last task was performed, and observing what had been done said gravely: "look here, amateur, we don't count on your doing up all the odd jobs 'round this place, else the rest of us will rust out for lack of exercise." "i got 'round pretty early, sir, an' 'd rather be at work than layin' still." "after this noon you won't complain of having too much spare time on your hands. been to breakfast?" "yes, sir." "then clear out an' go down-town, 'cause this is likely to be your last day off for quite a spell. i'll look after the other horses." seth would have been better pleased to remain in the engine-house two or three hours longer, but 'lish davis's injunctions, although given as a permission rather than a command, were not to be disobeyed, and without protesting he left the building. it is hardly necessary to attempt to describe the reception accorded the amateur fireman, when he arrived at printing house square. every bootblack or newsboy in that section of the city had heard from bill or dan the fullest possible particulars regarding the new uniform, and all were expecting to see a great change in seth's appearance, but not prepared for such a decided transformation. during at least two hours business was practically suspended, and seth was literally forced to remain on exhibition because of the throng which surrounded him. many times did the policemen in the vicinity disperse the gathering; but the admiring ones reassembled immediately afterward, regardless of the threats of the officers, and thus the society for the admiration of seth bartlett was virtually in continuous session. those who had laughed the loudest because of his ambition were now the most extravagant in their praises, and there was not a boy on printing house square who did not realize as never before how much might be accomplished by persistent effort. until eleven o'clock seth "visited" with his friends and acquaintances, and then made his way up to keep the appointment with 'lish davis. the driver, clad in his best uniform, was awaiting the boy's arrival, and cried good-naturedly when the latter appeared: "well, amateur, you've spread yourself, eh? been swelling all the morning till your head is so big that you need to borrow a new cap?" "there's no danger of that yet a while, mr. davis. i'll wait till i see how i get along at headquarters before puffin' myself out very much." "that's a good idea, amateur, though at the same time i believe you'll pull through in great shape, providing you hang on as you've done since i knew you. now, if it so be you've tended to all your business and are ready to duf into the work, we'll mosey along toward sixty-seventh street." "the sooner i get to work the quicker we'll know whether the folks up there are goin' to let me stay," seth replied, and with words expressive of kindly cheer and friendly wishes ringing in his ears, the amateur set out on this his first real step toward a position in the department. "i don't want them as you'll meet at headquarters to think you're a dummy, amateur, and it's in my mind to give you a little outline, so to speak, of this 'ere school, after which there'll be no need of your showing ignorance by asking questions. in the first place it ain't counted on that this 'ere branch of the service is to educate anybody and everybody that may come along. it's for such men as are admitted to the department on trial, 'probationary firemen' chiefly; but the old hands have had a deal of good out of it. "this plan was started long about '83 for no other reason than to show the men who were then in the service how to use the scaling ladder which had just been introduced, and the idea seemed to work so well that it gradually grew, kind of swelled out, so to speak, till it became a reg'lar school. first off, before the new headquarters was built, the city hired an old sugar warehouse on one hundred and fifty-eighth street and north river, where the men were shown how to use scaling ladders and a life net, and i've been there when one class counted up sixty scholars, all of us old hands at the business. remember this, amateur, you'll never be too old to go to school, leastways that's what i've found. "after the new headquarters building was opened in '87 the sugar warehouse was given up, and we firemen had what you might almost call a college. there's a yard at the back of the building nigh on to a hundred feet square, which is put up in such shape that water can be used the same as you would at a fire, and here drills go on like this, for instance: an alarm is sent out for a certain company when they least expect it, and the men find themselves called into headquarters to show what they can do. all that you're going to see, lad, and talking about getting points, why, you can learn more there in one exhibition drill than you could at forty fires, 'cause you're understanding just how the thing is going to be done. "you'll find when one of these unexpected drills comes off that the engine is run into the yard, hose coupled on to the hydrant, dragged up to the top of the building, water started and shut off, ladders used, and in fact the whole business gone through the same as if a hundred lives were in danger." "do the men really work as hard there as they do at a fire?" seth asked. "do they, amateur? well, now, you can be mighty certain they do, 'cause it's owing to what they show at such times that gives them their rating. now, for instance, ninety-four's company is in the first grade; eighty-six, that we bucked up against on that storage warehouse, is in the second grade; and there ain't a great many third grade nowadays, 'cause the men are drilled too well. and here's a point i want you to understand, amateur: in case some man comes along and tries to tell you that the department in this city or that is better than what we've got here, stick straight up for the fact that the new york fire department heads the world, and you won't be a grain away from the truth. taking it all in all i'm free to say, open and above board, that you can't find a department anywhere that can beat this, and i'm reckoning pretty strong that you wouldn't find one to equal us, taking all things into consideration. "now, we'll suppose you was old enough, and stout enough, and plucky enough, and knew enough to pass a civil-service and a physical examination for admission to the department. you wouldn't be put into regular service, but sent up to headquarters, where we're going now, and drilled in the yard, raising ladders, tossing 'em 'round, setting 'em up, and keeping at that kind of work till you could handle one the same's you might a knife or fork. now, considering the fact that the lightest of 'em weighs twenty and the heaviest sixty-five pounds, with a length of from fourteen to twenty feet, you can see that you've got to be pretty nimble before getting through the first lesson, eh? "then we'll allow you've satisfied them as are giving the lesson. you'll be set at climbing up to the first window to start with; after you can do that, to the second, and so on till you've got to the top of the building by aid of the scaling ladders. it ain't such a mighty easy thing when you come to do it yourself as it looks while you're watching somebody else; about the time you're half-way up the hair on your head will come pretty nigh to standing on end; but bless you, amateur, a man soon gets over that, till shinning outside of a building don't seem more'n child's play. "then there's the drill of building a chain--making a line of ladders from the roof to the street--and getting from the upper window out over the cornice. straddling sills is another lesson you'll have to learn, till you can get astride of one, and by holding on with your knees, work as handy as on the ground. standing on sills; working the life-line; climbing crosswise so's to step from one window and go to the next story on a slant, instead of straight up; using the life net by jumping down, or holding it for others to leap into--and if it so chances that you are ever set to holding one, amateur, my boy, you'll find it ain't child's play. i've heard it said that when a man weighing one hundred and fifty pounds jumps from the sixth floor of a building, he strikes the net with a force of nigh on to eighteen hundred pounds, and i tell you them as are holding it have to keep scratching." "do you reckon i'll be allowed to practise with the men, mr. davis?" seth asked as the driver paused an instant. "i'm counting on it, lad; but don't make up your mind it'll be right away. we of ninety-four's company believe we know what kind of a boy you are, because we've tried you, so to speak; but up here where we're going they've got only our word for it, and won't count very much on that till they've found it out for themselves. it may take a long time, and then again it mayn't; but every boy, whatever business he goes into, is bound to prove himself before he's thought to be of much account. it'll be the same at headquarters. turn to, amateur, the same as you've done since we knew you, and before a year goes by i reckon on seeing you in the drill." "are the men always practising?" "not every minute of the time, you know, because it comes precious nigh being hard work; but you can count on their doing all a man ought to do in the twelve hours. when it's storming, or too cold to work in the yard, you'll find them 'ere grown-up scholars in the gymnasium on the fifth floor, at work coupling or uncoupling hose; learning how to fight cellar fires, or practising with the tin-cutters for opening roofs. they're told about battering-rams, axes, hooks, and, finally, everything that we use, until the man who graduates up at headquarters is fit to handle a company all by himself, save, of course, that he lacks experience. now, if it so happens that one don't learn quick enough, or shows he hasn't got a good head for the business, he's switched right off, and that ends his chance of getting into the department. of course kids are never taken on, and it ain't held out to you that you're going there on probation. we've got a job for you as a boy in the building, that's all, but with what little influence ninety-four's men can use, and some thrown in from the other companies that we're friendly with, the idea is to slip you through on the sly, so to speak. if you please them at headquarters there'll be no voice raised agin your practising now and again with the others, and then is the time that everything depends on you. "you've run to fires for the sake of getting points; but never had a chance to see whether you could carry them out or not. now the opportunity is coming; if it's in you to do the work, why, when you're sizable we shan't have any trouble in getting you taken on probation, providing, of course, you can pass both examinations, and about that we've got to talk later. i don't want you to think a fireman is a regular idiot when it comes to book-learning. the older hands of us may be 'way off on such things; but them as goes through the civil-service examination have got to be pretty well posted, an' i'm counting on your working into some night-school." seth had listened attentively to the old driver's words; but there was a cloud on his face when mention was made of the fact that a fireman must have a certain amount of book-learning. "i don't know hardly anythin' at all, mr. davis," he said in a mournful tone. "you can read, can't you?" "yes, if the words ain't too long." "and write?" "well, i wouldn't like to say i really could, 'cause it's just puttin' down letters same as they're printed." "didn't you ever go to school, amateur?" "no, sir." "why not?" "'cause i've allers had to hustle for my livin,' an' it never seemed as though i had the time; but now since you've begun to talk i know i might have done it evenings, instead of hangin' 'round with the fellers, or sleepin'. if i'd known folks had to go to school before they could be firemen, i'd been studyin' these last two years." "i believe you, my boy, and if you had put into the work at books anywhere near as hard as you have on what you call 'picking up points,' you'd have been pretty well along by this time. howsomever, we can remedy that, though we can't call back lost time. jerry walters and i'll figger up what's to be done, and explain further as soon as we've settled matters, 'cause you see, amateur, you belong to ninety-four, an' we ain't of the mind to have you fail in what you set out after." "shall i have any chance to see you?" "bless you, lad, yes. you'll be through between six and seven o'clock, and we'll be glad to have you drop in any evening till you set about studying; then i allow we'll fix up some place so's you can be away from your partner and his friends. we won't have any soft talk after we get inside, so i'll say it all now. keep your upper lip stiff, amateur; don't get down at the heel if them as are in charge seem to bear on a little too hard; remember that all hands of ninety-four's company are counting on you to make good their words, and be a man. unless we get a call you'll see us to-night, so there ain't need of saying very much more just now." by this time they had arrived at headquarters, and 'lish davis entered the building with the air of one who has no especial interest in whoever may be following him. chapter xi. sam's return. it was nearly eight o'clock on the evening of the day seth paid his first visit to headquarters and he was greeted warmly by such of the men as were on the lower floor. "where's mr. davis?" he asked. "he had twenty-four hours' leave an' ain't likely to flash up before to-morrow noon," jerry walters replied. "how did you get along at headquarters?" "that i ain't quite so certain of," seth replied doubtfully. "why not? anything gone wrong?" "no; but it don't seem as though the men up there had very much to say to me." "found you plenty of work, eh?" "oh, yes; there was enough of that." "a little too much, i reckon, if it kept you till this hour." "i was told that i should knock off at six o'clock, but then i hadn't finished the job i was workin' on, an' so stayed till it was done." "how did 'lish davis swell 'round?" "i didn't see anythin' of him after we got inside. he told a man there who i was, an' two or three of 'em hunted 'round to find work for me." "well, how do you like it so far's you've gone?" jerry walters asked with a smile, and the remainder of the company gathered around to hear the reply. "i'd like anythin' that was givin' me a show of gettin' into the department. of course it ain't so pleasant in the house doin' all kinds of work as it is out of doors layin' still when you want to, or talkin' with the fellers." "then you don't feel like backin' out yet?" "no sir-ee! i'll never feel like that. look here, i've got to be up at seven o'clock to-morrow mornin', an' why couldn't i shine your boots to-night?" "'cause then is the time for you to rest, amateur. don't bother your head about our boots being shined, for we'll tend to that part of it. i reckon there'll be as much work at headquarters as you can comfortably do, so there's no need to come 'round here except to make a friendly call. of course we're expectin' to see you pretty nigh every evenin' so's to have a report of how things are goin'; but so far's your blackin' our boots, that's all nonsense, and if 'lish davis was here this minute he'd tell you the same." "but i want to do it, an' mr. davis promised me i should, 'cause it'll make it seem as if i was tryin' to square up for what all of you have done for me." jerry walters tried to persuade seth that he had better not attempt to do so much, particularly at the outset; but it could readily be told from the expression on the boy's face that he was not convinced, and mr. walters refrained from making further efforts in that line. after answering a few more questions and promising to visit the engine-house on the following evening, seth, feeling even more tired than he looked, set out for home, and mr. walters said to his comrades: "that kid will work himself down to skin an' bones for the sake of tryin' to show he's thankful for the lift we've given him, and as for making his way into the department, why, there ain't a ghost of a show that he'll fail." and every member of the company appeared to share jerry's opinion regarding the matter. when seth arrived at mrs. hanson's he found bill dean and dan making ready to retire, and the latter cried in a joyful tone: "i'm mighty glad you've come, seth. bill an' me was jest figgerin' that they'd fixed it up to have you sleep there nights." "there wasn't anythin' said about that, and i reckon they don't want boys 'round," the amateur fireman replied gloomily, and bill asked in surprise: "why, what's the matter, old man? ain't gettin' discouraged so soon, are you?" "i reckon it'll be all right after a spell, an' i wouldn't want any of ninety-four's men to know that i wasn't jest as chipper as a sparrer; but things are different up there from what they are down here. they jest set you to work an' let you keep hummin' without sayin' a word. i don't believe a single one of 'em has spoke to me since mr. davis went away." "what you been doin'?" "cleanin' windows; an' i tell you they're so big that one of 'em makes considerable work. i hung on to it till i'd finished all on that floor, even though they told me to go home at six o'clock." "what are you goin' to do to-morrow?" "i don't know. anythin' that comes up, i s'pose." "didn't they give you any lessons in the school?" "i haven't even seen it yet. there might have been a hundred men 'round there practisin' for all i'd know, 'cause i was in the front of the buildin'." "why, i thought you'd go right to work learnin' to be a fireman," dan said in surprise. "mr. davis never allowed anythin' like that. he said after a spell, when i'd showed 'em i could 'tend to business, i might get a show; but you see, it ain't anyways certain that they'll do what ninety-four's men have been countin' on. i've got to take the chances, you know, and work my way in." both dan and bill were disappointed by this report. they had fancied certain tasks might be required of seth; but firmly believed he would be given instructions at once. in fact, dan had told his roommate several times during the day that he expected to see seth an enrolled member of the department within a few months, adding in support of such belief: "when that feller tackles anythin' he goes right through with it, an' if he ain't big enough now he's got the nerve in him to grow terribly. it seems like he does everythin' he starts for." now that seth appeared despondent his comrades believed it their duty to cheer him, and during half an hour or more they set about such task in earnest. it seemed to them as if he was already growing more cheerful when the shrill whistling of a peculiar note was heard several times repeated, apparently on the sidewalk in front of the dwelling. "that's teddy bowser!" bill dean exclaimed as he leaped to his feet. "he wanted to come up here to-night, but i told him he mustn't, 'cause if the fellers hung 'round i'd lose my show for a tony lodgin'." "go down and see what he wants," dan suggested. "i don't believe we'd better let him come in, for there are three of us here now, an' miss hanson might think she was havin' too many fellers 'round for sixty cents a week." bill descended the stairs swiftly but noiselessly, returning in less than five minutes with a look of consternation upon his face. "say, sam barney's got back!" "got back!" seth cried in astonishment and dismay. "why, how'd he raise the money?" "that's what teddy didn't know. he said sam flashed up 'bout an hour ago lookin' as chipper as you please, an' with cash in his pocket. he's tumbled to our racket, an' is promenadin' 'round town sayin' he'll catch jip collins before to-morrow night." the three boys gazed at each other in perplexity, and fully a moment elapsed before the almost painful silence was broken. then seth said interrogatively: "of course teddy knew what he was talkin' 'bout?" "oh yes, he hasn't made any mistake, 'cause he saw sam and heard him blow 'bout what a swell time he had in philadelphy." "he couldn't have been there very long." "i don't understand it," and bill plunged his hands deep in his pocket as he looked gloomily around. "i thought when we shipped him off that we'd settled the detective business, an' now it ain't any dead certain thing he won't run right across jip collins, 'cause the poor feller thinks sam's so far away there's no danger of meetin' him." "where's teddy?" dan asked. "down on the sidewalk." "what's he waitin' for?" "i told him he'd better hold on a spell, 'cause we've got to do _somethin'_, fellers, an' perhaps he can help us." "but if sam's here with money in his pocket, how shall we stop him from workin' up the case?" dan asked helplessly. "first off we must tell jip," seth replied promptly. "to-morrow mornin' you an' bill will have to see what can be done with sam. it won't do to let him keep on the way he was goin' before we sent him off." "i reckon you can't stop him if he's set on doin' it, an' he likely will be now he finds you're in the department, 'cause he said he was goin' to be an out-an'-out detective long before you ever dreamed of gettin' a fireman's job." "if he only knew how little of a fireman i am he wouldn't feel very bad 'bout it," seth said with a sigh, and then added more cheerily, "come on, fellers, we must find jip, an' not stay out too late either, else miss hanson will raise a row." the three went down the stairs softly, crept out on the sidewalk as if their own lives might be in jeopardy if the slightest noise was made, and there met teddy bowser. "oh yes, i saw him," teddy said in reply to seth's question. "he's been swingin' himself 'round grand street big as life for more'n an hour; says he had a great time in philadelphy, an' ain't certain but he'll go over there to live after he gets jip in jail. sam must have struck some mighty soft snap, 'cause when he left this town he had only sixteen cents to his name." "do you s'pose he could find any one chump enough to lend him money?" dan asked musingly, and seth said almost sharply: "it won't pay for us to stand here tryin' to figger how he's fixed things, 'cause we must be back mighty soon, and it may take quite a spell to find jip." "i reckon it will," teddy added emphatically. "i hunted all 'round the ferry for him." "why, how did you know where he was?" "the fellers told me. i didn't think it was a secret." "it ought to have been," and seth looked more distressed than before. "if all hands know, it won't take sam barney a great while to find out." "he was talkin' 'bout it when i left; said there was no need of goin' to the ferry till mornin', 'cause he could put his hands on him when he wanted to. some of jip's chums must have gone back on him, an' i wouldn't wonder if i knew who. you see, denny macey was tellin' 'round that if jip didn't ante up the dime he borrowed two weeks ago, he'd make trouble for him." "don't let's stand here any longer," and seth led the way at a rapid pace toward the ferry. beyond speculating as to how the would-be detective had been enabled to return from philadelphia, those who were seeking to do jip collins an additional favor indulged in little conversation during the hurried journey across the city. as they neared the ferry each kept a sharp watch in the hope of meeting the boy whom he sought, but when they stood at the very entrance of the slip no sign of jip had been seen, and then the difficulty of the search began to be apparent. master collins was a stranger in this section of the city, and they might question a dozen boys without finding one who had so much as heard of him, therefore the quest was likely to be a long if not a vain one. "it'll soon be too late to do anything if we don't hustle," seth said when he realized all the possibilities against success. "let each feller start out alone, and there'll be jest so many more chances of runnin' across him. we'll meet here by the ferry slip in half an hour." this plan was acted upon without delay, and each member of the searching party did his best to bring the labor to a speedy and final conclusion; but when at the expiration of the time set the four met once more, nothing had been discovered. "he's turned in," bill dean said in a tone of conviction. "if it's with that chum of yourn it ought'er be easy to find him." "he wasn't a chum of mine, an' i don't so much as know his name. it's a feller i've run across two or three times down-town, that's all." "then i can't see but what we must call it a bad job, for there's no kind of use in foolin' 'round here any longer." "but if we don't find him now all sam barney's got to do is to walk over here in the mornin'," dan said mournfully, and bill dean cried emphatically: "i'll get ahead of that bloomin' detective if i have to set up all night! you can count on my bein' right here at daylight, an' that's the best anybody can do. you ought to get to bed, seth, 'cause you've got to turn out pretty early in the mornin'." that it was useless to remain in that vicinity any longer with the hope of meeting jip by chance, all understood, and mournfully they turned their faces homeward, teddy bowser suggesting that he might be able to do the repentant firebug a friendly turn by delaying sam a certain length of time next morning. "i'll ask him to tell me about his detective work, an' you can bet he won't lose such a chance, 'cause there's nothin' in this world he likes to talk about as well as himself." "all right, you do that, teddy, an' i'll snoop over here," bill added. "of course seth can't take a hand in this work, on account of havin' to go to headquarters, but dan will kind-er lay 'round anywhere, either to head sam off, or find jip." then teddy bowser took his departure for the night, and mrs. hanson's three lodgers returned to their room thoroughly distressed in mind. the greater portion of the night might have been spent by them in discussing this new phase of affairs but for seth, who said when his comrades began to hold forth on the subject: "you fellers can't do any good talkin'. i've got to get some sleep if i count on bein' up early enough in the mornin' to do the work over to the engine-house an' get to my job at seven o'clock, so s'pose you quiet down and give me a chance?" this was no more than a reasonable request, and soon mrs. hanson's lodgers were enjoying their needed repose, despite the troubles which had come upon them. seth, whose last thought had been that he must waken early, opened his eyes just as the day was dawning, and aroused his comrades. "you fellers must turn out if you count on helpin' jip this mornin', an' i'm goin' to get right off. seems to me it would be a good idea if bill was at the ferry right soon." "i'll start now," master dean replied, and, since their plans had been fully arranged the night previous, there was nothing to prevent seth from going at once to ninety-four's house. the watchman on duty admitted him with a reproof for trying to crowd too much work into one day; but made no further objection when the amateur fireman declared that he should "feel better if he did the shinin' the same's ever." not a man was awake save the one on duty, when, his work finished, seth hurried toward headquarters. when he arrived it lacked twenty minutes of the time set for him to begin work, and the first person he met inside the building was a gray-haired man wearing such a uniform as did jerry walters, the driver of ninety-four, and all seth's particular friends. "what are you doing here?" the official asked in a not very friendly tone. "i began to work 'round this place yesterday noon," seth replied in an apologetic manner. "oh, you did, eh? you must be the kid 'lish davis made so much talk about." "i am the boy he got the job for, sir." "well, what are you doing here so early? seven o'clock is the hour." "yes, sir; but i don't s'pose it can make much difference if i'm here a little before time, 'cause then i'll get more done, don't you see?" "and you were figuring on that same thing when you stayed here until eight o'clock last night, eh?" "no, sir; i stayed 'cause i wasn't through washin' all the windows on the second floor, an' didn't want to leave the job half done." "well, in the future you'd better go home when the clock strikes six, the same as others do. what task have they set for you this morning?" "nothing as yet, sir." "that's because you did your work too well yesterday. i suppose they allowed you had enough to last through the balance of this day." "it would be a pretty poor kind of a boy who couldn't do more'n wash that many windows in a day an' a half," seth replied laughingly, fancying that this man's gruff manner was no indication of bad temper, but rather the reverse. "they tell me you're counting on being a fireman one of these days?" "yes, sir," seth replied promptly and decisively. "you seem to be pretty certain of it." "so i am, sir, 'cause i'll get there after a time if i work hard." "you will for a fact, my son, if you believe it as firmly as you seem to. how much have you seen of the building so far?" "i've only been in the room where i was workin' yesterday." "come up into the gymnasium with me. i'm running things in that quarter, an' it might be we can work you in with better profit there, than at window-washing." it was as if seth's heart gave a great bound just then, for in the gymnasium was begun the first of the fireman's lessons, and if he should be so fortunate as to be set at work there it seemed that advancement must necessarily be rapid. even though he had had less reason of wishing to be occupied in this portion of the building, he could not but have been delighted when he entered the well-appointed place, and he gazed around in what was very like an ecstasy of joy until suddenly aroused by the voice of this new acquaintance. "do you think you could keep things in proper shape here? there's plenty of work to be done, and at present we are getting none of the best." "i'd like to have a chance to try, sir." "very well; i'll see to the red tape of the business down-stairs and in the meanwhile do you set about doing whatever you think is necessary. if 'lish davis wasn't mistaken, i'll see to it you get all the instruction in this portion of the building that you can stagger under, and it may be we'll put a little more muscle into you 'twixt now and the next few months." then, without having specified what it was he wished seth to busy himself with, the gray-haired man turned to leave the gymnasium, when he suddenly stopped and asked sharply: "have you been to breakfast?" "no, sir; i was told that i'd get my grub here." "then why didn't you 'tend to it when you first came in?" "'cause i met you, sir." "i suppose you hadn't thought you might be needing something to eat?" "it would have been no great matter, sir. i've got along until noon a good many days without anythin', an' can do it again." "there's no need of that here, my son. remember to get your meals on time, for regularity of habits,--although that will become a luxury if you are ever made a fireman,--regularity of habits is quite as necessary for the strength and building up of your body as any exercise you can take here. so far as possible eat at the same hour each day; go to bed early, get up early, and at all times see to it that your body is properly cared for. when did you have a bath last?" "it's been quite a spell since i went in swimmin', sir." "well, you can begin the day with that. use plenty of cold water, and i reckon the towels are coarse enough. then get your breakfast, come up here, and go to work." "at anything special, sir?" "whatever you see that's needed to be done." then this employer, who had given him such good advice, walked quietly away, and seth was left to find the bathroom as best he might. during this day master bartlett worked as industriously as ever; but with better heart than while employed about the first task set him at headquarters, for he had reason to believe there was at least one in the building who would lend him a helping hand, and the future seemed much brighter than it had twenty-four hours previous. this new friend, who was spoken of as "josh" by those who seemed to be best acquainted with him, and by others as "mr. fernald," apparently gave no heed to the boy, and seth did whatever seemed to him most necessary, although there were many times when he was tempted to stop in order to watch the men at their exercises, until half-past five in the afternoon, when the man whom he was beginning to look upon as a friend said sharply: "get your supper, now, seth bartlett, and to-morrow morning see to it that you have breakfast before coming up here." seth wanted to say good-night to mr. fernald; but doubtful as to how such familiarity might be received, he departed in silence, turning around as soon as he was in the corridor where none could see him, to wave his hand in adieu. supper had been eaten, and he was on the sidewalk outside of headquarters just as the whistles were blowing for the hour of six. "i'll have a chance to stop a good while in ninety-four's house to-night, an' there may another alarm come so's i can go out with her again," he said to himself, and at that instant teddy bowser appeared from around the corner of the building and cried excitedly: "dan roberts an' bill dean sent me up here to tell you that sam barney's had jip collins 'rested this afternoon 'bout three o'clock." chapter xii. the prisoner. it was several moments before seth could bring himself to believe that dan and bill dean had utterly failed in their efforts to save jip collins from the would-be detective. during the day he had given the matter comparatively little thought, believing that, having set out on their mission of mercy at such an early hour, his roommates would succeed in their efforts. sam barney was known to all his acquaintances as a boy opposed to rising very early, or working very hard, and it had been no more than reasonable to suppose jip would be warned in time. teddy bowser could give very little information, and that which he did impart only served to heighten the mystery. he stated that he met sam at about seven o'clock that morning, and talked with him concerning his visit to philadelphia with the purpose, as previously agreed upon, of delaying him until nearly nine o'clock. that then the alleged detective had gone toward fulton market with the avowed intention of meeting a friend, and teddy was positive jip had not been arrested until late in the afternoon. "where was dan an' bill when they sent you to tell me?" "over by jefferson market; that's where jip's been jugged." "were they to wait there for me?" "that's what they reckoned on, except you thought them firemen of yourn could help out." "if jip's really been 'rested i don't believe ninety-four's men could do anything, 'cordin' to the way mr. davis talks. we'll go right down to the market." during the long journey, for neither seth nor teddy could afford to pay ten cents for car-fare, the latter told as nearly as he could remember sam barney's version of his visit to "philadelphy." "he says the way he figgered it out at first, jip collins ought'er been over there; but he'd found out his mistake soon enough if you fellers hadn't hurried him off." "he didn't go for most a day after he acted 'bout crazy to get away." "that's one of his excuses, of course; i'm jest givin' you the fairy story he flashed up to me. he says he wasn't any sooner in the train than he began to work the plan over in his mind, same's all the detectives do, an' it didn't take him a great while to figger how it was. at the jump he thought it was mighty queer that bill dean should go 'round raisin' money to send him away, an' after he was in the cars he tumbled to himself, don't you see? to hear him tell it you'd believe all he had to do was to set down an' think over things to find out jest what was what." "it's a big pity he couldn't think who stole his money," seth interrupted. "'cordin' to his story he's been after the thief ever since." "he says he would have caught him if this case of jip's hadn't turned up, an' seein's it was so much bigger he dropped everything else. well, after he made up his mind that the fellers what chipped in the money was tryin' to run him out of town, the train started, so of course he had to keep on; but he'd fixed it with himself that he was bound to come straight back soon's he could. i reckon he swelled himself 'round the depot over in philadelphy, blew in the sixteen cents he had, an' give some of the fellers a terrible stiff 'bout bein' a detective, till he borrowed money of 'em to come back. the way he tells it is that jest as soon as he got there people knew who he was, an' give him a great reception. he makes out that there was a slat of folks hangin' round the station tryin' to get a chance to see him; but that's all in your eye, of course." "sam barney must be a fool if he thinks anybody is goin' to believe such yarns." "he must think it, else he wouldn't tell 'em. now, 'cordin' to his story, some of them fellers was jest loaded with the stuff, and they put up the price of a railroad ticket back. i don't know what he did with himself while he was in the town, 'cause you can't make out anything by what he says." "why didn't he come back on the next train if everybody was ready to lend him money?" "he says he jest actually couldn't get away from the crowd that wanted to see him an' talk to him, so he stayed a spell to give 'em a good time by showin' himself. then when he got ready he swings on board, an' over he comes. but he's chafin' under the collar, seth, 'cause the fellers sent him off when he ought'er have stayed, an' that's why he's so down on jip collins." "he was jest as bad before bill dean ever begun to raise money to get rid of him, else it would have been different. i tried to make him promise to let jip alone, an' he wouldn't listen to any talk at all. he thinks it'll be a big thing for him in case he puts it through. if i couldn't get on in the world except it was by sendin' some feller to jail, i'd stick to sellin' papers or blackin' boots the rest of my life." "sam is pretty near green thinkin' you've got ahead so fast; but says that jest as soon as he has worked the case up against jip he'll smash your racket all to pieces." "have you seen him since he did this terrible fine piece of detective work?" "no; i hadn't heard anythin' 'bout it till dan hailed me." for some time after this seth remained silent trying to devise a plan by which he could aid the unfortunate firebug; but the more he considered the matter the less probable did it seem that either he or his comrades could in any way benefit the prisoner. "i'm 'fraid jip will go up the river," he said at length, and teddy replied mournfully: "i guess he's a goner for a fact, an' all on account of sam barney's wantin' to show hisself a detective." when the two had come to their journey's end dan and bill dean were seen solemnly pacing to and fro on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the court-room, looking sadly disheartened. "have you done anythin' yet?" seth asked in a low tone as he joined them. "there's nothin' we can do. jip's locked up, an' sam barney's struttin' 'round the streets showin' hisself off for a first-class detective," dan replied in a tone of irritation. "do you know how he happened to nab him?" "it must have been that denny macey give him away," bill dean replied, "for i saw jip this mornin' early, an' he 'greed to keep out er sight." "do you s'pose he stayed on the street after that?" "denny knew where he slept last night, and must have told sam, jest as some of the fellers say he threatened to do." "well," seth said after a brief reflection, "if you can't help him, what's the use of standin' here?" "we was waitin' for you. i thought, an' so did dan, that perhaps the driver of ninety-four might cook up some kind of a plan we could work through. anyhow, it don't seem as though it would do much harm for you to talk with him." "of course it won't; but if it wasn't that jip's likely to be sent to jail for a good many years i wouldn't bother him, 'cause it don't seem the square shake for me to keep runnin' there whenever things turn wrong." "it would be pretty tough to let jip be sent up for four or five years jest 'cause you didn't want to bother ninety-four's crew." "i know that, bill, an' i'm goin' to talk to mr. davis now. i was only sayin' i wouldn't do it if things wasn't the way they are. i'll go ahead, an' you fellers meet me up to the room after i get through, 'cause it won't do for all hands to loaf 'round in front of the engine-house." to this proposition those who were ready to sacrifice their own pleasure and interests in order to aid the penitent firebug made no demur, and seth set out at full speed, leaving the others to follow at a more leisurely pace. "hello, amateur! it seems to me you've knocked off work kind-er late to-night?" 'lish davis cried as the boy entered the engine-house. "mr. fernald, the man who runs the gymnasium, told me i was to go away every night at six o'clock----" "so josh has taken you in hand as he promised, eh?" "he's given me a chance up in the gymnasium, where i can't help seein' a good deal of the drillin' even when i'm workin', an' it seems as though it was a mighty soft snap." "josh ain't a man who'll make it very soft for any boy. you've got to toe the mark pretty straight with him, amateur; but if it so be you strike him just right things will move along in great shape. why didn't you leave headquarters as he told you?" "i did, sir; but teddy bowser was waitin' outside to tell me that sam barney has had jip collins 'rested for settin' fire to the lumber-yard." "so, so! he has, eh? i thought you shipped that bloomin' detective over to philadelphia?" "that's what we did, mr. davis; but he managed to get back, an' tumbled to the trick we played on him, so the very first thing he does is to get jip pulled." "well, whether it be boys or men who go wrong, sooner or later they've got to pay the penalty in some fashion, and perhaps it's just as well this collins chap should square matters now as at any other time." "but it seems terrible, mr. davis, to have him sent to jail for nobody knows how many years." "it'll be a good many if he's convicted on the charge of arson; that i can give you as a straight tip." "i was in hopes you'd feel kind of bad about it, mr. davis," seth said, hesitatingly. "meaning to say you counted on my trying to help pull him through after he destroyed valuable property and come pretty nigh being the death of you and your partner?" "well, you see, he's awful sorry----" "yes, most of 'em are after the crime has been committed." "but i don't b'lieve jip really meant to do anythin' like that. he'd been blowin' 'bout how he'd serve us out, an' a good many of the fellers told him he didn't dare to so much as raise his hand. that kind-er started him, an' if he goes to jail now the shame of it will allers stick to him." "then you believe he'd work 'round and be a decently square kind of a boy if he got out of this scrape?" "i'm almost certain of it." "well, look here, amateur, it ain't for a fireman to go here and there, trying to defend them as have started a blaze; but i wouldn't wonder if we could find some lawyer to take charge of his case. perhaps we can get him off on the same plea you're using now--that it would serve to make a criminal of him, rather than work the proper kind of reformation. there'll be plenty of time, lad, because you and your partner are bound to be called on as witnesses even on the preliminary examination, so until the officers find you two nothing can be done, for i don't reckon your imitation detective has any knowledge of what happened." "he's heard the rest of the fellers talk 'bout it." "that don't cut any figger; all he can testify to is what he's seen himself, or something the prisoner may have told him. i'll turn this thing over in my mind, and call on jerry walters and ben dunton for their advice. when you come 'round to-morrow night we'll be able to say what can be done. now tell me everything you did to-day; that's of more interest to us of ninety-four's company than the arrest of the firebug." seth gave a detailed account of his movements from the time he entered headquarters until the hour of leaving, and every man on the floor listened eagerly to the narration of unimportant doings, which was the best proof they could have given of the deep interest felt in the amateur fireman. "i reckon you'll pull through all right," 'lish davis said approvingly when seth brought the story to an end, "and now there's a word to be said about your behavior here this morning. you'll have plenty of work to do 'twixt 7 a.m. and 6 p.m. without hustling over here before daylight and blacking our boots; consequently we're going to hire another boy so's to remove the temptation from your path." "don't do it, please don't do it, mr. davis," seth cried imploringly. "it don't seem like work to me. so long as i can be here every mornin' an' do somethin' of the kind, it 'pears as if i belong to the company. s'posen you get another feller to do the shinin' an' i come 'round evenin's to tell you what's been goin' on? why, it would only look as if i was a visitor. i don't want to give up all my hold here, an' that's what will happen if somebody else does the shinin'." there could be no question but that seth was deeply in earnest, and more than one of the men nodded to the driver as if to say that the boy should be allowed to do as he pleased. jerry walters took it upon himself to say very decidedly: "i think, 'lish, amateur is right, an' you've got no call to cut him off from what he wants to do, 'specially after it's been once agreed upon. it ain't that i'm figgering to have my boots shined for nothing; but i'm feeling a good deal as he does. i'd like to have him come 'round regularly, an' we'll be certain of it if there's work to be done." "very well, very well," the driver replied. "he shall keep on for a spell, though it ain't to my liking. if amateur was a kid that spent his time kiting 'round the streets it would be different; but he's got to have some little amusement, and how is it to be had if he starts in at daylight blacking boots, works until six o'clock at headquarters, then spends his evening at the school? why, it'll come nigh to using him up." "he ain't on at headquarters sunday, is he?" "no; but that's only one day in seven, and so long as amateur is in our charge, so to speak, i ain't going to have him get an idea that he can spend the sabbath cavorting 'round as some of his chums do." "when i begin to take part in the drill at headquarters i shall have all the sport that's needed," seth interrupted, "and besides, even if i go to the night-school, i'll get an hour in here between six an' seven----" "and a heap of fun you'll have with a lot of old cronies like us," 'lish added with a laugh. "i'd rather be here than anywhere else, sir, an' if you want to give me a good time now and then, an' i happen to be 'round when there's an alarm, let me go out with ninety-four; that'll be fun enough." 'lish winked at his comrades as if this remark pleased him exceedingly, and put an end to the conversation by saying: "look in here to-morrow night, lad, and we'll see whether it's possible to help out your firebug or not. now go home and turn in, for you can't get too much sleep while you're young." seth obeyed without delay what was little less than a command, and, hastening to mrs. hanson's dwelling, repeated to his roommates and teddy bowser all the driver had said to him concerning the possibilities of aiding jip collins. the boys were sadly disappointed because there was no actual promise of assistance. they had come to believe, because they hoped it would be so, that mr. davis could immediately devise some plan whereby jip might be released from prison, and since he did not appear to be sympathetic and enthusiastic on the subject they feared he might fail to take any active part. "i am certain he will get a lawyer for him anyhow," seth said in reply to their complaint, "an' that's what we couldn't do ourselves. if it wasn't for goin' to headquarters i'd try to see the poor fellow to-morrow. of course i wouldn't be able to do anythin' for him, but it would make him feel kind of good to know we was willin' to help." "i'll go there to-morrow," dan cried, pleased at the idea of doing something, even though he could not hope to effect any change in jip's condition. "i'll tell him what we've tried to do, an' there'll be some satisfaction in that anyhow." then seth proposed that master roberts should hang around outside the department headquarters at about six o'clock in the afternoon in order to report the result of the interview, after which he would visit mr. davis again. with this programme for the coming day thus settled upon, the amateur fireman suggested that teddy bowser go home in order that he and his roommates might retire, and half an hour later mrs. hanson's lodgers were sleeping soundly. the sun had not shown his face above the eastern horizon next morning when seth was at work in ninety-four's quarters, performing such labor as came to hand, and, owing to the fact that the company had been fighting fire nearly all night, no one save the house watchman was stirring when the amateur set off for his regular duties. at fifteen minutes before the hour of seven "ninety-four's kid," as some of the clerks at headquarters had already designated seth, entered the gymnasium with a bustling air as if the hardest tasks would be no more than a pleasure. "had your breakfast?" mr. fernald asked gruffly. "yes, sir." "how long since you turned out?" "it wasn't quite light when i left the house, sir." "have you been here all that time?" "oh no, sir. you see, i go over to ninety-four's quarters to shine the company, an' it stands me in hand to be out of bed pretty early." "what do you do to the company?" mr. fernald asked, as an expression of bewilderment came over his face. "i shine for all hands--black their boots, you know." "yes, i understand now. isn't the work here enough to satisfy you, but that you must needs look around for more?" "but i belong to that company, sir, an' have to see my share of the business is done right up to the mark," seth replied proudly, and then he explained to mr. fernald why he was eager to continue his connection with those who had already done so much to assist him. "you seem precious eager to be a fireman." "so i am, sir, an' i'm hopin' to get along here so ninety-four's men won't think i'm a duffer for not pushin' ahead." fernald questioned him closely regarding his ambition to belong to the department, and without being really aware of the fact seth had soon told him all he knew concerning himself and his desires. "i don't say as you've got it in you to be a fireman," the old man said, thoughtfully; "but it strikes me you carry a good bit of sand, an' i've a mind to do even more than i promised 'lish davis. see here, my lad, supposing you could practise here two or three hours a day, would it tire you out so that the regular duties might be slighted?" "if you'll give me the chance, sir, i'll work enough later nights to make up for it all," the boy replied eagerly. "i guess davis didn't lay it on any too thick when he told me about you. now see here, you'll begin the day with a regular course of training, working until nine o'clock, after which time you'll get down to a boy's business, see?" "yes, sir," seth replied, trembling so violently with pleasure that only by the greatest exertion could he prevent his voice from quavering. "had a bath this morning?" "no, sir." "then get one, and remember to tumble into cold water the first thing after coming here." seth was off like a flash, and when he returned, glowing with the healthful exercise, josh fernald gave him the first lesson in physical training. before it was concluded "ninety-four's kid" came to understand that 'lish davis had only spoken the truth when he said the instructor was not a man who would "let up on boys to any extent," for seth was forced to exert himself as he never remembered to have done during any previous two hours of his life. then the lesson was concluded, and the amateur set about his ordinary duties, working unusually hard lest mr. fernald should decide that he could not at the same time attend to gymnastics and perform the services for which he was paid by the city. he was thoroughly tired when the hour for supper came around; but so happy at having made some slight advancement toward his goal in life that all else was as nothing. that evening he bade mr. fernald "good-night," and received in reply the caution: "don't think you'll find any snap here; it's precious hard work, an' won't grow easier." "i'll stick at it, sir, if you don't get tired showin' me how," seth cried gleefully, and as he walked sturdily toward the staircase, holding himself erect and with head thrown well back like some animal glorying in his strength, the old instructor gazed after him in almost a friendly manner. seth was so elated with the idea that he could tell ninety-four's men that he had actually begun his training, as to have nearly forgotten the appointment made with dan; but he soon remembered it when master roberts darted out from a hiding-place near at hand. "well, i've seen him," he cried before seth had time to speak. "who?" "jip collins, of course." "how'd you get in?" "i was hangin' 'round there lookin' for a chance when your 'lish davis come along with a lawyer, an' i asked 'em to let me go in with them." "mr. davis took a lawyer there?" seth repeated in astonishment. "that's what he did, an' i tell you, seth, that fireman is a jim dandy, an' no mistake!" "don't you s'pose i know that after all this time?" "yes; but yet you didn't think he'd do so much, eh?" "he's mighty good to everybody. how was jip lookin'?" "terrible down. you'd think he was expectin' to be hanged by the way he takes on. i felt awful sorry for him, even if he did burn us out." "what did he say?" "not much of anythin'; but kept cryin' 'bout all the time. sam barney must be feelin' awful good after makin' so much trouble." "have you seen _him_?" seth asked, sharply. "if i had he'd be lookin' for a doctor. i'm jest achin' to get my hands on that duffer in some side street where the perlice won't come snoopin' 'round." "see here, dan, you mustn't fight if you ever want to get that third avenoo store, for i tell you no feller gets ahead by bein' a tough. what did the lawyer say?" "i didn't hear him yip; but reckon you'll know all about it after goin' over to ninety-four's house." "that's where i'm bound for now. wait outside for me, an' i'll come to you as soon as i can." "i don't suppose i could sneak in?" "i'd rather you didn't, dan, 'cause it would look as if i was gettin' mighty fresh to bring my chums along." "all right, old man; i'll wait outside." there was so much in seth's mind that he could not indulge in conversation at that moment, and he walked so rapidly that dan had but little opportunity for speaking, however much he might have desired to say. at the engine-house he found nearly all the company on the lower floor much as if waiting for his report, and 'lish davis greeted him by asking: "well, amateur, nothing but window-washing to-day?" "no, sir-ee! mr. fernald has begun to give me lessons in the gymnasium, an' i'm to practise there two hours every day from this out--that is, so long as i do it an' keep my reg'lar work up in shape, which, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin', will be every minute i have the chance of stayin' there." "did josh really put you into physical training as quick as this?" mr. davis asked, almost incredulously. "that's what he did, an' though i didn't get many points 'bout fires, it'll help me to grow in great shape." then dan, waiting near the door on the outside, heard ninety-four's crew cheering loudly, and he was sadly at a loss to understand the meaning of such merriment when he believed they were discussing poor jip's sad situation. chapter xiii. the letter. there could be no question but that ninety-four's company were highly delighted with the news brought by seth regarding his progress. it was as if each man felt personally complimented by mr. fernald when he advanced the amateur so rapidly, and all united in declaring that "josh was a right good fellow." seth was in the highest degree excited. he had expected that his friends of ninety-four would be pleased at learning of his good fortune, but never fancied they could be so deeply interested, and now he began to understand what a gloom might be cast over the company if he should fail in this attempt to gain a foothold in the department. 'lish davis would not be content until the boy gave an exhibition of what he had learned in the way of gymnastic exercises during the morning, and when this had been brought to a close amid the applause of all present, the driver said in a tone of satisfaction: "you're getting on in great shape, amateur, and if nothing happens to give you a pull-back, ought'er be well up in the drill 'twixt now and a year from to-day. josh fernald has the name of being precious hard on them as comes under him for instruction; but i've always allowed he'd boost along mighty fast any one who struck his fancy. he must have seen that you were in earnest, young fellow, for when i talked with him the best promise i could get was that he'd look you over in the course of a month or two." "do they keep you humpin' on the odd jobs, amateur?" jerry walters asked solicitously. "there's plenty to be done; but not enough to kill anybody. after i get used to the ways of the place i reckon it'll come pretty easy." "that's the kind of talk to make, young fellow!" the driver cried approvingly. "don't allow that your job's a hard one, however tough it may be, for a kid never gets any credit when he's always whining 'bout working to death." not until ten minutes or more had been spent in answering the questions asked by each member of the company, including the captain himself, was the curiosity of the men satisfied concerning the advancement of their _protã©gã©_, and then seth had an opportunity of inquiring as to the charge against the firebug. "dan roberts said you carried a lawyer down to see poor jip, mr. davis," the amateur began, and instantly the look of pleasurable excitement faded from 'lish davis's face. "so i did, amateur, so i did. jerry and i allowed we might do that much for the kid, even though he ain't deserving of any man's attention." "will he get out of the scrape?" "not before having a trial, amateur, and then all must depend on the judge. it seems he owned up to the whole business when they first nabbed him, and the only thing he can do now is to plead guilty. the evidence that can be given by the kids from brooklyn will be enough to convict him, even if he finds somebody to help him make a fight, which wouldn't be good sense." "then there's nothin' for the poor fellow but to go up the river?" and seth's voice was tremulous with sorrow. "that ain't altogether certain, lad. the lawyer thinks, and jerry and i have the same idee, that if he owns up to the whole thing like a little man, it may be possible to have sentence suspended during good behavior." "what do you mean by that, mr. davis?" seth asked in perplexity. "why, it's jest like this. when he's put on trial let him tell the truth. we of ninety-four can testify that it was he who sent in the alarm, showing he was sorry as soon as the deed had been done. then will come the time for the lawyer to get in his fine work. he'll do a lot of chinning 'bout the boy's being young, and that it'll most likely make a criminal of him to be sent up. in some such way as that the judge may be brought to believe that it'll be the wisest course to suspend sentence--that is to say, hold the conviction over him, but at the same time letting him go free. if he behaves himself, well and good; if not, he's brought before the court and sentenced on this same charge at some future time." "are you certain that can be done?" seth asked, growing more hopeful. "no, amateur, we ain't certain; but the chances are it can be fixed that way, and we'll do our best at it, if for no other reason than to show how good we're feeling because you're doing us so much credit up at headquarters." seth had hoped that the members of ninety-four's company would be able to effect the firebug's release, and it was a great disappointment to thus learn that nothing could be done save through the clemency of the judge; but, as he would have kept silent had it been himself who was in danger, he refrained from giving words to his sorrow. understanding what was in his mind, 'lish davis added in a kindly tone: "don't take it to heart, amateur, for we'll do all that is possible, and i'm allowing it'll all come out straight in the end. it wouldn't be well if he pulled through too easy." "if only he don't have to go to jail for two or three years!" seth cried, and then fearing he might say that which would sound like a complaint, he took his leave after promising to report next evening. "well, i begun to think you was goin' to stop there all night," master roberts cried irritably when his partner appeared. "seemed like you was havin' a mighty good time along at the first of it." "that was when i was tellin' how i'd been gettin' on up at headquarters. say, jip will have to be tried in court!" "what? can't ninety-four's men stop it?" dan cried in surprise, for he had believed the firemen could do whatsoever they would, and seth repeated all that 'lish davis had said, adding in conclusion: "you'd better try to see him again, an' tell the poor fellow how things stand." "he'll take it mighty hard." "i'm 'fraid so; but there's nothin' else that can be done. is bill over to the room?" "he allowed he'd have to stop down-town quite a spell to-night, an' i agreed to see him there after i'd met you. why not take a spin as far as the post-office?" seth was not opposed to a stroll through the city, even though wearied by his labors of the day. his heart was so sore because it would be impossible for him to do anything in jip's behalf that he had no inclination to spend the time in his lodgings, where he could do nothing save dwell upon the painful situation of the boy who had tried to injure him. after a short time dan succeeded in partially banishing his partner's sorrowful thoughts by speaking of his own plans regarding the prospective store on third avenue, and broached the subject by paying to seth his share of the room-rent. "did you make all that to-day?" the amateur asked in surprise. "yes, an' thirty-two cents more." "you must have humped yourself." "that's jest what i did do. you see, if i count on ever ownin' that store i've got to work, same's you did to get into the department, an' i never lost a minute this mornin'. i'd made a big pile if it hadn't been for goin' to see jip." then dan pictured to his partner in words the establishment he intended one day to own, giving all the details with such exactness as to prove that he must have spent considerable time reflecting upon the matter. "that's what i want," he said as he concluded his description of the store; "but when you come to think that i've only got thirty-two cents towards it, there don't seem much chance i'll ever pull through." "you'll have twice as much to-morrow night, an' every day it'll keep on growin' till in a little while you'll have a pile that'll make your eyes stick out. a feller can do pretty near what he counts on, if he sticks right at it." "you can bet i'll stick at the store part of it, though i ain't certain as i'd ever believed it could be done if you hadn't got into the department. when you was runnin' to fires like as if there might be big money in it, i counted it was foolishness; but now the thing looks different." at this point the conversation was interrupted by sam barney, who suddenly appeared from around a corner much as if he had popped out with the purpose of frightening them. seth would have passed the would-be detective without a word, for after what had been done he felt no desire to so much as speak with him; but now was the hour of master barney's triumph, and he did not intend to lose any opportunity of sounding his own praises. "well," he cried, stepping directly in front of the boys, "what do you think _now_ 'bout my bein' a detective?" "if you are one, nobody knows it but yourself," dan replied angrily. "didn't i get jip collins arrested?" "yes, an' anybody might er done the same thing, without startin' in by goin' to philadelphy. it seems you wasn't much of a detective when you figgered that he was over there." "if you fellers hadn't been so smart with your railroad ticket i'd never gone, 'cause it didn't take me very long to see how i'd made a mistake in figgerin', after i put my mind right down to it." "i notice you hung 'round here two days waitin' for us to raise the money. couldn't you find the mistake before then?" "i didn't try; but when i started in without bein' mixed up with a crowd of duffers like you, i soon put the thing through." "yes, it was big detective work to walk over to thirty-fourth street ferry an' find him." "i snaked him right out er a house where he was hidin'." "then denny macey was the one who gave jip away, an' i'll have a settlement with that chump some day!" dan cried angrily. now for the first time seth took part in the conversation, by saying curtly to sam: "you've got jip in jail, an' think it's goin' to be a big thing to brag about; but i don't believe you'll make any great shakes out of it. come on, dan, we don't want to hang 'round here any longer." "you're feelin' mighty fine, seth bartlett, jest 'cause you're given the chance to loaf 'round the fire department headquarters an' sweep the floors!" sam cried angrily. "i s'pose you think you're pretty nigh the only feller in this town?" "come ahead, dan," and seth would have passed on but that the would-be detective barred his way. "i don't want any talk with you, sam barney, an' what's more i won't have any." "won't, eh? suppose i slap your face, how'll it be then?" instinctively seth put himself in a posture of defence, and instantly afterward realized that he must not be accused of making a disturbance on the street lest it work to his harm in the department. then once again he would have passed master barney. the would-be detective was not brave save where he believed he had a decided advantage, and the fact that seth seemed eager to avoid an encounter gave him great confidence in his own abilities. he stepped up menacingly, brandishing his fists directly under seth's nose, and dan cried sharply to his partner: "why don't you knock his head off?" "he don't dare to so much as raise his hands, except he's up 'round ninety-four's house, where he thinks some of the firemen will back him!" sam cried derisively as he redoubled his efforts to provoke the amateur. seth's cheeks were flaming red, and he clenched his fists until the knuckles were white, in the effort to restrain himself. if he had been alone there is every probability he might have forgotten his determination to avoid such encounters, for the would-be detective was doing all he could to provoke a quarrel; but dan roberts, understanding full well why his partner remained inactive when the temptation to strike at least one blow was very great, took it upon himself to put an end to the scene. sam was standing directly in front of seth, brandishing his fists, and indulging in such epithets as "coward" and "sneak," when dan sprang forward suddenly, striking the bully a blow under the ear that sent him headlong into the gutter. then, after looking quickly around to make certain there were no policemen within ear-shot, he leaped upon the discomfited detective, seizing him by the coat-collar in such a manner that it was impossible for sam to raise his head. "you're awful keen on havin' a row, an' i'm goin' to give you the chance! you knew seth wouldn't put up his hands, because he don't count on havin' any black marks against him when he goes into the department; but i ain't figgerin' on anythin' of that kind, an' can stand a little bit of a bad name for the sake of servin' you out." "come on, dan, come on! don't make a row here, 'cause in the first place sam barney ain't worth it, an' then again you mustn't get up a name for fightin'." "i reckon that dressin' this chump down won't set me off very bad, an' i'm willin' to take the risks. now stand up and show what you can do!" he added as he released his hold of the detective's collar. sam made no effort to rise, nor did he so much as reply. "you was terrible sharp for a row with seth, 'cause you counted on his not mixing up with sich as you. i'm a good bit smaller than he is, an' am ready to give you all the fightin' that's wanted. come on, and be funny same's you was a minute ago." "i ain't got any row with you, dan roberts," sam muttered. "what's the reason you haven't got as much of a one with me as you had with seth? we're partners, an' he never said half the rough things about you that i have." "leave me alone, or i'll yell for the perlice!" "i thought you wasn't achin' terrible bad for a fight," and dan flourished his fists precisely as sam had done while trying to provoke seth. "yell for the perlice, will yer? i've a precious good mind to give you a couple of black eyes, only that i hate to hit a feller who don't dare to put up his hands." "come on, dan, don't spend your time with him!" seth cried. "he won't fight, an' never would. there wouldn't been any bluff made if he hadn't known i'd promised myself not to get the name of bein' a bruiser." dan did as his partner suggested, and the would-be detective remained quietly in the gutter until the two were half a block away, when he arose and cried vindictively: "i'll get square with you fellers yet! we'll see whether seth bartlett swells 'round headquarters much longer!" "don't say a word," seth whispered as dan half turned to make some reply. "all he wants is to get me into a row, an' it'll please the chump too well if we chin with him. i'm sorry you let yourself out." "i ain't. i reckon that much of a fight won't count very hard against the third avenoo store, for i'll earn jest as big a pile of money to-morrow as if i'd let him make his bluff; but it might er been different with you." seth was by no means pleased with the outcome of this affair, although he did not say as much to his partner. it seemed as if he had acted a cowardly part in allowing sam to insult him, and then remain passive while dan took up the quarrel. he was positive he ought never to fight simply to please a bully, but equally confident that he was not manly to stand still while a fellow like sam barney imposed upon him. it was a matter which he could not settle satisfactorily in his own mind, for whatever course he might have pursued seemed to be wrong. "i'll see what mr. davis thinks about it," he said to himself, and then added to dan, "it was mighty good of you, old man, to give sam one clip for me; but i can't make out whether i ought'er stood still or put up my hands." "don't bother your head about it," master roberts replied carelessly. "that chump detective won't fool 'round us any more, an' we're well rid of him. of course he'll do a pile of blowin' an' tellin' how he'll get square with us; but his talk ain't anythin' more'n wind." this assurance did not content seth. now his only desire was to go home; but dan had no idea of curtailing his enjoyment because of the encounter, therefore the amateur felt in duty bound to do as he wished. that night jip's friends were informed of what 'lish davis had said, and while the majority regretted the necessity which kept master collins a prisoner, all agreed that perhaps it might not be well for him to escape the consequences of his act too easily. when seth returned from headquarters on the following evening, with the report that mr. fernald had continued his instruction in gymnastics, he learned that dan had, thanks to the lawyer employed by ninety-four's men, been allowed to hold a long and private conversation with the prisoner. jip was still very penitent, and declared he deserved all the punishment which the law might inflict upon him; but at the same time it could readily be seen, according to master roberts's statement, that he was wonderfully relieved by the hope 'lish davis held out. "from what the lawyer told me," dan said when detailing to his partner all that had occurred during the interview, "it'll be quite a spell before jip comes up for trial an' so long as he stays in jail i can't see but he's gettin' the best of it. three square meals every day, an' at night a bed better'n he's had since he could remember." "but he's locked in, an' that's what makes it hard to stand up under," seth suggested, whereupon dan cried with no little warmth: "i'd be willin' to let 'em lock me up nights for the sake of havin' it as easy as it is for jip. nothin' to do, an' livin' off the fat of the land." "i reckon after one day you'd be willin' to take less, an' have a chance to go where you pleased," seth replied so emphatically that master roberts did not consider it wise to continue the argument. during the three days which followed the amateur fireman worked so hard to win the approval of his teacher that mr. fernald finally told him he was trying to do too much, and cut down his tasks nearly one half, an act which won for him the unqualified approval of ninety-four's crew. it was on the morning of the fifth day after jip collins's arrest, and just as josh fernald was bringing seth's lesson to a conclusion, that one of the employã©s entered the gymnasium with a letter, and cried in a loud voice: "does anybody here know a fellow by the name of seth bartlett?" "that's me," the amateur replied after a moment's thought: "but i don't reckon i've got a letter, 'cause there's nobody who'd write to me." "here's what the address says," and the young man held the envelope in such a manner that both the boy and his instructor could see the superscription: "seth bartlett, fireman up at headquarters, new york." seth made no attempt to take the missive until mr. fernald asked quite sharply: "why don't you take it? there's no other of that name here so far as i know." "i never had a letter, an' it can't be for me." "you're the only seth bartlett in the building, and it must belong to you," the messenger said impatiently, whereat he threw the missive toward seth and went his way. not until mr. fernald had peremptorily ordered the boy to open the letter in order to see if it was intended for him, did the amateur as much as touch the soiled envelope; but after having torn it open the expression on his face told that the writer was not a stranger. this is what seth read in ill-formed letters, many of them occupying the depth of two lines, some in written and others in printed characters: "seth bartlett, fireman up at headquarters. deer seth: "sam barney struck this town the other day, an' borrowed a dollar off er me. you know my folks stopped here on the way to baltimore, an' i've been tryin' to earn a little money so's to see me threw. i'm in philadelphy, an' sam cum over here with a big stiff 'bout how you an' bill dean had cent him to hunt for jip collins. he was broke an' ced if i'd let him have money enuf to git home you or bill would pay it back. it's been most a week sence he was here an' i ain't heard from you. why don't you send the good dollar i put up to help you along. i'm livin' at 1451-1/2 filbert street an' want my stuff. "yours till deth shal part us, "joe carter." "so the letter is for you, even though you never received one before?" mr. fernald quietly remarked as seth, having read the lines after considerable difficulty, refolded the paper and returned it to the envelope. "yes, sir, an' it's from a feller in philadelphy. i don't reckon you know who jip collins is; but this has got somethin' to do with his business." as he spoke seth unfolded the paper and handed it to his instructor, who, after deciphering it, quite naturally asked for an explanation. "if you owe this boy money, send it to him at once, for people who do not pay their bills are in bad odor up here." "i never borrowed a cent of him," seth cried indignantly, and then he told mr. fernald the whole story. the old instructor appeared to be amused by the recital, and when it was concluded asked if seth wanted leave of absence to straighten the matter out. "i'll have plenty of time after leaving here to-night; but what bothers me is that i may have a row with sam barney, 'cause i ain't goin' to let him swell 'round borrowin' money on my account." "and in that you are perfectly right, my boy." "he knows i don't dare to fight on the street, 'cause it may give me a black mark in the department, an' that would never do, so i reckon he'll be mighty lippy 'bout it." "ask 'lish davis! i can't recommend you to create a disturbance, and yet it seems hard you should be imposed upon because of the situation. whatever the driver of ninety-four advises, you may do without fear of the consequences, for there isn't a more level-headed man in the department, and it's only his lack of education that has prevented him from rising in the service." "i'll see him to-night," seth replied as he put the letter in his pocket, and then without further delay he set about his regular duties. chapter xiv. the subpoena. impatient though seth was to talk with 'lish davis and his roommates concerning what had been done by sam barney in the matter of borrowing money on the account of others, he made no attempt to leave headquarters a single moment earlier than usual. when the hours of labor had come to an end, however, he did not linger, and with a cheery "good-night" to mr. fernald, for by this time the teacher and his pupil were on excellent terms, he set off at full speed for ninety-four's house. unless they were out on duty, this particular company, since seth went to work at headquarters, could always be found on the lower floor of the building at about six o'clock in the evening awaiting the arrival of "their kid," and here master bartlett found them. from the expression on his face all hands understood that something unpleasant had occurred, and 'lish davis asked in a tone of anxiety: "what's gone wrong, amateur? haven't been getting into trouble with josh, i hope?" "mr. fernald is mighty kind to me; he says i shall go in the yard next week for half an hour each day, an' then you know i'll have a great chance to pick up points." "once he starts you in there the road is pretty straight up to a job in the department. you look so kind-er peaked i was afraid something had gone wrong." "read that, an' then i reckon you'll think somethin' _has_ gone wrong!" seth exclaimed as he gave the driver joe carter's letter, unfolding the sheet that there might be no needless time spent in mastering its contents. "read it aloud, 'lish," jerry walters cried, and the driver glanced toward seth as if asking permission to do so. "go ahead, mr. davis. of course everybody belongin' to this company has a right to know all about my business." davis did as he was requested, reading slowly as if enjoying the matter hugely, and interrupted now and then by exclamations of surprise or amusement from his comrades. "well, what do you think of it?" seth asked angrily when the driver, having come to the end, remained silent. "it begins to look as if your friend the detective could manage to take care of himself by hook or by crook. i can't see that either you or bill dean is bound by any such a transaction, unless you gave sam permission to borrow money on your account." "of course we wasn't such fools as to do that! it's a reg'lar swindle, that's what it is, an' if i'd known 'bout it when dan and me met him down-town, i'm 'fraid i'd punched his head, even if it would be fightin' on the street!" "what's that?" mr. davis asked sharply. "something been going on that we haven't heard?" "i counted on tellin' you; but it seems as if there's always a bother to talk 'bout, so i waited a spell." then seth gave a detailed account of the encounter with the would-be detective, and when he had concluded the recital 'lish davis looked around at his companions as if waiting to hear their comments before he expressed an opinion. "you ought'er lit right out on him," jerry walters cried warmly. "he thinks you won't fight, an' will keep on makin' trouble for you till he learns that it ain't safe." "don't listen to such advice, seth," the captain added quickly. "you did perfectly right, and are to be praised for it, more particularly since the temptation must have been very great." then the men began what finally grew into a heated discussion, as to how the boy should have acted under such provoking circumstances, and not until it was brought to a close did 'lish davis give his opinion. "i'm allowing that you can't afford to raise a brawl, amateur," he said, deliberately. "if that imitation detective 'mounted to anything the case might be different, and though i'm free to say that every man or boy should defend himself when it's necessary, there's no wisdom in raising a disturbance while it's possible to walk on. the trouble is that too many of us are apt to think we can't get away from what appears to be a bad scrape without coming to blows; but in nine cases out of ten that isn't the truth." "but what am i to do 'bout this money he borrowed from joe carter?" seth asked as the driver ceased speaking. "i can't see that you've got any call to disturb yourself. write and tell the boy in philadelphia that the imitation detective had no authority to borrow money in your name, and let that settle it." this did not appear to seth the proper course, for he felt that he was in a certain sense bound to prevent joe carter from losing anything by being thus confiding; but yet he would not have questioned the driver's decision. "it's mighty aggravating, amateur, i'm free to confess," 'lish davis added as he noted the expression on the boy's face; "but you must remember that the poorest way to settle a difficulty is by fighting. when you're where it's got to be done in order to save yourself from being hurt or robbed, then put up your hands like a man, first making certain there's no other way out. if it's all the same to you, i'm counting on toddling down to tenth street to-night." "do you mean that i'm goin' to school now?" "i reckon the time has come when you may as well begin. jerry walters and me have made the trade, so after you've slicked up a bit, drop in here and we'll start." "all right, sir," seth cried as he hurried away to make ready for what he knew must be a trying ordeal. he understood that he was remarkably ignorant for one of his years, and had an idea that every pupil in the school would make sport of him. when the amateur fireman arrived at his lodgings he found his roommates awaiting him, and in the fewest possible words made known sam barney's misdemeanor, producing joe carter's letter in proof of his assertion. it can well be imagined that both the boys were angry and surprised by the information, and bill insisted that all three set out at once in search of the offender. "i've got to start in on school to-night, an' so i can't go," seth replied mournfully. "how long are you goin' to keep up sich a racket as that?" dan asked, as if personally aggrieved because such a course was to be pursued. "'cordin' to the way mr. davis talks i'll have to stick at it till i'm a reg'lar fireman, an' perhaps a good bit after that." "then i'd give up tryin' to get into the department!" master roberts replied emphatically. "i wouldn't do all that funny business if i never 'mounted to anythin' more'n a bootblack!" "it's jest what you ought'er do, dan, if you ever expect to own that third avenoo store." "i'd like to know why?" "now, that's a foolish question. s'posen you got the shop this very minute, an' wanted to write a letter, or figger up how much anythin' cost? what kind of a fist would you make of it?" dan did not reply, but changed the subject of conversation by asking bill: "what er you goin' to do 'bout sam barney?" "you an' me will hunt him up, an' by the time we're through with the chump he won't borrow money in sich a way ag'in, i reckon. who'll write to joe carter 'bout it?" "if seth is goin' to school he ought'er do that much, 'cause it'll come right in his line of business." "i'll do the best i can at it," the amateur fireman replied readily, and added as his friends turned to leave the room. "now, don't have a reg'lar row with that chump. it'll be enough if you show him up to all the fellers as a reg'lar fraud, and then you won't stand any chance of gettin' into trouble with the perlice." "we'll 'tend to the business in proper shape," bill replied in a meaning tone, and seth was not sadly disturbed in mind as he understood, or thought he did, that sam barney would spend a very unpleasant evening if these two acquaintances chanced to meet him. when he was alone seth set about making preparations for beginning his pursuit of knowledge, and the prospect before him was by no means pleasant. 'lish davis was awaiting his arrival when he reentered the engine-house, and immediately began laughing heartily at the expression on the boy's face. "it ain't going to be half as bad as you're counting on, amateur," the driver cried as soon as he could control his mirth, and then the two set out. mr. davis had but one remark of importance to make during the journey, and that impressed seth more than anything which had been said to him that day. "if i'd spent half or even a quarter of my spare time while i was a boy, in study, instead of being only the driver of ninety-four, i might be her captain at the very least. you may have got it into your head that firemen don't know anything except how to use an axe or handle hose; but it's a big mistake. if you want to keep on rising in the department, you've got to have more book-learning than i was willing to get." when they arrived at the school, 'lish did not spend very much time in introducing his _protã©gã©_. "here's the kid i was telling you about," he said, and then seth was left to fight his own battle. that going to school was not as hard as he had fancied was known at the engine-house when the amateur returned shortly after nine o'clock, for then he said with an air of relief: "i ain't so certain but that i'll like it, after i kind-er get the hang of things." "course you will, amateur, course you will; but it's bound to be hard work, and there don't seem to be much chance for play in your life the way we've mapped it out for you. all hands of us have been figgering how we'd kind-er let up on you, and it's been decided that you shall sleep here every saturday night. what calls come in 'twixt the ending of the school business and midnight, you're to answer as if belonging reg'larly to the company." seth's eyes glistened with delight, and when he had gone to his room the driver said in a tone of satisfaction to his comrades: "that kid is bound to make his mark in the department some day, and we'll be patting ourselves on the head for having given him a show. just think of a boy like him being tickled way up in g when you give him a chance to work at a fire! he was reg'larly born for the business." when seth arrived at mrs. hanson's he found his roommates awaiting his arrival. "didn't you find sam?" he asked in surprise that they should have returned so soon. "that's what we did; met him down by the post-office where there was a whole crowd of the fellers, an' by this time i reckon he don't think he's a terrible big man." "what did he say 'bout givin' joe carter sich a yarn?" "first off he tried to say it wasn't so; but when we flashed up the letter, it was all over, an' the chump couldn't so much as yip, 'cept to promise to pay the bill with the very first money he could scrape together." "then you didn't have any row?" "not a bit of it." "i was 'fraid you might thump him, an' the perlice would jump in." "we didn't reckon on bein' jugged jest 'cause of him," bill replied, quietly. "instead of fightin', dan jest shoved him inside the post-office quick-like an' i let him have a couple of mighty good clips alongside the head. when he yelled, we lit out an' come up here. if it hadn't been that you're tryin' so hard to get into the department, we might er had a row with the duffer; but seein's anythin' of the kind would give you a black eye, we kept quiet." dan and master dean both appeared to think they deserved praise for having been so cautious, and seth did not believe it would be wise to reproach them for what had been done. after this affair there was nothing out of the ordinary in seth's life for ten days or more, except during the two saturday nights he slept at ninety-four's house, where on each occasion it was his good fortune to go out with the engine. at headquarters mr. fernald pushed him along in the drill as rapidly as possible, and he was allowed to devote considerably more than two hours each day to the lessons. at school he made as much advancement as could have been expected, and really came to look forward with pleasure upon his tasks there, for 'lish davis's remark as to the value of an education had not been forgotten. then came the day when he was summoned from the yard where he had been taking part in a drill with ladders, to meet a stranger who handed him a printed document, the meaning of which he failed to understand until mr. fernald explained that it was a subpoena, or, in other words, a command for him to appear in court on the following morning to give evidence in the case of the state _vs._ jipson collins. the officer who brought the summons stated that he had served a similar document upon dan roberts a few hours previous, and cautioned seth against failing to obey. "i reckon they'll have to get along without me, 'cause i can't leave here," he replied, as if believing such an excuse must be accepted by any fair-minded judge. then it was mr. fernald explained the nature of a subpoena, and seth was decidedly surprised at learning that he could, and probably would, be arrested if he refused to obey. "there is no need of your coming here at all to-morrow," the old man said, "no matter how early you may get out of court. you're needing a holiday, lad, and i'm glad of an excuse for giving you one." not until he returned from school that evening did seth see his roommates, and then he found them in a high state of excitement because of the approaching trial. "mr. davis says he shall be there, an' the lawyer is to 'tend right out so's to say a good word for poor jip when the time comes," seth hastened to state, and from that moment until it seemed absolutely necessary they should retire, the boys discussed the probable fate of the firebug. next morning when seth went to the engine-house to perform his customary task of blacking the men's boots, dan set out with him, saying as they left mrs. hanson's: "if it wasn't for that third avenoo store i wouldn't go down-town to-day, till it was time for the trial to begin; but i can't lose a whole mornin's work." "that's the way to stick at it!" seth cried approvingly. "how much money have you got laid up?" "three dollars an' five cents. oh, i'm gettin' there, old man, though 'cordin' to the way things are workin' it'll take quite a spell." "you'll strike a rush some day, an' then it'll pile up in great shape. stick at it, dan." "that's what i'm reckonin' on doin', an' say, seth, if it don't cost too much, i'm goin' to 'tend out on school, same's you do. bill has 'greed to come into the snap, an' we'll make it lively all 'round." "it won't cost you a cent; mr. davis says so." "then we'll begin to-night, but i don't want the fellers to know about it, 'cause they'd set up sich a terrible howl." dan did not waste any more time in conversation, but hurried away to take advantage of the early demand for papers, and 'lish davis said sagely when seth had repeated the conversation to him: "now you can see the result of a good example, amateur. if you had kicked against going to school, your roommates never'd thought of trying the same game, and so by helping yourself you've gone a long way towards helping others. contrariwise, if you'd been cutting 'round town, raising rows and getting into all kinds of trouble, you'd find them as would follow in your track, so it's a pretty sure thing that a boy is bound to walk straight because of the effect it'll have on others, even if for no other reason." seth made no reply to this brief lecture; he was learning very much of life through his intercourse with ninety-four's men, and it seemed to him as if each day some new idea regarding a boy's work was to be gained. "your firebug has his chance this forenoon, eh?" 'lish asked after a short pause. "yes, sir, an' i'm hopin' mighty hard that he'll get off this time." "i reckon a good deal depends on you and your partner." "how do you mean?" "if the firebug pleads guilty as his lawyer has advised him to, the judge will only call on you two witnesses to tell how it happened, so's he can get an idea of about how hard jip ought'er be punished." "then if we talk smooth he stands a better chance, eh?" "that's 'bout the size of it, amateur." during the remainder of the time he spent in ninety-four's quarters seth was unusually thoughtful, and immediately his work was finished he asked the driver if there was any objection to his going down-town. "now see here, amateur, there's no call for you to come 'round me with a question like that. i'm only too glad you've got a chance to get a holiday, and i advise you to spend all the time, till the hour for school, among your old chums. i don't reckon you've got any big pile of money left by this time, eh?" "well, i don't need a cent, 'cept for my rent, an' that ain't costin' such a terrible pile." "have you got enough to buy your breakfast with?" "i'll get whatever i need." "see here, amateur, how much money have you on hand?" 'lish asked so sternly that seth could no longer evade the question. "well, i'm broke; but there's no need of my havin' a single cent. i ain't doin' much swellin' lately." "take this," and the driver thrust a dollar in seth's hands. "i ain't giving it to you, so there's no call to kick. you've got to borrow it, or go hungry, and that i'm not minded you shall do." "i haven't done anything of the kind yet a while," the amateur replied, with a hearty laugh, and then he began to speak of jip once more lest 'lish davis might take it into his head to ask how long he had thus been penniless, for it was nearly a week since he had so much as a nickel in his pocket. "i'll pay back the dollar as soon as i get my month's wages," he said, as, his work finished, he made ready to go down-town, and the driver replied cheerily: "i'm counting on it, amateur, and i'm also reckoning that you'll come to me again when that's gone, else you and me will have a settling that won't be pleasant to one of us." then seth started down-town with a smile on his face, as he repeated again and again to himself: "folks are mighty good to me, mighty good!" when he arrived in that locality where he formerly transacted business, his old friends welcomed him heartily, and every one who claimed the slightest acquaintance had a great many questions to ask concerning his position at headquarters. not until nearly the hour set for the witnesses to be at court did seth find an opportunity of speaking privately with his partner, and then he repeated what 'lish davis had said as to the possible effect their evidence might have in the case. "we must be careful to tell the truth, dan; but there's no need of our rubbin' it in very bad." "that'll be all right," master roberts replied confidently. "jest wait till the judge begins to pump me, an' you'll see how slick i'll make it for jip." "don't put it on too thick." "see here, seth, i reckon i know how to run this thing. don't you worry 'bout me; but be kind-er thinkin' up what you'll say." "i don't s'pose we'll have a chance for anything 'cept to answer questions." "i'll bet i can sneak in a good word now an' then, never mind how hard they try to stop me. say, have you seen sam barney?" "no; is he goin' to the court?" "'cordin' to the way he's been swellin' hisself out this mornin' you'd think he was countin' on runnin' the whole thing. he told some of the fellers that the trial wouldn't begin if he wasn't there, 'cause he's the only one who can send jip up the river. bill wanted me to go in with him for usin' the chump so rough he couldn't more'n crawl, an' that would fix things for jip; but i was 'fraid it might make talk in the court so's you'd get the worst of it." "it's better to let him alone, though i'm awful sorry he's so set on this detective business, 'cause if it hadn't been for that, jip never'd been 'rested." at this moment bill dean joined his friends with the information that the would-be detective had already started for the court-room, and proposed that they set out at once. "i'm goin' to get a seat close to that duffer, an' let him know he'll get his face into trouble if he tells any more'n is called for. i wonder why he couldn't be yanked up for lyin' to joe carter when he borrowed that money? if he should have a dose of it in jail, i reckon he wouldn't be so hot to see jip sent up." dan was uncertain whether a charge might not have been brought against the would-be detective because of what he had done in philadelphia, but dismissed the matter without very much study, on the ground that it was now too late to render such a course of advantage to the firebug. then the three, followed or accompanied by nearly all their acquaintances, went toward the court-room. chapter xv. the trial. the door-keeper of the court attempted to check the rush which began with the entrance of seth, dan, and bill; but it was impossible because of his delay. he had at first objected to admitting the amateur fireman and his partner, but they speedily proved they were entitled to enter, by producing the subpoenas, and as he stepped aside for them to go in, the following came on with a rush as powerful as it was unexpected. the official would have swept down upon the offenders and literally dragged them out, but that 'lish davis, who was standing just inside the door, said with a laugh: "i don't reckon you've got time to sort 'em, mr. officer. a kid is to be tried for arson this morning, and more'n likely as not half the crowd has been summoned as witnesses, for it's only through his acquaintances that anything can be proven." the door-keeper looked for an instant at the buzzing throng which had settled down upon the front seats, and, understanding what a difficult task he might be setting himself, evidently decided that mr. davis was in the right. sam barney already sat on the front row of seats allotted to spectators when mrs. hanson's lodgers entered, and although seth would have been better pleased to remain at a greater distance from the would-be detective, bill dean forced him along until they were directly behind jip's enemy. "don't speak to him," seth whispered. "i'm sorry we're so near the duffer." "it's jest where i counted on gettin'," bill replied, in a tone of satisfaction. "i won't have any row with the chump, but only shake him up a bit." "if we make any noise, all hands will be fired out." "watch an' see how quiet i'll be," master dean replied, and then before his companion could check him, he had leaned over and whispered in sam's ear: "be mighty careful you tell the truth in this court, or i'll let out to the judge what you did in philadelphy, an' then perhaps jip collins won't be the only prisoner 'round here." master barney turned quickly, and an expression of disquiet came over his face as he saw who were directly behind him. he did not venture to make any remark, nor did bill think it wise to repeat the threat; but he shook his fist warningly, which served the same purpose. "be quiet," seth whispered imploringly. "it would be terrible if we got into a row here, for mr. davis is standing close by the door watchin' us." "i won't do a thing till we get outside, unless it happens that i have to tell the judge 'bout sam's borrowin' that money," master dean replied in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by the alleged detective. then the attention of all the sidewalk merchants was attracted to the opposite side of the room by dan roberts, who whispered loudly, pointing with outstretched finger: "there he is! there's jip!" the prisoner was being led in by a burly policeman, who kept a firm hold on the boy's collar as if fearful he might make some desperate attempt at escape, and there was not a person in the court-room, with the probable exception of sam barney, who failed to feel a certain sympathy for the frightened lad. "that's his lawyer--the little feller with the big nose," dan whispered so loudly that not only his friends in the immediate vicinity, but all the attorneys within the enclosure, set apart for their especial use, heard the words, and much merriment ensued, during which the cause of it looked around in surprise, unable to discover the meaning of it. seth and dan, who had never before attended the trial of a prisoner, expected there would be considerable ceremony, in which policemen would play a prominent part; therefore the case was begun and gone on with to some extent before they were aware of the fact. it is true they saw jip collins standing up while the clerk read from a paper a quantity of words which had no meaning to them, and after a time, the prisoner was allowed to sit down again. then the "little man with the big nose" talked to the judge as if confiding in him some secret, after which the clerk called loudly: "daniel roberts! daniel roberts!" seth's partner gazed about him curiously, never once thinking the clerk referred to him, until 'lish davis, coming swiftly down from his station near the door, leaned over and pinched dan's ear as he asked: "why don't you answer to your name?" "is it me they mean?" dan asked, and at that instant the clerk repeated the call. dan looked about him in perplexity, uncertain as to what he should do, until 'lish reached over to seize him by the collar, when he cried in a shrill voice: "here i be, mister!" "come forward to the witness-stand," the official said sharply, while the spectators laughed heartily. it was several moments before master roberts could be made to understand exactly where he should go, and then, assisted by 'lish davis and the clerk, he finally gained the stand, where he stood gazing around with the most friendly expression on his face. for some reason no question was asked immediately, and after waiting two or three moments, dan, believing the judge was ready to hear his story, began earnestly: "you see, it's jest this way: jip, he didn't count on doin' anything off color, an' if it hadn't been for sam barney----" "silence in the court!" the crier called, and dan looked up in surprise at being interrupted so soon. "he didn't reckon on bein'----" dan stopped again as the same voice called loudly for silence in the court, and then the attorney employed to defend jip explained matters by saying: "you must wait until you are questioned, daniel. there will be ample opportunity to give your evidence." "dan ain't goin' to let any chance slip him," bill dean whispered confidentially to seth, and sam barney said in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by those immediately behind him: "he's a reg'lar chump, else he'd know enough to behave hisself on the witness-stand." "he'll behave himself outside on the sidewalk in a way you won't like if you shoot off your mouth too much," bill whispered, and seth shook his friend's arm warningly lest he disturb the court by his threats. 'lish davis evidently saw that there was bad blood between the alleged detective and seth's roommate, and at once forced the boys on the front seat to move nearer together until he had room to sit where he could keep all of them under his eye, a proceeding which caused the amateur fireman great relief of mind. after what seemed like a long time in waiting, jip's attorney asked the witness: "what is your name?" dan appeared surprised at such a question, and after some slight hesitation replied: "why, i'm the feller you told to come here. didn't you hear the man call my name? this is where they said i was to stand." the judge rapped smartly on the desk in front of him, and dan turned quickly to see what had happened. "answer properly the questions asked of you!" "that's what----" the attorney interrupted him by asking as before: "what is your name?" "it's dan roberts, of course, an' i was----" "are you acquainted with the prisoner?" "do you mean jip? why, of course i am; him an' me used to work together when he lived with seth bartlett----" "answer only the questions asked of you!" the judge said sternly, and for the instant dan was abashed; but quickly recovered himself as he remembered what seth had said regarding the possibility of aiding jip by his evidence. "where were you when he set fire to the shed in baxter's lumber-yard?" "now, see here, mister, jip never 'd done that----" "where were you?" the attorney repeated, speaking so sharply that for the moment dan was startled. "why, in the shed, of course, we----" "had you heard the prisoner threaten to set fire to the shed?" "he didn't mean a word of it; did you, jip? he was----" "unless you answer the questions which are asked, and in a proper manner, we shall find some means of punishing you," the judge said sternly, and jip's attorney whispered a few words in the ear of the witness, which had the effect of checking him for the time being. he was questioned regarding what he had heard jip say as to burning the shed; how many times such threat had been repeated in his presence, and what the prisoner had told concerning the crime after it had been committed. it was the last question which set loose the floodgates of his speech, and, regardless of the judge's warnings or the attorney's nervous gestures, he said, speaking rapidly in order that all might be told before they should check him: "jip, he was awful sorry 'cause he'd done it, an' said he'd square things if we'd let him. he wouldn't even put up his hands when i was goin' to thump him, an' if sam barney hadn't wanted to show hisself off for a detective there wouldn't been any fuss like this. what does he know 'bout bein' a detective? why, i wouldn't----" by this time the court officials managed to stop the flow of words; but not before he had shaken his fist in the direction of sam, and caused even the judge to smile. "you may step down," the clerk said, after order had been restored, and dan asked innocently: "ain't you goin' to give me a chance to----" "step down!" was the stern command and master roberts was forced to obey, much to his displeasure. "i'll bet i'd fix things if they'd give me a chance," he whispered to seth as he took his seat; "but that lawyer 'lish davis hired don't 'mount to a row of pins." then the amateur fireman's name was called, and he proved a more satisfactory witness to all concerned than had master roberts. he replied briefly to the questions, and when the examination was ended the judge asked how jip had behaved after the crime was committed. then it was that seth had an opportunity of telling how penitent the firebug had appeared to be; how eager he was to do all in his power toward repairing the wrong, and declared he did not believe the prisoner would "go crooked again." 'lish davis next went on the stand, and although he could not swear to jip's repentance, he testified that the prisoner himself had sent in the alarm, and succeeded in saying many a good word for the boy. "that driver is a dandy!" dan whispered approvingly. "i wish the lawyer was half as good." master roberts was better satisfied with the attorney a short time later, when he made a plea that sentence be suspended on the prisoner, who had promptly confessed his guilt, and even at the moment when the crime had been committed did all in his power to repair the mischief. then two or three others had something to say; but they appeared to be talking privately with the judge, rather than conducting the case, and to the great surprise of all the small spectators sam barney was not called to the witness-stand. the fact that he had compassed the arrest of the prisoner was not even mentioned, much to the delight of dan and bill dean, each of whom leaned forward from time to time to ask in a cautious whisper as to when the "big detective work was goin' to be showed up?" after a time it seemed to those in the front seats as if the prisoner had been forgotten by the court, for nothing was said to or about him, and bill was on the point of asking seth if the trial was concluded, when the judge ordered jip to stand up. then he lectured him severely on the crime of arson, explained how many years of his life would be spent in prison if the provisions of the law were carried out to their fullest extent, and finally announced that sentence would be suspended during good behavior. at this point 'lish davis left the court-room as if he no longer had any interest in the proceedings, and after a certain time the attorney led jip out of the building, the latter's acquaintances following in a body. "is it all over?" dan cried, seizing the attorney by the arm in order to hold his attention, and before the gentleman could speak, sam barney cried vindictively: "you can bet it ain't all over! i've been buncoed by a lot of cheap firemen, an' don't count on holdin' my tongue. you'll see jip collins in jail again before he's a day older." "yes, it is all over," the attorney said in reply to dan's question. "so long as jip behaves himself, nothing more will be done; but if he should go wrong, sentence for this crime will be pronounced, and most likely he will be given the extreme penalty." "can sam barney have him arrested?" dan asked. "no one can trouble him on this charge while he lives an honest life." "then i'll see that that duffer holds his tongue!" and bill started toward the would-be detective in a threatening manner; but the latter was not minded to take any chances of an encounter. he turned and fled instantly bill made the advance, and did not halt until he was half a block or more away, when he shouted: "wait an' see what i'll do to all you chumps who think you're so awful smart!" "i'll give you a chance of seein' what i'll do, an' without much waitin', if you make any more cheap talk!" with this threat bill turned his back on the disappointed sam, and seth begged of him to remain quiet. "it's all right now," he replied complacently. "i've had my say, an' if sam knows what's good for him, he'll keep his tongue quiet. there ain't any reason why i shouldn't fight, an' he'll soon find it out." then seth turned to the attorney, who was yet talking with jip, and asked: "how's he goin' to pay you for lookin' after him?" "i don't expect he can. the bill was settled by some firemen belonging to ninety-four engine." with this the lawyer, after advising jip to call upon him from time to time, went his way, and mrs. hanson's lodgers stood looking at each other as if expecting some important proposition was about to be made. "it won't do to take you up to our house, jip, 'cause there are three of us already, an' the boss of the place can't have all the boys in the city runnin' in an' out there for sixty cents a week," seth said hesitatingly, wondering what could be done with the lad who had been put on probation. "i ain' thinkin' you could take me there," master collins replied promptly. "now i'm out, i'll begin to sell papers down by the ferry again, 'cause i've got fourteen cents left, an' if sam barney leaves me alone, i'll pull through all right." "if he so much as looks crossways at you, i'll give him something to remember me by," bill cried. "it's a good thing to get right at your work," seth said approvingly. "stick at it, an' us fellers will come to see you whenever we get a chance." "you've been mighty good to me, all three of you, an' i only wish i could----" it was impossible for the penitent firebug to say anything more. the tears he had been holding back since he first appeared in court now came out in full force, and, seated on the curbstone, he gave full sway to the sense of loneliness and shame in his heart. mrs. hanson's lodgers soothed him as best they could, and not until he was ready for business once more, with a bundle of evening papers under his arm, did seth think of leaving him. dan and bill had both equipped themselves for work, and promised to have an eye out for jip during the remainder of that day at least; therefore, seth believed himself at liberty to follow his own inclinations. "i want to go up to the engine-house for a spell; but i'll be in the room in time to go with you to school," he said to dan, and the latter replied cheerily: "all right, we'll flash up there by dark, and you needn't be 'fraid anybody will get the best of jip while we're round." ten minutes later seth was in ninety-four's quarters, standing in front of 'lish davis, as the latter asked sternly: "why didn't you stay down-town an' enjoy yourself? that's what i told you to do." "i can have more fun up here, an' i didn't think you'd care if i loafed 'round till it was time to go to school." "care? of course we don't, amateur; but you ought'er have some change; there's no sense in hanging on here all the time." "i don't see very much of you, an' perhaps----" "you're reckoning that we may get a call, and you'll have the chance to go out with us?" "if there was one, i'd like----" mr. davis interrupted him by saying with mock seriousness: "i'm afraid, amateur, we shall have to hire a back-yard somewhere, and keep a little blaze going so's to amuse you." seth laughed heartily at this conceit, and then bethinking himself that there was no reason why he should not give the men's boots an extra polish, brought his outfit from the chamber above, although jerry walters insisted strongly that he should sit still "and visit with 'em." to do this work he had drawn on an old pair of overalls to protect his blue trousers, taken off his coat, and was in full working costume, when a "click" came from the morse instrument, and the men were already on their feet as the alarm began to sound. "am i in it?" seth cried eagerly, as the horses dashed out of their stall, and 'lish davis replied, while attending to his portion of the work: "i reckon we shall have to take you along, amateur, seeing 's this fire seems to have started jest when you got into trim for hard work. swing alongside the engineer, and we'll allow you're one of the company." by the time the driver ceased speaking the engine was on its way out of the building, and seth, swaying to and fro, clung for dear life to the guard-rail, as the mighty machine was drawn swiftly over the pavement. "there's no chance of our getting first water this time, even if we are taking the mascot with us," jerry walters said with a laugh, and amateur knew there were no less than three engines stationed nearer the signal-box, from which had come this alarm, than was ninety-four. "a nasty place for a fire," the engineer said as the engine, following another an hundred yards or more in advance, rolled on toward a block of apartment houses, from the centre of which could be seen dense clouds of black smoke ascending. "and it seems to have a good start," walters added. then ninety-four's hose was coupled on, and, without attracting the attention of the driver, seth followed joe black and jerry as they dragged the nozzle up the steps to the entrance of the threatened building. "get back, amateur!" one of them shouted, and the boy cried imploringly: "please let me go as far as you do! it's my first chance, an' i've got my old clothes on!" "all right; but have an eye on yourself, and see to it the battalion chief don't spot you," joe black replied carelessly, and seth congratulated himself that he had gone to ninety-four's quarters instead of spending his time down-town. the fire appeared to have its strongest hold in the shaft of the elevator, coming from the basement, and the two men whom seth was following, joined by ben dunton, dragged the long length of hose up one flight of stairs to the landing where tongues of yellow flame were apparently coming through the very floor. once they were in position for battle with the foe directly before them, jerry walters ran into the adjoining apartment, and shouted through the open window. even where he stood, shielding his face with his arm as best he could from the intense heat and blinding smoke, seth could hear the cry: "ninety-four! start your water! start your water!" if there was any response those on the landing did not hear it; but a few seconds later the leathern hose began to stiffen and round out into shape, and then with a mighty rush that threatened to wrest the nozzle from the three strong men who were holding it, a jet of water struck the burning floor with a force that would have shattered less substantial timbers. "hurrah for ninety-four!" and seth sprang to the hose, intent on doing a full share of the work even though his face was almost blistered by the heat. "get back, amateur, get back! it's too hot for you here!" and ben dunton thrust seth aside with his elbow at the very instant a wild scream was heard on the stairway in the rear of the firemen. turning quickly seth saw dimly through the volume of choking vapor the form of a woman, and it seemed to him that ben dunton was trying to force her down the stairs when she shrieked: "there's a child on the next floor!" jerry walters and joe black could not leave their places of duty; but ben dunton sprang forward, and almost instinctively seth followed, the smoke being so dense at the top of the stairs as to screen his movements from the view of those at the nozzle. for an instant he fancied jerry called his name, and then he was groping his way upward, half-blinded, choking, but eager to do what he might toward a rescue. he gained the second landing. here everything was obscured by the black smoke, and he could no longer see dunton, although now and then a crashing noise as of wood being splintered under heavy blows told, as he believed, that the brave fireman was intent on the effort to save life even though his own might pay the forfeit. then with a roar the flames burst from the elevator shaft directly in front of him, and he staggered on along the hallway, hardly knowing in which direction he was going until, from behind a door near at hand came that which sounded like the crying of a child. he had only to turn the knob in order to gain an entrance into the apartment, which seemed entirely free from smoke, as compared with the place he had just left. on the floor near the window sat a child crying piteously, and seth caught the little thing in his arms, thinking it would be possible to gain the foot of the stairs, where he had left black and walters, before either he or his charge should receive serious injury. thus laden he ran toward the hallway, but only to retreat. the flames were pouring up through the shaft, spreading out in every direction, and forming such a barrier as he could not hope to pass. he shouted for dunton, but no reply came, and for the briefest interval of time he despaired. then came into his mind as clearly as if the words were yet being spoken, what he had heard said to one of the classes concerning just such peril as he was in at that moment, and without delay he returned to the room, closing the door behind him to shut out the noisome vapor as nearly as might be. "don't cry, baby, don't cry," he said soothingly to the screaming child as he ran here and there looking for something with which to carry into practice the lesson he had received. chapter xvi. winning a medal. the struggles and screams of the child he was trying to save served to confuse seth, and the smoke, which was growing more stifling each moment, bewildered at the same time that it choked him. but for the lectures the boy had heard at headquarters, neither he nor the baby would have left the apartment alive. he realized the vital necessity of keeping a "grip on himself," as josh fernald had expressed it, and, in order the better to do so, repeated again and again the words of the instructor. during the first dozen seconds he tried to soothe the child, and then came the thought that the little one would suffocate more quickly by inhaling the smoke-laden atmosphere as she gasped and sobbed violently. a garment--perhaps it was a table-cloth or a light blanket--hung over the back of a chair near at hand, and this seth wound around the baby's face, regardless of its struggles. "a clear head is the next best thing to a ladder," he said again and again, repeating the words of mr. fernald, and all the while searching for a rope, or something which would serve him in its stead. by this time the room was completely filled with smoke, and his eyes were blinded, smarting, burning. near the window was a footstool, and seizing this with one hand he hurled it through the glass. fresh air was a necessity now; he must have it, or speedily succumb to the deadly vapor. holding the child, who was apparently in a paroxysm of fear, or a spasm caused by pain, close against his breast, he thrust the upper portion of his body through the aperture regardless of the sharp fragments of glass which cut his flesh cruelly. what a blessed relief was this first indrawing of comparatively fresh air! the "clear head" was coming to him rapidly, and he understood that unless aid could be summoned from below he must make immediate battle with the vapor again, for with every moment the flames on the landing were increasing. "ninety-four!" he shouted at the full strength of his lungs. "this way, ninety-four!" he could hear from below a tumult of shouts and commands; but none of them appeared to be an answer to his cry. the roaring of the fire as it came through the elevator-shaft could be clearly distinguished even above all the noise, and he knew full well the blaze must soon make its way through the door, which presented but a frail barrier against the on-rush of flame. "ninety-four! here, ninety-four!" he cried once more without receiving a reply, and feeling comparatively strong for another struggle against the smoke, he drew the covering more closely around the child's head, at the same time stepping back into the suffocating vapor. he made his way by sense of touch rather than sight into the adjoining apartment. it was the kitchen of the suite, and at one end, stretched across from wall to wall above the range, was a cord on which hung several articles of wearing apparel. placing the child, who had ceased to struggle, on the floor, he tore at this apology for a rope with all his strength, dragging it from its fastenings, and, taking up the baby once more, ran back to the window from which he had just come. it was but the work of a few seconds to tie one end of the cord under the child's arms; but yet it seemed to him, half bewildered and suffering as he was, that more than five minutes passed before it had been completed. [illustration: seth rescues the baby. _page_ 272.] "ninety-four!" he shouted as he thrust the seemingly lifeless body through the aperture, cutting his hands and arms again and again on the sharp points of glass. quickly, but at the same time gently, he lowered the burden until the cord was at its full length. it did not seem possible this poor substitute for a life-line extended much below the top of the first story, and he dared not let go his hold lest the child should be dashed to death upon the pavement. once more he called for the men who he knew must be close at hand, leaning far out of the window in the faint hope he might be seen. his eyes were so blinded that he could distinguish nothing; he was unable to say whether the smoke yet enveloped him or if he was in full view of the men below. the sense of suffocation was heavy upon him; he tried to repeat josh fernald's words, but failed, and then came the knowledge--dim and unreal--that the cord was slipping, or being pulled, from his grasp. he made a final effort to retain his hold, and at the instant there was in his mind, as if he dreamed, a fancy that strong arms were around him. after that all was a blank until he opened his eyes to see 'lish davis bending over him as he had done on that night when jip collins set fire to the shed in baxter's lumber-yard. "where's the baby?" he asked, attempting to rise, but forced back by the deathly faintness which assailed him. "his mother has got him by this time, amateur, and you've made a man of yourself in shorter order than the majority of us are able to do. it was a close shave, lad, and we'll have no more like it till the time comes when it's your duty to take such chances." the driver's voice sounded oddly to the half-stupefied boy; usually it was gruff, like that of a man in a bad temper, but now it quavered as if the speaker was making an unsuccessful effort to control his emotions. seth allowed his head to fall back on a pile of rubber blankets, and as his cheeks touched the smooth surface there came to him the thought that once more he was in the patrol-wagon. how long he remained apparently unable to speak he had no idea, and then he heard the shout from afar off, but readily distinguishable above the panting of the engines: "how is ninety-four's kid?" 'lish davis rose to his feet and cried in reply: "he's got his head again, and appears to be all right!" at that moment some one stepped to the side of the wagon and asked the driver: "shall we send an ambulance?" "i reckon he'll get along without it, chief. it's only the reg'lar dose, as nigh as i can make out." "how did he happen to be here instead of at headquarters?" "it was his day off, owing to being a witness in an arson case, and he'd come up to the house to visit us." "we shall have to put him in a straight-jacket until he is taken on as a fireman, else something serious may happen. this would be a case for a medal if he belonged to the department." "that's what he does, chief. he comes as nigh being one of ninety-four's men as i am, and if it so be a medal belongs to him, we'll see he gets it." seth heard, but did not understand this conversation. he knew it was one of the battalion chiefs who had been talking with mr. davis, and it was enough for him that his name had been spoken in a friendly tone. the driver leaned over him once more, and asked almost tenderly: "will i send you up to the house, amateur?" "can't i stay till ninety-four pulls out?" "well, of all gluttons, you're the worst!" 'lish davis cried as if in delight. "dosed 'way up till you can hardly wink, and yet wanting to hold on to the last! ben dunton is caring for the team, and i reckon you and i had better pull out in this 'ere hurry-up." "what about the fire?" "it's under control, though i'm allowing it'll be a full two hours before ninety-four gets the word to leave." then davis left the boy a moment, and when he returned the patrol-wagon was driven slowly out past the laboring engines, through the throng of spectators, into the unobstructed streets, after which the horses were urged to their full speed. "there's no need of takin' me back, mr. davis. i ain't much worse than i was the time dan an' me was burned out." "but then it needed a night's rest to put you into shape, and i'm not minded to run any risks. ninety-four's kid is getting to be so near a man that we can't afford to take any chances with him." "hello! amateur in trouble again?" the house watchman asked when 'lish davis helped seth into the building, and the driver replied proudly: "i don't allow he's an amateur any longer, bob, but fit to be one of us in proper form. he saved a baby, and came mighty nigh knocking under." "how did he get a chance to do anything like that?" "slipped past me, and followed jerry and joe; i don't rightly know the whole of it yet. the chief allowed it was a medal job, though one can't be given, except to members of the department." "then seth is entitled to it, for he's on our rolls as if belongin' to us." "we'll see that he gets all he's earned, bob," 'lish davis replied, and then he conducted the boy upstairs, insisting that he should go to bed. "i'll be all right after a spell," seth protested, and the driver replied grimly, in his usual harsh tone: "that's what i'm going to make certain of, kid. peel off your clothes and turn in if you don't want to have trouble with me." seth obeyed with a laugh, and was equally tractable a few moments later when 'lish davis brought a glass half full of a certain disagreeable mixture for him to drink. then the boy's eyelids grew heavy; he said to himself he would remain awake until ninety-four returned, but the thought was hardly more than formed in his mind before slumber overcame him. it was late in the evening when he was awakened by the sound of voices near at hand, and on looking around seth saw, to his great surprise, mr. fernald talking with 'lish davis. "hello! got your eyes open again, eh?" the old instructor cried, and seth would have arisen to his feet but that mr. fernald's hand was laid heavily upon his shoulder. "i'm all right now, sir, an' i promised to go to school with bill an' dan." "it's a little late for anything of that kind now, my boy, seeing that the clock has just struck ten. what's all this talk i hear of your showing the members of the department how to effect a rescue?" "it wasn't me, sir. i only got the baby out of the window, an' somebody else must have taken him from there." "it was jerry walters who came up the ladder," 'lish davis interrupted. "the credit of saving the child belongs to you, seth," mr. fernald said, decidedly, "and i hope there'll be no question about its being given. tell us how it was done." "there isn't much to tell, sir. i jest heard the baby yellin', an' went in after it. then the smoke made me feel silly, an' i had to keep sayin' to myself what i heard you tellin' the class, about a clear head bein' the next best thing to a ladder, else i'd gone under before i found the rope." "now there's the kind of a pupil to have!" mr. fernald cried proudly. "there's some satisfaction in knowing that what a man says will be remembered when the time comes that it may be of profit. you shall go regularly into the class from this out, seth bartlett, whether the commissioners approve or not, and we'll find some one else to do the odd jobs." "do you really think i stand a better chance of gettin' into the department because of tryin' to pull the kid through?" seth asked in surprise, and josh fernald replied to the great delight of both the boy and mr. davis: "if i can bring any influence to bear, you shall be there very soon, my lad, and at all events, from this time out you will be kept at work on the drill. ninety-four's kid is of considerably more importance to-night than he was this morning." after such praise as this it seemed impossible for seth to remain in bed, and finally 'lish davis consented to his going down-stairs for a time. the hour which seth spent on the lower floor on this night was the most pleasant he had ever known. the men did not occupy the time in praising him, but discussed the rescue again and again, and never once was the boy spoken to, or of, as the "amateur." 'lish davis insisted on his remaining in the engine-house all night, but gave seth distinctly to understand that however many alarms might come in, he was not to so much as think of going out with the company. "you'll be on sick leave till to-morrow morning, when josh fernald is expecting you at headquarters, and then it'll be for him to say when we're to see you again." "but of course i'll sleep at mrs. hanson's same's i've been doin'?" "i can't say how it'll be, lad; but whatever josh allows must be done will come nigh being right." what between his happiness and the sleep he had indulged in during the early part of the evening, seth bartlett was unusually wakeful, and until past midnight he lay in a cot near 'lish davis's bed speculating upon what mr. fernald might be able to do in regard to procuring his admission to the school at headquarters. then slumber interfered with his waking dreams, and he knew no more until daylight next morning, when he crept softly out of bed to perform his customary task. he did the work on the lower floor lest he should disturb those who were yet asleep, and was getting well along with it when joe black came down. "how are you feelin' this mornin', kid?" he asked, in an unusually friendly tone. "fine as silk. that medicine mr. davis gave me fixed everything in great shape." "i see you're still blackin' boots." "why shouldn't i be? it was the bargain that i could do it till i got into the department." "i'm allowing 'lish will claim you're so near there now that you must graduate from this kind of work." "but, of course, i'm not near gettin' into the department, for they don't make firemen of boys." "as a rule they don't; but i'm reckoning there'll be something in the way of an exception with you. i'm not allowin' you'll be allowed to swell around as full member of a company, but you are bound to be recognized as belonging to us." seth failed to understand how any immediate change could be effected in his standing, save that he might be admitted to the classes at headquarters, and before he could ask joe black to make an explanation a shrill voice was heard calling through the half-opened door: "say, mister, is seth bartlett here?" it was dan, and seth stepped forward to prevent him from coming in, when joe black said: "there's no reason why you should go out on the sidewalk to talk with your friends. you've got the same privileges here that all hands have." by this time dan had stepped inside, and catching a glimpse of seth he cried: "say, old man, you're goin' it mighty strong, but we're proud of you. the fellers count on givin' you a reg'lar blow-out to-morrow, if it's so you can come down-town." "do you mean 'cause of what was done last night, dan?" seth asked, surprised that his roommate should have learned of the affair so soon, and joe black gave way to his mirth, although why he thought there was anything comical in what had been said, neither of the boys understood. "course i'm talkin' 'bout your savin' the baby." "how did you hear of it so soon?" "hear of it! why, it's in all the papers! look at this!" and dan unfolded the morning _herald_ as he pointed to an article nearly a column in length, which was headed, "a brave boy." seth made no attempt to read the account, and dan cried impatiently as he held the sheet in front of him: "why, don't you see what it says? the fellers down-town are pretty nigh wild 'cause you've showed the firemen that you ain't any slouch, even if you did black boots for a livin'. i reckon sam barney will get green when he sees it, an' bill's hangin' 'round so's to make certain that duffer hears 'bout it the first thing. say, can't you come down by the post-office now?" "i've got to go up to headquarters same as ever, an' it's most time now." "but the fellers are just crazy to see you." "they'll have to wait till night," seth replied with a laugh, "'cause i'm bound to be there right on the dot." "i'll walk up with you." "all right; i'm ready now as soon as i put on my coat." seth went to the floor above for the purpose of getting the garment, and while he was absent joe black asked dan: "what are you boys counting on doing with our kid?" "we're goin' to give him one of the biggest blow-outs that's ever been seen in this town. do you s'pose we'd lay still after he's been an' done what he did? we'll show that we believe he's a dandy." "what kind of a blow-out do you mean?" "a reg'lar spread with plenty to eat, an' it won't cost seth a cent. bill an' teddy bowser are rushin' 'round seein' to it now. folks think we fellers don't count for much, but some of 'em will sing a different tune after readin' what he did! you can bet we're reckonin' on givin' him a great send-off." "look here, dan," joe black whispered. "i wouldn't mind seeing how you lads get up a thing of that sort, and if you'll give me an invite i'll chip in a dollar." "will you wear your uniform?" dan asked eagerly. "i'll put on every button i've got; but you are not to tell seth i'm coming." "it's a go," master roberts replied gravely, and then the arrival of seth interrupted the conversation. when they were outside the engine-house dan insisted that his partner give him the full story of the rescue, and he was not satisfied with a general account, but demanded every particular from the time ninety-four left her quarters until josh fernald had taken his departure. "well, it's bound to be a big thing for you," he said, thoughtfully, "even if you don't get a medal." "see here, dan, mr. davis has said considerable 'bout medals, an' i don't understand it." "are you claimin' to be posted in the fire business, an' don't know things like that are given to men who save folks from bein' burned up?" "of course i know it; but i'm talkin' about myself. i can't have a medal 'cause i ain't a fireman yet." "if you'd read the _herald_ as i wanted, you'd seen that the printed piece said you earned one." "i don't think i did, not even if i belonged reg'larly to the department. it was jerry walters who did the most of the work, 'cause if he hadn't come jest then it would have been all day with me--i was mighty near gone." "don't you make such talk as that to anybody but me, seth bartlett," dan cried sharply. "what's the use of givin' anything away when folks are howlin' 'bout your bein' so brave? a feller is bound to blow his own horn sometimes in this world, else he'd never get along, an' that's what you must do now." "if i can't get into the department without it, i'll go back to shinin' boots. look at sam barney! he's always doin' that, an' what does he 'mount to?" "oh, a feller must have some sand to back him, else he won't pull through, an' you know there's nothin' to sam but wind. here's where you stop, an' i'll snoop back down-town. the fellers are countin' on givin' you a racket to-morrow night, an' you must be on hand." "see here, dan, don't you spend good money when you're needin' it for the store, jest for the sake of puffin' me up." "i reckon what i'll put out won't bust me, even if we have 'greed to whack up fifteen cents apiece. bill, teddy, an' me will chip in for jip, so's he can have a good time after all his hard luck, an' we'll make your eyes stick out before it's over." "i'd a good deal rather you didn't do it." "there's no use to kick now, 'cause it's too late. i wouldn't wonder if it was all fixed by this time. you see, bill an' me was 'fraid you'd been hurt, seein' 's you didn't come over to the room last night, an' the fellers wanted me to find out 'bout it, so's if there was any trouble we could hold off the blow-out till you'd come 'round ag'in. so long; i'll see you to-night," and dan was off like a flash. seth watched until his friend was lost to view in the distance, and then entered the building. the first man he met shook hands with him in the most friendly manner, congratulating him upon the service he had done, and so did every one he saw, until he was absolutely astounded at the warmth of his reception. for a moment it seemed as if the officials at headquarters were taking as deep an interest in him as did ninety-four's company, and there were so many who thus had a kindly word that it was nearly an hour from the time he arrived before it was possible to present himself at the gymnasium. there mr. fernald showed him marked attention before those of the class who were assembled, and, as seth confidentially told 'lish davis that evening, "he was afraid he'd get a big head if folks didn't let up on his saving the baby." at noon josh fernald held a long conversation with seth, the substance of which was that permission had been received to put him under instruction precisely as if he had been appointed a member of the department on probation, and he would be taught the entire drill from that day forth. "next spring, when the bennett, stephenson, and pulitzer medals are awarded, the life-saving corps will give an exhibition drill at some public place, and i've decided that you shall be among them. work hard, my lad, and on that day when the citizens of new york turn out to see those of the force who have distinguished themselves in the way of saving life, you can make your appearance in a manner that will give great pleasure to your comrades of ninety-four." mr. fernald did not give seth an opportunity of thanking him, but suddenly walked away as if bent on important business at the other end of the room, and the boy said to himself with pride and delight: "he called ninety-four's men my _comrades_! that's a big step-up for a bootblack to make, an' i wonder how 'lish davis will like it?" chapter xvii. the blow-out. much to dan's disappointment, seth could not go down-town on this first evening after having distinguished himself in the department. when 'lish davis heard what mr. fernald had said he insisted on having a long and confidential chat with the boy, and it was not concluded until a very late hour in the evening. "the time has now come, kid, when you're the same as one of us, and we of ninety-four who counted on giving you such a boost have been cheated out of it by what you did for yourself," the driver began gravely, and in a tone sufficiently loud for the other members of the company to hear. "from this out you're in the department, and we have no fear but that in due course of time you'll be assigned to some company--this one, if we can have our way. now, there's a question of money to come up precious soon, for we here have got the idee that the city won't pay wages while you're under instruction." "of course, we may be in the wrong as to that, but if we ain't, how'll you live? that's what we've asked ourselves, and this is the way we answer it: every man in the department looks on you as ninety-four's kid, and we can't allow anything that would go against our credit, consequently you have got to turn to us for support till you're under wages. we'll assess ourselves so much every month, and charge it up to you in reg'lar fashion so it can be paid back some time. now, you're to make no kick, for we've settled it once and for all." "why couldn't i black boots at odd times?" seth asked, pleadingly. "because there won't be any 'odd times' in the first place, and secondly we're not minded to have it said we couldn't see you through. can't you understand that we're looked on by them as are in the department as your father, or guardeen, or something of that kind, and it's our own credit we're bound to uphold? how would it look for a fireman to be around blackin' boots? and that's what you are this very minute, even though you haven't had an appointment." then one member of the company after another gave his views on the subject, until it would have been rank ingratitude had seth refused the generous proposition. it was agreed to by all that a strict account should be kept of the amounts advanced, and he be allowed to repay the company at the earliest opportunity after he was under salary. when this matter had been settled by seth's promise to take such sums of money as he needed, and "look pleasant about it," the men discussed his future, and spoke of the time when he would be running with ninety-four, until it did not require a very great stretch of the imagination for the boy to fancy himself already a member of the company. on reaching mrs. hanson's he found his roommates awake, and grumbling because he had not returned sooner. "i s'pose we shan't see very much of you now you're gettin' so high up in the department, eh?" dan said in a tone of ill-humor. "you'll see me all my spare time, providin' you an' bill still agree to go to school, 'cause i've got to duf into study in great shape now, an' we'll be together every evening." "got to do it now? what else has come up?" "mr. fernald has put me right into the drill, an' i don't have to tackle the odd jobs any more." "are you a fireman already?" and dan sprang to his feet in astonishment. "of course not; but i'm to be drilled the same as if i was, an' in case i show sand enough you'll see me in the exhibition drill that's to be given on the street next spring." neither dan nor bill spoke for several seconds, and then the former exclaimed with emphasis: "say, but you're gettin' there with both feet, eh?" it was midnight before the roommates could afford to retire, and then it was understood that on the following evening at seven o'clock seth was to be at the main entrance to the post-office, in readiness for the "blow-out" to be given in his honor. in vain he questioned his friends concerning the proposed feast. they would give him no further information on the subject, declaring that he would "have his eye knocked out before the thing was over." at daylight next morning seth was at ninety-four's house blacking boots, despite the fact that 'lish davis had given orders another boy should be engaged for such work, and before the members of the company were astir he departed for headquarters. during this day the "new probationer," as he was called, was kept at work learning how to handle, raise, and balance ladders, and it is safe to say he never did more labor in a single twelve hours before. he was exceedingly tired when supper-time arrived, but did his best to prevent mr. fernald from suspecting the fact. "feeling rather sore?" the instructor asked as the boy came to say good-night. "i ain't played out, sir." "if such was the case, would you admit it?" "i'd hate to," seth replied with a smile, and mr. fernald said in a friendly tone, as if speaking to a comrade instead of a pupil: "it is hard work, this learning the trade of a fireman, my boy, and there may be times when you will feel discouraged; but keep a firm grip on yourself at all times, live regularly, avoid bad habits, or, in other words, keep in rigid training, and you will master it." "i'm not afraid of failin' so far as i'm concerned, sir, but it may be i'll tire others out, an' so get me walkin' ticket." "you need have no such fear on my account, lad, so long as you do your level best." seth understood that mr. fernald had brought the interview to an end, and he set out for the rendezvous at the post-office, wondering not a little what and whom he should find at the "blow-out." as he neared the business locations of his different friends he was surprised because he failed to meet any whom he knew. it was as if every news-vender and bootblack had suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth, although it was not yet so late but that considerable business might have been done. arriving at the post-office he met there bill and dan alone. he had expected to see a great throng, and began to believe that for some good reason the "blow-out" had been postponed. "have you given it up?" he asked in what he intended should be a careless tone, for even though he had advised dan not to "start the thing," it had given him no slight satisfaction because his acquaintances and friends should desire thus to do him honor. "give up nothin'!" bill exclaimed. "ain't we here on time?" "i didn't know from what you said last night but that some of the other fellers were comin'." "we've fixed everything jest as we want it, an' she's goin' along as smooth as a die," master roberts replied in a tone of satisfaction. "them as don't know their business gets left; but we haven't got in with that crowd, eh, william?" "we shan't mildew even if we ain't taken in for a considerable spell," bill said contentedly, and added an instant later: "now seth's come i don't see why we should stand 'round here any longer." "let her go; i'm ready"; and master roberts set out in advance, leading the way toward chat ham street much as if believing every person whom they met knew he was conducting the boy who ran with ninety-four. "where are we goin'?" seth asked of bill, believing now that the spread concerning which so much had been said was to be confined strictly to the lodgers in mrs. hanson's house. "you'll see when we strike there, an' if it ain't tony enough for a swell from the department, you can get out." seth gazed in surprise at his friend; but the latter's face was expressionless, and the guest of the evening began to fear some disaster had overtaken the plans of his roommates. "seen sam barney to-day?" the "probationary fireman" asked after a brief time of silence. "i struck him mighty heavy yesterday, an' he's been layin' low ever since. i made up my mind that he should see the printed stuff about you in the papers, an' hung 'round till he flashed up. then i acted as if he an' me was the best friends in the world, an' asked if he knowed what kind of a racket you'd been on. that was enough to make him read the paper i had, an' you can bet he was sick when he got through. teddy bowser hit him up ag'in 'bout an hour afterward, an from that time till pretty nigh dark we kept him chafin' under the collar. then he lit out, an' we haven't seen him since." "how's jip gettin' along?" "first-class; tendin' right out on business, an' goin' to pull through into a decent kind of a feller. say, you know dan made up his mind to own a store on third avenoo?" "yes, an' i hope he won't back down." "well, i guess not! he can't, 'cause i've gone into partners with him, an' there won't be any funny business. we're goin' to take jip for a clerk." "but you haven't got the store yet." "it ain't such a dreadful long ways off. we've got most twelve dollars towards it, an' i know of a man what'll sell out a bang-up good place for a hundred an' fifty. i'm allowin' we'll get that much before spring." "what makes him sell it so cheap?" "the reason is that he's a duffer; wants to lay back smokin' an' have the dollars come rollin' in without his raisin' a hair. of course he ain't gettin' along very smart, an' we'll soon be ready to take it. with two fellers who are willin' to work there's a big thing in that place. we're countin' on settin' up a boot-blackin' place with chairs an' all such kind of swellin', you know. it's going to be 'roberts & dean, newsdealers an' shiners.'" "you'll make a go of it, bill." "course we shall," was the complacent reply. "i knowed it was a good thing jest as soon as dan flashed her up, an' said i'd come in before he got half through talkin'. this 'ere little blow-out is the only thing we're goin' to spend any money on till we get the shop paid for." "it's too bad for you to put out good money on me." "what we're doin' to-night won't break us, i reckon. first off we allowed it would cost fifteen cents apiece; but we had an offer of three dollars for that many tickets, which comes pretty nigh payin' all the bills." "three dollars for three tickets!" seth repeated in perplexity. "what is it you've been gettin' up, bill?" "hold on 'bout four minutes longer, an' then the whole thing will be flashed up. it's great!" before the time specified by bill had elapsed, dan suddenly turned into a german restaurant, walked the length of the lower floor, and led the way upstairs. seth felt that already was his "eye bein' knocked out." he knew there were private supper-rooms in some of these chatham street establishments, but had never been fortunate enough to see one, and now he was to enter as a guest of honor. dan threw open the door at the head of the stairs. seth was conscious of a blaze of light, the hum of voices, and before it was possible to distinguish anything clearly, bill cried: "three cheers for ninety-four's kid!" then rang out a shout which seemed actually to rock the building to and fro, and by the time the tumult had subsided the guest of the evening saw a long table, on either side of which were seated all his friends and acquaintances among the sidewalk merchants, while at the head 'lish davis, jerry walters, and joe black presided with as much gravity as if it had been the swellest of swell functions. now seth understood who had purchased supper tickets at one dollar a plate. the honored guest was shown to a seat near ninety-four's driver. dan and bill took places opposite, and the former called in a loud, commanding voice for the benefit of teddy bowser, who was stationed at the door: "let 'em flash her up; we're all here!" teddy cried to some one below, and during the next ten minutes two waiters were kept busy bringing upstairs sandwiches, bologna in generous, thick slices, sauerkraut without stint, potato salad, and a variety of small cakes plentifully besprinkled with tiny seeds. while this feast was being placed upon the table no one spoke, but instantly teddy gave a peculiar sign by crossing his throat and winking one eye, dan cried: "now pitch in, fellers, an' fill right up! we're doin' this 'cause seth bartlett has got into the department, an' the one what don't eat all he ought'er will have trouble with me." if master roberts had been a veritable giant seeking whom he might devour, the boys could not have shown more fear lest his command should not be obeyed. every fellow present felt that it was his duty to eat a generous portion of each dish before him, and he did it hurriedly lest dan might have cause for complaint. nor were the guests who had paid "their cold dollars," as dan explained, idle. all three ate heartily to the evident satisfaction of the others, and 'lish davis even entered so thoroughly into the spirit of the affair as to suggest that they send for another dish of sauerkraut. in ten minutes or less the hunger of the guests was in a measure appeased, and as they dallied with the dainties dan set in motion that portion of the entertainment which, in his opinion, was to be the crowning feature. [illustration: the blow-out _page_ 298.] "it ain't many times that duffers like us has a chance to rub up against ninety-four's men, an' we want to show 'em that we know what's what," he had said privately to bill the evening previous, and now was come the moment when the exhibition should be made. after making certain that all were giving him their attention, he rose slowly to his feet, looked round as if to collect his thoughts, and said in a loud tone, much as though repeating something he had committed to memory: "fellers, an' ninety-four's men are in it, too: we spread ourselves on this 'ere blow-out 'cause seth bartlett has got into the department owin' to havin' saved a kid, and now if all hands are 'way up full we'll have a little speech from mr. 'lish davis, driver of ninety-four engine, who's one of the three what gave up a big cold dollar for this lot of stuff." then dan sat down with a complacent smile upon his face, as if believing he had said the right thing in the right place, and mr. davis actually appeared embarrassed. he had come to the feast expecting to enjoy himself by listening to the sidewalk merchants, and found that it was himself who would provide a goodly portion of the entertainment. never doubting but that this had been all arranged beforehand, seth gazed at the driver, wondering why he was so slow in making a response, while jerry and joe laughed heartily, for they knew that 'lish had been taken wholly by surprise. however, the driver of ninety-four was not one who would be discomfited by such as dan roberts, and he began his speech, with considerable hesitation, but warming to his subject as he proceeded. "i didn't allow that i was to be part of the show when i come here, and dan roberts has got one the best of me; but yet, i ain't quite downed. the man who couldn't say a good word now never ought to set in anywhere, because there's a deal more than something to eat, if you boys will only look at it in the right light. in the first place you've spread yourself because ninety-four's kid has the same as got into the department, and perhaps some of you think he's lucky. i tell you, kids, luck hadn't anything to do with it. seth is being made a fireman because whatever he struck he stuck at, and never let a living chance go by him. when he first came up to ninety-four's house we gave him the cold shoulder, but he kept plugging away till we grew to like his pluck; yet nobody held out a hand to him till he'd hung to his idea so long that we jest couldn't help ourselves. he worked in where he wanted to go, and so can every one of you. i ain't holding that all of us are born to be firemen, but whatever we count on being we've got to work for, and work hard. do that, and you'll pull through in pretty nigh everything you tackle." when 'lish davis sat down, blushing rosy red, dan sprang up like a jumping-jack from a box, and proposed: "three cheers for the driver of ninety-four!" as may be imagined, these were given with a will, and then master roberts announced: "jerry walters will now chip in with something." it was now 'lish davis's turn to laugh, and he enjoyed his comrade's confusion mightily, for it was several moments before jerry could think of the proper words. joe black was called upon immediately afterward, and when he had concluded and been given a round of cheers, as in the case of the other speakers, the driver said gravely: "we who come here to look on have done what we could towards making a success of this here 'blow-out,' and now, according to my way of thinking, it's time we heard from mr. daniel roberts." the suggestion came in the way of a big surprise to dan, who, while making plans for this entertainment had entirely overlooked the possible fact that he might be asked to do that which he the same as demanded from others. dan's friends and acquaintances applauded 'lish davis's proposition loudly, and were so emphatic in their calls for him that the owner of the prospective third-avenue store was absolutely forced to rise. "it's what i call a mighty mean trick for you fellers to howl 'bout my makin' a speech, 'cause you know we hadn't figgered that any but the 'dollar visitors' would do that. of course 'lish davis an' the rest of the firemen didn't know, but pretty nigh every other feller was posted this afternoon. but don't think you've got me in a hole, though, for if makin' speeches is only talkin' 'bout seth, i can do that an' not half try. if it hadn't been for him i wouldn't have my third-avenoo store,--and i've got it in my mind all right,--nor bill an' me wouldn't be thinkin' of goin' to school, or we shouldn't be livin' in the toniest lodgin's in this 'ere town. an' if it hadn't been for him you fellers couldn't be settin' here so near filled up that some of you can't do much more'n wink. now 'bout this blow-out: i made a trade with the dutchman what runs the place that we should have all we could eat for four dollars; but he held to it that we mustn't stay more'n two hours, an' you can't blame him. a bang-up shop like this can't be kept goin' all night without somebody's chippin' in a stack of good money. now seein' 's you fellers can't eat any more, an' the firemen have all made their speeches, i allow we'd better skin out." save for this last portion, dan's speech would undoubtedly have been greeted with the same amount of applause as the others, but the guests were not well pleased at being asked to depart at such an early hour. during several moments there was every indication that disagreeable remarks might be made, even if nothing more unpleasant occurred, and thus the harmony of the meeting would be sadly marred. understanding all this, 'lish davis came to the rescue by saying in a cheery tone: "mr. daniel roberts has, without knowing it, done us of ninety-four a mighty good turn in bringing the meeting to a close. we'd feel kind-er sore to go before it was all over, and yet we couldn't stay many minutes longer because we only had leave of absence for three hours, and that time is about up. so if you fellows will look pleasant we'll do the same, and on the day ninety-four's kid gets appointed to the department i'll set out another spread in this same place for every one that's here to-night." this generous proposition could not have failed of its purpose, and lish' davis was cheered to the echo, he and his two comrades taking their departure during the tumult which ensued. the entire company escorted mrs. hanson's lodgers to their home, and before parting gave three hearty cheers and a series of yells in seth's honor which aroused, if it did not alarm, the neighborhood, and brought nearly every policeman in the vicinity to the scene of the parting. dan and his partners escaped to their room before the blue-coated guardians of the city's peace arrived, and from their window watched the small throng as it scattered in every direction to avoid possible contact with the officers. "it's what i call a howlin' success," master roberts said in a tone of satisfaction as he turned from the window after the last of his friends had disappeared. "it was a big mistake not to have had a lot of newspaper fellers there so's the whole thing would be in the mornin' editions." "we can fix that straight enough," bill replied carelessly, as if familiar with such methods. "i know a feller what helps clean up the _herald_ office where all the stuff is wrote out, and i'll get him to print a slat about the blow-out." this appeared to satisfy master roberts that his mistake could readily be rectified, and he gave himself wholly up to a review of the late proceedings until seth suggested that they retire. "i had a hard day's work, an' it'll be jest as bad, if not worse, to-morrow, so i've got to turn in." "it's too bad to wind up so soon," dan suggested with a sigh; but bill finally settled the matter by saying: "if you an' i ever expect to have that third-avenoo store we've got to hump ourselves all the time, an' settin' up nights ain't the way to do it." two minutes later dan was in bed, and as seth extinguished the gas the former raised himself on his elbow to say: "we'll have the store jest 'bout the time you get into the department, old man; but you can bet the shop will be shut up when 'lish davis has his blow-out." chapter xviii. the exhibition drill. seth bartlett ceased to be an "amateur fireman" when he was admitted to the probationary class, even though he had not received an appointment, and, therefore this narrative was concluded, or should have been, with an account of the "blow-out" designed and arranged by dan roberts. in case some of the readers care to know how ninety-four's kid prospered, however, a brief account of his doings up to the day when he was honored even above any member of his own particular company, shall be given. first, however, let it be said that dan roberts and bill dean did not abandon the idea of going to school. on the night after the very pleasing entertainment on chatham street they set out with seth, and from that time until the third-avenue store was a reality, they were in regular attendance. even after having engaged in what dan called "real business," the partners continued their pursuit of knowledge by going to school on alternate nights. jip collins gave good proof that he had reformed by attending closely to his work, and on the day when messrs. roberts & dean purchased the establishment from the gentleman who did not believe in working, he was hired as clerk at wages to be proportionate with the sales. sam barney disappeared on the day of the "blow-out," and was not seen by his former acquaintances for nearly eight months, when he suddenly showed himself once more, and announced that he was "partners with a city detective." at first this statement was set down as false, but in due course of time it became understood that there was a glimmer of truth in it, inasmuch as he was employed now and then by the detective in question to carry messages, and it is possible that he may yet compass his desires, providing he can bring himself down to hard work and yet harder study. it can well be fancied that seth did not neglect his duties after having been admitted to the probationary class. as a matter of fact he worked so hard that more than once was mr. fernald forced to insist on his "taking matters easier," and when this advice did not prevail 'lish davis was called upon to interfere, which he did very effectually by commanding the boy's attendance at the house of ninety-four's company at least two hours during every twenty-four. josh fernald, for certain reasons which appeared to be a secret between himself and several other members of the department had decided that seth should take part in the exhibition drill to be given by the life-saving corps on that day when the medals were to be awarded, and to such end all his efforts were directed. after the boy had become so familiar with the handling of ladders that they appeared to be little more than playthings to him, he was taught, as 'lish davis had explained he would be, how to assist in "building a chain" with a line of ladders from the street to the roof, placed in position by a man at each window of the structure. the driver had spoken of "straddling sills," and this name for the work puzzled seth not a little until it came his turn to receive instructions. then he found that it consisted in sitting astride the sill of a window, holding himself in place by the pressure of his knees much as though he had been in a saddle, drawing up one of the climbing ladders and passing the hook attached to the upper end into the window above. this does not appear by the description thus given to be a very difficult task, and yet others beside seth have found that it was a lesson extremely hard to learn, but once gained the pupil can readily make his way from the street even to the roof of a building with no other implements than the two ladders. the lesson of "standing on sill" is always given to the pupils in pairs, and before explaining what seth learned in this line it is necessary to describe the belt which is worn by members of the life-saving corps. it is broad, made of thick leather, with two stout buckles to hold it in place. directly in front is a leathern handle, to which a steel "snap-hook" is attached by a stout ring, this hook being provided so the fireman may fasten himself to a ladder or any projection while he works, and is similar to that worn by the drivers. on one side of the belt in a leathern sheet is a hatchet with a heavy square head to be used either as a hammer or an axe, as occasion may require. when a pupil is instructed in "standing on sills" he does exactly as the term implies, but on the inside of the building is his mate, who holds him in place by means of this belt-hook. in such position he raises the ladder to the window above, as when he was astride the sill. another lesson, which seth often took, is that of coming down a rope alone, or bearing a burden. it was not difficult, and, with this particular "probationer," decidedly exhilarating. a rope is made fast to the roof or window, of a building and two turns of it taken round the hook on the fireman's belt, thus forming a "brake" to prevent too rapid descent. by a pressure of the hand just below the hook it is possible for the operator to control his speed. in case of bringing down a burden, twice the number of turns are taken. as a matter of course, seth was taught to leap from the building into a net, and later to aid in holding it, in which last exercise he learned that 'lish davis had not spoken falsely when he declared it was exceedingly hard work. it might not be entertaining to repeat all the lessons which ninety-four's kid took part in; but suffice it to say that by the 1st of may mr. fernald announced that he was as nearly perfect in the drill as he could be until after having gained greater strength. "you will participate in the exhibition, my boy, and i am expecting a good showing from you." "will ninety-four's men be there?" seth asked eagerly, trying hard not to show how delighted he was by this praise. "surely; they are to take part in the parade, and you can see 'lish davis display his skill at driving. there are no lack of spectators at such exhibitions, and you will show, not only to a vast throng of citizens, but the mayor and heads of the department, whether you are worthy of receiving an appointment." "will that settle matters for me?" seth asked in surprise. "i don't say you will not be able to get the appointment without it; but it is an opportunity of making a leap directly into the department, and of finding yourself suddenly on equal footing with davis, walters, or black, for they are intending to make a strong effort to have you assigned to their company." seth hardly needed this incentive to labor, for he was already doing all a boy of his age could do; but it caused him to feel extremely anxious regarding the final result, and, noting this, 'lish davis said one evening in a fatherly tone: "you are working yourself all up into a snarl over the fear of not pulling through, and the result will be, if you don't have a care, that your head won't be of the clearest when the big day comes." "i'm not afraid but that i'll be able to go through with our part of the show all right, but the trouble is that i'll show up for no more than a boy, and that's what bothers me." "you can't pose for anything else, lad, seeing as how you are a kid; but it won't work against you in face of the record. go ahead as if there wasn't a thought in your mind but to show the people how we swarm over a building when the need arises, and that's all any man can do." "where is the exhibition to be held?" "on the riverside drive. number 38 is the house that's been loaned for the occasion, and you lads couldn't have a better building on which to work." "do you mean to say we're goin' to range a decent house? there'll be considerable damage done if we have the reg'lar scalin' ladders; the teeth can't fail to tear away a good bit of the woodwork." "you'll only use the middle row of windows, and over the sills of these will be fastened timber shields, or casings, so that you can swing your ladders without fear of so much as a pin's scratch." "where are the medals to be presented?" "a stand will be built on the drive, and there all the swells will sit. the mayor does the act, and after it's over we poor duffers who haven't particularly distinguished ourselves will give a parade and drill. you'll see us respond to a call in great shape. it's always a high time of the department, for it's the only day in the year when we have a chance to show what we can do when need comes." the more seth heard regarding the proposed manoeuvres the greater was his eagerness to receive further instruction, and had he been allowed to do as he pleased, the class would have drilled not less than eighteen hours out of every twenty-four. "practise as much as you please, seth, but you are out of my jurisdiction now, for i can't suggest any improvement on your work," mr. fernald said, but the praise did not prevent this particular "probationer" from spending nearly every moment of his time at the drill. then came the night before the eventful day, and seth, who was to sleep at headquarters, had come down for a chat with his roommates and the members of ninety-four's company. "you can bet we'll be there, seth," dan roberts said emphatically. "if it hadn't been for the show you're goin' to give we'd bought the third-avenoo store yesterday; but bill an' me both allowed it couldn't be done till to-morrow, 'cause we ain't to be cheated out of seein' how much you know 'bout the fire business. we'll be right in the front row, no matter how much the swells crowd for good places." "are you goin' to act jest like as if you was a reg'lar fireman?" bill asked, much as if believing that would be impossible. "i shall go through the same drill as the others." "well, old man, i hope you'll get along all right, an' it seems as if you ought'er after workin' so hard. look for us when your crowd gets there, an' you can be certain of havin' more cheers than anybody else, for we'll yell ourselves blue in the face but that it shall go in good shape." "don't make too much noise," seth said pleadingly. "you know i'm only a boy, an' there'll be lots of men who can work all 'round me, so it wouldn't be jest the thing for me to be cheered when i'm the poorest of the lot." "we know our business," dan said decidedly, "and you needn't worry but that we'll do the thing up brown." after giving his friends a general outline of the exhibition, as he understood it, seth went to ninety-four's house, and was there received with an unusually hearty welcome. "how are you feeling, kid?" 'lish davis asked solicitously. "all right." "little fidgety about to-morrow's work?" "i'm hopin' i won't make a fool of myself, of course." "you needn't worry. josh fernald says you'll make as good a showing as any one there, and he knows. the only chance of your failing will come from borrowing too much trouble. remember what you said to yourself the night the baby was saved: 'a clear head is the next best thing to a ladder,' and there mustn't be any cobwebs in yours. don't pay attention to the crowd, but keep in mind that you're only going through the drill, so's the commissioners can see whether you're ripe for an appointment." "what are you counting on wearing?" jerry walters asked in a peculiar tone. "what i've got on, of course, seem' 's it's all the decent clothes i own, an' they belong to you of ninety-four. i'm countin' on cleanin' 'em up in great shape, an' folks can't see where they've been mended. miss hanson fixed the coat so you wouldn't know the sleeve ever had a hole in it." "i'm allowing the others will shine terrible bright." "they've all got new uniforms, an' are bound to look mighty fine." "you don't seem to be sulking on account of having to wear old togs," 'lish davis said with a peculiar twinkle in his eyes. "what would be the use? i can't have 'em, an' i'll go through my part of the drill jest the same as if i was covered with brass buttons." "it's coming kind of tough on ninety-four, eh, jerry?" the driver asked. "all hands of us swelling, and our kid rushing around at the head with patched trousers? the boys in the department will think we haven't earned much money this year." "i don't think you ought'er feel bad 'bout it if i don't," seth said, trying hard to appear unconcerned. "people will know you have something else to do with your money than buy swell clothes for me." "i ain't so certain about that, my boy. at all events we don't count on taking any chances," 'lish said with a laugh. "this ain't the first time we've talked about a new uniform, and somehow or other the tailor happened around this afternoon with one that looks as if it might fit you. bring it down, jerry." now seth understood why this conversation had been begun, and, while he was rejoiced by the thought that he would be dressed as well as the other members of the corps, there was in his mind a certain uneasiness about accepting such a favor in addition to the many which had been bestowed upon him. "i'm owin' ninety-four so much, mr. davis, that it'll be terrible if i don't get an appointment after all, an' it wouldn't----" "you can stop right where you are. this here uniform that jerry is fetching ain't charged up against you, nor it never will be. we reckon on having the right to give a present the day you graduate, and if it'll make you feel half as good to wear it as it will us to see you in it, we'll be a mighty jolly crowd to-morrow." by this time jerry had returned with the garments over his arm, and seth exclaimed as he saw them: "why there's a helmet, an' you've had brass buttons put on the coat, mr. davis!" "sure; the helmet belongs to the clothes, and on every button you'll see the letters 'n. y. f. d.'" "but only one who was really in the department could wear them." "i reckon you can tackle that kind of a job to-morrow, and if it so be that you get thrown out because of not being up in the drill, it won't take long to cut them off." "oh, if i should fail!" and the tears came into seth's eyes despite all his efforts to keep them back. "you will for a fact, if you get nervous over it. a clear head, forgetfulness of everything but the drill, and ninety-four's kid will have an appointment, or the promise of one, before this time to-morrow night." then 'lish davis proposed to walk to headquarters with the boy in order to make certain he went directly to bed; the new uniform was wrapped carefully in paper, for it was not proposed that seth should put it on until the following morning, and then every member of the company shook hands with "their kid," each giving him some bit of good advice. during the walk the old driver cautioned seth again and again not to speculate upon possible failure; but to believe he would surely succeed, and when the two parted, 'lish davis said feelingly: "you're a good boy, seth, and while every one of ninety-four's crew is your friend, you're dearer to me than the whole boiling of them. i'm proud of what you have done, and will do to-morrow. god love you, my lad." then the driver turned away abruptly, as if there was some particular reason why he wished to hide his face, and as seth wiped the moisture from his eyes lest perchance a tear should fall on the new uniform, he whispered to himself: "god _must_ love me, even if i am sich a terrible duffer, else he'd never let me run up against ninety-four's company." during the forenoon of the next day seth wandered around the gymnasium trying to act upon the advice given by his friends in the matter of "keeping cool," and then came the time to put on the new uniform, for he had been assured by mr. fernald that it was perfectly proper for him to wear the helmet and the brass buttons, even though he was not a regular member of the corps. when all was ready for the march to riverside drive something occurred which caused the boy considerable uneasiness, for, instead of setting out with the members of the corps, he, with six others were ordered to fall into line by themselves. fifty firemen, picked members of the department, ranged themselves on either side, in advance and behind as an escort, and no less a person than chief bonner himself took a station at their head. why he was thus separated from the men with whom he had practised seth could not imagine, and there came into his mind as the order to march was given, the thought that some serious mistake had been made--that he was in the wrong place, and, therefore, would utterly fail of acting his part properly. his astonishment and uneasiness increased when the squad with their escort, having arrived at the drive, were stationed in line facing the river, with their backs toward seventy-sixth street, the sixty-ninth regiment band a short distance behind them. why these men, two of whom he had never seen before, should with himself be singled out and stationed apart from the others, was a mystery which seth failed to unravel, speculate as he might. he saw the life-saving corps, in whose ranks he should have been, march up and take their station not far from the grand stand which was thronged with spectators. then, in line with the other engines, he saw ninety-four with 'lish davis holding the reins, and he fancied the driver winked at him in a most mysterious manner as he passed. a moment later he heard a shrill cry: "hi! get on to seth! what's he standin' out there all by his lonesome for?" he knew it was dan who had made this remark; but could not see him without changing his position, therefore he remained motionless. the band was playing, gayly-dressed people were watching curiously, and in many cases admiringly, the vast number of blue-coated men who represented the finest department in the world, and of all those to be seen seth was, perhaps, the only person troubled in mind. some order was given, the boy did not understand what, for he was watching the life-saving corps in the hope that some of them, seeing he was out of position, would summon him to their ranks. he saw that some one had arrived at the stand, and believed it to be the mayor. the little squad and their escort saluted the gentleman by slowly raising their right hands to their helmets, and then as slowly lowering them. mechanically seth copied the example of the men on either side of him, and thus, fortunately, had not neglected his duty. the music of the band was hushed, the mayor began to speak, and as he went on seth was plunged into even greater bewilderment than before. "it is the very pleasantest task of my experience," said the mayor, "to acknowledge the great debt which new york owes to the fire department of the city. in our population of two million souls there is no one branch of the municipal service which renders such valuable services as the fire department. we are gathered here to-day to do honor to a few of the firemen who have rendered themselves famous during the year. these men have snatched persons from the jaws of death, but this is the duty of every fireman. the army and navy are called upon to destroy everything, but it is your duty to save everything." "we are proud to-day to render you our homage for the magnificent manner in which you have discharged your duty all along the line, from the chief down, in all perilous moments, and especially you who have been selected by the department to receive these medals. this is the most pleasing duty i have ever performed." the speech ended, seth was more positive than before that he had made a mistake in position, and to his yet further bewilderment, after the mayor had handed to the chief a medal, the latter pinned it to his coat--to the uniform which ninety-four's company had presented, probably knowing at the time how it would be decorated. while this was being done the mayor described in detail that which seth had done when saving the baby's life, and as he concluded a great shout went up from the assembled multitude, high above which could be heard dan's shrill notes. then another medal was given to the chief, who pinned it to the coat of the man standing next to the boy in line, the mayor meanwhile explaining why it had thus been bestowed, and seth began to understand how greatly he was honored. when each of the seven had been decorated, and while the throng were cheering themselves hoarse, the chief said in a low tone to seth: "mr. fernald has the official notification of your appointment as substitute fireman, and you can get it on your return to headquarters. you are assigned to company ninety-four, and will report to their house for duty to-morrow morning." seth could not speak, and in fact the chief moved away so quickly that there was no chance; but looking up toward where ninety-four was stationed he saw every member of the company waving his helmet as if indulging in silent cheering. then he knew they were all in the secret--that it would be no news when he told them he was at last really their comrade. [illustration: presenting the medals. _page_ 322.] as to what followed immediately after this, seth had no very clear idea. he was not even conscious of how he left the squad of men who had just been decorated for their bravery, and found himself in his proper station among the life-saving corps. he hardly heard the order for the drill to be commenced, but followed the movements of those nearest him until it was as if he forgot everything else, and was once more back at headquarters fitting himself for what had already been accomplished. over the building which had been loaned for this purpose mr. fernald's pupils swarmed, as if clambering up a smooth surface of brick was a task more simple than the ordinary methods of locomotion, and each portion of the drill was gone through with mathematical exactness. concerning it, 'lish davis said to his comrades as ninety-four was hauled into her quarters that evening: "it was a great sight, boys, and what made it greater was that not a man among them outdid our kid. josh fernald himself couldn't go through a drill better, and we've reason to be mighty proud of what that little chap has done." after the life-saving corps had concluded their portion of the exhibition, two battalions were paraded by the chief himself, ten engines, two hook and ladder companies, the water-tower and the fire-boat, _new yorker_, taking part therein. the men first marched past the reviewing stand to the music of the band, after which, in response to an alarm sounded by the mayor, the engines and their crews returned along the drive at full tilt, with fires lighted, whistles blowing, and bells ringing, as if running to a fire. * * * * * during the early part of the evening after the exhibition on riverside drive, a boy clad in the full uniform of a fireman, wearing on the left breast of his coat a handsome gold medal suspended by a knot of red ribbon, walked rapidly down the street toward the headquarters of ninety-four engine, and a crowd of lads, who might have been bootblacks or newsboys, gathered on the sidewalk, cheered him loudly as he came in view, after which the senior member of the firm of roberts & dean shouted shrilly: "now let's give three more rousers for the substitute fireman of ninety-four engine!" and the cheers were given with such a hearty will that citizens more than a block away turned hastily to ask one of the other why the police allowed such a disturbance to be made at that hour. the end. on heroes, hero-worship, and the heroic in history by thomas carlyle transcriber's note: the text is taken from the printed "sterling edition" of carlyle's complete works, in 20 volumes, with the following modifications made in the etext version: italicized text is delimited by underscores, _thusly_. the footnote (there is only one) has been embedded directly into text, in brackets, [thusly]. greek text has been transliterated into latin characters with the notation [gr.] juxtaposed. otherwise, the punctuation and spelling of the print version have been retained. contents. i. the hero as divinity. odin. paganism: scandinavian mythology. ii. the hero as prophet. mahomet: islam. iii. the hero as poet. dante: shakspeare. iv. the hero as priest. luther; reformation: knox; puritanism. v. the hero as man of letters. johnson, rousseau, burns. vi. the hero as king. cromwell, napoleon: modern revolutionism. lectures on heroes. lecture i. the hero as divinity. odin. paganism: scandinavian mythology. [may 5, 1840.] we have undertaken to discourse here for a little on great men, their manner of appearance in our world's business, how they have shaped themselves in the world's history, what ideas men formed of them, what work they did;--on heroes, namely, and on their reception and performance; what i call hero-worship and the heroic in human affairs. too evidently this is a large topic; deserving quite other treatment than we can expect to give it at present. a large topic; indeed, an illimitable one; wide as universal history itself. for, as i take it, universal history, the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the great men who have worked here. they were the leaders of men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are properly the outer material result, the practical realization and embodiment, of thoughts that dwelt in the great men sent into the world: the soul of the whole world's history, it may justly be considered, were the history of these. too clearly it is a topic we shall do no justice to in this place! one comfort is, that great men, taken up in any way, are profitable company. we cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without gaining something by him. he is the living light-fountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. the light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as i say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness;--in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them. on any terms whatsoever, you will not grudge to wander in such neighborhood for a while. these six classes of heroes, chosen out of widely distant countries and epochs, and in mere external figure differing altogether, ought, if we look faithfully at them, to illustrate several things for us. could we see them well, we should get some glimpses into the very marrow of the world's history. how happy, could i but, in any measure, in such times as these, make manifest to you the meanings of heroism; the divine relation (for i may well call it such) which in all times unites a great man to other men; and thus, as it were, not exhaust my subject, but so much as break ground on it! at all events, i must make the attempt. it is well said, in every sense, that a man's religion is the chief fact with regard to him. a man's, or a nation of men's. by religion i do not mean here the church-creed which he professes, the articles of faith which he will sign and, in words or otherwise, assert; not this wholly, in many cases not this at all. we see men of all kinds of professed creeds attain to almost all degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any of them. this is not what i call religion, this profession and assertion; which is often only a profession and assertion from the outworks of the man, from the mere argumentative region of him, if even so deep as that. but the thing a man does practically believe (and this is often enough _without_ asserting it even to himself, much less to others); the thing a man does practically lay to heart, and know for certain, concerning his vital relations to this mysterious universe, and his duty and destiny there, that is in all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively determines all the rest. that is his _religion_; or, it may be, his mere scepticism and _no-religion_: the manner it is in which he feels himself to be spiritually related to the unseen world or no-world; and i say, if you tell me what that is, you tell me to a very great extent what the man is, what the kind of things he will do is. of a man or of a nation we inquire, therefore, first of all, what religion they had? was it heathenism,--plurality of gods, mere sensuous representation of this mystery of life, and for chief recognized element therein physical force? was it christianism; faith in an invisible, not as real only, but as the only reality; time, through every meanest moment of it, resting on eternity; pagan empire of force displaced by a nobler supremacy, that of holiness? was it scepticism, uncertainty and inquiry whether there was an unseen world, any mystery of life except a mad one;--doubt as to all this, or perhaps unbelief and flat denial? answering of this question is giving us the soul of the history of the man or nation. the thoughts they had were the parents of the actions they did; their feelings were parents of their thoughts: it was the unseen and spiritual in them that determined the outward and actual;--their religion, as i say, was the great fact about them. in these discourses, limited as we are, it will be good to direct our survey chiefly to that religious phasis of the matter. that once known well, all is known. we have chosen as the first hero in our series odin the central figure of scandinavian paganism; an emblem to us of a most extensive province of things. let us look for a little at the hero as divinity, the oldest primary form of heroism. surely it seems a very strange-looking thing this paganism; almost inconceivable to us in these days. a bewildering, inextricable jungle of delusions, confusions, falsehoods, and absurdities, covering the whole field of life! a thing that fills us with astonishment, almost, if it were possible, with incredulity,--for truly it is not easy to understand that sane men could ever calmly, with their eyes open, believe and live by such a set of doctrines. that men should have worshipped their poor fellow-man as a god, and not him only, but stocks and stones, and all manner of animate and inanimate objects; and fashioned for themselves such a distracted chaos of hallucinations by way of theory of the universe: all this looks like an incredible fable. nevertheless it is a clear fact that they did it. such hideous inextricable jungle of misworships, misbeliefs, men, made as we are, did actually hold by, and live at home in. this is strange. yes, we may pause in sorrow and silence over the depths of darkness that are in man; if we rejoice in the heights of purer vision he has attained to. such things were and are in man; in all men; in us too. some speculators have a short way of accounting for the pagan religion: mere quackery, priestcraft, and dupery, say they; no sane man ever did believe it,--merely contrived to persuade other men, not worthy of the name of sane, to believe it! it will be often our duty to protest against this sort of hypothesis about men's doings and history; and i here, on the very threshold, protest against it in reference to paganism, and to all other _isms_ by which man has ever for a length of time striven to walk in this world. they have all had a truth in them, or men would not have taken them up. quackery and dupery do abound; in religions, above all in the more advanced decaying stages of religions, they have fearfully abounded: but quackery was never the originating influence in such things; it was not the health and life of such things, but their disease, the sure precursor of their being about to die! let us never forget this. it seems to me a most mournful hypothesis, that of quackery giving birth to any faith even in savage men. quackery gives birth to nothing; gives death to all things. we shall not see into the true heart of anything, if we look merely at the quackeries of it; if we do not reject the quackeries altogether; as mere diseases, corruptions, with which our and all men's sole duty is to have done with them, to sweep them out of our thoughts as out of our practice. man everywhere is the born enemy of lies. i find grand lamaism itself to have a kind of truth in it. read the candid, clear-sighted, rather sceptical mr. turner's _account of his embassy_ to that country, and see. they have their belief, these poor thibet people, that providence sends down always an incarnation of himself into every generation. at bottom some belief in a kind of pope! at bottom still better, belief that there is a _greatest_ man; that _he_ is discoverable; that, once discovered, we ought to treat him with an obedience which knows no bounds! this is the truth of grand lamaism; the "discoverability" is the only error here. the thibet priests have methods of their own of discovering what man is greatest, fit to be supreme over them. bad methods: but are they so much worse than our methods,--of understanding him to be always the eldest-born of a certain genealogy? alas, it is a difficult thing to find good methods for!--we shall begin to have a chance of understanding paganism, when we first admit that to its followers it was, at one time, earnestly true. let us consider it very certain that men did believe in paganism; men with open eyes, sound senses, men made altogether like ourselves; that we, had we been there, should have believed in it. ask now, what paganism could have been? another theory, somewhat more respectable, attributes such things to allegory. it was a play of poetic minds, say these theorists; a shadowing forth, in allegorical fable, in personification and visual form, of what such poetic minds had known and felt of this universe. which agrees, add they, with a primary law of human nature, still everywhere observably at work, though in less important things, that what a man feels intensely, he struggles to speak out of him, to see represented before him in visual shape, and as if with a kind of life and historical reality in it. now doubtless there is such a law, and it is one of the deepest in human nature; neither need we doubt that it did operate fundamentally in this business. the hypothesis which ascribes paganism wholly or mostly to this agency, i call a little more respectable; but i cannot yet call it the true hypothesis. think, would _we_ believe, and take with us as our life-guidance, an allegory, a poetic sport? not sport but earnest is what we should require. it is a most earnest thing to be alive in this world; to die is not sport for a man. man's life never was a sport to him; it was a stern reality, altogether a serious matter to be alive! i find, therefore, that though these allegory theorists are on the way towards truth in this matter, they have not reached it either. pagan religion is indeed an allegory, a symbol of what men felt and knew about the universe; and all religions are symbols of that, altering always as that alters: but it seems to me a radical perversion, and even inversion, of the business, to put that forward as the origin and moving cause, when it was rather the result and termination. to get beautiful allegories, a perfect poetic symbol, was not the want of men; but to know what they were to believe about this universe, what course they were to steer in it; what, in this mysterious life of theirs, they had to hope and to fear, to do and to forbear doing. the _pilgrim's progress_ is an allegory, and a beautiful, just and serious one: but consider whether bunyan's allegory could have _preceded_ the faith it symbolizes! the faith had to be already there, standing believed by everybody;--of which the allegory could _then_ become a shadow; and, with all its seriousness, we may say a _sportful_ shadow, a mere play of the fancy, in comparison with that awful fact and scientific certainty which it poetically strives to emblem. the allegory is the product of the certainty, not the producer of it; not in bunyan's nor in any other case. for paganism, therefore, we have still to inquire, whence came that scientific certainty, the parent of such a bewildered heap of allegories, errors and confusions? how was it, what was it? surely it were a foolish attempt to pretend "explaining," in this place, or in any place, such a phenomenon as that far-distant distracted cloudy imbroglio of paganism,--more like a cloud-field than a distant continent of firm land and facts! it is no longer a reality, yet it was one. we ought to understand that this seeming cloud-field was once a reality; that not poetic allegory, least of all that dupery and deception was the origin of it. men, i say, never did believe idle songs, never risked their soul's life on allegories: men in all times, especially in early earnest times, have had an instinct for detecting quacks, for detesting quacks. let us try if, leaving out both the quack theory and the allegory one, and listening with affectionate attention to that far-off confused rumor of the pagan ages, we cannot ascertain so much as this at least, that there was a kind of fact at the heart of them; that they too were not mendacious and distracted, but in their own poor way true and sane! you remember that fancy of plato's, of a man who had grown to maturity in some dark distance, and was brought on a sudden into the upper air to see the sun rise. what would his wonder be, his rapt astonishment at the sight we daily witness with indifference! with the free open sense of a child, yet with the ripe faculty of a man, his whole heart would be kindled by that sight, he would discern it well to be godlike, his soul would fall down in worship before it. now, just such a childlike greatness was in the primitive nations. the first pagan thinker among rude men, the first man that began to think, was precisely this child-man of plato's. simple, open as a child, yet with the depth and strength of a man. nature had as yet no name to him; he had not yet united under a name the infinite variety of sights, sounds, shapes and motions, which we now collectively name universe, nature, or the like,--and so with a name dismiss it from us. to the wild deep-hearted man all was yet new, not veiled under names or formulas; it stood naked, flashing in on him there, beautiful, awful, unspeakable. nature was to this man, what to the thinker and prophet it forever is, preternatural. this green flowery rock-built earth, the trees, the mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas;--that great deep sea of azure that swims overhead; the winds sweeping through it; the black cloud fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now hail and rain; what _is_ it? ay, what? at bottom we do not yet know; we can never know at all. it is not by our superior insight that we escape the difficulty; it is by our superior levity, our inattention, our _want_ of insight. it is by _not_ thinking that we cease to wonder at it. hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of traditions, hearsays, mere _words_. we call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but _what_ is it? what made it? whence comes it? whither goes it? science has done much for us; but it is a poor science that would hide from us the great deep sacred infinitude of nescience, whither we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere superficial film. this world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, _magical_ and more, to whosoever will _think_ of it. that great mystery of time, were there no other; the illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are _not_: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb,--for we have no word to speak about it. this universe, ah me--what could the wild man know of it; what can we yet know? that it is a force, and thousand-fold complexity of forces; a force which is _not_ we. that is all; it is not we, it is altogether different from us. force, force, everywhere force; we ourselves a mysterious force in the centre of that. "there is not a leaf rotting on the highway but has force in it; how else could it rot?" nay surely, to the atheistic thinker, if such a one were possible, it must be a miracle too, this huge illimitable whirlwind of force, which envelops us here; never-resting whirlwind, high as immensity, old as eternity. what is it? god's creation, the religious people answer; it is the almighty god's! atheistic science babbles poorly of it, with scientific nomenclatures, experiments and what not, as if it were a poor dead thing, to be bottled up in leyden jars and sold over counters: but the natural sense of man, in all times, if he will honestly apply his sense, proclaims it to be a living thing,--ah, an unspeakable, godlike thing; towards which the best attitude for us, after never so much science, is awe, devout prostration and humility of soul; worship if not in words, then in silence. but now i remark farther: what in such a time as ours it requires a prophet or poet to teach us, namely, the stripping-off of those poor undevout wrappages, nomenclatures and scientific hearsays,--this, the ancient earnest soul, as yet unencumbered with these things, did for itself. the world, which is now divine only to the gifted, was then divine to whosoever would turn his eye upon it. he stood bare before it face to face. "all was godlike or god:"--jean paul still finds it so; the giant jean paul, who has power to escape out of hearsays: but there then were no hearsays. canopus shining down over the desert, with its blue diamond brightness (that wild blue spirit-like brightness, far brighter than we ever witness here), would pierce into the heart of the wild ishmaelitish man, whom it was guiding through the solitary waste there. to his wild heart, with all feelings in it, with no _speech_ for any feeling, it might seem a little eye, that canopus, glancing out on him from the great deep eternity; revealing the inner splendor to him. cannot we understand how these men _worshipped_ canopus; became what we call sabeans, worshipping the stars? such is to me the secret of all forms of paganism. worship is transcendent wonder; wonder for which there is now no limit or measure; that is worship. to these primeval men, all things and everything they saw exist beside them were an emblem of the godlike, of some god. and look what perennial fibre of truth was in that. to us also, through every star, through every blade of grass, is not a god made visible, if we will open our minds and eyes? we do not worship in that way now: but is it not reckoned still a merit, proof of what we call a "poetic nature," that we recognize how every object has a divine beauty in it; how every object still verily is "a window through which we may look into infinitude itself"? he that can discern the loveliness of things, we call him poet! painter, man of genius, gifted, lovable. these poor sabeans did even what he does,--in their own fashion. that they did it, in what fashion soever, was a merit: better than what the entirely stupid man did, what the horse and camel did,--namely, nothing! but now if all things whatsoever that we look upon are emblems to us of the highest god, i add that more so than any of them is man such an emblem. you have heard of st. chrysostom's celebrated saying in reference to the shekinah, or ark of testimony, visible revelation of god, among the hebrews: "the true shekinah is man!" yes, it is even so: this is no vain phrase; it is veritably so. the essence of our being, the mystery in us that calls itself "i,"--ah, what words have we for such things?--is a breath of heaven; the highest being reveals himself in man. this body, these faculties, this life of ours, is it not all as a vesture for that unnamed? "there is but one temple in the universe," says the devout novalis, "and that is the body of man. nothing is holier shall that high form. bending before men is a reverence done to this revelation in the flesh. we touch heaven when we lay our hand on a human body!" this sounds much like a mere flourish of rhetoric; but it is not so. if well meditated, it will turn out to be a scientific fact; the expression, in such words as can be had, of the actual truth of the thing. we are the miracle of miracles,--the great inscrutable mystery of god. we cannot understand it, we know not how to speak of it; but we may feel and know, if we like, that it is verily so. well; these truths were once more readily felt than now. the young generations of the world, who had in them the freshness of young children, and yet the depth of earnest men, who did not think that they had finished off all things in heaven and earth by merely giving them scientific names, but had to gaze direct at them there, with awe and wonder: they felt better what of divinity is in man and nature; they, without being mad, could _worship_ nature, and man more than anything else in nature. worship, that is, as i said above, admire without limit: this, in the full use of their faculties, with all sincerity of heart, they could do. i consider hero-worship to be the grand modifying element in that ancient system of thought. what i called the perplexed jungle of paganism sprang, we may say, out of many roots: every admiration, adoration of a star or natural object, was a root or fibre of a root; but hero-worship is the deepest root of all; the tap-root, from which in a great degree all the rest were nourished and grown. and now if worship even of a star had some meaning in it, how much more might that of a hero! worship of a hero is transcendent admiration of a great man. i say great men are still admirable; i say there is, at bottom, nothing else admirable! no nobler feeling than this of admiration for one higher than himself dwells in the breast of man. it is to this hour, and at all hours, the vivifying influence in man's life. religion i find stand upon it; not paganism only, but far higher and truer religions,--all religion hitherto known. hero-worship, heartfelt prostrate admiration, submission, burning, boundless, for a noblest godlike form of man,--is not that the germ of christianity itself? the greatest of all heroes is one--whom we do not name here! let sacred silence meditate that sacred matter; you will find it the ultimate perfection of a principle extant throughout man's whole history on earth. or coming into lower, less unspeakable provinces, is not all loyalty akin to religious faith also? faith is loyalty to some inspired teacher, some spiritual hero. and what therefore is loyalty proper, the life-breath of all society, but an effluence of hero-worship, submissive admiration for the truly great? society is founded on hero-worship. all dignities of rank, on which human association rests, are what we may call a _hero_archy (government of heroes),--or a hierarchy, for it is "sacred" enough withal! the duke means _dux_, leader; king is _kon-ning_, _kan-ning_, man that _knows_ or _cans_. society everywhere is some representation, not insupportably inaccurate, of a graduated worship of heroes--reverence and obedience done to men really great and wise. not insupportably inaccurate, i say! they are all as bank-notes, these social dignitaries, all representing gold;--and several of them, alas, always are _forged_ notes. we can do with some forged false notes; with a good many even; but not with all, or the most of them forged! no: there have to come revolutions then; cries of democracy, liberty and equality, and i know not what:--the notes being all false, and no gold to be had for _them_, people take to crying in their despair that there is no gold, that there never was any! "gold," hero-worship, _is_ nevertheless, as it was always and everywhere, and cannot cease till man himself ceases. i am well aware that in these days hero-worship, the thing i call hero-worship, professes to have gone out, and finally ceased. this, for reasons which it will be worth while some time to inquire into, is an age that as it were denies the existence of great men; denies the desirableness of great men. show our critics a great man, a luther for example, they begin to what they call "account" for him; not to worship him, but take the dimensions of him,--and bring him out to be a little kind of man! he was the "creature of the time," they say; the time called him forth, the time did everything, he nothing--but what we the little critic could have done too! this seems to me but melancholy work. the time call forth? alas, we have known times _call_ loudly enough for their great man; but not find him when they called! he was not there; providence had not sent him; the time, _calling_ its loudest, had to go down to confusion and wreck because he would not come when called. for if we will think of it, no time need have gone to ruin, could it have _found_ a man great enough, a man wise and good enough: wisdom to discern truly what the time wanted, valor to lead it on the right road thither; these are the salvation of any time. but i liken common languid times, with their unbelief, distress, perplexity, with their languid doubting characters and embarrassed circumstances, impotently crumbling down into ever worse distress towards final ruin;--all this i liken to dry dead fuel, waiting for the lightning out of heaven that shall kindle it. the great man, with his free force direct out of god's own hand, is the lightning. his word is the wise healing word which all can believe in. all blazes round him now, when he has once struck on it, into fire like his own. the dry mouldering sticks are thought to have called him forth. they did want him greatly; but as to calling him forth--! those are critics of small vision, i think, who cry: "see, is it not the sticks that made the fire?" no sadder proof can be given by a man of his own littleness than disbelief in great men. there is no sadder symptom of a generation than such general blindness to the spiritual lightning, with faith only in the heap of barren dead fuel. it is the last consummation of unbelief. in all epochs of the world's history, we shall find the great man to have been the indispensable savior of his epoch;--the lightning, without which the fuel never would have burnt. the history of the world, i said already, was the biography of great men. such small critics do what they can to promote unbelief and universal spiritual paralysis: but happily they cannot always completely succeed. in all times it is possible for a man to arise great enough to feel that they and their doctrines are chimeras and cobwebs. and what is notable, in no time whatever can they entirely eradicate out of living men's hearts a certain altogether peculiar reverence for great men; genuine admiration, loyalty, adoration, however dim and perverted it may be. hero-worship endures forever while man endures. boswell venerates his johnson, right truly even in the eighteenth century. the unbelieving french believe in their voltaire; and burst out round him into very curious hero-worship, in that last act of his life when they "stifle him under roses." it has always seemed to me extremely curious this of voltaire. truly, if christianity be the highest instance of hero-worship, then we may find here in voltaireism one of the lowest! he whose life was that of a kind of antichrist, does again on this side exhibit a curious contrast. no people ever were so little prone to admire at all as those french of voltaire. _persiflage_ was the character of their whole mind; adoration had nowhere a place in it. yet see! the old man of ferney comes up to paris; an old, tottering, infirm man of eighty-four years. they feel that he too is a kind of hero; that he has spent his life in opposing error and injustice, delivering calases, unmasking hypocrites in high places;--in short that _he_ too, though in a strange way, has fought like a valiant man. they feel withal that, if _persiflage_ be the great thing, there never was such a _persifleur_. he is the realized ideal of every one of them; the thing they are all wanting to be; of all frenchmen the most french. he is properly their god,--such god as they are fit for. accordingly all persons, from the queen antoinette to the douanier at the porte st. denis, do they not worship him? people of quality disguise themselves as tavern-waiters. the maitre de poste, with a broad oath, orders his postilion, "_va bon train_; thou art driving m. de voltaire." at paris his carriage is "the nucleus of a comet, whose train fills whole streets." the ladies pluck a hair or two from his fur, to keep it as a sacred relic. there was nothing highest, beautifulest, noblest in all france, that did not feel this man to be higher, beautifuler, nobler. yes, from norse odin to english samuel johnson, from the divine founder of christianity to the withered pontiff of encyclopedism, in all times and places, the hero has been worshipped. it will ever be so. we all love great men; love, venerate and bow down submissive before great men: nay can we honestly bow down to anything else? ah, does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him? no nobler or more blessed feeling dwells in man's heart. and to me it is very cheering to consider that no sceptical logic, or general triviality, insincerity and aridity of any time and its influences can destroy this noble inborn loyalty and worship that is in man. in times of unbelief, which soon have to become times of revolution, much down-rushing, sorrowful decay and ruin is visible to everybody. for myself in these days, i seem to see in this indestructibility of hero-worship the everlasting adamant lower than which the confused wreck of revolutionary things cannot fall. the confused wreck of things crumbling and even crashing and tumbling all round us in these revolutionary ages, will get down so far; _no_ farther. it is an eternal corner-stone, from which they can begin to build themselves up again. that man, in some sense or other, worships heroes; that we all of us reverence and must ever reverence great men: this is, to me, the living rock amid all rushings-down whatsoever;--the one fixed point in modern revolutionary history, otherwise as if bottomless and shoreless. so much of truth, only under an ancient obsolete vesture, but the spirit of it still true, do i find in the paganism of old nations. nature is still divine, the revelation of the workings of god; the hero is still worshipable: this, under poor cramped incipient forms, is what all pagan religions have struggled, as they could, to set forth. i think scandinavian paganism, to us here, is more interesting than any other. it is, for one thing, the latest; it continued in these regions of europe till the eleventh century: eight hundred years ago the norwegians were still worshippers of odin. it is interesting also as the creed of our fathers; the men whose blood still runs in our veins, whom doubtless we still resemble in so many ways. strange: they did believe that, while we believe so differently. let us look a little at this poor norse creed, for many reasons. we have tolerable means to do it; for there is another point of interest in these scandinavian mythologies: that they have been preserved so well. in that strange island iceland,--burst up, the geologists say, by fire from the bottom of the sea; a wild land of barrenness and lava; swallowed many months of every year in black tempests, yet with a wild gleaming beauty in summertime; towering up there, stern and grim, in the north ocean with its snow jokuls, roaring geysers, sulphur-pools and horrid volcanic chasms, like the waste chaotic battle-field of frost and fire;--where of all places we least looked for literature or written memorials, the record of these things was written down. on the seabord of this wild land is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of them and of what the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who had deep thoughts in them, and uttered musically their thoughts. much would be lost, had iceland not been burst up from the sea, not been discovered by the northmen! the old norse poets were many of them natives of iceland. saemund, one of the early christian priests there, who perhaps had a lingering fondness for paganism, collected certain of their old pagan songs, just about becoming obsolete then,--poems or chants of a mythic, prophetic, mostly all of a religious character: that is what norse critics call the _elder_ or poetic _edda_. _edda_, a word of uncertain etymology, is thought to signify _ancestress_. snorro sturleson, an iceland gentleman, an extremely notable personage, educated by this saemund's grandson, took in hand next, near a century afterwards, to put together, among several other books he wrote, a kind of prose synopsis of the whole mythology; elucidated by new fragments of traditionary verse. a work constructed really with great ingenuity, native talent, what one might call unconscious art; altogether a perspicuous clear work, pleasant reading still: this is the _younger_ or prose _edda_. by these and the numerous other _sagas_, mostly icelandic, with the commentaries, icelandic or not, which go on zealously in the north to this day, it is possible to gain some direct insight even yet; and see that old norse system of belief, as it were, face to face. let us forget that it is erroneous religion; let us look at it as old thought, and try if we cannot sympathize with it somewhat. the primary characteristic of this old northland mythology i find to be impersonation of the visible workings of nature. earnest simple recognition of the workings of physical nature, as a thing wholly miraculous, stupendous and divine. what we now lecture of as science, they wondered at, and fell down in awe before, as religion the dark hostile powers of nature they figure to themselves as "_jotuns_," giants, huge shaggy beings of a demonic character. frost, fire, sea-tempest; these are jotuns. the friendly powers again, as summer-heat, the sun, are gods. the empire of this universe is divided between these two; they dwell apart, in perennial internecine feud. the gods dwell above in asgard, the garden of the asen, or divinities; jotunheim, a distant dark chaotic land, is the home of the jotuns. curious all this; and not idle or inane, if we will look at the foundation of it! the power of _fire_, or _flame_, for instance, which we designate by some trivial chemical name, thereby hiding from ourselves the essential character of wonder that dwells in it as in all things, is with these old northmen, loke, a most swift subtle _demon_, of the brood of the jotuns. the savages of the ladrones islands too (say some spanish voyagers) thought fire, which they never had seen before, was a devil or god, that bit you sharply when you touched it, and that lived upon dry wood. from us too no chemistry, if it had not stupidity to help it, would hide that flame is a wonder. what _is_ flame?--_frost_ the old norse seer discerns to be a monstrous hoary jotun, the giant _thrym_, _hrym_; or _rime_, the old word now nearly obsolete here, but still used in scotland to signify hoar-frost. _rime_ was not then as now a dead chemical thing, but a living jotun or devil; the monstrous jotun _rime_ drove home his horses at night, sat "combing their manes,"--which horses were _hail-clouds_, or fleet _frost-winds_. his cows--no, not his, but a kinsman's, the giant hymir's cows are _icebergs_: this hymir "looks at the rocks" with his devil-eye, and they _split_ in the glance of it. thunder was not then mere electricity, vitreous or resinous; it was the god donner (thunder) or thor,--god also of beneficent summer-heat. the thunder was his wrath: the gathering of the black clouds is the drawing down of thor's angry brows; the fire-bolt bursting out of heaven is the all-rending hammer flung from the hand of thor: he urges his loud chariot over the mountain-tops,--that is the peal; wrathful he "blows in his red beard,"--that is the rustling storm-blast before the thunder begins. balder again, the white god, the beautiful, the just and benignant (whom the early christian missionaries found to resemble christ), is the sun, beautifullest of visible things; wondrous too, and divine still, after all our astronomies and almanacs! but perhaps the notablest god we hear tell of is one of whom grimm the german etymologist finds trace: the god _wunsch_, or wish. the god _wish_; who could give us all that we _wished_! is not this the sincerest and yet rudest voice of the spirit of man? the _rudest_ ideal that man ever formed; which still shows itself in the latest forms of our spiritual culture. higher considerations have to teach us that the god _wish_ is not the true god. of the other gods or jotuns i will mention only for etymology's sake, that sea-tempest is the jotun _aegir_, a very dangerous jotun;--and now to this day, on our river trent, as i learn, the nottingham bargemen, when the river is in a certain flooded state (a kind of backwater, or eddying swirl it has, very dangerous to them), call it eager; they cry out, "have a care, there is the _eager_ coming!" curious; that word surviving, like the peak of a submerged world! the _oldest_ nottingham bargemen had believed in the god aegir. indeed our english blood too in good part is danish, norse; or rather, at bottom, danish and norse and saxon have no distinction, except a superficial one,--as of heathen and christian, or the like. but all over our island we are mingled largely with danes proper,--from the incessant invasions there were: and this, of course, in a greater proportion along the east coast; and greatest of all, as i find, in the north country. from the humber upwards, all over scotland, the speech of the common people is still in a singular degree icelandic; its germanism has still a peculiar norse tinge. they too are "normans," northmen,--if that be any great beauty--! of the chief god, odin, we shall speak by and by. mark at present so much; what the essence of scandinavian and indeed of all paganism is: a recognition of the forces of nature as godlike, stupendous, personal agencies,--as gods and demons. not inconceivable to us. it is the infant thought of man opening itself, with awe and wonder, on this ever-stupendous universe. to me there is in the norse system something very genuine, very great and manlike. a broad simplicity, rusticity, so very different from the light gracefulness of the old greek paganism, distinguishes this scandinavian system. it is thought; the genuine thought of deep, rude, earnest minds, fairly opened to the things about them; a face-to-face and heart-to-heart inspection of the things,--the first characteristic of all good thought in all times. not graceful lightness, half-sport, as in the greek paganism; a certain homely truthfulness and rustic strength, a great rude sincerity, discloses itself here. it is strange, after our beautiful apollo statues and clear smiling mythuses, to come down upon the norse gods "brewing ale" to hold their feast with aegir, the sea-jotun; sending out thor to get the caldron for them in the jotun country; thor, after many adventures, clapping the pot on his head, like a huge hat, and walking off with it,--quite lost in it, the ears of the pot reaching down to his heels! a kind of vacant hugeness, large awkward gianthood, characterizes that norse system; enormous force, as yet altogether untutored, stalking helpless with large uncertain strides. consider only their primary mythus of the creation. the gods, having got the giant ymer slain, a giant made by "warm wind," and much confused work, out of the conflict of frost and fire,--determined on constructing a world with him. his blood made the sea; his flesh was the land, the rocks his bones; of his eyebrows they formed asgard their gods'-dwelling; his skull was the great blue vault of immensity, and the brains of it became the clouds. what a hyper-brobdignagian business! untamed thought, great, giantlike, enormous;--to be tamed in due time into the compact greatness, not giantlike, but godlike and stronger than gianthood, of the shakspeares, the goethes!--spiritually as well as bodily these men are our progenitors. i like, too, that representation they have of the tree igdrasil. all life is figured by them as a tree. igdrasil, the ash-tree of existence, has its roots deep down in the kingdoms of hela or death; its trunk reaches up heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole universe: it is the tree of existence. at the foot of it, in the death-kingdom, sit three _nornas_, fates,--the past, present, future; watering its roots from the sacred well. its "boughs," with their buddings and disleafings?--events, things suffered, things done, catastrophes,--stretch through all lands and times. is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre there an act or word? its boughs are histories of nations. the rustle of it is the noise of human existence, onwards from of old. it grows there, the breath of human passion rustling through it;--or storm tost, the storm-wind howling through it like the voice of all the gods. it is igdrasil, the tree of existence. it is the past, the present, and the future; what was done, what is doing, what will be done; "the infinite conjugation of the verb _to do_." considering how human things circulate, each inextricably in communion with all,--how the word i speak to you to-day is borrowed, not from ulfila the moesogoth only, but from all men since the first man began to speak,--i find no similitude so true as this of a tree. beautiful; altogether beautiful and great. the "_machine_ of the universe,"--alas, do but think of that in contrast! well, it is strange enough this old norse view of nature; different enough from what we believe of nature. whence it specially came, one would not like to be compelled to say very minutely! one thing we may say: it came from the thoughts of norse men;--from the thought, above all, of the _first_ norse man who had an original power of thinking. the first norse "man of genius," as we should call him! innumerable men had passed by, across this universe, with a dumb vague wonder, such as the very animals may feel; or with a painful, fruitlessly inquiring wonder, such as men only feel;--till the great thinker came, the _original_ man, the seer; whose shaped spoken thought awakes the slumbering capability of all into thought. it is ever the way with the thinker, the spiritual hero. what he says, all men were not far from saying, were longing to say. the thoughts of all start up, as from painful enchanted sleep, round his thought; answering to it, yes, even so! joyful to men as the dawning of day from night;--_is_ it not, indeed, the awakening for them from no-being into being, from death into life? we still honor such a man; call him poet, genius, and so forth: but to these wild men he was a very magician, a worker of miraculous unexpected blessing for them; a prophet, a god!--thought once awakened does not again slumber; unfolds itself into a system of thought; grows, in man after man, generation after generation,--till its full stature is reached, and _such_ system of thought can grow no farther; but must give place to another. for the norse people, the man now named odin, and chief norse god, we fancy, was such a man. a teacher, and captain of soul and of body; a hero, of worth immeasurable; admiration for whom, transcending the known bounds, became adoration. has he not the power of articulate thinking; and many other powers, as yet miraculous? so, with boundless gratitude, would the rude norse heart feel. has he not solved for them the sphinx-enigma of this universe; given assurance to them of their own destiny there? by him they know now what they have to do here, what to look for hereafter. existence has become articulate, melodious by him; he first has made life alive!--we may call this odin, the origin of norse mythology: odin, or whatever name the first norse thinker bore while he was a man among men. his view of the universe once promulgated, a like view starts into being in all minds; grows, keeps ever growing, while it continues credible there. in all minds it lay written, but invisibly, as in sympathetic ink; at his word it starts into visibility in all. nay, in every epoch of the world, the great event, parent of all others, is it not the arrival of a thinker in the world--! one other thing we must not forget; it will explain, a little, the confusion of these norse eddas. they are not one coherent system of thought; but properly the _summation_ of several successive systems. all this of the old norse belief which is flung out for us, in one level of distance in the edda, like a picture painted on the same canvas, does not at all stand so in the reality. it stands rather at all manner of distances and depths, of successive generations since the belief first began. all scandinavian thinkers, since the first of them, contributed to that scandinavian system of thought; in ever-new elaboration and addition, it is the combined work of them all. what history it had, how it changed from shape to shape, by one thinker's contribution after another, till it got to the full final shape we see it under in the edda, no man will now ever know: _its_ councils of trebizond, councils of trent, athanasiuses, dantes, luthers, are sunk without echo in the dark night! only that it had such a history we can all know. wheresover a thinker appeared, there in the thing he thought of was a contribution, accession, a change or revolution made. alas, the grandest "revolution" of all, the one made by the man odin himself, is not this too sunk for us like the rest! of odin what history? strange rather to reflect that he _had_ a history! that this odin, in his wild norse vesture, with his wild beard and eyes, his rude norse speech and ways, was a man like us; with our sorrows, joys, with our limbs, features;--intrinsically all one as we: and did such a work! but the work, much of it, has perished; the worker, all to the name. "_wednesday_," men will say to-morrow; odin's day! of odin there exists no history; no document of it; no guess about it worth repeating. snorro indeed, in the quietest manner, almost in a brief business style, writes down, in his _heimskringla_, how odin was a heroic prince, in the black-sea region, with twelve peers, and a great people straitened for room. how he led these _asen_ (asiatics) of his out of asia; settled them in the north parts of europe, by warlike conquest; invented letters, poetry and so forth,--and came by and by to be worshipped as chief god by these scandinavians, his twelve peers made into twelve sons of his own, gods like himself: snorro has no doubt of this. saxo grammaticus, a very curious northman of that same century, is still more unhesitating; scruples not to find out a historical fact in every individual mythus, and writes it down as a terrestrial event in denmark or elsewhere. torfaeus, learned and cautious, some centuries later, assigns by calculation a _date_ for it: odin, he says, came into europe about the year 70 before christ. of all which, as grounded on mere uncertainties, found to be untenable now, i need say nothing. far, very far beyond the year 70! odin's date, adventures, whole terrestrial history, figure and environment are sunk from us forever into unknown thousands of years. nay grimm, the german antiquary, goes so far as to deny that any man odin ever existed. he proves it by etymology. the word _wuotan_, which is the original form of _odin_, a word spread, as name of their chief divinity, over all the teutonic nations everywhere; this word, which connects itself, according to grimm, with the latin _vadere_, with the english _wade_ and such like,--means primarily movement, source of movement, power; and is the fit name of the highest god, not of any man. the word signifies divinity, he says, among the old saxon, german and all teutonic nations; the adjectives formed from it all signify divine, supreme, or something pertaining to the chief god. like enough! we must bow to grimm in matters etymological. let us consider it fixed that _wuotan_ means _wading_, force of _movement_. and now still, what hinders it from being the name of a heroic man and _mover_, as well as of a god? as for the adjectives, and words formed from it,--did not the spaniards in their universal admiration for lope, get into the habit of saying "a lope flower," "a lope _dama_," if the flower or woman were of surpassing beauty? had this lasted, _lope_ would have grown, in spain, to be an adjective signifying _godlike_ also. indeed, adam smith, in his essay on language, surmises that all adjectives whatsoever were formed precisely in that way: some very green thing, chiefly notable for its greenness, got the appellative name _green_, and then the next thing remarkable for that quality, a tree for instance, was named the _green_ tree,--as we still say "the _steam_ coach," "four-horse coach," or the like. all primary adjectives, according to smith, were formed in this way; were at first substantives and things. we cannot annihilate a man for etymologies like that! surely there was a first teacher and captain; surely there must have been an odin, palpable to the sense at one time; no adjective, but a real hero of flesh and blood! the voice of all tradition, history or echo of history, agrees with all that thought will teach one about it, to assure us of this. how the man odin came to be considered a _god_, the chief god?--that surely is a question which nobody would wish to dogmatize upon. i have said, his people knew no _limits_ to their admiration of him; they had as yet no scale to measure admiration by. fancy your own generous heart's-love of some greatest man expanding till it _transcended_ all bounds, till it filled and overflowed the whole field of your thought! or what if this man odin,--since a great deep soul, with the afflatus and mysterious tide of vision and impulse rushing on him he knows not whence, is ever an enigma, a kind of terror and wonder to himself,--should have felt that perhaps _he_ was divine; that _he_ was some effluence of the "wuotan," "_movement_", supreme power and divinity, of whom to his rapt vision all nature was the awful flame-image; that some effluence of wuotan dwelt here in him! he was not necessarily false; he was but mistaken, speaking the truest he knew. a great soul, any sincere soul, knows not what he is,--alternates between the highest height and the lowest depth; can, of all things, the least measure--himself! what others take him for, and what he guesses that he may be; these two items strangely act on one another, help to determine one another. with all men reverently admiring him; with his own wild soul full of noble ardors and affections, of whirlwind chaotic darkness and glorious new light; a divine universe bursting all into godlike beauty round him, and no man to whom the like ever had befallen, what could he think himself to be? "wuotan?" all men answered, "wuotan!"-and then consider what mere time will do in such cases; how if a man was great while living, he becomes tenfold greater when dead. what an enormous _camera-obscura_ magnifier is tradition! how a thing grows in the human memory, in the human imagination, when love, worship and all that lies in the human heart, is there to encourage it. and in the darkness, in the entire ignorance; without date or document, no book, no arundel-marble; only here and there some dumb monumental cairn. why, in thirty or forty years, were there no books, any great man would grow _mythic_, the contemporaries who had seen him, being once all dead. and in three hundred years, and in three thousand years--! to attempt _theorizing_ on such matters would profit little: they are matters which refuse to be _theoremed_ and diagramed; which logic ought to know that she _cannot_ speak of. enough for us to discern, far in the uttermost distance, some gleam as of a small real light shining in the centre of that enormous camera-obscure image; to discern that the centre of it all was not a madness and nothing, but a sanity and something. this light, kindled in the great dark vortex of the norse mind, dark but living, waiting only for light; this is to me the centre of the whole. how such light will then shine out, and with wondrous thousand-fold expansion spread itself, in forms and colors, depends not on _it_, so much as on the national mind recipient of it. the colors and forms of your light will be those of the _cut-glass_ it has to shine through.--curious to think how, for every man, any the truest fact is modelled by the nature of the man! i said, the earnest man, speaking to his brother men, must always have stated what seemed to him a _fact_, a real appearance of nature. but the way in which such appearance or fact shaped itself,--what sort of _fact_ it became for him,--was and is modified by his own laws of thinking; deep, subtle, but universal, ever-operating laws. the world of nature, for every man, is the fantasy of himself. this world is the multiplex "image of his own dream." who knows to what unnamable subtleties of spiritual law all these pagan fables owe their shape! the number twelve, divisiblest of all, which could be halved, quartered, parted into three, into six, the most remarkable number,--this was enough to determine the _signs of the zodiac_, the number of odin's _sons_, and innumerable other twelves. any vague rumor of number had a tendency to settle itself into twelve. so with regard to every other matter. and quite unconsciously too,--with no notion of building up "allegories "! but the fresh clear glance of those first ages would be prompt in discerning the secret relations of things, and wholly open to obey these. schiller finds in the _cestus of venus_ an everlasting aesthetic truth as to the nature of all beauty; curious:--but he is careful not to insinuate that the old greek mythists had any notion of lecturing about the "philosophy of criticism"!--on the whole, we must leave those boundless regions. cannot we conceive that odin was a reality? error indeed, error enough: but sheer falsehood, idle fables, allegory aforethought,--we will not believe that our fathers believed in these. odin's _runes_ are a significant feature of him. runes, and the miracles of "magic" he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition. runes are the scandinavian alphabet; suppose odin to have been the inventor of letters, as well as "magic," among that people! it is the greatest invention man has ever made! this of marking down the unseen thought that is in him by written characters. it is a kind of second speech, almost as miraculous as the first. you remember the astonishment and incredulity of atahualpa the peruvian king; how he made the spanish soldier who was guarding him scratch _dios_ on his thumb-nail, that he might try the next soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible. if odin brought letters among his people, he might work magic enough! writing by runes has some air of being original among the norsemen: not a phoenician alphabet, but a native scandinavian one. snorro tells us farther that odin invented poetry; the music of human speech, as well as that miraculous runic marking of it. transport yourselves into the early childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning-light of our europe, when all yet lay in fresh young radiance as of a great sunrise, and our europe was first beginning to think, to be! wonder, hope; infinite radiance of hope and wonder, as of a young child's thoughts, in the hearts of these strong men! strong sons of nature; and here was not only a wild captain and fighter; discerning with his wild flashing eyes what to do, with his wild lion-heart daring and doing it; but a poet too, all that we mean by a poet, prophet, great devout thinker and inventor,--as the truly great man ever is. a hero is a hero at all points; in the soul and thought of him first of all. this odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to speak. a great heart laid open to take in this great universe, and man's life here, and utter a great word about it. a hero, as i say, in his own rude manner; a wise, gifted, noble-hearted man. and now, if we still admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild norse souls, first awakened into thinking, have made of him! to them, as yet without names for it, he was noble and noblest; hero, prophet, god; _wuotan_, the greatest of all. thought is thought, however it speak or spell itself. intrinsically, i conjecture, this odin must have been of the same sort of stuff as the greatest kind of men. a great thought in the wild deep heart of him! the rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots of those english words we still use? he worked so, in that obscure element. but he was as a _light_ kindled in it; a light of intellect, rude nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet; a hero, as i say: and he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little lighter,--as is still the task of us all. we will fancy him to be the type norseman; the finest teuton whom that race had yet produced. the rude norse heart burst up into _boundless_ admiration round him; into adoration. he is as a root of so many great things; the fruit of him is found growing from deep thousands of years, over the whole field of teutonic life. our own wednesday, as i said, is it not still odin's day? wednesbury, wansborough, wanstead, wandsworth: odin grew into england too, these are still leaves from that root! he was the chief god to all the teutonic peoples; their pattern norseman;--in such way did _they_ admire their pattern norseman; that was the fortune he had in the world. thus if the man odin himself have vanished utterly, there is this huge shadow of him which still projects itself over the whole history of his people. for this odin once admitted to be god, we can understand well that the whole scandinavian scheme of nature, or dim no-scheme, whatever it might before have been, would now begin to develop itself altogether differently, and grow thenceforth in a new manner. what this odin saw into, and taught with his runes and his rhymes, the whole teutonic people laid to heart and carried forward. his way of thought became their way of thought:--such, under new conditions, is the history of every great thinker still. in gigantic confused lineaments, like some enormous camera-obscure shadow thrown upwards from the dead deeps of the past, and covering the whole northern heaven, is not that scandinavian mythology in some sort the portraiture of this man odin? the gigantic image of _his_ natural face, legible or not legible there, expanded and confused in that manner! ah, thought, i say, is always thought. no great man lives in vain. the history of the world is but the biography of great men. to me there is something very touching in this primeval figure of heroism; in such artless, helpless, but hearty entire reception of a hero by his fellow-men. never so helpless in shape, it is the noblest of feelings, and a feeling in some shape or other perennial as man himself. if i could show in any measure, what i feel deeply for a long time now, that it is the vital element of manhood, the soul of man's history here in our world,--it would be the chief use of this discoursing at present. we do not now call our great men gods, nor admire _without_ limit; ah no, _with_ limit enough! but if we have no great men, or do not admire at all,--that were a still worse case. this poor scandinavian hero-worship, that whole norse way of looking at the universe, and adjusting oneself there, has an indestructible merit for us. a rude childlike way of recognizing the divineness of nature, the divineness of man; most rude, yet heartfelt, robust, giantlike; betokening what a giant of a man this child would yet grow to!--it was a truth, and is none. is it not as the half-dumb stifled voice of the long-buried generations of our own fathers, calling out of the depths of ages to us, in whose veins their blood still runs: "this then, this is what we made of the world: this is all the image and notion we could form to ourselves of this great mystery of a life and universe. despise it not. you are raised high above it, to large free scope of vision; but you too are not yet at the top. no, your notion too, so much enlarged, is but a partial, imperfect one; that matter is a thing no man will ever, in time or out of time, comprehend; after thousands of years of ever-new expansion, man will find himself but struggling to comprehend again a part of it: the thing is larger shall man, not to be comprehended by him; an infinite thing!" the essence of the scandinavian, as indeed of all pagan mythologies, we found to be recognition of the divineness of nature; sincere communion of man with the mysterious invisible powers visibly seen at work in the world round him. this, i should say, is more sincerely done in the scandinavian than in any mythology i know. sincerity is the great characteristic of it. superior sincerity (far superior) consoles us for the total want of old grecian grace. sincerity, i think, is better than grace. i feel that these old northmen wore looking into nature with open eye and soul: most earnest, honest; childlike, and yet manlike; with a great-hearted simplicity and depth and freshness, in a true, loving, admiring, unfearing way. a right valiant, true old race of men. such recognition of nature one finds to be the chief element of paganism; recognition of man, and his moral duty, though this too is not wanting, comes to be the chief element only in purer forms of religion. here, indeed, is a great distinction and epoch in human beliefs; a great landmark in the religious development of mankind. man first puts himself in relation with nature and her powers, wonders and worships over those; not till a later epoch does he discern that all power is moral, that the grand point is the distinction for him of good and evil, of _thou shalt_ and _thou shalt not_. with regard to all these fabulous delineations in the _edda_, i will remark, moreover, as indeed was already hinted, that most probably they must have been of much newer date; most probably, even from the first, were comparatively idle for the old norsemen, and as it were a kind of poetic sport. allegory and poetic delineation, as i said above, cannot be religious faith; the faith itself must first be there, then allegory enough will gather round it, as the fit body round its soul. the norse faith, i can well suppose, like other faiths, was most active while it lay mainly in the silent state, and had not yet much to say about itself, still less to sing. among those shadowy _edda_ matters, amid all that fantastic congeries of assertions, and traditions, in their musical mythologies, the main practical belief a man could have was probably not much more than this: of the _valkyrs_ and the _hall of odin_; of an inflexible _destiny_; and that the one thing needful for a man was _to be brave_. the _valkyrs_ are choosers of the slain: a destiny inexorable, which it is useless trying to bend or soften, has appointed who is to be slain; this was a fundamental point for the norse believer;--as indeed it is for all earnest men everywhere, for a mahomet, a luther, for a napoleon too. it lies at the basis this for every such man; it is the woof out of which his whole system of thought is woven. the _valkyrs_; and then that these _choosers_ lead the brave to a heavenly _hall of odin_; only the base and slavish being thrust elsewhither, into the realms of hela the death-goddess: i take this to have been the soul of the whole norse belief. they understood in their heart that it was indispensable to be brave; that odin would have no favor for them, but despise and thrust them out, if they were not brave. consider too whether there is not something in this! it is an everlasting duty, valid in our day as in that, the duty of being brave. _valor_ is still _value_. the first duty for a man is still that of subduing _fear_. we must get rid of fear; we cannot act at all till then. a man's acts are slavish, not true but specious; his very thoughts are false, he thinks too as a slave and coward, till he have got fear under his feet. odin's creed, if we disentangle the real kernel of it, is true to this hour. a man shall and must be valiant; he must march forward, and quit himself like a man,--trusting imperturbably in the appointment and _choice_ of the upper powers; and, on the whole, not fear at all. now and always, the completeness of his victory over fear will determine how much of a man he is. it is doubtless very savage that kind of valor of the old northmen. snorro tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh, that odin might receive them as warriors slain. old kings, about to die, had their body laid into a ship; the ship sent forth, with sails set and slow fire burning it; that, once out at sea, it might blaze up in flame, and in such manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean! wild bloody valor; yet valor of its kind; better, i say, than none. in the old sea-kings too, what an indomitable rugged energy! silent, with closed lips, as i fancy them, unconscious that they were specially brave; defying the wild ocean with its monsters, and all men and things;--progenitors of our own blakes and nelsons! no homer sang these norse sea-kings; but agamemnon's was a small audacity, and of small fruit in the world, to some of them;--to hrolf's of normandy, for instance! hrolf, or rollo duke of normandy, the wild sea-king, has a share in governing england at this hour. nor was it altogether nothing, even that wild sea-roving and battling, through so many generations. it needed to be ascertained which was the _strongest_ kind of men; who were to be ruler over whom. among the northland sovereigns, too, i find some who got the title _wood-cutter_; forest-felling kings. much lies in that. i suppose at bottom many of them were forest-fellers as well as fighters, though the skalds talk mainly of the latter,--misleading certain critics not a little; for no nation of men could ever live by fighting alone; there could not produce enough come out of that! i suppose the right good fighter was oftenest also the right good forest-feller,--the right good improver, discerner, doer and worker in every kind; for true valor, different enough from ferocity, is the basis of all. a more legitimate kind of valor that; showing itself against the untamed forests and dark brute powers of nature, to conquer nature for us. in the same direction have not we their descendants since carried it far? may such valor last forever with us! that the man odin, speaking with a hero's voice and heart, as with an impressiveness out of heaven, told his people the infinite importance of valor, how man thereby became a god; and that his people, feeling a response to it in their own hearts, believed this message of his, and thought it a message out of heaven, and him a divinity for telling it them: this seems to me the primary seed-grain of the norse religion, from which all manner of mythologies, symbolic practices, speculations, allegories, songs and sagas would naturally grow. grow,--how strangely! i called it a small light shining and shaping in the huge vortex of norse darkness. yet the darkness itself was _alive_; consider that. it was the eager inarticulate uninstructed mind of the whole norse people, longing only to become articulate, to go on articulating ever farther! the living doctrine grows, grows;--like a banyan-tree; the first _seed_ is the essential thing: any branch strikes itself down into the earth, becomes a new root; and so, in endless complexity, we have a whole wood, a whole jungle, one seed the parent of it all. was not the whole norse religion, accordingly, in some sense, what we called "the enormous shadow of this man's likeness"? critics trace some affinity in some norse mythuses, of the creation and such like, with those of the hindoos. the cow adumbla, "licking the rime from the rocks," has a kind of hindoo look. a hindoo cow, transported into frosty countries. probably enough; indeed we may say undoubtedly, these things will have a kindred with the remotest lands, with the earliest times. thought does not die, but only is changed. the first man that began to think in this planet of ours, he was the beginner of all. and then the second man, and the third man;--nay, every true thinker to this hour is a kind of odin, teaches men _his_ way of thought, spreads a shadow of his own likeness over sections of the history of the world. of the distinctive poetic character or merit of this norse mythology i have not room to speak; nor does it concern us much. some wild prophecies we have, as the _voluspa_ in the _elder edda_; of a rapt, earnest, sibylline sort. but they were comparatively an idle adjunct of the matter, men who as it were but toyed with the matter, these later skalds; and it is _their_ songs chiefly that survive. in later centuries, i suppose, they would go on singing, poetically symbolizing, as our modern painters paint, when it was no longer from the innermost heart, or not from the heart at all. this is everywhere to be well kept in mind. gray's fragments of norse lore, at any rate, will give one no notion of it;--any more than pope will of homer. it is no square-built gloomy palace of black ashlar marble, shrouded in awe and horror, as gray gives it us: no; rough as the north rocks, as the iceland deserts, it is; with a heartiness, homeliness, even a tint of good humor and robust mirth in the middle of these fearful things. the strong old norse heart did not go upon theatrical sublimities; they had not time to tremble. i like much their robust simplicity; their veracity, directness of conception. thor "draws down his brows" in a veritable norse rage; "grasps his hammer till the _knuckles grow white_." beautiful traits of pity too, an honest pity. balder "the white god" dies; the beautiful, benignant; he is the sungod. they try all nature for a remedy; but he is dead. frigga, his mother, sends hermoder to seek or see him: nine days and nine nights he rides through gloomy deep valleys, a labyrinth of gloom; arrives at the bridge with its gold roof: the keeper says, "yes, balder did pass here; but the kingdom of the dead is down yonder, far towards the north." hermoder rides on; leaps hell-gate, hela's gate; does see balder, and speak with him: balder cannot be delivered. inexorable! hela will not, for odin or any god, give him up. the beautiful and gentle has to remain there. his wife had volunteered to go with him, to die with him. they shall forever remain there. he sends his ring to odin; nanna his wife sends her _thimble_ to frigga, as a remembrance.--ah me--! for indeed valor is the fountain of pity too;--of truth, and all that is great and good in man. the robust homely vigor of the norse heart attaches one much, in these delineations. is it not a trait of right honest strength, says uhland, who has written a fine _essay_ on thor, that the old norse heart finds its friend in the thunder-god? that it is not frightened away by his thunder; but finds that summer-heat, the beautiful noble summer, must and will have thunder withal! the norse heart _loves_ this thor and his hammer-bolt; sports with him. thor is summer-heat: the god of peaceable industry as well as thunder. he is the peasant's friend; his true henchman and attendant is thialfi, _manual labor_. thor himself engages in all manner of rough manual work, scorns no business for its plebeianism; is ever and anon travelling to the country of the jotuns, harrying those chaotic frost-monsters, subduing them, at least straitening and damaging them. there is a great broad humor in some of these things. thor, as we saw above, goes to jotun-land, to seek hymir's caldron, that the gods may brew beer. hymir the huge giant enters, his gray beard all full of hoar-frost; splits pillars with the very glance of his eye; thor, after much rough tumult, snatches the pot, claps it on his head; the "handles of it reach down to his heels." the norse skald has a kind of loving sport with thor. this is the hymir whose cattle, the critics have discovered, are icebergs. huge untutored brobdignag genius,--needing only to be tamed down; into shakspeares, dantes, goethes! it is all gone now, that old norse work,--thor the thunder-god changed into jack the giant-killer: but the mind that made it is here yet. how strangely things grow, and die, and do not die! there are twigs of that great world-tree of norse belief still curiously traceable. this poor jack of the nursery, with his miraculous shoes of swiftness, coat of darkness, sword of sharpness, he is one. _hynde etin_, and still more decisively _red etin of ireland_, _in_ the scottish ballads, these are both derived from norseland; _etin_ is evidently a _jotun_. nay, shakspeare's _hamlet_ is a twig too of this same world-tree; there seems no doubt of that. hamlet, _amleth_ i find, is really a mythic personage; and his tragedy, of the poisoned father, poisoned asleep by drops in his ear, and the rest, is a norse mythus! old saxo, as his wont was, made it a danish history; shakspeare, out of saxo, made it what we see. that is a twig of the world-tree that has _grown_, i think;--by nature or accident that one has grown! in fact, these old norse songs have a _truth_ in them, an inward perennial truth and greatness,--as, indeed, all must have that can very long preserve itself by tradition alone. it is a greatness not of mere body and gigantic bulk, but a rude greatness of soul. there is a sublime uncomplaining melancholy traceable in these old hearts. a great free glance into the very deeps of thought. they seem to have seen, these brave old northmen, what meditation has taught all men in all ages, that this world is after all but a show,--a phenomenon or appearance, no real thing. all deep souls see into that,--the hindoo mythologist, the german philosopher,--the shakspeare, the earnest thinker, wherever he may be: "we are such stuff as dreams are made of!" one of thor's expeditions, to utgard (the _outer_ garden, central seat of jotun-land), is remarkable in this respect. thialfi was with him, and loke. after various adventures, they entered upon giant-land; wandered over plains, wild uncultivated places, among stones and trees. at nightfall they noticed a house; and as the door, which indeed formed one whole side of the house, was open, they entered. it was a simple habitation; one large hall, altogether empty. they stayed there. suddenly in the dead of the night loud noises alarmed them. thor grasped his hammer; stood in the door, prepared for fight. his companions within ran hither and thither in their terror, seeking some outlet in that rude hall; they found a little closet at last, and took refuge there. neither had thor any battle: for, lo, in the morning it turned out that the noise had been only the _snoring_ of a certain enormous but peaceable giant, the giant skrymir, who lay peaceably sleeping near by; and this that they took for a house was merely his _glove_, thrown aside there; the door was the glove-wrist; the little closet they had fled into was the thumb! such a glove;--i remark too that it had not fingers as ours have, but only a thumb, and the rest undivided: a most ancient, rustic glove! skrymir now carried their portmanteau all day; thor, however, had his own suspicions, did not like the ways of skrymir; determined at night to put an end to him as he slept. raising his hammer, he struck down into the giant's face a right thunder-bolt blow, of force to rend rocks. the giant merely awoke; rubbed his cheek, and said, did a leaf fall? again thor struck, so soon as skrymir again slept; a better blow than before; but the giant only murmured, was that a grain of sand? thor's third stroke was with both his hands (the "knuckles white" i suppose), and seemed to dint deep into skrymir's visage; but he merely checked his snore, and remarked, there must be sparrows roosting in this tree, i think; what is that they have dropt?--at the gate of utgard, a place so high that you had to "strain your neck bending back to see the top of it," skrymir went his ways. thor and his companions were admitted; invited to take share in the games going on. to thor, for his part, they handed a drinking-horn; it was a common feat, they told him, to drink this dry at one draught. long and fiercely, three times over, thor drank; but made hardly any impression. he was a weak child, they told him: could he lift that cat he saw there? small as the feat seemed, thor with his whole godlike strength could not; he bent up the creature's back, could not raise its feet off the ground, could at the utmost raise one foot. why, you are no man, said the utgard people; there is an old woman that will wrestle you! thor, heartily ashamed, seized this haggard old woman; but could not throw her. and now, on their quitting utgard, the chief jotun, escorting them politely a little way, said to thor: "you are beaten then:--yet be not so much ashamed; there was deception of appearance in it. that horn you tried to drink was the _sea_; you did make it ebb; but who could drink that, the bottomless! the cat you would have lifted,--why, that is the _midgard-snake_, the great world-serpent, which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps up the whole created world; had you torn that up, the world must have rushed to ruin! as for the old woman, she was _time_, old age, duration: with her what can wrestle? no man nor no god with her; gods or men, she prevails over all! and then those three strokes you struck,--look at these _three valleys_; your three strokes made these!" thor looked at his attendant jotun: it was skrymir;--it was, say norse critics, the old chaotic rocky _earth_ in person, and that glove-_house_ was some earth-cavern! but skrymir had vanished; utgard with its sky-high gates, when thor grasped his hammer to smite them, had gone to air; only the giant's voice was heard mocking: "better come no more to jotunheim!"-this is of the allegoric period, as we see, and half play, not of the prophetic and entirely devout: but as a mythus is there not real antique norse gold in it? more true metal, rough from the mimer-stithy, than in many a famed greek mythus _shaped_ far better! a great broad brobdignag grin of true humor is in this skrymir; mirth resting on earnestness and sadness, as the rainbow on black tempest: only a right valiant heart is capable of that. it is the grim humor of our own ben jonson, rare old ben; runs in the blood of us, i fancy; for one catches tones of it, under a still other shape, out of the american backwoods. that is also a very striking conception that of the _ragnarok_, consummation, or _twilight of the gods_. it is in the _voluspa_ song; seemingly a very old, prophetic idea. the gods and jotuns, the divine powers and the chaotic brute ones, after long contest and partial victory by the former, meet at last in universal world-embracing wrestle and duel; world-serpent against thor, strength against strength; mutually extinctive; and ruin, "twilight" sinking into darkness, swallows the created universe. the old universe with its gods is sunk; but it is not final death: there is to be a new heaven and a new earth; a higher supreme god, and justice to reign among men. curious: this law of mutation, which also is a law written in man's inmost thought, had been deciphered by these old earnest thinkers in their rude style; and how, though all dies, and even gods die, yet all death is but a phoenix fire-death, and new-birth into the greater and the better! it is the fundamental law of being for a creature made of time, living in this place of hope. all earnest men have seen into it; may still see into it. and now, connected with this, let us glance at the _last_ mythus of the appearance of thor; and end there. i fancy it to be the latest in date of all these fables; a sorrowing protest against the advance of christianity,--set forth reproachfully by some conservative pagan. king olaf has been harshly blamed for his over-zeal in introducing christianity; surely i should have blamed him far more for an under-zeal in that! he paid dear enough for it; he died by the revolt of his pagan people, in battle, in the year 1033, at stickelstad, near that drontheim, where the chief cathedral of the north has now stood for many centuries, dedicated gratefully to his memory as _saint_ olaf. the mythus about thor is to this effect. king olaf, the christian reform king, is sailing with fit escort along the shore of norway, from haven to haven; dispensing justice, or doing other royal work: on leaving a certain haven, it is found that a stranger, of grave eyes and aspect, red beard, of stately robust figure, has stept in. the courtiers address him; his answers surprise by their pertinency and depth: at length he is brought to the king. the stranger's conversation here is not less remarkable, as they sail along the beautiful shore; but after some time, he addresses king olaf thus: "yes, king olaf, it is all beautiful, with the sun shining on it there; green, fruitful, a right fair home for you; and many a sore day had thor, many a wild fight with the rock jotuns, before he could make it so. and now you seem minded to put away thor. king olaf, have a care!" said the stranger, drawing down his brows;--and when they looked again, he was nowhere to be found.--this is the last appearance of thor on the stage of this world! do we not see well enough how the fable might arise, without unveracity on the part of any one? it is the way most gods have come to appear among men: thus, if in pindar's time "neptune was seen once at the nemean games," what was this neptune too but a "stranger of noble grave aspect,"--fit to be "seen"! there is something pathetic, tragic for me in this last voice of paganism. thor is vanished, the whole norse world has vanished; and will not return ever again. in like fashion to that, pass away the highest things. all things that have been in this world, all things that are or will be in it, have to vanish: we have our sad farewell to give them. that norse religion, a rude but earnest, sternly impressive _consecration of valor_ (so we may define it), sufficed for these old valiant northmen. consecration of valor is not a bad thing! we will take it for good, so far as it goes. neither is there no use in _knowing_ something about this old paganism of our fathers. unconsciously, and combined with higher things, it is in us yet, that old faith withal! to know it consciously, brings us into closer and clearer relation with the past,--with our own possessions in the past. for the whole past, as i keep repeating, is the possession of the present; the past had always something _true_, and is a precious possession. in a different time, in a different place, it is always some other _side_ of our common human nature that has been developing itself. the actual true is the sum of all these; not any one of them by itself constitutes what of human nature is hitherto developed. better to know them all than misknow them. "to which of these three religions do you specially adhere?" inquires meister of his teacher. "to all the three!" answers the other: "to all the three; for they by their union first constitute the true religion." lecture ii. the hero as prophet. mahomet: islam. [may 8, 1840.] from the first rude times of paganism among the scandinavians in the north, we advance to a very different epoch of religion, among a very different people: mahometanism among the arabs. a great change; what a change and progress is indicated here, in the universal condition and thoughts of men! the hero is not now regarded as a god among his fellowmen; but as one god-inspired, as a prophet. it is the second phasis of hero-worship: the first or oldest, we may say, has passed away without return; in the history of the world there will not again be any man, never so great, whom his fellowmen will take for a god. nay we might rationally ask, did any set of human beings ever really think the man they _saw_ there standing beside them a god, the maker of this world? perhaps not: it was usually some man they remembered, or _had_ seen. but neither can this any more be. the great man is not recognized henceforth as a god any more. it was a rude gross error, that of counting the great man a god. yet let us say that it is at all times difficult to know _what_ he is, or how to account of him and receive him! the most significant feature in the history of an epoch is the manner it has of welcoming a great man. ever, to the true instincts of men, there is something godlike in him. whether they shall take him to be a god, to be a prophet, or what they shall take him to be? that is ever a grand question; by their way of answering that, we shall see, as through a little window, into the very heart of these men's spiritual condition. for at bottom the great man, as he comes from the hand of nature, is ever the same kind of thing: odin, luther, johnson, burns; i hope to make it appear that these are all originally of one stuff; that only by the world's reception of them, and the shapes they assume, are they so immeasurably diverse. the worship of odin astonishes us,--to fall prostrate before the great man, into _deliquium_ of love and wonder over him, and feel in their hearts that he was a denizen of the skies, a god! this was imperfect enough: but to welcome, for example, a burns as we did, was that what we can call perfect? the most precious gift that heaven can give to the earth; a man of "genius" as we call it; the soul of a man actually sent down from the skies with a god's-message to us,--this we waste away as an idle artificial firework, sent to amuse us a little, and sink it into ashes, wreck and ineffectuality: _such_ reception of a great man i do not call very perfect either! looking into the heart of the thing, one may perhaps call that of burns a still uglier phenomenon, betokening still sadder imperfections in mankind's ways, than the scandinavian method itself! to fall into mere unreasoning _deliquium_ of love and admiration, was not good; but such unreasoning, nay irrational supercilious no-love at all is perhaps still worse!--it is a thing forever changing, this of hero-worship: different in each age, difficult to do well in any age. indeed, the heart of the whole business of the age, one may say, is to do it well. we have chosen mahomet not as the most eminent prophet; but as the one we are freest to speak of. he is by no means the truest of prophets; but i do esteem him a true one. farther, as there is no danger of our becoming, any of us, mahometans, i mean to say all the good of him i justly can. it is the way to get at his secret: let us try to understand what _he_ meant with the world; what the world meant and means with him, will then be a more answerable question. our current hypothesis about mahomet, that he was a scheming impostor, a falsehood incarnate, that his religion is a mere mass of quackery and fatuity, begins really to be now untenable to any one. the lies, which well-meaning zeal has heaped round this man, are disgraceful to ourselves only. when pococke inquired of grotius, where the proof was of that story of the pigeon, trained to pick peas from mahomet's ear, and pass for an angel dictating to him? grotius answered that there was no proof! it is really time to dismiss all that. the word this man spoke has been the life-guidance now of a hundred and eighty millions of men these twelve hundred years. these hundred and eighty millions were made by god as well as we. a greater number of god's creatures believe in mahomet's word at this hour, than in any other word whatever. are we to suppose that it was a miserable piece of spiritual legerdemain, this which so many creatures of the almighty have lived by and died by? i, for my part, cannot form any such supposition. i will believe most things sooner than that. one would be entirely at a loss what to think of this world at all, if quackery so grew and were sanctioned here. alas, such theories are very lamentable. if we would attain to knowledge of anything in god's true creation, let us disbelieve them wholly! they are the product of an age of scepticism: they indicate the saddest spiritual paralysis, and mere death-life of the souls of men: more godless theory, i think, was never promulgated in this earth. a false man found a religion? why, a false man cannot build a brick house! if he do not know and follow truly the properties of mortar, burnt clay and what else be works in, it is no house that he makes, but a rubbish-heap. it will not stand for twelve centuries, to lodge a hundred and eighty millions; it will fall straightway. a man must conform himself to nature's laws, _be_ verily in communion with nature and the truth of things, or nature will answer him, no, not at all! speciosities are specious--ah me!--a cagliostro, many cagliostros, prominent world-leaders, do prosper by their quackery, for a day. it is like a forged bank-note; they get it passed out of _their_ worthless hands: others, not they, have to smart for it. nature bursts up in fire-flames, french revolutions and such like, proclaiming with terrible veracity that forged notes are forged. but of a great man especially, of him i will venture to assert that it is incredible he should have been other than true. it seems to me the primary foundation of him, and of all that can lie in him, this. no mirabeau, napoleon, burns, cromwell, no man adequate to do anything, but is first of all in right earnest about it; what i call a sincere man. i should say _sincerity_, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is the first characteristic of all men in any way heroic. not the sincerity that calls itself sincere; ah no, that is a very poor matter indeed;--a shallow braggart conscious sincerity; oftenest self-conceit mainly. the great man's sincerity is of the kind he cannot speak of, is not conscious of: nay, i suppose, he is conscious rather of insincerity; for what man can walk accurately by the law of truth for one day? no, the great man does not boast himself sincere, far from that; perhaps does not ask himself if he is so: i would say rather, his sincerity does not depend on himself; he cannot help being sincere! the great fact of existence is great to him. fly as he will, he cannot get out of the awful presence of this reality. his mind is so made; he is great by that, first of all. fearful and wonderful, real as life, real as death, is this universe to him. though all men should forget its truth, and walk in a vain show, he cannot. at all moments the flame-image glares in upon him; undeniable, there, there!--i wish you to take this as my primary definition of a great man. a little man may have this, it is competent to all men that god has made: but a great man cannot be without it. such a man is what we call an _original_ man; he comes to us at first-hand. a messenger he, sent from the infinite unknown with tidings to us. we may call him poet, prophet, god;--in one way or other, we all feel that the words he utters are as no other man's words. direct from the inner fact of things;--he lives, and has to live, in daily communion with that. hearsays cannot hide it from him; he is blind, homeless, miserable, following hearsays; _it_ glares in upon him. really his utterances, are they not a kind of "revelation;"--what we must call such for want of some other name? it is from the heart of the world that he comes; he is portion of the primal reality of things. god has made many revelations: but this man too, has not god made him, the latest and newest of all? the "inspiration of the almighty giveth him understanding:" we must listen before all to him. this mahomet, then, we will in no wise consider as an inanity and theatricality, a poor conscious ambitious schemer; we cannot conceive him so. the rude message he delivered was a real one withal; an earnest confused voice from the unknown deep. the man's words were not false, nor his workings here below; no inanity and simulacrum; a fiery mass of life cast up from the great bosom of nature herself. to _kindle_ the world; the world's maker had ordered it so. neither can the faults, imperfections, insincerities even, of mahomet, if such were never so well proved against him, shake this primary fact about him. on the whole, we make too much of faults; the details of the business hide the real centre of it. faults? the greatest of faults, i should say, is to be conscious of none. readers of the bible above all, one would think, might know better. who is called there "the man according to god's own heart"? david, the hebrew king, had fallen into sins enough; blackest crimes; there was no want of sins. and thereupon the unbelievers sneer and ask, is this your man according to god's heart? the sneer, i must say, seems to me but a shallow one. what are faults, what are the outward details of a life; if the inner secret of it, the remorse, temptations, true, often-baffled, never-ended struggle of it, be forgotten? "it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps." of all acts, is not, for a man, _repentance_ the most divine? the deadliest sin, i say, were that same supercilious consciousness of no sin;--that is death; the heart so conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility and fact; is dead: it is "pure" as dead dry sand is pure. david's life and history, as written for us in those psalms of his, i consider to be the truest emblem ever given of a man's moral progress and warfare here below. all earnest souls will ever discern in it the faithful struggle of an earnest human soul towards what is good and best. struggle often baffled, sore baffled, down as into entire wreck; yet a struggle never ended; ever, with tears, repentance, true unconquerable purpose, begun anew. poor human nature! is not a man's walking, in truth, always that: "a succession of falls"? man can do no other. in this wild element of a life, he has to struggle onwards; now fallen, deep-abased; and ever, with tears, repentance, with bleeding heart, he has to rise again, struggle again still onwards. that his struggle _be_ a faithful unconquerable one: that is the question of questions. we will put up with many sad details, if the soul of it were true. details by themselves will never teach us what it is. i believe we misestimate mahomet's faults even as faults: but the secret of him will never be got by dwelling there. we will leave all this behind us; and assuring ourselves that he did mean some true thing, ask candidly what it was or might be. these arabs mahomet was born among are certainly a notable people. their country itself is notable; the fit habitation for such a race. savage inaccessible rock-mountains, great grim deserts, alternating with beautiful strips of verdure: wherever water is, there is greenness, beauty; odoriferous balm-shrubs, date-trees, frankincense-trees. consider that wide waste horizon of sand, empty, silent, like a sand-sea, dividing habitable place from habitable. you are all alone there, left alone with the universe; by day a fierce sun blazing down on it with intolerable radiance; by night the great deep heaven with its stars. such a country is fit for a swift-handed, deep-hearted race of men. there is something most agile, active, and yet most meditative, enthusiastic in the arab character. the persians are called the french of the east; we will call the arabs oriental italians. a gifted noble people; a people of wild strong feelings, and of iron restraint over these: the characteristic of noble-mindedness, of genius. the wild bedouin welcomes the stranger to his tent, as one having right to all that is there; were it his worst enemy, he will slay his foal to treat him, will serve him with sacred hospitality for three days, will set him fairly on his way;--and then, by another law as sacred, kill him if he can. in words too as in action. they are not a loquacious people, taciturn rather; but eloquent, gifted when they do speak. an earnest, truthful kind of men. they are, as we know, of jewish kindred: but with that deadly terrible earnestness of the jews they seem to combine something graceful, brilliant, which is not jewish. they had "poetic contests" among them before the time of mahomet. sale says, at ocadh, in the south of arabia, there were yearly fairs, and there, when the merchandising was done, poets sang for prizes:--the wild people gathered to hear that. one jewish quality these arabs manifest; the outcome of many or of all high qualities: what we may call religiosity. from of old they had been zealous worshippers, according to their light. they worshipped the stars, as sabeans; worshipped many natural objects,--recognized them as symbols, immediate manifestations, of the maker of nature. it was wrong; and yet not wholly wrong. all god's works are still in a sense symbols of god. do we not, as i urged, still account it a merit to recognize a certain inexhaustible significance, "poetic beauty" as we name it, in all natural objects whatsoever? a man is a poet, and honored, for doing that, and speaking or singing it,--a kind of diluted worship. they had many prophets, these arabs; teachers each to his tribe, each according to the light he had. but indeed, have we not from of old the noblest of proofs, still palpable to every one of us, of what devoutness and noble-mindedness had dwelt in these rustic thoughtful peoples? biblical critics seem agreed that our own _book of job_ was written in that region of the world. i call that, apart from all theories about it, one of the grandest things ever written with pen. one feels, indeed, as if it were not hebrew; such a noble universality, different from noble patriotism or sectarianism, reigns in it. a noble book; all men's book! it is our first, oldest statement of the never-ending problem,--man's destiny, and god's ways with him here in this earth. and all in such free flowing outlines; grand in its sincerity, in its simplicity; in its epic melody, and repose of reconcilement. there is the seeing eye, the mildly understanding heart. so _true_ every way; true eyesight and vision for all things; material things no less than spiritual: the horse,--"hast thou clothed his neck with _thunder_?"--he "_laughs_ at the shaking of the spear!" such living likenesses were never since drawn. sublime sorrow, sublime reconciliation; oldest choral melody as of the heart of mankind;--so soft, and great; as the summer midnight, as the world with its seas and stars! there is nothing written, i think, in the bible or out of it, of equal literary merit.-to the idolatrous arabs one of the most ancient universal objects of worship was that black stone, still kept in the building called caabah, at mecca. diodorus siculus mentions this caabah in a way not to be mistaken, as the oldest, most honored temple in his time; that is, some half-century before our era. silvestre de sacy says there is some likelihood that the black stone is an aerolite. in that case, some man might _see_ it fall out of heaven! it stands now beside the well zemzem; the caabah is built over both. a well is in all places a beautiful affecting object, gushing out like life from the hard earth;--still more so in those hot dry countries, where it is the first condition of being. the well zemzem has its name from the bubbling sound of the waters, _zem-zem_; they think it is the well which hagar found with her little ishmael in the wilderness: the aerolite and it have been sacred now, and had a caabah over them, for thousands of years. a curious object, that caabah! there it stands at this hour, in the black cloth-covering the sultan sends it yearly; "twenty-seven cubits high;" with circuit, with double circuit of pillars, with festoon-rows of lamps and quaint ornaments: the lamps will be lighted again _this_ night,--to glitter again under the stars. an authentic fragment of the oldest past. it is the _keblah_ of all moslem: from delhi all onwards to morocco, the eyes of innumerable praying men are turned towards it, five times, this day and all days: one of the notablest centres in the habitation of men. it had been from the sacredness attached to this caabah stone and hagar's well, from the pilgrimings of all tribes of arabs thither, that mecca took its rise as a town. a great town once, though much decayed now. it has no natural advantage for a town; stands in a sandy hollow amid bare barren hills, at a distance from the sea; its provisions, its very bread, have to be imported. but so many pilgrims needed lodgings: and then all places of pilgrimage do, from the first, become places of trade. the first day pilgrims meet, merchants have also met: where men see themselves assembled for one object, they find that they can accomplish other objects which depend on meeting together. mecca became the fair of all arabia. and thereby indeed the chief staple and warehouse of whatever commerce there was between the indian and the western countries, syria, egypt, even italy. it had at one time a population of 100,000; buyers, forwarders of those eastern and western products; importers for their own behoof of provisions and corn. the government was a kind of irregular aristocratic republic, not without a touch of theocracy. ten men of a chief tribe, chosen in some rough way, were governors of mecca, and keepers of the caabah. the koreish were the chief tribe in mahomet's time; his own family was of that tribe. the rest of the nation, fractioned and cut asunder by deserts, lived under similar rude patriarchal governments by one or several: herdsmen, carriers, traders, generally robbers too; being oftenest at war one with another, or with all: held together by no open bond, if it were not this meeting at the caabah, where all forms of arab idolatry assembled in common adoration;--held mainly by the _inward_ indissoluble bond of a common blood and language. in this way had the arabs lived for long ages, unnoticed by the world; a people of great qualities, unconsciously waiting for the day when they should become notable to all the world. their idolatries appear to have been in a tottering state; much was getting into confusion and fermentation among them. obscure tidings of the most important event ever transacted in this world, the life and death of the divine man in judea, at once the symptom and cause of immeasurable change to all people in the world, had in the course of centuries reached into arabia too; and could not but, of itself, have produced fermentation there. it was among this arab people, so circumstanced, in the year 570 of our era, that the man mahomet was born. he was of the family of hashem, of the koreish tribe as we said; though poor, connected with the chief persons of his country. almost at his birth he lost his father; at the age of six years his mother too, a woman noted for her beauty, her worth and sense: he fell to the charge of his grandfather, an old man, a hundred years old. a good old man: mahomet's father, abdallah, had been his youngest favorite son. he saw in mahomet, with his old life-worn eyes, a century old, the lost abdallah come back again, all that was left of abdallah. he loved the little orphan boy greatly; used to say, they must take care of that beautiful little boy, nothing in their kindred was more precious than he. at his death, while the boy was still but two years old, he left him in charge to abu thaleb the eldest of the uncles, as to him that now was head of the house. by this uncle, a just and rational man as everything betokens, mahomet was brought up in the best arab way. mahomet, as he grew up, accompanied his uncle on trading journeys and such like; in his eighteenth year one finds him a fighter following his uncle in war. but perhaps the most significant of all his journeys is one we find noted as of some years' earlier date: a journey to the fairs of syria. the young man here first came in contact with a quite foreign world,--with one foreign element of endless moment to him: the christian religion. i know not what to make of that "sergius, the nestorian monk," whom abu thaleb and he are said to have lodged with; or how much any monk could have taught one still so young. probably enough it is greatly exaggerated, this of the nestorian monk. mahomet was only fourteen; had no language but his own: much in syria must have been a strange unintelligible whirlpool to him. but the eyes of the lad were open; glimpses of many things would doubtless be taken in, and lie very enigmatic as yet, which were to ripen in a strange way into views, into beliefs and insights one day. these journeys to syria were probably the beginning of much to mahomet. one other circumstance we must not forget: that he had no school-learning; of the thing we call school-learning none at all. the art of writing was but just introduced into arabia; it seems to be the true opinion that mahomet never could write! life in the desert, with its experiences, was all his education. what of this infinite universe he, from his dim place, with his own eyes and thoughts, could take in, so much and no more of it was he to know. curious, if we will reflect on it, this of having no books. except by what he could see for himself, or hear of by uncertain rumor of speech in the obscure arabian desert, he could know nothing. the wisdom that had been before him or at a distance from him in the world, was in a manner as good as not there for him. of the great brother souls, flame-beacons through so many lands and times, no one directly communicates with this great soul. he is alone there, deep down in the bosom of the wilderness; has to grow up so,--alone with nature and his own thoughts. but, from an early age, he had been remarked as a thoughtful man. his companions named him "_al amin_, the faithful." a man of truth and fidelity; true in what he did, in what he spake and thought. they noted that _he_ always meant something. a man rather taciturn in speech; silent when there was nothing to be said; but pertinent, wise, sincere, when he did speak; always throwing light on the matter. this is the only sort of speech _worth_ speaking! through life we find him to have been regarded as an altogether solid, brotherly, genuine man. a serious, sincere character; yet amiable, cordial, companionable, jocose even;--a good laugh in him withal: there are men whose laugh is as untrue as anything about them; who cannot laugh. one hears of mahomet's beauty: his fine sagacious honest face, brown florid complexion, beaming black eyes;--i somehow like too that vein on the brow, which swelled up black when he was in anger: like the "_horseshoe_ vein" in scott's _redgauntlet_. it was a kind of feature in the hashem family, this black swelling vein in the brow; mahomet had it prominent, as would appear. a spontaneous, passionate, yet just, true-meaning man! full of wild faculty, fire and light; of wild worth, all uncultured; working out his life-task in the depths of the desert there. how he was placed with kadijah, a rich widow, as her steward, and travelled in her business, again to the fairs of syria; how he managed all, as one can well understand, with fidelity, adroitness; how her gratitude, her regard for him grew: the story of their marriage is altogether a graceful intelligible one, as told us by the arab authors. he was twenty-five; she forty, though still beautiful. he seems to have lived in a most affectionate, peaceable, wholesome way with this wedded benefactress; loving her truly, and her alone. it goes greatly against the impostor theory, the fact that he lived in this entirely unexceptionable, entirely quiet and commonplace way, till the heat of his years was done. he was forty before he talked of any mission from heaven. all his irregularities, real and supposed, date from after his fiftieth year, when the good kadijah died. all his "ambition," seemingly, had been, hitherto, to live an honest life; his "fame," the mere good opinion of neighbors that knew him, had been sufficient hitherto. not till he was already getting old, the prurient heat of his life all burnt out, and _peace_ growing to be the chief thing this world could give him, did he start on the "career of ambition;" and, belying all his past character and existence, set up as a wretched empty charlatan to acquire what he could now no longer enjoy! for my share, i have no faith whatever in that. ah no: this deep-hearted son of the wilderness, with his beaming black eyes and open social deep soul, had other thoughts in him than ambition. a silent great soul; he was one of those who cannot _but_ be in earnest; whom nature herself has appointed to be sincere. while others walk in formulas and hearsays, contented enough to dwell there, this man could not screen himself in formulas; he was alone with his own soul and the reality of things. the great mystery of existence, as i said, glared in upon him, with its terrors, with its splendors; no hearsays could hide that unspeakable fact, "here am i!" such _sincerity_, as we named it, has in very truth something of divine. the word of such a man is a voice direct from nature's own heart. men do and must listen to that as to nothing else;--all else is wind in comparison. from of old, a thousand thoughts, in his pilgrimings and wanderings, had been in this man: what am i? what _is_ this unfathomable thing i live in, which men name universe? what is life; what is death? what am i to believe? what am i to do? the grim rocks of mount hara, of mount sinai, the stern sandy solitudes answered not. the great heaven rolling silent overhead, with its blue-glancing stars, answered not. there was no answer. the man's own soul, and what of god's inspiration dwelt there, had to answer! it is the thing which all men have to ask themselves; which we too have to ask, and answer. this wild man felt it to be of _infinite_ moment; all other things of no moment whatever in comparison. the jargon of argumentative greek sects, vague traditions of jews, the stupid routine of arab idolatry: there was no answer in these. a hero, as i repeat, has this first distinction, which indeed we may call first and last, the alpha and omega of his whole heroism, that he looks through the shows of things into _things_. use and wont, respectable hearsay, respectable formula: all these are good, or are not good. there is something behind and beyond all these, which all these must correspond with, be the image of, or they are--_idolatries_; "bits of black wood pretending to be god;" to the earnest soul a mockery and abomination. idolatries never so gilded, waited on by heads of the koreish, will do nothing for this man. though all men walk by them, what good is it? the great reality stands glaring there upon _him_. he there has to answer it, or perish miserably. now, even now, or else through all eternity never! answer it; _thou_ must find an answer.--ambition? what could all arabia do for this man; with the crown of greek heraclius, of persian chosroes, and all crowns in the earth;--what could they all do for him? it was not of the earth he wanted to hear tell; it was of the heaven above and of the hell beneath. all crowns and sovereignties whatsoever, where would _they_ in a few brief years be? to be sheik of mecca or arabia, and have a bit of gilt wood put into your hand,--will that be one's salvation? i decidedly think, not. we will leave it altogether, this impostor hypothesis, as not credible; not very tolerable even, worthy chiefly of dismissal by us. mahomet had been wont to retire yearly, during the month ramadhan, into solitude and silence; as indeed was the arab custom; a praiseworthy custom, which such a man, above all, would find natural and useful. communing with his own heart, in the silence of the mountains; himself silent; open to the "small still voices:" it was a right natural custom! mahomet was in his fortieth year, when having withdrawn to a cavern in mount hara, near mecca, during this ramadhan, to pass the month in prayer, and meditation on those great questions, he one day told his wife kadijah, who with his household was with him or near him this year, that by the unspeakable special favor of heaven he had now found it all out; was in doubt and darkness no longer, but saw it all. that all these idols and formulas were nothing, miserable bits of wood; that there was one god in and over all; and we must leave all idols, and look to him. that god is great; and that there is nothing else great! he is the reality. wooden idols are not real; he is real. he made us at first, sustains us yet; we and all things are but the shadow of him; a transitory garment veiling the eternal splendor. "_allah akbar_, god is great;"--and then also "_islam_," that we must submit to god. that our whole strength lies in resigned submission to him, whatsoever he do to us. for this world, and for the other! the thing he sends to us, were it death and worse than death, shall be good, shall be best; we resign ourselves to god.--"if this be _islam_," says goethe, "do we not all live in _islam_?" yes, all of us that have any moral life; we all live so. it has ever been held the highest wisdom for a man not merely to submit to necessity,--necessity will make him submit,--but to know and believe well that the stern thing which necessity had ordered was the wisest, the best, the thing wanted there. to cease his frantic pretension of scanning this great god's-world in his small fraction of a brain; to know that it _had_ verily, though deep beyond his soundings, a just law, that the soul of it was good;--that his part in it was to conform to the law of the whole, and in devout silence follow that; not questioning it, obeying it as unquestionable. i say, this is yet the only true morality known. a man is right and invincible, virtuous and on the road towards sure conquest, precisely while he joins himself to the great deep law of the world, in spite of all superficial laws, temporary appearances, profit-and-loss calculations; he is victorious while he co-operates with that great central law, not victorious otherwise:--and surely his first chance of co-operating with it, or getting into the course of it, is to know with his whole soul that it is; that it is good, and alone good! this is the soul of islam; it is properly the soul of christianity;--for islam is definable as a confused form of christianity; had christianity not been, neither had it been. christianity also commands us, before all, to be resigned to god. we are to take no counsel with flesh and blood; give ear to no vain cavils, vain sorrows and wishes: to know that we know nothing; that the worst and cruelest to our eyes is not what it seems; that we have to receive whatsoever befalls us as sent from god above, and say, it is good and wise, god is great! "though he slay me, yet will i trust in him." islam means in its way denial of self, annihilation of self. this is yet the highest wisdom that heaven has revealed to our earth. such light had come, as it could, to illuminate the darkness of this wild arab soul. a confused dazzling splendor as of life and heaven, in the great darkness which threatened to be death: he called it revelation and the angel gabriel;--who of us yet can know what to call it? it is the "inspiration of the almighty" that giveth us understanding. to _know_; to get into the truth of anything, is ever a mystic act,--of which the best logics can but babble on the surface. "is not belief the true god-announcing miracle?" says novalis.--that mahomet's whole soul, set in flame with this grand truth vouchsafed him, should feel as if it were important and the only important thing, was very natural. that providence had unspeakably honored him by revealing it, saving him from death and darkness; that he therefore was bound to make known the same to all creatures: this is what was meant by "mahomet is the prophet of god;" this too is not without its true meaning.-the good kadijah, we can fancy, listened to him with wonder, with doubt: at length she answered: yes, it was true this that he said. one can fancy too the boundless gratitude of mahomet; and how of all the kindnesses she had done him, this of believing the earnest struggling word he now spoke was the greatest. "it is certain," says novalis, "my conviction gains infinitely, the moment another soul will believe in it." it is a boundless favor.--he never forgot this good kadijah. long afterwards, ayesha his young favorite wife, a woman who indeed distinguished herself among the moslem, by all manner of qualities, through her whole long life; this young brilliant ayesha was, one day, questioning him: "now am not i better than kadijah? she was a widow; old, and had lost her looks: you love me better than you did her?"--"no, by allah!" answered mahomet: "no, by allah! she believed in me when none else would believe. in the whole world i had but one friend, and she was that!"--seid, his slave, also believed in him; these with his young cousin ali, abu thaleb's son, were his first converts. he spoke of his doctrine to this man and that; but the most treated it with ridicule, with indifference; in three years, i think, he had gained but thirteen followers. his progress was slow enough. his encouragement to go on, was altogether the usual encouragement that such a man in such a case meets. after some three years of small success, he invited forty of his chief kindred to an entertainment; and there stood up and told them what his pretension was: that he had this thing to promulgate abroad to all men; that it was the highest thing, the one thing: which of them would second him in that? amid the doubt and silence of all, young ali, as yet a lad of sixteen, impatient of the silence, started up, and exclaimed in passionate fierce language, that he would! the assembly, among whom was abu thaleb, ali's father, could not be unfriendly to mahomet; yet the sight there, of one unlettered elderly man, with a lad of sixteen, deciding on such an enterprise against all mankind, appeared ridiculous to them; the assembly broke up in laughter. nevertheless it proved not a laughable thing; it was a very serious thing! as for this young ali, one cannot but like him. a noble-minded creature, as he shows himself, now and always afterwards; full of affection, of fiery daring. something chivalrous in him; brave as a lion; yet with a grace, a truth and affection worthy of christian knighthood. he died by assassination in the mosque at bagdad; a death occasioned by his own generous fairness, confidence in the fairness of others: he said, if the wound proved not unto death, they must pardon the assassin; but if it did, then they must slay him straightway, that so they two in the same hour might appear before god, and see which side of that quarrel was the just one! mahomet naturally gave offence to the koreish, keepers of the caabah, superintendents of the idols. one or two men of influence had joined him: the thing spread slowly, but it was spreading. naturally he gave offence to everybody: who is this that pretends to be wiser than we all; that rebukes us all, as mere fools and worshippers of wood! abu thaleb the good uncle spoke with him: could he not be silent about all that; believe it all for himself, and not trouble others, anger the chief men, endanger himself and them all, talking of it? mahomet answered: if the sun stood on his right hand and the moon on his left, ordering him to hold his peace, he could not obey! no: there was something in this truth he had got which was of nature herself; equal in rank to sun, or moon, or whatsoever thing nature had made. it would speak itself there, so long as the almighty allowed it, in spite of sun and moon, and all koreish and all men and things. it must do that, and could do no other. mahomet answered so; and, they say, "burst into tears." burst into tears: he felt that abu thaleb was good to him; that the task he had got was no soft, but a stern and great one. he went on speaking to who would listen to him; publishing his doctrine among the pilgrims as they came to mecca; gaining adherents in this place and that. continual contradiction, hatred, open or secret danger attended him. his powerful relations protected mahomet himself; but by and by, on his own advice, all his adherents had to quit mecca, and seek refuge in abyssinia over the sea. the koreish grew ever angrier; laid plots, and swore oaths among them, to put mahomet to death with their own hands. abu thaleb was dead, the good kadijah was dead. mahomet is not solicitous of sympathy from us; but his outlook at this time was one of the dismalest. he had to hide in caverns, escape in disguise; fly hither and thither; homeless, in continual peril of his life. more than once it seemed all over with him; more than once it turned on a straw, some rider's horse taking fright or the like, whether mahomet and his doctrine had not ended there, and not been heard of at all. but it was not to end so. in the thirteenth year of his mission, finding his enemies all banded against him, forty sworn men, one out of every tribe, waiting to take his life, and no continuance possible at mecca for him any longer, mahomet fled to the place then called yathreb, where he had gained some adherents; the place they now call medina, or "_medinat al nabi_, the city of the prophet," from that circumstance. it lay some two hundred miles off, through rocks and deserts; not without great difficulty, in such mood as we may fancy, he escaped thither, and found welcome. the whole east dates its era from this flight, _hegira_ as they name it: the year 1 of this hegira is 622 of our era, the fifty-third of mahomet's life. he was now becoming an old man; his friends sinking round him one by one; his path desolate, encompassed with danger: unless he could find hope in his own heart, the outward face of things was but hopeless for him. it is so with all men in the like case. hitherto mahomet had professed to publish his religion by the way of preaching and persuasion alone. but now, driven foully out of his native country, since unjust men had not only given no ear to his earnest heaven's-message, the deep cry of his heart, but would not even let him live if he kept speaking it,--the wild son of the desert resolved to defend himself, like a man and arab. if the koreish will have it so, they shall have it. tidings, felt to be of infinite moment to them and all men, they would not listen to these; would trample them down by sheer violence, steel and murder: well, let steel try it then! ten years more this mahomet had; all of fighting of breathless impetuous toil and struggle; with what result we know. much has been said of mahomet's propagating his religion by the sword. it is no doubt far nobler what we have to boast of the christian religion, that it propagated itself peaceably in the way of preaching and conviction. yet withal, if we take this for an argument of the truth or falsehood of a religion, there is a radical mistake in it. the sword indeed: but where will you get your sword! every new opinion, at its starting, is precisely in a _minority of one_. in one man's head alone, there it dwells as yet. one man alone of the whole world believes it; there is one man against all men. that _he_ take a sword, and try to propagate with that, will do little for him. you must first get your sword! on the whole, a thing will propagate itself as it can. we do not find, of the christian religion either, that it always disdained the sword, when once it had got one. charlemagne's conversion of the saxons was not by preaching. i care little about the sword: i will allow a thing to struggle for itself in this world, with any sword or tongue or implement it has, or can lay hold of. we will let it preach, and pamphleteer, and fight, and to the uttermost bestir itself, and do, beak and claws, whatsoever is in it; very sure that it will, in the long-run, conquer nothing which does not deserve to be conquered. what is better than itself, it cannot put away, but only what is worse. in this great duel, nature herself is umpire, and can do no wrong: the thing which is deepest-rooted in nature, what we call _truest_, that thing and not the other will be found growing at last. here however, in reference to much that there is in mahomet and his success, we are to remember what an umpire nature is; what a greatness, composure of depth and tolerance there is in her. you take wheat to cast into the earth's bosom; your wheat may be mixed with chaff, chopped straw, barn-sweepings, dust and all imaginable rubbish; no matter: you cast it into the kind just earth; she grows the wheat,--the whole rubbish she silently absorbs, shrouds _it_ in, says nothing of the rubbish. the yellow wheat is growing there; the good earth is silent about all the rest,--has silently turned all the rest to some benefit too, and makes no complaint about it! so everywhere in nature! she is true and not a lie; and yet so great, and just, and motherly in her truth. she requires of a thing only that it _be_ genuine of heart; she will protect it if so; will not, if not so. there is a soul of truth in all the things she ever gave harbor to. alas, is not this the history of all highest truth that comes or ever came into the world? the _body_ of them all is imperfection, an element of light in darkness: to us they have to come embodied in mere logic, in some merely _scientific_ theorem of the universe; which _cannot_ be complete; which cannot but be found, one day, incomplete, erroneous, and so die and disappear. the body of all truth dies; and yet in all, i say, there is a soul which never dies; which in new and ever-nobler embodiment lives immortal as man himself! it is the way with nature. the genuine essence of truth never dies. that it be genuine, a voice from the great deep of nature, there is the point at nature's judgment-seat. what _we_ call pure or impure, is not with her the final question. not how much chaff is in you; but whether you have any wheat. pure? i might say to many a man: yes, you are pure; pure enough; but you are chaff,--insincere hypothesis, hearsay, formality; you never were in contact with the great heart of the universe at all; you are properly neither pure nor impure; you _are_ nothing, nature has no business with you. mahomet's creed we called a kind of christianity; and really, if we look at the wild rapt earnestness with which it was believed and laid to heart, i should say a better kind than that of those miserable syrian sects, with their vain janglings about _homoiousion_ and _homoousion_, the head full of worthless noise, the heart empty and dead! the truth of it is embedded in portentous error and falsehood; but the truth of it makes it be believed, not the falsehood: it succeeded by its truth. a bastard kind of christianity, but a living kind; with a heart-life in it; not dead, chopping barren logic merely! out of all that rubbish of arab idolatries, argumentative theologies, traditions, subtleties, rumors and hypotheses of greeks and jews, with their idle wire-drawings, this wild man of the desert, with his wild sincere heart, earnest as death and life, with his great flashing natural eyesight, had seen into the kernel of the matter. idolatry is nothing: these wooden idols of yours, "ye rub them with oil and wax, and the flies stick on them,"--these are wood, i tell you! they can do nothing for you; they are an impotent blasphemous presence; a horror and abomination, if ye knew them. god alone is; god alone has power; he made us, he can kill us and keep us alive: "_allah akbar_, god is great." understand that his will is the best for you; that howsoever sore to flesh and blood, you will find it the wisest, best: you are bound to take it so; in this world and in the next, you have no other thing that you can do! and now if the wild idolatrous men did believe this, and with their fiery hearts lay hold of it to do it, in what form soever it came to them, i say it was well worthy of being believed. in one form or the other, i say it is still the one thing worthy of being believed by all men. man does hereby become the high-priest of this temple of a world. he is in harmony with the decrees of the author of this world; cooperating with them, not vainly withstanding them: i know, to this day, no better definition of duty than that same. all that is _right_ includes itself in this of co-operating with the real tendency of the world: you succeed by this (the world's tendency will succeed), you are good, and in the right course there. _homoiousion_, _homoousion_, vain logical jangle, then or before or at any time, may jangle itself out, and go whither and how it likes: this is the _thing_ it all struggles to mean, if it would mean anything. if it do not succeed in meaning this, it means nothing. not that abstractions, logical propositions, be correctly worded or incorrectly; but that living concrete sons of adam do lay this to heart: that is the important point. islam devoured all these vain jangling sects; and i think had right to do so. it was a reality, direct from the great heart of nature once more. arab idolatries, syrian formulas, whatsoever was not equally real, had to go up in flame,--mere dead _fuel_, in various senses, for this which was _fire_. it was during these wild warfarings and strugglings, especially after the flight to mecca, that mahomet dictated at intervals his sacred book, which they name _koran_, or _reading_, "thing to be read." this is the work he and his disciples made so much of, asking all the world, is not that a miracle? the mahometans regard their koran with a reverence which few christians pay even to their bible. it is admitted every where as the standard of all law and all practice; the thing to be gone upon in speculation and life; the message sent direct out of heaven, which this earth has to conform to, and walk by; the thing to be read. their judges decide by it; all moslem are bound to study it, seek in it for the light of their life. they have mosques where it is all read daily; thirty relays of priests take it up in succession, get through the whole each day. there, for twelve hundred years, has the voice of this book, at all moments, kept sounding through the ears and the hearts of so many men. we hear of mahometan doctors that had read it seventy thousand times! very curious: if one sought for "discrepancies of national taste," here surely were the most eminent instance of that! we also can read the koran; our translation of it, by sale, is known to be a very fair one. i must say, it is as toilsome reading as i ever undertook. a wearisome confused jumble, crude, incondite; endless iterations, long-windedness, entanglement; most crude, incondite;--insupportable stupidity, in short! nothing but a sense of duty could carry any european through the koran. we read in it, as we might in the state-paper office, unreadable masses of lumber, that perhaps we may get some glimpses of a remarkable man. it is true we have it under disadvantages: the arabs see more method in it than we. mahomet's followers found the koran lying all in fractions, as it had been written down at first promulgation; much of it, they say, on shoulder-blades of mutton, flung pell-mell into a chest: and they published it, without any discoverable order as to time or otherwise;--merely trying, as would seem, and this not very strictly, to put the longest chapters first. the real beginning of it, in that way, lies almost at the end: for the earliest portions were the shortest. read in its historical sequence it perhaps would not be so bad. much of it, too, they say, is rhythmic; a kind of wild chanting song, in the original. this may be a great point; much perhaps has been lost in the translation here. yet with every allowance, one feels it difficult to see how any mortal ever could consider this koran as a book written in heaven, too good for the earth; as a well-written book, or indeed as a _book_ at all; and not a bewildered rhapsody; _written_, so far as writing goes, as badly as almost any book ever was! so much for national discrepancies, and the standard of taste. yet i should say, it was not unintelligible how the arabs might so love it. when once you get this confused coil of a koran fairly off your hands, and have it behind you at a distance, the essential type of it begins to disclose itself; and in this there is a merit quite other than the literary one. if a book come from the heart, it will contrive to reach other hearts; all art and author-craft are of small amount to that. one would say the primary character of the koran is this of its _genuineness_, of its being a _bona-fide_ book. prideaux, i know, and others have represented it as a mere bundle of juggleries; chapter after chapter got up to excuse and varnish the author's successive sins, forward his ambitions and quackeries: but really it is time to dismiss all that. i do not assert mahomet's continual sincerity: who is continually sincere? but i confess i can make nothing of the critic, in these times, who would accuse him of deceit _prepense_; of conscious deceit generally, or perhaps at all;--still more, of living in a mere element of conscious deceit, and writing this koran as a forger and juggler would have done! every candid eye, i think, will read the koran far otherwise than so. it is the confused ferment of a great rude human soul; rude, untutored, that cannot even read; but fervent, earnest, struggling vehemently to utter itself in words. with a kind of breathless intensity he strives to utter himself; the thoughts crowd on him pell-mell: for very multitude of things to say, he can get nothing said. the meaning that is in him shapes itself into no form of composition, is stated in no sequence, method, or coherence;--they are not _shaped_ at all, these thoughts of his; flung out unshaped, as they struggle and tumble there, in their chaotic inarticulate state. we said "stupid:" yet natural stupidity is by no means the character of mahomet's book; it is natural uncultivation rather. the man has not studied speaking; in the haste and pressure of continual fighting, has not time to mature himself into fit speech. the panting breathless haste and vehemence of a man struggling in the thick of battle for life and salvation; this is the mood he is in! a headlong haste; for very magnitude of meaning, he cannot get himself articulated into words. the successive utterances of a soul in that mood, colored by the various vicissitudes of three-and-twenty years; now well uttered, now worse: this is the koran. for we are to consider mahomet, through these three-and-twenty years, as the centre of a world wholly in conflict. battles with the koreish and heathen, quarrels among his own people, backslidings of his own wild heart; all this kept him in a perpetual whirl, his soul knowing rest no more. in wakeful nights, as one may fancy, the wild soul of the man, tossing amid these vortices, would hail any light of a decision for them as a veritable light from heaven; _any_ making-up of his mind, so blessed, indispensable for him there, would seem the inspiration of a gabriel. forger and juggler? no, no! this great fiery heart, seething, simmering like a great furnace of thoughts, was not a juggler's. his life was a fact to him; this god's universe an awful fact and reality. he has faults enough. the man was an uncultured semi-barbarous son of nature, much of the bedouin still clinging to him: we must take him for that. but for a wretched simulacrum, a hungry impostor without eyes or heart, practicing for a mess of pottage such blasphemous swindlery, forgery of celestial documents, continual high-treason against his maker and self, we will not and cannot take him. sincerity, in all senses, seems to me the merit of the koran; what had rendered it precious to the wild arab men. it is, after all, the first and last merit in a book; gives rise to merits of all kinds,--nay, at bottom, it alone can give rise to merit of any kind. curiously, through these incondite masses of tradition, vituperation, complaint, ejaculation in the koran, a vein of true direct insight, of what we might almost call poetry, is found straggling. the body of the book is made up of mere tradition, and as it were vehement enthusiastic extempore preaching. he returns forever to the old stories of the prophets as they went current in the arab memory: how prophet after prophet, the prophet abraham, the prophet hud, the prophet moses, christian and other real and fabulous prophets, had come to this tribe and to that, warning men of their sin; and been received by them even as he mahomet was,--which is a great solace to him. these things he repeats ten, perhaps twenty times; again and ever again, with wearisome iteration; has never done repeating them. a brave samuel johnson, in his forlorn garret, might con over the biographies of authors in that way! this is the great staple of the koran. but curiously, through all this, comes ever and anon some glance as of the real thinker and seer. he has actually an eye for the world, this mahomet: with a certain directness and rugged vigor, he brings home still, to our heart, the thing his own heart has been opened to. i make but little of his praises of allah, which many praise; they are borrowed i suppose mainly from the hebrew, at least they are far surpassed there. but the eye that flashes direct into the heart of things, and _sees_ the truth of them; this is to me a highly interesting object. great nature's own gift; which she bestows on all; but which only one in the thousand does not cast sorrowfully away: it is what i call sincerity of vision; the test of a sincere heart. mahomet can work no miracles; he often answers impatiently: i can work no miracles. i? "i am a public preacher;" appointed to preach this doctrine to all creatures. yet the world, as we can see, had really from of old been all one great miracle to him. look over the world, says he; is it not wonderful, the work of allah; wholly "a sign to you," if your eyes were open! this earth, god made it for you; "appointed paths in it;" you can live in it, go to and fro on it.--the clouds in the dry country of arabia, to mahomet they are very wonderful: great clouds, he says, born in the deep bosom of the upper immensity, where do they come from! they hang there, the great black monsters; pour down their rain-deluges "to revive a dead earth," and grass springs, and "tall leafy palm-trees with their date-clusters hanging round. is not that a sign?" your cattle too,--allah made them; serviceable dumb creatures; they change the grass into milk; you have your clothing from them, very strange creatures; they come ranking home at evening-time, "and," adds he, "and are a credit to you!" ships also,--he talks often about ships: huge moving mountains, they spread out their cloth wings, go bounding through the water there, heaven's wind driving them; anon they lie motionless, god has withdrawn the wind, they lie dead, and cannot stir! miracles? cries he: what miracle would you have? are not you yourselves there? god made you, "shaped you out of a little clay." ye were small once; a few years ago ye were not at all. ye have beauty, strength, thoughts, "ye have compassion on one another." old age comes on you, and gray hairs; your strength fades into feebleness; ye sink down, and again are not. "ye have compassion on one another:" this struck me much: allah might have made you having no compassion on one another,--how had it been then! this is a great direct thought, a glance at first-hand into the very fact of things. rude vestiges of poetic genius, of whatsoever is best and truest, are visible in this man. a strong untutored intellect; eyesight, heart: a strong wild man,--might have shaped himself into poet, king, priest, any kind of hero. to his eyes it is forever clear that this world wholly is miraculous. he sees what, as we said once before, all great thinkers, the rude scandinavians themselves, in one way or other, have contrived to see: that this so solid-looking material world is, at bottom, in very deed, nothing; is a visual and factual manifestation of god's power and presence,--a shadow hung out by him on the bosom of the void infinite; nothing more. the mountains, he says, these great rock-mountains, they shall dissipate themselves "like clouds;" melt into the blue as clouds do, and not be! he figures the earth, in the arab fashion, sale tells us, as an immense plain or flat plate of ground, the mountains are set on that to _steady_ it. at the last day they shall disappear "like clouds;" the whole earth shall go spinning, whirl itself off into wreck, and as dust and vapor vanish in the inane. allah withdraws his hand from it, and it ceases to be. the universal empire of allah, presence everywhere of an unspeakable power, a splendor, and a terror not to be named, as the true force, essence and reality, in all things whatsoever, was continually clear to this man. what a modern talks of by the name, forces of nature, laws of nature; and does not figure as a divine thing; not even as one thing at all, but as a set of things, undivine enough,--salable, curious, good for propelling steamships! with our sciences and cyclopaedias, we are apt to forget the _divineness_, in those laboratories of ours. we ought not to forget it! that once well forgotten, i know not what else were worth remembering. most sciences, i think were then a very dead thing; withered, contentious, empty;--a thistle in late autumn. the best science, without this, is but as the dead _timber_; it is not the growing tree and forest,--which gives ever-new timber, among other things! man cannot _know_ either, unless he can _worship_ in some way. his knowledge is a pedantry, and dead thistle, otherwise. much has been said and written about the sensuality of mahomet's religion; more than was just. the indulgences, criminal to us, which he permitted, were not of his appointment; he found them practiced, unquestioned from immemorial time in arabia; what he did was to curtail them, restrict them, not on one but on many sides. his religion is not an easy one: with rigorous fasts, lavations, strict complex formulas, prayers five times a day, and abstinence from wine, it did not "succeed by being an easy religion." as if indeed any religion, or cause holding of religion, could succeed by that! it is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense,--sugar-plums of any kind, in this world or the next! in the meanest mortal there lies something nobler. the poor swearing soldier, hired to be shot, has his "honor of a soldier," different from drill-regulations and the shilling a day. it is not to taste sweet things, but to do noble and true things, and vindicate himself under god's heaven as a god-made man, that the poorest son of adam dimly longs. show him the way of doing that, the dullest day-drudge kindles into a hero. they wrong man greatly who say he is to be seduced by ease. difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death are the _allurements_ that act on the heart of man. kindle the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns up all lower considerations. not happiness, but something higher: one sees this even in the frivolous classes, with their "point of honor" and the like. not by flattering our appetites; no, by awakening the heroic that slumbers in every heart, can any religion gain followers. mahomet himself, after all that can be said about him, was not a sensual man. we shall err widely if we consider this man as a common voluptuary, intent mainly on base enjoyments,--nay on enjoyments of any kind. his household was of the frugalest; his common diet barley-bread and water: sometimes for months there was not a fire once lighted on his hearth. they record with just pride that he would mend his own shoes, patch his own cloak. a poor, hard-toiling, ill-provided man; careless of what vulgar men toil for. not a bad man, i should say; something better in him than _hunger_ of any sort,--or these wild arab men, fighting and jostling three-and-twenty years at his hand, in close contact with him always, would not have reverenced him so! they were wild men, bursting ever and anon into quarrel, into all kinds of fierce sincerity; without right worth and manhood, no man could have commanded them. they called him prophet, you say? why, he stood there face to face with them; bare, not enshrined in any mystery; visibly clouting his own cloak, cobbling his own shoes; fighting, counselling, ordering in the midst of them: they must have seen what kind of a man he _was_, let him be _called_ what you like! no emperor with his tiaras was obeyed as this man in a cloak of his own clouting. during three-and-twenty years of rough actual trial. i find something of a veritable hero necessary for that, of itself. his last words are a prayer; broken ejaculations of a heart struggling up, in trembling hope, towards its maker. we cannot say that his religion made him _worse_; it made him better; good, not bad. generous things are recorded of him: when he lost his daughter, the thing he answers is, in his own dialect, every way sincere, and yet equivalent to that of christians, "the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the lord." he answered in like manner of seid, his emancipated well-beloved slave, the second of the believers. seid had fallen in the war of tabuc, the first of mahomet's fightings with the greeks. mahomet said, it was well; seid had done his master's work, seid had now gone to his master: it was all well with seid. yet seid's daughter found him weeping over the body;--the old gray-haired man melting in tears! "what do i see?" said she.--"you see a friend weeping over his friend."--he went out for the last time into the mosque, two days before his death; asked, if he had injured any man? let his own back bear the stripes. if he owed any man? a voice answered, "yes, me three drachms," borrowed on such an occasion. mahomet ordered them to be paid: "better be in shame now," said he, "than at the day of judgment."--you remember kadijah, and the "no, by allah!" traits of that kind show us the genuine man, the brother of us all, brought visible through twelve centuries,--the veritable son of our common mother. withal i like mahomet for his total freedom from cant. he is a rough self-helping son of the wilderness; does not pretend to be what he is not. there is no ostentatious pride in him; but neither does he go much upon humility: he is there as he can be, in cloak and shoes of his own clouting; speaks plainly to all manner of persian kings, greek emperors, what it is they are bound to do; knows well enough, about himself, "the respect due unto thee." in a life-and-death war with bedouins, cruel things could not fail; but neither are acts of mercy, of noble natural pity and generosity wanting. mahomet makes no apology for the one, no boast of the other. they were each the free dictate of his heart; each called for, there and then. not a mealy-mouthed man! a candid ferocity, if the case call for it, is in him; he does not mince matters! the war of tabuc is a thing he often speaks of: his men refused, many of them, to march on that occasion; pleaded the heat of the weather, the harvest, and so forth; he can never forget that. your harvest? it lasts for a day. what will become of your harvest through all eternity? hot weather? yes, it was hot; "but hell will be hotter!" sometimes a rough sarcasm turns up: he says to the unbelievers, ye shall have the just measure of your deeds at that great day. they will be weighed out to you; ye shall not have short weight!--everywhere he fixes the matter in his eye; he _sees_ it: his heart, now and then, is as if struck dumb by the greatness of it. "assuredly," he says: that word, in the koran, is written down sometimes as a sentence by itself: "assuredly." no _dilettantism_ in this mahomet; it is a business of reprobation and salvation with him, of time and eternity: he is in deadly earnest about it! dilettantism, hypothesis, speculation, a kind of amateur-search for truth, toying and coquetting with truth: this is the sorest sin. the root of all other imaginable sins. it consists in the heart and soul of the man never having been _open_ to truth;--"living in a vain show." such a man not only utters and produces falsehoods, but is himself a falsehood. the rational moral principle, spark of the divinity, is sunk deep in him, in quiet paralysis of life-death. the very falsehoods of mahomet are truer than the truths of such a man. he is the insincere man: smooth-polished, respectable in some times and places; inoffensive, says nothing harsh to anybody; most _cleanly_,--just as carbonic acid is, which is death and poison. we will not praise mahomet's moral precepts as always of the superfinest sort; yet it can be said that there is always a tendency to good in them; that they are the true dictates of a heart aiming towards what is just and true. the sublime forgiveness of christianity, turning of the other cheek when the one has been smitten, is not here: you _are_ to revenge yourself, but it is to be in measure, not overmuch, or beyond justice. on the other hand, islam, like any great faith, and insight into the essence of man, is a perfect equalizer of men: the soul of one believer outweighs all earthly kingships; all men, according to islam too, are equal. mahomet insists not on the propriety of giving alms, but on the necessity of it: he marks down by law how much you are to give, and it is at your peril if you neglect. the tenth part of a man's annual income, whatever that may be, is the _property_ of the poor, of those that are afflicted and need help. good all this: the natural voice of humanity, of pity and equity dwelling in the heart of this wild son of nature speaks _so_. mahomet's paradise is sensual, his hell sensual: true; in the one and the other there is enough that shocks all spiritual feeling in us. but we are to recollect that the arabs already had it so; that mahomet, in whatever he changed of it, softened and diminished all this. the worst sensualities, too, are the work of doctors, followers of his, not his work. in the koran there is really very little said about the joys of paradise; they are intimated rather than insisted on. nor is it forgotten that the highest joys even there shall be spiritual; the pure presence of the highest, this shall infinitely transcend all other joys. he says, "your salutation shall be, peace." _salam_, have peace!--the thing that all rational souls long for, and seek, vainly here below, as the one blessing. "ye shall sit on seats, facing one another: all grudges shall be taken away out of your hearts." all grudges! ye shall love one another freely; for each of you, in the eyes of his brothers, there will be heaven enough! in reference to this of the sensual paradise and mahomet's sensuality, the sorest chapter of all for us, there were many things to be said; which it is not convenient to enter upon here. two remarks only i shall make, and therewith leave it to your candor. the first is furnished me by goethe; it is a casual hint of his which seems well worth taking note of. in one of his delineations, in _meister's travels_ it is, the hero comes upon a society of men with very strange ways, one of which was this: "we require," says the master, "that each of our people shall restrict himself in one direction," shall go right against his desire in one matter, and _make_ himself do the thing he does not wish, "should we allow him the greater latitude on all other sides." there seems to me a great justness in this. enjoying things which are pleasant; that is not the evil: it is the reducing of our moral self to slavery by them that is. let a man assert withal that he is king over his habitudes; that he could and would shake them off, on cause shown: this is an excellent law. the month ramadhan for the moslem, much in mahomet's religion, much in his own life, bears in that direction; if not by forethought, or clear purpose of moral improvement on his part, then by a certain healthy manful instinct, which is as good. but there is another thing to be said about the mahometan heaven and hell. this namely, that, however gross and material they may be, they are an emblem of an everlasting truth, not always so well remembered elsewhere. that gross sensual paradise of his; that horrible flaming hell; the great enormous day of judgment he perpetually insists on: what is all this but a rude shadow, in the rude bedouin imagination, of that grand spiritual fact, and beginning of facts, which it is ill for us too if we do not all know and feel: the infinite nature of duty? that man's actions here are of _infinite_ moment to him, and never die or end at all; that man, with his little life, reaches upwards high as heaven, downwards low as hell, and in his threescore years of time holds an eternity fearfully and wonderfully hidden: all this had burnt itself, as in flame-characters, into the wild arab soul. as in flame and lightning, it stands written there; awful, unspeakable, ever present to him. with bursting earnestness, with a fierce savage sincerity, half-articulating, not able to articulate, he strives to speak it, bodies it forth in that heaven and that hell. bodied forth in what way you will, it is the first of all truths. it is venerable under all embodiments. what is the chief end of man here below? mahomet has answered this question, in a way that might put some of us to shame! he does not, like a bentham, a paley, take right and wrong, and calculate the profit and loss, ultimate pleasure of the one and of the other; and summing all up by addition and subtraction into a net result, ask you, whether on the whole the right does not preponderate considerably? no; it is not _better_ to do the one than the other; the one is to the other as life is to death,--as heaven is to hell. the one must in nowise be done, the other in nowise left undone. you shall not measure them; they are incommensurable: the one is death eternal to a man, the other is life eternal. benthamee utility, virtue by profit and loss; reducing this god's-world to a dead brute steam-engine, the infinite celestial soul of man to a kind of hay-balance for weighing hay and thistles on, pleasures and pains on:--if you ask me which gives, mahomet or they, the beggarlier and falser view of man and his destinies in this universe, i will answer, it is not mahomet--! on the whole, we will repeat that this religion of mahomet's is a kind of christianity; has a genuine element of what is spiritually highest looking through it, not to be hidden by all its imperfections. the scandinavian god _wish_, the god of all rude men,--this has been enlarged into a heaven by mahomet; but a heaven symbolical of sacred duty, and to be earned by faith and well-doing, by valiant action, and a divine patience which is still more valiant. it is scandinavian paganism, and a truly celestial element superadded to that. call it not false; look not at the falsehood of it, look at the truth of it. for these twelve centuries, it has been the religion and life-guidance of the fifth part of the whole kindred of mankind. above all things, it has been a religion heartily _believed_. these arabs believe their religion, and try to live by it! no christians, since the early ages, or only perhaps the english puritans in modern times, have ever stood by their faith as the moslem do by theirs,--believing it wholly, fronting time with it, and eternity with it. this night the watchman on the streets of cairo when he cries, "who goes?" will hear from the passenger, along with his answer, "there is no god but god." _allah akbar_, _islam_, sounds through the souls, and whole daily existence, of these dusky millions. zealous missionaries preach it abroad among malays, black papuans, brutal idolaters;--displacing what is worse, nothing that is better or good. to the arab nation it was as a birth from darkness into light; arabia first became alive by means of it. a poor shepherd people, roaming unnoticed in its deserts since the creation of the world: a hero-prophet was sent down to them with a word they could believe: see, the unnoticed becomes world-notable, the small has grown world-great; within one century afterwards, arabia is at grenada on this hand, at delhi on that;--glancing in valor and splendor and the light of genius, arabia shines through long ages over a great section of the world. belief is great, life-giving. the history of a nation becomes fruitful, soul-elevating, great, so soon as it believes. these arabs, the man mahomet, and that one century,--is it not as if a spark had fallen, one spark, on a world of what seemed black unnoticeable sand; but lo, the sand proves explosive powder, blazes heaven-high from delhi to grenada! i said, the great man was always as lightning out of heaven; the rest of men waited for him like fuel, and then they too would flame. lecture iii. the hero as poet. dante: shakspeare. [may 12, 1840.] the hero as divinity, the hero as prophet, are productions of old ages; not to be repeated in the new. they presuppose a certain rudeness of conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end to. there needs to be, as it were, a world vacant, or almost vacant of scientific forms, if men in their loving wonder are to fancy their fellow-man either a god or one speaking with the voice of a god. divinity and prophet are past. we are now to see our hero in the less ambitious, but also less questionable, character of poet; a character which does not pass. the poet is a heroic figure belonging to all ages; whom all ages possess, when once he is produced, whom the newest age as the oldest may produce;--and will produce, always when nature pleases. let nature send a hero-soul; in no age is it other than possible that he may be shaped into a poet. hero, prophet, poet,--many different names, in different times, and places, do we give to great men; according to varieties we note in them, according to the sphere in which they have displayed themselves! we might give many more names, on this same principle. i will remark again, however, as a fact not unimportant to be understood, that the different _sphere_ constitutes the grand origin of such distinction; that the hero can be poet, prophet, king, priest or what you will, according to the kind of world he finds himself born into. i confess, i have no notion of a truly great man that could not be _all_ sorts of men. the poet who could merely sit on a chair, and compose stanzas, would never make a stanza worth much. he could not sing the heroic warrior, unless he himself were at least a heroic warrior too. i fancy there is in him the politician, the thinker, legislator, philosopher;--in one or the other degree, he could have been, he is all these. so too i cannot understand how a mirabeau, with that great glowing heart, with the fire that was in it, with the bursting tears that were in it, could not have written verses, tragedies, poems, and touched all hearts in that way, had his course of life and education led him thitherward. the grand fundamental character is that of great man; that the man be great. napoleon has words in him which are like austerlitz battles. louis fourteenth's marshals are a kind of poetical men withal; the things turenne says are full of sagacity and geniality, like sayings of samuel johnson. the great heart, the clear deep-seeing eye: there it lies; no man whatever, in what province soever, can prosper at all without these. petrarch and boccaccio did diplomatic messages, it seems, quite well: one can easily believe it; they had done things a little harder than these! burns, a gifted song-writer, might have made a still better mirabeau. shakspeare,--one knows not what _he_ could not have made, in the supreme degree. true, there are aptitudes of nature too. nature does not make all great men, more than all other men, in the self-same mould. varieties of aptitude doubtless; but infinitely more of circumstance; and far oftenest it is the _latter_ only that are looked to. but it is as with common men in the learning of trades. you take any man, as yet a vague capability of a man, who could be any kind of craftsman; and make him into a smith, a carpenter, a mason: he is then and thenceforth that and nothing else. and if, as addison complains, you sometimes see a street-porter, staggering under his load on spindle-shanks, and near at hand a tailor with the frame of a samson handling a bit of cloth and small whitechapel needle,--it cannot be considered that aptitude of nature alone has been consulted here either!--the great man also, to what shall he be bound apprentice? given your hero, is he to become conqueror, king, philosopher, poet? it is an inexplicably complex controversial-calculation between the world and him! he will read the world and its laws; the world with its laws will be there to be read. what the world, on _this_ matter, shall permit and bid is, as we said, the most important fact about the world.-poet and prophet differ greatly in our loose modern notions of them. in some old languages, again, the titles are synonymous; _vates_ means both prophet and poet: and indeed at all times, prophet and poet, well understood, have much kindred of meaning. fundamentally indeed they are still the same; in this most important respect especially, that they have penetrated both of them into the sacred mystery of the universe; what goethe calls "the open secret." "which is the great secret?" asks one.--"the _open_ secret,"--open to all, seen by almost none! that divine mystery, which lies everywhere in all beings, "the divine idea of the world, that which lies at the bottom of appearance," as fichte styles it; of which all appearance, from the starry sky to the grass of the field, but especially the appearance of man and his work, is but the _vesture_, the embodiment that renders it visible. this divine mystery _is_ in all times and in all places; veritably is. in most times and places it is greatly overlooked; and the universe, definable always in one or the other dialect, as the realized thought of god, is considered a trivial, inert, commonplace matter,--as if, says the satirist, it were a dead thing, which some upholsterer had put together! it could do no good, at present, to _speak_ much about this; but it is a pity for every one of us if we do not know it, live ever in the knowledge of it. really a most mournful pity;--a failure to live at all, if we live otherwise! but now, i say, whoever may forget this divine mystery, the _vates_, whether prophet or poet, has penetrated into it; is a man sent hither to make it more impressively known to us. that always is his message; he is to reveal that to us,--that sacred mystery which he more than others lives ever present with. while others forget it, he knows it;--i might say, he has been driven to know it; without consent asked of him, he finds himself living in it, bound to live in it. once more, here is no hearsay, but a direct insight and belief; this man too could not help being a sincere man! whosoever may live in the shows of things, it is for him a necessity of nature to live in the very fact of things. a man once more, in earnest with the universe, though all others were but toying with it. he is a _vates_, first of all, in virtue of being sincere. so far poet and prophet, participators in the "open secret," are one. with respect to their distinction again: the _vates_ prophet, we might say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as good and evil, duty and prohibition; the _vates_ poet on what the germans call the aesthetic side, as beautiful, and the like. the one we may call a revealer of what we are to do, the other of what we are to love. but indeed these two provinces run into one another, and cannot be disjoined. the prophet too has his eye on what we are to love: how else shall he know what it is we are to do? the highest voice ever heard on this earth said withal, "consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." a glance, that, into the deepest deep of beauty. "the lilies of the field,"--dressed finer than earthly princes, springing up there in the humble furrow-field; a beautiful _eye_ looking out on you, from the great inner sea of beauty! how could the rude earth make these, if her essence, rugged as she looks and is, were not inwardly beauty? in this point of view, too, a saying of goethe's, which has staggered several, may have meaning: "the beautiful," he intimates, "is higher than the good; the beautiful includes in it the good." the _true_ beautiful; which however, i have said somewhere, "differs from the _false_ as heaven does from vauxhall!" so much for the distinction and identity of poet and prophet.-in ancient and also in modern periods we find a few poets who are accounted perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with. this is noteworthy; this is right: yet in strictness it is only an illusion. at bottom, clearly enough, there is no perfect poet! a vein of poetry exists in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of poetry. we are all poets when we _read_ a poem well. the "imagination that shudders at the hell of dante," is not that the same faculty, weaker in degree, as dante's own? no one but shakspeare can embody, out of _saxo grammaticus_, the story of _hamlet_ as shakspeare did: but every one models some kind of story out of it; every one embodies it better or worse. we need not spend time in defining. where there is no specific difference, as between round and square, all definition must be more or less arbitrary. a man that has _so_ much more of the poetic element developed in him as to have become noticeable, will be called poet by his neighbors. world-poets too, those whom we are to take for perfect poets, are settled by critics in the same way. one who rises _so_ far above the general level of poets will, to such and such critics, seem a universal poet; as he ought to do. and yet it is, and must be, an arbitrary distinction. all poets, all men, have some touches of the universal; no man is wholly made of that. most poets are very soon forgotten: but not the noblest shakspeare or homer of them can be remembered _forever_;--a day comes when he too is not! nevertheless, you will say, there must be a difference between true poetry and true speech not poetical: what is the difference? on this point many things have been written, especially by late german critics, some of which are not very intelligible at first. they say, for example, that the poet has an _infinitude_ in him; communicates an _unendlichkeit_, a certain character of "infinitude," to whatsoever he delineates. this, though not very precise, yet on so vague a matter is worth remembering: if well meditated, some meaning will gradually be found in it. for my own part, i find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction of poetry being _metrical_, having music in it, being a song. truly, if pressed to give a definition, one might say this as soon as anything else: if your delineation be authentically _musical_, musical not in word only, but in heart and substance, in all the thoughts and utterances of it, in the whole conception of it, then it will be poetical; if not, not.--musical: how much lies in that! a _musical_ thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated into the inmost heart of the thing; detected the inmost mystery of it, namely the _melody_ that lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of coherence which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right to be, here in this world. all inmost things, we may say, are melodious; naturally utter themselves in song. the meaning of song goes deep. who is there that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us? a kind of inarticulate unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that! nay all speech, even the commonest speech, has something of song in it: not a parish in the world but has its parish-accent;--the rhythm or _tune_ to which the people there _sing_ what they have to say! accent is a kind of chanting; all men have accent of their own,--though they only _notice_ that of others. observe too how all passionate language does of itself become musical,--with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song. all deep things are song. it seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls! the primal element of us; of us, and of all things. the greeks fabled of sphere-harmonies: it was the feeling they had of the inner structure of nature; that the soul of all her voices and utterances was perfect music. poetry, therefore, we will call _musical thought_. the poet is he who _thinks_ in that manner. at bottom, it turns still on power of intellect; it is a man's sincerity and depth of vision that makes him a poet. see deep enough, and you see musically; the heart of nature _being_ everywhere music, if you can only reach it. the _vates_ poet, with his melodious apocalypse of nature, seems to hold a poor rank among us, in comparison with the _vates_ prophet; his function, and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight. the hero taken as divinity; the hero taken as prophet; then next the hero taken only as poet: does it not look as if our estimate of the great man, epoch after epoch, were continually diminishing? we take him first for a god, then for one god-inspired; and now in the next stage of it, his most miraculous word gains from us only the recognition that he is a poet, beautiful verse-maker, man of genius, or such like!--it looks so; but i persuade myself that intrinsically it is not so. if we consider well, it will perhaps appear that in man still there is the _same_ altogether peculiar admiration for the heroic gift, by what name soever called, that there at any time was. i should say, if we do not now reckon a great man literally divine, it is that our notions of god, of the supreme unattainable fountain of splendor, wisdom and heroism, are ever rising _higher_; not altogether that our reverence for these qualities, as manifested in our like, is getting lower. this is worth taking thought of. sceptical dilettantism, the curse of these ages, a curse which will not last forever, does indeed in this the highest province of human things, as in all provinces, make sad work; and our reverence for great men, all crippled, blinded, paralytic as it is, comes out in poor plight, hardly recognizable. men worship the shows of great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to worship. the dreariest, fatalest faith; believing which, one would literally despair of human things. nevertheless look, for example, at napoleon! a corsican lieutenant of artillery; that is the show of _him_: yet is he not obeyed, worshipped after his sort, as all the tiaraed and diademed of the world put together could not be? high duchesses, and ostlers of inns, gather round the scottish rustic, burns;--a strange feeling dwelling in each that they never heard a man like this; that, on the whole, this is the man! in the secret heart of these people it still dimly reveals itself, though there is no accredited way of uttering it at present, that this rustic, with his black brows and flashing sun-eyes, and strange words moving laughter and tears, is of a dignity far beyond all others, incommensurable with all others. do not we feel it so? but now, were dilettantism, scepticism, triviality, and all that sorrowful brood, cast out of us,--as, by god's blessing, they shall one day be; were faith in the shows of things entirely swept out, replaced by clear faith in the _things_, so that a man acted on the impulse of that only, and counted the other non-extant; what a new livelier feeling towards this burns were it! nay here in these ages, such as they are, have we not two mere poets, if not deified, yet we may say beatified? shakspeare and dante are saints of poetry; really, if we will think of it, _canonized_, so that it is impiety to meddle with them. the unguided instinct of the world, working across all these perverse impediments, has arrived at such result. dante and shakspeare are a peculiar two. they dwell apart, in a kind of royal solitude; none equal, none second to them: in the general feeling of the world, a certain transcendentalism, a glory as of complete perfection, invests these two. they _are_ canonized, though no pope or cardinals took hand in doing it! such, in spite of every perverting influence, in the most unheroic times, is still our indestructible reverence for heroism.--we will look a little at these two, the poet dante and the poet shakspeare: what little it is permitted us to say here of the hero as poet will most fitly arrange itself in that fashion. many volumes have been written by way of commentary on dante and his book; yet, on the whole, with no great result. his biography is, as it were, irrecoverably lost for us. an unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken man, not much note was taken of him while he lived; and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that now intervenes. it is five centuries since he ceased writing and living here. after all commentaries, the book itself is mainly what we know of him. the book;--and one might add that portrait commonly attributed to giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining to think genuine, whoever did it. to me it is a most touching face; perhaps of all faces that i know, the most so. lonely there, painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory which is also deathless;--significant of the whole history of dante! i think it is the mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. there is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud hopeless pain. a soft ethereal soul looking out so stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed ice! withal it is a silent pain too, a silent scornful one: the lip is curled in a kind of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating out his heart,--as if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle were greater than it. the face of one wholly in protest, and lifelong unsurrendering battle, against the world. affection all converted into indignation: an implacable indignation; slow, equable, silent, like that of a god! the eye too, it looks out as in a kind of _surprise_, a kind of inquiry, why the world was of such a sort? this is dante: so he looks, this "voice of ten silent centuries," and sings us "his mystic unfathomable song." the little that we know of dante's life corresponds well enough with this portrait and this book. he was born at florence, in the upper class of society, in the year 1265. his education was the best then going; much school-divinity, aristotelean logic, some latin classics,--no inconsiderable insight into certain provinces of things: and dante, with his earnest intelligent nature, we need not doubt, learned better than most all that was learnable. he has a clear cultivated understanding, and of great subtlety; this best fruit of education he had contrived to realize from these scholastics. he knows accurately and well what lies close to him; but, in such a time, without printed books or free intercourse, he could not know well what was distant: the small clear light, most luminous for what is near, breaks itself into singular _chiaroscuro_ striking on what is far off. this was dante's learning from the schools. in life, he had gone through the usual destinies; been twice out campaigning as a soldier for the florentine state, been on embassy; had in his thirty-fifth year, by natural gradation of talent and service, become one of the chief magistrates of florence. he had met in boyhood a certain beatrice portinari, a beautiful little girl of his own age and rank, and grown up thenceforth in partial sight of her, in some distant intercourse with her. all readers know his graceful affecting account of this; and then of their being parted; of her being wedded to another, and of her death soon after. she makes a great figure in dante's poem; seems to have made a great figure in his life. of all beings it might seem as if she, held apart from him, far apart at last in the dim eternity, were the only one he had ever with his whole strength of affection loved. she died: dante himself was wedded; but it seems not happily, far from happily. i fancy, the rigorous earnest man, with his keen excitabilities, was not altogether easy to make happy. we will not complain of dante's miseries: had all gone right with him as he wished it, he might have been prior, podesta, or whatsoever they call it, of florence, well accepted among neighbors,--and the world had wanted one of the most notable words ever spoken or sung. florence would have had another prosperous lord mayor; and the ten dumb centuries continued voiceless, and the ten other listening centuries (for there will be ten of them and more) had no _divina commedia_ to hear! we will complain of nothing. a nobler destiny was appointed for this dante; and he, struggling like a man led towards death and crucifixion, could not help fulfilling it. give _him_ the choice of his happiness! he knew not, more than we do, what was really happy, what was really miserable. in dante's priorship, the guelf-ghibelline, bianchi-neri, or some other confused disturbances rose to such a height, that dante, whose party had seemed the stronger, was with his friends cast unexpectedly forth into banishment; doomed thenceforth to a life of woe and wandering. his property was all confiscated and more; he had the fiercest feeling that it was entirely unjust, nefarious in the sight of god and man. he tried what was in him to get reinstated; tried even by warlike surprisal, with arms in his hand: but it would not do; bad only had become worse. there is a record, i believe, still extant in the florence archives, dooming this dante, wheresoever caught, to be burnt alive. burnt alive; so it stands, they say: a very curious civic document. another curious document, some considerable number of years later, is a letter of dante's to the florentine magistrates, written in answer to a milder proposal of theirs, that he should return on condition of apologizing and paying a fine. he answers, with fixed stern pride: "if i cannot return without calling myself guilty, i will never return, _nunquam revertar_." for dante there was now no home in this world. he wandered from patron to patron, from place to place; proving, in his own bitter words, "how hard is the path, _come e duro calle_." the wretched are not cheerful company. dante, poor and banished, with his proud earnest nature, with his moody humors, was not a man to conciliate men. petrarch reports of him that being at can della scala's court, and blamed one day for his gloom and taciturnity, he answered in no courtier-like way. della scala stood among his courtiers, with mimes and buffoons (_nebulones ac histriones_) making him heartily merry; when turning to dante, he said: "is it not strange, now, that this poor fool should make himself so entertaining; while you, a wise man, sit there day after day, and have nothing to amuse us with at all?" dante answered bitterly: "no, not strange; your highness is to recollect the proverb, _like to like_;"--given the amuser, the amusee must also be given! such a man, with his proud silent ways, with his sarcasms and sorrows, was not made to succeed at court. by degrees, it came to be evident to him that he had no longer any resting-place, or hope of benefit, in this earth. the earthly world had cast him forth, to wander, wander; no living heart to love him now; for his sore miseries there was no solace here. the deeper naturally would the eternal world impress itself on him; that awful reality over which, after all, this time-world, with its florences and banishments, only flutters as an unreal shadow. florence thou shalt never see: but hell and purgatory and heaven thou shalt surely see! what is florence, can della scala, and the world and life altogether? eternity: thither, of a truth, not elsewhither, art thou and all things bound! the great soul of dante, homeless on earth, made its home more and more in that awful other world. naturally his thoughts brooded on that, as on the one fact important for him. bodied or bodiless, it is the one fact important for all men:--but to dante, in that age, it was bodied in fixed certainty of scientific shape; he no more doubted of that _malebolge_ pool, that it all lay there with its gloomy circles, with its _alti guai_, and that he himself should see it, than we doubt that we should see constantinople if we went thither. dante's heart, long filled with this, brooding over it in speechless thought and awe, bursts forth at length into "mystic unfathomable song;" and this his _divine comedy_, the most remarkable of all modern books, is the result. it must have been a great solacement to dante, and was, as we can see, a proud thought for him at times, that he, here in exile, could do this work; that no florence, nor no man or men, could hinder him from doing it, or even much help him in doing it. he knew too, partly, that it was great; the greatest a man could do. "if thou follow thy star, _se tu segui tua stella_,"--so could the hero, in his forsakenness, in his extreme need, still say to himself: "follow thou thy star, thou shalt not fail of a glorious haven!" the labor of writing, we find, and indeed could know otherwise, was great and painful for him; he says, this book, "which has made me lean for many years." ah yes, it was won, all of it, with pain and sore toil,--not in sport, but in grim earnest. his book, as indeed most good books are, has been written, in many senses, with his heart's blood. it is his whole history, this book. he died after finishing it; not yet very old, at the age of fifty-six;--broken-hearted rather, as is said. he lies buried in his death-city ravenna: _hic claudor dantes patriis extorris ab oris_. the florentines begged back his body, in a century after; the ravenna people would not give it. "here am i dante laid, shut out from my native shores." i said, dante's poem was a song: it is tieck who calls it "a mystic unfathomable song;" and such is literally the character of it. coleridge remarks very pertinently somewhere, that wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is something deep and good in the meaning too. for body and soul, word and idea, go strangely together here as everywhere. song: we said before, it was the heroic of speech! all _old_ poems, homer's and the rest, are authentically songs. i would say, in strictness, that all right poems are; that whatsoever is not _sung_ is properly no poem, but a piece of prose cramped into jingling lines,--to the great injury of the grammar, to the great grief of the reader, for most part! what we wants to get at is the _thought_ the man had, if he had any: why should he twist it into jingle, if he _could_ speak it out plainly? it is only when the heart of him is rapt into true passion of melody, and the very tones of him, according to coleridge's remark, become musical by the greatness, depth and music of his thoughts, that we can give him right to rhyme and sing; that we call him a poet, and listen to him as the heroic of speakers,--whose speech is song. pretenders to this are many; and to an earnest reader, i doubt, it is for most part a very melancholy, not to say an insupportable business, that of reading rhyme! rhyme that had no inward necessity to be rhymed;--it ought to have told us plainly, without any jingle, what it was aiming at. i would advise all men who _can_ speak their thought, not to sing it; to understand that, in a serious time, among serious men, there is no vocation in them for singing it. precisely as we love the true song, and are charmed by it as by something divine, so shall we hate the false song, and account it a mere wooden noise, a thing hollow, superfluous, altogether an insincere and offensive thing. i give dante my highest praise when i say of his _divine comedy_ that it is, in all senses, genuinely a song. in the very sound of it there is a _canto fermo_; it proceeds as by a chant. the language, his simple _terza rima_, doubtless helped him in this. one reads along naturally with a sort of _lilt_. but i add, that it could not be otherwise; for the essence and material of the work are themselves rhythmic. its depth, and rapt passion and sincerity, makes it musical;--go _deep_ enough, there is music everywhere. a true inward symmetry, what one calls an architectural harmony, reigns in it, proportionates it all: architectural; which also partakes of the character of music. the three kingdoms, _inferno_, _purgatorio_, _paradiso_, look out on one another like compartments of a great edifice; a great supernatural world-cathedral, piled up there, stern, solemn, awful; dante's world of souls! it is, at bottom, the _sincerest_ of all poems; sincerity, here too, we find to be the measure of worth. it came deep out of the author's heart of hearts; and it goes deep, and through long generations, into ours. the people of verona, when they saw him on the streets, used to say, "_eccovi l' uom ch' e stato all' inferno_, see, there is the man that was in hell!" ah yes, he had been in hell;--in hell enough, in long severe sorrow and struggle; as the like of him is pretty sure to have been. commedias that come out _divine_ are not accomplished otherwise. thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it not the daughter of pain? born as out of the black whirlwind;--true _effort_, in fact, as of a captive struggling to free himself: that is thought. in all ways we are "to become perfect through _suffering_."--_but_, as i say, no work known to me is so elaborated as this of dante's. it has all been as if molten, in the hottest furnace of his soul. it had made him "lean" for many years. not the general whole only; every compartment of it is worked out, with intense earnestness, into truth, into clear visuality. each answers to the other; each fits in its place, like a marble stone accurately hewn and polished. it is the soul of dante, and in this the soul of the middle ages, rendered forever rhythmically visible there. no light task; a right intense one: but a task which is _done_. perhaps one would say, _intensity_, with the much that depends on it, is the prevailing character of dante's genius. dante does not come before us as a large catholic mind; rather as a narrow, and even sectarian mind: it is partly the fruit of his age and position, but partly too of his own nature. his greatness has, in all senses, concentred itself into fiery emphasis and depth. he is world-great not because he is worldwide, but because he is world-deep. through all objects he pierces as it were down into the heart of being. i know nothing so intense as dante. consider, for example, to begin with the outermost development of his intensity, consider how he paints. he has a great power of vision; seizes the very type of a thing; presents that and nothing more. you remember that first view he gets of the hall of dite: _red_ pinnacle, red-hot cone of iron glowing through the dim immensity of gloom;--so vivid, so distinct, visible at once and forever! it is as an emblem of the whole genius of dante. there is a brevity, an abrupt precision in him: tacitus is not briefer, more condensed; and then in dante it seems a natural condensation, spontaneous to the man. one smiting word; and then there is silence, nothing more said. his silence is more eloquent than words. it is strange with what a sharp decisive grace he snatches the true likeness of a matter: cuts into the matter as with a pen of fire. plutus, the blustering giant, collapses at virgil's rebuke; it is "as the sails sink, the mast being suddenly broken." or that poor brunetto latini, with the _cotto aspetto_, "face _baked_," parched brown and lean; and the "fiery snow" that falls on them there, a "fiery snow without wind," slow, deliberate, never-ending! or the lids of those tombs; square sarcophaguses, in that silent dim-burning hall, each with its soul in torment; the lids laid open there; they are to be shut at the day of judgment, through eternity. and how farinata rises; and how cavalcante falls--at hearing of his son, and the past tense "_fue_"! the very movements in dante have something brief; swift, decisive, almost military. it is of the inmost essence of his genius this sort of painting. the fiery, swift italian nature of the man, so silent, passionate, with its quick abrupt movements, its silent "pale rages," speaks itself in these things. for though this of painting is one of the outermost developments of a man, it comes like all else from the essential faculty of him; it is physiognomical of the whole man. find a man whose words paint you a likeness, you have found a man worth something; mark his manner of doing it, as very characteristic of him. in the first place, he could not have discerned the object at all, or seen the vital type of it, unless he had, what we may call, _sympathized_ with it,--had sympathy in him to bestow on objects. he must have been _sincere_ about it too; sincere and sympathetic: a man without worth cannot give you the likeness of any object; he dwells in vague outwardness, fallacy and trivial hearsay, about all objects. and indeed may we not say that intellect altogether expresses itself in this power of discerning what an object is? whatsoever of faculty a man's mind may have will come out here. is it even of business, a matter to be done? the gifted man is he who _sees_ the essential point, and leaves all the rest aside as surplusage: it is his faculty too, the man of business's faculty, that he discern the true _likeness_, not the false superficial one, of the thing he has got to work in. and how much of _morality_ is in the kind of insight we get of anything; "the eye seeing in all things what it brought with it the faculty of seeing"! to the mean eye all things are trivial, as certainly as to the jaundiced they are yellow. raphael, the painters tell us, is the best of all portrait-painters withal. no most gifted eye can exhaust the significance of any object. in the commonest human face there lies more than raphael will take away with him. dante's painting is not graphic only, brief, true, and of a vividness as of fire in dark night; taken on the wider scale, it is every way noble, and the outcome of a great soul. francesca and her lover, what qualities in that! a thing woven as out of rainbows, on a ground of eternal black. a small flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there, into our very heart of hearts. a touch of womanhood in it too: _della bella persona, che mi fu tolta_; and how, even in the pit of woe, it is a solace that _he_ will never part from her! saddest tragedy in these _alti guai_. and the racking winds, in that _aer bruno_, whirl them away again, to wail forever!--strange to think: dante was the friend of this poor francesca's father; francesca herself may have sat upon the poet's knee, as a bright innocent little child. infinite pity, yet also infinite rigor of law: it is so nature is made; it is so dante discerned that she was made. what a paltry notion is that of his _divine comedy's_ being a poor splenetic impotent terrestrial libel; putting those into hell whom he could not be avenged upon on earth! i suppose if ever pity, tender as a mother's, was in the heart of any man, it was in dante's. but a man who does not know rigor cannot pity either. his very pity will be cowardly, egoistic,--sentimentality, or little better. i know not in the world an affection equal to that of dante. it is a tenderness, a trembling, longing, pitying love: like the wail of aeolian harps, soft, soft; like a child's young heart;--and then that stern, sore-saddened heart! these longings of his towards his beatrice; their meeting together in the _paradiso_; his gazing in her pure transfigured eyes, her that had been purified by death so long, separated from him so far:--one likens it to the song of angels; it is among the purest utterances of affection, perhaps the very purest, that ever came out of a human soul. for the _intense_ dante is intense in all things; he has got into the essence of all. his intellectual insight as painter, on occasion too as reasoner, is but the result of all other sorts of intensity. morally great, above all, we must call him; it is the beginning of all. his scorn, his grief are as transcendent as his love;--as indeed, what are they but the _inverse_ or _converse_ of his love? "_a dio spiacenti ed a' nemici sui_, hateful to god and to the enemies of god:" lofty scorn, unappeasable silent reprobation and aversion; "_non ragionam di lor_, we will not speak of _them_, look only and pass." or think of this; "they have not the _hope_ to die, _non han speranza di morte_." one day, it had risen sternly benign on the scathed heart of dante, that he, wretched, never-resting, worn as he was, would full surely _die_; "that destiny itself could not doom him not to die." such words are in this man. for rigor, earnestness and depth, he is not to be paralleled in the modern world; to seek his parallel we must go into the hebrew bible, and live with the antique prophets there. i do not agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring the _inferno_ to the two other parts of the divine _commedia_. such preference belongs, i imagine, to our general byronism of taste, and is like to be a transient feeling. the _purgatorio_ and _paradiso_, especially the former, one would almost say, is even more excellent than it. it is a noble thing that _purgatorio_, "mountain of purification;" an emblem of the noblest conception of that age. if sin is so fatal, and hell is and must be so rigorous, awful, yet in repentance too is man purified; repentance is the grand christian act. it is beautiful how dante works it out. the _tremolar dell' onde_, that "trembling" of the ocean-waves, under the first pure gleam of morning, dawning afar on the wandering two, is as the type of an altered mood. hope has now dawned; never-dying hope, if in company still with heavy sorrow. the obscure sojourn of demons and reprobate is underfoot; a soft breathing of penitence mounts higher and higher, to the throne of mercy itself. "pray for me," the denizens of that mount of pain all say to him. "tell my giovanna to pray for me," my daughter giovanna; "i think her mother loves me no more!" they toil painfully up by that winding steep, "bent down like corbels of a building," some of them,--crushed together so "for the sin of pride;" yet nevertheless in years, in ages and aeons, they shall have reached the top, which is heaven's gate, and by mercy shall have been admitted in. the joy too of all, when one has prevailed; the whole mountain shakes with joy, and a psalm of praise rises, when one soul has perfected repentance and got its sin and misery left behind! i call all this a noble embodiment of a true noble thought. but indeed the three compartments mutually support one another, are indispensable to one another. the _paradiso_, a kind of inarticulate music to me, is the redeeming side of the _inferno_; the _inferno_ without it were untrue. all three make up the true unseen world, as figured in the christianity of the middle ages; a thing forever memorable, forever true in the essence of it, to all men. it was perhaps delineated in no human soul with such depth of veracity as in this of dante's; a man _sent_ to sing it, to keep it long memorable. very notable with what brief simplicity he passes out of the every-day reality, into the invisible one; and in the second or third stanza, we find ourselves in the world of spirits; and dwell there, as among things palpable, indubitable! to dante they _were_ so; the real world, as it is called, and its facts, was but the threshold to an infinitely higher fact of a world. at bottom, the one was as _preternatural_ as the other. has not each man a soul? he will not only be a spirit, but is one. to the earnest dante it is all one visible fact; he believes it, sees it; is the poet of it in virtue of that. sincerity, i say again, is the saving merit, now as always. dante's hell, purgatory, paradise, are a symbol withal, an emblematic representation of his belief about this universe:--some critic in a future age, like those scandinavian ones the other day, who has ceased altogether to think as dante did, may find this too all an "allegory," perhaps an idle allegory! it is a sublime embodiment, or sublimest, of the soul of christianity. it expresses, as in huge world-wide architectural emblems, how the christian dante felt good and evil to be the two polar elements of this creation, on which it all turns; that these two differ not by preferability of one to the other, but by incompatibility absolute and infinite; that the one is excellent and high as light and heaven, the other hideous, black as gehenna and the pit of hell! everlasting justice, yet with penitence, with everlasting pity,--all christianism, as dante and the middle ages had it, is emblemed here. emblemed: and yet, as i urged the other day, with what entire truth of purpose; how unconscious of any embleming! hell, purgatory, paradise: these things were not fashioned as emblems; was there, in our modern european mind, any thought at all of their being emblems! were they not indubitable awful facts; the whole heart of man taking them for practically true, all nature everywhere confirming them? so is it always in these things. men do not believe an allegory. the future critic, whatever his new thought may be, who considers this of dante to have been all got up as an allegory, will commit one sore mistake!--paganism we recognized as a veracious expression of the earnest awe-struck feeling of man towards the universe; veracious, true once, and still not without worth for us. but mark here the difference of paganism and christianism; one great difference. paganism emblemed chiefly the operations of nature; the destinies, efforts, combinations, vicissitudes of things and men in this world; christianism emblemed the law of human duty, the moral law of man. one was for the sensuous nature: a rude helpless utterance of the first thought of men,--the chief recognized virtue, courage, superiority to fear. the other was not for the sensuous nature, but for the moral. what a progress is here, if in that one respect only--! and so in this dante, as we said, had ten silent centuries, in a very strange way, found a voice. the _divina commedia_ is of dante's writing; yet in truth it belongs to ten christian centuries, only the finishing of it is dante's. so always. the craftsman there, the smith with that metal of his, with these tools, with these cunning methods,--how little of all he does is properly _his_ work! all past inventive men work there with him;--as indeed with all of us, in all things. dante is the spokesman of the middle ages; the thought they lived by stands here, in everlasting music. these sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the fruit of the christian meditation of all the good men who had gone before him. precious they; but also is not he precious? much, had not he spoken, would have been dumb; not dead, yet living voiceless. on the whole, is it not an utterance, this mystic song, at once of one of the greatest human souls, and of the highest thing that europe had hitherto realized for itself? christianism, as dante sings it, is another than paganism in the rude norse mind; another than "bastard christianism" half-articulately spoken in the arab desert, seven hundred years before!--the noblest _idea_ made _real_ hitherto among men, is sung, and emblemed forth abidingly, by one of the noblest men. in the one sense and in the other, are we not right glad to possess it? as i calculate, it may last yet for long thousands of years. for the thing that is uttered from the inmost parts of a man's soul, differs altogether from what is uttered by the outer part. the outer is of the day, under the empire of mode; the outer passes away, in swift endless changes; the inmost is the same yesterday, to-day and forever. true souls, in all generations of the world, who look on this dante, will find a brotherhood in him; the deep sincerity of his thoughts, his woes and hopes, will speak likewise to their sincerity; they will feel that this dante too was a brother. napoleon in saint helena is charmed with the genial veracity of old homer. the oldest hebrew prophet, under a vesture the most diverse from ours, does yet, because he speaks from the heart of man, speak to all men's hearts. it is the one sole secret of continuing long memorable. dante, for depth of sincerity, is like an antique prophet too; his words, like theirs, come from his very heart. one need not wonder if it were predicted that his poem might be the most enduring thing our europe has yet made; for nothing so endures as a truly spoken word. all cathedrals, pontificalities, brass and stone, and outer arrangement never so lasting, are brief in comparison to an unfathomable heart-song like this: one feels as if it might survive, still of importance to men, when these had all sunk into new irrecognizable combinations, and had ceased individually to be. europe has made much; great cities, great empires, encyclopaedias, creeds, bodies of opinion and practice: but it has made little of the class of dante's thought. homer yet _is_ veritably present face to face with every open soul of us; and greece, where is _it_? desolate for thousands of years; away, vanished; a bewildered heap of stones and rubbish, the life and existence of it all gone. like a dream; like the dust of king agamemnon! greece was; greece, except in the _words_ it spoke, is not. the uses of this dante? we will not say much about his "uses." a human soul who has once got into that primal element of _song_, and sung forth fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the _depths_ of our existence; feeding through long times the life-roots of all excellent human things whatsoever,--in a way that "utilities" will not succeed well in calculating! we will not estimate the sun by the quantity of gaslight it saves us; dante shall be invaluable, or of no value. one remark i may make: the contrast in this respect between the hero-poet and the hero-prophet. in a hundred years, mahomet, as we saw, had his arabians at grenada and at delhi; dante's italians seem to be yet very much where they were. shall we say, then, dante's effect on the world was small in comparison? not so: his arena is far more restricted; but also it is far nobler, clearer;--perhaps not less but more important. mahomet speaks to great masses of men, in the coarse dialect adapted to such; a dialect filled with inconsistencies, crudities, follies: on the great masses alone can he act, and there with good and with evil strangely blended. dante speaks to the noble, the pure and great, in all times and places. neither does he grow obsolete, as the other does. dante burns as a pure star, fixed there in the firmament, at which the great and the high of all ages kindle themselves: he is the possession of all the chosen of the world for uncounted time. dante, one calculates, may long survive mahomet. in this way the balance may be made straight again. but, at any rate, it is not by what is called their effect on the world, by what _we_ can judge of their effect there, that a man and his work are measured. effect? influence? utility? let a man _do_ his work; the fruit of it is the care of another than he. it will grow its own fruit; and whether embodied in caliph thrones and arabian conquests, so that it "fills all morning and evening newspapers," and all histories, which are a kind of distilled newspapers; or not embodied so at all;--what matters that? that is not the real fruit of it! the arabian caliph, in so far only as he did something, was something. if the great cause of man, and man's work in god's earth, got no furtherance from the arabian caliph, then no matter how many scimetars he drew, how many gold piasters pocketed, and what uproar and blaring he made in this world,--_he_ was but a loud-sounding inanity and futility; at bottom, he _was_ not at all. let us honor the great empire of _silence_, once more! the boundless treasury which we do not jingle in our pockets, or count up and present before men! it is perhaps, of all things, the usefulest for each of us to do, in these loud times.-as dante, the italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically the religion of the middle ages, the religion of our modern europe, its inner life; so shakspeare, we may say, embodies for us the outer life of our europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humors, ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, men then had. as in homer we may still construe old greece; so in shakspeare and dante, after thousands of years, what our modern europe was, in faith and in practice, will still be legible. dante has given us the faith or soul; shakspeare, in a not less noble way, has given us the practice or body. this latter also we were to have; a man was sent for it, the man shakspeare. just when that chivalry way of life had reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it. two fit men: dante, deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; shakspeare, wide, placid, far-seeing, as the sun, the upper light of the world. italy produced the one world-voice; we english had the honor of producing the other. curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us. i think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this shakspeare, had the warwickshire squire not prosecuted him for deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a poet! the woods and skies, the rustic life of man in stratford there, had been enough for this man! but indeed that strange outbudding of our whole english existence, which we call the elizabethan era, did not it too come as of its own accord? the "tree igdrasil" buds and withers by its own laws,--too deep for our scanning. yet it does bud and wither, and every bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a sir thomas lucy but comes at the hour fit for him. curious, i say, and not sufficiently considered: how everything does co-operate with all; not a leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognizably or irrecognizable, on all men! it is all a tree: circulation of sap and influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the whole. the tree igdrasil, that has its roots down in the kingdoms of hela and death, and whose boughs overspread the highest heaven--! in some sense it may be said that this glorious elizabethan era with its shakspeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, is itself attributable to the catholicism of the middle ages. the christian faith, which was the theme of dante's song, had produced this practical life which shakspeare was to sing. for religion then, as it now and always is, was the soul of practice; the primary vital fact in men's life. and remark here, as rather curious, that middle-age catholicism was abolished, so far as acts of parliament could abolish it, before shakspeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance. he did make his appearance nevertheless. nature at her own time, with catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking small thought of acts of parliament. king henrys, queen elizabeths go their way; and nature too goes hers. acts of parliament, on the whole, are small, notwithstanding the noise they make. what act of parliament, debate at st. stephen's, on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that brought this shakspeare into being? no dining at freemason's tavern, opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other jangling and true or false endeavoring! this elizabethan era, and all its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of ours. priceless shakspeare was the free gift of nature; given altogether silently;--received altogether silently, as if it had been a thing of little account. and yet, very literally, it is a priceless thing. one should look at that side of matters too. of this shakspeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; i think the best judgment not of this country only, but of europe at large, is slowly pointing to the conclusion, that shakspeare is the chief of all poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left record of himself in the way of literature. on the whole, i know not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all the characters of it, in any other man. such a calmness of depth; placid joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! it has been said, that in the constructing of shakspeare's dramas there is, apart from all other "faculties" as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to that in bacon's _novum organum_ that is true; and it is not a truth that strikes every one. it would become more apparent if we tried, any of us for himself, how, out of shakspeare's dramatic materials, _we_ could fashion such a result! the built house seems all so fit,--every way as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of things,--we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. the very perfection of the house, as if nature herself had made it, hides the builder's merit. perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may call shakspeare in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, what condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and its relation to them is. it is not a transitory glance of insight that will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a calmly _seeing_ eye; a great intellect, in short. how a man, of some wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind of picture and delineation he will give of it,--is the best measure you could get of what intellect is in the man. which circumstance is vital and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; where is the true _beginning_, the true sequence and ending? to find out this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man. he must _understand_ the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, will the fitness of his answer be. you will try him so. does like join itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so that its embroilment becomes order? can the man say, _fiat lux_, let there be light; and out of chaos make a world? precisely as there is light in himself, will he accomplish this. or indeed we may say again, it is in what i called portrait-painting, delineating of men and things, especially of men, that shakspeare is great. all the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. it is unexampled, i think, that calm creative perspicacity of shakspeare. the thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost heart, and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in light before him, so that he discerns the perfect structure of it. creative, we said: poetic creation, what is this too but _seeing_ the thing sufficiently? the _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such clear intense sight of the thing. and is not shakspeare's _morality_, his valor, candor, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, visible there too? great as the world. no _twisted_, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; a perfectly _level_ mirror;--that is to say withal, if we will understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man. it is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes in all kinds of men and objects, a falstaff, an othello, a juliet, a coriolanus; sets them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the equal brother of all. _novum organum_, and all the intellect you will find in bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor in comparison with this. among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost nothing of the same rank. goethe alone, since the days of shakspeare, reminds me of it. of him too you say that he _saw_ the object; you may say what he himself says of shakspeare: "his characters are like watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible." the seeing eye! it is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; what nature meant, what musical idea nature has wrapped up in these often rough embodiments. something she did mean. to the seeing eye that something were discernible. are they base, miserable things? you can laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other genially relate yourself to them;--you can, at lowest, hold your peace about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them! at bottom, it is the poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect enough. he will be a poet if he have: a poet in word; or failing that, perhaps still better, a poet in act. whether he write at all; and if so, whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who knows on what extremely trivial accidents,--perhaps on his having had a singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood! but the faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result of habits or accidents, but the gift of nature herself; the primary outfit for a heroic man in what sort soever. to the poet, as to every other, we say first of all, _see_. if you cannot do that, it is of no use to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each other, and _name_ yourself a poet; there is no hope for you. if you can, there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of hope. the crabbed old schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a new pupil, "but are ye sure he's _not a dunce_?" why, really one might ask the same thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful: are ye sure he's not a dunce? there is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person. for, in fact, i say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct measure of the man. if called to define shakspeare's faculty, i should say superiority of intellect, and think i had included all under that. what indeed are faculties? we talk of faculties as if they were distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, fancy, &c., as he has hands, feet and arms. that is a capital error. then again, we hear of a man's "intellectual nature," and of his "moral nature," as if these again were divisible, and existed apart. necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we must speak, i am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all. but words ought not to harden into things for us. it seems to me, our apprehension of this matter is, for most part, radically falsified thereby. we ought to know withal, and to keep forever in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but _names_; that man's spiritual nature, the vital force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are but different figures of the same power of insight, all indissolubly connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one of them, we might know all of them. morality itself, what we call the moral quality of a man, what is this but another _side_ of the one vital force whereby he is and works? all that a man does is physiognomical of him. you may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes. he is _one_; and preaches the same self abroad in all these ways. without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider it,--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! to know a thing, what we can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathize with it: that is, be _virtuously_ related to it. if he have not the justice to put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the dangerous-true at every turn, how shall he know? his virtues, all of them, will lie recorded in his knowledge. nature, with her truth, remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a sealed book: what such can know of nature is mean, superficial, small; for the uses of the day merely.--but does not the very fox know something of nature? exactly so: it knows where the geese lodge! the human reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know but this and the like of this? nay, it should be considered too, that if the fox had not a certain vulpine _morality_, he could not even know where the geese were, or get at the geese! if he spent his time in splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by nature, fortune and other foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, he would catch no geese. we may say of the fox too, that his morality and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same internal unity of vulpine life!--these things are worth stating; for the contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this time: what limitations, modifications they require, your own candor will supply. if i say, therefore, that shakspeare is the greatest of intellects, i have said all concerning him. but there is more in shakspeare's intellect than we have yet seen. it is what i call an unconscious intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of. novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those dramas of his are products of nature too, deep as nature herself. i find a great truth in this saying. shakspeare's art is not artifice; the noblest worth of it is not there by plan or precontrivance. it grows up from the deeps of nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of nature. the latest generations of men will find new meanings in shakspeare, new elucidations of their own human being; "new harmonies with the infinite structure of the universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities with the higher powers and senses of man." this well deserves meditating. it is nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul, that he get thus to be _a part of herself_. such a man's works, whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall accomplish, grow up withal unconsciously, from the unknown deeps in him;--as the oak-tree grows from the earth's bosom, as the mountains and waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on nature's own laws, conformable to all truth whatsoever. how much in shakspeare lies hid; his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not known at all, not speakable at all: like _roots_, like sap and forces working underground! speech is great; but silence is greater. withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. i will not blame dante for his misery: it is as battle without victory; but true battle,--the first, indispensable thing. yet i call shakspeare greater than dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. doubt it not, he had his own sorrows: those _sonnets_ of his will even testify expressly in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life;--as what man like him ever failed to have to do? it seems to me a heedless notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang forth, free and off-hand, never knowing the troubles of other men. not so; with no man is it so. how could a man travel forward from rustic deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall in with sorrows by the way? or, still better, how could a man delineate a hamlet, a coriolanus, a macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own heroic heart had never suffered?--and now, in contrast with all this, observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter! you would say, in no point does he _exaggerate_ but only in laughter. fiery objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in shakspeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what johnson would remark as a specially "good hater." but his laughter seems to pour from him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you would say, with his whole heart laughs. and then, if not always the finest, it is always a genial laughter. not at mere weakness, at misery or poverty; never. no man who _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will laugh at these things. it is some poor character only _desiring_ to laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. laughter means sympathy; good laughter is not "the crackling of thorns under the pot." even at stupidity and pretension this shakspeare does not laugh otherwise than genially. dogberry and verges tickle our very hearts; and we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter: but we like the poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on well there, and continue presidents of the city-watch. such laughter, like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me. we have no room to speak of shakspeare's individual works; though perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head. had we, for instance, all his plays reviewed as _hamlet_, in _wilhelm meister_, is! a thing which might, one day, be done. august wilhelm schlegel has a remark on his historical plays, _henry fifth_ and the others, which is worth remembering. he calls them a kind of national epic. marlborough, you recollect, said, he knew no english history but what he had learned from shakspeare. there are really, if we look to it, few as memorable histories. the great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as schlegel says, epic;--as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be. there are right beautiful things in those pieces, which indeed together form one beautiful thing. that battle of agincourt strikes me as one of the most perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of shakspeare's. the description of the two hosts: the worn-out, jaded english; the dread hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that deathless valor: "ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in england!" there is a noble patriotism in it,--far other than the "indifference" you sometimes hear ascribed to shakspeare. a true english heart breathes, calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; all the better for that. there is a sound in it like the ring of steel. this man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that! but i will say, of shakspeare's works generally, that we have no full impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. his works are so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in him. all his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note of the full utterance of the man. passages there are that come upon you like splendor out of heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very heart of the thing: you say, "that is _true_, spoken once and forever; wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be recognized as true!" such bursts, however, make us feel that the surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is, in part, temporary, conventional. alas, shakspeare had to write for the globe playhouse: his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other mould. it was with him, then, as it is with us all. no man works save under conditions. the sculptor cannot set his own free thought before us; but his thought as he could translate it into the stone that was given, with the tools that were given. _disjecta membra_ are all that we find of any poet, or of any man. whoever looks intelligently at this shakspeare may recognize that he too was a _prophet_, in his way; of an insight analogous to the prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. nature seemed to this man also divine; unspeakable, deep as tophet, high as heaven; "we are such stuff as dreams are made of!" that scroll in westminster abbey, which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer. but the man sang; did not preach, except musically. we called dante the melodious priest of middle-age catholicism. may we not call shakspeare the still more melodious priest of a _true_ catholicism, the "universal church" of the future and of all times? no narrow superstition, harsh asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousand-fold hidden beauty and divineness dwells in all nature; which let all men worship as they can! we may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal psalm out of this shakspeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among the still more sacred psalms. not in disharmony with these, if we understood them, but in harmony!--i cannot call this shakspeare a "sceptic," as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological quarrels of his time misleading them. no: neither unpatriotic, though he says little about his patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little about his faith. such "indifference" was the fruit of his greatness withal: his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may call it such); these other controversies, vitally important to other men, were not vital to him. but call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious thing, and set of things, this that shakspeare has brought us? for myself, i feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact of such a man being sent into this earth. is he not an eye to us all; a blessed heaven-sent bringer of light?--and, at bottom, was it not perhaps far better that this shakspeare, every way an unconscious man, was _conscious_ of no heavenly message? he did not feel, like mahomet, because he saw into those internal splendors, that he specially was the "prophet of god:" and was he not greater than mahomet in that? greater; and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in dante's case, more successful. it was intrinsically an error that notion of mahomet's, of his supreme prophethood; and has come down to us inextricably involved in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable step for me here and now to say, as i have done, that mahomet was a true speaker at all, and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no speaker, but a babbler! even in arabia, as i compute, mahomet will have exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this shakspeare, this dante may still be young;--while this shakspeare may still pretend to be a priest of mankind, of arabia as of other places, for unlimited periods to come! compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with aeschylus or homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them? he is _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal and perennial. but as for mahomet, i think it had been better for him _not_ to be so conscious! alas, poor mahomet; all that he was _conscious_ of was a mere error; a futility and triviality,--as indeed such ever is. the truly great in him too was the unconscious: that he was a wild arab lion of the desert, and did speak out with that great thunder-voice of his, not by words which he _thought_ to be great, but by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ great! his koran has become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him, that god wrote that! the great man here too, as always, is a force of nature. whatsoever is truly great in him springs up from the _in_articulate deeps. well: this is our poor warwickshire peasant, who rose to be manager of a playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the earl of southampton cast some kind glances on; whom sir thomas lucy, many thanks to him, was for sending to the treadmill! we did not account him a god, like odin, while he dwelt with us;--on which point there were much to be said. but i will say rather, or repeat: in spite of the sad state hero-worship now lies in, consider what this shakspeare has actually become among us. which englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which million of englishmen, would we not give up rather than the stratford peasant? there is no regiment of highest dignitaries that we would sell him for. he is the grandest thing we have yet done. for our honor among foreign nations, as an ornament to our english household, what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him? consider now, if they asked us, will you give up your indian empire or your shakspeare, you english; never have had any indian empire, or never have had any shakspeare? really it were a grave question. official persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our part too, should not we be forced to answer: indian empire, or no indian empire; we cannot do without shakspeare! indian empire will go, at any rate, some day; but this shakspeare does not go, he lasts forever with us; we cannot give up our shakspeare! nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, marketable, tangibly useful possession. england, before long, this island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the english: in america, in new holland, east and west to the very antipodes, there will be a saxondom covering great spaces of the globe. and now, what is it that can keep all these together into virtually one nation, so that they do not fall out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping one another? this is justly regarded as the greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and governments are here to accomplish: what is it that will accomplish this? acts of parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot. america is parted from us, so far as parliament could part it. call it not fantastic, for there is much reality in it: here, i say, is an english king, whom no time or chance, parliament or combination of parliaments, can dethrone! this king shakspeare, does not he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; indestructible; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever? we can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the nations of englishmen, a thousand years hence. from paramatta, from new york, wheresoever, under what sort of parish-constable soever, english men and women are, they will say to one another: "yes, this shakspeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him." the most common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that. yes, truly, it is a great thing for a nation that it get an articulate voice; that it produce a man who will speak forth melodiously what the heart of it means! italy, for example, poor italy lies dismembered, scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at all; yet the noble italy is actually _one_: italy produced its dante; italy can speak! the czar of all the russias, he is strong with so many bayonets, cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a tract of earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak. something great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. he has had no voice of genius, to be heard of all men and times. he must learn to speak. he is a great dumb monster hitherto. his cannons and cossacks will all have rusted into nonentity, while that dante's voice is still audible. the nation that has a dante is bound together as no dumb russia can be.--we must here end what we had to say of the _hero-poet_. lecture iv. the hero as priest. luther; reformation: knox; puritanism. [may 15, 1840.] our present discourse is to be of the great man as priest. we have repeatedly endeavored to explain that all sorts of heroes are intrinsically of the same material; that given a great soul, open to the divine significance of life, then there is given a man fit to speak of this, to sing of this, to fight and work for this, in a great, victorious, enduring manner; there is given a hero,--the outward shape of whom will depend on the time and the environment he finds himself in. the priest too, as i understand it, is a kind of prophet; in him too there is required to be a light of inspiration, as we must name it. he presides over the worship of the people; is the uniter of them with the unseen holy. he is the spiritual captain of the people; as the prophet is their spiritual king with many captains: he guides them heavenward, by wise guidance through this earth and its work. the ideal of him is, that he too be what we can call a voice from the unseen heaven; interpreting, even as the prophet did, and in a more familiar manner unfolding the same to men. the unseen heaven,--the "open secret of the universe,"--which so few have an eye for! he is the prophet shorn of his more awful splendor; burning with mild equable radiance, as the enlightener of daily life. this, i say, is the ideal of a priest. so in old times; so in these, and in all times. one knows very well that, in reducing ideals to practice, great latitude of tolerance is needful; very great. but a priest who is not this at all, who does not any longer aim or try to be this, is a character--of whom we had rather not speak in this place. luther and knox were by express vocation priests, and did faithfully perform that function in its common sense. yet it will suit us better here to consider them chiefly in their historical character, rather as reformers than priests. there have been other priests perhaps equally notable, in calmer times, for doing faithfully the office of a leader of worship; bringing down, by faithful heroism in that kind, a light from heaven into the daily life of their people; leading them forward, as under god's guidance, in the way wherein they were to go. but when this same _way_ was a rough one, of battle, confusion and danger, the spiritual captain, who led through that, becomes, especially to us who live under the fruit of his leading, more notable than any other. he is the warfaring and battling priest; who led his people, not to quiet faithful labor as in smooth times, but to faithful valorous conflict, in times all violent, dismembered: a more perilous service, and a more memorable one, be it higher or not. these two men we will account our best priests, inasmuch as they were our best reformers. nay i may ask, is not every true reformer, by the nature of him, a _priest_ first of all? he appeals to heaven's invisible justice against earth's visible force; knows that it, the invisible, is strong and alone strong. he is a believer in the divine truth of things; a _seer_, seeing through the shows of things; a worshipper, in one way or the other, of the divine truth of things; a priest, that is. if he be not first a priest, he will never be good for much as a reformer. thus then, as we have seen great men, in various situations, building up religions, heroic forms of human existence in this world, theories of life worthy to be sung by a dante, practices of life by a shakspeare,--we are now to see the reverse process; which also is necessary, which also may be carried on in the heroic manner. curious how this should be necessary: yet necessary it is. the mild shining of the poet's light has to give place to the fierce lightning of the reformer: unfortunately the reformer too is a personage that cannot fail in history! the poet indeed, with his mildness, what is he but the product and ultimate adjustment of reform, or prophecy, with its fierceness? no wild saint dominics and thebaid eremites, there had been no melodious dante; rough practical endeavor, scandinavian and other, from odin to walter raleigh, from ulfila to cranmer, enabled shakspeare to speak. nay the finished poet, i remark sometimes, is a symptom that his epoch itself has reached perfection and is finished; that before long there will be a new epoch, new reformers needed. doubtless it were finer, could we go along always in the way of _music_; be tamed and taught by our poets, as the rude creatures were by their orpheus of old. or failing this rhythmic _musical_ way, how good were it could we get so much as into the _equable_ way; i mean, if _peaceable_ priests, reforming from day to day, would always suffice us! but it is not so; even this latter has not yet been realized. alas, the battling reformer too is, from time to time, a needful and inevitable phenomenon. obstructions are never wanting: the very things that were once indispensable furtherances become obstructions; and need to be shaken off, and left behind us,--a business often of enormous difficulty. it is notable enough, surely, how a theorem or spiritual representation, so we may call it, which once took in the whole universe, and was completely satisfactory in all parts of it to the highly discursive acute intellect of dante, one of the greatest in the world,--had in the course of another century become dubitable to common intellects; become deniable; and is now, to every one of us, flatly incredible, obsolete as odin's theorem! to dante, human existence, and god's ways with men, were all well represented by those _malebolges_, _purgatorios_; to luther not well. how was this? why could not dante's catholicism continue; but luther's protestantism must needs follow? alas, nothing will _continue_. i do not make much of "progress of the species," as handled in these times of ours; nor do i think you would care to hear much about it. the talk on that subject is too often of the most extravagant, confused sort. yet i may say, the fact itself seems certain enough; nay we can trace out the inevitable necessity of it in the nature of things. every man, as i have stated somewhere, is not only a learner but a doer: he learns with the mind given him what has been; but with the same mind he discovers farther, he invents and devises somewhat of his own. absolutely without originality there is no man. no man whatever believes, or can believe, exactly what his grandfather believed: he enlarges somewhat, by fresh discovery, his view of the universe, and consequently his theorem of the universe,--which is an _infinite_ universe, and can never be embraced wholly or finally by any view or theorem, in any conceivable enlargement: he enlarges somewhat, i say; finds somewhat that was credible to his grandfather incredible to him, false to him, inconsistent with some new thing he has discovered or observed. it is the history of every man; and in the history of mankind we see it summed up into great historical amounts,--revolutions, new epochs. dante's mountain of purgatory does _not_ stand "in the ocean of the other hemisphere," when columbus has once sailed thither! men find no such thing extant in the other hemisphere. it is not there. it must cease to be believed to be there. so with all beliefs whatsoever in this world,--all systems of belief, and systems of practice that spring from these. if we add now the melancholy fact, that when belief waxes uncertain, practice too becomes unsound, and errors, injustices and miseries everywhere more and more prevail, we shall see material enough for revolution. at all turns, a man who will _do_ faithfully, needs to believe firmly. if he have to ask at every turn the world's suffrage; if he cannot dispense with the world's suffrage, and make his own suffrage serve, he is a poor eye-servant; the work committed to him will be _mis_done. every such man is a daily contributor to the inevitable downfall. whatsoever work he does, dishonestly, with an eye to the outward look of it, is a new offence, parent of new misery to somebody or other. offences accumulate till they become insupportable; and are then violently burst through, cleared off as by explosion. dante's sublime catholicism, incredible now in theory, and defaced still worse by faithless, doubting and dishonest practice, has to be torn asunder by a luther, shakspeare's noble feudalism, as beautiful as it once looked and was, has to end in a french revolution. the accumulation of offences is, as we say, too literally _exploded_, blasted asunder volcanically; and there are long troublous periods, before matters come to a settlement again. surely it were mournful enough to look only at this face of the matter, and find in all human opinions and arrangements merely the fact that they were uncertain, temporary, subject to the law of death! at bottom, it is not so: all death, here too we find, is but of the body, not of the essence or soul; all destruction, by violent revolution or howsoever it be, is but new creation on a wider scale. odinism was _valor_; christianism was _humility_, a nobler kind of valor. no thought that ever dwelt honestly as true in the heart of man but _was_ an honest insight into god's truth on man's part, and _has_ an essential truth in it which endures through all changes, an everlasting possession for us all. and, on the other hand, what a melancholy notion is that, which has to represent all men, in all countries and times except our own, as having spent their life in blind condemnable error, mere lost pagans, scandinavians, mahometans, only that we might have the true ultimate knowledge! all generations of men were lost and wrong, only that this present little section of a generation might be saved and right. they all marched forward there, all generations since the beginning of the world, like the russian soldiers into the ditch of schweidnitz fort, only to fill up the ditch with their dead bodies, that we might march over and take the place! it is an incredible hypothesis. such incredible hypothesis we have seen maintained with fierce emphasis; and this or the other poor individual man, with his sect of individual men, marching as over the dead bodies of all men, towards sure victory but when he too, with his hypothesis and ultimate infallible credo, sank into the ditch, and became a dead body, what was to be said?--withal, it is an important fact in the nature of man, that he tends to reckon his own insight as final, and goes upon it as such. he will always do it, i suppose, in one or the other way; but it must be in some wider, wiser way than this. are not all true men that live, or that ever lived, soldiers of the same army, enlisted, under heaven's captaincy, to do battle against the same enemy, the empire of darkness and wrong? why should we misknow one another, fight not against the enemy but against ourselves, from mere difference of uniform? all uniforms shall be good, so they hold in them true valiant men. all fashions of arms, the arab turban and swift scimetar, thor's strong hammer smiting down _jotuns_, shall be welcome. luther's battle-voice, dante's march-melody, all genuine things are with us, not against us. we are all under one captain, soldiers of the same host.--let us now look a little at this luther's fighting; what kind of battle it was, and how he comported himself in it. luther too was of our spiritual heroes; a prophet to his country and time. as introductory to the whole, a remark about idolatry will perhaps be in place here. one of mahomet's characteristics, which indeed belongs to all prophets, is unlimited implacable zeal against idolatry. it is the grand theme of prophets: idolatry, the worshipping of dead idols as the divinity, is a thing they cannot away with, but have to denounce continually, and brand with inexpiable reprobation; it is the chief of all the sins they see done under the sun. this is worth noting. we will not enter here into the theological question about idolatry. idol is _eidolon_, a thing seen, a symbol. it is not god, but a symbol of god; and perhaps one may question whether any the most benighted mortal ever took it for more than a symbol. i fancy, he did not think that the poor image his own hands had made _was_ god; but that god was emblemed by it, that god was in it some way or other. and now in this sense, one may ask, is not all worship whatsoever a worship by symbols, by _eidola_, or things seen? whether _seen_, rendered visible as an image or picture to the bodily eye; or visible only to the inward eye, to the imagination, to the intellect: this makes a superficial, but no substantial difference. it is still a thing seen, significant of godhead; an idol. the most rigorous puritan has his confession of faith, and intellectual representation of divine things, and worships thereby; thereby is worship first made possible for him. all creeds, liturgies, religious forms, conceptions that fitly invest religious feelings, are in this sense _eidola_, things seen. all worship whatsoever must proceed by symbols, by idols:--we may say, all idolatry is comparative, and the worst idolatry is only _more_ idolatrous. where, then, lies the evil of it? some fatal evil must lie in it, or earnest prophetic men would not on all hands so reprobate it. why is idolatry so hateful to prophets? it seems to me as if, in the worship of those poor wooden symbols, the thing that had chiefly provoked the prophet, and filled his inmost soul with indignation and aversion, was not exactly what suggested itself to his own thought, and came out of him in words to others, as the thing. the rudest heathen that worshipped canopus, or the caabah black-stone, he, as we saw, was superior to the horse that worshipped nothing at all! nay there was a kind of lasting merit in that poor act of his; analogous to what is still meritorious in poets: recognition of a certain endless _divine_ beauty and significance in stars and all natural objects whatsoever. why should the prophet so mercilessly condemn him? the poorest mortal worshipping his fetish, while his heart is full of it, may be an object of pity, of contempt and avoidance, if you will; but cannot surely be an object of hatred. let his heart _be_ honestly full of it, the whole space of his dark narrow mind illuminated thereby; in one word, let him entirely _believe_ in his fetish,--it will then be, i should say, if not well with him, yet as well as it can readily be made to be, and you will leave him alone, unmolested there. but here enters the fatal circumstance of idolatry, that, in the era of the prophets, no man's mind _is_ any longer honestly filled with his idol or symbol. before the prophet can arise who, seeing through it, knows it to be mere wood, many men must have begun dimly to doubt that it was little more. condemnable idolatry is _insincere_ idolatry. doubt has eaten out the heart of it: a human soul is seen clinging spasmodically to an ark of the covenant, which it half feels now to have become a phantasm. this is one of the balefulest sights. souls are no longer filled with their fetish; but only pretend to be filled, and would fain make themselves feel that they are filled. "you do not believe," said coleridge; "you only believe that you believe." it is the final scene in all kinds of worship and symbolism; the sure symptom that death is now nigh. it is equivalent to what we call formulism, and worship of formulas, in these days of ours. no more immoral act can be done by a human creature; for it is the beginning of all immorality, or rather it is the impossibility henceforth of any morality whatsoever: the innermost moral soul is paralyzed thereby, cast into fatal magnetic sleep! men are no longer _sincere_ men. i do not wonder that the earnest man denounces this, brands it, prosecutes it with inextinguishable aversion. he and it, all good and it, are at death-feud. blamable idolatry is _cant_, and even what one may call sincere-cant. sincere-cant: that is worth thinking of! every sort of worship ends with this phasis. i find luther to have been a breaker of idols, no less than any other prophet. the wooden gods of the koreish, made of timber and bees-wax, were not more hateful to mahomet than tetzel's pardons of sin, made of sheepskin and ink, were to luther. it is the property of every hero, in every time, in every place and situation, that he come back to reality; that he stand upon things, and not shows of things. according as he loves, and venerates, articulately or with deep speechless thought, the awful realities of things, so will the hollow shows of things, however regular, decorous, accredited by koreishes or conclaves, be intolerable and detestable to him. protestantism, too, is the work of a prophet: the prophet-work of that sixteenth century. the first stroke of honest demolition to an ancient thing grown false and idolatrous; preparatory afar off to a new thing, which shall be true, and authentically divine! at first view it might seem as if protestantism were entirely destructive to this that we call hero-worship, and represent as the basis of all possible good, religious or social, for mankind. one often hears it said that protestantism introduced a new era, radically different from any the world had ever seen before: the era of "private judgment," as they call it. by this revolt against the pope, every man became his own pope; and learnt, among other things, that he must never trust any pope, or spiritual hero-captain, any more! whereby, is not spiritual union, all hierarchy and subordination among men, henceforth an impossibility? so we hear it said.--now i need not deny that protestantism was a revolt against spiritual sovereignties, popes and much else. nay i will grant that english puritanism, revolt against earthly sovereignties, was the second act of it; that the enormous french revolution itself was the third act, whereby all sovereignties earthly and spiritual were, as might seem, abolished or made sure of abolition. protestantism is the grand root from which our whole subsequent european history branches out. for the spiritual will always body itself forth in the temporal history of men; the spiritual is the beginning of the temporal. and now, sure enough, the cry is everywhere for liberty and equality, independence and so forth; instead of _kings_, ballot-boxes and electoral suffrages: it seems made out that any hero-sovereign, or loyal obedience of men to a man, in things temporal or things spiritual, has passed away forever from the world. i should despair of the world altogether, if so. one of my deepest convictions is, that it is not so. without sovereigns, true sovereigns, temporal and spiritual, i see nothing possible but an anarchy; the hatefulest of things. but i find protestantism, whatever anarchic democracy it have produced, to be the beginning of new genuine sovereignty and order. i find it to be a revolt against _false_ sovereigns; the painful but indispensable first preparative for _true_ sovereigns getting place among us! this is worth explaining a little. let us remark, therefore, in the first place, that this of "private judgment" is, at bottom, not a new thing in the world, but only new at that epoch of the world. there is nothing generically new or peculiar in the reformation; it was a return to truth and reality in opposition to falsehood and semblance, as all kinds of improvement and genuine teaching are and have been. liberty of private judgment, if we will consider it, must at all times have existed in the world. dante had not put out his eyes, or tied shackles on himself; he was at home in that catholicism of his, a free-seeing soul in it,--if many a poor hogstraten, tetzel, and dr. eck had now become slaves in it. liberty of judgment? no iron chain, or outward force of any kind, could ever compel the soul of a man to believe or to disbelieve: it is his own indefeasible light, that judgment of his; he will reign, and believe there, by the grace of god alone! the sorriest sophistical bellarmine, preaching sightless faith and passive obedience, must first, by some kind of _conviction_, have abdicated his right to be convinced. his "private judgment" indicated that, as the advisablest step _he_ could take. the right of private judgment will subsist, in full force, wherever true men subsist. a true man _believes_ with his whole judgment, with all the illumination and discernment that is in him, and has always so believed. a false man, only struggling to "believe that he believes," will naturally manage it in some other way. protestantism said to this latter, woe! and to the former, well done! at bottom, it was no new saying; it was a return to all old sayings that ever had been said. be genuine, be sincere: that was, once more, the meaning of it. mahomet believed with his whole mind; odin with his whole mind,--he, and all _true_ followers of odinism. they, by their private judgment, had "judged "--_so_. and now i venture to assert, that the exercise of private judgment, faithfully gone about, does by no means necessarily end in selfish independence, isolation; but rather ends necessarily in the opposite of that. it is not honest inquiry that makes anarchy; but it is error, insincerity, half-belief and untruth that make it. a man protesting against error is on the way towards uniting himself with all men that believe in truth. there is no communion possible among men who believe only in hearsays. the heart of each is lying dead; has no power of sympathy even with _things_,--or he would believe _them_ and not hearsays. no sympathy even with things; how much less with his fellow-men! he cannot unite with men; he is an anarchic man. only in a world of sincere men is unity possible;--and there, in the long-run, it is as good as _certain_. for observe one thing, a thing too often left out of view, or rather altogether lost sight of in this controversy: that it is not necessary a man should himself have _discovered_ the truth he is to believe in, and never so _sincerely_ to believe in. a great man, we said, was always sincere, as the first condition of him. but a man need not be great in order to be sincere; that is not the necessity of nature and all time, but only of certain corrupt unfortunate epochs of time. a man can believe, and make his own, in the most genuine way, what he has received from another;--and with boundless gratitude to that other! the merit of _originality_ is not novelty; it is sincerity. the believing man is the original man; whatsoever he believes, he believes it for himself, not for another. every son of adam can become a sincere man, an original man, in this sense; no mortal is doomed to be an insincere man. whole ages, what we call ages of faith, are original; all men in them, or the most of men in them, sincere. these are the great and fruitful ages: every worker, in all spheres, is a worker not on semblance but on substance; every work issues in a result: the general sum of such work is great; for all of it, as genuine, tends towards one goal; all of it is _additive_, none of it subtractive. there is true union, true kingship, loyalty, all true and blessed things, so far as the poor earth can produce blessedness for men. hero-worship? ah me, that a man be self-subsistent, original, true, or what we call it, is surely the farthest in the world from indisposing him to reverence and believe other men's truth! it only disposes, necessitates and invincibly compels him to disbelieve other men's dead formulas, hearsays and untruths. a man embraces truth with his eyes open, and because his eyes are open: does he need to shut them before he can love his teacher of truth? he alone can love, with a right gratitude and genuine loyalty of soul, the hero-teacher who has delivered him out of darkness into light. is not such a one a true hero and serpent-queller; worthy of all reverence! the black monster, falsehood, our one enemy in this world, lies prostrate by his valor; it was he that conquered the world for us!--see, accordingly, was not luther himself reverenced as a true pope, or spiritual father, _being_ verily such? napoleon, from amid boundless revolt of sansculottism, became a king. hero-worship never dies, nor can die. loyalty and sovereignty are everlasting in the world:--and there is this in them, that they are grounded not on garnitures and semblances, but on realities and sincerities. not by shutting your eyes, your "private judgment;" no, but by opening them, and by having something to see! luther's message was deposition and abolition to all false popes and potentates, but life and strength, though afar off, to new genuine ones. all this of liberty and equality, electoral suffrages, independence and so forth, we will take, therefore, to be a temporary phenomenon, by no means a final one. though likely to last a long time, with sad enough embroilments for us all, we must welcome it, as the penalty of sins that are past, the pledge of inestimable benefits that are coming. in all ways, it behooved men to quit simulacra and return to fact; cost what it might, that did behoove to be done. with spurious popes, and believers having no private judgment,--quacks pretending to command over dupes,--what can you do? misery and mischief only. you cannot make an association out of insincere men; you cannot build an edifice except by plummet and level,--at right-angles to one another! in all this wild revolutionary work, from protestantism downwards, i see the blessedest result preparing itself: not abolition of hero-worship, but rather what i would call a whole world of heroes. if hero mean _sincere man_, why may not every one of us be a hero? a world all sincere, a believing world: the like has been; the like will again be,--cannot help being. that were the right sort of worshippers for heroes: never could the truly better be so reverenced as where all were true and good!--but we must hasten to luther and his life. luther's birthplace was eisleben in saxony; he came into the world there on the 10th of november, 1483. it was an accident that gave this honor to eisleben. his parents, poor mine-laborers in a village of that region, named mohra, had gone to the eisleben winter-fair: in the tumult of this scene the frau luther was taken with travail, found refuge in some poor house there, and the boy she bore was named martin luther. strange enough to reflect upon it. this poor frau luther, she had gone with her husband to make her small merchandisings; perhaps to sell the lock of yarn she had been spinning, to buy the small winter-necessaries for her narrow hut or household; in the whole world, that day, there was not a more entirely unimportant-looking pair of people than this miner and his wife. and yet what were all emperors, popes and potentates, in comparison? there was born here, once more, a mighty man; whose light was to flame as the beacon over long centuries and epochs of the world; the whole world and its history was waiting for this man. it is strange, it is great. it leads us back to another birth-hour, in a still meaner environment, eighteen hundred years ago,--of which it is fit that we _say_ nothing, that we think only in silence; for what words are there! the age of miracles past? the age of miracles is forever here--! i find it altogether suitable to luther's function in this earth, and doubtless wisely ordered to that end by the providence presiding over him and us and all things, that he was born poor, and brought up poor, one of the poorest of men. he had to beg, as the school-children in those times did; singing for alms and bread, from door to door. hardship, rigorous necessity was the poor boy's companion; no man nor no thing would put on a false face to flatter martin luther. among things, not among the shows of things, had he to grow. a boy of rude figure, yet with weak health, with his large greedy soul, full of all faculty and sensibility, he suffered greatly. but it was his task to get acquainted with _realities_, and keep acquainted with them, at whatever cost: his task was to bring the whole world back to reality, for it had dwelt too long with semblance! a youth nursed up in wintry whirlwinds, in desolate darkness and difficulty, that he may step forth at last from his stormy scandinavia, strong as a true man, as a god: a christian odin,--a right thor once more, with his thunder-hammer, to smite asunder ugly enough _jotuns_ and giant-monsters! perhaps the turning incident of his life, we may fancy, was that death of his friend alexis, by lightning, at the gate of erfurt. luther had struggled up through boyhood, better and worse; displaying, in spite of all hindrances, the largest intellect, eager to learn: his father judging doubtless that he might promote himself in the world, set him upon the study of law. this was the path to rise; luther, with little will in it either way, had consented: he was now nineteen years of age. alexis and he had been to see the old luther people at mansfeldt; were got back again near erfurt, when a thunder-storm came on; the bolt struck alexis, he fell dead at luther's feet. what is this life of ours?--gone in a moment, burnt up like a scroll, into the blank eternity! what are all earthly preferments, chancellorships, kingships? they lie shrunk together--there! the earth has opened on them; in a moment they are not, and eternity is. luther, struck to the heart, determined to devote himself to god and god's service alone. in spite of all dissuasions from his father and others, he became a monk in the augustine convent at erfurt. this was probably the first light-point in the history of luther, his purer will now first decisively uttering itself; but, for the present, it was still as one light-point in an element all of darkness. he says he was a pious monk, _ich bin ein frommer monch gewesen_; faithfully, painfully struggling to work out the truth of this high act of his; but it was to little purpose. his misery had not lessened; had rather, as it were, increased into infinitude. the drudgeries he had to do, as novice in his convent, all sorts of slave-work, were not his grievance: the deep earnest soul of the man had fallen into all manner of black scruples, dubitations; he believed himself likely to die soon, and far worse than die. one hears with a new interest for poor luther that, at this time, he lived in terror of the unspeakable misery; fancied that he was doomed to eternal reprobation. was it not the humble sincere nature of the man? what was he, that he should be raised to heaven! he that had known only misery, and mean slavery: the news was too blessed to be credible. it could not become clear to him how, by fasts, vigils, formalities and mass-work, a man's soul could be saved. he fell into the blackest wretchedness; had to wander staggering as on the verge of bottomless despair. it must have been a most blessed discovery, that of an old latin bible which he found in the erfurt library about this time. he had never seen the book before. it taught him another lesson than that of fasts and vigils. a brother monk too, of pious experience, was helpful. luther learned now that a man was saved not by singing masses, but by the infinite grace of god: a more credible hypothesis. he gradually got himself founded, as on the rock. no wonder he should venerate the bible, which had brought this blessed help to him. he prized it as the word of the highest must be prized by such a man. he determined to hold by that; as through life and to death he firmly did. this, then, is his deliverance from darkness, his final triumph over darkness, what we call his conversion; for himself the most important of all epochs. that he should now grow daily in peace and clearness; that, unfolding now the great talents and virtues implanted in him, he should rise to importance in his convent, in his country, and be found more and more useful in all honest business of life, is a natural result. he was sent on missions by his augustine order, as a man of talent and fidelity fit to do their business well: the elector of saxony, friedrich, named the wise, a truly wise and just prince, had cast his eye on him as a valuable person; made him professor in his new university of wittenberg, preacher too at wittenberg; in both which capacities, as in all duties he did, this luther, in the peaceable sphere of common life, was gaining more and more esteem with all good men. it was in his twenty-seventh year that he first saw rome; being sent thither, as i said, on mission from his convent. pope julius the second, and what was going on at rome, must have filled the mind of luther with amazement. he had come as to the sacred city, throne of god's high-priest on earth; and he found it--what we know! many thoughts it must have given the man; many which we have no record of, which perhaps he did not himself know how to utter. this rome, this scene of false priests, clothed not in the beauty of holiness, but in far other vesture, is _false_: but what is it to luther? a mean man he, how shall he reform a world? that was far from his thoughts. a humble, solitary man, why should he at all meddle with the world? it was the task of quite higher men than he. his business was to guide his own footsteps wisely through the world. let him do his own obscure duty in it well; the rest, horrible and dismal as it looks, is in god's hand, not in his. it is curious to reflect what might have been the issue, had roman popery happened to pass this luther by; to go on in its great wasteful orbit, and not come athwart his little path, and force him to assault it! conceivable enough that, in this case, he might have held his peace about the abuses of rome; left providence, and god on high, to deal with them! a modest quiet man; not prompt he to attack irreverently persons in authority. his clear task, as i say, was to do his own duty; to walk wisely in this world of confused wickedness, and save his own soul alive. but the roman high-priesthood did come athwart him: afar off at wittenberg he, luther, could not get lived in honesty for it; he remonstrated, resisted, came to extremity; was struck at, struck again, and so it came to wager of battle between them! this is worth attending to in luther's history. perhaps no man of so humble, peaceable a disposition ever filled the world with contention. we cannot but see that he would have loved privacy, quiet diligence in the shade; that it was against his will he ever became a notoriety. notoriety: what would that do for him? the goal of his march through this world was the infinite heaven; an indubitable goal for him: in a few years, he should either have attained that, or lost it forever! we will say nothing at all, i think, of that sorrowfulest of theories, of its being some mean shopkeeper grudge, of the augustine monk against the dominican, that first kindled the wrath of luther, and produced the protestant reformation. we will say to the people who maintain it, if indeed any such exist now: get first into the sphere of thought by which it is so much as possible to judge of luther, or of any man like luther, otherwise than distractedly; we may then begin arguing with you. the monk tetzel, sent out carelessly in the way of trade, by leo tenth,--who merely wanted to raise a little money, and for the rest seems to have been a pagan rather than a christian, so far as he was anything,--arrived at wittenberg, and drove his scandalous trade there. luther's flock bought indulgences; in the confessional of his church, people pleaded to him that they had already got their sins pardoned. luther, if he would not be found wanting at his own post, a false sluggard and coward at the very centre of the little space of ground that was his own and no other man's, had to step forth against indulgences, and declare aloud that _they_ were a futility and sorrowful mockery, that no man's sins could be pardoned by _them_. it was the beginning of the whole reformation. we know how it went; forward from this first public challenge of tetzel, on the last day of october, 1517, through remonstrance and argument;--spreading ever wider, rising ever higher; till it became unquenchable, and enveloped all the world. luther's heart's desire was to have this grief and other griefs amended; his thought was still far other than that of introducing separation in the church, or revolting against the pope, father of christendom.--the elegant pagan pope cared little about this monk and his doctrines; wished, however, to have done with the noise of him: in a space of some three years, having tried various softer methods, he thought good to end it by _fire_. he dooms the monk's writings to be burnt by the hangman, and his body to be sent bound to rome,--probably for a similar purpose. it was the way they had ended with huss, with jerome, the century before. a short argument, fire. poor huss: he came to that constance council, with all imaginable promises and safe-conducts; an earnest, not rebellious kind of man: they laid him instantly in a stone dungeon "three feet wide, six feet high, seven feet long;" _burnt_ the true voice of him out of this world; choked it in smoke and fire. that was _not_ well done! i, for one, pardon luther for now altogether revolting against the pope. the elegant pagan, by this fire-decree of his, had kindled into noble just wrath the bravest heart then living in this world. the bravest, if also one of the humblest, peaceablest; it was now kindled. these words of mine, words of truth and soberness, aiming faithfully, as human inability would allow, to promote god's truth on earth, and save men's souls, you, god's vicegerent on earth, answer them by the hangman and fire? you will burn me and them, for answer to the god's-message they strove to bring you? you are not god's vicegerent; you are another's than his, i think! i take your bull, as an emparchmented lie, and burn _it_. _you_ will do what you see good next: this is what i do.--it was on the 10th of december, 1520, three years after the beginning of the business, that luther, "with a great concourse of people," took this indignant step of burning the pope's fire-decree "at the elster-gate of wittenberg." wittenberg looked on "with shoutings;" the whole world was looking on. the pope should not have provoked that "shout"! it was the shout of the awakening of nations. the quiet german heart, modest, patient of much, had at length got more than it could bear. formulism, pagan popeism, and other falsehood and corrupt semblance had ruled long enough: and here once more was a man found who durst tell all men that god's-world stood not on semblances but on realities; that life was a truth, and not a lie! at bottom, as was said above, we are to consider luther as a prophet idol-breaker; a bringer-back of men to reality. it is the function of great men and teachers. mahomet said, these idols of yours are wood; you put wax and oil on them, the flies stick on them: they are not god, i tell you, they are black wood! luther said to the pope, this thing of yours that you call a pardon of sins, it is a bit of rag-paper with ink. it is nothing else; it, and so much like it, is nothing else. god alone can pardon sins. popeship, spiritual fatherhood of god's church, is that a vain semblance, of cloth and parchment? it is an awful fact. god's church is not a semblance, heaven and hell are not semblances. i stand on this, since you drive me to it. standing on this, i a poor german monk am stronger than you all. i stand solitary, friendless, but on god's truth; you with your tiaras, triple-hats, with your treasuries and armories, thunders spiritual and temporal, stand on the devil's lie, and are not so strong--! the diet of worms, luther's appearance there on the 17th of april, 1521, may be considered as the greatest scene in modern european history; the point, indeed, from which the whole subsequent history of civilization takes its rise. after multiplied negotiations, disputations, it had come to this. the young emperor charles fifth, with all the princes of germany, papal nuncios, dignitaries spiritual and temporal, are assembled there: luther is to appear and answer for himself, whether he will recant or not. the world's pomp and power sits there on this hand: on that, stands up for god's truth, one man, the poor miner hans luther's son. friends had reminded him of huss, advised him not to go; he would not be advised. a large company of friends rode out to meet him, with still more earnest warnings; he answered, "were there as many devils in worms as there are roof-tiles, i would on." the people, on the morrow, as he went to the hall of the diet, crowded the windows and house-tops, some of them calling out to him, in solemn words, not to recant: "whosoever denieth me before men!" they cried to him,--as in a kind of solemn petition and adjuration. was it not in reality our petition too, the petition of the whole world, lying in dark bondage of soul, paralyzed under a black spectral nightmare and triple-hatted chimera, calling itself father in god, and what not: "free us; it rests with thee; desert us not!" luther did not desert us. his speech, of two hours, distinguished itself by its respectful, wise and honest tone; submissive to whatsoever could lawfully claim submission, not submissive to any more than that. his writings, he said, were partly his own, partly derived from the word of god. as to what was his own, human infirmity entered into it; unguarded anger, blindness, many things doubtless which it were a blessing for him could he abolish altogether. but as to what stood on sound truth and the word of god, he could not recant it. how could he? "confute me," he concluded, "by proofs of scripture, or else by plain just arguments: i cannot recant otherwise. for it is neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. here stand i; i can do no other: god assist me!"--it is, as we say, the greatest moment in the modern history of men. english puritanism, england and its parliaments, americas, and vast work these two centuries; french revolution, europe and its work everywhere at present: the germ of it all lay there: had luther in that moment done other, it had all been otherwise! the european world was asking him: am i to sink ever lower into falsehood, stagnant putrescence, loathsome accursed death; or, with whatever paroxysm, to cast the falsehoods out of me, and be cured and live?-great wars, contentions and disunion followed out of this reformation; which last down to our day, and are yet far from ended. great talk and crimination has been made about these. they are lamentable, undeniable; but after all, what has luther or his cause to do with them? it seems strange reasoning to charge the reformation with all this. when hercules turned the purifying river into king augeas's stables, i have no doubt the confusion that resulted was considerable all around: but i think it was not hercules's blame; it was some other's blame! the reformation might bring what results it liked when it came, but the reformation simply could not help coming. to all popes and popes' advocates, expostulating, lamenting and accusing, the answer of the world is: once for all, your popehood has become untrue. no matter how good it was, how good you say it is, we cannot believe it; the light of our whole mind, given us to walk by from heaven above, finds it henceforth a thing unbelievable. we will not believe it, we will not try to believe it,--we dare not! the thing is _untrue_; we were traitors against the giver of all truth, if we durst pretend to think it true. away with it; let whatsoever likes come in the place of it: with _it_ we can have no farther trade!--luther and his protestantism is not responsible for wars; the false simulacra that forced him to protest, they are responsible. luther did what every man that god has made has not only the right, but lies under the sacred duty, to do: answered a falsehood when it questioned him, dost thou believe me?--no!--at what cost soever, without counting of costs, this thing behooved to be done. union, organization spiritual and material, a far nobler than any popedom or feudalism in their truest days, i never doubt, is coming for the world; sure to come. but on fact alone, not on semblance and simulacrum, will it be able either to come, or to stand when come. with union grounded on falsehood, and ordering us to speak and act lies, we will not have anything to do. peace? a brutal lethargy is peaceable, the noisome grave is peaceable. we hope for a living peace, not a dead one! and yet, in prizing justly the indispensable blessings of the new, let us not be unjust to the old. the old was true, if it no longer is. in dante's days it needed no sophistry, self-blinding or other dishonesty, to get itself reckoned true. it was good then; nay there is in the soul of it a deathless good. the cry of "no popery" is foolish enough in these days. the speculation that popery is on the increase, building new chapels and so forth, may pass for one of the idlest ever started. very curious: to count up a few popish chapels, listen to a few protestant logic-choppings,--to much dull-droning drowsy inanity that still calls itself protestant, and say: see, protestantism is _dead_; popeism is more alive than it, will be alive after it!--drowsy inanities, not a few, that call themselves protestant are dead; but _protestantism_ has not died yet, that i hear of! protestantism, if we will look, has in these days produced its goethe, its napoleon; german literature and the french revolution; rather considerable signs of life! nay, at bottom, what else is alive _but_ protestantism? the life of most else that one meets is a galvanic one merely,--not a pleasant, not a lasting sort of life! popery can build new chapels; welcome to do so, to all lengths. popery cannot come back, any more than paganism can,--_which_ also still lingers in some countries. but, indeed, it is with these things, as with the ebbing of the sea: you look at the waves oscillating hither, thither on the beach; for _minutes_ you cannot tell how it is going; look in half an hour where it is,--look in half a century where your popehood is! alas, would there were no greater danger to our europe than the poor old pope's revival! thor may as soon try to revive.--and withal this oscillation has a meaning. the poor old popehood will not die away entirely, as thor has done, for some time yet; nor ought it. we may say, the old never dies till this happen, till all the soul of good that was in it have got itself transfused into the practical new. while a good work remains capable of being done by the romish form; or, what is inclusive of all, while a pious _life_ remains capable of being led by it, just so long, if we consider, will this or the other human soul adopt it, go about as a living witness of it. so long it will obtrude itself on the eye of us who reject it, till we in our practice too have appropriated whatsoever of truth was in it. then, but also not till then, it will have no charm more for any man. it lasts here for a purpose. let it last as long as it can.-of luther i will add now, in reference to all these wars and bloodshed, the noticeable fact that none of them began so long as he continued living. the controversy did not get to fighting so long as he was there. to me it is proof of his greatness in all senses, this fact. how seldom do we find a man that has stirred up some vast commotion, who does not himself perish, swept away in it! such is the usual course of revolutionists. luther continued, in a good degree, sovereign of this greatest revolution; all protestants, of what rank or function soever, looking much to him for guidance: and he held it peaceable, continued firm at the centre of it. a man to do this must have a kingly faculty: he must have the gift to discern at all turns where the true heart of the matter lies, and to plant himself courageously on that, as a strong true man, that other true men may rally round him there. he will not continue leader of men otherwise. luther's clear deep force of judgment, his force of all sorts, of _silence_, of tolerance and moderation, among others, are very notable in these circumstances. tolerance, i say; a very genuine kind of tolerance: he distinguishes what is essential, and what is not; the unessential may go very much as it will. a complaint comes to him that such and such a reformed preacher "will not preach without a cassock." well, answers luther, what harm will a cassock do the man? "let him have a cassock to preach in; let him have three cassocks if he find benefit in them!" his conduct in the matter of karlstadt's wild image-breaking; of the anabaptists; of the peasants' war, shows a noble strength, very different from spasmodic violence. with sure prompt insight he discriminates what is what: a strong just man, he speaks forth what is the wise course, and all men follow him in that. luther's written works give similar testimony of him. the dialect of these speculations is now grown obsolete for us; but one still reads them with a singular attraction. and indeed the mere grammatical diction is still legible enough; luther's merit in literary history is of the greatest: his dialect became the language of all writing. they are not well written, these four-and-twenty quartos of his; written hastily, with quite other than literary objects. but in no books have i found a more robust, genuine, i will say noble faculty of a man than in these. a rugged honesty, homeliness, simplicity; a rugged sterling sense and strength. he dashes out illumination from him; his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to cleave into the very secret of the matter. good humor too, nay tender affection, nobleness and depth: this man could have been a poet too! he had to _work_ an epic poem, not write one. i call him a great thinker; as indeed his greatness of heart already betokens that. richter says of luther's words, "his words are half-battles." they may be called so. the essential quality of him was, that he could fight and conquer; that he was a right piece of human valor. no more valiant man, no mortal heart to be called _braver_, that one has record of, ever lived in that teutonic kindred, whose character is valor. his defiance of the "devils" in worms was not a mere boast, as the like might be if now spoken. it was a faith of luther's that there were devils, spiritual denizens of the pit, continually besetting men. many times, in his writings, this turns up; and a most small sneer has been grounded on it by some. in the room of the wartburg where he sat translating the bible, they still show you a black spot on the wall; the strange memorial of one of these conflicts. luther sat translating one of the psalms; he was worn down with long labor, with sickness, abstinence from food: there rose before him some hideous indefinable image, which he took for the evil one, to forbid his work: luther started up, with fiend-defiance; flung his inkstand at the spectre, and it disappeared! the spot still remains there; a curious monument of several things. any apothecary's apprentice can now tell us what we are to think of this apparition, in a scientific sense: but the man's heart that dare rise defiant, face to face, against hell itself, can give no higher proof of fearlessness. the thing he will quail before exists not on this earth or under it.--fearless enough! "the devil is aware," writes he on one occasion, "that this does not proceed out of fear in me. i have seen and defied innumerable devils. duke george," of leipzig, a great enemy of his, "duke george is not equal to one devil,"--far short of a devil! "if i had business at leipzig, i would ride into leipzig, though it rained duke georges for nine days running." what a reservoir of dukes to ride into--! at the same time, they err greatly who imagine that this man's courage was ferocity, mere coarse disobedient obstinacy and savagery, as many do. far from that. there may be an absence of fear which arises from the absence of thought or affection, from the presence of hatred and stupid fury. we do not value the courage of the tiger highly! with luther it was far otherwise; no accusation could be more unjust than this of mere ferocious violence brought against him. a most gentle heart withal, full of pity and love, as indeed the truly valiant heart ever is. the tiger before a _stronger_ foe--flies: the tiger is not what we call valiant, only fierce and cruel. i know few things more touching than those soft breathings of affection, soft as a child's or a mother's, in this great wild heart of luther. so honest, unadulterated with any cant; homely, rude in their utterance; pure as water welling from the rock. what, in fact, was all that down-pressed mood of despair and reprobation, which we saw in his youth, but the outcome of pre-eminent thoughtful gentleness, affections too keen and fine? it is the course such men as the poor poet cowper fall into. luther to a slight observer might have seemed a timid, weak man; modesty, affectionate shrinking tenderness the chief distinction of him. it is a noble valor which is roused in a heart like this, once stirred up into defiance, all kindled into a heavenly blaze. in luther's _table-talk_, a posthumous book of anecdotes and sayings collected by his friends, the most interesting now of all the books proceeding from him, we have many beautiful unconscious displays of the man, and what sort of nature he had. his behavior at the death-bed of his little daughter, so still, so great and loving, is among the most affecting things. he is resigned that his little magdalene should die, yet longs inexpressibly that she might live;--follows, in awe-struck thought, the flight of her little soul through those unknown realms. awe-struck; most heartfelt, we can see; and sincere,--for after all dogmatic creeds and articles, he feels what nothing it is that we know, or can know: his little magdalene shall be with god, as god wills; for luther too that is all; _islam_ is all. once, he looks out from his solitary patmos, the castle of coburg, in the middle of the night: the great vault of immensity, long flights of clouds sailing through it,--dumb, gaunt, huge:--who supports all that? "none ever saw the pillars of it; yet it is supported." god supports it. we must know that god is great, that god is good; and trust, where we cannot see.--returning home from leipzig once, he is struck by the beauty of the harvest-fields: how it stands, that golden yellow corn, on its fair taper stem, its golden head bent, all rich and waving there,--the meek earth, at god's kind bidding, has produced it once again; the bread of man!--in the garden at wittenberg one evening at sunset, a little bird has perched for the night: that little bird, says luther, above it are the stars and deep heaven of worlds; yet it has folded its little wings; gone trustfully to rest there as in its home: the maker of it has given it too a home!--neither are mirthful turns wanting: there is a great free human heart in this man. the common speech of him has a rugged nobleness, idiomatic, expressive, genuine; gleams here and there with beautiful poetic tints. one feels him to be a great brother man. his love of music, indeed, is not this, as it were, the summary of all these affections in him? many a wild unutterability he spoke forth from him in the tones of his flute. the devils fled from his flute, he says. death-defiance on the one hand, and such love of music on the other; i could call these the two opposite poles of a great soul; between these two all great things had room. luther's face is to me expressive of him; in kranach's best portraits i find the true luther. a rude plebeian face; with its huge crag-like brows and bones, the emblem of rugged energy; at first, almost a repulsive face. yet in the eyes especially there is a wild silent sorrow; an unnamable melancholy, the element of all gentle and fine affections; giving to the rest the true stamp of nobleness. laughter was in this luther, as we said; but tears also were there. tears also were appointed him; tears and hard toil. the basis of his life was sadness, earnestness. in his latter days, after all triumphs and victories, he expresses himself heartily weary of living; he considers that god alone can and will regulate the course things are taking, and that perhaps the day of judgment is not far. as for him, he longs for one thing: that god would release him from his labor, and let him depart and be at rest. they understand little of the man who cite this in discredit of him!--i will call this luther a true great man; great in intellect, in courage, affection and integrity; one of our most lovable and precious men. great, not as a hewn obelisk; but as an alpine mountain,--so simple, honest, spontaneous, not setting up to be great at all; there for quite another purpose than being great! ah yes, unsubduable granite, piercing far and wide into the heavens; yet in the clefts of it fountains, green beautiful valleys with flowers! a right spiritual hero and prophet; once more, a true son of nature and fact, for whom these centuries, and many that are to come yet, will be thankful to heaven. the most interesting phasis which the reformation anywhere assumes, especially for us english, is that of puritanism. in luther's own country protestantism soon dwindled into a rather barren affair: not a religion or faith, but rather now a theological jangling of argument, the proper seat of it not the heart; the essence of it sceptical contention: which indeed has jangled more and more, down to voltaireism itself,--through gustavus-adolphus contentions onwards to french-revolution ones! but in our island there arose a puritanism, which even got itself established as a presbyterianism and national church among the scotch; which came forth as a real business of the heart; and has produced in the world very notable fruit. in some senses, one may say it is the only phasis of protestantism that ever got to the rank of being a faith, a true heart-communication with heaven, and of exhibiting itself in history as such. we must spare a few words for knox; himself a brave and remarkable man; but still more important as chief priest and founder, which one may consider him to be, of the faith that became scotland's, new england's, oliver cromwell's. history will have something to say about this, for some time to come! we may censure puritanism as we please; and no one of us, i suppose, but would find it a very rough defective thing. but we, and all men, may understand that it was a genuine thing; for nature has adopted it, and it has grown, and grows. i say sometimes, that all goes by wager-of-battle in this world; that _strength_, well understood, is the measure of all worth. give a thing time; if it can succeed, it is a right thing. look now at american saxondom; and at that little fact of the sailing of the mayflower, two hundred years ago, from delft haven in holland! were we of open sense as the greeks were, we had found a poem here; one of nature's own poems, such as she writes in broad facts over great continents. for it was properly the beginning of america: there were straggling settlers in america before, some material as of a body was there; but the soul of it was first this. these poor men, driven out of their own country, not able well to live in holland, determine on settling in the new world. black untamed forests are there, and wild savage creatures; but not so cruel as star-chamber hangmen. they thought the earth would yield them food, if they tilled honestly; the everlasting heaven would stretch, there too, overhead; they should be left in peace, to prepare for eternity by living well in this world of time; worshipping in what they thought the true, not the idolatrous way. they clubbed their small means together; hired a ship, the little ship mayflower, and made ready to set sail. in neal's _history of the puritans_ [neal (london, 1755), i. 490] is an account of the ceremony of their departure: solemnity, we might call it rather, for it was a real act of worship. their minister went down with them to the beach, and their brethren whom they were to leave behind; all joined in solemn prayer, that god would have pity on his poor children, and go with them into that waste wilderness, for he also had made that, he was there also as well as here.--hah! these men, i think, had a work! the weak thing, weaker than a child, becomes strong one day, if it be a true thing. puritanism was only despicable, laughable then; but nobody can manage to laugh at it now. puritanism has got weapons and sinews; it has firearms, war-navies; it has cunning in its ten fingers, strength in its right arm; it can steer ships, fell forests, remove mountains;--it is one of the strongest things under this sun at present! in the history of scotland, too, i can find properly but one epoch: we may say, it contains nothing of world-interest at all but this reformation by knox. a poor barren country, full of continual broils, dissensions, massacrings; a people in the last state of rudeness and destitution; little better perhaps than ireland at this day. hungry fierce barons, not so much as able to form any arrangement with each other _how to divide_ what they fleeced from these poor drudges; but obliged, as the colombian republics are at this day, to make of every alteration a revolution; no way of changing a ministry but by hanging the old ministers on gibbets: this is a historical spectacle of no very singular significance! "bravery" enough, i doubt not; fierce fighting in abundance: but not braver or fiercer than that of their old scandinavian sea-king ancestors; _whose_ exploits we have not found worth dwelling on! it is a country as yet without a soul: nothing developed in it but what is rude, external, semi-animal. and now at the reformation, the internal life is kindled, as it were, under the ribs of this outward material death. a cause, the noblest of causes kindles itself, like a beacon set on high; high as heaven, yet attainable from earth;--whereby the meanest man becomes not a citizen only, but a member of christ's visible church; a veritable hero, if he prove a true man! well; this is what i mean by a whole "nation of heroes;" a _believing_ nation. there needs not a great soul to make a hero; there needs a god-created soul which will be true to its origin; that will be a great soul! the like has been seen, we find. the like will be again seen, under wider forms than the presbyterian: there can be no lasting good done till then.--impossible! say some. possible? has it not _been_, in this world, as a practiced fact? did hero-worship fail in knox's case? or are we made of other clay now? did the westminster confession of faith add some new property to the soul of man? god made the soul of man. he did not doom any soul of man to live as a hypothesis and hearsay, in a world filled with such, and with the fatal work and fruit of such--! but to return: this that knox did for his nation, i say, we may really call a resurrection as from death. it was not a smooth business; but it was welcome surely, and cheap at that price, had it been far rougher. on the whole, cheap at any price!--as life is. the people began to _live_: they needed first of all to do that, at what cost and costs soever. scotch literature and thought, scotch industry; james watt, david hume, walter scott, robert burns: i find knox and the reformation acting in the heart's core of every one of these persons and phenomena; i find that without the reformation they would not have been. or what of scotland? the puritanism of scotland became that of england, of new england. a tumult in the high church of edinburgh spread into a universal battle and struggle over all these realms;--there came out, after fifty years' struggling, what we all call the "_glorious_ revolution" a _habeas corpus_ act, free parliaments, and much else!--alas, is it not too true what we said, that many men in the van do always, like russian soldiers, march into the ditch of schweidnitz, and fill it up with their dead bodies, that the rear may pass over them dry-shod, and gain the honor? how many earnest rugged cromwells, knoxes, poor peasant covenanters, wrestling, battling for very life, in rough miry places, have to struggle, and suffer, and fall, greatly censured, _bemired_,--before a beautiful revolution of eighty-eight can step over them in official pumps and silk-stockings, with universal three-times-three! it seems to me hard measure that this scottish man, now after three hundred years, should have to plead like a culprit before the world; intrinsically for having been, in such way as it was then possible to be, the bravest of all scotchmen! had he been a poor half-and-half, he could have crouched into the corner, like so many others; scotland had not been delivered; and knox had been without blame. he is the one scotchman to whom, of all others, his country and the world owe a debt. he has to plead that scotland would forgive him for having been worth to it any million "unblamable" scotchmen that need no forgiveness! he bared his breast to the battle; had to row in french galleys, wander forlorn in exile, in clouds and storms; was censured, shot at through his windows; had a right sore fighting life: if this world were his place of recompense, he had made but a bad venture of it. i cannot apologize for knox. to him it is very indifferent, these two hundred and fifty years or more, what men say of him. but we, having got above all those details of his battle, and living now in clearness on the fruits of his victory, we, for our own sake, ought to look through the rumors and controversies enveloping the man, into the man himself. for one thing, i will remark that this post of prophet to his nation was not of his seeking; knox had lived forty years quietly obscure, before he became conspicuous. he was the son of poor parents; had got a college education; become a priest; adopted the reformation, and seemed well content to guide his own steps by the light of it, nowise unduly intruding it on others. he had lived as tutor in gentlemen's families; preaching when any body of persons wished to hear his doctrine: resolute he to walk by the truth, and speak the truth when called to do it; not ambitious of more; not fancying himself capable of more. in this entirely obscure way he had reached the age of forty; was with the small body of reformers who were standing siege in st. andrew's castle,--when one day in their chapel, the preacher after finishing his exhortation to these fighters in the forlorn hope, said suddenly, that there ought to be other speakers, that all men who had a priest's heart and gift in them ought now to speak;--which gifts and heart one of their own number, john knox the name of him, had: had he not? said the preacher, appealing to all the audience: what then is _his_ duty? the people answered affirmatively; it was a criminal forsaking of his post, if such a man held the word that was in him silent. poor knox was obliged to stand up; he attempted to reply; he could say no word;--burst into a flood of tears, and ran out. it is worth remembering, that scene. he was in grievous trouble for some days. he felt what a small faculty was his for this great work. he felt what a baptism he was called to be baptized withal. he "burst into tears." our primary characteristic of a hero, that he is sincere, applies emphatically to knox. it is not denied anywhere that this, whatever might be his other qualities or faults, is among the truest of men. with a singular instinct he holds to the truth and fact; the truth alone is there for him, the rest a mere shadow and deceptive nonentity. however feeble, forlorn the reality may seem, on that and that only _can_ he take his stand. in the galleys of the river loire, whither knox and the others, after their castle of st. andrew's was taken, had been sent as galley-slaves,--some officer or priest, one day, presented them an image of the virgin mother, requiring that they, the blasphemous heretics, should do it reverence. mother? mother of god? said knox, when the turn came to him: this is no mother of god: this is "_a pented bredd_,"--_a_ piece of wood, i tell you, with paint on it! she is fitter for swimming, i think, than for being worshipped, added knox; and flung the thing into the river. it was not very cheap jesting there: but come of it what might, this thing to knox was and must continue nothing other than the real truth; it was a _pented bredd_: worship it he would not. he told his fellow-prisoners, in this darkest time, to be of courage; the cause they had was the true one, and must and would prosper; the whole world could not put it down. reality is of god's making; it is alone strong. how many _pented bredds_, pretending to be real, are fitter to swim than to be worshipped!--this knox cannot live but by fact: he clings to reality as the shipwrecked sailor to the cliff. he is an instance to us how a man, by sincerity itself, becomes heroic: it is the grand gift he has. we find in knox a good honest intellectual talent, no transcendent one;--a narrow, inconsiderable man, as compared with luther: but in heartfelt instinctive adherence to truth, in _sincerity_, as we say, he has no superior; nay, one might ask, what equal he has? the heart of him is of the true prophet cast. "he lies there," said the earl of morton at his grave, "who never feared the face of man." he resembles, more than any of the moderns, an old-hebrew prophet. the same inflexibility, intolerance, rigid narrow-looking adherence to god's truth, stern rebuke in the name of god to all that forsake truth: an old-hebrew prophet in the guise of an edinburgh minister of the sixteenth century. we are to take him for that; not require him to be other. knox's conduct to queen mary, the harsh visits he used to make in her own palace, to reprove her there, have been much commented upon. such cruelty, such coarseness fills us with indignation. on reading the actual narrative of the business, what knox said, and what knox meant, i must say one's tragic feeling is rather disappointed. they are not so coarse, these speeches; they seem to me about as fine as the circumstances would permit! knox was not there to do the courtier; he came on another errand. whoever, reading these colloquies of his with the queen, thinks they are vulgar insolences of a plebeian priest to a delicate high lady, mistakes the purport and essence of them altogether. it was unfortunately not possible to be polite with the queen of scotland, unless one proved untrue to the nation and cause of scotland. a man who did not wish to see the land of his birth made a hunting-field for intriguing ambitious guises, and the cause of god trampled underfoot of falsehoods, formulas and the devil's cause, had no method of making himself agreeable! "better that women weep," said morton, "than that bearded men be forced to weep." knox was the constitutional opposition-party in scotland: the nobles of the country, called by their station to take that post, were not found in it; knox had to go, or no one. the hapless queen;--but the still more hapless country, if _she_ were made happy! mary herself was not without sharpness enough, among her other qualities: "who are you," said she once, "that presume to school the nobles and sovereign of this realm?"--"madam, a subject born within the same," answered he. reasonably answered! if the "subject" have truth to speak, it is not the "subject's" footing that will fail him here.-we blame knox for his intolerance. well, surely it is good that each of us be as tolerant as possible. yet, at bottom, after all the talk there is and has been about it, what is tolerance? tolerance has to tolerate the unessential; and to see well what that is. tolerance has to be noble, measured, just in its very wrath, when it can tolerate no longer. but, on the whole, we are not altogether here to tolerate! we are here to resist, to control and vanquish withal. we do not "tolerate" falsehoods, thieveries, iniquities, when they fasten on us; we say to them, thou art false, thou art not tolerable! we are here to extinguish falsehoods, and put an end to them, in some wise way! i will not quarrel so much with the way; the doing of the thing is our great concern. in this sense knox was, full surely, intolerant. a man sent to row in french galleys, and such like, for teaching the truth in his own land, cannot always be in the mildest humor! i am not prepared to say that knox had a soft temper; nor do i know that he had what we call an ill temper. an ill nature he decidedly had not. kind honest affections dwelt in the much-enduring, hard-worn, ever-battling man. that he _could_ rebuke queens, and had such weight among those proud turbulent nobles, proud enough whatever else they were; and could maintain to the end a kind of virtual presidency and sovereignty in that wild realm, he who was only "a subject born within the same:" this of itself will prove to us that he was found, close at hand, to be no mean acrid man; but at heart a healthful, strong, sagacious man. such alone can bear rule in that kind. they blame him for pulling down cathedrals, and so forth, as if he were a seditious rioting demagogue: precisely the reverse is seen to be the fact, in regard to cathedrals and the rest of it, if we examine! knox wanted no pulling down of stone edifices; he wanted leprosy and darkness to be thrown out of the lives of men. tumult was not his element; it was the tragic feature of his life that he was forced to dwell so much in that. every such man is the born enemy of disorder; hates to be in it: but what then? smooth falsehood is not order; it is the general sum-total of disorder. order is _truth_,--each thing standing on the basis that belongs to it: order and falsehood cannot subsist together. withal, unexpectedly enough, this knox has a vein of drollery in him; which i like much, in combination with his other qualities. he has a true eye for the ridiculous. his _history_, with its rough earnestness, is curiously enlivened with this. when the two prelates, entering glasgow cathedral, quarrel about precedence; march rapidly up, take to hustling one another, twitching one another's rochets, and at last flourishing their crosiers like quarter-staves, it is a great sight for him every way! not mockery, scorn, bitterness alone; though there is enough of that too. but a true, loving, illuminating laugh mounts up over the earnest visage; not a loud laugh; you would say, a laugh in the _eyes_ most of all. an honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the high, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both. he had his pipe of bourdeaux too, we find, in that old edinburgh house of his; a cheery social man, with faces that loved him! they go far wrong who think this knox was a gloomy, spasmodic, shrieking fanatic. not at all: he is one of the solidest of men. practical, cautious-hopeful, patient; a most shrewd, observing, quietly discerning man. in fact, he has very much the type of character we assign to the scotch at present: a certain sardonic taciturnity is in him; insight enough; and a stouter heart than he himself knows of. he has the power of holding his peace over many things which do not vitally concern him,--"they? what are they?" but the thing which does vitally concern him, that thing he will speak of; and in a tone the whole world shall be made to hear: all the more emphatic for his long silence. this prophet of the scotch is to me no hateful man!--he had a sore fight of an existence; wrestling with popes and principalities; in defeat, contention, life-long struggle; rowing as a galley-slave, wandering as an exile. a sore fight: but he won it. "have you hope?" they asked him in his last moment, when he could no longer speak. he lifted his finger, "pointed upwards with his finger," and so died. honor to him! his works have not died. the letter of his work dies, as of all men's; but the spirit of it never. one word more as to the letter of knox's work. the unforgivable offence in him is, that he wished to set up priests over the head of kings. in other words, he strove to make the government of scotland a _theocracy_. this indeed is properly the sum of his offences, the essential sin; for which what pardon can there be? it is most true, he did, at bottom, consciously or unconsciously, mean a theocracy, or government of god. he did mean that kings and prime ministers, and all manner of persons, in public or private, diplomatizing or whatever else they might be doing, should walk according to the gospel of christ, and understand that this was their law, supreme over all laws. he hoped once to see such a thing realized; and the petition, _thy kingdom come_, no longer an empty word. he was sore grieved when he saw greedy worldly barons clutch hold of the church's property; when he expostulated that it was not secular property, that it was spiritual property, and should be turned to _true_ churchly uses, education, schools, worship;--and the regent murray had to answer, with a shrug of the shoulders, "it is a devout imagination!" this was knox's scheme of right and truth; this he zealously endeavored after, to realize it. if we think his scheme of truth was too narrow, was not true, we may rejoice that he could not realize it; that it remained after two centuries of effort, unrealizable, and is a "devout imagination" still. but how shall we blame _him_ for struggling to realize it? theocracy, government of god, is precisely the thing to be struggled for! all prophets, zealous priests, are there for that purpose. hildebrand wished a theocracy; cromwell wished it, fought for it; mahomet attained it. nay, is it not what all zealous men, whether called priests, prophets, or whatsoever else called, do essentially wish, and must wish? that right and truth, or god's law, reign supreme among men, this is the heavenly ideal (well named in knox's time, and namable in all times, a revealed "will of god") towards which the reformer will insist that all be more and more approximated. all true reformers, as i said, are by the nature of them priests, and strive for a theocracy. how far such ideals can ever be introduced into practice, and at what point our impatience with their non-introduction ought to begin, is always a question. i think we may say safely, let them introduce themselves as far as they can contrive to do it! if they are the true faith of men, all men ought to be more or less impatient always where they are not found introduced. there will never be wanting regent murrays enough to shrug their shoulders, and say, "a devout imagination!" we will praise the hero-priest rather, who does what is in him to bring them in; and wears out, in toil, calumny, contradiction, a noble life, to make a god's kingdom of this earth. the earth will not become too godlike! lecture v. the hero as man of letters. johnson, rousseau, burns. [may 19, 1840.] hero-gods, prophets, poets, priests are forms of heroism that belong to the old ages, make their appearance in the remotest times; some of them have ceased to be possible long since, and cannot any more show themselves in this world. the hero as _man of letters_, again, of which class we are to speak to-day, is altogether a product of these new ages; and so long as the wondrous art of _writing_, or of ready-writing which we call _printing_, subsists, he may be expected to continue, as one of the main forms of heroism for all future ages. he is, in various respects, a very singular phenomenon. he is new, i say; he has hardly lasted above a century in the world yet. never, till about a hundred years ago, was there seen any figure of a great soul living apart in that anomalous manner; endeavoring to speak forth the inspiration that was in him by printed books, and find place and subsistence by what the world would please to give him for doing that. much had been sold and bought, and left to make its own bargain in the market-place; but the inspired wisdom of a heroic soul never till then, in that naked manner. he, with his copy-rights and copy-wrongs, in his squalid garret, in his rusty coat; ruling (for this is what he does), from his grave, after death, whole nations and generations who would, or would not, give him bread while living,--is a rather curious spectacle! few shapes of heroism can be more unexpected. alas, the hero from of old has had to cramp himself into strange shapes: the world knows not well at any time what to do with him, so foreign is his aspect in the world! it seemed absurd to us, that men, in their rude admiration, should take some wise great odin for a god, and worship him as such; some wise great mahomet for one god-inspired, and religiously follow his law for twelve centuries: but that a wise great johnson, a burns, a rousseau, should be taken for some idle nondescript, extant in the world to amuse idleness, and have a few coins and applauses thrown him, that he might live thereby; _this_ perhaps, as before hinted, will one day seem a still absurder phasis of things!--meanwhile, since it is the spiritual always that determines the material, this same man-of-letters hero must be regarded as our most important modern person. he, such as he may be, is the soul of all. what he teaches, the whole world will do and make. the world's manner of dealing with him is the most significant feature of the world's general position. looking well at his life, we may get a glance, as deep as is readily possible for us, into the life of those singular centuries which have produced him, in which we ourselves live and work. there are genuine men of letters, and not genuine; as in every kind there is a genuine and a spurious. if _hero_ be taken to mean genuine, then i say the hero as man of letters will be found discharging a function for us which is ever honorable, ever the highest; and was once well known to be the highest. he is uttering forth, in such way as he has, the inspired soul of him; all that a man, in any case, can do. i say _inspired_; for what we call "originality," "sincerity," "genius," the heroic quality we have no good name for, signifies that. the hero is he who lives in the inward sphere of things, in the true, divine and eternal, which exists always, unseen to most, under the temporary, trivial: his being is in that; he declares that abroad, by act or speech as it may be in declaring himself abroad. his life, as we said before, is a piece of the everlasting heart of nature herself: all men's life is,--but the weak many know not the fact, and are untrue to it, in most times; the strong few are strong, heroic, perennial, because it cannot be hidden from them. the man of letters, like every hero, is there to proclaim this in such sort as he can. intrinsically it is the same function which the old generations named a man prophet, priest, divinity for doing; which all manner of heroes, by speech or by act, are sent into the world to do. fichte the german philosopher delivered, some forty years ago at erlangen, a highly remarkable course of lectures on this subject: "_ueber das wesen des gelehrten_, on the nature of the literary man." fichte, in conformity with the transcendental philosophy, of which he was a distinguished teacher, declares first: that all things which we see or work with in this earth, especially we ourselves and all persons, are as a kind of vesture or sensuous appearance: that under all there lies, as the essence of them, what he calls the "divine idea of the world;" this is the reality which "lies at the bottom of all appearance." to the mass of men no such divine idea is recognizable in the world; they live merely, says fichte, among the superficialities, practicalities and shows of the world, not dreaming that there is anything divine under them. but the man of letters is sent hither specially that he may discern for himself, and make manifest to us, this same divine idea: in every new generation it will manifest itself in a new dialect; and he is there for the purpose of doing that. such is fichte's phraseology; with which we need not quarrel. it is his way of naming what i here, by other words, am striving imperfectly to name; what there is at present no name for: the unspeakable divine significance, full of splendor, of wonder and terror, that lies in the being of every man, of every thing,--the presence of the god who made every man and thing. mahomet taught this in his dialect; odin in his: it is the thing which all thinking hearts, in one dialect or another, are here to teach. fichte calls the man of letters, therefore, a prophet, or as he prefers to phrase it, a priest, continually unfolding the godlike to men: men of letters are a perpetual priesthood, from age to age, teaching all men that a god is still present in their life, that all "appearance," whatsoever we see in the world, is but as a vesture for the "divine idea of the world," for "that which lies at the bottom of appearance." in the true literary man there is thus ever, acknowledged or not by the world, a sacredness: he is the light of the world; the world's priest;--guiding it, like a sacred pillar of fire, in its dark pilgrimage through the waste of time. fichte discriminates with sharp zeal the _true_ literary man, what we here call the _hero_ as man of letters, from multitudes of false unheroic. whoever lives not wholly in this divine idea, or living partially in it, struggles not, as for the one good, to live wholly in it,--he is, let him live where else he like, in what pomps and prosperities he like, no literary man; he is, says fichte, a "bungler, _stumper_." or at best, if he belong to the prosaic provinces, he may be a "hodman;" fichte even calls him elsewhere a "nonentity," and has in short no mercy for him, no wish that _he_ should continue happy among us! this is fichte's notion of the man of letters. it means, in its own form, precisely what we here mean. in this point of view, i consider that, for the last hundred years, by far the notablest of all literary men is fichte's countryman, goethe. to that man too, in a strange way, there was given what we may call a life in the divine idea of the world; vision of the inward divine mystery: and strangely, out of his books, the world rises imaged once more as godlike, the workmanship and temple of a god. illuminated all, not in fierce impure fire-splendor as of mahomet, but in mild celestial radiance;--really a prophecy in these most unprophetic times; to my mind, by far the greatest, though one of the quietest, among all the great things that have come to pass in them. our chosen specimen of the hero as literary man would be this goethe. and it were a very pleasant plan for me here to discourse of his heroism: for i consider him to be a true hero; heroic in what he said and did, and perhaps still more in what he did not say and did not do; to me a noble spectacle: a great heroic ancient man, speaking and keeping silence as an ancient hero, in the guise of a most modern, high-bred, high-cultivated man of letters! we have had no such spectacle; no man capable of affording such, for the last hundred and fifty years. but at present, such is the general state of knowledge about goethe, it were worse than useless to attempt speaking of him in this case. speak as i might, goethe, to the great majority of you, would remain problematic, vague; no impression but a false one could be realized. him we must leave to future times. johnson, burns, rousseau, three great figures from a prior time, from a far inferior state of circumstances, will suit us better here. three men of the eighteenth century; the conditions of their life far more resemble what those of ours still are in england, than what goethe's in germany were. alas, these men did not conquer like him; they fought bravely, and fell. they were not heroic bringers of the light, but heroic seekers of it. they lived under galling conditions; struggling as under mountains of impediment, and could not unfold themselves into clearness, or victorious interpretation of that "divine idea." it is rather the _tombs_ of three literary heroes that i have to show you. there are the monumental heaps, under which three spiritual giants lie buried. very mournful, but also great and full of interest for us. we will linger by them for a while. complaint is often made, in these times, of what we call the disorganized condition of society: how ill many forces of society fulfil their work; how many powerful are seen working in a wasteful, chaotic, altogether unarranged manner. it is too just a complaint, as we all know. but perhaps if we look at this of books and the writers of books, we shall find here, as it were, the summary of all other disorganizations;--a sort of _heart_, from which, and to which all other confusion circulates in the world! considering what book writers do in the world, and what the world does with book writers, i should say, it is the most anomalous thing the world at present has to show.--we should get into a sea far beyond sounding, did we attempt to give account of this: but we must glance at it for the sake of our subject. the worst element in the life of these three literary heroes was, that they found their business and position such a chaos. on the beaten road there is tolerable travelling; but it is sore work, and many have to perish, fashioning a path through the impassable! our pious fathers, feeling well what importance lay in the speaking of man to men, founded churches, made endowments, regulations; everywhere in the civilized world there is a pulpit, environed with all manner of complex dignified appurtenances and furtherances, that therefrom a man with the tongue may, to best advantage, address his fellow-men. they felt that this was the most important thing; that without this there was no good thing. it is a right pious work, that of theirs; beautiful to behold! but now with the art of writing, with the art of printing, a total change has come over that business. the writer of a book, is not he a preacher preaching not to this parish or that, on this day or that, but to all men in all times and places? surely it is of the last importance that _he_ do his work right, whoever do it wrong;--that the _eye_ report not falsely, for then all the other members are astray! well; how he may do his work, whether he do it right or wrong, or do it at all, is a point which no man in the world has taken the pains to think of. to a certain shopkeeper, trying to get some money for his books, if lucky, he is of some importance; to no other man of any. whence he came, whither he is bound, by what ways he arrived, by what he might be furthered on his course, no one asks. he is an accident in society. he wanders like a wild ishmaelite, in a world of which he is as the spiritual light, either the guidance or the misguidance! certainly the art of writing is the most miraculous of all things man has devised. odin's _runes_ were the first form of the work of a hero; _books_ written words, are still miraculous _runes_, the latest form! in books lies the _soul_ of the whole past time; the articulate audible voice of the past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. mighty fleets and armies, harbors and arsenals, vast cities, high-domed, many-engined,--they are precious, great: but what do they become? agamemnon, the many agamemnons, pericleses, and their greece; all is gone now to some ruined fragments, dumb mournful wrecks and blocks: but the books of greece! there greece, to every thinker, still very literally lives: can be called up again into life. no magic _rune_ is stranger than a book. all that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books. they are the chosen possession of men. do not books still accomplish _miracles_, as _runes_ were fabled to do? they persuade men. not the wretchedest circulating-library novel, which foolish girls thumb and con in remote villages, but will help to regulate the actual practical weddings and households of those foolish girls. so "celia" felt, so "clifford" acted: the foolish theorem of life, stamped into those young brains, comes out as a solid practice one day. consider whether any _rune_ in the wildest imagination of mythologist ever did such wonders as, on the actual firm earth, some books have done! what built st. paul's cathedral? look at the heart of the matter, it was that divine hebrew book,--the word partly of the man moses, an outlaw tending his midianitish herds, four thousand years ago, in the wildernesses of sinai! it is the strangest of things, yet nothing is truer. with the art of writing, of which printing is a simple, an inevitable and comparatively insignificant corollary, the true reign of miracles for mankind commenced. it related, with a wondrous new contiguity and perpetual closeness, the past and distant with the present in time and place; all times and all places with this our actual here and now. all things were altered for men; all modes of important work of men: teaching, preaching, governing, and all else. to look at teaching, for instance. universities are a notable, respectable product of the modern ages. their existence too is modified, to the very basis of it, by the existence of books. universities arose while there were yet no books procurable; while a man, for a single book, had to give an estate of land. that, in those circumstances, when a man had some knowledge to communicate, he should do it by gathering the learners round him, face to face, was a necessity for him. if you wanted to know what abelard knew, you must go and listen to abelard. thousands, as many as thirty thousand, went to hear abelard and that metaphysical theology of his. and now for any other teacher who had also something of his own to teach, there was a great convenience opened: so many thousands eager to learn were already assembled yonder; of all places the best place for him was that. for any third teacher it was better still; and grew ever the better, the more teachers there came. it only needed now that the king took notice of this new phenomenon; combined or agglomerated the various schools into one school; gave it edifices, privileges, encouragements, and named it _universitas_, or school of all sciences: the university of paris, in its essential characters, was there. the model of all subsequent universities; which down even to these days, for six centuries now, have gone on to found themselves. such, i conceive, was the origin of universities. it is clear, however, that with this simple circumstance, facility of getting books, the whole conditions of the business from top to bottom were changed. once invent printing, you metamorphosed all universities, or superseded them! the teacher needed not now to gather men personally round him, that he might _speak_ to them what he knew: print it in a book, and all learners far and wide, for a trifle, had it each at his own fireside, much more effectually to learn it!--doubtless there is still peculiar virtue in speech; even writers of books may still, in some circumstances, find it convenient to speak also,--witness our present meeting here! there is, one would say, and must ever remain while man has a tongue, a distinct province for speech as well as for writing and printing. in regard to all things this must remain; to universities among others. but the limits of the two have nowhere yet been pointed out, ascertained; much less put in practice: the university which would completely take in that great new fact, of the existence of printed books, and stand on a clear footing for the nineteenth century as the paris one did for the thirteenth, has not yet come into existence. if we think of it, all that a university, or final highest school can do for us, is still but what the first school began doing,--teach us to _read_. we learn to _read_, in various languages, in various sciences; we learn the alphabet and letters of all manner of books. but the place where we are to get knowledge, even theoretic knowledge, is the books themselves! it depends on what we read, after all manner of professors have done their best for us. the true university of these days is a collection of books. but to the church itself, as i hinted already, all is changed, in its preaching, in its working, by the introduction of books. the church is the working recognized union of our priests or prophets, of those who by wise teaching guide the souls of men. while there was no writing, even while there was no easy-writing, or _printing_, the preaching of the voice was the natural sole method of performing this. but now with books!--he that can write a true book, to persuade england, is not he the bishop and archbishop, the primate of england and of all england? i many a time say, the writers of newspapers, pamphlets, poems, books, these _are_ the real working effective church of a modern country. nay not only our preaching, but even our worship, is not it too accomplished by means of printed books? the noble sentiment which a gifted soul has clothed for us in melodious words, which brings melody into our hearts,--is not this essentially, if we will understand it, of the nature of worship? there are many, in all countries, who, in this confused time, have no other method of worship. he who, in any way, shows us better than we knew before that a lily of the fields is beautiful, does he not show it us as an effluence of the fountain of all beauty; as the _handwriting_, made visible there, of the great maker of the universe? he has sung for us, made us sing with him, a little verse of a sacred psalm. essentially so. how much more he who sings, who says, or in any way brings home to our heart the noble doings, feelings, darings and endurances of a brother man! he has verily touched our hearts as with a live coal _from the altar_. perhaps there is no worship more authentic. literature, so far as it is literature, is an "apocalypse of nature," a revealing of the "open secret." it may well enough be named, in fichte's style, a "continuous revelation" of the godlike in the terrestrial and common. the godlike does ever, in very truth, endure there; is brought out, now in this dialect, now in that, with various degrees of clearness: all true gifted singers and speakers are, consciously or unconsciously, doing so. the dark stormful indignation of a byron, so wayward and perverse, may have touches of it; nay the withered mockery of a french sceptic,--his mockery of the false, a love and worship of the true. how much more the sphere-harmony of a shakspeare, of a goethe; the cathedral music of a milton! they are something too, those humble genuine lark-notes of a burns,--skylark, starting from the humble furrow, far overhead into the blue depths, and singing to us so genuinely there! for all true singing is of the nature of worship; as indeed all true _working_ may be said to be,--whereof such _singing_ is but the record, and fit melodious representation, to us. fragments of a real "church liturgy" and "body of homilies," strangely disguised from the common eye, are to be found weltering in that huge froth-ocean of printed speech we loosely call literature! books are our church too. or turning now to the government of men. witenagemote, old parliament, was a great thing. the affairs of the nation were there deliberated and decided; what we were to _do_ as a nation. but does not, though the name parliament subsists, the parliamentary debate go on now, everywhere and at all times, in a far more comprehensive way, _out_ of parliament altogether? burke said there were three estates in parliament; but, in the reporters' gallery yonder, there sat a _fourth estate_ more important far than they all. it is not a figure of speech, or a witty saying; it is a literal fact,--very momentous to us in these times. literature is our parliament too. printing, which comes necessarily out of writing, i say often, is equivalent to democracy: invent writing, democracy is inevitable. writing brings printing; brings universal everyday extempore printing, as we see at present. whoever can speak, speaking now to the whole nation, becomes a power, a branch of government, with inalienable weight in law-making, in all acts of authority. it matters not what rank he has, what revenues or garnitures. the requisite thing is, that he have a tongue which others will listen to; this and nothing more is requisite. the nation is governed by all that has tongue in the nation: democracy is virtually _there_. add only, that whatsoever power exists will have itself, by and by, organized; working secretly under bandages, obscurations, obstructions, it will never rest till it get to work free, unencumbered, visible to all. democracy virtually extant will insist on becoming palpably extant.-on all sides, are we not driven to the conclusion that, of the things which man can do or make here below, by far the most momentous, wonderful and worthy are the things we call books! those poor bits of rag-paper with black ink on them;--from the daily newspaper to the sacred hebrew book, what have they not done, what are they not doing!--for indeed, whatever be the outward form of the thing (bits of paper, as we say, and black ink), is it not verily, at bottom, the highest act of man's faculty that produces a book? it is the _thought_ of man; the true thaumaturgic virtue; by which man works all things whatsoever. all that he does, and brings to pass, is the vesture of a thought. this london city, with all its houses, palaces, steam-engines, cathedrals, and huge immeasurable traffic and tumult, what is it but a thought, but millions of thoughts made into one;--a huge immeasurable spirit of a thought, embodied in brick, in iron, smoke, dust, palaces, parliaments, hackney coaches, katherine docks, and the rest of it! not a brick was made but some man had to _think_ of the making of that brick.--the thing we called "bits of paper with traces of black ink," is the _purest_ embodiment a thought of man can have. no wonder it is, in all ways, the activest and noblest. all this, of the importance and supreme importance of the man of letters in modern society, and how the press is to such a degree superseding the pulpit, the senate, the _senatus academicus_ and much else, has been admitted for a good while; and recognized often enough, in late times, with a sort of sentimental triumph and wonderment. it seems to me, the sentimental by and by will have to give place to the practical. if men of letters _are_ so incalculably influential, actually performing such work for us from age to age, and even from day to day, then i think we may conclude that men of letters will not always wander like unrecognized unregulated ishmaelites among us! whatsoever thing, as i said above, has virtual unnoticed power will cast off its wrappages, bandages, and step forth one day with palpably articulated, universally visible power. that one man wear the clothes, and take the wages, of a function which is done by quite another: there can be no profit in this; this is not right, it is wrong. and yet, alas, the _making_ of it right,--what a business, for long times to come! sure enough, this that we call organization of the literary guild is still a great way off, encumbered with all manner of complexities. if you asked me what were the best possible organization for the men of letters in modern society; the arrangement of furtherance and regulation, grounded the most accurately on the actual facts of their position and of the world's position,--i should beg to say that the problem far exceeded my faculty! it is not one man's faculty; it is that of many successive men turned earnestly upon it, that will bring out even an approximate solution. what the best arrangement were, none of us could say. but if you ask, which is the worst? i answer: this which we now have, that chaos should sit umpire in it; this is the worst. to the best, or any good one, there is yet a long way. one remark i must not omit, that royal or parliamentary grants of money are by no means the chief thing wanted! to give our men of letters stipends, endowments and all furtherance of cash, will do little towards the business. on the whole, one is weary of hearing about the omnipotence of money. i will say rather that, for a genuine man, it is no evil to be poor; that there ought to be literary men poor,--to show whether they are genuine or not! mendicant orders, bodies of good men doomed to beg, were instituted in the christian church; a most natural and even necessary development of the spirit of christianity. it was itself founded on poverty, on sorrow, contradiction, crucifixion, every species of worldly distress and degradation. we may say, that he who has not known those things, and learned from them the priceless lessons they have to teach, has missed a good opportunity of schooling. to beg, and go barefoot, in coarse woollen cloak with a rope round your loins, and be despised of all the world, was no beautiful business;--nor an honorable one in any eye, till the nobleness of those who did so had made it honored of some! begging is not in our course at the present time: but for the rest of it, who will say that a johnson is not perhaps the better for being poor? it is needful for him, at all rates, to know that outward profit, that success of any kind is _not_ the goal he has to aim at. pride, vanity, ill-conditioned egoism of all sorts, are bred in his heart, as in every heart; need, above all, to be cast out of his heart,--to be, with whatever pangs, torn out of it, cast forth from it, as a thing worthless. byron, born rich and noble, made out even less than burns, poor and plebeian. who knows but, in that same "best possible organization" as yet far off, poverty may still enter as an important element? what if our men of letters, men setting up to be spiritual heroes, were still _then_, as they now are, a kind of "involuntary monastic order;" bound still to this same ugly poverty,--till they had tried what was in it too, till they had learned to make it too do for them! money, in truth, can do much, but it cannot do all. we must know the province of it, and confine it there; and even spurn it back, when it wishes to get farther. besides, were the money-furtherances, the proper season for them, the fit assigner of them, all settled,--how is the burns to be recognized that merits these? he must pass through the ordeal, and prove himself. _this_ ordeal; this wild welter of a chaos which is called literary life: this too is a kind of ordeal! there is clear truth in the idea that a struggle from the lower classes of society, towards the upper regions and rewards of society, must ever continue. strong men are born there, who ought to stand elsewhere than there. the manifold, inextricably complex, universal struggle of these constitutes, and must constitute, what is called the progress of society. for men of letters, as for all other sorts of men. how to regulate that struggle? there is the whole question. to leave it as it is, at the mercy of blind chance; a whirl of distracted atoms, one cancelling the other; one of the thousand arriving saved, nine hundred and ninety-nine lost by the way; your royal johnson languishing inactive in garrets, or harnessed to the yoke of printer cave; your burns dying broken-hearted as a gauger; your rousseau driven into mad exasperation, kindling french revolutions by his paradoxes: this, as we said, is clearly enough the _worst_ regulation. the _best_, alas, is far from us! and yet there can be no doubt but it is coming; advancing on us, as yet hidden in the bosom of centuries: this is a prophecy one can risk. for so soon as men get to discern the importance of a thing, they do infallibly set about arranging it, facilitating, forwarding it; and rest not till, in some approximate degree, they have accomplished that. i say, of all priesthoods, aristocracies, governing classes at present extant in the world, there is no class comparable for importance to that priesthood of the writers of books. this is a fact which he who runs may read,--and draw inferences from. "literature will take care of itself," answered mr. pitt, when applied to for some help for burns. "yes," adds mr. southey, "it will take care of itself; _and of you too_, if you do not look to it!" the result to individual men of letters is not the momentous one; they are but individuals, an infinitesimal fraction of the great body; they can struggle on, and live or else die, as they have been wont. but it deeply concerns the whole society, whether it will set its _light_ on high places, to walk thereby; or trample it under foot, and scatter it in all ways of wild waste (not without conflagration), as heretofore! light is the one thing wanted for the world. put wisdom in the head of the world, the world will fight its battle victoriously, and be the best world man can make it. i called this anomaly of a disorganic literary class the heart of all other anomalies, at once product and parent; some good arrangement for that would be as the _punctum saliens_ of a new vitality and just arrangement for all. already, in some european countries, in france, in prussia, one traces some beginnings of an arrangement for the literary class; indicating the gradual possibility of such. i believe that it is possible; that it will have to be possible. by far the most interesting fact i hear about the chinese is one on which we cannot arrive at clearness, but which excites endless curiosity even in the dim state: this namely, that they do attempt to make their men of letters their governors! it would be rash to say, one understood how this was done, or with what degree of success it was done. all such things must be very unsuccessful; yet a small degree of success is precious; the very attempt how precious! there does seem to be, all over china, a more or less active search everywhere to discover the men of talent that grow up in the young generation. schools there are for every one: a foolish sort of training, yet still a sort. the youths who distinguish themselves in the lower school are promoted into favorable stations in the higher, that they may still more distinguish themselves,--forward and forward: it appears to be out of these that the official persons, and incipient governors, are taken. these are they whom they _try_ first, whether they can govern or not. and surely with the best hope: for they are the men that have already shown intellect. try them: they have not governed or administered as yet; perhaps they cannot; but there is no doubt they _have_ some understanding,--without which no man can! neither is understanding a _tool_, as we are too apt to figure; "it is a _hand_ which can handle any tool." try these men: they are of all others the best worth trying.--surely there is no kind of government, constitution, revolution, social apparatus or arrangement, that i know of in this world, so promising to one's scientific curiosity as this. the man of intellect at the top of affairs: this is the aim of all constitutions and revolutions, if they have any aim. for the man of true intellect, as i assert and believe always, is the noble-hearted man withal, the true, just, humane and valiant man. get him for governor, all is got; fail to get him, though you had constitutions plentiful as blackberries, and a parliament in every village, there is nothing yet got--! these things look strange, truly; and are not such as we commonly speculate upon. but we are fallen into strange times; these things will require to be speculated upon; to be rendered practicable, to be in some way put in practice. these, and many others. on all hands of us, there is the announcement, audible enough, that the old empire of routine has ended; that to say a thing has long been, is no reason for its continuing to be. the things which have been are fallen into decay, are fallen into incompetence; large masses of mankind, in every society of our europe, are no longer capable of living at all by the things which have been. when millions of men can no longer by their utmost exertion gain food for themselves, and "the third man for thirty-six weeks each year is short of third-rate potatoes," the things which have been must decidedly prepare to alter themselves!--i will now quit this of the organization of men of letters. alas, the evil that pressed heaviest on those literary heroes of ours was not the want of organization for men of letters, but a far deeper one; out of which, indeed, this and so many other evils for the literary man, and for all men, had, as from their fountain, taken rise. that our hero as man of letters had to travel without highway, companionless, through an inorganic chaos,--and to leave his own life and faculty lying there, as a partial contribution towards _pushing_ some highway through it: this, had not his faculty itself been so perverted and paralyzed, he might have put up with, might have considered to be but the common lot of heroes. his fatal misery was the _spiritual paralysis_, so we may name it, of the age in which his life lay; whereby his life too, do what he might, was half paralyzed! the eighteenth was a _sceptical_ century; in which little word there is a whole pandora's box of miseries. scepticism means not intellectual doubt alone, but moral doubt; all sorts of infidelity, insincerity, spiritual paralysis. perhaps, in few centuries that one could specify since the world began, was a life of heroism more difficult for a man. that was not an age of faith,--an age of heroes! the very possibility of heroism had been, as it were, formally abnegated in the minds of all. heroism was gone forever; triviality, formulism and commonplace were come forever. the "age of miracles" had been, or perhaps had not been; but it was not any longer. an effete world; wherein wonder, greatness, godhood could not now dwell;--in one word, a godless world! how mean, dwarfish are their ways of thinking, in this time,--compared not with the christian shakspeares and miltons, but with the old pagan skalds, with any species of believing men! the living tree igdrasil, with the melodious prophetic waving of its world-wide boughs, deep-rooted as hela, has died out into the clanking of a world-machine. "tree" and "machine:" contrast these two things. i, for my share, declare the world to be no machine! i say that it does _not_ go by wheel-and-pinion "motives" self-interests, checks, balances; that there is something far other in it than the clank of spinning-jennies, and parliamentary majorities; and, on the whole, that it is not a machine at all!--the old norse heathen had a truer motion of god's-world than these poor machine-sceptics: the old heathen norse were _sincere_ men. but for these poor sceptics there was no sincerity, no truth. half-truth and hearsay was called truth. truth, for most men, meant plausibility; to be measured by the number of votes you could get. they had lost any notion that sincerity was possible, or of what sincerity was. how many plausibilities asking, with unaffected surprise and the air of offended virtue, what! am not i sincere? spiritual paralysis, i say, nothing left but a mechanical life, was the characteristic of that century. for the common man, unless happily he stood _below_ his century and belonged to another prior one, it was impossible to be a believer, a hero; he lay buried, unconscious, under these baleful influences. to the strongest man, only with infinite struggle and confusion was it possible to work himself half loose; and lead as it were, in an enchanted, most tragical way, a spiritual death-in-life, and be a half-hero! scepticism is the name we give to all this; as the chief symptom, as the chief origin of all this. concerning which so much were to be said! it would take many discourses, not a small fraction of one discourse, to state what one feels about that eighteenth century and its ways. as indeed this, and the like of this, which we now call scepticism, is precisely the black malady and life-foe, against which all teaching and discoursing since man's life began has directed itself: the battle of belief against unbelief is the never-ending battle! neither is it in the way of crimination that one would wish to speak. scepticism, for that century, we must consider as the decay of old ways of believing, the preparation afar off for new better and wider ways,--an inevitable thing. we will not blame men for it; we will lament their hard fate. we will understand that destruction of old _forms_ is not destruction of everlasting _substances_; that scepticism, as sorrowful and hateful as we see it, is not an end but a beginning. the other day speaking, without prior purpose that way, of bentham's theory of man and man's life, i chanced to call it a more beggarly one than mahomet's. i am bound to say, now when it is once uttered, that such is my deliberate opinion. not that one would mean offence against the man jeremy bentham, or those who respect and believe him. bentham himself, and even the creed of bentham, seems to me comparatively worthy of praise. it is a determinate _being_ what all the world, in a cowardly half-and-half manner, was tending to be. let us have the crisis; we shall either have death or the cure. i call this gross, steam-engine utilitarianism an approach towards new faith. it was a laying-down of cant; a saying to oneself: "well then, this world is a dead iron machine, the god of it gravitation and selfish hunger; let us see what, by checking and balancing, and good adjustment of tooth and pinion, can be made of it!" benthamism has something complete, manful, in such fearless committal of itself to what it finds true; you may call it heroic, though a heroism with its _eyes_ put out! it is the culminating point, and fearless ultimatum, of what lay in the half-and-half state, pervading man's whole existence in that eighteenth century. it seems to me, all deniers of godhood, and all lip-believers of it, are bound to be benthamites, if they have courage and honesty. benthamism is an _eyeless_ heroism: the human species, like a hapless blinded samson grinding in the philistine mill, clasps convulsively the pillars of its mill; brings huge ruin down, but ultimately deliverance withal. of bentham i meant to say no harm. but this i do say, and would wish all men to know and lay to heart, that he who discerns nothing but mechanism in the universe has in the fatalest way missed the secret of the universe altogether. that all godhood should vanish out of men's conception of this universe seems to me precisely the most brutal error,--i will not disparage heathenism by calling it a heathen error,--that men could fall into. it is not true; it is false at the very heart of it. a man who thinks so will think _wrong_ about all things in the world; this original sin will vitiate all other conclusions he can form. one might call it the most lamentable of delusions,--not forgetting witchcraft itself! witchcraft worshipped at least a living devil; but this worships a dead iron devil; no god, not even a devil! whatsoever is noble, divine, inspired, drops thereby out of life. there remains everywhere in life a despicable _caput-mortuum_; the mechanical hull, all soul fled out of it. how can a man act heroically? the "doctrine of motives" will teach him that it is, under more or less disguise, nothing but a wretched love of pleasure, fear of pain; that hunger, of applause, of cash, of whatsoever victual it may be, is the ultimate fact of man's life. atheism, in brief;--which does indeed frightfully punish itself. the man, i say, is become spiritually a paralytic man; this godlike universe a dead mechanical steam-engine, all working by motives, checks, balances, and i know not what; wherein, as in the detestable belly of some phalaris'-bull of his own contriving, he the poor phalaris sits miserably dying! belief i define to be the healthy act of a man's mind. it is a mysterious indescribable process, that of getting to believe;--indescribable, as all vital acts are. we have our mind given us, not that it may cavil and argue, but that it may see into something, give us clear belief and understanding about something, whereon we are then to proceed to act. doubt, truly, is not itself a crime. certainly we do not rush out, clutch up the first thing we find, and straightway believe that! all manner of doubt, inquiry, [gr.] _skepsis_ as it is named, about all manner of objects, dwells in every reasonable mind. it is the mystic working of the mind, on the object it is _getting_ to know and believe. belief comes out of all this, above ground, like the tree from its hidden _roots_. but now if, even on common things, we require that a man keep his doubts _silent_, and not babble of them till they in some measure become affirmations or denials; how much more in regard to the highest things, impossible to speak of in words at all! that a man parade his doubt, and get to imagine that debating and logic (which means at best only the manner of _telling_ us your thought, your belief or disbelief, about a thing) is the triumph and true work of what intellect he has: alas, this is as if you should _overturn_ the tree, and instead of green boughs, leaves and fruits, show us ugly taloned roots turned up into the air,--and no growth, only death and misery going on! for the scepticism, as i said, is not intellectual only; it is moral also; a chronic atrophy and disease of the whole soul. a man lives by believing something; not by debating and arguing about many things. a sad case for him when all that he can manage to believe is something he can button in his pocket, and with one or the other organ eat and digest! lower than that he will not get. we call those ages in which he gets so low the mournfulest, sickest and meanest of all ages. the world's heart is palsied, sick: how can any limb of it be whole? genuine acting ceases in all departments of the world's work; dexterous similitude of acting begins. the world's wages are pocketed, the world's work is not done. heroes have gone out; quacks have come in. accordingly, what century, since the end of the roman world, which also was a time of scepticism, simulacra and universal decadence, so abounds with quacks as that eighteenth? consider them, with their tumid sentimental vaporing about virtue, benevolence,--the wretched quack-squadron, cagliostro at the head of them! few men were without quackery; they had got to consider it a necessary ingredient and amalgam for truth. chatham, our brave chatham himself, comes down to the house, all wrapt and bandaged; he "has crawled out in great bodily suffering," and so on;--_forgets_, says walpole, that he is acting the sick man; in the fire of debate, snatches his arm from the sling, and oratorically swings and brandishes it! chatham himself lives the strangest mimetic life, half-hero, half-quack, all along. for indeed the world is full of dupes; and you have to gain the _world's_ suffrage! how the duties of the world will be done in that case, what quantities of error, which means failure, which means sorrow and misery, to some and to many, will gradually accumulate in all provinces of the world's business, we need not compute. it seems to me, you lay your finger here on the heart of the world's maladies, when you call it a sceptical world. an insincere world; a godless untruth of a world! it is out of this, as i consider, that the whole tribe of social pestilences, french revolutions, chartisms, and what not, have derived their being,--their chief necessity to be. this must alter. till this alter, nothing can beneficially alter. my one hope of the world, my inexpugnable consolation in looking at the miseries of the world, is that this is altering. here and there one does now find a man who knows, as of old, that this world is a truth, and no plausibility and falsity; that he himself is alive, not dead or paralytic; and that the world is alive, instinct with godhood, beautiful and awful, even as in the beginning of days! one man once knowing this, many men, all men, must by and by come to know it. it lies there clear, for whosoever will take the _spectacles_ off his eyes and honestly look, to know! for such a man the unbelieving century, with its unblessed products, is already past; a new century is already come. the old unblessed products and performances, as solid as they look, are phantasms, preparing speedily to vanish. to this and the other noisy, very great-looking simulacrum with the whole world huzzaing at its heels, he can say, composedly stepping aside: thou art not _true_; thou art not extant, only semblant; go thy way!--yes, hollow formulism, gross benthamism, and other unheroic atheistic insincerity is visibly and even rapidly declining. an unbelieving eighteenth century is but an exception,--such as now and then occurs. i prophesy that the world will once more become _sincere_; a believing world; with _many_ heroes in it, a heroic world! it will then be a victorious world; never till then. or indeed what of the world and its victories? men speak too much about the world. each one of us here, let the world go how it will, and be victorious or not victorious, has he not a life of his own to lead? one life; a little gleam of time between two eternities; no second chance to us forevermore! it were well for us to live not as fools and simulacra, but as wise and realities. the world's being saved will not save us; nor the world's being lost destroy us. we should look to ourselves: there is great merit here in the "duty of staying at home"! and, on the whole, to say truth, i never heard of "world's" being "saved" in any other way. that mania of saving worlds is itself a piece of the eighteenth century with its windy sentimentalism. let us not follow it too far. for the saving of the _world_ i will trust confidently to the maker of the world; and look a little to my own saving, which i am more competent to!--in brief, for the world's sake, and for our own, we will rejoice greatly that scepticism, insincerity, mechanical atheism, with all their poison-dews, are going, and as good as gone.-now it was under such conditions, in those times of johnson, that our men of letters had to live. times in which there was properly no truth in life. old truths had fallen nigh dumb; the new lay yet hidden, not trying to speak. that man's life here below was a sincerity and fact, and would forever continue such, no new intimation, in that dusk of the world, had yet dawned. no intimation; not even any french revolution,--which we define to be a truth once more, though a truth clad in hell-fire! how different was the luther's pilgrimage, with its assured goal, from the johnson's, girt with mere traditions, suppositions, grown now incredible, unintelligible! mahomet's formulas were of "wood waxed and oiled," and could be burnt out of one's way: poor johnson's were far more difficult to burn.--the strong man will ever find _work_, which means difficulty, pain, to the full measure of his strength. but to make out a victory, in those circumstances of our poor hero as man of letters, was perhaps more difficult than in any. not obstruction, disorganization, bookseller osborne and fourpence-halfpenny a day; not this alone; but the light of his own soul was taken from him. no landmark on the earth; and, alas, what is that to having no loadstar in the heaven! we need not wonder that none of those three men rose to victory. that they fought truly is the highest praise. with a mournful sympathy we will contemplate, if not three living victorious heroes, as i said, the tombs of three fallen heroes! they fell for us too; making a way for us. there are the mountains which they hurled abroad in their confused war of the giants; under which, their strength and life spent, they now lie buried. i have already written of these three literary heroes, expressly or incidentally; what i suppose is known to most of you; what need not be spoken or written a second time. they concern us here as the singular _prophets_ of that singular age; for such they virtually were; and the aspect they and their world exhibit, under this point of view, might lead us into reflections enough! i call them, all three, genuine men more or less; faithfully, for most part unconsciously, struggling to be genuine, and plant themselves on the everlasting truth of things. this to a degree that eminently distinguishes them from the poor artificial mass of their contemporaries; and renders them worthy to be considered as speakers, in some measure, of the everlasting truth, as prophets in that age of theirs. by nature herself a noble necessity was laid on them to be so. they were men of such magnitude that they could not live on unrealities,--clouds, froth and all inanity gave way under them: there was no footing for them but on firm earth; no rest or regular motion for them, if they got not footing there. to a certain extent, they were sons of nature once more in an age of artifice; once more, original men. as for johnson, i have always considered him to be, by nature, one of our great english souls. a strong and noble man; so much left undeveloped in him to the last: in a kindlier element what might he not have been,--poet, priest, sovereign ruler! on the whole, a man must not complain of his "element," of his "time," or the like; it is thriftless work doing so. his time is bad: well then, he is there to make it better!--johnson's youth was poor, isolated, hopeless, very miserable. indeed, it does not seem possible that, in any the favorablest outward circumstances, johnson's life could have been other than a painful one. the world might have had more of profitable _work_ out of him, or less; but his _effort_ against the world's work could never have been a light one. nature, in return for his nobleness, had said to him, live in an element of diseased sorrow. nay, perhaps the sorrow and the nobleness were intimately and even inseparably connected with each other. at all events, poor johnson had to go about girt with continual hypochondria, physical and spiritual pain. like a hercules with the burning nessus'-shirt on him, which shoots in on him dull incurable misery: the nessus'-shirt not to be stript off, which is his own natural skin! in this manner _he_ had to live. figure him there, with his scrofulous diseases, with his great greedy heart, and unspeakable chaos of thoughts; stalking mournful as a stranger in this earth; eagerly devouring what spiritual thing he could come at: school-languages and other merely grammatical stuff, if there were nothing better! the largest soul that was in all england; and provision made for it of "fourpence-halfpenny a day." yet a giant invincible soul; a true man's. one remembers always that story of the shoes at oxford: the rough, seamy-faced, rawboned college servitor stalking about, in winter-season, with his shoes worn out; how the charitable gentleman commoner secretly places a new pair at his door; and the rawboned servitor, lifting them, looking at them near, with his dim eyes, with what thoughts,--pitches them out of window! wet feet, mud, frost, hunger or what you will; but not beggary: we cannot stand beggary! rude stubborn self-help here; a whole world of squalor, rudeness, confused misery and want, yet of nobleness and manfulness withal. it is a type of the man's life, this pitching away of the shoes. an original man;--not a second-hand, borrowing or begging man. let us stand on our own basis, at any rate! on such shoes as we ourselves can get. on frost and mud, if you will, but honestly on that;--on the reality and substance which nature gives _us_, not on the semblance, on the thing she has given another than us--! and yet with all this rugged pride of manhood and self-help, was there ever soul more tenderly affectionate, loyally submissive to what was really higher than he? great souls are always loyally submissive, reverent to what is over them; only small mean souls are otherwise. i could not find a better proof of what i said the other day, that the sincere man was by nature the obedient man; that only in a world of heroes was there loyal obedience to the heroic. the essence of _originality_ is not that it be _new_: johnson believed altogether in the old; he found the old opinions credible for him, fit for him; and in a right heroic manner lived under them. he is well worth study in regard to that. for we are to say that johnson was far other than a mere man of words and formulas; he was a man of truths and facts. he stood by the old formulas; the happier was it for him that he could so stand: but in all formulas that _he_ could stand by, there needed to be a most genuine substance. very curious how, in that poor paper-age, so barren, artificial, thick-quilted with pedantries, hearsays, the great fact of this universe glared in, forever wonderful, indubitable, unspeakable, divine-infernal, upon this man too! how he harmonized his formulas with it, how he managed at all under such circumstances: that is a thing worth seeing. a thing "to be looked at with reverence, with pity, with awe." that church of st. clement danes, where johnson still _worshipped_ in the era of voltaire, is to me a venerable place. it was in virtue of his _sincerity_, of his speaking still in some sort from the heart of nature, though in the current artificial dialect, that johnson was a prophet. are not all dialects "artificial"? artificial things are not all false;--nay every true product of nature will infallibly _shape_ itself; we may say all artificial things are, at the starting of them, _true_. what we call "formulas" are not in their origin bad; they are indispensably good. formula is _method_, habitude; found wherever man is found. formulas fashion themselves as paths do, as beaten highways, leading toward some sacred or high object, whither many men are bent. consider it. one man, full of heartfelt earnest impulse, finds out a way of doing somewhat,--were it of uttering his soul's reverence for the highest, were it but of fitly saluting his fellow-man. an inventor was needed to do that, a _poet_; he has articulated the dim-struggling thought that dwelt in his own and many hearts. this is his way of doing that; these are his footsteps, the beginning of a "path." and now see: the second men travels naturally in the footsteps of his foregoer, it is the _easiest_ method. in the footsteps of his foregoer; yet with improvements, with changes where such seem good; at all events with enlargements, the path ever _widening_ itself as more travel it;--till at last there is a broad highway whereon the whole world may travel and drive. while there remains a city or shrine, or any reality to drive to, at the farther end, the highway shall be right welcome! when the city is gone, we will forsake the highway. in this manner all institutions, practices, regulated things in the world have come into existence, and gone out of existence. formulas all begin by being _full_ of substance; you may call them the _skin_, the articulation into shape, into limbs and skin, of a substance that is already there: _they_ had not been there otherwise. idols, as we said, are not idolatrous till they become doubtful, empty for the worshipper's heart. much as we talk against formulas, i hope no one of us is ignorant withal of the high significance of _true_ formulas; that they were, and will ever be, the indispensablest furniture of our habitation in this world.-mark, too, how little johnson boasts of his "sincerity." he has no suspicion of his being particularly sincere,--of his being particularly anything! a hard-struggling, weary-hearted man, or "scholar" as he calls himself, trying hard to get some honest livelihood in the world, not to starve, but to live--without stealing! a noble unconsciousness is in him. he does not "engrave _truth_ on his watch-seal;" no, but he stands by truth, speaks by it, works and lives by it. thus it ever is. think of it once more. the man whom nature has appointed to do great things is, first of all, furnished with that openness to nature which renders him incapable of being _in_sincere! to his large, open, deep-feeling heart nature is a fact: all hearsay is hearsay; the unspeakable greatness of this mystery of life, let him acknowledge it or not, nay even though he seem to forget it or deny it, is ever present to _him_,--fearful and wonderful, on this hand and on that. he has a basis of sincerity; unrecognized, because never questioned or capable of question. mirabeau, mahomet, cromwell, napoleon: all the great men i ever heard of have this as the primary material of them. innumerable commonplace men are debating, are talking everywhere their commonplace doctrines, which they have learned by logic, by rote, at second-hand: to that kind of man all this is still nothing. he must have truth; truth which _he_ feels to be true. how shall he stand otherwise? his whole soul, at all moments, in all ways, tells him that there is no standing. he is under the noble necessity of being true. johnson's way of thinking about this world is not mine, any more than mahomet's was: but i recognize the everlasting element of _heart-sincerity_ in both; and see with pleasure how neither of them remains ineffectual. neither of them is as _chaff_ sown; in both of them is something which the seedfield will _grow_. johnson was a prophet to his people; preached a gospel to them,--as all like him always do. the highest gospel he preached we may describe as a kind of moral prudence: "in a world where much is to be done, and little is to be known," see how you will _do_ it! a thing well worth preaching. "a world where much is to be done, and little is to be known:" do not sink yourselves in boundless bottomless abysses of doubt, of wretched god-forgetting unbelief;--you were miserable then, powerless, mad: how could you _do_ or work at all? such gospel johnson preached and taught;--coupled, theoretically and practically, with this other great gospel, "clear your mind of cant!" have no trade with cant: stand on the cold mud in the frosty weather, but let it be in your own _real_ torn shoes: "that will be better for you," as mahomet says! i call this, i call these two things _joined together_, a great gospel, the greatest perhaps that was possible at that time. johnson's writings, which once had such currency and celebrity, are now as it were disowned by the young generation. it is not wonderful; johnson's opinions are fast becoming obsolete: but his style of thinking and of living, we may hope, will never become obsolete. i find in johnson's books the indisputablest traces of a great intellect and great heart;--ever welcome, under what obstructions and perversions soever. they are _sincere_ words, those of his; he means things by them. a wondrous buckram style,--the best he could get to then; a measured grandiloquence, stepping or rather stalking along in a very solemn way, grown obsolete now; sometimes a tumid _size_ of phraseology not in proportion to the contents of it: all this you will put up with. for the phraseology, tumid or not, has always _something within it_. so many beautiful styles and books, with _nothing_ in them;--a man is a malefactor to the world who writes such! _they_ are the avoidable kind!--had johnson left nothing but his _dictionary_, one might have traced there a great intellect, a genuine man. looking to its clearness of definition, its general solidity, honesty, insight and successful method, it may be called the best of all dictionaries. there is in it a kind of architectural nobleness; it stands there like a great solid square-built edifice, finished, symmetrically complete: you judge that a true builder did it. one word, in spite of our haste, must be granted to poor bozzy. he passes for a mean, inflated, gluttonous creature; and was so in many senses. yet the fact of his reverence for johnson will ever remain noteworthy. the foolish conceited scotch laird, the most conceited man of his time, approaching in such awe-struck attitude the great dusty irascible pedagogue in his mean garret there: it is a genuine reverence for excellence; a _worship_ for heroes, at a time when neither heroes nor worship were surmised to exist. heroes, it would seem, exist always, and a certain worship of them! we will also take the liberty to deny altogether that of the witty frenchman, that no man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre. or if so, it is not the hero's blame, but the valet's: that his soul, namely, is a mean _valet_-soul! he expects his hero to advance in royal stage-trappings, with measured step, trains borne behind him, trumpets sounding before him. it should stand rather, no man can be a _grand-monarque_ to his valet-de-chambre. strip your louis quatorze of his king-gear, and there _is_ left nothing but a poor forked radish with a head fantastically carved;--admirable to no valet. the valet does not know a hero when he sees him! alas, no: it requires a kind of _hero_ to do that;--and one of the world's wants, in _this_ as in other senses, is for most part want of such. on the whole, shall we not say, that boswell's admiration was well bestowed; that he could have found no soul in all england so worthy of bending down before? shall we not say, of this great mournful johnson too, that he guided his difficult confused existence wisely; led it _well_, like a right valiant man? that waste chaos of authorship by trade; that waste chaos of scepticism in religion and politics, in life-theory and life-practice; in his poverty, in his dust and dimness, with the sick body and the rusty coat: he made it do for him, like a brave man. not wholly without a loadstar in the eternal; he had still a loadstar, as the brave all need to have: with his eye set on that, he would change his course for nothing in these confused vortices of the lower sea of time. "to the spirit of lies, bearing death and hunger, he would in nowise strike his flag." brave old samuel: _ultimus romanorum_! of rousseau and his heroism i cannot say so much. he is not what i call a strong man. a morbid, excitable, spasmodic man; at best, intense rather than strong. he had not "the talent of silence," an invaluable talent; which few frenchmen, or indeed men of any sort in these times, excel in! the suffering man ought really "to consume his own smoke;" there is no good in emitting _smoke_ till you have made it into _fire_,--which, in the metaphorical sense too, all smoke is capable of becoming! rousseau has not depth or width, not calm force for difficulty; the first characteristic of true greatness. a fundamental mistake to call vehemence and rigidity strength! a man is not strong who takes convulsion-fits; though six men cannot hold him then. he that can walk under the heaviest weight without staggering, he is the strong man. we need forever, especially in these loud-shrieking days, to remind ourselves of that. a man who cannot _hold his peace_, till the time come for speaking and acting, is no right man. poor rousseau's face is to me expressive of him. a high but narrow contracted intensity in it: bony brows; deep, strait-set eyes, in which there is something bewildered-looking,--bewildered, peering with lynx-eagerness. a face full of misery, even ignoble misery, and also of the antagonism against that; something mean, plebeian there, redeemed only by _intensity_: the face of what is called a fanatic,--a sadly _contracted_ hero! we name him here because, with all his drawbacks, and they are many, he has the first and chief characteristic of a hero: he is heartily _in earnest_. in earnest, if ever man was; as none of these french philosophers were. nay, one would say, of an earnestness too great for his otherwise sensitive, rather feeble nature; and which indeed in the end drove him into the strangest incoherences, almost delirations. there had come, at last, to be a kind of madness in him: his ideas _possessed_ him like demons; hurried him so about, drove him over steep places--! the fault and misery of rousseau was what we easily name by a single word, _egoism_; which is indeed the source and summary of all faults and miseries whatsoever. he had not perfected himself into victory over mere desire; a mean hunger, in many sorts, was still the motive principle of him. i am afraid he was a very vain man; hungry for the praises of men. you remember genlis's experience of him. she took jean jacques to the theatre; he bargaining for a strict incognito,--"he would not be seen there for the world!" the curtain did happen nevertheless to be drawn aside: the pit recognized jean jacques, but took no great notice of him! he expressed the bitterest indignation; gloomed all evening, spake no other than surly words. the glib countess remained entirely convinced that his anger was not at being seen, but at not being applauded when seen. how the whole nature of the man is poisoned; nothing but suspicion, self-isolation, fierce moody ways! he could not live with anybody. a man of some rank from the country, who visited him often, and used to sit with him, expressing all reverence and affection for him, comes one day; finds jean jacques full of the sourest unintelligible humor. "monsieur," said jean jacques, with flaming eyes, "i know why you come here. you come to see what a poor life i lead; how little is in my poor pot that is boiling there. well, look into the pot! there is half a pound of meat, one carrot and three onions; that is all: go and tell the whole world that, if you like, monsieur!"--a man of this sort was far gone. the whole world got itself supplied with anecdotes, for light laughter, for a certain theatrical interest, from these perversions and contortions of poor jean jacques. alas, to him they were not laughing or theatrical; too real to him! the contortions of a dying gladiator: the crowded amphitheatre looks on with entertainment; but the gladiator is in agonies and dying. and yet this rousseau, as we say, with his passionate appeals to mothers, with his _contrat-social_, with his celebrations of nature, even of savage life in nature, did once more touch upon reality, struggle towards reality; was doing the function of a prophet to his time. as he could, and as the time could! strangely through all that defacement, degradation and almost madness, there is in the inmost heart of poor rousseau a spark of real heavenly fire. once more, out of the element of that withered mocking philosophism, scepticism and persiflage, there has arisen in this man the ineradicable feeling and knowledge that this life of ours is true: not a scepticism, theorem, or persiflage, but a fact, an awful reality. nature had made that revelation to him; had ordered him to speak it out. he got it spoken out; if not well and clearly, then ill and dimly,--as clearly as he could. nay what are all errors and perversities of his, even those stealings of ribbons, aimless confused miseries and vagabondisms, if we will interpret them kindly, but the blinkard dazzlement and staggerings to and fro of a man sent on an errand he is too weak for, by a path he cannot yet find? men are led by strange ways. one should have tolerance for a man, hope of him; leave him to try yet what he will do. while life lasts, hope lasts for every man. of rousseau's literary talents, greatly celebrated still among his countrymen, i do not say much. his books, like himself, are what i call unhealthy; not the good sort of books. there is a sensuality in rousseau. combined with such an intellectual gift as his, it makes pictures of a certain gorgeous attractiveness: but they are not genuinely poetical. not white sunlight: something _operatic_; a kind of rose-pink, artificial bedizenment. it is frequent, or rather it is universal, among the french since his time. madame de stael has something of it; st. pierre; and down onwards to the present astonishing convulsionary "literature of desperation," it is everywhere abundant. that same _rose-pink_ is not the right hue. look at a shakspeare, at a goethe, even at a walter scott! he who has once seen into this, has seen the difference of the true from the sham-true, and will discriminate them ever afterwards. we had to observe in johnson how much good a prophet, under all disadvantages and disorganizations, can accomplish for the world. in rousseau we are called to look rather at the fearful amount of evil which, under such disorganization, may accompany the good. historically it is a most pregnant spectacle, that of rousseau. banished into paris garrets, in the gloomy company of his own thoughts and necessities there; driven from post to pillar; fretted, exasperated till the heart of him went mad, he had grown to feel deeply that the world was not his friend nor the world's law. it was expedient, if any way possible, that such a man should _not_ have been set in flat hostility with the world. he could be cooped into garrets, laughed at as a maniac, left to starve like a wild beast in his cage;--but he could not be hindered from setting the world on fire. the french revolution found its evangelist in rousseau. his semi-delirious speculations on the miseries of civilized life, the preferability of the savage to the civilized, and such like, helped well to produce a whole delirium in france generally. true, you may well ask, what could the world, the governors of the world, do with such a man? difficult to say what the governors of the world could do with him! what he could do with them is unhappily clear enough,--_guillotine_ a great many of them! enough now of rousseau. it was a curious phenomenon, in the withered, unbelieving second-hand eighteenth century, that of a hero starting up, among the artificial pasteboard figures and productions, in the guise of a robert burns. like a little well in the rocky desert places,--like a sudden splendor of heaven in the artificial vauxhall! people knew not what to make of it. they took it for a piece of the vauxhall fire-work; alas, it _let_ itself be so taken, though struggling half-blindly, as in bitterness of death, against that! perhaps no man had such a false reception from his fellow-men. once more a very wasteful life-drama was enacted under the sun. the tragedy of burns's life is known to all of you. surely we may say, if discrepancy between place held and place merited constitute perverseness of lot for a man, no lot could be more perverse then burns's. among those second-hand acting-figures, _mimes_ for most part, of the eighteenth century, once more a giant original man; one of those men who reach down to the perennial deeps, who take rank with the heroic among men: and he was born in a poor ayrshire hut. the largest soul of all the british lands came among us in the shape of a hard-handed scottish peasant. his father, a poor toiling man, tried various things; did not succeed in any; was involved in continual difficulties. the steward, factor as the scotch call him, used to send letters and threatenings, burns says, "which threw us all into tears." the brave, hard-toiling, hard-suffering father, his brave heroine of a wife; and those children, of whom robert was one! in this earth, so wide otherwise, no shelter for _them_. the letters "threw us all into tears:" figure it. the brave father, i say always;--a _silent_ hero and poet; without whom the son had never been a speaking one! burns's schoolmaster came afterwards to london, learnt what good society was; but declares that in no meeting of men did he ever enjoy better discourse than at the hearth of this peasant. and his poor "seven acres of nursery-ground,"--not that, nor the miserable patch of clay-farm, nor anything he tried to get a living by, would prosper with him; he had a sore unequal battle all his days. but he stood to it valiantly; a wise, faithful, unconquerable man;--swallowing down how many sore sufferings daily into silence; fighting like an unseen hero,--nobody publishing newspaper paragraphs about his nobleness; voting pieces of plate to him! however, he was not lost; nothing is lost. robert is there the outcome of him,--and indeed of many generations of such as him. this burns appeared under every disadvantage: uninstructed, poor, born only to hard manual toil; and writing, when it came to that, in a rustic special dialect, known only to a small province of the country he lived in. had he written, even what he did write, in the general language of england, i doubt not he had already become universally recognized as being, or capable to be, one of our greatest men. that he should have tempted so many to penetrate through the rough husk of that dialect of his, is proof that there lay something far from common within it. he has gained a certain recognition, and is continuing to do so over all quarters of our wide saxon world: wheresoever a saxon dialect is spoken, it begins to be understood, by personal inspection of this and the other, that one of the most considerable saxon men of the eighteenth century was an ayrshire peasant named robert burns. yes, i will say, here too was a piece of the right saxon stuff: strong as the harz-rock, rooted in the depths of the world;--rock, yet with wells of living softness in it! a wild impetuous whirlwind of passion and faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly _melody_ dwelling in the heart of it. a noble rough genuineness; homely, rustic, honest; true simplicity of strength; with its lightning-fire, with its soft dewy pity;--like the old norse thor, the peasant-god! burns's brother gilbert, a man of much sense and worth, has told me that robert, in his young days, in spite of their hardship, was usually the gayest of speech; a fellow of infinite frolic, laughter, sense and heart; far pleasanter to hear there, stript cutting peats in the bog, or such like, than he ever afterwards knew him. i can well believe it. this basis of mirth ("_fond gaillard_," as old marquis mirabeau calls it), a primal element of sunshine and joyfulness, coupled with his other deep and earnest qualities, is one of the most attractive characteristics of burns. a large fund of hope dwells in him; spite of his tragical history, he is not a mourning man. he shakes his sorrows gallantly aside; bounds forth victorious over them. it is as the lion shaking "dew-drops from his mane;" as the swift-bounding horse, that _laughs_ at the shaking of the spear.--but indeed, hope, mirth, of the sort like burns's, are they not the outcome properly of warm generous affection,--such as is the beginning of all to every man? you would think it strange if i called burns the most gifted british soul we had in all that century of his: and yet i believe the day is coming when there will be little danger in saying so. his writings, all that he _did_ under such obstructions, are only a poor fragment of him. professor stewart remarked very justly, what indeed is true of all poets good for much, that his poetry was not any particular faculty; but the general result of a naturally vigorous original mind expressing itself in that way. burns's gifts, expressed in conversation, are the theme of all that ever heard him. all kinds of gifts: from the gracefulest utterances of courtesy, to the highest fire of passionate speech; loud floods of mirth, soft wailings of affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing insight; all was in him. witty duchesses celebrate him as a man whose speech "led them off their feet." this is beautiful: but still more beautiful that which mr. lockhart has recorded, which i have more than once alluded to, how the waiters and ostlers at inns would get out of bed, and come crowding to hear this man speak! waiters and ostlers:--they too were men, and here was a man! i have heard much about his speech; but one of the best things i ever heard of it was, last year, from a venerable gentleman long familiar with him. that it was speech distinguished by always _having something in it_. "he spoke rather little than much," this old man told me; "sat rather silent in those early days, as in the company of persons above him; and always when he did speak, it was to throw new light on the matter." i know not why any one should ever speak otherwise!--but if we look at his general force of soul, his healthy _robustness_ every way, the rugged downrightness, penetration, generous valor and manfulness that was in him,--where shall we readily find a better-gifted man? among the great men of the eighteenth century, i sometimes feel as if burns might be found to resemble mirabeau more than any other. they differ widely in vesture; yet look at them intrinsically. there is the same burly thick-necked strength of body as of soul;--built, in both cases, on what the old marquis calls a _fond gaillard_. by nature, by course of breeding, indeed by nation, mirabeau has much more of bluster; a noisy, forward, unresting man. but the characteristic of mirabeau too is veracity and sense, power of true _insight_, superiority of vision. the thing that he says is worth remembering. it is a flash of insight into some object or other: so do both these men speak. the same raging passions; capable too in both of manifesting themselves as the tenderest noble affections. wit; wild laughter, energy, directness, sincerity: these were in both. the types of the two men are not dissimilar. burns too could have governed, debated in national assemblies; politicized, as few could. alas, the courage which had to exhibit itself in capture of smuggling schooners in the solway frith; in keeping _silence_ over so much, where no good speech, but only inarticulate rage was possible: this might have bellowed forth ushers de breze and the like; and made itself visible to all men, in managing of kingdoms, in ruling of great ever-memorable epochs! but they said to him reprovingly, his official superiors said, and wrote: "you are to work, not think." of your _thinking-faculty_, the greatest in this land, we have no need; you are to gauge beer there; for that only are you wanted. very notable;--and worth mentioning, though we know what is to be said and answered! as if thought, power of thinking, were not, at all times, in all places and situations of the world, precisely the thing that was wanted. the fatal man, is he not always the unthinking man, the man who cannot think and _see_; but only grope, and hallucinate, and _mis_see the nature of the thing he works with? he mis-sees it, mis_takes_ it as we say; takes it for one thing, and it _is_ another thing,--and leaves him standing like a futility there! he is the fatal man; unutterably fatal, put in the high places of men.--"why complain of this?" say some: "strength is mournfully denied its arena; that was true from of old." doubtless; and the worse for the _arena_, answer i! _complaining_ profits little; stating of the truth may profit. that a europe, with its french revolution just breaking out, finds no need of a burns except for gauging beer,--is a thing i, for one, cannot _rejoice_ at--! once more we have to say here, that the chief quality of burns is the _sincerity_ of him. so in his poetry, so in his life. the song he sings is not of fantasticalities; it is of a thing felt, really there; the prime merit of this, as of all in him, and of his life generally, is truth. the life of burns is what we may call a great tragic sincerity. a sort of savage sincerity,--not cruel, far from that; but wild, wrestling naked with the truth of things. in that sense, there is something of the savage in all great men. hero-worship,--odin, burns? well; these men of letters too were not without a kind of hero-worship: but what a strange condition has that got into now! the waiters and ostlers of scotch inns, prying about the door, eager to catch any word that fell from burns, were doing unconscious reverence to the heroic. johnson had his boswell for worshipper. rousseau had worshippers enough; princes calling on him in his mean garret; the great, the beautiful doing reverence to the poor moon-struck man. for himself a most portentous contradiction; the two ends of his life not to be brought into harmony. he sits at the tables of grandees; and has to copy music for his own living. he cannot even get his music copied: "by dint of dining out," says he, "i run the risk of dying by starvation at home." for his worshippers too a most questionable thing! if doing hero-worship well or badly be the test of vital well-being or ill-being to a generation, can we say that _these_ generations are very first-rate?--and yet our heroic men of letters do teach, govern, are kings, priests, or what you like to call them; intrinsically there is no preventing it by any means whatever. the world has to obey him who thinks and sees in the world. the world can alter the manner of that; can either have it as blessed continuous summer sunshine, or as unblessed black thunder and tornado,--with unspeakable difference of profit for the world! the manner of it is very alterable; the matter and fact of it is not alterable by any power under the sky. light; or, failing that, lightning: the world can take its choice. not whether we call an odin god, prophet, priest, or what we call him; but whether we believe the word he tells us: there it all lies. if it be a true word, we shall have to believe it; believing it, we shall have to do it. what _name_ or welcome we give him or it, is a point that concerns ourselves mainly. _it_, the new truth, new deeper revealing of the secret of this universe, is verily of the nature of a message from on high; and must and will have itself obeyed.-my last remark is on that notablest phasis of burns's history,--his visit to edinburgh. often it seems to me as if his demeanor there were the highest proof he gave of what a fund of worth and genuine manhood was in him. if we think of it, few heavier burdens could be laid on the strength of a man. so sudden; all common _lionism_. which ruins innumerable men, was as nothing to this. it is as if napoleon had been made a king of, not gradually, but at once from the artillery lieutenancy in the regiment la fere. burns, still only in his twenty-seventh year, is no longer even a ploughman; he is flying to the west indies to escape disgrace and a jail. this month he is a ruined peasant, his wages seven pounds a year, and these gone from him: next month he is in the blaze of rank and beauty, handing down jewelled duchesses to dinner; the cynosure of all eyes! adversity is sometimes hard upon a man; but for one man who can stand prosperity, there are a hundred that will stand adversity. i admire much the way in which burns met all this. perhaps no man one could point out, was ever so sorely tried, and so little forgot himself. tranquil, unastonished; not abashed, not inflated, neither awkwardness nor affectation: he feels that _he_ there is the man robert burns; that the "rank is but the guinea-stamp;" that the celebrity is but the candle-light, which will show _what_ man, not in the least make him a better or other man! alas, it may readily, unless he look to it, make him a _worse_ man; a wretched inflated wind-bag,--inflated till he _burst_, and become a _dead_ lion; for whom, as some one has said, "there is no resurrection of the body;" worse than a living dog!--burns is admirable here. and yet, alas, as i have observed elsewhere, these lion-hunters were the ruin and death of burns. it was they that rendered it impossible for him to live! they gathered round him in his farm; hindered his industry; no place was remote enough from them. he could not get his lionism forgotten, honestly as he was disposed to do so. he falls into discontents, into miseries, faults; the world getting ever more desolate for him; health, character, peace of mind, all gone;--solitary enough now. it is tragical to think of! these men came but to _see_ him; it was out of no sympathy with him, nor no hatred to him. they came to get a little amusement; they got their amusement;--and the hero's life went for it! richter says, in the island of sumatra there is a kind of "light-chafers," large fire-flies, which people stick upon spits, and illuminate the ways with at night. persons of condition can thus travel with a pleasant radiance, which they much admire. great honor to the fire-flies! but--! lecture vi. the hero as king. cromwell, napoleon: modern revolutionism. [may 22, 1840.] we come now to the last form of heroism; that which we call kingship. the commander over men; he to whose will our wills are to be subordinated, and loyally surrender themselves, and find their welfare in doing so, may be reckoned the most important of great men. he is practically the summary for us of _all_ the various figures of heroism; priest, teacher, whatsoever of earthly or of spiritual dignity we can fancy to reside in a man, embodies itself here, to _command_ over us, to furnish us with constant practical teaching, to tell us for the day and hour what we are to _do_. he is called _rex_, regulator, _roi_: our own name is still better; king, _konning_, which means _can_-ning, able-man. numerous considerations, pointing towards deep, questionable, and indeed unfathomable regions, present themselves here: on the most of which we must resolutely for the present forbear to speak at all. as burke said that perhaps fair _trial by jury_ was the soul of government, and that all legislation, administration, parliamentary debating, and the rest of it, went on, in "order to bring twelve impartial men into a jury-box;"--so, by much stronger reason, may i say here, that the finding of your _ableman_ and getting him invested with the _symbols of ability_, with dignity, worship (_worth_-ship), royalty, kinghood, or whatever we call it, so that _he_ may actually have room to guide according to his faculty of doing it,--is the business, well or ill accomplished, of all social procedure whatsoever in this world! hustings-speeches, parliamentary motions, reform bills, french revolutions, all mean at heart this; or else nothing. find in any country the ablest man that exists there; raise _him_ to the supreme place, and loyally reverence him: you have a perfect government for that country; no ballot-box, parliamentary eloquence, voting, constitution-building, or other machinery whatsoever can improve it a whit. it is in the perfect state; an ideal country. the ablest man; he means also the truest-hearted, justest, the noblest man: what he _tells us to do_ must be precisely the wisest, fittest, that we could anywhere or anyhow learn;--the thing which it will in all ways behoove us, with right loyal thankfulness and nothing doubting, to do! our _doing_ and life were then, so far as government could regulate it, well regulated; that were the ideal of constitutions. alas, we know very well that ideals can never be completely embodied in practice. ideals must ever lie a very great way off; and we will right thankfully content ourselves with any not intolerable approximation thereto! let no man, as schiller says, too querulously "measure by a scale of perfection the meagre product of reality" in this poor world of ours. we will esteem him no wise man; we will esteem him a sickly, discontented, foolish man. and yet, on the other hand, it is never to be forgotten that ideals do exist; that if they be not approximated to at all, the whole matter goes to wreck! infallibly. no bricklayer builds a wall _perfectly_ perpendicular, mathematically this is not possible; a certain degree of perpendicularity suffices him; and he, like a good bricklayer, who must have done with his job, leaves it so. and yet if he sway _too much_ from the perpendicular; above all, if he throw plummet and level quite away from him, and pile brick on brick heedless, just as it comes to hand--! such bricklayer, i think, is in a bad way. he has forgotten himself: but the law of gravitation does not forget to act on him; he and his wall rush down into confused welter of ruin--! this is the history of all rebellions, french revolutions, social explosions in ancient or modern times. you have put the too _un_able man at the head of affairs! the too ignoble, unvaliant, fatuous man. you have forgotten that there is any rule, or natural necessity whatever, of putting the able man there. brick must lie on brick as it may and can. unable simulacrum of ability, _quack_, in a word, must adjust himself with quack, in all manner of administration of human things;--which accordingly lie unadministered, fermenting into unmeasured masses of failure, of indigent misery: in the outward, and in the inward or spiritual, miserable millions stretch out the hand for their due supply, and it is not there. the "law of gravitation" acts; nature's laws do none of them forget to act. the miserable millions burst forth into sansculottism, or some other sort of madness: bricks and bricklayer lie as a fatal chaos--! much sorry stuff, written some hundred years ago or more, about the "divine right of kings," moulders unread now in the public libraries of this country. far be it from us to disturb the calm process by which it is disappearing harmlessly from the earth, in those repositories! at the same time, not to let the immense rubbish go without leaving us, as it ought, some soul of it behind--i will say that it did mean something; something true, which it is important for us and all men to keep in mind. to assert that in whatever man you chose to lay hold of (by this or the other plan of clutching at him); and claps a round piece of metal on the head of, and called king,--there straightway came to reside a divine virtue, so that _he_ became a kind of god, and a divinity inspired him with faculty and right to rule over you to all lengths: this,--what can we do with this but leave it to rot silently in the public libraries? but i will say withal, and that is what these divine-right men meant, that in kings, and in all human authorities, and relations that men god-created can form among each other, there is verily either a divine right or else a diabolic wrong; one or the other of these two! for it is false altogether, what the last sceptical century taught us, that this world is a steam-engine. there is a god in this world; and a god's-sanction, or else the violation of such, does look out from all ruling and obedience, from all moral acts of men. there is no act more moral between men than that of rule and obedience. woe to him that claims obedience when it is not due; woe to him that refuses it when it is! god's law is in that, i say, however the parchment-laws may run: there is a divine right or else a diabolic wrong at the heart of every claim that one man makes upon another. it can do none of us harm to reflect on this: in all the relations of life it will concern us; in loyalty and royalty, the highest of these. i esteem the modern error, that all goes by self-interest and the checking and balancing of greedy knaveries, and that in short, there is nothing divine whatever in the association of men, a still more despicable error, natural as it is to an unbelieving century, than that of a "divine right" in people _called_ kings. i say, find me the true _konning_, king, or able-man, and he _has_ a divine right over me. that we knew in some tolerable measure how to find him, and that all men were ready to acknowledge his divine right when found: this is precisely the healing which a sick world is everywhere, in these ages, seeking after! the true king, as guide of the practical, has ever something of the pontiff in him,--guide of the spiritual, from which all practice has its rise. this too is a true saying, that the _king_ is head of the _church_.--but we will leave the polemic stuff of a dead century to lie quiet on its bookshelves. certainly it is a fearful business, that of having your ableman to _seek_, and not knowing in what manner to proceed about it! that is the world's sad predicament in these times of ours. they are times of revolution, and have long been. the bricklayer with his bricks, no longer heedful of plummet or the law of gravitation, have toppled, tumbled, and it all welters as we see! but the beginning of it was not the french revolution; that is rather the _end_, we can hope. it were truer to say, the _beginning_ was three centuries farther back: in the reformation of luther. that the thing which still called itself christian church had become a falsehood, and brazenly went about pretending to pardon men's sins for metallic coined money, and to do much else which in the everlasting truth of nature it did _not_ now do: here lay the vital malady. the inward being wrong, all outward went ever more and more wrong. belief died away; all was doubt, disbelief. the builder cast _away_ his plummet; said to himself, "what is gravitation? brick lies on brick there!" alas, does it not still sound strange to many of us, the assertion that there _is_ a god's-truth in the business of god-created men; that all is not a kind of grimace, an "expediency," diplomacy, one knows not what--! from that first necessary assertion of luther's, "you, self-styled _papa_, you are no father in god at all; you are--a chimera, whom i know not how to name in polite language!"--from that onwards to the shout which rose round camille desmoulins in the palais-royal, "_aux armes_!" when the people had burst up against _all_ manner of chimeras,--i find a natural historical sequence. that shout too, so frightful, half-infernal, was a great matter. once more the voice of awakened nations;--starting confusedly, as out of nightmare, as out of death-sleep, into some dim feeling that life was real; that god's-world was not an expediency and diplomacy! infernal;--yes, since they would not have it otherwise. infernal, since not celestial or terrestrial! hollowness, insincerity _has_ to cease; sincerity of some sort has to begin. cost what it may, reigns of terror, horrors of french revolution or what else, we have to return to truth. here is a truth, as i said: a truth clad in hell-fire, since they would not but have it so--! a common theory among considerable parties of men in england and elsewhere used to be, that the french nation had, in those days, as it were gone _mad_; that the french revolution was a general act of insanity, a temporary conversion of france and large sections of the world into a kind of bedlam. the event had risen and raged; but was a madness and nonentity,--gone now happily into the region of dreams and the picturesque!--to such comfortable philosophers, the three days of july, 1830, must have been a surprising phenomenon. here is the french nation risen again, in musketry and death-struggle, out shooting and being shot, to make that same mad french revolution good! the sons and grandsons of those men, it would seem, persist in the enterprise: they do not disown it; they will have it made good; will have themselves shot, if it be not made good. to philosophers who had made up their life-system, on that "madness" quietus, no phenomenon could be more alarming. poor niebuhr, they say, the prussian professor and historian, fell broken-hearted in consequence; sickened, if we can believe it, and died of the three days! it was surely not a very heroic death;--little better than racine's, dying because louis fourteenth looked sternly on him once. the world had stood some considerable shocks, in its time; might have been expected to survive the three days too, and be found turning on its axis after even them! the three days told all mortals that the old french revolution, mad as it might look, was not a transitory ebullition of bedlam, but a genuine product of this earth where we all live; that it was verily a fact, and that the world in general would do well everywhere to regard it as such. truly, without the french revolution, one would not know what to make of an age like this at all. we will hail the french revolution, as shipwrecked mariners might the sternest rock, in a world otherwise all of baseless sea and waves. a true apocalypse, though a terrible one, to this false withered artificial time; testifying once more that nature is _preter_natural; if not divine, then diabolic; that semblance is not reality; that it has to become reality, or the world will take fire under it,--burn _it_ into what it is, namely nothing! plausibility has ended; empty routine has ended; much has ended. this, as with a trump of doom, has been proclaimed to all men. they are the wisest who will learn it soonest. long confused generations before it be learned; peace impossible till it be! the earnest man, surrounded, as ever, with a world of inconsistencies, can await patiently, patiently strive to do _his_ work, in the midst of that. sentence of death is written down in heaven against all that; sentence of death is now proclaimed on the earth against it: this he with his eyes may see. and surely, i should say, considering the other side of the matter, what enormous difficulties lie there, and how fast, fearfully fast, in all countries, the inexorable demand for solution of them is pressing on,--he may easily find other work to do than laboring in the sansculottic province at this time of day! to me, in these circumstances, that of "hero-worship" becomes a fact inexpressibly precious; the most solacing fact one sees in the world at present. there is an everlasting hope in it for the management of the world. had all traditions, arrangements, creeds, societies that men ever instituted, sunk away, this would remain. the certainty of heroes being sent us; our faculty, our necessity, to reverence heroes when sent: it shines like a polestar through smoke-clouds, dust-clouds, and all manner of down-rushing and conflagration. hero-worship would have sounded very strange to those workers and fighters in the french revolution. not reverence for great men; not any hope or belief, or even wish, that great men could again appear in the world! nature, turned into a "machine," was as if effete now; could not any longer produce great men:--i can tell her, she may give up the trade altogether, then; we cannot do without great men!--but neither have i any quarrel with that of "liberty and equality;" with the faith that, wise great men being impossible, a level immensity of foolish small men would suffice. it was a natural faith then and there. "liberty and equality; no authority needed any longer. hero-worship, reverence for _such_ authorities, has proved false, is itself a falsehood; no more of it! we have had such _forgeries_, we will now trust nothing. so many base plated coins passing in the market, the belief has now become common that no gold any longer exists,--and even that we can do very well without gold!" i find this, among other things, in that universal cry of liberty and equality; and find it very natural, as matters then stood. and yet surely it is but the _transition_ from false to true. considered as the whole truth, it is false altogether;--the product of entire sceptical blindness, as yet only _struggling_ to see. hero-worship exists forever, and everywhere: not loyalty alone; it extends from divine adoration down to the lowest practical regions of life. "bending before men," if it is not to be a mere empty grimace, better dispensed with than practiced, is hero-worship,--a recognition that there does dwell in that presence of our brother something divine; that every created man, as novalis said, is a "revelation in the flesh." they were poets too, that devised all those graceful courtesies which make life noble! courtesy is not a falsehood or grimace; it need not be such. and loyalty, religious worship itself, are still possible; nay still inevitable. may we not say, moreover, while so many of our late heroes have worked rather as revolutionary men, that nevertheless every great man, every genuine man, is by the nature of him a son of order, not of disorder? it is a tragical position for a true man to work in revolutions. he seems an anarchist; and indeed a painful element of anarchy does encumber him at every step,--him to whose whole soul anarchy is hostile, hateful. his mission is order; every man's is. he is here to make what was disorderly, chaotic, into a thing ruled, regular. he is the missionary of order. is not all work of man in this world a _making of order_? the carpenter finds rough trees; shapes them, constrains them into square fitness, into purpose and use. we are all born enemies of disorder: it is tragical for us all to be concerned in image-breaking and down-pulling; for the great man, _more_ a man than we, it is doubly tragical. thus too all human things, maddest french sansculottisms, do and must work towards order. i say, there is not a _man_ in them, raging in the thickest of the madness, but is impelled withal, at all moments, towards order. his very life means that; disorder is dissolution, death. no chaos but it seeks a _centre_ to revolve round. while man is man, some cromwell or napoleon is the necessary finish of a sansculottism.--curious: in those days when hero-worship was the most incredible thing to every one, how it does come out nevertheless, and assert itself practically, in a way which all have to credit. divine _right_, take it on the great scale, is found to mean divine _might_ withal! while old false formulas are getting trampled everywhere into destruction, new genuine substances unexpectedly unfold themselves indestructible. in rebellious ages, when kingship itself seems dead and abolished, cromwell, napoleon step forth again as kings. the history of these men is what we have now to look at, as our last phasis of heroism. the old ages are brought back to us; the manner in which kings were made, and kingship itself first took rise, is again exhibited in the history of these two. we have had many civil wars in england; wars of red and white roses, wars of simon de montfort; wars enough, which are not very memorable. but that war of the puritans has a significance which belongs to no one of the others. trusting to your candor, which will suggest on the other side what i have not room to say, i will call it a section once more of that great universal war which alone makes up the true history of the world,--the war of belief against unbelief! the struggle of men intent on the real essence of things, against men intent on the semblances and forms of things. the puritans, to many, seem mere savage iconoclasts, fierce destroyers of forms; but it were more just to call them haters of _untrue_ forms. i hope we know how to respect laud and his king as well as them. poor laud seems to me to have been weak and ill-starred, not dishonest an unfortunate pedant rather than anything worse. his "dreams" and superstitions, at which they laugh so, have an affectionate, lovable kind of character. he is like a college-tutor, whose whole world is forms, college-rules; whose notion is that these are the life and safety of the world. he is placed suddenly, with that unalterable luckless notion of his, at the head not of a college but of a nation, to regulate the most complex deep-reaching interests of men. he thinks they ought to go by the old decent regulations; nay that their salvation will lie in extending and improving these. like a weak man, he drives with spasmodic vehemence towards his purpose; cramps himself to it, heeding no voice of prudence, no cry of pity: he will have his college-rules obeyed by his collegians; that first; and till that, nothing. he is an ill-starred pedant, as i said. he would have it the world was a college of that kind, and the world was _not_ that. alas, was not his doom stern enough? whatever wrongs he did, were they not all frightfully avenged on him? it is meritorious to insist on forms; religion and all else naturally clothes itself in forms. everywhere the _formed_ world is the only habitable one. the naked formlessness of puritanism is not the thing i praise in the puritans; it is the thing i pity,--praising only the spirit which had rendered that inevitable! all substances clothe themselves in forms: but there are suitable true forms, and then there are untrue unsuitable. as the briefest definition, one might say, forms which _grow_ round a substance, if we rightly understand that, will correspond to the real nature and purport of it, will be true, good; forms which are consciously _put_ round a substance, bad. i invite you to reflect on this. it distinguishes true from false in ceremonial form, earnest solemnity from empty pageant, in all human things. there must be a veracity, a natural spontaneity in forms. in the commonest meeting of men, a person making, what we call, "set speeches," is not he an offence? in the mere drawing-room, whatsoever courtesies you see to be grimaces, prompted by no spontaneous reality within, are a thing you wish to get away from. but suppose now it were some matter of vital concernment, some transcendent matter (as divine worship is), about which your whole soul, struck dumb with its excess of feeling, knew not how to _form_ itself into utterance at all, and preferred formless silence to any utterance there possible,--what should we say of a man coming forward to represent or utter it for you in the way of upholsterer-mummery? such a man,--let him depart swiftly, if he love himself! you have lost your only son; are mute, struck down, without even tears: an importunate man importunately offers to celebrate funeral games for him in the manner of the greeks! such mummery is not only not to be accepted,--it is hateful, unendurable. it is what the old prophets called "idolatry," worshipping of hollow _shows_; what all earnest men do and will reject. we can partly understand what those poor puritans meant. laud dedicating that st. catherine creed's church, in the manner we have it described; with his multiplied ceremonial bowings, gesticulations, exclamations: surely it is rather the rigorous formal pedant, intent on his "college-rules," than the earnest prophet intent on the essence of the matter! puritanism found _such_ forms insupportable; trampled on such forms;--we have to excuse it for saying, no form at all rather than such! it stood preaching in its bare pulpit, with nothing but the bible in its hand. nay, a man preaching from his earnest _soul_ into the earnest _souls_ of men: is not this virtually the essence of all churches whatsoever? the nakedest, savagest reality, i say, is preferable to any semblance, however dignified. besides, it will clothe itself with _due_ semblance by and by, if it be real. no fear of that; actually no fear at all. given the living _man_, there will be found _clothes_ for him; he will find himself clothes. but the suit-of-clothes pretending that _it_ is both clothes and man--! we cannot "fight the french" by three hundred thousand red uniforms; there must be _men_ in the inside of them! semblance, i assert, must actually _not_ divorce itself from reality. if semblance do,--why then there must be men found to rebel against semblance, for it has become a lie! these two antagonisms at war here, in the case of laud and the puritans, are as old nearly as the world. they went to fierce battle over england in that age; and fought out their confused controversy to a certain length, with many results for all of us. in the age which directly followed that of the puritans, their cause or themselves were little likely to have justice done them. charles second and his rochesters were not the kind of men you would set to judge what the worth or meaning of such men might have been. that there could be any faith or truth in the life of a man, was what these poor rochesters, and the age they ushered in, had forgotten. puritanism was hung on gibbets,--like the bones of the leading puritans. its work nevertheless went on accomplishing itself. all true work of a man, hang the author of it on what gibbet you like, must and will accomplish itself. we have our _habeas-corpus_, our free representation of the people; acknowledgment, wide as the world, that all men are, or else must, shall, and will become, what we call _free_ men;--men with their life grounded on reality and justice, not on tradition, which has become unjust and a chimera! this in part, and much besides this, was the work of the puritans. and indeed, as these things became gradually manifest, the character of the puritans began to clear itself. their memories were, one after another, taken _down_ from the gibbet; nay a certain portion of them are now, in these days, as good as canonized. eliot, hampden, pym, nay ludlow, hutchinson, vane himself, are admitted to be a kind of heroes; political conscript fathers, to whom in no small degree we owe what makes us a free england: it would not be safe for anybody to designate these men as wicked now. few puritans of note but find their apologists somewhere, and have a certain reverence paid them by earnest men. one puritan, i think, and almost he alone, our poor cromwell, seems to hang yet on the gibbet, and find no hearty apologist anywhere. him neither saint nor sinner will acquit of great wickedness. a man of ability, infinite talent, courage, and so forth: but he betrayed the cause. selfish ambition, dishonesty, duplicity; a fierce, coarse, hypocritical _tartuffe_; turning all that noble struggle for constitutional liberty into a sorry farce played for his own benefit: this and worse is the character they give of cromwell. and then there come contrasts with washington and others; above all, with these noble pyms and hampdens, whose noble work he stole for himself, and ruined into a futility and deformity. this view of cromwell seems to me the not unnatural product of a century like the eighteenth. as we said of the valet, so of the sceptic: he does not know a hero when he sees him! the valet expected purple mantles, gilt sceptres, bodyguards and flourishes of trumpets: the sceptic of the eighteenth century looks for regulated respectable formulas, "principles," or what else he may call them; a style of speech and conduct which has got to seem "respectable," which can plead for itself in a handsome articulate manner, and gain the suffrages of an enlightened sceptical eighteenth century! it is, at bottom, the same thing that both the valet and he expect: the garnitures of some _acknowledged_ royalty, which _then_ they will acknowledge! the king coming to them in the rugged _un_formulistic state shall be no king. for my own share, far be it from me to say or insinuate a word of disparagement against such characters as hampden, elliot, pym; whom i believe to have been right worthy and useful men. i have read diligently what books and documents about them i could come at;--with the honestest wish to admire, to love and worship them like heroes; but i am sorry to say, if the real truth must be told, with very indifferent success! at bottom, i found that it would not do. they are very noble men, these; step along in their stately way, with their measured euphemisms, philosophies, parliamentary eloquences, ship-moneys, _monarchies of man_; a most constitutional, unblamable, dignified set of men. but the heart remains cold before them; the fancy alone endeavors to get up some worship of them. what man's heart does, in reality, break forth into any fire of brotherly love for these men? they are become dreadfully dull men! one breaks down often enough in the constitutional eloquence of the admirable pym, with his "seventhly and lastly." you find that it may be the admirablest thing in the world, but that it is heavy,--heavy as lead, barren as brick-clay; that, in a word, for you there is little or nothing now surviving there! one leaves all these nobilities standing in their niches of honor: the rugged outcast cromwell, he is the man of them all in whom one still finds human stuff. the great savage _baresark_: he could write no euphemistic _monarchy of man_; did not speak, did not work with glib regularity; had no straight story to tell for himself anywhere. but he stood bare, not cased in euphemistic coat-of-mail; he grappled like a giant, face to face, heart to heart, with the naked truth of things! that, after all, is the sort of man for one. i plead guilty to valuing such a man beyond all other sorts of men. smooth-shaven respectabilities not a few one finds, that are not good for much. small thanks to a man for keeping his hands clean, who would not touch the work but with gloves on! neither, on the whole, does this constitutional tolerance of the eighteenth century for the other happier puritans seem to be a very great matter. one might say, it is but a piece of formulism and scepticism, like the rest. they tell us, it was a sorrowful thing to consider that the foundation of our english liberties should have been laid by "superstition." these puritans came forward with calvinistic incredible creeds, anti-laudisms, westminster confessions; demanding, chiefly of all, that they should have liberty to _worship_ in their own way. liberty to _tax_ themselves: that was the thing they should have demanded! it was superstition, fanaticism, disgraceful ignorance of constitutional philosophy to insist on the other thing!--liberty to _tax_ oneself? not to pay out money from your pocket except on reason shown? no century, i think, but a rather barren one would have fixed on that as the first right of man! i should say, on the contrary, a just man will generally have better cause than _money_ in what shape soever, before deciding to revolt against his government. ours is a most confused world; in which a good man will be thankful to see any kind of government maintain itself in a not insupportable manner: and here in england, to this hour, if he is not ready to pay a great many taxes which he can see very small reason in, it will not go well with him, i think! he must try some other climate than this. tax-gatherer? money? he will say: "take my money, since you _can_, and it is so desirable to you; take it,--and take yourself away with it; and leave me alone to my work here. i am still here; can still work, after all the money you have taken from me!" but if they come to him, and say, "acknowledge a lie; pretend to say you are worshipping god, when you are not doing it: believe not the thing that you find true, but the thing that i find, or pretend to find true!" he will answer: "no; by god's help, no! you may take my purse; but i cannot have my moral self annihilated. the purse is any highwayman's who might meet me with a loaded pistol: but the self is mine and god my maker's; it is not yours; and i will resist you to the death, and revolt against you, and, on the whole, front all manner of extremities, accusations and confusions, in defence of that!"-really, it seems to me the one reason which could justify revolting, this of the puritans. it has been the soul of all just revolts among men. not _hunger_ alone produced even the french revolution; no, but the feeling of the insupportable all-pervading _falsehood_ which had now embodied itself in hunger, in universal material scarcity and nonentity, and thereby become _indisputably_ false in the eyes of all! we will leave the eighteenth century with its "liberty to tax itself." we will not astonish ourselves that the meaning of such men as the puritans remained dim to it. to men who believe in no reality at all, how shall a _real_ human soul, the intensest of all realities, as it were the voice of this world's maker still speaking to us,--be intelligible? what it cannot reduce into constitutional doctrines relative to "taxing," or other the like material interest, gross, palpable to the sense, such a century will needs reject as an amorphous heap of rubbish. hampdens, pyms and ship-money will be the theme of much constitutional eloquence, striving to be fervid;--which will glitter, if not as fire does, then as ice does: and the irreducible cromwell will remain a chaotic mass of "madness," "hypocrisy," and much else. from of old, i will confess, this theory of cromwell's falsity has been incredible to me. nay i cannot believe the like, of any great man whatever. multitudes of great men figure in history as false selfish men; but if we will consider it, they are but _figures_ for us, unintelligible shadows; we do not see into them as men that could have existed at all. a superficial unbelieving generation only, with no eye but for the surfaces and semblances of things, could form such notions of great men. can a great soul be possible without a _conscience_ in it, the essence of all _real_ souls, great or small?--no, we cannot figure cromwell as a falsity and fatuity; the longer i study him and his career, i believe this the less. why should we? there is no evidence of it. is it not strange that, after all the mountains of calumny this man has been subject to, after being represented as the very prince of liars, who never, or hardly ever, spoke truth, but always some cunning counterfeit of truth, there should not yet have been one falsehood brought clearly home to him? a prince of liars, and no lie spoken by him. not one that i could yet get sight of. it is like pococke asking grotius, where is your _proof_ of mahomet's pigeon? no proof!--let us leave all these calumnious chimeras, as chimeras ought to be left. they are not portraits of the man; they are distracted phantasms of him, the joint product of hatred and darkness. looking at the man's life with our own eyes, it seems to me, a very different hypothesis suggests itself. what little we know of his earlier obscure years, distorted as it has come down to us, does it not all betoken an earnest, affectionate, sincere kind of man? his nervous melancholic temperament indicates rather a seriousness _too_ deep for him. of those stories of "spectres;" of the white spectre in broad daylight, predicting that he should be king of england, we are not bound to believe much;--probably no more than of the other black spectre, or devil in person, to whom the officer _saw_ him sell himself before worcester fight! but the mournful, oversensitive, hypochondriac humor of oliver, in his young years, is otherwise indisputably known. the huntingdon physician told sir philip warwick himself, he had often been sent for at midnight; mr. cromwell was full of hypochondria, thought himself near dying, and "had fancies about the town-cross." these things are significant. such an excitable deep-feeling nature, in that rugged stubborn strength of his, is not the symptom of falsehood; it is the symptom and promise of quite other than falsehood! the young oliver is sent to study law; falls, or is said to have fallen, for a little period, into some of the dissipations of youth; but if so, speedily repents, abandons all this: not much above twenty, he is married, settled as an altogether grave and quiet man. "he pays back what money he had won at gambling," says the story;--he does not think any gain of that kind could be really _his_. it is very interesting, very natural, this "conversion," as they well name it; this awakening of a great true soul from the worldly slough, to see into the awful _truth_ of things;--to see that time and its shows all rested on eternity, and this poor earth of ours was the threshold either of heaven or of hell! oliver's life at st. ives and ely, as a sober industrious farmer, is it not altogether as that of a true and devout man? he has renounced the world and its ways; _its_ prizes are not the thing that can enrich him. he tills the earth; he reads his bible; daily assembles his servants round him to worship god. he comforts persecuted ministers, is fond of preachers; nay can himself preach,--exhorts his neighbors to be wise, to redeem the time. in all this what "hypocrisy," "ambition," "cant," or other falsity? the man's hopes, i do believe, were fixed on the other higher world; his aim to get well _thither_, by walking well through his humble course in _this_ world. he courts no notice: what could notice here do for him? "ever in his great taskmaster's eye." it is striking, too, how he comes out once into public view; he, since no other is willing to come: in resistance to a public grievance. i mean, in that matter of the bedford fens. no one else will go to law with authority; therefore he will. that matter once settled, he returns back into obscurity, to his bible and his plough. "gain influence"? his influence is the most legitimate; derived from personal knowledge of him, as a just, religious, reasonable and determined man. in this way he has lived till past forty; old age is now in view of him, and the earnest portal of death and eternity; it was at this point that he suddenly became "ambitious"! i do not interpret his parliamentary mission in that way! his successes in parliament, his successes through the war, are honest successes of a brave man; who has more resolution in the heart of him, more light in the head of him than other men. his prayers to god; his spoken thanks to the god of victory, who had preserved him safe, and carried him forward so far, through the furious clash of a world all set in conflict, through desperate-looking envelopments at dunbar; through the death-hail of so many battles; mercy after mercy; to the "crowning mercy" of worcester fight: all this is good and genuine for a deep-hearted calvinistic cromwell. only to vain unbelieving cavaliers, worshipping not god but their own "love-locks," frivolities and formalities, living quite apart from contemplations of god, living _without_ god in the world, need it seem hypocritical. nor will his participation in the king's death involve him in condemnation with us. it is a stern business killing of a king! but if you once go to war with him, it lies _there_; this and all else lies there. once at war, you have made wager of battle with him: it is he to die, or else you. reconciliation is problematic; may be possible, or, far more likely, is impossible. it is now pretty generally admitted that the parliament, having vanquished charles first, had no way of making any tenable arrangement with him. the large presbyterian party, apprehensive now of the independents, were most anxious to do so; anxious indeed as for their own existence; but it could not be. the unhappy charles, in those final hampton-court negotiations, shows himself as a man fatally incapable of being dealt with. a man who, once for all, could not and would not _understand_:--whose thought did not in any measure represent to him the real fact of the matter; nay worse, whose _word_ did not at all represent his thought. we may say this of him without cruelty, with deep pity rather: but it is true and undeniable. forsaken there of all but the _name_ of kingship, he still, finding himself treated with outward respect as a king, fancied that he might play off party against party, and smuggle himself into his old power by deceiving both. alas, they both _discovered_ that he was deceiving them. a man whose _word_ will not inform you at all what he means or will do, is not a man you can bargain with. you must get out of that man's way, or put him out of yours! the presbyterians, in their despair, were still for believing charles, though found false, unbelievable again and again. not so cromwell: "for all our fighting," says he, "we are to have a little bit of paper?" no--! in fact, everywhere we have to note the decisive practical _eye_ of this man; how he drives towards the practical and practicable; has a genuine insight into what _is_ fact. such an intellect, i maintain, does not belong to a false man: the false man sees false shows, plausibilities, expediences: the true man is needed to discern even practical truth. cromwell's advice about the parliament's army, early in the contest, how they were to dismiss their city-tapsters, flimsy riotous persons, and choose substantial yeomen, whose heart was in the work, to be soldiers for them: this is advice by a man who _saw_. fact answers, if you see into fact! cromwell's _ironsides_ were the embodiment of this insight of his; men fearing god; and without any other fear. no more conclusively genuine set of fighters ever trod the soil of england, or of any other land. neither will we blame greatly that word of cromwell's to them; which was so blamed: "if the king should meet me in battle, i would kill the king." why not? these words were spoken to men who stood as before a higher than kings. they had set more than their own lives on the cast. the parliament may call it, in official language, a fighting "_for_ the king;" but we, for our share, cannot understand that. to us it is no dilettante work, no sleek officiality; it is sheer rough death and earnest. they have brought it to the calling-forth of war; horrid internecine fight, man grappling with man in fire-eyed rage,--the _infernal_ element in man called forth, to try it by that! _do_ that therefore; since that is the thing to be done.--the successes of cromwell seem to me a very natural thing! since he was not shot in battle, they were an inevitable thing. that such a man, with the eye to see, with the heart to dare, should advance, from post to post, from victory to victory, till the huntingdon farmer became, by whatever name you might call him, the acknowledged strongest man in england, virtually the king of england, requires no magic to explain it--! truly it is a sad thing for a people, as for a man, to fall into scepticism, into dilettantism, insincerity; not to know sincerity when they see it. for this world, and for all worlds, what curse is so fatal? the heart lying dead, the eye cannot see. what intellect remains is merely the _vulpine_ intellect. that a true _king_ be sent them is of small use; they do not know him when sent. they say scornfully, is this your king? the hero wastes his heroic faculty in bootless contradiction from the unworthy; and can accomplish little. for himself he does accomplish a heroic life, which is much, which is all; but for the world he accomplishes comparatively nothing. the wild rude sincerity, direct from nature, is not glib in answering from the witness-box: in your small-debt _pie-powder_ court, he is scouted as a counterfeit. the vulpine intellect "detects" him. for being a man worth any thousand men, the response your knox, your cromwell gets, is an argument for two centuries whether he was a man at all. god's greatest gift to this earth is sneeringly flung away. the miraculous talisman is a paltry plated coin, not fit to pass in the shops as a common guinea. lamentable this! i say, this must be remedied. till this be remedied in some measure, there is nothing remedied. "detect quacks"? yes do, for heaven's sake; but know withal the men that are to be trusted! till we know that, what is all our knowledge; how shall we even so much as "detect"? for the vulpine sharpness, which considers itself to be knowledge, and "detects" in that fashion, is far mistaken. dupes indeed are many: but, of all _dupes_, there is none so fatally situated as he who lives in undue terror of being duped. the world does exist; the world has truth in it, or it would not exist! first recognize what is true, we shall _then_ discern what is false; and properly never till then. "know the men that are to be trusted:" alas, this is yet, in these days, very far from us. the sincere alone can recognize sincerity. not a hero only is needed, but a world fit for him; a world not of _valets_;--the hero comes almost in vain to it otherwise! yes, it is far from us: but it must come; thank god, it is visibly coming. till it do come, what have we? ballot-boxes, suffrages, french revolutions:--if we are as valets, and do not know the hero when we see him, what good are all these? a heroic cromwell comes; and for a hundred and fifty years he cannot have a vote from us. why, the insincere, unbelieving world is the _natural property_ of the quack, and of the father of quacks and quackeries! misery, confusion, unveracity are alone possible there. by ballot-boxes we alter the _figure_ of our quack; but the substance of him continues. the valet-world _has_ to be governed by the sham-hero, by the king merely _dressed_ in king-gear. it is his; he is its! in brief, one of two things: we shall either learn to know a hero, a true governor and captain, somewhat better, when we see him; or else go on to be forever governed by the unheroic;--had we ballot-boxes clattering at every street-corner, there were no remedy in these. poor cromwell,--great cromwell! the inarticulate prophet; prophet who could not _speak_. rude, confused, struggling to utter himself, with his savage depth, with his wild sincerity; and he looked so strange, among the elegant euphemisms, dainty little falklands, didactic chillingworths, diplomatic clarendons! consider him. an outer hull of chaotic confusion, visions of the devil, nervous dreams, almost semi-madness; and yet such a clear determinate man's-energy working in the heart of that. a kind of chaotic man. the ray as of pure starlight and fire, working in such an element of boundless hypochondria, unformed black of darkness! and yet withal this hypochondria, what was it but the very greatness of the man? the depth and tenderness of his wild affections: the quantity of _sympathy_ he had with things,--the quantity of insight he would yet get into the heart of things, the mastery he would yet get over things: this was his hypochondria. the man's misery, as man's misery always does, came of his greatness. samuel johnson too is that kind of man. sorrow-stricken, half-distracted; the wide element of mournful _black_ enveloping him,--wide as the world. it is the character of a prophetic man; a man with his whole soul _seeing_, and struggling to see. on this ground, too, i explain to myself cromwell's reputed confusion of speech. to himself the internal meaning was sun-clear; but the material with which he was to clothe it in utterance was not there. he had _lived_ silent; a great unnamed sea of thought round him all his days; and in his way of life little call to attempt _naming_ or uttering that. with his sharp power of vision, resolute power of action, i doubt not he could have learned to write books withal, and speak fluently enough;--he did harder things than writing of books. this kind of man is precisely he who is fit for doing manfully all things you will set him on doing. intellect is not speaking and logicizing; it is seeing and ascertaining. virtue, virtues, manhood, _hero_hood, is not fair-spoken immaculate regularity; it is first of all, what the germans well name it, _tugend_ (_taugend_, _dow_-ing or _dough_-tiness), courage and the faculty to _do_. this basis of the matter cromwell had in him. one understands moreover how, though he could not speak in parliament, he might _preach_, rhapsodic preaching; above all, how he might be great in extempore prayer. these are the free outpouring utterances of what is in the heart: method is not required in them; warmth, depth, sincerity are all that is required. cromwell's habit of prayer is a notable feature of him. all his great enterprises were commenced with prayer. in dark inextricable-looking difficulties, his officers and he used to assemble, and pray alternately, for hours, for days, till some definite resolution rose among them, some "door of hope," as they would name it, disclosed itself. consider that. in tears, in fervent prayers, and cries to the great god, to have pity on them, to make his light shine before them. they, armed soldiers of christ, as they felt themselves to be; a little band of christian brothers, who had drawn the sword against a great black devouring world not christian, but mammonish, devilish,--they cried to god in their straits, in their extreme need, not to forsake the cause that was his. the light which now rose upon them,--how could a human soul, by any means at all, get better light? was not the purpose so formed like to be precisely the best, wisest, the one to be followed without hesitation any more? to them it was as the shining of heaven's own splendor in the waste-howling darkness; the pillar of fire by night, that was to guide them on their desolate perilous way. _was_ it not such? can a man's soul, to this hour, get guidance by any other method than intrinsically by that same,--devout prostration of the earnest struggling soul before the highest, the giver of all light; be such _prayer_ a spoken, articulate, or be it a voiceless, inarticulate one? there is no other method. "hypocrisy"? one begins to be weary of all that. they who call it so, have no right to speak on such matters. they never formed a purpose, what one can call a purpose. they went about balancing expediencies, plausibilities; gathering votes, advices; they never were alone with the _truth_ of a thing at all.--cromwell's prayers were likely to be "eloquent," and much more than that. his was the heart of a man who _could_ pray. but indeed his actual speeches, i apprehend, were not nearly so ineloquent, incondite, as they look. we find he was, what all speakers aim to be, an impressive speaker, even in parliament; one who, from the first, had weight. with that rude passionate voice of his, he was always understood to _mean_ something, and men wished to know what. he disregarded eloquence, nay despised and disliked it; spoke always without premeditation of the words he was to use. the reporters, too, in those days seem to have been singularly candid; and to have given the printer precisely what they found on their own note-paper. and withal, what a strange proof is it of cromwell's being the premeditative ever-calculating hypocrite, acting a play before the world, that to the last he took no more charge of his speeches! how came he not to study his words a little, before flinging them out to the public? if the words were true words, they could be left to shift for themselves. but with regard to cromwell's "lying," we will make one remark. this, i suppose, or something like this, to have been the nature of it. all parties found themselves deceived in him; each party understood him to be meaning _this_, heard him even say so, and behold he turns out to have been meaning _that_! he was, cry they, the chief of liars. but now, intrinsically, is not all this the inevitable fortune, not of a false man in such times, but simply of a superior man? such a man must have _reticences_ in him. if he walk wearing his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at, his journey will not extend far! there is no use for any man's taking up his abode in a house built of glass. a man always is to be himself the judge how much of his mind he will show to other men; even to those he would have work along with him. there are impertinent inquiries made: your rule is, to leave the inquirer uninformed on that matter; not, if you can help it, misinformed, but precisely as dark as he was! this, could one hit the right phrase of response, is what the wise and faithful man would aim to answer in such a case. cromwell, no doubt of it, spoke often in the dialect of small subaltern parties; uttered to them a _part_ of his mind. each little party thought him all its own. hence their rage, one and all, to find him not of their party, but of his own party. was it his blame? at all seasons of his history he must have felt, among such people, how, if he explained to them the deeper insight he had, they must either have shuddered aghast at it, or believing it, their own little compact hypothesis must have gone wholly to wreck. they could not have worked in his province any more; nay perhaps they could not now have worked in their own province. it is the inevitable position of a great man among small men. small men, most active, useful, are to be seen everywhere, whose whole activity depends on some conviction which to you is palpably a limited one; imperfect, what we call an _error_. but would it be a kindness always, is it a duty always or often, to disturb them in that? many a man, doing loud work in the world, stands only on some thin traditionality, conventionality; to him indubitable, to you incredible: break that beneath him, he sinks to endless depths! "i might have my hand full of truth," said fontenelle, "and open only my little finger." and if this be the fact even in matters of doctrine, how much more in all departments of practice! he that cannot withal _keep his mind to himself_ cannot practice any considerable thing whatever. and we call it "dissimulation," all this? what would you think of calling the general of an army a dissembler because he did not tell every corporal and private soldier, who pleased to put the question, what his thoughts were about everything?--cromwell, i should rather say, managed all this in a manner we must admire for its perfection. an endless vortex of such questioning "corporals" rolled confusedly round him through his whole course; whom he did answer. it must have been as a great true-seeing man that he managed this too. not one proved falsehood, as i said; not one! of what man that ever wound himself through such a coil of things will you say so much?-but in fact there are two errors, widely prevalent, which pervert to the very basis our judgments formed about such men as cromwell; about their "ambition," "falsity," and such like. the first is what i might call substituting the _goal_ of their career for the course and starting-point of it. the vulgar historian of a cromwell fancies that he had determined on being protector of england, at the time when he was ploughing the marsh lands of cambridgeshire. his career lay all mapped out: a program of the whole drama; which he then step by step dramatically unfolded, with all manner of cunning, deceptive dramaturgy, as he went on,--the hollow, scheming [gr.] _upokrites_, or play-actor, that he was! this is a radical perversion; all but universal in such cases. and think for an instant how different the fact is! how much does one of us foresee of his own life? short way ahead of us it is all dim; an unwound skein of possibilities, of apprehensions, attemptabilities, vague-looming hopes. this cromwell had _not_ his life lying all in that fashion of program, which he needed then, with that unfathomable cunning of his, only to enact dramatically, scene after scene! not so. we see it so; but to him it was in no measure so. what absurdities would fall away of themselves, were this one undeniable fact kept honestly in view by history! historians indeed will tell you that they do keep it in view;--but look whether such is practically the fact! vulgar history, as in this cromwell's case, omits it altogether; even the best kinds of history only remember it now and then. to remember it duly with rigorous perfection, as in the fact it _stood_, requires indeed a rare faculty; rare, nay impossible. a very shakspeare for faculty; or more than shakspeare; who could _enact_ a brother man's biography, see with the brother man's eyes at all points of his course what things _he_ saw; in short, _know_ his course and him, as few "historians" are like to do. half or more of all the thick-plied perversions which distort our image of cromwell, will disappear, if we honestly so much as try to represent them so; in sequence, as they _were_; not in the lump, as they are thrown down before us. but a second error, which i think the generality commit, refers to this same "ambition" itself. we exaggerate the ambition of great men; we mistake what the nature of it is. great men are not ambitious in that sense; he is a small poor man that is ambitious so. examine the man who lives in misery because he does not shine above other men; who goes about producing himself, pruriently anxious about his gifts and claims; struggling to force everybody, as it were begging everybody for god's sake, to acknowledge him a great man, and set him over the heads of men! such a creature is among the wretchedest sights seen under this sun. a _great_ man? a poor morbid prurient empty man; fitter for the ward of a hospital, than for a throne among men. i advise you to keep out of his way. he cannot walk on quiet paths; unless you will look at him, wonder at him, write paragraphs about him, he cannot live. it is the _emptiness_ of the man, not his greatness. because there is nothing in himself, he hungers and thirsts that you would find something in him. in good truth, i believe no great man, not so much as a genuine man who had health and real substance in him of whatever magnitude, was ever much tormented in this way. your cromwell, what good could it do him to be "noticed" by noisy crowds of people? god his maker already noticed him. he, cromwell, was already there; no notice would make _him_ other than he already was. till his hair was grown gray; and life from the down-hill slope was all seen to be limited, not infinite but finite, and all a measurable matter _how_ it went,--he had been content to plough the ground, and read his bible. he in his old days could not support it any longer, without selling himself to falsehood, that he might ride in gilt carriages to whitehall, and have clerks with bundles of papers haunting him, "decide this, decide that," which in utmost sorrow of heart no man can perfectly decide! what could gilt carriages do for this man? from of old, was there not in his life a weight of meaning, a terror and a splendor as of heaven itself? his existence there as man set him beyond the need of gilding. death, judgment and eternity: these already lay as the background of whatsoever he thought or did. all his life lay begirt as in a sea of nameless thoughts, which no speech of a mortal could name. god's word, as the puritan prophets of that time had read it: this was great, and all else was little to him. to call such a man "ambitious," to figure him as the prurient wind-bag described above, seems to me the poorest solecism. such a man will say: "keep your gilt carriages and huzzaing mobs, keep your red-tape clerks, your influentialities, your important businesses. leave me alone, leave me alone; there is _too much of life_ in me already!" old samuel johnson, the greatest soul in england in his day, was not ambitious. "corsica boswell" flaunted at public shows with printed ribbons round his hat; but the great old samuel stayed at home. the world-wide soul wrapt up in its thoughts, in its sorrows;--what could paradings, and ribbons in the hat, do for it? ah yes, i will say again: the great _silent_ men! looking round on the noisy inanity of the world, words with little meaning, actions with little worth, one loves to reflect on the great empire of _silence_. the noble silent men, scattered here and there, each in his department; silently thinking, silently working; whom no morning newspaper makes mention of! they are the salt of the earth. a country that has none or few of these is in a bad way. like a forest which had no _roots_; which had all turned into leaves and boughs;--which must soon wither and be no forest. woe for us if we had nothing but what we can _show_, or speak. silence, the great empire of silence: higher than the stars; deeper than the kingdoms of death! it alone is great; all else is small.--i hope we english will long maintain our _grand talent pour le silence_. let others that cannot do without standing on barrel-heads, to spout, and be seen of all the market-place, cultivate speech exclusively,--become a most green forest without roots! solomon says, there is a time to speak; but also a time to keep silence. of some great silent samuel, not urged to writing, as old samuel johnson says he was, by _want of money_, and nothing other, one might ask, "why do not you too get up and speak; promulgate your system, found your sect?" "truly," he will answer, "i am _continent_ of my thought hitherto; happily i have yet had the ability to keep it in me, no compulsion strong enough to speak it. my 'system' is not for promulgation first of all; it is for serving myself to live by. that is the great purpose of it to me. and then the 'honor'? alas, yes;--but as cato said of the statue: so many statues in that forum of yours, may it not be better if they ask, where is cato's statue?"-but now, by way of counterpoise to this of silence, let me say that there are two kinds of ambition; one wholly blamable, the other laudable and inevitable. nature has provided that the great silent samuel shall not be silent too long. the selfish wish to shine over others, let it be accounted altogether poor and miserable. "seekest thou great things, seek them not:" this is most true. and yet, i say, there is an irrepressible tendency in every man to develop himself according to the magnitude which nature has made him of; to speak out, to act out, what nature has laid in him. this is proper, fit, inevitable; nay it is a duty, and even the summary of duties for a man. the meaning of life here on earth might be defined as consisting in this: to unfold your _self_, to work what thing you have the faculty for. it is a necessity for the human being, the first law of our existence. coleridge beautifully remarks that the infant learns to _speak_ by this necessity it feels.--we will say therefore: to decide about ambition, whether it is bad or not, you have two things to take into view. not the coveting of the place alone, but the fitness of the man for the place withal: that is the question. perhaps the place was _his_; perhaps he had a natural right, and even obligation, to seek the place! mirabeau's ambition to be prime minister, how shall we blame it, if he were "the only man in france that could have done any good there"? hopefuler perhaps had he not so clearly _felt_ how much good he could do! but a poor necker, who could do no good, and had even felt that he could do none, yet sitting broken-hearted because they had flung him out, and he was now quit of it, well might gibbon mourn over him.--nature, i say, has provided amply that the silent great man shall strive to speak withal; _too_ amply, rather! fancy, for example, you had revealed to the brave old samuel johnson, in his shrouded-up existence, that it was possible for him to do priceless divine work for his country and the whole world. that the perfect heavenly law might be made law on this earth; that the prayer he prayed daily, "thy kingdom come," was at length to be fulfilled! if you had convinced his judgment of this; that it was possible, practicable; that he the mournful silent samuel was called to take a part in it! would not the whole soul of the man have flamed up into a divine clearness, into noble utterance and determination to act; casting all sorrows and misgivings under his feet, counting all affliction and contradiction small,--the whole dark element of his existence blazing into articulate radiance of light and lightning? it were a true ambition this! and think now how it actually was with cromwell. from of old, the sufferings of god's church, true zealous preachers of the truth flung into dungeons, whips, set on pillories, their ears crops off, god's gospel-cause trodden under foot of the unworthy: all this had lain heavy on his soul. long years he had looked upon it, in silence, in prayer; seeing no remedy on earth; trusting well that a remedy in heaven's goodness would come,--that such a course was false, unjust, and could not last forever. and now behold the dawn of it; after twelve years silent waiting, all england stirs itself; there is to be once more a parliament, the right will get a voice for itself: inexpressible well-grounded hope has come again into the earth. was not such a parliament worth being a member of? cromwell threw down his ploughs, and hastened thither. he spoke there,--rugged bursts of earnestness, of a self-seen truth, where we get a glimpse of them. he worked there; he fought and strove, like a strong true giant of a man, through cannon-tumult and all else,--on and on, till the cause _triumphed_, its once so formidable enemies all swept from before it, and the dawn of hope had become clear light of victory and certainty. that _he_ stood there as the strongest soul of england, the undisputed hero of all england,--what of this? it was possible that the law of christ's gospel could now establish itself in the world! the theocracy which john knox in his pulpit might dream of as a "devout imagination," this practical man, experienced in the whole chaos of most rough practice, dared to consider as capable of being _realized_. those that were highest in christ's church, the devoutest wisest men, were to rule the land: in some considerable degree, it might be so and should be so. was it not _true_, god's truth? and if _true_, was it not then the very thing to do? the strongest practical intellect in england dared to answer, yes! this i call a noble true purpose; is it not, in its own dialect, the noblest that could enter into the heart of statesman or man? for a knox to take it up was something; but for a cromwell, with his great sound sense and experience of what our world _was_,--history, i think, shows it only this once in such a degree. i account it the culminating point of protestantism; the most heroic phasis that "faith in the bible" was appointed to exhibit here below. fancy it: that it were made manifest to one of us, how we could make the right supremely victorious over wrong, and all that we had longed and prayed for, as the highest good to england and all lands, an attainable fact! well, i must say, the _vulpine_ intellect, with its knowingness, its alertness and expertness in "detecting hypocrites," seems to me a rather sorry business. we have had but one such statesman in england; one man, that i can get sight of, who ever had in the heart of him any such purpose at all. one man, in the course of fifteen hundred years; and this was his welcome. he had adherents by the hundred or the ten; opponents by the million. had england rallied all round him,--why, then, england might have been a _christian_ land! as it is, vulpine knowingness sits yet at its hopeless problem, "given a world of knaves, to educe an honesty from their united action;"--how cumbrous a problem, you may see in chancery law-courts, and some other places! till at length, by heaven's just anger, but also by heaven's great grace, the matter begins to stagnate; and this problem is becoming to all men a _palpably_ hopeless one.-but with regard to cromwell and his purposes: hume, and a multitude following him, come upon me here with an admission that cromwell _was_ sincere at first; a sincere "fanatic" at first, but gradually became a "hypocrite" as things opened round him. this of the fanatic-hypocrite is hume's theory of it; extensively applied since,--to mahomet and many others. think of it seriously, you will find something in it; not much, not all, very far from all. sincere hero hearts do not sink in this miserable manner. the sun flings forth impurities, gets balefully incrusted with spots; but it does not quench itself, and become no sun at all, but a mass of darkness! i will venture to say that such never befell a great deep cromwell; i think, never. nature's own lionhearted son; antaeus-like, his strength is got by _touching the earth_, his mother; lift him up from the earth, lift him up into hypocrisy, inanity, his strength is gone. we will not assert that cromwell was an immaculate man; that he fell into no faults, no insincerities among the rest. he was no dilettante professor of "perfections," "immaculate conducts." he was a rugged orson, rending his rough way through actual true _work_,--_doubtless_ with many a _fall_ therein. insincerities, faults, very many faults daily and hourly: it was too well known to him; known to god and him! the sun was dimmed many a time; but the sun had not himself grown a dimness. cromwell's last words, as he lay waiting for death, are those of a christian heroic man. broken prayers to god, that he would judge him and this cause, he since man could not, in justice yet in pity. they are most touching words. he breathed out his wild great soul, its toils and sins all ended now, into the presence of his maker, in this manner. i, for one, will not call the man a hypocrite! hypocrite, mummer, the life of him a mere theatricality; empty barren quack, hungry for the shouts of mobs? the man had made obscurity do very well for him till his head was gray; and now he _was_, there as he stood recognized unblamed, the virtual king of england. cannot a man do without king's coaches and cloaks? is it such a blessedness to have clerks forever pestering you with bundles of papers in red tape? a simple diocletian prefers planting of cabbages; a george washington, no very immeasurable man, does the like. one would say, it is what any genuine man could do; and would do. the instant his real work were out in the matter of kingship,--away with it! let us remark, meanwhile, how indispensable everywhere a _king_ is, in all movements of men. it is strikingly shown, in this very war, what becomes of men when they cannot find a chief man, and their enemies can. the scotch nation was all but unanimous in puritanism; zealous and of one mind about it, as in this english end of the island was always far from being the case. but there was no great cromwell among them; poor tremulous, hesitating, diplomatic argyles and such like: none of them had a heart true enough for the truth, or durst commit himself to the truth. they had no leader; and the scattered cavalier party in that country had one: montrose, the noblest of all the cavaliers; an accomplished, gallant-hearted, splendid man; what one may call the hero-cavalier. well, look at it; on the one hand subjects without a king; on the other a king without subjects! the subjects without king can do nothing; the subjectless king can do something. this montrose, with a handful of irish or highland savages, few of them so much as guns in their hands, dashes at the drilled puritan armies like a wild whirlwind; sweeps them, time after time, some five times over, from the field before him. he was at one period, for a short while, master of all scotland. one man; but he was a man; a million zealous men, but without the one; they against him were powerless! perhaps of all the persons in that puritan struggle, from first to last, the single indispensable one was verily cromwell. to see and dare, and decide; to be a fixed pillar in the welter of uncertainty;--a king among them, whether they called him so or not. precisely here, however, lies the rub for cromwell. his other proceedings have all found advocates, and stand generally justified; but this dismissal of the rump parliament and assumption of the protectorship, is what no one can pardon him. he had fairly grown to be king in england; chief man of the victorious party in england: but it seems he could not do without the king's cloak, and sold himself to perdition in order to get it. let us see a little how this was. england, scotland, ireland, all lying now subdued at the feet of the puritan parliament, the practical question arose, what was to be done with it? how will you govern these nations, which providence in a wondrous way has given up to your disposal? clearly those hundred surviving members of the long parliament, who sit there as supreme authority, cannot continue forever to sit. what _is_ to be done?--it was a question which theoretical constitution-builders may find easy to answer; but to cromwell, looking there into the real practical facts of it, there could be none more complicated. he asked of the parliament, what it was they would decide upon? it was for the parliament to say. yet the soldiers too, however contrary to formula, they who had purchased this victory with their blood, it seemed to them that they also should have something to say in it! we will not "for all our fighting have nothing but a little piece of paper." we understand that the law of god's gospel, to which he through us has given the victory, shall establish itself, or try to establish itself, in this land! for three years, cromwell says, this question had been sounded in the ears of the parliament. they could make no answer; nothing but talk, talk. perhaps it lies in the nature of parliamentary bodies; perhaps no parliament could in such case make any answer but even that of talk, talk! nevertheless the question must and shall be answered. you sixty men there, becoming fast odious, even despicable, to the whole nation, whom the nation already calls rump parliament, you cannot continue to sit there: who or what then is to follow? "free parliament," right of election, constitutional formulas of one sort or the other,--the thing is a hungry fact coming on us, which we must answer or be devoured by it! and who are you that prate of constitutional formulas, rights of parliament? you have had to kill your king, to make pride's purges, to expel and banish by the law of the stronger whosoever would not let your cause prosper: there are but fifty or threescore of you left there, debating in these days. tell us what we shall do; not in the way of formula, but of practicable fact! how they did finally answer, remains obscure to this day. the diligent godwin himself admits that he cannot make it out. the likeliest is, that this poor parliament still would not, and indeed could not dissolve and disperse; that when it came to the point of actually dispersing, they again, for the tenth or twentieth time, adjourned it,--and cromwell's patience failed him. but we will take the favorablest hypothesis ever started for the parliament; the favorablest, though i believe it is not the true one, but too favorable. according to this version: at the uttermost crisis, when cromwell and his officers were met on the one hand, and the fifty or sixty rump members on the other, it was suddenly told cromwell that the rump in its despair _was_ answering in a very singular way; that in their splenetic envious despair, to keep out the army at least, these men were hurrying through the house a kind of reform bill,--parliament to be chosen by the whole of england; equable electoral division into districts; free suffrage, and the rest of it! a very questionable, or indeed for _them_ an unquestionable thing. reform bill, free suffrage of englishmen? why, the royalists themselves, silenced indeed but not exterminated, perhaps _outnumber_ us; the great numerical majority of england was always indifferent to our cause, merely looked at it and submitted to it. it is in weight and force, not by counting of heads, that we are the majority! and now with your formulas and reform bills, the whole matter, sorely won by our swords, shall again launch itself to sea; become a mere hope, and likelihood, _small_ even as a likelihood? and it is not a likelihood; it is a certainty, which we have won, by god's strength and our own right hands, and do now hold _here_. cromwell walked down to these refractory members; interrupted them in that rapid speed of their reform bill;--ordered them to begone, and talk there no more.--can we not forgive him? can we not understand him? john milton, who looked on it all near at hand, could applaud him. the reality had swept the formulas away before it. i fancy, most men who were realities in england might see into the necessity of that. the strong daring man, therefore, has set all manner of formulas and logical superficialities against him; has dared appeal to the genuine fact of this england, whether it will support him or not? it is curious to see how he struggles to govern in some constitutional way; find some parliament to support him; but cannot. his first parliament, the one they call barebones's parliament, is, so to speak, a _convocation of the notables_. from all quarters of england the leading ministers and chief puritan officials nominate the men most distinguished by religious reputation, influence and attachment to the true cause: these are assembled to shape out a plan. they sanctioned what was past; shaped as they could what was to come. they were scornfully called _barebones's parliament_: the man's name, it seems, was not _barebones_, but barbone,--a good enough man. nor was it a jest, their work; it was a most serious reality,--a trial on the part of these puritan notables how far the law of christ could become the law of this england. there were men of sense among them, men of some quality; men of deep piety i suppose the most of them were. they failed, it seems, and broke down, endeavoring to reform the court of chancery! they dissolved themselves, as incompetent; delivered up their power again into the hands of the lord general cromwell, to do with it what he liked and could. what _will_ he do with it? the lord general cromwell, "commander-in-chief of all the forces raised and to be raised;" he hereby sees himself, at this unexampled juncture, as it were the one available authority left in england, nothing between england and utter anarchy but him alone. such is the undeniable fact of his position and england's, there and then. what will he do with it? after deliberation, he decides that he will _accept_ it; will formally, with public solemnity, say and vow before god and men, "yes, the fact is so, and i will do the best i can with it!" protectorship, instrument of government,--these are the external forms of the thing; worked out and sanctioned as they could in the circumstances be, by the judges, by the leading official people, "council of officers and persons of interest in the nation:" and as for the thing itself, undeniably enough, at the pass matters had now come to, there _was_ no alternative but anarchy or that. puritan england might accept it or not; but puritan england was, in real truth, saved from suicide thereby!--i believe the puritan people did, in an inarticulate, grumbling, yet on the whole grateful and real way, accept this anomalous act of oliver's; at least, he and they together made it good, and always better to the last. but in their parliamentary _articulate_ way, they had their difficulties, and never knew fully what to say to it--! oliver's second parliament, properly his _first_ regular parliament, chosen by the rule laid down in the instrument of government, did assemble, and worked;--but got, before long, into bottomless questions as to the protector's _right_, as to "usurpation," and so forth; and had at the earliest legal day to be dismissed. cromwell's concluding speech to these men is a remarkable one. so likewise to his third parliament, in similar rebuke for their pedantries and obstinacies. most rude, chaotic, all these speeches are; but most earnest-looking. you would say, it was a sincere helpless man; not used to _speak_ the great inorganic thought of him, but to act it rather! a helplessness of utterance, in such bursting fulness of meaning. he talks much about "births of providence:" all these changes, so many victories and events, were not forethoughts, and theatrical contrivances of men, of _me_ or of men; it is blind blasphemers that will persist in calling them so! he insists with a heavy sulphurous wrathful emphasis on this. as he well might. as if a cromwell in that dark huge game he had been playing, the world wholly thrown into chaos round him, had _foreseen_ it all, and played it all off like a precontrived puppet-show by wood and wire! these things were foreseen by no man, he says; no man could tell what a day would bring forth: they were "births of providence," god's finger guided us on, and we came at last to clear height of victory, god's cause triumphant in these nations; and you as a parliament could assemble together, and say in what manner all this could be _organized_, reduced into rational feasibility among the affairs of men. you were to help with your wise counsel in doing that. "you have had such an opportunity as no parliament in england ever had." christ's law, the right and true, was to be in some measure made the law of this land. in place of that, you have got into your idle pedantries, constitutionalities, bottomless cavillings and questionings about written laws for my coming here;--and would send the whole matter into chaos again, because i have no notary's parchment, but only god's voice from the battle-whirlwind, for being president among you! that opportunity is gone; and we know not when it will return. you have had your constitutional logic; and mammon's law, not christ's law, rules yet in this land. "god be judge between you and me!" these are his final words to them: take you your constitution-formulas in your hand; and i my informal struggles, purposes, realities and acts; and "god be judge between you and me!"-we said above what shapeless, involved chaotic things the printed speeches of cromwell are. _wilfully_ ambiguous, unintelligible, say the most: a hypocrite shrouding himself in confused jesuitic jargon! to me they do not seem so. i will say rather, they afforded the first glimpses i could ever get into the reality of this cromwell, nay into the possibility of him. try to believe that he means something, search lovingly what that may be: you will find a real _speech_ lying imprisoned in these broken rude tortuous utterances; a meaning in the great heart of this inarticulate man! you will, for thc first time, begin to see that he was a man; not an enigmatic chimera, unintelligible to you, incredible to you. the histories and biographies written of this cromwell, written in shallow sceptical generations that could not know or conceive of a deep believing man, are far more _obscure_ than cromwell's speeches. you look through them only into the infinite vague of black and the inane. "heats and jealousies," says lord clarendon himself: "heats and jealousies," mere crabbed whims, theories and crotchets; these induced slow sober quiet englishmen to lay down their ploughs and work; and fly into red fury of confused war against the best-conditioned of kings! _try_ if you can find that true. scepticism writing about belief may have great gifts; but it is really _ultra vires_ there. it is blindness laying down the laws of optics.-cromwell's third parliament split on the same rock as his second. ever the constitutional formula: how came you there? show us some notary parchment! blind pedants:--"why, surely the same power which makes you a parliament, that, and something more, made me a protector!" if my protectorship is nothing, what in the name of wonder is your parliamenteership, a reflex and creation of that?-parliaments having failed, there remained nothing but the way of despotism. military dictators, each with his district, to _coerce_ the royalist and other gainsayers, to govern them, if not by act of parliament, then by the sword. formula shall _not_ carry it, while the reality is here! i will go on, protecting oppressed protestants abroad, appointing just judges, wise managers, at home, cherishing true gospel ministers; doing the best i can to make england a christian england, greater than old rome, the queen of protestant christianity; i, since you will not help me; i while god leaves me life!--why did he not give it up; retire into obscurity again, since the law would not acknowledge him? cry several. that is where they mistake. for him there was no giving of it up! prime ministers have governed countries, pitt, pombal, choiseul; and their word was a law while it held: but this prime minister was one that _could not get resigned_. let him once resign, charles stuart and the cavaliers waited to kill him; to kill the cause _and_ him. once embarked, there is no retreat, no return. this prime minister could _retire_ no-whither except into his tomb. one is sorry for cromwell in his old days. his complaint is incessant of the heavy burden providence has laid on him. heavy; which he must bear till death. old colonel hutchinson, as his wife relates it, hutchinson, his old battle-mate, coming to see him on some indispensable business, much against his will,--cromwell "follows him to the door," in a most fraternal, domestic, conciliatory style; begs that he would be reconciled to him, his old brother in arms; says how much it grieves him to be misunderstood, deserted by true fellow-soldiers, dear to him from of old: the rigorous hutchinson, cased in his republican formula, sullenly goes his way.--and the man's head now white; his strong arm growing weary with its long work! i think always too of his poor mother, now very old, living in that palace of his; a right brave woman; as indeed they lived all an honest god-fearing household there: if she heard a shot go off, she thought it was her son killed. he had to come to her at least once a day, that she might see with her own eyes that he was yet living. the poor old mother!--what had this man gained; what had he gained? he had a life of sore strife and toil, to his last day. fame, ambition, place in history? his dead body was hung in chains, his "place in history,"--place in history forsooth!--has been a place of ignominy, accusation, blackness and disgrace; and here, this day, who knows if it is not rash in me to be among the first that ever ventured to pronounce him not a knave and liar, but a genuinely honest man! peace to him. did he not, in spite of all, accomplish much for us? _we_ walk smoothly over his great rough heroic life; step over his body sunk in the ditch there. we need not _spurn_ it, as we step on it!--let the hero rest. it was not to _men's_ judgment that he appealed; nor have men judged him very well. precisely a century and a year after this of puritanism had got itself hushed up into decent composure, and its results made smooth, in 1688, there broke out a far deeper explosion, much more difficult to hush up, known to all mortals, and like to be long known, by the name of french revolution. it is properly the third and final act of protestantism; the explosive confused return of mankind to reality and fact, now that they were perishing of semblance and sham. we call our english puritanism the second act: "well then, the bible is true; let us go by the bible!" "in church," said luther; "in church and state," said cromwell, "let us go by what actually _is_ god's truth." men have to return to reality; they cannot live on semblance. the french revolution, or third act, we may well call the final one; for lower than that savage _sansculottism_ men cannot go. they stand there on the nakedest haggard fact, undeniable in all seasons and circumstances; and may and must begin again confidently to build up from that. the french explosion, like the english one, got its king,--who had no notary parchment to show for himself. we have still to glance for a moment at napoleon, our second modern king. napoleon does by no means seem to me so great a man as cromwell. his enormous victories which reached over all europe, while cromwell abode mainly in our little england, are but as the high _stilts_ on which the man is seen standing; the stature of the man is not altered thereby. i find in him no such _sincerity_ as in cromwell; only a far inferior sort. no silent walking, through long years, with the awful unnamable of this universe; "walking with god," as he called it; and faith and strength in that alone: _latent_ thought and valor, content to lie latent, then burst out as in blaze of heaven's lightning! napoleon lived in an age when god was no longer believed; the meaning of all silence, latency, was thought to be nonentity: he had to begin not out of the puritan bible, but out of poor sceptical _encyclopedies_. this was the length the man carried it. meritorious to get so far. his compact, prompt, every way articulate character is in itself perhaps small, compared with our great chaotic inarticulate cromwell's. instead of "dumb prophet struggling to speak," we have a portentous mixture of the quack withal! hume's notion of the fanatic-hypocrite, with such truth as it has, will apply much better to napoleon than it did to cromwell, to mahomet or the like,--where indeed taken strictly it has hardly any truth at all. an element of blamable ambition shows itself, from the first, in this man; gets the victory over him at last, and involves him and his work in ruin. "false as a bulletin" became a proverb in napoleon's time. he makes what excuse he could for it: that it was necessary to mislead the enemy, to keep up his own men's courage, and so forth. on the whole, there are no excuses. a man in no case has liberty to tell lies. it had been, in the long-run, _better_ for napoleon too if he had not told any. in fact, if a man have any purpose reaching beyond the hour and day, meant to be found extant _next_ day, what good can it ever be to promulgate lies? the lies are found out; ruinous penalty is exacted for them. no man will believe the liar next time even when he speaks truth, when it is of the last importance that he be believed. the old cry of wolf!--a lie is no-thing; you cannot of nothing make something; you make _nothing_ at last, and lose your labor into the bargain. yet napoleon _had_ a sincerity: we are to distinguish between what is superficial and what is fundamental in insincerity. across these outer manoeuverings and quackeries of his, which were many and most blamable, let us discern withal that the man had a certain instinctive ineradicable feeling for reality; and did base himself upon fact, so long as he had any basis. he has an instinct of nature better than his culture was. his _savans_, bourrienne tells us, in that voyage to egypt were one evening busily occupied arguing that there could be no god. they had proved it, to their satisfaction, by all manner of logic. napoleon looking up into the stars, answers, "very ingenious, messieurs: but _who made_ all that?" the atheistic logic runs off from him like water; the great fact stares him in the face: "who made all that?" so too in practice: he, as every man that can be great, or have victory in this world, sees, through all entanglements, the practical heart of the matter; drives straight towards that. when the steward of his tuileries palace was exhibiting the new upholstery, with praises, and demonstration how glorious it was, and how cheap withal, napoleon, making little answer, asked for a pair of scissors, clips one of the gold tassels from a window-curtain, put it in his pocket, and walked on. some days afterwards, he produced it at the right moment, to the horror of his upholstery functionary; it was not gold but tinsel! in st. helena, it is notable how he still, to his last days, insists on the practical, the real. "why talk and complain; above all, why quarrel with one another? there is no _result_ in it; it comes to nothing that one can _do_. say nothing, if one can do nothing!" he speaks often so, to his poor discontented followers; he is like a piece of silent strength in the middle of their morbid querulousness there. and accordingly was there not what we can call a _faith_ in him, genuine so far as it went? that this new enormous democracy asserting itself here in the french revolution is an unsuppressible fact, which the whole world, with its old forces and institutions, cannot put down; this was a true insight of his, and took his conscience and enthusiasm along with it,--a _faith_. and did he not interpret the dim purport of it well? "_la carriere ouverte aux talens_, the implements to him who can handle them:" this actually is the truth, and even the whole truth; it includes whatever the french revolution or any revolution, could mean. napoleon, in his first period, was a true democrat. and yet by the nature of him, fostered too by his military trade, he knew that democracy, if it were a true thing at all, could not be an anarchy: the man had a heart-hatred for anarchy. on that twentieth of june (1792), bourrienne and he sat in a coffee-house, as the mob rolled by: napoleon expresses the deepest contempt for persons in authority that they do not restrain this rabble. on the tenth of august he wonders why there is no man to command these poor swiss; they would conquer if there were. such a faith in democracy, yet hatred of anarchy, it is that carries napoleon through all his great work. through his brilliant italian campaigns, onwards to the peace of leoben, one would say, his inspiration is: "triumph to the french revolution; assertion of it against these austrian simulacra that pretend to call it a simulacrum!" withal, however, he feels, and has a right to feel, how necessary a strong authority is; how the revolution cannot prosper or last without such. to bridle in that great devouring, self-devouring french revolution; to _tame_ it, so that its intrinsic purpose can be made good, that it may become _organic_, and be able to live among other organisms and _formed_ things, not as a wasting destruction alone: is not this still what he partly aimed at, as the true purport of his life; nay what he actually managed to do? through wagrams, austerlitzes; triumph after triumph,--he triumphed so far. there was an eye to see in this man, a soul to dare and do. he rose naturally to be the king. all men saw that he _was_ such. the common soldiers used to say on the march: "these babbling _avocats_, up at paris; all talk and no work! what wonder it runs all wrong? we shall have to go and put our _petit caporal_ there!" they went, and put him there; they and france at large. chief-consulship, emperorship, victory over europe;--till the poor lieutenant of _la fere_, not unnaturally, might seem to himself the greatest of all men that had been in the world for some ages. but at this point, i think, the fatal charlatan-element got the upper hand. he apostatized from his old faith in facts, took to believing in semblances; strove to connect himself with austrian dynasties, popedoms, with the old false feudalities which he once saw clearly to be false;--considered that _he_ would found "his dynasty" and so forth; that the enormous french revolution meant only that! the man was "given up to strong delusion, that he should believe a lie;" a fearful but most sure thing. he did not know true from false now when he looked at them,--the fearfulest penalty a man pays for yielding to untruth of heart. _self_ and false ambition had now become his god: self-deception once yielded to, _all_ other deceptions follow naturally more and more. what a paltry patchwork of theatrical paper-mantles, tinsel and mummery, had this man wrapt his own great reality in, thinking to make it more real thereby! his hollow _pope's-concordat_, pretending to be a re-establishment of catholicism, felt by himself to be the method of extirpating it, "_la vaccine de la religion_:" his ceremonial coronations, consecrations by the old italian chimera in notre-dame,--"wanting nothing to complete the pomp of it," as augereau said, "nothing but the half-million of men who had died to put an end to all that"! cromwell's inauguration was by the sword and bible; what we must call a genuinely _true_ one. sword and bible were borne before him, without any chimera: were not these the _real_ emblems of puritanism; its true decoration and insignia? it had used them both in a very real manner, and pretended to stand by them now! but this poor napoleon mistook: he believed too much in the _dupability_ of men; saw no fact deeper in man than hunger and this! he was mistaken. like a man that should build upon cloud; his house and he fall down in confused wreck, and depart out of the world. alas, in all of us this charlatan-element exists; and _might_ be developed, were the temptation strong enough. "lead us not into temptation"! but it is fatal, i say, that it _be_ developed. the thing into which it enters as a cognizable ingredient is doomed to be altogether transitory; and, however huge it may _look_, is in itself small. napoleon's working, accordingly, what was it with all the noise it made? a flash as of gunpowder wide-spread; a blazing-up as of dry heath. for an hour the whole universe seems wrapt in smoke and flame; but only for an hour. it goes out: the universe with its old mountains and streams, its stars above and kind soil beneath, is still there. the duke of weimar told his friends always, to be of courage; this napoleonism was _unjust_, a falsehood, and could not last. it is true doctrine. the heavier this napoleon trampled on the world, holding it tyrannously down, the fiercer would the world's recoil against him be, one day. injustice pays itself with frightful compound-interest. i am not sure but he had better have lost his best park of artillery, or had his best regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor german bookseller, palm! it was a palpable tyrannous murderous injustice, which no man, let him paint an inch thick, could make out to be other. it burnt deep into the hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the eyes of men, as they thought of it,--waiting their day! which day _came_: germany rose round him.--what napoleon _did_ will in the long-run amount to what he did justly; what nature with her laws will sanction. to what of reality was in him; to that and nothing more. the rest was all smoke and waste. _la carriere ouverte aux talens_: that great true message, which has yet to articulate and fulfil itself everywhere, he left in a most inarticulate state. he was a great _ebauche_, a rude-draught never completed; as indeed what great man is other? left in _too_ rude a state, alas! his notions of the world, as he expresses them there at st. helena, are almost tragical to consider. he seems to feel the most unaffected surprise that it has all gone so; that he is flung out on the rock here, and the world is still moving on its axis. france is great, and all-great: and at bottom, he is france. england itself, he says, is by nature only an appendage of france; "another isle of oleron to france." so it was by _nature_, by napoleon-nature; and yet look how in fact--here am i! he cannot understand it: inconceivable that the reality has not corresponded to his program of it; that france was not all-great, that he was not france. "strong delusion," that he should believe the thing to be which _is_ not! the compact, clear-seeing, decisive italian nature of him, strong, genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half-dissolved itself, in a turbid atmosphere of french fanfaronade. the world was not disposed to be trodden down underfoot; to be bound into masses, and built together, as _he_ liked, for a pedestal to france and him: the world had quite other purposes in view! napoleon's astonishment is extreme. but alas, what help now? he had gone that way of his; and nature also had gone her way. having once parted with reality, he tumbles helpless in vacuity; no rescue for him. he had to sink there, mournfully as man seldom did; and break his great heart, and die,--this poor napoleon: a great implement too soon wasted, till it was useless: our last great man! our last, in a double sense. for here finally these wide roamings of ours through so many times and places, in search and study of heroes, are to terminate. i am sorry for it: there was pleasure for me in this business, if also much pain. it is a great subject, and a most grave and wide one, this which, not to be too grave about it, i have named _hero-worship_. it enters deeply, as i think, into the secret of mankind's ways and vitalest interests in this world, and is well worth explaining at present. with six months, instead of six days, we might have done better. i promised to break ground on it; i know not whether i have even managed to do that. i have had to tear it up in the rudest manner in order to get into it at all. often enough, with these abrupt utterances thrown out isolated, unexplained, has your tolerance been put to the trial. tolerance, patient candor, all-hoping favor and kindness, which i will not speak of at present. the accomplished and distinguished, the beautiful, the wise, something of what is best in england, have listened patiently to my rude words. with many feelings, i heartily thank you all; and say, good be with you all! a book of golden deeds by charlotte m. yonge table of contents what is a golden deed? the stories of alcestis and antigone the cup of water how one man has saved a host the pass of thermopylae the rock of the capitol the two friends of syracuse the devotion of the decii regulus the brave brethren of judah the chief of the arverni withstanding the monarch in his wrath the last fight in the coliseum the shepherd girl of nanterre leo the slave the battle of the blackwater guzman el bueno faithful till death what is better than slaying a dragon the keys of calais the battle of sempach the constant prince the carnival of perth the crown of st. stephen george the triller sir thomas more's daughter under ivan the terrible fort st. elmo the voluntary convict the housewives of lowenburg fathers and sons the soldiers in the snow gunpowder perils heroes of the plague the second of september the vendeans preface as the most striking lines of poetry are the most hackneyed, because they have grown to be the common inheritance of all the world, so many of the most noble deeds that earth can show have become the best known, and enjoyed their full meed of fame. therefore it may be feared that many of the events here detailed, or alluded to, may seem trite to those in search of novelty; but it is not for such that the collection has been made. it is rather intended as a treasury for young people, where they may find minuter particulars than their abridged histories usually afford of the soul-stirring deeds that give life and glory to the record of events; and where also other like actions, out of their ordinary course of reading, may be placed before them, in the trust that example may inspire the spirit of heroism and self-devotion. for surely it must be a wholesome contemplation to look on actions, the very essence of which is such entire absorption in others that self is forgotten; the object of which is not to win promotion, wealth, or success, but simple duty, mercy, and loving-kindness. these are the actions wrought, 'hoping for nothing again', but which most surely have their reward. the authorities have not been given, as for the most [page] part the narratives lie on the surface of history. for the description of the coliseum, i have, however, been indebted to the abbé gerbet's rome chrétienne; for the housewives of lowenburg, and st. stephen's crown, to freytag's sketches of german life; and for the story of george the triller, to mr. mayhew's germany. the escape of attalus is narrated (from gregory of tours) in thierry's 'lettres sur l'histoire de france;' the russian officer's adventures, and those of prascovia lopouloff (<http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/yonge/deeds/pardon.html> ed.), the true elisabeth of siberia, are from m. le maistre; the shipwrecks chiefly from gilly's 'shipwrecks of the british navy;' the jersey powder magazine from the annual registrer, and that at ciudad rodrigo, from the traditions of the 52nd regiment. there is a cloud of doubt resting on a few of the tales, which it may be honest to mention, though they were far too beautiful not to tell. these are the details of the gallic occupation of rome, the legend of st. genevieve, the letter of gertrude von der wart, the stories of the keys of calais, of the dragon of rhodes, and we fear we must add, both nelson's plan of the battle of the nile, and likewise the exact form of the heroism of young casabianca, of which no two accounts agree. but it was not possible to give up such stories as these, and the thread of truth there must be in them has developed into such a beautiful tissue, that even if unsubstantial when tested, it is surely delightful to contemplate. some stories have been passed over as too devoid of foundation, in especial that of young henri, duke of nemours, who, at ten years old, was said to have been hung up with his little brother of eight in one of louis xi's cages at loches, with orders that two of the children's teeth should daily be pulled out and brought to the king. the elder child was said to have insisted on giving the whole supply of teeth, so as to save his brother; but though they were certainly imprisoned after their father's execution, they were released after louis's death in a condition which disproves this atrocity. the indian mutiny might likewise have supplied glorious instances of christian self-devotion, but want of materials has compelled us to stop short of recording those noble deeds by which delicate women and lighthearted young soldiers showed, that in the hour of need there was not wanting to them the highest and deepest 'spirit of self-sacrifice.' at some risk of prolixity, enough of the surrounding events has in general been given to make the situation comprehensible, even without knowledge of the general history. this has been done in the hope that these extracts may serve as a mother's storehouse for reading aloud to her boys, or that they may be found useful for short readings to the intelligent, though uneducated classes. november 17, 1864. what is a golden deed? we all of us enjoy a story of battle and adventure. some of us delight in the anxiety and excitement with which we watch the various strange predicaments, hairbreadth escapes, and ingenious contrivances that are presented to us; and the mere imaginary dread of the dangers thus depicted, stirs our feelings and makes us feel eager and full of suspense. this taste, though it is the first step above the dullness that cannot be interested in anything beyond its own immediate world, nor care for what it neither sees, touches, tastes, nor puts to any present use, is still the lowest form that such a liking can take. it may be no better than a love of reading about murders in the newspaper, just for the sake of a sort of startled sensation; and it is a taste that becomes unwholesome when it absolutely delights in dwelling on horrors and cruelties for their own sake; or upon shifty, cunning, dishonest stratagems and devices. to learn to take interest in what is evil is always mischievous. but there is an element in many of such scenes of woe and violence that may well account for our interest in them. it is that which makes the eye gleam and the heart throb, and bears us through the details of suffering, bloodshed, and even barbarity--feeling our spirits moved and elevated by contemplating the courage and endurance that they have called forth. nay, such is the charm of brilliant valor, that we often are tempted to forget the injustice of the cause that may have called forth the actions that delight us. and this enthusiasm is often united with the utmost tenderness of heart, the very appreciation of suffering only quickening the sense of the heroism that risked the utmost, till the young and ardent learn absolutely to look upon danger as an occasion for evincing the highest qualities. 'o life, without thy chequer'd scene of right and wrong, of weal and woe, success and failure, could a ground for magnanimity be found?' the true cause of such enjoyment is perhaps an inherent consciousness that there is nothing so noble as forgetfulness of self. therefore it is that we are struck by hearing of the exposure of life and limb to the utmost peril, in oblivion, or recklessness of personal safety, in comparison with a higher object. that object is sometimes unworthy. in the lowest form of courage it is only avoidance of disgrace; but even fear of shame is better than mere love of bodily ease, and from that lowest motive the scale rises to the most noble and precious actions of which human nature is capable--the truly golden and priceless deeds that are the jewels of history, the salt of life. and it is a chain of golden deeds that we seek to lay before our readers; but, ere entering upon them, perhaps we had better clearly understand what it is that to our mind constitutes a golden deed. it is not mere hardihood. there was plenty of hardihood in pizarro when he led his men through terrible hardships to attack the empire of peru, but he was actuated by mere greediness for gain, and all the perils he so resolutely endured could not make his courage admirable. it was nothing but insensibility to danger, when set against the wealth and power that he coveted, and to which he sacrificed thousands of helpless peruvians. daring for the sake of plunder has been found in every robber, every pirate, and too often in all the lower grade of warriors, from the savage plunderer of a besieged town up to the reckless monarch making war to feed his own ambition. there is a courage that breaks out in bravado, the exuberance of high spirits, delighting in defying peril for its own sake, not indeed producing deeds which deserve to be called golden, but which, from their heedless grace, their desperation, and absence of all base motives--except perhaps vanity have an undeniable charm about them, even when we doubt the right of exposing a life in mere gaiety of heart. such was the gallantry of the spanish knight who, while fernando and isabel lay before the moorish city of granada, galloped out of the camp, in full view of besiegers and besieged, and fastened to the gate of the city with his dagger a copy of the ave maria. it was a wildly brave action, and yet not without service in showing the dauntless spirit of the christian army. but the same can hardly be said of the daring shown by the emperor maximilian when he displayed himself to the citizens of ulm upon the topmost pinnacle of their cathedral spire; or of alonso de ojeda, who figured in like manner upon the tower of the spanish cathedral. the same daring afterwards carried him in the track of columbus, and there he stained his name with the usual blots of rapacity and cruelty. these deeds, if not tinsel, were little better than gold leaf. a golden deed must be something more than mere display of fearlessness. grave and resolute fulfillment of duty is required to give it the true weight. such duty kept the sentinel at his post at the gate of pompeii, even when the stifling dust of ashes came thicker and thicker from the volcano, and the liquid mud streamed down, and the people fled and struggled on, and still the sentry stood at his post, unflinching, till death had stiffened his limbs; and his bones, in their helmet and breastplate, with the hand still raised to keep the suffocating dust from mouth and nose, have remained even till our own times to show how a roman soldier did his duty. in like manner the last of the old spanish infantry originally formed by the great captain, gonzalo de cordova, were all cut off, standing fast to a man, at the battle of rocroy, in 1643, not one man breaking his rank. the whole regiment was found lying in regular order upon the field of battle, with their colonel, the old count de fuentes, at their head, expiring in a chair, in which he had been carried, because he was too infirm to walk, to this his twentieth battle. the conqueror, the high-spirited young duke d'enghien, afterwards prince of condé, exclaimed, 'were i not a victor, i should have wished thus to die!' and preserved the chair among the relics of the bravest of his own fellow countrymen. such obedience at all costs and all risks is, however, the very essence of a soldier's life. an army could not exist without it, a ship could not sail without it, and millions upon millions of those whose 'bones are dust and good swords are rust' have shown such resolution. it is the solid material, but it has hardly the exceptional brightness, of a golden deed. and yet perhaps it is one of the most remarkable characteristics of a golden deed that the doer of it is certain to feel it merely a duty; 'i have done that which it was my duty to do' is the natural answer of those capable of such actions. they have been constrained to them by duty, or by pity; have never even deemed it possible to act otherwise, and did not once think of themselves in the matter at all. for the true metal of a golden deed is self-devotion. selfishness is the dross and alloy that gives the unsound ring to many an act that has been called glorious. and, on the other hand, it is not only the valor, which meets a thousand enemies upon the battlefield, or scales the walls in a forlorn hope, that is of true gold. it may be, but often it is a mere greed of fame, fear of shame, or lust of plunder. no, it is the spirit that gives itself for others--the temper that for the sake of religion, of country, of duty, of kindred, nay, of pity even to a stranger, will dare all things, risk all things, endure all things, meet death in one moment, or wear life away in slow, persevering tendance and suffering. such a spirit was shown by leaena, the athenian woman at whose house the overthrow of the tyranny of the pisistratids was concerted, and who, when seized and put to the torture that she might disclose the secrets of the conspirators, fearing that the weakness of her frame might overpower her resolution, actually bit off her tongue, that she might be unable to betray the trust placed in her. the athenians commemorated her truly golden silence by raising in her honor the statue of a lioness without a tongue, in allusion to her name, which signifies a lioness. again, rome had a tradition of a lady whose mother was in prison under sentence of death by hunger, but who, at the peril of her own life, visited her daily, and fed her from her own bosom, until even the stern senate were moved with pity, and granted a pardon. the same story is told of a greek lady, called euphrasia, who thus nourished her father; and in scotland, in 1401, when the unhappy heir of the kingdom, david, duke of rothesay, had been thrown into the dungeon of falkland castle by his barbarous uncle, the duke of albany, there to be starved to death, his only helper was one poor peasant woman, who, undeterred by fear of the savage men that guarded the castle, crept, at every safe opportunity, to the grated window on a level with the ground, and dropped cakes through it to the prisoner, while she allayed his thirst from her own breast through a pipe. alas! the visits were detected, and the christian prince had less mercy than the heathen senate. another woman, in 1450, when sir gilles of brittany was savagely imprisoned and starved in much the same manner by his brother, duke françois, sustained him for several days by bringing wheat in her veil, and dropping it through the grated window, and when poison had been used to hasten his death, she brought a priest to the grating to enable him to make his peace with heaven. tender pity made these women venture all things; and surely their doings were full of the gold of love. so again two swiss lads, whose father was dangerously ill, found that they could by no means procure the needful medicine, except at a price far beyond their means, and heard that an english traveler had offered a large price for a pair of eaglets. the only eyrie was on a crag supposed to be so inacessible, that no one ventured to attempt it, till these boys, in their intense anxiety for their father, dared the fearful danger, scaled the precipice, captured the birds, and safely conveyed them to the traveler. truly this was a deed of gold. such was the action of the russian servant whose master's carriage was pursued by wolves, and who sprang out among the beasts, sacrificing his own life willingly to slake their fury for a few minutes in order that the horses might be untouched, and convey his master to a place of safety. but his act of self-devotion has been so beautifully expanded in the story of 'eric's grave', in 'tales of christian heroism', that we can only hint at it, as at that of the 'helmsman of lake erie', who, with the steamer on fire around him, held fast by the wheel in the very jaws of the flame, so as to guide the vessel into harbour, and save the many lives within her, at the cost of his own fearful agony, while slowly scorched by the flames. memorable, too, was the compassion that kept dr. thompson upon the battlefield of the alma, all alone throughout the night, striving to alleviate the sufferings and attend to the wants, not of our own wounded, but of the enemy, some of whom, if they were not sorely belied, had been known to requite a friendly act of assistance with a pistol shot. thus to remain in the darkness, on a battlefield in an enemy's country, among the enemy themselves, all for pity and mercy's sake, was one of the noblest acts that history can show. yet, it was paralleled in the time of the indian mutiny, when every english man and woman was flying from the rage of the sepoys at benares, and dr. hay alone remained because he would not desert the patients in the hospital, whose life depended on his care--many of them of those very native corps who were advancing to massacre him. this was the roman sentry's firmness, more voluntary and more glorious. nor may we pass by her to whom our title page points as our living type of golden deeds--to her who first showed how woman's ministrations of mercy may be carried on, not only within the city, but on the borders of the camp itself--'the lady with the lamp', whose health and strength were freely devoted to the holy work of softening the after sufferings that render war so hideous; whose very step and shadow carried gladness and healing to the sick soldier, and who has opened a path of like shining light to many another woman who only needed to be shown the way. fitly, indeed, may the figure of florence nightingale be shadowed forth at the opening of our roll of golden deeds. thanks be to god, there is enough of his own spirit of love abroad in the earth to make golden deeds of no such rare occurrence, but that they are of 'all time'. even heathen days were not without them, and how much more should they not abound after the words have been spoken, 'greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend', and after the one great deed has been wrought that has consecrated all other deeds of self-sacrifice. of martyrdoms we have scarcely spoken. they were truly deeds of the purest gold; but they are too numerous to be dwelt on here: and even as soldiers deem it each man's simple duty to face death unhesitatingly, so the 'glorious army of martyrs' had, for the most part, joined the church with the expectation that they should have to confess the faith, and confront the extremity of death and torture for it. what have been here brought together are chiefly cases of self-devotion that stand out remarkably, either from their hopelessness, their courage, or their patience, varying with the character of their age; but with that one essential distinction in all, that the dross of self was cast away. among these we cannot forbear mentioning the poor american soldier, who, grievously wounded, had just been laid in the middle bed, by far the most comfortable of the three tiers of berths in the ship's cabin in which the wounded were to be conveyed to new york. still thrilling with the suffering of being carried from the field, and lifted to his place, he saw a comrade in even worse plight brought in, and thinking of the pain it must cost his fellow soldier to be raised to the bed above him, he surprised his kind lady nurses (daily scatterers of golden deeds) by saying, 'put me up there, i reckon i'll bear hoisting better than he will'. and, even as we write, we hear of an american railway collision that befell a train on the way to elmira with prisoners. the engineer, whose name was william ingram, might have leapt off and saved himself before the shock; but he remained in order to reverse the engine, though with certain death staring him in the face. he was buried in the wreck of the meeting train, and when found, his back was against the boiler he was jammed in, unable to move, and actually being burnt to death; but even in that extremity of anguish he called out to those who came round to help him to keep away, as he expected the boiler would burst. they disregarded the generous cry, and used every effort to extricate him, but could not succeed until after his sufferings had ended in death. while men and women still exist who will thus suffer and thus die, losing themselves in the thought of others, surely the many forms of woe and misery with which this earth is spread do but give occasions of working out some of the highest and best qualities of which mankind are capable. and oh, young readers, if your hearts burn within you as you read of these various forms of the truest and deepest glory, and you long for time and place to act in the like devoted way, bethink yourselves that the alloy of such actions is to be constantly worked away in daily life; and that if ever it be your lot to do a golden deed, it will probably be in unconsciousness that you are doing anything extraordinary, and that the whole impulse will consist in the having absolutely forgotten self. the stories of alcestis and antigone it has been said, that even the heathens saw and knew the glory of selfdevotion; and the greeks had two early instances so very beautiful that, though they cannot in all particulars be true, they must not be passed over. there must have been some foundation for them, though we cannot now disentangle them from the fable that has adhered to them; and, at any rate, the ancient greeks believed them, and gathered strength and nobleness from dwelling on such examples; since, as it has been truly said, 'every word, look or thought of sympathy with heroic action, helps to make heroism'. both tales were presented before them in their solemn religious tragedies, and the noble poetry in which they were recounted by the great greek dramatists has been preserved to our time. alcestis was the wife of admetus, king of pherae, who, according to the legend, was assured that his life might be prolonged, provided father, mother, or wife would die in his stead. it was alcestis alone who was willing freely to give her life to save that of her husband; and her devotion is thus exquisitely described in the following translation, by professor anstice, from the choric song in the tragedy by euripides: 'be patient, for thy tears are vain they may not wake the dead again: e'en heroes, of immortal sire and mortal mother born, expire. oh, she was dear while she linger'd here; she is dear now she rests below, and thou mayst boast that the bride thou hast lost was the noblest earth can show. 'we will not look on her burial sod as the cell of sepulchral sleep, it shall be as the shrine of a radiant god, and the pilgrim shall visit that blest abode to worship, and not to weep; and as he turns his steps aside, thus shall he breathe his vow: 'here sleeps a self-devoted bride, of old to save her lord she died. she is a spirit now. hail, bright and blest one! grant to me the smiles of glad prosperity.' thus shall he own her name divine, thus bend him at alcestis' shrine.' the story, however, bore that hercules, descending in the course of one of his labors into the realms of the dead, rescued alcestis, and brought her back; and euripides gives a scene in which the rough, jovial hercules insists on the sorrowful admetus marrying again a lady of his own choice, and gives the veiled alcestis back to him as the new bride. later greeks tried to explain the story by saying that alcestis nursed her husband through an infectious fever, caught it herself, and had been supposed to be dead, when a skilful physician restored her; but this is probably only one of the many reasonable versions they tried to give of the old tales that were founded on the decay and revival of nature in winter and spring, and with a presage running through them of sacrifice, death, and resurrection. our own poet chaucer was a great admirer of alcestis, and improved upon the legend by turning her into his favorite flower- 'the daisie or els the eye of the daie, the emprise and the floure of flouris all'. another greek legend told of the maiden of thebes, one of the most self-devoted beings that could be conceived by a fancy untrained in the knowledge of divine perfection. it cannot be known how much of her story is true, but it was one that went deep into the hearts of grecian men and women, and encouraged them in some of their best feelings; and assuredly the deeds imputed to her were golden. antigone was the daughter of the old king oedipus of thebes. after a time heavy troubles, the consequence of the sins of his youth, came upon him, and he was driven away from his kingdom, and sent to wander forth a blind old man, scorned and pointed at by all. then it was that his faithful daughter showed true affection for him. she might have remained at thebes with her brother eteocles, who had been made king in her father's room, but she chose instead to wander forth with the forlorn old man, fallen from his kingly state, and absolutely begging his bread. the great athenian poet sophocles began his tragedy of 'oedipus coloneus' with showing the blind old king leaning on antigone's arm, and asking- 'tell me, thou daughter of a blind old man, antigone, to what land are we come, or to what city? who the inhabitants who with a slender pittance will relieve even for a day the wandering oedipus?' potter. the place to which they had come was in attica, hear the city of colonus. it was a lovely grove- 'all the haunts of attic ground, where the matchless coursers bound, boast not, through their realms of bliss, other spot so fair as this. frequent down this greenwood dale mourns the warbling nightingale, nestling 'mid the thickest screen of the ivy's darksome green, or where each empurpled shoot drooping with its myriad fruit, curl'd in many a mazy twine, droops the never-trodden vine.' anstice. this beautiful grove was sacred to the eumenides, or avenging goddesses, and it was therefore a sanctuary where no foot might tread; but near it the exiled king was allowed to take up his abode, and was protected by the great athenian king, theseus. there his other daughter, ismene, joined him, and, after a time, his elder son polynices, arrived. polynices had been expelled from thebes by his brother eteocles, and had been wandering through greece seeking aid to recover his rights. he had collected an army, and was come to take leave of his father and sisters; and at the same time to entreat his sisters to take care that, if he should fall in the battle, they would prevent his corpse from being left unburied; for the greeks believed that till the funeral rites were performed, the spirit went wandering restlessly up and down upon the banks of a dark stream, unable to enter the home of the dead. antigone solemnly promised to him that he should not be left without these last rites. before long, old oedipus was killed by lightning, and the two sisters returned to thebes. the united armies of the seven chiefs against thebes came on, led by polynices. eteocles sallied out to meet them, and there was a terrible battle, ending in all the seven chiefs being slain, and the two brothers, eteocles and polynices, were killed by one another in single combat. creon, the uncle, who thus became king, had always been on the side of eteocles, and therefore commanded that whilst this younger brother was entombed with all due solemnities, the body of the elder should be left upon the battlefield to be torn by dogs and vultures, and that whosoever durst bury it should be treated as a rebel and a traitor to the state. this was the time for the sister to remember her oath to her dead brother. the more timid ismene would have dissuaded her, but she answered, 'to me no sufferings have that hideous form which can affright me from a glorious death'. and she crept forth by night, amid all the horrors of the deserted field of battles, and herself covered with loose earth the corpse of polynices. the barbarous uncle caused it to be taken up and again exposed, and a watch was set at some little distance. again antigone 'was seen, lamenting shrill with plaintive notes, like the poor bird that sees her lonely nest spoil'd of her young'. again she heaped dry dust with her own hands over the body, and poured forth the libations of wine that formed an essential part of the ceremony. she was seized by the guard, and led before creon. she boldly avowed her deed, and, in spite of the supplications of ismene, she was put to death, a sufferer for her noble and pious deeds; and with this only comfort: 'glowing at my heart i feel this hope, that to my father, dear and dear to thee, my mother, dear to thee, my brother, i shall go.' potter. dim and beautiful indeed was the hope that upbore the grave and beautiful theban maiden; and we shall see her resolution equaled, though hardly surpassed, by christian antigones of equal love and surer faith. the cup of water no touch in the history of the minstrel king david gives us a more warm and personal feeling towards him than his longing for the water of the well of bethlehem. standing as the incident does in the summary of the characters of his mighty men, it is apt to appear to us as if it had taken place in his latter days; but such is not the case, it befell while he was still under thirty, in the time of his persecution by saul. it was when the last attempt at reconciliation with the king had been made, when the affectionate parting with the generous and faithful jonathan had taken place, when saul was hunting him like a partridge on the mountains on the one side, and the philistines had nearly taken his life on the other, that david, outlawed, yet loyal at the heart, sent his aged parents to the land of moab for refuge, and himself took up his abode in the caves of the wild limestone hills that had become familiar to him when he was a shepherd. brave captain and heaven-destined king as he was, his name attracted around him a motley group of those that were in distress, or in debt, or discontented, and among them were the 'mighty men' whose brave deeds won them the foremost parts in that army with which david was to fulfill the ancient promises to his people. there were his three nephews, joab, the ferocious and imperious, the chivalrous abishai, and asahel the fleet of foot; there was the warlike levite benaiah, who slew lions and lionlike men, and others who, like david himself, had done battle with the gigantic sons of anak. yet even these valiant men, so wild and lawless, could be kept in check by the voice of their young captain; and, outlaws as they were, they spoiled no peaceful villages, they lifted not their hands against the persecuting monarch, and the neighboring farms lost not one lamb through their violence. some at least listened to the song of their warlike minstrel: 'come, ye children, and hearken to me, i will teach you the fear of the lord. what man is he that lusteth to live, and would fain see good days? let him refrain his tongue from evil and his lips that they speak no guile, let him eschew evil and do good, let him seek peace and ensue it.' with such strains as these, sung to his harp, the warrior gained the hearts of his men to enthusiastic love, and gathered followers on all sides, among them eleven fierce men of gad, with faces like lions and feet swift as roes, who swam the jordan in time of flood, and fought their way to him, putting all enemies in the valleys to flight. but the eastern sun burnt on the bare rocks. a huge fissure, opening in the mountain ridge, encumbered at the bottom with broken rocks, with precipitous banks, scarcely affording a foothold for the wild goats--such is the spot where, upon a cleft on the steep precipice, still remain the foundations of the 'hold', or tower, believed to have been the david's retreat, and near at hand is the low-browed entrance of the galleried cave alternating between narrow passages and spacious halls, but all oppressively hot and close. waste and wild, without a bush or a tree, in the feverish atmosphere of palestine, it was a desolate region, and at length the wanderer's heart fainted in him, as he thought of his own home, with its rich and lovely terraced slopes, green with wheat, trellised with vines, and clouded with grey olive, and of the cool cisterns of living water by the gate of which he loved to sing- 'he shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort'. his parched longing lips gave utterance to the sigh, 'oh that one would give me to drink of the water of the well of bethlehem that is by the gate?' three of his brave men, apparently abishai, benaiah, and eleazar, heard the wish. between their mountain fastness and the dearly loved spring lay the host of the philistines; but their love for their leader feared no enemies. it was not only water that he longed for, but the water from the fountain which he had loved in his childhood. they descended from their chasm, broke through the midst of the enemy's army, and drew the water from the favorite spring, bearing it back, once again through the foe, to the tower upon the rock! deeply moved was their chief at this act of self-devotion--so much moved that the water seemed to him to be too sacred to be put to his own use. 'may god forbid it me that i should do this thing. shall i drink the blood of these men that have put their lives in jeopardy, for with the jeopardy of their lives they brought it?' and as a hallowed and precious gift, he poured out unto the lord the water obtained at the price of such peril to his followers. in later times we meet with another hero, who by his personal qualities inspired something of the same enthusiastic attachment as did david, and who met with an adventure somewhat similar, showing the like nobleness of mind on the part of both leader and followers. it was alexander of macedon, whose character as a man, with all its dark shades of violence, rage, and profanity, has a nobleness and sweetness that win our hearts, while his greatness rests on a far broader basis than that of his conquests, though they are unrivalled. no one else so gained the love of the conquered, had such wide and comprehensive views for the amelioration of the world, or rose so superior to the prejudice of race; nor have any ten years left so lasting a trace upon the history of the world as those of his career. it is not, however, of his victories that we are here to speak, but of his return march from the banks of the indus, in bc 326, when he had newly recovered from the severe wound which he had received under the fig tree, within the mud wall of the city of the malli. this expedition was as much the expedition of a discoverer as the journey of a conqueror: and, at the mouth of the indus, he sent his ships to survey the coasts of the indian ocean and persian gulf, while he himself marched along the shore of the province, then called gedrosia, and now mekhran. it was a most dismal tract. above towered mountains of reddishbrown bare stone, treeless and without verdure, the scanty grass produced in the summer being burnt up long before september, the month of his march; and all the slope below was equally desolate slopes of gravel. the few inhabitants were called by the greeks fish-eaters and turtle-eaters, because there was apparently, nothing else to eat; and their huts were built of turtle shells. the recollections connected with the region were dismal. semiramis and cyrus were each said to have lost an army there through hunger and thirst; and these foes, the most fatal foes of the invader, began to attack the greek host. nothing but the discipline and all-pervading influence of alexander could have borne his army through. speed was their sole chance; and through the burning sun, over the arid rock, he stimulated their steps with his own high spirit of unshrinking endurance, till he had dragged them through one of the most rapid and extraordinary marches of his wonderful career. his own share in their privations was fully and freely taken; and once when, like the rest, he was faint with heat and deadly thirst, a small quantity of water, won with great fatigue and difficulty, was brought to him, he esteemed it too precious to be applied to his own refreshment, but poured it forth as a libation, lest, he said, his warriors should thirst the more when they saw him drink alone; and, no doubt, too, because he felt the exceeding value of that which was purchased by loyal love. a like story is told of rodolf of hapsburgh, the founder of the greatness of austria, and one of the most open-hearted of men. a flagon of water was brought to him when his army was suffering from severe drought. 'i cannot,' he said, 'drink alone, nor can all share so small a quantity. i do not thirst for myself, but for my whole army.' yet there have been thirsty lips that have made a still more trying renunciation. our own sir philip sidney, riding back, with the mortal hurt in his broken thigh, from the fight at zutphen, and giving the draught from his own lips to the dying man whose necessities were greater than his own, has long been our proverb for the giver of that self-denying cup of water that shall by no means lose its reward. a tradition of an act of somewhat the same character survived in a slesvig family, now extinct. it was during the wars that ranged from 1652 to 1660, between frederick iii of denmark and charles gustavus of sweden, that, after a battle, in which the victory had remained with the danes, a stout burgher of flensborg was about to refresh himself, ere retiring to have his wounds dressed, with a draught of beer from a wooden bottle, when an imploring cry from a wounded swede, lying on the field, made him turn, and, with the very words of sidney, 'thy need is greater than mine,' he knelt down by the fallen enemy, to pour the liquor into his mouth. his requital was a pistol shot in the shoulder from the treacherous swede. 'rascal,' he cried, 'i would have befriended you, and you would murder me in return! now i will punish you. i would have given you the whole bottle; but now you shall have only half.' and drinking off half himself, he gave the rest to the swede. the king, hearing the story, sent for the burgher, and asked him how he came to spare the life of such a rascal. 'sire,' said the honest burgher, 'i could never kill a wounded enemy.' 'thou meritest to be a noble,' the king said, and created him one immediately, giving him as armorial bearings a wooden bottle pierced with an arrow! the family only lately became extinct in the person of an old maiden lady. how one man has saved a host b.c. 507 there have been times when the devotion of one man has been the saving of an army. such, according to old roman story, was the feat of horatius cocles. it was in the year b.c. 507, not long after the kings had been expelled from rome, when they were endeavoring to return by the aid of the etruscans. lars porsena, one of the great etruscan chieftains, had taken up the cause of the banished tarquinius superbus and his son sextus, and gathered all his forces together, to advance upon the city of rome. the great walls, of old etrurian architecture, had probably already risen round the growing town, and all the people came flocking in from the country for shelter there; but the tiber was the best defense, and it was only crossed by one wooden bridge, and the farther side of that was guarded by a fort, called the janiculum. but the vanguards of the overwhelming etruscan army soon took the fort, and then, in the gallant words of lord macaulay's ballad,- 'thus in all the senate there was no heart so bold but sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told. forthwith uprose the consul, up rose the fathers all, in haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. 'they held a council standing before the river gate: short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. out spoke the consul roundly, 'the bridge must straight go down, for, since janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town.' 'just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: 'to arms! to arms! sir consul, lars porsena is here.' on the low hills to westward the consul fixed his eye, and saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. ................. 'but the consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low, and darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. 'their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; and if they once may win the bridge what hope to save the town?' 'then out spoke brave horatius, the captain of the gate, 'to every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late; and how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods? 'and for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, and for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast? and for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, to save them from false sextus, that wrought the deed of shame? 'hew down the bridge, sir consul, with all the speed ye may, i, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. in yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three: now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?' 'then out spake spurius lartius, a ramnian proud was he, 'lo, i will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee.' and out spake strong herminius, of titian blood was he, 'i will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee.' so forth went these three brave men, horatius, the consul's nephew, spurius lartius, and titus herminius, to guard the bridge at the farther end, while all the rest of the warriors were breaking down the timbers behind them. 'and fathers mixed with commons, seized hatchet, bar, and crow, and smote upon the planks above, and loosen'd them below. 'meanwhile the tuscan army, right glorious to behold, came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright, of a broad sea of gold. four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee, as that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless three. 'the three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes, and a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose.' they laughed to see three men standing to meet the whole army; but it was so narrow a space, that no more than three enemies could attack them at once, and it was not easy to match them. foe after foe came forth against them, and went down before their swords and spears, till at last- 'was none that would be foremost to lead such dire attack; but those behind cried 'forward!' and those before cried 'back!' .................. however, the supports of the bridge had been destroyed. 'but meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied, and now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. 'come back, come back, horatius!' loud cried the fathers all; 'back, lartius! back, herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!' 'back darted spurius lartius, herminius darted back; and as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack; but when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shore saw brave horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd once more. 'but with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam, and, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream; and a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of rome, as to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.' the one last champion, behind a rampart of dead enemies, remained till the destruction was complete. 'alone stood brave horatius, but constant still in mind, thrice thirty thousand foes before and the broad flood behind.' a dart had put out one eye, he was wounded in the thigh, and his work was done. he turned round, and- 'saw on palatinus, the white porch of his home, and he spake to the noble river that rolls by the walls of rome: 'o tiber! father tiber! to whom the romans pray, a roman's life, a roman's arms take thou in charge this day.' and with this brief prayer he leapt into the foaming stream. polybius was told that he was there drowned; but livy gives the version which the ballad follows:- 'but fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain, and fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, and heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows, and oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. 'never, i ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place. but his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, and our good father tiber bare bravely up his chin. ................. 'and now he feels the bottom, now on dry earth he stands, now round him throng the fathers, to press his gory hands. and now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, he enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous crowd. 'they gave him of the corn land, that was of public right, as much as two strong oxen could plough from morn to night. and they made a molten image, and set it up on high, and there it stands unto this day, to witness if i lie. 'it stands in the comitium, plain for all folk to see, horatius in his harness, halting upon his knee: and underneath is written, in letters all of gold, how valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old.' never was more honorable surname than his, of cocles, or the one-eyed; and though his lameness prevented him from ever being a consul, or leading an army, he was so much beloved and honored by his fellow citizens, that in the time of a famine each roman, to the number of 300,000, brought him a day's food, lest he should suffer want. the statue was shown even in the time of pliny, 600 years afterwards, and was probably only destroyed when rome was sacked by the barbarians. nor was the roman bridge the only one that has been defended by one man against a host. in our own country, stamford bridge was, in like manner, guarded by a single brave northman, after the battle fought a.d. 1066, when earl tostig, the son of godwin, had persuaded the gallant sea king, harald hardrada, to come and invade england. the chosen english king, harold, had marched at full speed from sussex to yorkshire, and met the invaders marching at their ease, without expecting any enemy, and wearing no defensive armor, as they went forth to receive the keys of the city of york. the battle was fought by the norsemen in the full certainty that it must be lost. the banner, 'landwaster', was planted in the midst; and the king, chanting his last song, like the minstrel warrior he had always been, stood, with his bravest men, in a death ring around it. there he died, and his choicest warriors with him; but many more fled back towards the ships, rushing over the few planks that were the only way across the river ouse. and here stood their defender, alone upon the bridge, keeping back the whole pursuing english army, who could only attack him one at a time; until, with shame be it spoken, he died by a cowardly blow by an enemy, who had crept down the bank of the river, and under the bridge, through the openings between the timbers of which he thrust up his spear, and thus was able to hurl the brave northman into the river, mortally wounded, but not till great numbers of his countrymen had reached their ships, their lives saved by his gallantry. in like manner, robert bruce, in the time of his wanderings, during the year 1306, saved his whole band by his sole exertions. he had been defeated by the forces of edward i. at methven, and had lost many of his friends. his little army went wandering among the hills, sometimes encamping in the woods, sometimes crossing the lakes in small boats. many ladies were among them, and their summer life had some wild charms of romance; as the knightly huntsmen brought in the salmon, the roe, and the deer that formed their food, and the ladies gathered the flowering heather, over which soft skins were laid for their bedding. sir james douglas was the most courtly and graceful knight of all the party, and ever kept them enlivened by his gay temper and ready wit; and the king himself cherished a few precious romances, which he used to read aloud to his followers as they rested in their mountain home. but their bitter foe, the lord of lorn, was always in pursuit of them, and, near the head of the tay, he came upon the small army of 300 men with 1000 highlanders, armed with lochaber axes, at a place which is still called dalry, or the king's field. many of the horses were killed by the axes; and james douglas and gilbert de la haye were both wounded. all would have been slain or fallen into the hand of the enemy, if robert bruce had not sent them all on before him, up a narrow, steep path, and placed himself, with his armor and heavy horse, full in the path, protecting the retreat with his single arm. it was true, that so tall and powerful a man, sheathed in armor and on horseback, had a great advantage against the wild highlanders, who only wore a shirt and a plaid, with a round target upon the arm; but they were lithe, active, light-footed men, able to climb like goats on the crags around him, and holding their lives as cheaply as he did. lorn, watching him from a distance, was struck with amazement, and exclaimed, 'methinks, marthokson, he resembles gol mak morn protecting his followers from fingal;' thus comparing him to one the most brilliant champions a highland imagination could conceive. at last, three men, named m'androsser, rushed forward, resolved to free their chief from this formidable enemy. there was a lake on one side, and a precipice on the other, and the king had hardly space to manage his horse, when all three sprang on him at once. one snatched his bridle, one caught him by the stirrup and leg, and a third leaped from a rising ground and seated himself behind him on his horse. the first lost his arm by one sweep of the king's sword; the second was overthrown and trampled on; and the last, by a desperate struggle, was dashed down, and his skull cleft by the king's sword; but his dying grasp was so tight upon the plaid that bruce was forced to unclasp the brooch that secured it, and leave both in the dead man's hold. it was long preserved by the macdougals of lorn, as a trophy of the narrow escape of their enemy. nor must we leave robert the bruce without mentioning that other golden deed, more truly noble because more full of mercy; namely, his halting his little army in full retreat in ireland in the face of the english host under roger mortimer, that proper care and attendance might be given to one sick and suffering washerwoman and her new-born babe. well may his old scotch rhyming chronicler remark:- 'this was a full great courtesy that swilk a king and so mighty, gert his men dwell on this manner, but for a poor lavender.' we have seen how the sturdy roman fought for his city, the fierce northman died to guard his comrades' rush to their ships after the lost battle, and how the mail-clad knightly bruce periled himself to secure the retreat of his friends. here is one more instance, from far more modern times, of a soldier, whose willing sacrifice of his own life was the safety of a whole army. it was in the course of the long dismal conflict between frederick the great of prussia and maria theresa of austria, which was called the seven years' war. louis xv. of france had taken the part of austria, and had sent an army into germany in the autumn of 1760. from this the marquis de castries had been dispatched, with 25,000 men, towards rheinberg, and had taken up a strong position at klostercamp. on the night of the 15th of october, a young officer, called the chevalier d'assas, of the auvergne regiment, was sent out to reconnoitre, and advanced alone into a wood, at some little distance from his men. suddenly he found himself surrounded by a number of soldiers, whose bayonets pricked his breast, and a voice whispered in his ear, 'make the slightest noise, and you are a dead man!' in one moment he understood it all. the enemy were advancing, to surprise the french army, and would be upon them when night was further advanced. that moment decided his fate. he shouted, as loud as his voice would carry the words, 'here, auvergne! here are the enemy!' by the time the cry reached the ears of his men, their captain was a senseless corpse; but his death had saved the army; the surprise had failed, and the enemy retreated. louis xv was too mean-spirited and selfish to feel the beauty of this brave action; but when, fourteen years later, louis xvi came to the throne, he decreed that a pension should be given to the family as long as a male representative remained to bear the name of d'assas. poor louis xvi had not long the control of the treasure of france; but a century of changes, wars, and revolutions has not blotted out the memory of the self-devotion of the chevalier; for, among the new war-steamers of the french fleet, there is one that bears the ever-honored name of d'assas. the pass of thermopylae b.c. 430 there was trembling in greece. 'the great king', as the greeks called the chief potentate of the east, whose domains stretched from the indian caucasus to the aegaeus, from the caspian to the red sea, was marshalling his forces against the little free states that nestled amid the rocks and gulfs of the eastern mediterranean. already had his might devoured the cherished colonies of the greeks on the eastern shore of the archipelago, and every traitor to home institutions found a ready asylum at that despotic court, and tried to revenge his own wrongs by whispering incitements to invasion. 'all people, nations, and languages,' was the commencement of the decrees of that monarch's court; and it was scarcely a vain boast, for his satraps ruled over subject kingdoms, and among his tributary nations he counted the chaldean, with his learning and old civilization, the wise and steadfast jew, the skilful phoenician, the learned egyptian, the wild, free-booting arab of the desert, the dark-skinned ethiopian, and over all these ruled the keen-witted, active native persian race, the conquerors of all the rest, and led by a chosen band proudly called the immortal. his many capitals--babylon the great, susa, persepolis, and the like--were names of dreamy splendor to the greeks, described now and then by ionians from asia minor who had carried their tribute to the king's own feet, or by courtier slaves who had escaped with difficulty from being all too serviceable at the tyrannic court. and the lord of this enormous empire was about to launch his countless host against the little cluster of states, the whole of which together would hardly equal one province of the huge asiatic realm! moreover, it was a war not only on the men but on their gods. the persians were zealous adorers of the sun and of fire, they abhorred the idol worship of the greeks, and defiled and plundered every temple that fell in their way. death and desolation were almost the best that could be looked for at such hands--slavery and torture from cruelly barbarous masters would only too surely be the lot of numbers, should their land fall a prey to the conquerors. true it was that ten years back the former great king had sent his best troops to be signally defeated upon the coast of attica; but the losses at marathon had but stimulated the persian lust of conquest, and the new king xerxes was gathering together such myriads of men as should crush down the greeks and overrun their country by mere force of numbers. the muster place was at sardis, and there greek spies had seen the multitudes assembling and the state and magnificence of the king's attendants. envoys had come from him to demand earth and water from each state in greece, as emblems that land and sea were his, but each state was resolved to be free, and only thessaly, that which lay first in his path, consented to yield the token of subjugation. a council was held at the isthmus of corinth, and attended by deputies from all the states of greece to consider of the best means of defense. the ships of the enemy would coast round the shores of the aegean sea, the land army would cross the hellespont on a bridge of boats lashed together, and march southwards into greece. the only hope of averting the danger lay in defending such passages as, from the nature of the ground, were so narrow that only a few persons could fight hand to hand at once, so that courage would be of more avail than numbers. the first of all these passes was called tempe, and a body of troops was sent to guard it; but they found that this was useless and impossible, and came back again. the next was at thermopylae. look in your map of the archipelago, or aegean sea, as it was then called, for the great island of negropont, or by its old name, euboea. it looks like a piece broken off from the coast, and to the north is shaped like the head of a bird, with the beak running into a gulf, that would fit over it, upon the main land, and between the island and the coast is an exceedingly narrow strait. the persian army would have to march round the edge of the gulf. they could not cut straight across the country, because the ridge of mountains called ceta rose up and barred their way. indeed, the woods, rocks, and precipices came down so near the seashore, that in two places there was only room for one single wheel track between the steeps and the impassable morass that formed the border of the gulf on its south side. these two very narrow places were called the gates of the pass, and were about a mile apart. there was a little more width left in the intervening space; but in this there were a number of springs of warm mineral water, salt and sulphurous, which were used for the sick to bathe in, and thus the place was called thermopylae, or the hot gates. a wall had once been built across the western-most of these narrow places, when the thessalians and phocians, who lived on either side of it, had been at war with one another; but it had been allowed to go to decay, since the phocians had found out that there was a very steep narrow mountain path along the bed of a torrent, by which it was possible to cross from one territory to the other without going round this marshy coast road. this was, therefore, an excellent place to defend. the greek ships were all drawn up on the farther side of euboea to prevent the persian vessels from getting into the strait and landing men beyond the pass, and a division of the army was sent off to guard the hot gates. the council at the isthmus did not know of the mountain pathway, and thought that all would be safe as long as the persians were kept out of the coast path. the troops sent for this purpose were from different cities, and amounted to about 4,000, who were to keep the pass against two millions. the leader of them was leonidas, who had newly become one of the two kings of sparta, the city that above all in greece trained its sons to be hardy soldiers, dreading death infinitely less than shame. leonidas had already made up his mind that the expedition would probably be his death, perhaps because a prophecy had been given at the temple of delphi that sparta should be saved by the death of one of her kings of the race of hercules. he was allowed by law to take with him 300 men, and these he chose most carefully, not merely for their strength and courage, but selecting those who had sons, so that no family might be altogether destroyed. these spartans, with their helots or slaves, made up his own share of the numbers, but all the army was under his generalship. it is even said that the 300 celebrated their own funeral rites before they set out, lest they should be deprived of them by the enemy, since, as we have already seen, it was the greek belief that the spirits of the dead found no rest till their obsequies had been performed. such preparations did not daunt the spirits of leonidas and his men, and his wife, gorgo, who was not a woman to be faint-hearted or hold him back. long before, when she was a very little girl, a word of hers had saved her father from listening to a traitorous message from the king of persia; and every spartan lady was bred up to be able to say to those she best loved that they must come home from battle 'with the shield or on it'--either carrying it victoriously or borne upon it as a corpse. when leonidas came to thermopylae, the phocians told him of the mountain path through the chestnut woods of mount ceta, and begged to have the privilege of guarding it on a spot high up on the mountain side, assuring him that it was very hard to find at the other end, and that there was every probability that the enemy would never discover it. he consented, and encamping around the warm springs, caused the broken wall to be repaired, and made ready to meet the foe. the persian army were seen covering the whole country like locusts, and the hearts of some of the southern greeks in the pass began to sink. their homes in the peloponnesus were comparatively secure--had they not better fall back and reserve themselves to defend the isthmus of corinth? but leonidas, though sparta was safe below the isthmus, had no intention of abandoning his northern allies, and kept the other peloponnesians to their posts, only sending messengers for further help. presently a persian on horseback rode up to reconnoitre the pass. he could not see over the wall, but in front of it, and on the ramparts, he saw the spartans, some of them engaged in active sports, and others in combing their long hair. he rode back to the king, and told him what he had seen. now, xerxes had in his camp an exiled spartan prince, named demaratus, who had become a traitor to his country, and was serving as counsellor to the enemy. xerxes sent for him, and asked whether his countrymen were mad to be thus employed instead of fleeing away; but demaratus made answer that a hard fight was no doubt in preparation, and that it was the custom of the spartans to array their hair with special care when they were about to enter upon any great peril. xerxes would, however, not believe that so petty a force could intend to resist him, and waited four days, probably expecting his fleet to assist him, but as it did not appear, the attack was made. the greeks, stronger men and more heavily armed, were far better able to fight to advantage than the persians, with their short spears and wicker shields, and beat them off with great ease. it is said that xerxes three times leapt off his throne in despair at the sight of his troops being driven backwards; and thus for two days it seemed as easy to force a way through the spartans as through the rocks themselves. nay, how could slavish troops, dragged from home to spread the victories of an ambitious king, fight like freemen who felt that their strokes were to defend their homes and children! but on that evening a wretched man, named ephialtes, crept into the persian camp, and offered, for a great sum of money, to show the mountain path that would enable the enemy to take the brave defenders in the rear! a persian general, named hydarnes, was sent off at nightfall with a detachment to secure this passage, and was guided through the thick forests that clothed the hillside. in the stillness of the air, at daybreak, the phocian guards of the path were startled by the crackling of the chestnut leaves under the tread of many feet. they started up, but a shower of arrows was discharged on them, and forgetting all save the present alarm, they fled to a higher part of the mountain, and the enemy, without waiting to pursue them, began to descend. as day dawned, morning light showed the watchers of the grecian camp below a glittering and shimmering in the torrent bed where the shaggy forests opened; but it was not the sparkle of water, but the shine of gilded helmets and the gleaming of silvered spears! moreover, a cimmerian crept over to the wall from the persian camp with tidings that the path had been betrayed, that the enemy were climbing it, and would come down beyond the eastern gate. still, the way was rugged and circuitous, the persians would hardly descend before midday, and there was ample time for the greeks to escape before they could be shut in by the enemy. there was a short council held over the morning sacrifice. megistias, the seer, on inspecting the entrails of the slain victim, declared, as well he might, that their appearance boded disaster. him leonidas ordered to retire, but he refused, though he sent home his only son. there was no disgrace to an ordinary tone of mind in leaving a post that could not be held, and leonidas recommended all the allied troops under his command to march away while yet the way was open. as to himself and his spartans, they had made up their minds to die at their post, and there could be no doubt that the example of such a resolution would do more to save greece than their best efforts could ever do if they were careful to reserve themselves for another occasion. all the allies consented to retreat, except the eighty men who came from mycenae and the 700 thespians, who declared that they would not desert leonidas. there were also 400 thebans who remained; and thus the whole number that stayed with leonidas to confront two million of enemies were fourteen hundred warriors, besides the helots or attendants on the 300 spartans, whose number is not known, but there was probably at least one to each. leonidas had two kinsmen in the camp, like himself, claiming the blood of hercules, and he tried to save them by giving them letters and messages to sparta; but one answered that 'he had come to fight, not to carry letters'; and the other, that 'his deeds would tell all that sparta wished to know'. another spartan, named dienices, when told that the enemy's archers were so numerous that their arrows darkened the sun, replied, 'so much the better, we shall fight in the shade.' two of the 300 had been sent to a neighboring village, suffering severely from a complaint in the eyes. one of them, called eurytus, put on his armor, and commanded his helot to lead him to his place in the ranks; the other, called aristodemus, was so overpowered with illness that he allowed himself to be carried away with the retreating allies. it was still early in the day when all were gone, and leonidas gave the word to his men to take their last meal. 'to-night,' he said, 'we shall sup with pluto.' hitherto, he had stood on the defensive, and had husbanded the lives of his men; but he now desired to make as great a slaughter as possible, so as to inspire the enemy with dread of the grecian name. he therefore marched out beyond the wall, without waiting to be attacked, and the battle began. the persian captains went behind their wretched troops and scourged them on to the fight with whips! poor wretches, they were driven on to be slaughtered, pierced with the greek spears, hurled into the sea, or trampled into the mud of the morass; but their inexhaustible numbers told at length. the spears of the greeks broke under hard service, and their swords alone remained; they began to fall, and leonidas himself was among the first of the slain. hotter than ever was the fight over his corpse, and two persian princes, brothers of xerxes, were there killed; but at length word was brought that hydarnes was over the pass, and that the few remaining men were thus enclosed on all sides. the spartans and thespians made their way to a little hillock within the wall, resolved to let this be the place of their last stand; but the hearts of the thebans failed them, and they came towards the persians holding out their hands in entreaty for mercy. quarter was given to them, but they were all branded with the king's mark as untrustworthy deserters. the helots probably at this time escaped into the mountains; while the small desperate band stood side by side on the hill still fighting to the last, some with swords, others with daggers, others even with their hands and teeth, till not one living man remained amongst them when the sun went down. there was only a mound of slain, bristled over with arrows. twenty thousand persians had died before that handful of men! xerxes asked demaratus if there were many more at sparta like these, and was told there were 8,000. it must have been with a somewhat failing heart that he invited his courtiers from the fleet to see what he had done to the men who dared to oppose him! and showed them the head and arm of leonidas set up upon a cross; but he took care that all his own slain, except 1,000, should first be put out of sight. the body of the brave king was buried where he fell, as were those of the other dead. much envied were they by the unhappy aristodemus, who found himself called by no name but the 'coward', and was shunned by all his fellow-citizens. no one would give him fire or water, and after a year of misery, he redeemed his honor by perishing in the forefront of the battle of plataea, which was the last blow that drove the persians ingloriously from greece. the greeks then united in doing honor to the brave warriors who, had they been better supported, might have saved the whole country from invasion. the poet simonides wrote the inscriptions that were engraved upon the pillars that were set up in the pass to commemorate this great action. one was outside the wall, where most of the fighting had been. it seems to have been in honor of the whole number who had for two days resisted- 'here did four thousand men from pelops' land against three hundred myriads bravely stand'. in honor of the spartans was another column- 'go, traveler, to sparta tell that here, obeying her, we fell'. on the little hillock of the last resistance was placed the figure of a stone lion, in memory of leonidas, so fitly named the lion-like, and simonides, at his own expense, erected a pillar to his friend, the seer megistias- 'the great megistias' tomb you here may view, who slew the medes, fresh from spercheius fords; well the wise seer the coming death foreknew, yet scorn'd he to forsake his spartan lords'. the names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at sparta. lions, pillars, and inscriptions have all long since passed away, even the very spot itself has changed; new soil has been formed, and there are miles of solid ground between mount ceta and the gulf, so that the hot gates no longer exist. but more enduring than stone or brass--nay, than the very battlefield itself--has been the name of leonidas. two thousand three hundred years have sped since he braced himself to perish for his country's sake in that narrow, marshy coast road, under the brow of the wooded crags, with the sea by his side. since that time how many hearts have glowed, how many arms have been nerved at the remembrance of the pass of thermopylae, and the defeat that was worth so much more than a victory! the rock of the capitol b.c. 389 the city of rome was gradually rising on the banks of the tiber, and every year was adding to its temples and public buildings. every citizen loved his city and her greatness above all else. there was as yet little wealth among them; the richest owned little more than a few acres, which they cultivated themselves by the help of their families, and sometimes of a few slaves, and the beautiful campagna di roma, girt in by hills looking like amethysts in the distance, had not then become almost uninhabitable from pestilential air, but was rich and fertile, full of highly cultivated small farms, where corn was raised in furrows made by a small hand plough, and herds of sheep, goats, and oxen browsed in the pasture lands. the owners of these lands would on public days take off their rude working dress and broad-brimmed straw hat, and putting on the white toga with a purple hem, would enter the city, and go to the valley called the forum or marketplace to give their votes for the officers of state who were elected every year; especially the two consuls, who were like kings all but the crown, wore purple togas richly embroidered, sat on ivory chairs, and were followed by lictors carrying an axe in a bundle of rods for the execution of justice. in their own chamber sat the senate, the great council composed of the patricians, or citizens of highest birth, and of those who had formerly been consuls. they decided on peace or war, and made the laws, and were the real governors of the state, and their grave dignity made a great impression on all who came near them. above the buildings of the city rose steep and high the capitoline hill, with the temple of jupiter on its summit, and the strong wall in which was the chief stronghold and citadel of rome, the capitol, the very centre of her strength and resolution. when a war was decided on, every citizen capable of bearing arms was called into the forum, bringing his helmet, breast plate, short sword, and heavy spear, and the officers called tribunes, chose out a sufficient number, who were formed into bodies called legions, and marched to battle under the command of one of the consuls. many little states or italian tribes, who had nearly the same customs as rome, surrounded the campagna, and so many disputes arose that every year, as soon as the crops were saved, the armies marched out, the flocks were driven to folds on the hills, the women and children were placed in the walled cities, and a battle was fought, sometimes followed up by the siege of the city of the defeated. the romans did not always obtain the victory, but there was a staunchness about them that was sure to prevail in the long run; if beaten one year, they came back to the charge the next, and thus they gradually mastered one of their neighbors after another, and spread their dominion over the central part of italy. they were well used to italian and etruscan ways of making war, but after nearly 400 years of this kind of fighting, a stranger and wilder enemy came upon them. these were the gauls, a tall strong, brave people, long limbed and red-haired, of the same race as the highlanders of scotland. they had gradually spread themselves over the middle of europe, and had for some generations past lived among the alpine mountains, whence they used to come down upon the rich plans of northern italy for forays, in which they slew and burnt, and drove off cattle, and now and then, when a country was quite depopulated, would settle themselves in it. and thus, the gauls conquering from the north and the romans from the south, these two fierce nations at length came against one another. the old roman story is that it happened thus: the gauls had an unusually able leader, whom latin historians call brennus, but whose real name was most likely bran, and who is said to have come out of britain. he had brought a great host of gauls to attack clusium, a tuscan city, and the inhabitants sent to rome to entreat succor. three ambassadors, brothers of the noble old family of fabius, were sent from rome to intercede for the clusians. they asked brennus what harm the men of clusium had done the gauls, that they thus made war on them, and, according to plutarch's account, brennus made answer that the injury was that the clusians possessed land that the gauls wanted, remarking that it was exactly the way in which the romans themselves treated their neighbors, adding, however, that this was neither cruel nor unjust, but according- 'to the good old plan that they should take who have the power and they should keep who can.' [footnote: these lines of wordsworth on rob roy's grave almost literally translate the speech plutarch gives the first kelt of history, brennus.] the fabii, on receiving this answer, were so foolish as to transgress the rule, owned by the savage gauls, that an ambassador should neither fight nor be fought with; they joined the clusians, and one brother, named quintus, killed a remarkably large and tall gallic chief in single combat. brennus was justly enraged, and sent messengers to rome to demand that the brothers should be given up to him for punishment. the priests and many of the senate held that the rash young men had deserved death as covenant-breakers; but their father made strong interest for them, and prevailed not only to have them spared, but even chosen as tribunes to lead the legions in the war that was expected. [footnote: these events happened during an experiment made by the romans of having six military tribunes instead of two consuls.] thus he persuaded the whole nation to take on itself the guilt of his sons, a want of true self-devotion uncommon among the old romans, and which was severely punished. the gauls were much enraged, and hurried southwards, not waiting for plunder by the way, but declaring that they were friends to every state save rome. the romans on their side collected their troops in haste, but with a lurking sense of having transgressed; and since they had gainsaid the counsel of their priests, they durst not have recourse to the sacrifices and ceremonies by which they usually sought to gain the favor of their gods. even among heathens, the saying has often been verified, 'a sinful heart makes failing hand', and the battle on the banks of the river allia, about eleven miles from rome, was not so much a fight as a rout. the roman soldiers were ill drawn up, and were at once broken. some fled to veii and other towns, many were drowned in crossing the tiber, and it was but a few who showed in rome their shame-stricken faces, and brought word that the gauls were upon them. had the gauls been really in pursuit, the roman name and nation would have perished under their swords; but they spent three day in feasting and sharing their plunder, and thus gave the romans time to take measures for the safety of such as could yet escape. there seems to have been no notion of defending the city, the soldiers had been too much dispersed; but all who still remained and could call up something of their ordinary courage, carried all the provisions they could collect into the stronghold of the capitol, and resolved to hold out there till the last, in hopes that the scattered army might muster again, or that the gauls might retreat, after having revenged themselves on the city. everyone who could not fight, took flight, taking with them all they could carry, and among them went the white-clad troop of vestal virgins, carrying with them their censer of fire, which was esteemed sacred, and never allowed to be extinguished. a man named albinus, who saw these sacred women footsore, weary, and weighted down with the treasures of their temple, removed his own family and goods from his cart and seated them in it--an act of reverence for which he was much esteemed--and thus they reached the city of cumae. the only persons left in rome outside the capitol were eighty of the oldest senators and some of the priests. some were too feeble to fly, and would not come into the capitol to consume the food that might maintain fighting men; but most of them were filled with a deep, solemn thought that, by offering themselves to the weapons of the barbarians, they might atone for the sin sanctioned by the republic, and that their death might be the saving of the nation. this notion that the death of a ruler would expiate a country's guilt was one of the strange presages abroad in the heathen world of that which alone takes away the sin of all mankind. on came the gauls at last. the gates stood open, the streets were silent, the houses' low-browed doors showed no one in the paved courts. no living man was to be seen, till at last, hurrying down the steep empty streets, they reached the great open space of the forum, and there they stood still in amazement, for ranged along a gallery were a row of ivory chairs, and in each chair sat the figure of a white-haired, whitebearded man, with arms and legs bare, and robes either of snowy white, white bordered with purple, or purple richly embroidered, ivory staves in their hands, and majestic, unmoved countenances. so motionless were they, that the gauls stood still, not knowing whether they beheld men or statues. a wondrous scene it must have been, as the brawny, red-haired gauls, with freckled visage, keen little eyes, long broad sword, and wide plaid garment, fashioned into loose trousers, came curiously down into the marketplace, one after another; and each stood silent and transfixed at the spectacle of those grand figures, still unmoving, save that their large full liquid dark eyes showed them to be living beings. surely these gauls deemed themselves in the presence of that council of kings who were sometimes supposed to govern rome, nay, if they were not before the gods themselves. at last, one gaul, ruder, or more curious than the rest, came up to one of the venerable figures, and, to make proof whether he were flesh and blood, stroked his beard. such an insult from an uncouth barbarian was more than roman blood could brook, and the gaul soon had his doubt satisfied by a sharp blow on the head from the ivory staff. all reverence was dispelled by that stroke; it was at once returned by a death thrust, and the fury of the savages wakening in proportion to the awe that had at first struck them, they rushed on the old senators, and slew each one in his curule chair. then they dispersed through the city, burning, plundering, and destroying. to take the capitol they soon found to be beyond their power, but they hoped to starve the defenders out; and in the meantime they spent their time in pulling down the outer walls, and such houses and temples as had resisted the fire, till the defenders of the capitol looked down from their height on nothing but desolate black burnt ground, with a few heaps of ruins in the midst, and the barbarians roaming about in it, and driving in the cattle that their foraging parties collected from the country round. there was much earnest faith in their own religion among the romans: they took all this ruin as the just reward of their shelter of the fabii, and even in their extremity were resolved not to transgress any sacred rule. though food daily became more scarce and starvation was fast approaching, not one of the sacred geese that were kept in juno's temple was touched; and one fabius dorso, who believed that the household gods of his family required yearly a sacrifice on their own festival day on the quirinal hill, arrayed himself in the white robes of a sacrificer, took his sacred images in his arms, and went out of the capitol, through the midst of the enemy, through the ruins to the accustomed alter, and there preformed the regular rites. the gauls, seeing that it was a religious ceremony, let him pass through them untouched, and he returned in safety; but brennus was resolved on completing his conquest, and while half his forces went out to plunder, he remained with the other half, watching the moment to effect an entrance into the capitol; and how were the defenders, worn out with hunger, to resist without relief from without? and who was there to bring relief to them, who were themselves the roman state and government? now there was a citizen, named marcus furius camillus, who was, without question, at that time, the first soldier of rome, and had taken several of the chief italian cities, especially that of veii, which had long been a most dangerous enemy. but he was a proud, haughty man, and had brought on himself much dislike; until, at last, a false accusation was brought against him, that he had taken an unfair share of the plunder of veii. he was too proud to stand a trial; and leaving the city, was immediately fined a considerable sum. he had taken up his abode at the city of ardea, and was there living when the plundering half of brennus' army was reported to be coming thither. camillus immediately offered the magistrates to undertake their defense; and getting together all the men who could bear arms, he led them out, fell upon the gauls as they all lay asleep and unguarded in the dead of night, made a great slaughter of them, and saved ardea. all this was heard by the many romans who had been living dispersed since the rout of allia; and they began to recover heart and spirit, and to think that if camillus would be their leader, they might yet do something to redeem the honor of rome, and save their friends in the capitol. an entreaty was sent to him to take the command of them; but, like a proud, stern man as he was, he made answer, that he was a mere exile, and could not take upon himself to lead romans without a decree from the senate giving him authority. the senate was--all that remained of it--shut up in the capitol; the gauls were spread all round; how was that decree to be obtained? a young man, named pontius cominius, undertook the desperate mission. he put on a peasant dress, and hid some corks under it, supposing that he should find no passage by the bridge over the tiber. traveling all day on foot, he came at night to the bank, and saw the guard at the bridge; then, having waited for darkness, he rolled his one thin light garment, with the corks wrapped up in it, round his head, and trusted himself to the stream of father tiber, like 'good horatius' before him; and he was safely borne along to the foot of the capitoline hill. he crept along, avoiding every place where he saw lights or heard noise, till he came to a rugged precipice, which he suspected would not be watched by the enemy, who would suppose it too steep to be climbed from above or below. but the resolute man did not fear the giddy dangerous ascent, even in the darkness; he swung himself up by the stems and boughs of the vines and climbing plants, his naked feet clung to the rocks and tufts of grass, and at length he stood on the top of the rampart, calling out his name to the soldiers who came in haste around him, not knowing whether he were friend or foe. a joyful sound must his latin speech have been to the long-tried, half starved garrison, who had not seen a fresh face for six long months! the few who represented the senate and people of rome were hastily awakened from their sleep, and gathered together to hear the tidings brought them at so much risk. pontius told them of the victory at ardea, and that camillus and the romans collected at veii were only waiting to march to their succor till they should give him lawful power to take the command. there was little debate. the vote was passed at once to make camillus dictator, an office to which romans were elected upon great emergencies, and which gave them, for the time, absolute kingly control; and then pontius, bearing the appointment, set off once again upon his mission, still under shelter of night, clambered down the rock, and crossed the gallic camp before the barbarians were yet awake. there was hope in the little garrison; but danger was not over. the sharp-eyed gauls observed that the shrubs and creepers were broken, the moss frayed, and fresh stones and earth rolled down at the crag of the capitol: they were sure that the rock had been climbed, and, therefore, that it might be climbed again. should they, who were used to the snowy peaks, dark abysses, and huge glaciers of the alps, be afraid to climb where a soft dweller in a tame italian town could venture a passage? brennus chose out the hardiest of his mountaineers, and directed them to climb up in the dead of night, one by one, in perfect silence, and thus to surprise the romans, and complete the slaughter and victory, before the forces assembling at veii would come to their rescue. silently the gauls climbed, so stilly that not even a dog heard them; and the sentinel nearest to the post, who had fallen into a dead sleep of exhaustion from hunger, never awoke. but the fatal stillness was suddenly broken by loud gabbling, cackling, and flapping of heavy wings. the sacred geese of juno, which had been so religiously spared in the famine, were frightened by the rustling beneath, and proclaimed their terror in their own noisy fashion. the first to take the alarm was marcus manlius, who started forward just in time to meet the foremost climbers as they set foot on the rampart. one, who raised an axe to strike, lost his arm by one stroke of manlius' short roman sword; the next was by main strength hurled backwards over the precipice, and manlius stood along on the top, for a few moments, ready to strike the next who should struggle up. the whole of the garrison were in a few moments on the alert, and the attack was entirely repulsed; the sleeping sentry was cast headlong down the rock; and manlius was brought, by each grateful soldier, that which was then most valuable to all, a little meal and a small measure of wine. still, the condition of the capitol was lamentable; there was no certainty that pontius had ever reached camillus in safety; and, indeed, the discovery of his path by the enemy would rather have led to the supposition that he had been seized and detected. the best hope lay in wearying out the besiegers; and there seemed to be more chance of this since the gauls often could be seen from the heights, burying the corpses of their dead; their tall, bony forms looked gaunt and drooping, and, here and there, unburied carcasses lay amongst the ruins. nor were the flocks and herds any longer driven in from the country. either all must have been exhausted, or else camillus and his friends must be near, and preventing their raids. at any rate, it appeared as if the enemy was quite as ill off as to provisions as the garrison, and in worse condition as to health. in effect, this was the first example of the famous saying, that rome destroys her conquerors. in this state of things one of the romans had a dream that jupiter, the special god of the capitol, appeared to him, and gave the strange advice that all the remaining flour should be baked, and the loaves thrown down into the enemy's camp. telling the dream, which may, perhaps, have been the shaping of his own thoughts, that this apparent waste would persuade the barbarians that the garrison could not soon be starved out, this person obtained the consent of the rest of the besieged. some approved the stratagem, and no one chose to act contrary to jupiter's supposed advice; so the bread was baked, and tossed down by the hungry men. after a time, there was a report from the outer guards that the gallic watch had been telling them that their leader would be willing to speak with some of the roman chiefs. accordingly, sulpitius, one of the tribunes, went out, and had a conference with brennus, who declared that he would depart, provided the romans would lay down a ransom, for their capital and their own lives, of a thousand pounds' weight of gold. to this sulpitius agreed, and returning to the capitol, the gold was collected from the treasury, and carried down to meet the gauls, who brought their own weights. the weights did not meet the amount of gold ornaments that had been contributed for the purpose, and no doubt the gauls were resolved to have all that they beheld; for when sulpitius was about to try to arrange the balance, brennus insultingly threw his sword into his own scale, exclaiming, voe victis! 'woe to the conquered!' the roman was not yet fallen so low as not to remonstrate, and the dispute was waxing sharp, when there was a confused outcry in the gallic camp, a shout from the heights of the capitol, and into the midst of the open space rode a band of roman patricians and knights in armor, with the dictator camillus at their head. he no sooner saw what was passing, than he commanded the treasure to be taken back, and, turning to brennus, said, 'it is with iron, not gold, that the romans guard their country.' brennus declared that the treaty had been sworn to, and that it would be a breach of faith to deprive him of the ransom; to which camillus replied, that he himself was dictator, and no one had the power to make a treaty in his absence. the dispute was so hot, that they drew their swords against one another, and there was a skirmish among the ruins; but the gauls soon fell back, and retreated to their camp, when they saw the main body of camillus' army marching upon them. it was no less than 40,000 in number; and brennus knew he could not withstand them with his broken, sickly army. he drew off early the next morning: but was followed by camillus, and routed, with great slaughter, about eight miles from rome; and very few of the gauls lived to return home, for those who were not slain in battle were cut off in their flight by the country people, whom they had plundered. in reward for their conduct on this occasion, camillus was termed romulus, father of his country, and second founder of rome; marcus manlius received the honorable surname of capitolinus; and even the geese were honored by having a golden image raised to their honor in juno's temple, and a live goose was yearly carried in triumph, upon a soft litter, in a golden cage, as long as any heathen festivals lasted. the reward of pontius cominius does not appear; but surely he, and the old senators who died for their country's sake, deserved to be for ever remembered for their brave contempt of life when a service could be done to the state. the truth of the whole narrative is greatly doubted, and it is suspected that the gallic conquest was more complete than the romans ever chose to avow. their history is far from clear up to this very epoch, when it is said that all their records were destroyed; but even when place and period are misty, great names and the main outline of their actions loom through the cloud, perhaps exaggerated, but still with some reality; and if the magnificent romance of the sack of rome be not fact, yet it is certainly history, and well worthy of note and remembrance, as one of the finest extant traditions of a whole chain of golden deeds. the two friends of syracuse b.c. 380 (circa) most of the best and noblest of the greeks held what was called the pythagorean philosophy. this was one of the many systems framed by the great men of heathenism, when by the feeble light of nature they were, as st. paul says, 'seeking after god, if haply they might feel after him', like men groping in the darkness. pythagoras lived before the time of history, and almost nothing is known about him, though his teaching and his name were never lost. there is a belief that he had traveled in the east, and in egypt, and as he lived about the time of the dispersion of the israelites, it is possible that some of his purest and best teaching might have been crumbs gathered from their fuller instruction through the law and the prophets. one thing is plain, that even in dealing with heathenism the divine rule holds good, 'by their fruits ye shall know them'. golden deeds are only to be found among men whose belief is earnest and sincere, and in something really high and noble. where there was nothing worshiped but savage or impure power, and the very form of adoration was cruel and unclean, as among the canaanites and carthaginians, there we find no true self-devotion. the great deeds of the heathen world were all done by early greeks and romans before yet the last gleams of purer light had faded out of their belief, and while their moral sense still nerved them to energy; or else by such later greeks as had embraced the deeper and more earnest yearnings of the minds that had become a 'law unto themselves'. the pythagoreans were bound together in a brotherhood, the members of which had rules that are not now understood, but which linked them so as to form a sort of club, with common religious observances and pursuits of science, especially mathematics and music. and they were taught to restrain their passions, especially that of anger, and to endure with patience all kinds of suffering; believing that such self-restraint brought them nearer to the gods, and that death would set them free from the prison of the body. the souls of evil-doers would, they thought, pass into the lower and more degraded animals, while those of good men would be gradually purified, and rise to a higher existence. this, though lamentably deficient, and false in some points, was a real religion, inasmuch as it gave a rule of life, with a motive for striving for wisdom and virtue. two friends of this pythagorean sect lived at syracuse, in the end of the fourth century before the christian era. syracuse was a great greek city, built in sicily, and full of all kinds of greek art and learning; but it was a place of danger in their time, for it had fallen under the tyranny of a man of strange and capricious temper, though of great abilities, namely dionysius. he is said to have been originally only a clerk in a public office, but his talents raised him to continually higher situations, and at length, in a great war with the carthaginians, who had many settlements in sicily, he became general of the army, and then found it easy to establish his power over the city. this power was not according to the laws, for syracuse, like most other cities, ought to have been governed by a council of magistrates; but dionysius was an exceedingly able man, and made the city much more rich and powerful, he defeated the carthaginians, and rendered syracuse by far the chief city in the island, and he contrived to make everyone so much afraid of him that no one durst attempt to overthrow his power. he was a good scholar, and very fond of philosophy and poetry, and he delighted to have learned men around him, and he had naturally a generous spirit; but the sense that he was in a position that did not belong to him, and that everyone hated him for assuming it, made him very harsh and suspicious. it is of him that the story is told, that he had a chamber hollowed in the rock near his state prison, and constructed with galleries to conduct sounds like an ear, so that he might overhear the conversation of his captives; and of him, too, is told that famous anecdote which has become a proverb, that on hearing a friend, named damocles, express a wish to be in his situation for a single day, he took him at his word, and damocles found himself at a banquet with everything that could delight his senses, delicious food, costly wine, flowers, perfumes, music; but with a sword with the point almost touching his head, and hanging by a single horsehair! this was to show the condition in which a usurper lived! thus dionysius was in constant dread. he had a wide trench round his bedroom, with a drawbridge that he drew up and put down with his own hands; and he put one barber to death for boasting that he held a razor to the tyrant's throat every morning. after this he made his young daughters shave him; but by and by he would not trust them with a razor, and caused them to singe of his beard with hot nutshells! he was said to have put a man named antiphon to death for answering him, when he asked what was the best kind of brass, 'that of which the statues of harmodius and aristogeiton were made.' these were the two athenians who had killed the sons of pisistratus the tyrant, so that the jest was most offensive, but its boldness might have gained forgiveness for it. one philosopher, named philoxenus, he sent to a dungeon for finding fault with his poetry, but he afterwards composed another piece, which he thought so superior, that he could not be content without sending for this adverse critic to hear it. when he had finished reading it, he looked to philoxenus for a compliment; but the philosopher only turned round to the guards, and said dryly, 'carry me back to prison.' this time dionysius had the sense to laugh, and forgive his honesty. all these stories may not be true; but that they should have been current in the ancient world shows what was the character of the man of whom they were told, how stern and terrible was his anger, and how easily it was incurred. among those who came under it was a pythagorean called pythias, who was sentenced to death, according to the usual fate of those who fell under his suspicion. pythias had lands and relations in greece, and he entreated as a favor to be allowed to return thither and arrange his affairs, engaging to return within a specified time to suffer death. the tyrant laughed his request to scorn. once safe out of sicily, who would answer for his return? pythias made reply that he had a friend, who would become security for his return; and while dionysius, the miserable man who trusted nobody, was ready to scoff at his simplicity, another pythagorean, by name of damon, came forward, and offered to become surety for his friend, engaging, if pythias did not return according to promise, to suffer death in his stead. dionysius, much astonished, consented to let pythias go, marveling what would be the issue of the affair. time went on and pythias did not appear. the syracusans watched damon, but he showed no uneasiness. he said he was secure of his friend's truth and honor, and that if any accident had cause the delay of his return, he should rejoice in dying to save the life of one so dear to him. even to the last day damon continued serene and content, however it might fall out; nay even when the very hour drew nigh and still no pythias. his trust was so perfect, that he did not even grieve at having to die for a faithless friend who had left him to the fate to which he had unwarily pledged himself. it was not pythias' own will, but the winds and waves, so he still declared, when the decree was brought and the instruments of death made ready. the hour had come, and a few moments more would have ended damon's life, when pythias duly presented himself, embraced his friend, and stood forward himself to receive his sentence, calm, resolute, and rejoiced that he had come in time. even the dim hope they owned of a future state was enough to make these two brave men keep their word, and confront death for one another without quailing. dionysius looked on more struck than ever. he felt that neither of such men must die. he reversed the sentence of pythias, and calling the two to his judgment seat, he entreated them to admit him as a third in their friendship. yet all the time he must have known it was a mockery that he should ever be such as they were to each other--he who had lost the very power of trusting, and constantly sacrificed others to secure his own life, whilst they counted not their lives dear to them in comparison with their truth to their word, and love to one another. no wonder that damon and pythias have become such a byword that they seem too well known to have their story told here, except that a name in everyone's mouth sometimes seems to be mentioned by those who have forgotten or never heard the tale attached to it. the devotion of the decii b.c. 339 the spirit of self-devotion is so beautiful and noble, that even when the act is performed in obedience to the dictates of a false religion, it is impossible not to be struck with admiration and almost reverence for the unconscious type of the one great act that has hallowed every other sacrifice. thus it was that codrus, the athenian king, has ever since been honored for the tradition that he gave his own life to secure the safety of his people; and there is a touching story, with neither name nor place, of a heathen monarch who was bidden by his priests to appease the supposed wrath of his gods by the sacrifice of the being dearest to him. his young son had been seized on as his most beloved, when his wife rushed between and declared that her son must live, and not by his death rob her of her right to fall, as her husband's dearest. the priest looked at the father; the face that had been sternly composed before was full of uncontrolled anguish as he sprang forward to save the wife rather than the child. that impulse was an answer, like the entreaty of the mother before solomon; the priest struck the fatal blow ere the king's hand could withhold him, and the mother died with a last look of exceeding joy at her husband's love and her son's safety. human sacrifices are of course accursed, and even the better sort of heathens viewed them with horror; but the voluntary confronting of death, even at the call of a distorted presage of future atonement, required qualities that were perhaps the highest that could be exercised among those who were devoid of the light of truth. in the year 339 there was a remarkable instance of such devotion. the romans were at war with the latins, a nation dwelling to the south of them, and almost exactly resembling themselves in language, habits, government, and fashions of fighting. indeed the city of rome itself was but an offshoot from the old latin kingdom; and there was not much difference between the two nations even in courage and perseverance. the two consuls of the year were titus manlius torquatus and publius decius mus. they were both very distinguished men. manlius was a patrician, or one of the high ancient nobles of rome, and had in early youth fought a single combat with a gigantic gaul, who offered himself, like goliath, as a champion of his tribe; had slain him, and taken from him a gold torque, or collar, whence his surname torquatus. decius was a plebeian; one of the free though not noble citizens who had votes, but only within a few years had been capable of being chosen to the higher offices of state, and who looked upon every election to the consulship as a victory. three years previously, when a tribune in command of a legion, decius had saved the consul, cornelius cossus, from a dangerous situation, and enabled him to gain a great victory; and this exploit was remembered, and led to the choice of this well-experienced soldier as the colleague of manlius. the two consuls both went out together in command of the forces, each having a separate army, and intending to act in concert. they marched to the beautiful country at the foot of mount vesuvius, which was then a harmless mountain clothed with chestnut woods, with spaces opening between, where farms and vineyards rejoiced in the sunshine and the fresh breezes of the lovely blue bay that lay stretched beneath. those who climbed to the summit might indeed find beds of ashes and the jagged edge of a huge basin or gulf; the houses and walls were built of darkred and black material that once had flowed from the crater in boiling torrents: but these had long since cooled, and so long was it since a column of smoke had been seen to rise from the mountain top, that it only remained as a matter of tradition that this region was one of mysterious fire, and that the dark cool lake avernus, near the mountain skirts, was the very entrance to the shadowy realms beneath, that were supposed to be inhabited by the spirits of the dead. it might be that the neighborhood of this lake, with the dread imaginations connected with it by pagan fancy, influenced even the stout hearts of the consuls; for, the night after they came in sight of the enemy, each dreamt the same dream, namely, that he beheld a mighty form of gigantic height and stature, who told him 'that the victory was decreed to that army of the two whose leader should devote himself to the dii manes,' that is, to the deities who watched over the shades of the dead. probably these older romans held the old etruscan belief, which took these 'gods beneath' to be winged beings, who bore away the departing soul, weighted its merits and demerits, and placed it in a region of peace or of woe, according to its deserts. this was part of the grave and earnest faith that gave the earlier romans such truth and resolution; but latterly they so corrupted it with the greek myths, that, in after times, they did not even know who the gods of decius were. at daybreak the two consuls sought one another out, and told their dreams; and they agreed that they would join their armies in one, decius leading the right and manlius the left wing; and that whichever found his troops giving way, should at once rush into the enemy's columns and die, to secure the victory to his colleague. at the same time strict commands were given that no roman should come out of his rank to fight in single combat with the enemy; a necessary regulation, as the latins were so like, in every respect, to the romans, that there would have been fatal confusion had there been any mingling together before the battle. just as this command had been given out, young titus manlius, the son of the consul, met a latin leader, who called him by name and challenged him to fight hand to hand. the youth was emulous of the honor his father had gained by his own combat at the same age with the gaul, but forgot both the present edict and that his father had scrupulously asked permission before accepting the challenge. he at once came forward, and after a brave conflict, slew his adversary, and taking his armor, presented himself at his father's tent and laid the spoils at his feet. but old manlius turned aside sadly, and collected his troops to hear his address to his son: 'you have transgressed,' he said, 'the discipline which has been the support of the roman people, and reduced me to the hard necessity of either forgetting myself and mine, or else the regard i owe to the general safety. rome must not suffer by one fault. we must expiate it ourselves. a sad example shall we be, but a wholesome one to the roman youth. for me, both the natural love of a father, and that specimen thou hast given of thy valor move me exceedingly; but since either the consular authority must be established by thy death, or destroyed by thy impunity, i cannot think, if thou be a true manlius, that thou wilt be backward to repair the breach thou hast made in military discipline by undergoing the just meed of thine offence. he then placed the wreath of leaves, the reward of a victor, upon his son's head, and gave the command to the lictor to bind the young man to a stake, and strike off his head. the troops stood round as men stunned, no one durst utter a word; the son submitted without one complaint, since his death was for the good of rome: and the father, trusting that the doom of the dii manes was about to overtake him, beheld the brave but rash young head fall, then watched the corpse covered with the trophies won from the latins, and made no hindrance to the glorious obsequies with which the whole army honored this untimely death. strict discipline was indeed established, and no one again durst break his rank; but the younger men greatly hated manlius for his severity, and gave him no credit for the agony he had concealed while giving up his gallant son to the wellbeing of rome. a few days after, the expected battle took place, and after some little time the front rank of decius' men began to fall back upon the line in their rear. this was the token he had waited for. he called to valerius, the chief priest of rome, to consecrate him, and was directed to put on his chief robe of office, the beautiful toga proetexta, to cover his head, and standing on his javelin, call aloud to the 'nine gods' to accept his devotion, to save the roman legions, and strike terror into his enemies. this done, he commanded his lictors to carry word to his colleague that the sacrifice was accomplished, and then girding his robe round him in the manner adopted in sacrificing to the gods, he mounted his white horse, and rushed like lightning into the thickest of the latins. at first they fell away on all sides as if some heavenly apparition had come down on them; then, as some recognized him, they closed in on him, and pierced his breast with their weapons; but even as he fell the superstition that a devoted leader was sure to win the field, came full on their minds, they broke and fled. meanwhile the message came to manlius, and drew from him a burst of tears--tears that he had not shed for his son--his hope of himself meeting the doom and ending his sorrow was gone; but none the less he nerved himself to complete the advantage gained by decius' death. only one wing of the latins had fled, the other fought long and bravely, and when at last it was defeated, and cut down on the field of battle, both conqueror and conquered declared that, if manlius had been the leader of the latins, they would have had the victory. manlius afterwards completely subdued the latins, who became incorporated with the romans; but bravely as he had borne up, his health gave way under his sorrow, and before the end of the year he was unable to take the field. forty-five years later, in the year 294, another decius was consul. he was the son of the first devoted decius, and had shown himself worthy of his name, both as a citizen and soldier. his first consulate had been in conjunction with one of the most high-spirited and famous roman nobles, quintus fabius, surnamed maximus, or the greatest, and at three years' end they were again chosen together, when the romans had been brought into considerable peril by an alliance between the gauls and the samnites, their chief enemies in italy. one being a patrician and the other a plebeian, there was every attempt made at rome to stir up jealousies and dissensions between them; but both were much too noble and generous to be thus set one against the other; and when fabius found how serious was the state of affairs in etruria, he sent to rome to entreat that decius would come and act with him. 'with him i shall never want forces, nor have too many enemies to deal with.' the gauls, since the time of brennus, had so entirely settled in northern italy, that it had acquired the name of cisalpine gaul, and they were as warlike as ever, while better armed and trained. the united armies of gauls, samnites, and their allies, together, are said to have amounted to 143,330 foot and 46,000 horse, and the roman army consisted of four legions, 24,000 in all, with an unspecified number of horse. the place of battle was at sentinum, and here for the first time the gauls brought armed chariots into use,--probably the wicker chariots, with scythes in the midst of the clumsy wooden wheels, which were used by the kelts in britain two centuries later. it was the first time the romans had encountered these barbarous vehicles; they were taken by surprise, the horses started, and could not be brought back to the charge, and the legions were mowed down like corn where the furious gaul impelled his scythe. decius shouted in vain, and tried to gather his men and lead them back; but the terror at this new mode of warfare had so mastered them, that they paid no attention to his call. then, half in policy, half in superstition, he resolved to follow his father in his death. he called the chief priest, marcus livius, and standing on his javelin, went through the same formula of self-dedication, and in the like manner threw himself, alone and unarmed, in the midst of the enemy, among whom he soon fell, under many a savage stroke. the priest, himself a gallant soldier, called to the troops that their victory was now secured, and thoroughly believing him, they let him lead them back to the charge, and routed the gauls; whilst fabius so well did his part against the other nations, that the victory was complete, and 25,000 enemies were slain. so covered was the body of decius by the corpses of his enemies, that all that day it could not be found; but on the next it was discovered, and fabius, with a full heart, pronounced the funeral oration of the second decius, who had willingly offered himself to turn the tide of battle in favor of his country. it was the last of such acts of dedication--the romans became more learned and philosophical, and perhaps more reasonable; and yet, mistaken as was the object, it seems a falling off that, 200 years later, cicero should not know who were the 'nine gods' of the decii, and should regard their sacrifice as 'heroic indeed, but unworthy of men of understanding'. regulus b.c. 249 the first wars that the romans engaged in beyond the bounds of italy, were with the carthaginians. this race came from tyre and zidon; and were descended from some of the phoenicians, or zidonians, who were such dangerous foes, or more dangerous friends, to the israelites. carthage had, as some say, been first founded by some of the canaanites who fled when joshua conquered the promised land; and whether this were so or not, the inhabitants were in all their ways the same as the tyrians and zidonians, of whom so much is said in the prophecies of isaiah and ezekiel. like them, they worshipped baal and ashtoreth, and the frightful moloch, with foul and cruel rites; and, like them, they were excellent sailors and great merchants trading with every known country, and living in great riches and splendor at their grand city on the southern shore of the mediterranean. that they were a wicked and cruel race is also certain; the romans used to call deceit punic faith, that is, phoenician faith, and though no doubt roman writers show them up in their worst colours, yet, after the time of hiram, solomon's ally at tyre, it is plain from holy scripture that their crimes were great. the first dispute between rome and carthage was about their possession in the island of sicily; and the war thus begun had lasted eight years when it was resolved to send an army to fight the carthaginians on their own shores. the army and fleet were placed under the command of the two consuls, lucius manlius and marcus attilius regulus. on the way, there was a great sea fight with the carthaginian fleet, and this was the first naval battle that the romans ever gained. it made the way to africa free; but the soldiers, who had never been so far from home before, murmured, for they expected to meet not only human enemies, but monstrous serpents, lions, elephants, asses with horns, and dog-headed monsters, to have a scorching sun overhead, and a noisome marsh under their feet. however, regulus sternly put a stop to all murmurs, by making it known that disaffection would be punished by death, and the army safely landed, and set up a fortification at clypea, and plundered the whole country round. orders here came from rome that manlius should return thither, but that regulus should remain to carry on the war. this was a great grief to him. he was a very poor man, with nothing of his own but a little farm of seven acres, and the person whom he had employed to cultivate it had died in his absence; a hired laborer had undertaken the care of it, but had been unfaithful, and had run away with his tools and his cattle; so that he was afraid that, unless he could return quickly, his wife and children would starve. however, the senate engaged to provide for his family, and he remained, making expeditions into the country round, in the course of which the romans really did fall in with a serpent as monstrous as their imagination had depicted. it was said to be 120 feet long, and dwelt upon the banks of the river bagrada, where it used to devour the roman soldiers as they went to fetch water. it had such tough scales that they were obliged to attack it with their engines meant for battering city walls, and only succeeded with much difficulty in destroying it. the country was most beautiful, covered with fertile cornfields and full of rich fruit trees, and all the rich carthaginians had country houses and gardens, which were made delicious with fountains, trees, and flowers. the roman soldiers, plain, hardy, fierce, and pitiless, did, it must be feared, cruel damage among these peaceful scenes; they boasted of having sacked 300 villages, and mercy was not yet known to them. the carthaginian army, though strong in horsemen and in elephants, kept upon the hills and did nothing to save the country, and the wild desert tribes of numidians came rushing in to plunder what the romans had left. the carthaginians sent to offer terms of peace; but regulus, who had become uplifted by his conquests, made such demands that the messengers remonstrated. he answered, 'men who are good for anything should either conquer or submit to their betters;' and he sent them rudely away, like a stern old roman as he was. his merit was that he had no more mercy on himself than on others. the carthaginians were driven to extremity, and made horrible offerings to moloch, giving the little children of the noblest families to be dropped into the fire between the brazen hands of his statue, and grownup people of the noblest families rushed in of their own accord, hoping thus to propitiate their gods, and obtain safety for their country. their time was not yet fully come, and a respite was granted to them. they had sent, in their distress, to hire soldiers in greece, and among these came a spartan, named xanthippus, who at once took the command, and led the army out to battle, with a long line of elephants ranged in front of them, and with clouds of horsemen hovering on the wings. the romans had not yet learnt the best mode of fighting with elephants, namely, to leave lanes in their columns where these huge beasts might advance harmlessly; instead of which, the ranks were thrust and trampled down by the creatures' bulk, and they suffered a terrible defeat; regulus himself was seized by the horsemen, and dragged into carthage, where the victors feasted and rejoiced through half the night, and testified their thanks to moloch by offering in his fires the bravest of their captives. regulus himself was not, however, one of these victims. he was kept a close prisoner for two years, pining and sickening in his loneliness, while in the meantime the war continued, and at last a victory so decisive was gained by the romans, that the people of carthage were discouraged, and resolved to ask terms of peace. they thought that no one would be so readily listened to at rome as regulus, and they therefore sent him there with their envoys, having first made him swear that he would come back to his prison if there should neither be peace nor an exchange of prisoners. they little knew how much more a truehearted roman cared for his city than for himself--for his word than for his life. worn and dejected, the captive warrior came to the outside of the gates of his own city, and there paused, refusing to enter. 'i am no longer a roman citizen,' he said; 'i am but the barbarian's slave, and the senate may not give audience to strangers within the walls.' his wife marcia ran out to greet him, with his two sons, but he did not look up, and received their caresses as one beneath their notice, as a mere slave, and he continued, in spite of all entreaty, to remain outside the city, and would not even go to the little farm he had loved so well. the roman senate, as he would not come in to them, came out to hold their meeting in the campagna. the ambassadors spoke first, then regulus, standing up, said, as one repeating a task, 'conscript fathers, being a slave to the carthaginians, i come on the part of my masters to treat with you concerning peace, and an exchange of prisoners.' he then turned to go away with the ambassadors, as a stranger might not be present at the deliberations of the senate. his old friends pressed him to stay and give his opinion as a senator who had twice been consul; but he refused to degrade that dignity by claiming it, slave as he was. but, at the command of his carthaginian masters, he remained, though not taking his seat. then he spoke. he told the senators to persevere in the war. he said he had seen the distress of carthage, and that a peace would only be to her advantage, not to that of rome, and therefore he strongly advised that the war should continue. then, as to the exchange of prisoners, the carthaginian generals, who were in the hands of the romans, were in full health and strength, whilst he himself was too much broken down to be fit for service again, and indeed he believed that his enemies had given him a slow poison, and that he could not live long. thus he insisted that no exchange of prisoners should be made. it was wonderful, even to romans, to hear a man thus pleading against himself, and their chief priest came forward, and declared that, as his oath had been wrested from him by force, he was not bound to return to his captivity. but regulus was too noble to listen to this for a moment. 'have you resolved to dishonor me?' he said. 'i am not ignorant that death and the extremest tortures are preparing for me; but what are these to the shame of an infamous action, or the wounds of a guilty mind? slave as i am to carthage, i have still the spirit of a roman. i have sworn to return. it is my duty to go; let the gods take care of the rest.' the senate decided to follow the advice of regulus, though they bitterly regretted his sacrifice. his wife wept and entreated in vain that they would detain him; they could merely repeat their permission to him to remain; but nothing could prevail with him to break his word, and he turned back to the chains and death he expected so calmly as if he had been returning to his home. this was in the year b.c. 249. 'let the gods take care of the rest,' said the roman; the gods whom alone he knew, and through whom he ignorantly worshipped the true god, whose light was shining out even in this heathen's truth and constancy. how his trust was fulfilled is not known. the senate, after the next victory, gave two carthaginian generals to his wife and sons to hold as pledges for his good treatment; but when tidings arrived that regulus was dead, marcia began to treat them both with savage cruelty, though one of them assured her that he had been careful to have her husband well used. horrible stories were told that regulus had been put out in the sun with his eyelids cut off, rolled down a hill in a barrel with spikes, killed by being constantly kept awake, or else crucified. marcia seems to have set about, and perhaps believed in these horrors, and avenged them on her unhappy captives till one had died, and the senate sent for her sons and severely reprimanded them. they declared it was their mother's doing, not theirs, and thenceforth were careful of the comfort of the remaining prisoner. it may thus be hoped that the frightful tale of regulus' sufferings was but formed by report acting on the fancy of a vindictive woman, and that regulus was permitted to die in peace of the disease brought on far more probably by the climate and imprisonment, than by the poison to which he ascribed it. it is not the tortures he may have endured that make him one of the noblest characters of history, but the resolution that would neither let him save himself at the risk of his country's prosperity, nor forfeit the word that he had pledged. the brave brethren of judah b.c. 180 it was about 180 years before the christian era. the jews had long since come home from babylon, and built up their city and temple at jerusalem. but they were not free as they had been before. their country belonged to some greater power, they had a foreign governor over them, and had to pay tribute to the king who was their master. at the time we are going to speak of, this king was antiochus epiphanes, king of syria. he was descended from one of those generals who, upon the death of alexander the great, had shared the east between them, and he reigned over all the country from the mediterranean sea even into persia and the borders of india. he spoke greek, and believed in both the greek and roman gods, for he had spent some time at rome in his youth; but in his eastern kingdom he had learnt all the self-indulgent and violent habits to which people in those hot countries are especially tempted. he was so fierce and passionate, that he was often called the 'madman', and he was very cruel to all who offended him. one of his greatest desires was, that the jews should leave their true faith in one god, and do like the greeks and syrians, his other subjects, worship the same idols, and hold drunken feasts in their honor. sad to say, a great many of the jews had grown ashamed of their own true religion and the strict ways of their law, and thought them old-fashioned. they joined in the greek sports, played games naked in the theatre, joined in riotous processions, carrying ivy in honor of bacchus, the god of wine, and offered incense to the idols; and the worst of all these was the false high priest, menelaus, who led the king antiochus into the temple itself, even into the holy of holies, and told him all that would most desecrate it and grieve the jews. so a little altar to the roman god jupiter was set up on the top of the great brazen altar of burnt offerings, a hog was offered up, and broth of its flesh sprinkled everywhere in the temple; then all the precious vessels were seized, the shewbread table of gold, the candlesticks, and the whole treasury, and carried away by the king; the walls were thrown down, and the place made desolate. some jews were still faithful to their god, but they were horribly punished and tortured to death before the eyes of the king; and when at last he went away to his own country, taking with him the wicked high priest menelaus, he left behind him a governor and an army of soldiers stationed in the tower of acra, which overlooked the temple hill, and sent for an old man from athens to teach the people the heathen rites and ceremonies. any person who observed the sabbath day, or any other ordinance of the law of moses, was put to death in a most cruel manner; all the books of the old testament scripture that could be found were either burnt or defiled, by having pictures of greek gods painted upon them; and the heathen priests went from place to place, with a little brazen altar and image and a guard of soldiers, who were to kill every person who refused to burn incense before the idol. it was the very saddest time that the jews had ever known, and there seemed no help near or far off; they could have no hope, except in the promises that god would never fail his people, or forsake his inheritance, and in the prophecies that bad times should come, but good ones after them. the greeks, in going through the towns to enforce the idol worship, came to a little city called modin, somewhere on the hills on the coast of the mediterranean sea, not far from joppa. there they sent out, as usual, orders to all the men of the town to meet them in the marketplace; but they were told beforehand, that the chief person in the place was an old man named mattathias, of a priestly family, and so much respected, that all the other inhabitants of the place were sure to do whatever he might lead them in. so the greeks sent for him first of all, and he came at their summons, a grand and noble old man, followed by his five sons, johanan, simon, judas, jonathan, and eleazar. the greek priest tried to talk him over. he told him that the high priest had forsaken the jewish superstition, that the temple was in ruins, and that resistance was in vain; and exhorted him to obtain gratitude and honor for himself, by leading his countrymen in thus adoring the deities of the king's choice, promising him rewards and treasures if he would comply. but the old man spoke out with a loud and fearless voice: 'though all the nations that are under the king's dominion obey him, and fall away every one from the religion of their fathers, and give consent to his commandments; yet will i and my sons and my brethren walk in the covenant of our fathers. god forbid that we should forsake the law and the ordinances! we will not hearken to the king's words, to go from our religion, either on the right hand or the left!' as he spoke, up came an apostate jew to do sacrifice at the heathen altar. mattathias trembled at the sight, and his zeal broke forth. he slew the offender, and his brave sons gathering round him, they attacked the syrian soldiers, killed the commissioner, and threw down the altar. then, as they knew that they could not there hold out against the king's power, mattathias proclaimed throughout the city: 'whosoever is zealous of the law, and maintaineth the covenant, let him follow me!' with that, he and his five sons, with their families, left their houses and lands, and drove their cattle with them up into the wild hills and caves, where david had once made his home; and all the jews who wished to be still faithful, gathered around them, to worship god and keep his commandments. there they were, a handful of brave men in the mountains, and all the heathen world and apostate jews against them. they used to come down into the villages, remind the people of the law, promise their help, and throw down any idol altars that they found, and the enemy never were able to follow them into their rocky strongholds. but the old mattathias could not long bear the rude wild life in the cold mountains, and he soon died. first he called all his five sons, and bade them to 'be zealous for the law, and give their lives for the covenant of their fathers'; and he reminded them of all the many brave men who had before served god, and been aided in their extremity. he appointed his son judas, as the strongest and mightiest, to lead his brethren to battle, and simon, as the wisest, to be their counsellor; then he blessed them and died; and his sons were able to bury him in the tomb of his fathers at modin. judas was one of the bravest men who ever lived; never dreading the numbers that came against him. he was surnamed maccabeus, which some people say meant the hammerer; but others think it was made up of the first letters of the words he carried on his banner, which meant 'who is like unto thee, among the gods, o lord?' altogether he had about six thousand men round him when the greek governor, apollonius, came out to fight with him. the jews gained here their first victory, and judas killed apollonius, took his sword, and fought all his other battles with it. next came a captain called seron, who went out to the hills to lay hold of the bold rebels that dared to rise against the king of syria. the place where judas met him was one to make the jews' hearts leap with hope and trust. it was on the steep stony broken hillside of beth-horon, the very place where joshua had conquered the five kings of the amorites, in the first battle on the coming in of the children of israel to palestine. there was the rugged path where joshua had stood and called out to the sun to stand still in gibeon, and the moon in the valley of ajalon. miracles were over, and judas looked for no wonder to help him; but when he came up the mountain road from joppa, his heart was full of the same trust as joshua's, and he won another great victory. by this time king antiochus began to think the rising of the jews a serious matter, but he could not come himself against them, because his provinces in armenia and persia had refused their tribute, and he had to go in person to reduce them. he appointed, however, a governor, named lysias, to chastise the jews, giving him an army of 40,000 foot and 7000 horse. half of these lysias sent on before him, with two captains, named nicanor and gorgias, thinking that these would be more than enough to hunt down and crush the little handful that were lurking in the hills. and with them came a great number of slave merchants, who had bargained with nicanor that they should have ninety jews for one talent, to sell to the greeks and romans, by whom jewish slaves were much esteemed. there was great terror in palestine at these tidings, and many of the weaker-minded fell away from judas; but he called all the faithful together at mizpeh, the same place where, 1000 years before, samuel had collected the israelites, and, after prayer and fasting, had sent them forth to free their country from the philistines. shiloh, the sanctuary, was then lying desolate, just as jerusalem now lay in ruins; and yet better times had come. but very mournful was that fast day at mizpeh, as the jews looked along the hillside to their own holy mountain crowned by no white marble and gold temple flashing back the sunbeams, but only with the tall castle of their enemies towering over the precipice. they could not sacrifice, because a sacrifice could only be made at jerusalem, and the only book of the scriptures that they had to read from was painted over with the hateful idol figures of the greeks. and the huge army of enemies was ever coming nearer! the whole assembly wept, and put on sackcloth and prayed aloud for help, and then there was a loud sounding of trumpets, and judas stood forth before them. and he made the old proclamation that moses had long ago decreed, that no one should go out to battle who was building a house, or planting a vineyard, or had just betrothed a wife, or who was fearful and fainthearted. all these were to go home again. judas had 6,000 followers when he made this proclamation. he had only 3,000 at the end of the day, and they were but poorly armed. he told them of the former aid that had come to their fathers in extremity, and made them bold with his noble words. then he gave them for their watchword 'the help of god', and divided the leadership of the band between himself and his brothers, appointing eleazar, the youngest, to read the holy book. with these valiant men, judas set up his camp; but tidings were soon brought him that gorgias, with 5000 foot and 1000 horse, had left the main body to fall on his little camp by night. he therefore secretly left the place in the twilight; so that when the enemy attacked his camp, they found it deserted, and supposing them to be hid in the mountains, proceeded hither in pursuit of them. but in the early morning judas and his 3,000 men were all in battle array in the plains, and marching full upon the enemy's camp with trumpet sound, took them by surprise in the absence of gorgias and his choice troops, and utterly defeated and put them to flight, but without pursuing them, since the fight with gorgias and his 5,000 might be yet to come. even as judas was reminding his men of this, gorgias's troops were seen looking down from the mountains where they had been wandering all night; but seeing their own camp all smoke and flame, they turned and fled away. nine thousand of the invaders had been slain, and the whole camp, full of arms and treasures, was in the hands of judas, who there rested for a sabbath of glad thanksgiving, and the next day parted the spoil, first putting out the share for the widows and orphans and the wounded, and then dividing the rest among his warriors. as to the slave merchants, they were all made prisoners, and instead of giving a talent for ninety jews, were sold themselves. the next year lysias came himself, but was driven back and defeated at bethshur, four or five miles south of bethlehem. and now came the saddest, yet the greatest, day of judas's life, when he ventured to go back into the holy city and take possession of the temple again. the strong tower of acra, which stood on a ridge of mount moriah looking down on the temple rock, was still held by the syrians, and he had no means of taking it; but he and his men loved the sanctuary too well to keep away from it, and again they marched up the steps and slopes that led up the holy hill. they went up to find the walls broken, the gates burnt, the cloisters and priests' chambers pulled down, and the courts thickly grown with grass and shrubs, the altar of their one true god with the false idol jupiter's altar in the middle of it. these warriors, who had turned three armies to flight, could not bear the sight. they fell down on their faces, threw dust on their heads, and wept aloud for the desolation of their holy place. but in the midst judas caused the trumpets to sound an alarm. they were to do something besides grieving. the bravest of them were set to keep watch and ward against the syrians in the tower, while he chose out the most faithful priests to cleanse out the sanctuary, and renew all that could be renewed, making new holy vessels from the spoil taken in nicanor's camp, and setting the stones of the profaned altar apart while a new one was raised. on the third anniversary of the great profanation, the temple was newly dedicated, with songs and hymns of rejoicing, and a festival day was appointed, which has been observed by the jews ever since. the temple rock and city were again fortified so as to be able to hold out against their enemies, and this year and the next were the most prosperous of the life of the loyal-hearted maccabee. the great enemy of the jews, antiochus epiphanes, was in the meantime dying in great agony in persia, and his son antiochus eupator was set on the throne by lysias, who brought him with an enormous army to reduce the rising in judea. the fight was again at bethshur, where judas had built a strong fort on a point of rock that guarded the road to hebron. lysias tried to take this fort, and judas came to the rescue with his little army, to meet the far mightier syrian force, which was made more terrific by possessing thirty war elephants imported from the indian frontier. each of these creatures carried a tower containing thirty-two men armed with darts and javelins, and an indian driver on his neck; and they had 1000 foot and 500 horse attached to the special following of the beast, who, gentle as he was by nature, often produced a fearful effect on the enemy; not so much by his huge bulk as by the terror he inspired among men, and far more among horses. the whole host was spread over the mountains and the valleys so that it is said that their bright armor and gold and silver shields made the mountains glisten like lamps of fire. still judas pressed on to the attack, and his brother eleazar, perceiving that one of the elephants was more adorned than the rest, thought it might be carrying the king, and devoted himself for his country. he fought his way to the monster, crept under it, and stabbed it from beneath, so that the mighty weight sank down on him and crushed him to death in his fall. he gained a 'perpetual name' for valor and self-devotion; but the king was not upon the elephant, and after a hardfought battle, judas was obliged to draw off and leave bethshur to be taken by the enemy, and to shut himself up in jerusalem. there, want of provisions had brought him to great distress, when tidings came that another son of antiochus epiphanes had claimed the throne, and lysias made peace in haste with judas, promising him full liberty of worship, and left palestine in peace. this did not, however, last long. lysias and his young master were slain by the new king, demetrius, who again sent an army for the subjection of judas, and further appointed a high priest, named alcimus, of the family of aaron, but inclined to favor the new heathen fashions. this was the most fatal thing that had happened to judas. though of the priestly line, he was so much of a warrior, that he seems to have thought it would be profane to offer sacrifice himself; and many of the jews were so glad of another high priest, that they let alcimus into the temple, and jerusalem was again lost to judas. one more battle was won by him at beth-horon, and then finding how hard it was to make head against the syrians, he sent to ask the aid of the great roman power. but long before the answer could come, a huge syrian army had marched in on the holy land, 20,000 men, and judas had again no more than 3000. some had gone over to alcimus, some were offended at his seeking roman alliance, and when at eleasah he came in sight of the host, his men's hearts failed more than they ever had done before, and, out of the 3000 at first collected, only 800 stood with him, and they would fain have persuaded him to retreat. 'god forbid that i should do this thing,' he said, 'and flee away from them. if our time be come, let us die manfully for our brethren, and let us not stain our honor.' sore was the battle, as sore as that waged by the 800 at thermopylae, and the end was the same. judas and his 800 were not driven from the field, but lay dead upon it. but their work was done. what is called the moral effect of such a defeat goes further than many a victory. those lives, sold so dearly, were the price of freedom for judea. judas's brothers jonathan and simon laid him in his father's tomb, and then ended the work that he had begun; and when simon died, the jews, once so trodden on, were the most prosperous race in the east. the temple was raised from its ruins, and the exploits of the maccabees had nerved the whole people to do or die in defense of the holy faith of their fathers. the chief of the arverni b.c. 52 we have seen the gauls in the heart of rome, we have now to see them showing the last courage of despair, defending their native lands against the greatest of all the conquerors that rome ever sent forth. these lands, where they had dwelt for so many years as justly to regard them as their inheritance, were gaul. there the celtic race had had their abode ever since history has spoken clearly, and had become, in gaul especially, slightly more civilized from intercourse with the greek colony at massilia, or marseilles. but they had become borderers upon the roman dominions, and there was little chance that they would not be absorbed; the tribes of provence, the first roman province, were already conquered, others were in alliance with rome, and some had called in the romans to help them fight their battles. there is no occasion to describe the seven years' war by which julius caesar added gaul to the provinces claimed by rome, and when he visited britain; such conquests are far from being golden deeds, but are far worthier of the iron age. it is the stand made by the losing party, and the true patriotism of one young chieftain, that we would wish here to dwell upon. in the sixth year of the war the conquest seemed to have been made, and the roman legions were guarding the north and west, while caesar himself had crossed the alps. subjection pressed heavily on the gauls, some of their chiefs had been put to death, and the high spirit of the nation was stirred. meetings took place between the warriors of the various tribes, and an oath was taken by those who inhabited the centre of the country, that if they once revolted, they would stand by one another to the last. these gauls were probably not tall, bony giants, like the pillagers of rome; their appearance and character would be more like that of the modern welsh, or of their own french descendants, small, alert, and dark-eyed, full of fire, but, though fierce at the first onset, soon rebuffed, yet with much perseverance in the long run. their worship was conducted by druids, like that of the britons, and their dress was of checked material, formed into a loose coat and wide trousers. the superior chiefs, who had had any dealings with rome, would speak a little latin, and have a few roman weapons as great improvements upon their own. their fortifications were wonderfully strong. trunks of trees were laid on the ground at two feet apart, so that the depth of the wall was their full length. over these another tier of beams was laid crosswise, and the space between was filled up with earth, and the outside faced with large stones; the building of earth and stone was carried up to some height, then came another tier of timbers, crossed as before, and this was repeated again to a considerable height, the inner ends of the beams being fastened to a planking within the wall, so that the whole was of immense compactness. fire could not damage the mineral part of the construction, nor the battering ram hurt the wood, and the romans had been often placed in great difficulties by these rude but admirable constructions, within which the gauls placed their families and cattle, building huts for present shelter. of late, some attempts had been made at copying the regular streets and houses built round courts that were in use among the romans, and roman colonies had been established in various places, where veteran soldiers had received grants of land on condition of keeping the natives in check. a growing taste for arts and civilization was leading to romans of inferior classes settling themselves in other gallic cities. the first rising of the gauls began by a quarrel at the city we now call orleans, ending in a massacre of all the romans there. the tidings were spread through all the country by loud shouts, repeated from one to the other by men stationed on every hill, and thus, what had been done at orleans at sunrise was known by nine at night 160 miles off among the mountains, which were then the homes of a tribe called by the romans the arverni, who have left their name to the province of auvergne. here dwelt a young chieftain, probably really called fearcuincedorigh, or man who is chief of a hundred heads, known to us by caesar's version of his name, as vercingetorix, a high-spirited youth, who keenly felt the servitude of his country, and who, on receiving these tidings, instantly called on his friends to endeavor to shake off the yoke. his uncle, who feared to provoke roman vengeance, expelled him from the chief city, gergovia, the remains of which may be traced on the mountain still called gergoie, about six miles from clermont; but he collected all the younger and more high-spirited men, forced a way into the city, and was proclaimed chief of his tribe. all the neighboring tribes joined in the league against the common enemy, and tidings were brought to caesar that the whole country round the loire was in a state of revolt. in the heart of winter he hurried back, and took the gauls by surprise by crossing the snows that lay thick on the wild waste of the cebenna, which the arverni had always considered as their impenetrable barrier throughout the winter. the towns quickly fell into his hands, and he was rapidly recovering all he had lost, when vercingetorix, collecting his chief supporters, represented to them that their best hope would be in burning all the inhabited places themselves and driving off all the cattle, then lying in wait to cut off all the convoys of provisions that should be sent to the enemy, and thus starving them into a retreat. he said that burning houses were indeed a grievous sight, but it would be more grievous to see their wives and children dragged into captivity. to this all the allies agreed, and twenty towns in one district were burnt in a single day; but when they came to the city of avaricum, now called bourges, the tribe of bituriges, to whom it belonged, entreated on their knees not to be obliged to destroy the most beautiful city in the country, representing that, as it had a river on one side, and a morass everywhere else, except at a very narrow entrance, it might be easily held out against the enemy, and to their entreaties vercingetorix yielded, though much against his own judgment. caesar laid siege to the place, but his army suffered severely from cold and hunger; they had no bread at all, and lived only on the cattle driven in from distant villages, while vercingetorix hovered round, cutting off their supplies. they however labored diligently to raise a mount against a wall of the town; but as fast as they worked, the higher did the gauls within raise the stages of their rampart, and for twentyfive days there was a most brave defense; but at last the romans made their entrance, and slaughtered all they found there, except 800, who escaped to the camp of vercingetorix. he was not disconcerted by this loss, which he had always expected, but sheltered and clothed the fugitives, and raised a great body of archers and of horsemen, with whom he returned to his own territory in auvergne. there was much fighting around the city of gergovia; but at length, owing to the revolt of the aedui, another gallic tribe, caesar was forced to retreat over the loire; and the wild peaks of volcanic auvergne were free again. but no gallant resolution could long prevail against the ever-advancing power of rome, and at length the gauls were driven into their fortified camp at alesia, now called alise [footnote: in burgundy, between semur and dijon.], a city standing on a high hill, with two rivers flowing round its base, and a plain in front about three miles wide. everywhere else it was circled in by high hills, and here caesar resolved to shut these brave men in and bring them to bay. he caused his men to begin that mighty system of earthworks by which the romans carried on their attacks, compassing their victim round on every side with a deadly slowness and sureness, by those broad ditches and terraced ramparts that everywhere mark where their foot of iron was trod. eleven miles round did this huge rampart extend, strengthened by three-and-twenty redoubts, or places of defense, where a watch was continually kept. before the lines were complete, vercingetorix brought out his cavalry, and gave battle, at one time with a hope of success; but the enemy were too strong for him, and his horsemen were driven into the camp. he then resolved to send home all of these, since they could be of no use in the camp, and had better escape before the ditch should have shut them in on every side. he charged them to go to their several tribes and endeavor to assemble all the fighting men to come to his rescue; for, if he were not speedily succored, he and 80,000 of the bravest of the gauls must fall into the hands of the romans, since he had only corn for thirty days, even with the utmost saving. having thus exhorted them, he took leave of them, and sent them away at nine at night, so that they might escape in the dark where the roman trench had not yet extended. then he distributed the cattle among his men, but retained the corn himself, serving it out with the utmost caution. the romans outside fortified their camp with a double ditch, one of them full of water, behind which was a bank twelve feet high, with stakes forked like the horns of a stag. the space between the ditches was filled with pits, and scattered with iron caltrops or hooked spikes. all this was against the garrison, to prevent them from breaking out; and outside the camp he made another line of ditches and ramparts against the gauls who might be coming to the rescue. the other tribes were not deaf to the summons of their friends, but assembled in large numbers, and just as the besieged had exhausted their provisions, an army was seen on the hills beyond the camp. their commander was vergosillaunus (most probably fearsaighan, the man of the standard), a near kinsman of vercingetorix; and all that bravery could do, they did to break through the defenses of the camp from outside, while within, vercingetorix and his 80,000 tried to fill up the ditches, and force their way out to meet their friends. but caesar himself commanded the romans, who were confident in his fortunes, and raised a shout of ecstasy wherever they beheld his thin, marked, eagle face and purple robe, rushing on the enemy with a confidence of victory that did in fact render them invincible. the gauls gave way, lost seventy-four of their standards, and vergosillaunus himself was taken a prisoner; and as for the brave garrison within alesia, they were but like so many flies struggling in vain within the enormous web that had been woven around them. hope was gone, but the chief of the arverni could yet do one thing for his countrymen--he could offer up himself in order to obtain better terms for them. the next day he convened his companions in arms, and told them that he had only fought for the freedom of their country, not to secure his private interest; and that now, since yield they must, he freely offered himself to become a victim for their safety, whether they should judge it best for themselves to appease the anger of the conqueror by putting him to death themselves, or whether they preferred giving him up alive. it was a piteous necessity to have to sacrifice their noblest and bravest, who had led them so gallantly during the long war; but they had little choice, and could only send messengers to the camp to offer to yield vercingetorix as the price of their safety. caesar made it known that he was willing to accept their submission, and drawing up his troops in battle array, with the eagle standards around him, he watched the whole gallic army march past him. first, vercingetorix was placed as a prisoner in his hands, and then each man lay down sword, javelin, or bow and arrows, helmet, buckler and breastplate, in one mournful heap, and proceeded on his way, scarcely thankful that the generosity of their chieftain had purchased for them subjection rather than death. vercingetorix himself had become the property of the great man from whom alone we know of his deeds; who could perceive his generous spirit and high qualities as a general, nay, who honored the self-devotion by which he endeavored to save his countrymen. he remained in captivity--six long years sped by--while caesar passed the rubicon, fought out his struggle for power at rome, and subdued egypt, pontus, and northern africa--and all the time the brave gaul remained closely watched and guarded, and with no hope of seeing the jagged peaks and wild valleys of his own beautiful auvergne. for well did he, like every other marked foe of rome, know for what he was reserved, and no doubt he yielded himself in the full expectation of that fate which many a man, as brave as he, had escaped by self-destruction. the day came at last. in july, b.c. 45, the victorious caesar had leisure to celebrate his victories in four grand triumphs, all in one month, and that in honor of the conquest of gaul came the first. the triumphal gate of rome was thrown wide open, every house was decked with hangings of silk and tapestry, the household images of every family, dressed with fresh flowers, were placed in their porches, those of the gods stood on the steps of the temples, and in marched the procession, the magistrates first in their robes of office, and then the trumpeters. next came the tokens of the victory--figures of the supposed gods of the two great rivers, rhine and rhone, and even of the captive ocean, made in gold, were carried along, with pictures framed in citron wood, showing the scenes of victory--the wild waste of the cevennes, the steep peaks of auvergne, the mighty camp of alesia; nay, there too would be the white cliffs of dover, and the struggle with the britons on the beach. models in wood and ivory showed the fortifications of avaricum, and of many another city; and here too were carried specimens of the olives and vines, and other curious plants of the newly won land; here was the breastplate of british pearls that caesar dedicated to venus. a band of flute-players followed, and then came the white oxen that were to be sacrificed, their horns gilded and flowers hung round them, the sacrificing priests with wreathed heads marching with them. specimens of bears and wolves from the woods and mountains came next in order, and after them waved for the last time the national ensigns of the many tribes of gaul. once more vercingetorix and vergosillaunus saw their own arvernian standard, and marched behind it with the noblest of their clan: once more they wore their native dress and well-tried armor. but chains were on their hands and feet, and the men who had fought so long and well for freedom, were the captive gazing-stock of rome. long, long was the line of chained gauls of every tribe, before the four white horses appeared, all abreast, drawing the gilded car, in which stood a slight form in a purple robe, with the bald head and narrow temples encircled with a wreath of bay, the thin cheeks tinted with vermilion, the eager aquiline face and narrow lips gravely composed to roman dignity, and the quick eye searching out what impression the display was making on the people. over his head a slave held a golden crown, but whispered, 'remember that thou too art a man.' and in following that old custom, how little did the victor know that, bay-crowned like himself, there followed close behind, in one of the chariots of the officers, the man whose dagger-thrust would, two years later, be answered by his dying word of reproach! the horsemen of the army followed, and then the legions, every spear wreathed, every head crowned with bay, so that an evergreen grove might have seemed marching through the roman streets, but for the war songs, and the wild jests, and ribald ballads that custom allowed the soldiers to shout out, often in pretended mockery of their own victorious general, the imperator. the victor climbed the capitol steps, and laid his wreath of bay on jupiter's knees, the white oxen were sacrificed, and the feast began by torchlight. where was the vanquished? he was led to the dark prison vault in the side of capitoline hill, and there one sharp sword-thrust ended the gallant life and long captivity. it was no special cruelty in julius caesar. every roman triumph was stained by the slaughter of the most distinguished captives, after the degradation of walking in chains had been undergone. he had spirit to appreciate vercingetorix, but had not nobleness to spare him from the ordinary fate. yet we may doubt which, in true moral greatness, was the superior in that hour of triumph, the conqueror who trod down all that he might minister to his own glory, or the conquered, who, when no resistance had availed, had voluntarily confronted shame and death in hopes to win pardon and safety for his comrades. withstanding the monarch in his wrath a.d. 389 when a monarch's power is unchecked by his people, there is only one to whom he believes himself accountable; and if he have forgotten the dagger of damocles, or if he be too high-spirited to regard it, then that higher one alone can restrain his actions. and there have been times when princes have so broken the bounds of right, that no hope remains of recalling them to their duty save by the voice of the ministers of god upon earth. but as these ministers bear no charmed life, and are subjects themselves of the prince, such rebukes have been given at the utmost risk of liberty and life. thus it was that though nathan, unharmed, showed david his sin, and elijah, the wondrous prophet of gilead, was protected from jezebel's fury, when he denounced her and her husband ahab for the idolatry of baal and the murder of naboth; yet no divine hand interposed to shield zachariah, the son of jehoiada, the high priest, when he rebuked the apostasy of his cousin, jehoash, king of judah, and was stoned to death by the ungrateful king's command in that very temple court where jehoiada and his armed levites had encountered the savage usurping athaliah, and won back the kingdom for the child jehoash. and when 'in the spirit and power of elijah', st. john the baptist denounced the sin of herod antipas in marrying his brother philip's wife, he bore the consequences to the utmost, when thrown into prison and then beheaded to gratify the rage of the vindictive woman. since scripture saints in the age of miracles were not always shielded from the wrath of kings, christian bishops could expect no special interposition in their favor, when they stood forth to stop the way of the sovereign's passions, and to proclaim that the cause of mercy, purity, and truth is the cause of god. the first of these christian bishops was ambrose, the sainted prelate of milan. it was indeed a christian emperor whom he opposed, no other than the great theodosius, but it was a new and unheard-of thing for any voice to rebuke an emperor of rome, and theodosius had proved himself a man of violent passions. the fourth century was a time when races and all sorts of shows were the fashion, nay, literally the rage; for furious quarrels used to arise among the spectators who took the part of one or other of the competitors, and would call themselves after their colours, the blues or the greens. a favorite chariot driver, who had excelled in these races at thessalonica, was thrown into prison for some misdemeanor by botheric, the governor of illyria, and his absence so enraged the thessalonican mob, that they rose in tumult, and demanded his restoration. on being refused, they threw such a hail of stones that the governor himself and some of his officers were slain. theodosius might well be displeased, but his rage passed all bounds. he was at milan at the time, and at first ambrose so worked on his feelings as to make him promise to temper justice with mercy; but afterwards fresh accounts of the murder, together with the representations of his courtier rufinus, made him resolve not to relent, and he sent off messengers commanding that there should be a general slaughter of all the race-going thessalonicans, since all were equally guilty of botheric's death. he took care that his horrible command should be kept a secret from ambrose, and the first that the bishop heard of it was the tidings that 7,000 persons had been killed in the theatre, in a massacre lasting three hours! there was no saving these lives, but ambrose felt it his duty to make the emperor feel his sin, in hopes of saving others. besides, it was not consistent with the honor of god to receive at his altar a man reeking with innocent blood. the bishop, however, took time to consider; he went into the country for a few days, and thence wrote a letter to the emperor, telling him that thus stained with crime, he could not be admitted to the holy communion, nor received into church. still the emperor does not seem to have believed he could be really withstood by any subject, and on ambrose's return, he found the imperial procession, lictors, guards, and all, escorting the emperor as usual to the basilica or justice hall, that had been turned into a church. then to the door came the bishop and stood in the way, forbidding the entrance, and announcing that there, at least, sacrilege should not be added to murder. 'nay,' said the emperor, 'did not holy king david commit both murder and adultery, yet was he not received again?' 'if you have sinned like him, repent like him,' answered ambrose. theodosius turned away, troubled. he was great enough not to turn his anger against the bishop; he felt that he had sinned, and that the chastisement was merited, and he went back to his palace weeping, and there spent eight months, attending to his duties of state, but too proud to go through the tokens of penitence that the discipline of the church had prescribed before a great sinner could be received back into the congregation of the faithful. easter was the usual time for reconciling penitents, and ambrose was not inclined to show any respect of persons, or to excuse the emperor from a penance he would have imposed on any offender. however, rufinus could not believe in such disregard, and thought all would give way to the emperor's will. christmas had come, but for one man at milan there were no hymns, no shouts of 'glad tidings!' no midnight festival, no rejoicing that 'to us a child is born; to us a son is given'. the basilica was thronged with worshippers and rang with their amens, resounding like thunder, and their echoing song--the te deum--then their newest hymn of praise. but the lord of all those multitudes was alone in his palace. he had not shown good will to man; he had not learnt mercy and peace from the prince of peace; and the door was shut upon him. he was a resolute spanish roman, a well-tried soldier, a man advancing in years, but he wept, and wept bitterly. rufinus found him thus weeping. it must have been strange to the courtier that his master did not send his lictors to carry the offending bishop to a dungeon, and give all his court favor to the heretics, like the last empress who had reigned at milan. nay, he might even, like julian the apostate, have altogether renounced that christian faith which could humble an emperor below the poorest of his subjects. but rufinus contented himself with urging the emperor not to remain at home lamenting, but to endeavor again to obtain admission into the church, assuring him that the bishop would give way. theodosius replied that he did not expect it, but yielded to the persuasions, and rufinus hastened on before to warn the bishop of his coming, and represented how inexpedient it was to offend him. 'i warn you,' replied ambrose, 'that i shall oppose his entrance, but if he chooses to turn his power into tyranny, i shall willingly let him slay me.' the emperor did not try to enter the church, but sought ambrose in an adjoining building, where he entreated to be absolved from his sin. 'beware,' returned the bishop, 'of trampling on the laws of god.' 'i respect them,' said the emperor, 'therefore i have not set foot in the church, but i pray thee to deliver me from these bonds, and not to close against me the door that the lord hath opened to all who truly repent.' 'what repentance have you shown for such a sin?' asked ambrose. 'appoint my penance,' said the emperor, entirely subdued. and ambrose caused him at once to sign a decree that thirty days should always elapse between a sentence of death and its execution. after this, theodosius was allowed to come into the church, but only to the corner he had shunned all these eight months, till the 'dull hard stone within him' had 'melted', to the spot appointed for the penitents. there, without his crown, his purple robe, and buskins, worked with golden eagles, all laid aside, he lay prostrate on the stones, repeating the verse, 'my soul cleaveth unto the dust; quicken me, o lord, according to thy word.' this was the place that penitents always occupied, and there fasts and other discipline were also appointed. when the due course had been gone through, probably at the next easter, ambrose, in his master's name, pronounced the forgiveness of theodosius, and received him back to the full privileges of a christian. when we look at the course of many another emperor, and see how easily, where the power was irresponsible, justice became severity, and severity, bloodthirstiness, we see what ambrose dared to meet, and from what he spared theodosius and all the civilized world under his sway. who can tell how many innocent lives have been saved by that thirty days' respite? pass over nearly 700 years, and again we find a church door barred against a monarch. this time it is not under the bright italian sky, but under the grey fogs of the baltic sea. it is not the stately marble gateway of the milanese basilica, but the low-arched, rough stone portal of the newly built cathedral of roskilde, in zealand, where, if a zigzag surrounds the arch, it is a great effort of genius. the danish king swend, the nephew of the well-known knut, stands before it; a stern and powerful man, fierce and passionate, and with many a danish axe at his command. nay, only lately for a few rude jests, he caused some of his chief jarls to be slain without a trial. half the country is still pagan, and though the king himself is baptized, there is no certainty that, if the christian faith do not suit his taste, he may not join the heathen party and return to the worship of thor and tyr, where deeds of blood would be not blameworthy, but a passport to the rude joys of valhall. nevertheless there is a pastoral staff across the doorway, barring the way of the king, and that staff is held against him by an englishman, william, bishop of roskilde, the missionary who had converted a great part of zealand, but who will not accept christians who have not laid aside their sins. he confronts the king who has never been opposed before. 'go back,' he says, 'nor dare approach the alter of god--thou who art not a king but a murderer.' some of the jarls seized their swords and axes, and were about to strike the bishop away from the threshold, but he, without removing his staff, bent his head, and bade them strike, saying he was ready to die in the cause of god. but the king came to a better frame of mind, he called the jarls away, and returning humbly to his palace, took off his royal robes, and came again barefoot and in sackcloth to the church door, where bishop william met him, took him by the hand, gave him the kiss of peace, and led him to the penitents' place. after three days he was absolved, and for the rest of his life, the bishop and the king lived in the closest friendship, so much so that william always prayed that even in death he might not be divided from his friend. the prayer was granted. the two died almost at the same time, and were buried together in the cathedral at roskilde, where the one had taught and other learnt the great lesson of mercy. the last fight in the coliseum a.d. 404 as the romans grew prouder and more fond of pleasure, no one could hope to please them who did not give them sports and entertainments. when any person wished to be elected to any public office, it was a matter of course that he should compliment his fellow citizens by exhibitions of the kind they loved, and when the common people were discontented, their cry was that they wanted panem ac circenses, 'bread and sports', the only things they cared for. in most places where there has been a large roman colony, remains can be seen of the amphitheatres, where the citizens were wont to assemble for these diversions. sometimes these are stages of circular galleries of seats hewn out of the hillside, where rows of spectators might sit one above the other, all looking down on a broad, flat space in the centre, under their feet, where the representations took place. sometimes, when the country was flat, or it was easier to build than to excavate, the amphitheatre was raised above ground, rising up to a considerable height. the grandest and most renowned of all these amphitheatres is the coliseum at rome. it was built by vespasian and his son titus, the conquerors of jerusalem, in a valley in the midst of the seven hills of rome. the captive jews were forced to labour at it; and the materials, granite outside, and softer travertine stone within, are so solid and so admirably built, that still at the end of eighteen centuries it has scarcely even become a ruin, but remains one of the greatest wonders of rome. five acres of ground were enclosed within the oval of its outer wall, which outside rises perpendicularly in tiers of arches one above the other. within, the galleries of seats projected forwards, each tier coming out far beyond the one above it, so that between the lowest and the outer wall there was room for a great space of chambers, passages, and vaults around the central space, called the arena, from the arena, or sand, with which it was strewn. when the roman emperors grew very vain and luxurious, they used to have this sand made ornamental with metallic filings, vermilion, and even powdered precious stones; but it was thought better taste to use the scrapings of a soft white stone, which, when thickly strewn, made the whole arena look as if covered with untrodden snow. around the border of this space flowed a stream of fresh water. then came a straight wall, rising to a considerable height, and surmounted by a broad platform, on which stood a throne for the emperor, curule chairs of ivory and gold for the chief magistrates and senators, and seats for the vestal virgins. next above were galleries for the equestrian order, the great mass of those who considered themselves as of gentle station, though not of the highest rank; farther up, and therefore farther back, were the galleries belonging to the freemen of rome; and these were again surmounted by another plain wall with a platform on the top, where were places for the ladies, who were not (except the vestal virgins) allowed to look on nearer, because of the unclothed state of some of the performers in the arena. between the ladies' boxes, benches were squeezed in where the lowest people could seat themselves; and some of these likewise found room in the two uppermost tiers of porticoes, where sailors, mechanics, and persons in the service of the coliseum had their post. altogether, when full, this huge building held no less than 87,000 spectators. it had no roof; but when there was rain, or if the sun was too hot, the sailors in the porticoes unfurled awnings that ran along upon ropes, and formed a covering of silk and gold tissue over the whole. purple was the favorite color for this velamen, or veil; because, when the sun shone through it, it cast such beautiful rosy tints on the snowy arena and the white purple-edged togas of the roman citizens. long days were spent from morning till evening upon those galleries. the multitude who poured in early would watch the great dignitaries arrive and take their seats, greeting them either with shouts of applause or hootings of dislike, according as they were favorites or otherwise; and when the emperor came in to take his place under his canopy, there was one loud acclamation, 'joy to thee, master of all, first of all, happiest of all. victory to thee for ever!' when the emperor had seated himself and given the signal, the sports began. sometimes a rope-dancing elephant would begin the entertainment, by mounting even to the summit of the building and descending by a cord. then a bear, dressed up as a roman matron, would be carried along in a chair between porters, as ladies were wont to go abroad, and another bear, in a lawyer's robe, would stand on his hind legs and go through the motions of pleading a case. or a lion came forth with a jeweled crown on his head, a diamond necklace round his neck, his mane plaited with gold, and his claws gilded, and played a hundred pretty gentle antics with a little hare that danced fearlessly within his grasp. then in would come twelve elephants, six males in togas, six females with the veil and pallium; they took their places on couches around an ivory table, dined with great decorum, playfully sprinkled a little rosewater over the nearest spectators, and then received more guests of their unwieldy kind, who arrived in ball dresses, scattered flowers, and performed a dance. sometimes water was let into the arena, a ship sailed in, and falling to pieces in the midst, sent a crowd of strange animals swimming in all directions. sometimes the ground opened, and trees came growing up through it, bearing golden fruit. or the beautiful old tale of orpheus was acted; these trees would follow the harp and song of the musician; but--to make the whole part complete--it was no mere play, but real earnest, that the orpheus of the piece fell a prey to live bears. for the coliseum had not been built for such harmless spectacles as those first described. the fierce romans wanted to be excited and feel themselves strongly stirred; and, presently, the doors of the pits and dens round the arena were thrown open, and absolutely savage beasts were let loose upon one another--rhinoceroses and tigers, bulls and lions, leopards and wild boars--while the people watched with savage curiosity to see the various kinds of attack and defense; or, if the animals were cowed or sullen, their rage would be worked up--red would be shown to the bulls, white to boars, red-hot goads would be driven into some, whips would be lashed at others, till the work of slaughter was fairly commenced, and gazed on with greedy eyes and ears delighted, instead of horror-struck, by the roars and howls of the noble creatures whose courage was thus misused. sometimes indeed, when some especially strong or ferocious animal had slain a whole heap of victims, the cries of the people would decree that it should be turned loose in its native forest, and, amid shouts of 'a triumph! a triumph!' the beast would prowl round the arena, upon the carcasses of the slain victims. almost incredible numbers of animals were imported for these cruel sports, and the governors of distant provinces made it a duty to collect troops of lions, elephants, ostriches, leopards--the fiercer or the newer the creature the better--to be thus tortured to frenzy, to make sport in the amphitheatre. however, there was daintiness joined with cruelty: the romans did not like the smell of blood, though they enjoyed the sight of it, and all the solid stonework was pierced with tubes, through which was conducted the stream of spices and saffron, boiled in wine, that the perfume might overpower the scent of slaughter below. wild beasts tearing each other to pieces might, one would think, satisfy any taste of horror; but the spectators needed even nobler game to be set before their favorite monsters--men were brought forward to confront them. some of these were at first in full armor, and fought hard, generally with success; and there was a revolving machine, something like a squirrel's cage, in which the bear was always climbing after his enemy, and then rolling over by his own weight. or hunters came, almost unarmed, and gaining the victory by swiftness and dexterity, throwing a piece of cloth over a lion's head, or disconcerting him by putting their fist down his throat. but it was not only skill, but death, that the romans loved to see; and condemned criminals and deserters were reserved to feast the lions, and to entertain the populace with their various kinds of death. among these condemned was many a christian martyr, who witnessed a good confession before the savage-eyed multitude around the arena, and 'met the lion's gory mane' with a calm resolution and hopeful joy that the lookers-on could not understand. to see a christian die, with upward gaze and hymns of joy on his tongue, was the most strange unaccountable sight the coliseum could offer, and it was therefore the choicest, and reserved for the last part of the spectacles in which the brute creation had a part. the carcasses were dragged off with hooks, and bloodstained sand was covered with a fresh clean layer, the perfume wafted in stronger clouds, and a procession came forward--tall, well-made men, in the prime of their strength. some carried a sword and a lasso, others a trident and a net; some were in light armor, others in the full heavy equipment of a soldier; some on horseback, some in chariots, some on foot. they marched in, and made their obeisance to the emperor; and with one voice, their greeting sounded through the building, ave, caesar, morituri te salutant! 'hail, caesar, those about to die salute thee!' they were the gladiators--the swordsmen trained to fight to the death to amuse the populace. they were usually slaves placed in schools of arms under the care of a master; but sometimes persons would voluntarily hire themselves out to fight by way of a profession: and both these, and such slave gladiators as did not die in the arena, would sometimes retire, and spend an old age of quiet; but there was little hope of this, for the romans were not apt to have mercy on the fallen. fights of all sorts took place--the light-armed soldier and the netsman--the lasso and the javelin--the two heavy-armed warriors--all combinations of single combat, and sometimes a general melee. when a gladiator wounded his adversary, he shouted to the spectators, hoc habet! 'he has it!' and looked up to know whether he should kill or spare. if the people held up their thumbs, the conquered was left to recover, if he could; if they turned them down, he was to die: and if he showed any reluctance to present his throat for the deathblow, there was a scornful shout, recipe ferrum! 'receive the steel!' many of us must have seen casts of the most touching statue of the wounded man, that called forth the noble lines of indignant pity which, though so often repeated, cannot be passed over here: 'i see before me the gladiator lie; he leans upon his hand--his manly brow consents to death, but conquers agony. and his droop'd head sinks gradually low, and through his side the last drops, ebbing slow from the red gash, fall heavy one by one, like the first of a thunder shower; and now the arena swims around him--he is gone ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 'he heard it, but he heeded no--this eyes were with his heart, and that was far away. he reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize, but where his rude hut by the danube lay, there were his young barbarians all at play, there was their dacian mother--he their sire, butcher'd to make a roman holiday. all this rush'd with his blood--shall he expire, and unavenged? arise ye goths and glut your ire.' sacred vestals, tender mothers, fat, good-humored senators, all thought it fair play, and were equally pitiless in the strange frenzy for exciting scenes to which they gave themselves up, when they mounted the stone stairs of the coliseum. privileged persons would even descend into the arena, examine the death agonies, and taste the blood of some specially brave victim ere the corpse was drawn forth at the death gate, that the frightful game might continue undisturbed and unencumbered. gladiator shows were the great passion of rome, and popular favor could hardly be gained except by ministering to it. even when the barbarians were beginning to close in on the empire, hosts of brave men were still kept for this slavish mimic warfare--sport to the beholders, but sad earnest to the actors. christianity worked its way upwards, and at least was professed by the emperor on his throne. persecution came to an end, and no more martyrs fed the beasts in the coliseum. the christian emperors endeavored to prevent any more shows where cruelty and death formed the chief interest and no truly religious person could endure the spectacle; but custom and love of excitement prevailed even against the emperor. mere tricks of beasts, horse and chariot races, or bloodless contests, were tame and dull, according to the diseased taste of rome; it was thought weak and sentimental to object to looking on at a death scene; the emperors were generally absent at constantinople, and no one could get elected to any office unless he treated the citizens to such a show as they best liked, with a little bloodshed and death to stir their feelings; and thus it went on for full a hundred years after rome had, in name, become a christian city, and the same custom prevailed wherever there was an amphitheatre and pleasure-loving people. meantime the enemies of rome were coming nearer and nearer, and alaric, the great chief of the goths, led his forces into italy, and threatened the city itself. honorius, the emperor, was a cowardly, almost idiotical, boy; but his brave general, stilicho, assembled his forces, met the goths at pollentia (about twenty-five miles from where turin now stands), and gave them a complete defeat on the easter day of the year 403. he pursued them into the mountains, and for that time saved rome. in the joy of the victory the roman senate invited the conqueror and his ward honorius to enter the city in triumph, at the opening of the new year, with the white steeds, purple robes, and vermilion cheeks with which, of old, victorious generals were welcomed at rome. the churches were visited instead of the temple of jupiter, and there was no murder of the captives; but roman bloodthirstiness was not yet allayed, and, after all the procession had been completed, the coliseum shows commenced, innocently at first, with races on foot, on horseback, and in chariots; then followed a grand hunting of beasts turned loose in the arena; and next a sword dance. but after the sword dance came the arraying of swordsmen, with no blunted weapons, but with sharp spears and swords--a gladiator combat in full earnest. the people, enchanted, applauded with shouts of ecstasy this gratification of their savage tastes. suddenly, however, there was an interruption. a rude, roughly robed man, bareheaded and barefooted, had sprung into the arena, and, signing back the gladiators, began to call aloud upon the people to cease from the shedding of innocent blood, and not to requite god's mercy in turning away the sword of the enemy by encouraging murder. shouts, howls, cries, broke in upon his words; this was no place for preachings--the old customs of rome should be observed 'back, old man!' 'on, gladiators!' the gladiators thrust aside the meddler, and rushed to the attack. he still stood between, holding them apart, striving in vain to be heard. 'sedition! sedition!' 'down with him!' was the cry; and the man in authority, alypius, the prefect, himself added his voice. the gladiators, enraged at interference with their vocation, cut him down. stones, or whatever came to hand, rained down upon him from the furious people, and he perished in the midst of the arena! he lay dead, and then came the feeling of what had been done. his dress showed that he was one of the hermits who vowed themselves to a holy life of prayer and self-denial, and who were greatly reverenced, even by the most thoughtless. the few who had previously seen him, told that he had come from the wilds of asia on pilgrimage, to visit the shrines and keep his christmas at rome--they knew he was a holy man--no more, and it is not even certain whether his name was alymachus or telemachus. his spirit had been stirred by the sight of thousands flocking to see men slaughter one another, and in his simple-hearted zeal he had resolved to stop the cruelty or die. he had died, but not in vain. his work was done. the shock of such a death before their eyes turned the hearts of the people; they saw the wickedness and cruelty to which they had blindly surrendered themselves; and from the day when the hermit died in the coliseum there was never another fight of the gladiators. not merely at rome, but in every province of the empire, the custom was utterly abolished; and one habitual crime at least was wiped from the earth by the self-devotion of one humble, obscure, almost nameless man. the shepherd girl of nanterre a.d. 438 four hundred years of the roman dominion had entirely tamed the once wild and independent gauls. everywhere, except in the moorlands of brittany, they had become as much like romans themselves as they could accomplish; they had latin names, spoke the latin tongue, all their personages of higher rank were enrolled as roman citizens, their chief cities were colonies where the laws were administered by magistrates in the roman fashion, and the houses, dress, and amusements were the same as those of italy. the greater part of the towns had been converted to christianity, though some paganism still lurked in the more remote villages and mountainous districts. it was upon these civilized gauls that the terrible attacks came from the wild nations who poured out of the centre and east of europe. the franks came over the rhine and its dependent rivers, and made furious attacks upon the peaceful plains, where the gauls had long lived in security, and reports were everywhere heard of villages harried by wild horsemen, with short double-headed battleaxes, and a horrible short pike, covered with iron and with several large hooks, like a gigantic artificial minnow, and like it fastened to a long rope, so that the prey which it had grappled might be pulled up to the owner. walled cities usually stopped them, but every farm or villa outside was stripped of its valuables, set on fire, the cattle driven off, and the more healthy inhabitants seized for slaves. it was during this state of things that a girl was born to a wealthy peasant at the village now called nanterre, about two miles from lutetia, which was already a prosperous city, though not as yet so entirely the capital as it was destined to become under the name of paris. she was christened by an old gallic name, probably gwenfrewi, or white stream, in latin genovefa, but she is best known by the late french form of genevieve. when she was about seven years old, two celebrated bishops passed through the village, germanus, of auxerre, and lupus, of troyes, who had been invited to britain to dispute the false doctrine of pelagius. all the inhabitants flocked into the church to see them, pray with them, and receive their blessing; and here the sweet childish devotion of genevieve so struck germanus, that he called her to him, talked to her, made her sit beside him at the feast, gave her his special blessing, and presented her with a copper medal with a cross engraven upon it. from that time the little maiden always deemed herself especially consecrated to the service of heaven, but she still remained at home, daily keeping her father's sheep, and spinning their wool as she sat under the trees watching them, but always with a heart full of prayer. after this st. germanus proceeded to britain, and there encouraged his converts to meet the heathen picts at maes garmon, in flintshire, where the exulting shout of the white-robed catechumens turned to flight the wild superstitious savages of the north,--and the hallelujah victory was gained without a drop of bloodshed. he never lost sight of genevieve, the little maid whom he had so early distinguished for her piety. after she lost her parents she went to live with her godmother, and continued the same simple habits, leading a life of sincere devotion and strict self-denial, constant prayer, and much charity to her poorer neighbors. in the year 451 the whole of gaul was in the most dreadful state of terror at the advance of attila, the savage chief of the huns, who came from the banks of the danube with a host of savages of hideous features, scarred and disfigured to render them more frightful. the old enemies, the goths and the franks, seemed like friends compared with these formidable beings whose cruelties were said to be intolerable, and of whom every exaggerated story was told that could add to the horrors of the miserable people who lay in their path. tidings came that this 'scourge of god', as attila called himself, had passed the rhine, destroyed tongres and metz, and was in full march for paris. the whole country was in the utmost terror. everyone seized their most valuable possessions, and would have fled; but genevieve placed herself on the only bridge across the seine, and argued with them, assuring them in a strain that was afterwards thought of as prophetic, that, if they would pray, repent, and defend instead of abandoning their homes, god would protect them. they were at first almost ready to stone her for thus withstanding their panic, but just then a priest arrived from auxerre, with a present for genevieve from st. germanus, and they were thus reminded of the high estimation in which he held her; they became ashamed of their violence, and she held them back to pray and to arm themselves. in a few days they heard that attila had paused to besiege orleans, and that aetius, the roman general, hurrying from italy, had united his troops with those of the goths and franks, and given attila so terrible a defeat at chalons that the huns were fairly driven out of gaul. and here it must be mentioned that when the next year, 452, attila with his murderous host came down into italy, and after horrible devastation of all the northern provinces, came to the gates of rome, no one dared to meet him but one venerable bishop, leo, the pope, who, when his flock were in transports of despair, went forth only accompanied by one magistrate to meet the invader, and endeavor to turn his wrath side. the savage huns were struck with awe by the fearless majesty of the unarmed old man. they conducted him safely to attila, who listened to him with respect, and promised not to lead his people into rome, provided a tribute should be paid to him. he then retreated, and, to the joy of all europe, died on his way back to his native dominions. but with the huns the danger and suffering of europe did not end. the happy state described in the prophets as 'dwelling safely, with none to make them afraid', was utterly unknown in europe throughout the long break-up of the roman empire; and in a few more years the franks were overrunning the banks of the seine, and actually venturing to lay siege to the roman walls of paris itself. the fortifications were strong enough, but hunger began to do the work of the besiegers, and the garrison, unwarlike and untrained, began to despair. but genevieve's courage and trust never failed; and finding no warriors willing to run the risk of going beyond the walls to obtain food for the women and children who were perishing around them, this brave shepherdess embarked alone in a little boat, and guiding it down the stream, landed beyond the frankish camp, and repairing to the different gallic cities, she implored them to send succor to the famished brethren. she obtained complete success. probably the franks had no means of obstructing the passage of the river, so that a convoy of boats could easily penetrate into the town, and at any rate they looked upon genevieve as something sacred and inspired whom they durst not touch; probably as one of the battle maids in whom their own myths taught them to believe. one account indeed says that, instead of going alone to obtain help, genevieve placed herself at the head of a forage party, and that the mere sight of her inspired bearing caused them to be allowed to enter and return in safety; but the boat version seems the more probable, since a single boat on a broad river would more easily elude the enemy than a troop of gauls pass through their army. but a city where all the valor resided in one woman could not long hold out, and in another inroad, when genevieve was absent, paris was actually seized by the franks. their leader, hilperik, was absolutely afraid of what the mysteriously brave maiden might do to him, and commanded the gates of the city to be carefully guarded lest she should enter; but geneviere learnt that some of the chief citizens were imprisoned, and that hilperik intended their death, and nothing could withhold her from making an effort in their behalf. the franks had made up their minds to settle, and not to destroy. they were not burning and slaying indiscriminately, but while despising the romans, as they called the gauls, for their cowardice, they were in awe of the superior civilization and the knowledge of arts. the country people had free access to the city, and genevieve in her homely gown and veil passed by hilperik's guards without being suspected of being more than an ordinary gaulish village maid; and thus she fearlessly made her way, even to the old roman halls, where the long-haired hilperik was holding his wild carousal. would that we knew more of that interview--one of the most striking that ever took place! we can only picture to ourselves the roman tessellated pavement bestrewn with wine, bones, and fragments of the barbarous revelry. there were untamed franks, their sun-burnt hair tied up in a knot at the top of their heads, and falling down like a horse's tail, their faces close shaven, except two moustaches, and dressed in tight leather garments, with swords at their wide belts. some slept, some feasted, some greased their long locks, some shouted out their favorite war songs around the table which was covered with the spoils of churches, and at their heads sat the wild, long-haired chieftain, who was a few years later driven away by his own followers for his excesses, the whole scene was all that was abhorrent to a pure, devout, and faithful nature, most full of terror to a woman. yet, there, in her strength, stood the peasant maiden, her heart full of trust and pity, her looks full of the power that is given by fearlessness of them that can kill the body. what she said we do not know--we only know that the barbarous hilperik was overawed; he trembled before the expostulations of the brave woman, and granted all she asked--the safety of his prisoners, and mercy to the terrified inhabitants. no wonder that the people of paris have ever since looked back to genevieve as their protectress, and that in after ages she has grown to be the patron saint of the city. she lived to see the son of hilperik, chlodweh, or, as he was more commonly called, clovis, marry a christian wife, clotilda, and after a time became a christian. she saw the foundation of the cathedral of notre-dame, and of the two famous churches of st. denys and of st. martin of tours, and gave her full share to the first efforts for bringing the rude and bloodthirsty conquerors to some knowledge of christian faith, mercy, and purity. after a life of constant prayer and charity she died, three months after king clovis, in the year 512, the eighty-ninth of her age. [footnote: perhaps the exploits of the maid of orleans were the most like those of genevieve, but they are not here added to our collection of 'golden deeds,' because the maid's belief that she was directly inspired removes them from the ordinary class. alas! the english did not treat her as hilperik treated genevieve.] leo the slave a.d. 533 the franks had fully gained possession of all the north of gaul, except brittany. chlodweh had made them christians in name, but they still remained horribly savage--and the life of the gauls under them was wretched. the burgundians and visigoths who had peopled the southern and eastern provinces were far from being equally violent. they had entered on their settlements on friendly terms, and even showed considerable respect for the roman-gallic senators, magistrates, and higher clergy, who all remained unmolested in their dignities and riches. thus it was that gregory, bishop of langres, was a man of high rank and consideration in the burgundian kingdom, whence the christian queen clotilda had come; and even after the burgundians had been subdued by the four sons of chlodweh, he continued a rich and prosperous man. after one of the many quarrels and reconciliations between these fierce brethren, there was an exchange of hostages for the observance of the terms of the treaty. these were not taken from among the franks, who were too proud to submit to captivity, but from among the gaulish nobles, a much more convenient arrangement to the frankish kings, who cared for the life of a 'roman' infinitely less than even for the life of a frank. thus many young men of senatorial families were exchanged between the domains of theodrik to the south, and of hildebert to the northward, and quartered among frankish chiefs, with whom at first they had nothing more to endure than the discomfort of living as guests with such rude and coarse barbarians. but ere long fresh quarrels broke out between theodrik and hildebert, and the unfortunate hostages were at once turned into slaves. some of them ran away if they were near the frontier, but bishop gregory was in the utmost anxiety about his young nephew attalus, who had been last heard of as being placed under the charge of a frank who lived between treves and metz. the bishop sent emissaries to make secret enquiries, and they brought word that the unfortunate youth had indeed been reduced to slavery, and was made to keep his master's herds of horses. upon this the uncle again sent off his messengers with presents for the ransom of attalus, but the frank rejected them, saying, 'one of such high race can only be redeemed for ten pounds' weight of gold.' this was beyond the bishop's means, and while he was considering how to raise the sum, the slaves were all lamenting for their young lord, to whom they were much attached, till one of them, named leo, the cook to the household, came to the bishop, saying to him, 'if thou wilt give me leave to go, i will deliver him from captivity.' the bishop replied that he gave free permission, and the slave set off for treves, and there watched anxiously for an opportunity of gaining access to attalus; but though the poor young man--no longer daintily dressed, bathed, and perfumed, but ragged and squalid--might be seen following his herds of horses, he was too well watched for any communication to be held with him. then leo went to a person, probably of gallic birth, and said, 'come with me to this barbarian's house, and there sell me for a slave. thou shalt have the money, i only ask thee to help me thus far.' both repaired to the frank's abode, the chief among a confused collection of clay and timber huts intended for shelter during eating and sleeping. the frank looked at the slave, and asked him what he could do. 'i can dress whatever is eaten at lordly tables,' replied leo. 'i am afraid of no rival; i only tell thee the truth when i say that if thou wouldst give a feast to the king, i would send it up in the neatest manner.' 'ha!' said the barbarian, 'the sun's day is coming--i shall invite my kinsmen and friends. cook me such a dinner as may amaze them, and make then say, 'we saw nothing better in the king's house.' 'let me have plenty of poultry, and i will do according to my master's bidding,' returned leo. accordingly, he was purchased for twelve gold pieces, and on the sunday (as bishop gregory of tours, who tells the story, explains that the barbarians called the lord's day) he produced a banquet after the most approved roman fashion, much to the surprise and delight of the franks, who had never tasted such delicacies before, and complimented their host upon them all the evening. leo gradually became a great favorite, and was placed in authority over the other slaves, to whom he gave out their daily portions of broth and meat; but from the first he had not shown any recognition of attalus, and had signed to him that they must be strangers to one another. a whole year had passed away in this manner, when one day leo wandered, as if for pastime, into the plain where attalus was watching the horses, and sitting down on the ground at some paces off, and with his back towards his young master, so that they might not be seen together, he said, 'this is the time for thoughts of home! when thou hast led the horses to the stable to-night, sleep not. be ready at the first call!' that day the frank lord was entertaining a large number of guests, among them his daughter's husband, a jovial young man, given to jesting. on going to rest he fancied he should be thirsty at night and called leo to set a pitcher of hydromel by his bedside. as the slave was setting it down, the frank looked slyly from under his eyelids, and said in joke, 'tell me, my father-in-law's trusty man, wilt not thou some night take one of those horses, and run away to thine own home?' 'please god, it is what i mean to do this very night,' answered the gaul, so undauntedly that the frank took it as a jest, and answered, 'i shall look out that thou dost not carry off anything of mine,' and then leo left him, both laughing. all were soon asleep, and the cook crept out to the stable, where attalus usually slept among the horses. he was broad awake now, and ready to saddle the two swiftest; but he had no weapon except a small lance, so leo boldly went back to his master's sleeping hut, and took down his sword and shield, but not without awaking him enough to ask who was moving. 'it is i--leo,' was the answer, 'i have been to call attalus to take out the horses early. he sleeps as hard as a drunkard.' the frank went to sleep again, quite satisfied, and leo, carrying out the weapons, soon made attalus feel like a free man and a noble once more. they passed unseen out of the enclosure, mounted their horses, and rode along the great roman road from treves as far as the meuse, but they found the bridge guarded, and were obliged to wait till night, when they cast their horses loose and swam the river, supporting themselves on boards that they found on the bank. they had as yet had no food since the supper at their master's, and were thankful to find a plum tree in the wood, with fruit, to refresh them in some degree, before they lay down for the night. the next morning they went on in the direction of rheims, carefully listening whether there were any sounds behind, until, on the broad hard-paved causeway, they actually heard the trampling of horses. happily a bush was near, behind which they crept, with their naked swords before them, and here the riders actually halted for a few moments to arrange their harness. men and horses were both those they feared, and they trembled at hearing one say, 'woe is me that those rogues have made off, and have not been caught! on my salvation, if i catch them, i will have one hung and the other chopped into bits!' it was no small comfort to hear the trot of the horses resumed, and soon dying away in the distance. that same night the two faint, hungry, weary travelers, footsore and exhausted, came stumbling into rheims, looking about for some person still awake to tell them the way to the house of the priest paul, a friend of attalus' uncle. they found it just as the church bell was ringing for matins, a sound that must have seemed very like home to these members of an episcopal household. they knocked, and in the morning twilight met the priest going to his earliest sunday morning service. leo told his young master's name, and how they had escaped, and the priest's first exclamation was a strange one: 'my dream is true. this very night i saw two doves, one white and one black, who came and perched on my hand.' the good man was overjoyed, but he scrupled to give them any food, as it was contrary to the church's rules for the fast to be broken before mass; but the travelers were half dead with hunger, and could only say, 'the good lord pardon us, for, saving the respect due to his day, we must eat something, since this is the forth day since we have touched bread or meat.' the priest upon this gave them some bread and wine, and after hiding them carefully, went to church, hoping to avert suspicion; but their master was already at rheims, making strict search for them, and learning that paul the priest was a friend of the bishop of langres, he went to church, and there questioned him closely. but the priest succeeded in guarding his secret, and though he incurred much danger, as the salic law was very severe against concealers of runaway slaves, he kept attalus and leo for two days till the search was blown over, and their strength was restored, so that they could proceed to langres. there they were welcomed like men risen from the dead; the bishop wept on the neck of attalus, and was ready to receive leo as a slave no more, but a friend and deliverer. a few days after leo was solemnly led to the church. every door was set open as a sign that he might henceforth go whithersoever he would. bishop gregorus took him by the hand, and, standing before the archdeacon, declared that for the sake of the good services rendered by his slave, leo, he set him free, and created him a roman citizen. then the archdeacon read a writing of manumission. 'whatever is done according to the roman law is irrevocable. according to the constitution of the emperor constantine, of happy memory, and the edict that declares that whosoever is manumitted in church, in the presence of the bishops, priests, and deacons, shall become a roman citizen under the protection of the church: from this day leo becomes a member of the city, free to go and come where he will as if he had been born of free parents. from this day forward, he is exempt from all subjection of servitude, of all duty of a freed-man, all bond of client-ship. he is and shall be free, with full and entire freedom, and shall never cease to belong to the body of roman citizens.' at the same time leo was endowed with lands, which raised him to the rank of what the franks called a roman proprietor--the highest reward in the bishop's power for the faithful devotion that had incurred such dangers in order to rescue the young attalus from his miserable bondage. somewhat of the same kind of faithfulness was shown early in the nineteenth century by ivan simonoff, a soldier servant belonging to major kascambo, an officer in the russian army, who was made prisoner by one of the wild tribes of the caucasus. but though the soldier's attachment to his master was quite as brave and disinterested as that of the gallic slave, yet he was far from being equally blameless in the means he employed, and if his were a golden deed at all, it was mixed with much of iron. major kascambo, with a guard of fifty cossacks, was going to take the command of the russian outpost of lars, one of the forts by which the russian czars have slowly been carrying on the aggressive warfare that has nearly absorbed into their vast dominions all the mountains between the caspian and black seas. on his way he was set upon by seven hundred horsemen of the savage and independent tribe of tchetchenges. there was a sharp fight, more than half his men were killed, and he with the rest made a rampart of the carcasses of their horses, over which they were about to fire their last shots, when the tchetchenges made a russian deserter call out to the cossacks that they would let them all escape provided they would give up their officer. kascambo on this came forward and delivered himself into their hands; while the remainder of the troops galloped off. his servant, ivan, with a mule carrying his baggage, had been hidden in a ravine, and now, instead of retreating with the cossacks, came to join his master. all the baggage was, however, instantly seized and divided among the tchetchenges; nothing was left but a guitar, which they threw scornfully to the major. he would have let it lie, but ivan picked it up, and insisted on keeping it. 'why be dispirited?' he said; 'the god of the russians is great, it is the interest of the robbers to save you, they will do you no harm.' scouts brought word that the russian outposts were alarmed, and that troops were assembling to rescue the officer. upon this the seven hundred broke up into small parties, leaving only ten men on foot to conduct the prisoners, whom they forced to take off their iron-shod boots and walk barefoot over stones and thorns, till the major was so exhausted that they were obliged to drag him by cords fastened to his belt. after a terrible journey, the prisoners were placed in a remote village, where the major had heavy chains fastened to his hands and feet, and another to his neck, with a huge block of oak as a clog at the other end; they half-starved him, and made him sleep on the bare ground of the hut in which he lodged. the hut belonged to a huge, fierce old man of sixty named ibrahim, whose son had been killed in a skirmish with the russians. this man, together with his son's widow, were continually trying to revenge themselves on their captive. the only person who showed him any kindness was his little grandson, a child of seven years old, called mamet, who often caressed him, and brought him food by stealth. ivan was also in the same hut, but less heavily ironed than his master, and able to attempt a few alleviations for his wretched condition. an interpreter brought the major a sheet of paper and a reed pen, and commanded him to write to his friends that he might be ransomed for 10,000 roubles, but that, if the whole sum were not paid, he would be put to death. he obeyed, but he knew that his friends could not possibly raise such a sum, and his only hope was in the government, which had once ransomed a colonel who had fallen into the hands of the same tribe. these tchetchenges professed to be mahometans, but their religion sat very loose upon them, and they were utter barbarians. one piece of respect they paid the major's superior education was curious--they made him judge in all the disputes that arose. the houses in the village were hollowed out underground, and the walls only raised three or four feet, and then covered by a flat roof, formed of beaten clay, where the inhabitants spent much of their time. kascambo was every now and then brought, in all his chains, to the roof of the hut, which served as a tribunal whence he was expected to dispense justice. for instance, a man had commissioned his neighbour to pay five roubles to a person in another valley, but the messenger's horse having died by the way, a claim was set up to the roubles to make up for it. both parties collected all their friends, and a bloody quarrel was about to take place, when they agreed to refer the question to the prisoner, who was accordingly set upon his judgment seat. 'pray,' said he, 'if, instead of giving you five roubles, your comrade had desired you to carry his greetings to his creditor, would not your horse have died all the same?' 'most likely.' 'then what should you have done with the greetings? should you have kept them in compensation? my sentence is that you should give back the roubles, and that your comrade gives you a greeting.' the whole assembly approved the decision, and the man only grumbled out, as he gave back the money, 'i knew i should lose it, if that dog of a christian meddled with it.' all this respect, however, did not avail to procure any better usage for the unfortunate judge, whose health was suffering severely under his privations. ivan, however, had recommended himself in the same way as leo, by his perfections as a cook, and moreover he was a capital buffoon. his fetters were sometimes taken off that he might divert the villagers by his dances and strange antics while his master played the guitar. sometimes they sang russian songs together to the instrument, and on these occasions the major's hands were released that he might play on it; but one day he was unfortunately heard playing in his chains for his own amusement, and from that time he was never released from his fetters. in the course of a year, three urgent letters had been sent; but no notice was taken of them, and ivan began to despair of aid from home, and set himself to work. his first step was to profess himself a mahometan. he durst not tell his master till the deed was done, and then kascambo was infinitely shocked; but the act did not procure ivan so much freedom as he had hoped. he was, indeed, no longer in chains, but he was evidently distrusted, and was so closely watched, that the only way in which he could communicate with his master was when they were set to sing together, when they chanted out question and answer in russ, unsuspected, to the tune of their national airs. he was taken on an expedition against the russians, and very nearly killed by the suspicious tchetchenges on one side, and by the cossacks on the other, as a deserter. he saved a young man of the tribe from drowning; but though he thus earned the friendship of the family, the rest of the villagers hated and dreaded him all the more, since he had not been able to help proving himself a man of courage, instead of the feeble buffoon he had tried to appear. three months after this expedition, another took place; but ivan was not allowed even to know of it. he saw preparations making, but nothing was said to him; only one morning he found the village entirely deserted by all the young men, and as he wandered round it, the aged ones would not speak to him. a child told him that his father had meant to kill him, and on the roof of her house stood the sister of the man he had saved, making signals of great terror, and pointing towards russia. home he went and found that, besides old ibrahim, his master was watched by a warrior, who had been prevented by an intermitting fever from joining the expedition. he was convinced that if the tribe returned unsuccessful, the murder of both himself and his master was certain; but he resolved not to fly alone, and as he busied himself in preparing the meal, he sung the burden of a russian ballad, intermingled with words of encouragement for his master: the time is come; hai luli! the time is come, hai luli! our woe is at an end, hai luli! or we die at once! hai luli! to-morrow, to-morrow, hai luli! we are off for a town, hai luli! for a fine, fine town, hai luli! but i name no names, hai luli! courage, courage, master dear, hai luli! never, never, despair, hai luli! for the god of the russians is great, hai luli! poor kascambo, broken down, sick, and despairing, only muttered, 'do as you please, only hold your peace!' ivan's cookery incited the additional guard to eat so much supper, that he brought on a severe attack of his fever, and was obliged to go home; but old ibrahim, instead of going to bed, sat down on a log of wood opposite the prisoner, and seemed resolved to watch him all night. the woman and child went to bed in the inner room, and ivan signed to his master to take the guitar, and began to dance. the old man's axe was in an open cupboard at the other end of the room, and after many gambols and contortions, during which the major could hardly control his fingers to touch the strings, ivan succeeded in laying his hands upon it, just when the old man was bending over the fire to mend it. then, as ibrahim desired that the music should cease, he cut him down with a single blow, on his own hearth. and the daughter-in-law coming out to see what had happened, he slew her with the same weapon. and then, alas! in spite of the commands, entreaties, and cries of his master, he dashed into the inner room, and killed the sleeping child, lest it should give the alarm. kascambo, utterly helpless to save, fell almost fainting upon the bloody floor, and did not cease to reproach ivan, who was searching the old man's pockets for the key of the fetters, but it was not there, nor anywhere else in the hut, and the irons were so heavy that escape was impossible in them. ivan at last knocked off the clog and the chains on the wrist with the axe, but he could not break the chains round the legs, and could only fasten them as close as he could to hinder them clanking. then securing all the provisions he could carry, and putting his master into his military cloak, obtaining also a pistol and dagger, they crept out, but not on the direct road. it was february, and the ground was covered with snow. all night they walked easily, but at noon the sun so softened it that they sank in at every step, and the major's chains rendered each motion terrible labour. it was only on the second night that ivan, with his axe, succeeded in breaking through the fastenings, and by that time the major's legs were so swollen and stiffened that he could not move without extreme pain. however, he was dragged on through the wild mountain paths, and then over the plains for several days more, till they were on the confines of another tribe of tchetchenges, who were overawed by russia, and in a sort of unwilling alliance. here, however, a sharp storm, and a fall into the water, completely finished kascambo's strength, and he sank down on the snow, telling ivan to go home and explain his fate, and give his last message to his mother. 'if you perish here,' said ivan, 'trust me, neither your mother nor mine will ever see me again.' he covered his master with his cloak, gave him the pistol, and walked on to a hut, where he found a tchetchenge man, and told him that here was a means of obtaining two hundred roubles. he had only to shelter the major as a guest for three days, whilst ivan himself went on to mosdok, to procure the money, and bring back help for his master. the man was full of suspicion, but ivan prevailed, and kascambo was carried into the village nearly dying, and was very ill all the time of his servant's absence. ivan set off for the nearest russian station, where he found some of the cossacks who had been present when the major was taken. all eagerly subscribed to raise the two hundred roubles, but the colonel would not let ivan go back alone, as he had engaged to do, and sent a guard of cossacks. this had nearly been fatal to the major, for as soon as his host saw the lances, he suspected treachery, and dragging his poor sick guest to the roof of the house, he tied him up to a stake, and stood over him with a pistol, shouting to ivan, 'if you come nearer, i shall blow his brains out, and i have fifty cartridges more for my enemies, and the traitor who leads them.' 'no traitor!' cried ivan. 'here are the roubles. i have kept my word!' 'let the cossacks go back, or i shall fire.' kascambo himself begged the officer to retire, and ivan went back with the detachment, and returned alone. even then the suspicious host made him count out the roubles at a hundred paces from the house, and at once ordered him out of sight; but then went up to the roof, and asked the major's pardon for all this rough usage. 'i shall only recollect that you were my host, and kept your word,' said kascambo. in a few hours more, kascambo was in safety among his brother officers. ivan was made a non-commissioned officer, and some months after was seen by the traveler who told the story, whistling the air of hai luli at his former master's wedding feast. he was even then scarcely twenty years old, and peculiarly quiet and soft in manners. the battle of the blackwater 991 in the evil days of king ethelred the unready, when the teaching of good king alfred was fast fading away from the minds of his descendants, and self-indulgence was ruining the bold and hardy habits of the english, the fleet was allowed to fall into decay, and danish ships again ventured to appear on the english coasts. the first northmen who had ravaged england came eager for blood and plunder, and hating the sight of a christian church as an insult to their gods, thor and odin; but the lapse of a hundred years had in some degree changed the temper of the north; and though almost every young man thought it due to his fame to have sailed forth as a sea rover, yet the attacks of these marauders might be bought off, and provided they had treasure to show for their voyage, they were willing to spare the lives and lands of the people of the coasts they visited. king ethelred and his cowardly, selfish court were well satisfied with this expedient, and the tax called danegeld was laid upon the people, in order to raise a fund for buying off the enemy. but there were still in england men of bolder and truer hearts, who held that bribery was false policy, merely inviting the enemy to come again and again, and that the only wise course would be in driving them back by english valor, and keeping the fleet in a condition to repel the 'long serpent' ships before the foe could set foot upon the coast. among those who held this opinion was brythnoth, earl of essex. he was of partly danish descent himself, but had become a thorough englishman, and had long and faithfully served the king and his father. he was a friend to the clergy, a founder of churches and convents, and his manor house of hadleigh was a home of hospitality and charity. it would probably be a sort of huge farmyard, full of great barn-like buildings and sheds, all one story high; some of them serving for storehouses, and others for living-rooms and places of entertainment for his numerous servants and retainers, and for the guests of all degrees who gathered round him as the chief dispenser of justice in his east-saxon earldom. when he heard the advice given and accepted that the danes should be bribed, instead of being fought with, he made up his mind that he, at least, would try to raise up a nobler spirit, and, at the sacrifice of his own life, would show the effect of making a manful stand against them. he made his will, and placed it in the hands of the archbishop of canterbury; and then, retiring to hadleigh, he provided horses and arms, and caused all the young men in his earldom to be trained in warlike exercises, according to the good old english law, that every man should be provided with weapons and know the use of them. the danes sailed forth, in the year 991, with ninety-three vessels, the terrible 'long serpents', carved with snakes' heads at the prow, and the stern finished as the gilded tail of the reptile; and many a lesser ship, meant for carrying plunder. the sea king, olaf (or anlaff), was the leader; and as tidings came that their sails had been seen upon the north sea, more earnest than ever rang out the petition in the litany, 'from the fury of the northmen, good lord, deliver us'. sandwich and ipswich made no defense, and were plundered; and the fleet then sailed into the mouth of the river blackwater, as far as maldon, where the ravagers landed, and began to collect spoil. when, however, they came back to their ships, they found that the tide would not yet serve them to re-embark; and upon the farther bank of the river bristled the spears of a body of warriors, drawn up in battle array, but in numbers far inferior to their own. anlaff sent a messenger, over the wooden bridge that crossed the river, to the earl, who, he understood, commanded this small army. the brave old man, his grey hair hanging down beneath his helmet, stood, sword in hand, at the head of his warriors. 'lord earl,' said the messenger, 'i come to bid thee to yield to us thy treasure, for thy safety. buy off the fight, and we will ratify a peace with gold.' 'hear, o thou sailor!' was brythnoth's answer, 'the reply of this people. instead of danegeld, thou shalt have from them the edge of the sword, and the point of the spear. here stands an english earl, who will defend his earldom and the lands of his king. point and edge shall judge between us.' back went the dane with his message to anlaff, and the fight began around the bridge, where the danes long strove to force their way across, but were always driven back by the gallant east-saxons. the tide had risen, and for some time the two armies only shot at one another with bows and arrows; but when it ebbed, leaving the salt-marches dry, the stout old earl's love of fair play overpowered his prudence, and he sent to offer the enemy a free passage, and an open field in which to measure their strength. the numbers were too unequal; but the battle was long and bloody before the english could be overpowered. brythnoth slew one of the chief danish leaders with his own hand, but not without receiving a wound. he was still able to fight on, though with ebbing strength and failing numbers. his hand was pierced by a dart; but a young boy at his side instantly withdrew it, and, launching it back again, slew the foe who had aimed it. another dane, seeing the earl faint and sinking, advanced to plunder him of his ring and jeweled weapons; but he still had strength to lay the spoiler low with his battleaxe. this was his last blow; he gathered his strength for one last cheer to his brave men, and then, sinking on the ground, he looked up to heaven, exclaiming: 'i thank thee, lord of nations, for all the joys i have known on earth. now, o mild creator! have i the utmost need that thou shouldst grant grace unto my soul, that my spirit may speed to thee with peace, o king of angels! to pass into thy keeping. i sue to thee that thou suffer not the rebel spirits of hell to vex my parting soul!' with these words he died; but an aged follower, of like spirit, stood over his corpse, and exhorted his fellows. 'our spirit shall be the hardier, and our soul the greater, the fewer our numbers become!' he cried. 'here lies our chief, the brave, the good, the much-loved lord, who has blessed us with many a gift. old as i am, i will not yield, but avenge his death, or lay me at his side. shame befall him that thinks to fly from such a field as this!' nor did the english warriors fly. night came down, at last, upon the battlefield, and saved the lives of the few survivors; but they were forced to leave the body of their lord, and the danes bore away with them his head as a trophy, and with it, alas! ten thousand pounds of silver from the king, who, in his sluggishness and weakness had left brythnoth to fight and die unaided for the cause of the whole nation. one of the retainers, a minstrel in the happy old days of hadleigh, who had done his part manfully in the battle, had heard these last goodly sayings of his master, and, living on to peaceful days, loved to rehearse them to the sound of his harp, and dwell on the glories of one who could die, but not be defeated. ere those better days had come, another faithful-hearted englishman had given his life for his people. in the year 1012, a huge army, called from their leader, 'thorkill's host', were overrunning kent, and besieging canterbury. the archbishop aelfeg was earnestly entreated to leave the city while yet there was time to escape; but he replied, 'none but a hireling would leave his flock in time of danger;' and he supported the resolution of the inhabitants, so that they held out the city for twenty days; and as the wild danes had very little chance against a well-walled town, they would probably have saved it, had not the gates been secretly opened to them by the traitorous abbot aelfman, whom aelfeg had once himself saved, when accused of treason before the king. the danes slaughtered all whom they found in the streets, and the archbishop's friends tried to keep him in the church, lest he should run upon his fate; but he broke from them, and, confronting the enemy, cried: 'spare the guiltless! is there glory in shedding such blood? turn your wrath on me! it is i who have denounced your cruelty, have ransomed and re-clad your captive.' the danes seized upon him, and, after he had seen his cathedral burnt and his clergy slain, they threw him into a dungeon, whence he was told he could only come forth upon the payment of a heavy ransom. his flock loved him, and would have striven to raise the sum; but, miserably used as they were by the enemy, and stripped by the exactions of the danes, he would not consent that they should be asked for a further contribution on his account. after seven months' patience in his captivity, the danish chiefs, who were then at greenwich desired him to be brought into their camp, where they had just been holding a great feast. it was easter eve, and the quiet of that day of calm waiting was disturbed with their songs, and shouts of drunken revelry, as the chained archbishop was led to the open space where the warriors sat and lay amid the remains of their rude repast. the leader then told him that they had agreed to let him off for his own share with a much smaller payment than had been demanded, provided he would obtain a largesse for them from the king, his master. 'i am not the man,' he answered, 'to provide christian flesh for pagan wolves;' and when again they repeated the demand, 'gold i have none to offer you, save the true wisdom of the knowledge of the living god.' and he began, as he stood in the midst, to 'reason to them of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come.' they were mad with rage and drink. the old man's voice was drowned with shouts of 'gold, bishop--give us gold!' the bones and cups that lay around were hurled at him, and he fell to the ground, with the cry, 'o chief shepherd, guard thine own children!' as he partly raised himself, axes were thrown at him; and, at last, a dane, who had begun to love and listen to him in his captivity, deemed it mercy to give him a deathblow with an axe. the english maintained that aelfeg had died to save his flock from cruel extortion, and held him as a saint and martyr, keeping his death day (the 19th of april) as a holiday; and when the italian archbishop of canterbury (lanfranc) disputed his right to be so esteemed, there was strong opposition and discontent. indeed, our own prayer book still retains his name, under the altered form of st. alphege; and surely no one better merits to be remembered, for having loved his people far better than himself. guzman el bueno 1293 in the early times of spanish history, before the moors had been expelled from the peninsula, or the blight of western gold had enervated the nation, the old honor and loyalty of the gothic race were high and pure, fostered by constant combats with a generous enemy. the spanish arabs were indeed the flower of the mahometan races, endowed with the vigor and honor of the desert tribes, yet capable of culture and civilization, excelling all other nations of their time in science and art, and almost the equals of their christian foes in the attributes of chivalry. wars with them were a constant crusade, consecrated in the minds of the spaniards as being in the cause of religion, and yet in some degree freed from savagery and cruelty by the respect exacted by the honorable character of the enemy, and by the fact that the civilization and learning of the christian kingdoms were far more derived from the moors than from the kindred nations of europe. by the close of the thirteenth century, the christian kingdoms of castille and aragon were descending from their mountain fastnesses, and spreading over the lovely plains of the south, even to the mediterranean coast, as one beautiful moorish city after another yielded to the persevering advances of the children of the goths; and in 1291 the nephew of our own beloved eleanor of castille, sancho v. called el bravo, ventured to invest the city of tarifa. this was the western buttress of the gate of the mediterranean, the base of the northern pillar of hercules, and esteemed one of the gates of spain. by it five hundred years previously had the moorish enemy first entered spain at the summons of count julian, under their leader tarifabu-zearah, whose name was bestowed upon it in remembrance of his landing there. the form of the ground is said to be like a broken punch bowl, with the broken part towards the sea. the moors had fortified the city with a surrounding wall and twenty-six towers, and had built a castle with a lighthouse on a small adjacent island, called isla verde, which they had connected with the city by a causeway. their fortifications, always admirable, have existed ever since, and in 1811, another five hundred years after, were successfully defended against the french by a small force of british troops under the command of colonel hugh gough, better known in his old age as the victor of aliwal. the walls were then unable to support the weight of artillery, for which of course they had never been built, but were perfectly effective against escalade. for six months king sancho besieged tarifa by land and sea, his fleet, hired from the genoese, lying in the waters where the battle of trafalgar was to be fought. the city at length yielded under stress of famine, but the king feared that he had no resources to enable him to keep it, and intended to dismantle and forsake it, when the grand master of the military order of calatrava offered to undertake the defense with his knights for one year, hoping that some other noble would come forward at the end of that time and take the charge upon himself. he was not mistaken. the noble who made himself responsible for this post of danger was a leonese knight of high distinction, by name alonso perez de guzman, already called el bueno, or 'the good', from the high qualities he had manifested in the service of the late king, don alonso vi, by whom he had always stood when the present king, don sancho, was in rebellion. the offer was readily accepted, and the whole guzman family removed to tarifa, with the exception of the eldest son, who was in the train of the infant don juan, the second son of the late king, who had always taken part with his father against his brother, and on sancho's accession, continued his enmity, and fled to portugal. the king of portugal, however, being requested by sancho not to permit him to remain there, he proceeded to offer his services to the king of morocco, yusuf-ben-yacoub, for whom he undertook to recover tarifa, if 5,000 horse were granted to him for the purpose. the force would have been most disproportionate for the attack of such a city as tarifa, but don juan reckoned on means that he had already found efficacious; when he had obtained the surrender of zamora to his father by threatening to put to death a child of the lady in command of the fortress. therefore, after summoning tarifa at the head of his 5,000 moors, he led forth before the gates the boy who had been confided to his care, and declared that unless the city were yielded instantly, guzman should behold the death of his own son at his hand! before, he had had to deal with a weak woman on a question of divided allegiance. it was otherwise here. the point was whether the city should be made over to the enemies of the faith and country, whether the plighted word of a loyal knight should be broken. the boy was held in the grasp of the cruel prince, stretching out his hands and weeping as he saw his father upon the walls. don alonso's eyes, we are told, filled with tears as he cast one long, last look at his first-born, whom he might not save except at the expense of his truth and honor. the struggle was bitter, but he broke forth at last in these words: 'i did not beget a son to be made use of against my country, but that he should serve her against her foes. should don juan put him to death, he will but confer honor on me, true life on my son, and on himself eternal shame in this world and everlasting wrath after death. so far am i from yielding this place or betraying my trust, that in case he should want a weapon for his cruel purpose, there goes my knife!' he cast the knife in his belt over the walls, and returned to the castle where, commanding his countenance, he sat down to table with his wife. loud shouts of horror and dismay almost instantly called him forth again. he was told that don juan had been seen to cut the boy's throat in a transport of blind rage. 'i thought the enemy had broken in,' he calmly said, and went back again. the moors themselves were horrorstruck at the atrocity of their ally, and as the siege was hopeless they gave it up; and don juan, afraid and ashamed to return to morocco, wandered to the court of granada. king sancho was lying sick at alcala de henares when the tidings of the price of guzman's fidelity reached him. touched to the depths of his heart he wrote a letter to his faithful subject, comparing his sacrifice to that of abraham, confirming to him the surname of good, lamenting his own inability to come and offer his thanks and regrets, but entreating guzman's presence at alcala. all the way thither, the people thronged to see the man true to his word at such a fearful cost. the court was sent out to meet him, and the king, after embracing him, exclaimed, 'here learn, ye knights, what are exploits of virtue. behold your model.' lands and honors were heaped upon alonso de guzman, and they were not a mockery of his loss, for he had other sons to inherit them. he was the staunch friend of sancho's widow and son in a long and perilous minority, and died full of years and honors. the lands granted to him were those of medina sidonia which lie between the rivers guadiana and guadalquivir, and they have ever since been held by his descendants, who still bear the honored name of guzman, witnessing that the man who gave the life of his first-born rather than break his faith to the king has left a posterity as noble and enduring as any family in europe. faithful till death 1308 one of the ladies most admired by the ancient romans was arria, the wife of caecina paetus, a roman who was condemned by the emperor claudius to become his own executioner. seeing him waver, his wife, who was resolved to be with him in death as in life, took the dagger from his hand, plunged it into her own breast, and with her last strength held it out to him, gasping out, 'it is not painful, my paetus.' such was heathen faithfulness even to death; and where the teaching of christianity had not forbidden the taking away of life by one's own hand, perhaps wifely love could not go higher. yet christian women have endured a yet more fearful ordeal to their tender affection, watching, supporting, and finding unfailing fortitude to uphold the sufferer in agonies that must have rent their hearts. natalia was the fair young wife of adrian, an officer at nicomedia, in the guards of the emperor galerius maximianus, and only about twentyeight years old. natalia was a christian, but her husband remained a pagan, until, when he was charged with the execution of some martyrs, their constancy, coupled with the testimony of his own wife's virtues, triumphed over his unbelief, and he confessed himself likewise a christian. he was thrown into prison, and sentenced to death, but he prevailed on his gaoler to permit him to leave the dungeon for a time, that he might see his wife. the report came to natalia that he was no longer in prison, and she threw herself on the ground, lamenting aloud: 'now will men point at me, and say, 'behold the wife of the coward and apostate, who, for fear of death, hath denied his god.' 'oh, thou noble and strong-hearted woman,' said adrian's voice at the door, 'i bless god that i am not unworthy of thee. open the door that i may bid thee farewell.' but this was not the last farewell, though he duly went back to the prison; for when, the next day, he had been cruelly scourged and tortured before the tribunal, natalia, with her hair cut short, and wearing the disguise of a youth, was there to tend and comfort him. she took him in her arms saying, 'oh, light of mine eyes, and husband of mine heart, blessed art thou, who art chosen to suffer for christ's sake.' on the following day, the tyrant ordered that adrian's limbs should be one by one struck off on a blacksmith's anvil, and lastly his head. and still it was his wife who held him and sustained him through all and, ere the last stroke of the executioner, had received his last breath. she took up one of the severed hands, kissed it, and placed it in her bosom, and escaping to byzantium, there spent her life in widowhood. nor among these devoted wives should we pass by gertrude, the wife of rudolf, baron von der wart, a swabian nobleman, who was so ill-advised as to join in a conspiracy of johann of hapsburg, in 1308, against the emperor, albrecht i, the son of the great and good rudolf of hapsburg. this johann was the son of the emperor's brother rudolf, a brave knight who had died young, and johann had been brought up by a baron called walther von eschenbach, until, at nineteen years old, he went to his uncle to demand his father's inheritance. albrecht was a rude and uncouth man, and refused disdainfully the demand, whereupon the noblemen of the disputed territory stirred up the young prince to form a plot against him, all having evidently different views of the lengths to which they would proceed. this was just at the time that the swiss, angry at the overweening and oppressive behaviour of albrecht's governors, were first taking up arms to maintain that they owed no duty to him as duke of austria, but merely as emperor of germany. he set out on his way to chastise them as rebels, taking with him a considerable train, of whom his nephew johann was one. at baden, johann, as a last experiment, again applied for his inheritance, but by way of answer, albrecht held out a wreath of flowers, telling him they better became his years than did the cares of government. he burst into tears, threw the wreath upon the ground, and fed his mind upon the savage purpose of letting his uncle find out what he was fit for. by and by, the party came to the banks of the reuss, where there was no bridge, and only one single boat to carry the whole across. the first to cross were the emperor with one attendant, besides his nephew and four of the secret partisans of johann. albrecht's son leopold was left to follow with the rest of the suite, and the emperor rode on towards the hills of his home, towards the castle of hapsburg, where his father's noble qualities had earned the reputation which was the cause of all the greatness of the line. suddenly his nephew rode up to him, and while one of the conspirators seized the bridle of his horse, exclaimed, 'will you now restore my inheritance?' and wounded him in the neck. the attendant fled; der wart, who had never thought murder was to be a part of the scheme, stood aghast, but the other two fell on the unhappy albrecht, and each gave him a mortal wound, and then all five fled in different directions. the whole horrible affair took place full in view of leopold and the army on the other side of the river, and when it became possible for any of them to cross, they found that the emperor had just expired, with his head in the lap of a poor woman. the murderers escaped into the swiss mountains, expecting shelter there; but the stout, honest men of the cantons were resolved not to have any connection with assassins, and refused to protect them. johann himself, after long and miserable wanderings in disguise, bitterly repented, owned his crime to the pope, and was received into a convent; eschenbach escaped, and lived fifteen years as a cowherd. the others all fell into the hands of the sons and daughters of albrecht, and woeful was the revenge that was taken upon them, and upon their innocent families and retainers. that leopold, who had seen his father slain before his eyes, should have been deeply incensed, was not wonderful, and his elder brother frederick, as duke of austria, was charged with the execution of justice; but both brothers were horribly savage and violent in their proceedings, and their sister agnes surpassed them in her atrocious thirst for vengeance. she was the wife of the king of hungary, very clever and discerning, and also supposed to be very religious, but all better thoughts were swept away by her furious passion. she had nearly strangled eschenbach's infant son with her own bare hands, when he was rescued from her by her own soldiers, and when she was watching the beheading of sixty-three vassals of another of the murderers, she repeatedly exclaimed, 'now i bathe in may dew.' once, indeed, she met with a stern rebuke. a hermit, for whom she had offered to build a convent, answered her, 'woman, god is not served by shedding innocent blood and by building convents out of the plunder of families, but by compassion and forgiveness of injuries.' rudolf von der wart received the horrible sentence of being broken on the wheel. on his trial the emperor's attendant declared that der wart had attacked albert with his dagger, and the cry, 'how long will ye suffer this carrion to sit on horseback?' but he persisted to the last that he had been taken by surprise by the murder. however, there was no mercy for him; and, by the express command of queen agnes, after he had been bound upon one wheel, and his limbs broken by heavy blows from the executioner, he was fastened to another wheel, which was set upon a pole, where he was to linger out the remaining hours of his life. his young wife, gertrude, who had clung to him through all the trial, was torn away and carried off to the castle of kyburg; but she made her escape at dusk, and found her way, as night came on, to the spot where her husband hung still living upon the wheel. that night of agony was described in a letter ascribed to gertrude herself. the guard left to watch fled at her approach, and she prayed beneath the scaffold, and then, heaping some heavy logs of wood together, was able to climb up near enough to embrace him and stroke back the hair from his face, whilst he entreated her to leave him, lest she should be found there, and fall under the cruel revenge of the queen, telling her that thus it would be possible to increase his suffering. 'i will die with you,' she said, 'tis for that i came, and no power shall force me from you;' and she prayed for the one mercy she hoped for, speedy death for her husband. in mrs. hemans' beautiful words- 'and bid me not depart,' she cried, 'my rudolf, say not so; this is no time to quit thy side, peace, peace, i cannot go! hath the world aught for me to fear when death is on thy brow? the world! what means it? mine is here! i will not leave thee now. 'i have been with thee in thine hour of glory and of bliss; doubt not its memory's living power to strengthen me through this. and thou, mine honor'd love and true, bear on, bear nobly on; we have the blessed heaven in view, whose rest shall soon be won.' when day began to break, the guard returned, and gertrude took down her stage of wood and continued kneeling at the foot of the pole. crowds of people came to look, among them the wife of one of the officials, whom gertrude implored to intercede that her husband's sufferings might be ended; but though this might not be, some pitied her, and tried to give her wine and confections, which she could not touch. the priest came and exhorted rudolf to confess the crime, but with a great effort he repeated his former statement of innocence. a band of horsemen rode by. among them was the young prince leopold and his sister agnes herself, clad as a knight. they were very angry at the compassion shown by the crowd, and after frightfully harsh language commanded that gertrude should be dragged away; but one of the nobles interceded for her, and when she had been carried away to a little distance her entreaties were heard, and she was allowed to break away and come back to her husband. the priest blessed gertrude, gave her his hand and said, 'be faithful unto death, and god will give you the crown of life,' and she was no further molested. night came on, and with it a stormy wind, whose howling mingled with the voice of her prayers, and whistled in the hair of the sufferer. one of the guard brought her a cloak. she climbed on the wheel, and spread the covering over her husband's limbs; then fetched some water in her shoe, and moistened his lips with it, sustaining him above all with her prayers, and exhortations to look to the joys beyond. he had ceased to try to send her away, and thanked her for the comfort she gave him. and still she watched when morning came again, and noon passed over her, and it was verging to evening, when for the last time he moved his head; and she raised herself so as to be close to him. with a smile, he murmured, 'gertrude, this is faithfulness till death,' and died. she knelt down to thank god for having enabled her to remain for that last breath- 'while even as o'er a martyr's grave she knelt on that sad spot, and, weeping, blessed the god who gave strength to forsake it not!' she found shelter in a convent at basle, where she spent the rest of her life in a quiet round of prayer and good works; till the time came when her widowed heart should find its true rest for ever. what is better than slaying a dragon 1332 the next story we have to tell is so strange and wild, that it would seem better to befit the cloudy times when history had not yet been disentangled from fable, than the comparatively clear light of the fourteenth century. it took place in the island of rhodes. this greek isle had become the home of the knights of st. john, or hospitaliers, an order of sworn brethren who had arisen at the time of the crusades. at first they had been merely monks, who kept open house for the reception of the poor penniless pilgrims who arrived at jerusalem in need of shelter, and often of nursing and healing. the good monks not only fed and housed them, but did their best to cure the many diseases that they would catch in the toilsome journey in that feverish climate; and thus it has come to pass that the word hospitium, which in latin only means an inn, has, in modern languages, given birth, on the one hand, to hotel, or lodging house, on the other, to hospital, or house of healing. the hospital at jerusalem was called after st. john the almoner, a charitable bishop of old, and the brethren were hospitaliers. by and by, when the first crusade was over, and there was a great need of warriors to maintain the christian cause in jerusalem, the hospitaliers thought it a pity that so many strong arms should be prevented from exerting themselves, by the laws that forbade the clergy to do battle, and they obtained permission from the pope to become warriors as well as monks. they were thus all in one--knights, priests, and nurses; their monasteries were both castles and hospitals; and the sick pilgrim or wounded crusader was sure of all the best tendance and medical care that the times could afford, as well as of all the ghostly comfort and counsel that he might need, and, if he recovered, he was escorted safely down to the seashore by a party strong enough to protect him from the hordes of robber arabs. all this was for charity's sake, and without reward. surely the constitution of the order was as golden as its badge--the eight-pointed cross--which the brethren wore round their neck. they wore it also in white over their shoulder upon a black mantle. and the knights who had been admitted to the full honors of the order had a scarlet surcoat, likewise with the white cross, over their armor. the whole brotherhood was under the command of a grand master, who was elected in a chapter of all the knights, and to whom all vowed to render implicit obedience. good service in all their three capacities had been done by the order as long as the crusaders were able to keep a footing in the holy land; but they were driven back step by step, and at last, in 1291, their last stronghold at acre was taken, after much desperate fighting, and the remnant of the hospitaliers sailed away to the isle of cyprus, where, after a few years, they recruited their forces, and, in 1307, captured the island of rhodes, which had been a nest of greek and mahometan pirates. here they remained, hoping for a fresh crusade to recover the holy sepulcher, and in the meantime fulfilling their old mission as the protectors and nurses of the weak. all the mediterranean sea was infested by corsairs from the african coast and the greek isles, and these brave knights, becoming sailors as well as all they had been before, placed their red flag with its white cross at the masthead of many a gallant vessel that guarded the peaceful traveler, hunted down the cruel pirate, and brought home his christian slave, rescued from laboring at the oar, to the hospital for rest and tendance. or their treasures were used in redeeming the captives in the pirate cities. no knight of st. john might offer any ransom for himself save his sword and scarf; but for the redemption of their poor fellow christians their wealth was ready, and many a captive was released from toiling in algiers or tripoli, or still worse, from rowing the pirate vessels, chained to the oar, between the decks, and was restored to health and returned to his friends, blessing the day he had been brought into the curving harbour of rhodes, with the fine fortified town of churches and monasteries. some eighteen years after the conquest of rhodes, the whole island was filled with dismay by the ravages of an enormous creature, living in a morass at the foot of mount st. stephen, about two miles from the city of rhodes. tradition calls it a dragon, and whether it were a crocodile or a serpent is uncertain. there is reason to think that the monsters of early creation were slow in becoming extinct, or it is not impossible that either a crocodile or a python might have been brought over by storms or currents from africa, and have grown to a more formidable size than usual in solitude among the marshes, while the island was changing owners. the reptile, whatever it might be, was the object of extreme dread; it devoured sheep and cattle, when they came down to the water, and even young shepherd boys were missing. and the pilgrimage to the chapel of st. stephen, on the hill above its lair, was especially a service of danger, for pilgrims were believed to be snapped up by the dragon before they could mount the hill. several knights had gone out to attempt the destruction of the creature, but not one had returned, and at last the grand master, helion de villeneuve, forbade any further attacks to be made. the dragon is said to have been covered with scales that were perfectly impenetrable either to arrows or any cutting weapon; and the severe loss that encounters with him had cost the order, convinced the grand master that he must be let alone. however, a young knight, named dieudonne de gozon, was by no means willing to acquiesce in the decree; perhaps all the less because it came after he had once gone out in quest of the monster, but had returned, by his own confession, without striking a blow. he requested leave of absence, and went home for a time to his father's castle of gozon, in languedoc; and there he caused a model of the monster to be made. he had observed that the scales did not protect the animal's belly, though it was almost impossible to get a blow at it, owing to its tremendous teeth, and the furious strokes of its length of tail. he therefore caused this part of his model to be made hollow, and filled with food, and obtaining two fierce young mastiffs, he trained them to fly at the under side of the monster, while he mounted his warhorse, and endeavored to accustom it likewise to attack the strange shape without swerving. when he thought the education of horse and dogs complete, he returned to rhodes; but fearing to be prevented from carrying out his design, he did not land at the city, but on a remote part of the coast, whence he made his way to the chapel of st. stephen. there, after having recommended himself to god, he left his two french squires, desiring them to return home if he were slain, but to watch and come to him if he killed the dragon, or were only hurt by it. he then rode down the hillside, and towards the haunt of the dragon. it roused itself at his advance, and at first he charged it with his lance, which was perfectly useless against the scales. his horse was quick to perceive the difference between the true and the false monster, and started back, so that he was forced to leap to the ground; but the two dogs were more staunch, and sprang at the animal, whilst their master struck at it with his sword, but still without reaching a vulnerable part, and a blow from the tail had thrown him down, and the dragon was turning upon him, when the movement left the undefended belly exposed. both mastiffs fastened on it at once, and the knight, regaining his feet, thrust his sword into it. there was a death grapple, and finally the servants, coming down the hill, found their knight lying apparently dead under the carcass of the dragon. when they had extricated him, taken off his helmet, and sprinkled him with water, he recovered, and presently was led into the city amid the ecstatic shouts of the whole populace, who conducted him in triumph to the palace of the grand master. we have seen how titus manlius was requited by his father for his breach of discipline. it was somewhat in the same manner that helion de villeneuve received dieudonne. we borrow schiller's beautiful version of the conversation that took place, as the young knight, pale, with his black mantle rent, his shining armor dinted, his scarlet surcoat stained with blood, came into the knights' great hall. 'severe and grave was the master's brow, quoth he, 'a hero bold art thou, by valor 't is that knights are known; a valiant spirit hast thou shown; but the first duty of a knight, now tell, who vows for christ to fight and bears the cross on his coat of mail.' the listeners all with fear grew pale, while, bending lowly, spake the knight, his cheeks with blushes burning, 'he who the cross would bear aright obedience must be learning.' even after hearing the account of the conflict, the grand master did not abate his displeasure. 'my son, the spoiler of the land lies slain by thy victorious hand thou art the people's god, but so thou art become thine order's foe; a deadlier foe thine heart has bred than this which by thy hand is dead, that serpent still the heart defiling to ruin and to strife beguiling, it is that spirit rash and bold, that scorns the bands of order; rages against them uncontrolled till earth is in disorder. 'courage by saracens is shown, submission is the christian's own; and where our saviour, high and holy, wandered a pilgrim poor and lowly upon that ground with mystery fraught, the fathers of our order taught the duty hardest to fulfil is to give up your own self-will thou art elate with glory vain. away then from my sight! who can his saviour's yoke disdain bears not his cross aright.' 'an angry cry burst from the crowd, the hall rang with their tumult loud; each knightly brother prayed for grace. the victor downward bent his face, aside his cloak in silence laid, kissed the grand master's hand, nor stayed. the master watched him from the hall, then summoned him with loving call, 'come to embrace me, noble son, thine is the conquest of the soul; take up the cross, now truly won, by meekness and by self-control.' the probation of dieudonne is said to have been somewhat longer than the poem represents, but after the claims of discipline had been established, he became a great favorite with stern old villeneuve, and the dragon's head was set up over the gate of the city, where thèvenot professed to have seen it in the seventeenth century, and said that it was larger than that of a horse, with a huge mouth and teeth and very large eyes. the name of rhodes is said to come from a phoenician word, meaning a serpent, and the greeks called this isle of serpents, which is all in favor of the truth of the story. but, on the other hand, such traditions often are prompted by the sight of the fossil skeletons of the dragons of the elder world, and are generally to be met with where such minerals prevail as are found in the northern part of rhodes. the tale is disbelieved by many, but it is hard to suppose it an entire invention, though the description of the monster may have been exaggerated. dieudonne de gozon was elected to the grand mastership after the death of villeneuve, and is said to have voted for himself. if so, it seems as if he might have had, in his earlier days, an overweening opinion of his own abilities. however, he was an excellent grand master, a great soldier, and much beloved by all the poor peasants of the island, to whom he was exceedingly kind. he died in 1353, and his tomb is said to have been the only inscribed with these words, 'here lies the dragon slayer.' the keys of calais 1347 nowhere does the continent of europe approach great britain so closely as at the straits of dover, and when our sovereigns were full of the vain hope of obtaining the crown of france, or at least of regaining the great possessions that their forefathers has owned as french nobles, there was no spot so coveted by them as the fortress of calais, the possession of which gave an entrance into france. thus it was that when, in 1346, edward iii. had beaten philippe vi. at the battle of crecy, the first use he made of his victory was to march upon calais, and lay siege to it. the walls were exceedingly strong and solid, mighty defenses of masonry, of huge thickness and like rocks for solidity, guarded it, and the king knew that it would be useless to attempt a direct assault. indeed, during all the middle ages, the modes of protecting fortifications were far more efficient than the modes of attacking them. the walls could be made enormously massive, the towers raised to a great height, and the defenders so completely sheltered by battlements that they could not easily be injured and could take aim from the top of their turrets, or from their loophole windows. the gates had absolute little castles of their own, a moat flowed round the walls full of water, and only capable of being crossed by a drawbridge, behind which the portcullis, a grating armed beneath with spikes, was always ready to drop from the archway of the gate and close up the entrance. the only chance of taking a fortress by direct attack was to fill up the moat with earth and faggots, and then raise ladders against the walls; or else to drive engines against the defenses, battering-rams which struck them with heavy beams, mangonels which launched stones, sows whose arched wooden backs protected troops of workmen who tried to undermine the wall, and moving towers consisting of a succession of stages or shelves, filled with soldiers, and with a bridge with iron hooks, capable of being launched from the highest story to the top of the battlements. the besieged could generally disconcert the batteringram by hanging beds or mattresses over the walls to receive the brunt of the blow, the sows could be crushed with heavy stones, the towers burnt by well-directed flaming missiles, the ladders overthrown, and in general the besiegers suffered a great deal more damage than they could inflict. cannon had indeed just been brought into use at the battle of crecy, but they only consisted of iron bars fastened together with hoops, and were as yet of little use, and thus there seemed to be little danger to a well-guarded city from any enemy outside the walls. king edward arrived before the place with all his victorious army early in august, his good knights and squires arrayed in glittering steel armor, covered with surcoats richly embroidered with their heraldic bearings; his stout men-at-arms, each of whom was attended by three bold followers; and his archers, with their crossbows to shoot bolts, and longbows to shoot arrows of a yard long, so that it used to be said that each went into battle with three men's lives under his girdle, namely, the three arrows he kept there ready to his hand. with the king was his son, edward, prince of wales, who had just won the golden spurs of knighthood so gallantly at crecy, when only in his seventeenth year, and likewise the famous hainault knight, sir walter mauny, and all that was noblest and bravest in england. this whole glittering army, at their head the king's great royal standard bearing the golden lilies of france quartered with the lions of england, and each troop guided by the square banner, swallow-tailed pennon or pointed pennoncel of their leader, came marching to the gates of calais, above which floated the blue standard of france with its golden flowers, and with it the banner of the governor, sir jean de vienne. a herald, in a rich long robe embroidered with the arms of england, rode up to the gate, a trumpet sounding before him, and called upon sir jean de vienne to give up the place to edward, king of england, and of france, as he claimed to be. sir jean made answer that he held the town for philippe, king of france, and that he would defend it to the last; the herald rode back again and the english began the siege of the city. at first they only encamped, and the people of calais must have seen the whole plain covered with the white canvas tents, marshalled round the ensigns of the leaders, and here and there a more gorgeous one displaying the colours of the owner. still there was no attack upon the walls. the warriors were to be seen walking about in the leathern suits they wore under their armor; or if a party was to be seen with their coats of mail on, helmet on head, and lance in hand, it was not against calais that they came; they rode out into the country, and by and by might be seen driving back before them herds of cattle and flocks of sheep or pigs that they had seized and taken away from the poor peasants; and at night the sky would show red lights where farms and homesteads had been set on fire. after a time, in front of the tents, the english were to be seen hard at work with beams and boards, setting up huts for themselves, and thatching them over with straw or broom. these wooden houses were all ranged in regular streets, and there was a marketplace in the midst, whither every saturday came farmers and butchers to sell corn and meat, and hay for the horses; and the english merchants and flemish weavers would come by sea and by land to bring cloth, bread, weapons, and everything that could be needed to be sold in this warlike market. the governor, sir jean de vienne, began to perceive that the king did not mean to waste his men by making vain attacks on the strong walls of calais, but to shut up the entrance by land, and watch the coast by sea so as to prevent any provisions from being taken in, and so to starve him into surrendering. sir jean de vienne, however, hoped that before he should be entirely reduced by famine, the king of france would be able to get together another army and come to his relief, and at any rate he was determined to do his duty, and hold out for his master to the last. but as food was already beginning to grow scarce, he was obliged to turn out such persons as could not fight and had no stores of their own, and so one wednesday morning he caused all the poor to be brought together, men, women, and children, and sent them all out of the town, to the number of 1,700. it was probably the truest mercy, for he had no food to give them, and they could only have starved miserably within the town, or have hindered him from saving it for his sovereign; but to them it was dreadful to be driven out of house and home, straight down upon the enemy, and they went along weeping and wailing, till the english soldiers met them and asked why they had come out. they answered that they had been put out because they had nothing to eat, and their sorrowful, famished looks gained pity for them. king edward sent orders that not only should they go safely through his camp, but that they should all rest, and have the first hearty dinner that they had eaten for many a day, and he sent every one a small sum of money before they left the camp, so that many of them went on their way praying aloud for the enemy who had been so kind to them. a great deal happened whilst king edward kept watch in his wooden town and the citizens of calais guarded their walls. england was invaded by king david ii. of scotland, with a great army, and the good queen philippa, who was left to govern at home in the name of her little son lionel, assembled all the forces that were left at home, and crossed the straits of dover, and a messenger brought king edward letters from his queen to say that the scots army had been entirely defeated at nevil's cross, near durham, and that their king was a prisoner, but that he had been taken by a squire named john copeland, who would not give him up to her. king edward sent letters to john copeland to come to him at calais, and when the squire had made his journey, the king took him by the hand saying, 'ha! welcome, my squire, who by his valor has captured our adversary the king of scotland.' copeland, falling on one knee, replied, 'if god, out of his great kindness, has given me the king of scotland, no one ought to be jealous of it, for god can, when he pleases, send his grace to a poor squire as well as to a great lord. sir, do not take it amiss if i did not surrender him to the orders of my lady the queen, for i hold my lands of you, and my oath is to you, not to her.' the king was not displeased with his squire's sturdiness, but made him a knight, gave him a pension of 500l. a year, and desired him to surrender his prisoner to the queen, as his own representative. this was accordingly done, and king david was lodged in the tower of london. soon after, three days before all saint's day, there was a large and gay fleet to be seen crossing from the white cliffs of dover, and the king, his son, and his knights rode down to the landing place to welcome plump, fair haired queen philippa, and all her train of ladies, who had come in great numbers to visit their husbands, fathers, or brothers in the wooden town. then there was a great court, and numerous feasts and dances, and the knights and squires were constantly striving who could do the bravest deed of prowess to please the ladies. the king of france had placed numerous knights and men-at-arms in the neighboring towns and castles, and there were constant fights whenever the english went out foraging, and many bold deeds that were much admired were done. the great point was to keep provisions out of the town, and there was much fighting between the french who tried to bring in supplies, and the english who intercepted them. very little was brought in by land, and sir jean de vienne and his garrison would have been quite starved but for two sailors of abbeville, named marant and mestriel, who knew the coast thoroughly, and often, in the dark autumn evenings, would guide in a whole fleet of little boats, loaded with bread and meat for the starving men within the city. they were often chased by king edward's vessels, and were sometimes very nearly taken, but they always managed to escape, and thus they still enabled the garrison to hold out. so all the winter passed, christmas was kept with brilliant feastings and high merriment by the king and his queen in their wooden palace outside, and with lean cheeks and scanty fare by the besieged within. lent was strictly observed perforce by the besieged, and easter brought a betrothal in the english camp; a very unwilling one on the part of the bridegroom, the young count of flanders, who loved the french much better than the english, and had only been tormented into giving his consent by his unruly vassals because they depended on the wool of english sheep for their cloth works. so, though king edward's daughter isabel was a beautiful fair-haired girl of fifteen, the young count would scarcely look at her; and in the last week before the marriage day, while her robes and her jewels were being prepared, and her father and mother were arranging the presents they should make to all their court on the wedding day, the bridegroom, when out hawking, gave his attendants the slip, and galloped off to paris, where he was welcomed by king philippe. this made edward very wrathful, and more than ever determined to take calais. about whitsuntide he completed a great wooden castle upon the seashore, and placed in it numerous warlike engines, with forty men-atarms and 200 archers, who kept such a watch upon the harbour that not even the two abbeville sailors could enter it, without having their boats crushed and sunk by the great stones that the mangonels launched upon them. the townspeople began to feel what hunger really was, but their spirits were kept up by the hope that their king was at last collecting an army for their rescue. and philippe did collect all his forces, a great and noble army, and came one night to the hill of sangate, just behind the english army, the knights' armor glancing and their pennons flying in the moonlight, so as to be a beautiful sight to the hungry garrison who could see the white tents pitched upon the hillside. still there were but two roads by which the french could reach their friends in the town--one along the seacoast, the other by a marshy road higher up the country, and there was but one bridge by which the river could be crossed. the english king's fleet could prevent any troops from passing along the coast road, the earl of derby guarded the bridge, and there was a great tower, strongly fortified, close upon calais. there were a few skirmishes, but the french king, finding it difficult to force his way to relieve the town, sent a party of knights with a challenge to king edward to come out of his camp and do battle upon a fair field. to this edward made answer, that he had been nearly a year before calais, and had spent large sums of money on the siege, and that he had nearly become master of the place, so that he had no intention of coming out only to gratify his adversary, who must try some other road if he could not make his way in by that before him. three days were spent in parleys, and then, without the slightest effort to rescue the brave, patient men within the town, away went king philippe of france, with all his men, and the garrison saw the host that had crowded the hill of sangate melt away like a summer cloud. august had come again, and they had suffered privation for a whole year for the sake of the king who deserted them at their utmost need. they were in so grievous a state of hunger and distress that the hardiest could endure no more, for ever since whitsuntide no fresh provisions had reached them. the governor, therefore, went to the battlements and made signs that he wished to hold a parley, and the king appointed lord basset and sir walter mauny to meet him, and appoint the terms of surrender. the governor owned that the garrison was reduced to the greatest extremity of distress, and requested that the king would be contented with obtaining the city and fortress, leaving the soldiers and inhabitants to depart in peace. but sir walter mauny was forced to make answer that the king, his lord, was so much enraged at the delay and expense that calais had cost him, that he would only consent to receive the whole on unconditional terms, leaving him free to slay, or to ransom, or make prisoners whomsoever he pleased, and he was known to consider that there was a heavy reckoning to pay, both for the trouble the siege had cost him and the damage the calesians had previously done to his ships. the brave answer was: 'these conditions are too hard for us. we are but a small number of knights and squires, who have loyally served our lord and master as you would have done, and have suffered much ill and disquiet, but we will endure far more than any man has done in such a post, before we consent that the smallest boy in the town shall fare worse than ourselves. i therefore entreat you, for pity's sake, to return to the king and beg him to have compassion, for i have such an opinion of his gallantry that i think he will alter his mind.' the king's mind seemed, however, sternly made up; and all that sir walter mauny and the barons of the council could obtain from him was that he would pardon the garrison and townsmen on condition that six of the chief citizens should present themselves to him, coming forth with bare feet and heads, with halters round their necks, carrying the keys of the town, and becoming absolutely his own to punish for their obstinacy as he should think fit. on hearing this reply, sir jean de vienne begged sir walter mauny to wait till he could consult the citizens, and, repairing to the marketplace, he caused a great bell to be rung, at sound of which all the inhabitants came together in the town hall. when he told them of these hard terms he could not refrain from weeping bitterly, and wailing and lamentation arose all round him. should all starve together, or sacrifice their best and most honored after all suffering in common so long? then a voice was heard; it was that of the richest burgher in the town, eustache de st. pierre. 'messieurs high and low,' he said, 'it would be a sad pity to suffer so many people to die through hunger, if it could be prevented; and to hinder it would be meritorious in the eyes of our saviour. i have such faith and trust in finding grace before god, if i die to save my townsmen, that i name myself as the first of the six.' as the burgher ceased, his fellow townsmen wept aloud, and many, amid tears and groans, threw themselves at his feet in a transport of grief and gratitude. another citizen, very rich and respected, rose up and said, 'i will be second to my comrade, eustache.' his name was jean daire. after him, jacques wissant, another very rich man, offered himself as companion to these, who were both his cousins; and his brother pierre would not be left behind: and two more, unnamed, made up this gallant band of men willing to offer their lives for the rescue of their fellow townsmen. sir jean de vienne mounted a little horse--for he had been wounded, and was still lame--and came to the gate with them, followed by all the people of the town, weeping and wailing, yet, for their own sakes and their children's not daring to prevent the sacrifice. the gates were opened, the governor and the six passed out, and the gates were again shut behind them. sir jean then rode up to sir walter mauny, and told him how these burghers had voluntarily offered themselves, begging him to do all in his power to save them; and sir walter promised with his whole heart to plead their cause. de vienne then went back into the town, full of heaviness and anxiety; and the six citizens were led by sir walter to the presence of the king, in his full court. they all knelt down, and the foremost said: 'most gallant king, you see before you six burghers of calais, who have all been capital merchants, and who bring you the keys of the castle and town. we yield ourselves to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of the inhabitants of calais, who have suffered much distress and misery. condescend, therefore, out of your nobleness of mind, to have pity on us.' strong emotion was excited among all the barons and knights who stood round, as they saw the resigned countenances, pale and thin with patiently endured hunger, of these venerable men, offering themselves in the cause of their fellow townsmen. many tears of pity were shed; but the king still showed himself implacable, and commanded that they should be led away, and their heads stricken off. sir walter mauny interceded for them with all his might, even telling the king that such an execution would tarnish his honor, and that reprisals would be made on his own garrisons; and all the nobles joined in entreating pardon for the citizens, but still without effect; and the headsman had been actually sent for, when queen philippa, her eyes streaming with tears, threw herself on her knees amongst the captives, and said, 'ah, gentle sir, since i have crossed the sea, with much danger, to see you, i have never asked you one favor; now i beg as a boon to myself, for the sake of the son of the blessed mary, and for your love to me, that you will be merciful to these men!' for some time the king looked at her in silence; then he exclaimed: 'dame, dame, would that you had been anywhere than here! you have entreated in such a manner that i cannot refuse you; i therefore give these men to you, to do as you please with.' joyfully did queen philippa conduct the six citizens to her own apartments, where she made them welcome, sent them new garments, entertained them with a plentiful dinner, and dismissed them each with a gift of six nobles. after this, sir walter mauny entered the city, and took possession of it; retaining sir jean de vienne and the other knights and squires till they should ransom themselves, and sending out the old french inhabitants; for the king was resolved to people the city entirely of english, in order to gain a thoroughly strong hold of this first step in france. the king and queen took up their abode in the city; and the houses of jean daire were, it appears, granted to the queen--perhaps, because she considered the man himself as her charge, and wished to secure them for him--and her little daughter margaret was, shortly after, born in one of his houses. eustache de st. pierre was taken into high favor, and placed in charge of the new citizens whom the king placed in the city. indeed, as this story is told by no chronicler but froissart, some have doubted of it, and thought the violent resentment thus imputed to edward iii inconsistent with his general character; but it is evident that the men of calais had given him strong provocation by attacks on his shipping--piracies which are not easily forgiven--and that he considered that he had a right to make an example of them. it is not unlikely that he might, after all, have intended to forgive them, and have given the queen the grace of obtaining their pardon, so as to excuse himself from the fulfillment of some over-hasty threat. but, however this may have been, nothing can lessen the glory of the six grave and patient men who went forth, by their own free will, to meet what might be a cruel and disgraceful death, in order to obtain the safety of their fellowtownsmen. very recently, in the summer of 1864, an instance has occurred of selfdevotion worthy to be recorded with that of eustache de st. pierre. the city of palmyra, in tennessee, one of the southern states of america, had been occupied by a federal army. an officer of this army was assassinated, and, on the cruel and mistaken system of taking reprisals, the general arrested ten of the principal inhabitants, and condemned them to be shot, as deeming the city responsible for the lives of his officers. one of them was the highly respected father of a large family, and could ill be spared. a young man, not related to him, upon this, came forward and insisted on being taken in his stead, as a less valuable life. and great as was the distress of his friend, this generous substitution was carried out, and not only spared a father to his children, but showed how the sharpest strokes of barbarity can still elicit light from the dark stone--light that but for these blows might have slept unseen. the battle of sempach 1397 nothing in history has been more remarkable than the union of the cantons and cities of the little republic of switzerland. of differing races, languages, and, latterly, even religions--unlike in habits, tastes, opinions and costumes--they have, however, been held together, as it were, by pressure from without, and one spirit of patriotism has kept the little mountain republic complete for five hundred years. originally the lands were fiefs of the holy roman empire, the city municipalities owning the emperor for their lord, and the great family of hapsburg, in whom the empire became at length hereditary, was in reality swiss, the county that gave them title lying in the canton of aargau. rodolf of hapsburg was elected leader of the burghers of zurich, long before he was chosen to the empire; and he continued a swiss in heart, retaining his mountaineer's open simplicity and honesty to the end of his life. privileges were granted by him to the cities and the nobles, and the country was loyal and prosperous in his reign. his son albert, the same who was slain by his nephew johann, as beforementioned, permitted those tyrannies of his bailiffs which goaded the swiss to their celebrated revolt, and commenced the long series of wars with the house of hapsburgor, as it was now termed, of austria--which finally established their independence. on the one side, the dukes of austria and their ponderous german chivalry wanted to reduce the cantons and cities to vassalage, not to the imperial crown, a distant and scarcely felt obligation, but to the duchy of austria; on the other, the hardy mountain peasants and stout burghers well knew their true position, and were aware that to admit the austrian usurpation would expose their young men to be drawn upon for the duke's wars, cause their property to be subject to perpetual rapacious exactions, and fill their hills with castles for ducal bailiffs, who would be little better than licensed robbers. no wonder, then, that the generations of william tell and arnold melchthal bequeathed a resolute purpose of resistance to their descendants. it was in 1397, ninety years since the first assertion of swiss independence, when leopold the handsome, duke of austria, a bold but misproud and violent prince, involved himself in one of the constant quarrels with the swiss that were always arising on account of the insulting exactions of toll and tribute in the austrian border cities. a sharp war broke out, and the swiss city of lucerne took the opportunity of destroying the austrian castle of rothemburg, where the tolls had been particularly vexatious, and of admitting to their league the cities of sempach and richensee. leopold and all the neighboring nobles united their forces. hatred and contempt of the swiss, as low-born and presumptuous, spurred them on; and twenty messengers reached the duke in one day, with promises of support, in his march against sempach and lucerne. he had sent a large force in the direction of zurich with johann bonstetten, and advanced himself with 4,000 horse and 1,400 foot upon sempach. zurich undertook its own defense, and the forest cantons sent their brave peasants to the support of lucerne and sempach, but only to the number of 1,300, who, on the 9th of july, took post in the woods around the little lake of sempach. meanwhile, leopold's troops rode round the walls of the little city, insulting the inhabitants, one holding up a halter, which he said was for the chief magistrate; and another, pointing to the reckless waste that his comrades were perpetrating on the fields, shouted, 'send a breakfast to the reapers.' the burgomaster pointed to the wood where his allies lay hid, and answered, 'my masters of lucerne and their friends will bring it.' the story of that day was told by one of the burghers who fought in the ranks of lucerne, a shoemaker, named albert tchudi, who was both a brave warrior and a master-singer; and as his ballad was translated by another master-singer, sir walter scott, and is the spirited record of an eyewitness, we will quote from him some of his descriptions of the battle and its golden deed. the duke's wiser friends proposed to wait till he could be joined by bonstetten and the troops who had gone towards zurich, and the baron von hasenburg (i.e. hare-rock) strongly urged this prudent counsel; but- 'o, hare-castle, thou heart of hare!' fierce oxenstiern he cried, 'shalt see then how the game will fare,' the taunted knight replied.' 'this very noon,' said the younger knight to the duke, 'we will deliver up to you this handful of villains.' 'and thus they to each other said, 'yon handful down to hew will be no boastful tale to tell the peasants are so few.' characteristically enough, the doughty cobbler describes how the first execution that took place was the lopping off the long-peaked toes of the boots that the gentlemen wore chained to their knees, and which would have impeded them on foot; since it had been decided that the horses were too much tired to be serviceable in the action. 'there was lacing then of helmets bright, and closing ranks amain, the peaks they hewed from their boot points might well nigh load a wain.' they were drawn up in a solid compact body, presenting an unbroken line of spears, projecting beyond the wall of gay shields and polished impenetrable armor. the swiss were not only few in number, but armor was scarce among them; some had only boards fastened on their arms by way of shields, some had halberts, which had been used by their fathers at the battle of morgarten, others two-handed swords and battleaxes. they drew themselves up in the form of a wedge and 'the gallant swiss confederates then they prayed to god aloud, and he displayed his rainbow fair, against a swarthy cloud.' then they rushed upon the serried spears, but in vain. 'the game was nothing sweet.' the banner of lucerne was in the utmost danger, the landamman was slain, and sixty of his men, and not an austrian had been wounded. the flanks of the austrian host began to advance so as to enclose the small peasant force, and involve it in irremediable destruction. a moment of dismay and stillness ensued. then arnold von winkelried of unterwalden, with an eagle glance saw the only means of saving his country, and, with the decision of a man who dares by dying to do all things, shouted aloud: 'i will open a passage.' 'i have a virtuous wife at home, a wife and infant son: i leave them to my country's care, the field shall yet be won!' he rushed against the austrian band in desperate career, and with his body, breast, and hand, bore down each hostile spear; four lances splintered on his crest, six shivered in his side, still on the serried files he pressed, he broke their ranks and died!' the very weight of the desperate charge of this self-devoted man opened a breach in the line of spears. in rushed the swiss wedge, and the weight of the nobles' armor and length of their spears was only encumbering. they began to fall before the swiss blows, and duke leopold was urged to fly. 'i had rather die honorably than live with dishonor,' he said. he saw his standard bearer struck to the ground, and seizing his banner from his hand, waved it over his head, and threw himself among the thickest of the foe. his corpse was found amid a heap of slain, and no less then 2000 of his companions perished with him, of whom a third are said to have been counts, barons and knights. 'then lost was banner, spear and shield at sempach in the flight; the cloister vaults at konigsfeldt hold many an austrian knight.' the swiss only lost 200; but, as they were spent with the excessive heat of the july sun, they did not pursue their enemies. they gave thanks on the battlefield to the god of victories, and the next day buried the dead, carrying duke leopold and twenty-seven of his most illustrious companions to the abbey of konigsfeldt, where they buried him in the old tomb of his forefathers, the lords of aargau, who had been laid there in the good old times, before the house of hapsburg had grown arrogant with success. as to the master-singer, he tells us of himself that 'a merry man was he, i wot, the night he made the lay, returning from the bloody spot, where god had judged the day.' on every 9th of july subsequently, the people of the country have been wont to assemble on the battlefield, around four stone crosses which mark the spot. a priest from a pulpit in the open air gives a thanksgiving sermon on the victory that ensured the freedom of switzerland, and another reads the narrative of the battle, and the roll of the brave 200, who, after winkelried's example, gave their lives in the cause. all this is in the face of the mountains and the lake now lying in summer stillness, and the harvest fields whose crops are secure from marauders, and the congregation then proceed to the small chapel, the walls of which are painted with the deed of arnold von winkelried, and the other distinguished achievements of the confederates, and masses are sung for the souls of those who were slain. no wonder that men thus nurtured in the memory of such actions were, even to the fall of the french monarchy, among the most trustworthy soldiery of europe. the constant prince 1433 the illustrious days of portugal were during the century and a half of the dynasty termed the house of aviz, because its founder, dom joao i. had been grand master of the military order of aviz. his right to the throne was questionable, or more truly null, and he had only obtained the crown from the desire of the nation to be independent of castile, and by the assistance of our own john of gaunt, whose daughter, philippa of lancaster, became his wife, thus connecting the glories of his line with our own house of plantagenet. philippa was greatly beloved in portugal, and was a most noble-minded woman, who infused her own spirit into her children. she had five sons, and when they all had attained an age to be admitted to the order of knighthood, their father proposed to give a grand tournament in which they might evince their prowess. this, however, seemed but play to the high-spirited youths, who had no doubt fed upon the story of the manner in which their uncle, the black prince, whose name was borne by the eldest, had won his spurs at crecy. their entreaty was, not to be carpet--knights dubbed in time of peace, and king joao on the other hand objected to entering on a war merely for the sake of knighting his sons. at last dom fernando, the youngest of the brothers, a lad of fourteen, proposed that their knighthood should be earned by an expedition to take ceuta from the moors. a war with the infidel never came amiss, and was in fact regarded as a sacred duty; moreover, ceuta was a nest of corsairs who infested the whole mediterranean coast. up to the nineteenth century the seaports along the african coast of the mediterranean were the hives of pirates, whose small rapid vessels were the terror of every unarmed ship that sailed in those waters, and whose descents upon the coasts of spain, france, and italy rendered life and property constantly insecure. a regular system of kidnapping prevailed; prisoners had their fixed price, and were carried off to labour in the african dockyards, or to be chained to the benches of the moorish ships which their oars propelled, until either a ransom could be procured from their friends, or they could be persuaded to become renegades, or death put an end to their sufferings. a captivity among the moors was by no means an uncommon circumstance even in the lives of englishmen down to the eighteenth century, and pious persons frequently bequeathed sums of money for the ransom of the poorer captives. ceuta, perched upon the southern pillar of hercules, was one of the most perilous of these dens of robbery, and to seize it might well appear a worthy action, not only to the fiery princes, but to their cautious father. he kept his designs absolutely secret, and contrived to obtain a plan of the town by causing one of his vessels to put in there as in quest of provisions, while, to cover his preparations for war, he sent a public challenge to the count of holland, and a secret message at the same time, with the assurance that it was only a blind. these proceedings were certainly underhand, and partook of treachery; but they were probably excused in the king's own mind by the notion, that no faith was to be kept with unbelievers, and, moreover, such people as the ceutans were likely never to be wanting in the supply of pretexts for attack. just as all was ready, the plague broke out in lisbon, and the queen fell sick of it. her husband would not leave her, and just before her death she sent for all her sons, and gave to each a sword, charging them to defend the widow and orphan, and to fight against the infidel. in the full freshness of their sorrow, the king and his sons set sail from the bay of lagos, in the august of 1415, with 59 galleys, 33 ships of war, and 120 transports; the largest fleet ever yet sent forth by the little kingdom, and the first that had left a peninsular port with the banners and streamers of which the more northern armaments were so profuse. the governor of ceuta, zala ben zala, was not unprepared for the attack, and had collected 5,000 allies to resist the christians; but a great storm having dispersed the fleet on the first day of its appearance, he thought the danger over, and dismissed his friends on the 14th august, however, the whole fleet again appeared, and the king, in a little boat, directed the landing of his men, led by his sons, the infantes duarte and henrique. the moors gave way before them, and they entered the city with 500 men, among the flying enemy, and there, after a period of much danger, were joined by their brother pedro. the three fought their way to a mosque, where they defended themselves till the king with the rest of his army made their way in. zala ben zala fled to the citadel, but, after one assault, quitted it in the night. the christian captives were released, the mosque purified and consecrated as a cathedral, a bishop was appointed, and the king gave the government of the place to dom pedro de menezes, a knight of such known fidelity that the king would not suffer him to take the oath of allegiance. an attempt was made by the moors four years later to recover the place; but the infantes pedro and henrique hurried from portugal to succor menezes, and drove back the besiegers; whereupon the moors murdered their king, abu sayd, on whom they laid the blame of the disaster. on the very day, eighteen years later, of the taking of ceuta, king joao died of the plague at lisbon, on the 14th of august, 1433. duarte came to the throne; and, a few months after, his young brother, fernando, persuaded him into fitting out another expedition to africa, of which tangier should be the object. duarte doubted of the justice of the war, and referred the question to the pope, who decided against it; but the answer came too late, the preparations were made, and the infantes henrique and fernando took the command. henrique was a most enlightened prince, a great mathematician and naval discoverer, but he does not appear to have made good use of his abilities on the present occasion; for, on arriving at ceuta, and reviewing the troops, they proved to have but 8,000, instead of 14,000, as they had intended. still they proceeded, henrique by land and fernando by sea, and laid siege to tangier, which was defended by their old enemy, zala ben zala. everything was against them; their scaling ladders were too short to reach to the top of the walls, and the moors had time to collect in enormous numbers for the relief of the city, under the command of the kings of fez and morocco. the little christian army was caught as in a net, and, after a day's hard fighting, saw the necessity of re-embarking. all was arranged for this to be done at night; but a vile traitor, chaplain to the army, passed over to the moors, and revealed their intention. the beach was guarded, and the retreat cut off. another day of fighting passed, and at night hunger reduced them to eating their horses. it was necessary to come to terms, and messengers were sent to treat with the two kings. the only terms on which the army could be allowed to depart were that one of the infantes should remain as a hostage for the delivery of ceuta to the moors. for this purpose fernando offered himself, though it was exceedingly doubtful whether ceuta would be restored; and the spanish poet, calderon, puts into his mouth a generous message to his brother the king, that they both were christian princes, and that his liberty was not to be weighed in the scale with their father's fairest conquest. henrique was forced thus to leave his brave brother, and return with the remnants of his army to ceuta, where he fell sick with grief and vexation. he sent the fleet home; but it met with a great storm, and many vessels were driven on the coast of andalusia, where, by orders of the king, the battered sailors and defeated soldiers were most kindly and generously treated. dom duarte, having in the meantime found out with how insufficient an army his brothers had been sent forth, had equipped a fresh fleet, the arrival of which at ceuta cheered henrique with hope of rescuing his brother; but it was soon followed by express orders from the king that henrique should give up all such projects and return home. he was obliged to comply, but, unable to look duarte in the face, he retired to his own estates at the algarve. duarte convoked the states-general of the kingdom, to consider whether ceuta should be yielded to purchase his brother's freedom. they decided that the place was too important to be parted with, but undertook to raise any sum of money for the ransom; and if this were not accepted, proposed to ask the pope to proclaim a crusade for his rescue. at first fernando was treated well, and kept at tangier as an honorable prisoner; but disappointment enraged the moors, and he was thrown into a dungeon, starved, and maltreated. all this usage he endured with the utmost calmness and resolution, and could by no means be threatened into entreating for liberty to be won at the cost of the now christian city where his knighthood had been won. his brother duarte meantime endeavored to raise the country for his deliverance; but the plague was still desolating portugal, so that it was impossible to collect an army, and the infection at length seized on the king himself, from a letter which he incautiously opened, and he died, in his thirty-eighth year, in 1438, the sixth year of his reign and the second of his brother's captivity. his successor, affonso v., was a child of six years old, and quarrels and disputes between the queen mother and the infante dom pedro rendered the chance of redeeming the captivity of fernando less and less. the king of castille, and even the moorish king of granada, shocked at his sufferings and touched by his constancy, proposed to unite their forces against tangier for his deliverance; but the effect of this was that zala ben zala made him over to muley xeques, the king of fez, by whom he was thrown into a dungeon without light or air. after a time, he was brought back to daylight, but only to toil among the other christian slaves, to whom he was a model of patience, resignation, and kindness. even his enemies became struck with admiration of his high qualities, and the king of fez declared that he even deserved to be a mahometan! at last, in 1443, fernando's captivity ended, but only by his death. muley xeque caused a tall tower to be erected on his tomb, in memory of the victory of tangier; but in 1473, two sons of muley being made prisoners by the portuguese, one was ransomed for the body of dom fernando, who was then solemnly laid in the vaults of the beautiful abbey of batalha on the field of aljubarota, which had given his father the throne. universal honor attended the name of the constant prince, the portuguese regulus; and seldom as the spanish admire anything portuguese, a fine drama of the poet calderon is founded upon that noble spirit which preferred dreary captivity to the yielding up his father's conquest to the enemies of his country and religion. nor was this constancy thrown away; ceuta remained a christian city. it was held by portugal till the house of aviz was extinguished in dom sebastiao, and since that time has belonged to the crown of spain. the carnival of perth 1435 it was bedtime, and the old vaulted chambers of the dominican monastery at perth echoed with sounds that would seem incongruous in such a home of austerity, but that the disturbed state of scotland rendered it the habit of her kings to attach their palaces to convents, that they themselves might benefit by the 'peace of the church', which was in general accorded to all sacred spots. thus it was that christmas and carnival time of 1435-6 had been spent by the court in the cloisters of perth, and the dance, the song, and the tourney had strangely contrasted with the grave and self-denying habits to which the dominicans were devoted in their neighboring cells. the festive season was nearly at an end, for it was the 20th of february; but the evening had been more than usually gay, and had been spent in games at chess, tables, or backgammon, reading romances of chivalry, harping, and singing. king james himself, brave and handsome, and in the prime of life, was the blithest of the whole joyous party. he was the most accomplished man in his dominions; for though he had been basely kept a prisoner at windsor throughout his boyhood by henry iv of england, an education had been bestowed on him far above what he would have otherwise obtained; and he was naturally a man of great ability, refinement, and strength of character. not only was he a perfect knight on horseback, but in wrestling and running, throwing the hammer, and 'putting the stane', he had scarcely a rival, and he was skilled in all the learned lore of the time, wrote poetry, composed music both sacred and profane, and was a complete minstrel, able to sing beautifully and to play on the harp and organ. his queen, the beautiful joan beaufort, had been the lady of his minstrelsy in the days of his captivity, ever since he had watched her walking on the slopes of windsor park, and wooed her in verses that are still preserved. they had now been eleven years married, and their court was one bright spot of civilization, refinement, and grace, amid the savagery of scotland. and now, after the pleasant social evening, the queen, with her long fair hair unbound, was sitting under the hands of her tire-women, who were preparing her for the nights rest; and the king, in his furred nightgown, was standing before the bright fire on the hearth of the wide chimney, laughing and talking with the attendant ladies. yet dark hints had already been whispered, which might have cast a shadow over that careless mirth. always fierce and vindictive, the scots had been growing more and more lawless and savage ever since the disputed succession of bruce and balliol had unsettled all royal authority, and led to one perpetual war with the english. the twenty years of james's captivity had been the worst of all--almost every noble was a robber chief; scottish borderer preyed upon english borderer, highlander upon lowlander, knight upon traveler, everyone who had armor upon him who had not; each clan was at deadly feud with its neighbour; blood was shed like water from end to end of the miserable land, and the higher the birth of the offender the greater the impunity he claimed. indeed, james himself had been brought next to the throne by one of the most savage and horrible murders ever perpetrated--that of his elder brother, david, by his own uncle; and he himself had probably been only saved from sharing the like fate by being sent out of the kingdom. his earnest words on his return to take the rule of this unhappy realm were these: 'let god but grant me life, and there shall not be a spot in my realm where the key shall not keep the castle, and the bracken bush the cow, though i should lead the life of a dog to accomplish it.' this great purpose had been before james through the eleven years of his reign, and he had worked it out resolutely. the lawless nobles would not brook his ruling hand, and strong and bitter was the hatred that had arisen against him. in many of his transactions he was far from blameless: he was sometimes tempted to craft, sometimes to tyranny; but his object was always a high and kingly one, though he was led by the horrid wickedness of the men he had to deal with more than once to forget that evil is not to be overcome with evil, but with good. in the main, it was his high and uncompromising resolution to enforce the laws upon high and low alike that led to the nobles' conspiracies against him; though, if he had always been true to his purpose of swerving neither to the right nor to the left, he might have avoided the last fatal offence that armed the murderer against his life. the chief misdoers in the long period of anarchy had been his uncles and cousins; nor was it till after his eldest uncle's death that his return home had been possible. with a strong hand had he avenged upon the princes and their followers the many miseries they had inflicted upon his people; and in carrying out these measures he had seized upon the great earldom of strathern, which had descended to one of their party in right of his wife, declaring that it could not be inherited by a female. in this he appears to have acted unjustly, from the strong desire to avail himself by any pretext of an opportunity of breaking the overweening power of the great turbulent nobles; and, to make up for the loss, he created the new earldom of menteith, for the young malise graham, the son of the dispossessed earl. but the proud and vindictive grahams were not thus to be pacified. sir robert graham, the uncle of the young earl, drew off into the highlands, and there formed a conspiracy among other discontented men who hated the resolute government that repressed their violence. men of princely blood joined in the plot, and 300 highland catherans were ready to accompany the expedition that promised the delights of war and plunder. even when the hard-worked king was setting forth to enjoy his holiday at perth, the traitors had fixed upon that spot as the place of his doom; but the scheme was known to so many, that it could not be kept entirely secret, and warnings began to gather round the king. when, on his way to perth, he was about to cross the firth of forth, the wild figure of a highland woman appeared at his bridle rein, and solemnly warned him 'that, if he crossed that water, he would never return alive'. he was struck by the apparition, and bade one of his knights to enquire of her what she meant; but the knight must have been a dullard or a traitor, for he told the king that the woman was either mad or drunk, and no notice was taken of her warning. there was likewise a saying abroad in scotland, that the new year, 1436, should see the death of a king; and this same carnival night, james, while playing at chess with a young friend, whom he was wont to call the king of love, laughingly observed that 'it must be you or i, since there are but two kings in scotland--therefore, look well to yourself'. little did the blithe monarch guess that at that moment one of the conspirators, touched by a moment's misgiving, was hovering round, seeking in vain for an opportunity of giving him warning; that even then his chamberlain and kinsman, sir robert stewart, was enabling the traitors to place boards across the moat for their passage, and to remove the bolts and bars of all the doors in their way. and the highland woman was at the door, earnestly entreating to see the king, if but for one moment! the message was even brought to him, but, alas! he bade her wait till the morrow, and she turned away, declaring that she should never more see his face! and now, as before said, the feast was over, and the king stood, gaily chatting with his wife and her ladies, when the clang of arms was heard, and the glare of torches in the court below flashed on the windows. the ladies flew to secure the doors. alas! the bolts and bars were gone! too late the warnings returned upon the king's mind, and he knew it was he alone who was sought. he tried to escape by the windows, but here the bars were but too firm. then he seized the tongs, and tore up a board in the floor, by which he let himself down into the vault below, just as the murderers came rushing along the passage, slaying on their way a page named walter straiton. there was no bar to the door. yes, there was. catherine douglas, worthy of her name, worthy of the cognizance of the bleeding heart, thrust her arm through the empty staples to gain for her sovereign a few moments more for escape and safety! but though true as steel, the brave arm was not as strong. it was quickly broken. she was thrust fainting aside, and the ruffians rushed in. queen joan stood in the midst of the room, with her hair streaming round her, and her mantle thrown hastily on. some of the wretches even struck and wounded her, but graham called them off, and bade them search for the king. they sought him in vain in every corner of the women's apartments, and dispersed through the other rooms in search of their prey. the ladies began to hope that the citizens and nobles in the town were coming to their help, and that the king might have escaped through an opening that led from the vault into the tennis court. presently, however, the king called to them to draw him up again, for he had not been able to get out of the vault, having a few days before caused the hole to be bricked up, because his tennis balls used to fly into it and be lost. in trying to draw him up by the sheets, elizabeth douglas, another of the ladies, was actually pulled down into the vault; the noise was heard by the assassins, who were still watching outside, and they returned. there is no need to tell of the foul and cruel slaughter that ensued, nor of the barbarous vengeance that visited it. our tale is of golden, not of brazen deeds; and if we have turned our eyes for a moment to the bloody carnival of perth, it is for the sake of the king, who was too upright for his bloodthirsty subjects, and, above all, for that of the noble-hearted lady whose frail arm was the guardian of her sovereign's life in the extremity of peril. in like manner, on the dreadful 6th of october, 1787, when the infuriated mob of paris had been incited by the revolutionary leaders to rush to versailles in pursuit of the royal family, whose absence they fancied deprived them of bread and liberty, a woman shared the honor of saving her sovereign's life, at least for that time. the confusion of the day, with the multitude thronging the courts and park of versailles, uttering the most frightful threats and insults, had been beyond all description; but there had been a pause at night, and at two o'clock, poor queen marie antoinette, spent with horror and fatigue, at last went to bed, advising her ladies to do the same; but their anxiety was too great, and they sat up at her door. at half-past four they heard musket shots, and loud shouts, and while one awakened the queen, the other, madame auguier, flew towards the place whence the noise came. as she opened the door, she found one of the royal bodyguards, with his face covered with blood, holding his musket so as to bar the door while the furious mob were striking at him. he turned to the lady, and cried, 'save the queen, madame, they are come to murder her!' quick as lightning, madame auguier shut and bolted the door, rushed to the queen's bedside, and dragged her to the opposite door, with a petticoat just thrown over her. behold, the door was fastened on the other side! the ladies knocked violently, the king's valet opened it, and in a few minutes the whole family were in safety in the king's apartments. m. de miomandre, the brave guardsman, who used his musket to guard the queen's door instead of to defend himself, fell wounded; but his comrade, m. de repaire, at once took his place, and, according to one account, was slain, and the next day his head, set upon a pike, was borne before the carriage in which the royal family were escorted back to paris. m. de miomandre, however, recovered from his wounds, and a few weeks after, the queen, hearing that his loyalty had made him a mark for the hatred of the mob, sent for him to desire him to quit paris. she said that gold could not repay such a service as his had been, but she hoped one day to be able to recompense him more as he deserved; meanwhile, she hoped he would consider that as a sister might advance a timely sum to a brother, so she might offer him enough to defray his expenses at paris, and to provide for his journey. in a private audience then he kissed her hand, and those of the king and his saintly sister, elizabeth, while the queen gratefully expressed her thanks, and the king stood by, with tears in his eyes, but withheld by his awkward bashfulness from expressing the feelings that overpowered him. madame auguier, and her sister, madame campan, continued with their royal lady until the next stage in that miserable downfall of all that was high and noble in unhappy france. she lived through the horrors of the revolution, and her daughter became the wife of marshal ney. well it is that the darkening firmament does but show the stars, and that when treason and murder surge round the fated chambers of royalty, their foulness and violence do but enhance the loyal self-sacrifice of such doorkeepers as catherine douglas, madame auguier, or m. de miomandre. 'such deeds can woman's spirit do, o catherine douglas, brave and true! let scotland keep thy holy name still first upon her ranks of fame.' the crown of st. stephen 1440 of all the possessions of the old kingdom of hungary, none was more valued than what was called the crown of st. stephen, so called from one, which had, in the year 1000, been presented by pope sylvester ii. to stephen, the second christian duke, and first king of hungary. a crown and a cross were given to him for his coronation, which took place in the church of the holy virgin, at alba regale, also called in german weissenburg, where thenceforth the kings of hungary were anointed to begin their troubled reigns, and at the close of them were laid to rest beneath the pavement, where most of them might have used the same epitaph as the old italian leader: 'he rests here, who never rested before'. for it was a wild realm, bordered on all sides by foes, with poland, bohemia, and austria, ever casting greedy eyes upon it, and afterwards with the turk upon the southern border, while the magyars, or hungarian nobles, themselves were a fierce and untameable race, bold and generous, but brooking little control, claiming a voice in choosing their own sovereign, and to resist him, even by force of arms, if he broke the laws. no prince had a right to their allegiance unless he had been crowned with st. stephen's crown; but if he had once worn that sacred circle, he thenceforth was held as the only lawful monarch, unless he should flagrantly violate the constitution. in 1076, another crown had been given by the greek emperor to geysa, king of hungary, and the sacred crown combined the two. it had the two arches of the roman crown, and the gold circlet of the constantinopolitan; and the difference of workmanship was evident. in the year 1439 died king albert, who had been appointed king of hungary in right of his wife, queen elizabeth. he left a little daughter only four years old, and as the magyars had never been governed by a female hand, they proposed to send and offer their crown, and the hand of their young widowed queen, to wladislas, the king of poland. but elizabeth had hopes of another child, and in case it should be a son, she had no mind to give away its rights to its father's throne. how, then, was she to help herself among the proud and determined nobles of her court? one thing was certain, that if once the polish king were crowned with st. stephen's crown, it would be his own fault if he were not king of hungary as long as he lived; but if the crown were not to be found, of course he could not receive it, and the fealty of the nobles would not be pledged to him. the most trustworthy person she had about her was helen kottenner, the lady who had the charge of her little daughter, princess elizabeth, and to her she confided her desire that the crown might be secured, so as to prevent the polish party from getting access to it. helen herself has written down the history of these strange events, and of her own struggles of mind, at the risk she ran, and the doubt whether good would come of the intrigue; and there can be no doubt that, whether the queen's conduct were praiseworthy or not, helen dared a great peril for the sake purely of loyalty and fidelity. 'the queen's commands', she says, 'sorely troubled me; for it was a dangerous venture for me and my little children, and i turned it over in my mind what i should do, for i had no one to take counsel of but god alone; and i thought if i did it not, and evil arose therefrom, i should be guilty before god and the world. so i consented to risk my life on this difficult undertaking; but desired to have someone to help me.' this was permitted; but the first person to whom the lady of kottenner confided her intention, a croat, lost his color from alarm, looked like one half-dead, and went at once in search of his horse. the next thing that was heard of him was that he had had a bad fall from his horse, and had been obliged to return to croatia, and the queen remained much alarmed at her plans being known to one so faint-hearted. however, a more courageous confidant was afterwards found in a hungarian gentleman, whose name has become illegible in helen's old manuscript. the crown was in the vaults of the strong castle of plintenburg, also called vissegrad, which stands upon a bend of the danube, about twelve miles from the twin cities of buda and pesth. it was in a case within a chest, sealed with many seals, and since the king's death, it had been brought up by the nobles, who closely guarded both it and the queen, into her apartments, and there examined and replaced in the chest. the next night, one of the queen's ladies upset a wax taper, without being aware of it, and before the fire was discovered, and put out, the corner of the chest was singed, and a hole burnt in the blue velvet cushion that lay on the top. upon this, the lords had caused the chest to be taken down again into the vault, and had fastened the doors with many locks and with seals. the castle had further been put into the charge of ladislas von gara, the queen's cousin, and ban, or hereditary commander, of the border troops, and he had given it over to a burggraf, or seneschal, who had placed his bed in the chamber where was the door leading to the vaults. the queen removed to komorn, a castle higher up the danube, in charge of her faithful cousin, count ulric of eily, taking with her her little daughter elizabeth, helen kottenner, and two other ladies. this was the first stage on the journey to presburg, where the nobles had wished to lodge the queen, and from thence she sent back helen to bring the rest of the maids of honor and her goods to join her at komorn. it was early spring, and snow was still on the ground, and the lady of kottenner and her faithful nameless assistant travelled in a sledge; but two hungarian noblemen went with them, and they had to be most careful in concealing their arrangements. helen had with her the queen's signet, and keys; and her friend had a file in each shoe, and keys under his black velvet dress. on arriving in the evening, they found that the burggraf had fallen ill, and could not sleep in the chamber leading to the vault, because it belonged to the ladies' chambers, and that he had therefore put a cloth over the padlock of the door and sealed it. there was a stove in the room, and the maidens began to pack up their clothes there, an operation that lasted till eight o'clock; while helen's friend stood there, talking and jesting with them, trying all the while to hide the files, and contriving to say to helen: 'take care that we have a light.' so she begged the old housekeeper to give her plenty of wax tapers, as she had many prayers to say. at last everyone was gone to bed, and there only remained in the room with helen, an old woman, whom she had brought with her, who knew no german, and was fast asleep. then the accomplice came back through the chapel, which opened into this same hall. he had on his black velvet gown and felt shoes, and was followed by a servant, who, helen says, was bound to him by oath, and had the same christian name as himself, this being evidently an additional bond of fidelity. helen, who had received from the queen all the keys to this outer room, let them in, and, after the burggraf's cloth and seal had been removed, they unlocked the padlock, and the other two locks of the outer door of the vault, and the two men descended into it. there were several other doors, whose chains required to be filed through, and their seals and locks broken, and to the ears of the waiting helen the noise appeared fatally loud. she says, 'i devoutly prayed to god and the holy virgin, that they would support and help me; yet i was in greater anxiety for my soul than for my life, and i prayed to god that he would be merciful to my soul, and rather let me die at once there, than that anything should happen against his will, or that should bring misfortune on my country and people.' she fancied she heard a noise of armed men at the chapel door, but finding nothing there, believed--not in her own nervous agitation, a thing not yet invented--that it was a spirit, and returning to her prayers, vowed, poor lady, to make a pilgrimage to st. maria zell, in styria, if the holy virgin's intercessions obtained their success, and till the pilgrimage could be made, 'to forego every saturday night my feather bed!' after another false alarm at a supposed noise at the maiden's door, she ventured into the vault to see how her companions were getting on, when she found they had filed away all the locks, except that of the case containing the crown, and this they were obliged to burn, in spite of their apprehension that the smell and smoke might be observed. they then shut up the chest, replaced the padlocks and chains with those they had brought for the purpose, and renewed the seals with the queen's signet, which bearing the royal arms, would baffle detection that the seals had been tampered with. they then took the crown into the chapel, where they found a red velvet cushion, so large that by taking out some of the stuffing a hiding place was made in which the crown was deposited, and the cushion sewn up over it. by this time day was dawning, the maidens were dressing, and it was the hour for setting off for komorn. the old woman who had waited on them came to the lady of kottenner to have her wages paid, and be dismissed to buda. while she was waiting, she began to remark on a strange thing lying by the stove, which, to the lady helen's great dismay, she perceived to be a bit of the case in which the crown was kept. she tried to prevent the old woman from noticing it, pushed it into the hottest part of the stove, and, by way of further precaution, took the old woman away with her, on the plea of asking the queen to make her a bedeswoman at vienna, and this was granted to her. when all was ready, the gentleman desired his servant to take the cushion and put it into the sledge designed for himself and the lady of kottenner. the man took it on his shoulders, hiding it under an old ox-hide, with the tail hanging down, to the laughter of all beholders. helen further records the trying to get some breakfast in the marketplace and finding nothing but herrings, also the going to mass, and the care she took not to sit upon the holy crown, though she had to sit on its cushion in the sledge. they dined at an inn, but took care to keep the cushion in sight, and then in the dusk crossed the danube on the ice, which was becoming very thin, and halfway across it broke under the maidens' carriage, so that helen expected to be lost in the danube, crown and all. however, though many packages were lost under the ice, her sledge got safe over, as well as all the ladies, some of whom she took into her conveyance, and all safely arrived at the castle of komorn late in the evening. the very hour of their arrival a babe was born to the queen, and to her exceeding joy it was a son. count von eily, hearing 'that a king and friend was born to him', had bonfires lighted, and a torchlight procession on the ice that same night, and early in the morning came the archbishop of gran to christen the child. the queen wished her faithful helen to be godmother, but she refused in favor of some lady whose family it was probably needful to propitiate. she took off the little princess elizabeth's mourning for her father and dressed her in red and gold, all the maidens appeared in gay apparel, and there was great rejoicing and thanksgiving when the babe was christened ladislas, after a sainted king of hungary. the peril was, however, far from ended; for many of the magyars had no notion of accepting an infant for their king, and by easter, the king of poland was advancing upon buda, to claim the realm to which he had been invited. no one had discovered the abstraction of the crown, and elizabeth's object was to take her child to weissenburg, and there have him crowned, so as to disconcert the polish party. she had sent to buda for cloth of gold to make him a coronation dress, but it did not come in time, and helen therefore shut herself into the chapel at komorn, and, with doors fast bolted, cut up a rich and beautiful vestment of his grandfather's, the emperor sigismund, of red and gold, with silver spots, and made it into a tiny coronation robe, with surplice and humeral (or shoulder-piece), the stole and banner, the gloves and shoes. the queen was much alarmed by a report that the polish party meant to stop her on her way to weissenburg; and if the baggage should be seized and searched, the discovery of the crown might have fatal consequences. helen, on this, observed that the king was more important than the crown, and that the best way would be to keep them together; so she wrapped up the crown in a cloth, and hid it under the mattress of his cradle, with a long spoon for mixing his pap upon the top, so, said the queen, he might take care of his crown himself. on tuesday before whit sunday the party set out, escorted by count ulric, and several other knights and nobles. after crossing the danube in a large boat, the queen and her little girl were placed in a carriage, or more probably a litter, the other ladies rode, and the cradle and its precious contents were carried by four men; but this the poor little lassla, as helen shortens his lengthy name, resented so much, that he began to scream so loud that she was forced to dismount and carry him in her arms, along a road rendered swampy by much rain. they found all the villages deserted by the peasants, who had fled into the woods, and as most of their lords were of the other party, they expected an attack, so the little king was put into the carriage with his mother and sister, and the ladies formed a circle round it 'that if anyone shot at the carriage we might receive the stroke'. when the danger was over the child was taken out again, for he would be content nowhere but in the arms of either his nurse or of faithful helen, who took turns to carry him on foot nearly all the way, sometimes in a high wind which covered them with dust, sometimes in great heat, sometimes in rain so heavy that helen's fur pelisse, with which she covered his cradle, had to be wrung out several times. they slept at an inn, round which the gentlemen lighted a circle of fires, and kept watch all night. weissenburg was loyal, five hundred armed gentlemen came out to meet them, and on whitsun eve they entered the city, helen carrying her little king in her arms in the midst of a circle of these five hundred holding their naked swords aloft. on whit sunday, helen rose early, bathed the little fellow, who was twelve weeks old that day, and dressed him. he was then carried in her arms to the church, beside his mother. according to the old hungarian customs, the choir door was closed--the burghers were within, and would not open till the new monarch should have taken the great coronation oath to respect the hungarian liberties and laws. this oath was taken by the queen in the name of her son, the doors were opened, and all the train entered, the little princess being lifted up to stand by the organ, lest she should be hurt in the throng. first helen held her charge up to be confirmed, and then she had to hold him while he was knighted, with a richly adorned sword bearing the motto 'indestructible', and by a stout hungarian knight called mikosch weida, who struck with such a goodwill that helen felt the blow on her arm, and the queen cried out to him not to hurt the child. the archbishop of gran anointed the little creature, dressed him in the red and gold robe, and put on his head the holy crown, and the people admired to see how straight he held up his neck under it; indeed, they admired the loudness and strength of his cries, when, as the good lady records, 'the noble king had little pleasure in his coronation for he wept aloud'. she had to hold him up for the rest of the service, while count ulric of eily held the crown over his head, and afterwards to seat him in a chair in st. peter's church, and then he was carried home in his cradle, with the count holding the crown over his head, and the other regalia borne before him. and thus ladislas became king of hungary at twelve weeks old, and was then carried off by his mother into austria for safety. whether this secret robbery of the crown, and coronation by stealth, was wise or just on the mother's part is a question not easy of answer--though of course she deemed it her duty to do her utmost for her child's rights. of helen kottenner's deep fidelity and conscientious feeling there can be no doubt, and her having acted with her eyes fully open to the risk she ran, her trust in heaven overcoming her fears and terrors, rendered her truly a heroine. the crown has had many other adventures, and afterwards was kept in an apartment of its own, in the castle of ofen, with an antechamber guarded by two grenadiers. the door was of iron, with three locks, and the crown itself was contained in an iron chest with five seals. all this, however, did not prevent it from being taken away and lost in the revolution of 1849. george the triller 1455 i. 'why, lady dear, so sad of cheer? hast waked the livelong night?' 'my dreams foreshow my children's woe, ernst bold and albrecht bright. 'from the dark glades of forest shades there rushed a raging boar, two sapling oaks with cruel strokes his crooked tusks uptore.' 'ah, lady dear, dismiss thy fear of phantoms haunting sleep!' 'the giant knight, sir konrad hight, hath vowed a vengeance deep. 'my lord, o'erbold, hath kept his gold, and scornful answer spake: 'kunz, wisdom learn, nor strive to burn the fish within their lake.' 'see, o'er the plain, with all his train, my lord to leipzig riding; some danger near my children dear my dream is sure betiding.' 'the warder waits before the gates, the castle rock is steep, the massive walls protect the halls, thy children safely sleep.' ii. 't is night's full noon, fair shines the moon on altenburg's old halls, the silver beams in tranquil streams rest on the ivied walls. within their tower the midnight hour has wrapt the babes in sleep, with unclosed eyes their mother lies to listen and to weep. what sudden sound is stirring round? what clang thrills on her ear? is it the breeze amid the trees re-echoing her fear? swift from her bed, in sudden dread, she to her lattice flies: oh! sight of woe, from far below behold a ladder rise: and from yon tower, her children's bower, lo! giant kunz descending! ernst, in his clasp of iron grasp, his cries with hers is blending. 'oh! hear my prayer, my children spare, the sum shall be restored; nay, twenty-fold returned the gold, thou know'st how true my lord.' with mocking grace he bowed his face: 'lady, my greetings take; thy lord may learn how i can burn the fish within their lake.' oh! double fright, a second knight upon the ladder frail, and in his arm, with wild alarm, a child uplifts his wail! would she had wings! she wildly springs to rouse her slumbering train; bolted without, her door so stout resists her efforts vain! no mortal ear her calls can hear, the robbers laugh below; her god alone may hear her moan, or mark her hour of woe. a cry below, 'oh! let me go, i am no prince's brother; their playmate i--oh! hear my cry restore me to my mother!' with anguish sore she shakes the door. once more sir kunz is rearing his giant head. his errand sped she sees him reappearing. her second child in terror wild is struggling in his hold; entreaties vain she pours again, still laughs the robber bold. 'i greet thee well, the elector tell how kunz his counsel takes, and let him learn that i can burn the fish within their lakes.' iii. 'swift, swift, good steed, death's on thy speed, gain isenburg ere morn; though far the way, there lodged our prey, we laugh the prince to scorn. 'there konrad's den and merry men will safely hold the boys- the prince shall grieve long ere we leave our hold upon his joys. 'but hark! but hark! how through the dark the castle bell is tolling, from tower and town o'er wood and down, the like alarm notes rolling. 'the peal rings out! echoes the shout! all saxony's astir; groom, turn aside, swift must we ride through the lone wood of fir.' far on before, of men a score prince ernst bore still sleeping; thundering as fast, kunz came the last, carrying young albrecht weeping. the clanging bell with distant swell dies on the morning air, bohemia's ground another bound will reach, and safety there. the morn's fresh beam lights a cool stream, charger and knight are weary, he draws his rein, the child's sad plain he meets with accents cheery. 'sir konrad good, be mild of mood, a fearsome giant thou! for love of heaven, one drop be given to cool my throbbing brow!' kunz' savage heart feels pity's smart, he soothes the worn-out child, bathes his hot cheeks, and bending seeks for woodland berries wild. a deep-toned bark! a figure dark, smoke grimed and sun embrowned, comes through the wood in wondering mood, and by his side a hound. 'oh, to my aid, i am betrayed, the elector's son forlorn, from out my bed these men of dread have this night hither borne!' 'peace, if thou 'rt wise,' the false groom cries, and aims a murderous blow; his pole-axe long, his arm so strong, must lay young albrecht low. see, turned aside, the weapon glide the woodman's pole along, to albrecht's clasp his friendly grasp pledges redress from wrong. loud the hound's note as at the throat of the false groom he flies; back at the sounds sir konrad bounds: 'off hands, base churl,' he cries. the robber lord with mighty sword, mailed limbs of giant strength- the woodman stout, all arms without, save his pole's timber length- unequal fight! yet for the right the woodman holds the field; now left, now right, repels the knight, his pole full stoutly wields. his whistle clear rings full of cheer, and lo! his comrades true, all swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty, burst on sir konrad's view. his horse's rein he grasps amain into his selle to spring, his gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel has caught, his weapons ring. his frightened steed with wildest speed careers with many a bound; sir konrad's heel fast holds the steel, his head is on the ground. the peasants round lift from the ground his form in woeful plight, to convent cell, for keeping well, bear back the robber knight. 'our dear young lord, what may afford a charcoal-burners' store we freely spread, milk, honey, bread, our heated kiln before!' iv. three mournful days the mother prays, and weeps the children's fate; the prince in vain has scoured the plain- a sound is at the gate. the mother hears, her head she rears, she lifts her eager finger- 'rejoice, rejoice, 't is albrecht's voice, open! oh, wherefore linger?' see, cap in hand the woodman stand- mother, no more of weeping- his hound well tried is at his side, before him albrecht leaping, cries, 'father dear, my friend is here! my mother! oh, my mother! the giant knight he put to flight, the good dog tore the other.' oh! who the joy that greets the boy, or who the thanks may tell, oh how they hail the woodman's tale, how he had 'trilled him well!' [footnote: trillen, to shake; a word analogous to our rill, to shake the voice in singing] 'i trilled him well,' he still will tell in homely phrase his story, to those who sought to know how wrought an unarmed hand such glory. that mother sad again is glad, her home no more bereft; for news is brought ernst may be sought within the devil's cleft. that cave within, these men of sin had learnt their leader's fall, the prince to sell they proffered well at price of grace to all. another day and earnest lay, safe on his mother's breast; thus to her sorrow a gladsome morrow had brought her joy and rest. the giant knight was judged aright, sentenced to death he lay; the elector mild, since safe his child, sent forth the doom to stay. but all to late, and o'er the gate of freiburg's council hall sir konrad's head, with features dread, the traitor's eyes appal. the scullion hans who wrought their plans, and oped the window grate, whose faith was sold for konrad's gold, he met a traitor's fate v. behold how gay the wood to-day, the little church how fair, what banners wave, what tap'stry brave covers its carvings rare! a goodly train--the parents twain, and here the princess two, here with his pole, george, stout of soul, and all his comrades true. high swells the chant, all jubilant, and each boy bending low, humbly lays down the wrapping gown he wore the night of woe. beside them lay a smock of grey, all grimed with blood and smoke; a thankful sign to heaven benign, that spared the sapling oak. 'what prize would'st hold, thou 'triller bold', who trilled well for my son?' 'leave to cut wood, my lord, so good, near where the fight was won.' 'nay, triller mine, the land be thine, my trusty giant-killer, a farm and house i and my spouse grant free to george the triller!' years hundred four, and half a score, those robes have held their place; the triller's deed has grateful meed from albrecht's royal race. the child rescued by george the triller's golden deed was the ancestor of the late prince consort, and thus of our future line of kings. he was the son of the elector friedrich the mild of saxony, and of margarethe of austria, whose dream presaged her children's danger. the elector had incurred the vengeance of the robber baron, sir konrad of kauffingen, who, from his huge stature, was known as the giant ritter, by refusing to make up to him the sum of 4000 gulden which he had had to pay for his ransom after being made prisoner in the elector's service. in reply to his threats, all the answer that the robber knight received was the proverbial one, 'do not try to burn the fish in the ponds, kunz.' stung by the irony, kunz bribed the elector's scullion, by name hans schwabe, to admit him and nine chosen comrades into the castle of altenburg on the night of the 7th of july, 1455, when the elector was to be at leipzig. strange to say, this scullion was able to write, for a letter is extant from him to sir konrad, engaging to open the window immediately above the steep precipice, which on that side was deemed a sufficient protection to the castle, and to fasten a rope ladder by which to ascend the crags. this window can still be traced, though thenceforth it was bricked up. it gave access to the children's apartments, and on his way to them, the robber drew the bolt of their mother's door, so that though, awakened by the noise, she rushed to her window, she was a captive in her own apartment, and could not give the alarm, nor do anything but join her vain entreaties to the cries of her helpless children. it was the little son of the count von bardi whom wilhelm von mosen brought down by mistake for young albrecht, and kunz, while hurrying up to exchange the children, bade the rest of his band hasten on to secure the elder prince without waiting for him. he followed in a few seconds with albrecht in his arms, and his servant schweinitz riding after him, but he never overtook the main body. their object was to reach konrad's own castle of isenburg on the frontiers of bohemia, but they quickly heard the alarm bells ringing, and beheld beacons lighted upon every hill. they were forced to betake themselves to the forests, and about half-way, prince ernst's captors, not daring to go any father, hid themselves and him in a cavern called the devil's cleft on the right bank of the river mulde. kunz himself rode on till the sun had risen, and he was within so few miles of his castle that the terror of his name was likely to be a sufficient protection. himself and his horse were, however, spent by the wild midnight ride, and on the border of the wood of eterlein, near the monastery of grunheim, he halted, and finding the poor child grievously exhausted and feverish, he lifted him down, gave him water, and went himself in search of wood strawberries for his refreshment, leaving the two horses in the charge of schweinitz. the servant dozed in his saddle, and meanwhile the charcoal-burner, george schmidt, attracted by the sounds, came out of the wood, where all night he had been attending to the kiln, hollowed in the earth, and heaped with earth and roots of trees, where a continual charring of wood was going on. little albrecht no sooner saw this man than he sprang to him, and telling his name and rank, entreated to be rescued from these cruel men. the servant awaking, leapt down and struck a deadly blow at the boy's head with his pole-ax, but it was parried by the charcoal-burner, who interposing with one hand the strong wooden pole he used for stirring his kiln, dragged the little prince aside with the other, and at the same time set his great dog upon the servant. sir konrad at once hurried back, but the valiant charcoalburner still held his ground, dangerous as the fight was between the peasant unarmed except for the long pole, and the fully accoutered knight of gigantic size and strength. however, a whistle from george soon brought a gang of his comrades to his aid, and kunz, finding himself surrounded, tried to leap into his saddle, and break through the throng by weight of man and horse, but his spur became entangled, the horse ran away, and he was dragged along with his head on the ground till he was taken up by the peasants and carried to the convent of grunheim, whence he was sent to zwickau, and was thence transported heavily ironed to freiburg, where he was beheaded on the 14th of july, only a week after his act of violence. the elector, in his joy at the recovery of even one child, was generous enough to send a pardon, but the messenger reached freiburg too late, and a stone in the marketplace still marks the place of doom, while the grim effigy of sir konrad's head grins over the door of the rathhaus. it was a pity friedrich's mildness did not extend to sparing torture as well as death to his treacherous scullion, but perhaps a servant's power of injuring his master was thought a reason for surrounding such instances of betrayal with special horrors. the party hidden in the devil's cleft overheard the peasants in the wood talking of the fall of the giant of kauffingen, and, becoming alarmed for themselves, they sent to the governor of the neighboring castle of hartenstein to offer to restore prince ernst, provided they were promised a full pardon. the boy had been given up as dead, and intense were the rejoicings of the parents at his restoration. the devil's cleft changed its name to the prince's cleft, and the tree where albrecht had lain was called the prince's oak, and still remains as a witness to the story, as do the moth-eaten garments of the princely children, and the smock of the charcoal-burner, which they offered up in token of thanksgiving at the little forest church of ebendorff, near the scene of the rescue. 'i trillirt the knaves right well,' was honest george's way of telling the story of his exploit, not only a brave one, but amounting even to self-devotion when we remember that the robber baron was his near neighbour, and a terror to all around. the word triller took the place of his surname, and when the sole reward he asked was leave freely to cut wood in the forest, the elector gave him a piece of land of his own in the parish of eversbach. in 1855 there was a grand celebration of the rescue of the saxon princes on the 9th of july, the four hundredth anniversary, with a great procession of foresters and charcoal-burners to the 'triller's brewery', which stands where george's hut and kiln were once placed. three of his descendants then figured in the procession, but since that time all have died, and the family of the trillers is now extinct. sir thomas more's daughter 1535 we have seen how dim and doubtful was the belief that upbore the grave and beautiful antigone in her self-sacrifice; but there have been women who have been as brave and devoted in their care of the mortal remains of their friends--not from the heathen fancy that the weal of the dead depended on such rites, but from their earnest love, and with a fuller trust beyond. such was the spirit of beatrix, a noble maiden of rome, who shared the christian faith of her two brothers, simplicius and faustinus, at the end of the third century. for many years there had been no persecution, and the christians were living at peace, worshipping freely, and venturing even to raise churches. young people had grown up to whom the being thrown to the lions, beheaded, or burnt for the faith's sake, was but a story of the times gone by. but under the emperor diocletian all was changed. the old heathen gods must be worshipped, incense must be burnt to the statue of the emperor, or torture and death were the punishment. the two brothers simplicius and faustinus were thus asked to deny their faith, and resolutely refused. they were cruelly tortured, and at length beheaded, and their bodies thrown into the tawny waters of the tiber. their sister beatrix had taken refuge with a poor devout christian woman, named lucina. but she did not desert her brothers in death; she made her way in secret to the bank of the river, watching to see whether the stream might bear down the corpses so dear to her. driven along, so as to rest upon the bank, she found them at last, and, by the help of lucina, she laid them in the grave in the cemetery called ad ursum pileatum. for seven months she remained in her shelter, but she was at last denounced, and was brought before the tribunal, where she made answer that nothing should induce her to adore gods made of wood and stone. she was strangled in her prison, and her corpse being cast out, was taken home by lucina, and buried beside her brothers. it was, indeed, a favorite charitable work of the christian widows at rome to provide for the burial of the martyrs; and as for the most part they were poor old obscure women, they could perform this good work with far less notice than could persons of more mark. but nearer home, our own country shows a truly christian antigone, resembling the greek lady, both in her dutifulness to the living, and in her tender care for the dead. this was margaret, the favorite daughter of sir thomas more, the true-hearted, faithful statesman of king henry viii. margaret's home had been an exceedingly happy one. her father, sir thomas more, was a man of the utmost worth, and was both earnestly religious and conscientious, and of a sweetness of manner and playfulness of fancy that endeared him to everyone. he was one of the most affectionate and dutiful of sons to his aged father, sir john more; and when the son was lord chancellor, while the father was only a judge, sir thomas, on his way to his court, never failed to kneel down before his father in public, and ask his blessing. never was the old saying, that a dutiful child had dutiful children, better exemplified than in the more family. in the times when it was usual for parents to be very stern with children, and keep them at a great distance, sometimes making them stand in their presence, and striking them for any slight offence, sir thomas more thought it his duty to be friendly and affectionate with them, to talk to them, and to enter into their confidence; and he was rewarded with their full love and duty. he had four children--margaret, elizabeth, cicely, and john. his muchloved wife died when they were all very young, and he thought it for their good to marry a widow, mrs. alice middleton, with one daughter named margaret, and he likewise adopted an orphan called margaret giggs. with this household he lived in a beautiful large house at chelsea, with well-trimmed gardens sloping down to the thames; and this was the resort of the most learned and able men, both english and visitors from abroad, who delighted in pacing the shady walks, listening to the wit and wisdom of sir thomas, or conversing with the daughters, who had been highly educated, and had much of their father's humor and sprightliness. even henry viii. himself, then one of the most brilliant and graceful gentlemen of his time, would sometimes arrive in his royal barge, and talk theology or astronomy with sir thomas; or, it might be, crack jests with him and his daughters, or listen to the music in which all were skilled, even lady more having been persuaded in her old age to learn to play on various instruments, including the flute. the daughters were early given in marriage, and with their husbands, continued to live under their father's roof. margaret's husband was william roper, a young lawyer, of whom sir thomas was very fond, and his household at chelsea was thus a large and joyous family home of children and grandchildren, delighting in the kind, bright smiles of the open face under the square cap, that the great painter holbein has sent down to us as a familiar sight. but these glad days were not to last for ever. the trying times of the reign of henry viii. were beginning, and the question had been stirred whether the king's marriage with katherine of aragon had been a lawful one. when sir thomas more found that the king was determined to take his own course, and to divorce himself without permission from the pope, it was against his conscience to remain in office when acts were being done which he could not think right or lawful. he therefore resigned his office as lord chancellor, and, feeling himself free from the load and temptation, his gay spirits rose higher than ever. his manner of communicating the change to his wife, who had been very proud of his state and dignity, was thus. at church, when the service was over, it had always been the custom for one of his attendants to summon lady more by coming to her closet door, and saying, 'madam, my lord is gone.' on the day after his resignation, he himself stepped up, and with a low bow said, 'madam, my lord is gone,' for in good soothe he was no longer chancellor, but only plain sir thomas. he thoroughly enjoyed his leisure, but he was not long left in tranquillity. when anne boleyn was crowned, he was invited to be present, and twenty pounds were offered him to buy a suitably splendid dress for the occasion; but his conscience would not allow him to accept the invitation, though he well knew the terrible peril he ran by offending the king and queen. thenceforth there was a determination to ruin him. first, he was accused of taking bribes when administering justice. it was said that a gilt cup had been given to him as a new year's gift, by one lady, and a pair of gloves filled with gold coins by another; but it turned out, on examination, that he had drunk the wine out of the cup, and accepted the gloves, because it was ill manners to refuse a lady's gift, yet he had in both cases given back the gold. next, a charge was brought that he had been leaguing with a half-crazy woman called the nun of kent, who had said violent things about the king. he was sent for to be examined by henry and his council, and this he well knew was the interview on which his safety would turn, since the accusation was a mere pretext, and the real purpose of the king was to see whether he would go along with him in breaking away from rome--a proceeding that sir thomas, both as churchman and as lawyer, could not think legal. whether we agree or not in his views, it must always be remembered that he ran into danger by speaking the truth, and doing what he thought right. he really loved his master, and he knew the humor of henry viii., and the temptation was sore; but when he came down from his conference with the king in the tower, and was rowed down the river to chelsea, he was so merry that william roper, who had been waiting for him in the boat, thought he must be safe, and said, as they landed and walked up the garden-'i trust, sir, all is well, since you are so merry?' 'it is so, indeed, son, thank god!' 'are you then, sir, put out of the bill?' 'wouldest thou know, son why i am so joyful? in good faith i rejoice that i have given the devil a foul fall; because i have with those lords gone so far that without great shame i can never go back,' he answered, meaning that he had been enabled to hold so firmly to his opinions, and speak them out so boldly, that henceforth the temptation to dissemble them and please the king would be much lessened. that he had held his purpose in spite of the weakness of mortal nature, was true joy to him, though he was so well aware of the consequences that when his daughter margaret came to him the next day with the glad tidings that the charge against him had been given up, he calmly answered her, 'in faith, meg, what is put off is not given up.' one day, when he had asked margaret how the world went with the new queen, and she replied, 'in faith, father, never better; there is nothing else in the court but dancing and sporting,' he replied, with sad foresight, 'never better. alas, meg! it pitieth me to remember unto what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come. these dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn off our heads like footballs, but it will not be long ere her head will take the same dance.' so entirely did he expect to be summoned by a pursuivant that he thought it would lessen the fright of his family if a sham summons were brought. so he caused a great knocking to be made while all were at dinner, and the sham pursuivant went through all the forms of citing him, and the whole household were in much alarm, till he explained the jest; but the earnest came only a few days afterwards. on the 13th of april of 1534, arrived the real pursuivant to summon him to lambeth, there to take the oath of supremacy, declaring that the king was the head of the church of england, and that the pope had no authority there. he knew what the refusal would bring on him. he went first to church, and then, not trusting himself to be unmanned by his love for his children and grandchildren, instead of letting them, as usual, come down to the water side, with tender kisses and merry farewells, he shut the wicket gate of the garden upon them all, and only allowed his son-in-law roper to accompany him, whispering into his ear, 'i thank our lord, the field is won.' conscience had triumphed over affection, and he was thankful, though for the last time he looked on the trees he had planted, and the happy home he had loved. before the council, he undertook to swear to some clauses in the oath which were connected with the safety of the realm; but he refused to take that part of the oath which related to the king's power over the church. it is said that the king would thus have been satisfied, but that the queen urged him further. at any rate, after being four days under the charge of the abbot of westminister, sir thomas was sent to the tower of london. there his wife--a plain, dull woman, utterly unable to understand the point of conscience--came and scolded him for being so foolish as to lie there in a close, filthy prison, and be shut up with rats and mice, instead of enjoying the favor of the king. he heard all she had to say, and answered, 'i pray thee, good mrs. alice, tell me one thing--is not this house as near heaven as my own?' to which she had no better answer than 'tilly vally, tilly vally.' but, in spite of her folly, she loved him faithfully; and when all his property was seized, she sold even her clothes to obtain necessaries for him in prison. his chief comfort was, however, in visits and letters from his daughter margaret, who was fully able to enter into the spirit that preferred death to transgression. he was tried in westminster hall, on the 1st of july, and, as he had fully expected, sentenced to death. he was taken back along the river to the tower. on the wharf his loving margaret was waiting for her last look. she broke through the guard of soldiers with bills and halberds, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, unable to say any word but 'oh, my father!--oh, my father!' he blessed her, and told her that whatsoever she might suffer, it was not without the will of god, and she must therefore be patient. after having once parted with him, she suddenly turned back again, ran to him, and, clinging round his neck, kissed him over and over again--a sight at which the guards themselves wept. she never saw him again; but the night before his execution he wrote to her a letter with a piece of charcoal, with tender remembrances to all the family, and saying to her, 'i never liked your manner better than when you kissed me last; for i am most pleased when daughterly love and dear charity have no leisure to look to worldly courtesy.' he likewise made it his especial request that she might be permitted to be present at his burial. his hope was sure and steadfast, and his heart so firm that he did not even cease from humorous sayings. when he mounted the crazy ladder of the scaffold he said, 'master lieutenant, i pray you see me safe up; and for my coming down let me shift for myself.' and he desired the executioner to give him time to put his beard out of the way of the stroke, 'since that had never offended his highness'. his body was given to his family, and laid in the tomb he had already prepared in chelsea church; but the head was set up on a pole on london bridge. the calm, sweet features were little changed, and the loving daughter gathered courage as she looked up at them. how she contrived the deed, is not known; but before many days had passed, the head was no longer there, and mrs. roper was said to have taken it away. she was sent for to the council, and accused of the stealing of her father's head. she shrank not from avowing that thus it had been, and that the head was in her own possession. one story says that, as she was passing under the bridge in a boat, she looked up, and said, 'that head has often lain in my lap; i would that it would now fall into it.' and at that moment it actually fell, and she received it. it is far more likely that she went by design, at the same time as some faithful friend on the bridge, who detached the precious head, and dropped it down to her in her boat beneath. be this as it may, she owned before the cruel-hearted council that she had taken away and cherished the head of the man whom they had slain as a traitor. however, henry viii. was not a creon, and our christian antigone was dismissed unhurt by the council, and allowed to retain possession of her treasure. she caused it to be embalmed, kept it with her wherever she went, and when, nine years afterwards, she died (in the year 1544), it was laid in her coffin in the 'roper aisle' of st. dunstan's church, at canterbury. under ivan the terrible 1564. prince andrej kourbsky was one of the chief boyards or nobles at the court of ivan, the first grand prince of muscovy who assumed the eastern title of tzar, and who relieved russia from the terrible invasions of the tatars. this wild race for nearly four hundred years had roamed over the country, destroying and plundering all they met with, and blighting all the attempts at civilization that had begun to be made in the eleventh century. it was only when the russians learnt the use of firearms that these savages were in any degree repressed. in the year 1551 the city of kazan, upon the river kazanka, a tributary of the volga, was the last city that remained in the hands of the tatars. it was a rich and powerful place, a great centre of trade between europe and the east, but it was also a nest of robbers, who had frequently broken faith with the russians, and had lately expelled the khan schig alei for having endeavored to fulfill his engagements to them. the tzar ivan vassilovitch, then only twenty-two years of age, therefore marched against the place, resolved at any cost to reduce it and free his country from these inveterate foes. on his way he received tidings that the crimean tatars had come plundering into russia, probably thinking to attack moscow, while ivan was besieging kazan. he at once sent off the prince kourbsky with 15,000 men, who met double that number of tatars at toula, and totally defeated them, pursuing them to the river chevorona, where, after a second defeat, they abandoned a great number of russian captives, and a great many camels. prince kourbsky was wounded in the head and shoulder, but was able to continue the campaign. some of the boyards murmured at the war, and declared that their strength and resources were exhausted. upon this the tzar desired that two lists might be drawn up of the willing and unwilling warriors in his camp. 'the first', he said, 'shall be as dear to me as my own children; their needs shall be made known to me, and i will share all i have with them. the others may stay at home; i want no cowards in my army.' no one of course chose to be in the second list, and about this time was formed the famous guard called the strelitzes, a body of chosen warriors who were always near the person of the tzar. in the middle of august, 1552, ivan encamped in the meadows on the banks of the volga, which spread like a brilliant green carpet around the hill upon which stood the strongly fortified city of kazan. the tatars had no fears. 'this is not the first time', they said, 'that we have seen the muscovites beneath our walls. their fruitless attacks always end in retreats, till we have learned to laugh them to scorn;' and when ivan sent them messengers with offers of peace, they replied, 'all is ready; we only await your coming to begin the feast.' they did not know of the great change that the last half-century had made in sieges. one of the italian condottieri, or leaders of free companies, had made his way to moscow, and under his instructions, ivan's troops were for the first time to conduct a siege in the regular modern manner, by digging trenches in the earth, and throwing up the soil in front into a bank, behind which the cannon and gunners are posted, with only small openings made through which to fire at some spot in the enemy's walls. these trenches are constantly worked nearer and nearer to the fortifications, till by the effect of the shot an opening or breach must be made in the walls, and the soldiers can then climb up upon scaling ladders or heaps of small faggots piled up to the height of the opening. sometimes, too, the besiegers burrow underground till they are just below the wall, then fill the hole with gunpowder, and blow up all above them; in short, instead of, as in former days, a wellfortified city being almost impossible to take, except by starving out the garrison, a siege is in these times almost equally sure to end in favor of the besiegers. all through august and september the russians made their approaches, while the tatars resisted them bravely, but often showing great barbarity. once when ivan again sent a herald, accompanied by a number of tatar prisoners, to offer terms to yediguer, the present khan, the defenders called out to their countrymen, 'you had better perish by our pure hands than by those of the wretched christians,' and shot a whole flight of arrows at them. moreover, every morning the magicians used to come out at sunrise upon the walls, and their shrieks, contortions, and waving of garments were believed, not only by the tatars but by the russians, and by andrej kourbsky himself, to bring foul weather, which greatly harassed the russians. on this ivan sent to moscow for a sacred cross that had been given to the grand prince vladimir when he was converted; the rivers were blessed, and their water sprinkled round the camp, and the fair weather that ensued was supposed to be due to the counteraction of the incantations of the magicians. these tatars were mahometans, but they must have retained some of the wind-raising enchantments of their buddhist brethren in asia. a great mine had been made under the gate of arsk, and eleven barrels of gunpowder placed in it. on the 30th of september it was blown up, and the whole tower became a heap of ruins. for some minutes the consternation of the besieged was such that there was a dead silence like the stillness of the grave. the russians rushed forward over the opening, but the tatars, recovering at the sight of them, fought desperately, but could not prevent them from taking possession of the tower at the gateway. other mines were already prepared, and the tzar gave notice of a general assault for the next day, and recommended all his warriors to purify their souls by repentance, confession, and communion, in readiness for the deadly strife before them. in the meantime, he sent yediguer a last offer of mercy, but the brave tatars cried out, 'we will have no pardon! if the russians have one tower, we will build another; if they ruin our ramparts we will set up more. we will be buried under the walls of kazan, or else we will make him raise the siege.' early dawn began to break. the sky was clear and cloudless. the tatars were on their walls, the russians in their trenches; the imperial eagle standard, which ivan had lately assumed, floated in the morning wind. the two armies were perfectly silent, save here and there the bray of a single trumpet, or beat of a naker drum in one or the other, and the continuous hum of the hymns and chants from the three russian chapeltents. the archers held their arrows on the string, the gunners stood with lighted matches. the copper-clad domes of the minarets began to glow with the rising sunbeams; the muezzins were on the roofs about to call the moslemin to prayer; the deacon in the tzar's chapel-tent was reading the gospel. 'there shall be one fold and one shepherd.' at that moment the sun's disk appeared above the eastern hills, and ere yet the red orb had fully mounted above the horizon, there was a burst as it were of tremendous thunderings, and the ground shook beneath the church. the tzar went to the entrance, and found the whole city hill so 'rolled in sable smoke', that he could distinguish nothing, and, going back to his place, desired that the service should continue. the deacon was in the midst of the prayer for the establishment of the power of the tzar and the discomfiture of his enemies, when the crushing burst of another explosion rushed upon their ears, and as it died away another voice broke forth, the shout raised by every man in the russian lines, 'god is with us!' on then they marched towards the openings that the mines had made, but there the dauntless garrison, in spite of the terror and destruction caused by the two explosions, met them with unabated fury, rolling beams or pouring boiling water upon them as they strove to climb the breach, and fighting hand to hand with them if they mounted it. however, by the time the tzar had completed his devotions and mounted his horse, his eagle could be seen above the smoke upon the citadel. still the city had to be won, step by step, house by house, street by street; and even while struggling onwards the russians were tempted aside by plunder among the rich stores of merchandise that were heaped up in the warehouses of this the mart of the east. the khan profited by their lack of discipline, and forced them back to the walls; nay, they would have absolutely been driven out at the great gate, but that they beheld their young tzar on horseback among his grey-haired councillors. by the advice of these old men ivan rode forward, and with his own hand planted the sacred standard at the gates, thus forming a barrier that the fugitives were ashamed to pass. at the same time he, with half his choice cavalry, dismounted, and entered the town all fresh and vigorous, their rich armor glittering with gold and silver, and plumes of various colours streaming from their helmets in all the brilliancy of eastern taste. this reinforcement recalled the plunderers to their duty, and the tatars were driven back to the khan's palace, whence, after an hour's defense, they were forced to retreat. at a postern gate, andrej kourbsky and two hundred men met yediguer and 10,000 tatars, and cut off their retreat, enclosing them in the narrow streets. they forced their khan to take refuge in a tower, and made signs as if to capitulate. 'listen,' they said. 'as long as we had a government, we were willing to die for our prince and country. now kazan is yours, we deliver our khan to you, alive and unhurt--lead him to the tzar. for our own part, we are coming down into the open field to drain our last cup of life with you.' yediguer and one old councillor were accordingly placed in the hands of an officer, and then the desperate tatars, climbing down the outside of the walls, made for the kazanka, where no troops, except the small body under andrej kourbsky and his brother romanus, were at leisure to pursue them. the fighting was terrible, but the two princes kept them in view until checked by a marsh which horses could not pass. the bold fugitives took refuge in a forest, where, other russian troops coming up, all were surrounded and slain, since not a man of them would accept quarter. yediguer was kindly treated by ivan, and accompanying him to moscow, there became a christian, and was baptized by the name of simeon, in the presence of the tzar and his whole court, on the banks of the moskwa. he married a russian lady, and his whole conduct proved that his conversion was sincere. but this story has only been told at so much length to show what manner of man andrej kourbsky was, and ivan vassilovitch had been, and how they had once been brethren in arms; and perhaps it has been lingered over from the melancholy interest there must always be in watching the fall of a powerful nation, and the last struggles of gallant men. ivan was then a gallant, religious and highly gifted prince, generous and merciful, and with every promise of a glorious reign, full of benefits to his country. alas! this part of his career was one glimpse of brightness in the course of a long tempestuous day. his reign had begun when he was but three years old. he had had a violent and cruel mother, and had, after her death, been bred up by evil-minded courtiers, who absolutely taught him cruel and dissolute amusements in order to prevent him from attending to state affairs. for a time, the exhortations of the good and fearless patriarch, and the influence of his gentle wife anastasia, had prevailed, and with great vigor and strong principle he had shaken off all the evil habits of his boyhood, and begun, as it seemed, an admirable reign. too soon, a severe illness shook the balance of his mind, and this was quickly followed by the death of the excellent tzarina anastasia. whether grief further unsettled him, or whether the loss of her gentle influence left him a prey to his wicked councillors, from that time forward his conduct was so wildly savage and barbarous as to win for him the surname of the terrible. frantic actions, extravagant excesses, and freaks of horrible cruelty looked like insanity; and yet, on the other hand, he often showed himself a clear-headed and sagacious monarch, anxious for the glory and improvement of his people. but he lived in continual suspicion, and dreaded every eminent man in his dominions. kourbsky whom he had once loved and trusted, and had charged with the command of his army, as his most able boyard, fell under his suspicion; and, with horror and indignation, learnt that the tzar was plotting against his life, and intended to have him put to death. kourbsky upon this explained to his wife that she must either see him put to a shameful death, or let him leave her for ever. he gave his blessing to his son, a boy of nine years old, and leaving his house at night he scaled the wall of moscow, and meeting his faithful servant, vasili shibanoff, with two horses, he made his escape. this vasili was his stirrup-bearer, one of those serfs over whom the boyard on whose land they were born possessed absolute power. that power was often abused, but the instinctive faithfulness of the serf towards his master could hardly be shaken, even by the most savage treatment, and a welltreated serf viewed his master's family with enthusiastic love and veneration. vasili accompanied his master's flight through the birch forests towards the livonian frontier, the country where but lately kourbsky had been leading the tzar's armies. on the way the prince's horse became exhausted by his weight, and vasili insisted on giving up his own in its stead, though capture in the course of such desertion would have been certain death. however, master and servant safely arrived at wolmar in livonia, and there andrej came to the determination of renouncing the service of the ungrateful ivan, and entering that of the king of poland. for this last step there was no excuse. nothing can justify a man in taking up arms against his country, but in the middle ages the tie of loyalty was rather to the man than to the state, and andrej kourbsky seems to have deemed that his honor would be safe, provided he sent a letter to his sovereign, explaining his grievance and giving up his allegiance. the letter is said to have been full of grave severity and deep, suppressed indignation, though temperate in tone; but no one would consent to be the bearer of such a missive, since the cruel tyrant's first fury was almost certain to fall on him who presented it. believing his master's honor at stake, vasili offered himself to be the bearer of the fatal letter, and kourbsky accepted the offer, tendering to him a sum of money, which the serf rejected, knowing that money would soon be of little service to him, and seeking no reward for what he deemed his duty to his lord. as ivan's justice had turned into barbarity, so his religion had turned into foolish fanatic observance. he had built a monastery near moscow for himself and three hundred chosen boyards, and every morning at three or four o'clock he took his two sons into the belfry with him and proceeded to strike the bells, the russian mode of ringing them, till all the brethren were assembled. this bell-sounding was his favorite occupation, and in it he was engaged when vasili arrived. the servant awaited him in the vestibule, and delivered the letter with these words: 'from my master and thine exile, prince andrej kourbsky.' ivan answered by such a blow on the leg with his iron-tipped rod that the blood poured from the wound; but vasili neither started, cried out, nor moved a feature. at once the tzar bade him be seized and tortured, to make him disclose whether his master had any partners in guilt, or if any plans were matured. but no extremity of agony could extract aught but praises of the prince, and assurances of his readiness to die for him. from early morning till late at night the torturers worked, one succeeding when another was tired out; but nothing could overcome his constancy, and his last words were a prayer to implore his god to have mercy on his master and forgive his desertion. his praise came even from the tyrant, who wrote to kourbsky--'let thy servant vaska [footnote: the abbreviation of vasili or basil.] shame thee. he preserved his truth to thee before the tzar and the people. having given thee his word of faith, he kept it, even before the gates of death.' after the flight of kourbsky, the rage of ivan continued to increase with each year of his life. he had formed a sort of bodyguard of a thousand ruffians, called the oprichnina, who carried out his barbarous commands, and committed an infinity of murders and robberies on their own account. he was like a distorted caricature of henry viii, and, like him, united violence and cruelty with great exactness about religious worship, carrying his personal observances to the most fanatic extravagance. in the vacancy of the metropolitan see, he cast his eyes upon the monastery in the little island of solovsky, in the white sea, where the prior, feeleep kolotchof, was noted for his holy life, and the good he had done among the wild and miserable population of the island. he was the son of a rich boyard, but had devoted himself from his youth to a monastic life, and the fame of his exertions in behalf of the islanders had led the tzar to send him not only precious vessels for the use of his church, but contributions to the stone churches, piers, and hostelries that he raised for his people; for whom he had made roads, drained marshes, introduced cattle, and made fisheries and salt pans, changing the whole aspect of the place, and lessening even the inclemency of the climate. on this good man the tzar fixed his choice. he wrote to him to come to moscow to attend a synod, and on his arrival made him dine at the palace, and informed him that he was to be chief pastor of the russian church. feeleep burst into tears, entreating permission to refuse, and beseeching the tzar not to trust 'so heavy a freight to such a feeble bark'. ivan held to his determination, and feeleep then begged him at least to dismiss the cruel oprichnina. 'how can i bless you,' he said, 'while i see my country in mourning?' the tzar replied by mentioning his suspicions of all around him, and commanded feeleep to be silent. he expected to be sent back to his convent at once, but, instead of this, the tzar commanded the clergy to elect him archbishop, and they all added their entreaties to him to accept the office, and endeavor to soften the tzar, who respected him; and he yielded at last, saying, 'the will of the tzar and the pastors of the church must, then, be done.' at his consecration, he preached a sermon on the power of mildness, and the superiority of the victories of love over the triumphs of war. it awoke the better feelings of ivan, and for months he abstained from any deed of violence; his good days seemed to have returned and he lived in intimate friendship with the good archbishop. but after a time the sleeping lion began to waken. ivan's suspicious mind took up an idea that feeleep had been incited by the nobles to request the abolition of the oprichnina, and that they were exciting a revolt. the spies whom he sent into moscow told him that wherever an oprichnik appeared, the people shrank away in silence, as, poor things! they well might. he fancied this as a sign that conspiracies were brewing, and all his atrocities began again. the tortures to which whole families were put were most horrible; the oprichniks went through the streets with poignards and axes, seeking out their victims, and killing from ten to twenty a day. the corpses lay in the streets, for no one dared to leave his house to bury them. feeleep vainly sent letters and exhortations to the tzar--they were unnoticed. the unhappy citizens came to the archbishop, entreating him to intercede for them, and he gave them his promise that he would not spare his own blood to save theirs. one sunday, as feeleep was about to celebrate the holy communion, ivan came into the cathedral with a troop of his satellites, like him, fantastically dressed in black cassocks and high caps. he came towards the metropolitan, but feeleep kept his eyes fixed on the picture of our lord, and never looked at him. someone said, 'holy father, here is the prince; give him your blessing.' 'no,' said the archbishop, 'i know not the tzar in this strange disguise--still less do i know him in his government. oh, prince! we are here offering sacrifice to the lord, and beneath the altar the blood of guiltless christians is flowing in torrents... you are indeed on the throne, but there is one above all, our judge and yours. how shall you appear before his judgment seat?--stained with the blood of the righteous, stunned with their shrieks, for the stones beneath your feet cry out for vengeance to heaven. prince, i speak as shepherd of souls; i fear god alone.' the archbishop was within the golden gates, which, in russian churches, close in the sanctuary or chancel, and are only entered by the clergy. he was thus out of reach of the cruel iron-tipped staff, which the tzar could only strike furiously on the pavement, crying out, 'rash monk, i have spared you too long. henceforth i will be to you such as you describe.' the murders went on in their full horrors; but, in spite of the threat, the archbishop remained unmolested, though broken-hearted at the cruelties around him. at last, however, his resolute witness became more than the tyrant would endure, and messengers were secretly sent to the island of solovsky, to endeavor to find some accusation against him. they tampered with all the monks in the convent, to induce them to find some fault in him, but each answered that he was a saint in every thought, word, and deed; until at last payssi, the prior who had succeeded him, was induced, by the hope of a bishopric, to bear false witness against him. he was cited before an assembly of bishops and boyards, presided over by the tzar, and there he patiently listened to the monstrous stories told by payssi. instead of defending himself, he simply said, 'this seed will not bring you a good harvest;' and, addressing himself to the tzar, said, 'prince, you are mistaken if you think i fear death. having attained an advanced age, far from stormy passions and worldly intrigues, i only desire to return my soul to the most high, my sovereign master and yours. better to perish an innocent martyr, than as metropolitan to look on at the horrors and impieties of these wretched times. do what you will with me! here are the pastoral staff, the white mitre, and the mantle with which you invested me. and you, bishops, archimandrites, abbots, servants of the altar, feed the flock of christ zealously, as preparing to give an account thereof, and fear the judge of heaven more than the earthly judge.' he was then departing, when the tzar recalled him, saying that he could not be his own judge, and that he must await his sentence. in truth, worse indignities were preparing for him. he was in the midst of the liturgy on the 8th of november, the greek michaelmas, when a boyard came in with a troop of armed oprichniks, who overawed the people, while the boyard read a paper degrading the metropolitan from his sacred office; and then the ruffians, entering through the golden gates tore off his mitre and robes, wrapped him in a mean gown, absolutely swept him out of the church with brooms, and took him in a sledge to the convent of the epiphany. the people ran after him, weeping bitterly, while the venerable old man blessed them with uplifted hands, and, whenever he could be heard, repeated his last injunction, 'pray, pray to god.' once again he was led before the emperor, to hear the monstrous sentence that for sorcery, and other heavy charges, he was to be imprisoned for life. he said no reproachful word, only, for the last time, he besought the tzar to have pity on russia, and to remember how his ancestors had reigned, and the happy days of his youth. ivan only commanded the soldiers to take him away; and he was heavily ironed, and thrown into a dungeon, whence he was afterwards transferred to a convent on the banks of the moskwa, where he was kept bare of almost all the necessaries of life: and in a few days' time the head of ivan borissovitch kolotchof, the chief of his family, was sent to him, with the message, 'here are the remains of your dear kinsman, your sorcery could not save him!' feeleep calmly took the head in his arms, blessed it, and gave it back. the people of moscow gathered round the convent, gazed at his cell, and told each other stories of his good works, which they began to magnify into miracles. thereupon the emperor sent him to another convent, at a greater distance. here he remained till the next year, 1569, when maluta skouratof, a tatar, noted as a favorite of the tzar, and one of the chief ministers of his cruelty, came into his cell, and demanded his blessing for the tzar. the archbishop replied that blessings only await good men and good works, adding tranquilly, 'i know what you are come for. i have long looked for death. let the tzar's will be done.' the assassin then smothered him, but pretended to the abbot that he had been stifled by the heat of the cell. he was buried in haste behind the altar, but his remains have since been removed to his own cathedral at moscow, the scene where he had freely offered his own life by confronting the tyrant in the vain endeavor to save his people. vain, too, was the reproof of the hermit, who shocked ivan's scruples by offering him a piece of raw flesh in the middle of lent, and told him that he was preying on the flesh and blood of his subjects. the crimes of ivan grew more and more terrible, and yet his acuteness was such that they can hardly be inscribed to insanity. he caused the death of his own son by a blow with that fatal staff of his; and a last, after a fever varied by terrible delirium, in which alone his remorse manifested itself, he died while setting up the pieces for a game at chess, on the 17th of march, 1584. this has been a horrible story, in reality infinitely more horrible than we have made it; but there is this blessing among many others in christianity, that the blackest night makes its diamonds only show their living luster more plainly: and surely even ivan the terrible, in spite of himself, did something for the world in bringing out the faithful fearlessness of archbishop feeleep, and the constancy of the stirrupbearer, vasili. fort st. elmo 1565 the white cross of the order of st. john waved on the towers of rhodes for two hundred and fifty-five years. in 1552, after a desperate resistance, the turks, under their great sultan, solyman the magnificent, succeeded in driving the knights hospitaliers from their beautiful home, and they were again cast upon the world. they were resolved, however, to continue their old work of protecting the mediterranean travelers, and thankfully accepted, as a gift from the emperor charles v., the little islet of malta as their new station. it was a great contrast to their former home, being little more than a mere rock rising steeply out of the sea, white, glaring and with very shallow earth, unfit to bear corn, though it produced plenty of oranges, figs, and melons--with little water, and no wood,--the buildings wretched, and for the most part uninhabited, and the few people a miserable mongrel set, part arab, part greek, part sicilian, and constantly kept down by the descents of the moorish pirates, who used to land in the unprotected bays, and carry off all the wretched beings they could catch, to sell for slaves. it was a miserable exchange from fertile rhodes, which was nearly five times larger than this barren rock; but the knights only wanted a hospital, a fortress, and a harbour; and this last they found in the deeply indented northern shore, while they made the first two. only a few years had passed before the dreary citta notabile had become in truth a notable city, full of fine castle-like houses, infirmaries, and noble churches, and fenced in with mighty wall and battlements--country houses were perched upon the rocks--the harbors were fortified, and filled with vessels of war--and deep vaults were hollowed out in the rock, in which corn was stored sufficient to supply the inhabitants for many months. everywhere that there was need was seen the red flag with the eightpointed cross. if there was an earthquake on the shores of italy or sicily, there were the ships of st. john, bringing succor to the crushed and ruined townspeople. in every battle with turk or moor, the knights were among the foremost; and, as ever before, their galleys were the aid of the peaceful merchant, and the terror of the corsair. indeed, they were nearer tunis, tripoli, and algiers, the great nests of these moorish pirates, and were better able to threaten them, and thwart their cruel descents, than when so much farther eastward; and the mahometan power found them quite as obnoxious in malta as in rhodes. solyman the magnificent resolved, in his old age, to sweep these obstinate christians from the seas, and, only twelve years after the siege of rhodes, prepared an enormous armament, which he united with those of the barbary pirates, and placed under the command of mustafa and piali, his two bravest pashas, and dragut, a terrible algerine corsair, who had already made an attempt upon the island, but had been repulsed by the good english knight, sir nicholas upton. without the advice of this pirate the sultan desired that nothing should be undertaken. the grand master who had to meet this tremendous danger was jean parisot de la valette, a brave and resolute man, as noted for his piety and tenderness to the sick in the infirmaries as for his unflinching courage. when he learnt the intentions of the sultan, he began by collecting a chapter of his order, and, after laying his tidings before them, said: 'a formidable army and a cloud of barbarians are about to burst on this isle. brethren, they are the enemies of jesus christ. the question is the defense of the faith, and whether the gospel shall yield to the koran. god demands from us the life that we have already devoted to him by our profession. happy they who in so good a cause shall first consummate their sacrifice. but, that we may be worthy, my brethren, let us hasten to the altar, there to renew our vows; and may to each one of us be imparted, by the very blood of the saviour of mankind, and by faithful participation in his sacraments, that generous contempt of death that can alone render us invincible.' with these words, he led the way to the church, and there was not an individual knight who did not on that day confess and receive the holy communion; after which they were as new men--all disputes, all trivialities and follies were laid aside--and the whole community awaited the siege like persons under a solemn dedication. the chief harbour of malta is a deep bay, turned towards the north, and divided into two lesser bays by a large tongue of rock, on the point of which stood a strong castle, called fort st. elmo. the gulf to the westward has a little island in it, and both gulf and islet are called marza muscat. the gulf to the east, called the grand port, was again divided by three fingers of rock projecting from the mainland, at right angles to the tongue that bore fort st. elmo. each finger was armed with a strong talon--the castle of la sangle to the east, the castle of st. angelo in the middle, and fort ricasoli to the west. between st. angelo and la sangle was the harbour where all the ships of war were shut up at night by an immense chain; and behind was il borgo, the chief fortification in the island. citta notabile and gozo were inland, and their fate would depend upon that of the defenses of the harbor. to defend all this, the grand master could only number 700 knights and 8,500 soldiers. he sent to summon home all those of the order who were dispersed in the different commanderies in france, spain, and germany, and entreated aid from the spanish king, philip ii., who wished to be considered as the prime champion of roman catholic christendom, and who alone had the power of assisting him. the duke of alva, viceroy for philip in sicily, made answer that he would endeavor to relieve the order, if they could hold out fort st. elmo till the fleet could be got together; but that if this castle were once lost, it would be impossible to bring them aid, and they must be left to their fate. the grand master divided the various posts to the knights according to their countries. the spaniards under the commander de guerras, bailiff of negropont, had the castle of st. elmo; the french had port de la sangle; the germans, and the few english knights whom the reformation had left, were charged with the defense of the port of the borgo, which served as headquarters, and the commander copier, with a body of troops, was to remain outside the town and watch and harass the enemy. on the 18th of may, 1565, the turkish fleet came in sight. it consisted of 159 ships, rowed by christian slaves between the decks, and carrying 30,000 janissaries and spahis, the terrible warriors to whom the turks owed most of their victories, and after them came, spreading for miles over the blue waters, a multitude of ships of burthen bringing the horses of the spahis, and such heavy battering cannon as rendered the dangers of a siege infinitely greater than in former days. these janissaries were a strange, distorted resemblance of the knights themselves, for they were bound in a strict brotherhood of arms, and were not married, so as to care for nothing but each other, the sultan, and the honor of their troop. they were not dull, apathetic turks, but chiefly natives of circassia and georgia, the land where the human race is most beautiful and nobly formed. they were stolen from their homes, or, too often, sold by their parents when too young to remember their christian baptism, and were bred up as mahometans, with no home but their corps, no kindred but their fellow soldiers. their title, given by the sultan who first enrolled them, meant new soldiers, their ensign was a camp kettle, as that of their pashas was one, two, or three horses' tails, in honor of the old kurdish chief, the founder of the turkish empire; but there was no homeliness in their appointments, their weapons--scimitars, pistols, and carabines--were crusted with gold and jewels; their head-dress, though made in imitation of a sleeve, was gorgeous, and their garments were of the richest wool and silk, dyed with the deep, exquisite colours of the east. terrible warriors were they, and almost equally dreaded were the spahis, light horsemen from albania and the other greek and bulgarian provinces who had entered the turkish service, and were great plunderers, swift and cruel, glittering, both man and horse, with the jewels they had gained in their forays. these were chiefly troops for the land attack, and they were set on shore at port st. thomas, where the commanders, mustafa and piali, held a council, to decide where they should first attack. piali wished to wait for dragut, who was daily expected, but mustafa was afraid of losing time, and of being caught by the spanish fleet, and insisted on at once laying siege to fort st. elmo, which was, he thought, so small that it could not hold out more than five or six days. indeed, it could not hold above 300 men, but these were some of the bravest of the knights, and as it was only attacked on the land side, they were able to put off boats at night and communicate with the grand master and their brethren in the borgo. the turks set up their batteries, and fired their enormous cannon shot upon the fortifications. one of their terrible pieces of ordnance carried stone balls of 160 lb., and no wonder that stone and mortar gave way before it, and that a breach was opened in a few days' time. that night, when, as usual, boatloads of wounded men were transported across to the borgo, the bailiff of negropont sent the knight la cerda to the grand master to give an account of the state of things and ask for help. la cerda spoke strongly, and, before a great number of knights, declared that there was no chance of so weak a place holding out for more than a week. 'what has been lost,' said the grand master, 'since you cry out for help?' 'sir,' replied la cerda, 'the castle may be regarded as a patient in extremity and devoid of strength, who can only be sustained by continual remedies and constant succor.' 'i will be doctor myself,' replied the grand master, 'and will bring others with me who, if they cannot cure you of fear, will at least be brave enough to prevent the infidels from seizing the fort.' the fact was, as he well knew, that the little fort could not hold out long, and he grieved over the fate of his knights; but time was everything, and the fate of the whole isle depended upon the white cross being still on that point of land when the tardy sicilian fleet should set sail. he was one who would ask no one to run into perils that he would not share, and he was bent on throwing himself into st. elmo, and being rather buried under the ruins than to leave the mussulmans free a moment sooner than could be helped to attack the borgo and castle of st. angelo. but the whole chapter of knights entreated him to abstain, and so many volunteered for this desperate service, that the only difficulty was to choose among them. indeed, la cerda had done the garrison injustice; no one's heart was failing but his own; and the next day there was a respite, for a cannon shot from st. angelo falling into the enemy's camp, shattered a stone, a splinter of which struck down the piali pasha. he was thought dead, and the camp and fleet were in confusion, which enabled the grand master to send off his nephew, the chevalier de la valette cornusson, to messina to entreat the viceroy of sicily to hasten to their relief; to give him a chart of the entrance of the harbour, and a list of signals, and to desire in especial that two ships belonging to the order, and filled with the knights who had hurried from distant lands too late for the beginning of the siege, might come to him at once. to this the viceroy returned a promise that at latest the fleet should sail on the 15th of june, adding an exhortation to him at all sacrifices to maintain st. elmo. this reply the grand master transmitted to the garrison, and it nerved them to fight even with more patience and self-sacrifice. a desperate sally was led by the chevalier de medran, who fought his way into the trenches where the turkish cannon were planted, and at first drove all before him; but the janissaries rallied and forced back the christians out of the trenches. unfortunately there was a high wind, which drove the smoke of the artillery down on the counter-scarp (the slope of masonry facing the rampart), and while it was thus hidden from the christians, the turks succeeded in effecting a lodgment there, fortifying themselves with trees and sacks of earth and wool. when the smoke cleared off, the knights were dismayed to see the horse-tail ensigns of the janissaries so near them, and cannon already prepared to batter the ravelin, or outwork protecting the gateway. la cerda proposed to blow this fortification up, and abandon it, but no other knight would hear of deserting an inch of wall while it could yet be held. but again the sea was specked with white sails from the south-east. six galleys came from egypt, bearing 900 troops--mameluke horsemen, troops recruited much like the janissaries and quite as formidable. these ships were commanded by ulucciali, an italian, who had denied his faith and become a mahometan, and was thus regarded with especial horror by the chivalry of malta. and the swarm thickened for a few days more; like white-winged and beautiful but venomous insects hovering round their prey, the graceful moorish galleys and galliots came up from the south, bearing 600 dark-visaged, white-turbaned, lithe-limbed moors from tripoli, under dragut himself. the thunders of all the guns roaring forth their salute of honor told the garrison that the most formidable enemy of all had arrived. and now their little white rock was closed in on every side, with nothing but its own firmness to be its aid. dragut did not approve of having begun with attacking fort st. elmo; he thought that the inland towns should have been first taken, and mustafa offered to discontinue the attack, but this the corsair said could not now be done with honor, and under him the attack went on more furiously than ever. he planted a battery of four guns on the point guarding the entrance of marza muscat, the other gulf, and the spot has ever since been called dragut's point. strange to say, the soldiers in the ravelin fell asleep, and thus enabled the enemy to scramble up by climbing on one another's shoulders and enter the place. as soon as the alarm was given, the bailiff of negropont, with a number of knights, rushed into the ravelin, and fought with the utmost desperation, but all in vain; they never succeeded in dislodging the turks, and had almost been followed by them into the fort itself. only the utmost courage turned back the enemy at last, and, it was believed, with a loss of 3,000. the order had twenty knights and a hundred soldiers killed, with many more wounded. one knight named abel de bridiers, who was shot through the body, refused to be assisted by his brethren, saying, 'reckon me no more among the living. you will be doing better by defending our brothers.' he dragged himself away, and was found dead before the altar in the castle chapel. the other wounded were brought back to the borgo in boats at night, and la cerda availed himself of a slight scratch to come with them and remain, though the bailiff of negropont, a very old man, and with a really severe wound, returned as soon as it had been dressed, together with the reinforcements sent to supply the place of those who had been slain. the grand master, on finding how small had been la cerda's hurt, put him in prison for several days; but he was afterwards released, and met his death bravely on the ramparts of the borgo. the 15th of june was passed. nothing would make the sicilian viceroy move, nor even let the warships of the order sail with their own knights, and the little fort that had been supposed unable to hold out a week, had for full a month resisted every attack of the enemy. at last dragut, though severely wounded while reconnoitring, set up a battery on the hill of calcara, so as to command the strait, and hinder the succors from being sent across to the fort. the wounded were laid down in the chapel and the vaults, and well it was for them that each knight of the order could be a surgeon and a nurse. one good swimmer crossed under cover of darkness with their last messages, and la valette prepared five armed boats for their relief; but the enemy had fifteen already in the bay, and communication was entirely cut off. it was the night before the 23rd of june when these brave men knew their time was come. all night they prayed, and prepared themselves to die by giving one another the last rites of the church, and at daylight each repaired to his post, those who could not walk being carried in chairs, and sat ghastly figures, sword in hand, on the brink of the breach, ready for their last fight. by the middle of the day every christian knight in st. elmo had died upon his post, and the little heap of ruins was in the hands of the enemy. dragut was dying of his wound, but just lived to hear that the place was won, when it had cost the sultan 8,000 men! well might mustafa say, 'if the son has cost us so much, what will the father do?' it would be too long to tell the glorious story of the three months' further siege of the borgo. the patience and resolution of the knights was unshaken, though daily there were tremendous battles, and week after week passed by without the tardy relief from spain. it is believed that philip ii. thought that the turks would exhaust themselves against the order, and forbade his viceroy to hazard his fleet; but at last he was shamed into permitting the armament to be fitted out. two hundred knights of st. john were waiting at messina, in despair at being unable to reach their brethren in their deadly strait, and constantly haunting the viceroy's palace, till he grew impatient, and declared they did not treat him respectfully enough, nor call him 'excellency'. 'senor,' said one of them, 'if you will only bring us in time to save the order, i will call you anything you please, excellency, highness, or majesty itself.' at last, on the 1st of september, the fleet really set sail, but it hovered cautiously about on the farther side of the island, and only landed 6,000 men and then returned to sicily. however, the tidings of its approach had spread such a panic among the turkish soldiers, who were worn out and exhausted by their exertions, that they hastily raised the siege, abandoned their heavy artillery, and, removing their garrison from fort st. elmo, re-embarked in haste and confusion. no sooner, however, was the pasha in his ship than he became ashamed of his precipitation, more especially when he learnt that the relief that had put 16,000 men to flight consisted only of 6,000, and he resolved to land and give battle; but his troops were angry and unwilling, and were actually driven out of their ships by blows. in the meantime, the grand master had again placed a garrison in st. elmo, which the turks had repaired and restored, and once more the cross of st. john waved on the end of its tongue of land, to greet the spanish allies. a battle was fought with the newly arrived troops, in which the turks were defeated; they again took to their ships, and the viceroy of sicily, from syracuse, beheld their fleet in full sail for the east. meantime, the gates of the borgo were thrown open to receive the brethren and friends who had been so long held back from coming to the relief of the home of the order. four months' siege, by the heaviest artillery in europe, had shattered the walls and destroyed the streets, till, to the eyes of the newcomers, the town looked like a place taken by assault, and sacked by the enemy; and of the whole garrison, knights, soldiers, and sailors altogether, only six hundred were left able to bear arms, and they for the most part covered with wounds. the grand master and his surviving knights could hardly be recognized, so pale and altered were they by wounds and excessive fatigue; their hair, beards, dress, and armor showing that for four full months they had hardly undressed, or lain down unarmed. the newcomers could not restrain their tears, but all together proceeded to the church to return thanks for the conclusion of their perils and afflictions. rejoicings extended all over europe, above all in italy, spain, and southern france, where the order of st. john was the sole protection against the descents of the barbary corsairs. the pope sent la valette a cardinal's hat, but he would not accept it, as unsuited to his office; philip ii. presented him with a jeweled sword and dagger. some thousand unadorned swords a few months sooner would have been a better testimony to his constancy, and that of the brave men whose lives spain had wasted by her cruel delays. the borgo was thenceforth called citta vittoriosa; but la valette decided on building the chief town of the isle on the peninsula of fort st. elmo, and in this work he spent his latter days, till he was killed by a sunstroke, while superintending the new works of the city which is deservedly known by his name, as valetta. the order of st. john lost much of its character, and was finally swept from malta in the general confusion of the revolutionary wars. the british crosses now float in the harbour of malta; but the steep white rocks must ever bear the memory of the self-devoted endurance of the beleaguered knights, and, foremost of all, of those who perished in st. elmo, in order that the signal banner might to the very last summon the tardy viceroy to their aid. the voluntary convict 1622 in the early summer of the year 1605, a coasting vessel was sailing along the beautiful gulf of lyons, the wind blowing gently in the sails, the blue mediterranean lying glittering to the south, and the curved line of the french shore rising in purple and green tints, dotted with white towns and villages. suddenly three light, white-sailed ships appeared in the offing, and the captain's practiced eye detected that the wings that bore them were those of a bird of prey. he knew them for african brigantines, and though he made all sail, it was impossible to run into a french port, as on, on they came, not entirely depending on the wind, but, like steamers, impelled by unseen powers within them. alas! that power was not the force of innocent steam, but the arms of christian rowers chained to the oar. sure as the pounce of a hawk upon a partridge was the swoop of the corsairs upon the french vessel. a signal to surrender followed, but the captain boldly refused, and armed his crew, bidding them stand to their guns. but the fight was too unequal, the brave little ship was disabled, the pirates boarded her, and, after a sharp fight on deck, three of the crew lay dead, all the rest were wounded, and the vessel was the prize of the pirates. the captain was at once killed, in revenge for his resistance, and all the rest of the crew and passengers were put in chains. among these passengers was a young priest named vincent de paul, the son of a farmer in languedoc, who had used his utmost endeavors to educate his son for the ministry, even selling the oxen from the plough to provide for the college expenses. a small legacy had just fallen to the young man, from a relation who had died at marseilles; he had been thither to receive it, and had been persuaded by a friend to return home by sea. and this was the result of the pleasant voyage. the legacy was the prey of the pirates, and vincent, severely wounded by an arrow, and heavily chained, lay halfstifled in a corner of the hold of the ship, a captive probably for life to the enemies of the faith. it was true that france had scandalized europe by making peace with the dey of tunis, but this was a trifle to the corsairs; and when, after seven days' further cruising, they put into the harbour of tunis, they drew up an account of their capture, calling it a spanish vessel, to prevent the french consul from claiming the prisoners. the captives had the coarse blue and white garments of slaves given them, and were walked five or six times through the narrow streets and bazaars of tunis, by way of exhibition. they were then brought back to their ship, and the purchasers came thither to bargain for them. they were examined at their meals, to see if they had good appetites; their sides were felt like those of oxen; their teeth looked at like those of horses; their wounds were searched, and they were made to run and walk to show the play of their limbs. all this vincent endured with patient submission, constantly supported by the thought of him who took upon him the form of a servant for our sakes; and he did his best, ill as he was, to give his companions the same confidence. weak and unwell, vincent was sold cheap to a fisherman; but in his new service it soon became apparent that the sea made him so ill as to be of no use, so he was sold again to one of the moorish physicians, the like of whom may still be seen, smoking their pipes sleepily, under their white turbans, cross-legged, among the drugs in their shop windows---these being small open spaces beneath the beautiful stone lacework of the moorish lattices. the physician was a great chemist and distiller, and for four years had been seeking the philosopher's stone, which was supposed to be the secret of making gold. he found his slave's learning and intelligence so useful that he grew very fond of him, and tried hard to persuade him to turn mahometan, offering him not only liberty, but the inheritance of all his wealth, and the secrets that he had discovered. the christian priest felt the temptation sufficiently to be always grateful for the grace that had carried him through it. at the end of a year, the old doctor died, and his nephew sold vincent again. his next master was a native of nice, who had not held out against the temptation to renounce his faith in order to avoid a life of slavery, but had become a renegade, and had the charge of one of the farms of the dey of tunis. the farm was on a hillside in an extremely hot and exposed region, and vincent suffered much from being there set to field labour, but he endured all without a murmur. his master had three wives, and one of them, who was of turkish birth, used often to come out and talk to him, asking him many questions about his religion. sometimes she asked him to sing, and he would then chant the psalm of the captive jews: 'by the waters of babylon we sat down and wept;' and others of the 'songs' of his zion. the woman at last told her husband that he must have been wrong in forsaking a religion of which her slave had told her such wonderful things. her words had such an effect on the renegade that he sought the slave, and in conversation with him soon came to a full sense of his own miserable position as an apostate. a change of religion on the part of a mahometan is, however, always visited with death, both to the convert and his instructor. an algerine, who was discovered to have become a christian, was about this time said to have been walled up at once in the fortifications he had been building; and the story has been confirmed by the recent discovery, by the french engineers, of the remains of a man within a huge block of clay, that had taken a perfect cast of his moorish features, and of the surface of his garments, and even had his black hair adhering to it. vincent's master, terrified at such perils, resolved to make his escape in secret with his slave. it is disappointing to hear nothing of the wife; and not to know whether she would not or could not accompany them. all we know is, that master and slave trusted themselves alone to a small bark, and, safely crossing the mediterranean, landed at aigues mortes, on the 28th of june, 1607; and that the renegade at once abjured his false faith, and soon after entered a brotherhood at rome, whose office it was to wait on the sick in hospitals. this part of vincent de paul's life has been told at length because it shows from what the knights of st. john strove to protect the inhabitants of the coasts. we next find vincent visiting at a hospital at paris, where he gave such exceeding comfort to the patients that all with one voice declared him a messenger from heaven. he afterwards became a tutor in the family of the count de joigni, a very excellent man, who was easily led by him to many good works. m. de joigni was inspector general of the 'galeres', or hulks, the ships in the chief harbors of france, such as brest and marseilles, where the convicts, closely chained, were kept to hard labour, and often made to toil at the oar, like the slaves of the africans. going the round of these prison ships, the horrible state of the convicts, their half-naked misery, and still more their fiendish ferocity went to the heart of the count and of the abbé de paul; and, with full authority from the inspector, the tutor worked among these wretched beings with such good effect that on his doings being represented to the king, louis xiii., he was made almoner general to the galleys. while visiting those at marseilles, he was much struck by the brokendown looks and exceeding sorrowfulness of one of the convicts. he entered into conversation with him, and, after many kind words, persuaded him to tell his troubles. his sorrow was far less for his own condition than for the misery to which his absence must needs reduce his wife and children. and what was vincent's reply to this? his action was so striking that, though in itself it could hardly be safe to propose it as an example, it must be mentioned as the very height of selfsacrifice. he absolutely changed places with the convict. probably some arrangement was made with the immediate jailor of the gang, who, by the exchange of the priest for the convict, could make up his full tale of men to show when his numbers were counted. at any rate the prisoner went free, and returned to his home, whilst vincent wore a convict's chain, did a convict's work, lived on convict's fare, and, what was worse, had only convict society. he was soon sought out and released, but the hurts he had received from the pressure of the chain lasted all his life. he never spoke of the event; it was kept a strict secret; and once when he had referred to it in a letter to a friend, he became so much afraid that the story would become known that he sent to ask for the letter back again. it was, however, not returned, and it makes the fact certain. it would be a dangerous precedent if prison chaplains were to change places with their charges; and, beautiful as was vincent's spirit, the act can hardly be justified; but it should also be remembered that among the galleys of france there were then many who had been condemned for resistance to the arbitrary will of cardinal de richelieu, men not necessarily corrupt and degraded like the thieves and murderers with whom they were associated. at any rate, m. de joigni did not displace the almoner, and vincent worked on the consciences of the convicts with infinitely more force for having been for a time one of themselves. many and many were won back to penitence, a hospital was founded for them, better regulations established, and, for a time, both prisons and galleys were wonderfully improved, although only for the life-time of the good inspector and the saintly almoner. but who shall say how many souls were saved in those years by these men who did what they could? the rest of the life of vincent de paul would be too lengthy to tell here, though acts of beneficence and self-devotion shine out in glory at each step. the work by which he is chiefly remembered is his establishment of the order of sisters of charity, the excellent women who have for two hundred years been the prime workers in every charitable task in france, nursing the sick, teaching the young, tending deserted children, ever to be found where there is distress or pain. but of these, and of his charities, we will not here speak, nor even of his influence for good on the king and queen themselves. the whole tenor of his life was 'golden' in one sense, and if we told all his golden deeds they would fill an entire book. so we will only wait to tell how he showed his remembrance of what he had gone through in his african captivity. the redemption of the prisoners there might have seemed his first thought, but that he did so much in other quarters. at different times, with the alms that he collected, and out of the revenues of his benefices, he ransomed no less then twelve hundred slaves from their captivity. at one time the french consul at tunis wrote to him that for a certain sum a large number might be set free, and he raised enough to release not only these, but seventy more, and he further wrought upon the king to obtain the consent of the dey of tunis that a party of christian clergy should be permitted to reside in the consul's house, and to minister to the souls and bodies of the christian slaves, of whom there were six thousand in tunis alone, besides those in algiers, tangier, and tripoli! permission was gained, and a mission of lazarist brothers arrived. this, too, was an order founded by vincent, consisting of priestly nurses like the hospitaliers, though not like them warriors. they came in the midst of a dreadful visitation of the plague, and nursed and tended the sick, both christians and mahometans, with fearless devotion, day and night, till they won the honor and love of the moors themselves. the good vincent de paul died in the year 1660, but his brothers of st. lazarus, and sisters of charity still tread in the paths he marked out for them, and his name scarcely needs the saintly epithet that his church as affixed to it to stand among the most honorable of charitable men. the cruel deeds of the african pirates were never wholly checked till 1816, when the united fleets of england and france destroyed the old den of corsairs at algiers, which has since become a french colony. the housewives of lowenburg 1631 brave deeds have been done by the burgher dames of some of the german cities collectively. without being of the first class of golden deeds, there is something in the exploit of the dames of weinsberg so quaint and so touching, that it cannot be omitted here. it was in the first commencement of the long contest known as the strife between the guelfs and ghibellines--before even these had become the party words for the pope's and the emperor's friends, and when they only applied to the troops of bavaria and of swabia--that, in 1141, wolf, duke of bavaria, was besieged in his castle of weinberg by friedrich, duke of swabia, brother to the reigning emperor, konrad iii. the siege lasted long, but wolf was obliged at last to offer to surrender; and the emperor granted him permission to depart in safety. but his wife did not trust to this fair offer. she had reason to believe that konrad had a peculiar enmity to her husband; and on his coming to take possession of the castle, she sent to him to entreat him to give her a safe conduct for herself and all the other women in the garrison, that they might come out with as much of their valuables as they could carry. this was freely granted, and presently the castle gates opened. from beneath them came the ladies--but in strange guise. no gold nor jewels were carried by them, but each one was bending under the weight of her husband, whom she thus hoped to secure from the vengeance of the ghibellines. konrad, who was really a generous and merciful man, is said to have been affected to tears by this extraordinary performance; he hastened to assure the ladies of the perfect safety of their lords, and that the gentlemen might dismount at once, secure both of life and freedom. he invited them all to a banquet, and made peace with the duke of bavaria on terms much more favorable to the guelfs than the rest of his party had been willing to allow. the castle mount was thenceforth called no longer the vine hill, but the hill of weibertreue, or woman's fidelity. we will not invidiously translate it woman's truth, for there was in the transaction something of a subterfuge; and it must be owned that the ladies tried to the utmost the knightly respect for womankind. the good women of lowenburg, who were but citizens' wives, seem to us more worthy of admiration for constancy to their faith, shown at a time when they had little to aid them. it was such constancy as makes martyrs; and though the trial stopped short of this, there is something in the homeliness of the whole scene, and the feminine form of passive resistance, that makes us so much honor and admire the good women that we cannot refrain from telling the story. it was in the year 1631, in the midst of the long thirty years' was between roman catholics and protestants, which finally decided that each state should have its own religion, lowenburg, a city of silesia, originally protestant, had passed into the hands of the emperor's roman catholic party. it was a fine old german city, standing amid woods and meadows, fortified with strong walls surrounded by a moat, and with gate towers to protect the entrance. in the centre was a large market-place, called the ring, into which looked the council-house and fourteen inns, or places of traffic, for the cloth that was woven in no less than 300 factories. the houses were of stone, with gradually projecting stories to the number of four or five, surmounted with pointed gables. the ground floors had once had trellised porches, but these had been found inconvenient and were removed, and the lower story consisted of a large hall, and strong vault, with a spacious room behind it containing a baking-oven, and a staircase leading to a wooden gallery, where the family used to dine. it seems they slept in the room below, though they had upstairs a handsome wainscoted apartment. very rich and flourishing had the lowenburgers always been, and their walls were quite sufficient to turn back any robber barons, or even any invading poles; but things were different when firearms were in use, and the bands of mercenary soldiers had succeeded the feudal army. they were infinitely more formidable during the battle or siege from their discipline, and yet more dreadful after it for their want of discipline. the poor lowneburgers had been greatly misused: their lutheran pastors had been expelled; all the superior citizens had either fled or been imprisoned; 250 families spent the summer in the woods, and of those who remained in the city, the men had for the most part outwardly conformed to the roman catholic church. most of these were of course indifferent at heart, and they had found places in the town council which had formerly been filled by more respectable men. however, the wives had almost all remained staunch to their lutheran confession; they had followed their pastors weeping to the gates of the city, loading them with gifts, and they hastened at every opportunity to hear their preachings, or obtain baptism for their children at the lutheran churches in the neighborhood. the person who had the upper hand in the council was one julius, who had been a franciscan friar, but was a desperate, unscrupulous fellow, not at all like a monk. finding that it was considered as a reproach that the churches of lowenburg were empty, he called the whole council together on the 9th of april, 1631, and informed them that the women must be brought to conformity, or else there were towers and prisons for them. the burgomaster was ill in bed, but the judge, one elias seiler, spoke up at once. 'if we have been able to bring the men into the right path, why should not we be able to deal with these little creatures?' herr mesnel, a cloth factor, who had been a widower six weeks, thought it would be hard to manage, though he quite agreed to the expedient, saying, 'it would be truly good if man and wife had one creed and one paternoster; as concerns the ten commandments it is not so pressing.' (a sentiment that he could hardly have wished to see put in practice.) another councilor, called schwob franze, who had lost his wife a few days before, seems to have had an eye to the future, for he said it would be a pity to frighten away the many beautiful maidens and widows there were among the lutheran women; but on the whole the men without wives were much bolder and more sanguine of success than the married ones. and no one would undertake to deal with his own wife privately, so it ended by a message being sent to the more distinguished ladies to attend the council. but presently up came tidings that not merely these few dames, whom they might have hoped to overawe, were on their way, but that the judge's wife and the burgomaster's were the first pair in a procession of full 500 housewives, who were walking sedately up the stairs to the council hall below the chamber where the dignitaries were assembled. this was not by any means what had been expected, and the message was sent down that only the chief ladies should come up. 'no,' replied the judge's wife, 'we will not allow ourselves to be separated,' and to this they were firm; they said, as one fared all should fare; and the town clerk, going up and down with smooth words, received no better answer than this from the judge's wife, who, it must be confessed, was less ladylike in language than resolute in faith. 'nay, nay, dear friend, do you think we are so simple as not to perceive the trick by which you would force us poor women against our conscience to change our faith? my husband and the priest have not been consorting together all these days for nothing; they have been joined together almost day and night; assuredly they have either boiled or baked a devil, which they may eat up themselves. i shall not enter there! where i remain, my train and following will remain also! women, is this your will?' 'yea, yea, let it be so,' they said; 'we will all hold together as one man.' his honor the town clerk was much affrighted, and went hastily back, reporting that the council was in no small danger, since each housewife had her bunch of keys at her side! these keys were the badge of a wife's dignity and authority, and moreover they were such ponderous articles that they sometimes served as weapons. a scottish virago has been know to dash out the brains of a wounded enemy with her keys; and the intelligence that the good dames had come so well furnished, filled the council with panic. dr. melchior hubner, who had been a miller's man, wished for a hundred musketeers to mow them down; but the town clerk proposed that all the council should creep quietly down the back stairs, lock the doors on the refractory womankind, and make their escape. this was effected as silently and quickly as possible, for the whole council 'could confess to a state of frightful terror.' presently the women peeped out, and saw the stairs bestrewn with hats, gloves, and handkerchiefs; and perceiving how they had put all the wisdom and authority of the town to the rout, there was great merriment among them, though, finding themselves locked up, the more tenderhearted began to pity their husbands and children. as for themselves, their maids and children came round the town hall, to hand in provisions to them, and all the men who were not of the council were seeking the magistrates to know what their wives had done to be thus locked up. the judge sent to assemble the rest of the council at his house; and though only four came, the doorkeeper ran to the town hall, and called out to his wife that the council had reassembled, and they would soon be let out. to which, however, that very shrewd dame, the judge's wife, answered with great composure, 'yea, we willingly have patience, as we are quite comfortable here; but tell them they ought to inform us why we are summoned and confined without trial.' she well knew how much better off she was than her husband without her. he paced about in great perturbation, and at last called for something to eat. the maid served up a dish of crab, some white bread, and butter; but, in his fury, he threw all the food about the room and out the window, away from the poor children, who had had nothing to eat all day, and at last he threw all the dishes and saucepans out of window. at last the town clerk and two others were sent to do their best to persuade the women that they had misunderstood--they were in no danger, and were only invited to the preachings of holy week: and, as master daniel, the joiner, added, 'it was only a friendly conference. it is not customary with my masters and the very wise council to hang a man before they have caught him.' this opprobrious illustration raised a considerable clamor of abuse from the ruder women; but the judge's and burgomaster's ladies silenced them, and repeated their resolution never to give up their faith against their conscience. seeing that no impression was made on them, and that nobody knew what to do without them at home, the magistracy decided that they should be released, and they went quietly home; but the judge seiler, either because he had been foremost in the business, or else perhaps because of the devastation he had made at home among the pots and pans, durst not meet his wife, but sneaked out of the town, and left her with the house to herself. the priest now tried getting the three chief ladies alone together, and most politely begged them to conform; but instead of arguing, they simply answered; 'no; we were otherwise instructed by our parents and former preachers.' then he begged them at least to tell the other women that they had asked for fourteen days for consideration. 'no, dear sir,' they replied: 'we were not taught by our parents to tell falsehoods, and we will not learn it from you.' meanwhile schwob franze rushed to the burgomaster's bedside, and begged him, for heaven's sake, to prevent the priest from meddling with the women; for the whole bevy, hearing that their three leaders were called before the priest, were collecting in the marketplace, keys, bundles, and all; and the panic of the worthy magistrates was renewed. the burgomaster sent for the priest, and told him plainly, that if any harm befel him from the women, the fault would be his own; and thereupon he gave way, the ladies went quietly home, and their stout champions laid aside their bundles and keys--not out of reach, however, in case of another summons. however, the priest was obliged, next year, to leave lowenburg in disgrace, for he was a man of notoriously bad character; and dr. melchior became a soldier, and was hanged at prague. after all, such a confession as this is a mere trifle, not only compared with martyrdoms of old, but with the constancy with which, after the revocation of the edict of nantes, the huguenots endured persecution---as, for instance, the large number of women who were imprisoned for thirty-eight years at aigues mortes; or again, with the steady resolution of the persecuted nuns of port royal against signing the condemnation of the works of jansen. yet, in its own way, the feminine resistance of these good citizens' wives, without being equally high-toned, is worthy of record, and far too full of character to be passed over. fathers and sons 219--1642--1798 one of the noblest characters in old roman history is the first scipio africanus, and his first appearance is in a most pleasing light, at the battle of the river ticinus, b.c. 219, when the carthaginians, under hannibal, had just completed their wonderful march across the alps, and surprised the romans in italy itself. young scipio was then only seventeen years of age, and had gone to his first battle under the eagles of his father, the consul, publius cornelius scipio. it was an unfortunate battle; the romans, when exhausted by long resistance to the spanish horse in hannibal's army, were taken in flank by the numidian calvary, and entirely broken. the consul rode in front of the few equites he could keep together, striving by voice and example to rally his forces, until he was pierced by one of the long numidian javelins, and fell senseless from his horse. the romans, thinking him dead, entirely gave way; but his young son would not leave him, and, lifting him on his horse, succeeded in bringing him safe into the camp, where he recovered, and his after days retrieved the honor of the roman arms. the story of a brave and devoted son comes to us to light up the sadness of our civil wars between cavaliers and roundheads in the middle of the seventeenth century. it was soon after king charles had raised his standard at nottingham, and set forth on his march for london, that it became evident that the parliamentary army, under the earl of essex, intended to intercept his march. the king himself was with the army, with his two boys, charles and james; but the general-in-chief was robert bertie, earl of lindsay, a brave and experienced old soldier, sixty years of age, godson to queen elizabeth, and to her two favorite earls, whose christian name he bore. he had been in her essex's expedition to cambridge, and had afterwards served in the low countries, under prince maurice of nassau; for the long continental wars had throughout king james' peaceful reign been treated by the english nobility as schools of arms, and a few campaigns were considered as a graceful finish to a gentleman's education. as soon as lord lindsay had begun to fear that the disputes between the king and parliament must end in war, he had begun to exercise and train his tenantry in lincolnshire and northamptonshire, of whom he had formed a regiment of infantry. with him was his son montagu bertie, lord willoughby, a noble-looking man of thirty-two, of whom it was said, that he was 'as excellent in reality as others in pretence,' and that, thinking 'that the cross was an ornament to the crown, and much more to the coronet, he satisfied not himself with the mere exercise of virtue, but sublimated it, and made it grace.' he had likewise seen some service against the spaniards in the netherlands, and after his return had been made a captain in the lifeguards, and a gentleman of the bedchamber. vandyke has left portraits of the father and the son; the one a bald-headed, alert, precise-looking old warrior, with the cuirass and gauntlets of elder warfare; the other, the very model of a cavalier, tall, easy, and graceful, with a gentle reflecting face, and wearing the long lovelocks and deep point lace collar and cuffs characteristic of queen henrietta's court. lindsay was called general-in-chief, but the king had imprudently exempted the cavalry from his command, its general, prince rupert of the rhine, taking orders only from himself. rupert was only three-andtwenty, and his education in the wild school of the thirty years' war had not taught him to lay aside his arrogance and opinionativeness; indeed, he had shown great petulance at receiving orders from the king through lord falkland. at eight o'clock, on the morning of the 23rd of october, king charles was riding along the ridge of edgehill, and looking down into the vale of red horse, a fair meadow land, here and there broken by hedges and copses. his troops were mustering around him, and in the valley he could see with his telescope the various parliamentary regiments, as they poured out of the town of keinton, and took up their positions in three lines. 'i never saw the rebels in a body before,' he said, as he gazed sadly at the subjects arrayed against him. 'i shall give them battle. god, and the prayers of good men to him, assist the justice of my cause.' the whole of his forces, about 11,000 in number, were not assembled till two o'clock in the afternoon, for the gentlemen who had become officers found it no easy matter to call their farmers and retainers together, and marshal them into any sort of order. but while one troop after another came trampling, clanking, and shouting in, trying to find and take their proper place, there were hot words round the royal standard. lord lindsay, who was an old comrade of the earl of essex, the commander of the rebel forces, knew that he would follow the tactics they had both together studied in holland, little thinking that one day they should be arrayed one against the other in their own native england. he had a high opinion of essex's generalship, and insisted that the situation of the royal army required the utmost caution. rupert, on the other hand, had seen the swift fiery charges of the fierce troopers of the thirty years' war, and was backed up by patrick, lord ruthven, one of the many scots who had won honor under the great swedish king, gustavus adolphus. a sudden charge of the royal horse would, rupert argued, sweep the roundheads from the field, and the foot would have nothing to do but to follow up the victory. the great portrait at windsor shows us exactly how the king must have stood, with his charger by his side, and his grave, melancholy face, sad enough at having to fight at all with his subjects, and never having seen a battle, entirely bewildered between the ardent words of his spirited nephew and the grave replies of the well-seasoned old earl. at last, as time went on, and some decision was necessary, the perplexed king, willing at least not to irritate rupert, desired that ruthven should array the troops in the swedish fashion. it was a greater affront to the general-in-chief than the king was likely to understand, but it could not shake the old soldier's loyalty. he gravely resigned the empty title of general, which only made confusion worse confounded, and rode away to act as colonel of his own lincoln regiment, pitying his master's perplexity, and resolved that no private pique should hinder him from doing his duty. his regiment was of foot soldiers, and was just opposite to the standard of the earl of essex. the church bell was ringing for afternoon service when the royal forces marched down the hill. the last hurried prayer before the charge was stout old sir jacob astley's, 'o lord, thou knowest how busy i must be this day; if i forget thee, do not thou forget me;' then, rising, he said, 'march on, boys.' and, amid prayer and exhortation, the other side awaited the shock, as men whom a strong and deeply embittered sense of wrong had roused to take up arms. prince rupert's charge was, however, fully successful. no one even waited to cross swords with his troopers, but all the roundhead horse galloped headlong off the field, hotly pursued by the royalists. but the main body of the army stood firm, and for some time the battle was nearly equal, until a large troop of the enemy's cavalry who had been kept in reserve, wheeled round and fell upon the royal forces just when their scanty supply of ammunition was exhausted. step by step, however, they retreated bravely, and rupert, who had returned from his charge, sought in vain to collect his scattered troopers, so as to fall again on the rebels; but some were plundering, some chasing the enemy, and none could be got together. lord lindsay was shot through the thigh bone, and fell. he was instantly surrounded by the rebels on horseback; but his son, lord willoughby, seeing his danger, flung himself alone among the enemy, and forcing his way forward, raised his father in his arms thinking of nothing else, and unheeding his own peril. the throng of enemy around called to him to surrender, and, hastily giving up his sword, he carried the earl into the nearest shed, and laid him on a heap of straw, vainly striving to staunch the blood. it was a bitterly cold night, and the frosty wind came howling through the darkness. far above, on the ridge of the hill, the fires of the king's army shone with red light, and some way off on the other side twinkled those of the parliamentary forces. glimmering lanterns or torches moved about the battlefield, those of the savage plunderers who crept about to despoil the dead. whether the battle were won or lost, the father and son knew not, and the guard who watched them knew as little. lord lindsay himself murmured, 'if it please god i should survive, i never will fight in the same field with boys again!'--no doubt deeming that young rupert had wrought all the mischief. his thoughts were all on the cause, his son's all on him; and piteous was that night, as the blood continued to flow, and nothing availed to check it, nor was any aid near to restore the old man's ebbing strength. toward midnight the earl's old comrade essex had time to understand his condition, and sent some officers to enquire for him, and promise speedy surgical attendance. lindsay was still full of spirit, and spoke to them so strongly of their broken faith, and of the sin of disloyalty and rebellion, that they slunk away one by one out of the hut, and dissuaded essex from coming himself to see his old friend, as he had intended. the surgeon, however, arrived, but too late, lindsay was already so much exhausted by cold and loss of blood, that he died early in the morning of the 24th, all his son's gallant devotion having failed to save him. the sorrowing son received an affectionate note the next day from the king, full of regret for his father and esteem for himself. charles made every effort to obtain his exchange, but could not succeed for a whole year. he was afterwards one of the four noblemen who, seven years later, followed the king's white, silent, snowy funeral in the dismantled st. george's chapel; and from first to last he was one of the bravest, purest, and most devoted of those who did honor to the cavalier cause. we have still another brave son to describe, and for him we must return away from these sad pages of our history, when we were a house divided against itself, to one of the hours of our brightest glory, when the cause we fought in was the cause of all the oppressed, and nearly alone we upheld the rights of oppressed countries against the invader. and thus it is that the battle of the nile is one of the exploits to which we look back with the greatest exultation, when we think of the triumph of the british flag. let us think of all that was at stake. napoleon bonaparte was climbing to power in france, by directing her successful arms against the world. he had beaten germany and conquered italy; he had threatened england, and his dream was of the conquest of the east. like another alexander, he hoped to subdue asia, and overthrow the hated british power by depriving it of india. hitherto, his dreams had become earnest by the force of his marvelous genius, and by the ardor which he breathed into the whole french nation; and when he set sail from toulon, with 40,000 tried and victorious soldiers and a magnificent fleet, all were filled with vague and unbounded expectations of almost fabulous glories. he swept away as it were the degenerate knights of st. john from their rock of malta, and sailed for alexandria in egypt, in the latter end of june, 1798. his intentions had not become known, and the english mediterranean fleet was watching the course of this great armament. sir horatio nelson was in pursuit, with the english vessels, and wrote to the first lord of the admiralty: 'be they bound to the antipodes, your lordship may rely that i will not lose a moment in bringing them to action.' nelson had, however, not ships enough to be detached to reconnoitre, and he actually overpassed the french, whom he guessed to be on the way to egypt; he arrived at the port of alexandria on the 28th of june, and saw its blue waters and flat coast lying still in their sunny torpor, as if no enemy were on the seas. back he went to syracuse, but could learn no more there; he obtained provisions with some difficulty, and then, in great anxiety, sailed for greece; where at last, on the 28th of july, he learnt that the french fleet had been seen from candia, steering to the southeast, and about four weeks since. in fact, it had actually passed by him in a thick haze, which concealed each fleet from the other, and had arrived at alexandria on the 1st of july, three days after he had left it! every sail was set for the south, and at four o'clock in the afternoon of the 1st of august a very different sight was seen in aboukir bay, so solitary a month ago. it was crowded with shipping. great castle-like men-of-war rose with all their proud calm dignity out of the water, their dark port-holes opening in the white bands on their sides, and the tricolored flag floating as their ensign. there were thirteen ships of the line and four frigates, and, of these, three were 80-gun ships, and one, towering high above the rest, with her three decks, was l'orient, of 120 guns. look well at her, for there stands the hero for whose sake we have chose this and no other of nelson's glorious fights to place among the setting of our golden deeds. there he is, a little cadet de vaisseau, as the french call a midshipman, only ten years old, with a heart swelling between awe and exultation at the prospect of his first battle; but, fearless and glad, for is he not the son of the brave casabianca, the flag-captain? and is not this admiral brueys' own ship, looking down in scorn on the fourteen little english ships, not one carrying more than 74 guns, and one only 50? why napoleon had kept the fleet there was never known. in his usual mean way of disavowing whatever turned out ill, he laid the blame upon admiral brueys; but, though dead men could not tell tales, his papers made it plain that the ships had remained in obedience to commands, though they had not been able to enter the harbour of alexandria. large rewards had been offered to any pilot who would take them in, but none could be found who would venture to steer into that port a vessel drawing more than twenty feet of water. they had, therefore, remained at anchor outside, in aboukir bay, drawn up in a curve along the deepest of the water, with no room to pass them at either end, so that the commissary of the fleet reported that they could bid defiance to a force more than double their number. the admiral believed that nelson had not ventured to attack him when they had passed by one another a month before, and when the english fleet was signaled, he still supposed that it was too late in the day for an attack to be made. nelson had, however, no sooner learnt that the french were in sight than he signaled from his ship, the vanguard, that preparations for battle should be made, and in the meantime summoned up his captains to receive his orders during a hurried meal. he explained that, where there was room for a large french ship to swing, there was room for a small english one to anchor, and, therefore, he designed to bring his ships up to the outer part of the french line, and station them close below their adversary; a plan that he said lord hood had once designed, though he had not carried it out. captain berry was delighted, and exclaimed, 'if we succeed, what will the world say?' 'there is no if in the case,' returned nelson, 'that we shall succeed is certain. who may live to tell the tale is a very different question.' and when they rose and parted, he said, 'before this time to-morrow i shall have gained a peerage or westminster abbey.' in the fleet went, through a fierce storm of shot and shell from a french battery in an island in advance. nelson's own ship, the vanguard, was the first to anchor within half-pistol-shot of the third french ship, the spartiate. the vanguard had six colours flying, in any case any should be shot away; and such was the fire that was directed on her, that in a few minutes every man at the six guns in her forepart was killed or wounded, and this happened three times. nelson himself received a wound in the head, which was thought at first to be mortal, but which proved but slight. he would not allow the surgeon to leave the sailors to attend to him till it came to his turn. meantime his ships were doing their work gloriously. the bellerophon was, indeed, overpowered by l'orient, 200 of her crew killed, and all her masts and cables shot away, so that she drifted away as night came on; but the swiftsure came up in her place, and the alexander and leander both poured in their shot. admiral brueys received three wounds, but would not quit his post, and at length a fourth shot almost cut him in two. he desired not to be carried below, but that he might die on deck. about nine o'clock the ship took fire, and blazed up with fearful brightness, lighting up the whole bay, and showing five french ships with their colours hauled down, the others still fighting on. nelson himself rose and came on deck when this fearful glow came shining from sea and sky into his cabin; and gave orders that the english boars should immediately be put off for l'orient, to save as many lives as possible. the english sailors rowed up to the burning ship which they had lately been attacking. the french officers listened to the offer of safety, and called to the little favorite of the ship, the captain's son, to come with them. 'no,' said the brave child, 'he was where his father had stationed him, and bidden him not to move save at his call.' they told him his father's voice would never call him again, for he lay senseless and mortally wounded on the deck, and that the ship must blow up. 'no,' said the brave child, 'he must obey his father.' the moment allowed no delay the boat put off. the flames showed all that passed in a quivering flare more intense than daylight, and the little fellow was then seen on the deck, leaning over the prostrate figure, and presently tying it to one of the spars of the shivered masts. just then a thundering explosion shook down to the very hold every ship in the harbour, and burning fragments of l'orient came falling far and wide, plashing heavily into the water, in the dead, awful stillness that followed the fearful sound. english boats were plying busily about, picking up those who had leapt overboard in time. some were dragged in through the lower portholes of the english ships, and about seventy were saved altogether. for one moment a boat's crew had a sight of a helpless figure bound to a spar, and guided by a little childish swimmer, who must have gone overboard with his precious freight just before the explosion. they rowed after the brave little fellow, earnestly desiring to save him; but in darkness, in smoke, in lurid uncertain light, amid hosts of drowning wretches, they lost sight of him again. the boy, oh where was he! ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea; with mast and helm, and pennant fair that well had borne their part: but the noblest thing that perished there was that young faithful heart! by sunrise the victory was complete. nay, as nelson said, 'it was not a victory, but a conquest.' only four french ships escaped, and napoleon and his army were cut off from home. these are the glories of our navy, gained by men with hearts as true and obedient as that of the brave child they had tried in vain to save. yet still, while giving the full meed of thankful, sympathetic honor to our noble sailors, we cannot but feel that the golden deed of aboukir bay fell to- 'that young faithful heart.' the soldiers in the snow 1672 few generals had ever been more loved by their soldiers than the great viscount de turenne, who was marshal of france in the time of louis xiv. troops are always proud of a leader who wins victories; but turenne was far more loved for his generous kindness than for his successes. if he gained a battle, he always wrote in his despatches, 'we succeeded,' so as to give the credit to the rest of the army; but if he were defeated, he wrote, 'i lost,' so as to take all the blame upon himself. he always shared as much as possible in every hardship suffered by his men, and they trusted him entirely. in the year 1672, turenne and his army were sent to make war upon the elector frederick william of brandenburg, in northern germany. it was in the depth of winter, and the marches through the heavy roads were very trying and wearisome; but the soldiers endured all cheerfully for his sake. once when they were wading though a deep morass, some of the younger soldiers complained; but the elder ones answered, 'depend upon it, turenne is more concerned than we are. at this moment he is thinking how to deliver us. he watches for us while we sleep. he is our father. it is plain that you are but young.' another night, when he was going the round of the camp, he overheard some of the younger men murmuring at the discomforts of the march; when an old soldier, newly recovered from a severe wound, said: 'you do not know our father. he would not have made us go through such fatigue, unless he had some great end in view, which we cannot yet make out.' turenne always declared that nothing had ever given him more pleasure than this conversation. there was a severe sickness among the troops, and he went about among the sufferers, comforting them, and seeing that their wants were supplied. when he passed by, the soldiers came out of their tents to look at him, and say, 'our father is in good health: we have nothing to fear.' the army had to enter the principality of halberstadt, the way to which lay over ridges of high hills with narrow defiles between them. considerable time was required for the whole of the troops to march through a single narrow outlet; and one very cold day, when such a passage was taking place, the marshal, quite spent with fatigue, sat down under a bush to wait till all had marched by, and fell asleep. when he awoke, it was snowing fast; but he found himself under a sort of tent made of soldiers' cloaks, hung up upon the branches of trees planted in the ground, and round it were standing, in the cold and snow, all unsheltered, a party of soldiers. turenne called out to them, to ask what they were doing there. 'we are taking care of our father,' they said; 'that is our chief concern.' the general, to keep up discipline, seems to have scolded them a little for straggling from their regiment; but he was much affected and gratified by this sight of their hearty love for him. still greater and more devoted love was shown by some german soldiers in the terrible winter of 1812. it was when the emperor napoleon i. had made his vain attempt to conquer russia, and had been prevented from spending the winter at moscow by the great fire that consumed all the city. he was obliged to retreat through the snow, with the russian army pursuing him, and his miserable troops suffering horrors beyond all imagination. among them were many italians, poles, and germans, whom he had obliged to become his allies; and the 'golden deed' of ten of these german soldiers, the last remnant of those led from hesse darmstadt by their gallant young prince emilius, is best told in lord houghton's verses:-'from hessen darmstadt every step to moskwa's blazing banks, was prince emilius found in flight before the foremost ranks; and when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast, on beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last. 'his valor shed victorious grace on all that dread retreat--that path across the wildering snow, athwart the blinding sleet; and every follower of his sword could all endure and dare, becoming warriors, strong in hope, or stronger in despair. 'now, day and dark, along the storm the demon cossacks sweep--the hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not sleep. no rest but death for horse or man, whichever first shall tire; they see the flames destroy, but ne'er may feel the saving fire. 'thus never closed the bitter night, nor rose the salvage morn, but from the gallant company some noble part was shorn; and, sick at heart, the prince resolved to keep his purposed way with steadfast forward looks, nor count the losses of the day. 'at length beside a black, burnt hut, an island of the snow, each head in frigid torpor bent toward the saddle bow; they paused, and of that sturdy troop--that thousand banded men--at one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten! 'of all that high triumphant life that left his german home--of all those hearts that beat beloved, or looked for love to come--this piteous remnant, hardly saved, his spirit overcame, while memory raised each friendly face, recalled an ancient name. 'these were his words, serene and firm, 'dear brothers, it is best that here, with perfect trust in heaven, we give our bodies rest; if we have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain, where'er we wake, for christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in vain.' 'some uttered, others looked assent--they had no heart to speak; dumb hands were pressed, the pallid lip approached the callous cheek. they laid them side by side; and death to him at last did seem to come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream. 'once more he floated on the breast of old familiar rhine, his mother's and one other smile above him seemed to shine; a blessed dew of healing fell on every aching limb; till the stream broadened, and the air thickened, and all was dim. 'nature has bent to other laws if that tremendous night passed o'er his frame, exposed and worn, and left no deadly blight; then wonder not that when, refresh'd and warm, he woke at last, there lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past. 'soon raising his astonished head, he found himself alone, sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own; the light increased, the solemn truth revealing more and more, the soldiers' corses, self-despoiled, closed up the narrow door. 'that every hour, fulfilling good, miraculous succor came, and prince emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame. o brave fidelity in death! o strength of loving will! these are the holy balsam drops that woeful wars distil.' gunpowder perils 1700 the wild history of ireland contains many a frightful tale, but also many an action of the noblest order; and the short sketch given by maria edgeworth of her ancestry, presents such a chequerwork of the gold and the lead that it is almost impossible to separate them. at the time of the great irish rebellion of 1641 the head of the edgeworth family had left his english wife and her infant son at his castle of cranallagh in county longford, thinking them safe there while he joined the royal forces under the earl of ormond. in his absence, however, the rebels attacked the castle at night, set fire to it, and dragged the lady out absolutely naked. she hid herself under a furze bush, and succeeded in escaping and reaching dublin, whence she made her way to her father's house in derbyshire. her little son was found by the rebels lying in his cradle, and one of them actually seized the child by the leg and was about to dash out his brains against the wall; but a servant named bryan ferral, pretending to be even more ferocious, vowed that a sudden death was too good for the little heretic, and that he should be plunged up to the throat in a bog-hole and left for the crows to pick out his eyes. he actually did place the poor child in the bog, but only to save his life; he returned as soon as he could elude his comrades, put the boy into a pannier below eggs and chickens, and thus carried him straight though the rebel camp to his mother at dublin. strange to say, these rebels, who thought being dashed against the wall too good a fate for the infant, extinguished the flames of the castle out of reverence for the picture of his grandmother, who had been a roman catholic, and was painted on a panel with a cross on her bosom and a rosary in her hand. john edgeworth, the boy thus saved, married very young, and went with his wife to see london after the restoration. to pay their expenses they mortgaged an estate and put the money in a stocking, which they kept on the top of the bed; and when that store was used up, the young man actually sold a house in dublin to buy a high-crowned hat and feathers. still, reckless and improvident as they were, there was sound principle within them, and though they were great favorites, and charles ii. insisted on knighting the husband, their glimpse of the real evils and temptations of his court sufficed them, and in the full tide of flattery and admiration the lady begged to return home, nor did she ever go back to court again. her home was at castle lissard, in full view of which was a hillock called fairymount, or firmont, from being supposed to be the haunt of fairies. lights, noises, and singing at night, clearly discerned from the castle, caused much terror to lady edgeworth, though her descendants affirm that they were fairies of the same genus as those who beset sir john falstaff at hearne's oak, and intended to frighten her into leaving the place. however, though her nerves might be disturbed, her spirit was not to be daunted; and, fairies or no fairies, she held her ground at castle lissard, and there showed what manner of woman she was in a veritable and most fearful peril. on some alarm which caused the gentlemen of the family to take down their guns, she went to a dark loft at the top of the house to fetch some powder from a barrel that was there kept in store, taking a young maid-servant to carry the candle; which, as might be expected in an irish household of the seventeenth century, was devoid of any candlestick. after taking the needful amount of gunpowder, lady edgeworth locked the door, and was halfway downstairs when she missed the candle, and asking the girl what she had done with it, received the cool answer that 'she had left it sticking in the barrel of black salt'. lady edgeworth bade her stand still, turned round, went back alone to the loft where the tallow candle stood guttering and flaring planted in the middle of the gunpowder, resolutely put an untrembling hand beneath it, took it out so steadily that no spark fell, carried it down, and when she came to the bottom of the stairs dropped on her knees, and broke forth in a thanksgiving aloud for the safety of the household in this frightful peril. this high-spirited lady lived to be ninety years old, and left a numerous family. one grandson was the abbe edgeworth, known in france as de firmont, such being the alteration of fairymount on french lips. it was he who, at the peril of his own life, attended louis xvi. to the guillotine, and thus connected his name so closely with the royal cause that when his cousin richard lovell edgeworth, of edgeworths-town, visited france several years after, the presence of a person so called was deemed perilous to the rising power of napoleon. this latter mr. edgeworth was the father of maria, whose works we hope are well known to our young readers. the good chevalier bayard was wont to mourn over the introduction of firearms, as destructive of chivalry; and certainly the steel-clad knight, with barbed steed, and sword and lance, has disappeared from the battle-field; but his most essential qualities, truth, honor, faithfulness, mercy, and self-devotion, have not disappeared with him, nor can they as long as christian men and women bear in mind that 'greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend'. and that terrible compound, gunpowder, has been the occasion of many another daring deed, requiring desperate resolution, to save others at the expense of a death perhaps more frightful to the imagination than any other. listen to a story of the king's birthday in jersey 'sixty years since'--in 1804, when that 4th of june that eton boys delight in, was already in the forty-fourth year of its observance in honor of the then reigning monarch, george iii. all the forts in the island had done due honor to the birthday of his majesty, who was then just recovered from an attack of insanity. in each the guns at noon-day thundered out their royal salute, the flashes had answered one another, and the smoke had wreathed itself away over the blue sea of jersey. the new fort on the hill just above the town of st. heliers had contributed its share to the loyal thunders, and then it was shut up, and the keys carried away by captain salmon, the artillery officer on guard there, locking up therein 209 barrels of gunpowder, with a large supply of bombshells, and every kind of ammunition such as might well be needed in the channel islands the year before lord nelson had freed england from the chance of finding the whole french army on our coast in the flat-bottomed boats that were waiting at boulogne for the dark night that never came. at six o'clock in the evening, captain salmon went to dine with the other officers in st. heliers and to drink the king's health, when the soldiers on guard beheld a cloud of smoke curling out at the air-hole at the end of the magazine. shouting 'fire', they ran away to avoid an explosion that would have shattered them to pieces, and might perhaps endanger the entire town of st. heliers. happily their shout was heard by a man of different mould. lieutenant lys, the signal officer, was in the watch-house on the hill, and coming out he saw the smoke, and perceived the danger. two brothers, named thomas and edward touzel, carpenters, and the sons of an old widow, had come up to take down a flagstaff that had been raised in honor of the day, and mr. lys ordered them to hasten to the town to inform the commander-in-chief, and get the keys from captain salmon. thomas went, and endeavored to persuade his brother to accompany him from the heart of the danger; but edward replied that he must die some day or other, and that he would do his best to save the magazine, and he tried to stop some of the runaway soldiers to assist. one refused; but another, william ponteney, of the 3rd, replied that he was ready to die with him, and they shook hands. edward touzel then, by the help of a wooden bar and an axe, broke open the door of the fort, and making his way into it, saw the state of the case, and shouted to mr. lys on the outside, 'the magazine is on fire, it will blow up, we must lose our lives; but no matter, huzza for the king! we must try and save it.' he then rushed into the flame, and seizing the matches, which were almost burnt out (probably splinters of wood tipped with brimstone), he threw them by armfuls to mr. lys and the soldier ponteney, who stood outside and received them. mr. lys saw a cask of water near at hand; but there was nothing to carry the water in but an earthen pitcher, his own hat and the soldier's. these, however, they filled again and again, and handed to touzel, who thus extinguished all the fire he could see; but the smoke was so dense, that he worked in horrible doubt and obscurity, almost suffocated, and with his face and hands already scorched. the beams over his head were on fire, large cases containing powder horns had already caught, and an open barrel of gunpowder was close by, only awaiting the fall of a single brand to burst into a fatal explosion. touzel called out to entreat for some drink to enable him to endure the stifling, and mr. lys handed him some spirits-and-water, which he drank, and worked on; but by this time the officers had heard the alarm, dispelled the panic among the soldiers, and come to the rescue. the magazine was completely emptied, and the last smoldering sparks extinguished; but the whole of the garrison and citizens felt that they owed their lives to the three gallant men to whose exertions alone under providence, it was owing that succor did not come too late. most of all was honor due to edward touzel, who, as a civilian, might have turned his back upon the peril without any blame; nay, could even have pleaded mr. lys' message as a duty, but who had instead rushed foremost into what he believe was certain death. a meeting was held in the church of st. heliers to consider of a testimonial of gratitude to these three brave men (it is to be hoped that thankfulness to an overruling providence was also manifested there), when 500l. was voted to mr. lys, who was the father of a large family; 300l. to edward touzel; and william ponteney received, at his own request, a life annuity of 20l. and a gold medal, as he declared that he had rather continue to serve the king as a soldier than be placed in any other course of life. in that same year (1804) the same daring endurance and heroism were evinced by the officers of h.m.s. hindostan, where, when on the way from gibraltar to join nelson's fleet at toulon, the cry of 'fire!' was heard, and dense smoke rose from the lower decks, so as to render it nearly impossible to detect the situation of the fire. again and again lieutenants tailour and banks descended, and fell down senseless from the stifling smoke; then were carried on deck, recovered in the free air, and returned to vain endeavor of clearing the powder-room. but no man could long preserve his faculties in the poisonous atmosphere, and the two lieutenants might be said to have many deaths from it. at last the fire gained so much head, that it was impossible to save the vessel, which had in the meantime been brought into the bay of rosas, and was near enough to land to enable the crew to escape in boats, after having endured the fire six hours. nelson himself wrote: 'the preservation of the crew seems little short of a miracle. i never read such a journal of exertions in my life.' eight years after, on the taking of ciudad rodrigo, in 1812, by the british army under wellington, captain william jones, of the 52nd regiment, having captured a french officer, employed his prisoner in pointing out quarters for his men. the frenchman could not speak english, and captain jones--a fiery welshman, whom it was the fashion in the regiment to term 'jack jones'--knew no french; but dumb show supplied the want of language, and some of the company were lodged in a large store pointed out by the frenchman, who then led the way to a church, near which lord wellington and his staff were standing. but no sooner had the guide stepped into the building than he started back, crying, 'sacre bleu!' and ran out in the utmost alarm. the welsh captain, however, went on, and perceived that the church had been used as a powder-magazine by the french; barrels were standing round, samples of their contents lay loosely scattered on the pavement, and in the midst was a fire, probably lighted by some portuguese soldiers. forthwith captain jones and the sergeant entered the church, took up the burning embers brand by brand, bore them safe over the scattered powder, and out of the church, and thus averted what might have been the most terrific disaster that could have befallen our army. [footnote: the story has been told with some variation, as to whether it was the embers or a barrel of powder that he and the sergeant removed. in the record of the 52d it is said to have been the latter; but the tradition the author has received from officers of the regiment distinctly stated that it was the burning brands, and that the scene was a reserve magazine--not, as in the brief mention in sir william napier's history, the great magazine of the town.] our next story of this kind relates to a french officer, monsieur mathieu martinel, adjutant of the 1st cuirassiers. in 1820 there was a fire in the barracks at strasburg, and nine soldiers were lying sick and helpless above a room containing a barrel of gunpowder and a thousand cartridges. everyone was escaping, but martinel persuaded a few men to return into the barracks with him, and hurried up the stairs through smoke and flame that turned back his companions. he came alone to the door of a room close to that which contained the powder, but found it locked. catching up a bench, he beat the door in, and was met by such a burst of fire as had almost driven him away; but, just as he was about to descend, he thought that, when the flames reached the powder, the nine sick men must infallibly be blown up, and returning to the charge, he dashed forward, with eyes shut, through the midst, and with face, hands, hair, and clothes singed and burnt, he made his way to the magazine, in time to tear away, and throw to a distance from the powder, the mass of paper in which the cartridges were packed, which was just about to ignite, and appearing at the window, with loud shouts for water, thus showed the possibility of penetrating to the magazine, and floods of water were at once directed to it, so as to drench the powder, and thus save the men. this same martinel had shortly before thrown himself into the river ill, without waiting to undress, to rescue a soldier who had fallen in, so near a water mill, that there was hardly a chance of life for either. swimming straight towards the mill dam, martinel grasped the post of the sluice with one arm, and with the other tried to arrest the course of the drowning man, who was borne by a rapid current towards the mill wheel; and was already so far beneath the surface, that martinel could not reach him without letting go of the post. grasping the inanimate body, he actually allowed himself to be carried under the mill wheel, without loosing his hold, and came up immediately after on the other side, still able to bring the man to land, in time for his suspended animation to be restored. seventeen years afterwards, when the regiment was at paris, there was, on the night of the 14th of june, 1837, during the illuminations at the wedding festival of the duke and duchess of orleans, one of those frightful crushes that sometimes occur in an ill-regulated crowd, when there is some obstruction in the way, and there is nothing but a horrible blind struggling and trampling, violent and fatal because of its very helplessness and bewilderment. the crowd were trying to leave the champ de mars, where great numbers had been witnessing some magnificent fireworks, and had blocked up the passage leading out by the military college. a woman fell down in a fainting fit, others stumbled over her, and thus formed an obstruction, which, being unknown to those in the rear, did not prevent them from forcing forward the persons in front, so that they too were pushed and trodden down into one frightful, struggling, suffocating mass of living and dying men, women, and children, increasing every moment. m. martinel was passing, on his way to his quarters, when, hearing the tumult, he ran to the gate from the other side, and meeting the crowd tried by shouts and entreaties to persuade them to give back, but the hindmost could not hear him, and the more frightened they grew, the more they tried to hurry home, and so made the heap worse and worse, and in the midst an illuminated yew-tree, in a pot, was upset, and further barred the way. martinel, with imminent danger to himself, dragged out one or two persons; but finding his single efforts almost useless among such numbers, he ran to the barracks, sounded to horse, and without waiting till his men could be got together, hurried off again on foot, with a few of his comrades, and dashed back into the crowd, struggling as vehemently to penetrate to the scene of danger, as many would have done to get away from it. private spenlee alone kept up with him, and, coming to the dreadful heap, these two labored to free the passage, lift up the living, and remove the dead. first he dragged out an old man in a fainting fit, then a young soldier, next a boy, a woman, a little girl--he carried them to freer air, and came back the next moment, though often so nearly pulled down by the frantic struggles of the terrified stifled creatures, that he was each moment in the utmost peril of being trampled to death. he carried out nine persons one by one; spenlee brought out a man and a child; and his brother officers, coming up, took their share. one lieutenant, with a girl in a swoon in his arms, caused a boy to be put on his back, and under this double burthen was pushing against the crowd for half and hour, till at length he fell, and was all but killed. a troop of cuirassiers had by this time mounted, and through the champ de mars came slowly along, step by step, their horses moving as gently and cautiously as if they knew their work. everywhere, as they advanced, little children were held up to them out of the throng to be saved, and many of their chargers were loaded with the little creatures, perched before and behind the kind soldiers. with wonderful patience and forbearance, they managed to insert themselves and their horses, first in single file, then two by two, then more abreast, like a wedge, into the press, until at last they formed a wall, cutting off the crowd behind from the mass in the gateway, and thus preventing the encumbrance from increasing. the people came to their senses, and went off to other gates, and the crowd diminishing, it became possible to lift up the many unhappy creatures, who lay stifling or crushed in the heap. they were carried into the barracks, the cuirassiers hurried to bring their mattresses to lay them on in the hall, brought them water, linen, all they could want, and were as tender to them as sisters of charity, till they were taken to the hospitals or to their homes. martinel, who was the moving spirit in this gallant rescue, received in the following year one of m. monthyon's prizes for the greatest acts of virtue that could be brought to light. nor among the gallant actions of which powder has been the cause should be omitted that of lieutenant willoughby, who, in the first dismay of the mutiny in india, in 1858, blew up the great magazine at delhi, with all the ammunition that would have armed the sepoys even yet more terribly against ourselves. the 'golden deed' was one of those capable of no earthly meed, for it carried the brave young officer where alone there is true reward; and all the queen and country could do in his honor was to pension his widowed mother, and lay up his name among those that stir the heart with admiration and gratitude. heroes of the plague 1576--1665--1721 when our litany entreats that we may be delivered from 'plague, pestilence, and famine', the first of these words bears a special meaning, which came home with strong and painful force to european minds at the time the prayer book was translated, and for the whole following century. it refers to the deadly sickness emphatically called 'the plague', a typhoid fever exceedingly violent and rapid, and accompanied with a frightful swelling either under the arm or on the corresponding part of the thigh. the east is the usual haunt of this fatal complaint, which some suppose to be bred by the marshy, unwholesome state of egypt after the subsidence of the waters of the nile, and which generally prevails in egypt and syria until its course is checked either by the cold of winter or the heat in summer. at times this disease has become unusually malignant and infectious, and then has come beyond its usual boundaries and made its way over all the west. these dreadful visitations were rendered more frequent by total disregard of all precautions, and ignorance of laws for preserving health. people crowded together in towns without means of obtaining sufficient air or cleanliness, and thus were sure to be unhealthy; and whenever war or famine had occasioned more than usual poverty, some frightful epidemic was sure to follow in its train, and sweep away the poor creatures whose frames were already weakened by previous privation. and often this 'sore judgment' was that emphatically called the plague; and especially during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a time when war had become far more cruel and mischievous in the hands of hired regiments than ever it had been with a feudal army, and when at the same time increasing trade was filling the cities with more closely packed inhabitants, within fortifications that would not allow the city to expand in proportion to its needs. it has been only the establishment of the system of quarantine which has succeeded in cutting off the course of infection by which the plague was wont to set out on its frightful travels from land to land, from city to city. the desolation of a plague-stricken city was a sort of horrible dream. every infected house was marked with a red cross, and carefully closed against all persons, except those who were charged to drive carts through the streets to collect the corpses, ringing a bell as they went. these men were generally wretched beings, the lowest and most reckless of the people, who undertook their frightful task for the sake of the plunder of the desolate houses, and wound themselves up by intoxicating drinks to endure the horrors. the bodies were thrown into large trenches, without prayer or funeral rites, and these were hastily closed up. whole families died together, untended save by one another, with no aid of a friendly hand to give drink or food; and, in the roman catholic cities, the perishing without a priest to administer the last rites of the church was viewed as more dreadful than death itself. such visitations as these did indeed prove whether the pastors of the afflicted flock were shepherds or hirelings. so felt, in 1576, cardinal carlo borromeo, archbishop of milan, the worthiest of all the successors of st. ambrose, when he learnt at lodi that the plague had made its appearance in his city, where, remarkably enough, there had lately been such licentious revelry that he had solemnly warned the people that, unless they repented, they would certainly bring on themselves the wrath of heaven. his council of clergy advised him to remain in some healthy part of his diocese till the sickness should have spent itself, but he replied that a bishop, whose duty it is to give his life for his sheep, could not rightly abandon them in time of peril. they owned that to stand by them was the higher course. 'well,' he said, 'is it not a bishop's duty to choose the higher course?' so back into the town of deadly sickness he went, leading the people to repent, and watching over them in their sufferings, visiting the hospitals, and, by his own example, encouraging his clergy in carrying spiritual consolation to the dying. all the time the plague lasted, which was four months, his exertions were fearless and unwearied, and what was remarkable was, that of his whole household only two died, and they were persons who had not been called to go about among the sick. indeed, some of the rich who had repaired to a villa, where they spent their time in feasting and amusement in the luxurious italian fashion, were there followed by the pestilence, and all perished; their dainty fare and the excess in which they indulged having no doubt been as bad a preparation as the poverty of the starving people in the city. the strict and regular life of the cardinal and his clergy, and their home in the spacious palace, were, no doubt, under providence, a preservative; but, in the opinions of the time, there was little short of a miracle in the safety of one who daily preached in the cathedral,--bent over the beds of the sick, giving them food and medicine, hearing their confessions, and administering the last rites of the church,--and then braving the contagion after death, rather than let the corpses go forth unblest to their common grave. nay, so far was he from seeking to save his own life, that, kneeling before the altar in the cathedral, he solemnly offered himself, like moses, as a sacrifice for his people. but, like moses, the sacrifice was passed by--'it cost more to redeem their souls'--and borromeo remained untouched, as did the twenty-eight priests who voluntarily offered themselves to join in his labors. no wonder that the chief memories that haunt the glorious white marble cathedral of milan are those of st. ambrose, who taught mercy to an emperor, and of st. carlo borromeo, who practiced mercy on a people. it was a hundred years later that the greatest and last visitation of the plague took place in london. doubtless the scourge called forth--as in christian lands such judgments always do--many an act of true and blessed self-devotion; but these are not recorded, save where they have their reward: and the tale now to be told is of one of the small villages to which the infection spread--namely, eyam, in derbyshire. this is a lovely place between buxton and chatsworth, perched high on a hillside, and shut in by another higher mountain--extremely beautiful, but exactly one of those that, for want of free air, always become the especial prey of infection. at that time lead works were in operation in the mountains, and the village was thickly inhabited. great was the dismay of the villagers when the family of a tailor, who had received some patterns of cloth from london, showed symptoms of the plague in its most virulent form, sickening and dying in one day. the rector of the parish, the rev. william mompesson, was still a young man, and had been married only a few years. his wife, a beautiful young woman, only twenty-seven years old, was exceedingly terrified at the tidings from the village, and wept bitterly as she implored her husband to take her, and her little george and elizabeth, who were three and fours years old, away to some place of safety. but mr. mompesson gravely showed her that it was his duty not to forsake his flock in their hour of need, and began at once to make arrangements for sending her and the children away. she saw he was right in remaining, and ceased to urge him to forsake his charge; but she insisted that if he ought not to desert his flock, his wife ought not to leave him; and she wept and entreated so earnestly, that he at length consented that she should be with him, and that only the two little ones should be removed while yet there was time. their father and mother parted with the little ones as treasures that they might never see again. at the same time mr. mompesson wrote to london for the most approved medicines and prescriptions; and he likewise sent a letter to the earl of devonshire, at chatsworth, to engage that his parishioners should exclude themselves from the whole neighborhood, and thus confine the contagion within their own boundaries, provided the earl would undertake that food, medicines, and other necessaries, should be placed at certain appointed spots, at regular times, upon the hills around, where the eyamites might come, leave payment for them, and take them up, without holding any communication with the bringers, except by letters, which could be placed on a stone, and then fumigated, or passed through vinegar, before they were touched with the hand. to this the earl consented, and for seven whole months the engagement was kept. mr. mompesson represented to his people that, with the plague once among them, it would be so unlikely that they should not carry infection about with them, that it would be selfish cruelty to other places to try to escape amongst them, and thus spread the danger. so rocky and wild was the ground around them, that, had they striven to escape, a regiment of soldiers could not have prevented them. but of their own free will they attended to their rector's remonstrance, and it was not known that one parishoner of eyam passed the boundary all that time, nor was there a single case of plague in any of the villages around. the assembling of large congregations in churches had been thought to increase the infection in london, and mr. mompesson, therefore, thought it best to hold his services out-of-doors. in the middle of the village is a dell, suddenly making a cleft in the mountain-side, only five yards wide at the bottom, which is the pebble bed of a wintry torrent, but is dry in the summer. on the side towards the village, the slope upwards was of soft green turf, scattered with hazel, rowan, and alder bushes, and full of singing birds. on the other side, the ascent was nearly perpendicular, and composed of sharp rocks, partly adorned with bushes and ivy, and here and there rising up in fantastic peaks and archways, through which the sky could be seen from below. one of these rocks was hollow, and could be entered from above--a natural gallery, leading to an archway opening over the precipice; and this mr. mompesson chose for his reading-desk and pulpit. the dell was so narrow, that his voice could clearly be heard across it, and his congregation arranged themselves upon the green slop opposite, seated or kneeling upon the grass. on wednesdays, fridays, and sundays arose the earnest voice of prayer from that rocky glen, the people's response meeting the pastor's voice; and twice on sundays he preached to them the words of life and hope. it was a dry, hot summer; fain would they have seen thunder and rain to drive away their enemy; and seldom did weather break in on the regularity of these service. but there was another service that the rector had daily to perform; not in his churchyard--that would have perpetuated the infection--but on a healthy hill above the village. there he daily read of 'the resurrection and the life', and week by week the company on the grassy slope grew fewer and scantier. his congregation were passing from the dell to the healthy mound. day and night the rector and his wife were among the sick, nursing, feeding, and tending them with all that care and skill could do; but, in spite of all their endeavors, only a fifth part of the whole of their inhabitants lived to spend the last sunday in cucklet church, as the dell is still called. mrs. mompesson had persuaded her husband to have a wound made in his leg, fancying that this would lessen the danger of infection, and he yielded in order to satisfy her. his health endured perfectly, but she began to waste under her constant exertions, and her husband feared that he saw symptoms of consumption; but she was full of delight at some appearances in his wound that made her imagine that it had carried off the disease, and that his danger was over. a few days after, she sickened with symptoms of the plague, and her frame was so weakened that she sank very quickly. she was often delirious; but when she was too much exhausted to endure the exertion of taking cordials, her husband entreated her to try for their children's sake, she lifted herself up and made the endeavor. she lay peacefully, saying, 'she was but looking for the good hour to come', and calmly died, making the responses to her husband's prayers even to the last. her he buried in the churchyard, and fenced the grave in afterwards with iron rails. there are two beautiful letters from him written on her death--one to his little children, to be kept and read when they would be old enough to understand it; the other to his patron, sir george saville, afterwards lord halifax. 'my drooping spirits', he says, 'are much refreshed with her joys, which i assure myself are unutterable.' he wrote both these letters in the belief that he should soon follow her, speaking of himself to sir george as 'his dying chaplain', commending to him his 'distressed orphans', and begging that a 'humble pious man' might be chosen to succeed him in his parsonage. 'sire, i thank god that i am willing to shake hands in peace with all the world; and i have comfortable assurance that he will accept me for the sake of his son, and i find god more good than ever i imagined, and wish that his goodness were not so much abused and contemned', writes the widowed pastor, left alone among his dying flock. and he concludes, 'and with tears i entreat that when you are praying for fatherless and motherless infants, you would then remember my two pretty babes'. these two letters were written on the last day of august and first of september, 1666; but on the 20th of november, mr. mompesson was writing to his uncle, in the lull after the storm. 'the condition of this place hath been so dreadful, that i persuade myself it exceedeth all history and example. i may truly say our town has become a golgotha, a place of skulls; and had there not been a small remnant of us left, we had been as sodom, and like unto gomorrah. my ears never heard such doleful lamentations, my nose never smelt such noisome smells, and my eyes never beheld such ghastly spectacles. here have been seventy-six families visited within my parish, out of which died 259 persons.' however, since the 11th of october there had been no fresh cases, and he was now burning all woolen cloths, lest the infection should linger in them. he himself had never been touched by the complaint, nor had his maid-servant; his man had had it but slightly. mr. mompesson lived many more years, was offered the deanery of lincoln, but did not accept it, and died in 1708. so virulent was the contagion that, ninety-one years after, in 1757, when five laboring men, who were digging up land near the plague-graves for a potato-garden, came upon what appeared to be some linen, though they buried it again directly, they all sickened with typhus fever, three of them died, and it was so infectious that no less than seventy persons in the parish were carried off. the last of these remarkable visitations of the plague, properly so called, was at marseilles, in 1721. it was supposed to have been brought by a vessel which sailed from seyde, in the bay of tunis, on the 31st of january, 1720, which had a clean bill of health when it anchored off the chateau d'if, at marseilles, on the 25th of may; but six of the crew were found to have died on the voyage, and the persons who handled the freight also died, though, it was said, without any symptoms of the plague, and the first cases were supposed to be of the fevers caused by excessive poverty and crowding. the unmistakable oriental plague, however, soon began to spread in the city among the poorer population, and in truth the wars and heavy expenses of louis xiv. had made poverty in france more wretched than ever before, and the whole country was like one deadly sore, festering, and by and by to come to a fearful crisis. precautions were taken, the infected families were removed to the infirmaries and their houses walled up, but all this was done at night in order not to excite alarm. the mystery, however, made things more terrible to the imagination, and this was a period of the utmost selfishness. all the richer inhabitants who had means of quitting the city, and who were the very people who could have been useful there, fled with one accord. suddenly the lazaretto was left without superintendents, the hospitals without stewards; the judges, public officers, notaries, and most of the superior workmen in the most necessary trades were all gone. only the provost and four municipal officers remained, with 1,100 livres in their treasury, in the midst of an entirely disorganized city, and an enormous population without work, without restraint, without food, and a prey to the deadliest of diseases. the parliament which still survived in the ancient kingdom of provence signalized itself by retreating to a distance, and on the 31st of may putting out a decree that nobody should pass a boundary line round marseilles on pain of death; but considering what people were trying to escape from, and the utter overthrow of all rule and order, this penalty was not likely to have much effect, and the plague was carried by the fugitives to arles, aix, toulon, and sixty-three lesser towns and villages. what a contrast to mr. mompesson's moral influence! horrible crimes were committed. malefactors were released from the prisons and convicts from the galleys, and employed for large payment to collect the corpses and carry the sick to the infirmaries. of course they could only be wrought up to such work by intoxication and unlimited opportunities of plunder, and their rude treatment both of the dead and of the living sufferers added unspeakably to the general wretchedness. to be carried to the infirmary was certain death,--no one lived in that heap of contagion; and even this shelter was not always to be had,--some of the streets were full of dying creatures who had been turned out of their houses and could crawl no farther. what was done to alleviate all these horrors? it was in the minority of louis xv., and the regent duke of orleans, easy, good-natured man that he was, sent 22,000 marks to the relief of the city, all in silver, for paper money was found to spread the infection more than anything else. he also sent a great quantity of corn, and likewise doctors for the sick, and troops to shut in the infected district. the pope, clement xi., sent spiritual blessings to the sufferers, and, moreover, three shiploads of wheat. the regent's prime minister, the abbe dubois, the shame of his church and country, fancied that to send these supplies cast a slight upon his administration, and desired his representative at rome to prevent the sailing of the ships, but his orders were not, for very shame, carried out, and the vessels set out. on their way they were seized by a moorish corsair, who was more merciful than dubois, for he no sooner learnt their destination than he let them go unplundered. and in the midst of the misery there were bright lights 'running to and fro among the stubble'. the provost and his five remaining officers, and a gentleman call le chevalier rose, did their utmost in the bravest and most unselfish way to help the sufferers, distribute food, provide shelter, restrain the horrors perpetrated by the sick in their ravings, and provide for the burial of the dead. and the clergy were all devoted to the task of mercy. there was only one convent, that of st. victor, where the gates were closed against all comers in the hope of shutting out infection. every other monastic establishment freely devoted itself. it was a time when party spirit ran high. the bishop, henri francois xavier de belzunce, a nephew of the duke de lauzun, was a strong and rigid jesuit, and had joined so hotly in the persecution of the jansenists that he had forbidden the brotherhood called oratorian fathers to hear confessions, because he suspected them of a leaning to jansenist opinions; but he and they both alike worked earnestly in the one cause of mercy. they were content to obey his prejudiced edict, since he was in lawful authority, and threw themselves heartily into the lower and more disdained services to the sick, as nurses and tenders of the body alone, not of the soul, and in this work their whole community, superior and all, perished, almost without exception. perhaps these men, thus laying aside hurt feeling and sense of injustice, were the greatest conquerors of all whose golden deeds we have described. bishop belzunce himself, however, stands as the prominent figure in the memory of those dreadful five months. he was a man of commanding stature, towering above all around him, and his fervent sermons, aided by his example of severe and strict piety, and his great charities, had greatly impressed the people. he now went about among the plaguestricken, attending to their wants, both spiritual and temporal, and sold or mortgaged all his property to obtain relief for them, and he actually went himself in the tumbrils of corpses to give them the rites of christian burial. his doings closely resembled those of cardinal borromeo, and like him he had recourse to constant preaching of repentance, processions and assemblies for litanies in the church. it is curiously characteristic that it was the english clergyman, who, equally pious, and sensible that only the almighty could remove the scourge, yet deemed it right to take precautions against the effects of bringing a large number of persons into one building. how belzunce's clergy seconded him may be gathered from the numbers who died of the disease. besides the oratorians, there died eighteen jesuits, twenty-six of the order called recollets, and forty-three capuchins, all of whom had freely given their lives in the endeavor to alleviate the general suffering. in the four chief towns of provence 80,000 died, and about 8,000 in the lesser places. the winter finally checked the destroyer, and then, sad to say, it appeared how little effect the warning had had on the survivors. inheritances had fallen together into the hands of persons who found themselves rich beyond their expectations, and in the glee of having escaped the danger, forgot to be thankful, and spent their wealth in revelry. never had the cities of provence been so full of wild, questionable mirth as during the ensuing winter, and it was remarked that the places which had suffered most severely were the most given up to thoughtless gaiety, and even licentiousness. good bishop belzunce did his best to protest against the wickedness around him, and refused to leave his flock at marseilles, when, four years after, a far more distinguished see was offered to him. he died in 1755, in time to escape the sight of the retribution that was soon worked out on the folly and vice of the unhappy country. the second of september 1792 the reign of the terrible tzar was dreadful, but there was even a more dreadful time, that which might be called the reign of the madness of the people. the oppression and injustice that had for generations past been worked out in france ended in the most fearful reaction that history records, and the horrors that took place in the revolution pass all thought or description. every institution that had been misused was overthrown at one fell swoop, and the whole accumulated vengeance of generations fell on the heads of the persons who occupied the positions of the former oppressors. many of these were as pure and guiltless as their slaughterers were the reverse, but the heads of the revolution imagined that to obtain their ideal vision of perfect justice and liberty, all the remnants of the former state of things must be swept away, and the ferocious beings who carried out their decrees had become absolutely frantic with delight in bloodshed. the nation seemed delivered up to a delirium of murder. but as 'even as earth's wild war cries heighten, the cross upon the brow will brighten', these times of surpassing horror were also times of surpassing devotion and heroism. without attempting to describe the various stages of the revolution, and the different committees that under different titles carried on the work of destruction, we will mention some of the deeds that shine out as we look into that abyss of horror, the paris of 1792 and the following years. think of the swiss guards, who on the 10th of august, 1792, the miserable day when the king, queen, and children were made the captives of the people, stood resolutely at their posts, till they were massacred almost to a man. well is their fidelity honored by the noble sculpture near lucerne, cut out in the living rock of their own alps, and representing a lion dying to defend the fleur-de-lis. a more dreadful day still was in preparation. the mob seemed to have imagined that the king and nobility had some strange dreadful power, and that unless they were all annihilated they would rise up and trample all down before them, and those who had the direction of affairs profited by this delusion to multiply executioners, and clear away all that they supposed to stand in the way of the renewal of the nation. and the attempts of the emigrant nobility and of the german princes to march to the rescue of the royal family added to the fury of their cowardly ferocity. the prisons of paris were crowded to overflowing with aristocrats, as it was the fashion to call the nobles and gentry, and with the clergy who had refused their adhesion to the new state of things. the whole number is reckoned at not less than 8,000. among those at the abbaye de st. germain were m. jacques cazotte, an old gentleman of seventy-three, who had been for many years in a government office, and had written various poems. he was living in the country, in champagne, when on the 18th of august he was arrested. his daughter elizabeth, a lovely girl of twenty, would not leave him, and together they were taken first to epernay and then to paris, where they were thrown into the abbaye, and found it crowded with prisoners. m. cazotte's bald forehead and grey looks gave him a patriarchal appearance, and his talk, deeply and truly pious, was full of scripture language, as he strove to persuade his fellow captives to own the true blessings of suffering. here elizabeth met the like-minded marie de sombreuil, who had clung to her father, charles viscount de sombreuil, the governor of the invalides, or pensioners of the french army; and here, too, had madame de fausse lendry come with her old uncle the abbé de rastignac, who had been for three months extremely ill, and was only just recovering when dragged to the prison, and there placed in a room so crowded that it was not possible to turn round, and the air in the end of august was fearfully close and heated. not once while there was the poor old man able to sleep. his niece spent the nights in a room belonging to the jailer, with the princess de tarente, and mademoiselle de sombreuil. on the 2nd of september these slaughter-houses were as full as they could hold, and about a hundred ruffians, armed with axes and guns, were sent round to all the jails to do the bloody work. it was a sunday, and some of the victims had tried to observe it religiously, though little divining that, it was to be their last. they first took alarm on perceiving that their jailer had removed his family, and then that he sent up their dinner earlier than usual, and removed all the knives and forks. by and by howls and shouts were heard, and the tocsin was heard, ringing, alarm guns firing, and reports came in to the prisoners of the abbaye that the populace were breaking into the prisons. the clergy were all penned up together in the cloisters of the abbaye, whither they had been brought in carriages that morning. among them was the abbé sicard, an admirable priest who had spent his whole lifetime in instructing the deaf and dumb in his own house, where- 'the cunning finger finely twined the subtle thread that knitteth mind to mind; there that strange bridge of signs was built where roll the sunless waves that sever soul from soul, and by the arch, no bigger than a hand, truth travell'd over to the silent land'. he had been arrested, while teaching his pupils, on the 26th of august, 1792, and shut up among other clergy in the prison of the mayoralty; but the lads whom he had educated came in a body to ask leave to claim him at the bar of the national assembly. massieu, his best scholar, had drawn up a most touching address, saying, that in him the deaf and dumb were deprived of their teacher, nurse, and father. 'it is he who has taught us what we know, without him we should be as the beasts of the field.' this petition, and the gestures of the poor silent beings, went to the heart of the national assembly. one young man, named duhamel, neither deaf nor dumb, from pure admiration of the good work, went and offered to be imprisoned in the abbé's place. there was great applause, and a decree was passed that the cause of the arrest should be enquired into, but this took no effect, and on that dreadful afternoon, m. sicard was put into one of a procession of carriages, which drove slowly through the streets full of priests, who were reviled, pelted, and wounded by the populace till they reached the abbaye. in the turnkey's rooms sat a horrible committee, who acted as a sort of tribunal, but very few of the priests reached it. they were for the most part cut down as they stepped out into the throng in the court---consisting of red-capped ruffians, with their shirt sleeves turned up, and still more fiendish women, who hounded them on to the butchery, and brought them wine and food. sicard and another priest contrived, while their companions fell, to rush into the committee room, exclaiming, 'messieurs, preserve an unfortunate!' 'go along!' they said, 'do you wish us to get ourselves massacred?' but one, recognizing him, was surprised, knowing that his life was to be spared, and took him into the room, promising to save him as long as possible. here the two priests would have been safe but for a wretched woman, who shrieked out to the murderers that they had been admitted, and loud knocks and demands for them came from without. sicard thought all lost, and taking out his watch, begged one of the committee to give it to the first deaf mute who should come and ask for him, sure that it would be the faithful massieu. at first the man replied that the danger was not imminent enough; but on hearing a more furious noise at the door, as if the mob were going to break in, he took the watch; and sicard, falling on his knees, commended his soul to god, and embraced his brother priest. in rushed the assassins, they paused for a moment, unable to distinguish the priests from the committee, but the two pikemen found them out, and his companion was instantly murdered. the weapons were lifted against sicard, when a man pushed through the crowd, and throwing himself before the pike, displayed his breast and cried, 'behold the bosom through which you must pass to reach that of this good citizen. you do not know him. he is the abbé sicard, one of the most benevolent of men, the most useful to his country, the father of the deaf and dumb!' the murderer dropped his pike; but sicard, perceiving that it was the populace who were the real dispensers of life or death, sprang to the window, and shouted, 'friends, behold an innocent man. am i to die without being heard?' 'you were among the rest,' the mob shouted, 'therefore you are as bad as the others.' but when he told his name, the cry changed. 'he is the father of the deaf and dumb! he is too useful to perish; his life is spent in doing good; he must be saved.' and the murderers behind took him up in their arms, and carried him out into the court, where he was obliged to submit to be embraced by the whole gang of ruffians, who wanted to carry him home in triumph; but he did not choose to go without being legally released, and returning into the committee room, he learnt for the first time the name of his preserver, one monnot, a watchmaker, who, though knowing him only by character, and learning that he was among the clergy who were being driven to the slaughter, had rushed in to save him. sicard remained in the committee room while further horrors were perpetrated all round, and at night was taken to the little room called le violon, with two other prisoners. a horrible night ensued; the murders on the outside varied with drinking and dancing; and at three o'clock the murderers tried to break into le violon. there was a loft far overhead, and the other two prisoners tried to persuade sicard to climb on their shoulders to reach it, saying that his life was more useful than theirs. however, some fresh prey was brought in, which drew off the attention of the murderers, and two days afterwards sicard was released to resume his life of charity. at the beginning of the night, all the ladies who had accompanied their relatives were separated from them, and put into the women's room; but when morning came they entreated earnestly to return to them, but mademoiselle de fausse lendry was assured that her uncle was safe, and they were told soon after that all who remained were pardoned. about twenty-two ladies were together, and were called to leave the prison, but the two who went first were at once butchered, and the sentry called out to the others, 'it is a snare, go back, do not show yourselves.' they retreated; but marie de sombreuil had made her way to her father, and when he was called down into the court, she came with him. she hung round him, beseeching the murderers to have pity on his grey hairs, and declaring that they must strike him only through her. one of the ruffians, touched by her resolution, called out that they should be allowed to pass if the girl would drink to the health of the nation. the whole court was swimming with blood, and the glass he held out to her was full of something red. marie would not shudder. she drank, and with the applause of the assassins ringing in her ears, she passed with her father over the threshold of the fatal gates, into such freedom and safety as paris could then afford. never again could she see a glass of red wine without a shudder, and it was generally believed that it was actually a glass of blood that she had swallowed, though she always averred that this was an exaggeration, and that it had been only her impression before tasting it that so horrible a draught was offered to her. the tidings that mademoiselle de sombreuil had saved her father came to encourage the rest of the ladies, and when calls were heard for 'cazotte', elizabeth flew out and joined her father, and in like manner stood between him and the butchers, till her devotion made the crowd cry 'pardon!' and one of the men employed about the prison opened a passage for her, by which she, too, led her father away. madame de fausse lendry was not so happy. her uncle was killed early in the day, before she was aware that he had been sent for, but she survived to relate the history of that most horrible night and day. the same work was going on at all the other prisons, and chief among the victims of la force was the beautiful marie louise of savoy, the princess de lamballe, and one of the most intimate friends of the queen. a young widow without children, she had been the ornament of the court, and clever learned ladies thought her frivolous, but the depth of her nature was shown in the time of trial. her old father-in-law had taken her abroad with him when the danger first became apparent, but as soon as she saw that the queen herself was aimed at, she went immediately back to france to comfort her and share her fate. since the terrible 10th of august, the friends had been separated, and madame de lamballe had been in the prison of la force. there, on the evening of the 2nd of september, she was brought down to the tribunal, and told to swear liberty, equality, and hatred to the king and queen. 'i will readily swear the two former. i cannot swear the latter. it is not in my heart.' 'swear! if not, you are dead.' she raised her eyes, lifted her hands, and made a step to the door. murderers closed her in, and pike thrusts in a few moments were the last 'stage that carried from earth to heaven' the gentle woman, who had loved her queenly friend to the death. little mattered it to her that her corpse was soon torn limb from limb, and that her fair ringlets were floating round the pike on which her head was borne past her friend's prison window. little matters it now even to marie antoinette. the worst that the murderers could do for such as these, could only work for them a more exceeding weight of glory. m. cazotte was imprisoned again on the 12th of september, and all his daughter's efforts failed to save him. she was taken from him, and he died on the guillotine, exclaiming, 'i die as i have lived, faithful to my god and to my king.' and the same winter, m. de sombreuil was also imprisoned again. when he entered the prison with his daughter, all the inmates rose to do her honor. in the ensuing june, after a mock trial, her father and brother were put to death, and she remained for many years alone with only the memory of her past days. the vendeans 1793 while the greater part of france had been falling into habits of selfindulgence, and from thence into infidelity and revolution, there was one district where the people had not forgotten to fear god and honor the king. this was in the tract surrounding the loire, the south of which is now called la vendee, and was then termed the bocage, or the woodland. it is full of low hills and narrow valleys, divided into small fields, enclosed by high thick hedgerows; so that when viewed from the top of one of the hills, the whole country appears perfectly green, excepting near harvest-time, when small patches of golden corn catch the eye, or where here and there a church tower peeps above the trees, in the midst of the flat red-tiled roofs of the surrounding village. the roads are deep lanes, often in the winter beds of streams, and in the summer completely roofed by the thick foliage of the trees, whose branches meet overhead. the gentry of la vendee, instead of idling their time at paris, lived on their own estates in kindly intercourse with their neighbours, and constantly helping and befriending their tenants, visiting them at their farms, talking over their crops and cattle, giving them advice, and inviting them on holidays to dance in the courts of their castles, and themselves joining in their sports. the peasants were a hardworking, sober, and pious people, devoutly attending their churches, reverencing their clergy, and, as well they might, loving and honoring their good landlords. but as the revolution began to make its deadly progress at paris, a gloom spread over this happy country. the paris mob, who could not bear to see anyone higher in station than themselves, thirsted for noble blood, and the gentry were driven from france, or else imprisoned and put to death. an oath contrary to the laws of their church was required of the clergy, those who refused it were thrust out of their parishes, and others placed in their room; and throughout france all the youths of a certain age were forced to draw lots to decide who should serve in the republican army. this conscription filled up the measure. the vendeans had grieved over the flight of their landlords, they had sheltered and hidden their priests, and heard their ministrations in secret; but when their young men were to be carried way from them, and made the defenders and instruments of those who were murdering their king, overthrowing their church, and ruining their country, they could endure it no longer, but in the spring of 1793, soon after the execution of louis xvi., a rising took place in anjou, at the village of st. florent, headed by a peddler named cathelineau, and they drove back the blues, as they called the revolutionary soldiers, who had come to enforce the conscription. they begged monsieur de bonchamp, a gentleman in the neighborhood, to take the command; and, willing to devote himself to the cause of his king, he complied, saying, as he did so, 'we must not aspire to earthly rewards; such would be beneath the purity of our motives, the holiness of our cause. we must not even aspire to glory, for a civil war affords none. we shall see our castles fall, we shall be proscribed, slandered, stripped of our possessions, perhaps put to death; but let us thank god for giving us strength to do our duty to the end.' the next person on whom the peasants cast their eyes possessed as true and strong a heart, though he was too young to count the cost of loyalty with the same calm spirit of self-devotion. the marquis de la rochejacquelein, one of the most excellent of the nobles of poitou, had already emigrated with his wife and all his family, excepting henri, the eldest son, who, though but eighteen years of age, had been placed in the dangerous post of an officer in the royal guards. when louis xvi. had been obliged to dismiss these brave men, he had obtained a promise from each officer that he would not leave france, but wait for some chance of delivering that unhappy country. henri had therefore remained at paris, until after the 10th of august, 1792, when the massacre at the tuileries took place, and the imprisonment of the royal family commenced; and then every gentleman being in danger in the city, he had come to his father's deserted castle of durballiere in poitou. he was nearly twenty, tall and slender, with fair hair, an oval face, and blue eyes, very gentle, although full of animation. he was active and dexterous in all manly sports, especially shooting and riding; he was a man of few words; and his manners were so shy, modest, and retiring, that his friends used to say he was more like an englishman than a frenchman. hearing that he was alone at durballière, and knowing that as an officer in the guards, and also as being of the age liable to the conscription, he was in danger from the revolutionists in the neighboring towns, his cousin, the marquis de lescure, sent to invite him to his strong castle of clisson, which was likewise situated in the bocage. this castle afforded a refuge to many others who were in danger--to nuns driven from their convents, dispossessed clergy, and persons who dreaded to remain at their homes, but who felt reassured under the shelter of the castle, and by the character of its owner, a young man of six-and-twenty, who, though of high and unshaken loyalty, had never concerned himself with politics, but led a quiet and studious life, and was everywhere honored and respected. the winter passed in great anxiety, and when in the spring the rising at anjou took place, and the new government summoned all who could bear arms to assist in quelling it, a council was held among the party at clisson on the steps to be taken. henri, as the youngest, spoke first, saying he would rather perish than fight against the peasants; nor among the whole assembly was there one person willing to take the safer but meaner course of deserting the cause of their king and country. 'yes,' said the duchess de donnissan, mother to the young wife of the marquis de lescure, 'i see you are all of the same opinion. better death than dishonor. i approve your courage. it is a settled thing:' and seating herself in her armchair, she concluded, 'well, then, we must die.' for some little time all remained quiet at clisson; but at length the order for the conscription arrived, and a few days before the time appointed for the lots to be drawn, a boy came to the castle bringing a note to henri from his aunt at st. aubin. 'monsieur henri,' said the boy, 'they say you are to draw for the conscription next sunday; but may not your tenants rise against it in the meantime? come with me, sir, the whole country is longing for you, and will obey you.' henri instantly promised to come, but some of the ladies would have persuaded him not to endanger himself--representing, too, that if he was missing on the appointed day, m. de lescure might be made responsible for him. the marquis, however, silenced them, saying to his cousin, 'you are prompted by honor and duty to put yourself at the head of your tenants. follow out your plan, i am only grieved at not being able to go with you; and certainly no fear of imprisonment will lead me to dissuade you from doing your duty.' 'well, i will come and rescue you,' said henri, embracing him, and his eyes glancing with a noble soldier-like expression and an eagle look. as soon as the servants were gone to bed, he set out with a guide, with a stick in his hand and a pair of pistols in his belt; and traveling through the fields, over hedges and ditches, for fear of meeting with the blues, arrived at st. aubin, and from thence went on to meet m. de bonchamp and his little army. but he found to his disappointment that they had just been defeated, and the chieftains, believing that all was lost, had dispersed their troops. he went to his own home, dispirited and grieved; but no sooner did the men of st. aubin learn the arrival of their young lord, than they came trooping to the castle, entreating him to place himself at their head. in the early morning, the castle court, the fields, the village, were thronged with stout hardy farmers and laborers, in grey coats, with broad flapping hats, and red woolen handkerchiefs round their necks. on their shoulders were spits, scythes, and even sticks; happy was the man who could bring an old fowling-piece, and still more rejoiced the owner of some powder, intended for blasting some neighboring quarry. all had bold true hearts, ready to suffer and to die in the cause of their church and of their young innocent imprisoned king. a mistrust of his own powers, a fear of ruining these brave men, crossed the mind of the youth as he looked forth upon them, and he exclaimed, 'if my father was but here, you might trust to him. yet by my courage i will show myself worthy, and lead you. if i go forward, follow me: if i draw back, kill me; if i am slain, avenge me!' they replied with shouts of joy, and it was instantly resolved to march upon the next village, which was occupied by the rebel troops. they gained a complete victory, driving away the blues, and taking two small pieces of cannon, and immediately joined m. de bonchamp and cathelineau, who, encouraged by their success, again gathered their troops and gained some further advantages. in the meantime, the authorities had sent to clisson and arrested m. de lescure, his wife, her parents, and some of their guests, who were conducted to bressuire, the nearest town, and there closely guarded. there was great danger that the republicans would revenge their losses upon them, but the calm dignified deportment of m. de lescure obliged them to respect him so much that no injury was offered to him. at last came the joyful news that the royalist army was approaching. the republican soldiers immediately quitted the town, and the inhabitants all came to ask the protection of the prisoners, desiring to send their goods to clisson for security, and thinking themselves guarded by the presence of m. and madame de lescure. m. de lescure and his cousin bernard de marigny mounted their horses and rode out to meet their friends. in a quarter of an hour afterwards, madame de lescure heard the shouts 'long live the king!' and the next minute, henri de la rochejacquelein hurried into the room, crying, 'i have saved you.' the peasants marched in to the number of 20,000, and spread themselves through the town, but in their victory they had gained no taste for blood or plunder--they did not hurt a single inhabitant, nor touch anything that was not their own. madame de lescure heard some of them wishing for tobacco, and asked if there was none in the town. 'oh yes, there is plenty to be sold, but we have no money;' and they were very thankful to her for giving the small sum they required. monsieur de donnissan saw two men disputing in the street, and one drew his sword, when he interfered, saying, 'our lord prayed for his murderers, and would one soldier of the catholic army kill another?' the two instantly embraced. three times a day these peasant warriors knelt at their prayers, in the churches if they were near them, if not, in the open field, and seldom have ever been equaled the piety, the humility, the self-devotion alike of chiefs and of followers. the frightful cruelties committed by the enemy were returned by mercy; though such of them as fell into the hands of the republicans were shot without pity, yet their prisoners were instantly set at liberty after being made to promise not to serve against them again, and having their hair shaved off in order that they might be recognized. whenever an enterprise was resolved on, the curates gave notice to their parishioners that the leaders would be at such a place at such a time, upon which they crowded to the spot, and assembled around the white standard of france with such weapons as they could muster. the clergy then heard them confess their sins, gave them absolution, and blessed them; then, while they set forward, returned to the churches where their wives and children were praying for their success. they did not fight like regular soldiers, but, creeping through the hedgerows and coppices, burst unexpectedly upon the blues, who, entangled in the hollow lanes, ignorant of the country, and amazed by the suddenness of the attack, had little power to resist. the chieftains were always foremost in danger; above all the eager young henri, with his eye on the white standard, and on the blue sky, and his hand making the sign of the cross without which he never charged the enemy, dashed on first, fearless of peril, regardless of his life, thinking only of his duty to his king and the protection of his followers. it was calmness and resignation which chiefly distinguished m. de lescure, the saint of poitou, as the peasants called him from his great piety, his even temper, and the kindness and the wonderful mercifulness of his disposition. though constantly at the head of his troops, leading them into the most dangerous places, and never sparing himself, not one man was slain by his hand, nor did he even permit a prisoner to receive the least injury in his presence. when one of the republicans once presented his musket close to his breast, he quietly put it aside with his hand, and only said, 'take away the prisoner'. his calmness was indeed well founded, and his trust never failed. once when the little army had received a considerable check, and his cousin m. de marigny was in despair, and throwing his pistols on the table, exclaimed, 'i fight no longer', he took him by the arm, led him to the window, an pointing to a troop of peasants kneeling at their evening prayers, he said, 'see there a pledge of our hopes, and doubt no longer that we shall conquer in our turn.' their greatest victory was at saumur, owing chiefly to the gallantry of henri, who threw his hat into the midst of the enemy, shouting to his followers, 'who will go and fetch it for me?' and rushing forward, drove all before him, and made his way into the town on one side, while m. de lescure, together with stofflet, a game-keeper, another of the chiefs, made their entrance on the other side. m. de lescure was wounded in the arm, and on the sight of his blood the peasants gave back, and would have fled had not stofflet threatened to shoot the first who turned; and in the meantime m. de lescure, tying up his arm with a handkerchief, declared it was nothing, and led them onwards. the city was entirely in their hands, and their thankful delight was excessive; but they only displayed it by ringing the bells, singing the te deum, and parading the streets. henri was almost out of his senses with exultation; but at last he fell into a reverie, as he stood, with his arms folded, gazing on the mighty citadel which had yielded to efforts such as theirs. his friends roused him from his dream by their remarks, and he replied, 'i am reflecting on our success, and am confounded'. they now resolved to elect a general-in-chief, and m. de lescure was the first to propose cathelineau, the peddler, who had first come forward in the cause. it was a wondrous thing when the nobles, the gentry, and experienced officers who had served in the regular army, all willingly placed themselves under the command of the simple untrained peasant, without a thought of selfishness or of jealousy. nor did cathelineau himself show any trace of pride, or lose his complete humility of mind or manner; but by each word and deed he fully proved how wise had been their judgment, and well earned the title given him by the peasants of the 'saint of anjou'. it was now that their hopes were highest; they were more numerous and better armed than they had ever been before, and they even talked of a march to paris to 'fetch their little king, and have him crowned at chollet', the chief town of la vendee. but martyrdom, the highest glory to be obtained on this earth, was already shedding its brightness round these devoted men who were counted worthy to suffer, and it was in a higher and purer world that they were to meet their royal child. cathelineau turned towards nantes, leaving henri de la rochejaquelein, to his great vexation, to defend saumur with a party of peasants. but he found it impossible to prevent these poor men from returning to their homes; they did not understand the importance of garrison duty, and gradually departed, leaving their commander alone with a few officers, with whom he used to go through the town at night, shouting out, 'long live the king!' at the places where there ought to have been sentinels. at last, when his followers were reduced to eight, he left the town, and, rejoicing to be once more in the open field, overtook his friends at angers, where they had just rescued a great number of clergy who had been imprisoned there, and daily threatened with death. 'do not thank us,' said the peasants to the liberated priests; 'it is for you that we fight. if we had not saved you, we should not have ventured to return home. since you are freed, we see plainly that the good god is on our side.' but the tide was now about to turn. the government in paris sent a far stronger force into the bocage, and desolated it in a cruel manner. clisson was burnt to the ground with the very fireworks which had been prepared for the christening of its master's eldest child, and which had not been used because of the sorrowful days when she was born. m. de lescure had long expected its destruction, but had not chosen to remove the furniture, lest he should discourage the peasants. his family were with the army, where alone there was now any safety for the weak and helpless. at nantes the attack was unsuccessful, and cathelineau himself received a wound of which he died in a few days, rejoicing at having been permitted to shed his blood in such a cause. the army, of which m. d'elbee became the leader, now returned to poitou, and gained a great victory at chatillon; but here many of them forgot the mercy they had usually shown, and, enraged by the sight of their burnt cottages, wasted fields, and murdered relatives, they fell upon the prisoners and began to slaughter them. m. de lescure, coming in haste, called out to them to desist. 'no, no,' cried m. de marigny; 'let me slay these monsters who have burnt your castle.' 'then, marigny,' said his cousin, 'you must fight with me. you are too cruel; you will perish by the sword.' and he saved these unhappy men for the time; but they were put to death on their way to their own army. the cruelties of the republicans occasioned a proclamation on the part of the royalists that they would make reprisals; but they could never bring themselves to act upon it. when m. de lescure took parthenay, he said to the inhabitants, 'it is well for you that it is i who have taken your town; for, according to our proclamation, i ought to burn it; but, as you would think it an act of private revenge for the burning of clisson, i spare you'. though occasional successes still maintained the hopes of the vendeans, misfortunes and defeats now became frequent; they were unable to save their country from the devastations of the enemy, and disappointments began to thin the numbers of the soldiers. henri, while fighting in a hollow road, was struck in the right hand by a ball, which broke his thumb in three places. he continued to direct his men, but they were at length driven back from their post. he was obliged to leave the army for some days; and though he soon appeared again at the head of the men of st. aubin, he never recovered the use of his hand. shortly after, both d'elbee and bonchamp were desperately wounded; and m. de lescure, while waving his followers on to attack a republican post, received a ball in the head. the enemy pressed on the broken and defeated army with overwhelming force, and the few remaining chiefs resolved to cross the loire and take refuge in brittany. it was much against the opinion of m. de lescure; but, in his feeble and suffering state, he could not make himself heard, nor could henri's representations prevail; the peasants, in terror and dismay, were hastening across as fast as they could obtain boats to carry them. the enemy was near at hand, and stofflet, marigny, and the other chiefs were only deliberating whether they should not kill the prisoners whom they could not take with them, and, if set at liberty, would only add to the numbers of their pursuers. the order for their death had been given; but, before it could be executed, m. de lescure had raised his head to exclaim, 'it is too horrible!' and m. de bonchamp at the same moment said, almost with his last breath, 'spare them!' the officers who stood by rushed to the generals, crying out that bonchamp commanded that they should be pardoned. they were set at liberty; and thus the two vendean chiefs avenged their deaths by saving five thousand of their enemies! m. de bonchamp expired immediately after; but m. de lescure had still much to suffer in the long and painful passage across the river, and afterwards, while carried along the rough roads to varades in an armchair upon two pikes, his wife and her maid supporting his feet. the bretons received them kindly, and gave him a small room, where, the next day, he sent for the rest of the council, telling them they ought to choose a new general, since m. d'elbee was missing. they answered that he himself alone could be commander. 'gentlemen,' he answered: 'i am mortally wounded; and even if i am to live, which i do not expect, i shall be long unfit to serve. the army must instantly have an active chief, loved by all, known to the peasants, trusted by everyone. it is the only way of saving us. m. de la rochejaquelein alone is known to the soldiers of all the divisions. m. de donnissan, my father-in-law, does not belong to this part of the country, and would not be as readily followed. the choice i propose would encourage the soldiers; and i entreat you to choose m. de la rochejaquelein. as to me, if i live, you know i shall not quarrel with henri; i shall be his aide-de-camp.' his advice was readily followed, henri was chosen; but when a second in command was to be elected, he said no, he was second, for he should always obey m. de donnissan, and entreated that the honor might not be given to him, saying that at twenty years of age he had neither weight nor experience, that his valor led him to be first in battle, but in council his youth prevented him from being attended to; and, indeed, after giving his opinion, he usually fell asleep while others were debating. he was, however, elected; and as soon as m. de lescure heard the shouts of joy with which the peasants received the intelligence, he sent madame de lescure to bring him to his bedside. she found him hidden in a corner, weeping bitterly; and when he came to his cousin, he embraced him, saving earnestly, again and again, that he was not fit to be general, he only knew how to fight, he was too young and could never silence those who opposed his designs, and entreated him to take the command as soon as he was cured. 'that i do not expect,' said m. de lescure; 'but if it should happen, i will be your aide-de-camp, and help you to conquer the shyness which prevents your strength of character from silencing the murmurers and the ambitious.' henri accordingly took the command; but it was a melancholy office that devolved upon him of dragging onward his broken and dejected peasants, half-starved, half-clothed, and followed by a wretched train of women, children, and wounded; a sad change from the bright hopes with which, not six months before, he had been called to the head of his tenants. yet still his high courage gained some triumphs, which for a time revived the spirits of his forces and restored their confidence. he was active and undaunted, and it was about this time, when in pursuit of the blues, he was attacked by a foot soldier when alone in a narrow lane. his right hand was useless, but he seized the man's collar with his left, and held him fast, managing his horse with his legs till his men came up. he would not allow them to kill the soldier, but set him free, saying 'return to the republicans, and tell them that you were alone with the general of the brigands, who had but one hand and no weapons, yet you could not kill him'. brigands was the name given by the republicans, the true robbers, to the royalists, who, in fact, by this time, owing to the wild life they had so long led, had acquired a somewhat rude and savage appearance. they wore grey cloth coats and trousers, broad hats, white sashes with knots of different colours to mark the rank of the officers, and red woolen handkerchiefs. these were made in the country, and were at first chiefly worn by henri, who usually had one round his neck, another round his waist, and a third to support his wounded hand; but the other officers, having heard the blues cry out to aim at the red handkerchief, themselves adopted the same badge, in order that he might be less conspicuous. in the meantime a few days' rest at laval had at first so alleviated the sufferings of m. de lescure, that hopes were entertained of his recovery; but he ventured on greater exertions of strength than he was able to bear, and fever returned, which had weakened him greatly before it became necessary to travel onwards. early in the morning, a day or two before their departure, he called to his wife, who was lying on a mattress on the floor, and desired her to open the curtains, asking, as she did so, if it was a clear day. 'yes,' said she. 'then,' he answered, 'i have a sort of veil before my eyes, i cannot see distinctly; i always thought my wound was mortal, and now i no longer doubt. my dear, i must leave you, that is my only regret, except that i could not restore my king to the throne; i leave you in the midst of a civil war, that is what afflicts me. try to save yourself. disguise yourself, and attempt to reach england.' then seeing her choked with tears, he continued: 'yes, your grief alone makes me regret life; for my own part, i die tranquil; i have indeed sinned, but i have always served god with piety; i have fought, and i die for him, and i hope in his mercy. i have often seen death, and i do not fear it i go to heaven with a sure trust, i grieve but for you; i hoped to have made you happy; if i ever have given you any reason to complain, forgive me.' finding her grief beyond all consolation, he allowed her to call the surgeons, saying that it was possible he might be mistaken. they gave some hope, which cheered her spirits, though he still said he did not believe them. the next day they left laval; and on the way, while the carriage was stopping, a person came to the door and read the details of the execution of marie antoinette which madame de lescure had kept from his knowledge. it was a great shock to him, for he had known the queen personally, and throughout the day he wearied himself with exclamations on the horrible crime. that night at ernee he received the sacrament, and at the same time became speechless, and could only lie holding his wife's hand and looking sometimes at her, sometimes toward heaven. but the cruel enemy were close behind, and there was no rest on earth even for the dying. madame de lescure implored her friends to leave them behind; but they told her she would be exposed to a frightful death, and that his body would fall into the enemy's hands; and she was forced to consent to his removal. her mother and her other friends would not permit her to remain in the carriage with him; she was placed on horseback and her maid and the surgeon were with him. an hour after, on the 3rd of november, he died, but his wife did not know her loss till the evening when they arrived at fongeres; for though the surgeon left the carriage on his death, the maid, fearing the effect which the knowledge might have upon her in the midst of her journey, remained for seven hours in the carriage by his side, during two of which she was in a fainting fit. when madame de lescure and henri de la rochejaquelein met the next morning, they sat for a quarter of an hour without speaking, and weeping bitterly. at last she said 'you have lost your best friend,' and he replied, 'take my life, if it could restore him.' scarcely anything can be imagined more miserable than the condition of the army, or more terrible than the situation of the young general, who felt himself responsible for its safety, and was compelled daily to see its sufferings and find his plans thwarted by the obstinacy and folly of the other officers, crushed by an overwhelming force, knowing that there was no quarter from which help could come, yet still struggling on in fulfillment of his sad duty. the hopes and expectations which had filled his heart a few months back had long passed away; nothing was around him but misery, nothing before him but desolation; but still he never failed in courage, in mildness, in confidence in heaven. at mans he met with a horrible defeat; at first, indeed, with a small party he broke the columns of the enemy, but fresh men were constantly brought up, and his peasants gave way and retreated, their officers following them. he tried to lead them back through the hedges, and if he had succeeded, would surely have gained the victory. three times with two other officers he dashed into the midst of the blues; but the broken, dispirited peasants would not follow him, not one would even turn to fire a shot. at last, in leaping a hedge, his saddle turned, and he fell, without indeed being hurt, but the sight of his fall added to the terror of the miserable vendeans. he struggled long and desperately through the long night that followed to defend the gates of the town, but with the light of morning the enemy perceived his weakness and effected their entrance. his followers had in the meantime gradually retired into the country beyond, but those who could not escape fell a prey to the cruelty of the republicans. 'i thought you had perished,' said madame de lescure, when he overtook her. 'would that i had,' was his answer. he now resolved to cross the loire, and return to his native bocage, where the well-known woods would afford a better protection to his followers. it was at craon, on their route to the river, that madame de lescure saw him for the last time, as he rallied his men, who had been terrified by a false alarm. she did not return to la vendee, but, with her mother, was sheltered by the peasants of brittany throughout the winter and spring until they found means to leave the country. the vendeans reached the loire at ancenis, but they were only able to find two small boats to carry them over. on the other side, however, were four great ferry boats loaded with hay; and henri, with stofflet, three other officers, and eighteen soldiers crossed the river in their two boats, intending to take possession of them, send them back for the rest of the army, and in the meantime protect the passage from the blues on the vendean side. unfortunately, however, he had scarcely crossed before the pursuers came down upon his troops, drove them back from ancenis, and entirely prevented them from attempting the passage, while at the same time henri and his companions were attacked and forced from the river by a body of republicans on their side. a last resistance was attempted by the retreating vendeans at savenay, where they fought nobly but in vain; four thousand were shot on the field of battle, the chiefs were made prisoners and carried to nantes or angers, where they were guillotined, and a few who succeeded in escaping found shelter among the bretons, or one by one found their way back to la vendee. m. de donnissan was amongst those who were guillotined, and m. d'elbee, who was seized shortly after, was shot with his wife. henri, with his few companions, when driven from the banks of the loire, dismissed the eighteen soldiers, whose number would only have attracted attention without being sufficient for protection; but the five chiefs crossed the fields and wandered through the country without meeting a single inhabitant--all the houses were burnt down, and the few remaining peasants hidden in the woods. at last, after four-and-twenty hours, walking, they came to an inhabited farm, where they lay down to sleep on the straw. the next moment the farmer came to tell them the blues were coming; but they were so worn out with fatigue, that they would not move. the blues were happily, also, very tired, and, without making any search, laid down on the other side of the heap of straw, and also fell asleep. before daylight the vendeans rose and set out again, walking miles and miles in the midst of desolation, until, after several days, they came to henri's own village of st. aubin, where he sought out his aunt, who was in concealment there, and remained with her for three days, utterly overwhelmed with grief at his fatal separation from his army, and only longing for an opportunity of giving his life in the good cause. beyond all his hopes, the peasants no sooner heard his name, than once more they rallied round the white standard, as determined as ever not to yield to the revolutionary government; and the beginning of the year 1794 found him once more at the head of a considerable force, encamped in the forests of vesins, guarding the villages around from the cruelties of the blues. he was now doubly beloved and trusted by the followers who had proved his worth, and who even yet looked forward to triumphs beneath his brave guidance; but it was not so with him, he had learnt the lesson of disappointment, and though always active and cheerful, his mind was made up, and the only hope he cherished was of meeting the death of a soldier. his headquarters were in the midst of a forest, where one of the republican officers, who was made prisoner, was much surprised to find the much-dreaded chieftain of the royalists living in a hut formed of boughs of trees, dressed almost like a peasant, and with his arm still in a sling. this person was shot, because he was found to be commissioned to promise pardon to the peasants, and afterwards to massacre them; but henri had not learnt cruelty from his persecutors, and his last words were of forgiveness. it was on ash wednesday that he had repulsed an attack of the enemy, and had almost driven them out of the wood, when, perceiving two soldiers hiding behind a hedge, he stopped, crying out, 'surrender, i spare you.' as he spoke one of them leveled his musket, fired, and stretched him dead on the ground without a groan. stofflet, coming up the next moment, killed the murderer with one stroke of his sword; but the remaining soldier was spared out of regard to the last words of the general. the vendeans wept bitterly, but there was no time to indulge their sorrow, for the enemy were returning upon them; and, to save their chieftain's corpse from insult, they hastily dug a grave, in which they placed both bodies, and retreated as the blues came up to occupy the ground. the republicans sought for the spot, but it was preserved from their knowledge; and the high-spirited, pure-hearted henri de la rochejaquelein sleeps beside his enemy in the midst of the woodlands where he won for himself eternal honor. his name is still loved beyond all others; the vendeans seldom pronounce it without touching their hats, and it is the highest glory of many a family that one of their number has served under monsieur henri. stofflet succeeded to the command, and carried on the war with great skill and courage for another year, though with barbarities such as had never been permitted by the gentle men; but his career was stained by the death of marigny, whom, by false accusations, he was induced to sentence to be shot. marigny showed great courage and resignation, himself giving the word to fire--perhaps at that moment remembering the warning of m. de lescure. stofflet repented bitterly, and never ceased to lament his death. he was at length made prisoner, and shot, with his last words declaring his devotion to his king and his faith. thus ends the tale of the vendean war, undertaken in the best of causes, for the honor of god and his church, and the rescue of one of the most innocent of kings, by men whose saintly characters and dauntless courage have seldom been surpassed by martyrs or heroes of any age. it closed with blood, with fire, with miseries almost unequalled; yet who would dare to say that the lives of cathelineau, bonchamp, lescure, la rochejaquelein, with their hundreds of brave and pious followers, were devoted in vain? who could wish to see their brightness dimmed with earthly rewards? and though the powers of evil were permitted to prevail on earth, yet what could their utmost triumph effect against the faithful, but to make for them, in the words of the child king for whom they fought, one of those thorny paths that lead to glory! the end. this ebook was produced by john b. hare and carrie lorenz. heroic romances of ireland translated into english prose and verse, with preface, special introductions and notes by a. h. leahy in two volumes vol. i preface at a time like the present, when in the opinion of many the great literatures of greece and rome are ceasing to hold the influence that they have so long exerted upon human thought, and when the study of the greatest works of the ancient world is derided as "useless," it may be too sanguine to hope that any attention can be paid to a literature that is quite as useless as the greek; which deals with a time, which, if not actually as far removed from ours as are classical times, is yet further removed in ideas; a literature which is known to few and has yet to win its way to favour, while the far superior literature of greece finds it hard to defend the position that it long ago won. it may be that reasons like these have weighed with those scholars who have opened up for us the long-hidden treasures of celtic literature; despairing of the effort to obtain for that literature its rightful crown, and the homage due to it from those who can appreciate literary work for itself, they have been contented to ask for the support of that smaller body who from philological, antiquarian, or, strange as it may appear, from political reasons, are prepared to take a modified interest in what should be universally regarded as in its way one of the most interesting literatures of the world. the literary aspect of the ancient literature of ireland has not indeed been altogether neglected. it has been used to furnish themes on which modern poems can be written; ancient authority has been found in it for what is essentially modern thought: modern english and irish poets have claimed the old irish romances as inspirers, but the romances themselves have been left to the scholars and the antiquarians. this is not the position that irish literature ought to fill. it does undoubtedly tell us much of the most ancient legends of modern europe which could not have been known without it; but this is not its sole, or even its chief claim to be heard. it is itself the connecting-link between the old world and the new, written, so far as can be ascertained, at the time when the literary energies of the ancient world were dead, when the literatures of modern europe had not been born,[fn#1] in a country that had no share in the ancient civilisation of rome, among a people which still retained many legends and possibly a rudimentary literature drawn from ancient celtic sources, and was producing the men who were the earliest classical scholars of the modern world. [fn#1] the only possible exceptions to this, assuming the latest possible date for the irish work, and the earliest date for others, are the kindred welsh literature and that of the anglo-saxon invaders of britain. the exact extent of the direct influence of irish literature upon the development of other nations is hard to trace, chiefly because the influence of ireland upon the continent was at its height at the time when none of the languages of modern europe except welsh and anglo-saxon had reached a stage at which they might be used for literary purposes, and a continental literature on which the irish one might have influence simply did not exist. its subsequent influence, in the tenth and eleventh centuries, upon welsh, and through welsh upon the early breton literature (now lost) appears to be established; it is usually supposed that its action upon the earliest french compositions was only through the medium of these languages, but it is at least possible that its influence in this case also was more direct. in merovingian and early carlovingian times, when french songs were composed, which are now lost but must have preceded the extant chansons de geste, the irish schools were attracting scholars from the neighbouring countries of europe; ireland was sending out a steady stream of "learned men" to france, germany, and italy; and it is at least possible that some who knew the irish teachers realized the merit of the literary works with which some of these teachers must have been familiar. the form of the twelfth-century french romance, "aucassin and nicolete," is that of the chief irish romances, and may well have been suggested by them; whilst the variety of the rhythm and the elaborate laws of the earliest french poetry, which, both in its northern and southern form, dates from the first half of the twelfth century, almost imply a pre-existing model; and such a model is more easily traced in irish than in any other vernacular literature that was then available. it is indeed nearly as hard to suppose that the beautiful literature of ireland had absolutely no influence upon nations known to be in contact with it, as it would be to hold to the belief that the ancient cretan civilisation had no effect upon the liter ary development that culminated in the poems of homer. before speaking of what the irish literature was, it may be well to say what it was not. the incidents related in it date back, according to the "antiquaries" of the ninth to the twelfth centuries, some to the christian era, some to a period long anterior to it; but occasional allusions to events that were unknown in ireland before the introduction of christianity, and a few to classical personages, show that the form of the present romances can hardly be pre-christian, or even close translations into old or middle irish of druidic tales. it has therefore been the fashion to speak of the romances as inaccurate survivals of pre-christian works, which have been added to by successive generations of "bards," a mode of viewing our versions of the romances which of course puts them out of the category of original literature and hands them over to the antiquarians; but before they suffer this fate, it is reasonable to ask that their own literary merit should be considered in a more serious manner than has yet been attempted. the idea that our versions of the romances are inaccurate reproductions of druidic tales is not at all borne out by a study of the romances themselves; for each of these, except for a few very manifestly late insertions, has a style and character of its own. there were, undoubtedly, old traditions, known to the men who in the sixth and seventh centuries may have written the tales that we have, known even to men who in the tenth and eleventh centuries copied them and commented upon them; but the romances as they now stand do not look like pieces of patchwork, but like the works of men who had ideas to convey; and to me at least they seem to bear approximately the same relation to the druid legends as the works of the attic tragedians bear to the archaic greek legends on which their tragedies were based. in more than one case, as in the "courtship of etain," which is more fully discussed below, there are two versions of the same tale, the framework being the same in both, while the treatment of the incidents and the view of the characters of the actors is essentially different; and when the story is treated from the antiquarian point of view, that which regards both versions as resting upon a common prehistoric model, the question arises, which of the two more nearly represents the "true" version? there is, i would submit, in such cases, no true version. the old druidic story, if it could be found, would in all probability contain only a very small part of either of our two versions; it would be bald, half-savage in tone, like one of the more ancient greek myths, and producing no literary effect; the literary effect of both the versions that we have, being added by men who lived in christian times, were influenced by christian ideals, and probably were, like many of their contemporaries, familiar with the literary bequests of the ancient world.[fn#2] [fn#2] it seems to be uncertain whether or not the writers of the irish romances shared in the classical learning for which ireland was noted in their time. the course of study at the schools established for the training of the fili in the tenth and eleventh centuries was certainly, as has been pointed out, very different from that of the ecclesiastical schools (see joyce, vol. i. p. 430). no classical instruction was included in this training, but it is not certain that this separation of studies was so complete before what is called the "antiquarian age" set in. cormac mac cuninan, for example, was a classical scholar, and at the same time skilled in the learning of the fili. it should also be observed that the course at the ecclesiastical schools, as handed down to us, hardly seems to be classical enough to have produced a columbanus or an erigena; the studies that produced these men must have been of a different kind, and the lay schools as originally established by sanchan torpest may have included much that afterwards gave place to a more purely irish training. the tale of troy seems to have been known to the fili, and there are in their works allusions to greek heroes, to hercules and hector, but it has been pointed out by mr. nutt that there is little if any evidence of influence produced by latin or greek literature on the actual matter or thought of the older irish work. on this point reference may be made to a note on "mae datho's boar" in this volume (p. 173), but even if this absence of classical influence is established (and it is hard to say what will not be found in irish literature), it is just possible that the same literary feeling which made irish writers of comparatively late tales keep the bronze weapons and chariots of an earlier date in their accounts of ancient wars, while they described arms of the period when speaking of battles of their own time, affected them in this instance also; and that they had enough restraint to refrain from introducing classical and christian ideas when speaking of times in which they knew these ideas would have been unfamiliar. it may be, and often is, assumed that the appearance of grotesque or savage passages in a romance is an indication of high antiquity, and that these passages at least are faithful reproductions of druidic originals, but this does not seem to be quite certain. some of these passages, especially in the case of romances preserved in the leabhar na h-uidhri (the book of the dun cow), look like insertions made by scribes of an antiquarian turn of mind,[fn#3] and are probably of very ancient date; in other cases, as for example in the "boar of mac datho," where conall dashes anluan's head into ket's face, the savagery is quite in 'keeping with the character of the story, and way have been deliberately invented by an author living in christian times, to add a flavour to his tale, although in doing so he probably imitated a similar incident in some other legend. to take a classical parallel, the barbarity shown by aeneas in aeneid x. 518-520, in sacrificing four youths on the funeral pyre of pallas, an act which would have been regarded with horror in virgil's own day, does not prove that there was any ancient tale of the death of pallas in which these victims were sacrificed, nor even that such victims were sacrificed in ancient latium in pallas' day; but it does show that virgil was familiar with the fact that such victims used in some places to be sacrificed on funeral pyres; for, in a sense, he could not have actually invented the incident. [fn#3] see the exhibition of the tips of tongues in the "sick-bed of cuchulain," page 57. thus the appearance of an archaic element in an irish romance is in itself no proof of the druidic origin of that form of the romance, nor even of the existence of that element in the romance's earliest form: upon such a principle the archaic character of the motif of the "oedipus coloneus" would prove it to be the oldest of the greek tragedies, while as a matter of fact it seems to be doubtful whether the introduction of this motif into the story of oedipus was not due to sophocles himself, although of course he drew the idea of it, if not from the original legend of oedipus, from some other early legend. the most satisfactory test of the authorship of an irish romance, and one of the most satisfactory tests of its date, is its literary character; and if we look at the literary character of the best of the irish romances, there is one point that is immediately apparent, the blending of prose and verse. one, the most common, explanation of this, is that the verse was added to the original tale, another that the verse is the older part, the prose being added to make a framework for the verse, but a general view of some of the original romances appears to lead to a very different conclusion. it seems much more probable that the irish authors deliberately chose a method of making their work at once literary and suited to please a popular audience; they told their stories in plain prose, adding to them verse, possibly chanted by the reciters of the stories, so that while the prose told the story in simple language, the emotions of pity, martial ardour, and the like were awakened by the verse. they did not use the epic form, although their knowledge of classical literature must have made them familiar with it; the irish epic form is romance. they had, besides the prose and what may be called the "regular" verse, a third form, that of rose, or as it is sometimes called rhetoric, which is a very irregular form of verse. sometimes it rhymes, but more often not; the lines are of varying lengths, and to scan them is often very difficult, an alliteration taking the place of scansion in many cases. the rhetoric does not in general develop the story nor take the form of description, it usually consists of songs of triumph, challenges, prophecies, and exhortations, though it is sometimes used for other purposes. it does not conform to strict grammatical rules like the more regular verse and the prose, and many of the literal translations which irish scholars have made for us of the romances omit this rhetoric entirely, owing to the difficulty in rendering it accurately, and because it does not develop the plots of the stories. notable examples of such omissions are in miss faraday's translation of the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "great tain," and in whitley stokes' translation of the "destruction of da derga's hostel." with all respect to these scholars, and with the full consciousness of the difficulty of the task that has naturally been felt by one who has vainly attempted to make sense of what their greater skill has omitted, it may be suggested that the total omission of such passages injures the literary effect of a romance in a manner similar to the effect of omitting all the choric pieces in a greek tragedy: the rhetoric indeed, on account of its irregularity, its occasional strophic correspondence, its general independence of the action of the tale, and its difficulty as compared with the other passages, may be compared very closely to a greek "chorus." few of the romances written in prose and verse are entirely without rhetoric; but some contain very little of it; all the six romances of this character given in the present volume (counting as two the two versions of "etain") contain some rhetoric, but there are only twenty-one such passages in the collection altogether, ten of which are in one romance, the "sick-bed of cuchulain." the present collection is an attempt to give to english readers some of the oldest romances in english literary forms that seem to correspond to the literary forms which were used in irish to produce the same effect, and has been divided into two parts. the first part contains five separate stories, all of which are told in the characteristic form of prose and verse: they are the "courtship of etain," the "boar of mac datho," the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the "death of the sons of usnach" (book of leinster version), and the "combat at the ford" out of the book of leinster version of the "tain bo cuailnge." two versions are given of the "courtship of etain "; and the "sick-bed of cuchulain," as is pointed out in the special preface prefixed to it, really consists of two independent versions. it was at first intended to add the better-known version of the "death of the sons of usnach" known as that of the glenn masain ms., but the full translation of this has been omitted, partly to avoid making the volume too bulky, partly because this version is readily attainable in a literal form; an extract from it has, however, been added to the book of leinster version for the purpose of comparison. in the renderings given of these romances the translation of the prose is nearly literal, but no attempt has been made to follow the irish idiom where this idiom sounds harsh in english; actives have been altered to passive forms and the reverse, adjectives are sometimes replaced by short sentences which give the image better in english, pronouns, in which irish is very rich, are often replaced by the persons or things indicated, and common words, like iarom, iarsin, iartain, immorro, and the like (meaning thereafter, moreover, &c.), have been replaced by short sentences that refer back to the events indicated by the words. nothing has been added to the irish, except in the leabhar na h-uidhri version of "etain," where there is a lacuna to be filled up, and there are no omissions. the translations of the verse and of the rhetoric are, so far as is possible, made upon similar lines; it was at first intended to add literal renderings of all the verse passages, but it was found that to do so would make the volume of an unmanageable size for its purpose. literal renderings of all the verse passages in "etain," the first of the tales in volume i., are given in the notes to that story; the literal renderings of deirdre's lament in the "sons of usnach," and of two poems in "the combat at the ford," are also given in full as specimens, but in the case of most of the poems reference is made to easily available literal translations either in english or german: where the literal rendering adopted differs from that referred to, or where the poem in question has not before been translated, the literal rendering has been given in the notes. these examples will, it is believed, give a fair indication of the relation between my verse translations and the originals, the deviations from which have been made as small as possible. the form of four-line verse divided into stanzas has generally been used to render the passages in four-lined verse in the irish, the only exception to this rule being in the verses at the end of the "boar of mac datho": these are in the nature of a ballad version of the whole story, and have been rendered in a ballad metre that does not conform to the arrangement in verses of the original. the metre of all the irish four-lined verses in this volume is, except in two short pieces, a seven-syllabled line, the first two lines usually rhyming with each other, and the last two similarly rhyming,[fn#4] in a few cases in the "boar of mac datho" these rhymes are alternate, and in the extract from the glenn masain version of the "sons of usnach" there is a more complicated rhyme system. it has not been thought necessary to reproduce this metre in all cases, as to do so would sound too monotonous in english; the metre is, however, reproduced once at least in each tale except in that of the "death of the sons of usnach." the eight-lined metre that occurs in five of the verse passages in the "combat at the ford" has in one case been reproduced exactly, and in another case nearly exactly, but with one syllable added to each line; the two passages in this romance that are in five-syllabled lines have been reproduced exactly in the irish metre, in one case with the rhyme-system of the original. with the rhetoric greater liberty has been used; sometimes the original metre has been followed, but more often not; and an occasional attempt has been made to bring out the strophic correspondence in the irish. [fn#4] an example of this metre is as follows:-all the elves of troom seem dead, all their mighty deeds are fled; for their hound, who hounds surpassed, elves have bound in slumber fast. in the first volume of the collection the presentation has then been made as near as may be to the form and matter of the irish; in the second volume, called "versified romances," there is a considerable divergence from the irish form but not from its sense. this part includes the five "tains" or cattle-forays of fraech, dartaid, regamon, flidais, and regamna; which in the originals differ from the five tales in volume i, in that they include no verse, except for a few lines in regamna, most of which are untranslatable. the last four of these are short pieces written in a prose extremely rapid in its action, and crowded with incident. they are all expressly named as "fore-tales," remscela, or preludes to the story of the great war of cualnge, which is the central event in the ulster heroic cycle, and appear suited for rapid prose recitations, which were apparently as much a feature in ancient as they are in modern irish. such pieces can hardly be reproduced in english prose so as to bring out their character; they are represented in english by the narrative ballad, and they have been here rendered in this way. literal translations in prose are printed upon the opposite page to the verse, these translations being much more exact than the translations in the first volume, as the object in this case is to show the literal irish form, not its literal english equivalent, which is in this case the verse. the "tain bo fraich" is also, in a sense, a "fore-tale" to the great raid, but is of a different character to the others. it consists of two parts, the second of which is not unlike the four that have just been mentioned, but the first part is of a much higher order, containing brilliant descriptions, and at least one highly poetic passage although its irish form is prose. fraech has been treated like the other fore-tales, and rendered in verse with literal prose opposite to the verse for the purpose of comparison. the notes to all the five tana in the second volume accompany the text; in the first volume all the notes to the different romances are collected together, and placed at the end of the volume. the second volume also includes a transcript from the facsimile of that part of the irish text of the tale of etain which has not before been published, together with an interlinear literal translation. it is hoped that this arrangement may assist some who are not middle irish scholars to realise what the original romances are. the manuscript authorities for the eleven different romances (counting as two the two versions of "etain") are all old; seven are either in the leabhar na h-uidhri, an eleventh-century manuscript, or in the book of leinster, a twelfth-century one; three of the others are in the fourteenth-century yellow book of lecan, which is often, in the case of texts preserved both in it and the leabhar na h-uidhri, regarded as the better authority of the two; and the remaining one, the second version of "etain," is in the fifteenth-century manuscript known as egerton, 1782, which gives in an accurate form so many texts preserved in the older manuscripts that it is very nearly as good an authority as they. the sources used in making the translations are also stated in the special introductions, but it may be mentioned as a summary that the four "preludes," the tana of dartaid, regamon, flidais, and regamna, are taken from the text printed with accompanying german translations by windisch in irische texte, vol. ii.; windisch's renderings being followed in those portions of the text that he translates; for the "tain bo fraich" and the "combat at the ford" the irish as given by o'beirne crowe and by o'curry, with not very trustworthy english translations, has been followed; in the case of the fragment of the glenn masain version of "deirdre" little reference has been made to the irish, the literal translation followed being that given by whitley stokes. the remaining five romances, the "boar of mac datho," the leinster version of "deirdre," the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the egerton version of "etain," and the greater part of the leabbar na h-uidhri version of the same, are taken from the irish text printed without translation in irische texte, vol. i., the end of the leabhar na h-uidhri version omitted by windisch being taken from the facsimile of the manuscript published by the royal irish academy. i have to acknowledge with gratitude many corrections to o'beirne crowe's translation of the "tain bo fraich" kindly given me by professor kuno meyer; in the case of o'curry's translation of the "combat at the ford," similar help kindly given me by mr. e. j. quiggin; and in the case of the two versions of "etain," more especially for the part taken direct from the facsimile, i have to express gratitude for the kind and ready help given to me by professor strachan. professor strachan has not only revised my transcript from the facsimile, and supplied me with translations of the many difficult passages in this of which i could make no sense, but has revised all the translation which was made by the help of windisch's glossary to the irische texte of both the versions of "etain," so that the translations given of these two romances should be especially reliable, although of course i may have made some errors which have escaped professor strachan's notice. the three other romances which have been translated from the irish in irische texte have not been similarly revised, but all passages about which there appeared to be doubt have been referred to in the notes to the individual romances. it remains to add some remarks upon the general character of the tales, which, as may be seen after a very cursory examination, are very different both in tone and merit, as might indeed be expected if we remember that we are probably dealing with the works of men who were separated from each other by a gap of hundreds of years. those who have read the actual works of the ancient writers of the irish romances will not readily indulge in the generalisations about them used by those to whom the romances are only known by abstracts or a compilation. perhaps the least meritorious of those in this collection are the "tains" of dartaid, regamon, and flidais, but the tones of these three stories are very different. dartaid is a tale of fairy vengeance for a breach of faith; flidais is a direct and simple story of a raid like a border raid, reminding us of the "riding ballads" of the scottish border, and does not seem to trouble itself much about questions of right or wrong; regamon is a merry tale of a foray by boys and girls; it troubles itself with the rights of the matter even less than flidais if possible, and is an example of an irish tale with what is called in modern times a "good ending." it may be noted that these last two tales have no trace of the supernatural element which some suppose that the irish writers were unable to dispense with. the "tain bo regamna," the shortest piece in the collection, is a grotesque presentation of the supernatural, and is more closely associated with the great tain than any of the other fore-tales to it, the series of prophecies with which it closes exactly following the action of the part of the tain, to which it refers. some of the grotesque character of regamna appears in the "boar of mac datho," which, however, like regamon and flidais, has no supernatural element; its whole tone is archaic and savage, relieved by touches of humour, but the style of the composition is much superior to that of the first three stories. a romance far superior to "mae datho" is the leinster version of the well-known deirdre story, the "death of the sons of usnach." the opening of the story is savage, the subsequent action of the prose is very rapid, while the splendid lament at the end, one of the best sustained laments in the language, and the restraint shown in its account of the tragic death of deirdre, place this version of the story in a high position. as has been already mentioned, parts of the fifteenth-century version of the story have been added to this version for purposes of comparison: the character of the deirdre of the leinster version would not have been in keeping with the sentiment of the lament given to her in the later account. the remaining five romances (treating as two the two versions of "etain") all show great beauty in different ways. three of the four tales given in them have "good endings," and the feeling expressed in them is less primitive than that shown in the other stories, although it is an open question whether any of them rises quite so high as deirdre's lament. "fraech" has, as has been mentioned before, two quite separate parts; the second part is of inferior quality, showing, however, an unusual amount of knowledge of countries lying outside celtdom, but the first is a most graceful romance; although the hero is a demi-god, and the fairies play a considerable part in it, the interest is essentially human; and the plot is more involved than is the case in most of the romances. it abounds in brilliant descriptions; the description of the connaught palace is of antiquarian interest; and one of the most beautiful pieces of celtic mythology, the parentage of the three fairy harpers, is included in it. the "sick-bed of cuchulain" and the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "courtship of etain" seem to have had their literary effect injured by the personality of the compiler of the manuscript from which the leabhar na h-uidhri was copied. seemingly an antiquarian, interested in the remains of the old celtic religion and in old ceremonies, he has inserted pieces of antiquarian information into several of the romances that he has preserved for us, and though these are often of great interest in themselves, they spoil the literary effect of the romances in which they appear. it is possible that both the leabhar na h-uidhri version of "etain" and the "sick-bed" might be improved by a little judicious editing; they have, however, been left just as they stand in the manuscript. the "sick-bed," as is pointed out in the special introduction to it, consists of two separate versions; the first has plainly some of the compiler's comments added to it, but the second and longer part seems not to have been meddled with; and, although a fragment, it makes a stately romance, full of human interest although dealing with supernatural beings; and its conclusion is especially remarkable in early literature on account of the importance of the action of the two women who are the heroines of this part of the tale. the action of fand in resigning her lover to the weaker mortal woman who has a better claim upon him is quite modern in its tone. the nearest parallel to the longer version of the "sick-bed" is the egerton version of "etain," which is a complete one, and makes a stately romance. it is full of human interest, love being its keynote; it keeps the supernatural element which is an essential to the original legend in the background, and is of quite a different character to the earlier leabhar na h-uidhri version, although there is no reason to assume that the latter is really the more ancient in date. in the leabbar na h-uidhri version of "etain," all that relates to the love-story is told in the baldest manner, the part which deals with the supernatural being highly descriptive and poetic. i am inclined to believe that the antiquarian compiler of the manuscript did here what he certainly did in the case of the "sick-bed of cuchulain," and pieced together two romances founded upon the same legend by different authors. the opening of the story in fairyland and the concluding part where mider again appears are alike both in style and feeling, while the part that comes between is a highly condensed version of the love-story of the egerton manuscript, and suggests the idea of an abstract of the egerton version inserted into the story as originally composed, the effect being similar to that which would be produced upon us if we had got aeschylus' "choaphorae" handed down to us with a condensed version of the dialogue between electra and chrysothemis out of sophocles' "electra" inserted by a conscientious antiquarian who thought that some mention of chrysothemis was necessary. this version of the legend, however, with its strong supernatural flavour, its insistence on the idea of re-birth, its observation of nature, and especially the fine poem in which mider invites etain to fairyland, is a most valuable addition to the literature, and we have to lament the gap in it owing to the loss of a column in that part of the leabhar na h-uidhri manuscript which has been preserved. the last piece to be mentioned is the extract from the "tain be cuailnge" known as the "combat at the ford." this seems to me the finest specimen of old irish work that has been preserved for us; the brilliance of its descriptions, the appropriate changes in its metres, the chivalry of its sentiments, and the rapidity of its action should, even if there were nothing to stand beside it in irish literature, give that literature a claim to be heard: as an account of a struggle between two friends, it is probably the finest in any literature. it has been stated recently, no doubt upon sound authority, that the grammatical forms of this episode show it to be late, possibly dating only to the eleventh century. the manuscript in which it appears, however, is of the earlier part of the twelfth century; no literary modem work other than irish can precede it in time; and if it is the work of an eleventh-century author, it does seem strange that his name or the name of some one of that date who could have written it has not been recorded, as macliag's name has been as the traditional author of the eleventh-century "wars of the gaedhill and the gaill," for the names of several irish authors of that period axe well known, and the early middle irish texts of that period are markedly of inferior quality. compare for example the boromaean tribute which stokes considers to take high rank among texts of that period (revue celtique, xiii. p. 32). one would certainly like to believe that this episode of the "combat at the ford" belongs to the best literary period, with which upon literary grounds it seems to be most closely connected. but, whether this comparative lateness of the "combat at the ford" be true or not, it, together with all the varied work contained in this collection, with the possible exception of the short extract from the glenn masain "deirdre," is in the actual form that we have it, older than the norman conquest of ireland, older than the norse sagas. its manuscript authority is older than that of the volsunga saga; its present form precedes the birth of chretien de troyes, the first considerable name in french literature, and, in a form not much unlike that in which we have it, it is probably centuries older than its actual manuscript date. the whole thing stands at the very beginning of the literature of modern europe, and compares by no means unfavourably with that which came after, and may, in part, have been inspired by it. surely it deserves to be raised from its present position as a study known only to a few specialists, and to form part of the mental equipment of every man who is for its own sake interested in and a lover of literature. introduction in verse 'tis hard an audience now to win for lore that ireland's tales can teach; and faintly, 'mid the modern din, is heard the old heroic speech. for long the tales in silence slept; the ancient tomes by few were read; e'en those who still its knowledge kept have thought the living music dead. and some, to save the lore from death, with modern arts each tale would deck, inflate its rhymes with magic breath, as if to buoy a sinking wreck. they graft new morbid magic dreams on tales where beating life is felt: in each romance find mystic gleams, and traces of the "moody celt." yet, though with awe the grassy mound that fairies haunt, is marked to-day; and though in ancient tales are found dim forms of gods, long passed away; though later men to magic turned, inserting many a druid spell; and ill the masters' craft had learned who told the tales, and told them well; no tale should need a magic dress or modern art, its life to give: each for itself, or great, or less, should speak, if it deserves to live. think not a dull, a scribal pen dead legends wrote, half-known, and feared: in lettered lands to poet men romance, who lives to-day, appeared. for when, in fear of warrior bands, had learning fled the western world, and, raised once more by irish hands, her banner stood again unfurled; 'twas there, where men her laws revered, that learning aided art's advance; and ireland bore, and ireland reared these eldest children of romance. her poets knew the druid creeds; yet not on these their thoughts would rest: they sang of love, of heroes' deeds, of kingly pomp, of cheerful jest. not as in greece aspired their thought, they joyed in battles wild and stern; yet pity once to men they taught from whom a fiercer age could learn. their frequent theme was war: they sang the praise of chiefs of courage high; yet, from their harps the accents rang that taught to knighthood chivalry. their heroes praise a conquered foe, oppose their friends for honour's sake, to weaker chieftains mercy show, and strength of cruel tyrants break. their nobles, loving fame, rejoice in glory, got from bards, to shine; yet thus ascends cuchulain's voice: "no skill indeed to boast is mine!" they sang, to please a warlike age, of wars, and women's wild lament, yet oft, restraining warriors' rage, their harps to other themes were bent. they loved on peaceful pomp to dwell, rejoiced in music's magic strains,. all nature's smiling face loved well, and "glowing hues of flowery plains." though oft of fairy land they spoke, no eerie beings dwelled therein, 'twas filled throughout with joyous folk like men, though freed from death and sin. and sure those bards were truest knights whose thoughts of women high were set, nor deemed them prizes, won in fights, but minds like men's, and women yet. with skilful touch they paint us each, etain, whose beauty's type for all; scathach, whose warriors skill could teach emer, whose words in wisdom fall; deirdre the seer, by love made keen; flidais, whose bounty armies feeds the prudent mugain, conor's queen; crund's wife, more swift than conor's steeds; finnabar, death for love who dared; revengeful ferb, who died of grief fand, who a vanquished rival spared; queen maev, who connaught led, its chief. not for the creeds their lines preserve should ireland's hero tales be known their pictured pages praise deserve from all, not learned men alone. their works are here; though flawed by time, to all the living verses speak of men who taught to europe rhyme, who knew no masters, save the greek. in forms like those men loved of old, naught added, nothing torn away, the ancient tales again are told, can none their own true magic sway? pronunciation of proper names the following list of suggested pronunciations does not claim to be complete or to be necessarily correct in all cases. some words like ferdia and conchobar (conor) have an established english pronunciation that is strictly speaking wrong; some, like murthemne are doubtful; the suggestions given here are those adopted by the editor for such information as is at his disposal. it seems to be unnecessary to give all the names, as the list would be too long; this list contains those names in the first volume as are of frequent occurrence; names that occur less commonly, and some of those in the following list, have a pronunciation indicated in foot-notes. the most important names are in small capitals. list of names aife (ee-fa), pp. 117, 129, 1342 141, 148, an instructress of cuchulain, ferdia, and others in the art of war. cathbad (cah-ba), pp. 91, 92, 93, 95, a druid. cualgne (kell-ny), mentioned in the preface, introductions, the "combat" and elsewhere; a district corresponding to county louth. cuchulain (cu-hoo-lin), the hero of the "sick-bed" and the "combat," and of the ulster heroic cycle in general. deirdre (dire-dree), the heroine of the "exile of the sons of usnach." dubhtach (doov-ta), pp. 48, 97, 98, 107, an ulster hero. eochaid airem (yeo-hay arrem), the king in the "courtship of etain." eochaid juil (yeo-hay yool), pp. 63, 70, 76, 79, a fairy king killed by cuchulain. eogan mac durthacht (yeogan mac door-ha), pp. 43, 48, 93, 97, 101, 107; an ulster hero, the slayer of the sons of usnach. etain (et-oyn), the heroine of the "courtship of etain." ferdia (fer-dee-a), cuchulain's opponent in the "combat at the ford." the true pronunciation is probably fer-deed. fuamnach (foom-na), pp. 79 9, 10, 19, 26, a sorceress. laeg (layg), son of riangabra (reen-gabra), the charioteer and friend of cuchulain, frequently mentioned in the "sick-bed" and the "combat at the ford." laegaire (leary), pp. 42, 46, 67, an ulster hero. leabhar na h-uidhri (lyow-er na hoorie), frequently mentioned, the oldest irish manuscript of romance. it means the "book of the dun cow," sometimes referred to as l.u. mac datho (mac da-ho), king of leinster in the "boar of mac datho," the word means "son of two mutes." murthemne (moor-temmy), pp. 57, 59, 61, 73, 77, 78, a district in ulster, with which cuchulain is connected in the "sick-bed" (in the "combat" he is "cuchulain of cualgne"). naisi (nay-see), the hero of the "exile of the sons of usnach." scathach (ska-ha), pp. 117, 129) 131, 134, 141, 149, 151 a sorceress in the isle of skye, instructress of cuchulain in war. uathach (oo-ha), pp. 117, 129, 134; 141) 149, daughter of scathach. other prominent characters, in the pronunciation of whose names as given in the text no special assistance is required, are: ailill mac mata (al-ill), king of connaught. ailill anglonnach, lover of etain, in the "courtship of etain." conall cernach, conall the victorious, second champion of ulster after cuchulain. conor (properly spelt conchobar and pronounced con-ower), king of ulster. emer, wife of cuchulain, appears often in the "sick-bed." this name is by some pronounced a-vair, probably from a different spelling. fand, the fairy princess, in love with cuchulain, in the "sick-bed." fergus, son of rog, prominent in the "exile of the sons of usnach," and in "combat"; step-father to king conor, he appears in most of the romances. ket (spelt cet), son of mata, the connaught champion, appears in the "boar of mac datho." maev (spelt medb), the great queen of connaught. mider, etain's fairy lover, in the "courtship of etain." contents the courtship of etain mac datho's boar the sick-bed of cuchulain the exile of the sons of usnach the combat at the ford special note on the combat at the ford general notes the courtship of etain introduction the date which tradition assigns to the events related in the tale of the "courtship of etain" is about b.c. 100, two or, according to some accounts, three generations before the king conaire mor, or conary, whose death is told in the tale called the "destruction of da derga's hostel." this king is generally spoken of as a contemporary of the chief personages of what is called more especially the "heroic age" of ireland; and the two versions of the "courtship of etain" given in this volume at once introduce a difficulty; for the sub-kings who were tributary to eochaid, etain's husband, are in both versions stated to be conor, ailill mac mata, mesgegra, and curoi, all of whom are well-known figures in the tales of the heroic age. as conary is related to have ruled sixty years, and several of the characters of the heroic age survived him, according to the tale that describes his death, the appearance of the names of conor and ailill in a tale about his grandfather (or according to the egerton version his great-grandfather) introduces an obvious discrepancy. it appears to be quite impossible to reconcile the dates given to the actors in the tales of the heroic and preceding age. they seem to have been given in the "antiquarian age" of the tenth and eleventh centuries; not only do they differ according to different chronologers by upwards of a hundred years, but the succession of kings in the accounts given by the same chronologer is often impossible in view of their mutual relationships. the real state of things appears to be that the "courtship of etain," together with the story of conary, the lost tale of the destruction of the fairy hill of nennta,[fn#5] and the tale of the bull-feast and election of lugaid red-stripes as king of ireland, forms a short cycle of romance based upon ancient legends that had originally no connection at all with those on which the romances of the heroic age were built. the whole government of the country is essentially different in the two cycles; in the etain cycle the idea is that of a land practically governed by one king, the vassal kings being of quite small importance; in the tales of the heroic age proper, the picture we get is of two, if not of four, practically independent kingdoms, the allusions to any over-king being very few, and in great part late. but when the stories of etain and of conary assumed their present forms, when the writers of our romances formed them out of the traditions which descended to them from pro-christian sources, both cycles of tradition were pretty well known; and there was a natural tendency to introduce personages from one cycle into the other, although these personages occupy a subordinate position in the cycle to which they do not properly belong. even conall cernach, who is a fairly prominent figure in the tale of the death of conary, has little importance given to him compared with the people who really belong to the cycle, and the other warriors of the heroic age mentioned in the tale are little but lay figures compared with conary, ingcel, and mac cecht. a wish to connect the two cycles probably accounts for the connection of lugaid red-stripes with cuchulain, the introduction of conor and ailill into the story of etain may be due to the same cause, and there is no need to suppose that the authors of our versions felt themselves bound by what other men had introduced into the tale of conary. the practice of introducing heroes from one cycle into another was by no means uncommon, or confined to ireland; greek heroes' names sometimes appear in the irish tales; cuchulain, in much later times, comes into the tales of finn; and in greece itself, characters who really belong to the time of the trojan war appear in tales of the argonauts. [fn#5] a short account of this is in the story of king dathi (o'curry lectures, p. 286). the tale seems to be alluded to in the quatrain on p. 10 of this volume. there are very few corresponding allusions to personages from the small etain cycle found in the great cycle of romances that belong to the heroic age, but maccecht's name appears in a fifteenth-century manuscript which gives a version of the tale of flidais; and i suspect an allusion to the etain story in a verse in the "sick-bed of cuchulain" (see note, p. 184). it may be observed that the introduction of conor and his contemporaries into the story of conary's grandparents is an additional piece of evidence that our form of the story of etain precedes the "antiquarian age"; for at that time the version which we have of the story of conary must have been classical and the connection of conor's warriors with conary well-known. a keen eye was at that time kept on departures from the recognised historical order (compare a note by mr. nutt in the "voyage of bran," vol. ii. p. 61); and the introduction of conor into our version of the tale of etain must have been at an earlier date. the two versions of the "courtship of etain," the egerton one, and that in the leabhar na h-uidhri, have been compared in the general preface to the volume, and little more need be said on this point; it may, however, be noted that eight pages of the egerton version (pp. 11 to 18) are compressed into two pages in l.u. (pp. 23 and 24). references to the etain story are found in different copies of the "dindshenchas," under the headings of rath esa, rath croghan, and bri leith; the principal manuscript authorities, besides the two translated here, are the yellow book of lecan, pp. 91 to 104, and the book of leinster, 163b (facsimile). these do not add much to our versions; there are, however, one or two new points in a hitherto untranslated manuscript source mentioned by o'curry ("manners and customs," vol. ii. p 192 to 194). the leabhar na h-uidhri version is defective both at the beginning and at the end; there is also a complete column torn from the manuscript, making the description of the chess match defective. these three gaps have been filled up by short passages enclosed in square brackets, at the commencement of the prologue, on p. 28, and at the end of the l.u. version. the two first of these insertions contain no matter that cannot be found by allusions in the version itself; the conclusion of the tale is drawn, partly from the "dindshenchas" of rath esa, partly from the passage in o'curry's "manners and customs." the only alteration that has been made is that, following a suggestion in windisch (irische texte, i. p. 132), the poem on page 26 has been placed four pages earlier than the point at which it occurs in the manuscript. three very difficult lines (leabhar na h-uidhri, 132a, lines 12 to 14) have not been attempted; there are no other omissions, and no insertions except the three noted above. the prologue out of the l.u. version has been placed first, as it is essential to the understanding of any version, then follows the egerton version as the longer of the two, then the l.u. version of the courtship, properly so called. prologue in fairyland from the leabhar na h-uidhri etain of the horses, the daughter of ailill, was the wife of mider, the fairy dweller in bri leith.[fn#6] now mider had also another wife named fuamnach[fn#7] who was filled with jealousy against etain, and sought to drive her from her husband's house. and fuamnach sought out bressal etarlam the druid and besought his aid; and by the spells of the druid, and the sorcery of fuamnach, etain was changed into the shape of a butterfly that finds its delight among flowers. and when etain was in this shape she was seized by a great wind that was raised by fuamnach's spells; and she was borne from her husband's house by that wind for seven years till she came to the palace of angus mac o'c who was son to the dagda, the chief god of the men of ancient erin. mac o'c had been fostered by mider, but he was at enmity with his foster-father, and he recognised etain, although in her transformed shape, as she was borne towards him by the force] of the wind. and he made a bower for etain with clear windows for it through which she might pass, and a veil of purple was laid upon her; and that bower was carried about by mac o'c wherever he went. and there each night she slept beside him by a means that he devised, so that she became well-nourished and fair of form; for that bower was filled with marvellously sweet-scented shrubs, and it was upon these that she thrived, upon the odour and blossom of the best of precious herbs. [fn#6] pronounced bree lay. [fn#7] pronounced foom-na. now to fuamnach came tidings of the love and the worship that etain had from mac o'c, and she came to mider, and "let thy foster-son," said she, "be summoned to visit thee, that i may make peace between you two, and may then go to seek for news of etain." and the messenger from mider went to mac o'c, and mac o'c went to mider to greet him; but fuamnach for a long time wandered from land to land till she was in that very mansion where etain was; and then she blew beneath her with the same blast as aforetime, so that the blast carried her out of her bower, and she was blown before it, as she had been before for seven years through all the land of erin, and she was driven by the wind of that blast to weakness and woe. and the wind carried her over the roof of a house where the men of ulster sat at their ale, so that she fell through the roof into a cup of gold that stood near the wife of etar the warrior, whose dwelling-place was near to the bay of cichmany in the province that was ruled over by conor. and the woman swallowed etain together with the milk that was in the cup, and she bare her in her womb, till the time came that she was born thereafter as in earthly maid, and the name of etain, the daughter of etar, was given to her. and it was one thousand and twelve years since the time of the first begetting of etain by ailill to the time when she was born the second time as the daughter of etar. now etain was nurtured at inver cichmany in the house of etar, with fifty maidens about her of the daughters of the chiefs of the land; and it was etar himself who still nurtured and clothed them, that they might be companions to his daughter etain. and upon a certain day, when those maidens were all at the river-mouth to bathe there, they saw a horseman on the plain who came to the water towards them. a horse he rode that was brown, curvetting, and prancing, with a broad forehead and a curly mane and tail. green, long, and flowing was the cloak that was about him, his shirt was embroidered with embroidery of red gold, and a great brooch of gold in his cloak reached to his shoulder on either side. upon the back of that man was a silver shield with a golden rim; the handle for the shield was silver, and a golden boss was in the midst of the shield: he held in his hand a five-pointed spear with rings of gold about it from the haft to the head. the hair that was above his forehead was yellow and fair; and upon his brow was a circlet of gold, which confined the hair so that it fell not about his face. he stood for a while upon the shore of the bay; and he gazed upon the maidens, who were all filled with love for him, and then he sang this song: west of alba, near the mound[fn#8] where the fair-haired women play, there, 'mid little children found, etain dwells, by cichmain's bay. she hath healed a monarch's eye by the well of loch-da-lee; yea, and etar's wife, when dry, drank her: heavy draught was she! chased by king for etain's sake, birds their flight from teffa wing: 'tis for her da-arbre's lake drowns the coursers of the king. echaid, who in meath shall reign, many a war for thee shall wage; he shall bring on fairies bane, thousands rouse to battle's rage. etain here to harm was brought, etain's form is beauty's test; etain's king in love she sought: etain with our folk shall rest! [fn#8] the metre of these verses is that of the irish. and after that he had spoken thus, the young warrior went away from the place where the maidens were; and they knew not whence it was that he had come, nor whither he departed afterwards. moreover it is told of mac o'c, that after the disappearance of etain he came to the meeting appointed between him and mider; and when he found that fuamnach was away: "'tis deceit," said mider, "that this woman hath practised upon us; and if etain shall be seen by her to be in ireland, she will work evil upon etain." "and indeed," said mac o'c, "it seemeth to me that thy guess may be true. for etain hath long since been in my own house, even in the palace where i dwell; moreover she is now in that shape into which that woman transformed her; and 'tis most likely that it is upon her that fuamnach hath rushed." then mac o'c went back to his palace, and he found his bower of glass empty, for etain was not there. and mac o'c turned him, and he went upon the track of fuamnach, and he overtook her at oenach bodbgnai, in the house of bressal etarlam the druid. and mac o'c attacked her, and he struck off her head, and he carried the head with him till he came to within his own borders. yet a different tale hath been told of the end of fuamnach, for it hath been said that by the aid of manannan both fuamnach and mider were slain in bri leith, and it is of that slaying that men have told when they said: think on sigmall, and bri with its forest: little wit silly fuamnach had learned; mider's wife found her need was the sorest, when bri leith by manannan was burned. the courtship of etain egerton version once there was a glorious and stately king who held the supreme lordship over all the land of ireland. the name of the king was eochaid airemm, and he was the son of finn, who was the son of finntan; who was the son of rogan the red; who was the son of essamain; who was the son of blathecht; who was the son of beothecht; who was the son of labraid the tracker; who was the son of enna the swift; who was the son of angus of tara, called the shamefaced; who was the son of eochaid the broad-jointed; who was the son of ailill of the twisted teeth; who was the son of connla the fair; who was the son of irer; who was the son of melghe the praiseworthy; who was the son of cobhtach the slender from the plain of breg; who was the son of ugaine the great; who was the son of eochaid the victorious. now all the five provinces of ireland were obedient to the rule of eochaid airemm: for conor the son of ness, the king of ulster, was vassal to eochaid; and messgegra the king of leinster was his vassal; and so was curoi, the son of dare, king of the land of munster; and so were ailill and maev, who ruled over the land of connaught. two great strongholds were in the hands of eochaid: they were the strongholds of fremain in meath, and of fremain in tethba; and the stronghold that he had in tethba was more pleasing to him than any of those that he possessed. less than a year had passed since eochaid first assumed the sovereignty over erin, when the news was proclaimed at once throughout all the land that the festival of tara should be held, that all the men of ireland should come into the presence of their king, and that he desired full knowledge of the tributes due from, and the customs proper to each. and the one answer that all of the men of ireland made to his call was: "that they would not attend the festival of tara during such time, whether it be long or short, that the king of ireland remained without a wife that was worthy of him;" for there is no noble who is a wifeless man among the men of ireland; nor can there be any king without a queen; nor does any man go to the festival of tara without his wife; nor does any wife go thither without her husband. thereupon eochaid sent out from him his horsemen, and his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and his couriers of the boundaries throughout all ireland; and they searched all ireland as they sought for a wife that should be worthy of the king, in her form, and her grace, and her countenance, and her birth. and in addition to all this there yet remained one condition: that the king would take as his wife none who had been before as a wife to any other man before him. and after that they had received these commands, his horsemen, and his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries went out; and they searched all ireland south and north; and near to the bay of cichmany they found a wife worthy of the king; and her name was etain the daughter of etar, who was the king of echrad. and his messengers returned to eochaid, and they told him of the maiden, of her form, and her grace, and her countenance. and eochaid came to that place to take the maiden thence, and this was the way that he took; for as he crossed over the ground where men hold the assembly of bri leith, he saw the maiden at the brink of the spring. a clear comb of silver was held in her hand, the comb was adorned with gold; and near her, as for washing, was a bason of silver whereon four birds had been chased, and there were little bright gems of carbuncle on the rims of the bason. a bright purple mantle waved round her; and beneath it was another mantle, ornamented with silver fringes: the outer mantle was clasped over her bosom with a golden brooch. a tunic she wore, with a long hood that might cover her head attached to it; it was stiff and glossy with green silk beneath red embroidery of gold, and was clasped over her breasts with marvellously wrought clasps of silver and gold; so that men saw the bright gold and the green silk flashing against the sun. on her head were two tresses of golden hair, and each tress had been plaited into four strands; at the end of each strand was a little ball of gold. and there was that maiden, undoing her hair that she might wash it, her two arms out through the armholes of her smock. each of her two arms was as white as the snow of a single night, and each of her cheeks was as rosy as the foxglove. even and small were the teeth in her head, and they shone like pearls. her eyes were as blue as a hyacinth, her lips delicate and crimson; very high, soft, and white were her shoulders. tender, polished, and white were her wrists; her fingers long, and of great whiteness; her nails were beautiful and pink. white as the snow, or as the foam of the wave, was her side; long was it, slender, and as soft as silk. smooth and white were her thighs; her knees were round and firm and white; her ankles were as straight as the rule of a carpenter. her feet were slim, and as white as the ocean's foam; evenly set were her eyes; her eyebrows were of a bluish black, such as ye see upon the shell of a beetle. never a maid fairer than she, or more worthy of love, was till then seen by the eyes of men; and it seemed to them that she must be one of those who have come from the fairy mounds: it is of this maiden that men have spoken when it hath been said: "all that's graceful must be tested by etain; all that's lovely by the standard of etain." grace with etain's grace compare! etain's face shall test what's fair! and desire of her seized upon the king; and he sent a man of his people in front of him to go to her kindred, in order that she might abide to await his coming. and afterwards the king came to the maiden, and he sought speech from her: "whence art thou sprung, o maiden?" says eochaid, "and whence is it that thou hast come?" "it is easy to answer thee," said the maiden: "etain is my name, the daughter of the king of echrad; 'out of the fairy mound' am i" "shall an hour of dalliance with thee be granted to me?" said eochaid. "'tis for that i have come hither under thy safeguard," said she. "and indeed twenty years have i lived in this place, ever since i was born in the mound where the fairies dwell, and the men who dwell in the elf-mounds, their kings and their nobles, have been a-wooing me: yet to never a one of them was granted sleep with me, for i have loved thee, and have set my love and affection upon thee; and that ever since i was a little child, and had first the gift of speech. it was for the high tales of thee, and of thy splendour, that i have loved thee thus; and though i have never seen thee before, i knew thee at once by reason of the report of thee that i had heard; it is thou, i know, to whom we have attained." "it is no evil-minded lover who now inviteth thee," says eochaid. "thou shalt be welcomed by me, and i will leave all women for thy sake, and thine alone will i be so long as it is pleasing to thee." "let the bride-price that befits me be paid," said the maiden, "and after that let my desire be fulfilled." "it shall be as thou hast said," the king answered her; and he gave the value of seven cumals to be her brideprice; and after that he brought her to tara, whereon a fair and hearty welcome was made to her. now there were three brothers of the one blood, all sons of finn, namely, eochaid airem, and eochaid, and ailill anglonnach, or ailill of the single stain, because the only stain that was upon him was the love that he had for his brother's wife. and at that time came all the men of ireland to hold the festival of tara; they were there for fourteen days before samhain, the day when the summer endeth, and for fourteen days after that day. it was at the feast of tara that love for etain the daughter of etar came upon ailill anglonnach; and ever so long as they were at the tara feast, so long he gazed upon the maid. and it was there that the wife of ailill spoke to him; she who was the daughter of luchta of the red hand, who came from the province of leinster: "ailill," said she, "why dost thou gaze at her from afar? for long gazing is a token of love." and ailill gave blame to himself for this thing, and after that he looked not upon the maid. now it followed that after that the feast of tara had been consumed, the men of ireland parted from one another, and then it was that ailill became filled with the pangs of envy and of desire; and he brought upon himself the choking misery of a sore sickness, and was borne to the stronghold of fremain in tethba after that he had fallen into that woe. there also, until a whole year had ended, sickness long brooded over ailill, and for long was he in distress, yet he allowed none to know of his sickness. and there eochaid came to learn of his brother's state, and he came near to his brother, and laid his hand upon his chest; and ailill heaved a sigh. "why," said eochaid, "surely this sickness of thine is not such as to cause thee to lament; how fares it with thee?" "by my word," said ailill, "'tis no easier that i grow; but it is worse each day, and each night." "why, what ails thee?" said eochaid, "by my word of truth," said ailill, "i know not." "bring one of my folk hither," said eochaid, "one who can find out the cause of this illness." then fachtna, the chief physician of eochaid, was summoned to give aid to ailill, and he laid his hand upon his chest, and ailill heaved a sigh. "ah," said fachtna, "there is no need for lament in this matter, for i know the cause of thy sickness; one or other of these two evils oppresseth thee, the pangs of envy, or the pangs of love: nor hast thou been aided to escape from them until now." and ailill was full of shame, and he refused to confess to fachtna the cause of his illness, and the physician left him. now, after all this, king eochaid went in person to make a royal progress throughout the realm of ireland, and he left etain behind him in his fortress; and "lady," said he, "deal thou gently with ailill so long as he is yet alive; and, should he die," said he, "do thou see that his burial mound be heaped for him; and that a standing-stone be set up in memory of him; and let his name be written upon it in letters of ogham." then the king went away for the space of a year, to make his royal progress throughout the realm of ireland, and ailill was left behind, in the stronghold of fremain of tethba; there to pass away and to die. now upon a certain day that followed, the lady etain came to the house where ailill lay in his sickness, and thus she spoke to him: "what is it," she said, "that ails thee? thy sickness is great, and if we but knew anything that would content thee, thou shouldest have it." it was thus that at that time she spoke, and she sang a verse of a song, and ailill in song made answer to her: etain young man, of the strong step and splendid, what hath bound thee? what ill dost thou bear? thou hast long been on sick-bed extended, though around thee the sunshine was fair. ailill there is reason indeed for my sighing, i joy naught at my harp's pleasant sound; milk untasted beside me is lying; and by this in disease am i bound. etain tell me all, thou poor man, of thine ailing; for a maiden am i that is wise; is there naught, that to heal thee availing, thou couldst win by mine aid, and arise ailill if i told thee, thou beautiful maiden, my words, as i formed them, would choke, for with fire can eyes' curtains be laden: woman-secrets are evil, if woke. etain it is ill woman-secrets to waken; yet with love, its remembrance is long; and its part by itself may be taken, nor a thought shall remain of the wrong. ailill i adore thee, white lady, as grateful; yet thy bounty deserve i but ill: to my soul is my longing but hateful, for my body doth strive with me still. eocho fedlech,[fn#9] his bride to him taking, made thee queen; and from thence is my woe: for my head and my body are aching, and all ireland my weakness must know. etain if, among the white women who near me abide, there is one who is vexing, whose love thou dost hide; to thy side will i bring her, if thus i may please; and in love thou shalt win her, thy sickness to ease. ah lady! said ailill, "easily could the cure of my sickness be wrought by the aid of thee, and great gain should there come from the deed, but thus it is with me until that be accomplished: long ago did my passion begin, a full year it exceeds in its length; and it holds me, more near than my skin, and it rules over wrath in its strength. and the earth into four it can shake, can reach up to the heights of the sky and a neck with its might it can break, nor from fight with a spectre would fly. in vain race up to heaven 'tis urged; it is chilled, as with water, and drowned: 'tis a weapon, in ocean submerged; 'tis desire for an echo, a sound. 'tis thus my love, my passion seem; 'tis thus i strive in vain to win the heart of her whose love i long so much to gain. [fn#9] pronounced yeo-ho fayllya, see note, p. 166. and the lady stood there in that place, and she looked upon ailill, and the sickness in which he lay was perceived by her; and she was grieved on account of it: so that upon a certain day came the lady to ailill, and "young man," she said, "arouse thyself quickly, for in very truth thou shalt have all that thou desirest; and thereon did she make this lay: now arouse thyself, ailill the royal: let thy heart, and thy courage rise high; every longing thou hast shall be sated, for before thee, to heal thee, am i. is my neck and its beauty so pleasing? 'tis around it thine arms thou shalt place; and 'tis known as a courtship's beginning when a man and a woman embrace. and if this cometh not to content thee, o thou man, that art son to a king! i will dare to do crime for thy healing, and my body to please thee will bring. there were steeds, with their bridles, one hundred, when the price for my wedding was told; and one hundred of gay-coloured garments, and of cattle, and ounces of gold. of each beast that men know, came one hundred; and king eocho to grant them was swift: when a king gave such dowry to gain me, is't not wondrous to win me, as gift? now each day the lady came to ailill to tend him, and to divide for him the portion of food that was allotted to him; and she wrought a great healing upon him: for it grieved her that he should perish for her sake. and one day the lady spoke to ailill: "come thou to-morrow," said she, "to tryst with me at the break of day, in the house which lieth outside, and is beyond the fort, and there shalt thou have granted thy request and thy desire." on that night ailill lay without sleep until the coming of the morning; and when the time had come that was appointed for his tryst, his sleep lay heavily upon him; so that till the hour of his rising he lay deep in his sleep. and etain went to the tryst, nor had she long to wait ere she saw a man coming towards her in the likeness of ailill, weary and feeble; but she knew that he was not ailill, and she continued there waiting for ailill. and the lady came back from her tryst, and ailill awoke, and thought that he would rather die than live; and he went in great sadness and grief. and the lady came to speak with him, and when he told her what had befallen him: "thou shalt come," said she, "to the same place, to meet with me upon the morrow." and upon the morrow it was the same as upon the first day; each day came that man to her tryst. and she came again upon the last day that was appointed for the tryst, and the same man met her. "'tis not with thee that i trysted," said she, "why dost thou come to meet me? and for him whom i would have met here; neither from desire of his love nor for fear of danger from him had i appointed to meet him, but only to heal him, and to cure him from the sickness which had come upon him for his love of me." "it were more fitting for thee to come to tryst with me," says the man, "for when thou wast etain of the horses, and when thou wast the daughter of ailill, i myself was thy husband. "why," said she, "what name hast thou in the land? that is what i would demand of thee." "it is not hard to answer thee," he said; "mider of bri leith is my name." "and what made thee to part from me, if we were as thou sayest?" said etain. "easy again is the answer," said mider; "it was the sorcery of fuamnach and the spells of bressal etarlam that put us apart." and mider said to etain: "wilt thou come with me?" "nay," answered etain, "i will not exchange the king of all ireland for thee; for a man whose kindred and whose lineage is unknown." "it was i myself indeed," said mider, "who filled all the mind of ailill with love for thee: it was i also who prevented his coming to the tryst with thee, and allowed him not thine honour to spoil it." after all this the lady went back to her house, and she came to speech with ailill, and she greeted him. "it hath happened well for us both," said ailill, "that the man met thee there: for i am cured for ever from my illness, thou also art unhurt in thine honour, and may a blessing rest upon thee!" "thanks be to our gods," said etain, "that both of us do indeed deem that all this hath chanced so well." and after that eochaid came back from his royal progress, and he asked at once for his brother; and the tale was told to him from the beginning to the end, and the king was grateful to etain, in that she had been gracious to ailill; and, "what hath been related in this tale," said eochaid, "is well-pleasing to ourselves." and, for the after history of eochaid and etain, it is told that once when eochaid was in fremain, at such time as the people had prepared for themselves a great gathering and certain horse-races; thither also to that assembly came etain, that she might see the sight. thither also came mider, and he searched through that assembly to find out where etain might be; and he found etain, and her women around her, and he bore her away with him, also one of her handmaidens, called crochen the ruddy: hideous was the form in which mider approached them. and the wives of the men of ireland raised cries of woe, as the queen was carried off from among them; and the horses of ireland were loosed to pursue mider, for they knew not whether it was into the air or into the earth he had gone. but, as for mider, the course that he had taken was the road to the west, even to the plain of croghan; and as he came thither, "how shall it profit us," said crochen the ruddy, "this journey of ours to this plain?" "for evermore," said mider, "shall thy name be over all this plain:" and hence cometh the name of the plain of croghan, and of the fort of croghan. then mider came to the fairy mound of croghan; for the dwellers in that mound were allied to him, and his friends; and for nine days they lingered there, banqueting and feasting; so that "is this the place where thou makest thy home?" said crochen to mider. "eastwards from this is my dwelling," mider answered her; "nearer to the rising-place of the sun;" and mider, taking etain with him, departed, and came to bri leith, where the son of celthar had his palace. now just at the time when they came to this palace, king eochaid sent out from him the horsemen of ireland, also his wizards, and his officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries, that they might search through ireland, and find out where his wife might be; and eochaid himself wandered throughout ireland to seek for his wife; and for a year from that day until the same day upon the year that followed he searched, and he found nothing to profit him. then, at the last, king eochaid sent for his druid, and he set to him the task to seek for etain; now the name of the druid was dalan. and dalan came before him upon that day; and he went westwards, until he came to the mountain that was after that known as slieve dalan; and he remained there upon that night. and the druid deemed it a grievous thing that etain should be hidden from him for the space of one year, and thereupon he made three wands of yew; and upon the wands he wrote an ogham; and by the keys of wisdom that he had, and by the ogham, it was revealed to him that etain was in the fairy mound of bri leith, and that mider had borne her thither. then dalan the druid turned him, and went back to the east; and he came to the stronghold of fremain, even to the place where the king of ireland was; and eochaid asked from the druid his news. thither also came the horsemen, and the wizards, and the officers who had the care of the roads, and the couriers of the boundaries, to the king of ireland, and he asked them what tidings they had, and whether they had found news of mider and etain. and they said that they had found nothing at all; until at the last said his druid to him: "a great evil hath smitten thee, also shame, and misfortune, on account of the loss of thy wife. do thou assemble the warriors of ireland, and depart to bri leith, where is the palace of the son of celthar; let that palace be destroyed by thy hand, and there thou shalt find thy wife: by persuasion or by force do thou take her thence." then eochaid and the men of ireland marched to bri leith, and they set themselves to destroy that fairy dwelling, and to demand that etain be brought to them, and they brought her not. then they ruined that fairy dwelling, and they brought etain out from it; and she returned to fremain, and there she had all the worship that a king of ireland can bestow, fair wedded love and affection, such as was her due from eochaid airemm. this is that eochaid who ruled over ireland for twelve years, until the fire burned him in fremain; and this tale is known by the name of the "sick-bed of ailill," also as "the courtship of etain." etain bore no children to eochaid airemm, save one daughter only; and the name of her mother was given to her, and she is known by the name of etain, the daughter of eochaid airemm. and it was her daughter messbuachalla who was the mother of king conary the great, the son of eterscel, and it was for this cause that the fairy host of mag breg and mider of bri leith violated the tabus of king conary, and devastated the plain of breg, and out off conary's life; on account of the capture of that fairy dwelling, and on account of the recovery of etain, when she was carried away by violence, even by the might of eochaid airemm. the courtship of etain leabhar na h-uidhri version eochaid airemon took the sovereignty over erin, and the five provinces of ireland were obedient to him, for the king of each province was his vassal. now these were they who were the kings of the provinces at that time, even conor the son of ness, and messgegra, and tigernach tetbannach, and curoi, and ailill the son of mata of muresc. and the royal forts that belonged to eochaid were the stronghold of fremain in meath, and the stronghold of fremain in tethba; moreover the stronghold of fremain in tethba was more pleasing to him than any other of the forts of erin. now a year after that eochaid had obtained the sovereignty, he sent out his commands to the men of ireland that they should come to tara to hold festival therein, in order that there should be adjusted the taxes and the imposts that should be set upon them, so that these might be settled for a period of five years. and the one answer that the men of ireland made to eochaid was that they would not make for the king that assembly which is the festival of tara until he found for himself a queen, for there was no queen to stand by the king's side when eochaid first assumed the kingdom. then eochaid sent out the messengers of each of the five provinces to go through the land of ireland to seek for that woman or girl who was the fairest to be found in erin; and he bade them to note that no woman should be to him as a wife, unless she had never before been as a wife to any one of the men of the land. and at the bay of cichmany a wife was found for him, and her name was etain, the daughter of etar; and eochaid brought her thereafter to his palace, for she was a wife meet for him, by reason of her form, and her beauty, and her descent, and her brilliancy, and her youth, and her renown. now finn the son of findloga had three sons, all sons of a queen, even eochaid fedlech, and eochaid airemm, and ailill anguba. and ailill anguba was seized with love for etain at the festival of tara, after that she had been wedded to eochaid; since he for a long time gazed upon her, and, since such gazing is a token of love, ailill gave much blame to himself for the deed that he was doing, yet it helped him not. for his longing was too strong for his endurance, and for this cause he fell into a sickness; and, that there might be no stain upon his honour, his sickness was concealed by him from all, neither did he speak of it to the lady herself. then fachtna, the chief physician of eochaid, was brought to look upon ailill, when it was understood that his death might be near, and thus the physician spoke to him: "one of the two pangs that slay a man, and for which there is no healing by leechcraft, is upon thee; either the pangs of envy or the pangs of love. and ailill refused to confess the cause of his illness to the physician, for he was withheld by shame and he was left behind in fremain of tethba to die; and eochaid went upon his royal progress throughout all erin, and he left etain behind him to be near ailill, in order that the last rites of ailill might be done by her; that she might cause his grave to be dug, and that the keen might be raised for him, and that his cattle should be slain for him as victims. and to the house where ailill lay in his sickness went etain each day to converse with him, and his sickness was eased by her presence; and, so long as etain was in that place where he was, so long was he accustomed to gaze at her. now etain observed all this, and she bent her mind to discover the cause, and one day when they were in the house together, etain asked of ailill what was the cause of his sickness. "my sickness," said ailill, "comes from my love for thee." "'tis pity," said she, "that thou hast so long kept silence, for thou couldest have been healed long since, had we but known of its cause." "and even now could i be healed," said ailill, "did i but find favour in thy sight." "thou shalt find favour," she said. each day after they had spoken thus with each other, she came to him for the fomenting of his head, and for the giving of the portion of food that was required by him, and for the pouring of water over his hands; and three weeks after that, ailill was whole. then he said to etain: "yet is the completion of my cure at thy hands lacking to me; when may it be that i shall have it?" "'tis to-morrow it shall be," she answered him, "but it shall not be in the abode of the lawful monarch of the land that this felony shall be done. thou shalt come," she said, "on the morrow to yonder hill that riseth beyond the fort: there shall be the tryst that thou desirest." now ailill lay awake all that night, and he fell into a sleep at the hour when he should have kept his tryst, and he woke not from his sleep until the third hour of the day. and etain went to her tryst, and she saw a man before her; like was his form to the form of ailill, he lamented the weakness that his sickness had caused him, and he gave to her such answers as it was fitting that ailill should give. but at the third hour of the day, ailill himself awoke: and he had for a long time remained in sorrow when etain came into the house where he was; and as she approached him, "what maketh thee so sorrowful?" said etain. "'tis because thou wert sent to tryst with me," said ailill, "and i came not to thy presence, and sleep fell upon me, so that i have but now awakened from it; and surely my chance of being healed hath now gone from me." "not so, indeed," answered etain, "for there is a morrow to follow to-day." and upon that night he took his watch with a great fire before him, and with water beside him to put upon his eyes. at the hour that was appointed for the tryst, etain came for her meeting with ailill; and she saw the same man, like unto ailill, whom she had seen before; and etain went to the house, and saw ailill still lamenting. and etain came three times, and yet ailill kept not his tryst, and she found that same man there every time. "'tis not for thee," she said, "that i came to this tryst: why comest thou to meet me? and as for him whom i would have met, it was for no sin or evil desire that i came to meet him; but it was fitting for the wife of the king of ireland to rescue the man from the sickness under which he hath so long been oppressed." "it were more fitting for thee to tryst with me myself," said the man, "for when thou wert etain of the horses, the daughter of ailill, it was i who was thy husband. and when thou camest to be wife to me, thou didst leave a great price behind thee; even a marriage price of the chief plains and waters of ireland, and as much of gold and of silver as might match thee in value." "why," said she, "what is thy name?" "'tis easy to say," he answered; "mider of bri leith is my name." "truly," said she; "and what was the cause that parted us?" "that also is easy," he said; "it was the sorcery of fuamnach, and the spells of bressal etarlam. and then mider said to etain: wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? to dwell in the marvellous land of the musical spell, where the crowns of all heads are, as primroses, bright, and from head to the heel all men's bodies snow-white. in that land of no "mine" nor of "thine" is there speech, but there teeth flashing white and dark eyebrows hath each; in all eyes shine our hosts, as reflected they swarm, and each cheek with the pink of the foxglove is warm. with the heather's rich tint every blushing neck glows, in our eyes are all shapes that the blackbird's egg shows; and the plains of thine erin, though pleasing to see, when the great plain is sighted, as deserts shall be. though ye think the ale strong in this island of fate, yet they drink it more strong in the land of the great; of a country where marvel abounds have i told, where no young man in rashness thrusts backward the old. there are streams smooth and luscious that flow through that land, and of mead and of wine is the best at each hand; and of crime there is naught the whole country within, there are men without blemish, and love without sin. through the world of mankind, seeing all, can we float, and yet none, though we see them, their see-ers can note; for the sin of their sire is a mist on them flung, none may count up our host who from adam is sprung. lady, come to that folk; to that strong folk of mine; and with gold on thy head thy fair tresses shall shine: 'tis on pork the most dainty that then thou shalt feed, and for drink have thy choice of new milk and of mead. "i will not come with thee," answered etain, "i will not give up the king of ireland for thee, a man who knows not his own clan nor his kindred." "it was indeed myself," said mider, "who long ago put beneath the mind of ailill the love that he hath felt for thee, so that his blood ceased to run, and his flesh fell away from him: it was i also who have taken away his desire, so that there might be no hurt to thine honour. but wilt thou come with me to my land," said mider, "in case eochaid should ask it of thee?" "i would come in such case," answered to him etain. after all this etain departed to the house. "it hath indeed been good, this our tryst," said ailill, "for i have been cured of my sickness; moreover, in no way has thine honour been stained." "'tis glorious that it hath fallen out so," answered etain. and afterwards eochaid came back from his royal progress, and he was grateful for that his brother's life had been preserved, and he gave all thanks to etain for the great deed she had done while he was away from his palace. now upon another time it chanced that eochaid airemm, the king of tara, arose upon a certain fair day in the time of summer; and he ascended the high ground of tara to behold the plain of breg; beautiful was the colour of that plain, and there was upon it excellent blossom, glowing with all hues that are known. and, as the aforesaid eochaid looked about and around him, he saw a young strange warrior upon the high ground at his side. the tunic that the warrior wore was purple in colour, his hair was of a golden yellow, and of such length that it reached to the edge of his shoulders. the eyes of the young warrior were lustrous and grey; in the one hand he held a five-pointed spear, in the other a shield with a white central boss, and with gems of gold upon it. and eochaid held his peace, for he knew that none such had been in tara on the night before, and the gate that led into the liss had not at that hour been thrown open. the warrior came, and placed himself under the protection of eochaid; and "welcome do i give," said eochaid, "to the hero who is yet unknown." "thy reception is such as i expected when i came," said the warrior. "we know thee not," answered eochaid. "yet thee in truth i know well!" he replied. "what is the name by which thou art called?" said eochaid. "my name is not known to renown," said the warrior; "i am mider of bri leith." "and for what purpose art thou come?" said eochaid. "i have come that i may play a game at the chess with thee," answered mider. "truly," said eochaid, "i myself am skilful at the chess-play." "let us test that skill! said mider. "nay," said eochaid, the queen is even now in her sleep; and hers is the palace in which the chessboard lies." "i have here with me," said mider, "a chessboard which is not inferior to thine." it was even as he said, for that chessboard was silver, and the men to play with were gold; and upon that board were costly stones, casting their light on every side, and the bag that held the men was of woven chains of brass. mider then set out the chessboard, and he called upon eochaid to play. "i will not play," said eochaid, "unless we play for a stake." "what stake shall we have upon the game then?" said mider. "it is indifferent to me," said eochaid. "then," said mider, "if thou dost obtain the forfeit of my stake, i will bestow on thee fifty steeds of a dark grey, their heads of a blood-red colour, but dappled; their ears pricked high, and their chests broad; their nostrils wide, and their hoofs slender; great is their strength, and they are keen like a whetted edge; eager are they, high-standing, and spirited, yet easily stopped in their course." [many games were played between eochaid and mider; and, since mider did not put forth his whole strength, the victory on all occasions rested with eochaid. but instead of the gifts which mider had offered, eochaid demanded that mider and his folk should perform for him services which should be of benefit to his realm; that he should clear away the rocks and stones from the plains of meath, should remove the rushes which made the land barren around his favourite fort of tethba, should cut down the forest of breg, and finally should build a causeway across the moor or bog of lamrach that men might pass freely across it. all these things mider agreed to do, and eochaid sent his steward to see how that work was done. and when it came to the time after sunset, the steward looked, and he saw that mider and his fairy host, together with fairy oxen, were labouring at the causeway over the bog;] and thereupon much of earth and of gravel and of stones was poured into it. now it had, before that time, always been the custom of the men of ireland to harness their oxen with a strap over their foreheads, so that the pull might be against the foreheads of the oxen; and this custom lasted up to that very night, when it was seen that the fairy-folk had placed the yoke upon the shoulders of the oxen, so that the pull might be there; and in this way were the yokes of the oxen afterwards placed by eochaid, and thence cometh the name by which he is known; even eochaid airemm, or eochaid the ploughman, for he was the first of all the men of ireland to put the yokes on the necks of the oxen, and thus it became the custom for all the land of ireland. and this is the song that the host of the fairies sang, as they laboured at the making of the road: thrust it in hand! force it in hand! nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand: hard is the task that is asked, and who from the bridging of lamrach shall gain, or rue? not in all the world could a road have been found that should be better than the road that they made, had it not been that the fairy folk were observed as they worked upon it; but for that cause a breach hath been made in that causeway. and the steward of eochaid thereafter came to him; and he described to him that great labouring band that had come before his eyes, and he said that there was not over the chariot-pole of life a power that could withstand its might. and, as they spake thus with each other, they saw mider standing before them; high was he girt, and ill-favoured was the face that he showed; and eochaid arose, and he gave welcome to him. "thy welcome is such as i expected when i came," said mider. "cruel and senseless hast thou been in thy treatment of me, and much of hardship and suffering hast thou given me. all things that seemed good in thy sight have i got for thee, but now anger against thee hath filled my mind!" "i return not anger for anger," answered eochaid; "what thou wishest shall be done." "let it be as thou wishest," said mider; "shall we play at the chess?" said he. "what stake shall we set upon the game?" said eochaid. "even such stake as the winner of it shall demand," said mider. and in that very place eochaid was defeated, and he forfeited his stake. "my stake is forfeit to thee," said eochaid. "had i wished it, it had been forfeit long ago," said mider. "what is it that thou desirest me to grant?" said eochaid. "that i may hold etain in my arms, and obtain a kiss from her!" answered mider. eochaid was silent for a while and then he said: "one month from this day thou shalt come, and the very thing that thou hast asked for shall be given to thee." now for a year before that mider first came to eochaid for the chess-play, had he been at the wooing of etain, and he obtained her not; and the name which he gave to etain was befind, or fair-haired woman, so it was that he said: wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? as has before been recited. and it was at that time that etain said: "if thou obtainest me from him who is the master of my house, i will go; but if thou art not able to obtain me from him, then i will not go." and thereon mider came to eochaid, and allowed him at the first to win the victory over him, in order that eochaid should stand in his debt; and therefore it was that he paid the great stakes to which he had agreed; and therefore also was it that he had demanded of him that he should play that game in ignorance of what was staked. and when mider and his folk were paying those agreed-on stakes, which were paid upon that night; to wit, the making of the road, and the clearing of the stones from meath, the rushes from around tethba, and of the forest that is over breg, it was thus that he spoke, as it is written in the book of drom snechta: pile on the soil; thrust on the soil: red are the oxen around who toil: heavy the troops that my words obey; heavy they seem, and yet men are they. strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed red are the wattles above them laced: tired are your hands, and your glances slant; one woman's winning this toil may grant! oxen ye are, but revenge shall see; men who are white shall your servants be: rushes from teffa are cleared away: grief is the price that the man shall pay: stones have been cleared from the rough meath ground; whose shall the gain or the harm be found? now mider appointed a day at the end of the month when he was to meet eochaid, and eochaid called the armies of the heroes of ireland together, so that they came to tara; and all the best of the champions of ireland, ring within ring, were about tara, and they were in the midst of tara itself, and they guarded it, both without and within; and the king and the queen were in the midst of the palace, and the outer court thereof was shut and locked, for they knew that the great might of men would come upon them. and upon the appointed night etain was dispensing the banquet to the kings, for it was her duty to pour out the wine, when in the midst of their talk they saw mider standing before them in the centre of the palace. he was always fair, yet fairer than he ever was seemed mider to be upon that night. and he brought to amazement all the hosts on which he gazed, and all thereon were silent, and the king gave a welcome to him. "thy reception is such as i expected when i came," said mider; "let that now be given to me that hath been promised. 'tis a debt that is due when a promise hath been made; and i for my part have given to thee all that was promised by me." "i have not yet considered the matter," said eochaid. "thou hast promised etain's very self to me," said mider; "that is what hath come from thee." etain blushed for shame when she heard that word. "blush not," said mider to etain, "for in nowise hath thy wedding-feast been disgraced. i have been seeking thee for a year with the fairest jewels and treasures that can be found in ireland, and i have not taken thee until the time came when eochaid might permit it. 'tis not through any will of thine that i have won thee." "i myself told thee," said etain, "that until eochaid should resign me to thee i would grant thee nothing. take me then for my part, if eochaid is willing to resign me to thee." "but i will not resign thee!" said eochaid; "nevertheless he shall take thee in his arms upon the floor of this house as thou art." "it shall be done!" said mider. he took his weapons into his left hand and the woman beneath his right shoulder; and he carried her off through the skylight of the house. and the hosts rose up around the king, for they felt that they had been disgraced, and they saw two swans circling round tara, and the way that they took was the way to the elf-mound of femun. and eochaid with an army of the men of ireland went to the elf-mound of femun, which men call the mound of the fair-haired-women. and he followed the counsel of the men of ireland, and he dug up each of the elf-mounds that he might take his wife from thence. [and mider and his host opposed them and the war between them was long: again and again the trenches made by eochaid were destroyed, for nine years as some say lasted the strife of the men of ireland to enter into the fairy palace. and when at last the armies of eochaid came by digging to the borders of the fairy mansion, mider sent to the side of the palace sixty women all in the shape of etain, and so like to her that none could tell which was the queen. and eochaid himself was deceived, and he chose, instead of etain, her daughter messbuachalla (or as some say esa.) but when he found that he had been deceived, he returned again to sack bri leith, and this time etain made herself known to eochaid, by proofs that he could not mistake, and he bore her away in triumph to tara, and there she abode with the king.] mac datho's boar introduction the tale of "mac datho's boar" seems to deal with events that precede the principal events of the heroic period; most of the characters named in it appear as the chief actors in other romances; conor and ailill are as usual the leaders of ulster and connaught, but the king of leinster is mesroda mac datho, not his brother mesgegra, who appears in the "siege of howth" (see hull, cuchullin saga, p. 87), and the ulster champion is not cuchulain, but his elder comrade, conall cernach. the text followed is that of the book of leinster as printed by windisch in irische texte, vol. i.; the later harleian manuscript's readings given by windisch have been taken in a few cases where the leinster text seems untranslatable. there is a slightly different version, given by kuno meyer in the anecdota oxoniensia, taken from rawlinson, b. 512, a fifteenth-century manuscript, but the text is substantially that of the leinster version, and does not give, as in the case of the tale of etain, a different view of the story. the verse passages differ in the two versions; two verse passages on pages 37 and 46 have been inserted from the rawlinson manuscript, otherwise the rendering follows the leinster text. the style of the tale is more barbaric than that of the other romances, but is relieved by touches of humour; the only supernatural touch occurs in one of the variations of the rawlinson manuscript. some of the chief variations en in this manuscript are pointed out in the notes; the respectful men on of curoi mac dari, who seems to have been a munster hero, overshadowed in the accepted versions by the superior glory of ulster, may be noted; also the remark that ferloga did not get his cepoc, which seems to have been inserted by a later band of a critic who disapproved of the frivolity of the original author, or was jealous for the honour of the ulster ladies. mac datho's boar from the book of leinster (twelfth-century ms.) with some additions from rawlinson, b. 512, written about 1560 a glorious king once hold rule over the men of leinster; his name was mesroda mac datho. now mac datho had among his possessions a hound which was the guardian of all leinster; the name of the hound was ailbe, and all of the land of leinster was filled with reports of the fame of it, and of that hound hath it been sung: mesroda, son of datho, was he the boar who reared; and his the hound called ailbe; no lie the tale appeared! the splendid hound of wisdom, the hound that far is famed, the hound from whom moynalvy for evermore is named. by king ailill and queen maev were sent folk to the son of datho to demand that hound, and at that very hour came heralds from conor the son of ness to demand him; and to all of these a welcome was bid by the people of mac datho, and they were brought to speak with mac datho in his palace. at the time that we speak of, this palace was a hostelry that was the sixth of the hostelries of ireland.; there were beside it the hostelry of da derga in the land of cualan in leinster; also the hostelry of forgall the wily, which is beside lusk; and the hostelry of da reo in breffny; and the hostelry of da choca in the west of meath; and the hostelry of the landholder blai in the country of the men of ulster. there were seven doors to that palace, and seven passages ran through it; also there stood within it seven cauldrons, and in every one of the cauldrons was seething the flesh of oxen and the salted flesh of swine. every traveller who came into the house after a journey would thrust a fork into a cauldron, and whatsoever he brought out at the first thrust, that had he to eat: if he got nothing at the first thrust, no second attempt was allowed him. they brought the heralds before mac datho as he sat upon his throne, that he might learn of their requests before they made their meal, and in this manner they made known their message. "we have come," said the men who were sent from connaught, "that we might ask for thy hound; 'tis by ailill and maev we are sent. thou shalt have in payment for him six thousand milch cows, also a two-horsed chariot with its horses, the best to be had in connaught, and at the end of a year as much again shall be thine." "we also," said the heralds from ulster, "have come to ask for thy hound; we have been sent by conor, and conor is a friend who is of no less value than these. he also will give to thee treasures and cattle, and the same amount at the end of a year, and he will be a stout friend to thee." now after he had received this message mac datho sank into a deep silence, he ate nothing, neither did he sleep, but tossed about from one side to another, and then said his wife to him: "for a long time hast thou fasted; food is before thee, yet thou eatest not; what is it that ails thee? and mac datho made her no answer, whereupon she said: the wife[fn#10] gone is king mac datho's sleep, restless cares his home invade; though his thoughts from all he keep, problems deep his mind hath weighed. he, my sight avoiding, turns towards the wall, that hero grim; well his prudent wife discerns sleep hath passed away from him. [fn#10] the irish metre is followed in the first four verses. mac datho crimthann saith, nar's sister's son, "secrets none to women tell. woman's secret soon is won; never thrall kept jewel well." the wife why against a woman speak till ye test, and find she fails? when thy mind to plan is weak, oft another's wit avails. mac datho at ill season indeed came those heralds who his hound from mac datho would take; in more wars than by thought can be counted fair-haired champions shall fall for its sake. if to conor i dare to deny him, he shall deem it the deed of a churl nor shall cattle or country be left me by the hosts he against me can hurl. if refusal to ailill i venture, with all ireland my folk shall he sack; from our kingdom mac mata shall drive us, and our ashes may tell of his track. the wife here a counsel i find to deliver, and in woe shall our land have no share; of that hound to them both be thou giver, and who dies for it little we care. mac datho ah! the grief that i had is all ended, i have joy for this speech from thy tongue surely ailbe from heaven descended, there is none who can say whence he sprung. after these words the son of datho rose up, and he shook himself, and may this fall out well for us," said he, "and well for our guests who come here to seek for him." his guests abode three days and three nights in his house, and when that time was ended, he bade that the heralds from connaught be called to confer with him apart, and he spoke thus: "i have been," he said, "in great vexation of spirit, and for long have i hesitated before i made a decision what to do. but now have i decided to give the hound to ailill and maev, let them come with splendour to bear it away. they shall have plenty both to eat and to drink, and they shall have the hound to hold, and welcome shall they be." and the messengers from connaught were well pleased with this answer that they had. then he went to where the heralds from ulster were, and thus he addressed them: "after long hesitation," said he, "i have awarded the hound to conor, and a proud man should he be. let the armies of the nobles of ulster come to bear him away; they shall have presents, and i will make them welcome;" and with this the messengers from ulster were content. now mac datho had so planned it that both those armies, that from the east and that from the west, should arrive at his palace upon the selfsame day. nor did they fail to keep their tryst; upon the same day those two provinces of ireland came to mac datho's palace, and mac datho himself went outside and greeted them: "for two armies at the same time we were not prepared; yet i bid welcome to you, ye men. enter into the court of the house." then they went all of them into the palace; one half of the house received the ulstermen, and the other half received the men of connaught. for the house was no small one: it had seven doors and fifty couches between each two doors; and it was no meeting of friends that was then seen in that house, but the hosts that filled it were enemies to each other, for during the whole time of the three hundred years that preceded the birth of christ there was war between ulster and connaught. then they slaughtered for them mac datho's boar; for seven years had that boar been nurtured upon the milk of fifty cows, but surely venom must have entered into its nourishment, so many of the men of ireland did it cause to die. they brought in the boar, and forty oxen as side-dishes to it, besides other kind of food; the son of datho himself was steward to their feast: "be ye welcome!" said he; "this beast before you hath not its match; and a goodly store of beeves and of swine may be found with the men of leinster! and, if there be aught lacking to you, more shall be slain for you in the morning." "it is a mighty boar," said conor. "'tis a mighty one indeed," said ailill. "how shall it be divided, o conor?" said he. "how?" cried down bricriu,[fn#11] the son of carbad, from above; "in the place where the warriors of ireland are gathered together, there can be but the one test for the division of it, even the part that each man hath taken in warlike deeds and strife: surely each man of you hath struck the other a buffet on the nose ere now!" "thus then shall it be," said ailill. "'tis a fair test," said conor in assent; "we have here a plenty of lads in this house who have done battle on the borders." "thou shalt lose thy lads to-night, conor," said senlaech the charioteer, who came from rushy conalad in the west; "often have they left a fat steer for me to harry, as they sprawled on their backs upon the road that leadeth to the rushes of dedah." "fatter was the steer that thou hadst to leave to us," said munremur,[fn#12] the son of gerrcind; "even thine own brother, cruachniu, son of ruadlam; and it was from conalad of cruachan that he came." "he was no better," cried lugaid the son of curoi of munster, "than loth the great, the son of fergus mac lete; and echbel the son of dedad left him lying in tara luachra."[fn#13] [fn#11] pronounced brik-roo. [fn#12] pronounced moon-raymer. [fn#13] pronounced looch-ra. "what sort of a man was he whom ye boast of?" cried celtchar of ulster. "i myself slew that horny-skinned son of dedad, i cut the head from his shoulders." at the last it fell out that one man raised himself above all the men of ireland; he was ket, the son of mata, he came from the land of connaught. he hung up his weapons at a greater height than the weapons of any one else who was there, he took a knife in his hand, and he placed himself at the side of the boar. "find ye now," said he, "one man among the men of ireland who can equal my renown, or else leave the division of the boar to me." all of the ulstermen were thrown into amazement. "seest thou that, o laegaire?"[fn#14] said conor. [fn#14] pronounced leary. "never shall it be," said laegaire the triumphant, "that ket should have the division of this boar in the face of us all." "softly now, o laegaire!" said ket; "let me hold speech with thee. with you men of ulster it hath for long been a custom that each lad among you who takes the arms of a warrior should play first with us the game of war: thou, o laegaire, like to the others didst come to the border, and we rode against one another. and thou didst leave thy charioteer, and thy chariot and thy horses behind thee, and thou didst fly pierced through with a spear. not with such a record as that shalt thou obtain the boar;" and laegaire sat himself down. "it shall never come to pass," said a great fair-haired warrior, stepping forward from the bench whereon he had sat, "that the division of the boar shall be left to ket before our very eyes." "to whom then appertains it?" asked ket. "to one who is a better warrior than thou," he said, "even to angus, the son of lama gabaid (hand-in-danger) of the men of ulster." "why namest thou thy father 'hand-in-danger?" said ket. "why indeed, i know not," he said. "ah! but i know it!" said ket. "long ago i went upon a journey in the east, a war-cry was raised against me, all men attacked me, and lama gabaid was among them. he made a cast of a great spear against me, i hurled the same spear back upon him, and the spear cut his hand from him so that it lay upon the ground. how dares the son of that man to measure his renown with mine?" and angus went back to his place. "come, and claim a renown to match mine," said ket; "else let me divide this boar." "it shall never be thy part to be the first to divide it," said a great fair-haired warrior of the men of ulster. "who then is this?" said ket. "'tis eogan, son of durthacht,"[fn#15] said they all; "eogan, the lord of fernmay." "i have seen him upon an earlier day," said ket. "where hast thou seen me?" said eogan. "it was before thine own house," said ket. "as i was driving away thy cattle, a cry of war was raised in the lands about me; and thou didst come out at that cry. thou didst hurl thy spear against me, and it was fixed in my shield; but i hurled the same spear back against thee, and it tore out one of thy two eyes. all the men of ireland can see that thou art one-eyed; here is the man that struck thine other eye out of thy head," and he also sat down. "make ye ready again for the strife for renown, o ye men of ulster!" cried ket. "thou hast not yet gained the right to divide the boar," said munremur, gerrcind's son. "is that munremur?" cried ket; "i have but one short word for thee, o munremur! not yet hath the third day passed since i smote the heads off three warriors who came from your lands, and the midmost of the three was the head of thy firstborn son!" and munremur also sat down. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that strife will i give to thee," said mend the son of salcholcam (the sword-heeled). "who is this?" asked ket. "'tis mend," said all who were there. "hey there!" cried ket. "the son of the man with the nickname comes to measure his renown with mine! why, mend, it was by me that the nickname of thy father came; 'twas i who cut the heel from him with my sword so that he hopped away from me upon one leg! how shall the son of that one-legged man measure his renown with mine?" and he also sat down. [fn#15] pronounced yeogan, son of doorha. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that warfare shalt thou have from me!" said an ulster warrior, tall, grey, and more terrible than the rest. "who is this?" asked ket. "'tis celtchar, the son of uitechar," cried all. "pause thou a little, celtchar," said ket, "unless it be in thy mind to crush me in an instant. once did i come to thy dwelling, o celtchar, a cry was raised about me, and all men hurried up at that cry, and thou also camest beside them. it was in a ravine that the combat between us was held; thou didst hurl thy spear against me, and against thee i also hurled my spear; and my spear pierced thee through the leg and through the groin, so that from that hour thou hast been diseased, nor hath son or daughter been born to thee. how canst thou strive in renown with me?" and he also sat down. "come to the strife for renown!" cried ket. "that strife shalt thou have," said cuscrid the stammerer, of macha, king conor's son. "who is this?" said ket. "'tis cuscrid," said all; "he hath a form which is as the form of a king." "nor hath he aught to thank thee for," said the youth. "good!" said ket. "it was against me that thou didst come on the day when thou didst first make trial of thy weapons, my lad: 'twas in the borderland that we met. and there thou didst leave the third part of thy folk behind thee, and thou didst fly with a spear-thrust through thy throat so that thou canst speak no word plainly, for the spear cut in sunder the sinews of thy neck; and from that hour thou hast been called cuscrid the stammerer." and in this fashion did ket put to shame all the warriors of the province of ulster. but as he was exulting near to the boar, with his knife in his hand, all saw conall, the victorious enter the palace; and conall sprang into the midst of the house, and the men of ulster hailed him with a shout; and conor himself took his helmet from his head, and swung it on high to greet him. "'tis well that i wait for the portion that befalls me!" said conall. who is he who is the divider of the boar for ye?" "that office must be given to the man who stands there," said conor, "even to ket, the son of mata." "is this true, o ket?" said conall. "art thou the man to allot this boar?" and then sang ket: conall, all hail! hard stony spleen wild glowing flame! ice-glitter keen! blood in thy breast rageth and boils; oft didst thou wrest victory's spoils: thou scarred son of finuchoem,[fn#16] thou truly canst claim to stand rival to me, and to match me in fame! and conall replied to him: hail to thee, ket! well are we met! heart icy-cold, home for the bold! ender of grief! car-riding chief! sea's stormy wave! bull, fair and brave! ket! first of the children of matach! the proof shall be found when to combat we dart, the proof shall be found when from combat we part; he shall tell of that battle who guardeth the stirks, he shall tell of that battle at handcraft who works; and the heroes shall stride to the wild lion-fight, for by men shall fall men in this palace to-night: welcome, ket![fn#17] [fn#16] pronounced finn-hoom. [fn#17] the short lines of this rhetoric have the metre of the original irish. "rise thou, and depart from this boar," said conall. "what claim wilt thou bring why i should do this?" said ket. "'tis true indeed," said conall, "thou art contending in renown with me. i will give thee one claim only, o ket! i swear by the oath of my tribe that since the day that i first received a spear into my hand i have seldom slept without the head of a slain man of connaught as my pillow; and i have not let pass a day or a night in which a man of connaught hath not fallen by my hand." "'tis true indeed," said ket, "thou art a better warrior than i. were but anluan here, he could battle with thee in another fashion; shame upon us that he is not in this house!" "aye, but anluan is here! "cried conall, and therewith he plucked anluan's head from his belt. and he threw the head towards ket, so that it smote him upon the chest, and a gulp of the blood was dashed over his lips. and ket came away from the boar, and conall placed himself beside it. "now let men come to contend for renown with me!" cried conall. but among the men of connaught there was none who would challenge him, and they raised a wall of shields, like a great vat around him, for in that house was evil wrangling, and men in their malice would make cowardly casts at him. and conall turned to divide the boar, and he took the end of the tail in his mouth. and although the tail was so great that it was a full load for nine men, yet he sucked it all into his mouth so that nothing of it was left; and of this hath been said: strong hands on a cart thrust him forward; his great tail, though for nine men a load, was devoured by the brave conall cernach, as the joints he so gaily bestowed. now to the men of connaught conall gave nothing except the two fore-legs of the boar, and this share seemed to be but small to the men of connaught, and thereon they sprang up, and the men of ulster also sprang up, and they rushed at each other. they buffeted each other so that the heap of bodies inside the house rose as high as the side-walls of it; and streams of blood flowed under the doors. the hosts brake out through the doors into the outer court, and great was the din that uprose; the blood upon the floor of the house might have driven a mill, so mightily did each man strike out at his fellow. and at that time fergus plucked up by the roots a great oak-tree that stood in the outer court in the midst of it; and they all burst out of the court, and the battle went on outside. then came out mac datho, leading the hound by a leash in his hand, that he might let him loose between the two armies, to see to which side the sense of the hound would turn. and the hound joined himself with the men of ulster, and he rushed on the defeated connaughtmen, for these were in flight. and it is told that in the plain of ailbe, the hound seized hold of the poles of the chariot in which ailill and maev rode: and there fer-loga, charioteer to ailill and maev, fell upon him, so that he cast his body to one side, and his head was left upon the poles of the chariot. and they say that it is for that reason that the plain of ailbe is so named, for from the hound ailbe the name hath come. the rout went on northwards, over ballaghmoon, past rurin hill, over the midbine ford near to mullaghmast, over drum criach ridge which is opposite to what is kildare to-day, over rath ingan which is in the forest of gabla, then by mac lugna's ford over the ridge of the two plains till they came to the bridge of carpre that is over the boyne. and at the ford which is known as the ford of the hound's head, which standeth in the west of meath, the hound's head fell from the chariot. and, as they went over the heather of meath, ferloga the charioteer of ailill fell into the heather, and he sprang behind conor who followed after them in his chariot, and he seized conor by the head. "i claim a boon from thee if i give thee thy life, o conor!" said he. "i choose freely to grant that boon," said conor. "'tis no great matter," said ferloga. "take me with thee to emain macha, and at each ninth hour let the widows and the growing maidens of ulster serenade me[fn#18] with the song: 'ferloga is my darling.'" [fn#18] literally, "sing me a cepoc," or a choral song. and the women were forced to do it; for they dared not to deny him, fearing the wrath of conor; and at the end of a year ferloga crossed byathlone into connaught, and he took with him two of conor's horses bridled with golden reins. and concerning all this hath it been sung: hear truth, ye lads of connaught; no lies your griefs shall fill, a youth the boar divided; the share you had was ill. of men thrice fifty fifties would win the ailbe hound; in pride of war they struggled, small cause for strife they found. yet there came conquering conor, and ailill's hosts, and ket; no law cuchulain granted, and brooding bodb[fn#19] was met. dark durthacht's son, great eogan, shall find that journey hard; from east came congal aidni, and fiaman,[fn#20] sailor bard; three sons of nera, famous for countless warlike fields; three lofty sons of usnach, with hard-set cruel shields. from high conalad croghan wise senlaech[fn#21] drave his car; and dubhtach[fn#22] came from emain, his fame is known afar; and illan came, whom glorious for many a field they hail: loch sail's grim chief, munremur; berb baither, smooth of tale; [fn#19] pronounced bobe, with sound of 'robe.' [fn#20] pronounced feeman. [fn#21] pronounced senlay, with the light final ch. [fn#22] pronounced doov-ta. and celtchar, lord in ulster; and conall's valour wild; and marcan came; and lugaid of three great hounds the child. fergus, awaiting the glorious hound, spreadeth a cloak o'er his mighty shield, shaketh an oak he hath plucked from ground, red was the woe the red cloak concealed. yonder stood cethern,[fn#23] of finntan son, holding them back; till six hours had flown connaughtmen's slaughter his hand hath done, pass of the ford he hath held alone. armies with feidlim[fn#24] the war sustain, laegaire the triumpher rides on east, aed, son of morna, ye hear complain, little his thought is to mourn that beast. high are the nobles, their deeds show might, housefellows fair, and yet hard in fight; champions of strength upon clans bring doom, great are the captives, and vast the tomb. [fn#23] pronounced kay-hern. [fn#24] pronounced fay-lim. the sick-bed of cuchulain introduction the romance called the "sick-bed of cuchulain," the latter part of which is also known as the "jealousy of emer," is preserved in two manuscripts, one of which is the eleventh-century leabhar na h-uidhri, the other a fifteenth century manuscript in the trinity college library. these two manuscripts give substantially the same account, and are obviously taken from the same source, but the later of the two is not a copy of the older manuscript, and sometimes preserves a better reading. the eleventh-century manuscript definitely gives a yet older book, the yellow book of slane, now lost, as its authority, and this may be the ultimate authority for the tale as we have it. but, although there is only one original version of the text, it is quite plain from internal evidence that the compiler of the yellow book of slane, or of an earlier book, had two quite different forms of the story to draw from, and combined them in the version that we have. the first, which may be called the "antiquarian" form, relates the cause of cuchulain's illness, tells in detail of the journey of his servant laeg to fairyland, in order to test the truth of a message sent to cuchulain that he can be healed by fairy help, and then breaks off. in both the leabhar na h-uidhri and in the fifteenth-century manuscript, follows a long passage which has absolutely nothing to do with the story, consisting of an account how lugaid red-stripes was elected to be king over ireland, and of the bull feast at which the coming of lugaid is prophesied. both manuscripts then give the counsel given by cuchulain to lugaid on his election (this passage being the only justification for the insertion, as cuchulain is supposed to be on his sick-bed when the exhortation is given); and both then continue the story in a quite different form, which may be called the "literary" form. the cause of the sickness is not given in the literary form, which commences with the rousing of cuchulain from his sick-bed, this rousing being due to different agency from that related in the antiquarian form, for in the latter cuchulain is roused by a son of the fairy king, in the former b his wife emer. the journey of laeg to fairyland is then told in the literary form with different detail to that given in the antiquarian one, and the full conclusion is then supplied in this form alone; so that we have, although in the same manuscript version, two quite distinct forms of the original legend, the first defective at the end of the story, the other at its beginning. not only are the incidents of the two forms of the story different in many respects, but the styles are so absolutely different that it would seem impossible to attribute them to the same author. the first is a mere compilation by an antiquarian; it is difficult to imagine that it was ever recited in a royal court, although the author may have had access to a better version than his own. he inserts passages which do not develop the interest of the story; hints at incidents (the temporary absence of fergus and conall) which are not developed or alluded to afterwards, and is a notable early example of the way in which irish literature can be spoiled by combining several different independent stories into one. there is only one gem, strictly so called, and that not of a high order; the only poetic touches occur in the rhetoric, and, although in this there is a weird supernatural flavour, that may have marked the original used by the compiler of this form ' the human interest seems to be exceptionally weak. the second or literary form is as different from the other as it is possible for two compositions on the same theme to be. the first few words strike the human note in cuchulain's message to his wife: "tell her that it goeth better with me from hour to hour;" the poems are many, long, and of high quality; the rhetoric shows a strophic correspondence; the greek principle of letting the messenger tell the story instead of relating the facts, in a narrative of events (the method followed in the antiquarian version) is made full use of; the modest account given by cuchulain of his own deeds contrasts well with the prose account of the same deeds; and the final relation of the voluntary action of the fairy lady who gives up her lover to her rival, and her motives, is a piece of literary work centuries in advance of any other literature of modern europe. some modern accounts of this romance have combined the two forms, and have omitted the irrelevant incidents in the antiquarian version; there are literary advantages in this course, for the disconnected character of the antiquarian opening, which must stand first, as it alone gives the beginning of the story, affords little indication of the high quality of the better work of the literary form that follows; but, in order to heighten the contrast, the two forms are given just as they occur in the manuscripts, the only omissions being the account of the election of lugaid, and the exhortation of cuchulain to the new king. thurneysen, in his sagen aus dem alten irland, places the second description of fairyland by laeg with the antiquarian form, and this may be justified not only by the allusion to ethne, who does not appear elsewhere in the literary form, but from the fact that there is a touch of rough humour in this poem, which appears in the antiquarian form, but not elsewhere in the literary one, where the manuscripts place this poem. but on the other hand the poetry of this second description, and its vividness, come much closer to the literary form, and it has been left in the place that the manuscript gives to it. the whole has been translated direct from the irish in irische texte, vol. i., with occasional reference to the facsimile of the leabhar na h-uidhri; the words marked as doubtful by windisch in his glossary, which are rather numerous, being indicated by marks of interrogation in the notes, and, where windisch goes not indicate a probable meaning, a special note is made on the word, unless it has been given in dictionaries subsequent to that of windisch. thurneysen's translation has sometimes been made use of, when there is no other guide; but he omits some passages, and windisch has been followed in the rendering given in his glossary in cases where there would seem to be a difference, as thurneysen often translates freely. the sick-bed of cuchulain transcribed from the lost yellow book of slane by maelmuiri mac ceileachair into the leabhar na h-uidhri in the eleventh century every year the men of ulster were accustomed to hold festival together; and the time when they held it was for three days before samhain, the summer-end, and for three days after that day, and upon samhain itself. and the time that is spoken of is that when the men of ulster were in the plain of murthemne, and there they used to keep that festival every year; nor was there an thing in the world that they would do at that time except sports, and marketings, and splendours, and pomps, and feasting and eating; and it is from that custom of theirs that the festival of the samhain has descended, that is now held throughout the whole of ireland. now once upon a time the men of ulster held festival upon the murthemne plain, and the reason that this festival was held was that every man of them should then give account of the combats he had made and of his valour every summer-end. it was their custom to hold that festival in order to give account of these combats, and the manner in which they gave that account was this: each man used to cut off the tip of the tongue of a foe whom he had killed, and he bore it with him in a pouch. moreover, in order to make more great the numbers of their contests, some used to bring with them the tips of the tongues of beasts, and each man publicly declared the fights he had fought, one man of them after the other. and they did this also--they laid their swords over their thighs when they declared the strifes, and their own swords used to turn against them when the strife that they declared was false; nor was this to be wondered at, for at that time it was customary for demon beings to scream from the weapons of men, so that for this cause their weapons might be the more able to guard them. to that festival then came all the men of ulster except two alone, and these two were fergus the son of rog, and conall the victorious. "let the festival be held!" cried the men of ulster. "nay," said cuchulain, "it shall not be held until conall and fergus come," and this he said because fergus was the foster-father of cuchulain, and conall was his comrade. then said sencha: "let us for the present engage in games of chess; and let the druids sing, and let the jugglers play their feats;" and it was done as he had said. now while they were thus employed a flock of birds came down and hovered over the lake; never was seen in ireland more beautiful birds than these. and a longing that these birds should be given to them seized upon the women who were there; and each of them began to boast of the prowess of her husband at bird-catching. "how i wish," said ethne aitencaithrech, conor's wife, "that i could have two of those birds, one of them upon each of my two shoulders." "it is what we all long for," said the women; and "if any should have this boon, i should be the first one to have it," said ethne inguba, the wife of cuchulain. "what are we to do now?" said the women. "'tis easy to answer you," said leborcham, the daughter of oa and adarc; "i will go now with a message from you, and will seek for cuchulain." she then went to cuchulain, and "the women of ulster would be well pleased," she said, "if yonder birds were given to them by thy hand." and cuchulain made for his sword to unsheathe it against her: "cannot the lasses of ulster find any other but us," he said, "to give them their bird-hunt to-day?" "'tis not seemly for thee to rage thus against them," said leborcham, "for it is on thy account that the women of ulster have assumed one of their three blemishes, even the blemish of blindness." for there were three blemishes that the women of ulster assumed, that of crookedness of gait, and that of a stammering in their speech, and that of blindness. each of the women who loved conall the victorious had assumed a crookedness of gait; each woman who loved cuscraid mend, the stammerer of macha, conor's son, stammered in her speech; each woman in like manner who loved cuchulain had assumed a blindness of her eyes, in order to resemble cuchulain; for he, when his mind was angry within him, was accustomed to draw in the one of his eyes so far that a crane could not reach it in his head, and would thrust out the other so that it was great as a cauldron in which a calf is cooked. "yoke for us the chariot, o laeg!" said cuchulain. and laeg yoked the chariot at that, and cuchulain went into the chariot, and he cast his sword at the birds with a cast like the cast of a boomerang, so that they with their claws and wings flapped against the water. and they seized upon all the birds, and they gave them and distributed them among the women; nor was there any one of the women, except ethne alone, who had not a pair of those birds. then cuchulain returned to his wife; and "thou art enraged," said he to her. "i am in no way enraged," answered ethne, "for i deem it as being by me that the distribution was made. and thou hast done what was fitting," she said, "for there is not one of these woman but loves thee; none in whom thou hast no share; but for myself none hath any share in me except thou alone." "be not angry," said cuchulain, "if in the future any birds come to the plain of murthemne or to the boyne, the two birds that are the most beautiful among those that come shall be thine." a little while after this they saw two birds flying over the lake, linked together by a chain of red gold. they sang a gentle song, and a sleep fell upon all the men who were there; and cuchulain rose up to pursue the birds. "if thou wilt hearken to me," said laeg, and so also said ethne, "thou shalt not go against them; behind those birds is some especial power. other birds may be taken by thee at some future day." "is it possible that such claim as this should be made upon me?" said cuchulain. "place a stone in my sling, o laeg!" laeg thereon took a stone, and he placed it in the sling, and cuchulain launched the stone at the birds, but the cast missed. "alas!" said he. he took another stone, and he launched this also at the birds, but the stone flew past them. "wretched that i am," he cried, "since the very first day that i assumed arms, i have never missed a cast until this day!" and he cast his spear at them, and the spear went through the shield of the wing of one of the birds, and the birds flew away, and went beneath the lake. after this cuchulain departed, and he rested his back against a stone pillar, and his soul was angry within him, and a sleep fell upon him. then saw he two women come to him; the one of them had a green mantle upon her, and upon the other was a purple mantle folded in five folds. and the woman in the green mantle approached him, and she laughed a laugh at him, and she gave him a stroke with a horsewhip. and then the other approached him, and she also laughed at him, and she struck him in the like manner; and for a long time were they thus, each of them in turn coming to him and striking him until he was all but dead; and then they departed from him. now the men of ulster perceived the state in which cuchulain was in; and they cried out that he should be awakened; but "nay," said fergus, "ye shall not move him, for he seeth a vision;" and a little after that cuchulain came from his sleep. "what hath happened to thee?" said the men of ulster; but he had no power to bid greeting to them. "let me be carried," he said, "to the sick-bed that is in tete brecc; neither to dun imrith, nor yet to dun delga." "wilt thou not be carried to dun delga to seek for emer?" said laeg. "nay," said he, "my word is for tete brecc;" and thereon they bore him from that place, and he was in tete brecc until the end of one year, and during all that time he had speech with no one. now upon a certain day before the next summer-end, at the end of a year, when the men of ulster were in the house where cuchulain was, fergus being at the side-wall, and conall cernach at his head, and lugaid red-stripes at his pillow, and ethne inguba at his feet; when they were there in this manner, a man came to them, and he seated himself near the entrance of the chamber in which cuchulain lay. "what hath brought thee here?" said conall the victorious. "no hard question to answer," said the man. "if the man who lies yonder were in health, he would be a good protection to all of ulster; in the weakness and the sickness in which he now is, so much the more great is the protection that they have from him. i have no fear of any of you," he said, "for it is to give to this man a greeting that i come." "welcome to thee, then, and fear nothing," said the men of ulster; and the man rose to his feet, and he sang them these staves: ah! cuchulain, who art under sickness still, not long thou its cure shouldst need; soon would aed abra's daughters, to heal thine ill, to thee, at thy bidding, speed. liban, she at swift labra's right hand who sits, stood up on cruach's[fn#25] plain, and cried: "'tis the wish of fand's heart, she the tale permits, to sleep at cuchulain's side. [fn#25] pronounced something like croogh. "'if cuchulain would come to me,' fand thus told, 'how goodly that day would shine! then on high would our silver be heaped, and gold, our revellers pour the wine. "'and if now in my land, as my friend, had been cuchulain, of sualtam[fn#26] son, the things that in visions he late hath seen in peace would he safe have won. "'in the plains of murthemne, to south that spread, shall liban my word fulfil: she shall seek him on samhain, he naught need dread, by her shall be cured his ill.'" [fn#26] pronounced sooltam. "who art thou, then, thyself?" said the men of ulster. "i am angus, the son of aed abra," he answered; and the man then left them, nor did any of them know whence it was he had come, nor whither he went. then cuchulain sat up, and he spoke to them. "fortunate indeed is this!" said the men of ulster; "tell us what it is that hath happened to thee." "upon samhain night last year," he said, "i indeed saw a vision;" and he told them of all he had seen. "what should now be done, father conor?" said cuchulain. "this hast thou to do," answered conor, "rise, and go until thou comest to the pillar where thou wert before." then cuchulain went forth until he came to the pillar, and then saw he the woman in the green mantle come to him. "this is good, o cuchulain!" said she. "'tis no good thing in my thought," said cuchulain. "wherefore camest thou to me last year?" he said. "it was indeed to do no injury to thee that we came," said the woman, "but to seek for thy friendship. i have come to greet thee," she said, "from fand, the daughter of aed abra; her husband, manannan the son of the sea, hath released her, and she hath thereon set her love on thee. my own name is liban, and i have brought to thee a message from my spouse, labraid the swift, the sword-wielder, that he will give thee the woman in exchange for one day's service to him in battle against senach the unearthly, and against eochaid juil,[fn#27] and against yeogan the stream." "i am in no fit state," he said, "to contend with men to-day." "that will last but a little while," she said; "thou shalt be whole, and all that thou hast lost of thy strength shall be increased to thee. labraid shall bestow on thee that boon, for he is the best of all warriors that are in the world." [fn#27] pronounced, nearly, yeo-hay yool. "where is it that labraid dwelleth?" asked cuchulain. "in mag mell,[fn#28] the plain of delight," said liban; "and now i desire to go to another land," said she. [fn#28] pronounced maw mel. "let laeg go with thee," said cuchulain, "that he may learn of the land from which thou hast come." "let him come, then," said liban. they departed after that, and they went forward until they came to a place where fand was. and liban turned to seek for laeg, and she set him upon her shoulder. "thou wouldest never go hence, o laeg!" said liban, "wert thou not under a woman's protection." "'tis not a thing that i have most been accustomed to up to this time," said laeg, "to be under a woman's guard." "shame, and everlasting shame," said liban, "that cuchulain is not where thou art." "it were well for me," answered laeg, "if it were indeed he who is here." they passed on then, and went forward until they came opposite to the shore of an island, and there they saw a skiff of bronze lying upon the lake before them. they entered into the skiff, and they crossed over to the island, and came to the palace door, and there they saw the man, and he came towards them. and thus spoke liban to the man whom they saw there: say where he, the hand-on-sword, labra swift, abideth? he who, of the triumphs lord, in strong chariot rideth. when victorious troops are led, labra hath the leading; he it is, when spears are red, sets the points a-bleeding. and the man replied to her, and spoke thus: labra, who of speed is son, comes, and comes not slowly; crowded hosts together run, bent on warfare wholly. soon upon the forest plain shall be set the killing; for the hour when men are slain fidga's[fn#29] fields are filling![fn#30] [fn#29] pronounced, nearly, feega. [fn#30] irish metre approximately imitated in these stanzas. they entered then into the palace, and they saw there thrice fifty couches within the palace, and three times fifty women upon the couches, and the women all bade laeg welcome, and it was in these words that they addressed him: hail! for the guide, laeg! of thy quest: laeg we beside hail, as our guest! "what wilt thou do now?" said liban; "wilt thou go on without a delay, and hold speech with fand?" "i will go," he answered, "if i may know the place where she is." "that is no hard matter to tell thee," she answered; "she is in her chamber apart." they went therein, and they greeted fand, and she welcomed laeg in the same fashion as the others had done. fand is the daughter of aed abra; aed means fire, and he is the fire of the eye: that is, of the eye's pupil: fand moreover is the name of the tear that runs from the eye; it was on account of the clearness of her beauty that she was so named, for there is nothing else in the world except a tear to which her beauty could be likened. now, while they were thus in that place, they heard the rattle of labraid's chariot as he approached the island. "the spirit of labraid is gloomy to-day," said liban, "i will go and greet him." and she went out, and she bade welcome to labraid, and she spoke as follows: hail! the man who holdeth sword, the swift in fight! heir of little armies, armed with javelins light; spears he drives in splinters; bucklers bursts in twain; limbs of men are wounded; nobles by him slain. he for error searcheth, streweth gifts not small, hosts of men destroyeth; fairer he than all! heroes whom he findeth feel his fierce attack; labra! swiftest sword-hand! welcome to us back! labraid made no reply to her, and the lady spoke again thus: welcome! swift labra, hand to sword set! all win thy bounty, praise thou shalt get; warfare thou seekest, wounds seam thy side; wisely thou speakest, law canst decide; kindly thou rulest, wars fightest well; wrong-doers schoolest, hosts shalt repel. labraid still made no answer, and she sang another lay thus: labra! all hail! sword-wielder, swift: war can he wage, warriors can sift; valiant is he, fighters excels; more than in sea pride in him swells; down in the dust strength doth he beat; they who him trust rise to their feet weak ones he'll raise, humble the strong; labra! thy praise peals loud and long! "thou speakest not rightly, o lady," said labraid; and he then spoke to her thus: o my wife! naught of boasting or pride is in me; no renown would i claim, and no falsehood shall be: lamentation alone stirs my mind, for hard spears rise in numbers against me: dread contest appears: the right arms of their heroes red broadswords shall swing; many hosts eochaid juil holds to heart as their king: let no pride then be ours; no high words let there be; pride and arrogance far should be, lady, from me! "let now thy mind be appeased," said the lady liban to him. "laeg, the charioteer of cuchulain, is here; and cuchulain hath sent word to thee that he will come to join thy hosts." then labraid bade welcome to laeg, and he said to him: "welcome, o laeg! for the sake of the lady with whom thou comest, and for the sake of him from whom thou hast come. do thou now go to thine own land, o laeg!" said labraid, "and liban shall accompany thee." then laeg returned to emain, and he gave news of what he had seen to cuchulain, and to all others beside; and cuchulain rose up, and he passed his hand over his face, and he greeted laeg brightly, and his mind was strengthened within him for the news that the lad had brought him. [at this point occurs the break in the story indicated in the preface, and the description of the bull-feast at which lugaid red-stripes is elected king over all ireland; also the exhortation that cuchulain, supposed to be lying on his sick-bed, gives to lugaid as to the duties of a king. after this insertion, which has no real connection with the story, the story itself proceeds, but from another point, for the thread is taken up at the place where cuchulain has indeed awaked from his trance, but is still on his sick-bed; the message of angus appears to have been given, but cuchulain does not seem to have met liban for the second time, nor to have sent laeg to inquire. ethne has disappeared as an actor from the scene; her place is taken by emer, cuchulain's real wife; and the whole style of the romance so alters for the better that, even if it were not for the want of agreement of the two versions, we could see that we have here two tales founded upon the same legend but by two different hands, the end of the first and the beginning of the second alike missing, and the gap filled in by the story of the election of lugaid. now as to cuchulain it has to be related thus: he called upon laeg to come to him; and "do thou go, o laeg!" said cuchulain, "to the place where emer is; and say to her that women of the fairies have come upon me, and that they have destroyed my strength; and say also to her that it goeth better with me from hour to hour, and bid her to come and seek me;" and the young man laeg then spoke these words in order to hearten the mind of cuchulain: it fits not heroes lying on sick-bed in a sickly sleep to dream: witches before thee flying of trogach's fiery plain the dwellers seem: they have beat down thy strength, made thee captive at length, and in womanish folly away have they driven thee far. arise! no more be sickly! shake off the weakness by those fairies sent: for from thee parteth quickly thy strength that for the chariot-chiefs was meant: thou crouchest, like a youth! art thou subdued, in truth? have they shaken thy prowess and deeds that were meet for the war yet labra's power hath sent his message plain: rise, thou that crouchest: and be great again. and laeg, after that heartening, departed; and he went on until he came to the place where emer was; and he told her of the state of cuchulain: "ill hath it been what thou hast done, o youth!" she said; "for although thou art known as one who dost wander in the lands where the fairies dwell; yet no virtue of healing hast thou found there and brought for the cure of thy lord. shame upon the men of ulster!" she said, "for they have not sought to do a great deed, and to heal him. yet, had conor thus been fettered; had it been fergus who had lost his sleep, had it been conall the victorious to whom wounds had been dealt, cuchulain would have saved them." and she then sang a song, and in this fashion she sang it: laeg! who oft the fairy hill[fn#31] searchest, slack i find thee still; lovely dechtire's son shouldst thou by thy zeal have healed ere now. ulster, though for bounties famed, foster-sire and friends are shamed: none hath deemed cuchulain worth one full journey through the earth. yet, if sleep on fergus fell, such that magic arts dispel, dechtire's son had restless rode till a druid raised that load. aye, had conall come from wars, weak with wounds and recent scars; all the world our hound would scour till he found a healing power. were it laegaire[fn#32] war had pressed, erin's meads would know no rest, till, made whole from wounds, he won mach's grandchild, conna's son. had thus crafty celthar slept, long, like him, by sickness kept; through the elf-mounds, night and day, would our hound, to heal him, stray. furbaid, girt by heroes strong, were it he had lain thus long; ah! our hound would rescue bear though through solid earth he fare. [fn#31] the metre of these verses is that of the irish. [fn#32] pronounced leary. all the elves of troom[fn#33] seem dead; all their mighty deeds have fled; for their hound, who hounds surpassed, elves have bound in slumber fast. ah! on me thy sickness swerves, hound of smith who conor serves! sore my heart, my flesh must be: may thy cure be wrought by me. ah! 'tis blood my heart that stains, sick for him who rode the plains: though his land be decked for feast, he to seek its plain hath ceased. he in emain still delays; 'tis those shapes the bar that raise: weak my voice is, dead its tone, he in evil form is shown. month-long, year-long watch i keep; seasons pass, i know not sleep: men's sweet speech strikes not mine ear; naught, riangabra's[fn#34] son, i hear. [fn#33] spelt truim. [fn#34] pronounced reen-gabra. and, after that she had sung that song, emer went forward to emain that she might seek for cuchulain; and she seated herself in the chamber where cuchulain was, and thus she addressed him: "shame upon thee!" she said, "to lie thus prostrate for a woman's love! well may this long sickbed of thine cause thee to ail!" and it was in this fashion that she addressed him, and she chanted this lay: stand up, o thou hero of ulster! wake from sleep! rise up, joyful and sound! look on conor the king! on my beauty, will that loose not those slumbers profound? see the ulstermen's clear shining shoulders! hear their trumpets that call to the fight! see their war-cars that sweep through the valleys, as in hero-chess, leaping each knight. see their chiefs, and the strength that adorns them, their tall maidens, so stately with grace; the swift kings, springing on to the battle, the great queens of the ulstermen's race! the clear winter but now is beginning; lo! the wonder of cold that hangs there! 'tis a sight that should warn thee; how chilly! of what length i yet of colour how bare! this long slumber is ill; it decays thee: 'tis like "milk for the full" the saw saith hard is war with fatigue; deadly weakness is a prince who stands second to death. wake! 'tis joy for the sodden, this slumber; throw it off with a great glowing heat: sweet-voiced friends for thee wait in great number: ulster's champion! stand up on thy feet! and cuchulain at her word stood up; and he passed his hand over his face, and he cast all his heaviness and his weariness away from him, and then he arose, and went on his way before him until he came to the enclosure that he sought; and in that enclosure liban appeared to him. and liban spoke to him, and she strove to lead him into the fairy hill; but "what place is that in which labraid dwelleth?" said cuchulain. it is easy for me to tell thee!" she said: labra's home's a pure lake, whither troops of women come and go; easy paths shall lead thee thither, where thou shalt swift labra know. hundreds his skilled arm repelleth; wise be they his deeds who speak: look where rosy beauty dwelleth; like to that think labra's cheek. head of wolf, for gore that thirsteth, near his thin red falchion shakes; shields that cloak the chiefs he bursteth, arms of foolish foes he breaks. trust of friend he aye requiteth, scarred his skin, like bloodshot eye; first of fairy men he fighteth; thousands, by him smitten, die. chiefs at echaid[fn#35] juil's name tremble; yet his land-strange tale-he sought, he whose locks gold threads resemble, with whose breath wine-scents are brought. more than all strife-seekers noted, fiercely to far lands he rides; steeds have trampled, skiffs have floated near the isle where he abides. labra, swift sword-wielder, gaineth fame for actions over sea; sleep for all his watch sustaineth! sure no coward hound is he. the chains on the necks of the coursers he rides, and their bridles are ruddy with gold: he hath columns of crystal and silver besides, the roof of his house to uphold. [fn#35] pronounced, apparently, ech-ay, the ch like the sound in "loch." "i will not go thither at a woman's call," said cuchulain. "let laeg then go," said the lady, "and let him bring to thee tidings of all that is there." "let him depart, then," said cuchulain; and laeg rose up and departed with liban, and they came to the plain of speech, and to the tree of triumphs, and over the festal plain of emain, and over the festal plain of fidga, and in that place was aed abra, and with him his daughters. then fand bade welcome to laeg, and "how is it," said she, "that cuchulain hath not come with thee?" "it pleased him not," said laeg, "to come at a woman's call; moreover, he desired to know whether it was indeed from thee that had come the message, and to have full knowledge of everything." "it was indeed from me that the message was sent," she said; "and let now cuchulain come swiftly to seek us, for it is for to-day that the strife is set." then laeg went back to the place where he had left cuchulain, and liban with him; and "how appeareth this quest to thee, o laeg?" said cuchulain. and laeg answering said, "in a happy hour shalt thou go," said he, "for the battle is set for to-day;" and it was in this manner that he spake, and he recited thus: i went gaily through regions, though strange, seen before: by his cairn found i labra, a cairn for a score. there sat yellow-haired labra, his spears round him rolled; his long bright locks well gathered round apple of gold. on my five-folded purple his glance at length fell, and he said, "come and enter where failbe doth dwell." in one house dwells white failbe, with labra, his friend; and retainers thrice fifty each monarch attend. on the right, couches fifty, where fifty men rest; on the left, fifty couches by men's weight oppressed. for each couch copper frontings, posts golden, and white; and a rich flashing jewel as torch, gives them light. near that house, to the westward, where sunlight sinks down, stand grey steeds, with manes dappled and steeds purple-brown. on its east side are standing three bright purple trees whence the birds' songs, oft ringing the king's children please. from a tree in the fore-court sweet harmony streams; it stands silver, yet sunlit with gold's glitter gleams. sixty trees' swaying summits now meet, now swing wide; rindless food for thrice hundred each drops at its side. near a well by that palace gay cloaks spread out lie, each with splendid gold fastening well hooked through its eye. they who dwell there, find flowing a vat of glad ale: 'tis ordained that for ever that vat shall not fail. from the hall steps a lady well gifted, and fair: none is like her in erin; like gold is her hair. and so sweet, and so wondrous her words from her fall, that with love and with longing she breaks hearts of all. "who art thou?" said that lady, "for strange thou art here; but if him of murthemne thou servest, draw near." slowly, slowly i neared her; i feared for my fame: and she said, "comes he hither, of dechtire who came?" ah! long since, for thy healing, thou there shouldst have gone, and have viewed that great palace before me that shone. though i ruled all of erin and yellow breg's hill, i'd give all, no small trial, to know that land still. "the quest then is a good one?" said cuchulain. "it is goodly indeed," said laeg, "and it is right that thou shouldest go to attain it, and all things in that land are good." and thus further also spoke laeg, as he told of the loveliness of the fairy dwelling: i saw a land of noble form and splendid, where dwells naught evil; none can speak a lie: there stands the king, by all his hosts attended, brown labra, swift to sword his hand can fly. we crossed the plain of speech, our steps arrested near to that tree, whose branches triumphs bear; at length upon the hill-crowned plain we rested, and saw the double-headed serpent's lair. then liban said, as we that mount sat under: "would i could see--'twould be a marvel strange-yet, if i saw it, dear would be that wonder, if to cuchulain's form thy form could change." great is the beauty of aed abra's daughters, unfettered men before them conquered fall; fand's beauty stuns, like sound of rushing waters, before her splendour kings and queens seem small. though i confess, as from the wise ones hearing, that adam's race was once unstained by sin; yet did i swear, when fand was there appearing, none in past ages could such beauty win. i saw the champions stand with arms for slaying, right splendid was the garb those heroes bore; gay coloured garments, meet for their arraying, 'twas not the vesture of rude churls they wore. women of music at the feast were sitting, a brilliant maiden bevy near them stood; and forms of noble youths were upwards flitting through the recesses of the mountain wood. i saw the folk of song; their strains rang sweetly, as for the lady in that house they played; had i not i fled away from thence, and fleetly, hurt by that music, i had weak been made. i know the hill where ethne took her station, and ethne inguba's a lovely maid; but none can drive from sense a warlike nation save she alone, in beauty then displayed. and cuchulain, when he had heard that report, went on with liban to that land, and he took his chariot with him. and they came to the island of labraid, and there labraid and all the women that were there bade them welcome; and fand gave an especial welcome to cuchulain. "what is there now set for us to do?" said cuchulain. "no hard matter to answer," said labraid; "we must go forth and make a circuit about the army." they went out then, and they came to the army, and they let their eyes wander over it; and the host seemed to them to be innumerable. "do thou arise, and go hence for the present," said cuchulain to labraid; and labraid departed, and cuchulain remained confronting the army. and there were two ravens there, who spake, and revealed druid secrets, but the armies who heard them laughed. "it must surely be the madman from ireland who is there," said the army; "it is he whom the ravens would make known to us;" and the armies chased them away so that they found no resting-place in that land. now at early morn eochaid juil went out in order to bathe his hands in the spring, and cuchulain saw his shoulder through the hood of his tunic, and he hurled his spear at him, and he pierced him. and he by himself slew thirty-and-three of them, and then senach the unearthly assailed him, and a great fight was fought between them, and cuchulain slew him; and after that labraid approached, and he brake before him those armies. then labraid entreated cuchulain to stay his hand from the slaying; and "i fear now," said laeg, "that the man will turn his wrath upon us; for he hath not found a war to suffice him. go now," said laeg, "and let there be brought three vats of cold water to cool his heat. the first vat into which he goeth shall boil over; after he hath gone into the second vat, none shall be able to bear the heat of it: after he hath gone into the third vat, its water shall have but a moderate heat." and when the women saw cuchulain's return, fand sang thus: fidga's[fn#36] plain, where the feast assembles, shakes this eve, as his car he guides; all the land at the trampling trembles; young and beardless, in state he rides. blood-red canopies o'er him swinging chant, but not as the fairies cry; deeper bass from the car is singing, deeply droning, its wheels reply. steeds are bounding beneath the traces, none to match them my thought can find; wait a while! i would note their graces: on they sweep, like the spring's swift wind. high in air, in his breath suspended, float a fifty of golden balls; kings may grace in their sports have blended, none his equal my mind recalls. [fn#36] pronounced, nearly, fee-ga. dimples four on each cheek are glowing, one seems green, one is tinged with blue, one dyed red, as if blood were flowing, one is purple, of lightest hue. sevenfold light from his eyeballs flashes, none may speak him as blind, in scorn; proud his glances, and dark eyelashes black as beetle, his eyes adorn. well his excellence fame confesses, all through erin his praise is sung; three the hues of his high-piled tresses; beardless yet, and a stripling young. red his blade, it hath late been blooded; shines above it its silver hilt; golden bosses his shield have studded, round its rim the white bronze is spilt. o'er the slain in each slaughter striding, war he seeketh, at risk would snatch: heroes keen in your ranks are riding, none of these is cuchulain's match. from murthemne he comes, we greet him, young cuchulain, the champion strong; we, compelled from afar to meet him, daughters all of aed abra, throng. every tree, as a lordly token, stands all stained with the red blood rain war that demons might wage is woken, wails peal high as he raves again. liban moreover bade a welcome to cuchulain, and she chanted as follows: hail to cuchulain! lord, who canst aid; murthemne ruling, mind undismayed; hero-like, glorious, heart great and still battle-victorious, firm rock of skill; redly he rageth, foemen would face; battle he wageth meet for his race! brilliant his splendour, like maidens' eyes, praises we render: praise shall arise! "tell us now of the deeds thou hast done, o cuchulain! cried liban, and cuchulain in this manner replied to her: from my hand flew a dart, as i made my cast, through the host of stream-yeogan the javelin passed; not at all did i know, though great fame was won, who my victim had been, or what deed was done. whether greater or less was his might than mine i have found not at all, nor can right divine; in a mist was he hid whom my spear would slay, yet i know that he went not with life away. a great host on me closed, and on every side rose around me in hordes the red steeds they ride; from manannan, the son of the sea, came foes, from stream-yeogan to call them a roar arose. and i went to the battle with all at length, when my weakness had passed, and i gat full strength; and alone with three thousands the fight i fought, till death to the foes whom i faced was brought. i heard echaid juil's groan, as he neared his end, the sound came to mine ears as from lips of friend; yet, if truth must be told, 'twas no valiant deed, that cast that i threw, if 'twas thrown indeed. now, after all these things had passed, cuchulain slept with the lady, and he abode for a month in her company, and at the end of the month he came to bid her farewell. "tell me," she said, "to what place i may go for our tryst, and i will be there;" and they made tryst at the strand that is known as the strand of the yew-tree's head. now word was brought to emer of that tryst, and knives were whetted by emer to slay the lady; and she came to the place of the tryst, and fifty women were with her. and there she found, cuchulain and laeg, and they were engaged in the chess-play, so that they perceived not the women's approach. but fand marked it, and she cried out to laeg: "look now, o laeg!" she said, "and mark that sight that i see." "what sight is that of which thou speakest?" said laeg, and he looked and saw it, and thus it was that the lady, even fand, addressed him: laeg! look behind thee! close to thine ear wise, well-ranked women press on us near; bright on each bosom shines the gold clasp; knives, with green edges whetted, they grasp: as for the slaughter chariot chiefs race, comes forgall's daughter; changed is her face. "have no fear," said cuchulain, "no foe shalt thou meet; enter thou my strong car, with its sunny bright seat: i will set thee before me, will guard thee from harm against women, from ulster's four quarters that swarm: though the daughter of forgall the war with thee vows, though her dear foster-sisters against thee she rouse, no deed of destruction bold emer will dare, though she rageth against thee, for i will be there." moreover to emer he said: i avoid thee, o lady, as heroes avoid to meet friends in a strife; the hard spear thy hand shakes cannot injure, nor the blade of thy thin gleaming knife; for the wrath pent within thee that rageth is but weak, nor can cause mine affright: it were hard if the war my might wageth must be quenched by a weak woman's might! "speak! and tell me, cuchulain," cried emer, "why this shame on my head thou wouldst lay? before women of ulster dishonoured i stand, and all women who dwell in the wide irish land, and all folk who love honour beside: though i came on thee, secretly creeping, though oppressed by thy might i remain, and though great is thy pride in the battle, if thou leavest me, naught is thy gain: why, dear youth, such attempt dost thou make? "speak thou, emer, and say," said cuchulain, "should i not with this lady delay? for this lady is fair, pare and bright, and well skilled, a fit mate for a monarch, in beauty fulfilled, and the billows of ocean can ride: she is lovely in countenance, lofty in race, and with handicraft skilled can fine needlework trace, hath a mind that with firmness can guide: and in steeds hath she wealth, and much cattle doth she own; there is naught under sky a dear wife for a spouse should be keeping but that gift with this lady have i: though the vow that i made thee i break, thou shalt ne'er find champion rich, like me, in scars; ne'er such worth, such brilliance, none who wins my wars." "in good sooth," answered emer, "the lady to whom thou dost cling is in no way better than am i myself! yet fair seems all that's red; seems white what's new alone; and bright what's set o'erhead; and sour are things well known! men worship what they lack; and what they have seems weak; in truth thou hast all the wisdom of the time! o youth!" she said, "once we dwelled in honour together, and we would so dwell again, if only i could find favour in thy sight!" and her grief weighed heavily upon her. "by my word," said cuchulain, "thou dost find favour, and thou shalt find it so long as i am in life." "desert me, then!" cried fand. "nay," said emer, "it is more fitting that i should be the deserted one." "not so, indeed," said fand. "it is i who must go, and danger rusheth upon me from afar." and an eagerness for lamentation seized upon fand, and her soul was great within her, for it was shame to her to be deserted and straightway to return to her home; moreover the mighty love that she bare to cuchulain was tumultuous in her, and in this fashion she lamented, and lamenting sang this song: mighty need compels me, i must go my way; fame for others waiteth, would i here could stay! sweeter were it resting guarded by thy power, than to find the marvels in aed abra's bower. emer! noble lady! take thy man to thee: though my arms resign him, longing lives in me. oft in shelters hidden men to seek me came; none could win my trysting, i myself was flame. ah! no maid her longing on a man should set till a love full equal to her own she get. fifty women hither, emer! thou hast brought thou wouldst fand make captive, hast on murder thought. till the day i need them waits, my home within; thrice thy host! fair virgins, these my war shall win. now upon this it was discerned by manannan that fand the daughter of aed abra was engaged in unequal warfare with the women of ulster, and that she was like to be left by cuchulain. and thereon manannan came from the east to seek for the lady, and he was perceived by her, nor was there any other conscious of his presence saving fand alone. and, when she saw manannan, the lady was seized by great bitterness of mind and by grief, and being thus, she made this song: lo! the son of the sea-folk from plains draws near whence yeogan, the stream, is poured; 'tis manannan, of old he to me was dear, and above the fair world we soared. yet to-day, although excellent sounds his cry, no love fills my noble heart, for the pathways of love may be bent awry, its knowledge in vain depart. when i dwelt in the bower of the yeogan stream, at the son of the ocean's side, of a life there unending was then our dream, naught seemed could our love divide. when the comely manannan to wed me came, to me, as a spouse, full meet; not in shame was i sold, in no chessmen's game the price of a foe's defeat. when the comely manannan my lord was made, when i was his equal spouse, this armlet of gold that i bear he paid as price for my marriage vows. through the heather came bride-maids, in garments brave of all colours, two score and ten; and beside all the maidens my bounty gave to my husband a fifty men. four times fifty our host; for no frenzied strife in our palace was pent that throng, where a hundred strong men led a gladsome life, one hundred fair dames and strong. manannan draws near: over ocean he speeds, from all notice of fools is he free; as a horseman he comes, for no vessel he needs who rides the maned waves of the sea. he hath passed near us now, though his visage to view is to all, save to fairies, forbid; every troop of mankind his keen sight searcheth through, though small, and in secret though hid. but for me, this resolve in my spirit shall dwell, since weak, being woman's, my mind; since from him whom so dearly i loved, and so well, only danger and insult i find. i will go! in mine honour unsullied depart, fair cuchulain! i bid thee good-bye; i have gained not the wish that was dear to my heart, high justice compels me to fly. it is flight, this alone that befitteth my state, though to some shall this parting be hard: o thou son of riangabra! the insult was great: not by laeg shall my going be barred. i depart to my spouse; ne'er to strife with a foe shall manannan his consort expose; and, that none may complain that in secret i go, behold him! his form i disclose! then that lady rose behind manannan as he passed, and manannan greeted her: "o lady!" he said, "which wilt thou do? wilt thou depart with me, or abide here until cuchulain comes to thee?" "by my troth," answered fand, "either of the two of ye were a fitting spouse to adhere to; and neither of you two is better than the other; yet, manannan, it is with thee that i go, nor will i wait for cuchulain, for he hath betrayed me; and there is another matter, moreover, that weigheth with me, o thou noble prince!" said she, "and that is that thou hast no consort who is of worth equal to thine, but such a one hath cuchulain already." and cuchulain saw the lady as she went from him to manannan, and he cried out to laeg: "what meaneth this that i see?" "'tis no hard matter to answer thee," said laeg. "fand goeth away with manannan the son of the sea, since she hath not been pleasing in thy sight!" then cuchulain bounded three times high into the air, and he made three great leaps towards the south, and thus he came to tara luachra,[fn#37] and there he abode for a long time, having no meat and no drink, dwelling upon the mountains, and sleeping upon the high-road that runneth through the midst of luachra. then emer went on to emain, and there she sought out king conor, and she told conor of cuchulain's state, and conor sent out his learned men and the people of skill, and the druids of ulster, that they might seek for cuchulain, and might bind him fast, and bring him with them to emain. and cuchulain strove to slay the people of skill, but they chanted wizard and fairy songs against him, and they bound fast his feet and his hands until he came a little to his senses. then he begged for a drink at their hands, and the druids gave him a drink of forgetfulness, so that afterwards he had no more remembrance of fand nor of anything else that he had then done; and they also gave a drink of forgetfulness to emer that she might forget her jealousy, for her state was in no way better than the state of cuchulain. and manannan shook his cloak between cuchulain and fand, so that they might never meet together again throughout eternity. [fn#37] pronounced looch-ra: tara luachra is on the borders of limerick and kerry. the exile of the sons' of usnach introduction the version given in the following pages of the well-known tale of deirdre has been translated from the irish text of the book of leinster version as printed by windisch in irische texte, vol. i. readings from the two parallel texts of the book of lecan, and egerton, 1782, have been used where the leinster text is deficient or doubtful, but the older ms. has in the main been followed, the chief alterations being indicated in the notes. the only english translation hitherto given of this version is the unreliable one in atlantis, vol. iii. there is a german translation in thurneysen's sagen aus dem alten irland which may be consulted for literal renderings of most of the verse portions, which, however, are sometimes nearer the original than thurneysen's renderings. it was at first intended to place beside this version the much better known version of the tale given by the glenn masain manuscript and its variants; but, as this version is otherwise available in english,[fn#38] it has been thought better to omit most of it: a verse translation of deirdre's final lament in this version has, however, been added for the purpose of comparing it with the corresponding lament in the leinster text. these two poems are nearly of the same length, but have no other point in common; the lament in the leinster version strikes the more personal note, and it has been suggested that it shows internal evidence that it must have been written by a woman. the idea of deirdre as a seer, which is so prominent in the glenn masain version of the tale, does not appear in the older leinster text; the supernatural druidic mist, which even in the glenn masain version only appears in the late manuscript which continues the story after the fifteenth-century manuscript breaks off, does not appear in the book of leinster; and the later version introduces several literary artifices that do not appear in the earlier one. that portion of the glenn masain version immediately following after deirdre's lament is given as an instance of one of these, the common artifice of increase of horror at a catastrophe by the introduction of irrelevant matter, the tragedy of deirdre's death being immediately followed by a cheerful account of the relationships of the chief heroes of the heroic period; a still better example of this practice in the old irish literature is the almost comic relief that is introduced at the most tragic part of the tale of the murder of the son of ronan. [fn#38] see irische texte, vol. ii., and the celtic review, vol. i. 1904-1905. the exile of the sons of usnach book of leinster version in the house of feidlimid,[fn#39] the son of dall, even he who was the narrator of stories to conor the king, the men of ulster sat at their ale; and before the men, in order to attend upon them, stood the wife of feidlimid, and she was great with child. round about the board went drinking-horns, and portions of food; and the revellers shouted in their drunken mirth. and when the men desired to lay themselves down to sleep, the woman also went to her couch; and, as she passed through the midst of the house, the child cried out in her womb, so that its shriek was heard throughout the whole house, and throughout the outer court that lay about it. and upon that shriek, all the men sprang up; and, head closely packed by head, they thronged together in the house, whereupon sencha, the son of ailill, rebuked them: "let none of you stir!" cried he, "and let the woman be brought before us, that we may learn what is the meaning of that cry." then they brought the woman before them, and thus spoke to her feidlimid, her spouse: what is that, of all cries far the fiercest, in thy womb raging loudly and long? through all ears with that clamour thou piercest; with that scream, from bides swollen and strong: of great woe, for that cry, is foreboding my heart; that is torn through with terror, and sore with the smart. [fn#39] pronounced feylimid. then the woman turned her, and she approached cathbad[fn#40] the druid, for he was a man of knowledge, and thus she spoke to him: [fn#40] pronounced cah-ba. give thou ear to me, cathbad, thou fair one of face, thou great crown of our honour, and royal in race; let the man so exalted still higher be set, let the druid draw knowledge, that druids can get. for i want words of wisdom, and none can i fetch; nor to felim a torch of sure knowledge can stretch: as no wit of a woman can wot what she bears, i know naught of that cry from within me that tears. and then said cathbad: 'tis a maid who screamed wildly so lately, fair and curling shall locks round her flow, and her eyes be blue-centred and stately; and her cheeks, like the foxglove, shall glow. for the tint of her skin, we commend her, in its whiteness, like snow newly shed; and her teeth are all faultless in splendour and her lips, like to coral, are red: a fair woman is she, for whom heroes, that fight in their chariots for ulster, to death shall be dight. 'tis a woman that shriek who hath given, golden-haired, with long tresses, and tall; for whose love many chiefs shall have striven, and great kings for her favours shall call. to the west she shall hasten, beguiling a great host, that from ulster shall steal: red as coral, her lips shall be smiling, as her teeth, white as pearls, they reveal: aye, that woman is fair, and great queens shall be fain of her form, that is faultless, unflawed by a stain. then cathbad laid his hand upon the body of the woman; and the little child moved beneath his hand: "aye, indeed," he said, "it is a woman child who is here: deirdre shall be her name, and evil woe shall be upon her." now some days after that came the girl child into the world; and then thus sang cathbad: o deirdre! of ruin great cause thou art; though famous, and fair, and pale: ere that felim's hid daughter from life shall part, all ulster her deeds shall wail. aye, mischief shall come, in the after-time, thou fair shining maid, for thee; hear ye this: usna's sons, the three chiefs sublime, to banishment forced shall be. while thou art in life, shall a fierce wild deed in emain, though late, be done: later yet, it shall mourn it refused to heed the guard of rog's powerful son. o lady of worth! it is to thee we owe that fergus to exile flies; that a son of king conor we hail in woe, when fiachna[fn#41] is hurt, and dies. o lady of worth! it is all thine the guilt! gerrc, illadan's son, is slain; and when eogan mac doorha's great life is spilt, not less shall be found our pain. grim deed shalt thou do, and in wrath shalt rave against glorious ulster's king: in that spot shall men dig thee thy tiny grave; of deirdre they long shall sing. [fn#41] pronounced feena. "let that maiden be slain!" cried out the young men of ulster; but "not so!" said conor; "she shall in the morning be brought to me, and shall be reared according to my will, and she shall be my wife, and in my companionship shall she dwell." the men of ulster were not so hardy as to turn him from his purpose, and thus it was done. the maiden was reared in a house that belonged to conor, and she grew up to be the fairest maid in all ireland. she was brought up at a distance from the king's court; so that none of the men of ulster might see her till the time came when she was to share the royal couch: none of mankind was permitted to enter the house where she was reared, save only her foster-father, and her foster-mother; and in addition to these levorcham, to whom naught could any refuse, for she was a witch. now once it chanced upon a certain day in the time of winter that the foster-father of deirdre had employed himself in skinning a calf upon the snow, in order to prepare a roast for her, and the blood of the calf lay upon the snow, and she saw a black raven who came down to drink it. and "levorcham," said deirdre, "that man only will i love, who hath the three colours that i see here, his hair as black as the raven, his cheeks red like the blood, and his body as white as the snow." "dignity and good fortune to thee!" said levorcham; "that man is not far away. yonder is he in the burg which is nigh; and the name of him is naisi, the son of usnach." "i shall never be in good health again," said deirdre, "until the time come when i may see him." it befell that naisi was upon a certain day alone upon the rampart of the burg of emain, and he sent his warrior-cry with music abroad: well did the musical cry ring out that was raised by the sons of usnach. each cow and every beast that heard them, gave of milk two-thirds more than its wont; and each man by whom that cry was heard deemed it to be fully joyous, and a dear pleasure to him. goodly moreover was the play that these men made with their weapons; if the whole province of ulster had been assembled together against them in one place, and they three only had been able to set their backs against one another, the men of ulster would not have borne away victory from those three: so well were they skilled in parry and defence. and they were swift of foot when they hunted the game, and with them it was the custom to chase the quarry to its death. now when this naisi found himself alone on the plain, deirdre also soon escaped outside her house to him, and she ran past him, and at first he know not who she might be. "fair is the young heifer that springs past me!" he cried. "well may the young heifers be great," she said, "in a place where none may find a bull." "thou hast, as thy bull," said he, "the bull of the whole province of ulster, even conor the king of ulster." "i would choose between you two," she said, "and i would take for myself a younger bull, even such as thou art." "not so indeed," said naisi, "for i fear the prophecy of cathbad." "sayest thou this, as meaning to refuse me?" said she. "yea indeed," he said; and she sprang upon him, and she seized him by his two ears. "two ears of shame and of mockery shalt thou have," she cried, "if thou take me not with thee." "release me, o my wife!" said he. "that will i." then naisi raised his musical warrior-cry, and the men of ulster heard it, and each of them one after another sprang up: and the sons of usnach hurried out in order to hold back their brother. "what is it," they said, "that thou dost? let it not be by any fault of thine that war is stirred up between us and the men of ulster." then he told them all that had been done; and "there shall evil come on thee from this," said they; "moreover thou shalt lie under the reproach of shame so long as thou dost live; and we will go with her into another land, for there is no king in all ireland who will refuse us welcome if we come to him." then they took counsel together, and that same night they departed, three times fifty warriors, and the same number of women, and dogs, and servants, and deirdre went with them. and for a long time they wandered about ireland, in homage to this man or that; and often conor sought to slay them, either by ambuscade or by treachery; from round about assaroe, near to ballyshannon in the west, they journeyed, and they turned them back to benn etar, in the north-east, which men to-day call the mountain of howth. nevertheless the men of ulster drave them from the land, and they came to the land of alba, and in its wildernesses they dwelled. and when the chase of the wild beasts of the mountains failed them, they made foray upon the cattle of the men of alba, and took them for themselves; and the men of alba gathered themselves together with intent to destroy them. then they took shelter with the king of alba, and the king took them into his following, and they served him in war. and they made for themselves houses of their own in the meadows by the king's burg: it was on account of deirdre that these houses were made, for they feared that men might see her, and that on her account they might be slain. now one day the high-steward of the king went out in the early morning, and he made a cast about naisi's house, and saw those two sleeping therein, and he hurried back to the king, and awaked him: "we have," said he, "up to this day found no wife for thee of like dignity to thyself. naisi the son of usnach hath a wife of worth sufficient for the emperor of the western world! let naisi be slain, and let his wife share thy couch." "not so!" said the king, "but do thou prepare thyself to go each day to her house, and woo her for me secretly." thus was it done; but deirdre, whatsoever the steward told her, was accustomed straightway to recount it each even to her spouse; and since nothing was obtained from her, the sons of usnach were sent into dangers, and into wars, and into strifes that thereby they might be overcome. nevertheless they showed themselves to be stout in every strife, so that no advantage did the king gain from them by such attempts as these. the men of alba were gathered together to destroy the sons of usnach, and this also was told to deirdre. and she told her news to naisi: "depart hence!" said she, "for if ye depart not this night, upon the morrow ye shall he slain!" and they marched away that night, and they betook themselves to an island of the sea. now the news of what had passed was brought to the men of ulster. "'tis pity, o conor!" said they, "that the sons of usnach should die in the land of foes, for the sake of an evil woman. it is better that they should come under thy protection,[fn#42] and that the (fated) slaying should be done here, and that they should come into their own land, rather than that they should fall at the hands of foes." "let them come to us then," said conor, "and let men go as securities to them." the news was brought to them. [fn#42] literally, "it is better their protection, and their slaying, and coming for them to their own land, &c." if this reading is right (and three mss. agree), the extended words of the text seem to give the intention: it is, however, possible that the reading should be, "it is better their protection than their slaying" (oldaas for ocus), which would make sense at once. the idea of the text seems to be that the sons of usnach were, owing to cathbad's prophecy, thought of as fated men; and it was only a question where they should be put to death. "this is welcome news for us," they said; "we will indeed come, and let fergus come as our surety, and dubhtach, and cormac the son of conor." these then went to them, and they moved them to pass over the sea. but at the contrivance of conor, fergus was pressed to join in an ale-feast, while the sons of usnach were pledged to eat no food in erin, until they had eaten the food of conor. so fergus tarried behind with dubhtach and cormac; and the sons of usnach went on, accompanied by fiacha, fergus' son; until they came to the meadows around emain. now at that time eogan the son of durthacht had come to emain to make his peace with conor, for they had for a long time been at enmity; and to him, and to the warmen of conor, the charge was given that they should slay the sons of usnach, in order that they should not come before the king. the sons of usnach stood upon the level part of. the meadows, and the women sat upon the ramparts of emain. and eogan came with his warriors across the meadow, and the son of fergus took his place by naisi's side. and eogan greeted them with a mighty thrust of his spear, and the spear brake naisi's back in sunder, and passed through it. the son of fergus made a spring, and he threw both arms around naisi, and he brought him beneath himself to shelter him, while he threw himself down above him; and it was thus that naisi was slain, through the body of the son of fergus. then there began a murder throughout the meadow, so that none escaped who did not fall by the points of the spears, or the edge of the sword, and deirdre was brought to conor to be in his power, and her arms were bound behind her back. now the sureties who had remained behind, heard what had been done, even fergus and dubhtach, and cormac. and thereon they hastened forward, and they forthwith performed great deeds. dubhtach slew, with the one thrust of his spear, mane a son of conor, and fiachna the son of feidelm, conor's daughter; and fergus struck down traigthren, the son of traiglethan, and his brother. and conor was wrath at this, and he came to the fight with them; so that upon that day three hundred of the men of ulster fell and dubhtach slew the women of ulster; and, ere the day dawned, fergus set emain on fire. then they went away into exile, and betook them to the land of connaught to find shelter with ailill and maev, for they knew that that royal pair would give them good entertainment. to the men of ulster the exiles showed no love: three thousand stout men went with them; and for sixteen years never did they allow cries of lamentation and of fear among the ulstermen to cease: each night their vengeful forays caused men to quake, and to wail. deirdre lived on for a year in the household of conor; and during all that time she smiled no smile of laughter; she satisfied not herself with food or with sleep, and she raised not her head from her knee. and if any one brought before her people of mirth, she used to speak thus: though eager troops, and fair to see,[fn#43] may home return, though these ye wait: when usna's sons came home to me, they came with more heroic state. with hazel mead, my naisi stood: and near our fire his bath i'd pour; on aindle's stately back the wood; on ardan's ox, or goodly boar. though sweet that goodly mead ye think that warlike conor drinks in hall, i oft have known a sweeter drink, where leaps in foam the waterfall: our board was spread beneath the tree, and naisi raised the cooking flame: more sweet than honey-sauced to me was meat, prepared from naisi's game. [fn#43] a literal rendering of this poem will be found in the notes, p. 187. though well your horns may music blow, though sweet each month your pipes may sound, i fearless say, that well i know a sweeter strain i oft have found. though horns and pipes be sounding clear, though conor's mind in these rejoice, more magic strain, more sweet, more dear was usna's children's noble voice. like sound of wave, rolled naisi's bass; we'd hear him long, so sweet he sang: and ardan's voice took middle place; and clearly aindle's tenor rang. now naisi lies within his tomb: a sorry guard his friends supplied; his kindred poured his cup of doom, that poisoned cup, by which he died. ah! berthan dear! thy lands are fair; thy men are proud, though hills be stern: alas! to-day i rise not there to wait for usna's sons' return. that firm, just mind, so loved, alas! the dear shy youth, with touch of scorn, i loved with him through woods to pass, and girding in the early morn. when bent on foes, they boded ill, those dear grey eyes, that maids adored; when, spent with toil, his troops lay still, through irish woods his tenor soared. for this it is, no more i sleep; no more my nails with pink i stain: no joy can break the watch i keep; for usna's sons come not again. for half the night no sleep i find; no couch can me to rest beguile: 'mid crowds of thoughts still strays my mind; i find no time to eat or smile. in eastern emain's proud array no time to joy is left for me; for gorgeous house, and garments gay, nor peace, nor joy, nor rest can be. and when conor sought to soothe her; thus deirdre would answer him: ah conor! what of thee! i naught can do! lament and sorrow on my life have passed: the ill you fashioned lives my whole life through; a little time your love for me would last. the man to me most fair beneath the sky, the man i loved, in death away you tore: the crime you did was great; for, till i die, that face i loved i never shall see more. that he is gone is all my sorrow still; before me looms the shape of usna's son; though o'er his body white is yon dark hill, there's much i'd lavish, if but him i won. i see his cheeks, with meadow's blush they glow; black as a beetle, runs his eyebrows' line; his lips are red; and, white as noble snow i see his teeth, like pearls they seem to shine. well have i known the splendid garb he bears, oft among alba's warriors seen of old: a crimson mantle, such as courtier wears, and edged with border wrought of ruddy gold. of silk his tunic; great its costly price; for full one hundred pearls thereon are sewn; stitched with findruine,[fn#44] bright with strange device, full fifty ounces weighed those threads alone. gold-hilted in his hand i see his sword; two spears he holds, with spear-heads grim and green; around his shield the yellow gold is poured, and in its midst a silver boss is seen. fair fergus ruin on us all hath brought! we crossed the ocean, and to him gave heed: his honour by a cup of ale was bought; from him hath passed the fame of each high deed. if ulster on this plain were gathered here before king conor; and those troops he'd give, i'd lose them all, nor think the bargain dear, if i with naisi, usna's son, could live. break not, o king, my heart to-day in me; for soon, though young, i come my grave unto: my grief is stronger than the strength of sea; thou, conor, knowest well my word is true. "whom dost thou hate the most," said conor, "of these whom thou now seest?" "thee thyself," she answered, "and with thee eogan the son of durthacht." [fn#44] pronounced find-roony; usually translated "white bronze." "then," said conor, "thou shalt dwell with eogan for a year;" and he gave deirdre over into eogan's hand. now upon the morrow they went away over the festal plain of macha, and deirdre sat behind eogan in the chariot; and the two who were with her were the two men whom she would never willingly have seen together upon the earth, and as she looked upon them, "ha, deirdre," said conor, "it is the same glance that a ewe gives when between two rams that thou sharest now between me and eogan!" now there was a great rock of stone in front of them, and deirdre struck her head upon that stone, and she shattered her head, and so she died. this then is the tale of the exile of the sons of usnach, and of the exile of fergus, and of the death of deirdre. the lament of deirdre over the sons of usnach according to the glenn masain version also the conclusion of the tale from the same version i grieved not, usna's sons beside; but long, without them, lags the day: their royal sire no guest denied; three lions from cave hill were they. three dragons bred in mona's fort are dead: to them from life i go; three chiefs who graced the red branch court, three rocks, who broke the rush of foe. o loved by many a british maid! o swift as hawks round gullion's peak! true sons of king, who warriors swayed, to whom bent chiefs in homage meek. no vassal look those champions wore; full grief is mine that such should die! those sons, whom cathbad's daughter bore; those props, who cualgne's[fn#45] war held high. [fn#45] pronounced kell-ny. three bears of might, to war they came; from oona's walls, like lions, burst; three hero-chiefs, who loved their fame; three sons, on ulster's bosom nursed. twas aife[fn#46] reared them; 'neath her yoke a kingdom bowed, and tribute brought; they propped the war, when armies broke, those foster-sons, whom scathach[fn#47] taught. the three, who once from bohvan's skill all feats have learned that heroes know; king usna's glorious sons! 'tis ill that these afar from me should go. that i should live, with naisi dead, let none such shame believe of me; when ardan's life, when ainnle's fled, but short my life i knew would be. great ulster's king my hand had won; i left him, naisi's love to find; till naisi's funeral rites be done, i wait a little while behind. this widowed life no more i'll bear; the three rejoiced, when toil they faced; where'er 'twas found, the war they'd dare, and proffered fight with joy embraced. a curse on cathbad's wizard spell! 'twas naisi's death! and i the cause! none came to aid that king, who well to all the world might grant his laws. [fn#46] pronounced eefa. [fn#47] pronounced ska-ha. o man, who diggest low the grave, and from my sight my love would hide, make wide the tomb; its room i crave, i come to seek my hero's side. great load of hardship i'd endure with joy, if yet those heroes my companions were; no lack of house or fire could then annoy, no gloom i'd know with them, nor aught of care. ah! many a time each shield and guardian spear to make my couch have piled those noble three: o labouring man, their grave who diggest here, their hardened swords above well set should be. the hounds of all the three their masters lack, their hawks no quarry leave, nor hear their call; the three are dead, who battle's line held back who learned their skill in conall cernach's hall! their hounds i view; from out my heart that sight hath struck a groan; behind their leashes trail, 'twas mine to hold them once, and keep them tight;, now slack they lie, and cause me thus to wail. oft in the desert i and they have strayed, yet never lonely was that desert known for all the three a grave to-day is made, and here i sit, and feel indeed alone. i gazed on naisi's grave, and now am blind, for naught remains to see; the worst is spent; my soul must leave me soon, no help i find, and they are gone, the folk of my lament. 'twas guile that crushed them: they would save my life and died therefor; themselves three billows strong: ere usna's children fell in cruel strife, would i had died, and earth had held me long! to red-branch hall we made our mournful way; deceitful fergus led; our lives he stole; a soft sweet speech indeed he'd learned to say, for me, for them was ruin near that goal. all ulster's pleasures now are nothing worth i shun them all, each chief, each ancient friend; alone i sit, as left behind on earth, and soon my lonely life in death shall end. i am deirdre, the joyless, for short time alive, though to end life be evil, 'tis worse to survive. and, after she had made this lament, deirdre seated herself in the tomb, and she gave three kisses to naisi before that he was laid in his grave; and with heaviness and grief cuchulain went on to dun delga. and cathbad the druid laid a curse upon emain macha to take vengeance for that great evil, and he said that, since that treachery had been done, neither king conor nor any other of his race should hold that burg. and as for fergus, the son of rossa the red, he came to emain macha on the morrow after the sons of usnach had been slain. and, when he found that they had been slain, and that his pledge had been dishonoured, he himself, and cormac the partner of exile, king conor's own son, also dubhtach, the beetle of ulster, and the armies they had with them, gave battle to the household of conor; and they slew maine the son of conor, and three hundred of conor's people besides. and emain macha was destroyed, and burned by them, and conor's women were slain, and they collected their adherents on every side; the number of their host was three thousand warriors. and they went away to the land of connaught, even to ailill the great, who was the king of connaught at that time, and to maev of croghan, and with them they found a welcome and support. moreover fergus and cormac the partner of exile and their warriors, after that they had come to the land of connaught, never let pass one single night wherein reavers went not forth from them to harry and burn the land of ulster, so that the district which men to-day call the land of cualgne was subdued by them; and from that in the after-time came between the two kingdoms much of trouble and theft; and in this fashion they spent seven years, or, as some say, ten years; nor was there any truce between them, no, not for one single hour. and while those deeds were doing, deirdre abode by conor in his household for a whole year after the sons of usnach had been slain. and, though it might have seemed but a small thing for her to raise her head, or to let laughter flow over her lips, yet she never did these things during all that time. and when conor saw that neither sport nor kindness could hold her; and that neither jesting nor pleasing honour could raise her spirits, he sent word to eogan the son of durthacht, the lord of fernmay;[fn#48] as some tell the story, it was this eogan who had slain naisi in emain macha. and after that eogan had come to the place where conor was, conor gave command to deirdre that, since he himself had failed to turn her heart from her grief, she must depart to eogan, and spend another space of time with him. and with that she was placed behind eogan in his chariot, and conor went also in the chariot in order to deliver deirdre into eogan's hand. and as they went on their way, she cast a fierce glance at eogan in front of her, and another at conor behind her; for there was nothing in all the world that she hated more than those two men. and when conor saw this, as he looked at her and at eogan, he said: "ah deirdre! it is the glance of a ewe when set between two rams that thou castest on me and on eogan!" and when deirdre heard that, she sprang up, and she made a leap out of the chariot, and she struck her head against the stony rocks that were in front of her, and she shattered her head so that the brains leapt out, and thus came to deirdre her death. [fn#48] the irish is fernmag; written fearnmhuidh in the late manuscript of this part of the tale. this is the tree of their race, and an account of the kinships of some of the champions of the red branch, which is given here before we proceed to speak of the deeds of cuchulain: 'twas cathbad first won magach's love, and arms around her threw; from maelchro's loins, the battle chief, his princely source he drew; two, more in love she knew, of these the wrath was long and dread, fierce rossa, named the ruddy-faced, and carbre, thatched with red. to all the three were children born, and all with beauty graced, to cathbad, and to carbre red, and rossa ruddy-faced; a gracious three indeed were they to whom she gave her love, fair magach, brown the lashes were that slept her eyes above. three sons to rossa ruddy-faced as children magach bore; to carbre sons again she gave, the count of these was four; and three white shoots of grace were hers, on these no shame shall fall; to cathbad children three she bare, and these were daughters all. to cathbad, who in wizard lore and all its arts had might, three daughters lovely magach bore, each clothed in beauty white; all maids who then for grace were famed in grace those maids surpassed, and finuchoem,[fn#49] ailbhe twain he named, and deithchim named the last. [fn#49] pronounced finn-hoom, ail-vy, and die-himm. to finnchoem, wizard cathbad's child, was born a glorious son, and well she nursed him, conall wild, who every field hath won; and ailbhe glorious children bare in whom no fear had place, these ardan, ainnle, naisi were, who came of usnach's race. a son to deithchim fair was born, a bright-cheeked mother she; she bore but one: cuchulain of dun delga's hold was he: of those whom cathbad's daughters reared the names full well ye know, and none of these a wound hath feared, or therefore shunned a foe. the sons of usnach, who like shields their friends protected well, by might of hosts on battle-field to death were borne, and fell; and each was white of skin, and each his friends in love would hold, now naught remains for song to teach, the third of griefs is told. the combat at the ford introduction this version of the "combat at the ford," the best-known episode of the irish romance or romantic epic, the "war of cualnge," will hardly be, by irish scholars, considered to want a reference. it is given in the book of leinster, which cannot have been written later than 1150 a.d., and differs in many respects from the version in the fourteenth-century book of lecan, which is, for the purposes of this text, at least equal in authority to the leabbar na h-uidhri, which must have been written before 1100 a.d. mr. alfred nutt has kindly contributed a note on the comparison of the two versions, which has been placed as a special note at the end of the translation of the "combat." to this note may be added the remark that the whole of the leabhar na h-uidhri version of the "war of cualnge" seems, to be subject to the same criticisms that have to be passed on the "sickbed" and the "courtship of etain" in the same volume, viz. that it is a compilation from two or three different versions of the same story, and is not a connected and consistent romance, which the version in the book of leinster appears to be. as an illustration of this, the appearance of conall cernach as on the side of connaught in the early part of the l.u. version may be mentioned; he is never so represented in other versions of the "war." in the description of the array of ulster at the end of l.u., he is noted as being expected to be with the ulster army but as absent (following in this the book of leinster, but not a later manuscript which agrees with the book of leinster in the main); then at the end of the l.u. version conall again appears in the connaught army and saves conor from fergus, taking the place of cormac in the book of leinster version. miss faraday, in her version of the "war" as given in l.u., notes the change of style at page 82 of her book. several difficulties similar to that of the position of conall could be mentioned; and on the whole it seems as if the compiler of the manuscript from which both the leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan were copied, combined into one several different descriptions of the "war," one of which is represented by the book of leinster version. this version shows no signs of patchwork, at any rate in the story of the "combat at the ford;" which has, ever since it was reintroduced to the world by o'curry, been renowned for the chivalry of its action. it forms one of the books of aubrey de vere's "foray of queen meave," and is there well reproduced, although with several additions; perhaps sufficient attention has not. been paid to the lofty position of the character, as distinguished from the prowess, that this version gives to cuchulain. the first verse, put in cuchulain's mouth, strikes a new note, contrasting alike with the muddle-headed bargaining of ferdia and maev, and the somewhat fussy anxiety of fergus. the contrast between the way in which cuchulain receives fergus's report of the valour of ferdia, and that in which ferdia receives the praises of cuchulain from his charioteer, is well worked out; cuchulain, conscious of his own strength, accepts all fergus's praises of his opponent and adds to them; ferdia cannot bear to hear of cuchulain's valour, and charges his servant with taking a bribe from his enemy in order to frighten him. ferdia boasts loudly of what he will do, cuchulain apologises for his own confidence in the issue of the combat, and gently banters fergus, who is a bit of a boaster himself, on the care he had taken to choose the time for the war when king conor was away, with a modest implication that he himself was a poor substitute for the king. cuchulain's first two stanzas in the opening dialogue between himself and ferdia show a spirit quite as truculent as that of his opponent; the reason of this being, as indicated in the first of these stanzas and more explicitly stated in the preceding prose, that his anxiety for his country is outweighing his feeling for his friend; but in the third stanza he resumes the attitude of conscious strength that marks all his answers to fergus; and this, added to a feeling of pity for his friend's inevitable fate, is maintained up to the end of the tale. in the fourth stanza, which is an answer to a most insulting speech from ferdia, he makes the first of those appeals to his former friend to abandon his purpose that come from him throughout the first three days of the fight; even in the fatal battle of the fourth day, he will not at first put forward all his strength, and only uses the irresistible gae-bulg when driven to it by his foe. the number of cuchulain's laments after the battle--there are five of these (one in prose), besides his answers to laeg--has been adversely criticised; and it is just possible that one or more of these come from some other version, and have been incorporated by a later hand than that of the author; but the only one that seems to me not to develop the interest is the "brooch of gold," which it may be noticed is very like the only lament which is preserved in the book of lecan text of the l.u. version. cuchulain's allusion to aife's only son in the first verse lament is especially noticeable (see note, p. 196). ferdia's character, although everywhere inferior to that of his victor, is also a heroic one; he is represented at the commencement of the episode as undertaking the fight for fear of disgrace if he refused; and this does appear to be represented throughout as the true reason; his early boasts and taunts are obviously intended to conquer a secret uneasiness, and the motif of a passion for finnabar with which cuchulain charges him hardly appears outside cuchulain's speeches, and has not the importance given to it in the leabhar na h-uidhri version. the motif of resentment against cuchulain for a fancied insult, invented by maev, which is given in the l.u. version as the determining cause, does not appear in the leinster version at all; and that of race enmity of the firbolg against the celt, given to him by aubrey de vere, is quite a modern idea and is in none of the old versions. his dialogue with maev suggests that, as stated in the text, he was then slightly intoxicated; his savage language to his servant gives the idea of a man who feels himself in the wrong and makes himself out to be worse than he is by attributing to himself the worst motives, the hope of pay; but as the battle proceeds he shows himself equal to cuchulain in generosity, and in the dialogue at the beginning of the third day's fight his higher character comes out, for while his old boastfulness appears in one passage of it, and is immediately repressed, the language of both heroes in this dialogue is noticeable for a true spirit of chivalry. the mutual compliments, "thy kingly might," "fair graceful hound" "gently ruling hound" recall the french "beausire"; it may be also noted that these compliments are paid even when ferdia is protesting against cuchulain's reproaches; similar language is used elsewhere, as "much thine arms excel" (page 122), and "cuchulain for beautiful feats renowned" (page 134). it may be considered that these passages are an indication that the episode is late, but it should be noticed that the very latest date that can possibly be assigned to it, the eleventh century, precedes that of all other known romances of chivalry by at least a hundred years. to this later attitude of ferdia, and to that maintained by cuchulain throughout the whole episode, nothing in french or welsh romance of approximately so early a date can be compared. is it not possible that the chivalric tone of the later welsh romances, like the "lady of the fountain," which is generally supposed to have come from france, really came from an irish model? and that this tone, together with the arthurian saga, passed to the continent? a great contrast to both the two heroes is afforded by the introduction of laeg with his cries of exultation, which come between the dying groans of ferdia and the fine prose lament of cuchulain, increasing the effect of both. laeg seems quite unable to see his master's point of view, and he serves as a foil for ferdia, just as the latter's inferiority increases the character of cuchulain. the consistency of the whole, and the way in which our sympathy is awakened for ferdia contrast with the somewhat disconnected character of the l.u. version, which as it stands gives a poor idea of the defeated champion; although, as mr. nutt suggests, the lost part may have improved this idea, and the version has beauties of its own. for the convenience of those readers who may be unacquainted with the story of the war, the following short introduction is given:-at a time given by the oldest irish annalists as a.d. 29, the war of cualnge was undertaken by maev, queen of connaught, against the kingdom or province of ulster. gathering together men from all the other four provinces of ireland, maev marched against ulster, the leaders of her army being herself, her husband ailill, and fergus the son of rog, an exile from ulster, and formerly, according to one account, king of that province. not only had maev great superiority in force, but the time she ed chosen for the war was when conor, king of ulster, and with him nearly all his principal warriors, were on their sick-bed in accordance with a curse that had fallen on them in return for a cruel deed that he and his people had done. one hero however, cuchulain, the greatest of the ulster heroes, was unaffected by this curse; and he, with only a few followers, but with supernatural aid from demi-gods of whose race he came, had caused much loss to the queen and her army, so that maev finally made this compact: she was each day to provide a champion to oppose cuchulain, and was to be permitted to advance so long as that combat lasted; if her champion was killed, she was to halt her army until the next morning. before the combat at the ford between cuchulain and ferdia, cuchulain had killed many of maev's champions in duel, and the epic romance of the "war of cualnge" gives the full story of these combats and of the end of the war. the episode given in the following pages commences at the camp of queen maev, where her chiefs are discussing who is to be their champion against cuchulain on the following day. the combat at the ford an episode of the cattle spoil of cualnge in the book of leinster version at that time debate was held among the men of ireland who should be the man to go early in the morning of the following day to make combat and fight with cuchulain. and all agreed that ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dire, was the man who should go; even the great and valiant champion of the men of irross donnand, for the manner in which he fought and did battle was like to the manner of cuchulain. they had got their skill in arms, and valour, and bravery from the same teachers, from scathach, from uathach, and from aife[fn#50]; nor had either of them advantage over the other except that cuchulain alone could perform the feat of the gae-bulg. yet ferdia was fenced by a horny skin-protecting armour, and this should guard him when he faced a hero in battle and combat at the ford. so to ferdia were sent messengers and heralds; but ferdia denied the heralds, and he refused to depart with them, for well he knew why it was he was called; even to fight against his own friend, his comrade and fellow-pupil cuchulain; and for that cause he came not with the heralds who were sent. [fn#50] pronounced scaha, ooha, and eefa: scaha and ooha end with a slight guttural like the ch in the scotch lock, difficult to express in english. and then did maev send to ferdia druids, and satirists and revilers, in order that against him should be made three crushing reproaches, and three satires; that the stains of shame, and of blemish, and of disgrace should be raised on his face; so that even if he died not at once, death should be his within the space of nine days if he went with them not. and for the sake of his honour, ferdia came at their call; for to him it was better to fall before the shafts of valour, of bravery, and of daring than by the stings of satire, of abuse, and of reproach. and he, when he arrived, was received with all worship and service, and was served with pleasant, sweet intoxicating liquor, so that his brain reeled, and he became gently merry. and these were the great rewards that were promised to him if he consented to make that combat and fight: a chariot of the value of four times seven cumals, and the equipment of twelve men with garments of all colours, and the length and breadth of his own territory on the choice part of the plains of maw ay; free of tribute, without purchase, free from the incidents of attendance at courts and of military service, that therein his son, and his grandson, and all his descendants might dwell in safety to the end of life and time; also finnabar the daughter of maev as his wedded wife, and the golden brooch which was in the cloak of queen maev in addition to all this. and thus ran the speech of maev, and she spake these words, and thus did ferdia reply: maev of rings great treasure sending,[fn#51] wide plains and woodlands bending i grant: till time hath ending i free thy tribe and kin. o thou who oft o'ercamest! 'tis thine what gift thou namest! why hold'st thou back, nor claimest a boon that all would win? [fn#51] the metre of this dialogue and rhyme-system are taken from the irish but one syllable has been added to each line. the exact irish metre is that given on page 129. ferdia a bond must hold thee tightly, no force i lend thee lightly; dread strife 'twill be; for rightly he bears that name of "hound." for sharp spear-combat breaketh that morn; hard toil it waketh the war cuchulain maketh shall fearless war be found. maev our chiefs, with oaths the gravest, shall give the pledge thou cravest; for thee, of all men bravest, brave bridled steeds shall stand. from tax my word hath freed thee, to hostings none shall lead thee, as bosom friend i need thee, as first in all the land. ferdia mere words are naught availing if oaths to bind be failing; that wondrous ford-fight hailing, all time its tale shall greet: though sun, moon, sea for ever and earth from me i sever; though death i win--yet never, unpledged, that war i'll meet. maev these kings and chiefs behind me their oaths shall pledge to bind me: with boundless wealth thou'lt find me, with wealth too great to pay. 'tis thou who oaths delayest; 'tis done whate'er thou sayest; for well i know thou slayest the foe who comes to slay. ferdia ere thou to slaughter lure me, six champions' oaths procure me; till these rewards assure me i meet, for thee, no foe: if six thou grant as gages, i'll face the war he wages, and where cuchulain rages, a lesser chief, i go. maev in chariots donnal raceth, fierce strife wild neeman faceth, their halls the bards' song graceth, yet these in troth i bind. firm pledge morand is making, none carpri min knew breaking his troth: thine oath he's taking; two sons to pledge i find. ferdia much poison, maev, inflameth thy heart; no smile thee tameth but well the land thee nameth proud queen of croghan's hold; thy power no man can measure; 'tis i will do thy pleasure; now send thy silken treasure, thy silver gifts, and gold. maev this brooch, as champion's token, i give of troth unbroken; all words my lips have spoken performed shall sunday see. thou glorious chief, who darest this fight, i give thee rarest of gifts on earth, and fairest, yea greater meed shall be. for findabar my daughter; all elgga's chiefs have sought her; when thou that hound shalt slaughter, i give in love to thee. and then did maev bind ferdia in an easy task; that on the next day he was to come to combat and fight with six of her champions, or to make duel against cuchulain; whichever of the two he should think the easier. and ferdia on his side bound her by a condition that seemed to him easy for her to fulfil: even that she should lay it upon those same six champions to see to it that all those things she had promised to him should be fulfilled, in case cuchulain should meet death at ferdia's hand. thereupon fergus caused men to harness for him his horses, and his chariot was yoked, and he went to that place where cuchulain was that he might tell him what had passed, and cuchulain bade him welcome. i am rejoiced at your coming, o my good friend fergus," said cuchulain. and i gladly accept thy welcome, o my pupil," said fergus. but i have now come hither in order to tell thee who that man is who comes to combat and fight with thee early on the morning of the day which is at hand." "we shall give all heed to thy words," said cuchulain. "'tis thine own friend," said fergus, "thy companion, and thy fellow pupil; thine equal in feats and in deeds and in valour: even ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare, the great and valiant champion of the men of irross donnan." "truly," said cuchulain, "i make mine oath to thee that i am sorry that my friend should come to such a duel." "therefore," said fergus, "it behoves thee to be wary and prepared, for unlike to all those men who have come to combat and fight with thee upon the tain be cuailgne is ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare." "i have stood here," said cuchulain, "detaining and delaying the men of the four great provinces of ireland since the first monday in samhain (november) till the beginning of the spring, and not one foot have i gone back before any one man during all that time, nor shall i, as i trust, yield before him." and in this manner did fergus continue to put him on his guard, and these were the words that he spoke, and thus did cuchulain reply: fergus rise, cuchulain! foes are near,[fn#52] all their covenant is clear; daman's ruddy son in rage comes the war with thee to wage. [fn#52] the metre is that of the irish; a literal rendering of the whole dialogue is given in the notes, p. 191. cuchulain here i stand, whose valiant toil erin's bands held back from spoil; never a foot of ground they won, never a foe they found me shun. fergus fierce is he in rage; his trust in his blade's deep searching thrust: plates of horn protect his side, pierced by none his strength who tried. cuchulain fergus, much thine arms excel; cease, this tale no longer tell land is none, nor battle-field where to his my strength must yield. fergus he is fierce, with scores can fight, spear nor sword can on him bite; from that strength, a hundred's match, hard 'twill be the prize to snatch. cuchulain yea! ferdia's power i know; how from foughten field we go; how was fought our piercing war, bards shall tell to ages far. fergus loss of much i'd little mourn could i hear how, eastward borne, great cuchulain's bloody blade proud ferdia's spoils displayed. cuchulain though in boasts i count me weak, hear me now as braggart speak: daman's son, of darry's race, soon shall i, his victor, face. fergus brought by me, hosts eastward came, ulster sought to hurt my fame; here have come, to ease my grief, many a champion, many a chief. cuchulain sickness conor's might withheld, else his sight thy host had quelled; less the shouts of joy had been, raised by maev, maw scayl's high queen. fergus greater deeds than done by me o cuchulain! thine shall be: daman's son thy battle nears; hear thy friend! keep hard thy spears. then fergus returned to where the army was encamped: ferdia, also went from maev and came to his own tent; and there he found his followers, and he told them how he had been bound to maev as in an easy task, that he was on the morrow to combat and fight with six of her champions, or to make duel with cuchulain, whichever of the two he might think the easier. also he told them how she had been bound by a condition that was easy for her to grant: that she should lay it on these same six champions to see that her promises to him of rewards should be fulfilled in case cuchulain met his death at ferdia's hand. there was no cheerfulness, or happiness, or even melancholy pleasure among the inmates of ferdia's camp that night: they were all cheerless, and sorrowful, and low in spirit; for they knew that whenever those two champions, those two slayers of hundreds met, one of the two must fall in that place, or that both of them should fall: and if one only was to fall they were sure that that one would be their own master; for it was not easy for any man to combat and fight with cuchulain on the tain bo cuailnge. now the first part of that night ferdia slept very heavily, and when the middle of the night had come his sleep had left him, and the dizziness of his brain has passed away, and care for the combat and the fight pressed heavily upon him. then he called for his charioteer to harness his horses, and to yoke his chariot; and the charioteer began to rebuke him, if haply he might turn him from his purpose. "it would be better for thee to stay!" said the charioteer. "be thou silent, o my servant!" said ferdia, and he then spoke the words that follow, and thus did his servant reply to him:-ferdia 'tis a challenge provoking to war, and i go where the ravens' hoarse croaking shall rise for my foe: with cuchulain still seeking the strife at yon ford; till his strong body, reeking, be pierced by my sword! servant nay, thy threats show no meekness; yet here thou should'st stay; for on thee shall come weakness, woe waits on thy way: for by ulster's rock broken this battle may be, and it long shall be spoken how ill 'twas to thee. ferdia an ill word art thou saying; it fits not our race that a champion, delaying from fight, should thee grace. then thy speech, my friend, fetter, no foe will we fear; but, since valour is better, his challenge we near. then ferdia's horses were harnessed for him, and his chariot was yoked, and he came forward to the ford of battle; but when he had come there he found that the full light of the day had not yet dawned, and "o my servant!" said ferdia, "spread out for me the cushions and skins that are upon my chariot, that i may rest upon them till i take the deep repose of refreshing sleep, for during the latter part of this night have i taken no rest, on account of the care that i had for this combat and fight." and the servant unharnessed his horses, and he placed together the cushions and the skins that were upon the chariot, so that ferdia might rest upon them, and he sank into the deep repose of refreshing sleep. now in this place i will tell of the acts of cuchulain. he rose not at all from his couch until the full light of the day; and this he did in order that the men of ireland should not be able to say that it was from fear or from dread that he rose, if it had been early that he had arisen. and when the full daylight had come, he commanded his charioteer to harness for him his horses, and to yoke his chariot: "o my servant!" said cuchulain, "harness for us our horses, and put the yoke to our chariot, for early rises the champion who cometh to meet us this day: even ferdia, the son of daman, the son of dare." "the horses are harnessed," said the charioteer, "and the chariot is yoked; step thou into it, for it will bring no shame on thy valour." then did cuchulain, the fighter of battles, the skilful in feats, the winner of victory, that red-sworded hero, the son of sualtam, leap into his chariot. all around him screamed the bocanachs, and the bananachs, and the wild people of the glens, and the demons of the air; for it was the custom of the people of the wizard race of danu to raise their cries about him in every battle, on every stricken field, in every duel, and in every fight to which he went, that thereby in such fight the hatred, and the fear, and the avoidance, and the terror that men felt for him should be increased. in no short time the charioteer of ferdia heard the roar of cuchulain's approach; the clamour, and the hissing, and the tramp; and the thunder, and the clatter, and the buzz: for he heard the shields that were used as missiles clank together as they touched; and he heard the spears hiss, and the swords clash, and the helmet tinkle, and the armour ring; and the arms sawed one against the other, and the javelins swung, and the ropes strained, and the wheels of the chariot clattered, and the chariot creaked, and the hoofs of the horses trampled on the ground as that warrior and champion came forward in triumph to the ford, and approached him. then that servant of ferdia arose, and he placed his hand upon his lord: "arise now, o ferdia!" said the servant, "for here they come towards thee, even to the ford;" and this was the speech of the driver of the chariot of ferdia as he stood before him: lo! a chariot yoked with silver, creaking loud, draws nigh;[fn#53] o'er the chariot-wheels a man his perfect form rears high: the warlike car rolls on from far braeg ross, from braina's bounds; past that burg they ride whose wooded side the roadway rounds; for its triumphs high in triumph cry its song resounds. [fn#53] for a literal translation of the above poem and another rendering, see the notes. urged by hero-hound, and yoked by charioteer's hand true, flies the war-car southward ever; nobler hawk ne'er flew than he who speeds his rushing steeds, that chief of stubborn might; soon the blood to flow from slaughtered foe shall meet his sight; sure for us 'tis ill, for soon with skill he gives us fight. woe to him who here on hillock stands, that hound to wait; emain macha's perfect hound is he, foretold by fate: last year i cried that him i spied who guards his land from foe: that battle-hound, on whom are found all hues to glow: 'twas then from far i heard that car: its sound i know. "o my servant!" said ferdia, "wherefore is it: that thou hast continued in thy praise of this man ever since the time that i left my tent? surely it must be a reward that thou seekest at his hand, so greatly dost thou extol him; yet ailill and maev have foretold that it is by me he shall fall. certain it is that for sake of the fee i shall gain he shall be slain quickly; and 'tis full time that the relief that we wait for should come." thus then it was that in that place he spoke these words, and thus did his servant reply: ferdia 'tis time that i grant my assistance! be still: let thy praise of him sink: peer not, like a seer, at the distance; wilt fail me on battle-field's brink? though cualgne's proud champion, displaying his gambols and pride thou dost see; full soon shalt thou witness his slaying for price to be paid down to me. servant if he who this glory is showing be champion of cualgne indeed; 'tis not in retreat he is going; to meet us he cometh with speed: he comes, nor 'tis slowly he blunders, like wind his swift journey he makes; as stream, from the cliff-top that thunders; as bolt, from the storm-cloud that breaks. ferdia 'tis pay at his hand thou hast taken, so loudly resoundeth thy praise; else why, since our tent was forsaken, hast sung with such frequence thy lays? men, like thou, who, when foes are appearing, would to chant the foe's praises begin, will attack not, when battle is nearing, but the name of base cowards shall win. now the charioteer of ferdia was not long in that place before he saw a marvellous sight; for before his eyes came the beautiful five-pointed, four-peaked chariot, skilfully driven with swiftness and power. a canopy of green overspread it; thin and well-seasoned was the body of it; lofty and long were the spears that adorned it; well was it fashioned for war. under the yokes of that chariot sped forward with great bounds two great-eared, savage, and prancing steeds; bellies had they like whales, broad were their chests, and quick-panting their hearts; their flanks were high, and their hoofs wide; their pasterns fine, their loins broad, and their spirits untamable. the horse under one of the yokes was grey, with a long mane and with broad hind quarters; swiftly he galloped, and his leaps were great; the horse beneath the other yoke was black, his mane was in tufts, his back was broad, and eager was his pace. as a hawk, on a day when the wind bloweth hard, darts up from the furrow; as the gusts of the wind in spring sweep forward over a smooth plain upon a day in march; swift as a going stag at the beginning of the chase, after he hath been roused by the cry of the hounds; such was the pace of the two steeds that bore forward cuchulain and his chariot, touching upon the soil as rapidly as if the stones that they trod on were hot with the fire, so that the whole earth trembled and shook at the violence of their going. and cuchulain reached the ford, and ferdia awaited him on the south side of it, and cuchulain halted his horses upon the north. then did ferdia bid welcome to cuchulain: "o cuchulain!" said ferdia, i rejoice to see thine approach." "thy welcome would have been received by me upon an earlier day," said cuchulain, "but this day i cannot receive it as one from a friend. and ferdia," said he, "it were more suitable that it was i who bade welcome to thee rather than that thou shouldest welcome me; for out in flight before thee are my women, and my children; my youths, and my steeds, and my mares; my flocks, and my herds, and my cattle." "ah, cuchulain!" said ferdia, "how hast thou been persuaded to come to this fight and this battle at all? for when we were with scathach, with uathach, and with aife, thou wert mine attendant; thine was the office to whet my spears, and to make ready my couch." "'tis true indeed," said cuchulain, "but it was then as thy younger in years and in standing that it was my custom to perform this office for thee; and that is not my quality to-day; for now there is not in all the world any champion with whom i would refuse to fight." and then each of them reproached the other bitterly with breach of friendship, and there ferdia spoke the words which here follow, and thus did cuchulain reply: ferdia hound! why hither faring,[fn#54] strife with strong ones daring? as if home were flaring, woe shall come on thee! blood from out thee draining shall thy steeds be staining; thou, thy home if gaining, wounded sore shalt be. [fn#54] the metre is that of the irish. cuchulain hot with indignation, take i battle-station, face yon warrior nation, round their warlike king: they shall see me meet thee, count the strifes that greet thee, watch, as down i beat thee, drowning, suffering. ferdia here is one to shame thee; how 'twas i o'ercame thee, they who champion name thee long the tale shall tell. ulster, near thee lying, soon shall see thee dying; all shall say, with sighing, theirs the chief who fell. cuchulain thine shall be the choosing; say, what warfare using hosts shall see thee losing at the ford this fight? swords dost choose, hard-clashing cars, in conflict crashing? spears, thy life-blood splashing? 'tis thy death in sight. ferdia ere the twilight gleameth, red thy life-blood streameth: small thy stature seemeth, like a cliff thy foe. ulster's hosts who prated, and thy pride inflated; through them feel thy hated spectre sadly go. cuchulain down a chasm appalling thou to death art falling; one thy foe: yet galling weapons press thee sore. proud thou wert but lately, strife shall change thee greatly, thee as champion stately earth shall know no more. ferdia cease this endless vaunting, speech for ever flaunting, thou a chief! a taunting, giggling child thou art. none would pay, or fee thee, i as coward see thee; strength hast none to free thee, caged bird! quaking heart! cuchulain ah! in bygone story we, as peers in glory, sports and combats gory shared when scaha taught: thou, of all who nearest to my soul appearest! clansman! kinsman dearest! woe thy fate hath brought! ferdia naught this strife avails thee, glory fades, and fails thee; cock-crow loudly hails thee, high on stake thy head! cualgne's[fn#55] hound, cuchulain! faults thy soul bear rule in: thee to bitter schooling frantic grief hath led. [fn#55] pronounced kell-ny. "o my friend ferdia!" said cuchulain, "it was not right for thee to have come to the combat and the fight with me, at the instigation and the meddling of ailill and maev: none of those who came before thee have gained for themselves victory or success, and they all fell at my hand; neither shalt thou win victory or success from this battle, by me shalt thou fall." and it was in this manner that he was speaking, and he recited these words, and ferdia hearkened to him: come not near, thou powerful man![fn#56] o ferdia mac daman: worst of woe on thee is hurled, though thy fate shall grieve the world. [fn#56] the metre is that of the irish. come not near, nor right forget in my hand thy fate is set: those recall, whom late i fought, hath their fall no wisdom taught? thou for gifts wert passed in sale, purple sash, firm coat of mail; never maid, o daman's son! in this war of thine is won. findabar, maev's lovely child, with her form thy sense beguiled: brightly though her beauty glows, she no love on thee bestows. wouldst thou win the prize they bring, findabar, the child of king? many ere now that maid could cheat here, like thee, their wounds to meet. thou hast sworn, and plighted. troth, ne'er to fight me: keep thine oath: friendship's tie thee firm should hold, come not nigh me, champion bold. fifty chiefs, who sought that maid, fought me, fell, in earth are laid; well i know that tempting bait, all have found, and earned their fate. ferbay fell, though bold his boast, him obeyed a valiant host; quickly here his rage i stilled; cast my spear but once, and killed. cruel fate srub darry slew, tales of hundred dames he knew; great his fame in days of yore; silver none, 'twas gold he wore. though that maid, whom erin's best hope to gain, my heart would charm; south and north, and east and west i would keep thee safe from harm. "and, o my friend ferdia!" said cuchulain "this is the cause why it was not thy part to come here to the combat and the fight with me. it is because that when with scathach, with uathach, and with aife we abode, it was the custom with us that together we should go to every battle, and to every field of battle; to every fight and to every skirmish; to every forest and to all wildernesses; to all things dark and difficult." these were the words of his speech, and it was in that place that he recited these staves: tuned our hearts were beating, we, where chiefs were meeting, brotherly went: when slumbering one was our couch: we sought fierce fights, and fought. oft in woods that are far away joined we stood in our skilful play; scathach our feats had taught. and ferdia replied to him thus: o cuchulain! for beautiful feats renowned, though together we learned our skill; though thou tellest of friendship that once we found, from me shall come first thine ill; ah, recall not the time of our friendship's day: it shall profit thee nothing, o hound, i say. "for too long now have we thus waited," said ferdia; "tell me now o cuchulain! to what weapons shall we resort?" "thou hast the choice of the weapons till the night," said cuchulain, "because thou wert the first to reach the ford." "hast thou any remembrance," said ferdia, "of the weapons for casting, that we were accustomed to practise the use of when we were with scathach, with uathach, and with aife?" "i do indeed remember them," said cuchulain." "if thou rememberest them, let us resort to them now," said ferdia. then they resorted to their weapons used for the casting. they took up two shields for defence, with devices emblazoned upon them, and their eight shields with sharp edges such that they could hurl, and their eight javelins, and their eight ivory-hilted dirks, and their eight little darts for the fight. to and fro from one to the other, like bees upon a sunny day, flew the weapons, and there was no cast that they threw that did not hit. each of them then continued to shoot at the other with their weapons for casting, from the dawn of the morning to the full middle of the day, until all of their weapons had been blunted against the faces and the bosses of their shields; and although their casting was most excellent, yet so good was the defence that neither of them wounded the other nor drew the other's blood during all that time. "cease now from these feats, o cuchulain!" said ferdia, "for it is not by means of these that the struggle between us shall come." "let us cease indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time for ceasing hath arrived." and they ceased from their casting, and they threw the weapons they had used for it into the hands of their charioteers. "to what weapons shall we next resort, o cuchulain?" said ferdia. "thou hast the choice of weapons until the night," said cuchulain, "because thou wert the first to reach the ford." "then," said ferdia, "let us turn to our straight, well-trimmed, hard, and polished casting-spears with tough cords of flax upon them." "let us do so indeed," said cuchulain. then they took two stout shields of defence, and they turned to their straight, well-trimmed, hard, and polished casting-spears with the tough cords of flax upon them, and each of them continued to hurl his spears at the other from the middle of midday until the ninth hour of the evening: and though the defence was most excellent that each of them made, yet so good was the casting of the spears that each of them wounded the other at that time, and drew red blood from him. "let us desist from this now, o cuchulain!" said ferdia. "let us desist indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time has come." they ceased, and they threw away their weapons into their charioteers' hands; and each of them at the end of that fight sought the other, and each threw his arms about the other's neck, and gave him three kisses. their horses were in the same paddock that night, the men who had driven their chariots sat by the same fire, moreover the charioteers of both those warriors spread couches of fresh rushes for the two, and supplied them with such pillows as are needed by wounded men. and such folk as can heal and cure came to heal and to cure them, and they applied soothing and salving herbs and plants to their bruises, and their cuts, and their gashes, and to all their many wounds. and of every soothing and salving herb and plant that was brought for the bruises, the cuts, and the gashes, and all the wounds of cuchulain, he used to send an equal portion westward across the ford to ferdia, so that in case ferdia fell at his hand the men of ireland should not be able to say that it was owing to superiority in leech-craft that he had done it. and of each kind of food, and of pleasant, palatable, intoxicating drink that the men of ireland brought to ferdia, he would send a fair half northward across the ford to cuchulain; for the men who provided food for ferdia were more in number than they who provided food for cuchulain. all the army of the men of ireland helped to provide ferdia with food, because he was their champion to defend them against cuchulain; yet to cuchulain also food was brought by the people who dwell in the breg. and it was the custom with these that they came to converse with him at the dusk of each night. thus they remained that night, but early in the morning they arose, and repaired to the ford of combat. "what weapons shall we turn to to-day, o ferdia?" said cuchulain. "thou hast the choice of weapons until the night," answered ferdia, "because it is i who had my choice of them in the day that is past." "let us then," said cuchulain, "resort to our great, broad-bladed, heavy spears this day, for nearer shall we be to our battle by the thrusting of our spears this day than we were by the throwing weapons of yesterday: let our horses be harnessed for us, and our chariots yoked, that upon this day from our chariots and our horses we may fight." "let us turn to these indeed," said ferdia. they then took to them two exceedingly stout, broad shields, and they resorted to their great, broad-bladed, heavy spears that day. and each of them continued to thrust at, and to pierce through, and to redden, and to tear the body of the other from the dawn of the morning until the ninth hour of the evening; and if it were the custom for birds in their flight to pass through the bodies of men, they could have passed through the bodies of those warriors that day, carrying with them pieces of their flesh from their wounds into the clouds and to the sky around them. so when the ninth hour of the evening was come, the horses were weary, and the charioteers were weak; and they themselves, champions and heroes of valour as they were, had themselves become weary; and "let us cease now from this, o ferdia!" said cuchulain, "for our horses are weary, and our charioteers are weak; and now that these are weary, why should not we be weary too?" and then it was that he sang this stave: not like fomorians, men of the sea, stubborn, unending our struggle should be; now that the clamour of combat must cease, quarrels forget, and between us be peace. let us cease now indeed," said ferdia, "if the time for it hath come." they ceased, and they threw away their weapons into their charioteers' hands, and each of them at the end of that fight sought the other, and each threw his arms about the other's neck, and gave him three kisses. their horses were in the same paddock that night, the men who had driven their chariots sat by the same fire, moreover the charioteers of both those warriors spread couches of fresh rushes for the two, and supplied them with such pillows as are needed by wounded men. and such folk as can heal and cure came to examine into their wounds and to tend them that night, for they could do nothing more for them, so severe and so deadly were the stabs and the thrusts, and the gashes of the many wounds that they had, than to apply to them spells and incantations and charms, in order to staunch their blood, and their bleeding mortal wounds. and for every spell and incantation and charm that was applied to the stabs and the wounds of cuchulain, he sent a full half westward across the ford to ferdia; and of each kind of food, and of pleasant, palatable, intoxicating drink that the men of ireland brought to ferdia, he sent a half across the ford to cuchulain, in the north. for the men who brought food to ferdia were more in number than they who brought food to cuchulain, for all the army of the men of ireland helped to provide ferdia with food, because he was their champion to defend them against cuchulain; yet to cuchulain also food was brought by the people who dwell in the breg. and it was the custom with these that they came to converse with him at the dusk of each night. thus they rested that night: but early in the morning they arose, and repaired to the ford of combat; and cuchulain saw that an evil look and a lowering cloud was on the face of ferdia that day. "ill dost thou appear to me to-day, o ferdia!" said cuchulain. "thy hair hath been darkened to-day, and thine eye hath been dimmed, and the form and the features and the visage that thou art wont to have are gone from thee." "'tis from no fear or from terror of thee that i am what i am to-day," said ferdia, "for there is not in ireland to-day a champion that i am not able to subdue." and cuchulain complained and lamented, and he spoke the words that follow, and thus did ferdia reply: cuchulain is't indeed ferdia's face?[fn#57] sure his meed is dire disgrace; he, to war by woman led, comes his comrade's blood to shed. [fn#57] the metre is that of the irish. ferdia thou who warrior art indeed, champion tried! who wounds dost breed, i am forced the sod to see where my final grave shall be. cuchulain maev her daughter, findabar, who all maids excelleth far, gave thee, not at love's behest, she thy kingly might would test. ferdia gently ruling hound, i know that was tested long ago; none so great is known to fame, none, till now, to match it came. cuchulain all that's chanced from thee hath sprung, darry's grandchild, daman's son; woman's hest hath brought thee here swords to test with comrade dear. ferdia comrade! had i fled, nor found fight with thee, fair graceful hound, maev my word could broken call; croghan hold my fame but small. cuchulain none put meat his lips between, none to king or stainless queen yet was born, whose praise i'd gain, none whose scorn would win thy pain. ferdia thou who deep in wars dost wade, 'twas not thou, 'twas maev betrayed: back with conquest shalt thou ride, fault hast none thy fame to hide. cuchulain clots of blood my faithful heart choke; my soul is like to part: 'tis with little force my arm strikes, to do ferdia harm! "greatly although thou makest complaint against me to-day," said ferdia, "tell me to what arms shall we resort?" thine is the choice of weapons until the night," said cuchulain, "because it was i who had the choice in the day that is past." "then," said ferdia, "let us this day take to our heavy hard-smiting swords; for sooner shall we attain to the end of our strife by the edge of the sword this day than we did by the thrusts of our spears in the day that is gone." "let us do so indeed," said cuchulain. that day they took upon them two long and exceedingly great shields, and they resorted to their heavy and hard-striking swords. and each of them began to hew, and to cut, and to slaughter, and to destroy till larger than the head of a month-old child were the masses and the gobbets of flesh which each of them cut from the shoulders and the thighs and the shoulder-blades of his foe. after this fashion did each of them hew at each other from the dawn of the day until the ninth hour of the even, and then ferdia said, "let us desist from this now, o cuchulain!" "let us cease indeed," said cuchulain, "if the time has come." they ceased from their strife, and they threw from them their arms into the hands of their charioteers. pleasant and cheerful and joyous was the meeting of the two: mournfully, and sorrowfully, and unhappily did they part from each other that night. their horses were not in the same paddock, their charioteers were not at the same fire, and there they stayed for that night. it was early in the morning when ferdia arose, and he advanced alone towards the ford of combat. well did he know that the battle and the conflict would be decided that day; that upon that day and in that place one of the two would fall or that both would fall. and then, before cuchulain could come, ferdia put on the armour that he was to use for that battle in the conflict and fight. and this was the battle armour that he used for that conflict and fight; he put a kilt of striped silk, bordered with spangles of gold, next to his white skin, and over that he put his well-sewn apron of brown leather to protect the lower part of his body. upon his belly he put a great stone as large as a millstone, and over that great stone as large as a millstone he put his firm deep apron of purified iron, on account of the fear and the dread that he had of the gae-bulg that day. and his crested helmet that he used for battle and conflict and fight he put upon his head: there were upon it four jewels of carbuncle, each one of them fit to adorn it: also it was studded with enamels, with crystals, with carbuncles, and with blazing rubies that had come from the east. into his right hand he took his death-dealing sharp-pointed strong spear; upon his left side he hung his curved sword of battle with its golden hilt and its pommels of red gold: upon the slope of his back he took his great and magnificent shield with great bosses upon it: fifty was the number of the bosses, and upon each of them could be supported a full-grown hog: moreover in the centre of the shield was a great boss of red gold. upon that day ferdia displayed many noble, rapidly changing, wonderful feats of arms on high; feats which he had never learned from any other, either from his nurse or his tutor, or from scathach, or from uathach, or from aife, but which he himself invented that day for his battle with cuchulain. and cuchulain approached the ford, and he saw the many, rapidly changing, wonderful feats that ferdia displayed on high; and "o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "i mark those noble, rapidly changing, wonderful feats which ferdia displays, and i know that all of those feats will in turn be tried upon me; and for this reason if it be i who begin to go backwards this day, let it be thy part to rouse me by reproaches, and by evil speech, so that my rage and my wrath may be kindled, and increase. and if it be i that shall prevail, then do thou give to me praise and approval; and speak good words tome, that my courage may be the greater." "this indeed will i do, o cuchulain!" said laeg. then did cuchulain put on his battle armour that he used for the combat and fight. and that day he displayed noble, many-changing, wonderful, and many feats that he had learned from none: neither from scathach, from uathach, or from aife. and ferdia marked those feats, and he know that each in turn would be tried upon him. "o ferdia!" said cuchulain, "tell me to what arms we shall resort? "thine is the choice of weapons until the night," said ferdia. "then," said cuchulain, "let us try the feat of the ford."[fn#58] "let us do so indeed," said ferdia; but although he thus spoke, it was with sorrow that he consented, for he knew that cuchulain had ever destroyed every hero and champion who had contended with him at the feat of the ford. [fn#58] i.e. in which all weapons were allowed. mighty were the deeds that were done upon that day at the ford by those two heroes, the champions of the west of europe; by those two hands which in the north-west of the world were those that best bestowed bounty, and pay, and reward; those twin loved pillars of valour of the gael; those two keys of the bravery of the gaels, brought to fight from afar, owing to the urging and the intermeddling of ailill and maev. from the dawn till the middle of the day, each began to shoot at the other with his massive weapons; and when midday had come, the wrath of the two men became more furious, and each drew nearer to the other. and then upon a time cuchulain sprang from the shore of the ford, and he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, to strike at his head from above, over the rim of his shield. and then it was that ferdia gave the shield a blow of his left elbow, and he cast cuchulain from him like a bird, till he came down again, upon the shore of the ford. and again cuchulain sprang from the shore of the ford, till he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, to strike his head from above, over the rim of the shield. and ferdia, gave the shield a stroke of his left knee, and he cast cuchulain from him like a little child, till he came down on the shore of the ford. laeg saw what had been done. "ah!" said laeg, "the warrior who is against thee, casts thee away as a loose woman casts her child; he flings thee as high as the river flings its foam; he grinds thee even as a mill would grind fresh malt; pierces thee as the axe would pierce the oak that it fells; binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; darts upon thee even as the hawk darts upon little birds, so that never until time and life shall end, shalt thou have a call, or right, or claim for prowess or for valour: thou little fairy phantom!" said laeg. up sprang cuchulain, swift as the wind; quick as the swallow; fiery as the dragon; powerful as the lion; and he bounded into the air for the third time into the troubled clouds of it, until he lit upon the boss of the shield of ferdia, the son of daman, striving to strike his head from above, over the rim of the shield. and the warrior shook his shield, and he threw cuchulain from him, into the middle of the ford, just as if he had never been cast off at all. and then for the first time the countenance of cuchulain was changed, and he rose in his full might, as if the air had entered into him, till he towered as a terrible and wonderful giant, with the hero-light playing about his head; rising as a wild man of the sea; that great and valiant champion, till he overtopped ferdia. and now so closely were they locked in the fight, that their heads met above them, and their feet below them; and in their middles met their arms over the rims and the bosses of their shields. so closely were they locked in the fight, that they turned and bent, and shivered their spears from the points to the hafts; and cleft and loosened their shields from the centres to the rims. so closely were they locked, that the bocanachs, and the bananachs, and the wild people of the glens, and the demons of the air screamed from the rims of their shields, and from the hilts of their swords, and from the hafts of their spears. and so closely did they fight, that they cast the river from its bed and its course, so that there might have been a couch fit for a king and a queen to he in, there in the midst of the ford, for there was no drop of water left in it, except such as fell therein from off those two heroes and champions, as they trampled and hewed at each other in the midst of the ford. and so fierce was their fight, that the horses of the gaels, in fear and in terror, rushed away wildly and madly, bursting their chains, and their yokes, and their tethers, and their traces; and the women, and the common folk, and the followers of the camp, fled south-westwards out of the camp. all this time they fought with the edges of their swords. and then it was that ferdia found cuchulain for a moment off his guard, and he struck him with the straight edge of his sword, so that it sank into his body, till the blood streamed to his girdle, and the soil of the ford was crimson with the blood that fell from the body of that warrior so valiant in fight. and cuchulain's endurance was at an end, for ferdia continually struck at him, not attempting to guard, and his downright blows, and quick thrusts, and crushing strokes fell constantly upon him, till cuchulain demanded of laeg the son of riangabra to deliver to him the gae-bulg. now the manner of using the gae-bulg was this: it was set with its end pointing down a stream, and was cast from beneath the toes of the foot: it made the wound of one spear on entering a person's body; but it had thirty barbs to open behind, and it could not be drawn out from a man's body until he was cut open. and when ferdia heard mention of the gae-bulg, he made a stroke of his shield downwards to guard the lower part of his body. and cuchulain thrust his unerring thorny spear off the centre of his palm over the rim of the shield, and through his breast covered by horny defensive plates of armour, so that its further half was visible behind him after piercing the heart in his chest. ferdia gave an upward stroke of his shield to guard the upper part of his body, though too late came that help, when the danger was past. and the servant set the gae-bulg down the stream, and cuchulain caught it between the toes of his foot, and he threw it with an unerring cast against ferdia, and it broke through the firm deep apron of wrought iron, and it burst the great stone that was as large as a millstone into three parts, and it passed through the protection of his body into him, so that every crevice and cavity in him was filled with its barbs. "'tis enough now," said ferdia. "i have my death of that; and i have but breath enough to say that thou hast done an ill deed against me. it was not right that thy hand should be that by which i should fall." and thus did he cry, as he gasped out these words: hound, of feats so fair![fn#59] death from thee is ill: thou the blame must bear, thou my blood dost spill. help no wretch hath found down this chasm of woe: sick mine accents sound, as a ghost, i go. torn my ribs, and burst, gore my heart hath filled: this of fights is worst, hound! thou hast me killed. [fn#59] the metre is that of the irish. and after those words, cuchulain ran towards him, and with his arms and armour about him, carried him northwards across the ford, in order that the slain man might be on the north side of the ford, and not upon the western side together with the men of erin. then cuchulain laid ferdia down, and there it was that a trance and a faint and a weakness came upon cuchulain when he saw the body of ferdia, laeg saw his weakness, and the men of ireland all arose to come upon him. "rise up now, o cuchulain!" said laeg, "for the men of erin are coming towards us, and no single combat will they give to us, since ferdia the son of daman, the son of dare, has fallen by thy hand." "how shall i be the better for arising, o my servant!" said he, "now that he who lieth here hath fallen by me?" and it was in this manner that his servant spoke to him, and he recited these words, and thus did cuchulain reply: laeg now arise, battle-hound of emania! it is joy and not grief should be sought; for the leader of armies, ferdia, thou hast slain, and hard battle hast fought. cuchulain what availeth me triumph or boasting? for, frantic with grief for my deed, i am driven to mourn for that body that my sword made so sorely to bleed. laeg 'tis not thou shouldst lament for his dying, rejoicing should spring to thy tongue; for in malice, sharp javelins, flying for thy wounding and bleeding he flung. cuchulain i would mourn, if my leg he had severed, had he hewn through this arm that remains, that he mounts not his steeds; and for ever in life, immortality gains. laeg to the dames of red branch thou art giving more pleasure that thus he should fall: they will mourn for him dead, for thee living, nor shall count of thy victims be small. great queen maev thou hast chased, and hast fought her since the day when first cualgne was left; she shall mourn for her folk, and their slaughter, by thy hand of her champions bereft. neither sleep nor repose hast thou taken, but thy herd, her great plunder, hast chased, though by all but a remnant forsaken, oft at dawn to the fight thou didst haste. now it was in that place that cuchulain commenced his lament and his moan for ferdia, and thus it was that he spoke: "o my friend ferdia! unhappy was it for thee that thou didst make no inquiry from any of the heroes who knew of the valorous deeds i had done before thou camest to meet me in that battle that was too hard for thee! unhappy was it for thee that thou didst not inquire from laeg, the son of riangabra[fn#60] about what was due from thee to a comrade. unhappy was it for thee that thou didst not ask for the honest and sincere counsel of fergus. unhappy it was for thee that thou hast not sought counsel from the comely, the fresh-coloured, the cheery, the victorious conall about what was due from thee to a comrade. well do these men know, that never, till life and time come to an end, shall be born in the land of connaught one who shall do deeds equal to those which have been done by thee. and if thou hadst made inquiry from these men concerning the habitations, the gatherings, the promises, and the broken faith of the fair-haired ladies of connaught; hadst thou asked them concerning spear-play and sword-play; concerning skill in backgammon and chess; concerning feats with horses, and chariots of war; they would have said that never had been found the arm of a champion who could wound a hero's flesh like the arm of ferdia; he whose colour matched the tints of the clouds: none who like thee could excite the croak of the bloody-mouthed vulture, as she calls her friends to the feast of the many-coloured flocks; none who shall fight for croghan or be the equal of thee to the end of life and time, o thou ruddy-cheeked son of daman!" said cuchulain. and then cuchulain stood over ferdia. "ah! ferdia," said cuchulain, "great was the treachery and desertion that the men of ireland had wrought upon thee, when they brought thee to combat and fight with me. for it was no light matter to combat and fight with me on the occasion of the tain bo cuailnge." and thus it was that he spoke, and he then recited these words: [fn#60] pronounced reen-gabra. 'twas guile to woe that brought thee; 'tis i that moan thy fate; for aye thy doom hath caught thee, and here, alone, i wait. to scathach, glorious mother, our words, when boys, we passed; no harm for each from other should come while time should last. alas! i loved thee dearly, thy speech; thy ruddy face; thy gray-blue eyes, so clearly that shone; thy faultless grace. in wrath for strife advances no chief; none shield can rear to piercing storm of lances of daman's son the peer. since he whom aife[fn#61] bore me by me was slain in fight, no champion stood before me who matched ferdia's might. he came to fight, thus trusting might findabar be won; such hopes have madmen, thrusting with spears at sand or sun. [fn#61] pronounced eefa. see note on this line. still cuchulain continued to gaze upon ferdia. and now, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "strip for me the body of ferdia, and take from him his armour and his garments, that i may see the brooch for the sake of which he undertook this combat and fight." then laeg arose, and he stripped ferdia; he took his armour and his garments from him, and cuchulain saw the brooch, and he began to lament and to mourn for him, and he spake these words: ah! that brooch of gold![fn#62] bards ferdia knew: valiantly on foes with hard blows he flew. curling golden hair, fair as gems it shone; leaflike sash, on side tied, till life had gone. [fn#62] the metre and the rhyme-system is that of the irish. see notes, p. 196. comrade, dear esteemed! bright thy glances beamed: chess play thine, worth gold: gold from shield rim gleamed. none of friend had deemed could such tale be told! cruel end it seemed: ah! that brooch of gold! "and now, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "open the body of ferdia, and take the gae-bulg out of him, for i cannot afford to be without my weapon." laeg came, and he opened ferdia's body, and he drew the gae-bulg out of him, and cuchulain saw his weapon all bloody and red by the side of ferdia, and then he spake these words: ferdia, i mourn for thy dying, thou art pale, although purple with gore: unwashed is my weapon still lying, and the blood-streams from out of thee pour. our friends in the east who have seen us, when with uathach and scathach[fn#63] we dwelled, can bear witness, no quarrel between us or with words or with weapons was held. scathach came; and to conflict inciting were her accents that smote on mine ear; "go ye all, where a swift battle fighting, german wields his green terrible spear! to ferdia, i flew with the story, to the son of fair baitan i sped, and to lugaid, whose gifts win him glory, "come ye all to fight german," i said. [fn#63] pronounced ooha and scaha. where the land by loch formay lies hollowed had we come, fit for fight was the place; and beside us four hundred men followed; from the athisech isles was their race. as beside me ferdia contended against german, at door of his dun; i slew rind, who from niul[fn#64] was descended, i slew rood, of finnool was he son. [fn#64] pronounced nyool. 'twas ferdia slew bla by the water, son of cathbad red-sworded was he: and from lugaid mugarne gat slaughter, the grim lord of the torrian sea. four times fifty men, stubborn in battle, by my hand in that gateway were slain; to ferdia, of grim mountain cattle fell a bull, and a bull from the plain. then his hold to the plunderers giving, over ocean waves spangled with foam, did we german the wily, still living, to the broad-shielded scathach bring home. there an oath our great mistress devising, both our valours with friendship she bound; that no anger betwixt us uprising should 'mid erin's fair nations be found. much of woe with that tuesday was dawning, when ferdia's great might met its end; though red blood-drink i served him that morning: yet i loved, though i slew him, my friend. if afar thou hadst perished when striving with the bravest of heroes of greece, 'tis not i would thy loss be surviving; with thy death should the life of me cease. ah! that deed which we wrought won us sorrow, who, as pupils, by scathach were trained: thou wilt drive not thy chariot to-morrow; i am weak, with red blood from me drained. ah! that deed which we wrought won us anguish, who, as pupils, by scathach were taught: rough with gore, and all wounded, i languish; thou to death altogether art brought. ah! that deed that we wrought there was cruel for us pupils, from scathach who learned: i am strong; thou art slain in the duel, in that conflict, with anger we burned. "come now, cuchulain," said laeg, "and let us quit this ford, for too long have we been here." "now indeed will we depart, o my friend laeg!" said cuchulain, "but every other combat and fight that i have made hath been only a game and a light matter to me compared with this combat and fight with ferdia." thus it was that he spoke; and in this fashion he recited: wars were gay, and but light was fray[fn#65] ere at the ford his steeds made stay: like had we both been taught, both one kind mistress swayed; like the rewards we sought, like was the praise she paid. [fn#65] metre and rhyme-system of the irish imitated, but not exactly reproduced. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: like were our fights, oft fought, like were our haunts in play; scathach to each of us brought a shield one day. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: pillar of gold, loved well, low at the ford's side laid; he, when on troops he fell, valour unmatched displayed. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: lionlike, on he sped; high, in his wrath, he blazed; rose, as a wave of dread; ruin his onset raised. wars were gay, and but light was fray ere at the ford his steeds made stay: never, till hour of doom, ferdia's form shall fade; high as a cliff it loomed, now is but left his shade. three great armies went this raid,[fn#66] all the price of death have paid; choicest cattle, men, and steeds lie in heaps, to tell my deeds. [fn#66] the metre is that of the irish. widely spread their battle-line, less than half their host was mine; though to war stout croghan came, all i slew, for me a game! none the battle neared like thee, none of all whom banba nursed passed thy fame; on land, on sea, thou, of sons of kings, art first! special note on the "combat at the ford" the episode translated in the foregoing pages is not only one of the famous examples on which irish literature can fairly rest its claim to universal recognition, but it also affords an excellent instance of the problems involved when it comes to be studied critically. these problems, upon the solution of which must to some extent depend our estimate of the place of irish in the general development of european literature) axe briefly dealt with in mr. leahy's preface, as well as in his special introduction (supra, pp. 114, 115), but may perhaps be thought worthy of somewhat more detailed examination. the existence of two markedly different versions of the "tain bo cuailnge," one, obviously older, represented by the eleventh-century ms. leabhar na h-uidhri (l.u.), and the fourteenth-century ms. yellow book of lecan (y.b.l.); the other, obviously younger, by the twelfth-century book of leinster (l.l.), was pointed out by professor heinrich zimmer twenty-seven years ago in his study of the l.u. heroic saga texts (keltische studien v.: zeitschrift fã¼r vergleichende sprachforschung, vol. xxviii.). the conclusion that he drew from the fact, as also from the peculiarities disclosed by his analysis of the l.u. texts, is substantially that stated by mr. leahy: "on the whole it seems as if the compiler of the manuscript from which both the leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan were copied, combined into one several different descriptions of the 'war,' one of which is represented by the book of leinster version." he furthermore emphasised a particular aspect of this compiler's activity to which mr. leahy also draws repeated attention; he (the compiler) was a man interested in the historical and antiquarian rather than in the literary side of the texts he harmonised and arranged: hence his preference for versions that retain archaic and emphasise mythical elements; hence his frequent interpolation of scraps of historical and antiquarian learning; hence his indifference to consistency in the conduct of the story, and to its artistic finish. professor zimmer urged that the "compiler" was no other than flann, abbot of monasterboice, who died in 1047, and was regarded as the most famous representative of irish learning in his day. there has come down to us under his name a considerable mass of chronological and historical writing, partly in prose, partly in verse, and it seems certain that he was one of the chief artisans in framing that pragmatic redaction of irish myth, heroic legend, and historical tradition most fully represented by the two great compilations of the seventeenth century: the annals of the four masters, emphasising its antiquarian, historical side; keating's history, emphasising its romantic, legendary side. whilst professor zimmer's conclusion as to the personality of the l.u. compiler has been challenged, his main thesis has remained unshaken. on the whole, it can be asserted positively that the common source of l.u. and y.b.l. goes back to the early eleventh century; on the whole, that this common source itself utilised texts similar to those contained in the book of leinster. moreover, the progress of linguistic analysis during the past quarter-century has strengthened the contention that some of the elements used by flann (or another) in compiling his eleventh-century harmony are as old, in point of language, as any existing remains of irish outside the ogham inscriptions; in other words, being as old as the earliest glosses, they may date back to the eighth or even seventh century. in particular the l.u.-y.b.l. version of the "tain bo cuailnge" contains a large proportion of such elements and may, in the main, be treated as an eighth-century text. it must, however, be pointed out, and for this reason i have italicised the qualifying "on the whole," "in the main," that this conclusion does not enable us to declare dogmatically (1) that all portions of the l.u.-y.b.l. version must go back to the eighth century; (2) that all portions of the book of leinster version must precede the compilation of the common source of l.u. and y.b.l. for as regards (1), not only must the definitely ascertained activity of the eleventh-century compiler be taken into account, but also the possible activity of later scribes. if we possessed the complete text of the l.u.-y.b.l. redaction in both mss., we could at least be sure concerning the possible variations introduced during the two centuries that elapsed between the writing of the yellow book (early fourteenth century) and that of l.u. (late eleventh century). but most unfortunately both mss. are imperfect, the yellow book at the opening, l.u. at the close of our tale. thus of the special episode under consideration, the "combat at the ford," the older redaction is only extant in the fourteenth-century ms., and it is always open to impugners of its archaic character to say that it has been introduced there from the rival leinster version. again, as regards (2), whilst it is practically certain that the great mass of the leinster version was in existence before the time of the source whence both l.u. and y.b.l. are derived, and must therefore date back to the early eleventh century, it is by no means certain that this version was not considerably altered and enlarged before it came to be written down in the book of leinster some time before 1154. the older version of the "tain bo cuailnge" has been translated by miss winifred faraday (grimm library, no. xvi. 1904). in her introduction (p. xvii.) miss faraday argues against the assumption "that l.l. preserves an old version of the episode," and questions "whether the whole fer diad[fn#67] episode may not be late." the truth of this one contention would by no means involve that of the other; and again, both might be true without invalidating any of the conclusions drawn by mr. leahy (supra, p. 115). if the episode as we have it first took shape in the tenth century, it would be late as compared with much of the rest of the "tain," and yet it would be the earliest example in post-classic european literature of the sentiments and emotions to which it gives such fine and sympathetic expression. in comparing the two versions, the following fact is at once noticeable. the y.b.l. text occupies pp. 100-112 of miss faraday's translation, in round figures, 320 lines of 8 words to the line, or some 2600 words; the leinster version, omitting the verse, fills some 500 lines of 14 words, or 7000 words. up to a certain point, however, the actual meeting of the two champions, there is no difference between the versions in length; the prose of both runs to about 2200 words. but the whole of the actual fight (supra, pp. 129-153 in the leinster version) is compressed into a page and a half in the older redaction, some 800 words as against over 4000. obviously this cannot represent the original state of things; it would be psychologically impossible for any story-teller to carry on his narrative up to a given stage with the dramatic vigour, point, and artistically chosen detail displayed in the first portion of the y.b.l. version of the combat, and then to treat the culmination of the tale in such a huddled, hasty, scamped manner. the most likely explanation is that the original from which the y.b.l. scribe was copying was imperfect, and that the lacuna was supplied from memory, and from a very faulty memory. no conclusion can thus, i think, be drawn from the fact that the details of the actual combat are so bald and meagre in the only extant text of the older redaction. [fn#67] this is the spelling in y. b. l. in l.l. the name appears as one word, "ferdiad"; usually scanned as a dissyllable--though occasionally as a trisyllable. the spelling ferdia is the conventional one sanctioned by the usage of ferguson, aubrey de vere, and others; the scansion of the word as a trisyllable is on the same authority. if the two versions be compared where they are really comparable, i.e. in that portion which both narrate at approximately the same length, the older redaction will be found fuller of incident, the characters drawn with a bolder, more realistic touch, the presentment more vigorous and dramatic. ferdiad is unwilling to go against cuchulain not, apparently, solely for prudential reasons, and he has to be goaded and taunted into action by medb, who displays to the full her wonted magnificently resourceful unscrupulousness, regardless of any and every consideration, so long as she can achieve her purpose. the action of fergus is far more fully dwelt upon, and the scones between him and his charioteer, as also between him and cuchulain, are given with far greater spirit. the hero is indignant that fergus should think it necessary to warn him against a single opponent, and says roundly that it is lucky no one else came on such an errand. the tone of the older redaction is as a whole rough, animated, individualistic as compared with the smoother, more generalised, less accentuated presentment of the leinster version. but to conclude from this fact that the older redaction of the actual combat, if we had it in its original fulness instead of in a bald and fragmentary summary, would not have dwelt upon the details of the fighting, would not have insisted upon the courteous and chivalrous bearing of the two champions, would not have emphasised the inherent pathos of the situation, seems to me altogether unwarranted. on the contrary the older redaction, by touches of strong, vivid, archaic beauty lacking in the leinster version leads up to and prepares for just such a situation as the latter describes so finely. one of these touches must be quoted. cuchulain's charioteer asks him what he will do the night before the struggle, and then continues, "it is thus fer diad will come to seek you, with new beauty of plaiting and haircutting and washing and bathing.... it would please me if you went to the place where you will got the same adorning for yourself, to the place where is emer of the beautiful hair.... so cuchulain went thither that night, and spent the night with his own wife." there is indeed the old irish hero faring forth to battle as a lover to the love tryst! how natural, how inevitable with warriors of such absurd and magnificent susceptibility, such boyish love of swagger, how natural, i say, the free and generous emotion combined with an overmastering sense of personal honour, and a determination to win at all costs, which are so prominent in the leinster version of the fight.[fn#68] [fn#68] the trait must not be put down as a piece of story-teller's fancy. in another text of the ulster cycle, cath ruis na rig, conchobor's warriors adorn and beautify themselves in this way before the battle. the aryan celt behaved as did the aryan hellene. all readers of herodotus will recall how the comrades of leonidas prepared for battle by engaging in games and combing out their hair, and how demaretus, the counsellor of xerxes, explained to the king "that it is a custom with these men that when they shall prepare to imperil their lives; that is the time when they adorn their heads" (herodotus vii. 209.) the contention that the older redaction, if we had it complete, would resemble the younger one in its insistence upon the chivalrous bearing of the two opponents, may also be urged on historical grounds. the sentiment which gives reality and power to the situation is based upon the strength of the tie of blood-brotherhood; so strong is this that it almost balances the most potent element in the ideal of old irish heroism--the sense of personal honour and pre-eminence in all that befits a warrior. the tie itself and the sentiment based upon it certainly belong to pre-christian times, and must have been losing rather than gaining in strength during the historic period, say from the fourth century onwards. the episode of cuchulain's combat with ferdiad must have existed in the older redaction of the "tain" for the simple reason that a tenth and eleventh century story-teller would have found nothing in the feelings, customs, or literary conventions of his own day to suggest to him such a situation and such a manner of working it out. but--and this consideration may afford a ground of conciliation with miss faraday and the scholars who hold by the lateness of the episode--the intrinsic beauty and pathos of the situation, the fact of its constituting an artistic climax, would naturally tempt the more gifted of the story-telling class. there would be a tendency to elaborate, to adorn in the newest fashion, hence to modernise, and it is not only conceivable but most probable that the original form should be farther departed from than in the case of much else in the epic. alfred nutt. general notes the courtship of etain the translation of both versions of this romance has been revised by professor strachan, and the linguistic notes are due to him, unless otherwise stated. the rendering given in the text is noted as "doubtful," in cases where professor strachan does not assent. page 7 @@both line 17? line 17. "by a means that he devised," do airec memman, lit. "by a device of mind." compare airecc memman aith (meyer, hib. minora, p. 28). line 17. "so that she became well-nourished, &c.," lit. "till there came to her fatness and form;" sult probably means "fatness," and feth "form." page 8 line 25. "curvetting and prancing," tuagmar, foran. these are guesses by o'curry: curvetting may be right, but there is little authority for rendering foran as "prancing "; this word is doubtful. "with a broad forehead," forlethan, lit. "broad above," o'curry renders "broad-rumped." line 34. "upon the shore of the bay," forsin purt. windisch's rendering of port is "bank, harbour"; but it is doubtful whether the word means more than "place." page 9 the literal rendering adopted for the poem runs thus: etain is here thus at the elf-mound of the fair-haired women west of alba among little children to her on the shore of the bay of cichmaine. it is she who cured the eye of the king from the well of loch da lig, it is she who was drunk in a draught by the wife of etar in a heavy draught. through war for her the king will chase the birds from tethba, and will drown his two horses in the lake da airbrech. there shall be abundant and many wars through the war for thee on echaid of meath, destruction shall be on the elf-mounds, and war upon many thousands. it is she who was hurt in the land (?), it is she who strove to win the king, it is she as compared to whom men men speak of fair women, it is she, our etain afterwards. line 2. "west of alba" is literally "behind alba," iar n-albai: iar is, however, also used in the sense of "west of." line 14 is given by windisch "through the war over meath rich in horses"; this is impossible. the translation of line 17 is not quite certain; the literal translation of the ms. seems to be "it is she who was hurt and the land." da airbrech in line 12 may mean "of two chariots." page 10 literal translation of the quatrain: ignorant was fuamnach, the wife of mider, sigmall and bri with its trees in bri leth: it was a full trial were burned by means of manannan. page 11 line 5. "labraid the tracker." this is a very doubtful rendering, the text gives labradae luircc. line 25. "that he desired full knowledge of." there seems to be something with the irish here; the word is co fessta which could only be third singular subj. pass. "that it might be known," which does not make grammar. it should be co fessed or co festais, "that he (or they) might know." page 12 line 9. "his officers who had the care of the roads." a very doubtful rendering; the irish is tarraluing sligeth. line 29. "a bright purple mantle waved round her," lit. "a bright purple curling (?) mantle," but the sense of caslechta as "curling" is not certain. line 30. "another mantle." the word for mantle here is folai, in the former line it was brat. page 13 line 3. "as white as the snow." ba gilighuir mechto: not "whiter than the snow," as windisch's dict. gives it. line 17. "all that's graceful, &c.," cach cruth co hetain, coem cach co hetain. compare conid chucum bagthir cach n-delb. (l.u., 124b, 17, "courtship of emer "), and ir. text., iii. p. 356, 1. 4, from which it may be seen that the meaning is that etain is the test to which all beauty must be compared. page 14 line 19. "so long as they were," not "so long as he was." the irish is cein ropas, and ropas is the impersonal preterite passive. line 29. "the choking misery, &c.," lit. "he let come to him the slaodan of a heavy sickness:" slaodan is the cough of consumption. page 15 line 2. lit. "worse and worse," messa a cach. line 18. "his burial mound," a fert fodbuigh. compare zimmer, kuhn's zeitschrift, xxx. 9, for fotbuig. literal rendering of the dialogue: b. what hath happened to thee, o young man? long is thy bed of sickness, prostrate is thy full and splendid pace, however fair the weather may be. a. there is cause for my sighs; the music of my harp contents me not; neither does any milk please me, it is this that brings me into a pitiful state. e. tell me what ails thee, o man, for i am a maiden who is wise; tell me of anything which may be of benefit to thee that thy healing may be wrought by me. a. to speak of it is not possible for me (lit. "finds not room in me"), o maiden, lovely is thy form, there is fire of some one behind her eyes (?) nor are the secrets of women good. b. though the secrets of women are bad, yet, if it is love, the remembrance remains for long; from the time when the matter is taken into hand this thing is not deserving of its (?) recognition. a. a blessing on thee, o white maiden, i am not worthy of this speech to me; neither am i grateful to my own mind, my body is in opposition to me. wretched indeed is this, o wife of the king, eochaid fedlech in very truth, my body and my head are sick, it is reported in ireland. e. if there is among the troops of white women any one who is vexing thee, she shall come here, if it is pleasing to thee, there shall be made by my help her courtship. in verse 3, line 2, inniss dam gach dal, dal means no more than thing it is not an accusative from dal, a meeting. verse 4, line 3. meaning doubtful. verse 7, line 2. the confusion between eochaid airemm, the king in this story, and his brother eochaid fedlech is obvious. it may, as windisch thinks, be an indication that the poem is not part of the romance as originally composed, but other explanations are possible. line 4. "it is reported." not quite certain; irish is issed berair. page 17 line 11. "and great gain, &c." text defective, and meaning uncertain. line 13. rhetoric; the literal translation seems to be as follows, but some words are uncertain: it is love that was longer enduring (?) than a year my love, it is like being under the skin, it is the kingdom of strength over destruction. it is the dividing into quarters of the earth, it is summit (7) of heaven, it is breaking of the neck, it is a battle against a spectre. it is drowning with cold (or ? water), it is a race up heaven, it is a weapon under the ocean, it is affection for an echo; (so is) my affection and my love and my desire of the one on whom i have set (my love). page 18 line 2. the translation given is windisch's, "it is sorrow under the skin is strachan's rendering. line 5. translation uncertain. irish is dichend nime. line 8. is combath fri huacht (i read husce). literal rendering of the poem: arise, o glorious ailill, great bravery is more proper to thee than anything; since thou shalt find here what was wished by thee, thy healing shall be done by me. if it should please thee in thy wise mind, place hand about my neck; a beginning of courtship, beautiful its colour, woman and man kissing each other. but, if this is not enough for thee, o good man, o son of a king, o royal prince, i will give for thy healing, o glorious crime, from my knee to my navel. a hundred cows, a hundred ounces of gold, a hundred bridled horses were collecting, a hundred garments of each variegated colour, these were brought as a price for me. a hundred of each other beast came hither, the drove was great; these to me quickly, till the sum was complete, gave eochaid at the one time. line 14. of poem. "were collecting," ratinol. this is the rendering in windisch's dictionary, but is a doubtful one. line 18. imerge means "drove," not "journey," as in windisch. line 27 of text. "wrought a great healing, &c." irish, ro lessaig, "healed him" (windisch); "waited upon him" (strachan). page 19 line 17. "for fear of danger." baegal, "danger," has sometimes the sense of "chance," "risk." line 23. "that is what i would demand of thee." translation not quite certain irish, cid rotiarfaiged. page 20 line 2. "that both of us do indeed deem, &c." lit. "it is so indeed well to us both." line 22. for the incident compare bodleian dinnshenchas (nutt, p. 27): the introduction of crochen is a human touch which seems to be characteristic of the author of this version. the dinnshenchas account seems to be taken from the romance, but it gives the name of sinech as mider's entertainer at mag cruachan. line 25. "the fairy mound of croghan." irish, co sith sã­nighe cruachan; for sã­nighe read maighe, "to the sid of mag c." page 21 line 2. until the same day upon the year, &c.," on lo cu cele, "from that day to its fellow," i.e. "till the same day next year." line 10. "three wands of yew." this looks like an early case of a divining-rod. line 21. "hath smitten thee," rotirmass for ro-t-ormaiss, "hath hit thee." line 29. "they ruined," "docuas ar," an idiomatic phrase; "they overcame," an idiomatic phrase. compare annals of ulster under years 1175, 1315, 1516. page 22 line 2. "messbuachalla." this makes etain the great-grandmother of conary, the usual account makes her the grandmother, so that there is here an extra generation inserted. yet in the opening she and eochaid airem are contemporary with kings who survived conary! line 4. "the fairy host, &c." the order of the words in the original is misleading and difficult sithchaire and mider are the subjects to ro choillsiut and to doronsat. page 23 line 12. that there should be adjusted)" fri commus, lit. "for valuation," but commus has also the sense of "adjusting." page 24 line 4. "since he for a long time, &c.," fodaig dognith abairt dia sirsellad. see meyer's contributions, s.v. abairt. line 23. "to gaze at her." up to this point the l.u. version (exclusive of the prologue) bears the character of an abstract, afterwards the style improves. page 25 line 2. "but it shall not be in the abode, &c." windisch seems to have mimed the point here, he considers these lines to be an interpolation. page 26 line 5. following windisch's suggestion, this poem has been placed here instead of the later place where it occurs in the text. this famous poem has been often translated; but as there appear to be points in it that have been missed, a complete literal rendering is appended: o fair-haired woman, will you come with me into a marvellous land wherein is music (?); the top of the head there is hair of primrose, the body up to the head is colour of snow. in that country is no "mine" and no "thine"; white are teeth there, black are eyebrows, the colour of the eyes is the number of our hosts, each cheek there the hue of the foxglove. the purple of the plain is (on) each neck, the colour of the eyes is (colour of) eggs of blackbird; though pleasant to the sight are the plains of fal (ireland), they are a wilderness (7) for a man who has known the great plain. though intoxicating to ye the ale of the island of fal, the ale of the great country is more intoxicating a wonder of a land is the land i speak of, a young man there goes not before an old man. stream smooth and sweet flow through the land, there is choice of mead and wine; men handsome (?) without blemish, conception without sin, without crime. we see all on every side, and yet no one seeth us, the cloud of the sin of adam it is that encompasses us from the reckoning. o woman, if thou wilt come to my strong people, it is top of head of gold shall be on thy head, unsalted pork, new milk and mead for drink shalt thou have with me there, o fair-haired woman. line 2. hi fil rind. the meaning of rind (?) music) is uncertain. line 3. is barr sobarche folt and. this line is often translated as "hair is wreathed with primrose": the image would be better, but it is not the irish. barr is "top of head," and folt is "hair." line 4. is and nad bi mui na tai. muisse is in old irish the possessive of the first sing when followed by a noun it becomes mo, when not so followed it is mui; tai is also found for do. o'curry gave this line as "there is no sorrow nor care." lines 7 and 10. is li sula lin ar sluag and is li sula ugai luin are so similar that is li sula must mean the same in both, and cannot mean "splendour of eyes" in the first case unless it does so in the second. the idea in the first case seems to be that the hosts are reflected in the eyes; it is so rendered in the verse translation. a blackbird's egg has a blue ground, but is so thickly powdered with brown spots of all shapes that it looks brown at a distance. at first i was inclined to take the idea to be "hazel" eyes, but comparing line 7, it seems more likely that the idea is that all sorts of shapes appear in the pupil. line 12. the translation of annam as a "wilderness" is very doubtful, it more probably is "seldom"; and the line should be "seldom will it be so after knowledge of, &c." line 16. this has always been rendered "no youth there grows to old age." but the irish is ni thecht oac and re siun, and re siun can only mean "before an old (man)." the sense possibly is, that as men do not become feeble with advancing years, the younger man has not the same advantage over his elders in the eyes of women that he has in this world. line 17. teith millsi, "smooth and honey-sweet" (meyer, maccongl., p. 196). line 24. compare a story of some magical pigs that could not be counted accurately (revue celtique, vol. xiii. p. 449). line 31. muc ur, "unsalted pork"; see glossary to laws, p. 770; also macconglinne (kuno meyer), p, 99. page 27 line 23. "he ascended." fosrocaib for sosta: fosrocaib is an unknown compound (=fo-sro-od-gaib). perhaps frisocaib for sosta, "mounted on the heights." line 29. co brainni a da imdae, "to the edges of his two shoulders"; see braine, in meyer's contributions. page 28. line 19. "casting their light on every side," cacha air di = cacha airidi, "in every direction." line 25. "if thou dost obtain the forfeit of my stake," mad tu beras mo thocell. for tocell see zimmer, kuhn's zeitsch., xxx. 80. line 29. "eager" (?), femendae. see bruiden da derga (stokes), 50, 51. line 30. "easily stopped," so-ataidi suggested for sostaidi in the text: cf. bruiden da derga. the conjecture has not strachan's authority. page 29 line 19. literal translation of rhetoric: "put it in hand, place it close in hand, noble are oxen for hours after sunset, heavy is the request, it is unknown to whom the gain, to whom the loss from the causeway." line 28. "over the chariot-pole of life" seems to be a literal rendering of for fertas in betha. strachan renders "on the face of the world," which is of course the meaning of the simile. line 30. "high was he girt," ard chustal. the meaning of custal is not known; it was used of some arrangement of the dress. see ir. text., iii. 226; also l.u. 79a, 35, l.l. 97a, 40; 98a, 51; 253a, 30. line 31. "eochaid arose," atrigestar eochaid. strachan thinks it much more likely that this is "eochaid feared him," the verb coming from atagur. it is, however, just possible that the word might be a deponent form from atregaim, "i arise." eochaid does not elsewhere show any fear of mider, the meaning given agrees better with the tone of the story, and is grammatically possible. page 30 line 1. "all things that seemed good, &c.," lit. "i have been accustomed to get what seemed good to thee," adethaind ni bad maith. line 3. "anger for anger," bara fri bure. compare the word bura in meyer's contributions. line 25. "in order that eochaid should stand in his debt," lit. "that there might be cause of reproach for him to eochaid." line 32. "forest that is over breg." ms. fid dar bre, with mark of abbreviation. this is read to be dar breg. professor rhys (arthurian legend, p. 28) renders "to cover darbrech with trees." line 33. "as it is written in the book of drom snechta. "this is a conjecture by mrs. hutton as a restoration of the words in l.u., which is torn just here: the words appear to be amal atbert lebor drums. page 31 line 1. this rhetoric is very obscure; much of it cannot be translated. the text seems to be as follows, according to strachan: cuisthe illand tochre illand airderg damrad trom inchoibden clunithar fã­r ferdi buidni balc-thruim crandchuir forderg saire fedar sechuib slimprib snithib scã­tha lama indrosc cloina fo bã­th oen mna. duib in dã­gail duib in trom daim tairthim flatho fer ban fomnis fomnis in fer mbranie cerpiae fomnis diad dergae fer arfeid soluig fria iss esslind fer bron for-tã­ ertechta in de lamnado luachair for di thethbi dã­lecud (? diclochud) midi in dracht coich les coich amles ? thocur ? dar c? moin. apparent rendering: "place on the land, place close on the land, very red oxen, heavy troop which hears, truly manlike ? troops, strong heavy placing of trees, very red . . . is led past them with twisted wattles, weary hands, the eye slants aside (squints) because of one woman. to you the vengeance, to you the heavy ? oxen ? splendour of sovereignty over white men, . . . man sorrow on thee . . . of childbirth, rushes over tethba, clearing of stones from meath . . . where the benefit where the evil, causeway over . . . moor." it seems that the oxen were transformed people of mider's race; this appears from fã­r-ferdi, which is taken to mean "really men"; and duib in digail duib in trom-daim, which is taken to mean "to you the vengeance, to you heavy oxen." professor strachan disagrees with this, as daim, to be "oxen," should not have the accent, he makes trom-daim "heavy companies." he also renders clunithar fã­r ferdi buindi, as "which hears truth, manly troops." the rest of the translation he agrees to, most of it is his own. the passage from fomnis fomnis to lamnado seems untranslatable. page 32 line 1. lit. "no evil wedding feast (banais, text banas) for thee? mac datho's boar page 37 line 3. the rawlinson version gives, instead of "who was the guardian of all leinster," the variant "who would run round leinster in a day." this semi-supernatural power of the hound is the only supernatural touch in either version of the tale. line 6. the verse "mesroda son of datho" is from the rawlinson ms. the literal version of it is in anecdota oxoniensia, mediaeval series, part viii. p. 57. (this reference will in future be given as a.o., p. 57.) line 20. the list of the hostelries or guest-houses of ireland includes the scene of the famous togail da derga, in the sack of which conaire, king of ireland, was killed. forgall the wily was the father of emer, cuchulain's wife. the tale of the plunder of da choca is in the ms. classed as h. 3, 18 in the trinity college, dublin, library. page 38 the literal version of the dialogue between mac datho and his wife is given in a.o., p. 58, following the leinster text (there are only two lines of it given in the rawlinson ms.); but i note a few divergencies in the literal version from which the verse translation was made. verse 3, line 1. asbert crimthann nia nair, "crimthann nia nair has said" (a.o.). nia is "sister's son," and has been so rendered. nia is a champion, and this is the meaning given in the coir anmann; but nia has no accent in either the leinster or harleian manuscripts of the text. the coir anmann (ir. tex., iii. 333) says that nar was a witch. verse 4, lines 1, 2. cid fri mnai atbertha-su mani thesbad nã­ aire, "why wouldest thou talk to a woman if something were not amiss?" (a.o.). "why dost thou speak against a woman unless something fails on that account" seems as good a translation, and fits the sense better. verse 7, line 2. leis falmag dar sin tuaith, "by him ireland (shall be roused) over the people." the omitted verb is apparently "to be," as above. line 4 of the same verse is left untranslated in a.o., it is ata neblai luim luaith. it seems to mean "there is nothing on the plain for bareness (luim) of ashes," more literally, "there is a no-plain for, &c." verse 9, lines 2, 3. isi nã­m denã­ cutal. ailbe do roid dia. "it does not make sorrow for me; as for ailbe, "god sent him" seems to be the sense; but the meaning of cutal is obscure. page 41 line 8. "forty oxen as side-dishes," lit. "forty oxen crosswise to it" (dia tarsnu). the rawlinson ms. gives "sixty oxen to drag it" (dia tarraing). line 33. "the son of dedad." clan dedad was the munster hero clan, having their fortress in tara luachra; they correspond to the more famous clan rury of ulster, whose stronghold was emain macha. curoi of munster seems to have been a rival hero to cuchulain. page 42 line 20. "pierced through with a spear." the different ways in which ket claims to have conquered his rivals or their relations may be noted; the variety of them recalls the detailed descriptions of wounds and methods of killing so common in homer. there are seven victories claimed, and in no two is the wound the same, a point that distinguishes several of the old irish romances from the less elaborate folk-tales of other nations. arthur's knights in malory "strike down" each other, very occasionally they "pierce through the breast" or "strike off a head," but there is seldom if ever more detail. in the volsunga saga men "fall," or are "slain," in a few cases of the more important deaths they are "pierced," or "cut in half," but except in the later niebelungenlied version where siegfried is pierced through the cross embroidered on his back, a touch which is essential to the plot, none of the homeric detail as to the wounds appears. the same remark applies to the saga of dietrich and indeed to most others; the only cases that i have noticed which resemble the irish in detail are in the icelandic sagas (the laxdale saga and others), and even there the feature is not at all so prominent as here, in the "tain be cuailnge," and several other irish romances, though it is by no means common to all of them. it may be noted that the irish version of the "tale of troy" shows this feature, and although it is possible that the peculiarity is due to the great clearness and sharpness of detail that characterises much of the early irish work, it may be that this is a case of an introduction into irish descriptions of homeric methods. it may be also noted that six of ket's seven rivals are named among the eighteen ulster chiefs in the great gathering of ulster on the hill of slane before the final battle of the tain, angus being the only one named here who is not in the hill of slane list. two others in the hill of slane list, fergus mac lets and feidlimid, are mentioned elsewhere in this tale. several of these are prominent in other tales: laegaire (leary) is a third with cuchulain and conall in the feast of bricriu, and again in the "courtship of emer;" cuscrid makes a third with the same two principal champions in the early part of the "sick-bed;" eogan mac durthacht is the slayer of the sow of usnach in the old version of that tale; and celtchar mac uitechar is the master of the magic spear in the "bruiden da derga," and has minor romances personal to himself. page 45 the literal translation of the rhetoric seems to be: ket. "welcome, conall! heart of stone: wild glowing fire: sparkle of ice: wrathfully boiling blood in hero breast: the scarred winner of victory: thou, son of finnchoem, canst measure thyself with me!" conall. "welcome, ket! first-born of mata! a dwelling place for heroes thy heart of ice: end of danger (7); chariot chief of the fight: stormy ocean: fair raging bull: ket, magach's son! that will be proved if we are in combat: that will be proved if we are separated: the goader of oxen (?) shall tell of it: the handcraftsman (?) shall testify of it: heroes shall stride to wild lion-strife: man overturns man to-night in this house." page 46 the literal translation of the quatrain is in a.o., p. 63. the quatrain does not occur in the leinster version. page 47 line 4. "a great oak-tree." after the plucking up of the oak-tree by fergus, the rawlinson ms. adds: "others say that it was curoi mac dari who took the oak to them, and it was then that he came to them, for there was no man of munster there (before) except lugaid the son of curoi and cetin pauci. when curoi had come to them, he carried off all alone one half of the boar from all the northern half of ireland." this exploit attributed to curoi is an example of the survival of the munster account of the heroic age, part of which may be preserved in the tales of finn mac cumhail. page 48 the rawlinson manuscript adds, after mentioning the rewards given to ferloga but he did not get the serenade (cepoca), though he got the horses." literal translation of the final poem: o lads of connaught, i will not fill your heaviness with a lying tale; a lad, small your portion, divided the boar of mac datho. three fifties of fifty men are gone with troops of heroes; combat of pride for that ailbe, small the fault in the matter of the dog. victorious conor came (?), ailill of the hosts, and ket; bodb over the slaughters after the fight, cuchulain conceded no right. congal aidni there from the east, fiamain the man of harmony from the sea, (he who) suffered in journeys after that eogan the son of dark durthacht. three sons of nera (famous) for numbers of battle-fields, three sons of usnach, fierce shields: senlaech the charioteer, he was not foolish, (came) from high conalad cruachan; dubhtach of emain, high his dignity; berba baither of the gentle word; illan glorious for the multitude of his deeds; fierce munremur of loch sail; conall cernach, hard his valour; marcan . . . celtchar the ulsterman, man over man; lugaid of munster, son of three dogs. fergus waits great ailbe, shakes for them the . . . oak, took hero's cloak over very strong shield; red sorrow over red shield. by cethern the son of finntan they were smitten, single his number at the ford (i.& he was alone); the men of connaught's host he released not for the time of six hours. feidlimid with multitude of troops, loegaire the triumphant eastwards, was half of complaint about the dog with aed son of morna not great. great nobles, mighty (?) deeds, hard heroes, fair companions in a house, great champions, destruction of clans, great hostages, great sepulchres. @@line x2? in this poem may be noted the reference to cuchulain in line x2 in close connection with that to bodb the goddess of war, as indicating the original divine nature of cuchulain as a war-god also the epithet of lugaid, "son of three dogs." two of the dogs are elsewhere stated to be cu-roi and cu-chulain, the third seems uncertain. line 26, describing marcan, seems untranslatable; the irish is marcan sinna set rod son. the epithet of the oak in line 32 is also obscure, the irish is dairbre n-dall. the sick-bed of cuchulain page 57 line 2. "samhain." samhain was held on november 1st, and on its eve, "hallow-e'en". the exhibition of tips of tongues, on the principle of indian scalps, has nothing at all to do with the story, and is not mentioned in the usual descriptions of the romance. it is a piece of antiquarian information, possibly correct, and should serve to remind us that the original form of these legends was probably of a barbaric kind, before they were taken in hand by the literary men who gave to the best forms of the romances the character they now have. line 23. for the demons screaming from the weapons of warriors compare the book of leinster version of the "combat at the ford": pages 126, 143 in this volume. page 58 line 4. the delay of conall and fergus leads to nothing, it is perhaps an introduction from some third form of the story. line 19. leborcham is, in the story of deirdre, deirdre's nurse and confidant. line 26. "their three blemishes." this disfigurement of the women of ulster in honour of their chosen heroes seems to point to a worship of these heroes as gods in the original legend. it may, however, be a sort of rough humour intentionally introduced by the author of the form of the story that we call the antiquarian form; there are other instances of such humour in this form of the story. page 59 line 2. "like the cast of a boomerang." this is an attempt to translate the word taithbeim, return-stroke, used elsewhere (l.u., 63a., 4) for cuchulain's method of capturing birds. line 8. "i deem it as being by me that the distribution was made." the words "i deem it" are inserted, they are not in the text. it appears that what ethne meant was that the distribution by cuchulain was regarded by her as done by her through her husband. page 60 line 9. "dun imrith nor yet to dun delga." dun imrith is the castle in which cuchulain was when he met the war-goddess in the "apparition of the morrigan," otherwise called the "tain bo regamna." dun delga or dundalk is the residence usually associated with cuchulain. the mention of emer here is noticeable; the usual statement about the romance is that ethne is represented as cuchulain's mistress, and emer as his wife; the mention here of emer in the antiquarian form may support this; but this form seems to be drawn from so many sources, that it is quite possible that ethne was the name of cuchulain's wife in the mind of the author of the form which in the main is followed. there is no opposition between emer and ethne elsewhere hinted at. line 15. the appearance of lugaid red-stripes gives a reason for his subsequent introduction in the link between the two forms of the story. line 18. "near the entrance of the chamber in which cuchulain lay." it does not yet seem certain whether imda was a room or a couch, and it would seem to have both meanings in the antiquarian form of this story. the expression forsind airiniuch na imdai which occurs here might be rendered "at the head of the bed"; but if we compare i n-airniuch ind rigthige which occurs twice in "bricriu's feast," and plainly means "at the entrance of the palace," it seems possible that airinech is here used in the same sense, in which case imda would mean "room," as whitley stokes takes it in the "bruiden da derga." on the other hand, the word imda translated on page 63, line 11, certainly means "couches." line 27. "ah cuchulain, &c." reference may be made for most of the verses in this romance to thurneysen's translation of the greater part of it in sagen aus dem alten irland but, as some of his renderings are not as close as the verse translations in the text, they require to be supplemented. the poem on pp. 60, 61 is translated by thurneysen, pp. 84 and 85; but the first two lines should run:-ah cuchulain, under thy sickness not long would have been the remaining. and lines 7 and 8 should be: dear would be the day if truly cuchulain would come to my land. the epithet "fair" given to aed abra's daughters in line 4 by thurneysen is not in the irish, the rest of his translation is very close. line 32. "plain of cruach." cromm cruach is the name of the idol traditionally destroyed by st. patrick in the "lives." cromm cruach is also described in the book of leinster (l.l. 213b) as an idol to whom human sacrifices were offered. the name of this plain is probably connected with this god. page 61 line 30. "hath released her," irish ros leci. these words are usually taken to mean that manannan had deserted fand, and that she had then turned to cuchulain, but to "desert" is not the only meaning of lecim. in the second form of the story, fand seems to have left manannan, and though of course the two forms are so different that it is not surprising to find a contradiction between the two, there does not seem to be any need to find one here; and the expression may simply mean that manannan left fand at liberty to pursue her own course, which divine husbands often did in other mythologies. manannan is, of course, the sea god, the celtic poseidon. page 62 line 3. eogan inbir (yeogan the stream) occurs in the book of leinster version of the book of invasions as one of the opponents of the tuatha de danaan, the folk of the gods (l.l. 9b, 45, and elsewhere). line 15. "said liban." the text gives "said fand." this seems to be a scribal slip: there is a similar error corrected on page 79, line 21, where the word "fand" is written "emer" in the text. line 16. "a woman's protection." the "perilous passage," passed only by a woman's help, occurs elsewhere both in irish and in other early literatures. see maelduin, para. 17; ivain (chretien de troyes), vv. 907 sqq.; and mabinogion, "lady of the fountain" (nutt's edition, p. 177). line 28. "labra." labraid's usual title, as given to him by liban in both forms of the romance and once by laeg in the second description of fairyland, is labraid luath lamar-claideb, the title being as closely connected with him as {greek boh`n a?gaã°o`s mene'laos}with menelaus in homer. it is usually translated as "labraid quick-hand-on-sword," but the luath need not be joined to lam, it is not in any of the places in the facsimile closely joined to it, and others than liban give to labraid the title of luath or "swift," without the addition. the literal translation of the short pieces of rhetoric on pages 62, 63 are, "where is labraid the swift hand-on-sword, who is the head of troops of victory? (who) triumphs from the strong frame of his chariot, who reddens red spear-points." "labraid the son of swiftness is there, he is not slow, abundant shall be the assembly of war, slaughter is set when the plain of fidga shall be full." "welcome to thee, o laeg! for the sake of her with whom thou hast come; and since thou hast come, welcome to thee for thyself!" the metre of the first two pieces is spirited and unusual. the second one runs: ata labraid luithe cland, ni ba mall bid immda tinol catha, cuirther ar, dã­a ba ian mag fidgae. page 63 line 24. "fand." the derivations of the names of fand and of aed abra are quite in keeping with the character of the antiquarian form, and would be out of place in the other form of the romance. it may perhaps be mentioned that the proper meaning of abra is "an eyelash," but the rendering "aed abra of the fiery eyebrows," which has been employed in accounts of this romance, would convey a meaning that does not seem to have been in the mind of the authors of either of the two forms. for the literal translations of the three invocations to labraid, on pp. 63, 66, thurneysen (p. 87) may be referred to; but there would be a few alterations. in the first, line 2 should be "heir of a little host, equipped with light spears," if windisch's dictionary is to be followed; line 5 would seem to begin "he seeketh out trespasses" (oirgniu); and line 7 should begin, "attacker of heroes," not "an attacking troop," which hardly makes sense. in the second invocation the first line should alter labraid's title to "labraid the swift hand-on-sword-of-battle;" line 3 should end with "wounded his side." in line 6 and again in the third line of the third invocation, thurneysen translates gus as "wrath": windisch gives the word to mean "strength." line 4 of the third invocation is rendered "he pierceth through men" by thurneysen; the irish is criathraid ocu. criathraim is given by o'reilly as meaning "to sift": "he sifteth warriors" seems a satisfactory meaning, if o'reilly is to be relied on. page 65 labraid's answer to the three invocations seems to run thus, but the translation is doubtful, many words are marked unknown by windisch: "i have no pride or arrogance, o lady, nor renown, it is not error, for lamentation is stirred our judgment" (reading na ardarc nid mell, chai mescthair with the second ms.), "we shall come to a fight of very many and very hard spears, of plying of red swords in right fists, for many peoples to the one heart of echaid juil (?), (let be) no anbi of thine nor pride, there is no pride or arrogance in me, o lady." i can make nothing of anbi. page 66 thurneysen does not translate the rhetoric; the translation seems to run thus: great unprofitableness for a hero to lie in the sleep of a sick-bed; for unearthly women show themselves, women of the people of the fiery plain of trogach, and they have subdued thee, and they have imprisoned thee, and they have chased thee away (?) amid great womanish folly. rouse thyself from the contest of distress (gloss, "the sickness sent by the fairy women") for all is gone of thy vigour among heroes who ride in chariots, and thou sittest (?) in the place of the young and thou art conquered (? condit chellti if connected with tochell), and thou art disturbed (?) in thy mighty deeds, for that which labraid's power has indicated rise up, o man who sittest (?) that thou mayest be great. "chased thee away" in line 7, for condot ellat, perhaps connected with do-ellaim (?). page 67 thurneysen's translation (p. 91) of emer's lament may be referred to, but he misses some strong points. among these are: line 5. "woe to ulster where hospitality abounds." line 12. "till he found a druid to lift the weight." line 25. "were it furbaide of the heroes." line 27. "the hound would search through the solid earth." line 29. "the hosts of the sid of train are dead." line 30. "for the hound of the smith of conor." line 34. "sick for the horseman of the plains." note the familiarity with the land of the fairies which laeg is asserted to have in the first verse of the poem: this familiarity appears more than once in the literary form of the story. laeg speaks of the land of labraid as "known to him" in hisfirst description of that land, again in the same description laeg is recognised by labraid by his five-folded purple mantle, which seems to have been a characteristic fairy gift. also, laeg seems at the end of the tale to be the only one to recognise manannan. there is no indication of any familiarity of laeg with the fairy country in the antiquarian form. the different ulster heroes alluded to are mostly well-known; all except furbaide are in "mae datho's boar." furbaide was a son of conor; be is one of the eighteen leaders who assemble on the hill of slane in the "tain bo cuailgne." the smith of conor is of course culann, from whom cuchulain got his name. pages 68, 69 a translation of emer's "awakening of cuchulain" may be found in thurneysen, p. 92 but there are one or two points that seem to be noted as differing from the rendering there given. lines 3 and 4 seem to mean: "look on the king of macha, on my beauty / does not that release thee from deep sleep?" thurneysen gives "look on the king of macha, my heart! thy sleep pleases him not." mo crath can hardly mean "my heart." line 6 is in the irish deca a churnu co comraim! "see their horns for the contest!" instead of comraim thurneysen seems to prefer the reading of the second ms., co cormaim, and translates "their horns full of beer." churnu may mean trumpets as well as drinking-horns, and emer would hardly call on cuchulain to throw off a drunken sleep (line 21) and then take to beer! the following translation of lines 17 to 20 seems preferable to thurneysen's: "heavy sleep is decay, and no good thing; it is fatigue against a heavy war; it is 'milk for the satiated,' the sleep that is on thee; death-weakness is the tanist of death." the last line is tanaisi d'ec ecomnart. the tanist was the prince who stood next to the king; the image seems too good a one to be lost; thurneysen translates "weakness is sister to death." line 14 seems to mean "see each wonder wrought by the cold"; emer calls cuchulain's attention to the icicles which she thinks he is in danger of resembling. page 69 for the literal translation of liban's invitation see thurneysen, p. 93. line 14 should run: "colour of eyes his skin in the fight;" the allusion is, apparently, to a bloodshot eye. page 71 line 4. the plain of speech (mag luada) and the tree of triumphs (bile buada) are apparently part of the irish mythology; they appear again in laeg's second description of fairyland, which is an additional reason for keeping this poem where it is in the second version, and not following thurneysen in transferring it to the first. mag luada is sometimes translated as "moving plain," apparently deriving the word from luath, "swift." laeg's two descriptions of the fairyland are (if we except the voyage of bran) the two most definite descriptions of that country in irish literature. there is very little extravagance in these descriptions; the marvellously fruitful trees, the ever-flowing vat of mead, and the silver-branched tree may be noted. perhaps the trees of "purple glass" may be added, but for these, see note on line 30. the verse translation has been made to follow the original as closely as possible; for a literal translation thurneysen's versions (pp. 94 and 88) may be referred to, but some alterations may be made. the first description seems to begin thus: i went with noble sportiveness to a land wonderful, yet well-known; until i came to a cairn for twenty of troops where i found labraid the long-haired. there i found him on that hill sitting among a thousand weapons, yellow hair on him with beautiful colour, an apple of gold for the confining of it. and it ends thus: alas i that he went not long ago, and each cure (should come) at his searching, that he might see how it is the great palace that i saw. though all erin were mine and the kingship of yellow bregia, i would resign it; no slight trial; for knowledge of the place to which i came. the following points should also be noted: line 30 of this first description is tri bile do chorcor glain. this undoubtedly means "three trees of purple glass"; but do chorcor glan would mean "of bright purple"; and this last rendering, which is quite a common expression (see etain, p. 12), has been adopted in the verse translation. the order of the words in the expression in the text is unusual, and the adoption of them would give an air of artificiality to the description which is otherwise quite absent from it. lines 37 and 38 run thus: there are there thrice twenty trees, their tops meet, and meet not. lines 43, 44, rendering: "each with splendid gold fastening well hooked through its eye," are literally "and a brooch of gold with its splendour in the 'ear' of each cloak." the ears of a cloak, usually described as made of the peculiar white bronze, occur elsewhere in the tales, and there are different speculations as to their use and meaning. the most probable explanation is that they were bronze rings shaped like ears, and sewn into the cloak; a brooch to fasten the cloak being passed through the rings. this explanation has been suggested by professor ridgeway, and seems to fit admirably the passages in which these "ears" occur. compare fraech, line 33, in the second volume; also the "courtship of ferb" (nutt), p. 6. there are also a few corrections necessary to thurneysen's translation of the second description. lines 13 to 20 should run thus: a beautiful band of women;--victory without fetters;-are the daughters of aed abra; the beauty of fand is a rushing sound with splendour, exceeding the beauty of a queen or king. (the last line is more literally, "not excepting a queen or, &c.") i will say, since it hath been heard by me, that the seed of adam was sinless; but the beauty of fand up to my time hath not found its equal. for the allusion to adams sin, compare etain, p. 26. allusions like these show that the tales were composed in christian times. there seems no reason to suppose them to be insertions, especially in cases like this one, where they come in quite naturally. line 21 is literally "with their arms for slaying"; not "who warred on each other with weapons" as in thurneysen. page 76 for the cooling of cuchulain's battle-frenzy with water compare the similar treatment in the account of his first foray (l.u., 63a; miss faraday's translation, p. 34). for a literal translation of faud's triumph song over cuchulain's return see thurneysen's translation on page 97 of the work already referred to. thurneysen's translation is very close; perhaps the last verse should run: "long rain of red blood at the side of the trees, a token of this proud and masterful, high with wailing is the sorrow for his fiend-like frenzy." the description of cuchulain's appearance in verses 5 and 6 seems to point to a conception of him as the sun-god. compare the "sunlike" seat of his chariot on page 79. page 78 the literal translation of liban's rhetoric in welcome to cuchulain seems to be, "hail to cuchulain! king who brings help, great prince of murthemne! great his mind; pomp of heroes; battle-triumphing; heart of a hero; strong rock of skill; blood-redness of wrath; ready for true foes of the hero who has the valour of ulster (?); bright his splendour; splendour of the eyes of maidens; hail to cuchulain!" torc in the second line is glossed in the ms. by "that is, a king." cuchulain's account of his own battle is omitted by thurneysen, possibly because the account that he gives differs from that in the text, as is pointed out by windisch, ir. text., vol. i. p. 201). but it is quite in keeping with the hero's character that he should try to lessen his own glory; and the omission of this account destroys one of the features of the tale. the literal rendering is: i threw a cast with my light spear into the host of eogan the stream; not at all do i know, though renowned the price, the victory that i have done, or the deed. whether he was better or inferior to my strength hitherto i chanced not on for my decision, a throw, ignorance of the man in the mist, certainly he came not away a living man. a white army, very red for multitudes of horses, they followed after me on every side (?), people of manannan mac lir, eogan the stream called them. i set out in each manner when my full strength had come to me; one man to their thirty, hundreds, until i brought them to death. i heard the groan of echaid juil, lips speak in friendship, if it is really true, certainly it was not a fight (?), that cast, if it was thrown. the idea of a battle with the waves of the sea underlies the third verse of this description. page 79 five pieces of rhetoric follow, all of which are translated by thurneysen. a few alterations may be made, but all of them would be small ones. the verse translations given are, it is believed, a little closer to the text than thurneysen's. the metres of the first three pieces are discussed by professor rhys in y cymmrodor for 1905 (pages 166, 167). professor rhys reduces the second of these to a hexameter followed by three pentameters, then a hexameter followed by a pentameter. the other two reduce to hexameters mixed with curtailed hexameters and pentameters. the last two pieces of the five, not mentioned by professor rhys, show a strophic correspondence, which has been brought out in the verse translation; note especially their openings, and the last line of emer's speech, cia no triallta, as balancing the last line but four of cuchulain's speech, cia no comgellta. the last of these five pieces shows the greatest differences between the verse and literal translations. a literal translation of this would run: "wherefore now, o emer!" said cuchulain, "should i not be permitted to delay with this lady? for first this lady here is bright, pure, and clear, a worthy mate for a king; of many forms of beauty is the lady, she can pass over waves of mighty seas, is of a goodly shape and countenance and of a noble race, with embroidery and skill, and with handiwork, with understanding, and sense, and firmness; with plenty of horses and many cattle, so that there is nothing under heaven, no wish for a dear spouse that she doth not. and though it hath been promised (?), emer," he said, "thou never shalt find a hero so beautiful, so scarred with wounds, so battle-triumphing, (so worthy) as i myself am worthy." page 81 line 11. "fair seems all that's red, &c.," is literally "fair is each red, white is each new, beautiful each lofty, sour is each known, revered is each thing absent, failure is each thing accustomed." for a translation of the poem in which fand resigns cuchulain reference may be made to thurneysen (p. 101). a more accurate translation of the first verse seems to run thus: i am she who will go on a journey which is best for me on account of strong compulsion; though there is to another abundance of her fame, (and) it were dearer to me to remain. line 16 of poem, translated by thurneysen "i was true and held my word," is in the original daig is misi rop iran. iran is a doubtful word, if we take it as a form of aur-an, aur being the intensitive prefix, a better translation may be, "i myself was greatly glowing." page 82 line 26. "the lady was seized by great bitterness of mind," irish ro gab etere moir. the translation of etere is doubtful. page 83 for the final poem, in which fand returns to manannan, reference may as before be made to thurneysen's translation; but a few changes may be noted: line 1 should be, "see the son of the hero people of the sea." line 5 seems to be, "although" (lit. "if") "it is to-day that his cry is excellent." line 7 is a difficult one. thurneysen gives, "that indeed is the course of love," apparently reading rot, a road, in place of ret; but he leaves eraise untranslated; the irish is is eraise in ret in t-serc. might not eraise be "turning back," connected with eraim, and the line run: "it is turning back of the road of love"? lines 13 to 16 are omitted by thurneysen. they seem to mean: when the comely manannan took me, he was to me a fitting spouse; nor did he at all gain me before that time, an additional stake (?) at a game at the chess. the last line, cluchi erail (lit. "excess") ar fidchill, is a difficult allusion. perhaps the allusion is to the capture of etain by mider as prize at chess from her husband. fand may be claiming superiority over a rival fairy beauty. lines 17 and 18 repeat lines 13 and 14. lines 46 and 47 are translated by thurneysen, "too hard have i been offended; laeg, son of riangabra, farewell," but there is no "farewell" in the irish. the lines seem to be: "indeed the offence was great, o laeg, o thou son of riangabra," and the words are an answer to laeg, who may be supposed to try to stop her flight. page 85 line 24. "that she might forget her jealousy," lit. "a drink of forgetfulness of her jealousy," deoga dermait a heta. the translation seems to be an accepted one, and certainly gives sense, but it is doubtful whether or not eta can be regarded as a genitive of et, "jealousy "; the genitive elsewhere is eoit. there is a conclusion to this romance which is plainly added by the compiler: it is reproduced here, to show the difference between its style and the style of the original author: "this then was a token given to cuchulain that he should be destroyed by the people of the mound, for the power of the demons was great before the advent of the faith; so great was that power that the demons warred against men in bodily form, and they showed delights and secret things to them; and that those demons were co-eternal was believed by them. so that from the signs that they showed, men called them the ignorant folk of the mounds, the people of the sid." the exile of the sons of usnach page 91 the four pieces of rhetoric, at the beginning of this text are translated by thurneysen, sagen aus dem alten irland, pp. 11 and 12. in the first, third, and fourth of those, the only difference of any importance between the text adopted and thurneysen's versions is the third line of the third piece, which perhaps should run: "with stately eyes with blue pupils," segdaib suilib sellglassaib, taking the text of the yellow book of lecan. the second piece appears to run as follows: let cathbad hear, the fair one, with face that all love, the prince, the royal diadem, let he who is extolled be increased by druid arts of the druid: because i have no words of wisdom to oppose (?) to feidlimid, the light of knowledge; for the nature of woman knows not what is under her body, (or) what in the hollow of my womb cries out. these rhetorics are remarkable for the great number of the alliterations in the original. page 93 thurneysen omits a verse of cathbad's poem. a translation of the whole seems to run thus: deirdre, great cause of destruction, though thou art fair of face, famous, pale, ulster shall sorrow in thy time, thou hidden (?) daughter of feidlimid. windisch's dict. gives "modest daughter" in the last line; the original is ingen fial. but the word might be more closely connected with fial, "a veil." "modest" is not exactly the epithet that one would naturally apply to the deirdre of the leinster version, and the epithet of "veiled" or "hidden" would suit her much better, the reference being to her long concealment by conor. there shall be mischief yet afterwards on thy account, o brightly shining woman, hear thou this! at that time shall be the exile of the three lofty sons of usnach. it is in thy time that a violent deed shall be done thereupon in emain, yet afterwards shall it repent the violation of the safeguard of the mighty son of rog. do foesam is read in the last verse, combining the leinster and the egerton texts. it is through thee, o woman with excellence, (is) the exile of fergus from the ulstermen, and a deed from which weeping will come, the wound of fiachna, the son of conor. fiachna. is grandson to conor in the book of leinster account of the battle. fiacha is conor's son in the glenn masain version. it is thy fault, o woman with excellence, the wound of gerrc son of illadan, and a deed of no smaller importance, the slaying of eogan mac durthacht. there is no account of the slaying of eogan in the book of leinster version; and eogan appears on the hill of slane in the ulster army in the war of cualgne. the sequel to the glenn masain version, however, describes eogan's death at the hand of fergus (celtic review, jan. 1905, p. 227). thou shalt do a deed that is wild and hateful for wrath against the king of noble ulster; thy little grave shall be in that place, thy tale shall be renowned, o deirdre. page 95 line 13. "release me, o my wife!" eirgg uaim a ben. it is suggested that the vocative ben is "wife," not "woman." it occurs in seven other places besides this in windisch's dictionary, and in six of these it means wife (emer is addressed as wife of cuchulain in a deig-ben, in "sick-bed," 44). in the remaining case ("fled bricrend," 31) the word is abbreviated, and stands b in the text, which might be for be, "o lady," though we should have then expected the accent. i suggest that naisi, by giving to deirdre the name of "wife," accepts her offer, for no other sign of acceptance is indicated, and the subsequent action shows that she is regarded as his wife afterwards. line 30. "near to ballyshannon," and "which men to-day call the mountain of howth," are inserted as the modern names of the places. the words correspond to nothing in the irish. page 97 line 13. "fiacha." fiacha, the son of fergus, corresponds to illan in the better known version. there is no one in this version who corresponds to the traitor son, buinne. page 98 the "lament of deirdre," one of the finest of the older irish poems, has been rendered by thurneysen and by others, among which should be specially mentioned miss hull, in the cuchullin saga, pp. 50-51. o'curry's and o'flanagan's versions seem to be very far from correct, and it will be more convenient to give that literal translation which seems nearest to the original, instead of indicating divergencies. the literal translation adopted runs as follows: though fair to you seems the keen band of heroes who march into emain that they lately left (lit "after departing"), more stately was the return to their home of the three heroic sons of usnach. naisi, with mead of delicious hazel-nuts (came), to be bathed by me at the fire, ardan, with an ox or boar of excellence, aindle, a faggot on his stately back. though sweet be the excellent mead to you which is drunk by the son of ness, the rich in strife, there has been known to me, ere now, leaping over a bank, frequent sustenance which was sweeter. line 3 of the above stanza seems to be baithium riam reim for bra, taking reim from the egerton text. the allusion is to a cascade. when the noble naisi spread out a cooking-hearth on hero-board of tree, sweeter than any food dressed under honey[fn#69] was what was captured by the son of usnach. [fn#69] for "food dressed under honey" compare fraech, line 544, in the second volume. though melodious to you each month (are the) pipers and horn-blowers, it is my open statement to you to-day i have heard melody sweeter far than these. for conor, the king, is melody pipers and blowers of horns, more melodious to me, renowned, enchanting the voice given out by the sons of usnach. like the sound of the wave the voice of naisi, it was a melodious sound, one to hearken to for ever, ardan was a good barytone, the tenor of aindle rang through the dwelling-place. naisi is laid in his tomb, sad was the protection that he got; the nation by which he was reared poured out the cup of poison by which he died. dear is berthan, beautiful its lands, stately the men, though hilly the land, it is sorrowful that to-day i rise not to await the sons of usnach. dear the mind, firm, upright, dear the youth, lofty, modest, after going with him through the dark wood dear the girding (?) at early morning. dear his gray eye, which women loved, it was evil-looking against enemies, after circuit of the wood (was) a noble assembly, dear the tenor through the dark wood. i sleep not therefor, and i stain not my nails with red, joy comes not to my wakefulness, for the sons of usnach return not. the last line is the egerton reading. i sleep not for half the night on my bed, my mind wanders amidst clouds of thoughts, i eat not, nor smile. there is no leisure or joy for me in the assemblies of eastern emain; there is no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose in beholding fine houses or splendid ornaments. what, o conor, of thee? for me only sorrow under lamentation hast thou prepared, such will be my life so long as it remains to me, thy love for me will not last. the man who under heaven was fairest to me, the man who was so dear thou hast torn from me; great was the crime; so that i shall not see him until i die. his absence is the cause of grief to me, the shape of the son of usnach shows itself to me, a dark hill is above his white body which was desired before many things by me. his ruddy cheeks, more beautiful than meadows (?), red lips, eyebrows of the colour of the chafer, his teeth shining like pearls, like noble colour of snow. well have i known his splendid garb among the warrior men of alba; mantle of crimson, meet for an assembly, with a border of red gold. his tunic of satin of costly price, on it a hundred pearls could be counted, goodly the number (lit. "a smooth number" ? a round number), for its embroidery had been used, it was bright, fifty ounces of findruine (i.e. white bronze). a gold-hilted sword in his hand, two green spears with terrible points (?), a shield with border of yellow gold, and a boss of silver upon it. fair fergus brought injury upon us when inducing us to cross the sea; he has sold his honour for ale, the glory of his high deeds is departed. if there were upon this plain the warriors of ulster in the presence of conor, all of them would i give up without a struggle for the companionship of naisi, the son of usnach. break not to-day my heart (o conor!), soon shall i reach my early grave, stronger than the sea is my grief, dost thou not know it, o conor? page 103 for the literal translations of the poems in the glenn masain version see whitley stokes in irische texte, ii. 2, 172 sqq. stanzas 13 to 16 are not in lvi. (the manuscript which is the second authority used by stokes for this version, and is the chief authority for this part of the version). they are in the manuscript that stokes calls ii. (the version used by o'flanagan), which, like lvi., agrees pretty closely with the glenn masain text so far as the latter manuscript extends. stanza 22 is also from o'flanagan's manuscript. this verse is not translated by stokes, but it seems worth inserting. the literal translation of it is: i am deirdre without joy, it is for me the end of my life; since to remain behind them is the worst thing, not long life to myself. page 107 line 21. two passages, one describing fergus' sons born in connaught, the other summing up his deeds, are omitted, as it is not intended to reproduce this version in full. the combat at the ford the well-known translation by o'curry of this part of the book of leinster version of the "tain bo cuailgne" is given in the third volume of his "manners and customs," pp. 414-463. there are, as has often been pointed out, many inaccuracies in the translation, and the present version does not claim to correct all or even the greater part of them; for the complete version of the great tain by windisch which has so long eagerly been expected should give us a trustworthy text, and the present translation is in the main founded on o'curry; to whose version reference may be made for literal translations for such parts of the verse passages as are not noted below. a few more obvious corrections have been made; most of those in the prose will appear by comparing the rendering with o'curry's; some of the corrections in the literal versions adopted for the poems are briefly indicated. two poems have been literally translated in full: in these the renderings which have no authority other than o'curry's are followed by a query, in order to give an indication of the extent to which the translation as given may for the present be regarded as uncertain. for all the more valuable of the corrections made to o'curry's translation i am indebted to the kindness of mr. e. j. quiggin, fellow of caius college, cambridge. page 118 line 7 of the first stanza. o'curry gives this as "thou hast come out of every strife," which seems to be an impossible rendering; "take whatever is thy will" seems to be nearer the sense of the passage, and has been adopted. lines 5 to 8 of the fourth stanza are very uncertain; and the translation given, which is in part based upon o'curry, is very doubtful; a more trustworthy one has not, however, been arrived at. line 4 of the fifth stanza in o'curry's rendering means "here is what thou wilt not earn," i.e. "we can pay more than a full reward for thy services." lines 5 and 6 of the sixth stanza should be, "if my request be granted me i will advance, though i am not his match." line 2 of the eighth stanza, "not thine a pleasant smile for a consort." brachail in the next line is "guardian." line 10 of the last stanza. elgga is one of the names of ireland. page 121 line 1. maeth n-araig, "in an easy task," the force of which o'curry seems to miss, translating it "as he thought." there are several changes to make in o'curry's rendering of the dialogue between fergus and cuchulain. it should run thus: f. o cuchulain, manifest is the bargain, i see that rising is timely for thee; here comes to thee in anger ferdiad, son of daman, of the ruddy face. c. i am here, it is no light task valiantly delaying the men of erin; i have not yielded a foot in retreat to shun the combat of any one man. f. fierce is the man in his excited (?) rage because of his blood-red sword: a horny skin is about ferdiad of the troops, against it prevails not battle or combat. c. be silent, urge not thy story, o fergus of the powerful weapons! on any field, on any ground, there is no unequal fight for me. f. fierce is the man, a war for twenties, it is not easy to vanquish him, the strength of a hundred in his body, valiant his deed (?), spears pierce him not, swords cut him not. c. should we happen to meet at a ford (i.e. a field of battle), i and ferdiad of well-known valour, the separation shall not be without history, fierce shall be our edge-combat. f. better would it be to me than reward, o cuchulain of the blood-stained sword, that it was thou who carried eastward the spoils (coscur, not corcur) of the proud ferdiad. c. i give thee my word with boasting, though i am not good at bragging, that it is i who shall gain the victory over the son of daman, the son of dare. f. it is i who gathered the forces eastwards in revenge for my dishonour by the men of ulster; with me they have come from their lands, their champions and their battle warriors. c. if conor had not been in his sickness hard would have been his nearness to thee; medb of magh in scail had not made an expedition of so loud boastings. f. a greater deed awaits thy hand, battle with ferdiad son of daman, hardened bloody weapons, friendly is my speech, do thou have with thee, o cuchulain! page 124 line 7 of o'curry's rendering of the first stanza should run: "so that he may take the point of a weapon through him." stanza 2 of the poem should run thus: it would be better for thee to stay, thy threats will not be gentle, there will be some one who shall have sickness on that account, distressful will be thy departure to encounter the rock of ulster; and ill may this venture turn out; long will be the remembrance of it, woe shall be to him who goeth that journey. line 4 of the next stanza, "i will not keep back to please you." page 126 the literal rendering of the poem seems to be: i hear the creaking of a chariot with a beautiful silver yoke, the figure of a man with perfection (rises) from the wheels of the stout chariot; over breg row, over braine they come (?), over the highway beside the lower part of the burg of the trees; it (the chariot?) is triumphant for its victories. it is a heroic (?) hound who drives it, it is a trusty charioteer who yokes it, it is a noble hawk who scourges his horses to the south: he is a stubborn hero, he is certain (to cause) heavy slaughter, it is well-known that not with indexterity (?) is the bringing of the battle to us. woe for him who shall be upon the hillock waiting for the hound who is fitly framed (lit. in harmony"); i myself declared last year that there would come, though it be from somewhere, a hound the hound of emain macha, the hound with a form on which are hues of all colours, the hound of a territory, the hound of battle; i hear, we have heard. as a second rendering of the above in a metre a little closer to the original than that given in the text, the following may be suggested: shrieks from war-car wake my hearing, silver yokes are nigh appearing; high his perfect form is rearing, he those wheels who guides! braina, braeg ross past it boundeth, triumph song for conquests soundeth, lo! the roadway's course it roundeth, skirting wooded sides. hero hound the scourge hard plieth, trusty servant yoke-strap tieth, swift as noble hawk, he flieth, southward urging steeds! hardy chief is he, and story soon must speak his conquests gory, great for skilful war his glory; we shall know his deeds! thou on hill, the fierce hound scorning, waitest; woe for thee is dawning; fitly framed he comes, my warning spoke him thus last year: "emain's hound towards us raceth, guards his land, the fight he faceth, every hue his body graceth:" whom i heard, i hear. page 127 in o'curry's rendering of the dialogue between ferdia and his servant, line 3 should be, "that it be not a deed of prophecy," not "a deferred deed"; and line 6, with his proud sport." last stanza of the poem: it seems thou art not without rewards, so greatly hast thou praised him; why else hast thou extolled him ever since i left my house? they who now extol the man when he is in their sight come not to attack him, but are cowardly churls. page 128 line 34. "as a hawk darts up from the furrow." o'curry gives "from the top of a cliff." the word in the irish is claiss. page 129 the metre of this poem, which is also the metre of all the preceeding poems except the second in this romance, but does not occur elsewhere in the collection, may be illustrated by quoting the original of the fifth verse, which runs as follows: re funiud, re n-aidchi madit eicen airrthe, comrac dait re bairche, ni ba ban in gleo: ulaid acot gairmsiu, ra n-gabartar aillsiu, bud olc doib in taidbsiu rachthair thairsiu is treo. literal translation of the first two stanzas: what has brought thee here, o hound, to fight with a strong champion? crimson-red shall flow thy blood over the breaths of thy steeds; woe is thy journey: it shall be a kindling of fuel against a house, need shalt thou have of healing if thou reach thy home (alive). i have come before warriors who gather round a mighty host-possessing prince, before battalions, before hundreds, to put thee under the water, in anger with thee, and to slay thee in a combat of hundreds of paths of battle, so that thine shall the injury as thou protectest thy head. line 2 of the fifth stanza, "good is thy need of height." line 8 of the seventh stanza, "without valour, without strength." page 133 line 3. literally: "whatever be the excellence of her beauty." a similar literal translation for page 138, line 10, of the dialogue; the same line occurs in verse 3 on page 148, but is not rendered in the verse translation. page 134 line 18. "o cuchulain! for beautiful feats renowned." o'curry gives this as prose, but it is clearly verse in the original. page 138 lines 5, 6 of dialogue. "o cuchulain! who art a breeder of wounds" (lit. "pregnant with wounds"); "o true warrior! o true" (?accent probably omitted) "champion!" lines 7, 8. "there is need for some one" (i.e. himself) "to go to the sod where his final resting-place shall be." the irish of line 7 is is eicen do neoch a thecht, which o'curry translates "a man is constrained to come," and he is followed by douglas hyde, who renders the two lines: fate constrains each one to stir, moving towards his sepulchre. but do neoch cannot possibly mean "every man," it means "some man;" usually the person in question is obvious. compare page 125 of this romance, line 3, which is literally: "there will be some one who shall have sickness on that account," biaid nech diamba galar, meaning, as here, ferdia. the line is an explanation of ferdia's appearance, and is not a moral reflection. line 29. "o cuchulain! with floods of deeds of valour," or "brimming over with deeds, &c." page 141 line 9. "four jewels of carbuncle." this is the reading of h. 2, 17; t.c.d; which o'curry quotes as an alternative to "forty" of the book of leinster. "each one of them fit to adorn it" is by o'curry translated "in each compartment." the irish is a cach aen chumtach: apparently "for each one adornment." page 144 line 8 of poem. "alas for the departing of my ghost." page 146 lines 1, 2. "though he had struck off the half of my leg that is sound, though he had smitten off half my arm." page 148 line 5. "since he whom aife bore me," literally "never until now have i met, since i slew aife's only son, thy like in deeds of battle, never have i found it, o ferdia." this is o'curry's rendering; if it is correct, and it seems to be so substantially, the passage raises a difficulty. aife's only son is, according to other records, conlaoch, son of cuchulain and aife, killed by his father, who did not at the time know who conlaoch was. this battle is usually represented as having taken place at the end of cuchulain's life; but here it is represented as preceding the war of cualgne, in which cuchulain himself is represented to be a youth. the allusion certainly indicates an early date for the fight with conlaoch, and if we are to lay stress on the age of cuchulain at the time of the war, as recorded in the book of leinster, of whose version this incident is a part, the "son of aife" would not have been a son of cuchulain at all in the mind of the writer of this verse. it is possible that there was an early legend of a fight with the son of aife which was developed afterwards by making him the son of cuchulain; the oldest version of this incident, that in the yellow book of lecan, reconciles the difficulty by making conlaoch only seven years old when he took up arms; this could hardly have been the original version. line 23 of poem is literally: "it is like thrusting a spear into sand or against the sun." the metre of the poem "ah that brooch of gold," and of that on page 144, commencing "hound, of feats so fair," are unique in this collection, and so far as i know do not occur elsewhere. both have been reproduced in the original metre, and the rather complicated rhyme-system has also been followed in that on page 148. the first verse of the irish of this is dursan, a eo oir a fhirdiad na n-dam a belc bemnig buain ba buadach do lamh. the last syllable of the third line has no rhyme beyond the echo in the second syllable of the next line; oir, "gold," has no rhyme till the word is repeated in the third line of the third verse, rhymed in the second line of the fourth, and finally repeated at the end. the second verse has two final words echoed, brass and maeth; it runs thus do barr bude brass ba cass, ba cain set; do chriss duillech maeth immut taeb gu t-ec. the rhymes in the last two verses are exactly those of the reproduction, they are cain sair, main, laim, chain, the other three end rhymes being oir, choir, and oir. line 3 of this poem is "o hero of strong-striking blows." line 4. "triumphant was thine arm." page 149 lines 11 and 12 of the poem. "go ye all to the swift battle that shall come to you from german the green-terrible" (? of the terrible green spear). page 150 line 12. the torrian sea is the mediterranean. page 151 line 15. literally: "thou in death, i alive and nimble." line 23. "wars were gay, &c." cluchi cach, gaine cach, "each was a game, each was little," taking gaine as gainne, the known derivative of gand, "scanty." o'curry gives the meaning as "sport," and has been followed by subsequent translators, but there does not seem any confirmation of this rendering. page 153 line 10. banba is one of the names of ireland. end of vol. i. vol. ii @@{redactors note: in the original book the 'literal translation' is printed on facing pages to the poetic translation. in this etext the literal translation portions have been collated after the poetic translation, for the sake of readability. hence the page numbers are not sequential--jbh} preface to vol. ii it seems to have been customary in ancient ireland to precede by shorter stories the recital of the great tain, the central story of the irish heroic age. a list of fourteen of these "lesser tains," three of which are lost, is given in miss hull's "cuchullin saga"; those preserved are the tain bo aingen, dartada, flidais, fraich, munad, regamon, regamna, ros, ruanadh, sailin, and ere. of these, five only have been edited, viz. the tain bo dartada, flidais, fraich, regamon, and regamna; all these five are given in this volume. the last four tales are all short, and perhaps are more truly "preludes" (remscela) than the tain bo fraich, which has indeed enough of interest in itself to make it an independent tale, and is as long as the four put together. all the five tales have been rendered into verse, with a prose literal translation opposite to the verse rendering, for reasons already given in the preface to the first volume. a short introduction, describing the manuscript authority, is prefixed to each; they all seem to go back in date to the best literary period, but appear to have been at any rate put into their present form later than the great tain, in order to lead up to it. a possible exception to this may be found at the end of the tain bo flidais, which seems to give a different account of the end of the war of cualgne, and to claim that cuchulain was defeated, and that connaught gained his land for its allies. it may be mentioned that the last four tales are expressly stated in the text to be "remscela" to the great tain. introduction in verse when to an irish court of old came men, who flocked from near and far to hear the ancient tale that told cuchulain's deeds in cualgne's war; oft, ere that famous tale began, before their chiefest bard they hail, amid the throng some lesser man arose, to tell a lighter tale; he'd fell how maev and ailill planned their mighty hosts might best be fed, when they towards the cualgne land all irelands swarming armies led; how maev the youthful princes sent to harry warlike regamon, how they, who trembling, from her went, his daughters and his cattle won; how ailill's guile gained darla's cows, how vengeful fairies marked that deed; how fergus won his royal spouse whose kine all ireland's hosts could feed; how, in a form grotesque and weird, cuchulain found a power divine; or how in shapes of beasts appeared the magic men, who kept the swine; or how the rowan's guardian snake was roused by order of the king; or how, from out the water, fraech to finnabar restored her ring. and though, in greater tales, they chose speech mired with song, men's hearts to sway, such themes as these they told in prose, like speakers at the "feis" to-day. to men who spake the irish tongue that form of prose was pleasing well, while other lands in ballads sung such tales as these have loved to tell: so we, who now in english dress these irish tales would fain and seek their spirit to express, have set them down in ballad verse; and, though to celts the form be strange, seek not too much the change to blame; 'tis but the form alone we change; the sense, the spirit rest the same. contents the preludes to the raid of cualgne tain bo fraich page 1 the raid for dartaid's cattle page 69 the raid for the cattle of regamon page 83 the driving of the cattle of flidais page 101 the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain page 127 appendix irish text and literal translation of part of the courtship of etain page 143 tain bo fraich introduction the tain bo fraich, the driving of the cattle of fraech, has apparently only one version; the different manuscripts which contain it differing in very small points; most of which seem to be due to scribal errors. practically the tale consists of two quite separate parts. the first, the longer portion, gives the adventures of fraech at the court of ailill and maev of connaught, his courtship of their daughter, finnabar, and closes with a promised betrothal. the second part is an account of an expedition undertaken by fraech to the alps "in the north of the land of the long beards," to recover stolen cattle, as well as his wife," who is stated by o'beirne crowe, on the authority of the "courtship of trebland" in the book of fermoy, to have been trebland, a semi-deity, like fraech himself. except that fraech is the chief actor in both parts, and that there is one short reference at the end of the second part to the fact that fraech did, as he had promised in the first part, join ailill and maev upon the war of cualnge, there is no connection between the two stories. but the difference between the two parts is not only in the subject-matter; the difference in the style is even yet more apparent. the first part has, i think, the most complicated plot of any irish romance, it abounds in brilliant descriptions, and, although the original is in prose, it is, in feeling, highly poetic. the second part resembles in its simplicity and rapid action the other "fore tales" or preludes to the war of cualnge contained in this volume, and is of a style represented in english by the narrative ballad. in spite of the various characters of the two parts, the story seems to have been regarded as one in all the manuscripts which contain it; and the question how these two romances came to be regarded as one story becomes interesting. the natural hypothesis would be that the last part was the original version, which was in its earlier part re-written by a man of genius, possibly drawing his plot from some brief statement that finnabar was promised to fraech in return for the help that he and his recovered cattle could give in the great war; but a difficulty, which prevents us from regarding the second part as an original legend, at once comes in. the second part of the story happens to contain so many references to nations outside ireland that its date can be pretty well fixed. fraech and his companions go, over the sea from ulster, i.e. to scotland; then through "north saxon-land" to the sea of icht (i.e. the sea of wight or the english channel); then to the alps in the north of the land of the long-beards, or lombards. the long-beards do not appear in italy until the end of the sixth century; the suggestion of north saxon-land reaching down to the sea of wight suggests that there was then a south saxon-land, familiar to an irish writer, dating this part of the story as before the end of the eighth century, when both saxons and long-beards were overcome by charlemagne. the second part of the story is, then, no original legend, but belongs to the seventh or eighth century, or the classical period; and it looks as if there were two writers, one of whom, like the author of the egerton version of etain, embellished the love-story part of the original legend, leaving the end alone, while another author wrote an account of the legendary journey of the demi-god fraech in search for his stolen cattle, adding the geographical and historical knowledge of his time. the whole was then put together, like the two parts of the etain story; the difference between the two stories in the matter of the wife does not seem to have troubled the compilers. the oldest manuscript authority for the tain bo fraich is the book of leinster, written before 1150. there are at least two other manuscript authorities, one; in egerton, 1782 (published by professor kuno meyer in the zeitschrift fã¼r celt. philologie, 1902); the other is in ms. xl., advocates' library, edinburgh (published in the revue celtique, vol. xxiv.). professor meyer has kindly allowed me to copy his comparison of these manuscripts and his revision of o'beirne crowe's translation of the book of leinster text. the text of the literal translation given here follows, however, in the main o'beirne crowe's translation, which is in the proceedings of the royal irish academy for 1870; a few insertions are made from the other mss.; when so made the insertion is indicated by a note. for those who may be interested in the subsequent history of fraech, it may be mentioned that he was one of the first of the connaught champions to be slain by cuchulain in the war of cualnge; see miss faraday's translation (grimm library, page 35). persons in the story mortals ailill, king of connaught. medb (or maev), queen of connaught. findbar (or finnabar), their daughter. froech (or fraech), (pronounced fraych); son of a connaught man and a fairy mother. conall cernach (conall the victorious), champion of ulster. two irish women, in captivity in the alps, north of lombardy. lothar (or lothur), a follower of fraech. bicne, a follower of conall. immortals befind, fraech's fairy mother. boand (pronounced like "owned"), sister to befind; queen of the fairies. three fairy harpers. tain bo fraich the raid for the cattle of fraech now the news of the love of that maid to fraech, at his home where he dwelt, was brought, and he called his folk, and with all he spoke, and for speech with the maid he sought: and they counselled him thus: "let a message from thee be sent to thy fairy kin to entreat their aid when we seek that maid; a boon we may chance to win: for the wondrous robes of the fairy land, and for gifts from the fairies plead; and sure thy mother's sister's hand will give to thee all thy need." to mag breg,[fn#1] where his mother's sister dwelt, to boand he away hath gone, and she gave to him mantles of dark black-blue, like a beetle's back they shone: four dark-grey rings in each cloak she gave were sewn, and a brooch shone, bright with the good red gold in each mantle's fold; she gave tunics pale and white, and the tunics were bordered with golden loops, that forms as of beasts displayed; and a fifty she added of well-rimmed shields, that of silver white were made. [fn#1] pronounced maw brayg. then away they rode, in each hero's hand was a torch for a kingly hall, for studs of bronze, and of well-burned gold, shone bright on the spears of all; on carbuncle sockets the spears were set, their points with jewels blazed; and they lit the night, as with fair sunlight, as men on their glory gazed. by each of the fifty heroes' side was a sword with a hilt of gold; and a soft-grey mare was for each to ride, with a golden curb controlled; at each horse's throat was a silver plate, and in front of that plate was swung, with a tinkling sound to the horse's tread, a bell with a golden tongue. on each steed was a housing of purple hide, with threads of silver laced, and with spiral stitch of the silver threads the heads of beasts were traced, and each housing was buckled with silver and gold: of findruine[fn#2] was made the whip for each rider to hold, with a crook of gold where it came to the horse man's grip. [fn#2] pronounced "find-roony," the unknown "white-bronze" metal. by their sides, seven chase-hounds were springing at leashes of silver they strained, and each couple a gold apple, swinging on the fetter that linked them, sustained: and their feet with bronze sheaths had been guarded, as if greaves for defence they had worn, every hue man hath seen, or hath fancied, by those chase-hounds in brilliance was borne. seven trumpeters strode on the road before, with colour their cloaks were bright, and their coats, that shone with the gauds they wore, flashed back as they met the light; on trumpets of silver and gold they blew, and sweet was the trumpets' sound, and their hair, soft and yellow, like fairy threads, shone golden their shoulders round. three jesters marched in the van, their-crowns were of silver, by gilt concealed, and emblems they. carried of quaint device, engraved on each jester's shield; they had staves which with crests were adorned, and ribs down their edges in red bronze ran; three harp-players moved by the jesters' sides, and each was a kingly man. all these were the gifts that the fairy gave, and gaily they made their start, and to croghan's[fn#3] hold, in that guise so brave, away did the host depart. [fn#3] pronounced crow-han. on the fort stands a watchman to view them, and thus news down to croghan he calls: "from yon plain comes, in fulness of numbers, a great army to croghan's high walls; and, since ailill the throne first ascended, since the day we hailed maev as our queen, never army so fair nor so splendid yet hath come, nor its like shall be seen." "'tis strange," said he," as dipped in wine, so swims, so reels my head, as o'er me steals the breath divine of perfume from them shed." "a fair youth," said he, "forth with them goeth, and the grace of such frolicsome play, and such lightness in leap as he showeth have i seen not on earth till to-day: for his spear a full shot's length he flingeth, yet the spear never reacheth to ground, for his silver-chained hounds follow after, in their jaws is the spear ever found!" the connaught hosts without the fort to see that glory rushed: sixteen within, of baser sort, who gazed, to death were crushed. to the fort came the youths, from their steeds they leapt, for the steeds and the stabling cared, and they loosed the hounds that in leash they kept, for the hunt were the hounds prepared; seven deer, seven foxes and hares, they chased to the dun on croghan's plain, seven boars they drave, on the lawn in haste the game by the youths was slain: with a bound they dashed into bree, whose flood by the lawns of croghan flows; seven otters they caught in its stream, and brought to a hill where the gateway rose. 'twas there that fraech and the princes sat at the castle-gate to rest, and the steward of croghan with fraech would speak, for such was the king's behest: of his birth it was asked, and the men he led all truth to the herald spake: "it is idath's son who is here," they said, and they gave him the name of fraech. to ailill and maev went the steward back of the stranger's name to tell; "give him welcome," said they: "of a noble race is that youth, and i know it well; let him enter the court of our house," said the king, the gateway they opened wide; and the fourth of the palace they gave to fraech, that there might his youths abide. fair was the palace that there they found, seven great chambers were ranged it round; right to the walls of the house they spread, facing the hall, where the fire glowed red: red yew planks, that had felt the plane, dappled the walls with their tangled grain: rails of bronze at the side-walls stood, plates of bronze had made firm the wood, seven brass bolts to the roof-tree good firmly the vaulting tied. all that house had of pine been made, planks, as shingles, above were laid; sixteen windows the light let pass, each in a frame of the shining brass: high through the roof was the sky seen bright; girder of brass made that opening tight, under the gap it was stretched, and light fell on its gleaming side. all those chambers in splendour excelling, the midmost of all in the ring, rose a room, set apart as the dwelling of queen maev, and of ailill the king. four brass columns the awning supported for their couch, there was bronze on the wall; and two rails, formed of silver, and gilded, in that chamber encircled it all: in the front, to mid-rafters attaining, rose in silver a wand from the floor; and with rooms was that palace engirdled, for they stretched from the door to the door. 'twas there they went to take repose, on high their arms were hung; and down they sank, and welcome rose, acclaimed by every tongue. by the queen and the king they were welcome made, the strangers they turned to greet; and their courtesy graciously fraech repaid: "'twas thus we had hoped to meet." "not for boasting to-day are ye come!" said maev; the men for the chess she set: and a lord of the court in the chess-man sport by fraech in a match was met. 'twas a marvellous board of findruine fair was prepared, when they played that game, four handles, and edges of gold it had, nor needed they candles' flame; for the jewels that blazed at the chess-board's side, a light, as from lamps, would yield; and of silver and gold were the soldiers made, who engaged on that mimic field. "get ye food for the chiefs!" said the king; said maev, "not yet, 'tis my will to stay, to sit with the strangers, and here with fraech in a match at the chess to play!" "let thy game be played!" said ailill then, "for it pleaseth me none the less:" and queen maev and fraech at the chess-board sate, and they played at the game of chess. now his men, as they played, the wild beasts late caught were cooking, they thought to feed; and said ailill to fraech, "shall thy harpmen play?" "let them play," said fraech, "indeed:" now those harpers were wondrous men, by their sides they had sacks of the otter's skin, and about their bodies the sacks were tied, and they carried their harps within, with stitches of silver and golden thread each case for a harp was sewed; and, beneath the embroidery gleaming red, the shimmer of rubies showed! the skin of a roe about them in the middle, it was as white as snow; black-grey eyes in their centre. cloaks of linen as white as the tunic of a swan around these ties.[fn#4] harps of gold and silver and bronze, with figures of serpents and birds, and hounds of gold and silver: as they moved those strings those figures used to run about the men all round. [fn#4] this is the egerton version, which is clearly right here. the book of leinster gives: "these figures accordingly used to run," &c., leaving out all the first part of the sentence, which is required to make the meaning plain. they play for them then so that twelve of the people[fn#5] of ailill and medb die with weeping and sadness. [fn#5] the book of leinster omits "of ailill and medb." gentle and melodious were the triad, and they were the chants of uaithne[fn#6] (child-birth). the illustrious triad are three brothers, namely gol-traiges (sorrow-strain), and gen-traiges (joy-strain), and suan-traiges (sleep-strain). boand from the fairies is the mother of the triad: [fn#6] pronounced something like yew-ny. at every one of the harpers' waists was girded the hide of a roe, and black-grey spots in its midst were placed, but the hide was as white as snow; and round each of the three of them waved a cloak, as white as the wild swan's wings: gold, silver, and bronze were the harps they woke; and still, as they touched the strings, the serpents, the birds, and the hounds on the harps took life at the harps' sweet sound, and those figures of gold round the harpmen rose, and floated in music round. then they played, sweet and sad was the playing, twelve of ailill's men died, as they heard; it was boand[fn#7] who foretold them that slaying, and right well was accomplished her word. [fn#7] pronounced with sound of "owned." 'tis the three chants of child-birth give names to those three; of the harp of the dagda[fn#8] the children they be. [fn#8] the dagda seems to have been the chief god of the old celtic mythology. to those harpers a fairy is mother, of yore to that harp, men call child-birth, queen boand the three bore. they are three noble brothers, and well are they known; they are kindly and gentle, and tuneful of tone. one is joy-song, one sorrow's, one, "song that gives sleep," and the harp's strains, their father's, remembered they keep. for when boand was at bearing, came sorrow the first, from the harp, its strings tearing with cry, sorrow burst. then there came to her pleasure for birth of a boy; and a sweet smiling measure the harp played, 'twas joy. and she swooned in her anguish, for hard the third birth: from the harp, her pains soothing, sleep's strain came on earth. then from boand passed her slumber, and, "uaithne,"[fn#9] she cried, thy three sons, thou sharp child-birth, i take to my side. [fn#9] pronounced something like yew-ny. cows and women by ailill and maev shall be slain; for on these cometh sorrow, and joy, and sleep's strain: yea, and men, who these harpers, thy children, shall hear, by their art to death stricken, shall perish in fear." then the strains died away in the palace, the last notes seemed to sink, and to cease: "it was stately," said fergus, "that music." and on all came a silence, and peace. said fraech, "the food divide ye! come, bring ye here the meat!" and down to earth sank lothar, on floor he set his feet; he crouched, on haunches sitting, the joints with sword he split; on bones it fell unerring, no dainty part he hit! though long with sword he hewed, and long was meat by men supplied, his hand struck true; for never wrong would lothar meat divide. three days at the chess had they played; three nights, as they sat at the game, had gone: and they knew not the night for the sparkling light from the jewels of fraech that shone; but to maev turned fraech, and he joyously cried, "i have conquered thee well at the chess! yet i claim not the stake at the chess-board's side, lest thy palace's wealth be less." "for no lengthier day have i sat in such play," said maev, "since i here first came." "and well may the day have seemed long," said fraech, "for three days and three nights was the game!" then up started maev, and in shame she blushed that the chiefs she had failed to feed; to her husband, king ailill, in wrath she rushed: "we have both done a goodly deed! for none from our stores hath a banquet brought for the youths who are strangers here!" and said ailill, "in truth for the play was thy thought, and to thee was the chess more dear." "we knew not that darkness had come," said maev, "'tis not chess thou should'st thus condemn; though the day had gone, yet the daylight shone from the heart of each sparkling gem; though the game we played, all could meal have made, had men brought of the night advice, but the hours sped away, and the night and the day have approached and have fled from us thrice!" "give command," said the king, "that those wailing chants, till we give them their food, be stilled." and food to the hands of each they gave, and all with the meat were filled; and all things merrily went, for long the men with a feast were fed, for, as feasting they sat, thrice rose the day, thrice night above earth was spread. they brought fraech, when that banquet was ended, to the house of debate, which was near, and they asked of his errand: "in friendship, for a visit," said fraech, "am i here!" "and 'twas joy that we felt, when receiving this your host," said the king, "ye have brought much of pleasure to all, and with grieving, when ye go, shall your presence be sought!" "then," said fraech, "for a week we abide here." for two weeks in that dun they abode: and the connaught men pressed round to view them, as each eve home from hunting they rode. yet fraech was sad, with findabar a word he sought in vain; though he in truth from home so far had come that word to gain. fraech, as night was ending, sprang from out his bed; sought the brook, intending there to lave his head. there king ailill's daughter stood, and there her maid: they that hour from water sought the cleansing aid. "stay," he cried, and speaking caught the maiden's hand; "thee alone as seeking, i have reached this land: here am i who sought thee, stay, and hear me woo!" "ah! thy speech hath brought me joy," she said, "most true; yet, thy side if nearing, what for thee can i?" "maid!" he cried, "art fearing hence with me to fly?" "flight i hold disloyal," answered she in scorn; "i from mother royal, i to king was born; what should stay our wedding? none so mean or poor thou hast seemed, nor dreading kin of mine; be sure: i will go! 'tis spoken, thou beloved shalt be! take this ring as token, lent by maev to me! 'twas my mother who bid me to save it, for the ring she in secret would hide; 'tis as pledge of our love that i gave it, as its pledge it with thee should abide. till that ring we can freely be showing i will tell them i put it astray!" and, the love of each other thus knowing, fraech and finnabar went on their way. "i have fear," said the king, "that with fraech yon maid to his home as his wife would fly; yet her hand he may win, if he rides on the raid with his kine when the time draws nigh." then fraech to the hall of debate returned, and he cried: "through some secret chink hath a whisper passed?" and the king replied, "thou would'st fit in that space, i think!" "will ye give me your daughter?" said fraech: said the king, "in sight of our hosts she goes; if, as gift to suffice for her marriage price, thy hand what i ask bestows." "i will give thee what price thou dost name," said fraech, "and now let its sum be told!"' "then a sixty steeds do i claim," said the king, "dark-grey, and with bits of gold; and twelve milch-cows, from their udders shall come the milk in a copious stream, and by each of the cows a white calf shall run; bright red on its ears shall gleam; and thou, with thy harpers and men, shalt ride by my side on the cualgne[fn#10] raid, and when all thy kine driven here shall stand, shall the price of her hand be paid!" [fn#10] pronounced kell-ny. now i swear by the edge of my sword," said fraech, "i swear by my arms and shield, i would give no such pledge, even maev to take, were it her thou wert fain to yield!" and he went from the house of debate, but maev with ailill bent low in plot: all around us our foes," said the king, "shall close, if finnabar stays here not; many kings of erin, who seek that maid, shall hear of her borne away, and in wrath they will rush on our land; 'twere best that fraech we devise to slay; ere that ruin he bring, let us make our spring, and the ill yet unwrought arrest." "it were pity such deed should be done," said maev, "and to slay in our house our guest! 'twill bring shame on us ever." "no shame to our house," said king ailill, "that death shall breed!" (and he spake the words twice)--"but now hear my advice, how i plan we should do this deed." all the plot had been planned; to their house at last king ailill and maev through the doorway passed; and the voice of the king uprose: "'tis now that the hounds should their prey pursue, come away to the hunt who the hounds would view; for noon shall that hunting close." so forth went they all, on the chase intent, and they followed till strength of the hounds was spent, and the hunters were warm; and to bathe they went where the river of croghan flows. and, "'tis told me," said ailill, "that fraech hath won a great fame for the feats he in floods hath done: wilt thou enter these streams by our side that run? we are longing to see thee swim!" and said fraech: "is it good then indeed thy stream? and said ailill: "of danger no need to dream, for many a youth from the connaught court in its current hath bathed, and hath swum it in sport, nor of any who tried have we heard report that ill hath been found by him!" then fraech from his body his garments stripped, and he sprang down the bank, and he swiftly slipped in the stream: and the king's glance fell on a belt, left by fraech on the bank; the king bent low; in the purse saw his daughter's ring, and the shape of the ring could tell. "come hither, o maev," ailill softly cried; and queen maev came up close to her husband's side "dost thou know of that ring?" in the purse she spied the ring, and she knew it well. then ailill the ring from the purse withdrew, and away from the bank the fair gem he threw; and the ring, flashing bright, through the air far flew, to be lost in the flood's swift swell. and fraech saw the gem as it brightly flashed, and a salmon rose high, at the light it dashed, and, as back in the stream with the ring he splashed, at the fish went fraech with a spring: by its jole was the salmon secured, and thrown to a nook in the bank, that by few was known; and unnoticed he threw it, to none was it shown as it fell to the earth, with the ring. and now fraech from the stream would be going: but, "come not," said the king, "to us yet: bring a branch from yon rowan-tree, showing its fair berries, with water-drops wet." then fraech, swimming away through the water, brake a branch from the dread rowan-tree, and a sigh came from ailill's fair daughter; "ah! how lovely he seemeth," said she. fair she found him, swimming through that pool so black brightly gleamed the berries, bound athwart his back. white and smooth his body, bright his glorious hair; eyes of perfect greyness, face of men most fair: soft his skin, no blemish, fault, nor spot it flawed; small his chin, and steady, brave his brow, and broad. straight he seemed, and stainless; twixt his throat and chin straying scarlet berries touched with red his skin. oft, that sight recalling, findabar would cry: "ne'er was half such beauty, naught its third came nigh!" to the bank he swam, and to ailill was thrown, with its berries, the tree's torn limb: "ah! how heavy and fair have those clusters grown; bring us more," and he turned to swim; the mid-current was reached, but the dragon was roused that was guard to that rowan-tree; and it rose from the river, on fraech it rushed: "throw a sword from the bank!" cried he. and no man on the bank gave the sword: they were kept by their fear of the queen and the king; but her clothes from her finnabar stripped, and she leapt in the river his sword to bring. and the king from above hurled his five-barbed spear; the full length of a shot it sped: at his daughter it flew, and its edge shore through two tresses that crowned her head: and fraech in his hand caught the spear as it fell, and backward its point he turned. and again to the land was the spear launched well: 'twas a feat from the champions learned. though the beast bit his side as that spear was cast, yet fiercely the dart was flung, through the purple robe of the king it passed, through the tunic that next him clung! then up sprang the youths of the court, their lord in danger they well might deem, but the strong hand of fraech had closed firm on the sword, and finnabar rose from the stream. now with sword in his hand, at the monster's head hewed fraech, on its side it sank, and he came from the river with blade stained red, and the monster he dragged to the bank. twas then bree's dub-lind in the connaught land the dark water of fraech was named, from that fight was it called, but the queen and the king went back to their dun, ashamed! "it is noble, this deed we have done!" said maev: "'tis pitiful," ailill cried: "for the hurt of the man i repent, but to her, our daughter, shall woe betide! on the morrow her lips shall be pale, and none shall be found to aver that her guilt, when the sword for his succour to fraech she gave, was the cause why her life was spilt! now see that a bath of fresh bacon broth be prepared that shall heal this prince, and bid them with adze and with axe the flesh of a heifer full small to mince: let the meat be all thrown in the bath, and there for healing let fraech be laid!" and all that he ordered was done with care; the queen his command obeyed. then arose from fraech's trumpets complaining, as his men travelled back to the dun; their soft notes lamentation sustaining, and a many their deaths from them won; and he well knew its meaning; and, "lift me, my folk," he cried, "surely that keening from boand's women broke: my mother, the fairy, is nigh." then they raised him, and bore him where wild rose the sound; to his kin they restored him; his women pressed round: and he passed from their sight out of croghan; for that night from earth was he freed, and he dwelt with his kin, the sid-dwellers in the caverns of croghan's deep sid.[fn#11] [fn#11] pronounced sheed; sid is the fairy mound. all at nine, next morrow, gazed, for back he came, round their darling pressing many a fairy dame: brave he seemed, for healing all his wounds had got; none could find a blemish, none a sear or spot. fifty fairies round him, like in age and grace; like each form and bearing; like each lovely face. all in fairy garments, all alike were dressed; none was found unequal; none surpassed the rest. and the men who stood round, as they neared them, were struck with a marvellous awe; they were moved at the sight, and they feared them, and hardly their breath they could draw. at the liss all the fairies departed, but on fraech, as they vanished, they cried: and the sound floated in of their wailing, and it thrilled through the men, and they sighed. then first that mournful measure, "the ban-shee[fn#12] wail," was heard; all hearts with grief and pleasure that air, when harped, hath stirred. [fn#12] spelt "ban side," the fairy women. to the dun came fraech, and the hosts arose, and welcome by all was shown: for it seemed as if then was his birth among men, from a world to the earth unknown! up rose for him maev and king ailill, their fault they confessed, and for grace they prayed, and a penance they did, and for all that assault they were pardoned, and peace was made. and now free from all dread, they the banquet spread, the banqueting straight began: but a thought came to fraech, and from out of his folk he called to his side a man. "now hie thee," he said, "to the river bank, a salmon thou there shalt find; for nigh to the spot where in stream i sank, it was hurled, and 'twas left behind; to finnabar take it, and bid her from me that the salmon with skill she broil: in the midst of the fish is the ring: and none but herself at the task must toil; and to-night, as i think, for her ring they call ": then he turned to the feast again, and the wine was drunk, and the revellers sunk, for the fumes of it seized their brain, and music and much of delights they had; but the king had his plans laid deep, "bring ye all of my jewels," he cried-on the board they were poured in a dazzling heap. "they are wonderful, wonderful!" cried they all: "call finnabar!" said the king; and his daughter obeyed, and her fifty maids stood round in a lovely ring. my daughter," said ailill, "a ring last year i gave thee, is't here with thee yet? bring it hither to show to the chiefs, and anon in thy hand shall the gem be set." "that jewel is lost," said the maid, "nor aught of the fate of the ring i know!" then find it," said ailill, "the ring must be brought, or thy soul from thy limbs must go!" "now, nay!" said they all, "it were cruel that such fate for such fault should be found: thou hast many a fair-flashing jewel in these heaps that lie scattered around!" and said fraech: "of my jewels here glowing take thy fill, if the maid be but freed; 'tis to her that my life i am owing, for she brought me the sword in my need." "there is none of thy gems that can aid her," said ailill, "nor aught thou canst give; there is one thing alone that shall save her; if the ring be restored, she shall live! said finnabar; "thy treasure to yield no power is mine: do thou thy cruel pleasure, for strength, i know, is thine." "by the god whom our connaught land haileth, i swear," answered ailill the king, "that the life on thy lips glowing faileth, if thou place in my hand not the ring!" and that hard," he laughed softly, "the winning of that jewel shall be, know i well; they who died since the world had beginning shall come back to the spot where they fell ere that ring she can find, and can bear it to my hand from the spot where 'twas tossed, and as knowing this well, have i dared her to restore what for aye hath been lost!" "no ring for treasure thus despised," she said, "exchanged should be; yet since the king its worth hath prized, i'll find the gem for thee!" not thus shalt thou fly," said the king, "to thy maid let the quest of the ring be bid!" and his daughter obeyed, and to one whom she sent she told where the ring was hid: "but," finnabar cried, "by my country's god i swear that from out this hour, will i leave this land, and my father's hand shall no more on my life have power, and no feasting shall tempt me to stay, no draughts of wine my resolve shall shake!" "no reproach would i bring, if as spouse," said the king, "thou a groom from my stalls would'st take! but that ring must be found ere thou goest! "then back came her maid, and a dish she bore: and there lay a salmon well broiled, as sauce with honey 'twas garnished o'er: by the daughter of ailill herself with skill had the honey-sweet sauce been made. and high on the breast of the fish, the ring of gold that they sought was laid. king ailill and maev at the ring gazed hard; fraech looked, in his purse he felt: now it seemeth," he said, "'twas to prove my host that i left on the bank my belt, and ailill now i challenge all truth, as king to tell; what deed his cunning fashioned, and what that ring befell." "there is naught to be hidden," said ailill; "it was mine, in thy purse though it lay and my daughter i knew as its giver: so to river i hurled it away. now fraech in turn i challenge by life and honour's claim: say how from yon dark water that ring to draw ye came." "there is naught to be hidden," he answered, "the first day that i came, on the earth, near the court round thy house, was that jewel; and i saw all its beauty and worth: in my purse then i hid it; thy daughter, who had lost it, with care for it sought; and the day that i went to that water was the news of her search to me brought: and i asked what reward she would give me, if the gem in her hand should be placed; and she answered that i, if i found it, for a year by her love should be graced. but not then could the ring be delivered: for afar in my chamber it lay: till she gave me the sword in the river, we met not again on that day. 'twas then i saw thee open my purse, and take the ring: i watched, and towards the water that gem i saw thee fling: i saw the salmon leaping, the ring it caught, and sank: i came behind, and seized it; and brought the fish to bank. then i wrapped it up close in my mantle; and 'twas hid from inquisitive eyes; and in finnabar's hand have i placed it: and now there on the platter it lies!" now all who this or that would know to ask, and praise began: said finnabar, "i'll never throw my thoughts on other man!" now hear her word," her parents cried, "and plight to her thy troth, and when for cualgne's[fn#13] kine we ride do thou redeem thine oath. [fn#13] pronounced kell-ny. and when with kine from out the east ye reach our western land; that night shall be thy marriage feast; and thine our daughter's hand." "now that oath will i take," answered back to them fraech, "and the task ye have asked will do!" so he tarried that night till the morning's light; and they feasted the whole night through; and then homewards bound, with his comrades round, rode fraech when the night was spent, and to ailill and maev an adieu he gave, and away to their land they went. tain bo fraich part i literal translation fraech, son of idath of the men of connaught, a son he to befind from the side: a sister she to boand. he is the hero who is the most beautiful that was of the men of eriu and of alba, but he was not long-lived. his mother gave him twelve cows out of the sid (the fairy mound), they are white-eared. he had a good housekeeping till the end of eight years without the taking of a wife. fifty sons of kings, this was the number of his household, co-aged, co-similar to him all between form and instruction. findabair, daughter of ailill and medb, loves him for the great stories about him. it is declared to him at his house. eriu and alba were full of his renown and the stories about him. to fraech[fn#14] was idath[fn#15] father, a connaught man was he: and well we know his mother who dwells among the shee;[fn#16] befind they call her, sister to boand,[fn#17] the fairy queen; and alba ne'er, nor erin, such grace as fraech's hath seen. yet wondrous though that hero's grace, his fairy lineage high, for years but few his lovely face was seen by human eye. [fn#14] pronounced fraych. [fn#15] pronounced eeda. [fn#16] the fairies. [fn#17] pronounced with the sound of "owned." fraech had twelve of white-eared fairy-cattle, 'twas his mother those cattle who gave: for eight years in his home he dwelt wifeless, and the state of his household was brave; fifty princes, whose age, and whose rearing, and whose forms were as his, with him played; and his glory filled alba and erin till it came to the ears of a maid: for maev and ailill's[fn#18] lovely child, fair findabar, 'twas said, by tales of fraech to love beguiled, with fraech in love would wed. [fn#18] pronounced al-ill. after this going to a dialogue with the maiden occurred to him; he discussed that matter with his people. "let there be a message then sent to thy mother's sister, so that a portion of wondrous robing and of gifts from the side (fairy folk) be given thee from her." he goes accordingly to the sister, that is to boand, till he was in mag breg, and he carried away fifty dark-blue cloaks, and each of them was like the back of a black chafer,[fn#19] and four black-grey, rings on each cloak, and a brooch of red gold on each cloak, and pale white tunics with loop-animals of gold around them. and fifty silver shields with edges, and a candle of a king's-house in the hand of them (the men), and fifty studs of findruine[fn#20] on each of them (the lances), fifty knobs of thoroughly burned gold on each of them; points (i.e. butt-ends) of carbuncle under them beneath, and their point of precious stones. they used to light the night as if they were the sun's rays. [fn#19] the book of leinster gives "fifty blue cloaks, each like findruine of art." [fn#20] pronounced "find-roony," the unknown "white-bronze" metal. and there were fifty gold-hilted swords with them, and a soft-grey mare under the seat of each man, and bits of gold to them; a plate of silver with a little bell of gold around the neck of each horse. fifty caparisons[fn#21] of purple with threads of silver out of them, with buckles of gold and silver and with head-animals (i.e. spiral ornaments). fifty whips of findruine, with a golden hook on the end of each of them. and seven chase-hounds in chains of silver, and an apple of gold between each of them. greaves of bronze about them, by no means was there any colour which was not on the hounds. [fn#21] the word for caparisons is "acrann," the usual word for a shoe. it is suggested that here it may be a caparison of leather: "shoes" seem out of place here. see irische texts, iii. seven trumpeters with them with golden and silver trumpets with many coloured garments, with golden fairy-yellow heads of hair, with shining tunics. there were three jesters before them with silver diadems under gilding. shields with engraved emblems (or marks of distinction) with each of them; with crested staves, with ribs of bronze (copper-bronze) along their sides. three harp-players with a king's appearance about each of them opposite to these.[fn#22] they depart for cruachan with that appearance on them. [fn#22] the word for caparisons is "acrann," the usual word for a shoe. it is suggested that here it may be a caparison of leather: "shoes" seem out of place here. see irische texts, iii. 2. p. 531. the watchman sees them from the dun when they had come into the plain of cruachan. "a multitude i see," he says, "(come) towards the dun in their numbers. since ailill and maev assumed sovereignty there came not to them before, and there shall not come to them, a multitude, which is more beautiful, or which is more splendid. it is the same with me that it were in a vat of wine my head should be, with the breeze that goes over them. "the manipulation and play that the young hero who is in it makes--i have not before seen its likeness. he shoots his pole a shot's discharge from him; before it reaches to earth the seven chase-hounds with their seven silver chains catch it." at this the hosts come from the dun of cruachan to view them. the people in the dun smother one another, so that sixteen men die while viewing them. they alight in front of the dun. they tent their steeds, and they loose the chase-hounds. they (the hounds) chase the seven deer to rath-cruachan, and seven foxes, and seven hares, and seven wild boars, until the youths kill them in the lawn of the dun. after that the chase-hounds dart a leap into brei; they catch seven otters. they brought them to the elevation in front of the chief rath. they (fraech and his suite) sit down there. a message comes from the king for a parley with them. it is asked whence they came, they name themselves according to their true names, "fraech, son of idath this," say they. the steward tells it to the king and queen. "welcome to them," say ailill and maev; "it is a noble youth who is there," says ailill, "let him come into the liss (outer court)." the fourth of the house is allotted to them. this was the array of the house, a seven fold order in it; seven apartments from fire to side-wall in the house all round. a rail (or front) of bronze to each apartment; a partitioning of red yew under variegated planing all. three plates of bronze in the skirting of each apartment. seven plates of brass from the ceiling (?) to the roof-tree in the house. of pine the house was made; it is a covering of shingle it had externally. there were sixteen windows in the house, and a frame of brass, to each of them; a tie of brass across the roof-light. four beams of brass on the apartment of ailill and medb, adorned all with bronze, and it in the exact centre of the house. two rails of silver around it under gilding. in the front a wand of silver that reached the middle rafters of the house. the house was encircled all round from the door to the other.[fn#23] [fn#23] it should be noted that it is not certain whether the word "imdai," translated apartments, really means "apartments" or "benches." the weight of opinion seems at present to take it as above. they hang up their arms in that house, and they sit, and welcome is made to them. "welcome to you," say ailill and medb. "it is that we have come for," says fraech. "it shall not be a journey for boasting[fn#24] this," says medb, and ailill and medb arrange the chess-board after that. fraech then takes to the playing of chess with a man of their (?) people. [fn#24] this is the rendering in the yellow book of lecan, considered by meyer to be the true reading. the book of leinster text gives "aig-baig," a word of doubtful meaning. the eg. ms. has also a doubtful word. it was a beauty of a chess-board. a board of findruine in it with four ears[fn#25] and edges of gold. a candle of precious stones at illuminating for them. gold and silver the figures that were upon the table. "prepare ye food for the warriors," said ailill. "not it is my desire," said medb, but to go to the chess yonder against fraech." "get to it, i am pleased," said ailill, and they play the chess then, and fraech. [fn#25] the "ears" were apparently handles shaped like ears. the same word is used for the rings in the cloaks, line 33 above. his people were meanwhile at cooking the wild animals. "let thy harpers play for us," says ailill to fraech. "let them play indeed!" says fraech. a harp-bag[fn#26] of the skins of otters about them with their adornment of ruby (or coral), beneath their adornment of gold and silver. [fn#26] meyer translates this: "the concave part of the harp." it is from the music which uaithne, the dagda's harp, played that the three are named. the time the woman was at the bearing of children it had a cry of sorrow with the soreness of the pangs at first: it was smile and joy it played in the middle for the pleasure of bringing forth the two sons: it was a sleep of soothingness played the last son, on account of the heaviness of the birth, so that it is from him that the third of the music has been named. boand awoke afterwards out of the sleep. "i accept," she says, "thy three sons o uaithne of full ardour, since there is suan-traide and gen-traide, and gol-traide on cows and women who shall fall by medb and ailill, men who shall perish by the hearing of art from them." they cease from playing after that in the palace: "it is stately it has come," says fergus. "divide ye to us," says fraech to his people, "the food, bring ye it into the house." lothur went on the floor of the house: he divides to them the food. on his haunches he used to divide each joint with his sword, and he used not to touch the food part: since he commenced dividing, he never hacked the meat beneath his hand. they were three days and three nights at the playing of the chess on account of the abundance of the precious stones in the household of fraech. after that fraech addressed medb. "it is well i have played against thee (i.e. have beaten thee)," he says, "i take not away thy stake from the chess-board that there be not a decay of hospitality for thee in it." "since i have been in this dun this is the day which i deem longest in it ever," says medb. "this is reasonable," says fraech, "they are three days and three nights in it." at this medb starts up. it was a shame with her that the warriors were without food. she goes to ailill: she tells it to him. "a great deed we have done," said she, "the stranger men who have come to us to be without food." "dearer to thee is playing of the chess," says ailill. "it hinders not the distribution to his suite throughout the house. they have been three days and three nights in it but that we perceived not the night with the white light of the precious stones in the house." "tell them," says ailill, "to cease from the lamenting until distribution is made to them." distribution is then made to them, and things were pleasing to them, and they stayed three days and three nights in it after that over the feasting. it is after that fraech was called into the house of conversation, and it is asked of him what brought him. "a visit with you," said he, "is pleasing to me." "your company is indeed not displeasing with the household," said ailill, "your addition is better than your diminution." "we shall stay here then," says fraech, "another week." they stay after that till the end of a fortnight in the dun, and they have a hunt every single day towards the dun. the men of connaught used to come to view them. it was a trouble with fraech not to have a conversation with the daughter: for that was the profit that had brought him. a certain day he starts up at the end of night for washing to the stream. it is the time she had gone and her maid for washing. he takes her hand. "stay for my conversing," he says; "it is thou i have come for." "i am delighted truly," says the daughter; "if i were to come, i could do nothing for thee." "query, wouldst thou elope with me?" he says. "i will not elope," says she, "for i am the daughter of a king and a queen. there is nothing of thy poverty that you should not get me (i.e. thy poverty is not so great that thou art not able to get me) from my family; and it shall be my choice accordingly to go to thee, it is thou whom i have loved. and take thou with thee this ring," says the daughter, "and it shall be between us for a token. my mother gave it to me to put by, and i shall say that i put it astray." each of them accordingly goes apart after that. "i fear," says ailill, "the eloping of yon daughter with fraech, though she would be given to him on solemn pledge that he would come towards us with his cattle for aid at the spoil." fraech goes to them to the house of conversation. "is it a secret (cocur, translated "a whisper" by crowe) ye have?" says fraech. "thou wouldest fit in it," says ailill. "will ye give me your daughter?" says fraech. "the hosts will clearly see she shall be given," says ailill, "if thou wouldest give a dowry as shall be named." "thou shalt have it," says fraech. "sixty black-grey steeds to me, with their bits of gold to them, and twelve milch cows, so that there be milked liquor of milk from each of them, and an ear-red, white calf with each of them; and thou to come with me with all thy force and with thy musicians for bringing of the cows from cualgne; and my daughter to be given thee provided thou dost come" (or as soon as[fn#27] thou shalt come). "i swear by my shield, and by my sword, and by my accoutrement, i would not give that in dowry even of medb." he went from them out of the house then. ailill and medb hold a conversation. "it shall drive at us several of the kings of erin around us if he should carry off the daughter. what is good is, let us dash after him, and let us slay him forthwith, before he may inflict destruction upon us." "it is a pity this," says medb, "and it is a decay of hospitality for us." "it shall not be a decay of hospitality for us, it shall not be a decay of hospitality for us, the way i shall prepare it." [fn#27] this is thurneysen's rendering ("sagen aus dem alten irland," p. 121). ailill and medb go into the palace. "let us go away," says ailill, that we may see the chase-hounds at hunting till the middle of the day, and until they are tired." they all go off afterwards to the river to bathe themselves. "it is declared to me," says ailill, "that thou art good in water. come into this flood, that we may see thy swimming." "what is the quality of this flood?" he says. "we know not anything dangerous in it," says ailill, "and bathing in it is frequent." he strips his clothes off him then, and he goes into it, and he leaves his girdle above. ailill then opens his purse behind him, and the ring was in it. ailill recognises it then. "come here, o medb," says ailill. medb goes then. "dost thou recognise that?" says ailill. "i do recognise," she says. ailill flings it into the river down. fraech perceived that matter. he sees something, the salmon leaped to meet it, and caught it in his mouth. he (fraech) gives a bound to it, and he catches its jole, and he goes to land, and he brings it to a lonely[fn#28] spot on the brink of the river. he proceeds to come out of the water then. "do not come," says ailill, "until thou shalt bring me a branch of the rowan-tree yonder, which is on the brink of the river: beautiful i deem its berries." he then goes away, and breaks a branch off the trees and brings it on his back over the water. the remark of find-abair was: "is it not beautiful he looks?" exceedingly beautiful she thought it to see fraech over a black pool: the body of great whiteness, and the hair of great loveliness, the face of great beauty, the eye of great greyness; and he a soft youth without fault, without blemish, with a below-narrow, above-broad face; and he straight, blemishless; the branch with the red berries between the throat and the white face. it is what find-abair used to say, that by no means had she seen anything that could come up to him half or third for beauty. [fn#28]"hidden spot" (windisch after that he throws the branches to them out of the water. "the berries are stately and beautiful, bring us an addition of them." he goes off again until he was in the middle of the water. the serpent catches him out of the water. "let a sword come to me from you," he says; and there was not on the land a man who would dare to give it to him through fear of ailill and medb. after that find-abair strips off her clothes, and gives a leap into the water with the sword. her father lets fly a five-pronged spear at her from above, a shot's throw, so that it passes through her two tresses, and that fraech caught the spear in his hand. he shoots the spear into the land up, and the monster in his side. he lets it fly with a charge of the methods of playing of championship, so that it goes through the purple robe and through the tunic (? shirt) that was about ailill. at this the youths who were about ailill rise to him. find-abair goes out of the water and leaves the sword in fraech's hand, and he cuts the head off the monster, so that it was on its side, and he brought the monster with him to land. it is from it is dub-lind fraech in brei, in the lands of the men of connaught. ailill and medb go to their dun afterwards. "a great deed is what we have done," says medb. "we repent," says ailill, "of what we have done to the man; the daughter however," he says, "her lips shall perish [common metaphor for death] to-morrow at once, and it shall not be the guilt of bringing of the sword that shall be for her. let a bath be made by you for this man, namely, broth of fresh bacon and the flesh of a heifer to be minced in it under adze and axe, and he to be brought into the bath." all that thing was done as he said. his trumpeters then before him to the dun. they play then until thirty of the special friends of ailill die at the long-drawn (or plaintive) music. he goes then into the dun, and he goes into the bath. the female company rise around him at the vat for rubbing, and for washing his head. he was brought out of it then, and a bed was made. they heard something, the lament-cry on cruachan. there were seen the three times fifty women with crimson tunics, with green head-dresses, with brooches of silver on their wrists. a messenger is sent to them to learn what they had bewailed. "fraech, son of idath," says the woman, "boy-pet of the king of the side of erin." at this fraech heard their lament-cry. thirty men whom king ailill loved dearly by that music were smitten to die; and his men carried fraech, and they laid him in that bath, for his healing to lie. around the vat stood ladies, they bathed his limbs and head; from out the bath they raised him, and soft they made his bed. then they heard a strange music; the wild croghan "keen"; and of women thrice fifty on croghan were seen. they had tunics of purple, with green were they crowned; on their wrists glistened silver, where brooches were bound. and there neared them a herald to learn why they wailed; "'tis for fraech," was their answer, "by sickness assailed; 'tis for fraech, son of idath,[fn#29] boy-darling is he of our lord, who in erin is king of the shee!"[fn#30] and fraech heard the wail in their cry; [fn#29] pronounced eeda. [fn#30] the fairies. "lift me out of it," he says to his people; "this is the cry of my mother and of the women of boand." he is lifted out at this, and he is brought to them. the women come around him, and bring him from them to the sid of cruachan (i.e. the deep caverns, used for burial at cruachan). they saw something, at the ninth hour on the morrow he comes, and fifty women around him, and he quite whole, without stain and without blemish; of equal age (the women), of equal form, of equal beauty, of equal fairness, of equal symmetry, of equal stature, with the dress of women of the fairies about them so that there was no means of knowing of one beyond the other of them. little but men were suffocated around them. they separate in front of the liss.[fn#31] they give forth their lament on going from him, so that they troubled[fn#32] the men who were in the liss excessively. it is from it is the lament-cry of the women of the fairies with the musicians of erin. [fn#31] the liss is the outer court of the palace. [fn#32] "oo corastar tar cend," "so that they upset, or put beside themselves." meyer takes literally, "so that they fell on their backs" (?) he then goes into the dun. all the hosts rise before him, and bid welcome to him, as if it were from another world he were coming. ailill and medb arise, and do penance to him for the attack they had made at him, and they make peace. feasting commenced with them then at once. fraech calls a servant of his suite: "go off," he says, "to the spot at which i went into the water. a salmon i left there--bring it to find-abair, and let herself take charge over it; and let the salmon be well broiled by her, and the ring is in the centre of the salmon. i expect it will be asked of her to-night." inebriety seizes them, and music and amusement delight them. ailill then said: "bring ye all my gems to me." they were brought to him then, so that the were before him. "wonderful, wonderful," says every one. "call ye find-abair to me," he says. find-abair goes to him, and fifty maidens around her. "o daughter," says ailill, "the ring i gave to thee last year, does it remain with thee? bring it to me that the warriors may see it. thou shalt have it afterwards." "i do not know," she says, "what has been done about it." "ascertain then," says ailill, "it must be sought, or thy soul must depart from thy body." "it is by no means worth," say the warriors, "there is much of value there, without that." "there is naught of my jewels that will not go for the maid," says fraech, "because she brought me the sword for pledge of my soul." "there is not with thee anything of gems that should aid her unless she returns the ring from her," says ailill. "i have by no means the power to give it," says the daughter, "what thou mayest like do it in regard to me." "i swear to the god to whom my people swear, thy lips shall be pale (literally, shall perish) unless thou returnest it from thee," says ailill. "it is why it is asked of thee, because it is impossible; for i know that until the people who have died from the beginning of the world. come, it comes not out of the spot in which it was flung." "it shall not come for a treasure which is not appreciated,"[fn#33] says the daughter, "the ring that is asked for here, i go that i may bring it to thee, since it is keenly it is asked." "thou shalt not go," says ailill; "but let one go from thee to bring it." [fn#33] this is windisch's rendering (irische texte, i. p. 677: s.v. main). the daughter sends her maid to bring it. "i swear to the god to whom my territories swear, if it shall be found, i shall by no means be under thy power any longer though i should be at great drinking continually." (?)[fn#34] "i shall by no means prevent you from doing that, namely even if it were to the groom thou shouldst go if the ring is found," says ailill. the maid then brought the dish into the palace, and the broiled salmon on it, and it dressed under honey which was well made by the daughter; and the ring of gold was on the salmon from above. [fn#34] "dian dumroib for sar-ol mogreis." meyer gives "if there is any one to protect me." the above is crowe's rendering. ailill and medb view it. after that fraech looks at it, and looks at his purse. "it seems to me it was for proof that i left my girdle," says fraech. "on the truth of the sovereignty," says fraech, "say what thou did'st about the ring." "this shall not be concealed from thee," says ailill; "mine is the ring which was in thy purse, and i knew it is find-abair gave it to thee. it is therefore i flung it into the dark pool. on the truth of thine honour and of thy soul, o fraech, declare thou what way the bringing of it out happened." "it shall not be concealed on thee," says fraech. "the first day i found the ring in front of the outer court, and i knew it was a lovely gem. it is for that reason i put it up industriously in my purse. i heard, the day i went to the water, the maiden who had lost it a-looking for it. i said to her: 'what reward shall i have at thy hands for the finding of it?' she said to me that she would give a year's love to me. "it happened i did not leave it about me; i had left it in the house behind me. we met not until we met at the giving of the sword into my hand in the river. after that i saw the time thou open'st the purse and flungest the ring into the water: i saw the salmon which leaped for it, so that it took it into its mouth. i then caught the salmon, took it up in the cloak, put it into the hand of the daughter. it is that salmon accordingly which is on the dish." the criticising and the wondering at these stories begin in the house hold. "i shall not throw my mind on another youth in erin after thee," says find-abair. "bind thyself for that," say ailill and medb, "and come thou to us with thy cows to the spoil of the cows from cualnge; and when thou shalt come with thy cows from the east back, ye shall wed here that night at once and find-abair." "i shall do that thing," says fraech. they are in it then until the morning. fraech sets about him self with his suite. he then bids farewell to ailill and medb. they depart to their own territories then. tain bo fraich part ii unto fraech it hath chanced, as he roved from his lands that his cattle were stolen by wandering bands: and there met him his mother, and cried, "on thy way thou hast tarried, and hard for thy slackness shalt pay! in the alps of the south, the wild mountains amid, have thy children, thy wife, and thy cattle been hid: and a three of thy kine have the picts carried forth, and in alba they pasture, but far to the north!" "now, alack!" answered fraech, "what is best to be done?" "rest at home," said his mother, "nor seek them my son; for to thee neither cattle, nor children, nor wife can avail, if in seeking thou losest thy life; and though cattle be lacking, the task shall be mine to replace what is lost, and to grant thee the kine." "nay, not so," answered fraech, "by my soul i am sworn, that when cattle from cualgne by force shall be torn to king ailill and maev on my faith as their guest i must ride with those cattle for war to the west!" "now but vainly," she said, "is this toil on thee cast; thou shalt lose what thou seekest", and from him she passed. three times nine of his men for that foray were chosen, and marched by his side, and a hawk flew before, and for hunting, was a hound with a hunting-leash tied; to ben barchi they went, for the border of ulster their faces were set: and there, of its marches the warder, the conquering conall they met. fraech hailed him, the conquering conall, and told him the tale of his spoil; "'tis ill luck that awaits thee," said conall, "thy quest shall be followed with toil! "'twill be long ere the goal thou art reaching, though thy heart in the seeking may be." "conall cernach,[fn#35] hear thou my beseeching said fraech, "let thine aid be to me; i had hoped for this meeting with conall, that his aid in the quest might be lent." "i will go with thee truly," said conall: with fraech and his comrades he went. [fn#35] pronounced cayr-nach. three times nine, fraech and conall before them, over ocean from ireland have passed; through the land of north saxony bore them, and the south sea they sighted at last. and again on the sea billows speeding, they went south, over ichtian foam; and marched on: southward still was their leading: to the land where the long-beards have home: but when lombardy's bounds they were nearing they made stand; for above and around were the high peaks of alpa appearing, and the goal that they sought had been found. on the alps was a woman seen straying, and herding the flocks of the sheep, "let our warriors behind be delaying," said conall, "and south let us keep: 'twere well we should speak with yon woman, perchance she hath wisdom to teach!" and with conall went fraech at that counsel; they neared her, and held with her speech. "whence have come you?" she said: "out of ireland are we," answered conall: "ill luck shall for irishmen be in this country," she cried, "yet thy help i would win; from thy land was my mother; thou art to me kin!" "of this land we know naught, nor where next we should turn," answered conall.; "its nature from thee we would learn." "'tis a grim land and hateful," the woman replied, "and the warriors are restless who forth from it ride; for full often of captives, of women and herd of fair kine by them taken is brought to me word." "canst thou say what latest spoil," said fraech, "they won?" "ay," she said, "they harried fraech, of idath[fn#36] son he in erin dwelleth, near the western sea; kine from him they carried, wife, and children three here his wife abideth, there where dwells the king, turn, and see his cattle, yonder pasturing." [fn#36] pronounced eeda. out spoke conall cernach;[fn#37] "aid us thou" he cried: "strength i lack," she answered, "i can only guide." "here is fraech," said conall, "yon his stolen cows": "fraech!" she asked him, "tell me, canst thou trust thy spouse?" "why," said fraech, "though trusty, doubtless, when she went; now, since here she bideth, truth may well be spent." "see ye now yon woman?" said she, "with your herd, tell to her your errand, let her hear your word; trust in her, as irish-sprung ye well may place; more if ye would ask me, ulster reared her race." [fn#37] pronounced cayr-nach. to that woman they went, nor their names from her hid; and they greeted her; welcome in kindness she bid: "what hath moved you," she said, "from your country to go?" "on this journey," said conall, "our guide hath been woe: all the cattle that feed in these pastures are ours, and from us went the lady that's kept in yon towers." "'tis ill-luck," said the woman, "that waits on your way, all the men of this hold doth that lady obey; ye shall find, amid dangers, your danger most great in the serpent who guardeth the liss at the gate." "for that lady," said fraech, "she is none of my she is fickle, no trust from me yet did she win: but on thee we rely, thou art trusty, we know; never yet to an ulsterman ulster was foe." "is it men out of ulster," she said, "i have met?" "and is conall," said fraech, "thus unknown to you yet? of all heroes from ulster the battle who faced conall cernach is foremost." his neck she embraced, and she cried, with her arms around conall: "of old of the conquering conall our prophets have told; and 'tis ruin and doom to this hold that you bring; for that conall shall sack it, all prophecies sing." "hear my rede," she told him: "when at fall of day come the kine for milking, i abroad will stay; i the castle portal every eve should close: ye shall find it opened, free for tread of foes: i will say the weakling calves awhile i keep; 'tis for milk, i'll tell them: come then while they sleep; come, their castle enter, all its wealth to spoil; only rests that serpent, he our plans may foil: him it rests to vanquish, he will try you most; surely from that serpent swarms a serpent host!" "trust us well," answered conall, "that raid will we do! and the castle they sought, and the snake at them flew: for it darted on conall, and twined round his waist; yet the whole of that castle they plundered in haste, and the woman was freed, and her sons with her three and away from her prison she went with them free: and of all of the jewels amassed in that dun the most costly and beauteous the conquerors won. then the serpent from conall was loosed, from his belt it crept safely, no harm from that serpent he felt: and they travelled back north to the pictish domains, and a three of their cattle they found on the plains; and, where olla mae briuin[fn#38] his hold had of yore, by dunolly their cattle they drove to the shore. [fn#38] pronounced "brewin." it chanced at ard uan echach,[fn#39] where foam is hurled on high, that doom on bicne falling, his death he came to die: 'twas while the cows were driven that bicne's life was lost: by trampling hooves of cattle crushed down to death, or tossed; to him was loegaire[fn#40] father, and conall cernach chief and inver-bicne's title still marks his comrades' grief. [fn#39] pronounced "ard oon ay-ha," [fn#40] pronounced "leary." across the stream of bicne the cows of fraech have passed, and near they came to benchor, and there their horns they cast: 'tis thence the strand of bangor for aye is named, 'tis said: the strand of horns men call it; those horns his cattle shed. to his home travelled fraech, with his children, and and his cattle, and there with them lived out his life, till the summons of ailill and maev he obeyed; and when cualgne was harried, he rode on the raid. tain bo fraich part ii literal translation it happened that his cows had been in the meanwhile stolen. his mother came to him. "not active (or "lucky") of journey hast thou gone; it shall cause much of trouble to thee," she says. "thy cows have been stolen, and thy three sons, and thy wife, so that they are in the mountain of elpa. three cows of them are in alba of the north with the cruthnechi (the picts)." "query, what shall i do?" he says to his mother. "thou shalt do a non-going for seeking them; thou wouldest not give thy life for them," she says. "thou shalt have cows at my hands besides them." "not so this," he says: "i have pledged my hospitality and my soul to go to ailill and to medb with my cows to the spoil of the cows from cualnge." "what thou seekest shall not be obtained," says his mother. at this she goes off from him then. he then sets out with three nines, and a wood-cuckoo (hawk), and a hound of tie with them, until he goes to the territory of the ulstermen, so that he meets with conall cernach (conall the victorious) at benna bairchi (a mountain on the ulster border). he tells his quest to him. "what awaits thee," says the latter, "shall not be lucky for thee. much of trouble awaits thee," he says, "though in it the mind should be." "it will come to me," says fraech to connall, "that thou wouldest help me any time we should meet." (?) "i shall go truly," says conall cernach. they set of the three (i.e. the three nines) over sea, over saxony of the north, over the sea of icht (the sea between england and france), to the north of the long-bards (the dwellers of lombardy), until they reached the mountains of elpa. they saw a herd-girl at tending of the sheep before them. "let us go south," says conall, "o fraech, that we may address the woman yonder, and let our youths stay here." they went then to a conversation. she said, "whence are ye?" "of the men of erin," says conall. "it shall not be lucky for the men of erin truly, the coming to this country. from the men of erin too is my mother. aid thou me on account of relationship." "tell us something about our movements. what is the quality of the land we have to come to?" "a grim hateful land with troublesome warriors, who go on every side for carrying off cows and women as captives," she says. "what is the latest thing they have carried off?" says fraech. "the cows of fraech, son of idath, from the west of erin, and his wife, and his three sons. here is his wife here in the house of the king, here are his cows in the country in front of you." "let thy aid come to us," says conall. little is my power, save guidance only." "this is fraech," says conall, and they are his cows that have been carried off." "is the woman constant in your estimation?" she says. "though constant in our estimation when she went, perchance she is not constant after coming." "the woman who frequents the cows, go ye to her; tell ye of your errand; of the men of ireland her race; of the men of ulster exactly." they come to her; they receive her, and they name themselves to her, and she bids welcome to them. "what hath led you forth?" she says. "trouble hath led us forth," says conall; "ours are the cows and the woman that is in the liss." "it shall not be lucky for you truly," she says, "the going up to the multitude of the woman; more troublesome to you than everything," she says, "is the serpent which is at guarding of the liss." "she is not my country-name(?)," says fraech, "she is not constant in my estimation; thou art constant in my estimation; we know thou wilt not lead us astray, since it is from the men of ulster thou art." "whence are ye from the men of ulster?" she says. "this is conall cernach here, the bravest hero with the men of ulster," says fraech. she flings two hands around the throat of conall cernach. "the destruction has come in this expedition," she says, "since he has come to us; for it is to him the destruction of this dun has been prophesied. i shall go out to my house,"[fn#41] she says, "i shall not be at the milking of the cows. i shall leave the liss opened; it is i who close it every night.[fn#42] i shall say it is for drink the calves were sucking. come thou into the dun, when they are sleeping; only trouble. some to you is the serpent which is at the dun; several tribes are let loose from it." [fn#41] "to my house" is in the egerton ms. only. [fn#42] "every night" is in the egerton ms. only. "we will go truly," says conall. they attack the liss; the serpent darts leap into the girdle of conall cernach, and they plunder the dun at once. they save off then the woman and the three sons, and they carry away whatever was the best of the gems of the dun, and conall lets the serpent out of his girdle, and neither of them did harm to the other. and they came to the territory of the people of the picts, until they saw three cows of their cows in it. they drove off to the fort of ollach mac briuin (now dunolly near oban) with them, until they were at ard uan echach (high-foaming echach). it is there the gillie of conall met his death at the driving of the cows, that is bicne son of loegaire; it is from this is (the name of) inver bicne (the bicne estuary) at benchor. they brought their cows over it thither. it is there they flung their horns from them, so that it is thence is (the name of) tracht benchoir (the strand of horn casting, perhaps the modern bangor?). fraech goes away then to his territory after, and his wife, and his sons, and his cows with him, until he goes with ailill and medb for the spoil of the cows from cualnge. the raid for dartaid's cattle introduction this tale is given by windisch (irische texte, ii. pp. 185-205), from two versions; one, whose translation he gives in full, except for one doubtful passage, is from the manuscript in the british museum, known as egerton, 1782 (dated 1414); the other is from the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth century), in the library of trinity college, dublin. the version in the yellow book is sometimes hard to read, which seems to be the reason why windisch prefers to translate the younger authority, but though in some places the egerton version is the fuller, the yellow book version (y.b.l.) often adds passages, some of which windisch has given in notes; some he has left untranslated. in the following prose version as much of y.b.l. as adds anything to the egerton text has been translated, with marks of interrogation where the attempted rendering is not certain: variants from the text adopted are placed below the prose version as footnotes. the insertions from y.b.l. are indicated by brackets; but no note is taken of cases where the egerton version is fuller than y.b.l. the opening of the story (the first five lines in the verse rendering) is in the eleventh century book of the dun cow: the fragment agrees closely with the two later texts, differing in fact from y.b.l. in one word only. all three texts are given in the original by windisch. the story is simple and straightforward, but is a good example of fairy vengeance, the description of the appearance of the troop recalls similar descriptions in the tain bo fraich, and in the courtship of ferb. the tale is further noticeable from its connection with the province of munster: most of the heroic tales are connected with the other three provinces only. orlam, the hero of the end of the tale, was one of cuchulain's earliest victims in the tain bo cualgne. the raid for dartaid's cattle from the egerton ms. 1782 (early fifteenth-century), and the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth-century) eocho bec,[fn#43] the son of corpre, reigning in the land of clew,[fn#44] dwelt in coolny's[fn#45] fort; and fostered sons of princes not a few: forty kine who grazed his pastures gave him milk to rear his wards; royal blood his charges boasted, sprung from munster's noblest lords. maev and ailill sought to meet him: heralds calling him they sent: "seven days hence i come" said eocho; and the heralds from him went. now, as eocho lay in slumber, in the night a vision came; by a youthful squire attended, rose to view a fairy dame: "welcome be my greeting to you!" said the king: "canst thou discern who we are?" the fairy answered, "how didst thou our fashion learn?" "surely," said the king, "aforetime near to me hath been thy place!" "very near thee have we hovered, yet thou hast not seen my face." "where do ye abide?" said eocho. "yonder dwell we, with the shee:[fn#46] "in the fairy mound of coolny!" "wherefore come ye hereto me?" "we have come," she said, "a counsel as a gift to thee to bring!" "speak! and tell me of the counsel ye have brought me," said the king. "noble gifts," she said, "we offer that renown for thee shall gain when in foreign lands thou ridest; worship in thine own domain; for a troop shall circle round thee, riding close beside thy hand: stately it shall be, with goodly horses from a foreign land!" "tell me of that troop," said eocho, "in what numbers should we ride? " fifty horsemen is the number that befits thee," she replied: [fn#43] pronounced yeo-ho bayc. [fn#44] cliu, a district in munster. [fn#45] spelt cuillne, in y.b.l. it is cuille. [fn#46] the fairies, spelt sidh. "fifty horses, black in colour; gold and silver reins and bits; fifty sets of gay equipment, such as fairies well befits; these at early dawn to-morrow shall my care for thee provide: let thy foster-children with thee on the road thou makest ride! rightly do we come to help thee, who so valiantly in fray guardest for us soil and country!" and the fairy passed away. eocho's folk at dawn have risen; fifty steeds they all behold: black the horses seemed; the bridles, stiff with silver and with gold, firmly to the gate were fastened; fifty silver breeches there heaped together shone, encrusted all with gold the brooches were: there were fifty knightly vestments, bordered fair with golden thread: fifty horses, white, and glowing on their ears with deepest red, nigh them stood; of reddish purple were the sweeping tails and manes; silver were the bits; their pasterns chained in front with brazen chains: and, of fair findruine[fn#47] fashioned, was for every horse a whip, furnished with a golden handle, wherewithal the goad to grip. [fn#47] pronounced "findroony." then king eocho rose, and ready made him; in that fair array forth they rode, nor did they tarry till they came to croghan[fn#48] ay. scarcely could the men of connaught bear to see that sight, amazed at the dignity and splendour of the host on which they gazed; for that troop was great; in serried ranks the fifty riders rode, splendid with the state recounted; pride on all their faces glowed. "name the man who comes!" said ailill; "easy answer!" all replied, eocho bee, in clew who ruleth, hither to thy court would ride": court and royal house were opened; in with welcome came they all; three long days and nights they lingered, feasting in king ailill's hall. then to ailill, king of connaught, eocho spake: "from out my land {50} wherefore hast thou called me hither?" "gifts are needed from thy hand," ailill said; "a heavy burden is that task upon me laid, to maintain the men of ireland when for cualgne's kine we raid." [fn#48] pronounced crow-han. eocho spoke: "what gift requirest thou from me?" "for milking-kine," ailill said, "i ask"; and eocho, "few of these indeed are mine! forty sons of munster's princes have i in my halls to rear; these, my foster-sons, beside me m my troop have journeyed here; fifty herdsmen guard the cattle, forty cows my wards to feed, seven times twenty graze beside them, to supply my people's need." "if, for every man who follows thee as liege, and owns a farm, thou a cow wilt yield," said ailill, "then from foes with power to harm i will guard thee in the battle!" "keep then faithfully thy vows," eocho said, "this day as tribute shall to croghan come the cows." thrice the sun hath set and risen while they feasting there abide, maev and ailill's bounty tasting, homeward then they quickly ride: but the sons of glaschu met them, who from western donnan came; donnan, from the seas that bound it, irross donnan hath for name; seven times twenty men attacked them, and to battle they were brought, at the isle of o'canã da, fiercely either party fought; with his foster children round him, eocho bec in fight was killed, all the forty princes perished, with that news the land was filled; all through ireland lamentation rose for every youthful chief; four times twenty munster princes, weeping for them, died of grief. now a vision came to ailill, as in sleep he lay awhile, or a youth and dame approached him, fairer none in erin's isle: "who are ye?" said ailill; "conquest," said the fairy, "and defeat "though defeat i shun," said ailill, "conquest joyfully i meet." "conquest thou shalt have!" she answered: "of the future i would ask, canst thou read my fate?" said ailill: "light indeed for me the task," said the dame: "the kine of dartaid, eocho's daughter, may be won: forty cows she owns; to gain them send to her thy princely son, orlam, whom that maiden loveth: let thy son to start prepare, forty youths from connaught with him, each of them a prince's heir: choose thou warriors stout and stately; i will give them garments bright, even those that decked the princes who so lately fell in fight: bridles, brooches, all i give thee; ere the morning sun be high thou shalt count that fairy treasure: to our country now we fly." swiftly to the son of tassa sped they thence, to corp the gray: on the northern bank of naymon was his hold, and there he lay; and before the men of munster, as their champion did he stand: he hath wrought-so runs the proverb-evil, longer than his hand. as to corp appeared the vision: "say," he cried, "what names ye boast!" "ruin, one is called," they answered; "one, the gathering of the host!" an assembled host i welcome," answered them the gray corp lee; "ruin i abhor": "and ruin," they replied, "is far from thee; thou shalt bring on sons of nobles, and of kings a ruin great": "fairy," said corp lee, the gray one, "tell me of that future fate." "easy is the task," she answered, "youths of every royal race that in connaught's land hath dwelling, come to-morrow to this place; munster's kine they hope to harry, for the munster princes fell yesterday with connaught fighting; and the hour i plainly ten: at the ninth hour of the morning shall they come: the band is small: have thou valiant men to meet them, and upon the raiders fall! munster's honour hath been tarnished! clear it by a glorious deed! thou shalt purge the shame if only in the foray thou succeed." "what should be my force?" he asked her: "take of heroes seven score for that fight," she said, "and with them seven times twenty warriors more: far from thee we now are flying; but shall meet thee with thy power when to-morrow's sun is shining; at the ninth, the fated hour." at the dawn, the time appointed, all those steeds and garments gay were in connaught, and they found them at the gate of croghan ay; all was there the fay had promised, all the gifts of which we told: all the splendour that had lately decked the princes they behold. doubtful were the men of connaught; some desired the risk to face; some to go refused: said ailill, "it should bring us to disgrace if we spurned such offered bounty": orlam his reproaches felt; sprang to horse; and towards the country rode, where eocho's daughter dwelt: and where flows the shannon river, near that water's southern shore, found her home; for as they halted, moated clew[fn#49] rose high before. [fn#49] spelt cliu. dartaid met them ere they halted, joyful there the prince to see: all the kine are not assembled, of their count is lacking three!" "tarry not for search," said orlam, "yet provision must we take on our steeds, for hostile munster rings us round. wilt home forsake, maiden? wilt thou ride beside us?" "i will go indeed," she said. then, with all thy gathered cattle, come with us; with me to wed! so they marched, and in the centre of their troop the kine were set, and the maiden rode beside them: but corp lee, the gray, they met; seven times twenty heroes with him; and to battle they must go, and the connaught nobles perished, fighting bravely with the foe: all the sons of connaught's princes, all the warriors with them died: orlam's self escaped the slaughter, he and eight who rode beside: yet he drave the cows to croghan; ay, and fifty heifers too! but, when first the foe made onset, they the maid in battle slew. near a lake, did eocho's[fn#50] daughter, dartaid, in the battle fall, from that lake, and her who perished, hath been named that region all: emly darta is that country; tain bo dartae is the tale: and, as prelude, 'tis recited, till the cualgne[fn#51] raid they hail. [fn#50] pronounced yeo-ho. [fn#51] pronounced kell-ny. the raid for dartaid's cattle literal translation the passages that occur only in the yellow book (y.b.l.) are indicated by being placed in square brackets. eocho bec, the son of corpre, king of cliu, dwelt in the dun of cuillne,[fn#52] and with him were forty fosterlings, all sons of the kings of munster; he had also forty milch-cows for their sustenance. by ailill and medb messengers were sent, asking him to come to a conference. "[in a week,"][fn#53] said eocho, "i will go to that conference;" and the messengers departed from him. [fn#52] the eleventh century ms., the leabhar na h-uidhri, which gives the first four lines of this tale as a fragment, adds here as a note: "this is in the land of the o'cuanach": apparently the o'briens of cuanach. [fn#53] at samhuin day (egerton). one night eocho lay there in his sleep, when he saw something approach him; a woman, and a young man in her attendance. "ye are welcome!" said eocho. ["knowest thou us?"] said she, "where hast thou learned to know us?" "it seems to me as if i had been near to you." "i think that we have been very near to one another, though we have not seen each other face to face!" "in what place do ye dwell?" said eocho. "yonder in sid cuillne (the fairy mound of cuillne)," said she. "and, wherefore have ye come?" "in order to give thee counsel," said she. for what purpose is the counsel," said he, "that thou givest me?" "something," she said, "that will bring thee honour and renown on thy journey at home and abroad. a stately troop shall be round thee, and goodly foreign horses shall be under thee."[fn#54] "with how many shall i go?" said eocho. "fifty horsemen is the number that is suitable for thee," she answered. [fn#54] y.b.l. adds a passage that windisch does not translate: it seems to run thus: "unknown to thee is the half of what thou hast met: it seems to us that foreign may be thy splendour"(?) "to-morrow in the morning fifty black horses, furnished with bridles of gold and silver, shall come to thee from me; and with them fifty sets of equipment of the equipment of the side; and all of thy foster-children shall go with thee; well it becomes us to help thee, because thou art valiant in the defence of our country and our soil." then the woman left him. early in the morning they arise, there they see something: the fifty black horses, furnished with bridles of gold and silver tied fast to the gate of the castle, also fifty breeches of silver with embellishment of gold; and fifty youths' garments with their edges of spun gold, and fifty white horses with red ears and long tails, purple-red were all their tails and their manes, with silver bits (?)[fn#55] and foot-chains of brass upon each horse; there were also fifty whips of white bronze (findruine), with end pieces of gold that thereby they might be taken into hands.[fn#56] [fn#55] co m-belgib (?) windisch translates "bridles," the same as cona srianaib above. [fn#56] y.b.l. adds, "through wizardry was all that thing: it was recited (?) how great a thing had appeared, and he told his dream to his people." then king eocho arises, and prepares himself (for the journey): they depart with this equipment to cruachan ai:[fn#57] and the people were well-nigh overcome with their consequence and appearance: their troop was great, goodly, splendid, compact: [fifty heroes, all with that appearance that has just been related. "how is that man named?" said ailill. "not hard, eocho bec, the king of cliu." they entered the liss (outer court), and the royal house; welcome was given to them, he remained there three days and three nights at the feasting.] [fn#57] egerton here gives "ailill and medb made them welcome;" it omits the long passage in square brackets. "wherefore have i have been invited to come?" said eocho to ailill: "to learn if i can obtain a gift from thee," said ailill; "for a heavy need weighs upon me, even the sustenance of the men of ireland for the bringing of the cattle from cualgne." "what manner of gift is it that thou desirest?" said eocho. "nothing less than a gift of milking-kine," said ailill. "there is no superfluity of these in my land," said eocho; "i have forty fosterlings, sons of the kings of munster, to bring them up (to manhood); they are here in my company, there are forty cows to supply the needs of these, to supply my own needs are seven times twenty milch-cows [there are fifty men for this cause watching over them]. "let me have from thee," said ailill, "one cow from each farmer who is under thy lordship as my share; moreover i will yield thee assistance if at any time thou art oppressed by superior might." "thus let it be as thou sayest," said eocho; "moreover, they shall come to thee this very day." for three days and three nights they were hospitably entertained by ailill and medb, and then they departed homewards, till they met the sons of glaschu, who came from irross donnan (the peninsula of donnan, now mayo); the number of those who met them was seven times twenty men, and they set themselves to attack each other, and to strive with each other in combat, and [at the island of o'conchada (inse ua conchada)] they fought together. in that place fell the forty sons of kings round eocho bec, and that news was spread abroad over all the land of ireland, so that four times twenty kings' sons, of the youths of munster, died, sorrowing for the deaths of these princes. on another night, as ailill lay in his sleep, upon his bed, he saw some thing, a young man and a woman, the fairest that could be found in ireland. "who are ye?" said ailill. "victory and defeat are our names," she said. "victory indeed is welcome to me, but not so defeat," said ailill. "victory shall be thine in each form!" said she. ["what is the next thing after this that awaits us?" said ailill. "not hard to tell thee," said she] "let men march out from thy palace in the morning, that thou mayest win for thyself the cattle of dartaid, the daughter of eocho. forty is the number of her milch-cows, it is thine own son, orlam mac ailill, whom she loves. let orlam prepare for his journey with a stately troop of valiant men, also forty sons of those kings who dwell in the land of connaught; and by me shall be given to them the same equipment that the other youths had who fell in yon fight, bridles and garments and brooches; [early in the morning shall count of the treasure be made, and now we go to our own land," said she]. then they depart from him, and forthwith they go to [corp[fn#58] liath (the gray),] who was the son of tassach. his castle was on the bank of the river nemain, upon the northern side, he was a champion of renown for the guarding of the men of munster; longer than his hand is the evil he hath wrought. to this man also they appeared, and "what are your names?" said he: "tecmall and coscrad (gathering of hosts, and destruction)," said they. "gathering of hosts is indeed good," said corp liath, "an evil thing is destruction": "there will be no destruction for thee, and thou shalt destroy the sons of kings and nobles": "and what," said corp liath, "is the next thing to be done?" [fn#58] the egerton ms. gives the name, corb cliach. "that is easy to say," they said;[fn#59] "each son of a king and a queen, and each heir of a king that is in connaught, is now coming upon you to bear off cows from your country, for that the sons of your kings and queens have fallen by the hand of the men of connaught. to-morrow morning, at the ninth hour they will come, and small is their troop; so if valiant warriors go thither to meet them, the honour of munster shall be preserved; if indeed thine adventure shall meet with success." [fn#59] y.b.l. gives the passage thus: "assemble with you the sons of kings, and heirs of kings, that you may destroy the sons of kings and heirs of kings." "who are they?" said corp liath. "a noble youth it is from connaught: he comes to yon to drive your cows before him, after that your young men were yesterday destroyed by him, at the ninth hour of the morning they will come to take away the cows of darta, the daughter of eocho." "with what number should i go?" he said. "seven times twenty heroes thou shouldest take with thee," she replied, ["and seven times twenty warriors besides"]: "and now" said the woman, "we depart to meet thee to-morrow at the ninth hour." at the time (appointed), when morning had come, the men of connaught saw the horses and the raiment of which we have spoken, at the gate of the fort of croghan, [even as she (the fairy) had foretold, and as we have told, so that at that gate was all she had promised, and all that had been seen on the sons of kings aforetime], and there was a doubt among the people whether they should go on that quest or not. "it is shame," said ailill, "to refuse a thing that is good"; and upon that orlam departed [till[fn#60] he came to the house of dartaid, the daughter of eocho, in cliu classach (cliu the moated), on the shannon upon the south (bank). [fn#60] egerton version has only "towards chu till he came to the home of dartaid, the daughter of eocho: the maiden rejoiced," &c. from this point to the end the version in the yellow book is much fuller. [there they halted], and the maiden rejoiced at their coming: "three of the kine are missing." "we cannot wait for these; let the men take provision on their horses, [for rightly should we be afraid in the midst of munster. wilt thou depart with me, o maiden?" said he. "i will indeed go with thee," said she]. "come then thou," said he, "and with thee all of thy cows." [then the young men go away with the cows in the midst, and the maiden was with them; but corp liath, the son of tassach, met them with seven times twenty warriors to oppose their march. a battle was fought], and in that place fell the sons of the kings of connaught, together with the warriors who had gone with them, all except orlam and eight others,[fn#61] who carried away with them the kine, even the forty milch-cows, and fifty heifers, [so that they came into the land of connaught]; but the maiden fell at the beginning of the fight. [fn#61] y.b.l. inserts dartaid's death at this point: "and dartaid fell at the beginning of the fight, together with the stately sons of connaught." hence is that place called imlech dartaid, (the lake shore of darta), in the land of cliu, [where dartaid, the daughter of eocho, the son of corpre, fell: and for this reason this story is called the tain bo dartae, it is one of the preludes to the tain bo cualnge]. the raid for the cattle of regamon introduction the two versions of this tale, given by windisch in the irische texte, ii. pp. 224-238, are from the same manuscripts as the two versions of the raid of the cattle of dartaid; namely the yellow book of lecan, and the egerton ms. 1782. in the case of this tale, the yellow book version is more legible, and, being not only the older, but a little more full than the other version, windisch has translated this text alone: the prose version, as given here, follows this manuscript, nearly as given by windisch, with only one addition from the egerton ms.; the omissions in the egerton ms. are not mentioned, but one or two changes in words adopted from this ms. are mentioned in the foot-notes to the prose rendering. the whole tone of the tale is very unlike the tragic character of those romances, which have been sometimes supposed to represent the general character of old irish literature: there is not even a hint of the super-natural; the story contains no slaughter; the youthful raiders seem to be regarded as quite irresponsible persons, and the whole is an excellent example of an old celtic: romance with what is to-day called a "good ending." the raid for the cattle of regamon from the yellow book of lecan (a manuscript of the fourteenth century) when ailill and maev in the connaught land abode, and the lordship held, a chief who many a field possessed in the land of connaught dwelled: a great, and a fair, and a goodly herd of kine had the chieftain won: and his fame in the fight was in all men's word; his name was regamon. now seven daughters had regamon; they dwelt at home with their sire: yet the seven sons of king ailill and maev their beauty with love could fire: all those seven sons were as mani[fn#62] known; the first was as morgor hailed, for his love was great: it was mingar's fate that in filial love he failed: the face was seen of the mother-queen on the third; and his father's face did the fourth son show: they the fifth who know cannot speak all his strength and grace: the sixth son spoke, from his lips the words like drops of honey fell: and last came one who all gifts possessed that the tongue of a man can tell; for his father's face that mani had, in him was his mother seen; and in him abode every grace bestowed on the king of the land or the queen. [fn#62] pronounced mah-nee. of the daughters of regamon now we speak: two names those maidens bore: for as dunnan three ever known shall be; dunlaith[fn#63] was the name for four: and in breffny's land is the ford dunlaith, and the fame of the four recalls; the three ye know where the dunnan's flow in western connaught falls. with fergus, ailill and maev were met: as at council all conferred; "it were well for our folk," thus ailill spoke, "if the lord of that cattle-herd, that strays in the fields of regamon, would tribute to us pay: and to gain that end, let us heralds send, to his burg who may make their way, and bear to our court that tribute back; for greatly we soon shall need such kine when we in the time of war our hosts shall have to feed; and all who share in our counsels know that a burden will soon be mine, when the men must be fed of ireland, led on the raid for the cuailgne[fn#64] kine!" thus ailill spoke; and queen maev replied, "the men to perform that task right well i know; for our sons will go, if we for their aid but ask! the seven daughters of regamon do the mani in love now seek: if those maidens' hands they can gain by the deed, they will heed the words we speak." to his side king ailill has called his sons, his mind to the youth he shows. "best son," says maev, "and grateful he, from filial love who goes!" and morgor said, "for the love that we owe, we go at our sire's behest:" "yet a greater reward," thus mingar spake, "must be ours, if we go on this quest! for naught have we of hero-craft; and small shall be found our might; and of valiant breed are the men," said he, "with whom we shall have to fight. [fn#63] pronounced dun-lay. [fn#64] pronounced kell-ny. as men from the shelter of roof who go, and must rest in the open field, so thy sons shall stand, if they come to a land where a foe might be found concealed! we have dwelt till now in our father's halls, too tenderly cared for far: nor hath any yet thought, that to us should be taught the arts that belong to war!" queen maev and ailill their sons have sped, away on the quest they went, with seven score men for the fight, whom the queen for help of her sons had sent: to the south of the connaught realm they reached, the burg that they sought was plain for to ninnus land they had come, and were nigh to the corcomroe domain. "from our band," said mani morgor, "some must go, of that burg to learn how entrance we may attain to win, and back with the news return we must test the strength of the maidens' love!" on mingar the task was set, and with two beside him, he searched the land, till three of the maids they met: by springs of water they found the maids, drew swords, and against them leapt! "o grant our lives!" was the maiden's cry, "and your lives shall be safely kept!" "for your lives," he said, "will ye grant a boon, set forth in three words of speech?" "at our hands," said she, "shall granted be, whatever thy tongue shall teach; yet ask not cattle; those kine have we no power to bestow, i fear": "why, 'tis for the sake of the kine," he said, "that all of us now are here!" "who art thou then?" from her faltering broke: "mani mingar am i," he replied; i am son to king ailill and maev: and to me thou art welcome," the maiden cried; "but why have ye come to this land?" said she: for kine and for brides," he said, have we come to seek: and 'tis right," said she, such demands in a speech to wed: yet the boon that you ask will our folk refuse, and hard will your task be found; for a valiant breed shall you meet, i fear, in the men who guard this ground!" "give your aid," he said, "then as friends: but time," said she, "we must have for thought; for a plan must be made, e'er thy word be obeyed, and the kine to thy hands be brought: have ye journeyed here with a force of men? how great is the strength of your band?" "seven score are there here for the fight," he said, "the warriors are near at hand!" "wait here," said she; "to my sisters four i go of the news to tell: "and with thee we side!" all the maidens cried, "and we trust we shall aid thee well," away from the princes the maidens sped, they came to their sisters four, and thus they spoke: "from the connaught land come men, who are here at your door; the sons of ailill and maev have come; your own true loves are they!" "and why have they come to this land?" they said; "for kine and for brides, they say, have they come to seek:" "and with zeal their wish would we joyfully now fulfil if but powers to aid were but ours," they said, "which would match with our right good will: but i fear the youths in this burg who dwell, the plans that we make may foil; or far from the land may chase that band, and drive them away from their spoil!" "will ye follow us now, with the prince to speak?" they willingly gave consent, and together away to the water-springs the seven maidens went. they greeted mani; "now come!" said he, "and bring with you out your herds: and a goodly meed shall reward your deed, if you but obey my words; for our honour with sheltering arms is nigh, and shall all of you safely keep, ye seven daughters of regamon!" the cattle, the swine, and sheep together the maidens drove; none saw them fly, nor to stay them sought, till safe to the place where the mani stood, the herd by the maids was brought. the maidens greeted the sons of maev, and each by her lover stood; and then morgor spoke: "into twain this herd of kine to divide were good, at the briuin[fn#65] ford should the hosts unite; too strait hath the path been made for so vast a herd": and to morgor's word they gave heed, and his speech obeyed. now it chanced that regamon, the king, was far from his home that day, for he to the corco baiscinn land had gone, for a while to stay; [fn#65] pronounced brewin. with the firbolg[fn#66] clans, in debate, he sat; and a cry as the raiders rode, was behind him raised: to the king came men, who the news of that plunder showed: then the king arose, and behind his foes he rode, and o'ertook their flight, and on mani morgor his host pressed hard, and they conquered his men in the fight. "to unite our band," thus morgor cried, "fly hence, and our comrades find! call the warriors back from the cattle here, and leave the maids behind; bid the maidens drive to our home the herd as far as the croghan fort, and to ailill and maev of our perilous plight let the maidens bear report." the maidens went to the croghan fort, to maev with their news they pressed: "thy sons, o maev, at the briuin ford are pent, and are sore distressed, and they pray thee to aid them with speed": and maev her host for the war prepared, with ailill the warriors of connaught came; and fergus beside them fared, and the exiles came, who the ulster name still bore, and towards that ford all that host made speed, that their friends in need might escape from the vengeful sword. [fn#66] pronounced feer-bol. now ailill's sons, in the pass of that ford, had hurdles strongly set: and regamon failed through the ford to win, ere ailill's troops were met: of white-thorn and of black-thorn boughs were the hurdles roughly framed, and thence the name of the ford first came, that the hurdle ford is named; for, where the o'feara[fn#67] aidne folk now dwell, can ye plainly see in the land of beara[fn#68] the less, that ford, yet called ath[fn#69] clee maaree, in the north doth it stand; and the connaught land divideth from corcomroe; and thither, with regamon's troops to fight, did ailill's army go. [fn#67] pronounced o'fayra ain-ye. [fn#68] pronounced bayra. [fn#69] spelt ath cliath medraidi. ath is pronounced like ah. then a truce they made; to the youths, that raid who designed, they gave back their lives; and the maidens fair all pardoned were, who had fled with the youths, as wives, who had gone with the herd, by the maids conferred on the men who the kine had gained: but the kine, restored to their rightful lord, in regamon's hands remained; the maiden band in the connaught land remained with the sons of maev; and a score of cows to each maiden's spouse the maidens' father gave: as his daughters' dower, did their father's power his right in the cows resign, that the men might be fed of ireland, led on the raid for the cualgne[fn#70] kine. this tale, as the tain bo regamon, is known in the irish tongue; and this lay they make, when the harp they wake, ere the cualgne raid be sung. [fn#70] pronounced kell-ny. the raid for the cattle of regamon literal translation in the time of ailill and medb, a glorious warrior and holder of land dwelt in the land of connaught, and his name was regamon. he had many herds of cattle, all of them fair and well-shaped: he had also seven daughters with him. now the seven sons of ailill and medb loved these (daughters): namely the seven maine, these were maine morgor (maine with great filial love), maine mingar (maine with less filial love), maine aithremail (maine like his father), maine mathremail (maine like his mother), maine milbel (maine with the mouth of honey),[fn#71] maine moepert (maine too great to be described), maine condageb-uile (maine who combined all qualities): now this one had the form both of father and mother, and had all the glory that belonged to both parents. [fn#71] the name of maine annai, making an eighth son, is given in y.b.l., but not in the egerton ms. the seven daughters of regamon were the three dunann, and the four dunlaith;[fn#72] from the names of these is the estuary of dunann in western connaught, and the ford of dunlaith in breffny. [fn#72] so egerton, which windisch follows here; the reading of y.b.l. is dunmed for the daughters, and dumed for the corresponding ford. now at a certain time, ailill and medb and fergus held counsel together. "some one from us," said ailill, "should go to regamon, that a present of cattle may be brought to us from him; to meet the need that there is on us for feeding the men of ireland, when the kine are raided from cualgne." "i know," said medb, "who would be good to go thither, if we ask it of them; even the maine; on account of their love for the daughters." his sons were called to ailill, and he spoke with them. "grateful is he, and a better journey does he go," said maev, "who goes for the sake of his filial love." "truly it shall be that it is owing to filial love that we go," said mani morgor. "but the reward should (also) for this be the better," said mani mingar; "it stands ill with our heroism, ill with our strength. it is like going from a house into the fields, (going) into the domains or the land of foes. too tenderly have we been brought up; none hath let us learn of wars; moreover the warriors are valiant towards whom we go!" they took leave of ailill and medb, and betook themselves to the quest. they set out, seven times twenty heroes was the number, till they were in the south of connaught, in the neighbourhood of the domain of corcomroe[fn#73] in the land of ninnus, near to the burg. "some of you," said mani morgor, "should go to find out how to enter into the burg; and to test the love of maidens." mani mingar, with two others, went until he came upon three of the maidens at the water-springs, and at once he and his comrades drew their swords against them. "give life for life!" said the maiden. "grant to me then my three full words!" said mani mingar. "whatever thy tongue sets forth shall be done," said the maiden, "only let it not be cows,[fn#74] for these have we no power to give thee." "for these indeed," said mani, "is all that now we do."[fn#75] [fn#73] properly "coremodruad," the descendants of modh ruadh, third son of fergus by maev; now corcomroe in county clare. [fn#74]"only let it not be cows" is in the egerton ms. alone. [fn#75] "that we do" is egerton ms. (cich indingnem), y.b.l. has "cechi m-bem." "who art thou?" said she: "mani mingar, son of ailill and medb," said he: "welcome then," she said, "but what hath brought with you here?" "to take with us cattle and maidens," he said: "'tis right," she said, "to take these together; (but) i fear that what has been demanded will not be granted, the men are valiant to whom you have come." "let your entreaties be our aid!" he said. "we would desire," she said, "that it should be after that counsel hath been taken that we obey you." "what is your number?" said she: "seven times twenty heroes," he said, "are with us." "remain here," she said, "that we may speak with the other maidens": "we shall assist you," said the maidens, "as well as we can." they went from them, and came to the other maidens, and they said to them: "young heroes from the lands of connaught are come to you, your own true loves, the seven sons of ailill and medb." "wherefore are they come?" "to take back with them cattle and wives." "that would we gladly have, if only we could; (but) i fear that the warriors will hinder them or drive them away," said she. "go ye out, that ye may speak with the man." "we will speak with him," they said. the seven maidens went to the well, and they greeted mani. "come ye away," he said, "and bring your cattle with you. that will be a good deed. we shall assist you with our honour and our protection, o ye daughters of regamon," said he.[fn#76] the maidens drove together their cows and their swine, and their sheep, so that none observed them; and they secretly passed on till they came to the camp of their comrades. the maidens greeted the sons of ailill and medb, and they remained there standing together. "the herd must be divided in two parts," said mani merger, "also the host must divide, for it is too great to travel by the one way; and we shall meet again at ath briuin (the ford of briuin)." so it was done. [fn#76] windisch conjectures this instead of "said the warriors," which is in the text of y.b.l. king regamon was not there on that day. he was in the domain of corco baiscinn,[fn#77] to hold a conference with the firbolgs. his people raised a cry behind him, message was brought to regamon, and he went in pursuit with his army. the whole of the pursuing host overtook mani morgor, and brought defeat upon him. [fn#77] in the south-west of clare. "we all," said mani, "must go to one place, and some of you shall be sent to the cattle to summon the young men hither, and the maidens shall drive the cattle over the ford to cruachan, and shall give ailill and medb tidings of the plight in which we are here." the maidens went to cruachan, and told all the tale. "thy sons are at ath briuin in distress, and have said that help should be brought to them." the men of connaught with ailill, and medb, and fergus, and the banished men of ulster went to ath briuin to help their people. the sons of ailill had for the moment made hurdles of white-thorn and black-thorn in the gut[fn#78] of the ford, as defence against regamon and his people, so that they were unable to pass through the ford ere ailill and his army came; so thence cometh the name ath cliath medraidi[fn#79] (the hurdle ford of medraide), in the country of little bethra in the northern part of the o'fiachrach aidne between connaught and corcomroe. there they met together with all their hosts. [fn#78] literally "mouth." [fn#79] ath cliath oc medraige, now maaree, in ballycourty parish, co. galway (stokes, bodleian dinnshenchus, 26). it may be mentioned that in the dinnshenchus, the cattle are said to have been taken "from dartaid, the daughter of regamon in munster," thus confusing the raids of regamon and dartaid, which may account for o'curry's incorrect statement in the preface to leabhar na h-uidhri, p. xv. a treaty was then made between them on account of the fair young men who had carried off the cattle, and on account of the fair maidens who had gone with them, by whose means the herd escaped. restitution of the herd was awarded to regamon, and the maidens abode with the sons of ailill and medb; and seven times twenty milch-cows were given up, as a dowry for the maidens, and for the maintenance of the men of ireland on the occasion of the assembly for the tain bo cualnge; so that this tale is called the tain bo regamon, and it is a prelude to the tale of the tain bo cualnge. finit, amen. the driving of the cattle of flidais introduction the tain bo flidais, the driving of the cows of flidais, does not, like the other three preludes to the tain bo cualnge, occur in the yellow book of lecan; but its manuscript age is far the oldest of the four, as it occurs in both the two oldest collections of old irish romance, the leabbar na h-uidhri (abbreviated to l.u.), and the book of leinster (abbreviated to l.l.), besides the fifteenth century egerton ms., that contains the other three preludes. the text of all three, together with a translation of the l.u. text, is given by windisch in irische texte, ii. pp. 206-223; the first part of the story is missing in l.u. and is supplied from the book of leinster (l.l.) version. the prose translation given here follows windisch's translation pretty closely, with insertions occasionally from l.l. the egerton version agrees closely with l.l., and adds little to it beyond variations in spelling, which have occasionally been taken in the case of proper names. the leabhar na h-uidhri version is not only the oldest, but has the most details of the three; a few passages have, however, been supplied from the other manuscripts which agree with l.u. in the main. the whole tale is much more like an old border riding ballad than are the other three preludes; it resembles the tone of regamon, but differs from it in having a good deal of slaughter to relate, though it can hardly be called tragic, like deirdre and ferb, the killing being taken as a matter of course. there is nothing at all supernatural about the story as contained in the old manuscripts, but a quite different' version of the story given in the glenn masain manuscript, a fifteenth century manuscript now in the advocates' library, edinburgh, gives another complexion to the tale. the translation of this manuscript is at present being made in the celtic review by professor mackinnon; the version it gives of the story is much longer and fuller than that in the leabhar na h-uidhri, and its accompanying manuscripts. the translation as printed in the celtic review is not as yet (july 1905) completed, but, through professor mackinnon's kindness, an abstract of the general features of the end of the story may be given here. the glenn masain version makes bricriu, who is a subordinate character in the older version, one of the principal actors, and explains many of the allusions which are difficult to understand in the shorter version; but it is not possible to regard the older version as an abridgment of that preserved in the glenn masain ms., for the end of the story in this manuscript is absolutely different from that in the older ones, and the romance appears to be unique in irish in that it has versions which give two quite different endings, like the two versions of kipling's the light that failed. the glenn masain version commences with a feast held at cruachan, when fergus and his exiles had joined their forces with connaught as a result of the murder of the sons of usnach, as told in the earlier part of the manuscript. at this feast bricriu. engages in conversation with fergus, reproaching him for his broken promises to the ulstermen who had joined him, and for his dalliance with queen maev. bricriu, who in other romances is a mere buffoon, here appears as a distinguished poet, and a chief ollave; his satire remains bitter, but by no means scurrilous, and the verses put into his mouth, although far beneath the standard of the verses given to deirdre in the earlier part of the manuscript, show a certain amount of dignity and poetic power. as an example, the following satire on fergus's inability to keep his promises may be cited:-fergus, hear thy friend lamenting! blunted is thy lofty mind; thou, for hire, to maev consenting, hast thy valour's pride resigned. ere another year's arriving, should thy comrades, thou didst vow, three-score chariots fair be driving, shields and weapons have enow! when thy ladies, bent on pleasure, crowd towards the banquet-hall, thou of gold a goodly measure promised hast to grant to all! ill to-night thy friends are faring, naught hath fergus to bestow; he a poor man's look is wearing, never yet was greater woe! after the dialogue with fergus, bricriu, with the poets that attend him, undertakes a journey to ailill the fair, to obtain from him the bounty that fergus had promised but was unable to grant. he makes a fairly heavy demand upon ailill's bounty, but is received hospitably, and gets all he had asked for, as well as honour for his poetic talents. he then asks about ailill's wife flidais, and is told about her marvellous cow, which was able to supply milk to more than three hundred men at one night's milking. flidais returns from a journey, is welcomed by bricriu, who produces a poem in honour of her and her cow, and is suitably recompensed. a long conversation is then recorded between flidais and bricriu in which bricriu extols the great deeds of fergus, supplying thereby a commentary on the short statement at the beginning of the older version, that flidais' love to fergus was on account of the great deeds which had been told her that he had done. flidais declares to bricriu her love for fergus, and bricriu, after a vain attempt to dissuade the queen from her purpose, consents to bring a message to fergus that flidais and her cow will come to him if he comes to her husband's castle to seek her. he then returns to connaught laden with gifts. the story now proceeds somewhat upon the lines of the older version. bricriu approaches fergus on his return, and induces him to go in the guise of an ambassador to ailill the fair, with the secret intention of carrying off flidais. fergus receives the sanction of maev and her husband for his errand, and departs, but not as in the older version with a few followers; all the ulster exiles are with him. dubhtach, by killing a servant of maev, embroils fergus with the queen of connaught; and the expedition reaches ailill the fair's castle. fergus sends bricriu, who has most unwillingly accompanied him, to ask for hospitality; he is hospitably received by ailill, and when under the influence of wine reveals to ailill the plot. ailill does not, as in the older version, refuse to receive fergus, but seats him beside himself at a feast, and after reproaching him with his purpose challenges him to a duel in the morning. the result of the duel, and of the subsequent attack on the castle by fergus' friends, is much as stated in the older version, but the two stories end quite differently. the l.u. version makes flidais assist in the war of cualgne by feeding the army of ailill each seventh day with the produce of her cows; she dies after the war as wife of fergus; the glenn masain version, in the "pursuit of the cattle of flidais," makes the gamanrad clan, the hero-clan of the west of ireland, pursue maev and fergus, and rescue flidais and her cow; flidais then returns to the west with muiretach menn, the son of her murdered husband, ailill the fair. the comparison of these two versions, from the literary point of view, is most interesting. the stress laid on the supernatural cow is peculiar to the version in the later manuscript, the only analogy in the eleventh century version is the semi-supernatural feeding of the army of ireland, but in this it is a herd (buar), not a single animal, that is credited with the feat, and there is really nothing supernatural about the matter; it is only the other version that enables us to see the true bearing of the incident. the version in the glenn masain manuscript looks much more ancient in idea than that in the older texts, and is plainly capable of a mythic interpretation. it is not of course suggested that the glenn masain version is ancient as it stands: there are indeed enough obvious allusions in the text to comparatively late works to negative such a supposition, independently of linguistic evidence, but it does look as if the author of the eleventh century text had a super natural tale to work upon, some of whose incidents are preserved in the glenn masain version, and that he succeeded in making out of the traditional account a story that practically contains no supernatural element at all, so that it requires a knowledge of the other version to discover the slight trace of the supernatural that he did keep, viz. the feeding of the army of ireland by the herd (not the cow) of flidais. it is possible that the common origin of the two versions is preserved for us in another place, the coir annam, which, though it as it stands is a middle irish work, probably keeps ancient tradition better than the more finished romances. in this we find, following stokes' translation, given in irische texte, iii. p. 295, the following entries:-"adammair flidaise foltchain, that is flidais the queen, one of the tribe of the god-folk (the tuatha de danaan), she was wife of adammair, the son of fer cuirp, and from her cometh the name buar flidaise, the cattle of flidais. "nia segamain, that is seg (deer) are a main (his treasure), for in his time cows and does were milked in the same way every day, so that he had great wealth in these things beyond that of all other kings. the flidais spoken of above was the mother of nia segamain, adammair's son, for two kinds of cattle, cows and does, were milked in the days of nia segamain, and by his mother was that fairy power given to him." it seems, then, not impossible that the original legend was much as stated in the coir annam, viz. that flidais was a supernatural being, milking wild deer like cows, and that she was taken into the ulster cycle and made part of the tale of fergus. this adoption was done by an author who made a text which may be regarded as the common original of the two versions; in his tale the supernatural character of flidais was retained. the author of the l.u. version cut out the supernatural part, and perhaps the original embassy of bricriu; it may, however, be noted that the opening of the older version comes from the l.l. text, which is throughout shorter than that in l.u., and the lost opening of l.u. may have been fuller. the author of the glenn masain version kept nearer to the old story, adding, however, more modern touches. where the new character of bricriu comes from is a moot point; i incline to the belief that the idea of bricriu as a mere buffoon is a later development. but in neither version is the story, as we have it, a pre-christian one. the original pre-christian idea of flidais was, as in the coir annam, that of a being outside the ulster cycle altogether. the driving of the cattle of flidais from the leabhar na h-uidhri (eleventh-century ms.), the beginning and a few additions from the book of leinster (twelfth century) a land in west roscommon, as kerry known of old, was ruled by ailill fair-haired; of him a tale is told: how flidais,[fn#80] ailill's[fn#81] consort, each week, and near its end, to ro's great son, to fergus, her herald still would send; 'twas fergus' love she sought for; the deeds by fergus done, in glorious tales recited, had flidais' fancy won. [fn#80] pronounced flid-das. [fn#81] pronounced al-ill. when fergus fled from ulster, and connaught's land he sought, to ailill, king of connaught, this tale of love he brought: "now give me rede," said fergus, "how best we here should act, that connaught's fame and honour by none may stand attacked; say, how can i approach them, and strip thy kingdom bare, and yet the fame of ailill, that country's monarch, spare?" "'tis hard indeed to teach thee," cried ailill, sore perplexed; "let maev come nigh with counsel what course to follow next!" "send thou to ailill fair-haired to ask for aid!" said maev, "he well may meet a herald, who comes his help to crave let fergus go to crave it: no harm can there be seen; and better gifts from ailill shall fergus win, i ween!" so forth to ailill fair-haired went fergus, son of ro; and thirty, dubhtach[fn#82] leading, he chose with him to go; and yet another fergus his aid to fergus brought; mac oonlama[fn#83] men called him; his sire one-handed fought. [fn#82] pronounced doov-ta. [fn#83] spelt mac oenlama, son of the one-handed one. beside the ford of fenna, in kerry's north they came, they neared the hold, and from it rang welcome's loud acclaim: "what quest," said ailill fair-haired, "hath brought these warriors here?" "of ailill, son of magach, we stand," they said, "in fear; a feud we hold against him; with thee would fain abide!" "for each of these," said ailill, "who fergus march beside, if they were foes to connaught, for long they here might stay, and ne'er till peace was granted, i'd drive these men away: for fergus, naught i grant him a tale of him men tell that fergus 'tis whom flidais, my wife, doth love too well!" "it is kine that i ask for," said fergus, "and hard is the task on me set: for the men who have marched here beside me, the means to win life i must get." "i will give no such present," said ailill," thou comest not here as my guest: men will say, 'twas from fear that i gave it, lest my wife from my arms thou should'st wrest: yet an ox of my herds, and some bacon, if thou wilt, shall my hand to thee give; that the men who have marched here beside thee on that meat may be stayed, and may live!" "i eat no bread thus thrown me!" fierce fergus straight replied: "i asked a gift of honour; that gift thine hand denied." "avoid my house," said ailill in wrath, "now get thee hence! "we go indeed," said fergus; "no siege we now commence: yet here," he cried, "for duel beside yon ford i wait, if thou canst find a champion to meet me at thy gate." then up and answered ailill: "'tis mine this strife must be and none shall hurt mine honour, or take this task from me: none hold me back from battle!"--the ford for fight he sought: "now dubhtach, say," said fergus, "to whom this war is brought! or thou or i must meet him." and dubhtach said, "i go; for i am younger, fergus, and bolder far with foe." to the ford for the battle with ailill he hies, and he thrust at him fiercely, and pierced through his thighs; but a javelin by ailill at dubhtach was cast, and right through his body the shaft of it passed: and a shield over dubhtach, laid low in the dust, spread fergus; and ailill his spear at him thrust; and through fergus' shield had the spear made its way, when fergus mae oonlama joined in the fray, and his shield he uplifted, his namesake to guard; but at fergus mac oonlama ailill thrust hard, and he brake through the fence of mac oonlama's shield; and he leaped in his pain; as they lay on the field, on his comrades he fell: flidais forth to them flew, and her cloak on the warriors to shield them she threw. then against all the comrades of fergus turned ailill the fair-haired to fight, and he chased them away from his castle, and slew as they scattered in flight; a twenty he reached, and he slew them: they fell, on that field to remain; and but seven there were of that thirty who fled, and their safety could gain: they came to the palace of croghan, they entered the gates of that hold, and to maev and to ailill of connaught the tale of the slaughter they told. then roused himself king ailill, of connaught's land the king, with maev to march to battle, their aid to friends to bring: and forth from connaught's kingdom went many a lord of worth, beside them marched the exiles who gat from ulster birth: so forward went that army, and reached to kerry's land, and near the ford of fenna they came, and there made stand. while this was done, the wounded three within the hold lay still, and flidais cared for all, for she to heal their wounds had skill. to ailill fair-haired's castle the connaught host was led, and toward the foeman's ramparts the connaught herald sped; he called on ailill fair-haired to come without the gate, and there to meet king ailill, and with him hold debate. "i come to no such meeting," the angry chief replied; "yon man is far too haughty: too grossly swells his pride!" yet 'twas peaceful meeting, so the old men say, ailill willed; whose greeting heralds bore that day. fergus, ere he perished, first he sought to aid he that thought who cherished friendship's claims obeyed: then his foe he vainly hoped in truce to bind: peace, 'tis said, was plainly dear to connaught's mind! the wounded men, on litters laid, without the walls they bore to friendly hands, with skill to aid, and fainting health restore. at the castle of ailill the fair-haired the connaught-men rushed in attack, and to win it they failed: from his ramparts in defeat were his foes driven back: for long in that contest they struggled, yet naught in the fight they prevailed for a week were the walls of the castle of ailill the fair-haired assailed, seven score of the nobles of connaught, and all of them warriors of might, for the castle of ailill contended, and fell as they strove in the fight. "'tis sure that with omen of evil this castle was sought by our folk!" thus bricroo,[fn#84] the poisonous scoffer, in mockery, jeering them, spoke: "the taunt," answered ailill mae mata, "is true, and with grief i confess that the fame of the heroes of ulster hereafter is like to be less, for a three of the ulstermen's champions in stress of the fight have been quelled; and the vengeance we wait for from ulster hath long been by ulster withheld; as a pillar of warfare each hero, 'twas claimed, could a battle sustain; yet by none of the three in this battle hath a foeman been conquered, or slain! in the future for all of these champions shall scorn and much mocking befall: one man hath come forth from yon castle; alone he hath wounded them all-such disgrace for such heroes of valour no times that are past ever saw, for three lords of the battle lie conquered by mannikins, fashioned of straw!" [fn#84] spelt bricriu. the usual epithet of bricriu, "bricriu of the poison tongue," is indicated in the verse rendering. "ah! woe is me," said bricroo, "how long, thus stretched on ground, the length of father fergus hath here by all been found! but one he sought to conquer; a single fight essayed, and here he met his victor, and low on land is laid." then rose the men of ulster a hardy war to wage, and forward rushed, though naked, in strong and stubborn rage: against the castle gateway in wrathful might they dashed, and down the shattered portal within the castle crashed. then close by ulster's champions was connaught's battle formed; and connaught's troops with ulster by might the castle stormed; but fitly framed for battle were men whom there they met, wild war, where none showed pity between the hosts was set: and well they struck; each hero commenced with mighty blows to crush and slay, destruction was heaped by foe on foes. of the wounding at length and the slaughter all weary the champions had grown, and the men who the castle of ailill had held were at length over thrown: of those who were found in that castle, and its walls had defended so well, seven hundred by warriors of ulster were smitten to death, and they fell: and there in his castle fell ailill the fair-haired, and fighting he died, and a thirty of sons stood about him, and all met their death by his side. the chief of those who perished, by ailill's side who stood within his hold, were noodoo;[fn#85] and awley[fn#86] named the good; and feeho[fn#87] called the broad-backed; and corpre cromm the bent; an ailill, he from breffny to help of ailill went; a three whose name was angus-fierce was each warrior's face; three eochaid, sea-girt donnan[fn#88] had cradled erst their race; and there fell seven breslen, from plains of ay[fn#89] who came; and fifty fell beside them who all had donnell's name. [fn#85] spelt nuado. [fn#86] spelt amalgaid. [fn#87] spelt fiacho. [fn#88] irross donnan, the promontory of donnan (now mayo). [fn#89] mag ai, a plain in roscommon. for to ailill the fair-haired for warfare had marched all the gamanra[fn#90] clan, and his friends from the sea-girded donnan had sent to his aid every man; all these had with ailill been leaguered, their help to him freely they brought, and that aid from them ailill. took gladly, he knew that his hold would be sought; he knew that the exiles of ulster his captives from prison would save, and would come, their surrender demanding; that ailill mac mata and maev would bring all connaught's troops to the rescue: for fergus that aid they would lend, and fergus the succour of connaught could claim, and with right, as a friend. [fn#90] spelt gamanrad. hero clans in erin three of old were found; one in irross donnan, oceans donnan bound, thence came clan gamanra; deda's warlike clan nursed in tara loochra[fn#91] many a fighting man. deda sprang from munster; far in ulster's north oft from emain macha rury's[fn#92] clan went forth: vainly all with rury strove to fight, the twain rury's clan hath vanquished; rury all hath slain! [fn#91] temair luachra, an ancient palace near abbeyfeale, on the borders of the counties of limerick and kerry. "tara," as is well known, is a corruption of temair, but is now established. [fn#92] spelt rudraige. then rose up the warriors of ulster, the hold they had conquered to sack; and the folk of queen maev and king ailill followed close on the ulstermen's track: and they took with them captives; for flidais away from her castle they tore; and the women who dwelt in the castle away to captivity bore: and all things therein that were precious they seized on as booty; the gold and the silver they seized, and the treasures amassed by the men of that hold: the horns, and the goblets for drinking, the vats for the ale, and the keys, the gay robes with all hues that were glowing lay there for the raiders to seize: and much cattle they took; in that castle were one hundred of milk giving kine; and beside them a seven score oxen; three thousand of sheep and of swine. then flidais went with fergus, his wedded wife to be; for thus had maev and ailill pronounced their high decree: they bade that when from cualgne to drive the kine they went, from those who then were wedded should aid for war be sent. and thus it fell thereafter: when ireland went that raid, by milk from cows of flidais, the lives of all were stayed; each seventh day she sent it; and thus fulfilled her vows, and thus the tale is ended, men tell of flidais' cows. then, all that raid accomplished, with fergus flidais dwell and he of ulster's kingdom a part in lordship held: he ruled in mag i murthemne[fn#92], yea, more than that, he won the land where once was ruler cuchulain, sualtam's son: and by the shore of bali thereafter flidais died, and naught of good for fergus did flidais' death betide: for worse was all his household; if fergus aught desired, from flidais' wealth and bounty came all his soul required. in the days that followed, when his wife was dead, fergus went to connaught; there his blood was shed: there with maev and ailill he a while would stay; men had made a story, he would learn the lay! there he went to cheer him, hearing converse fair: kine beside were promised; home he these would bear: so he went to croghan, 'twas a deadly quest, there he found his slaughter, death within the west: slain by jealous ailill, fergus low was laid: flidais' tale is ended: now comes cualgne's raid! [fn#92] pronounced maw moortemmy the driving of the cattle of flidais literal translation flidais was the wife of ailill finn (the fair-haired) in the district of kerry.[fn#93] she loved fergus the son of rog on account of the glorious tales about him; and always there went messengers from her to him at the end of each week. [fn#93] kerry is the district now called castlereagh, in the west of the present county of roscommon. so, when he came to connaught, he brought this matter before[fn#94] ailill: "what[fn#95] shall i do next in this matter?" said fergus: "it is hard for me to lay bare your land, without there being loss to thee of honour and renown therewith." "yes, what shall we do next in the matter?" said ailill; "we will consider this in counsel with maev." "let one of us go to ailill finn," (said maev), "that he may help us, and as this involves a meeting of some one with him, there is no reason why it should not be thyself who goest to him: the gift will be all the better for that!" [fn#94] i.e. ailill of connaught. [fn#95] this sentence to the end is taken from the egerton version, which seems the clearer; the book of leinster gives: "what shall i do next, that there be no loss of honour or renown to thee in the matter?" then fergus set out thereon, in number thirty men; the two ferguses (i.e. fergus mac rog, and fergus mac oen-lama) and dubhtach; till they were at the ford of fenna in the north of the land of kerry. they go to the burg, and welcome is brought to them.[fn#96] "what brings you here?" said ailill finn. "we had the intention of staying with you on a visit, for we have a quarrel with ailill the son of magach." [fn#96] the book of the dun cow (leabhar na h-uidhri) version begins at this point. "if it were one of thy people who had the quarrel, he should stay with me until he had made his peace. but thou shalt not stay," said ailill finn, "it has been told me that my wife loves thee!" "we must have a gift of cows then," said fergus, "for a great need lies on us, even the sustenance of the troop who have gone with me into exile." "thou shalt carry off no such present from me," he said, "because thou art not remaining with me on a visit. men will say that it is to keep my wife that i gave thee what thou hast required. i[fn#97] will give to your company one ox and some bacon to help them, if such is your pleasure." "i will eat not thy bread although offered (lit. however)," said fergus, "because i can get no present of honour from thee!" [fn#97] l.l. and egerton make the end of this speech part of the story: "there was given to them one ox with bacon, with as much as they wished of beer, as a feast for them." "out of my house with you all, then!" said ailill. "that shall be," said fergus; "we shall not begin to lay siege to thee and they betake themselves outside. "let a man come at once to fight me beside a ford at the gate of this castle!" said fergus. "that[fn#98] will not for the sake of my honour be refused," said ailill; "i will not hand it (the strife) over to another: i will go myself," said he. he went to a ford against him. "which of us," said fergus, "o dubhtach, shall encounter this man?" "i will go," said dubhtach; "i am younger and keener than thou art!" dubhtach went against ailill. dubhtach thrust a spear through ailill so that it went through his two thighs. he (ailill) hurled a javelin at dubhtach, so that he drove the spear right through him, (so that it came out) on the other side. [fn#98] the end of the speech is from l.l.: the l.u. text gives the whole speech thus: "for my honour's sake, i could not draw back in this matter." fergus threw his shield over dubhtach. the former (ailill) thrust his spear at the shield of fergus so that he even drove the shaft right through it. fergus mac oen-laimi comes by. fergus mac oen-laimi holds a shield in front of him (the other fergus). ailill struck his spear upon this so that it was forced right through it. he leaped so that he lay there on the top of his companions. flidais comes by from the castle, and throws her cloak over the three. fergus' people took to flight; ailill pursues them. there remain (slain) by him twenty men of them. seven of them escape to cruachan ai, and tell there the whole story to ailill and medb. then ailill and medb arise, and the nobles of connaught and the exiles from ulster: they march into the district of kerry ai with their troops as far as: the ford of fenna. meanwhile the wounded men were being cared for by flidais in the castle, and their healing was undertaken by her. then the troops come to the castle. ailill finn is summoned to ailill mac mata to come to a conference with him outside the castle. "i will not go," he said; "the pride and arrogance of that man there is great." it was,[fn#99] however, for a peaceful meeting that ailill mac mata had come to ailill the fair-haired, both that he might save fergus, as it was right he should, and that he might afterwards make peace with him (ailill fair haired), according to the will of the lords of connaught. [fn#99] this passage is sometimes considered to be an interpolation by a scribe or narrator whose sympathies were with connaught. the passage does not occur in the book of leinster, nor in the egerton ms. then the wounded men were brought out of the castle, on hand-barrows, that they might be cared for by their own people. then the men attack him (ailill finn): while they are storming the castle, and they could get no hold on him, a full week long went it thus with them. seven times twenty heroes from among the nobles of connaught fell during the time that they (endeavoured) to storm the castle of ailill the fair-haired. "it was with no good omen that with which you went to this castle," said bricriu. "true indeed is the word that is spoken," said ailill mac mata. "the expedition is bad for the honour of the ulstermen, in that their three heroes fall, and they take not vengeance for them. each one (of the three) was a pillar of war, yet not a single man has fallen at the hands of one of the three! truly these heroes are great to be under such wisps of straw as axe the men of this castle! most worthy is it of scorn that one man has wounded you three!" "o woe is me," said bricriu, "long is the length upon the ground of my papa fergus, since one man in single combat laid him low!" then the champions of ulster arise, naked as they were, and make a strong and obstinate attack in their rage and in the might of their violence, so that they forced in the outer gateway till it was in the midst of the castle, and the men of connaught go beside them. they storm the castle with great might against the valiant warriors who were there. a wild pitiless battle is fought between them, and each man begins to strike out against the other, and to destroy him. then, after they had wearied of wounding and overcoming one another, the people of the castle were overthrown, and the ulstermen slay seven hundred warriors there in the castle with ailill the fair-haired and thirty of his sons; and amalgaid the good;[fn#100] and nuado; and fiacho muinmethan (fiacho the broad-backed); and corpre cromm (the bent or crooked); and ailill from brefne; and the three oengus bodbgnai (the faces of danger); and the three eochaid of irross (i.e. irross donnan); and the seven breslene from ai; and the fifty domnall. [fn#100] "the good" is in the book of leinster and the egerton text, not in the leabhar na h-uidhri: the two later texts omit nuado. for the assembly of the gamanrad were with ailill, and each of the men of domnan who had bidden himself to come to him to aid him: they were in the same place assembled in his castle; for he knew that the exiles from ulster and ailill and medb with their army would come to him to demand the surrender of fergus, for fergus was under their protection. this was the third race of heroes in ireland, namely the clan gamanrad of irross donnan (the peninsula of donnan), and (the other two were) the clan dedad in temair lochra, and the clan rudraige in emain macha. but both the other clans were destroyed by the clan rudraige. but the men of ulster arise, and with them the people of medb and of ailill; and they laid waste the castle, and take flidais out of the castle with them, and carry off the women of the castle into captivity; and they take with them all the costly things and the treasures that were there, gold and silver, and horns, and drinking cups, and keys, and vats; and they take what there was of garments of every colour, and they take what there was of kine, even a hundred milch-cows, and a hundred and forty oxen, and thirty hundred of little cattle. and after these things had been done, flidais went to fergus mac rog according to the decree of ailill and medb, that they might thence have sustenance (lit. that their sustenance might be) on the occasion of the raid of the cows of cualgne. as[fn#101] a result of this, flidais was accustomed each seventh day from the produce of her cows to support the men of ireland, in order that during the raid she might provide them with the means of life. this then was the herd of flidais. [fn#101] l.l. and egerton give "for him used every seventh day," &c. in consequence[fn#102] of all this flidais went with fergus to his home, and he received the lordship of a part of ulster, even mag murthemni (the plain of murthemne), together with that which had been in the hands of cuchulain, the son of sualtam. so flidais died after some time at trag bã li (the shore of bali), and the state of fergus' household was none the better for that. for she used to supply all fergus' needs whatsoever they might be (lit. she used to provide for fergus every outfit that he desired for himself). fergus died after some time in the land of connaught, after the death of his wife, after he had gone there to obtain knowledge of a story. for, in order to cheer himself, and to fetch home a grant of cows from ailill and medb, he had gone westwards to cruachan, so that it was in consequence of this journey that he found his death in the west, through the jealousy of ailill. [fn#102] l.l. and egerton give "thereafter," adopted in verse translation. this, then, is the story of the tain bo flidais; it[fn#103] is among the preludes of the tain bo cualnge. [fn#103] this sentence does not occur in the leabhar na h-uidhri. it is given as in the egerton version: the book of leinster gives "it is among the preludes of the tain." the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain (tain bo regamna) introduction this tale is given by the same two manuscripts that give the tain bo dartada and the tain bo regamon; namely the yellow book of lecan, and egerton 1782. the text of both is given by windisch, irische texte, ii. pp. 239-254; he gives a translation of the version in the yellow book, with a few insertions from the egerton ms., where the version in y.b.l. is apparently corrupt: miss hull gives an english translation of windisch's rendering, in the cuchullin saga, pages 103 to 107. the prose version given here is a little closer to the irish than miss hull's, and differs very little from that of windisch. the song sung by the morrigan to cuchulain is given in the irish of both versions by windisch; he gives no rendering, as it is difficult and corrupt: i can make nothing of it, except that it is a jeering account of the war of cualgne. the title tain bo regamna is not connected with anything in the tale, as given; windisch conjectures "tain bo morrigna," the driving of the cow of the great queen (morrigan); as the woman is called at the end of the egerton version. the morrigan, one of the three goddesses of war, was the chief of them: they were morrigan, badb, and macha. she is also the wife of the dagda, the chief god of the pagan irish. the yellow book version calls her badb in this tale, but the account in the tain bo cualnge (leabhar na h-uidhri facsimile, pp. 74 and 77), where the prophecies are fulfilled, agrees with the egerton version in calling the woman of this tale the morrigan or the great queen. the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain (also called "tain bo regamna") from the yellow book of lecan (fourteenth century) at dun imrid lay cuchulain,[fn#104] and slept, when a cry rang out; and in fear he heard from the north-land come ringing that terrible shout: he fell, as he woke from his slumber, with the thud of a weight, to the ground, from his couch on that side of the castle that the rising sun first found. he left his arms in the castle, as the lawns round its walls he sought, but his wife, who followed behind him, apparel and arms to him brought: then he saw his harnessed chariot, and laeg,[fn#105] his charioteer, from ferta laig who drave it: from the north the car drew near: "what bringeth thee here?" said cuchulain: said laeg, "by a cry i was stirred, that across the plain came sounding." "and whence was the cry thou hast heard?" "from the north-west quarter it travelled, it crossed the great cayll[fn#106] cooen road!" "follow on, on that track," said cuchulain, "till we know what that clamour may bode!" [fn#104] pronounced cu-hoolin. [fn#105] pronounced layg. [fn#106] spelt caill cuan. at the ford of the double wonder, at ah[fn#107] fayrta, the car made stand for a chariot rattled toward them, from the clay-soiled coolgarry[fn#108] land and before them came that chariot; and strange was the sight they saw: for a one-legged chestnut charger was harnessed the car to draw; and right through the horse's body the pole of the car had passed, to a halter across his forehead was the pole with a wedge made fast: a red woman sat in the chariot, bright red were her eyebrows twain a crimson cloak was round her: the folds of it touched the plain: two poles were behind her chariot: between them her mantle flowed; and close by the side of that woman a mighty giant strode; on his back was a staff of hazel, two-forked, and the garb he wore was red, and a cow he goaded, that shambled on before. [fn#107] spelt ath ferta, or more fully ath da ferta, the ford of the two marvels. [fn#108] spelt culgaire. to that woman and man cried cuchulain, "ye who drive that cow do wrong, for against her will do ye drive her!" "not to thee doth that cow belong," said the woman; "no byre of thy comrades or thy friends hath that cow yet barred." "the kine of the land of ulster," said cuchulain, "are mine to guard!" "dost thou sit on the seat of judgment?" said the dame, "and a sage decree on this cow would'st thou give, cuchulain?--too great is that task for thee!" said the hero, "why speaketh this woman? hath the man with her never a word?" "'twas not him you addressed," was her answer, "when first your reproaches we heard." "nay, to him did i speak," said cuchulain, "though 'tis thou to reply who would'st claim!" 'ooer-gay-skyeo-loo-ehar-skyeo[fn#109] is the name that he bears," said the dame. [fn#109] spelt uar-gaeth-sceo-luachair-sceo "'tis a marvellous name!" said cuchulain, "if from thee all my answer must come, let it be as thou wishest; thy comrade, this man, as it seemeth, is dumb. tell me now of thine own name, o woman." "faebor-bayg-byeo-ill,"[fn#110] said the man. "coom-diewr-folt-skayv-garry-skyeo-ooa is her name, if pronounce it you can!" then cuchulain sprang at the chariot: "would ye make me a fool with your jest?" he cried, as he leapt at the woman; his feet on her shoulders he pressed, and he set on her head his spear-point: "now cease from thy sharp weapon-play!" cried the woman. cuchulain made answer: thy name to me truth fully say!" "then remove thyself from me!" she answered: i am skilled in satirical spells; the man is called darry i mac feena[fn#111]: in the country of cualgne[fn#112] he dwells; i of late made a marvellous poem; and as fee for the poem this cow do i drive to my home." "let its verses," said cuchulain," be sung to me now!" "then away from me stand!" said the woman: "though above me thou shakest thy spear, it will naught avail thee to move me." then he left her, but lingered near, between the poles of her chariot: the woman her song then sang; and the song was a song of insult. again at the car he sprang, but nothing he found before him: as soon as the car he had neared, the woman, the horse, and the chariot, the cow, and the man disappeared. [fn#110] spelt faebor-begbeoil-cuimdiuir-folt-seenb-gairit-sceo-uath. [fn#111] spelt daire mac fiachna: he is the owner of the dun of cualgne in the great tain. [fn#112] pronounced kell-ny. at a bird on a bough, as they vanished, a glance by cuchulain was cast, and he knew to that bird's black body the shape of the woman had passed: as a woman of danger i know you," he cried, "and as powerful in spell!" from to-day and for ever," she chanted, "this tale in yon clay-land shall dwell!" and her word was accomplished; that region to-day is the grella dolloo,[fn#113] the clay-land of evil: its name from the deeds of that woman it drew. [fn#113] spelt grellach dolluid. "had i known it was you," said cuchulain, "not thus had you passed from my sight!" and she sang, "for thy deed it is fated that evil shall soon be thy plight!" thou canst. do naught against me," he answered. "yea, evil in sooth can i send; of thy bringer of death i am guardian, shall guard it till cometh thine end: from the under-world country of croghan this cow have i driven, to breed by the dun bull of darry[fn#114] mae feena, the bull that in cualgne doth feed. so long as her calf be a yearling, for that time thy life shall endure; but, that then shall the raid have beginning, the dread raid of cualgne, be sure." [fn#114] spelt daire mac fiachna. "nay, clearer my fame shall be ringing," the hero replied," for the raid: all bards, who my deeds shall be singing, must tell of the stand that i made, each warrior in fight shall be stricken, who dares with my valour to strive: thou shalt see me, though battle-fields thicken, from the tain bo returning alive!" "how canst thou that strife be surviving?" the woman replied to his song, "for, when thou with a hero art striving, as fearful as thou, and as strong, who like thee in his wars is victorious, who all of thy feats can perform, as brave, and as great, and as glorious, as tireless as thou in a storm, then, in shape of an eel round thee coiling, thy feet at the ford i will bind, and thou, in such contest when toiling, a battle unequal shalt find." "by my god now i swear, by the token that ulstermen swear by," he cried; "on a green stone by me shall be broken that eel, to the ford if it glide: from woe it shall ne'er be escaping, till it loose me, and pass on its way!" and she said: "as a wolf myself shaping, i will spring on thee, eager to slay, i will tear thee; the flesh shall be rended from thy chest by the wolf's savage bite, till a strip be torn from thee, extended from the arm on thy left to thy right! with blows that my spear-shaft shall deal thee," he said, "i will force thee to fly till thou quit me; my skill shall not heal thee, though bursts from thy head either eye!" i will come then," she cried, "as a heifer, white-skinned, but with ears that are red, at what time thou in fight shalt endeavour the blood of a hero to shed, whose skill is full match for thy cunning; by the ford in a lake i will be, and a hundred white cows shall come running, with red ears, in like fashion to me: as the hooves of the cows on thee trample, thou shalt test 'truth of men in the fight': and the proof thou shalt have shall be ample, for from thee thy head they shall smite!" said cuchulain: "aside from thee springing, a stone for a cast will i take, and that stone at thee furiously slinging, thy right or thy left leg will break: till thou quit me, no help will i grant thee." morreegan,[fn#115] the great battle queen, with her cow to rath croghan departed, and no more by cuchulain was seen. for she went to her under-world country: cuchulain returned to his place. the tale of the great raid of cualgne this lay, as a prelude, may grace. [fn#115] spelt morrigan. the apparition of the great queen to cuchulain literal translation when cuchulain lay in his sleep at dun imrid, there he heard a cry from the north; it came straight towards him; the cry was dire, and most terrifying to him. and he awaked in the midst of his sleep, so that he fell, with the fall of a heavy load, out of his couch,[fn#116] to the ground on the eastern side of his house. he went out thereupon without his weapons, so that he was on the lawns before his house, but his wife brought out, as she followed behind him, his arms and his clothing. then he saw laeg in his harnessed chariot, coming from ferta laig, from the north; and "what brings thee here?" said cuchulain. "a cry," said laeg, "that i heard sounding over the plains. "on what side was it?" said cuchulain. "from the north-west it seemed," said laeg, "that is, across the great road of caill cuan."[fn#117] "let us follow after to know of it (lit. after it, to it for us)," said cuchulain. [fn#116] or "out of his room." the word is imda, sometimes rendered "bed," as here by windisch sometimes also "room," as in the bruidne da derga by whitley stokes. [fn#117] lough cuan was the old name for strangford lough. they went out thereupon till they came to ath da ferta. when they were there, straightway they heard the rattle of a chariot from the quarter of the loamy district of culgaire. then they saw the chariot come before them, and one chestnut (lit. red) horse in it. the horse was one footed, and the pole of the chariot passed through the body of the horse, till a wedge went through it, to make it fast on its forehead. a red[fn#118] woman was in the chariot, and a red mantle about her, she had two red eye-brows, and the mantle fell between the two ferta[fn#119] of her chariot behind till it struck upon the ground behind her. a great man was beside her chariot, a red[fn#120] cloak was upon him, and a forked staff of hazel at his back, he drove a cow in front of him. [fn#118] the above is the egerton text: the text of y.b.l. gives "a red woman there, with her two eyebrows red, and her cloak and her raiment: the cloak fell," &c. [fn#119] it is not known certainly what the ferta were: windisch translates "wheels," but does not give this meaning in his dictionary: the ferta were behind the car, and could be removed to sound the depth of a ford. it is suggested that they were poles, projecting behind to balance the chariot; and perhaps could be adjusted so as to project less or farther. [fn#120] this is the egerton text; the y.b.l. text gives "a tunic forptha on him the meaning of forptha is unknown. "that cow is not joyful at being driven by you!" said cuchulain. "the cow does not belong to you," said the woman, "she is not the cow of any friend or acquaintance of yours." "the cows of ulster," said cuchulain, "are my proper (care)." "dost thou give a decision about the cow?" said the woman; "the task is too great to which thy hand is set, o cuchulain." "why is it the woman who answers me?" said cuchulain, "why was it not the man?" "it was not the man whom you addressed," said the woman. "ay," said cuchulain, "(i did address him), though thyself hath answered for him:" "h-uar-gaeth-sceo-luachair-sceo[fn#121] is his name," said she. [fn#121] cold-wind-and-much-rushes. "alas! his name is a wondrous one," said cuchulain. "let it be thyself who answers,[fn#122] since the man answers not. what is thine own name?" said cuchulain. "the woman to whom thou speakest," said the man, "is faebor-begbeoil-cuimdiuir-folt-scenbgairit-sceo-uath."[fn#123] "do ye make a fool of me?" cried cuchulain, and on that cuchulain sprang into her chariot: he set his two feet on her two shoulders thereupon, and his spear on the top of her head. "play not sharp weapons on me!" "name thyself then by thy true name!" said cuchulain. "depart then from me!" said she: "i am a female satirist in truth," she said, "and he is daire mac fiachna from cualnge: i have brought the cow as fee for a master-poem." "let me hear the poem then," said cuchulain. "only remove thyself from me," said the woman; "it is none[fn#124] the better for thee that thou shakest it over my head." thereon he left her until he was between the two poles (ferta) of her chariot, and she sang to him[fn#125] . . . . . . cuchulain threw a spring at her chariot, and he saw not the horse, nor the woman, nor the chariot, nor the man, nor the cow. [fn#122] y.b.l. corrupt; egerton version adopted here. [fn#123] little-mouthed-edge-equally-small-hair-short-splinter-much-clamour. [fn#124] not is it better for thee that" is in egerton alone. [fn#125] see the introduction for the omission of the poem. then he saw that she had become a black bird upon a branch near to him. "a dangerous[fn#126] (or magical) woman thou art," said cuchulain: "henceforward," said the woman, "this clay-land shall be called dolluid (of evil,)" and it has been the grellach dolluid ever since. "if only i had known it was you," said cuchulain, "not thus should we have separated." "what thou hast done," said she, "shall be evil to thee from it." "thou hast no power against me," said cuchulain. "i have power indeed," said the woman; "it is at the guarding of thy death that i am; and i shall be," said she. "i brought this cow out of the fairy-mound of cruachan, that she might breed by the black bull[fn#127] of cualnge, that is the bull of daire mae fiachna. it is up to that time that thou art in life, so long as the calf which is in this cow's body is a yearling; and it is this that shall lead to the tain bo cualnge." "i shall myself be all the more glorious for that tain," said cuchulain: "i shall slay their warriors: i shall break their great hosts: i shall be survivor of the tain." [fn#126] windisch is doubtful about the meaning of this word. he gives it as "dangerous" in his translation; it may also mean "magical," though he thinks not. in a note he says that the meaning "dangerous" is not certain. [fn#127] in egerton "the dun of cualnge." "in what way canst thou do this?" said the woman, "for when thou art in combat against a man of equal strength (to thee), equally rich in victories, thine equal in feats, equally fierce, equally untiring, equally noble, equally brave, equally great with thee, i will be an eel, and i will draw a noose about thy feet in the ford, so that it will be a great unequal war for thee." "i swear to the god that the ulstermen swear by," said cuchulain, "i will break thee against a green stone of the ford; and thou shalt have no healing from me, if thou leavest me not." "i will in truth be a grey wolf against thee," said she, "and i will strip a stripe[fn#128] from thee, from thy right (hand) till it extends to thy left." [fn#128] this word is left doubtful in windisch's translation. the word is breth in y.b.l. and breit in egerton. breit may be a strip of woollen material, or a strip of land; so the meaning of a strip of flesh seems possible. "i will beat thee from me," said he, "with the spear, till thy left or thy right eye bursts from thy head, and thou shalt never have healing from me, if thou leavest me not." "i shall in truth," she said, "be for thee as a white heifer with red ears, and i will go into a lake near to the ford in which thou art in combat against a man who is thine equal in feats, and one hundred white, red-eared cows shall be behind me and 'truth of men' shall on that day be tested; and they shall take thy head from thee." "i will cast at thee with a cast of my sling," said cuchulain, "so as to break either thy left or thy right leg from under thee; and thou shalt have no help from me if thou leavest me not." they[fn#129] separated, and cuchulain went back again to dun imrid, and the morrigan with her cow to the fairy mound of cruachan; so that this tale is a prelude to the tain bo cualnge. [fn#129] all this sentence up to "so that this tale" is from the egerton version. the yellow book of lecan gives "the badb thereon went from him, and cuchulain went to his own house, so that," &c. text of leabhar na h-uidhri giving the conclusion of the "courtship of etain" introduction the following pages give, with an interlinear word for word[fn#130] translation, the text of leabhar na h-uidhri, page 130 b. line 19 to the end of page 132 a. of the facsimile. the text corresponds to the end of the tale of the court ship of etain in vol. i., from page 27, line 21, to the end of the story; it also contains the poem which is in that volume placed on page 26, but occurs in the manuscript at the place where the first line of it is quoted on page 30 of vol. i. [fn#130] the irish idiom of putting the adjective after the noun is not always followed in the translation. it is hoped that the text may be found to be convenient by scholars: special care has been taken to make it accurate, and it has not, with the exception of the poem just referred to, been published before except in the facsimile; the remainder of the text of the l.u. version of the courtship of etain, together with the poem, has been given by windisch in the first volume of the irische texte. the immediate object of the publication of this text, with its interlinear translation, is however somewhat different; it was desired to give any who may have become interested in the subject, from the romances contained in the two volumes of this collection, some idea of their exact form in the original, and of the irish constructions and metres, as no irish scholarship is needed to follow the text, when supplemented by the interlinear translation. the translation may be relied on, except for a few words indicated by a mark of interrogation. the passage is especially well suited to give an idea of the style of irish composition, as it contains all the three forms used in the romances, rhetoric, regular verse, and prose: the prose also is varied in character, for it includes narrative, rapid dialogue, an antiquarian insertion, and two descriptive passages. the piece of antiquarian information and the resume of the old legend immediately preceding the second rhetoric can be seen to be of a different character to the flowing form of the narrative proper; the inserted passage being full of explanatory words, conid, issairi, is aice, &c., and containing no imagery. the two descriptions, though short, are good examples of two styles of description which occur in some other romances; neither of these styles is universal, nor are they the only styles; the favour shown to one or the other in a romance may be regarded as a characteristic of its author. the first style, exemplified by the description of mider's appearance, consists of a succession of images presented in short sentences, sometimes, as in this case, with no verb, sometimes with the verb batar or a similar verb repeated in each sentence, but in all cases giving a brilliant word-picture, absolutely clear and definite, of what it is intended to convey. the second style, exemplified here by the description of the horses that mider offers to eochaid, consists of a series of epithets or of substantives, and is often imitated in modern irish. these passages are usually difficult to translate, as many words appear to be coined for the purpose of the descriptions; but, in the best writings, the epithets are by no means arbitrary; they are placed so as to contrast sharply with each other, and in many cases suggest brilliant metaphors; the style being in this respect more like latin than english. absolutely literal translations quite fail to bring out the effect of such passages; for not only is the string of adjectives a distinctively irish feature, but both in english and in greek such metaphors are generally expressed more definitely and by short sentences. there is also a third style of description which does not appear in the prose of any of the romances in this collection, but appears often in other romances, as in the bruidne da derga, bricriu's feast, and the great tain; it resembles the first style, but the sentences are longer, yet it does not give clear descriptions, only leaving a vague impression. this style is often used for descriptions of the supernatural; it may be regarded as actual reproductions of the oldest pre-christian work, but it is also possible that it is the result of legends, dimly known to the authors of the tales, and represented by them in the half-understood way in which they were apprehended by them: the druidic forms may have been much more clear. such passages are those which describe cuchulain's distortions; the only passage of the character in this collection is in the verse of the sick-bed, vol. i. page 77. five of the romances in the present collection have no descriptive passages in the prose; the combat at the ford and the tain bo fraich show examples of both the first and the second form, but more often the first; the tain bo regamna, though a very short piece, also shows one example of each; for the description of the goblins met by cuchulain is quite clear, and cannot be regarded as belonging to the third form. there is also one case of the second form in the tain bo dartada, and two other cases of the first in the court ship of etain-one in the egerton, one in the leabhar na h-uidhri version. the best example of the first style is in the egerton version of etain (vol. i. page 12); the best example of the second is the description of cuchulain's horses (vol. i. page 128); a still better example of contrasts in such a description is in the courtship of ferb (nutt, page 23). the piece of regular verse contained in the extract should give a fair idea of the style of this form of composition. description is common in the verse, and it is in this case a prominent feature. it may be noted that lines 8, 16, 23, 26 will not scan unless the present diphthongs are divided, also that the poem has fewer internal rhymes than is usual in this regular verse. the two passages in rhetoric, for so i take them to be, are good examples of the style. an attempt has been made to divide them into lines, but this division is open to criticism, especially as some lines in one of the two passages cannot be translated, and the translation of some other lines is doubtful: the division suggested does, however, appear to me to give a rough metre and occasional rhymes. it is possible that, if attention is called to those lines which are at present untranslatable, something may be done for them. the verse translations given in vol. i. pages 27 and 29, give the meaning that i take the irish to bear where i can get any meaning at all. as to the text, the usual abbreviation for n has in general not been italicized, nor has that for fri; all other abbreviations, including acht, final n in the symbol for con, and that for or in the recognized symbol for for, have been italicized. in the rhetorics, owing to their difficulty, the abbreviation for n has been italicized throughout; the symbol for ocus is not italicised. a few conjectures have been inserted, the text being given as a foot-note; a conjectured letter supposed to be missing has been inserted in brackets, and a restoration by professor strachan of a few letters where the ms. is torn are similarly placed in brackets. the rest of the text is carefully copied from the facsimile, including the glosses, which are inserted above the words in the same places that they occupy in the manuscript. text with interlinear translation fecht n-aile asraracht eochaid airem ri temrach la n-alaind another time arose eochaid airem. king of tara on a beautiful day i n-amsir samrata frisocaib[fn#131] for sosta na temrach do imcaisiu maigi breg, in time of summer, mounted on heights of tara for viewing of plain of breg, [fn#131] a conjecture: ms. fosrocaib= fo-s-ro-od-gaib, an unknown compound. boi fo a li ocus fo bluth cach datha. am-imracacha inti was good its colour, and good blossom of every hue. when looked about the aforesaid eochaid imbi, co acca inn oclaech n-ingnad for sin sossad[fn#132] inna eoebaid around him, he saw the young warrior unknown on the height beside [fn#132] a conjecture: ms. tossad. chomairi. fuan corcair imbi, ocus mong or-budi fair co brainni him. tunic purple about him, and hair gold-yellow on him to edges a da imdae. rosc cainlech glas ina chind. sleg coicrind ina laim. of his two shoulders. eye lustrous gray in his head. spear five-pointed in his hand. sciath taulgel ina laim con gemaib oir forri. sochtais eochaid, ar ni shield white-bossed in his hand with gems of gold on it. was silent eochaid, for not fitir a bith isin temraig inn aidehi riam, ocus ni orslaiethe ind lis he knew of his being in the tara the night before, and not was opened the liss in trath sin. tolluid ar inchaib eochoda iarsain asbert eochaid iarom, at that hour. he came under protection of eochaid thereon; said eochaid then, fochen dond laech nad athgenmar. is ed doroehtmar or in welcome to the hero whom we know not. it is for that we have come, said the t-oclaech. ni tathgenmar or eochaid. atotgensa chetus ol in (young) warrior. we know thee not, said eochaid. i know thee indeed, said the t-oclaech. cia th'ainm seo? ol eochaid. ni airdairc son, ol se, warrior. what (is) thy own name? said eochaid. not illustrious that, said he, mider breg leith. cid dotroacht ol eochaid. do imbert fidcille mider of bri leith. what brought thee? said eochaid. to play at chess frit-su ol se. am maith se em, ol eochaid for fithchill. a fromad with thee, said he. i am good myself truly, said eochaid, at chess-play. its essaying dun ol mider. ata ol eochaid, ind rigan ina cotlud, is le in tech to us! said mider. is, said eochaid, the queen in her sleep, it is hers the house ata ind fithchell. ata sund chenae, ol mider, fidchell nad where is the chessboard. there is here yet, said mider, a chessboard which is not messo. ba fir on, clar n-argit ocus fir oir, ocus fursunnud cacha worse. was true that, a board of silver and men of gold, and shining in every hairidi for sin clar di liic logmair, ocus fer-bolg di figi rond credumae. direction on that board of costly stones, and a men-bag of woven chains of brass. ecraid mider in fidchill iarsin. imbir ol mider. ni immer acht set out mider the chessboard thereupon. play! said mider. not will i play, except di giull ol eochaid. cid gell bias and? ol mider. cumma lim ol for a stake, said eochaid. what stake shall be here? said mider. equal to me, said eochaid. rot-bia lim-sa ol mider mad tu beras mo thochell, eochaid. thou shalt have from me, said mider, if thou carry off my stake, l. gabur n-dub-glas ite cend-brecca, croderga, biruich, 50 horses of dark-gray, and they with dappled heads, blood-red, with ears pricked high, bruin-lethain, bolg(s)roin, coss choela, comrassa, faeborda,[fn#133] femendae,[fn#133] chests broad, nostrils distended, feet thin, strong, keen, ? vehement, aurarda, aignecha, so-(a)staidi,[fn#133] so very high, spirited, easily stopped, [fn#133] see bruidne da derga (stokes), 50, 51, faeborda, lit. with an edge on them; femendae? = lat. vehemens; soaistidi is the form adopted by stokes in his edition of the bruidne; egerton ms. gives soastaide. there is a gap here, a complete column being torn from the manuscript. the lost part obviously describes the issue of the chess game or games, and the penalties demanded by bochaid: what these penalties were is plain from the succeeding story. the work of mider and his folk in paying these penalties must also have been described: the next column (leabhar na huidhri, 131 b. of the facsimile) opens thus: iarsin doberar uir ocus grian ocus clocha for sin monai. fri etna thereupon is, placed earth and gravel and stones on the bog. over foreheads dam dano-batar fedmand la firu h-erind cosind n-aidchi sin, co of oxen then were yokes among men of ireland till that very night, when n-aicces la lucht in t-side for a formnaib. dognith it was seen (tblat they were) among people of the mounds on their shoulders. it was done samlaid la eochaid, conid de ata do som. echaid airem, ar so by eochaid, so that hence is to himself (the name of) echaid airem, for is aice toisech tucad cuing for muinelaib dam do ferand h-erind. is it is by him first was put yoke on necks of oxen for land of ireland. this ed dino and food ro boi im belaib in t-sluaig oc denam in tocuir: is then there word which was on lips of the host at making of the causeway: rhetoric-cuire illaim, put into hand tochra illaim, place (it) into hand aurdairc damrad trathaib iar fuin noble (are) oxen for hours after sunset for trom ailges very heavy request ni fes cuich les it is not known to whom (is) gain cuich amles de thochur dar moin lamraige. to whom harm from the causeway over moor of lamrach. ni biad isin bith tochur bad ferr mani bethe oca there would not be in the world a causeway which is better, if not (men) had been at n-descin forracbad de bochtae and iartain. iarsin dolluid the seeing them. was left on that account a breach there thenceforth. thereupon came in rechtaire co echaid ocus adfet scela in mor fedma, atconnaire the steward to echaid, and made known tales of the great serving band, that he saw fiadai, ocus asbert nad rabi for fertas in betha cumachta before him, and said that there was not on the chariot pole of life a power dodrosce de. am batar for a m-briathraib co n-accatar mider that excelled it. when they were at their talking they saw mider (come) chucu. ard chustal ocus droch gne fair. atrigestar eochaid, to them. high ? girt (he was), and evil face (was) on him.? rose ?[fn#134] eochaid, [fn#134] this is a possible rendering, taking the word as a deponent form of atregaim. it would be more natural to take the word as from adagur; being equivalent to ad-d-raigestar, and to mean "feared him," but this does not agree with eoebaid's general attitude. ocus ferais faelti fri. is ed dorochtmar ol mider. is toreda ocus is and gave welcome to him. it is for that we have come, said mider. it is cruel and is di-cheill no tai frim, mor decrai ocus mor aingcessa do thabairt form senseless thou art to me, great hardship and great suffering thy bestowing on me adethaind ni bad maith lat chena acht is bairnech mo menma frit. i used to get what seemed good to thee still but is angry my mind against thee. ni bara fri bure dait-siu on do-gignestar do menma for eochaid. not anger against anger: to thyself the thing that shall choose thy mind, said eochaid. gebthar dano, ol mider. inn imberam fidchill? for mider. cid gell it shall be done then, said mider. shall we play at chess? said mider. what stake bias and? for eochaid. gell adcobra cechtar da lina for shall be there? said eochaid. the stake that wishes each of the two parties, said mider. berar tochell n-echdach alla sin. rucais mo mider. is carried off stake of echaid in that very place. thou hast carried off my thocell, for eebaid. mad ail dam no-beraind o chianaib, stake, said echaid. if wish to me (had been) i could have carried it off long since, for mider. cacht cid adcobrai form-sa? for echaid. di laim im said mider. question what wishest thou from myself? said echaid. two arms about etain, ocus poc di ol mider. sochtais echaid la, sodain, ocus asbert, etain, and a kiss from her, said mider. was silent echaid thereon, and said, tis dia mis on diu, doberthar dait ani sin. in thou shalt come in a month from to-day, (and) shall be given to thee that very thing. the bliadain ria tuidecht do mider co echaid do imbert na fidehille boi oc year before the coming of mider to echaid for playing of the chess was he at tochmarc etaine, ocus nis n-etad leis. is ed ainm dobered mider wooing of etain, and nothing was found by him. this is the name used to give mider di: befind conide asbert: to her: fair-haired lady, so that thence he said: a be find in raga lim o fair-haired lady, wilt thou come with me i tir n-ingnad hi fil rind into a land marvellous, that is music? is barr sobarche folt and (thus) is the top of the head, of primrose the hair there, is dath snechta corp co ind: is colour of snow the body to the head: is and nad bi mui na tai, it is there not will be 'mine' or 'thine,' gela det and, dubai brai, white teeth there, black eyebrows, is li sula lin ar sluag,[fn#135] is colour of eyes number of our hosts, [fn#135] a conjecture by windisch. text gives sluaig the genitive singular, which does not rhyme. [fn#136]no is brece is dath sion and cech gruad: or is many-coloured is hue of foxglove there each cheek: [fn#136] the three glosses are interesting. it may be noted that the last two certainly follow the word (above the line in which it occurs) that they seem to gloss: it is therefore probable that the first does so too; the two lines of a couplet are on the same line in the manuscript. it {footnote p. 156} seems then possible that the gloss "it is many-coloured" refers, not to the foxglove, but to the preceding line, "the colour of eyes is number of our hosts," and that the writer of this gloss gave the same meaning to the rather hard description of the colour of the eyes as is given in the verse translation (vol. i. p. 26), i.e. that the eyes had changing lights and shapes. we must hope, for the credit of his taste, that he did not think of the cheeks as many-coloured or freckled, but his gloss of lossa does not seem happy. the meaning "growth" is taken from o'reilly's dictionary. no lossa is corcair maige cach muin,[fn#137] or growth? is purple of a plain each neck, [fn#137] a conjecture (str.), main, treasure, is in the text: this does not rhyme, nor give good sense; note, however, that muin has no accent-the text gives one. no is dath is li sula ugai luin: or is hue is colour of eyes (that of) eggs of a blackbird: cid cain deicsiu maigi fail though pleasant (is) seeing plains of fal (isle of destiny) annam iar gnais maige mair. a wilderness[fn#138] after knowledge of the great plain. [fn#138] this meaning for annam is doubtful; the sense of "seldom" is established for the word; the line possibly means "it will seldom be so after," &c. cid mesc lib coirm inse fail, though intoxicating to you (is) ale of the island fal, is mescu coirm tire mair, is more intoxicating the ale of the country great, amra tire tir asbiur, a wonder of a land the land i mention, ni theit oac and re siun. not goes a young man there before an old man. srotha teith millsi tar tir, streams warm (and) sweet through the land, rogu de mid ocus fin, choice of mead and wine, doini delgnaidi, cen on, men ? handsome, without blemish, combart cen pecead, cen col. conception without sin without crime. atchiam cach for each leth, we see all on every side, ocus ni-conn acci nech; and yet not sees us anyone temel imorbais adaim the cloud of the sin of adam do-don-archeil[fn#139] ar araim encompasses us from reckoning [fn#139] from tairchellaim. a ben dia ris mo thuaith tind, o woman, if thou wilt come to my people strong, is barr oir bias fort chind, it is top of head of gold shall be on thy head, inue ur, laith, lemnacht la lind pork unsalted, ale, new milk for drink rot bia lim and, a be find, a be find. shall be to thee with me there, o woman fair-haired. [a gap, 9 letters lost] i atumchotaise om aithech tige rag-sa, [a gap, thou obtainest me from my master of the house i will go, [9 letters lost] fetai, ni rag. is iarsin dolluid mider (l.u. 130 a.) co canst, not will i go. it is thereon came mider to echaid, ocus damair a thochell fochetoir co m-beth fã´lo acai echaid, and yields his stake immediately that may be (cause) of reproach for him do echaid, is airi roic na comada mora, ocus issairi is to echaid, it is therefore he paid the great stakes, and on that account it is (that) fo anfis con atig a gell. conid iarsin giull adrubrad in tan tra under ignorance that he asked his wager. so that after that wager it was said when now ro boi mider cona muinter oc ic comad na aidehi, i. in tochor, ocus was mider and his folk at paying the stake of the night, that is, the causeway, and di-chlochad midi, ocus luachair tetbai, ocus fid dar breg: isse[fn#140] seo clearing stones off meath, and rushes of tethba and forest over breg: it is he this [fn#140] grammar not clear: perhaps the irish is corrupt (str.). an no foclad boi oca muinter amal atbert lebor drom snechta: what used to say was with his folk as says book of drom-snechta: rhetoric-cuirthe illand: put on the field: tochre illand: put close on the field airderg dararad: very red oxen: trom in choibden: heavy the troop clunithar fir ferdi. which hears ?really-manly buidni balc-thruim crand-chuir troops for strong heavy setting of trees forderg saire fedar of very red ?oaks[fn#141] are led [fn#141] reading daire for saire. sechuib slimprib snithib past them on twisted wattles: scitha lama: weary are hands, ind rosc cloina: the eye ?slants aside? fobith oen mna because of one woman duib in digail: to you the revenge, duib in trom-daim:[fn#142] to you the heavy ?oxen [fn#142] a conjecture. ms. gives trom-daim. tairthim flatho fer ban: splendour of sovereignty over white men: fomnis, fomnis, in fer m-braine cerpae fomnis diad derg㦠? ? ? fer arfeid solaig ? fri aiss esslind ? fer bron for-ti ? sorrow shall, come on the man? i. more ertechta inde ? lamnado luachair rushes for di thethbi over?two tethbas di-chlochad[fn#143] midi clearing stones from meath [fn#143] a conjecture. ms. gives dilecad (str.) indracht ? coich les, coich amles to whom the benefit, to whom the harm thocur dar clochach? moin.[fn#144] causeway over stony moor. [fn#144] the last line in the ms. is t d c m. dalis mider dia mis fochiallastar (i. rotinoil). echaid formna mider appointed a meeting for the end of a month. echaid assembled (i.e. collected)troops. laech la-erend com batar hi temrach, ocus an ro po dech do fiannaib of heroes of ireland so that they were in tara, and what was best of champions h-erind, cach cuaird imm araile im temrach immedon ocus a nechtair, of ireland, each ring about another, around tara im the middle, and outside it ocus is-tig. ocus in ri ocus in rigan immedon in taigi, ocus ind lis and within. and the king and the queen in the middle of the house, and its liss iatai fo glassaib, ar ro fetatar do t-icfad fer in mar cumacht. etain shut under locks, for they knew that would comie of insen the great might. etain boi ocon dail ind aidehi sin forsna flathi, ar ba sain dana disi dal. was dispensing that night to the princes, for it was meet then for her pouring (of the wine) am batar iarom fora. m-briathraib, co accatar mider chucu for when they were thereon at their talking they saw mider (come) to them on lar ind rigthige. ba cain som dogres ba caini dana inn aidehi sin. the floor of the royal palace. he was fair always, was fairer then on that night. tosbert im mod na slã»ag ateonnairc. sochsit uli iarom ocus he brought to amazement the hosts that he saw.[fn#145] were silent all thereon, and [fn#145] reading atcondairc (str.). ferais in ri faelti fris. is ed dorochtmar ol mider. an ro gella the king gave welcome to him. it is this we have come for, said mider. what was promised dam-sa or se, tucthar dam. is fiach ma gelltar, an ro gellad to myself, said he, let it be given to me. it is a debt if a promise is given, tucus dait-siu. ni imrordusa for echaid, ani sin co se. i have given to thee. not have i thought on, said echaid, that very thing up to now. atrugell etain fein dam-sa, ol mider, ticht uait-siu. thou hast promised etain herself to me, said mider, message (lit. a coming) from you. imdergthar im etain la, sodain. na imdergthar imut for mider, ni there was a blush on etain thereupon. let there be no blush on thee, said mider, not droch banas duit-siu. atu-sa, ol si, bliadain oc do chuingid com evil marriage-feast to thee. i am myself, said he, a year at seeking thee with mainib ocus setaib at aildem in ere, ocus ni tucus-sa treasures and jewels that are the most beautiful in ireland and not i took thee comad chomarlecud do echaid. ni -la-deoas damsa ce till there should be permission of echaid. not by good-will to me any dotchotaind. atrubart-sa frit-su ol si, conom rire echaid, getting thee. i myself said to thyself, said she, until echaid gives me up nit rius. atometha lat ar mo chuit fein, dia nom rire echaid. not will i come to thee. take me with thee for my own part, if me echaid will give up. nit ririub immorro, for echaid, acht tabrad a di laim not thee will i give up however, said echaid, but (i give) a placing of his two hands imut for lar in tige, amal ro gabais. dogentar for mider. about thee on floor of the house, as thou art. it shall be done! said mider. i. mider atetha a gaisced ina laim cli, ocus gabais in mnai fo a leth-oxail dess, that is, mider he took his weapons in his hand left, and took the woman under his shoulder right, ocus focois-le for forles in tige. conerget in-t-sluaig imon rig and carried her off over skylight of the house. pose up the hosts, about the king iar melacht forro, co n-accatar in da ela timchell na temra. is ed after a disgrace on them, they saw the two swans around tara. it is this, ro gabsat do sid ar femun. ocus luid echaid co fomno they took (the road) to elfmound about about femun. and went echaid with a troop fer n-erend imbi do sith ar femun i. sid ban-find. of men of ireland about him to elf mound about femun i.e. elfmound of the fair-haired women. b (a si com)[fn#146] arli fer n-erend, fochlaid each sid [a gap, 12 letters lost] that was the counsel of the men of ireland, he dug up each elf-mound. [fn#146] the letters in parentheses are a conjecture by strachan, to fill up a gap in the manuscript. tised a ben. do uadib, foce [a gap of 13 letters, rest of the version lost.] should come his wife to him from them. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the heroine by eaton stannard barrett with an introduction by walter raleigh london henry frowde 1909 oxford: horace hart printer to the university introduction 'in glamorganshire, of a rapid decline, occasioned by the bursting of a blood-vessel, eaton stannard barrett, esq., a native of ireland, and a student of the middle temple. he published "all the talents", a poem, 8vo. 1817.--"the comet", a mock newspaper, 8vo. 1803.--a very pleasing poem intituled "woman", 8vo. 1810.--"the heroine, or adventures of cherubina", 3 vols. 12mo, 2d. edit. 1814. this volume is said to abound in wit and humour.' very little can now be added to this obituary notice, which appeared in the __ for april, 1820. the young irishman whose death it records was born at cork in 1786, received his education chiefly in london, addicted himself to the law, and was early diverted into the profession of letters, which he practised with great energy and versatility. besides the works mentioned above, he wrote a serio-comic romance called _the rising sun_, and a farcical comedy, full of noise and bustle, called _my wife, what wife?_ the choice of this last phrase (sacred, if any words in poetry are sacred) for the title of a rollicking farce indicates a certain bluntness of sensibility in the author. he was young, and fell head over ears in love with cleverness; he was a law-student, and took to political satire as a duck takes to the rain; he was an irishman, and found himself the master of a happy irish wit, clean, quick, and dainty, but no ways searching or profound. at the back of all his satire there lies a simple social creed, which he accepts from the middle-class code of his own time, and does not question. the two of his works which achieved something like fame, _woman, a poem_, and _the heroine_, here reprinted, set forth that creed, describing the ideal heroine in verse, and warning her, in prose, against the extravagances that so easily beset her. the mode in female character has somewhat changed since george was king, and the pensive coyness set up as a model in the poem seems to a modern reader almost as affected as the vagaries described in the novel. yet the poem has all the interest and brilliancy of an old fashion-plate. here is woman as she wished to be in the days of the regency, or perhaps as man wished her to be, for it is impossible to say which began it. both gloried in the contrast of their habits. if man, in that age of the prize-ring and the press-gang, was pre-eminently a drinking, swearing, fighting animal, his indelicacy was redeemed by the shrinking graces of his mate. for woman is not undevelopt man, but diverse: as the poet of the later nineteenth century sings. but tennyson was anticipated in this discovery by mr. barrett: yes, heaven a contrast not unmeet, designed between the bearded and the blushing kind. those who often see the bearded kind clad in overcoats, carrying umbrellas, and timorous of social greetings, may have some difficulty in recognizing the essential truth of the following lines, which describe man in his grandeur, as his blushing consort loves to think of him: man, from those moments, when his infant age cried for the moon, ambitious aims engage, one world subdued, more worlds he wishes given, he piles his impious tower to clamber heaven; scoops cities under earth; erects his home on mountains of wild surges, vales of foam; soars air, and high above the thunder runs, now flaked with sleet, now reddened under suns. even in his pastime man his soul reveals; raised with carousing shout, his goblet reels. now from his chase imperial lions fly, and now he stakes a princedom on a die. what would he more? the consecrated game of murder must transmit his epic name, some empire tempts him; at his stern command, an armed cloud hails iron o'er the land. earth thunders underneath the pondrous tread, son slaughters sire, the dying stab the dead. the vallies roar, that loved a warbling mood, their mutilated lilies float on blood; and corpses sicken streams, and towns expire, and colour the nocturnal clouds with fire. last, vultures pounce upon the finished strife, and dabble in the plash of human life. such is man, all magnificence and terror. and now a softly trilling note ushers in the partner of his cares: but the meek female far from war removes, girt with the graces and endearing loves. to rear the life we destine to destroy, to bind the wound we plant, is her employ. her rapine is to press from healing bud, or healthful herb, the vegetable blood; her answer, at the martial blast abhorred, harmonic noise along the warbling chord. to her belong light roundelay and reel, to her the crackling hearth and humming wheel; (sounds of content!) to her the milky kine, and peace, o woman, gentle peace is thine. their studies are as dissimilar as their tastes. nothing less than a comet will excite the curiosity of man; for woman the flower-garden is science enough: prone o'er abstruse research, let man expound dark causes; what abyss our planet drowned; and where the fiery star its hundred years of absence travels, ere it re-appears. to woman, whose best books are human hearts, wise heaven a genius less profound imparts. his awful, her's is lovely; his should tell how thunderbolts, and her's how roses fell. here is the genesis of the early victorian ideal of female beauty. the author describes, with heart-felt sentiment, its graces and charms, the beautiful rebuke that looks surprise, the gentle vengeance of averted eyes; --which last line so pleased him that it occurs again in _the farewell_ (letter xxv of _the heroine_). the shorter poem, like the longer, has the indescribable old-world charm of a pressed rose-leaf, an elegant tarnished mirror, a faded silken fan, a vanished mode. the secret of this sentimental type of beauty perhaps lies here, that the simplicity and shyness and ardour of youth are reduced, not by a conscious science, but by the timid rules of propriety and modesty, to the service of an all-prevailing coquetry. ovid, as expounded by mrs. chapone or miss hannah more, gains something in the delicacy of his methods, and loses nothing of his empire: ut quondam iuvenes, ita nunc, mea turba, puellae inscribant spoliis: naso magister erat. it must be said, however, that the author of _woman, a poem_ does not confine himself to the alluring graces. his best known and most quoted lines are written in praise of courage and fidelity: not she denied her god with recreant tongue, not she with traitrous kisses round him clung; she, while apostles shrank, could danger brave, last at his cross and earliest at his grave. if he were to survive in a single quotation, it is probably by these lines that the author, who spent much labour on the revision and polishing of his poem, would wish to be remembered. it may seem strange that the author of this romantic poem on woman should have been so ready to parody the new school of prose romance. miss cherry wilkinson, when she took the name of cherubina, and commenced heroine, might certainly have found some useful hints for her behaviour in this earlier treatise. but the fact is that no parodist is successful who has not at some time fallen deeply under the spell of the literature that he parodies. parody is, for the most part, a weak and clinging kind of tribute to the force of its original. very perfect parodies, which catch the soul, as well as the form, of the models that they imitate, almost lose their identity and become a part of that which they were meant to ridicule. feeble parodies, where poor matter, not strong enough to speak for itself, claims notice by the aid of a notorious tune, are even more conspicuously dependent on the vogue of their original. the art of a tailor is seen in the cut of a coat; to make a mechanical copy of it, substituting tartan or fustian for velvet, is what any chinese slave can do. it is form in literature which is difficult to invent. when a poem or a story, by the individuality and novelty of its form, has caught the public taste, there are always some among its victims who are nothing if not critical. they cannot forget it, yet it does not content them. they think it narrow and partial in its conception; it does not mirror nature exactly as they see her; in short, they have ideas of their own. these ideas perhaps have not vitality enough to create their own definite form, so when a form is presented to them they seize on it for their purpose. hence every new and original kind in literature produces a tribe of imitators, some of them contented imitators, who undersell the first author with colourable copies; others discontented imitators, or parodists, who offer their own substitute for the author's wares, yet stamp it with his brand. the compliment is the same in either case; and the effect is not much different, for nothing so quickly exhausts the popularity of a work of art as its power of multiplying its kind. some congenital weakness, it is fair to say, there must have been in the original, when the form designed for a single purpose serves so many others. the weakness is not always easy to detect; but it is always there. it may be the weakness of excess; an ample and loose-folded robe like walt whitman's is characteristic of its wearer, but can soon be adapted to a borrower. or it may be the weakness of defect; the music and solemnity of the _psalm of life_ are a world too wide for the shrunken body of the thought that they conceal. a perfect conception expressing itself inevitably in the form that has grown with its growth defies imitators. the great things of virgil and of dante suffer no parody. and this is what is meant by a classic. yet lesser books have their day; and young authors, or old authors trying a new kind of work, often begin by imitation. they discover their genius by their failure. the famous parodies (so to call them) are not parodies at all; their freedom from the servility of parody is what has given them their place in literature. cervantes may have thought that he could criticize and banter the romances of chivalry by telling the adventures of a poor and high-minded gentleman travelling on the roads of spain; but once the new situation was created it called for a new treatment. fielding doubtless intended to parody richardson by a tale of the chastity of a serving-man; and it is easy to see how a mere wit would have carried out the design. but fielding, like cervantes, was too rich in ideas, and too brave in purpose, to be another man's mocking servitor. first mrs. slipslop incommodes the framework by her intrusion, and then parson adams enters to complete the disaster. the breakdown of these pretended parodies is always due to the same cause--the appearance on an artificially designed scene of real character. character, where it is fully conceived, will not take its orders from the scene-shifter; it reacts in surprising ways to slight accidental provocations; it will not play the part or speak the words assigned to it; it is consistent with nothing but itself; from self-revelation it soon passes to self-assertion, and subdues the world to its will, disordering all the puppet-show. it cannot be claimed for eaton stannard barrett that he proved superior to the task which he undertook. there is little or no real character in _the heroine_. perhaps jerry sullivan, the faithful irish servitor, with his ready speech and bold resourcefulness, comes nearest to the life, but even he is drawn, like lever's comic irishmen, not intimately. a few touches of verisimilitude are sufficient to portray a servant, whose business is to come when he is called and to help others in their necessities. the heroine herself has no breath in her; she is inconceivably credulous, impossibly ignorant, and even while she talks the author often forgets her very existence and speaks in her stead, so that she seems to be quizzing her own fatuity. perhaps this incompetent portraiture was to be expected from the author of _woman, a poem_, but it takes some of the edge off the fun of the book. cherubina is not a girl, with silly, flighty notions in her head, such as romance engenders, but a pedantic female lawyer, determined to order her life, down to the smallest detail, on precedents borrowed from her favourite reading. miss austen's girls, in _northanger abbey_, talk like girls; cherubina talks like a book. nevertheless, miss austen herself read _the heroine_, and confessed to the pleasure she had from it. it enjoyed a high and brief reputation. the first edition appeared in 1813; the second followed it in the space of a year; and in 1816 the author, before he was thirty years old, may have read a notice of himself in the _biographical dictionary of the living authors of great britain and ireland_ concluding with the following eulogy: 'this work (_the heroine_) has been pronounced not inferior in wit and humour to tristram shandy, and in point of plot and interest infinitely beyond don quixote.' let us save what remnants we can of this monstrous pronouncement. of character, as has been said, there is next to none in _the heroine_; so that only those who can read _don quixote_ and _tristram shandy_, careless of the characters portrayed, might possibly be able to return a verdict on the comparison. there are many readers of books who grudge labour spent on character-drawing; the long colloquies between don quixote and sancho or between my uncle toby and corporal trim they would be glad to see abbreviated, so they might get back to the confusion and bustle of life. why all this dissection of the heart, while there are crowns to be broke? what the soldier said is not evidence; it is what he did that they desire to hear. for readers of this temper there is abundance of entertainment in _the heroine_, if once they can bring themselves to accept the perilously slender illusion. the scenes described are as full of movement as a harlequinade. no irish fair is richer in incident. and there is such a flow of high spirits; the author carries the whole business through with such unflagging zest, that the farce, though it hardly ever touches on the confines of comedy, is pleasant farce, instinct with good nature and good fellowship. those who like a book that saves them from the more exacting companionship of their own thoughts might do worse than read _the heroine_. this is lukewarm praise; but the book has a stronger claim than this on the interest of the reader; it marks a crisis in literary history. the author was a well-read man, and all the fashionable literature of his day is reflected in his pages. he was familiar with the essayists and moralists of the eighteenth century; indeed, he often falls into their attitude in his opposition to the extravagances of the romantic movement. his parody of johnson's later style is one of the very best of the multitude of johnsonian imitations. boswell, writing before 1791, was able to enumerate a distinguished array of disciples and copyists, among them hugh blair, professor of rhetoric at edinburgh, george colman the elder, robertson the historian, gibbon, miss burney, mrs. barbauld, henry mackenzie, vicesimus knox, and last, john young, professor of greek at glasgow, whose _criticism on the elegy written in a country church-yard, being a continuation of dr. johnson's criticism on the poems of gray_ (1783) is rightly praised by boswell as the most perfect of all professed imitations of johnson's style. it is only half a parody; johnson's method in criticism has been so thoroughly assimilated by the author, that some of johnson's strong sense filters in here and there as if by oversight. horace walpole said of it, acutely enough, that the author seemed to wish to be taken by gray's admirers for a ridiculer of johnson, and by johnson's admirers for a censurer of gray. but if this is the best imitation of johnson's critical manner, his biographical style and his light occasional verse have never been so happily mimicked as in the _memoirs of james higginson, by himself_, which occur in letter x of _the heroine_. johnson continued to be the most influential teacher of english prose until macaulay, by introducing a more glittering kind of antithesis and a freer use of the weapons of offence in criticism, usurped his supremacy. a more voluminous and easier literature had enthralled the popular taste for some thirty or forty years before the author of _the heroine_ delivered his attack. only a few are now remembered even by name of that horde of romances which issued from the cheap presses, in the train of mrs. radcliffe. it is reasonable to suppose that many of them, which had not the help of that great preservative of a bad book, good binding, have perished from off the face of the earth. they are not yet old enough to be precious, as elizabethan trash is precious, and doubtless the surviving copies of some of them are even now being cast out from lumber-rooms and remote country libraries, to suffer their fate by fire. their names are scattered plentifully up and down the _bibliotheca britannica_ and other monumental compilations, where books that go under in their fight against time have christian burial and a little headstone reserved for them. in _the heroine_ only the chief of them are referred to by name. the romances of mrs. radcliffe--_the mysteries of udolpho_, _the italian_, and _the bravo of venice_--are praised as being 'often captivating and seldom detrimental'. the rivals of mrs. radcliffe who wrote those enormously popular works, _the children of the abbey_ and _caroline of lichtfield_, receive a less respectful treatment. at the close of his book the author of _the heroine_ summarizes his indictment against these and their kind: 'they present us with incidents and characters which we can never meet in the world; and act upon the mind like intoxicating stimulants; first elevate, and then enervate it. they teach us to revel in ideal scenes of transport and distraction; and harden our hearts against living misery, by making us so refined as to feel disgust at its unpoetical accompaniments.' throughout the book he keeps up a running fire of criticism. when cherubina visits westminster abbey, 'it is the first,' she says, 'that i have ever seen, though i had read of thousands.' she apologizes for using the vulgar word 'home'--'you know that a mere home is my horror'. she confesses that she is very inadequately armed with religion--'i knew nothing of religion except from novels; and in these, though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties. it is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the greek or the persian church, as well as the christian; and none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a well-worded prayer.' the notable thing is that this attack on the novels of the day was not an isolated protest; it expressed the general mind and echoed the current opinion. miss austen, with more suavity and art, had long before said the same thing. the romance was declining; it had become a cheap mechanical thing; and the mind of the nation was turning away from it to reinstate those teachers of moral prudence whose influence had been impaired by the flood, but not destroyed. if any one had been rash enough, in the year 1814, to prophesy the future of literature, he would have been justified in saying that, to all appearances, the prose romance was dead. it had fallen into its dotage, and the hand of eaton stannard barrett had killed it. _the heroine_ seemed to mark the end of an age of romance, and the beginning of a new era of sententious prose. such a prophet would have been approved by _the edinburgh review_ and all the best judges of the time. he would have been wrong, for he could not foresee the accident of genius. walter scott, like cherubina (whose adventures he read and applauded), had fallen a victim to the fascinations of the writers of romance, yet, unlike her, had not allowed them to deprive him of all acquaintance with 'a more useful class of composition' and the toils of active life. romance was what he cared for, and he brought the sobriety and learning of a judge to the task of vindicating his affection. he proved that the old romantic stories are convincing enough if only the blood of life flows through them. his great panoramas of history are exhibited in the frame-work of a love-plot. in place of the feeble comic interest of the earlier romances he supplied a rich and various tissue of national character and manners. ancient legend and song, fable and superstition, live again in his work. and, as if cherubina's unhappy experiences had all been in vain, there is always a heroine. the readers who had been laughed into scepticism by the wit of the enemy were within a few years won back to poetry and romance; cherubina was deposed, and in her place there reigned the bride of lammermoor. walter raleigh. oxford, _christmas, 1908._ the heroine, or adventures of a fair romance reader, by eaton stannard barrett, esq. * * * * * "l'histoire d'une femme est toujours un roman." * * * * * _in three volumes._ vol. i. * * * * * london: printed for henry colburn, public library, conduit-street, hanover-square; and sold by george goldie, edinburgh, and john cumming, dublin. 1813. to the right honorable george canning &c. &c. &c. sir, it was the happiness of sterne to have dedicated his volumes to a pitt. it is my ambition to inscribe this work to you. my wishes would be complete, could i resemble the writer as you do the statesman. i have the honor to be, sir, your most sincere, and most humble servant, e. s. barrett. the heroine to the reader attend, gentle and intelligent reader; for i am not the fictitious personage whose memoirs you will peruse in 'the heroine;' but i am a corporeal being, and an inhabitant of another world. know, that the moment a mortal manuscript is written out in a legible hand, and the word end or finis annexed thereto, whatever characters happen to be sketched in it (whether imaginary, biographical, or historical), acquire the quality of creating and effusing a sentient soul or spirit, which instantly takes flight, and ascends through the regions of air, till it arrives at the moon; where it is then embodied, and becomes a living creature; the precise counterpart, in mind and person, of its literary prototype. know farther, that all the towns, villages, rivers, hills, and vallies of the moon, owe their origin, in a similar manner, to the descriptions given by writers of those on earth; and that all the lunar trades and manufactures, fleets and coins, stays for men, and boots for ladies, receive form and substance here, from terrestrial books on war and commerce, pamphlets on bullion, and fashionable magazines. works consisting of abstract argument, ethics, metaphysics, polemics, &c. which, from their very nature, cannot become tangible essences, send up their ideas, in whispers, to the moon; where the tribe of talking birds receive, and repeat them for the lunarians. so that it is not unusual to hear a mitred parrot screaming a political sermon, or a fashionable jay twittering unfigurative canzonets. these birds then are our philosophers; and so great is their value, that they sell for as much as your patriots. the moment, however, that a book becomes obsolete on earth, the personages, countries, manners, and things recorded in it, lose, by the law of sympathy, their existence in the moon. this, most grave reader, is but a short and imperfect sketch of the way we moonites live and die. i shall now give you some account of what has happened to me since my coming hither. it is something more than three lunar hours; or, in other words, about three terrestrial days ago, that, owing to the kindness of some human gentleman or other (to whom i take this opportunity of returning my grateful thanks), i became conscious of existence. like the miltonic eve, almost the first thing i did was to peep into the water, and admire my face;--a very pretty one, i assure you, dear reader. i then perceived advancing a lank and grimly figure in armour, who introduced himself as don quixote; and we soon found each other kindred souls. we walked, hand in hand, through a beautiful tract of country called terra fertilitatis; for your selenographers, langrenus, florentius, grimaldus, ricciolus, and hevelius of dantzic, have given proper names to the various portions of our hemisphere. as i proceeded, i met the radcliffian, rochian, and other heroines; but they tossed their heads, and told me pertly that i was a slur on the sisterhood; while some went so far as to say i had a design upon their lives. they likewise shunned the edgeworthian heroines, whom they thought too comic, moral, and natural. i met the lady of the lake, and shook hands with her; but her hand felt rather hard from the frequent use of the oar; and i spoke to the widow dido, but she had her old trick of turning on her heel, without answering a civil question. i found the homeric achilles broiling his own beefsteaks, as usual; the homeric princesses drawing water, and washing linen; the virgilian trojans eating their tables, and the livian hannibal melting mountains with the patent vinegar of an advertisement. the little boy in the ã�neid had introduced the amusement of whipping tops; and musidora had turned bathing-woman at a halfpenny a dip. a cã¦sar, an alexander, and an alfred, were talking politics, and quaffing the horatian falernian, at the garter inn of shakespeare. a catiline was holding forth on reform, and a hanno was advising the recall of a victorious army. as i walked along, a parcel of moonites, fresh from your newspapers, just popped up their heads, nodded, and died. about twenty statesmen come to us in this way almost every day; and though some of them are of the same name, and drawn from the same original, they are often as unlike each other as so many clouds. the buonapartes, thus sent, are, in general, hideous fellows. however, your parliamentary reports sometimes agreeably surprise us with most respectable characters of that name. on my way, i could observe numbers of patients dying, according as the books that had created them were sinking into oblivion. the foxian james was paraded about in a sedan chair, and considered just gone; and a set of politicians, entitled all the talents, who had once made a terrible noise among us, lay sprawling in their last agonies. but the most extensive mortality ever known here was caused by the burning of the alexandrian library. this forms quite an ã¦ra in the lunar annals; and it is called the great conflagration. i had attempted to pluck an apple from a tree that grew near the road; but, to my surprise, grasped a vacuum; and while don quixote was explaining to me that this phã¦nomenon arose from the berkeleian system of immaterialism; and that this apple was only a globular idea, i heard a squeaking voice just beside me cry: 'i must remark, madam, that the writer who sent you among us had far too much to say, and too little to do.' i looked round, but saw nobody. ''tis junius,' observed don quixote. 'he was invisible on earth, and therefore must be so here. do not mind his bitter sayings.' 'an author,' continued the satirist, 'who has judgment enough to write wit, should have judgment enough to prevent him from writing it.' 'sir,' said don quixote, 'if, by his works of wit, he can attain popularity, he will ensure a future attention to his works of judgment. so here is at thee, caitiff!' and closing his visor, he ran atilt at pure space. 'nay,' cried junius, 'let us not quarrel, though we differ. mind unopposed by mind, fashions false opinions of its own, and degenerates from its original rectitude. the stagnant pool resolves into putridity. it is the conflict of the waters which keeps them pure.' 'except in dropsical cases, i presume,' said tristram shandy, who just then came up, with his uncle toby. 'how goes it, heroine? how goes it?--by the man in the moon, the moment i heard of your arrival here, i gave three exulting flourishes of my hand, thus 1 2 3 then applying my middle finger to my thumb, and compressing them, by means of the flexory muscles, i shot them asunder transversely; so that the finger coming plump upon the aponeurosis- * * * * * in short,--for i don't much like the manner in which i am getting on with the description--i snapped my fingers. 'now, madam, i will bet the whole of kristmanus's, capuanus's, schihardus's, phocylides's, and hanzelius's estates,--which are the best on our disk,--to as much landed property as could be shovelled into your shoe--that you will get miserably mauled by their reverences, the scotch reviewers. my life for it, these lads will say that your character is a mere daub drawn in distemper--the colouring too rich--the hair too golden--an eyelash too much--then, that the book itself has too little of the rational and argumentative;--that the fellow merely wrote it to make the world laugh,--which, an' please your reverences, is the gravest occupation an author can chuse;--that some of its incidents are plastered as thick as butter on the bread of mamma's darling; others so diluted, that they wash down the bread and butter most unpalatably, and the rest unconducive to the plot, moral, and peripeteia. in short, madam, it will appear that the work has every fault which must convict it aristotellically and edinburgo--reviewically, in the eyes of ninety-nine barbati; but which will leave it not the ninety-ninth part of a gry the worse in the eyes of fifteen millions of honest englishmen; besides several very respectable ladies and gentlemen yet unborn, and nations yet undiscovered, who will read translations of it in languages yet unspoken. bless me, what hacking they will have at you! small sword and broad sword--staff and stiletto--flankonnade and cannonade--hurry-scurry--right wing and left wing----' but tristram paused short in consternation; for his animated description of a fight had roused the military spirits of don quixote and captain shandy, who were already at hard knocks; the one with his spear, and the other with his crutch. i therefore took this occasion of escaping. and now day begins to decline; and your globe, which never sets to us, will soon shed her pale earthshine over the landscape. o how serene, how lovely these regions! here are no hurricanes, or clouds, or vapours. here heroines cannot sigh; for here there is no air to sigh withal. here, in our great pits, poetically called vallies, we retire from all moonly cares; or range through the meads of cysatus or gruemberget, and luxuriate in the coolness of the conical penumbra. i trust you will feel, dear reader, that you now owe more to my discoveries than to those of endymion, copernicus, tycho brahe, galileus, and newton. i pray you, therefore, to reward my services with a long and happy life; though much i fear i shall not obtain it. for, i am told, that two little shining specks, called england and ireland (which we can just see with our glasses on your globe), are the places that i must depend upon for my health and prosperity. now, if they fall, i must fall with them; and i fancy they have seen the best of their days already. a parrot informs me, that they are at daggers drawn with a prodigious blotch just beside them; and that their most approved patriots daily indite pamphlets to shew how they cannot hold out ten years longer. the sternian starling assured me just now that these patriots write the triumphs of their country in the most commiserating language; and portray her distresses with exultation. of course, therefore, they conceive that her glories would undo her, and that nothing can save her but her calamities. so, since she is conquering away at a great rate, i may fairly infer that she is on her last legs. before i conclude, i must inform you of how i shall have this letter conveyed to your world. laplace, and other philosophers, have already proved, that a stone projected by a volcano, from the moon, and with the velocity of a mile and a half per second, would be thrown beyond the sphere of the moon's attraction, and enter into the confines of the earth's. now, hundreds have attested on oath, that they have seen luminous meteors moving through the sky; and that these have fallen on the earth, in stony or semi-metallic masses. therefore, say the philosophers, these masses came all the way from the moon. and they say perfectly right. believe it piously, dear reader, and quote me as your authority. it is by means of one of these stones that i shall contrive to send you this letter. i have written it on asbestus, in liquid gold (as both these substances are inconsumable by fire); and i will fasten it to the top of a volcanic mountain, which is expected to explode in another hour. alas, alas, short-sighted mortals! how little ye foresee the havoc that will happen hereafter, from the pelting of these pitiless stones. for, about the time of the millenium, the doctrine of projectiles will be so prodigiously improved, that while there is universal peace upon earth, the planets will go to war with each other. then shall we lunarians, like true satellites, turn upon our benefactors, and instead of merely trying our small shot (as at present), we will fire off whole mountains; while you, from your superior attraction, will find it difficult to hit us at all. the consequence must be, our losing so much weight, that we shall approach, by degrees, nearer and nearer to you; 'till at last, both globes will come slap together, flatten each other out, like the pancakes of glasse's cookery, and rush headlong into primeval chaos. such will be the consummation of all things. adieu. the heroine letter i my venerable governess, guardian of my youth, must i then behold you no more? no more, at breakfast, find your melancholy features shrouded in an umbrageous cap, a novel in one hand, a cup in the other, and tears springing from your eyes, at the tale too tender, or at the tea too hot? must i no longer wander with you through painted meadows, and by purling rivulets? motherless, am i to be bereft of my more than mother, at the sensitive age of fifteen? what though papa caught the butler kissing you in the pantry? what though he turned you by the shoulder out of his house? i am persuaded that the kiss was maternal, not amorous, and that the interesting butler is your son. perhaps you married early in life, and without the knowledge of your parents. a gipsy stole the pretty pledge of your love; and at length, you have recognized him by the scar on his cheek. happy, happy mother! happy too, perhaps, in being cast upon the world, unprotected and defamed; while i am doomed to endure the security of a home, and the dullness of an unimpeached reputation. for me, there is no hope whatever of being reduced to despair. i am condemned to waste my health, bloom, and youth, in a series of uninterrupted prosperity. it is not, my friend, that i wish for ultimate unhappiness, but that i am anxious to suffer present sorrow, in order to secure future felicity: an improvement, you will own, on the system of other girls, who, to enjoy the passing moment, run the risk of being wretched for ever after. have not all persons their favorite pursuits in life, and do not all brave fatigue, vexation, and calumny, for the purpose of accomplishing them? one woman aspires to be a beauty, another a title, a third a belle esprit; and to effect these objects, health is sacrificed, reputation tainted, and peace of mind destroyed. now my ambition is to be a heroine, and how can i hope to succeed in my vocation, unless i, too, suffer privations and inconveniences? besides, have i not far greater merit in getting a husband by sentiment, adventure, and melancholy, than by dressing, gadding, dancing, and singing? for heroines are just as much on the alert to get husbands, as other young ladies; and to say the truth, i would never voluntarily subject myself to misfortunes, were i not certain that matrimony would be the last of them. but even misery itself has its consolations and advantages. it makes one, at least, look interesting, and affords an opportunity for ornamental murmurs. besides, it is the mark of a refined mind. only fools, children, and savages, are happy. with these sentiments, no wonder i should feel discontented at my present mode of life. such an insipid routine, always, always, always the same. rising with no better prospect than to make breakfast for papa. then 'tis, 'good morrow, cherry,' or 'is the paper come, cherry?' or 'more cream, cherry,' or 'what shall we have to dinner, cherry?' at dinner, nobody but a farmer or the parson; and nothing talked but politics and turnips. after tea i am made sing some fal lal la of a ditty, and am sent to bed with a 'good night, pretty miss,' or 'sweet dear.' the clowns! now, instead of this, just conceive me a child of misery, in a castle, a convent, or a cottage; becoming acquainted with the hero by his saving my life--i in beautiful confusion--'good heaven, what an angel!' cries he--then sudden love on both sides--in two days he kisses my hand. embarrassments--my character suspected--a quarrel--a reconciliation--fresh embarrassments.--o biddy, what an irreparable loss to the public, that a victim of thrilling sensibility, like me, should be thus idling her precious time over the common occupations of life!--prepared as i am, too, by a five years' course of novels (and you can bear witness that i have read little else), to embody and ensoul those enchanting reveries, which i am accustomed to indulge in bed and bower, and which really constitute almost the whole happiness of my life. that i am not deficient in the qualities requisite for a heroine, is indisputable. all the world says i am handsome, and it would be melancholy were all the world in error. my form is tall and aã«rial, my face grecian, my tresses flaxen, my eyes blue and sleepy. but the great point is, that i have a remarkable mole just over my left temple. then, not only peaches, roses, and aurora, but snow, lilies, and alabaster, may, with perfect propriety, be adopted in a description of my skin. i confess i differ from other heroines in one point. they, you may remark, are always unconscious of their charms; whereas, i am, i fear, convinced of mine, beyond all hope of retraction. there is but one serious flaw in my title to heroine--the mediocrity of my lineage. my father is descended from nothing better than a decent and respectable family. he began life with a thousand pounds, purchased a farm, and by his honest and disgusting industry, has realized fifty thousand. were even my legitimacy suspected, it would be some comfort; since, in that case, i should assuredly start forth, at one time or other, the daughter of some plaintive nobleman, who lives retired, and slaps his forehead. one more subject perplexes me. it is my name; and what a name--cherry! it reminds one so much of plumpness and ruddy health. cherry--better be called pine-apple at once. there is a green and yellow melancholy in pine-apple, that is infinitely preferable. i wonder whether cherry could possibly be an abbreviation of cherubina. 'tis only changing y into ubina, and the name becomes quite classic. celestina, angelina, seraphina, are all of the same family. but cherubina sounds so empyrean, so something or other beyond mortality; and besides i have just a face for it. yes, cherubina i am resolved to be called, now and for ever. but you must naturally wish to learn what has happened here, since your departure. i was in my boudoir, reading the delicate distress, when i heard a sudden bustle below, and 'out of the house, this moment,' vociferated by my father. the next minute he was in my room with a face like fire. 'there!' cried he, 'i knew what your famous romances would do for us at last.' 'pray, sir, what?' asked i, with the calm dignity of injured innocence. 'only a kissing match between the governess and the butler,' answered he. 'i caught them at the sport in the pantry.' i was petrified. 'dear sir,' said i, 'you must surely mistake.' 'no such thing,' cried he. 'the kiss was too much of a smacker for that:--it rang through the pantry. but please the fates, she shall never darken my doors again. i have just discharged both herself and her swain; and what is better, i have ordered all the novels in the house to be burnt, by way of purification. as they love to talk of flames, i suppose they will like to feel them.' he spoke, and ran raging out of the room. adieu, then, ye dear romances, adieu for ever. no more shall i sympathize with your heroines, while they faint, and blush, and weep, through four half-bound octavos. adieu ye edwins, edgars, and edmunds; ye selinas, evelinas, malvinas; ye inas all adieu! the flames will consume you all. the melody of emily, the prattle of annette, and the hoarseness of ugo, all will be confounded in one indiscriminate crackle. the casa and castello will blaze with equal fury; nor will the virtue of pamela aught avail to save; nor wolmar delighting to see his wife in a swoon; nor werter shelling peas and reading homer, nor charlotte cutting bread and butter for the children. you, too, my loved governess, i regret extremely. adieu. cherubina. letter ii it was not till this morning, that a thought of the most interesting nature flashed across my mind. pondering on the cruel conduct of my reputed father, in having burnt my novels, and discharged you, without even allowing us to take a hysterical farewell, i was struck with the sudden notion that the man is not my father at all. in short, i began with wishing this the case, and have ended with believing it. my reasons are irresistible, and deduced from strong and stubborn facts. for, first, there is no likeness between this wilkinson and me. 'tis true, he has blue eyes, like myself, but has he my pouting lip and dimple? he has the flaxen hair, but can he execute the rosy smile? next, is it possible, that i, who was born a heroine, and who must therefore have sprung from an idle and illustrious family, should be the daughter of a farmer, a thrifty, substantial, honest farmer? the thing is absurd on the face of it, and never will i tamely submit to such an indignity. full of this idea, i dressed myself in haste, resolving to question wilkinson, to pierce into his inmost soul, to speak daggers to him; and if he should not unfold the mystery of my birth, to fly from his house for ever. with a palpitating heart, i descended the stairs, rushed into the breakfast-room, and in a moment was at the feet of my persecutor. my hands were folded across my bosom, and my blue eyes raised to his face. 'heyday, cherry,' said he, laughing, 'this is a new flourish. there, child, now fancy yourself stabbed, and come to breakfast.' 'hear me,' cried i. 'why,' said he, 'you keep your countenance as stiff and steady as the face on our rapper.' 'a countenance,' cried i, 'is worth keeping, when the features are a proof of the descent, and vindicate the noble birth from the baseness of the adoption.' 'come, come,' said he, 'your cup is full all this time.' 'and so is my heart,' cried i, pressing it expressively. 'what is the meaning of this mummery?' said he. 'hear me, wilkinson,' cried i, rising with dignified tranquillity. 'candor is at once the most amiable and the most difficult of virtues; and there is more magnanimity in confessing an error, than in never committing one.' 'confound your written sentences,' cried he, 'can't you come to the point?' 'then, sir,' said i, 'to be plain and explicit, learn, that i have discovered a mystery in my birth, and that you--you, wilkinson, are not--my real father!' i pronounced these words with a measured emphasis, and one of my ineffable looks. wilkinson coloured like scarlet and stared steadily in my face. 'would you scandalize the mother that bore you?' cried he, fiercely. 'no, wilkinson,' answered i, 'but you would, by calling yourself my father.' 'and if i am not,' said he, 'what the mischief must _you_ be?' 'an illustrious heiress,' cried i, 'snatched from my parents in her infancy;--snatched by thee, vile agent of the diabolical conspiracy!' he looked aghast. 'tell me then,' continued i, 'miserable man, tell me where my dear, my distracted father lingers out the remnant of his wretched days? my mother too--or say, am i indeed an orphan?' still he remained mute, and gazed on me with a searching intensity. i raised my voice: 'expiate thy dire offences, restore an outcast to her birthright, make atonement, or _tremble at retribution_!' i thought the farmer would have sunk into the ground. 'nay,' continued i, lowering my voice, 'think not i thirst for vengeance. i myself will intercede for thee, and stay the sword of justice. poor wretch! i want not thy blood.' the culprit had now reached the climax of agony, and writhed through every limb and feature. 'what!' cried i, 'can nothing move thee to confess thy crimes? then hear me. ere aurora with rosy fingers shall unbar the eastern gate----' 'my child, my child, my dear darling daughter!' exclaimed this accomplished crocodile, bursting into tears, and snatching me to his bosom, 'what have they done to you? what phantom, what horrid disorder is distracting my treasure?' 'unhand me, guileful adulator,' cried i, 'and try thy powers of tragedy elsewhere, for--_i know thee!_' i spoke, and extricated myself from his embrace. 'dreadful, dreadful!' muttered he. 'her sweet senses are lost.' then turning to me: 'my love, my life, do not speak thus to your poor old father.' 'father!' exclaimed i, accomplishing with much accuracy that hysterical laugh, which (gratefully let me own) i owe to your instruction; 'father!' the fat farmer covered his face with his hands, and rushed out of the room. i relate the several conversations, in a dramatic manner, and word for word, as well as i can recollect them, since i remark that all heroines do the same. indeed i cannot enough admire the fortitude of these charming creatures, who, while they are in momentary expectation of losing their lives, or their honours, or both, sit down with the utmost unconcern, and indite the wittiest letters in the world. they have even sufficient presence of mind to copy the vulgar dialect, uncooth phraseology, and bad grammar, of the villains whom they dread; and all this in the neatest and liveliest style imaginable. adieu. letter iii soon after my last letter, i was summoned to dinner. what heroine in distress but loaths her food? so i sent a message that i was unwell, and then solaced myself with a volume of the mysteries of udolpho, which had escaped the conflagration. at ten, i flung myself on my bed, in hopes to have dreams portentous of my future fate; for heroines are remarkably subject to a certain prophetic sort of night-mare. you remember the story that ludovico read, of a spectre who beckons a baron from his castle in the dead of night, and leading him into a forest, points to his own corpse, and bids him bury it. well, owing, i suppose, to my having just read this episode, and to my having fasted so long, i had the following dreams. methought a delicious odour of viands attracted me to the kitchen, where i found an iron pot upon the fire simmering in unison with my sighs. as i looked at it with a longing eye, the lid began to rise, and i beheld a half-boiled turkey stalk majestically forth. it beckoned me with its claw. i followed. it led me into the yard, and pointed to its own head and feathers, which were lying in a corner. i felt infinitely affected. straight the scene changed. i found myself seated at a dinner-table; and while i was expecting the repast, lo, the genius of dinner appeared. he had a mantle laced with silver eels, and his locks were dropping with costly soups. a crown of golden fishes was on his head, and pheasants' wings at his shoulders. a flight of little tartlets fluttered around him, and the sky rained down hock, comfits, and tokay. as i gazed on him, he vanished, in a sigh, that was strongly impregnated with the fumes of brandy. what vulgar, what disgusting visions, when i ought to have dreamt of nothing but coffins and ladies in black. at breakfast, this morning, wilkinson affected the most tender solicitude for my health; and as i now watched his words, i could discover in almost all that he said, something to confirm my surmise of his not being my father. after breakfast a letter was handed to him, which he read, and then gave to me. it was as follows: london. in accepting your invitation to sylvan lodge, my respected friend, i am sure i shall confer a far greater favor on myself, than, as you kindly tell me, i shall on you. after an absence of seven years, spent in the seclusion of a college, and the fatigues of a military life, how delightful to revisit the scene of my childhood, and those who contribute to render its memory so dear! i left you while you were my guardian; i return to you with the assurances of finding you a friend. let me but find you what i left you, and you shall take what title you please. yet, much as i flatter myself with your retaining all your former feelings towards me, i must expect a serious alteration in those of my friend cherry. will she again make me her playmate? again climb my shoulders, and gallop me round the lawn? are we to renew all our little quarrels, then kiss and be friends? shall we even recognize each other's features, through their change from childhood to maturity? there is, at least, one feature of our early days, that, i trust, has undergone no alteration--our mutual affection and friendship. i fear i cannot manage matters so as to be with you before ten to-morrow night: remember i bespeak my old room. ever affectionately your's, robert stuart. to gregory wilkinson, esq. 'there,' cries the farmer, 'if i have deprived you of an old woman, i have got you a young man. large estates, you know;--handsome, fashionable;--come, pluck up a heart, my girl; ay, egad, and steal one too.' i rose, gave him one of my ineffable looks, and retired to my chamber. 'so,' said i, locking my door, and flinging myself on the bed, 'this is something like misery. here is a precious project against my peace. i am to be forced into marriage, am i? and with whom? a man whose legitimacy is unimpeached, and whose friends would certainly consent. his name robert too:--master bobby, as the servants used to call him. a fellow that mewed like a cat, when he was whipt. o my bob! what a pretty monosyllable for a girl like me to pronounce. now, indeed, my wretchedness is complete; the cup is full, even to overflowing. an orphan, or at least an outcast; immured in the prison of a proud oppressor--threatened with a husband of decent birth, parentage and education--my governess gone, my novels burnt, what is left to me but flight? yes, i will roam through the wide world in search of my parents; i will ransack all the sliding pannels and tapestries in italy; i will explore il castello di udolpho, and will then enter the convent of ursulines, or carmelites, or santa della pieta, or the abbey of la trappe. here i meet with nothing better than smiling faces and honest hearts; or at best, with but sneaking villains. no precious scoundrels are here, no horrors, or atrocities, worth mentioning. but abroad i shall encounter banditti, monks, daggers, racks--o ye celebrated terrors, when shall i taste of you?' i then lay planning an elopement, till i was called to dinner. adieu. letter iv o my friend, such a discovery!--a parchment and a picture. but you shall hear. after dinner i stole into wilkinson's study, in hopes of finding, before my flight, some record or relic, that might aid me in unravelling the mystery of my birth. as heroines are privileged to ransack private drawers, and read whatever they find there, i opened wilkinson's scrutoire, without ceremony. but what were my sensations, when i discovered in a corner of it, an antique piece of tattered parchment, scrawled all over, in uncouth characters, with this frightful fragment. _this indenture_ for and in consideration of doth grant, bargain, release possession, and to his heirs and assigns lands of sylvan lodge, in the trees, stones, quarries. reasonable amends and satisfaction this demise molestation of him the said gregory wilkinson the natural life of cherry wilkinson only daughter of de willoughby eldest son of thomas lady gwyn of gwyn castle. o biddy, does not your blood run cold at this horrible scrawl? for already you must have decyphered its terrific import. the part lost may be guessed from the part left. in short, it is a written covenant between this gregory wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate that would devolve to him at my death), stipulating to give wilkinson 'sylvan lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, quarries, &c.' as 'reasonable amends and satisfaction,' for being the instrument of my 'demise;' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the said gregory wilkinson,' for taking away 'the natural life of cherry wilkinson'--'only daughter of----' something--'de willoughby, eldest son of thomas'--what an unfortunate chasm! then follows, 'lady gwyn of gwyn castle.' so that it is evident i am at least a de willoughby, and if not noble myself, related to nobility. for what confirms me in this supposition of my relationship to lady gwyn, is an old portrait which i found a few minutes after, in one of wilkinson's drawers, representing a young and beautiful female dressed in a superb style, and underneath it, in large letters, the name of, 'nell gwyn.' distraction! what shall i do? whither turn? to sleep another night under the same roof with a wretch, who has bound himself to assassinate me, would be little short of madness. my plan, therefore, is already arranged for flight, and this very evening i mean to begin my pilgrimage. the picture and parchment i will hide in my bosom during my journey; and i will also carry with me a small bandbox, containing my satin slip, a pair of silk stockings, my spangled muslin, and all my jewels. for as some benevolent duchess may possibly take me into her family, and her son persecute me, i might just as well look decent, you know. on mature deliberation, i have resolved to take but five guineas with me, since more would make me too comfortable, and tempt me, in some critical moment, to extricate myself from distress. i shall leave the following billet on my toilet. to gregory wilkinson, farmer. sir, when this letter meets your eye, the wretched writer will be far removed from your machinations. she will be wandering the convex earth in pursuit of those parents, from whose dear embraces you have torn her. she will be flying from a stuart, for whose detestable embraces you have designed her. your motive for this hopeful match i can guess. as you obtained one property by undertaking my death, you are probably promised another for effecting my marriage. learn that the latter fate has more terrors for me than the former. but i have escaped both. as for the ten thousand pounds willed to me by your deceased wife, i suppose it will revert to you, as soon as i prove that i am not your daughter. silly man! you might at this moment obtain that legacy, by restoring me to my real parents. alas! sir, you are indeed very wicked. yet remember, that repentance is never too late, and that virtue alone is true nobility. the much injured cherubina. all is prepared, and in ten minutes i commence my interesting expedition. london being the grand emporium of adventure, and the most likely place for obtaining information on the subject of my birth, i mean to bend my steps thither; and as stuart is to be here at ten to-night, and as he must come the london road, i shall probably meet him. should i recognize him, what a scene we shall have! but he cannot possibly recognize me, since i was only eight years old when we last parted. adieu. letter v the rain rattled and the wind whistled, as i tied on my bonnet for my journey. with the bandbox in my hand, i descended the stairs, and paused in the hall to listen. i heard a distant door shut, and steps advancing. not a moment was to be lost, so i sprang forward, opened the hall door, and ran down the shrubbery. 'o peaceful shades!' exclaimed i, 'why must i leave you? in your retreats i should still find "pleasure and repose!"' i then hastened into the london road, and pressed forward with a hurried step, while a violent tempest beat full against my face. being in such distress, i thought it incumbent on me to compose a sonnet; which i copy for you. sonnet bereft by wretches of endearing home, and all the joys of parent and of friend, unsheltered midst the shattering storm i roam, on mangled feet, and soon my life must end. so the young lark, whom sire and mother tend, some fowler robs of sire and mother dear. all day dejected in its nest it lies; no food, no song, no sheltering pinion near. night comes instead, and tempests round it rise, at morn, with gasping beak, and upward breast: it dies. four long and toilsome miles had i now walked with a dignified air; till, finding myself fatigued, and despairing of an interview with stuart, i resolved to rest awhile, in the lone and uninhabited house which lies, you may recollect, on the grey common, about a hundred paces from the road. besides, i was in duty bound to explore it, as a ruined pile. i approached it. the wind moaned through the broken windows, and the rank grass rustled in the court. i entered. all was dark within; the boards creaked as i trod, the shutters flapped, and an ominous owl was hooting in the chimney. i groped my way along the hall, thence into a parlour--up stairs and down--not a horror to be found. no dead hand met my left hand, firmly grasping it, and drawing me forcibly forward; no huge eye-ball glared at me through a crevice. how disheartening! the cold was now creeping through me; my teeth chattered, and my whole frame shook. i had seated myself on the stairs, and was weeping piteously, wishing myself safe at home, and in bed; and deploring the dire necessity which had compelled me to this frightful undertaking, when on a sudden i heard the sound of approaching steps. i sprang upon my feet with renovated spirits. presently several persons entered the hall, and a vulgar accent cried: 'jem, run down to the cellar and strike a light.' 'what can you want of me, now that you have robbed me?' said the voice of a gentleman. 'why, young man,' answered a ruffian, 'we want you to write home for a hundred pounds, or some such trifle, which we will have the honour of spending for you. you must manufacture some confounded good lie about where you are, and why you send for the money; and one of us will carry the letter.' 'i assure you,' said the youth, 'i shall forge no such falsehood.' 'as you please, master,' replied the ruffian, 'but, the money or your life we must have, and that soon.' 'will you trust my solemn promise to send you a hundred pounds?' said the other. 'my name is stuart: i am on my way to mr. wilkinson, of sylvan lodge, so you may depend upon my sending you, by his assistance, the sum that you require, and i will promise not to betray you.' 'no, curse me if i trust,' cried the robber. 'then curse me if i write,' said stuart. 'look you, squire,' cried the robber. 'we cannot stand parlying with you now; we have other matters on hands. but we will lock you safe in the cellar, with pen, ink, and paper, and a lantern; and if you have not a fine bouncing lie of a letter, ready written when we come back, you are a dead man--that is all.' 'i am almost a dead man already,' said stuart, 'for the cut you gave me is bleeding torrents.' they now carried him down to the cellar, and remained there a few minutes, then returned, and locked the door outside. 'leave the key in it,' says one, 'for we do not know which of us may come back first.' they then went away. now was the fate of my bitter enemy, the wily, the wicked stuart, in my power; i could either liberate him, or leave him to perish. it struck me, that to miss such a promising interview, would be stupid in the extreme; and i felt a sort of glow at the idea of saying to him, live! besides, the fellow had answered the robbers with some spirit, so i descended the steps, unlocked the door, and bursting into the cellar, stood in an unparalleled attitude before him. he was sitting on the ground, and fastening a handkerchief about his wounded leg, but at my entrance, he sprang upon his feet. 'away, save thyself!' cried i. 'she who restores thee to freedom flies herself from captivity. look on these features--thou wouldest have wrung them with despair. look on this form--thou wouldest have prest it in depravity. hence, unhappy sinner, and learn, that innocence is ever victorious and ever merciful.' 'i am all amazement!' exclaimed he. 'who are you? whence come you? why speak so angrily, yet act so kindly?' i smiled disdain, and turned to depart. 'one moment more,' cried he. 'here is some mistake; for i never even saw you before.' 'often!' exclaimed i, and was again going. 'so you will leave me, my sweet girl,' said he, smiling. 'now you have all this time prevented me from binding my wound, and you owe me some compensation for loss of blood.' i paused. 'i would ask you to assist me,' continued he, 'but in binding one wound, i fear you would inflict another.' mere curiosity made me return two steps. 'i think, however, there would be healing in the touch of so fair a hand,' and he took mine as he spoke. at this moment, my humanity conquered my reserve, and kneeling down, i began to fasten the bandage; but resolved on not uttering another word. 'what kindness!' cried he. 'and pray to whom am i indebted for it?' no reply. 'at least, may i learn whether i can, in any manner, repay it?' no reply. 'you said, i think, that you had just escaped from confinement?' no reply. 'you will stain your beautiful locks,' said he: 'my blood should flow to defend, but shall not flow to disfigure them. permit me to collect those charming tresses.' 'oh! dear, thank you, sir!' stammered i. 'and thank you, ten thousand times,' said he, as i finished my disagreeable task; 'and now never will i quit you till i see you safe to your friends.' 'you!' exclaimed i. 'ah, traitor!' he gazed at me with a look of pity. 'farewell then, my kind preserver,' said he; ''tis a long way to the next habitation, and should my wound open afresh and should i faint from loss of blood----' 'dear me,' said i, 'let me assist you.' he smiled. 'we will assist each other,' answered he; 'and now let us not lose a moment, for the robbers may return.' he took the lantern to search the cellar for his watch and money. however, we saw nothing there but a couple of portmanteaus, some rusty pistols, and a small barrel, half full of gunpowder. we then left the house; but had hardly proceeded twenty yards, when he began to totter. 'i can go no farther,' said he, sinking down. 'i have lost so much blood, that my strength is entirely exhausted.' 'pray sir,' said i, 'exert yourself, and lean on me.' 'impossible,' answered he; 'but fly and save your own life.' 'i will run for assistance,' said i, and flew towards the road, where i had just heard the sound of an approaching carriage. but on a sudden it stopped, voices began disputing, and soon after a pistol was fired. i paused in great terror, for i judged that these were the robbers again. what was i to do? when a heroine is reduced to extremities, she always does one of two things, either faints on the spot, or exhibits energies almost superhuman. faint i could not, so nothing remained for me, but energies almost superhuman. i pondered a moment, and a grand thought struck me. recollecting the gunpowder in the cellar, i flew for it back to the ruin, carried it up to the hall, threw most of it on the floor, and with the remainder, strewed a train, as i walked towards stuart. when i was within a few paces of him, i heard quick steps; and a hoarse voice vociferating, 'who goes yonder with the light?' for i had brought the lantern with me. 'fly!' cried stuart, 'or you are lost.' i snatched the candle from the lantern, applied it to the train, and the next moment dropped to the ground at the shock of the tremendous explosion that followed. a noise of falling timbers resounded through the ruin, and the robbers were heard scampering off in all directions. 'there!' whispered i, after a pause; 'there is an original horror for you; and all of my own contrivance. the villains have fled, the neighbours will flock to the spot, and you will obtain assistance.' by this time we heard the people of the carriage running towards us. 'stuart!' cried i, in an awful voice. 'my name indeed!' said he. 'this is completely inexplicable.' 'stuart,' cried i, 'hear my parting words. _never again_', (quoting his own letter,) '_will i make you my playmate; never again climb your shoulders, and gallop you round the lawn!_ ten o'clock is past. go not to sylvan lodge to-night. she departed two hours ago. look to your steps.' i spoke this portentous warning, and fled across the common. miss wilkinson! miss wilkinson! sounded on the blast; but the wretch had discovered me too late. i ran about half a mile, and then looking behind me, beheld the ruin in a blaze. renovated by the sight of this horror, i walked another hour, without once stopping; till, to my surprise and dismay, i found myself utterly unable to proceed a step farther. this was the more provoking, because heroines often perform journies on foot that would founder fifty horses. i now knocked at a farm-house, on the side of the road; but the people would not admit me. soon after, i perceived a boy watching sheep in a field, and begged earnestly that he would direct me to some romantic cottage, shaded with vines and acacias, and inhabited by a lovely little arcadian family. 'there is no family of that name in these here parts,' said he. '_these here!_' cried i, 'ah, my friend, that is not pastoral language. i see you will never pipe madrigals to a chloris or a daphne.' 'and what sort of nasty language is that?' cried he. 'get along with you, do: i warrant you are a bad one.' and he began pelting me with tufts of grass. at last, i contrived to shelter myself under a haycock, where i remained till day began to dawn. then, stiff and chilled, i proceeded on my journey; and in a short time, met a little girl with a pail of milk, who consented to let me change my dress at her cottage, and conducted me thither. it was a family of frights, flat noses and thick lips without mercy. no annettes and lubins, or amorets and phyllidas, or florimels and florellas; no little cherubin and seraphim amongst them. however, i slipped on (for _slipping on_ is the heroic mode of dressing) my spangled muslin, and joined their uglinesses at breakfast, resolving to bear patiently with their features. they tell me that a public coach to london will shortly pass this way, so i shall take a place in it. on the whole, i see much reason to be pleased with what has happened hitherto. how fortunate that i went to the house on the common! i see plainly, that if adventure does not come to me, i must go to adventure. and indeed, i am authorized in doing so by the example of my sister heroines; who, with a noble disinterestedness, are ever the chief artificers of their own misfortunes; for, in nine cases out of ten, were they to manage matters like mere common mortals, they would avoid all those charming mischiefs which adorn their memoirs. as for this stuart, i know not what to think of him. i will, however, do him the justice to say, that he has a pleasing countenance; and although he neither kissed my hand, nor knelt to me, yet he had the decency to talk of 'wounds,' and my 'charming tresses.' perhaps, if he had saved my life, instead of my having saved his; and if his name had consisted of three syllables ending in i or o; and, in fine, were he not an unprincipled profligate, the man might have made a tolerable hero. at all events, i heartily hate him; and his smooth words went for nothing. the coach is in sight. adieu. letter vi 'i shall find in the coach,' said i, approaching it, 'some emaciated adelaide, or sister olivia. we will interchange congenial looks--she will sigh, so will i--and we shall commence a vigorous friendship on the spot.' yes, i did sigh; but it was at the huge and hideous adelaide that presented herself, as i got into the coach. in describing her, our wittiest novelists would say, that her nose lay modestly retired between her cheeks; that her eyes, which pointed inwards, seemed looking for it, and that her teeth were 'like angels' visits; short and far between.' she first eyed me with a supercilious sneer, and then addressed a diminutive old gentleman opposite, in whose face time had ploughed furrows, and luxury sown pimples. 'and so, sir, as i was telling you, when my poor man died, i so bemoaned myself, that between swoons and hysterics, i got nervous all over, and was obliged to go through a regiment.' i stared in astonishment. 'what!' thought i, 'a woman of her magnitude and vulgarity, faint, and have nerves? impossible!' 'howsomdever,' continued she, 'my bible and my daughter moll are great consolations to me. moll is the dearest little thing in the world; as straight as a popular; then such dimples; and her eyes are the very squintessence of perfection. she has all her catechism by heart, and moreover, her mind is uncontaminated by romances and novels, and such abominations.' 'pray, ma'am,' said i, civilly, 'may i presume to ask how romances and novels contaminate the mind?' 'why, mem,' answered she tartly, and after another survey: 'by teaching little misses to go gadding, mem, and to be fond of the men, mem, and of spangled muslin, mem.' 'ma'am,' said i, reddening, 'i wear spangled muslin because i have no other dress: and you should be ashamed of yourself for saying that i am fond of the men.' 'the cap fits you then,' cried she. 'were it a fool's cap,' said i, 'perhaps i might return the compliment.' i thought it expedient, at my first outset in life, to practise apt repartee, and emulate the infatuating sauciness, and elegant vituperation of amanda, the beggar girl, and other heroines; who, when irritated, disdain to speak below an epigram. 'pray, sir,' said she, to our fellow traveller, 'what is your opinion of novels? ant they all love and nonsense, and the most unpossible lies possible?' 'they are fictions, certainly,' said he. 'surely, sir,' exclaimed i, 'you do not mean to call them fictions.' 'why no,' replied he, 'not absolute fictions.' 'but,' cried the big lady, 'you don't pretend to call them true.' 'why no,' said he, 'not absolutely true.' 'then,' cried i, 'you are on both sides of the question at once.' he trod on my foot. 'ay, that you are,' said the big lady. he trod on her foot. 'i am too much of a courtier,' said he, 'to differ from the ladies,' and he trod on both our feet. 'a courtier!' cried i: 'i should rather have imagined you a musician.' 'pray why?' said he. 'because,' answered i, 'you are playing the pedal harp on this lady's foot and mine.' 'i wished to produce harmony,' said he, with a submitting bow. 'at least,' said i, 'novels must be much more true than histories, because historians often contradict each other, but novelists never do.' 'yet do not novelists contradict themselves?' said he. 'certainly,' replied i, 'and there lies the surest proof of their veracity. for as human actions are always contradicting themselves, so those books which faithfully relate them, must do the same.' 'admirable!' exclaimed he. 'and yet what proof have we that such personages as schedoni, vivaldi, camilla, or cecilia ever existed?' 'and what proof have we,' cried i, 'that such personages as alfred the great, henry the fifth, elfrida, or mary queen of scots, ever existed? i wonder at a man of sense like you. why, sir, at this rate you might just as well question the truth of guy faux's attempt to blow up the parliament-house, or of my having blown up a house last night.' 'you blow up a house!' exclaimed the big lady with amazement. 'madam,' said i, modestly, 'i scorn ostentation, but on my word and honour, 'tis fact.' 'of course you did it accidentally,' said the gentleman. 'you wrong me, sir,' replied i; 'i did it by design.' 'you will swing for it, however,' cried the big lady. 'swing for it!' said i; 'a heroine swing? excellent! i presume, madam, you are unacquainted with the common law of romance.' 'just,' said she, 'as you seem to be with the common law of england.' 'i despise the common law of england,' cried i. 'then i fancy,' said she, 'it would not be much amiss if you were hanged.' 'and i fancy,' retorted i, nodding at her big figure, 'it would not be much amiss if you were quartered.' instantly she took out a prayer-book, and began muttering over it with the most violent piety and indignation. meantime the gentleman coincided in every syllable that i said, praised my parts and knowledge, and discovered evident symptoms of a discriminating mind, and an amiable heart. that i am right in my good opinion of him is most certain; for he himself assured me that it would be quite impossible to deceive me, i am so penetrating. in short, i have set him down as the benevolent guardian, whom my memoirs will hereafter celebrate, for having saved me from destruction. indeed he has already done so. for, when our journey was almost over, he told me, that my having set fire to the ruin might prove a most fatal affair; and whispered that the big lady would probably inform against me. on my pleading the prescriptive immunities of heroines, and asserting that the law could never lay its fangs on so ethereal a name as cherubina, he solemnly swore to me, that he once knew a golden-haired, azure-eyed heroine, called angelica angela angelina, who was hanged at the old bailey for stealing a broken lute out of a haunted chamber; and while my blood was running cold at the recital, he pressed me so cordially to take refuge in his house, that at length, i threw myself on the protection of the best of men. i now write from his mansion in grosvenor square, where we have just dined. his name is betterton; he has no family, and is possessed of a splendid independence. multitudes of liveried menials watch his nod; and he does me the honour to call me cousin. my chamber too is charming. the curtains hang quite in a new style, but i do not like the pattern of the drapery. to-morrow i mean to go shopping; and i may, at the same time, pick up some adventures on my way; for business must be minded. adieu. letter vii soon after my last letter, i was summoned to supper. betterton appeared much interested in my destiny, and i took good care to inspire him with a due sense of my forlorn and unprotected state. i told him that i had not a friend in the wide world, related to him my lamentable tale, and as a proof of my veracity shewed him the parchment, the picture, and the mole. to my great surprise, he said that he considered my high birth improbable; and then began advising me to descend from my romantic flights, as he called them, and to seek after happiness instead of misery. 'in this town,' continued he, after a long preamble, 'your charms would be despotic, if unchained by legal constraints. but for ever distant from you be that cold and languid tie which erroneous policy invented. for you be the sacred community of souls, the mystic union, whose tie of bondage is the sway of passion, the wish, the licence, and impulse the law.' 'pretty expressions enough,' said i, 'only i cannot comprehend them.' 'charming girl!' cried he, while he conjured up a fiend of a smile, and drew a brilliant from his finger, 'accept this ring, and the signature of the hand that has worn it, securing to you five hundred a-year, while you remain under my protection.' 'ha, monster!' exclaimed i, 'and is this thy vile design?' so saying, i flung the ruffian from me, then rushed down stairs, opened the door, and quick as lightning darted along the streets. at last, panting for breath, i paused underneath a portico. it was now midnight. not a wheel, not a hoof fatigued the pavement, or disturbed the slumbering mud of the metropolis. but soon steps and soft voices broke the silence, and a youth, encircling a maiden's waist with his arm, and modulating the most mellifluent phraseology, passed by me. another couple succeeded, and another, and another. the town seemed swarming with heroes and heroines. 'fortunate pairs!' ejaculated i, 'at length ye enjoy the reward of your incomparable constancy and virtue. here, after a long separation, meeting by chance, and in extreme distress, ye pour forth the pure effusions of your souls. o blissful termination of unexampled miseries!' i now perceived, on the steps of a house, a fair and slender form, robed in white. she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side, within her hand. 'she seems a sister in misfortune,' said i; 'so, should she but have a madona face, and a name ending in a, we will live, we will die together.' i then approached, and discovered a countenance so pale, so pensive, so roman, that i could almost have knelt and worshipped it. 'fair unfortunate,' said i, taking her hand and pressing it; 'interesting unknown, say by what name am i to address so gentle a sister in misery.' 'eh? what?' cried she, in a tone somewhat coarser than i was prepared to expect. 'may i presume on my sudden predilection,' said i, 'and inquire your name?' 'maria,' replied she, rising from her seat; 'and now i must be gone.' 'and where are you going, maria?' said i. 'to the devil,' said she. 'alas! my love,' whispered i, 'sorrow hath bewildered thee. impart to me the cause of thy distress, and perhaps i can alleviate, if not relieve it. i am myself a miserable orphan; but happy, thrice happy, could i clasp a sympathetic bosom, in this frightful wilderness of houses and faces, where, alas! i know not a human being.' 'then you are a stranger here?' said she quickly. 'i have been here but a few hours,' answered i. 'have you money?' she demanded. 'only four guineas and a half,' replied i, taking out my purse. 'perhaps you are in distress--perhaps--forgive this officiousness--not for worlds would i wound your delicacy, but if you want assistance----' 'i have only this old sixpence upon earth,' interrupted she, 'and there 'tis for you, miss.' so saying, she put sixpence into my purse, which i had opened while i was speaking. 'generous angel!' cried i. 'now we are in partnership, a'nt we?' said she. 'yes, sweet innocent,' answered i, 'we are partners in grief.' 'and as grief is dry,' cried she, 'we will go moisten it.' 'and where shall we moisten it, maria?' said i. 'in a pothouse,' cried she. 'it will do us good.' 'o my maria!' said i, 'never, never!' 'why then give me back my sixpence,' cried she, snatching at my purse; but i held it fast, and, springing from her, ran away. 'stop thief, stop thief!' vociferated she. in an instant, i heard a sort of rattling noise from several quarters, and an old fellow, called a watchman, came running out of a wooden box, and seized me by the shoulder. 'she has robbed me of my purse,' exclaimed the wily wanton. ''tis a green one, and has four guineas and a half in it, besides a curious old sixpence.' the watchman took it from me, and examined it. ''tis my purse,' cried i, 'and i can swear it.' 'you lie!' said the little wretch; 'you know well that you snatched it out of my hand, when i was going to give you sixpence, out of charity.' horror and astonishment struck me dumb; and when i told my tale, the watchman declared that both of us must remain in custody, till next morning; and then be carried before the magistrate. accordingly, he escorted us to the watchhouse, a room filled with smoke and culprits; where we stayed all night, in the midst of swearing, snoring, laughing and crying. in the morning we were carried before a magistrate; and with step superb, arms folded, and neck erect, i entered the room. 'pert enough,' said the magistrate; and turning from me, continued his examination of two men who stood near him. it appeared that one of them (whose name was jerry sullivan) had assaulted the other, on the following occasion. a joint sum of money had been deposited in sullivan's hands, by this other, and a third man, his partner, which sum sullivan had consented to keep for them, and had bound himself to return, whenever both should go together to him, and demand it. sometime afterwards, one of them went to him, and told him that the other being ill, and therefore unable to come for the money, had empowered him to get it. sullivan, believing him, gave the money, and when he next met the other, mentioned the circumstance. the other denied having authorized what had been done, and demanded his own share of the deposit from sullivan, who refused it. words ensued, and sullivan having knocked him down, was brought before the magistrate, to be committed for an assault. 'have you any defence?' said the magistrate to him. 'none that i know of,' answered he, 'only i would knock him down again, if he touched my honour again.' 'and is this your defence?' said the magistrate. 'it is so,' replied sullivan, 'and i hope your worship likes it, as well as i like your worship.' 'so well,' said the magistrate, 'that i now mean to do you a signal service.' 'why then,' cried sullivan, 'may the heavens smile on you.' 'and that service,' continued the magistrate, 'is to commit you immediately.' 'why then,' cried sullivan, 'may the devil inconvenience you!' 'by your insolence, you should be an irishman,' said the magistrate. 'i was an irishman forty years ago,' replied sullivan, 'and i don't suppose i am anything else now. though i have left my country, i scorn to change my birth-place.' 'commit him,' said the magistrate. just then, a device struck me, which i thought might extricate the poor fellow; so, having received permission, i went across, and whispered it to him. 'the heavens smile on you,' cried he, and then addressed his accuser: 'if i can prove to you that i have not broken our agreement about the money, will you promise not to prosecute me for this assault?' 'with all my heart,' answered he; 'for if you have not broken our agreement, you must have the money still, which is all i want.' 'and will your worship,' said sullivan, 'permit this compromise, and stand umpire between us?' 'i have not the least objection,' answered the magistrate; 'for i would rather be the means of your fulfilling an agreement, than of your suffering a punishment; and would rather recompense your accuser with money than with revenge.' 'well then,' said jerry to his accuser; 'was not our agreement, that i should return the money to yourself and your partner, whenever you came together to me, and asked for it?' 'certainly,' said the man. 'and did you both ever come together to me, and ask for it?' 'never,' said the man. 'then i have not broken our agreement,' cried sullivan. 'but you cannot keep it,' said the other; 'for you have given away the money.' 'no matter for that,' cried sullivan, 'provided i have it when both of you come to demand it. but i believe that will be never, for the fellow who ran off will not much like to shew his face again. so now will your worship please to decide.' the magistrate, after complimenting me upon my ingenuity, confessed, he said, with much unwillingness, that sullivan had made out his case clearly. the poor accuser was therefore obliged to abide by his promise, and sullivan was dismissed, snapping his fingers, and offering to treat the whole world with a tankard. my cause came after, and the treacherous maria was ordered to state her evidence. but what think you, biddy, of my keeping you in suspense, till my next letter? the practice of keeping in suspense is quite common among novelists. nay, there is a lady in the romance of the highlands, who terminates, not her letter, but her life, much in the same style. for when dying, she was about to disclose the circumstances of a horrid murder, and would have done so too, had she not unfortunately expended her last breath in a beautiful description of the verdant hills, rising sun, all nature smiling, and a few streaks of purple in the east. adieu. letter viii maria being ordered to state her evidence, 'that i will,' said she, 'only i am so ashamed of having been out late at night--but i must tell your worship how that happened.' 'you need not,' said the magistrate. 'well then,' she continued, 'i was walking innocently home, with my poor eyes fixed upon the ground, for fear of the fellors, when what should i see, but this girl, talking on some steps, with a pickpocket, i fancy, for he looked pretty decent. so i ran past them, for i was so ashamed you can't think; and this girl runs after me, and says, says she, "the fellor wouldn't give me a little shilling," says she, "so by jingo, you must," says she.' 'by jingo! i say by jingo?' cried i. 'st. catherine guard me! indeed, your excellenza, my only oath is santa maria.' 'she swore at me like a trooper,' continued the little imp, 'so i pulled out my purse in a fright, and she snatched it from me, and ran away, and i after her, calling stop thief; and this is the whole truth 'pon my honour and word, and as i hope to be married.' the watchman declared that he had caught me running away, that he had found the purse in my hand, and that maria had described it, and the money contained in it, accurately. 'and will your worship,' said maria, 'ask the girl to describe the sixpence that is in it?' the magistrate turned to me. 'really,' said i, 'as i never even saw it, i cannot possibly pretend to describe it.' 'then i can,' cried she. ''tis bent in two places, and stamped on one of its sides with a d and an h.' the sixpence was examined, and answered her description of it. 'the case is clear enough,' said the magistrate, 'and now, miss, try whether you can advocate your own cause as well as jerry sullivan's.' jerry, who still remained in the room, came behind me, and whispered, 'troth, miss, i have no brains, but i have a bit of an oath, if that is of any use to you. i would sell my soul out of gratitude, at any time.' 'alas! your excellenza,' said i to the magistrate, 'frail is the tenure of that character, which has innocence for its friend, and infamy for its foe. life is a chequered scene of light and shade; life is a jest, a stage----' 'talking of life is not the way to save it,' said the magistrate. 'less sentiment and more point, if you please.' i was silent, but looked anxiously towards the door. 'are you meditating an escape?' asked he. 'no,' said i, 'but just wait a little, and you shall see what an interesting turn affairs will take.' 'come,' cried he, 'proceed at once, or say you will not.' 'ah, now,' said i, 'can't you stop one moment, and not spoil everything by your impatience. i am only watching for the tall, elegant young stranger, with an oval face, who is to enter just at this crisis, and snatch me from perdition.' 'did he promise to come?' said the magistrate. 'not at all,' answered i, 'for i have never seen the man in my life. but whoever rescues me now, you know, is destined to marry me hereafter. that is the rule.' 'you are an impudent minx,' said the magistrate, 'and shall pay dear for your jocularity. have you parents?' 'i cannot tell.' 'friends?' 'none.' 'where do you live?' 'no where.' 'at least 'tis plain where you will die. what is your name?' 'cherubina.' 'cherubina what?' 'i know not.' 'not know? i protest this is the most hardened profligate i have ever met. commit her instantly.' i now saw that something must be done; so summoning all my most assuasive airs, i related the whole adventure, just as it had occurred. not a syllable obtained belief. the fatal sixpence carried all before it. i recollected the fate of angelica angela angelina, and shuddered. what should i do? one desperate experiment remained. 'there were four guineas and half a guinea in the purse,' said i to the girl. 'to be sure there were,' cried she. 'how cunning you are to tell me my own news.' 'now,' said i, 'answer me at once, and without hesitation, whether it is the half guinea or one of the guineas that is notched in three places, like the teeth of a saw?' she paused a little, and then said; 'i have a long story to tell about those same notches. i wanted a silk handkerchief yesterday, so i went into a shop to buy one, and an impudent ugly young fellor was behind the counter. well, he began ogling me so, i was quite ashamed; and says he to me, there is the change of your two pound note, says he, a guinea and a half in gold, says he, and you are vastly handsome, says he. and there are three notches in one of the coins, says he; guess which, says he, but it will pass all the same, says he, and you are prodigious pretty, says he. so indeed, i was so ashamed, that though i looked at the money, and saw the three notches, i have quite forgotten which they were in--guinea or half guinea; for my sight spread so, with shame at his compliments, that the half guinea looked as big as the guinea. well, out i ran, blushing like a poor, terrified little thing, and sure enough, a horrid accident was near happening me in my hurry. for i was just running under the wheel of a carriage, when a gentleman catches me in his arms, and says he, you are prodigious pretty, says he; and i frowned so, you can't think; and i am sure, i never remembered to look at the money since; and this is the whole truth, i pledge you my credit and honour, and _by the immaculate wenus_, as the gentlemen say.' the accusing witness who insulted the magistrate's bench with the oath, leered as she gave it in; and the recording clerk, as he wrote it down, drew a line under the words, and pointed them out for ever. 'then you saw the three notches?' said i. 'as plain as i see you now,' replied she, 'and a guilty poor thing you look.' 'and yet,' said i, 'if his excellenza examines, he will find that there is not a single notch in any one of the coins.' ''tis the case indeed,' said the magistrate, after looking at them. he then questioned both of us more minutely, and turning to me, said, 'your conduct, young woman, is unaccountable: but as your accuser has certainly belied herself, she has probably belied you. the money, by her own account, cannot be her's, but as it was found in your possession, it may be your's. i therefore feel fully justified in restoring it to you, and in acquitting you of the crime laid to your charge.' jerry sullivan uttered a shout of joy. i received the purse with silent dignity, gave maria back her sixpence, and hurried out of the room. jerry followed me. 'why then,' cried he, shaking me heartily by the hand, as we walked along, 'only tell me how i can serve you, and 'tis i am the man that will do it; though, to be sure, you must be the greatest little scapegrace (bless your heart!) in the three kingdoms.' 'alas!' said i, 'you mistake my character. i am heiress to an immense territory, and a heroine--the proudest title that can adorn a woman.' 'i never heard of that title before,' said jerry, 'but i warrant 'tis no better than it should be.' 'you shall judge for yourself,' said i. 'a heroine is a young lady, rather taller than usual, and often an orphan; at all events, possessed of the finest eyes in the world. though her frame is so fragile, that a breath of wind might scatter it like chaff, it is sometimes stouter than a statue of cast iron. she blushes to the tips of her fingers, and when other girls would laugh, she faints. besides, she has tears, sighs, and half sighs, at command; lives a month on a mouthful, and is addicted to the pale consumption.' 'why then, much good may it do her,' cried jerry; 'but in my mind, a phthisicky girl is no great treasure; and as for the fashion of living a month on a mouthful, let me have a potatoe and chop for my dinner, and a herring on saturday nights, and i would not give a farthing for all the starvation you could offer me. so when i finish my bit of herring, my wife says to me, winking, a fish loves water, says she, and immediately she fetches me a dram.' 'these are the delights of vulgar life,' said i. 'but to be thin, innocent, and lyrical; to bind and unbind her hair; in a word, to be the most miserable creature that ever augmented a brook with tears, these, my friend, are the glories of a heroine.' 'famous glories, by dad!' cried jerry; 'but as i am a poor man, and not particular, i can contrive to make shift with health and happiness, and to rub through life without binding my hair.--bind it? by the powers, 'tis seldom i even comb it.' as i was all this time without my bonnet (for in my hurry from betterton's i had left it behind me), i determined to purchase one. so i went into a shop, with jerry, and asked the woman of it for an interesting and melancholy turn of bonnet. she looked at me with some surprise, but produced several; and i fixed on one which resembled a bonnet that i had once seen in a picture of a wood nymph. so i put it on me, wished the woman good morning, and was walking away. 'you have forgotten to pay me, miss,' said she. 'true,' replied i, 'but 'tis no great matter. adieu.' 'you shall pay me, however,' cried she, ringing a bell, and a man entered instantly from an inner room. 'here is a hussey,' exclaimed she, 'who refuses to pay me for a bonnet.' 'my sweet friend,' said i to her, 'a distressed heroine, which i am, i assure you, runs in debt every where. besides, as i like your face, i mean to implicate you in my plot, and make you one of the _dramatis personã¦_ in the history of my life. probably you will turn out to be my mother's nurse's daughter. at all events, i give you my word, i will pay you at the _denouement_, when the other characters come to be provided for; and meantime, to secure your acquaintance, i must insist on owing you money.' 'by dad,' said jerry, 'that is the first of all ways to lose an acquaintance.' 'the bonnet or the money!' cried the man, stepping between me and the door. 'neither the one nor the other,' answered i. 'no, sir, to run in debt is part of my plan, and by what right dare you interfere to save me from ruin? pretty, indeed, that a girl at my time of life cannot select her own misfortunes! sir, your conduct astonishes, shocks, disgusts me.' to such a reasonable appeal the man could not reply, so he snatched at my bonnet. jerry jumped forward, and arrested his arm. 'hands off, bully!' cried the shopman. 'no, in troth,' said jerry; 'and the more you bid me, the more i won't let you go. if her ladyship has set her heart on a robbery, i am not the man to balk her fancy. sure, did not she save me from a gaol? and sure, would not i help her to a bonnet? a bonnet? 'pon my conscience, she shall have half a dozen. 'tis i that would not much mind being hanged for her!' so saying, he snatched a parcel of bonnets from the counter, and was instantly knocked down by the shopman. he rose, and both began a furious conflict. in the midst of it, i was attempting to rush from the shop, when i found my spangled muslin barbarously seized by the woman, who tore it to pieces in the struggle; and pulling off the bonnet, gave me a horrid slap in the face. i would have cuffed her nicely in return, only that she was more than my match; but i stamped at her with my feet. at first i was shocked at having made this unheroic gesture; till i luckily recollected, that amanda once stamped at an amorous footman. meantime jerry had stunned his adversary with a blow; so taking this opportunity of escape, he dragged me with him from the shop, and hurried me through several streets, without uttering a word. at length i was so much exhausted, that we stopped; and strange figures we were: jerry's face smeared with blood, nothing on my head, my long hair hanging loose about me, and my poor spangled muslin all in rags. 'here,' said jerry to an old woman who was selling apples at the corner of the street, 'take care of this young body, while i fetch her a coach.' and off he ran. the woman looked at me with a suspicious eye, so i resolved to gain her good opinion. it struck me that i might extract pathos from an apple, and taking one from her stall, 'an apple, my charming old friend,' said i, 'is the symbol of discord. eve lost paradise by tasting it, paris exasperated juno by throwing it.'--a loud burst of laughter made me turn round, and i perceived a crowd already at my elbow. 'who tore her gown?' said one. 'ask her spangles,' said another. 'or her hair,' cried a third. ''tis long enough to hang her,' cried a fourth. 'the king's hemp will do that job for her,' added a fifth. a pull at my muslin assailed me on the one side, and when i turned about, my hair was thrown over my face on the other. 'good people,' said i, 'you know not whom you thus insult. i am descended from illustrious, and perhaps italian parents----' a butcher's boy advanced, and putting half a hat under his arm; 'will your ladyship,' said he, 'permit me to hand you into that there shop?' i bowed assent, and he led me, nothing loath. peals of laughter followed us. 'now,' said i, as i stood at the door, 'i will reward your gallantry with half a guinea.' as i drew forth my money, i saw his face reddening, his cheeks swelling, and his mouth pursing up. 'what delicate sensibility!' said i, 'but positively you must not refuse this trifle.' he took it, and then, just think, the brute laughed in my face! 'i will give this guinea,' cried i, quite enraged, 'to the first who knocks that ungrateful down.' hardly had i spoken, when he was laid prostrate. he fell against the stall, upset it, and instantly the street was strewn with apples, nuts, and cakes. he rose. the battle raged. some sided with him, some against him. the furious stall-woman pelted both parties with her own apples; while the only discreet person there, was a ragged little girl, who stood laughing at a distance, and eating one of the cakes. in the midst of the fray, jerry returned with a coach. i sprang into it, and he after me. 'the guinea, the guinea!' cried twenty voices at once. at once twenty apples came rattling against the glasses. 'pay me for my apples!' cried the woman. 'pay me for my windows!' cried the coachman. 'drive like a devil,' cried jerry, 'and i will pay you like an emperor!' 'much the same sort of persons, now-a-days,' said the coachman, and away we flew. the guinea, the guinea! died along the sky. i thought i should have dropt with laughter. my dear friend, do you not sympathize with my sorrows? desolate, destitute, and dependent on strangers, what is to become of me? i declare i am extremely unhappy. i write from jerry's house, where i have taken refuge for the present; and as soon as i am settled elsewhere, you shall hear from me again. adieu. letter ix jerry sullivan is a petty woollendraper in st. giles's, and occupies the ground-floor of a small house. at first his wife and daughter eyed me with some suspicion; but when he told them how i had saved him from ruin, and that i was somehow or other a great lady in disguise, they became very civil, and gave me a tolerable breakfast. then fatigued and sleepy, i threw myself on a bed, and slept till two. i woke with pains in all my limbs; but anxious to forward the adventures of my life, i rose, and called mother and daughter to a consultation on my dress. they furnished me with their best habiliments, for which i agreed to give them two guineas; and i then began equipping myself. while thus employed, i heard the voices of husband and wife in the next room, rising gradually to the matrimonial key. at last the wife exclaims, 'a heroine? i will take my corporal oath, there is no such title in all england; and if she has the four guineas, she never came honestly by them; so the sooner she parts with them the better; and not a step shall she stir in our cloathes till she launches forth three of them. so that's that, and mine's my own, and how do you like my manners, ignoramus?' 'how dare you call me ignoramus?' cried jerry. 'blackguard if you like, but no ignoramus, i believe. i know what i could call you, though.' 'well,' cried she, 'saving a drunkard and a scold, what else can you call me?' 'i won't speak another word to you,' said jerry; 'i would not speak to you, if you were lying dead in the kennel.' 'then you're an ugly unnatural beast, so you are,' cried she, 'and your miss is no better than a bad one; and i warrant you understand one another well.' this last insinuation was sufficient for me. what! remain in a house where suspicion attached to my character? what! act so diametrically, so outrageously contrary to the principle of aspersed heroines, who are sure on such occasions to pin up a bundle, and set off? i spurned the mean idea, and resolved to decamp instantly. so having hastened my toilette, i threw three guineas on the table, and then looked for a pen and ink, to write a sonnet on gratitude. i could find nothing, however, but a small bit of chalk, and with this substitute, i scratched the following lines on the wall. sonnet on gratitude _addressed to jerry sullivan_ as some deputed angel, from the spheres of empyrean day, with nectar dewed, through firmamental wildernesses steers, to starless tracts of black infinitude-here the chalk failed me, and just at the critical moment for my simile had also failed me, nor could i have ever gotten beyond infinitude. i got to the street door, however, and without fear of being overheard; to such an altitude of tone had words arisen between husband and wife, who were now contesting a most delicate point--which of them had beaten the other last. 'i know,' cried jerry, 'that i gave the last blow.' 'then take the first now,' cried his wife, as i shut the door. anticipating the probability that i should have occasion for jerry's services again, i marked the number of the house, and then hastened along the street. it was swarming and humming like a hive of bees, and i felt as if i could never escape alive out of it. here a carriage almost ran over me; there a waggoner's whip almost blinded me. now a sweep brushed against me. 'beauty!' cried a man like a monkey, and chucked my chin, while a fellow with a trunk shoved me aside. i now turned into a street called bond street, where a long procession of carriages was passing. i remarked that the coachmen (they could not be gentlemen, i am sure) appeared to stand in great estimation; for the ladies of one carriage used to nod most familiarly to the driver of another. indeed, i had often heard it said, that ladies and coachmen are sometimes particularly intimate; but till now i could never believe it. the shops next attracted my attention, and i stopped to look at some of them. you cannot conceive any thing more charming: turkish turbans, indian shawls, pearls, diamonds, fans, feathers, laces; all shewn for nothing at the windows. i had but one guinea remaining! at length feeling tired and hungry, and my feet being quite foundered, i determined to lose no farther time in taking lodgings. perceiving 'apartments to let,' written on a door, i rapped, and a servant girl opened it. 'pray,' said i to her, 'are your northern apartments uninhabited?' she replied that there were two rooms on the second floor disengaged, and comfortably furnished. 'i do not want them comfortable,' said i; 'but are they furnished with tapestry and old pictures? that is the point.' 'there is only master's face over the chimney,' said she. 'do the doors creek on their hinges?' asked i. 'that they don't,' said she, 'for i oiled 'em all only yesterday.' 'then you shewed a depraved taste,' cried i. 'at least, are the apartments haunted?' 'lauk, no!' said she, half shutting the door. 'well then, my good girl, tell me candidly whether your mistress is like the landladies one reads of. is she a fat, bustling little woman, who would treat me to tea, cakes, and plenty of gossip, and at the end of a week, say to me, "out, hussy, tramp this moment;" or is she a pale, placid matron, worn to a thread-paper, and whose story is interwoven with mine?' 'deuce take your impudence!' cried she, slapping the door in my face. i tried other houses with no better success; and even when i merely asked for common lodgings, without stipulating for spectres or tapestry, the people would not accommodate me, unless i could procure some recommendation besides my own. as i had no friend to give me a character, it became necessary to make a friend; so i began to look about for a fit subject. passing a shop where eggs and butter were sold, and lodgings to be let, i perceived a pretty woman sitting behind the counter, and a fine infant playing upon it. i thought that all this bore an auspicious appearance; so i tottered into the shop, and placing myself opposite to the woman, i gazed at her with an engaging and gentle intelligence. she demanded my business. 'interesting creature!' whispered i, pressing her hand as it rested on the counter. 'o may that little rosy fatling----' unfortunately there was an egg in the hand that i took, which i crushed by the compression, and the yolk came oozing between her fingers. 'reptile!' cried she, as she threw the fragments in my face. 'savage!' cried i, as i ran out of the shop, and wiped off the eggy dishonours. at length i reached an immense edifice, which appeared to me the castle of some brow-knitting baron. ponderous columns supported it, and statues stood in the niches. the portal lay open. i glided into the hall. as i looked anxiously around, i beheld a cavalier descending a flight of steps. he paused, muttered some words, laid his hand upon his heart, dropped it, shook his head, and proceeded. i felt instantly interested in his fate; and as he came nearer, perceived, that surely never lighted on this orb, which he hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. his form was tall, his face oval, and his nose aquiline. seducing sweetness dwelled in his smile, and as he pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with rapture, or beam with sensibility. once more he paused, frowned, and waving his arm, exclaimed, with an elegant energy of enunciation! 'to watch the minutes of this night, that if again this apparition come, he may approve our eyes, and speak to it!' that moment a pang, poignant, but delicious, transfixed my bosom. too well i felt and confessed it the dart of love. in sooth, too well i knew that my heart was lost to me for ever. silly maiden! but fate had decreed it. i rushed forward, and sank at the feet of the stranger. 'pity and protect a destitute orphan!' cried i. 'here, in this hospitable castle, i may hope for repose and protection. oh, signor, conduct me to your respected mother, the baroness, and let me pour into her ear my simple and pathetic tale.' 'o ho! simple and pathetic!' cried he. 'come, my dear, let me hear it.' i seated myself on the steps, and told him my whole story. during the recital, the noble youth betrayed extreme sensibility. sometimes he turned his head aside to conceal his emotion; and sometimes stifled a hysterical laugh of agony. when i had ended, he begged to know whether i was quite certain that i had ten thousand pounds in my power. i replied, that as wilkinson's daughter, i certainly had; but that the property must devolve to some one else, as soon as i should be proved a nobleman's daughter. he then made still more accurate inquiries about it; and after having satisfied himself: 'beshrew my heart!' exclaimed he; 'but i will avenge your injuries; and ere long you shall be proclaimed and acknowledged the lady cherubina de willoughby. meantime, as it will be prudent for you to lie concealed from the search of your enemies, hear the project which i have formed. i lodge at present in drury-lane, an obscure street; and as one apartment in the house is unoccupied, you can hire it, and remain there, a beautiful recluse, till fortune and my poor efforts shall rescue from oppression the most enchanting of her sex.' he spoke, and seizing my hand, carried it to his lips. 'what!' cried i, 'do you not live in this castle, and are you not its noble heir?' 'this is no castle,' said he, 'but covent garden theatre.' 'and you?' asked i with anxiety. 'am an actor,' answered he. 'and your name?' 'is abraham grundy.' 'then, mr. abraham grundy,' said i, 'allow me to have the satisfaction of wishing you a very good evening.' 'stay!' cried he, detaining me, 'and you shall know the whole truth. my birth is illustrious, and my real name lord altamont mortimer montmorenci. but like you, i am enveloped in a cloud of mysteries, and compelled to the temporary resource of acting. hereafter i will acquaint you with the most secret particulars of my life; but at present, you must trust to my good faith, and accept of my protection.' 'generous montmorenci!' exclaimed i, giving him my hand, which he pressed upon his heart. 'now,' said he, 'you must pass at these lodgings as my near relation, or they will not admit you.' at first, i hesitated at deviating from veracity; but soon consented, on recollecting, that though heroines begin with praising truth, necessity makes them end with being the greatest story-tellers in the world. nay, clarissa harlowe, when she had a choice, often preferred falsehood to fact. during our walk to the lodgings, montmorenci instructed me how to play my part, and on our arrival, introduced me to the landlady, who was about fifty, and who looked as if the goddess of fasting had bespoken her for a hand-maid. with an amiable effrontery, and a fine easy flow of falsehood, he told her, as we had concerted, that i was his second cousin, and an orphan; my name miss donald (amanda's assumed name), and that i had come to town for the purpose of procuring by his interest, an appointment at the theatre. the landlady said she would move heaven and earth, and her own bed, for so good a gentleman; and then consented to give me her sleeping-room on the ground-floor, at some trifle or other,--i forget what. i have also the use of a parlour adjoining it. there is, however, nothing mysterious in these chambers, but a dark closet belonging to the parlour, whither i may fly for refuge, when pursued by my persecutors. thus, my friend, the plot of my history begins to take a more interesting shape, and a fairer order of misfortune smiles upon me. trust me, there is a taste in distress as well as in millinery. far be from me the loss of eyes or limbs, such publicity as the pillory affords, or the grossness of a jail-fever. i would be sacrificed to the lawless, not to the laws, dungeoned in the holy inquisition, not clapped into bridewell, recorded in a novel, not in the newgate calender. were i inelegantly unhappy, i should be wretched indeed. yes, my biddy, sensations hitherto unknown now heave my white bosom, vary the carnation of my cheeks, and irradiate my azure eyes. i sigh, gaze on vacancy, start from a reverie; now bite, now moisten my coral lip, and pace my chamber with unequal steps. too sure i am deeply, distractedly in love, and altamont mortimer montmorenci is the first of men. adieu. letter x the landlady, his lordship, and another lodger, are accustomed to dine in common; and his lordship easily persuaded me to join the party. accordingly, just as i had finished my last letter, dinner was announced, so having braided my tresses, i tripped up stairs, and glided into the room. you must know i have practised tripping, gliding, flitting, and tottering, with great success. of these, tottering ranks first, as it is the approved movement of heroic distress. 'i wonder where our mad poet can be?' said the hostess; and as she spoke, an uncouth figure entered, muttering in emphatic accents, 'the hounds around bound on the sounding ground.' he started on seeing me, and when introduced by his lordship, as mr. higginson, his fellow lodger, and a celebrated poet, he made an unfathomable bow, rubbed his hands, and reddened to the roots of his hair. this personage is tall, gaunt, and muscular; with a cadaverous countenance, and black hair in strings on his forehead. i find him one of those men who spend their lives in learning how the greeks and romans lived; how they spoke, dressed, ate; what were their coins and houses, &c.; but neglect acquainting themselves with the manners and customs of their own times. montmorenci tells me that his brain is affected by excessive study; but that his manners are harmless. at dinner, montmorenci looked all, said all, did all, which conscious nobility, united with ardent attachment, could inspire in a form unrivalled, and a face unexcelled. i perceived that the landlady regarded him with eyes of tender attention, and languishing allurement, but in vain. i was his magnet and his cynosure. as to higginson, he did not utter a word during dinner, except asking for a bit of _lambkin_; but he preserved a perpetuity of gravity in his face, and stared at me, the whole time, with a stupid and reverential fixedness. when i spoke, he stopped in whatever attitude he happened to be; whether with a glass at his mouth, or a fork half lifted to it. after dinner, i proposed that each of us should relate the history of our lives; an useful custom established by heroines, who seldom fail of finding their account in it; as they are almost always sure to discover, by such means, either a grandmother or a murder. thus too, the confession of a monk, the prattle of an old woman, a diamond cross on a child's neck, or a parchment, are the certain forerunners of virtue vindicated, vice punished, rights restored, and matrimony made easy. the landlady was asked to begin. 'i have nothing to tell of myself,' said she, 'but that my mother left me this house, and desired me to look out for a good husband, mr. grundy; and i am not as old as i look; for i have had my griefs, as well as other folks, and every tear adds a year, as they say; and 'pon my veracity, mr. grundy, i was but thirty-two last month. and my bitterest enemies never impeached my character, that is what they did'nt, nor could'nt; they dare'nt to my face. i am a perfect snowdrop for purity. who presumes to go for to say that a lord left me an annuity or the like? who, i ask? but i got a prize in the lottery. so this is all i can think to tell of myself; and, mr. grundy, your health, and a good wife to you, sir.' after this eloquent piece of biography, we requested of higginson to recount his adventures; and he read a short sketch, which was to have accompanied a volume of poems, had not the booksellers refused to publish them. i copy it for you. memoirs of james higginson by himself: 'of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to conjecture. he therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party. 'i was born in the year 1771, at 24, swallow street; and should the curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil obsequiousness of his notable lady. he who gives civility, gives what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an indefinite ratio. 'my parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing quid. of genius the first spark which i elicited, was reading a ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing a canister of snuff. this specimen of mental abstraction (a quality which i still preserve), shewed that i would never make a good tradesman; but it also shewed, that i would make an excellent scholar. a tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a triennial course of study, i had passed from the insipidity of the incipient _hic_, _hã¦c_, _hoc_, to the music of a virgil, and the thunder of a demosthenes. 'debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of high society, i have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination. 'with illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill supplies me. that i have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can, controvert. but i assert the fact, and i expect to be believed, because i assert it. life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of few things more comfortable than indifference to dress. 'to honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, i have ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical allusions which they inspire. that man is little to be envied, whose honey would not remind him of the hyblean honey, and whose apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple. 'but notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, i have that happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate superannuated mutton. 'my first series of teeth i cut at the customary time, and the second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. this fact i had from my mother. 'my first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor, and it was produced at the precocious age of ten. epitaph here lies the body of john tomkins, who departed this life, aged fifty-two; after a long and painful illness, that he bore with christian fortitude, though fat. he died lamented deeply by this poem, and all who had the happiness to know him. 'this composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a thousand pounds. 'i still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with, had it read. for some years past, however, the booksellers have declined to publish my productions at all. envious enemies poison their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is disordered. for, like rousseau, i am the victim of implacable foes; but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is opprest. 'on a pretty little maid of my mother's, i made my next poetical effort, which i present to the reader. to dorothy pulvertaft if black-sea, white-sea, red-sea ran one tide of ink to ispahan; if all the geese in lincoln fens, produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens; if holland old or holland new, one wond'rous sheet of paper grew; could i, by stenographic power, write twenty libraries an hour; and should i sing but half the grace of half a freckle on thy face; each syllable i wrote, should reach from inverness to bognor's beach; each hairstroke be a river rhine, each verse an equinoctial line. 'of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let the sedulous researches of future biographers decide. 'at length, having resolved on writing a volume of eclogues, i undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and write in comfort, far from my tailor. an amputated loaf, and a contracted theocritus, constituted my companions. not a cloud blotted the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant tresses of the trees. 'in vain i questioned the youths and maidens about their damons and delias; their dryads and hamadryads; their amaboean contentions and their amorous incantations. when i talked of pan, they asked me if it was a pan of milk; when i requested to see the pastoral pipe, they shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when i spoke of satyrs with horns, they bade me go to the husbands; and when i spoke of fawns with cloven heel, they bade me go to the devil. while charmed with a thatched and shaded cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when i recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. i fell asleep under sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. dripping and disconsolate, i returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous perambulation have never ruralized again. to him who subjects himself to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied. 'a satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. it is called antique amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. the reader shall have it. antique amour an eclogue 'tis eve. the sun his ardent axle cools in ocean. dripping geese shake off the pools. an elm men's shadows measure; red and dun, the shattered leaves are rustling as they run; while an aged bachelor and ancient maid, sit amorous under an old oak decayed. he (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass) strews fodder underneath the hoary lass; then thus,--o matchless piece of season'd clay, 'tis autumn, all things shrivel and decay. yet as in withered autumn, charms we see, say, faded maiden, may we not in thee? what tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore; for wrinkles are the dimples of threescore: tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies, it fondly circles round those roseate eyes; and while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain, the tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. to clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold, of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold; then, after stately kisses, to repair that architectural edifice of hair, these, these are blessings.--o my grey delight, o venerable nymph, o painted blight, give me to taste of these. by heaven above, i tremble less with palsy than with love; and tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth, my words flow unobstructed by a tooth. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law, nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw. come, and in formal frolic intertwine, the braided silver of thy hair with mine. then sing some bibulous and reeling glee, and drink crusht juices of the grape with me. sing, for the wine no water shall dilute; 'tis drinking water makes the fishes mute. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet; ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet. so spoke the slim and elderly remains of once a youth. a staff his frame sustains; and aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel, thin as the spectre of a famished eel. sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes, the virgin a decrepid simper tries, then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain, her passion, and the teeth that still remain. innocent pair! but now the rain begins, so both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins. and homeward haste. such loves the poet wrote, in the patch'd poverty of half a coat; then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime, magnanimously mad in mighty rhime. 'with my venerable parent, i now pass a harmless life. as we have no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise. 'whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother does, far be from me to determine. if they cannot boast of wit and judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay claim. to be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with consolidation.' * * * * * i listened with much compassion to this written evidence of a perverted intellect. o my friend, what a frightful disorder is madness! my turn came next, and i repeated the fictitious tale that montmorenci had taught me. he confirmed it; and on being asked to relate his own life, gave us, with great taste, such a natural narrative of a man living on his wits, that any one who knew not his noble origin must have believed it. soon afterwards, he retired to dress for the theatre; and when he returned, i beheld a perfect hero. he was habited in an italian costume; his hair hung in ringlets, and mustachios embellished his lip. he then departed in a coach, and as soon as he had left us: 'i declare,' said the landlady to me, 'i do not like your cousin's style of beauty at all; particularly his pencilled eyebrows and curled locks, they look so womanish.' 'what!' said i, 'not admire hesperian, hyacinthine, clustering curls? surely you would not have a hero with overhanging brows and lank hair? these are worn by none but the villains and assassins.' i perceived poor higginson colouring, and twisting his fingers; and i then recollected that his brows and hair have precisely the faults which i reprobated. 'dear, dear, dear!' muttered he, and made a precipitate retreat from the room. i retired soon after; and i now hasten to throw myself on my bed, dream of love and montmorenci, and wake unrefreshed, from short and distracted slumbers. adieu. letter xi this morning, soon after breakfast, i heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour, entered. oh! ye conscious blushes, it was my montmorenci! a plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were wanting. 'i come,' cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, 'i come in the ancient armour of my family, to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.' 'my lord,' said i, 'rise and be seated. cherubina knows how to appreciate the honour that montmorenci confers.' he bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history. 'all was dark. the hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. 'in the province of languedoc stood the gothic castle of montmorenci. before it ran the garonne, and behind it rose the pyrenees, whose summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that swept downward to their base. 'my lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?' whispered rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. 'if they an't,' said bernardo, 'by st. jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.' 'the wind is east-south-east,' said ugo. 'at this moment the bell of montmorenci castle tolled one. the sound vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honour to address you. much alarmed, i started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies, by michael angelo. but conceive my horror when i beheld my chamber filled with banditti! 'snatching my sword, i flew to a corner, where my coat of mail lay heapt. the bravos rushed upon me; but i fought and dressed, and dressed and fought, till i had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilette. 'i then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years of age. alack! there lies more peril in thine eye, than twenty of their swords.-'to describe the horror of the contest that followed, were beyond the pen of an anacreon. in short, i fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail, and whistled as they went for want of thought. 'at length my sword broke, so i set sail for england. 'as i first touched foot on her chalky beach; hail! exclaimed i, happy land, thrice hail! take to thy fostering bosom the destitute montmorenci--montmorenci, once the first and richest of the gallic nobility--montmorenci, whom wretches drove from his hereditary territories, for loyalty to his monarch, and opposition to the atrocities of exterminators and revolutionists. 'nine days and nights i wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast: the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.' 'ah!' interrupted i, 'how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!' 'extremely,' said he, 'for during sixteen long years, i had not a roof over my head.--i was an itinerant beggar! 'one summer's day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage; the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. i sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. what a divinity! she was fresh as the anadyomene of apelles, and beautiful as the gnidus of praxitiles, or the helen of zeuxis. her eyes dipt in heaven's own hue.'---'sir,' said i, 'you need not mind her eyes: i dare say they were blue enough. but pray who was this immortal doll of your's?' 'who!' cried he. 'why who but--shall i speak it? who but--the lady cherubina de willoughby!!!' 'i!' 'you!' 'ah! montmorenci!' 'ah! cherubina! i followed you with cautious steps,' continued he, 'till i traced you into your--you had a garden, had you not?' 'yes.' 'into your garden. i thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. but the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of cupid is extinguished for ever! 'you disappeared, i uttered incoherent sentences, and next morning resumed my station at a corner of the garden.' 'at which corner?' asked i. 'why really,' said he, 'i cannot explain; for the place was then new to me, and the ground was covered with snow.' 'with snow!' cried i. 'why i thought you were eating wild strawberries only the day before.' 'i!' said he. 'sure you mistake.' 'i declare most solemnly you told me so,' cried i. 'why then,' said he, 'curse me if i did.' 'sir,' said i. 'i must remark that your manners----' 'bless me!' cried he, 'yes, i did say so, sure enough, and i did eat wild strawberries too; but they were _preserved_ wild strawberries. i had got a small crock of them from an oyster woman, who was opening oysters in a meadow, for a hysterical butcher; and her knife having snapt in two, i lent her my sword; so, out of gratitude, she made me a present of the preserves. by the bye, they were mouldy. 'one morning, as i sat at the side of the road, asking alms, some provincial players passed by me. i accosted them, and offered my services. in short, they took me with them; i performed, was applauded; and at length my fame reached london, where i have now been acting some years, with much success; anxious as i am, to realize a little money, that i may return, in disguise, to my native country, and petition napoleon to restore my forfeited estates. 'such, fair lady, such is my round, unvarnished tale. 'but wherefore,' cried he, starting from his seat; 'wherefore talk of the past? oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. oh! let me tell you, how dearly, how devotedly i love you!' 'love me!' cried i, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. 'my lord, this is so--really now so----' 'pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,' said he, flinging himself at my feet. 'fain would i have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty?' i remained silent, and with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. i never looked so lovely. 'but i go!' cried he, springing on his feet. 'i fly from you for ever! no more shall cherubina be persecuted with my hopeless love. but cherubina, the hills and the vallies shall echo, and the songsters of the grove shall articulate cherubina. i will shake the leaves of the forest with my sighs, and make the stream so briny with my tears, that the turbot shall swim into it, and the sea-weed grow upon its banks!' 'ah, do not!' said i, with a look of unutterable anguish. 'i will!' exclaimed he, pacing the chamber with long strides, and slapping his heart, 'and i call all the stars of respectability to witness the vow. then, lady cherubina,' continued he, stopping short before me; 'then, when maddened and emaciated, i shall pillow my haggard head on a hard rock, and lulled by the hurricanes of heaven, shall sink into the sleep of the grave.'---'dear montmorenci!' said i, quite overcome, 'live for my sake--as you value my--friendship,--live.' 'friendship!' echoed he. 'oh! cherubina, oh! my soul's precious treasure, say not that icy word. say hatred, disgust, horror; any thing but friendship.' 'what shall i say?' cried i, ineffably affected, 'or what shall i do?' 'what you please,' muttered he, looking wild and pressing his forehead. 'my brain is on fire. hark! chains are clanking--the furies are whipping me with their serpents--what smiling cherub arrests yon bloody hand? ha! 'tis cherubina. and now she frowns at me--she darts at me--she pierces my heart with an arrow of ice!' he threw himself on the floor, groaned grievously, and tore his hair. i was horror-struck. 'i declare,' said i, 'i would say any thing on earth to relieve you;--only tell me what.' 'angel of light!' exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might liquefy marble. 'have i then hope? dare i say it? dare i pronounce the divine words, she loves me?' 'i am thine and thou art mine!' murmured i, while the room swam before me. he took both my hands in his own, pressed them to his forehead and lips, and leaned his burning cheek upon them. 'my sight is confused,' said he, 'my breathing is opprest; i hear nothing, my veins swell, a palpitation seizes my heart, and i scarcely know where i am, or whether i exist!' then softly encircling my waist with his arm, he pressed me to his heart. with what modesty i tried to extricate myself from his embrace; yet with what willing weakness i trembled on his bosom. it was cherubina's hand that fell on his shoulder, it was cherubina's tress that played on his cheek, it was cherubina's sigh that breathed on his lip. 'moment of a pure and exquisite emotion!' cried he. 'in the life of man you are known but once; yet once known, can you ever be forgotten? now to die would be to die most blest!' suddenly he caught me under the chin, and kissed me. i struggled from him, and sprang to the other end of the room, while my neck and face were suffused with a glow of indignation. 'really,' said i, panting with passion, 'this is so unprovoked, so presuming.' he cast himself at my feet, execrated his folly, and swore that he had merely fulfilled an etiquette indispensible among lovers in his own country. ''tis not usual here, my lord,' said i; 'and i have no notion of submitting to any freedom that is not sanctioned by the precedent of those exalted models whom i have the honour to imitate. 'i fancy, my lord, you will find, that, as far as a kiss on the hand, or an arm round the waist, they have no particular objection. but a salute on the lip is considered inaccurate. my lord, on condition that you never repeat the liberty, here is my hand.' he snatched it with ardor, and strained it to his throbbing bosom. 'and now,' cried he, 'make my happiness complete, by making this hand mine for ever.' on a sudden an air of dignified grandeur involved my form. my mind, for the first time, was called upon to reveal its full force. it felt the solemnity of the appeal, and triumphed in its conscious ability. 'what!' cried i, 'knowest thou not the fatal, the inscrutable, the mysterious destiny, which must ever prevent our union?' 'speak, i conjure you,' cried he, 'or i expire on the spot.' 'alas!' exclaimed i, 'can'st thou suppose the poor orphan cherubina so destitute of principle and of pride, as to intrude herself unknown, unowned, unfriended; mysterious in her birth, and degraded in her situation, on the ancient and illustrious house of montmorenci? 'here then i most solemnly vow, never to wed, till the horrible mystery which hangs over my birth be developed.' you know, biddy, that a heroine ought always to snatch at an opportunity of making a fatal vow. when things are going on too smooth, and interest drooping, a fatal vow does wonders. i remember reading in some romance, of a lady, who having vowed never to divulge a certain secret, kept it twenty years; and with such inviolability, that she lived to see it the death of all her children, several of her friends, and a fine old aunt. as soon as i had made this fatal vow, his lordship fell into the most afflicting agonies and attitudes. 'oh!' cried he, 'to be by your side, to see you, touch you, talk to you, love you, adore you, and yet find you lost to me for ever. oh! 'tis too much, too much.' 'the milliner is here, miss,' said the maid, tapping at the door. 'bid her call again,' said i. 'beloved of my soul!' murmured his lordship. 'ma'am,' interrupted the maid, opening the door, 'she cannot call again, as she must go from this to kensington.' 'then let her come in,' said i, and she entered with a charming assortment of bonnets and dresses. 'we will finish the scene another time,' whispered i to his lordship. his lordship swore that he would drop dead that instant. the milliner declared that she had brought me the newest patterns. 'on my honour,' said i to his lordship, 'you shall finish this scene to-morrow morning, if you wish it.' 'you may go and be---heigho!' said he, suddenly checking himself. what he was about to say, i know not; something mysterious, i should think, by the knitting of his brows. however, he snatched his spear, shield, and helmet, made a low bow, laid his hand on his heart, and stalked out of the chamber. interesting youth! i then ran in debt for some millinery, drank hartshorn, and chafed my temples. i think i was right about the kiss. i confess i am not one of those girls who try to attract men through the medium of the touch; and who thus excite passion at the expence of respect. lips are better employed in sentiment, than in kissing. indeed, had i not been fortified by the precedent of other heroines, i should have felt, and i fear, did actually feel, even the classical embrace of montmorenci too great a freedom. but remember i am still in my noviciate. after a little practice, i shall probably think it rather a pleasure to be strained, and prest, and folded to the heart. yet of this i am certain, that i shall never attain sufficient hardihood to ravish a kiss from a man's mouth; as the divine heloise did; who once ran at st. preux, and astonished him with the most balmy and remarkable kiss upon record. poor fellow! he was never the same after it. i must say too, that montmorenci did not shew much judgment in urging me to marry him, before i had undergone adventures for four volumes. because, though the heroic etiquette allowed me to fall in love at first sight, and confess it at second sight, yet it would not authorize me to marry myself off quite so smoothly. a heroine is never to be got without agony and adventure. even the ground must be lacerated, before it will bring forth fruits, and often we cannot reach the lovely violet, till we have torn our hands with brambles. i did not see his lordship again until dinner time; and we had almost finished our repast, before the poet made his appearance and his bow. his bow was as usual, but his appearance was strangely changed. his hair stood in stiff ringlets on his forehead, and he had pruned his bushy eyebrows, till hardly one bristle remained; while a pair of white gloves, small enough for myself, were forced upon his hands. he glanced at us with a conscious eye, and hurried to his seat at table. 'ovid's metamorphoses, by jupiter!' exclaimed montmorenci. 'why, higginson, how shameful for the mice to have nibbled your eyebrows, while apollo belvidere was curling your hair!' the poet blushed, and ate with great assiduity. 'my dear fellow,' continued his lordship, 'we can dispense with those milk-white gloves during dinner. tell me, are they mamma's, dear mamma's?' 'i will tell my mother of you!' cried the poet, half rising from his chair. now his mother is an old bed-ridden lady in one of the garrets. i then interfered in his behalf, and peace was restored. after dinner, i took an opportunity, when the landlady had left the room, to request ten pounds from his lordship, for the purpose of paying the milliner. never was regret so finely pictured in a face as in his, while he swore that he had not a penny upon earth. indeed so graceful was his lamentation, so interesting his penury, that though the poet stole out of the room for ten pounds, which he slipped into my hand, i preferred the refusal of the one to the donation of the other. yes, this amiable young nobleman increases in my estimation every moment. never can you catch him out of a picturesque position. he would exhaust in an hour all the attitudes of all the statues; when he talks tenderness, his eyes glow with a moist fire, and he always brings in his heart with peculiar happiness. then too, his oaths are at once well conceived and elegantly expressed. thunderbolts and the fixed stars are ever at his elbow, and no man can sink himself to perdition with so fine a grace. but i could write of him, talk of him, think of him, hour after hour, minute after minute; even now, while the shadows of night are blackening the blushes of the rose, till dawn shall stain with her ruddy fire, the snows of the naked apennine; till the dusky streams shall be pierced with darts of light, and the sun shall quaff his dewy beverage from the cup of the tulip, and the chalice of the lily. that is pretty painting. adieu. letter xii 'it is my lady, o it is my love!' exclaimed lord altamont mortimer montmorenci, as he flew, like a winged mercury, into my apartment this morning. a loud rap at the door checked his eloquence, and spoiled a most promising posture. 'is miss wilkinson within?' said a voice in the hall. 'no such person lives here,' replied the maid, who was accustomed to hear me called miss donald. 'but there does, and on the ground-floor too, and i will find her out, i warrant,' cried the same voice. my door was then thrown open, and who should waddle into the room, but fat wilkinson! my first feeling (could you believe it) was of gladness at seeing him; nor had i presence of mind enough, either to repulse his embrace, or utter a piercing shriek. happily my recollection soon returned, and i flung him from me. 'cherry,' said he, 'dear cherry, what have i done to you, that you should use me thus? was there ever a wish of your heart that i left ungratified? and now to desert me in my old age! only come home with me, my child, only come home with me, and i will forgive you all.' 'wilkinson,' said i, 'this interview must be short, pointed, and decisive. as to calling yourself my father, that is a stale trick, and will not pass; and as to personating (what i perceive you aspire to) the grand villain of my plot, your corpulency, pardon me, puts that out of the question for ever. i should be just as happy to employ you as any other man i know, but excuse me if i say, that you rather overrate your talents and qualifications. have you the gaunt ferocity of famine in your countenance? can you darken the midnight of a scowl? have you the quivering lip and the schedoniac contour? and while the lower part of your face is hidden in black drapery, can your eyes glare from under the edge of a cowl? in a word, are you a picturesque villain, full of plot, and horror, and magnificent wickedness? ah, no, sir, you are only a sleek, good-humoured, chuckle-headed gentleman. continue then what nature made you; return to your plough, mow, reap, fatten your pigs and the parson; but never again attempt to get yourself thrust into the pages of a romance.' disappointment and dismay forced more meaning into his features than i thought them possessed of. the fact is, he had never imagined that my notions of what villains ought to be were so refined; and that i have formed my taste in these matters upon the purest models. as a last effort of despair, the silly man flung himself on his knees before me, and grasping my hands, looked up in my face, with such an imploring wretchedness of expression, while the tears rolled silently down his cheeks, that i confess i was a little moved; and for the moment fancied him sincere. 'now goodness bless thee,' said he, at length, 'goodness bless thee, for those sweet tears of thine, my daughter!' 'tears!' cried i, quite shocked. 'yes, darling,' said he, 'and now with this kiss of peace and love, we will blot out all the past.' i shrieked, started from my seat, and rushed into the expanding arms of montmorenci. 'and pray, sir,' cried wilkinson, advancing fiercely, 'who are you?' 'a lodger in this house, sir,' answered his lordship, 'and your best friend, as i trust you will acknowledge hereafter. i became acquainted with this lady at the table of our hostess, and learned from her, that she had left your house in disgust. yesterday morning, on entering her apartment, to make my respects, i found an old gentleman there, one doctor merrick, whom i recognized as a wretch of infamous character; tried twice for shoplifting, and once for having swindled the spanish ambassador out of a golden snuff-box. i, though an humble individual, yet being well acquainted with this young lady's high respectability, presumed to warn her against such a dangerous companion; when i found, to my great concern, that she had already promised him her hand in marriage.' wilkinson groaned: i stared. 'on being apprised of his character,' continued montmorenci, 'the young lady was willing enough to drop the connection, but unfortunately, the ruffian had previously procured a written promise of marriage from her, which he now refuses to surrender; and at the moment you came, i was consulting with your daughter what was best to be done.' 'lead me to him!' cried wilkinson, 'lead me to the villain this instant, and i will shew you what is best to be done!' 'i have appointed an interview with him, about this time,' said his lordship, 'and as your feelings might probably prompt you to too much warmth, perhaps you had better not accompany me; but should i fail in persuading him to deliver up the fatal paper, you shall then see him yourself.' 'you are a fine fellow!' cried the farmer, shaking his hand, 'and have bound me to you for ever.' 'i will hasten to him now,' said his lordship, and casting a significant glance at me, departed; leaving me quite astonished, both at his story, and his motive for fabricating it. it was, however, my business to support the deception. wilkinson then told me that he discovered my place of residence in london, from the discharged butler, who, it seems, is not your son, but your lover; and to whom you have shewn all my letters. he went to wilkinson, and made the disclosure for forty guineas. sordid wretch! and wilkinson says that he wants to marry you, merely for the sake of your annuity. biddy, biddy! had you known as much of the world as i do now, a fortune hunter would not have imposed upon you. as to your shewing him my letters, i cannot well blame you for a breach of trust, which has answered the purpose of involving my life in a more complicated labyrinth of entanglements. but to return. in the midst of our conversation, the maid brought me a note. it was from montmorenci, and as follows: 'will my soul's idol forgive the tale i told wilkinson, since it was devised in order to save her from his fangs? this doctor merrick, whom i mentioned to him, instead of being a swindler, is a mad-doctor; and keeps a private madhouse. i have just seen him, and have informed him that i am about to put a lunatic gentleman, my honoured uncle, under his care. i told him, that this dear uncle (who, you may well suppose is wilkinson) has lucid intervals; that his madness arose from grief at an unfortunate amour of his daughter's, and shews itself in his fancying that every man he sees wants to marry her, and has her written promise of marriage. 'i have already advanced the necessary fees, and now is your time to wheedle wilkinson out of money, by pretending that you will return home with him. a true heroine, my sweet friend, ever shines in deception. good now, play one scene of excellent dissembling.--shakespeare. 'ever, ever, ever, 'your faithful 'montmorenci. 'p.s. excuse tender language, as i am in haste.' this dear letter i placed in my bosom: and when i begged of the farmer to let me have a little money, he took out his pocket-book. 'here, my darling,' said he, 'here are notes to the tune of a hundred pounds, that you may pay all you owe, and purchase whatever baubles and finery you like. this is what you get for discarding that swindler, and promising to return home with old dad.' soon afterwards, our hero came back, and told us that his interview had proved unsuccessful. it was therefore determined that we should all repair to the doctor's (for wilkinson would not go without me), and off we set in a hired coach. on our arrival, we were shewn into a parlour, and after some minutes of anxious suspense, the doctor, a thin little figure, with a shrivelled face and bushy wig, came humming into the room. wilkinson being introduced, the doctor commenced operations, by trying the state of his brain. 'any news to-day, mr. wilkinson?' said he. 'very bad news for me, sir,' replied wilkinson, sullenly. 'i mean public news,' said the doctor. 'a private grievance ought to be considered of public moment,' said wilkinson. 'well remarked, sir,' cried the doctor, 'a clear-headed observation as possible. sir, i give you credit. there is a neatness in the turn of it that argues a collected intellect.' 'sir,' said wilkinson, 'i hope that some other observations which i am about to offer will please you as well.' 'i hope so for your own sake,' answered the doctor; 'i shall certainly listen to them with a favourable ear.' 'thank you, sir,' said the farmer: 'and such being the case, i make no doubt that all will go well; for men seldom disagree, when they wish to coincide.' 'good again,' cried the doctor. 'apt and good. sir, if you continue to talk so rationally, i promise you that you will not remain long in my house.' 'i am sorry,' replied wilkinson, 'that talking rationally is the way to get turned out of your house, because i have come for the purpose of talking rationally.' 'and while such is your resolution,' said the doctor, 'nothing shall be left undone to make my house agreeable. you have only to hint your wishes, and they shall be gratified.' 'sir, sir,' cried wilkinson, grasping his hand, 'your kindness is overpowering, because it is unexpected. however, i do not mean to trespass any farther on your kindness than just to request, that you will do me the favour of returning to my daughter the silly paper written by her, containing her promise to marry you; and if you could conveniently lay your hand on it now, you would add to the obligation, as i mean to leave town in an hour.' 'mr. wilkinson,' said the doctor, 'i shall deal candidly with you. probably you will not leave town these ten years. and pardon me, if i give you fair warning, that should you persist in asking for the paper, a severe horse-whipping will be the consequence.' 'a horse-whipping!' repeated wilkinson, as if he could not believe his ears. 'you shall be cut from shoulder to flank,' said the doctor. ''tis my usual way of beginning.' 'any thing more, my fine fellow?' cried the farmer. 'only that if you continue refractory,' said the doctor, 'you shall be lashed to the bed-post, and shall live on bread and water for a month.' 'here is a proper ruffian for you!' cried wilkinson. 'now, by the mother that bore me, i have a good mind to flay you within an inch of your life!' 'make haste then,' said the doctor, ringing the bell; 'for you will be handcuffed in half a minute.' 'why you little creature,' cried wilkinson, 'do you hope to frighten me? not ask for the paper, truly! ay, ten thousand times over and over. give me the paper, give me the paper; give me the paper, the paper, the paper! what say you to that, old hector?' 'the handcuffs!' cried the doctor to the servant. 'ay, first handcuff me, and then pick my pockets,' cried wilkinson. 'you see i have found you out, sirrah! yes i have discovered that you are a common shoplifter, tried five times for your life--and the very fellow that swindled the spanish ambassador out of a diamond snuff-box.' 'a good deal deranged, indeed,' whispered the doctor to his lordship. 'but how the deuce the girl could bring herself to fancy you,' cried wilkinson, 'that is what shocks me most. a fellow, by all that is horrid, as ugly as if he were bespoke--an old fellow, too, and twice as disgusting, and not half so interesting, as a monkey in a consumption.' 'perfectly distracted, 'pon my conscience!' muttered the doctor; 'the maddest scoundrel, confound him, that ever bellowed in bedlam!' two servants entered with handcuffs. 'look you,' cried wilkinson, shaking his cane; 'dare to bring your bullies here, and if i don't cudgel their carcases out of shape, and your's into shape, may i be shot.' 'secure his hands,' said the doctor. wilkinson instantly darted at the doctor, and knocked him down. the servants collared wilkinson, who called to montmorenci for assistance; but in vain; and after a furious scuffle, the farmer was handcuffed. 'dear uncle, calm these transports!' said his lordship. 'your dutiful and affectionate nephew beseeches you to compose yourself.' 'uncle!--nephew!' cried the farmer. 'what do you mean, fellow? who the devil is this villain?' 'are you so far gone, as not to know your own nephew?' said the doctor, grinning with anger. 'never set eyes on the poltron till an hour ago!' cried wilkinson. 'merciful powers!' exclaimed montmorenci. 'and when i was a baby, he dandled me; and when i was a child, he gave me whippings and sugar-plums; and when i came to man's estate, he cherished me in his bosom, and was unto me as a father!' here his lordship applied a handkerchief to his face. 'the man is crazed!' cried wilkinson. 'no, dear uncle,' said montmorenci, ''tis you who are crazed; and to be candid with you, this is a madhouse, and this gentleman is the mad-doctor, and with him you must now remain, till you recover from your complaint--the most afflicting instance of insanity, that, perhaps, was ever witnessed.' 'insanity!' faltered the farmer, turning deadly pale. 'mercy, mercy on my sinful soul, for i am a gone man!' 'nay,' said his lordship, 'do not despair. the doctor is the first in his profession, and will probably cure you in the course of a few years.' 'a few years? that bread and water business will dispatch me in a week! mad? i mad? i vow to my conscience, doctor, i was always reckoned the quietest, easiest, sweetest--sure every one knows honest gregory wilkinson. don't they, cherry? dear child, answer for your father. am i mad? am i, cherry?' 'as butter in may,' said montmorenci. 'you lie like a thief!' vociferated the farmer, struggling and kicking. 'you lie, you sneering, hook-nosed reprobate!' 'why, my dear uncle,' said montmorenci, 'do you not recollect the night you began jumping like a grasshopper, and scolding the full-moon in my deer-park?' 'your deer-park? i warrant you are not worth a cabbage-garden! but now i see through the whole plot. ay, i am to be kept a prisoner here, while my daughter marries that old knave before my face. it would kill me, cherry; i tell you i should die on the spot. oh, my unfortunate girl, are you too conspiring against me? are you, cherry? dear cherry, speak. only say you are not!' 'indeed, my friend,' said i, 'you shall be treated with mildness. doctor, i beg you will not act harshly towards him. with all his faults, the man is goodnatured and well tempered, and to do him justice, he has always used me kindly.' 'have i not?' cried he. 'sweet cherry, beautiful cherry, blessings on you for that!' 'come away,' said montmorenci hastily. 'you know 'tis near dinner time.' 'farewell, doctor,' said i. 'adieu, poor wilkinson.' 'what, leaving me?' cried he, 'leaving your old father a prisoner in this vile house? oh, cruel, cruel!' 'come,' said montmorenci, taking my hand: 'i have particular business elsewhere.' 'for pity's sake, stay five minutes!' cried wilkinson, struggling with the servants. 'come, my love!' said montmorenci. 'only one minute--one short minute!' cried the other. 'well,' said i, stopping, 'one minute then.' 'not one moment!' cried his lordship, and was hurrying me away. 'my child, my child!' cried wilkinson, with a tone of such indescribable agony, as made the blood curdle in my veins. 'dear sir,' said i, returning; 'indeed i am your friend. but you know, you know well, i am not your child.' 'you are!' cried he, 'by all that is just and good, you are my own child!' 'by all that is just and good,' exclaimed montmorenci, 'you shall come away this instant, or remain here for ever.' and he dragged me out of the room. 'now then,' said the poor prisoner, as the door was closing, 'now do what you please with me, for my heart is quite broken!' on our way home, his lordship enjoined the strictest secrecy with regard to this adventure. i shewed him the hundred pounds, and reimbursed him for what he had paid the doctor; and on our arrival, i discharged my debt to the poet. adieu. letter xiii soon after i had got into these lodgings, i sent the servant to grosvenor square, with a message for betterton, requesting him to let me have back the bandbox, which i left at his house the night i fled from him. in a short time she returned with it, and i found every article safe. to my amazement and dismay, who should enter my apartment this morning but betterton himself! i dropped my book. he bowed to the dust. 'your business, sir?' said i, rising with a dignity, which, from my being under the repeated necessity of assuming it, has now become natural to me. 'to make a personal apology,' replied he, 'for the disrespectful and inhospitable treatment which the loveliest of her sex experienced at my house.' 'an apology for one insult,' said i, 'must seem insincere, when the mode adopted for making it is another insult.' 'the retort is exquisitely elegant,' answered he, 'but i trust, not true. for, granting, my dear madam, that i offer a second insult by my intrusion, still i may lessen the first insult so much by my apology that the sum of both may be less than the first, as it originally stood.' 'really,' said i, 'you have blended politeness and arithmetic so happily together; you have clothed multiplication and subtraction in such polished phraseology----' 'good!' cried he, 'that is real wit.' 'you have added so much algebra to so much sentiment,' continued i. 'good, good!' interrupted he again. 'in short, you have apologized so gracefully by the rule of three, that i know not which has assisted you the most--chesterfield or cocker.' 'inimitable,' exclaimed he. 'really your retorting powers are superior to those of any heroine on record.' in short, my friend, i was so delighted with my repartee, that i could not, for my life, continue vexed with the object of it; and before he left me, i said the best things in nature, found him the most agreeable old man in the world, shook hands with him at parting, and gave him permission to visit me again. on calm consideration, i do not disapprove of my having allowed him this liberty. were he merely a good kind of good for nothing old gentleman, it would only be losing time to cultivate an acquaintance with him. but as the man is a reprobate, i may find account in enlisting him amongst the other characters; particularly, since i am at present miserably off for villains. indeed, i augur auspiciously of his powers, from the fact (which he confessed), of his having discovered my place of abode, by following the maid, when she was returning with my bandbox. but i have to inform you of another rencontre. last night, the landlady, higginson, and myself, went to see his lordship perform in the new spectacle. the first piece was called a melodrama; a compound of horror and drollery, where scenery, dresses, and decorations, prevailed over nature, genius, and moral. as to the plot, i could make nothing of it; only that the hero and heroine were in very great trouble about trifles, and quite at their ease in real distress. for instance, when the heroine had arrived at the height of her misery, she began to sing. then the hero, resolving to revenge her wrongs, falls upon one knee, turns up his eyes, and calls on the sacred majesty of god to assist him. this invocation to the divinity might, perhaps, prove the hero's piety, but i am afraid it shewed the poet's want of any. certainly, however, it produced a powerful effect on my feelings. i heard the glory of god made subservient to a theatrical clap-trap, and my blood ran cold. so, i fancy, did the blood of six or seven sweet little children behind the scenes, for they were presently sent upon the stage, to warm themselves with a dance. after dancing, came murder, and the hero gracefully advanced with a bullet in his head. he falls; and many well-meaning persons suppose that the curtain will fall with him. no such thing: hector had a funeral, and so must kemble. accordingly the corpse appears, handsomely dished up on an escutcheoned coffin; while certain virgins of the sun (who, i am told, support that character better than their own), chaunt a holy requiem round it. when horror was exhausted, the poet tried disgust. after this piece came another, full of bannered processions, gilded pillars, paper snows, and living horses, that were really far better actors than the men who rode them. it concluded with a grand battle, in which twenty men on horseback, and twenty on foot, beat each other indiscriminately, and with the utmost good humour. armour clashed, sabres struck fire, a castle was burnt to the ground, horses fell dead, the audience rose shouting and clapping, and a man just below me in the pit, cried out in an ecstasy, 'i made their saddles! i made their saddles!' as to montmorenci's performance, nothing could equal it; for though his character was the meanest in the piece, he contrived to make it the most prominent. he had an emphasis for every word, an attitude for every emphasis, and a look for every attitude. the people, indeed, hissed him repeatedly, because they knew not, as i did, that his acting a broken soldier in the style of a dethroned monarch, proceeded from his native nobility of soul, not his want of talent. after the performance, we were pressing through the crowd in the lobby, when i saw, as i thought, stuart (bob stuart!), at a short distance from me, looking anxiously about him. on nearer inspection, i found i was right, and it occurred to me, that i might extract a most interesting scene from him, besides laying a foundation for future incident. i therefore separated myself (like evelina at the opera) from my party, and contrived to cross his path. at first he did not recognize me, but i continued by his side till he did. 'miss wilkinson!' exclaimed he, 'how rejoiced i am to see you! where is your father?' 'let us leave this place,' said i, 'they are searching for me, i know they are.' 'who?' said he. 'hush!' whispered i. 'conduct me in silence from the theatre.' he put my hand under his arm, and hurried me away. when we had gained the street: 'you may perceive by my lameness,' said he, 'that i am not yet well of the wound i received the night i met you on the common. but i could not refrain from accompanying your father to town, in search of you; and as i heard nothing of him since he went to your lodgings yesterday, i called there myself this evening, and was told that you had gone to the theatre. they could give me no information about your father, but of course, you have seen him since he came to town.' 'i have not, i assure you,' said i, an evasive, yet conscientious answer, because wilkinson is not my real father. 'that is most extraordinary,' cried he, 'for he left the hotel yesterday, to call on you. but tell me candidly, miss wilkinson, what tempted you to leave home? how are you situated at present? with whom? and what is your object?' 'alas!' said i, 'a horrible mystery hangs over me, which i dare not now develop. it is enough, that in flying from one misfortune, i have plunged into a thousand others, that peace has fled from my heart, and that i am ruined.' 'ruined!' exclaimed he, with a look of horror. 'past redemption,' said i, hiding my face in my hands. 'this will be dreadful news for your poor father,' said he. 'but i beg of you to tell me the particulars.' 'then to be brief,' answered i, 'the first night i came to town, a gentleman decoyed me into his house, and treated me extremely ill.' 'the villain!' muttered stuart. 'afterwards i left him,' continued i, 'and walked the streets, till i was taken up for a robbery, and put into the watchhouse.' 'is this fact?' asked stuart, 'or are you merely sporting with my feelings?' ''tis fact, on my honour,' said i, 'and to conclude my short, but pathetic tale, a gentleman, a mysterious and amiable youth, met me by mere accident, after my release; and i am, at present, under his protection.' 'a shocking account indeed!' said he. 'but have you never considered the consequences of continuing this abandoned course of life?' 'now here is a pretty insinuation!' cried i; 'but such is always the fate of us poor heroines. no, never can we get through an innocent adventure in peace and quietness, without having our virtue called in question. 'tis always our virtue, our virtue. if we are caught coming out of a young man's bed-room,--'tis our virtue. if we remain a whole night in the streets,--'tis our virtue. if we make a nocturnal assignation,--oh! 'tis our virtue, our virtue. such a rout as they make.' 'i regret,' said stuart, 'to see you treat the subject so lightly, but i do beseech of you to recollect, that your wretched parent----' ''tis a fine night, sir.' 'that your wretched parent----' 'sir,' said i, 'when spleen takes the form of remonstrance, a lecture is only a scolding put into good language. this is my house, sir.' and i stopped at the door. 'at least,' said he, 'will you do me the favour of being at home for me to-morrow morning?' 'perhaps i may,' replied i. 'so good night, master bobby!' the poet and the landlady did not return for half an hour. they told me that their delay was occasioned by their search for me; but i refused all explanation as to what happened after i had lost them. adieu. letter xiv just as i had finished my last letter, his lordship entered my room, but saluted me coldly. 'i am informed,' said he, 'that you strayed from your party last night, and refused, afterwards, to give an account of yourself to the landlady. may i hope, that to me, who feel a personal interest in all your actions, you will be more communicative?' 'i regret,' said i, 'that circumstances put it out of my power to gratify your wishes. i foresee that you, like an orville, or a mortimer, will suspect and asperse your mistress. but the sun shall return, the mist disperse, and the landscape laugh again.' 'confound your metaphors! 'cried he, discarding attitude and elegance in an instant. 'do you hope to hide your cunning under mists and laughing landscapes? but i am not to be gulled; i am not to be done. no going it upon me, i say. tell me directly, madam, where you were, and with whom; or by the devil of devils, you shall repent it finely.' i was thunderstruck. 'sir,' said i, 'you have agitated the gentle air with the concussion of inelegant oaths and idioms, uttered in the most ungraceful manner. sir, your vulgarity is unpardonable, and we now part for ever.' 'for ever!' exclaimed he, reverting into attitude, and interlacing his knuckles in a clasp of agony. 'hear me, cherubina. by the shades of my ancestors, my vulgarity was assumed!' 'assumed, sir?' said i, 'and pray, for what possible purpose?' 'alas!' cried he, 'i must not, dare not tell. it is a sad story, and enveloped in a mysterious veil. oh! fatal vow! oh! cruel marchesa!' shocking were his contortions as he spoke. 'no!' cried i. 'no vow could ever have produced so dreadful an effect on your language.' 'well, 'said he, after a painful pause, 'sooner than incur the odium of falsehood, i must disclose to you the horrid secret. 'the young count di narcissini was my friend. educated together, we became competitors in our studies and accomplishments; and in none of them could either of us be said to excel the other; till, on our introduction at court, it was remarked by the queen, that i surpassed the count in shaking hands. 'narcissini,' said her majesty, 'has judgment enough in knowing when to present a single finger, or perhaps two; but, for the positive pressure, or the negligent hand with a drooping wrist; or the cordial, honest, dislocating shake, give me montmorenci. i cannot deny that the former has great taste in this accomplishment; but then the latter has more genius--more execution--more, as it were, of the _magnifique_ and _aimable_.' 'his mother the marchesa overheard this critique, turned as pale as ashes, and left the levee. 'that night, hardly had i fallen into one of those gentle slumbers, which ever attends the virtuous, when a sudden noise roused me; and on opening my eyes, i beheld the detested marchesa, with an italian assassin, standing over me.' 'montmorenci!' cried she, 'thou art the bane of my repose. thou hast surpassed my son in the graces. now listen. either pledge thyself, by an irrevocable vow, henceforth to sprinkle thy conversation with uncouth phrases, and colloquial barbarisms, or prepare to die!' 'terrible alternative! what could i do? the dagger gleamed before my face. i shuddered, and took the fatal vow of vulgarity. 'the marchesa then put into my hand the blackguard's dictionary, which i studied night and day with much success; and i have now the misfortune to state, that i can be, so far as language goes, the greatest blackguard in england.' 'unhappy youth!' cried i. 'this, indeed, accounts for what had often made me uneasy. but say, can nothing absolve you from this hateful vow?' 'there is one way,' he replied. 'the marchesa permitted me to resume my natural elegance, as soon as my marrying should put an end to competition between her son and me. oh! then, my cherubina, you, you alone can restore me to hope, to happiness, and to grammar!' 'ah! my lord,' cried i, 'recollect my own fatal vow. never, never can i be your's!' 'drive me not mad!' he cried. 'you are mine, you shall be mine. this, this is the bitterest moment of my life. you do not, cannot love me. no, cherubina, no, you cannot love me.' i fixed my eyes in a wild gaze, rose hastily from my chair, paced the room with quick steps; and often sighing deeply, clasped my hands and shuddered. he led me to the sofa, kissed the drapery of my cambric handkerchief, and concealed his face in its folds. then raising his head. 'do you love me?' said he, with a voice dropping manna. a smile, bashful in its archness, played round my rich and trembling lip; and with an air of bewitching insinuation, i placed my hand on his shoulder, shook my head, and looked up in his face, with an expression half reproachful, half tender. he snatched me in a transport to his heart; and that trembling pressure, which virtue consecrated, and love understood, conveyed to each of us an unspeakable sensation; as if a beam from heaven had passed through both our frames, and left some of its divine warmth behind it. what followed, angels might have attested. a ringlet had escaped from the bandage of my bodkin. he clipped it off with my scissors, and fixed it next his heart; while i prettily struggled to prevent him, with arch anger, and a pouting playfulness. a thousand saucy triumphs were basking in his eyes, when the door opened, and who should make his appearance, but--master bobby! i could have boxed him. 'i avail myself,' said he, 'of the permission you gave me last night, to call on you this morning.' montmorenci looked from the one to the other with amazement. 'and as i am anxious,' continued stuart, 'to speak with you in private----' 'sir,' said i, 'any thing which you have to communicate, this gentleman, my particular friend, may hear.' 'yes, sir,' cried his lordship, in a haughty tone, 'for i have the honour to boast myself the protector of this lady.' 'if you mean her protector from injury and insult,' said stuart, 'i hope, sir, you are not on this occasion, as on others, an actor?' 'you know me then?' said his lordship. 'i saw you perform last night,' answered stuart, 'but, to say the truth, i do not recollect your name.' 'my name is norval on the grampian hills,' cried his lordship. 'sir,' said stuart, 'though we sometimes laugh at you, even in your grave characters, the part you have now chosen seems much too serious for drollery. allow me to ask, sir, by what right you feel entitled to call yourself the protector of this lady?' 'first inform me,' said montmorenci, 'by what right you feel entitled to put that question?' 'by the right of friendship,' answered stuart. 'no, but enmity,' cried i, 'unprovoked, unprincipled, inexorable enmity. this is the stuart whom you have often heard me mention, as my persecutor; and i hope you will now make him repent of his temerity.' 'sir,' said his lordship, 'i desire you to leave the house.' 'not till you favour me with your company,' replied stuart; 'for i find i must have some serious conversation with you.' 'beshrew my heart!' cried lord altamont mortimer montmorenci, 'if you want satisfaction, follow me this moment. i am none of your slovenly, slobbering shots. damme, i scorn to pistol a gentleman about the ankles. i can teach the young idea how to shoot, damme.' he spoke, and strode out of the room. stuart smiled and followed him. you must know, i speculate upon a duel. in short, my plot is entangling itself admirably; and such characters as betterton and stuart will not fail to keep the wheels of it going. betterton is probably planning to carry me off by force; stuart and our hero are coming to a misunderstanding about me; the latter will, perhaps, return with his arm in an interesting sling, and another parting-forever interview cannot be far distant. such is the promising aspect of affairs. adieu. letter xv while i was sitting in the most painful suspense, a knock came to the door, and stuart entered. 'you terrify, shock, amaze me!' cried i. 'what dreadful blow awaits me? speak!' 'pray,' said he, laughing, 'what was your fancy for telling me that you were ruined?' 'and so i am,' answered i. 'at least, not in the way you wished me to suppose,' said he. 'i repeat, sir,' cried i, 'that i am ruined: no matter in what manner; but ruined i am.' 'your friend, the player, tells me that you are not,' said he. 'my friend, the player, is very meddling,' answered i. 'this is the way that whatever plot i lay down for my memoirs is always frustrated. sir, i say i am ruined.' 'well,' cried he, 'i will not dispute the point. i wish only to guard you against being ruined again. i mistrust this grundy much. from his conversation, after we left you, i can perceive that he has a matrimonial design upon you. pray beware of the fellow.' 'the fellow!' cried i. 'alas! you know him not. his large and piercing eye is but the index of a soul fraught with every human virtue.' 'ah! my friend,' said he, 'you stand on the very verge of a precipice, and i must endeavour, even at the risk of your displeasure, to snatch you from it.' he then began a long lecture on my conduct, and asserted that my romantic turn is a sort of infatuation, amounting to little less than madness, and likely to terminate in ruin. he painted, in language pretty enough, the distraction of wilkinson, after i had fled from his house; and, at last, contrived to extract from me (what, i remark, i can never obtain when i want them)--tears. seeing me thus affected, he turned the conversation to desultory topics. we talked of old times, of our juvenal sports and quarrels, when we were playfellows; what happened after our separation; his life at college and in the army; my studies and accomplishments. thence we made a natural transition to the fine arts. in short, it was the first time in my life that i had a rational conversation (as it is called) with a well-informed young man, and i confess i felt gratified. besides, even his serious remonstrances were so happily interspersed with humour and delicate irony, that i could not bring myself to be displeased with him. he remained more than two hours, and at parting took my hand. 'i have hitherto been scolding you,' said he, with a smile, 'and i must now praise you, that i may be better entitled to scold you again. you have the elements of every thing amiable and endearing in your mind, and an admirable understanding to direct them. but you want some one to direct that understanding. your father and i have already had a serious consultation on the subject; but till he comes, nothing can be done. indeed, i am much alarmed at his absence. meantime, will you permit me to legislate in his stead, and to begin by chusing more eligible lodgings for you. i confess i dread the machinations of that actor.' as he spoke, a rap came to the door. 'do me the favour to take tea with me this evening,' said i, 'and we will talk the matter over.' he promised, and took his leave. montmorenci then made his appearance, and in visible perturbation, at having found stuart here again. if i can constitute a jealousy between them it will add to the animation of several scenes. i therefore praised stuart to the skies, and mentioned my having asked him to tea. his lordship flew into a violent rage, and swore that the villain wanted to unheroinize me, in order to gain me himself. he then renewed his entreaties that i would consent to an immediate marriage; but now the benefits of my fatal vow shone forth in their full lustre, and its irrevocability gave rise to some of the finest agonies that his lordship ever exhibited. at length we separated to dress for dinner. at my toilette i recollected with exactness every particular of his late conversation; his sentiments so congenial with mine; his manners so engaging; his countenance so noble and ingenuous. 'i shall see him no more,' said i. a sigh that followed, told me more of my heart than i wished to know. no, my biddy, never, never can he be mine. i must banish his dear image from my mind; and to speak in the simple and unsophisticated language of the heroine in the forest of montalbo: '_indeed, surely, i think, we ought, under existing circumstances, dearest, dearest madam, to avoid, where we can, every allusion, to this, i fear, alas! our, indeed, hopeless attachment._' adieu. letter xvi when stuart came, he found his lordship, the landlady, the poet, and myself sitting round the tea-table. at first the conversation was general, and on the topics of the day. these stuart discussed with much animation and volubility, while his lordship sat silent and contemptuous. i fancy that his illustrious tongue disdained to trifle. meantime higginson, in a new coat and waistcoat, sat anglicising the latinity of his face, and copying the manners and attitudes of montmorenci, whom the poor man, i verily believe, is endeavouring to rival. at length the word poetry caught his ear; he gave the graces to the winds, and listened. 'therefore,' continued stuart to me, 'satirical poetry must be much more useful than encomiastic.' 'sir,' said higginson, drawing back his head and lowering his voice, as if he dreaded nothing so much as being heard, 'i must beg leave, in all humility, to coincide with your exprest proposition; but to suggest a doubt whether it be decorous to violate the repose of noble blood.' 'if the great deserve exposure as much as the mean,' said stuart, 'their rank is rather a reason why they should be censured sooner; because their bad example is more conspicuous, and, therefore, more detrimental.' 'but,' said i, 'though satirizing the vicious may be beneficial to the community, is it always advantageous to the satirist?' 'johnson observes,' answered stuart, 'that _it is no less a proof of eminence to have many enemies than many friends_; and, indeed, without the one we seldom have the other. on the whole, however, i would advise a writer not to drop the olive-branch in grasping at the rod; though those whom he finds privately endeavouring to vilify his own character, self-defence entitles him to expose without mercy.' 'that satire is salutary to society, i am convinced,' said i. 'it becomes mischievous only when it is aimed at the worthy heart.' 'and yet,' said stuart, 'those that are loudest in declaiming against the satirist, are often fondest of disseminating the satire. now he who slanders with his tongue, is just as culpable as he who defames with his pen; for, if the one weapon be not as extensive, in its effects, as the other, the motives of those who use it are equally vile. hume, in one of his essays, says, that _a whisper may fly as quick, and be as pernicious, as a pamphlet_.' 'and i think,' said i, 'that those who never allow people faults, are just as injurious to the community as those who never allow them virtues.' 'true,' said stuart; 'and a late publication (which equals in sentiment, diction, and pictures of character, any work of the kind in our language) thus concludes a description of them: _these, assuming the name of good-nature, say, that for their part, they wish to avoid making enemies, and when they cannot speak well of people, they make it a rule not to speak of them at all. now this is an admirable system, for thus, permitting vice, they sanction it, and by not opposing, assist its progress._' 'so you see,' said higginson, 'that next to laws and religion, which correct the serious derelictions, writing, which chastises the smaller foibles, is the most useful instrument in a state.' 'observe,' whispered i to stuart, 'how the ruling passion breaks forth.' 'and, therefore,' continued higginson, 'next to the legislator and divine, the poet is the most exalted member of the community.' 'pardon me there,' said i. 'the most exalted members are not legislators, or divines, or poets, who prescribe, but heroes and heroines, who perform.' 'if you mean the heroes and heroines of romance,' said stuart, 'their performances are useful in teaching us what we should shun, not what we should imitate. the heroine, in particular, quits a comfortable home, turns out to be the best pedestrian in the world; and, after weeping tears enough to float her work-basket, weds some captious, passionate, and kneeling hero.' 'better,' cried i, 'than to remain a domesticated rosy little miss, who romps with the squire, plays an old tune on an old piano, and reads prayers for the good family--servants and all. at last, marrying some honest gentleman, who lives on his saddle, she degenerates into a dangler of keys and whipper of children; trots up and down stairs, educates the poultry, and superintends the architecture of pies.' 'now for my part,' said stuart, 'i would have a young lady neither a mere homely drudge, nor a sky-rocket heroine, let off into the clouds. i would educate her heart and head, as well as her fingers and feet. she should be at once the ornament of the social group, and the delight of the domestic circle; abroad attractive, at home endearing; the enchantress to whom levity would apply for mirth, and wisdom for admonition; and her mirth should be graceful, and her admonition fascinating. if she happened to be solitary, she should have the power of contemplation, and if her needle broke, she should be capable of finding resource in a book. in a word, she should present a proof, that wit is not inconsistent with good-nature, nor liveliness with good-sense, and that to make the virtues attractive, they ought to be adorned with the graces.' 'and pray, to whom would you marry this charmer?' asked his lordship, winking at me. 'why,' replied he, 'when she wishes to settle in life, i would have her consult her parents, and make a prudent match.' 'a prudent match!' cried i. 'just conceive--a prudent match! oh, stuart, i declare i am quite ashamed of you.' ''pon honour,' said his lordship, 'you are too severe. i will bet five to four he means well.' 'no doubt,' said i. 'and to be candid, i think him a mighty good sort of a man.' 'a proper behaved young person,' said his lordship. 'an honest _bon diable_!' added i. 'a worthy soul!' said he. 'a respectable character!' cried i. 'a decent creature!' said he. 'a humane and pious christian,' cried i. this last hit was irresistible, and both of us burst out laughing, while stuart sat silent, and even affected to smile. 'now is your time,' whispered i, to his lordship. 'a few more sarcasms, and he crouches to you for ever.' 'i fancy, young gentleman,' said his lordship, turning full upon stuart, and laughing so long, that i thought he would never finish the sentence; 'i fancy, my tight fellow, you may now knock under.' 'i am not always inclined to do so,' replied stuart; 'neither am i easily provoked to knock down.' 'knock down whom?' demanded his lordship, with the most complete frown i had ever beheld. 'a puppy,' said stuart coolly. 'you lie!' vociferated our hero. 'leave the room, sir,' cried stuart, starting from his seat. montmorenci rose, retreated to the door;--stopped--went on--stopped again--moved--stopped-'vanish!' cried stuart, advancing. his lordship vanished. i ran, snatched a pen, and wrote on a scrap of paper 'vindicate your honour, or never appear in my presence!' i then rang the bell for the maid, and slipping some silver into her hand, begged that she would deliver the paper to his lordship. higginson then started from his chair. 'after a deliberate consideration of the subject,' said he, 'i am more and more convinced, that a poet is the first character in society.' during a whole hour, i remained in a state of the most distracting suspense, for he never returned! meantime, stuart was privately pressing me to leave my lodgings, and remain at his father's, till wilkinson should be found. indignant at the cowardly conduct of his lordship, i was almost consenting; when on a sudden, the door flew open, and with a slow step and dignified deportment, lord altamont mortimer montmorenci entered. all eyes were rivetted on him. he walked towards stuart, and fell upon one knee before him: 'i come, sir,' said he, 'to retract that abuse which i gave you just now. i submit to whatever punishment you please; nor shall i think my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. then grant me the pardon that i beg, on whatever conditions you think proper.' 'for shame!' exclaimed i, with an indignation that i could not suppress. 'you a hero?' his lordship instantly snatched a book from his pocket, and opening a passage, presented it to me. the book was _la nouvelle heloise_. 'you see there,' said he, 'how lord b., after having given st. preux the lie, begs forgiveness on his knees, and in the precise words which i have just used. will cherubina condemn the conduct that heloise applauded?' 'ever excellent, ever exalted mortal!' cried i. 'o thou art indeed all that is just, dignified, magnanimous.' i gave him my hand, and he bowed over it. supper was announced. mirth ruled the night. the landlady sat gazing on his lordship; his lordship on me. stuart uttered a thousand witticisms; and even the poet determined to be heard; for, in the midst of our merriment, i saw him, with his mouth open, and his neck stretched forward, watching for the first moment of silence. it came. 'this is the fun, equalled by none; so never, never, never have done!' cried the happy creature, and protruded such an exorbitant laugh as made ample amends for the gravity of his whole life. at length stuart took leave; and the rest of us separated to our several apartments. that coxcomb, i see, has no notion of sentiment, and no taste for admiring those who have. there he sits, calm, unconcerned, and never once fixes his eyes on me with a speaking gaze. oh, no; nothing but wit or wisdom for him. not only is the fellow far from a pathetic turn himself, but he has also an odd faculty of detaching even me from my miseries, and of reducing me to horrid hilarity. it would vex a saint to see how he makes me laugh, though i am predetermined not to give him a single smile. but montmorenci, the sentimental montmorenci, timely interposes the fine melancholy of his features;--he looks, he sighs, he speaks; and in a moment i am recalled to the soft emotions, and a due sense of my deplorable destiny. adieu. letter xvii clouds are impending, and i know not whether they will clash together, and elicit lightning, or mingle into one, and descend in refreshing showers. this morning, montmorenci, the hostess, and myself, breakfasted early, and then went shopping. i purchased a charming scarf, a bonnet, two dresses, a diamond cross, and a pair of pearl ear-rings. his lordship borrowed a guinea from me, and then bought a small casket, which he presented to me in the handsomest manner. we next visited westminster abbey; the first that i have ever seen, though i had read of thousands. to my great disappointment, i found in it no cowled monks with scapulars, and no veiled nuns with rosaries. nothing but statues of statesmen and warriors, in stone wigs and marble regimentals. soon after we had returned home, higginson entered my room, stealing, and with a look of terror. 'my mother presents her respectful compliments,' said he in a whisper, 'and begs you will honour her with your presence, that she may do herself the pleasure of saving you from destruction.' 'tell me,' said i, with a look that pierced into his soul, 'which character do _you_ mean to support on this occasion? that of my friend, or of an accomplice in the plot against me?' higginson looked aghast. 'as to your being a principal,' continued i, 'that is not likely; but i must ascertain if your object is to be--excuse me--an understrapping ruffian. never fear, speak your mind candidly.' 'and i was writing verses on you all the morning, and it was for you that i clipped my eyebrows, and it was for you that i--dear me, dear me!' cried the poor man, and began whimpering like a child. 'nay,' said i, 'if it is not your taste, that is another affair; but though i cannot countenance you as a villain, i will at least respect you as an honest man. i will, i assure you; so now lead me to your mother.' we proceeded up stairs, and entered a garret; where his mother, a corpulent old lady, was lying in a fit of the gout. higginson having introduced us: 'miss,' said she, 'i sent for you to tell you that i have just overheard your hostess, and an old gentleman (betterton, i think she called him), planning something against you. they were in the next room, and thought i could not hear; but this i know, that he offered her fifty pounds, if she would assist him in obtaining you. and so, miss, from all my son says of you, and sure enough he raves of you like mad, i thought you would wish to be saved from ruin.' 'certainly, madam,' answered i. 'at the same time, i must beg permission to remark, that you have destroyed half the interest of this intrigue against me, by forewarning me of it.' 'may be so, miss,' said she. 'i have done my duty as a christian, however.' 'nay,' said i, 'do not suppose i resent your conduct, old lady. i am sure you meant all for the best, and i sincerely wish you health and happiness. farewell.' on returning to my room, i found betterton there before me. he came to request that i would accept of a ticket for the masquerade, at the pantheon: and he gave another to the landlady; who, he said, must accompany me thither: so 'tis clear that he means to decoy me from it. unhappy girl! but how can i refuse going? a heroine, you know, never misses a masquerade: it is always the scene of her best adventure; and to say the truth, i cannot resist the temptation of so delightful an amusement. now to consult about my character. letter xviii at dinner, yesterday, i bespoke his lordship as an escort to the masquerade; and we then held a council of dress. it was resolved, that i should appear in the character of sterne's maria, and his lordship as corporal trim. this morning, just as i had finished reading the closet-scene, in the children of the abbey, betterton and the landlady came into my room; and in a short time, i perceived the purport of their visit; as they began requesting that i would not take either stuart or montmorenci with me to the masquerade. 'the fact is, miss,' said the landlady, 'that i have heard your real story. mr. grundy is not your cousin at all, and your name is wilkinson, not donald. howsomever, as i believe you meant no harm, in this deception, i am willing, at the solicitations of this excellent gentleman, to let you remain in my house, provided you promise not to receive any more visits from that stuart, who is the greatest villain unhanged; or from mr. grundy, who has certainly bad designs on you; though he made proposals of marriage to myself, no longer ago than yesterday.' a tapping at my door prevented me from expressing my total disbelief in her latter assertion. it struck me that should the person prove to be his lordship, i might make her look extremely foolish, by letting her overhear his declarations of attachment to me. 'conceal yourselves in this closet,' whispered i to my visitors. 'i have particular reasons.' they looked at each other, and hesitated. 'in, in!' said i; 'for i suspect that this visit is from a villain, and i wish you to hear what passes.' both then went into the closet. i opened the door of my chamber, and, to my great disappointment, the poet appeared at it, with his eyes rolling, and his mouth ajar. 'what is the matter?' asked i. he gaped still wider, but said nothing. 'ah,' cried i, 'that is an awkward attempt at expressing horror. if you have any hideous news to communicate, why do you not rush into the room, tossing your hands on high, and exclaiming, "fly, fair lady, all is lost!"' 'indeed, miss,' said he, 'i was never in the way of learning good breeding. but don't go to the masquerade, miss, oh, don't! my mother overheard old betterton just now planning with the landlady, to carry you from it by force. but, miss, i have a fine sword, above stairs, three feet and a half long, and i will rub off the rust, and----' a knock at the street-door interrupted him. i was in a hiding mood. already the scene promised wonders; and i resolved not to damp its rising spirit; so made the simple higginson get underneath the sofa. the next moment my door opened, and vixen, montmorenci's terrier, came bounding towards me. 'go, dear vixen,' cried i, snatching her to my bosom; 'carry back to your master all that nourishes his remembrance. go, dear vixen, guard him by night, and accompany him by day, serve him with zeal, and love him with fidelity!' i turned round, and perceived--montmorenci! the poor timid girl bent her eyes to the ground. 'yes, dear vixen,' said he, 'you have now indeed a claim to my regard; and with the fondest gratitude will i cherish you!' he then flew to me, and poured forth, at my feet, the most passionate acknowledgments, and tender protestations. i tried to break from him. 'no, loveliest cherubina!' said he, detaining me. 'not thus must we part.' 'we must part for ever!' exclaimed i. 'after that rash soliloquy which you have just heard, never can i bear you in my sight. besides, sir, you are betrothed, at this moment, to another.' 'i? ridiculous! but to whom?' 'our hostess--a most charming woman.' 'our hostess! yes, a charming woman indeed. she has roses in her cheek, and lilies in her skin; but they are white roses, and orange lilies. our hostess! beshrew my heart, i would let cobwebs grow on my lips before i would kiss her.' another knock came to the door. 'me miserable!' exclaimed i. 'if this be the person i suspect, we are both undone--separated for ever!' 'who? what? where shall i hide?' cried his lordship. 'yon dark closet,' said i, pointing. 'fly.' his lordship sprang into the closet, and closed the door. 'i can hear no tidings of your father,' said stuart, entering the room. 'i have searched every hotel in town, and i really fear that some accident----' 'mercy upon me! who's here?' cried his lordship from the closet. 'as i hope to be saved, the place is full of people. let me go; whoever the devil you are, let me go!' 'take that--and that--and that:--you poor, pitiful, fortune-hunting play-actor!' vociferated the landlady, buffetting him about. that unhappy young nobleman bolted from the closet, with his face running blood, and the landlady fast at his heels. 'yes, you dog!' exclaimed she; 'i have discovered your treacherousness at last. as for your love-letters and trinkets, to me, villain--i never valued 'em a pin's point; but that you should go for to try to ruin this sweet innocent young creature, that is what distresses me, so it is.' and she burst out crying. 'love-letters and trinkets to you!' exclaimed i. 'surely he was not so base, madam.' 'but he was so base, madam,' said she with a bitter look; 'and if you fancy that 'tis yourself he loves, why look there; read the letter he sent me yesterday, just after i had asked him to pay me for six months' diet and lodging.' i read: 'accept, my lovely hostess, the pair of bracelets which accompanies this note, and rest assured that i will discharge my bill, in the course of another month. 'my motive for having brought miss wilkinson into your house, as my cousin, was simply to restore her to her friends. your jealousy, though most unfounded, is most flattering. 'ah, how little do you know your grundy!--if i pay the silly girl a few slight attentions, it is only to cloak that tenderness for you, which preys upon my heart, and consumes my vitals;--that tenderness, which i yesterday so solemnly vowed to evince (as soon as my affairs are arranged) at the altar. 'your own, own, own, 'abraham grundy.' it was as much as my dignity could do to suppress my indignation at this letter; but the heroine prevailed, and i cast on his lordship my famous compound expression of pity, contempt, and surprise, which i tinged with just fascination enough to remind him of what a jewel he had lost. meantime he stood wiping his face, and did not utter a word. 'and now,' cried i, 'now for the grand developement. james higginson, come forth!' in a moment the poet was seen, creeping, like a huge tortoise, from under the sofa. 'mr. higginson,' said i, 'did not your mother tell you, that this lady here--this amiable lady,' (and i curtsied low to her, and she curtsied still lower to me), 'that this first and best of women,' (and again we exchanged rival curtsies), 'is plotting with a mr. betterton to betray me into his hands at the masquerade?' 'madam,' answered the poet, with a firm demeanour, 'i do solemnly certify and asseverate, that so my mother told me.' 'then your mother told a confounded falsehood!' cried betterton, popping out of the closet. higginson walked up to him, and knocked him down with the greatest gravity imaginable. the hostess ran at higginson, and fastened her fangs in his face. montmorenci laid hold of the hostess, and off came her cap. stuart dropped into a chair with laughter. i too forgot all my dignity, and clapped my hands, and danced with delight, while they kicked and scratched each other without mercy. at length stuart interfered, and separated the combatants. the landlady retired to repair her dismantled head; and his lordship and higginson to wash their wounds. betterton too was about to take his departure. 'sir,' said stuart, 'i must beg leave to detain you for a few moments.' betterton bowed and returned. 'your name is betterton, i believe.' 'it is, sir.' 'after mr. higginson's accusation of you,' said stuart, 'i feel myself called upon, as the friend of this lady's father, to insist on your apologizing for the designs which you have dared to harbour against her; and to demand an unequivocal renunciation of those views for the future.' 'you are an honest fellow,' said betterton, 'and i respect your spirit. most sincerely, most humbly, miss wilkinson, do i solicit your forgiveness; and i beg you will believe, that nothing but a misrepresentation of your real character and history tempted me to treat you with such undeserved insult. i now declare, that you have nothing further to fear from me.' 'but before i can feel perfectly satisfied,' said stuart, 'i must stipulate for the discontinuance of your visits to miss wilkinson, as a proof that you have relinquished all improper projects against her.' 'i had formed that resolution before you spoke,' answered betterton, 'though many a bitter pang it will cost me. now then we are all friends. i may have my faults, but upon my soul, i am a man of honour;--i am, upon my soul. as for you, mr. stuart, without flattery, you have evinced more discretion and coolness, throughout this affair, than i have ever seen in so young a man. sir, you are an honour to the human race, and i wish you would dine with me this evening at the crown and anchor. some friends of us meet there to discuss a radical reform. do, my dear fellow. we want nothing but men of respectability like you; for our sentiments "are the finest in the world."' 'you will excuse me,' said stuart, 'though i am told that your wines are as fine and as foreign as your sentiments.' 'well, adieu, good people,' said betterton. 'think of me with kindness. faults i may have, but my heart----' (tapping at it with his forefinger), 'all is right here.' after he had left us, i reprimanded stuart so severely, for his officiousness in having interfered about betterton, that he went away quite offended; and, i much fear, will never return. if he does not, he will use me basely, to leave me here in this unprotected state, after all his anxieties about me--anxieties too, which (i cannot tell why) have pleased me beyond expression. i confess, i feel a regard for the man, and should be sorry to have hurt his feelings seriously. would sir charles bingley have deserted me so, i ask? no. but stuart has no notion of being a plain, useful, unsuccessful lover, like him. well, i must say, i hate to see a man more ready to fall out with one, than to fall in love with one. but montmorenci--what shall i say of him? how can he possibly exculpate himself from his treacherous intrigue with the landlady? i confess i am predisposed to credit any feasible excuse which he can assign, rather than find myself deceived, outrivalled, and deprived of a lover, not alone dear to me, but indispensible to the progress of my memoirs. then, that closet-scene, from which i had a right to expect the true pathetic, what a bear-garden it became! in short, i feel at this moment disgusted with the world. i half wish i were at home again. now too, that stuart has reminded me of our early days, i cannot avoid sometimes picturing to myself the familiar fireside, the walks, frolics, occupations of our childhood; and well i remember how he used to humour my whims. oh, these times are past, and now he opposes me in every thing. but whither am i wandering? pardon these vulgar sentiments. they have escaped my pen. you know that a mere home is my horror. forgive them. adieu. letter xix determined to support my dignity, i dined alone in my room, after the closet-scene; and during this evening, letters of the most heart-rending nature passed between his lordship and me. to be brief, he has convinced me, that the letter written in his name, to the landlady, was a forgery of her own. the circumventing wretch! i am of opinion, that it ought to be made a hanging matter. the following is an extract from his and my correspondence. after a most satisfactory disquisition on the various circumstances tending to prove the forgery, he writes thus: * * * * * 'i have begun twenty letters to you, and have torn them all. i write to you on my knees, and the paper is blistered with my tears; but i have dried it with my sighs. 'sun, moon, and stars may rise and set as they will. i know not whether it be day, or whether it be night. 'when the girl came with your last note, the idea that your eyes had just been dwelling on her features, on her cap, ribbon, and apron, made her and them so interesting, so dear to me, that, though her features are snubbed, her cap tattered, her ribbon bottle-green (which i hate), and her apron dirty, i should certainly have taken her in my arms, if i had not been the most bashful of men. 'though that note stung me to the heart, the words were hosts of angels to me, and the small paper the interminable regions of bliss. any thing from you! 'how my heart beats, and my blood boils in my veins, when by chance our feet meet under the table. the diapason of my heart-strings vibrates to the touch. how often i call to mind the sweet reproof you once gave me at dinner, when i trod on your toe in a transport of passion. '"if you love me, tell me so," said you, smiling; "but do not hurt my foot." 'another little incident is always recurring to me. as we parted from each other, the night before last, you held out your hand and said, "good-night, my dear montmorenci." it was the first time you had ever called me _dear_. the sound sank deep into my heart. i have repeated it a hundred times since, and when i went to bed, i said, good night, my dear montmorenci. i recollected myself and laughed. the fatal kiss that i once dared to snatch from you has undone me for ever. the moisture on your lip was like a suppuration of rubies. o immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting moment!' billet from cherubina. he who could be capable of the letter, could be capable of calling it a forgery. billet from montmorenci. misery with you, were better than happiness without you. billet from cherubina. hatred and certainty were better than love and suspicion. billet from montmorenci. love is heaven and heaven is love. billet from cherubina. if heaven be love, i fear that heaven is not eternal. billet from montmorenci. if my mind be kept in suspense, my body shall be suspended too. billet from cherubina. foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, attempt not thine own. billet from montmorenci. it were easier to kill myself than to fly from cherubina. billet from cherubina. live. i restore you to favour. billet from montmorenci. angelic girl! but how can i live without the means? my landlady threatens me with an arrest. heloise lent money to st. preux. billet from cherubina. in enclosing to you half of all i have, i feel, alas! that i am but half as liberal of my purse as of my heart. billet from montmorenci. i promise to pay lady cherubina de willoughby, or order, on demand, the sum of twenty-five pounds sterling, value received. montmorenci. in a few minutes after i had received this last billet, his lordship came in person to perfect the reconciliation. never was so tender, so excruciating a scene. we then consulted about the masquerade; and he brought me down his dress for it. the montero cap and tarnished regimentals (which he procured at the theatre) are admirable. soon after his departure, a letter was brought to me by the maid; who said, that a tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak, put it into her hand, and then fled with great swiftness. conceive my sensations on reading this note, written in an antiquated hand. _to lady cherubina de willoughby. these, greeting. most fayre ladie an aunciente and loyall vassall that erewhyles appertained unto yre ryhgte noble auncestrie, in ye qualitie of seneschal, hath, by chaunce, discovred yer place of hiding, and doth crave ye boon that you will not fayle to goe unto ye masquerade at ye pantheon; where, anon he will joyn you, and unravell divers mysterys touching your pedigree. lette nonne disswaid you from to goe, and eke lette nonne, save a matron, goe with you; els i dare not holde parle with you. myne honoured ladie, if you heede not this counsell, you will work yourselfe woefull ruth._ judge if i can sleep a wink after such a mysterious communication. excellent old man! i mean to make him my steward. adieu. letter xx i believe i mentioned, in a former letter, that my bed-chamber was on the ground floor, and looking into the yard at the back of the house. soon after i went to bed, last night, i heard a whispering and rustling outside of the window, and while i was awaiting with anxiety the result, sleep surprised me. i awoke earlier, as i thought, than usual, this morning; for not a ray penetrated my curtainless window. i then tried to compose myself to sleep again, but in vain; so there i lay turning and tumbling about, for eight or nine hours, at the very least. at last i became alarmed. what can be the matter? thought i. is the sun quenched or eclipsed? or has the globe ceased rolling? or am i struck stone blind? in the midst of my conjectures, a sudden cry of fire! fire! reverberated through the house. i sprang out of bed, and huddled on me whatever cloaths came to hand. i then groped for my casket of jewels, and having secured it, rushed into the outer room, where my eyes were instantly dazzled by the sudden glare of light. however, i had presence of mind enough to snatch up corporal trim's coat, which still remained on a chair; and to slip it on me. for, in the first place, i had no gown underneath; and in the next, i recollected, that harriot byron, at a moment of distress, went wild about the country, in masquerade. hurrying into the hall, i saw the street door wide open, stuart and montmorenci struggling with each other near it, the landlady dragging a trunk down stairs, and looking like the ghost of a mad housemaid; and the poet just behind her, with his corpulent mother, bed and all, upon his back; while she kept exclaiming, that we should all be in heaven in five minutes, and he crying out, heaven forbid! heaven forbid! i darted past stuart, just as he had got montmorenci down; thence out of the house, and had fled twenty paces, before i discovered, that, so far from being night, it was broad, bright, incontrovertible day! i had no time to reflect on this mystery, as i heard steps pursuing me, and my name called. i fled the faster, for i dreaded i knew not what. the portentous darkness of my room, the false alarm of fire, all betokened some diabolical conspiracy against my life; so i rushed along the street, to the horror and astonishment of all who saw me. for conceive me drest in a long-skirted, red coat, stiff with tarnished lace; a satin petticoat, satin shoes, no stockings, and my flaxen hair streaming like a meteor behind me! stop her, stop her! was now shouted on all sides. hundreds seemed in pursuit. panting and almost exhausted, i still continued my flight. they gained on me. what should i do? i saw the door of a carriage just opened, and two ladies, dressed for dinner, stepping into it. i sprang in after them, crying, save me, save me! the footman endeavoured to drag me out; the mob gathered round shouting; the horses took fright, and set off in full gallop; i, meantime, on one knee, with my meek eyes raised, and my hands folded across my bosom, awaited my fate; while the ladies gazed on me in dismay, and supported one unbroken scream. at last, the carriage dashed against a post, and was upset. several persons ran forward, and, i being uppermost, took me out the first. again i began running, and again a mob was at my heels. i felt certain they would tear me in pieces. my head became bewildered; and all the horrid sights i had ever read of rose in array before me. bacchantes, animated with orphean fury, slinging their serpents in the air, and uttering dithyrambics, appeared to surround me on every side. on i flew. knock it down! cried several voices. a footman was just entering a house. i rushed past him, and into a parlour, where a large party were sitting at dinner. save me! exclaimed i, and sank on my knees before them. all arose:--some, in springing to seize me, fell; and others began dragging me away. i grasped the table-cloth, in my confusion, and the next instant, the whole dinner was strewn about the floor. those who had fallen down, rose in piteous plight; one bathed in soup, another crowned with vegetables, and the face of a third all over harico. they held me fast, and questioned me; then called me mad, and turned me into the street. the mob were still waiting for me there, and they cheered me as i came out; so seeing a shop at hand, i darted through it, and ran up stairs, into the drawing-room. there i found a mother in the cruel act of whipping her child. ever a victim to thrilling sensibility, i snatched the rod from her hand; she shrieked and alarmed the house; and again i was turned out of doors. again, my friend the mob received me with a shout; again i took to flight; rushed through another shop, was turned out--through another, was turned out. in short, i threaded a dozen different houses, and witnessed a dozen different domestic scenes. in this, they were singing, in that scolding:--here, i caught an old man kissing the maid, there, i found a young man reading the bible. entering another, i heard ladies laughing and dancing in the drawing-room. i hurried past them to the garrets, and saw their aged servant dying. shocked by the sight, i paused at his half-opened door. not a soul was in the room with him; and vials and basons strewed the table. 'is that my daughter?' said he feebly. 'will no one go for my daughter? to desert me thus, after first breaking my heart! well then, i will find her out myself.' he made a sudden effort to rise, but it was fatal. his head and arms dropped down motionless, and hung out of the bed. he gave a hollow sob, and expired. horrorstruck, i rushed into an adjoining garret, and burst into tears. i felt guilty of i knew not what; and the picture of wilkinson, dying in the madhouse, and calling on his daughter, shot across me for a moment. the noise of people searching the rooms below, and ascending the stairs, put an end to my disagreeable reflections; and i thought but of escape. running to the window of the garret, i found that it opened upon the roof of a neighbouring house; and recollecting that robbers often escape by similar means, i sprang out of the window, closed it after me, and ran along a whole row of roofs. at last i came to a house higher than the rest, with a small window, similar to that by which i had just got out, and happily lying open. on looking into the garret, i found that nobody was there, so i scrambled into it, and fastened the window after me. a servant's bed, a chair, a table, and an immense chest, constituted all the furniture. the chest had nothing but a little linen in it; and i determined to make it my place of refuge, in case of an alarm. having sat a few minutes, to compose my spirits, after the shock they had just experienced, i resolved on exploring the several apartments; for i felt a secret presentiment that this house was, some way or other, connected with my fate--a most natural idea. i first traversed the garrets, but found nothing in them worthy of horror; so i stole, with cautious steps, down the first flight of stairs, and found the door of the front room open. hearing no noise inside, i ventured to put in my head, and perceived a large table, with lighted candles on it, and covered over with half-finished dresses of various descriptions, besides bonnets, feathers, caps, and ribbons in profusion; whence i concluded that the people of the house were milliners. here i sat some time, admiring the dresses, and trying at a mirror how the caps became me, till i was interrupted by steps on the stairs. i ran behind a window-curtain; and immediately three young milliners came into the room. they sat down at the table, and began working. 'i wonder,' said one, 'whether our lodger has returned from dinner.' 'what a sly eye the fellow casts at me,' says another. 'and how he smiles at me,' says the first. 'and how he teases me about my being pretty,' says the second. 'and me too,' says the first; 'and he presses my hand into the bargain.' 'presses!' says the second; 'why, he _squeezes_ mine; and just think, he tries to kiss me too.' 'i know,' says the third, who was the only pretty girl of the three, 'that he never lays a finger on me, nor speaks a word to me, good or bad--never: and yesterday he lent me the mysteries of udolpho with a very bad grace; and when i told him that i wanted it to copy the description of the tuscan girl's dress, as a lady had ordered me to make up a dress like it, for the masquerade to-night, he handed me the book, and said, that if i went there myself, the people would take my face for a mask.' judge of my horror, when i recollected, that this was, indeed, the night of the masquerade; and that i was pent behind a curtain, without even a dress for it! that tuscan costume, thought i, would just answer. perhaps i could purchase it from the milliner. perhaps---but in the midst of my perhaps's, the first and second milliner set off with some indian robes, which they had finished for the masquerade, while the pretty one still remained to complete the tuscan dress. while i was just resolving to issue from my retreat, and persuade her to sell me the dress, i heard a step stealing up the stairs; and presently perceived a young gentleman peeping into the room. he nodded familiarly to the milliner; and said, in a whisper, that he had seen her companions depart, and was now come to know how soon she would go, that he might meet her at their old corner. she replied, that she would soon be ready; and he then stole back again. i had now no time to lose in accomplishing my plan, so i drew aside the curtain, and stood, in a commanding attitude before her. the poor girl looked up, started, made a miserable imitation of the heroic scream, and ran down stairs. i ran after her, as far as the landing-place; and on looking over the balusters, into the hall, i saw the young man who had just been with her, listening to her account of the transaction. 'i will call the watch,' said she, 'and do you keep guard at the door.' she then hastened into the street, and he stood in such a manner, that it was impossible for me to pass him. 'what is the matter?' cried the mistress of the house, coming out of the parlour. 'a mad woman that is above stairs,' answered the young man. 'miss jane has just seen her; dressed half like a man, half like a woman, and with hair down to the ground!' 'what is all this?' cried a maid, running out of the kitchen. 'oh! molly,' said the mistress, 'miss jane is just frightened to death by a monster above stairs, half man, half woman, and all over covered with hair!' another servant now made her appearance. 'oh! betty,' cried molly, 'miss jane is just killed by a huge monster above stairs, half man, half beast, all over covered with black hair, and i don't know what other devilments besides!' 'i will run and drive it down,' cried betty, and began ascending the stairs. whither could i hide? i luckily recollected the large chest; so i flew up to the garret. it was now quite dark; but i found the chest, sprang into it, and having closed the lid, flung some of the linen over me. i then heard the girl enter the next room, and in a few moments, she came into mine, with another person. 'here is the trunk, tom,' said she, 'and i must lock it on you till the search is over. you see, tom, what risks i am running on your account; for there is miss jane, killed by it, and lying in bits, all about the floor.' the man had now jumped into the chest; the girl locked it in an instant, took out the key, and ran down. almost prest to death, i made a sudden effort to get from under him. 'what's this! oh! mercy, what's this?' cried he, feeling about. i gathered myself up; but did not speak. 'help!' vociferated he. ''tis the monster--here is the hair! help, help!' 'hush!' said i, 'or you will betray both of us. i am no monster, but a woman.' 'wasn't? it you that murdered the milliner?' said he, still trembling. 'no, really,' replied i, 'but now not a word; for i hear people coming.' as i spoke, several persons entered the room. we lay still. they searched about; and one of them, approaching the chest, tried to lift the lid. 'that is locked this month past,' said the voice of the maid who had hidden the man in it, 'so you need not look there.' they then searched the remaining garrets; and i heard them say, as they were going down stairs, that i must have jumped out of a window. 'and now, madam,' said the man, 'will you have the goodness to tell me who you are?' 'a young and innocent maiden,' answered i, 'who, flying from my persecutors, took refuge here.' 'young and innocent!' cried he, 'good ingredients, faith. come then, my dear; i will protect you.' so saying, he caught me round the waist, and attempted to kiss me. i begged, reasoned, menaced--all would not do. i had read of a heroine, whose virtue was saved by a timely brain-fever; so, as i could not command one at that instant, i determined on affecting one. 'i murdered her famously!' exclaimed i; and then commenced singing and moaning by turns. he stopped, and lay quiet, as if uncertain what to make of me. i scratched the chest with my nails, and laughed, and shrieked. he began to mutter curses and prayers with great rapidity; till, as i was gabbling over the finest passage in ossian, 'oh! merciful!' ejaculated he, rolling himself into a ball; ''tis a bedlamite broke loose!' by this time, between my terror, and the heat of the chest, i was gasping for breath; and my companion appeared on the very point of suffocation; when, at this critical juncture, some one fortunately came into the room. the man called for help, the chest was unlocked, opened; and the maid with a candle appeared before us. the man darted out like an arrow; she remained motionless with astonishment at seeing me, while i lay there, almost exhausted; though, as usual, not worth a swoon. i do believe, that the five fingers i am writing with would leave me, sooner than my five senses. 'she has confessed to the murder!' cried the man; while the maid held by his arm, and shrunk back, as i rose from the chest with an air of dignity. 'be not frightened, my friends,' said i smiling, 'for i assure you that i am no murderess; and that the milliner is alive and well, at this moment. is she not, young woman?' 'yes, sure,' answered she, somewhat recovering from her terror. 'how i came into this extraordinary situation,' continued i, 'it were needless to relate; but i must have your assistance to get out of it. if you, my good girl, will supply me with a decent gown, bonnet, and pair of stockings, i will promise not to tell the family that you had a lover secreted in the house, and i will give you two guineas for your kindness.' so saying, i took the casket from the pocket of my regimental coat, and displayed the jewels and money that were in it. 'mercy me!' cried the maid; 'how could they dare for to say that so rich a lady murdered the girl?' 'ay, or so handsome a lady,' added the man, bowing. in a word, after some explanations and compliments, i gave the maid four guineas, and the man the regimental coat; and was supplied with a gown, bonnet, and pair of stockings. as soon as i had dressed myself, we determined that i should steal down stairs, and out of the house; and that, if discovered in my passage, i should not betray the maid. accordingly, with much trepidation, i began to descend the stairs. not a soul seemed stirring. but as i passed by the milliner's room, i perceived the door half open, and heard some one humming a tune inside. i peeped through the chink, and saw the pretty milliner again seated there, and still busied about the tuscan dress. i resolved to make another effort for it; and as i had gained my point with the maid, by having discovered her intrigue, it struck me that i might succeed with the milliner in a similar manner. i therefore glided into the room, and seated myself just opposite to her. 'your business, ma'am?' said she, looking surprised. 'to purchase that dress,' answered i. ''tis already purchased,' said she. 'do you remember the mad woman with the long hair?' said i, as i took off my bonnet, and let down my tresses, with all the grandeur of virtue victorious over vice. she started and turned pale. 'you are the very person, i believe,' faltered she. 'what upon earth shall i do?' 'do?' cried i. 'why, sell me the tuscan dress of course. the fact is--but let it go no farther--i am a heroine; i am, i give you my word and honour. so, you know, the lady being wronged of the dress, (inasmuch as she is but an individual), is as nothing compared with the wrong that the community will sustain, if they lose the pleasure of finding that i get it from you. sure the whole scene, since i came to this house, was contrived for the express purpose of my procuring that individual costume; and just conceive what pretty confusion must take place, if, after all, you prevent me! my dear girl, we must do poetical justice. we must not disappoint the reader. 'you will tell me, perhaps, that selling the dress is improper? granted. but, recollect, what improper things are constantly done, in novels, to bring about a pre-determined event. your amour with the gentleman, for instance; which i shall certainly tell your employer, if you refuse to sell me the dress. 'as you value your own peace of mind, therefore, and in the name of all that is just, generous, and honourable, i conjure you to reflect for a moment, and you must see the matter in its rational light. what can you answer to these arguments?' 'that the person who could use them,' said she, 'will never listen to reason. i see what is the matter with you, and that i have no resource but to humour you, or be ruined.' and she began crying. to conclude, after a little farther persuasion, i got the dress, gave her ten guineas, and, tripping down stairs, effected a safe escape out of the house. i then called a coach, and drove to jerry sullivan's; for i would not return to my lodgings, lest the conspirators there should prevent me from going to the masquerade. the poor fellow jumped with joy when he saw me; but i found him in great distress. his creditors had threatened his little shop with immediate ruin, unless he would discharge his debts. he had now provided the whole sum due, except forty pounds; but this he could not procure, and the creditors were expected every minute. 'i have only twelve guineas in the world,' said i, opening my casket, 'but they are at your service.' and i put them into his hand. 'dear lady!' cried the wife, 'what a mortal sight of jewels you have got! do you know, now, i could borrow thirty pounds at least on them, at the pawnbroker's; and that sum would just answer.' 'nay,' said i, 'i cannot consent to part with them; though, had i thirty pounds, i would sooner give it to you, than buy jewels with it.' 'sure then,' cried she, 'by the same rule, you would sooner sell your jewels, than let me want thirty pounds.' 'not at all,' answered i, 'for i am fond of my jewels, and i do not care about money. besides, have i not already given you twelve guineas?' 'you have,' answered she, 'and that is what vexes me. if you had given me nothing at all, i would not have minded, because you were a stranger. but first to make yourself our friend, by giving us twelve guineas, and then to refuse us the remainder--'tis so unnatural!' 'ungrateful woman!' cried i. 'had i ten thousand pounds, you should not touch a farthing of it.' the arrival of the creditors interrupted us, and a touching scene ensued. the wife and daughter flung themselves on their knees, and wrung their hands, and begged for mercy; but the wretches were inexorable. how could i remain unmoved? in short, i slipped the casket into the wife's hand; out she ran with it, and in a few minutes returned with forty pounds. the creditors received the money due, passed receipts, and departed, and jerry returned me the twelve guineas, saying: 'bless your sweet face, for 'tis that is the finger-post to heaven, though, to be sure, i can't look strait in it, after all you have done for me. och! 'tis a murder to be under an obligation: so if just a little bit of mischief would happen you, and i to relieve you, as you did me, why that would make me _aisy_.' i am writing to you, from his house, while his daughter is finishing the sleeve of my tuscan dress; and in a short time i shall be ready for the masquerade. i confess i am not at all reconciled to the means i used in obtaining that dress. i took advantage of the milliner's indiscretion in one instance, to make her do wrong in another. but doubtless my biographer will find excuses for me, which i cannot discover myself. besides, the code of moral law that heroines acknowledge is often quite opposite from those maxims which govern other conditions of life. and, indeed, if we view the various ranks and departments of society, we shall see, that what is considered vicious in some of them, is not esteemed so in others. thus: it is deemed dishonest in a servant to cheat his master of his wines, but it is thought perfectly fair for his master to defraud the king of the revenue from those wines. in the same way, what is called wantonness in a little minx with a flat face, is called only susceptibility in a heroine with an oval one. we weep at the letters of heloise; but were they written by an alderman's fat wife, we should laugh at them. the heroine may permit an amorous arm round her waist, fly in the face of her parents, and make assignations in dark groves, yet still be described as the most prudent of human creatures; but the mere miss has no business to attempt any mode of conduct beyond modesty, decorum, and filial obedience. in a word, as different classes have distinct privileges, it appears to me, from what i have read of the law national, and the law romantic, that the heroine's prerogative is similar to the king's, and that she, like him, can do no wrong. adieu. letter xxi o biddy, i have ascertained my genealogy. i am--but i must not anticipate. take the particulars. having secured a comfortable bed at jerry's, and eaten something (for i had fasted all day), i went with him in a coach to the pantheon, where he promised to remain, and escort me back. but i must first describe my tuscan dress. it was a short petticoat of pale green, with a bodice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. my hair, which fell in ringlets on my neck, was also ornamented with flowers and a straw hat. i wore no mask, heroines so seldom do. palpitating with expectation, i entered the assembly. such a multitude of grotesque groups as presented themselves! clowns, harlequins, nuns, devils; all talking and none listening. the clowns happy to be called fools, the harlequins as awkward as clowns, the nuns impudent, and the devils well-conducted. but as there is a description of a masquerade in almost every novel, you will excuse me from entering into farther particulars. too much agitated to support my character with spirit, i retired to a recess, and there anxiously awaited the arrival of the ancient vassal. hardly had i been seated five minutes, when an infirm and reverend old man approached, and sat down beside me. his feeble form was propt upon a long staff, a palsy shook his white locks, and his garments had all the quaintness of antiquity. during some minutes, he gazed on me with earnestness, through a black mask; at length, heaving a heavy sigh, he thus broke forth in tremulous accents: 'well-a-day! how the scalding tears do run adown my furrowed cheeks; for well i wis, thou beest herself--the lady cherubina de willoughby, the long-lost daughter of mine honoured mistress!' 'speak, i beseech you!' cried i. 'are you, indeed, the ancient and loyal vassal?' 'now by my truly, 'tis even so,' said he. i could have hugged the dear old man to my heart. 'welcome, thrice welcome, much respected menial!' cried i, grasping his hand. 'but keep me not in suspense. unfold to me the heart-harrowing mysteries of my unhappy house!' 'now by my fay,' said he, 'i will say forth my say. my name is whylome eftsoones, and i was accounted comely when a younker. but what boots that now? beauty is like unto a flower of the field.--good my lady, pardon a garrulous old man. so as i was saying, the damozels were once wont to leer at me right waggishly; but time changeth all things, as the proverb saith; and time hath changed my face, from that of a blithesome ganymede to one of those heads which guido has often painted; mild, pale, penetrating. good my lady, i must tell thee a right pleasant and quaint saying of a certain nun, touching my face.' 'for pity's sake,' cried i, 'and as you value the preservation of my senses, continue your story without these digressions.' 'certes, my lady,' said he. 'well, i was first taken, as a bonny page, into the service of thy great great grandfader's fader's brother; and i was in at the death of these four generations, till at last, i became seneschal to thine honoured fader, lord de willoughby. his lordship married the lady hysterica belamour, and thou wast the sole offspring of that ill-fated union. 'soon after thy birth, thy noble father died of an apparition; or, as some will have it, of stewed lampreys. returning, impierced with mickle dolour, from his funeral, which took place at midnight, i was stopped on a common, by a tall figure, with a mirksome cloak, and a flapped hat. i shook grievously, ne in that ghastly dreriment wist how myself to bear.' 'i do not comprehend your expressions,' interrupted i. 'i mean,' said he, 'i was in such a fright i did not know what to do. anon, he threw aside his disguise, and i beheld--lord gwyn!' 'lord gwyn!' cried i. 'yea,' said he. 'lord gwyn, who was ywedded unto lord de willoughby's sister, the lady eleanor.' 'then lady eleanor gwyn is my aunt!' cried i. 'thou sayest truly,' replied he. '"my good eftsoones," whispered lord gwyn to me, "know you not that my wife, lady eleanor gwyn, will enjoy all the extensive estates of her brother, lord de willoughby, if that brother's infant, the little cherubina, were no more?" '"i trow, ween, and wote, 'tis as your lordship saith," answered i. 'his lordship then put into mine hand a stiletto. '"eftsoones," said he, with a hollow voice, "if this dagger be planted in a child's heart, it will grow, and bear a golden flower!" 'he spake, and incontinently took to striding away from me, in such wise, that maulgre and albe, i gan make effort after him, nathlesse and algates did child gwyn forthwith flee from mine eyne.' 'i protest most solemnly,' said i, 'i do not understand five words in the whole of that last sentence!' 'and yet, my lady,' replied he, ''tis the pure well of english undefiled, and such as was yspoken in mine youth.' 'but what can you mean by _child_ gwyn?' said i. 'surely his lordship was no suckling at this time.' 'child,' said eftsoones, 'signified a noble youth, some centuries ago; and it is coming into fashion again. for instance, there is childe harold.' 'then,' said i, 'there is "second childishness;" and i fancy there will be "mere oblivion" too. but if possible, finish your tale in the corrupt tongue.' 'i will endeavour,' said he. 'tempted by this implied promise of a reward, i took an opportunity of conveying you away from your mother, and of secreting you at the house of a peasant, whom i bribed to bring you up as his own daughter. i told lord gwyn that i had dispatched you, and he gave me three and fourpence halfpenny for my trouble. 'when the dear lady, your mother, missed you, she went through the most elegant extravagancies; till, having plucked the last hair from her head, she ran wild into the woods, and has never been heard of since.' 'dear sainted sufferer!' exclaimed i. 'a few days ago,' continued eftsoones, 'a messenger out of breath came to tell me, that the peasant to whom i had consigned you was dying, and wished to see me. i went. such a scene! he confessed to me that he had sold you, body and bones, as he inelegantly expressed it, to one farmer wilkinson, about thirteen years before; for that this farmer, having discovered your illustrious birth, speculated on a handsome consideration from lord gwyn, for keeping the secret. now i am told there is a certain parchment----' 'which i have!' cried i. 'and a certain portrait of nell gwyn----' 'which i have!' 'and a mole just above your left temple----' 'which i have!' exclaimed i, in an ecstasy. 'then your title is made out, as clear as the sun,' said he; 'and i bow, in contrition, before lady cherubina de willoughby, rightful heiress of all the territory now appertaining, or that may hereinafter appertain, to the house of de willoughby.' 'oh, dear, how delightful!' cried i. 'but my good friend, how am i to set about proving my title?' 'nothing easier,' answered he. 'lady gwyn (for his lordship is dead) resides at this moment on your estate, which lies about thirty miles from town; so to-morrow morning you shall set off to see her ladyship, and make your claims known to her. i will send a trusty servant with you, and will myself proceed before you, to prepare her for your arrival. you will therefore find me there.' while we were in the act of arranging affairs more accurately, who should make his appearance, but stuart in a domino! the moment he addressed me, old eftsoones slunk away; nor could i catch another glimpse of him during that night. stuart told me that he had come to the masquerade, on the chance of finding me there, as i seemed so determined on going, the last time he was with me. he likewise explained the mystery of the darkened chamber, and the false alarm of fire. it appears, that as soon as he had discovered the views of betterton, he hired a lodging at the opposite side of the street, and had two police officers there, for the purpose of watching betterton's movements, and frustrating his attempts. he knocked several times in the course of yesterday, but was always answered that i had walked out. knowing that i had not, he began to suspect foul play, and determined on gaining admittance to me. he therefore knocked once more, and then rushed into the house crying fire. this manoeuvre had the desired effect, for an universal panic took place; and in the midst of it, he saw me issuing forth, and effect my escape. after having pursued me till he lost all traces of my route, he returned to my lodgings, and was informed by the poet, that betterton had persuaded the landlady to fasten a carpet at the outside of my window, in order to make me remain in bed, till the time for the masquerade should arrive; and thus prevent me from having an interview with stuart. we then walked up and down the room, while i gave him an account of the ancient and loyal vassal, and of all that i had heard respecting my family. he was silent on the subject; and only begged of me to point out eftsoones, as soon as i should see him; but that interesting old man never appeared. however, i was in great hopes of another adventure; for a domino now began hovering about us so much, that stuart at last addressed it; but it glided away. he said he knew it was betterton. in about an hour, i became tired of the scene; for no one took notice of my dress. we therefore bade jerry, who was in waiting, call a coach; and we proceeded in it to his house. on our way, i mentioned my determination of setting off to lady gwyn's the very next morning, as eftsoones had promised to meet me there. stuart, for a wonder, applauded my resolution; and even offered to accompany me himself. 'for,' said he, 'i think i know this old eftsoones; and if so, i fancy you will find me useful in unravelling part of the mystery. besides, i would assist, with all my soul, in any plan tending to withdraw you from the metropolis.' i snatched at his offer with joy; and it was then fixed that we should take a chaise the next morning, and go together. on our arrival at the lodging, stuart begged a bed of jerry, that he might be ready for the journey in time; and the good-natured irishman, finding him my friend, agreed to make up a pallet for him in the parlour. matters were soon arranged, and we have just separated for the night. well, biddy, what say you now? have i not made a glorious expedition of it? a young, rich, beautiful titled heiress already--think of that, biddy. as soon as i can decently turn lady gwyn out of doors, i mean to set up a most magnificent establishment. but i will treat the poor woman (who perhaps is innocent of her husband's crime) with extreme delicacy. she shall never want a bed or a plate. by the by, i must purchase silver plate. my livery shall be white and crimson. biddy, depend upon my patronage. how the parson and music-master will boast of having known me. then our village will swarm so, _to hear tell as how_ miss cherry has grown a great lady. old mother muggins, at the bottom of the hill, will make a good week's gossip out of it. however, i mean to condescend excessively, for there is nothing i hate so much as pride. yet do not suppose that i am speculating upon an easy life. though the chief obstacle to my marriage will soon be removed, by the confirmation of my noble birth, still i am not ignorant enough to imagine that no other impediments will interfere. besides, to confess the fact, i do not feel my mind quite prepared to marry montmorenci at so short a notice. hitherto i have thought of him but as a lover, not as a husband--very different characters, in general. ah, no, my friend; be well assured, that adversity will not desert me quite so quickly. a present good is often the prognostic of an approaching evil; and when prosperity points its sunshine in our faces, misfortune, like our shadows, is sure to be behind. adieu. letter xxii after having breakfasted, and remunerated our entertainers, stuart and i set out in a post-chaise, while jerry ran at our side half way down the street, heaping me with blessings; and bidding me come to him if ever i should be ruined. after we had advanced a few miles into the country, stuart began to look frequently through the back window, and appeared uneasy. at length he stopped the carriage, and desired the driver to turn round. as soon as the man had done so, another carriage, which, it seems, had followed us from london, passed us, and immediately turned after us. ''tis as i thought!' cried stuart, and stopping the chaise again, jumped out of it. the chaise behind us also stopped; and a gentleman alighted from it and approached. but imagine my surprise, when i found that this gentleman was old betterton! i could almost have embraced him, his villainous face looked so promising, and so pregnant with mischief. 'sir,' said he to stuart, 'as you have perceived me following your carriage, i find myself compelled, however unwillingly, to declare my motives for doing so. last night i happened to be at the pantheon, in a domino, and saw you there escorting this lady. i confess i had long before suspected your intentions towards her, and seeing you now together at a masquerade, and without a matron, i did not feel my suspicions lessened. i therefore had you both traced home, and i found, to my great horror, that you stopped at a wretched, and, as i am informed, infamous house in st. giles's, where you remained during the night. i found too, that a chaise was at the door of it this morning: whence concluding, as i well might, that an elopement was in agitation, i determined, if possible, to prevent so dreadful a catastrophe, by hiring a carriage and pursuing you. 'sir, you undertook to lecture me, when last i saw you; and plausibly enough you performed your part. it is now my duty to return the obligation. mr. stuart, mr. stuart, is it not a shame for you, mr. stuart? is this the way to treat the daughter of your friend, mr. stuart? go, silly boy, return to your home; and bless that heaven which hath sent me to the rescue of this fair unfortunate.' 'by all that is comical,' cried stuart, laughing immoderately, 'this is too ludicrous even to be angry at! miss wilkinson, allow me to introduce you to mr. whylome eftsoones, an ancient and loyal vassal of the de willoughbys;--a mere modern in his principles, i am afraid; but addicted, i wis, to antiquated language.' betterton, i thought, looked rather blank, as he said, 'really, sir, i do not understand----' 'but really, sir,' cried stuart, 'i _do_ understand. i understand, that if you would take less trouble in protecting this lady's honour, you would have a better chance of preserving your own.' 'sir,' answered betterton, 'i will have you to know, that i would sacrifice my life in defence of my honour.' 'well, then,' said stuart, 'though your life has but little of the saint, it will, at least, have something of the martyr.' betterton scowled at him askance, and grinned a thousand devils. 'hear me, gentlemen,' cried i. 'if either of you again say any thing disrespectful or insulting to the other, i declare, on my honour, he shall leave me instantly. at present, i should be happy if both would do me the favour of escorting me to lady gwyn's, as i may meet with treatment there that will render the support of friends indispensible.' it was now stuart's turn to look downcast, and betterton's to smile triumphant. the fact is, i wished to shew this admirable villain how grateful i felt for his meritorious conduct in not having deserted me. 'i will accept of your invitation with pleasure,' said he, 'for my seat lies within a few miles of her ladyship, and i wish to visit my tenantry.' it was now noon. a few fleecy clouds floated in the blue depths of ether. the breeze brought coolness on its wings, and an inviting valley, watered by a rivulet, lay on the left; here whitened with sheep, and there dotted with little encampments of hay. exhilarated by the scene, after so long a confinement in the smoke and stir of london, i proposed to my companions the rural exercise of walking, as preferable to proceeding cooped up in a carriage. each, whatever was his motive, caught at the proposal with delight, and we dismissed our chaises. i now hastened to luxuriate in arcadian beatitude. the pastoral habit of tuscany was favourable; nothing remained but to rival an ida, or a glorvina, in simple touches of nature; and to trip along the lawns, like a daphne or a hamadryad. in an instant, i sprang across a hedge, and fled towards the little valley, light as a wood-nymph flying from a satyr. i then took up a most picturesque position. it was beside of the streamlet, under a weeping willow, and on a grassy bank. close behind me lay one of the most romantic cottages that i had ever seen, and at its back was a small garden, encompassed by green paling. the stream, bordered with wild-flowers, prattled prettily; save here and there, where a jutting stone shattered its crystal, and made its music hoarse. it purled and murmured a little too, but no where could it be said either to tinkle or gurgle, to chide or brawl. flinging off my bonnet, i shook my narcissine locks over my shoulders, and began braiding them in the manner of a simple shepherdess. stuart came up the first. i plucked a daisy that was half dipt into the brook; and instead of shaking off its moisture, i quaffed the liquid fragrance with my lip, and then held the flower to him. 'what am i to do with it?' said he. 'to pledge me,' replied i. 'to drink nature's nectar, that trembles on the leaves which my lip has consecrated.' he laughed and kissed the flower. that moment a lambkin began its pretty bleat. 'now,' said i, 'make me a simple tripping little ditty on a lambkin.' 'you shall have it,' answered he, 'and such as an attorney's clerk would read to a milliner's apprentice.' dear sensibility, o la! i heard a little lamb cry, ba; says i, so you have lost mamma? ah! the little lamb, as i said so, frisking about the field did go, and frisking, trod upon my toe. oh! 'neat enough,' said i, 'only that it wants the word love in it.' 'true,' cried stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.' 'and pray, my good friend,' asked i archly, as i bound up my golden ringlets--'what is love?' 'nay,' said he, 'they say that talking of love is making it.' plucking a thistle that sprang from the bank, i blew away its down with my balmy breath, merely to hide my confusion. surely i am the most sensitive of all created beings! betterton had now reached us, out of breath after his race, and utterly unable to articulate. 'betterton,' cried i, 'what is love?' ''tis,' said he, gasping, ''tis--'tis----' 'the gentleman,' cried stuart, 'gives as good a description of it as most of our modern poets; who make its chief ingredients panting and broken murmurs.' 'now in my opinion,' said i, 'love is a mystical sympathy, which unfolds itself in the glance that seeks the soul,--the sentiment that the soul embodies--the tender gaiety--the more delicious sadness--the stifled sigh--the soft and malicious smile--the thrill, the hope, the fear--each in itself a little bliss. in a word, it is the swoon of the soul, the delirium of the heart, the elegant inebriety of unsophisticated sentiment.' 'if such be love,' said stuart, 'i fear i shall never bring myself to make it.' 'and pray,' said i, 'how would you make love?' 'there are many modes,' answered he, 'and the way to succeed with one girl is often the way to fail with another. girls may be divided into the conversable and inconversable. he who can talk the best, has therefore the best chance of the former; but would a man make a conquest of one of the beautiful inutilities, who sits in sweet stupidity, plays off the small simpers, and founds her prospects in life on the shape of her face, he has little more to do than call her a goddess and make himself a monkey. or if that should fail, as he cannot apply to her understanding, he must have recourse to her feeling, and try what the touch can do for him. the touch has a thousand virtues. only let him establish a lodgment on the first joint of her little finger, he may soon set out on his travels, and make the grand tour of her waist. this is, indeed, to have wit at his fingers' ends; and this, i can assure you, is the best and shortest way to gain the hearts of those demure misses, who think that all modesty consists in silence, that to be insipid is to be innocent, and that because they have not a word for a young man in public, they may have a kiss for him in private.' 'come,' said i, 'let us talk of love in poetry, not prose. i want some pretty verses to fill up my memoirs; so, betterton, now for an amorous ode to your mistress.' betterton bowed and began: to fanny say, fanny, why has bounteous heaven, in every end benign and wise, perfection to your features given? enchantment to your witching eyes? was it that mortal man might view thy charms at distance, and adore? ah, no! the man who would not woo, were less than mortal, or were more. the mossy rose that scents the sky, by bee, by butterfly caress'd, we leave not on the stalk to die, but fondly snatch it to the breast there, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;- unless the breast be fanny's own: there blooming, every bloom excels;- except of fanny's blush alone. o fanny, life is on the wing, and years, like rivers, glide away: to-morrow may misfortune bring, then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day and while a lingering kiss i sip, ah, start not from these ardent arms; nor think the printure of my lip will rob your own of any charms. for see, we crush not, though we tread, the cup and primrose. fanny smiled. come then and press the cup, she said, come then and press the primrose wild. 'now,' cried stuart, 'i can give you a poem, with just as much love in it, and twice as much kissing.' 'that,' said i, 'would be a treasure indeed.' he then began thus: to sally dawn with stains of ruddy light, streaks her grey and fragrant fingers, while the ethiop foot of night, envious of my sally, lingers. upward poplars, downward willows, rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkle leaves of daffodillies, lilies, pennyroyal, periwinkle. rosy, balmy, honied, humid, biting, burning, murmuring kisses, sally, i will snatch from you, mid looks demure that tempt to blisses. if your cheek grow cold, my dear, i will kiss it, till it flushes, or if warm, my raptured tear, shall extinguish all its blushes. yes, that dimple is a valley, where sports many a little true love, and that glance you dart, my sally, might melt diamonds into dew love. but while idle thus i chat, i the war of lips am missing. this, this, this, and that, that, that, these make kissing, kissing, kissing. the style of this poem reminded me of montmorenci, and at the same moment i heard a rustling sound behind me. i started. ''tis montmorenci!' cried i. agitated in the extreme, i turned to see.--it was only a cock-sparrow. 'i deserve the disappointment,' said i to myself, 'for i have never once thought of that amiable youth since i last beheld him. 'sweetest and noblest of men,' exclaimed i, aloud, 'say, dost thou mourn my mysterious absence? perhaps the draught of air that i now inhale is the same which thou hast breathed forth, in a sigh for the far distant cherubina!' 'that cannot well be,' interrupted stuart, 'or at least the sigh of this unknown must have been packed up in a case, and hermetically sealed, to have come to you without being dispersed on the way.' 'there you happen to be mistaken,' answered i. 'for in the hermit of the rock, the heroine, while sitting on the coast of sardinia, seemed to think it highly probable, that the billow at her feet might be the identical billow which had swallowed up her lover, about a year before, off the coast of martinique.' 'that was not at all more improbable than valancourt's theory,' said stuart. 'what was it?' asked i. 'why,' said he, 'that the sun sets, in different longitudes, at the same moment. for when his emily was going to italy, while he remained in france, he begged of her to watch the setting of the sun every evening, that both their eyes might be fixed upon the same object at once. now, as the sun would set, where she was in italy, much earlier than where he was in france, he certainly took the best of all possible methods to prevent their looking at it together.' 'but, sir,' said betterton, 'heroes and heroines are not bound to understand astronomy.' 'and yet,' answered stuart, 'they are greater star-gazers than the ancient egyptians. to form an attachment for the moon, and write a sonnet on it, is the principal test of being a heroine.' as he spoke, a painted butterfly came fluttering about me. to pursue it was a classical amusement, for caroline of lichfield made a butterfly-hunt her pastime; so springing on my feet, i began the chace. the nimble insect eluded me for a long time, and at last got over the paling, into the little garden. i followed it through a small gate, and caught it; but alas! bruised it in the capture, and broke one of its wings. the poor thing sought refuge in a lily, where it lay struggling a few moments, and then its little spirit fled for ever. what an opportunity for a sonnet! i determined to compose one under the willow. a beautiful rose-bush was blushing near the lily, and reminded me how pastoral i should look, could i recline on roses, during my poetical ecstasy. but would it be proper to pick them? surely a few could do no harm. i glanced round--nobody was in sight--i picked a few. but what signified a few for what i wanted? i picked a few more. the more i picked, the more i longed to pick--'tis human nature; and was not eve herself tempted in a garden? so from roses i went to lilies, from lilies to carnations, thence to jessamine, honey-suckle, eglantine, sweet-pea; till, in short, i had filled my bonnet, and almost emptied the beds. i then hurried to the willow with my prize; sentenced stuart and betterton to fifty yards banishment, and constructed a charming couch of flowers, which i damasked and inlaid with daisies, butter-flowers, and moss. enraptured with my paradisaical carpet, i flung myself upon it, and my recumbent form, as it pressed the perfumes, was indeed that of mahomet's houri. exercise and agitation had heightened the glow of my cheeks, and the wind had blown my yellow hair about my face, like withered leaves round a ripened peach. i never looked so lovely. in a short time i was able to repeat this sonnet aloud. sonnet where the blue stream reflected flowerets pale, a fluttering butterfly, with many a freak, dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sail of azure pinions, edged with jetty streak. i snatched it passing; but a pinion frail, ingrained with mealy gold, i chanced to break. the mangled insect, ill deserving bane, falls in the hollow of a lily new. my tears drop after it, but drop in vain. the cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew, and flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed, can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed. so guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye, so by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die. now that the pomp of composition was over, i began to think i had treated the owner of the garden extremely ill. i felt myself guilty of little less than theft, and was deliberating on what i ought to do, when an old, grey-headed peasant came running towards me from the garden. 'miss!' cried he, 'have you seen any body pass this way with a parcel of flowers; for some confounded thief has just robbed me of all i had?' i raised myself a little to reply, and he perceived the flowers underneath. 'odd's life!' cried he, 'so you are the thief, are you? how dare you, hussey, commit such a robbery?' 'i am no hussey, and 'tis no robbery,' cried i; 'and trust me, you shall neither have apology nor compensation. hussey, indeed! sir, it was all your own fault for leaving that uncouth gate of your's open. i am afraid, sir, that you are a shockingly ignorant old man.' the peasant was just about to seize me, when stuart ran up, and prevented him. they had then some private conversation together, and i saw stuart give him a guinea. the talismanic touch of gold struck instant peace, and a compact of amity followed. indeed, i have ever found, that even my face, though a heroine's, and with all its dimples, blushes, and glances, could never do half so much for me as the royal face on a bit of gold. the peasant was now very civil, and invited us to rest in his cottage. thither we repaired, and found his daughter, a beautiful young woman, just preparing the dinner. i felt instantly interested in her fate. i likewise felt hungry; so calling her aside, i told her that i would be happy to have a dinner, and, if possible, a bed, at the cottage; and that i would recompense her liberally for them, as i was a lady of rank, but at present in great affliction. she said she would be very glad to accommodate me, if her father would permit her; and she then went to consult him. after a private conference between them and stuart, she told me that her father was willing to let me remain. so we soon agreed upon the terms, and a village was at hand, where stuart and betterton might dine and sleep. before they left me, they made me give a solemn promise not to quit the cottage, till both of them should return, the next morning. stuart took an opportunity of asking me, whether he could speak to me in private, that evening. 'at ten o'clock to-night,' answered i, 'i will be sitting at the casement of my chamber. trill a lamenting canzonet beneath it, as a signal, and i will admit you to a stolen interview.' betterton and he then departed, but not in company with each other. dinner is announced. adieu letter xxiii at dinner, a young farmer joined us; and i soon perceived that he and the peasant's daughter, mary, were born for each other. they betrayed their mutual tenderness by a thousand little innocent stratagems, that passed, as they thought, unobserved. after dinner, when mary was about accompanying me to walk, the youth stole after us, and just as i had got into the garden, he drew her back, and i heard him kiss her. she came to me with her face a little flushed, and her ripe lips ruddier than before. 'well, mary,' said i, 'what was he doing to you?' 'doing, ma'am? nothing, i am sure.' 'nothing, mary?' 'why, ma'am, he only wanted to be a little rude, and kiss me, i believe.' 'and you would not allow him, mary?' 'why should i tell a falsehood about it, ma'am?' said she. 'to be sure i did not hinder him; for he is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week.' 'and do you love him, mary?' 'better than my life, ma'am. there never was such a good lad; he has not a fault in the wide world, and all the girls are dying of envy that i have got him.' 'well, mary,' said i, 'i foresee we shall spend a most delicious evening. we will take a rural repast down to the brook, and tell our loves. the contrast will be beautiful;--mine, the refined, sentimental, pathetic story; your's the pretty, simple, little, artless tale. come, my friend; let us return, and prepare the rustic banquet. no souchong, or bohea; (blessed names these!) no hot or cold cakes--oh! no, but creams, berries, and fruits; goat's milk, figs, and honey--arcadian, pastoral, primeval dainties!' we then went back to the cottage, but could get nothing better than currants, gooseberries, and a maple bowl of cream. mary, indeed, cut a large slice of bread and butter for her private amusement; and with these we returned to the streamlet. i then threw myself on my flowery couch, and my companion sat beside me. we helped ourselves. i took rivulet to my cream, and scooped the brook with my rosy palm. innocent nymph! ah, why couldst thou not sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say thy prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid? i picked up a languishing rose, and sighed as i inhaled its perfume, and gazed on its decay. 'such, mary,' said i, 'such will be the fate of you and me. how soft, how serene this evening. it is a landscape for a claud. but how much more charming is an italian or a french than an english landscape. o! to saunter over hillocks, covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper and tamarise, while shrubs fringe the summits of the rocks, or patches of meagre vegetation tint their recesses! plantations of almonds, cypresses, palms, olives, and dates stretch along; nor are the larch and ilex, the masses of granite, and dark forests of fir wanting; while the majestic garonne wanders, descending from the pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the bay of biscay. 'is not all this exquisite, mary?' 'it must, ma'am, since you say so,' replied she. 'then,' continued i, 'though your own cottage is tolerable, yet is it, as in italy, covered with vine leaves, fig-trees, jessamine, and clusters of grapes? is it tufted with myrtle, or shaded with a grove of lemon, orange, and bergamot?' 'but ma'am,' said mary, ''tis shaded by some fine old elms.' 'true,' cried i, with the smile of approaching triumph. 'but do the flowers of the spreading agnus castus mingle with the pomegranate of shemlek? does the asiatic andrachne rear its red trunk? are the rose-coloured nerit, and verdant alia marina imbost upon the rocks? and do the golden clusters of eastern spartium gleam amidst the fragrant foliage of the cedrat, the most elegant shrub of the levant? do they, mary?' 'i believe not, ma'am,' answered she. 'but then our fields are all over daisies, butterflowers, clover-blossoms, and daffodowndillies.' 'daffodowndillies!' cried i. 'ah, mary, mary, you may be a very good girl, but you do not shine in description. now i leave it to your own taste, which sounds better,--asiatic andrachne, or daffodowndillies? if you knew any thing of novels, you would describe for the ear, not for the eye. oh, my young friend, never, while you live, say daffodowndillies.' 'never, if i can help it, ma'am,' said mary. 'and i hope you are not offended with me, or think the worse of me, on account of my having said it now; for i could safely make oath that i never heard, till this instant, of its being a naughty word.' 'i am satisfied,' said i. 'so now let us tell our loves, and you shall begin.' 'indeed, ma'am,' said she, 'i have nothing to tell.' 'impossible,' cried i. 'did william never save your life?' 'never, ma'am.' 'well then, he had a quarrel with you?' 'never, in all his born days, ma'am.' 'shocking! why how long have you known him?' 'about six months, ma'am. he took a small farm near us; and he liked me from the first, and i liked him, and both families wished for the match; and when he asked me to marry him, i said i would; and so we shall be married next week; and that is the whole history, ma'am.' 'a melancholy history, indeed!' said i. 'what a pity that an interesting pair, like you, who, without flattery, seem born for one of marmontel's tales, should be so cruelly sacrificed.' i then began to consider whether any thing could yet be done in their behalf, or whether the matter was indeed past redemption. i reflected that it would be but an act of common charity,--hardly deserving praise--to snatch them awhile from the dogged and headlong way they were setting about matrimony, and introduce them to a few of the sensibilities. surely with very little ingenuity, i might get up an incident or two between them;--a week or a fortnight's torture, perhaps;--and afterwards enjoy the luxury of reuniting them. full of this laudable intention, i sat meditating awhile; and at length hit upon an admirable plan. it was no less than to make mary (without her own knowledge) write a letter to william, dismissing him for ever! this appears impossible, but attend. 'my story,' said i, to the unsuspecting girl, 'is long and lamentable, and i fear, i have not spirits to relate it. i shall merely tell you, that i yesterday eloped with the younger of the gentlemen who were here this morning, and married him. i was induced to take this step, in consequence of my parents having insisted that i should marry my first cousin; who, by the by, is a namesake of your william's. now, mary, i have a favour to beg of you. my cousin william must be made acquainted with my marriage; though i mean to keep it a secret from my family, and as i do not wish to tell him such unhappy tidings in my own hand-writing--and in high life, my fair rustic, young ladies must not write to young gentlemen, your taking the trouble to write out the letter for me, would bind me to you for ever.' 'that i will, and welcome,' said the simple girl; 'only ma'am, i fear i shall disgrace a lady like you, with my bad writing. i am, out and out, the worst scribbler in our family; and william says to me but yesterday, ah, mary, says he, if your tongue talked as your pen writes, you might die an old maid for me. ah, william, says i, i would bite off my tongue sooner than die an old maid. so, to be sure, willy laughed very hearty.' we then returned home, and retired to my chamber, where i dictated, and mary wrote as follows: 'dear william, 'prepare your mind for receiving a great and unexpected shock. to keep you no longer in suspense, learn that i am married. 'before i had become acquainted with you, i was attached to another man, whose name i must beg leave to conceal. about a year since, circumstances compelled him to go abroad, and before his departure, he procured a written promise from me, to marry him on the first day of his return. you then came, and succeeded in rivalling him. 'as he never once wrote, after he had left the country, i concluded that he was dead. yesterday, however, a letter from him was put into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private interview. i went. he had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands. i prayed, entreated, wept--all in vain. 'i became his wife. 'o william, pity, but do not blame me. if you are a man of honour and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one living soul. do not even speak to myself on the subject of it. 'you see i pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that i now bear. 'adieu, dear william: adieu for ever.' we then returned to the sitting-room, and found william there. while we were conversing, i took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived, into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. he retired with it, and we continued talking. but in about half an hour he hurried into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to mary, and looked at her earnestly. 'william!' cried she, 'william! for shame then, don't frighten one so.' 'no, mary,' said he, 'i scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. i believe i am above that. but no wonder my last look at you should be frightful. there is your true-lover's knot--there is your hair--there are your letters. so now, mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever happy, is what i pray providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!' with these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the room. mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose again; and grew pale and red by turns. ''tis so--so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip refused the attempted smile. 'all my presents returned too. sure--my heavens!--sure he cannot want to break off with me? well, i have as good a spirit as he, i believe. the base man; the cruel, cruel man!' and she burst into a passion of tears. i tried to sooth her, but the more i said, the more she wept. she was sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and then she sobbed so piteously, that i was on the point of undeceiving her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into her own room. he asked about her; i told him that she was not well;--the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. they have remained together ever since. how delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode, this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs! adieu. letter xxiv the night was so dark when i repaired to the casement, that i have been trying to compose a description of it for you, in the style of the best romances. but after having summoned to my mind all the black articles of value that i can recollect--ebony, sables, palls, pitch, and even coal, i find i have nothing better to say, than, simply, that it was a dark night. having opened the casement, i sat down at it, and repeated these lines aloud. sonnet now while within their wings each feather'd pair, hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew, shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air, earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew. the lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee, and i will moralize her minstrelsy. ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing, one only warbles to the milder moon. thus for the great, how many wake the string, thus for the good, how few the lyre attune. as soon as i had finished the sonnet, a low and tremulous voice, close to the casement, sung these words: song haste, my love, and come away; what is folly, what is sorrow? 'tis to turn from, joys to-day, tis to wait for cares to-morrow. o'er the river, aspens shiver thus i tremble at delay. light discovers, vowing lovers: see the stars with sharpened ray, gathering thicker, glancing quicker; haste, my love, and come away. i sat enraptured, and heaved a sigh. 'enchanting sigh!' cried the singer, as he sprang through the window; but it was not the voice of stuart. i screamed loudly. 'hush!' cried the mysterious unknown, and advanced towards me; when, to my great relief, the door was thrown open, and the old peasant entered, with mary behind him, holding a candle. in the middle of the room, stood a man, clad in a black cloak, with black feathers in his hat, and a black mask on his face. the peasant, pale as death, ran forward, knocked him to the ground, and seized a pistol and carving-knife, that were stuck in a belt about his waist. 'unmask him!' cried i. the peasant, kneeling on his body, tore off the mask, and i beheld--betterton! 'alarm the neighbours, mary!' cried the peasant. mary put down the candle, and went out. 'i must appear in an unfavourable light to you, my good man,' said this terrifying character; 'but the young lady will inform you that i came hither at her own request.' 'for shame!' cried i. 'what a falsehood!' 'falsehood!' said he. 'i have your own letter, desiring me to come.' 'the man is mad,' cried i. 'i never wrote him a letter.' 'i can produce it to your face,' said he, pulling a paper from his pocket, and to my great amazement reading these lines. 'cherubina begs that betterton will repair to her window, at ten o'clock to-night, disguised like an italian assassin, with dagger, cloak, and pistol. the signal is to be his singing an air under the casement, which she will then open, and he may enter her chamber.' 'i will take the most solemn oath,' cried i, 'that i never wrote a line of it. but this unhappy wretch, who is a ruffian of the first pretensions, has a base design upon me, and has followed me from london, for the purpose of effecting it; so i suppose, he wrote the letter himself, as an excuse, in case of discovery.' 'then he shall march to the magistrate's,' said the peasant, 'and i will indict him for house-breaking!' a man half so frantic as betterton i never beheld. he foamed, he grinned, he grinded the remnants of his teeth; and swore that stuart was at the bottom of the whole plot. by this time, mary having returned with two men, we set forward in a body to the magistrate's, and delivered our depositions before him. i swore that i did not write the letter, and that, to the best of my belief, betterton harboured bad designs against me. the peasant swore that he had found the culprit, armed with a knife and pistol, in his house. the magistrate, therefore, notwithstanding all that betterton could say, committed him to prison without hesitation. as they were leading him away, he cast a furious look at the magistrate, and said: 'ay, sir, i suppose you are one of those pensioned justices, who minister our vague and sanguinary laws, and do dark deeds for our usurping oligarchy, that has assumed a power of making our most innocent actions misdemeanours, of determining points of law without appeal, of imprisoning our persons without trial, and of breaking open our houses with the standing army. but nothing will go right till we have a reform in parliament--neither peace nor war, commerce nor agriculture----' 'clocks nor watches, i suppose,' said the magistrate. 'ay, clocks nor watches,' cried betterton, in a rage. 'for how can our mechanics make any thing good, while a packed parliament deprives them of money and a mart?' 'so then,' said the magistrate, 'if st. dunstan's clock is out of order, 'tis owing to the want of a reform in parliament.' 'i have not the most distant doubt of it,' cried betterton. ''tis fair then,' said the magistrate, 'that the reformists should take such a latitude as they do; for, probably, by their encouragement of time-pieces, they will at last discover the longitude.' 'no sneering, sir,' cried betterton. 'now do your duty, as you call it, and abide the consequence.' this gallant grey lothario was then led off; and our party returned home. adieu. letter xxv i rose early this morning, and repaired to my favourite willow, to contemplate the placid landscape. flinging myself on the grass, close to the brook, i began to warble a rustic madrigal. i then let down my length of tresses, and, stooping over the streamlet, laved them in the little urn of the dimpling naiad. this, you know, was agreeable enough, but the accident that befel me was not. for, leaning too much over, i lost my balance, and rolled headlong into the middle of the rivulet. as it was shallow, i did not fear being drowned, but as i was a heroine, i hoped to be rescued. therefore, instead of rising, as i might easily have done, there i lay, shrieking and listening, and now and then lifting up my head, in hopes to see stuart come flying towards me on the wings of the wind, oh no! my gentleman thought proper to make himself scarce; so dripping, shivering, and indignant, i scrambled out, and bent my steps towards the cottage. on turning the corner of the hedge, who should i perceive at the door, but the hopeful youth himself, quite at his ease, and blowing a penny trumpet for a chubby boy. 'what has happened to you?' said he, seeing me so wet. 'only that i fell into the brook,' answered i, 'and was under the disagreeable necessity of saving my own life, when i expected that you would have condescended to take the trouble off my hands.' 'expected!' cried he. 'surely you had no reason for supposing that i was so near to you, as even to have witnessed the disaster.' 'and it is, therefore,' retorted i, 'that you ought to have been so near me as to have witnessed it.' 'you deal in riddles,' said he. 'not at all,' answered i. 'for the farther off a distrest heroine believes a hero, the nearer he is sure to be. only let her have good grounds for supposing him at her antipodes, and nine times out of ten she finds him at her elbow.' 'well,' said he, laughing, 'though i did not save your life, i will not endanger it, by detaining you in your wet dress. pray hasten to change it.' i took his advice, and borrowed some clothes from mary, while mine were put to the fire. after breakfast, i once more equipped myself in my tuscan costume, and a carriage being ready for us, i took an affectionate leave of that interesting rustic. poor girl! her attempts at cheerfulness all the morning were truly tragical; and, absorbed in another sorrow, she felt but little for my departure. on our way, stuart confessed that he was the person who wrote the letter to betterton in my name; and that he did so for the purpose of entrapping him in such a manner as to prevent him from accompanying me farther. he was at the window during the whole scene; as he meant to have seized betterton himself, had not the peasant done so. 'you will excuse my thus interfering in your concerns,' added he; 'but gratitude demands of me to protect the daughter of my guardian; and friendship for her improves the duty to a pleasure.' 'ah!' said i, 'however it has happened, i fear you dislike me strangely.' 'believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'with a few foibles (which are themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues; and, let me add, a thousand attractions. i who tell you blunt truths, may well afford you flattery.' 'flattery,' said i, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the motive for using it is mean or vicious.' 'your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'flattery is often but the hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. flattery, so far from injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.' 'besides,' said i, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an effort of the wit? and since such an effort shews that we consider the person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.' in this manner stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. sometimes he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious remarks; but never could i throw him off his guard, by the dangerous softness of my manner. he now calls me the lovely visionary. would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. but whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, i cannot, by any art, extract from him. the farewell go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day, long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me; a sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say, for far she hastens hence. ah, hard decree! tell her i feel that at the parting hour, more than the waves will heave in tumult wild: more than the skies will threat a gushing shower, more than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild. say that her influence flies not with her form, that distant she will still engage my mind: that suns are most remote when most they warm, that flying parthians scatter darts behind. long will i gaze upon her vacant home, as the bird lingers near its pilfered nest, there, will i cry, she turned the studious tome; there sported, there her envied pet caressed. there, while she plied accomplished works of art, i saw her form, inclined with sapphic grace; her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart, and all the living treasures of her face. the parian forehead parting clustered hair, the cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow; the witching archness, and the grace so rare, so magical, it charmed i knew not how. light was her footstep as the silent flakes of falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn; her dimple, like the print the berry makes, in some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn. to snatch her passing accents as she spoke, to see her slender hand, (that future prize) fling back a ringlet, oft i dared provoke, the gentle vengeance of averted eyes. yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking awe withheld me from her sight, i broke my chain? or when i made a single glance my law, what wonder if that law were made in vain? and say, can nought but converse love inspire? what tho' for me her lips have never moved? the vale that speaks but with its feathered choir, when long beheld, eternally is loved. go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy day of parting; go, and say farewell for me; a sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say, whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be. if slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways, if speaking, tell her in my words she glows; if thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays, if tuneful, tell her in my song she flows. tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove; that soon my words on absent charms will dwell; that soon my thoughts remembered hours will love; that soon my song of vain regrets will tell. then, in romantic moments, i will frame, some scene ideal, where we meet at last; where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame, she smiles reward and talks of all the past. now for the lark she flies my wistful lay. ah, could the bard some winged warbler be, following her form, no longer would he say, go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me. i write from an inn within a mile of lady gwyn's. another hour and my fate is decided. adieu. letter xxvi at length, with a throbbing heart, i now, for the first time, beheld the mansion of my revered ancestors--the present abode of lady gwyn. that unfortunate usurper of my rights was not denied to me; so i alighted; and though stuart wished much to be present at the interview, i would not permit him; but was ushered by the footman into the sitting-room. i entered with erect, yet gentle majesty; while my tuscan habit, which was soiled and shrivelled by the brook, gave me an air of complicated distress. i found her ladyship at a table, classifying fossils. she was tall and thin, and bore the remains of beauty; but i could not discover the family face. she looked at me with some surprise; smiled, and begged to know my business. 'it is a business,' said i, 'of the most vital importance to your ladyship's honour and repose; and i lament that an imperious necessity compels me to the invidious task of acquainting you with it. could anything add to the painful nature of my feelings, it would be to find that i had wounded yours.' 'your preamble alarms me,' said she. 'do, pray be explicit.' 'i must begin,' said i, 'with declaring my perfect conviction of your ignorance, that any person is existing, who has a right to the property which your ladyship at present possesses.' 'assuredly such a notion never entered my head,' said she, 'and indeed, were such a claim made, i should consider it as utterly untenable--in fact, impossible.' 'i regret,' said i, 'that it is undeniable. there are documents extant, and witnesses living, to prove it beyond all refutation.' her ladyship, i thought, changed colour, as she said: 'this is strange; but i cannot believe it. who would have the face to set up such a silly claim?' 'i am so unfortunate as to have that face,' answered i, in a tone of the most touching humility. 'you!' she cried with amazement. 'you!' 'pardon me the pain i give you,' said i, 'but such is the fact; and grating as this interview must be to the feelings of both parties, i do assure you, that i have sought it, solely to prevent the more disagreeable process of a law-suit.' 'you are welcome to twenty law-suits, if you wish them,' cried she, 'but i fancy they will not deprive me of my property.' 'at least,' said i, 'they may be the means of sullying the character of your deceased lord.' 'i defy the whole world,' cried she, 'to affix the slightest imputation on his character.' 'surely,' said i, 'you cannot pretend ignorance of the fact, that his lordship had the character of being--i trust, more from misfortune, than from inherent depravity; for your ladyship well knows that man, frail man, in a moment of temptation, perpetrates atrocities, which his better heart afterwards disowns.' 'but his character!' cried she. 'what of his character?' 'ah!' said i, 'your ladyship will not compel me to mention.' 'you have advanced too far to retreat,' cried she. 'i demand an unequivocal explanation. what of his character?' 'well, since i must speak plain,' replied i, 'it was that of an--assassin!' 'merciful powers!' said she, in a faint voice, and reddening violently. 'what does the horrid woman mean?' 'i have at this moment,' cried i, 'a person ready to make oath, that your unhappy husband bribed a servant of my father's to murder me, while yet an infant, in cold blood.' ''tis a falsehood!' cried she. 'i would stake my life on its being a vile, malicious, diabolical falsehood.' 'would it were!' said i, 'but oh! lady gwyn, the circumstances, the dreadful circumstances--these cannot be contradicted. it was midnight;--the bones of my noble father had just been deposited in the grave;--when a tall figure, wrapt in a dark cloak, and armed with a dagger, stood before the seneschal. _it was the late lord gwyn!_' 'who are you?' cried she, starting up quite pale and horror-struck. 'in the name of all that is dreadful, who can you be?' 'your own niece!' said i, meekly kneeling to receive her blessing--'lady cherubina de willoughby, the daughter of your ladyship's deceased brother, lord de willoughby, and of his much injured wife, the lady hysterica belamour!' 'never heard of such persons in all my life!' cried she, ringing the bell furiously. 'pray,' said i, 'be calm. act with dignity in this affair. do not disgrace our family. on my honour, i mean to treat you with kindness. nay, we must positively be on terms of friendship--i make it a point. after all, what is rank? what are riches? how vapid their charms, compared with the heartfelt joys of truth and virtue! o, lady gwyn, o, my respected aunt; i conjure you by our common ties of blood, by your brother, who was my father, spurn the perilous toy, fortune, and retire in time, and without exposing your lost lord, into the peaceful bosom of obscurity!' 'conduct this wretch out of the house,' said her ladyship to the servant who had entered. 'she wants to extort money from me, i believe.' 'a moment more,' cried i. 'where is old eftsoones? where is that worthy character?' 'i know no such person,' said she. 'begone, impostor!' at the word impostor, i smiled; drew aside my ringlets with one hand, and pointed to my inestimable mole with the other. 'am i an impostor now?' cried i. 'but learn, unfortunate woman, that i have a certain parchment too.'---'and a great deal of insolence too,' said she. 'the resemblance of it, at least,' cried i, 'for i have your ladyship's portrait.' 'my portrait!' said she with a sneer. 'as sure as your name is nell gwyn,' cried i; 'for nell gwyn is written under it; and let me add, that you would have consulted both your own taste, and the dignity of our house better, had you got it written eleanor instead of nell.' 'you little impertinent reprobate!' exclaimed she, feeling the peculiar poignancy of the sarcasm. 'begone this moment, or i will have you drummed through the village!' i waved my hand in token of high disdain, and vanished. 'well,' said stuart, as i got to the carriage, 'has her ladyship acknowledged your claims?' 'no, truly,' cried i, 'but she has turned me out of my own house--think of that!' 'then,' said he, springing from the chaise, 'i will try whether i cannot succeed better with her ladyship;' and he went into the house. i remained in a state of the greatest perturbation till he came back. 'good news!' cried he. 'her ladyship wishes to see you, and apologize for her rudeness; and i fancy,' added he, with a significant nod, 'all will go well in a certain affair.' 'yes, yes,' said i, nodding in return, 'i flatter myself she now finds civility the best of her game.' i then alighted, and her ladyship ran forward to meet me. she pressed my hand, _my-deared_ me twice in a breath, told me that stuart had given her my little history--that it was delicious--elegant--exotic; and concluded with declaring, that i must remain at her house a few days, to talk over the great object of my visit. much as i mistrusted this sudden alteration in her conduct, i consented to spend a short time with her, on the principle, that heroines always contrive to get under the same roof with their bitterest enemies. stuart appeared quite delighted at my determination, and after another private interview with her ladyship, set off for london, to make further inquiries about wilkinson. i am, however, resolved not to release that mischievous farmer, till i have secured my title and estate. you see i am grown quite sharp. her ladyship and i had then a long conversation, and she fairly confessed the probability that my claims are just, but denied all knowledge of old eftsoones. i now begin to think rather better of her. she has the sweetest temper in the world, loves literature and perroquets, scrapes mezzotintos, and spends half her income in buying any thing that is hardly to be had. she led me through her cabinet, which contains the most curious assortment in nature--vases of onyx and sardonyx, cameos and intaglios; subjects in sea-horse teeth, by fiamingo and benvenuto cellini; and antique gems in jadestone, mochoa, coral, amber, and turkish agate. she has already presented me with several dresses, and she calls me her lovely _protã©gã©e_, and the lady cherubina,--a sound that makes my very heart leap within me. nay, she did me the honour of assuring me, that her curiosity to know a real heroine was one motive for her having asked me on this visit; and that she positively considers an hour with me worth all her curiosities put together. what a delicate compliment! so could i do less, in return, than repeat my assurances, that when i succeed in dispossessing her of the property, she shall never want an asylum in my house. adieu. letter xxvii think of its having never once struck me, till i had retired for the night, that i might be murdered! how so manifest a danger escaped my recollection, is inconceivable; but so it was, i never thought of it. lady gwyn might be (for any thing i could tell to the contrary) just as capable of plotting an assassination as the marchesa di vivaldi; and surely her motives were far more urgent. i therefore searched in my chamber, for some trap-door, or sliding pannel, by which assassins might enter it; but i could find none. i then resolved on exploring the galleries, corridors, and suites of apartments, in this immense mansion; in hopes to discover some place of retreat, or at least some mystery relative to my birth. accordingly, at the celebrated hour of midnight, i took up the taper, and unbolting my door, stole softly along the lobby. i stopped before one of our family pictures. it was of a lady, pale, pensive, and interesting; and whose eyes, which appeared to look at me, were sky-blue, like my own. that was sufficient. 'gentle image of my departed mother!' ejaculated i, kneeling before it, 'may thy sacred ashes repose in peace!' i then faintly chaunted a fragment of a hymn, and advanced. no sigh met my listening ear, no moan amidst the pauses of the gust. with a trembling hand i opened a door, and found myself in a spacious chamber. it was magnificently furnished, and a piano stood in one corner of it. intending to run my fingers over the keys, i walked forward; till a low rustling in that direction made me pause. but how shall i paint to you my horror, my dismay, when i heard the mysterious instrument on a sudden begin to sound; not loudly, but (more terrible still!) with a hurried murmur; as if all its chords were agitated at once, by the hand of some invisible demon. i did not faint, i did not shriek; but i stood transfixed to the spot. the music ceased. i recovered courage and advanced. the music began again; and again i paused. what! should i not lift the simple lid of a mere piano, after emily's having drawn aside the mysterious veil, and discovered the terrific wax doll underneath it? emulation, enthusiasm, curiosity prompted me, and i rushed undaunted to the piano. louder and more rapid grew the notes--my desperate hand raised the cover, and beneath it, i beheld a sight to me the most hideous and fearful upon earth,--a mouse! i screamed and dropped the candle, which was instantly extinguished. the mouse ran by me; i flew towards the door, but missed it, and fell against a table; nor was it till after i had made much clamour, that i got out of the room. as i groped my way through the corridor, i heard voices and people in confusion above stairs; and presently lights appeared. the whole house was in a tumult. 'they are coming to murder me at last!' cried i, as i regained my chamber, and began heaping chairs and tables against the door. presently several persons arrived at it, and called my name. i said not a word. they called louder, but still i was silent; till at length they burst open the door, and lady gwyn, with some of her domestics, entered. they found me kneeling in an attitude of supplication. 'spare, oh, spare me!' cried i. 'my dear,' said her ladyship, 'no harm shall happen you.' 'alas, then,' exclaimed i, 'what portends this nocturnal visit? this assault on my chamber? all these dreadful faces? was it not enough, unhappy woman, that thy husband attempted my life, but must thou, too, thirst for my blood?' lady gwyn whispered a servant, who left the room; the rest raised, and put me to bed; while i read her ladyship such a lecture on murder, as absolutely astonished her. the servant soon after returned with a cup. 'here, my love,' said her ladyship, 'is a composing draught for you. drink it, and you will be quite well to-morrow.' i took it with gladness, for i felt my brain strangely bewildered by the terror that i had just undergone. indeed i have sometimes experienced the same sensation before, and it is extremely disagreeable. they then left a candle in my room, and departed. my mind still remains uneasy; but i have barricaded the door, and am determined on not undressing. i believe, however, i must now throw myself on the bed; for the draught has made me sleepy. adieu. letter xxviii o biddy grimes, i am poisoned! that fatal draught last night--why did i drink it?--i am in dreadful agony. when this reaches you, all will be over.--but i would not die without letting you know. farewell for ever, my poor biddy! i bequeath you all my ornaments. letter xxix yes, my friend, you may well stare at receiving another letter from me; and at hearing that i have not been poisoned in the least! i must unfold the mystery. when i woke this morning, after my nocturnal perambulation, i found my limbs so stiff, and such pains in all my bones, that i was almost unable to move. judge of my horror and despair; for it instantly flashed across my mind, that lady gwyn had poisoned me! my whole frame underwent a sudden revulsion; i grew sick, and rang the bell with violence; nor ceased an instant, till half the servants, and lady gwyn herself, had burst into my chamber. 'if you have a remnant of mercy left,' cried i, 'send for a doctor!' 'what is the matter, my dear,' said her ladyship. 'only that you have poisoned me, my dear,' cried i. 'dear, indeed! i presume your ladyship imagines, that the liberty you have taken with my life, authorizes all other freedoms. oh, what will become of me!' 'do, tell me,' said she, 'how are you unwell?' 'i am sick to death,' cried i. 'i have pains in all my limbs, and i shall be a corpse in half an hour. oh, indeed, you have done the business completely. lady eleanor gwyn, i do here, on my death-bed, and with all my senses about me, accuse you, before your domestics, of having administered a deadly potion to me last night.' 'go for the physician,' said her ladyship to a servant. 'well may you feel alarmed,' cried i. 'your life will pay the forfeit of mine.' 'but you need not feel alarmed,' said her ladyship, 'for really, what i gave you last night, was merely to make you sleep.' 'yes,' cried i, 'the sleep of the grave! o lady gwyn, what have i done to you, to deserve death at your hands? and in such a manner too! had you even shewn so much regard to custom and common decency, as to have offered me the potion in a bowl or a goblet, there might have been some little palliation. but to add insult to injury;--to trick me out of my life with a paltry tea-cup;--to poison a girl of my pretensions, as vulgarly as you would a rat;--no, no, madam, this is not to be pardoned!' her ladyship again began assuring me that i had taken nothing more than a soporific; but i would not hear her, and at length, i sent her and the domestics out of the chamber, that i might prepare for my approaching end. how to prepare was the question; for i had never thought of death seriously, heroines so seldom die. should i follow the beautiful precedent of the dying heloise, who called her friends about her, got her chamber sprinkled with flowers and perfumes, and then gave up the ghost, in a state of elegant inebriation with home-made wine, which she passed for spanish? alas! i had no friends--not even stuart, at hand; flowers and perfumes i would not condescend to beg from my murderess; and as for wine, i could not abide the thoughts of it in a morning. but amidst these reflections, a more serious and less agreeable subject intruded itself upon me,--the thoughts of a future state. i strove to banish it, but it would not be repulsed. yet surely, said i, as a heroine, i am a pattern of perfect virtue; and therefore, i must be happy hereafter. but was virtue sufficient? at church (seldom as i had frequented it, in consequence of its sober ceremonies, so unsuited to my taste,) i remembered to have heard a very different doctrine. there i had heard, that we cannot learn to do right without the divine aid, and that to propitiate it, we must make ourselves acquainted with those principles of religion, which enable us to prefer duteous prayers, and to place implicit reliance on the power and goodness of the deity. alas, i knew nothing of religion, except from novels; and in these, though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties. it is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the greek or the persian church, as well as the christian; and none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a well-worded prayer. the more i thought, the more horrible appeared my situation. i felt a confused idea, that i had led a worthless, if not a criminal life; that i had left myself without a friend in this world, and had not sought to make one in the next. i became more and more agitated. i tried to turn my thoughts back to the plan of expiring with grace, but all in vain. i then wrote the note to you; then endeavoured to pray: nothing could calm or divert my mind. the pains grew worse, i felt sick at heart, my palate was parched, and i now expected that every breath would be my last. my soul recoiled from the thought, and my brain became a confused chaos. hideous visions of eternity rushed into my mind; i lay shivering, groaning, and abandoned to the most deplorable despair. in this state the physician found me. o what a joyful relief, when he declared, that my disorder was nothing but a violent rheumatism, contracted, it seems, by my fall into the water the morning before! never was transport equal to mine; and i assured him that he should have a place in my memoirs. he prescribed for me; but remarked, that i might remain ill a whole month, or be quite well in a few days. 'positively,' said her ladyship, 'you must be quite well in four; for then my ball comes on; and i mean to make you the most conspicuous figure at it. i have great plans for you, i assure you.' i thanked her ladyship, and begged pardon for having been so giddy as to call her a murderess; while she laughed at my mistake, and made quite light of it. noble woman! but i dare say magnanimity is our family virtue. no sooner had i ceased to be miserable about leaving the world, than i became almost as much so about losing the ball. to lose it from any cause whatever, was sufficiently provoking; but to lose it by so gross a disorder as a rheumatism, was, indeed, dreadful. now, had i even some pale, genteel, sofa-reclining illness, curable by hartshorn, i would bless my kind stars, and drink that nauseous cordial, from morning even unto night. for disguise thyself as thou wilt, hartshorn, still thou art a bitter draught; and though heroines in all novels have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. being on this subject, i have to lament, that i am utterly unacquainted with those refined ailments, which every girl that i read of, meets with, as things of course. the consequence is my wanting that beauty, which, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gains from sentiment what it loses in bloom; so that really this horse's constitution of mine is a terrible disadvantage to me. i know, had i the power of inventing my own indispositions, i would strike out something far beyond even the hectics and head-aches of my fair predecessors. i believe there is not a sigh-fever; but i would fall ill of a scald from a lover's tear, or a classic scratch from the thorn of a rose. adieu. letter xxx this morning i awoke almost free from pain; and towards evening, i was able to appear in the drawing-room. lady gwyn had asked several of her friends to tea, so that i passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all. on retiring for the night to my chamber, i found this note on my toilette, and read it with a beating heart. _to the lady cherubina._ 'your mother lives! and is confined in one of the subterranean vaults belonging to the villa. at midnight you will hear a tapping at your door. open it, and two men in masks will appear outside. they will blindfold, and conduct you to her. you will know her by her striking likeness to her picture in the gallery. be silent, courageous, and circumspect. 'an unknown friend.' what a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as i laid down the billet, and lifted my filial eyes to heaven! i was about to behold my mother. mother--endearing name! i pictured to myself, that unfortunate lady, stretched on a mattrass of straw, her eyes sunken in their sockets, yet still retaining a portion of their wonted fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. fondly did i depict our meeting--our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, to gaze on all the lineaments of my countenance, and then baring my temple to search for the mole. all, all is convincing; and she calls me the softened image of my noble father! two tedious hours i waited in extreme anxiety, till at length the clock struck twelve. my heart beat responsive, and in a few moments after, i heard the promised signal at my door. i unbolted it, and beheld two men in masks and cloaks. they blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led me along. not a word passed. we traversed several suites of apartments, ascended flights of stairs, descended others; now went this way, now that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; till i began actually to imagine we were all the time in one spot. at length my conductors stopped. 'unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while i light a torch.' 'we are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.' 'then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first. 'thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second. 'take that!' exclaimed the first. a groan followed, and the wretch dropped to the ground. 'you have murdered him!' cried i, sickening with horror. 'i have only hamstrung him, my lady,' said the fellow. 'he will be lame for life.' 'treason!' shouted the wounded man. his companion burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and we fled along with incredible speed, while low moans and smothered shrieks were heard at either side of us. 'gracious heaven, where are we?' cried i. 'in the cavern of death!' said my conductor, 'famous for rats and banditti.' on a sudden innumerable footsteps echoed behind us. we ran swifter. 'fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and in a moment several pistols were discharged. i stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak. 'i am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft!' cried my conductor. 'am i bleeding?' said i, feeling myself with my hands. 'no, blessed st. anthony be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is safe, for we are at the cell, and the banditti have turned into the wrong passage.' he stopped, and unlocked a door. 'enter,' said he, 'and behold your unhappy mother!' he led me forward, took the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked the door upon me. agitated already by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, i felt additional horror on finding myself in a dismal cell, lighted with a lantern; where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a corpulency unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. she was clad in sackcloth, her head was swathed in linen, and had grey locks on it, like horses' tails. hundreds of frogs were leaping about the floor; a piece of mouldy bread, a mug of water, and a manuscript, lay on the table; some straw, strewn with dead snakes and skulls, occupied one corner, and the farther side of the cell was concealed behind a black curtain. i stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the prodigious prisoner sat examining me from head to foot. at last i summoned courage to say, 'i fear, madam, i am an intruder here. i have certainly been shewn into the wrong room.' 'it is, it is my own, my only daughter, my cherubina!' cried she, with a tremendous voice. 'come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of the departed theodore!' 'why, ma'am,' said i, 'i would with great pleasure, but i am afraid that---oh, madam, indeed, indeed, i am quite sure you cannot be my mother!' 'for shame!' cried she. 'why not?' 'why, madam,' answered i, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her picture proves.' 'and so was i once,' said she. 'this deplorable plumpness is owing to want of exercise. you see, however, that i retain all my former paleness.' 'pardon me,' said i, 'for i must say that your face is a rich scarlet.' 'and is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'after ten years' imprisonment, to be disowned by my daughter, and taunted with sarcastic insinuations against my face? here is a pretty joke! tell me, girl, will you embrace me, or will you not?' 'indeed, madam,' answered i, 'i will embrace you presently.' 'presently!' cried she. 'yes,' said i, 'depend upon it i will. only let me get over the first shock.' 'shock!' vociferated she. dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a daughter, i kneeled at her feet, and said: 'ever excellent, ever exalted author of my being, i beg thy maternal blessing!' my mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with such cruel vigour, that almost crushed, i cried out stoutly, and struggled for release. 'and now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, 'let us talk over our wrongs. this manuscript is a faithful narrative of my life, previous to my marriage. it was written by my female confidant, to divert her grief, during the long and alarming illness of her dutch pug. take it to your chamber, and blot it with your tears, my love.' i put the scroll in my bosom. 'need i shock your gentle feelings,' continued she, 'by relating my subsequent story? suffice it, that as soon as you were stolen, i went mad about the woods, till i was caught; and on recovering my senses, i found myself in this infernal dungeon. look at that calendar of small sticks, notched all over with my dismal days and nights. ten long years i have eaten nothing but bread. oh, ye favourite pullets, oh ye inimitable apple-pies, shall i never, never, taste you more? oft too, my reason wanders. oft i see figures that rise like furies, to torment me. i see them when asleep; i see them now--now!' she sat in a fixed attitude of horror, while her straining eyes moved slowly round, as if they followed something. i stood shuddering, and hating her more and more every moment. 'gentle companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostrophizing a huge toad that she pulled out of her bosom; 'dear, spotted fondling; thou, next to my cherubina, art worthy of my love. embrace each other, my friends.' and she put the hideous pet into my hand. i screamed and dropped it. 'oh!' cried i, in a passion of despair, 'what madness possessed me to undertake this execrable enterprize!' and i began beating with my hand against the door. 'do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she, in a whimpering tone. 'oh! i am so frightened!' said i. 'you will spend the night here, however,' cried she; 'and probably your whole life too; for no doubt the ruffian who brought you hither was employed by lady gwyn to entrap you.' when i heard this terrible suggestion, my blood ran cold, and i began crying bitterly. 'come, my love!' said my mother, 'and let me lull thee to repose on my soft bosom. what is the world to us? here in each other's society, we will enjoy all that affection, all that virtue can confer. come, my daughter, and let me clasp thee to my heart once more!' 'ah,' cried i, 'spare me!' 'what!' exclaimed she, 'do you spurn my proffered embrace?' 'dear, no, madam,' answered i. 'but--but you squeeze one so!' my mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and rolling her eyes. 'help!' cried i, half frantic; 'help! help!' i was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, whence the sound came, i saw it agitated; and about twenty terrific faces appeared peeping through slits in it, and making grins of a most diabolical nature. i hid my face in my hands. ''tis the banditti!' cried my mother. as she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and i was hurried off, almost senseless, in some one's arms; till at length, i found myself alone in my own chamber. such was the detestable adventure of to-night. oh, biddy, that i should have lived to meet this mother of mine! how different from the mothers that other heroines contrive to rummage out in northern turrets and ruined chapels! i am out of all patience. liberate her i will, of course, and make a suitable provision for her, when i get possession of my property, but positively, never will i sleep under the same roof with--(ye powers of filial love forgive me!) such a living mountain of human horror. adieu. letter xxxi while her ladyship is busied in preparing for the ball of to-morrow night, i find time to copy my mother's memoirs for your perusal. were she herself elegant and interesting, perhaps i might think them so too; and if i dislike them, it must be because i dislike her; for the plot, sentiment, diction, and pictures of nature, differ little from what we find in other novels. _il castello di grimgothico_, or memoirs of lady hysterica belamour. a novel. _by anna maria marianne matilda pottingen_, author of the bloody bodkin, sonnets on most of the planets, &c. &c. &c. oh, sophonisba, sophonisba, oh! thompson. chapter i blow, blow, thou wintry wind.--shakespeare. blow, breezes, blow.--moore. a storm.--a rustic repast.--an alarm.--uncommon readiness in a child.--an inundated stranger.--a castle out of repair.--an impaired character. it was on a nocturnal night in autumnal october; the wet rain fell in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and ossianly manner. the lowly, but peaceful inhabitants of a small, but decent cottage, were just sitting down to their homely, but wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. bertram armed himself with a ladle. 'lackadaisy!' cried old margueritone, and little billy seized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. innocent fraud! happy childhood! the father's lustre and the mother's bloom.--thompson. bertram then opened the door; when lo! pale, breathless, dripping, and with a look that would have shocked the humane society, a beautiful female tottered into the room. 'lackadaisy, ma'am,' said margueritone, 'are you wet?' 'wet!' exclaimed the fair unknown, wringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; 'o ye gods, wet!' margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits. spirit of my sainted sire. the stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. her hair was long and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will leave her there awhile; lest we should betray an ignorance of the world, in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people. on the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed by the angry atlantic, stood a moated, and turreted structure, called il castello di grimgothico. as the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of its late lord, henriques de violenci, lights and figures were, _par consequence_, observed in it at midnight. besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for several years, and _quelquefois_, he paced the picture-gallery with a hurried step. these circumstances combined, there could be no doubt of his having committed murder. accordingly, all avoided him, except the count stiletto, and the hectic, but heavenly hysterica. the former, he knew, was the most pale-faced, flagitious character in the world. but birds of a plume associate. the latter shall be presented to the reader in the next chapter. chapter ii 'oh!'--milton. 'ah!'--pope. a history.--a mystery.--an original reflection on death.--the heroine described.--the landscape not described.--an awful reason given. one evening, the baroness de violenci, having sprained her left leg in the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to lady penthesilea rouge's rout. while she was sitting alone, at a plate of prawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left for her. 'lay it down, john,' said she, touching his forehead with her fork. that gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired, and capered out of the room. judge of her astonishment, when she found, on opening it, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. an oaken cross, with 'hysterica,' inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark, like a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. as she and her lord never had children (at least she could answer for herself), she determined, _sur le champ_, on adopting the pretty hysterica. fifteen years did this worthy woman dedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time, taught her every mortal accomplishment. her sigh, particularly, was esteemed the softest in europe. but the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. in a word, the good old baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body. o what a fall was there, my countrymen! but it is now time to describe our heroine. as milton tells us, that eve was '_more lovely than pandora_' (an imaginary lady, who never existed but in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the timinitilidi, whom no man ever saw; and, in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man ever heard. perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more--it was interesting--it was oval. her eyes were of the real, original old blue; and her eyelashes of the best silk. you forget the thickness of her lips, in the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of york and lancaster were united in her cheek. a nose of the grecian order surmounted the whole. such was hysterica. but alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. for one night, when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a sudden, oh, horrid, horrible, and horridest horror! the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. while she was preparing, in much terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men in masks rushed from among some tombs, and bore her to a carriage, which instantly drove off with the whole party. in vain she sought to soften them by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad: they sat counting murders, and not minding her. as the blinds of the carriage were closed the whole way, we wave a description of the country which they traversed. besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the reader enough; for in one of the villains, hysterica discovered--count stiletto! she fainted. on the second day, the carriage stopped at an old castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment, where the delicate creature instantly fell ill of an inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping. she then drew upon the contemplation of future sorrows, for a supply of that melancholy which her immediate exigencies demanded. chapter iii be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd?--shakespeare. fresh embarrassments.--an insult from a spectre.--grand discoveries.--a shriek.--a tear.--a sigh.--a blush.--a swoon. it is a remark founded upon the nature of man, and universally credited by the thinking part of the world, that to suffer is an attribute of mortality. impressed with a due conviction of this important precept, our heroine but smiled as she heard stiletto lock her door. it was now midnight, and she took up her lamp to examine the chamber. rusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls, lay scattered in all the profusion of feudal plenty. several horrors now made their appearance; but the most uncommon was a winged eyeball that fluttered before her face. say, little, foolish, fluttering thing? she began shrieking and adjusting her hair at a mirror, when lo! she beheld the reflection of a ghastly visage peeping over her shoulder! much disconcerted, the trembling girl approached the bed. an impertinent apparition, with a peculiar nose, stood there, and made faces at her. she felt offended at the freedom, to say nothing of her being half dead with fright. 'is it not enough,' thought she, 'to be harassed by beings of this world, but those of the next too must think proper to interfere? i am sure,' said she, as she raised her voice in a taunting manner, '_en veritã©_, i have no desire to meddle with _their_ affairs. _sur ma vie_, i have no taste for brim-stone. so let me just advise a _certain_ inhabitant of a _certain_ world (not the _best_, i believe,) to think less of _my_ concerns, and more of _his own_.' having thus asserted her dignity, without being too personal, she walked to the casement in tears, and sang these simple lines, which she graced with intermittent sobs. song alas, well-a-day, woe to me, singing willow, willow, willow; my lover is far, far at sea. on a billow, billow, billow. ah, theodore, would thou could'st be, on my pillow, pillow, pillow! here she heaved a deep sigh, when, to her utter astonishment, a voice, as if from a chamber underneath; took up the tune with these words: song alas, well-a-day, woe to me, singing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow; a ducat would soon make me free, could i borrow, borrow, borrow; and then i would pillow with thee, to-morrow, morrow, morrow! was it?--it was!--yes, it _was_ the voice of her love, her life, her long-lost theodore de willoughby!!! how should she reach him? forty times she ran round and round her chamber, with agitated eyes and distracted tresses. here we must pause a moment, and express our surprise at the negligence of the sylphs and sylphids, in permitting the ringlets of heroines to be so frequently dishevelled. o ye fat-cheeked little cherubims, who flap your innocent wings, and fly through oceans of air in a minute, without having a hair of your heads discomposed,--no wonder that such stiff ringlets should be made of gold! at length hysterica found a sliding pannel. she likewise found a moth-eaten parchment, which she sat down to peruse. but, gentle reader, imagine her emotions, on decyphering these wonderful words. manuscript ---six tedious years ------and all for what? ------ ------------no sun, no moon. ------murd ------ adul ------because i am the wife of lord belamour. --- ---then tore me from him, and my little hysterica ------ ---------cruel stiletto! ------he confesses that he put the sleeping babe into a basket ------sent her to the baroness de violenci ------oaken cross ------chalk --- ---bruised gooseberry ---------------i am poisoned ------a great pain across my back ------i ---j ---k ------oh! ---ah! ---oh! ------------ _fascinante peggina belamour._ this then was the mother of our heroine; and the ms. elucidated, beyond dispute, the mysteries which had hitherto hung over the birth of that unfortunate orphan. we need not add that she fainted, recovered, passed through the pannel, discovered the dungeon of her theodore; and having asked him how he did, 'comment vous portez vous?' fell into unsophisticated hysterics. chapter iv sure such a pair were never seen, so justly formed to meet by nature.--sheridan. a tender dialogue.--an interesting flight.--a mischievous cloud. --our hero hits upon a singular expedient.--fails.--takes a trip to the metropolis. 'and is this you?' cried the delighted youth, as she revived. 'indeed, indeed it is,' said she. 'are you quite, quite sure?' cried he. 'indeed, indeed i am,' said she. 'well, how do you do?' cried he. 'pretty well i thank you,' said she. they then separated, after fixing to meet again. one night, as they were indulging each other in innocent endearments, and filling up each finer pause with lemonade, a sudden thought struck lord theodore. 'let us escape,' said he. 'let us,' said she. 'gods, what a thought was there!' they then contrived this ingenious mode of accomplishing their object. in one of the galleries which lay between their chambers, there was a window. having opened it, they found that they had nothing to do but get out at it. they therefore fled into the neighbouring forest. happy, happy, happy pair!--dryden. but it is an incontrovertible truism, that _les genres humains_ are liable to disaster; for in consequence of a cloud that obscured the moon, hysterica fell into a snow-pit. what could theodore do? to save her was impossible; to perish with her would be suicide. in this emergency, he formed a bold project, and ran two miles for assistance. but alas! on his return, not a trace of her could be found. he was quite _au desespoir_; so, having called her long enough, he called a chaise, and set off for london. chapter v 'tis she!--pope. o vous!--telemachus. all hail!--macbeth. an extraordinary rencontre.--pathetic repartees.--natural consequences resulting from an excess in spirituous liquors. --terrific nonsense talked by two maniacs. one night as lord theodore, on his return from the theatre, was passing along a dark alley, he perceived a candle lighting in a small window, on the ground-floor of a deciduous hovel. an indescribable sensation, an unaccountable something, whispered to him, in still, small accents, 'peep through the pane.' he did so; but what were his emotions, when he beheld--whom? why the very young lady that he had left for dead in the forest--his hysterica!!! she was clearstarching in a dimity bedgown. he sleeked his eyebrows with his finger, then flung open the sash, and stood before her. '_ah, ma belle amie!_' cried he. 'so i have caught you at last. i really thought you were dead.' 'i am dead to love and to hope!' said she. 'o ye powers!' cried he, making a blow at his forehead. 'there are many kinds of powers,' said she carelessly: 'perhaps you now mean the powers of impudence, mr.--i beg pardon--lord theodore de willoughby, i believe.' 'i believe so,' retorted he, 'mrs.--or rather lady hys--hys--hys.'- 'hiss away, my lord!' exclaimed the sensitive girl, and fainted. lord theodore rushed at a bottle that stood on the dresser, and poured half a pint of it into her mouth; but perceiving by the colour that it was not water, he put it to his lips;--it was brandy. in a paroxysm of despair he swallowed the contents; and at the same moment hysterica woke from her fainting-fit, in a high delirium. 'what have you done to me?' stammered she. 'oh! i am lost.' 'what!' exclaimed the youth, who had also got a brain-fever; 'after my preserving you in brandy?' 'i am happy to hear it,' lisped she; 'and every thing round me seems to be happy, for every thing round me seems to be dancing!' both now began singing, with dreadful facetiousness; he, 'fill the bowl,' and she, 'drink to me only.' at length they sang themselves asleep. chapter vi take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like again.--shakespeare. birth, parentage, and education of our hero.--an aspiring porter.--eclaircissement. lord theodore de willoughby was the son of lord de willoughby, of de willoughby castle. after having graduated at oxford, he took, not alone a tour of the orkney islands, but an opportunity of saving our heroine's life. hence their mutual attachment. about the same time, count stiletto had conceived a design against that poor orphan; and dreading lord theodore as a rival, waylaid and imprisoned him. but to return. next morning, the lovers woke in full possession of their faculties, when the happiest _denouement_ took place. hysterica told theodore that she had extricated herself from the snow, at the risk of her life. in fact, she was obliged to pelt it away in balls, and theodore now recollected having been hit with one, during his search for her. fearful of returning to the castle, she walked _ã  londres_; and officiated there in the respective capacities of cook, milliner, own woman, and washerwoman. her honour too, was untarnished, though a hulking porter had paid her the most delicate attentions, and assured her that theodore was married to cruel barbara allen. theodore called down several stars to witness his unalterable love; and, as a farther proof of the fact, offered to marry her the next day. her former scruples (the mysterious circumstances of her birth) being now removed, she beamed an inflammatory glance, and consented. he deposited a kiss on her cheek, and a blush was the rosy result. he therefore repeated the application. chapter vii sure such a day as this was never seen!--thomas thumb. the day, th' important day!--addison. o giorno felice!--italian. rural scenery.--the bridal costume.--old friends.--little billy greatly grown.--the marriage.--a scene of mortality.--conclusion. the morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. maidens, united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity to the unison of congenial minds. on the left of the village are seen plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel, with venerable grandeur marks the scene; while every where the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and minute daisies. in a word, all nature wears one universal grin. the procession now set forward to the church. the bride was habited in white drapery. ten signs of the zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled round its edge, but virgo was omitted at her own desire; and the bridegroom proposed to dispense with capricorn. sweet delicacy! she held a pot of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch, emblematical of hymen. the boys and girls bounded about her, and old margueritone begged the favour of lighting her pipe at her la'ship's head. 'aha, i remember you!' said little billy, pointing his plump and dimpled finger at her. she remarked how tall he was grown, and took him in her arms; while he playfully beat her with an infinitude of small thumps. the marriage ceremony passed off with great spirit; and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue. that evening, he gave a _fãªte champetre_ to the peasantry; and, afterwards, a magnificent supper to his friends. the company consisted of lord lilliput, sir james brobdignag, little billy, anacharsis clootz, and joe miller. nothing, they thought, could add to their happiness; but they were miserably mistaken. a messenger, pale as priam's, rushed into the room, and proclaimed lord theodore a peer of great britain, as his father had died the night before. all present congratulated lord de willoughby on this prosperous turn of affairs; while himself and his charming bride exchanged a look that spoke volumes. little billy then pledged him in a goblet of falernian; but he very properly refused, alleging, that as the dear child was in love with hysterica, he had probably poisoned the wine, in a fit of jealousy. the whole party were in raptures at this mark of his lordship's discretion. after supper, little billy rose, and bowing gracefully to the bride, stabbed himself to the heart. our readers may now wish to learn what became of the remaining personages in this narrative. count stiletto is dead; lord lilliput is no more; sir james brobdignag has departed this life; anacharsis clootz is in his grave; and mr. j. miller is in another, and we trust, a better world. old margueritone expired with the bible in her hand, and the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of lunacy. having thus conducted our lovers to the summit of human happiness, we shall take leave of our readers with this moral reflection:- the falling out of lovers is the renewal of love. the end. i must now leave you to prepare my dress for the ball. the ball-room, which occupies an entire wing of the house, is full of artists and workmen; but her ladyship will not permit me to see it till the night of the dance; as, she says, she means to surprise me with its splendour. cynics may say what they will against expensive decorations; but in my opinion, whatever tends to promote taste in the fine arts (and a mental is in some degree productive of a moral taste); whatever furnishes artizans with employment, and excites their emulation, must improve the condition of society. adieu. letter xxxii the morning of the ball, i awoke without any remains of my late indisposition, except that captivating paleness, that sprinkling of lilies, which adds to interest without detracting from beauty. i rose with the sun, and taking a small china vase in my hand, tripped into the parterre, to collect the fresh and fragrant dew that glistened on the blossoms. i filled the piece of painted earth with the nectar of the sky, and returned. during the day, i took nothing but honey, milk, and dried conserves; a repast the most likely to promote that ethereal character which i purposed adopting at night. towards evening, i laved my limbs in a tepid bath; and as soon as the sun had waved his last crimson banner in the west, i began my toilette. so variable is fashion, that i determined not to dress according to its existing laws; since they might be completely exploded in a month; and, at all events, by the time my life is written, they will have become quite antiquated. for instance, do we not already abhor evelina's and harriet byron's powdered, pomatumed, and frizzled hair? it was, therefore, my plan to dress in imitation of classical models, and to copy the immortal toilette of greece. having first divested myself from head to foot of every habiliment, i took a long piece of the finest cambric, and twice wound it gracefully round my shoulders and bosom, and twice enveloped my form in its folds; which, while they delineated the outline of my shape, veiled the tincture of my skin. i then flung over it a drapery of embroidered gauze, and its unimplicated simplicity gave to my perfect figure the spirit of an antique statue. an apparent tissue of woven air, it fell like a vapour round me. a zone of gold and a clasp prettily imprisoned my waist; and my graceful arms, undegraded by gloves, were bare to the shoulder. part of my hair was confined by a bodkin, and part floated over my neck in native ringlets. as i could not well wear my leg naked, i drew on it a texture of woven silk; and laced a pair of sandals over my little foot; which resembled that of a youthful thetis, or of a fugitive atalanta. i then bathed my face with the dew which i had gathered in the morning, poured on my hair and bosom the balmy waters of the distilled rose, and sprinkled my drapery with fragrant floods of lavender; so that i might be said to move in an ambient atmosphere of odours. behold me now, dressed to a charm, to a criticism. here was no sloping, or goring, or seaming, or frilling, or flouncing. detestable mechanism of millinery! no tedious papillotes, or unpoetical pins were here. all was done, in a few minutes, with a clasp, a zone, and a bodkin. as i surveyed my form in the mirror, i was enraptured at its sylphic delicacy; but i trembled to reflect, that the fairest flowers are the most fragile. you would imagine that a maiden's sigh could dissipate the drapery; and its aerial effect was as if a fairy were to lift the filmy gossamer on her spear, and lightly fling it over a rose-bud. resolving not to make myself visible till all the guests had arrived, i sat down and read ossian, to store my mind with ideas for conversation. i love ossian, it is so sublime, so bewildered, so full of a blue and white melancholy; of ghosts, and the four elements. i likewise turned over other books; for, as i had never mixed in fashionable society, i could not talk that nothingness, which is every thing in high life. nor, indeed, if i could, would i; because, as a heroine, it was my part to converse with point, flowers, and sublimation. about to appear in a world where all was new to me; ignorant of its forms, inexperienced in its rules; fair, young, and original, i resolved on adopting such manners as should not be subject to place, time, accident, or fashion. in short, to copy universal, generalized, unsophisticated nature, and grecian statues. as i had studied elegance of attitude before i knew the world, my graces were original, and all my own creation; so that if i had not the temporary mannerisms of a marchioness, i had, at least, the immortal movements of a seraph. words may become obsolete, but the language of gesture is universal and eternal. as for smiles, i felt myself perfect mistress of all that were ever ascribed to heroines;--the fatal smile, the smile such as precedes the dissolution of sainted goodness, the fragment of a broken smile, and the sly smile that creates the little dimple on the left side of the little mouth. at length the most interesting moment of my life arrived; the moment when i was to burst, like a new planet, on the fashionable hemisphere. i descended the stairs, and pausing at the door, tried to tranquillize my fluttered spirits. i then assumed an air-lifted figure, scarcely touching the ground, and glided into the room. the company were walking in groups, or sitting. 'that is she;--there she is;--look, look!' was whispered on all sides. every eye fixed itself upon me, while i felt at once elevated and opprest. lady gwyn advanced, took my hand, and paying me the highest compliments on my appearance, led me to a sofa, at the upper end of the room. a semicircle of astonished admirers, head over head, ranged itself in my front, and a smile of glowing approbation illuminated the faces of all. there i sat, in all the bashful diffidence of a simple and inexperienced recluse, trembling for myself, fearing for others, systematically suppressing my feelings, impulsively betraying them; while, with an expression of sweet wildness, and retiring consciousness, was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. at last a spruce and puny fop stepped from amidst the group, and seated himself beside me. 'this was a fine day, ma'am,' said he, as he admired the accurate turn of his ankle. 'yes,' answered i, 'halcyon was the morn, when i strayed into the garden, to gather flowery dew; and it seemed as if the twins of latona had met to propitiate their rites. blushes, like their own roses, coloured the vapours; and rays, pure as their thoughts, silvered the foliage.' the company murmured applause. 'what a pity,' said he, 'that this evening was wet; as in consequence of it, we have probably lost another beautiful description from you.' 'ah, my good friend,' cried i, wreathing my favourite smile; and laying the rosy tip of my finger on his arm; 'such is the state of man. his morning rises in sunshine, and his evening sets in rain.' while the company were again expressing their approbation, i overheard one of them whisper to the fop: 'come, play the girl off, and let her have your best nonsense.' the fop winked at him, and then turned to me; while i sat shocked and astonished, but collecting all my powers. 'see,' said he, 'how you have fascinated every eye. actually you are the queen-bee; with all your swarm about you.' 'and with my drone too,' said i, bowing slightly. 'happy in being a drone,' said he, 'so he but sips of your honey.' 'rather say,' cried i, 'that he deserves my sting.' 'ah,' said he, laying his hand on his heart; 'your eyes have fixed a sting here.' 'then your tongue,' returned i, 'is rather more innocent; for though it may have the venom of a sting, it wants the point.' the company laughed, and he coloured. 'do i tease you?' said he, trying to rally. 'how cruel! actually i am so abashed, as you may see, that my modesty flies into my face.' 'then,' said i, 'your modesty must be very hard run for a refuge.' here the room echoed with acclamations. 'i am not at a loss for an answer,' said he, looking round him, and forcing a smile. 'i am not indeed.' 'then pray let me have it,' said i, 'for folly never becomes truly ludicrous till it tries to be pert.' 'bravo! bravo!' cried an hundred voices at once, and away the little drone flew from my hive. i tossed back my ringlets with an infantine shake of the head, and sat as if unconscious of my triumph. the best of it is, that every word he said will one day appear in print. men who converse with a heroine ought to talk for the press, or they will make but a silly figure in her memoirs. 'i thank you for your spirit, my dear,' said lady gwyn, sitting down beside me. 'that little puppy deserves every severity. think of his always sitting in his dressing-gown, a full hour after he has shaved, that the blood may subside from his face. he protests his surprise how men can find pleasure in running after a nasty fox; cuts out half his own coat at his tailor's; has a smile, and a "pretty!" for every one and every thing; sits silent till one of his four only topics is introduced, and then lisping a descant on the last opera, the last boxing-match, the last race, or the last play, he drains his last idea, and has nothing at your service, for the remainder of the night, but an assenting bow. such insects should never come out but at butterfly-season; and even then, only in a four-wheeled bandbox, while monkeys strew the way with mignionette. no, i can never forgive him for having gone to lady bontein's last rout in preference to mine; though he knew that she gave her's on the same evening purposely to thin my party.' 'and pray,' said i, 'who is lady bontein?' 'that tall personage yonder, with sorrel hair,' answered her ladyship; 'and with one shoulder of the gothic order, and the other of the corinthian. she has now been forty years endeavouring to look handsome, and she still thinks, that by diligent perseverance she will succeed at last. see how she freshens her smiles, and labours to look at ease; though she has all the awkwardness of a milkmaid, without any of the simplicity. you must know she has pored over latin, till her mind has become as dead as the language itself. then she writes well-bred sonnets about a tear, or a primrose, or a daisy; but nothing larger than a lark; and talks botany with the men, as she thinks that science is a sufficient excuse for indecency. nay, the meek creature affects the bible too; but it is whispered, that she has often thrown it at her footman's head, without any affectation at all. but the magnificence of to-night will put all competition out of her power; and i have also planned a little _scena_, classical, appropriate, and almost unique; not alone in order to complete my triumph over her, but to grace your entrance into life, by conferring a peculiar mark of distinction on you.' 'on me!' cried i. 'what mark? i deserve no mark, i am sure.' 'indeed you do,' said she. 'all the world knows that you are the first heroine in it; and the fact is, i mean to celebrate your merits to-night, by crowning you, just as corinne was crowned in the capitol.' 'dear lady gwyn,' cried i, panting with joy; 'sure you are not---ah, are you serious?' 'most serious, my love,' answered she, 'and in a short time the ceremony will commence. you may perceive that the young men and girls have left the room. it is to prepare for the procession; and now excuse me, as i must assist them.' she then hurried out, and i remained half an hour, in an agony of anxious expectation. at last, i heard a confused murmur at the door, and a gentleman ran forward from it, to clear a passage. a lane was soon formed of the guests; and fancy my feelings, when i beheld the promised procession entering! first appeared several little children, who came tripping towards me; some with baskets of flowers, and others with vases of odorous waters, or censers of fragrant fire. after them advanced a tall youth of noble port, conspicuous in a scarlet robe, that trailed behind him with graceful dignity. on his head was a plat of palm, in his left hand he held a long wand, and in his right the destined wreath of laurel and myrtle. behind him came maidens, two by two, and hand in hand. they had each a drapery of white muslin flung negligently round them, and knotted just under the shoulder; while their luxuriant hair floated over their bosoms. the youths came next, habited in flowing vestments of white linen. the leader approached, and making profound obeisance, took my hand. i rose, bowed, and we proceeded with a slow step out of the room; while the children ran before us, tossing their little censers, scattering pansies, and sprinkling liquid sweets. the nymphs and youths followed in couples, and the company closed the procession. we crossed the hall, ascended the winding staircase, and passed along the corridor, till we reached the ball-room. the folding doors then flew open, as if with wings; and a scene presented itself, which almost baffles description. it was a spacious apartment, oval in its form, and walled all round with a luxuriant texture of interwoven foliage, kept compact by green lattice-work. branches of the broad chesnut and arbutus were relieved with lauristinas, acacias, and mountain-ash; while here and there, within the branches, appeared clusters of lamps, that mingled their coloured rays, and poured a flood of lustre on the leaves. the floor was chalked into circular compartments, and each depicted some gentle scene of romance. there i saw mortimer and his amanda, delville and his cecilia, valencourt and his emily. the ceiling was of moss, illuminated with large circles of lamps; and from the centre of each circle, a basket was seen peeping, and half inverted, as if about to shower its ripe fruits and chaplets upon our heads. at the upper end of the room i beheld a large arbour, elevated on a gradual slope of turf. its outside was intertwined with jessamines, honeysuckles, and eglantines, tufted with clumps of sunflowers, lilies, hollyhocks, and a thousand other blossoms, and hung with clusters of grapes, and trails of intricate ivy; while all its interior was so studded with innumerable lamps, that it formed a resplendent arch of variegated fire. the seat was a grassy bank, strewn with a profusion of aromatic herbs; and the footstool was a heap of roses. just from under this footstool, and through the turf, came gushing a little rill, that first tumbled its warbling waters down some rugged stones, and then separating itself to the right and left, ran along a pebbled channel, bordered with flowery banks, till it was lost, at either side, amidst overshadowing branches. the moment i set foot in the room, a stream of invisible music, as if from above, and softened by distance, came swelling on my enraptured ear. thrice we circled this enchanted chamber, and trod to the solemn measure. i was amazed, entranced; i felt elevated to the empyrean. i moved with the grandeur of a goddess, and the grace of a vision. at length my conductor led me across the little rill, into the bower. i sat down, and he stood beside me. the children lay in groups on the grass, while the youths and virgins ranged themselves along the opposite side of the streamlet, and the rest of the company stood behind them. the master of this august ceremony now waved his wand: the music ceased, all was silent, and he thus began. 'my countrymen and countrywomen. 'behold your cherubina; behold the most celebrated woman in our island. need i recount to you all her accomplishments? her impassioned sensibility, her exquisite art in depicting the delicate and affecting relations between the beauties of nature, and the deep emotions of the soul? need i dwell on those elegant adventures, those sorrows, and those horrors, which she has experienced; i might almost say, sought? oh! no. the whole globe already resounds with them, and their fame will descend to the most remote posterity. 'need i portray her eloquence, the purity of her style, and the smoothness of her periods? are not her ancestors illustrious? are not her manners fascinating? alas! to this question, some of our hearts beat audible response. her's is the head of a sappho, deficient alone in the voluptuous languor, which should characterize the countenance of that enamoured lesbian. 'to crown her, therefore, as the patroness of arts, the paragon of charms, and the first of heroines, is to gratify our feelings, more than her own; by enabling us to pay a just homage to beauty and to virtue.' he ceased amidst thunders of applause. i rose;--and in an instant, it was the stillness of death. then with a timorous, yet ardent air, i thus addressed the assembly. 'my countrymen, my countrywomen! 'i will not thank you, for i cannot. in giving me cause to be grateful, you have taken from me the means of expressing my gratitude, for you have overpowered me. 'how i happen to deserve the beautiful eulogium just pronounced, i am sure i cannot conceive. till this flattering moment, i never knew that the grove resounds with my praises, that my style is pure, and my head a sappho's. but unconsciousness of merit is the characteristic of a heroine. 'the gratitude, however, which my words cannot express, my deeds shall evince; and i now pledge myself, that neither rank nor riches (which, from my pursuits, i am peculiarly liable to) shall ever make me unmindful of what i owe to adversity. for, from her, i have acquired all my knowledge of the world, my sympathy, my pensiveness, and my sensibility. yes, since adversity thus adds to virtue, it must be a virtue to seek adversity. 'england, my friends, is now the depository of all that remains of virtue;--the ark that floats upon the waters of the deluge. but what preserves her virtuous? her women. and whence arises their purity? from education. 'to you, then, my fair auditory, i would enjoin a diligent cultivation of learning. but oh! beware what books you peruse; for, trust me, some are as injurious as others are salutary. i cannot point out to you the mischievous class, because i have never read them; but indubitably, the most useful are novels and romances. such as i am, these, these alone have made me. these, by depicting heroines sublimated almost to immateriality, teach the common class of womankind to reach what is uncommon, by striving at what is unattainable; to despise the grovelling follies and idlenesses of the mere worker of samplers, and to contract a taste for that sensibility, whose tear is the dissolution of pearls, whose blush is the sunbeam of the cheek, and whose sigh is more costly than the breeze, that comes laden with oriental frankincense.' i spoke, and peals of acclamation shook the bower. the priest of the ceremony now raises the crown on high, then lowers it by slow degrees, and holds it suspended over my head. letting down my tresses, and folding my hands on my bosom, i throw myself upon my knees, and incline forward to receive it. i am crowned. at the same moment, drums, and trumpets, and shouts, burst upon my ear, in a hurricane of triumph. the youths and maidens make obeisance; i rise, press my hand to my heart, and bow deeply. tears start into my eyes. i feel far above mortality. hardly had the tumult subsided when a harp was brought to the bower; and they requested that i would sing and play an improvisatore, like corinne. what was i to do? for i knew nothing of the harp, but a few chords! in this difficulty, i luckily recollected a heroine, who was educated only by an old steward, and his old wife, in an old castle, with an old lute; and who, notwithstanding, as soon as she stepped into society, played and sang, like angels, by intuition. i therefore felt quite reassured, and sat to the harp. i struck a few low lydian notes, and cast a timid glance around me. at first my voice was scarcely louder than a sigh; and my accompaniment was a harmonic chord, swept at intervals. the words came from the moment. 'where is my blue-eyed chief? said the white-bosomed daughter of erin, as the wave kissed her foot; and wherefore went he from his weeping maid, to the fight of heroes? she saw a dim form rise before her, like a mist from the valley. pale grew her cheek, as the blighted leaf in autumn. your lover, it shrilly shrieked, sleeps among the dead, like a broken thistle amidst dandelions; but his spirit, like the thistly down, has ascended into the skies. the maiden heard; she ran, she flew, she sprang from a rock. the waves closed over her. peace to the daughter of erin!' as i sang 'she ran, she flew,' the workings and tremblings of the minstrel were in unison; while my winged fingers fluttered along the chords, light as a swallow over a little lake, when he touches it with the utmost feather of his pinion. but while i sang, 'peace to the daughter of erin!' my voice, as it died over the faint vibration of the strings, had all the heart-breaking softness of an eolian lyre; so woeful was it, so wistful, so wildered. 'viva! viva!' resounded through the room. at the last cadence, i dropped one arm gently down, and hanging the other on the harp, leaned my languishing head upon it, while my moistened eyes were half closed. a sudden disturbance at the door roused me from my trance. i looked up, and beheld--what?--can you imagine what? no, my friend, you could not to the day of judgment. i saw, in short, my great mother come striding towards me, with outspread arms, and calling, 'my daughter, my daughter!' in a voice that might waken the dead. my heart died within me: down i darted from the bower, and ran for shelter behind lady gwyn. 'give me back my daughter!' vociferated the dreadful woman, advancing close to her ladyship. 'oh! do no such thing!' whispered i, pulling her ladyship by the sleeve. 'take half--all my property; but do not be the death of me!' 'what are you muttering there, miss?' cried my mother, espying me. 'what makes you stand peeping over that wretch's shoulder?' 'indeed, ma'am,' stammered i, 'i am--i am taking your part.' 'who could have presumed to liberate this woman?' cried lady gwyn. 'the condottieri,' said my mother, 'headed by the great damno sulphureo volcanoni.' 'then you must return to your prison, this moment,' cried lady gwyn. my mother fell on her knees, and began blubbering; while the guests got round, and interceded for her being restored to liberty. i too thought it my duty to say something (my mother all the time sobbing horribly); till, at length, lady gwyn consented--for my sake, she said,--to set the poor wretch free; but on this special condition, that there should be no prosecution for false imprisonment. all matters being amicably adjusted, my mother begged a morsel of meat, as she had not eaten any these ten years. in a few minutes, a small table, furnished with a cold turkey and a decanter of wine, was laid for her in the bower. the moment she perceived it, she ran, and seating herself in the scene of my recent triumph, began devouring with such avidity, that i was thunderstruck. one wing soon went; the second shared the fate of its companion, and now she set about a large slice of the breast. 'what a charming appetite your dear mother has got!' said several of the guests to me. i confessed it, but assured them that inordinate hunger did not run in our family. her appetite being at last satiated, she next assailed the wine. glass after glass disappeared with inconceivable rapidity, and every glass went to my heart. 'she will be quite intoxicated!' thought i; while my fears for the hereditary honour of our house overcoming my personal terrors, i had the resolution to steal across, and whisper: 'mother, if you have any regard for your daughter, and respect for your ancestors, drink no more.' 'no more than this decanter, upon my honour!' said she, applying it to her lips. at this moment the violins struck up. 'and now,' cried my mother, running down from the bower, 'who is for a dance?' 'i am,' said my friend, the little fop, advancing, and taking her hand. 'then,' said she, 'we will waltz, if you please.' santa maria!--waltz! a circle was cleared, and they began whirling each other round at a frightful rate,--or rather she him; for he was like a plaything in her hands; and had he let go his grasp, i am sure he would have been flung up among the branches, and have stuck there, like king charles in the oak. at last, while i was standing, a statue of shame, and wondering how any human being, endowed with a common portion of reason, could act so ridiculous a part, this miserable woman, overcome with wine and waltzing, fell flat upon the floor; and was carried out of the room by four grinning footmen. i could hold no longer: the character of my family demanded a prompt explanation, and with tears in my eyes, i desired to be heard. silence was obtained. 'i beseech of this assembly,' said i, 'to acquit me of having hand, act, or part, in the conduct of that unfortunate person. i never even saw her, till i came to this house; and that i may never see her again, i pray heaven. i hate her, i dread her; and i now protest, in the most unequivocal manner, that i do not believe her to be my mother at all. she has no resemblance to the portrait in the gallery; and as she was stark mad, when found in the woods, she perhaps imagined herself my mother; for i am told that mad persons are apt to fancy themselves great people. no, my malignant star ordained us to meet, that she might place me in awkward situations by her vulgarity; just as mrs. garnet, the supposed mother of the beggar girl, used to place that heroine. i am sure this is the case; nothing can convince me to the contrary; and therefore, i thus publicly renounce, disown, and wash my hands of her, now and for ever.' the company coincided in my sentiments, and applauded my determination. country dancing was then proposed: the men sauntered about the room for partners; the mothers walked their daughters up and down, to shew their paces; and their daughters turned away their heads when they saw their favourites approaching to ask them. ugliness and diamonds occupied the top of the set; the beauties stood in the centre, and the motley couples came last;--old bachelors with misses of fifteen; and boys, who were glad to be thought men, with antiques, who were sorry to be called maids. other unfortunates, drest to a pin, yet noticed by nobody, sat protruding the supercilious lip at a distance. and now the merry maze commenced. but what mutilated steps, what grotesque graces! one girl sprang and sprawled to the terror of every ankle; and with a clear idea of space, shewed that she had no notion of time. another, not deigning to dance, only moved; while her poor partner was seen helping her in, like a tired jade to the distance post. this bartered elegance for a flicflac; that swam down the set; a third cut her way through it; and a fourth, who, by her longevity, could not be dancing for a husband, appeared, by her earnestness, to be dancing for her life. all this delighted me highly, for it would shew my graces to the greater advantage. my partner was the gentleman who had crowned me; and now, when our turn to dance down came, a general whisper among the spectators, and their sudden hurry towards me, proved that much was expected from my performance. i would not disappoint them for worlds; besides, it was incumbent on me to stamp a marked dissimilarity between my supposed mother, and myself, in every thing; and to call forth respect and admiration, as much as she had excited derision and contempt. and now, with my right foot behind, and the point of it but just touching the ground, i leaned forward on my left, and stood as if in act to ascend from this vale of tears to regions of interminable beatitude. the next moment the music gave the signal, and i began. despising the figure of the common country-dance, i meandered through all the intricacies of the dance of ariadne; imitating in my circular and oblique motions the harmonious movement of the spheres; and resembling, in my light and playful form, the horoe of bathycles, as they appeared in the temple of amycla. sometimes with a rapid flight, and glowing smile, i darted, like a herald iris, through the mazes of the set; sometimes assuming the dignity of a young diana, i floated in a swimming languishment; and sometimes, like a pastoral nymph of languedoc, capriciously did i bend my head on one side, and dance up insidious. what a hebe! i happened not to see my partner from the time i began till i had ended; but when panting and playful, i flew like a lapwing, to my seat, he followed, and requested that i would accept the assurances of his high admiration. soon afterwards, waltzing was introduced. 'you have already imitated ida's dancing,' said he. 'will you now imitate charlotte's, and allow me, like werter, to hold in my arms the most lovely of women; to fly with her, like the wind, and lose sight of every other object?' i consented; he led me forth, and clasping my waist, began the circuitous exercise of waltzing. round and round we flew, and swifter and swifter; till my head grew quite giddy. lamps, trees, dresses, faces, all seemed to be shattered and huddled together, and sent whisking round the room in a vortex. but, oh, my friend, how shall i find language to describe the calamitous termination of an evening so propitious in its commencement? i blush as i write it, till the reflected crimson dyes my paper. for in the midst of my rotatory motion, while heaven seemed earth, and earth seemed heaven; the zone, on which all my attire depended, and by which it was all confined, on a sudden burst asunder, and in the next whirl, more than half of my dress dropped at my feet! another revolution and i had acted diana to fifty acteons; but i shrieked, and extricating myself from my partner, sank on the floor, amidst the wreck of my drapery. the ladies ran, ranged themselves round me, and cast a mantle over my half-revealed charms. i was too much shocked, and indeed too giddy to move; so they lifted me between them, and bore me, in slow procession, out of the room. it was the funeral of modesty; but the pall was supported by tittering malice. i hurried into bed, and cried myself asleep. i cannot think, much less write of this disaster, with common fortitude. i wonder whether thompson's musidora could be considered a sufficient precedent, or at least a palliative parallel? if not, and that my biographer records it, i am undone. adieu. letter xxxiii yesterday lady gwyn took me, at my particular request, to visit monkton castle, an old ruin, within three miles of us; and as it forms part of that property which she holds at present, it is mine to all intents and purposes. the door-way was stopped up with stones, so that i could not take a survey of its interior; but outside it looked desolate enough. i mean, at some future period, to furnish it like udolpho, and other castles of romance, and to reside there during the howling months. after dinner her ladyship went to superintend the unpacking of some beautiful china, which had just arrived from london; and i was left alone on the sofa. evening had already begun to close: a delicious indolence thrilled through my limbs, and i felt all that lassitude and vacuity which the want of incident ever creates. 'were there even some youth in the house,' thought i, 'who would conceive an unhappy attachment for me;--had her ladyship but a persecuting son, what scenes might happen! suppose at this moment the door were to be thrown open, and he to enter, with a quick step, and booted and spurred. he starts on seeing me. never had i looked so lovely. 'heavens!' murmurs he, ''tis a divinity!' then suddenly recollecting himself, he advances with a respectful bow. 'pardon this intrusion,' says he; 'but i--really i--.' i rise, and colouring violently, mutter, without looking at him: 'i wonder where her ladyship can be?' but as i am about to pass him, he snatches my hand, and leading me back to the sofa, says:--'suffer me to detain you a moment. this occasion, so long desired, i cannot bring myself to relinquish. prevented by the jealous care of a too fond mother, from appearing before you, i have sought and found a thousand opportunities, on the stairs--in the garden--in the shrubbery--to behold those charms. fatal opportunities! for they have robbed me of my peace for ever! yes, charming cherubina, you have undone me. that airy, yet dignified form; those mild, yet sparkling eyes; those lips, more delicious than the banquet of the gods----' 'really, signor,' says i, in all the pleasing simplicity of maiden embarrassment, 'this language is as improper for me to hear as for you to express.' 'it is, it is improper,' cries he, with animation, 'for it is inadequate.' 'yes,' says i 'inadequate to the respect i deserve as the guest of your mother.' 'ah!' exclaims he, 'why should the guest imitate the harshness of the hostess?' 'that she may not,' says i, 'countenance the follies of the son. signor, i desire you will unhand me.' 'never!' cries he; 'never, till you say you pity me. o, my cherubina; o, my soul's idol!' and he drops upon his knee, and grasps my hand; when behold, the door opens, and lady gwyn appears at it! never were astonishment and dismay equal to her's. 'godfrey, godfrey,' says she, 'is this the conduct that i requested of you? this, to seek clandestine interviews, where i had prohibited even an open acquaintance? and for thee, fair unfortunate,' turning towards me, with that mild look, which cuts more than a thousand sarcasms; 'for thee, lovely frail one, thou must seek some other asylum.' her sweet eyes swim in tears. i fling myself at her feet. 'i am innocent,' i cry, 'innocent as the little fawn that frisks itself to repose by the bubbling fountain.' she smiles incredulous. 'come,' says she, taking my hand, 'let me lead you to your apartment.' 'stay, in mercy stay!' cries godfrey, rushing between us and the door. she waves him aside. i reach my room. nothing can console me. i am all despair. in a few minutes the maid taps at my door, with a slip of paper from godfrey. 'oh, cherubina,' it says, 'how my heart is torn for you! as you value your fame, perhaps your life, meet me to-night, at twelve, in the shrubbery.' after a long struggle, i resolve to meet him. 'tis twelve, the winds are abroad, the shower descends. i fling on something, and steal into the shrubbery. i find him there before me. he thanks me ten thousand, thousand times for my kindness, my condescension; and by degrees, leads me into the avenue, where i see a chaise in waiting. i shrink back; he prays, implores; and at length, snatching me in his arms, is about to force me into the vehicle, when on a sudden--'hold, villain!' cries a voice. it is the voice of stuart! i shriek, and drop to the ground. the clashing of swords resounds over my contested body, and i faint. on recovering, i find myself in a small, but decent chamber, with an old woman and a beautiful girl watching over me. 'st. catherine be praised,' exclaims the young peasant, 'she comes to herself.' 'tell me,' i cry, 'is he murdered?' 'the gentleman is dead, sure enough, miss,' says the woman. i laugh frantic, and point my finger. 'ha! look yonder,' i cry; 'see his mangled corpse, mildly smiling, even in death. see, they fight; he falls.--barbarous godfrey! valiant, generous, unfortunate stuart! and hark, hear you that! 'tis the bell tolling, tolling, tolling!' during six weeks i continue in this dreadful brain-fever. slowly i recover. a low melancholy preys upon me, and i am in the last stage of a consumption. but though i lose my bloom, illness touches my features with something more than human. one evening, i had got my chair on the green before the door, and was watching the sun as he set in a blaze of gold. 'and oh!' exclaimed i, 'soon must i set like thee, fair luminary;--when i am interrupted by a stifled sigh, just behind me. i turn. heaven and earth! who should be leaning over me, with looks of unutterable love, but--stuart! in an instant, i see him, i shriek, i run, i leap into his arms.---unfortunate leap; for it wakened me from a delicious reverie, and i found myself in the arms,--not of stuart,--but of the old butler! down we both came, and broke in pieces a superb china vase, which he was just bringing into the room. 'what will my lady say to this?' cried he, rising and collecting the fragments. 'she will smile with ineffable grace,' answered i, 'and make a moral reflection on the instability of sublunary things.' he shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction; while i hastened to the glass, where i found my face flushed from my reverie, my hair dishevelled, and my long eyelashes wet with tears. i perceived too that my dress had got a terrible rent by my fall. hardly had i recomposed myself, when her ladyship returned, and called for tea. 'how did you tear your robe, my love?' said she. 'by a fall that i got just now,' replied i. 'sure never was such an unfortunate fall!' 'nay, child,' said she, rallying me, 'though a martyr to the tender sensibilities, you must not be a victim to torn muslin.' 'i am extremely distressed, however,' said i. 'but why so?' cried she. 'it was an accident, and all of us are awkward at times. life has too many serious miseries to admit of vexation about trifles.' 'there now!' cried i, with delight. 'i declare i told the butler, when i broke the china vase, that you would make a moral reflection.' 'broke the---oh! mercy, have you broken my beautiful china vase?' 'smashed it to atoms,' answered i, in a tone of the most assuasive sweetness. 'you did?' exclaimed she, in a voice that stunned me. 'and pray, how dared you go near it? how dared you even look at it? you, who are not fit company for crockery, much less china;--a crazed creature, that i brought into my house to divert my guests. you a title? you a beauty?' 'dear lady gwyn,' said i, 'do be calm under this calamity. trust me life has too many serious miseries to admit of vexation about trifles.' her ladyship rose, with her cheeks inflamed, and her eyes glittering. i ran out of the room, in much terror; then up stairs, and into the nearest bed-chamber. it happened to be her ladyship's; and this circumstance struck me as most providential; for, in her present mood, she would probably compel me to quit the house; so that i could never have another opportunity of ransacking her caskets and cabinets, for memorials of my birth. i therefore began the search; but in the midst of it was interrupted by hearing a small voice cry, 'get out!' much amazed, i looked up, and perceived her ladyship's favourite parrot in its cage. 'get out!' said the parrot. 'i will let thee out, cost what it will,' cried i. so with much sensibility, and indeed, very little spleen, i took the bird, and put it out at the window. after having accurately examined several drawers, i found a casket in one of them; opened it, and beheld within (o delightful sight!) a miniature set round with inestimable diamonds, and bearing a perfect resemblance to the portrait in the gallery,--face, attitude, attire, every thing! 'relic of my much injured house!' exclaimed i, depositing the picture in my bosom.' image of my sainted mother, never will i part with thee!' 'what are you doing in my room?' cried lady gwyn, as she burst into it. 'how is this? all my dresses about the floor! my drawers, my casket open!--and, as i live, here is the miniature gone! why you graceless little thing, are you robbing me?' 'madam,' answered i, 'that miniature belongs to my family; i have recovered it at last; and let me see who will dare take it from me.' 'you are more knave than fool,' said her ladyship: 'give it back this instant, or, on my honour, i will expose you to the servants.' 'what is the use of bullying?' said i. 'sure you are ruined should this swindling affair come to be known, not that i would, for the world, hang your ladyship;--far from it,--but then your character will be blasted. ah! lady gwyn, where is your hereditary honour? where is your prudence? where is your dignity?' 'where is my parrot?' shrieked her ladyship. 'ranging the radiant air!' exclaimed i--'inhaling life, and fragrance, and freedom amidst the clouds! i let it out at the window.' her ladyship ran towards me, but i passed her, and made the best of my way down stairs; while she followed, calling, stop thief! too well i knew and rued the dire expression; nor stopped an instant, but hurried out of the house--through the lawn--down the avenue--into a hay-field;--the servants in hot pursuit. not a moment was to be lost: a drowning man, you know, will grasp at straws, and i crept for refuge under a heap of hay. but whether they found me there, or how long i remained, or what has become of me since, or what is likely to become of me hereafter, you shall learn in my next. adieu. letter xxxiv i remained in my disagreeable situation till night had closed, and the pursuit appeared over. i then rose, and walked through the fields, without any settled intention. terror was now succeeded by bitter indignation at the conduct of lady gwyn, who had dared to drive me from my own house, and vilify me as a common thief. insupportable insult! unparalleled degradation! was there no revenge? no remedy? like a rapid ray from heaven, a thought at once simple and magnificent shot through my brain, and made my very heart bound with transport. when i name monkton castle, need i tell you the rest? need i tell you that i determined to seize on that antique abode of my ancestors, to fortify it against assaults, to procure domestics and suitable furniture for it, and to reside there, the present rival, and the future victress of the vile lady gwyn? let her dispossess me if she dare, or if she can; for i have heard that possession is a great number of points of the law in one's favour. as to fitting up the castle, that will be quite an easy matter; for the tradespeople of london willingly give credit for any amount to a personage of rank like me; and therefore i have nothing more to do than make some friend there bespeak furniture in my name. it appeared to me that jerry sullivan was the most eligible person i could select; so now, a light heart making a light foot, i tripped back to the road, and took my way towards monkton castle, for the purpose of procuring an asylum in some cottage near it, and writing a letter of instructions to jerry. it was starlight, and i had walked almost three miles, when a little girl with a bundle of sticks on her back overtook me, and began asking alms. in the midst of her supplications, we came to the hut where she lived, and i followed her into it, with the hope of getting a night's lodging there, or at least a direction to one. in a room, comfortless, with walls of smoked mud, i found a wrinkled and decrepit beldame, and two smutty children, holding their hands over a few faded embers. i begged permission to rest myself for a short time; the woman, after looking at me keenly, consented, and i sat down. i then entered into conversation, represented myself as a wandering stranger in distress, and inquired if i had any chance of finding a lodging about the neighbourhood. the woman assured me that i had not, and on perceiving me much disconcerted at the disappointment, coarsely, but cordially, offered me her hut for the night. i saw i had nothing for it but to remain there; so the fire was replenished, some brown bread and sour milk (the last of their store) produced, and while we sat round it, i requested of the poor woman to let me know what had reduced her to such distress. she told me, with many tears and episodes, that her daughter and son-in-law, who had supported her, died about a month ago, and left these children behind, without any means of subsistence, except what they could procure from the charitable. all their appearances corroborated this account, for famine had set its meagre finger on their faces. i wished to pity them, but their whining, their dirtiness, and their vulgarity, disgusted more than interested me. i nauseated the brats, and abhorred the haggard hostess. how it happens, i know not, but the misery that looks alluring on paper is almost always repulsed in real life. i turn with distaste from a ragged beggar, or a decayed tradesman, while the recorded sorrows of a belfield or a rushbrook draw tears of pity from me as i read. at length we began to think of rest. the children gave me their pallet: i threw myself upon it without undressing, and they slept on some straw with a blanket over them. in the morning we presented a most dismal group. not a morsel had we for breakfast, nor the means of obtaining any. the poor cripple, who had expected some assistance from me, sat grunting in a corner; the children whimpered and shivered; and i, with more elegance, but not less misery, chaunted a matin to the virgin. i then began seriously to consider what mode of immediate subsistence i ought to adopt; and at last i hit upon a most pleasing and judicious plan. as some days must elapse between my writing to jerry sullivan and his coming down (for i mean to have him here, if possible), and as the cottage is within a short distance from the castle, i have resolved to remain with my hostess till he shall arrive, and to go forth every day in the character of a beggar-girl. like another rosa, i will earn my bread by asking alms. my simple and imploring address, my half-suppressed sigh, my cheek yet traced with the recent tear, all will be irresistible. even the shrivelled palm of age will expand at my supplication, and the youths, offering compliments with eleemosynary silver, will call me the lovely vagabond, or the mendicant angel. thus my few days of beggary will prove quite delightful; and oh, how sweet, when those are over, to reward and patronize, as lady of the castle, those hospitable cottagers who have pitied and sheltered me as the beggar-girl. my first step was writing to jerry sullivan; and i fortunately found the stump of a pen, some thick ink, and coarse paper, in the cottage. this was my letter. 'honest jerry, 'since i saw you last, i have established all my claims, and am now the lady cherubina de willoughby, the true and illustrious mistress of gwyn castle, monkton castle, and other estates of uncommon extent and value. now, jerry, as i am convinced that you feel grateful for the services, however trivial, which i have done you, i know you will be happy at an opportunity of obliging me in return. 'will you then execute some commissions for me? meaning to make monkton castle (which is uninhabited at present) my residence, i wish to furnish it according to the style of the times it was built in. you must, therefore, bespeak, at the best shops, such articles as i shall now enumerate. 'first. antique tapestry sufficient to furnish one entire wing. 'second. painted glass enriched with armorial bearings. 'third. pennons and flags, stained with the best old blood;--feudal if possible. 'fourth. black feathers, and cloaks for my liveries. 'fifth. an old lute, or lyre, or harp. 'sixth. black hangings, curtains, and a velvet pall. 'seventh. a warder's trumpet. 'eighth. a bell for the portal. 'besides these, i shall want antique chairs, tables, beds, and, in a word, all the casts-off of castles that you can lay hands upon. 'you must also get a handsome barouche, and four horses; and by mentioning my name (the lady cherubina de willoughby, of monkton castle), and by shewing this letter, no shopkeeper or mechanic will refuse you credit for anything. tell them i will pass my receipts as soon as the several articles arrive. 'i have now to make a proposal, which, i hope and trust, will meet with your approbation. your present business does not appear to be prosperous: all the offices in my castle are still unoccupied, and as i have the highest opinion of your discretion and honesty, the situation of warden (a most ostensible one) is at your service. the salary is two hundred a-year: consider of it. 'at all events, i do beseech of you to come down, as soon as you can, on receipt of this letter, and remain a few days, for the purpose of assisting me in my regulations. 'you might travel in the barouche, and bring some of the smaller articles with you. pray be here in three days at farthest. 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' i now began to think that i might, and should summon other friends, on this important occasion; and accordingly i wrote a few lines to higginson. 'dear sir, 'intending to take immediate possession of monkton castle, which has devolved to me by right of lineal descent; and wishing, in imitation of ancient times, for a wild and enthusiastic minstrel, as part of my household, i have to acquaint you, that if you should think such an office eligible, i shall be happy to place you in it, and to recompense your poetical services with an annual stipend of two hundred pounds. 'should this proposal prove acceptable, be so good as to call on my trusty servant, jerry sullivan, in st. giles's, and accompany him down in my barouche. 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' i then penned a billet to montmorenci; ah, ask not why, but pity me. silly cherubina! and yet, mark how her burning pen can write ice. 'my lord, 'pardon the trouble i am about giving you, but as i mean to reside, for the future, in one of my castles (my birth and pretensions having already been acknowledged by lady gwyn), i wish to secure the parchment and picture that i left at my former lodgings at drury lane. 'will you, my lord, have the goodness to transmit them, by some trusty hand, to jerry sullivan, the woollen-draper in st. giles's, who will convey them to me at monkton castle. 'with sentiments of respect and esteem, 'i have the honour to be, 'my lord, 'your lordship's most obedient, 'and most humble servant, 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' now this is precisely the formal sort of letter which a heroine sometimes indites to her lover: he cannot, for the soul of him, tell why; so down he comes, all distracted in a postchaise, and makes such a dishevelled entrance, as melts her heart in an instant, and the scene ends with his arm round her waist. adieu. letter xxxv as i was now about to go begging, i thought it necessary to look like a beggar; so i dressed myself in a tattered gown, cap, and cloak, that had belonged to the deceased daughter of my hostess. then placing my mother's portrait in my bosom, i sallied forth, and took the road to the neighbouring village. being sunday, the rustics looked trim and festive, the nymphs and youths frolicked along, the grandsires sat at their doors, the sun was shining; all things smiled but the miserable cherubina. at length i reached the village, and deposited my letters for the post. the church, imbosomed in trees, stood at a little distance. the people were at prayers, and as i judged that they would soon be dismissed, i placed myself at the sacred gate, as an auspicious station for the commencement of my supplicatory career. in a short time they began to leave the church. 'one penny for the poor starving girl,' said i. 'how are you? how are you? how are you?' was gabbled on all sides. 'one penny,--one penny,--oh, one penny!' softly faltered i. it was the cooing of a dove amidst the chattering of magpies. 'and who was that stranger in the next pew?' said one lady. 'one penny for the love of----' 'she seemed to think herself too pretty to pray,' said another. 'one penny for the----' 'perhaps motion does not become her lips,' said another. 'one penny for the love of charity.' but they had gotten into their carriages. 'if youth, innocence, and distress can touch your hearts,' said i, following some gentlemen down the road, 'pity the destitute orphan, the hungry vagrant, the most injured and innocent of her sex. gentlemen, good gentlemen, kind gentlemen----.' 'go to hell,' said they. 'there is for you, sweetheart,' cried a coarse voice from behind, while a halfpenny jingled at my foot. i turned to thank my benefactor, and found that he was a drunken man in the stocks. disgusted and indignant at the failure of my first attempt, i hurried out of the village, and strayed along, addressing all i met, but all appeared too gay to pity misery. hour after hour i passed in fruitless efforts, now walking, now sitting; till at length day began to close, and fatigue and horrid hunger were enfeebling my limbs. in a piteous condition, i determined to turn my steps back towards the cottage; for night was already blackening the blue hemisphere, the mountainous clouds hung low, and the winds piped the portentous moan of a coming hurricane. by the little light that still remained, i saw a long avenue on my left, which, i thought, might lead to some hospitable place of shelter; and i began, as well as the gloom of the trees would permit, to grope my way through it. after much labour and many falls, i came to an opening, and as i saw no house, i still walked straight forward. by this time the storm had burst upon my head with tremendous violence, and it was with difficulty that i could keep my feet. at last i fancied i could perceive a building in front, and i bent my steps towards it. as i drew nearer, i found my way sometimes obstructed by heaps of stones, or broken columns, and i concluded that i was approaching some prodigious castle, where i should be sure to find shelter, horror, owls, and one of my near relations. i therefore hastened towards it, and soon my extended hands touched the structure. my heart struck a throb of joy, and i began to feel along the wall for some ruined portal or archway. hardly had i moved ten paces, when my groping hands plunged into unresisting air: i stopped a moment, then entered through the vacuity, and to my great comfort, found myself under immediate shelter. this then, i guessed, was the great hall of the castle, and i prepared my mind for the most terrible things. i had not advanced three yards, when i paused in much terror; for i thought i heard a stir just beside me. again all was still, and i ventured forward. i now fancied that i heard a gentle breathing; and at the same instant i struck my foot against something, which, with a sudden movement, tripped up my heels, and down i came, shrieking and begging for mercy; while a frightful bustle arose all round me,--such passing and repassing, rustling and rushing, that i gave myself over for lost. 'oh, gentlemen banditti!' cried i, 'spare my persecuted life, and i will never, never betray you!' they did not answer a syllable, but retired to some distance, where they held a horrid silence. in a few minutes, i heard steps outside, and two persons entered the building. 'this shelters us well enough,' said one of them. 'curse on the storm,' cried the other, 'it will hinder any more of them from coming out to-night. however we have killed four already, and, please goodness, not one will be alive on the estate this day month.' oh, biddy, how my soul sickened at the shocking reflection, that four of a family were already murdered in cold blood, and that the rest were to share the same fate in a month! unable to contain myself, i muttered, 'mercy upon me, mercy upon me!' 'did you hear that?' whispered one of the men. 'i did,' said the other. 'off with us this moment!' and off they both ran. i too determined to quit this nest of horrors, for my very life appeared in danger; so, rising, i began to grope my way towards the door, when i fell over something that lay on the ground, and as i put out my hand, i touched (oh, horrible!) a dead, cold, damp human face. instantly the thought struck me that this was one of the four whom the ruffians had murdered, and i flung myself from it, with a shiver of horror; but in doing so, laid my hand on another face; while a faint gleam of lightning that flashed at the moment shewed me two bodies, pale, ghastly, naked, and half covered with straw. i started up, screaming, and made a desperate effort to reach the door; but just as i was darting out of it, i found my shoulder seized with a ferocious grasp. 'i have caught one of them,' cried the person. 'fetch the lantern.' 'i am innocent of the murder!' cried i. 'i swear to you that i am. they did not fall by my dagger, i can assure you.' 'who? what murder?' cried he. 'hollo, help! here is a murder committed.' 'not by me!' cried i. 'not by me, not by me! no, no, no, my hands are unstained with their blood.' and now a lantern being brought, i perceived several servants in liveries, who first examined my features, and then dragged me back into the building, while they searched there for some poachers, whom they had been way-laying when they found me. the building! and what was the building, think you? why nothing more than the shell of an unfinished house,--a mere modern morsel of a tasteless temple! and what were the banditti who had knocked me down, think you? why nothing more than a few harmless sheep, that now lay huddled together in a corner! and what were the two corpses, think you? why nothing more than two heathen statues for the little temple!--and the ruffians that talked of their having killed, and having to kill, were only the poachers, who had killed four hares! here then was the whole mystery developed, and a great deal of good fright gone for nothing. however, some trouble still remained to me. the servants, swearing that i was either concerned with the poachers, or in some murder, dragged me down a shrubbery, till we reached a large mansion. we then entered a lighted hall: one of them went to call his master, and after a few minutes, an elderly gentleman, with a troop of young men and women at his heels, came out of a parlour. 'is that the murderess? what a young murderess! i never saw a murderess before!' was whispered about by the ladies. 'what murder is this you were talking of, young woman?' said the gentleman to me. 'i will tell you with pleasure,' answered i. 'you must know that i am a wandering beggar-girl, without home, parents, or friends; and when the storm began, i ran, for shelter, into the temple of taste, as your servants called it. so, thinking it a castle, and some sheep which threw me down, banditti, and a couple of statues, corpses, of course it was quite natural for me to suppose, when two men entered, and began to talk of having killed something, that they meant these very corpses. was it not natural now? and so that is the plain and simple narrative of the whole affair.' to my great surprise, a general burst of laughter ran round the hall. 'sheep banditti, and statues corpses. dear me,--bless me--well to be sure!' tittered the misses. 'young woman,' said the gentleman, 'your incoherent account inclines me to think you concerned in some atrocious transaction, which i must make it my business to discover.' 'i am sure,' said a young lady, 'she carries the gallows in her face.' ''tis so pretty a gallows,' said a young gentleman, 'that i wish i were hanging upon it.' 'fie brother,' said the young lady, 'how can you talk so to a murderess?' 'and how can you talk so,' cried i, 'before you know me to be a murderess? it is not just, it is not generous, it is not feminine. men impelled by love, may deprive our sex of virtue; but we ourselves, actuated by rancorous, not gentle impulses, rob each other of character.' 'oh! indeed, you have done for yourself now,' said the young lady. 'that sentence of morality has settled you completely.' 'then i presume you do not admire morality,' said i. 'not from the lips of a low wretch like you,' said she. 'know, young woman,' cried i, 'that the current which runs through these veins is registered in hereditary heraldry.' the company gave a most disgusting laugh. 'it is,' cried i, 'i tell you it is. i tell you i am of the blood noble.' 'oh blood!' squeaked a young gentleman. what wonder that i forgot my prudence amidst these indignities? yes, the proud spirit of my ancestors swelled my heart, all my house stirred within me, and the blood of the de willoughbys rose into my face, as i drew the magnificent picture from my bosom, pointed a quivering finger at it, and exclaimed: 'behold the portrait of my titled mother!' 'see, see!' cried the girls crowding round. ''tis covered all over with diamonds!' 'i flatter myself it is,' said i. 'there is proof irrefragable for you!' 'proof enough to hang you i fancy!' cried the old gentleman, snatching it out of my hand. 'so now, my lady, you must march to the magistrate.' i wept, knelt, entreated, all was in vain: his son, the young man who had paid my face the compliment, took charge of my person, and accompanied by the servant who had seized me, set off with me to the magistrate's. during our walk, he tried to discover how i had got possession of the picture, but i was on my guard, and merely replied that time would tell my innocence. on a sudden, he desired the servant to go back for an umbrella, and take it to the magistrate's after him. the man having left us: 'now,' said the 'squire, 'whether you are a pilferer of pictures i know not, but this i know, that you are a pilferer of hearts, and that i am determined to keep you in close custody, till you return mine, which you have just stolen. to be plain, i will extricate you from your present difficulty, and conceal you in a cottage just at hand, if you will allow me to support and visit you. you understand me.' the blood gushed into my cheeks as he spoke; but however indignant i felt at the proposal, i likewise felt that it would be prudent to dissemble; and as other heroines in similar predicaments do not hesitate to hint that they will compromise their honours, i too determined to give my tempter some hope; and thus make him my friend till i could extricate myself from this emergency. i therefore replied that i trusted he would not find me deficient in gratitude. 'thank you, love,' said he. 'and now here is the cottage.' he then tapped at a door: an elderly woman opened it, and within i perceived a young woman, with a bold, but handsome face, hastily adjusting her cap at a glass. 'i have brought a wretched creature,' said he, 'whom i found starving on the road. pray take care of her, and give her some refreshment. you must also contrive a bed for her.' the women looked earnestly at me, and then significantly at each other. 'she shall have no bed in my house,' said the elder, 'for i warrant this is the hussey who has been setting you against poor susan, in order to get you herself, and telling you lies about tommy hicks's visiting here--poor girl!' 'ay, and bob saunders,' cried the daughter. 'sweet innocent!' cried the mother. 'and the three hawkins's,' cried the daughter. 'tender lamb!' cried the mother, 'and a girl too that never looked at mortal man but the 'squire.' 'and john mullins, and jacob jones, and patrick o'brien,' cried the daughter. 'think of that!' cried the mother. 'yes, think of that!' cried the daughter. 'patrick o'brien! the broad-shouldered abominable man! oh! i will cut my throat--i will--so i will!' 'alas!' said i, 'behold the fatal effects of licentious love. here is a girl, whom your money, perhaps, allured from the paths of virtue.' 'oh! no,' cried susan, 'it was his honour's handsome face, and his fine words, so bleeding and so sore, and he called me an angel above the heavens!' 'yes,' said i, 'it is the tenderness of youth, the smile of joy, the blush of innocence, which kindle the flame of the seducer; and yet these are what he would destroy. it is the heart of sensibility which he would engage, and yet in that heart he would plant every rankling pang, every bitter misery. detestable passion! which accomplishes the worst of purposes, through the medium of the best and sweetest affections. she whose innocent mind ascribes to others the motives that actuate itself, she who confides, because she would not deceive, she who has a tear for real grief, and who melts at the simulated miseries of her lover, she soonest falls a sacrifice to his arts; while the cold vestal, who goes forth into the world callous to feeling, and armed with austerity, repulses his approaches with indignation, and calls her prudence virtue.' the young man gazed on me with surprise, and the mother had come closer; but susan was peeping at her face in the glass. 'look on that beautiful girl before you,' cried i. 'heaven itself is not brighter than her brow; the tints of the morning cannot rival her blushes.' susan held down her head, but cast an under glance at the 'squire. 'such is she now,' continued i, 'but too soon you may behold her pale, shivering, unsteady of step, and hoarse with nocturnal curses, one of those unhappy thousands, who nightly strew our streets with the premature ruins of dilapidated beauty.' 'yes, look at her, look at her!' cried the mother, who flushing even through her wrinkles, and quivering in every limb, now rushed towards her daughter, and snatching off her cap, bared her forehead. 'look at her! she was once my lovely pride, the blessing of my heart; and see what he has now made her for me; while i, miserable as i am, must wink at her guilt, that i may save her from disgrace and ruin!' 'oh! then,' cried i, turning to the 'squire, 'while still some portion of her fame remains, fly from her, fly for ever!' 'i certainly mean to do so,' replied he, 'so pray make your mind easy. you see, susan, by this young woman's sentiments, that she cannot be what you suspected her.' 'and i am convinced, susan,' said i, 'that you feel grateful for the pains i have taken to reclaim the 'squire from a connection so fatal to you both.' 'i am quite sure i do,' sobbed susan, 'and i will pray for your health and happiness ever while i live. so, dear miss, since i must lose him, i hope you will coax him to leave me some money first; not that i ever valued him for his money, but you know i could not see my mother go without her tea o'nights.' 'amiable creature!' cried i. 'yes, i will intercede for you.' 'my giving you money,' said the 'squire, 'will depend on my finding, when i return to-morrow morning, that you have treated this girl well to-night.' 'i will treat her like a sister,' said susan. the 'squire now declared that he must be gone; then taking me aside, 'i shall see you early to-morrow,' whispered he, 'and remove you to a house about a mile hence, and i will tell my father that you ran away. meantime, continue to talk virtue, and these people will think you a saint.' he then bade us all good-night, and departed. instantly i set my wits at work, and soon hit upon a plan to accomplish my escape. i told the women that i had an old mother, about a mile from the cottage, who was almost starving; and that if i could procure a little silver, and a loaf of bread, i would run to her hut with the relief, and return immediately. to describe the kind solicitude, the sweet goodnature that mother and daughter manifested, in loading me with victuals and money, were impossible. suffice it, that they gave me half-a-crown, some bread, tea, and sugar; and susan herself offered to carry them; but this i declined; and now, with a secret sigh at the probability that i might never see them again, i left their house, and hastened towards the cottage of the poor woman. having reached it, i made the hungry inhabitants happy once more, while i solaced myself with some tea, and the pleasing reflection, that i had brought comfort to the distressed, and had reclaimed a deluded girl from ruin and infamy. adieu, letter xxxvi after my last letter, i spent two tedious days in employments that i now blush to relate;--no less than doing all the dirty work of the cottage, such as sweeping the room, kindling the fire, cooking the victuals; and trying, by dint of comb and soap, to make cherubs of the children. what bewitched me, i cannot conceive, for the humanity of other heroines is ever clean, elegant, and fit for the reader. they give silver and tears in abundance, but they never descend to the bodily charity of working, like wire-drawers, for withered old women and brats with rosy noses. i can only say, in vindication of myself, that those who sheltered me were poor and helpless themselves, and that they deserved some recompense on my part for their hospitality to me. so you must not condemn me totally; for i do declare to you, that i would much rather have relieved them with my purse, and soothed them with my sympathy, than have fried their herrings and washed their faces. at the same time, take notice, i was not totally forgetful of my nobler destiny; for i dedicated part of this period to the composition of a poem, which i reserve for my memoirs. my biographer can say that it was suggested by the story of susan; and even if it should still appear to be somewhat forced into my book, i would rather have this the case, than suffer posterity to go without it altogether. here it is. caroline beneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd, about the lattice and the porch embower'd, an aged widow lived, whose calm decline, clung on one hope, her lovely caroline. her lovely caroline, in virtue blest, as morning snow, was spotless and unprest. her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd, her pastoral russet knew no civic gold. in either cheek an eddying dimple play'd, and blushes flitted with a rosy shade. her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky, and joy and frolic sparkled in her eye. yet would she weep at sorrows not her own, and love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne. for her the rustics strove a homely grace, clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace; lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise, and talk'd the simple praises of her eyes. but fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd, beheld the master of the vale, and loved. long had he tempted her reserve in vain, till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain; on the bent herbage, where a gushing brook, blue harebells and the tufted violet shook; where hung umbrageous branches overhead, and the rain'd roses lay in fragments red, he found the slumbering maid. prophane he press'd her virgin lip, then first by man carest. she starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn, at brake of morning, o'er the paly moon; or as on alpine cliffs, a wounded doe sheds all its purple life upon the snow; so the maid blushes, while her humble eyes fear from a knot of primroses to rise; and mute she sits, affecting to repair the discomposed meanders of her hair. need i his arts unfold? the accomplish'd guile that glosses poisonous words with gilded smile? the tear suborned, the tongue complete to please; eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees? these and his oaths i pass. enough to tell, the virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell. and now from home maternal long decoy'd she dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd; till the sad tidings that her parent dear to grief had died a victim reach her ear. pale with despair, 'at least, at least,' she cries, 'stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes. short shelter need the village now bestow, ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.' then, without nurture or repose, she hastes her journey homeward over rocks and wastes; till, as her steps a hill familiar gain, bursts on her filling eyes her native plain. she pants, expands her arms, 'ah, peaceful scene!' exclaiming: 'ah, dear valley, lovely green, still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still, all your white cottages, the little mill; its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads, the plat where oft i danced to piping reeds. all, all remain unalter'd. 'tis but thine to suffer change, weak, wicked caroline!' the setting sun now purples hill and lake, and lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake. a parting carol larks and throstles sing, the swains aside their heated sickles fling. now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renew the straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue; and fix some hasty floweret, as they run in a blithe tumult to the pipe begun. and now, while dance and frolic shake the vale, sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale, stands in the midst. all pausing gather round, and gaze amaz'd. the tabors cease to sound. 'yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries, 'well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes. yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd, who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd. without a mother, sire, or fostering home, save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam. not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave, not now the verse and rural wreath i crave; not now to lead your festive sports along, queen of the dance, and despot of the song; one shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed, to lay my weary limbs and aching head. then will i bless your bounty, then inure my frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor. then, while ye mix in mirth, will i, forlorn, beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.' she paus'd, expecting answer. none replied. 'and have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried. 'save me now, mothers, as from future harms ye hope to save the babies in your arms! see, to you, maids, i bend on abject knee; youths, even to you, who bent before to me. o, my companions, by our happy plays, by dear remembrance of departed days; by pity's self, your cruel parents move; by sacred friendship; oh! by those ye love! oft when ye trespassed, i for pardon pray'd; oft on myself your little mischiefs laid. did i not always sooth the wounded mind? was i not called the generous and the kind? still silent? what! no word, no look to cheer? no gentle gesture? what, not even a tear? go then, ye pure! to heights of virtue climb; let none plead for me, none forgive my crime. go--yet the culprit, by her god forgiven, may plead for you before the throne of heaven! ye simple pleasures of my rural hours, ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers; home, where no more a soothing friend i see, dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!' claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair, and her eyes sparkle with a keen despair. but as she turns, a sudden burst of tears, and struggles, as of one withheld, she hears. 'speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven, tell me who weeps? what angel sent from heaven?' 'i, i your friend!' exclaims, with panting charms, a rosy girl, and darts into her arms. 'what! will you leave me? me, your other heart, your favourite ellen? no, we must not part; no, never! come, and in our cottage live; come, for the cruel village shall forgive. o, my own darling, come, and unreproved, here on this heart rest ever, ever lov'd; here on this constant heart!' while thus she spoke, her furious sire the linkt embraces broke. borne in his arms, she wept, entreated, rav'd; then fainted, as a mute farewell she wav'd. but now the wretch, with low and wildered cries, round and around revolving vacant eyes: slow from the green departs, and pauses now, and gnaws her tresses and contracts her brow. shock'd by the change, the matrons, stern no more, pursue her steps and her return implore: soon a poor maniac, innocent of ill, she wanders unconfined, and drinks the rill, and plucks the simple cress. a hovel near her native vale defends her from the year. with tender feet to flint and thistle bare, and faded willows weeping in her hair, she climbs some rock at morn, and all alone, chaunts hasty snatches of harmonious moan. when moons empearl the leafy locks of bowers, with liquid grain, and light the glistening flowers, she gathers honeysuckle down the dells, and tangled eglantine, and slumbering bells; and with moist finger, painted by the leaves, a coronet of roses interweaves; then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews, the odorous offering on her mother strews. at morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire, how recent chaplets still the grave attire; and matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen, danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green. even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows, that verdant spot the little robin knows; and sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd, alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd. such her employ; till now, one wintry day, some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay, find the pale ruin, life for ever flown, with her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone. the turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew, and her lank locks are dim with misty dew. poor ellen hymns her requiem. willows pine around her grave. fallen, fallen caroline! this morning, having resumed my muslins, i repaired to my castle, and seated on the stump of a withered oak, began an accurate survey of its strength, for the purpose of ascertaining whether it could stand a siege, in case lady gwyn should attempt to dispossess me of it. i must now describe it to you. it is situated about a quarter of a mile from the road, on a waste tract of land, where a few decayed trunks of trees are all that remain of a former forest. the castle itself, which i fear is rather too small for long corridors and suites of apartments, forms a square, with a turret at each corner, and with a large gateway, now stopped up with stones, at the southern side. while i surveyed its roofless walls, over-topt with briony, grass, and nettles, and admired the gothic points of the windows, where mantling ivy had supplied the place of glass, long suffering and murder came to my thoughts. as i sat planning, from romances, the revival of the feudal customs and manners in my castle, and of the feudal system among my tenantry (all so favourable to heroines), i saw a magnificent barouche, turning from the road into the common, and advancing towards me. my heart beat high: the carriage approached, stopt; and who should alight from it, but higginson and jerry! after higginson, with reverence, and jerry, with familiarity, had congratulated me on my good fortune, the latter looked hard at the castle. 'the people told us that this was monkton castle,' said he; 'but where is the monkton castle that your ladyship is to live in?' 'there it is, my friend,' answered i. 'what? there!' cried he. 'yes, there,' said i. 'what, there, there!' 'yes, there, there.' 'oh! murder! murder!' 'how far are we from your ladyship's house?' said the postilion, advancing with his hat off. 'this castle is my house,' answered i. 'begging your ladyship's pardon,' said he; 'what i mean, is, how far are we from where your ladyship lives?' 'i live in this castle,' answered i. jerry began making signs to me over the fellow's shoulder, to hold my tongue. 'what are you grimacing about there, mr. sullivan?' said i. 'nothing at all, ma'am,' answered he. ''tis a way i have got; but your ladyship, you know, is only come down to this castle on a sort of a country excursion, to see if it wants repairing, you know: you don't mean to live in it, you know.' and he put his finger on his nose, and winked at me. 'but i know i do mean to live in it,' cried i, 'and so i request you will cease your grinning.' 'oh, murder, murder!' muttered he, swinging round on his heel. the postilion now stood staring at the venerable edifice, with an expression of the most insolent ridicule. 'and what are _you_ looking at?' cried jerry. 'at the sky through the castle window,' said the fellow, reddening, and shaking with smothered laughter. 'why then mind your own business,' cried jerry, 'and that is, to take the horses from the carriage, and set off with yourself as fast as you can.' 'not till i am paid for their journey down,' said the postilion. 'so will your ladyship have the goodness to pay me?' 'certainly,' said i. 'jerry, pay the fellow.' 'deuce a rap have i,' answered jerry. 'i laid out my last farthing in little things for your ladyship.' 'higginson,' said i, 'shall i trouble you to pay him?' 'it irks me to declare,' answered higginson, 'that in equipments for this expedition;--a nice little desk, a nice little comb, a nice little pocket-glass, a nice little----' 'in short you have no money,' cried i. 'not a farthing,' answered he. 'neither have i,' said i; 'so, postilion, you must call another time.' 'here is a pretty to do!' cried the postilion. 'damme, this is a shy sort of a business. not even the price of a feed of oats! snuff my eyes, i must have the money. i must, blow me.' ''tis i that will blow you,' cried jerry, 'if you don't unloose your horses this moment, and pack off.' the postilion took them from the carriage, in silence; then having mounted one of them, and ridden a few paces from us, he stopped. 'now you set of vagabonds and swindlers,' cried he, 'without a roof over your heads, or a penny in your pockets, to go diddle an honest man out of his day's labour; wait till master takes you in hand: and if i don't tell the coachmaker what a blockhead he was to give you his barouche on tick, may i be particularly horsewhipt! ladyship! a rummish sort of a tit for a ladyship! and that is my lord, i suppose. and this is the marquis. three pickpockets from fleet-street, i would bet a whip to a wisp. ladyship! oh, her ladyship!' and away he cantered, ladyshipping it, till he was out of hearing. 'that young person deserves a moral lecture,' said higginson. 'he deserves a confounded drubbing,' cried jerry. 'but now, 'pon your conscience, does your ladyship intend to live in this old castle?' 'upon my honour i do,' replied i. 'and is there no decent house on the estate, that one of your tenants could lend you?' said he. 'why you must know,' replied i, 'that though lady gwyn, the person who has withheld my property from me so long, acknowledged my right to it but a few days since, still, as she has not yet yielded up the title deeds, in consequence of a quarrel which obliged me to quit her house, it is improbable that the tenantry would treat me as their mistress. all i can do, is, to seize this uninhabited castle which lies on my own estate. but i can tell you, that a heroine of good taste, and who wishes to rise in her profession, would infinitely prefer the desolation of a castle to the comforts of a villa.' 'well, of all the wise freaks----' cried jerry, standing astride, sticking his hands in his ribs, and nodding his head, as he looked up at the castle. 'i tell you what, mr. sullivan,' interrupted i, 'if you have the slightest objection to remaining here, you are at perfect liberty to depart this moment.' 'and do you think i would leave you?' cried he. 'oh then, oh then, 'tis i that wouldn't! and the worse your quandary, the more i would stick by you;--that is jerry sullivan. and if it was a gallows itself you were speculating in, i would assist you all the same. one can find friends enough when one is in the right, but give me the fellow that would fight for me right or wrong.' i shook his honest hand with warmth, and then asked him if he had performed my commissions. 'your ladyship shall hear,' said he. 'as soon as i got your letter, i went with it in my hand, and shewed it at fifty different shops;--clothiers, and glaziers, and upholsterers, and feather-makers, and trumpet-makers; but neither old tapestry, nor old painted glass, nor old flags stained with old blood, nor old lutes, nor old any thing that you wanted, could i get; and what i could get, i must pay for; and so what i must pay for, i would not get; and the reason why, i had no money; and moreover, as sure as ever i shewed them your letter, so sure they laughed at it.' 'laughed at it!' cried i. 'all but one,' said jerry. 'and he?' cried i. 'was going to knock me down,' answered jerry. 'so, as i did not wish to come without bringing something or other to you, and as you commanded me to get everything old; egad, i have brought three whole pieces of damaged black cloth out of our own shop, that i thought might answer for the hangings and curtains; and i bought a parcel of old funeral feathers and an old pall, from an undertaker; and i bought an old harp with five strings, that will do any thing but play; and i stole our own parlour bell; and i borrowed a horn from the guard of a mail-coach, which i hope will do for a trumpet; and now here they are all in the barouche, and my bed and trunk; and a box of mr. higginson's.' 'but the barouche?' said i; 'how did you get that?' 'by not shewing your letter,' answered jerry; 'and besides, the coach-maker knew me; and i told him it was for my lady de willoughby, as beautiful as an angel--but he did not mind that--and as rich as a jew;--but he minded that; and so he gave me the barouche, and a shake-hands into the bargain.' 'well, my friend,' said i, 'you did your best; so as soon as i can raise a sufficient sum, i will furnish my castle in a style of gothic grandeur, which your modern painters and glaziers have no notion of. meantime, if you and higginson will pull down those stones that choak the gateway, we will enter the building, and see what can be done with our present materials.' they commenced operations with such alacrity, that they soon cleared away the rubbish, and in we went. not a sign of a roof on the whole edifice: the venerable verdure of damp stained the walls, nettles and thistles clothed the ground, and three of the turrets, inaccessible to human feet, were to be come at only by an owl or an angel. however, on examining the fourth, or eastern turret, i found it in somewhat better condition than the rest. a half-decayed ladder, leaning against an aperture in the ceiling above, tempted me to mount, and i got into a room of about eight feet square (the breadth of the turret), overrun with moss and groundsel, and having a small window in one of its sides. from the floor, another ladder reached to another aperture in the ceiling above; and on ascending it, i found myself at the top of the tower, round which ran a broken parapet. this tower, therefore, i determined to fit up and inhabit; and to leave the other three in a state of classical dilapidation, as receptacles for strange noises, horrid sights, and nocturnal condottieri. i then descended, and made the minstrel and warden (for they have consented to undertake these offices) draw the barouche within the gateway, and convey the luggage up to the room that i meant for my residence. the next matter that we set about was hanging the chamber with the black cloth; and this we contrived to do by means of wooden pegs, which the warden cut with his knife, and drove, with a stone, through the drapery, into the crevices of the walls. we found two of the three pieces of black cloth sufficient to cover the sides of the room; and when the hangings were all arranged, i gazed on their sombrous and antique effect with the most heartfelt transport. i then named it the black chamber, and gave orders that it should always be called so. our next object was to contrive a bed for me. jerry, therefore, procured some branches of trees, and after much labour, and with no small ingenuity, constructed a bedstead, as crazy as any that ever creaked under a heroine. we then hung it round with curtains of black cloth; and jerry's own bed being placed upon it, we spread the black pall over that. never was there a more funereal piece of furniture; and i saw, with pride, that it rivalled the famous bed in the mysteries of udolpho. the minstrel all this time appeared stupified with astonishment, but worked like a horse, puffing and panting, and doing every thing that he was desired, without uttering a word. dinner now became our consideration, and i have just dispatched the warden (like peter, in the romance of the forest) to procure provisions. not a farthing has he to purchase any, since even the half-crown which susan gave me is already exhausted. but the light that enters at my window begins to grow grey, and an appropriate gloom thickens through the chamber. the minstrel stands in a corner, muttering poetry; while i write with his pen and ink on a stool that the warden made for me. my knees are my desk. adieu. letter xxxvii just at the close of evening, jerry came running towards the castle with a milk-pail on his head. 'see,' cried he, putting it down, 'how nicely i have choused a little milk-maid! there was she, tripping along as tight as her garter. 'fly for your life,' cries i, striding up to her: 'there is the big bull at my heels that has just killed two children, two sucking pigs, two---here! here! let me hold your pail for you!' and i whips it off her head. so, what does she do, but she runs off without it one way; and what does i do, but i runs off with it another way. and besides this, i have got my hat filled with young potatoes, and my pockets stuffed with ears of wheat; and if we can't eat a hearty dinner off these dainties, why that our next may be fried fleas and toasted leather!' though i was angry at the means used by jerry to get the provisions, yet, as dinner just then had more charms for me than moral sentiment, instead of instructing him in the lofty doctrines of the social compact, i bade him pound the grains of wheat between two flat stones. in the mean time, i sent the minstrel to the cottage for a light and some fuel; and on his return, made him stop up the window with grass and fern. he then kindled a fire of wood in the centre of the black chamber; for, as the floor was of stone, it ran no risk of being burned. this done, i mixed some milk with the bruised wheat, kneaded a cake, and laid it on the red embers, while jerry took charge of roasting the potatoes. as soon as our romantic repast was ready, i drew my stool to the fire: my household sat on large stones, and we made a tolerable meal, they on the potatoes, and i on the cake, which hunger had really rendered palatable. the warden lifted the pail to my lips, and i took a draught of the rural nectar; while the minstrel remarked, that nestor himself had not a larger goblet. i now paid the poor cottagers a visit, and carried the fragments of our dinner to them. on my return, we resumed our seats, and hung over the decayed embers, that cast a gloomy glare upon the bed and the drapery; while now and then, a flash from the ashes, as they sank, shot a reddened light on the paleness of the minstrel, and brightened the broad features of the warden. the wind had risen: there was a good deal of excellent howling round the turret: we sat silent, and looking for likenesses in the fire. 'come, warden,' cried i, 'repair these embers with a fresh splinter, and let me hear the memoirs of your life.' the warden consented, the fire was replenished, and he thus began: 'once upon a time when pigs were swine----' 'i will trouble you for a more respectable beginning,' said i; 'some striking, genteel little picture, to bespeak attention,--such as, "all was dark;" or, "it was on a gloomy night in the month of november."' 'that would be the devil's own lie,' cried jerry, 'because i was born in january; and by the same token, i was one of the youngest children that ever was born, for i saw light five months after my mother's marriage. well, being born, up i grew, and the first word i said was mammy; and my hair was quite yellow at first, though 'tis so brown now; and i promised to be handsome, but the symptom soon left me; and i remember i was as proud as lucifer when i got trowsers; and----' 'why now, jerry, what sort of trash is this?' said i. 'fie; a warden like you! i hoped to have heard something of interest and adventure from you; that your family was respectable, though poor----' 'respectable!' cried jerry. 'why, i am of the o'sullivans, who were kings of ireland, and that is the very reason i have not mister to my name, seeing as how i am of the blood royal. oh, if 'tis the wonderful your ladyship wants, by the powers, i am at home thereabouts. well, i was iddicated in great tenderness and ingenuity, and when i came of age, i went and seized on o'sullivan castle, and fortified it, and got a crown and sceptre, and reigned in great peace many years. but as the devil would have it----' 'jerry,' said i, 'i must insist on hearing no more of these monstrous untruths.' 'untruths!' cried he. 'why you might as well give me the lie at once. o murder! to think i would tell a falsehood about the matter!' 'sir,' said i, ''tis a falsehood on the very face of it.' ''pon my conscience then,' cried he, ''tis as like your own story as one pea is like another. and sure i did not contradict you (whatever i might think, and i have my thoughts too, i can tell you,) when you talked so glib of your great estates; though, to be sure, your ladyship is as poor as a rat. howsomever, since you will have it so, 'tis all a falsehood, sure enough; but now you shall hear the real story; though, for that matter, any body can tell truth, and no thanks to them. 'well, then, my father was nothing more than a common labourer, and just poor enough to be honest, but not poor enough to be a rogue. poverty is no great disgrace, provided one comes honestly by it; for one may get poor as well as rich by knavery. so, being poor, father used to make me earn odd pennies, when i was a boy; and at last i got so smart, that he resolved on sending me to sell chickens at the next town. but as i could only speak irish at that time, by reason we lived up the mountains, he sat down and taught me a little english, in case any gentlefolks should ask me about my chickens. now, jerry, says he, in irish, if any gentleman speaks to you, of course it will be to know the price of your chickens; so you are to say, _three shillings, sir_. then to be sure he will be for lowering the price, so you are to say stoutly, _no less, sir_; and if he shakes his head, or looks angry, 'tis a sign he won't buy unless you bate a little, so you are to say, _i believe i must take two, sir_. 'well, i got my lesson pat, and off i set, with my hair cut and my face washed, and thinking it the greatest day of my life; and i had not walked a hundred yards from the house, when i met a gentleman. 'pray how far is it to the next village?' says he. 'three shillings, sir,' says i. 'you are a saucy fellow,' says he. 'no less, sir,' says i. 'i will give you a box in the face,' says he. 'i believe i must take two, sir,' says i. 'but, instead of two, egad, i got six, and as many kicks as would match 'em; and home i ran howling.--well, that was very well, so when i told father that i was beaten for nothing: 'i warrant you were not,' says he; 'and if i had done so by my poor father, he would have broken every bone in my skin,' says he. 'but he was a better father than i am,' says he. 'how dare you say that your father was better than my father,' says i; and upon this, father takes me by the ear, and lugs me out of the house. just as we got outside, the same gentleman was passing by; and he stopped, and began to complain of me to my father; and then the whole matter came out, and both of them laughed very heartily. 'well, what do you think? 'pon my veracity, the gentleman took me home with him to clean the knives and boots. and then he sent me to school, where i learned english; and then i began to tend at table, and at last became a regular servant in the family. 'well, here i lived several years, and might have lived till now, but that one night, when mistress had company, while bringing in the tray of cake and wine, down i came, and broke all the glasses. 'by this and that,' says mistress; (only to be sure, mistress did'nt swear) 'you are quite drunk,' says she. 'never tasted a drop all day,' says i; and it was true for me, 'cause i did not begin till evening. 'who taught you to tell falsehoods?' says she. 'troth, you did,' says i; 'for you taught me to tell visitors you were not at home, when all the time you are peeping down the bannisters. fine fashions, indeed! nobody is ever at home now-a-days, but a snail,' says i. and i would have said more too, but that master kicked me out of the house. 'well, that was very well; and now my misfortunes were all before me, like a wheelbarrow. 'this happened in the year of the rebellion; so, being out of service, i lived at alehouses; and there it was that i met gentlemen with rusty superfine on their backs, and with the longest words in the world. they soon persuaded me that old ireland was going to ruin; i forget how now, but i know i had the whole story pat at that time; and the end of it was, that i became an united irishman. 'howsomever, though i would have died for my country, it would be carrying the joke too far to starve for her, and i had now spent all my wages. so, at last, back i went to my old master, and fell on my knees, and begged his pardon for my bad conduct when i lived with him, and prayed of him to take me once more. well, he did; and it was only two nights after that we heard a great noise outside, and master comes running into the kitchen. 'jerry,' says he, 'here are the rebels breaking into the house; and as i know you are a faithful fellow, take this sword and pistol, and stand by me.' 'no, but i will stand before you,' says i. so we mustered our men, five in all, and posted ourselves on the head of the stairs; when in burst the rebels into the hall, and we began a parley. 'why then, is that barney delany?' says i to their captain. 'why then, is that jerry sullivan?' says he to me. 'you are one of us,' says he, 'so now turn round and shoot your master,' says he. 'i will cut off both my hands first,' says i. 'take that then,' says he; and he fires a shot, and i another, and to it we kept, till we beat them all off. 'well, in a few months afterwards, this same barney being made prisoner, i was bound over as witness against him. so some of the gentlemen with the long words came to me, and told me how wrong i had acted in fighting for my master, instead of for my country, and that i must make amends by giving evidence in barney's favour. 'well, they puzzled me so, that from then till now i never could make out whether i was right or wrong in standing by master. but somehow, i think i was right; for though patriotism (as the gentlemen call it) is a fine thing, yet, after all, there is nothing like gratitude. why, if the devil himself did me a kind office, i believe i would make shift to do him another, and not act like the clergy, who spend their whole lives in snubbing at him, and calling him all manner of names, though they know, that, but for him, there would not be a clergyman or a fat living in the kingdom. 'howsomever, i was persuaded to do the genteel thing by barney delany; so, when the day for the trial came, i drank myself pretty unintelligible; and i swore point blank, before judge and jury, that i did not know barney good or bad, and that all i knew of him was good; and i bothered the lawyers, and they turned me from the table, and threatened to indite me for perjury. but it was the people that did praise me, and call it iligant swearing, mighty pretty evidence; and i was the great man of the day; and they took me to the fair that was hard by, where we tippled a little more, and then we sallied forth ripe for fun. 'well, as we were running through the fair, what should i see but a man's bald head sticking out of a hole in one of the tents--to cool, i suppose,--so i just lifted up my cudgel, and just laid it down again; when, in a moment, out came a whole set of fellows from the tent, and the man asks which of us had broken his head. 'it was myself,' says i, 'but curse me if i could help it, that skull of your's looked so inviting. 'accordingly both parties began a battle, and then others, who had nothing better to do, came and joined; they did not know why, but no matter for that. any one may fight when there is an occasion; but the beauty of it is, to fight when there is no occasion at all. 'howsomever, in the midst of it up came the military to spoil sport as usual; and they dispersed us, and made some of us prisoners, i among the rest, and we were put into bridewell. well, that was very well. so at night we contrived to break it open, beat the keepers, and make our escape. then what to do with myself was the question. it would go hard with me if i were caught again; so i skulked about the country several days, till happening to meet some lads going beyond seas to reap the english harvest, they persuaded me to buy a reaping-hook, and go with them. 'but to be sure, to be sure, such a hurricane as we had at sea, and such tumbling and tossing; and then we were driven to the world's end, or the land's end, or some end; but i know i thought i was come to my own end. in short, such wonderful adventures never were known.' 'what adventures, my friend?' cried i. 'i love to hear wonderful adventures.' 'why,' said he, 'we had an adventure every moment, for every moment we were near going to the bottom.' 'and was that all?' cried i. 'then,' said he, 'there was such pulling of ropes, and reefing and rigging; and we went over so many seas and channels; the irish channel, and the british channel, and the bristol channel, and the baltic sea, and the atlantic sea, and---oh dear, as good as forty more.' 'forty more!' cried i. 'and pray what were their names?' 'bad luck to me if i can remember,' said he. 'probably you were in the red sea,' said i. 'to be sure i was.' 'and in the black sea?' 'no doubt of it.' 'and in the white sea, and the pacific ocean?' 'in every mother's soul of them.' 'and pray what kind of seas are they?' asked i. 'why,' said he, 'the red sea is as red as blood, and the black sea is as black as ink, and the white sea is the colour of new milk, or nearer butter-milk; and the pacifi-ifi--what's that word?' 'pacific,' said i. 'and what is the meaning of pacific?' said he. 'it means peaceful or calm,' answered i. 'gad, i thought so,' said he, 'for the devil a wave that same ocean had on it high or low. 'pon my conscience, it was as smooth as the palm of my hand.' 'take care, jerry,' said i, laughing; 'i am afraid----' 'why then,' cried he, 'that i may never----' 'hush!' said i. 'no swearing.' 'by dad,' cried he, 'you had better tell my story yourself; for you seem resolved to have it all your own way. may be you won't believe me neither, when i tell you that i landed?' 'as you are not at sea now,' said i, 'i will believe you.' 'well then,' said he, 'i suppose you will believe that i made a little money by reaping, and then trudged to london to try my fortune.' 'i make no doubt of the fact,' said i. 'but pray how did you contrive to subsist in london at first?' 'by spitting through my teeth,' said jerry. 'take care,' cried i. 'this i suspect is another----' 'if you mean lie,' said he, 'i have caught you at last; for 'tis as true as true can be, and i will tell you all about it. you must know that 'tis now the fashion for gentlemen to be their own coachmen; and not only to drive like coachmen, but to talk, walk, dress, drink, swear, and even spit like coachmen. well, two days after my arrival in london, as i was standing in the street, and looking about, i happened to spit through my teeth, to the envy and admiration of a gentleman that was just driving his own carriage by me. for he stopped, and called me to him, and swore i should get half-a-crown if i would teach him to _pickle a wig_,--that was the word. so when he gave me plain english for it, i closed with him, and went to his house, and taught him to spit so well, that my fame spread through the town, and all the fashionable bloods came to me for instruction; till at last i had a good mind to set up a spitting academy. 'well, i had now spit myself into such affluence, that i refused a coachman's seat with forty pounds a year (for, as i said, even a curate had more than that); and may be, instead of a seat on the box, i might at last have risen to a seat in the parliament (for many a man has got there by dirtier tricks than mine), but that my profession, which was of a nature to dry up my mouth, forced me to frequent porterhouses; where, as the devil would have it, i met other gentlemen, such as i had met before, and with just the same set of long words. 'in a short time, all of us agreed that our country was ruined, and that something must be done. so we made ourselves into a club, for the purpose of writing ballads about the war, and the taxes, and a thousand lashes that a soldier got. and we used to set ten or twelve ballad-singers round a table in our club-room, each with her pint of beer; and one of our club would teach them the tune with a little kit, while i was in a cock-loft overhead composing the words. and they reckoned me the best poet of them all; and they told me that my writings would descend to posterity; and sometimes the thoughts came so quick on me, that i was obliged to chalk them down on the back of the bellows. but whenever i wanted an idea, i read the weekly register; and then between the register and the liquor, i got worked up to such a pitch of poetry, that my blood used to run cold in the morning, at the thoughts of what i would have done at night. 'well, one evening, the ballad-singers were round the table, sipping and singing to the little kit, and i had just popt down my head through the trap-door of the cock-loft, to ask the chairman the rhime for _reform_: 'confound you,' says he, 'didn't i tell you twenty times 'tis _a storm_;' when in bursts the door, and a parcel of peace-officers seize him, and the whole set, for holding seditious meetings, and publishing inflammatory songs. think of that! when i protest to you our only object was, by causing disunion, and convincing our enemies that we could not carry on the war, to procure a speedy and honorable peace. 'howsomever, i got out of the scrape by being concealed in the cock-loft; and i remember well it was on that very night i first saw my wife.' 'ah,' said i, 'give me the particulars of that event, the first meeting of lovers is always so interesting!' 'why,' said he, 'going home sorrowful enough after the ruin of our club, i resolved to drown care in a noggin; and accordingly turned into a gin-shop, where i found three fruit-women from covent garden, bound on the same errand.' 'what dram shall we drink?' says they. 'brandy,' says one. 'gin,' says another. 'anniseed-water,' says another. and so they fell to and drank. 'i am happy that i ever came to this city of lunnun; for my fortune is made,' says brandy. 'if my father had lived, i would be brought up to good iddication,' says gin. 'if my mother had lived, i would be brought up at a boarding-school,' says anniseed-water. 'why, curse you,' says gin, 'what was your mother but an old apple-woman?' 'and curse you,' says anniseed-water, 'what was your father but a gallows-bird of a bum-bailiff?' 'and then they fell a fighting and scratching; and anniseed-water (the present mrs. jerry sullivan) was getting well cuffed, when i came to her assistance. so that was our first meeting.' 'you may boast of it,' said i. 'now then for your courtship.' 'you shall hear,' said he. 'she was so much obliged to me, that she asked me home to tea, and i went. i found her a buxom widow, and at that time she was as fine a doorful, as tight a wench over a washing-tub, as you would wish to see. and there was her daughter, and a great deal of good company;--the tailor's wife, and the barber's wife, and the pawnbroker's wife; and none so grand as they. and they told as many lies over the first dish of tea as a parcel of porters would over twenty barrels of strong beer. and a young valet, who i could see was courting the widow, swore that it was as good to be out of the world as out of the fashion, and then he whispered to her that she looked killing genteel. but i only pinched her elbow, and i thought she liked that better.' 'it was very vulgar, however,' observed i. 'the first process is to kiss the hand.' 'ogh!' cried jerry, 'that is a slobbering trick, to be mumbling knuckles just as a pup niggles at a bone. i am the man to take at once, and fluster a woman, and reckon her ribs for her. no creeping up, and up, and up; and then down, and down, and down, for me--why, as i hope to be saved, i gave that same widow a thundering kiss on three days acquaintance.' 'poor thing!' exclaimed i. 'well, and what did she say?' 'say? why she said, "be quiet now, though i know you can't." so, of course, i kissed her still more; while she changed colour in a minute as often as a blackberry in a month. "ha done, do;" says she, "or i will call out, only there is nobody at home;"--when, at the moment, in pops the valet, and catches us lip to lip. 'now he was a conceited sort of a chap, who used to set himself off with great airs, shew his white hands--that, i verily believe, he washed every day of his life;--curse and swear just like a gentleman, keep a tooth-brush, and make both his heels meet when he bowed. 'well, i had nothing upon earth to oppose to all this but a bit of a quarrel;--that was _my_ strong point;--and sure enough, i gave him such a beating for catching us, that the widow thought me main stout, and married me in a week. 'with her money i set up shop; and i did not much mind her being ten years older than myself, since she was ten times richer. i only copied my own father there; for he once happened to be divided between two girls, one of them with a single cow for her portion, and the other with two cows; so he consulted his landlord which of them he should marry, and his landlord bade him by all means marry the girl with the two cows; "for," says he, "there is not a cow difference between any two women." 'so now that is my history.' 'if i am to collect from it,' said i, 'the character of your countrymen in your own class of life, i must conclude that they are frank, generous, and noble; but neglected in their morals and education, and oppressed by their superiors.' 'ay, there is the matter,' said jerry. 'by way of keeping us quiet they keep us down. now that is just the way to prevent our keeping quiet, for it is natural that men who are kept down should try to rise up.' 'and why do they keep you down?' asked i. 'because,' answered he, 'we are of one religion, and they of another; and they say our religion is so bad, that it would make us keep them down, if they did not keep us down.' 'then,' said i, 'you ought to be greatly obliged to them for keeping you down; because that is doing what they condemn, lest you should do it. now it is the highest possible test of good-nature, to become criminal ourselves, in order to keep our friends virtuous.' 'a wise legislator,' said the minstrel, 'ought not to forget the eighteenth century, in his retrospection to the sixteenth, nor in his anticipation of the twentieth.' 'i know nothing of anticskippation,' said jerry, 'but i will tell you a bit of a story. when i first went to london, and was poor, i used to dine in a cellar, with other irishmen, where the knives and forks were chained to the table, for fear we should steal them; though in my mind, the surest way to make a rogue, is to let him know that you think him one. well, when we began to grow rich, we got a spirit, and broke the chains, and paid for them; and broke them again, and paid for them again, and so on. at last the master began to see that the same spirit which made us break the chains would prevent us from stealing the knives and forks; so he took off the chains, and then his table was no disgrace, and we brought more company to it, and he made his fortune.' the minstrel and warden now retired to their allotted place of rest--the barouche. each was to keep watch in turn at the castle gate, and to toll the hour on the bell. the wind still moaned round the turret; and now the fire, ghastly in decay, but just tinged the projecting folds of the hangings. dismal looked the bed as i drew near; and while i lifted the velvet pall to creep beneath, i shivered, and almost expected to behold the apparition of a human face, starting from under it. when i lay down, i kept my eyes quite closed, for fear of seeing something; nor was it till the third bell had tolled that i fell asleep. adieu. letter xxxviii i rose early this morning, and summoned jerry to the black chamber, for my head was teeming with the most important projects. 'my friend,' said i, 'though lady gwyn has already acknowledged me as the rightful owner, not alone of this castle, but of the house that she herself inhabits, yet i cannot apply to my tenantry for rent, or even raise a sum of money sufficient to purchase my breakfast, till she surrenders up those deeds and parchments which would give me a legal claim. now as i fear i shall find it a hard matter to make her do so, i have resolved on proposing a compromise, and on waving all title to the house and demesne that she now occupies, provided she will consent to put me in formal possession of this castle, and all the land appertaining to it. 'i have therefore determined to pay her ladyship a visit for this purpose; but as i was driven from her house with disgrace once before, i mean to return thither now with such a train of domestics as shall put it out of her power to offer me insult, or detain my person. 'now, warden, if i could but hire a set of servants, who would consent to live in my castle and defend it, i would, on my part, give each of them a lot of ground, and consider them as feudal vassals; and they could accompany me to lady gwyn's. i have therefore to request that you will instantly set off, and endeavour to procure them for me, as no time is to be lost.' 'begging your ladyship's pardon,' said jerry, 'you are sending me of a fool's errand: for who but madmen would hire as servants in such a castle as this? would you have them build swallows' nests for themselves under the windows, and live on suction like the snipes?' 'mr. sullivan,' said i, 'cast no sarcasms, but go and do as you are desired.' 'well, from this moment out, i say nothing,' cried jerry. 'nothing at all, at all: but like the old woman's crow, i will be the devil for thinking.' 'another sarcasm?' said i. 'may be 'tis better for me to go at once, before i get into a scrape,' cried he. 'so now, your ladyship, how many of these same feudal vessels, as you call 'em; these vessels that are to have no drink----' 'jerry!----' 'well, well, give me my directions quick, and there is my hand on my mouth till i am out of the castle.' 'you may hire about fifteen or twenty of them,' said i. 'but remember, i will have no dapper footmen, with smirking faces. i must have a clan such as we read of in the middle ages; fellows with norman noses, and all sorts of frowns--men of iron, fit to live in comets.' 'better live in comets, than----' but he clapped his hand on his mouth in time, and then ran down the steps. during his absence, i paid a visit to the poor cottagers, and after having sat with them awhile, and promised them assistance before evening, i returned towards the castle. on approaching it, i perceived, to my great surprise, jerry also advancing at the head of about twenty strange looking men, all armed with bludgeons. 'here are the boys!' cried jerry. 'here are the true sort. few norman noses, i believe, but all honest hearts; and though they never lived in comets, egad they lived in ireland, and that is worth fifty comets. look at 'em. hold up your heads, you dogs. they came over only to save the hay, and reap the harvest; but when they found their countryman and a woman in distress, they volunteered their services; and now here they are, ready for that same lady gwyn, or any lady in the land.' 'welcome, my friends,' said i; 'and be well assured that i will reward you munificently.' 'three cheers!' cried jerry. they gave three cheers. my heart dilated with exultation at beholding this assemblage of feudal vassals at my command; and in a moment i had arranged my project. as it was expedient to inspire lady gwyn with respect and awe, i resolved on making the best possible display of my power, taste, and feudal magnificence. of course, i meant to visit her in my barouche; and since i had no horses for it, my plan was to make some of my domestics draw it in a triumphal manner, while the rest should follow in procession. to let them escort me in their own ragged and unclassical dresses was impossible; but i think you will give me credit for my ingenuity in supplying them with others. i determined to divide the black cloth into large pieces, which they should wear as cloaks, and to stick a black feather in each of their hats, a costume that would give them the pleasing appearance of udolphian condottieri. we now set about making the cloaks, but as we had not sufficient cloth remaining, we were obliged to strip the black chamber of part of its hangings. i had appropriated a large portion of the cloth to make flowing drapery for higginson, whom i meant to take in the barouche with me; but as minstrels never wear hats, and have always bald heads, i was at a loss how to manage about his, since he still cherished and curled his locks, with a spruceness most unmeet for minstrelsy. at last, after repeated assurances how much better he would look, i persuaded him to let jerry shave the crown of his head. accordingly, jerry performed the tonsoral operation in the black chamber, while i remained below, fixing the feathers and cloaks on my domestics. these poor fellows, who, i suppose, had never read even an alphabet, much less a romance, in their lives, stood gaping at each other in silent wonder, though some of them attempted unmeaning, and, i must say, troublesome jests on what was going forward. when drest, a more formidable and picturesque group than they presented you never beheld, and while i was still admiring them, forth from the turret issued the minstrel. but such a spectacle! half his huge head was shorn of its hair: his black garments, knotted just under his bare neck, gave a new ghastliness to his face, while his eyes, as he rivetted them upon me, were starting out of their sockets with anxiety and agitation. he looked preternatural. to contain was impossible: i began laughing, and the irishman uttered a shout of derision. the poor man looked round him, turned as pale as ashes; his face began to work and quiver, and at last he burst into a piteous fit of crying. then suddenly lifting a prodigious stone, he whirled it at jerry's head, who ducked for his life, and saved it. 'and what did i do to you?' cried jerry. 'you shaved my head because you knew it would spoil my looks,' cried the minstrel. 'and you are endeavouring to outdo me with my mistress, and she likes you better than me;--but it cannot be holpen. oh, dear, dear!' i tried to sooth him: nothing would do, nor could i persuade him to accompany me; so now, all being ready, i posted two sentinels on the top of the turret, and then got into my barouche. six vassals were deputed to draw it, the rest followed with their oaken saplings under their cloaks, and jerry headed the whole. never was a more august procession; and i will venture to say, that this country, at least, never saw any thing like it. as we proceeded along the road, the people ran out of their houses to gaze on us. some said that we were strolling players, and others swore that we were going to a funeral; while a rabble of boys and girls capered at our heels, and gathered as we went. it was not till about five o'clock that we reached lady gwyn's avenue. we paused there a moment, while i made my attendants shake the dust from their cloaks, and wipe the barouche; and now, with a beating heart, i found myself at her door. jerry then pealed an authoritative rap. the door opened. the servant stared. 'inform the lady gwyn,' said i, 'that her niece, the lady cherubina de willoughby, desires the honour of a conference with her.' the fellow grinned, and vanished; and, in a few minutes, out came her ladyship, accompanied by several guests, some of whose faces i remembered having seen there before. i therefore felt doubly delighted that i had come in such feudal and chivalric pomp. they greeted me with great kindness and respect. carelessly bowing to lady gwyn, as i sat half reclined in the barouche, i thus addressed her: 'i now come to your ladyship with a proposal, which it is as generous in me to offer, as it will be politic in you to accept. and first, learn, that i am at this moment in actual possession of monkton castle, the noble seat of my ancestors. to that castle, and to this house, your ladyship has already acknowledged my just right; and to both, of course, i can establish my claim by a judiciary process. 'as, however, i prefer a more amicable mode of adjustment, and am willing to spare the effusion of money, i now declare my readiness to make over this house and demesne to your ladyship, and to your heirs for ever, on condition that you, on your part, will surrender to me, without delay or reservation, the title deeds of monkton castle, and all the monkton estate. this is a generous proposal. what say you? yes or no?' 'lady cherubina,' returned her ladyship, 'i cannot think of entering into terms with you, till you restore the portrait that you purloined from this house. but, in the mean time, as a proof of my desire to settle matters amicably, i request the honour of your company at dinner to-day.' 'your ladyship must excuse me,' said i, with a noble air. 'during our present dispute respecting this house, i should deem it derogatory to my honour and my dignity, were i to enter it in the capacity of guest.' 'why then, death and 'ounds!' cried jerry, 'is it to refuse so good an offer, after starving all the morning!' 'starving!' cried lady gwyn. 'we have not put a morsel inside our mouths this blessed day,' said jerry; 'and even yesterday we dined on potatoes and milk, and a sort of a contrivance of a cake that your ladyship would'nt throw to your cat.' i thought i should drop at this exposure of our poverty, and i commanded him to be silent. 'time enough for silence when one has spoken,' cried he. 'but sure, would'nt it vex a saint to hear you talking about honour and dignity, when all the time you are in a starving state!' 'sensibly remarked,' said lady gwyn. 'and pray, my good fellow, who are you?' 'my warden,' answered i quickly, lest he should speak. 'and these are my feudal vassals; and i have left my minstrel, and the rest of my faithful people, on the battlements of the eastern tower, just over the black chamber, to guard my castle.' 'and for all this fine talk,' cried jerry, 'we have not so much as a rap farthing amongst the whole set of us. so pray, your ladyship, do make her stay dinner--do. or may be,' (said he, getting closer and whispering lady gwyn), 'may be you would just lend her half-a-crown or so; and, 'pon my soul, i will pay you myself in ten days.' 'silence, traitor!' cried i, rising in the barouche, and dignifying my manner. 'i do not want a dinner: i would not accept of a dinner; but above all, of a dinner in this house, till i am mistress of it!' 'and is it true,' cried jerry to lady gwyn, 'that she is the real mistress of this house?' 'oh! certainly, certainly,' said her ladyship. 'oh! certainly, certainly,' said the guests. 'well, bad luck to me, if ever i believed it, till this moment,' cried jerry. 'and why then won't your ladyship give it up to her?' 'because,' answered she, 'the quiet surrender of an estate was never yet read of in romances.' ''tis the only rational excuse you can assign,' said i. 'dinner is on the table,' said the butler coming to the door. 'and so,' cried jerry to me, 'you won't dine in this house till you are mistress of it?' 'never, as i hope to see heaven!' answered i. 'and so,' cried he to lady gwyn, 'you won't make her mistress of it?' 'never, as i hope to see heaven!' answered she. 'why then,' cried jerry, 'since one refuses to dine in it till she is mistress of it, and since the other owns that she ought to be mistress of it, and yet won't make her mistress of it; by the powers, i will make her mistress of it in two minutes!' so saying, he shouted some words in an uncouth jargon (irish, i suppose) to my vassals, several of whom instantly darted into the house, others brandished their sticks in the faces of the guests; jerry himself ran, lifted me from the barouche, and bore me into the hall; while the rest brought up the rear, and beat back the gentlemen who were attempting to rush between us and the door. jerry set me down in the hall, where i stood motionless, while some of my domestics scudded, with merry uproar, through kitchen, parlour, drawing-room, garret; and drove footman, maid, valet, cook, scullion, and lap-dog, all out of the house. 'now then,' cried jerry, shutting the hall-door, 'your ladyship is in quiet possession for ever and ever.' 'jerry,' said i, 'there is no knowing how this will end. but come into that parlour, for some of my people are making a sad riot there.' in we went; it was the dining-room, and to my great astonishment, i found about a dozen of my domestics already round the table, eating and drinking as if nothing had happened. in vain jerry and i desired them to desist; they did not even seem to hear us. they laughed and capered, and tore whole joints with their hands, and swallowed the richest wines from the decanters. the rest soon flocked in, and then such a scene of confusion arose as struck me with utter dismay. and now, having glutted themselves, they ran to the windows, and exhibited the mangled meat and diminished wine to the dismayed eyes of poor lady gwyn. there she stood in the midst of her friends, looking like a bedlamite; and as soon as i appeared, she beckoned me, with the most frantic gesticulations, to open the window. i called the warden to my side, and flung up the sash. 'let us in, let us in!' cried she. 'my house will be destroyed by these diabolical miscreants! oh! let us in, let us in!' 'lady gwyn,' said i, 'these outrages are on my house, not on your's. but be well assured that whatever injury your personal property may sustain, it is contrary to my wishes, and will by me be amply compensated.' 'gracious powers!' exclaimed she. 'my precious cabinet, and all my furniture will be demolished! won't you save my house? won't you? dear ma'am, won't you?' '_your_ house?' cried jerry. 'why i had your own word for it just now that it was my own lady's house. so, if you told a lie, take the consequence. but we have got possession, and let me see who will dare drive us out.' 'here they are that will soon drive you out!' cried a servant. 'here they are, here they are!' echoed every one. all eyes were now directed down the avenue, and, to my horror, i perceived a large party of soldiers, in full march towards the house. 'we shall have a bloody battle of it,' whispered jerry. 'but never fear, my lady, we will fight to the last gasp. hollo, lads, here is a battle for you!' at that magic word, all the irishmen clubbed their sticks, and ran forward. 'we must surrender,' said i. 'never could i bear the dreadful contest.' 'by the mother that bore me,' cried jerry, 'i will defend the house in spite of you!' 'then i will walk out of it,' said i. 'well, surrender away!' cried jerry, 'and may all the---oh! murder, murder, to give up your own house without a bit of a battle!' by this time the soldiers had arrived, and the magistrate who was at their head, advanced, and desired me to have the door opened instantly. 'provided you pledge yourself that none of my brave fellows shall be punished,' answered i. 'you shall all be punished with the utmost rigour of the law,' said the magistrate. 'since that is the case then,' cried i, 'and since i cannot keep possession of my house, i am resolved that no one else shall. know, sir, i have, at this instant, six of my domestics, each with a lighted brand, stationed in different apartments; and the moment you order your men to advance, that moment i give the signal, and the house bursts into a blaze.' 'if you dare,' cried the magistrate. 'dare!' cried lady gwyn. 'the creature would dare any thing. dare! why she burned a house once before. she did, i protest to you; so pray, make some conditions with her, or she will burn this now. i tell you the girl is quite----' and she whispered something in the magistrate's ear. 'well,' said the magistrate to me, 'will you promise never to come here again, provided i now let you and your gang pass without detention or punishment?' 'i will,' answered i. 'but i must make some conditions too. in the first place, will your ladyship give me back my cloaths and the money that i left behind me, when i was here last?' 'i will,' answered her ladyship. 'in the next place,' said i, 'will your ladyship promise not to prevent me from inhabiting monkton castle, till such time as the law shall determine which of us has a right to the contested estates?' 'undoubtedly,' replied her ladyship. 'and now,' said i, 'i must have the distinct and solemn declaration of every individual present, that neither myself nor my people shall suffer any molestation in consequence of what we have done.' all present pledged their honours. 'now then,' said i, 'we will open the door.' accordingly, the warden opened it, and i issued forth with a majestic demeanour, while my awful band marched after their triumphant mistress. lady gwyn and her guests hastened into the house, without even wishing me good evening, and the soldiers drew up before the door. in a few minutes, a servant came out with my dresses and the money. having received them, i got into my barouche, and, drawn by my vassals, proceeded homeward. we were silent for some time, but at length i called jerry to the side of the carriage. 'well, my friend,' cried i, quite cheerful, 'i think we have come off famously.' 'yes,' said jerry. 'i flatter myself,' added i, 'we have made a good day's work of it.' 'yes,' said jerry. 'nothing but yes!' said i. 'why now, do you not think we have obtained the most decisive advantages? was it not a glorious affair?' 'since i must speak out,' cried jerry, 'i think it was the bluest business that ever was botched by poltroons.' 'it was all your own doing, however,' said i. 'so now you may walk on, sir.' jerry tossed his hat at one side, and strutted forward. 'come back, jerry,' cried i. 'here is my hand. you are a faithful fellow, and would have died for me.' 'ah, bless you!' cried he. 'you quarrel like a cat, but you make up like an angel!' it was night before we reached the castle; and as i had not tasted a morsel all day, i dispatched jerry to the village for provisions, and other matters. i then divided six guineas among my domestics, and desired them to return next morning, as i should want them to repair the fortifications, dig a mote, and excavate subterranean passages. they gave three cheers, and departed. in about an hour jerry returned with a cart containing an abundant stock of provisions;--bread, meat, potatoes, tea, sugar, &c. besides, a kettle, plates, cups and saucers, &c. after having unloaded and dismissed the cart, we made a fire in the black chamber, and supped. i then took a solitary walk, and carried some victuals to the poor cottagers. they received the donation with gratitude, and i left them to the comforts of a hearty meal. it is now probable that i may reside some time at my castle; and as to my villa, i wish lady gwyn joy of it; for in my opinion it is a fright. conceive the difference between the two. the villa mere lath and plaster; with its pretty little stucco-work, and its pretty little paintings, and its pretty little bronzes. nice, new, sweet, and charming, are the only epithets that one can apply to it; while antique, sublime, terrible, picturesque, and gothic, are the adjectives appropriate to my castello. what signify laced footmen, chinese vases, grecian tripods, and turkish sofas, in comparison with feudal vassals, ruined towers, black hangings, dampness, and ivy? and to a person of real taste, a single stone of this edifice is worth a whole cart-load of such stones as the onyx, and sardonyx, and the other barbarous baubles belonging to lady gwyn. but nothing diverts me more than the idea that poor lady gwyn is twice as old as the house she lives in. i have got a famous simile on the subject. what think you of a decayed nut in an unripe shell? the woman is sixty if she is a day. adieu. letter xxxix the moist shadows of night had fled, dawn shook the dew from his purple ringlets, and the sun, that well-known gilder of eastern turrets, arose with his usual punctuality. i too rose, and having now recovered my wardrobe, enjoyed the luxury of changing my dress; for i had worn the same cloaths several days, and consequently was become a perfect slattern. how other heroines manage, i cannot imagine; for i have read of some of them who were thrown among mountains, or into cells, and desolate chambers, and caverns; full of slime, mud, vermin, dust, and cobwebs, where they remained whole months without clean linen, soap, brush, towel, or comb; and, at last, when rescued from captivity, forth they walked, glittering like the morning star, as fragrant as a lily, and as fresh as an oyster. we breakfasted on the top of the tower; and after our repast, the minstrel told me that he had employed the day before in composing a metrical romance, called 'monkton castle;' which, with my permission, he would now repeat. i was delighted; and to give it every advantage, i placed him at the harp, flung his black garments over him, and making him sit on the battlements, endeavoured to fix him in the fine attitude of old allan bane; but his limbs were so muscular and impracticable, that i could make nothing of them. with an emphatic enunciation, he thus began. monkton castle a metrical romance awake, my harp, sweet plaintiff, wake once more, now while bedight in shadowy amice dim, eve bathes the mountains in her radiant gore, and edges ocean with a fiery rim. and while i touch, with nails ypared anew, thy parallel and quadrupedal strings, may fairies brush away the vesper dew, that else mote moist the chorded chitterlings. and ah! full oft the learned tribe, i trow, with baleful dews of cavil damp thy strain. but morning shall return, the sun shall glow, the baleful dews shall fly, the harp shall sound again. it was a castle of turrets grey, all nettles and chickweed inside; where the wind did howl the livelong day, and the livelong night beside. it had no windows or roof, i am sure, or parlour for bell-accoyle; where a belamay and a belamoure, in daynt bellgards mote moyl. 'that same parlour,' said jerry, 'has bells enough to bother the rookery of thomastown, and that is the largest in ireland.' nathlesse, to stablish her rights, i ween, came to that castle fair cherubine. nor the wind day and night could her astound, nor the nettles and chickweed that grew on the ground. she was of the house of de willoughby, and her story was long and melancholie; but her beauty never could rivalled be. glittered her tresses like beams of sun, and snake-like over her neck did run. her cheek, where dimples made beauteous breach, lovelily smiled, and the down on each was soft as fur of unfingered peach. while thro' her marble a blush did gleam, like ruddy berries, all crushed in cream. the minstrel to the castle hied, his mother's hope, his mother's pride. gramercy, how that mother cried! he was a gentle man of thought, and grave, but not ungracious aught. his face with thinking lines was wrought. and though his head was bald a space, than he who shore it will get grace. 'now that is a slap at me!' cried jerry. yet, though he sold full half his books, to lay out money on his looks; the lady had such deep disdain; that the poor minstrel, in his pain, from the hour that is natal, to the hour that is fatal, mote sing these words, and sing in vain. song _the birds are all singing, the bells are all ringing, and tidings are bringing, of peace and of joy. then let us, my treasure, in love without measure, and tenderest pleasure, our moments employ._ 'eh! what? what's all that?' cried jerry. 'why sure--body o'me, sure you ant--oh, confound me, but 'tis making love to the mistress you are!' the minstrel blushed, and more pointedly repeated; but her favourite warden, could he but sing, he not unlistened, would touch the string, tho' he was a man with unchisseled face; from eye to eye too little a space; a jester withouten one attic joke, and the greatest liar that ever spoke. 'bad luck to you, what do you mean by that?' cried jerry, running towards him. 'i will box you for a shilling!' 'you are not worth one,' exclaimed the minstrel, starting up. 'i will leave your carcase not worth one,' cried jerry. 'that would be more than your's is worth now,' returned the minstrel. 'for shame, my friends!' cried i. 'mr. higginson, i declare your conduct is that of a child.' 'because you treat me like one,' said he. 'and you treat him like a man.' 'but you should treat him like a gentleman,' said i. 'well, well, well,' cried the minstrel; 'there is my hand for you, mr. sullivan.' 'and there is mine for you,' said jerry. 'hand in hand is better than fist to fist at any time.' 'i will defer hearing the remainder of your poem,' said i, 'till you have altered it. but my good friend, do not forget to tell that i inhabit the _eastern_ turret, and to give a full description of it. you might begin thus: he who would view that east turret aright, must go at rosy-finger'd morning bright.' 'rosy-fingered morning!' cried jerry. 'why, how can the morning have rosy fingers?' 'it has not,' answered i. 'the poets only say so by way of ornament.' 'and yet,' cried jerry, 'if i had said, when i was telling you my history, that i saw a set of red fingers and thumbs rising in the east every morning, i warrant you would have called me a liar, just as you did about that business of the pacific ocean.' 'why,' said the minstrel, 'we poets are permitted a peculiar latitude of language, which enables us to tell homeric falsehoods, without fear of the society for discountenancing vice. thus, when we speak of the lightning of her angel smile, we do not expect one to believe that fire comes out of her mouth, whenever it laughs.' 'not unless her teeth were flints,' said jerry. 'but if you said that fire came out of her eyes, one would believe you sooner; for this i know, that many and many a time molly has struck fire out of mine.' 'a heroine's eye,' said i, 'gives a greater scope to the poet than any thing in the world. it is all fire and water. if it is not beaming, or sparkling, it is sure to be drowned or swimming----' 'in the pacific ocean, i hope,' cried jerry. 'no, but in tears,' said the minstrel. 'and of these there is an infinite variety. there is the big tear, and the bitter tear, and the salt tear, and the scalding tear.' 'and, ah!' cried i, 'how delightful, when two lovers lay cheek to cheek, and mingle these tears; or when the tender youth kisses them from his mistress's cheek!' 'troth, then, that must be no small compliment,' said jerry, 'since they are so brackish and scalding as you say. water itself is maukish at any time, but salt water is the devil. well, if i took such a dose of a snivelling chit's tears, i would season it with a dram, or my name is not jerry.' 'and, by the by, i wish jerry were not your name,' said i. ''tis so vulgar for a warden. indeed, i have often thought of altering it to _jeronymo_; which, i fancy, is the italian of _jerry_. for, in my opinion, nothing can equal italian names ending in o.' 'except irish names beginning with o,' cried jerry. 'nay,' said i, 'what can be finer than montalto, stefano, morano, rinaldo, ubaldo, utaldo?' 'i will tell you,' said jerry. 'o'brien, o'leary, o'flaherty, o'flanigan, o'guggerty, o'shaugnassy----' 'oh, ecstasy!' exclaimed a voice just beneath the turret. i looked down, and beheld--montmorenci himself, clad in armour, and gazing up at me with an attitude that mocked mortal pencil. i waved my hand, and smiled. 'what? whom do i behold?' cried he. 'ah,'tis but a dream! yet i spoke to her, i am sure i spoke to her; and she beckoned me. merciful powers! why this terror? is it not cherubina, and would cherubina hurt her montmorenci?' 'jerry, jerry,' said i; 'run down to the black chamber, and clean it out quick. sweep the ashes into a corner, hide the pipkin and kettle, pin up the cloaks against the walls; put the leg of mutton under the bed. run, run.--my lord, the lady cherubina hastes to receive your lordship at her ever-open portal.' i then descended, and met him beneath the gateway. his greeting was frantic, but decorous; mine endearing, but reserved. several very elegant things were said on both sides. of course, he snatched my hand, and fed upon it. at last, when i supposed that jerry had regulated the room above, i conducted his lordship up the steps; while i anticipated his delight at beholding so legendary, fatal, and inconvenient a chamber. his astonishment was, indeed, excessive. he stared round and round, admired the black hangings, the bed, the bell, and the horn. 'i see,' said he, advancing to the ashes, 'that you are even classical enough to burn a fire of wood. but ha! (and he started,) what do mine eyes behold beneath these embers? a bone, by all that is horrible! perhaps part of the skeleton of some hysterical innocent, or some pathetic count, who was murdered centuries ago in the haunted apartment of this mysterious castle. interesting relic! speak, lady cherubina. is it as i suspect?' 'why,' said i, 'i believe--that is to say--for aught i can tell----' ''pon my conscience,' cried jerry, 'her ladyship knows just as well as i do that 'tis nothing but the blade-bone of mutton which she got broiled for her supper last night.' 'impossible, sir!' exclaimed his lordship. 'a heroine never eats of a four-footed animal. 'tis always the leg of a lark, or the wing of a chicken.' and so saying, he began divesting himself of his spear, shield, and helmet. 'pray, mr. blunderer,' whispered i to jerry, 'did i not desire you to clean out the room?' 'you did not say a word about the blade-bone,' said jerry. 'but did i not bid you clean out the room?' repeated i. 'don't i tell you----' cried jerry. 'can't you speak low?' said i. 'don't i tell you that not one syllable about the blade-bone ever came outside your lips?' 'grant me patience!' said i. 'answer me yes or no. did i, or did i not, order you to clean out the room?' 'now bad luck to me,' said he, 'if you ant all this time confounding the blade-bone of mutton with the leg of mutton that you bade me put under the bed. and accordingly----' 'gracious goodness!' said i, 'can't you speak within your breath?' 'and accordingly,' whispered he, 'i put it under the velvet pall, because i thought it might be seen under the bed.' 'well, that shewed _some_ discretion,' said i. 'though after all my pains,' said jerry, 'there is the man in the tin cloaths has just stripped down that same pall, and discovered the mutton, and the parsnips, and the bag of salt, and the pewter spoons, and----' 'oh, jerry, jerry!' said i, dropping my arms lifeless at my sides; 'after that, i give you up!' i then called to his lordship, and drew off his attention, by beginning an account of all that had happened since our parting. he listened with great eagerness; and, after my recital, begged of the warden to retire with him, that they might consult on the best line of policy to be adopted in the present state of my affairs. they descended the steps; i remained alone. montmorenci had left his helmet, shield, and spear behind. i pressed each of them to my heart, heaved several sighs, and paced the chamber. still i felt that i was not half fervent or tender enough; something was still wanting, and i had just asked myself if that something could be love, when i heard a sudden disturbance below; his lordship crying out, 'oh, what shall i do?' and jerry bidding him 'grin and bear it.' down i hastened, and beheld jerry belabouring him without mercy. 'wretch,' cried i, rushing between them: 'forbear.' 'not till i beat him to a paste,' cried jerry. 'the villain, to go and offer me a bribe if i would help him in forcing you to marry him.' ''tis false as hell!' cried his lordship. 'i would stake my life that it is,' said i. 'so now, mr. sullivan, down on your knees this moment, and ask pardon, or quit my service.' 'but can that restore the teeth he has knocked out?' exclaimed his lordship, with a finger in his mouth. 'teeth!' cried i, shuddering. 'two teeth,' said he. 'two teeth!' exclaimed i, faintly. 'two front teeth,' said he. 'then all is over!' muttered i. 'matters have taken a dreadful turn.' 'what do you mean?' cried he. 'my lord,' said i, 'are you quite, quite certain that you have lost them?' 'see yourself,' cried he, lifting his lip. 'they are gone, gone for ever!' 'they are indeed,' said i. 'and now you may be gone too.' 'ha! what mean you?' cried he. 'my lord,' said i, 'of this you must be conscious, that a complete set of teeth are absolutely indispensible to a hero.' 'well?' cried he, starting. 'well,' said i, 'having lost two of your's, you must be conscious that you are no longer a hero.' 'you stretch my heart-strings!' cried he. 'speak! what hideous whim is this?' 'no whim, my lord,' answered i; 'but principle, and founded on law heroic; founded on that law, which rejects as heroes, the maimed, the blind, the deformed, and the crippled. trust me, my good lord, teeth are just as necessary in the formation of a hero as a comb.' 'by heaven!' cried he; 'i can get other teeth at a dentist's; a composition of paste that would amaze you. i can by all that is just.' 'that you may, my lord,' said i, 'and be happy with them; for never can you be happy with me.' 'i am wilder than madness itself!' cried he; 'i am more desperate than despair! i will fly to the ends of the earth, hide in a cavern, and throw my ideas into a sonnet. on a fine summer's evening, when you walk towards the mountains, sometimes think of me.' 'never as a lover, my lord,' said i: 'so put that out of your head at once. oh! it shocks me to think i should ever have received you as one!' he began a tremendous imprecation; but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a gentleman on horseback with a servant after him. the gentleman stopped, alighted, approached. 'mr. betterton!' cried i; 'can it be possible?' 'nothing is impossible,' said he, with his obsequious bow and confirmed smile, 'when the charming cherubina prompts our efforts. you remember you left me in a ridiculous dilemma, which your friend stuart contrived;--masterpiece of ingenuity, faith, and for which i freely forgive him: he's an excellent young fellow; excellent, 'pon my soul; and i have made my friends so merry with an account of that affair. well, i remained in limbo till the sessions, when none appearing to prosecute, the judge discharged me; so the first use i made of my liberty was to visit lady gwyn, who told me that i should find you here; here therefore i am to pay you my devoirs.' i thanked him, and then bade jerry run towards the village, and hurry my vassals; as the castle lost much of its pomp without them. jerry went: my visitors recognized each other; and already their hostile feelings and opposite interests had began to manifest themselves, when, to my great surprise, three men turned short round the western tower, and stood before me. 'that is she!' cried one of them. i looked at the speaker, and recognized in him the postilion who had brought down the barouche. 'your name is cherry wilkinson,' said another of them to me. 'sir,' said i, haughtily: 'my name is lady cherubina de willoughby.' 'that is your _travelling_ name,' rejoined he: 'but your real name i discovered at your lodgings in drury-lane; which lodgings i found out from the wife of one jerry sullivan, the man that conspired with you to swindle mr. perrot, the coach-maker, out of the barouche yonder. you see, i have the whole story; so you need not deny it; and now, miss, look at this warrant. i arrest you, in the king's name, for the most audacious piece of swindling that ever came in my way to know.' with these words he seized me, and was dragging me from the castle, while i screamed for help. 'a rescue! a rescue!' cried betterton, and collared the man who held me. montmorenci laid hold of the other, and the servant felled the postilion to the ground. and now a furious fight began. the man whom betterton had seized drew a pistol and fired it: at this moment, down came the minstrel from the turret; i got loose and ran into the castle, nor ventured to look again, till, after much uproar, i heard a shout of victory from my friends: then venturing to the gateway, i saw the three wretches limping from the place, in piteous plight. it now appeared that the ball aimed at betterton had just grazed the fleshy part of his servant's arm, which was bleeding a good deal. i felt much shocked, and assisted him in binding the wound. this matter employed some minutes, and during that time, i could perceive betterton and montmorenci whispering earnestly together. at last betterton addressed me thus: 'now, lady cherubina, should we remain here much longer, we shall certainly be seized and imprisoned for having assaulted his majesty's officers in the discharge of their duty. we have, therefore, nothing for it but flight. my house is but a few miles distant, and as these officers could not have known me, we shall be perfectly safe there. what says your ladyship? shall we repair thither?' 'sir,' answered i; 'as i was not concerned in that assault, and as i am innocent of the crime for which they came to take me, nothing shall induce me to quit my castle: if they chuse to make another attempt, i shall go with them, establish my innocence, and return triumphant. but if i am to act on the skulking system, how can i reside here at all?' montmorenci now joined his entreaties, but i remained immoveable. again they retired to consult, and again came forward. 'lady cherubina,' said betterton, 'you must excuse me when i say that both lord montmorenci (for his lordship has just disclosed to me his noble lineage) and myself conceive ourselves fully warranted in compelling, if we cannot persuade your ladyship, to leave this castle (where we cannot remain to protect you), and in conveying you to my mansion, where you will be safe.' 'compel me?' cried i. 'compel me? but i disdain to hold farther parley with you. farewell for ever. minstrel, follow me to the black chamber.' 'stop them!' cried betterton. his lordship placed himself between us and the gateway: the minstrel, brandishing his collected knuckles, struck him to the ground. betterton assailed my brave defender behind, the servant before; but he fought with desperation, and his blow was like the kick of a horse. still numbers appeared about to prevail; and now his breathing grew shorter, and his blow slower, when, transport to my sight! i beheld jerry, with several of my vassals, come running towards us. they reached us: the tide of battle turns, and his lordship and the servant are well beaten with bludgeons; while jerry himself does the honours to betterton, in a kicking. nobody could bear it more gently than he did; and after it was over, he mounted his horse and vociferated: 'now, by all that is sacred, i will go this moment, raise the neighbourhood, and have you driven from your nest, you set of vipers;--you common nuisances, you! lady gwyn's castle shall no longer be made the receptacle of ragged and marauding irishmen.' so saying, off he gallopped on one horse, and his lordship on another; while the servant trudged on foot. we now held a grand council of war, for affairs began to wear an alarming aspect. if betterton should put his threat of raising the neighbourhood into execution, a most formidable force might be collected against us. after much deliberation, therefore, it was decided, that some of the vassals should be dispatched to collect more of their countrymen, who, they said, slept in several adjoining villages. i too wrote a note to susan, begging that she would raise a counterposse in my favour, and rescue me from an implacable enemy, as i had rescued her from a criminal and fatal attachment. this note i sent to her cottage by one of my vassals. during this awful interval, the remainder of those who had been with me yesterday arrived. i planted sentinels and outposts, and employed the rest in filling up the windows with stones, repairing the breaches, and searching amidst the rubbish for the mouth of some subterranean cavern, where i might conceal myself in the last emergency. as i had not a white and azure standard, like beatrice, i directed jerry to stain a large piece of muslin with the blood of the wounded servant, which still besprinkled the grass; then to fasten it on a long pole, and hoist it, as my banner, at an angle of the eastern turret. susan's cottage being only half a mile from the castle, the messenger soon returned with an answer, that she would certainly assemble her friends, and come to me. just as he had announced these happy tidings, another came back, with a fresh accession of ten irishmen; and in a short time more arrived; till at length we mustered to the amount of fifty. i stood, and gloried in my strength. already i beheld the foundation of a feudal settlement. already i considered myself the restorer of that chivalric age, when neighbouring barons were deadly foes, and their sons and daughters clandestine lovers. ah! what times for a heroine! it was then that the lady buccleugh and the duchess of cleves flourished. 'and these,' cried i, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, 'these shall again revive in the person of lady cherubina de willoughby!' as i spoke, jerry came to tell me that one of the scouts had just returned with information of his having seen a large party of lady gwyn's tenants assembling about a quarter of a mile off; in order, as he found on inquiry, to drive us from the castle. now then was approaching the most important moment of my life, and i resolved to support my part with dignity. as the first step, i dressed myself in a style of magnificence suited to the occasion. having flung the drapery of embroidered gauze over my white muslin, i next (in imitation of ancient heroines, who wore armour in the day of battle), put montmorenci's helmet on my head; then, with his shield in the one hand, and his spear in the other, never did i look so lovely. i now called up the warden, and constituted him commander of the forces; then ordered him to send six picked men, and the minstrel, as my body-guards, up to the black chamber. they came; i equipped them in black cloaks and feathers, and made them mount to the top of the tower. in a few minutes afterwards i myself ascended with a beating heart. there i found the preparations for battle almost completed. the bloody standard was streaming to the gale; the body-guards were collecting a heap of stones from the broken parapet; while beneath the turret i beheld the whole of my troops, with oaken staffs, marshalled in awful array. the spectacle was grand and imposing. lightly i leaned on my spear; and while my feathered casque pressed my ringlets, and my purfled drapery floated and glistened in the sun, i stood on the battlements, mildly sublime, sweetly stern, amiable in arms, and adorned with all the terrible graces of beauty belligerent. i now resolved to harangue my men for the purpose of encouraging them, and of attaching them to my person; but as i knew nothing of political orations, i had nothing for it but to copy the speech of beatrice in the knights of the swan; and those that i had read in the daily prints. a profound silence prevailed; i waved my spear, and thus began. 'my brave associates, partners of my toil, my feelings and my fame! two days have i now been sovereign of this castle, and i hope i may flatter myself that i have added to its prosperity. young, and without experience, i merely claim the merit of blameless sentiments and intentions. 'threatened with a barbarous incursion from my deadliest enemies, i have deemed it indispensible to collect a faithful band of vassals for my defence. they have come at my call, and i thank them. 'i promise to them all such laws and institutions as shall secure their happiness. i will acknowledge the majesty of the people. (_applause._) i will give to them a full, fair, and free representation. (_applause._) and i will grant to them a radical reform; or in other words, a revival of the feudal system. (_shouts of applause._) i will assume no monarchial prerogatives that are unjust; if i should, do not forget that the people have always the power and the right to depose a tyrant. 'i promise that there shall be no dilapidated hopes and resources; no army of mercenaries, no army of spies, no inquisition of private property, no degraded aristocracy, no oppressed people, no confiding parliament, no irresponsible minister. (_acclamation._) in short, i promise every thing. (_thunders of acclamation._) 'each man shall have an acre of ground, a cottage, and an annual salary. (_long life to you! cried the troops. that is the best thing you have said!_) such is the constitution, such are the privileges that i propound to you. now then, my brave fellows, will you consent on these conditions to rally round my standard, to live in my service, and to die in my defence? (_we will! we will! cried they._) 'thank you, my generous followers; and the crisis is just approaching when i shall have occasion for your most strenuous exertions. already my mortal foe prepares to storm my castle, and drive me from my hereditary domain. already he has excited my own tenantry to sedition against me. should he succeed in his atrocious object, i must return to my tears, and you to your sickles. but should we repel him, my government will be secured, my territory perhaps enlarged, my castle rebuilt; and the cause of liberty will triumph. what heart but throbs, what voice but shouts, at the name of liberty? (_huzza!_) is there a man amongst you who would refuse to lay down his life for liberty? (_huzza!_) and if, on an important occasion like the present, i might take the liberty--(_huzza!_) to dictate, i would demand of you this day to sacrifice every earthly consideration in her sacred cause. i do demand it of you, my friends. i call upon your feelings, your principles, and your policy, to discard family, property, and life, in a cause so just, so wise, and so glorious. let eye, foot, heart, hand, be firm, be stern, be valiant, be invincible!' i ceased, the soldiery tore the blue air with acclamations, and the ravens overhead flew swifter at the sound. i now found that it was not difficult to make a popular speech; and i judged that the same qualities which have made me so good a heroine, would, if i were a man, have made me just as illustrious a patriot. after much entreaty, i persuaded the minstrel to deliver an address; as he, being learned, might expound constitutions and political economy better than i. he therefore leaned over the battlements, and began. 'gentlemen, 'unaccustomed as i am to public speaking, i feel that words are inadequate to express my high sense of the honour you have conferred upon us. gentlemen, i will institute an apt comparison between the foundation of this little settlement, and that of the ancient romans; in order to prove, that this, though small at present, may, like that, terminate in an extensive empire. gentlemen, rome took its rise from a set of the greatest beggars and reprobates that ever crawled upon earth----' 'throw him over, throw him over!' burst from the troops. the minstrel shrunk back in consternation. 'silence, lads,' cried jerry, 'and i will make a bit of a speech for you; but instead of sending you to rome, i will send you no farther than ballinasloe. (_laughter and bravo!_) eh, my boys, don't you remember the good old fun at the fair there? to be sure, how we used to break each other's heads, without the least anger or mercy; and to be sure, 'tis the finest feel in the world, when one gives a fellow a neat, clean, bothering blow over the skull, and down he drops like a sack; then rises, and shakes himself like a wet dog, and begins again. (_much laughter._) ay, my boys, fighting may be an englishman's or a frenchman's business, but by the lord harry, 'tis an irishman's amusement! (_shouts._) so now, hearties, all you have to do is to club your sticks, and fancy yourselves at ballinasloe; and never heed me if we havn't a nice comfortable fight of it.' rude as was this rhetoric, it touched the domestic spring of their hearts, and my patriotic promises did not produce half such a roar of delight as followed it. silence was but just restored, when i beheld, from my turret, our enemies advancing in vast numbers across the common. i confess my heart sank at the sight; but i soon called to mind the courage of the feudal heroines, and recollected that i was in no personal danger myself. then, the greatness of the cause animating me with ardour, i exclaimed: 'lo! yonder come our enemies. to arms, to arms! sound the tocsin; blow, blow the horn!' a vassal blew the horn. the warden then stationed his men in front of the gate-way, which was the only vulnerable entrance into the castle; and my body-guards, holding huge stones, stood forward on the battlements. all was ready. i trembled with agitation. and now the foe, having approached within fifty paces, halted to reconnoitre. the traitor montmorenci, divested of his armour, commanded them in person. betterton was seen on horseback at a distance; and the troops themselves, about sixty in number, stood brandishing stakes, bludgeons, and poles. as my men were not more than fifty in all, i looked round, with anxious expectation, for the succours promised by susan; but no sign of them appeared. montmorenci now began to form his troops into a compact phalanx, with the poles and stakes in front; evidently for the purpose of piercing our line, and forcing the gateway. jerry, therefore, called in his wings, and strengthened the centre. he then desired those in the turret to direct all their stones against the foremost rank of the foe. 'soldiers,' cried i, 'listen to my last commands. the moment you shall hear the horn sound again, whether in the midst of conquest, or of defeat, hurry back to the gateway, and draw up just as you stand at present; for while you are fighting at a distance, my castle may be taken by surprise, unless i secure prompt assistance. and now, my brave fellows, success attend your arms!' as i spoke, the foe began advancing at a rapid rate: my troops awaited them with firmness; and when they had approached within fifteen paces of the castle, i gave the word to my body-guards, who hurled several vollies of stones in quick succession. some of the foremost rank were staggered by them; two behind fell, and amidst the confusion, in rushed my troops with a tremendous shout. thick pressed the throng of waving heads, and loud grew the clamour of voices, and the clatter of staffs; while the wielded weapons appeared and disappeared, like fragments of a wreck on the tossing surges. for some moments both armies fought in one unbroken mass; those struggling to gain the gateway, these to prevent them. but soon, as two streams rushing from opposite mountains, and meeting in the valley, broaden into a lake, and run off in little rivulets; so the contending ranks, after the first encounter, began to spread by degrees, and scatter over the plain. and now they were seen intermingled with each other, and fighting man to man. here a small wing of my brave troops, hemmed in on all sides, were defending themselves with incredible fury. there a larger division of them were maintaining a doubtful contest: while a few straggling vassals, engaged in single combat, at a distance, were driving their antagonists before them. at this juncture, montmorenci, with a chosen band that he kept round his person, had attacked the warden, and a few who fought by his side. these performed prodigies of valour; but at last, overpowered by numbers, they were beginning to retire, covered with glory, when i dispatched four of my body-guards, as a corps of reserve, to their assistance. they rushed upon the chosen band, and checked its career. it soon received reinforcements, and again pressed forward. i sent out the minstrel and another vassal; and again its progress was checked. but now my castle had but a single defender: our foes were drawing frightfully near; and if they could once turn our flank, they would gain the turret, and make me their prisoner. this was the great crisis. a moment more, and all might be lost. 'blow, blow the horn!' cried i. the vassal blew the horn. at the signal, i see my dispersed troops come pouring from all quarters towards the castle. they reach the gateway, halt, and form a front before it. the foe, who had followed them in a confused manner, seeing them on a sudden so formidable, stop short. 'let the body-guards come into the castle!' cried i. the body-guards obeyed. 'now, soldiers,' cried i to the rest, 'if you rush upon the foe before they can collect again, and keep in a body with your captain, the day is our own.' 'spring on them like lions! away, away!' the whole army shouted, and burst forward in a mass. jerry led the van. montmorenci with his sacred squadron fled before them. they pursued, overtook the fugitives, and after a short skirmish, made the whole detachment prisoners; while the remainder, scattered in all directions, stood at a distance, and dared not advance. never was a more decisive victory. my brave veterans marched back in triumph with eight captives; and then halting at the gateway, gave three cheers. palpitating with transport, i commanded that the prisoners' hands should be tied behind their backs, and that they should be confined in the northern tower, with sentinels over them. as for lord montmorenci, his rank entitled him to more respect; so i ordered the warden to conduct him up to the black chamber. i stood in the midst of my guards to receive him; and if ever grandeur and suavity were blended in one countenance, it was in mine, at that glorious moment. 'my lord,' said i, 'victory, which so long hovered over the field with doubtful wing, has at last descended on my legions, and crowned the scale of justice with the laurel of triumph. but though it has also put the person and the fate of the hostile chieftain in my hands, think not i mean to use my power with harshness. within these walls your lordship shall experience the kindest treatment; but beyond them you must not be permitted to go, till my rights are re-established and my rebellious vassals restored to their allegiance.' 'fal lal la, lal lal la,' said his lordship, stepping a minuet. 'pinion him hand and foot!' cried i, quite disgusted and enraged. 'i will have no minuets in this castle.' 'that i will do,' cried jerry, 'for his feet are nimble enough at making off. though he talks big, he runs fast. the creature is all voice and legs, like a grasshopper.' just as the minstrel and warden had secured his wrists and ankles with a handkerchief, a vassal came to tell me that a number of men, and a girl at their head, were running towards the castle. 'i thought she would not disappoint me!' cried i, as i hastened down to meet her. it was, indeed, susan herself, and a train of youths. i stood at the gateway ready to receive her, and trembling with terror, lest betterton and the routed remains of his army, who were now consulting together at some distance, should intercept her. these fears were not at all lessened when i saw her stop, as she arrived amongst them, and converse with them some time. i made my men hold themselves in readiness to support her, and we shouted to her with all our might. but just judge of my consternation, when i beheld her and her party enrolling themselves in the hostile ranks, and the whole allied force preparing to pour down upon us! i stood horror-struck. her ingratitude, her perfidy, were incredible. but i had no time for moral reflection. my own glory and the interests of my people demanded all my thoughts. what was i to do? we had taken but eight prisoners, and these too would require a strong guard; while the traiterous susan had brought a reinforcement of twenty men to the foe; so that to contend against such superior numbers in the field would be madness. i determined therefore to draw all my troops and all my prisoners into the eastern turret, and to stand a regular siege; for, as we had a large stock of provisions, we might hold out several days. in the mean time our enemies, tired of such a protracted mode of warfare, and having other occupations of more importance, would probably retire and leave us in quiet possession. this plan was put into instant execution. i had the prisoners placed in the black chamber, with a numerous guard; and i made the remainder of my soldiery man the battlements. these arrangements were but just completed, when i beheld our formidable opponents advancing in line, with betterton, on horseback, at their head. again my men armed themselves with stones; again the horn was sounded; again three cheers were given. when the besiegers had arrived within forty paces of us, they halted. then betterton, waving a white handkerchief, advanced under the walls, and spoke thus: 'lady cherubina de willoughby, i demand of you to surrender at discretion. refuse, and i pledge myself that in five minutes i will drive the leopard into the sea, and plant my standard on the towers of monkton.' 'sir, i both refuse, and defy you. my castle is impregnable.' 'not to hunger, at least,' cried betterton; 'for we will turn the siege into a blockade.' 'yes, to hunger!' exclaimed the minstrel, flinging down half a loaf of bread, that had remained since breakfast. 'there, sir, is a proof of it, deduced from the roman history!' 'as i perceive that war is inevitable,' said betterton, 'i shall stand acquitted both here and hereafter for all its consequences by my now just going through the form of proposing a general pacification.' 'pacific ocean!' cried jerry. 'no, thank you; i have got a surfeit of that word already.' 'nay, my honest fellow----' 'never honest-fellow me,' cried jerry: 'it won't take, old boy. so bad manners to you, and that is worse than bad luck, go boil your tongue hard, like a calve's, and then it won't wag so glib and smooth;--ay, and go boil your nose white like veal too. but this i can tell you, that you will neither beat us out, nor starve us out; for we have sticks and stones, and meat and good liquor; and we will eat together, and drink together, and----' 'and sleep together, i suppose,' cried betterton: 'for of course, her ladyship will think nothing of sleeping in the same apartment with twenty or thirty men.' the fatal words fell upon me like a thunderbolt! it was, indeed, too true, that a large portion of my troops must remain all night in the black chamber, as there would be no room for them elsewhere: so how in the name of wonder could i contrive to sleep? certain it is, that ellena di rosalba travelled a whole day and night in a carriage with two ruffians, who never left her for a moment; and it was not till after luxima and the missionary had journeyed together several entire days, that (to quote the very words) _for the first time since the commencement of their pilgrimage she was hidden from his view_. how these heroines managed i know not; but this i know, that i could not abide the idea of sleeping in the presence of men. and yet, to surrender my sweet, my beloved, my venerable castle, the hereditary seat of my proud progenitors, at the moment of an immortal victory, ere the laurel was yet warmed on the throbbings of my forehead;--and all for what? for the most pitiful and unclassical reason that ever disgraced a human creature. why, i should be pointed at, scouted at. 'look, look, there is the heroine who surrendered her castle, because----' and then a whisper and a titter, and a ''tis fact 'pon my honour.' oh, my friend, my friend, the thought was madness! i considered, and reconsidered, but every moment only strengthened me more and more in the conviction that there was no remedy. 'jerry,' said i, 'dear jerry, we must surrender.' 'surrender!' exclaimed jerry, 'why then, death alive, for what?' 'because,' answered i, 'my modesty would prevent me from sleeping before so many men.' 'poo,' cried he, 'do as i do. have too much modesty to shew your modesty. sleep? by my soul you shall sleep, and snore too, if you have a mind. sleep? sure, can't you pin the curtains round, so that we shan't see you? sleep? sure, how did the ladies manage on board the packet that i came over in? sleep--sleep--sleep? o murder. i believe we must surrender, sure enough. o murder, murder, 'tis all over with us? for now that i think of it, we shan't have even room to lie down you know.' 'this is a sad affair,' said i to the minstrel. 'can you devise no remedy?' 'none,' said the minstrel, blushing through his very eyeballs. 'well,' cried betterton, 'is the council of war over?' 'yes, sir,' said i, 'and i consent to conclude a peace.' 'i thought you would,' cried betterton; 'so now for the terms.' after much altercation, these articles (written by betterton, with his pencil, and signed by him and the warden, who went down for the purpose) were agreed upon by the contending powers. art. 1. all the prisoners, at present in the castle, shall be forthwith released. art. 2. the troops of the contending powers shall consign their arms into the hands of the respective leaders. art. 3. the commandant of the besieged army shall evacuate the castle, at the head of his men, and take a northerly direction; and at the same moment the commandant of the besieging army shall lead his forces in a southerly direction. art. 4. the lady cherubina de willoughby shall depart from the castle as soon as both armies are out of sight; and she shall not hold communication, direct or indirect, with the warden, for the space of twenty-four hours. art. 5. the minstrel, higginson, shall be permitted to remain with the lady cherubina, as her escort. (signed) betterton. sullivan. while betterton returned to his army, for the purpose of announcing the peace, i fixed with jerry to meet him in london at the expiration of twenty-four hours. i now perceived susan running towards the castle, with all her men; and as soon as she got under the walls, she cried: 'no peace; no peace; but bloody, bloody war! come down here, you wretch with the steel bonnet, till i tear your eyes out;--you special babe of hell, that robbed me of the only friend i had on earth!' and she ran on with the most horrible imprecations, and vows of vengeance. 'arrah, and is that susy?' cried one of my men, leaning over the battlements. 'patrick o'brien!' exclaimed she. 'oh! patrick, patrick, are you so faithless as to be taking part with my mortal enemy?' 'i am taking part with my countrymen,' cried patrick; 'and we have just made a peace; so by gog, if you break it, 'tis yourself will be my mortual innimy!' 'dear, dear patrick!' said she, 'don't let that vile woman decoy you from me, and i will do whatever you desire.' 'then i desires you to go back this moment,' said patrick. susan retired to the main body, without uttering a word. the several articles were then executed in due form. the prisoners were liberated: the soldiers on both sides laid down their arms. i distributed all my remaining money amongst my men: they thanked me with a shout; and then, headed by the warden, issued from the castle. at the same time, betterton and his party marched off the field. when jerry had got almost out of sight, he halted his men, faced them towards the castle, and all gave three last cheers. i waved my handkerchief, and cried like a child. i then took a tender leave of my dear black chamber; and with a heavy heart, and a tardy step, departed from my castle, till better days should enable me to revisit it. i proceeded with the minstrel to the poor woman's cottage, whence i now write; and i have just dispatched him for a chaise, as i shall return to london immediately. my heart is almost broken. adieu. letter xl ms. o ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may hereafter conduct to this spot, to you i speak, to you reveal the story of my wrongs, and ask you to revenge them. vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to believe, that what i now write may one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature; that the words which tell my sufferings may one day draw pity from the feeling heart. know then, that on the night of the fatal day which saw me driven from my castle, by ruthless foes, four men in black visages, rushed into the cottage where i had taken shelter, bore me from it, and forced me and my minstrel into a carriage. we travelled miles in impenetrable silence. at length they stopped, cast a cloak over my face, and carried me in their arms, along winding passages, and up and down flights of steps. they then took off the cloak, and i found myself in an antique and gothic apartment. my conductors laid down a lamp, and disappeared. i heard the door barred upon me. o sound of despair! o moment of unutterable anguish! shut out from day, from friends, from life--in the prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions,--i sink under the--- * * * * * almost an hour has now passed in solitude and silence. why am i brought hither? why confined thus rigorously? the horrors of death are before my eyes. o dire extremity! o state of living death! is this a vision? are these things real? alas, i am bewildered. * * * * * such, biddy, was the manuscript that i scribbled last night, after the mysterious event which it relates. you shall now hear the particulars of all that has occurred to me since. after the ruffians had departed, and i had rallied my spirits, i took up the lamp, and began examining the chamber. it was spacious, and the feeble light that i carried could but just penetrate it. part of the walls were hidden with historical arras, worked in colourless and rotten worsted, which depicted scenes from the provenã§al romances; the deeds of charlemagne and his twelve peers; the crusaders, troubadours, and saracens; and the necromantic feats of the magician jurl. the walls were wainscotted with black larchwood; and over the painted and escutcheoned windows hung iron visors, tattered pennons, and broken shields. an antique bed of decayed damask, with a lofty tester, stood in a corner; and a few grand moth-eaten chairs, tissued and fringed with threads of tarnished gold, were round the room. at the farther end, a picture of a soldier on horseback, darting his spear upon a man, who held up his hands in a supplicating attitude, was enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that reached down to the ground. an old harp, which occupied one corner, proved imprisonment, and some clots of blood upon the floor proved murder. i gazed with delight at this admirable apartment. it was a perfect treasure: nothing could be more complete: all was in the best style of horror; and now, for the first time, i felt the full consciousness of being as real a heroine as ever existed. i then indulged myself with imagining the frightful scenes i should undergo here. such attempts to murder me, such ghosts, such mysteries! figures flitting in the dusty perspective, quick steps along the corridor, groans, and an ill-minded lord of the castle. in the midst of this pleasing reverie, methought i heard a step approaching. it stopped at the door, the bolts were undrawn, and an antiquated waiting-woman, in fardingale, ruffles, flounces, and flowered silk, bustled into the room. 'my lord,' said she, 'desires me to let your ladyship know that he will do himself the honour of waiting on you in half-an-hour.' 'tell your lord,' said i, 'that i shall be ready to receive him: but pray, my good woman,' said i, 'what is the name of your lord?' 'good woman!' cried she, bridling up; 'no more good woman than yourself: dame ursulina, if you please.' 'well then, dame ursulina, what is his name?' 'the baron hildebrand,' answered she. 'the only feudal chieftain left in england.' 'and what is the name of his castle?' 'gogmagog,' answered she: 'and it is situated in the black forest of grodolphon, whose oaks are coeval with the reign of brute.' 'and, alas!' cried i, 'why have i been seized? why thus imprisoned? why----' the dame laid her finger across her lips, and grinned volumes of mystery. 'at least, tell me,' said i, with a searching look, 'how comes that blood on the floor; for it appears but just spilt?' 'lauk!' cried she, 'that blood is there these fifty years. sure your ladyship has often read in romances of blood on floors, and daggers, that looked as fresh as a daisy at the end of centuries. but, alas-o-day! modern blood won't keep like the good old blood. ay, ay, ay; the times have degenerated in every thing;--even in harps. look at that harp yonder: i warrant 'tis in excellent tune at this moment, albeit no human finger has touched it these ten years: and your ladyship must remember reading of other cobwebbed harps in old castles, that required no tuning-hammer, after lying by whole ages. but, indeed, they do say, that the ghost keeps this harp in order, by playing on it o' nights.' 'the ghost!' exclaimed i. 'ay, by my fackins,' said she; 'sure this is the haunted chamber of the northern tower; and such sights and noises--santa catharina of sienna, and st. bridget, and san pietro, and santa benedicta, and st. radagunda, defend me!' then, aspirating an ejaculation, she hastily hobbled out of the room, and locked the door after her, without giving me farther satisfaction. however, the visit from baron hildebrand occupied my mind more than the ghost; and i sat expecting it with great anxiety. at last, i heard a heavy tread along the corridor: the door was unbarred, and a huge, but majestic figure, strode into the chamber. the black plume towering on his cap, the armorial coat, persian sash, and spanish cloak, conspiring with the most muscular frown imaginable, made him look truly tremendous. as he flung himself into a chair, he cast a schedoniac scowl at me; while i felt, that one glance from the corner of a villain's eye is worth twenty straight-forward looks from an honest man. my heart throbbed audible, my bosom heaved like billows: i threw into my features a conventual smile, and stood before him, in all the silence of despair, something between niobe, patience, and a broken lily. 'lady!' cried he, with a voice that vibrated through my brain; 'i am the baron hildebrand, that celebrated ruffian. my plans are terrible and unsearchable. hear me. 'my daughter, the lady sympathina, though long betrothed to the marquis de furioso, has long been enamoured of the lord montmorenci. in vain have i tried entreaties and imprecations: nothing will induce her to relinquish him; even though he has himself confessed to her that you reign sole tormentress of his heart. 'while doubtful what course to take, i heard, from my vassals, of your having seized on a neighbouring castle, and of montmorenci's being there with you. the moment was too precious to be lost. i planted armed spies about the castle, with orders to make you and him prisoners the first opportunity. these orders are executed, and his lordship is a captive in the western turret. 'now, madam, you must already guess my motive for having taken this step. it is to secure your immediate marriage with his lordship, and thus to terminate for ever my daughter's hopes, and my own inquietude. in two days, therefore, be prepared to give him your hand, or to suffer imprisonment for life.' 'my lord,' said i, 'i am a poor, weak, timid girl, but yet not unmindful of my noble lineage. i cannot consent to disgrace it. my lord, i will not wed montmorenci.' 'you will not?' cried he, starting from his seat. 'i will not,' said i, in a tone of the sweetest obstinacy. 'insolent!' exclaimed he, and began to pace the chamber with prodigious strides. conceive the scene;--the tall figure of hildebrand passing along, with folded arms; the hideous desolation of the room, and my shrinking figure. it was great, very great. it resembled a pandemonium, where an angel of light was tormented by a fiend. yet insult and oppression had but added to my charms, as the rose throws forth fresh fragrance by being mutilated. on a sudden he stopped short before me. 'what is your reason for refusing to marry him?' said he. 'my lord,' answered i, 'i do not feel for his lordship the passion of love.' 'love!' cried he, with yells of laughter. 'why this is sympathina's silly rhodomontade. love! there is no such passion. but mark me, madam: soon shall you learn that there is such a passion as revenge!' and with these words he rushed out of the chamber. nothing could be better than my conduct on this occasion. i was delighted with it, and with the castle, and with every thing. i therefore knelt and chaunted a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn; while my eyes, like a magdalen's, were cast to the planets. adieu. letter xli i had flung myself on the bed: my lamp was extinguished; and now sleep began to pour its opiate over me, when, (terrible to tell!) methought i heard steps stealing through my very chamber. 'she sleeps,' whispered a voice. 'then poniard her at once,' said another. 'remember, i must have five ducats,' said the first. 'four,' said the second: 'grufflan, the tormentor of innocents, would charge but two.' 'then i will betray the murder.' 'i will take good care you shall not.' 'how so?' 'i will assassinate you after it.' 'diavolo! 'tis prudent, however. but by st. jago, i will not consent to be assassinated under a ducat a-piece to my children.' 'well, you shall have them.' 'then, maestro mio illustrissimo, the bravo abellino is your povero devotissimo!' the next instant my strained eyeballs saw a figure half starting from behind the tattered arras, in a long cloak, and flat cap. his right hand held a dagger, and his left a dark lantern, that cast a yellow glare on the ruffianly sculpture of his visage. i screamed;--but sorry am i to say, less like a heroine than a sea-gull;--and the bravo advanced. on a sudden, the door of the chamber was burst open, and montmorenci rushed forward, with a brandished sword. at the same moment, baron hildebrand sprang from behind the tapestry. 'turn, villain!' cried montmorenci; and a desperate battle began. my life was the stake. i hung upon every blow, winced as the steel descended on montmorenci, and moved as he moved, with agonised mimicry. at length, victory declared in his favour. the bandit lay lifeless, and the baron was disarmed; but escaped out of the chamber. 'let us fly!' cried my preserver, snatching me to his heart. 'i have bribed a domestic.--a horse is in waiting.--let us fly!' 'let us, let us!' said i, disengaging myself. 'yet hold!' cried he. 'i have saved your life. save mine, by consenting to an immediate union.' 'ay, my lord----' 'what?' 'i cannot.' 'cannot!' 'come, my lord; do come!' 'on my knees, lady----' 'seize the villain, and immure him in the deepest dungeon!' exclaimed the baron, rushing into the room with his domestics. some of them laid hold on montmorenci, the rest bore off the body of the bandit. the baron and i were left alone. 'my lord,' said i, flinging myself at his feet (for alas, i had now lost all my magnanimity), 'that man is my horror and detestation. but only promise to spare my life for one day more, and indeed, indeed, i will try if i can make up my mind to marry him.' ''tis well,' said the baron. 'to-night you sleep secure: to-morrow decides your fate.' he spoke, and stalked out of the chamber. this horrid castle--would i had never set foot in it. i will escape if i can, i am resolved. i have already tried the walls, for a sliding pannel or a concealed door; but nothing of the kind can i discover. and yet something of the kind there must be, else how could the baron and bravo have entered my chamber? i protest this facility of intrusion in antique apartments is extremely distressing. for besides its exposing one to be murdered, just think how it exposes one to be peeped at. i declare i dare not even undress, lest some menial should be leering through a secret crevice. oh, that i were once more in the mud cottage! i am sick of castles. adieu. letter xlii this morning, after a maid had cleaned out the room, dame ursulina brought breakfast. 'graciousnessosity!' cried she, 'here is the whole castle in such a fluster; hammering and clamouring, and paddling at all manner of possets, to make much of the fine company that is coming down to the baron to-day.' 'heavens!' exclaimed i, 'when will my troubles cease? doubtless they are a most dissolute set. an amorous verezzi, an insinuating cavigni, and an abandoned orsino; besides some lovely voluptuary, some fascinating desperado, who plays the harp, and poisons by the hour.' 'la, not at all,' said the dame. 'we shall have none but old sir charles grandison, and his lady, miss harriet byron, that was;--old mr. mortimer delville, and his lady, miss cecilia, that was;--and old lord mortimer, and his lady, miss amanda, that was.' 'can it be possible?' cried i. 'why these are all heroes and heroines!' 'pon my conversation, and by my fig, and as i am a true maiden, so they are,' said she; 'for my lord scorns any other sort of varment. and we shall have such tickling and pinching; and fircumdandying, and cherrybrandying, and the genteel poison of bad wine; and the warder blowing his horn, and the baron in his scowered armour, and i in a coif plaited high with ribbons all about it, and in the most rustling silk i have. and philip, the butler, meets me in the dark. "oddsboddikins," says he (for that is his pet oath), "mayhap i should know the voice of that silk?" "oddspittikins," says i, "peradventure thou should'st;" and then he catches me round the neck, and----' 'there, there!' cried i, 'you distract me.' 'marry come up!' muttered she. 'some people think some people--marry come up, quotha!' and she flounced out of the room. i sat down to breakfast, astonished at what i had just heard. harriet byron, cecilia, amanda, and their respective consorts, all alive and well! oh, could i get but one glimpse of them, speak ten words with them, i should die content. i pictured them to myself, adorned with all the venerable loveliness of a virtuous old age,--even in greyness engaging, even in wrinkles interesting. hand in hand they walk down the gentle slope of life, and often pause to look back upon the scenes that they have passed--the happy vale of their childhood, the turretted castle, the cloistered monastery. this reverie was interrupted by the return of dame ursulina. 'the baron,' said she, 'has just gone off to london; we think either for the purpose of consulting physicians about his periodical madness, or of advising government to propose a peace with france. so my young mistress, the lady sympathina, is anxious to visit you during his absence,--as he prohibited her;--and she has sent me to request that you will honor her with your permission.' 'tell her i shall be most happy to see and to solace a lady of her miseries,' answered i. 'and i trust we shall swear an eternal friendship when we meet.' 'friendship,' said the dame, 'is the soft soother of human cares. o, to see two fair females sobbing respondent, while their blue eyes shine through their tears like hyacinths bathed in the dews of the morning!' 'why, dame,' cried i, 'how did you manage to pick up such a charming sentiment, and such elegant language?' 'marry come up!' said she, 'i havn't lived, not i, not with heroines, not for nothing. marry come up, quotha!' and this frumpish old woman sailed out of the chamber in a great fume. i now prepared for an interview of congenial souls; not was i long kept in suspense. hardly had the dame disappeared, when the door opened again, and a tall, thin, lovely girl, flew into the room. she stopped opposite me. her yellow ringlets hung round her pale face like a mist round the moon. again she advanced, took both my hands, and stood gazing on my features. 'ah, what wonder,' said she, 'that montmorenci should be captivated by these charms! no, i will not, cannot take him from you. he is your's, my friend. marry him, and leave me to the solitude of a cloister.' 'never!' cried i. 'ah, madam, ah, sympathina, your magnanimity amazes, transports me. no, my friend; your's he shall, he must be; for you love him, and i hate him.' 'hate him!' cried she; 'and wherefore? ah, what a form is his, and ah, what a face! locks like the spicy cinnamon; eyes half dew, half lightning; lips like a casket of jewels, loveliest when open----' 'and teeth like the sybil's books,' said i; 'for two of them are wanting.' 'ah,' cried she, 'this i am informed is your reason for not marrying him; as if his charms lay in his teeth, like sampson's strength in his hair.' 'upon my honor,' said i, 'i would not marry him, if he had five hundred teeth. but you, my friend, you shall marry him, in spite of his teeth.' 'ah,' cried she, 'and see my father torture you to death?' 'it were not torture,' said i, 'to save you from it.' 'it were double torture,' cried she, 'to be saved by your's.' 'justice,' said i, 'demands the sacrifice.' 'generosity,' said she, 'would spare the victim.' 'is it generosity,' said i, 'to wed me with one i hate?' 'is it justice,' said she, 'to wed me with one who hates me?' 'ah, my friend,' cried i, 'you may vanquish me in antithetical and gallican repartee, but never shall you conquer me in sentimental magnanimity.' 'let us then swear an eternal friendship,' cried she. 'i swear!' said i. 'i swear!' said she. we rushed into each other's arms. 'and now,' cried she, when the first transports had subsided, 'how do you like being a heroine?' 'above all things in the world,' said i. 'and how do you get on at the profession?' asked she. 'it is not for me to say,' replied i. 'only this, that ardor and assiduity are not wanting on my part.' 'of course then,' said she, 'you shine in all the requisite qualities. do you blush well?' 'as well as can be expected,' said i. 'because,' said she, 'blushing is my chief beauty. i blush one tint and three-fourths with joy; two tints, including forehead and bosom, with modesty; and four with love, to the points of my fingers. my father once blushed me against the dawn for a tattered banner to a rusty poniard.' 'and who won?' said i. 'it was play or pay,' replied she; 'and the morning happened to be misty, so there was no sport in that way; but i fainted, which was just as good, if not better. are you much addicted to fainting?' 'a little,' said i. ''pon honor?' 'well, ma'am, to be honest with you, i am afraid i have never fainted yet; but at a proper opportunity i flatter myself----' 'nay, love,' said she, 'do not be distressed about the matter. if you weep well, 'tis a good substitute. do you weep well?' 'extremely well, indeed,' said i. 'come then,' cried she, 'we will weep on each other's necks.' and she flung her arms about me. we remained some moments in motionless endearment. 'are you weeping?' said she, at length. 'no, ma'am,' answered i. 'ah, why don't you?' said she. 'i can't, ma'am,' said i; 'i can't.' 'ah, do,' said she. 'upon my word, i can't,' said i: 'sure i am trying all i can. but, bless me, how desperately you are crying. your tears are running down my bosom like a torrent, and boiling hot too. excuse me, ma'am, but you will give me my death of cold.' 'ah, my fondling,' said she, raising herself from my neck; 'tears are my sole consolation. ofttimes i sit and weep, i know not why; and then i weep to find myself weeping. then, when i can weep, i weep at having nothing to weep at; and then, when i have something to weep at, i weep that i cannot weep at it. this very morning i bumpered a tulip with my tears, while reading a dainty ditty that i must now repeat to you. '_the moon had just risen, as a maid parted from her lover. a sylph was pursuing her sigh through the deserts of air, bathing in its warmth, and enhaling its odours. as he flew over the ocean, he saw a sea-nymph sitting on the shore, and singing the fate of a shipwreck, that appeared at a distance, with broken masts, and floating rudder. her instrument was her own long and blue tresses, which she had strung across rocks of coral. the sparkling spray struck them, and made sweet music. he saw, he loved, he hovered over her. but invisible, how could he attract her eyes? incorporeal, how could he touch her? even his voice could not be heard by her amidst the dashing of the waves, and the melody of her ringlets. the sylphs, pitying his miserable state, exiled him to a bower of woodbine. there he sits, dips his pen of moonshine in the subtle dew ere it falls, and writes his love on the bell of a silver lily._' this charming tale led us to talk of moonshine. we moralized on the uncertainty of it, and of life; discussed sighs, and agreed that they were charming things; enumerated the various kinds of tresses--flaxen, golden, chesnut, amber, sunny, jetty, carroty; and i suggested two new epithets,--sorrel hair and narcissine hair. such a flow of soul never was. at last she rose to depart. 'now, my love,' said she, 'i am in momentary expectation of sir charles grandison, mortimer delville, and lord mortimer, with their amiable wives. will you permit them, during the baron's absence, to spend an hour with you this evening? they will not betray us. i shall be proud of showing you to them, and you will receive much delight and edification from their society.' i grasped at the proposal with eagerness; she flitted out of the chamber with a promissory smile; and i was so charmed, that i began frisking about, and snapping my fingers, in a most indecorous manner. what an angel is this sympathina! her face has the contour of a madona, with the sensibility of a magdalen. her voice is soft as the last accents of a dying maid. her language is engaging, her oh is sublime, and her ah is beautiful. adieu. letter xliii towards night i heard the sound of several steps approaching the chamber. the bolts were undrawn, and lady sympathina, at the head of the company, entered, and announced their names. 'bless me!' said i, involuntarily; for such a set of objects never were seen. sir charles grandison came forward the first. he was an emaciated old oddity in flannels and a flowing wig. he bowed over my hand, and kissed it--his old custom, you know. lady grandison leaned on his arm, bursting with fat and laughter, and so unlike what i had conceived of harriet byron, that i turned from her in disgust. mortimer delville came next; and my disappointment at finding him a plain, sturdy, hard-featured fellow, was soon absorbed in my still greater regret at seeing his cecilia,--once the blue-eyed, sun-tressed cecilia,--now flaunting in all the reverend graces of a painted grandmother, and leering most roguishly. after them, lord mortimer and his amanda advanced; but he had fallen into flesh; and she, with a face like scorched parchment, appeared both broken-hearted and broken-winded; such a perpetual sighing and wheezing did she keep. i was too much shocked and disappointed to speak; but sir charles soon broke silence; and after the most tedious sentence of compliment that i had ever heard, he thus continued: 'your ladyship may recollect i have always been celebrated for giving advice. let me then advise you to relieve yourself from your present embarrassment, by marrying lord montmorenci. it seems you do not love him. for that very reason marry him. trust me, love before marriage is the surest preventive of love after it. heroes and heroines exemplify the proposition. why do their biographers always conclude the book just at their wedding? simply because all beyond it is unhappiness and hatred.' 'surely, sir charles,' said i, 'you must be mistaken. their biographers (who have such admirable information, that they can even tell the thoughts and actions of dying personages, when not a soul is near them), these always end the book with declaring that the connubial lives of their heroes and heroines are like unclouded skies, or unruffled streams, or summer all the year through, or some gentle simile or other.' 'that is all irony,' replied sir charles. 'but i know most of these heroes and heroines myself; and i know that nothing can equal their misery.' 'do you know lord orville and his evelina?' said i; 'and are not they happy?' 'happy!' cried he, laughing. 'have you really never heard of their notorious miffs? why it was but yesterday that she flogged him with a boiled leg of mutton, because he had sent home no turnips.' 'astonishment!' exclaimed i. 'and she, when a girl, so meek.' 'ay, there it is,' said he. 'one has never seen a white foal or a cross girl; but often white horses and cross wives. let me advise you against white horses.' 'but pray,' said i, addressing amanda, 'is not your brother oscar happy with his adela?' 'alas, no,' cried she. 'oscar became infatuated with the charms of evelina's old governess, madam duval; so poor adela absconded; and she, who was once the soul of mirth, has now grown a confirmed methodist; curls a sacred sneer at gaiety, loves canting and decanting, piety and _eau de vie_. in short, the devil is very busy about her, though she sometimes drives him away with a thump of the bible.' 'well, rosa, the gentle beggar-girl,--what of her?' said i. 'eloped with one corporal trim,' answered sir charles. 'how shocking!' cried i. 'but pamela, the virtuous pamela?'---'made somewhat a better choice,' said sir charles; 'for she ran off with rasselas, prince of abyssinia, when he returned to the happy valley.' 'dreadful accounts, indeed!' said i. 'so dreadful,' said sir charles, bowing over my hand, 'that i trust they will determine you to marry montmorenci. 'tis true, he has lost two teeth, and you do not love him; but was not walstein a cripple? and did not caroline of lichfield fall in love with him after their marriage, though she had hated him before it?' 'recollect,' cried cecilia, 'what perils environ you here. the baron is the first murderer of the age.' 'look at yonder blood,' cried old mortimer delville. 'remember the bandit last night,' cried old lord mortimer. 'think of the tremendous spectre that haunts this apartment,' cried lady grandison. 'and above all,' cried the lady sympathina, 'bear in mind that this chamber may be the means of your waking some morning with a face like a pumpkin.' 'heavens!' exclaimed i, 'what do you mean? my face like a pumpkin?' 'yes,' said she. 'the dampness of the room would swell it up like a pumpkin in a single night.' 'oh! ladies and gentlemen,' cried i, dropping on my knees, 'you see what shocking horrors surround me here. oh! let me beseech of you to pity and to rescue me. surely, surely you might aid me in escaping!' 'it is out of the nature of possibilities,' said lady sympathina. 'at least, then,' cried i, 'you might use your influence to have me removed from this vile room, that feels like a well.' 'fly!' cried dame ursulina, running in breathless. 'the baron has just returned, and is searching for you all. and he has already been through the chapel, and armoury, and gallery; and the west tower, and east tower, and south tower; and the cedar chamber, and oaken chamber, and black chamber, and grey, brown, yellow, green, pale pink, sky blue; and every shade, tinge, and tint of chamber in the whole castle. benedicite, santa maria; how the times have degenerated! come, come, come.' the guests vanished, the door was barred, and i remained alone. i sat ruminating in sad earnest, on the necessity for my consenting to this hateful match; when (and i protest to you, i had not thought it was more than nine o'clock), a terrible bell, which i never heard before, tolled, with an appalling reverberation, that rang through my whole frame, the frightful hour of one! at the same moment i heard a noise; and looking towards the opposite end of the chamber, i beheld the great picture on a sudden disappear; and, standing in its stead, a tall figure, cased in blood-stained steel, and with a spectral visage, the perfect counterpart of the baron's. i sat gasping. it uttered these sepulchral intonations. '_i am the spirit of the murdered alphonso. lord montmorenci deserves thee. wed him, or in two days thou liest a corpse. to-morrow night i come again._' the superhuman appearance spoke; and (oh, soothing sound) uttered a human sneeze! 'damnation!' it muttered. 'all is blown!' and immediately the picture flew back to its place. well, i had never heard of a ghost's sneezing before: so you may judge i soon got rid of my terror, and felt pretty certain that this was no bloodless and marrowless apparition, but the baron himself, who had adopted the ghosting system, so common in romances, for the purpose of frightening me into his schemes. however, i had now discovered a concealed door, and with it a chance of escape. i must tell you, that escape by the public door is utterly impracticable, as a maid always opens it for those that enter, and remains outside till they return. however, i have a plan about the private door; which, if the ghost should appear again, as it promised, is likely to succeed. i was pondering upon this plan, when in came dame ursulina, taking snuff, and sneezing at a furious rate. 'by the mass,' said she, 'it rejoiceth the old cockles of my heart to see your ladyship safe; for as i passed your door just now, methought i heard the ghost.' 'you might well have heard it,' said i, pretending infinite faintness, 'for i have seen it; and it entered through yonder picture.' 'benedicite!' cried she, 'but it was a true spectre!' 'a real, downright apparition,' said i, 'uncontaminated with the smallest mixture of mortality.' 'and didn't your ladyship hear me sneeze at the door?' said she. 'i was too much alarmed to hear anything,' answered i. 'but pray have the goodness to lend me that snuff-box, as a pinch or two may revive me from my faintness.' i had my reasons for this request. 'a heroine take snuff!' cried she, laying the box on the table. 'lack-a-daisy, how the times are changed! but now, my lady, don't be trying to move or cut that great picture; for though the ghost comes into the chamber through it, no mortal can. i know better than to let you give me the slip; and i will tell a story to prove my knowledge of bolts and bars. when i was a girl, a young man lodged in the house; and one night he stole the stick that i used to fasten the hasp and staple of my door with. well, my mother bade me put a carrot (as there was nothing else) in its place. so i put in a carrot--for i was a dutiful daughter; but i put in a boiled carrot--for i was a love-sick maiden. eh, don't i understand the doctrine of bolts and bars?' 'you understand a great deal too much,' said i, as the withered wanton went chuckling out of the chamber. i must now retire to rest. i do not fear being disturbed by a bravo to-night; but i am uneasy, lest i should wake in the morning with a face like a pumpkin. adieu. letter xliv about noon the baron hildebrand paid me a visit, to hear, as he said, my final determination respecting my marriage with montmorenci. i had prepared my lesson, and i told him that my mind was not yet entirely reconciled to such an event; but that it was much swayed by a most extraordinary circumstance which had occurred the night before. he desired me to relate it; and i then, with apparent agitation, recounted the particulars of the apparition, and declared that if it should come again i would endeavour to preserve my presence of mind, and enter into conversation with it; in order (as it appeared quite well informed of the picture) to learn whether my marriage with his lordship would prove fortunate or otherwise. i then added, that if its answer should be favourable, i would not hesitate another moment to give him my hand. the baron, while he could not suppress a smile, protested himself highly delighted with my determination of speaking to the spectre, and encouraged me not to fear it, as it was the most harmless creature of its kind ever known. he then took his leave. i spent the remainder of the day reflecting on the desperate enterprise that i had planned for the night, and fortifying my mind by recalling all the hazardous escapes of other heroines. at last the momentous hour was at hand. the lamp and snuff-box lay on the table. i sat anxious, and kept a watchful eye upon the picture. the bell tolled one, again the picture vanished, and again the spectre stood there. its left thumb rested upon its hip, and its right hand was held to the heavens. i sent forth a well-executed shriek, and hid my face in my hands, while it spoke these words: '_i come to thee for the last time. wilt thou wed montmorenci, or wilt thou not?--speak._' 'oh!' cried i, 'if you would only promise not to do me a mischief, i have something particular to ask of you.' 'a spirit cannot harm a mortal,' drawled out the spectre. 'well then,' said i, faltering and trembling.--'perhaps--pardon me--perhaps you would first have the goodness to walk in.' the spectre advanced a few paces, and paused. 'this is so kind, so condescending,' said i, 'that really--do take a chair.' the spectre shook its head mournfully. 'pray do,' said i, 'you will oblige me.' the spectre seated itself in a chair; but atoned for the mortal act by an immortal majesty of manner. 'as you are of another world,' said i, ''tis but fair to do the honours of this; and in truth, i am not at all astonished that you apparitions should speak so harshly as you usually do, we mortals always shew such evident aversion and horror at your appearance.' 'there is a prejudice gone forth against us,' said the spectre, with a hollow voice, 'in consequence of our coming at night, like thieves.' 'yes,' said i, 'at one precisely. and it has often struck me how well the clocks of old castles were kept, for they regularly struck just as the ghost appeared. indeed, ghosts keep such late hours, that 'tis no wonder they look pale and thin. i do not recollect ever to have heard or read of a fat or a fresh-coloured phantom.' 'nor of a ghost wanting a limb or an eye,' said the spectre. 'nor of an ugly ghost,' said i bowing. the spectre took the compliment, and bowed in return. 'and therefore,' said the spectre, 'as spirits are always accurate resemblances of the bodies that they once inhabited, none but thin and pale persons can ever become ghosts.' 'and by the same rule,' said i, 'none but blue-eyed and golden-haired persons can go to heaven; for our painters always represent angels so. i have never heard of a hazel-eyed angel, or a black-haired cherub.' 'i know,' said the spectre, 'if angels are, as painters depict them, always sitting naked on cold clouds, i would rather live the life of a ghost, to the end of the chapter.' 'and pray,' cried i, 'where, and how do ghosts live?' 'within this very globe,' said the spectre. 'for this globe is not, as most mortals imagine, a solid body, but a round crust about ten miles thick; and the concave inside is furnished just like the convex outside, with wood, water, vale and mountain. in the centre stands a nice little golden sun, about the size of a pippin, and lights our internal world; where, whatever enjoyments we loved as men, we retain as ghosts. we banquet on visionary turtle, or play at aã«rial marbles, or drive a phantasmagoric four in hand. the young renew their amours, and the more aged sit yawning for the day of judgment.--but i scent the rosy air of dawn. speak, lady; what question art thou anxious that i should expound?' 'whether,' said i, 'if i marry lord montmorenci, i shall be happy with him or not?' 'blissful as eden,' replied the spectre. 'your lives will be congenial, and your deaths simultaneous.' 'and now,' said i, walking closer to it, 'will you do me the favour to take a pinch of snuff?' 'avant!' it cried, motioning me from it with its hand. but quick as thought, i flung the whole contents of the box full into its eyes. 'blood and thunder!' exclaimed the astonished apparition. i snatched the lamp, sprang through the frame of the picture, shut the concealed door, bolted it; while all the time i heard the phantom within, dancing in agony at its eyes, and sending mine to as many devils as could well be called together on so short a notice. thus far my venturous enterprise had prospered. i now found myself in a narrow passage, with another door at the farther end of it; and i prepared to traverse winding stairs, subterranean passages, and suites of tapestried apartments. i therefore advanced, and opened the door; but in an instant started back; for i had beheld a lighted hall, of modern architecture, with gilded balustrades, ceiling painted in fresco, etruscan lamps, and stucco-work! yes, it was a villa, or a casino, or a pallazo, or any thing you please but a castello. amazement! horror! what should i do? whither turn? delay would be fatal. again i peeped. the hall was empty; so, putting down my lamp, i stole across it to an open door, and looked through the chink. i had just time to see a persian saloon, and in the centre a table laid for supper, when i heard several steps entering the hall. it was too late to retreat, so i sprang into the room; and recollecting that a curtain had befriended me once before, i ran behind one which i saw there. instantly afterwards the persons entered. they were spruce footmen, bringing in supper. not a scowl, not a mustachio amongst them. as soon as the covers were laid, a crowd of company came laughing into the room; but, friend of my bosom, fancy, just fancy my revulsion of soul, my dismay, my disgust, my bitter indignation--oh! how shall i describe to you half what i felt, when i recognised these wretches, as they entered one by one, to be the identical gang who had visited me the day before, as heroes and heroines! i knew them instantly, though they looked twice as young; and in the midst of them all, as blithe as larks, came betterton himself and lord altamont mortimer montmorenci! my heart died at the sight. after they had seated themselves, betterton (who sat at the head, and therefore was master) desired one of the servants to bring in 'the crazed poet.' and now two footmen appeared, carrying between them a large meal-bag, filled with higginson; which they placed to the table, on a vacant seat. the bag was fastened at the top, and a slit was on the side of it. the wretches then began to banter him, and bade him put forth his head; but he would neither move nor speak. at last they turned the conversation to me. 'i wonder can he be ghosting her all this time?' said betterton. 'well,' cried the fellow who had personated sir charles grandison, 'i ought to have played the ghost, i am so much taller than he.' 'not unless you could act it better than you did grandison,' said the late lady sympathina. 'no, no, i was the person who performed my part well;--pouring a vial of hot water down her neck, by way of tears; and frightening her out of her senses by talking of a face like a pumpkin!' 'nay,' cried my lord montmorenci, 'the best piece of acting you ever saw was when i first met her at the theatre, and persuaded her that abraham grundy was lord altamont mortimer montmorenci.' 'except,' said betterton, 'when i played old whylome eftsoones, at the masquerade, and made her believe that cherry wilkinson was lady cherubina de willoughby.' i turned quite sick; but i had no time for thought, the thunderclaps came so thick upon me. 'she had some mad notion of the kind before,' said grundy (i have done with calling him montmorenci), 'for she fancied that an old piece of parchment, part of a lease of lives, was an irrefragable proof of her being lady de willoughby.' 'ay,' cried betterton, 'and of poor wilkinson's being her persecutor, instead of her father; on the strength of which vagary he lies at this moment in a madhouse.' 'but,' said grundy, 'her setting up for a heroine, and her affectation while imitating the manners and language that authors chuse to give their heroines, would make a tiger laugh. i vow and protest, our amorous interview, where she first told her love, was the most burlesque exhibition in nature. i am thine, and thou art mine! whimpered the silly girl, sinking on my bosom. she now says she does not love me. don't believe a syllable of it. why, the poor creature could not even bridle her passion in my presence. such hugging and kissing as she went on with, that, as i hope to be saved, i sometimes thought she would suffocate me outright.' ''tis false as hell!' cried i, bursting into tears, and running from behind the curtain. 'upon my sacred honour, ladies and gentlemen, 'tis every word of it a vile, malicious, execrable falsehood! oh, what shall i do? what shall i do?' and i wrung my hands with agony. the guests had risen from their seats in amaze; and i now made a spring towards the door, but was intercepted by betterton, who held me fast. 'in the name of wonder,' cried he, 'how came you here?' 'no matter,' cried i, struggling. 'i know all. what have i ever done to you, you base, you cruel people?' 'keep yourself cool, my little lady,' said he. 'i won't, i can't!' cried i. 'to use me so. you vile set; you horrid, horrid set!' 'go for another meal-bag,' said he, to the servant. 'now, madam, you shall keep company with the bagged poet.' 'mercy, mercy!' cried i, 'what, will no one help me?' 'i will if i can!' exclaimed higginson, with his head thrust out of the bag, like a snail; and down he slided from his seat, and began rolling, and tumbling, and struggling on the floor, till he got upon his feet; and then he came jumping towards me, now falling now rising, while his face and bald forehead were all over meal, his eyes blaring, and his mouth wide open. the company, wherever he moved, kept in a circle round him, and clapped their hands and shouted. as i stood, with betterton still holding me fast, he was suddenly flung from me by some one, and my hand seized. i turned, and beheld--stuart. 'oh! bless you, bless you!' cried i, catching his arm, 'for you have come to save me from destruction!' he pressed my hand, and pointing to betterton and grundy, who stood thunderstruck, cried, 'there are your men!' a large posse of constables immediately rushed forward, and arrested them. 'heydey! what is all this?' cried betterton. ''tis for the beating you gave us when we were doing our duty,' said a man, and i recognised in the speaker one of the police-men who had arrested me about the barouche. 'this is government all over,' cried betterton. 'this is the minister. this is the law!' 'and let me tell you, sir,' said stuart, 'that nothing but my respect for the law deters me at this moment from chastising you as you deserve.' 'what do you mean, sirrah?' cried betterton. 'that you are a ruffian,' said stuart, 'and the same cowardice which made you offer insult to a woman will make you bear it from a man. now, sir, i leave you to your fate.' and we were quitting the room. 'what thing is that?' said stuart, stopping short before the poet; who, with one arm and his face out of the bag, lay on his back, gasping and unable to stir. 'cut it, cut it!' cried the poor man, in choaking accents. 'higginson i protest!' exclaimed stuart, as he snatched a knife from the table, and laid open the bag. up rose the poet, resurrectionary from his hempen coffin, and was beginning to clench his fist; but stuart caught his arm, and hurried him and me out of the room. stuart, with great eagerness, now began asking me the particulars of all that had occurred at betterton's; and his rage, as i related it, was extreme. he then proceeded to tell me how he had discovered my being there. after his departure from lady gwyn's, he set off for london, to prosecute his inquiries about my father; and spent some days in this way, to no purpose. at length he returned to lady gwyn's, but was much shocked at learning from her that i had robbed her, and absconded; and had afterwards made an assault on her house, at the head of a set of irishmen. by the description she gave, he judged that jerry sullivan was one of them; and not finding us at monkton castle, whither she directed him, he posted back to london, in order to make inquiries at jerry's house. jerry, who had just returned, related the whole history of the castle; adding that i was to call upon him the moment i should arrive in town. stuart, therefore, waited some time; but as i did not appear, he began to suspect that betterton had entrapped me; so he hastened to the coachmaker, and having explained to him that i was no swindler, and having paid him for the barouche, he told him (as he learned from jerry) that betterton was one of those who had assaulted the postilion and constables. the coachmaker, therefore, applied at the police-office; and a party was dispatched to apprehend betterton. stuart accompanied them, and thus gained admission (which he could not otherwise have done) into the house. higginson now told a lamentable tale of the pranks that betterton had played on him; and amongst the rest, mentioned, that a servant had seduced him into the bag, by pretending to be his friend, and to smuggle him out of the house, in the character of meal. he could gather, from several things said while the company were tormenting him, that grundy had agreed to marry me; and then, for a stipulated sum, to give betterton opportunities of prosecuting his infamous designs. thus both of them would escape the penalties of the law. he likewise informed me, that the female guests were (to use his own words) ladies whom the male guests loved better than they ought to do; and he then explained that the several rooms were furnished according to the fashions of different countries; grecian, persian, chinese, italian; and that mine was the gothic chamber. by this time, having reached the village, and stopped at an inn, where we meant to sleep, i desired a room, and bade stuart a hasty good night. shocked, astonished, and ashamed at all that had passed, i threw myself on the bed, and unburdened my full heart in a bitter fit of crying. what! thought i, not the lady cherubina de willoughby after all;--the tale fabricated by betterton himself;--the parchment that i had built the hope of my noble birth upon a mere lease of lives;--could these things be? alas, there was no doubt of the fatal fact! i had overheard the wretches boasting of it, and i had discovered their other impositions with my own eyes. to be thus upset in my favourite speculation, in the business of my whole life; to have to begin all over again,--to have to search the wide world anew for my real name, my real family--or was wilkinson indeed my father? oh! if so, what a fall! and how horridly had i treated him! but i would not suffer myself to think of it. then to be laughed at, despised, insulted by dissolute creatures calling themselves lords and barons, and bravos, and heroes and heroines; and i declared to be no heroine! am i a heroine? i caught myself constantly repeating; and then i walked about wildly, then sat on the bed, then cast my body across it. once i fell into a doze, and dreamed frightful dreams of monsters pursuing me swifter than the wind, while my bending limbs could only creep; and my voice, calling for help, could not rise above a whisper. then i woke, repeating, am i a heroine? i believe i was quite delirious; for notwithstanding all that i could do to prevent myself, i ran on rapidly, am i a heroine? am i? am i? am i? am i? till my brain reeled from its poise, and my hands were clenched with perturbation. thus passed the night, and towards morning i fell into a slumber. adieu. letter xlv this morning my head felt rather better, and i appeared before stuart with the sprightliest air imaginable; not that my mind was at ease;--far from it;--but that i could not endure to betray my mortification at having proved such a dupe to buffoons and villains. after breakfast, we began arranging our plans, and decided on proceeding to london; but did not determine on my place of residence there. i had my own projects, however. as higginson had assisted in rescuing me from the police, stuart advised him to remain concealed somewhere, till after the trials of betterton and grundy; for though the poor man did not know that they were officers of justice whom he was assaulting (he having been in the turret when the fray commenced), yet this fact might be difficult to prove. stuart, therefore, gave him some money, and i a letter; and he set off, in extreme tribulation, for the cottage of the poor woman; there to stay till the business should be decided. stuart and i then took our departure in a chaise. unable to counterfeit gaiety long, i relapsed into languor; nor could my companion, by any effort, withdraw me from the contemplation of my late disgrace. as we drew near lady gwyn's, he represented the propriety of my restoring her portrait, lest she should have recourse to an arrest. disheartened by the past, and terrified for the future, i soon consented; and on our arriving at the avenue of the gentleman who had the portrait in his possession, stuart, by my desire, went to the house without me. he was absent some time, but at last came back with it in his hand. we then drove to lady gwyn's; and while i remained at the gate, he proceeded to execute the commission for me. presently, however, i saw him return accompanied by lady gwyn herself, who welcomed me with much kindness, begged i would forget the past, and prevailed on me to go into the house. but it was only to suffer new mortifications. for now, at the instance of stuart, she began to relate all the pranks which she had practised upon me while i was with her. she confessed that the crowning ceremony was merely to amuse her guests at my expence; and that my great mother was her own nephew! think of that, biddy! she said that stuart, who had known her for some years, begged of her when i paid her my first visit to let me remain under her care, till his return from town; and to humour my pretty caprices, as she called them. but he did not desire her to go so far with the jest; and she had now just begun an apology for her conduct, when i rose, overwhelmed with shame and indignation, dropped a hasty courtesy, and fairly ran out of the house. we proceeded some miles silent and uncomfortable. my heart was bursting, and my head felt as if billows were tossing through it. at last i found myself in sight of the village where william, whom i had separated from his mistress a few weeks before, used to live. as this was a favourable opportunity for reconciling the lovers, i now made stuart acquainted with the real origin of their quarrel, which i had concealed from him at the time it happened, lest he should mar it. he shook his head at the recital, and desired the driver to find out william's house, and stop there. this was done, and in a few moments william made his appearance. he betrayed some agitation at seeing me, but saluted me with respect. 'well, william,' said i, sportively, 'how goes on your little quarrel with mary? is it made up?' 'no, ma'am,' answered he, with a doleful look, 'and i fear never will.' 'yes, william,' cried i, with an assuring nod, 'i have the happiness to tell you that it will.' 'ah, ma'am,' said he, 'i suppose you do not know what a sad calamity has fallen upon her since you were here. the poor creature has quite lost her senses.' 'for shame!' cried i, 'what are you saying? lost her senses! well, i am sure it was not my fault, however.' 'your's?' said he. 'oh, no, ma'am. but she has never been in her reason since the day you left her.' 'let us be gone,' whispered i to stuart, as i sank back in the carriage. 'surely not,' said he. 'tis at least your duty to repair the mischief you have done.' 'i should die before i could disclose it!' cried i. 'then i will disclose it for you,' said he, leaping out of the chaise. he went with william into the house, and i remained in such a state of mind, that i was several times on the point of quitting the chaise, and escaping i knew not whither; but any where from the horrid scene awaiting me. at last, stuart appeared without william; and getting in, gave the driver directions to mary's cottage. i wanted him to go without me: but he declared that no effectual explanation could take place, unless from myself. he then said every thing to re-assure me. he told me that the poor girl was quite harmless, and had only temporary fits of wandering; and that, were the circumstances of the fatal letter once explained to her, and a reconciliation effected, she might eventually recover from her derangement; for william, it seems, had never divulged the contents of that letter, as it enjoined him not; but now stuart brought it with him. having arrived near the cottage, we got out, and walked towards it. with a faltering step i crossed the threshold, and found the father in the parlour. 'dear miss,' said he, 'welcome here once more. i suppose you have come to see poor mary. oh! 'tis a piteous, piteous sight. there she does nothing but walk about, and sigh, and talk so wild; and nobody can tell the cause but that william; and he will not, for he says she forbade him.' 'come with me,' said stuart, 'and i will tell you the cause.' he then led the miserable old man out of the room, and i remained at the window weeping. but in a few minutes i heard a step; and on turning round, saw the father, running towards me with a face haggard and ghastly; and crying out, 'cruel, cruel, cruel!' then grasping my shoulder, and lifting his tremulous hand to heaven: 'now,' said he, 'may the lightning of a just and good providence----' 'oh! pray,' cried i, snatching down his hand--'oh! pray do not curse me! do not curse a poor, silly, mad creature. it was a horrid affair; very horrid; but, indeed, indeed, i meant no harm.' 'be calm, my good man,' said stuart, 'and let us go to the garden where your daughter is walking. i am sure this young lady will not refuse to accompany us, and do her utmost in this critical moment.' 'i will do any thing,' cried i, 'come along.' we now passed into the garden; and i shuddered as i beheld the beautiful wreck at a distance. she had just stopt short in a stepping posture: her cloak had half fallen from her shoulders, and as her head hung down, her forefinger was lightly laid on her lip. panting to tell her all, i flew towards her, and caught her hand. 'do you remember me, mary?' said i softly. she looked at me some moments with a faint smile; and at last she coloured. 'ah! yes, i remember you,' said she. 'you were with us that very evening when i was so wretched. but i don't care about him now;--i don't indeed; and if i could only see him once more, i would tell him so. and then i would frown and turn from him; and then he would follow, so sad and so pale: don't you think he would? and i am keeping his presents to give back to him, as he did mine; and see how i have my hair parted on my forehead, just as he used to like it, ready the moment i see him to rumple it all about; and then he will cry so. don't you think he will? and then i will run, run, run away like the wind, and never see him again; never, never again.' 'my dear mary,' said i, 'you shall see him again, and be friends with him too. your william is still faithful to you;--most faithful, and still loves you better than his life. i have seen him myself this moment.' 'you have?' cried she, reddening. 'oh! and what did he say? but hush, not a word before my father and that man:' and she put one hand upon my mouth, and with the other round my waist, hurried me into a little arbour, where we sat down. 'and now,' whispered she, stealing her arms about my neck, and looking earnestly into my eyes, while her whole frame shook, 'and now what did he say?' 'mary,' said i, with a serious tone and aspect, 'you must collect your ideas, and listen attentively, for i have much to disclose. do you recollect a letter that i got you to write for me when i was here last?' 'letter--' muttered she. 'letter.--yes, i believe i do. oh! yes, i recollect it well; for it was a sad letter to your sweetheart, telling him that you had married another; and your sweetheart's name was william; and i thought, at the time, i would never write such a letter to my own william.' 'and yet, mary,' said i, 'your own william got that letter, by some mistake,' (for i could not bear to tell the real fact) 'that very evening; and seeing it in your hand-writing, and addressed to william, he thought it was from you to him; and so he gave you back your presents, and----' 'what is all that?' cried mary, starting up. 'merciful powers! say all that over again!' i made her sit down, and i shewed her the letter. as she read it, her colour changed, her lip quivered, her hand shook; and at the conclusion, she dropped it with a dreadful groan, and remained quite motionless. 'mary!' cried i, 'dear mary, do not look so. speak, mary,' and i stirred her shoulder; but she still sat motionless with a fixed smile. 'i shall, i will see her!' cried the voice of william at a distance; and the next instant he was seated breathless by her side. 'mary, my mary!' cried he in the most touching accents. at the well-known voice, she started, and turned towards him; but in a moment averted her face, and rose as pale as ashes. then drawing some letters and baubles from her bosom, she threw them into his lap, and began gently disarranging her hair, all the time looking sideways at him, with an air of pretty dignity. 'come,' said she, taking my hand, and leading me out of the arbour. 'well, was not that glorious? now i shall die content.' 'yes,' said i, 'after having first killed your william. have i not explained all about the letter; and how can you now treat him so cruelly?' 'the letter,' said she. 'ay, true, the letter. let me consider a moment. he thought it was mine, do you say?' 'he did indeed, mary; and yet you will not be friends with him.' 'but you see he won't follow me,' said she. 'he would have followed me once. is he following me?' 'he cannot,' answered i. 'the poor young man is lying on the ground, and sobbing ready to break his heart.' mary stopped. 'shall i call him?' said i. 'why now,' said she, 'how can i prevent you?' 'william!' cried i. 'mary calls you.' william came flying towards her. at the sound of his steps she turned, stretched forth her hands, uttered a long and piercing cry;--and they were locked in each other's arms. but the poor girl, quite overpowered by the sudden change, fell back insensible; while william, kissing her, and weeping over her, bore her into the house, and laid her on a bed. it was so long before she shewed any symptoms of animation, that we began to feel serious alarm; and william ran to the village for an apothecary. by degrees she came to herself, and appeared somewhat more composed; but still wandering. at last, with her hand clasped in her lover's, she fell asleep; and then, as our presence could be no farther useful, we took leave of the venerable peasant; who, generous with recent hope, freely gave me his forgiveness and his blessing. in my first transports of anguish at this scene, i disclosed to stuart, what i had all day determined, but dreaded to tell--the situation of my father in the madhouse. at the horrid account, the good young man turned pale, but said not a word. i saw that i was undone, and i burst into tears. 'be comforted, my dear girl,' said he, laying his hand on mine. 'you have long been acting under the delusion of a dreadful dream, but this confession, and these tears, are, i trust, the prognostics of a total renunciation of error. so now let us hasten to your father and release him. he shall forgive you; past follies shall be forgotten, past pleasures renewed; you shall return to your real home, and cherry wilkinson shall again be the daughter of an honest squire.' 'mr. stuart,' said i, 'as to my past follies, i know of none but two;--mary's and my father's matters. and as to that father, he may not be what you suppose him. i fancy, sir, there are such things as men who begin life with plain names, and end it with the most italian in the world.' 'well?' cried stuart. 'well,' said i, 'that honest squire, as you call him, may yet come out to be a marquis.' stuart groaned, and put his head out at the window. we have reached london, and i take the opportunity to write while stuart is procuring from grundy, who now lies in prison, such a statement as cannot fail to make the doctor release my poor father without hesitation. how shall i support this approaching interview? i shall sink, i shall die under it. indeed i wish to die; and i feel an irresistible presentiment that my prayer will shortly be granted. all day long i have a horrid gloom hanging over me, besides a frequent wildness of ideas, and an unusual irritability. i have a chilliness, and yet a burning through my skin; and i am unwilling even to move. if i could lock myself up in a room, with heaps of romances, and shut out all the world, i sometimes fancy that i should be happy. but no, my friend; the grave will soon be my chamber, the worms my books; and if ever i write again, i shall write from the bed of death. i know it; i feel it. i shall be reconciled to my dear parent, acknowledge my follies, and die. adieu. letter xlvi agitated beyond measure, i found myself at the madhouse, without well knowing how i had got there; and stuart, after a long altercation with the doctor, supported me to the room where my father was confined. he had to push me gently before him, and as i stopped breathless inside the door, i saw by the dusky twilight a miserable object, shivering, and sitting on a bed. a few rags and a blanket were cast about it: the face was haggard, and the chin overgrown with a grisly beard. yet, amidst all this disfigurement, i could not mistake my father. i ran, prostrated myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, exclaimed, 'father, dear father!' he started, and gazed at me for a moment; then flung me from him, and threw himself with his face downward on the bed. i cast my body across his, and endeavoured, with both my hands, to turn round his head, that i might embrace him; but he resisted every effort. 'father!' cried i, clasping his neck, 'will you break my heart? will you drive me to distraction? speak, father! oh! one word, one little word, to save me from death!' still he lay mute and immoveable. 'you are cold, father,' said i. 'you shiver. shall i put something about you? shall i, father? ah! i can be so kind and so tender when i love one; and i love you dearly--heaven knows i do.' i stole my hand on one of his, and lay caressing his forehead, and murmuring words of fondness in his ear. but nothing could avail. he withdrew his hand by degrees, and buried his forehead deeper in the cloaths. and now half frantic, i began to wring my hands, and beat the pillow, and moan, and utter the most deplorable lamentations. at last i thought i saw him a little convulsed, as if with smothered tears. 'ah,' cried i, 'you are relenting, you are weeping. bless you for that. dear, dear father, look up, and see with what joy a daughter can embrace you.' 'my child, my child!' cried he, turning, and throwing himself upon my bosom. 'a heart of stone could not withstand this! there, there, there, i forgive you all!' fast and fondly did we cling round each other, and sweet were the sighs that we breathed, and the tears that we shed. but i suffered too much: the disorder which had some time been engendering in my frame now burst forth with alarming vehemence, and i was conveyed raving into a carriage. on our arrival at the hotel, they sent for a physician, who pronounced me in a violent fever of a nervous nature. for a fortnight i was not expected to recover; and i myself felt so convinced of my speedy dissolution, that i requested the presence of a clergyman. he came; and his conversations, by composing my mind, contributed in a great degree to my recovery. at my request, he paid me daily visits. our subject was religion,--not those theological controversies which excite so much irreligious feeling, and teach men to hate each other for the love of god; but those plain and simple truths which convince without confounding, and which avoid the bigotry that would worship error, because it is hereditary; and the fanaticism that would lay rash hands on the holy temple, because some of its smaller pillars appear unsound. after several days of discussion on this important topic, he led me, by degrees, to give him an account of my late adventures; and as i related, he made comments. affected by his previous precepts, and by my own awful approach to eternity, which had suppressed in my heart the passions of ambition and pride, i now became as desirous of conviction as i had heretofore been sophistical in support of my folly. to be predisposed is to be half converted; and soon this exemplary pastor convinced my understanding of the impious and immoral tendency of my past life. he shewed me, that to the inordinate gratification of a particular caprice, i had sacrificed my duty towards my natural protectors, myself, and my god. that my ruling passion, though harmless in its nature, was injurious in its effects; that it gave me a distaste for all sober occupations, perverted my judgment, and even threatened me with the deprivation of my reason. religion itself, he said, if indulged with immoderate enthusiasm, at last degenerates into zealotry, and leaves the poor devotee too rapturous to be rational, and too virulent to be religious. in a word, i have risen from my bed, an altered being; and i now look back on my past delusions with abhorrence and disgust. though the new principles of conduct which i have adopted are not yet rooted or methodized in my mind, and though the prejudices of a whole life are not (and indeed could not be) entirely eradicated in a few days; still, as i am resolved on endeavouring to get rid of them, i trust that my reason will second my desire, and that the final consequence of my perceiving what is erroneous will be my learning what is correct. adieu. letter xlvii my health is now so far re-established, that i am no longer confined to my room. stuart pays us constant visits, and his lively advice and witty reasoning, more complimentary than reproachful, and more insinuated than expressed, have tended to perfect my reformation. he had put don quixote (a work which i never read before) into my hands; and on my returning it to him, with a confession of the benefit that i derived from it, the conversation naturally ran upon romances in general. he thus delivered his sentiments. 'i do not protest against the perusal of fictitious biography altogether; for many works of this kind may be read without injury, and some with profit. novels such as the vicar of wakefield, the fashionable tales, and coelebs, which draw man as he is, imperfect, instead of man as he cannot be, superhuman, are both instructive and entertaining. romances such as the mysteries of udolpho, the italian, and the bravo of venice, which address themselves to the imagination alone, are often captivating, and seldom detrimental. but unfortunately so seductive are the latter class of composition, that one is apt to neglect more useful books for them; besides, when indulged in extreme, they tend to incapacitate us from encountering the turmoils of active life. they present us with incidents and characters which we can never meet in the world; and act upon the mind like intoxicating stimulants; first elevate, and at last enervate it. they teach us to revel in ideal scenes of transport and distraction; and harden our hearts against living misery, by making us so refined as to feel disgust at its unpoetical accompaniments. 'in a country where morals are on the decline, novels always fall several degrees below the standard of national virtue: and the contrary holds in an opposite state of things. for as these works are an exaggerated picture of the times, they represent the prevalent opinions and manners with a gigantic pencil. thus, since france became depraved, her novels have become dissolute; and since her social system arrived at its extreme of vicious refinement, they too have adopted that last master-stroke of refined vice, which wins the heart by the chastest aphorisms, and then corrupts it by the most alluring pictures of villainy. take rousseau for instance. what st. preux is to heloise, the book is to the reader. the lover so fascinates his mistress by his honourable sentiments, that she cannot resist his criminal advances. the book infatuates the reader, till, in his admiration of its morality, he loses all recollection of its licentiousness; for as virtue is more captivating, so vice is less disgusting when adorned with the graces. it may be said that an author ought to portray vice in its seductive colours, for the purpose of unmasking its arts, and thus warning the young and inexperienced. but let it be recollected, that though familiarity with enchanting descriptions of vice may add to prudence, it must diminish virtue; and that while it teaches the reason to resist, it entices the passions to yield. it was rousseau's system, however, to paint the scenes of a brothel, in order to speak the cant of a monastery; and thus has he undone many an imitating miss or wife, who began by listening to the language of love, that she might talk sentiment, and act virtue; and ended by falling a victim to it, because her heart had become entangled, her head bewildered, and her principles depraved. 'now, though we seldom see such publications in this country, yet there is a strain of well-meaning, but false morality prevalent in some. i will add (for why should i conceal it from you?) that your principles, which have hitherto been formed upon such books alone, appear, at times, a little perverted by their influence. it should now, therefore, be your object to counteract these bad effects by some more rational line of reading; and, as your ideas of real life are drawn from novels; and as even your manners and language are vitiated by them, i would recommend to you to mix in the world, to copy living instead of imaginary beings, and to study the customs of actual, not ideal society.' with this opinion my father perfectly coincided: the system has already been begun, and i now pass my time in an alternation of instruction and amusement. morality, history, languages, and music, occupy my mornings; and my evenings are sometimes enlivened by balls, operas, and familiar parties. as, therefore, we shall remain some time in town, my father has taken a house. stuart, my counsellor and my companion, sits by my side, directs my studies, re-assures my timidity, and corrects my mistakes. indeed he has to correct them often; for i still retain some taints of my former follies and affectations. my postures are sometimes too picturesque, my phrases too flowery, and my sentiments too sublime. this having been the day fixed for the trials of betterton and grundy, the prisoners were brought to the bar, and the names of the prosecutors called. but these did not appear, and of consequence the culprits were discharged. it is supposed that betterton, the great declaimer against bribery and corruption, had tampered with the postilion and the police, and thus escaped the fate which awaited him. adieu. letter xlviii in ridding ourselves of a particular fault, we are apt, at first, to run too far into its opposite virtue. i had poured forth my tender feelings to you with such sentimental absurdity, when i fancied myself enamoured of one man, that as soon as i began to reform, and found myself actually attached to another, i determined on concealing my fondness from you, with the most scrupulous discretion of pen. perhaps, therefore, i should beg your forgiveness for never having hinted to you before, what i am now about disclosing to you without any reserve. even at the very time when i thought i was bound in duty to be devotedly in love with the hateful grundy, i felt an unconscious partiality for stuart. but after my reformation, that partiality became too decisive to be misinterpreted or concealed. and indeed he was so constantly with me, and so kind a comforter and friend; and then so fascinating are his manners, and so good his disposition; for i am certain there is no such young man at all--you see in his eyes what he is; you see instantly that his heart is all gentleness and benevolence, and yet he has a fire in them, a fire that would delight you: and i could tell you a thousand anecdotes of him that would astonish you.--but what have i done with my sentence? go back, good pen, and restore it to the grammar it deserves: or rather leave it as it is--a cripple for life, and hasten to the happy catastrophe. with a secret transport which i cannot describe, i began of late to perceive that stuart had become more assiduous than usual in his visits to me; that his manners betrayed more tenderness, and his language more regard. these attentions increased daily; nor did he omit opportunities of hinting his passion, in terms which i could not mistake. this morning, however, put the matter beyond a doubt. i was alone when he came to pay his accustomed visit. at first he made some faint attempts at conversing upon indifferent topics; but all the time i could perceive an uneasiness and perturbation in his manner that surprised me. 'pray,' said i, at length, 'what makes you so dull and absent to-day?' 'you,' replied he, with a smile. 'and what have i done?' said i. ''tis not what you have done,' answered he; 'but what you will do.' 'and what is that?' said i. he changed to a nearer chair, and looked at me with much agitation. i guessed what was coming; i had expected it some time; but now, when the moment arrived, i felt my heart fail; so i suddenly moved towards the door, saying that i was sure i heard my father call. stuart sprang after me, and led me back by the hand. 'when i tell you,' said he, 'that on the possession of this hand depends my happiness, may i flatter myself with the hope that my happiness would not contribute to your misery?' 'as i am no longer a heroine,' said i, smiling, 'i do not intend to get up a scene. you happen to have my hand now; and i am afraid--very much afraid, that----' 'that what?' cried he, holding it faster. 'that it is not worth withdrawing,' said i. but in this effort to shun a romance eclaircissement, i had, i feared, run into the contrary extreme, and betrayed an undue boldness; so i got sentimental in good earnest, and burst into tears. stuart led me to my chair, and soon dissipated my uneasiness by his eloquent expressions of gratitude and delight, and his glowing pictures of our future happiness. i told him, that i wondered how he, who knew my failings so well, would venture to stake his happiness upon me. 'it was by my knowledge of your failings,' said he, 'that i discovered your perfections. those embarrassments of your life which i witnessed have enabled me to judge of you more justly in a few months, than had i been acquainted with you whole years, in the common routine of intercourse. they have shewn me, that if you had weakness enough to court danger, you had firmness enough to withstand temptation; and that while the faulty part of your character was factitious and superinduced, all the pure and generous impulses came from your heart.' our conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of my father; and on his hearing from stuart (who, it seems had made him a confidant) the favourable issue of our interview, the good old man hugged both of us in his arms. to detain you no longer, a week hence is fixed for our wedding. i have just received a letter from mary, mentioning her perfect restoration to health, and her union with william. i shall offer no observation on your late marriage with the butler; but i must remark, that your reason for having never given me advice, during my follies--namely, because my father had deprived you of the right to do so, evinced more anger towards him than love for me. however, i shall always be happy to hear of your welfare. adieu. letter xlix i have just time to tell you, before i leave town, that my fate was sealed this morning, and that i am a wife. on my return to the house, after the ceremony, i found an epithalamium, addressed to me by poor higginson; but it was more filled with hints at his own misery than congratulations upon my happiness. honest jerry sullivan met me at the door, and shook my hand, and danced round me in a fury of outrageous joy. 'well,' cried he, 'often and often i thought your freaks would get you hanged; but may i be hanged if ever i thought they would get you married!' 'you see,' said i to stuart, 'after all your pains to prevent me from imitating romances, you have made me terminate my adventures like a true romance--in a wedding. pray with what moral will you now conclude the book?' 'i will say,' returned he, 'that virtue--no. that calamity--no. that fortitude and resignation--oh, no! i will say, then, that tommy horner was a bad boy, and would not get plumcake; and that king pepin was a good boy, and rode in a golden coach.' adieu. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. old celtic romances old celtic romances translated from the gaelic by p.w. joyce, m.a., ll.d., t.c.d. m.r.i.a. _one of the commissioners for the publication of the ancient laws of ireland president of the royal society of antiquaries, ireland_ author of "a social history of ancient ireland" "the story of ancient irish civilisation" "a short history of ireland" "a child's history of ireland" "irish names of places" "ancient irish music" and other works relating to ireland "i shall tell you a pretty tale" --coriolanus. dublin the educational co. of ireland, limited 89 talbot street london longmans, green, and company 39 paternoster row 1920 preface. among the celtic people of ireland and the north-west of scotland, story-telling has always been a favourite amusement. in the olden time, they had professional story-tellers, variously designated according to rank--ollaves, shanachies, filès, bards, etc.--whose duty it was to know by heart a number of old tales, poems, and historical pieces, and to recite them at festive gatherings, for the entertainment of the chiefs and their guests. these story-tellers were always well received at the houses of princes and chiefs, and treated with much consideration; and on occasions when they acquitted themselves well, so as to draw down the applause of the audience, they were often rewarded with costly presents. to meet the demand for this sort of entertainment, ingenious "men of learning," taking legends or historical events as themes, composed stories from time to time; of which those that struck the popular fancy were caught up and remembered, and handed down from one generation of story-tellers to another. in course of time, a body of romantic literature grew up, consisting chiefly of prose tales, which were classified, according to subject, into battles, voyages, tragedies, military expeditions, cattle-raids, courtships, pursuits, adventures, visions, etc.[i.] some of these tales were historical, _i.e._ founded on historical events, and corresponded closely with what is now called the historical romance; while others were altogether fictitious--pure creations of the imagination. but it is to be observed that even in the fictitious tales, the main characters are always historical, or such as were considered so. the old ollaves wove their fictions round conor mac nessa and his red branch knights, or finn and his fena, or luga of the long arms and his dedannans, or conn the hundred-fighter, or cormac mac art; like the welsh legends of arthur and his round table, or the arabian romances of haroun-al-raschid and his court. the greater number of the tales were, as i have said, in prose. but some were in poetry; and in many of the prose tales the leading characters are often made to express themselves in verse, or some striking incident of the story is repeated in a poetical form. not unfrequently the fragments of verse introduced into a prose tale are quotations from an older poetical version of the same tale; and hence it often happens that while the prose may be plain enough, the poetry is often archaic and obscure. at some very early period in ireland--how early we have now no means of determining with certainty--celtic thought began to be committed to writing; and as everything seems to have been written down that was considered worth preserving, manuscripts accumulated in course of time, which were kept either in monasteries, or in the houses of the hereditary professors of learning. but in the dark time of the danish ravages, and during the troubled centuries that followed the anglo-norman invasion, the manuscript collections were gradually dispersed, and a large proportion lost or destroyed. yet we have remaining--rescued by good fortune from the general wreck--a great body of manuscript literature. our two most important collections are those in trinity college and in the royal irish academy, dublin; where we have manuscripts of various ages, from the year 1100 down to the present century, on every conceivable subject--annals, history, biography, theology, romance, legend, science, etc. these manuscripts, which, it should be remarked, are nearly all copies from older books, contain a vast collection of romantic literature: it may, indeed, be said that there is scarcely one important event in our early history, or one important native personage or native legend, that has not been made the subject of some fanciful story. the volume i now offer to the notice of the public contains eleven tales, selected and translated from the manuscripts of trinity college and of the royal irish academy. some have been already published, with original text and _literal_ translation, and are to be found in the transactions of various literary societies, where, however, they are inaccessible to the general run of readers; and even if they were accessible, they are almost unreadable, the translations having been executed, not for literary, but for linguistic purposes. others have never been translated or given to the public in any shape or form till now. of the whole collection of eleven tales, therefore, it may be said that they are quite new to the general mass of the reading public. and furthermore, this is the first collection of the old gaelic prose romances that has ever been published in fair english translation. scraps and fragments of some of these tales have been given to the world in popular publications, by writers who, not being able to read the originals, took their information from printed books in the english language. but i am forced to say that many of these specimens have been presented in a very unfavourable and unjust light--distorted to make them look _funny_, and their characters debased to the mere modern conventional stage irishman. there is none of this silly and odious vulgarity in the originals of these fine old tales, which are high and dignified in tone and feeling--quite as much so as the old romantic tales of greece and rome.[ii.] a translation may either follow the very words, or reproduce the life and spirit, of the original; but no translation can do both. if you render word for word, you lose the spirit; if you wish to give the spirit and manner, you must depart from the exact words, and frame your own phrases. i have chosen this latter course. my translation follows the original closely enough in narrative and incident; but so far as mere phraseology is concerned, i have used the english language freely, not allowing myself to be trammelled by too close an adherence to the very words of the text. the originals are in general simple in style; and i have done my best to render them into simple, plain, homely english. in short, i have tried to tell the stories as i conceive the old shanachies themselves would have told them, if they had used english instead of gaelic. in the originals, the stories run on without break or subdivision;[iii.] but i have thought it better to divide the longer ones into chapters, with appropriate headings. in almost all cases i had at my command several copies of the same story, some of them differing in phraseology and in minor points of detail, though agreeing, in the main, in narrative and incident. i found this a considerable advantage, as it gave me more freedom in the choice of expression. i have made full use of the literal translations of those tales that have been already published in the transactions of the ossianic society, in the _atlantis_, in the proceedings of the royal irish academy, and in the journal of the royal historical and archæological association of ireland. but, in order to secure the advantage of various readings, i compared, in every case, the published text with at least one copy of the story, in the royal irish academy, in trinity college, or in my own private manuscript collection. the ancient institution of professional story-telling held its ground both in ireland and in scotland down to a very recent period; and it is questionable if it be even yet quite extinct. within my own memory, this sort of entertainment was quite usual among the farming classes of the south of ireland. the family and workmen, and any neighbours that chose to drop in, would sit round the kitchen fire after the day's work--or perhaps gather in a barn on a summer or autumn evening--to listen to some local shanachie reciting one of his innumerable gaelic tales. the story-teller never chose his own words--he always had the story by heart, and recited the words from memory, often gliding into a sort of recitative in poetical passages, or when he came to some favourite grandiose description abounding in high-sounding alliterative adjectives. and very interesting it was to mark the rapt attention of the audience, and to hear their excited exclamations when the speaker came to relate some mighty combat, some great exploit of the hero, or some other striking incident. three years ago, i met a man in kilkee, who had a great number of these stories by heart, and who actually repeated for me, without the slightest hitch or hesitation, more than half--and if i had not stopped him would have given me the whole--of "cúirt an mheadhon-oidhche" ("the midnight court"), a poem about six times as long as gray's "elegy." i will now proceed to give a few particulars concerning these tales, including a short account of the manuscript or manuscripts from which each has been translated. the three tragic stories of erin. among the ancient gaelic tales, three were known as "the three most sorrowful (tales) of story-telling," or "the three tragic stories of erin;" viz., "the fate of the children of usna," "the fate of the children of lir," and "the fate of the children of turenn." i have not included the first in this volume, but a poetical version of it has been written and published by my brother.[iv.] the fate of the children of lir. two translations of this tale have been published: one literal, with the gaelic text, by professor o'curry, in the _atlantis_ (nos. vii. and viii.); and another, less literal, by gerald griffin, in his "tales of a jury-room." the oldest known copies of the tale are, one in the catholic university, dublin, made by andrew mac curtin, a well-known gaelic scholar and scribe of the county clare, who lived between 1680 and 1740; one in trinity college, dublin, made by hugh o'daly, in 1758; and one in the british museum, made by richard tipper of dublin, in 1718.[v.] there is also a very good copy in the royal irish academy (23. c. 26), of which i made considerable use, written in or about 1782, by peter o'connell, a good gaelic scholar of the county clare. from a comparison of several of these versions, o'curry made his copy of the text as published in the _atlantis_. there may be, and there probably are, older copies, in trinity college, in the british museum, or elsewhere, if we knew only where to find them. and this observation applies to several of the tales that follow, of which we have at hand only modern copies. the fate of the children of turenn. in the book of lecan (folio 28), which was compiled by the mac firbises, about a.d. 1416, is a short account, partly in prose and partly in verse, of the celebrated eric-fine imposed on the three sons of turenn, by luga of the long arms, for killing his father kian; but this old book does not give the story of the quest for the fine. the full tale, text and literal translation, has been published by o'curry in the _atlantis_. there are several good copies in the royal irish academy: one in 23. g. 10, transcribed by patrick brown of the county clare, in 1805; another in 23. e. 16, written out by michael oge o'longan, in 1797; and a third (imperfect) in 23. m. 47, copied by andrew mac curtin, in 1734. there are references to these three sons of turenn, and to the manner of their death, in two very old authorities, viz., cormac's "glossary" (about a.d. 900); and a poem by flann of monaster-boice (who died a.d. 1056), a copy of which is in the book of leinster, written about a.d. 1130. in the older references to the sons of turenn, they are called brian, iuchar, iucharba; but in some comparatively modern copies of the tale the names are a little different--for instance, peter o'connell calls them uar, iuchar, and iucharba; and they vary still further in other copies. i have taken advantage of this variety to give the names in a more pronounceable form in my translation. in the original, this tale is introduced by an anecdote of nuada of the silver hand and the two great dedannan leeches, midac and armedda (see page 92, _infra_), which has nothing whatever to do with the story, and which i have omitted. the overflowing of lough neagh. "leabhar na h-uidhre," or "the book of the dun cow," from which this and the two following tales are taken, is the oldest manuscript of miscellaneous gaelic literature we possess. it was transcribed from older books by maelmuire mac ceilechair, who died a.d. 1106; and it is now deposited in the royal irish academy, dublin--or rather, i should say, a large fragment of it, for the book has suffered much mutilation. this venerable book may now be said to be in the hands of the public, as it has been lately reproduced in lithograph fac-simile, and published by the council of the royal irish academy, at the government expense. the story of "the overflowing of lough neagh" (called in the original "the destruction of eocho mac mairedo") has been published, with text and literal translation, by the late j. o'beirne crowe, in the kilkenny archæological journal volume for 1870-1. in this story i have been obliged to make a few transpositions in the mere order of the incidents, for the narrative in the original is in some places very ill arranged. it is now nearly eight hundred years since this story was _transcribed_ from some old authority into "the book of the dun cow;" and it is singular that the tradition of the formation of lough neagh, by the overflow of an enchanted well which was neglected by the woman in charge of it, still maintains a vivid existence among the peasantry. (see on this subject the author's "origin and history of irish names of places," series i. 4th edition, page 176.) connla of the golden hair, and the fairy maiden. this tale (called in the original "echtra condla cain," "the adventures of connla the comely") is taken from "the book of the dun cow." it has been published, with text and literal translation, by the late j. o'beirne crowe, in the kilkenny archæological journal (volume 1874-5, page 128). this is one of the many tales that illustrate the ancient and widespread superstition that fairies sometimes take away mortals to their palaces in the fairy forts and pleasant green hills;[19] of which the last story in this book--"oisin in tirnanoge"--is another example. this superstition prevailed in ireland and the scottish highlands as far back as either history or tradition reaches; it flourished in full vigour within my own memory; and it is scarcely quite extinct--in ireland at least--at the present day.[vi.] in connection with the antiquity of this superstition, it must be borne in mind that the present story was transcribed into "the book of the dun cow" in or about the year 1100, from some older book; and that it relates to the time of conn the hundred-fighter, king of ireland, who reigned in the second century of the christian era. the voyage of maildun. of this tale (which is now given to the public for the first time) the oldest copy is in "the book of the dun cow" (about the year 1100); but it is imperfect at both beginning and end--a portion having been torn away when the book was mutilated at some former time. there is a perfect copy in the yellow book of lecan, in trinity college, dublin, and another in the british museum (ms. harl. 5280). after i had made a rough translation of the greater part of this piece, i discovered a good literal translation in manuscript in the royal irish academy, made by the late j. o'beirne crowe, which was of great use to me, as it helped to explain some strange terms, and to clear up some obscure passages. this voyage would appear from internal evidence to have been made in the beginning of the eighth century (o'curry says about the year 700); for i think it likely that maildun did actually go on a voyage, which was afterwards made the framework of the story. on my translation of this tale, lord tennyson founded his poem "the voyage of maeldune." of the _imrama_ or voluntary sea expeditions (to which the present story belongs) there are, according to o'curry (lect. ms. mat. 289), only four remaining, all very ancient. of these the best known is the "voyage of st. brendan," undertaken in the sixth century, which was at one time celebrated all over europe, and which has been lately made the theme of a fine poem by denis florence mccarthy. another of these _imrama_ is the "voyage of the sons of o'corra," which has been described at some length by professor o'curry (lect. ms. mat. 289). of this i have a copy which i made from the ms. 23. m. 50, royal irish academy (and which i afterwards carefully compared with another copy lent me by my friend, mr. w.m. hennessy). i made a translation of this story, intending to print it in the present volume; but as there is a much older and better copy in the ancient "book of fermoy," which i had not time to consult in detail, i have thought it better to hold back for the present the strange adventures of the sons of o'corra. a beautiful poetical translation of the whole tale has been made by mr. t.d. sullivan of dublin, and published in his volume of poems. the fairy palace of the quicken trees. the "bruighean caerthainn," or "the fairy palace of the quicken trees," which is now translated for the first time, is one of the most popular of the gaelic romances. i had three of the royal irish academy mss. before me when translating it--viz., 23. c. 30, transcribed in 1733, by the irish writer and lexicographer, andrew mac curtin of the county clare; 24. b. 15, written in 1841; and 23. l. 24, copied in 1766, by dermot o'mulqueen of the county clare. this is one of a type of stories very common in gaelic romantic literature:--one or more of the heroes are entrapped by some enchanter and held under a spell in a castle, or a cave, or a dungeon; till, after a series of adventures, they are released by the bravery or mother-wit of some of their companions. "the chase of slieve fuad" and "the chase of slieve cullinn" are two other examples of this class of gaelic tales. the pursuit of the gilla dacker and his horse. this is a humorous story of a trick--a very serious practical joke--played by avarta, a dedannan enchanter, on sixteen of the fena, whom he carried off to "the land of promise;" and of the adventures of finn, dermat o'dyna, and the others, in their pursuit of avarta (who had taken the shape of the gilla dacker) to recover their companions. it may be regarded as belonging to the same class as the last story. o'curry described the opening of this tale in his lectures (ms. mat. 316); and he was the first, so far as i know, to draw attention to it. i think it strange that such a story should not have been noticed before by writers on gaelic literature; for as a work of imagination, it seems to me a marvellous and very beautiful creation. the battles fought by the king of sorca, aided by finn and his fena, against the king of the world, are described at much length in the original; but i have cut them down to a very short compass; and i have omitted altogether a long episode towards the end, which travels away from the main story. this tale has never been translated till now. i translated it chiefly from the royal irish academy ms., 24. b. 28, a well-written manuscript, which was copied out by edmond terry, in 1728: but i kept another good copy beside me for comparison, viz., that contained in the royal irish academy ms., 23. g. 21, written in 1795, by michael oge o'longan of cork, father of mr. joseph o'longan, now the irish scribe in the royal irish academy, and the transcriber in fac-simile of "leabhar na h-uidhre," "leabhar breac," and "leabhar laighneach." the pursuit of dermat and grania. this tale is one of those mentioned in the list contained in the book of leinster, which was written about a.d. 1130 (see note, page iv.); but though this proves the tale to be an ancient one, i have never come across a copy older than the last century. "the pursuit of dermat and grania" has been published, with text and a very racy idiomatic literal translation, by mr. standish hayes o'grady, in the transactions of the ossianic society for 1855, from a comparison of two manuscripts, one of 1780 and the other of 1842. in addition to mr. o'grady's published text, i made use of another good copy (ms. royal irish academy, 23. g. 21) written in 1795, by michael oge o'longan, already spoken of. i cannot help believing that this fine story originally ended with the death of dermat; though in all the current versions (including mr. o'grady's printed text) there is an additional part recounting the further proceedings of grania and her sons, after the death of the hero. but this part is in every respect inferior to the rest--in language, in feeling, and in play of imagination. it seems to me very clear that it was patched on to the original story by some unskilful hand; and i have accordingly omitted it, and ended the story with the death of dermat. i have also omitted two short episodes--that of the _cnumh_ or reptile of corca divna, as a mere excrescence; and finn's expedition to scotland for aid against dermat. and, for the sake of clearness, i have slightly changed the place of that part of the tale which recounts the origin of the fairy quicken tree of dooros. there are one or two other trifling but very necessary modifications, which need not be mentioned here. the chase of slieve cullinn: the chase of slieve fuad: oisin in tirnanoge. in the original gaelic these are three poetical tales. all three have been printed, with gaelic text and literal translation, in the transactions of the ossianic society: the two first by the late john o'daly, and "oisin in tirnanoge" by professor o'looney. there are many good copies of these tales in the manuscripts of the royal irish academy; though of not one of them have i seen a copy older than the last century. "the chase of slieve cullinn" (commonly known as "the poem of the chase") has been translated into english verse by miss brooke; and there is another metrical translation in the _irish penny journal_ (page 93). and of "oisin in tirnanoge," mr. t.d. sullivan has given a graceful poetical rendering in his volume of poems, already mentioned. preface to the third edition. in this edition there is an additional tale, "the fate of the sons of usna," a notice of which will be found at page x, above. lyre-na-grena, leinster road, rathmines, 1907. footnotes: [i.] in the book of leinster, a manuscript now in trinity college, dublin, which was transcribed about the year 1130, there is a very interesting list of ancient historic tales--187 in all--classified in the manner indicated above, which an ollave was obliged to master, so as to be able to repeat any one of them from memory, whenever his patron required him to do so. (see o'curry, "lectures on the ms. materials of irish history," pages 243 and 584.) [ii.] macpherson never sinned in this way. he caught the true keynote; and his "poems of ossian," however perverted in other respects, are always dignified in thought and expression. among other examples of the true interpretation of the spirit of these old romances, prose and poetry, i may mention miss brooke's "reliques of irish poetry," published in the end of the last century; the rev. dr. drummond's "ancient irish minstrelsy," published in 1852; lady ferguson's graceful and interesting book, "the story of the irish before the conquest" (1868); and mr. standish o'grady's ably written volume, the "history of ireland" (vol. i., the heroic period 1878). [iii.] with one partial exception. in "the book of the dun cow," "the voyage of maildun" is divided into parts or chapters, which are numbered on the margin in roman numerals, each chapter relating to one particular island; but no spaces are left, and the chapters have no headings. in this tale i have followed the old sub-division. [iv.] "deirdrè," by robert d. joyce, m.d., m.r.i.a. boston: roberts brothers. dublin: m.h. gill and son. [v.] o'curry, _atlantis_, nos. vii. and viii., page 390. [vi.] see the ballad and air of "the fairy king's courtship," in the author's "ancient irish music," page 1. contents. the fate of the children of lir; or, the four white swans. chapter page i. bove derg chosen king of the dedannans, 1 ii. the children of lir, 4 iii. the four children of lir are turned into four white 6 swans by their stepmother, iv. the four white swans on lake darvra, 10 v. the four white swans on the sea of moyle, 18 vi. the four white swans on the western sea, 26 vii. the children of lir regain their human shape and die, 32 the fate of the children of turenn; or, the quest for the eric-fine. i. the lochlanns invade erin, 37 ii. the murder of kian, 42 iii. defeat and flight of the lochlanns, 47 iv. the eric-fine on the sons of turenn for the slaying of 51 kian, v. the sons of turenn obtain mannanan's canoe, the 60 wave-sweeper, vi. the apples of the garden of hisberna, 63 vii. the gifted skin of the pig, 67 viii. the blazing spear of the king of persia, 71 ix. the chariot and steeds of the king of sigar, 74 x. the seven pigs of the king of the golden pillars, 78 xi. the hound-whelp of the king of iroda, 81 xii. return of the sons of turenn, with part of the 84 eric-fine, xiii. the cooking-spit of the women of fincara, 87 xiv. the three shouts on midkena's hill, 89 xv. return and death of the sons of turenn, 91 the overflowing of lough neagh, and the story of liban the mermaid. 97 connla of the golden hair and the fairy maiden. 106 the voyage of maildun. i. maildun's childhood and youth. he begins his voyage in 112 quest of the plunderers who slew his father, ii. the first island. tidings of the plunderers, 117 iii. the island of the monstrous ants, 119 iv. the terraced isle of birds, 120 v. a monster, 121 vi. the demon horse-race, 122 vii. the palace of solitude, 124 viii. the island of the wonderful apple tree, 125 ix. the island of bloodthirsty quadrupeds, 126 x. an extraordinary monster, 127 xi. the isle of red-hot animals, 129 xii. the palace of the little cat, 131 xiii. an island that dyed black and white, 133 xiv. the island of the burning river, 135 xv. the miller of hell, 136 xvi. the isle of weeping, 137 xvii. the isle of the four precious walls, 139 xviii. the palace of the crystal bridge, 139 xix. the isle of speaking birds, 143 xx. the aged hermit and the human souls, 143 xxi. the island of the big blacksmiths, 145 xxii. the crystal sea, 147 xxiii. a lovely country beneath the waves, 147 xxiv. an island guarded by a wall of water, 148 xxv. a water-arch in the air, 149 xxvi. the silver pillar of the sea, 150 xxvii. an island standing on one pillar, 151 xxviii. the island queen detains them with her magic 152 thread-clew, xxix. the isle of intoxicating wine-fruits, 156 xxx. the isle of the mystic lake, 157 xxxi. the isle of laughing, 163 xxxii. the isle of the blest, 164 xxxiii. the hermit of the sea-rock, 164 xxxiv. signs of home, 174 xxxv. maildun meets his enemy, and arrives home, 175 the fairy palace of the quicken trees. i. colga, king of lochlann, invades erin, and is slain, 177 ii. midac, the son of colga, meditates revenge, 181 iii. finn is entrapped by midac, and held by enchantment in 189 the palace of the quicken trees, iv. innsa, finn's foster son, defends the ford leading to 196 the palace of the quicken trees, v. ficna, the son of finn, defends the ford, 203 vi. dermat o'dyna slays the three kings of the island of 213 the torrent, breaks the spell with their blood, and frees finn, vii. the fight at the ford with the foreign army, 219 the pursuit of the gilla dacker and his horse. i. arrival of the gilla dacker and his horse, 223 ii. conan and fifteen of the fena are carried off by the 235 gilla dacker's horse, iii. pursuit, 239 iv. dermat o'dyna, in quest of the gilla dacker, 245 encounters the wizard-champion at the well, v. dermat o'dyna in tir-fa-tonn, 253 vi. finn, in quest of dermat, fights many battles, 259 vii. finn and dermat meet, 265 viii. conan and his companions found and rescued, 267 the pursuit of dermat and grania. i. finn, the son of cumal, seeks the princess grania to 274 wife, ii. dermat o'dyna secretly espouses the princess grania, 277 iii. flight and pursuit, 285 iv. the fastness of the seven narrow doors, 289 v. the three sea-champions and their three venomous 296 hounds on the track of dermat and grania, vi. what befell the three sea-champions and their three 305 venomous hounds, vii. sharvan, the surly giant, and the fairy quicken tree 313 of dooros, viii. the attack of the witch-hag, 330 ix. peace and rest at last, 332 x. the death of dermat, 334 the chase of slieve cullinn, 351 the chase of slieve fuad, 362 oisin in tirnanoge; or, the last of the fena, 385 the voyage of the sons of o'corra, 400 the fate of the sons of usna, 427 notes, 455 list of proper names, 471 the fate of the children of lir; or, _the four white swans._ silent, o moyle, be the roar of thy water; break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose; while murmuring mournfully, lir's lonely daughter tells to the night-star her tale of woes. moore. chapter i. bove derg chosen king of the dedannans. after the battle of tailltenn,[vii.] the dedannans[1][viii.] of the five provinces of erin assembled in one place of meeting, to consider on their state, and to choose a king. for their chiefs said it was better for them to have one king over all, than to be divided, as they were, serving sundry lords and princes. now of those who expected the sovereignty for themselves, the following chiefs were the noblest, namely:--bove derg,[ix.] son of the dagda; his brother angus, of bruga on the boyne, who, however, had no earnest wish to become king, preferring to remain as he was; ilbrec of assaroe; lir of shee finnaha; and midir the haughty of bri-leth.[1] then the chief people went into council, all except the five above named; and the decision they came to was to elect bove derg, son of the dagda, king over the whole of the dedannan race. when the election was made known, none of those who were disappointed took the matter to heart except lir of shee finnaha alone. and when lir found that the chiefs had chosen bove derg, he was greatly offended, and straightway left the assembly in anger, without taking leave of any one, and without showing any mark of respect or obedience to the new king. when the chiefs heard this, they were wroth; and they said they would follow him to shee finnaha,[x.] and slay him with spear and sword, and burn his house, because he did not yield obedience to the king they had elected in lawful council. but bove derg would not permit them to do so. "this man," he said, "will defend his territory, and many will be slain; and i am none the less your king, although he has not submitted to me." matters remained so for a long time. but at last a great misfortune happened to lir, for his wife died after an illness of three days. this weighed heavily on him, and his heart was weary with sorrow after her. her death, moreover, was a great event at that time, and was much spoken of throughout erin. when the tidings reached the mansion of bove derg, where the chief men of the dedannans were then assembled, the king said-"as lir's wife is now dead, my friendship would be of service to him, if he were willing to accept it. for i have in my house three maidens, the most beautiful and the best instructed in all erin, namely, eve, eva, and alva, my own foster children, and daughters of allil of ara."[xi.] the dedannans agreed to this, and said that their king had spoken wisely and truly. messengers were accordingly sent to lir, and they were told to say to him-"if thou art willing to submit to the king, he will give thee for a wife one of his three foster children; and thou shalt have his friendship for ever." it was pleasing to lir to make this alliance; and accordingly he set out next day from shee finnaha with a company of fifty chariots; and they never halted or turned aside till they reached the palace of bove derg, on the shore of the great lake.[xii.] their arrival gave much joy and happiness to the king and his household; for although lir did not submit at first to bove derg, he was a good man, and was greatly beloved by the king himself and by all his subjects. so lir and his followers got a kindly welcome; and they were supplied with everything necessary, and were well attended to that night. next day, the three daughters of allil of ara sat on the same couch with the queen their foster mother; and the king said to lir-"take thy choice of the three maidens, and whichever thou choosest, she shall be thy wife." "they are all beautiful," said lir, "and i cannot tell which of them is best; but i will take the eldest, for she must be the noblest of the three." then the king said, "eve is the eldest, and she shall be given to thee if it be thy wish." so lir chose eve for his wife, and they were wedded that day. lir remained a fortnight in the king's palace, and then departed with his wife to his own house, shee finnaha, where he celebrated his marriage by a great royal wedding feast. footnotes: [vii.] now teltown, on the river blackwater, between kells and navan, in meath. (see note 1 at the end, for this battle.) [viii.] the numbers refer to the notes at the end of the book. [ix.] at the end of the book will be found an alphabetical list of all the names of persons and places mentioned through the volume, with their gaelic forms, and, in many cases, their meanings. [x.] shee finnaha, lir's residence, is thought to have been situated near the boundary of armagh and monaghan, not far from newtown hamilton. [xi.] ara, the islands of aran, in galway bay. [xii.] the great lake, _i.e._ lough derg, on the shannon, above killaloe. chapter ii. the children of lir. in course of time, lir's wife bore him two children at a birth, a daughter and a son, whose names were finola and aed. a second time she brought forth twins, two sons, who were named ficra and conn: and she died in giving them birth. this was a cause of great anguish to lir; and he would almost have died of grief, only that his mind was turned from his sorrow by his great love for his four little children. when the news of eve's death reached the mansion of bove derg, the king was in deep grief, and the people of his household raised three great cries of lamentation for her. and when their mourning was ended, the king said-"we grieve for our foster child, both on her own account, and for the sake of the good man to whom we gave her; for we are thankful for his alliance and his friendship. but our acquaintance shall not be ended, and our alliance shall not be broken; for i will give him her sister to wife, my second foster child, eva." messengers were sent to lir to shee finnaha, to tell him of this; and he consented. so after some time he came to the king's house to espouse her, and they were united; and he brought her home with him to his own house. the four children grew up under eva's care. she nursed them with great tenderness, and her love for them increased every day. they slept near their father; and he would often rise from his own bed at the dawn of morning, and go to their beds, to talk with them and to fondle them. the king, bove derg, loved them almost as well as did their father. he went many times every year to shee finnaha to see them; and he used to bring them often to his palace, where he kept them as long as he could on each occasion, and he always felt sad when he sent them home. at this time, too, the dedannans used to celebrate the feast of age[2] at the houses of their chiefs by turns; and whenever it happened that the festival was held at shee finnaha, these children were the delight and joy of the dedannans. for nowhere could four lovelier children be found; so that those who saw them were always delighted with their beauty and their gentleness, and could not help loving them with their whole heart. chapter iii. the four children of lir are turned into four white swans by their stepmother. now when eva saw that the children of lir received such attention and affection from their father, and from all others that came to his house, she fancied she was neglected on their account; and a poisonous dart of jealousy entered her heart, which turned her love to hatred; and she began to have feelings of bitter enmity for her sister's children. her jealousy so preyed on her that she feigned illness, and lay in bed for nearly a year, filled with gall and brooding mischief; and at the end of that time she committed a foul and cruel deed of treachery on the children of lir. one day she ordered her horses to be yoked to her chariot, and she set out for the palace of bove derg, bringing the four children with her. finola did not wish to go, for it was revealed to her darkly in a dream that eva was bent on some dreadful deed of fratricide;[xiii.] and she knew well that her stepmother intended to kill her and her brothers that day, or in some other way to bring ruin on them. but she was not able to avoid the fate that awaited her. when they had gone some distance from shee finnaha on their way to the palace, eva tried to persuade her attendants to kill the children. "kill them, and you shall be rewarded with all the worldly wealth you may desire; for their father loves me no longer, and has neglected and forsaken me on account of his great love for these children." but they heard her with horror, and refused, saying, "we will not kill them. fearful is the deed thou hast contemplated, o eva; and evil will surely befall thee for having even thought of killing them." then she took the sword to slay them herself; but her woman's weakness prevented her, and she was not able to strike them. so they set out once more, and fared on till they came to the shore of lake darvra,[xiv.] where they alighted, and the horses were unyoked. she led the children to the edge of the lake, and told them to go to bathe; and as soon as they had got into the clear water, she struck them one by one with a druidical[3] fairy wand, and turned them into four beautiful snow-white swans. and she addressed them in these words- out to your home, ye swans, on darvra's wave; with clamorous birds begin your life of gloom: your friends shall weep your fate, but none can save; for i've pronounced the dreadful words of doom. after this, the four children of lir turned their faces to their stepmother; and finola spoke-"evil is the deed thou hast done, o eva; thy friendship to us has been a friendship of treachery; and thou hast ruined us without cause. but the deed will be avenged; for the power of thy witchcraft is not greater than the druidical power of our friends to punish thee; and the doom that awaits thee shall be worse than ours." our stepmother loved us long ago; our stepmother now has wrought us woe: with magical wand and fearful words, she changed us to beautiful snow-white birds; and we live on the waters for evermore, by tempests driven from shore to shore. finola again spoke and said, "tell us now how long we shall be in the shape of swans, so that we may know when our miseries shall come to an end." "it would be better for you if you had not put that question," said eva; "but i shall declare the truth to you, as you have asked me. three hundred years on smooth lake darvra; three hundred years on the sea of moyle, between erin and alban;[xv.] three hundred years at irros domnann and inis glora[xvi.] on the western sea. until the union of largnen, the prince from the north, with decca, the princess from the south; until the taillkenn[xvii.] shall come to erin, bringing the light of a pure faith; and until ye hear the voice of the christian bell. and neither by your own power, nor by mine, nor by the power of your friends, can ye be freed till the time comes." then eva repented what she had done; and she said, "since i cannot afford you any other relief, i will allow you to keep your own gaelic speech; and ye shall be able to sing sweet, plaintive, fairy music, which shall excel all the music of the world, and which shall lull to sleep all that listen to it. moreover, ye shall retain your human reason; and ye shall not be in grief on account of being in the shape of swans." and she chanted this lay- depart from me, ye graceful swans; the waters are now your home: your palace shall be the pearly cave, your couch the crest of the crystal wave, and your mantle the milk-white foam! depart from me, ye snow-white swans with your music and gaelic speech: the crystal darvra, the wintry moyle, the billowy margin of glora's isle;- three hundred years on each! victorious lir, your hapless sire, his lov'd ones in vain shall call; his weary heart is a husk of gore, his home is joyless for evermore, and his anger on me shall fall! through circling ages of gloom and fear your anguish no tongue can tell; till faith shall shed her heavenly rays, till ye hear the taillkenn's anthem of praise, and the voice of the christian bell! then ordering her steeds to be yoked to her chariot she departed westwards, leaving the four white swans swimming on the lake. our father shall watch and weep in vain; he never shall see us return again. four pretty children, happy at home; four white swans on the feathery foam; and we live on the waters for evermore, by tempests driven from shore to shore. footnotes: [xiii.] the word "fratricide" is the nearest english equivalent to the original word, _fionghal_, which means the murder of a relative. [xiv.] lake darvra, now lough derravaragh, in westmeath. [xv.] the sea between erin and alban (ireland and scotland) was anciently called the sea of moyle, from the moyle, or mull, of cantire. [xvi.] irros domnann; erris, in the county mayo. inis glora; a small island about five miles west from belmullet, in the same county, still known by the same name. [xvii.] taillkenn, a name given by the druids to st. patrick. chapter iv. the four white swans on lake darvra. when eva arrived at the house of bove derg, the chiefs bade her welcome; and the king asked her why she had not brought the children of lir to him. "because," she replied, "lir no longer loves thee; and he does not wish to intrust his children to thee, lest thou shouldst harm them." the king was greatly astonished and troubled at this, and he said, "how can that be? for i love those children better than i love my own." but he thought in his own mind that eva had played some treachery on them. and he sent messengers with all speed northwards to shee finnaha, to inquire for the children, and to ask that they might be sent to him. when the messengers had told their errand, lir was startled; and he asked, "have the children not reached the palace with eva?" they answered, "eva arrived alone, and she told the king that you refused to let the children come." a sad and sorrowful heart had lir when he heard this; and he now felt sure that eva had destroyed his four lovely children. so, early next morning, his chariot was yoked for him, and he set out with his attendants for the king's palace; and they travelled with all speed till they arrived at the shore of lake darvra. the children of lir saw the cavalcade approaching; and finola spoke these words- i see a mystic warrior band from yonder brow approach the strand; i see them winding down the vale, their bending chariots slow advancing; i see their shields and gilded mail, their spears and helmets brightly glancing. ah! well i know that proud array; i know too well their thoughts to-day: the dannan host and royal lir; four rosy children they are seeking: too soon, alas! they find us here, four snowy swans like children speaking! come, brothers dear, approach the coast, to welcome lir's mysterious host. oh, woful welcome! woful day, that never brings a bright to-morrow! unhappy father, doomed for aye to mourn our fate in hopeless sorrow! when lir came to the shore, he heard the birds speaking, and, wondering greatly, he asked them how it came to pass that they had human voices. "know, o lir," said finola, "that we are thy four children, who have been changed into swans and ruined by the witchcraft of our stepmother, our own mother's sister, eva, through her baleful jealousy." when lir and his people heard this, they uttered three long mournful cries of grief and lamentation. after a time, their father asked them, "is it possible to restore you to your own shapes?" "it is not possible," replied finola; "no man has the power to release us until largnen from the north and decca from the south are united. three hundred years we shall be on lake darvra; three hundred years on the sea-stream of moyle; three hundred years on the sea of glora in the west. and we shall not regain our human shape till the taillkenn come with his pure faith into erin, and until we hear the voice of the christian bell." and again the people raised three great cries of sorrow. "as you have your speech and your reason," said lir, "come now to land, and ye shall live at home, conversing with me and my people." "we are not permitted to leave the waters of the lake, and we cannot live with our people any more. but the wicked eva has allowed us to retain our human reason, and our own gaelic speech; and we have also the power to chant plaintive, fairy music, so sweet that those who listen to us would never desire any other happiness. remain with us to-night, and we will chant our music for you." lir and his people remained on the shore of the lake; and the swans sang their slow, fairy music, which was so sweet and sad, that the people, as they listened, fell into a calm, gentle sleep. at the glimmer of dawn next morning, lir arose, and he bade farewell to his children for a while, to seek out eva. the time has come for me to part:- no more, alas! my children dear, your rosy smiles shall glad my heart, or light the gloomy home of lir. dark was the day when first i brought this eva in my home to dwell! hard was the woman's heart that wrought this cruel and malignant spell! i lay me down to rest in vain; for, through the livelong, sleepless night, my little lov'd ones, pictured plain, stand ever there before my sight. finola, once my pride and joy; dark aed, adventurous and bold; bright ficra, gentle, playful boy; and little conn, with curls of gold;- struck down on darvra's reedy shore, by wicked eva's magic power: oh, children, children, never more my heart shall know one peaceful hour! lir then departed, and travelled south-west till he arrived at the king's palace, where he was welcomed; and bove derg began to reproach him, in presence of eva, for not bringing the children. "alas!" said lir; "it was not by me that the children were prevented from coming. but eva, your own foster child, the sister of their mother, has played treachery on them; and has changed them by her sorcery into four white swans on lake darvra." the king was confounded and grieved at this news; and when he looked at eva, he knew by her countenance that what lir had told him was true; and he began to upbraid her in a fierce and angry voice. "the wicked deed thou hast committed," said he, "will be worse for thee than for the children of lir; for their suffering shall come to an end, and they shall be happy at last." again he spoke to her more fiercely than before; and he asked her what shape of all others, on the earth, or above the earth, or beneath the earth, she most abhorred, and into which she most dreaded to be transformed. and she, being forced to answer truly, said, "a demon of the air."[xviii.] "that is the form you shall take," said bove derg; and as he spoke he struck her with a druidical magic wand, and turned her into a demon of the air. she opened her wings, and flew with a scream upwards and away through the clouds; and she is still a demon of the air, and she shall be a demon of the air till the end of time. then bove derg and the dedannans assembled on the shore of the lake, and encamped there; for they wished to remain with the birds, and to listen to their music. the milesian people[xix.] came and formed an encampment there in like manner; for historians say that no music that was ever heard in erin could be compared with the singing of these swans. and so the swans passed their time. during the day they conversed with the men of erin, both dedannans and milesians, and discoursed lovingly with their friends and fellow nurselings; and at night they chanted their slow, sweet, fairy music, the most delightful that was ever heard by men; so that all who listened to it, even those who were in grief, or sickness, or pain, forgot their sorrows and their sufferings, and fell into a gentle, sweet sleep, from which they awoke bright and happy. so they continued, the dedannans and the milesians, in their encampments, and the swans on the lake, for three hundred years.[xx.] and at the end of that time, finola said to her brothers-"do you know, my dear brothers, that we have come to the end of our time here; and that we have only this one night to spend on lake darvra?" when the three sons of lir heard this, they were in great distress and sorrow; for they were almost as happy on lake darvra, surrounded by their friends, and conversing with them day by day, as if they had been in their father's house in their own natural shapes; whereas they should now live on the gloomy and tempestuous sea of moyle, far away from all human society. early next morning, they came to the margin of the lake, to speak to their father and their friends for the last time, and to bid them farewell; and finola chanted this lay- i. farewell, farewell, our father dear! the last sad hour has come: farewell, bove derg! farewell to all, till the dreadful day of doom![xxi.] we go from friends and scenes beloved, to a home of grief and pain; and that day of woe shall come and go, before we meet again! ii. we live for ages on stormy moyle, in loneliness and fear; the kindly words of loving friends we never more shall hear. four joyous children long ago; four snow-white swans to-day; and on moyle's wild sea our robe shall be the cold and briny spray. iii. far down on the misty stream of time, when three hundred years are o'er, three hundred more in storm and cold, by glora's desolate shore; till decca fair is largnen's spouse; till north and south unite; till the hymns are sung, and the bells are rung, at the dawn of the pure faith's light. iv. arise, my brothers, from darvra's wave, on the wings of the southern wind; we leave our father and friends to-day in measureless grief behind. ah! sad the parting, and sad our flight to moyle's tempestuous main; for the day of woe shall come and go, before we meet again! the four swans then spread their wings, and rose from the surface of the water in sight of all their friends, till they reached a great height in the air, then resting, and looking downwards for a moment, they flew straight to the north, till they alighted on the sea of moyle between erin and alban. the men of erin were grieved at their departure, and they made a law, and proclaimed it throughout the land, that no one should kill a swan in erin from that time forth. footnotes: [xviii.] demon of the air was held in great abhorrence by the ancient irish. [xix.] the milesian people; the colony who conquered and succeeded the dedannans. (see note 1 at end.) [xx.] the dedannans were regarded as gods, and were immortal or semi-immortal. (see note 1 at the end.) [xxi.] it must be remembered that the children of lir had some obscure foreknowledge of the coming of christianity. chapter v. the four white swans on the sea of moyle. as to the children of lir, miserable was their abode and evil their plight on the sea of moyle. their hearts were wrung with sorrow for their father and their friends; and when they looked towards the steep, rocky, far-stretching coasts, and saw the great, dark wild sea around them, they were overwhelmed with fear and despair. they began also to suffer from cold and hunger, so that all the hardships they had endured on lake darvra appeared as nothing compared with their suffering on the sea-current of moyle. and so they lived, till one night a great tempest fell upon the sea. finola, when she saw the sky filled with black, threatening clouds, thus addressed her brothers-"beloved brothers, we have made a bad preparation for this night; for it is certain that the coming storm will separate us; and now let us appoint a place of meeting, or it may happen that we shall never see each other again." and they answered, "dear sister, you speak truly and wisely; and let us fix on carricknarone, for that is a rock that we are all very well acquainted with." and they appointed carricknarone as their place of meeting. midnight came, and with it came the beginning of the storm. a wild, rough wind swept over the dark sea, the lightnings flashed, and the great waves rose, and increased their violence and their thunder. the swans were soon scattered over the waters, so that not one of them knew in what direction the others had been driven. during all that night they were tossed about by the roaring winds and waves, and it was with much difficulty they preserved their lives. towards morning the storm abated, and the sea became again calm and smooth; and finola swam to carricknarone. but she found none of her brothers there, neither could she see any trace of them when she looked all round from the summit of the rock over the wide face of the sea. then she became terrified, for she thought she should never see them again; and she began to lament them plaintively in these words- the heart-breaking anguish and woe of this life i am able no longer to bear: my wings are benumbed with this pitiless frost; my three little brothers are scattered and lost; and i am left here to despair. my three little brothers i never shall see till the dead shall arise from the tomb: how i sheltered them oft with my wings and my breast, and i soothed their sorrows and lulled them to rest, as the night fell around us in gloom! ah, where are my brothers, and why have i lived, this last worst affliction to know? what now is there left but a life of despair?- for alas! i am able no longer to bear this heart-breaking anguish and woe.[xxii.] soon after this she looked again over the sea, and she saw conn coming towards the rock, with his head drooping, and his feathers all drenched with the salt spray; and she welcomed him with joyful heart. not long after, ficra appeared, but he was so faint with wet and cold and hardship, that he was scarce able to reach the place where finola and conn were standing; and when they spoke to him he could not speak one word in return. so finola placed the two under her wings, and she said-"if aed were here now, all would be happy with us." in a little time they saw aed coming towards them, with head erect and feathers all dry and radiant and finola gave him a joyful welcome. she then placed him under the feathers of her breast, while conn and ficra remained under her wings; and she said to them-"my dear brothers, though ye may think this night very bad, we shall have many like it from this time forth." so they continued for a long time on the sea of moyle, suffering hardships of every kind, till one winter night came upon them, of great wind and of snow and frost so severe, that nothing they ever before suffered could be compared to the misery of that night. and finola uttered these words- our life is a life of woe; no shelter or rest we find: how bitterly drives the snow; how cold is this wintry wind! from the icy spray of the sea, from the wind of the bleak north east, i shelter my brothers three, under my wings and breast. our stepmother sent us here, and misery well we know:- in cold and hunger and fear; our life is a life of woe! another year passed away on the sea of moyle; and one night in january, a dreadful frost came down on the earth and sea, so that the waters were frozen into a solid floor of ice all round them. the swans remained on carricknarone all night, and their feet and their wings were frozen to the icy surface, so that they had to strive hard to move from their places in the morning; and they left the skin of their feet, the quills of their wings, and the feathers of their breasts clinging to the rock. "sad is our condition this night, my beloved brothers," said finola, "for we are forbidden to leave the sea of moyle; and yet we cannot bear the salt water, for when it enters our wounds, i fear we shall die of pain." and she spoke this lay- our fate is mournful here to-day; our bodies bare and chill, drenched by the bitter, briny spray, and torn on this rocky hill! cruel our stepmother's jealous heart that banished us from home; transformed to swans by magic art, to swim the ocean foam. this bleak and snowy winter day, our bath is the ocean wide; in thirsty summer's burning ray, our drink the briny tide. and here 'mid rugged rocks we dwell, in this tempestuous bay; four children bound by magic spell;- our fate is sad to-day! they were, however, forced to swim out on the stream of moyle, all wounded and torn as they were; for though the brine was sharp and bitter, they were not able to avoid it. they stayed as near the coast as they could, till after a long time the feathers of their breasts and wings grew again, and their wounds were healed. after this they lived on for a great number of years, sometimes visiting the shores of erin, and sometimes the headlands of alban. but they always returned to the sea-stream of moyle, for it was destined to be their home till the end of three hundred years. one day they came to the mouth of the bann, on the north coast of erin, and looking inland, they saw a stately troop of horsemen approaching directly from the south-west. they were mounted on white steeds, and clad in bright-coloured garments, and as they wound towards the shore their arms glittered in the sun. "do ye know yonder cavalcade?" said finola to her brothers. "we know them not," they replied; "but it is likely they are a party of the milesians, or perchance a troop of our own people, the dedannans." they swam towards the shore, to find out who the strangers were; and the cavalcade on their part, when they saw the swans, knew them at once, and moved towards them till they were within speaking distance. now these were a party of the dedannans; and the chiefs who commanded them were the two sons of bove derg, the dedannan king, namely, aed the keen-witted, and fergus the chess-player, with a third part of the fairy host.[xxiii.] they had been for a long time searching for the children of lir along the northern shores of erin, and now that they had found them, they were joyful; and they and the swans greeted each other with tender expressions of friendship and love. the children of lir inquired after the dedannans, and particularly after their father lir, and bove derg, and all the rest of their friends and acquaintances. "they are all well," replied the chiefs; "and they and the dedannans in general are now gathered together in the house of your father, at shee finnaha, celebrating the feast of age,[2] pleasantly and agreeably. their happiness would indeed be complete, only that you are not with them, and that they know not where you have been since you left lake darvra." "miserable has been our life since that day," said finola; "and no tongue can tell the suffering and sorrow we have endured on the sea of moyle." and she chanted these words- ah, happy is lir's bright home to-day, with mead and music and poet's lay: but gloomy and cold his children's home, for ever tossed on the briny foam. our wreathèd feathers are thin and light when the wind blows keen through the wintry night: yet oft we were robed, long, long ago, in purple mantles and furs of snow. on moyle's bleak current our food and wine are sandy sea-weed and bitter brine: yet oft we feasted in days of old, and hazel-mead drank from cups of gold. our beds are rocks in the dripping caves; our lullaby song the roar of the waves: but soft rich couches once we pressed, and harpers lulled us each night to rest. lonely we swim on the billowy main, through frost and snow, through storm and rain: alas for the days when round us moved the chiefs and princes and friends we loved! my little twin brothers beneath my wings lie close when the north wind bitterly stings, and aed close nestles before my breast; thus side by side through the night we rest. our father's fond kisses, bove derg's embrace, the light of mannanan's[1] godlike face, the love of angus[1]--all, all are o'er; and we live on the billows for evermore! after this they bade each other farewell, for it was not permitted to the children of lir to remain away from the stream of moyle. as soon as they had parted, the fairy cavalcade returned to shee finnaha, where they related to the dedannan chiefs all that had passed, and described the condition of the children of lir. and the chiefs answered-"it is not in our power to help them; but we are glad that they are living; and we know that in the end the enchantment will be broken, and that they will be freed from their sufferings." as to the children of lir, they returned to their home on the sea of moyle, and there they remained till they had fulfilled their term of years. footnotes: [xxii.] many of these old poems begin and end with the same line or couplet. [xxiii.] fairy host; _i.e._ the dedannans. (see note 1 at the end of the book.) chapter vi. the four white swans on the western sea. and when their three hundred years were ended, finola said to her brothers-"it is time for us to leave this place, for our period here has come to an end." the hour has come; the hour has come; three hundred years have passed: we leave this bleak and gloomy home, and we fly to the west at last! we leave for ever the stream of moyle; on the clear, cold wind we go; three hundred years round glora's isle, where wintry tempests blow! no sheltered home, no place of rest, from the tempest's angry blast: fly, brothers, fly, to the distant west, for the hour has come at last! so the swans left the sea of moyle, and flew westward, till they reached irros domnann and the sea round the isle of glora. there they remained for a long time, suffering much from storm and cold, and in nothing better off than they were on the sea of moyle. it chanced that a young man named ebric, of good family, the owner of a tract of land lying along the shore, observed the birds and heard their singing. he took great delight in listening to their plaintive music, and he walked down to the shore almost every day, to see them and to converse with them; so that he came to love them very much, and they also loved him. this young man told his neighbours about the speaking swans, so that the matter became noised abroad; and it was he who arranged the story, after hearing it from themselves, and related it as it is related here. again their hardships were renewed, and to describe what they suffered on the great open western sea would be only to tell over again the story of their life on the moyle. but one particular night came, of frost so hard that the whole face of the sea, from irros domnann to achill, was frozen into a thick floor of ice; and the snow was driven by a north-west wind. on that night it seemed to the three brothers that they could not bear their sufferings any longer, and they began to utter loud and pitiful complaints. finola tried to console them, but she was not able to do so, for they only lamented the more; and then she herself began to lament with the others. after a time, finola spoke to them and said, "my dear brothers, believe in the great and splendid god of truth, who made the earth with its fruits, and the sea with its wonders; put your trust in him, and he will send you help and comfort." "we believe in him," said they. "and i also," said finola, "believe in god, who is perfect in everything, and who knows all things." and at the destined hour they all believed, and the lord of heaven sent them help and protection; so that neither cold nor tempest molested them from that time forth, as long as they abode on the western sea. so they continued at the point of irros domnann, till they had fulfilled their appointed time there. and finola addressed the sons of lir-"my dear brothers, the end of our time here has come; we shall now go to visit our father and our people." and her brothers were glad when they heard this. then they rose lightly from the face of the sea, and flew eastward with joyful hopes, till they reached shee finnaha. but when they alighted they found the place deserted and solitary, its halls all ruined and overgrown with rank grass and forests of nettles; no houses, no fire, no mark of human habitation. then the four swans drew close together, and they uttered three loud mournful cries of sorrow. and finola chanted this lay- what meaneth this sad, this fearful change, that withers my heart with woe? the house of my father all joyless and lone, its halls and its gardens with weeds overgrown,- a dreadful and strange overthrow! no conquering heroes, no hounds for the chase, no shields in array on its walls, no bright silver goblets, no gay cavalcades, no youthful assemblies or high-born maids, to brighten its desolate halls! an omen of sadness--the home of our youth all ruined, deserted, and bare. alas for the chieftain, the gentle and brave; his glories and sorrows are stilled in the grave, and we left to live in despair! from ocean to ocean, from age unto age, we have lived to the fulness of time; through a life such as men never heard of we've passed, in suffering and sorrow our doom has been cast, by our stepmother's pitiless crime! the children of lir remained that night in the ruins of the palace--the home of their forefathers, where they themselves had been nursed; and several times during the night they chanted their sad, sweet, fairy music. early next morning they left shee finnaha, and flew west to inis glora, where they alighted on a small lake. there they began to sing so sweetly that all the birds of the district gathered in flocks round them on the lake, and on its shore, to listen to them; so that the little lake came to be called the lake of the bird-flocks. during the day the birds used to fly to distant points of the coast to feed, now to iniskea of the lonely crane,[xxiv.] now to achill, and sometimes southwards to donn's sea rocks,[xxv.] and to many other islands and headlands along the shore of the western sea, but they returned to inis glora every night. they lived in this manner till holy patrick came to erin with the pure faith; and until saint kemoc came to inis glora. the first night kemoc came to the island, the children of lir heard his bell at early matin time, ringing faintly in the distance. and they trembled greatly, and started, and ran wildly about; for the sound of the bell was strange and dreadful to them, and its tones filled them with great fear. the three brothers were more affrighted than finola, so that she was left quite alone; but after a time they came to her, and she asked them-"do you know, my brothers, what sound is this?" and they answered, "we have heard a faint, fearful voice, but we know not what it is." "this is the voice of the christian bell," said finola; "and now the end of our suffering is near; for this bell is the signal that we shall soon be freed from our spell, and released from our life of suffering; for god has willed it." and she chanted this lay- listen, ye swans, to the voice of the bell, the sweet bell we've dreamed of for many a year; its tones floating by on the night breezes, tell that the end of our long life of sorrow is near! listen, ye swans, to the heavenly strain; 'tis the anchoret tolling his soft matin bell: he has come to release us from sorrow, from pain, from the cold and tempestuous shores where we dwell! trust in the glorious lord of the sky; he will free us from eva's druidical spell: be thankful and glad, for our freedom is nigh, and listen with joy to the voice of the bell! then her brothers became calm; and the four swans remained listening to the music of the bell, till the cleric had finished his matins. "let us sing our music now," said finola. and they chanted a low, sweet, plaintive strain of fairy music, to praise and thank the great high king of heaven and earth. kemoc heard the music from where he stood; and he listened with great astonishment. but after a time it was revealed to him that it was the children of lir who sang that music; and he was glad, for it was to seek them he had come. when morning dawned he came to the shore of the lake, and he saw the four white swans swimming on the water. he spoke to them, and asked them were they the children of lir. they replied, "we are indeed the children of lir, who were changed long ago into swans by our wicked stepmother." "i give god thanks that i have found you," said kemoc; "for it is on your account i have come to this little island in preference to all the other islands of erin. come ye now to land, and trust in me; for it is in this place that you are destined to be freed from your enchantment." so they, filled with joy on hearing the words of the cleric, came to the shore, and placed themselves under his care. he brought them to his own house, and, sending for a skilful workman, he caused him to make two bright, slender chains of silver; and he put a chain between finola and aed, and the other chain he put between ficra and conn. so they lived with him, listening to his instructions day by day, and joining in his devotions. they were the delight and joy of the cleric, and he loved them with his whole heart; and the swans were so happy that the memory of all the misery they had suffered during their long life on the waters caused them neither distress nor sorrow now. footnotes: [xxiv.] iniskea; a little rocky island near the coast of erris, in mayo. "the lonely crane of iniskea" was one of the "wonders of ireland." according to an ancient legend, which still lives among the peasantry of mayo, a crane--one lonely bird--has lived on the island since the beginning of the world, and will live there till the day of judgment. [xxv.] donn's sea rocks--called in the text _teach-dhuinn_, or donn's house, which is also the present irish name; a group of three rocks off kenmare bay, where donn, one of the milesian brothers, was drowned. these remarkable rocks are now called in english the "bull, cow, and calf." chapter vii. the children of lir regain their human shape and die. the king who ruled over connaught at this time was largnen, the son of colman; and his queen was decca, the daughter of finnin,[xxvi.] king of munster,--the same king and queen whom eva had spoken of in her prophecy long ages before. now word was brought to queen decca regarding these wonderful speaking swans, and their whole history was related to her; so that even before she saw them, she could not help loving them, and she was seized with a strong desire to have them herself. so she went to the king, and besought him that he would go to kemoc and get her the swans. but largnen said that he did not wish to ask them from kemoc. whereupon decca grew indignant; and she declared that she would not sleep another night in the palace till he had obtained the swans for her. so she left the palace that very hour, and fled southwards towards her father's home. largnen, when he found she had gone, sent in haste after her, with word that he would try to procure the swans; but the messengers did not overtake her till she had reached killaloe. however, she returned with them to the palace; and as soon as she had arrived, the king sent to kemoc to request that he would send the birds to the queen; but kemoc refused to give them. largnen became very angry at this; and he set out at once for the cleric's house. as soon as he had come, he asked the cleric whether it was true that he had refused to give the swans to the queen. and when kemoc answered that it was quite true, the king, being very wroth, went up to where the swans stood, and seizing the two silver chains, one in each hand, he drew the birds from the altar, and turned towards the door of the church, intending to bring them by force to the queen; while kemoc followed him, much alarmed lest they should be injured. the king had proceeded only a little way, when suddenly the white feathery robes faded and disappeared; and the swans regained their human shape, finola being transformed into an extremely old woman, and the three sons into three feeble old men, white-haired and bony and wrinkled. when the king saw this, he started with affright, and instantly left the place without speaking one word; while kemoc reproached and denounced him very bitterly. as to the children of lir, they turned towards kemoc; and finola spoke-"come, holy cleric, and baptise us without delay, for our death is near. you will grieve after us, o kemoc; but in truth you are not more sorrowful at parting from us than we are at parting from you. make our grave here and bury us together; and as i often sheltered my brothers when we were swans, so let us be placed in the grave--conn standing near me at my right side, ficra at my left, and aed before my face."[xxvii.] come, holy priest, with book and prayer; baptise and shrive us here: haste, cleric, haste, for the hour has come, and death at last is near! dig our grave--a deep, deep grave, near the church we loved so well; this little church, where first we heard the voice of the christian bell. as oft in life my brothers dear were sooth'd by me to rest- ficra and conn beneath my wings, and aed before my breast; so place the two on either hand- close, like the love that bound me; place aed as close before my face, and twine their arms around me. thus shall we rest for evermore, my brothers dear and i: haste, cleric, haste, baptise and shrive, for death at last is nigh! then the children of lir were baptised, and they died immediately. and when they died, kemoc looked up; and lo, he saw a vision of four lovely children, with light, silvery wings, and faces all radiant with joy. they gazed on him for a moment; but even as they gazed, they vanished upwards, and he saw them no more. and he was filled with gladness, for he knew they had gone to heaven; but when he looked down on the four bodies lying before him, he became sad and wept. and kemoc caused a wide grave to be dug near the little church; and the children of lir were buried together, as finola had directed--conn at her right hand, ficra at her left, and aed standing before her face. and he raised a grave-mound over them, placing a tombstone on it, with their names graved in ogam;[xxviii.] after which he uttered a lament for them, and their funeral rites were performed. so far we have related the sorrowful story of the fate of the children of lir. footnotes: [xxvi.] these are well-known historical personages, who flourished in the seventh century. [xxvii.] among the ancient celtic nations, the dead were often buried standing up in the grave. it was in this way finola and her brothers were buried. [xxviii.] ogam, a sort of writing, often used on sepulchral stones to mark the names of the persons buried. the fate of the children of turenn; or, _the quest for the eric-fine._ for the blood that we spilled, for the hero we killed, toil and woe, toil and woe, till the doom is fulfilled! chapter i. the lochlanns invade erin. when the dedannans[1] held sway in erin, a prosperous free-born king ruled over them, whose name was nuada of the silver hand.[4] in the time of this king, the fomorians,[5] from lochlann,[6] in the north, oppressed the dedannans, and forced them to pay heavy tributes; namely, a tax on kneading-troughs, a tax on querns, and a tax on baking flags; and besides all this, an ounce of gold for each man of the dedannans. these tributes had to be paid every year at the hill of usna;[xxix.] and if any one refused or neglected to pay his part, his nose was cut off by the fomorian tyrants. at this time a great fair-meeting was held by the king of ireland, nuada of the silver hand, on the hill of usna. not long had the people been assembled, when they saw a stately band of warriors, all mounted on white steeds, coming towards them from the east; and at their head, high in command over all, rode a young champion, tall and comely, with a countenance as bright and glorious as the setting sun. this young warrior was luga of the long arms.[7] he was accompanied by his foster brothers, namely, the sons of mannanan mac lir; and the troop he led was the fairy host from the land of promise.[8] now in this manner was he arrayed. he rode the steed of mannanan mac lir,[8] namely, enbarr of the flowing mane: no warrior was ever killed on the back of this steed, for she was as swift as the clear, cold wind of spring, and she travelled with equal ease on land and on sea. he wore mannanan's coat of mail: no one could be wounded through it, or above it, or below it. he had on his breast mannanan's breast-plate, which no weapon could pierce. his helmet had two glittering precious stones set in front, and one behind; and whenever he took it off, his face shone like the sun on a dry day in summer. mannanan's sword, the answerer, hung at his left side: no one ever recovered from its wound; and those who were opposed to it in the battle-field were so terrified by looking at it, that their strength left them till they became weaker than a woman in deadly sickness. this troop came forward to where the king of erin sat surrounded by the dedannans, and both parties exchanged friendly greetings. a short time after this they saw another company approaching, quite unlike the first, for they were grim and fierce and surly looking; namely, the tax-gatherers of the fomorians, to the number of nine nines, who were coming to demand their yearly tribute from the men of erin. when they reached the place where the king sat, the entire assembly--the king himself among the rest--rose up before them. for the whole dedannan race stood in great dread of these fomorian tax-collectors; so much so that no man dared even to chastise his own son without first seeking their consent. then luga of the long arms spoke to the king and said, "why have ye stood up before this hateful-looking company, when ye did not stand up for us?" "we durst not do otherwise," replied the king; "for if even an infant of a month old remained seated before them, they would deem it cause enough for killing us all." when luga heard this he brooded in silence for a little while, and then he said, "of a truth, i feel a great desire to kill all these men!" then he mused again, and after a time, said, "i am strongly urged to kill these men!" "that deed would doubtless bring great evil on us," said the king, "for then the fomorians would be sure to send an army to destroy us all." but luga, after another pause, started up, exclaiming, "long have ye been oppressed in this manner!" and so saying, he attacked the fomorians, dealing red slaughter among them. neither did he hold his hand till he had slain them all except nine. these he spared, because they ran with all speed and sat nigh the king, that he might protect them from luga's wrath. then luga put his sword back into its scabbard, and said, "i would slay you also, only that i wish you to go and tell your king, and the foreigners in general, what you have seen." these nine men accordingly returned to their own country, and they told their tale to the fomorian people from beginning to end--how the strange, noble-faced youth had slain all the tax-collectors except nine, whom he spared that they might bring home the story. when they had ended speaking, the king, balor[9] of the mighty blows and of the evil eye, asked the chiefs, "do ye know who this youth is?" and when they answered, "no," kethlenda,[9] balor's queen, said-"i know well who the youth is: he is the ildana,[xxx.] luga of the long arms, the son of your daughter and mine; and it has been long foretold that when he should appear in erin, our sway over the dedannans should come to an end." then the chief people of the fomorians held council; namely, balor of the mighty blows, and his twelve sons, and his queen kethlenda of the crooked teeth; ebb and sencab, the grandsons of neid; sotal of the large heels; luath the long-bodied; luath the story-teller; tinna the mighty, of triscadal; loskenn of the bare knees; lobas, the druid; besides the nine prophetic poets and philosophers of the fomorians. after they had debated the matter for some time, bres, the son of balor, arose and said, "i will go to erin with seven great battalions of the fomorian army, and i will give battle to the ildana, and i will bring his head to you to our palace of berva."[6] the fomorian chiefs thought well of this proposal, and it was agreed to. so the ships were got ready for bres; abundant food and drink and war stores were put into them, their seams were calked with pitch, and they were filled with sweet-smelling frankincense. meantime the two luaths, that is to say, luath the story-teller and luath of the long body, were sent all over lochlann to summon the army. and when all the fighting men were gathered together, they arrayed themselves in their battle-dresses, prepared their arms, and set out for erin. balor went with them to the harbour where they were to embark, and when they were about to go on board, he said to them-"give battle to the ildana, and cut off his head. and after ye have overcome him and his people, put your cables round this island of erin, which gives us so much trouble, and tie it at the sterns of your ships: then sail home, bringing the island with you, and place it on the north side of lochlann, whither none of the dedannans will ever follow it." then, having hoisted their many-coloured sails and loosed their moorings, they sailed forth from the harbour into the great sea, and never slackened speed or turned aside from their course till they reached the harbour of eas-dara.[xxxi.] and as soon as they landed, they sent forth an army through west connaught, which wasted and spoiled the whole province. footnotes: [xxix.] the hill of usna, in the parish of conry, in westmeath, one of the royal residences of ireland. [xxx.] luga of the long arms is often called the ildana, _i.e._ the man of many sciences, to signify his various accomplishments. chapter ii. the murder of kian. now the king of connaught at that time was bove derg, the son of the dagda,[xxxii.] a friend to luga of the long arms. it chanced that luga was then at tara,[xxxiii.] and news was brought to him that the fomorians had landed at eas-dara, and were spoiling and wasting the province. he immediately got ready his steed, enbarr of the flowing mane; and early in the morning, when the point of night met the day, he went to the king and told him that the foreigners had landed, and that they had wasted and plundered the province of bove derg. "i shall give them battle," said luga; "and i wish to get from thee some help of men and arms." "i will give no help," said the king; "for i do not wish to avenge a deed that has not been done against myself." when luga heard this reply he was wroth, and departing straightway from tara, he rode westward. he had not travelled long when he saw at a distance three warriors, fully armed, riding towards him. now these were three brothers, the sons of canta; namely, kian and cu and kethen; and kian was luga's father. and they saluted each other, and conversed together for a time. "why art thou abroad so early?" said they. "cause enough have i," replied luga; "for the fomorians have landed in erin, and have wasted the province of bove derg, the son of the dagda. it is well indeed that i have met you, for i am about to give them battle, and i wish now to know what aid i shall get from you." "we will go into the battle with you," said they; "and each of us will ward off from you a hundred of the fomorian warriors." "that, indeed, is good help," said luga; "but, for the present, i wish you to go to the several places throughout erin where the fairy host[xxxiv.] are abiding, and summon them all to me." the three brothers accordingly separated, cu and kethen going south, while luga's father, kian, turned his face northwards, and rode on till he came to moy murthemna.[xxxv.] he had not been long travelling over the plain when he saw three warriors, clad in armour and fully armed, coming towards him. these were three dedannan chiefs, the sons of turenn, and their names were brian, ur, and urcar. now these three and the three sons of canta were at deadly feud with each other, on account of an old quarrel, and whenever they met there was sure to be a fight for life or death. as soon as kian saw these three, he said, "if my two brothers were now with me, we should have a brave fight; but as they are not, and as i am only one against three, it is better to avoid the combat." so saying, he looked round, and seeing near him a herd of swine he struck himself with a golden druidical[3] wand, and changed himself into a pig; and he quickly joined the herd. no sooner had he done so than brian, the eldest of the sons of turenn, said to his brothers, "tell me, my brothers, do you know what has become of the warrior that we saw just now approaching us on the plain?" "we saw him," said they, "but we know not whither he has gone." "you deserve great blame," said he, "that you are not more watchful while traversing the country during this time of war. now i know what has happened to this warrior; he has changed himself, by a druidical spell, into a pig; and he is now among yonder herd. and whoever he may be, of this be sure--he is no friend of ours." "this is an unlucky matter," said they; "for as these pigs belong to one of the dedannans, it would be wrong for us to kill them; and even if we should do so, the enchanted pig might escape after all." "but," answered brian, "i think i can manage to distinguish any druidical beast from a natural one; and if you had attended well to your learning, you would be able to do the same." saying this, he struck his brothers one after the other with his golden druidical wand, and turned them into two fleet, slender, sharp-nosed hounds. the moment he had done so they put their noses to the earth, and, yelping eagerly, set off towards the herd on the trail of their enemy. when they had come near, the druidical pig fell out from the herd, and made towards a thick grove that grew hard by; but brian was there before him, and drove his spear through his chest. the pig screamed and said, "you have done an ill deed to cast your spear at me, for you know well who i am." "your voice, methinks, is the voice of a man," said brian; "but i know not who you are." and the pig answered, "i am kian, the son of canta; and now i ask you to give me quarter." ur and urcar, who had regained their shape and come up, said, "we will give you quarter indeed, and we are sorry for what has happened to you." but brian, on the other hand, said, "i swear by the gods of the air, that if your life returned to you seven times, i would take it from you seven times." "then," said kian, "as you will not grant me quarter, allow me first to return to my own shape." "that we will grant you," said brian; "for i often feel it easier to kill a man than to kill a pig." kian accordingly took his own shape; and then he said, "you indeed, ye sons of turenn, are now about to slay me; but even so, i have outwitted you. for if you had slain me in the shape of a pig, you would have to pay only the eric-fine[10] for a pig; whereas, now that i am in my own shape, you shall pay the full fine for a man. and there never yet was killed, and there never shall be killed, a man for whom a greater fine shall be paid, than you will have to pay for me. the weapons with which i am slain shall tell the deed to my son; and he will exact the fine from you." "you shall not be slain with the weapons of a warrior," said brian; and so saying, he and his brothers laid aside their arms, and smote him fiercely and rudely with the round stones of the earth, till they had reduced his body to a disfigured mass; and in this manner they slew him. they then buried him a man's height in the earth; but the earth, being angry at the fratricide,[xxxvi.] refused to receive the body, and cast it up on the surface. they buried him a second time, and again the body was thrown up from beneath the clay. six times the sons of turenn buried the body of kian a man's height in the earth, and six times did the earth cast it up, refusing to receive it. but when they had buried him the seventh time, the earth refused no longer, and the body remained in the grave. then the sons of turenn prepared to go forward after luga of the long arms to the battle. but as they were leaving the grave, they thought they heard a faint, muffled voice coming up from the ground beneath their feet- the blood you have spilled, the hero you've killed, shall follow your steps till your doom be fulfilled! footnotes: [xxxi.] eas-dara, now ballysodare, in the county sligo. [xxxii.] see page 1. [xxxiii.] tara, in meath, the chief seat of the kings of ireland. [xxxiv.] fairy host, _i.e._ the dedannans. (see notes 1 and 8 at end.) [xxxv.] moy murthemna, a plain in the county of louth. [xxxvi.] fratricide; gaelic, _fionghal_, the murder of a relative. (see note, page 7.) the sons of turenn and the sons of canta appear to have been related to each other (see the third stanza of the poem, page 94). chapter iii. defeat and flight of the lochlanns. now as to luga. after parting from his father, he journeyed westward till he reached ath-luan,[xxxvii.] thence to ros-coman, and over moy-lurg to the curlieu hills, and to the mountain of kesh-corran, till he reached the "great plain of the assembly," where the foreigners were encamped, with the spoils of connaught around them. as he drew nigh to the fomorian encampment, bres, the son of balor, arose and said-"a wonderful thing has come to pass this day; for the sun, it seems to me, has risen in the west." "it would be better that it were so," said the druids,[3] "than that matters should be as they are." "what else can it be, then?" asked bres. "the light you see," replied the druids, "is the brightness of the face, and the flashing of the weapons of luga of the long arms, our deadly enemy, he who slew our tax-gatherers, and who now approaches." then luga came up peacefully and saluted them. "how does it come to pass that you salute us," said they, "since you are, as we know well, our enemy?" "i have good cause for saluting you," answered luga; "for only one half of my blood is dedannan; the other half comes from you; for i am the son of the daughter of balor of the mighty blows, your king.[7] and now i come in peace, to ask you to give back to the men of connaught all the milch cows you have taken from them." "may ill luck follow thee," said one of the fomorian leaders, in a voice loud and wrathful, "until thou get one of them, either a milch cow or a dry cow!" and the others spoke in a like strain. then luga put a druidical spell upon the plundered cattle; and he sent all the milch cows home, each to the door of her owner's house, throughout all that part of connaught that had been plundered. but the dry cows he left, so that the fomorians might be cumbered, and that they might not leave their encampment till the fairy host should arrive to give them battle. luga tarried three days and three nights near them, and at the end of that time the fairy host arrived, and placed themselves under his command. they encamped near the fomorians, and in a little time bove derg, son of the dagda, joined them with twenty-nine hundred men. then they made ready for the fight. the ildana put on mannanan's coat of mail and his breast-plate; he took also his helmet, which was called cannbarr, and it glittered in the sun with dazzling brightness; he slung his broad, dark-blue shield from his shoulder at one side; his long, keen-edged sword hung at his thigh; and lastly, he took his two long, heavy-handled spears, which had been tempered in the poisonous blood of adders. the other kings and chiefs of the men of erin arrayed their men in battle ranks; hedges of glittering spears rose high above their heads; and their shields, placed edge to edge, formed a firm fence around them. then at the signal they attacked the fomorians, and the fomorians, in no degree dismayed, answered their onset. at first a cloud of whizzing javelins flew from rank to rank across the open space, and as the warriors rushed together in closer conflict, their spears were shivered in their hands. then they drew their gold-hilted swords, and fought foot to foot and shield to shield, so that a forest of bright flashes rose high above their helmets, from the clashing of their keen-tempered weapons. in the midst of the fight, luga looked round, and seeing at some distance, bres, surrounded by his fomorian warriors, dealing havoc and death among the dedannans, he rushed through the press of battle, and attacked first bres's guards so fiercely that in a few moments twenty of them fell beneath his blows. then he struck at bres himself, who, unable to withstand his furious onset, cried aloud-"why should we be enemies, since thou art of my kin? let there be peace between us, for nothing can withstand thy blows. let there be peace, and i will undertake to bring my fomorians to assist thee at moytura,[11] and i will promise never again to come to fight against thee." and bres swore by the sun and the moon, by the sea and land, and by all the elements,[xxxviii.] to fulfil his engagement; and on these conditions luga granted him his life. then the fomorians, seeing their chief overcome, dropped their arms, and sued for quarter. the fomorian druids and men of learning next came to luga to ask him to spare their lives; and luga answered them-"so far am i from wishing to slay you, that in truth, if you had taken the whole fomorian race under your protection, i would have spared them." and after this, bres, the son of balor, returned to his own country with his druids, and with those of his army who had escaped from the battle. footnotes: [xxxvii.] _ath-luan_, now athlone; _ros-coman_, now roscommon; _moy-lurg_, a plain in the county roscommon; curlieu hills, a range of hills near boyle, in roscommon; kesh-corran, a well-known mountain in sligo. the "great plain of the assembly" must have been near ballysodare, in sligo. [xxxviii.] a usual form of oath among the ancient irish. (see, for an account of this oath, the author's "origin and history of irish names of places," series ii. chap. xiv.) chapter iv. the eric-fine on the sons of turenn for the slaying of kian. towards the close of the day, when the battle was ended, luga espied two of his near friends; and he asked them if they had seen his father, kian, in the fight. and when they answered, "no," luga said-"my father is not alive; for if he lived he would surely have come to help me in the battle. and now i swear that neither food nor drink will i take till i have found out who has slain him, and the manner of his death." then luga set out with a small chosen band of the fairy host, and he halted not till he reached the place where he had parted from his father. and from that he travelled on to the plain of murthemna, where kian had been forced to take the shape of a pig to avoid the sons of turenn, and where they had slain him. when he had come near to the very spot, he walked some little way before his companions, and the stones of the earth spoke beneath his feet, and said-"here thy father lies, o luga. grievous was kian's strait when he was forced to take the shape of a pig on seeing the three sons of turenn; and here they slew him in his own shape!" the blood that they spilled, the hero they killed, shall darken their lives till their doom be fulfilled! luga stood for a while silent, pondering on these words. but as his companions came up, he told them what had happened; and having pointed out the spot from which the voice came, he caused the ground to be dug up. there they found the body, and raised it to the surface; and when they had examined it, they saw that it was covered all over with gory wounds and bruises. then luga spoke after a long silence, "a cruel and merciless death has my beloved father suffered at the hands of the sons of turenn!" he kissed his father's face three times, and again spoke, grieving, "ill fare the day on which my father was slain! woful is this deed to me, for my eyes see not, my ears hear not, and my heart's pulse has ceased to beat, for grief. why, o ye gods whom i worship, why was i not present when this deed was done? alas! an evil thing has happened, for the dedannans have slain their brother dedannan. ill shall they fare of this fratricide, for its consequences shall follow them, and long shall the crime of brother against brother continue to be committed in erin!" and he spoke this speech- a dreadful doom my father found on that ill-omened even-tide; and here i mourn beside the mound, where, whelmed by numbers, kian died,- this lonely mound of evil fame, that long shall bear the hero's name! alas! an evil deed is done, and long shall erin rue the day: there shall be strife 'twixt sire and son, and brothers shall their brothers slay; vengeance shall smite the murderers too, and vengeance all their race pursue! the light has faded from mine eyes; my youthful strength and power have fled weary my heart with ceaseless sighs; ambition, hope, and joy are dead; and all the world is draped in gloom- the shadow of my father's tomb! then they placed the hero again in the grave, and they raised a tomb over him with his name graved in ogam;[xxxix.] after which his lamentation lays were sung, and his funeral games were performed. when these rites were ended, luga said to his people, "go ye now to tara, where the king of erin sits on his throne with the dedannans around him; but do not make these things known till i myself have told them." so luga's people went straightway to tara, as he had bade them; but of the murder of kian they said naught. luga himself arrived some time after, and was received with great honour, being put to sit high over the others, at the king's side; for the fame of his mighty deeds at the battle of the assembly plain had been noised over the whole country, and had come to the ears of the king. after he was seated, he looked round the hall, and saw the sons of turenn in the assembly. now these three sons of turenn exceeded all the champions in tara, in comeliness of person, in swiftness of foot, and in feats of arms; and, next to luga himself, they were the best and bravest in the battles against the fomorians; wherefore they were honoured by the king beyond most others. luga asked the king that the chain of silence[xl.] should be shaken; and when it was shaken, and when all were listening in silence, he stood up and spoke-"i perceive, ye nobles of the dedannan race, that you have given me your attention, and now i have a question to put to each man here present: what vengeance would you take of the man who should knowingly and of design kill your father?" they were all struck with amazement on hearing this, and the king of erin said-"what does this mean? for that your father has not been killed, this we all know well!" "my father has indeed been killed," answered luga; "and i see now here in this hall those who slew him. and furthermore, i know the manner in which they put him to death, even as they know it themselves." the sons of turenn, hearing all this, said nothing; but the king spoke aloud and said-"if any man should wilfully slay my father, it is not in one hour or in one day i would have him put to death; but i would lop off one of his members each day, till i saw him die in torment under my hands!" all the nobles said the same, and the sons of turenn in like manner. "the persons who slew my father are here present, and are joining with the rest in this judgment," said luga; "and as the dedannans are all now here to witness, i claim that the three who have done this evil deed shall pay me a fitting eric-fine for my father. should they refuse, i shall not indeed transgress the king's law nor violate his protection; but of a certainty they shall not leave this hall of micorta[xli.] till the matter is settled." and the king of erin said, "if i had killed your father, i should be well content if you were willing to accept an eric-fine from me." now the sons of turenn spoke among themselves; and ur and urcar said, "it is of us luga speaks this speech. he has doubtless found out that we slew his father; and it is better that we now acknowledge the deed, for it will avail us naught to hide it." brian, however, at first set his face against this, saying that he feared luga only wanted an acknowledgment from them in presence of the other dedannans, and that afterwards he might not accept a fine. but the other two were earnest in pressing him, so that he consented, and then he spoke to luga-"it is of us thou speakest all these things, luga; for it has been said that we three have been at enmity with the three sons of canta. now, as to the slaying of thy father kian, let that matter rest; but we are willing to pay an eric-fine for him, even as if we had killed him." "i shall accept an eric-fine from you," said luga, "though ye indeed fear i shall not. i shall now name before this assembly the fine i ask, and if you think it too much, i shall take off a part of it. "the first part of my eric-fine is three apples; the second part is the skin of a pig; the third is a spear; the fourth, two steeds and a chariot; the fifth, seven pigs; the sixth, a hound-whelp; the seventh, a cooking-spit; and the eighth, three shouts on a hill. that is my eric," said luga; "and if ye think it too much, say so now, that i may remit a part; but if not, then it will be well that ye set about paying it." "so far," said brian, "we do not deem it too great. it seems, indeed, so small that we fear there is some hidden snare in what you ask, which may work us mischief." "i do not deem my eric too small," said luga; "and now i engage here, before the assembled dedannans, that i will ask no more, and that i will seek no further vengeance for my father's death. but, as i have made myself answerable to them for the faithful fulfilment of my promise, i demand the same guarantee from you, that you also be faithful to me." "alas that you should doubt our plighted word!" said the sons of turenn. "are we not ourselves sufficient guarantee for the payment of an eric-fine greater even than this?" "i do not deem your word sufficient guarantee," answered luga; "for often have we known great warriors like you to promise a fine before all the people, and afterwards to go back of their promise." and the sons of turenn consented, though unwillingly, for they grieved that their word should be doubted. so they bound themselves on either side--luga not to increase his claims; and the sons of turenn, on their part, to pay him the full fine. and the king of erin and bove derg, son of the dagda, and the nobles of the dedannans in general, were witnesses and sureties of this bond. then luga stood up and said, "it is now time that i give you a full knowledge of this eric-fine. "the three apples i ask are the apples of the garden of hisberna,[xlii.] in the east of the world, and none others will i have. there are no apples in the rest of the world like them, for their beauty and for the secret virtues they possess. their colour is the colour of burnished gold; they have the taste of honey; and if a wounded warrior or a man in deadly sickness eat of them, he is cured immediately. and they are never lessened by being eaten, being as large and perfect at the end as at the beginning. moreover any champion that possesses one of them may perform with it whatsoever feat he pleases, by casting it from his hand, and the apple will return to him of itself. and though you are three brave warriors, ye sons of turenn, methinks you will not find it easy to bring away these apples; for it has been long foretold that three young champions from the island of the west would come to take them by force, so that the king has set guards to watch for your coming. "the pig's skin i seek from you belongs to tuis, the king of greece. when the pig was alive, every stream of water through which she walked was turned into wine for nine days, and all sick and wounded people that touched her skin were at once cured, if only the breath of life remained. now the king's druids told him that the virtue lay, not in the pig herself, but in her skin; so the king had her killed and skinned, and he has her skin now. this, too, ye valiant champions, is a part of my eric-fine which you will find it hard to get, either by force or by friendship. "the spear i demand from you is the venomed spear of pezar, king of persia. its name is slaughterer. in time of peace, its blazing, fiery head is always kept in a great caldron of water, to prevent it from burning down the king's palace; and in time of war, the champion who bears it to the battle-field can perform any deed he pleases with it. and it will be no easy matter to get this spear from the king of persia. "the two steeds and the chariot belong to dobar, king of sigar.[xliii.] the chariot exceeds all the chariots in the world for beauty of shape and goodliness of workmanship. the two noble steeds have no equal for strength and fleetness, and they travel with as much ease on sea as on land. "the seven pigs i demand are the pigs of asal, the king of the golden pillars. whoever eats a part of them shall not suffer from ill health or disease; and even though they should be killed and eaten to-day, they will be alive and well to-morrow. "the hound-whelp belongs to the king of iroda,[xliv.] and his name is failinis. he shines as brightly as the sun in a summer sky; and every wild beast of the forest that sees him falls down to the earth powerless before him. "the cooking-spit belongs to the warlike women of the island of fincara. they are thrice fifty in number, and woe to the champion who approaches their house; for each of them is a match for three good warriors in single combat; and they never yet gave a cooking-spit to any one without being overcome in battle. "the hill on which i require you to give three shouts is the hill of midkena, in the north of lochlann.[6] midkena and his sons are always guarding this hill, for they are under gesa[12] not to allow any one to shout on it. moreover, it was they that instructed my father in championship and feats of arms, and they loved him very much; so that even if i should forgive you his death they would not. and, though you should be able to procure all the rest of the eric-fine, you will not, i think, succeed in this, for they will be sure to avenge on you my father's death. "and this, ye sons of turenn, is the eric-fine i demand from you!" footnotes: [xxxix.] a kind of writing. (see note, page 36.) [xl.] chain of silence; a chain, probably hung with little bells, which the lord of a mansion shook when he wished to get silence and attention. [xli.] mic[=o]'rta; the name of the great banqueting hall of tara, the ruins of which are to be seen to this day. [xlii.] the garden of the hesperides. [xliii.] sigar, _i.e._ sicily. [xliv.] iroda was the name given by the irish to some country in the far north of europe, probably norway. chapter v. the sons of turenn obtain mannanan's canoe, "the wave-sweeper." the sons of turenn were so astounded on hearing this eric-fine that they spoke not one word; but rising up, they left the meeting, and repaired to the house of their father turenn. he heard their story to the end, and then said, "your tidings are bad, my sons, and i fear me you are doomed to meet your death in seeking what the ildana asks. but the doom is a just one, for it was an evil thing to kill kian. now as to this eric-fine: it cannot be obtained by any living man without the help of either luga himself or of mannanan mac lir;[8] but if luga wishes to aid you, ye shall be able to get it. go ye now, therefore, and ask him to lend you mannanan's steed, enbarr of the flowing mane. if he wishes you to get the full eric-fine, he will lend you the steed; otherwise he will refuse, saying that she does not belong to him, and that he cannot lend what he himself has got on loan. then, if ye obtain not the steed, ask him for the loan of mannanan's canoe, the wave-sweeper, which would be better for you than the steed; and he will lend you that, for he is forbidden to refuse a second request." so the sons of turenn returned to luga, and having saluted him, they said-"it is not in the power of any man to obtain this eric-fine without thy own aid, o luga; we ask thee, therefore, to lend us mannanan's steed, enbarr of the flowing mane." "that steed is not my own," said luga; "and i cannot lend that which i have myself obtained on loan." "if that be so," said brian, "then i pray thee lend us mannanan's canoe, the wave-sweeper." "i shall lend you that," replied luga; "it lies at bruga of the boyne;[xlv.] and ye have my consent to take it." so they came again to their father, and this time ethnea, their sister, was with him; and they told them that luga had given them the canoe. "i have much fear," said turenn, "that it will avail you little against the dangers of your quest. nevertheless, luga desires to obtain that part of the eric that will be useful to him at the battle of moytura,[11] and so far he will help you. but in seeking that which is of no advantage to him, namely, the cooking-spit, and the three shouts on midkena's hill, therein he will give you no aid, and he will be glad if ye perish in your attempts to obtain it." they then set out for bruga of the boyne, accompanied by their sister ethnea, leaving turenn lamenting after them. the canoe they found lying in the river; and brian went into it and said-"it seems to me that only one other person can sit here along with me;" and he began to complain very bitterly of its smallness. he ceased, however, at the bidding of ethnea, who told him that the canoe would turn out large enough when they came to try it, and that it was under strict command not to let any one grumble at its smallness. and she went on to say-"alas, my beloved brothers, it was an evil deed to slay the father of luga of the long arms! and i fear you will suffer much woe and hardship on account of it." ethnea. the deed was a dark one, a deed full of woe, your brother dedannan to slay; and hard and relentless the heart of your foe, the bright-faced ildana, that forced you to go, this eric of vengeance to pay! the brothers. oh, cease, sister ethnea, cease thy sad wail; why yield to this terror and gloom? long, long shall the poets remember the tale, for our courage and valour and swords shall prevail, or win us a glorious tomb! ethnea. then search ye, my brothers, go search land and sea; go search ye the isles of the east.- alas, that the cruel ildana's decree has banished my three gentle brothers from me, on this fearful and perilous quest! footnotes: [xlv.] bruga of the boyne, the palace of angus, the great dedannan magician, was situated on the north shore of the boyne, not far from slane. (see note 1 at end.) chapter vi. the apples of the garden of hisberna. after this the three brothers entered the canoe, which they now found large enough to hold themselves and their arms, and whatsoever else they wished to bring; for this was one of its secret gifts. they then bade their sister farewell, and, leaving her weeping on the shore, they rowed swiftly till they had got beyond the beautiful shores and bright harbours of erin, out on the open sea. then the two younger brothers said, "now our quest begins: what course shall we take?" brian answered, "as the apples are the first part of the fine, we shall seek them first." and then he spoke to the canoe, "thou canoe of mannanan, thou sweeper of the waves, we ask thee and we command thee, that thou sail straightway to the garden of hisberna!" the canoe was not unmindful of the voice of its master, and obeyed the command without delay, according to its wont. it took the shortest way across the deep sea-chasms, and, gliding over the green-sided waves more swiftly than the clear, cold wind of march, it stayed not in its course till it reached the harbour near the land of hisberna. brian now spoke to his brothers, "be sure that this quest is a perilous one, since we know that the best champions of the country, with the king at their head, are always guarding the apples. and now in what manner, think you, is it best for us to approach the garden?" "it seems to us," answered his brothers, "that we had better go straight and attack these champions, and either bring away the apples, or fall fighting for them. for we cannot escape the dangers that lie before us; and if we are doomed to fall in one of these adventures, it may, perchance, be better for us to die here than to prolong our hardships." but brian answered, "not so, my brothers; for it becomes a warrior to be prudent and wary as well as brave. we should now act so that the fame of our skill and valour may live after us, and that future men may not say, 'these sons of turenn did not deserve to be called brave champions, for they were senseless and rash, and sought their own death by their folly.' in the present case, then, what i counsel is this: let us take the shape of strong, swift hawks; and as we approach the garden, have ye care of the light, sharp lances of the guards, which they will certainly hurl at us: avoid them actively and cunningly, and when the men have thrown all, let us swoop down and bring away an apple each." they approved this counsel; and brian, striking his two brothers and himself with a druidical magic wand, all three were changed into three beautiful hawks. then, flying swiftly to the garden, they began to descend in circles towards the tops of the trees; but the sharp-eyed guards perceived them, and with a great shout they threw showers of venomous darts at them. the hawks, however, mindful of brian's warning, watched the spears with keen glances, and escaped them every one, until the guards had thrown all their light weapons. then, swooping suddenly down on the trees, the two younger brothers carried off an apple each, and brian two, one between his talons and the other in his beak; and the three rose again into the air without wound or hurt of any kind. then, directing their course westward, they flew over the wide sea with the speed of an arrow. the news spread quickly through the city, how three beautiful hawks had carried off the apples; and the king and his people were in great wrath. now the king had three daughters, very skilful in magic and cunning in counsel; and they forthwith transformed themselves into three swift-winged, sharp-taloned griffins, and pursued the hawks over the sea. but the hawks, when they saw they were pursued, increased their speed, and flew like the wind, and left their pursuers so far behind that they appeared to the griffins like three specks on the sky. then the angry griffins let fly from their eyes, and from their open beaks, bright flashes of flame straight forward, which overtook and blinded the hawks, and scorched them, so that they could bear the heat no longer. "evil is our state now," said ur and urcar, "for these sheets of flame are burning us, and we shall perish if we do not get relief." "i will try whether i cannot relieve you," said brian; and with that he struck his brothers and himself with his golden druidical wand; and all three were instantly turned into swans. the swans dropped down on the sea; and when the griffins saw the hawks no longer straight before them, they gave up the chase. and the sons of turenn went safely to their canoe, bringing the apples with them. chapter vii. the gifted skin of the pig. after resting a little while, they held council as to their next journey; and what they resolved on was to go to greece, to seek the skin of the pig, and to bring it away, either by consent or by force. so they went into the canoe, and brian spoke-"thou canoe of mannanan, thou sweeper of the waves, we ask thee and we command thee that thou sail with us straightway to greece!" and the canoe, obeying as before, glided swiftly and smoothly over the waves, till the sons of turenn landed near the palace of the king of greece. "in what shape, think you, should we go to this court?" said brian. "we think it best," answered the others, "to go in our own shapes; that is to say, as three bold champions." "not so," said brian. "it seems best to me that we should go in the guise of learned poets from erin; for poets are held in much honour and respect by the great nobles of greece." "it is, indeed, hard for us to do that," answered his brothers, "for as to poems, we neither have any, nor do we know how to compose them." however, as brian would have it so, they consented, though unwillingly; and, tying up their hair after the manner of poets, they knocked at the door of the palace. the door-keeper asked who was there. "we are skilful poets from erin," said brian, "and we have come to greece with a poem for the king." the door-keeper went and gave the message. "let them be brought in," said the king, "for it is to seek a good and bountiful master whom they may serve faithfully that they have come so far from erin." the sons of turenn were accordingly led in to the banquet hall, where sat the king surrounded by his nobles; and, bowing low, they saluted him; and he saluted them in return, and welcomed them. they sat at the table among the company, and joined the feast at once, drinking and making merry like the others; and they thought they had never seen a banquet hall so grand, or a household so numerous and mirthful. at the proper time the king's poets arose, according to custom, to recite their poems and their lays for the company. and when they had come to an end, brian, speaking low, said to his brothers-"as we have come here as poets, it is meet that we should practise the poetic art like the others; therefore now arise, and recite a poem for the king." "we have no poems," they replied, "and we do not wish to practise any art except the art we have learned and practised from our youth, namely, to fight like brave champions, and to take by valour and force of arms that which we want, if we be stronger than our enemies, or to fall in battle if they be the stronger." "that is not a pleasant way of making poetry," said brian; and with that he arose and requested attention for his poem. and when they sat listening, he said- to praise thee, o tuis, we've come to this land: like an oak among shrubs, over kings thou dost stand: thy bounty, great monarch, shall gladden the bard; and the _imnocta-fessa_ i claim as reward. two neighbours shall war, with an o to an o; a bard unrequited--how dreadful a foe! thy bounty shall add to thy wealth and thy fame; and the _imnocta-fessa_ is all that i claim. "your poem would doubtless be thought a very good one," said the king, "if we were able to judge of it; but it is unlike all other poems i have ever heard, for i do not in the least understand its sense." "i will unfold its sense," said brian. to praise thee, o tuis, we've come to this land: like an oak among shrubs, over kings thou dost stand: "this means that as the oak excels all the other trees of the forest, so dost thou excel all the other kings of the world for greatness, nobility, and generosity. "'_imnocta-fessa._' _imnocta_ means 'skin,' and _fessa_ 'a pig.' that is to say; thou hast, o king, the skin of a pig, which i desire to get from thee as a guerdon for my poetry. two neighbours shall war, with an o to an o; a bard unrequited--how dreadful a foe! "_o_ means 'an ear;' that is to say, thou and i shall be ear to ear fighting with each other for the skin, if thou give it not of thy own free will. "and that, o king, is the sense of my poem." "thy poem would have been a very good one," said the king, "and i would have given it due meed of praise if my pig's skin had not been mentioned in it. but it is a foolish request of thine, o ferdana,[xlvi.] to ask for that skin; for, even though all the poets and men of science of erin, and all the nobles of the whole world were to demand it from me, i would refuse it. nevertheless, thou shalt not pass unrewarded, for i will give thee thrice the full of the skin of red gold--one for thyself, and one for each of thy brothers." "thy ransom is a good one, o king," said brian; "but i am a near-hearted and suspicious man, and i pray thee let me see with my eyes thy servants measure the gold, lest they deal unfairly with me." the king agreed to this; so his servants went with the three sons of turenn to the treasure-room, and one of them drew forth the skin from its place, to measure the gold. as soon as brian caught sight of it, he sprang suddenly towards the servant, and, dashing him to the ground with his right hand, he snatched the skin with his left, and bound it hastily over his shoulders. then the three drew their keen swords, and rushed into the banquet hall. the king's nobles, seeing how matters stood, surrounded and attacked them; but the sons of turenn, nothing daunted by the number of their foes, hewed down the foremost and scattered the rest, so that scarce one of the whole party escaped death or deadly wounds. then at last brian and the king met face to face, nor was either slow to answer the challenge of the other. they fought as great champions fight, and it was long doubtful which should prevail; but the end of the combat was, that the king of greece fell by the overpowering valour of brian, the son of turenn. after this victory, the three brothers rested in the palace till they had regained their strength, and healed up their wounds by means of the apples and the pig's skin; and at the end of three days and three nights they found themselves able to undertake the next adventure. footnotes: [xlvi.] ferdana, a poet; literally, "a man of verse." chapter viii. the blazing spear of the king of persia. so, after holding council, they resolved to go to seek the spear of the king of persia; and brian reminded his brothers that now, as they had the apples and the skin to aid them, it would be all the easier to get the spear, as well as the rest of the fine. leaving now the shores of greece with all its blue streams, they went on board the canoe, which, at brian's command, flew across the wide seas; and soon they made land near the palace of pezar, king of persia. and seeing how they had fared so well in their last undertaking, they resolved to put on the guise of poets this time also. and so they put the poet's tie on their hair, and, passing through the outer gate, they knocked at the door of the palace. the door-keeper asked who they were, and from what country they had come. "we are poets from erin," answered brian; "and we have brought a poem for the king." so they were admitted and brought to the presence of the king, who seated them among the nobles of his household; and they joined in the drinking and the feasting and the revelry. the king's poets now arose, and chanted their songs for the king and his guests. and when the applause had ceased, brian, speaking softly, said to his brothers-"arise, now, and chant a poem for the king." but they answered, "ask us not to do that which we are unable to do; but if you wish us to exercise the art we have learned from our youth, we shall do so, namely, the art of fighting and overcoming our foes." "that would be an unusual way of reciting poetry," said brian; "but i have a poem for the king, and i shall now chant it for him." so saying, he stood up; and when there was silence, he recited this poem- in royal state may pezar ever reign, like some vast yew tree, monarch of the plain; may pezar's mystic javelin, long and bright, bring slaughter to his foes in every fight! when pezar fights and shakes his dreadful spear, whole armies fly and heroes quake with fear: what shielded foe, what champion can withstand, the blazing spear in mighty pezar's hand! "your poem is a good one," said the king; "but one thing in it i do not understand, namely, why you make mention of my spear." "because," answered brian, "i wish to get that spear as a reward for my poem." "that is a very foolish request," said the king, "for no man ever escaped punishment who asked me for my spear. and as to your poetry, the highest reward i could now bestow on you, and the greatest favour these nobles could obtain for you, is that i should spare your life." thereupon brian and his brothers started up in great wrath and drew their swords, and the king and his chiefs drew their swords in like manner; and they fought a deadly fight. but brian at last, drawing forth one of his apples, and taking sure aim, cast it at the king and struck him on the forehead; so that pezar fell, pierced through the brain. after this brian fought on more fiercely than before, dealing destruction everywhere around him; but when the chiefs saw that their king had fallen, they lost heart and fled through the doors, till at length none remained in the banquet hall but the three sons of turenn. then they went to the room where the spear was kept; and they found it with its head down deep in a great caldron of water, which hissed and bubbled round it. and brian, seizing it boldly in his hand, drew it forth; after which the three brothers left the palace and went to their canoe. chapter ix. the chariot and steeds of the king of sigar. resting now for some days from their toil, they resolved to seek the steeds and chariot of the king of sigar; for this was the next part of the ildana's eric-fine. so they commanded the canoe, and the canoe, obedient to their behest, glided swiftly and smoothly over the green waves till they landed in sigar. brian bore the great, heavy, venomed spear in his hand; and the three brothers were of good heart, seeing how they had succeeded in their last quest, and that they had now three parts of the fine. "in what shape think you we should go to this court?" said brian. "how should we go," answered the others, "but in our own shapes, namely, as three hostile champions, who have come to get the chariot and steeds, either by force or by good will?" "that is not what seems best to me," said brian. "my counsel is, that we go as soldiers from erin, willing to serve for pay; and should the king take us into his service, it is likely we shall find out where the chariot and steeds are kept." his brothers having agreed to this, the three set out for the palace. it happened that the king was holding a fair-meeting on the broad, level green before the palace; and when the three warriors came near, the people made way for them. they bowed low to the king; and he asked them who they were, and from what part of the world they had come. "we are valiant soldiers from erin," they answered, "seeking for service and pay among the great kings of the world." "do you wish to enter my service?" asked the king: and they answered, "yes." so they made a covenant with each other--the king to place them in a post of honour and trust, and they to serve him faithfully, and to name their own reward. whereupon the brothers entered the ranks of the king's body-guard. they remained in the palace for a month and a fortnight, looking round and carefully noting everything; but they saw nothing of the chariot and steeds. at the end of that time brian said to his brothers-"it fares ill with us here, my brothers; for we know nothing of the chariot and steeds at this hour, more than when we first came hither." the others said this was quite true, and asked if he meant to do anything in the matter. "this is what i think we should do," answered brian. "let us put on our travelling array, and take our arms of valour in our hands; and in this fashion let us go before the king, and tell him that unless he shows us the chariot and steeds, we shall leave his service." this they did without delay; and when they had come before the king, he asked them why they came to his presence so armed and in travelling gear. "we will tell thee of that, o king," answered brian. "we are valiant soldiers from erin, and into whatsoever lands we have travelled, we have been trusted with the secret counsels of the kings who have taken us into their service; and we have been made the guardians of their rarest jewels and of all their gifted arms of victory. but as to thee, o king, thou hast not so treated us since we came hither; for thou hast a chariot and two steeds, which exceed all the chariots and steeds in the world, and yet we have never seen them." "a small thing it is that has caused you to prepare for departure," said the king; "and there is, moreover, no need that you should leave my service; for i would have shown you those steeds the day you came, had i only known that you wished it. but ye shall see them now; for i have never had in my service soldiers from a distant land, in whom i and my people have placed greater trust than we have placed in you." he then sent for the steeds, and had them yoked to the chariot--those steeds that were as fleet as the clear, cold wind of march, and which travelled with equal speed on land and on sea. brian, viewing them narrowly, said aloud, "hear me, o king of sicily. we have served thee faithfully up to this time; and now we wish to name our own pay, according to the covenant thou hast made with us. the guerdon we demand is yonder chariot and steeds; these we mean to have, and we shall ask for nothing more." but the king, in great wrath, said, "foolish and luckless men! ye shall certainly die because you have dared to ask for my steeds!" and the king and his warriors drew their swords, and rushed towards the sons of turenn to seize them. they, on the other hand, were not taken unaware; and a sore fight began. and brian, watching his opportunity, sprang with a sudden bound into the chariot, and, dashing the charioteer to the ground, he seized the reins in his left hand; then, raising the venomed spear of pezar in his right, he smote the king with its fiery point in the breast, so that he fell dead. and the three brothers dealt red slaughter among the king's guards, till those who were not slain scattered and fled in all directions. so they fared in this undertaking. chapter x. the seven pigs of the king of the golden pillars. after resting till their wounds were healed, ur and urcar asked where they should go next. "we shall go," said brian, "to asal, the king of the golden pillars, to ask him for his seven pigs; for this is the next part of the ildana's eric-fine." so they set out; and the canoe brought them straightway to the land of the golden pillars, without delay and without mishap. as they drew nigh to the harbour, they saw the shore lined with men all armed. for the fame of the deeds of these great champions had begun to be noised through many lands; how they had been forced to leave erin by the hard sentence of the ildana; and how they were seeking and bearing away the most precious and gifted jewels of the world to pay the fine. wherefore the king of the golden pillars had armed his people, and had sent them to guard the harbours. the king himself came down to the beach to meet them. as soon as they had come within speaking distance, he bade them stay their course; and then he asked them, in an angry and chiding tone, if they were the three champions from erin, who had overcome and slain so many kings. brian answered, "be not displeased with us, o king for in all this matter we are not to blame. the ildana has demanded a fine which we perforce must pay; for we have promised, and the dedannans are our guarantee. if the kings to whom he sent us had given us peaceably the precious things we demanded, we would gladly have departed in peace; but as they did not, we fought against them, unwillingly indeed and overthrew them; for no one has as yet been able to withstand us." "tell me now," said the king, "what has brought you to my country?" "we have come for thy seven pigs," answered brian; "for they are a part of the fine." "and in what manner do you think ye shall get them?" asked the king. brian answered, "thou hast heard, o king, how the ildana has brought us to these straits, and we must pay him the fine, every jot, or else we shall die at the hands of our people. thou, perchance, wilt have pity on our hardships, and give us these pigs in token of kindness and friendship, and if so we shall be thankful; but if not, then we will fight for them, and either bring them away by force, after slaying thee and thy people or fall ourselves in the attempt." hearing this, the king and his people went into council; and after debating the matter at full length, they thought it best to give the pigs peaceably, seeing that no king, however powerful, had as yet been able to withstand the sons of turenn. the three champions wondered greatly when this was told to them; for in no other country had they been able to get any part of the fine without battle and hardship, and without leaving much of their blood behind them. so they were now very glad; and thanked asal and his people. the king then brought them to his palace, and gave them a kind welcome; and they were supplied with food and drink to their hearts' desire, and slept on soft, downy beds. so they rested after all their weary journeys and toils. when they arose next morning, they were brought to the king's presence, and the pigs were given to them; and brian addressed the king in these words- the prizes we've brought to this land, we have won them in conflict and blood; but the gift we have sought at thy hand, that gift thou hast freely bestowed. the red spear rewarded our deeds, when pezar the mighty we slew; and the fight for the chariot and steeds, ah, long shall the sigarites rue! great asal! in happier days, when our deeds bring us glory and fame, green erin shall echo thy praise, and her poets shall honour thy name! chapter xi. the hound-whelp of the king of iroda. "whither do you go next, ye sons of turenn?" asked asal. "we go," answered brian, "to iroda, for failinis, the king's hound-whelp." "then grant me this boon," said the king, "namely, that ye let me go with you to iroda. for my daughter is the king's wife; and i will try to prevail on him that he give you the hound-whelp freely and without battle." this they agreed to. but the king wished that they should go in his own ship; so it was got ready, and they went on board with all their wealth; and it is not told how they fared till they reached the borders of iroda. the shores were covered with fierce, armed men, who were there by orders of the king to guard the harbour; and these men shouted at the crew, warning them to come no farther; for they knew the sons of turenn, and well they knew what they came for. asal then requested the three champions to remain where they were for a time, while he went on shore to talk with his son-in-law. accordingly he landed, and went to the king, who, after he had welcomed him, asked what had brought the sons of turenn to his country. "they have come for your hound-whelp," answered asal. and the king of iroda said, "it was an evil counsel you followed, when you came with these men to my shores; for to no three champions in the world have the gods given such strength or such good luck as that they can get my hound-whelp, either by force or by my own free will." "it will be unwise to refuse them," replied asal. "they have overpowered and slain many great kings; for they have gifted arms that no warrior, however powerful, can withstand; and behold, i have come hither to tell you what manner of men these are, that you might be advised by me, and give them your hound-whelp in peace." so he pressed him earnestly; but his words were only thrown away on the king of iroda, who spoke scornfully of the sons of turenn, and refused asal's request with wrathful words. asal, much troubled at this, went and told the sons of turenn how matters stood. and they, having without delay put on their battle-dress, and taken their arms in their hands, challenged the king of iroda and his people. then began a very fierce and bloody battle; for though nothing could stand before the sons of turenn, yet the warriors of iroda were many and very brave. so they fought till the two younger brothers became separated from brian, and he was quite surrounded. but as he wielded the dreadful spear of pezar, with its blazing, fiery point, his enemies fell back dismayed, and the ranks were broken before him, so that those who crossed his path stood in a gap of danger. at length he espied the king of iroda, where he fought hedged round by spears; and he rushed through the thick of the battle straight towards him, striking down spears and swords and men as he went. and now these two valiant warriors fought hand to hand a stout and watchful and fierce battle--for the others fell back by the king's command; and it was long before any advantage was gained on either side. but though to those who looked on, brian seemed the more wrathful of the two, yet he held back his hand, so as not to slay his foe; and this it was, indeed, that prolonged the combat, for he sought to tire out the king. at length, watching his opportunity, brian closed suddenly, and, seizing the king in his strong arms, he lifted him clean off the ground, and bore him to where asal stood. then, setting him down, he said-"behold thy son-in-law; it would have been easier to kill him three times over than to bring him to thee once!" when the people saw their king a prisoner, they ceased fighting; and the end of all was that peace was made, and the hound-whelp was given over to the sons of turenn. then they took their leave, and left the shores of iroda in friendship with the king and with asal his father-in-law. chapter xii. return of the sons of turenn, with part of the eric-fine. now we shall speak of luga of the long arms. it was revealed to him that the sons of turenn had obtained all those parts of the fine which he wanted for the battle of moytura;[11] but that they had not yet got the cooking-spit, or given the three shouts on midkena's hill. so he sent after them a druidical spell, which, falling on them soon after they had left iroda, caused them to forget the remaining part of the fine, and filled them with a longing desire to return to their native home. accordingly they went on board their canoe, bringing with them every part of the fine they had gotten already; and the canoe glided swiftly over the waves to erin. at this time luga was with the king at a fair-meeting on the plain before tara; and it was made known to him secretly that the sons of turenn had landed at bruga of the boyne. he left the assembly anon, telling no one; and he went direct to caher-crofinn[xlvii.] at tara, and, closing the gates and doors after him, he put on his battle array, namely, the smooth greek armour of mannanan mac lir, and the enchanted mantle of the daughter of flidas. soon after, the sons of turenn were seen approaching; and as they came forward, the multitude flocked out to meet them, gazing with wonder at the many marvellous things they had brought. when the three champions had come to the royal tent, they were joyfully welcomed by the king and by the dedannans in general; and then the king spoke kindly to them, and asked if they had brought the eric-fine. "we have obtained it after much hardship and danger," they replied; "and now we wish to know where luga is, that we may hand it over to him." the king told them that luga was at the assembly; but when they sent to search for him, he was nowhere to be found. "i can tell where he is," said brian. "it has been made known to him that we have arrived in erin, bringing with us gifted arms that none can withstand; and he has gone to one of the strongholds of tara, to avoid us, fearing we might use these venomed weapons against himself." messengers were then sent to luga to tell him that the sons of turenn had arrived, and to ask him to come forth to the meeting, that they might give him the fine. but he answered, "i will not come to the meeting yet; but go ye back, and tell the sons of turenn to give the fine to the king for me." the messengers returned with this answer; and the sons of turenn gave to the king for luga all the wonderful things they had brought, keeping, however their own arms; after which the whole company went into the palace. when luga was told how matters stood, he came to where the king and all the others were; and the king gave him the fine. then luga, looking narrowly at everything that had been given up to him, said-"here, indeed, is an eric enough to pay for any one that ever yet was slain, or that shall be slain to the end of time. but yet there is one kind of fine that must be paid to the last farthing, namely, an eric-fine; for of this it is not lawful to hold back even the smallest part. and moreover, o king, thou and the dedannans whom i see here present, are guarantees for the full payment of my eric-fine. now i see here the three apples, and the skin of the pig, and the fiery-headed spear, and the chariot and steeds, and the seven pigs, and the hound-whelp; but where, ye sons of turenn, is the cooking-spit of the women of fincara? and i have not heard that ye have given the three shouts on midkena's hill." on hearing this, the sons of turenn fell into a faintness like the faintness before death. and when they had recovered they answered not one word, but left the assembly and went to their father's house. to him and their sister ethnea they told all that had befallen them; and how they should set out on another quest, as they had forgotten part of the eric-fine through the spells of luga. at this turenn was overwhelmed with grief; and ethnea wept in great fear and sorrow. and so they passed that night. next day, they went down to the shore, and their father and sister went with them to their ship, and bade them farewell. footnotes: [xlvii.] caher-crofinn, otherwise called rath-ree, the principal fortress at tara, the remains of which are still to be seen. chapter xiii. the cooking-spit of the women of fincara. then they went on board their ship--for they had mannanan's canoe no longer--and they sailed forth on the green billowy sea to search for the island of fincara. for a whole quarter of a year they wandered hither and thither over the wide ocean, landing on many shores and inquiring of all they met; yet they were not able to get the least tidings of the island. at last, they came across one very old man, who told them that he had heard of the island of fincara in the days of his youth; and that it lay not on the surface, but down deep in the waters, for it was sunk beneath the waves by a spell in times long past.[13] then brian put on his water-dress, with his helmet of transparent crystal on his head, and, telling his brothers to await his return, he leaped over the side of the ship, and sank at once out of sight. he walked about for a fortnight down in the green salt sea, seeking for the island of fincara; and at last he found it. there were many houses on the island; but one he saw larger and grander than the rest. to this he straightway bent his steps, and found it open. on entering, he saw in one large room a great number of beautiful ladies, busily employed at all sorts of embroidery and needlework; and in their midst was a long, bright cooking-spit lying on a table. without speaking a word, he walked straight to the table, and, seizing the spit in one hand, he turned round and walked towards the door. the women neither spoke nor moved, but each had her eyes fixed on him from the moment he entered, admiring his manly form, his beauty, and his fearlessness; but when they saw him about to walk off with the spit, they all burst out laughing; and one, who seemed chief among them, said-"thou hast attempted a bold deed, o son of turenn! know that there are thrice fifty warlike women here, and that the weakest among us would be able of herself to prevent thee taking this cooking-spit, even if thy two brothers were here to help thee. but thou art a brave and courageous champion, else thou wouldst not have attempted, unaided, to take it by force, knowing the danger. and for thy boldness and valour, and for the comeliness of thy person, we will let thee take this one, for we have many others besides." so brian, after thanking them, brought away the spit joyfully, and sought his ship. ur and urcar waited for brian in the same spot the whole time, and when he came not, they began to fear that he would return no more. with these thoughts they were at last about to leave the place, when they saw the glitter of his crystal helmet down deep in the water, and immediately after he came to the surface with the cooking-spit in his hand. they brought him on board, and now all felt very joyful and courageous of heart. chapter xiv. the three shouts on midkena's hill. the three brothers next sailed away towards the north of lochlann, and never abated speed till they moored their vessel near the hill of midkena, which rose smooth and green over the sea-shore. when midkena saw them approaching, he knew them at once, and, coming towards them armed for battle, he addressed them aloud-"you it was that slew kian, my friend and pupil; and now come forth and fight, for you shall not leave these shores till you answer for his death." brian, in no degree daunted by the fierce look and threatening speech of midkena, sprang ashore, and the two heroes attacked each other with great fury. when the three sons of midkena heard the clash of arms, they came forth, and, seeing how matters stood, they rushed down to aid their father; but just as they arrived at the shore, midkena fell dead, cloven through helmet and head by the heavy sword of brian. and now a fight began, three on each side; and if men were afar off, even in the land of hisberna, in the east of the world, they would willingly come the whole way to see this battle, so fierce and haughty were the minds of those mighty champions, so skilful and active were they in the use of their weapons, so numerous and heavy were their blows, and so long did they continue to fight without either party giving way. the three sons of turenn were at last dreadfully wounded--wounded almost to death. but neither fear nor weakness did this cause them, for their valour and their fury arose all the more for their wounds, and with one mighty onset they drove their spears through the bodies of their foes; and the sons of midkena fell before them into the long sleep of death. but now that the fight was ended, and the battle-fury of the victors had passed off--now it was that they began to feel the effects of their wounds. they threw themselves full length on the blood-stained sward, and long they remained without moving or speaking a word, as if they were dead; and a heavy curtain of darkness fell over their eyes. at last brian, raising his head, spoke to his brothers to know if they lived, and when they answered him feebly, he said-"my dear brothers, let us now arise and give the three shouts on the hill while there is time, for i feel the signs of death." but they were not able to rise. then brian, gathering all his remaining strength, stood up and lifted one with each hand, while his own blood flowed plentifully; and then they raised three feeble shouts on midkena's hill. chapter xv. return and death of the sons of turenn. making no further delay, he led them to their ship, and they set sail for erin. while they were yet far off, brian, gazing over the sea towards the west, suddenly cried out-"lo, i see ben edar[xlviii.] yonder, rising over the waters; and i see also dun turenn farther towards the north." and ur answered from where he reclined with urcar on the deck, "if we could but get one sight of ben edar methinks we should regain our health and strength; and as thou lovest us, and as thou lovest thy own renown, my brother, come and raise our heads and rest them on thy breast, that we may see erin once more. after that, we shall welcome either life or death." ur. o brother, torch of valour, strong of hand, come, place our weary heads upon thy breast; and let us look upon our native land, before we sink to everlasting rest! brian. belovèd sons of turenn, woe is me! my wounds are deep, my day of strength is past; yet not for this i grieve, but that i see your lives, my noble brothers, ebbing fast! ur. would we could give our lives to purchase thine; ah, gladly would we die to ease thy pain! for art thou not the pride of turenn's line, the noblest champion of green erin's plain? brian. that mighty dannan healer, dianket;[xlix.] or midac, who excelled his sire in skill; the maiden-leech, armedda, mightier yet, who knew the herbs to cure, the herbs to kill: oh, were they here; or had we now at hand those gifted apples from the distant east; then might we hope to reach our native land, and live again in joy and peace and rest! ur. brother, methinks could we but see once more ben edar's slopes, or bregia's[l.] dewy plain, tailltenn,[li.] or bruga's[lii.] mystic mansion hoar, our blood would course in health and strength again. or let us once behold our father's home, or winding liffey down by ahaclee,[liii.] old frevan's hill,[liv.] or tara's[lv.] regal dome; then welcome death or life, whiche'er may be! so brian raised their heads and rested them on his breast, and they gazed on the rocky cliffs and green slopes of ben edar while the ship wafted slowly towards land. soon after this they landed on the north side of ben edar, from which they made their way slowly to dun turenn. and when they had reached the green in front of the house, brian cried out-"father, dear father, come forth to thy children!" turenn came forth and saw his sons all wounded and pale and feeble. and brian said, "go, beloved father--go quick to tara, and quickly return. bring this cooking-spit to luga, and tell him that we have given the three shouts on midkena's hill. say that we have now paid the full eric-fine, and bring back from him the apples of the garden of hisberna, to heal our wounds, else we die." brian. father, our wounds are deadly; nought can save thy children's lives but luga's friendly hand: go, seek him, father--fare thee fast--and crave the healing apples from hisberna's land! turenn. in vain, my sons, ye seek to fly your doom; the stern ildana's mind too well i know: alas! far liefer would he see your tomb, than all the treasures all this world could show! brian. but he is just; and though his sire we slew, have we not paid full eric for the deed? the great ildana is our kinsman too, and will relent in this our time of need. then go, my father, thou art swift and strong; speed like the wind--why linger here to mourn? go straight to luga's home, nor tarry long; or, father, we shall die ere thou return! turenn set out and travelled like the wind till he reached tara, where he found luga. he gave him the cooking-spit, and said, "behold, my three sons have now paid thee the full eric-fine, for they have given the three shouts on midkena's hill. but they are wounded even unto death; and now give me, i pray thee, the apples from the garden of hisberna, to cure them, else they die." but luga refused, and turned away from turenn. turenn hastened back to his sons with a sorrowful heart, and told them that he had failed to get the apples. then brian said, "take me with thee to tara. i will see him, and perchance he may have pity on us, and give us the apples." and it was done so. but when brian begged for the apples, luga said-"i will not give them to thee. if thou shouldst offer me the full of the whole earth of gold, i would not give them to thee. thou and thy brothers committed a wicked and pitiless deed when you slew my father. for that deed you must suffer, and with nothing short of your death shall i be content." for the blood that you spilled, for the hero you killed- the deed is avenged, and your doom is fulfilled! brian turned away and went back to his brothers, and, lying down between them, his life departed; and his brothers died at the same moment. then their father and their sister stood hand in hand over their bodies, lamenting. and turenn spoke this lay- oh, pulseless is my heart this woful hour, my strength is gone, my joy for ever fled; three noble champions, erin's pride and power, my three fair youths, my children, cold and dead! mild ur, the fair-haired; urcar, straight and tall; the kings of banba[lvi.] worthy both to be; and brian, bravest, noblest, best of all, who conquered many lands beyond the sea: lo, i am turenn, your unhappy sire, mourning with feeble voice above your grave; no life, no wealth, no honours i desire; a place beside my sons is all i crave! after this turenn and ethnea fell on the bodies of the three young heroes and died. and they were all buried in one grave. this is the story of the fate of the children of turenn. footnotes: [xlviii.] ben edar, now howth hill, near dublin. dun turenn, the fortress of their father turenn. [xlix.] dianket, the great dedannan physician. his son midac and his daughter armedda were still more skilful than their father. (see note 1 at the end.) [l.] bregia, the plain lying between the liffey and the boyne. [li.] tailltenn, now teltown, on the blackwater, about midway between navan and kells, in meath. here annual meetings were held from the most ancient times, on the first of august, and for some days before and after, at which games were celebrated, like the olympic games of greece. [lii.] bruga on the boyne, where angus or mac indoc, the great dedannan enchanter, had his "mystic mansion hoar." (see note 1 at the end.) [liii.] ahaclee, the old name of dublin. [liv.] frevan, now the hill of frewen, rising over lough owei, near mullingar, where the ancient irish kings had one of their palaces. [lv.] tara, in meath, the chief seat of the irish kings. [lvi.] banba, one of the ancient names of ireland. the overflowing of lough neagh, and the story of liban the mermaid. in the days of old a good king ruled over muman,[lvii.] whose name was marid mac carido. he had two sons, ecca and rib. ecca was restless and unruly, and in many ways displeased the king; and he told his brother rib that he had made up his mind to leave his home, and win lands for himself in some far off part of the country. rib tried hard to dissuade him; but though this delayed his departure for a while, he was none the less bent on going. at last ecca, being wrought upon by his stepmother ebliu (from whom slieve eblinne[lviii.] was afterwards named), did a grievous wrong to his father, and fled from muman with all his people; and his brother rib and his stepmother ebliu went with him. ten hundred men they were in all, besides women and children; and they turned their faces towards the north. after they had travelled for some time, their druids[3] told them that it was not fated for them to settle in the same place; and accordingly, when they had come to the pass of the two pillar stones, they parted. rib and his people turned to the west, and they journeyed till they came to the plain of arbthenn. and there the water of a fountain burst forth over the land, and drowned them all; and a great lake was formed, which to this day is called the lake of rib.[lix.] ecca continued his journey northwards; and he and his people fared slowly on till they came near to bruga[lx.] of the boyne, the palace of mac indoc, where they were fain to rest. no sooner had they halted, than a tall man came forth from the palace, namely, angus mac indoc of the bruga, son of the dagda, and commanded them to leave the place without delay. but they, being spent with the toil of travel, heeded not his words, and, pitching their tents, they rested on the plain before the palace. whereupon angus, being wroth that his commands were unheeded, killed all their horses that night. next day, he came forth again, and he said to them, "your horses i slew last night; and now, unless ye depart from this place, i will slay your people to-night." and ecca said to him, "much evil hast thou done to us already, for thou hast killed all our horses. and now we cannot go, even though we desire it, for without horses we cannot travel." then angus brought to them a very large horse in full harness, and they put all their goods on him. and when they were about to go, he said to them-"beware that ye keep this great steed walking continually; not even a moment's rest shall ye give him, otherwise he will certainly be the cause of your death."[14] after this they set out again, on a sunday in the mid-month of autumn, and travelled on till they reached the plain of the grey copse,[lxi.] where they intended to abide. they gathered then round the great steed to take their luggage off him, and each was busy seeing after his own property, so that they forgot to keep the horse moving. and the moment he stood still, a magic well sprang up beneath his feet.[14] now ecca, when he saw the well spring up, was troubled, remembering angus's warning. and he caused a house to be built round it, and near it he built his palace, for the better security. and he chose a woman to take care of the well, charging her strictly to keep the door locked, except when the people of the palace came for water. after that the king of ulad,[lxii.] that is to say, muridach, the son of fiaca findamnas (who was grandson of conal carna of the red branch[15]) came against ecca to drive him forth from ulad. but ecca made a stout fight, so that he won the lordship of half of ulad from muridach. and after that his people settled down on the plain of the grey copse. now ecca had two daughters, ariu and liban, of whom ariu was the wife of curnan the simpleton. and curnan went about among the people, foretelling that a lake would flow over them from the well, and urging them earnestly to make ready their boats. come forth, come forth, ye valiant men; build boats, and build ye fast! i see the water surging out, a torrent deep and vast; i see our chief and all his host o'erwhelmed beneath the wave; and ariu, too, my best beloved, alas! i cannot save. but liban east and west shall swim long ages on the ocean's rim, by mystic shores and islets dim, and down in the deep sea cave! and he ceased not to warn all he met, repeating this verse continually; but the people gave no heed to the words of the simpleton. now the woman who had charge of the well, on a certain occasion forgot to close the door, so that the spell was free to work evil. and immediately the water burst forth over the plain, and formed a great lake, namely the lake of the copse. and ecca and all his family and all his folk were drowned, save only his daughter liban, and conang, and curnan the simpleton. and they buried ariu, and raised a mound over her, which is called from her carn-arenn. of conang nothing more is told. but as to curnan, he died of grief after his wife ariu; and he was buried in a mound, which is called carn-curnan to this day in memory of him. and thus the great lake of the copse was formed, which is now called lough necca,[lxiii.] in memory of ecca, the son of marid. and it was the overflow of this lake which, more than all other causes, scattered the ultonians over erin. now as to liban. she also was swept away like the others; but she was not drowned. she lived for a whole year with her lap-dog, in her chamber beneath the lake, and god protected her from the water. at the end of the year she was weary; and when she saw the speckled salmon swimming and playing all round her, she prayed and said-"o my lord, i wish i were a salmon, that i might swim with the others through the clear green sea!" and at the words she took the shape of a salmon, except her face and breast, which did not change. and her lap-dog was changed to an otter, and attended her afterwards whithersoever she went, as long as she lived in the sea. and so she remained swimming about from sea to sea for three hundred years; that is to say, from the time of ecca, the son of marid, to the time of comgall of bangor.[16] now on one occasion, comgall sent beoc, the son of indli, from bangor to rome, to talk with gregory[lxiv.] concerning some matters of order and rule. and when beoc's curragh[17] was sailing over the sea, he and his crew heard sweet singing in the waters beneath them, as it were the chanting of angels. and beoc, having listened for a while, looked down into the water, and asked what the chant was for, and who it was that sang. and liban answered, "i am liban, the daughter of ecca, son of marid; and it is i who sang the chant thou hast heard." "why art thou here?" asked beoc. and she replied, "lo, i have lived for three hundred years beneath the sea; and i have come hither to fix a day and a place of meeting with thee. i shall now go westward; and i beseech thee, for the sake of the holy men of dalaradia,[lxv.] to come to inver ollarba[lxvi.] to meet me, on this same day at the end of a year. say also to comgall and to the other holy men of bangor, all that i say to thee. come with thy boats and thy fishing-nets, and thou shalt take me from the waters in which i have lived." "i shall not grant thee the boon thou askest," said beoc, "unless thou give me a reward." "what reward dost thou seek?" asked liban. "that thou be buried in one grave with me in my own monastery," answered beoc. "that shall be granted to thee," said liban. beoc then went on his way to rome. and when he had returned, he related to comgall and to the other saints of the monastery at bangor, the story of the mermaid. and now the end of the year was nigh. then they made ready their nets, and on the day appointed they went in their boats to inver ollarba, a goodly company of the saints of erin. and liban was caught in the net of fergus of miluc:[lxvii.] and her head and shoulders were those of a maiden, but she had the body of a fish. now the boat in which she was brought to land was kept half full of sea water, in which she remained swimming about. and many came to see her; and all were filled with wonder when they saw her strange shape and heard her story. among the rest came the chief of the tribe of hua-conang, wearing a purple cloak; and she kept gazing at him earnestly. the young chief, seeing this, said to her-"dost thou wish to have this cloak? if so, i will give it to thee willingly." but she answered, "not so: i desire not thy cloak. but it brings to my mind my father ecca; for on the day he was drowned, he wore a cloak of purple like thine. but may good luck be on thee for thy gentleness, and on him who shall come after thee in thy place; and in every assembly where thy successor sits, may he be known to all without inquiry." after that there came up a large-bodied, dark-visaged, fierce hero, and killed her lap-dog. whereupon she was grieved; and she told him that the heroism of himself and his tribe should be stained by the baseness of their minds, and that they should not be able to defend themselves against injuries till they should do penance, by fasting, for her sake. then the warrior repented what he had done, and humbled himself before her. and now there arose a contention about her, as to whom she should belong. comgall said she was his, forasmuch as she was caught in his territory. but fergus urged that she belonged to him by right, as it was in his net she was taken. and beoc said he had the best right of all to her, on account of the promise she had made to him. and as no one could settle the dispute, these three saints fasted and prayed that god would give a judgment between them, to show who should own liban. and an angel said to one of the company, "two wild oxen will come hither to-morrow from carn-arenn, that is to say, from the grave-mound of liban's sister, ariu. yoke a chariot to them, and place the mermaid in it; and into whatsoever territory they shall bring her, she shall remain with the owner thereof." the oxen came on the morrow, as the angel had foretold. and when they were yoked, and when liban was placed in the chariot, they brought her straightway to beoc's church, namely to tec-da-beoc. then the saints gave her a choice--either to die immediately after baptism, and go to heaven; or to live on earth as long as she had lived in the sea, and then to go to heaven after these long ages. and the choice she took was to die immediately. whereupon comgall baptised her; and he gave her the name of murgen, that is, "sea-born," or murgelt, that is "mermaid." and she is counted among the holy virgins, and held in honour and reverence, as god ordained for her in heaven; and wonders and miracles are performed through her means at tec-da-beoc. footnotes: [lvii.] muman, _i.e._ munster. [lviii.] slieve eblinne, now slieve eelim or slieve phelim, in tipperary, sometimes called the twelve hills of evlinn. "eblinne" is the genitive of "ebliu." [lix.] now lough ree, on the shannon. [lx.] see note, page 62; see also note 1 at the end of the book. [lxi.] the plain of the grey copse, according to the legend, was the name of the plain now covered by lough neagh. [lxii.] ulad, _i.e._ ulster. [lxiii.] lough necca, now lough neagh. [lxiv.] gregory, _i.e._ pope gregory. [lxv.] dalaradia, the old name of a territory which included the southern half of the county antrim and a part of down. [lxvi.] inver ollarba, _i.e._ the _inver_, or mouth of the river ollarba, which was the ancient name of the larne water, in antrim. [lxvii.] miluc, or meelick, the name of an ancient ecclesiastical establishment in the county antrim. see "ecclesiastical antiquities of down, connor, and dromore" (page 3), by the rev. william reeves, m.b., m.r.i.a. connla of the golden hair, and the fairy maiden. connla of the golden hair was the son of conn the hundred-fighter.[18] one day as he stood with his father on the royal hill of usna,[lxviii.] he saw a lady a little way off, very beautiful, and dressed in strange attire. she approached the spot where he stood; and when she was near, he spoke to her, and asked who she was, and from what place she had come. the lady replied, "i have come from the land of the living[19]--a land where there is neither death nor old age, nor any breach of law. the inhabitants of earth call us aes-shee,[19] for we have our dwellings within large, pleasant, green hills. we pass our time very pleasantly in feasting and harmless amusements, never growing old; and we have no quarrels or contentions." the king and his company marvelled very much; for though they heard this conversation, no one saw the lady except connla alone. "who is this thou art talking to, my son?" said the king. and anon she answered for the youth, "connla is speaking with a lovely, noble-born young lady, who will never die, and who will never grow old. i love connla of the golden hair, and i have come to bring him with me to moy-mell,[19] the plain of never-ending pleasure. on the day that he comes with me he shall be made king; and he shall reign for ever in fairyland, without weeping and without sorrow. come with me, o gentle connla of the ruddy cheek, the fair, freckled neck, and the golden hair! come with me, beloved connla, and thou shalt retain the comeliness and dignity of thy form, free from the wrinkles of old age, till the awful day of judgment!" thy flowing golden hair, thy comely face, thy tall majestic form of peerless grace, that show thee sprung from conn's exalted race. king conn the hundred-fighter, being much troubled, called then on his druid,[3] coran, to put forth his power against the witchery of the banshee[19]-"o coran of the mystic arts and of the mighty incantations, here is a contest such as i have never been engaged in since i was made king at tara--a contest with an invisible lady, who is beguiling my son to fairyland by her baleful charms. her cunning is beyond my skill, and i am not able to withstand her power; and if thou, coran, help not, my son will be taken away from me by the wiles and witchery of a woman from the fairy hills." coran, the druid, then came forward, and began to chant against the voice of the lady. and his power was greater than hers for that time, so that she was forced to retire. as she was going away she threw an apple to connla, who straightway lost sight of her; and the king and his people no longer heard her voice. the king and the prince returned with their company to the palace; and connla remained for a whole month without tasting food or drink, except the apple. and though he ate of it each day, it was never lessened, but was as whole and perfect in the end as at the beginning. moreover, when they offered him aught else to eat or drink, he refused it; for while he had his apple he did not deem any other food worthy to be tasted. and he began to be very moody and sorrowful, thinking of the lovely fairy maiden. at the end of the month, as connla stood by his father's side among the nobles, on the plain of arcomin, he saw the same lady approaching him from the west. and when she had come near, she addressed him in this manner-"a glorious seat, indeed, has connla among wretched, short-lived mortals, awaiting the dreadful stroke of death! but now, the ever-youthful people of moy-mell, who never feel old age, and who fear not death, seeing thee day by day among thy friends, in the assemblies of thy fatherland, love thee with a strange love; and they will make thee king over them if thou wilt come with me." when the king heard the words of the lady, he commanded his people to call the druid again to him, saying-"bring my druid, coran, to me; for i see that the fairy lady has this day regained the power of her voice." at this the lady said, "valiant conn, fighter of a hundred, the faith of the druids has come to little honour among the upright, mighty, numberless people of this land. when the righteous law shall be restored, it will seal up the lips of the false, black demon; and his druids shall no longer have power to work their guileful spells." now the king observed, and marvelled greatly, that whenever the lady was present, his son never spoke one word to any one, nay, even though they addressed him many times. and when the lady had ceased to speak, the king said-"connla, my son, has thy mind been moved by the words of the lady?" connla spoke then, and replied, "father, i am very unhappy; for though i love my people beyond all, yet i am filled with sadness on account of this lady!" when connla had said this, the maiden again addressed him, and chanted these words in a very sweet voice-the chant of the fairy maiden to connla of the golden hair. i. a land of youth, a land of rest, a land from sorrow free; it lies far off in the golden west, on the verge of the azure sea. a swift canoe of crystal bright, that never met mortal view- we shall reach the land ere fall of night, in that strong and swift canoe: we shall reach the strand of that sunny land, from druids and demons free; the land of rest, in the golden west, on the verge of the azure sea! ii. a pleasant land of winding vales, bright streams, and verdurous plains, where summer all the live-long year, in changeless splendour reigns; a peaceful land of calm delight, of everlasting bloom; old age and death we never know, no sickness, care, or gloom; the land of youth, of love and truth, from pain and sorrow free; the land of rest, in the golden west, on the verge of the azure sea! iii. there are strange delights for mortal men in that island of the west; the sun comes down each evening in its lovely vales to rest; and though far and dim on the ocean's rim it seems to mortal view, we shall reach its halls ere the evening falls, in my strong and swift canoe; and ever more that verdant shore our happy home shall be; the land of rest, in the golden west, on the verge of the azure sea! iv. it will guard thee, gentle connla of the flowing golden hair, it will guard thee from the druids, from the demons of the air; my crystal boat will guard thee, till we reach that western shore, where thou and i in joy and love shall live for evermore: from the druid's incantation, from his black and deadly snare, from the withering imprecation of the demon of the air, it will guard thee, gentle connla of the flowing golden hair: my crystal boat will guard thee, till we reach that silver strand where thou shalt reign in endless joy, the king of the fairy-land! [lxix.] when the maiden had ended her chant, connla suddenly walked away from his father's side, and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding, strong, crystal canoe. the king and his people saw them afar off and dimly, moving away over the bright sea towards the sunset. they gazed sadly after them, till they lost sight of the canoe over the utmost verge; and no one can tell whither they went, for connla was never again seen in his native land. footnotes: [lxviii.] hill of usna. (see note, page 37.) [lxix.] this is an expansion, rather than a translation, of the original, which is very short, and in some places very obscure. the voyage of maildun. an account of the adventures of maildun and his crew, and of the wonderful things they saw during their voyage of three years and seven months, in their curragh,[17] on the western sea. chapter i. maildun's childhood and youth. he begins his voyage in quest of the plunderers who slew his father. there was once an illustrious man of the tribe of owenaght[lxx.] of ninus, allil ocar aga by name, a goodly hero, and lord of his own tribe and territory. one time, when he was in his house unguarded, a fleet of plunderers landed on the coast, and spoiled his territory. the chief fled for refuge to the church of dooclone; but the spoilers followed him thither, slew him, and burned the church over his head. not long after allil's death, a son was born to him. the child's mother gave him the name of maildun; and, wishing to conceal his birth, she brought him to the queen of that country, who was her dear friend. the queen took him to her, and gave out that he was her own child, and he was brought up with the king's sons, slept in the same cradle with them, and was fed from the same breast and from the same cup. he was a very lovely child; and the people who saw him thought it doubtful if there was any other child living at the time equally beautiful. as he grew up to be a young man, the noble qualities of his mind gradually unfolded themselves. he was high-spirited and generous, and he loved all sorts of manly exercises. in ball-playing, in running and leaping, in throwing the stone, in chess-playing, in rowing, and in horse-racing, he surpassed all the youths that came to the king's palace, and won the palm in every contest. one day, when the young men were at their games, a certain youth among them grew envious of maildun; and he said, in an angry and haughty tone of voice-"it is a cause of much shame to us that we have to yield in every game, whether of skill or of strength, whether on land or on water, to an obscure youth, of whom no one can tell who is his father or his mother, or what race or tribe he belongs to." on hearing this, maildun ceased at once from play; for until that moment he believed that he was the son of the king of the owenaght, and of the queen who had nursed him. and going anon to the queen, he told her what had happened; and he said to her-"if i am not thy son, i will neither eat nor drink till thou tell me who my father and mother are." she tried to soothe him, and said, "why do you worry yourself searching after this matter? give no heed to the words of this envious youth. am i not a mother to you? and in all this country, is there any mother who loves her son better than i love you?" he answered, "all this is quite true; yet i pray thee let me know who my parents are." the queen then, seeing that he would not be put off, brought him to his mother, and put him into her hands. and when he had spoken with her, he asked her to tell him who his father was. "you are bent on a foolish quest, my child," she said; "for even if you knew all about your father, the knowledge would bring neither advantage nor happiness to you; for he died before you were born." "even so," he replied, "i wish to know who he was." so his mother told him the truth, saying, "your father was allil ocar aga, of the tribe of owenaght of ninus." maildun then set out for his father's territory; and his three foster brothers, namely, the king's three sons, who were noble and handsome youths like himself, went with him. when the people of his tribe found out that the strange youth was the son of their chief, whom the plunderers had slain years before, and when they were told that the three others were the king's sons, they gave them all a joyful welcome, feasting them, and showing them much honour; so that maildun was made quite happy, and soon forgot all the abasement and trouble he had undergone. some time after this, it happened that a number of young people were in the churchyard of dooclone--the same church in which maildun's father had been slain--exercising themselves in casting a hand-stone. the game was to throw the stone clear over the charred roof of the church that had been burned; and maildun was there contending among the others. a foul-tongued fellow named brickna, a servant of the people who owned the church, was standing by; and he said to maildun-"it would better become you to avenge the man who was burned to death here, than to be amusing yourself casting a stone over his bare, burnt bones." "who was he?" inquired maildun. "allil ocar aga, your father," replied the other. "who slew him?" asked maildun. "plunderers from a fleet slew him and burned him in this church," replied brickna; "and the same plunderers are still sailing in the same fleet." maildun was disturbed and sad after hearing this. he dropped the stone that he held in his hand, folded his cloak round him, and buckled on his shield. and he left the company, and began to inquire of all he met, the road to the plunderers' ships. for a long time he could get no tidings of them; but at last some persons, who knew where the fleet lay, told him that it was a long way off, and that there was no reaching it except by sea. now maildun was resolved to find out these plunderers, and to avenge on them the death of his father. so he went without delay into corcomroe,[lxxi.] to the druid[3] nuca, to seek his advice about building a curragh, and to ask also for a charm to protect him, both while building it, and while sailing on the sea afterwards. the druid gave him full instructions. he told him the day he should begin to build his curragh, and the exact day on which he was to set out on his voyage; and he was very particular about the number of the crew, which, he said, was to be sixty chosen men, neither more nor less. so maildun built a large triple-hide curragh,[17] following the druid's directions in every particular, chose his crew of sixty, among whom were his two friends, germane and diuran lekerd; and on the day appointed put out to sea. when he had got only a very little way from the land, he saw his three foster brothers running down to the shore, signalling and calling out to him to return and take them on board; for they said they wished to go with him. "we shall not turn back," said maildun; "and you cannot come with us; for we have already got our exact number." "we will swim after you in the sea till we are drowned, if you do not return for us," replied they; and so saying, the three plunged in and swam after the curragh. when maildun saw this, he turned his vessel towards them, and took them on board rather than let them be drowned. footnotes: [lxx.] there were several tribes named owenaght in the south of ireland. this particular tribe were called, as in the text, the owenaght of ninus, and also, according to an interlined gloss in the "book of the dun cow," the owenaght of the aras, _i.e._ of the aran islands. their territory was situated in the north-west of the county clare, opposite the islands of aran. [lxxi.] corcomroe, an ancient territory, now a barony in the north-west of the county clare. (for the meaning and history of this name, see the author's "origin and history of irish names of places," series i. part i. chapter ii.) chapter ii. the first island. tidings of the plunderers. they sailed that day and night, as well as the whole of next day, till darkness came on again; and at midnight they saw two small bare islands, with two great houses on them near the shore. when they drew near, they heard the sounds of merriment and laughter, and the shouts of revellers intermingled with the loud voices of warriors boasting of their deeds. and listening to catch the conversation, they heard one warrior say to another-"stand off from me, for i am a better warrior than thou; it was i who slew allil ocar aga, and burned dooclone over his head; and no one has ever dared to avenge it on me. thou hast never done a great deed like that!" "now surely," said germane and diuran to maildun, "heaven has guided our ship to this place! here is an easy victory. let us now sack this house, since god has revealed our enemies to us, and delivered them into our hands!" while they were yet speaking, the wind arose, and a great tempest suddenly broke on them. and they were driven violently before the storm, all that night and a part of next day, into the great and boundless ocean; so that they saw neither the islands they had left nor any other land; and they knew not whither they were going. then maildun said, "take down your sail and put by your oars, and let the curragh drift before the wind in whatsoever direction it pleases god to lead us;" which was done. he then turned to his foster brothers, and said to them, "this evil has befallen us because we took you into the curragh, thereby violating the druid's directions; for he forbade me to go to sea with more than sixty men for my crew, and we had that number before you joined us. of a surety more evil will come of it." his foster brothers answered nothing to this, but remained silent. chapter iii. the island of the monstrous ants. for three days and three nights they saw no land. on the morning of the fourth day, while it was yet dark, they heard a sound to the north-east; and germane said-"this is the voice of the waves breaking on the shore." as soon as it was light they saw land and made towards it. while they were casting lots to know who should go and explore the country, they saw great flocks of ants coming down to the beach, each of them as large as a foal. the people judged by their numbers, and by their eager and hungry look, that they were bent on eating both ship and crew; so they turned their vessel round and sailed quickly away. their multitudes countless, prodigious their size; were never such ants seen or heard of before. they struggled and tumbled and plunged for the prize, and fiercely the famine-fire blazed from their eyes, as they ground with their teeth the red sand of the shore! chapter iv. the terraced isle of birds. again for three days and three nights they saw no land. but on the morning of the fourth day they heard the murmur of the waves on the beach; and as the day dawned, they saw a large high island, with terraces all round it, rising one behind another. on the terraces grew rows of tall trees, on which were perched great numbers of large, bright-coloured birds. when the crew were about to hold council as to who should visit the island and see whether the birds were tame, maildun himself offered to go. so he went with a few companions; and they viewed the island warily, but found nothing to hurt or alarm them; after which they caught great numbers of the birds and brought them to their ship. a shield-shaped island, with terraces crowned, and great trees circling round and round: from the summit down to the wave-washed rocks, there are bright-coloured birds in myriad flocks- their plumes are radiant; but hunger is keen; so the birds are killed, till the curragh is filled, and the sailors embark on the ocean green! chapter v. a monster. they sailed from this, and on the fourth day discovered a large, sandy island, on which, when they came near, they saw a huge, fearful animal standing on the beach, and looking at them very attentively. he was somewhat like a horse in shape; but his legs were like the legs of a dog; and he had great, sharp claws of a blue colour. maildun, having viewed this monster for some time, liked not his look; and, telling his companions to watch him closely, for that he seemed bent on mischief, he bade the oarsmen row very slowly towards land. the monster seemed much delighted when the ship drew nigh the shore, and gambolled and pranced about with joy on the beach, before the eyes of the voyagers; for he intended to eat the whole of them the moment they landed. "he seems not at all sorry to see us coming," said maildun; "but we must avoid him and put back from the shore." this was done. and when the animal observed them drawing off, he ran down in a great rage to the very water's edge, and digging up large, round pebbles with his sharp claws, he began to fling them at the vessel; but the crew soon got beyond his reach, and sailed into the open sea. a horrible monster, with blazing eyes, in shape like a horse and tremendous in size, awaiting the curragh, they saw; with big bony jaws and murderous claws, that filled them with terror and awe: how gleeful he dances, and bellows and prances, as near to the island they draw; expecting a feast- the bloodthirsty beast- with his teeth like edge of a saw: then he ran to the shore, with a deafening roar, intending to swallow them raw: but the crew, with a shout, put their vessel about, and escaped from his ravenous maw![lxxii.] chapter vi. the demon horse-race. after sailing a long distance, they came in view of a broad, flat island. it fell to the lot of germane to go and examine it, and he did not think the task a pleasant one. then his friend diuran said to him-"i will go with you this time; and when next it falls to my lot to visit an island, you shall come with me." so both went together. they found the island very large; and some distance from the shore they came to a broad green race-course, in which they saw immense hoof-marks, the size of a ship's sail, or of a large dining-table. they found nut-shells, as large as helmets, scattered about; and although they could see no one, they observed all the marks and tokens that people of huge size were lately employed there at sundry kinds of work. seeing these strange signs, they became alarmed, and went and called their companions from the boat to view them. but the others, when they had seen them, were also struck with fear, and all quickly retired from the place and went on board their curragh. when they had got a little way from the land, they saw dimly, as it were through a mist, a vast multitude of people on the sea, of gigantic size and demoniac look, rushing along the crests of the waves with great outcry. as soon as this shadowy host had landed, they went to the green, where they arranged a horse-race. the horses were swifter than the wind; and as they pressed forward in the race, the multitudes raised a mighty shout like thunder, which reached the crew as if it were beside them. maildun and his men, as they sat in their curragh, heard the strokes of the whips and the cries of the riders; and though the race was far off, they could distinguish the eager words of the spectators:--"observe the grey horse!" "see that chestnut horse!" "watch the horse with the white spots!" "my horse leaps better than yours!" after seeing and hearing these things, the crew sailed away from the island as quickly as they were able, into the open ocean, for they felt quite sure that the multitude they saw was a gathering of demons. a spacious isle of meadowy plains, with a broad and sandy shore: two bold and trusty spies are sent, its wonders to explore. mysterious signs, strange, awful sights, now meet the wanderers' eyes: vast hoof-marks, and the traces dire of men of monstrous size: and lo! on the sea, in countless hosts, their shadowy forms expand; they pass the affrighted sailors by, and like demons they rush to land; they mount their steeds, and the race is run, in the midst of hell's uproar: then the wanderers quickly raise their sails, and leave the accursèd shore. footnotes: [lxxii.] see note, page 128. chapter vii. the palace of solitude. they suffered much from hunger and thirst this time, for they sailed a whole week without making land; but at the end of that time they came in sight of a high island, with a large and very splendid house on the beach near the water's edge. there were two doors--one turned inland, and the other facing the sea; and the door that looked towards the sea was closed with a great flat stone. in this stone was an opening, through which the waves, as they beat against the door every day, threw numbers of salmon into the house. the voyagers landed, and went through the whole house without meeting any one. but they saw in one large room an ornamented couch, intended for the head of the house, and in each of the other rooms was a larger one for three members of the family: and there was a cup of crystal on a little table before each couch. they found abundance of food and ale, and they ate and drank till they were satisfied, thanking god for having relieved them from hunger and thirst. aloft, high towering o'er the ocean's foam, the spacious mansion rears its glittering dome. each day the billows, through the marble door, shoot living salmon floundering on the floor. couches that lure the sailors to recline, abundant food, brown ale, and sparkling wine; tables and chairs in order duly placed, with crystal cups and golden goblets graced. but not a living soul the wanderers found; 'twas silence all and solitude profound. they eat and drink, give thanks, then hoist their sail, and skim the deep once more, obedient to the gale. chapter viii. the island of the wonderful apple tree. after leaving this, they suffered again from hunger, till they came to an island with a high hill round it on every side. a single apple tree grew in the middle, very tall and slender, and all its branches were in like manner exceedingly slender, and of wonderful length, so that they grew over the hill and down to the sea. when the ship came near the island, maildun caught one of the branches in his hand. for three days and three nights the ship coasted the island, and during all this time he held the branch, letting it slide through his hand, till on the third day he found a cluster of seven apples on the very end. each of these apples supplied the travellers with food and drink for forty days and forty nights. chapter ix. the island of bloodthirsty quadrupeds. a beautiful island next came in view, in which they saw, at a distance, multitudes of large animals shaped like horses. the voyagers, as they drew near, viewed them attentively, and soon observed that one of them opened his mouth and bit a great piece out of the side of the animal that stood next him, bringing away skin and flesh. immediately after, another did the same to the nearest of his fellows. and, in short, the voyagers saw that all the animals in the island kept worrying and tearing each other from time to time in this manner; so that the ground was covered far and wide with the blood that streamed from their sides. in needless strife they oft contend, a cruel, mutual-mangling brood; their flesh with gory tusks they rend, and crimson all the isle with blood. chapter x. an extraordinary monster. the next island had a wall all round it. when they came near the shore, an animal of vast size, with a thick, rough skin, started up inside the wall, and ran round the island with the swiftness of the wind. when he had ended his race, he went to a high point, and standing on a large, flat stone, began to exercise himself according to his daily custom, in the following manner. he kept turning himself completely round and round in his skin, the bones and flesh moving, while the skin remained at rest. when he was tired of this exercise, he rested a little; and he then began turning his skin continually round his body, down at one side and up at the other like a mill-wheel; but the bones and flesh did not move. after spending some time at this sort of work, he started and ran round the island as at first, as if to refresh himself. he then went back to the same spot, and this time, while the skin that covered the lower part of his body remained without motion, he whirled the skin of the upper part round and round like the movement of a flat-lying millstone. and it was in this manner that he spent most of his time on the island. maildun and his people, after they had seen these strange doings, thought it better not to venture nearer. so they put out to sea in great haste. the monster, observing them about to fly, ran down to the beach to seize the ship; but finding that they had got out of his reach, he began to fling round stones at them with great force and an excellent aim. one of them struck maildun's shield and went quite through it, lodging in the keel of the curragh; after which the voyagers got beyond his range and sailed away. in a wall-circled isle a big monster they found, with a hide like an elephant, leathery and bare; he threw up his heels with a wonderful bound, and ran round the isle with the speed of a hare. but a feat more astounding has yet to be told: he turned round and round in his leathery skin; his bones and his flesh and his sinews he rolled- he was resting outside while he twisted within! then, changing his practice with marvellous skill, his carcase stood rigid and round went his hide; it whirled round his bones like the wheel of a mill- he was resting within while he twisted outside! next, standing quite near on a green little hill, after galloping round in the very same track, while the skin of his belly stood perfectly still, like a millstone he twisted the skin of his back! but maildun and his men put to sea in their boat, for they saw his two eyes looking over the wall; and they knew by the way that he opened his throat, he intended to swallow them, curragh and all![lxxiii.] footnotes: [lxxiii.] the verse in the original is quite serious; but i could not resist the temptation to give it a humorous turn. the same observation applies to the verse at page 122. chapter xi. the isle of red-hot animals. not daring to land on this island, they turned away hurriedly, much disheartened, not knowing whither to turn or where to find a resting-place. they sailed for a long time, suffering much from hunger and thirst, and praying fervently to be relieved from their distress. at last, when they were beginning to sink into a state of despondency, being quite worn out with toil and hardship of every kind, they sighted land. it was a large and beautiful island, with innumerable fruit trees scattered over its surface, bearing abundance of gold-coloured apples. under the trees they saw herds of short, stout animals, of a bright red colour, shaped somewhat like pigs; but coming nearer, and looking more closely, they perceived with astonishment that the animals were all fiery, and that their bright colour was caused by the red flames which penetrated and lighted up their bodies. the voyagers now observed several of them approach one of the trees in a body, and striking the trunk all together with their hind legs, they shook down some of the apples and ate them. in this manner the animals employed themselves every day, from early morning till the setting of the sun when they retired into deep caves, and were seen no more till next morning. numerous flocks of birds were swimming on the sea, all round the island. from morning till noon, they continued to swim away from the land, farther and farther out to sea; but at noon they turned round, and from that to sunset they swam back towards the shore. a little after sunset, when the animals had retired to their caves, the birds flocked in on the island, and spread themselves over it, plucking the apples from the trees and eating them. maildun proposed that they should land on the island, and gather some of the fruit, saying that it was not harder or more dangerous for them than for the birds; so two of the men were sent beforehand to examine the place. they found the ground hot under their feet, for the fiery animals, as they lay at rest, heated the earth all around and above their caves; but the two scouts persevered notwithstanding, and brought away some of the apples. when morning dawned, the birds left the island and swam out to sea; and the fiery animals, coming forth from their caves, went among the trees as usual, and ate the apples till evening. the crew remained in their curragh all day; and as soon as the animals had gone into their caves for the night, and the birds had taken their place, maildun landed with all his men. and they plucked the apples till morning, and brought them on board, till they had gathered as much as they could stow into their vessel. chapter xii. the palace of the little cat. after rowing for a long time, their store of apples failed them, and they had nothing to eat or drink; so that they suffered sorely under a hot sun, and their mouths and nostrils were filled with the briny smell of the sea. at last they came in sight of land--a little island with a large palace on it. around the palace was a wall, white all over, without stain or flaw, as if it had been built of burnt lime, or carved out of one unbroken rock of chalk; and where it looked towards the sea it was so lofty that it seemed almost to reach the clouds. the gate of this outer wall was open, and a number of fine houses, all snowy white, were ranged round on the inside, enclosing a level court in the middle, on which all the houses opened. maildun and his people entered the largest of them, and walked through several rooms without meeting with any one. but on reaching the principal apartment, they saw in it a small cat, playing among a number of low, square, marble pillars, which stood ranged in a row; and his play was, leaping continually from the top of one pillar to the top of another. when the men entered the room, the cat looked at them for a moment, but returned to his play anon, and took no further notice of them. looking now to the room itself, they saw three rows of precious jewels ranged round the wall from one door-jamb to the other. the first was a row of brooches of gold and silver, with their pins fixed in the wall, and their heads outwards; the second, a row of torques of gold and silver; and the third, a row of great swords, with hilts of gold and silver. round the room were arranged a number of couches, all pure white and richly ornamented. abundant food of various kinds was spread on tables, among which they observed a boiled ox and a roast hog; and there were many large drinking-horns, full of good, intoxicating ale. "is it for us that this food has been prepared?" said maildun to the cat. the cat, on hearing the question, ceased from playing, and looked at him; but he recommenced his play immediately. whereupon maildun told his people that the dinner was meant for them; and they all sat down, and ate and drank till they were satisfied, after which they rested and slept on the couches. when they awoke, they poured what was left of the ale into one vessel; and they gathered the remnants of the food to bring them away. as they were about to go, maildun's eldest foster brother asked him-"shall i bring one of those large torques away with me?" "by no means," said maildun; "it is well that we have got food and rest. bring nothing away, for it is certain that this house is not left without some one to guard it." the young man, however, disregarding maildun's advice, took down one of the torques and brought it away. but the cat followed him, and overtook him in the middle of the court, and, springing on him like a blazing, fiery arrow, he went through his body, and reduced it in a moment to a heap of ashes. he then returned to the room, and, leaping up on one of the pillars, sat upon it. maildun turned back, bringing the torque with him, and, approaching the cat, spoke some soothing words; after which he put the torque back to the place from which it had been taken. having done this, he collected the ashes of his foster brother, and, bringing them to the shore, cast them into the sea. they all then went on board the curragh, and continued their voyage, grieving for their lost companion, but thanking god for his many mercies to them. chapter xiii. an island that dyed black and white. on the morning of the third day, they came to another island, which was divided into two parts by a wall of brass running across the middle. they saw two great flocks of sheep, one on each side of the wall; and all those at one side were black, while those at the other side were white. a very large man was employed in dividing and arranging the sheep; and he often took up a sheep and threw it with much ease over the wall from one side to the other. when he threw over a white sheep among the black ones, it became black immediately; and in like manner, when he threw a black sheep over, it was instantly changed to white. the travellers were very much alarmed on witnessing these doings and maildun said-"it is very well that we know so far. let us now throw something on shore, to see whether it also will change colour; if it does, we shall avoid the island." so they took a branch with black-coloured bark and threw it towards the white sheep, and no sooner did it touch the ground than it became white. they then threw a white-coloured branch on the side of the black sheep, and in a moment it turned black. "it is very lucky for us," said maildun, "that we did not land on the island, for doubtless our colour would have changed like the colour of the branches." so they put about with much fear, and sailed away. chapter xiv. the island of the burning river. on the third day, they came in view of a large, broad island, on which they saw a herd of gracefully shaped swine; and they killed one small porkling for food. towards the centre rose a high mountain, which they resolved to ascend, in order to view the island; and germane and diuran lekerd were chosen for this task. when they had advanced some distance towards the mountain, they came to a broad, shallow river; and sitting down on the bank to rest, germane dipped the point of his lance into the water, which instantly burned off the top, as if the lance had been thrust into a furnace. so they went no farther. on the opposite side of the river, they saw a herd of animals like great hornless oxen, all lying down; and a man of gigantic size near them: and germane began to strike his spear against his shield, in order to rouse the cattle. "why are you frightening the poor young calves in that manner?" demanded the big shepherd, in a tremendous voice. germane, astonished to find that such large animals were nothing more than calves, instead of answering the question, asked the big man where the mothers of those calves were. "they are on the side of yonder mountain," he replied. germane and diuran waited to hear no more; but, returning to their companions, told them all they had seen and heard; after which the crew embarked and left the island. chapter xv. the miller of hell. the next island they came to, which was not far off from the last, had a large mill on it; and near the door stood the miller, a huge-bodied, strong, burly man. they saw numberless crowds of men and horses laden with corn, coming towards the mill; and when their corn was ground they went away towards the west. great herds of all kinds of cattle covered the plain as far as the eye could reach, and among them many wagons laden with every kind of wealth that is produced on the ridge of the world. all these the miller put into the mouth of his mill to be ground; and all, as they came forth, went westwards. maildun and his people now spoke to the miller, and asked him the name of the mill, and the meaning of all they had seen on the island. and he, turning quickly towards them, replied in few words-"this mill is called the mill of inver-tre-kenand, and i am the miller of hell. all the corn and all the riches of the world that men are dissatisfied with, or which they complain of in any way, are sent here to be ground; and also every precious article, and every kind of wealth, which men try to conceal from god. all these i grind in the mill of inver-tre-kenand, and send them afterwards away to the west." he spoke no more, but turned round and busied himself again with his mill. and the voyagers, with much wonder and awe in their hearts, went to their curragh and sailed away.[lxxiv.] chapter xvi. the isle of weeping. after leaving this, they had not been long sailing when they discovered another large island, with a great multitude of people on it. they were all black, both skin and clothes, with black head-dresses also; and they kept walking about, sighing and weeping and wringing their hands, without the least pause or rest. it fell to the lot of maildun's second foster brother to go and examine the island. and when he went among the people, he also grew sorrowful, and fell to weeping and wringing his hands, with the others. two of the crew were sent to bring him back; but they were unable to find him among the mourners; and, what was worse, in a little time they joined the crowd, and began to weep and lament like all the rest. maildun then chose four men to go and bring back the others by force, and he put arms in their hands, and gave them these directions-"when you land on the island, fold your mantles round your faces, so as to cover your mouths and noses, that you may not breathe the air of the country; and look neither to the right nor to the left, neither at the earth nor at the sky, but fix your eyes on your own men till you have laid hands on them." they did exactly as they were told, and having come up with their two companions, namely, those who had been sent after maildun's foster brother, they seized them and brought them back by force. but the other they could not find. when these two were asked what they had seen on the island, and why they began to weep, their only reply was-"we cannot tell; we only know that we did what we saw the others doing." and after this the voyagers sailed away from the island, leaving maildun's second foster brother behind. footnotes: [lxxiv.] the incident of the big miller occurs in the voyage of the sons of o'corra, as well as in the voyage of maildun. the two accounts are somewhat different; and i have combined both here. chapter xvii. the isle of the four precious walls. the next was a high island, divided into four parts by four walls meeting in the centre. the first was a wall of gold; the second, a wall of silver; the third, a wall of copper; and the fourth, a wall of crystal. in the first of the four divisions were kings; in the second, queens; in the third, youths; and in the fourth, young maidens. when the voyagers landed, one of the maidens came to meet them, and leading them forward to a house, gave them food. this food, which she dealt out to them from a small vessel, looked like cheese, and whatever taste pleased each person best, that was the taste he found on it. and after they had eaten till they were satisfied, they slept in a sweet sleep, as if gently intoxicated, for three days and three nights. when they awoke on the third day, they found themselves in their curragh on the open sea; and there was no appearance in any direction either of the maiden or of the island. chapter xviii. the palace of the crystal bridge. they came now to a small island, with a palace on it, having a copper chain in front, hung all over with a number of little silver bells. straight before the door there was a fountain, spanned by a bridge of crystal, which led to the palace. they walked towards the bridge, meaning to cross it, but every time they stepped on it they fell backwards flat on the ground. after some time, they saw a very beautiful young woman coming out of the palace, with a pail in her hand; and she lifted a crystal slab from the bridge, and, having filled her vessel from the fountain, she went back into the palace. "this woman has been sent to keep house for maildun," said germane. "maildun indeed!" said she, as she shut the door after her. after this they began to shake the copper chain, and the tinkling of the silver bells was so soft and melodious that the voyagers gradually fell into a gentle, tranquil sleep, and slept so till next morning. when they awoke, they saw the same young woman coming forth from the palace, with the pail in her hand; and she lifted the crystal slab as before, filled her vessel, and returned into the palace. "this woman has certainly been sent to keep house for maildun," said germane. "wonderful are the powers of maildun!" said she, as she shut the door of the court behind her. they stayed in this place for three days and three nights, and each morning the maiden came forth in the same manner, and filled her pail. on the fourth day, she came towards them, splendidly and beautifully dressed, with her bright yellow hair bound by a circlet of gold, and wearing silver-work shoes on her small, white feet. she had a white mantle over her shoulders, which was fastened in front by a silver brooch studded with gold; and under all, next her soft, snow-white skin, was a garment of fine white silk. "my love to you, maildun, and to your companions," she said; and she mentioned them all, one after another, calling each by his own proper name. "my love to you," said she. "we knew well that you were coming to our island, for your arrival has long been foretold to us." then she led them to a large house standing by the sea, and she caused the curragh to be drawn high up on the beach. they found in the house a number of couches, one of which was intended for maildun alone, and each of the others for three of his people. the woman then gave them, from one vessel, food which was like cheese; first of all ministering to maildun, and then giving a triple share to every three of his companions; and whatever taste each man wished for, that was the taste he found on it. she then lifted the crystal slab at the bridge, filled her pail, and dealt out drink to them; and she knew exactly how much to give, both of food and of drink, so that each had enough and no more. "this woman would make a fit wife for maildun," said his people. but while they spoke, she went from them with her pail in her hand. when she was gone, maildun's companions said to him, "shall we ask this maiden to become thy wife?" he answered, "what advantage will it be to you to ask her?" she came next morning, and they said to her, "why dost thou not stay here with us? wilt thou make friendship with maildun; and wilt thou take him for thy husband?" she replied that she and all those that lived on the island were forbidden to marry with the sons of men; and she told them that she could not disobey, as she knew not what sin or transgression was. she then went from them to her house; and on the next morning, when she returned, and after she had ministered to them as usual, till they were satisfied with food and drink, and were become cheerful, they spoke the same words to her. "to-morrow," she replied, "you will get an answer to your question;" and so saying, she walked towards her house, and they went to sleep on their couches. when they awoke next morning, they found themselves lying in their curragh on the sea, beside a great high rock; and when they looked about, they saw neither the woman, nor the palace of the crystal bridge, nor any trace of the island where they had been sojourning. chapter xix. the isle of speaking birds. one night, soon after leaving this, they heard in the distance, towards the north-east, a confused murmur of voices, as if from a great number of persons singing psalms. they followed the direction of the sound, in order to learn from what it proceeded; and at noon the next day, they came in view of an island, very hilly and lofty. it was full of birds, some black, some brown, and some speckled, who were all shouting and speaking with human voices; and it was from them that the great clamour came. chapter xx. the aged hermit, and the human souls. at a little distance from this they found another small island, with many trees on it, some standing singly, and some in clusters, on which were perched great numbers of birds. they also saw an aged man on the island, who was covered thickly all over with long, white hair, and wore no other dress. and when they landed, they spoke to him, and asked him who he was and what race he belonged to. "i am one of the men of erin," he replied. "on a certain day, a long, long time ago, i embarked in a small curragh, and put out to sea on a pilgrimage; but i had got only a little way from shore, when my curragh became very unsteady, as if it were about to overturn. so i returned to land, and, in order to steady my boat, i placed under my feet at the bottom, a number of green surface sods, cut from one of the grassy fields of my own country, and began my voyage anew. under the guidance of god, i arrived at this spot; and he fixed the sods in the sea for me, so that they formed a little island. at first i had barely room to stand; but every year, from that time to the present, the lord has added one foot to the length and breadth of my island, till in the long lapse of ages it has grown to its present size. and on one day in each year, he has caused a single tree to spring up, till the island has become covered with trees. moreover, i am so old that my body, as you see, has become covered with long, white hair, so that i need no other dress. "and the birds that ye see on the trees," he continued, "these are the souls of my children, and of all my descendants, both men and women, who are sent to this little island to abide with me according as they die in erin. god has caused a well of ale to spring up for us on the island: and every morning the angels bring me half a cake, a slice of fish, and a cup of ale from the well; and in the evening the same allowance of food and ale is dealt out to each man and woman of my people. and it is in this manner that we live, and shall continue to live till the end of the world; for we are all awaiting here the day of judgment." maildun and his companions were treated hospitably on the island by the old pilgrim for three days and three nights; and when they were taking leave of him, he told them that they should all reach their own country except one man. chapter xxi. the island of the big blacksmiths. when they had been for a long time tossed about on the waters, they saw land in the distance. on approaching the shore, they heard the roaring of a great bellows, and the thundering sound of smiths' hammers striking a large glowing mass of iron on an anvil; and every blow seemed to maildun as loud as if a dozen men had brought down their sledges all together. when they had come a little nearer, they heard the big voices of the smiths in eager talk. "are they near?" asked one. "hush! silence!" says another. "who are they that you say are coming?" inquired a third. "little fellows, that are rowing towards our shore in a pigmy boat," says the first. when maildun heard this, he hastily addressed the crew-"put back at once, but do not turn the curragh: reverse the sweep of your oars, and let her move stern forward, so that those giants may not perceive that we are flying!" the crew at once obey, and the boat begins to move away from the shore, stern forward, as he had commanded. the first smith again spoke. "are they near enough to the shore?" said he to the man who was watching. "they seem to be at rest," answered the other; "for i cannot perceive that they are coming closer, and they have not turned their little boat to go back." in a short time the first smith asks again, "what are they doing now?" "i think," said the watcher, "they are flying; for it seems to me that they are now farther off than they were a while ago." at this the first smith rushed out of the forge--a huge, burly giant--holding, in the tongs which he grasped in his right hand, a vast mass of iron sparkling and glowing from the furnace; and, running down to the shore with long, heavy strides, he flung the red-hot mass with all his might after the curragh. it fell a little short, and plunged down just near the prow, causing the whole sea to hiss and boil and heave up around the boat. but they plied their oars, so that they quickly got beyond his reach, and sailed out into the open ocean. chapter xxii. the crystal sea. after a time, they came to a sea like green crystal. it was so calm and transparent that they could see the sand at the bottom quite clearly, sparkling in the sunlight. and in this sea they saw neither monsters, nor ugly animals, nor rough rocks; nothing but the clear water and the sunshine and the bright sand. for a whole day they sailed over it, admiring its splendour and beauty. chapter xxiii. a lovely country beneath the waves. after leaving this they entered on another sea, which seemed like a clear, thin cloud; and it was so transparent, and appeared so light, that they thought at first it would not bear up the weight of the curragh. looking down, they could see, beneath the clear water, a beautiful country, with many mansions surrounded by groves and woods. in one place was a single tree; and, standing on its branches, they saw an animal fierce and terrible to look upon. round about the tree was a great herd of oxen grazing, and a man stood near to guard them, armed with shield and spear and sword; but when he looked up and saw the animal on the tree, he turned anon and fled with the utmost speed. then the monster stretched forth his neck, and, darting his head downward, plunged his fangs into the back of the largest ox of the whole herd, lifted him off the ground into the tree, and swallowed him down in the twinkling of an eye; whereupon the whole herd took to flight. when maildun and his people saw this, they were seized with great terror; for they feared they should not be able to cross the sea over the monster, on account of the extreme mist-like thinness of the water; but after much difficulty and danger they got across it safely. chapter xxiv. an island guarded by a wall of water. when they came to the next island, they observed with astonishment that the sea rose up over it on every side, steep and high, standing, as it were, like a wall all round it. when the people of the island saw the voyagers, they rushed hither and thither, shouting, "there they are, surely! there they come again for another spoil!" then maildun's people saw great numbers of men and women, all shouting and driving vast herds of horses, cows, and sheep. a woman began to pelt the crew from below with large nuts; she flung them so that they alighted on the waves round the boat, where they remained floating; and the crew gathered great quantities of them and kept them for eating. when they turned to go away, the shouting ceased: and they heard one man calling aloud, "where are they now?" and another answering him, "they are gone away!" from what maildun saw and heard at this island, it is likely that it had been foretold to the people that their country should some day be spoiled by certain marauders; and that they thought maildun and his men were the enemies they expected. chapter xxv. a water-arch in the air. on the next island they saw a very wonderful thing, namely, a great stream of water which, gushing up out of the strand, rose into the air in the form of a rainbow, till it crossed the whole island and came down on the strand at the other side. they walked under it without getting wet; and they hooked down from it many large salmon. great quantities of salmon of a very great size fell also out of the water over their heads down on the ground; so that the whole island smelled of fish, and it became troublesome to gather them on account of their abundance. from the evening of sunday till the evening of monday, the stream never ceased to flow, and never changed its place, but remained spanning the island like a solid arch of water. then the voyagers gathered the largest of the salmon, till they had as much as the curragh would hold; after which they sailed out into the great sea. chapter xxvi. the silver pillar of the sea. the next thing they found after this was an immense silver pillar standing in the sea. it had eight sides, each of which was the width of an oar-stroke of the curragh, so that its whole circumference was eight oar-strokes. it rose out of the sea without any land or earth about it, nothing but the boundless ocean; and they could not see its base deep down in the water, neither were they able to see the top on account of its vast height. a silver net hung from the top down to the very water, extending far out at one side of the pillar; and the meshes were so large that the curragh in full sail went through one of them. when they were passing through it, diuran struck the mesh with the edge of his spear, and with the blow cut a large piece off it. "do not destroy the net," said maildun; "for what we see is the work of great men." "what i have done," answered diuran, "is for the honour of my god, and in order that the story of our adventures may be more readily believed; and i shall lay this silver as an offering on the altar of armagh, if i ever reach erin." that piece of silver weighed two ounces and a half, as it was reckoned afterwards by the people of the church of armagh. after this they heard some one speaking on the top of the pillar, in a loud, clear, glad voice; but they knew neither what he said, nor in what language he spoke. chapter xxvii. an island standing on one pillar. the island they saw after this was named encos;[lxxv.] and it was so called because it was supported by a single pillar in the middle. they rowed all round it, seeking how they might get into it; but could find no landing-place. at the foot of the pillar, however, down deep in the water, they saw a door securely closed and locked, and they judged that this was the way into the island. they called aloud, to find out if any persons were living there; but they got no reply. so they left it, and put out to sea once more. footnotes: [lxxv.] encos means "one foot." chapter xxviii. the island queen detains them with her magic thread-clew. the next island they reached was very large. on one side rose a lofty, smooth, heath-clad mountain, and all the rest of the island was a grassy plain. near the sea-shore stood a great high palace, adorned with carvings and precious stones, and strongly fortified with a high rampart all round. after landing, they went towards the palace, and sat to rest on the bench before the gateway leading through the outer rampart; and, looking in through the open door, they saw a number of beautiful young maidens in the court. after they had sat for some time, a rider appeared at a distance, coming swiftly towards the palace; and on a near approach, the travellers perceived that it was a lady, young and beautiful and richly dressed. she wore a blue, rustling silk head-dress; a silver-fringed purple cloak hung from her shoulders; her gloves were embroidered with gold thread; and her feet were laced becomingly in close-fitting scarlet sandals. one of the maidens came out and held her horse, while she dismounted and entered the palace; and soon after she had gone in, another of the maidens came towards maildun and his companions and said-"you are welcome to this island. come into the palace; the queen has sent me to invite you, and is waiting to receive you." they followed the maiden into the palace; and the queen bade them welcome, and received them kindly. then, leading them into a large hall in which a plentiful dinner was laid out, she bade them sit down and eat. a dish of choice food and a crystal goblet of wine were placed before maildun; while a single dish and a single drinking-bowl, with a triple quantity of meat and drink, were laid before each three of his companions. and having eaten and drunk till they were satisfied, they went to sleep on soft couches till morning. next day, the queen addressed maildun and his companions-"stay now in this country, and do not go a-wandering any longer over the wide ocean from island to island. old age or sickness shall never come upon you; but you shall be always as young as you are at present, and you shall live for ever a life of ease and pleasure." "tell us," said maildun, "how you pass your life here." "that is no hard matter," answered the queen. "the good king who formerly ruled over this island was my husband, and these fair young maidens that you see are our children. he died after a long reign, and as he left no son, i now reign, the sole ruler of the island. and every day i go to the great plain, to administer justice and to decide causes among my people." "wilt thou go from us to-day?" asked maildun. "i must needs go even now," she replied, "to give judgments among the people; but as to you, you will all stay in this house till i return in the evening, and you need not trouble yourselves with any labour or care." they remained in that island during the three months of winter. and these three months appeared to maildun's companions as long as three years, for they began to have an earnest desire to return to their native land. at the end of that time, one of them said to maildun-"we have been a long time here; why do we not return to our own country?" "what you say is neither good nor sensible," answered maildun, "for we shall not find in our own country anything better than we have here." but this did not satisfy his companions, and they began to murmur loudly. "it is quite clear," said they, "that maildun loves the queen of this island; and as this is so, let him stay here; but as for us, we will return to our own country." maildun, however, would not consent to remain after them, and he told them that he would go away with them. now, on a certain day, not long after this conversation, as soon as the queen had gone to the great plain to administer justice, according to her daily custom, they got their curragh ready and put out to sea. they had not gone very far from land when the queen came riding towards the shore; and, seeing how matters stood, she went into the palace and soon returned with a ball of thread in her hand. walking down to the water's edge, she flung the ball after the curragh, but held the end of the thread in her hand. maildun caught the ball as it was passing, and it clung to his hand; and the queen, gently pulling the thread towards her, drew back the curragh to the very spot from which they had started in the little harbour. and when they had landed, she made them promise that if ever this happened again, some one should always stand up in the boat and catch the ball. the voyagers abode on the island, much against their will, for nine months longer. for every time they attempted to escape, the queen brought them back by means of the clew, as she had done at first, maildun always catching the ball. at the end of the nine months, the men held council, and this is what they said-"we know now that maildun does not wish to leave the island; for he loves this queen very much, and he catches the ball whenever we try to escape, in order that we may be brought back to the palace." maildun replied, "let some one else attend to the ball next time, and let us try whether it will cling to his hand." they agreed to this, and, watching their opportunity, they again put off towards the open sea. the queen arrived, as usual, before they had gone very far and flung the ball after them as before. another man of the crew caught it, and it clung as firmly to his hand as to maildun's; and the queen began to draw the curragh towards the shore. but diuran, drawing his sword, cut off the man's hand, which fell with the ball into the sea; and the men gladly plying their oars, the curragh resumed her outward voyage. when the queen saw this, she began to weep and lament, wringing her hands and tearing her hair with grief; and her maidens also began to weep and cry aloud and clap their hands, so that the whole palace was full of grief and lamentation. but none the less did the men bend to their oars, and the curragh sailed away; and it was in this manner that the voyagers made their escape from the island. chapter xxix. the isle of intoxicating wine-fruits. they were now a long time tossed about on the great billows, when at length they came in view of an island with many trees on it. these trees were somewhat like hazels, and they were laden with a kind of fruit which the voyagers had not seen before, extremely large, and not very different in appearance from apples, except that they had a rough, berry-like rind. after the crew had plucked all the fruit off one small tree, they cast lots who should try them, and the lot fell on maildun. so he took some of them, and, squeezing the juice into a vessel, drank it. it threw him into a sleep of intoxication so deep that he seemed to be in a trance rather than in a natural slumber, without breath or motion, and with the red foam on his lips. and from that hour till the same hour next day, no one could tell whether he was living or dead. when he awoke next day, he bade his people to gather as much of the fruit as they could bring away with them; for the world, as he told them, never produced anything of such surpassing goodness. they pressed out the juice of the fruit till they had filled all their vessels; and so powerful was it to produce intoxication and sleep, that, before drinking it, they had to mix a large quantity of water with it to moderate its strength. chapter xxx. the isle of the mystic lake. the island they came to next was larger than most of those they had seen. on one side grew a wood of yew trees and great oaks; and on the other side was a grassy plain, with one small lake in the midst. a noble-looking house stood on the near part of the plain, with a small church not far off; and numerous flocks of sheep browsed over the whole island. the travellers went to the church, and found in it a hermit, with snow-white beard and hair, and all the other marks of great old age. maildun asked who he was, and whence he had come. he replied, "i am one of the fifteen people, who, following the example of our master, brendan of birra,[20] sailed on a pilgrimage out into the great ocean. after many wanderings, we settled on this island, where we lived for a long time; but my companions died one after another, and of all who came hither, i alone am left." the old pilgrim then showed them brendan's satchel,[21] which he and his companions had brought with them on their pilgrimage; and maildun kissed it, and all bowed down in veneration before it. and he told them that as long as they remained there, they might eat of the sheep and of the other food of the island; but to waste nothing. one day, as they were seated on a hill, gazing out over the sea, they saw what they took to be a black cloud coming towards them from the south-west. they continued to view it very closely as it came nearer and nearer; and at last they perceived with amazement that it was an immense bird, for they saw quite plainly the slow, heavy flapping of his wings. when he reached the island, he alighted on a little hillock over the lake; and they felt no small alarm, for they thought, on account of his vast size, that if he saw them, he might seize them in his talons, and carry them off over the sea. so they hid themselves under trees and in the crannies of rocks; but they never lost sight of the bird, for they were bent on watching his movements. he appeared very old, and he held in one claw a branch of a tree, which he had brought with him over the sea, larger and heavier than the largest full-grown oak. it was covered with fresh, green leaves, and was heavily laden with clusters of fruit, red and rich-looking like grapes, but much larger. he remained resting for a time on the hill, being much wearied after his flight, and at last he began to eat the fruit off the branch. after watching him for some time longer, maildun ventured warily towards the hillock, to see whether he was inclined to mischief; but the bird showed no disposition to harm him. this emboldened the others, and they all followed their chief. the whole crew now marched in a body round the bird, headed by maildun, with their shields raised; and as he still made no stir, one of the men, by maildun's directions, went straight in front of him, and brought away some of the fruit from the branch which he still held in his talons. but the bird went on plucking and eating his fruit, and never took the least notice. on the evening of that same day, as the men sat looking over the sea to the south-west, where the great bird first appeared to them, they saw in the distance two others, quite as large, coming slowly towards them from the very same point. on they came, flying at a vast height, nearer and nearer, till at last they swooped down and alighted on the hillock in front of the first bird, one on each side. although they were plainly much younger than the other, they seemed very tired, and took a long rest. then, shaking their wings, they began picking the old bird all over, body, wings, and head, plucking out the old feathers and the decayed quill points, and smoothing down his plumage with their great beaks. after this had gone on for some time, the three began plucking the fruit off the branch, and they ate till they were satisfied. next morning, the two birds began at the very same work, picking and arranging the feathers of the old bird as before; and at midday they ceased, and began again to eat the fruit, throwing the stones and what they did not eat of the pulp, into the lake, till the water became red like wine. after this the old bird plunged into the lake and remained in it, washing himself, till evening, when he again flew up on the hillock, but perched on a different part of it, to avoid touching and defiling himself with the old feathers and the other traces of age and decay, which the younger birds had removed from him. on the morning of the third day, the two younger birds set about arranging his feathers for the third time; and on this occasion they applied themselves to their task in a manner much more careful and particular than before, smoothing the plumes with the nicest touches, and arranging them in beautiful lines and glossy tufts and ridges. and so they continued without the least pause till midday, when they ceased. then, after resting for a little while, they opened their great wings, rose into the air, and flew away swiftly towards the south-west, till the men lost sight of them in the distance. meantime the old bird, after the others had left, continued to smooth and plume his feathers till evening; then, shaking his wings, he rose up, and flew three times round the island, as if to try his strength. and now the men observed that he had lost all the appearances of old age: his feathers were thick and glossy, his head was erect and his eye bright, and he flew with quite as much power and swiftness as the others. alighting for the last time on the hillock, after resting a little, he rose again, and turning his flight after the other two, to the point from which he had come, he was soon lost to view, and the voyagers saw no more of him. it now appeared very clear to maildun and his companions that this bird had undergone a renewal of youth from old age, according to the word of the prophet, which says, "thy youth shall be renewed as the eagle." diuran, seeing this great wonder, said to his companions-"let us also bathe in the lake, and we shall obtain a renewal of youth like the bird." but they said, "not so, for the bird has left the poison of his old age and decay in the water." diuran, however, would have his own way; and he told them he was resolved to try the virtue of the water, and that they might follow his example or not, whichever they pleased. so he plunged in and swam about for some time, after which he took a little of the water and mixed it in his mouth; and in the end he swallowed a small quantity. he then came out perfectly sound and whole; and he remained so ever after, for as long as he lived he never lost a tooth or had a grey hair, and he suffered not from disease or bodily weakness of any kind. but none of the others ventured in. the voyagers, having remained long enough on this island, stored in their curragh a large quantity of the flesh of the sheep; and after bidding farewell to the ancient cleric, they sought the ocean once more. now once again, when winds and tide combine, the flying curragh cleaves the crested brine. far to the west an island rose to view, with verdant plains, clear streams, and mountains blue. an aged hermit, bred in erin's land, welcomed and blessed the chieftain and his band; brought food and drink, and bade them rest awhile, and view the wonders of that lovely isle. lo, from the sea, three birds of monstrous size, with vast wings slowly moving, cleave the skies; and as they nearer drew, the sailors saw one held a fruit branch firmly in his claw. down by the dear, mysterious lake they light, eat from the branch, and rest them from their flight. the aged bird, with plumes decayed and thin, paused on the brink awhile, then, plunging in, he bath'd and smooth'd his feathers o'er and o'er, shook his great wings and rested on the shore. now while the other two his plumes arrange, through all his frame appears a wondrous change: his eyes grow bright, his head erect and bold, his glossy plumage shines like burnished gold; free from old age, his glorious form expands; in radiant youth and beauty proud he stands! such was the gift that lake of wonder gave; such was the virtue of its mystic wave. chapter xxxi. the isle of laughing. they next came to an island with a great plain extending over its whole surface. they saw a vast multitude of people on it, engaged in sundry youthful games, and all continually laughing. the voyagers cast lots who should go to examine the island; and the lot fell upon maildun's third foster brother. the moment he landed he went among the others and joined in their pastimes and in their laughter, as if he had been among them all his life. his companions waited for him a very long time, but were afraid to venture to land after him; and at last, as there seemed no chance of his returning, they left him and sailed away. chapter xxxii. the isle of the blest. they came now to a small island with a high rampart of fire all round it; and that rampart revolved continually round the island. there was one large open door in the rampart; and whenever the door, in its involution, came in front of them, they could see almost the whole island through it, and all that was therein. and this is what they saw: a great number of people, beautiful and glorious-looking, wearing rich garments adorned and radiant all over, feasting joyously, and drinking from embossed vessels of red gold which they held in their hands. the voyagers heard also their cheerful, festive songs; and they marvelled greatly, and their hearts were full of gladness at all the happiness they saw and heard. but they did not venture to land. chapter xxxiii. the hermit of the sea-rock. a little time after leaving this, they saw something a long way off towards the south, which at first they took to be a large white bird floating on the sea, and rising and falling with the waves; but on turning their curragh towards it for a nearer view, they found that it was a man. he was very old, so old that he was covered all over with long, white hair, which grew from his body; and he was standing on a broad, bare rock, and kept continually throwing himself on his knees, and never ceased praying. when they saw that he was a holy man, they asked and received his blessing; after which they began to converse with him; and they inquired who he was, and how he had come to that rock. then the old man gave them the following account:-"i was born and bred in the island of tory.[lxxvi.] when i grew up to be a man, i was cook to the brotherhood of the monastery; and a wicked cook i was; for every day i sold part of the food intrusted to me, and secretly bought many choice and rare things with the money. worse even than this i did; i made secret passages underground into the church and into the houses belonging to it, and i stole from time to time great quantities of golden vestments, book-covers adorned with brass and gold, and other holy and precious things. "i soon became very rich, and had my rooms filled with costly couches, with clothes of every colour, both linen and woollen, with brazen pitchers and caldrons, and with brooches and armlets of gold. nothing was wanting in my house, of furniture and ornament, that a person in a high rank of life might be expected to have; and i became very proud and overbearing. "one day, i was sent to dig a grave for the body of a rustic that had been brought from the mainland to be buried on the island. i went and fixed on a spot in the little graveyard; but as soon as i had set to work, i heard a voice speaking down deep in the earth beneath my feet-"'do not dig this grave!' "i paused for a moment, startled; but, recovering myself, i gave no further heed to the mysterious words, and again i began to dig. the moment i did so, i heard the same voice, even more plainly than before-"'do not dig this grave! i am a devout and holy person, and my body is lean and light; do not put the heavy, pampered body of that sinner down upon me!' "but i answered, in the excess of my pride and obstinacy, 'i will certainly dig this grave; and i will bury this body down on you!' "'if you put that body down on me, the flesh will fall off your bones, and you will die, and be sent to the infernal pit at the end of three days; and, moreover, the body will not remain where you put it.' "'what will you give me,' i asked, 'if i do not bury the corpse on you?' "'everlasting life in heaven,' replied the voice. "'how do you know this; and how am i to be sure of it?' i inquired. "and the voice answered me, 'the grave you are digging is clay. observe now whether it will remain so, and then you will know the truth of what i tell you. and you will see that what i say will come to pass, and that you cannot bury that man on me, even if you should try to do so.' "these words were scarce ended, when the grave was turned into a mass of white sand before my face. and when i saw this, i brought the body away, and buried it elsewhere. "it happened, some time after, that i got a new curragh made, with the hides painted red all over; and i went to sea in it. as i sailed by the shores and islands, i was so pleased with the view of the land and sea from my curragh that i resolved to live altogether in it for some time; and i brought on board all my treasures--silver cups, gold bracelets, and ornamented drinking-horns, and everything else, from the largest to the smallest article. "i enjoyed myself for a time, while the air was clear and the sea calm and smooth. but one day, the winds suddenly arose and a storm burst upon me, which carried me out to sea, so that i quite lost sight of land, and i knew not in what direction the curragh was drifting. after a time, the wind abated to a gentle gale, the sea became smooth, and the curragh sailed on as before, with a quiet, pleasant movement. "but suddenly, though the breeze continued to blow, i thought i could perceive that the curragh ceased moving, and, standing up to find out the cause, i saw with great surprise an old man not far off, sitting on the crest of a wave. "he spoke to me; and, as soon as i heard his voice, i knew it at once, but i could not at the moment call to mind where i had heard it before. and i became greatly troubled, and began to tremble, i knew not why. "'whither art thou going?' he asked. "'i know not,' i replied; 'but this i know, i am pleased with the smooth, gentle motion of my curragh over the waves.' "'you would not be pleased,' replied the old man, 'if you could see the troops that are at this moment around you.' "'what troops do you speak of?' i asked. and he answered-"'all the space round about you, as far as your view reaches over the sea, and upwards to the clouds, is one great towering mass of demons, on account of your avarice, your thefts, your pride, and your other crimes and vices.' "he then asked, 'do you know why your curragh has stopped?' "i answered, 'no;' and he said, 'it has been stopped by me; and it will never move from that spot till you promise me to do what i shall ask of you.' "i replied that perhaps it was not in my power to grant his demand. "'it is in your power,' he answered; 'and if you refuse me, the torments of hell shall be your doom.' "he then came close to the curragh, and, laying his hands on me, he made me swear to do what he demanded. "'what i ask is this,' said he; 'that you throw into the sea this moment all the ill-gotten treasures you have in the curragh.' "this grieved me very much, and i replied, 'it is a pity that all these costly things should be lost.' "to which he answered, 'they will not go to loss; a person will be sent to take charge of them. now do as i say.' "so, greatly against my wishes, i threw all the beautiful precious articles overboard, keeping only a small wooden cup to drink from. "'you will now continue your voyage,' he said; 'and the first solid ground your curragh reaches, there you are to stay.' "he then gave me seven cakes and a cup of watery whey as food for my voyage; after which the curragh moved on, and i soon lost sight of him. and now i all at once recollected that the old man's voice was the same as the voice that i had heard come from the ground, when i was about to dig the grave for the body of the rustic. i was so astonished and troubled at this discovery, and so disturbed at the loss of all my wealth, that i threw aside my oars, and gave myself up altogether to the winds and currents, not caring whither i went; and for a long time i was tossed about on the waves, i knew not in what direction. "at last it seemed to me that my curragh ceased to move; but i was not sure about it, for i could see no sign of land. mindful, however, of what the old man had told me, that i was to stay wherever my curragh stopped, i looked round more carefully; and at last i saw, very near me, a small rock level with the surface, over which the waves were gently laughing and tumbling. i stepped on to the rock; and the moment i did so, the waves seemed to spring back, and the rock rose high over the level of the water; while the curragh drifted by and quickly disappeared, so that i never saw it after. this rock has been my abode from that time to the present day. "for the first seven years, i lived on the seven cakes and the cup of whey given me by the man who had sent me to the rock. at the end of that time the cakes were all gone; and for three days i fasted, with nothing but the whey to wet my mouth. late in the evening of the third day, an otter brought me a salmon out of the sea; but though i suffered much from hunger, i could not bring myself to eat the fish raw, and it was washed back again into the waves. "i remained without food for three days longer; and in the afternoon of the third day, the otter returned with the salmon. and i saw another otter bring firewood; and when he had piled it up on the rock, he blew it with his breath till it took fire and lighted up. and then i broiled the salmon and ate till i had satisfied my hunger. "the otter continued to bring me a salmon every day, and in this manner i lived for seven years longer. the rock also grew larger and larger daily, till it became the size you now see it. at the end of seven years, the otter ceased to bring me my salmon, and i fasted for three days. but at the end of the third day, i was sent half a cake of fine wheaten flour and a slice of fish; and on the same day my cup of watery whey fell into the sea, and a cup of the same size, filled with good ale, was placed on the rock for me. "and so i have lived, praying and doing penance for my sins to this hour. each day my drinking-vessel is filled with ale, and i am sent half a wheat-flour cake and a slice of fish; and neither rain nor wind, nor heat, nor cold, is allowed to molest me on this rock." this was the end of the old man's history. in the evening of that day, each man of the crew received the same quantity of food that was sent to the old hermit himself, namely, half a cake and a slice of fish; and they found in the vessel as much good ale as served them all. the next morning he said to them, "you shall all reach your own country in safety. and you, maildun, you shall find in an island on your way, the very man that slew your father; but you are neither to kill him nor take revenge on him in any way. as god has delivered you from the many dangers you have passed through, though you were very guilty, and well deserved death at his hands; so you forgive your enemy the crime he committed against you." after this they took leave of the old man and sailed away. the old hermit's story. the storms may roar and the seas may rage, but here, on this bare, brown rock, i pray and repent and i tell my beads, secure from the hurricane's shock. for the good, kind god, in pity to me, holds out his protecting hand; and cold nor heat nor storm nor sleet, can molest me where i stand. i robbed the churches and wronged the poor, and grew richer day by day; but now on this bare, brown ocean rock, a heavy penance i pay. a bloated sinner died unshrived, and they brought his corse to me- "go, dig the grave and bury the dead, and pray for the soul set free." i dug the grave, but my hands were stayed by a solemn and fearful sound, for the feeble tones of a dead man's voice came up from the hollow ground! _the dead monk speaks up from the grave_- place not that pampered corse on mine, for my bones are weak and thin; i cannot bear the heavy weight of a body defiled by sin. i was a meek and holy man; i fasted and watched and prayed; a sinner's corse would defile the clay where my wasted body is laid. _the old hermit continues his story_- the voice then ceased, and i heard no more its hollow, beseeching tone; then i closed the grave, and left the old monk to rest in his coffin alone. my curragh sailed on the western main, and i saw, as i viewed the sea, a withered old man upon a wave; and he fixed his eyes on me. he spoke, and his voice my heart's blood froze, and i shook with horror and fear: 'twas the very voice of the dead old monk that sounded in mine ear! _the dead monk speaks again_- far from my grave the sinner's corse in unhallowed clay lies deep; and now in my coffin, undefiled, for ever in peace i sleep. go, live and pray on the bare, brown rock, far out in the stormy sea; a heavy penance for heavy crimes, and heaven at last for thee! _the old hermit ends his story_- and here i live from age to age; i pray and repent and fast; an otter brings me food each day, and i hope for heaven at last. the tempests roar and the billows rage, but god holds forth his hand, and cold nor heat nor storm nor sleet, can harm me where i stand. footnotes: [lxxvi.] tory island, off the coast of donegal, where there was a monastery dedicated to st. columkille. chapter xxxiv. signs of home. soon after they saw a beautiful verdant island, with herds of oxen, cows, and sheep browsing all over its hills and valleys; but no houses nor inhabitants were to be seen. and they rested for some time on this island, and ate the flesh of the cows and sheep. one day, while they were standing on a hill, a large falcon flew by; and two of the crew, who happened to look closely at him, cried out, in the hearing of maildun-"see that falcon! he is surely like the falcons of erin!" "watch him closely," cried maildun; "and observe exactly in what direction he is flying!" and they saw that he flew to the south-east, without turning or wavering. they went on board at once; and, having unmoored, they sailed to the south-east after the falcon. after rowing the whole day, they sighted land in the dusk of the evening, which seemed to them like the land of erin. chapter xxxv. maildun meets his enemy, and arrives home. on a near approach, they found it was a small island; and now they recognised it as the very same island they had seen in the beginning of their voyage, in which they had heard the man in the great house boast that he had slain maildun's father, and from which the storm had driven them out into the great ocean. they turned the prow of their vessel to the shore, landed, and went towards the house. it happened that at this very time the people of the house were seated at their evening meal; and maildun and his companions, as they stood outside, heard a part of their conversation. said one to another, "it would not be well for us if we were now to see maildun." "as to maildun," answered another, "it is very well known that he was drowned long ago in the great ocean." "do not be sure," observed a third; "perchance he is the very man that may waken you up some morning from your sleep." "supposing he came now," asks another, "what should we do?" the head of the house now spoke in reply to the last question; and maildun at once knew his voice-"i can easily answer that," said he. "maildun has been for a long time suffering great afflictions and hardships; and if he were to come now, though we were enemies once, i should certainly give him a welcome and a kind reception." when maildun heard this he knocked at the door, and the door-keeper asked who was there; to which maildun made answer-"it is i, maildun, returned safely from all my wanderings." the chief of the house then ordered the door to be opened; and he went to meet maildun, and brought himself and his companions into the house. they were joyfully welcomed by the whole household; new garments were given to them; and they feasted and rested, till they forgot their weariness and their hardships. they related all the wonders god had revealed to them in the course of their voyage, according to the word of the sage who says, "it will be a source of pleasure to remember these things at a future time." after they had remained here for some days, maildun returned to his own country. and diuran lekerd took the five half-ounces of silver he had cut down from the great net at the silver pillar, and laid it, according to his promise, on the high altar of armagh. the fairy palace of the quicken trees.[lxxvii.] chapter i. colga, king of lochlann, invades erin, and is slain. once upon a time, a noble, warlike king ruled over lochlann,[6] whose name was colga of the hard weapons. on a certain occasion, this king held a meeting of his chief people, on the broad, green plain before his palace of berva.[6] and when they were all gathered together, he spoke to them in a loud, clear voice, from where he sat high on his throne; and he asked them whether they found any fault with the manner in which he ruled them, and whether they knew of anything deserving of blame in him as their sovereign lord and king. they replied, as if with the voice of one man, that they found no fault of any kind. then the king spoke again and said, "you see not as i see. do you not know that i am called king of the four tribes of lochlann, and of the islands of the sea? and yet there is one island which acknowledges not my rule." and when they had asked which of the islands he meant, he said-"that island is erin of the green hills. my forefathers, indeed, held sway over it, and many of our brave warriors died there in fight. there fell the great king, balor of the mighty blows;[9] his son bres[9] also; and his queen, kethlenda of the crooked teeth;[9] there, too, fell irann and slana, sisters of the king; and many others that i do not name. but though our hosts at last subdued the land and laid it under tribute, yet they held it not long; for the men of erin arose and expelled our army, regaining their ancient freedom. "and now it is my desire that we once more sail to erin with a fleet and an army, to bring it under my power, and take, either by consent or by force, the tributes that are due to me by right. and we shall thereafter hold the island in subjection till the end of the world." the chiefs approved the counsel of the king, and the meeting broke up. then the king made proclamation, and sent his swift scouts and couriers all over the land, to muster his fighting men, till he had assembled a mighty army in one place. and when they had made ready their curve-sided, white-sailed ships, and their strong, swift-gliding boats, the army embarked. and they raised their sails and plied their oars; and they cleft the billowy, briny sea; and the clear, cold winds whistled through their sails; and they made neither stop nor stay, till they landed on the shore of the province of ulad.[lxxviii.] the king of ireland at that time was cormac mac art,[22] the grandson of conn the hundred-fighter.[18] and when cormac heard that a great fleet had come to erin, and landed an army of foreigners, he straightway sent tidings of the invasion to allen[lxxix.] of the green hill-slopes, where lived finn,[23] and the noble fena[23] of the gaels. when the king's messengers had told their tale, finn despatched his trusty, swift-footed couriers to every part of erin where he knew the fena dwelt; and he bade them to say that all should meet him at a certain place, near that part of the coast where the lochlann army lay encamped. and he himself led the fena of leinster northwards to join the muster. they attacked the foreigners, and the foreigners were not slow to meet their onset; and the fena were sore pressed in that battle, so that at one time the lochlanns were like to prevail. oscar, the son of oisin,[23] when he saw his friends falling all round him, was grieved to the heart; and he rested for a space to gather his wrath and his strength. then, renewing the fight, he rushed with fury towards the standard of colga, the lochlann king, dealing havoc and slaughter among those foreigners that stood in his track. the king saw oscar approach, and met him; and they fought a deadly battle hand-to-hand. soon their shields were rent, their hard helmets were dinted with sword-blows, their armour was pierced in many places, and their flesh was torn with deep wounds. and the end of the fight was, that the king of the foreigners was slain by oscar, the son of oisin. when the lochlanns saw their king fall, they lost heart, and the battle went against them. but they fought on nevertheless, till evening, when their army entirely gave way, and fled from the field. and of all the nobles and princes and mighty chiefs who sailed to erin on that expedition, not one was left alive, except the youngest son of the king, whose name was midac. him finn spared on account of his youth; with intent to bring him up in his own household. after the fena had rested for a time, and buried their dead, they turned their faces southward, and marched slowly towards allen, bringing their sick and wounded companions. and finn placed midac among the household of allen, treating him honourably, and giving him servants and tutors. moreover, he enlisted him in the fena, and gave him a high post as befitted a prince. footnotes: [lxxvii.] the quicken tree, or quickbeam, or mountain ash, or roan-tree; gaelic, _caerthainn_. many mystic virtues were anciently attributed to this tree. [lxxviii.] ulad, _i.e._ ulster. [lxxix.] the hill of allen, in the county kildare, where finn had his palace. (see note 23 at the end.) chapter ii. midac, the son of colga, meditates revenge. after this things went on as before, while midac grew up towards manhood, and hunted and feasted with the fena, and fought with them when they fought. but he never lost an opportunity of making himself acquainted with all their haunts and hunting-grounds, their palaces and fortresses, and in particular with their manner of carrying on war. it happened one day that finn and some of his leading chiefs were in council, considering sundry matters, especially the state and condition of the fena; and each chief was commanded by finn to speak, and give his opinion or advice on anything that he deemed weighty enough to be debated by the meeting. and after many had spoken, conan mail, the son of morna, stood up and said-"it seems to me, o king, that you and i and the fena in general are now in great danger. for you have in your house, and mixing with your people, a young man who has good cause of enmity towards you; that is to say, midac, the son of the king of lochlann. for was it not by you that his father and brothers and many of his friends were slain? now i notice that this young prince is silent and distant, and talks little to those around him. moreover, i see that day after day he takes much pains to know all matters relating to the fena; and as he has friends in lochlann, mighty men with armies and ships, i fear me the day may come when this prince will use his knowledge to our destruction." the king said that all this was quite true, and he asked conan to give his opinion as to what should be done. "what i advise in the matter is this," said conan, "that midac be not allowed to abide any longer in the palace of allen. but as it is meet that he should be treated in a manner becoming a prince, let him be given a tract of land for himself in some other part of erin, with a home and a household of his own. then shall we be freed from his presence, and he can no longer listen to our counsels, and learn all our secrets and all our plans." this speech seemed to finn and the other chiefs reasonable and prudent, and they agreed to follow the advice of conan mail. accordingly finn sent for the prince, and said to him-"thou knowest, midac, that thou hast been brought up from boyhood in my household, and that thou hast been dealt with in every way as becomes a prince. now thou art a man, and standest in no further need of instruction, for thou hast learned everything needful for a prince and for a champion of the fena; and it is not meet that thou shouldst abide longer in the house of another. choose, therefore, the two cantreds that please thee best in all erin, and they shall be given to thee and to thy descendants for ever as a patrimony. there thou shalt build houses and a homestead for thyself, and i will help thee with men and with cattle and with all things else necessary." midac listened in silence; and when the king had done speaking, he replied in a cold and distant manner and in few words, that the proposal was reasonable and proper, and pleased him well. and thereupon he chose the rich cantred of kenri on the shannon, and the cantred of the islands lying next to it on the north, at the other side of the river.[lxxx.] now midac had good reasons for choosing these two territories beyond all others in erin. for the river opens out between them like a great sea, in which are many islands and sheltered harbours, where ships might anchor in safety; and he hoped to bring a fleet and an army into erin some day, to avenge on finn and the fena the defeats they had inflicted on his countrymen, and above all, the death of his father and brothers. and being bent on treachery, he could not have chosen in all erin a territory better suited for carrying out his secret designs. so these two cantreds were bestowed on midac. finn gave him also much cattle and wealth of all kinds; so that when his houses were built, and when he was settled in his new territory, with his servants and his cattle and his wealth all round him, there was no brugaid[lxxxi.] in erin richer or more prosperous than he. for fourteen years midac lived in his new home, growing richer every year. but the fena knew nothing of his way of life, for he kept himself apart, and none of his old acquaintances visited him. and though he was enrolled in the ranks of the fena, he never, during all that time, invited one of them to his house, or offered them food or drink or entertainment of any kind. one day, finn and the fena went to hunt in the district of fermorc,[c] and over the plains of hy conall gavra.[lxxxii.] and when all was arranged and the chase about to begin, finn himself, and a few of his companions, went to the top of the hill of knockfierna[lxxxiii.] to see the sport; while the main body of the fena scattered themselves over the plain with their dogs and attendants, to start the deer and the wild boars and all the other game of the forest. then finn's people pitched their tents, and made soft couches of rushes and heather, and dug cooking-places[24]; for they intended the hill to be the resting-place of all who chose to rest, till the chase was ended. after finn and his companions had sat for some time on the hill, they saw a tall warrior coming towards them, armed in full battle array. he wore a splendid coat of mail of lochlann workmanship, and over it a mantle of fine satin dyed in divers colours. a broad shield hung on his left shoulder, and his helmet glittered in the morning sun like polished silver. at his left side hung a long sword, with golden hilt and enamelled sheath; and he held in his right hand his two long, polished, death-dealing spears. his figure and gait were wonderfully majestic, and as he came near, he saluted the king in stately and courteous words. finn returned the salutation, and spoke with him for a while; and at length he asked him whence he had come, and if he had brought any tidings. "as to the place i came from," he answered, "that need not be spoken of; and for news, i have nothing to tell except that i am a ferdana,[lxxxiv.] and that i have come to thee, o king of the fena, with a poem." "methinks, indeed," replied finn, "that conflict and battle are the poetry you profess; for never have i seen a hero more noble in mien and feature." "i am a ferdana nevertheless," answered the stranger; "and if thou dost not forbid me, i will prove it by reciting a poem i have brought for thee." "a mountain-top is not the place for poetry," said finn; "and moreover, there is now no opportunity either for reciting or listening. for i and these few companions of mine have come to sit here that we may view the chase, and listen to the eager shouts of the men, and the sweet cry of the hounds. "but if you are, as you say," continued finn, "a ferdana, remain here with us till the chase is ended; and then you shall come with me to one of our palaces, where i shall listen to your poem, and bestow on you such gifts as are meet for a poet of your rank." but the strange champion answered, "it is not my wish to go to your palace; and i now put you under gesa,[12] which true heroes do not suffer, that you listen to my poem, and that you find out and explain its meaning." "well then," said finn, "let there be no further delay; repeat your poem." so the hero recited the following verse:- i saw a house by a river's shore, famed through erin in days of yore, radiant with sparkling gems all o'er, its lord deep skilled in magical lore; no conqueror ever defiled its floor; no spoiler can rive its golden store; fire cannot burn its battlements hoar; safe it stands when the torrents pour; feasting and joy for evermore, to all who enter its open door! now if thou hast learned a champion's lore, tell me the name of that mansion hoar, with roof of crystal and marble floor- the mansion i saw by the river's shore. "i can explain that poem," said finn. "the mansion you saw is bruga of the boyne,[lxxxv.] the fairy palace of angus, the dedannan prince, son of the dagda, which is open to all who wish to partake of its feasts and its enjoyments. it cannot be burned by fire, or drowned by water, or spoiled by robbers, on account of the great power of its lord and master; for there is not now, and there never was, and there never shall be, in erin, a man more skilled in magic arts than angus of the bruga." "that is the sense of my poem," said the stranger; "and now listen to this other, and explain it to me if thou canst"- i saw to the south a bright-faced queen, with couch of crystal and robe of green; a numerous offspring, sprightly and small, plain through her skin you can see them all; slowly she moves, and yet her speed exceeds the pace of the swiftest steed! now tell me the name of that wondrous queen, with her couch of crystal and robe of green.[lxxxvi.] "i understand the sense of that poem also," said finn. "the queen you saw is the river boyne, which flows by the south side of the palace of bruga. her couch of crystal is the sandy bed of the river; and her robe of green the grassy plain of bregia,[lxxxvii.] through which it flows. her children, which you can see through her skin, are the speckled salmon, the lively, pretty trout, and all the other fish that swim in the clear water of the river. the river flows slowly indeed; but its waters traverse the whole world in seven years, which is more than the swiftest steed can do." "these are my poems," said the champion; "and thou hast truly explained their meaning." "and now," said finn, "as i have listened to thy poetry and explained it, tell us, i pray thee, who thou art and whence thou hast come; for i marvel much that so noble a champion should live in any of the five provinces of erin without being known to me and my companions." then conan mail spoke. "thou art, o king, the wisest and most far-seeing of the fena, and thou hast unravelled and explained the hard poetical puzzles of this champion. yet, on the present occasion, thou knowest not a friend from a foe; for this man is midac, whom thou didst bring up with much honour in thine own house, and afterwards made rich, but who is now thy bitter enemy, and the enemy of all the fena. here he has lived for fourteen years, without fellowship or communication with his former companions. and though he is enrolled in the order of the fena, he has never, during all that time, invited thee to a banquet, or come to see any of his old friends, or given food or entertainment to any of the fena, either master or man." midac answered, "if finn and the fena have not feasted with me, that is none of my fault; for my house has never been without a banquet fit for either king or chief; but you never came to partake of it. i did not, indeed, send you an invitation; but that you should not have waited for, seeing that i was one of the fena, and that i was brought up in your own household. howbeit, let that pass. i have now a feast ready, in all respects worthy of a king; and i put you under gesa that you and the chiefs that are here with you, come this night to partake of it. i have two palaces, and in each there is a banquet. one is the palace of the island, which stands on the sea; and the other is the palace of the quicken trees, which is a little way off from this hill; and it is to this that i wish you to come." finn consented; and midac, after he had pointed out the way to the palace of the quicken trees, left them, saying he would go before, that he might have things in readiness when they should arrive. footnotes: [lxxx.] the cantreds of kenri and islands are now two baronies: the former the barony of kenry, in limerick, a little below the city; the latter the barony of islands, in clare, on the opposite side of the shannon, including the mouth of the river fergus, with its numerous _islands_, from which the barony has its name. [lxxxi.] brugaid, a sort of local officer, who was allowed a tract of land free, on condition that he maintained a large establishment as a house of public hospitality. many of the brugaids were very rich. [lxxxii.] fermorc and hy conall gavra are now the baronies of upper and lower connello, in the county limerick. [lxxxiii.] knockfierna, a conspicuous hill, celebrated for its fairy lore, near croom, in the county limerick; very near kenri, midac's territory. [lxxxiv.] ferdana, a poet. [lxxxv.] bruga of the boyne. (see note, page 62.) [lxxxvi.] the poets were much given to proposing poetical puzzles of this kind; and it was considered a mark of superior education, and of great acuteness in a champion to be able to explain them. (for another example, see the enigmatical verse about the skin of the pig, in the story of "the children of turenn," page 69.) [lxxxvii.] bregia or magh breagh, the ancient name of the plain extending from the liffey northwards to the borders of the county louth. (for this name, see the author's "irish names of places," series ii. part iv. chap. ii.) chapter iii. finn is entrapped by midac, and held by enchantment in the palace of the quicken trees. finn now held council with his companions, and they agreed that the king's son, oisin, and five other chiefs, with their followers, should tarry on the hill till the hunting party returned, while finn went to the palace with the rest. and it was arranged that finn should send back word immediately to the party on the hill, how he fared; and that oisin and the others were to follow him to the palace when the hunting party had returned. those that remained with oisin were dermat o'dyna; fatha conan, the son of the son of conn; kylta mac ronan; ficna, the son of finn; and innsa, the son of swena selga. and of those who went with finn to the palace of the quicken trees, the chief were gaul mac morna; dathkeen the strong-limbed; mac luga of the red hand; glas mac encarda from beara; the two sons of aed the lesser, son of finn; racad and dalgus, the two kings of leinster; angus mac bresal bola; and the two leaders of the connaught fena, namely, mac-na-corra and corr the swift-footed. as finn and his party came nigh to the palace, they were amazed at its size and splendour; and they wondered greatly that they had never seen it before. it stood on a level green, which was surrounded by a light plantation of quicken trees, all covered with clusters of scarlet berries. at one side of the little plain, very near the palace, was a broad river, with a rocky bank at the near side, and a steep pathway leading down to a ford. but what surprised them most was that all was lonely and silent--not a living soul could they see in any direction; and finn, fearing some foul play, would have turned back, only that he bethought him of his gesa and his promise. the great door was wide open, and conan went in before the others; and after viewing the banqueting hall, he came out quite enraptured with what he had seen. he praised the beauty and perfect arrangement of everything, and told his companions that no other king or chief in all erin had a banqueting hall to match the hall of midac, the son of colga. they all now entered, but they found no one--neither host nor guests nor attendants. as they gazed around, they thought they had never seen a banquet hall so splendid. a great fire burned brightly in the middle, without any smoke, and sent forth a sweet perfume, which filled the whole room with fragrance, and cheered and delighted the heroes. couches were placed all round, with rich coverlets and rugs, and soft, glossy furs. the curved walls were of wood,[lxxxviii.] close-jointed and polished like ivory; and each board was painted differently from those above and below; so that the sides of the room, from floor to roof, were all radiant with a wonderful variety of colours. still seeing no one, they seated themselves on the couches and rugs. presently a door opened, and midac walked into the room. he stood for a few moments before the heroes, and looked at them one after another, but never spoke one word; then, turning round, he went out and shut the great door behind him. finn and his friends were much surprised at this; however, they said nothing, but remained resting as they were for some time, expecting midac's return. still no one came, and at length finn spoke-"we have been invited here, my friends, to a banquet; and it seems to me very strange that we should be left so long without attendance, and without either food or drink. perhaps, indeed, midac's attendants have made some mistake, and that the feast intended for this palace has been prepared in the palace of the island. but i wonder greatly that such a thing should have happened." "i see something more wonderful than that," said gaul mac morna; "for lo, the fire, which was clear and smokeless when we first saw it, and which smelled more sweetly than the flowers of the plain, now fills the hall with a foul stench, and sends up a great cloud of black, sooty smoke!" "i see something more wonderful than that," said glas mac encarda; "for the boards in the walls of this banquet hall, which were smooth and close-jointed and glorious all over with bright colours when we came, are now nothing but rough planks, clumsily fastened together with tough quicken tree withes, and as rude and unshapen as if they had been hacked and hewed with a blunt axe!" "i see something more wonderful than that," said foilan, the son of aed the lesser; "for this palace, which had seven great doors when we came in, all wide open, and looking pleasantly towards the sunshine, has now only one small, narrow door, close fastened, and facing straight to the north!" "i see something more wonderful than that," said conan mail; "for the rich rugs and furs and the soft couches, which were under us when we sat here first, are all gone, not as much as a fragment or a thread remaining; and we are now sitting on the bare, damp earth, which feels as cold as the snow of one night!"[lxxxix.] then finn again spoke. "you know, my friends, that i never tarry in a house having only one door. let one of you then, arise, and break open that narrow door, so that we may go forth from this foul, smoky den!" "that shall be done," cried conan; and, so saying, he seized his long spear, and, planting it on the floor, point downwards, he attempted to spring to his feet. but he found that he was not able to move, and turning to his companions, he cried out with a groan of anguish-"alas, my friends! i see now something more wonderful than all; for i am firmly fixed by some druidical spell to the cold clay floor of the palace of the quicken trees!" and immediately all the others found themselves, in like manner, fixed where they sat. and they were silent for a time, being quite confounded and overwhelmed with fear and anguish. at length gaul spoke, and said, "it seems clear, o king, that midac has planned this treachery, and that danger lies before us. i wish, then, that you would place your thumb under your tooth of knowledge,[25] and let us know the truth; so that we may at once consider as to the best means of escaping from this strait." whereupon finn placed his thumb under his tooth of knowledge, and mused for a little while. then suddenly withdrawing his thumb, he sank back in his seat and groaned aloud. "may it be the will of the gods," said gaul, "that it is the pain of thy thumb that has caused thee to utter that groan!" "alas! not so," replied finn. "i grieve that my death is near, and the death of these dear companions! for fourteen years has midac, the son of the king of lochlann, been plotting against us; and now at last he has caught us in this treacherous snare, from which i can see no escape. "for in the palace of the island there is, at this moment, an army of foreigners, whom midac has brought hither for our destruction. chief over all is sinsar of the battles, from greece, the monarch of the world, who has under his command sixteen warlike princes, with many others of lesser note. next to sinsar is his son, borba the haughty, who commands also a number of fierce and hardy knights. "there are, besides, the three kings of the island of the torrent, large-bodied and bloodthirsty, like three furious dragons, who have never yet yielded to an enemy on the field of battle. it is these who, by their sorcery, have fixed us here; for this cold clay that we sit on is part of the soil of the enchanted island of the torrent, which they brought hither, and placed here with foul spells. moreover, the enchantment that binds us to this floor can never be broken unless the blood of these kings be sprinkled on the clay. and very soon some of sinsar's warriors will come over from the palace of the island, to slay us all, while we are fixed here helpless, and unable to raise a hand in our own defence." full of alarm and anguish were the heroes when they heard these tidings. and some began to shed bitter tears in silence, and some lamented aloud. but finn again spoke and said-"it becomes us not, my friends, being heroes, to weep and wail like women, even though we are in danger of death; for tears and lamentations will avail us nothing. let us rather sound the dord-fian,[xc.] sweetly and plaintively, according to our wont, that it may be a comfort to us before we die." so they ceased weeping, and, joining all together, they sounded the dord-fian in a slow, sad strain. footnotes: [lxxxviii.] the houses of the ancient irish were circular, and generally made of wood. [lxxxix.] "as cold as the snow of one night;" "as white as the snow of one night," are usual comparisons in gaelic. the first night's snow seems particularly cold and white when you see it in the morning on account of the contrast with the green fields of the day before. [xc.] dord-fian, or dord-fiansa, a sort of musical war-cry, usually performed by several persons in chorus. chapter iv. innsa, finn's foster son, defends the ford leading to the palace of the quicken trees. now let us speak of oisin, and the party who tarried with him on the hill of knockfierna. when he found that his father finn had not sent back a messenger as he had promised, though the night was now drawing nigh, he began to fear that something was wrong; and he said to his companions-"i marvel much that we have got no news from the king, how he and his companions have fared in the palace of the quicken trees. it is clear to me that he would have fulfilled his promise to send us word, if he had not been hindered by some unforeseen difficulty. now, therefore, i wish to know who will go to the palace and bring me back tidings." ficna, the son of finn, stood forth and offered to go; and finn's foster son, innsa, the son of swena selga, said he would go with him. they both set out at once, and as they travelled with speed, they soon reached the plain on which stood the palace of the quicken trees; and now the night was darkening around them. as they came near to the palace, they marvelled to hear the loud, slow strains of the dord-fian; and innsa exclaimed joyfully-"things go well with our friends, seeing that they are amusing themselves with the dord-fian!" but ficna, who guessed more truly how things really stood, replied-"it is my opinion, friend, that matters are not so pleasant with them as you think; for it is only in time of trouble or danger that finn is wont to have the dord-fian sounded in a manner so slow and sad." while they talked in this wise, it chanced that the dord-fian ceased for a little space; and finn hearing the low hum of conversation outside, asked was that the voice of ficna. and when ficna answered, "yes," finn said to him-"come not nearer, my son; for this place teems with dangerous spells. we have been decoyed hither by midac, and we are all held here by the foul sorcery of the three kings of the island of the torrent." and thereupon finn told him the whole story of the treachery that had been wrought on them, from beginning to end; and he told him also that nothing could free them but the blood of those three kings sprinkled on the clay. then he asked who the second man was whom he had heard conversing with ficna; and when he was told that it was innsa, the son of swena selga, he addressed ficna earnestly-"fly, my son, from this fatal place! fly, and save my foster child from the treacherous swords of the foreigners; for they are already on their way hither!" but innsa quickly answered, "that i will never do. it would, indeed, be an ungrateful return to a kind foster father, to leave thee now in deadly strait, and seek my own safety." and ficna spoke in a like strain. then finn said, "be it so, my sons; but a sore trial awaits you. those who come hither from the palace of the island must needs pass the ford under the shadow of these walls. now this ford is rugged and hard to be crossed; and one good man, standing in the steep, narrow entrance at the hither side, might dispute the passage for a time against many. go now, and defend this ford; and haply some help may come in time." so both went to the ford. and when they had viewed it carefully, ficna, seeing that one man might defend it for a short time almost as well as two, said to innsa-"stay thou here to guard the ford for a little time, while i go to the palace of the island to see how the foreigners might be attacked. haply, too, i may meet with the party coming hither, and decoy them on some other track." and innsa consented; and ficna set out straightway for the palace of the island. now as to the palace of the island. when midac returned in the morning, and told how finn and his people were held safe in the palace of the quicken trees, the foreigners were in great joy. and they feasted and drank and were merry till evening; when an irla[xci.] of the king of the world spoke in secret to his brother, and said-"i will go now to the palace of the quicken trees, and i will bring hither the head of finn the son of cumal; and i shall gain thereby much renown, and shall be honoured by the king of the world." so he went, bringing with him a goodly number of his own knights; and nothing is told of what befell them till they arrived at the brink of the ford under the palace of the quicken trees. looking across through the darkness, the irla thought he saw a warrior standing at the other brink; and he called aloud to ask who was there, and whether he belonged to the noble or the ignoble races of the world. and when innsa answered that he belonged to the household of finn, the son of cumal, the irla said-"lo, we are going to the palace of the quicken trees, to bring finn's head to the king of the world; and thou shalt come with us and lead us to the door." "that, indeed," replied innsa, "would be a strange way for a champion to act who has been sent hither by finn to guard this ford. i will not allow any foe to pass--of that be sure; and i warn you that you come not to my side of the ford!" at this the irla said to his knights, "force the ford: then shall we see if yonder hero can fight as well as he threatens." and at the word, they rushed through the water, as many as could find room. but only one or two at a time could attack; and the young champion struck them down right and left as fast as they came up, till the ford became encumbered with their bodies. and when the conflict had lasted for a long time, and when they found that they could not dislodge him, the few that remained retired across the ford; and innsa was fain to rest after his long combat. but the irla, seeing so many of his knights slain, was mad with wrath; and, snatching up his sword and shield, he attacked innsa; and they fought a long and bloody fight. now the irla was fresh and strong, while innsa was weary and sore wounded; and at length the young hero fell in the ford, and the irla beheaded him, and, exulting in his victory, brought the head away. finn and his companions, as they sat in miserable plight in the palace of the quicken trees, heard the clash of arms at the ford, and the shouts and groans of warriors; and after a time all was still again; and they knew not how the fight had ended. and now the irla, thinking over the matter, deemed it unsafe to go to the palace of the quicken trees without a larger body of knights; so he returned towards the palace of the island, intending to bring innsa's head to the king of the world. when he had come within a little distance of the palace, he met ficna, who was then on his way back to the ford; and seeing that he was coming from the palace of the island, he deemed that he was one of the knights of the king of the world. ficna spoke to him, and asked whither he had come. "i come," replied the irla, "from the ford of the palace of the quicken trees. there, indeed, on our way to the palace, to slay finn the son of cumal, we were met by a young champion, who defended the ford and slew my knights. but he fell at length beneath my sword; and, lo, i have brought his head for a triumph to the king of the world!" ficna took the head tenderly, and kissed the cheek thrice, and said, sorrowing-"alas, dear youth! only this morning i saw the light of valour in those dim eyes, and the bloom of youth on that faded cheek!" then turning wrathfully to the irla, he asked-"knowest thou to whom thou hast given the young warrior's head?" and the irla replied, "hast thou not come from the palace of the island, and dost thou not belong to the host of the king of the world?" "i am not one of his knights," answered ficna; "and neither shalt thou be, after this hour!" whereupon they drew their swords, and fought where they stood; and the foreign irla fell by the avenging sword of ficna, the son of finn. ficna beheaded him and returned to the ford, bringing the head, and also the head of innsa. and when he had come to the ford, he made a grave of green sods on the bank, in which he laid the body and the head of innsa, sometimes grieving for the youth, and sometimes rejoicing that his death had been avenged. then he went on to the palace of the quicken trees, bringing the irla's head; and when he had come nigh the door, he called aloud to finn, who, impatient and full of anxious thoughts, asked-"tell us, ficna, who fought the battle at the ford, and how it has ended." "thine own foster son, innsa, defended the ford against many foes, whose bodies now encumber the stream." "and how is it now with my foster son?" asked finn. "he died where he fought," replied ficna; "for at the end, when he was weary and sore wounded, the foreign irla attacked him, and slew him." "and thou, my son, didst thou stand by and see my nursling slain?" "truly i did not," answered ficna. "would that i had been there, and i would have defended and saved him! and even now he is well avenged; for i met the irla soon after, and lo, i have brought thee his head. moreover, i buried thy nursling tenderly in a grave of green sods by the ford." and finn wept and said, "victory and blessings be with thee, my son! never were children better than mine. before i saw them, few were my possessions and small my consideration in erin; but since they have grown up around me, i have been great and prosperous, till i fell by treachery into this evil plight. and now, ficna, return and guard the ford, and peradventure our friends may send help in time." so ficna went and sat on the brink of the ford. footnotes: [xci.] irla, _i.e._ an earl, a chief. chapter v. ficna, the son of finn, defends the ford. now at the palace of the island, another irla, whose name was kironn, brother to him who had been slain by ficna, spoke to some of his own followers-"it is long since my brother left for the palace of the quicken trees; i fear me that he and his people have fared ill in their quest. and now i will go to seek for them." and he went, bringing a company of knights well armed; and when they had come to the ford, they saw ficna at the far side. kironn called out and asked who he was, and asked also who had made such a slaughter in the ford. ficna answered, "i am one of the household champions of finn the son of cumal, and he has sent me here to guard this ford. as to the slaughter of yonder knights, your question stirs my mind to wrath, and i warn you, if you come to this side of the ford, you will get a reply, not in words, but in deeds." then kironn and his men rushed through the water, blind with rage, and struck wildly at ficna. but the young hero watchfully parried their strokes and thrusts; and one after another they fell beneath his blows, till only a single man was left, who ran back with all speed to the palace of the island to tell the tale. and ficna sat down on the brink, covered all over with wounds, and weary from the toil of battle. when these tidings were brought to the palace, midac was very wroth, and he said, "these men should not have gone to force the ford without my knowledge; for they were far too few in number, and neither were they bold and hardy enough to meet finn's valiant champions. i know these fena well, and it is not to me a matter of surprise that the irla and his people fell by them. "but i will now go with a choice party of my own brave men; and i will cross the ford despite their guards, and slay finn and all his companions in the palace of the quicken trees. "moreover, there is one man among them, namely, conan mail,[23] who of all the men of erin has the largest appetite, and is fondest of choice eating and drinking. to him will i bring savoury food and delicious drink, not, indeed, to delight him with eating and drinking, but that i may torment him with the sight and smell of what he cannot taste." so, having got the food, he set out with a chosen band; and when he had arrived at the ford, he saw a warrior at the far side. he asked who he was, and finding that it was ficna, he spoke guilefully to him. "dear art thou to me, ficna, dearer even than all the rest of finn's household; for during the time i lived among the fena, you never used me ill, or lifted a hand to either man or dog belonging to me." but ficna spurned his smooth words, and replied, "while you lived among the fena, there was not a man among them that had less to do with you than i. but this i know, that you were treated kindly by all, especially by my father finn, and you have repaid him by ingratitude and treachery." when midac heard this speech he was filled with wrath, and no longer hiding his evil mind, he ordered ficna with threats to leave the ford. but ficna laughed with scorn, and replied-"the task is easy, friend midac, to dislodge a single champion; and surely it is a small matter to you whether i stand in this narrow pass or abandon my post. come forward, then, you and your knights; but here i will remain to receive you. i only regret you did not come sooner, while my blood was hot, and before my wounds grew stiff, when you would have got a better welcome!" then midac ordered forward his knights, and they ran eagerly across the ford. but ficna overthrew them with a mighty onset, like a hawk among a flight of small birds, or like a wolf among a flock of sheep. when midac saw this, he buckled on his shield and took his sword. then, treading warily over the rough rocks, and over the dead bodies of his knights, he confronted ficna, and they attacked each other with deadly hate and fury. we shall now speak of those who remained on knockfierna. when oisin found that the two heroes did not return as soon as he expected, he thus addressed his companions-"it seems to me a long time, my friends, since ficna and innsa went to the palace of the quicken trees; methinks if they have sped successfully they should have long since come back with tidings of finn and the others." and one of his companions answered, "it is plain that they have gone to partake of the feast, and it fares so well with them that they are in no haste to leave the palace." but dermat o'dyna of the bright face spoke and said, "it may be as you say, friend, but i should like to know the truth of the matter. and now i will go and find out why they tarry, for my mind misgives me that some evil thing has happened." and fatha conan said he would go with him. so the two heroes set out for the palace of the quicken trees; and when they were yet a good way off from the ford they heard the clash of arms. they paused for a moment, breathless, to listen, and then dermat exclaimed-"it is the sound of single combat, the combat of mighty heroes; it is ficna fighting with the foreigners, for i know his war-shout. i hear the clash of swords and the groans of warriors; i hear the shrieks of the ravens over the fairy-mansions, and the howls of the wild men of the glens! hasten, fatha, hasten, for ficna is in sore strait, and his shout is a shout for help!" and so they ran like the wind till they reached the hill-brow over the river; and, looking across in the dim moonlight, they saw the whole ford heaped with the bodies of the slain, and the two heroes fighting to the death at the far side. and at the first glance they observed that ficna, being sore wounded, was yielding and sheltering behind his shield, and scarce able to ward off the blows of midac. then fatha cried out, "fly, dermat, fly! save our dear companion! save the king's son from death." and dermat, pausing for a moment, said, as if communing with himself-"this is surely an evil plight: for if i run to the other side, the foreigner, being the more enraged for seeing me, will strike with greater fury, and i may not overtake the prince alive; and if i cast my spear, i may strike the wrong man!" but fatha, overhearing him, said, "fear not, dermat, for you never yet threw an erring cast of a spear!" then dermat, putting his finger in the silken loop of his spear, threw a deadly cast with unerring aim, and struck midac, so that the iron spear-head went right through his body, and the length of a warrior's hand beyond. "woe to the man," exclaimed midac--"woe to him whom that spear reaches: for it is the spear of dermat o'dyna!" and now his wrath increased, and he struck at ficna more fiercely than before. dermat shouted to him to hold his hand and not slay the king's son; and as he spoke he rushed down the slope and across the ford, to save the young hero. but midac, still pressing on with unabated strength and fury, replied-"had you wished to save the prince's life, you should have spared mine: now that i have been wounded to death by your spear, finn shall never see his son alive!" even as he spoke, he raised his sword for a mighty blow; and just as dermat, shouting earnestly, was closing on them, he struck the prince lifeless to the earth, but fell down himself immediately after. dermat came up on the instant, and looked sadly at his friend lying dead. then, addressing midac, he said-"if i had found thee dead, i would have passed thee untouched; but now that i have overtaken thee alive, i must needs behead thee, for thy head will be to finn a worthy eric[10] for his son." and so saying, he struck off midac's head with one sweep of his heavy sword. dermat now repaired to the palace of the quicken trees, leaving fatha to watch the ford till his return. and when he had come near, he called aloud and struck the door with his heavy spear, for his wrath had not yet left him; but the door yielded not. finn knew the voice, and called out impatiently, "do not try to enter here, dermat, for this place is full of foul spells. but tell us first, i pray thee, who fought that long and bitter fight; for we heard the clash of arms and the shouts of warriors, but we know nothing more." "thy noble son, ficna," returned dermat, "fought single-handed against the foreigners." "and how fares it with my son after that battle?" "he is dead," answered dermat; "first sore wounded by many foes whom he slaughtered, and afterwards slain by midac, the son of colga. but thy son is avenged; for though i came to the ford indeed too late to save him, i have slain midac, and here i have brought thee his head as an eric." and for a long time dermat heard no more. at last finn spoke again and said-"victory and blessings be with you, dermat, for often before did you relieve the fena from sore straits. but never have we been in such plight as this. for here we sit spell-bound, and only one thing can release us, the blood of the three fierce kings of the island of the torrent sprinkled on this clay. meantime, unless the ford be well defended, the foreigners will come and slay us. in you, dermat, we trust, and unless you aid us well and faithfully now, we shall of a certainty perish. guard the ford till the rising of the sun, for then i know the fena will come to aid you." "i and fatha will of a certainty keep the enemy at bay," replied dermat; and he bade them farewell for a time, and was about to return to the ford: but conan mail, with a groan, said-"miserable was the hour when i came to this palace, and cold and comfortless is the clay on which i sit--the clay of the island of the torrent. but worst of all to be without food and drink so long. and while i sit here, tormented with hunger and thirst, there is great plenty of ale and wine and of rich, savoury food yonder in the palace of the island. i am not able to bear this any longer; and now, dermat, i beseech you to bring me from the palace as much food as i can eat and a drinking-horn of wine." "cursed be the tongue that spoke these selfish words!" said dermat. "a host of foreigners are now seeking to compass your death, with only fatha and myself to defend you. surely this is work enough for two good men! and now it seems i must abandon my post, and undertake a task of much danger, to get food for the gluttonous conan mail!" "alas, dermat-na-man!"[23] replied conan, "if it were a lovely maiden, with bright eyes and golden hair, who made this little request, quickly and eagerly you would fly to please her, little recking of danger or trouble. but now you refuse me, and the reason is not hard to see. for you formerly crossed me four times in my courtships; and now it likes you well to see me die of hunger in this dungeon!" "well, then," said dermat, "cease your upbraiding, and i will try to bring you food; for it is better to face danger than to suffer the revilings of your foul tongue." so saying, he went back to the ford to fatha, where he stood watching; and after he had told him how matters stood, he said to him-"i must needs go to the palace of the island, to get food for conan mail; and you shall guard the ford till i return." but fatha told him that there was food and drink enough at the other side of the ford, which midac had brought from the palace, and urged him to bring a good meal of this to conan. "not so," said dermat. "he would taunt me with bringing him food taken from the hands of dead men; and though one may recover from his blow, it is not so easy to recover from the venom of his tongue."[xcii.] so he left fatha at the ford, and repaired to the palace of the island. as he drew nigh, he heard the noise of feasting and revelry, and the loud talk and laughter of men deep in drink. walking tiptoe, he peered warily through the open door, and saw the chiefs and the knights sitting at the tables; with sinsar of the battles and his son borba high seated over all. he saw also many attendants serving them with food and drink, each holding in his hand a large ornamented drinking-horn, filled with wine. dermat entered the outer door softly, and stood in a dark part of the passage near the door, silent and stern, with sword drawn, watching his opportunity. and after a time one of the attendants, unsuspecting, passed close to him; when dermat, with a swift, sure blow, struck off his head. and he snatched the drinking-horn from the man's hand before he fell, so that not a drop of the wine was spilled. then, laying the drinking-horn aside for a moment, he walked straight into the hall, and taking up one of the dishes near where the king sat, he went out through the open door, bringing with him both dish and drinking-horn. and amidst the great crowd, and the drinking, and the noise, no one took the least notice of him, so that he got off without hindrance or harm of any kind. when he reached the ford, he found fatha lying fast asleep on the bank. he wondered very much that he could sleep in the midst of such a slaughter; but knowing that the young warrior was worn out with watching and toil, he left him lying asleep, and went to the palace of the quicken trees with the food for conan. when he had come to the door, he called aloud to conan and said-"i have here a goodly meal of choice food: how am i to give it to thee?" conan said, "throw it towards me through yonder little opening." dermat did so; and as fast as he threw the food, conan caught it in his large hands, and ate it up ravenously. and when it was all gone, dermat said-"i have here a large drinking-horn of good wine: how am i to give it to thee?" conan answered, "there is a place behind the palace where, from a rock, you may reach the lower parapet with a light, airy bound. come from that straight over me, and break a hole in the roof with your spear, through which you can pour the wine down to me." dermat did so; and as he poured down the wine, conan, with upturned face, opened his great mouth and caught it, and swallowed it every drop. after this dermat came down and returned to the ford, where he found fatha still asleep; and he sat beside him, but did not awaken him. footnotes: [xcii.] a satirical allusion to conan's well-known cowardice. chapter vi. dermat o'dyna slays the three kings of the island of the torrent, breaks the spell with their blood, and frees finn. tidings were brought to the palace of the island that midac and all whom he led were slain at the ford; and the three kings of the island of the torrent said-"the young king of lochlann did wrong to make this attempt without asking our counsel; and had we known of the thing we would have hindered him. for to us belongs the right to behead finn and his companions, since it is the spell-venom of the clay which we brought from the island of the torrent that holds them bound in the palace of the quicken trees. and now, indeed, we will go and slay them all." so they set out with a strong party, and soon reached the ford. looking across in the dim light, they saw dermat, and called aloud to ask who he was. "i am dermat o'dyna," he replied, "one of finn's champions. he has sent me to guard this ford, and whoever you are, i warn you not to cross!" then they sought to beguile dermat, and to win him over by smooth words; and they replied-"it is a pleasure to us to meet you, dermat; for we are old friends of yours. we are the three kings of the island of the torrent, your fellow-pupils in valour and all heroic feats. for you and we lived with the same tutors from the beginning; and you never learned a feat of arms that we did not learn in like manner. leave the ford, then, that we may pass on to the palace of the quicken trees." but dermat answered in few words, "finn and his companions are under my protection till morning; and i will defend the ford as long as i am alive!" and he stood up straight and tall like a pillar, and scowled across the ford. a number of the foreigners now rushed towards dermat, and raging in a confused crowd, assailed him. but the strong hero met them as a rock meets the waves, and slew them with ease as they came within the range of his sword. yet still they pressed on, others succeeding those that fell; and in the midst of the rage of battle, fatha started up from his sleep, awakened by the crashing of weapons and the riving of shields. he gazed for a moment, bewildered, at the combatants, and, seeing how matters stood, he was wroth with dermat for not awakening him; so that he ran at him fiercely with drawn sword. but dermat stepped aside, and, being angry, thus addressed him-"slake thy vengeance on our foes for the present: for me, the swords of the foreigners are enough, methinks, without thine to aid them!" then fatha turned and attacked the foe, and his onset was even more deadly than that of dermat; so that they fell before him to the right and left on the ford. and now at last the three kings, seeing so many of their men falling, advanced slowly towards dermat; and dermat, unterrified, stood in his place to meet them. and their weapons clashed and tore through their shields, and the fight was long and furious; till at last the champion-pride and the battle-fury of dermat arose, so that the three dragon-like kings fell slain one by one before him, on that ford of red slaughter. and now, though smarting with wounds, and breathless, and weary, dermat and fatha remembered finn and the fena; and dermat called to mind what finn had told him as to how the spell was to be broken. so he struck off the heads of the three kings, and, followed by fatha, he ran with them, all gory as they were, to the palace of the quicken trees. as they drew nigh to the door, finn, knowing their voices and their footsteps, called aloud anxiously to ask how it fared with the combatants at the ford; "for," said he, "the crashing and the din of that battle exceeded all we have yet heard, and we know not how it has ended." dermat answered, "king of the fena, fatha and i have slain the three kings of the island of the torrent; and lo, here we have their heads all bloody; but how am i to bring them to thee?" "victory and blessings be with you, dermat; you and fatha have fought a valiant fight, worthy of the fena of erin! now sprinkle the door with the blood." dermat did so, and in a moment the door flew wide open with a crash. and inside they saw the heroes in sore plight, all pale and faint, seated on the cold clay round the wall. dermat and fatha, holding the gory heads by the hair, sprinkled the earth under each with the blood, beginning with finn, and freed them one by one; and the heroes, as they found the spell broken, sprang to their feet with exulting cries. and they thanked the gods for having relieved them from that perilous strait, and they and the two heroes joyfully embraced each other. but danger still threatened, and they now took counsel what they should do; and finn, addressing dermat and fatha, said-"the venom of these foul spells has withered our strength, so that we are not able to fight; but at sunrise they will lose their power, and we shall be strong again. it is necessary, therefore, that you still guard the ford, and at the rising of the sun we shall relieve you." so the two heroes went to the ford, and fatha returned with food and drink for finn and the others. after the last battle at the ford, a few who had escaped brought back tidings to the king of the world and his people, that the three kings of the island of the torrent had fallen by the hands of dermat and fatha. but they knew not that finn and the others had been released. then arose the king's son, borba the haughty, who, next to the king himself, was mightiest in battle of all the foreign host. and he said-"feeble warriors were they who tried to cross this ford. i will go now and avenge the death of our people on these fena, and i will bring hither the head of finn the son of cumal, and place it at my father's feet." so he marched forth without delay, with a large body of chosen warriors, till he reached the edge of the ford. and although dermat and fatha never trembled before a foe, yet when they saw the dark mass drawing nigh, and heard the heavy tread and clank of arms, they dreaded that they might be dislodged and overpowered by repeated attacks, leaving finn and the rest helpless and unprotected. and each in his heart longed for the dawn of morning. no parley was held this time, but the foreigners came straight across the ford--as many abreast as could find footing. and as they drew near, dermat spoke to fatha-"fight warily, my friend: ward the blows of the foremost, and be not too eager to slay, but rather look to thy own safety. it behoves us to nurse our strength and prolong the fight, for the day is dawning, and sunrise is not far off!" the foreigners came on, many abreast; but their numbers availed them naught, for the pass was narrow; and the two heroes, one taking the advancing party to the right, and the other to the left, sometimes parried and sometimes slew, but never yielded an inch from where they stood. and now at last the sun rose up over the broad plain of kenri; and suddenly the withering spell went forth from the bones and sinews of the heroes who sat at the palace of the quicken trees, listening with anxious hearts to the clash of battle at the ford. joyfully they started to their feet, and, snatching up their arms, hastened down to the ford with finn at their head; but one they sent, the swiftest among them, to knockfierna, to take the news to oisin. dermat and fatha, fighting eagerly, heeded not that the sun had risen, though it was now indeed glittering before their eyes on the helmets and arms of their foes. but as they fought, there rose a great shout behind them; and finn and gaul and the rest ran down the slope to attack the foreigners. the foreigners, not in the least dismayed, answered the attack; and the fight went on, till gaul mac morna and borba the haughty met face to face in the middle of the ford, and they fought a hard and deadly combat. the battle-fury of gaul at length arose, so that nothing could stand before him, and, with one mighty blow, he cleft the head from the body of borba. and now the foreigners began to yield: but they still continued to fight, till a swift messenger sped to the palace of the island, and told the great king, sinsar of the battles, that his son was dead, slain by gaul; and that his army was sore pressed by the fena, with finn at their head. when the people heard these tidings, they raised a long and sorrowful cry of lamentation for the king's son; but the king himself, though sorrow filled his heart, showed it not. and he arose and summoned his whole host; and, having arranged them in their battalions and in their companies under their princes and chiefs, he marched towards the battle-field, desiring vengeance on the fena more than the glory of victory. chapter vii. the fight at the ford, with the foreign army. all the fena who had gone to the chase from knockfierna had returned, and were now with oisin, the son of finn. and the messenger came slowly up the hill-side, and told them, though with much difficulty, for he was weary and breathless, the whole story from beginning to end, of finn's enchantment, and of the battles at the ford, and how their companions at that moment stood much in need of aid against the foreigners. instantly the whole body marched straight towards the palace of the quicken trees, and arrived on the hill-brow over the ford, just as the king of the world and his army were approaching from the opposite direction. and now the fight at the ford ceased for a time, while the two armies were put in battle array; and on neither side was there any cowardice or any desire to avoid the combat. the fena were divided into four battalions. the active, bright-eyed clann baskin marched in front of the first battalion; the fierce, champion-like clann morna led the second; the strong, sanguinary mic-an-smoil brought up the third; and the fourth was led forward by the fearless, venomous clann o'navnan. and they marched forward, with their silken banners, each banner-staff in the hand of a tall, trusty hero; their helmets glittering with precious gems; their broad, beautiful shields on their left shoulders; with their long, straight, deadly lances in their hands; and their heavy, keen-edged swords hanging at the left side of each. onward they marched; and woe to those who crossed the path of that host of active, high-minded champions, who never turned their backs on an enemy in battle! and now at last the fight began with showers of light, venomous missiles; and many a hero fell even before the combatants met face to face. then they drew their long, broad-bladed swords, and the ranks closed and mingled in deadly strife. it would be vain to attempt a description of that battle, for it was hard to distinguish friend from foe. many a high-souled hero fell wounded and helpless, and neither sigh nor groan of pain escaped them; but they died, encouraging their friends to vengeance with voice and gesture. and the first thought of each champion was to take the life of his foe rather than to save his own. the great king finn himself moved tall and stately from battalion to battalion, now fighting in the foremost ranks, and now encouraging his friends and companions, his mighty voice rising clear over the clash of arms and the shouts of the combatants. and wherever he moved, there the courage of the fena rose high, and their valour and their daring increased, so that the ranks of their foes fell back thinned and scattered before them. oscar, resting for a moment from the toil of battle, looked round, and espied the standard of the king of the world, where he stood guarded by his best warriors, to protect him from the danger of being surrounded and outnumbered by his foes; and the young hero's wrath was kindled when he observed that the fena were falling back dismayed wherever that standard was borne. rushing through the opposing ranks like a lion maddened by dogs, he approached the king; and the king laughed a grim laugh of joy when he saw him, and ordered his guards back; for he was glad in his heart, expecting to revenge his son's death by slaying with his own hand finn's grandson, who was most loved of all the youthful champions of the fena. then these two great heroes fought a deadly battle; and many a warrior stayed his hand to witness this combat. it seemed as if both should fall; for each inflicted on the other many wounds. the king's rage knew no bounds at being so long withstood, for at first sight he despised oscar for his youth and beauty; and he made an onset that caused oscar's friends, as they looked on, to tremble; for during this attack the young hero defended himself, and no more. but now, having yielded for a time, he called to mind the actions and the fame of his forefathers, and attacked the king in turn, and, with a blow that no shield or buckler could withstand, he swept the head from the king's body. then a great shout went up from the fena, and the foreigners instantly gave way; and they were pursued and slaughtered on every side. a few threw away their arms and escaped to the shore, where, hastily unmooring their ships, they sailed swiftly away to their own country, with tidings of the death of their king and the slaughter of their army. the pursuit of the gilla dacker and his horse. chapter i. arrival of the gilla dacker and his horse. one day in the beginning of summer, finn, the son of cumal, the son of trenmore o'baskin,[23] feasted the chief people of erin at allen[23] of the broad hill-slopes. and when the feast was over, the fena reminded him that it was time to begin the chase through the plains and the glens and the wildernesses of erin. for this was the manner in which the fena were wont to spend their time. they divided the year into two parts. during the first half, namely, from beltane to samin,[xciii.] they hunted each day with their dogs; and during the second half, namely, from samin to beltane, they lived in the mansions and the betas[xciv.] of erin; so that there was not a chief or a great lord or a keeper of a house of hospitality in the whole country that had not nine of the fena quartered on him during the winter half of the year. finn and his chiefs now held council as to which of the provinces of erin they should begin with; and they chose munster for the first chase. next day they set out, both dogs and men; and they travelled through offaly,[xcv.] and by one side of fera-call, and to brosna of slieve bloma, and by the twelve mountains of evlinn, till they came to collkilla, which is now called knockainy. the chase was then set in order, and they scattered themselves over the broad plains of munster. they began at ardpatrick,[xcvi.] and they hunted over kenn-avrat of slieve-keen, and over coill-na-drua, which is now called the district of fermoy; over the fruitful lands of lehan, and over the confines of fermorc, which is now called hy conall gavra. then south to the patrimony of curoi mac dara, and by the shores of loch lein; afterwards along the blue-streamy suir, by caher-dun-isca, over the great plain of femin, and across the speckled summit of slieve-na-man-finn; all over east munster and west munster, as far as balla-gavran on the one side, and on the other across the shannon to cratloe, near limerick of the blue waters. in short, there was not a plain or a valley, a wood or a brake, a mountain or a wilderness, in the two provinces of munster, that they did not hunt over on that occasion. now it chanced at one time during the chase, while they were hunting over the plain of cliach,[xcvii.] that finn went to rest on the hill of collkilla, which is now called knockainy; and he had his hunting-tents pitched on a level spot near the summit. some of his chief heroes tarried with him; namely, his son oisin; the valiant oscar, the son of oisin; gaul mac morna of the mighty deeds; finn's shield-bearer, skeabrac; kylta mac ronan; dermat o'dyna of the bright face; ligan lumina the swift-footed; conan mail of the foul tongue; and finn ban mac bresal. when the king and his companions had taken their places on the hill, the fena unleashed their gracefully shaped, sweet-voiced hounds through the woods and sloping glens. and it was sweet music to finn's ear, the cry of the long-snouted dogs, as they routed the deer from their covers, and the badgers from their dens; the pleasant, emulating shouts of the youths; the whistling and signalling of the huntsmen; and the encouraging cheers of the mighty heroes, as they spread themselves through the glens and woods, and over the broad, green plain of cliach. then did finn ask who of all his companions would go to the highest point of the hill directly over them, to keep watch and ward, and to report how the chase went on. for, he said, the dedannans[1] were ever on the watch to work the fena mischief by their druidical spells, and more so during the chase than at other times. finn ban mac bresal stood forward and offered to go: and, grasping his broad spears, he went to the top, and sat viewing the plain to the four points of the sky. and the king and his companions brought forth the chess-board and chess-men,[26] and sat them down to a game. finn ban mac bresal had been watching only a little time, when he saw on the plain to the east, a fomor[xcviii.] of vast size coming towards the hill, leading a horse. as he came nearer, finn ban observed that he was the ugliest-looking giant his eyes ever lighted on. he had a large, thick body, bloated and swollen out to a great size; clumsy, crooked legs; and broad, flat feet, turned inwards. his hands and arms and shoulders were bony and thick and very strong-looking; his neck was long and thin; and while his head was poked forward, his face was turned up, as he stared straight at finn mac bresal. he had thick lips, and long, crooked teeth; and his face was covered all over with bushy hair. he was fully armed; but all his weapons were rusty and soiled and slovenly looking. a broad shield of a dirty, sooty colour, rough and battered, hung over his back; he had a long, heavy, straight sword at his left hip; and he held in his left hand two thick-handled, broad-headed spears, old and rusty, and seeming as if they had not been handled for years. in his right hand he held an iron club, which he dragged after him, with its end on the ground; and, as it trailed along, it tore up a track as deep as the furrow a farmer ploughs with a team of oxen. the horse he led was even larger in proportion than the giant himself, and quite as ugly. his great carcase was covered all over with tangled, scraggy hair, of a sooty black; you could count his ribs, and all the points of his big bones through his hide; his legs were crooked and knotty; his neck was twisted; and as for his jaws, they were so long and heavy that they made his head look twice too large for his body. the giant held him by a thick halter, and seemed to be dragging him forward by main force, the animal was so lazy and so hard to move. every now and then, when the beast tried to stand still, the giant would give him a blow on the ribs with his big iron club, which sounded as loud as the thundering of a great billow against the rough-headed rocks of the coast. when he gave him a pull forward by the halter, the wonder was that he did not drag the animal's head away from his body; and, on the other hand, the horse often gave the halter such a tremendous tug backwards that it was equally wonderful how the arm of the giant was not torn away from his shoulder. now it was not an easy matter to frighten finn ban mac bresal; but when he saw the giant and his horse coming straight towards him in that wise, he was seized with such fear and horror that he sprang from his seat, and, snatching up his arms, he ran down the hill-slope with his utmost speed towards the king and his companions, whom he found sitting round the chess-board, deep in their game. they started up when they saw finn ban looking so scared; and, turning their eyes towards where he pointed, they saw the big man and his horse coming up the hill. they stood gazing at him in silent wonder, waiting till he should arrive; but although he was no great way off when they first caught sight of him, it was a long time before he reached the spot where they stood, so slow was the movement of himself and his horse. when at last he had come up, he bowed his head, and bended his knee, and saluted the king with great respect. finn addressed him; and after having given him leave to speak, he asked him who he was, and what was his name; from which of the three chief divisions of the world he had come, and whether he belonged to one of the noble or ignoble races; also what was his profession or craft, and why he had no servant to attend to his horse--if, indeed, such an ugly old spectre of an animal could be called a horse at all. the big man made answer and said, "king of the fena, i will answer everything you ask me, as far as lies in my power. whether i come of a noble or of an ignoble race, that, indeed, i cannot tell, for i know not who my father and mother were. as to where i came from, i am a fomor of lochlann[6] in the north; but i have no particular dwelling-place, for i am continually travelling about from one country to another, serving the great lords and nobles of the world, and receiving wages for my service. "in the course of my wanderings i have often heard of you, o king, and of your greatness and splendour and royal bounty; and i have come now to visit you, and to ask you to take me into your service for one year; and at the end of that time i shall fix my own wages, according to my custom. "you ask me also why i have no servant for this great horse of mine. the reason of that is this: at every meal i eat, my master must give me as much food and drink as would be enough for a hundred men; and whosoever the lord or chief may be that takes me into his service, it is quite enough for him to have to provide for me, without having also to feed my servant. "moreover, i am so very heavy and lazy that i should never be able to keep up with a company on march if i had to walk; and this is my reason for keeping a horse at all. "my name is the gilla dacker,[xcix.] and it is not without good reason that i am so called. for there never was a lazier or worse servant than i am, or one that grumbles more at doing a day's work for his master. and i am the hardest person in the whole world to deal with; for, no matter how good or noble i may think my master, or how kindly he may treat me, it is hard words and foul reproaches i am likely to give him for thanks in the end. "this, o finn, is the account i have to give of myself, and these are my answers to your questions." "well," answered finn, "according to your own account, you are not a very pleasant fellow to have anything to do with; and of a truth there is not much to praise in your appearance. but things may not be so bad as you say; and, anyhow, as i have never yet refused any man service and wages, i will not now refuse you." whereupon finn and the gilla dacker made covenants, and the gilla dacker was taken into service for a year. then the big man turned to conan mail, and asked him whether the foot-service or the horse-service had the better pay among the fena; and conan answered that the horsemen had twice as much pay as the footmen. "if that be so," replied the gilla dacker, "i will join the horse-service, as i have a fine steed of my own; and indeed, if i had known this before, i would certainly have come hither on horseback, instead of walking. "and now, as to this same horse of mine, i find i must attend to him myself, as i see no one here worthy of putting a hand near him. so i will lead him to the nearest stud, as i am wont to do, and let him graze among your horses. i value him greatly, however, and it would grieve me very much if any harm were to befall him; so," continued he, turning to the king, "i put him under your protection, o king, and under the protection of all the fena that are here present." at this speech the fena all burst out laughing, to see the gilla dacker showing such concern for his miserable, worthless old skeleton of a horse. howbeit, the big man, giving not the least heed to their merriment, took the halter off the horse's head, and turned him loose among the horses of the fena. but now, this same wretched-looking old animal, instead of beginning to graze, as every one thought he would, ran in among the horses of the fena, and began straightway to work all sorts of mischief. he cocked his long, hard, switchy tail straight out like a rod, and, throwing up his hind legs, he kicked about on this side and on that, maiming and disabling several of the horses. sometimes he went tearing through the thickest of the herd, butting at them with his hard, bony forehead; and he opened out his lips with a vicious grin, and tore all he could lay hold on, with his sharp, crooked teeth, so that none were safe that came in his way either before or behind. and the end of it was, that not an animal of the whole herd escaped, without having a leg broken, or an eye knocked out, or his ribs fractured, or his ear bitten off, or the side of his face torn open, or without being in some other way cut or maimed beyond cure. at last he left them, and was making straight across to a small field where conan mail's horses were grazing by themselves, intending to play the same tricks among them. but conan, seeing this, shouted in great alarm to the gilla dacker, to bring away his horse, and not let him work any more mischief; and threatening, if he did not do so at once, to go himself and knock the brains out of the vicious old brute on the spot. but the gilla dacker took the matter quite cool; and he told conan that he saw no way of preventing his horse from joining the others, except some one put the halter on him and held him, which would, of course, he said, prevent the poor animal from grazing, and would leave him with a hungry belly at the end of the day. he said, moreover, that as he had no horse-boy, and must needs do everything for himself, he thought it quite time enough to look after his horse when he had to make ready for a journey. "but," said he to conan, "there is the halter; and if you are in any fear for your own animals, you may go yourself and bring him away from the field." conan was in a mighty rage when he heard this; and as he saw the big horse just about to cross the fence, he snatched up the halter, and running forward, with long strides, he threw it over the animal's head and thought to lead him back. but in a moment the horse stood stock still, and his body and legs became as stiff as if they were made of wood; and though conan pulled and tugged with might and main, he was not able to stir him an inch from his place. he gave up pulling at last, when he found it was no use; but he still kept on holding the halter, while the big horse never made the least stir, but stood as if he had been turned into stone; the gilla dacker all the time looking on quite unconcernedly, and the others laughing at conan's perplexity. but no one offered to relieve him. at last fergus finnvel, the poet, spoke to conan, and said, "i never would have believed, conan mail, that you could be brought to do horse-service for any knight or noble in the whole world; but now, indeed, i see that you have made yourself a horse-boy to an ugly foreign giant, so hateful-looking and low-born that not a man of the fena would have anything to say to him. as you have, however, to mind this old horse in order to save your own, would it not be better for you to mount him, and revenge yourself for all the trouble he is giving you, by riding him across the country, over the hill-tops, and down into the deep glens and valleys, and through stones and bogs and all sorts of rough places, till you have broken the heart in his big, ugly body?" conan, stung by the cutting words of the poet, and by the jeers of his companions, jumped upon the horse's back, and began to beat him mightily with his heels, and with his two big, heavy fists, to make him go; but the horse seemed not to take the least notice and never stirred. "i know the reason he does not go," said fergus finnvel; "he has been accustomed to carry a horseman far heavier than you, that is to say, the gilla dacker; and he will not move till he has the same weight on his back." at this conan mail called out to his companions, and asked which of them would mount with him, and help to avenge the damage done to their horses. "i will go," said coil croda the battle victor, son of criffan; and up he went. but the horse never moved. dara donn mac morna next offered to go, and mounted behind the others; and after him angus mac art mac morna. and the end of it was, that fourteen men of the clann baskin and clann morna[23] got up along with conan; and all began to thrash the horse together, with might and main. but they were none the better of it, for he remained standing stiff and immovable as before. they found, moreover, that their seat was not at all an easy one--the animal's back was so sharp and bony. footnotes: [xciii.] beltane, the first of may; samin, the first of november. [xciv.] beta, a public house of hospitality. [xcv.] offaly, now the name of two baronies in the county kildare. fera-call, or fircal, an ancient territory in the present king's county. brosna, a small river rising in the slieve bloma, or slieve bloom mountains, which flows by birr, and falls into the shannon near banagher; usually called the little brosna, to distinguish it from the great brosna, which flows through king's county into the shannon. the twelve mountains of evlinn. (see note, page 97.) knockainy, a small hill much celebrated in fairy lore, in the county limerick, giving name to the village of knockainy at its base. it appears from the text that it was more anciently called collkilla, or hazel-wood. [xcvi.] ardpatrick, a beautiful green hill, with a remarkable church ruin and graveyard on its summit, two miles from kilfinane, county limerick. kenn-avrat was the ancient name of seefin mountain, rising over the village of glenosheen, two miles from ardpatrick. slieve-keen, the old name of the hill of carrigeennamroanty, near seefin. fermoy, a well-known town and barony in the county cork. it appears from the text that the district was anciently known by the name of coill-na-drua, or the wood of the druids. lehan, the ancient name of the district round castlelyons, in the county cork. fermorc, now the baronies of connello, in limerick. (see note, page 184.) curoi mac dara, a celebrated chief who flourished in the time of the red branch knights of ulster, viz., in the first century of the christian era. curoi had his residence on a mountain near tralee, still called caherconree (the fortress of curoi), and his "patrimony" was south munster. the remains of curoi's great stone fortress are still to be seen on caherconree. loch lein, the lakes of killarney. caher-dun-isca, now the town of caher, on the suir, in tipperary. femin was the name of the great plain lying to the south and west of the mountain of slievenaman, or slieve-na-man-finn, near clonmel, in tipperary. balla-gavran, or the pass of gavran, an ancient road, which ran by gavran (now gowran), in the county kilkenny. cratloe, a well-known district on the clare side of the shannon, near limerick. [xcvii.] cliach, the old name of the plain lying round knockainy. [xcviii.] fomor, a gigantic warrior, a giant; its primitive meaning is "a sea-robber," commonly called a fomorian. (see note 5 at the end.) [xcix.] gilla dacker means "a slothful fellow"--a fellow hard to move, hard to manage, hard to have anything to do with. chapter ii. conan and fifteen of the fena are carried off by the gilla dacker's horse. when the gilla dacker saw the fena beating his horse at such a rate, he seemed very angry, and addressed the king in these words-"king of the fena, i now see plainly that all the fine accounts i heard about you and the fena are false, and i will not stay in your service--no, not another hour. you can see for yourself the ill usage these men are giving my horse without cause; and i leave you to judge whether any one could put up with it--any one who had the least regard for his horse. the time is, indeed, short since i entered your service, but i now think it a great deal too long; so pay me my wages, and let me go my ways." but finn said, "i do not wish you to go; stay on till the end of your year, and then i will pay you all i promised you." "i swear," answered the gilla dacker, "that if this were the very last day of my year, i would not wait till morning for my wages, after this insult. so, wages or no wages, i will now seek another master; but from this time forth i shall know what to think of finn mac cumal and his fena!" with that the gilla dacker stood up as straight as a pillar, and, turning his face towards the south-west, he walked slowly away. when the horse saw his master leaving the hill, he stirred himself at once and walked quietly after him, bringing the fifteen men away on his back. and when the fena saw this they raised a loud shout of laughter, mocking them. the gilla dacker, after he had walked some little way, looked back, and seeing that his horse was following, he stood for a moment to tuck up his skirts. then, all at once changing his pace, he set out with long, active strides; and if you know what the speed of a swallow is, flying across a mountain-side, or the dry, fairy wind of a march day sweeping over the plains, then you can understand the swiftness of the gilla dacker, as he ran down the hill-side towards the south-west. neither was the horse behindhand in the race; for, though he carried a heavy load, he galloped like the wind after his master, plunging and bounding forward with as much freedom as if he had nothing at all on his back. the men now tried to throw themselves off; but this, indeed, they were not able to do, for the good reason that they found themselves fastened firmly, hands and feet and all, to the horse's back. and now conan, looking round, raised his big voice, and shouted to finn and the fena, asking them were they content to let their friends be carried off in that manner by such a horrible, foul-looking old spectre of a horse. finn and the others, hearing this, seized their arms and started off in pursuit. now the way the gilla dacker and his horse took was first through fermorc,[c.] which is at the present day called hy conall gavra; next over the wide, heathy summit of slieve lougher; from that to corca divna; and they ran along by slieve mish, till they reached cloghan kincat, near the deep green sea. during all this time finn and his people kept them in view, but were not able to overtake them; and ligan lumina, one of the swiftest of the fena, kept ahead of the others. the horse now passed by cloghan kincat without in the least abating his speed; and when he had arrived on the beach, even at the very water's edge, ligan overtook him, and caught him by the tail with his two hands, intending to hold him till the rest of the fena came up. he gave a mighty pull back; but the horse, not in the least checked by this, made no more ado but plunged forward through the waves, dragging ligan after him hanging at his tail. and ligan now found that he could neither help his friends nor free himself, for his two hands clung fast to the tail of the horse. and so the great horse continued his course without stop or stay, bringing the sixteen fena with him through the sea. now this is how they fared in the sea, while the horse was rushing swiftly farther and farther to the west: they had always a dry, firm strand under them, for the waters retired before the horse while behind them was a wild, raging sea, which followed close after, and seemed ready every moment to topple over their heads. but, though the billows were tumbling and roaring all round, neither horse nor riders were wetted by as much as a drop of brine or a dash of spray. footnotes: [c.] fermorc, now the baronies of connello, in limerick. slieve lougher, a celebrated mountain near castle island, in kerry. corca divna, now the barony of corkaguiny, the long peninsula lying west of tralee, and containing the town of dingle, and the mountain range of slieve mish. cloghan kincat, now called cloghan, a small village on the northern coast of the peninsula. chapter iii. pursuit. now as to finn and the others. they stood on the bank over the beach, watching the horse and men till they lost sight of them in the sea afar off; and then they sat them down, weary after their long chase, and full of sadness for the loss of their companions. after a long silence, finn spoke and asked the chiefs what they thought best to be done. but they replied that he was far beyond them all in knowledge and wisdom; and they told him they would follow whatsoever counsel he and fergus finnvel, the poet, gave them. then finn told fergus to speak his mind; and fergus said-"my counsel is that we go straightway to ben edar,[ci.] where we shall find a ship ready to sail. for our forefathers, when they wrested the land from the gifted, bright-complexioned dedannans, bound them by covenant to maintain this ship for ever, fitted with all things needful for a voyage, even to the smallest article, as one of the privileges of ben edar; so that if at any time one of the noble sons of gael glas[cii.] wished to sail to distant lands from erin, he should have a ship lying at hand in the harbour ready to begin his voyage." they agreed to this counsel, and turned their steps without delay northwards towards ben edar. they had not gone far when they met two noble-looking youths, fully armed, and wearing over their armour beautiful mantles of scarlet silk, fastened by brooches of gold. the strangers saluted the king with much respect; and the king saluted them in return. then, having given them leave to converse, he asked them who they were, whither they had come, and who the prince or chief was that they served. and the elder answered-"my name is feradach, and my brother's name is foltlebar; and we are the two sons of the king of innia. each of us professes an art; and it has long been a point of dispute between us, which art is the better, my brother's or mine. hearing that there is not in the world a wiser or more far-seeing man than thou art, o king, we have come to ask thee to take us into thy service among thy household troops for a year, and at the end of that time to give judgment between us in this matter." finn asked them what were the two arts they professed. "my art," answered feradach, "is this: if at any time a company of warriors need a ship, give me only my joiner's axe and my crann-tavall,[ciii.] and i am able to provide a ship for them without delay. the only thing i ask them to do is this--to cover their heads close, and keep them covered, while i give the crann-tavall three blows of my axe. then i tell them to uncover their heads; and lo, there lies the ship in harbour, ready to sail!" then foltlebar spoke and said, "this, o king, is the art i profess: on land i can track the wild duck over nine ridges and nine glens, and follow her without being once thrown out, till i drop upon her in her nest. and i can follow up a track on sea quite as well as on land, if i have a good ship and crew." finn replied, "you are the very men i want; and i now take you both into my service. at this moment i need a good ship and a skilful pilot more than any two things in the whole world. and though our own track-men, namely, the clann navin, are good, yet we now need some one still more skilful, to follow the gilla dacker through unknown seas." then the two brothers asked finn what strait he was in at that moment, and why he wanted a ship and pilot so much. whereupon finn told them the whole story of the gilla dacker's doings from beginning to end. "and we are now," said he, "on our way to ben edar, to seek a ship, that we may follow this giant and his horse, and rescue our companions." then feradach said, "i will get you a ship--a ship that will sail as swiftly as a swallow can fly!" and foltlebar said, "i will guide your ship in the track of the gilla dacker till ye lay hands on him, in whatsoever quarter of the world he may have hidden himself!" and so they turned back to cloghan kincat. and when they had come to the beach, feradach told them to cover their heads; and they did so. then he struck three blows of his axe on the crann-tavall; after which he bade them look. and lo, they saw a ship, fully fitted out with oars and sails, and with all things needed for a long voyage, riding before them in the harbour! then kylta mac ronan went to the top of a high hill; and, turning his face inland, he uttered three mighty shouts, which were taken up by the people of the next valley, and after them by those of the next valley beyond. and so the signal spread, till a shout of alarm was heard in every plain and hill-side, glen and valley, wood and wilderness, in the two provinces of munster. and when the fena heard these shouts, they ceased anon from their sports and pastimes; for they knew their king was in danger or strait of some kind. and they formed themselves into ranks and troops and battalions, and began their march; and it is not told how they fared till they reached cloghan kincat. finn told them the whole story of the gilla dacker and his horse, and how he had carried away conan and fifteen others to some far-off island in the western ocean. he also showed them the ship, and told them that he himself and a chosen band of the fena were about to sail westward in quest of their friends. and oisin asked him how many of the chief men of the fena he wished to take with him. finn replied, "i foresee that this will be a perilous quest; and i think all the chiefs here present few enough to bring with me." "say not so, o king," said oisin; "too many have gone already, and some must be left behind to guard the country, and to keep order. if fifteen good men go with you, and that you find the others, the whole party will be a match for any foe you are like to meet in these western lands." and oscar and gaul mac morna spoke in like manner. to this finn agreed. then he picked out fifteen men, the bravest and best, the most dexterous at the sword, and the swiftest of foot among the fena. the question then arose, who should lead the fena in the king's absence; and what they agreed on was that oisin should remain behind and take command, as he was the eldest and bravest and wisest of the king's sons. of those who were chosen to go with finn, the chief men were dermat o'dyna; gaul mac morna; oscar, the son of oisin; aed beg, the son of finn; fergus finnvel, the poet; the three sons of encarda; and feradach and foltlebar, the two sons of the king of innia. so the king and his party took leave of oisin and the rest. and sad, indeed, were they on both sides; for no one knew how far the king might have to sail among unknown seas and islands, or how long he should be away from erin, or the spells and dangers he and his men might encounter in this pursuit. then they went on board, and launched their ship on the cold, bright sea; and foltlebar was their pilot and steersman. and they set their sail and plied their slender oars, and the ship moved swiftly westward till they lost sight of the shores of erin; and they saw nothing all round them but a wide girdle of sea. after some days' sailing, a great storm came from the west, and the black waves rose up against them, so that they had much ado to keep their vessel from sinking. but through all the roaring of the tempest, through the rain and blinding spray, foltlebar never stirred from the helm or changed his course, but still kept close on the track of the gilla dacker. at length the storm abated, and the sea grew calm. and when the darkness had cleared away, they saw to the west, a little way off, a vast rocky cliff towering over their heads to such a height, that its head seemed hidden among the clouds. it rose up sheer from the very water, and looked at that distance as smooth as glass, so that at first sight there seemed no way to reach the top. foltlebar, after examining to the four points of the sky, found the track of the gilla dacker as far as the cliff, but no farther. and he accordingly told the heroes that he thought it was on the top of that rock the giant lived; and that, anyhow, the horse must have made his way up the face of the cliff with their companions. when the heroes heard this they were greatly cast down and puzzled what to do; for they saw no way of reaching the top of the rock; and they feared they should have to give up the quest and return without their companions. and they sat down and looked up at the cliff, with sorrow and vexation in their hearts. footnotes: [ci.] ben edar, now howth hill, near dublin. [cii.] gael glas, the traditional ancestor of the gaels. [ciii.] crann-tav'all, a sort of sling for projecting stones, made of an elastic piece of wood, and strung somewhat like a cross-bow. chapter iv. dermat o'dyna, in quest of the gilla dacker, encounters the wizard-champion at the well. when now they had been silent for a time, fergus finnvel, the poet, arose and said-"my friends, we have here amongst us one who has been fostered and taught from the child to the man, by mannanan mac lir[8] in fairyland, and by angus,[1] the wisest of the dedannans, at bruga of the boyne. he has been carefully trained by both in everything a warrior should learn, and in much druidical lore besides; so that he is skilled beyond us all in manly arts and champion-feats. but now it seems that all his arts and accomplishments go for nought, seeing that he is unable to make use of them just at the time that we stand most in need of them. on the top of that rock, doubtless, the gilla dacker lives, and there he holds conan and the others in bondage; and surely this hero, who now sits idly with us here in our ship, should be able to climb up the face of that cliff, and bring us back tidings of our dear friends and companions." when dermat o'dyna heard this speech, his cheek grew red with shame, and he made this reply-"it is of me you have spoken these words, fergus. your reproaches are just; and though the task is hard, i will attempt to follow the track of the gilla dacker, and find out some tidings of our friends." so saying, dermat arose, and girded on his armour, and put on his glittering helmet. he hung his sword at his left hip; and he took his two long, deadly spears, one in each hand, namely, the crann-boi and the ga-derg;[civ.] and the battle-fury of a warrior descended on him, so that he looked a dreadful foe to meet in single combat. then, leaning on the handles of his spears, after the manner of skilful champions, he leaped with a light, airy bound on the nearest shelf of rock. and using his spears and his hands, he climbed from ledge to ledge, while his companions watched him anxiously from below; till, after much toil, he measured the soles of his two feet on the green sod at the top of the rock. and when, recovering breath, he turned round and looked at his companions in the ship far below, he started back with amazement and dread at the dizzy height. he now looked inland, and saw a beautiful country spread out before him:--a lovely, flowery plain straight in front, bordered with pleasant hills, and shaded with groves of many kinds of trees. it was enough to banish all care and sadness from one's heart to view this country, and to listen to the warbling of the birds, the humming of the bees among the flowers, the rustling of the wind through the trees, and the pleasant voices of the streams and waterfalls. making no delay, dermat set out to walk across the plain. he had not been long walking when he saw, right before him, a great tree laden with fruit, overtopping all the other trees of the plain. it was surrounded at a little distance by a circle of pillar-stones; and one stone, taller than the others, stood in the centre near the tree. beside this pillar-stone was a spring well, with a large, round pool as clear as crystal; and the water bubbled up in the centre, and flowed away towards the middle of the plain in a slender stream. dermat was glad when he saw the well; for he was hot and thirsty after climbing up the cliff. he stooped down to take a drink; but before his lips touched the water, he heard the heavy tread of a body of warriors, and the loud clank of arms, as if a whole host were coming straight down on him. he sprang to his feet and looked round; but the noise ceased in an instant, and he could see nothing. after a little while he stooped again to drink; and again, before he had wet his lips, he heard the very same sounds, nearer and louder than before. a second time he leaped to his feet; and still he saw no one. he knew not what to think of this; and as he stood wondering and perplexed, he happened to cast his eyes on the tall pillar-stone that stood on the brink of the well; and he saw on its top a large, beautiful drinking-horn, chased with gold and enamelled with precious stones. "now surely," said dermat, "i have been doing wrong; it is, no doubt, one of the virtues of this well that it will not let any one drink of its waters except from the drinking-horn." so he took down the horn, dipped it into the well, and drank without hindrance, till he had slaked his thirst. scarcely had he taken the horn from his lips, when he saw a tall wizard-champion[cv.] coming towards him from the east, clad in a complete suit of mail, and fully armed with shield and helmet, sword and spear. a beautiful scarlet mantle hung over his armour, fastened at his throat by a golden brooch; and a broad circlet of sparkling gold was bended in front across his forehead, to confine his yellow hair, and keep it from being blown about by the wind. as he came nearer, he increased his pace, moving with great strides; and dermat now observed that he looked very wrathful. he offered no greeting, and showed not the least courtesy; but addressed dermat in a rough, angry voice-"surely, dermat o'dyna, erin of the green plains should be wide enough for you; and it contains abundance of clear, sweet water in its crystal springs and green bordered streams, from which you might have drunk your fill. but you have come into my island without my leave, and you have taken my drinking-horn, and have drunk from my well; and this spot you shall never leave till you have given me satisfaction for the insult." so spoke the wizard-champion, and instantly advanced on dermat with fury in his eyes. but dermat was not the man to be terrified by any hero or wizard-champion alive. he met the foe half-way; and now, foot to foot, and knee to knee, and face to face, they began a fight, watchful and wary at first, but soon hot and vengeful, till their shields and helmets could scarce withstand their strong thrusts and blows. like two enraged lions fighting to the death, or two strong serpents intertwined in deadly strife, or two great opposing billows thundering against each other on the ocean border; such was the strength and fury and determination of the combat of these two heroes. and so they fought through the long day, till evening came, and it began to be dusk; when suddenly the wizard-champion sprang outside the range of dermat's sword, and leaping up with a great bound, he alighted in the very centre of the well. down he went through it, and disappeared in a moment before dermat's eyes, as if the well had swallowed him up. dermat stood on the brink, leaning on his spear, amazed and perplexed, looking after him in the water; but whether the hero had meant to drown himself, or that he had played some wizard trick, dermat knew not. he sat down to rest, full of vexation that the wizard-champion should have got off so easily. and what chafed him still more was that the fena knew nought of what had happened, and that when he returned, he could tell them nothing of the strange hero; neither had he the least token or trophy to show them after his long fight. then he began to think what was best to be done; and he made up his mind to stay near the well all night, with the hope of finding out something further about the wizard-champion on the morrow. he walked towards the nearest point of a great forest that stretched from the mountain down to the plain on his left; and as he came near, a herd of speckled deer ran by among the trees. he put his finger into the silken loop of his spear, and, throwing it with an unerring cast, brought down the nearest of the herd. then, having lighted a fire under a tree, he skinned the deer and fixed it on long hazel spits to roast, having first, however, gone to the well, and brought away the drinking-horn full of water. and he sat beside the roasting deer to turn it and tend the fire, waiting impatiently for his meal; for he was hungry and tired after the toil of the day. when the deer was cooked, he ate till he was satisfied, and drank the clear water of the well from the drinking-horn; after which he lay down under the shade of the tree, beside the fire, and slept a sound sleep till morning. night passed away and the sun rose, bringing morning with its abundant light. dermat started up, refreshed after his long sleep, and, repairing to the forest, he slew another deer, and fixed it on hazel spits to roast at the fire as before. for dermat had this custom, that he would never eat of any food left from a former meal. and after he had eaten of the deer's flesh and drunk from the horn, he went towards the well. but though his visit was early, he found the wizard-champion there before him, standing beside the pillar-stone, fully armed as before, and looking now more wrathful than ever. dermat was much surprised; but before he had time to speak the wizard-champion addressed him-"dermat o'dyna, you have now put the cap on all your evil deeds. it was not enough that you took my drinking-horn and drank from my well: you have done much worse than this, for you have hunted on my grounds, and have killed some of my speckled deer. surely there are many hunting-grounds in erin of the green plains, with plenty of deer in them; and you need not have come hither to commit these robberies on me. but now for a certainty you shall not go from this spot till i have taken revenge for all these misdeeds." and again the two champions attacked each other, and fought during the long day, from morning till evening. and when the dusk began to fall, the wizard-champion leaped into the well, and disappeared down through it, even as he had done the day before. the selfsame thing happened on the third day. and each day, morning and evening, dermat killed a deer, and ate of its flesh, and drank of the water of the well from the drinking-horn. on the fourth morning, dermat found the wizard-champion standing as usual by the pillar-stone near the well. and as each morning he looked more angry than on the morning before, so now he scowled in a way that would have terrified any one but dermat o'dyna. and they fought during the day till the dusk of evening. but now dermat watched his foe narrowly; and when he saw him about to spring into the well, he closed on him and threw his arms round him. the wizard-champion struggled to free himself, moving all the time nearer and nearer to the brink; but dermat held on, till at last both fell into the well. down they went, clinging to each other, dermat and the wizard-champion; down, down, deeper and deeper they went; and dermat tried to look round, but nothing could he see save darkness and dim shadows. at length there was a glimmer of light; then the bright day burst suddenly upon them; and presently they came to the solid ground, gently and without the least shock. footnotes: [civ.] see note, page 302. [cv.] the original word, which i have translated "wizard-champion," is _gruagach_. this word literally means "hairy," "a hairy fellow;" and it is often used in the sense of "giant." but in these romantic tales it is commonly used to signify a champion who has always something of the supernatural about him, yet not to such a degree as to shield him completely from the valour of a great mortal hero like dermat o'dyna. chapter v. dermat o'dyna in tir-fa-tonn.[cvi.] at the very moment they reached the ground, the wizard-champion, with a sudden effort, tore himself away from dermat's grasp and ran forward with great speed. dermat leaped to his feet; and he was so amazed at what he saw around him that he stood stock still and let the wizard-champion escape: a lovely country, with many green-sided hills and fair valleys between, woods of red yew trees, and plains laughing all over with flowers of every hue. right before him, not far off, lay a city of great tall houses with glittering roofs; and on the side nearest to him was a royal palace, larger and grander than the rest. on the level green in front of the palace were a number of knights, all armed, and amusing themselves with various warlike exercises of sword and shield and spear. straight towards this assembly the wizard-champion ran; which, when dermat saw, he set off in pursuit, hoping to overtake him. but the wizard-champion had too long a start, and when he reached the exercise green, the knights opened to the right and left, leaving a broad way through which he rushed. he never halted or looked behind till he had got inside the palace gate; and the moment he had passed in, the knights closed their ranks, and stood facing dermat with threatening looks and gestures. nothing daunted, dermat held on his pace towards them; and now those of the front rank started forward with spears and swords, intending to crush him at once, and hew his body to mincemeat. but it was not terror nor weakness nor a desire of flight that this produced in dermat, for his battle-fury was on him; and he rushed through them and under them and over them, as a hawk rushes among a flight of sparrows, or like a whale through a shoal of little fishes, or like a raging wolf among a flock of sheep, or like a vast billow among a fleet of small vessels, or like a great brown torrent rushing down the steep side of a mountain, that sweeps everything headlong before it. so did dermat cleave a wide laneway through the hosts, till, from a solid band of warriors, he turned them into a scattered crowd, flying in all directions. and those that did not fall by his hand, ran hither and thither, some to hide themselves in the thick forests and remote, wooded glens of the surrounding country; while others rushed in through the outer gate of the palace, and shut themselves up in the strongest part of the fortress, neither did they deem themselves safe till they had shot home every bolt, and securely fastened every strong iron lock. at last not a living soul remained on the green, and dermat sat down, weary after his battle-toil, and smarting all over with wounds. he was grieved and downcast also, for he knew not where he was, and he saw no chance that he should be able either to find any tidings of the friends he was in search of, or to return to his companions in the ship. at length, being quite overcome with weariness, he fell into a deep sleep. after sleeping for some time, he was awakened by a smart blow. he started up, and saw a young man standing over him, tall, and of a commanding appearance, with long, golden hair, and a manly, open countenance. now this young man had come to dermat, and finding him asleep in such a dangerous place, he struck him with the flat of his sword to awaken him. in an instant dermat sprang to his feet and seized his arms; but the youth addressed him in a friendly voice, and said-"dermat o'dyna, put up your arms; i am no enemy, and i have come, not to harm, but to serve you. this, indeed, is a strange place for you to fall asleep, before the very door of the castle, and within sight of your enemies. come now with me, and i will give you a better place to sleep in, where you will also get a welcome and kindly entertainment." this speech pleased dermat very much; and he thanked the young man and went with him. after walking for some time, they came to a large splendid house, and passing through the outer gate they entered the banqueting hall. there they found a noble company of twelve score and ten knights, and almost as many beautiful ladies, with their long hair falling on their shoulders, shining like the golden flower of the marsh-flag, and gentle and modest in their looks and conversation. they wore mantles of scarlet satin, and each mantle was fastened in front by a brooch of burnished gold. the company sat at tables round the walls of the banquet hall, some feasting, some playing chess, and some listening to the music of harps. when the two heroes entered, all the knights and ladies rose and received them with much respect, and they welcomed dermat and invited him to join their entertainment. but the young prince--for he was in truth a prince--pointing to dermat's clothes and arms, all soiled and stained, told them that he had endured much toil that day, and that he wanted rest and refreshment. he then brought dermat away, and ordered the attendants to prepare a bath in a great caldron. he put soothing balsams and healing herbs into it with his own hands, and when dermat had bathed he was immediately healed of his wounds, and he came forth refreshed and cheerful. the prince then directed that his clothes should be put aside, and had him clad in rich garments like the others. dermat now joined the company, and ate and drank, for he had taken neither food nor drink since he had made his meal on the deer early that morning near the well; after which he talked and was cheerful with the others. then rose up the harpers, and the professors of divers arts and sciences, and one after another they played their sweet music, and recited their poems and their tales of the heroes of the olden time. and when they had ended, the knights gave them gifts of gold and silver and jewels. at last the company broke up, and dermat was shown to a bed richly ornamented, and soft with the red feathers of wild fowl, and soon he fell into a sound sleep after his long day's adventures. now dermat marvelled much at all he saw and heard; and he knew not what place he was in, or who the people were, that had treated him with such kindness. so next morning, when the company had again assembled, he stood up, and addressed the prince with gentle words and modest demeanour; and this is what he said-"i am much surprised, o prince, at what i have seen, and at all that has befallen me in this land. though i am here a stranger, thou hast shown me much kindness, and these noble knights and ladies have permitted me to join their sports, and have treated me with much gentleness and consideration. i wish to know, then, who thou art, o prince, and what country this is, of which i have never before heard, and who is the king thereof. tell me also, i pray thee, the name of the champion who fought with me for four days at the well, till at last he escaped from me at the palace." the prince replied, "i will tell you all, dermat, as you have asked, concealing nothing. this country is tir-fa-tonn; the champion who fought with you is called the knight of the fountain, and that very champion is king of this land. i am the brother of the king, and my name is the knight of valour. good reason indeed have i to be kind to you, dermat o'dyna, for though you do not remember me, i spent a year and a day in the household of finn the son of cumal. "a part of this kingdom belongs by right to me. but the king and his son have seized on my patrimony, and have banished me from the palace, forcing me to live here in exile with a few of my faithful followers. "it is my intention, however, to make war on the king for my part of the kingdom; and right glad i am that you have come hither, for i would rather have you on my side than all the other fena put together, for your nobleness of mind and your valour in battle. "i have here in my household seven score and ten heroes, all champions of great deeds; and if you consent to aid me, these shall be placed under your command. by day you shall fight against the king of tir-fa-tonn and his son, and by night you shall feast and rest and sleep with me in this palace. if you enter into friendship with me and fight on my side, well i know that i shall win back my right without delay." dermat agreed to this. so he and the knight of valour made a covenant; and, placing hand in hand, they pledged themselves to observe faithfully the conditions of the league of friendship. footnotes: [cvi.] tir-fa-tonn, literally "the country beneath the wave." (see note 13 at the end.) chapter vi. finn, in quest of dermat, fights many battles. as to finn mac cumal and those that remained behind with him in the ship, i will now relate what befell them. it was now many days since dermat had left them, and they marvelled much that he did not return with tidings of the gilla dacker. at length, when they began to be alarmed, the two sons of the king of innia offered to go in search of him; but finn said no, for that they should all go together. so feradach and foltlebar took all the cables and ropes they could find in the ship, and tied them end to end in hard, sure knots, till they had a rope long enough to reach from the top of the rock to the bottom. then they clambered up the steep face of the cliff, bringing with them the end of the rope; and one by one they drew up finn and the rest. and when they looked round, they were as much surprised and delighted as dermat was at the look of the country. foltlebar now made a search, and soon found the track of dermat; and the whole party set out to walk across the plain, foltlebar leading the way. having travelled some distance, they saw the great fruit tree afar off; and, turning to the left, they found a place where a fire had been lighted, and near it the remains of several meals of deer's flesh. by this they knew that it was here dermat had slept, for all were well aware of his custom not to eat of what was left from a meal. they then went towards the tree, and there they found the traces of deadly combat--the ground all trampled and ploughed up, and a broken spear handle lying at the brink of the well. while they stood pondering on these things, with anxious hearts, they saw a horseman at a distance, speeding towards them across the plain. in a little while he came up and reined in. he was a young man of majestic mien, fair and noble of countenance; and he rode a beautiful chestnut steed, with a bridle of twisted gold, and a saddle of surpassing splendour, ornamented all over with gold and jewels. he alighted and saluted finn and the fena, and told them they were welcome to his country, for that he was king; and he put his hand on finn's neck and kissed his cheek three times. then he invited them to go with him, saying that the plain of the fountain was a comfortless resting-place after a long journey. finn's heart was glad at this, for he and his companions were weary; and they set out to walk across the plain with the young king. having walked a good distance, they came in sight of a noble palace, with tall towers and carved front. as they came near, they were met by a company of knights on the level green in front, who welcomed them with gentle words. and so they passed into the palace. a bath was prepared, and they bathed and were refreshed after their toils. then they sat down to supper; and while they ate and drank, the harpers played for them, and the poets told their tales and sang their songs. they slept that night in the palace; and next day they mingled with the knights on the green, and took part in their games and pastimes. in the evening they sat down to a feast. the people of the palace were ranged at tables according to rank and inheritance, every man in his proper place. then the feast went on; and abundance of the newest food and of the oldest drink was served out; and they ate of the savoury food, and drank of the sparkling wines and of the strong ales, till they became merry and gently intoxicated. and finn could not call to mind that he ever saw an entertainment in the house of either king or chief better ordered. in this manner they were feasted and entertained for three days and three nights. at the end of that time a meeting was held by the king on the palace green. and finn stood up and said-"tell me, i pray thee, thy name and the name of this country, which i have never seen before, or even heard of." "this country," replied the king, "is called sorca, of which i am king; and although you know us not, we know you well, for the fame of your deeds has reached even to this land. but now i wish to know why you have come hither; also the reason why you have brought so few companions, and where the rest have tarried." then finn told him the whole story from beginning to end; how the gilla dacker and his great horse had carried off sixteen of their chief men; "and," added finn, "i and these fifteen companions of mine are now in quest of them." the king replied, "this is a dangerous undertaking; and you and your fifteen men, valiant even as you are, are too few to venture into unknown lands, where you may meet with many enemies. now my knights are brave and generous, and they love battle and adventure. wherefore i will place a band of them under your command, who will follow you whithersoever you go, and who will not be behindhand even with the fena in facing hardship and danger." finn stood up to thank the king; but before he had time to speak, they saw a messenger speeding towards them across the plain from the north-west, breathless, and begrimed all over with mud and dust. when he had come in presence of the company, he bowed low to the king, and, standing up, waited impatient for leave to speak. the king asked him what news he had brought and he replied-"bad and direful news i have for thee, o king. a foreign fleet has come to our shores, which seems to cover all the sea, even as far as the eye can reach; and until the stars of heaven are counted, and the sands of the sea, and the leaves of the woods, the hosts that are landing from their black ships shall not be numbered. even already they have let loose their plunderers over the country, who are burning and spoiling the farmsteads and the great mansions; and many noble heroes and keepers of houses of hospitality, and many people of the common sort, have been slain by them. some say that it is the king of the world and his host, who, after conquering every country he has yet visited, has come now to ravage this land with fire and sword and spear, and bring it under his power; but i know not if this be true. and this, o king, is the news i bring thee." when the messenger had ended, the king spoke nought, though his countenance, indeed, showed trouble; but he looked earnestly at finn. finn understood this to mean that the king sought his help; and, with clear voice, he spoke-"thou hast been generous to me and my people in our day of need, o king of sorca; and now thou shalt not find the fena lacking in grateful memory of thy kindness. we will, for a time, give up the pursuit of the gilla dacker, and we will place ourselves under thy command, and help thee against these marauders. neither do i fear the outcome of this war; for many a time have we met these foreigners on the shores of erin and elsewhere, and they have always yielded to us in the battle-field." the king of sorca was glad of heart when he heard these words; and he sent his swift scouts all over the country to gather his fighting men. and when all had come together, he arranged them in fighting order, and marched towards the shore where the foreigners were spoiling the land. and they met the plundering parties, and drove them with great slaughter back to their ships, retaking all the spoils. then they formed an encampment on the shore, with ramparts and deep ditches and long rows of pointed stakes all round. and each day a party of the foreigners landed, led by one of their captains, who were met by an equal number of the men of sorca, led by one of the fena; and each time they were driven back to their ships, after losing their best men. when, now, this had continued for many days, the king of the world called a meeting of the chiefs of his army, and asked their counsel as to what should be done. and they spoke as one man, that their best chiefs had fallen, and that they were in worse case now for overcoming the men of sorca than they were at first; that their sages and prophets had declared against them; and that they had met with ill luck from the day of their arrival. and the advice they gave the king was to depart from the shores of sorca, for there seemed no chance of conquering the country as long as the fena were there to help the king. so the king ordered the sails to be set, and he left the harbour in the night with his whole fleet, without bringing the king of sorca under subjection, and without imposing tribute on the people. chapter vii. finn and dermat meet. when the people of sorca and the fena arose next morning, not a ship was in sight; and they began to rejoice greatly, finding themselves freed from this invasion. and while the king and finn, with the chiefs and people, stood eagerly conversing on all these matters, they saw a troop at a distance coming towards them, with banners and standards and arms glittering in the morning sun. now they wondered much who these might be; and finn desired that some one might go and bring back tidings. so fergus finnvel went with a few followers, and when he was yet a good way off, he knew dermat o'dyna at the head of the troop, and ran forward with joy to meet him. and they embraced, even as brothers embrace who meet after being long parted. then they came towards the assembly; and when the fena saw dermat they shouted with joy and welcome and dermat, on his part, could scarce restrain the excess of his joyfulness; for, indeed, he did not expect to meet his friends so soon; and he embraced them one by one, with glad heart, beginning with finn. then finn inquired from dermat all particulars, what places he had visited since the day he had climbed up the rock, and whether he had heard any news of their lost companions; and he asked him also who were they--those valiant-looking fighting men--he had brought with him. dermat told him of all his adventures from first to last--of his long combat at the well with the knight of the fountain, of his descent to tir-fa-tonn, and how the knight of valour had entertained him hospitably in his palace. he related also how he headed the men of the knight of valour, and made war on the king of tir-fa-tonn (who was also called the knight of the fountain, the wizard-champion who fought with dermat at the well), whom he slew, and defeated his army. "and now," continued he, bringing forth the knight of valour from among the strange host, "this is he who was formerly called the knight of valour, but who is now the king of tir-fa-tonn. moreover, this king has told me, having himself found it out by his druidical art, that it was avarta the dedannan (the son of illahan of the many-coloured raiment) who took the form of the gilla dacker, and who brought the sixteen fena away to the land of promise,[8] where he now holds them in bondage." finn and the young king then put hand in hand and made covenants of lasting friendship with each other. and the fena were much rejoiced that they had at last got some tidings of their lost companions. chapter viii. conan and his companions found and rescued. now after they had rested some days in the palace of the king of sorca, fergus finnvel told finn that it was time to begin once more their quest after conan and the others. they held council, therefore; and the resolution they came to was to return to the rock at the spot where they had turned aside from the track of the gilla dacker, and to begin their search anew from that. and when both the king of sorca and the king of tir-fa-tonn would have sent men with them, finn thanked them, but said that the small party of fena he had with him were quite enough for that adventure. so they took leave of the two kings, and went back to the rock, and foltlebar at once found the track. he traced it from the very edge of the rock across the plain to the sea at the other side; and they brought round their ship and began their voyage. but this time foltlebar found it very hard to keep on the track; for the gilla dacker, knowing that there were not in the world men more skilled in following up a quest than the fena, took great pains to hide all traces of the flight of himself and his horse; so that foltlebar was often thrown out; but he always recovered the track after a little time. and so they sailed from island to island, and from bay to bay, over many seas and by many shores, ever following the track, till at length they arrived at the land of promise. and when they had made the land, and knew for a certainty that this was indeed the land of promise, they rejoiced greatly; for in this land dermat o'dyna had been nurtured by mannanan mac lir of the yellow hair. then they held council as to what was best to be done; and finn's advice was that they should burn and spoil the country, in revenge of the outrage that had been done to his people. dermat, however, would not hear of this. and he said-"not so, o king. the people of this land are of all men the most skilled in druidic art; and it is not well that they should be at feud with us. let us rather send to avarta a trusty herald, to demand that he should set our companions at liberty. if he does so, then we shall be at peace; if he refuse, then shall we proclaim war against him and his people, and waste this land with fire and sword, till he be forced, even by his own people, to give us back our friends." this advice was approved by all. and then finn said-"but how shall heralds reach the dwelling of this enchanter; for the ways are not open and straight, as in other lands, but crooked and made for concealment, and the valleys and plains are dim and shadowy, and hard to be traversed?" but foltlebar, nothing daunted by the dangers and the obscurity of the way, offered to go with a single trusty companion; and they took up the track and followed it without being once thrown out, till they reached the mansion of avarta. there they found their friends amusing themselves on the green outside the palace walls; for, though kept captive in the island, yet were they in no wise restrained, but were treated by avarta with much kindness. when they saw the heralds coming towards them, their joy knew no bounds; they crowded round to embrace them, and asked them many questions regarding their home and their friends. at last avarta himself came forth, and asked who these strangers were; and foltlebar replied-"we are of the people of finn mac cumal, who has sent us as heralds to thee. he and his heroes have landed on this island, guided hither by me; and he bade us tell thee that he has come to wage war and to waste this land with fire and sword, as a punishment for that thou hast brought away his people by foul spells, and even now keepest them in bondage." when avarta heard this, he made no reply, but called a council of his chief men, to consider whether they should send back to finn an answer of war or of peace. and they, having much fear of the fena, were minded to restore finn's people, and to give him his own award in satisfaction for the injury done to him; and to invite finn himself and those who had come with him to a feast of joy and friendship in the house of avarta. avarta himself went with foltlebar to give this message. and after he and finn had exchanged friendly greetings, he told them what the council had resolved; and finn and dermat and the others were glad at heart. and finn and avarta put hand in hand, and made a league of friendship. so they went with avarta to his house, where they found their lost friends; and, being full of gladness, they saluted and embraced each other. then a feast was prepared; and they were feasted for three days, and they ate and drank and made merry. on the fourth day, a meeting was called on the green to hear the award. now it was resolved to make amends on the one hand to finn, as king of the fena, and on the other, to those who had been brought away by the gilla dacker. and when all were gathered together, finn was first asked to name his award; and this is what he said-"i shall not name an award, o avarta; neither shall i accept an eric from thee. but the wages i promised thee when we made our covenant at knockainy, that i will give thee. for i am thankful for the welcome thou hast given us here; and i wish that there should be peace and friendship between us for ever." but conan, on his part, was not so easily satisfied; and he said to finn-"little hast thou endured, o finn, in all this matter; and thou mayst well waive thy award. but hadst thou, like us, suffered from the sharp bones and the rough carcase of the gilla dacker's monstrous horse, in a long journey from erin to the land of promise, across wide seas, through tangled woods, and over rough-headed rocks, thou wouldst then, methinks, name an award." at this, avarta, and the others who had seen conan and his companions carried off on the back of the big horse, could scarce keep from laughing; and avarta said to conan-"name thy award, and i will fulfil it every jot: for i have heard of thee, conan, and i dread to bring the gibes and taunts of thy foul tongue on myself and my people." "well then," said conan, "my award is this: that you choose fifteen of the best and noblest men in the land of promise, among whom are to be your own best beloved friends; and that you cause them to mount on the back of the big horse, and that you yourself take hold of his tail. in this manner you shall fare to erin, back again by the selfsame track the horse took when he brought us hither--through the same surging seas, through the same thick thorny woods, and over the same islands and rough rocks and dark glens. and this, o avarta, is my award," said conan. now finn and his people were rejoiced exceedingly when they heard conan's award--that he asked from avarta nothing more than like for like. for they feared much that he might claim treasure of gold and silver, and thus bring reproach on the fena. avarta promised that everything required by conan should be done, binding himself in solemn pledges. then the heroes took their leave; and having launched their ship on the broad, green sea, they sailed back by the same course to erin. and they marched to their camping-place at knockainy, where they rested in their tents. avarta then chose his men. and he placed them on the horse's back, and he himself caught hold of the tail; and it is not told how they fared till they made harbour and landing-place at cloghan kincat. they delayed not, but straightway journeyed over the selfsame track as before, till they reached knockainy. finn and his people saw them afar off coming towards the hill with great speed; the gilla dacker, quite as large and as ugly as ever, running before the horse; for he had let go the tail at cloghan kincat. and the fena could not help laughing heartily when they saw the plight of the fifteen chiefs on the great horse's back; and they said with one voice that conan had made a good award that time. when the horse reached the spot from which he had at first set out, the men began to dismount. then the gilla dacker, suddenly stepping forward, held up his arm and pointed earnestly over the heads of the fena towards the field where the horses were standing; so that the heroes were startled, and turned round every man to look. but nothing was to be seen except the horses grazing quietly inside the fence. finn and the others now turned round again, with intent to speak to the gilla dacker and bring him and his people into the tents; but much did they marvel to find them all gone. the gilla dacker and his great horse and the fifteen nobles of the land of promise had disappeared in an instant; and neither finn himself nor any of his chiefs ever saw them afterwards. so far we have related the story of the pursuit of the gilla dacker and his horse. the pursuit of dermat and grania. chapter i. finn, the son of cumal, seeks the princess grania to wife. on a certain day, finn, the son of cumal, rose at early morn in allen of the broad hill-slopes, and, going forth, sat him down on the green lawn before the palace, without companion or attendant. and two of his people followed him, namely, oisin his son, and dering the son of dobar o'baskin. oisin spoke to him and asked, "why, o king, hast thou come forth so early?" "cause enough have i indeed," replied finn; "for i am without a wife since manissa, the daughter of garad of the black knee, died; and who can enjoy sweet sleep when his life is lonely like mine, with no wife to comfort and cheer him? this, my friends, is the cause of my early rising." and oisin said, "why should you be without a wife if you desire one? for there is not, within the sea-circle of green erin, a maiden that we will not bring you, either by consent or by force, if you only turn the light of your eyes on her." then dering spoke and said, "i know where there is a maiden, who in all respects is worthy to be thy wife." and when finn asked who she was, dering replied-"the maiden is grania, daughter of king cormac,[22] the son of art, the son of conn the hundred-fighter; the most beautiful, the best instructed, and the most discreet in speech and manner of all the maidens of erin." "there has been strife between me and cormac for a long time," said finn, "and it may happen that he will not give me his daughter in marriage. but go ye to tara in my name, you and oisin, and ask the maiden for me: if the king should refuse, so let it be; but i can better bear a refusal to you than to myself." "we will go," said oisin; "but it is better that no man know of our journey till we return." so the two heroes took leave of finn and went their way; and nothing is told of what befell them till they reached tara. it chanced that the king was at this time holding a meeting; and the chiefs and great nobles of tara were assembled round him. and when the two warriors arrived, they were welcomed, and the meeting was put off for that day; for the king felt sure that it was on some business of weight they had come. after they had eaten and drunk, the king, sending away all others from his presence, bade the two chiefs tell their errand. so oisin told him they had come to seek his daughter grania in marriage for finn the son of cumal. then the king said, "in all erin there is scarce a young prince or noble who has not sought my daughter in marriage; and she has refused them all. and it is on me that the ill feeling and reproach caused by her refusals have fallen; for she has ever made me the bearer of her answers. wherefore now you shall come to my daughter's presence, and i will not mention the matter to her till she give you an answer from her own lips: so shall i be blameless if she refuse." so they went to the apartments of the women, at the sunny side of the palace. and when they had entered the princess's chamber, the king sat with her on the couch and said-"here, my daughter, are two of the people of finn the son of cumal, who have come to ask thee as a wife for him." and grania, giving, indeed, not much thought to the matter, answered, "i know not whether he is worthy to be thy son-in-law; but if he be, why should he not be a fitting husband for me?" the two messengers were satisfied with this answer, and retired. and cormac made a feast for them; and they ate and drank and made merry with the chiefs and nobles of the palace; after which the king bade them tell finn to come at the end of a fortnight to claim his bride. so the two heroes returned to allen, and told how they had fared in their quest. and as all things come at last to an end, so this fortnight wore slowly away; and at the end of the time, finn, having collected round him the chief men of the seven standing battalions of the fena to be his guard, marched to tara. the king received him with great honour, and welcomed the fena, and they were feasted with the nobles of erin in the great banquet hall of micorta.[cvii.] and the king sat on his throne to enjoy the feast with his guests, having finn on his right hand, and on his left the queen, etta, the daughter of atan of corca; and grania sat next the queen, her mother, on the left. and all the others sat according to their rank and patrimony. chapter ii. dermat o'dyna secretly espouses the princess grania. now while the feast went on, it chanced that dara of the poems, one of finn's druids, sat near grania. and he recited for her many lays about the deeds of her forefathers; after which a pleasant conversation arose between them. and when they had talked for some time, she asked him-"what means all this feasting? and why has finn come with his people on this visit to my father the king?" dara was surprised at this question, and answered, "if thou dost not know, it is hard for me to know." and grania answered, "i wish, indeed, to learn from you what has brought finn to tara." "it is strange to hear thee ask this question," said the druid. "knowest thou not that he has come to claim thee for his wife?" grania was silent for a long time after hearing this. and again she spoke-"if, indeed, finn had sought me for his son oisin, or for the youthful oscar, there would be nothing to wonder at; but i marvel much that he seeks me for himself, seeing that he is older than my father." then grania meditated in silence; and after a time she said to the druid-"this is a goodly company, but i know not one among them, except only oisin, the son of finn. tell me now who is that warrior on the right of oisin." "that knightly warrior," answered the druid, "is gaul mac morna the terrible in battle." "who is the youthful champion to the right of gaul?" asked grania. "that is oscar, the son of oisin," said the druid. "who is the graceful and active-looking chief sitting next oscar?" asked the princess. "that is kylta mac ronan the swift-footed," said the druid. "next to kylta mac ronan sits a champion with fair, freckled skin, raven-black curls, a gentle, handsome, manly countenance, and soft voice: pray who is he?" "that is dermat o'dyna of the bright face, the favourite of maidens, and beloved of all the fena for his high-mindedness, his bravery, and his generous disposition." "who is he sitting at dermat's shoulder?" asked grania. "that is dering, the son of dobar o'baskin," replied the druid; "a valiant champion, and also a druid and a man of science." then grania called her handmaid, and said to her, "bring me the large jewelled, gold-chased drinking-horn that lies in my chamber." the handmaid brought the drinking-horn; and grania, having filled it to the brim, said-"take it now to finn from me, and tell him that i desire him to drink from it." the handmaiden did so, and finn took a full draught. he passed the drinking-horn to the king, and the king drank; and after him the queen. then again grania bade the handmaid bring it to carbri of the liffey, the king's son; and she ceased not till all she wished to drink had drunk from the gold-chased horn. and after a little time, those who had drunk fell into a deep sleep, like the sleep of death. then the princess rose from her seat, and, walking softly across the hall, sat down near dermat o'dyna; and with downcast eyes and low voice, she said-"wilt thou, dermat, return my love if i give it to thee?" dermat heard her at first with amazement and alarm. then for a moment, even before he was aware, his heart leaped with joy; but when he bethought him of his duty to his chief, he hardened his mind, and answered with cold looks and words-"the maiden who is betrothed to finn, i will not love; and even if i were so minded, i dare not." and with eyes still cast down, grania said, "i know well it is thy duty, and not thy heart, that prompts thee to speak so. thou seest how it is with me; and i am forced to speak more boldly than a maiden should. finn has come to ask me for his wife; but he is an old man, even older than my father, and i love him not. but i love thee, dermat, and i beseech thee to save me from this hateful marriage. and, lest thou think that my love for thee is only a passing fancy, hear now what befell. "of a day when a hurling match was played on the green of tara, between mac luga and the fena on the one side, and carbri of the liffey and the men of tara on the other, i sat high up at the window of my sunny chamber to see the game. thou didst remain sitting with some others that day, not meaning to take part in the play. but at last, when the game began to go against thy friends, i saw thee start up; and, snatching the hurlet from the man nearest to thee, thou didst rush into the thick of the crowd; and before sitting down thou didst win the goal three times on the men of tara. at that hour my eyes and my heart were turned to thee; and well i knew thee to-day in this banquet hall, though i knew not thy name till the druid told me. at that same hour, too, i gave thee my love--what i never gave, and never will give, to any other." then was dermat sore troubled. he strove with himself, but strove in vain; for he could not help loving the princess with his whole heart. yet none the less did he hide his thoughts; for his duty to his chief prevailed. and with looks and words cold and stern, he replied-"i marvel greatly that thou hast not given thy love to finn, who deserves it much better than any other man alive. and still more do i marvel that thou hast lighted on me beyond all the princes and nobles of tara; for truly there is not one among them less worthy of thy love than i. but that thou shouldst be my wife, by no means can this be; for even were i to consent, there is not in erin a fastness or a wilderness, however strong or remote, that could shelter us from finn's vengeance." then grania said, "i read thy thoughts; and i know thou art striving against what thy heart prompts. and now, o dermat, i place thee under gesa,[12] and under the bonds of heavy druidical spells--bonds that true heroes never break through, that thou take me for thy wife before finn and the others awaken from their sleep; and save me from this hateful marriage." and dermat, still unyielding, replied, "evil are those gesa thou hast put on me; and evil, i fear, will come of them. but dost thou not know, princess, that whenever finn sleeps at tara, it is one of his privileges to have in his own keeping the keys of the great gates; so that even if we so willed it, we should not be able to leave the fortress?" "there is a wicket gate leading out from my apartments," said grania, "and through that we shall pass forth." "that i cannot do," answered dermat; "for it is one of my gesa[12] never to enter a king's mansion, or leave it, by a wicket gate." and grania answered, "i have heard it said that every true champion, who has been instructed in all the feats that a warrior should learn, can bound over the highest rampart of a fort by means of the handles of his spears; and well i know that thou art the most accomplished champion among the fena. i will now pass out through the wicket gate; and even if thou dost not follow, i will fly alone from tara." and so she went forth from the banquet hall. then dermat, much doubting how to act, spoke to his friends and asked counsel of them. and first he addressed oisin, the son of finn, and asked him how he should deal with the heavy gesa-bonds that had been laid on him by the princess; and what he should do in the case. "you are blameless in regard to these bonds," answered oisin; "and i counsel you to follow grania; but guard yourself well against the wiles of finn." "o dear friend oscar," spoke dermat again, "what think you is best for me to do, seeing that these heavy gesa-bonds have been put on me?" "i say you should follow grania," answered oscar; "for he, indeed, is but a pitiful champion who fears to keep his bonds." "what counsel do you give me, kylta?" said dermat to kylta mac ronan. "i say," answered kylta, "that i would gladly give the world's wealth that the princess had given me her love; and i counsel you to follow her." last of all, dermat spoke to dering, the son of dobar o'baskin, and said, "give me your judgment in this hard matter, friend dering." and dering answered, "if you espouse grania, i foresee that your death will come of it, which grieves me even to think of; but even so, i counsel you to follow the princess rather than break through your gesa." and dermat, doubting even still, asked for the last time, "is this, my friends, the counsel you all give?" and they all answered, "yes," as with the voice of one man. then dermat arose and put on his armour and his helmet; and he took his shield, and his two heavy spears, and his sword. and with tears he bade farewell to his dear companions; for well he knew that it would be long before they should meet again; and he foresaw trouble and danger. then he went forth to where the steep side of the inner mound overlooked the outer rampart; and, placing his two spears point downwards, and leaning on them after the manner of skilful champions, with two light, airy bounds he cleared rampart and ditch, and measured the length of his two feet on the level green outside. and there the princess met him; and he said to her, with voice and manner still distant and stern-"evil will certainly come of this espousal, o princess, both to thee and to me. far better would it be for thee to choose finn and to pass me by; for now we shall wander without home or rest, fleeing from his wrath. return, then, princess, return even now through the wicket gate, for the sleepers have not yet awakened; and finn shall never learn what has happened." but grania, gentle and sad indeed, but quite unmoved, replied, "i will never return; and until death takes me i will not part from thee." then at last dermat yielded and strove no longer; and putting off his sternness of manner and voice, he spoke gently to the princess and said-"i will hide my thoughts from thee no more, grania. i will be thy husband, all unworthy of thee as i am; and i will guard thee and defend thee to the death from finn and his hirelings." and they plighted their faith, and vowed solemn vows to be faithful to each other as man and wife for ever. footnotes: [cvii.] see foot-note, page 55. chapter iii. flight and pursuit. then grania showed dermat the fenced meadow where her father's horses grazed, and bade him yoke two horses to a chariot. and when he had done so, he and grania sat in the chariot and travelled with all speed westward, till they reached ath-luan.[cviii.] and when they had come to the ford, dermat said, "finn will doubtless pursue us, and it will be all the easier for him to follow our track, that we have the horses." and grania answered, "as we are now so far from tara, we may leave the chariot and horses here, and i will fare on foot henceforward." so they alighted from the chariot; and dermat, leading one of the horses across, left them both some distance above the ford, one at each side of the river. and he took up grania in his strong arms, and brought her tenderly across the ford, so that not even the sole of her foot, or the skirt of her mantle was wetted. then they walked against the stream for a mile, and turned south-west, till they reached the wood of the two tents.[cix.] in the midst of the wood, where it was thickest, dermat lopped off branches and wove a hut, where they rested. and he brought grania the wild animals of the wood to eat, and gave her the water of a clear spring to drink. as to finn, the son of cumal, i will now tell what befell him. when the king and his guests arose from their sleep at early dawn next morning, they found dermat and grania gone; and a burning jealousy seized on finn, and his rage was so great that for a time all his strength left him. then he sent for his tracking-men, namely, the clann navin; and he commanded them forthwith to follow the track of dermat and grania. this they did with much ease as far as ath-luan, while finn and the others followed after; but when they had come to the ford, they lost the track. whereupon finn, being now indeed easily kindled to wrath, told them that unless they took up the track again speedily, he would hang every man of the clann navin on the edge of the ford. so the trackers, being sore afraid, searched upwards against the stream, and found the two horses where they had been left, one on each side of the river. and going on a mile further, they came to the spot where dermat and grania had turned from the river; and there they lighted on the south-west track, finn and the fena still following. and when the clann navin had pointed out to finn the direction of the track, he said-"well do i know now where we shall find dermat and grania; for of a certainty they have hidden themselves in the wood of the two tents." now it chanced that oisin, and oscar, and kylta, and dering were present when finn spoke these words; and they were troubled, for they loved dermat. and going aside, they held council among themselves, and oisin spoke-"there is much likelihood, friends, that finn speaks truth; for he is far-seeing, and judges not hastily. it is needful, therefore, that we send dermat warning, lest he be taken unawares. my counsel is that you, oscar, find out finn's hound, bran, and tell him to go to the wood of the two tents with a warning to dermat; for bran does not love his own master finn better than he loves dermat." so oscar called bran secretly, and told him what he should do. bran listened with sagacious eye and ears erect, and understood oscar's words quite well. then, running back to the rear of the host, so that finn might not see him, he followed the track without once losing it, till he arrived at the wood of the two tents. there he found dermat and grania asleep in their hut, and he put his head into dermat's bosom. dermat started up from his sleep, and seeing bran, he awakened grania, and said-"here is bran, finn's hound; he has come to warn me that finn himself is near." and grania trembled and said, "let us take the warning, then, and fly!" but dermat answered, "i will not leave this hut; for however long we fly, we cannot escape from finn; and it is not worse to fall into his hands now than at any other time. howbeit, they shall not come into this fastness unless i permit them." then great fear fell on grania; but, seeing dermat gloomy and downcast, she urged the point no further. again oisin spoke to his three companions and said, "i fear me that bran may not have been able to baffle finn, or that some other mischance may have hindered him from finding dermat; so we must needs send him another warning. bring hither, therefore, fergor, kylta's errand-man." and kylta brought forward fergor. now this fergor had a voice so loud that his shout was heard over the three nearest cantreds. so they caused him to give three shouts that dermat might hear. and dermat heard fergor's shouts, and, awakening grania from her sleep, said to her-"i hear the shout of fergor, kylta's errand-man. and he is with kylta, and kylta is with finn; and i know that my friends have sent me this warning, as a sign that finn himself is coming." and again grania trembled and said, "let us take this warning and fly!" but dermat answered, "i will not fly; and we shall not leave this wood till finn and the fena overtake us. howbeit, none shall come into this fastness unless i permit them." and grania was in great fear; but this time dermat looked gloomy and stern, and she pressed the matter no further. footnotes: [cviii.] ath-luan, now athlone, on the shannon. in ancient times the river had to be crossed by a ford, where the bridge is now built. [cix.] the wood of the two tents was situated in the territory of clanrickard, in the county galway. chapter iv. the fastness of the seven narrow doors. now as to finn. he and the others went forward till they reached the wood of the two tents. and he sent forward the clann navin to make search; who went, and having made their way to the thickest part of the wood, they came to a fence which they could not cross. for dermat had cleared a space round his hut, and surrounded it with a fence that no man could pierce, with seven narrow doors of strong poles woven with saplings, to face seven different parts of the wood. then the clann navin climbed up to a high tree branch, and looked over the fence; and they saw dermat with a lady. and when they had returned, finn asked them if dermat and grania were in the wood. and they answered-"dermat, indeed, is there, and we saw a lady with him; but whether she be grania or not we cannot tell, for we know not the princess." "may ill luck attend dermat, and all his friends for his sake!" said finn. "i know he is in this wood; and he shall never leave it till he give me quittance for the injury he has done me." and oisin said, "certain it is, that you, finn, are blinded by jealousy; else you would never think that dermat would await you on this plain, with no stronger fastness to shelter him from your wrath than the wood of the two tents." to which finn, being angry, replied, "your words will profit you nothing, oisin; neither will your friendship for dermat avail him aught. well i knew, indeed, when i heard fergor's three shouts, that it was ye who caused him to shout, as a warning signal to dermat; and i know also that ye sent my dog bran to him with another warning. but these warnings will not avail you; for he shall never leave this wood till he pay me such eric[10] as i seek for the injury he has done me." then oscar spoke and said, "surely, finn, it is mere folly to believe that dermat would wait here for you, knowing, as he does, that you seek his head." as oscar spoke these words, they arrived at the fence; and finn answered, "who then, think you, has cleared the wood in this manner, and fenced the space with this strong, sheltering enclosure, and fitted it with these narrow doors? but indeed," added he, "i will find out the truth of the matter in another way." so, raising his voice a little, he called out, "tell us now, dermat, which of us is telling truth, oscar or i." and dermat, who would not hide when called on, answered from within, "you never erred in your judgment, o king: grania and i are here; but none shall come in unless i permit them." then finn placed his men around the enclosure, a company at each narrow door; and he said to each company, "if dermat tries to escape by this door, seize him and keep him securely for me." now when grania saw these preparations, and overheard finn's words, she was overcome with fear, and wept and trembled very much. and dermat had pity on his wife, and comforted her; and he kissed her three times, bidding her be of good cheer, for that all would be well with them yet. and when finn saw this--for he stood with some others viewing the hut from a mound at a little way off--a flame of burning jealousy went through his heart; and he said-"now of a certainty dermat shall not escape from me; and i shall have his head for all these injuries!" now angus of bruga,[1] the wisest and most skilled in magic arts of all the dedannan race, was dermat's foster father. for he had reared him from childhood, and had taught him all the arts and accomplishments of a champion; and he loved him even as a father loves his only son. and it was revealed to angus that dermat was in deadly strait so he arose and travelled on the wings of the cool, east wind, neither did he halt till he reached the wood of the two tents; and he passed into the hut without being perceived by finn and his men. and when dermat saw the old man his heart leaped with joy. angus greeted dermat and grania, and said, "what is this thing thou hast done, my son?" and dermat answered, "the princess grania, daughter of the king of tara, asked me to take her for my wife, putting heavy gesa-bonds on me; and i did so, and we fled from her father's house. and finn, the son of cumal, has pursued us with intent to kill me, for he sought the princess to wife for himself." and angus said, "come now, children, under my mantle, one under each border, and i will bring you both away from this place without the knowledge of finn." but dermat answered, "take grania; but for me, i will not go with you. however, i will leave this place; and if i am alive i will follow you. but if they slay me, send the princess to her father, and tell him to treat her neither better nor worse on account of taking me for her husband." then dermat kissed grania, and bade her be of good cheer, for that he feared not his foes. and angus placed her under his mantle, and, telling dermat whither to follow, went forth from the enclosure without the knowledge of finn and the fena. they turned south then, and nothing is told of what befell them till they came to the wood of the two sallows, which is now called limerick. now as to dermat. after angus and grania had left him, he girded on his armour, and took his sharp weapons in his hands; and he stood up tall and straight like a pillar, meditating in silence for a space. then he went to one of the seven narrow doors, and asked who was outside. "no enemy of thine is here, but oisin and oscar, with the men of the clann baskin. come out to us, and no one will dare to harm thee." "i must needs find the door where finn himself keeps guard," answered dermat; "so i will not go out to you." he went to the second narrow door, and asked who was there. "kylta mac ronan with the clann ronan around him. come out at this door, and we will fight to the death for thy sake." "i will not go out to you," answered dermat; "for i do not wish to bring finn's anger on you for treating me with kindness." he went to another narrow door, and asked who was there. "conan of the grey rushes and the clann morna. we are no friends to finn; but thee we all love. come out to us, then, and no one will dare to harm thee." "of a certainty i will not go out at this door," answered dermat; "for well i know that finn would rather see you all dead than that i should escape!" he went to another narrow door, and asked who was there. "a friend and a dear comrade of thine is here; cuan, the chief of the munster fena, and his munster men with him. thou and we come from the same territory; and if need be we will give our lives in fight for thy sake." "i will not go out to you," said dermat; "for it would bring finn's sure displeasure on you to act kindly towards me." he went to another narrow door, and asked who was there. "finn, the son of glore of the loud voice, chief of the fena of ulster, and the ulster men around him. thou and we come not from the same territory; but we all love thee, dermat; and now come forth to us, and who will dare to wound or harm thee?" "i will not go out to you," replied dermat; "you are a faithful friend of mine, and your father in like manner; and i do not wish you to earn the enmity of finn on my account." he went to another narrow door, and asked who was there. "no friend of thine! here stand the clann navin watching for thee; namely, aed the lesser, and aed the tall, and gonna the wounder, and gothan the loud-voiced, and cuan the tracker, with all their men. we bear thee no love; and if thou come out at this door, we shall make thee a mark for our swords and spears!" and dermat answered, "lying and mean-faced dogs! it is not fear of you that keeps me from going forth at this door; but i do not wish to defile my spear with the blood of your shoeless, tracking vagabonds!" and he went to another narrow door, and asked who was there. "finn, the son of cumal, the son of art, the son of trenmore o'baskin, and with him the leinster fena. no love awaits thee here; and if thou come forth we will cleave thee, flesh and bones!" "the door i have sought i have found at last!" cried dermat; "for the door where thou, finn, standest, that, of a certainty, is the very door by which i shall pass out!" then finn charged his men, under pain of death, not to let dermat pass. but dermat, watching an unguarded place, rose by means of his two spears with a light, airy bound over the fence, and alighted on the clear space outside; and running swiftly forward, was in a moment beyond the reach of sword and spear. and so dismayed were they by his threatening look, that not a man attempted to follow him. then, turning southward, he never halted till he came to the wood of the two sallows, where he found angus and grania in a warm hut, with a boar fixed on hazel spits roasting before a great flaming fire. dermat greeted them; and the spark of life all but leaped from grania's heart with joy when she saw him.[cx.] so he told them all that had befallen him; and they ate their meal and slept in peace that night, till the morning of next day filled the world with light. then angus arose with the dawn, and said to dermat, "i will now depart, my son; but finn will still pursue you, and i leave you this counsel to guide you when i am gone. go not into a tree having only one trunk; never enter a cave that has only one opening; never land on an island of the sea that has only one channel of approach; where you cook your food, there eat it not; where you eat, sleep not there; and where you sleep to-night, sleep not there to-morrow night!" so angus bade them farewell; and they were sad after him. footnotes: [cx.] original: "it was little but that the salmon of her life fled through her mouth with joy before dermat." chapter v. the three sea-champions and their three venomous hounds on the track of dermat and grania. after angus was gone, dermat and grania journeyed westward, keeping the shannon on their right, till they reached the rough stream of the champions, which is now called the laune.[cxi.] they rested there; and dermat killed a salmon with his spear, and fixed it on a hazel spit to broil on the near bank; and he crossed the river with grania, to eat it on the further bank, as angus had told him. and after they had eaten, they sought a sleeping-place further west. they rose early next morning, and journeyed still west, till they reached the grey moor of finnlia.[cxii.] there they met a man of great size, noble in gait and feature, but with arms and armour not befitting his appearance. dermat greeted him, and asked who he was; and he replied-"my name is modan, and i am seeking a lord whom i may serve for pay." "if i take you into my service," asked dermat, "what can you do for us?" "i will serve you by day and watch for you by night," answered modan. whereupon they entered into bonds of agreement with one another, modan to serve by day and watch by night, and dermat to pay him wages. then the three went westward till they reached the river of carra,[cxiii.] and modan lifted dermat and grania with the greatest ease, and bore them dry across the stream. from that further west to beha,[cxiv.] and modan bore them over this stream in like manner. here they found a cave, on the side of the hill over that part of the sea called tonn toma,[cxv.] namely, the hill of curra-kenn-ammid; and modan prepared a couch of soft rushes and birch tops in the innermost part of the cave, for dermat and grania. after this he went to the nearest wood and cut him a long, straight quicken tree rod; and, having put a hair and a hook on the rod, and a holly berry on the hook, he stood on the brink of the stream, and with three casts he hooked three salmon. then he put the rod by for next day; and, putting the hook and the hair under his girdle, he returned to dermat and grania. and he broiled the fish, and they ate their meal, modan giving the largest salmon to dermat, the second in size to grania, and keeping the smallest for himself. after which dermat and grania went to sleep in the cave, and modan kept watch and ward at the mouth, till morning arose with its abundant light. dermat rose early and set out for the nearest high hill, to look round the country, telling grania to keep watch at the mouth of the cave while modan slept. having come to the top of the hill, he viewed the country all round to the four points of the sky; and after a little while, he saw a fleet of black ships approaching from the west. when they had come near enough to the shore, a company of nine nines landed at the very foot of the hill where dermat stood. he went to them, and, after greeting them, asked who they were, and from what country they had come. "we are three sea-champions from the iccian sea,[cxvi.] who are at the head of this troop," replied they, "and our names are ducoss, fincoss, and trencoss;[cxvii.] and we have come hither at the suit of finn the son of cumal. for a certain chief named dermat o'dyna has rebelled against him, and is now an outlaw, flying through the country from one fastness to another. and finn has asked us to come with our fleet to watch the coast, while he himself watches inland, so that this marauder may no longer escape punishment. we hear, moreover, that this dermat is valiant and dangerous to attack, and we have brought hither three venomous hounds to loose them on his track, and scent him to his hiding-place: fire cannot burn them, water cannot drown them, and weapons cannot wound them. and now tell us who thou art, and whether thou hast heard any tidings of this dermat o'dyna." "i saw him, indeed, yesterday," answered dermat. "i know him well too, and i counsel you to follow your quest warily; for if you meet with dermat o'dyna you will have no common man to deal with." then he asked if they had got any wine in their ships. they replied that they had; so he asked that a tun might be brought, as he wished to drink; and he told them he would show them a champion-feat after he had drunk. two men were accordingly sent on board for a tun of wine. when they had brought it, dermat raised it in his arms and drank; and the others drank in like manner till the tun was empty. then he said, "i will now show you a champion-feat that dermat o'dyna taught me; and i challenge any man among you to do it after me. and from this you may learn what manner of man you will have to deal with, should you have the ill luck to meet with dermat himself." so saying, he brought the tun to the crest of the hill, and set it down at the edge of a steep cliff. then, leaping up on it, he turned it cunningly aside from the cliff, and let it roll down the smooth slope of the hill till it reached the very bottom, while he himself remained standing on it the whole time. and three times did he do this while the strangers looked on. but they laughed, mocking him, and said, "do you call that a champion-feat indeed? truly, you have never in your life seen a good champion-feat!" thereupon one among them started up and brought the tun to the top of the hill, intending to do the same feat; and, placing it on the edge of the cliff, he leaped up on it. and while he stood on it, dermat pushed it with his foot to set it going. but the moment it moved, the man lost his balance, and while the tun went rolling down the face of the hill, he himself fell over the cliff, and was dashed to pieces on the sharp edges and points of the rocks. another man tried the same thing, and he in like manner fell down and was killed among the rocks. and the end of the matter was, that before they would acknowledge themselves beaten, fifty of their men attempted the feat, and every man of the fifty fell over the cliff and was killed. so the others went on board their ships, gloomy and heart-sore. dermat returned to the cave, and grania's heart was glad when she saw him. modan went then, and putting the hair and the hook on the rod as before, he hooked three salmon; and he went back to the cave and broiled them on hazel spits. and they ate their meal; and modan kept watch and ward, while dermat and grania slept in the cave, till the pleasant morning filled the world with light. dermat rose up with the dawn, and telling grania to keep watch while modan slept, he went to the same hill, and found the three sea-champions with their men on the shore before him. he greeted them, and asked whether they wished for any more champion-feats. but they answered that they would much rather he would give them some tidings of dermat o'dyna. whereupon he said-"i have seen a man who saw him this very morning. and now i will show you a champion-feat he taught me, in order that you may know what is before you, should you meet with dermat o'dyna himself." when he had said this, he threw off helmet and tunic and armour, till only his shirt remained over his brawny shoulders; and, taking the ga-boi,[cxviii.] the spear of mannanan mac lir, he fixed it firmly in the earth, standing point upwards. then, walking back some little way, he ran towards the spear, and, rising from the earth with a bird-like bound, he alighted softly on the very point; and, again leaping off it, he came to the ground on his feet without wound or hurt of any kind. then arose one of the strange warriors and said, "if you call that a champion-feat, it is plain that you have never seen a good champion-feat in your life!" and so saying, he ran swiftly towards the spear and made a great bound; but he fell heavily on the sharp point, so that it pierced him through the heart, and he was taken down dead. another man attempted the feat, and was killed in like manner; and before they ceased, fifty of their men were slain by dermat's spear. then they bade him draw his spear from the earth, saying that no more should try that feat; and they went on board their ships. so dermat returned to the cave; and modan hooked three salmon; and dermat and grania ate their meal and slept till morning, modan keeping watch. next morning, dermat went to the hill, bringing two strong forked poles cut from the wood. he found the three sea-champions with their men on the shore; and he greeted them, and said-"i have come to-day to show you a champion-feat i learned from dermat o'dyna, that you may know what to expect if you should meet with dermat himself." he then fixed the poles standing firmly in the earth; and he placed the morallta, that is, the long sword of angus of the bruga, in the forks, edge upwards, the hilt on one, and the point on the other, binding it firmly with withes. then, rising up with a bound, he alighted gently on the edge; and he walked cunningly three times from hilt to point, and from point to hilt, and then leaped lightly to the earth without wound or hurt. and he challenged the strangers to do that feat. then one arose and said, "there never yet was done a champion-feat by a man of erin, that one among us will not do likewise." and he leaped up, intending to alight on his feet; but he came down heavily on the sharp edge, so that the sword cut him clean in two. another tried the same, and was killed also; and, they ceased not till as many were killed that day by dermat's sword as were killed on each of the two days before. when they were about to return to their ships, they asked him had he got any tidings of dermat o'dyna; and he answered-"i have seen him this day: i will now go to seek him, and methinks i shall bring him to you in the morning." then he returned to the cave; and he and grania ate their meal, and slept that night, while modan kept watch. next morning, dermat arose with the dawn, and this time he arrayed himself for battle. he put on his heavy armour--no man who wore it could be wounded through it, or above it, or beneath it. he hung the morallta at his left hip, the sword of angus of the bruga, which never left anything for a second blow; and he took his two thick-handled spears, the ga-derg and the ga-boi, whose wounds no one ever recovered. then he awakened grania, telling her to keep watch till he returned, that modan might sleep. and when she saw him so arrayed, she trembled with fear, for she well knew that this was his manner of preparing for battle. and she asked him what he meant to do to-day, and whether finn's pursuers had found them. but he, to quiet her fears, put off the matter lightly, and said, "it is better to be prepared, lest the enemy come in my way;" and this soothed her. so he went to the hill, and met the strangers on the shore as before. and they asked him had he any tidings to give them of dermat o'dyna. he answered, "he is not very far off, for i have seen him just now." "then," said they, "lead us to his hiding-place, that we may bring his head to finn the son of cumal." "that would, indeed, be an ill way of repaying friendship," answered he. "dermat o'dyna is my friend; and he is now under the protection of my valour: so of this be sure, i will do him no treachery." and they replied wrathfully, "if thou art a friend to dermat o'dyna, thou art a foe to finn; and now we will take thy head and bring it to him along with the head of dermat." "you might indeed do that with much ease," answered dermat, "if i were bound hand and foot; but being as i am, free, i shall defend myself after my usual custom." then he drew the morallta from its sheath, and, springing forward to meet them as they closed on him, he clove the body of the foremost in two with one blow. then he rushed through them and under them and over them, like a wolf among sheep, or a hawk among sparrows, cleaving and slaughtering them, till only a few were left, who hardly escaped to their ships. footnotes: [cxi.] the river laune, flowing from the lakes of killarney into dingle bay. [cxii.] the grey moor of finnlia (_bogach-fhinnléithe_ in the original) was somewhere between the river laune and the river caragh, but the name is now forgotten. [cxiii.] the river of carra, the caragh river, flowing into dingle bay from the beautiful lake caragh, twenty miles west of killarney. [cxiv.] beha, the river behy, about a mile and a half west from the caragh, flowing through glanbehy into rossbehy creek. [cxv.] tonn toma, the wave of toma (a woman). the word tonn (a wave or billow) was often applied to the sea-waves that break over certain sandbanks and rocks with an exceptionally loud roaring. tonn toma is the name of a sandbank at the head of dingle bay, just outside the extreme point of rossbehy peninsula; and in the winter storms, the sea thunders on this sandbank, and indeed on the whole length of the beach of the peninsula, so as often to be heard twenty miles inland. this roaring is popularly believed to predict rain. there is a chain of three hills, stookaniller, knockatinna, and knockboy, lying between behy bridge on the east and drung mountain on the west, and isolated from the hills to the south-east by the valley of glanbehy. these hills rise directly over tonn toma; and the old gaelic name, currach-cinn-adhmuid (the moor of the head [or hill] of timber) must have been anciently applied to one or all of them. (see, for an account of the great historical _tonns_ of ireland, the author's "origin and history of irish names of places," series ii. page 251.) [cxvi.] iccian sea (irish, _muir nicht_), the irish name for the sea between england and france. [cxvii.] ducoss, fincoss, and trencoss, _i.e._ blackfoot, whitefoot, and strongfoot. [cxviii.] dermat had two spears, the great one called the ga-derg or crann-derg (red javelin), and the small one called ga-boi or crann-boi (yellow javelin): he had also two swords: the morallta (great fury), and the begallta (little fury). these spears and swords he got from mannanan mac lir and from angus of the bruga. he carried the great spear and sword in affairs of life and death; and the smaller in adventures of less danger. chapter vi. what befell the three sea-champions and their three venomous hounds. after this dermat returned to the cave without wound or hurt; and he and grania ate and slept, and modan watched till morning. then he repaired to the hill, fully armed as before, and standing right over the ships, he struck his hollow-sounding shield[cxix.] with his spear for a challenge, till the whole shore and the surrounding hills re-echoed. and ducoss straightway armed himself and came ashore to fight dermat single hand. now dermat by no means wished to slay his foe immediately, being, indeed, intent on worse punishment. so he closed with ducoss; and the two champions, throwing aside their weapons, seized each other round the waists with their sinewy arms. then they twisted and tugged and wrestled in deadly silence; and their swollen sinews strained and crackled; and the earth trembled beneath their feet; like two great writhing serpents, or like two raging lions, or like two savage bulls that strive and struggle to heave each other with horns interlocked. thus did the heroes contend; till at last dermat, heaving ducoss on his shoulder, dashed him helpless and groaning to the ground; and instantly seizing him, he bound him in hard iron bonds. fincoss came next against dermat, and after him trencoss; but he overcame them both, and bound them with like bonds; and then, leaving the three writhing with pain, he said to them-"i would strike off your heads, but that i wish to prolong your torment; for none can release you from these bonds till you die!" dermat then returned to the cave; and he and grania ate their meal and slept that night, modan watching. in the morning, dermat told grania all that had happened from beginning to end; how fifty of the foreigners had been killed each day for the first three days; how he had slain a much greater number on the fourth day; and how he had overcome and bound the three sea-champions in hard iron bonds. "i have left them bound on the hill," continued he, "instead of killing them; because i would rather their torment to be long than short. for there are only four men in erin that can loosen the bonds i tie; that is to say, oisin, and oscar, and mac luga, and conan mail; and i think no one of these will free them. finn will doubtless hear of their state, and the news will sting him to the heart. but he will know that we are here; so we must now leave this cave, to escape him, and also to escape the three venomous dogs." so they came forth from the cave, and travelled eastward till they came to the grey moor of finnlia; and whenever grania was tired, or when they had to walk over rugged places, modan lifted her tenderly and carried her, without ever being in the least tired himself. and so they journeyed, till they reached the broad, heathery slopes of slieve lougher;[cxx.] and they sat down to rest on the green bank of a stream that wound through the heart of the mountain. now as to the sea-strangers. those of them that were left alive landed from their ships, and coming to the hill, found their three chiefs bound tightly, hand and foot and neck. and they tried to loose them, but only made their bonds the tighter. while they were so engaged, they saw finn's errand-woman coming towards them, with the speed of a swallow, or of a weasel, or of the swift, cold wind blowing over a mountain-side. when she had come near, she greeted them, and, seeing the bodies of the slain, she asked who it was that had made that fearful slaughter. "tell us first," said they, "who art thou that makest this inquiry?" "i am derdri of the black mountain, the errand-woman of finn the son of cumal," she replied; "and he has sent me hither to look for you." and they said, "we know not who made this slaughter; but we can tell thee his appearance, for that we know well. he was a tall warrior, with a fair, handsome, open countenance, and jet-black, curly hair. he has been three days fighting against us; and what grieves us even more than the slaughter of our men is that our three chiefs lie here bound by him so firmly that we are not able to loose them from their bonds." "alas, friends!" said derdri; "you have sped but badly at the very beginning of your quest; for this man was dermat o'dyna himself. and now loose your three venomous dogs on his track without delay; and i will return and send finn to meet you." then they brought forth the three hounds, and loosed them on the track of dermat; and leaving one of their druids to attend to the three fettered chiefs, they followed the hounds till they came to the cave, where they found the soft, rushy bed of dermat and grania. from that they fared east, and crossing the carra, and the grey moor of finnlia, and the laune, they reached at length the broad, heathy slieve lougher. as dermat sat by the mountain stream with grania and modan, looking westward, he saw the silken banners of the foreigners at a distance as they approached the hill. in front of all marched three warriors with mantles of green, who held the three fierce hounds by three chains. and dermat, when he saw the hounds, was filled with loathing and hatred of them. then modan lifted grania, and walked a mile with dermat up the stream into the heart of the mountain. when the green-clad warriors saw them, they loosed one of the three hounds; and when grania heard his hoarse yelps down the valley, she was in great dread. but modan bade her not fear, for that he would deal with this hound; and then, turning round, he drew forth from beneath his girdle a small hound-whelp, and placed it on the palm of his hand. there it stood till the great hound came up raging, with jaws wide open; when the little whelp leaped from modan's hand down the dog's throat, and broke his heart, so that he fell dead. and after that the whelp leaped back again on modan's hand; and modan put him under his girdle. then they walked another mile up the stream through the mountain, modan bringing grania. but the second hound was loosed, and soon overtook them; and dermat said-"i will try the ga-derg on this hound. for no spell can guard against the magic spear of angus of the bruga; and i have heard it said also that there is no charm that can shield the throat of an animal from being wounded." then, while modan and grania stood to look, dermat, putting his finger into the silken loop of the spear, threw a cast, and drove the spear-head down the hound's throat, so that the entrails of the brute were scattered about; and dermat, leaping forward, drew the spear, and followed modan and grania. after they had walked yet another mile, the third hound was loosed; and grania, seeing him coming on, said, trembling-"this is the fiercest of the three, and i greatly fear him; guard yourself, dermat, guard yourself well against this hound!" even while she spoke, the hound overtook them at the place called duban's pillar-stone; and as they stood looking back at him, dermat stepped in front of grania to shield her. the hound rose with a great spring over dermat's head to seize grania; but dermat grasped him by the two hind legs as he passed, and, swinging him round, he struck his carcase against a rock and dashed out his brains. then, putting his tapering finger into the silken string of the ga-derg, he threw the spear at the foremost of the green-clad knights, and slew him. he made another cast of the ga-boi and brought down the second warrior; and, drawing the morallta, he sprang on the third, and swept off his head. when the foreigners saw their leaders slain, they fled hither and thither in utter rout. and dermat fell upon them with sword and spear, scattering and slaughtering them, so that there seemed no escape for them, unless, indeed, they could fly over the tops of the trees, or hide themselves under the earth, or dive beneath the water. and when derdri of the black mountain saw this havoc, she ran, panic-stricken and crazed with fright, off the field towards the hill where the three kings lay bound. now as to finn. tidings were brought to him of what happened to the three sea-kings, and how they were lying bound in hard bonds on the hill over tonn-toma. so he set out straightway from allen, and travelled by the shortest ways till he reached the hill. and when he saw the three champions, he was grieved to the heart; for he knew of old that the iron fetters bound by dermat slew by slow torment, and that none could loose them except oisin, or oscar, or mac luga, or conan mail. and finn asked oisin to loose the bonds and relieve the kings. "i cannot do so," answered oisin, "for dermat bound me under gesa[12] never to loose any warrior that he should bind." he next asked oscar; but the young warrior answered, "none shall be released by me who seeks to harm dermat o'dyna. fain would i indeed put heavier bonds on them." and when he asked mac luga and conan, they refused in like manner. now while they were speaking in this wise, they saw the errand-woman, derdri of the black mountain, running towards them, breathless and with failing steps, and her eyes starting from the sockets with terror. and finn asked her what tidings she had brought. "tidings indeed, o king, tidings of grievous mishap and woe!" whereupon she told him all that she had seen--how dermat o'dyna had killed the three fierce hounds, and had made a slaughter of the foreigners. "and hardly, indeed," she cried, "hardly have i myself got off scathless with the news!" the three kings, hearing this, and being worn out with the straitness and torment of their bonds, died at the same moment. and finn caused them to be buried in three wide graves; and flagstones were placed over them with their names graved in ogam;[cxxi.] and their funeral rites were performed. then, with heart full of grief and gall, finn marched northwards with his men to allen of the green hill-slopes. footnotes: [cxix.] a usual form of challenge among the ancient irish warriors. it is very curious that this custom is remembered to the present day in the _patois_ of the peasantry, even where the irish language is no longer spoken. in the south, and in parts of the west, they call a distinguished fighting man a _buailim sciach_, an expression which means literally, "i strike the shield." [cxx.] slieve lougher, a mountain near castle island. (see note, page 237.) [cxxi.] see note, page 36. chapter vii. sharvan, the surly giant, and the fairy quicken tree of dooros. now touching dermat and grania. they travelled eastward from slieve lougher, through hy conall gavra, keeping the shannon on their left, till they reached the wood of the two sallow trees, which is now called limerick. here they rested; and dermat killed a wild deer, and they ate of its flesh, and drank pure spring water, and slept that night. next morning modan bade them farewell, and left them. and dermat and grania were sad after him, for he was very gentle, and had served them faithfully. on that same day they departed from the wood of the two sallows; and nothing is related of what befell them till they arrived at the forest of dooros, in the district of hy ficra[cxxii.] of the moy, which was at that time guarded by sharvan the surly, of lochlann. now this is the history of sharvan the surly, of lochlann. on a certain occasion, a game of hurley was played by the dedannans against the fena, on the plain beside the lake of lein of the crooked teeth.[cxxiii.] they played for three days and three nights, neither side being able to win a single goal from the other during the whole time. and when the dedannans found that they could not overcome the fena, they suddenly withdrew from the contest, and departed from the lake, journeying in a body northwards. the dedannans had for food during the game, and for their journey afterwards, crimson nuts and arbutus apples and scarlet quicken berries, which they had brought from the land of promise.[cxxiv.] these fruits were gifted with many secret virtues; and the dedannans were careful that neither apple nor nut nor berry should touch the soil of erin. but as they passed through the wood of dooros, in hy ficra of the moy, one of the scarlet quicken berries dropped on the earth; and the dedannans passed on, not heeding. from this berry a great quicken tree[cxxv.] sprang up, which had the virtues of the quicken trees that grow in fairyland. for its berries had the taste of honey, and those who ate of them felt a cheerful flow of spirits, as if they had drunk of wine or old mead; and if a man were even a hundred years old, he returned to the age of thirty, as soon as he had eaten three of them. now when the dedannans heard of this tree, and knew of its many virtues, they would not that any one should eat of the berries but themselves; and they sent a fomor[cxxvi.] of their own people to guard it, namely, sharvan the surly, of lochlann; so that no man dared even to approach it. for this sharvan was a giant of the race of the wicked cain, burly and strong; with heavy bones, large, thick nose, crooked teeth, and one broad, red, fiery eye in the middle of his black forehead. and he had a great club tied by a chain to an iron girdle which was round his body. he was, moreover, so skilled in magic that fire could not burn him, water could not drown him, and weapons could not wound him; and there was no way to kill him but by giving him three blows of his own club. by day he sat at the foot of the tree, watching; and at night he slept in a hut he had made for himself, high up among the branches. into this land dermat came, knowing well that he should be safe there from the pursuit of finn. for sharvan did not let any of the fena hunt in hy ficra. and neither they nor any others dared to come near the great wood of dooros, for dread of the giant; so that the land around the quicken tree for many miles was a wilderness. dermat, leaving grania behind in safe shelter, went boldly to the giant, where he sat at the foot of the tree, and told him he wished to live amidst the woods of hy ficra, and chase its wild animals for food. whereupon the giant, bending his red eye on him, told him, in words few and surly, that he might live and hunt where he pleased, as long as he did not take and eat the berries of the quicken tree. so dermat built him a hunting-booth near a spring, in the thick of the forest of dooros; and, clearing a space all round, fenced it with strong stakes interwoven with tough withes, leaving one narrow door well barred and secured. and they lived in peace for a time, eating the flesh of the wild animals of dooros, which dermat brought down each day in the chase, and drinking the water of the well. now let us speak of finn, the son of cumal. one day, soon after his return to allen, as he and his household troops were on the exercise green before the palace, a company of fifty horsemen were seen approaching from the east, led by two taller and nobler looking than the others. having come near, they bowed low and greeted the king; and when he asked them who they were, and from whence they had come, they answered-"we are enemies of thine, who now desire to make peace; and our names are angus, the son of art mac morna, and aed, the son of andala mac morna. our fathers were present at the battle of knocka,[27] aiding those who fought against thy father, cumal, when he was slain; for which thou didst afterwards slay them both, and didst outlaw us, their sons, though indeed we were blameless in the matter, seeing that we were not born till after the death of cumal. however, we have come now to ask this boon of thee: that thou make peace with us, and give us the places our fathers held in the ranks of the fena." "i will grant your request," answered finn, "provided you pay me eric for the death of my father." "we would indeed pay thee eric willingly if we could," answered they; "but we have neither gold, nor silver, nor cattle, nor wealth of any kind to give." and then oisin spoke and said, "ask them not for eric, o king; surely the death of their fathers should be eric enough." but finn replied, "of a truth, i think, oisin, that if any one should slay me, it would not be hard to satisfy you in the matter of an eric. but, indeed, none of those who fought at knocka against my father, and none of their sons, shall ever get peace from me, or join the fena, without such eric as i demand." then angus, one of the two, asked, "what eric dost thou require, o king?" "i ask only one or the other of two things," answered finn; "namely, the head of a warrior, or the full of my hand of the berries of a quicken tree." "i will give you counsel, ye sons of morna, that will stand you in good stead, if you follow it," said oisin, addressing the two strange chiefs; "and my counsel is, that you return to the place from whence you came, and seek this peace no longer. know that the head the king seeks from you is the head of dermat o'dyna, the most dangerous of all the fena to meddle with, who is well able to defend himself, even if you were twenty times as many as you are; and who will certainly take your heads if you attempt to take his. know also that the berries finn seeks from you are the berries of the quicken tree of dooros. and it is hard to say if this be not a more perilous quest than the other; for the quicken tree belongs to the dedannans, who have sent sharvan, the surly giant of lochlann, to guard it day and night." but the two chiefs, unmoved by what they had heard from oisin, said that they would rather perish in seeking out the eric than return to their mother's country. so, leaving their people in the care of oisin, they set out on their quest. they travelled through the wood of the two sallows, and from that to dooros of the moy, where they found the track of dermat and grania, and followed it till they came to the hunting-booth. dermat heard their voices and footsteps outside, and, snatching up his weapons, went to the door and asked who was there. "we are aed, the son of andala mac morna, and angus, the son of art mac morna," they replied. "we have come hither from allen of leinster, to get either the head of dermat o'dyna, or a handful of the berries of the quicken tree of dooros; for finn, the son of cumal, has demanded of us that we bring him either the one or the other, as an eric for the killing of his father." dermat laughed when he heard this, and said, "truly this is not pleasant news for me to hear, for i am dermat o'dyna. but however, friends, i am not willing to give you my head, and you will find it no easy matter to take it. and as for the berries, these are quite as hard to get; for you will have to fight the surly giant sharvan, who cannot be burned with fire, or drowned with water, or wounded with weapons. but woe to the man who falls under the power of finn, the son of cumal. and you have come, methinks, on a bootless quest; for even if you should be able to bring him either of the two things he asks for, he will not grant you the place or the rank ye seek after all. and now," asked dermat, "which of the two do ye wish to strive for first, my head or the quicken berries?" and they answered, "we will do battle with thee first." so dermat opened the door, and they made ready for the combat. now this is the manner in which they agreed to fight: to throw aside their weapons, and to use the strength of their hands alone. and if the sons of morna were able to overcome dermat, they should take his head to finn; but if, on the other hand, they were overpowered and bound by dermat, their heads should be in like manner forfeit to him. but the fight was, indeed, a short one; for these two chiefs were even as children in dermat's hands, and he bound them in close and bitter bonds. now when grania heard of the berries of the quicken tree, she was seized with a longing desire to taste them. at first she strove against it and was silent, knowing the danger; but now she was not able to hide it any longer, and she told dermat that she should certainly die if she did not get some of the berries to eat. this troubled dermat, for he did not wish to quarrel with the giant sharvan; but, seeing that harm might come to grania if she did not get the berries, he told her he would go and get some for her, either by good will or by force. when the sons of morna heard this, they said, "loose these bonds, and we will go with thee and help thee to fight the giant." but dermat answered, "not much help, indeed, could ye give me, as i think, for the mere sight of this giant would be enough to unman you. but even were it otherwise, i would not seek your help, for if i fight at all i shall fight unaided." and they said, "even so, let us go. our lives are now forfeit to thee, but grant us this request before we die, to let us see thee fight this giant." and he consented to this. so dermat went straightway to the quicken tree, followed by the two sons of morna; and he found the giant lying asleep at the foot of the tree. he dealt him a heavy blow to awaken him, and the giant, raising his head, glared at him with his great red eye, and said-"there has been peace between us hitherto; do you now wish for strife?" "i seek not strife," answered dermat; "but the princess grania, my wife, the daughter of king cormac mac art, longs to taste of these quicken berries; and if she does not get them she will die. this is why i have come; and now i pray you give me a few of the berries for the princess." but the giant answered, "i swear that if the princess and her child were now dying, and that one of my berries would save them, i would not give it!" then dermat said, "i do not wish to deal unfairly with you; and i have accordingly awakened you from your sleep, and made my request openly, wishing for peace. but now understand that before i leave this spot, i will have some of these quicken berries, whether you will or no." when the giant heard this, he rose up, and, seizing his club, dealt dermat three great blows, which the hero had much ado to ward off; nor did he escape without some hurt, even though his shield was tough and his arm strong. but now, watching narrowly, and seeing that the giant expected to be attacked with sword and spear, he suddenly threw down his weapons and sprang upon him, taking him unguarded. he threw his arms round his body, and, heaving him with his shoulder, hurled him with mighty shock to the earth; and then, seizing the heavy club, he dealt him three blows, dashing out his brains with the last. dermat sat down to rest, weary and breathless. and the sons of morna, having witnessed the fight from beginning to end, came forth rejoiced when they saw the giant slain. dermat told them to drag the body into the wood and bury it out of sight, lest grania might see it and be affrighted; and when they had done so, he sent them for the princess. when she had come, dermat said to her-"behold the quicken berries, grania: take now and eat." but she answered, "i will eat no berries except those that are plucked by the hands of my husband." so dermat stood up and plucked the berries; and grania ate till she was satisfied. and he also plucked some for the sons of morna, and said-"take these berries now, friends, as much as you please, and pay your eric to finn; and you may, if you are so minded, tell him that it was you who slew sharvan the surly, of lochlann." they answered, "we will bring to finn as much as he demanded, one handful and no more; and we grudge even so much." then they thanked dermat very much; for he had given them the berries, what they should never have been able to get for themselves; and though their lives were forfeit to him, he had not so much as mentioned the matter, but had allowed them to return freely. and after bidding dermat and grania farewell, they went their ways. after that dermat left his hunting-booth, and he and grania lived thenceforth in sharvan's hut among the branches. and they found the berries on the top of the tree the most delicious of all; those on the lower branches being as it were bitter in comparison. when the sons of morna reached allen, finn asked them how they had fared, and whether they had brought him the eric: and they answered-"sharvan, the surly giant of lochlann, is slain; and here we have brought thee the berries of the quicken tree of dooros as eric for the death of thy father, cumal, that we may have peace from thee, and be placed in our due rank among the fena." finn took the berries and knew them; and he smelled them three times, and said-"these, indeed, are the berries of the quicken tree of dooros; but they have passed through the hands of dermat o'dyna, for i smell his touch. and sure i am that it was dermat, and not you, who slew sharvan, the surly giant. it shall profit you nothing, indeed, to have brought me these berries; neither will you get from me the peace you seek, nor your place among the fena, till you pay me fair eric for my father's death. for you have gotten the berries not by your own strength; and you have, besides, made peace with my enemy. and now i shall go to the wood of dooros, to learn if dermat abides near the quicken tree." after this he gathered together the choice men of the seven battalions of the fena, and marched with them to dooros of hy ficra. they followed dermat's track to the foot of the quicken tree, and found the berries without any one to guard them; and they ate of them as much as they pleased. now it was noon when they had come to the tree; and the sun shone hot, and finn said-"we shall rest under this tree till evening come, and the heat pass away; for well i know that dermat o'dyna is on the tree among the branches." and oisin said, "truly your mind must be blinded by jealousy, if you think that dermat o'dyna has waited for you on that tree, since he knows well that you seek his head." finn answered nothing to this speech, but called for a chess-board and men.[26] and he and oisin sat down to a game; while oscar and mac luga and dering, the son of dobar o'baskin, sat near oisin to advise him; for finn played against them all. they played on for a time warily and skilfully, till at last oisin had only one move to make; and finn said-"one move more would win you the game, oisin, but i challenge all your helpers to show you that move." and oisin was puzzled. dermat had been viewing the game from the beginning, where he sat among the branches; and he said, speaking to himself-"pity that you should be in a strait, oisin, and i not near to advise your move." grania, sitting near, overheard him, and said, "it is a small matter whether oisin win or lose a game; far worse is it for you to be in this hut, while the men of the seven battalions of the fena are round about you, waiting to kill you." then dermat, not giving heed to grania's words, plucked a berry, and, flinging it down with true aim, struck oisin's chess-man--the man that should be moved. and oisin moved the man, and won the game against finn. the game was begun again, and it went on till it came to the same pass as before, oisin having to make only one move to win, but that move hard to make out. and again dermat threw a berry and struck the right man; and oisin made the move, and won the game. a third time the game went on, and dermat struck the chess-man as before; and oisin won the game the third time. whereupon the fena raised a mighty shout. "i marvel not that you should win the game, oisin," said finn, "seeing that you have the best help of oscar, and the zeal of dering, and the skill of mac luga; and that, along with all, you have been prompted by dermat o'dyna." "it shows a mind clouded by great jealousy," said oscar, "that you should think that dermat o'dyna is in that tree waiting for you to kill him." "which of us tells truth, dermat," said finn, looking up, "oscar or i?" "you, finn, have never yet erred in your judgment," answered dermat from the tree; "for indeed i am here with the princess grania, in the hut of sharvan, the surly giant of lochlann." and, looking up, finn and the others saw them plainly through an opening in the branches. but now grania, seeing the danger, began to tremble with great fear, and to weep; and dermat, taking pity on her, comforted her and kissed her three times. and finn, seeing this, said, "much more than this did it grieve me the night you espoused grania, and brought her away from tara before all the men of erin; but even for these kisses you shall certainly pay quittance with your head!" whereupon finn, being now bent on killing dermat, arose, and ordered his hirelings to surround the tree, catching hand in hand, so as to leave no gap; and he warned them, on pain of death, not to let dermat pass out. having done this, he offered a suit of armour and arms, and a high place of honour among the fena, to any man who would go up into the tree, and either bring him the head of dermat o'dyna, or force him to come down. garva of slieve cua[cxxvii.] started up and said, "lo, i am the man! for it was dermat's father, donn, that slew my father; and i will now avenge the deed." and he went up the tree. now it was revealed to angus of the bruga that dermat was in deadly strait; and he came to the tree to his aid, without the knowledge of the fena; and dermat and grania were filled with joy when they saw the old man. and when garva, climbing from branch to branch, had come near the hut, dermat dealt him a blow with his foot, which dashed him to the ground among the fena. and finn's hirelings cut off his head on the spot, for angus had caused him to take the shape of dermat; but after he was slain he took his own shape, so that all knew that it was garva of slieve cua that had been killed. then garva of slieve crot[cxxviii.] said, "it was dermat's father, donn, that slew my father; and i will now avenge the deed on dermat." so saying, he went up the tree. but angus gave him a blow which hurled him to the ground under the shape of dermat, so that the hirelings fell on him and slew him. and then finn told them that it was not dermat they had killed, but garva of slieve cua. garva of slieve gora[cxxix.] next started up, and said that his father had been slain by dermat's father; and he began to climb up the tree to take dermat's head in revenge. but dermat flung him down like the others, while angus gave him for the time the shape of dermat, so that the hirelings slew him. and so matters went on till the nine garvas had fallen; namely, garva of slieve cua, garva of slieve crot, garva of slieve gora, garva of slieve mucka,[cxxx.] garva of slieve-more, garva of slieve luga, garva of ath-free, garva of slieve mish, and garva of drom-more. and full of grief and bitterness was the heart of finn, witnessing this. then angus said he would take grania away from that place of danger. and dermat was glad, and said-"take her with thee; and if i live till evening i will follow you. but if finn slays me, send her to tara to her father, and tell him to use her well." then dermat kissed his dear wife; and angus, having thrown his mantle round her, passed out from the tree without the knowledge of the fena, and went straightway to bruga of the boyne. after angus and grania had gone, dermat, addressing finn from the tree, said-"i will now go down from this tree; and i will slaughter many of thy hirelings before they slay me. for i see that thou art resolved to compass my death; and why should i fear to die now more than at a future time? there is, indeed, no escape for me, even should i pass from this place unharmed; since i can find no shelter in erin from thy wrath. neither have i a friend in the far-off countries of this great world to give me protection, seeing that i have from time to time dealt defeat and slaughter among them, every one, for thy sake. for never have the fena been caught in any strait or danger, that i did not venture my life for them and for thee. when we went to battle, moreover, i was always in front of you; and i was always behind you when leaving the field. and now i care no longer to seek to prolong my life; but of a certainty thou shalt purchase my death dearly, for i shall avenge myself by dealing destruction among thy hirelings." "dermat speaks truly," said oscar; "and now let him have mercy and forgiveness; for he has suffered enough already." "i swear that i will never grant him peace or forgiveness to the end of my life," answered finn, "till he has given me the eric i seek from him for the injury he has done me; that is to say, his head." "shame it is to hear thee say so, and a sure mark of jealousy," answered oscar. "and now i take the body and life of dermat under the protection of my knighthood and valour; and i pledge the word of a true champion, that sooner shall the firmament fall on me, or the earth open up and swallow me, than that i shall let any man harm dermat o'dyna!" then, looking upwards, he said, "come down now, dermat, and thou shalt certainly go in safety from this place; for as long as i am alive, no man will dare to offer thee hurt!" then dermat, choosing that side of the tree where the men stood nearest to the trunk, walked along a thick branch unseen, and, leaning on the shafts of his spears, he sprang forward and downward with a light, airy bound, and alighted outside the circle of those who stood round with joined hands; and in a moment he was beyond the reach of sword and spear. and oscar joined him, looking back threateningly, so that no man of finn's hirelings durst follow. so the two heroes fared on together, crossing the shannon; and nothing is told of what befell them till they reached bruga of the boyne, where they met angus and grania. and grania was almost beside herself with joy when she saw dermat without wound or hurt of any kind. and the two champions were welcomed by angus; and dermat related to him and grania the whole story, how he had escaped from finn and his hirelings, oscar helping. and as grania listened, her spirit almost left her, at the deadly peril dermat had passed through. footnotes: [cxxii.] hy ficra, now the barony of tireragh, in sligo. [cxxiii.] the lake of lein of the crooked teeth, _i.e._ loch lein, or the lakes of killarney. [cxxiv.] the land of promise, or fairyland. (see note 8 at the end.) [cxxv.] quicken tree. (see note, page 177.) [cxxvi.] fomor, a giant. (see note, page 227.) [cxxvii.] slieve cua, the ancient name of the highest of the knockmeal-down mountains, in waterford. [cxxviii.] slieve crot, the ancient name of the galty mountains. [cxxix.] slieve gora, a mountainous district in the barony of clankee, county cavan. [cxxx.] slieve mucka, now slievenamuck (the mountain of the pig), a long mountain ridge in tipperary, separated from the galties by the glen of aherlow. slieve luga, a mountainous district, formerly belonging to the o'garas, in the barony of costello, county mayo. slieve mish, a mountain range west of tralee. chapter viii. the attack of the witch-hag. now as regards finn. after the departure of dermat and oscar, his heart was filled with anger and bitterness, and he vowed he would never rest till he had revenged himself on dermat. and, leaving the wood of dooros, he marched eastward till he reached allen. making no delay, he ordered his trusted servants to make ready his best ship, and to put therein food and drink for a voyage. then going on board, he put out to sea; and nothing is told of him till he reached the land of promise,[8] where his old nurse lived. when he appeared before her, she gave him a joyful welcome. and after he had eaten and drunk, she asked him the cause of his journey, knowing that some weighty matter had brought him thither. so he told her the whole story of what dermat o'dyna had done against him; and said that he had come to seek counsel from her how he should act. "for," he said, "no strength or cunning of men can compass his death; magic alone can overmatch him." then the old woman told him that she would go with him next day and work magic against dermat. whereupon finn was much rejoiced, and they rested that night. next day, they set out, finn and his people and his nurse; and it is not told how they fared till they reached bruga of the boyne. and the men of erin knew not that they had come thither, for the witch-hag threw a druidical mist round them, so that no man might see them. it chanced that dermat hunted that day in the forest, alone; for oscar had gone from bruga the day before. when this was known to the witch-hag, she caused herself to fly into the air by magic, on a water-lily, having by her spells turned the pale flat leaf into a broad millstone with a hole in the middle. and, rising over the tops of the trees, she floated on the clear, cold wind, till she had come straight over the hero. then, standing on the flat millstone, she began to aim deadly poisoned darts at him through the hole. and no distress dermat ever suffered could compare with this; for the darts stung him even through his shield and armour, the witch having breathed venomous spells on them. seeing at last that there was no escape from death unless he could slay the witch-hag, he seized the ga-derg, and, leaning backwards, flung it with sure aim at the millstone, so that it went right through the hole, and pierced the hag; and she fell dead at dermat's feet. then he beheaded her, and brought the head to angus of the bruga; and he related to him and to grania how he had escaped that great danger. chapter ix. peace and rest at last. angus arose next morning, and, going to finn, asked him whether he would make peace with dermat. finn, seeing that he was worsted in every attempt against the hero, and that moreover he had lost his nurse and many of his men, told angus that he was weary of the quarrel, and that he was fain to make peace on whatever terms dermat should choose. he next went to tara to the king, cormac, the grandson of conn. him he asked in like manner whether he was willing to grant dermat peace and forgiveness; and cormac answered that he was quite willing. then he came to dermat and said, "peace is better for thee: art thou willing now to be at peace with finn and cormac?" and dermat answered, "gladly will i make peace, if they grant me such conditions as befit a champion and the husband of the princess grania." and when angus asked what these conditions were, he answered-"the cantred which my father had, that is to say, the cantred of o'dyna,[cxxxi.] without rent or tribute to the king of erin; also the cantred of ben-damis,[cxxxii.] namely, ducarn of leinster. these two to be granted to me by finn; and he shall not hunt over them, nor any of his fena, without my leave. and the king of erin shall grant me the cantred of kesh-corran,[cxxxiii.] as a dowry with his daughter. on these conditions will i make peace." angus went to finn, and afterwards to the king, with these conditions. and they granted them, and forgave dermat all he had done against them during the time he was outlawed. so they made peace. and cormac gave his other daughter to finn to wife. dermat and grania went to live in the cantred of kesh-corran, far away from finn and cormac; and they built a house for themselves, namely, rath-grania, in which they abode many years in peace. and grania bore dermat four sons and one daughter. and his possessions increased year by year, insomuch that people said that no man of his time was richer than dermat, in gold and silver and jewels, in sheep, and in cattle-herds. footnotes: [cxxxi.] the cantred of o'dyna, now the barony of corkaguiny, in kerry. (see note, page 237.) [cxxxii.] the cantred of ben-damis, or ducarn of leinster, probably the district round douce mountain, in the county wicklow. [cxxxiii.] the district round the mountain of kesh-corran, in sligo. chapter x. the death of dermat. now when many years had passed, grania said one day to dermat-"it is surely a thing unworthy of us, seeing the greatness of our household and our wealth, and the number of our folk, that we should live in a manner so much removed from the world. and in a special manner it is unbecoming that the two most illustrious men in erin have never been in our house, namely, my father the king, and finn the son of cumal." for indeed she had not seen her father since the night she had left tara with dermat, and her heart yearned for him. "wherefore say you this, grania?" answered dermat; "for though there is indeed peace between us, they are both none the less enemies of mine; and for this reason have i removed my dwelling far apart from them." and grania said, "their enmity has surely softened with length of time: and now i would that you give them a feast: so shall we win back their friendship and love." and in an evil hour dermat consented. for a full year were they preparing for that great feast, and when it was ready, messengers were sent to invite the king, with his house-folk, and finn, with the chief men of the seven batallions of the fena. so they came, with their attendants and followers, their horses and dogs; and they lived for a whole year in rath-grania, hunting and feasting. it chanced one night, at the end of the year, long after all had gone to rest, that dermat heard, through the silence of the night, the distant yelping of a hound; and he started up from his sleep. but grania, being scared, started up also, and, throwing her arms round him, asked him what he had seen. "i have heard the voice of a hound," answered dermat; "and i marvel much to hear it at midnight." "may all things guard thee from harm!" said grania. "this is surely a trap laid for thee by the dedannans, unknown to angus of the bruga: and now lie down on thy bed again." dermat lay down, but did not sleep, and again he heard the hound's voice. he started up, and this time was fain to go and look to the matter; but grania caught him and kept him back a second time, saying that it was not meet for him to seek a hound whose voice he heard in the night. a gentle slumber now fell on dermat, and he slept through a good part of the night. but the yelping of the hound came a third time, and awakened him, so that he started up; and it being now broad day, he told grania that he would go to seek the hound, and find out why he was abroad in the night. and though grania consented, she felt, she knew not why, ill at ease; and she said-"bring with you the morallta, the sword of mannanan mac lir, and the ga-derg,[a] angus's spear; for there may be danger." but dermat, regarding the matter lightly, and forced by fate to the worse choice, answered-"how can danger arise from such a small affair? i will bring the begallta and the ga-boi;[cxxxiv.] and i will also bring my good hound mac-an-coill, leading him by his chain." so dermat went forth, and he delayed not till he reached the summit of ben-gulban,[cxxxv.] where he found finn; and dermat, offering him no salute, asked him who it was that held the chase. finn answered-"some of our men came out from rath-grania at midnight with their hounds; and one of the hounds coming across the track of a wild boar, both men and dogs have followed it up. i indeed would have held them back, but the men were eager, and left me here alone. for this is the track of the wild boar of ben-gulban, and they who follow him are bent on a vain and dangerous pursuit. often has he been chased; and he has always escaped, after killing many men and dogs. even now thou canst see in the distance that the fena are flying before him; and he has slain several this morning. he is coming towards this hillock where we stand; and the sooner we get out of his way the better." but dermat said he would not leave the hillock through fear of any wild boar. "it is not meet that thou shouldst tarry here," answered finn. "dost thou not know that thou art under gesa[12] never to hunt a boar?" dermat answered, "i know nothing of these gesa; wherefore were they placed on me?" and finn said, "i will tell thee of this matter, for well do i remember it. when thou wert taken to bruga of the boyne, to be fostered by angus, the son of angus's steward was fostered with thee, that he might be a companion and playmate to thee. now the steward, being a man of the common sort, agreed to send each day to bruga, food and drink for nine men, as a price for having his son fostered with thee--thy father, donn, being one of the nobles of the fena. and thy father was accordingly permitted to visit the house of angus when it pleased him, with eight companions, and claim the food sent by the steward; and when he did not come, it was to be given to angus's house-folk. "it chanced on a certain day that i was at allen of the broad hill-slopes, with the chief men of the seven battalions of the fena. and bran beg o'bucan brought to my mind, what indeed i had forgotten, that it was forbidden to me to sleep at allen more than nine nights one after another, and that the next would be the tenth. "now this restriction had not been placed on any of the fena save myself, and they all went into the hall except thy father and a few others. then i asked where we should get entertainment for that night. and thy father, donn, answered that he would give me entertainment at bruga of the boyne; where food and drink awaited himself and his companions whenever he visited angus. donn said, moreover, that he had not been to see his son for a year, and that we were sure to get a welcome. "so donn and i and the few that were with us went to the house of angus, bringing our hounds; and angus welcomed us. and thou and the steward's son were there, two children. after a while we could see that angus loved thee, dermat, very much, but that the house-folk loved the son of the steward; and thy father was filled with jealousy, that the people should show fondness for him and not for thee. "after night had fallen, it chanced that our hounds quarrelled over some broken meat we had thrown to them, and began to fight in the court; and the women and lesser people fled from them hither and thither. the son of the steward happened to run between thy father's knees, who, calling now to mind how the people favoured him more than thee, gave him a sudden strong squeeze with his knees, and killed him on the spot. and, without being seen by any one, he threw him under the feet of the hounds. "when at last the dogs were put asunder, the child was found dead; and the steward uttered a long, mournful cry. then he came to me and said-"'of all the men in angus's house to-night, i have come worst out of this uproar; for this boy was my only child. and now, o finn, i demand eric from thee for his death; for thy hounds have slain him.' "i told him to examine the body of his son, and that if he found the mark of a hound's tooth or nail, i would give him eric. so the child was examined, but no hurt--either bite or scratch--was found on him. "then the steward laid me under fearful bonds of druidical gesa,[12] to find out for him who slew his son. so i called for a chess-board and some water, and, having washed my hands, i put my thumb under my tooth of knowledge;[25] and then it was revealed to me that the boy had been slain by thy father. not wishing to make this known, i now offered to pay eric for the boy; but the steward refused, saying that he should know who killed his son. so i was forced to tell him: whereupon he said-"'it is easier for donn to pay me eric than for any other man in this house. and the eric i demand is that his son be placed between my knees: if the lad gets off safe, then i shall follow up the matter no further.' "angus was very wroth at this; and thy father would have struck off the steward's head if i had not come between and saved him. "the steward said no more, but went aside and brought forth a druidical magic wand, and, striking his son with it, he turned him into a great bristly wild boar, having neither ears nor tail. and, holding the wand aloft, he chanted this incantation over the boar- "by this magical wand, by the wizard's command, i appoint and decree, for dermat and thee, the same bitter strife, the same span of life: in the pride of his strength, thou shalt slay him at length: lo, dermat o'dyna lies stretched in his gore; behold my avengers, the tusks of the boar! and thus is decreed, for donn's cruel deed, sure vengeance to come- his son's bloody doom; by this wand in my hand, by the wizard's command! "the moment he had ended the incantation, the boar rushed out through the open door, and we knew not whither he betook himself. "when angus heard the steward's words, he laid a command on thee never to hunt a wild boar, that so thou mightest avoid the doom foretold for thee. "that same boar is the wild boar of binbulbin; and he is now rushing furiously towards us. come, then, let us leave this hill at once, that we may avoid him in time!" "i know nothing of these incantations and prohibitions," replied dermat; "or if, as thou sayest, they were put on me in my boyhood, i forget them all now. and neither for fear of this wild boar of ben-gulban nor of any other wild beast will i leave this hillock. but thou, before thou goest, leave me thy hound, bran, to help and encourage my dog, mac-an-coill." "i will not leave him," answered finn; "for often has bran chased this boar, and has always barely escaped with his life. and now i leave; for lo, here he comes over yonder hill-shoulder." so finn went his ways, and left dermat standing alone on the hill. and after he had left dermat said-"i fear me, indeed, that thou hast begun this chase hoping that it would lead to my death. but here will i await the event; for if i am fated to die in this spot, i cannot avoid the doom in store for me." immediately the boar came rushing up the face of the hill, with the fena following far behind. dermat loosed mac-an-coill against him, but to no profit; for the hound shied and fled before him at the first glance. then dermat said, communing with himself-"woe to him who does not follow the advice of a good wife! for this morning grania bade me bring the morallta and the ga-derg; but i brought instead the begallta and the ga-boi, disregarding her counsel." then, putting his white taper finger into the silken loop of the ga-boi, he threw it with careful aim, and struck the boar in the middle of the forehead; but to no purpose, for the spear fell harmless to the ground, having neither wounded nor scratched the boar, nor disturbed even a single bristle. seeing this, dermat, though indeed he knew not fear, felt his courage a little damped. and thereupon drawing the begallta from its sheath, he dealt a blow on the boar's neck, with the full strength of his brawny arm. but neither did he fare better this time; for the sword flew in pieces, leaving the hilt in his hand, while not a bristle of the boar was harmed. and now the boar rushed on him as he stood defenceless, and with furious onset hurled him headlong to the earth; and, turning round, he gashed the hero's side with his tusk, inflicting a deep and ghastly wound. turning again, he was about to renew the attack, when dermat flung the hilt of the sword at him, and drove it through the skull to his brain, so that the brute fell dead on the spot. finn and the fena now came up, and found dermat lying pale and bleeding, in the pangs of death. and finn said-"it likes me well, dermat, to see thee in this plight; only i am grieved that all the women of erin cannot see thee also. for now, indeed, the surpassing beauty of thy form, that they loved so well, is gone from thee, and thou art pale and deformed!" and dermat answered, "alas, o finn! these words surely come from thy lips only, and not from thy heart. and indeed it is in thy power to heal me even now if thou wilt." "how should i heal thee?" asked finn. "it is not hard for thee to do so," answered dermat. "for when, at the boyne, the noble gift of foreknowledge was given to thee,[25] this gift also thou didst receive--that to whomsoever thou shouldst give a drink of water from the closed palms of thy two hands, he should be healed from sickness or wounds, even though he stood at the point of death." "why should i heal thee by giving thee drink from my hands?" replied finn. "for of a certainty thou of all men dost least deserve it from me." "thou surely speakest hastily, not remembering past services," answered dermat. "well, indeed, do i deserve that thou shouldst heal me. dost thou forget the day thou didst go with the chiefs and nobles of the fena, to the house of derca, the son of donnara, to a banquet? and even as we sat down, and before the feast began, carbri of the liffey, son of cormac, with the men of tara, and of bregia, and of meath, and of carmna, surrounded the palace, intent on slaying thee and all thy people. and they uttered three great shouts, and threw firebrands to burn the palace over our heads. then thou didst arise and prepare to issue forth, but i put thee back and bade thee enjoy thy feast; and, leaving the banquet untasted, i rushed forth with a chosen few of my own men, and quenched the flames. thrice we made a circuit of the palace, dealing slaughter amongst thy foes, so that we left fifty of them dead after each circuit. and having put carbri and his men to flight, we returned to join the feast. had i asked thee for a drink that night, gladly wouldst thou have given it to me. and yet, not more justly was it due to me then than it is now." "ill dost thou deserve a healing drink from me, or any other favour," said finn; "for it was thy part to guard grania the night we came to tara; but thou didst espouse her secretly, and didst fly with her from tara, knowing that she was betrothed to me." "lay not the blame of that on me," said dermat; "for grania put me under heavy gesa, which for all the wealth of the world i would not break through--no, not even for life itself. neither did i rest on my own judgment in the matter; for well thou knowest that oisin, and oscar, and dering, and mac luga counselled me to the course i took. "and now, o finn, i pray thee let me drink from thy hands, for i feel the weakness of death coming on me. and thou wilt not gainsay that i deserve it, if thou wilt only remember the feast that midac, the son of colga, made for thee in the fairy palace of the quicken trees.[cxxxvi.] to this feast midac invited thee and thy companions; while to the palace of the island he brought secretly the king of the world with a great host, and the three kings of the island of the torrent, with intent to slay thee and all thy fena. "now midac caused some of the clay of the island of the torrent to be placed under you, with foul spells, in the palace of the quicken trees, so that your feet and your hands clove to the ground. and it was revealed to thee that the king of the world was about to send a chief with a troop of warriors, to slay you, helpless as you were, and to bring him your heads to the palace of the island. "but at that same time, i came to thee outside the palace of the quicken trees; and thou didst make known to me your deadly strait. then did i take thee, finn, and those who were with thee, under the protection of my knighthood and valour; and i went to the ford to defend it against the foreigners. "and after a little time the three dragon-like kings of the island of the torrent came towards the palace: but i defended the ford, and, venturing my life for thee, i bore their attack and slew them all three. and i swept off their heads, and brought them, all gory as they were, in the hollow of my shield, to the palace where you lay miserably bound; and, sprinkling the clay with the blood, i broke the spell and set you free. and had i asked thee for a drink on that night, o finn, of a surety thou wouldst not have refused me. "and many another deadly strait did i free you from, since the day i was admitted among the fena, always putting myself forward to the post of danger, and perilling my life for your safety; and now why dost thou requite me with this foul treachery? "moreover, many a king's son and many a brave warrior hast thou slain; and thou hast earned the enmity of powerful foes: neither is there yet an end of it. for the day will come--i see it even now--a day of direful overthrow and slaughter,[cxxxvii.] when few, alas! of the fena will be left to tell the tale. then thou shalt sorely need my help, o finn, and sorely shalt thou rue this day. i grieve not, indeed, for thee, but for my dear, faithful companions--for oscar and mac luga and dering, and more than all for oisin, who shall long outlive the others in sad old age.[cxxxviii.] alas! how deadly shall be their strait when i am not near to aid them!" then oscar, moved with pity even to tears, addressing finn, said, "although i am nearer akin to thee, o king, than to dermat, yet i cannot suffer that he die, when a drink from thy hands would heal him. bring him, then, a drink without delay." and finn answered, "i know of no well on this mountain from which to bring drink." "therein thou speakest not truth," said dermat; "for thou knowest that not more than nine paces from thee, hidden under yonder bush, is a well of crystal water." thereupon finn went to the well, and, holding his two hands tightly together, he brought up some of the water, and came towards dermat; but after he had walked a little way, he let it spill through his fingers, saying that he was not able to bring water in his hands so far. "not so, finn," said dermat. "i saw thee that of thy own will thou didst let it spill. and now, o king, hasten, for death is on me." again he went to the well, and was bringing the water slowly, while dermat followed the dripping hands with his eyes; but when finn thought of grania he let the water spill a second time. and dermat, seeing this, uttered a piteous sigh of anguish. and now was oscar no longer able to contain his grief and rage; and he said, "i swear, o king, if thou dost not bring the water, that only one of us two--thou or i--shall leave this hill alive!" hearing oscar's words, and seeing the frowning looks of the others, finn dipped up the water a third time, and was hastening forward; but before he had got half-way, dermat's head dropped backwards, and his life departed. and all the fena present raised three long loud cries of sorrow for dermat o'dyna. then oscar, looking fiercely on finn, spoke and said, "would that thou thyself lay dead here instead of dermat! for now indeed the noblest heart of the fena is still; and our mainstay in battle and danger is gone. ah! why did i not foresee this? why was i not told that dermat's life was linked with the life of the wild boar of ben-gulban? then would i have stayed this chase, and put off the evil day!" and oscar wept; and oisin, and dering, and mac luga wept also, for dermat was much loved by all. after a time, finn said, "let us now leave this hill, lest angus of the bruga overtake us. for although we had no hand in dermat's death, nevertheless he may not believe us." so finn and the fena departed from the hill, finn leading dermat's dog, mac-an-coill. but oisin, and oscar, and dering, and mac luga turned back, and with tears, threw their mantles over dermat; after which they followed the others. grania sat that day on the highest rampart of rath-grania, watching for dermat's return; for a dark fear haunted her mind on account of this chase. and when at last the fena came in view, she saw dermat's dog led by finn; but not seeing dermat himself, she said-"ah me! what is this i see? surely if dermat were alive, it is not by finn that mac-an-coill would be led to his home!" and as she spoke she fell forward off the rampart, and lay long in a swoon as if her spirit had fled, while her handmaid stood over her, weeping and distracted. and when at last she opened her eyes, then indeed they told her that dermat was dead; and she uttered a long and piteous cry, so that her women and all the people of the court came round her to ask the cause of her sorrow. and when they were told that dermat had perished by the wild boar of ben-gulban, they raised three loud, bitter cries of lamentation, which were heard in the glens and wildernesses around, and which pierced the clouds of heaven. when at length grania became calm, she ordered that five hundred of her people should go to ben-gulban, to bring home the body of dermat. then, turning to finn, who still held mac-an-coill in his hand, she asked him to leave her dermat's hound; but finn refused, saying that a hound was a small matter, and that he might be allowed to inherit at least so much of dermat's riches. when oisin heard this, he came forward and took the hound from the hand of finn and gave him to grania. at the time that the men left rath-grania to go for the body of dermat, it was revealed to angus that the hero was lying dead on ben-gulban. and he set out straightway, and travelling on the pure, cool wind, soon reached the mountain; so that when grania's people came up, they found him standing over the body, sorrowing, with his people behind him. and they held forward the wrong sides of their shields in token of peace. then both companies, having viewed the dead hero, raised three mighty cries of sorrow, so loud and piercing that they were heard in the wastes of the firmament, and over the five provinces of erin. and when they had ceased, angus spoke and said, "alas! why did i abandon thee, even for once, o my son? for from the day i took thee to bruga, a tender child, i have watched over thee and guarded thee from thy foes, until last night. ah! why did i abandon thee to be decoyed to thy doom by the guileful craft of finn? by my neglect hast thou suffered, o dermat; and now, indeed, i shall for ever feel the bitter pangs of sorrow!" then angus asked grania's people what they had come for. and when they told him that grania had sent them to bring the body of dermat to rath-grania, he said-"i will bring the body of dermat with me to bruga of the boyne; and i will keep him on his bier, where he shall be preserved by my power, as if he lived. and though i cannot, indeed, restore him to life, yet i will breathe a spirit into him, so that for a little while each day he shall talk with me." then he caused the body to be placed on a golden bier, with the hero's javelins fixed one on each side, points upwards. and his people raised the bier and carried it before him; and in this manner they marched slowly to bruga of the boyne. grania's people then returned; and when they had told her the whole matter, though she was grieved at first, yet in the end she was content, knowing how angus loved dermat. footnotes: [cxxxiv.] see note, page 302. [cxxxv.] now benbulbin, a mountain five miles north of the town of sligo. [cxxxvi.] see this story told at length, page 177. [cxxxvii.] a prophetic allusion to the battle of gavra. (see note 28 at the end.) [cxxxviii.] a prophetic allusion to the events related in the story of "oisin in tirnanoge," page 385. the chase of slieve cullinn. in which it is related how finn's hair was changed in one day from the colour of gold to silvery grey.[cxxxix.] culand, the smith of the dedannans,[1] who lived at slieve cullinn,[cxl.] had two beautiful daughters, milucra and aina. they both loved finn,[23] and each sought him for her husband. as they walked together one evening near allen,[cxli.] they fell to talking of many things; and their conversation turning at last on their future husbands, aina said she would never marry a man with grey hair. when milucra heard this, she resolved with herself that if she could not get finn, she would plan so that he should not marry her sister aina. so she departed immediately, and, turning her steps northwards, she summoned the dedannans to meet her at slieve cullinn. having brought them all together, she caused them to make her a lake[cxlii.] near the top of the mountain; and she breathed a druidical virtue on its waters, that all who bathed in it should become grey. on a morning not long after this, finn happened to be walking alone on the lawn before the palace of allen, when a doe sprang out from a thicket, and, passing quite close to him, bounded past like the wind. without a moment's delay, he signalled for his companions and dogs; but none heard except his two hounds, bran and skolan. he instantly gave chase, with no other arms than his sword, mac-an-lona, and accompanied only by his two dogs; and before the fena[23] knew of his absence, he had left allen of the green slopes far behind. the chase turned northwards; and though the hounds kept close to the doe, the chief kept quite as close to the hounds the whole way. and so they continued without rest or pause, till they reached slieve cullinn, far in the north. here the doe made a sudden turn and disappeared; and what direction she took, whether east or west, finn knew not, for he never caught sight of her after. and he marvelled much that any doe in the world should be able to lead bran and skolan so long a chase, and escape from them in the end. meantime they kept searching, finn taking one side of the hill and the dogs another, so that he was at last left quite alone. while he was wandering about the hill and whistling for his hounds, he heard the plaintive cry of a woman at no great distance; and, turning his steps towards the place, he saw a lady sitting on the brink of a little lake, weeping as if her heart would break. never before did the chieftain see a maiden so lovely. the rose colour on her cheeks was heightened by her grief; her lips were like ruddy quicken berries; the delicate blossom of the apple tree was not more white than her neck; her hair fell in heavy golden ringlets on her shoulders; and as she looked up at the chief, her eyes beamed like stars on a frosty night. finn accosted her; and, seeing that she ceased her weeping for a moment, he asked her had she seen his two hounds pass that way. "i have not seen thy hounds," she replied, "nor have i been at all concerned in the chase; for, alas, there is something that troubles me more nearly, a misadventure that has caused me great sorrow!" and as she spoke these words, she burst out weeping and sobbing more bitterly than before. finn was greatly moved at this, so much so, that he quite forgot all about his hounds and his own troubles; and he asked her-"what is the cause of this great grief, gentle lady? has death robbed you of your husband or your child, or what other evil has befallen you? i am much concerned to see a lady in such distress; and i wish you to tell me if anything can be done to lighten your sorrow, or to remove the cause of it?" she replied, "i had a precious gold ring on my finger, which i prized beyond anything in the world; and it has fallen from me into the water. i saw it roll down the steep slope at the bottom, till it went quite out of my sight. this is the cause of my sorrow, and thou canst remedy the mishap if thou wilt. the fena are sworn never to refuse help to a woman in distress; and i now put on thee those gesa[12] that true heroes dare not break through, to search for the ring, and cease not till thou find it and restore it to me." though the chief had indeed at the moment no inclination to swim, he could not refuse a prayer urged in this manner. so he plunged in without a moment's hesitation, and examined the lake on all sides, diving and searching into every nook and cranny at the bottom. after swimming in this manner three times round and round the lake, he found the ring at last; and, approaching the lady, he handed it to her from the water. the moment she had got it she sprang into the lake before his eyes, and, diving down, disappeared in an instant. the chief, wondering greatly at this strange behaviour, stepped forth from the water; but as soon as his feet had touched the dry land, he lost all his strength, and fell on the brink, a withered, grey old man, shrunken up and trembling all over with weakness. he sat him down in woful plight; and soon his hounds came up. they looked at him wistfully and sniffed and whined around him; but they knew him not, and, passing on, they ran round the lake, searching in vain for their master. on that day the fena were assembled in the banquet hall of the palace of allen; some feasting and drinking, some playing chess, and others listening to the sweet music of the harpers. while all were in this wise pleasantly engaged, kylta mac ronan[23] stood up in the midst, and said in the hearing of all-"i have observed, friends, that our master and king, finn the son of cumal, has not been amongst us to-day, as is his wont; and i wish to know whither he has gone." this speech caused a sudden alarm amongst us; for no one knew aught of the chief, or was aware till that moment that he was absent at all; and we knew not wherefore he had disappeared or whither he had gone. in the midst of our anxious tumult, the envious and foul-mouthed conan mail[23] stood up, and said-"i have never heard sweeter music than your words, kylta! the fena are now about to seek for their king; and my only wish is that their quest may last for a whole year, and that it may prove a vain search in the end! be not cast down, however, o fena; if you should fail to find the son of cumal, you will not be so ill off as you think; for i will undertake to be your king from this time forth!" though we were at the time more inclined to be sad than mirthful, being weighed down with much anxiety, we could not help laughing when we heard the loud, foolish talk of conan mail; but we took no further notice of him. inquiring now from the lesser people about the palace, we found that the chief and his two dogs had followed a doe northwards. so, having mustered a strong party of the fena, we started in pursuit. kylta and i took the lead, the rest keeping close behind; and in this order we followed the track, never taking rest or slackening speed till we reached slieve cullinn. we began to search round the hill, hoping to find either the chief himself or some person who might give us tidings of him. after wandering among brakes and rough, rocky places, we at last espied a grey-headed old man sitting on the brink of a lake. i went up to him to ask a question, followed by the rest of the fena. at first i thought he might be a fisherman who had come up from the plains to fish; but when we came near him, he seemed so wretched an old creature, all shrivelled up, with the skin hanging in wrinkles over the bare points of his bones, that i felt quite sure he was not a fisherman, and that he was reduced to that state more by sickness and want than by old age. i asked the poor old man if he had seen a noble-looking hero pass that way, with two hounds, chasing a doe. he never answered a word, neither did he stir from where he sat, or even look up; but at the question, his head sank on his breast, and his limbs shook all over as with palsy. then he fell into a sudden fit of grief, wringing his hands and uttering feeble cries of woe. we soothed him and used him gently for a time, hoping he might speak at last; but to no purpose, for he still kept silent. then at last growing impatient, and thinking that this might be a mere headstrong humour, we drew our swords, and threatened him with instant death if he did not at once tell us all he knew of the chief and his hounds--for we felt sure he had seen them. but he only lamented the more, and still answered nothing. at last, after this had gone on for some time, and when we were about to leave him, he beckoned to kylta mac ronan; and when kylta had come near, the old man whispered into his ear the dreadful secret. and then we all came to know the truth. when we found that the withered old man was no other than our beloved king, finn, himself, we uttered three shouts of lamentation and anger, so loud and prolonged that the foxes and badgers rushed affrighted from their dens in the hollows of the mountain. conan now stepped forward, looking very fierce; and, unsheathing his sword with mighty bluster, he began in a loud voice to revile finn and the fena with the foulest language he could think of. and he ended by saying that he meant to slay the king that moment-"now, o finn mac cumal, i will certainly strike off your head; for you are the man that never gave me credit for valour, or praised my noble deeds in battle. ever since your father, cumal of the hosts, was slain on the field of knocka[cxliii.] by the clann morna[23] of the golden shields, you have been our bitter foe; and it is against your will that any of us are now alive. i am very glad to see you, finn mac cumal, brought down to what you now are; and i only wish that the rest of the clann baskin[23] were like you. then should i very soon make short work of them all; and joyful to me would be the task of raising a great carn to their memory!" to which oscar replied with great scorn, "it is not worth while drawing a sword to punish thee, conan mail, vain and foolish boaster as thou art; and besides, we have at present something else to think of. but if it were not for the trouble that now lies heavy on us on account of our king, i would of a certainty chastise thee by breaking all the bones of thy mouth with my fist!" "cease, oscar," returned conan, in a voice still louder than before; "cease your foolish talk! it is actions and not words that prove a man; and as to the noble warlike deeds done in past times by the fena, it was by the clann morna they were performed, and not by the chicken-hearted clann baskin!" the fiery oscar could bear this no longer. he rushed towards conan mail; but conan, terrified at his vengeful look, ran in amongst the fena with great outcry, beseeching them to save him from the rage of oscar. we straightway confronted the young hero, and checked him in his headlong career; and after much ado, we soothed his anger and made peace between him and conan. when quietness was restored, kylta asked finn how this dread evil had befallen him, who was the enchanter, and whether there was any hope of restoring him to his own shape. finn told him that it was the daughter of culand the smith who had transformed him by her spells. and then he recounted how she had lured him to swim in the lake, and how, when he came forth, he was turned into a withered old man. we now made a framework litter of slender poles, and, placing our king on it, we lifted him tenderly on our shoulders. and, turning from the lake, we marched slowly up-hill till we came to the fairy palace of slieve cullinn, where we knew the daughter of culand had her dwelling deep under ground.[19] here we set him down, and the whole troop began at once to dig, determined to find the enchantress in her cave-palace, and to take vengeance on her if she did not restore our chief. for three days and three nights we dug, without a moment's rest or pause, till at length we reached her hollow dwelling; when she, affrighted at the tumult and at the vengeful look of the heroes, suddenly started forth from the cave and stood before us. she held in her hand a drinking-horn of red gold, which was meant for the king. yet she appeared unwilling, and held it back, notwithstanding the threatening looks of the fena. but, happening to cast her eyes on the graceful and manly youth, oscar, she was moved with such admiration and love for him that she wavered no longer, but placed the fairy drinking-horn in the hands of the king. no sooner had he drunk from it, than his own shape and features returned, save only that his hair remained of a silvery grey. when we gazed on our chief in his own graceful and manly form, we were all pleased with the soft, silvery hue of the grey hairs. and, though the enchantress appeared ready to restore this also, finn himself told her that it pleased him as it pleased the others, and that he chose to remain grey for the rest of his life. when the king had drunk from the horn, he passed it to mac reth, who drank from it in like manner and gave it to dering. dering, after drinking, was about to hand it to the next, when it gave a sudden twist out of his hand, and darted into the loose earth at our feet, where it sank out of sight. we ran at once to recover it; but, though we turned up the earth deeply all round, we were not able to find the drinking-horn. this was a disappointment that vexed us exceedingly, for if we had all drunk from it, we should have been gifted with a foreknowledge of future events. a growth of slender twigs grew up afterwards over the spot where it sank into the ground; and this little thicket is still gifted with a part of the virtue of the golden drinking-horn. for any one who looks on it in the morning fasting, will know in a moment all things that are to happen that day. so ended the chase of slieve cullinn; and in this wise it came to pass that finn's hair was turned in one day from golden yellow to silvery grey. footnotes: [cxxxix.] it is necessary to remind the reader that this story and the two following are related by oisin, in his old age, to st. patrick. (see the prefatory note to the story of "oisin in tirnanoge," p. 385; and see also note 23 at the end.) [cxl.] now slieve gullion, a lofty, isolated mountain in the south of the county armagh, celebrated in legendary lore. [cxli.] the hill of allen, in kildare, where finn had his palace. (see note 23 at the end.) [cxlii.] the little lake for which this legendary origin is assigned lies near the top of slieve gullion. there were several wells in ireland which, according to the belief of old times, had the property of turning the hair grey. giraldus cambrensis tells us of such a well in munster; and he states that he once saw a man who had washed a part of his head in this well, and that the part washed was white, while the rest was black! it is to be observed that the peasantry of the district retain to this day a lingering belief in the power of the lake of slieve gullion to turn the hair grey. [cxliii.] knocka, now castleknock, near dublin. (see note 27 at the end.) the chase of slieve fuad. in which it is related how ailna, the wife of mergah of the sharp spears, in order to be revenged on the fena for the death of her husband, transformed herself into a deer, and decoyed them till she got them into the power of her brother, dryantore, a giant and an enchanter; how he threw them into a dungeon, with intent to kill them; and how they were in the end set free by conan mail.[cxliv.] finn and the fena[23] went one day to hunt at slieve fuad.[cxlv.] when they had come very near to the top of the mountain, a deer suddenly bounded from a thicket right before them, very large and fierce, with a great pair of sharp, dangerous antlers. at once they loosed their dogs and gave chase; and those who were scattered here and there about the hill gave up the pursuit of smaller game to join the main body for it was very seldom they fell in with a deer that promised better sport. she led them through rugged places, over rocks and bogs, and into deep glens. the hounds several times surrounded her; but she fought her way with so much strength and fury that she always escaped, after killing many of the dogs and disabling some of the men. soon she left slieve fuad behind, nor did she slacken speed till she reached the green hill of lidas, while the hunters and dogs followed in full chase close behind. she then made her way across the open country to a rugged and bushy hill--the hill of carrigan;[cxlvi.] and here they suddenly lost her among the rocks and thickets. they searched round the hill without avail, north, south, east, and west, till all, both men and dogs, were quite scattered; and finn and dara the melodious were left alone. at length finn's dog, skolan, started the deer once more, and again the chase began. back over the selfsame course she ran, by the hill of lidas, and straight on towards slieve fuad, finn and dara close on her track; while the main body of the fena followed far behind, guided by the cries of the dogs. when the deer reached slieve fuad, she again took cover and disappeared at the very spot where they had first started her; and the two chiefs, after beating the thickets on every side, were at length forced to give up the search. a druidical mist now rose up, darkening the air, and enfolding them on every side; so that they lost their way. they tried many times to regain the path, but to no purpose; for they only lost themselves more and more among the quagmires and thickets. at last they sat down to rest, weary and baffled; and dara played a mournful strain on his timpan; after which they sounded the dord-fian,[cxlvii.] as a signal to their friends. when the fena heard the dord-fian sounding afar off, they felt sure that their leader was in trouble or strait of some kind; and they started to his relief, making northwards straight towards the point from which they thought the signal came. but they had not gone far when they heard it sounding from the east, and altered their course accordingly. again it changed to the west; and no sooner had they set forward in that direction than it seemed to come from the south. in this manner were they led hither and thither, till they became quite bewildered; and they found themselves no nearer to those they were in search of, for every time they heard the dord-fian, it seemed as far off as ever. meantime finn and dara, after resting for a time, again started off, intent on trying once more to reach their friends; for they heard their shouts, and knew they were seeking them. as they were making their way through the thick fog, they heard a voice at a little distance, as if from one in distress; and, turning their steps that way, they met a young woman, very beautiful, and very pleasing in manner, but looking weary and sore perplexed, and all over in sad plight from the bogs and brambles. finn accosted her in a gentle voice, asking how she came to be alone in a place so wild. she replied, "i and my husband were journeying along over the plain, when we heard the melodious cry of hounds; and he left me to follow the chase, telling me to continue along the same path, and promising to rejoin me without delay. but this fairy fog has risen around me, and i have lost my way, so that i know not now in what direction to go." finn then asked her name and the name of her husband. "my husband's name is lavaran, and mine is glanlua. but i perceive that you are one of the fena; and indeed i think, from your arms and from your noble mien, that you must be the great chief finn himself. if this be so, i place myself under your protection; and i know well that you will lead me safely out of this place to my husband; for the fena never yet refused their help to a woman in distress." finn replied, "you are quite right, lady, for i am finn; and this chase that has parted you and your husband belongs to me. we will certainly take you under our protection, and we will neither abandon you on this mountain, nor suffer any one to harm you. but as to leading you to your husband, it is not at present in our power to do that; for you must know, lady, that we also have been set astray by this magical fairy fog. nevertheless, we will do the best we can; and now you had better come with us." so the three set forward in the direction they thought most likely to lead to the open plain. after walking for some time, they heard a low, sweet strain of fairy music; and they stopped to listen. it seemed to be near them and around them in the fog, so that finn thought it came from the spot where the lady stood; and she thought it came from finn or dara: and the music was followed by shouts and noise, as if from a great company. when the noise ceased, the music began again more sweetly than before; so that they felt heavy, and as if inclined to sleep. still more drowsy and powerless they became as they listened; and at last they all three sank on the ground, in a trance deep and deathlike. after a time they awoke, and slowly regained their senses; though they were so weak that they could scarcely move. the fog had cleared away, leaving the air bright and warm; and when they were able to look around, they found themselves on the margin of a blue lake. the part of the lake that lay in front of them was narrow, and quite calm and smooth; but on each side, to the right and left, it opened out into two broad, green-bordered seas, with great waves tumbling wildly about, as if the waters were torn up by whirlwinds. but where they sat, not a breath was blowing. and looking across the narrow part, they saw a stately palace right before them on the opposite shore. as they were gazing at all these strange things, silent and much astonished, they saw a warrior coming forth from the palace, in size like a giant, rough and fierce-looking, with a beautiful woman by his side. the two walked quickly down to the shore, and, plunging in, they swam straight across the middle of the lake. and dara and glanlua, turning to finn, said-"of a surety, it is not for our good yonder strangers are approaching; but to work us treachery and mischief!" this forecast turned out to be true. the large warrior and the beautiful lady had no sooner gained the land than they came up to finn and his two companions; and without speaking a word, the giant seized them roughly, and led them down to the shore of the lake. for the two heroes were still so weak from the spell of the fairy music that they were not able to raise a hand to defend either the lady or themselves. the giant and his companion, making no delay, plunged in, and swam back towards the palace, bringing the three with them; and as soon as they had reached the shore, the strange warrior, addressing finn in a fierce and surly manner, said-"for a long time have i sought finn mac cumal, the evil-minded and crafty; and now, o finn, now that thou hast been by a well-laid plan cast under my power, i will take good care that thou shalt not escape till i take revenge, even to the full, for all the injuries thou hast done to me and to my sister!" finn listened to this speech with much surprise, for he could not call to mind that he had ever seen the hero before; and he said-"tell me, i pray thee, who thou art; for i know thee not; neither do i know of any injury thou hast suffered at my hands. thou art, indeed, large of body, and fierce and boastful in speech; but know that to take revenge on a foe who is unable to defend himself, is a deed quite unbecoming a hero!" the large man replied, "do you not remember the treachery you practised on mergah of the sharp spears, and on my sons, two fair youths, whom you slew by unfair means, at the battle of knockanare?[cxlviii.] well indeed do i know thee, finn, for i am dryantore, and this is ailna my sister, the wife of mergah. she is left without her husband, and i without my sons, by your cruel wiles; for it was by fraud and foul play, and not by fair fighting, that you gained the battle of knockanare, and slew mergah and his host!" "i remember well," said finn, "that they all fell on the battle-field; but it was not by craft or treachery. mergah of the sharp spears came with a mighty host to conquer erin, and lay it under tribute. but they were met at knockanare, and every man of them slain in fair, open fight, though not without sore loss to the fena." "you may say what you please on the matter," said dryantore; "but it is quite enough for me that you have slain ailna's husband and my two sons. and now, indeed, i shall take revenge--of that be sure--both on you and on all the fena that come within my reach." and having so spoken, he began without more ado to bind finn, dara, and glanlua in strong fetters; and having done so, he threw them into a dungeon, where he left them without food or drink or comfort of any kind. meantime the fena ceased not to search for their king. they knew, by the sad strain they had heard in the distance, and by the strange manner in which the music had shifted from place to place, that he was caught under some druidic spell; and they vowed they would never rest till they had found him and punished the enchanter, whoever he might be. next day, ailna visited the dungeon; and finn addressed her-"hast thou forgotten, ailna, that when thou didst come to erin after the death of thy husband, mergah of the sharp spears, the fena received thee hospitably, and, pitying thy distress, treated thee with much kindness? but for this thou hast indeed given us an ungrateful and unbecoming return; for thou hast shut us up in this dungeon, without food or drink, having, by guileful druidical spells, taken away our strength." "i remember very well," said ailna, "that you treated me kindly. but you killed my husband; and i am well pleased that it has now come to my turn to avenge his death. i do not feel the least pity for you; and i only wish that the whole of the fena were with you in that dungeon, to be dealt with by my brother." then, casting her eyes on glanlua, she began to upbraid her in bitter words for having been in the company of finn and dara. but glanlua explained the matter, saying that she had never seen either of the chiefs before, and that it was only by chance she had fallen on them when she had lost her way in the fog. "if that be so," said ailna, "it is not just that you should be punished for the evil deeds of the others." and she went and told dryantore, who came forthwith to release the lady. glanlua took leave of finn and dara, and left the prison, grieving much for their evil plight; for she was grateful for their kindness on the mountain. ailna led her to the palace; and, having placed food before her, bade her eat. but glanlua, being overcome by weakness, suddenly fell into a swoon, and remained for a long time without sense or motion, like one dead. when at last she opened her eyes, she saw ailna standing near, holding in her hand a golden drinking-horn. and ailna gave her to drink, and immediately the spells lost their power; and she regained her strength; and the bloom and beauty of her countenance returned. but now she bethought her of the two heroes; and, remembering their dismal plight in the dungeon, she became sorrowful, and began to sigh and weep. and when ailna and dryantore came to know the cause of her tears, they told her with much severity that finn and dara deserved their punishment; and that both should stay in prison till the time had come to put them to death. "i seek not to release them from prison or to save them from death," said glanlua; "but that they are left without food and drink--this it is that moves me to pity." and dryantore said, "if only that has caused your tears, you may, if you so please, bring them food. besides, i do not mean to put them to death immediately. i shall let them live yet awhile, that i may decoy by them the other fena, who are now wandering hither and thither in quest of their chief. and it is my firm belief that in a little time i shall have them all in that dungeon." so glanlua went to the prison, bringing food and drink, and ailna went with her. they found the heroes sitting on the floor, sorrowing, their strength and activity all gone; for the music-spell still held them, and they suffered also from want of food. and when they saw the two ladies, they shed bitter tears. glanlua, on her part, wept with pity when she looked on the wasted face of the chief. but not so ailna; she was pleased at their distress, for her heart was hardened with vengeance, and she longed for the time when they should suffer death. howbeit, glanlua placed food and drink before them, and they ate and drank and were strengthened for the time. when the two ladies returned, dryantore asked glanlua if it were true what he had heard, that dara was a favourite among the fena; and why it was that they loved him so. glanlua replied, "i only know that he is a very skilful musician; for i never heard melody sweeter than the strains he played yesterday, when i met himself and finn in the fog." "i should like very much to hear this music," said dryantore, "if it be so melodious as you say;" and as he spoke these words he went towards the dungeon. and when he had come to the door, he said to dara, in a loud, harsh, surly voice-"i have heard that you are a skilful musician, and can play very sweet strains. i wish you to play for me now that i may know if this be true." to which dara replied, "if i had the fena around me, i could delight them with the melody of my timpan; but as for you, guileful and cruel as you are, i do not believe that you can take any pleasure in music. moreover, how can you expect that i should play sweet music for you, seeing that i am shut up here in this dismal dungeon, and that all manly strength and cheerfulness of mind have left me through your foul spells?" "i will take off the spells if only you play for me," said dryantore; "and if your strains be as delightful as i have heard reported, i will bring you forth from your prison, and i will keep you for ever in my castle, and you shall play for me whensoever i wish for music." "i shall never consent to be released, neither will i play any music for you, so long as my chief lies in bondage and under enchantment," said dara; "for i grieve not indeed for myself, but for him." dryantore replied, "i will lift the spells from both of you for a time; but as to releasing finn, that is a matter i do not wish to talk of now." whereupon dryantore removed the spells, and the heroes regained their strength and courage. dara then played a low, sweet tune; and dryantore, who had never before heard such music, listened with delight and wonder. he was so charmed that he called ailna and glanlua, that they also might hear; and they were as much delighted as the giant. but what pleased glanlua most was to see the heroes restored to their wonted cheerfulness. now all this time the fena were seeking among the glens and hollows of the mountain for finn and dara. after walking for some time over a stony and rugged way, a faint strain of music struck on their ears. they stopped to listen, breathless; and every man knew the sound of dara's timpan; and they raised a shout of gladness, which reached finn and dara in their dungeon. at the same moment they came in view of the palace, and they drew their swords and put their shields and spears in readiness, as men do going to battle. and they went forward warily, for they feared foul play, and their hearts had a forecast that a foe was near. but, indeed, they little deemed what manner of foe they should meet. when dryantore heard the shouts, he hid himself from the view of the fena, and forthwith betook him to his magic arts. and again the spell fell on the two heroes, and their strength departed; and dara's hand, losing its cunning, trembled on the strings, so that his music became dull and broken. and when dara's music ceased, the fena heard a low, hoarse murmur, which, growing each moment louder, sounded at last like the hollow roar of waves. and anon their strength and their swiftness left them, and they fell to the ground every man, in a deep trance as if they slept the sleep of death. then dryantore and ailna came forth, and having bound them one by one in strong, hard fetters, they roused them up and led them helpless and faltering to the dungeon, where they shut them in with finn and dara. the fena looked sadly on their king; and he, on his part, shed bitters tears to think that he had decoyed them--though, indeed, he had done so unwittingly--into the hands of their foe. in the midst of their sighs and tears they heard the loud voice of the giant, who, looking in on them from the open door, addressed them-"now at last, ye fena, you are in my safe keeping. truly you have done great deeds in your time, but yet, methinks, you will not be able to escape from this prison till i have taken just vengeance on you for slaying mergah of the sharp spears, and my two sons, at the battle of knockanare!" and having so spoken, he shut the door and went his way. when he came to the palace, he found that glanlua's husband, lavaran, had been there. upon which he fell into a mighty rage; for he feared to let any man know the secrets of the palace; and he feared also that lavaran might try to aid finn and the others. he inquired of the two ladies whither he had gone; but they replied they did not know. he then began to search through the rooms, and, raising his voice, he called aloud for lavaran; and the fena, even in their dungeon, heard the roar quite plainly. lavaran, hearing him, was sore afraid, and answered from a remote part of the palace. and as he came forward, the giant placed him under his spells, and, having bound him, flung him into the dungeon with the others. dryantore's fury had not in the least abated; and, entering the dungeon, he struck off the heads of several of the fena with his great sword, saying he would visit them each day, and do in like manner till he had killed them all. during this time the fena were unable to defend themselves; for, besides that their strength had gone out from their limbs on account of the spells, they found that from the time the enchanter entered the prison, they were all fixed firmly in their places, every man cleaving to the ground, in whatsoever position he chanced to be, sitting, lying, or standing. and finn shed tears--even tears of blood in sight of all--seeing his men fall one by one, while he had to look on without power to help them. after dryantore had in this manner slain several, he approached conan mail,[23] with intent to end that day's work by cutting off his head; and as it chanced, conan was lying full length on the floor. now conan, though he was large-boned and strong, and very boastful in his speech, was a coward at heart, and more afraid of wounds and death than any man that ever lived. so when he saw dryantore coming towards him with his sword in his hand all dripping, he shouted aloud-"hold thy hand, dryantore! hold thy hand for a little while, and be not guilty of such treachery!" but the giant, not heeding in the least conan's words, raised his sword with his two hands and rose on tiptoe for a mighty blow. then conan, terrified beyond measure, put forth all his strength to free himself, and bounded from the floor clear outside the range of the sword; but left behind him, clinging to the floor, all the skin of his back, even from the points of his shoulders to the calves of his legs. when he saw the giant still making towards him in a greater rage than ever for missing his blow, he again cried aloud-"hold your hand this time, dryantore! is it not enough that you see me in this woful plight? for it is plain that i cannot escape death. leave me, then, to die of my wounds, and slay me not thus suddenly!" dryantore held his hand; but he told conan that he would for a certainty kill him next time he came, if he did not find him already dead of his wounds. then he stalked out of the dungeon, and, shutting close the door, left the fena in gloom and sadness. though lavaran had been only a little while in the palace, he made good use of his time, and now approaching finn, he whispered in his ear-"there is that in yonder palace which would free us from those accursed spells if we only could get at it." and when finn asked what it was, he replied, "a magical golden drinking-horn of wondrous virtue. i saw it in the palace among many other precious jewels." and when finn again questioned him how he knew of its secret power, he said-"glanlua, my wife, told me. for she said that, being herself at the point of death, ailna fetched this drinking-horn and bade her drink. and when she had drunk, she was immediately freed from spells and sickness. she told me, moreover, that it would remove the spell from the fena, and bring back their strength and heal their wounds, if they could get to drink from it." conan, being near, overheard this conversation; and he inwardly resolved that he would try to secure the drinking-horn, if perchance he might be able to heal his wounds by means of it. not long after, the giant again came to the prison, sword in hand, and addressed conan in these words-"come forward now, o big, bald man, for i am about to fulfil my promise to you! come forward, that i may strike off your large head; for i see that your wounds have not killed you!" but conan, instead of coming forward, fell back even to the farthest part of the dungeon, and replied-"you must know, dryantore, that i, of all men alive, am the most unwilling to die any death unworthy of a brave hero. you see my evil plight, all wounded and faint from loss of blood; and, being as i am a valiant warrior, it would surely be a shameful thing and a foul blot on my fame, to be slain while in this state. i ask only one favour--that you cure me of my wounds first. after this, you may put me to death in any manner that is most agreeable to you." to this dryantore consented, seeing that conan was secure; and he called to ailna and bade her fetch him the magical golden drinking-horn. "for i wish," said he, "to heal the wounds of yonder big, bald man." but ailna replied, "of what concern are his wounds to us? is it not better that he should die at once, and all the other fena with him?" conan spoke out from where he stood, "lovely ailna, i seek not to escape death. i ask only to be healed first and slain afterwards!" ailna went to the palace and soon returned, bringing, not the drinking-horn, but a large sheepskin, covered all over with a long growth of wool. dryantore took it from her, and doing as she told him, he fitted it on conan's back, where it cleaved firmly, so that his wounds were all healed up in an instant. as long as conan lived afterwards, this sheepskin remained on his back; and the wool grew upon it every year, even as wool grows on the back of a living sheep. and from that time forth, the other fena were always mocking him and laughing at him and calling him nicknames. as soon as conan felt his wounds healed, he again spoke to the giant-"it is my opinion, dryantore, that it would be a very unwise thing for you to put me to death. i see plainly you want a servant. now, although i am large of bone and strong of body, and very brave withal, still i am very harmless. and if you let me live, i shall be your servant for ever, and you will find me very useful to you." the giant saw the force and wisdom of conan's words; and he felt that he wanted a servant very much, though he never perceived it till that moment, when conan reminded him of it. so he said, "i believe, indeed, conan, that your words are truth. wherefore, i will not put you to death. you are now my servant, and so shall you be for the rest of your life." he then led conan forth from the dungeon towards the palace; and he was in such good humour at having got a servant, that he forgot to kill any of the fena on that occasion. he called to him ailna and glanlua, to tell them of what he had done. and he said to them-"i find that i need a servant very much. wherefore, i have made conan my servant. and i am now about to free him from the spell and give him back his strength by a drink from the golden drinking-horn, so that he may be able to wait on me and do my work." for conan, though his wounds were healed, was still so weak from the spell that he was scarce able to walk. "i do not at all approve what you have done," said ailna. "it would be, methinks, much better to put him straightway to death along with all the others. as long as he is with us as our servant, i shall never think myself free from danger; for the fena are treacherous all alike." "as for the other fena," replied dryantore, "you need not be in any trouble on their account, for their time is short. as soon as i have got conan free from the spell, i will go straight to the dungeon and kill them, every man. and when they are fairly put out of the way, it seems to me that we need not fear danger from this big, bald man with the sheepskin on his back." when ailna heard that the death of the fena was near at hand, she no longer gainsaid her brother. so dryantore led conan to the palace; and placing the magical drinking-horn in his hand, bade him drink. and conan drank; and immediately his strength and his spirits returned. now it so happened, while these things went on, that finn asked dara to play one of his sweet, sad tunes, that they might hear the music of his timpan before they died. and dara took his timpan, and began to play; and historians say that no one either before or since ever played sweeter strains. at the very moment that conan had finished drinking, he and dryantore heard the music sounding faintly in the distance; and the giant opened the door and stood on the threshold to listen. he was so charmed that he quite forgot all about conan and the drinking-horn; and finding that he could not hear the music plainly enough where he stood, he walked hastily towards the dungeon, leaving conan behind with the drinking-horn in his hand. no sooner had he gone out than conan hid the drinking-horn under his cloak, and went to the dungeon after him. and when the giant saw him he said, "why have you followed me; and what business have you here? are you not my servant; and why have you come without being bidden by me?" "i thought," replied conan, "that you were about to put the fena to death; and i came to look at them once more before they died." then suddenly dryantore bethought him of the drinking-horn, and he said, "where is the golden drinking-horn i gave you?" "i left it," said conan, "just where i found it in the palace." the giant ran hastily towards the palace to secure the drinking-horn; and no sooner was he out of sight than conan, drawing forth the horn, put it to the lips of each to drink, beginning with finn. only finn and oscar had drunk, when they heard the heavy steps of the giant running towards the dungeon; and now they saw that he was indeed inflamed with fury. oscar seized his great, polished spear, and sprang to the door; and the others raised a mighty shout of joy; while conan went on releasing the heroes one by one. when dryantore saw oscar, he uttered a roar of rage and disappointment; and then called aloud to ailna to come to him. and she came forth; and when she saw how matters stood, she was seized with such grief and terror that she dropped down and died immediately. glanlua was standing near at hand, rejoicing at the release of her husband and friends; but when she saw ailna fall to the ground dead, she became sad, and, stooping down, wept over her. all this oscar saw from where he stood; and it was with much ado he checked his tears. for though my son was the bravest of the heroes, and the most terrible in battle, he had a gentle heart, and never saw a woman or a child in distress without being moved to pity. but conan felt not the least pity. on the contrary, he was very glad to see ailna dead; and he told oscar that it was very well she was out of the way, for that she was a vicious woman, and had wrought the fena much trouble and woe. and now oscar, casting his eyes again on dryantore, hardened his heart for battle, and addressed the giant in these words-"it has at last come to pass, o dryantore, that you are in the power of the fena; and there is no escape for you, though you are a large and strong giant, and a druid with powerful magical spells. but the fena never yet treated an enemy ungenerously. you indeed dealt unfairly and treacherously with us; and meant to kill us all, after having taken away our strength and valour by your black, guileful magic. but even so, we give you your choice; and we challenge you now to single combat with any of our champions you may wish to choose." to which dryantore replied, "it is very true that the fena have prevailed over me; and it is a just punishment for my folly in releasing conan the bald from my spells. i desire single combat. i will fight the fena one after another, till i either fall myself or slay them all; and i will begin with you!" oscar then took his shield and made ready for battle. meantime the giant, harbouring great wrath against conan, approached him unawares; and when he had come near enough, he sprang suddenly on him, and aimed a blow with all his might at his head. but conan, springing aside, barely escaped the edge of the sword; and, running in great fear, called to oscar with great outcry to save him from the giant. then oscar ran between; and he and the giant fought a long and fierce fight, while we looked on with anxious hearts. the giant was furious and strong; but my son was active and watchful and fearless of heart; and dryantore at length fell at the door of his own palace, pierced through and through by the long, smooth spear of oscar. when the fena saw the giant fall, they raised three mighty shouts of joy. and glanlua brought the magic drinking-horn to oscar, from which he drank, so that his wounds were healed, and his strength straightway returned to him. the fena then went into the palace, where they found food in great plenty, with wine and mead in golden bowls and drinking-horns. and they ate and drank and made merry; after which they rested that night on soft beds and couches. when they awoke in the morning, all was changed. the palace and the lake were gone; and the heroes found themselves lying on the heathy side of slieve fuad, at the selfsame spot where they had first started the deer; with the morning sun shining brightly over their heads. footnotes: [cxliv.] this story is told by oisin to st. patrick. (see the prefatory note to the next story, "oisin in tirnanoge," page 385.) [cxlv.] slieve fuad was the ancient name of the highest of the fews mountains, near newtown hamilton, in armagh; but the name is now lost. [cxlvi.] now probably the village of carrigans, on the river foyle, five miles south-west of londonderry. [cxlvii.] dord-fian, a sort of musical war-cry. (see note, page 195.) [cxlviii.] knockanare (the hill of slaughter), where a great battle was fought between the fena under finn, and the foreigners under mergah of the sharp spears, in which mergah was defeated and slain. this battle forms the subject of a poetical romance. it may be as well to observe that this hill is _not_ knockanare in kerry, near the mouth of the shannon, as some say. oisin in tirnanoge;[cxlix.] or, the last of the fena. [according to an ancient legend, finn's son, oisin, the hero-poet, survived to the time of st. patrick, two hundred years (the legend makes it three hundred) after the other fena. on a certain occasion, when the saint asked him how he had lived to such a great age, the old hero related the following story.] a short time after the fatal battle of gavra,[cl.] where so many of our heroes fell, we were hunting on a dewy morning near the brink of lough lein,[cli.] where the trees and hedges around us were all fragrant with blossoms, and the little birds sang melodious music on the branches. we soon roused the deer from the thickets, and as they bounded over the plain, our hounds followed after them in full cry. we were not long so engaged, when we saw a rider coming swiftly towards us from the west; and we soon perceived that it was a maiden on a white steed. we all ceased from the chase on seeing the lady, who reined in as she approached. and finn and the fena were greatly surprised, for they had never before seen so lovely a maiden. a slender golden diadem encircled her head; and she wore a brown robe of silk, spangled with stars of red gold, which was fastened in front by a golden brooch, and fell from her shoulders till it swept the ground. her yellow hair flowed far down over her robe in bright, golden ringlets. her blue eyes were as clear as the drops of dew on the grass; and while her small, white hand held the bridle and curbed her steed with a golden bit, she sat more gracefully than the swan on lough lein. the white steed was covered with a smooth, flowing mantle. he was shod with four shoes of pure yellow gold, and in all erin a better or more beautiful steed could not be found. as she came slowly to the presence of finn, he addressed her courteously in these words-"who art thou, o lovely youthful princess? tell us thy name and the name of thy country, and relate to us the cause of thy coming." she answered in a sweet and gentle voice, "noble king of the fena, i have had a long journey this day, for my country lies far off in the western sea. i am the daughter of the king of tirnanoge, and my name is niam of the golden hair." "and what is it that has caused thee to come so far across the sea? has thy husband forsaken thee; or what other evil has befallen thee?" "my husband has not forsaken me, for i have never been married or betrothed to any man. but i love thy noble son, oisin; and this is what has brought me to erin. it is not without reason that i have given him my love, and that i have undertaken this long journey: for i have often heard of his bravery, his gentleness, and the nobleness of his person. many princes and high chiefs have sought me in marriage; but i was quite indifferent to all men, and never consented to wed, till my heart was moved with love for thy gentle son, oisin." when i heard these words, and when i looked on the lovely maiden with her glossy, golden hair, i was all over in love with her. i came near, and, taking her small hand in mine, i told her she was a mild star of brightness and beauty, and that i preferred her to all the princesses in the world for my wife. "then," said she, "i place you under gesa,[12] which true heroes never break through, to come with me on my white steed to tirnanoge, the land of never-ending youth. it is the most delightful and the most renowned country under the sun. there is abundance of gold and silver and jewels, of honey and wine; and the trees bear fruit and blossoms and green leaves together all the year round. you will get a hundred swords and a hundred robes of silk and satin, a hundred swift steeds, and a hundred slender, keen-scenting hounds. you will get herds of cows without number, and flocks of sheep with fleeces of gold; a coat of mail that cannot be pierced, and a sword that never missed a stroke and from which no one ever escaped alive. there are feasting and harmless pastimes each day. a hundred warriors fully armed shall always await you at call, and harpers shall delight you with their sweet music. you will wear the diadem of the king of tirnanoge, which he never yet gave to any one under the sun, and which will guard you day and night, in tumult and battle and danger of every kind. lapse of time shall bring neither decay nor death, and you shall be for ever young, and gifted with unfading beauty and strength. all these delights you shall enjoy, and many others that i do not mention; and i myself will be your wife if you come with me to tirnanoge." i replied that she was my choice above all the maidens in the world, and that i would willingly go with her to the land of youth. when my father, finn, and the fena heard me say this, and knew that i was going from them, they raised three shouts of grief and lamentation. and finn came up to me and took my hand in his, saying sadly-"woe is me, my son, that you are going away from me, for i do not expect that you will ever return to me!" the manly beauty of his countenance became quite dimmed with sorrow; and though i promised to return after a little time, and fully believed that i should see him again, i could not check my tears, as i gently kissed my father's cheek. i then bade farewell to my dear companions, and mounted the white steed, while the lady kept her seat before me. she gave the signal, and the steed galloped swiftly and smoothly towards the west, till he reached the strand; and when his gold-shod hoofs touched the waves, he shook himself and neighed three times. he made no delay, but plunged forward at once, moving over the face of the sea with the speed of a cloud-shadow on a march day. the wind overtook the waves and we overtook the wind, so that we straightway lost sight of land; and we saw nothing but billows tumbling before us and billows tumbling behind us. other shores came into view, and we saw many wonderful things on our journey--islands and cities, lime-white mansions, bright greenans[clii.] and lofty palaces. a hornless fawn once crossed our course, bounding nimbly along from the crest of one wave to the crest of another; and close after, in full chase, a white hound with red ears. we saw also a lovely young maiden on a brown steed, with a golden apple in her hand; and as she passed swiftly by, a young warrior on a white steed plunged after her, wearing a long, flowing mantle of yellow silk, and holding a gold-hilted sword in his hand. i knew naught of these things, and, marvelling much, i asked the princess what they meant; but she answered-"heed not what you see here, oisin; for all these wonders are as nothing compared with what you shall see in tirnanoge." at last we saw at a great distance, rising over the waves on the very verge of the sea, a palace more splendid than all the others; and, as we drew near, its front glittered like the morning sun. i asked the lady what royal house this was, and who was the prince that ruled over it. "this country is the land of virtues," she replied. "its king is the giant, fomor of the blows, and its queen the daughter of the king of the land of life.[19] this fomor brought the lady away by force from her own country, and keeps her in his palace; but she has put him under gesa[12] that he cannot break through, never to ask her to marry him till she can find a champion to fight him in single combat. but she still remains in bondage; for no hero has yet come hither who has the courage to meet the giant." "a blessing on you, golden-haired niam," i replied; "i have never heard music sweeter than your voice; and although i feel pity for this princess, yet your story is pleasant to me to hear; for of a certainty i will go to the palace, and try whether i cannot kill this fomor, and free the lady." so we came to land; and as we drew nigh to the palace, the lovely young queen met us and bade us welcome. she led us in and placed us on chairs of gold; after which choice food was placed before us, and drinking-horns filled with mead, and golden goblets of sweet wine. when we had eaten and drunk, the mild young princess told us her story, while tears streamed from her soft, blue eyes; and she ended by saying-"i shall never return to my own country and to my father's house, so long as this great and cruel giant is alive!" when i heard her sad words, and saw her tears falling, i was moved with pity; and telling her to cease from her grief, i gave her my hand as a pledge that i would meet the giant, and either slay him or fall myself in her defence. while we were yet speaking, we saw the giant coming towards the palace, large of body, and ugly and hateful in appearance, carrying a load of deerskins on his back, and holding a great iron club in his hand. he threw down his load when he saw us, turned a surly look on the princess, and, without greeting us or showing the least mark of courtesy, he forthwith challenged me to battle in a loud, rough voice. it was not my wont to be dismayed by a call to battle, or to be terrified at the sight of an enemy; and i went forth at once without the least fear in my heart. but though i had fought many battles in erin against wild boars and enchanters and foreign invaders, never before did i find it so hard to preserve my life. we fought for three days and three nights without food or drink or sleep; for the giant did not give me a moment for rest, and neither did i give him. at length, when i looked at the two princesses weeping in great fear, and when i called to mind my father's deeds in battle, the fury of my valour arose; and with a sudden onset i felled the giant to the earth; and instantly, before he could recover himself, i cut off his head. when the maidens saw the monster lying on the ground dead, they uttered three cries of joy; and they came to me, and led me into the palace. for i was indeed bruised all over, and covered with gory wounds; and a sudden dizziness of brain and feebleness of body seized me. but the daughter of the king of the land of life applied precious balsam and healing herbs to my wounds; and in a short time i was healed, and my cheerfulness of mind returned. then i buried the giant in a deep and wide grave; and i raised a great carn over him, and placed on it a stone with his name graved in ogam. we rested that night, and at the dawn of next morning niam said to me that it was time for us to resume our journey to tirnanoge. so we took leave of the daughter of the king of the land of life; and though her heart was joyful after her release, she wept at our departure, and we were not less sorry at parting from her. when we had mounted the white steed, he galloped towards the strand; and as soon as his hoofs touched the wave, he shook himself and neighed three times. we plunged forward over the clear, green sea with the speed of a march wind on a hill-side; and soon we saw nothing but billows tumbling before us and billows tumbling behind us. we saw again the fawn chased by the white hound with red ears; and the maiden with the golden apple passed swiftly by, followed by the young warrior in yellow silk on his white steed. and again we passed many strange islands and cities and white palaces. the sky now darkened, so that the sun was hidden from our view. a storm arose, and the sea was lighted up with constant flashes. but though the wind blew from every point of the heavens, and the waves rose up and roared around us, the white steed kept his course straight on, moving as calmly and swiftly as before, through the foam and blinding spray, without being delayed or disturbed in the least, and without turning either to the right or to the left. at length the storm abated, and after a time the sun again shone brightly; and when i looked up, i saw a country near at hand, all green and full of flowers, with beautiful smooth plains, blue hills, and bright lakes and waterfalls. not far from the shore stood a palace of surpassing beauty and splendour. it was covered all over with gold and with gems of every colour--blue, green, crimson, and yellow; and on each side were greenans shining with precious stones, built by artists the most skilful that could be found. i asked niam the name of that delightful country, and she replied-"this is my native country, tirnanoge; and there is nothing i have promised you that you will not find in it." as soon as we reached the shore, we dismounted; and now we saw advancing from the palace a troop of noble-looking warriors, all clad in bright garments, who came forward to meet and welcome us. following these we saw a stately glittering host, with the king at their head wearing a robe of bright yellow satin covered with gems, and a crown that sparkled with gold and diamonds. the queen came after, attended by a hundred lovely young maidens; and as they advanced towards us, it seemed to me that this king and queen exceeded all the kings and queens of the world in beauty and gracefulness and majesty. after they had kissed their daughter, the king took my hand, and said aloud in the hearing of the host-"this is oisin, the son of finn, for whom my daughter, niam, travelled over the sea to erin. this is oisin, who is to be the husband of niam of the golden hair. we give you a hundred thousand welcomes, brave oisin. you will be for ever young in this land. all kinds of delights and innocent pleasures are awaiting you, and my daughter, the gentle, golden-haired niam, shall be your wife; for i am the king of tirnanoge." i gave thanks to the king, and i bowed low to the queen; after which we went into the palace, where we found a banquet prepared. the feasting and rejoicing lasted for ten days, and on the last day, i was wedded to the gentle niam of the golden hair. i lived in the land of youth more than three hundred years; but it appeared to me that only three years had passed since the day i parted from my friends. at the end of that time, i began to have a longing desire to see my father, finn, and all my old companions, and i asked leave of niam and of the king to visit erin. the king gave permission, and niam said-"i will give consent, though i feel sorrow in my heart, for i fear much you will never return to me." i replied that i would surely return, and that she need not feel any doubt or dread, for that the white steed knew the way, and would bring me back in safety. then she addressed me in these words, which seemed very strange to me-"i will not refuse this request, though your journey afflicts me with great grief and fear. erin is not now as it was when you left it. the great king finn and his fena are all gone; and you will find, instead of them, a holy father and hosts of priests and saints. now, think well on what i say to you, and keep my words in your mind. if once you alight from the white steed, you will never come back to me. again i warn you, if you place your feet on the green sod in erin, you will never return to this lovely land. a third time, o oisin, my beloved husband, a third time i say to you, if you alight from the white steed, you will never see me again." i promised that i would faithfully attend to her words, and that i would not alight from the white steed. then, as i looked into her gentle face and marked her grief, my heart was weighed down with sadness, and my tears flowed plentifully; but even so, my mind was bent on coming back to erin. when i had mounted the white steed, he galloped straight towards the shore. we moved as swiftly as before over the clear sea. the wind overtook the waves and we overtook the wind, so that we straightway left the land of youth behind; and we passed by many islands and cities, till at length we landed on the green shores of erin. as i travelled on through the country, i looked closely around me; but i scarcely knew the old places, for everything seemed strangely altered. i saw no sign of finn and his host, and i began to dread that niam's saying was coming true. at length, i espied at a distance a company of little men and women,[cliii.] all mounted on horses as small as themselves; and when i came near, they greeted me kindly and courteously. they looked at me with wonder and curiosity, and they marvelled much at my great size, and at the beauty and majesty of my person. i asked them about finn and the fena; whether they were still living, or if any sudden disaster had swept them away. and one replied-"we have heard of the hero finn, who ruled the fena of erin in times of old, and who never had an equal for bravery and wisdom. the poets of the gaels have written many books concerning his deeds and the deeds of the fena, which we cannot now relate; but they are all gone long since, for they lived many ages ago. we have heard also, and we have seen it written in very old books, that finn had a son named oisin. now this oisin went with a young fairy maiden to tirnanoge, and his father and his friends sorrowed greatly after him, and sought him long; but he was never seen again." when i heard all this, i was filled with amazement, and my heart grew heavy with great sorrow. i silently turned my steed away from the wondering people, and set forward straightway for allen of the mighty deeds, on the broad, green plains of leinster. it was a miserable journey to me; and though my mind, being full of sadness at all i saw and heard, forecasted further sorrows, i was grieved more than ever when i reached allen. for there, indeed, i found the hill deserted and lonely, and my father's palace all in ruins and overgrown with grass and weeds. i turned slowly away, and afterwards fared through the land in every direction in search of my friends. but i met only crowds of little people, all strangers, who gazed on me with wonder; and none knew me. i visited every place throughout the country where i knew the fena had lived; but i found their houses all like allen, solitary and in ruins. at length i came to glenasmole,[cliv.] where many a time i had hunted in days of old with the fena, and there i saw a crowd of people in the glen. as soon as they saw me, one of them came forward and said-"come to us, thou mighty hero, and help us out of our strait; for thou art a man of vast strength." i went to them, and found a number of men trying in vain to raise a large, flat stone. it was half lifted from the ground; but those who were under it were not strong enough either to raise it further or to free themselves from its weight. and they were in great distress, and on the point of being crushed to death. i thought it a shameful thing that so many men should be unable to lift this stone, which oscar, if he were alive, would take in his right hand and fling over the heads of the feeble crowd. after i had looked a little while, i stooped forward and seized the flag with one hand; and, putting forth my strength, i flung it seven perches from its place, and relieved the little men. but with the great strain the golden saddle-girth broke, and, bounding forward to keep myself from falling, i suddenly came to the ground on my two feet. the moment the white steed felt himself free, he shook himself and neighed. then, starting off with the speed of a cloud-shadow on a march day, he left me standing helpless and sorrowful. instantly a woeful change came over me: the sight of my eyes began to fade, the ruddy beauty of my face fled, i lost all my strength, and i fell to the earth, a poor, withered old man, blind and wrinkled and feeble. the white steed was never seen again. i never recovered my sight, my youth, or my strength; and i have lived in this manner, sorrowing without ceasing for my gentle, golden-haired wife, niam, and thinking ever of my father, finn, and of the lost companions of my youth. footnotes: [cxlix.] tirnanoge, the land of youth. (see note 19 at the end.) [cl.] gavra, now garristown, in the north-west of the county dublin. (for an account of this battle, see note 28 at the end.) [cli.] lough lein, the lakes of killarney. [clii.] greenan, a summer-house; a house in a bright, sunny spot. [cliii.] the gigantic race of the fena had all passed away, and erin was now inhabited by people who looked very small in oisin's eyes. [cliv.] glenasmole, a fine valley about seven miles south of dublin, through which the river dodder flows. the voyage of the sons of o'corra.[clv.] a princely upright hundred-herd brugaid[clvi.] was born one time in the lovely province of connaught, namely, conall derg o'corra the fair-haired. and thus was this brugaid (circumstanced):--he was a fortunate, rich, prosperous man; and his house was never found without three shouts in it--the shout of the brewers brewing ale, and the shout of the servants over the caldrons distributing (meat) to the hosts, and the shout of the youths over the chessboards[clvii.] winning games from one another. the same house was never without three measures:--a measure of malt for making yeast, a measure of wheat for providing bread for the guests, and a measure of salt for savouring each kind of food. his wife was cairderga[clviii.] the daughter of the erenach[clix.] of clogher.[clx.] they felt no want of any kind except being without children; and it was not that they were without children (being born to them), but that the infants always died the moment after birth. then this brugaid said (one day) to his wife as she reclined near him on the couch:--"it is a sad thing for us," said he, "that we have no children who would take our place and fill it worthily when we are gone." "what desire is in your mind in regard to that?" says the wife. "it is my desire," says the brugaid, "to make a bond with the demon to try if he would give us a son or a daughter who would take our place after us (since god has not done so)." "let us do that," said the woman. they accordingly fasted (and prayed) to the demon; (and the demon hearkened unto them. and in due time) the pains and struggles, of childbirth came upon the lady; and she bore three sons at that great birth, namely, a son at the beginning of the night, and a son at the middle of the night, and a son at the end of the night. and they were baptised according to the baptism of the pagans (by which they were dedicated not to god but to the demon); and their names were lochan, enna, and silvester. and after that, they were reared and carefully trained up till they were swift and active on sea and land; so that they were an overmatch for all the young people of their own age in every game and in every accomplishment. and they were in the mouths and on the tongues of all who saw or heard of them in their day. one day when they were resting at the railings of the house of their father and mother, wearied after their hurling and their martial games, the housefolk said that they saw no fault or defect in these handsome much-renowned youths, except only their being baptised in the service of the devil. (and the youths hearing this said):--"if it be so," said they, "that the devil is our lord and master, it is very wrong of us not to bring ruin and wrath and woe on his enemies, that is to say, (we ought) to slaughter the clergy, and burn and spoil their churches." then did these three youths arise, (and collecting a band), and taking unto them their arms, they came to tuam-da-gualann,[clxi.] and spoiled and burned the town. and (after that) they plundered and made dreadful havoc on the churches and clergy throughout the province of connaught, until their wicked and bloodthirsty ravages were noised over the four quarters of erin. thus did they run their evil course without ceasing for a whole year, during which time they destroyed more than half the churches of connaught. at the end of the year lochan said to his brothers: "we have made one great mistake through forgetfulness," says he, "and our lord the devil will not be thankful to us on account of it." "what is that?" said the other two youths. "our grandfather," says he, "that is our mother's father--not to have killed him and burned his church." so they set out straightway, journeying without sparing or respite (to clogher), and this was how they found the erenach, namely, on the green of the church with a great company of his folk around him, (waiting for the o'corras), in order to attend on them and to deal out to them the choice of every food and the best of every ale. and the intention that the elder had towards them, that indeed was not the intention they had towards him, but to murder him and to burn and spoil his church. then the o'corras came to the spot where the elder was standing, and they made up their minds not to kill him or burn the houses till night, when the cows and the (other) cattle of the homestead would be housed, all in their own proper places. the elder welcomed them and led them to the homestead; and he now became aware of their intention. nevertheless he put them in a goodly pleasant _greenan_,[clxii.] and they were served with food and ale till they became exhilarated and cheerful: after which couches were made ready for them on lofty bedsteads. and now deep slumber and heavy sleep fell on them, and a wonderful vision was revealed in a dream to lochan, the eldest of the sons of o'corra, in which he was carried to see heaven and hell. and after this he awoke. the other two awoke at the same time, and they said:--"let us now arise, for it is time to plunder and destroy the homestead." "seems to me," said lochan, "that this is not the right thing for us to do: for evil is the lord we have served until now, and good is the lord we have plundered and outraged. "and last night i had," said he, "a fearful dream, in which i saw a vision of heaven and hell. and first i was taken to see hell, where were countless souls of men and vast crowds of demons suffering divers tortures, and plagues unexampled. and i saw the four rivers of hell, that is to say, a river of toads, a river of serpents, a river of fire, and a river of snow. i saw also a monstrous serpent with many heads and legs, at sight whereof, even though it were only a single glance, all the men in the world would drop dead with loathing and horror. "after this methought i was taken to see heaven; where i beheld the lord himself seated on his kingly throne, and angels in the shapes of white birds singing for him. and among them was one great snow-white bird of dazzling brightness that excelled all the others in size and beauty and voice, chanting strains of surpassing sweetness. women in travail and men sore wounded and sick people racked with pain would fall asleep if they heard the delightful harmony of his voice. and it was made known to me that this great bird who chanted such heavenly music to his mild lord was michael the archangel. "and now my brothers," said lochan, "it is my counsel to you that you follow god henceforward." "but," said the others, "will the lord accept repentance from us for the dreadful evils we have already done?" they go to the father of their mother, namely, the erenach, and they ask this thing of him. "he will accept your repentance without doubt," says the erenach. "well then," said lochan, "let mass be celebrated for us, and put us under instruction, and let us offer our confession to god. after that we will make staffs of the handles of our spears; and we will go to finnen of clonard,[clxiii.] the tutor of the saints and of the just men of all erin. he is a very holy man, and he will advise us in regard to what we ought to do." to this counsel they agreed; and on the morrow they set out for the place where finnen was; whom they found on the green of clonard with a number of his clerics. "who are these coming towards us?" said the clerics. and one said, "they are the o'corras the robbers." hearing this they fled, like lightning, in a body from their master, for they felt quite sure that the o'corras were coming to slay them; so that finnen was left quite alone before the three brothers. "it is from us the clerics are fleeing:" says lochan. "of a certainty it is," said his brothers. "let us," said lochan, "cast from us our staffs, the only little remnant of our arms left with us; and let us throw ourselves on our knees before the cleric." and this they did. "what is your desire?" says the cleric (finnen). "our desire," said they, "is faith and piety, and to serve god, and to abandon the lord whom we have hitherto served, namely, the devil." "that is a good resolution," says the cleric; "and let us go now to the homestead yonder, the place where live our brotherhood." they go accordingly with him to the brotherhood; and after the matter had been considered, it was arranged to set apart a young cleric to teach them; and it was decreed that they should not speak to any one except their own master till the end of a year. so they continued for a whole year till they had read the canons through, and by the time they had come to be able to read them, the whole brotherhood felt grateful (to god) for their piety and their gentleness. at the end of the year they came to finnen; and they knelt before him, and said to him:--"it is time now that we should be judged and sentence passed on us for the great crimes we have committed. "what," said finnen, "do ye not think it enough--the penance you have done already for a whole year among the brotherhood?" "it is not enough," said they. "what then are the greatest crimes ye have committed?" says finnen. "we have burned more than half the churches of connaught; and neither priest nor bishop got quarter or protection from us." "you cannot" replied finnen, "give back life to the people you have killed; but do ye that which will be in your power, namely, to build up the churches ye have burned, and to repair every other damage ye have committed in them. and i will give to each man of you," says he, "the swiftness and strength of a hundred; and i will take from you all weariness of feet, of hands, and of body; and i will give you light and understanding which will have neither decay nor end." so the o'corras departed, and went first to tuam-da-gualann; and after that, they fared through the province, obedient to rule and working hard each day, until it came to pass that they had restored everything they had previously destroyed. after that they came at the end of the year to speak with finnen. "have you been able," asks finnen, "to repair everything ye destroyed belonging to the church?" "we have," said they, "except one place alone, namely kenn-mara."[clxiv.] "alas for that," says finnen; "that is the very first place you should have repaired; for it is the homestead of the oldest of all the saints of ireland, namely, the aged camann of kenn-mara. and now go and carefully restore everything ye have destroyed in that homestead. and the sentence that holy man passes on you, fulfil it patiently." so they went gladly to kenn-mara; and they repaired everything they had ruined there. one day when they had come forth from the homestead, they sat on the margin of the little bay, watching the sun as it went westward. and as they gazed and reflected on the course of the sun, they began to marvel greatly, pondering whither it went after it had gone down beneath the verge of the sea. "what more wonderful thing is there in the whole world," said they, "than that the sea does not freeze into ice, while ice is formed in every other water!" thereupon they formed the resolution on the spot to bring unto them a certain artificer who was a fast friend of theirs, and to (get him) to make a three-hide curragh[clxv.] for them. accordingly the curragh was made, and a strong-sided one it was. and the reward the artificer asked for building it was to be let go with them. when the time had come, and they were about to embark, they saw a large crowd passing close by; and this crowd was a company of _crossans_.[clxvi.] when the _crossans_ saw the curragh putting forth on the sea, they inquired:--"who are yonder people that are launching this curragh on the sea?" said they. the _furshore_ (juggler) of the crossans said:--"i know them well; they are the sons of conall derg o'corra the fair-haired of connaught, the destroyers and robbers, going on their pilgrimage on the sea and on the great ocean, to make search for their lord." "and indeed," added the _furshore_, "my word for it, they do not stand more in need of seeking for heaven than we do." "it is a long day i fancy till you go on your pilgrimage," said the leader of the band. "say not so," answered the _furshore_: "for i will certainly go with these people on my pilgrimage now without delay." "upon our word," said the _crossans_, "you will not take away our clothes with you; for not a single article of the garments you wear belongs to you." "it is not so small a matter that would keep me with you," says he. so they stripped off all his clothes, and sent him away mother naked to the curragh. "who and what in the world are you, good man?" asked the crew. "a poor wretch who wishes to go with you on pilgrimage," said he. "indeed," said they, "you shall not by any means come with us, seeing that you are stark naked." "say not so, young men," said he, "for the sake of god do not refuse me; for i will amuse you and keep your hearts cheerful (with my music and singing); and your piety will not be a whit the worse for it." and (inasmuch as he had asked) for the sake of god they consented to let him go. now this is how it was with the crew:--each man of them had built a church and raised an altar to the lord in his own district. their number was nine; among whom was a bishop, and a priest, and a deacon; and they had one _gilla_ (attendant) who was the ninth man. "let us go aboard our curragh now," says lochan, "as we have finished our task of restoring the churches, and as we have, besides, each of us built a church to the lord in our own district." it was then they put up their prayers fervently to god in the hope that they might have fine weather; and that the lord would quell the fury of the billows, and the might of the ocean, and the rage of the terrible sea monsters. so they embarked in their curragh, bringing their oars; and they began to question among themselves what direction they should take. "the direction in which this wind will bring us," says the bishop. and having commended themselves to god, one and all, they betook them to their oars. a great wind now arose, which drove them out on the waste of waters straight to the west; and they were forty days and forty nights on the ocean. and god revealed to them great and unheard of wonders. they had not been long rowing when the _crossan_ died; and sad and sorrowful were they for his loss, and wept much. while they were still mourning, they saw a little bird alight on the deck of the curragh. and the little bird spoke and said to them:--"good people, tell me now in god's name what is the cause of your sorrow." "a _crossan_ that we had playing music for us; and he died a little while ago in this curragh; and that is the cause of our sorrow." and the bird said:--"lo, i am your little _crossan_: and now be not sorrowful any longer, for i am going straightway to heaven." so saying he bade them farewell and flew away. i. they row forward for a long time till there was shown to them a wonderful island, and in it a great grove of marvellous beauty, laden with apples, golden coloured and sweet scented. a sparkling rivulet of wine flowed through the midst of the grove; and when the wind blew through the trees, sweeter than any music was the rustling it made. the o'corras ate some of the apples and drank from the rivulet of wine, and were immediately satisfied. and from that time forth they were never troubled by either wounds or sickness. ii. then they took to their oars; and after a time they came in view of another island, and four companies of people in it, such as had never been seen before. now these people had divided the island into four parts: old greyheaded people were in the first division; princes in the second; warriors in the third; and servants in the fourth. they were all beautiful and glorious to behold; and they diverted themselves continually with games and pastimes. one of the crew went to them to ask news: (he was a comely, well-favoured youth, but) he seemed ugly and dark-visaged in presence of these glorious people. when he had got among them, he became in a moment beautiful like the others; and he joined in their games, and laughed, and made merry. moreover he remembered nothing more of his companions; and he sojourned in the island after that for evermore. and the o'corras were at length forced to depart, though much grieved for the loss of their companion. iii. then they set out and rowed for some time till they sighted another marvellous island. it stood up in the air high over the great sea; and it was propped up by a pillar like a single foot standing under it in the middle. and the crew heard great shouting and the loud conversation of people on the top of the island overhead; but though the o'corras sailed round and round, they could not get a sight of them. iv. they row forward after that till they come to an island in which lived one lone cleric. very lovely was that island, and glorious its history. beautiful purple flowers covered all the plains, dropping honey in abundance; and on the trees were perched flocks of bright-coloured birds singing slow sweet fairy-music. the o'corras went to ask the cleric about himself and about the island. and he spoke as follows:-"i am a disciple of st. andrew the apostle, and dega is my name. on a certain night i neglected to read my matins; and it is for this that i was sent on a pilgrimage on the ocean; and here i am awaiting the judgment day. and yonder birds that are singing those incomparable strains on the trees, these are the souls of holy men." v. they took leave of the old man and plied their oars, till they reached another island, with dead people on one side of it, and living people on the other side: and many of the living people had feet of iron. all round was a burning sea, which broke over the island continually in mighty waves. and the living people uttered fearful cries when the fiery waves flowed over them, for their torments thereby were great and terrible. vi. after leaving this they rowed on till they saw an island formed of great flat stones for ever burning red hot. and thereon they saw whole hosts of people burning in great torment; and many had red fiery spits thrust through their bodies. and they uttered great cries of pain without ceasing. the crew called out from a distance to ask who they were: whereupon one answered:-"this is one of the flagstones of hell. we are souls who in life did not fulfil the penance imposed on us; and warn all men to avoid this place; for whosoever cometh hither shall never go hence till the day of judgment." vii. the next island they saw was very beautiful and glorious to look upon. it had a wall of copper all round it, with a network of copper hanging out from each corner; and in the centre stood a palace. the crew left their curragh on the strand and went towards the palace. and when they had come nigh unto the wall, the wind, as it rustled and murmured through the copper network, made music so soft and sweet that they fell into a gentle slumber, and slept for three days and three nights. when they awoke they saw a beautiful maiden coming towards them from the palace. she had sandals of _findrina_ (a sort of white metal) on her feet, and an inner garment of fine silk next her snow-white skin. she wore a beautiful gold-coloured vest, and over all a bright-tinted mantle, plaited fivefold on its upper border, and fastened at the neck with a brooch of burnished gold. in one hand she held a pitcher of copper, and in the other a silver goblet. when she had come near she greeted them and bade them welcome. and she gave them food from the copper pitcher which seemed to them like cheese; and she brought them water in the silver goblet from a well on the strand. and there was no delicious flavour that was ever tasted by man that they did not find in this food and drink. then the maiden said to them:--"although we are all--you and i--of one race, yet shall ye go hence without delay, for your resurrection is not to be here." so they bade her farewell and took to their oars once more. viii. after rowing for some time they saw flocks of large birds of divers colours flying over the sea; and their number was great beyond counting. one of them alighted on the deck of the curragh. "it would be a delightful thing," said one of the clerics, "if this bird were a messenger from the lord, sent to give us news." "that would be quite possible with god," said the eldest; and as he spoke he raised his eyes and looked at the bird. whereupon the bird spoke and said:-"it is indeed to converse with you that i have come; for i am of the land of erin." now this bird was crimson red all over, except three beautiful streaks on her breast, which shone as bright as the sun. and after a time she said to the same cleric:-"i am the soul of a woman; and i am your friend. and come ye now," says she, "to hear yonder birds; for these are the souls that are permitted to come out of hell every sunday." "it is better that we leave this place at once," said the same old cleric. and his companions said to him:-"we will go with thee whithersoever thou goest." so they departed from that place; (and the crimson red bird went with them). ix. and as they went, they saw three wonderful streams, namely, a stream of otters, a stream of eels, and a stream of black swans. great flocks of birds arose from these three streams and flew past the voyagers; and the black swans followed close after, tearing and tormenting the birds. and the crimson red bird said:-"marvel not, neither be ye sad of heart; for these bird-shapes that ye see are the souls of people suffering the punishment of their crimes. and the black swans that follow them, these are devils who are for ever tormenting them; and the birds scream fearfully, and are for ever trying to fly from the demons and to free themselves from their torment. "and now as to me," continued the bird, "i am about to depart from you. it is not permitted me to make known to you what is to befall you; but in a little time another will tell you all that you need to know." and the cleric said:--"tell us, i beseech thee, what are those three beautiful streaks on thy breast." "i will tell you that," answered the bird. "when i was in the world i was married; but i did not yield obedience to my husband, neither did i fulfil my lawful homely duties as a wife. and when a grievous sickness came upon him i left him to die. but thrice i went in pity to him:--once to see him and ask after his illness; once to bring him such food as befitted his state; and the third time when he was dead, to watch by the body and see it buried. these three good deeds are the three beautiful streaks that you see on my breast; and i should have been bright all over like these streaks if i had not violated my lawful marriage duties." and having so spoken, the bird bade them farewell and flew away. x. they next discovered a very beautiful island. the grass was bright green, and it was all over intermingled with pretty purple-coloured flowers. flocks of lovely little birds of many bright colours, and myriads of bees, flew among the trees and flowers, humming and singing harmonious music. the voyagers saw a venerable grey-headed old man with a harp in his hand. he played this harp on the island continually; and the music thereof was sweeter than any music they had ever heard. they saluted the old man, who saluted them in return, with a blessing. but immediately he bade them to depart. xi. so they rowed away till they came to another island, on which they saw a man digging in a field; and his spade was all fiery, and the handle thereof, which he held in his hand, was red hot. from the sea at one side arose at times a mighty wave all flaming red with fire, which flowed quite over the island and over the man. and ever when he saw the wave coming he cried out with fear; and when the burning torrent covered him, he strove to raise his head above the flames, and roared with his great torment. now when one of the waves had retired they spoke to him and asked:-"who art thou, o wretched man?" and he answered:--"lo, this is my punishment for my misdeeds. for when i lived on earth i always worked on sundays, digging in my garden; for which i am condemned to dig with this fiery spade, and to suffer the torments of these fiery waves. and now, for the sake of god, offer up your prayers for me, that my pains may be lightened." and they prayed fervently; after which they departed from the island. xii. soon after leaving this they saw a horseman of vast size riding on the sea; and the horse he rode was made of fire flaming red. and as he rode, great waves of fire came after him along the sea; and when a wave began to roll over him, he yelled aloud with fear and pain. then they asked him why he was thus tormented; and he answered:-"i am he who stole my brother's horse; and after i had gotten him i rode him every sunday. for this i am now undergoing my punishment, riding on this horse of fire, and tormented with these great waves of fire." xiii. after leaving this they came in sight of another island, full of people, all weeping and lamenting grievously. great numbers of jet-black birds with beaks of fire and red-hot fiery talons followed and fluttered round about them, tearing and burning them with their talons, and rending away pieces of flesh, the full of their fiery beaks. then the crew said aloud:-"who are ye, o miserable people?" "we are dishonest smiths and artisans; and because we cheated while we lived, we are punished by these hateful fiery birds. moreover, our tongues are burning, being all afire in our heads; for that we reviled people with bitter words and foul taunts." xiv. coming now to another place, they saw a giant huge in size, and of a sooty black colour all over. his mouth was all on fire; and from his throat he belched forth great flakes of fire, each flake as it came from his mouth larger than the skin of a three-year-old wether. he held in his hand an iron club larger than the shaft of a mill wheel; and on his back he bore an immense faggot of firewood, a good load for a team of horses. now this faggot often blazed up and burned him; and he tried to free himself from his torment by lying down so that the sea might flow over him. but ever as he did so, the sea around him turned to fire, and rose up in mighty burning billows, covering him all over, so that he made the place resound with his bellowings. "miserable wretch, who art thou?" asked the crew. and he answered:--"i will tell you truly. when i lived i used to cut faggots and bring them home on my back every sunday: and lo, here is my punishment." xv. they came after that to a sea of fire full of men's heads, all black, and continually fighting with each other. and many great serpents rose up among the heads and came with fury to attack the curragh, so that at one time they pierced through the outer hide. and one of the crew who looked on cried out in great horror, and said:-"it is enough to strike one dead to behold the fearful things i see!" and the whole crew when they saw the heads and the serpents fell flat with fear. but the elder (the bishop) comforted them, saying:-"be ye not afraid or troubled on account of these things; for god is able to protect us, even though we were in a curragh of only one hide; and if he wishes to save us, these monsters cannot hurt us, however furious they may be to slay us." and they took courage after this, and rowed out into the open sea. xvi. there was shown to them next another beautiful island, having in one place an open wood. the trees were laden with fruit, and the leaves dropped honey to the ground. the sides of the hills were clothed with purple blossomed heather, mixed with soft, green grass to its very centre. in the midst of the island was a pretty lake, whose waters tasted like sweet wine. they rested for a week on the shore of this lake, and cast off their weariness. and now, being about to leave the island, as they turned to go to the curragh, a monstrous reptile[clxvii.] rose up from the lake and looked at them. and they trembled with fear at the sight of this terrible beast; for each man thought that he himself would be the first to be attacked. but after a little time the reptile dived again into the water, and they saw no more of him. xvii. from this they rowed away; and after a long time they came at midnight to an island wherein was a community of ailbe of emly.[clxviii.] on the beach they found two spring wells; one foul, the other bright and clear. the gilla wished to drink of the clear well; but the elder (the bishop) told him it was better to ask leave, if there was anyone living on the island. then they saw a great light; and coming closer, they found the twelve men of the community at their prayers; and now they perceived that the bright light they saw came from the radiant faces of the twelve; so that these holy men needed no other light. one of them, an old man, comes towards the voyagers; and he bids them welcome and asks news of them. they tell him all their adventures, and ask his leave to drink from the well; whereupon he said to them:--"ye may fill your pitchers from the clear well, if your elder (_i.e._ the bishop) gives you leave." "who are ye?" asks the gilla. "a community of ailbe of emly," says he: "and we are the crew of one of ailbe's curraghs. god has permitted that we live here till the day of judgment, praying for everyone who is drowned at sea. and now leave this land before morning," he added, "for your resurrection is not to be here. and if ye have not left by the dawn, so much the worse for yourselves; for if once ye get a view of this island in the light of day, bitter will be your anguish of mind for leaving it (on account of its surpassing loveliness). so it is better for you to go away during the night." and they did exactly all he told them to do. "shall we take away some of the pebbles of the strand?" said they (talking among themselves). "it is better to ask leave," answered the cleric. so the gilla asked leave of the same old man. "yes, if you have the permission (of your bishop)," answered he. "nevertheless," he added, "those who take them will be sorry; and those who do not take them will be sorry also." they pick up pebbles, some bringing away one, some two, some three. (after which they row away in the dark night from the island.) in the morning they drank some of the spring water of the island from their pitchers; which threw them into a deep sleep from that time till next day. on wakening up, they examined their pebbles in the light; and some were found to be crystal, some silver, and some gold. then those who brought some away were in sorrow that they had not brought more; and much greater was the sorrow of those who had brought away none. so the words of the old man came true. xviii. after leaving this they came to a lovely island on which was a church standing all alone: and when they drew nigh they heard the voice of a cleric singing the psalms with a sweet voice. they came to the door and struck it with the hand-wood; and straightway a beautiful bright-coloured bird came to speak with them. when they had told him who they were and what they wanted, he flew back to the cleric, who bade him have the door opened for the pilgrims. and when they had come in, they found the cleric--a very old man with white hair--who sang his hymns continually. and they saluted each other; and the pilgrims stayed there that night. and an angel came and brought them supper, and ministered unto them. on the morrow the old priest bade them depart, since that was not to be the place of their resurrection on the judgment day. but before they went he foretold all that should happen to them during the rest of their voyage. xix. from that they came to an island in which was a disciple of christ. glorious and beautiful was that island; and on it stood a church and a kingly shrine. as they came near they heard some one singing the pater to god in the door of the church: whereupon one of the clerics said:-"welcome the prayer of our father and teacher, jesus." and the priest who stood praying at the door said:-"why say you so? who are ye; and where have ye seen him?" and when they had told him that they were servants of jesus, he spoke again:-"i too am one of his disciples. and when i first took him for my lord i was faithful and steady; but after a time i left him and came to sea in my curragh, and rowed till i came to this island. for a long time i lived on fruit and herbs; till at length an angel came from heaven to visit me. and he said to me:-"'thou hast not done well: nevertheless thou shalt abide on this island, eating the same food without either decay or death till the judgment day.' and so i have lived here to this hour: and no daily meal is sent to me, but i eat of the herbs and fruit that grow on the island." then they all went together into one house; and being very hungry, they prayed fervently for food. and presently an angel came down from heaven; and while they looked on he placed a supper for them on a flagstone hard by the strand, namely, a cake with a slice of fish for each. and while they ate, whatsoever taste each man separately wished for, that taste he found on the food. in the morning, when they were about to bid the cleric farewell, he foretold all that should happen to them, saying:-"ye shall go from me now on sea till ye reach the western point of spain. and as ye near the land, ye shall meet a boat with a crew of men fishing, who will bring you with them to land." then turning to the bishop, he said:--"immediately after leaving the curragh, as soon as thou hast reached the land, prostrate thyself three times to god. and the place on which thou shalt first set thy foot, there a great crowd shall gather round thee from every quarter. and they will treat thee kindly, and will give thee land on which they will build a church for thee; and after this thy fame shall spread over the whole world. and the successor of peter (the pope) shall bring thee eastwards to rome. yonder priest thou shalt leave as thy successor in the church, and the deacon thou shalt leave to be his sacristan. that place and that church shall be revered, and shall be preserved for ever. and thou shalt leave the gilla in britain, where he will live for the rest of his life." after this they bade the old man farewell and left the island. and all fell out just as he had foretold. and the bishop went to rome; and he afterwards related these adventures to saerbrethach bishop of west munster, and to mocolmoc, one of the holy men of aran, as we have set them down here. thus far the voyage of the sons of o'corra. footnotes: [clv.] i translated this tale fifteen years ago (as mentioned in preface, page xiii) from two royal irish academy mss., 23. n. 15 and 23. m. 50; and i subsequently made some modifications after i had an opportunity of consulting the more correct text of the book of fermoy. this last text has since been published, with literal translation, by dr. whitley stokes, in the _revue celtique_ (jan. 1893). after comparing my somewhat free version with dr. stokes's close translation, i have not thought it necessary to make any changes. a few of the adventures in this tale are identical with those described in the voyage of maildun: the description of these i have omitted here. lochan, enna, and silvester, the chief characters in this extraordinary fiction, are historical: they were saints of the primitive irish church, and lived in the sixth century. [clvi.] _brugaid_, a sort of local officer who maintained a large establishment as keeper of a house of public hospitality. see my "short history of ireland," p. 57. [clvii.] chess-playing was a favourite amusement among the ancient irish. [clviii.] cairderga: original _caer-derg_, red berry. [clix.] _erenach_, the holder or _impropriator_ of a church and its lands: usually a layman. [clx.] clogher in tyrone where there was a monastery. [clxi.] tuam-da-gualann, where was formerly a celebrated ecclesiastical establishment: now tuam in galway. [clxii.] greenan: original _grianan_, literally a sunny place: a summer-house: the most lightsome, airy, and pleasant apartment of a house. see this word discussed in my "irish names of places," vol. i. p. 291. [clxiii.] for st. finnen of clonard in the county meath, see my "short history of ireland," p. 175 [clxiv.] _kenn-mara_, now kinvarra on galway bay. [clxv.] _curragh_, see note 17 at end. some curraghs were made with two--some with three--hides, one outside another, for the better security. [clxvi.] _crossans_: travelling gleemen: the clothes, musical instruments, &c., were the property of the company. this word is the origin of the scotch and irish family name maccrossan, now often changed to crosbie. a company of crossans had always among them a _fuirseoir_, i.e. a juggler or buffoon. [clxvii.] according to very ancient legends, which are still vividly remembered and recounted all over the country, almost every lake in ireland has a tremendous hairy reptile in its waters. some say they are demons, sent by st. patrick to reside at the bottom of the lakes to the day of judgment. [clxviii.] st. ailbe, the patron of munster, was a contemporary of st. patrick. he founded his great monastery and school at emly in the county limerick. the fate of the sons of usna.[clxix.] avenging and bright fall the swift sword of erin on him who the brave sons of usna betrayed. moore. footnotes: [clxix.] the translation that follows is my own, and is of course copyright, like all the other translations in this book. on this fine story is founded the epic poem of "deirdre," by robert dwyer joyce, m.d. chapter i. the flight to alban. concobar mac nessa, king of ulaid,[clxx.] ruled in emain. and his chief story-teller, felimid, made a feast for the king and for the knights of the red branch,[clxxi.] who all came to partake of it in his house. while they were feasting right joyously, listening to the sweet music of the harps and the mellow voices of the bards, a messenger brought word that felimid's wife had given birth to a little daughter, an infant of wondrous beauty. and when caffa, the king's druid and seer, who was of the company, was ware of the birth of the child, he went forth to view the stars and the clouds, if he might thereby glean knowledge of what was in store for that little babe.[clxxii.] and when he had returned to his place, he sat deep pondering for a time: and then standing up and obtaining silence, he said:-"this child shall be called deir-dr[)e][clxxiii.]; and fittingly is she so named: for much of woe will befall ulaid and erin in general on her account. there shall be jealousies, and strifes, and wars: evil deeds will be done: many heroes will be exiled: many will fall." when the heroes heard this, they were sorely troubled, and some said that the child should be killed. but the king said:--"not so, ye knights of the red branch; it is not meet to commit a base deed in order to escape evils that may never come to pass. this little maid shall be reared out of the reach of mischief, and when she is old enough she shall be my wife: thus shall i be the better able to guard against those evils that caffa forecasts for us." and the ultonians did not dare to gainsay the word of the king. then king concobar caused the child to be placed in a strong fortress on a lonely spot nigh the palace, with no opening in front, but with door and windows looking out at the back on a lovely garden watered by a clear rippling stream: and house and garden were surrounded by a wall that no man could surmount. and those who were put in charge of her were, her tutor, and her nurse, and concobar's poetess, whose name was lavarcam: and save these three, none were permitted to see her. and so she grew up in this solitude, year by year, till she was of marriageable age, when she excelled all the maidens of her time for beauty. one snowy day as she and lavarcam looked forth from the window, they saw some blood on the snow, where her tutor had killed a calf for dinner; and a raven alighted and began to drink of it. "i should like," said deirdre, "that he who is to be my husband should have these three colours: his hair as black as the raven: his cheeks red as the blood: his skin like the snow. and i saw such a youth in a dream last night; but i know not where he is, or whether he is living on the ridge of the world." "truly," said lavarcam, "the young hero that answers to thy words is not far from thee; for he is among concobar's knights: namely, naisi the son of usna." now naisi and his brothers, ainnli and ardan, the three sons of usna, were the best beloved of all the red branch knights, so gracious and gentle were they in time of peace, so skilful and swift-footed in the chase, so strong and valiant in battle. and when deirdre heard lavarcam's words, she said:--"if it be as thou sayest, that this young knight is near us, i shall not be happy till i see him: and i beseech thee to bring him to speak to me." "alas, child," replied lavarcam, "thou knowest not the peril of what thou askest me to do: for if thy tutor come to know of it, he will surely tell the king; and the king's anger none can bear." deirdre answered not: but she remained for many days sad and silent: and her eyes often filled with tears through memory of her dream: so that lavarcam was grieved: and she pondered on the thing if it could be done, for she loved deirdre very much, and had compassion on her. at last she contrived that these two should meet without the tutor's knowledge: and the end of the matter was that they loved each other: and deirdre said she would never wed the king, but she would wed naisi. knowing well the doom that awaited them when concobar came to hear of this, naisi and his young wife and his two brothers, with thrice fifty fighting men, thrice fifty women, thrice fifty attendants, and thrice fifty hounds, fled over sea to alban. and the king of the western part of alban received them kindly, and took them into military service. here they remained for a space, gaining daily in favour: but they kept deirdre apart, fearing evil if the king should see her. and so matters went on, till it chanced that the king's steward, coming one day by naisi's house, saw the couple as they sat on their couch: and going directly to his master, he said:-"o king, we have long sought in vain for a woman worthy to be thy wife, and now at last we have found her: for the woman, deirdre, who is with naisi, is worthy to be the wife of the king of the western world. and now i give thee this counsel:--let naisi be killed, and then take thou deirdre for thy wife." the king basely agreed to do so; and forthwith he laid a plot to slay the sons of usna; which matter coming betimes to the ears of the brothers, they fled by night with all their people. and when they had got to a safe distance, they took up their abode in a wild place, where with much ado they obtained food by hunting and fishing. and the brothers built them three hunting booths in the forest, a little distance from that part of the seashore looking towards erin: and the booth in which their food was prepared, in that they did not eat; and the one in which they ate, in that they did not sleep. and their people in like manner built themselves booths and huts, which gave them but scant shelter from wind and weather. now when it came to the ears of the ultonians, that the sons of usna and their people were in discomfort and danger, they were sorely grieved: but they kept their thoughts to themselves, for they dared not speak their mind to the king. footnotes: [clxx.] ulaid (pronounced _ulla_), ulster. [clxxi.] for concobar and the red branch knights, see note 15 farther on: and for much fuller information, see my "social history of ancient ireland," vol. i, page 83; or the smaller soc. hist., page 38. [clxxii.] the druids professed to be able to foretell by observing the stars and clouds. see smaller social history, p. 98. [clxxiii.] "deirdre" is said to mean "alarm." chapter ii. concobar's guileful message. at this same time a right joyous and very splendid feast was given by concobar in emain macha to the nobles and the knights of his household. and the number of the king's household that sat them down in the great hall of emain on that occasion was five and three score above six hundred and one thousand.[clxxiv.] then arose, in turn, their musicians to sound their melodious harpstrings, and their poets and their story-tellers to sing their sweet poetic strains, and to recount the deeds of the mighty heroes of the olden time. and the feasting and the enjoyment went on, and the entire assembly were gay and cheerful. at length concobar arose from where he sat high up on his royal seat; whereupon the noise of mirth was instantly hushed. and he raised his kingly voice and said:-"i desire to know from you, ye nobles and knights of the red branch, have you ever seen in any quarter of erin a house better than this house of emain, which is my mansion: and whether you see any want in it." and they answered that they saw no better house, and that they knew of no want in it. and the king said: "i know of a great want: namely, that we have not present among us the three noble sons of usna. and why now should they be in banishment on account of any woman in the world?" and the nobles replied:--"truly it is a sad thing that the sons of usna, our dear comrades, should be in exile and distress. they were a shield of defence to ulaid: and now, o king, it will please us well that thou send for them and bring them back, lest they and their people perish by famine or fall by their enemies." "let them come," replied concobar, "and make submission to me: and their homes, and their lands and their places among the knights of the red branch shall be restored to them." now concobar was mightily enraged at the marriage and flight of naisi and deirdre, though he hid his mind from all men; and he spoke these words pretending forgiveness and friendship. but there was guile in his heart, and he planned to allure them back to ulaid that he might kill them. when the feast was ended, and the company had departed, the king called unto him fergus mac roy, and said:--"go thou, fergus, and bring back the sons of usna and their people. i promise thee that i will receive them as friends should be received, and that what awaits them here is not enmity or injury, but welcome and friendship. take my message of peace and good will, and give thyself as pledge and surety for their safety. but these two things i charge thee to do:--that the moment you land in ulaid on your way back, you proceed straight to barach's house which stands on the sea cliff high over the landing place fronting alban: and that whether the time of your arrival be by day or by night, thou see that the sons of usna tarry not, but let them come hither direct to emain, that they may not eat food in erin till they eat of mine." and fergus, suspecting no evil design, promised to do as the king directed: for he was glad to be sent on this errand, being a fast friend to the sons of usna. fergus set out straightway, bringing with him only his two sons, illan the fair and buinni the red, and his shield-bearer to carry his shield. and as soon as he had departed, concobar sent for barach and said to him:-"prepare a feast in thy house for fergus: and when he visits thee returning with the sons of usna, invite him to partake of it." and barach thereupon departed for his home to do the bidding of the king and prepare the feast. now those heroes of old, on the day they received knighthood, were wont to make certain pledges which were to bind them for life, some binding themselves to one thing, some to another. and as they made the promises on the faith of their knighthood, with great vows, in presence of kings and nobles, they dared not violate them; no, not even if it was to save the lives of themselves and all their friends: for whosoever broke through his knighthood pledge was foully dishonoured for evermore. and one of fergus's obligations was never to refuse an invitation to a banquet: a thing which was well known to king concobar and to barach. as to fergus mac roy and his sons: they went on board their galley and put to sea, and made no delay till they reached the harbour nigh the campment of the sons of usna. and coming ashore, fergus gave the loud shout of a mighty man of chase. the sons of usna were at that same hour in their booth; and naisi and deirdre were sitting with a polished chessboard between them playing a game. and when they heard the shout, naisi said:--"that is the call of a man from erin." "not so," replied deirdre, "it is the call of a man of alban." and after a little time when a second shout came, naisi said:--"that of a certainty is the call of a man of erin!" but deirdre again replied:--"no, indeed: it concerns us not: let us play our game." but when a third shout came sounding louder than those before, naisi arose and said:--"now i know the voice: that is the shout of fergus!" and straightway he sent ardan to the shore to meet him. now deirdre knew the voice of fergus from the first: but she kept her thoughts to herself: for her heart misgave her that the visit boded evil. and when she told naisi that she knew the first shout, he said:--"why, my queen, didst thou conceal it then?" and she replied:--"lo, i saw a vision in my sleep last night: three birds came to us from emain macha, with three drops of honey in their beaks, and they left us the honey and took away three drops of our blood." "what dost thou read from that vision, o princess?" said naisi. "it denotes the message from concobar to us," said deirdre; "for sweet as honey is the message of peace from a false man, while he has thoughts of blood hidden deep in his heart." when ardan arrived at the shore, the sight of fergus and his two sons was to him like rain on the parched grass; for it was long since he had seen any of his dear comrades from erin. and he cried out as he came near, "an affectionate welcome to you, my dear companions": and he fell on fergus's neck and kissed his cheeks, and did the like to his sons. then he brought them to the hunting-booth; and naisi, ainnli, and deirdre gave them a like kind welcome; after which they asked the news from erin. "the best news i have," said fergus, "is that concobar has sent me to you with kindly greetings, to bring you back to emain and restore you to your lands and homes, and to your places in the red branch; and i am myself a pledge for your safety." "it is not meet for them to go," said deirdre: "for here they are under no man's rule; and their sway in alban is even as great as the sway of concobar in erin." but fergus said: "one's mother country is better than all else, and gloomy is life when a man sees not his home each morning." "far dearer to me is erin than alban," said naisi, "even though my sway should be greater here." it was not with deirdre's consent he spoke these words: and she still earnestly opposed their return to erin. but fergus tried to re-assure her:--"if all the men of erin were against you," said he, "it would avail nought once i have passed my word for your safety." "we trust in thee," said naisi, "and we will go with thee to erin." footnotes: [clxxiv.] that is 1665. this inverted method of enumeration was often used in ireland. but they also used direct enumeration like ours. chapter iii. the return to emain. going next morning on board their galleys, fergus and his companions put out on the wide sea: and oar and wind bore them on swiftly till they landed on the shore of erin near the house of barach. and deirdre, seating herself on a cliff, looked sadly over the waters at the blue headlands of alban: and she uttered this farewell:-i. "dear to me is yon eastern land: alban with its wonders. beloved is alban with its bright harbours and its pleasant hills of the green slopes. from that land i would never depart except to be with naisi. ii. "kil-cuan, o kil-cuan,[clxxv.] whither ainnli was wont to resort: short seemed the time to me while i sojourned there with naisi on the margins of its streams and waterfalls. iii. "glen-lee, o glen-lee, where i slept happy under soft coverlets: fish and fowl, and the flesh of red deer and badgers; these were our fare in glen-lee. iv. "glen-masan, o glen-masan: tall its cresses of white stalks: often were we rocked to sleep in our curragh in the grassy harbour of glen-masan. v. "glen-orchy, o glen-orchy: over thy straight glen rises the smooth ridge that oft echoed to the voices of our hounds. no man of the clan was more light-hearted than my naisi when following the chase in glen-orchy. vi. "glen-ettive, o glen-ettive: there it was that my first house was raised for me: lovely its woods in the smile of the early morn: the sun loves to shine on glen-ettive. vii. "glen-da-roy, o glen-da-roy: the memory of its people is dear to me: sweet is the cuckoo's note from the bending bough on the peak over glen-da-roy. viii. "dear to me is dreenagh over the resounding shore: dear to me its crystal waters over the speckled sand. from those sweet places i would never depart, but only to be with my beloved naisi." after this they entered the house of barach; and when barach had welcomed them, he said to fergus: "here i have a three-days banquet ready for thee, and i invite thee to come and partake of it." when fergus heard this, his heart sank and his face waxed all over a crimson red: and he said fiercely to barach:--"thou hast done an evil thing to ask me to this banquet: for well thou knowest i cannot refuse thee. thou knowest, too, that i am under solemn pledge to send the sons of usna this very hour to emain: and if i remain feasting in thy house, how shall i see that my promise of safety is respected?" but none the less did barach persist; for he was one of the partners in concobar's treacherous design. then fergus turned to naisi and said:--"i dare not violate my knighthood promise: what am i to do in this strait?" but deirdre answered for her husband:--"the choice is before thee, fergus; and it is more meet for thee to abandon thy feast than to abandon the sons of usna, who have come over on thy pledge." then fergus was in sore perplexity; and pondering a little he said:--"i will not forsake the sons of usna: for i will send with them to emain macha my two sons, illan the fair and buinni the red, who will be their pledge instead of me." but naisi said: "we need not thy sons for guard or pledge: we have ever been accustomed to defend ourselves!" and he moved from the place in great wrath: and his two brothers, and deirdre, and the two sons of fergus followed him, with the rest of the clan; while fergus remained behind silent and gloomy: for his heart misgave him that mischief was brewing for the sons of usna. then deirdre tried to persuade the sons of usna to go to rathlin, between erin and alban, and tarry there till barach's feast was ended: but they did not consent to do so, for they deemed it would be a mark of cowardice: and they sped on by the shortest ways towards emain macha. when now they had come to fincarn of the watch-tower on slieve fuad, deirdre and her attendants stayed behind the others a little: and she fell asleep. and when naisi missed her, he turned back and found her just awakening; and he said to her:--"why didst thou tarry, my princess?" and she answered:--"i fell asleep and had a dream. and this is what i saw in my dream:--illan the fair took your part: buinni the red did not: and i saw illan without his head: but buinni had neither wound nor hurt." "alas, o beauteous princess," said naisi, "thou utterest nought but evil forebodings: but the king is true and will not break his plighted word." so they fared on till they had come to the ridge of the willows,[clxxvi.] an hour's journey from the palace: and deirdre, looking upwards in great fear, said to naisi:--"o naisi, see yonder cloud in the sky over emain, a fearful chilling cloud of a blood-red tinge: a baleful red cloud that bodes disaster! come ye now to dundalgan and abide there with the mighty hero cuculainn till fergus returns from barach's feast; for i fear concobar's treachery." but naisi answered:--"we cannot follow thy advice, beloved deirdre, for it would be a mark of fear: and we have no fear." and as they came nigh the palace deirdre said to them:--"i will now give you a sign if concobar meditates good or evil. if you are brought into his own mansion where he sits surrounded by his nobles, to eat and drink with him, this is a token that he means no ill; for no man will injure a guest that has partaken of food at his table: but if you are sent to the house of the red branch, be sure he is bent on treachery." when at last they arrived at the palace, they knocked loudly with the handwood: and the door-keeper swang the great door wide open. and when he had spoken with them, he went and told concobar that the sons of usna and fergus's two sons had come, with their people. and concobar called to him his stewards and attendants and asked them:--"how is it in the house of the red branch as to food and drink?" and they replied that if the seven battalions of ulaid were to come to it, they would find enough of all good things. "if that is so," said concobar, "take the sons of usna and their people to the red branch." even then deirdre besought them not to enter the red branch: for she deemed now that of a certainty there was mischief afoot. but illan the fair said:--"never did we show cowardice or unmanliness, and we shall not do so now." then she was silent and went with them into the house. and the company, when they had come in, sat them down so that they filled the great hall: and alluring viands and delicious drinks were set before them: and they ate and drank till they became satisfied and cheerful: all except deirdre and the sons of usna, who did not partake much of food or drink. and naisi asked for the king's chessboard and chessmen; which were brought: and he and deirdre began to play. footnotes: [clxxv.] this and the other places named in deirdre's farewell are all in the west of scotland. [clxxvi.] irish name, _drum-sailech_; the ridge on which armagh was afterwards built. chapter iv. trouble looming. let us now speak of concobar. as he sat among his nobles, the thought of deirdre came into his mind, and he said:--"who among you will go to the red branch and bring me tidings of deirdre, whether her youthful shape and looks still live upon her: for if so there is not on the ridge of the world a woman more beautiful." and lavarcam said she would go. now the sons of usna were very dear to lavarcam: and naisi was dearer than the others. and rising up she went to the red branch, where she found naisi and deirdre with the chessboard between them, playing. and she saluted them affectionately: and she embraced deirdre, and wept over her, and kissed her many times with the eagerness of her love: and she kissed the cheeks of naisi and of his brothers. and when her loving greeting was ended, she said:--"beloved children, evil is the deed that is to be done this night in emain: for the three torches of valour of the gaels will be treacherously assailed, and concobar is certainly resolved to put them to death. and now set your people on guard, and bolt and bar all doors, and close all windows; and be steadfast and valorous, and defend your dear charge manfully, if you may hold the assailants at bay till fergus comes." and she departed weeping piteously. and when lavarcam had returned to concobar he asked what tidings she brought. "good tidings have i," said she: "for the three sons of usna have come, the three valiant champions of ulaid: and now that they are with thee, o king, thou wilt hold sway in erin without dispute. and bad tidings i bring also: deirdre indeed is not as she was, for her youthful form and the splendour of her countenance have fled from her." and when concobar heard this, his jealousy abated, and he joined in the feasting. but again the thought of deirdre came to him, and he asked:--"who now will go for me to the red branch, and bring me further tidings of deirdre and of the sons of usna?" for he distrusted lavarcam. but the knights of the red branch had misgivings of some evil design, and all remained silent. then he called to him trendorn, one of the lesser chiefs: and he said:--"knowest thou, trendorn, who slew thy father and thy three brothers in battle?" and trendorn answered:--"verily, it was naisi, the son of usna, that slew them." then the king said:--"go now to the red branch and bring me back tidings of deirdre and of the sons of usna." trendorn went right willingly. but when he found the doors and windows of the red branch shut up, he was seized with fear, and he said:--"it is not safe to approach the sons of usna, for they are surely in wrathful mood: nevertheless i must needs bring back tidings to the king." whereupon, not daring to knock at the door, he climbed nimbly to a small window high up that had been unwittingly left open, through which he viewed the spacious banquet hall, and saw naisi and deirdre playing chess. deirdre chanced to look up at that moment, and seeing the face of the spy with eyes intently gazing on her, she started with affright and grasped naisi's arm, as he was making a move with the chessman. naisi, following her gaze, and seeing the evil-looking face, flung the chessman with unerring aim, and broke the eye in trendorn's head. trendorn dropped down in pain and rage; and going straight to concobar, he said:--"i have tidings for thee, o king: the three sons of usna are sitting in the banquet hall, stately and proud like kings: and deirdre is seated beside naisi; and verily for beauty and queenly grace her peer cannot be found." when concobar heard this, a flame of jealousy and fury blazed up in his heart, and he resolved that by no means should the sons of usna escape the doom he planned for them. chapter v. the attack on the sons of usna. coming forth on the lawn of emain, king concobar now ordered a large body of hireling troops to beset the red branch: and he bade them force the doors and bring forth the sons of usna. and they uttered three dreadful shouts of defiance, and assailed the house on every side; but the strong oak stood bravely, and they were not able to break through doors or walls. so they heaped up great piles of wood and brambles, and kindled them till the red flames blazed round the house. buinni the red now stood up and said to the sons of usna:--"to me be entrusted the task to repel this first assault: for i am your pledge in place of my father." and marshalling his men, and causing the great door to be thrown wide open, he sallied forth and scattered the assailants, and put out the fires: slaying thrice fifty hirelings in that onslaught. but buinni returned not to the red branch: for the king sent to him with a secret offer of great favours and bribes: namely, his own royal friendship, and a fruitful tract of land; which buinni took and basely abandoned the sons of usna. but none the better luck came to him of it: for at that same hour a blight fell on the land, so that it became a moor, waste and profitless, which is at this day called slieve fuad. when illan the fair became aware of his brother's treason, he was grieved to the heart, and he said:--"i am the second pledge in place of my father for the sons of usna, and of a certainty i will not betray them: while this straight sword lives in my hand i will be faithful: and i will now repel this second attack." for at this time the king's hirelings were again thundering at the doors. forth he issued with his band: and he made three quick furious circuits round the red branch, scattering the troops as he went: after which he returned to the mansion and found naisi and deirdre still playing.[clxxvii.] but as the hireling hordes returned to the attack, he went forth a second time and fell on them, dealing death and havoc whithersoever he went. then, while the fight was still raging, concobar called to him his son ficra, and said to him:--"thou and illan the fair were born on the same night: and as he has his father's arms, so thou take mine, namely, my shield which is called the ocean, and my two spears which are called dart and slaughter, and my great sword, the blue-green blade. and bear thyself manfully against him, and vanquish him, else none of my troops will survive." ficra did so and went against illan the fair; and they made a stout, warlike, red-wounding attack on each other, while the others looked on anxious: but none dared to interfere. and it came to pass that illan prevailed, so that ficra was fain to shelter himself behind his father's shield the ocean, and he was like to be slain. whereupon, the shield moaned, and the three waves of erin uttered their hollow melancholy roar.[clxxviii.] the hero conall carnagh, sitting in his dun afar off, heard the moan of the shield and the roar of the wave of tuath: and springing up from where he sat, he said: "verily, the king is in danger: i will go to his rescue." he ran with the swiftness of the wind, and arrived on the green of emain, where the two young heroes were fighting. thinking it was concobar that crouched beneath the shield, he attacked illan, not knowing him, and wounded him even unto death. and illan looking up said, "is it thou, conall? alas, dreadful is the deed thou hast done, not knowing me, and not knowing that i am fighting in defence of the sons of usna, who are now in deadly peril from the treachery of concobar." and conall, finding he had unwittingly wounded his dear young friend illan, turned in his grief and rage on the other, and swept off his head. and he stalked fierce and silent out of the battlefield. illan, still faithful to his charge, called aloud to naisi to defend himself bravely: then putting forth his remaining strength, he flung his arms, namely, his sword and his spears and his shield, into the red branch; and falling prone on the green sward, the shades of death dimmed his eyes, and his life departed. and now when it was the dusk of evening, another great battalion of the hirelings assailed the red branch, and kindled fagots around it: whereupon ardan sallied out with his valorous band and scattered them, and put out the fires, and held guard for the first third of the night. and during the second third ainnli kept them at bay. then naisi took his turn, issuing forth, and fought with them till the morning's dawn: and until the sands of the seashore, or the leaves of the forest, or the dew-drops on the grass, or the stars of heaven are counted, it will not be possible to number the hirelings that were slain in that fight by naisi and his band of heroes. and as he was returning breathless from the rout, all grimy and terrible with blood and sweat, he spied lavarcam, as she stood watching the battle anxiously; and he said:--"go, lavarcam, go and stand on the outer rampart, and cast thine eyes eastwards, if perchance thou shouldst see fergus and his men coming." for many of naisi's brave followers had fallen in these encounters: and he doubted that he and the others could sustain much longer the continual assaults of superior numbers. and lavarcam went, but returned downcast, saying she saw nought eastwards, but the open plain with the peaceful herds browsing over it. footnotes: [clxxvii.] these champions, as well as their wives, took care never to show any signs of fear or alarm even in the time of greatest danger: so naisi and deirdre kept playing quietly as if nothing was going on outside, though they heard the din of battle resounding. [clxxviii.] the "three _tonns_ or waves of erin" were the wave of tuath outside the mouth of the river bann, off the coast of derry; the wave of rury in dundrum bay, off the county down; and the wave of cleena in glandore harbour in the south of cork. in stormy weather, when the wind blows from certain directions, the sea at those places, as it tumbles over the sandbanks, or among the caves and fissures of the rocks, utters a loud and solemn roar, which in old times was believed to forebode the death of some king. the legends also tell that the shield belonging to a king moaned when the person who wore it in battle--whether the king himself or a member of his family--was in danger of death: the moan was heard all over ireland; and the "three waves of erin" roared in response. see "irish names of places," vol. ii., chap. xvi. chapter vi. death of the sons of usna. believing now that they could no longer defend the red branch, naisi took council with his brothers; and what they resolved on was this:--to sally forth with all their men and fight their way to a place of safety. then making a close, firm fence of shields and spears round deirdre, they marched out in solid ranks and attacked the hireling battalions and slew three hundred in that onslaught. concobar, seeing the rout of his men, and being now sure that it was not possible to subdue the sons of usna in open fight, cast about if he might take them by falsehood and craft. and sending for caffa, the druid, who loved them, he said:-"these sons of usna are brave men, and it is our pleasure to receive them back into our service. go now unto them, for thou art their loved friend; and say to them that if they lay down their arms and submit to me, i will restore them to favour and give them their places among the red branch knights. and i pledge thee my kingly word and my troth as a true knight, that no harm shall befall them." caffa, by no means distrusting him, went to the sons of usna, and told them all the king had said. and they, suspecting neither guile nor treachery, joyfully threw their swords and spears aside, and went towards the king to make submission. but now, while they stood defenceless, the king caused them to be seized and bound. then, turning aside, he sought for some one to put them to death; but he found no man of the ultonians willing to do so. among his followers was a foreigner named maini of the rough hand, whose father and two brothers had fallen in battle by naisi: and this man undertook to kill the sons of usna. when they were brought forth to their doom, ardan said:--"i am the youngest: let me be slain first, that i may not see the death of my brothers." and ainnli earnestly pleaded for the same thing for himself, saying that he was born before ardan, and should die before him. but naisi said:--"lo, i have a sword, the gift of mannanan mac lir, which leaves no remnant unfinished after a blow: let us be struck with it, all three together, and we shall die at the same moment." this was agreed to: and the sword was brought forth, and they laid their heads close together, and maini swept off all three with one blow of the mighty sword. and when it became known that the sons of usna were dead, the men of ulaid sent forth three great cries of grief and lamentation. as for deirdre, she cried aloud, and tore her golden hair, and became like one distracted. and after a time, when her calmness had a little returned, she uttered a lament:-i. "three lions of the hill are dead, and i am left alone to weep for them. the generous princes who made the stranger welcome have been guilefully lured to their doom. ii. "the three strong hawks of slieve cullinn,[clxxix.] a king's three sons, strong and gentle: willing obedience was yielded to them by heroes who had conquered many lands. iii. "three generous heroes of the red branch, who loved to praise the valour of others: three props of the battalions of quelna: their fall is the cause of bitter grief. iv. "ainnli and ardan, haughty and fierce in battle, to me were ever loving and gentle: naisi, naisi, beloved spouse of my choice, thou canst not hear thy deirdre lamenting thee. v. "when they brought down the fleet red deer in the chase, when they speared the salmon skilfully in the clear water, joyful and proud were they if i looked on. vi. "often when my feeble feet grew weary wandering along the valleys, and climbing the hills to view the chase, often would they bear me home lightly on their linked shields and spears. vii. "it was gladness of heart to be with the sons of usna: long and weary is the day without their company: short will be my span of life since they have left me. viii. "sorrow and tears have dimmed my eyes, looking at the grave of naisi: a dark deadly sickness has seized my heart: i cannot, i cannot live after naisi. ix. "o thou who diggest the new grave, make it deep and wide: let it be a grave for four; for i will sleep for ever beside my beloved." when she had spoken these words, she fell beside the body of naisi and died immediately. and a great cairn of stones was piled over their grave, and their names were inscribed in ogham, and their funeral rites were performed. this is the sorrowful tale of the fate of the sons of usna. footnotes: [clxxix.] slieve cullinn, now slieve gullion mountain in armagh. notes. note 1.--_the dedannans._ according to the old bardic legends, the first man who led a colony to ireland after the flood was parthalon. next came nemed and his people; and after these the firbolgs, who were conquered and succeeded by the dedannans. the legend relates that the dedannans, in the course of their wanderings, spent some time in greece, where they learned magic and other curious arts. from this they migrated to lochlann, in the north of europe (see note 6), from which they came through scotland to their final resting-place, ireland. from the three queens of their three last kings, ireland got the three names, erin, f[=o]la, and banba. after the dedannans had held sway in ireland for about two hundred years, they were in their turn conquered by the last and greatest colony of all, the people of milèd or milesius, who are commonly known by the name of milesians, and who are the ancestors of the leading gaelic families of ireland. the milesians defeated the dedannans in two great battles: one fought at _tailltenn_, now teltown, on the river blackwater, between navan and kells, in meath; and the other at _druim-lighean_, now drumleene, about three miles from lifford, in donegal. in the legendary and romantic literature of ireland, the dedannans are celebrated as magicians. by the milesians and their descendants they were regarded as gods, and ultimately, in the imagination of the people, they became what are now in ireland called "fairies." after their defeat by the milesians, they seem to have retired to remote and lonely places; and their reputation as magicians, as well as the obscure and mysterious manner in which they lived, gradually impressed the vulgar with the belief that they were supernatural beings. the notion was that they lived in splendid palaces in the interior of pleasant green hills. these hills were called _sidh_ (pronounced _shee_); and hence the dedannans were called _daoine-sidhe_ (_deena-shee_), or people of the fairy hills; _marcra-sidhe_ (_markra-shee_), fairy cavalcade; and _sluagh-sidhe_ (_sloo-shee_), fairy host. of this mysterious race, the following are the principal characters mentioned in these tales. mannanan mac lir, the gaelic sea-god. in "cormac's glossary" (written a.d. 900), we are told that he was a famous merchant who resided in, and gave name to, _inis-manann_, or the isle of man; that he was the best merchant in western europe; and that he used to know, by examining the heavens, the length of time the fair and the foul weather would last. the dagda, whose name some interpret to mean "the great good fire," so called from his military ardour, who reigned as king of ireland from a.m. 3370 to 3450. angus or angus oge, the son of the dagda, who lived at _brugh_ or bruga, on the north shore of the boyne, a little below the village of slane. angus is spoken of as the wisest and the most skilled in magic of all the dedannan race. nuada of the silver hand. (see note 4.) lir of shee finnaha, the father of the four "children of lir," and bove derg of shee bove, of whom we know little more than what is told of them in the "fate of the children of lir." shee finnaha is supposed to have been situated near newtown hamilton, in armagh; and shee bove was on the shore of lough derg, on the shannon. luga of the long arms, who imposed the eric-fine on the three sons of turenn for slaying his father kian. (see note 7 for a further account of this luga.) dianket, the great physician, of whose powers of cure extraordinary stories are told. he had a son midac, and a daughter armedda, more skilful than himself. the old legend relates that midac took off the silver arm which his father dianket had put on nuada (see note 4), and, having procured the bones of the real arm, he clothed them with flesh and skin, and fixed the arm in its place as well as ever "in three moments." dianket was so enraged at being outdone by his son that he slew him. after midac had been buried for some time, three hundred and sixty-five healing herbs grew up from his grave, one from every joint and sinew of his body--each herb to cure disease in that part of the human body from which it grew--all which were gathered by his sister armedda, and placed carefully in her cloak in their proper order. but before she had time to study their several virtues fully, her father dianket mixed them all up in utter confusion. (o'curry, _atlantis_, vii. and viii. 158.) were it not for this churlish proceeding, armedda would have found out, and we should now know, the exact herb to cure each particular disease of the human frame. note 2.--_the feast of age._ this was also called the feast of gobnenn the dedannan smith. it was instituted by mannanan mac lir, and whoever was present at it, and partook of the food and drink, was free ever after from sickness, decay, and old age. note 3.--_the druids._ the ancient irish druids do not appear to have been _priests_ in any sense of the word. they were, in popular estimation, men of knowledge and power--"men of science," as they were often designated; they knew the arts of healing and divination; and they were skilled above all in magic. in fact, the irish druids were magicians, neither more nor less; and hence the gaelic word for "druidical" is almost always applied where we should use the term "magical"--to spells, incantations, metamorphoses, etc. (see o'curry, "lectures on the manners and customs of the ancient irish," lecture ix.) note 4.--_nuada of the silver hand._ nuada of the silver hand was king of ireland, according to the chronology of the four masters, from a.m. 3311 to 3330. he commanded the dedannans in the first battle of moytura (see note 11), where his arm was cut off with a sword-blow by sreng, the great firbolg champion. afterwards credne the artificer made him a silver arm with a hand, which was fixed on by dianket, the physician (see note 1). nuada was slain in the second battle of moytura, by balor of the mighty blows (see note 11). note 5.--_the fomorians._ "fomor," the simple form of this word, means, according to the old etymologists, a sea-robber, from _fo_, on or along, and _muir_, the sea. the word is also used to denote a giant, or a gigantic champion. the fomorians of irish history were sea-robbers, who infested the coasts, and indeed the interior, of ireland, for a long series of years, and at one time fortified themselves in tory island. they are stated to have come to ireland from lochlann, in the north of europe (for which see next note); but they were originally from africa, being, according to the legend, the descendants of ham the son of noah. note 6.--_lochlann: the lochlanns._ lochlann was the gaelic designation of the country from which came the people who are known in european history as danes, _i.e._ the country round the southern shores of the baltic, including the south part of sweden. the lochlanns, or lochlannachs, or danes, it need hardly be said, make a very conspicuous figure in our early history, and in our mediæval romantic literature. in the gaelic tales, the chief city of lochlann is always berva; but whether this represents a real name, or is merely an invention of the old story-tellers, i cannot tell. note 7.--_luga of the long arms: the ildana._ luga of the long arms was the son of ethlenn, daughter of the fomorian king, balor of the mighty blows (see note 9). his father, kian (who was slain by the three sons of turenn), was a dedannan; so that luga was half fomorian and half dedannan. but he always took the side of the dedannans against the fomorians. luga is often called the ildana, the man of many sciences, to signify his accomplishments as a warrior and a man of general knowledge. it had been foretold that balor would be slain by his own grandson. accordingly, when luga was born, balor sent him off to be drowned. but luga escaped, and lived to revenge the unnatural conduct of his grandfather, whom he slew in the second battle of moytura (see note 11), after balor had slain the dedannan king, nuada of the silver hand. luga succeeded nuada as king of ireland, and reigned, according to the chronology of the four masters, from a.m. 3330 to 3370. it was by luga that the celebrated yearly assembly of tailltenn was instituted, in honour of his foster mother _taillte_, after whom the place was called. (see note page 93, _supra._) note 8.--_the land of promise: fairyland._ in ancient gaelic romantic tales, mention is often made of _tir tairrngire_, the land of promise, fairyland, as being one of the chief dwelling-places of the dedannans or fairy host. in many passages this land of promise is identified with _inis-manann_, or the isle of man, which was ruled over by mannanan mac lir, the sea-god, and named from him. note 9.--_balor of the mighty blows._ balor was king of the fomorians from lochlann in the north; his wife was kethlenda; and his son, bres. balor is often called balor of the mighty blows; and also balor of the evil eye, for he had one eye which would strike people dead or turn them into stone, so that he kept it covered, except when he wished to use it against his enemies. balor is remembered very vividly in tradition by the peasantry of ireland, especially in donegal and in tory island, where a very high, tower-like rock is called to this day balor's castle. note 10.--_eric._ the eric was a fine paid as compensation for murder or homicide. the friends of the murdered person might accept an eric, or they might refuse it and seek instead the death of the murderer. an eric was often paid for other crimes or injuries against the individual, as well as for homicide. note 11.--_battle of moytura._ there were two great battles, each called the battle of moytura. _first battle of moytura._ when the dedannans came to invade erin, they found the country occupied by the firbolgs, who were by no means inclined to give up quiet possession to the newcomers. after some parleying and manoeuvring, a great battle was fought between them, a.m. 3303, at moytura, near cong, in mayo, lasting for four days, in which the firbolgs were defeated with great slaughter, and their king slain; after which the dedannans took possession of the country, leaving connaught, however, to a powerful remnant of the firbolgs who survived the battle. this is called the first battle of moytura, or the battle of the southern moytura. on the plain where it was fought, there are still great numbers of mounds, cromlechs, and other sepulchral monuments. (see sir william wilde's "lough corrib," page 210.) _second battle of moytura._ king nuada, who led the dedannans in the first battle of moytura, had his arm cut off by sreng, one of the firbolg champions. he was under cure for seven years; during which time bres, the son of elatha, who was a fomorian by his father and a dedannan by his mother, ruled ireland as regent. but at the end of the seven years, bres had to retire in favour of nuada. whereupon he repaired in anger to his father in lochlann; and at his instigation an army of fomorians was raised, after some years, for the invasion of ireland, and placed under the command of balor of the mighty blows. luga of the long arms seems to have foreseen this invasion. he knew that bres would have to abdicate whenever nuada's arm came to be healed, and he conjectured truly that he would not resign the sovereignty without a struggle. but the old tales would lead to the inference that luga had some preternatural foreknowledge of the battle. anyhow, the legend says that for many years he made preparations for the coming struggle; and it was with this intention that he imposed the celebrated eric-fine on the sons of turenn. the fomorians landed, and were met by the dedannan army at the northern moytura, or, as it is often called, moytura of the fomorians, situated in the parish of kilmactranny, barony of tirerrill, county sligo. the battle was fought on the eve of samin, _i.e._ on the last day of october, a.m. 3330; and the fomorians were defeated with the slaughter of their principal men and the best part of their army. in the course of the battle, nuada of the silver hand, the dedannan king, was slain by balor; but soon after, balor himself was killed by his grandson, luga. luga, we are told, flung a stone at him from a crann-tavall or sling (see note, page 240), and struck him in the evil eye with so much force that the stone went clean through his head and out at the back. the site of this battle, like that of the southern moytura, abounds to this day in sepulchral monuments. these two battles of moytura form the subjects of two historic tales, which are still in existence, though they have never been published. note 12.--_gesa._ "gesa" (pronounced _gessa_, the _g_ hard, as in _get_) is plural: singular _geis_, plural _geasa_ or _gesa_. gesa means solemn vows, conjurations, injunctions, prohibitions. "i put you under gesa" means, i adjure you solemnly, so solemnly that you dare not disobey. it would appear that individuals were often under gesa or solemn vows to observe, or to refrain from, certain lines of conduct--the vows being either taken on themselves voluntarily, or imposed on them, with their consent, by others. thus dermat o'dyna was under gesa never to pass through a wicket gate when entering or leaving a palace (page 282); finn was under gesa not to sleep at allen more than nine nights in succession (page 337); dermat put oisin under gesa not to loose any one whom he bound (page 312). it would appear, also, that if one person went through the form of putting another under gesa to grant any reasonable request, the abjured person could not refuse without loss of honour and reputation. thus midac places finn under gesa to come to the banquet in the fairy palace of the quicken trees (page 189); and the witch-lady places gesa on finn to search for the ring in the lake (page 354). and sometimes, on very solemn or urgent occasions, the gesa seem to have been imposed with spells, so as to draw down ill luck as well as loss of honour on the person who disregarded the injunction (page 281). geis or gesa also means a charm or spell. note 13.--_tir-fa-tonn._ the gaelic tales abound in allusions to a beautiful country situated under the sea--an enchanted land sunk at some remote time, and still held under spell. in some romantic writings it is called _tir-fa-tonn_, the land beneath the wave; and occasionally one or more of the heroes find their way to it, and meet with many strange adventures (page 253). sometimes it is _o'brasil_, that dim land which appears over the water once every seven years--"on the verge of the azure sea"--and which would be freed from the spell, and would remain permanently over water, if any one could succeed in throwing fire on it. (see gerald griffin's beautiful ballad, "o'brasil, the isle of the blest.") the island of fincara (page 87), and the beautiful country seen beneath the waves by maildun (page 147), are remnants of the same superstition. this very old celtic tradition is obviously the same as the legend of the continent of atlantis, mentioned by plato, which at some remote time was overwhelmed and sunk under the atlantic ocean. and it would seem that they have the same shadowy tradition in the east; for in "lalla rookh" moore makes the peri say, in her soliloquy: "i know where the isles of perfume are, many a fathom down in the sea, to the south of sun-bright araby." note 14.--_the enchanted well._ res autem sic revera evenit. cum angus magus equum giganteum eochaidio et popularibus traderet, monebat homines nec stabulandi neque omnino requiescendi copiam equo faciendam; ne forte quiescendo urinam demitteret, quod si fieret exitio omnibus fore. postea vero quam at planitiem silvulæ cinereæ pervenissent, intenti adeo sarcinis ingentis equi dorso detrahendis incumbebant, ut monitorum angi obliviscerentur; restitit autem equus, et subinde urinam demisit. extemplo hinc fons ortus; qui cum scaturiisset, submersit omnes, sicuti in historiâ narratur. note 15.--_conal carna of the red branch._ the red branch knights of ulster, a sort of militia in the service of the monarch, much like the fena of later date (see note 23), flourished in the first century of the christian era. their home was the palace of emania, near the city of armagh; and they received their name from one of the houses of the palace in which they resided, which was called _craebh-ruadh_, or red branch. they attained their greatest glory in the reign of conor mac nessa, king of ulster in the first century; and conal carna, mentioned in the story of "liban the mermaid," was one of their most illustrious champions. note 16.--_ecca the son of marid: comgall of bangor._ this marid was king of munster about the beginning of the second century of the christian era. st. comgall, one of the greatest saints of the early irish church, flourished in the sixth century, and was the founder of the celebrated monastery of bangor in the county of down. note 17.--_curragh._ it would appear that in ireland, and indeed in england and scotland as well, navigation was carried on in ancient times chiefly by means of curraghs. the curragh was a boat or canoe, consisting of a light framework of wood, covered over with the skins of animals. curraghs are still used on many parts of the western coast of ireland; but they are now covered with tarred canvas instead of skins. note 18.--_conn the hundred-fighter._ conn ced-cathach or conn the fighter of a hundred (not conn of the hundred battles, as the name is generally translated), was king of ireland from a.d. 123 to 158. note 19.--_land of the living: land of life, etc._ the ancient irish had a sort of dim, vague belief that there was a land where people were always youthful, and free from care and trouble, suffered no disease, and lived for ever. this country they called by various names:--_tir-na-mbeo_, the land of the [ever-]living; _tir-na-nóg_, the land of the [ever-]youthful; _moy-mell_, the plain of pleasure, etc. it had its own inhabitants--fairies; but mortals were sometimes brought there; and while they lived in it, were gifted with the everlasting youth and beauty of the fairy people themselves, and partook of their pleasures. as to the exact place where tirnanoge was situated, the references are shadowy and variable, but they often place it far out in the atlantic ocean, as far as the eye can reach from the high cliffs of the western coast. and here it is identical with o'brasil, of which mention has been made in note 13. i have already remarked (see note 1) that the fairies were also supposed to live in palaces in the interior of pleasant green hills, and that they were hence called aes-shee or deena-shee, i.e. people of the _shee_ or fairy hills; and hence also the word "banshee" _i.e._ a woman (_bean_) of the fairy hills. tirnanoge was often regarded as identical with these bright, subterranean palaces. in my boyhood days, the peasantry believed that the great limestone cavern near mitchelstown, in the county cork, was one of the entrances to tirnanoge. note 20.--_st. brendan of birra._ i have already, in the preface (page xiii.), spoken of the celebrated voyage of st. brendan of birra (birr, in king's county), undertaken in the sixth century. he set out from near brandon mountain, in kerry, sailing westwards into the atlantic ocean, and, according to the belief of some, landed on the shore of america. he had many imitators, who ventured out on the great ocean in their curraghs as pilgrims; but none were so enterprising as himself, or met with such a variety of strange lands, if we except maildun and the three sons of o'corra, whose adventures are quite as surprising as those of brendan. note 21.--_brendan's satchel._ the ancient irish saints, when on their missionary journeys through the country, kept their precious books, as well as the portable sacred utensils, in leather satchels, which they brought with them from place to place. these satchels were often highly ornamented, and, like other relics, were held in extraordinary veneration after the death of the owners. the gaelic term for this kind of satchel is _polaire_. (see petrie, "round towers," page 336.) note 22.--_cormac mac art._ cormac mac art, the most illustrious of the irish kings, who began his reign a.d. 254, was the son of art the lonely, who was son of conn the hundred-fighter. during his reign flourished the fena or militia, spoken of in the next note; and the old chroniclers never tire of dwelling on the magnificence of his court at tara, and the prosperity of the country during his reign. he was renowned for learning and wisdom, and he wrote a book called _tegusc-righ_, or instruction for kings, copies of which are extant in the books of leinster and ballymote. he also caused the records of the kingdom to be collected and written down in one great book called the psalter of tara, but no portion of this book is now known to exist; and he established three schools at tara--one for military science, one for law, and one for history and chronology. he spent the last years of his life in retirement and study at cletty on the boyne, and died a.d. 277, forty years after he had ascended the throne. note 23.--_finn and the fena._ the fena or "fena of erin" were a sort of militia or standing army, permanently maintained by the monarch for the support of the throne, and regularly trained to military service. they attained their greatest glory in the reign of cormac mac art (see previous note). each province had its own militia under its own captain, but all were under the command of one general-in-chief. their most renowned commander was finn the son of cumal, who of all the heroes of ancient ireland is most vividly remembered in popular tradition. finn had his palace on the top of the hill of allen, a remarkable flat-topped hill, lying about four miles to the right of the railway as you pass newbridge and approach kildare, rendered more conspicuous of late years by a tall pillar erected on the top, on the very site of finn's palace. before the erection of the pillar, there were considerable remains of the old fort on the hill, but at present nearly every vestige is obliterated, cleared away partly to make room for the foundation of the pillar, and partly by cultivation; for the land has been tilled and cropped to the very summit. the whole neighbourhood, however, teems with living traditions of finn and the fena. the fena were divided into distinct tribes or clanns, belonging to the several provinces, each under its own commander. of these, the clann baskin of leinster, under the immediate command of finn; and the clann morna of connaught, commanded by gaul mac morna, were rival tribes, and, for reasons stated in note 27, regarded each other with hatred and distrust. the following are some of the principal characters celebrated in the romantic literature of the fena. finn the son of cumal, commander-in-chief of the fena under king cormac mac art (see note 22); brave, wise, and far-seeing, a man of supreme military ability. his foresight seemed so extraordinary, that the people believed it was a preternatural gift of divination, and the shanachies invented a legend to account for it (see note 25). like many great commanders, he had a little of the tyrant in his character, and was unforgiving to those who injured him. but in the story of dermat and grania, he is drawn in too unfavourable a light. in his old age he was killed by a fisherman at a place called athbrea on the boyne, a.d. 284, as recorded in the annals of tighernach, of the four masters, and of innisfallen. oisin or ossian, finn's son, the renowned hero-poet, to whom the bards attribute many poems still extant. oscar, the son of oisin, youthful and handsome, kind-hearted, and one of the most valiant of the fena. dermat o'dyna, noble-minded, generous, of untarnished honour, and the bravest of the brave. he was as handsome as he was valiant, whence he is often styled dermat of the bright face, dermat of the white teeth, etc. he was the idol of the ladies of ireland, and hence he is often called dermat-na-man, or dermat of the women (page 210). the munster traditions represent him as a native of kerry; but he was in reality a leinsterman, though his descendants migrated to munster at a very early period. mr. o'grady, in his edition of the story of dermat and grania (page 294), has given an ancient poetical genealogy of dermat. this hero is equally celebrated in popular story in the highlands of scotland. according to highland tradition, the great and illustrious clann campbell, represented by the duke of argyll, descend from him; and their crest is a boar's head, in memory of the manner of dermat's death.[clxxx.] dermat o'dyna is, on the whole, the finest type of hero among the fena--as fine indeed as can be found in any literature; and his noble character is very well maintained throughout the ossianic tales. kylta mac ronan, finn's nephew, renowned for his fleetness of foot. dering, the son of dobar o'baskin, who was not only a brave warrior, but also "a man of knowledge," gifted with some insight into futurity. ligan lumina, also celebrated for swiftness of foot. fergus finnvel, poet, warrior, and frequent adviser of the fena. gaul mac morna, the leader of the clann morna or connaught fena, one of the mightiest of all the heroes. he served under finn, but the two chiefs bore no love to each other, for gaul had slain finn's father, cumal, in the battle of knocka (see note 27). conan mail or conan the bald, the best-marked and best-sustained character in the ossianic romances; large-bodied, a great boaster, a great coward, and a great glutton. he had a venomous tongue, and hardly ever spoke a good word of any one. he belonged to the clann morna, and was always reviling the clann baskin. he was the butt for the gibes and mockery of the fena, but they dreaded his foul tongue. the story-tellers never lose an opportunity of having a fling at conan, and of turning him into ridicule for his cowardice, his big talk, and his gluttony. note 24.--_cooking-places._ the fena, as related in the beginning of the story of the gilla dacker, were quartered on the principal householders during the winter half-year; and maintained themselves chiefly by the chase during the summer months. when they were on their hunting expeditions, we are told that they ate only one meal a day; and for this meal they cooked the flesh of the animals brought down in the chase, in the following manner. they first dug a deep pit in the earth near their camping-place, and, having lighted a great fire beside it, they heated a number of round stones. they next covered the bottom of the pit with the hot stones, on which they placed the meat, bound up with sedge and grass ropes, and on this again they put another layer of heated stones; and, having closely covered up the whole with branches, they let it stand till the meat was sufficiently cooked. the remains of these old earth-ovens are still to be seen, and are called by the peasantry _fulachta-na-bhfiann_, the cooking-places of the fena. note 25.--_finn's tooth of knowledge._ it had been prophesied of old that a man named finn would be the first to eat of the salmon of knowledge, which swam in the pool of linn-fec, in the boyne (near the present village of slane); and that he would thereby obtain the gifts of knowledge and of divination. a certain old poet named finn, knowing this, hoped that he might be the lucky man; so he took up his abode on the shore of linn-fec; and he fished in the pool every day from morn till night, in the hope of catching the salmon of knowledge. at this time, finn the son of cumal was a boy, fleeing from place to place from his hereditary enemies, the clann morna, disguised, and bearing the assumed name of demna; and, happening to come to linn-fec, the old poet took him as his servant. after long watching and waiting, finn the poet hooked the salmon at last, and gave it to demna to broil, warning him very strictly not to eat or even taste of it. demna proceeded to broil the fish; and soon the heat of the fire raised a great blister from its side, which the boy pressed with his thumb to keep it down, thereby scalding himself so severely that he unthinkingly thrust his thumb into his mouth. when the salmon was cooked, the poet asked demna had he eaten of it. "no," replied the boy; "but i scalded my thumb on the fish, and put it into my mouth." "thy name is not demna, but finn," exclaimed the poet: "in thee has the prophecy been fulfilled; and thou art now a diviner and a man of knowledge!" in this manner finn obtained the gift of divination, so that ever after, when he wished to look into futurity, he put his thumb under his tooth of knowledge, as he did when cooking the salmon of linn-fec, and the whole future was revealed to him. there appears to have been some sort of ceremony used, however (see page 339, _supra_); and it would seem that the process was attended with pain (page 194), so that it was only on very solemn and trying occasions he put his thumb under his tooth of knowledge.[clxxxi.] note 26.--_the game of chess._ chess-playing was one of the favourite amusements of the ancient irish chiefs. the game is constantly mentioned in the very oldest gaelic tales; as, for instance, in the "cattle-spoil of cooley," in "the book of the dun cow" (a.d. 1100). (see o'donovan's "introduction to the book of rights," page lxi.) note 27.--_battle of knocka._ the battle of knocka or _cnucha_ (now castleknock, near dublin) was fought in the reign of conn the hundred-fighter (see note 18). the contending parties were, on the one side, conn with his royal forces, and the renowned hero, gaul mac morna, with his connaught fena, the clann morna; and on the other side, cumal, the father of finn, with the clann baskin and the leinster forces in general, aided by owen more, heir to the throne of munster, with a large army of munstermen. the leinster and munster armies were defeated, chiefly through the valour of gaul, who slew cumal with his own hand. this was the cause of the irreconcilable enmity that existed ever after between the clann baskin and the clann morna. when finn the son of cumal grew up to man's estate, he succeeded to the position held by his father as leader of the fena. but though he made peace with gaul mac morna, and though gaul submitted to his command, there was always a feeling of ill-concealed hatred and distrust between them. note 28.--_battle of gavra._ when carbri of the liffey, son of cormac mac art, ascended the throne of ireland, one of his first acts was to disband and outlaw the clann baskin; and he took into his service in their place their rivals and deadly enemies, the clann morna from connaught. whereupon the clann baskin marched southwards, and entered the service of fercorb, king of munster, finn's grandson, in direct disobedience to king carbri's commands. this led to the bloody battle of gavra, celebrated in ossianic literature, which was fought a.d. 284, at garristown, in the north-west of the county dublin, where the rival clanns slaughtered each other almost to annihilation. in the heat of the battle, carbri and oscar met in single combat; and, after a long and terrible fight, the heroic oscar fell pierced by carbri's spear, and died on the evening of the same day. but carbri himself was dreadfully wounded; and, while retiring from the field, his own kinsman, semeon, whom he had previously banished from tara, fell on him, and despatched him with a single blow. this battle is the subject of a poem which the bards ascribe to oisin, and which has been published, with translation, in the first volume of the ossianic transactions. in this poem there is an affecting description of the death of oscar, surrounded by his few surviving companions, and in presence of his father oisin. footnotes: [clxxx.] for a full account of the highland traditions regarding dermat, and of the highland monuments that commemorate his name, see "loch etive and the sons of uisnach" (p. 255), a very valuable and interesting book, recently published, which came into my hands after i had written the above. [clxxxi.] the above legend is taken from "the boyish exploits of finn mac cumal," published, with translation, by john o'donovan, ll.d., in the fourth volume of the ossianic society's transactions, from a ms. _transcribed_ in 1453, now lying in the bodleian library at oxford. but the internal evidence of the language shows that the piece is far more ancient than the fifteenth century. the legend of finn and the salmon of knowledge is still current among the peasantry; and a modern popular version of it may be seen in the _dublin penny journal_, vol. i. page 110. as to the process of putting his thumb under his tooth of knowledge, even the english-speaking peasantry of the south still retain a tradition that it was painful; for they say that finn "chewed his thumb from the skin to the flesh, from the flesh to the bone, from the bone to the marrow, and from the marrow to the _smoosagh_." list of proper names. alphabetical list of the principal proper names occurring in this volume, with their original gaelic forms, and, in many cases, their meanings. every writer who attempts to popularise the gaelic literature of ireland and scotland, finds the proper names a serious difficulty. if they are given in their original gaelic forms, they are not unfrequently unpronounceable and repulsive to the english reader; if they are written phonetically, they are often strange and barbarous looking. in this book, i have not followed any general principle in reducing the names to forms suitable to readers of english. i have dealt with each, as it were, on its own merits. sometimes--very often, indeed--i have given the original spelling; sometimes i have given the names phonetically; and frequently i have mixed the two modes. but all through i have avoided any great departure from the original forms, as will be seen by a glance at the following list. in all cases the names occurring through the book may be pronounced just as the letters would indicate to the english reader. aed, _aedh_, a flame of fire. ahaclee, _ath-cliath_, hurdle-ford. ailna, _ailne_, beauty, joy. aina, _aine_. allil, _ailioll_, _ailell_, or _oilioll_. allil ocar aga, _ailell ochair aga_. alva, _ailbhe_. balor, _balar_. baskin, _baoiscne_. begallta, _beagalltach_, little fury. ben-damis, _beann-damhuis_. beoc, _beóc_, _dabheóc_, and _beoán_. berva, _berbhe_. borba, _borb_, proud. bran, _bran_, a raven. bres, _breas_. brian, _brian_. brickna, _briccne_. bruga of the _brugh-na-boinne_. boyne, canta, _cainte_. carn-arenn, _carnn-airenn_. carricknarone, _carraic-na-rón_, the rock of the seals. clann navin, _clann-neamhuinn_. cloghan kincat, _clochan-chinn-chait_, the stepping-stones of the cat's head. coil croda, _cael-crodha_, the slender valiant [man]. colga, _colga_. colman, _colman_, little dove. comgall, _comhghall_. conal carna, _conall cernach_. conan mail, _conan mael_, conan the bald. conang, _conaing_. conn, the hundred-fighter (not conn of the hundred battles, as it is usually translated), _conn-cédcathach_. connla, _connla_. coran, _coran_. cormac mac art, _cormac mac airt_. corr the _coir cos-luath_. swift-footed, cuan, _cuan_ or _cuadhan_. culand, _culand_. curnan the _curnan onmit_. simpleton, curoi mac dara, _curoi mac dáire_. dagda, _dagda_. dara donn, _dáire donn_. darvra, lake, _loch dairbhreach_, the lake of oaks. dathkeen, _dathchaoin_, bright-complexioned. decca, _deoch_. dedannans, _tuatha de danann_. derdri of the _deirdre duibhshleibhe_. black mountain, dering, _diorraing_. dermat o'dyna, _diarmait o'duibhne_. dianket, _diancecht_. diuran lekerd, _diuran lecerd_. dobar o'baskin, _dobhar o'baoiscne_. dooclone, _dubhchluain_, dark-coloured meadow. dord-fian, _dord-fiann_. dryantore, _draoigheantóir_. ducoss, _dubhchosach_, black-foot. eas-dara, _eas-dara_. ebb, _eab_. ebliu, _ebliu_. ebric, _aibhric_. ecca, _eochaidh_, a horseman. enbarr, _aenbharr_, splendid mane. encoss, _aenchos_, one foot. ethnea, _eithne_, sweet nut-kernel. etta, _eitche_. eva, _aeife_. eve, _aebh_. failinis, _failinis_. fatha conan, _fatha chonain_. femin, _feimeann_. fena, _fianna_. ferdana, _feardána_. fergor, _fearghoir_, manly or strong voice. fergus, _fearghus_, manly strength. fiaca findamnas, _fiacha findamnais_. ficna, _fiachna_, little raven. ficra, _fiachra_. fincara, _fianchaire_. fincoss, _finnchosach_, white-foot. finn, _finn_ or _fionn_, fair-haired. finnin, _finghín_, fair offspring. finola, _fionnghuala_, white shoulder. flidas, _flidas_. foltlebar, _folt-leabhar_, long hair. frevan, _freamhainn_. ga-boi, _ga-buidhe_, yellow javelin. ga-derg, _ga-dearg_, red javelin. gael glas, _gaodhal-glas_. garva, _garbh_, rough. gaul mac morna, _goll mac morna_. germane, _germane_. gilla dacker, _giolla deacair_, lazy fellow. glanlua, _glanluadh_, pure-spoken. glas mac encarda, _glas mac aeinchearda_. glore, _glór_, a voice. ilbrec, _ilbhreach_. ildana, _ioldhanach_. inis glora, _inis gluaire_. innia, _innia_. innsa, _inse_. inver-tre-kenand, _inbher-tre-cenand_. iraun, _irann_. iroda, _ioruaidhe_. irros domnann, _iorrus domnann_. island of the _inis tuile_. torrent, kemoc, _caemhoc_ or _mochoemhoc_. kenn-avrat, _ceann-abhrat_. kenri, _caenraighe_. kethen, _cethen_. kethlenda, _ceithleann_ or _ceithleand_. kian, _cian_. kylta mac ronan, _caeilte mac ronain_. largnen, _lairgnen_. lavaran, _lobharan_. liban, _liban_. lidas, _liadhas_. ligan lumina, _liagan luaimneach_, ligan the bounding. lir, _lir_. lobas, _lobais_. lochlann, _lochlann_. loskenn of the _loiscinn lomghlúineach_. bare knees, luath, _luaith_, swift. luga of the long _lugh lamh-fada_. arms, mac-an-lona, _mac-an-luin_. mac luga, _mac luigheach_. mac-na-corra, _mac-na-corra_. maildun, _mail duin_, chief of the fort. manissa, _maighneis_. mannanan mac lir, _manannan mac lir_. marid mac carido, _mairid mac cairedo_. mergah, _meargach_. micorta, _miodhchuarta_. midac, _miodhach_ or _mioch_. midir, _midhir_. midkena, _miodhchaoin_. milucra, _miluchradh_. modan, _muadhan_. morallta, _moralltach_, great fury. moyle, _mael_, a bare hill. moy-mell, _magh-mell_, plain of pleasures. moytura, _magh-tuireadh_, plain of towers. muman, _mumha_, gen. _mumhan_. muridach, _muridach_. murthemna, _muirthemhne_. niam, _niamh_, beauty. nuada of the _nuadha airgeatlaimh_. silver hand, nuca, _nuca_. oisin, _oisin_ (pronounced _isheen_ in munster, and _osh'in_ in ulster and in scotland). oscar, _oscar_. owenaght, _eoghanacht_, descendants of owen. pezar, _pisear_. racad, _rachadh_. rib, _rib_. sencab, _seanchab_, old mouth. sharvan, _searbhan_, a surly person. shee finnaha, _sidh-fionnachaidh_. skeabrac, _sciath-bhreac_, speckled shield. skolan, _sceolaing_. slana, _slánach_, healthy. sorca, _sorcha_. sotal of the large _sotal sálmhór_. heels, taillkenn, _tailcenn_. tinna the mighty, _tinne mór_. tir-fa-tonn, _tir-fa-thuinn_, country beneath the wave. tirnanoge, _tir na n-óg_, land of youths. trencoss, _treunchosach_, strongfoot. trenmore o'baskin, _treunmór o'baoiscne_. triscadal, _triscadal_. tuis, _tuis_. turenn, _tuireann_. ur, _uar_. urcar, _urchar_. the end transcriber's notes: footnotes formatted in roman. endnotes formatted in arabic. italics shown as _italics_. ligatures: [=o] o macron, [)e] e breve. inconsistent and archaic spelling retained. gwen wynn: a romance of the wye. by captain mayne reid london george routledge & sons, limited new york: e. p. dutton & co. 1905 [illustration: "i thought as much!--no accident!--no suicide!--murdered!"] contents. prologue i. the heroine ii. the hero iii. a charon corrupted iv. on the river v. dangers ahead vi. a ducking deserved vii. an inveterate novel reader viii. a suspicious stranger ix. jealous already x. the cuckoo's glen xi. a weed by the wyeside xii. a wolf in sheep's clothing xiii. among the arrows xiv. beating about the bush xv. a spiritual adviser xvi. coracle dick xvii. the "corpse candle" xviii. a cat in the cupboard xix. a black shadow behind xx. under the elm xxi. a tardy messenger xxii. a fatal step xxiii. a suspicious waif xxiv. "the flower of love-lies-bleeding" xxv. a french femme de chambre xxvi. the poacher at home xxvii. a mysterious contract xxviii. the game of pique xxix. jealous as a tiger xxx. stunned and silent xxxi. a startling cry xxxii. making ready for the road xxxiii. a slumbering household xxxiv. "where's gwen?" xxxv. again the engagement ring xxxvi. a mysterious embarkation xxxvii. an anxious wife xxxviii. impatient for the post xxxix. journey interrupted xl. hue and cry xli. boulogne-sur-mer xlii. what does he want? xliii. a gage d'amour xliv. suicide, or murder xlv. a plentiful correspondence xlvi. found drowned xlvii. a man who thinks it murder xlviii. once more upon the river xlix. the crushed juniper l. reasoning by analysis li. a suspicious craft lii. maternal solicitude liii. a sacrilegious hand liv. a late tea lv. the new mistress of the mansion lvi. the gamblers at llangorren lvii. an unwilling novice lviii. a cheerful kitchen lix. queer bric-a-brac lx. a brace of body-snatchers lxi. in want of help lxii. still alive lxiii. a strange father confessor lxiv. a queer catechist lxv. almost a "vert" lxvi. the last of lewin murdock lxvii. a chapter diplomatic lxviii. a quick conversion lxix. a sudden relapse lxx. a justifiable abduction lxxi. starting on a continental tour lxxii. coracle dick on his death-bed lxxiii. the calm after the storm gwen wynn: a romance of the wye. prologue. hail to thee, wye--famed river of siluria! well deserving fame, worthy of warmest salutation! from thy fountain-head on plinlimmon's far slope, where thou leapest forth, gay as a girl on her skip-rope, through the rugged rocks of brecon and radnor, that like rude men would detain thee, snatching but a kiss for their pains--on, as woman grown, with statelier step, amid the wooded hills of herefordshire, which treat thee with more courtly consideration--still on, and once more rudely assailed by the bold ramparts of monmouth--through all thou makest way--in despite all, preserving thy purity! if defiled before espousing the ocean, the fault is not thine, but sabrina's--sister born of thy birth, she too cradled on plinlimmon's breast, but since childhood's days separated from thee, and straying through other shrines--perchance leading a less reputable life. no blame to thee, beautiful vaga--from source to severn pure as the spring that begets thee--fair to the eye, and full of interest to reflect on. scarce a reach of thy channel, or curve of thy course, but is redolent of romance, and rich in the lore of history. on thy shores, through the long centuries, has been enacted many a scene of gayest pleasure and sternest strife; many an exciting episode, in which love and hate, avarice and ambition--in short, every human passion has had play. overjoyed were the roman legionaries to behold their silver eagles reflected from thy pellucid wave; though they did not succeed in planting them on thy western shore till after many a tough struggle with the gallant, but ill-starred, caractacus. long, too, had the saxons to battle before they could make good their footing on the silurian side--as witness the dyke of offa. later, the normans obtained it only through treachery, by the murder of the princely llewellyn; and, later still, did the bold glendower make thy banks the scene of patriotic strife; while, last of all, sawest thou conflict in still nobler cause--as of more glorious remembrance--when the earnest soldiers of the parliament encountered the so-called cavaliers, and purged thy shores of the ribald rout, making them pure as thy waters. but, sweet wye! not all the scenes thou hast witnessed have been of war. love, too, has stamped thee with many a tender souvenir, many a tale of warm, wild passion. was it not upon thy banks that the handsome "harry of monmouth," hero of agincourt, first saw the light; there living, till manhood-grown, when he appeared "armed _cap-à-pie_, with beaver on"? and did not thy limpid waters bathe the feet of fair rosamond, in childhood's days, when she herself was pure? in thee, also, was mirrored the comely form of owen tudor, which caught the eye of a queen--the stately catherine--giving to england a race of kings; and by thy side the beauteous saxon, ædgitha, bestowed her heart and hand on a cymric prince. nor are such episodes all of the remote past, but passing now; now, as ever, pathetic--as ever impassioned. for still upon thy banks, vaga, are men brave, and women fair, as when adelgisa excited the jealousy of the druid priestess, or the maid of clifford castle captured a king's heart, to become the victim of a queen's vengeance. not any fairer than the heroine of my tale; and she was born there, there brought up, and there---ah! that is the story to be told. chapter i. the heroine. a tourist descending the wye by boat from the town of hereford to the ruined abbey of tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns, o'er-topping a spray of evergreens. it is simply a summer-house, of the kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. though placed conspicuously on an elevated point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the river above. when opposite he loses sight of it; a spinny of tall poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank. these stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken. with all its wanderings the wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of which this is one. the tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel. he is bound and booked for tintern--possibly chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser "lions." besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms of charter, without adding an extra to their fare. were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water-way he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer, its _façade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of herefordshire. near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal its frowning corrugations. about midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back, chiselled out of the rock _in situ_. the cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat, and if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone. it is a light, two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "the gwendoline." charmed by this idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and ascend to the top of the stair. if so, he will have before his eyes a lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks, fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a noble mansion. that is llangorren court, and there dwells the owner of the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two thousand acres of land lying adjacent. the boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being wynn, while people, in a familiar way, speak of her as "gwen wynn"; this on account of her being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a celebrity in the neighbourhood. she not only goes boating, but hunts, drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own, or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for everybody. if she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of llangorren court there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them would be deemed an intrusion. nevertheless, he would go back down the boat-stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do not permit his making the acquaintance of gwen wynn without further loss of time, or any ceremony of introduction. but my readers are not thus debarred; and to them i introduce her, as she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely april morn. she is not alone; another lady, by name eleanor lees, being with her. they are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them. gwendoline wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome yellow almost peculiar to the cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of the roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home to protect their seven-hilled city from goths and visigoths. in personal appearance eleanor lees is the reverse of all this; being of dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and _petite_. witha she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful. equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little imperious. the other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also disparity between them--again a contrast. both are orphans; but it is an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum, the other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without other means of livelihood than what she may derive from a superior education she has received. notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters. no one seeing them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side. yet in such capacity is she residing at llangorren court. it is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the season. two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then threaten to assail them. all three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies stretching out their necks to be patted, the cloven-hoofed creature equally courting caresses. they look especially to miss wynn, who is more their mistress. on this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar; but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation, passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed. "where are you going, gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied. their arms are now disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them. "to the summer-house," is the response. "i wish to have a look at the river. it should show fine this bright morning." and so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver. gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her; this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided to the companion. it is only after she has been long holding it steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object within its field of view more interesting than the wye's water, or the greenery on its banks. "what is it?" she naïvely asks. "you see something?" "only a boat," answers gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look, as if conscious of being caught. "some tourist, i suppose, making down to tintern abbey--like as not a london cockney." the young lady is telling a "white lie." she knows the occupant of that boat is nothing of the kind. from london he may be--she cannot tell--but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as hyperion to the satyr; at least so she thinks. but she does not give her thought to the companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,-"how fond those town people are of touring it upon our wye!" "can you wonder at that?" asks ellen. "its scenery is so grand--i should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in england." "i don't wonder," says miss wynn, replying to the question. "i'm only a little bit vexed seeing them there. it's like the desecration of some sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their sandwiches, with other picnicing débris on its banks! to say nought of one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers, hauliers, all sorts. i've half a mind to set fire to the _gwendoline_, burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar." ellen lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder. "it would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone. "besides, the poor people are entitled to a little recreation. they don't have too much of it." "ah, true," rejoins gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither tory nor aristocrat. "well, i've not yet decided on that little bit of incendiarism, and shan't burn the _gwendoline_--at all events not till we've had another row out of her." not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in her life was she less thinking of such a thing. for just then she has other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time. "by the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not." cunning creature! she has had it in her mind all the morning; first from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room, looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye too, to note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down. for one of its occupants is an angler. "the day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just the weather for a row. and the river looks so inviting--seems calling us to come! what say you, nell?" "oh! i've no objections." "let us in, then, and make ready. be quick about it! remember it's april, and there may be showers. we mustn't miss a moment of that sweet sunshine." at this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling. * * * * * while the angler's boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of miss wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river. she had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. one at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. but he seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight--that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. she knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. if at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. she is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. but she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. for such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face. as the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage she sets, in haste, to affect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for she is now alone,-"i wonder who, and what he can be? a gentleman, of course. but, then, there are gentlemen and gentlemen; single ones and----" she has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection-"ah, me! that would be a pity--a dis--" again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words. standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising-"if one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! and were it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, i'd put him up to getting that word. but no! it would never do. he'd tell aunt about it; and then madame la chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious things to me--the which i mightn't relish. well, in six months more the old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least legally. then i'll be my own mistress; and then 'twill be time enough to consider whether i ought to have--a master. ha, ha, ha!" so laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she completes the adjustment of her dress by setting a hat upon her head, and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while in the boat. in fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the room, and on down the stairway. chapter ii. the hero. than vivian ryecroft handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip. for he is in the hussars--a captain. he is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it. his regiment is at aldershot, himself rusticating in herefordshire--whither he has come to spend a few weeks' leave of absence. nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river wye--the same just sighted by gwen wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette. no more is he wearing the braided uniform and "busby"; but, instead, attired in a suit of light cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military moustache. for captain ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man turned thirty, browned by exposure to indian suns, experienced in indian campaigns, from those of scinde and the punjaub to that most memorable of all--the mutiny. still is he personally as attractive as he ever was--to women, possibly more; among these causing a flutter, with _rapprochement_ towards him almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him. in the present many a bright english lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark damsel of hindostan; and without his heaving sigh, or even giving them a thought in return. not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather partial to female society. but he is not, and never has been, either man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the wye--for that is what he is doing there--instead of in london, taking part in the festivities of the "season," by day dawdling in rotten row, by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room. in short, vivian ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed, physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so; while to all others it is very perceptible. he has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and tourists. still he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry. he might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the wye not being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it. an ardent disciple of the ancient izaak, he cares for nought else--at least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning. such is his mental condition up to a certain morning; when a change comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most tempting of his flies--this brought about by a face, of which he has caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite occupation. thus it has chanced:-below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called "catches," where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies, whether natural or artificial--a sport it has oft reason to rue. several times so at the end of captain ryecroft's line and rod; he having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger specimen, which turned the scale at thirty. in consequence that portion of the stream has become his choicest angling ground, and at least three days in the week he repairs to it. the row is not much going down, but a good deal returning; five miles up stream, most of it strong adverse current. that, however, is less his affair than his oarsman's--a young waterman by name wingate, whose boat and services the hussar officer has chartered by the week--indeed, engaged them for so long as he may remain upon the wye. on the morning in question, dropping down the river to his accustomed whipping-place, but at a somewhat later hour than usual, he meets another boat coming up--a pleasure craft, as shown by its style of outside ornament and inside furniture. of neither does the salmon fisher take much note; his eyes all occupied with those upon the thwarts. there are three of them, two being ladies seated in the stern sheets, the third an oarsman on a thwart well forward, to make better balance. and to the latter the hussar officer gives but a glance--just to observe that he is a serving-man, wearing some of its insignia in the shape of a cockaded hat, and striped sable-waistcoat. and not much more than a glance at one of the former; but a gaze, concentrated and long as good manners will permit, at the other, who is steering; when she passes beyond sight, her face remaining in his memory, vivid as if still before his eyes. all this at a first encounter; repeated in a second, which occurs on the day succeeding, under similar circumstances, and almost in the self-same spot; then the face, if possible, seeming fairer, and the impression made by it on vivian ryecroft's mind sinking deeper--indeed, promising to be permanent. it is a radiant face, set in a luxuriance of bright amber hair--for it is that of gwendoline wynn. on the second occasion he has a better view of her, the boats passing nearer to one another; still, not so near as he could wish, good manners again interfering. for all, he feels well satisfied--especially with the thought, that his own gaze earnestly given, though under such restraint, has been with earnestness returned. would that his secret admiration of its owner were in like manner reciprocated! such is his reflective wish as the boats widen the distance between; one labouring slowly up, the other gliding swiftly down. his boatman cannot tell who the lady is, nor where she lives. on the second day he is not asked--the question having been put to him on that preceding. all the added knowledge now obtained is the name of the craft that carries her; which, after passing, the waterman, with face turned towards its stern, makes out to be the _gwendoline_--just as on his own boat--the _mary_,--though not in such grand golden letters. it may assist captain ryecroft in his inquiries, already contemplated, and he makes note of it. another night passes; another sun shines over the wye; and he again drops down stream to his usual place of sport--this day only to draw blank, neither catching salmon, nor seeing hair of amber hue; his reflecting on which is, perchance, a cause of the fish not taking to his flies, cast carelessly. he is not discouraged; but goes again on the day succeeding--that same when his boat is viewed through the binocular. he has already formed a half suspicion that the home of the interesting water nymph is not far from that pagoda-like structure he has frequently noticed on the right bank of the river. for, just below the outlying eyot is where he has met the pleasure-boat, and the old oarsman looked anything but equal to a long pull up stream. still, between that and the town are several other gentlemen's residences on the river side, with some standing inland. it may be any of them. but it is not, as captain ryecroft now feels sure, at sight of some floating drapery in the pavilion, with two female heads showing over its baluster rail; one of them with tresses glistening in the sunlight, bright as sunbeams themselves. he views it through a telescope--for he, too, has come out provided for distant observation--this confirming his conjectures just in the way he would wish. now there will be no difficulty in learning who the lady is--for of one only does he care to make inquiry. he would order wingate to hold way, but does not relish the idea of letting the waterman into his secret; and so, remaining silent, he is soon carried beyond sight of the summer-house, and along the outer edge of the islet, with its curtain of tall trees coming invidiously between. continuing on to his angling ground, he gives way to reflections--at first of a pleasant nature. satisfactory to think that she, the subject of them, at least lives in a handsome house; for a glimpse got of its upper storey tells it to be this. that she is in social rank a lady, he has hitherto had no doubt. the pretty pleasure craft and its appendages, with the venerable domestic acting as oarsman, are all proofs of something more than mere respectability--rather evidences of style. marring these agreeable considerations is the thought he may not to-day meet the pleasure-boat. it is the hour that, from past experience, he might expect it to be out--for he has so timed his own piscatorial excursion. but, seeing the ladies in the summer-house, he doubts getting nearer sight of them--at least for another twenty-four hours. in all likelihood they have been already on the river, and returned home again. why did he not start earlier? while thus fretting himself, he catches sight of another boat--of a sort very different from the _gwendoline_--a heavy barge-like affair, with four men in it; hulking fellows, to whom rowing is evidently a new experience. notwithstanding this, they do not seem at all frightened at finding themselves upon the water. instead, they are behaving in a way that shows them either very courageous, or very regardless of a danger--which, possibly, they are not aware of. at short intervals one or other is seen starting to his feet, and rushing fore or aft--as if on an empty coal-waggon, instead of in a boat--and in such fashion, that were the craft at all crank it would certainly be upset! on drawing nearer them captain ryecroft and his oarsman get the explanation of their seemingly eccentric behaviour--its cause made clear by a black bottle, which one of them is holding in his hand, each of the others brandishing tumbler, or teacup. they are drinking; and that they have been so occupied for some time is evident by their loud shouts and grotesque gesturing. "they look an ugly lot!" observes the young waterman, viewing them over his shoulder; for, seated at the oars, his back is towards them. "coal fellows, from the forest o' dean, i take it." ryecroft, with a cigar between his teeth, dreamily thinking of a boat with people in it so dissimilar, simply signifies assent with a nod. but soon he is roused from his reverie, at hearing an exclamation louder than common, followed by words whose import concerns himself and his companion. these are:-"dang it, lads! le's goo in for a bit o' a lark! yonner be a boat coomin' down wi' two chaps in 't: some o' them spickspan city gents! s'pose we gie 'em a capsize?" "le's do it! le's duck 'em!" shouted the others assentingly; he with the bottle dropping it into the boat's bottom, and laying hold of an oar instead. all act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in a few seconds' time they are rowing it straight for that of the angler's. with astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the hussar officer sees the heavy barge coming bow on for his light fishing skiff, and is thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at the same instant of time. "they mean mischief," mutters wingate; "what'd we best do, captain? if you like i can keep clear, and shoot the _mary_ past 'em--easy enough." "do so," returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his teeth--but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump. "you can keep on!" he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep down his temper; "that will be the best way, as things stand now. they look like they'd come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners at meeting, we can call them to account on return. don't concern yourself about your course. i'll see to the steering. there! hard on the starboard oar!" this last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths of one another. at the same time ryecroft, drawing tight the port tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision. which is done the instant after--to the discomfiture of the would-be capsizers. as the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous imprecations. in a lull between, the hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his lips, and calls back to them-"you ruffians! you shall rue it! shout on--till you're hoarse. there's a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect." "yes, ye d--d scoun'rels!" adds the young waterman, himself so enraged as almost to foam at the mouth. "ye'll have to pay dear for sich a dastartly attemp' to waylay jack wingate's boat. that will ye." "bah!" jeeringly retorts one of the roughs. "to blazes wi' you, an' yer boat!" "ay, to the blazes wi' ye!" echo the others in drunken chorus; and, while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs, the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane speech. chapter iii. a charon corrupted. the lawn of llangorren court, for a time abandoned to the dumb quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed, that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it. of course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; miss wynn now wearing a pea jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over, and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair, gathered in a grand coil behind. but for the flowing skirt below, she might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the down--one who would "find sweethearts in every port." miss lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed hat of the neopolitan pattern. for all, a costume becoming; especially the brigand-like head-gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features and skin, dark as any daughter of the south. they are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty presents itself--not to gwen, but the companion. "we have forgotten joseph!" she exclaims. joseph is an ancient retainer of the wynn family, who, in its domestic affairs, plays parts of many kinds--among them the _métier_ of boatman. it is his duty to look after the _gwendoline_, see that she is snug in her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of the family who has occasion to cross it--the last a need by no means rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of a bridge. "no, we haven't," rejoins joseph's mistress, answering the exclamation of the companion. "i remembered him well enough--too well." "why too well?" asks the other, looking a little puzzled. "because we don't want him." "but surely, gwen, you wouldn't think of our going alone." "surely i would, and do. why not?" "we've never done so before." "is that any reason we shouldn't now?" "but miss linton will be displeased, if not very angry. besides, as you know, there may be danger on the river." for a short while gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has said. not on the suggested danger. she is far from being daunted by that. but miss linton is her aunt--as already hinted, her legal guardian till of age--head of the house, and still holding authority, though exercising it in the mildest manner. and just on this account it would not be right to outrage it, nor is miss wynn the one to do so. instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she makes rejoinder-"i suppose we must take him along; though it's very vexatious, and for various reasons." "what are they? may i know them?" "you're welcome. for one, i can pull a boat just as well as he, if not better. and for another, we can't have a word of conversation without his hearing it--which isn't at all nice, besides being inconvenient. as i've reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and tattles all over the parish; i only wish we'd someone else. what a pity i haven't a brother to go with us! _but not to-day._" the reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud. in the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male kind--above all, no brother. nor will she take joseph, though she signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him. as the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is usually to be found, gwen says, in soliloquy-"i'll take old joe as far as the boat stairs, but not a yard beyond. i know what will stay him there--steady as a pointer with a partridge six feet from its nose. by the way, have i got my purse with me?" she plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied. by this miss lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile joseph--a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some sixty summers, more or less. after a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the direction of the dock. arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, joseph's mistress, turning to him, says-"joe, old boy, miss lees and i are going for a row; but, as the day's fine, and the water smooth as glass, there's no need for our having you along with us. so you can stay here till we return." the venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal. he has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. true, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. he does so, asking: "but, miss gwen, what will your aunt say to it? she mayent like you young ladies to go rowin' by yourselves? besides, miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. 'deed some v' the roughiest and worst o' blaggarts." "nonsense, joseph! the wye isn't the niger, where we might expect the fate of mungo park. why, man, we'll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. as for aunt, she won't say anything, because she won't know. shan't, can't, unless you peach on us. the which, my amiable joseph, you'll not do--i'm sure you will not." "how'm i to help it, miss gwen? when you've goed off, some o' the house sarvints 'll see me here, an', hows'ever i keep my tongue in check----" "check it now!" abruptly breaks in the heiress, "and stop palavering, joe. the house servants won't see you--not one of them. when we're off on the river, you'll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. and to keep you to your anchorage, here's some shining metal." saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect-"do you think it sufficiently heavy? if not--but never mind now. in our absence you can amuse yourself weighing and counting the coins. i fancy they'll do." she is sure of it, knowing the man's weakness to be money, as it now proves. her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. despite his solicitude for the welfare of the wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the _gwendoline's_ painter. stepping into the boat, the other gwendoline takes the oars, miss lees seating herself to steer. "all right! now, joe, give us a push off." joseph, having let all loose, does as directed, which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm--so that he may see how many--and, after counting and contemplating with pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself-"i dar say it'll be all right. miss gwen's a oner to take care o' herself; an' the old lady neen't a know anythin' about it." to make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs, and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus--to the great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made nest, and commenced incubation. chapter iv. on the river. the fair rower, vigorously bending to the oars, soon brings through the bye-way, and out into the main channel of the river. once in mid-stream she suspends her stroke, permitting the boat to drift down with the current; which, for a mile below llangorren, flows gently through meadow land but a few feet above its own level, and flush with it in times of flood. on this particular day there is none such--no rain having fallen for a week--and the wye's water is pure and clear. smooth, too, as the surface of a mirror; only where, now and then, a light zephyr, playing upon it, stirs up the tiniest of ripples; a swallow dips its scimitar wings; or a salmon in bolder dash causes a purl, with circling eddies, whose wavelets extend wider and wider as they subside. so, with the trace of their boat's keel; the furrow made by it instantly closing up, and the current resuming its tranquillity; while their reflected forms--too bright to be spoken of as shadows--now fall on one side, now on the other, as the capricious curving of the river makes necessary a change of course. never went boat down the wye carrying freight more fair. both girls are beautiful, though of opposite types, and in a different degree; while with one--gwendolyn wynn--no water nymph, or naiad, could compare; her warm beauty in its real embodiment far excelling any conception of fancy, or flight of the most romantic imagination. she is not thinking of herself now; nor, indeed, does she much at any time--least of all in this wise. she is anything but vain; instead, like vivian ryecroft, rather underrates herself. and possibly more than ever this morning; for it is with him her thoughts are occupied--surmising whether his may be with her, but not in the most sanguine hope. such a man must have looked on many a form fair as hers, won smiles of many a woman beautiful as she. how can she expect him to have resisted, or that his heart is still whole? while thus conjecturing, she sits half turned on the thwart, with oars out of water, her eyes directed down the river, as though in search of something there. and they are; that something a white helmet hat. she sees it not; and as the last thought has caused her some pain, she lets down the oars with a plunge, and recommences pulling; now, and as in spite, at each dip of the blades breaking her own bright image! during all this while ellen lees is otherwise occupied; her attention partly taken up with the steering, but as much given to the shores on each side--to the green pasture-land, of which, at intervals, she has a view, with the white-faced "herefords" straying over it, or standing grouped in the shade of some spreading trees, forming pastoral pictures worthy the pencil of a morland or cuyp. in clumps, or apart, tower up old poplars, through whose leaves, yet but half unfolded, can be seen the rounded burrs of the mistletoe, looking like nests of rooks. here and there one overhangs the river's bank, shadowing still deep pools, where the ravenous pike lies in ambush for "salmon pink" and such small fry; while on a bare branch above may be observed another of their persecutors, the kingfisher, its brilliant azure plumage in strong contrast with everything on the earth around, and like a bit of sky fallen from above. at intervals it is seen darting from side to side, or in longer flight following the bend of the stream, and causing scamper among the minnows--itself startled and scared by the intrusion of the boat upon its normally peaceful domain. miss lees, who is somewhat of a naturalist, and has been out with the district field club on more than one "ladies' day," makes note of all these things. as the _gwendoline_ glides on, she observes beds of the water ranunculus, whose snow-white corollas, bending to the current, are oft rudely dragged beneath; while on the banks above, their cousins of golden sheen, mingling with the petals of yellow and purple loose-strife--for both grow here--with anemones, and pale, lemon-coloured daffodils--are but kissed, and gently fanned, by the balmy breath of spring. easily guiding the craft down the slow-flowing stream, she has a fine opportunity of observing nature in its unrestrained action, and takes advantage of it. she looks with delighted eye at the freshly-opened flowers, and listens with charmed ear to the warbling of the birds--a chorus, on the wye, sweet and varied as anywhere on earth. from many a deep-lying dell in the adjacent hills she can hear the song of the thrush, as if endeavouring to outdo, and cause one to forget, the matchless strain of its nocturnal rival, the nightingale; or making music for its own mate, now on the nest, and occupied with the cares of incubation. she hears, too, the bold whistling carol of the blackbird, the trill of the lark soaring aloft, the soft sonorous note of the cuckoo, blending with the harsh scream of the jay, and the laughing cackle of the green woodpecker--the last loud beyond all proportion to the size of the bird, and bearing close resemblance to the cry of an eagle. strange coincidence besides, in the woodpecker being commonly called "eekol"--a name, on the wye, pronounced with striking similarity to that of the royal bird! pondering upon this very theme, ellen has taken no note of how her companion is employing herself. nor is miss wynn thinking of either flowers, or birds. only when a large one of the latter, a kite, shooting out from the summit of a wooded hill, stays awhile soaring overhead, does she give thought to what so interests the other. "a pretty sight!" observes ellen, as they sit looking up at the sharp, slender wings, and long bifurcated tail, cut clear as a cameo against the cloudless sky. "isn't it a beautiful creature?" "beautiful, but bad," rejoins gwen, "like many other animated things--too like, and too many of them. i suppose it's on the look-out for some innocent victim, and will soon be swooping down at it. ah, me! it's a wicked world, nell, with all its sweetness! one creature preying upon another, the strong seeking to devour the weak--these ever needing protection! is it any wonder we poor women, weakest of all, should wish to----" she stays her interrogatory, and sits in silence, abstractedly toying with the handles of the oars, which she is balancing above water. "wish to do what?" asked the other. "get married!" answers the heiress of llangorren, elevating her arms, and letting the blades fall with a plash, as if to drown a speech so bold; withal, watching its effect upon her companion, as she repeats the question in a changed form. "is it strange, ellen?" "i suppose not," ellen timidly replies; blushingly too, for she knows how nearly the subject concerns herself, and half believes the interrogatory aimed at her. "not at all strange," she adds, more affirmatively. "indeed very natural, i should say--that is, for women who _are_ poor and weak, and really need a protector. but you, gwen, who are neither one nor the other, but instead rich and strong, have no such need." "i'm not so sure of that. with all my riches and strength--for i am a strong creature; as you see, can row this boat almost as ably as a man"--she gives a vigorous pull or two, as proof, then continuing, "yes, and i think i've got great courage too. yet, would you believe it, nelly, notwithstanding all, i sometimes have a strange fear upon me?" "fear of what?" "i can't tell. that's the strangest part of it; for i know of no actual danger. some sort of vague apprehension that now and then oppresses me--lies on my heart, making it heavy as lead--sad and dark as the shadow of that wicked bird upon the water. ugh!" she exclaims, taking her eyes off it, as if the sight, suggestive of evil, had brought on one of the fear spells she is speaking of. "if it were a magpie," observes ellen laughingly, "you might view it with suspicion. most people do--even some who deny being superstitious. but a kite--i never heard of that being ominous of evil. no more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. if your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won't signify much. see! both the bird and its shadow are passing away--as will your troubles, if you ever have any." "passing--perhaps, soon to return. ha! look there. as i've said!" this, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other's shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. but the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill. "good!" exclaims gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "the innocent has escaped!" "and for that _you_ ought to be assured, as well as gratified," puts in the companion, "taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you've been dreaming about." "true," assents miss wynn musingly; "but, as you see, the bird found a protector--just by chance, and in the nick of time." "so will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you." "oh!" exclaims gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. "i don't want one--not i! i'm strong to stand alone." another tug at the oars to show it. "no," she continues, speaking between the plunges, "i want no protector--at least not yet: nor for a long while." "but there's one wants you," says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. "and soon--soon as he can have you." "indeed! i suppose you mean master george shenstone. have i hit the nail upon the head?" "you have." "well; what of him?" "only that everybody observes his attentions to you." "everybody is a very busy body. being so observant, i wonder if this everybody has also observed how i receive them?" "indeed, yes." "how then?" "with favour. 'tis said you think highly of him." "and so i do. there are worse men in the world than george shenstone--possibly few better. and many a good woman would, and might, be glad to become his wife. for all, i know one of a very indifferent sort who wouldn't--that's gwen wynn." "but he's very good-looking!" ellen urges; "the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood. everybody says so." "there your everybody would be wrong again--if they thought as they say. but they don't. i know one who thinks somebody else much handsomer than he." "who?" asks miss lees, looking puzzled; for she has never heard of gwendoline having a preference, save that spoken of. "the rev. william musgrave," replies gwen, in turn bending inquisitive eyes on her companion, to whose cheeks the answer has brought a flush of colour, with a spasm of pain at the heart. is it possible her rich relative--the heiress of llangorren court--can have set her eyes upon the poor curate of llangorren church, where her own thoughts have been secretly straying? with an effort to conceal them now, as the pain caused her, she rejoins interrogatively, but in faltering tone,-"you think mr. musgrave handsomer than mr. shenstone?" "indeed i don't! who says i do?" "oh--i thought," stammers out the other, relieved--too pleased just then to stand up for the superiority of the curate's personal appearance--"i thought you meant it that way." "but i didn't. all i said was, that somebody thinks so; and that isn't i. shall i tell you who it is?" ellen's heart is again quiet; she does not need to be told, already divining who it is--herself. "you may as well let me," pursues gwen, in a bantering way. "do you suppose, miss lees, i haven't penetrated your secret long ago? why, i knew it last christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? and the holly, you were both so careless in handling, i wonder it didn't prick your fingers to the bone! why, nell, 'twas as plain to me, as if i'd been at it myself. besides, i've seen the same thing scores of times, so has everybody in the parish. ha! you see, i'm not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they've been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven't; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. come, now, confess! am i not right? don't have any fear; you can trust me." she does confess; though not in words. her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. she loves mr. musgrave. "enough!" says gwendoline, taking it in this sense; "and, since you have been candid with me, i'll repay you in the same coin. but, mind you, it mustn't go further." "oh! certainly not," assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate willing to promise anything in the world. "as i've said," proceeds miss wynn, "there are worse men in the world than george shenstone, and but few better. certainly none behind hounds, and i'm told he's the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club--all accomplishments that have weight with us women--some of us. more still; he's deemed good-looking, and is, as you say, known to be of good family and fortune. for all, he lacks one thing that's wanted by----" she stays her speech till dipping the oars--their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, "gwen wynn." "what is it?" asks ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at. "on my word, i can't tell--for the life of me i cannot. it's something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain--just as ether, or electricity. possibly it is the last. at all events, it's the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you've found when your fingers were--were--well, so near being pricked by that holly. ha, ha, ha!" with a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them, the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat's sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks. but for a brief interval is their silence between them, miss wynn again breaking it by a startled exclamation:-"see!" "where? where?" "up yonder! we've been talking of kites and magpies. behold, two birds of worse augury than either!" they are passing the mouth of a little influent stream, up which at some distance are seen two men, one of them seated in a small boat, the other standing on the bank talking down to him. he in the boat is a stout, thick-set fellow in velveteens and coarse fur cap, the one above a spare thin man, habited in a suit of black--of clerical, or rather sacerdotal, cut. though both are partially screened by the foliage, the little stream running between wooded banks, miss wynn has recognised them. so, too, does the companion; who rejoins, as if speaking to herself-"one's the french priest who has a chapel up the river, on the opposite side; the other's that fellow who's said to be such an incorrigible poacher." "priest and poacher it is! an oddly-assorted pair; though in a sense not so ill-matched either. i wonder what they're about up there, with their heads so close together. they appeared as if not wishing we should see them. didn't it strike you so, nelly?" the men are now out of sight, the boat having passed the rivulet's mouth. "indeed, yes," answered miss lees; "the priest, at all events. he drew back among the bushes on seeing us." "i'm sure his reverence is welcome. i've no desire ever to set eyes on him--quite the contrary." "i often meet him on the roads." "i too--and off them. he seems to be about everywhere skulking and prying into people's affairs. i noticed him the last day of our hunting, among the rabble--on foot, of course. he was close to my horse, and kept watching me out of his owlish eyes all the time; so impertinently i could have laid the whip over his shoulders. there's something repulsive about the man; i can't bear the sight of him." "he's said to be a great friend and very intimate associate of your worthy cousin, mr.----." "don't name _him_, nell! i'd rather not think, much less talk of him. almost the last words my father ever spoke--never to let lewin murdock cross the threshold of llangorren. no doubt, he had his reasons. my word! this day with all its sunny brightness seems to abound in dark omens. birds of prey, priests, and poachers! it's enough to bring on one of my fear fits. i now rather regret leaving joseph behind. well, we must make haste and get home again." "shall i turn the boat back?" asks the steerer. "no; not just yet. i don't wish to repass those two uncanny creatures. better leave them awhile, so that on returning we mayn't see them, to disturb the priest's equanimity--more like his conscience." the reason is not exactly as assigned; but miss lees, accepting it without suspicion, holds the tiller cords so as to keep the course on down stream. chapter v. dangers ahead. for another half-mile, or so, the _gwendoline_ is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. with thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally--so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank. observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river--but without suspicion of what is causing it--miss lees at length inquires,-"what's the matter with you, gwen?" "oh, nothing," she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars. "but why are you looking so often below? i've noticed you do so at least a score of times." if the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other's mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat, with a man in it who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom miss wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. she has not given all her confidence to the companion. not receiving immediate answer, ellen again asked-"is there any danger you fear?" "none that i know of--at least, for a long way down. then there are some rough places." "but you are pulling so unsteadily! it takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river." "then you pull, and let me do the steering," returns miss wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins. of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places. but gwen in the stern behaves no better than when seated amidships. the boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer. soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. they have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity--so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward 'twill take stronger arms than theirs. caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for a while they do not think of this. only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma--miss lees being the first to perceive it. "gracious goodness!" she exclaims, "what are we to do? we can never row back up this rough water--it runs so strong here!" "that's true," says gwen, preserving her composure. "i don't think we could." "but what's to be the upshot? joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all, if we shouldn't get back in time." "that's true also," again observes miss wynn assentingly, and with an admirable _sang froid_, which causes surprise to the companion. then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of miss wynn. they are--"i have it!" "what have you?" joyfully asks ellen. "the way to get back--without much trouble, and without disturbing the arrangements we've made with old joe the least bit." "explain yourself!" "we'll keep on down the river to rock weir. there we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to llangorren. it isn't over a mile, though it's five times that by the course of the stream. at the weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the _gwendoline_ to her moorings. meanwhile, we'll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what's happened. another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, i know." "i suppose there's no help for it," says the companion, assenting, "and we must do as you say." "of course we must. as you see, without thinking of it, we've drifted into a very cascade, and are now a long way down it. only a regular waterman could pull up again. ah! 'twould take the toughest of them, i should say. so--_nolens volens_--we'll have to go on to rock weir, which can't be more than a mile now. you may feather your oars, and float a bit. but, by the way, i must look more carefully to the steering. now, that i remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and we can't be far from them. i think they're just below the next bend." so saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her fingers firmly upon the tiller cords. they glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect of peril ahead, making speech inopportune. soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled, suddenly changing to cheerfulness--almost joy. nor is it that the dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some distance below. but there is something else ahead to account for the quick transformation--a row-boat drawn up by the river's edge, with men upon the bank beside. over gwen wynn's countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and as before, its expression reversed. she has mistaken the boat; it is not that of the handsome fisherman! instead, a four-oared craft, manned by four men, for there is this number on the bank. the angler's skiff had in it only two--himself and his oarsman. but she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. those now before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. and while making this observation another is forced upon her--that their natural plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are still--drinking. just as the young ladies made this observation, the four men, hearing oars, face towards them. for a moment there is silence, while they in the _gwendoline_ are being scanned by the quartette on the shore. through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. whether or not one cries out-"petticoats, by gee--ingo!" "ay!" exclaims another, "a pair o' them. an' sweet wenches they be, too. look at she wi' the gooldy hair--bright as the sun itself. lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o' her ud gi'e as much light as a dozen davy's lamps. an't she a bewty? i'm boun' to have a smack fra them red lips o' hers." "no," protests the first speaker, "she be myen. first spoke soonest sarved. that's forest law." "never mind, rob," rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, "she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. i'll lay odds the black 'un beats her at kissin'. le's get grup o' 'em an' see! coom on, meeats!" down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar. up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. the strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect--were, indeed, half-prepared for--coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? for that there is danger they are now sensible--becoming convinced of it as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. impossible to mistake the men--roughs from the forest of dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. this known from many a tale told, many a petty and quarter sessions report read in the county newspapers. but it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech--part of which the ladies have overheard--as in the action they are taking. they in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of bars and eddies below. no whirlpool, not maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. for it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning. withal, gwendoline wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep "pitches" of the herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says-"keep quiet, nell! don't let them see you're scared. it's not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us." this counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, ellen lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words-"dear gwen! what shall we do?" "change places," is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. "give me the oars! quick!" while speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for 'midships. the other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant, leaving the oars to trail. by this the roughs has shoved off from the bank, and are making for mid-stream, their purpose evident--to intercept the _gwendoline_. but the other gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them. in a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her, slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. a glance tells gwen wynn 'twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. still she is not silent. unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out-"keep back, fellows! if you run against us 'twill go ill for you. don't suppose you'll escape punishment." "bah!" responds one, "we an't a-frightened at yer threats--not we. that an't the way wi' us forest chaps. besides, we don't mean ye any much harm. only gi'e us a kiss all round, an' then--maybe, we'll let ye go." "yes; kisses all round!" cries another. "that's the toll ye're got to pay at our pike; an' a bit o' squeeze by way o' boot." the coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three. fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two lost, the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did the fishing skiff. with a yell of disappointment they bring their boat's head round, and row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. luckily, they lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the pleasure-boat possesses. it stands her in stead now, and, for a time, the _gwendoline_ leads without losing ground. but the struggle is unequal, four to one--strong men against a weak woman! verily is she called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as ably as a man. and so does she for a time. withal it may not avail her. the task is too much for her woman's strength, fast becoming exhausted. while her strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. for they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat, it is rapidly gaining on the other. "pull, meeats!" cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the ringleader, "pull like--hic--hic!"--his drunken tongue refuses the blasphemous word. "if ye lay me 'longside that girl wi' the gooc--goeeldy hair, i'll stan' someat stiff at the 'kite's nest' whens we get hic--'ome." "all right, bob!" is the rejoinder, "we'll do that. ne'er a fear." the prospect of "someat stiff" at the forest hostelry inspires them to increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued boat. confident, of it they commence jeering the ladies--"wenches" they call them--in speech profane, as repulsive. for these, things look black. they are but a couple of boats' length ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river's channel; rounding which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. what then? as gwen wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. her glances are sent to right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day doing, but now with very different design. then she was searching for a man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult--it may be worse. there is no man in sight--no human being on either side of the river! on the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. on the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call "help!" distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men--embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms! the thought restrengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. so inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point. soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims,-"we're saved, nelly! we're saved! thank heaven for it!" nelly does thank heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved; but without in the least comprehending how! chapter vi. a ducking deserved. captain ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing-place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast his line across the water; as he does the last, saying-"i shouldn't wonder, wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day. i fear that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for flies." "ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of foresters has frightened them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a bristol steamer. wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. they han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law 'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game." "that would be rather hard lines, jack. these mining gentry need outdoor recreation as much as any other sort of people. rather more i should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part of their time underground. when they emerge from the bowels of the earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature, cannot consistently blame them for. those we've just met are doubtless out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct. i don't think it at all strange seeing them on the water." "their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman, seeming little satisfied with the captain's reasoning. "and as for their being out on holiday, if i an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts all the year round. two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest faces. as for t'other two, i don't think eyther ever touch't pick or shovel in their lives. i've seed both hangin' about lydbrook, which be a queery place. besides, one i've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's coracle dick. take my word for 't, captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther in the way of iron or coal. if there wor i'd be the last man to go again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting i don't think they ought to take it on the river. ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin' about in a boat?" at the last clause of this speech--its conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy--the hussar officer cannot resist smiling. he had half forgotten the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would, be inconvenient. now, reflecting on wingate's words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. he says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the "d--d scoun'rels," as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them. "lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'! comin' this way, i take it. what should we do to 'em, captain?" the salmon-fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket--not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them. "yes," goes on wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; i dar' say they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above. an' i don't wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout the wye! jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!" at this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. a purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one. for some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting" it. the line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance. absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. not till they have well-nigh finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat--wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it--not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening. only for an instant. again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress! they have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. at a glance the hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well. the sight saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. down goes ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears-"to your oars, jack! make straight for them! row with all your might!" jack wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. as a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. no matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters. in ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the _mary_, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. she is set for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it. as yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. his first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. but no; it would not be english. nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. true there will be four against two; but what of it? "i think we can manage them, jack," he mutters through his teeth, "i'm good for two of them--the biggest and best." "an' i t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! ye can trust me takin' care o' 'em, captin." "i know it. keep to your oars till i give the word to drop them." "they don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. too drunk i take it. like as not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off." "they shan't have the chance. i intend steering bow dead on to them. don't fear the result. if the _mary_ gets damaged i'll stand the expense of repairs." "ne'er a mind 'bout that, captain. i'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to see the lot chestised--specially that big black fellow as did most o' the talkin'." "you shall see it, and soon!" he lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. when he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _mary_ is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head. both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. so occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. they only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before. "coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is--addressing miss wynn. "tain't no use you tryin' to get away. i must ha' my kiss. so drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!" "insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. "keep your hands off my boat! i command you!" "but i ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx. not till i've had a smack o' them lips; an' by g-i s'll have it." saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging her towards him. gwen wynn neither screams, nor calls "help!" she knows it is near. "hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued crashing as her gunwale goes in. the roughs, facing round, for the first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. but they are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems determined to resist. turning savagely on ryecroft, he stammers out-"hic--ic--who the blazes be you, mr. white cap? an' what d'ye want wi' me?" "you'll see." at the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the fellow can raise an arm, those of ryecroft are around him in tight hug. in another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard. [illustration: in another minute the hulking scoundrel is flung overboard.] wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot, and is threatening to serve him the same. a plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels himself sinking for the second time! the two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries out-"lor' o' mercy! rob'll be drownded! he can't sweem a stroke." "he's a-drownin' now!" adds the other. it is true. for rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being in the last throes of suffocation! ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed. in chastising the fellow he had gone too far. he must save him! quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the bottom of the boat; then himself over its side! a splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the drowning man. not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down for the third, likely the last time. with the hand of the officer grasping his collar, he is kept above water. but not yet saved. both are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue. for, far from the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being whirled rapidly round! a cry from gwen wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has uttered! but before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to rest again--at sight of still another rescuer. the young waterman has leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers. a few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon has both safe in the skiff. the half-drowned, but wholly frightened rob is carried back to his comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; wingate handling him as though he were but a wet coal sack, or piece of old tarpaulin. then giving the "forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off." and off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather feeling grateful than aggrieved. * * * * * the other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading. but not now rowed by its owner; for captain ryecroft has hold of the oars. in the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. what matter? if he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on the wye! and she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her aunt! for now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to keep undisturbed the understanding with joseph. chapter vii. an inveterate novel reader. while these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, llangorren court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house, and there are no noisy children to go romping about. it is thus with llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is miss linton, the aunt and legal guardian already alluded to. but, though presiding over the establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a skilled housekeeper who carries the keys. kitchen matters are not much to miss linton's taste, being a dame of the antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back to bath and cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth, she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of flirting, at the regency balls. no longer able to indulge in such delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _morning post_ with a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _court journal_, and other distributors of fashionable intelligence. in addition she reads no end of novels, her favourites being those which tell of cupid in his most romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. of the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus transgress the moralities. miss linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow, any more than the limpid waters of the wye. nor has she; but reads on, devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press, and are sent her from the circulating library. at nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so occupy herself. even on this same bright april morn, when all nature rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the warm spring sun--dorothea linton is seated in a shady corner of the drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a certain lord lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his tenant farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much likelihood of succeeding. if he fail, it will not be for want of will on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. he will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book. just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give way, miss linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress. to her command "come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in hand, on which is a card. she is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads- "reverend william musgrave." only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's daughter. it is fortunate for his reverence, that before entering within the room another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. indeed the second caller is shown in first; for, although george shenstone rung the front door bell after mr. musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is no domestic of llangorren but knows the difference between a rich baronet's son and a poor parish curate, as which should have precedence. to this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the reverend william is now indebted more than he is aware. it has saved him from an outburst of miss linton's rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. for it so chances that the son of sir george shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of lord lutestring. not that the young country gentleman has anything in common with the titled lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities. instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. there is nothing odd in his calling at that early hour. sir george is an old friend of the wynn family--was an intimate associate of gwen's deceased father--and both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at llangorren court _san ceremonie_. no more is mr. musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. though but the curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have become almost a myth to it. for this reason his vicarial representative can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "the court." there is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to miss linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful lutestring. it even takes all her partiality for mr. shenstone to remove its spell, and get him vouchsafed friendly reception. "miss linton," he says, speaking first, "i've just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. the day's so fine, i thought they might like to." "ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. "yes; no doubt they would like it very much." mr. shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. and less shenstone himself--indeed both--as the lady proceeds. they have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing. "nay, i am sure," continues miss linton, with provoking coolness, "they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--" "but why can't they?" asked shenstone impatiently, interrupting. "because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing." "indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, shenstone mechanically interrogating: "on the river?" "certainly?" answers the lady, looking surprised. "why, george; where else could they go rowing? you don't suppose they've brought the boat up to the fishpond!" "oh, no," he stammers out. "i beg pardon. how very stupid of me to ask such a question. i was only wondering why miss gwen--that is, i am a little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?" "why should i? what is it?" "only whether--whether she--miss gwen, i mean--said anything about riding to-day?" "not a word--at least not to me." "how long since they went off--may i know, miss linton?" "oh, hours ago! very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. i wasn't down myself--as i've told you, not feeling very well this morning. but gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and i presume they went direct to the river." "do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates shenstone. "i should hope not," returns the ancient toast of cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. "there's no knowing, however. miss wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me." this with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at llangorren. "surely they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till mr. shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry. "is it likely they will, miss linton?" "i should say not. more like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them home. what's the hour now? i've been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantel-shelf. "ten minutes to one! how time does fly, to be sure! i couldn't have believed it near so late--almost luncheon time! of course you'll stay, gentlemen? as for the girls, if they are not back in time they'll have to go without. punctuality is the rule of this house--always will be with me. i shan't wait one minute for them." "but, miss linton, they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. shall i run down to the boat-dock and see?" it is mr. shenstone who thus interrogates. "if you like--by all means. i shall be too thankful. shame of gwen to give us so much trouble. she knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. thanks, much, mr. shenstone." as he is bounding off, she calls after-"don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. mr. musgrave and i won't wait for any of you. shall we, mr. musgrave?" shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. a luncheon for apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. simply that he dislikes leaving miss linton alone--indeed, dare not. she may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her. he is mistaken. on this particular day it is not desired. out of courtesy to mr. shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. she is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter! chapter viii. a suspicious stranger. while mr. musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, george shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. for he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. no sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him! mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! that it is so his soliloquy tells: "odd her being out on the river! she promised me to go riding to-day. very odd indeed! gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. wonder what it means? by jove, i can't comprehend it!" his noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying. it is not unobserved. through the leaves of the evergreen joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far from the right one. the old servant soliloquizing in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks-"master george be mad sweet on miss gwen. the country folk are all talkin' o't; thinking she's same on him, as if they knew anything about it. i knows better. an' he ain't no ways confident, else there wouldn't be that queery look on's face. it's the token o' jealousy for sure. i don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. ah! it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. he as love her might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her hair!" joseph is a welshman of bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. he continues-"i know what's took her on the river, if he don't. yes--yes, my young lady. ye thought yerself wonderful clever, leavin' old joe behind, tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! and d'y 'spose i didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher--sly, but, for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? and d'ye think i didn't see mr. whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself? oh, no; i noticed nothin' o' all that, not i! 'twarn't meant for me--not for joe--ha, ha!" with a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain: "poor young gentleman! i do pity he to be sure. he are a good sort, an' everybody likes him. so do she, but not the way he want her to. well; things o' that kind allers do go contrarywise--never seem to run smooth like. i'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't. in such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches be made--that's heaven. ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! what's cheerin' him? the boat coming back? i can't see it from here, nor i don't hear any rattle o' oars!" the change he notes in george shenstone's manner is not caused by the returning pleasure craft. simply a reflection, which crossing his mind, for the moment tranquillizes him. "what a stupid i am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "now i remember, there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and i suppose she understood in the afternoon. it was so the last time we went out together. by jove! yes. it's all right, i take it; she'll be back in good time yet." thus reassured he remains listening. still more satisfied, when a dull thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in their rowlocks. were he learned in boating tactics he would know there are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the _gwendoline_ carries only one. but he is not so skilled--instead, rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting-field, his favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. it is only when the plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where but one belongs! alone at that leading boat does he look: with eyes in which, as he continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something like displeasure. the boat he has recognised at the first glance--the _gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern. but there is also a man on the mid thwart, plying the oars. "who the deuce is he?" thus to himself george shenstone puts it. not old joe, not the least like him. nor is it the family charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that following. instead, joseph is now by mr. shenstone's side, passing him in haste--making to go down the boat stair! "what's the meaning of all this, joe?" asks the young man, in stark astonishment. "meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed innocence. "be there anythin' amiss?" "oh, nothing," stammers shenstone. "only i supposed you were out with the young ladies. how is it you haven't gone?" "well, sir, miss gwen didn't wish it. the day bein' fine, an' nothing o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself." "she hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters shenstone to himself, as joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "who the deuce is he?" the interrogation as before referring to him who rows the pleasure boat. by this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, george shenstone overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit, but excites him still more--almost to madness. it is miss wynn who has commenced it, saying,-"you'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?" this to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the servant. "oh, thank you!" he returns. "i would, with pleasure; but, as you see, i'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room. so i beg you'll excuse me to-day." his saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the top of the stair, who, hearkening further, hears other speeches, which, while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging through his soul. unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree lately screening joseph--he sees gwen wynn holding out her hand to be pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him! then the latter leaps out of the pleasure boat into the other brought alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman: while the ladies ascend the stair--gwen lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the eyot, can no more be seen. all this george shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the blood in chill creep through his veins. though still puzzled by the wet garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late observed in the ways of miss wynn. nor is he far out in his fancy, bitter though it be. not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become aware of his being there; and not then, till gwen has made some observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the stranger, unfortunately for himself, george shenstone overhears. "we'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of what's delayed us--at least, not just now. true, if the like had happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all the world to hear of it, particularly that part of the world yclept cheltenham. the dear old lady! ha, ha!" after a laugh, continuing: "but, speaking seriously, nell, i don't wish any one to be the wiser about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman, whose christian name begins with a g., and surname with an s." "those initials answer for mine," says george shenstone, coming forward and confronting her. "if your observation was meant for me, miss wynn, i can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of it." at his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, gwen wynn had given a start, feeling guilty, and looking it. soon, however, reflecting whence he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder. "ah! you've been overhearing us, mr. shenstone! bad luck, you call it. bad or good, i don't think you are justified in attributing it to chance. when a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady bush, like that laurestinus for instance, and there stands listening--intentionally--" suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly home. with bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger. seeing it, the old tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:-"come, george! there must be no quarrel between you and me. what you've just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to hear. miss lees and i have had a little bit of an adventure; and if you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it." addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too. the confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. but, looking for explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. asking for it, it is denied him, with reason assigned thus: "you forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, i suppose, you'd say, being a game preserver. never mind about the simile. let us in to luncheon, if not too late." she steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, shenstone behind both. however hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. all gwen's cajoling has not tranquillized his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat. chapter ix. jealous already. captain ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too--given to gwendoline wynn. he now knows the name of the yellow-haired naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream. neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. he feels that his fate is sealed--or no longer in his hands, but hers. as wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the order of their occurrence. circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. helped as by heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. more than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! if so a little service on the wye goes a long way. thus reflects he in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. how different the value put upon it by gwen wynn! still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. if he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. some are dark as the shadows of the april showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc. one that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat-stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young and rather handsome. already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. a gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with miss wynn. strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting seemed to speak of something amiss! what could it mean? captain ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the self-same formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject:-"who the deuce can _he_ be?" out upon the river, and drawing hard at his regalia, he goes on:-"wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! can't be a brother! i understood her to say she had none. does he live at llangorren? no. she said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. but who in the deuce is the gentleman? might _he_ be a cousin?" so propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman--saying: "jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?" "only the head and shoulders o' one, captain." "head and shoulders? that's enough. do you chance to know him?" "i ain't thorough sure; but i think he be a mr. shenstone." "who is mr. shenstone?" "the son o' sir george." "sir george! what do you know of _him_?" "not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below." the information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. captain ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. it is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. in truth, a formidable rival! so he reflects, smoking away like mad. after a time, he again observes,-"you've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?" "parsonally, i don't, captain. but, now as i see where they live, i know who they be. i've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good deal." the biggest of them! as if she were a salmon! in the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation! ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:-"what have you heard of her?" "that she be a _tidy_ young lady. wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. fr' all, i may say that up to this day, i never set eyes on her afore." the hussar officer has been long enough in herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved." that miss wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river. one thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. he seeks an explanation. "how is it, jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?" he is unaware that wingate though born on the wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his birthplace being far up in the shire of brecon. still that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,-"lord love ye, sir! that shows how little you understand this river. why, captain, it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. it comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. there's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help 'specially women--seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's aflood. that's frequent, summer well as winter." the explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. the sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings. "whose is it, jack?" he asks. "b'longs to a man, name o' murdock." "odd looking domicile!" "ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him be true." "ah! mr. murdock's a character, then?" "ay; an' a queery one." "in what respect? what way?" "more'n one--a goodish many." "specify, jack." "well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time." "addicted to dipsomania." "'dicted to getting dead drunk. i've seen him so, scores o' 'casions." "that's not wise of mr. murdock." "no, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. all the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'." "where may that be?" "the welsh harp--up at rogue's ferry." "rogue's ferry? strange appellation! what sort of place is it? not very nice, i should say--if the name be at all appropriate." "it's parfitly 'propriate, though i b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed. it got so called after a man the name o' rugg, who once keeped the welsh harp and the ferry too. it's about two mile above, a little ways back. besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about, wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals truckways, an' a'nt partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as any--ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. they got plenty o' them, too. the place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good many as have sarved their spell in the penitentiary." "why, wingate, you astonish me! i was under the impression your wyeside was a sort of arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity." "you won't meet much o' either at rogue's ferry. if there be an uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. them forest chaps we came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. just possible drink made them behave as they did--some o' 'em. but drink or no drink it be all the same wi' the ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober. any ways they're a rough lot." "with a place of worship in their midst! that ought to do something towards refining them." "ought; and would, i daresay, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt. instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being roman." "oh! a roman catholic chapel. but how does it corrupt them?" "by makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever black they be. men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of crime--'specially if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls absolution." "well, jack, it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the pope." "neyther o' pope nor priest. ah! captain; if you seed him o' the rogue's ferry chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole kit o' them." "what is there 'specially repulsive about him?" "don't know as there be anythin' very special, in partickler. them priests all look 'bout the same--such o' 'em as i've ever set eyes on. and that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into another. as for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an' everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. if ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of rogue's ferry." "no," he adds, correcting himself. "there be one other in these parts worse that he--if that's possible. a different sort o' man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither." "who is this other?" "dick dempsey--better known by the name of coracle dick." "ah, coracle dick! he appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. why, may i ask? what sort of fellow is he?" "the biggest blaggard as lives on the wye, from where it springs out o' plinlimmon to its emptying into the bristol channel. talk o' poachers an' night netters. he goes out by night to catch somethin' beside salmon. 'taint all fish as comes into his net, i know." the young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying,-"we've strayed from our subject, jack--which was the hard-drinking owner of yonder house." "not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so much as his missus." "murdock is married, then?" "i won't say that--leastwise i shouldn't like to swear it. all i know is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. odd thing she." "why odd?" "'cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here." "explain yourself, jack. in what does mrs. murdock differ from the rest of your herefordshire fair?" "one way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o' them women i've seed 'bout cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from india--_ayers_ they call 'em. she a'nt one o' 'em, but french, i've heerd say; which in part, i suppose explains the thickness 'tween her an' the priest--he bein' the same." "oh! his reverence is a frenchman, is he?" "all o' that, captain. if he wor english, he woudn't--coudn't--be the contemptible sneakin' hound he is. as for mrs. murdock, i can't say i've seed her more'n twice in my life. she keeps close to the house; goes nowhere! an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o' the old gentry. for all mr. murdock belongs to the best of them." "he's a gentleman, is he?" "ought to be--if he took after his father." "why so?" "because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort. he's not been so long dead. i can remember him myself, though i hadn't been here such a many years--the old lady too--this murdock's mother. ah! now i think on't, she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two young ladies--the one with the reddish hair." "what! miss wynn?" "yes, captain; her they calls gwen." ryecroft questions no farther. he has learnt enough to give him food for reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life. chapter x. the cuckoo's glen. about a mile above llangorren court, but on the opposite side of the wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of captain ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "glyngog"--cymric synonym for "cuckoo's glen." not immediately on the water's edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet. glyngog house is one of those habitations, common in the county of hereford as other western shires--puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. this from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard--a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes. about glyngog house, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the elizabethan period--in short that termed tudor. for its own walls are not altogether stone; instead, a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the wye--their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking. about this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for glyngog was once a manor-house. now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the _enceinte_ walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse. for all, the house is not uninhabited. three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys. few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. the traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. it can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of over-growing thorns and trailing brambles. notwithstanding these disadvantages, glyngog has something to recommend it--a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of england. he who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather æsthetic than utilitarian. for the land attached and belonging--some fifty or sixty acres--is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. but the view is superb. below, the wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes--till sweeping past the cuckoo's glen, it runs on in straight reach towards llangorren. eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees--now in full leaf, for it is the month of june--here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy façade of a gentleman's mansion--in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the blorenge, skerrid, and sugar loaf. the man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it. and yet just such a man is now viewing it from glyngog house, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. he is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray on which are tumbler, bottle and jug--the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. he is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass. the personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. like all these, he looks dilapidated. not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows feet ramifying around them. this due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. and it is. lewin murdock--such is the man's name--has led a dissipated life. not much of it in england; still less in herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits--his paternal home. since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither--often seen, however, at baden, homburg, and other "hells," punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. at a later period in paris, during the imperial _régime_--worst hell of all. it has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a _pied à terre_, on which he may only set his foot with a mortgage around his neck. for even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. he is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. the farmer's sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will: give lewin murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity. for all, land does this--the very thing. no limited tract; but one of many acres in extent--even miles--the land of llangorren. it is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. on the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the "grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging--as they are. a smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of lewin murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. and the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow. not much of an enigma either. that land of llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin--gwendoline wynn. were she not, it would be his. between him and it runs the wye, a broad, deep river. but what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? a barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. for it is but the _thread of a life_. should it snap, or get accidentally severed, lewin murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of llangorren, and take possession. he would scarce be human not to think of all this. and being human he does--has thought of it oft, and many a time. with feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. these due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother, who married murdock of glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of gwen wynn. all matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. and of these but one is living--the heroine of our tale. "only she--but she!" mutters lewin murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass. chapter xi. a weed by the wyeside. "only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and pouring more brandy into the tumbler. though speaking _sotto voce_, and not supposing himself overheard, he is, nevertheless--by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has stepped silently behind him, there pausing. odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the wyeside; altogether unlike a native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the seine, and brought up to tread the boulevards of paris--like the latter from the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose toes she stands poised and balancing. in front of that ancient english manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place--as much as a costermonger, driving his moke-drawn cart among the pyramids, or smoking a "pickwick" by the side of the sphinx. for all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence there. she is lewin murdock's wife. if he has left his fortune in foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has thence brought her, his better-half. physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and possibly more to crime. tall and dark as the daughters of the latinic race, with features beautiful in the past--even still attractive to those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin. such were hers, first given to him in a _café chantant_ of the tuileries--oft afterwards repeated in _jardin_, _bois_, and _bals_ of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the eglise la madeleine. busied with his brandy, and again gazing at llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation:-"_eh, bien?_" he starts at the interrogatory, turning round. "you think too loud, monsieur--that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. and you might--seeing that it's a love secret! may i ask who is this _she_ you're soliloquising about? some of your old english _bonnes amies_, i suppose?" this, with an air of affected jealousy she is far from feeling. in the heart of the _ex-cocotte_ there is no place for such a sentiment. "got nothing to do with _bonnes amies_, young or old," he gruffly replies. "just now i've got something else to think of than sweethearts. enough occupation for my thoughts in the how i'm to support a wife--yourself, madame." "it wasn't me you meant. no, indeed. some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest." "there you're right, it was one other, in whom i feel all that." "_merci, monsieur! ma foi!_ your candour deserves all thanks. perhaps you'll extend it, and favour me with the lady's name? a lady, i presume. the grand seigneur lewin murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less." ignorance pretended. she knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving them; for she has been watching him from a window, and observed the direction of his glances. and she has more than a suspicion as to the nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that something besides a river separating them from llangorren. "her name?" she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent searchingly on his. avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making answer. "it is a love secret, then? i thought so. it's cruel of you, lewin! this is the return for giving you--all i had to give!" she may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice. only her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores--ay hundreds--of others, before being bestowed upon him. no false pretence, however, on her part. he knew all that, or should have known it. how could he help? olympe, the belle of the jardin mabille, was no obscurity in the _demi-monde_ of paris--even in its days of glory under napoleon le petite. her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt. she is drawing on to that term of life termed _passé_; and begins to feel conscious of it. he may be the same. not that for his opinion she cares a straw--save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether independent of slighted affection--the very purpose she is now working upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has hitherto had. and well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love's fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful french ways and dark flashing eyes. as he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost as much her slave as when he first became her husband. for all he does not show it. this day he is out of sorts with himself, and her, and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham tenderness--as if knowing it such--he takes another swallow of brandy, and smokes on in silence. now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims:-"_perfide!_" adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the dames of the _demi-monde_ know how to give, "keep your secret! what care i?" then changing tone, "_mon dieu!_ france--dear france! why did i ever leave you?" "because your dear france became too dear to live in." "clever _double entendre_! no doubt you think it witty! dear, or not, better a garret there--a room in its humblest _entresol_ than this. i'd rather serve in a cigar shop--keep a _gargot_ in the faubourg montmartre--than lead such a _triste_ life as we're now doing. living in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our heads!" "how would you like to live in that over yonder?" he nods towards llangorren court. "you are merry, monsieur. but your jests are out of place--in presence of the misery around us." "you may some day," he goes on, without heeding her observation. "yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks. you seem to forget that mademoiselle wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws of life will outlive both. must, unless she break her neck in the hunting-field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet _some other mischance_." she pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis, pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as if to note their effect. taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look--almost shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as might have been given by messalina, or the murderess of duncan. hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it is yet tender in comparison with hers. and he knows it, knowing her history, or enough of it--her nature as well--to make him think her capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to--neither more nor less than-he dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word. he is not yet up to that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it--a dread, dark design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to execution. and that the tempter is by his side he is more than half conscious. it is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech from those fair lips. to-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so delicate. he has spent part of the preceding night at the welsh harp--the tavern spoken of by wingate--and his nerves are unstrung, yet not recovered from the revelry. instead of asking her what she means by "some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless indifference,-"true, olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on expectations." "starve on them, you mean." this in a tone, and with a shrug, which seem to convey reproach for its weakness. "well, _chèrie_," he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the source whence our fine fortunes are to come. and a pretty sight it is, isn't it? _un coup d'oeil charmant!_" he again turns his eyes upon llangorren, as also she, and for some time both are silent. attractive at any time, the court is unusually so on this same summer's day. for the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a large white tent there erected--a marquee--from whose ribbed roof projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak. they have had no direct information of what all this is for--since to lewin murdock and his wife the society of herefordshire is tabooed. but they can guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of the sort, there often given. while they are still gazing its special kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in groups before the tent. there are ladies gaily attired--in the distance looking like bright butterflies--some dressed _à la diane_, with bows in hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant; while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets. murdock himself cares little for such things. he has had his surfeit of fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of bitterness. he regards llangorren with something in his mind more substantial than its sports and pastimes. with different thoughts looks the parisian upon them--in her heart a chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence--ambitions uncontrollable, but never to be attained. as satan gazed back when hurled out of the garden of eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of llangorren. no _jardin_ of paris--not the bois itself--ever seemed to her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering--a heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country. after long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul--tantalized, almost to torture--she faces towards her husband, saying-"and you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life----" "two!" interrupts a voice--not his. both turning, startled, behold--_father rogier_! chapter xii. a wolf in sheep's clothing. father rogier is a french priest of a type too well known over all the world--the jesuitical. spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks loyola from head to heel. he himself looks no one straight in the face. confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. and but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's clothing--rather suggesting it. and in truth is he one; a very pharisee--inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret council over an _auto da fé_. what is such a man doing in herefordshire? what, in protestant england? time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. as for instance, when our popular queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress. then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal. all that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept--to all appearance forgotten! now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land--threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff king hal. no one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk--no matter in what part of england, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon wyeside. father rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere--to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. the same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man's presence upon it. the same craft as the rain-maker of south africa, or the medicine man of the north american indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilization, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault. _père_ rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in herefordshire. he has not been quite three years resident on wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded marthas and marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. true, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. but the peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partizanship, can exact. fear of the devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the rugg's ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest. and if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel--the murdocks. with the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. different the woman. born in the faubourg montmartre, her father a common _ouvrier_, her mother a _blanchisseuse_--herself a beautiful girl--olympe renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. the same ambition made her lewin murdock's wife, and has brought her on to england. for she did not marry him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. that was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had. that the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. with step, silent and cat-like--his usual mode of progression--he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. on hearing it, and seeing who, murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. besides, born and brought up roman catholic, he has that respect for his priest habitual to a proverb--would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black coat. salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking: "what do you mean, father rogier, by 'two'?" "what i've said, m'sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be--in time perhaps ten. a fair _paysage_ it is!" he continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of tempé, or garden of the hesperides. _parbleu!_ i never believed your england so beautiful. ah! what's going on at llangorren?" this as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. "a _fête champêtre_: mademoiselle making merry! in honour of the anticipated change, no doubt." "still i don't comprehend," says murdock, looking puzzled. "you speak in riddles, father rogier." "riddles easily read, m'sieu. of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there." this, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of mrs. murdock's left hand, put upon it by murdock himself on the day he became her husband. he now comprehends--his quick-witted wife sooner. "ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "mademoiselle to be married?" the priest gives an assenting nod. "that's news to me," mutters murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death. "_moi aussi!_ who, _père_? not monsieur shenstone, after all?" the question shows how well she is acquainted with miss wynn--if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections! "no," answers the priest. "not he." "who then?" asked the two simultaneously. "a man likely to make many heirs to llangorren--widen the breach between you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged." "_père rogier!_" appeals murdock, "i pray you speak out! who is to do this? his name?" "_le capitaine ryecroft._" "captain ryecroft! who--what is he?" "an officer of hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of mars and apollo; strong as hercules! as i've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with gwen wynn for their mother. _helas!_ i can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the lawn!" "captain ryecroft!" repeats murdock musingly; "i never saw--never heard of the man!" "you hear of him now, and possibly see him too. no doubt he's among those gay toxophilites--ha! no, he's nearer! what a strange coincidence! the old saw, 'speak of the fiend.' there's _your_ fiend, monsieur murdock!" he points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. it is dropping down in the direction of llangorren court. "which?" asks murdock mechanically. "he with the _chapeau blanc_. that's whom you have to fear. the other's but the waterman wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear--unless indeed our worthy friend coracle dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty mary morgan. yes, _mes amis_! under that conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of llangorren." "never!" exclaims murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "never!" the french priest and ci-devant french courtezan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both. "you speak excitedly, m'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. but how is it to be hindered?" "i don't know," sourly rejoins murdock; "i suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. you'll stay to dinner with us, father rogier?" "if not putting you to inconvenience." "nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, i should rather say. the butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if i mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden." "monsieur murdock! it's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. a crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. besides, your english bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. with a bit of wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy lucullus himself." "ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. but where are they? my fishmonger, who is conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; i suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books. still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. that they do with provoking frequency. even this morning, before i was out of bed, i had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. so, _père_, i am sorry i can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may not be aware, that it is out of season." "it's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate." "but it's close time now," urges the englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman. "not to those who know how to open it," returns the frenchman with a significant shrug. "and suppose we do that to-day?" "i don't understand. will your reverence enlighten me?" "well, m'sieu; being whit-monday, and coming to pay you a visit, i thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little present--for madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant." the husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. is the priest jesting? beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird. "where are they?" asks murdock mechanically. "you say you've brought them along?" "ah! that was metaphorical. i meant to say i had sent them. and if i mistake not, they are near now. yes; there's my messenger!" he points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet. "coracle dick!" exclaims murdock, recognising the poacher. "the identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way--for certain purposes. true, he's neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. i find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, monsieur murdock--some day. should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, richard dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service--for a consideration." while murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. a stout thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. for all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible. his garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. in the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag--appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant. having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:-"_arretez!_ they're not commodities that keep well in the sun. should a water-bailiff, or one of the llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they'd spoil at once. those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. so, worthy coracle, before uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen." thus instructed the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; mrs. murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it--not she. that would be _infra dig._ for the _ancien belle of mabille_. poor as is the establishment of glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a _slavey_ to assist. the other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. more than one; for father rogier, though french, can drink like a born hibernian. nothing of the good templar in him. after they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:-"_parbleu!_ they appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!" he is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. "and most of all, i should say, monsieur white cap--foretasting the sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of llangorren." "that--never!" exclaims murdock, this time adding an oath. "never while i live. when i'm dead----" "_diner!_" interrupts a female voice from the house--that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep. "madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, m'sieu. while picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. _allons!_" chapter xiii. among the arrows. the invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets. only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back. gwen wynn herself is in this opening contest. good with the bow, as at the oar--indeed with county celebrity as an archer--carrying the champion badge of her club--it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious. soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. she is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. instead, negligently, and, to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. the gathering is large--nearly a hundred people present--and one might come or go without attracting observation. she evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. there is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance. it is not unobserved. a gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause--a suspicion that pains him. it is george shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows--in short acting as her _aide-de-camp_. neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. his glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction--to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up. they are both "prospecting" for the self-same individual, but with very different ideas--one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. for the expected one is a gentleman--no other than vivian ryecroft. shenstone knows the hussar officer has been invited, and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. were it himself, no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds. as time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, shenstone begins to think he will this day have miss wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. there are others present who seek her smiles--some aspiring to her hand--but none he fears so much as the one still absent. just as he is becoming calm and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus "swell," who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:-"who is that fella, shenstone?" "what fellow?" "he with the vewy peculya head gear. indian affair--_topee_, i bewieve they call it." "where?" asks shenstone, starting and staring to all sides. "yondaw! appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. looks a fwesh awival. i take it he must have come by bawt! knaw him?" george shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. were gwen wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his heart. for he wearing the "peculya head gear" is the man he most fears, and whom he had hoped not to see this day. so much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor indeed has he opportunity, as just then miss wynn, sighting the _topee_ too, suddenly turning, says to him:-"george! be good enough to take charge of these things." she holds her bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. "yonder's a gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. aunt will expect me to receive him. i'll be back soon as i've discharged my duty." delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further speech or ceremony. he stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression. indeed sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement he notes the manner of her reception--greeting the new comer with a warmth and cordiality he, shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the man may be. little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called duty; but so exasperating to the baronet's son, he feels like crushing the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his knee! as he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his inquisitive acquaintance, who asks: "what's the matter, jawge? yaw haven't answered my intewogatowy!" "what was it? i forget." "aw, indeed! that's stwange. i merely wished to knaw who mr. white cap is?" "just what i'd like to know myself. all i can tell you is, that he's an army fellow--in the cavalry i believe--by name ryecroft." "aw yas; cavalwy. that's evident by the bend of his legs. wyquoft--wyquoft, you say?" "so he calls himself--a captain of hussars--his own story." this in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation. "but yaw don't think he's an adventuwer?" "can't say whether he is, or not." "who's his endawser? how came he intwoduced at llangowen?" "that i can't tell you." he could though; for miss wynn, true to her promise, has made him acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. in a sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable. "by jawve! the light bob appears to have made good use of his time--however intwoduced. miss gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and yondaw the little lees shaking hands, as though the two had been acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! see! they're dwagging him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a queen of the tawnament times. vewy mediæval the whole affair--vewy!" "instead, very modern; in my opinion disgustingly so!" "why d'yaw say that, jawge?" "why! because in either olden or mediæval times such a thing couldn't have occurred--here in herefordshire." "what thing, pway?" "a man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction. now-a-days any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a shower!" "but, shawly, that isn't how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with the fair gwendoline?" "oh! i don't say that," rejoins shenstone, with forced attempt at a smile--more natural, as he sees miss wynn separate from the group they are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. better satisfied, now, he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him adds: "if you are really desirous to know how miss wynn became acquainted with him, you can ask the lady herself." not for all the world would the swell put that question to gwen wynn. it would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up to the spot. ryecroft, left with miss linton, remains in conversation with her. it is not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor at llangorren--introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue--possibly to the saving of their lives! thus, the version of the adventure vouchsafed to the aunt--sufficient to sanction his being received at the court. and the ancient toast of cheltenham has been charmed with him. in the handsome hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance reading; so much like it, that lord lutestring has long ago gone out of her thoughts--passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical sound. of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so welcome as that of the martial stranger. * * * * * resuming her bow, gwen shoots no better than before. her thoughts, instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a _tête-à-tête_ with the aunt. her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one sticking in the straw. in fine, among all the competitors, she counts lowest score--the poorest she has herself ever made. but what matters it? she is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have excuse to return to miss linton, on some question connected with the hospitalities of the house. observing all this, and much more besides, george shenstone feels aggrieved--indeed exasperated--so terribly, it takes all his best breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. he might not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground--which he does not. as if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves llangorren long before the sports come to a close. not rudely, or with any show of spleen. he is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal, adieu to miss linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to miss wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into the saddle, and rides off. many the day he has entered the gates of llangorren with a light and happy heart--this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad. if missed from the archery meeting, it is not by miss wynn. instead, she is glad of his being gone. notwithstanding the love passion for another now occupying her heart--almost filling it--there is still room there for the gentler sentiment of pity. she knows how shenstone suffers--how could she help knowing?--and pities him. never more than at this same moment, despite that distant, half-disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing them. how men underrate the perception of women! in matters of this kind a very intuition. none keener than that of gwen wynn. she knows why he has gone so short away--well as if he had told her. and with the compassionate thought still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate--going in reckless gallop--but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight! in an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. but now shooting straight--hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the "gold." for he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. captain ryecroft has taken george shenstone's place as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between them--the shafts of cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both. chapter xiv. beating about the bush. naturally, captain ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at llangorren. a man of his mien would be so anywhere--if stranger. the old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion. he, too, wears a distinctive badge--in the white cap. for though our tale is of modern time, it antedates than when brown began to affect the _pugaree_--sham of manchester mills--as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. that on the head of captain ryecroft is the regular forage cap, with quilted cover. accustomed to it in india--whence he has but lately returned--he adheres to it in england, without thought of its attracting attention, and as little caring whether it does or not. it does, however. insular, we are supremely conservative--some might call it "caddish"--and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth. for other reasons the officer of hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. there is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of george shenstone. the true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad--these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while jack wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned. withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized--by some versions actually upset--and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon-fishing near by--his name, ryecroft. and as this tale also circulates among the archers at llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present. still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people--many of whom are strangers to one another--no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if captain ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. on these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration. none so warmly as those of gwen wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. for she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties. in which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to captain ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host--which in a sense she is--to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. that which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated. side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. it may not have been all chance their coming thither--no more the archery party itself. that gwendoline wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. but standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent, so much, that each can hear the beating of the other's heart--both brimful of love. at such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession, full, candid, and mutual. instead, at no time is this farther off. if _le joie fait peur_, far more _l'amour_. and with all that has passed is there fear between them. on her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward--in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. on his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. in his several calls at the court his reception has been both welcome and warm. still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. but why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there--the same every time--george shenstone by name? there before him, and staying after! and this very day, what meant mr. shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? having seen the one, and heard the other, captain ryecroft has misinterpreted both. no wonder his reluctance to speak words of love. and so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. on a simple utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery. nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. they who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases--perhaps its lying. when truly, deeply felt, it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the divinity worshipped. here, side by side, are two highly organized beings--a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid--both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life--loving each other to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! more; for corydon would fling his arms around his phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she, with like readiness would return. very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. they stand for a time silent as statues--though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible--as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. and when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another! it is the lady who speaks first:-"i understand you've been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, captain ryecroft?" "not quite three months, miss wynn. only a week or two before i had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." "thank you for calling it a pleasure. not much in the manner, i should say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding-"and how do you like our wye?" "who could help liking it?" "there's been much said of its scenery--in books and newspapers. you really admire it?" "i do, indeed." his preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "i think it the finest in the world." "what! you such a great traveller! in the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! do you really mean that, captain ryecroft?" "really--truthfully. why not, miss wynn?" "because i supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything----" "nay, not everything!" he says interruptingly. "in volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. in some it is superior to them all--rhine, rhone, ah! hippocrene itself!" his tongue is at length getting loosed. "what other respects?" she asks. "the forms reflected in it," he answers hesitatingly. "not those of vegetation! surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?" "no; not those." "our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. those wonderful structures--towers, temples, pagodas--of which it has given us the _fac similes_--far excel anything we have on the wye--or anything in england. even our tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. isn't that so?" "true," he says assentingly. "one must admit the superiority of oriental architecture." "but you've not told me what form our english river reflects, so much to your admiration!" he has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. the image is in his mind--her own--with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." but he shrinks from giving it utterance. instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively:-"the truth is, miss wynn, i've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old england. i know none to compare with these of the wyeside." "it's very pleasing to hear you say that--to me especially. it's but natural i should love our beautiful wye--i, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, i suppose, likely to----" "what?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech. "be buried on them!" she answers laughingly. she intended to have said "stay on them the rest of my life." "you'll think that a very grave conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh. "one at all events very far off--it is to be hoped. an eventuality not to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days--whether on the wye, or elsewhere." "ah! who can tell? the future is a sealed book to all of us." "yours need not be--at least as regards its happiness. i think that is assured." "why do you say so, captain ryecroft?" "because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it." he is saying no more than he thinks; far less. for he believes she could make fate itself--control it, as she can his. and as he would now confess to her--is almost on the eve of it--but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after shenstone. his fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. she may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. as yet, no word of love has passed her lips. is there thought of it in her heart--for him? "in what way? what mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation. the question staggers him. he does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively--somewhat confusedly-"oh! i only meant, miss wynn--that you so young--so--well, with all the world before you--surely have your happiness in your own hands." if he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. but he knows not, nor does she tell him. she, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion. it will need another _séance_--possibly more than one--before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. with them it is as with the wooing of eagles. she simply rejoins: "i wish it were," adding with a sigh, "far from it, i fear." he feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma--brought about by his own _gaucherie_--from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape--a house. it is the quaint old habitation of tudor times. pointing to it, he says: "a very odd building, that! if i've been rightly informed, miss wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?" "i have a cousin who lives there." the shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. he attributes it to the character he has heard of mr. murdock. his cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him. and she is; the shadow still staying. if she knew what is at that moment passing within glyngog--could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table--it might be darker. it is dark enough in her heart, as on her face--possibly from a presentiment. ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when ellen lees, with the rev. mr. musgrave as her cavalier attendant--they, too, straying solitarily--approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion. so the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end--to both of them unsatisfactory enough. for this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other's heart. chapter xv. a spiritual adviser. while the sports are in progress outside llangorren court, inside glyngog house is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out. it is early; but the murdocks often glad to eat what americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular. in the faces of the trio seated at the table a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle lavater himself. nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. but now and then, a _mot_ of double meaning let down by rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words. murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous, has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. and broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, englishman could still do that. to imagine such a man as rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded--in his case certainly misplaced. knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. for, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion--cupidity. they are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth £10,000 a year--that llangorren. they know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents. it is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered; still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. a task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. true, it might be accomplished almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. olympe renault, and gregorie rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more. in the third is the obstructor. lewin murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do money-lenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. he would be willing to rob gwendoline wynn of her property--glad to do it, if he only knew how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that. but he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating. not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. but to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "never!" hence their delight at hearing it. during the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion silent upon that paramount in their minds. how different the themes--as love itself from murder! and just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of glyngog. while the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice among the chattels of mr. murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high glee pronounces it "crimp." he speaks english like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest. the phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with. there is wine without stint; for although murdock's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the welsh harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the boniface of the rugg's ferry hostelry having a belief in his _post obit_ expectations. not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. the guests of the harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour, have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of möet and cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club. profiting by their æsthetic tastes, lewin murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. light bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant. at this point the conversation approaches a topic hitherto held in reserve, murdock himself starting it:-"so my cousin gwen's going to get married, eh! are you sure of that, father rogier?" "i wish i were as sure of going to heaven." "but what sort of man is he? you haven't told us." "yes, i have. you forget my description, monsieur--cross between mars and phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of medusa--enough of them to make heirs for llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of methuselah. ah! a fine looking fellow, i can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there nothing more to recommend the martial stranger. but there is." "what more?" "the mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic." "how was he introduced?" "well, he made her acquaintance on the water. it appears mademoiselle wynn and her companion lees, were out on the river for a row alone. unusual that! thus out, some fellows--forest of dean dwellers--offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le capitaine ryecroft_. with such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in marriage if he wished. and with such a rich heiress as mademoiselle gwendoline wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. that he, the hussar officer--captain, colonel, or whatever his rank--does, i've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. yes; sure as i sit here that man will be the master of llangorren." "i suppose he will--must," rejoins murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way or the other. olympe looks dissatisfied, but not rogier, nor she after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "wait." he himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work. taking the hint, she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil. she preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro forma_--obedient to a look from rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her _congè_, and retires. murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes--of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. they seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. it is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution. "by the way, m'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner--a meal i've greatly enjoyed--notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_. indeed, a very _bonne bouche_ your english bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the _pommes de terre_. you were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. what is it? not the deluge, i hope! true, your wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have aught to do with them?" "why should it?" asks murdock, not comprehending the drift. "because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. what with its whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. i wonder at mademoiselle wynn venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it." the peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to. "she's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. "about her carelessness i don't know." "but the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so. that affair of her going out alone is proof of it. what followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and capricious as women themselves. suppose hers should some day go to the bottom, she being in it?" "that would be bad." "of course it would. though, monsieur murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it." "no doubt they would. but what's the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?" "oh, true! still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall mademoiselle wynn as anybody else. a pity if it should--a misfortune! but so is the other thing." "what other thing?" "that such a property as llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. if what i've heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. it were better it belonged to a true son of the church, as i know you to be, m'sieu." murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. he is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms--regularly attends rogier's chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the italian bandit, after cutting a throat, will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_ at hearing the distant bell of the angelus. "a very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin. "in a worldly sense you mean? i'm aware you're not very rich." "in more senses than that. your reverence, i've been a great sinner, i admit." "admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. it is a deep sin the church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed." "oh, i haven't done anything deserving the name. only such as a great many others." "but you might be tempted some day. whether or not it's my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the vatican views such things. it's after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. this world is a ceaseless war between god and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. in our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even to the taking of life, else why should the great and good loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?" "true," grunts murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, father rogier. i confess ignorance in such matters; still, i see reason in what you say." "you may see it clearer if i set the application before you. as for instance, if a man have a right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefitting humanity at large. such an act is held by the best of our church authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. and such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. now, monsieur, do you comprehend me?" "quite," says murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half-tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine. withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself. soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says:-"you say you have sinned, monsieur. and if it were only for that, you ought to make amends." "in what way could i?" "the way i've been speaking of. bestow upon the church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence." "ah! where am i to find this means?" "on the other side of the river." "you forget that there's more than the stream between." "not much to a man who would be true to himself." "i'm that man all over." the brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "yes, père rogier; i'm ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the ears--duns every day. ha! i'd be true to myself, never fear!" "it needs being true to the church as well." "i'm willing to be that when i have the chance, if ever i have it. and to get it i'd risk life. not much if i lose it. it's become a burden to me, heavier than i can bear." "you may make it as light as a feather, m'sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at llangorren--even that of its young mistress." "how, _pére_?" "by yourself becoming its master." "ah! if i could." "you can!" "with safety?" "perfect safety." "and without committing"--he fears to speak the ugly english word, but expresses the idea in french--"_cette dernier coup_?" "certainly! who dreams of that? not i, m'sieu." "but how is it to be avoided?" "easily." "tell me, father rogier!" "not to-night, murdock!"--he has dropped the distant m'sieu--"not to-night. it's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm and careful. time, too. ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum! we must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it--possibly have to draw coracle dick into our deliberations. but not to-night--_par-dieu!_ it's ten o'clock! and i have business to do before going to bed. i must be off." "no, your reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine." "one more, then. but let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as you call it." murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. but only the frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair. "_bon soir monsieur!_" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore. for all, father rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. in the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. as he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:-"_c'est arrangé?_" "_pas encore serait tout suite._" this the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him. chapter xvi. coracle dick. a traveller making the tour of the wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise, walking upon his tail! mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean--rival to that of atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. for he will be looking at a "coracle." not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. in addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. nor will i dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place. in shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. the timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wicker-work, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. in olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. there is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. this is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath. in all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage"; and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. the bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail! in this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure--unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft i have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilized nations. the only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the esquimaux and the chippeway indians. but though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and readiness. for while the chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of king caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the wye, and paddled it from plinlimmon to chepstow; as many a modern welshman would the same. above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "lords"--not without right and reason. why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original covering. but certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of albion hundreds of years before these ever saw roman ship or standard. besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of "corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the lerne, far west of anywhere the romans ever went. among the common people on the wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle." from whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--richard dempsey. why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. it serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious calling--the coracle has a special adaptation. it can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water bailiff. despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, dick has not always come off scot-free. his name has several times figured in the reports of quarter sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. this only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind--burglary. as the "job" was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. the worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. he whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman wingate. but jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for the affections of a woman. no heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of coracle dick, as deeply as has another that of jack wingate. and both from the same bow and quiver--the eyes of mary morgan. she is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the wyeside; and being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. for evan morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. dick dempsey and jack wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, dick having the advantage. in his favour is the fact that farmer morgan is a roman catholic--his wife fanatically so--he, dempsey, professing the same faith; while wingate is a protestant of pronounced type. under these circumstances coracle has a friend at headquarters, in mrs. morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of father rogier. with this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would be, were it not for an influence to counteract. he, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. he knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. for all this has passed between mary morgan and himself. and nothing of it between her and richard dempsey. instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. it would be disdain--ay, scorn--if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. but, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown. the world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to richard dempsey--a known and noted poacher. but in justice to mrs. morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented by rogier. absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. in her eyes coracle dick is as the latter has painted him, thus-"a worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. who wouldn't with such laws--unrighteous, oppressive to the poor? were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. as for dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. for he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. yet, one thing he would make, that's a good husband to your daughter mary--one who has the strength and courage to take care of her." so counsels the priest; and as he can make mrs. morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. if the result rested on her, coracle dick would have nothing to fear. but it does not--he knows it does not, and is troubled. with all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if against him--far more than a counterpoise to mrs. morgan's religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. and thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth. a day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to midnight. his favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. they have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. it is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack. no shire than that of hereford more addicted to the joys of the harvest home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farmhouse. one such is given upon the summit of garran hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. there is a cromlech on the hill's top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time--the maypole--though it is autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. and there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole--that of may now so slippery--jumping, racing in sacks, dancing--among other dances the morris--with a grand _finale_ of fireworks. at this year's fête farmer morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. it need not be said that dick dempsey and jack wingate are there too. they are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since the gathering began. but during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. the poacher is restrained by a sense of his unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother. with all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of dick dempsey, who overhears them. it is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final _feu de joie_, mrs. morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives jack wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. sidling up to the girl, he asks, in a tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably-"when, mary?" "saturday night next. the priest's coming to supper. i'll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark." "where?" "the old place under the big elm." "you're sure you'll be able?" "sure, never fear, i'll find a way." "god bless you, dear girl. i'll be there, if anywhere on earth." that is all that passes between them. but enough--more than enough--for richard dempsey. as a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. on the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as mephistopheles gave to gretchen, escaping from his toils. the curse in coracle's heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on. chapter xvii. the "corpse candle." jack wingate lives in a little cottage whose bit of garden ground "brinks" the country road where the latter trends close to the wye at one of its sharpest sinuosities. the cottage is on the convex side of the bend, having the river at back, with a deep drain, or wash, running up almost to its walls, and forming a fence to one side of the garden. this gives the waterman another and more needed advantage--a convenient docking place for his boat. there the _mary_, moored, swings to her painter in safety; and when a rise in the river threatens, he is at hand to see she be not swept off. to guard against such catastrophe he will start up from his bed at any hour of the night, having more than one reason to be careful of the boat; for, besides being his _gagne-pain_, it bears the name, by himself given, of her the thought of whom sweetens his toil and makes his labour light. for her he bends industriously to his oar, as though he believed every stroke made and every boat's length gained was bringing him nearer to mary morgan. and in a sense so is it, whichever way the boat's head may be turned; the farther he rows her, the grander grows that heap of gold he is hoarding up against the day when he hopes to become a benedict. he has a belief that if he could but display before the eyes of farmer morgan sufficient money to take a little farm for himself and stock it, he might then remove all obstacles between him and mary--mother's objections and sinister and sacerdotal influence included. he is aware of the difference of rank--that social chasm between--being oft bitterly reminded of it; but emboldened by mary's smiles, he has little fear but that he will yet be able to bridge it. favouring the programme thus traced out, there is, fortunately, no great strain on his resources by way of drawback; only the maintaining of his own mother, a frugal dame--thrifty besides--who, instead of adding to the current expenses, rather curtails them by the adroit handling of her needle. it would have been a distaff in the olden days. thus helped in his housekeeping, the young waterman is enabled to put away almost every shilling he earns by his oar, and this same summer all through till autumn, which it now is, has been more than usually profitable to him, by reason of his so often having captain ryecroft as his fare; for although the hussar officer no longer goes salmon fishing--he has somehow been spoilt for that--there are other excursions upon which he requires the boat, and as ever generously, even lavishly, pays for it. from one of these the young waterman has but returned; and, after carefully bestowing the _mary_ at her moorings, stepped inside the cottage. it is saturday--within one hour of sundown--that same saturday spoken of "at the harvest home." but though jack is just home, he shows no sign of an intention to stay there; instead, behaves as if he intended going out again, though not in his boat. and he does so intend, for a purpose unsuspected by his mother,--to keep that appointment made hurriedly and in a half whisper, amid the fracas of the fireworks. the good dame had already set the table for tea, ready against his arrival, covered it with a cloth, snow-white of course. the tea-things superimposed, in addition a dining plate, knife and fork, these for a succulent beefsteak heard hissing on the gridiron almost as soon as the _mary_ made appearance at the mouth of the wash, and, soon as the boat was docked, done. it is now on the table, alongside the teapot; its savoury odour, mingling with the fragrance of the freshly "drawn" tea, fills the cottage kitchen with a perfume to delight the gods. for all, it gives no gratification to jack wingate the waterman. the appetizing smell of the meat, and the more ethereal aroma of the chinese shrub, are alike lost upon him. appetite he has none, and his thoughts are elsewhere. less from observing his abstraction, than the slow, negligent movements of his knife and fork, the mother asks-"what's the matter with ye, jack? ye don't eat!" "i ain't hungry, mother." "but ye been out since mornin', and tooked nothing wi' you!" "true; but you forget who i ha' been out with. the captain ain't the man to let his boatman be a hungered. we war down the day far as symond's yat, where he treated me to dinner at the hotel. the daintiest kind o' dinner, too. no wonder at my not havin' much care for eatin' now--nice as you've made things, mother." notwithstanding the compliment, the old lady is little satisfied--less as she observes the continued abstraction of his manner. he fidgets uneasily in his chair, every now and then giving a glance at the little dutch clock suspended against the wall, which in loud ticking seems to say, "you'll be late--you'll be late." she suspects something of the cause, but inquires nothing of it. instead, she but observes, speaking of the patron:-"he be very good to ye, jack." "ah! that he be; good to every one as comes nigh o' him--and's desarvin' it." "but ain't he stayin' in the neighbourhood longer than he first spoke of doin'?" "maybe he is. grand gentry such as he ain't like us poor folk. they can go and come whens'ever it please 'em. i suppose he have his reasons for remaining." "now, jack, you know he have, an' i've heerd something about 'em myself." "what have you heard, mother?" "oh, what! ye han't been a rowin' him up and down the river now nigh on five months without findin' out. an' if you haven't, others have. it's goin' all about that he's after a young lady as lives somewhere below. tidy girl, they say, tho' i never seed her myself. is it so, my son? say!" "well, mother, since you've put it straight at me in that way, i won't deny it to you, tho' i'm in a manner bound to saycrecy wi' others. it be true that the captain have some notion o' such a lady." "there be a story, too, o' her bein' nigh drownded an' his saving her out o' a boat. now, jack, whose boat could that be if it wa'nt your'n?" "'twor mine, mother; that's true enough. i would a-told you long ago, but he asked me not to talk o' the thing. besides, i didn't suppose you'd care to hear about it." "well," she says, satisfied, "tan't much to me, nor you neyther, jack; only as the captain being so kind, we'd both like to know the best about him. if he have took a fancy for the young lady, i hope she return it. she ought after his doin' what he did for her. i han't heerd her name; what be it?" "she's a miss wynn, mother. a very rich heiress. 'deed i b'lieve she ain't a heiress any longer, or won't be, after next thursday, sin' that day she comes o' age. an' that night there's to be a big party at her place, dancin' an' all sorts o' festivities. i know it because the captain's goin' there, an' has bespoke the boat to take him." "wynn, eh? that be a welsh name. wonder if she's any kin o' the great sir watkin." "can't say, mother. i believe there be several branches o' the wynn family." "yes, and all o' the good sort. if she be one o' the welsh wynns, the captain can't go far astray in having her for his wife." mrs. wingate is herself of cymric ancestry, originally from the shire of pembroke, but married to a man of montgomery, where jack was born. it is only of late, in her widowhood, she has become a resident of herefordshire. "so you think he have a notion o' her, jack?" "more'n that, mother. i may as well tell ye; he be dead in love wi' her. an' if you seed the young lady herself, ye wouldn't wonder at it. she be most as good-looking as----" jack suddenly interrupted himself on the edge of a revelation he would rather not make, to his mother nor anyone else. for he has hitherto been as careful in keeping his own secret as that of his patron. "as who?" she asks, looking him straight in the face, and with an expression in her eyes of no common interest--that of maternal solicitude. "who?--well--" he answers confusedly; "i wor goin' to mention the name o' a girl who the people 'bout here think the best lookin' o' any in the neighbourhood----" "an' nobody more'n yourself, my son. you needn't gie her name. i know it." "oh, mother! what d'ye mean?" he stammers out, with eyes on the but half-eaten beefsteak. "i take it they've been tellin' ye some stories about me." "no, they han't. nobody's sayed a word about ye relatin' to that. i've seed it for myself, long since, though you've tried to hide it. i'm not goin' to blame ye eyther, for i believe she be a tidy proper girl. but she's far aboon you, my son; and ye maun mind how you behave yourself. if the young lady be anythin' likes good-lookin' as mary morgan----" "yes, mother! that's the strangest thing o' all----" he interrupts her, speaking excitedly; again interrupting himself. "what's strangest?" she inquires, with a look of wonderment. "never mind, mother! i'll tell you all about it some other time. i can't now; you see its nigh nine o' the clock." "well; an' what if 't be?" "because i may be too late." "too late for what? surely you arn't goin' out again the night?" she asks this, seeing him rise up from his chair. "i must, mother." "but why?" "well, the boat's painter's got frailed, and i want a bit o' whipcord to lap it with. they have the thing at the ferry shop, and i must get there afores they shut up." a fib, perhaps pardonable, as the thing he designs lapping is not his boat's painter, but the waist of mary morgan, and not with slender whipcord, but his own stout arms. "why won't it do in the mornin'?" asks the ill-satisfied mother. "well, ye see, there's no knowin' but that somebody may come after the boat. the captain mayent but he may, changin' his mind. anyhow, he'll want her to go down to them grand doin's at llangorren court?" "llangorren court?" "yes; that's where the young lady lives." "that's to be on thursday, ye sayed?" "true; but, then, there may come a fare the morrow, an' what if there do? 'tain't the painter only as wants splicing there's a bit o' leak sprung close to the cutwater, and i must hae some pitch to pay it." if jack's mother would only step out, and down to the ditch where the _mary_ is moored, with a look at the boat, she would make him out a liar. its painter is smooth and clean as a piece of gimp, not a strand unravelled--while but two or three gallons of bilge water at the boat's bottom attest to there being little or no leakage. but she, good dame, is not thus suspicious, instead so reliant on her son's truthfulness, that without questioning further, she consents to his going, only with a proviso against his staying, thus appealingly put-"ye won't be gone long, my son! i know ye won't!" "indeed i shan't, mother. but why be you so partic'lar about my goin' out--this night more'n any other?" "because, jack, this day, more'n most others, i've been feelin' bothered like, and a bit frightened." "frightened o' what? there han't been nobody to the house--has there?" "no; ne'er a rover since you left me in the mornin'." "then what's been a scarin' ye, mother?" "'deed, i don't know, unless it ha' been brought on by the dream i had last night. 'twer a dreadful unpleasant one. i didn't tell you o' it 'fore ye went out, thinkin' it might worry ye." "tell me now, mother." "it hadn't nought to do wi' us ourselves, after all. only concernin' them as live nearest us." "ha! the morgans?" "yes; the morgans." "oh, mother, what did you dream about them?" "that i were standin' on the big hill above their house, in the middle o' the night, wi' black darkness all round me; and there lookin' down what should i see comin' out o' their door?" "what?" "the canwyll corph!" "the canwyll corph?" "yes, my son; i seed it--that is i dreamed i seed it--coming just out o' the farmhouse door, then through the yard, and over the foot-plank at the bottom o' the orchard, when it went flarin' up the meadows straight towards the ferry. though ye can't see that from the hill, i dreamed i did; an' seed the candle go on to the chapel an' into the buryin' ground. that woked me." "what nonsense, mother! a ridiklous superstition! i thought you'd left all that sort o' stuff behind, in the mountains o' montgomery, or pembrokeshire, where the thing comes from, as i've heerd you say." "no, my son; it's not stuff, nor superstition neyther; though english people say that to put slur upon us welsh. your father before ye believed in the _canwyll corph_, and wi' more reason ought i, your mother. i never told you, jack, but the night before your father died i seed it go past our own door, and on to the graveyard o' the church where he now lies. sure as we stand here there be some one doomed in the house o' evan morgan. there be only three in the family. i do hope it an't her as ye might some day be wantin' me to call daughter." "mother! you'll drive me mad! i tell ye it's all nonsense. mary morgan be at this moment healthy and strong--most as much as myself. if the dead candle ye've been dreamin' about were all o' it true, it couldn't be a burnin' for her. more like for mrs. morgan, who's half daft by believing in church candles and such things--enough to turn her crazy, if it doesn't kill her outright. as for you, my dear mother, don't let the dream bother you the least bit. an' ye mustn't be feeling lonely, as i shan't be long gone. i'll be back by ten sure." saying which, he sets his straw hat jauntily on his thick curly hair, gives his guernsey a straightening twitch, and, with a last cheering look and encouraging word to his mother, steps out into the night. left alone, she feels lonely withal, and more than ever afraid. instead of sitting down to her needle, or making to remove the tea-things, she goes to the door, and there stays, standing on its threshold and peering into the darkness--for it is a pitch dark night--she sees, or fancies, a light moving across the meadows, as if it came from farmer morgan's house, and going in the direction of rugg's ferry. while she continues gazing, it twice crosses the wye, by reason of the river's bend. as no mortal hand could thus carry it, surely it is the _canwyll corph_! chapter xviii. a cat in the cupboard. evan morgan is a tenant-farmer, holding abergann. by herefordshire custom, every farm or its stead, has a distinctive appellation. like the land belonging to glyngog, that of abergann lies against the sides of a sloping glen--one of the hundreds or thousands of lateral ravines that run into the valley of the wye. but, unlike the old manor-house, the domicile of the farmer is at the glen's bottom, and near the river's bank; nearer yet to a small influent stream, rapid and brawling, which sweeps past the lower end of the orchard in a channel worn deep into the soft sandstone. though with the usual imposing array of enclosure walls, the dwelling itself is not large, nor the outbuildings extensive; for the arable acreage is limited. this because the ridges around are too high pitched for ploughing, and if ploughed would be unproductive. they are not even in pasture, but overgrown with woods; less for the sake of the timber, which is only scrub, than as a covert for foxes. they are held in hand by evan morgan's landlord--a noted nimrod. for the same reason the farmhouse stands in a solitary spot, remote from any other dwelling. the nearest is the cottage of the wingates--distant about half a mile, but neither visible from the other. nor is there any direct road between, only a footpath, which crosses the brook at the bottom of the orchard, thence cunning over a wooded ridge to the main highway. the last, after passing close to the cottage, as already said, is deflected away from the river by this same ridge, so that when evan morgan would drive anywhere beyond the boundaries of his farm, he must pass out through a long lane, so narrow that were he to meet any one driving in, there would be a dead-lock. however, there is no danger; as the only vehicles having occasion to use this thoroughfare are his own farm waggon and a lighter "trap" in which he goes to market, and occasionally with his wife and daughter to merry-makings. when the three are in it there is none of his family at home. for he has but one child--a daughter. nor would he long have her were a half-score of young fellows allowed their way. at least this number would be willing to take her off his hands, and give her a home elsewhere. remote as is the farmhouse of abergann, and narrow the lane leading to it, there are many who would be glad to visit there, if invited. in truth a fine girl is mary morgan, tall, bright-haired, and with blooming cheeks, beside which red rose leaves would seem _fade_. living in a town she would be its talk; in a village its belle. even from that secluded glen has the fame of her beauty gone forth and afar. of husbands she could have her choice, and among men much richer than her father. in her heart she has chosen one, not only much poorer, but lower in social rank--jack wingate. she loves the young waterman, and wants to be his wife; but knows she cannot without the consent of her parents. not that either has signified opposition, since they have never been asked. her longings in that direction she has kept secret from them. nor does she so much dread refusal by the father. evan morgan had been himself poor--began life as a farm labourer--and, though now an employer of such, his pride had not kept pace with his prosperity. instead, he is, as ever, the same modest, unpresuming man, of which the lower middle classes of the english people present many noble examples. from him jack wingate would have little to fear on the score of poverty. he is well acquainted with the young waterman's character, knows it to be good, and has observed the efforts he is making to better his condition in life; it may be with suspicion of the motive, at all events, admiringly--remembering his own. and although a roman catholic, he is anything but bigoted. were he the only one to be consulted, his daughter might wed with the man upon whom she has fixed her affections, at any time it pleases them--ay, at any place, too, even within the walls of a protestant church! by him neither would jack wingate be rejected on the score of religion. very different with his wife. of all the worshippers who compose the congregation at the rugg's ferry chapel, none bend the knee to baal as low as she; and over no one does father rogier exercise such influence. baneful it is like to be; since not only has he control of the mother's conduct, but through that may also blight the happiness of the daughter. apart from religious fanaticism, mrs. morgan is not a bad woman--only a weak one. as her husband, she is of humble birth, and small beginnings; like him, too, neither has prosperity affected her in the sense of worldly ambition. perhaps better if it had. instead of spoiling, a little social pride might have been a bar to the dangerous aspirations of richard dempsey--even with the priest standing sponsor for him. but she has none, her whole soul being absorbed by blind devotion to a faith which scruples not at anything that may assist in its propagandism. * * * * * it is the saturday succeeding the festival of the harvest home, a little after sunset, and the priest is expected at abergann. he is a frequent visitor there; by mrs. morgan ever made welcome, and treated to the best cheer the farmhouse can afford; plate, knife, and fork always placed for him. and, to do him justice, he may be deemed in a way worthy of such hospitality; for he is, in truth, a most entertaining personage; can converse on any subject, and suit his conversation to the company, whether high or low. as much at home with the wife of the welsh farmer as with the french _ex-cocotte_, and equally so in the companionship of dick dempsey, the poacher. in his hours of _far niente_ all are alike to him. this night he is to take supper at abergann, and mrs. morgan, seated in the farmhouse parlour, awaits his arrival. a snug little apartment, tastefully furnished, but with a certain air of austerity, observable in roman catholic houses; this by reason of some pictures of saints hanging against the walls, an image of the virgin and, standing niche-like in a corner, one of the crucifixion over the mantel-shelf, with crosses upon books, and other like symbols. it is near nine o'clock, and the table is already set out. on grand occasions, as this, the farmhouse parlour is transformed into dining or supper room, indifferently. the meal intended to be eaten now is more of the former, differing in there being a tea-tray upon the table, with a full service of cups and saucers, as also in the lateness of the hour. but the odoriferous steam escaping from the kitchen, drifted into the parlour when its door is opened, tells of something in preparation more substantial than a cup of tea, with its usual accompaniment of bread and butter. and there is a fat capon roasting upon the spit, with a frying-pan full of sausages on the dresser, ready to be clapped upon the fire at the proper moment--as soon as the expected guest makes his appearance. and in addition to the tea-things, there is a decanter of sherry on the table, and will be another of brandy when brought on--father rogier's favourite tipple, as mrs. morgan has reason to know. there is a full bottle of this--cognac of best brand--in the larder cupboard, still corked as it came from the "welsh harp," where it cost six shillings--the rugg's ferry hostelry, as already intimated, dealing in drinks of a rather costly kind. mary has been directed to draw the cork, decant, and bring the brandy in, and for this purpose has just gone off to the larder. thence instantly returning, but without either decanter or cognac! instead, with a tale which sends a thrill of consternation through her mother's heart. the cat has been in the cupboard, and there made havoc--upset the brandy bottle, and sent it rolling off the shelf on the stone flags of the floor! broken, of course, and the contents-no need for further explanation. mrs. morgan does not seek it. nor does she stay to reflect on the disaster, but how it may be remedied. it will not mend matters to chastise the cat, nor cry over the spilt brandy, any more than if it were milk. on short reflection she sees but one way to restore the broken bottle--by sending to the "welsh harp" for a whole one. true, it will cost another six shillings, but she recks not of the expense. she is more troubled about a messenger. where, and how, is one to be had? the farm labourers have long since left. they are all benedicts, on board wages, and have departed for their respective wives and homes. there is a cowboy, yet he is also absent; gone to fetch the kine from a far-off pasturing place, and not be back in time; while the one female domestic maid-of-all-work is busy in the kitchen, up to her ears among pots and pans, her face at a red heat over the range. she could not possibly be spared. "it's very vexatious!" exclaims mrs. morgan, in a state of lively perplexity. "it is indeed!" assents her daughter. a truthful girl, mary, in the main; but just now the opposite. for she is not vexed by the occurrence, nor does she deem it a disaster--quite the contrary. and she knows it was no accident, having herself brought it about. it was her own soft fingers, not the cat's claws, that swept that bottle from the shelf, sending it smash upon the stones! tipped over by no _maladroit_ handling of corkscrew, but downright deliberate intention! a stratagem that may enable her to keep the appointment made among the fireworks--that threat when she told jack wingate she would "find a way." thus is she finding it; and in furtherance she leaves her mother no time to consider longer about a messenger. "i'll go!" she says, offering herself as one. the deceit unsuspected, and only the willingness appreciated, mrs. morgan rejoins: "do! that's a dear girl! it's very good of you, mary. here's the money." while the delighted mother is counting out the shillings, the dutiful daughter whips on her cloak--the night is chilly--and adjusts her hat, the best holiday one, on her head; all the time thinking to herself how cleverly she has done the trick. and with a smile of pardonable deception upon her face, she trips lightly across the threshold, and on through the little flower garden in front. outside the gate, at an angle of the enclosure wall, she stops, and stands considering. there are two ways to the ferry, here forking--the long lane and the shorter footpath. which is she to take? the path leads down along the side of the orchard, and across the brook by the bridge--only a single plank. this spanning the stream, and originally fixed to the rock at both ends, has of late come loose, and is not safe to be traversed, even by day. at night it is dangerous--still more on one dark as this. and danger of no common kind at any time. the channel through which the stream runs is twenty feet deep, with rough boulders in its bed. one falling from above would at least get broken bones. no fear of that to-night, but something as bad, if not worse. for it has been raining throughout the earlier hours of the day, and there in the brook, now a raging torrent. one dropping into it would be swept on to the river, and there surely drowned, if not before. it is no dread of any of these dangers which causes mary morgan to stand considering which route she will take. she has stepped that plank on nights dark as this, even since it became detached from the fastenings, and is well acquainted with its ways. were there nought else, she would go straight over it, and along the footpath, which passes the "big elm." but it is just because it passes the elm she has now paused, and is pondering. her errand calls for haste, and there she would meet a man sure to delay her. she intends meeting him for all that, and being delayed; but not till on her way back. considering the darkness and obstructions on the footwalk she may go quicker by the road, though roundabout. returning she can take the path. this thought in her mind, with, perhaps, remembrance of the adage, "business before pleasure," decides her; and drawing closer her cloak, she sets off along the lane. chapter xix. a black shadow behind. in the shire of hereford there is no such thing as a village--properly so called. the tourist expecting to come upon one, by the black dot on his guide-book map, will fail to find it. indeed, he will see only a church with a congregation, not the typical cluster of houses around. but no street, nor rows of cottages, in their midst--the orthodox patch of trodden turf--the "green." nothing of all that. unsatisfied, and inquiring the whereabouts of the village itself, he will get answers only farther confusing him. one will say "here be it," pointing to no place in particular; a second, "thear," with his eye upon the church; a third, "over yonner," nodding to a shop of miscellaneous wares, also intrusted with the receiving and distributing of letters; while a fourth, whose ideas run on drink, looks to a house larger than the rest, having a square pictorial signboard, with red lion _rampant_, fox _passant_, horse's head, or such like symbol--proclaiming it an inn, or public. not far from, or contiguous to, the church will be a dwelling-house of special pretension, having a carriage entrance, sweep, and shrubbery of well-grown evergreens--the rectory, or vicarage; at greater distance, two or three cottages of superior class, by their owners styled "villas," in one of which dwells the doctor, a young esculapius, just beginning practice, or an old one who has never had much; in another the relict of a successful shopkeeper left with an "independence"; while a third will be occupied by a retired military man--"captain," of course, whatever may have been his rank--possibly a naval officer, or an old salt of the merchant service. in their proper places stand the carpenter's shop and smithy, with their array of reapers, rollers, ploughs, and harrows seeking repair: among them perhaps a huge steam-threshing machine, that has burst its boiler, or received other damage. then there are the houses of the _oi polloi_, mostly labouring men--their little cottages wide apart, or in twos and threes together, with no resemblance to the formality of town dwellings, but quaint in structure, ivy-clad or honeysuckled, looking and smelling of the country. farther along the road is an ancient farmstead, its big barns and other outbuildings abutting on the highway, which for some distance is strewn with a litter of rotting straw; by its side a muddy pond with ducks and a half-dozen geese, the gander giving tongue as the tourist passes by; if a pedestrian with knapsack on his shoulders the dog barking at him, in the belief he is a tramp or beggar. such is the herefordshire village, of which many like may be met along wyeside. the collection of houses known as rugg's ferry is in some respects different. it does not lie on any of the main county thoroughfares, but a cross-country road connecting the two, that lead along the bounding ridges of the river. that passing through it is but little frequented, as the ferry itself is only for foot passengers, though there is a horse boat which can be had when called for. but the place is in a deep crater-like hollow, where the stream courses between cliffs of the old red sandstone, and can only be approached by the steepest "pitches." nevertheless, rugg's ferry has its mark upon the ordnance map, though not with the little crosslet denoting a church. it could boast of no place of worship whatever till father rogier laid the foundation of his chapel. for all, it has once been a brisk place in its days of glory; ere the railroad destroyed the river traffic, and the bargees made it a stopping port, as often the scene of rude, noisy revelry. it is quieter now, and the tourist passing through might deem it almost deserted. he will see houses of varied construction--thirty or forty of them in all--clinging against the cliff in successive terraces, reached by long rows of steps carved out of the rock; cottages picturesque as swiss _chalets_, with little gardens on ledges, here and there one trellised with grape vines or other climbers, and a round cone-topped cage of wicker holding captive a jackdaw, magpie, or it may be parrot or starling taught to speak. viewing these symbols of innocence, the stranger will imagine himself to have lighted upon a sort of english arcadia--a fancy soon to be dissipated perhaps by the parrot or starling saluting him with the exclamatory phrases "god-damn-ye! go to the devil!--go to the devil!" and while he is pondering on what sort of personage could have instructed the creature in such profanity, he will likely enough see the instructor himself peering out through a partially opened door, his face in startling correspondence with the blasphemous exclamations of the bird. for there are other birds resident at rugg's ferry besides those in the cages--several who have themselves been caged in the county gaol. the slightly altered name bestowed upon the place by jack wingate, as others, is not so inappropriate. it may seem strange such characters congregating in a spot so primitive and rural, so unlike their customary haunts; incongruous as the ex-belle of mabille in her high-heeled _bottines_ inhabiting the ancient manor-house of glyngog. but more of an enigma--indeed, a moral, or psychological puzzle; since one would suppose it the very last place to find them in. and yet the explanation may partly lie in moral and psychological causes. even the most hardened rogue has his spells of sentiment, during which he takes delight in rusticity; and as the "ferry" has long enjoyed the reputation of being a place of abode for him and his sort, he is there sure of meeting company congenial. or the scent after him may have become too hot in the town, or city, where he has been displaying his dexterity; while here the policeman is not a power. the one constable of the district station dislikes taking, and rather steals through it on his rounds. notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. its quaint picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur fishermen. centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river's bank, stands a large three-story house--the village inn--with a swing sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. from this the hostelry has its name--the "welsh harp!" but however rough the limning, and weather-blanched the board--however ancient the building itself--in its business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving trade. guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while in the angling season, _piscator_ stays at it all through spring and summer; and if a keen disciple of izaak, or an ardent admirer of the wye scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. besides, from towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after early closing on saturdays, come hither, and remain over till monday, for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off. the "welsh harp" can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides. for it is a roomy _caravanserai_, and if a little rough in its culinary arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. among those who taste its tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the boniface of the "harp" can give them the very best. it is a saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs, lately arrived at the wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call "fizz," and believe to be champagne. as it costs them ten shillings the bottle they are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their purpose. they are young drapers' assistants from a large manufacturing town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend in an excursion to the wye, and a frolic at rugg's ferry. they have had an afternoon's boating on the river; and, now returned to the "harp"--their place of put-up--are flush of talk over their adventures, quaffing the sham "shammy," and smoking "regalias," not anything more genuine. while thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood--something that pleases them better--a beautiful woman. more correctly speaking a girl; since it is mary morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart for the distributing of drink. taking the cigars from between their teeth--and leaving the rhubarb juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas--they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the drink than any innate rudeness. they are harmless fellows in their way; would be quiet enough behind their own counters, though fast before that of the "welsh harp," and foolish with such a face as that of mary morgan beside them. she gives them scant time to gaze on it. her business is simple, and speedily transacted. "a bottle of your best brandy--the french cognac?" as she makes the demand, placing six shillings, the price understood, upon the lead-covered counter. the barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into the till. it is all over in a few seconds' time; and with equal celerity mary morgan, slipping the purchased commodity into her cloak, glides out of the room--vision-like as she entered it. "who is that young lady?" asks one of the champagne drinkers, interrogating the barmaid. "young lady!" tartly returns the latter, with a flourish of her heavily chignoned head, "only a farmer's daughter." "aw!" exclaims the second tippler, in drawling imitation of swelldom, "only the offspring of a chaw-bacon! she's a monstrously crummy creetya, anyhow." "devilish nice gal!" affirms the other, no longer addressing himself to the barmaid, who has scornfully shown them the back of her head, with its tower of twisted jute. "devilish nice gal, indeed! never saw spicier stand before a counter. what a dainty little fish for a farmer's daughter! say, charley! wouldn't you like to be sellin' her a pair of kids--jouvin's best--helpin' her draw them on, eh?" "by jove, yes! that would i." "perhaps you'd prefer it being boots? what a stepper she is, too! s'pose we slide after, and see where she hangs out?" "capital idea! suppose we do?" "all right, old fellow! i'm ready with the yard stick--roll off!" and without further exchange of their professional phraseology, they rush out, leaving their glasses half-full of the effervescing beverage--rapidly on the spoil. they have sallied forth to meet disappointment. the night is black as erebus, and the girl gone out of sight. nor can they tell which way she has taken; and to inquire might get them "guyed," if not worse. besides, they see no one of whom inquiry could be made. a dark shadow passes them, apparently the figure of a man; but so dimly descried, and going in such rapid gait, they refrain from hailing him. not likely they will see more of the "monstrously crummy creetya" that night--they may on the morrow somewhere--perhaps at the little chapel close by. registering a mental vow to do their devotions there, and recalling the bottle of fizz left uncorked on the counter, they return to finish it. and they drain it dry, gulping down several goes of b.-and-s., besides, ere ceasing to think of the "devilish nice gal," on whose dainty little fist they would so like fitting kid gloves. meanwhile, she, who has so much interested the dry goods gentlemen, is making her way along the road which leads past the widow wingate's cottage, going at a rapid pace, but not continuously. at intervals she makes stops, and stands listening--her glances sent interrogatively to the front. she acts as one expecting to hear footsteps, or a voice in friendly salutation, and see him saluting--for it is a man. footsteps are there besides her own, but not heard by her, nor in the direction she is hoping to hear them. instead, they are behind, and light, though made by a heavy man. for he is treading gingerly as if on eggs--evidently desirous not to make known his proximity. near he is, and were the light only a little clearer she would surely see him. favoured by its darkness he can follow close, aided also by the shadowing trees, and still further from her attention being all given to the ground in advance, with thoughts preoccupied. but closely he follows her, but never coming up. when she stops he does the same, moving on again as she moves forward. and so for several pauses, with spells of brisk walking between. opposite the wingates' cottage she tarries longer than elsewhere. there was a woman standing in the door, who, however, does not observe her--cannot--a hedge of holly between. cautiously parting its spinous leaves and peering through, the young girl takes a survey not of the woman, whom she well knows, but of a window--the only one in which there is a light. and less the window than the walls inside. on her way to the ferry she had stopped to do the same; then seeing shadows--two of them--one a woman's, the other of a man. the woman is there in the door--mrs. wingate herself; the man, her son, must be elsewhere. "under the elm by this," says mary morgan, in soliloquy. "i'll find him there," she adds, silently gliding past the gate. "under the elm," mutters the man who follows, adding, "i'll kill her there--ay, both!" two hundred yards further on, and she reaches the place where the footpath debouches upon the road. there is a stile of the usual rough crossbar pattern, proclaiming a right of way. she stops only to see there is no one sitting upon it--for there might have been--then leaping lightly over she proceeds along the path. the shadow behind does the same, as though it were a spectre pursuing. and now, in the deeper darkness of the narrow way, arcaded over by a thick canopy of leaves, he goes closer and closer, almost to touching. were a light at this moment let upon his face, it would reveal features set in an expression worthy of hell itself; and cast farther down, would show a hand closed upon the haft of a long-bladed knife--nervously clutching--every now and then half drawing it from its sheath, as if to plunge its blade into the back of her who is now scarce six steps ahead! and with this dread danger threatening--so close--mary morgan proceeds along the forest path, unsuspectingly: joyfully as she thinks of who is before, with no thought of that behind--no one to cry out, or even whisper, the word, "beware!" chapter xx. under the elm. in more ways than one has jack wingate thrown dust in his mother's eyes. his going to the ferry after a piece of whipcord and a bit of pitch was fib the first; the second his not going there at all--for he has not. instead, in the very opposite direction; soon as reaching the road, having turned his face towards abergann, though his objective point is but the "big elm." once outside the gate he glides along the holly hedge crouchingly, and with head ducked, so that it may not be seen by the good dame, who has followed him to the door. the darkness favouring him, it is not; and congratulating himself at getting off thus deftly, he continues rapidly up the road. arrived at the stile, he makes stop, saying in soliloquy:-"i take it she be sure to come; but i'd gi'e something to know which o' the two ways. bein' so darkish, an' that plank a bit dangerous to cross, i ha' heard--'tan't often i cross it--just possible she may choose the roundabout o' the road. still, she sayed the big elm, an' to get there she'll have to take the path comin' or goin' back. if i thought comin' i'd steer straight there an' meet her. but s'posin' she prefers the road, that 'ud make it longer to wait. wonder which it's to be." with hand rested on the top rail of the stile, he stands considering. since their stolen interchange of speech at the harvest home, mary has managed to send him word she will make an errand to rugg's ferry; hence his uncertainty. soon again he resumes his conjectured soliloquy:-"'tan't possible she ha' been to the ferry, an' goed back again? god help me, i hope not! an' yet there's just a chance. i weesh the captain hadn't kep' me so long down there. an' the fresh from the rain that delayed us nigh half an hour, i oughtn't to a stayed a minute after gettin' home. but mother cookin' that nice bit o' steak; if i hadn't ate it she'd a been angry, and for certain suspected somethin'. then listenin' to all that dismal stuff 'bout the corpse-candle. an' they believe it in the shire o' pembroke. rot the thing! tho' i an't myself noways superstishus, it gi'ed me the creeps. queer, her dreamin' she seed it go out o' abergann! i do weesh she hadn't told me that; an' i mustn't say word o't to mary. tho' she ain't o' the fearsome kind, a thing like that's enough to frighten any one. well, what'd i best do? if she ha' been to the ferry an's goed home again, then i've missed her, and no mistake! still, she said she'd be at the elim, an's never broke her promise to me when she cud keep it. a man ought to take a woman at her word--a true woman--an' not be too quick to anticipate. besides, the surer way's the safer. she appointed the old place, an' there i'll abide her. but what am i thinkin' o'? she may be there now, a-waitin' for me!" he doesn't stay by the stile one instant longer, but, vaulting over it, strikes off along the path. despite the obscurity of the night, the narrowness of the track, and the branches obstructing, he proceeds with celerity. with that part he is familiar--knows every inch of it, well as the way from his door to the place where he docks his boat--at least so far as the big elm, under whose spreading branches he and she have oft clandestinely met. it is an ancient patriarch of the forest; its timber is honeycombed with decay, not having tempted the axe, by whose stroke its fellows have long ago fallen, and it now stands amid their progeny, towering over all. it is a few paces distant from the footpath, screened from it by a thicket of hollies interposed between, and extending around. from its huge hollow trunk a buttress, horizontally projected, affords a convenient seat for two, making it the very _beau ideal_ of a trysting-tree. having got up and under it, jack wingate is a little disappointed--almost vexed--at not finding his sweetheart there. he calls her name--in the hope she may be among the hollies--at first cautiously and in a low voice, then louder. no reply; she has either not been, or has and is gone. as the latter appears probable enough, he once more blames captain ryecroft, the rain, the river flood, the beefsteak--above all, that long yarn about the _canwyll corph_, muttering anathemas against the ghostly superstition. still she may come yet. it may be but the darkness that's delaying her. besides, she is not likely to have the fixing of her time. she said she would "find a way"; and having the will--as he believes--he flatters himself she will find it, despite all obstructions. with confidence thus restored, he ceases to pace about impatiently, as he has been doing ever since his arrival at the tree; and, taking a seat on the buttress, sits listening with all ears. his eyes are of little use in the cimmerian gloom. he can barely make out the forms of the holly bushes, though they are almost within reach of his hand. but his ears are reliable, sharpened by love; and, ere long they convey a sound, to him sweeter than any other ever heard in that wood--even the songs of its birds. it is a swishing, as of leaves softly brushed by the skirts of a woman's dress--which it is. he needs no telling who comes. a subtle electricity, seeming to precede, warns him of mary morgan's presence, as though she were already by his side. all doubts and conjectures at an end, he starts to his feet, and steps out to meet her. soon as on the path he sees a cloaked figure, drawing nigh with a grace of movement distinguishable even in the dim glimmering light. "that you, mary?" a question mechanical; no answer expected or waited for. before any could be given she is in his arms, her lips hindered from words by a shower of kisses. thus having saluted, he takes her hand and leads her among the hollies. not from precaution, or fear of being intruded upon. few besides the farm people of abergann use the right-of-way path, and unlikely any of them being on it at that hour. it is only from habit they retire to the more secluded spot under the elm, hallowed to them by many a sweet remembrance. they sit down side by side; and close, for his arm is around her waist. how unlike the lovers in the painted pavilion at llangorren! here there is neither concealment of thought nor restraint of speech--no time given to circumlocution--none wasted in silence. there is none to spare, as she has told him at the moment of meeting. "it's kind o' you comin', mary," he says, as soon as they are seated. "i knew ye would." "o jack! what a work i had to get out--the trick i've played mother! you'll laugh when you hear it." "let's hear it, darling!" she relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. six shillings thrown away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper? "you've been to the ferry, then?" "you see," she says, holding up the bottle. "i weesh i'd known that. i could a met ye on the road, and we'd had more time to be thegither. it's too bad, you havin' to go straight back." "it is. but there's no help for it. father rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient." were it light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's name. she does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. in his heart he curses the jesuit--often has with his tongue, but not now. he is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both. "mary, dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "i don't want to say a word against father rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for i don't believe he's the friend o' anybody. sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and i've got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us." "how can he, jack?" "ah, how! a many ways. one, his sayin' ugly things about me to your mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true." "let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose i'll believe them?" "no, i don't, darling--'deed i don't." a snatched kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him half-way. for a short time there is silence. with that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural. he is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:-"i know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o' that from your lips, mary. a soft word, or only a smile. i've heerd talk o' several. but one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the french priest." "who?" she has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial. "i dislike mentionin' his name. to me it seems like insultin' ye. the very idea o' dick dempsey----" "you needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "i know what you mean. but you surely don't suppose i could think of him as a sweetheart? that _would_ insult me." "i hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. for all, he thinks o' you, mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but----" he hesitates. "what?" "i won't say the word. 'tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you." "if you mean _wife_--as i suppose you do--listen! rather than have richard dempsey for a husband, i'd die--go down to the river and drown myself! that horrid wretch! i hate him!" "i'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad." "but why, jack? you know it couldn't be otherwise! you should--after all that's passed. heaven be my witness! you i love, and you alone. you only shall ever call me wife. if not--then nobody!" "god bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impassioned speech. "god bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his gratitude flinging his arms around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an avalanche of kisses. with thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the cover in search of prey. still less do they see a form skulking among the hollies, black and boding as their shadows. yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. he has overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase sending hell to his heart. and now, with jealousy in its last dire throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he stands, after all, unresolved how to act. trembling, too; for he is at bottom a coward. he might rush at them and kill both--cut them to pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. but if only one, and that her, what of himself? he had an instinctive fear of jack wingate, who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson. that experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all likelihood saving his life. for at this moment the moon, rising, flings a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, richard dempsey pushes his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies, and altogether away from the spot. but not to go back to rugg's ferry, nor to his own home. well for mary morgan if he had. by the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain her. the farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr has preceded her, and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no less than the taking of her life. chapter xxi. a tardy messenger. father rogier has arrived at abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour. there is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. he has not come direct from his house at the ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold. feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender. for a time he has it all to himself. the farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while mrs. morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set the frying-pan on the coals. already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house. before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantel-shelf, within convenient reach. it would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. this is shut, mrs. morgan having closed it after her as she went out. there is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be re-opened, and someone to enter. and so is he, though mrs. morgan herself is not the someone--but her daughter. gregorie rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before assuming the cassock a very _mauvais sujet_. even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. the fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of olympe, _née_ renault. she is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional. but there is a vast difference between the mistress of glyngog and the maiden of abergann. unlike are they as lucrezia borgia to that other lucretia--victim of tarquin _fils_. and the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. he cannot himself have mary morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of richard dempsey. hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish. eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. only mrs. morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. it will be on the table in a trice. without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks, in a drawl of assumed indifference,-"where is ma'mselle marie? not on the sick list, i hope?" "oh no, your reverence. she was never in better health in her life, i'm happy to say." "attending to culinary matters, i presume? bothering herself--on my account, too! really, madame, i wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when i come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire." "she's not--nothing of the kind, father rogier." "dressing, may be? that isn't needed either--to receive poor me." "no; she's not dressing." "ah! what then? pardon me for appearing inquisitive. i merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in--relating to a matter of the sunday school. she's at home, isn't she?" "not just this minute. she soon will be." "what! out at this hour?" "yes; she has gone up to the ferry on an errand. i wonder you didn't meet her! which way did you come, father rogier--the path or the lane?" "neither--nor from the ferry. i've been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. it's rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! not alone, i take it?" "yes; she went alone." "but why, madame?" mrs. morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now. "well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing matter--as you'll say yourself, when i tell it you." "tell it, pray!" "it's all through a cat--our big tom." "ah, tom! what _jeu d'esprit_ has he been perpetrating?" "not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. the mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle--indeed, broke it to pieces." "_chat maudit!_ but what has that to do with your daughter's going to the ferry?" "everything. it was a bottle of best french brandy--unfortunately the only one we had in the house. and as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else i could spare. so i've sent mary to the welsh harp for another. i know your reverence prefers brandy to wine." "madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. but i'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. above all, i regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your mademoiselle marie. henceforth i shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold." "don't say that, father rogier. please don't. mary didn't think it disagreeable. i should have been angry with her if she had. on the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. but poor it is--i'm sorry to tell you--and will need the drop of cognac to make it at all palatable." "you underrate your _menu_, madame, if it be anything like what i've been accustomed to at your table. still, i cannot help feeling regret at ma'mselle's having been sent to the ferry--the roads in such condition. and so dark, too--she may have a difficulty in finding her way. which did she go by--the path or the lane? your own interrogatory to myself--almost verbatim--_c'est drole_!" with but a vague comprehension of the interpolated french and latin phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder: "indeed, i can't say which. i never thought of asking her. however, mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the foot-plank a night like this. she knows it's loose. ah!" she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon up! i'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home." "how long is it since she went off?" mrs. morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming: "mercy me! it's half-past nine! she's been gone a good hour!" her surprise is natural. to rugg's ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. how are the other twenty being spent? buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. she has not kept it! and what can be keeping _her_? her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. she can neither tell nor guess. but the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain--greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. instead, with simulated calmness, he says: "suppose i step out and see whether she be near at hand?" "if your reverence would. but please don't stay for her. supper's quite ready, and evan will be in by the time i get it dished. i wonder what's detaining mary!" if she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one. "no matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. if not, she must go----" the priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. he is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat--without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes--then glides out and off across the garden. mrs. morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. perhaps she too has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper. if she but knew the tale he, father rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead! chapter xxii. a fatal step. having passed out through the gate, rogier turns along the wall; and, proceeding at a brisk pace to where it ends in an angle, there comes to a halt. on the same spot where about an hour before stopped mary morgan--for a different reason. she paused to consider which of the two ways she would take; he has no intention of taking either, or going a step farther. whatever he wishes to say to her can be said where he now is, without danger of its being overheard at the house--unless spoken in a tone louder than that of ordinary conversation. but it is not on this account he has stopped; simply that he is not sure which of the two routes she will return by--and for him to proceed along either would be to risk the chance of not meeting her at all. but that he has some idea of the way she will come, with suspicion of why and what is delaying her, his mutterings tell: "_morbleu!_ over an hour since she set out! a tortoise could have crawled to the ferry, and crept back within the time! for a demoiselle with limbs lithe and supple as hers--pah! it can't be the brandy bottle that's the obstruction. nothing of the kind. corked, capsuled, wrapped, ready for delivery--in all two minutes, or at most, three! she so ready to run for it, too--herself proposed going! odd, that, to say the least. only understandable on the supposition of something prearranged. an assignation with the river triton for sure! yes; he's the anchor that's been holding her--holds her still. likely, they're somewhat under the shadow of that wood, now--standing--sitting--ach! i wish i but knew the spot; i'd bring their billing and cooing to an abrupt termination. it will not do for me to go on guesses; i might miss the straying damsel with whom this night i want a word in particular--must have it. monsieur coracle may need binding a little faster, before he consents to the service required of him. to ensure an interview with her it is necessary to stay on this spot, however trying to patience." for a second or two he stands motionless, though all the while active in thought, his eyes also restless. these, turning to the wall, show him that it is overgrown with ivy. a massive cluster on its crest projects out, with hanging tendrils, whose tops almost touch the ground. behind them there is ample room for a man to stand upright, and so be concealed from the eyes of anyone passing, however near. "_grace à dieu!_" he exclaims, observing this; "the very place. i must take her by surprise. that's the best way when one wants to learn how the cat jumps. ha! _cette chat_ tom; how very opportune his mischievous doings--for mademoiselle! well, i must give _madame la mère_ counsel better to guard against such accidents hereafter; and how to behave when they occur." he has by this ducked his head, and stepped under the arcading evergreen. the position is all he could desire. it gives him a view of both ways by which on that side the farmhouse can be approached. the cart lane is directly before his face, as is also the footpath when he turns towards it. the latter leading, as already said, along a hedge to the orchard's bottom, there crosses the brook by a plank--this being about fifty yards distant from where he has stationed himself. and as there is now moonlight he can distinctly see the frail footbridge, with a portion of the path beyond, where it runs through straggling trees, before entering the thicker wood. only at intervals has he sight of it, as the sky is mottled with masses of cloud, that every now and then, drifting over the moon's disc, shut off her light with the suddenness of a lamp extinguished. when she shines he can himself be seen. standing in crouched attitude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey--ready to spring forward and seize it. for nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. he listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. after the pleasant _tête-à-tête_, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time. just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be, he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from mary morgan. it is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman's; instead the figure of a man! neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side! "_sainte vierge!_" exclaims the priest, _sotto voce_. "what can all that mean? and who----" he stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too--at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached. why? it may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. the man may be a stranger--some fellow on teamo who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse--more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach. while thus conjecturing, rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock. "sharp fellow!" thinks the priest; "with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! he's fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! ha! i'm wrong; he don't design crossing it after all!" this as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of passing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! and with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation. now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. not long till he learns who the man is. just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression--that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood! rogier recognises coracle dick, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there. "_que diantre!_" he exclaims, in surprise; "what can that devil be after! coming up to the plank and not crossing! ha! yonder's a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? ma'mselle mary at last!" this as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook. the brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. he is a frenchman, and to help her over the foot-plank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry. as he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. she approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red--flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat. boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted--could not be--a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. the daughter of evan morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life. [illustration: the daughter of evan morgan is doomed. one more step will be her last.] she makes it, the priest alone being witness. he sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them! chapter xxiii. a suspicious waif. on returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty--a little matter to be settled with his mother. not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. if questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? he dislikes telling her another lie. it came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while. on reflection, he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. he has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her--unsuccessfully, as he now knows. while still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. in his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. during one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the doorstep. her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. her words declare the same. "why, jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye bean't a comin' from the ferry that way?" the interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. no use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly,-"well, mother, to speak the truth, i ha'nt been to the ferry at all. an' i must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye--that 'bout the _mary_ wantin' repairs." "i suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, i ain't agoin' to worrit ye about it. i'm glad the boat be all right, as i ha' got good news for you." "what?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off. "well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. there's been one arready." "who? not the captain?" "no, not him. but a grand livery chap; footman or coachman--i ain't sure which--only that he came frae a squire powell's, 'bout a mile back." "oh! i know squire powell--him o' new hall, i suppose it be. what did the sarvint say?" "that if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river." "how far did the man say? if they be bound to chepstow, or even but tintern, i don't think i could go--unless they start monday mornin'. i'm 'gaged to the captain for thursday, ye know; an' if i went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back--an' bare time." "monday! why it's the morrow they want ye." "sunday! that's queerish, too. squire powell's family be a sort o' strict religious, i've heerd." "that's just it. the livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it." "i think i know the one, an' can take them there well enough. what answer did you gie to the man?" "that ye could take 'em, an' would. i know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church, wouldn't mind its bein' sunday." "sartinly not. why should i?" asks jack, who is anything but a sabbatarian. "where do they weesh the boat to be took? or am i to wait for 'em here?" "yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. six o'clock. he sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, an' they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church." "all right! i'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may." "in that case, my son, ye' better get to your bed at once. ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. should ye like take a drop o' somethin' 'fores you lie down?" "well, mother, i don't mind. just a glass o' your elderberry." she opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine--home made, and by her own hands. quaffing it, he observes,-"it be the best stuff that i know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him feel cheery. i've heerd the captain hisself say it beats their _spanish port_ all to pieces." though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, _is_ superior to that of oporto. curious scientific fact, i believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the _sambucus_ is that most favourable to the growth of the grape. without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good-night, retires to his sleeping room. getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of mary morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her. * * * * * there is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. up he instantly is, and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on sundays and holidays. the mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived. hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young mr. powell, his pretty sister, and two others--a lady and gentleman, also young. soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. the footman goes with them--the _mary_ having seats for six. rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves, gaily now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than sunday. but their boatman is merry also with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. above all, he is pleased with the appearance of miss powell, a very beautiful girl, and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to mary morgan. his eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing abergann. out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. it is not yet seven o'clock, but the morgans are early-risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to _matins_, and possibly confession at the rugg's ferry chapel. he dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice. pulling on down, he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. for just below abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices; but farther on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow-lands of llangorren. before turning the bend, where gwen wynn and eleanor lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar. "what is it, wingate?" asks young powell, observing his strange behaviour. "oh! a waif--that plank floating yonder! i suppose you'd like to pick it up! but remember! it's sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy." little think the four who smiled at this remark--five with the footman--what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them. nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river--hangs heavy on his heart as lead! returning, he looks out for the piece of timber, but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman. kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to new hall. impatient are they to be home. far more--for a different reason--the waterman, who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. the plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart. not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees. he does not wait for her to speak; but asks excitedly:-"what's the matter, mother?" the question is mechanical--he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature. "oh, my son, my son! as i told ye. it _was the canwyll corph_!" chapter xxiv. "the flower of love-lies-bleeding." there is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of abergann. not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral. and a funeral it is, or soon to be. for, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse--that of her, who, had she lived, would have been jack wingate's wife. mary morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide--her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. no one to save her--not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly frenchman, who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there stopped, only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam crested--only to listen to her agonized cry, farther off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom. once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle with death--proclaiming death the conqueror. then all was over. as he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. he could see nothing--nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. too late it was to save mary morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered. it is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. though remote the situation of the farmstead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. this partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the respect in which evan morgan is held by his neighbours far and near. they are there in their best attire, men and women alike, protestants as catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel. nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. no hint or suspicion that there has been foul play. how could there? so clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning--brief and purely _pro forma_. mrs. morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. even had wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. the farm labourers and others accustomed to cross by it gave testimony as to its having been loose. but of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. father rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. he is now in possession of a secret that will make richard dempsey his slave for life--his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity. the hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. it is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. the men outside in groups, some in the little flower-garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced herefords and "ryeland" sheep, of which last evan morgan is a noted breeder. inside the house are the women--some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. all admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. the corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. there lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing finger," beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity. the stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. mrs. morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief, a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her. there is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing, as though the heart within were about to break. none wonder at this; for it is jack wingate. still, there are those who think it strange his being there--above all, as if made welcome. they know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of mrs. morgan. beside that bed of death, all who were dear to her daughter were dear to her now. and she is aware that the young waterman was so; for he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted. but where is the other, the false one? not there--never has been since the fatal occurrence. came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture. there are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it--not even mrs. morgan herself. the thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter. the hour for closing the coffin has come. they but await the priest to say some solemn words. he has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. a personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere. for all, he does not fail. while inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him. presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin, stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. his are upon the face of the corpse--at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. but continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised or unusually interested him. it affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures. the lid is laid on, covering the form of mary morgan--for ever veiling her face from the world. then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside. there is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. on the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following. on to the rugg's ferry chapel,--into its cemetery, late consecrated. there lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the roman catholic religion, covered up and turfed over. then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of mary morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them. there is one exception; this is a man not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. the chapel burying ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new-made grave. all this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. the darkness favouring him, he is not. reaching the sacred spot, he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him--one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. it is that known to country people as "the flower of love-lies-bleeding" (_amaranthus caudatus_). closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. one near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:-"mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and i know you'll forgie me if i've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. oh, dear, dear mary! i'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. as god's my witness, i would." for a time he is silent, giving way to his grief--so wild as to seem unbearable. and just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. a plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! "my mother--my poor mother--no!" these few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and, returning to the boat again, rows himself home; but never with so heavy a heart. chapter xxv. a french femme de chambre. of all who assisted at the ceremony of mary morgan's funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. in his official capacity, he did all he could to hasten it--soon as it was over, hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying ground, and into his house near by. such haste would have appeared strange--even indecent--but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the ferry-boat. arriving there, the charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him--in a walk. clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though, judging by the expression of his countenance, he is inclined to it. the route he is on would conduct to llangorren court--several miles distant--and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. he does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there--least of all to gwen wynn. she might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home. yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. true to her fashionable instincts and _toilette_ necessities, miss linton keeps a french maid, and it is with this damsel father rogier designs having an interview. he is thoroughly _en rapport_ with the _femme de chambre_, and through her, aided by the confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about. his confidence that he will not have his long walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. with the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate, with almost a certainty of being able to see her--not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. rare the park in herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of llangorren. not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion--as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner--but several hundred yards distant. it passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. there is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. but only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed. it is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to father rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the court, attaching a piece of white paper he has taken out of his pocket. this done, with due caution and care, that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by, to await the upshot of his telegraphy. his haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. one of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of cheltenham takes her accustomed _siesta_, before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. while the mistress sleeps, the maid is free to dispose of herself as she pleases. it was to hit this interlude of leisure father rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the _femme de chambre_. gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. but he knows she will turn up again. and she does after a short time, coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated. "ah! _ma bonne!_" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. "you've been prompt! i didn't expect you quite so soon. madame la chatelaine oblivious, i apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?" "yes, père; she was when i stole off. but she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive--earlier than usual. so i must get back immediately." "i'm not going to detain you very long. i chanced to be passing, and thought i might as well have a word with you--seeing it's the hour when you're off duty. by the way, i hear you're about to have grand doings at the court--a ball, and what not?" "_oui, m'ssieu; oui._" "when is it to be?" "on thursday. mademoiselle celebrates _son jour de naissance_--the twenty-first, making her of age. it is to be a grand fête as you say. they've been all last week preparing for it." "among the invited, le capitaine ryecroft, i presume?" "oh, yes. i saw madame write the note inviting him--indeed, took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy." "he visits often at the court of late?" "very often--once a week, sometimes twice." "and comes down the river by boat, doesn't he?" "in a boat. yes--comes and goes that way." her statement is reliable, as father rogier has reason to believe--having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep's eyes, not at captain ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the _mary_ as either the boat's owner or charterer. "always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. "you're quite sure of that, _ma fille_?" "oh, quite, père!" "mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. i think you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair at his departure?" "often! always." "always?" "_toujours!_ i never knew it otherwise. either the boat stair or the pavilion." "ah! the summer-house! they hold their _téte-à-téte_ there at times, do they?" "yes, they do." "but not when he leaves at a late hour--as, for instance, when he dines at the court; which i know he has done several times?" "oh, yes; even then. only last week he was there for dinner, and ma'mselle gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion, to bid adieus. no matter what the time to her. _ma foi!_ i'd risk my word she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. and why shouldn't she, père rogier? is there any harm in it?" the question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were jack wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has. "oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm whatever, and no business of ours. mademoiselle wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more after the coming birthday, number _vingt-un_. but," he adds, dropping the _rôle_ of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, "i fear i'm keeping you too long. as i've said, chancing to come by, i signalled--chiefly to tell you that next sunday we have high mass in the chapel, with special prayers for a young girl who was drowned last saturday night, and whom we've just this day interred. i suppose you've heard?" "no, i haven't. who, père?" her question may appear strange, rugg's ferry being so near to llangorren court, and abergann still nearer. but for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse is not only intelligible, but natural enough. equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. "_marie, la fille de fermier morgan._" the expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive--being almost that of joy! for not only has she seen mary morgan at the chapel, but something besides--heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, wingate. in the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognizant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says "_bon jour!_" and departs. she is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way. chapter xxvi. the poacher at home. coracle dick lives all alone. if he have relatives, they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother--is believed dead. not less solitary is coracle's place of abode. situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends--the dell itself being a _cul-de-sac_. its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest. coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. the present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, _pur sang_--at least, so far as is known. and it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages--with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. he has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game--making as free with both as ever did alan-a-dale. but, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the welsh harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. but, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. he is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. and though ever ready to stand treat in the harp taproom, he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves--often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be well for its owner. more than half time, however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. its door, shut and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. then only a rough lurcher dog--a dangerous animal, too--is guardian of the place. not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. the most valuable movable inside was not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. it is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession--running down hares or rabbits. * * * * * it is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of mary morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the rugg's ferry chapel. a wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. the autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. around the dwelling of dick dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended. every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. the hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. the coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside--for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. and before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. what these are might be told by the aroma: a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. ground game at that, for coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. handier to no man than him were the recipe of mrs. glass, for he comes up to all its requirements--even the primary and essential one--knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it. the stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate--the time-honoured willow pattern--with a knife and two-pronged fork. there is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler. drawing his chair up, coracle commences eating. the hare is a young one--a leveret he has just taken from the stubble--tender and juicy--delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside! at such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon! this night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. but there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time--of being taken handcuffed to the county jail--thence before a court of assize--and finally to the scaffold! he has reason to apprehend all this. notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man's voice, which he fancied to be that of father rogier. from what he has since heard, he is now certain of it. the coroner's inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. his only uncertainty is, whether rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. true, the priest has nothing said of him at the 'quest; for all he, coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. no wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits. withal he has no remorse. when he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon garranhill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. it will not be till he have the other life--that of jack wingate. he has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. he has been long plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. and now the thing seems no nearer than ever--this night farther off. in his present frame of mind--with the dread of the gallows upon it--he would be too glad to cry quits, and let wingate live! starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking. not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling. its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. there is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. he would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze. while thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated--this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying,-"open your door, monsieur dick." not a policeman, then; only the priest! chapter xxvii. a mysterious contract. "only the priest!" muttered coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman. giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "that you, father rogier?" "_c'est moi!_" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "ah! _mon bracconier!_ you're having something nice for supper. judging by the aroma ragout of hare. hope i haven't disturbed you. is it hare?" "it was, your reverence, a bit of leveret." "was! you've finished then. it is all gone?" "it is. the dog had the remains of it, as ye see." he points to the dish on the floor. "i'm sorry at that--having rather a relish for leveret. it can't be helped, however." "i wish i'd known ye were comin'. dang the dog!" "no, no! don't blame the poor dumb brute. no doubt it too has a taste for hare, seeing it's half hound. i suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?" "yes, your reverence. there be a good wheen o' them about." "in that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, i'll have it jugged for myself. by the way, what have you got in that black jack?" "it's brandy." "well, monsieur dick, i'll thank you for a mouthful." "will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?" "neat--raw. the night's that, and the two raws will neutralize one another. i feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm." "it be a fearsome night. i wonder at your reverence bein' out--exposin' yourself in such weather!" "all weathers are alike to me--when duty calls. just now i'm abroad on a little matter of business that won't brook delay." "business--wi' me?" "with you, _mon bracconier_!" "what may it be, your reverence?" "sit down, and i shall tell you. it's too important to be discussed standing." the introductory dialogue does not tranquillize the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand. after a sip, he resumes speech with the remark,-"if i mistake not, you are a poor man, monsieur dempsey?" "you ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, father rogier." "and you'd like to be a rich one?" thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. smilingly he makes reply,-"i can't say as i'd have any particular objection. 'stead, i'd like it wonderful well." "you can be, if so inclined." "i'm ever so inclined, as i've sayed. but how, your reverence? in this hard work-o'-day world 'tan't so easy to get rich." "for you, easy enough. no labour, and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows." "somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?" "no; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four people. do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?" "i think i do. i've a friend, the name o' rob trotter, who's got just sich a boat. he'd lend it me, sure." "charter it, if he doesn't. never mind about the price. i'll pay." "when might you want it, your reverence?" "on thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past." "and where am i to bring it?" "to the ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till i come to you. don't leave it to go up to the 'harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. as the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything i'm now saying to you. the service i want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about." "may i have a hint o' what it is?" "not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat. there will be another along with me--maybe two--to assist in the affair. what will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as you displayed on saturday night_." no need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him. "how--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror. the double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate. "you have asked two questions, monsieur dick, that call for separate replies. to the first, 'how?' i leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. with the second i'll be more particular, if you wish me. place--where a certain foot-plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of abergann. it--the plank, i mean--last saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the wye. need i tell you who sent it, richard dempsey?" the man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well-nigh crazed. excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. he almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him! only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice,-"i don't want to know one way or the other. d----n the plank! what do i care?" "you shouldn't blaspheme, monsieur dick. that's not becoming--above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. however, you're excited, as i see, which is in some sense an excuse." "i beg your reverence's pardon. i was a bit excited about something." he has calmed down a little at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. the priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. still further quieted as the latter continues: "never mind about what. we can talk of it afterwards. as i've made you aware--more than once, if i rightly remember--there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. on thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. so be there with the boat!" "i will, your reverence, sure as my name's richard dempsey." idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. he can be trusted to come as if led on a string. for he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of father rogier. "enough!" returns the priest. "if there be anything else i think of communicating to you before thursday, i'll come again--to-morrow night. so be at home. meanwhile, see to securing the boat. don't let there be any failure about that, _coûte que coûte_. and let me again enjoin silence--not a word to any one, even your friend rob. _verbum sapientibus!_ but as you're not much of a scholar, monsieur coracle, i suppose my latin's lost on you. putting it in your own vernacular, i mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. you comprehend?" to the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,-"i do, father rogier--perfectly." "that's sufficient. and now, _mon bracconier_, i must be gone. before starting out, however, i'll trench a little further on your hospitality. just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials." saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy--best cognac from the "harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure. having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. true, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. and yet they are bad enough. he is in the toils--the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. for his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil! while thus gloomily cogitating, he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. a voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. he can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. but his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. that heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind. "bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. what a fool fear makes a man!" and with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed--not to sleep, but lie long awake, kept so by that same fear. chapter xxviii. the game of pique. the sun has gone down upon gwen wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and llangorren court is in a blaze of light, for a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball. the night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. for although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. the drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all. besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. a sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better. the _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and miss linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. being the last entertainment at llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way; but as she is to remain resident at the court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in europe" redivivus. if her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour. strange that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! but, in truth so is it. notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--gwen wynn is herself anything but gay. instead, sad, almost to wretchedness! and from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. it has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of pique. she and captain ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence, they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. in love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events, as friends sorely estranged. she began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. but when, touched with compassion for george shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing--too familiarly, as captain ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiancé_ feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves. in his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. this in the person of miss powell; she who went to church on the sunday before in jack wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or gwen wynn be the attraction of the evening. though only just introduced, the hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. his appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession. and so between him and gwen wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later. on both sides it reaches its maximum when miss wynn, after a waltz, leaning on george shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot. not far off is captain ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with miss powell--put an end to _her_ new-sprung aspirations, if she has any. it does as much for the hopes of george shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a cat's-paw. instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make gwen wynn a proposal of marriage. he makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter. "gwen! you know how i love you--would give my life for you! will you be----" only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked. "be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere. "my wife?" she starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response. and how is she to give it, with least pain to him? perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. so thinking, she says,-"george, it can never be. look at that!" she holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels. "at what?" he asks, not comprehending. "that ring." she indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "engaged." "o god!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "is that so?" "it is." for a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad. with a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies,-"dear gwen! for i must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!" despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of george shenstone causes surprise to gwen wynn, while still further paining her. so much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instrument gives note of another quadrille--the lancers--about to begin. still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh. nor is she less sorrowful--only more excited; nigh unto madness as she sees captain ryecroft _vis-à-vis_ with miss powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph! in this moment of gwen wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite--were george shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "i will!" it is not to be so, however weighty the consequences. in the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier. chapter xxix. jealous as a tiger. it is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads. by the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. the musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_. gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured b. and s.; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded. soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off. that of squire powell is among them; and captain ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady he has been so often dancing with to the door. having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. it is a large portico, with corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. but there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. he feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. nor is it so unnatural. here is a woman--not miss powell, but gwen wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation! it is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of sir george shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. but to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter. he does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. for to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. he only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. if she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. flirting while engaged--what might she do when married? he does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. the suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away. not resolutely. besides the half-sad, half-indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. he is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. he is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by, it. but there is more. the very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. he thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase "having it out." just as he has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. having taken leave of miss linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. miss wynn is now also there, bidding good-night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. as they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. it is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _congè_ to others of the company. equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying,-"why, captain ryecroft! i supposed you were gone long ago!" "i am sorry, miss wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness." "captain ryecroft" and "miss wynn," instead of "vivian" and "gwen"! it is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending. the rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly-"oh! certainly not, sir. but where there are so many people, of course one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking." "true; and, availing myself of that, i might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for----" "for what?" "a word i wish to speak with you--alone. can i?" "oh, certainly." "not here?" he asks suggestingly. she glances around. there are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps. with quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech, she walks out into the portico, he preceding. not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. she has an indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds. side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now; and never, as now, so constrained and silent--for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion. there is light in it. but a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly. she is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying,-"there was a day, miss wynn, when, standing on this spot, i thought myself the happiest man in herefordshire. now i know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination." "i do not understand you, captain ryecroft!" "oh, yes, you do. pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason." "indeed! in what way? i beg, nay, demand, explanation." "you shall have it; though superfluous, i should think, after what has been passing--this night especially." "oh! this night especially! i supposed you so much engaged with miss powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. what was it, pray?" "you understand, i take it, without need of my entering into particulars." "indeed, i don't--unless you refer to my dancing with george shenstone." "more than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!" "not strange that, seeing i was left so free to keep it! besides, as i suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend." she makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. he has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick, subtle instinct of woman, she sees that among them miss powell is no longer chief trump. were his perception as keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored. unfortunately it is not to be. still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins sneeringly,-"and i suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his father's son, which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! had i thought of that when i placed a ring upon your finger----" before he can finish, she has plucked it off, and, drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort,-"you insult me, sir! take it back!" with the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off. he has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins defiantly,-"if you wish it to end so, let it!" "yes; let it!" they part without further speech. he, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor. neither does she touch, or think of it. were it the koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. a jewel more precious--the one love of her life--is lost, cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears. the wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. still dark, she sees nothing, but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night. she may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again! at the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "this the ending! it is too----" what she designed saying is not said. her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead! not by the visitation of god. before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence. chapter xxx. stunned and silent. down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. he has been up to the house, and there hospitably entertained--feasted. but with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him--instead, only saddening him the more. even the blandishments of the french _femme de chambre_ could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars. seated, pipe in mouth--for jack too indulges in tobacco--he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. and it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at rugg's ferry. while thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. if anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. he, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself,-"wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night--mornin', i ought to say? wouldn't be a tourist party--starting off so early. no; can't be that. like enough dick dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! the night so dark--just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business." while thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face. "yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. if't had been a regular boat's oar, i'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins." for once the waterman is in error. it is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. and why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. were he out in the main channel--two hundred yards above the byway--he would see the craft itself with three men in it. but only at that instant, as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"--flooded by the freshet--and pushed on through them to the bank beyond. soon it touches _terra firma_, the men spring _out_; two of them going off towards the grounds of llangorren court. the third remains by the boat. meanwhile, jack wingate, in his skiff, continues listening; but hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it, again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. if he but knew how near the two things were together--the burying-ground and the boat--he would not be long in his own. relieved he is when at length voices are heard up at the house--calls for carriages--proclaiming the ball about to break up. still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off. for nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort--a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock--that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected. instead of footsteps, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. nothing to surprise him that. it is not the first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. but it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now--to his astonishment that of anger. "they be quarrellin', i declare," he says to himself. "wonder what for! somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball--bit o' jealousy, maybe. i shudn't be surprised if it's about young mr. shenstone. sure as eggs is eggs, the captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. he needn't though, an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. course, bein' deep in love, he can't. i seed it long ago. she be mad about him as he o' her--if not madder. well; i daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel, an'll soon blow over. woe's me! i weesh----" he would say, "i weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek. fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. the footstep so long listened for is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated! but wingate does not believe it is that. he knows the captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. he has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it! the conjectures of the waterman are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask-"are you there, jack?" the pitchy darkness accounts for the question. receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. he seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "yes; let it!" he knows where the skiff should be--where it was left--beyond the pleasure boat. the dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other--make a gang-plank of the _gwendoline_. as he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the forest of dean fellow? or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? neither. he is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black, bitter present. still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. a command promptly obeyed, and in silence. jack can see the captain is out of sorts, and, suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. he says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the byway. just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion--by looking back. and captain ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. the light is still there, burning dimly as ever. for all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy _silhouette_--a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it. he knows who it is: it can only be gwen wynn. well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. if he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together--perhaps never more to part in spite. just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and captain ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock. chapter xxxi. a startling cry. during all this while wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. with face that way, he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. had he any doubt, the behaviour of the other would remove it. "miss wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing. again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill-directed. but he forbears making remark. at such a moment his interference might not be tolerated--perhaps resented. and so the silence continues. not much longer. a thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. it is done for a kindly feeling--for he sees how the other suffers--but in part because he has a reason for it. the observation is,-"we're goin' to have the biggest kind o' a rain-pour, captain." the captain makes no immediate response. still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo. after a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to, and asks,-"what did you observe, wingate?" "that there be a rain storm threatenin', o' the grandest sort. there's flood enough now; but afore long it'll be all over the meadows." "why do you think that? i see no sign. the sky's very much clouded, true; but it has been just the same for the last several days." "'tain't the sky as tells me, captain." "what then?" "the _heequall_." "the heequall?" "yes; it's been a-cacklin' all through the afternoon and evenin'--especial loud just as the sun wor settin'. i nivir know'd it do that 'ithout plenty o' wet comin' soon after." ryecroft's interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says,-"you're talking enigmas, jack! at least, they are so to me. what is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? beast, bird, or fish?" "it be a bird, captain. i believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker, but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_." the orthography is according to jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word. "anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-glass. when it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. while i wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swishin' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if i hadn't enough o' the disagreeable to think o'. they allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. hark! d'd ye hear that, captain?" "i did." they speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river. both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with mary morgan. he knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar! "that waren't no heequall, nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper. "what do you think it was?" asks the captain, also _sotto voce_. "the scream o' a female. i'm 'most sure 'twor that." "it certainly did seem a woman's voice. in the direction of the court, too!" "yes; it comed that way." "i've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. what say you, wingate?" "gie the word, sir! i'm ready." the boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, ryecroft still undecided. both listen with bated breath. but, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle" of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird. "like as not," says jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin' in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. there's a frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores i left. i think, captain, we may as well keep on." the waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket. but his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the byway, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. there all is darkness--no figure distinguishable. the lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants. "she has gone away from it," is ryecroft's reflection to himself. "i wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her! i'd give something to know that." beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom, no doubt. she may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! her face in the glass--what the expression upon it? sadness, or joy? if the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter, of george shenstone. as this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman,-"row back, wingate! pull hard, and let us home!" once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. the sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers, she who has been snatched away by death! as the _mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking,-"will ye want me the morrow, captain?" "no, jack." "how soon do you think? 'scuse me for questionin'; but young mr. powell have been here the day, to know if i could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the channel. it's for sea-fishin' or duck-shootin', or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. but, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. that be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again." "perhaps never." "oh! captain; don't say that. 'tan't as i care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. believe me, it ain't. ye can have me an' the _mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. but to think i'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, captain." "more than i give you credit for! it couldn't, jack. we've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. though i may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. and now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this." the waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. it is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much; for it is all extra of his fare. with a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly,-"i can't take it, captain. you ha' paid me too handsome arready." "nonsense, man! i haven't done anything of the kind. besides, that isn't for boat-hire, nor yourself; only a little _douceur_, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, i take it." "that case, i accept. but won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, captain. will ye let me wake her up? i'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift." "no, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. in the morning you can give her my kind regards and parting compliments. say to her, when i return to herefordshire--if i ever do--she shall see me. for yourself, take my word, should i ever again go rowing on this river, it will be in a boat called the _mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the wye." modest though jack wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining,-"i'd call it flattery, captain, if't had come from anybody but you. but i know ye never talk nonsense, an' that's just why i be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. i feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. good-night!" the hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. the lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "good-night" is said as ryecroft springs up on his stirrup. then as he rides away into the darkness, and jack wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anchored to life--his aged mother! chapter xxxii. making ready for the road. having reached his hotel, captain ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night. the first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. not a heavy task. his luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner, he is not long in making ready for the _route_. his fishing tackle, guncase and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded--after which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels. but now a difficulty occurs to him--the address. his name, of course; but what the destination? up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the wye. there is no lethe in that stream for memories like his. to his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. months since he ceased to be a soldier, having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. thus his visit to herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon-fisher, but put an end to his military career. fortunately he was not dependent on it; for captain ryecroft is a rich man. and yet he has no home he can call his own; the last ten years of his life having been passed in hindostan. dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. besides, since his return from india, he has paid a visit to the capital of the emerald isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present. whither then? one place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself--the metropolis of the world. he will proceed thither, though not there to stay. only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the french one. in that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion--maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial, and he will make it. so determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "london" on the labels. but as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering. strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back; better still with a cigar between his teeth--powerful help to reflection. aware of this captain ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. he is in his sleeping apartment, where, beside the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article. along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either london or paris. he cannot yet. the happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. the "fond rage of love" is still active within him. it is to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? no. not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not. "never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections. whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillized--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him. "after all, i may be wronging her. if so, may god forgive, as i hope he will pity me. for if so, i am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she." as in ocean's storm, between the rough, surging billows, foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. it is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, assume a less repulsive aspect. gwen wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. so reversed his sentiments now--modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again! but just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. it is a bit of a gossip between two stable-men--_attachés_ of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver. "ye had a big time last night at llangorren?" says the former inquiringly. "ah! that ye may say," returns the jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "never knowed a bigger, s'help me. wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. i'm so full o' french champagne, i feel most like burstin'." "she be a grand gal, that miss wynn. an't she?" "in course is--one of the grandest. but she an't going to be a _girl_ long. by what i heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness." "wi' who?" "the son o' sir george shenstone." "a good match they'll make, i sh'd say. tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. many's the time he's tipped me." there is more of the same sort, but captain ryecroft does not hear it; the men have moved off beyond ear shot. in all likelihood he would not have listened had they stayed. for again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder, "yes; let it." his own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slip of parchment,- _mr. vivian ryecroft,_ _passenger to london._ _g.w.r._ he cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion, again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly. in fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. he is too proud, and still too doubting for that. only a test letter to draw her out, and, if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. upon the answer--if he receive one--will depend whether it is to be the last. with pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of note-paper towards him. it bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date. this done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. the larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. but the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity, he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch. with this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. he dreads another change of resolution. folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes- _miss wynn,_ _llangorren court_. then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post-box. he knows it will reach her that same day at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. it might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "langham, london." and while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman along hilly roads towards llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the g.w.r., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis. chapter xxxiii. a slumbering household. as calm succeeds a storm, so at llangorren court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. the domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. the more important functionaries of this department--coachman and headgroom--still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full, with but half-demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies. inside the house, things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. the higher class servitors availing themselves of the license allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _rôles_ yawningly, and with reluctance. there are two lady's-maids in the establishment--the little french demoiselle attached to miss linton, and an english damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon miss wynn. the former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid, "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. this morning is an exception. after such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse. as her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her--not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour. while dressing herself, she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke--not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. the dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young mistress's dressing-room. there awaiting miss wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m.! reflection following:-"miss gwen must be in bed by this! wonder why she didn't wake me up? rang no bell? surely i'd have heard it? if she did, and i haven't answered--well, the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado about it. i suppose she thought i'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to disturb me? but how could she think that? besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!" the dressing-room is an ante-chamber of miss wynn's sleeping apartment. "she mightn't though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim. "still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?" gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. the result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft, stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bed-chamber door. "sound asleep! i can't go in now. mustn't--i daren't awake her." saying which, the negligent attendant slips to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock. conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet. her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to miss wynn's sleeping room. not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it. she does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. it is a standing order of the house, and, pleased to be precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty. the first of the family proper appearing downstairs is eleanor lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post. with indifferent success. it is a metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. three or four long-winded "leaders," the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "police intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to daniel driscoll, of the seven dials, how he blackened the eye of bridget sullivan, and bit off pat kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all their prurience of detail; court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "london daily" even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientèle_ of readers! scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! if there be anything in england half a century behind the age, it is its metropolitan press--immeasurably inferior to the provincial. no wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at. and after glancing at them, miss lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten--about all it is worth. having thus settled scores with the newspaper, she hardly knows what next to do. she has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. a poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. two or three for miss linton, with quite half a dozen for gwen. of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from captain ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification. "there was a coolness between them last night," remarks miss lees to herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. if i were given to making wagers, i'd bet that it tells of his repentance. so soon, though! it must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery." "what!" she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. "one from george shenstone, too! it, i dare say, is in a different strain, if that i saw----ha!" she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go mr. shenstone's epistle, "william! is it possible--so early?" not only possible, but an accomplished fact. the reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house. she does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way. into the morning-room mr. musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. he oft comes for luncheon, and miss lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which miss linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. of course the curate has been at the ball; but, like "slippery sam," erst bishop of oxford, not much in the dancing room. for all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of miss wynn to captain ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of sir george shenstone--in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot, he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour. nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than miss lees to respond to such interrogation. their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different from the stormy, passionate combat between gwendoline wynn and vivian ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little remembering that of george shenstone. for a time there are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought--one eleanor lees, the other william musgrave. chapter xxxiv. "where's gwen?" not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. miss linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast room, supported by her french _femme de chambre_. graciously saluting mr. musgrave, she moves towards the table's head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam--flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. taking her seat, she asks: "where's gwen?" "not down yet," meekly responds miss lees; "at least, i haven't seen anything of her." "ah! she beats us all to-day," remarks the ancient toast of cheltenham, "in being late," she adds, with a laugh at her little _jeu d'esprit_. "usually such an early riser, too. i don't remember having ever been up before her. well, i suppose she's fatigued, poor thing!--quite done up. no wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody." "not everybody, aunt!" says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. "there was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. wasn't it a little strange?" this in a whisper, and aside. "ah! true. you mean captain ryecroft?" "yes." "it was a little strange. i observed it myself. she seemed distant with him, and he with her. have you any idea of the reason, nelly?" "not in the least. only i fancy something must have come between them." "the usual thing; lovers' tiff, i suppose. ah, i've seen a great many of them in my time. how silly men and women are--when they're in love! are they not, mr. musgrave?" the curate answers in the affirmative, but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself. "of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circumstances. no!" she exclaims, contradicting herself--"when i think of it, no. i've seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about beau brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! beau brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! ha! ha! ha!" there is a _soupçon_ of spleen in the tone of miss linton's laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy. "what could be more ridiculous?" she goes on. "when one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. well," taking hold of the _cafetière_, and filling her cup, "it's time for that young lady to be downstairs. if she hasn't been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. bless me," glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, "it's after eleven, clarisse," to the _femme de chambre_, still in attendance; "tell miss wynn's maid to say to her mistress we're waiting breakfast. _veet, tray veet!_" she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but parisian. off trips the french demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, miss wynn's maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. it is the english damsel who delivers it in the vernacular. "miss gwen isn't in her room; nor hasn't been all the night long." miss linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea-fowl's egg, as the maid makes the announcement. were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete. dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands: "what do you mean, gibbons?" gibbons is the girl's name. "oh, ma'am! just what i've said." "say it again. i can't believe my ears." "that miss gwen hasn't slept in her room." "and where has she slept?" "the goodness only knows." "but you ought to know. you're her maid--you undressed her." "i did not, i am sorry to say," stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused; "very sorry i didn't." "and why didn't you, gibbons? explain that." thus brought to book, the peccant gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. no use concealing aught--it must come out anyhow. "and you're quite sure she has not slept in her room?" interrogates miss linton, as yet unable to realize a circumstance so strange and unexpected. "oh, yes, ma'am. the bed hasn't been lied upon by anybody--neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. and there's her nightdress over the chair, just as i laid it out for her." "very strange," exclaims miss linton; "positively alarming." for all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. llangorren court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. and she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering. "search them all!" commands miss linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her. they scatter off in different directions, miss lees along with them. "it's very extraordinary. don't you think so?" this to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her. "i do, decidedly. surely no harm has happened her. i trust not. how could there?" "true, how? still, i'm a little apprehensive, and won't feel satisfied till i see her. how my heart does palpitate, to be sure!" she lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it. "well, eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with gibbons behind. "what news?" "not any, aunt." "and you really think she hasn't slept in her room?" "almost sure she hasn't. the bed, as gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. besides, the dress she wore last night isn't there." "nor anywhere else, ma'am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "as you know, 'twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. i've looked everywhere, and can't find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!" the other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. no word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her. at length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. they go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young lovel lost his "own fair bride." and while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of llangorren court have the romantic tale in their minds. not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "mistletoe bough." male and female--all have heard it sung in that same house, at every christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous. it needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertions. respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child, according to their feelings and attachments. in vain--all in vain. though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of llangorren court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find gwen wynn. dead or living, she is not in the house. chapter xxxv. again the engagement ring. the first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. indeed, miss linton directs it so. now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further. she has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. to suppose her carried off is too absurd--a theory not to be entertained for an instant. and having gone so, the questions are, why, and whither? after all, it may be, that at the ball's departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. with such an impulsive creature as gwen wynn, the freak was not improbable. nor is there any one to say nay. in the bustle and confusion of departure, the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and gibbons sound asleep. and if true, a "hue and cry" raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. to avoid this, the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the court, or carry any tale outward--for the time. beguiled by this hopeful belief, miss linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the head of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night--merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. these are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; mr. musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls at other houses, to make personal inquiry. this matter settled, the old lady waits the result, though without any very sanguine expectations of success. for another theory has presented itself to her mind--that gwen has run away with captain ryecroft! improbable as the thing might appear, miss linton, nevertheless for a while has faith in it. it was as she might have done some forty years before, had she but met the right man--such as he. and measuring her niece by the same romantic standard--with gwen's capriciousness thrown into the account--she ignores everything else; even the absurdity of such a step from its sheer causelessness. that to her is of little weight; no more the fact of the young lady taking flight in a thin dress, with only a shawl upon her shoulders. for gibbons, called upon to give an account of her wardrobe, has taken stock, and found everything in its place--every article of her mistress's drapery save the blue silk dress and indian shawl--hats and bonnets hung up or in their boxes, but all there, proving her to have gone off bareheaded? not the less natural, reasons miss linton--instead, only a component part in the chapter of contrarieties. so, too, the coolness observed between the betrothed sweethearts throughout the preceding night--their refraining from partnership in the dances--all dissembling on their part, possibly to make the surprise of the after event more piquant and complete. so runs the imagination of the novel-reading spinster, fresh and fervid as in her days of girlhood--passing beyond the trammels of reason--leaving the bounds of probability. but her theory is short-lived. it receives a death blow from a letter which miss lees brings under her notice. it is that superscribed in the handwriting of captain ryecroft, which the companion had for the time forgotten; she having no thought that it would have anything to do with the young lady's disappearance. and the letter proves that he can have nothing to do with it. the hotel stamp, the post-mark, the time of deposit and delivery are all understood, all contributing to show it must have been posted, if not written, that same morning. were she with him, it would not be there. down goes the castle of romance miss linton has been constructing--wrecked--scattered as a house of cards. it is quite possible that letter contains something that would throw light upon the mystery, perhaps clear all up; and the old lady would like to open it. but she may not--dare not. gwen wynn is not one to allow tampering with her correspondence; and as yet her aunt cannot realize the fact--nor even entertain the supposition--that she is gone for good and for ever. as time passes, however, and the different messengers return, with no news of the missing lady--mr. musgrave is also back without tidings--the alarm is renewed, and search again set up. it extends beyond the precincts of the house, and the grounds already explored, off into woods and fields, along the banks of river and byewash, everywhere that offers a likelihood, the slightest, of success. but neither in wood, spinney, or coppice can they find traces of gwen wynn; all "draw blank," as george shenstone would say of a cover where no fox is found. and just as this result is reached, that gentleman himself steps upon the ground to receive a shock such as he has rarely experienced. the news communicated is a surprise to him, for he has arrived at the court, knowing nought of the strange incident which has occurred. he has come thither on an afternoon call, not altogether dictated by ceremony. despite all that has passed--what gwen wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand--he does not even yet despair. who so circumstanced ever does? what man in love, profoundly, passionately as he, could believe his last chance eliminated, or have his ultimate hope extinguished? he had not. instead, when bidding adieu to her after the ball, he felt some revival of it, several causes having contributed to its rekindling. among others, her gracious behaviour to himself, so gratifying; but more, her distant manner towards his rival, which he could not help observing, and saw with secret satisfaction. and still thus reflecting on it, he enters the gates at llangorren, to be stunned by the strange intelligence there awaiting him--miss wynn missing! gone away! run away! perhaps carried off! lost! and cannot be found! for in these varied forms, and like variety of voices, is it conveyed to him. needless to say, he joins in the search with ardour, but distractedly, suffering all the sadness of a torn and harrowed heart. but to no purpose; no result to soothe or console him. his skill at drawing a cover is of no service here. it is not for a fox "stole away," leaving hot scent behind; but a woman goes without print of foot or trace to indicate the direction, without word left to tell the cause of departure. withal, george shenstone continues to seek for her long after the others have desisted. for his views differ from those entertained by miss linton, and his apprehensions are of a keener nature. he remains at the court throughout the evening, making excursions into the adjacent woods, searching, and again exploring everywhere. none of the servants think it strange; all know of his intimate relations with the family. mr. musgrave remains also; both of them asked to stay dinner--a meal this day eaten _sans façon_, in haste, and under agitation. when, after it, the ladies retire to the drawing-room--the curate along with them--george shenstone goes out again, and over the grounds. it is now night, and the darkness lures him on; for it was in such she disappeared. and although he has no expectation of seeing her there, some vague thought has drifted into his mind, that in darkness he may better reflect, and something be suggested to avail him. he strays on to the boat stair, looks down into the dock, and there sees the _gwendoline_ at her moorings. but he thinks only of the other boat, which, as he now knows, on the night before lay alongside her. has it indeed carried away gwen wynn? he fancies it has--he can hardly have a doubt of it. how else is her disappearance to be accounted for? but has she been borne off by force, or went she willingly? these are the questions which perplex him; the conjectured answer to either causing him keenest anxiety. after remaining a short while on the top of the stair, he turns away with a sigh, and saunters on towards the pavilion. though under the shadow of its roof the obscurity is complete, he, nevertheless, enters and sits down. he is fatigued with the exertions of the afternoon, and the strain upon his nerves through the excitement. taking a cigar from his case and nipping off the end, he rasps a fusee to light it. but before the blue fizzing blaze dims down, he drops the cigar to clutch at an object on the floor, whose sparkle has caught his eye. he succeeds in getting hold of it, though not till the fusee has ceased flaming. but he needs no light to tell him what he has got in his hand. he knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of gwen wynn's fingers--the engagement ring! chapter xxxvi. a mysterious embarkation. not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. as jack wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. it was raining as captain ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower-bath. the river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents, from plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. there is a strong wind as well, whose gusts, now and then striking the water's surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests. on the wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. and yet a boat is about to embark upon it--one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of richard dempsey. it is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by gwen wynn and eleanor lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. and almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among wye watermen. it is lying with bow on the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. during the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that, almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the river's channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. no more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. that now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose. not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage, three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet's edge. they seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from dempsey's house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. but if they regard not getting wet,--something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? all the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings. it is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. more likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show. "they'll be sure to find the body in a day or two. possibly to-morrow, or, if not, very soon. a good deal will depend on the state of the river. if this flood continue, and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. no matter when; your course is clear, monsieur murdock." "but what do you advise my doing, _père_? i'd like you to lend me your counsel--give me minute directions about everything." "in the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. such a near relative, as you are, 'twould appear strange if you didn't. all the world may not be aware of the little tiff--rather prolonged though--that's been between you. and if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts--suspicions. naturally enough. a man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! and when knowing--when 'found drowned,' as she will be--not to show either sympathy or sorrow! _ma foi!_ they might mob you if you didn't!" "that's true enough," grunts murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood. "you advise my going over to llangorren?" "decidedly i do. present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. you may make the hour reasonably late, saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at glyngog--out of the way as it is. you'll find plenty of people at the court on your arrival. from what i've learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they'll be hot upon the search to-morrow. it would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as clarisse tells me, that mademoiselle had run away with the hussar! but it appears a letter has reached the court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair, proving to them it could be no elopement--at least, with him. under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there'll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn't fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. to do that effectually, you must show yourself at llangorren, and in good time." "there's sense in what you say. you're a very solomon, father rogier. i'll be there, trust me. is there anything else you think of?" the jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. it is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action. "yes," he at length answers. "there are a good many other things i think of; but they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. and you must yourself, m'ssieu, as you best can. it will be quite four days, if not more, ere i can get back. they may even find the body to-morrow--if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. still, i fancy, 'twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. don't you on any account suggest it. and should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. the longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?" "i do." "when found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint having reference to _le capitaine ryecroft_. his having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither--decamping in such haste too--that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him--possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of miss wynn! odd succession of events, is it not?" "it is indeed." "seems as if the very fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. if we fail now, 'twill be our own fault. and that reminds me there should be no waste of time--must not. one hour of this darkness may be worth an age--or, at all events, ten thousand pounds per annum. _allons! vite-vite?_" he steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees. murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. they do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing--of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. it is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that, laid along the boat's bottom timbers, it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart. seeing that he who has thus disposed of it is coracle dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. but the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:-"well, _mon bracconier_; have you stowed my luggage?" "it's in the boat, father rogier." "and all ready for starting?" "the minute your reverence steps in." "so, well! and now, m'ssieu," he adds, turning to murdock, and again speaking in undertone, "if you play _your_ part skilfully, on return i may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the lord of llangorren. till then, adieu!" saying which, he steps over the boat's side, and takes seat in its stern. shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river. lewin murdock is left standing on the brook's edge, free to go what way he wishes. soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the welsh harp--there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached rugg's ferry. chapter xxxvii. an anxious wife. inside glyngog house is mrs. murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. but these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front, at intervals opening the door, and a-gazing out into the night--a dark, stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of father rogier, only an hour later. to her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. it is not him, therefore, she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. so anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the doorstep, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. there is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread--set out for supper with dishes of many kinds--cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively. whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long has been such scarcity? as no one visits at glyngog save father rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. and he would not, were he there; knowing the answer better than any one else. he ought. the cheer upon lewin murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on mrs. murdock's face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. as moses lends money on _post obits_, at "shixty per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of glyngog, conducted thither by gregoire rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible--the treasury of the vatican. yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream. no wonder there is now brightness upon the face of olympe renault, so long shadowed. the sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. splendour, gaiety, _voluptè_, be hers once more, and more than ever! as she stands in the door of glyngog, looking down the river, at llangorren, and through the darkness sees the court with only one or two windows alight--they but in dim glimmer--she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn, like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long--when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of the mansion. but as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. from being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. still standing in the door, she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. not so to-night. she dreads to see him return intoxicated. though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. they are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:-"gregoire must have got off long ere this--at least two hours ago. he said they'd set out soon as it came night. half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. if he has gone to the ferry first, and sets to drinking in the harp! cette _auberge maudit_. there's no knowing what he may do or say. saying would be worse than doing. a word in his cups--a hint of what has happened--might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! and such danger--_l'prise de corps, mon dieu!_" her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up. "surely he will not be so stupid--so insane? sober, he can keep secrets well enough--guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. but the cognac? hark! footsteps! his, i hope." she listens without stirring from the spot. the tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. were her husband a frenchman, it would be different. but lewin murdock, like all english country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. not as usual, however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! "he isn't such a fool after all!" her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out-"_c'est vous, mon mari?_" "of course it is. who else could it be? you don't expect the father, our only visitor, to-night? you'll not see him for several days to come." "he's gone then?" "two hours ago. by this he should be miles away; unless he and coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. no unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly." she still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. she is thinking of what may have happened at the welsh harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. she is less anxious, however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual, coming from the "_auberge maudite_." "two hours ago they got off, you say?" "about that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed." "they did so?" "oh, yes." "_le bagage bien arrangé?_" "_parfaitement_; or, as we say in english, neat as a trivet. if you prefer another form--nice as nine-pence." she is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for lewin murdock. coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. indeed, for some days murdock has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands--a feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to completeness. now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the welsh harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:-"where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?" "part of the time at the ferry; the rest of it i've spent on paths and roads coming and going. i went up to the harp to hear what i could hear." "and what did you hear?" "nothing much to interest us. as you know, rugg's is an out-of-the-way corner--none more so on the wye--and the llangorren news hasn't reached it. the talk of the ferry folk is all about the occurrence at abergann, which still continues to exercise them. the other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told father rogier by your countrywoman, clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon." "and has there been no search yet?" "search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons i allude to." "what are they? you haven't told me." "oh! various. some of them laughable enough. whimsies of that quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at llangorren." "ah! madame linton. how has she been taking it?" "i'll tell you after i've had something to eat and drink. you forget, olympe, where i've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. true, i've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! what have you got to reward me for it?" "_entrez!_" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_voilà!_" he is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. he does not need to inquire whence it comes. he, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. but he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it--one third the estate of llangorren. "well, _ma chèrie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. but i suppose there's no help for it." "none," she answers, with a comprehension of the circumstances clearer and fuller than his. "we've made the contract, and must abide by it. if broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. ah, monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les jesuites_--how sharp their claws, and far reaching!" "confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side. he eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. his day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence. and while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them miss linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search. "the old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration; "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of hussars--if she don't believe it still! ha, ha, ha! she'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. _it_ will settle the business!" olympe renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at glyngog, but on a grand couch in llangorren court. chapter xxxviii. impatient for the post. never man looked with more impatience for a post than captain ryecroft for the night mail from the west, its morning delivery in london. it may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, assuring his happiness, or dooming him to misery. and if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same. it is scarce necessary to say the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in herefordshire, and posted before leaving the wyeside hotel. twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the langham, london, where the response, if any, should reach him. he has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. at earliest in the langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world. it is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-hussar officer, pacing the tesselated tiles outside the deputy-manager's moderately sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier. it seems an inexorable certainty--though a very vexatious one--that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time--as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. even postmen are not always punctual, as vivian ryecroft has reason to know. that amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the langham till nearly half-past eight. there is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." that would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one. dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight. with no abatement of impatience, captain ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted--a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post-marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilized nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp-collector shed tears of concupiscence. scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon holes, ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him--at the same time giving his name. "no, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter r, and dealing them off as a pack of cards. "are you quite sure, sir? pardon me. i intend starting off within the hour, and, expecting a letter of some importance, may i ask you to glance over them again?" in all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the langham. they are, in fact, types of the highest _hotel civilization_. instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under r; soon as completed saying,-"no, sir; none for the name of ryecroft." he bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. the negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes--almost irritates him. it is like a blow repeated--a second slap in his face held up in humiliation--after having forgiven the first. he will not so humble himself--never forgive again. this his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel. the steam-packet service between folkestone and boulogne is "tidal." consulting bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the charing cross station, 1. therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile. how are they to be occupied? he is not in the mood for amusement. nothing in london could give him that now--neither afford him a moment's gratification. perhaps in paris? and he will try. there men have buried their griefs--women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. in the days of napoleon the little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the imperial _regimé_ itself. and he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. in his present frame of mind it is possible. nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion--love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to--in all likelihood never more met! while waiting for the folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room--in the langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best. the marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. it is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. had he won, with cook, bennett, or roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same. once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly nicotian. a cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe, his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. this brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street--there to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others affording the highest happiness on earth. for it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "all souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-decked, footmen wearing similar favours--an unusually stylish affair. as in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two, disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each--even the raggedest--had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite captain ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. for the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession--at its head--followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall. a sigh, succeeded by a half-angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him. on the waiter entering, he cries out,-"call me a cab." "hansom, sir?" "no! four-wheeler. and this luggage get downstairs soon as possible." his impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles having been unpacked--and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, a speedy descent down the lift. a single pipe of mr. trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the langham entrance in twenty seconds time, and in twenty more a traveller's luggage, however heavy, is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. his departure so accelerated, captain ryecroft--who had already settled his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off. but despatch ends on leaving the langham. the cab, being a four-wheeler, crawls along like a tortoise. fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead, will be too early for the folkestone train. he only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive. shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. the hour is too early for regent street promenaders. some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. in burlesque it reminds him of the wye, and his waterman wingate! but just then something else recalls the western river not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. the cab is passing through leicester square, one of the lungs of london, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. it is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. several of them catch the eye of captain ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. it is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the st. james's hall, for some charitable purpose of welsh speciality. programme with list of performers. at their head, in largest lettering, the queen of the eisteddfod- edith wynne! to him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence notwithstanding the difference of orthography. it seems like a nemesis pursuing him! he grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,-"drive on, jarvey, or i'll be late for my train! a shilling extra for time." if cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of heming's row, down king william street, and across the strand into the charing cross station. chapter xxxix. journey interrupted. captain ryecroft takes a through ticket for paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches boulogne. glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between folkestone and the french seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape. having set foot upon french soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage--how he will get the former _vised_ and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. it is not his first visit to france, nor is he unacquainted with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to _sergent de ville_ or _douanier_ will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time--quicker if it be a handsome one. feeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone. "captain ryecroft!" it exclaims, in a rich, rolling brogue, as of galway. "is it yourself? by the powers of moll kelly, and it is." "major mahon!" "the same, old boy. give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. a nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it? but what's brought you to boulogne?" the question takes the traveller aback. he is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming. "come, old comrade!" protests the major, good-naturedly, "that won't do; it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, i trust. but, maybe, i make too free, asking your business in boulogne?" "not at all, mahon. i have no business in boulogne; i'm on the way to paris." "oh! a pleasure trip, i suppose?" "nothing of the kind. there's no pleasure for me in paris or anywhere else." "aha!" ejaculated the major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, "what's this, old fellow? something wrong?" "oh, not much--never mind." the reply is little satisfactory. but seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the major continues, apologetically-"pardon me, ryecroft. i've no wish to be inquisitive, but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. it isn't your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be so long as you're in my company--if i can help it." "it's very kind of you, mahon; and for the short time i'm to be with you, i'll do the best i can to be cheerful. it shouldn't be a great effort. i suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?" "what train?" "for paris." "you're not going to paris now--not this night?" "i am, straight on." "neither straight nor crooked, _ma bohil_!" "i must." "why must you? if you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? bother, ryecroft! you'll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? i can promise you some little amusement. boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. the smash of agra & masterman's, with overend & gurney following suit, has sent hither a host of old indians, both soldiers and civilians. no doubt you'll find many friends among them. there are lots of pretty girls, too--i don't mean natives, but our countrywomen--to whom i'll have much pleasure in presenting you." "not for the world, mahon--not one! i have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way." "what, turned hater! women too. well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there's half a dozen of the other here--good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. they're strangers to you, i think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make boulogne agreeable. come, old boy. you'll stay? say the word." "i would, major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. but, i confess, just now i'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance--least of all among my countrymen. to tell the truth, i'm going to paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them." "nonsense! you're not the man to turn _solitaire_, like simon stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! besides, paris is not the place for that sort of thing. if you're really determined on keeping out of company for awhile--i won't ask why--remain with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea-beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. come, ryecroft, don't deny me. it's so long since we've had a day together, i'm dying to talk over old times--recall our _camaraderie_ in india." for the first time in forty-eight hours captain ryecroft's countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness--almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its patois recalling childhood's happy days. and as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts--if not a restoration of happiness--is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. what difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in paris or boulogne--if find it he can? "i'm booked to paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself. "have you a through ticket?" asks the major, in an odd way. "of course i have." "let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out his hand. "certainly. why do you wish that?" "to see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here." "i don't think it will. in fact, i know it don't. they told me so at charing cross." "then they told you what wasn't true; for it does. see here!" what the major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. they are the fragments of the torn ticket. "now, old boy! you're booked for boulogne." the melancholy smile, up to that time on ryecroft's face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. with cheerfulness for the time restored, he says: "well, major, by that you've cost me at least one pound sterling. but i'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for--possibly a week." "a month--a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. i've got a snug little compound in the rue tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what's better, a keg of the 'raal crayther.' let's along and have a tumbler of it at once. you'll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. don't wait for your luggage. these custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. is it labelled?" "it is; my name's on everything." "let me have one of your cards." the card is handed to him. "there, monsieur," he says, turning to a _douanier_, who respectfully salutes, "take this, and see that all the _bagage_ bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. my servant will come for it. _garçon!_" this to the driver of a _voiture_, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing. pushing captain ryecroft into the hack, and following himself, the major gives the french jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of boulogne. chapter xl. hue and cry. the ponies and pet stag on the lawn at llangorren wonder what it is all about. so different from the garden parties and archery meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. there are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an outdoor assemblage of the aristocracy. the sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words "murdered or missing," drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot. and such words have gone abroad from llangorren court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. gwen wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered. it is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. the slight scandal dreaded by miss linton no longer has influence with her. the continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday, new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. it has been identified not only by the finder, but by eleanor lees, and miss linton herself. a rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies--both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift. how comes it to have been there in the summer-house? dropped, of course; but under what circumstances? questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. no one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as miss lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured. the discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. but it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that miss wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken. robbed, too, before being carried off. there were other rings upon her fingers--diamonds, emeralds, and the like. possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. at night and in the darkness, all likely enough. so for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. for if gwen wynn had been robbed, she may also be murdered. the costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and, fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. it may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder. by midday the alarm has reached its height--the hue and cry is at its loudest. no longer confined to the family and domestics--no more the relatives and intimate friends--people of all classes and kinds take part in it. the pleasure grounds of llangorren, erst private and sacred as the garden of the hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features--that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken miss wynn. many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her, noways nettled by her giving him the "lead"; instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow--enthusiastically proclaiming her "pluck" at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of "tally-ho." besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. several magistrates have arrived at llangorren, among them sir george shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates. there is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. it is a circumstance unprecedented--a strange sight, indeed--lewin murdock at the court! he is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings. it seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. but to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. they construe it differently from the others--the outside spectators. more than one of them, observing the anxious expression on his face, believe it but a semblance, a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart, to become joy if gwen wynn be found--dead. it is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. the construction put upon lewin murdock's motives is confined to the few, for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search. again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. this day there is due deliberation--a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective. as on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. the eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end. as yet the drag has not been called into requisition, the deep flood, with a swift, strong current, preventing it. partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe, cannot realize the fact, that gwendoline wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the wye! robbed and drowned! surely it cannot be! equally incredible that she has drowned herself. suicide is not thought of--incredible under the circumstances. a third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge--of a jealous lover's spite--seems alike untenable. she, the heiress, owner of the vast llangorren estates, to be so dealt with--pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! the thing is preposterous! and yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many--of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial inquiry, carried on inside the house. there a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather, is elicited. miss linton's maid, clarisse, is the author of it. this sportive creature confesses to having been out in the grounds as the ball was breaking up, and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. they came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of mademoiselle and le capitaine--by the latter meaning captain ryecroft. startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring; collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up. nor is the _femme de chambre_ telling any untruth. she was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. she had gone down to the boat dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat. she does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. she was merely out to have a look at the illumination--the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished--all natural enough. and questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that mademoiselle had been behaving in that way--quarrelling with a gentleman. in the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that miss wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. what for could have been angry words? and the quarrel--how did it end? and now the name ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. why is he not here? his absence is strange, unaccountable under the circumstances. to none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif--the gift ring--told he was the giver. he cannot be ignorant of what is passing at llangorren. true, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it. "i think we had better send for him," observes sir george shenstone to his brother justices. "what say you, gentlemen?" "certainly; of course," is the unanimous rejoinder. "and the waterman too?" queries another. "it appears that captain ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. does any one know who was his boatman?" "a fellow named wingate," is the answer given by young shenstone. "he lives by the roadside, up the river, near rugg's ferry." "possibly he may be here, outside," says sir george. "go, see!" this to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. almost immediately to return--told by the people that jack wingate is not among them. "that's strange, too!" remarks one of the magistrates. "both should be brought hither at once--if they don't choose to come willingly." "oh!" exclaims sir george, "they'll come willingly, no doubt. let a policeman be despatched for wingate. as for captain ryecroft, don't you think, gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. suppose i write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?" "that will be better," say several assenting. this note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the widow wingate. nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return--both arriving about the same time--the agitation is intense. for both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that captain ryecroft is no longer at the hotel--had left it on the day before by the first train for london! the policeman's tale is, that jack wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to london, but in his boat, down the river to the bristol channel! within less than a hour after, a police officer is despatched to chepstow, and further, if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis. chapter xli. boulogne-sur-mer. major mahon is a soldier of the rollicking irish type--good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. this same token also proclaims that he is no longer in the army. for he is not--having left it disabled at the close of the indian mutiny: after the relief of lucknow, where he also parted with his arm. he is not rich; one reason for his being in boulogne--convenient place for men of moderate means. there he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelve-month he has been residing: a small domicile, _meublé_. still, large enough for his needs: for the major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. as a bachelor in the french watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants--far better than if it were in an english one. but economy is not his only reason for sojourning in boulogne. there is another alike creditable to him, or more. he has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there--an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her. for all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a _pensionnaire_. all these matters are made known to captain ryecroft on the day after his arrival at boulogne. not in the morning. it has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the _jetée_, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'establissement de bains_, ending in an hour or two passed at the "cercle," of which the major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrades, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen "good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany." it is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the major's own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the _haute ville_, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the hibernian heart. ryecroft, though irish himself, is of a less communicative nature. a native of dublin, he has saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to paris. he essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows: "what a time it seems, ryecroft, since you and i have been together--an age! and yet, if i'm not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. you remember we met at the 'rag,' and dined there with russel, of the artillery." "of course i remember it." "i've seen russel since--about three months ago, when i was over in england. and, by the way, 'twas from him i last heard of yourself." "what had he to say about me?" "only that you were somewhere down west--on the wye, i think--salmon-fishing. i know you were always good at casting a fly." "that all he said?" "well, no," admits the major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other's face. "there was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation." "what, may i ask?" "that you'd been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish--a big one, besides--and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you'd captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. come, old boy! don't be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust charley mahon. is it true?" "is what true?" asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence. "that you've caught the richest heiress in herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as russel had it, and which is best for both of you. down on your knees, ryecroft! confess!" "major mahon! if you wish me to remain your guest for another night--another hour--you'll not ask me aught about that affair, nor even name it. in time i may tell you all; but now, to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and, i believe, truest friends, cannot fully understand." "i can at least understand that it's something serious." the inference is drawn less from ryecroft's words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. "but," continues the major, greatly moved, "you'll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? i promise not to press you any more. so let's drop the subject, and speak of something else." "what, then?" asks ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning. "my little sister, if you like. i call her little because she was so when i went out to india. she's now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. what's better, she's good. you see that building below?" they are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cité_. a slope in warlike days serving as the _glacis_, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. that which the major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the landes country could look over. "i see--what of it?" asks the ex-hussar. "it's the convent where kate is at school--the prison in which she's confined, i might better say," he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular. it need scarce be said that major mahon is a roman catholic. his sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. but he is not bigoted, as ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark. his old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing-"a very fine mansion it appears--walks, shade-trees, arbours, fountains. i had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. they ought to live happily in such a pretty place. but then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as i've heard they are--ah, liberty! it's the only thing that makes the world worth living in." "ditto, say i. i echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. if i didn't, i might have been long ago a benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern--in piccaninnies. instead, i'm free as the breezes, and by the moll kelly, intend remaining so." the major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. but this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one. perceiving it so, mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking-"it's beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. suppose we saunter down to the cercle, and have a game of billiards!" "if it be all the same to you, mahon, i'd rather not go there to-night." "oh! it's all the same to me. let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. there were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. i see you still want cheering, and there's nothing will do that like a drop of the _crather_. _allons!_" without resisting, ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. from the point where they descended the shortest way to the rue tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. one of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which miss mahon is at school. as they approach it, a _fiâcre_ is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare--a traveller. there is a lamp, and by its light, dim, nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. some one on a visit to the convent, or returning after absence. nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on. just, however, as they are passing the hack, about to drive off again, captain ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start. "what is it?" asks the major, who feels the spasmodic movement--the two walking arm-in-arm. "well! if it wasn't that i am in boulogne instead of on the banks of the river wye, i'd swear that i saw a man inside that doorway whom i met not many days ago in the shire of hereford." "what sort of a man?" "a priest!" "oh! black's no mark among sheep. the _prêtres_ are all alike, as peas or policemen. i'm often puzzled myself to tell one from t'other." satisfied with this explanation, the ex-hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the rue tintelleries. entering his house, the major calls for "matayrials," and they sit down to the steaming punch. but before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for "captain ryecroft." the entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this. "who can be asking for me?" queries ryecroft, looking towards his host. the major cannot tell--cannot think--who; but the answer is given by his irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to captain ryecroft, saying, "it's for you, yer honner." the name on the card is- "mr. george shenstone." chapter xlii. what does he want? "mr. george shenstone?" queries captain ryecroft, reading from the card. "george shenstone!" he repeats, with a look of blank astonishment--"what the deuce does it mean?" "does what mean?" asks the major, catching the other's surprise. "why, this gentleman being here. you see that?" he tosses the card across the table. "well, what of it?" "read the name!" "mr. george shenstone. don't know the man. haven't the most distant idea who he is. have you?" "oh, yes." "old acquaintance; friend, i presume? no enemy, i hope?" "if it be the son of a sir george shenstone, of herefordshire, i can't call him either friend or enemy; and as i know nobody else of the name, i suppose it must be he. if so, what he wants with me is a question i can no more answer than the man in the moon. i must get the answer from himself. can i take the liberty of asking him into your house, mahon!" "certainly, my dear boy! bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us--" "thanks, major!" interrupts ryecroft. "but no; i'd prefer first having a word with him alone. instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me." "oh, oh!" ejaculates the major. "murtagh!" to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, "show the gentleman into the drawing-room." "mr. shenstone and i," proceeds ryecroft in explanation, "have but the very slightest acquaintance. i've only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball--a private one--just three nights ago. 'twas that very morning i met the priest i supposed we'd seen up there. 'twould seem as if everybody on the wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into france." "ha--ha--ha! about the _prêtre_, no doubt you're mistaken. and maybe this isn't your man, either. the same name, you're sure?" "quite. the herefordshire baronet's son is george, as his father, to whose title he is heir. i never heard of his having any other----" "stay!" interrupts the major, again glancing at the card, "here's something to help identification--an address--_ormeston hall_." "ah! i didn't observe that." in his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. "ormeston hall? yes, i remember, sir george's residence is so called. of course it's the son--must be." "but why do you think he means fight? something happened between you, eh?" "no, nothing between us, directly." "ah! indirectly, then? of course the old trouble--a woman." "well, if it be fighting the fellow's after, i suppose it must be about that," slowly rejoins ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain george shenstone has come after him on the part of miss wynn. the thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims-"by heavens! he shall have what he wants. but i mustn't keep him waiting. give me that card, major!" the major returns it to him, coolly observing-"if it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, i can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in boulogne. you haven't told me what your quarrel's about; but from what i know of you, ryecroft, i take it you're in the right, and you can count on me as a second. lucky it's my left wing that's clipped. with the right i can shoot straight as ever, should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair." "thanks, mahon! you're just the man i'd have asked such a favour from." "the gentleman's inside the dhrawin-room, surr." this from the ex-royal irish, who has again presented himself, saluting. "don't yield the _sassenach_ an inch!" counsels the major, a little of the old celtic hostility stirring within him. "if he demands explanations, hand him over to me. i'll give them to his satisfaction. so, old fellow, be firm!" "never fear!" returns ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to gwendoline wynn. and so has it. but not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. george shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. something more serious, since it was the baronet's son who left llangorren court in company with the plain-clothes policeman. the latter is still along with him, though not inside the house. he is standing upon the street at a convenient distance, though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any further service now, professionally. holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist mr. shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. but as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the english policeman has no further errand in boulogne--while the english gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. the impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. gwen wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. and so resolved, he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, "interview" him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves. in the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. luggage labelled "langham hotel, london," gave him hot scent, as far as the grand _caravanserai_ at the bottom of portland place. beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. the traveller's traps re-directed at the langham, "paris _via_ folkestone and boulogne"--the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager--was indication sufficient to guide george shenstone across the channel; and cross it he did by the next day's packet for boulogne. arrived in the french seaport, he would have gone straight on to paris had he been alone. but, accompanied by the policeman, the result was different. this--an old dog of the detective breed--soon as setting foot on french soil, went sniffing about among _serjents de ville_ and _douaniers_, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination--he finding that the game had gone no further. in short, from information received at the custom house, captain ryecroft was run to earth in the rue tintelleries, under the roof of major mahon. and now that george shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead, greatly embarrassed; not from any personal fear--he has too much "pluck" for that. it is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong-doing. what, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that captain ryecroft is entirely innocent? his heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from herefordshire, he did not thus interrogate. then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted. but, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. how could they otherwise? he pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! a man guilty of aught illegal, much more one who has committed a capital crime, would not be acting thus. besides, captain ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, major mahon, on the packet landing at boulogne. no wonder that mr. shenstone, now _au fait_ to all this--easily ascertained along the route of travel--feels that his errand is an awkward one. embarrassed when ringing major mahon's door-bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. for he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself, to call his guest to account. the act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness! but there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. the thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him. it is no thought of this, no craven fear, which makes him pace major mahon's drawing-room floor so excitedly. his agitation is due to a different and nobler cause--the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame should he find himself mistaken. but he has a consoling thought. prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and, still urged by them, he will carry it to the conclusion, _coûte que coûte_. chapter xliii. a gage d'amour. pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself--there is no fire in the grate--nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. his steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantel-shelf; a sparkling object--in short, a cigar-case of the beaded pattern. why should that attract the attention of the young herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? in his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. but it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it, on the instant after reaching towards and taking it up. ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case--he is now sure as he holds it in his hand, turning it over and over--seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures--two hearts central, transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft--all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials v. r. entwined in a monogram, and the words underneath "from gwen." three days ago the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. not so now. after being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. he but tosses the beaded thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself. still, the little incident is not without effect. it restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. this is still further strengthened as ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. a man feared, but not hated, for shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. a rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. no tremor in his frame, no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in his hand, coming towards him. long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. holding out the card, ryecroft says interrogatively-"is this meant for me, mr. shenstone?" "yes." "some matter of business, i presume. may i ask what it is?" the formal inquiry, in a tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. at the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder. "i want to know--what you have done with miss wynn." he so challenged starts aback, turning pale, and looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed-"what i have done with miss wynn!" then adding, "pray explain yourself, sir!" "come, captain ryecroft, you know what i allude to." "for the life of me i don't." "do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?" "what's happened! when? where?" "at llangorren, the night of that ball. you were present--i saw you." "and i saw you, mr. shenstone. but you don't tell me what happened." "not at the ball, but after." "well, and what after?" "captain ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or the most guilty on the face of the earth." "stop, sir! language like yours requires justification of the gravest kind. i ask an explanation--demand it!" thus brought to bay, george shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed, there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. instead, honest surprise, mingled with keen apprehension; the last, not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: "this man knows nothing of gwendoline wynn. if she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer." "captain ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if i've been wronging you, i ask forgiveness, and you'll forgive; for if i have, you do not, cannot know what has occurred." "i've told you i don't," affirms ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. "for heaven's sake, mr. shenstone, explain! what _has_ occurred there?" "miss wynn is gone away!" "miss wynn gone away! but whither?" "nobody knows. all that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one; no trace left behind--except----" "except what?" "a ring--a diamond cluster. i found it myself in the summer-house. you know the place--you know the ring, too?" "i do, mr. shenstone; have reasons--painful ones. but i am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. what could it mean?" he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. it connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "but, sir, please proceed! for god's sake keep nothing back; tell me everything!" thus appealed to, shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at llangorren court--all that had transpired previous to his leaving, and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in boulogne. the manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained. "mr. shenstone," returns ryecroft, "you ask what i am ready and willing to grant--god knows how ready, how willing. if any misfortune has befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be greater than mine." shenstone is convinced. ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to gwendoline wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own. he stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his intrusion--which are accepted without anger--he bows himself back into the street. the business of his travelling companion in boulogne was over some time ago. his is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new light on the mystery of miss wynn's disappearance, still with some satisfaction to himself he dares not dwell upon. where is the man who would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a rival? however ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy--too natural, as george shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow. too late to catch the folkestone packet, his bed is in boulogne--no bed of roses, but a couch of procrustean. * * * * * meanwhile, captain ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the major has been awaiting him. impatiently, though not in the interim unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to examination. they are the "best barkers that can be got in boulogne." "we shan't need them, major, after all." "the devil we shan't! he's shown the white feather?" "no, mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood before sword-point, or dared pistol bullet." "then there's no trouble between you?" "ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. sorrow shared by both. we're in the same boat." "in that case, why didn't you bring him in?" "i didn't think of it." "well, we'll drink his health. and since you say you've both embarked in the same boat--a bad one--here's to your reaching a good haven, and in safety!" "thanks, major! the haven i now want to reach, and intend entering ere another sun sets, is the harbour of folkestone." the major almost drops his glass. "why, ryecroft, you're surely joking?" "no, mahon; i'm in earnest--dead, anxious earnest." "well, i wonder! no, i don't," he adds, correcting himself. "a man needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. may the devil take her who's taking you away from me!" "major mahon!" "well--well, old boy! don't be angry. i meant nothing personal, knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind, and so soon leaving me. let my sorrow at that be my excuse." "you shall be told it this night--now!" in another hour major mahon is in possession of all that relates to gwendoline wynn, known to vivian ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to england, nor doing aught to detain him. instead, he counsels his immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that well-timed grip in the ditch of delhi, exclaiming, "god bless you, old boy! whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend, and a bit of a tent to shelter you in boulogne--not forgetting a little comfort from the _crayther_!" chapter xliv. suicide, or murder. two more days have passed, and the crowd collected at llangorren court is larger than ever. but it is not now scattered, nor are people rushing excitedly about; instead, they stand thickly packed in a close clump, which covers all the carriage sweep in front of the house. for the search is over, the lost one has at length been found--found when the flood subsided, and the drag could do its work--_found drowned_! not far away, nor yet in the main river; but that narrow channel, deep and dark, inside the eyot. in a little angular embayment at the cliff's base, almost directly under the summer-house was the body discovered. it came to the surface soon as touched by the grappling iron, which caught in the loose drapery around it. left alone for another day, it would have risen of itself. taken out of the water, and borne away to the house, it is now lying in the entrance hall, upon a long table there set centrally. the hall, though a spacious one, is filled with people; and but for two policemen stationed at the door, would be densely crowded. these have orders to admit only the friends and intimates of the family, with those whose duty requires them to be there officially. there is again a council in deliberation; but not as on days preceding. then it was to inquire into what had become of gwendoline wynn, and whether she were still alive; to-day it is an inquest being held over her dead body! there lies it, just as it came out of the water. but, oh! how unlike what it was before being submerged! those gossamer things, silks and laces--the dress worn by her at the ball--no more floating and feather-like, but saturated, mud-stained, "clinging like cerements" around a form whose statuesque outlines, even in death, show the perfection of female beauty. and her chrome yellow hair, cast in loose coils about, has lost its silken gloss, and grown darker in hue: while the rich rose red is gone from her cheeks, already swollen and discoloured; so soon had the ruthless water commenced its ravages! no one would know gwen wynn now. seeing that form prostrate and pulseless, who could believe the same, which but a few nights before was there moving about, erect, lissome, and majestic? or in that face, dark and disfigured, who could recognise the once radiant countenance of llangorren's young heiress? sad to contemplate those mute motionless lips, so late wreathed with smiles, and pleasant words! and those eyes, dulled with "muddy impurity," that so short while ago shone bright and gladsome, rejoicing in the gaiety of youth and the glory of beauty--sparkling, flashing, conquering! all is different now; her hair dishevelled, her dress disordered and dripping, the only things upon her person unchanged being the rings on her fingers, the wrist bracelets, the locket still pendant to her neck--all gemmed and gleaming as ever, the impure water affecting not their costly purity. and their presence has a significance, proclaiming an important fact, soon to be considered. the coroner, summoned in haste, has got upon the ground, selected his jury, and gone through the formularies for commencing the inquest. these over, the first point to be established is the identification of the body. there is little difficulty in this; and it is solely through routine, and for form's sake, that the aunt of the deceased lady, her cousin, the lady's maid, and one or two other domestics, are submitted to examination. all testify to their belief that the body before them is that of gwendoline wynn. miss linton, after giving her testimony, is borne off to her room in hysterics, while eleanor lees is led away weeping. then succeeds inquiry as to how the death has been brought about; whether it be a case of suicide or assassination? if murder, the motive cannot have been robbery. the jewellery, of grand value, forbids the supposition of this, checking all conjecture. and if suicide, why? that miss wynn should have taken her own life--made away with herself--is equally impossible of belief. some time is occupied in the investigation of facts, and drawing deductions. witnesses of all classes and kinds thought worth the calling are called and questioned. everything already known, or rumoured, is gone over again, till at length they arrive at the relations of captain ryecroft with the drowned lady. they are brought out in various ways, and by different witnesses; but only assume a sinister aspect in the eyes of the jury on their hearing the tale of the french _femme de chambre_--strengthened, almost confirmed, by the incident of that ring found on the floor of the summer-house. the finder is not there to tell how; but miss linton, miss lees, and mr. musgrave, vouch for the fact at second hand. the one most wanted is vivian ryecroft himself, and next him the waterman wingate. neither has yet made appearance at llangorren, nor has either been heard of. the policeman sent after the last has returned to report a bootless expedition. no word of the boatman at chepstow, nor anywhere else down the river. and no wonder there is not, since young powell and his friends have taken jack's boat beyond the river's mouth--duck-shooting along the shores of the severn sea--there camping out, and sleeping in places far from towns, or stations of the rural constabulary. and the first is not yet expected--cannot be. from london, george shenstone had telegraphed: "captain ryecroft gone to paris, where he (shenstone) would follow him." there has been no _telegram_ later to know whether the followed has been found. even if he have, there has not been time for return from the french metropolis. just as this conclusion has been reached by the coroner, his jury, the justices, and other gentlemen interested in and assisting at the investigation inside the hall, to the surprise of those on the sweep without, george shenstone presents himself in their midst; their excited movement with the murmur of voices proclaiming his advent. still greater their astonishment when, shortly after--within a few seconds--captain ryecroft steps upon the same ground, as though the two had come thither in companionship! and so might it have been believed, but for two hotel hackneys seen drawn up on the drive outside the skirts of the crowd, where they delivered their respective fares, after having brought them separately from the railway station. fellow-travellers they have been, but whether friends or not, the people are surprised at the manner of their arrival; or rather, at seeing captain ryecroft so present himself. for in the days just past he has been the subject of a horrid suspicion, with the usual guesses and conjectures relating to it and him. not only has he been freely calumniated, but doubts thrown out that ryecroft is his real name, and denial of his being an officer of the army, or ever having been; with bold, positive asseveration that he is a swindler and adventurer! all that while gwen wynn was but missing. now that her body is found, since its discovery, still harsher have been the terms applied to him; at length to culminate in calling him a murderer! instead of voluntarily presenting himself at llangorren alone, arms and limbs free, they expected to see him--if seen at all--with a policeman by his side, and manacles on his wrists! astonished, also, are those within the hall, though in a milder degree, and from different causes. they did not look for the man to be brought before them handcuffed; but no more did they anticipate seeing him enter almost simultaneously, and side by side, with george shenstone; they, not having the hackney carriages in sight, taking it for granted that the two have been travelling together. however strange or incongruous the companionship, those noting have no time to reflect about it; their attention being called to a scene that, for a while, fixes and engrosses it. going wider apart as they approach the table on which lies the body, shenstone and ryecroft take opposite sides--coming to a stand, each in his own attitude. from information already imparted to them, they have been prepared to see a corpse, but not such as that! where is the beautiful woman, by both beloved, fondly, passionately? can it be possible that what they are looking upon is she who once was gwendoline wynn! whatever their reflections, or whether alike, neither makes them known in words. instead, both stand speechless, stunned--withered-like, as two strong trees simultaneously scathed by lightning--the bolt which has blasted them lying between! chapter xlv. a plentiful correspondence. if captain ryecroft's sudden departure from herefordshire brought suspicion upon him, his reappearance goes far to remove it. for that this is voluntary soon becomes known. the returned policeman has communicated the fact to his fellow-professionals, it is by them further disseminated among the people assembled outside. from the same source other information is obtained in favour of the man they have been so rashly and gravely accusing. the time of his starting off, the mode of making his journey, without any attempt to conceal his route of travel or cover his tracks--instead, leaving them so marked that any messenger, even the simplest, might have followed and found him. only a fool fleeing from justice would have so fled, or one seeking to escape punishment for some trivial offence; but not a man guilty of murder. besides, is he not back there--come of his own accord--to confront his accusers, if any there still be? so runs the reasoning throughout the crowd on the carriage sweep. with the gentlemen inside the house, equally complete is the revolution of sentiment in his favour. for, after the first violent outburst of grief, young shenstone, in a few whispered words, makes known to them the particulars of his expedition to boulogne, with that interview in the house of major mahon. himself convinced of his rival's innocence, he urges his conviction on the others. but before their eyes is a sight almost confirmatory of it. that look of concentrated anguish in captain ryecroft's eyes cannot be counterfeit. a soldier who sheds tears could not be an assassin; and as he stands in bent attitude leaning over the table on which lies the corpse, tears are seen stealing down his cheeks, while his bosom rises and falls in quick, convulsive heaving. shenstone is himself very similarly affected, and the bystanders beholding them are convinced that, in whatever way gwendoline wynn may have come by her death, the one is innocent of it as the other. for all, justice requires that the accusations already made, or menaced, against captain ryecroft be cleared up. indeed, he himself demands this, for he is aware of the rumours that have been abroad about him. on this account he is called upon by the coroner to state what he knows concerning the melancholy subject of their inquiry. but first george shenstone is examined--as it were by way of skirmish, and to approach, in a manner delicate as possible, the man mainly, though doubtingly accused. the baronet's son, beginning with the night of the ball--the fatal night--tells how he danced repeatedly with miss wynn; between two sets walked out with her over the lawn, stopped, and stood for some time under a certain tree, where in conversation she made known to him the fact of her being betrothed by showing him the engagement ring. she did not say who gave it, but he surmised it to be captain ryecroft--was sure of its being he--even without the evidence of the engraved initials afterwards observed by him inside it. as it has already been identified by others, he is only asked to state the circumstances under which he found it. which he does, telling how he picked it up from the floor of the summer-house; but without alluding to his own motives for being there, or acting as he has throughout. as he is not questioned about these, why should he? but there are many hearing who guess them--not a few quite comprehending all. george shenstone's mad love for miss wynn has been no secret, neither his pursuit of her for many long months, however hopeless it might have seemed to the initiated. his melancholy bearing now, which does not escape observation, would of itself tell the tale. his testimony makes ready the ground for him who is looked upon less in the light of a witness than as one accused, by some once more, and more than ever so. for there are those present who not only were at the ball, but noticed that triangular byplay upon which shenstone's tale, without his intending it, has thrown a sinister light. alongside the story of clarisse, there seems to have been motive, almost enough for murder. an engagement angrily broken off--an actual quarrel--gwendoline wynn never afterwards seen alive! that quarrel, too, by the water's edge, on a cliff at whose base her body has been found! strange--altogether improbable--that she should have drowned herself. far easier to believe that he, her _fiancé_, in a moment of mad, headlong passion, prompted by fell jealousy, had hurled her over the high bank. against this returned current of adverse sentiment, captain ryecroft is called upon to give his account, and state all he knows. what he will say is weighted with heavy consequences to himself. it may leave him at liberty to depart from the spot voluntarily, as he came, or be taken from it in custody. but he is yet free, and so left to tell his tale, no one interrupting. and without circumlocution he tells it, concealing nought that may be needed for its comprehension--not even his delicate relations to the unfortunate lady. he confesses his love--his proposal of marriage--its acceptance--the bestowal of the ring--his jealousy and its cause--the ebullition of angry words between him and his betrothed--the so-called quarrel--her returning the ring, with the way, and why he did not take it back--because at that painful crisis he neither thought of nor cared for such a trifle. then parting with, and leaving her within the pavilion, he hastened away to his boat, and was rowed off. but, while passing up stream, he again caught sight of her, still standing in the summer-house, apparently leaning upon, and looking over, its baluster rail. his boat moving on, and trees coming between, he no more saw her; but soon after heard a cry--his waterman as well--startling both. it is a new statement in evidence, which startles those listening to him. he could not comprehend, and cannot explain it; though now knowing it must have been the voice of gwendoline wynn--perhaps her last utterance in life. he had commanded his boatman to hold way, and they dropped back down stream again to get within sight of the summer-house, but then to see it dark, and to all appearance deserted. afterwards he proceeded home to his hotel, there to sit up for the remainder of the night, packing and otherwise preparing for his journey--of itself a consequence of the angry parting with his betrothed, and the pledge so slightingly returned. in the morning he wrote to her, directing the letter to be dropped into the post office; which he knew to have been done before his leaving the hotel for the railway station. "has any letter reached llangorren court?" inquires the coroner, turning from the witness, and putting the question in a general way. "i mean for miss wynn, since the night of that ball?" the butler present, stepping forward, answers in the affirmative, saying,-"there are a good many for miss gwen since--some almost coming in every post." although there is, or was, but one miss gwen wynn at llangorren, the head servant, as the others, from habit calls her "miss gwen," speaking of her as if she were still alive. "it is your place to look after the letters, i believe?" "yes, i attend to that." "what have you done with those addressed to miss wynn?" "i gave them to gibbons, miss gwen's lady's-maid." "let gibbons be called again!" directs the coroner. the girl is brought in the second time, having been already examined at some length, and, as before, confessing her neglect of duty. "mr. williams," proceeds the examiner, "gave you some letters for your late mistress. what have you done with them?" "i took them upstairs to miss gwen's room." "are they there still?" "yes; on the dressing table, where she always had the letters left for her." "be good enough to bring them down here. bring all." another pause in the proceedings while gibbons is off after the now posthumous correspondence of the deceased lady, during which whisperings are interchanged between the coroner and the jurymen, asking questions of one another. they relate to a circumstance seeming strange; that nothing has been said about these letters before--at least, to those engaged in the investigation. the explanation, however, is given--a reason evident and easily understood. they have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are--miss linton almost beside herself, eleanor lees not far from the same. in the excitement of occurrences, neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. it might not have been seen by them then, but for gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. these facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand. she is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fashion. counted, there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. a general favourite--to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches--she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by "almost every post"--that but once a day, however, llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography--all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. in the presence of her to whom they were addressed--now speechless and unprotesting--no breach of confidence to open them. one after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury--those of the lady correspondents first. not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern--double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners. fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to "at homes," dinner parties, and such like. recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pass them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. these the coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed "george shenstone," the other "vivian ryecroft." nobody present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is ryecroft's. they have been expecting it so. but not that the other is from the son of sir george shenstone. a word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. for as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the coroner has directed both to be read aloud. whether by chance or otherwise, that of shenstone is taken first. it is headed- "ormeston hall, 4 a.m., _après le bal_." the date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him. something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are- "dear gwen,--i've got home, but can't turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad i feel at what you've told me--and sad i am, god knows--if you think i shouldn't come near you any more--and from what i noticed last night, perhaps i ought not--only say so, and i will not. your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. that one is, "yours devotedly, if despairingly, "george shenstone. "p.s.--do not take the trouble of writing an answer. i would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, i will call at the court in the afternoon. then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there.--g. s." the writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. it is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed--his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. but he is too sad to feel it now, and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the coroner. nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. all are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger. it carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of shenstone's. no doubt, at the self-same moment, the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to gwendoline wynn--she who now can never read them. very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. but, so too, are the circumstances that dictated them; that of ryecroft reads thus:- "gwendoline,--while you are reading this, i shall be on my way to london, where i shall stay to receive your answer--if you think it worth while to give one. after parting as we've done, possibly you will not. when you so scornfully cast away that little love-token, it told me a tale--i may say a bitter one--that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. is that true, gwendoline? if not, and i am wronging you, may god forgive me. and i would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. but if true--and you know best--then you can take it up--supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it--fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it. "vivian ryecroft." to this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript:- "i shall be at the langham hotel, london, till to-morrow noon, where your answer, if any, will reach me. should none come, i shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address. "v. r." the contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be assumed or pretended. beyond doubt, it was written under the circumstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer's statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from llangorren court in the character of a criminal. chapter xlvi. found drowned. as a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the coroner and his jury. but only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. there is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a noble stag, instead of a treacherous, wicked wolf. not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of captain ryecroft--not the shadow of one. if there were, it is soon to be dissipated. for while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of someone fresh arrived and received triumphantly. they are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. one of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who--the man after captain ryecroft himself most wanted. no need saying it is jack wingate. but a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. it is all in a nutshell. but the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the shores of the severn sea, with his boat brought back by road--on a donkey-cart. on arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the court as if rowing in a regatta. in the _patois_ of the american prairies he is now "arrove," and, still panting for breath, is brought before the coroner's court, and submitted to examination. his testimony confirms that of his old fare--in every particular about which he can testify. all the more credible is it from his own character. the young waterman is well known as a man of veracity--incapable of bearing false witness. when he tells them that after the captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of llangorren--when he positively swears to the fact--no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. for soon as wingate has finished giving evidence, george shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all,-"forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! i now make reparation for it in the only way i can--by declaring that i believe you as innocent as myself." the generous behaviour of the baronet's son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence. but the inquest is not yet ended--not for hours. over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom. in view of the new facts brought out by captain ryecroft and his boatman--above all, that cry heard by them--suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him. as everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close. first they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats--the _gwendoline_ and _mary_--lying just as they were on that night when captain ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other. he is with the coroner, so is wingate, and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief _résumé_ going over the circumstances that preceded and followed it. the next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it--the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. not that there is any doubt about the truth of captain ryecroft's statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. the measuring is only to assist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers' quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection--much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other. again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by george shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. and outside, standing on the cliff's brink, ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after. remaining a while longer on the cliff, the coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. it is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. there is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. but beyond doubt it has been there. such is the conclusion arrived at by the coroner's jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. for though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. but now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff--scratches on the red sandstone--distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock--unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of gwendoline wynn? they see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff's base, broken, but still clinging. through that the falling form must have descended! there is no further doubting the fact. there went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man's violence. in other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder. to the last many circumstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. a woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death-struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. still, the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life before-hand. this last thought, or surmise, carries coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. in which they are assisted by medical men--surgeons and physicians--several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of miss linton. there is none of them who has attended gwendoline wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind. their _post-mortem_ examining does not extend to dissection. there is no need. without it there are tests which tell the cause of death--that of drowning. beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever. flung back on reasoning of the analytical kind, the coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed, it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down. among the people outside pass many surmises, guesses, and conjectures. suspicions also, but no more pointing to captain ryecroft. they take another, and more natural, direction. still nothing has transpired to inculpate any one, or, in the finding of a coroner's jury, connect man or woman with it. this is at length pronounced in the usual formula, with its customary tag:--"found drowned. but how, etc., etc." with such ambiguous rendering, the once beautiful body of gwendoline wynn is consigned to a coffin, and in due time deposited in the family vault, under the chancel of llangorren church. chapter xlvii. a man who thinks it murder. had gwendoline wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young lady--owner of estates--the world would soon have ceased to think of her. as it is, most people have settled down to the belief that she has simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident. only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide. the theory of _felo de se_ is not entertained, because not entertainable. for, in addition to the testimony taken at the coroner's inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. a lover's quarrel of a night's, still less an hour's, duration, could not so result. and that there was nothing beyond this, miss linton is able to say assuredly. still more eleanor lees, who, by confidences exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly _au fait_ to the feelings of her relative and friend--knew her hopes and her fears, and that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair. doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with gwen wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. she was satisfied that vivian ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. how could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. altogether impossible she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last leap into eternity. more likely standing on the cliff's edge, anxiously straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger, her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood. so argues eleanor lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the close of the inquest, and for some time after. and if not self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery. the valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition of that. if murder, the motive must have been other than the possession of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery. so reasons the world at large, naturally enough. for all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having been foul play; but not now with any reference with captain ryecroft. nor are they the same who had suspected him. those yet doubting the accidental death are the intimate friends of the wynn family, who knew of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the llangorren estates were held. up to this time only a limited number of individuals has been aware of their descent to lewin murdock. and when at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people revert to the mystery of miss wynn's death, so unsatisfactorily cleared up at the coroner's inquest. still, the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new man suspected. nor are they many. beyond the obscure corner of rugg's ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him. outside the pale of "society," with most part of his life passed abroad, he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most of the common people as well. jack wingate chanced to have heard of him by reason of his proximity to rugg's ferry, and his own necessity for oft going there. but possibly as much on the account of the intimate relations existing between the owner of glyngog house and coracle dick. others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is told that a mr. lewin murdock has succeeded to the estates of llangorren--at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of her whom death has deprived of them--to the general public the succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that the lady had no nearer relative. therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited. but as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal belief, that for the death of gwendoline wynn nobody is to blame. even george shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. of unsuspicious nature, incapable of believing in a crime so terrible, a deed so dark, as that would infer, he cannot suppose that the gentleman, now his nearest neighbour--for the lands of llangorren adjoin those of his father--has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder. his father may think differently, he knowing more of lewin murdock. not much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and antecedents. still sir george is silent, whatever his thoughts. it is not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon. there is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she came to her death; this one is captain ryecroft. he, too, might have yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has yet kept to himself. he has not forgotten what was, at an early period, communicated to him by the waterman wingate, about the odd-looking old house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of gwendoline wynn, when once, in conversation with her, he referred to the place and its occupier. this, with jack's original story, and other details added, besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him vividly on hearing that the owner of glyngog has also become owner of llangorren. it is some time before this news reaches him; for, just after the inquest, an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his own, which required his presence in dublin, there for days detaining him. having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where he had been the summer sojourning. nor came he back on errand aimless, but with a purpose. ill-satisfied with the finding of the coroner's jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way. accident he does not believe in--least of all that the lady, having made a false step, had fallen over the cliff. when he last saw her, she was inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high, protected by it. if gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her as good a view as she could have. why should she have gone outside? and the cry heard so soon after? it was not like that of one falling, and so far. in descent, it would have been repeated, which it was not. of suicide he has never entertained a thought, above all, for the reason suggested--jealousy of himself. how could he, while so keenly suffering it for her? no; it could not be that--nor suicide from any cause. the more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that gwendoline wynn has been the victim of a villainous murder. and it is for this reason he has returned to the wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact, then, if possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice. as no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point, his suspicions finally becoming fixed on lewin murdock. he may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. and to obtain it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the remainder of his fortune. for what are either now to him? in life he has had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. she who inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep--lying cold in her tomb--his love and memory of her alone remaining warm. his grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed, and he can reflect calmly--more carefully consider what he should do. from the first some thoughts about murdock were in his mind; still only vague. now, on returning to herefordshire, and hearing what has happened meanwhile--for during his absence there has been a removal from glyngog to llangorren--the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train of reflection, placing things in a clearer light. as the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by finding the slot fresher, so he. and so will he follow it to the end--the last trace or sign. for no game, however grand--elephant, lion, or tiger--could attract like that he believes himself to be after--a human tiger--a murderer. chapter xlviii. once more upon the river. nowhere in england--perhaps nowhere in europe--is the autumnal foliage more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the wye, where it runs through the shire of hereford. there vaga threads her way amid woods that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the famed american forests. the beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose colours along their edges, and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit. here and there along the high-pitched hill-sides flecks of crimson proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows. it is autumn now, and the woods of the wye have donned its dress; no livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen, its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. brown october elsewhere, is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of the beholder. instead, the gaudy tapestry, hanging from the trees, and the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. still further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. for the woods of wyeside are not voiceless, even in winter. within them the birds ever sing, and although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its leading tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike splendidly attuned. bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shier cousin the thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey. * * * * * october it is; and where the wye's silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. there are two men in it--one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. the same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. for he at the oars is jack wingate, the steerer captain ryecroft. little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare. he has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. too glad once more to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-à-vis_ with the captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. all he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business, for it is twilight. his excursion has a different object; but what, the boatman cannot tell. no inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking. "row me down the river, jack!" distance and all else left undefined. and down jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank. yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. for they are thinking of cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory. ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,-"this must be about the place where we heard it." although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:-"it's the very spot, captain." "ah! you know it?" "i do--am sure. you see that big poplar standing on the bank there?" "yes; well?" "we wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. in course we must a heard the screech just then." "hold way now! pull back a length or two. steady her. keep opposite the tree!" the boatman obeys, first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft against the current. once more relapsing into silence, ryecroft sends his gaze down stream, as though noting the distance to llangorren court, whose chimneys are visible in the moonlight now on. then, as if satisfied with some mental observation, he directs the other to row off. but as the kiosk-like structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between. part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. but once within the bye-way, it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the waterman gets the word to pull into it. he is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. it is the way to llangorren court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living there are not friends of his fare--not even acquaintances, so far as he has heard. surely the captain is not going to call on mr. lewin murdock--in amicable intercourse? so queries jack wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving answer. one way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling himself, he rows on into the narrower channel. not much farther before getting convinced that the captain has no intention of making a call at the court, nor is the _mary_ to enter that little dock, where more than once she had lain moored beside the _gwendoline_. when opposite the summer-house, he is once more commanded to bring to, with the intimation added,-"i'm not going any farther, jack." jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from drifting. ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its _façade_ from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or trigonometrical calculation. the waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to have a glimmer of comprehension. it is clearer when he is directed to scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. soon as he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff's base, ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. he then rises to his feet, and, leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. on that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the drowned lady in her downward descent. where he stands they are close to his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. and so doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he doubted the finding of the coroner's jury, and the belief of every one that gwendoline wynn had there fallen over. bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he doubts no more, but is sure--convinced of the contrary! jack wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the same time exclaiming,-"i thought as much! no accident!--no suicide--murdered!" still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. whatever it may mean, he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient. his patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. only a few moments more, during which ryecroft bends over the boat's side, takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again! to his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric manipulation, leaving jack to guesses. only when it is over, and he is apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,-"way, wingate! row back--up the river!" with alacrity the waterman obeys, but too glad to get out of that shadowy passage; for a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when thinking of his own lost love. moving out into the main channel and on up stream, ryecroft is once more silent and musing. but on reaching the place from which the pavilion can be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. it startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof--a woman!--how different from that he last saw there! the ex-cocotte of paris--faded flower of the jardin mabille--has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom of wyeside--blighted in its bloom! chapter xlix. the crushed juniper. notwithstanding the caution with which captain ryecroft made his reconnaisance, it was nevertheless observed, and from beginning to end. before his boat drew near the end of the eyot, above the place where for the second time it had stopped, it came under the eye of a man who chanced to be standing on the cliff by the side of the summer-house. that he was there by accident, or at all events not looking out for a boat, could be told by his behaviour on first sighting this; neither by change of attitude nor glance of eye evincing any interest in it. his reflection is,-"some fellows after salmon, i suppose. have been up to that famous catching place by the ferry, and are on the way home downward--to rock weir, no doubt! ha!" the ejaculation is drawn from him by seeing the boat come to a stop, and remain stationary in the middle of the stream. "what's that for?" he asks himself, now more carefully examining the craft. it is still full four hundred yards from him, but the moonlight being in his favour, he makes it out to be a pair-oared skiff with two men in it. "they don't seem to be dropping a net," he observes, "nor engaged about anything. that's odd!" before they came to a stop, he heard a murmur of voices, as of speech, a few words, exchanged between them, but too distant for him to distinguish what they had said. now they are silent, sitting without stir; only a slight movement in the arms of the oarsman to keep the boat in its place. all this seems strange to him observing: not less when a flood of moonlight brighter than usual falls over the boat, and he can tell by the attitude of the man in the stern, with face turned upward, that he is regarding the structure on the cliff. he is not himself standing beside it now. soon as becoming interested by the behaviour of the men in the boat, from its seeming eccentricity, he had glided back behind a bush, and there now crouches, an instinct prompting him to conceal himself. soon after he sees the boat moving on, and then for a few seconds it is out of sight, again coming under his view near the upper end of the islet, evidently setting in for the old channel. and while he watches, it enters! as this is a sort of private way, the eyot itself being an adjunct of the ornamental grounds of llangorren, he wonders whose boat it can be, and what its business there. by the backwash, it must be making for the dock and stair; the men in it, or one of them, for the court. while still surprisedly conjecturing, his ears admonish him that the oars are at rest, and another stoppage has taken place. he cannot see the skiff now, as the high bank hinders. besides, the narrow passage is arcaded over by trees still in thick foliage; and, though the moon is shining brightly above, scarce a ray reaches the surface of the water. but an occasional creak of an oar in its rowlock, and some words spoken in low tone--so low he cannot make them out--tell him that the stoppage is directly opposite the spot where he is crouching--as predatory animal in wait for its prey. what was at first mere curiosity, and then matter of but slight surprise, is now an object of keen solicitude. for of all places in the world, to him there is none invested with greater interest than that where the boat has been brought to. why has it stopped there? why is it staying? for he can tell it is by the silence continuing. above all, who are the men in it? he asks these questions of himself, but does not stay to reason out the answers. he will best get them by his eyes; and to obtain sight of the skiff and its occupants, he glides a little way along the cliff, looking out for a convenient spot. finding one, he drops first to his knees, then upon all fours, and crawls out to its edge. craning his head over, but cautiously, and with a care it shall be under cover of some fern leaves, he has a view of the water below, with the boat on it--only indistinct on account of the obscurity. he can make out the figures of the two men, though not their faces, nor anything by which he may identify them--if already known. but he sees that which helps to a conjecture, at the same sharpening his apprehensions--the boat once more in motion, not moving off, but up into the little cove, where a dead body late lay! then, as one of the men strikes a match and sets light to a lamp, lighting up his own face with that of the other opposite, he on the bank above at length recognises both. but it is no longer a surprise to him. the presence of the skiff there, the movements of the men in it--like his own, evidently under restraint and stealthy--have prepared him for seeing whom he now sees--captain ryecroft and the waterman wingate. still, he cannot think of what they are after, though he has his suspicions; the place, with something only known to himself, suggesting them--conjecture at first soon becoming certainty, as he sees the ex-officer of hussars rise to his feet, hold his lamp close to the cliff's face, and inspect the abrasions on the rock! he is not more certain, but only more apprehensive, when the crushed juniper twigs are taken in hand, examined, and let go again. for he has by this divined the object of it all. if any doubt lingered, it is set at rest by the exclamatory words following, which, though but muttered, reach him on the cliff above, heard clear enough-"no accident--no suicide--murdered!" they carry tremor to his heart, making him feel as a fox that hears the tongue of hound on its track. still distant, but for all causing it fear, and driving it to think of subterfuge. and of this thinks he, as he lies with his face among the ferns; ponders upon it till the boat has passed back up the dark passage out into the river, and he hears the last light dipping of its oars in the far distance. he even forgets a woman, for whom he was waiting at the summer-house, and who there without finding him has flitted off again. at length rising to his feet, and going a little way, he too gets into a boat--one he finds, with oars aboard, down in the dock. it is not the _gwendoline_--she is gone. seating himself on the mid thwart, he takes up the oars, and pulls towards the place lately occupied by the skiff of the waterman. when inside the cove, he lights a match, and holds it close to the face of the rock where ryecroft held his lamp. it burns out, and he draws a second across the sand-paper; this to show him the broken branches of the juniper, which he also takes in hand and examines--soon also dropping them, with a look of surprise, followed by the exclamatory phrases-"prodigiously strange! i see his drift now. cunning fellow! on the track he has discovered the trick, and 'twill need another trick to throw him off it. this bush must be uprooted--destroyed." he is in the act of grasping the juniper, to pluck it out by the roots. a dwarf thing, this could be easily done. but a thought stays him--another precautionary forecast, as evinced by his words-"that won't do." after repeating them, he drops back on the boat's thwart, and sits for a while considering, with eyes turned toward the cliff, ranging it up and down. "ah!" he exclaims at length, "the very thing; as if the devil himself had fixed it for me! that _will_ do; smash the bush to atoms--blot out everything, as if an earthquake had gone over llangorren." while thus oddly soliloquising, his eyes are still turned upward, apparently regarding a ledge which, almost loose as a boulder, projects from the bank above. it is directly over the juniper, and if detached from its bed, as it easily might be, would go crashing down, carrying the bush with it. and that same night it does go down. when the morning sun lights up the cliff, there is seen a breakage upon its face just underneath the summer-house. of course, a landslip, caused by the late rains acting on the decomposed sandstone. but the juniper bush is no longer there; it is gone, root and branch! chapter l. reasoning by analysis. captain ryecroft's start at seeing a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. when he last saw his betrothed alive, it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude--leaning over the baluster rail. besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully, that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. he has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her. the incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent--in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. his thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. an important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived almost proving it correct. of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. before deciding, they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. but with their first impression unaltered--or only strengthened--that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. and what but the body of gwendoline wynn? living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. hence the ambiguity of their verdict. very different the result reached by captain ryecroft after viewing the same. in his indian campaigns, the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "light," had his share of scouting experience. it enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came _down_, since they had been _made from below_! and by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. then the branches of the juniper. soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken _inward_, their drooping tops turned _toward_ the cliff, not _from_ it! a falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! everything indicated their having been crushed from below--not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it! it was on reaching this conclusion that captain ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart. and upon it the ex-officer of hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream. since the command given to wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above--though the other has observed it also. facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. but the bearing of the captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections. these are, that gwendoline wynn has been surely assassinated, though not by being thrown over the cliff. possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found--conveyed thither after life was extinct! the scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead, as it had misled everybody but himself. to him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood--done by the hand of another. "no accident--no suicide--murdered!" he is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. the last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. to such a man as he has heard lewin murdock to be, an estate worth £10,000 a year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal--bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. it may be difficult--impossible; but he will do his best. embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue--pondering upon it. he is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. he is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. a false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. for this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself--not having given a hint of it to any one. from jack wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. that the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted. first, to find out what jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. for since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. only a few words on the day of the inquest, when captain ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind. once more opposite the poplar, he directs the skiff to be brought to. which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball--apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is. for a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. but no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the llangorren grounds. the summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it. the waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,-"don't you believe, wingate, the cry came from above--i mean from the top of the cliff?" "i'm a'most sure it did. i thought at the time it comed from higher ground still--the house itself. you remember my sayin' so, captain; and that i took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there." "i do remember--you did. it was not, alas! but their mistress." "yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! we now know that." "think back, jack! recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted--everything. can you?" "i can, an' do. i could all but fancy i hear it now!" "well, did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff--by accident, or otherwise?" "it didn't; an' i don't yet believe it wor--accydent or no accydent." "no! what are your reasons for doubting it?" "why, if it had a been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd ha' gied tongue a second time--ay, a good many times--'fore getting silenced. it must ha' been into the water, an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. she'd ha' riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. we couldn't ha' helped hearin' it. ye remember, captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell just precedin' the thunderstorm. when that cry come, ye might ha' heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. but it worn't repeated--not so much as a mutter." "quite true. but what do you conclude from its not having been?" "that she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garroters." "you said nothing of this at the inquest?" "no, i didn't, for several reasons. one, i wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelin's--only about the facts o' the case. i answered all his questions, clear as i could remember, an' far's i then understood things; but not as i understand them now." "ah! you have learnt something since?" "not a thing, captain--only what i've been thinkin' o', by rememberin' a circumstance i'd forgot." "what?" "well, whiles i wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, i heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls." "indeed! what sort of sound?" "the plashing o' oars. there wor sartin another boat about there besides this one." "in what direction did you hear them?" "from above. it must ha' been that way. if't had been a boat gone up from below, i'd ha' noticed the stroke again across the strip o' island. but i didn't." "the same if one had passed on down." "just so; an' for that reason i now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped somewhere just outside the backwash." an item of intelligence new to the captain as it is significant. he recalls the hour--between two and three o'clock in the morning. what boat could have been there but his own? and if other, what its business? "you're quite sure there was a boat, wingate?" he asks, after a pause. "the oars o' one--that i'm quite sure o'. an' where there's smoke, fire can't be far off. yes, captain, there wor a boat about there. i'm willin' to swear to it." "have you any idea whose?" "well, no; only some conjecter. first hearin' the oar, i wor under the idea it might be dick dempsey, out salmon-stealin'. but at the second plunge i could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. they gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed." "you don't think it was dick and his coracle, then?" "i'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'stead, from what happened that night, an's been a-happenin' ever since, i b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat." "you think there were others?" "i do--leastways, suspect it." "and who do you suspect besides?" "for one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in llangorren." they have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the cuckoo's glen, going on. it is to glyngog house wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows--for it is untenanted. "you mean mr. murdock?" "the same, captain. though he worn't at the ball, as i've heerd say--and might ha' know'd without tellin'--i've got an idea he bean't far off when 'twor breakin' up. an' there wor another there, too, beside dick dempsey." "a third! who?" "he as lives a bit further above." "you mean----?" "the french priest. them three ain't often far apart; an' if i bean't astray in my reck'nin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh llangorren court. they're all in or about it now, the precious tribang, an' i'd bet big they've got footin' there by the foulest o' foul play. yes, captain, sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered, the men as done it bein' lewin murdock, dick dempsey, and the roman priest o' rogues!" chapter li. a suspicious craft. to the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, captain ryecroft makes no rejoinder. the last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him. and on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. for it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself--a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of, but now recalled with vivid distinctness. all the more as he listens to the conjectures of wingate, about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be. the number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. the time as well, since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. the place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman, rather confirming it. on his way to the court, his black dress kerseymere protected by india-rubber overalls, ryecroft, as known, had ridden to wingate's house, and was thence rowed to llangorren. his going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. the prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. besides, his calls at the court were usually made in the same way, his custom being to ride as far as the wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. between his town and the waterman's house, there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one, which follows the trend of the stream along its edge, where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. this, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route captain ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which, far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the wyeside. in addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him, since only at rare intervals is a house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. even where it passes rugg's ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterizes it. for this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream--all save the chapel and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees. with the topography of this place he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. for on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. he had got a little beyond the crossing of the ford road, where it leads out from the river--himself on the other going downwards--when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. the sky at the time moonless, he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it, the thing itself being stationary. despite the obscurity, he could make them out to be men busied around a boat. something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner--too cautious for honesty--prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. he had himself no need to take precautions for concealment, the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches, arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern. nor was he called upon to stay long there--only a few seconds after drawing bridle--just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them, when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river. even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks, made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near. soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. had the road kept along the river's bank, he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch, and while ascending this he ceased to think of them. he might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. there such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. but the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below, up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come. recalling all this, with what jack wingate had just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects: "might not that boat have been the same whose oars jack heard down below? and the men in it those whose names he had mentioned? three of them--that at least in curious correspondence? but the time? about nine, or a little after, as i passed rugg's ferry. that appears too early for the after event? no; they may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. odd, though, their knowing _she_ would be out there. but they need not have known that--likely did not. more like they meant to enter the house after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. a night different from the common, everything in confusion; the servants sleeping sounder than usual, from having indulged in drink--some of them overcome by it, as i saw myself before leaving. yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration--surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient--in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them. poor girl!" all this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence, at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying,-"you've come afoot, captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. ye'll let me row you up the river--leastways, for a couple o' miles further; then ye can take the footpath through powell's meadows." roused as from a reverie, the captain, looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. after a little reflection, he says in reply,-"well, jack, if it wasn't that i dislike overworking you----" "don't mention it!" interrupts jack. "i'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. it a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. besides, i've got to go up to the ferry, anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. i may as well do it in the boat--'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads." "in that case i consent. but you must let me take the oars." "no, captain; i'd prefer workin' 'em myself, if it be all the same to you." the captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling, nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. after reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. and for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, or the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the ferry. it is that he may consider this--be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted--he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern. by a fresh spurt the _mary_ is carried beyond her mooring place--as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. it is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight--his mother. chapter lii. maternal solicitude. "the poor lad! his heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'! that's plain--spite o' all he try hide it." it is the widow wingate who thus compassionately reflects--the subject, her son. she is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. captain ryecroft has taken him down the river. it is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at llangorren is inspected by lamp-light. but she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did jack himself at starting. a little before sunset, the captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. she saw they went down stream--that is all. she was some little surprised, though--not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. had llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. but in view of the late sad occurrence at the court, with the change of proprietorship consequent--about all of which she has been made aware--she knows the captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour--night just drawing down? she would have asked, but had no opportunity. her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the captain appeared to be in haste. hence jack's going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where. it is not this that is now fidgeting her. she is far from being of an inquisitive turn--least of all with her son--and never seeks to pry into his secrets. she knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind--in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence. and just this it is she is now bemoaning. she observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from abergann brought him tidings of mary morgan's fatal mishap. of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile--not once! she begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. she has heard of broken hearts--his may be one. not strange her solicitude. "what make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death, by makin' her come out to meet him!"--jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it, from beginning to end.--"that hadn't a thing to do wi' it. what happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. when i dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, i feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the meadows, i wor' althegither convinced. when _it_ burn, no human creetur' ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. who could 'a carried it across the river--that night especial, wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? no mortal man, nor woman neyther!" as a native of pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the _ignis fatuus_ is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the inhuman wrecker, mrs. wingate's dream of the _canwyll corph_ was natural enough--a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chanted over her cradle. but her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. and the man was richard dempsey, who below had ferried father rogier across on his way to the farm of abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. the priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle; but, with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft, he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to rugg's ferry. this carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it. not so much wonder, then, in mrs. wingate believing she saw the _canwyll corph_. no more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate. "yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "i knowed it would come. poor thing! i hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't had been so fond o' her. if she'd had badness in her, jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now." though right in the premises--for mary morgan was a good girl--mrs. wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. but, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. it is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow. it is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there be any sign of them returning. from the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below. placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. in addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. jack was just about starting off for the ferry to replace them when the captain came. now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach rugg's before the shop closes. if not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. in the widow wingate's life candles seem to play an important part! however, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant, but recognisable. often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son; for jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the wye has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. his mother can tell it as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb. that it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. in a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between. and now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash--its docking place--when jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done. while thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. the skiff is passing onward--proceeding up the river! but she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft--the salute telling her she is herself seen, and that jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. it will no doubt terminate at the ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone. contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light--forgetting even the _canwyll corph_. chapter liii. a sacrilegious hand. between wingate's cottage and rugg's, captain ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it--chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. he seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. and just this is he thinking of, his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward. whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. the time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. it will, but not to-night. he has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. it is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the roman catholic chapel at rugg's. soon as abreast of it, he commands-"hold way, jack! keep her steady awhile!" the waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. he is himself interrogated the instant after, thus,-"you see that shadowed spot under the bank--by the wall?" "i do, captain." "is there any landing-place there for a boat?" "none, as i know of. course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank bean't eyther a cliff or a quagmire. the reg'lar landin'-place be above, where the ferry punt lays." "but have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?" the question has reference to the place first spoken of. "i have, captain; my own. that but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'twar the night after my poor mary wor buried, when i comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. i may say i stole there to do it, not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their romish lot. exceptin' my own, i never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid long there." "all right! now on!" and on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with. for ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking, his thoughts concentrated on the one theme--endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself, but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities--how gwendoline wynn came by her death. he is still observed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking-"do you weesh me to set you out here, captain? there be the right-o'-way path through powell's meadows. or would ye rather be took on up to the town? say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me." "thanks, jack; it's very kind of you, but i prefer the walk up the meadows. there'll be moonlight enough yet. and as i shall want your boat to-morrow--it may be for the whole of the day--you'd better get home and well rested. besides, you say you've an errand at rugg's--to the shop there. you must make haste, or it will be closed." "ah! i didn't think o' that. obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. i promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her--for a good deal." "pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! and, jack! not a word to any one about where i've been, or what doing. keep that to yourself." "i will, you may rely on me, captain." the boat is brought against the bank; ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back, "good-night," and strikes off along the footpath. not a moment delays the waterman; but, shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut. he is in good time, however, and reaches rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open. going in, he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man who has come to the ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. it is joseph preece, "old joe," erst boatman of llangorren court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large. though the acquaintance between him and wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them--stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. for of late, in the exercise of their respective _metiers_, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the _gwendoline's_ dock. it is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, joe being chief spokesman. and now that he has done his shopping, jack can spare the time to listen. it will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. she saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand. so the two stand conversing till the gossipy joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in delivery. then they part, the ex-charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff. stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down. a few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. there is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly. he in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. but he is not gazing--only thinking. a thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. a back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank. he steps ashore, ties the painter to a withy, and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him. dark as is now the night, he has no difficulty in finding it. he has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. there are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. but he needs not their guidance. as a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of his master, so he, with memories quickened by affection makes his way to the place where repose the remains of mary morgan. standing over her grave, he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. then, becoming calmer, he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. it is the lord's--he knows no other. enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his over-charged heart. feeling better, he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him--a remembrance--"the flower of love-lies-bleeding." is it growing? not the flower, but the plant. he knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. but the latter--is it still alive and flourishing? in the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch. once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. he finds the spot, but not the plant. it is gone! nothing left of it--not a remnant! a sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him! in strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable. "it's that d--d rascal, dick dempsey, as ha' done it. can't ha' been anybody else. an' if i can but get proof o't, i'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. i will, by the livin' g----!" thus angrily soliloquizing, he strides back to his skiff, and, getting in, rows off. but more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain--threats against coracle dick. chapter liv. a late tea. mrs. wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. the dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. jack has often made the return trip to rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. how is the odd time being spent by him? her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. for the moon having gone down, it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. the wye is not a smooth swan-pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims--strong men as women. and her son is upon it! "where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. he may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back. while thus conjecturing, a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way--on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch. "poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. i only wish he had." "how black that sky do look!" she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "an' threatenin' storm, if i bean't mistook. lucky jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and rugg's--if he hain't goed farther. what a blessin' the boy don't gi'e way to drink, an's otherways careful! well, i s'pose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. for all, i don't like his bein' so late. mercy me! nigh on the stroke o' eleven? ha! what's that? him, i hope." she steps hastily out, and behind the house, which, fronting the road, has its back towards the river. on turning the corner, she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber--the sound of oars being unshipped. it comes from the _mary_, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, mrs. wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full--in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. she knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed--a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff. met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods, and together they go in, when he is questioned as to the cause of delay. "whatever ha' kep' ye, jack? ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the ferry an' back!" "the ferry! i went far beyond, up to the footpath over squire powell's meadow. there i set captain out." "oh! that be it." his answer being satisfactory, he is not further interrogated, for she has become busied with an earthen-ware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "horniman's" just brought home--one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot--the orthodox quantity. it is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the captain, and mrs. wingate would not consider supper, as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating. the pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed"; and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick. occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light, nor till she is handing the cup across to him. then, the fresh-lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. not the sad, melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. that has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received! "whatever be the matter wi' ye, jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "there ha' something happened?" "oh! nothin' much, mother." "nothin' much! then why be ye looking so black?" "what makes you think i'm lookin' that way?" "how can i help thinkin' it? why, lad, your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. come now, tell the truth! bean't there somethin' amiss?" "well, mother, since you axe me that way, i will tell the truth. somethin' be amiss; or i ought better say, _missin'_." "missin'! be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? the balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?" "no, it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'stead, a thing as ha' been destroyed." "what thing?" "the flower--the plant." "flower! plant!" "yes; the love-lies-bleedin' i set on mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. ye remember my tellin' you, mother?" "yes--yes; i do." "well, it ain't there now." "ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun', then?" "i have." "but what made ye go there, jack?" "well, mother, passin' the place, i took a notion to go in--a sort o' sudden inclinashun i couldn't resist. i thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer, might do somethin' to left the weight off o' my heart. it would ha' done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower wan't there. fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till i discovered it wor gone." "but how gone? ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?" "clear plucked out by the roots. not a vestige o' it left!" "maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. they often get into a graveyard; and if i bean't mistook, i've seen some in that o' the ferry chapel. they may have ate it up!" the idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. not long, however, only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. a sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more. "no, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand--i ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. no, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!" "ye suspect somebody, then?" "suspect! i'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' dick dempsey. but i mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. if he pluck it up, an' i know it, they'll need dig another grave in the rogue's ferry buryin' groun'--that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else, the d----d scoundrel!" "dear jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. richard dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the lord will deal wi' him in his own way, an' sure punish him. so leave him to the lord. after all, what do it matter--only a bit o' weed?" "weed! mother, you mistake. that weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to mary's. settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort i can't describe to ye. an' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. in the spring i hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an', like it, lies bleedin'. but--well, it seems as i can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as i warn't able while she wor livin'." he covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks. "oh, my son! don't take on so. think that she be happy now--in heaven. sure she is, from all i ha' heerd o' her." "yes, mother," he earnestly affirms, "she is. if ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there." "well, that ought to comfort ye." "it do some. but to think of havin' lost her for good--never again to look at her sweet face. oh! that be dreadful!" "sure it be. but think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. it's the lot o' all--rich folks as well as we poor ones. look at the captain there! he be sufferin' like yourself. poor man! i pity him, too." "so do i, mother. an' i ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. i seed it the day--several times noticed tears in his eyes when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' miss wynn. when a soldier--a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been--gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. no doubt he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself." "but that an't right, jack. it isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. besides, it be sinful." "well, mother, i'll try to think more cheerful, submittin' to the will o' heaven." "ah! there's a good lad! that's the way; an' be assured heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. now, let's not say any more about it. you an't eating your supper!" "i han't no great appetite after all." "never mind; ye must eat, and the tea 'll cheer ye. hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again." he passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically. "it be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "but i've something else for you that's better, before you go to bed." "ye take too much care o' me, mother." "nonsense, jack. ye've had a hard day's work o't. but ye hain't told me what the captain tooked ye out for, nor where he went down the river. how far?" "only as far as llangorren court." "but there be new people there now, ye sayed?" "yes; the murdocks. bad lot, both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone." "sure, then, the captain han't been to visit them?" "no, not likely. he an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now." "but there were other ladies livin' at llangorren. what ha' become o' they?" "they ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river--a smaller one, it's sayed. the old lady as wor miss wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, and the other be livin' 'long wi' her. for the rest there's been a clean out--all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a french girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress--that's the aunt. she's now the same to the new one, who be french, like herself." "where ha' ye heerd all this, jack?" "from joseph preece. i met him up at the ferry, as i wor comin' away from the shop." "he's out too, then?" asks mrs. wingate, who has of late come to know him. "yes; same's the others." "where be the poor man abidin' now?" "well, that's odd too. where do you suppose, mother?" "how should i know, my son? where?" "in the old house where coracle dick used to live!" "what be there so odd in that?" "why, because dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor--head keeper." "ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! that be settin' thief to catch thief!" "somethin' besides thief, he! a deal worse than that!" "but," pursues mrs. wingate, without reference to the reflection on coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the captain took down the river." "i an't at liberty to tell any one. ye understand me, mother?" "yes, yes; i do." "the captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, i don't know much about them myself. but what i do know, i'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it--even wi' you, mother." she appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation. "in time," he adds, "i'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. maybe, the morrow." "ye're to see him the morrow, then?" "yes; he wants the boat." "what hour?" "he didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. so i may look out for him early--first thing in the mornin'." "that case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. first take this. it be the somethin' i promised ye--better than tea." the something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainly superior to port prepared in the same way. quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething, frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy--then into it--at length capsized to a sad symphony--the shrieks of a drowning woman! chapter lv. the new mistress of the mansion. at llangorren court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. lewin murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might. there was none to say nay. by the failure of ambrose wynne's heirs--in the line through his son, and bearing his name--the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom lewin murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. he of glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. this they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal. lewin murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. but in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better-half. she has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of miss linton, which had been speedily removed by her--transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady's maid, more especially one so expensive as clarisse; who, as jack wingate said, has been dismissed from miss linton's establishment--at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. that clever _demoiselle_ was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the court, to dance attendance on the _ancien belle_ of mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of cheltenham. pleasantly so far, her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. the french adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. oft gazed she across the wye at those smiling grounds of llangorren, as the fallen angel back over its walls into the garden of eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour--ah! in her estimation, more than angels--women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial--the nearer pleasures of earth and sense. those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very paradise in which they disported themselves! nor does she despair of seeing them at llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had gwendoline wynn. brought up under the _regimé_ of louis and trained in the school of eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? true, she is in england, not france; but she thinks it is all the same. and not without some reason for so thinking. the ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated--ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of france, was affectionately clasped by a queen on the dock head of cherbourg. the taint of that touch felt throughout england, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature--novel-writers who know neither decency nor shame--newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity--theatres little better than licensed _bagnios_, and stock exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in english history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind--all the old landmarks of england's morality being rapidly obliterated. and all the better for olympe, _née_ renault. like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the _monde immonde_ of the second empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of llangorren expects to profit by it. nor has she slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter society. it will not much longer taboo her. she knows that, with very little adroitness, £10,000 a year will introduce her into a royal drawing-room--ay, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of hurlingham nor those of chiswick's garden. in this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the restoration and regency, recalling the painted dolls of the second charles, and the delilahs of the fourth george; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either. the wife of lewin murdock hopes ere long to be among them--once more a _célebrité_, as she was in the bois de boulogne, and the _bals_ of the demi-monde. true, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. for by a singular perverseness--unlike nature's laws in the animal and vegetable world--the outer tentacles of this called "society" are the last to take hold. but they will yet. money is all powerful in this free and easy age. having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the faubourg montmartre for her mother, _la blanchisseuse_. she is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the _court journal_ or _morning post_, in the list of royal receptions:--"_mrs. lewin murdock, presented by the countess of devilacare_." and to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if jenkins be true to his instincts, she need not fear him--he will. she can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the polar that of magnetic needle. her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. if, during his adversity, he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. but there is another passion to which he now gives loose--his old, unconquerable vice--gaming. little cares he for the cards of visitor, while those of the gambler delight him: and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter--more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. besides, some of his old cronies of the "welsh harp," who have now _entrée_ at llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood--the black sheep of their respective flocks--are not above being of his company. where the carrion is, the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the "leg" fraternity--in farther flight from london--have found their way into herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the court. night after night, tables are there set out for loo, _écarté, rouge et noir_, or whatever may be called for--in a small way resembling the hells of homburg, baden, and monaco--wanting only the women. chapter lvi. the gamblers at llangorren. among the faces now seen at llangorren--most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect--there is one familiar to us. sinister as any, since it is that of father rogier. at no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. frequent as were his visits to glyngog, they are still more so to llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary and somewhat humble dwelling at rugg's ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in, the luxurious couch spread for him at the court having greater attractions. whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead, as if demanding it. one ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine _him_ its master. nor would the supposition be so far astray. as the king-maker controls the king, so can gregoire rogier the new lord of llangorren--influence him at his will. and this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. that would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. the sword of loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger--a weapon more suitable to ultramontanism. only in protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed. but the priest of rugg's ferry is not in france; and, under the roof of an english gentleman, though a roman catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty--before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. they are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. they are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at llangorren court. so proceed matters under its new administration. * * * * * on the same evening that captain ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the court, the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into wingate's skiff. the hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and lewin murdock's guests are men not much given to follow fashions. besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. no spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. on their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them--packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside. pretty sight to mr. murdock's lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect--each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host's house with more or less of that host's money in his pocket. murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? if he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it. hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed. their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. as said, gambling is his passion, has been for most part of his life, and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. a hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife--the only lady at the table--who, taking the hint, retires. the gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing--only a _petit verre_ of cognac by way of "corrector." then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive, from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters, with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the back yard of a london beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman's mansion! while the new master of llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company, as much as any of them engrossed in the game, its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. she is in the drawing-room, though not alone--father rogier alone with her. he, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. in his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company, though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. but just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of llangorren, about the way things are going on. however much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview, some words about it having previously passed between them. seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. but before a dozen words have been exchanged, they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it. the interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow mrs. murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but as her husband late was, of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. for all having a whole eye to female beauty, which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the frenchwoman, the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milkmaid nine times dipped in dew. the wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue, for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait--to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. but the intruder is too tipsy to notice them, and advancing, invites himself to a seat in front of mrs. murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her. rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then, muttering a word of excuse, saunters off out of the room. she knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. were it upon a bench of the bois, or an arbour in the jardin, she would make short work of it. but the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer--some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers. she at length gets rid of him on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. she will be down again by-and-by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman's presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment. once outside the room, instead of turning up the stairway, she glides along the corridor, then on through the entrance hall, and then out by the front door. nor stays she an instant on the steps or carriage-sweep, but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. for there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature. on reaching the place, she is disappointed--some little surprised. rogier is not there, nor can she see him anywhere around. for all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it--only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts--just then of an exciting nature--he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. not loudly, though, since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. besides, she does not think it necessary. he will come yet, without calling. she steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him--only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards; but without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs. by this there is another boat in motion, for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock. "where can gregoire have gone?" she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient. several times she puts the question without receiving answer, and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock. "can it be he?" continuing to listen, she hears the stroke of oars. it cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above. that must now be far away, while this is near--in the bye-water just below her. but can it be the priest who is in it? yes, it is he, as she discovers, after stepping outside to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff's edge; for then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match--itself looking like that of lucifer. what can he be doing down there? why, examining those things he already knows all about, as she herself. she would call down to him and inquire, but possibly better not. he may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. she will wait for his coming up. and wait she does, at the boat's dock, on the top step of the stair, there receiving him, as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion. "what is it?" she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her. "_quelque chose à tort?_" "more than that. a veritable danger!" "_comment?_ explain!" "there's a hound upon our track! one of sharpest scent." "who?" "_le capitaine de hussards!_" the dialogue that succeeds between olympe renault and gregoire rogier has no reference to lewin murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way; which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do. chapter lvii. an unwilling novice. "am i myself? dreaming? or is it insanity?" it is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates, a beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face, and a wealth of hair, golden hued. but what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? as the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers, though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air, but within the walls of a convent. an english girl, though the convent is in france--in the city of boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached _pensionnat_ the sister of major mahon is receiving education. she is not the girl, for kate mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde--instead, the very opposite. besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school: she is beyond the years for that. neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the _pensionnaires_ are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the lady superior. a small apartment the young girl occupies--bed-chamber and sitting-room in one; in short, a nun's cloister--furnished, as such are, in a style of austere simplicity: pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing-table, a washstand with jug and basin--these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer--and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs; that is all. the walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints, male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner. on the table are some four or five books, including a testament and missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. a literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister, since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it. that she is not there with her own will, but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. one seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself, insane!--a supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks, unlike the hue of health. still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. seen for only a moment--that particular moment--such would be the conclusion regarding her. but her speech coming after, tells she is in full possession of her senses, only under terrible agitation, distraught with some great trouble. "it must be a convent! but how have i come into it? into france, too; for surely am i there? the woman who brings my meals is french. so the other--sister of mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. the furniture--bed, table, chairs, washstand--everything of french manufacture. and in all england there is not such a jug and basin as those!" regarding the lavatory utensils--so diminutive as to recall "gulliver's travels in lilliput," if ever read by her--she for a moment seems to forget her misery, even in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque. it is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue--not of marble, but a cheap plaster of paris cast--and she reads the inscription underneath, "_la mère de dieu_." the symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of france! "oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! i am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!" the knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillize her feelings, or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself,-"am i myself? is it a dream? or have my senses indeed forsaken me?" she clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair, which hangs dishevelled. she presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched! it is so, or she would not reason as she does. "everything around shows i am in france. but how came i to it? who has brought me? what offence have i given god or man, to be dragged from home, from country, and confined--imprisoned! convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned i am! the door constantly kept locked! that window, so high, i cannot see over its sill! the dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. oh! instead of cheering, it tantalizes--tortures me!" despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy--no longer of things present, but reverting to the past. "let me think again! what can i remember? that night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! the end of my life, as i thought, if i had a thought at that time. it was not, though, or i shouldn't be here, but in heaven, i hope. would i were in heaven now! when i recall _his_ words--those last words and think----" "your thoughts are sinful, child!" the remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. a woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black--the orthodox garb of the holy sisterhood, with all its insignia of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. a tall, thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which, partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. the intruder is sister ursule. she has opened the door noiselessly--as cloister doors are made to open--and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy _silhouette_ in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well thumbed. that she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud. "yes," she continues, "sinful--very sinful! you should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness, and of anything before that you have been thinking of--the wickedness of all." she thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. it is not the first visit of sister ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. at the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation--defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. but the proudest spirit can be humbled. even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will become subdued, if not tamed. therefore the imprisoned english girl makes reply meekly and appealingly,-"sister of mercy, as you are called, have mercy upon me! tell me why i am here?" "for the good of your soul and its salvation." "but how can that concern any one save myself?" "ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading, and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. they cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty--nay, a direct command from god--to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his divine favour. he is all-merciful." "true--he is. i do not need to be told it. only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how i have come to be here, surely i may know?" "you shall in time, _ma fille_. now you cannot--must not--for many reasons." "what reasons?" "well, for one, you have been very ill--nigh unto death, indeed." "i know that, without knowing how." "of course. the accident which came near depriving you of your life was of that sudden nature; and your senses----but i mustn't speak further about it. the doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. be satisfied with knowing that they who placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. i've brought you this little volume for perusal. it will help to enlighten you." she stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book--one of those "aids to faith" relied upon by the apostles of the _propaganda_. the girl mechanically takes it, without looking at or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her. "how good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive. "how wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "i am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. but i shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind." so saying, sister ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock. "o god!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "am i myself, and dreaming? or am i mad? in mercy, heaven, tell me what it means!" chapter lviii. a cheerful kitchen. of all the domestics turned adrift from llangorren, one alone interests us--joseph preece--"old joe," as his young mistress used familiarly to call him. as jack wingate has made his mother aware, joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by coracle dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man erewhile lived as one of the retainers of the wynn family. beyond this the exchange has not extended. richard dempsey, under the new _regimé_ at llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by joseph preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. instead, the versatile joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether--that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages, and other kinds of wicker-work. rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of squire wynn. having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, joe has laid by a little _pecunium_, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. the old man of many _metiers_ has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it. it is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of dick dempsey, though dick had nothing to do with it. the poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a "withey bed" belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. this last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands--and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture--he has taken a lease of it along with the house. under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation--almost ruin--the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. he has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor--in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable. among other improvements, he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. more still, neatly and tastefully furnished it, the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany-framed glass on the top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras. for himself? no; he has a bedroom besides. and this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pin-cushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. they cannot be the belongings of "old joe's" wife nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of benedict has not been. a bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter. who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? in a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper--his own. but before entering on parlour duties at the court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. by her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give him gratification. the old servitor of squire wynn is in his way a _gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things. his accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of amy--amy preece, for she is his brother's child. and she is pretty as her name, a bright, blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well rounded, and flesh firm as a ribston pippin. her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark, scowling features of coracle dick--brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware, or the whitewash upon its walls. old joe rejoices; and if we have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. but this thought suggests another contradicting it. how could he while his young mistress lived? she so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. this she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly in contrast! and as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. it is now lying just below, at the brook's mouth, by the withey bed, where joe has made a mooring place for it. the handsome thing would fetch £50; and many a wye waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling! all in vain. old joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with that boat. it oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her--ay, for the rest of his life. if he has lost the lady, he will cling to the souvenir which carries her honoured name! but, however faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling gwendoline wynn to remembrance. on other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. and never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with jack wingate, when both were a-shopping at rugg's ferry. for there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home, which was gladly and off-hand accepted. "a bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old boatman's words specifying the entertainment. the night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. for, to let out a little secret, the french lady's-maid was not the only feminine at llangorren court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing captain ryecroft. raising the curtain still higher, amy preece's position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither. not strange then, but altogether natural. she is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. she would work her fingers off for jack wingate. possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. if not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. for never in all his life has old joe met one he so greatly cottons to. his intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. if his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the expected guest. a gentle tapping at the door tells him the triangle is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out,-"that you, jack wingate? o' course it be. come in!" and in jack wingate comes. chapter lix. queer bric-a-brac. stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping. old joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for amy to carry on her culinary operations. there are still a few touches to be added--a sauce to be concocted--before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it. host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old joe is an oracle. as the other, too, has spent all his days on vaga's banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. it is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. if they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. it reminds him of many a pleasant christmas night in the grand servants' hall at the court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon. his guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful--almost himself again. his mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving--not righteous, but sinful. and now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged--and all on his account--he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. at all events, his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. not that he is untrue to the memory of mary morgan. far from it. his feelings are but natural, inevitable. with that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him. but his feelings for amy preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. it even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth, the girl's beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. and she possesses something more than beauty--a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by jack wingate--modesty. he has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company--contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the court--clarisse. and now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals--best from the forest of dean. and he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, _vis-à-vis_ to her uncle, and distributing the viands. these are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. he has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, amy is something of an _artiste de cuisine_. an excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, jack wingate might catch himself so reflecting; but not now--not to-night. such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing. the conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management. it continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. amy knows her uncle's weakness--which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the "barley bree" that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate. as the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted. answered in the negative, she bids both "good-night," withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed. but not immediately to fall asleep. instead, she lies awake thinking of jack wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. the _femme de chambre_ would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. not so the young english girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment. on the instant of her withdrawal, old joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together. "yer good health, jack." "same to yerself, joe." after this exchange, the ex-charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them--the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing. "queer sort o' chap, that coracle dick! an't he, jack?" "course he be. but why do ye ask? you knowed him afore, well enough." "not so well's now. he never comed about the court, 'ceptin' once when fetched there--afore the old squire on a poachin' case. lor! what a change! he now head-keeper o' the estate." "ye say ye know him better than ye did? ha' ye larned anythin' 'bout him o' late?" "that hae i, an' a goodish deal too. more'n one thing as seems kewrous." "if ye don't object tellin' me, i'd like to hear what they be." "well, one are, that dick dempsey ha' been in the practice of somethin' besides poachin'." "that an't no news to me. i ha' long suspected him o' doin's worse than that." "amongst them did ye include forgin'?" "no; because i never thought o' it. but i believe him to be capable o' it, or anything else. what makes ye think he ha' been a forger?" "well, i won't say forger, for he mayn't ha' made the things. but for sure he ha' been engaged in passin' them off." "passin' what off!" "them!" rejoins joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table--over a score of coins, to all appearance half-crown pieces. "counterfeits--every one o' 'em!" he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise. "where did you find them?" asks jack. "in the corner o' an old cubbord. furbishin' up the place, i comed across them--besides a goodish grist o' other kewrosities. what would ye think o' my predecessor here bein' a burglar as well as smasher?" "i wouldn't think that noways strange neyther. as i've sayed already, i b'lieve dick dempsey to be a man who'd not mind takin' a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad--burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. but what led ye to think he ha' been also in the housebreakin' line?" "these!" answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor--not the table--as he does so exclaiming, "theere be a lot o' oddities! a complete set o' burglar's tools--far as i can understand them." and so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys--in short, every implement of the cracksman's calling. "and ye found them in the cubbert too?" "no, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. the big bag, wi' its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks--the clift at the back o' the house." "odd, all o' it! an' the oddest his leavin' such things behind--to tell the tale o' his guilty doin's. i suppose bein' full o' his new fortunes, he's forgot all about them." "but ye han't waited for me to gie the whole o' the cat'logue. there be somethin' more to come." "what more?" asks the young waterman, surprisedly, and with renewed interest. "a thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. i can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an' the housebreakin' implements; but the other beats me dead down, an' i don't know what to make o't. maybe you can tell. i foun' it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi' a stone in front exact fittin' to an' fillin' its mouth." while speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff--apparently linen--loosely rolled. unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds,-"theer be the eydentical article!" no wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it; for it is a _shroud_! white, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast! "o god!" cries jack wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. "that's the shroud mary morgan wor buried in! i can swear to 't. i seed her mother stitch on that cross an' them letters--the ineetials o' her name. an' i seed it on herself in the coffin 'fore 't wor closed. heaven o' mercy! what do it mean?" amy preece, lying awake in her bed, hears jack wingate's voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. but she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour--even into morning. for before the two men part, they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping! chapter lx. a brace of body-snatchers. what with the high hills that shut in the valley of the wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "you couldn't see your hand before you." i have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road. such a night has drawn down over rugg's ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the welsh harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, are no longer to be seen. in the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed. some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. if so, they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it. for all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. the place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where captain ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. these are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it. soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. then facing back towards the boat, he says,-"hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!" "ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. the things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. there is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank. he who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. the younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent. inside the sacred precincts they pause, partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. seen, they could not be, before or now. becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper,-"it be all right, i think. every livin' sinner--an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. as for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home. good as sure down at llangorren court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. we hain't nothin' to fear, i take it. let's on to the place. you lay hold o' my skirt, and i'll gie ye the lead. i know the way, every inch o' it." saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step. a few paces further, and they arrive at a grave, beside which they again make stop. in daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. a month or so since the turf had been smoothed over it. the men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. but, before going further in their design--body-snatching, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted. not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river. at length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to leave no traces of their theft. that done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. then, seizing hold of the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside. they have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even shorter than they anticipated. within less than eighteen inches of the surface, their tools come into contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin. soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying,-"i tolt ye so--listen!" with the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. it returns a hollow sound--too hollow for aught to be inside it! "no body in there!" he adds. "hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other. "sartint we had--an' will." once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely--the screws all drawn and gone! flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin--not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else. there is nothing--only emptiness. the house of the dead is untenanted--its tenant has been taken away! "i know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "i know'd my poor mary wor no longer here!" it is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but jack wingate, his companion being joseph preece. after which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. he is less sad than thoughtful now. but he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf--adjusting the sods with as much exactitude as though they were laying tesselated tiles! then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off. on return down stream they reflect in different ways, the old boatman of llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by coracle dick, for the doctors, with a view to earning a dishonest penny. far otherwise the thoughts of jack wingate. he thinks, nay, hopes--almost happily believes--that the body exhumed was not dead--never has been--but that mary morgan still lives, breathes, and has being! chapter lxi. in want of help. "drowned? no! dead before she ever went under the water. murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt." it is captain ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. and to himself, being alone, within his room in the wyeside hotel; for he is still in herefordshire. more in conjecture, he proceeds,-"they first smothered, i suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? a double death, as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. poor girl! i hope not." in prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with jack wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. this partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. it is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt now serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy. he has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it in the daytime, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. it was for this he had bespoken wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. there and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff; but not any more misleading him. if the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. no natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! and within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below! had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints! the man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff, coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. for he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of sysiphus, was no other than father rogier. the priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot--not this time crouching among the ferns, but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. still, near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the _debâcle_, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it. "_un limier veritable!_" a hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. aha! the game must be got out of his way. llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner, the better. at the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of gregoire rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "no accident--no suicide--murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "this makes me all the more sure of it. miserable trick! not much mr. lewin murdock will gain by it." so thought he then. but now, days after, though still believing murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." for the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. though himself convinced that gwendoline wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others--much less a legal tribunal. he is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned. he now knows there are more than one, or so supposes, still believing that murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it. "the man's wife must know all about it," he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that french priest--he probably the instigator of it. ay! possibly had a hand in the deed itself. there have been such cases recorded--many of them. exercising great authority at llangorren--as jack has learned from his friend joe--there commanding everybody and everything! and the fellow dempsey--poacher, and what not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! why all this? only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. yes; all four, acting conjointly, have brought it about! "and how am i to bring it home to them? 'twill be difficult indeed, if at all possible. even that slight sign destroyed has increased the difficulty. "no use taking the 'great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. to submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. that isn't the way--will not do! "and yet i must have some one to assist me; for there is truth in the old saw, 'two heads better than one,' wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. i want a man of my own class; one who----stay! george shenstone? no! the young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. i could trust his heart, not his head. where is he who has both to be relied upon? ha! mahon! the man--the very man! experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his irish blood up against the sassenachs--above all, devoted to me, as i know; he has never forgotten that little service i did him at delhi. and he has nothing to do--plenty of time at his disposal. yes; the major's my man! "shall i write and ask him to come over here. on second thoughts, no! better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. to boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. the scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence 's well as now. if we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt, it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. now i think of it, something may be learnt about it in boulogne itself; or, at all events, of the priest. since i've had a good look at his forbidding face, i feel certain it's the same i saw inside the doorway of that convent. if not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like, it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other. "in any case, there can be no harm in my making a scout across to boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. perchance, also, a trifle concerning mr. and mrs. lewin murdock. it appears that both husband and wife are well known at homburg, baden, and other like resorts. gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the french seaport, to get their hands in for those grander hells beyond. i'll go over to boulogne!" a knock at the door. on the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. "well?" "your waterman, sir, wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?" "tell him to step up!" "what can jack be coming after? anyhow, i'm glad he has come. 'twill save me the trouble of sending for him, as i'd better settle his account before starting off." [jack has a new score against the captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "besides, there's something i wish to say--a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. come in, jack!" this, as a shuffling in the corridor outside tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door-mat. the door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. more like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him. "what is it?" asks the captain, observing his distraught manner. "somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed." "ah! let me hear it!" demands ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind. "i will, captain. but it'll take time in the tellin'." "take as much as you like. i'm at your service. be seated." jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the captain is sitting--by a table. then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in a grave, solemn voice,-"i do believe, captain, _she be still alive_!" chapter lxii. still alive. impossible to depict the expression on vivian ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. it is more than surprise--more than astonishment--intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it. "still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "alive!" he mechanically repeats. "what do you mean, wingate? and who?" "my poor girl, captain. you know." "_his_ girl--not _mine_! mary morgan--not gwendoline wynn!" reflects ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow. "i'm almost sure she be still livin'," continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why. controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly,-"what leads you to think that way, wingate? have you a reason?" "yes, have i; more'n one. it's about that i ha' come to consult ye." "you've come to astonish me! but proceed!" "well, sir, as i ha' sayed, it'll take a good bit o' tellin', and a lot o' explanation beside. but since ye've signified i'm free to your time, i'll try and make the story short's i can." "don't curtail it in any way. i wish to hear all!" the waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life--those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, mary morgan. he tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of coracle dick, and the sinister interference of father rogier. in addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm--their last--and the sad episode soon after succeeding. something of all this ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. what he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farmhouse of abergann, while mary morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. the first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl's mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. then the strange behaviour of father rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl's face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up--a haste noticed by others as well as jack wingate. "but what do you make of all that?" asks ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other and still stranger revelations. "how can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? quite its contrary, i should say." "stay, captain! there be more to come." the captain does stay, listening on. to hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! he speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. then goes on to give account of the evening spent with joseph preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars' tools, and finally the shroud--that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight! his narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman. "last night," he says, proceeding with the relation, "or i ought to say the same mornin'--for 'twar after midnight hour--joe an' myself took the skiff, an' stole up to the chapel graveyard, where we opened her grave, an' foun' the coffin empty! now, captain, what do ye think o' the whole thing?" "on my word, i hardly know what to think of it. mystery seems the measure of the time! this you tell me of is strange--if not stranger than any! what are your own thoughts about it, jack?" "well, as i've already sayed, my thoughts be, an' my hopes, that mary's still in the land o' the livin'." "i hope she is." the tone of ryecroft's rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following. "but you saw her in her coffin? waked for two days, as i understood you; then laid in her grave? how could she have lived throughout all that? surely she was dead!" "so i thought at the time, but don't now." "my good fellow, i fear you are deceiving yourself. i'm sorry having to think so. why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive--that seems physically impossible!" "well, captain, it's just about the possibility of the thing i come to ask your opinion; thinkin' ye'd be acquainted wi' the article itself." "what article?" "the new medicine; it as go by the name o' chloryform." "ha! you have a suspicion----" "that she ha' been chloryformed, an' so kep' asleep--to be waked up when they wanted her. i've heerd say they can do such things." "but then she was drowned also? fell from a foot plank, you told me? and was in the water some time?" "i don't believe it, a bit. it be true enough she got somehow into the water, an' wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o' herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o' the brook. but that wor short after, an' she might still ha' ben alive notwithstandin'. my notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an' knew all along she warn't dead, nohow." "my dear jack, the thing cannot be possible. even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father--all of them--must have been cognizant of these facts--if facts?" "i don't forget it, captain. 'stead, i believe they all wor cognizant o' them--leastways, the mother." "but why should she assist in such a dangerous deception--at risk of her daughter's life?" "that's easy answered. she did it partly o' herself; but more at the biddin' o' the priest, whom she daren't disobey--the weak-minded creature, most o' her time given up to sayin' prayers and paternosters. they all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. wi' her willin', i could a' defied the whole lot o' them. bein' aware o' that, their only chance wor to get her out o' my way by some trick--as they ha' indeed got her. ye may think it strange their takin' all that trouble; but if ye'd seen her, ye wouldn't. there worn't on all wyeside so good-lookin' a girl!" ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance. despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says--jack's earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him. "and supposing her to be alive," he asks, "where do you think she is now? have you any idea?" "i have--leastways, a notion." "where?" "over the water--in france--the town o' bolone." "boulogne!" exclaims the captain, with a start. "what makes you suppose she is there?" "something, sir, i han't yet spoke to ye about. i'd a'most forgot the thing, an' might never ha' thought o't again, but for what ha' happened since. ye'll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin' ye i had an engagement the next day to take the young powells down the river?" "i remember it perfectly." "well, i took them, as agreed; an' that day we went down's fur's chepstow. but they wor bound for the severn side a duck-shootin'; and next mornin' we started early, afore daybreak. as we were passin' the wharf below chepstow bridge, where there wor several craft lyin' in, i noticed one sloop-rigged ridin' at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin' to put to sea. by the light o' a lamp as hung over the taffrail, i read the name on her starn, showin' she wor french, an' belonged to bolone. i shouldn't ha' thought than anythin' odd, as there be many foreign craft o' the smaller kind puts in at chepstow. but what did appear odd, an' gied me a start too, wor my seein' a boat by the sloop's side wi' a man in it, who i could a'most sweared wor the rogue's ferry priest. there wor others in the boat besides, an' they appeared to be gettin' some sort o' bundle out o' it, an' takin' it up the man-ropes, aboard o' the sloop. but i didn't see anymore, as we soon passed out o' sight, goin' on down. now, captain, it's my firm belief that man must ha' been the priest, and that thing i supposed to be a bundle o' marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o' mary morgan--not dead, but livin'!" "you astound me, wingate! certainly a most singular circumstance! coincidence too! boulogne--boulogne!" "yes, captain; by the letterin' on her starn the sloop must ha' belonged there; an' _i'm goin' there myself_." "i too, jack! we shall go together!" chapter lxiii. a strange father confessor. "he's gone away--given it up! be glad, madame!" father rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of llangorren court, where mrs. murdock is seated. "what, gregoire?" (were her husband present, it would be "père"; but she is alone.) "who's gone away? and why am i to rejoice?" "_le capitaine._" "ha!" she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one. "are you sure of it? the news seems too good for truth." "it's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. whether to stay away is another matter. we must hope he will." "i hope it with all my heart." "and well you may, madame; as i myself. we had more to fear from that _chien de chasse_ than all the rest of the pack--ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which i fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock slide. a lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaisance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! wasn't it, _chèrie_?" "superb! the whole thing from beginning to end! you've proved yourself a wonderful man, gregoire rogier." "and i hope worthy of olympe renault?" "you have." "_merci!_ so far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. but there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. and it must be done quickly, too. i pine to cast off this priestly garb--in which i've been so long miserably masquerading--and enter into the real enjoyments of life. but there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day, any hour. le capitaine ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one." "richard--_le braconnier_--you're thinking of?" "no, no, no! of him we needn't have the slightest fear. i hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose i can draw tight at the shortest notice. i am far more apprehensive of monsieur, _votre mari_!" "in what way?" "more than one; but for one, his tongue. there's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and monsieur murdock is hardly ever out of them. suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about--well, i needn't say what. there's still suspicion abroad--plenty of it,--and, like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze." "_c'est vrai!_" "fortunately, mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the _fiancé_ and the other lover--the rustic and rejected one--shenstone _fils_. of him we need take no account. even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the _ancien hussard_, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. luck, too, in his having no intimacies here, or, i believe, anywhere in the shire of hereford. had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him." "and you do think he has gone for good?" "i do; at least, it would seem so. on his second return to the hotel--in haste as it was--he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. so i learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for london. of course that means nothing. he may be _en route_ for anywhere beyond--round the globe, if he feel inclined for circumnavigation. and i shall be delighted if he do." he would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred--that in getting his ticket captain ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for boulogne. still less might father rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for london; a first-class for the captain himself, and a second for the waterman wingate--travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life. having heard nothing of this, the sham priest--as he has now acknowledged himself--is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. in short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. alone the king stands, he tottering; for lewin murdock is fast drinking himself to death. it is of him the priest speaks as king,-"has he signed the will?" "_oui._" "when?" "this morning, before he went out. the lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness----" "i know all that," interrupts the priest, "as i should, having sent them. let me have a look at the document. you have it in the house, i hope?" "in my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment: "_le voilà!_" she spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it--only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. a testament made by lewin murdock, which, at his death, leaves the llangorren estate--as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it--to his wife olympe--_née_ renault--for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to gregoire rogier, priest of the roman catholic church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the convent of----, boulogne-sur-mer, france. "for that last clause, which is yours, gregoire, the nuns of boulogne should be grateful to you; or at all events, the abbess, lady superior, or whatever she's called." "so she will," he rejoins, with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. unfortunately for her, the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands, there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. nay!" he adds, in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the llangorren estate left for any one--not even for yourself, madame. under the fingers of monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices--avalanches!" "_mon dieu!_" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed. "i wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. when i left the ferry, he was in the welsh harp, as i was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, 'heads and tails, who wins?' not he, you may be sure. no doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards--jews' eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these _chevaliers d'industrie_ facetiously term their money. if we don't bring all this to a termination, that you will have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. _comprenez-vous, chèrie?_" "_parfaitement!_ but how is it to be brought to a termination. for myself, i haven't an idea. has any occurred to you, gregoire?" as the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. he knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put--both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. still, he does not answer it directly. even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. for it is murder--the murder of lewin murdock! "_le pauvre homme!_" ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. "the cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and i don't believe he can last much longer. it seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. thanks to the school in which i was trained, i have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that." a gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman--an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband! "you think only _days_?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. but the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is. "only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "still, days count in a thing of this kind--ay, even hours. who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? others have done the like before now--gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names-rich in one hour, beggars in the next. i can remember more than one." "ah! so can i." "englishmen, too, who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. true, monsieur hasn't very much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us--myself as well as you. i've risked everything--reputation, which i care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then--i need not tell you. what we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an english gaol. monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion, must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly." "_vraiment!_ i ask you again--have you thought of anything, gregoire?" he does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. when at length given, it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about. "would it greatly surprise you if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?" "certainly not--in the least. why should it? it wouldn't be the first time by scores--hundreds--for him to stay all night away from me. ay, and at that same welsh harp, too--many's the night." "to your great annoyance, no doubt, if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?" she breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless as was ever heard in an _allée_ of the jardin mabille. when it is ended, she adds gravely,-"the time was when he might have made me so; i may as well admit that; not now, as you know, gregoire. now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, i'd only be too glad to think i should never see his face again. _le brute ivrogne!_" to this monstrous declaration, rogier laconically rejoins,-"you may not." then, placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, "if all prosper, as planned, _you will not_!" she neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. she knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband she no longer cares for--to both become inconvenient. and from what has gone before, she can rely on rogier with its execution. chapter lxiv. a queer catechist. a boat upon the wye, being pulled upward, between llangorren court and rugg's ferry. there are two men in it--not vivian ryecroft and jack wingate, but gregoire rogier and richard dempsey. the _ci-devant_ poacher is at the oars--for, in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff which has replaced the _gwendoline_. this same morning he rowed his master up to rugg's, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home. the two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road roundabout, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, lewin murdock, moreover, an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day. it is the same on which father rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it; for he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. but on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back. no scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to gregoire rogier. instead, one of satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that _tête-à-tête_ with her he has called "chèrie." though requiring a boat for its execution, and an oarsman of a peculiar kind--adroit at something besides the handling of oars--not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. for all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest's moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. no supply of poached fish or game. things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. still, he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be, though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. the first is,-"you're not afraid of water, are you, dick?" "not partickler, your reverence. why should i?" "well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face--if i am right in my reckoning, only once a week--may plead my excuse for asking the question." "oh, father rogier! that wor only in the time past, when i lived alone, and the thing worn't worth while. now, going more into respectable company, i do a little washin' every day." "i'm glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you've had. but my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions--rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. if i mistake not, you can swim like a fish?" "no, not equal to a fish. that ain't possible." "an otter, then?" "somethin' nearer he, if ye like," answers coracle, laughingly. "i supposed as much. never mind. about the degree of your natatory powers we needn't dispute. i take it they're sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized, and you in it?" "lor, father rogier! that wouldn't be nothin'! i could swim to eyther shore, if 'twor miles off." "but could you as you are now, with clothes on, boots, and everything?" "sartin could i, and carry weight beside." "that will do," rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied; then lapsing into silence, and leaving dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated. the speechless interregnum is not for long. after a minute or two, rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks,-"would it upset this skiff if i were to step on the side of it--i mean, bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?" "that would it, your reverence, though ye be but a light weight--tip it over like a tub." "quite turn it upside down--as your old truckle, eh?" "well, not so ready as the truckle. still, 'twould go bottom upward. though a biggish boat, it be one o' the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi' the lightest o' men standin' on its gunn'l rail." "and surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?" "i shouldn't like to try, your reverence bein' wi' me in the boat." "how would you like, somebody else being with you in it--_if made worth your while_?" coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. he begins to see the drift of the _sub jove_ confessional to which he is being submitted. "how'd i like it, your reverence? well enough, if, as you say, made worth my while. i don't mind a bit o' a wettin' when there's anythin' to be gained by it. many's the one i've had on a chilly winter's night, as this same be, all for the sake o' a salmon i wor 'bleeged to sell at less'n half-price. if only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, i wouldn't wait for the upsettin' o' the boat, but jump overboard at onest." "that's game in you, monsieur dick. but to earn the honest penny you speak of, the upsetting of the boat might be a necessary condition." "be it so, your reverence. i'm willing to fulfil that, if ye only bid me. maybe," he continues, in a tone of confidential suggestion, "there be somebody as you think ought to get a duckin' beside myself?" "there is somebody who ought," rejoins the priest, coming nearer to his point. "nay, must," he continues; "for if he don't, the chances are we shall all go down together, and that soon." coracle skulls on without questioning. he more than half comprehends the figurative speech, and is confident he will ere long receive complete explanation of it. he is soon led a little way further by the priest observing,-"no doubt, _mon ancien bracconnier_, you've been gratified by the change that's of late taken place in your circumstances. but perhaps it hasn't quite satisfied you, and you expect to have something more--as i have the wish you should. and you would ere this, but for one who obstinately sets his face against it." "may i know who that one is, father rogier?" "you may, and shall; though i should think you scarce need telling. without naming names, it's he who will be in this boat with you going back to llangorren." "i thought so. an' if i an't astray, he be the one your reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?" "instead, all the better for it. it may cure him of his evil courses--drinking, card-playing, and the like. if he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. he'll have to go back to beggary, as at glyngog; while you, monsieur coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night netting, and all the etceteras. would you desire that?" "daanged if i would! an' won't do it if i can help. shan't, if your reverence 'll only show me the way." "there's but one i can think of." "what may that be, father rogier?" "simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards." "it shall be done. when, and where?" "when you are coming back down. the where you may choose for yourself--such place as may appear safe and convenient. only take care you don't drown yourself." "no fear o' that. there an't water in the wye as'll ever drown dick dempsey." "no," jocularly returns the priest; "i don't suppose there is. if it be your fate to perish by asphyxia--as no doubt it is--strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed--that being more appropriate to the life you have led. ha! ha! ha!" coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. for the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. but remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at abergann, he silently submits to it. he, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of llangorren court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the philistines of gaza, have it dragged down about their ears. but the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the _rôle_ of samson; and however galling the _jeu d'esprit_ of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it. in truth there is no time for further exchange of speech--at least, in the skiff. by this time they have arrived at the rugg's ferry landing-place, where father rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in coracle's ear, and then goes off. his words were-"a hundred pounds, dick, if you do it. twice that for your doing it adroitly!" chapter lxv. almost a "vert." major mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house, waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiâcre_ driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend. he does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door. "captain ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "glad to see you back in boulogne." then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "part of your belongings, isn't he?" "yes, major; my old wye waterman, jack wingate, of whom i spoke to you. and if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two----" "don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. the longer you stay with me, you'll be conferring the greater favour. your old room is gaping to receive you; and murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. murt!" to the ex-royal irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has also come forth, "take charge of captain ryecroft's traps, along with mr. wingate here, and see all safely bestowed. now, old fellow, step inside. they'll look after the things. you're just in time to do dinner with me. i was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully lamenting my loneliness. well, one never knows what luck's in the wind. rather hard lines for you, however. if i mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. but i know you're neither _gourmand_ nor _gourmet;_ and that's some consolation. in!" in go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiâcre_ fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to jack wingate. * * * * * soon as captain ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the dining-room. when seated at the table, the major asks,-"what on earth has delayed you, vivian? you promised to be back in a week at most. it's months now! despairing of your return, i had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, 'if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' ha! ha!" ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever. in hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the major rolls on in his rich hibernian brogue,-"you've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. and now i have you here, i mean to keep you. so, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in boulogne-sur-mer. you will, won't you?" "it's very kind of you, mahon; but that must depend on----" "on what?" "how i prosper in my errand." "oh! this time you _have_ an errand? some business?" "i have." "well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. but speaking seriously, ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may i know its nature?" "not only may, but it's meant you should. nay, more, mahon; i want your help in it." "that you can count upon, whatever it be--from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. only say how i can serve you." "well, major, in the first place i would seek your assistance in some inquiries that i am about to make here." "inquiries! have they regard to that young lady you said was lost--missing from her home! surely she has been found?" "she has--found drowned!" "found drowned! god bless me!" "yes, mahon. the home from which she was missing knows her no more. gwendoline wynn is now in her long home--in heaven!" the solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker's face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener's mind. it is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them. the major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation. which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together. he gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. but mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly-"then you have a suspicion there's been what's commonly called foul play?" "more than a suspicion. i'm sure of it." "the devil! but whom do you suspect?" "whom should i but he now in possession of the property--her cousin, mr. lewin murdock. though i've reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a frenchman. indeed, it's chiefly to make inquiry about him i've come over to boulogne." "a frenchman. you know his name?" "i do; at least, that he goes by on the other side of the channel. you remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister's at school, our seeing a carriage there--a hackney, or whatever it was?" "certainly i do." "and my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest i'd seen but a day or two before?" "of course i remember all that, and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep, where all are so nearly of the same hue--that black. something of the sort i said. but what's your argument?" "no argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my herefordshire priest. i've seen him several times since--had a good square look at him--and feel sure 'twas he." "you haven't yet told me his name?" "rogier--father rogier. so he is called upon the wye." "and, supposing him identified, what follows?" "a great deal follows, or rather, depends on his identification." "explain, ryecroft. i shall listen with patience." ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the jesuit on wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of jack wingate's love and loss--the last so strangely resembling his own--the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject. "a strange tale, truly!" observes the major, after hearing it to the end. "but does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart, and brought her over here with the intention of shutting her up in a nunnery?" "he does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave." "'twould be a wonderful story, if true--i mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. that's possible, and probable where priests of the jesuitical school are concerned. and so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. oh! yes; ultramontane magicians can do anything!" "but why," asks ryecroft, "should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl--the daughter of a small herefordshire farmer,--with possibly at the most a hundred pounds or so for her dowry? that's what mystifies me!" "it needn't," laconically observes the major. "these jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. was the girl good looking?" he asks, after musing a moment. "well, of myself i never saw her. by jack's description she must have been a superb creature--on a par with the angels. true, a lover's judgment is not much to be relied on, but i've heard from others, that miss morgan was really a rustic belle--something beyond the common." "faith! and that may account for the whole thing. i know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; i suppose, for purposes of proselytizing, if nothing more. they'd give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way: have been already bidding for her. by heavens! i'd rather see her laid in her grave!" the major's strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues,-"you've come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about--what's the girl's name?--ah! morgan." "more than the convent matter; though it's in the same connection. i've come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. and, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of mr. lewin murdock and his french wife; for which i may probably go on to paris, if not farther. to sum up everything, i've determined to sift this mystery to the bottom--unravel it to its last thread. i've already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. but i want one to assist me. like a lone hunter on a lost trail, i need counsel from a companion--and help too. you'll stand by me, mahon?" "to the death, my dear boy! i was going to say the last shilling in my purse. as you don't need that, i say, instead, to the last breath in my body!" "you shall be thanked with the last in mine." "i'm sure of that. and now for a drop of the 'crayther,' to warm us to our work. ho! there, murt! bring in the 'matayreals.'" which murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed. soon as punches have been mixed, the major returns to the subject, saying,-"now then, to enter upon particulars. what step do you wish me to take first?" "first, to find out who father rogier is, and what. that is, on this side; i know what he is on the other. if we can but learn his relations with the convent, it might give us a key capable of opening more than one lock." "there won't be much difficulty in doing that, i take it. all the less, from my little sister kate being a great pet of the lady superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! not if i know it! soon as her schooling's completed, she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. you see, old fellow, i'm not very bigoted about our holy faith, and in some danger of becoming a 'vert.' as for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she'd never have seen the inside of one with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. but money's money; and though the legacy isn't a large one, for her sake, i couldn't afford to forfeit it. you comprehend?" "quite. and you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?" "pretty sure of it. kate's no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. she'll manage it for me, with the instructions i mean giving her. after all, it may not be so much trouble. in these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother's child of them--nuns and novices alike. gossip's the chief occupation of their lives. if there's been an occurrence such as you speak of--a new bird caged there--above all, an english one--it's sure to have got wind--that is, inside the walls. and i can trust kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. so, vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. i think i can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing." * * * * * kate mahon proves equal to the occasion, showing herself quick-witted, as her brother boasted her to be. on the third day after, she is able to report to him, that some time previously--how long not exactly known--a young english girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named rogier. the girl is a candidate for the holy sisterhood--voluntary, of course--to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. miss mahon has not seen the new novice--only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. nor have any of the other _pensionaires_ been permitted to see or speak with her. all they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair--a grand wealth of it--and goes by the name of "soeur marie." "sister mary!" exclaims jack wingate, as ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence--at the same time translating the "soeur marie." "it's mary morgan--my mary! an' by the heavens of mercy," he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, "she shall come out o' that convent, or i'll lay my life down at its door." chapter lxvi. the last of lewin murdock. once more a boat upon the wye, passing between rugg's ferry and llangorren court, but this time descending. it is the same boat, and, as before, with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. one of them is coracle dick, still at the oars; while father rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another--not sitting upright, as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart. this man is lewin murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety--in common parlance, drunk. he has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the welsh harp, where he has been all day carousing, and delivered to dempsey, who now, at a late hour of the night, is conveying him homeward. his hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demilune of dark purplish colour underneath. but for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk. verily is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed, lewin murdock is doing his best to destroy himself--drinking suicidally! for all, he is not destined thus to die. his end will come even sooner, and, it may be, easier. it is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the conversation late exchanged between him and father rogier. for in those dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when within springing distance of its prey. nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his cadaverous cheeks. possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand gas-lighted _salon_, with tables of _tapis vert_, carrying packs of playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. or the _mise en scène_ of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd and even, "heads or tails." but if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him; else, far gone as he is, he would be aroused--instinctively--to make a last struggle for life. for the thing so near is death. the fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition--as it were holding lewin murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand--has unquestionably determined upon taking it. why he does not do so at once is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to the spilling of blood. the heart of the _ci-devant_ poacher, counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such silly and sensitive scruples. the postponement of his hellish purpose is due to a mere question of convenience. he dislikes the idea of having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments! true, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry--every stitch. but that would not do; for there will be another coroner's inquest, at which he will have to be present. he has escaped the two preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal witness. therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as well. into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to llangorren. so ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and destroyed! silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. between rugg's ferry and llangorren court he is as familiar with the river's channel as a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion; knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored them while paddling his little "truckle." and now, sculling the larger craft, it is all the same. and he pulls on, without once looking over his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him--lewin murdock lying motionless at his feet. as if himself moved by a sudden impulse--impatience, or the thought it might be as well to have the dangerous work over--he ceases pulling, and acts as though he were about to unship the oars. but again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed walls of the widow wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that the main road passes by it. what if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen in the act of capsizing his own boat? true, it is after midnight, and not likely any one abroad--even the latest wayfarer. but there might be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out. that place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself! thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he proceeds onward, summoning up before his mind the different turns and reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon. for, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip. he is growing nervously impatient--almost apprehensive of failure, through fear of being seen--when, rounding a bend, he has before him the very thing he is in search of--the place itself. it is a short, straight reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and trees overhanging, whose shadows, meeting across, shut off the hated light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. it is but a little way above the lone farmhouse of abergann, and the mouth of the brook which there runs in. but coracle dick is not thinking of either--only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design. and, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about its execution--carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. having unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart, there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. then, stepping to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's weight borne upon it. in an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling lewin murdock, as himself, into the mad, surging river! the drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation of his dream! satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. he has enough to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes, even to the boots. he reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted; shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on plinlimmon, and its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream. but the chill of the wye's water is nought compared with that sent through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he has crawled out upon the spot--the self-same spot--where the waves gave back another body he had consigned to them--that of mary morgan! for a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end, the blood curdling in his veins. then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place--by himself accursed--taking the direction of llangorren, but giving a wide berth to abergann. he has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead, knows that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed--as he is! mrs. murdock sits up late for lewin--though with little expectation of his coming home. looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the portico. rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims, in counterfeit surprise,-"you, monsieur richard! not my husband!" when coracle dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry of distress. instead, it is one of ecstatic delight she is unable to restrain at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head, and the land for miles around it! chapter lxvii. a chapter diplomatic. another day has dawned, another sun set upon boulogne; and major mahon is again in his dining-room, with captain ryecroft, his sole guest. the cloth has been removed, the major's favourite after-dinner beverage brought upon the table, and, with punches "brewed" and cigars set alight, they have commenced conversation upon the incidents of the day--those especially relating to ryecroft's business in boulogne. the major has had another interview with his sister--a short one, snatched while she was out with her school companions for afternoon promenade. it has added some further particulars to those they had already learnt, both about the english girl confined within the nunnery, and the priest who conveyed her thither. that the latter was father rogier is placed beyond a doubt by a minute description of his person given to miss mahon, well known to the individual who gave it. to the nuns within that convent the man's name is familiar--even to his baptismal appellation, gregoire; for although the major has pronounced all the sacerdotal fraternity alike, in being black, this particular member of it is of a shade deeper than common--a circumstance of itself going a good way towards his identification. even within that sacred precinct where he is admitted, a taint attaches to him; though what its nature the young lady has not yet been able to ascertain. the information thus obtained tallies with the estimate of the priest's character, already formed; in correspondence, too, with the theory that he is capable of the crime captain ryecroft believes him to have abetted, if not actually committed. nor is it contradicted by the fact of his being a frequent visitor to the nunnery, and a favourite with the administration thereof; indeed, an intimate friend of the abbess herself. something more, in a way accounting for all: that the new novice is not the first _agneau d'angleterre_ he has brought over to boulogne, and guided into that same fold, more than one of them having ample means, not only to provision themselves, but a surplus for the support of the general sisterhood. there is no word about any of these english lambs having been other than voluntary additions to the french flock; but a whisper circulates within the convent walls, that father rogier's latest contribution is a recusant, and if she ever becomes a nun, it will be a _forced_ one; that the thing is _contre coeur_--in short, she protests against it. jack wingate can well believe that; still under full conviction that "soeur marie" is mary morgan; and, despite all its grotesque strangeness and wild improbability, captain ryecroft has pretty nearly come to the same conclusion; while the major, with less knowledge of antecedent circumstances, but more of nunneries, never much doubted it. "about the best way to get the girl out. what's your idea, mahon?" ryecroft asks the question in no careless or indifferent way; on the contrary, with a feeling earnestness. for, although the daughter of the wyeside farmer is nought to him, the wye waterman is; and he has determined on seeing the latter through--to the end of the mysterious affair. in difficulties jack wingate has stood by him, and he will stand by jack, _coûte-que-coûte_. besides, figuratively speaking, they are still in the same boat. for if wingate's dead sweetheart, so strangely returned to life, can be also restored to liberty, the chances are she may be the very one wanted to throw light on the other and, alas! surer death. therefore, captain ryecroft is not all unselfish in backing up his boatman; nor, as he puts the question, being anxious about the answer. "we'll have to use strategy," returns the major; not immediately, but after taking a grand gulp out of his tumbler, and a vigorous draw at his _regalia_. "but why should we?" impatiently demands the captain. "if the girl have been forced in there, and's kept against her will--which, by all the probabilities, she is--surely she can be got out, on demand being made by her friends?" "that's just what isn't sure--though the demand were made by her own mother, with the father to back it. you forget, old fellow, that you're in france, not england." "but there's a british consul in boulogne." "ay, and a british foreign minister, who gives that consul his instructions; with some queer ideas besides, neither creditable to himself nor his country. i'm speaking of that jaunty diplomat--the "judicious bottle-holder," who is accustomed to cajole the british public with his blarney about _civis romanus sum_." "true; but does that bear upon our affair?" "it does--almost directly." "in what way? i do not comprehend." "because you're not up to what's passing over here--i mean at headquarters--the tuilleries, or st. cloud, if you prefer it. there the man--if man he can be called--is ruled by the woman; she in her turn the devoted partisan of pio nono and the unprincipled antonelli." "i can understand all that; still, i don't quite see its application, or how the english foreign minister can be interested in those you allude to!" "i do. but for him, not one of the four worthies spoken of would be figuring as they are. in all probability france would still be a republic instead of an empire, wicked as the world ever saw; and rome another republic--it may be all italy--with either mazzini or garibaldi at its head. for, certain as you sit there, old boy, it was the judicious bottle-holder who hoisted nap into an imperial throne, over that presidential chair, so ungratefully spurned--scurvily kicked behind after it had served his purpose. a fact of which the english people appear to be yet in purblind ignorance! as they are of another, equally notable, and alike misunderstood: that it was this same _civis romanus sum_ who restored old pio to his apostolic chair; those red-breeched ruffians, the zouaves, being but so much dust thrown into people's eyes--a bone to keep the british bull-dog quiet. he would have growled then, and will yet, when he comes to understand all these transactions; when the cloak of that scoundrelly diplomacy which screens them has rotted into shreds, letting the light of true history shine upon them." "why, mahon! i never knew you were such a politician! much less such a radical!" "nothing much of either, old fellow; only a man who hates tyranny in every shape and form--whether religious or political. above all, that which owes its existence to the cheapest, the very shabbiest, chicanery the world was ever bamboozled with. i like open dealing in all things." "but you are not recommending it now--in this little convent matter?" "ah! that's quite a different affair! there are certain ends that justify certain means--when the devil must be fought with his own weapons. ours is of that kind, and we must either use strategy, or give the thing up altogether. by open measures there wouldn't be the slightest chance of our getting this girl out of the convent's clutches. even then we may fail; but, if successful, it will only be by great craft, some luck, and possibly a good deal of time spent before we accomplish our purpose." "poor fellow!" rejoins ryecroft, speaking of the wye waterman, "he won't like the idea of long waiting. he's madly, terribly impatient. this afternoon, as we were passing the convent, i had a difficulty to restrain him from rushing up to its door, ringing the bell, and demanding an interview with the 'soeur marie'--having his mary, as he calls her, restored to him on the instant." "it's well you succeeded in hindering that little bit of rashness. had he done so, 'twould have ended not only in the door being slammed in his face, but another door shut behind his back--that of a gaol, from which he would never have issued till embarking on a voyage to new caledonia or cayenne. ay, both of you might have been so served. for would you believe it, ryecroft, that you, an officer of the boasted h.b.r.a., rich, and with powerful friends--even you could be not only here imprisoned, but _deporté_, without any one who has interest in you being the wiser; or, if so, having no power to prevent it. france, under the _régime_ of napoleon le petit, is not so very different from what it was under the rule of louis le grand, and _lettres de cachet_ are now rife as then. nay, more of them now written, consigning men to a hundred bastilles instead of one. never was a people so enslaved as these johnny crapauds are at this present time; not only their speech fettered, but their very thoughts held in bondage, or so constrained, they may not impart them to one another. even intimate friends forbear exchanging confidences, lest one prove false to the other! nothing free but insincerity and sin; both fostered and encouraged from that knowledge intuitive among tyrants; that wickedness weakens a people, making them easier to rule and ride over. so, my boy, you perceive the necessity of our acting with caution in this business, whatever trouble or time it may take--don't you?" "i do." "after all," pursues the major, "it seems to me that time isn't of so much consequence. as regards the girl, they're not going to eat her up. and for the other matters concerning yourself, they'll keep, too. as you say, the scent's become cold; and a few days more or less can't make any difference. beside, the trails we intend following may in the end all run into one. i shouldn't be at all surprised if this captive damsel has come to the knowledge of something connected with the other affair. faith, that may be the very reason for their having her conveyed over here, to be cooped up for the rest of her life. in any case, the fact of her abduction, in such an odd, outrageous way, would of itself be damning collateral evidence against whoever has done it, showing him or them good for anything. so, the first work on our hands, as the surest, is to get the waterman's sweetheart out of the convent, and safe back to her home in herefordshire." "that's our course, clearly. but have you any thoughts as to how we should proceed?" "i have; more than thoughts--hopes of success--and sanguine ones." "good! i'm glad to hear it. upon what do you base them?" "on that very near relative of mine--sister kate. as i've told you, she's a pet of the lady superior; admitted into the very _arcana_ of the establishment. and with such privilege, if she can't find a way to communicate with any one therein closeted, she must have lost the mother wit born to her, and brought thither from the 'brightest gem of the say.' i don't think she has, or that it's been a bit blunted in boulogne. instead, somewhat sharpened by communion with these holy sisters; and i've no fear but that 'twill be sharp to serve us in the little scheme i've in part sketched out." "let me hear it, mahon." "kate must obtain an interview with the english girl; or, enough if she can slip a note into her hand. that would go some way towards getting her out--by giving her intimation that friends are near." "i see what you mean," rejoins the captain, pulling away at his cigar, the other left to finish giving details of the plan he has been mentally projecting. "we'll have to do a little bit of burglary, combined with abduction. serve them out in their own coin; as it were, hoisting the priest on his own petard!" "it will be difficult, i fear." "of course it will, and dangerous. likely more the last than the first. but it'll have to be done, else we may drop the thing entirely." "never, mahon! no matter what the danger, i for one am willing to risk it. and we can reckon on jack wingate. he'll be only too ready to rush into it." "ah! there might be more danger through his rashness. but it must be held in check. after all, i don't apprehend so much difficulty if things be dexterously managed. fortunately there's a circumstance in our favour." "what is it?" "a window." "ah! where?" "in the convent, of course. that which gives light--not much of it either--to the cloister where the girl is confined. by a lucky chance my sister has learnt the particular one, and seen the window from the outside. it looks over the grounds where the nuns take recreation, now and then allowed intercourse with the school girls. she says it's high up, but not higher than the top of the garden wall; so a ladder that will enable us to scale the one should be long enough to reach the other. i'm more dubious about the dimensions of the window itself. kate describes it as only a small affair, with an upright bar in the middle--iron, she believes. wood or iron, we may manage to remove that; but if the herefordshire bacon has made your farmer's daughter too big to screw herself through the aperture, then it'll be all up a tree with us. however, we must find out before making the attempt to extract her. from what sister has told me, i fancy we can see the window from the ramparts above. if so, we may make a distant measurement of it by guess work. now," continues the major, coming to his programme of action, "what's got to be done first is that your wye boatman write a _billet doux_ to his old sweetheart--in the terms i shall dictate to him. then my sister must contrive, in some way, to put it in the girl's hands, or see that she gets it." "and what after?" "well, nothing much after; only that we must make preparations for the appointment the waterman will make in his epistle." "it may as well be written now--may it not?" "certainly; i was just thinking of that. the sooner, the better. shall i call him in?" "do as you think proper, mahon. i trust everything to you." the major, rising, rings a bell, which brings murtagh to the dining-room door. "murt, tell your guest in the kitchen we wish a word with him." the face of the irish soldier vanishes from view, soon after replaced by that of the welsh waterman. "step inside, wingate!" says the captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted. "you can write, jack, can't you?" it is ryecroft who puts the inquiry. "well, captain, i ain't much o' a penman, but i can scribble a sort o' rough hand after a fashion." "a fair enough hand for mary morgan to read it, i dare say." "oh, sir, i only weesh there wor a chance o' her gettin' a letter from me!" "there is a chance. i think we can promise that. if you'll take this pen and put down what my friend major mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long." never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to jack wingate. then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write. the major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. not so, however. instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. for its solution he appeals to ryecroft, asking,-"how about the moon?" "the moon?" "yes. which quarter is she in? for the life of me, i can't tell." "nor i," rejoins the captain. "i never think of such a thing." "she's in her last," puts in the boatman, accustomed to take note of lunar changes. "it be an old moon now shining all the night, when the sky an't clouded." "you're right, jack!" says ryecroft. "now i remember; it is the old moon." "in which case," adds the major, "we must wait for the new one. we want darkness after midnight--must have it--else we cannot act. let me see; when will that be?" "the day week," promptly responds the waterman. "then she'll be goin' down, most as soon as the sun's self." "that'll do," says the major. "now to the pen!" squaring himself to the table, and the sheet of paper spread before him, wingate writes to dictation. no words of love, but what inspires him with a hope he may once more speak such in the ears of his beloved mary! chapter lxviii. a quick conversion. "when is this horror to have an end? only with my life? am i, indeed, to pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? days so happy, till that the happiest of all--its ill-starred night! and my love so strong, so confident--its reward seeming so nigh--all to be for nought--sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished! nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place, everywhere around me! oh, it is agony! when will it be over?" it is the english girl who thus bemoans her fate--still confined in the convent, and the same cloister. herself changed, however. though but a few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. her form, too, has fallen away from the full ripe rounding that characterized it, though the wreck is concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. for soeur marie now wears the garb of the holy sisterhood--hating it, as her words show. she is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre soliloquy; and without change of attitude, continues it,-"imprisoned i am--that's certain! and for no crime. it may be without hostility on the part of those who have done it. perhaps, better it were so. then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. as it is, there is none--none! i comprehend all now--the reason for bringing me here--keeping me--everything. and that reason remains--must, as long as i am alive! merciful heaven!" this exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. for hinging upon that is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have deliverance! stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses--even thought for the time stayed. but the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now in more conjectural strain,-"strange that no friend has come after me! no one caring for my fate--even to inquire! and _he_--no, that is not strange--only sadder, harder to think of. how could i expect or hope he would? "but surely it is not so. i may be wronging them all--friends--relatives--even him. they may not know where i am? cannot! how could they? i know not myself! only that it is france, and in a nunnery. but what part of france, and how i came to it, likely they are ignorant as i. "and they may never know--never find out! if not, oh! what is to become of me? father in heaven! merciful saviour! help me in my helplessness!" after this phrensied outburst, a calmer interval succeeds, in which human instincts as thoughts direct her. she thinks,-"if i could but find means to communicate with my friends--make known to them where i am, and how, then--ah! 'tis hopeless. no one allowed near me but the attendant and that sister ursule. for compassion from either, i might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! the sister seems to take delight in torturing me--every day doing or saying some disagreeable thing. i suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her purpose--that the taking of the veil. a nun! never! it is not in my nature, and i would rather die than dissemble it!" "dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "that word helps me to a thought. why should i not dissemble? i _will_." thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. then paces the floor to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white, attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair. "they want me to take the veil--the _black_ one! so shall i, the blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it--ay, crape if they insist on it. yes, i am resigned now--to that--anything. they can prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested mummery; i am prepared, willing, to put them on. it's the only way--my only hope of regaining liberty. i see--am sure of it!" she pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on,-"i am compelled to this deception! is it a sin? if so, god forgive me! but no--it cannot be! 'tis justified by my wrongs--my sufferings!" another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect. after it, saying,-"i shall do so--pretend compliance; and begin this day--this very hour, if the opportunity arise. what should be my first pretence? i must think of it; practise, rehearse it. let me see. ah! i have it. the world has forsaken, forgotten me. why then should i cling to it? instead, why not in angry spite fling it off--as it has me? that's the way!" a creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock. slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. the instant before half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation. her attitude different also. from striding tragically over the floor she has taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously perusing. it is that "aid to faith" recommended, but hitherto unread. she is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. how natural her start, as she hears a voice, and, looking up, beholds soeur ursule! "ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "glad, marie, to find you so employed! it promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good of your soul. you've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind: wickedly too. what is to compare with that to come? as dross-dirt, to gold or diamonds! the book you hold in your hand will tell you so. doesn't it?" "it does, indeed." "then profit by its instructions, and be sorry you have not sooner taken counsel from it." "i am sorry, sister ursule." "it would have comforted you--will now." "it has already. ah! so much! i would not have believed any book could give me the view of life it has done. i begin to understand what you've been telling me--to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other life. oh! why did i not know it before?" at this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that convent cell--two female figures, one seated, the other standing--novice and nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly and old. and still in greater contrast the expression upon their faces. that of the girl's downcast, demure lids over the eyes, less as if in innocence than repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased surprise, struggling against incredulity! her suspicion still in the ascendant, soeur ursule stands regarding the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to penetrate her very soul. it is borne without sign of quailing, and she at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. nor is it strange she should so deceive herself. it is far from being the first novice _contre coeur_ she has broken upon the wheel of despair, and made content to taking a vow of lifelong seclusion from the world. convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the english girl, and gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock-pious tone,-"blessed be holy mary for this new mercy! on your knees _ma fille_, and pray to her to complete the work she has begun!" and upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun, as if deeming herself _de trop_ in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister, silently shutting the door. chapter lxix. a sudden relapse. for some time after the exit of soeur ursule, the english girl retains her seat, with the same demure look she had worn in the presence of the nun; while before her face the book is again open, as though she had returned to reading it. one seeing this might suppose her intensely interested in its contents. but she is not even thinking of them! instead, of a sharp skinny ear, and a steel-grey eye--one or other of which she suspects to be covering the keyhole. her own ear is on the alert to catch sounds outside--the shuffling of feet, the rattle of rosary beads, or the swishing of a dress against the door. she hears none; and at length satisfied that sister ursule's suspicions are spent, or her patience exhausted, she draws a free breath--the first since the _séance_ commenced. then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell not commanded by the keyhole, and there dashes the book down, as though it had been burning her fingers! "my first scene of deception," she mutters to herself--"first act of hypocrisy. have i not played it to perfection?" she draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. for she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it. "now that i've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "i must think what's to be done in continuance, and how the false pretence is to be kept up. what will _they_ do?--and think? they'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! but that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole! when i've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, i may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. ah! little care i for the comfort, if convenient,--with a window out of which one could look. then i might have a hope of seeing--speaking to some one with heart less hard than sister ursule's, and that other creature--a very hag!" "i wonder where the place is? whether in the country, or in a town among houses? it may be the last--in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! they build these religious prisons with walls so thick! and the voices i from time to time hear are all women's. not one of a man amongst them! they must be the convent people themselves! nuns and novices! myself one of the latter! ha! ha! i shouldn't have known it if sister ursule hadn't informed me. novice, indeed--soon to be a nun! no! but a free woman--or dead! death would be better than life like this!" the derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features passes off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. for she again recalls what she has read in books--very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside--of girls young and beautiful as herself--high-born ladies--surreptitiously taken from their homes--shut up as she--never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds. the prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh--almost a groan. "ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "there are voices now! still of women! laughter! how strange it sounds! so sweet! i've not heard such since i've been here. it's the voice of a girl! it must be--so clear, so joyous. yes! surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? they are never joyful--never laugh." she remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. the sound comes in with the light--it could not well enter otherwise--and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. for the window is far above her head. "would that i could see out! if i only had something on which to stand!" she sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand--all too low. standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill. she is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. with wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement--she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. she can do that by upending the bedstead! rash, she would raise it on the instant. but she is not so; instead, considerate, more than ever cautious. and so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. then, dragging bed-clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. and as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps. a moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge. the window itself is a casement on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. small, though big enough for a human body to pass through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it. she, balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. at the first _coup d'oeil_, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weathercocks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches. dropping her eyes lower, they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses. at a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. for, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. they are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose-flowing robes of sombre hue. a few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are--the _pensionaires_ of the establishment. her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school-girls, who, linked arm in arm, are walking backward and forward directly in front. why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside, in which she feels an interest! her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth--as in fear of being observed by the others. even her promenading companion seems unaware of them. she inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others. "what can it mean?" she asks herself. "so unlike the rest! surely not french! can she be english? she is very--very beautiful!" the last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around--all of them being of the french facial type, while hers are pronouncedly irish. by this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass--dim with dust and spiders' webs--a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her. she starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it,-"keep quiet! i know all about you, and why you are there." the gesture is not lost upon the captive. but before she can reflect upon its significance, the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter-skelter; for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the _angelus_. in a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one--the school-girl with the irish features and eyes. she, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it, significantly exposing something white she holds half hidden between her fingers! it needs no further gesture to make known her intent. the english girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. on the instant of its opening, the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and, like a flash of light, passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor. not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away--so speedily, she is still in time to join the _queue_ moving on towards the convent chapel. cautiously reclosing the window, soeur marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside! despite her burning impatience, she does not open it till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. for now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons. at length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads,- "_mary,--monday night next, after midnight, if you look out of your window, you will see friends--among them_ "jack wingate." "jack wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "a voice from dear old wyeside! hope of delivery at last!" and overcome by her emotion, she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most _devoté_ nun in the convent. chapter lxx. a justifiable abduction. it is a moonless november night, and a fog drifting down from the _pas de calais_ envelopes boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. the great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. if a foot passenger be abroad, he is some belated individual groping his way home from the _café de billars_ he frequents, or the _cercle_ to which he belongs. even the _sergens de ville_ are scarcer than usual, those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded. it is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. for all, there are three men in the streets of boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for. they who thus delight in darkness are major mahon, captain ryecroft, and the waterman, wingate. not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a captive from captivity. the night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the soeur marie is to see friends in front of her window. they are the friends about to attempt taking her out of it. they are not going blindly about the thing. unlikely old campaigners as mahon and ryecroft would. during the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. they are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design. just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from mahon's house; and, turning up the rue tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient _cité_. the two officers walk arm in arm, ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. it is, nevertheless, a thing altogether different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. the errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant. they proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. when any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and stand listening--speech passing among themselves only in whispers. but as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and in less than twenty minutes after leaving the major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. this is in the narrow lane which runs along the _enciente_ of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself. they know the _allée_ well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days and nights, and could go through it blindfold. and they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions. while its bearer is easing it off his shoulder, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the major saying,-"we won't all three be needed for the work inside. one of us may remain here--nay, must! those _sergens de ville_ might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. if caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing--ay, or without them--'twould go ill with us." "quite true," assents the captain. "which of us do you propose staying here? jack?" "yes, certainly. and for more reasons than one. excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms, he'd be all on fire--perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl that had intruded into the rookery. besides, there's a staff of male servants--for they have such--half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. a big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. therefore, master jack _must_ remain here. you tell him he must." jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. endorsing them, the major says,-"don't be so impatient, my good fellow! it will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. the fight in the front will be easy. our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear-guard." he thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. how could he otherwise? he is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. and is it not for him they are there; risking liberty--it may be life? having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do: simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is _not_ to reply to it. the signal so arranged, mahon and ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his mary is, and yet how far off she still may be! once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot which is their objective point. they go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. the very cats of the convent could not traverse its grounds more silently. their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it--a picture of madonna on a background of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled. but though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. with that voice from the wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! they have indeed come. a woman of weak nerves would, under the circumstances, be excited--possibly cry out. but soeur marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of maccaroni. [illustration: a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping.] it is ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them. only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her,-"keep up your courage, mary! your jack is waiting for you outside the wall. here, take my hand----" "mary! my jack! and you--you----" her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall! "she's swooning--has fainted!" mutters the major; which ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth. "it's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "we must carry her, major. you go ahead with the ladder; i can manage the girl myself." while speaking, he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. no light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather. the major, going in advance with the ladder, guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, mahon giving a low whistle as he approaches. it is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear. and in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still resting in ryecroft's arms. the waterman wishes to relieve him, agonized by the thought that his sweetheart, who had passed unscathed, as it were, through the very gates of death, may, after all, be dead! he urges it; but mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any sentimental interference, commanding jack to re-shoulder the ladder, and follow as before. then striking off in indian file, the major first, the captain with his burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their steps towards the rue tintelleries. if ryecroft but knew whom he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her recovery from that swoon. it is only after she is out of his arms, and lying upon a couch in major mahon's house--the hood drawn back, and the light shining on her face--that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal man! no wonder--seeing it is gwendoline wynn! "gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and opened eyes tell of returned consciousness. "vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious contact. poor jack wingate! chapter lxxi. starting on a continental tour. lewin murdock is dead, and buried--has been for days. not in the family vault of the wynns, though he had the right of having his body there laid. but his widow, who had control of the interment, willed it otherwise. she has repugnance to opening that receptacle of the dead, holding a secret she may well dread disclosure of. there was no very searching inquiry into the cause of the man's death--none such seeming needed. a coroner's inquest, true; but of the most perfunctory kind. several _habitués_ of the welsh harp, with its staff of waiters, testified to having seen him at that hostelry till a late hour of the night on which he was drowned, and far gone in drink. the landlord advanced the narrative a stage, by telling how he conveyed him to the boat, and delivered him to his boatman, richard dempsey--all true enough; while coracle capped the story by a statement of circumstances, in part facts, but the major part fictitious: how the inebriate gentleman, after lying awhile quiet at the bottom of the skiff, suddenly sprung upon his feet, and, staggering excitedly about, capsized the craft, spilling both into the water. some corroboration of this, in the boat having been found floating keel upwards, and the boatman arriving home at llangorren soaking wet. to his having been in this condition, several of the court domestics, at the time called out of their beds, with purpose _prepense_, were able to bear witness. but dempsey's testimony is further strengthened, even to confirmation, by himself having since taken to bed, where he now lies dangerously ill of a fever, the result of a cold caught from that chilling _douche_. in this latest inquest the finding of the jury is set forth in two simple words, "drowned accidentally." no suspicion attaches to any one; and his widow, now wearing the weeds of sombre hue, sorrows profoundly. but her grief is great only in the eyes of the outside world, and the presence of the llangorren domestics. alone within her chamber she shows little signs of sorrow; and, if possible, less when gregoire rogier is her companion; which he almost constantly is. if more than half his time at the court while lewin murdock was alive, he is now there nearly the whole of it--no longer as a guest, but as much its master as she is its mistress! for that matter, indeed, more; if inference may be drawn from a dialogue occurring between them some time after her husband's death. they are in the library, where there is a strong chest, devoted to the safe keeping of legal documents, wills, leases, and the like--all the paraphernalia of papers relating to the administration of the estate. rogier is at a table upon which many of these lie, with writing materials besides. a sheet of foolscap is before him, on which he has just scribbled the rough copy of an advertisement intended to be sent to several newspapers. "i think this will do," he says to the widow, who, in an easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, is sipping chartreuse, and smoking paper cigarettes. "shall i read it to you?" "no. i don't want to be bothered with the thing in detail. enough, if you let me hear its general purport." he gives her this in briefest epitome:- "_the llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc., etc._" "_tres-bien!_ have you put down the date? it should be soon." "you're right, _chèrie_. should, and must be. so soon, i fear we won't realize three-fourths of the value. but there's no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening--hanging over our necks like a very sword of damocles." "you mean the tongue of _le braconnier_?" she has reason to dread it. "no, i don't; not in the slightest. there's a sickle too near his own--in the hands of the reaper, death." "he's dying, then?" she speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse. "he is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone. "i've just come from his bedside." "from the cold he caught that night, i suppose?" "yes; that's partly the cause. but," he adds, with a diabolical grin, "more the medicine he has taken for it." "what mean you, gregoire?" "only that monsieur dick has been delirious, and i saw danger in it. he was talking too wildly." "you've done something to keep him quiet?" "i have." "what?" "given him a sleeping draught." "but he'll wake up again, and then----" "then i'll administer another dose of the anodyne." "what sort of anodyne?" "a _hypodermic_." "hypodermic! i've never heard of the thing--not even the name!" "a wonderful cure it is--for noisy tongues!" "you excite one's curiosity. tell me something of its nature." "oh, it's very simple--exceedingly so. only a drop of liquid introduced into the blood--not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the throat, but direct injection into the veins. the process in itself is easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. the skill consists in the _kind_ of liquid to be injected. that's one of the occult sciences i learnt in italy, land of lucrezia and tophana, where such branches of knowledge still flourish. elsewhere it's not much known. and perhaps it's well it isn't, or there might be more widowers, with a still larger proportion of widows." "poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "was it, gregoire?" "poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "that's too plain a word, and the idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as that i've performed. possibly, in monsieur coracle's case, the effect will be somewhat similar, but not the after symptoms. if i haven't made miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over, it will send him to his eternal sleep; and i'll defy all the medical experts in england to detect traces of poison in him. so don't inquire further, _chèrie_. be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. and," he adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself." she starts, recoiling in horror--not at the repulsive confessions she has listened to, but more through personal fear. though herself steeped in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! she has long known him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power of the famed basilisk, to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes! "bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to construe it otherwise. "why all this emotion about such a _misérable_? he'll have no widow to lament him--inconsolable like yourself. ha! ha! besides, for our safety--both of us--his death is as much needed as was the other. after killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops, it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. i only wish there were nothing but he between us and complete security." "but is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face. "certainly there is." "what?" "that little convent matter." "_mon dieu!_ i supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger." "probability is the word you mean. in this sweet world there's nothing sure except money--that, too, in hard cash coin. even at the best we'll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us--_messieurs les jesuites_. if i could only, as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of herefordshire into a portable shape, i'd cheat them yet; as i've done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent _doctrinaires_. then, _chère amie_, we could at once move from llangorren court to a palace by some lake of como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which monsieur bulwer's sham prince humbugged the lyonese shopkeeper's daughter. ha! ha! ha!" "but why can't it be done?" "ah! there the word _impossible_, if you like. what! convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, _presto-instanter_, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! the thing can't be accomplished anywhere, least of all in this slow-moving angleterre, where men look at their money twice--twenty times--before parting with it. even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks--maybe months--without losing quite the moiety of value. but a _bonâ fide_ sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! oh, it's damnable! the thing's been a blunder from beginning to end, all through the squeamishness of monsieur, _votre mari_. had he agreed to what i first proposed, and done with mademoiselle what should have been done, he might himself still--the simpleton, sot, soft-heart, and softer head! well, it's of no use reviling him now. he paid the forfeit for being a fool. and 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. in the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. but what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the rugg's ferry chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes, only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! a comical scene, of which i'd like being a spectator. ha! ha! ha!" she joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. and while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance. it is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope--at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch. it bears the address "rev. gregoire rogier, rugg's ferry, herefordshire," and when opened, the telegram is seen to have been sent from folkestone. its wording is,-"_the bird has escaped from its cage. prenez garde!_" well for the pseudo-priest and his _chère amie_ that before they read it the butler had left the room. for though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them; and with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted. he is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless, while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger. it is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at llangorren. and no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or authoritatively. the after hours of that night are spent by both of them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of breaking it. up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from room to room--attended only by clarisse, who carries the candle--ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of _bijouterie_ and _vertu_, of little weight, but large value, and packing them in trunks and travelling bags; all of which under the grey light of morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the court carriages--a large drag-barouche--inside which ride rogier and madame murdock _veuve_; her _femme de chambre_ having a seat beside the coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour. * * * * * and so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned. instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of; since their career, after a year's interval, ended in _deportation_ to cayenne, for some crime committed by them in the south of france. so said the _semaphore_ of marseilles. chapter lxxii. coracle dick on his death-bed. as next morning's sun rises over llangorren court, it shows a mansion without either master or mistress! not long to remain so. if the old servants of the establishment had short notice of dismissal, still more brief is that given to its latest retinue. about meridian of that day, after the departure of their mistress, while yet in wonder where she has gone, they receive another shock of surprise, and a more unpleasant one, at seeing a hackney carriage drive up to the hall door, out of which step two men, evidently no friends to her from whom they have their wages. for one of the men is captain ryecroft, the other a police superintendent; who, after the shortest possible parley, directs the butler to parade the complete staff of his fellow-domestics, male and female. this with an air and in a tone of authority which precludes supposition that the thing is a jest. summoned from all quarters, cellar to garret, and outdoors as well, their names, with other particulars, are taken down; and they are told that their services will be no longer required at llangorren. in short, they are one and all dismissed, without a word about the month's wages or warning! if they get either, 'twill be only as a grace. then they receive orders to pack up and be off; while joseph preece, ex-charon, who has crossed the river in his boat, with appointment to meet the hackney there, is authorized to take temporary charge of the place; jack wingate, similarly bespoke, having come down in his skiff, to stand by him in case of any opposition. none arises. however chagrined by their hasty _sans façon_ discharge, the outgoing domestics seem not so greatly surprised at it. from what they have observed for some time going on, as also something whispered about, they had no great reliance on their places being permanent. so, in silence all submit, though somewhat sulkily; and prepare to vacate quarters they had found fairly snug. there is one, however, who cannot be thus conveniently, or unceremoniously, dismissed--the head gamekeeper, richard dempsey. for, while the others are getting their _mandamus_ to move, the report is brought in that he is lying on his death-bed! so the parish doctor has prognosticated. also, that he is just then delirious, and saying queer things; some of which repeated to the police "super," tell him his proper place at that precise moment is by the bedside of the sick man. without a second's delay, he starts off towards the lodge in which coracle has been of late domiciled--under the guidance of its former occupant, joseph preece--accompanied by captain ryecroft and jack wingate. the house being but a few hundred yards distant from the court, they are soon inside it, and standing over the bed on which lies the fevered patient; not at rest, but tossing to and fro--at intervals, in such violent manner as to need restraint. the superintendent at once sees it would be idle putting questions to him. if asked his own name, he could not declare it; for he knows not himself--far less those who are around. his face is something horrible to behold. it would but harrow sensitive feelings to give a portraiture of it. enough to say, it is more like that of demon than man. and his speech, poured as in a torrent from his lips, is alike horrifying--admission of many and varied crimes, in the same breath denying them and accusing others, his contradictory ravings garnished with blasphemous ejaculations. a specimen will suffice, omitting the blasphemy. "it's a lie!" he cries out, just as they are entering the room. "a lie, every word o't! i didn't murder mary morgan. served her right if i had, the jade! she jilted me; an' for that wasp wingate--dog--cur! i didn't kill her. no; only fixed the plank. if she wor fool enough to step on't, that warn't my fault. she did--she did! ha! ha! ha!" for a while he keeps up the horrid cachinnation, as the glee of satan exulting over some feat of foul _diablerie_. then his thoughts changing to another crime, he goes on,-"the grand girl--the lady! she arn't drowned; nor dead eyther! the priest carried her off in that french schooner. i had nothing to do with it. 'twar the priest and mr. murdock. ha! murdock! i _did_ drown _him_. no, i didn't. that's another lie! t'was himself upset the boat. let me see--was it? no! he couldn't--he was too drunk. i stood up on the skiff's rail. slap over it went. what a duckin' i had for it, and a devil o' a swim too! but i did the trick--neatly! didn't i, your reverence? now for the hundred pounds. and you promised to double it--you did! keep to your bargain, or i'll peach upon you--on all the lot of you--the woman, too--the french woman! she kept that fine shawl--indian they said it wor. she's got it now. she wanted the diamonds, too, but daren't keep _them_. the shroud! ha! the shroud! that's all they left _me_. i ought to 'a burnt it. but then the devil would 'a been after and burned me! how fine mary looked in that grand dress, wi' all them gewgaws, rings,--chains an' bracelets, all pure gold! but i drownded her, an' she deserved it, that she did. drownded her twice--ha--ha--ha!" again he breaks off with a peal of demoniac laughter, long continued. more than an hour they remain listening to his delirious ramblings, and with interest intense. for, despite its incoherence, the disconnected threads joined together make up a tale they can understand; though so strange, so brimful of atrocities, as to seem incredible. all the while he is writhing about on the bed; till at length, exhausted, his head droops over upon the pillow, and he lies for a while quiet--to all appearance dead! but no; there is another throe yet--one horrible as any that has preceded. looking up, he sees the superintendent's uniform and silver buttons--a sight which produces a change in the expression of his features, as though it had recalled him to his senses. with arms flung out as in defence, he shrieks,-"keep back, you ---policeman! hands off, or i'll brain you! hach! you've got the rope round my neck! curse the thing! it's choking me. hach!" and with his fingers clutching at his throat, as if to undo a noose, he gasps out in husky voice,-"gone, by g----." at this he drops over dead, his last word an oath, his last thought a fancy that there is a rope around his neck! what he has said in his unconscious confessions lays open many seeming mysteries of this romance, hitherto unrevealed. how the pseudo-priest, father rogier, observing a likeness between miss wynn and mary morgan--causing him that start as he stood over the coffin, noticed by jack wingate--had exhumed the dead body of the latter, the poacher and murdock assisting him. then how they had taken it down in the boat to dempsey's house; soon after, going over to llangorren, and seizing the young lady, as she stood in the summer-house, having stifled her cries by chloroform. then, how they carried her across to dempsey's, and substituted the corpse for the living body--the grave-clothes changed for the silken dress with all its adornments--this the part assigned to mrs. murdock, who had met them at coracle's cottage. then, dick himself hiding away the shroud, hindered by superstitious fear from committing it to the flames. in fine, how gwendoline wynn, drugged and still kept in a state of coma, was taken down in a boat to chepstow, and there put aboard the french schooner _la chouette_; carried across to boulogne, to be shut up in a convent for life! all these delicate matters, managed by father rogier, backed by _messieurs les jesuites_, who had furnished him with the means! one after another the astounding facts come forth as the raving man continues his involuntary admissions. supplemented by others already known to ryecroft and the rest, with the deductions drawn, they complete the unities of a drama, iniquitous as ever enacted. its motives declare themselves--all wicked save one: this a spark of humanity that had still lingered in the breast of lewin murdock, but for which gwendoline wynn would never have seen the inside of a nunnery. instead, while under the influence of the narcotic, her body would have been dropped into the wye, just as was that wearing her ball dress! and that same body is now wearing another dress, supposed to have been prepared for her--another shroud--reposing in the tomb where all believed gwen wynn to have been laid! this last fact is brought to light on the following day, when the family vault of the wynns is re-opened, and mrs. morgan--by marks known only to herself--identifies the remains found there as those of her own daughter! chapter lxxiii. the calm after the storm. twelve months after the events recorded in this romance of the wye, a boat-tourist descending the picturesque river, and inquiring about a pagoda-like structure he will see on its western side, would be told it is a summer-house, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. if he ask who the gentleman is, the answer would be, captain vivian ryecroft! for the ex-officer of hussars is now the master of llangorren; and, what he himself values higher, the husband of gwendoline wynn, once more its mistress. were the tourist an acquaintance of either, and on his way to make call at the court, bringing in by the little dock, he would there see a row boat, on its stern board, in gold lettering, "_the gwendoline_." for the pretty pleasure craft has been restored to its ancient moorings. still, however, remaining the property of joseph preece, who no longer lives in the cast-off cottage of coracle dick, but, like the boat itself, is again back and in service at llangorren. if the day be fine, this venerable and versatile individual will be loitering beside it, or seated on one of its thwarts, pipe in mouth, indulging in the _dolce far niente_. and little besides has he to do, since his pursuits are no longer varied, but now exclusively confined to the calling of waterman to the court. he and his craft are under charter for the remainder of his life, should he wish it so--as he surely will. the friendly visitor keeping on up to the house, if at the hour of luncheon, will in all likelihood there meet a party of old acquaintances--ours, if not his. besides the beautiful hostess at the table's head, he will see a lady of the "antique brocaded type," who herself once presided there, by name miss dorothea linton; another known as miss eleanor lees; and a fourth, youngest of the quartette, _yclept_ kate mahon. for the school girl of the boulogne convent has escaped from its austere studies, and is now most part of her time resident with the friend she helped to escape from its cloisters. men there will also be at the llangorren luncheon table; likely three of them, in addition to the host himself. one will be major mahon; a second the reverend william musgrave; and the third, mr. george shenstone! yes; george shenstone, under the roof, and seated at the table of gwendoline wynn, now the wife of vivian ryecroft! to explain a circumstance seemingly so singular, it is necessary to call in the aid of a saying, culled from that language richest of all others in moral and metaphysical imagery--the spanish. it has a proverb, _un claco saca otro claco_--"one nail drives out the other." and, watching the countenance of the baronet's son, so long sad and clouded, seeing how, at intervals, it brightens up--these intervals when his eyes meet those of kate mahon--it were easy predicting that in his case the adage will ere long have additional verification. * * * * * were the same tourist to descend the wye at a date posterior, and again make a call at llangorren, he would find that some changes had taken place in the interval of his absence. at the boat dock old joe would likely be. but not as before in sole charge of the pleasure craft; only pottering about, as a pensioner retired on full pay; the acting and active officer being a younger man, by name wingate, who is now waterman to the court. between these two, however, there is no spite about the displacement--no bickerings nor heartburnings. how could there, since the younger addresses the older as "uncle"; himself in return being styled "nevvy"? no need to say that this relationship has been brought about by the bright eyes of amy preece. nor is it so new. in the lodge where jack and joe live together is a brace of chubby chicks; one of them a boy--the possible embryo of a wye waterman--who, dandled upon old joe's knees, takes delight in weeding his frosted whiskers, while calling him "good granddaddy." as jack's mother--who is also a member of this happy family--forewarned him, the wildest grief must in time give way, and nature's laws assert their supremacy. so has he found it; and though still holding mary morgan in sacred, honest remembrance, he--as many a true man before, and others as true to come--has yielded to the inevitable. proceeding on to the court, the friendly visitor will at certain times there meet the same people he met before; but the majority of them having new names or titles. an added number in two interesting olive branches there also, with complexions struggling between _blonde_ and _brunette_, who call captain and mrs. ryecroft their papa and mamma; while the lady who was once eleanor lees--the "companion"--is now mrs. musgrave, life companion, not to the _curate_ of llangorren church, but its _rector_. the living having become vacant, and in the bestowal of llangorren's heiress, has been worthily bestowed on the reverend william. two other old faces, withal young ones, the returned tourist will see at llangorren--their owners on visit as himself. he might not know either of them by the names they now bear--sir george and lady shenstone--for when he last saw them, the gentleman was simply mr. shenstone, and the lady miss mahon. the old baronet is dead, and the young one, succeeding to the title, has also taken upon himself another title--that of husband--proving the spanish apothegm true, both in the spirit and to the letter. if there be any nail capable of driving out another, it is that sent home by the glance of an irish girl's eye--at least, so thinks sir george shenstone, with good reason for thinking it. there are two other individuals, who come and go at the court--the only ones holding out, and likely to hold, against change of any kind. for major mahon is still major mahon, rolling on in his rich irish brogue, as ever abhorrent of matrimony. no danger of his becoming a benedict! and as little of miss linton being transformed into a sage woman. it would be strange if she should, with the love novels she continues to devour, and the "court intelligence" she gulps down, keeping alive the hallucination that she is still a belle at bath and cheltenham. so ends our "romance of the wye"--a drama of happy _denouement_ to most of the actors in it; and, as hoped, satisfactory to all who have been spectators. the end gwen wynn a romance of the wye by captain mayne reid published by tinsley brothers, 8 catherine street, strand, london. this edition dated 1877. volume one, chapter i. the heroine. a tourist descending the wye by boat from the town of hereford to the ruined abbey of tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns, o'er-topping a spray of evergreens. it is simply a summer-house, of the kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. though placed conspicuously on an elevated point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the river above. when opposite he loses sight of it; a spinney of tall poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank. these stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken. with all its wanderings the wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of which this is one. the tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel. he is bound and booked for tintern--possibly chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser "lions." besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms of charter, without adding an extra to their fare. were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water way, he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer, its _facade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of herefordshire. near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal its frowning corrugations. about midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back, chiselled out of the rock _in situ_. the cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat; and, if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone. it is a light two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "the gwendoline." charmed by this idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and ascend to the top of the stair. if so, he will have before his eyes a lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks, fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a noble mansion. that is llangorren court, and there dwells the owner of the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two thousand acres of land lying adjacent. the boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being wynn, while people, in a familiar way, speak of her as "gwen wynn;" this on account of her being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a celebrity in the neighbourhood. she not only goes boating, but hunts, drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own, or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for everybody. if she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of llangorren court there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them would be deemed an intrusion. nevertheless, he would go back down the boat stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do not permit his making the acquaintance of gwen wynn without further loss of time, or any ceremony of introduction. but my readers are not thus debarred; and to them i introduce her, as she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely april morn. she is not alone; another lady, by name eleanor lees, being with her. they are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them. gwendoline wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome-yellow almost peculiar to the cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of the roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home to protect their seven-hilled city from goths and visigoths. in personal appearance eleanor lees is the reverse of all this; being of dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and _petite_. withal she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful. equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little imperious. the other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also disparity between them--again a contrast. both are orphans; but it is an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum; the other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without other means of livelihood, than what she may derive from a superior education she has received. notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters. no one seeing them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side. yet in such capacity is she residing at llangorren court. it is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the season. two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then threaten to assail them. all three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies stretching out their necks to be patted; the cloven-hoofed creature equally courting caresses. they look especially to miss wynn, who is more their mistress. on this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar; but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation, passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed. "where are you going, gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied. their arms are now disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them. "to the summer-house," is the response. "i wish to have a look at the river. it should show fine this bright morning." and so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver. gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her; this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided to the companion. it is only after she has been long holding it steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object within its field of view more interesting than the wye's water, or the greenery on its banks. "what is it?" she naively asks. "you see something?" "only a boat," answers gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look, as if conscious of being caught. "some tourist, i suppose, making down to tintern abbey--like as not, a london cockney." the young lady is telling a "white lie." she knows the occupant of that boat is nothing of the kind. from london he may be--she cannot tell-but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as hyperion to the satyr; at least so she thinks. but she does not give her thought to the companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,--"how fond those town people are of touring it upon our wye!" "can you wonder at that?" asks ellen. "its scenery is so grand--i should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in england." "i don't wonder," says miss wynn, replying to the question. "i'm only a little bit vexed seeing them there. it's like the desecration of some sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their sandwiches, with other picnicking debris on its banks! to say nought of one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers, hauliers, all sorts. i've half a mind to set fire to the _gwendoline_, burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar." ellen lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder. "it would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone. "besides, the poor people are entitled to a little recreation. they don't have too much of it." "ah, true," rejoins gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither tory nor aristocrat. "well, i've not yet decided on that little bit of incendiarism, and shan't burn the _gwendoline_--at all events not till we've had another row out of her." not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in her life was she less thinking of such a thing. for just then she has other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time. "by the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not." cunning creature! she has had it in her mind all the morning; first from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room, looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye, too, to note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down. for one of its occupants is an angler. "the day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just the weather for a row. and the river looks so inviting--seems calling us to come! what say you, nell?" "oh! i've no objections." "let us in, then, and make ready. be quick about it! remember it's april, and there may be showers. we mustn't miss a moment of that sweet sunshine." at this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling. while the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of miss wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river. she had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. one at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. but he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight-that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. she knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. if at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. she is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. but she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. for such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face. as the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for she is now alone:-"i wonder who, and what he can be? a gentleman, of course. but, then, there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and--" she has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection-"ah, me! that would be a pity--a dis--" again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words. standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising-"if one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! and were it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, i'd put him up to getting that word. but no! it would never do. he'd tell aunt about it; and then madame la chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious things to me--the which i mightn't relish. well; in six months more the old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least legally. then i'll be my own mistress; and then--'twill be time enough to consider whether i ought to have--a master. ha, ha, ha!" so laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she completes the adjustment of her dress, by setting a hat upon her head, and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while in the boat. in fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the room, and on down the stairway. volume one, chapter ii. the hero. than vivian ryecroft--handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip. for he is in the hussars--a captain. he is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it. his regiment is at aldershot, himself rusticating in herefordshire--whither he has come to spend a few weeks' leave of absence. nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river wye--the same just sighted by gwen wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette. no more is he wearing the braided uniform and "busby;" but, instead, attired in a suit of light cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military moustache. for captain ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man turned thirty, browned by exposure to indian suns, experienced in indian campaigns, from those of scinde and the punjaub to that most memorable of all--the mutiny. still is he personally as attractive as he ever was--to women, possibly more; among these causing a flutter, with _rapprochement_ towards him almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him. in the present many a bright english lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark damsel of hindostan. and without his heaving sigh, or even giving them a thought in return. not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather partial to female society. but he is not, and never has been, either man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the wye--for that is what he is doing there--instead of in london, taking part in the festivities of the "season," by day dawdling in rotten row, by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room. in short, vivian ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed, physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so; while to all others it is very perceptible. he has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and tourists. still, he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry. he might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the wye not being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it. an ardent disciple of the ancient izaak, he cares for nought else--at least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning. such is his mental condition, up to a certain morning; when a change comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most tempting of his flies--this brought about by a face, of which he has caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite occupation. thus it has chanced:-below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called "catches," where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies, whether natural or artificial--a sport it has oft reason to rue. several times so, at the end of captain ryecroft's line and rod; he having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger specimen, which turned the scale at thirty. in consequence that portion of the stream has become his choicest angling ground, and at least three days in the week he repairs to it. the row is not much going down, but a good deal returning; five miles up stream, most of it strong adverse current. that, however, is less his affair than his oarsman's--a young waterman by name wingate, whose boat and services the hussar officer has chartered by the week--indeed, engaged them for so long as he may remain upon the wye. on the morning in question, dropping down the river to his accustomed whipping-place, but at a somewhat later hour than usual, he meets another boat coming up--a pleasure craft, as shown by its style of outside ornament and inside furniture. of neither does the salmon fisher take much note; his eyes all occupied with those upon the thwarts. there are three of them, two being ladies seated in the stern sheets, the third an oarsman on a thwart well forward, to make better balance. and to the latter the hussar officer gives but a glance--just to observe that he is a serving-man--wearing some of its insignia in the shape of a cockaded hat, and striped stable-waistcoat. and not much more than a glance at one of the former; but a gaze, concentrated and long as good manners will permit, at the other, who is steering; when she passes beyond sight, her face remaining in his memory, vivid as if still before his eyes. all this at a first encounter; repeated in a second, which occurs on the day succeeding, under similar circumstances, and almost in the selfsame spot; then the face, if possible, seeming fairer, and the impression made by it on vivian ryecroft's mind sinking deeper--indeed, promising to be permanent. it is a radiant face, set in a luxuriance of bright amber hair--for it is that of gwendoline wynn. on the second occasion he has a better view of her, the boats passing nearer to one another; still, not so near as he could wish, good manners again interfering. for all, he feels well satisfied--especially with the thought, that his own gaze earnestly given, though under such restraint, has been with earnestness returned. would that his secret admiration of its owner were in like manner reciprocated! such is his reflective wish as the boats widen the distance between; one labouring slowly up, the other gliding swiftly down. his boatman cannot tell who the lady is, nor where she lives. on the second day he is not asked--the question having been put to him on that preceding. all the added knowledge now obtained is the name of the craft that carries her; which, after passing, the waterman, with face turned towards its stern, makes out to be the _gwendoline_--just as on his own boat--the _mary_,--though not in such grand golden letters. it may assist captain ryecroft in his inquiries, already contemplated, and he makes note of it. another night passes; another sun shines over the wye; and he again drops down stream to his usual place of sport--this day only to draw blank, neither catching salmon, nor seeing hair of amber hue; his reflecting on which is, perchance, a cause of the fish not taking to his flies, cast carelessly. he is not discouraged; but goes again on the day succeeding--that same when his boat is viewed through the binocular. he has already formed a half suspicion that the home of the interesting water nymph is not far from that pagoda-like structure, he has frequently noticed on the right bank of the river. for, just below the outlying eyot is where he has met the pleasure-boat, and the old oarsman looked anything but equal to a long pull up stream. still, between that and the town are several other gentlemen's residences on the river side, with some standing inland. it may be any of them. but it is not, as captain ryecroft now feels sure, at sight of some floating drapery in the pavilion, with two female heads showing over its baluster rail; one of them with tresses glistening in the sunlight, bright as sunbeams themselves. he views it through a telescope--for he, too, has come out provided for distant observation--this confirming his conjectures just in the way he would wish. now there will be no difficulty in learning who the lady is--for of one only does he care to make inquiry. he would order wingate to hold way, but does not relish the idea of letting the waterman into his secret; and so, remaining silent, he is soon carried beyond sight of the summer-house, and along the outer edge of the islet, with its curtain of tall trees coming invidiously between. continuing on to his angling ground, he gives way to reflections--at first of a pleasant nature. satisfactory to think that she, the subject of them, at least lives in a handsome house; for a glimpse got of its upper storey tells it to be this. that she is in social rank a lady, he has hitherto had no doubt. the pretty pleasure craft and its appendages, with the venerable domestic acting as oarsman, are all proofs of something more than mere respectability--rather evidences of style. marring these agreeable considerations is the thought, he may not to-day meet the pleasure-boat. it is the hour that, from past experience, he might expect it to be out--for he has so timed his own piscatorial excursion. but, seeing the ladies in the summer-house, he doubts getting nearer sight of them--at least for another twenty-four hours. in all likelihood they have been already on the river, and returned home again. why did he not start earlier? while thus fretting himself, he catches sight of another boat--of a sort very different from the _gwendoline_--a heavy barge-like affair, with four men in it; hulking fellows, to whom rowing is evidently a new experience. notwithstanding this, they do not seem at all frightened at finding themselves upon the water. instead, they are behaving in a way that shows them either very courageous, or very regardless of a danger-which, possibly, they are not aware of. at short intervals one or other is seen starting to his feet, and rushing fore or aft--as if on an empty coal-waggon, instead of in a boat--and in such fashion, that were the craft at all crank, it would certainly be upset! on drawing nearer them captain ryecroft and his oarsman get the explanation of their seemingly eccentric behaviour--its cause made clear by a black bottle, which one of them is holding in his hand, each of the others brandishing tumbler, or tea cup. they are drinking; and that they have been so occupied for some time is evident by their loud shouts, and grotesque gesturing. "they look an ugly lot!" observes the young waterman, viewing them over his shoulder; for, seated at the oars, his back is towards them. "coal fellows, from the forest o' dean, i take it." ryecroft, with a cigar between his teeth, dreamily thinking of a boat with people in it so dissimilar, simply signifies assent with a nod. but soon he is roused from his reverie, at hearing an exclamation louder than common, followed by words whose import concerns himself and his companion. these are:-"dang it, lads! le's goo in for a bit o' a lark! yonner be a boat coomin' down wi' two chaps in 't; some o' them spick-span city gents! s'pose we gie 'em a capsize?" "le's do it! le's duck 'em!" shouted the others, assentingly; he with the bottle dropping it into the boat's bottom, and laying hold of an oar instead. all act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in a few seconds' time they are rowing it straight for that of the angler's. with astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the hussar officer sees the heavy barge coming bow-on for his light fishing skiff, and is thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at the same instant of time. "they mean mischief," mutters wingate; "what'd we best do, captain? if you like i can keep clear, and shoot the _mary_ past 'em--easy enough." "do so," returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his teeth--but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump. "you can keep on!" he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep down his temper; "that will be the best way, as things stand now. they look like they'd come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners at meeting, we can call them to account on return. don't concern yourself about your course. i'll see to the steering. there! hard on the starboard oar!" this last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths of one another. at the same time ryecroft, drawing tight the port tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision. which is done the instant after--to the discomfiture of the would-be capsizers. as the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous imprecations. in a lull between, the hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his lips, and calls back to them-"you ruffians! you shall rue it! shout on--till you're hoarse. there's a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect." "yes, ye damned scoun'rels!" adds the young waterman, himself so enraged as almost to foam at the mouth. "ye'll have to pay dear for sich a dastartly attemp' to waylay jack wingate's boat. that will ye." "bah!" jeeringly retorts one of the roughs. "to blazes wi' you, an' yer boat!" "ay, to the blazes wi' ye!" echo the others in drunken chorus; and, while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs, the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane speech. volume one, chapter iii. a charon corrupted. the lawn of llangorren court, for a time abandoned to the dumb quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed, that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it. of course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; miss wynn now wearing a pea-jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over, and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair, gathered in a grand coil behind. but for the flowing skirt below, she might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the down--one who would "find sweethearts in every port." miss lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed hat of the neapolitan pattern. for all, a costume becoming; especially the brigand-like head gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features, and skin dark as any daughter of the south. they are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty presents itself--not to gwen, but the companion. "we have forgotten joseph!" she exclaims. joseph is an ancient retainer of the wynn family, who, in its domestic affairs, plays parts of many kinds--among them the _metier_ of boatman. it is his duty to look after the _gwendoline_, see that she is snug in her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of the family who has occasion to cross it--the last a need by no means rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of bridge. "no, we haven't," rejoins joseph's mistress, answering the exclamation of the companion. "i remembered him well enough--too well." "why too well?" asks the other, looking a little puzzled. "because we don't want him." "but surely, gwen, you wouldn't think of our going alone." "surely i would, and do. why not?" "we've never done so before." "is that any reason we shouldn't now?" "but miss linton will be displeased, if not very angry. besides, as you know, there may be danger on the river." for a short while gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has said. not on the suggested danger. she is far from being daunted by that. but miss linton is her aunt--as already hinted, her legal guardian till of age--head of the house, and still holding authority, though exercising it in the mildest manner. and just on this account it would not be right to outrage it, nor is miss wynn the one to do so. instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she makes rejoinder-"i suppose we must take him along; though it's very vexatious, and for various reasons." "what are they? may i know them?" "you're welcome. for one, i can pull a boat just as well as he, if not better. and for another, we can't have a word of conversation without his hearing it--which isn't at all nice, besides being inconvenient. as i've reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and tattles all over the parish, i only wish we'd some one else. what a pity i haven't a brother, to go with us! _but not to-day_." the reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud. in the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male kind--above all, no brother. nor will she take joseph; though she signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him. as the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is usually to be found, gwen says, in soliloquy-"i'll take old joe as far as the boat stairs; but not a yard beyond. i know what will stay him there--steady as a pointer with a partridge six feet from its nose. by the way, have i got my purse with me?" she plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied. by this miss lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile joseph-a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some sixty summers, more or less. after a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the direction of the dock. arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, joseph's mistress, turning to him, says-"joe, old boy, miss lees and i are going for a row. but, as the day's fine, and the water smooth as glass, there's no need for our having you along with us. so you can stay here till we return." the venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal. he has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. true, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. he does so, asking: "but, miss gwen; what will your aunt say to it? she mayent like you young ladies to go rowin' by yourselves? besides, miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. 'deed some v' the roughest and worst o' blaggarts." "nonsense, joseph! the wye isn't the niger, where we might expect the fate of poor mungo park. why, man, we'll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. as for aunt, she won't say anything, because she won't know. shan't, can't, unless you peach on us. the which, my amiable joseph, you'll not do--i'm sure you will not?" "how'm i to help it, miss gwen? when you've goed off, some o' the house sarvints'll see me here, an', hows'ever i keep my tongue in check--" "check it now!" abruptly breaks in the heiress, "and stop palavering, joe! the house servants won't see you--not one of them. when we're off on the river, you'll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. and to keep you to your anchorage, here's some shining metal." saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect,-"do you think it sufficiently heavy? if not--but never mind now. in our absence you can amuse yourself weighing, and counting the coins. i fancy they'll do." she is sure of it, knowing the man's weakness to be money, as it now proves. her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. despite his solicitude for the welfare of the wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the _gwendoline's_ painter. stepping into the boat, the other gwendoline takes the oars, miss lees seating herself to steer. "all right! now, joe, give us a push off." joseph, having let all loose, does as directed; which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm-so that he may see how many--and, after counting and contemplating with pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself-"i dar say it'll be all right. miss gwen's a oner to take care o' herself; an' the old lady neen't a know any thin' about it." to make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs, and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus--to the great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made nest, and commenced incubation. volume one, chapter iv. on the river. the fair rower, vigorously bending to the oars, soon brings through the bye-way, and out into the main channel of the river. once in mid-stream, she suspends her stroke, permitting the boat to drift down with the current; which, for a mile below llangorren, flows gently through meadow land, but a few feet above its own level, and flush with it in times of flood. on this particular day there is none such--no rain having fallen for a week--and the wye's water is pure and clear. smooth, too, as the surface of a mirror; only where, now and then, a light zephyr, playing upon it, stirs up the tiniest of ripples; a swallow dips its scimitar wings; or a salmon in bolder dash causes a purl, with circling eddies, whose wavelets extend wider and wider as they subside. so, with the trace of their boat's keel; the furrow made by it instantly closing up, and the current resuming its tranquillity; while their reflected forms-too bright to be spoken of as shadows--now fall on one side, now on the other, as the capricious curving of the river makes necessary a change of course. never went boat down the wye carrying freight more fair. both girls are beautiful, though of opposite types, and in a different degree; while with one--gwendoline wynn--no water nymph, or naiad, could compare; her warm beauty in its real embodiment far excelling any conception of fancy, or flight of the most romantic imagination. she is not thinking of herself now; nor, indeed, does she much at any time--least of all in this wise. she is anything but vain; instead, like vivian ryecroft, rather underrates herself. and possibly more than ever this morning; for it is with him her thoughts are occupied-surmising whether his may be with her, but not in the most sanguine hope. such a man must have looked on many a form fair as hers, won smiles of many a woman beautiful as she. how can she expect him to have resisted, or that his heart is still whole? while thus conjecturing, she sits half turned on the thwart, with oars out of water, her eyes directed down the river, as though in search of something there. and they are; that something a white helmet hat. she sees it not; and as the last thought has caused her some pain, she lets down the oars with a plunge, and recommences pulling; now, and as in spite, at each dip of the blades breaking her own bright image! during all this while ellen lees is otherwise occupied; her attention partly taken up with the steering, but as much given to the shores on each side--to the green pasture-land, of which, at intervals, she has a view, with the white-faced "herefords" straying over it, or standing grouped in the shade of some spreading trees, forming pastoral pictures worthy the pencil of a morland or cuyp. in clumps, or apart, tower up old poplars, through whose leaves, yet but half unfolded, can be seen the rounded burrs of the mistletoe, looking like nests of rooks. here and there, one overhangs the river's bank, shadowing still deep pools, where the ravenous pike lies in ambush for "salmon pink" and such small fry; while on a bare branch above may be observed another of their persecutors--the kingfisher--its brilliant azure plumage in strong contrast with everything on the earth around, and like a bit of sky fallen from above. at intervals it is seen darting from side to side, or in longer flight following the bend of the stream, and causing scamper among the minnows--itself startled and scared by the intrusion of the boat upon its normally peaceful domain. miss lees, who is somewhat of a naturalist, and has been out with the district field club on more than one "ladies' day," makes note of all these things. as the _gwendoline_ glides on, she observes beds of the water ranunculus, whose snow-white corollas, bending to the current, are oft rudely dragged beneath; while on the banks above, their cousins of golden sheen, mingling with the petals of yellow and purple loosestrife--for both grow here--with anemones, and pale, lemon-coloured daffodils--are but kissed, and gently fanned, by the balmy breath of spring. easily guiding the craft down the slow-flowing stream, she has a fine opportunity of observing nature in its unrestrained action--and takes advantage of it. she looks with delighted eye at the freshly-opened flowers, and listens with charmed ear to the warbling of the birds--a chorus, on the wye, sweet and varied as anywhere on earth. from many a deep-lying dell in the adjacent hills she can hear the song of the thrush, as if endeavouring to outdo, and cause one to forget, the matchless strain of its nocturnal rival, the nightingale; or making music for its own mate, now on the nest, and occupied with the cares of incubation. she hears, too, the bold whistling carol of the blackbird, the trill of the lark soaring aloft, the soft sonorous note of the cuckoo, blending with the harsh scream of the jay, and the laughing cackle of the green woodpecker--the last loud beyond all proportion to the size of the bird, and bearing close resemblance to the cry of an eagle. strange coincidence besides, in the woodpecker being commonly called "eekol"--a name, on the wye, pronounced with striking similarity to that of the royal bird! pondering upon this very theme, ellen has taken no note of how her companion is employing herself. nor is miss wynn thinking of either flowers, or birds. only when a large one of the latter--a kite-shooting out from the summit of a wooded hill, stays awhile soaring overhead, does she give thought to what so interests the other. "a pretty sight!" observes ellen, as they sit looking up at the sharp, slender wings, and long bifurcated tail, cut clear as a cameo against the cloudless sky. "isn't it a beautiful creature?" "beautiful, but bad;" rejoins gwen, "like many other animated things-too like, and too many of them. i suppose, it's on the look-out for some innocent victim, and will soon be swooping down at it. ah, me! it's a wicked world, nell, with all its sweetness! one creature preying upon another--the strong seeking to devour the weak--these ever needing protection! is it any wonder we poor women, weakest of all, should wish to--" she stays her interrogatory, and sits in silence, abstractedly toying with the handles of the oars, which she is balancing above water. "wish to do what?" asked the other. "get married!" answers the heiress of llangorren, elevating her arms, and letting the blades fall with a plash, as if to drown a speech so bold; withal, watching its effect upon her companion, as she repeats the question in a changed form. "is it strange, ellen?" "i suppose not," ellen timidly replies; blushingly too, for she knows how nearly the subject concerns herself, and half believes the interrogatory aimed at her. "not at all strange," she adds, more affirmatively. "indeed very natural, i should say--that is, for women who _are_ poor and weak, and really need a protector. but you, gwen-who are neither one nor the other, but instead rich and strong, have no such need." "i'm not so sure of that. with all my riches and strength--for i am a strong creature; as you see, can row this boat almost as ably as a man,"--she gives a vigorous pull or two, as proof, then continuing, "yes; and i think i've got great courage too. yet, would you believe it, nelly, notwithstanding all, i sometimes have a strange fear upon me?" "fear of what?" "i can't tell. that's the strangest part of it; for i know of no actual danger. some sort of vague apprehension that now and then oppresses me--lies on my heart, making it heavy as lead--sad and dark as the shadow of that wicked bird upon the water. ugh!" she exclaims, taking her eyes off it, as if the sight, suggestive of evil, had brought on one of the fear spells she is speaking of. "if it were a magpie," observes ellen, laughingly, "you might view it with suspicion. most people do--even some who deny being superstitious. but a kite--i never heard of that being ominous of evil. no more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. if your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won't signify much. see! both the bird and its shadow are passing away--as will your troubles, if you ever have any." "passing--perhaps, soon to return. ha! look there. as i've said!" this, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other's shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. but the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill. "good!" exclaims gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "the innocent has escaped!" "and for that _you_ ought to be assured, as well as gratified;" puts in the companion, "taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you've been dreaming about." "true," assents miss wynn, musingly, "but, as you see, the bird found a protector--just by chance, and in the nick of time." "so will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you." "oh!" exclaims gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. "i don't want one--not i! i'm strong to stand alone." another tug at the oars to show it. "no," she continues, speaking between the plunges, "i want no protector--at least not yet--nor for a long while." "but there's one wants you," says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. "and soon--soon as he can have you." "indeed! i suppose you mean master george shenstone. have i hit the nail upon the head?" "you have." "well; what of him?" "only that everybody observes his attentions to you." "everybody is a very busy body. being so observant, i wonder if this everybody has also observed how i receive them?" "indeed, yes." "how then?" "with favour. 'tis said you think highly of him." "and so i do. there are worse men in the world than george shenstone-possibly few better. and many a good woman would, and might, be glad to become his wife. for all, i know one of a very indifferent sort who wouldn't--that's gwen wynn." "but he's very good-looking?" ellen urges; "the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood. everybody says so." "there your everybody would be wrong again--if they thought as they say. but they don't. i know one who thinks somebody else much handsomer than he." "who?" asks miss lees, looking puzzled. for she has never heard of gwendoline having a preference, save that spoken of. "the reverend william musgrave," replies gwen, in turn bending inquisitive eyes on her companion, to whose cheeks the answer has brought a flush of colour, with a spasm of pain at the heart. is it possible her rich relative--the heiress of llangorren court--can have set her eyes upon the poor curate of llangorren church, where her own thoughts have been secretly straying? with an effort to conceal them now, as the pain caused her, she rejoins interrogatively, but in faltering tone-"you think mr musgrave handsomer than mr shenstone?" "indeed i don't. who says i do?" "oh--i thought," stammers out the other, relieved--too pleased just then to stand up for the superiority of the curate's personal appearance--"i thought you meant it that way." "but i didn't. all i said was, that somebody thinks so; and that isn't i. shall i tell you who it is?" ellen's heart is again quiet; she does not need to be told, already divining who it is--herself. "you may as well let me," pursues gwen, in a bantering way. "do you suppose, miss lees, i haven't penetrated your secret long ago? why, i knew it last christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? and the holly, you were both so careless in handling--i wonder it didn't prick your fingers to the bone! why, nell, 'twas as plain to me, as if i'd been at it myself. besides, i've seen the same thing scores of times--so has everybody in the parish. ha! you see, i'm not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they've been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven't; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. come, now, confess! am i not right? don't have any fear, you can trust me." she does confess; though not in words. her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. she loves mr musgrave. "enough!" says gwendoline, taking it in this sense; "and, since you've been candid with me, i'll repay you in the same coin. but mind you; it mustn't go further." "oh! certainly not," assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate, willing to promise anything in the world. "as i've said," proceeds miss wynn, "there are worse men in the world than george shenstone, and but few better. certainly none behind hounds, and i'm told he's the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club. all accomplishments that have weight with us women--some of us. more still; he's deemed good-looking, and is, as you say; known to be of good family and fortune. for all, he lacks one thing that's wanted by--" she stays her speech till dipping the oars--their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, "gwen wynn." "what is it?" asks ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at. "on my word, i can't tell--for the life of me i cannot. it's something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain-just as ether, or electricity. possibly it is the last. at all events, it's the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you've found when your fingers were--were--well, so near being pricked by that holly. ha, ha, ha!" with a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them--the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat's sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks. but for a brief interval is there silence between them; miss wynn again breaking it by a startled exclamation:--"see!" "where? where?" "up yonder! we've been talking of kites and magpies. behold, two birds of worse augury than either!" they are passing the mouth of a little influent stream, up which at some distance are seen two men, one of them seated in a small boat, the other standing on the bank, talking down to him. he in the boat is a stout, thick-set fellow in velveteens and coarse fur cap, the one above a spare thin man, habited in a suit of black--of clerical, or rather sacerdotal, cut. though both are partially screened by the foliage, the little stream running between wooded banks, miss wynn has recognised them. so, too, does the companion; who rejoins, as if speaking to herself-"one's the french priest who has a chapel up the river, on the opposite side; the other's that fellow who's said to be such an incorrigible poacher." "priest and poacher it is! an oddly-assorted pair; though in a sense not so ill-matched either. i wonder what they're about up there, with their heads so close together. they appeared as if not wishing we should see them! didn't it strike you so, nelly?" the men are now out of sight; the boat having passed the rivulet's mouth. "indeed, yes," answered miss lees; "the priest, at all events. he drew back among the bushes on seeing us." "i'm sure his reverence is welcome. i've no desire ever to set eyes on him--quite the contrary." "i often meet him on the roads." "i too--and off them. he seems to be about everywhere skulking and prying into people's affairs. i noticed him, the last day of our hunting, among the rabble--on foot, of course. he was close to my horse, and kept watching me out of his owlish eyes, all the time; so impertinently i could have laid the whip over his shoulders. there's something repulsive about the man; i can't bear the sight of him." "he's said to be a great friend and very intimate associate of your worthy cousin, mr--" "don't name _him_, nell! i'd rather not think, much less talk of him. almost the last words my father ever spoke--never to let lewin murdock cross the threshold of llangorren. no doubt, he had his reasons. my word! this day with all its sunny brightness seems to abound in dark omens. birds of prey, priests, and poachers! it's enough to bring on one of my fear fits. i now rather regret leaving joseph behind. well; we must make haste, and get home again." "shall i turn the boat back?" asks the steerer. "no; not just yet. i don't wish to repass those two uncanny creatures. better leave them awhile, so that on returning we mayn't see them, to disturb the priest's equanimity--more like his conscience." the reason is not exactly as assigned; but miss lees, accepting it without suspicion, holds the tiller-cords so as to keep the course on down stream. volume one, chapter v. dangers ahead. for another half mile, or so, the _gwendoline_ is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. with thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally--so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank. observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river--but without suspicion of what is causing it--miss lees at length inquires,-"what's the matter with you, gwen?" "oh, nothing," she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars. "but why are you looking so often below? i've noticed you do so at least a score of times." if the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other's mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat with a man in it, who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom miss wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. she has not given all her confidence to the companion. not receiving immediate answer, ellen again asks-"is there any danger you fear?" "none that i know of--at least, for a long way down. then there are some rough places." "but you are pulling so unsteadily! it takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river." "then you pull, and let me do the steering," returns miss wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins. of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places. but gwen in the stern behaves no better, than when seated amidships. the boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer. soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. they have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity--so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward 'twill take stronger arms than theirs. caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for awhile they do not think of this. only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma--miss lees being the first to perceive it. "gracious goodness!" she exclaims, "what are we to do? we can never row back up this rough water--it runs so strong here!" "that's true," says gwen, preserving her composure. "i don't think we could." "but what's to be the upshot? joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all--if we shouldn't get back in time." "that's true also," again observes miss wynn, assentingly, and with an admirable _sang froid_, which causes surprise to the companion. then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of miss wynn. they are--"i have it!" "what have you?" joyfully asks ellen. "the way to get back--without much trouble; and without disturbing the arrangements we've made with old joe--the least bit." "explain yourself!" "we'll keep on down the river to rock weir. there we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to llangorren. it isn't over a mile, though it's five times that by the course of the stream. at the weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the _gwendoline_ to her moorings. meanwhile, we'll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what's happened. another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, i know." "i suppose there's no help for it," says the companion, assenting, "and we must do as you say." "of course, we must. as you see, without thinking of it, we've drifted into a very cascade and are now a long way down it. only a regular waterman could pull up again. ah! 'twould take the toughest of them, i should say. so--_nolens volens_--we'll have to go on to rock weir, which can't be more than a mile now. you may feather your oars, and float a bit. but, by the way, i must look more carefully to the steering. now, that i remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and we can't be far from them. i think they're just below the next bend." so saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her fingers firmly upon the tiller-cords. they glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect of peril ahead, making speech inopportune. soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled, suddenly changing to cheerfulness, almost joy. nor is it that the dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some distance below. but there is something else ahead to account for the quick transformation--a row-boat drawn up by the river's edge, with men upon the bank beside. over gwen wynn's countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and as before, its expression reversed. she has mistaken the boat; it is not that of the handsome fisherman! instead, a four-oared craft, manned by four men, for there is this number on the bank. the anglers skiff had in it only two--himself and his oarsman. but she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. those now before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. and while making this observation another is forced upon her--that their natural plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are still-drinking. just as the young ladies make this observation, the four men, hearing oars, face towards them. for a moment there is silence, while they in the _gwendoline_ are being scanned by the quartette on the shore. through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. whether or not one cries out-"petticoats, by gee--ingo!" "ay!" exclaims another, "a pair o' them. an' sweet wenches they be, too. look at she wi' the gooldy hair--bright as the sun itself. lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o' her ud gi'e as much light as a dozen davy's lamps. an't she a bewty? i'm boun' to have a smack fra them red lips o' hers." "no," protests the first speaker, "she be myen. first spoke soonest sarved. that's forest law." "never mind, rob," rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, "she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. i'll lay odds the black 'un beats her at kissin'. le's get grup o' 'em an' see! coom on, meeats!" down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar. up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. the strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect--were, indeed, half-prepared for--coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? for that there is danger they are now sensible--becoming convinced of it, as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. impossible to mistake the men--roughs from the forest of dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. this known, from many a tale told, many a petty and quarter sessions report read in the county newspapers. but it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech--part of which the ladies have overheard--as in the action they are taking. they in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of, bars and eddies below. no whirlpool--not maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. for it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning. withal, gwendoline wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep "pitches" of the herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says-"keep quiet, nell! don't let them see you're scared. it's not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us." this counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, ellen lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words--"dear gwen! what shall we do?" "change places," is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. "give me the oars! quick!" while speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for 'midships. the other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant, leaving the oars to trail. by this the roughs have shoved off from the bank, and are making for mid-stream, their purpose evident--to intercept the _gwendoline_. but the other gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them. in a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her, slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. a glance tells gwen wynn 'twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. still she is not silent. unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out-"keep back, fellows! if you run against us, 'twill go ill for you. don't suppose you'll escape punishment." "bah!" responds one, "we an't a-frightened at yer threats--not we. that an't the way wi' us forest chaps. besides, we don't mean ye any much harm. only gi'e us a kiss all round, an' then--maybe, we'll let ye go." "yes; kisses all round!" cries another. "that's the toll ye're got to pay at our pike; an' a bit o' squeeze by way o' boot." the coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three. fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two lost--the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did the fishing skiff. with a yell of disappointment they bring their boat's head round, and row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. luckily, they lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the pleasure-boat possesses. it stands her in stead now, and, for a time, the _gwendoline_ leads without losing ground. but the struggle is unequal--four to one--strong men, against a weak woman! verily is she called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as ably as a man. and so does she for a time. withal it may not avail her. the task is too much for her woman's strength, fast becoming exhausted. while her strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. for they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat, it is rapidly gaining on the other. "pull, meeats!" cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the ringleader, "pull like--hic--hic!"--his drunken tongue refuses the blasphemous word. "if ye lay me 'longside that girl wi' the gooe-goeeldy hair, i'll stan' someat stiff at the `kite's nest' whens we get hic--'ome." "all right, bob!" is the rejoinder, "we'll do that. ne'er a fear." the prospect of "someat stiff" at the forest hostelry inspires them to increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued boat. confident of it they commence jeering the ladies--"wenches" they call them--in speech profane, as repulsive. for these, things look black. they are but a couple of boats' length ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river's channel; rounding which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. what then? as gwen wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. her glances are sent to right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day doing, but now with very different design. then she was searching for a man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult--it may be worse. there is no man in sight--no human being on either side of the river! on the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. on the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call "help!" distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men--embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms! the thought re-strengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. so inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point. soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims:-"we're saved, nelly! we're saved! thank heaven for it!" nelly does thank heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved--but without in the least comprehending how! volume one, chapter vi. a ducking deserved. captain ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast his line across the water; as he does the last, saying-"i shouldn't wonder, wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day. i fear that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for flies." "ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of foresters has frightened them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a bristol steamer. wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. they han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law 'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game." "that would be rather hard lines, jack. these mining gentry need out-door recreation as much as any other sort of people. rather more i should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part of their time underground. when they emerge from the bowels of the earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature, cannot consistently blame them for. those we've just met are doubtless out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct. i don't think it at all strange seeing them on the water." "their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman, seeming little satisfied with the captain's reasoning. "and as for their being out on holiday, if i an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts all the year round. two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest faces. as for t'other two, i don't think eyther ever touch't pick or shovel in their lives. i've seed both hangin' about lydbrook, which be a queery place. besides, one i've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's coracle dick. take my word for't, captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther in the way of iron or coal. if there wor i'd be the last man to go again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting i don't think they ought to take it on the river. ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin' about in a boat?" at the last clause of this speech--its conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy--the hussar officer cannot resist smiling. he had half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would be inconvenient. now, reflecting on wingate's words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. he says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the "damned scoun'rels," as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them. "lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'! comin' this way, i take it. what should we do to 'em, captain?" the salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket-not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them. "yes," goes on wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; i dar' say, they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above. an' i don't wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout the wye! jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!" at this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. a purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one. for some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting" it. the line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance. absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. not till they have well-nigh finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat--wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it. not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening. only for an instant. again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress! they have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. at a glance the hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well. the sight saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. down goes ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears-"to yours oars, jack! make straight for them! row with all your might!" jack wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. as a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. no matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters. in ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the _mary_, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. she is set for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it. as yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. his first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. but no. it would not be english. nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. true there will be four against two; but what of it? "i think we can manage them, jack," he mutters through his teeth, "i'm good for two of them--the biggest and best." "an' i t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! ye can trust me takin' care o' 'em, captin." "i know it. keep to your oars, till i give the word to drop them." "they don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. too drunk i take it. like as not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off." "they shan't have the chance. i intend steering bow dead on to them. don't fear the result. if the _mary_ get damaged i'll stand the expense of repairs." "ne'er a mind 'bout that, captain. i'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to see the lot chastised--specially that big black fellow as did most o' the talkin'." "you shall see it, and soon!" he lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. when he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _mary_ is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head. both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. so occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. they only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before. "coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is-addressing miss wynn. "'tain't no use you tryin' to get away. i must ha' my kiss. so drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!" "insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. "keep your hands off my boat. i command you!" "but i ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx. not till i've had a smack o' them lips; an' by gad i s'll have it." saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging her towards him. gwen wynn neither screams, nor calls "help!" she knows it is near. "hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued crashing as her gunwale goes in. the roughs, facing round, for the first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. but they are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems determined to resist. turning savagely on ryecroft, he stammers out-"hic--ic--who the blazes be you, mr white cap! an' what d'ye want wi' me?" "you'll see." at the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the fellow can raise an arm, those of ryecroft are around him in tight hug. in another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard. wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot, and is threatening to serve him the same. a plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels himself sinking for the second time! the two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries out-"lor' o' mercy! rob'll be drownded! he can't sweem a stroke." "he's a-drownin' now!" adds the other. it is true. for rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being in the last throes of suffocation! ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed. in chastising the fellow he had gone too far. he must save him! quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the bottom of the boat; then himself over its side! a splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the drowning man. not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down for the third--likely the last time. with the hand of the officer grasping his collar, he is kept above water. but not yet saved. both are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue. for, far from the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being whirled rapidly round! a cry from gwen wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has uttered! but before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to rest again--at sight of still another rescuer. the young waterman has leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers. a few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon has both safe in the skiff. the half-drowned, but wholly frightened, bob is carried back to his comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; wingate handling him as though he were but a wet coal sack or piece of old tarpaulin. then giving the "forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off!" and off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather feeling grateful than aggrieved. -----------------------------------------------------------------------the other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading. but not now rowed by its owner; for captain ryecroft has hold of the oars. in the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. what matter? if he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on the wye! and she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her aunt! for now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to keep undisturbed the understanding with joseph. volume one, chapter vii. an inveterate novel reader. while these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, llangorren court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house, and there are no noisy children to go romping about. it is thus with llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is miss linton, the aunt and legal guardian already alluded to. but, though presiding over the establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a skilled housekeeper who carries the keys. kitchen matters are not much to miss linton's taste, being a dame of the antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back to bath and cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth, she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of flirting, at the regency balls. no longer able to indulge in such delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _morning post_ with a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _court journal_, and other distributors of fashionable intelligence. in addition she reads no end of novels, her favourites being those which tell of cupid in his most romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. of the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus transgress the moralities. miss linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow, any more than the limpid waters of the wye. nor has she; but reads on, devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press, and are sent her from the circulating library. at nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so occupy herself. even on this same bright april morn, when all nature rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the warm spring sun, dorothea linton is seated in a shady corner of the drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a certain lord lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his tenant-farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much likelihood of succeeding. if he fail, it will not be for want of will on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. he will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book. just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give way, miss linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress. to her command "come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in hand, on which is a card. she is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads-"reverend william musgrave." only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's daughter. it is fortunate for his reverence, that before entering within the room another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. indeed the second caller is shown in first; for, although george shenstone rung the front door bell after mr musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is no domestic of llangorren but knows the difference between a rich baronet's son and a poor parish curate; as which should have precedence. to this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the reverend william is now indebted more than he is aware. it has saved him from an outburst of miss linton's rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. for it so chances that the son of sir george shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of lord lutestring. not that the young country gentleman has anything in common with the titled lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities. instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. there is nothing odd in his calling at that early hour. sir george is an old friend of the wynn family--was an intimate associate of gwen's deceased father--and both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at llangorren court _sans ceremonie_. no more is mr musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. though but the curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have become almost a myth to it. for this reason his vicarial representative can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "the court." there is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to miss linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful lutestring. it even takes all her partiality for mr shenstone to remove its spell, and get him vouchsafed friendly reception. "miss linton," he says, speaking first, "i've just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. the day's so fine, i thought they might like to." "ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. "yes; no doubt they would like it very much." mr shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. and less shenstone himself--indeed both--as the lady proceeds. they have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing. "nay, i am sure," continues miss linton, with provoking coolness, "they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--" "but why can't they?" asked shenstone, impatiently interrupting. "because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing." "indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, shenstone mechanically interrogating: "on the river?" "certainly!" answers the lady, looking surprised. "why, george; where else could they go rowing! you don't suppose they've brought the boat up to the fishpond!" "oh, no," he stammers out. "i beg pardon. how very stupid of me to ask such a question. i was only wondering why miss gwen--that is, i am a little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?" "why should i? what is it?" "only whether--whether she--miss gwen, i mean--said anything about riding to-day?" "not a word--at least not to me." "how long since they went off--may i know, miss linton?" "oh, hours ago! very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. i wasn't down myself--as i've told you, not feeling very well this morning. but gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and i presume they went direct to the river." "do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates shenstone. "i should hope not," returns the ancient toast of cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. "there's no knowing, however. miss wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me." this with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at llangorren. "surely, they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till mr shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry. "is it likely they will, miss linton?" "i should say not. more like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them home. what's the hour now? i've been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantelshelf. "ten minutes to one! how time does fly, to be sure! i couldn't have believed it near so late--almost luncheon time! of course you'll stay, gentlemen? as for the girls, if they're not back in time they'll have to go without. punctuality is the rule of this house--always will be with me. i shan't wait one minute for them." "but, miss linton; they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. shall i run down to the boat-dock and see?" it is mr shenstone who thus interrogates. "if you like--by all means. i shall be too thankful. shame of gwen to give us so much trouble! she knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. thanks, much, mr shenstone." as he is bounding off, she calls after--"don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. mr musgrave and i won't wait for any of you. shall we, mr musgrave?" shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. a luncheon for apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. simply that he dislikes leaving miss linton alone--indeed, dare not. she may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her. he is mistaken. on this particular day it is not desired. out of courtesy to mr shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. she is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter! volume one, chapter viii. a suspicious stranger. while mr musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, george shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. for he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. no sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him! mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! that it is so his soliloquy tells: "odd her being out on the river! she promised me to go riding to-day. very odd indeed! gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. wonder what it means! by jove, i can't comprehend it!" his noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying. it is not unobserved. through the leaves of the evergreen joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far from the right one. the old servant soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks-"master george be mad sweet on miss gwen. the country folk are all talkin' o't; thinkin' she's same on him, as if they knew anything about it. i knows better. an' he ain't no ways confident, else there wouldn't be that queery look on's face. it's the token o' jealousy for sure. i don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. ah! it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. he as love her might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her hair!" joseph is a welshman of bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. he continues-"i know what's took her on the river, if he don't. yes--yes, my young lady! ye thought yerself wonderful clever leavin' old joe behind, tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! and d'y 'spose i didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher--sly, but for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? and d'ye think i didn't see mr whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself. oh, no; i noticed nothin' o' all that, not i? 'twarn't meant for me-not for joe--ha, ha!" with a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain: "poor young gentleman! i do pity he to be sure. he are a good sort, an' everybody likes him. so do she, but not the way he want her to. well; things o' that kind allers do go contrary wise--never seem to run smooth like. i'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't. in such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches be made--that's heaven. ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! what's cheerin' him? the boat coming back? i can't see it from here, nor i don't hear any rattle o' oars!" the change he notes in george shenstone's manner is not caused by the returning pleasure craft. simply a reflection which crossing his mind, for the moment tranquillises him. "what a stupid i am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "now i remember, there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and i suppose she understood in the afternoon. it was so the last time we went out together. by jove! yes. it's all right, i take it; she'll be back in good time yet." thus reassured he remains listening. still more satisfied, when a dull thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in their rowlocks. were he learned in boating tactics he would know there are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the _gwendoline_ carries only one. but he is not so skilled--instead, rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting field, his favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. it is only when the plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where but one belongs! alone at that leading boat does he look; with eyes in which, as he continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something like displeasure. the boat he has recognised at the first glance--the _gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern. but there is also a man on the mid thwart plying the oars. "who the deuce is he?" thus to himself george shenstone puts it. not old joe, not the least like him. nor is it the family charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that following. instead, joseph is now by mr shenstone's side, passing him in haste--making to go down the boat stairs! "what's the meaning of all this, joe?" asks the young man, in stark astonishment. "meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed innocence. "be there anythin' amiss?" "oh, nothing," stammers shenstone. "only i supposed you were out with the young ladies. how is it you haven't gone?" "well, sir, miss gwen didn't wish it. the day bein' fine, an' nothing o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself." "she hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters shenstone to himself, as joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "who the deuce is he?" the interrogation as before, referring to him who rows the pleasure-boat. by this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, george shenstone overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit, but excites him still more--almost to madness. it is miss wynn who has commenced it, saying. "you'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?" this to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the servant. "oh, thank you!" he returns. "i would, with pleasure; but, as you see, i'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room. so i beg you'll excuse me to-day." his saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the top of the stair; who, hearkening further, hears other speeches which, while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging through his soul. unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree lately screening joseph--he sees gwen wynn hold out her hand to be pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him! then the latter leaps out of the pleasure-boat into the other brought alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman; while the ladies ascend the stair--gwen, lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the eyot, can no more be seen. all this george shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the blood in chill creep through his veins. though still puzzled by the wet garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late observed in the ways of miss wynn. nor is he far out in his fancy, bitter though it be. not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become aware of his being there; and not then, till gwen has made some observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the stranger, unfortunately for himself, george shenstone overhears. "we'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of what's delayed us--at least, not just now. true, if the like had happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all the world to hear of it, particularly that portion of the world yclept cheltenham. the dear old lady! ha, ha!" after a laugh, continuing: "but, speaking seriously, nell, i don't wish any one to be the wiser about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman, whose christian name begins with a g, and surname with an s." "those initials answer for mine," says george shenstone, coming forward and confronting her. "if your observation was meant for me, miss wynn, i can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of it." at his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, gwen wynn had given a start--feeling guilty, and looking it. soon, however, reflecting whence he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder. "ah! you've been overhearing us, mr shenstone! bad luck, you call it. bad or good, i don't think you are justified in attributing it to chance. when a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady bush, like that laurustinus, for instance, and there stands listening-intentionally--" suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly home. with bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger. seeing it, the old tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:-"come, george! there must be no quarrel between you and me. what you've just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to hear. miss lees and i have had a little bit of an adventure; and if you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it." addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too. the confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. but, looking for explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. asking for it, it is denied him, with reason assigned thus: "you forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, i suppose, you'd say, being a game preserver. never mind about the simile. let us in to luncheon, if not too late." she steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, shenstone behind both. however hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. all gwen's cajoling has not tranquillised his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat. volume one, chapter ix. jealous already. captain ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too--given to gwendoline wynn. he now knows the name of the yellow haired naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream. neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. he feels that his fate is sealed--or no longer in his hands, but hers. as wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the order of their occurrence. circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. helped as by heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. more than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! if so, a little service on the wye goes a long way. thus reflects he, in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. how different the value put upon it by gwen wynn! still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. if he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. some are dark as the shadows of the april showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc. one that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young, and rather handsome. already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. a gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with miss wynn. strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting, seemed to speak of something amiss! what could it mean! captain ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the selfsame formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject:--"who the deuce can _he_ be?" out upon the river, and drawing hard at his regalia, he goes on:-"wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! can't be a brother? i understood her to say she had none. does he live at llangorren? no. she said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. but who the deuce is the gentleman? might _he_ be a cousin?" so propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman, saying: "jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?" "only the head and shoulders o' one, captain." "head and shoulders; that's enough. do you chance to know him?" "i ain't thorough sure; but i think he be a mr shenstone." "who is mr shenstone?" "the son o' sir george." "sir george! what do you know of _him_?" "not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below." the information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. captain ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. it is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. in truth, a formidable rival! so he reflects, smoking away like mad. after a time, he again observes:--"you've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?" "parsonally, i don't, captain. but, now as i see where they live, i know who they be. i've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good deal." the biggest of them! as if she were a salmon! in the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation! ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:--"what have you heard of her?" "that she be a _tidy_ young lady. wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. fr' all, i may say that up to this day, i never set eyes on her afore." the hussar officer has been long enough in herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved." that miss wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river. one thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. he seeks an explanation:-"how is it, jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?" he is unaware that wingate, though born on the wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his birthplace being far up in the shire of brecon. still, that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,-"lord love ye, sir! that shows how little you understand this river. why, captain; it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. it comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. there's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help; 'specially women--seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's a-flood. that's frequent, summer well as winter." the explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. the sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings. "whose is it, jack?" he asks. "b'longs to a man, name o' murdock." "odd-looking domicile!" "'ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him be true." "ah! mr murdock's a character, then?" "ay; an' a queery one." "in what respect? what way?" "more'n one--a goodish many." "specify, jack?" "well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time." "addicted to dipsomania?" "'dicted to getting dead drunk. i've seen him so, scores o' 'casions." "that's not wise of mr murdock." "no, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. all the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'." "where may that be?" "the welsh harp--up at rogue's ferry." "rogue's ferry? strange appellation! what sort of place is it? not very nice, i should say--if the name be at all appropriate." "it's parfitly 'propriate, though i b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed. it got so called after a man the name o' rugg, who once keeped the welsh harp and the ferry too. it's about two mile above, a little ways back. besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about, wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals trackways, an' a'nt partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as any-ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. they got plenty o' them, too. the place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good many as have sarved their spell in the penitentiary." "why, wingate, you astonish me! i was under the impression your wyeside was a sort of arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity." "you won't meet much o' either at rogue's ferry. if there be an uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. them forest chaps we came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. just possible drink made them behave as they did--some o' 'em. but drink or no drink it be all the same wi' the ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober. any ways they're a rough lot." "with a place of worship in their midst! that ought to do something towards refining them." "ought; and would, i dare say, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt. instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being roman." "oh! a roman catholic chapel. but how does it corrupt them?" "by makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever black they be. men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of crime--'specialty if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls absolution." "well, jack; it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the pope." "neyther o' pope nor priest. ah! captain; if you seed him o' the rogue's ferry chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole kit o' them." "what is there specially repulsive about him?" "don't know as there be any thin' very special, in partickler. them priests all look bout the same--such o' 'em as i've ever set eyes on. and that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into another. as for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an' everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. if ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of rogue's ferry." "_no_?" he adds, correcting himself. "there be one other in these parts worse than he--if that's possible. a different sort o' man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither." "who is this other?" "dick dempsey--better known by the name of coracle dick." "ah, coracle dick! he appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. why, may i ask? what sort of fellow is he?" "the biggest blaggard as lives on the wye, from where it springs out o' plinlimmon to its emptying into the bristol channel. talk o' poachers an' night netters. he goes out by night to catch somethin' beside salmon. 'taint all fish as comes into his net, i know." the young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying:-"we've strayed from our subject, jack--which was the hard drinking owner of yonder house." "not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so much as his missus." "murdock is married, then?" "i won't say that--leastwise i shouldn't like to swear it. all i know is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. odd thing she." "why odd?" "'cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here." "explain yourself, jack. in what does mrs murdock differ from the rest of your herefordshire fair?" "one way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o' them women i've seed 'bout cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from india--_ayers_ they call 'em. she a'nt one o' 'em, but french, i've heerd say; which in part, i suppose explains the thickness 'tween her an' the priest--he bein' the same." "oh! his reverence is a frenchman, is he?" "all o' that, captain. if he wor english, he wouldn't--couldn't--be the contemptible sneakin' hound he is. as for mrs murdock, i can't say i've seed her more'n twice in my life. she keeps close to the house; goes nowhere; an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o' the old gentry. for all mr murdock belongs to the best of them." "he's a gentleman, is he?" "ought to be--if he took after his father." "why so?" "because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort. he's not been so long dead. i can remember him myself, though i hadn't been here such a many years--the old lady too--this murdock's mother. ah! now i think on't, she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two young ladies--the one with the reddish hair." "what! miss wynn?" "yes, captain; her they calls gwen." ryecroft questions no farther. he has learnt enough to give him food for reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life. volume one, chapter x. the cuckoo's glen. about a mile above llangorren court, but on the opposite side of the wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of captain ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "glyngog"--cymric synonym for "cuckoo's glen." not immediately on the water's edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet. glyngog house is one of those habitations, common in the county of hereford as other western shires--puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. this from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard--a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes. about glyngog house, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the elizabethan period--in short that termed tudor. for its own walls are not altogether stone; instead a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the wye--their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking. about this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for glyngog was once a manor-house. now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the _enceinte_ walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse. for all, the house is not uninhabited. three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys. few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. the traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. it can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of overgrowing thorns and trailing brambles. notwithstanding these disadvantages, glyngog has something to recommend it--a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of england. he who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather aesthetic, than utilitarian. for the land attached and belonging--some fifty or sixty acres--is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. but the view is superb. below, the wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes--till sweeping past the cuckoo's glen, it runs on in straight reach towards llangorren. eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees--now in full leaf, for it is the month of june--here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy facade of a gentleman's mansion--in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the blorenge, skerrid, and sugar loaf. the man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it. and yet just such a man is now viewing it from glyngog house, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. he is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray, on which are tumbler, bottle and jug--the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. he is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass. the personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. like all these, he looks dilapidated. not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows' feet ramifying around them. this due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. and it is. lewin murdock--such is the man's name--has led a dissipated life. not much of it in england; still less in herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits--his paternal home. since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither--often seen, however, at baden, homburg, and other "hells," punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. at a later period in paris, during the imperial _regime_--worst hell of all. it has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a _pied a terre_, on which he may only set his foot, with a mortgage around his neck. for even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. he is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. the farmer's sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will; give lewin murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity. for all, land does this--the very thing. no limited tract; but one of many acres in extent--even miles--the land of llangorren. it is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. on the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the "grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging--as they are. a smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of lewin murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. and the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow! not much of an enigma either. that land of llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin-gwendoline wynn. were she not, it would be his. between him and it runs the wye, a broad deep river. but what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? a barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. for it is but _the thread of a life_. should it snap, or get accidentally severed, lewin murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of llangorren, and take possession. he would scarce he human not to think of all this. and being human he does--has thought of it oft, and many a time. with feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. these due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother who married murdock of glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of gwen wynn. all matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. and of these but one is living--the heroine of our tale. "only she--but she!" mutters lewin murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass. volume one, chapter xi. a weed by the wyeside. "only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and pouring more brandy into the tumbler. though speaking _sotto voce_, and not supposing himself overheard, he is, nevertheless--by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has stepped silently behind him, there pausing. odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the wyeside; altogether unlike a native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the seine, and brought up to tread the boulevards of paris--like the latter from the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose toes she stands poised and balancing. in front of that ancient english manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place--as much as a costermonger driving his moke-drawn cart among the pyramids, or smoking a "pickwick" by the side of the sphinx. for all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence there. she is lewin murdoch's wife. if he has left his fortune in foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has thence brought her, his better-half. physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and possibly more to crime. tall and dark as the daughters of the latinic race, with features beautiful in the past--even still attractive to those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin. such were hers, first given to him in a _cafe chantant_ of the tuileries--oft afterwards repeated in _jardin, bois_, and _bals_ of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the eglise la madeleine. busied with his brandy, and again gazing at llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation:-"_eh, bien_?" he starts at the interrogatory, turning round. "you think too loud, monsieur--that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. and you might--seeing that it's a love secret! may i ask who is this _she_ you're soliloquising about? some of your old english _bonnes amies_, i suppose?" this, with an air of affected jealousy, she is far from feeling. in the heart of the _ex-cocotte_ there is no place for such a sentiment. "got nothing to do with _bonnes amies_, young or old," he gruffly replies. "just now i've got something else to think of than sweethearts. enough occupation for my thoughts in the how i'm to support a wife--yourself, madame." "it wasn't me you meant. no, indeed. some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest." "there, you're right, it was one other, in whom i feel all that." "_merci, monsieur! ma foi_! your candour deserves all thanks. perhaps you'll extend it, and favour me with the lady's name? a lady, i presume. the grand seigneur lewin murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less." ignorance pretended. she knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving them. for she has been watching him from a window, and observed the direction of his glances. and she has more than a suspicion as to the nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that something besides a river separating them from llangorren. "her name?" she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent searchingly on his. avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making answer. "it is a love secret, then? i thought so. it's cruel of you, lewin! this is the return for giving you--all i had to give!" she may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice. only her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores--ay hundreds--of others, before being bestowed upon him. no false pretence, however, on her part. he knew all that, or should have known it. how could he help? olympe, the belle of the jardin mabille, was no obscurity in the _demi-monde_ of paris--even in its days of glory under napoleon le petite. her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt. she is drawing on to that term of life termed _passe_, and begins to feel conscious of it. he may be the same. not that for his opinion she cares a straw--save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether independent of slighted affection--the very purpose she is now working upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has hitherto had. and well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love's fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful french ways and dark flashing eyes. as he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost as much her slave as when he first became her husband. for all he does not show it. this day he is out of sorts with himself, and her and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham tenderness--as if knowing it such--he takes another swallow of brandy, and smokes on in silence. now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims:-"_perfide_!" adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the dames of the _demi-monde_ know how to give, "keep your secret! what care i?" then changing tone, "_mon dieu_! france--dear france! why did i ever leave you?" "because your dear france became too dear to live in." "clever _double entendre_! no doubt you think it witty! dear, or not, better a garret there--a room in its humblest _entresol_ than this. i'd rather serve in a cigar shop--keep a _gargot_ in the faubourg montmartre--than lead such a _triste_ life as we're now doing. living in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our heads!" "how would you like to live in that over yonder?" he nods towards llangorren court. "you are merry, monsieur. but your jests are out of place--in presence of the misery around us." "you may some day," he goes on, without heeding her observation. "yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks. you seem to forget that mademoiselle wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws of life will outlive both. must, unless she break her neck in the hunting field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet _some other mischance_." she pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis, pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as if to note their effect. taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look--almost shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as might have been given by messalina, or the murderess of duncan. hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it is yet tender in comparison with hers. and he knows it, knowing her history, or enough of it--her nature as well--to make him think her capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to-neither more nor less than-he dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word. he is not yet up to that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it--a dread, dark design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to execution. and that the tempter is by his side he is more than half conscious. it is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech from those fair lips. to-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so delicate. he has spent part of the preceding night at the welsh harp-the tavern spoken of by wingate--and his nerves are unstrung, yet not recovered from the revelry. instead of asking her what she means by "some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless indifference,-"true, olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on expectations." "starve on them, you mean?" this in a tone, and with a shrug, which seem to convey reproach for its weakness. "well, _cherie_;" he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the source whence our fine fortunes are to come. and a pretty sight it is, isn't it? _un coup d'oeil charmant_!" he again turns his eyes upon llangorren, as also she, and for some time both are silent. attractive at any time, the court is unusually so on this same summer's day. for the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a large white tent there erected--a marquee--from whose ribbed roof projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak. they have had no direct information of what all this is for--since to lewin murdock and his wife the society of herefordshire is tabooed. but they can guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of the sort, there often given. while they are still gazing its special kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in groups before the tent. there are ladies gaily attired--in the distance looking like bright butterflies--some dressed _a la diane_, with bows in hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant; while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets. murdock himself cares little for such things. he has had his surfeit of fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of bitterness. he regards llangorren with something in his mind more substantial than its sports and pastimes. with different thoughts looks the parisian upon them--in her heart a chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence--ambitions uncontrollable, but never to be attained. as satan gazed back when hurled out of the garden of eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of llangorren. no _jardin_ of paris--not the bois itself--ever seemed to her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering--a heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country. after long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul-tantalised, almost to torture--she faces towards her husband, saying-"and you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life--" "two!" interrupts a voice--not his. both turning, startled, behold--_father rogier_! volume one, chapter xii. a wolf in sheep's clothing. father rogier is a french priest of a type too well known over all the world--the jesuitical. spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks loyola from head to heel. he himself looks no one straight in the face. confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. and but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's clothing--rather suggesting it. and in truth is he one; a very pharisee--inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret council over an _auto da fe_. what is such a man doing in herefordshire? what, in protestant england? time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. as for instance, when our popular queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress. then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal. all that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept--to all appearance forgotten! now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land--threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff king hal. no one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk--no matter in what part of england, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon wyeside. father rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere--to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. the same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man's presence upon it. the same craft as the rain maker of south africa, or the medicine man of the north american indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilisation, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault. _pere_ rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in herefordshire. he has not been quite three years resident on wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded marthas and marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling-house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. true, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. but the peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partisanship, can exact. fear of the devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the rugg's ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest. and if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel--the murdocks. with the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. different the woman. born in the faubourg montmartre, her father a common _ouvrier_, her mother a _blanchisseuse_--herself a beautiful girl--olympe renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. the same ambition made her lewin murdock's wife, and has brought her on to england. for she did not many him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. that was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had. that the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. with step, silent and cat-like--his usual mode of progression--he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. on hearing it, and seeing who, murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. besides, born and brought up roman catholic, he has that respect for his priest, habitual to a proverb--would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black-coat. salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking: "what do you mean, father rogier, by `two'?" "what i've said, m'sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be--in time perhaps ten. a fair paysage it is!" he continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of tempe, or garden of the hesperides. _parbleu_! i never believed your england so beautiful. ah! what's going on at llangorren?" this as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. "a _fete champetre_: mademoiselle making, merry! in honour of the anticipated change, no doubt." "still i don't comprehend," says murdock, looking puzzled. "you speak in riddles, father rogier." "riddles easily read, m'sieu. of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there." this, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of mrs murdock's left hand, put upon it by murdock himself on the day he became her husband. he now comprehends--his quick-witted wife sooner. "ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "mademoiselle to be married?" the priest gives an assenting nod. "that's news to me," mutters murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death. "_moi aussi_! who, _pere_? not monsieur shenstone, after all?" the question shows how well she is acquainted with miss wynn--if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections! "no," answers the priest. "not he." "who then?" asked the two simultaneously. "a man likely to make many heirs to llangorren--widen the breach between you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged." "_pere rogier_!" appeals murdock, "i pray you speak out! who is to do this? his name?" "_le capitaine ryecroft_." "captain ryecroft! who--what is he?" "an officer of hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of mars and apollo; strong as hercules! as i've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with gwen wynn for their mother. _helas_! i can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the lawn!" "captain ryecroft!" repeats murdock, musingly; "i never saw--never heard of the man!" "you hear of him now, and possibly see him too. no doubt he's among those gay toxophilites--ha! no, he's nearer! what a strange coincidence! the old saw, `speak of the fiend.' there's _your_ fiend, monsieur murdock!" he points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. it is dropping down in the direction of llangorren court. "which?" asks murdock, mechanically. "he with the _chapeau blanc_. that's whom you have to fear. the other's but the waterman wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear--unless indeed our worthy friend coracle dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty mary morgan. yes, _mes amis_! under that conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of llangorren." "never!" exclaims murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "never!" the french priest and ci-devant french courtesan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both. "you speak excitedly, m'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. but how is it to be hindered?" "i don't know," sourly rejoins murdock; "i suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. you'll stay to dinner with us, father rogier?" "if not putting you to inconvenience." "nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, i should rather say. the butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if i mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden." "monsieur murdock! it's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. a crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. besides, your english bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. with a bit of wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy lucullus himself." "ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. but where are they? my fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; i suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books. still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. that they do with provoking frequency. even this morning, before i was out of bed, i had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. so, _pere_; i am sorry i can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may not be aware, that it is out of season." "it's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate." "but it's close time now," urges the englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman. "not to those who know how to open it," returns the frenchman, with a significant shrug. "and suppose we do that to-day?" "i don't understand. will your reverence enlighten me?" "well, m'sieu; being whit-monday, and coming to pay you a visit, i thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little present--for madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant." the husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. is the priest jesting? beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird. "where are they?" asks murdock mechanically. "you say you've brought them along?" "ah! that was metaphorical. i meant to say i had sent them. and if i mistake not, they are near now. yes; there's my messenger!" he points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet. "coracle dick!" exclaims murdock, recognising the poacher. "the identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way--for certain purposes. true, he's neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. i find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, monsieur murdock-some day. should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, richard dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service--for a consideration." while murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. a stout, thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. for all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible. his garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. in the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag-appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant. having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:-"_arretez_! they're not commodities that keep well in the sun. should a water-bailiff, or one of the llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they'd spoil at once. those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. so, worthy coracle, before uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen." thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; mrs murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it--not she. that would be _infra dig_ for the _ancien belle of mabille_. poor as is the establishment of glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a _slavey_ to assist. the other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. more than one; for father rogier, though french, can drink like a born hibernian. nothing of the good templar in him. after they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:-"_parbleu_! they appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!" he is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. "and most of all, i should say, monsieur white cap--foretasting the sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of llangorren." "that--never!" exclaims murdock, this time adding an oath. "never while i live. when i'm dead--" "_diner_!" interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep. "madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, m'sieu. while picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. _allons_!" volume one, chapter xiii. among the arrows. the invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets. only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back. gwen wynn herself is in this opening contest. good with the bow, as at the oar--indeed with county celebrity as an archer--carrying the champion badge of her club--it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious. soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. she is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. instead, negligently, and to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. the gathering is large--nearly a hundred people present--and one might come or go without attracting observation. she evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. there is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance. it is not unobserved. a gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause--a suspicion that pains him. it is george shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows--in short, acting as her _aide-de-camp_. neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. his glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction--to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up. they are both "prospecting" for the selfsame individual, but with very different ideas--one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. for the expected one is a gentleman-no other than vivian ryecroft. shenstone knows the hussar officer has been invited; and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. were it himself no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds. as time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, shenstone begins to think he will this day have miss wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. there are others present who seek her smiles--some aspiring to her hand--but none he fears so much as the one still absent. just as he is becoming calm, and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus "swell," who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:-"who is that fella, shenstone?" "what fellow?" "he with the vewy peculya head gear? indian affair--_topee_, i bewieve they call it." "where?" asks shenstone, starting and staring to all sides. "yondaw! appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. looks a fwesh awival. i take it, he must have come by bawt! knaw him?" george shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. were gwen wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his heart. for he wearing the "peculya head gear" is the man he most fears, and whom he had hoped not to see this day. so much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor indeed has he opportunity, as just then miss wynn, sighting the _topee_ too, suddenly turning, says to him:-"george! be good enough to take charge of these things." she holds her bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. "yonder's a gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. aunt will expect me to receive him. i'll be back soon as i've discharged my duty." delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further speech or ceremony. he stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression. indeed, sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement, he notes the manner of her reception--greeting the new comer with a warmth and cordiality he, shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the man may be. little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called duty; but so exasperating to the baronet's son, he feels like crushing the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his knee! as he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his inquisitive acquaintance, who asks: "what's the matter, jawge? yaw haven't answered my intewogatowy!" "what was it? i forget." "aw, indeed! that's stwange. i merely wished to know who mr white cap is?" "just what i'd like to know myself. all i can tell you is, that he's an army fellow--in the cavalry i believe--by name ryecroft." "aw yas; cavalwy. that's evident by the bend of his legs. wyquoft-wyquoft, you say?" "so he calls himself--a captain of hussars--his own story." this in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation. "but yaw don't think he's an adventuwer?" "can't say whether he is, or not." "who's his endawser? how came he intwoduced at llangowen?" "that i can't tell you." he could though; for miss wynn, true to her promise, has made him acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. in a sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable. "by jawve! the light bob appears to have made good use of his time-however intwoduced. miss gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and yondaw the little lees shaking hands, as though the two had been acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! see! they're dwagging him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a queen of the tawnament times. vewy mediaeval the whole affair--vewy!" "instead, very modern; in my opinion, disgustingly so!" "why d'y aw say that, jawge?" "why! because in either olden or mediaeval times such a thing couldn't have occurred--here in herefordshire." "what thing, pway?" "a man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction. now-a-days, any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a shower!" "but, shawly, that isn't how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with the fair gwendoline?" "oh! i don't say that," rejoins shenstone with forced attempt at a smile--more natural, as he sees miss wynn separate from the group they are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. better satisfied, now, he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him adds: "if you are really desirous to know how miss wynn became acquainted with him, you can ask the lady herself." not for all the world would the swell put that question to gwen wynn. it would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up to the spot. ryecroft, left with miss linton, remains in conversation with her. it is not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor at llangorren--introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue-possibly to the saving of their lives! thus, the version of the adventure, vouchsafed to the aunt--sufficient to sanction his being received at the court. and the ancient toast of cheltenham has been charmed with him. in the handsome hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance reading; so much like it, that lord lutestring has long ago gone out of her thoughts--passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical sound. of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so welcome as that of the martial stranger. resuming her bow, gwen shoots no better than before. her thoughts, instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a _tete-a-tete_ with the aunt. her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one sticking in the straw. in fine, among all the competitors, she counts lowest score--the poorest she has herself ever made. but what matters it? she is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have excuse to return to miss linton, on some question connected with the hospitalities of the house. observing all this, and much more besides, george shenstone feels aggrieved--indeed exasperated--so terribly, it takes all his best breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. he might not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground--which he does not. as if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves llangorren long before the sports come to a close. not rudely, or with any show of spleen. he is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal, adieu to miss linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to miss wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into the saddle, and rides off. many the day he has entered the gates of llangorren with a light and happy heart--this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad. if missed from the archery meeting, it is not by miss wynn. instead, she is glad of his being gone. notwithstanding the love passion for another now occupying her heart--almost filling it--there is still room there for the gentler sentiment of pity. she knows how shenstone suffers--how could she help knowing? and pities him. never more than at this same moment, despite that distant, half disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing them. how men underrate the perception of women! in matters of this kind a very intuition. none keener than that of gwen wynn. she knows why he has gone so short away,--well as if he had told her. and with the compassionate thought still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate--going in reckless gallop--but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight! in an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. but now shooting straight-hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the "gold." for he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. captain ryecroft has taken george shenstone's place, as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between--the shafts of cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both. volume one, chapter xiv. beating about the bush. naturally, captain ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at llangorren. a man of his mien would be so anywhere--if stranger. the old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion. he, too, wears a distinctive badge--in the white cap. for though our tale is of modern time, it antedates that when brown began to affect the _pugaree_--sham of manchester mills--as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. that on the head of captain ryecroft is the regular forage cap with quilted cover. accustomed to it in india--whence he has but lately returned--he adheres to it in england without thought of its attracting attention and as little caring whether it do or not. it does, however. insular, we are supremely conservative--some might call it "caddish"--and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth. for other reasons the officer of hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. there is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of george shenstone. the true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad--these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while jack wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned. withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized--by some versions actually upset--and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon fishing near by--his name, ryecroft. and as this tale also circulates among the archers at llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present. still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people--many of whom are strangers to one another--no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if captain ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. on these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration. none so warmly as those of gwen wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. for she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties. in which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to captain ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host--which in a sense she is--to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. that which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated! side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. it may not have been all chance their coming thither--no more the archery party itself. that gwendoline wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. but standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent--so much, that each can hear the beating of the other's heart--both brimful of love. at such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession full, candid, and mutual. instead, at no time is this farther off. if _le joie fait peur_, far more _l'amour_. and with all that has passed is there fear between them. on her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward--in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. on his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. in his several calls at the court his reception has been both welcome and warm. still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. but why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there--the same every time--george shenstone by name? there before him, and staying after! and this very day, what meant mr shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? having seen the one, and heard the other, captain ryecroft has misinterpreted both. no wonder his reluctance to speak words of love. and so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. on a simple utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery. nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. they who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases--perhaps its lying. when truly, deeply, felt it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the divinity worshipped. here, side by side, are two highly organised beings--a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid--both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life--loving each other to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! more; for corydon would fling his arms around his phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she with like readiness would return. very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. they stand for a time silent as statues--though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible--as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. and when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another! it is the lady who speaks first:-"i understand you've been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, captain ryecroft?" "not quite three months, miss wynn. only a week or two before i had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." "thank you for calling it a pleasure. not much in the manner, i should say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding-"and how do you like our wye?" "who could help liking it?" "there's been much said of its scenery--in books and newspapers. you really admire it?" "i do, indeed." his preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "i think it the finest in the world." "what! you such a great traveller! in the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! do you really mean that, captain ryecroft?" "really--truthfully. why not, miss wynn?" "because i supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything--" "nay, not everything!" he says, interruptingly. "in volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. in some it is superior to them all--rhine, rhone, ah! hippocrene itself!" his tongue is at length getting loosed. "what other respects?" she asks. "the forms reflected in it," he answers hesitatingly. "not those of vegetation! surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?" "no; not those." "our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. those wonderful structures--towers, temples, pagodas--of which it has given us the _fac similes_--far excel anything we have on the wye--or anything in england. even our tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. isn't that so?" "true," he says, assentingly. "one must admit the superiority of oriental architecture." "but you've not told me what form our english river reflects, so much to your admiration!" he has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. the image is in his mind--her own--with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." but he shrinks from giving it utterance. instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively:-"the truth is, miss wynn, i've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old england. i know none to compare with these of the wyeside." "it's very pleasing to hear you say that--to me especially. it's but natural i should love our beautiful wye--i, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, i suppose, likely to--" "what?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech. "be buried on them!" she answers, laughingly. she intended to have said "stay on them for the rest of my life." "you'll think that a very grave conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh. "one at all events very far off--it is to be hoped. an eventuality not to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days--whether on the wye, or elsewhere." "ah! who can tell? the future is a sealed book to all of us." "yours need not be--at least as regards its happiness. i think that is assured." "why do you say so, captain ryecroft?" "because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it." he saying no more than he thinks; far less. for he believes she could make fate itself--control it, as she can his. and as he would now confess to her--is almost on the eve of it--but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after shenstone. his fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. she may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. as yet, no word of love has passed her lips. is there thought of it in her heart--for him? "in what way? what mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation. the question staggers him. he does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively--somewhat confusedly. "oh! i only meant, miss wynn--that you so young--so--well, with all the world before you--surely have your happiness in your own hands." if he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. but he knows not, nor does she tell him. she, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion. it will need another _seance_--possibly more than one--before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. with them it is as with the wooing of eagles. she simply rejoins: "i wish it were," adding with a sigh, "far from it, i fear." he feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma--brought about by his own _gaucherie_--from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape--a house. it is the quaint old habitation of tudor times. pointing to it, he says: "a very odd building, that! if i've been rightly informed, miss wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?" "i have a cousin who lives there." the shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. he attributes it to the character he has heard of mr murdock. his cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him. and she is; the shadow still staying. if she knew what is at that moment passing within glyngog--could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table--it might be darker. it is dark enough in her heart, as on her face--possibly from a presentiment. ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when ellen lees, with the rev mr musgrave as her cavalier attendant--they, too, straying solitarily--approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion. so the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end--to both of them unsatisfactory enough. for this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other's heart. volume one, chapter xv. a spiritual adviser. while the sports are in progress outside llangorren court, inside glyngog house is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out. it is early; but the murdocks, often glad to eat what americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular. in the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle lavater himself. nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. but now and then, a _mot_ of double meaning let down by rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words. murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous--has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. and broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, englishman could still do that. to imagine such a man as rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded--in his case certainly misplaced. knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. for, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion--cupidity. they are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year-that llangorren. they know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents. it is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered. still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. a task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. true, it might be accomplished, almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. olympe renault, and gregoire rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more. in the third is the obstructor. lewin murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do moneylenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. he would be willing to rob gwendoline wynn of her property--glad to do it--if he only knew how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that. but he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating. not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. but to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "never!" hence their delight at hearing it. during the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion, silent upon that paramount in their minds. how different the themes--as love itself from murder! and just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of glyngog. while the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice among the chattels of mr murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high glee, pronounces it "crimp." he speaks english like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest. the phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with. there is wine without stint; for although murdoch's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the welsh harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the boniface of the rugg's ferry hostelry having a belief in his _post obit_ expectations. not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. the guests of the harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour--have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of moet and cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club. profiting by their aesthetic tastes, lewin murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. light bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant. at this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in reserve, murdock himself starting it:-"so, my cousin gwen's going to get married, eh! are you sure of that, father rogier?" "i wish i were as sure of going to heaven." "but what sort of man is he? you haven't told us." "yes, i have. you forget my description, monsieur--cross between mars and phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of medusa--enough of them to make heirs for llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of methuselah. ah! a fine-looking fellow, i can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger. but there is." "what more?" "the mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic." "how was he introduced?" "well, he made her acquaintance on the water. it appears mademoiselle wynn and her companion lees, were out on the river for a row alone. unusual that! thus out, some fellows--forest of dean dwellers--offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le capitaine ryecroft_. with such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth, who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in marriage if he wished. and with such a rich heiress as mademoiselle gwendoline wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. that he, the hussar officer, captain, colonel, or whatever his rank, does, i've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. yes; sure as i sit here that man will be the master of llangorren." "i suppose he will;" "must," rejoins murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other. olympe looks dissatisfied, but not rogier nor she, after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "wait." he himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work. taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil. she preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro forma_--obedient to a look from rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her _conge_, and retires. murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes-of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. they seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. it is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution. "by the way, m'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner--a meal i've greatly enjoyed-notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_. indeed, a very _bonne bouche_ your english bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the _pommes de terre_. you were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. what is it? not the deluge, i hope! true, your wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do with them?" "why should it?" asks murdock, not comprehending the drift. "because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. what with its whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. i wonder at mademoiselle wynne venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it." the peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to. "she's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. "about her carelessness, i don't know." "but the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so. that affair of her going out alone is proof of it. what followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and capricious as women themselves. suppose hers should some day go to the bottom she being in it?" "that would be bad." "of course it would. though, monsieur murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it." "no doubt they would. but what's the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?" "oh, true! still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall mademoiselle wynn as anybody else. a pity if it should--a misfortune! but so is the other thing." "what other thing?" "that such a property as llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. if what i've heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. it were better it belonged to a true son of the church, as i know you to be, m'sieu." murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. he is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms--regularly attends rogier's chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the italian bandit after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_ at hearing the distant bell of the angelus. "a very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin. "in a worldly sense, you mean? i'm aware, you're not very rich." "in more senses than that. your reverence, i've been a great sinner, i admit." "admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. it is a deep sin the church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed." "oh, i haven't done anything deserving the name. only such as a great many others." "but you might be tempted some day. whether or not it's my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the vatican views such things. it's after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. this world is a ceaseless war between god and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. in our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even to the taking of life, else why should the great and good loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?" "true," grunts murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, father rogier. i confess ignorance in such matters; still, i see reason in what you say." "you may see it clearer if i set the application before you. as for instance, if a man have the right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefiting humanity at large. such an act is held by the best of our church authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. and such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. now, monsieur, do you comprehend me?" "quite," says murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine. withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself. soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says:-"you say you have sinned, monsieur. and if it were only for that you ought to make amends." "in what way could i?" "the way i've been speaking of. bestow upon the church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence." "ah! where am i to find this means?" "on the other side of the river." "you forget that there's more than the stream between." "not much to a man who would be true to himself." "i'm that man all over." the brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "yes, pere rogier; i'm ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the ears--duns every day. ha! i'd be true to myself, never fear!" "it needs being true to the church as well." "i'm willing to be that when i have the chance, if ever i have it. and to get it i'd risk life. not much if i lose it. it's become a burden to me, heavier than i can bear." "you may make it as light as a feather, m'sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at llangorren--even that of its young mistress." "how, _pere_?" "by yourself becoming its master." "ah! if i could." "you can!" "with safety?" "perfect safety." "and without committing,"--he fears to speak the ugly english word, but expresses the idea in french--"_cette dernier coup_?" "certainly! who dreams of that? not i, m'sieu." "but how is it to be avoided?" "easily." "tell me, father rogier!" "not to-night, murdock!"--he has dropped the distant m'sieu--"not to-night. it's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm and careful. time, too. ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum! we must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it-possibly have to draw coracle dick into our deliberations. but not to-night--_pardieu_! it's ten o'clock! and i have business to do before going to bed. i must be off." "no, your reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine." "one more then. but let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as you call it." murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. but only the frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair. "_bon soir, monsieur_!" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore. for all, father rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. in the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. as he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:-"_c'est arrange_?" "pas encore serait tout suite." this the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him. volume one, chapter xvi. coracle dick. a traveller making the tour of the wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail! mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean-rival to that of atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. for he will be looking at a "coracle." not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. in addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. nor will i dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place. in shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. the timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. in olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. there is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. this is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath. in all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage;" and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. the bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail! in this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure-unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft i have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations. the only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the esquimaux and the chippeway indians. but, though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and readiness. for while the chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of king caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the wye, and paddled it from plinlimmon to chepstow; as many a modern welshman would the same. above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "lords"--not without right and reason. why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original covering. but certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of albion hundreds of years before these ever saw roman ship or standard. besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of "corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the lerne, far west of anywhere the romans ever went. among the common people on the wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle." from whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--richard dempsey. why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. it serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious calling--the coracle has a special adaptation. it can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water-bailiff. despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, dick has not always come off scot-free. his name has several times figured in the reports of quarter sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. this only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind--burglary. as the "job" was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. the worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. he whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman, wingate. but jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for the affections of a woman. no heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of coracle dick, as deeply as has another that of jack wingate. and both from the same how and quiver--the eyes of mary morgan. she is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the wyeside; and being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. for evan morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. dick dempsey and jack wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, dick having the advantage. in his favour is the fact that farmer morgan is a roman catholic--his wife fanatically so--he, dempsey, professing the same faith; while wingate is a protestant of pronounced type. under these circumstances coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in mrs morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of father rogier. with this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would he, were it not for an influence to counteract. he, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. he knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. for all this has passed between mary morgan and himself. and nothing of it between her and richard dempsey. instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. it would be disdain--ay, scorn--if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. but, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown. the world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to richard dempsey--a known and noted poacher. but in justice to mrs morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented by rogier. absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. in her eyes coracle dick is as the latter has painted him, thus-"a worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. who wouldn't with such laws--unrighteous--oppressive to the poor? were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. as for dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. for he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. yet, one thing he would make-that's a good husband to your daughter mary--one who has the strength and courage to take care of her." so counsels the priest; and as he can make mrs morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. if the result rested on her, coracle dick would have nothing to fear. but it does not--he knows it does not--and is troubled. with all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if against him, far more than a counterpoise to mrs morgan's religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. and thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth. a day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to midnight. his favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. they have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. it is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack. no shire than that of hereford more addicted to the joys of the harvest home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farm-house. one such is given upon the summit of garran hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. there is a cromlech on the hill's top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time--the maypole--though it is autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. and there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole--that of may now so slippery--jumping, racing in sacks, dancing--among other dances the morris--with a grand _finale_ of fireworks. at this year's fete farmer morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. it need not be said that dick dempsey and jack wingate are there too. they are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since the gathering began. but during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. the poacher is restrained by a sense of his own unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother. with all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of dick dempsey, who overhears them. it is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final _feu de joie_, mrs morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives jack wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. sidling up to the girl, he asks in a tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably-"when, mary?" "saturday night next. the priest's coming to supper. i'll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark." "where?" "the old place under the big elm." "you're sure you'll be able?" "sure, never fear, i'll find a way." "god bless you, dear girl. i'll be there, if anywhere on earth." this is all that passes between them. but enough--more than enough--for richard dempsey. as a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. on the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as mephistopheles gave to gretchen escaping from his toils. the curse in coracle's heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on. volume one, chapter xvii. the "corpse-candle." jack wingate lives in a little cottage whose bit of garden ground "brinks" the country road where the latter trends close to the wye at one of its sharpest sinuosities. the cottage is on the convex side of the bend, having the river at back, with a deep drain, or wash, running up almost to its walls, and forming a fence to one side of the garden. this gives the waterman another and more needed advantage--a convenient docking place for his boat. there the _mary_, moored, swings to her painter in safety; and when a rise in the river threatens he is at hand to see she be not swept off. to guard against such catastrophe he will start up from his bed at any hour of the night, having more than one reason to be careful of the boat; for, besides being his _gagne-pain_, it hears the name, by himself given, of her the thought of whom sweetens his toil and makes his labour light. for her he bends industriously to his oar, as though he believed every stroke made and every boat's length gained was bringing him nearer to mary morgan. and in a sense so is it, whichever way the boat's head may be turned; the farther he rows her the grander grows that heap of gold he is hoarding up against the day when he hopes to become a benedict. he has a belief that if he could but display before the eyes of farmer morgan sufficient money to take a little farm for himself and stock it, he might then remove all obstacles between him and mary--mother's objections and sinister and sacerdotal influence included. he is aware of the difference of rank--that social chasm between--being oft bitterly reminded of it; but, emboldened by mary's smiles, he has little fear but that he will yet be able to bridge it. favouring the programme thus traced out, there is, fortunately, no great strain on his resources by way of drawback; only the maintaining of his own mother, a frugal dame--thrifty besides--who, instead of adding to the current expenses, rather curtails them by the adroit handling of her needle. it would have been a distaff in the olden days. thus helped in his housekeeping, the young waterman is enabled to put away almost every shilling he earns by his oar, and this same summer all through till autumn, which it now is, has been more than usually profitable to him, by reason of his so often having captain ryecroft as his fare; for although the hussar officer no longer goes salmon fishing--he has somehow been spoilt for that--there are other excursions upon which he requires the boat, and as ever generously, even lavishly, pays for it. from one of these the young waterman has but returned; and, after carefully bestowing the _mary_ at her moorings, stepped inside the cottage. it is saturday--within one hour of sundown--that same saturday spoken of "at the harvest home." but though jack is just home, he shows no sign of an intention to stay there; instead, behaves as if he intended going out again, though not in his boat. and he does so intend, for a purpose unsuspected by his mother, to keep that appointment, made hurriedly, and in a half whisper, amid the fracas of the fireworks. the good dame had already set the table for tea, ready against his arrival, covered it with a cloth, snow-white of course. the tea-things superimposed, in addition a dining plate, knife and fork, these for a succulent beefsteak heard hissing on the gridiron almost as soon as the _mary_ made appearance at the mouth of the wash, and, soon as the boat was docked, done. it is now on the table, alongside the teapot; its savoury odour mingling with the fragrance of the freshly "drawn" tea, fills the cottage kitchen with a perfume to delight the gods. for all, it gives no gratification to jack wingate the waterman. the appetising smell of the meat, and the more ethereal aroma of the chinese shrub, are alike lost upon him. appetite he has none, and his thoughts are elsewhere. less from observing his abstraction, than the slow, negligent movements of his knife and fork, the mother asks-"what's the matter with ye, jack? ye don't eat!" "i ain't hungry, mother." "but ye been out since mornin', and tooked nothing wi' you!" "true; but you forget who i ha' been out with. the captain ain't the man to let his boatman be a hungered. we war down the day far as symond's yat, where he treated me to dinner at the hotel. the daintiest kind o' dinner, too. no wonder at my not havin' much care for eatin' now--nice as you've made things, mother." notwithstanding the compliment, the old lady is little satisfied--less as she observes the continued abstraction of his manner. he fidgets uneasily in his chair, every now and then giving a glance at the little dutch clock suspended against the wall, which in loud ticking seems to say, "you'll be late--you'll be late." she suspects something of the cause, but inquires nothing of it. instead, she but observes, speaking of the patron:--"he be very good to ye, jack." "ah! that he be; good to every one as comes nigh o' him--and 's desarvin' it." "but ain't he stayin' in the neighbourhood longer than he first spoke of doin'?" "maybe he is. grand gentry such as he ain't like us poor folk. they can go and come whens'ever it please 'em. i suppose he have his reasons for remaining." "now, jack, you know he have, an' i've heerd something about 'em myself." "what have you heard, mother?" "oh, what! ye han't been a rowin' him up and down the river now nigh on five months without findin' out. an' if you haven't, others have. it's goin' all about that he's after a young lady as lives somewhere below. tidy girl, they say, tho' i never seed her myself. is it so, my son? say!" "well, mother, since you've put it straight at me in that way, i won't deny it to you, tho' i'm in a manner bound to saycrecy wi' others. it be true that the captain have some notion o' such a lady." "there be a story, too, o' her bein' nigh drownded an' his saving her out o' a boat. now, jack, whose boat could that be if it wa'nt your'n?" "'twor mine, mother; that's true enough. i would a told you long ago, but he asked me not to talk o' the thing. besides, i didn't suppose you'd care to hear about it." "well," she says, satisfied, "'tan't much to me, nor you neyther, jack; only as the captain being so kind, we'd both like to know the best about him. if he have took a fancy for the young lady, i hope she return it. she ought after his doin' what he did for her. i han't heerd her name; what be it?" "she's a miss wynn, mother. a very rich heiress. 'deed i b'lieve she ain't a heiress any longer, or won't be, after next thursday, sin' that day she comes o' age. an' that night there's to be a big party at her place, dancin' an' all sorts o' festivities. i know it because the captain's goin' there, an' has bespoke the boat to take him." "wynn, eh? that be a welsh name. wonder if she's any kin o' the great sir watkin." "can't say, mother. i believe there be several branches o' the wynn family." "yes, and all o' the good sort. if she be one o' the welsh wynns, the captain can't go far astray in having her for his wife." mrs wingate is herself of cymric ancestry, originally from the shire of pembroke, but married to a man of montgomery, where jack was born. it is only of late, in her widowhood, she has become a resident of herefordshire. "so you think he have a notion o' her, jack?" "more'n that, mother. i may as well tell ye; he be dead in love wi' her. an' if you seed the young lady herself, ye wouldn't wonder at it. she be most as good-looking as--" jack suddenly interrupted himself on the edge of a revelation he would rather not make, to his mother nor any one else. for he has hitherto been as careful in keeping his own secret as that of his patron. "as who?" she asks, looking him straight in the face, and with an expression in her eyes of no common interest--that of maternal solicitude. "who?--well--" he answers confusedly; "i wor goin' to mention the name o' a girl who the people 'bout here think the best-lookin' o' any in the neighbourhood--" "an' nobody more'n yourself, my son. you needn't gi'e her name. i know it." "oh, mother! what d'ye mean?" he stammers out, with eyes on the but half-eaten beefsteak. "i take it they've been tellin' ye some stories 'bout me." "no, they han't. nobody's sayed a word about ye relatin' to that. i've seed it for myself, long since, though you've tried hide it. i'm not goin' to blame ye eyther, for i believe she be a tidy proper girl. but she's far aboon you, my son; and ye maun mind how you behave yourself. if the young lady be anythin' like's good-lookin' as mary morgan--" "yes, mother! that's the strangest thing o' all--" he interrupts her, speaking excitedly; again interrupting himself. "what's strangest?" she inquires with a look of wonderment. "never mind, mother! i'll tell you all about it some other time. i can't now; you see it's nigh nine o' the clock." "well; an' what if't be?" "because i may be too late." "too late for what? surely you arn't goin' out again the night?" she asks this, seeing him rise up from his chair. "i must, mother." "but why?" "well, the boat's painter's got frailed, and i want a bit o' whipcord to lap it with. they have the thing at the ferry shop, and i must get there afores they shut up." a fib, perhaps pardonable, as the thing he designs lapping is not his boat's painter, but the waist of mary morgan, and not with slender whipcord, but his own stout arms. "why won't it do in the mornin'?" asks the ill-satisfied mother. "well, ye see, there's no knowin' but that somebody may come after the boat. the captain mayent, but he may, changin' his mind. anyhow, he'll want her to go down to them grand doin's at llangowen court?" "llangowen court?" "yes; that's where the young lady lives." "that's to be on thursday, ye sayed?" "true; but, then, there may come a fare the morrow, an' what if there do? 'tain't the painter only as wants splicin', there's a bit o' a leak sprung close to the cutwater, an' i must hae some pitch to pay it." if jack's mother would only step out, and down to the ditch where the _mary_ is moored, with a look at the boat, she would make him out a liar. its painter is smooth and clean as a piece of gimp, not a strand unravelled--while but two or three gallons of bilge water at the boat's bottom attest to there being little or no leakage. but she, good dame, is not thus suspicious, instead so reliant on her son's truthfulness, that, without questioning further, she consents to his going, only with a proviso against his staying, thus appealingly put--"ye won't be gone long, my son! i know ye won't!" "indeed i shan't, mother. but why be you so partic'lar about my goin' out--this night more'n any other?" "because, jack, this day, more'n most others, i've been feelin' bothered like, and a bit frightened." "frightened o' what? there han't been nobody to the house--has there?" "no; ne'er a rover since you left me in the mornin'." "then what's been a scarin' ye, mother?" "'deed, i don't know, unless it ha' been brought on by the dream i had last night. 'twer' a dreadful unpleasant one. i didn't tell you o' it 'fore ye went out, thinkin' it might worry ye." "tell me now, mother." "it hadn't nought to do wi' us ourselves, after all. only concernin' them as live nearest us." "ha! the morgans?" "yes; the morgans." "oh, mother, what did you dream about them?" "that i wor standin' on the big hill above their house, in the middle o' the night, wi' black darkness all round me; and there lookin' down what should i see comin' out o' their door?" "what?" "the canwyll corph!" "the canwyll corph?" "yes, my son; i seed it--that is i dreamed i seed it--coming just out o' the farm-house door, then through the yard, and over the foot-plank at the bottom o' the orchard, when it went flarin' up the meadows straight towards the ferry. though ye can't see that from the hill, i dreamed i did; an' seed the candle go on to the chapel an' into the buryin' ground. that woked me." "what nonsense, mother! a ridiklous superstition! i thought you'd left all that sort o' stuff behind, in the mountains o' montgomery, or pembrokeshire, where the thing comes from, as i've heerd you say." "no, my son; it's not stuff, nor superstition neyther; though english people say that to put slur upon us welsh. your father before ye believed in the _canwyll corph_, and wi' more reason ought i, your mother. i never told you, jack, but the night before your father died i seed it go past our own door, and on to the graveyard o' the church where he now lies. sure as we stand here there be some one doomed in the house o' evan morgan. there be only three in the family. i do hope it an't her as ye might some day be wantin' me to call daughter." "mother! you'll drive me mad! i tell ye it's all nonsense. mary morgan be at this moment healthy and strong--most as much as myself. if the dead candle ye've been dreamin' about we're all o' it true, it couldn't be a burnin' for her. more like for mrs morgan, who's half daft by believing in church candles and such things--enough to turn her crazy, if it doesn't kill her outright. as for you, my dear mother, don't let the dream bother you the least bit. an' ye mustn't be feeling lonely, as i shan't be long gone. i'll be back by ten sure." saying which, he sets his straw hat jauntily on his thick curly hair, gives his guernsey a straightening twitch, and, with a last cheering look and encouraging word to his mother, steps out into the night. left alone, she feels lonely withal, and more than ever afraid. instead of sitting down to her needle, or making to remove the tea-things, she goes to the door, and there stays, standing on its threshold and peering into the darkness--for it is a pitch dark night--she sees, or fancies, a light moving across the meadows, as if it came from farmer morgan's house, and going in the direction of rugg's ferry. while she continues gazing, it twice crosses the wye, by reason of the river's bend. as no mortal hand could thus carry it, surely it is the _canwyll corph_! volume one, chapter xviii. a cat in the cupboard. evan morgan is a tenant-farmer, holding abergann. by herefordshire custom, every farm or its stead, has a distinctive appellation. like the land belonging to glyngog, that of abergann lies against the sides of a sloping glen--one of the hundreds or thousands of lateral ravines that run into the valley of the wye. but, unlike the old manor-house, the domicile of the farmer is at the glen's bottom and near the river's bank; nearer yet to a small influent stream, rapid and brawling, which sweeps past the lower end of the orchard in a channel worn deep into the soft sandstone. though with the usual imposing array of enclosure walls, the dwelling itself is not large nor the outbuildings extensive; for the arable acreage is limited. this because the ridges around are too high pitched for ploughing, and if ploughed would be unproductive. they are not even in pasture, but overgrown with woods; less for the sake of the timber, which is only scrub, than as a covert for foxes. they are held in hand by evan morgan's landlord--a noted nimrod. for the same reason the farm-house stands in a solitary spot, remote from any other dwelling. the nearest is the cottage of the wingates-distant about half a mile, but neither visible from the other. nor is there any direct road between, only a footpath, which crosses the brook at the bottom of the orchard, thence running over a wooded ridge to the main highway. the last, after passing close to the cottage, as already said, is deflected away from the river by this same ridge, so that when evan morgan would drive anywhere beyond the boundaries of his farm, he must pass out through a long lane, so narrow that were he to meet any one driving in, there would be a deadlock. however, there is no danger; as the only vehicles having occasion to use this thoroughfare are his own farm waggon and a lighter `trap' in which he goes to market, and occasionally with his wife and daughter to merry-makings. when the three are in it there is none of his family at home. for he has but one child--a daughter. nor would he long have her were a half-score of young fellows allowed their way. at least this number would be willing to take her off his hands and give her a home elsewhere. remote as is the farm-house of abergann, and narrow the lane leading to it, there are many who would be glad to visit there, if invited. in truth a fine girl is mary morgan, tall, bright haired, and with blooming cheeks, beside which red rose leaves would seem _fade_. living in a town she would be its talk; in a village its belle. even from that secluded glen has the fame of her beauty gone forth and afar. of husbands she could have her choice, and among men much richer than her father. in her heart she has chosen one, not only much poorer, but lower in social rank--jack wingate. she loves the young waterman, and wants to be his wife; but knows she cannot without the consent of her parents. not that either has signified opposition, since they have never been asked. her longings in that direction she has kept secret from them. nor does she so much dread refusal by the father. evan morgan had been himself poor--began life as a farm labourer--and, though now an employer of such, his pride had not kept pace with his prosperity. instead, he is, as ever, the same modest, unpresuming man, of which the lower middle classes of the english people present many noble examples. from him jack wingate would have little to fear on the score of poverty. he is well acquainted with the young waterman's character, knows it to be good, and has observed the efforts he is making to better his condition in life; it may be with suspicion of the motive, at all events, admiringly--remembering his own. and although a roman catholic, he is anything but bigoted. were he the only one to be consulted his daughter might wed with the man upon whom she has fixed her affections, at any time it pleases them--ay, at any place, too, even within the walls of a protestant church! by him neither would jack wingate be rejected on the score of religion. very different with his wife. of all the worshippers who compose the congregation at the bugg's ferry chapel none bend the knee to baal as low as she; and over no one does father rogier exercise such influence. baneful it is like to be; since not only has he control of the mother's conduct, but through that may also blight the happiness of the daughter. apart from religious fanaticism, mrs morgan is not a bad woman--only a weak one. as her husband, she is of humble birth, and small beginnings; like him, too, neither has prosperity affected her in the sense of worldly ambition. perhaps better if it had. instead of spoiling, a little social pride might have been a bar to the dangerous aspirations of richard dempsey--even with the priest standing sponsor for him. but she has none, her whole soul being absorbed by blind devotion to a faith which scruples not at anything that may assist in its propagandism. it is the saturday succeeding the festival of the harvest home, a little after sunset, and the priest is expected at abergann. he is a frequent visitor there; by mrs morgan ever made welcome, and treated to the best cheer the farm-house can afford; plate, knife, and fork always placed for him. and, to do him justice, he may be deemed in a way worthy of such hospitality; for he is, in truth, a most entertaining personage; can converse on any subject, and suit his conversation to the company, whether high or low. as much at home with the wife of the welsh farmer as with the french _ex-cocotte_, and equally so in the companionship of dick dempsey, the poacher. in his hours of _far niente_ all are alike to him. this night he is to take supper at abergann, and mrs morgan, seated in the farm house parlour, awaits his arrival. a snug little apartment, tastefully furnished, but with a certain air of austerity, observable in roman catholic houses: this by reason of some pictures of saints hanging against the walls, an image of the virgin and, standing niche-like in a corner, one of the crucifixion over the mantelshelf, with crosses upon books, and other like symbols. it is near nine o'clock, and the table is already set out. on grand occasions, as this, the farm-house parlour is transformed into dining or supper room, indifferently. the meal intended to be eaten now is more of the former, differing in there being a tea-tray upon the table, with a full service of cups and saucers, as also in the lateness of the hour. but the odoriferous steam escaping from the kitchen, drifted into the parlour when its door is opened, tells of something in preparation more substantial than a cup of tea, with its usual accompaniment of bread and butter. and there is a fat capon roasting upon the spit, with a frying-pan full of sausages on the dresser, ready to be clapped upon the fire at the proper moment--as soon as the expected guest makes his appearance. and in addition to the tea-things, there is a decanter of sherry on the table, and will be another of brandy when brought on--father rogier's favourite tipple, as mrs morgan has reason to know. there is a full bottle of this--cognac of best brand--in the larder cupboard, still corked as it came from the "welsh harp," where it cost six shillings-the rugg's ferry hostelry, as already intimated, dealing in drinks of a rather costly kind. mary has been directed to draw the cork, decant, and bring the brandy in, and for this purpose has just gone off to the larder. thence instantly returning, but without either decanter or cognac! instead with a tale which sends a thrill of consternation through her mother's heart. the cat has been in the cupboard, and there made havoc--upset the brandy bottle, and sent it rolling off the shelf on the stone flags of the floor! broken, of course, and the contents-no need for further explanation, mrs morgan does not seek it. nor does she stay to reflect on the disaster, but how it may be remedied. it will not mend matters to chastise the cat, nor cry over the spilt brandy, any more than if it were milk. on short reflection she sees but one way to restore the broken bottle-by sending to the "welsh harp" for a whole one. true, it will cost another six shillings, but she recks not of the expense. she is more troubled about a messenger. where, and how, is one to be had? the farm labourers have long since left. they are all benedicts, on board wages, and have departed for their respective wives and homes. there is a cow-boy, yet he is also absent; gone to fetch the kine from a far-off pasturing place, and not be back in time; while the one female domestic maid-of-all-work is busy in the kitchen, up to her ears among pots and pans, her face at a red heat over the range. she could not possibly be spared. "it's very vexatious!" exclaims mrs morgan, in a state of lively perplexity. "it is, indeed!" assents her daughter. a truthful girl, mary, in the main; but just now the opposite. for she is not vexed by the occurrence, nor does she deem it a disaster, quite the contrary. and she knows it was no accident, having herself brought it about. it was her own soft fingers, not the cat's claws, that swept that bottle from the shelf, sending it smash upon the stones! tipped over by no _maladroit_ handling of corkscrew, but downright deliberate intention! a stratagem that may enable her to keep the appointment made among the fireworks--that threat when she told jack wingate she would "find away." thus is she finding it; and in furtherance she leaves her mother no time to consider longer about a messenger. "i'll go!" she says, offering herself as one. the deceit unsuspected, and only the willingness appreciated, mrs morgan rejoins: "do! that's a dear girl! it's very good of you, mary. here's the money." while the delighted mother is counting out the shillings, the dutiful daughter whips on her cloak--the night is chilly--and adjusts her hat, the best holiday one, on her head; all the time thinking to herself how cleverly she has done the trick. and with a smile of pardonable deception upon her face, she trips lightly across the threshold, and on through the little flower garden in front. outside the gate, at an angle of the enclosure wall, she stops, and stands considering. there are two ways to the ferry, here forking--the long lane and the shorter footpath. which is she to take? the path leads down along the side of the orchard; and across the brook by the bridge--only a single plank. this spanning the stream, and originally fixed to the rock at both ends, has of late come loose, and is not safe to be traversed, even by day. at night it is dangerous--still more on one dark as this. and danger of no common kind at any time. the channel through which the streams runs is twenty feet deep, with rough boulders in its bed. one falling from above would at least get broken bones. no fear of that to-night, but something as bad, if not worse. for it has been raining throughout the earlier hours of the day, and there in the brook, now a raging torrent. one dropping into it would be swept on to the river, and there surely drowned, if not before. it is no dread of any of these dangers which causes mary morgan to stand considering which route she will take. she has stepped that plank on nights dark as this, even since it became detached from the fastenings, and is well acquainted with its ways. were there nought else, she would go straight over it, and along the footpath, which passes the `big elm.' but it is just because it passes the elm she has now paused and is pondering. her errand calls for haste, and there she would meet a man sure to delay her. she intends meeting him for all that, and being delayed; but not till on her way back. considering the darkness and obstructions on the footwalk she may go quicker by the road though roundabout. returning she can take the path. this thought in her mind, with, perhaps, remembrance of the adage, `business before pleasure,' decides her; and drawing closer her cloak, she sets off along the lane. volume one, chapter xix. a black shadow behind. in the shire of hereford there is no such thing as a village--properly so called. the tourist expecting to come upon one, by the black dot on his guide-book map, will fail to find it. indeed, he will see only a church with a congregation, not the typical cluster of houses around. but no street, nor rows of cottages, in their midst--the orthodox patch of trodden turf--the "green." nothing of all that. unsatisfied, and inquiring the whereabouts of the village itself, he will get answers, only farther confusing him. one will say "here be it," pointing to no place in particular; a second, "thear," with his eye upon the church; a third, "over yonner," nodding to a shop of miscellaneous wares, also intrusted with the receiving and distributing of letters; while a fourth, whose ideas run on drink, looks to a house larger than the rest, having a square pictorial signboard, with red lion _rampant_, fox _passant_, horse's head, or such like symbol--proclaiming it an inn, or public. not far from, or contiguous to, the church, will be a dwelling-house of special pretension, having a carriage entrance, sweep, and shrubbery of well-grown evergreens--the rectory, or vicarage; at greater distance, two or three cottages of superior class, by their owners styled "villas," in one of which dwells the doctor, a young esculapius, just beginning practice, or an old one who has never had much; in another, the relict of a successful shopkeeper left with an "independence;" while a third will be occupied by a retired military man--"captain," of course, whatever may have been his rank--possibly a naval officer, or an old salt of the merchant service. in their proper places stand the carpenters shop and smithy, with their array of reapers, rollers, ploughs, and harrows seeking repair; among them perhaps a huge steam-threshing machine, that has burst its boiler, or received other damage. then there are the houses of the _hoi polloi_, mostly labouring men--their little cottages wide apart, or in twos and threes together, with no resemblance to the formality of town dwellings, but quaint in structure, ivy-clad or honeysuckled, looking and smelling of the country. farther along the road is an ancient farmstead, its big barns, and other outbuildings, abutting on the highway, which for some distance is strewn with a litter of rotting straw; by its side a muddy pond with ducks and a half-dozen geese, the gander giving tongue as the tourist passes by; if a pedestrian with knapsack on his shoulders the dog barking at him, in the belief he is a tramp or beggar. such is the herefordshire village, of which many like may be met along wyeside. the collection of houses known as rugg's ferry is in some respects different. it does not lie on any of the main county thoroughfares, but a cross-country road connecting the two, that lead along the hounding ridges of the river. that passing through it is but little frequented, as the ferry itself is only for foot passengers, though there is a horse boat which can be had when called for. but the place is in a deep crater-like hollow, where the stream courses between cliffs of the old red sandstone, and can only be approached by the steepest "pitches." nevertheless, rugg's ferry has its mark upon the ordnance map, though not with the little crosslet denoting a church. it could boast of no place of worship whatever till father rogier laid the foundation of his chapel. for all, it has once been a brisk place in its days of glory; ere the railroad destroyed the river traffic, and the bargees made it a stopping port, as often the scene of rude, noisy revelry. it is quieter now, and the tourist passing through might deem it almost deserted. he will see houses of varied construction--thirty or forty of them in all--clinging against the cliff in successive terraces, reached by long rows of steps carved out of the rock; cottages picturesque as swiss _chalets_, with little gardens on ledges, here and there one trellised with grape vines or other climbers, and a round cone-topped cage of wicker holding captive a jackdaw, magpie, or it may be parrot or starling taught to speak. viewing these symbols of innocence, the stranger will imagine himself to have lighted upon a sort of english arcadia--a fancy soon to be dissipated perhaps by the parrot or starling saluting him with the exclamatory phrases, `god-damn-ye! go to the devil!--go to the devil!' and while he is pondering on what sort of personage could have instructed the creature in such profanity, he will likely enough see the instructor himself peering out through a partially opened door, his face in startling correspondence with the blasphemous exclamations of the bird. for there are other birds resident at rugg's ferry besides those in the cages--several who have themselves been caged in the county gaol. the slightly altered name bestowed upon the place by jack wingate, as others, is not so inappropriate. it may seem strange such characters congregating in a spot so primitive and rural, so unlike their customary haunts; incongruous as the ex-belle of mabille in her high-heeled _bottines_ inhabiting the ancient manor-house of glyngog. but more of an enigma--indeed, a moral, or psychological puzzle; since one would suppose it the very last place to find them in. and yet the explanation may partly lie in moral and psychological causes. even the most hardened rogue has his spells of sentiment, during which he takes delight in rusticity; and as the "ferry" has long enjoyed the reputation of being a place of abode for him and his sort, he is there sure of meeting company congenial. or the scent after him may have become too hot in the town, or city, where he has been displaying his dexterity; while here the policeman is not a power. the one constable of the district station dislikes taking, and rather steals through it on his rounds. notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. its quaint picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur fishermen. centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river's bank, stands a large three-storey house--the village inn--with a swing sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. from this the hostelry has its name--the "welsh harp!" but however rough the limning, and weather-blanched the board--however ancient the building itself--in its business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving trade. guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while in the angling season, _piscator_ stays at it all through spring and summer; and if a keen disciple of izaak, or an ardent admirer of the wye scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. besides, from towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after early closing on saturdays, come hither, and remain over till monday, for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off. the "welsh harp" can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides. for it is a roomy _caravanserai_, and if a little rough in its culinary arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. among those who taste its tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the boniface of the "harp" can give them the very best. it is a saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs, lately arrived at the wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call "fizz," and believe to be champagne. as it costs them ten shillings the bottle they are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their purpose. they are young drapers' assistants from a large manufacturing town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend in an excursion to the wye, and a frolic at rugg's ferry. they have had an afternoon's boating on the river; and, now returned to the "harp"--their place of put-up--are flush of talk over their adventures, quaffing the sham "shammy," and smoking "regalias," not anything more genuine. while thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood--something that pleases them better--a beautiful woman. more correctly speaking a girl; since it is mary morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart for the distributing of drink. taking the cigars from between their teeth--and leaving the rhubarb juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas-they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the drink than any innate rudeness. they are harmless fellows in their way; would be quiet enough behind their own counters; though fast before that of the "welsh harp," and foolish with such a face as that of mary morgan beside them. she gives them scant time to gaze on it. her business is simple, and speedily transacted. "a bottle of your best brandy--the french cognac?" as she makes the demand, placing ten shillings, the price understood, upon the lead-covered counter. the barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into the till. it is all over in a few seconds' time; and with equal celerity mary morgan, slipping the purchased commodity into her cloak, glides out of the room--vision-like as she entered it. "who is that young lady?" asks one of the champagne drinkers, interrogating the barmaid. "young lady!" tartly returns the latter, with a flourish of her heavily chignoned head, "only a farmer's daughter." "aw!" exclaims the second tippler, in drawling imitation of swelldom, "only the offspring of a chaw-bacon! she's a monstrously crummy creetya, anyhow." "devilish nice gal!" affirms the other, no longer addressing himself to the barmaid, who has scornfully shown them the back of her head, with its tower of twisted jute. "devilish nice gal, indeed! never saw spicier stand before a counter. what a dainty little fish for a farmer's daughter! say, charley! wouldn't you like to be sellin' her a pair of kids--jouvin's best--helpin' her draw them on, eh?" "by jove, yes! that would i." "perhaps you'd prefer it being boots? what a stepper she is, too! s'pose we slide after, and see where she hangs out?" "capital idea! suppose we do?" "all right, old fellow! i'm ready with the yard stick--roll off!" and without further exchange of their professional phraseology, they rush out, leaving their glasses half full of the effervescing beverage-rapidly on the spoil. they have sallied forth to meet disappointment. the night is black as erebus, and the girl gone out of sight. nor can they tell which way she has taken; and to inquire might get them "guyed," if not worse. besides, they see no one of whom inquiry could be made. a dark shadow passes them, apparently the figure of a man; but so dimly descried, and going in such rapid gait, they refrain from hailing him. not likely they will see more of the "monstrously crummy creetya" that night--they may on the morrow somewhere--perhaps at the little chapel close by. registering a mental vow to do their devotions there, and recalling the bottle of fizz left uncorked on the counter they return to finish it. and they drain it dry, gulping down several goes of b-and-s, besides, ere ceasing to think of the "devilish nice gal," on whose dainty little fist they would so like fitting kid gloves. meanwhile, she, who has so much interested the dry goods gentlemen, is making her way along the road which leads past the widow wingate's cottage, going at a rapid pace, but not continuously. at intervals she makes stops, and stands listening--her glances sent interrogatively to the front. she acts as one expecting to hear footsteps, or a voice in friendly salutation--and see him saluting, for it is a man. footsteps are there besides her own, but not heard by her, nor in the direction she is hoping to hear them. instead, they are behind, and light, though made by a heavy man. for he is treading gingerly as if on eggs--evidently desirous not to make known his proximity. near he is, and were the light only a little clearer she would surely see him. favoured by its darkness he can follow close, aided also by the shadowing trees, and still further from her attention being all given to the ground in advance, with thoughts preoccupied. but closely he follows her, but never coming up. when she stops he does the same, moving on again as she moves forward. and so for several pauses, with spells of brisk walking between. opposite the wingates' cottage she tarries longer than elsewhere. there was a woman standing in the door, who, however, does not observe her-cannot--a hedge of holly between. cautiously parting its spinous leaves and peering through, the young girl takes a survey, not of the woman, whom she well knows, but of a window--the only one in which there is a light. and less the window than the walls inside. on her way to the ferry she had stopped to do the same; then seeing shadows--two of them-one a woman's, the other of a man. the woman is there in the door--mrs wingate herself; the man, her son, must be elsewhere. "under the elm, by this," says mary morgan, in soliloquy. "i'll find him there,"--she adds, silently gliding past the gate. "under the elm," mutters the man who follows, adding, "i'll kill her there--ay, both!" two hundred yards further on, and she reaches the place where the footpath debouches upon the road. there is a stile of the usual rough crossbar pattern, proclaiming a right of way. she stops only to see there is no one sitting upon it--for there might have been--then leaping lightly over, she proceeds along the path. the shadow behind does the same, as though it were a spectre pursuing. and now, in the deeper darkness of the narrow way, arcaded over by a thick canopy of leaves, he goes closer and closer, almost to touching. were a light at this moment let upon his face, it would reveal features set in an expression worthy of hell itself; and cast farther down, would show a hand closed upon the haft of a long-bladed knife--nervously clutching--every now and then half drawing it from its sheath, as if to plunge its blade into the back of her who is now scarce six steps ahead! and with this dread danger threatening--so close--mary morgan proceeds along the forest path, unsuspectingly: joyfully, as she thinks of who is before, with no thought of that behind--no one to cry out, or even whisper, the word: "beware!" volume one, chapter xx. under the elm. in more ways than one has jack wingate thrown dust in his mother's eyes. his going to the ferry after a piece of whipcord and a bit of pitch was fib the first; the second his not going there at all--for he has not. instead, in the very opposite direction; soon as reaching the road, having turned his face towards abergann, though his objective point is but the "big elm." once outside the gate he glides along the holly hedge crouchingly, and with head ducked, so that it may not be seen by the good dame, who has followed him to the door. the darkness favouring him, it is not; and congratulating himself at getting off thus deftly, he continues rapidly up the road. arrived at the stile, he makes stop, saying in soliloquy:-"i take it she be sure to come; but i'd gi'e something to know which o' the two ways. bein' so darkish, an' that plank a bit dangerous to cross, i ha' heard--'tan't often i cross it--just possible she may choose the roundabout o' the road. still, she sayed the big elm, an' to get there she'll have to take the path comin' or goin' back. if i thought comin' i'd steer straight there an' meet her. but s'posin' she prefers the road, that 'ud make it longer to wait. wonder which it's to be." with hand rested on the top rail of the stile, he stands considering. since their stolen interchange of speech at the harvest home, mary has managed to send him word she will make an errand to rugg's ferry; hence his uncertainty. soon again he resumes his conjectured soliloquy:-"'tan't possible she ha' been to the ferry, an' goed back again? god help me, i hope not! an' yet there's just a chance. i weesh the captain hadn't kep' me so long down there. an' the fresh from the rain that delayed us nigh half a hour, i oughtn't to a stayed a minute after gettin' home. but mother cookin' that nice bit o' steak; if i hadn't ate it she'd a been angry, and for certain suspected somethin'. then listenin' to all that dismal stuff 'bout the corpse-candle. an' they believe it in the shire o' pembroke! rot the thing! tho' i an't myself noways superstishus, it gi'ed me the creeps. queer, her dreamin' she seed it go out o' abergann! i do weesh she hadn't told me that; an' i mustn't say word o't to mary. tho' she ain't o' the fearsome kind, a thing like that's enough to frighten anyone. well, what 'd i best do? if she ha' been to the ferry an's goed home again, then i've missed her, and no mistake! still, she said she'd be at the elim, an's never broke her promise to me when she cud keep it. a man ought to take a woman at her word--a true woman--an' not be too quick to anticipate. besides, the surer way's the safer. she appointed the old place, an' there i'll abide her. but what am i thinkin' o'? she may be there now, a waitin' for me!" he doesn't stay by the stile one instant longer, but, vaulting over it, strikes off along the path. despite the obscurity of the night, the narrowness of the track, and the branches obstructing, he proceeds with celerity. with that part he is familiar--knows every inch of it, well as the way from his door to the place where he docks his boat--at least so far as the big elm, under whose spreading branches he and she have oft clandestinely met. it is an ancient patriarch of the forest; its timber is honeycombed with decay, not having tempted the axe by whose stroke its fellows have long ago fallen, and it now stands amid their progeny, towering over all. it is a few paces distant from the footpath, screened from it by a thicket of hollies interposed between, and extending around. from its huge hollow trunk a buttress, horizontally projected, affords a convenient seat for two, making it the very _beau ideal_ of a trysting-tree. having got up and under it, jack wingate is a little disappointed-almost vexed--at not finding his sweetheart there. he calls her name-in the hope she may be among the hollies--at first cautiously and in a low voice, then louder. no reply; she has either not been, or has and is gone. as the latter appears probable enough, he once more blames captain ryecroft, the rain, the river flood, the beefsteak--above all, that long yarn about the _canwyll corph_, muttering anathemas against the ghostly superstition. still she may come yet. it may be but the darkness that's delaying her. besides, she is not likely to have the fixing of her time. she said she would "find a way;" and having the will--as he believes--he flatters himself she will find it, despite all obstructions. with confidence thus restored, he ceases to pace about impatiently, as he has been doing ever since his arrival at the tree; and, taking a seat on the buttress, sits listening with all ears. his eyes are of little use in the cimmerian gloom. he can barely make out the forms of the holly bushes, though they are almost within reach of his hand. but his ears are reliable, sharpened by love; and, ere long they convey a sound, to him sweeter than any other ever heard in that wood--even the songs of its birds. it is a swishing, as of leaves softly brushed by the skirts of a woman's dress--which it is. he needs no telling who comes. a subtle electricity, seeming to precede, warns him of mary morgan's presence, as though she were already by his side. all doubts and conjectures at an end, he starts to his feet, and steps out to meet her. soon as on the path he sees a cloaked figure, drawing nigh with a grace of movement distinguishable even in the dim glimmering light. "that you, mary?" a question mechanical; no answer expected or waited for. before any could be given she is in his arms, her lips hindered from words by a shower of kisses. thus having saluted, he takes her hand and leads her among the hollies. not from precaution, or fear of being intruded upon. few besides the farm people of abergann use the right-of-way path, and unlikely any of them being on it at that hour. it is only from habit they retire to the more secluded spot under the elm, hallowed to them by many a sweet remembrance. they sit down side by side; and close, for his arm is around her waist. how unlike the lovers in the painted pavilion at llangorren! here there is neither concealment of thought nor restraint of speech--no time given to circumlocution--none wasted in silence. there is none to spare, as she has told him at the moment of meeting. "it's kind o' you comin', mary," he says, as soon as they are seated. "i knew ye would." "o jack! what a work i had to get out--the trick i've played mother! you'll laugh when you hear it." "let's hear it, darling!" she relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. six shillings thrown away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper? "you've been to the ferry, then?" "you see," she says, holding up the bottle. "i weesh i'd known that. i could a met ye on the road, and we'd had more time to be thegither. it's too bad, you havin' to go straight back." "it is. but there's no help for it. father rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient." were in light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's name. she does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. in his heart he curses the jesuit--often has with his tongue, but not now. he is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both. "mary dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "i don't want to say a word against father rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for i don't believe he's the friend o' anybody. sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and i've got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us." "how can he, jack?" "ah, how! a many ways. one, his sayin' ugly things about me to your mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true." "let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose i'll believe them?" "no, i don't, darling--'deed i don't." a snatched kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him halfway. for a short time there is silence. with that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural. he is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:-"i know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o' that from your lips, mary. a soft word, or only a smile. i've heerd talk o' several. but one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the french priest." "who?" she has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial. "i dislike mentionin' his name. to me it seems like insultin' ye. the very idea o' dick dempsey--" "you needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "i know what you mean. but you surely don't suppose i could think of him as a sweetheart? that _would_ insult me." "i hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. for all, he thinks o' you, mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but--" he hesitates. "what?" "i won't say the word. 'tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you." "if you mean _wife_--as i suppose you do--listen! rather than have richard dempsey for a husband, i'd die--go down to the river and drown myself! that horrid wretch! i hate him!" "i'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad." "but why, jack? you know it couldn't be otherwise! you should--after all that's passed. heaven be my witness! you i love, and you alone. you only shall ever call me wife. if not--then nobody!" "god bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impassioned speech. "god bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his gratitude flinging his arms around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an avalanche of kisses. with thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the cover in search of prey. still less do they see a form skulking among the hollies, black and boding as their shadows. yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. he has overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase sending hell to his heart. and now, with jealousy in its last dire throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he stands, after all, unresolved how to act. trembling, too; for he is at bottom a coward. he might rush at them and kill both--cut them to pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. but if only one, and that her, what of himself! he has an instinctive fear of jack wingate, who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson. that experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all likelihood saving his life. for at this moment the moon, rising, flings a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, richard dempsey pushes his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies, and altogether away from the spot. but not to go back to rugg's ferry, nor to his own home. well for mary morgan if he had. by the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain her. the farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr has preceded her and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no less than the taking of her life. end of volume one. volume two, chapter i. a tardy messenger. father rogier has arrived at abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour. there is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. he has not come direct from his house at the ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold. feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender. for a time he has it all to himself. the farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while mrs morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set the frying-pan on the coals. already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house. before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantelshelf, within convenient reach. it would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. this is shut, mrs morgan having closed it after her as she went out. there is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be reopened, and some one to enter. and so is he, though mrs morgan herself is not the some one--but her daughter. gregoire rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before assuming the cassock a very _mauvais sujet_. even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. the fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of olympe, _nee_ renault. she is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional. but there is a vast difference between the mistress of glyngog and the maiden of abergann. unlike are they as lucrezia borgia to that other lucretia--victim of tarquin _fils_. and the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. he cannot himself have mary morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of richard dempsey. hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish. eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. only mrs morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. it will be on the table in a trice. without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks in a drawl of assumed indifference,-"where is ma'mselle marie? not on the sick list, i hope?" "oh no, your reverence. she was never in better health in her life, i'm happy to say." "attending to culinary matters, i presume? bothering herself--on my account, too! really, madame, i wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when i come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire." "she's not--nothing of the kind, father rogier." "dressing, may be? that isn't needed either--to receive poor me." "no; she's not dressing." "ah! what then? pardon me for appearing inquisitive. i merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in--relating to a matter of the sunday school. she's at home, isn't she?" "not just this minute. she soon will be." "what! out at this hour?" "yes; she has gone up to the ferry on an errand. i wonder you didn't meet her! which way did you come, father rogier--the path or the lane?" "neither--nor from the ferry. i've been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. it's rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! not alone, i take it?" "yes; she went alone." "but why, madame?" mrs morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now. "well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing matter--as you'll say yourself, when i tell it you." "tell it, pray!" "it's all through a cat--our big tom." "ah, tom! what _jeu d'esprit_ has he been perpetrating?" "not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. the mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle--indeed, broke it to pieces." "_chat maudit_! but what has that to do with your daughter's going to the ferry?" "everything. it was a bottle of best french brandy--unfortunately the only one we had in the house. and as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else i could spare. so i've sent mary to the welsh harp for another. i know your reverence prefers brandy to wine." "madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. but i'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. above all, i regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your mademoiselle marie. henceforth i shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold." "don't say that, father rogier. please don't. mary didn't think it disagreeable. i should have been angry with her if she had. on the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. but poor it is--i'm sorry to tell you--and will need the drop of cognac to make it at all palatable." "you underrate your _menu_, madame; if it be anything like what i've been accustomed to at your table. still, i cannot help feeling regret at ma'mselle's having been sent to the ferry--the roads in such condition. and so dark, too--she may have a difficulty in finding her way. which did she go by--the path or the lane? your own interrogatory to myself--almost verbatim--_c'est drole_!" with but a vague comprehension of the interpolated french and latin phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder: "indeed, i can't say which. i never thought of asking her. however, mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the foot plank a night like this. she knows it's loose. ah!" she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon up! i'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home." "how long is it since she went off?" mrs morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming: "mercy me! it's half-past nine! she's been gone a good hour!" her surprise is natural. to rugg's ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. how are the other twenty being spent? buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. she has not kept it! and what can be keeping _her_? her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. she can neither tell nor guess. but the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain--greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. instead, with simulated calmness, he says: "suppose i step out and see whether she be near at hand?" "if your reverence would. but please don't stay for her. supper's quite ready, and evan will be in by the time i get it dished. i wonder what's detaining mary!" if she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one. "no matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. if not, she must go--" the priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. he is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat--without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes--then glides out and off across the garden. mrs morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. perhaps she too, has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper. if she but knew the tale he, father rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead! volume two, chapter ii. a fatal step. having passed out through the gate, rogier turns along the wall; and, proceeding at a brisk pace to where it ends in an angle, there comes to a halt. on the same spot where about an hour before stopped mary morgan--for a different reason. she paused to consider which of the two ways she would take; he has no intention of taking either, or going a step farther. whatever he wishes to say to her can be said where he now is, without danger of its being overheard at the house--unless spoken in a tone louder than that of ordinary conversation. but it is not on this account he has stopped; simply that he is not sure which of the two routes she will return by--and for him to proceed along either would be to risk the chance of not meeting her at all. but that he has some idea of the way she will come, with suspicion of why and what is delaying her, his mutterings tell: "_morbleu_! over an hour since she set out! a tortoise could have crawled to the ferry, and crept back within the time! for a demoiselle with limbs lithe and supple as hers--pah! it can't be the brandy bottle that's the obstruction. nothing of the kind. corked, capsuled, wrapped, ready for delivery--in all two minutes, or at most, three! she so ready to run for it, too--herself proposed going! odd, that to say the least. only understandable on the supposition of something prearranged. an assignation with the river triton for sure! yes; he's the anchor that's been holding her--holds her still. likely, they're somewhat under the shadow of that wood, now--standing--sitting--ach! i wish i but knew the spot; i'd bring their billing and cooing to an abrupt termination. it will not do for me to go on guesses; i might miss the straying damsel with whom this night i want a word in particular--must have it. monsieur coracle may need binding a little faster, before he consents to the service required of him. to ensure an interview with her it is necessary to stay on this spot, however trying to patience." for a second or two he stands motionless, though all the while active in thought, his eyes also restless. these, turning to the wall, show him that it is overgrown with ivy. a massive cluster on its crest projects out, with hanging tendrils, whose tops almost touch the ground. behind them there is ample room for a man to stand upright, and so be concealed from the eyes of anyone passing, however near. "_grace a dieu_!" he exclaims, observing this; "the very place. i must take her by surprise. that's the best way when one wants to learn how the cat jumps. ha! _cette chat_ tom; how very opportune his mischievous doings--for mademoiselle! well, i must give _madame la mere_ counsel better to guard against such accidents hereafter; and how to behave when they occur." he has by this ducked his head, and stepped under the arcading evergreen. the position is all he could desire. it gives him a view of both ways by which on that side the farmhouse can be approached. the cart lane is directly before his face, as is also the footpath when he turns towards it. the latter leading, as already said, along a hedge to the orchard's bottom, there crosses the brook by a plank--this being about fifty yards distant from where he has stationed himself. and as there is now moonlight he can distinctly see the frail footbridge, with a portion of the path beyond, where it runs through straggling trees, before entering the thicker wood. only at intervals has he sight of it, as the sky is mottled with masses of cloud, that every now and then, drifting over the moon's disc, shut off her light with the suddenness of a lamp extinguished. when she shines he can himself be seen. standing in crouched attitude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey--ready to spring forward and seize it. for nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. he listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. after the pleasant _tete-a-tete_, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time. just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from mary morgan. it is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman's; instead the figure of a man! neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side! "_sainte vierge_!" exclaims the priest, _sotto voce_. "what can all that mean? and who--" he stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too--at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached. why? it may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. the man may be a stranger-some fellow on teams who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse--more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach? while thus conjecturing, rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock. "sharp fellow?" thinks the priest; "with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! he's fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! ha! i'm wrong; he don't design crossing it after all!" this as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of passing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! and with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation. now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. not long till he learns who the man is. just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression--that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood! rogier recognises coracle dick, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there. "_que diantre_!" he exclaims, in surprise; "what can that devil be after! coming up to the plank and not crossing--ha! yonder's a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? ma'mselle mary at last!" this as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook. the brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. he is a frenchman, and to help her over the footplank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry. as he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. she approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red--flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat. boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted--could not be--a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. the daughter of evan morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life! she makes it, the priest alone being witness. he sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them! volume two, chapter iii. a suspicious waif. on returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty--a little matter to be settled with his mother. not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. if questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? he dislikes telling her another lie. it came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while. on reflection he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. he has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her-unsuccessfully, as he now knows. while still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. in his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. during one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the door-step. her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. her words declare the same. "why, jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye beant a comin' from the ferry that way?" the interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. no use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly-"well, mother, to speak the truth, i ha'nt been to the ferry at all. an' i must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye--that 'bout the _mary_ wantin' repairs." "i suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, i ain't a-goin' to worrit ye about it. i'm glad the boat be all right, as i ha' got good news for you." "what?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off. "well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. there's been one arready." "who? not the captain?" "no, not him. but a grand livery chap; footman or coachman--i ain't sure which--only that he came frae a squire powell's, 'bout a mile back." "oh! i know squire powell--him o' new hall, i suppose it be. what did the sarvint say?" "that if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river." "how far did the man say? if they be bound to chepstow or even but tintern, i don't think i could go; unless they start monday mornin'. i'm 'gaged to the captain for thursday, ye know; an if i went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back--an' bare time." "monday! why, it's the morrow they want ye." "sunday! that's queerish, too. squire powell's family be a sort o' strict religious, i've heerd." "that's just it. the livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it." "i think i know the one, an' can take them there well enough. what answer did you gie to the man?" "that ye could take 'em, an' would. i know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church wouldn't mind its bein' sunday." "sartinly not. why should i?" asks jack, who is anything but a sabbatarian. "where do they weesh the boat to be took? or am i to wait for 'em here?" "yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. six o'clock. he sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, and they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church." "all right! i'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may." "in that case, my son; ye better get to your bed at once. ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. should ye like take a drop o' somethin' 'fores you lie down?" "well, mother; i don't mind. just a glass o' your elderberry." she opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine--home made, and by her own hands. quaffing it, he observes:-"it be the best stuff i know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him feel cheery. i've heerd the captain hisself say, it beats their _spanish port_ all to pieces." though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, _is_ superior to that of oporto. curious scientific fact, i believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the _sambucus_ is that most favourable to the growth of the grape. without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good night, retires to his sleeping room. getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of mary morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her. there is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. up he instantly is and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on sundays and holidays. the mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived. hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young mr powell, his pretty sister, and two others--a lady and gentleman, also young. soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. the footman goes with them--the _mary_ having seats for six. rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves; gaily, now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than sunday. but their boatman is merry also, with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. above all he is pleased with the appearance of miss powell, a very beautiful girl; and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to mary morgan. his eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing abergann. out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. it is not yet seven o'clock, but the morgans are early risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to _matins_, and possibly confession at the rugg's ferry chapel. he dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice. pulling on down he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. for just below abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices. but further on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow lands of llangorren. before turning the bend, where gwen wynn and eleanor lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar. "what is it, wingate?" asks young powell, observing his strange behaviour. "oh! a waif--that plank floating yonder! i suppose you'd like to pick it up! but remember! it's sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy." little think the four who smile at this remark--five with the footman-what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them. nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river--hangs heavy on his heart as lead! returning, he looks out for the piece of timber; but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman. kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to new hall. impatient are they to be home. far more--for a different reason--the waterman; who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. the plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart. not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees. he does not wait for her to speak, but asks excitedly:-"what's the matter, mother?" the question is mechanical--he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature. "oh, my son, my son! as i told ye. it _was the canwyll corph_!" volume two, chapter iv. "the flower of love-lies-bleeding." there is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of abergann. not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral. and a funeral it is, or soon to be. for, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse--that of her, who, had she lived, would have been jack wingate's wife. mary morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide--her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. no one to save her--not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly frenchman; who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there stopped,--only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam-crested; only to listen to her agonised cry, further off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom. once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle with death--proclaiming death the conqueror. then all was over. as he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. he could see nothing--nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. too late it was to save mary morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered. it is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. though remote the situation of the farm-stead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. this partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the respect in which evan morgan is held by his neighbours, far and near. they are there in their best attire, men and women alike, protestants as catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel. nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. no hint, or suspicion, that there has been foul play. how could there? so clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning--brief and purely _pro forma_. mrs morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. even had wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. the farm labourers and others, accustomed to cross by it, gave testimony as to its having been loose. but of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. father rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. he is now in possession of a secret that will make richard dempsey his slave for life--his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity. the hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. it is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. the men stand outside in groups, some in the little flower garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced herefords and "bye-land" sheep; of which last evan morgan is a noted breeder. inside the house are the women--some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. all admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. the corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. there lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing fingers," beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity. the stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. mrs morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief; a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her. there is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing as though the heart within were about to break. none wonder at this; for it is jack wingate. still, there are those who think it strange his being there--above all, as if made welcome. they know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of mrs morgan. beside that bed of death all who were dear to her daughter, were dear to her now. and she is aware that the young waterman was so. for he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted. but where is the other, the false one? not there--never has been since the fatal occurrence. came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture. there are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it--not even mrs morgan herself. the thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter. the hour for closing the coffin has come. they but await the priest to say some solemn words. he has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. a personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere. for all, he does not fail. while inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him. presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. his are upon the face of the corpse--at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. but continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised, or unusually interested him. it affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures. the lid is laid on, covering the form of mary morgan--for ever veiling her face from the world. then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside. there is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. on the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following. on to the rugg's ferry chapel,--into its cemetery, late consecrated. there lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the roman catholic religion covered up, and turfed over. then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of mary morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them. there is one exception; this is a mail not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. the chapel burying-ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new made grave. all this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. the darkness favouring him, he is not. reaching the sacred spot he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him--one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. it is that known to country people as "the flower of love-lies-bleeding" (_amaranthus caudatus_). closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. one near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:-"mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and i know you'll forgie me, if i've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. oh, dear, dear mary! i'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. as god's my witness i would." for a time he is silent, giving way to his grief--so wild as to seem unbearable. and just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. a plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! "my mother--my poor mother--no!" these few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and returning to the boat again rows himself home--but never with so heavy a heart. volume two, chapter v. a french femme de chambre. of all who assisted at the ceremony of mary morgan's funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. in his official capacity he did all he could to hasten it; soon as it was over hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying-ground, and into his own house, near by. such haste would have appeared strange--even indecent--but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the ferry-boat. arriving there, the charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him--in a walk. clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though judging by the expression of his countenance he is inclined to it. the route he is on would conduct to llangorren court--several miles distant--and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. he does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there--least of all to gwen wynn. she might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home. yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. true to her fashionable instincts and _toilette_ necessities, miss linton keeps a french maid, and it is with this damsel father rogier designs having an interview. he is thoroughly _en rapport_ with the _femme de chambre_ and through her, aided by the confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about. his confidence that he will not have long his walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. with the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate--with almost a certainty of being able to see her. not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. rare the park in herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of llangorren. not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion--as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner--but several hundred yards distant. it passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. there is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. but only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed. it is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to father rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the court attaching a piece of white paper, he has taken out of his pocket. this done with due caution, and care that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by--to await the upshot of his telegraphy. his haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. one of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of cheltenham takes her accustomed _siesta_--before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. while the mistress sleeps the maid is free to dispose of herself, as she pleases. it was to hit this interlude of leisure father rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the _femme de chambre_. gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. but he knows she will turn up again. and she does, after a short time; coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated. "ah! _ma bonne_!" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. "you've been prompt! i didn't expect you quite so soon. madame la chatelaine oblivious, i apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?" "yes, pere; she was when i stole off. but she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive--earlier than usual. so i must get back immediately." "i'm not going to detain you very long. i chanced to be passing, and thought i might as well have a word with you--seeing it's the hour when you're off duty. by the way, i hear you're about to have grand doings at the court--a ball, and what not?" "_oui, m'sieu; oui_." "when is it to be?" "on thursday. mademoiselle celebrates _son jour de naissance_--the twenty-first, making her of age. it is to be a grand fete as you say. they've been all last week preparing for it." "among the invited le capitaine ryecroft, i presume?" "o yes. i saw madame write the note inviting him--indeed took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy." "he visits often at the court of late?" "very often--once a week, sometimes twice." "and comes down the river by boat; doesn't he!" "in a boat. yes--comes and goes that way." her statement is reliable, as father rogier has reason to believe-having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep's eyes, not at captain ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the _mary_ as either the boat's owner or charterer. "always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. "you're quite sure of that, _ma fille_?" "oh, quite, pere!" "mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. i think, you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair, at his departure?" "often! always." "always?" "_toujours_! i never knew it otherwise. either the boat stair, or the pavilion." "ah! the summer-house! they hold their _tete-a-tete_ there at times; do they?" "yes; they do." "but not when he leaves at a late hour--as, for instance, when he dines at the court; which i know he has done several times?" "oh, yes; even then. only last week he was there for dinner; and ma'mselle gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion--to bid adieus. no matter what the time to her. _ma foi_! i'd risk my word she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. and why shouldn't she, pere rogier? is there any harm in it?" the question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were jack wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has. "oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm, whatever, and no business of ours. mademoiselle wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number _vingt-un_. but," he adds, dropping the role of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, "i fear i'm keeping you too long. as i've said, chancing to come by i signalled--chiefly to tell you, that next sunday we have high mass in the chapel. with special prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last saturday night, and whom we've just this day interred. i suppose you've heard?" "no, i haven't. who pere?" her question may appear strange, rugg's ferry being so near to llangorren court and abergann still nearer. but for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but natural enough. equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. "_marie, la fille de fermier morgan_." the expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive--being almost that of joy! for not only has she seen mary morgan at the chapel, but something besides--heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, wingate. in the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says "_bonjour_!" and departs. she is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way. volume two, chapter vi. the poacher at home. coracle dick lives all alone. if he have relatives they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother--is believed dead. not less solitary is coracle's place of abode. situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends; the dell itself being a _cul-de-sac_. its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest. coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. the present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, _pur sang_--at least, so far as is known. and it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages--with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. he has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game; making as free with both as ever did alan-a-dale. but, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the welsh harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. but, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. he is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. and though ever ready to stand treat in the harp tap-room he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves--often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be well for its owner. more than half time however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. its door shut, and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. then only a rough lurcher dog--a dangerous animal, too--is guardian of the place. not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. the most valuable moveable inside were not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. it is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession--running down hares or rabbits. -----------------------------------------------------------------------it is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of mary morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the rugg's ferry chapel. a wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. the autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. around the dwelling of dick dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended. every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. the hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. the coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside--for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. and before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. what these are might be told by the aroma; a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. ground game at that, for coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. handier to no man than him were the recipe of mrs glass, for he comes up to all its requirements-even the primary and essential one--knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it. the stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate--the time-honoured willow pattern--with a knife and two-pronged fork. there is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler. drawing his chair up, coracle commences eating. the hare is a young one--a leveret he has just taken from the stubble--tender and juicy-delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside! at such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon! this night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. but there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time--of being taken handcuffed to the county jail--thence before a court of assize--and finally to the scaffold! he has reason to apprehend all this. notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man's voice, which he fancied to be that of father rogier. from what he has since heard he is now certain of it. the coroner's inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. his only uncertainty is, whether rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. true, the priest has nothing said of him at the 'quest; for all he, coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. no wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits. withal he has no remorse. when he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon garran-hill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. it will not be till he have the other life--that of jack wingate. he has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. he has been long plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. and now the thing seems no nearer than ever--this night farther off. in his present frame of mind--with the dread of the gallows upon it--he would be too glad to cry quits, and let wingate live! starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking. not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling. its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. there is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. he would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze. while thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated; this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying: "open your door, monsieur dick." not a policeman, then; only the priest! volume two, chapter vii. a mysterious contract. "only the priest!" muttered coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman. giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "that you, father rogier?" "_c'est moi_!" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "ah! _mon bracconier_! you're having something nice for supper. judging by the aroma _ragout_ of hare. hope i haven't disturbed you. is it hare?" "it was, your reverence, a bit of leveret." "was! you've finished then. it is all gone?" "it is. the dog had the remains of it, as ye see." he points to the dish on the floor. "i'm sorry at that--having rather a relish for leveret. it can't be helped, however." "i wish i'd known ye were comin'. dang the dog!" "no, no! don't blame the poor dumb brute. no doubt, it too has a taste for hare, seeing it's half hound. i suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?" "yes, your reverence. there be a good wheen o' them about." "in that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, i'll have it jugged for myself. by the way, what have you got in that black jack?" "it's brandy." "well, monsieur dick; i'll thank you for a mouthful." "will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?" "neat--raw. the night's that, and the two raws will neutralise one another. i feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm." "it be a fearsome night. i wonder at your reverence bein' out--exposin' yourself in such weather!" "all weathers are alike to me--when duty calls. just now i'm abroad on a little matter of business that won't brook delay." "business--wi' me?" "with you, _mon bracconier_!" "what may it be, your reverence?" "sit down, and i shall tell you. it's too important to be discussed standing." the introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand. after a sip, he resumes speech with the remark: "if i mistake not, you are a poor man, monsieur dempsey?" "you ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, father rogier." "and you'd like to be a rich one?" thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. smilingly, he makes reply: "i can't say as i'd have any particular objection. 'stead, i'd like it wonderful well." "you can be, if so inclined." "i'm ever so inclined, as i've sayed. but how, your reverence? in this hard work-o'-day world 'tant so easy to get rich." "for you, easy enough. no labour and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows." "somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?" "no; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four people. do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?" "i think i do. i've a friend, the name o' rob trotter, who's got just sich a boat. he'd lend it me, sure." "charter it, if he doesn't. never mind about the price. i'll pay." "when might you want it, your reverence?" "on thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past." "and where am i to bring it?" "to the ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till i come to you. don't leave it to go up to the `harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. as the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything i'm now saying to you. the service i want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about." "may i have a hint o' what it is?" "not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat. there will be another along with me--may be two--to assist in the affair. what will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as you displayed on saturday night_." no need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him. "how--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror. the double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate. "you have asked two questions, monsieur dick, that call for separate replies. to the first, `how?' i leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. with the second i'll be more particular, if you wish me. place--where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of abergann. it--the plank, i mean--last saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the wye. need i tell you who sent it, richard dempsey?" the man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well nigh crazed. excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. he almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him! only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice: "i don't want to know, one way or the other. damn the plank! what do i care?" "you shouldn't blaspheme, monsieur dick. that's not becoming--above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. however, you're excited, as i see, which is in some sense an excuse." "i beg your reverence's pardon. i was a bit excited about something." he has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. the priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. still further quieted as the latter continues: "never mind about what. we can talk of it afterwards. as i've made you aware--more than once, if i rightly remember--there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. on thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. so, be there with the boat!" "i will, your reverence; sure as my name's richard dempsey." idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. he can be trusted to come as if led in a string. for he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of father rogier. "enough!" returns the priest. "if there be anything else i think of communicating to you before thursday i'll come again--to-morrow night. so be at home. meanwhile, see to securing the boat. don't let there be any failure about that, _coute que coute_. and let me again enjoin silence--not a word to any one, even your friend rob. _verbum sapientibus_! but as you're not much of a scholar, monsieur coracle, i suppose my latin's lost on you. putting it in your own vernacular, i mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. you comprehend?" to the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,-"i do, father rogier; perfectly." "that's sufficient. and now, _mon bracconier_, i must be gone. before starting out, however, i'll trench a little further on your hospitality. just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials." saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy--best cognac from the "harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure. having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. true, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. and yet they are bad enough. he is in the toils--the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. for his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil! while thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. a voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. he can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. but his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. that heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind. "bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. what a fool fear makes a man!" and with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake--kept so by that same fear. volume two, chapter viii. the game of pique. the sun has gone down upon gwen wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and llangorren court is in a blaze of light. for a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball. the night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. for although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. the drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all. besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. a sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better. the _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and miss linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. being the last entertainment at llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way. but as she is to remain resident at the court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in europe" redivivus. if her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour. strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! but in truth, so is it. notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--gwen wynn is herself anything but gay. instead, sad, almost to wretchedness! and from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. it has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of piques. she and captain ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. in love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events as friends sorely estranged. she began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. but when, touched with compassion for george shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing-too familiarly, as captain ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiance_, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves. in his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. this in the person of miss powell; she also went to church on the sunday before in jack wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or gwen wynn be the attraction of the evening. though only just introduced, the hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. his appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession. and so between him and gwen wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later. on both sides it reaches its maximum, when miss wynn, after a waltz, leaning on george shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot. not far off is captain ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with miss powell--put at end to _her_ new sprung aspirations, if she has any. it does as much for the hopes of george shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make gwen wynn a proposal of marriage. he makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter. "gwen! you know how i love you--would give my life for you! will you be--" only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked. "be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere. "my wife?" she starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response. and how is she to give it, with least pain to him? perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. so thinking, she says:-"george, it can never be. look at that!" she holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels. "at what?" he asks, not comprehending. "that ring." she indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "engaged." "o god!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "is that so?" "it is." for a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad. with a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies:-"dear gwen! for i must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!" despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of george shenstone causes surprise to gwen wynn, while still further paining her. so much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille--the lancers--about to begin. still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh. nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees captain ryecroft _vis-a-vis_ with miss powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph! in this moment of gwen wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite-were george shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "i will!" it is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. in the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier. volume two, chapter ix. jealous as a tiger. it is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads. by the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. the musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_. gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured b and s; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded. soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off. that of squire powell is among them; and captain ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door. having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. it is a large portico, with corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. but there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. he feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. nor is it so unnatural. here is a woman--not miss powell, but gwen wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation! it is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of sir george shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. but to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter. he does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. for to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. he only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. if she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. flirting while engaged--what might she do when married? he does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. the suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away. not resolutely. besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. he is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. he is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. but there is more. the very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. he thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase, "having it out." just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. having taken leave of miss linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. miss wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. as they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. it is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to others of the company. equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying-"why, captain ryecroft! i supposed you were gone long ago!" "i am sorry, miss wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness." "captain ryecroft" and "miss wynn," instead of "vivian" and "gwen!" it is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending. the rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly-"o! certainly not, sir. but where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking." "true; and, availing myself of that, i might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for--" "for what?" "a word i wish to speak with you--alone. can i?" "oh, certainly." "not here?" he asks suggestingly. she glances around. there are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps. with quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. she has an indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds. side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. and never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion. there is light in it. but a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly. she is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying-"there was a day, miss wynn, when, standing on this spot, i thought myself the happiest man in herefordshire. now i know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination." "i do not understand you, captain ryecroft!" "oh yes, you do. pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason." "indeed! in what way? i beg, nay, demand, explanation." "you shall have it; though superfluous, i should think, after what has been passing--this night especially." "oh! this night especially! i supposed you so much engaged with miss powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. what was it, pray?" "you understand, i take it, without need of my entering into particulars." "indeed, i don't; unless you refer to my dancing with george shenstone." "more than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!" "not strange that; seeing i was left so free to keep it! besides, as i suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend." she makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. he has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees that among them miss powell is no longer chief trump. were his perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored. unfortunately it is not to be. still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins, sneeringly-"and i suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! had i thought of that when i placed a ring upon your finger--" before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort-"you insult me, sir! take it back!" with the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off. he has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins, defiantly:-"if you wish it to end so, let it!" "yes; let it!" they part without further speech. he, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor. neither does she touch, or think of it. were it the koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. a jewel more precious--the one love of her life is lost--cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears. the wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. still dark, she sees nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night. she may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again! at the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "this the ending! it is too--" what she designed saying is not said. her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead! not by the visitation of god. before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence. volume two, chapter x. stunned and silent. down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. he has been up to the house and there hospitably entertained--feasted. but with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him--instead, only saddening the more. even the blandishments of the french _femme de chambre_ could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars. seated, pipe in mouth--for jack too indulges in tobacco--he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. and it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at rugg's ferry. while thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears, which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. if anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well-trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. he, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself-"wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night--mornin', i ought to say? wouldn't be a tourist party--starting off so early? no, can't be that. like enough dick dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! the night so dark--just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business." while thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face. "yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. if't had been a regular boat's oar i'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins." for once the waterman is in error. it is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. and why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. were he out in the main channel--two hundred yards above the bye-way--he would see the craft itself with three men in it. but only at that instant; as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"--flooded by the freshet--and pushed on through them to the bank beyond. soon it touches _terra firma_, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of llangorren court. the third remains by the boat. meanwhile, jack wingate, in his skiff, continues listening. but hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it; again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. if he but knew how near the two things were together--the burying-ground and the boat--he would not be long in his own. relieved he is, when at length voices are heard up at the house--calls for carriages--proclaiming the ball about to break up. still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off. for nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort--a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock--that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected. instead of footstep, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. nothing to surprise him that? it is not first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. but it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now--to his astonishment that of anger. "they be quarrelling, i declare," he says to himself. "wonder what for! somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball--bit o' jealousy, maybe? i shudn't be surprised if it's about young mr shenstone. sure as eggs is eggs, the captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. he needn't, though; an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. course, bein' deep in love, he can't. i seed it long ago. she be mad about him as he o' her--if not madder. well; i daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel an'll soon blow over. woe's me! i weesh--" he would say "i weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek. fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. the footstep, so long listened for, is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated! but wingate does not believe it is that. he knows the captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. he has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it! the conjectures of the waterman, are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask--"are you there, jack?" the pitchy darkness accounts for the question. receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. he seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "yes; let it!" he knows where the skiff should be--where it was left--beyond the pleasure boat. the dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other--make a gang-plank of the _gwendoline_. as he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the forest of dean fellow? or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? neither. he is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black bitter present. still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. a command promptly obeyed, and in silence. jack can see the captain is out of sorts, and suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. he says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the bye-way. just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion-by looking back. and captain ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. the light is still there, burning dimly as ever. for all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy _silhouette_--a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it. he knows who it is; it can only be gwen wynn. well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. if he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together--perhaps never more to part in spite. just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and captain ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock. volume two, chapter xi. a startling cry. during all this while wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. with face that way he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. had he any doubt the behaviour of the other would remove it. "miss wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing. again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill directed. but he forbears making remark. at such a moment his interference might not be tolerated--perhaps resented. and so the silence continues. not much longer. a thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. it is done for a kindly feeling--for he sees how the other suffers--but in part because he has a reason for it. the observation is-"we're goin' to have the biggest kind o' a rainpour captain." the captain makes no immediate response. still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo. after a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to and asks-"what did you observe, wingate?" "that there be a rain storm threatening o' the grandest sort. there's flood enough now; but afore long it'll be all over the meadows." "why do you think that? i see no sign. the sky's very much clouded true; but it has been just the same for the last several days." "'tan't the sky as tells me, captain." "what then?" "the _heequall_." "the heequall?" "yes. it's been a cacklin' all through the afternoon and evenin'-especial loud just as the sun wor settin'. i niver know'd it do that 'ithout plenty o' wet comin' soon after." ryecroft's interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says:-"you're talking enigmas, jack! at least they are so to me. what is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? beast, bird, or fish?" "it be a bird, captain? i believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker; but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_." the orthography is according to jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word. "anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-glass. when it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. while i wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swishin' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if i hadn't enough o' the disagreeable to think o'. they allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. hark! did ye hear that, captain?" "i did." they speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river. both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with mary morgan. he knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar! "that waren't no heequall; nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper. "what do you think it was?" asks the captain, also _sotto voce_. "the scream o' a female. i'm 'most sure 'twor that." "it certainly did seem a woman's voice. in the direction of the court, too!" "yes; it comed that way." "i've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. what say you, wingate?" "gie the word, sir! i'm ready." the boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, ryecroft still undecided. both listen with bated breath. but, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle," of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird. "like as not," says jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin' in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. there's a frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores i left. i think, captain, we may as well keep on." the waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket. but his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. there all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. the lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants. "she has gone away from it," is ryecroft's reflection to himself. "i wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her! i'd give something to know that." beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom no doubt. she may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! her face in the glass--what the expression upon it? sadness, or joy? if the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of george shenstone. as this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman-"row back, wingate! pull hard, and let us home!" once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. the sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death! as the _mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking-"will ye want me the morrow, captain?" "no, jack." "how soon do you think? 'scuse me for questionin'; but young mr powell have been here the day, to know if i could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the channel. it's for sea fishin' or duck shootin' or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. but, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. that be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again." "perhaps never." "oh! captain; don't say that. 'tan't as i care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. believe me it ain't. ye can have me an' the _mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. but to think i'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, captain." "more than i give you credit for! it couldn't, jack. we've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. though i may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. and now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this." the waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. it is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much. for it is all extra of his fare. with a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly-"i can't take it, captain. you ha' paid me too handsome, arredy." "nonsense, man! i haven't done anything of the kind. besides, that isn't for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, i take it." "that case i accept. but won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, captain. will ye let me wake her up? i'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift." "no, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. in the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. say to her, when i return to herefordshire--if i ever do--she shall see me. for yourself, take my word, should i ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the _mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the wye." modest though jack wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining-"i'd call it flattery, captain, if't had come from anybody but you. but i know ye never talk nonsense; an' that's just why i be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. i feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. good night!" the hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. the lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "good night" is said as ryecroft springs up on his stirrup. then as he rides away into the darkness, and jack wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anchored to life--his aged mother! volume two, chapter xii. making ready for the road. having reached his hotel, captain ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night. the first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. not a heavy task. his luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the _route_. his fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. after which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels. but now a difficulty occurs to him--the address! his name of course, but what the destination? up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the wye. there is no lethe in that stream for memories like his. to his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. thus his visit to herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career. fortunately he was not dependent on it; for captain ryecroft is a rich man. and yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in hindostan. dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. besides, since his return from india, he has paid a visit to the capital of the emerald isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present. whither then? one place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself-the metropolis of the world. he will proceed thither, though not there to stay. only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the french one. in that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion--maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it. so determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "london" on the labels. but as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering. strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. better still with a cigar between his teeth-powerful help to reflection. aware of this, captain ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. he is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article. along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either london or paris. he cannot yet. the happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. the "fond rage of love" is still active within him. is it to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? no. not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not. "never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections. whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him. "after all, i may be wronging her. if so, may god forgive, as i hope he will pity me. for if so, i am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she." as in ocean's storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. it is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, assume a less repulsive aspect. gwen wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. so reversed his sentiments now-modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again! but just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. it is a hit of gossip between two stable-men--attaches of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver. "ye had a big time last night at llangorren?" says the former, inquiringly. "ah! that ye may say," returns the jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "never knowed a bigger, s'help me. wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. i'm so full o' french champagne, i feel most like burstin'." "she be a grand gal, that miss wynn. an't she?" "in course is--one o' the grandest. but she an't going to be a _girl_ long. by what i heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness." "wi' who?" "the son o' sir george shenstone." "a good match they'll make, i sh'd say. tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. many's the time he's tipped me." there is more of the same sort, but captain ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. in all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. for again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder--"yes; let it." his own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment-_mr vivian ryecroft, passenger to london_, _g.w.r_. he cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly. in fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. he is too proud, and still too doubting for that. only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. upon the answer--if he receive one-will depend whether it is to be the last. with pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. it bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date. this done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. the larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. but the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch. with this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. he dreads another change of resolution. folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes-_miss wynn_, _llangorren court_. then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box. he knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. it might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "langham, london." and while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the gr.w.r., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis. volume two, chapter xiii. a slumbering household. as calm succeeds a storm, so at llangorren court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. the domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. the more important functionaries of this department--coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies. inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. the higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _roles_ yawningly, and with reluctance. there are two lady's-maids in the establishment; the little french demoiselle attached to miss linton, and an english damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon miss wynn. the former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. this morning is an exception. after such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse. as her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her. not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour. while dressing herself she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke. not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. the dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young mistress's dressing-room. there awaiting miss wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m! reflection following:-"miss gwen must be in her bed by this! wonder why she didn't wake me up? rang no bell? surely i'd have heard it? if she did, and i haven't answered--well; the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado about it. i suppose she thought i'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to disturb me? but how could she think that? besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!" the dressing-room is an ante-chamber of miss wynn's sleeping apartment. "she mightn't though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim,--"still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?" gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. the result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bedchamber door. "sound asleep! i can't go in now. mustn't--i daren't awake her." saying which the negligent attendant slips off to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock. conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet. her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to miss wynn's sleeping room. not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it. she does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. it is a standing order of the house, and pleased to be precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty. the first of the family proper, appearing down stairs is eleanor lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post. with indifferent success. it is a metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. three or four long-winded "leaders," the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "police intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to daniel driscoll, of the seven dials, how he blackened the eye of bridget sullivan, and bit off pat kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all their prurience of detail; court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "london daily" even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientele_ of readers! scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! if there be anything in england half a century behind the age it is its metropolitan press--immeasurably inferior to the provincial. no wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at. and after glancing at them, miss lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten-about all it is worth. having thus settled scores with the newspaper she hardly knows what next to do. she has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. a poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. two or three for miss linton, with quite half a dozen for gwen. of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from captain ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification. "there was a coolness between them last night," remarks miss lees to herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. if i were given to making wagers, i'd bet that it tells of his repentance. so soon, though! it must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery. what!" she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. "one from george shenstone, too! it, i dare say, is in a different strain, if that i saw--ha!" she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go mr shenstone's epistle, "william! is it possible--so early?" not only possible, but an accomplished fact. the reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house. she does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way. into the morning room mr musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. he oft comes for luncheon, and miss lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which miss linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. of course, the curate has been at the ball; but, like "slippery sam," erst bishop of oxford, not much in the dancing room. for all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of miss wynn to captain ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of sir george shenstone--in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour. nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than miss lees to respond to such interrogation. their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different from the stormy passionate combat between gwendoline wynn and vivian ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little remembering that of george shenstone. for a time are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought--one eleanor lees, the other william musgrave. volume two, chapter xiv. "where's gwen?" not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. miss linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast-room, supported by her french _femme de chambre_. graciously saluting mr musgrave, she moves towards the table's head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam--flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. taking her seat, she asks: "where's gwen?" "not down yet," meekly responds miss lees, "at least i haven't seen anything of her." "ah! she beats us all to-day," remarks the ancient toast of cheltenham, "in being late," she adds, with a laugh at her little _jeu d'esprit_. "usually such an early riser, too. i don't remember having ever been up before her. well, i suppose she's fatigued, poor thing!--quite done up. no wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody." "not everybody, aunt!" says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. "there was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. wasn't it a little strange?" this in a whisper and aside. "ah! true. you mean captain ryecroft?" "yes." "it was a little strange. i observed it myself. she seemed distant with him, and he with her. have you any idea of the reason, nelly?" "not in the least. only i fancy something must have come between them." "the usual thing; lover's tiff i suppose. ah, i've seen a great many of them in my time. how silly men and women are--when they're in love. are they not, mr musgrave?" the curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself. "of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circumstances. no!" she exclaims, contradicting herself, "when i think of it, no. i've seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about beau brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! beau brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! ha! ha! ha!" there is a _soupcon_ of spleen in the tone of miss linton's laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy. "what could be more ridiculous?" she goes on. "when one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. well;" taking hold of the _cafetiere_, and filling her cup, "it's time for that young lady to be downstairs. if she hasn't been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. bless me," glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, "it's after eleven, clarisse," to the _femme de chambre_, still in attendance, "tell miss wynn's maid to say to her mistress we're waiting breakfast. _veet, tray veet_!" she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but parisian. off trips the french demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, miss wynn's maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. it is the english damsel who delivers it in the vernacular. "miss gwen isn't in her room; nor hasn't been all the night long." miss linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea fowl's egg, as the maid makes the announcement. were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete. dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands: "what do you mean, gibbons?" gibbons is the girl's name. "oh, ma'am! just what i've said." "say it again. i can't believe my ears." "that miss gwen hasn't slept in her room." "and where has she slept?" "the goodness only knows." "but you ought to know. you're her maid--you undressed her?" "i did not--i am sorry to say," stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, "very sorry i didn't." "and why didn't you, gibbons? explain that." thus brought to book, the peccant gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. no use concealing aught--it must come out anyhow. "and you're quite sure she has not slept in her room?" interrogates miss linton, as yet unable to realise a circumstance so strange and unexpected. "oh, yes, ma'am. the bed hasn't been lied upon by anybody--neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. and there's her nightdress over the chair, just as i laid it out for her." "very strange," exclaims miss linton, "positively alarming." for all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. llangorren court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. and she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering. "search them all!" commands miss linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her. they scatter off in different directions, miss lees along with them. "it's very extraordinary. don't you think so?" this to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her. "i do, decidedly. surely no harm has happened her. i trust not. how could there?" "true, how? still i'm a little apprehensive, and won't feel satisfied till i see her. how my heart does palpitate, to be sure." she lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it. "well, eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with gibbons behind. "what news?" "not any, aunt." "and you really think she hasn't slept in her room?" "almost sure she hasn't. the bed, as gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. besides, the dress she wore last night isn't there." "nor anywhere else, ma'am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "as you know, 'twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. i've looked everywhere, and can't find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!" the other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. no word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her. at length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. they go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young lovel lost his "own fair bride." and while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of llangorren court have the romantic tale in their minds. not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "mistletoe bough." male and female-all have heard it sung in that same house, at every christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous. it needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertion. respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child according to their feelings and attachments. in vain--all in vain. though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of llangorren court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find gwen wynn. dead, or living, she is not in the house. volume two, chapter xv. again the engagement ring. the first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. indeed, miss linton directs it so. now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further. she has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. to suppose her carried off is too absurd--a theory not to be entertained for an instant. and having gone so, the questions are, why and whither? after all, it may be, that at the ball's departing, in the last moment when the guests were departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. with such an impulsive creature as gwen wynn, the freak was not improbable. nor is there any one to say nay. in the bustle and confusion of departure the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and gibbons sound asleep. and if true a "hue and cry" raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. to avoid this the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the court, or carry any tale outward--for the time. beguiled by this hopeful belief, miss linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the heads of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night. merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. these are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; mr musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls, at other houses, to make personal inquiry. this matter settled, the old lady waits the result, though without any very sanguine expectations of success. for another theory has presented itself to her mind--that gwen has run away with captain ryecroft! improbable as the thing might appear--miss linton, nevertheless, for a while has faith in it. it was as she might have done, some forty years before, had she but met the right man--such as he. and measuring her niece by the same romantic standard--with gwen's capriciousness thrown into the account--she ignores everything else; even the absurdity of such a step from its sheer causelessness. that to her is of little weight; no more the fact of the young lady taking flight in a thin dress, with only a shawl upon her shoulders. for gibbons called upon to give account of her wardrobe, has taken stock, and found everything in its place--every article of her mistress's drapery save the blue silk dress and indian shawl--hats and bonnets hung up, or in their boxes, but all there, proving her to have gone off bareheaded? not the less natural, reasons miss linton--instead, only a component part in the chapter of contrarieties. so, too, the coolness observed between the betrothed sweethearts throughout the preceding night--their refraining from partnership in the dances--all dissembling on their part, possibly to make the surprise of the after event more piquant and complete. so runs the imagination of the novel-reading spinster, fresh and fervid as in her days of girlhood--passing beyond the trammels of reason-leaving the bounds of probability. but her new theory is short lived. it receives a death blow from a letter which miss lees brings under her notice. it is that superscribed in the handwriting of captain ryecroft, which the companion had for the time forgotten; she having no thought that it would have anything to do with the young lady's disappearance. and the letter proves that he can have nothing to do with it. the hotel stamp, the postmark, the time of deposit and delivery are all understood, all contributing to show it must have been posted, if not written, that same morning. were she with him it would not be there. down goes the castle of romance miss linton has been constructing-wrecked--scattered as a house of cards. it is quite possible that letter contains something that would throw light upon the mystery, perhaps clear all up; and the old lady would like to open it. but she may not, dare not. gwen wynn is not one to allow tampering with her correspondence; and as yet her aunt cannot realise the fact--nor even entertain the supposition--that she is gone for good and for ever. as time passes, however, and the different messengers return, with no news of the missing lady--mr musgrave is also back without tidings--the alarm is renewed, and search again set up. it extends beyond the precincts of the house, and the grounds already explored, off into woods and fields, along the banks of river and bye wash, everywhere that offers a likelihood, the slightest, of success. but neither in wood, spinney, or coppice can they find traces of gwen wynn; all "draw blank," as george shenstone would say of a cover where no fox is found. and just as this result is reached, that gentleman himself steps upon the ground, to receive a shock such as he has rarely experienced. the news communicated is a surprise to him; for he has arrived at the court, knowing nought of the strange incident which has occurred. he has come thither on an afternoon call, not altogether dictated by ceremony. despite all that has passed--what gwen wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand--he does not even yet despair. who so circumstanced ever does? what man in love, profoundly, passionately as he, could believe his last chance eliminated; or have his ultimate hope extinguished? he had not. instead, when bidding adieu to her, after the ball, he felt some revival of it, several causes having contributed to its rekindling. among others, her gracious behaviour to himself, so gratifying; but more, her distant manner towards his rival, which he could not help observing, and saw with secret satisfaction. and still thus reflecting on it, he enters the gates at llangorren, to be stunned by the strange intelligence there awaiting him--miss wynn missing! gone away! run away! perhaps carried off! lost, and cannot be found! for in these varied forms, and like variety of voices, is it conveyed to him. needless to say, he joins in the search with ardour, but distractedly; suffering all the sadness of a torn and harrowed heart. but to no purpose; no result to soothe or console him. his skill at drawing a cover is of no service here. it is not for a fox "stole away," leaving hot scent behind; but a woman goes without print of foot or trace to indicate the direction; without word left to tell the cause of departure. withal, george shenstone continues to seek for her long after the others have desisted. for his views differ from those entertained by miss linton, and his apprehensions are of a keener nature. he remains at the court throughout the evening, making excursions into the adjacent woods, searching, and again exploring everywhere. none of the servants think it strange; all know of his intimate relations with the family. mr musgrave remains also; both of them asked to stay dinner--a meal this day eaten _sans facon_, in haste, and under agitation. when, after it, the ladies retire to the drawing-room--the curate along with them--george shenstone goes out again, and over the grounds. it is now night, and the darkness lures him on; for it was in such she disappeared. and although he has no expectation of seeing her there, some vague thought has drifted into his mind, that in darkness he may better reflect, and something be suggested to avail him. he strays on to the boat stair, looks down into the dock, and there sees the _gwendoline_ at her moorings. but he thinks only of the other boat, which, as he now knows, on the night before lay alongside her. has it indeed carried away gwen wynn? he fancies it has--he can hardly have a doubt of it. how else is her disappearance to be accounted for? but has she been borne off by force, or went she willingly? these are the questions which perplex him; the conjectured answer to either causing him keenest anxiety. after remaining a short while on the top of the stair, he turns away with a sigh, and saunters on towards the pavilion. though under the shadow of its roof the obscurity is complete, he, nevertheless, enters and sits down. he is fatigued with the exertions of the afternoon, and the strain upon his nerves through the excitement. taking a cigar from his case and nipping off the end, he rasps a fusee to light it. but, before the blue fizzing blaze dims down he drops the cigar--to clutch at an object on the floor, whose sparkle has caught his eye. he succeeds in getting hold of it, though not till the fusee has ceased flaming. but he needs no light to tell him what he has in his hand. he knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of gwen wynn's fingers--the engagement ring! volume two, chapter xvi. a mysterious embarkation. not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. as jack wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. it was raining as captain ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower bath. the river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents from plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. there is a strong wind as well, whose gusts now and then, striking the water's surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests. on the wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. and yet a boat is about to embark upon it; one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of richard dempsey. it is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by gwen wynn and eleanor lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. and almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among wye watermen. it is lying with bow to the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. during the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the rivers channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. no more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. that now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose. not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet's edge. they seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from dempsey's house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. but if they regard not getting wet,--something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? all the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings. it is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. more likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show. "they'll be sure to find the body in a day or two. possibly to-morrow, or if not, very soon. a good deal will depend on the state of the river. if this flood continue and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. no matter when; your course is clear, monsieur murdock." "but what do you advise my doing, _pere_? i'd like you to lend me your counsel--give me minute directions about everything." "in the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. such a near relative, as you are, 'twould appear strange if you didn't. all the world may not be aware of the little tiff--rather prolonged though--that's been between you. and if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts--suspicions. naturally enough. a man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! and when knowing--when `found drowned,' as she will be--not to show either sympathy or sorrow! _ma foi_! they might mob you if you didn't!" "that's true enough," grunts murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood. "you advise my going over to llangorren?" "decidedly, i do. present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. you may make the hour reasonably late; saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at glyngog--out of the way as it is. you'll find plenty of people at the court on your arrival. from what i've learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they'll be hot upon the search to-morrow. it would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as clarisse tell me, that mademoiselle had run away with the hussar! but it appears a letter has reached the court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair; proving to them it could be no elopement--at least with him. under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there'll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn't fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. to do that effectually you must show yourself at llangorren, and in good time." "there's sense in what you say. you're a very solomon, father rogier. i'll be there, trust me. is there anything else you think of." the jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. it is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action. "yes," he at length answers. "there are a good many other things, i think of. but they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. and you must guide yourself, m'sieu, as you best can. it will be quite four days, if not more, ere i can get back. they may even find the body to-morrow--if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. still, i fancy, 'twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. don't you, on any account suggest it. and should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. the longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?" "i do." "when found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint, having reference to _le capitaine ryecroft_. his having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither--decamping in such haste too--that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him--possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of miss wynn! odd succession of events, is it not?" "it is indeed." "seems as if the very fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. if we fail now, 'twill be our own fault. and that reminds me there should be no waste of time--must not. one hour of this darkness may be worth an age--or at all events ten thousand pounds per annum. _allons! vite-vite_?" he steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees. murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. they do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing--of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. it is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that laid along the boat's bottom timbers it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart. seeing that he who has thus disposed of it, is coracle dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. but the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:-"well, _mon bracconier_; have you stowed my luggage?" "it's in the boat, father rogier." "and all ready for starting?" "the minute your reverence steps in." "so, well! and now, m'sieu," he adds, turning to murdock, and again speaking in undertone, "if you play _your_ part skilfully, on return i may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the lord of llangorren. till then, adieu!" saying which he steps over the boat's side, and takes seat in its stern. shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river. lewin murdock is left standing on the brook's edge, free to go what way he wishes. soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the welsh harp--there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached rugg's ferry. volume two, chapter xvii. an anxious wife. inside glyngog house is mrs murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. but these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front at intervals opening the door, and gazing out into the night. a dark stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of father rogier, only an hour later. to her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. it is not him therefore she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. so anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the door-step, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. there is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread--set out for supper with dishes of many kinds--cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively. whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long, has been such scarcity? as no one visits at glyngog save father rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. and he would not, were he there; knowing the answer, better than anyone else. he ought. the cheer upon lewin murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on mrs murdock's face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. as moses lends money on _post obits_, at "shixty per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of glyngog, conducted thither by gregoire rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible--the treasury of the vatican. yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream. no wonder there is now brightness upon the face of olympe renault, so long shadowed. the sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. splendour, gaiety, volupte, be hers once more, and more than ever! as she stands in the door of glyngog, looking down the river, at llangorren, and through the darkness sees the court with only one or two windows alight--they but in dim glimmer--she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long--when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of that mansion. but as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. from being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. still standing in the door she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. not so to-night. she dreads to see him return intoxicated. though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. these are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:-"gregoire must have got off long ere this--at least two hours ago. he said they'd set out soon as it came night. half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. if he has gone to the ferry first, and sets to drinking in the harp? _cette auberge maudit_. there's no knowing what he may do, or say. saying would be worse than doing. a word in his cups--a hint of what has happened--might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! and such danger--_l'prise de corps, mon dieu_!" her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up. "surely he will not be so stupid--so insane? sober he can keep secrets well enough--guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. but the cognac? hark footsteps! his i hope." she listens without stirring from the spot. the tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. were her husband a frenchman it would be different. but lewin murdock, like all english country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. not as usual however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! "he isn't such a fool after all!" her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out-"_c'est vous, mon mari_?" "of course it is. who else could it be? you don't expect the father, our only visitor, to-night? you'll not see him for several days to come." "he's gone then?" "two hours ago. by this he should be miles away; unless he and coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. no unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly." she still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. she is thinking of what may have happened at the welsh harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. she is less anxious however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual coming from the "_auberge maudite_." "two hours ago they got off, you say?" "about that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed." "they did so?" "oh, yes." "_le bagage bien arrange_?" "_parfaitment_; or as we say in english, neat as a trivet. if you prefer another form; nice as ninepence." she is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for lewin murdock. coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. indeed, for some days murdock has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands-feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to completeness. now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the welsh harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:--"where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?" "part of the time at the ferry; the rest of it i've spent on paths and roads coming and going. i went up to the harp to hear what i could hear." "and what did you hear?" "nothing much to interest us. as you know, rugg's is an out of the way corner--none more so on the wye--and the llangorren news hasn't reached it. the talk of the ferry folk is all about the occurrence at abergann, which still continues to exercise them. the other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told father rogier by your countrywoman, clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon." "and has there been no search yet?" "search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons i allude to." "what are they? you haven't told me." "oh! various. some of them laughable enough. whimsies of that quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at llangorren." "ah! madame linton. how has she been taking it?" "i'll tell you after i've had something to eat and drink. you forget, olympe, where i've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. true, i've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! what have you got to reward me for it?" "_entrez_!" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_voila_!" he is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. he does not need to inquire whence it comes. he, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. but he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it--one third the estate of llangorren. "well, _ma cherie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. but i suppose there's no help for it." "none," she answers with a comprehension of the circumstances--clearer and fuller than his. "we've made the contract, and must abide by it. if broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. ah monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les jesuites_--how sharp their claws, and far reaching!" "confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side. he eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. his day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence. and while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them miss linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search. "the old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration, "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of hussars--if she don't believe it still! ha, ha, ha. she'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. _it_ will settle the business!" olympe renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at glyngog, but on a grand couch in llangorren court. volume two, chapter xviii. impatient for the post. never man looked with more impatience for a post, than captain ryecroft for the night mail from the west, its morning delivery in london. it may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, assuring his happiness or dooming him to misery. and if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same. it is scarce necessary to say, the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in herefordshire, and posted before leaving the wyeside hotel. twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the langham, london, where the response, if any, should reach him. he has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. at earliest in the langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world. it is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-hussar-officer pacing the tesselated tiles, outside the deputy-manager's moderately-sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier. it seems an inexorable certainty--though a very vexatious one--that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time--as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. even postmen are not always punctual, as vivian ryecroft has reason to know. that amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the langham till nearly half-past eight. there is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." that would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one. dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight. with no abatement of impatience captain ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted--a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilised nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp collector shed tears of concupiscence. scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon boles, ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him--at the same time giving his name. "no, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter r, and dealing them off as a pack of cards. "are you quite sure, sir? pardon me. i intend starting off within the hour, and expecting a letter of some importance, may i ask you to glance over them again?" in all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the langham. they are in fact types of the highest _hotel civilisation_. instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under r; soon as completed saying,-"no, sir; none for the name of ryecroft." he bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. the negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes--almost irritates him. it is like a blow repeated--a second slap in his face held up in humiliation--after having forgiven the first. he will not so humble himself--never forgive again. this his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel. the steam-packet service between folkestone and boulogne is "tidal." consulting bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the charing cross station, 1. therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile. how are they to be occupied? he is not in the mood for amusement. nothing in london could give him that now--neither afford him a moment's gratification. perhaps in paris? and he will try. there men have buried their griefs--women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. in the days of napoleon the little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the imperial _regime_ itself. and he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. in his present frame of mind it is possible. nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion--love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to, in all likelihood never more met! while waiting for the folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room--in the langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best. the marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. it is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. had he won, with cook, bennett, or roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same. once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly nicotian. a cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. this brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street. there to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others, affording the highest happiness on earth. for it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "all souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-bedecked, footmen wearing similar favours--an unusually stylish affair. as in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each--even the raggedest--had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite, captain ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. for the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession--at its head--followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall. a sigh, succeeded by a half angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him. on the waiter entering, he cries out-"call me a cab." "hansom, sir?" "no! four-wheeler. and this luggage; get down stairs soon as possible." his impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles having been unpacked, and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, speedy descent down the lift. a single pipe of mr trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the langham entrance in twenty seconds time; and in twenty more a traveller's luggage however heavy is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. his departure so accelerated, captain ryecroft--who had already settled his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off. but despatch ends on leaving the langham. the cab being a four-wheeler crawls along like a tortoise. fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead will be too early for the folkestone train. he only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive. shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. the hour is too early for regent street promenaders. some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. in burlesque it reminds him of the wye, and his waterman wingate! but just then something else recalls the western river, not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. the cab is passing through leicester square, one of the lungs of london, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. it is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. several of them catch the eye of captain ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. it is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the st. james's hall, for some charitable purpose of welsh speciality. programme with list of performers. at their head in largest lettering the queen of the eisteddfod:-edith wynne! to him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence, notwithstanding the difference of orthography. it seems like a nemesis pursuing him! he grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,-"drive on, jarvey, or i'll be late for my train! a shilling extra for time." if cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of heming's row, down king william street, and across the strand into the charing cross station. volume two, chapter xix. journey interrupted. captain ryecroft takes a through ticket for paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches boulogne. glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between folkestone and the french seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape. having set foot upon french soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage--how he will get the former _vised_ and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. it is not his first visit to france, nor is he unacquainted with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to _sergent de ville_ or _douanier_ will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time--quicker if it be a handsome one. peeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone. "captain ryecroft!" it exclaims in a rich rolling brogue, as of galway. "is it yourself? by the powers of moll kelly, and it is." "major mahon!" "that same, old boy. give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. a nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it? but's what brought you to boulogne?" the question takes the traveller aback. he is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming. "come, old comrade!" protests the major, good-naturedly, "that won't do; it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, i trust. but, maybe, i make too free, asking your business in boulogne?" "not at all, mahon. i have no business in boulogne; i'm on the way to paris." "oh! a pleasure trip, i suppose." "nothing of the kind. there's no pleasure for me in paris or anywhere else." "aha!" ejaculated the major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, "what's this, old fellow? something wrong?" "oh, not much--never mind." the reply is little satisfactory. but seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the major continues, apologetically-"pardon me, ryecroft. i've no wish to be inquisitive; but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. it isn't your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be, so long as you're in my company--if i can help it." "it's very kind of you, mahon; and for the short time i'm to be with you i'll do the best i can to be cheerful. it shouldn't be a great effort. i suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?" "what train?" "for paris." "you're not going to paris now--not this night?" "i am, straight on." "neither straight nor crooked, _ma bohil_!" "i must." "why must you? if you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? bother, ryecroft! you'll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? i can promise you some little amusement. boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. the smash of agra and masterman's, with overend and gurney following suite, has sent hither a host of old indians, both soldiers and civilians. no doubt you'll find many friends among them. there are lots of pretty girls, too--i don't mean natives, but our countrywomen--to whom i'll have much pleasure in presenting you." "not for the world, mahon--not one! i have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way." "what, turned hater, women too. well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there's half a dozen of the other here--good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. they're strangers to you, i think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make boulogne agreeable. come, old boy. you'll stay? say the word." "i would, major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. but, i confess, just now i'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance--least of all among my countrymen.--to tell the truth, i'm going to paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them." "nonsense! you're not the man to turn _solitaire_, like simon stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! besides, paris is not the place for that sort of thing. if you're really determined on keeping out of company for awhile--i won't ask why--remain with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. come, ryecroft, don't deny me. it's so long since we've had a day together, i'm dying to talk over old times--recall our _camaraderie_ in india." for the first time in forty-eight hours captain ryecroft's countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness--almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its _patois_ recalling childhood's happy days. and as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts--if not a restoration of happiness--is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. what difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in paris or boulogne--if find it he can? "i'm booked to paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself. "have you a through ticket?" asks the major, in an odd way. "of course i have." "let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out his hand. "certainly. why do you wish that?" "to see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here." "i don't think it will. in fact, i know it don't. they told me so at charing cross." "then they told you what wasn't true. for it does. see here!" what the major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. they are the fragments of the torn ticket. "now, old boy! you're booked for boulogne." the melancholy smile, up to that time on ryecroft's face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. with cheerfulness for the time restored, he says: "well, major, by that you've cost me at at least one pound sterling. but i'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for--possibly a week." "a month--a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. i've got a snug little compound in the rue tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what's better, a keg of the `raal crayther.' let's along and have a tumbler of it at once. you'll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. don't wait for your luggage. these custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. is it labelled?" "it is; my name's on everything." "let me have one of your cards." the card is handed to him. "there, monsieur," he says, turning to a _douanier_, who respectfully salutes, "take this, and see that all the _baggage_ bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. my servant will come for it. _garcon_!" this to the driver of a _voiture_, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing. pushing captain ryecroft into the back, and following himself, the major gives the french jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of boulogne. volume two, chapter xx. hue and cry. the ponies and pet stag on the lawn at llangorren wonder what it is all about. so different from the garden parties and archery-meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. there are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an out-door assemblage of the aristocracy. the sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words "murdered or missing," drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot. and such words have gone abroad from llangorren court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. gwen wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered. it is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. the slight scandal dreaded by miss linton no longer has influence with her. the continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. it has been identified not only by the finder, but by eleanor lees and miss linton herself. a rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies--both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift. how comes it to have been there in the summer-house? dropped, of course; but under what circumstances? questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. no one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as miss lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured. the discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. but it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that miss wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken. robbed, too, before being earned off. there were other rings upon her fingers--diamonds, emeralds, and the like. possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. at night and in the darkness, all likely enough. so for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. for if gwen wynn had been robbed she may also be murdered. the costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. it may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder. by midday the alarm has reached its height--the hue and cry is at its loudest. no longer confined to the family and domestics--no more the relatives and intimate friends--people of all classes and kinds take part in it. the pleasure grounds of llangorren, erst private and sacred as the garden of the hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features--that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken miss wynn. many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her no-ways nettled by her giving him the "lead;" instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow--enthusiastically proclaiming her "pluck" at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of "tally-ho." besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. several magistrates have arrived at llangorren, among them sir george shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates. there is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. it is a circumstance unprecedented--a strange sight, indeed--lewin murdock at the court! he is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings. it seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. but to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. they construe it differently from the others--the outside spectators. more than one of them, observing the anxious expression upon his face, believe it but a semblance--a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart--to become joy if gwen wynn be found--dead. it is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. the construction put upon lewin murdock's motives is confined to the few; for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search. again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. this day there is due deliberation; a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective. as on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. the eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end. as yet the drag has not been called into requisition; the deep flood, with a swift, strong current preventing it. partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe--cannot realise the fact-that gwendoline wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the wye! robbed and drowned! surely it cannot be? equally incredible that she has drowned herself. suicide is not thought of--incredible under the circumstances. a third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge--of a jealous lover's spite--seems alike untenable. she, the heiress, owner of the vast llangorren estates, to be so dealt with--pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! the thing is preposterous! and yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many--of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial enquiry, carried on inside the house. there a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather is elicited. miss linton's maid, clarisse, is the author of it. this sportive creature confesses to having been out on the grounds as the ball was breaking up; and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. they came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of mademoiselle and le capitaine--by the latter meaning captain ryecroft. startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring: collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up. nor is the _femme de chambre_ telling any untruth. she was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. she had gone down to the boat-dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat. she does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. she was merely out to have a look at the illumination-the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished--all natural enough. and questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that mademoiselle had been behaving in that way--quarrelling with a gentleman. in the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that miss wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. what for could have been the angry words? and the quarrel; how did it end? and now the name ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. why is he not here? his absence is strange, unaccountable, under the circumstances. to none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif--the gift ring--told he was the giver. he cannot be ignorant of what is passing at llangorren. true, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it. "i think we had better send for him," observes sir george shenstone to his brother justices. "what say you, gentlemen?" "certainly; of course," is the unanimous rejoinder. "and the waterman, too?" queries another. "it appears that captain ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. does anyone know who was his boatman?" "a fellow named wingate" is the answer given by young shenstone. "he lives by the roadside, up the river, near bugg's ferry." "possibly he may be here, outside," says sir george. "go see!" this to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. almost immediately to return--told by the people that jack wingate is not among them. "that's strange, too!" remarks one of the magistrates. "both should be brought hither at once--if they don't choose to come willingly." "oh!" exclaims sir george, "they'll come willingly," no doubt. let a policeman be despatched for "wingate. as for captain ryecroft, don't you think gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. suppose i write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?" "that will be better," say several assenting. this note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the widow wingate. nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return--both arriving about the same time--the agitation is intense. for both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that captain ryecroft is no longer at the hotel--had left it on the day before by the first train for london! the policeman's tale is, that jack wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to london, but in his boat, down the river to the bristol channel! within less than a hour after a police officer is despatched to chepstow, and further if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis. volume two, chapter xxi. boulogne-sur-mer. major mahon is a soldier of the rollicking irish type--good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. this same token almost proclaims that he is no longer in the army. for he is not--having left it disabled at the close of the indian mutiny: after the relief of lucknow, where he also parted with his arm. he is not rich; one reason for his being in boulogne--convenient place for men of moderate means. there he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelvemonth he has been residing: a small domicile, _meuble_. still, large enough for his needs: for the major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. as a bachelor in the french watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants--far better than if it were in an english one. but economy is not his only reason for sojourning in boulogne. there is another alike creditable to him, or more. he has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there; an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her. for all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a _pensionnaire_. all these matters are made known to captain ryecroft on the day after his arrival at boulogne. not in the morning. it has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the _jetee_, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'establissement de bains_, ending in an hour or two passed at the "cercle" of which the major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrade, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen "good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany." it is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the major's own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the _haute ville_, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the hibernian heart. ryecroft, though irish himself, is of less communicative nature. a native of dublin, he has saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to paris. he essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows: "what a time it seems, ryecroft, since you and i have been together--an age! and yet, if i'm not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. you remember, we met at the `bag,' and dined there, with russel, of the artillery." "of course i remember it." "i've seen russel since; about three months ago, when i was over in england. and by the way, 'twas from him i last heard of yourself." "what had he to say about me?" "only that you were somewhere down west--on the wye i think--salmon fishing. i know you were always good at casting a fly." "that all he said?" "well, no;" admits the major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other's face. "there was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation." "what, may i ask?" "that you'd been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish--a big one, besides--and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you'd captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. come, old boy! don't be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust charley mahon. is it true?" "is what true?" asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence. "that you've caught the richest heiress in herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as russel had it, and which is best for both of you. down on your knees, ryecroft! confess!" "major mahon! if you wish me to remain your guest for another night-another hour--you'll not ask me aught about that affair nor even name it. in time i may tell you all; but now to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and i believe, truest friends cannot fully understand." "i can at least understand that it's something serious." the inference is drawn less from ryecroft's words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. "but," continues the major, greatly moved, "you'll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? i promise not to press you any more. so let's drop the subject, and speak of something else." "what then?" asks ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning. "my little sister, if you like. i call her little because she was so when i went out to india. she's now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. what's better, she's good. you see that building below?" they are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cite_. a slope in warlike days serving as the _glacis_, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. that which the major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the landes country could look over. "i see--what of it!" asks the ex-hussar. "it's the convent where kate is at school--the prison in which she's confined, i might better say," he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular. it need scarce be said that major mahon is a roman catholic. his sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. but he is not bigoted, as ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark. his old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing-"a very fine mansion it appears--walks, shade trees, arbours, fountains. i had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. they ought to live happily in such a pretty place. but then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as i've heard they are--ah, liberty! it's the only thing that makes the world worth living in." "ditto, say i. i echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. if i didn't i might have been long ago a benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern--in piccaninnies. instead, i'm free as the breezes, and by the moll kelly, intend remaining so!" the major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. but this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one. perceiving it so, mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking-"it's beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. suppose we saunter down to the cercle, and have a game of billiards!" "if it be all the same to you, mahon, i'd rather not go there to night." "oh! it's all the same to me. let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. there were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. i see you still want cheering, and there's nothing will do that like a drop of the _crather_. _allons_!" without resisting, ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. from the point where they descended the shortest way to the rue tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. one of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which miss mahon is at school. as they approach it a _fiacre_ is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare--a traveller. there is a lamp, and by its light, dim nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. some one on a visit to the convent, or returning after absence. nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on. just however, as they are passing the back, about to drive off again, captain ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start. "what is it?" asks the major, who feels the spasmodic movement--the two walking arm-in-arm. "well! if it wasn't that i am in boulogne instead of on the banks of the river wye, i'd swear that i saw a man inside that doorway whom i met not many days ago in the shire of hereford." "what sort of a man?" "a priest!" "oh! black's no mark among sheep. the _pretres_ are all alike, as peas or policemen. i'm often puzzled myself to tell one from t'other." satisfied with this explanation, the ex-hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the rue tintelleries. entering his house, the major calls for "matayrials," and they sit down to the steaming punch. but before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for "captain ryecroft." the entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this. "who can be asking for me?" queries ryecroft, looking towards his host. the major cannot tell--cannot think--who. but the answer is given by his irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to captain ryecroft, saying:-"it's for you, yer honner." the name on the card is-"mr george shenstone." volume two, chapter xxii. what does he want? "mr george shenstone?" queries captain ryecroft, reading from the card. "george shenstone!" he repeats with a look of blank astonishment--"what the deuce does it mean?" "does what mean?" asks the major, catching the other's surprise. "why, this gentleman being here. you see that?" he tosses the card across the table. "well; what of it?" "read the name!" "mr george shenstone. don't know the man. haven't the most distant idea who he is. have you?" "o, yes." "old acquaintance; friend, i presume? no enemy, i hope?" "if it be the son of a sir george shenstone, of herefordshire, i can't call him either friend or enemy; and as i know nobody else of the name, i suppose it must be he. if so, what he wants with me is a question i can no more answer than the man in the moon. i must get the answer from himself. can i take the liberty of asking him into your house, mahon?" "certainly, my dear boy! bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us." "thanks, major!" interrupts ryecroft. "but no, i'd prefer first having a word with him alone. instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me." "o ho!" ejaculates the major. "murtagh!" to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, "show the gentleman into the drawing-room." "mr shenstone and i," proceeds ryecroft in explanation, "have but the very slightest acquaintance. i've only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball--a private one--just three nights ago. 'twas that very morning i met the priest, i supposed we'd seen up there. 'twould seem as if everybody on the wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into france." "ha--ha--ha! about the _pretre_, no doubt you're mistaken. and maybe this isn't your man, either. the same name, you're sure!" "quite. the herefordshire baronet's son is george, as his father, to whose title he is heir. i never heard of his having any other--" "stay!" interrupts the major, again glancing at the card, "here's something to help identification--an address--_ormeston hall_." "ah! i didn't observe that." in his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. "ormeston hall? yes, i remember, sir george's residence is so called. of course it's the son--must be." "but why do you think he means fight? something happened between you, eh?" "no; nothing between us, directly." "ah! indirectly, then? of course the old trouble--a woman." "well; if it be fighting the fellow's after, i suppose it must be about that," slowly rejoins ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain george shenstone has come after him on the part of miss wynn. the thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims-"by heavens! he shall have what he wants. but i mustn't keep him waiting. give me that card, major!" the major returns it to him, coolly observing-"if it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, i can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in boulogne. you haven't told me what your quarrel's about; but from what i know of you, ryecroft, i take it you're in the right, and you can count on me as a second. lucky it's my left wing that's clipped. with the right i can shoot straight as ever--should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair." "thanks, mahon! you're just the man i'd have asked such a favour from." "the gentleman's inside the dhrawin-room, surr." this from the ex-royal irish, who has again presented himself, saluting. "don't yield the _sassenach_ an inch?" counsels the major, a little of the old celtic hostility stirring within him. "if he demand explanations, hand him over to me. i'll give them to his satisfaction. so, old fellow, be firm!" "never fear!" returns ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to gwendoline wynn. and so has it. but not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. george shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. something more serious; since it was the baronet's son who left llangorren court in company with the plain clothes policeman. the latter is still along with him; though not inside the house. he is standing upon the street at a convenient distance; though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any farther service now, professionally. holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist mr shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. but as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the english policeman has no further errand in boulogne--while the english gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. the impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. gwen wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. and so resolved he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, "interview" him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves. in the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. luggage labelled "langham hotel, london," gave him hot scent, as far as the grand _caravanserai_ at the bottom of portland place. beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. the traveller's traps re-directed at the langham "paris _via_ folkestone and boulogne"--the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager--was indication sufficient to guide george shenstone across the channel; and cross it he did by the next day's packet for boulogne. arrived in the french seaport, he would have gone straight on to paris-had he been alone. but accompanied by the policeman the result was different. this--an old dog of the detective breed--soon as setting foot on french soil, went sniffing about among _serjents de ville_ and _douaniers_, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination--he finding that the game had gone no further. in short, from information received at the custom house, captain ryecroft was run to earth in the rue tintelleries, under the roof of major mahon. and now that george shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead greatly embarrassed. not from any personal fear; he has too much "pluck" for that. it is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong doing. what, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that captain ryecroft is entirely innocent? his heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from herefordshire he did not thus interrogate. then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted. but, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. how could they otherwise? he pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! a man guilty of aught illegal--much more one who has committed a capital crime--would not be acting thus? besides, captain ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, major mahon, on the packet landing at boulogne! no wonder that mr shenstone, now _au fait_ to all this--easily ascertained along the route of travel--feels that his errand is an awkward one. embarrassed when ringing major mahon's door bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. for he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself--to call his guest to account! the act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness! but there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. the thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare, or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him. it is no thought of this, no craven fear which makes him pace major mahon's drawing-room floor so excitedly. his agitation is due to a different and nobler cause--the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame, should he find himself mistaken. but he has a consoling thought. prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and still urged by them he will carry it to the conclusion _coute que coute_. volume two, chapter xxiii. a guage d'amour. pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself--there is no fire in the grate--nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. his steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantelshelf; a sparkling object--in short a cigar-case of the beaded pattern. why should that attract the attention of the young herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? in his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. but it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it; on the instant after reaching towards, and taking it up. ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case--he is now sure as he holds it in hand, turning it over and over--seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures--two hearts central transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft--all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials y.r. entwined in monogram, and the words underneath "from gwen." three days ago, the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. not so now. after being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. he but tosses the headed thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself. still the little incident is not without effect. it restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. this is still further strengthened, as ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. a man feared but not hated--for shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. a rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. no tremor in his frame; no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in hand, coming towards him. long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. holding out the card ryecroft says interrogatively-"is this meant for me, mr shenstone?" "yes." "some matter of business, i presume. may i ask what it is?" the formal inquiry, in tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. at the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder. "i want to know--what you have done with miss wynn." he so challenged starts aback, turning pale. and looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed-"what i have done with miss wynn!" then adding, "pray explain yourself, sir!" "come, captain ryecroft; you know what i allude to?" "for the life of me i don't." "do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?" "what's happened! when? where?" "at llangorren, the night of that hall. you were present; i saw you." "and i saw you, mr shenstone. but you don't tell me what happened." "not at the hall, but after." "well, and what after?" "captain ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or, the most guilty on the face of the earth." "stop, sir! language like yours requires justification, of the gravest kind. i ask an explanation--demand it!" thus brought to bay, george shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed; there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. instead, honest surprise mingled with keen apprehension; the last not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: "this man knows nothing of gwendoline wynn. if she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer." "captain ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if i've been wronging you i ask forgiveness; and you'll forgive. for if i have, you do not--cannot know what has occurred." "i've told you i don't," affirms ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. "for heaven's sake, mr shenstone, explain! what _has_ occurred there?" "miss wynn is gone away!" "miss wynn gone away! but whither?" "nobody knows. all that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one--no trace left behind--except--" "except what?" "a ring--a diamond cluster. i found it myself in the summer-house. you know the place--you know the ring too?" "i do, mr shenstone; have reasons, painful ones. but i am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. what could it mean?" he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. it connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "but, sir; please proceed! for god's sake, keep nothing back--tell me everything!" thus appealed to, shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at llangorren court--all that had transpired previous to his leaving; and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in boulogne. the manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained. "mr shenstone," returns ryecroft, "you ask what i am ready and willing to grant--god knows how ready, how willing. if any misfortune has befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be greater than mine." shenstone is convinced. ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to gwendoline wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own. he stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his intrusion--which are accepted without anger--he bows himself back into the street. the business of his travelling companion in boulogne was over some time ago. his is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new light on the mystery of miss wynn's disappearance, still with some satisfaction to himself, he dares not dwell upon. where is the man who would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a rival? however ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy. too natural, as george shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow. too late to catch the folkestone packet, his bed is in boulogne--no bed of roses but a couch procrustean. -----------------------------------------------------------------------meanwhile, captain ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the major has been awaiting him. impatiently, though not in the interim unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to examination. they are the "best barkers that can be got in boulogne." "we shan't need them, major, after all." "the devil we shan't! he's shown the white feather?" "no, mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood before sword point, or dared pistol bullet?" "then there's no trouble between you?" "ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. sorrow shared by both. we're in the same boat." "in that case, why didn't you bring him in?" "i didn't think of it." "well; we'll drink his health. and since you say you've both embarked in the same boat--a bad one--here's to your reaching a good haven, and in safety!" "thanks, major! the haven i now want to reach, and intend entering ere another sun sets, is the harbour of folkestone." the major almost drops his glass. "why, ryecroft, you're surely joking?" "no, mahon; i'm in earnest--dead anxious earnest." "well, i wonder! no, i don't," he adds, correcting himself. "a man needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. may the devil take her, who's taking you away from me!" "major mahon!" "well--well, old boy! don't be angry. i meant nothing personal, knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind, and so soon leaving me. let my sorrow at that be my excuse." "you shall be told it, this night--now!" in another hour major mahon is in possession of all that relates to gwendoline wynn, known to vivian ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to england; nor doing aught to detain him. instead, he counsels his immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that well-timed grip in the ditch of delhi, exclaiming-"god bless you, old boy! whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend, and a bit of a tent to shelter you in boulogne--not forgetting a little comfort from the _crayther_!" volume two, chapter xxiv. suicide, or murder. two more days have passed, and the crowd collected at llangorren court is larger than ever. but it is not now scattered, nor are people rushing excitedly about; instead, they stand thickly packed in a close clump, which covers all the carriage sweep in front of the house. for the search is over, the lost one has at length been found. found, when the flood subsided, and the drag could do its work--_found drowned_! not far away, nor yet in the main river; but that narrow channel, deep and dark, inside the eyot. in a little angular embayment at the cliff's base, almost directly under the summer-house was the body discovered. it came to the surface soon as touched by the grappling iron, which caught in the loose drapery around it. left alone for another day it would have risen of itself. taken out of the water, and borne away to the house, it is now lying in the entrance-hall, upon a long table there set centrally. the hall, though a spacious one, is filled with people; and but for two policemen stationed at the door would be densely crowded. these have orders to admit only the friends and intimates of the family, with those whose duty requires them to be there officially. there is again a council in deliberation; but not as on days preceding. then it was to inquire into what had become of gwendoline wynn, and whether she were still alive; to-day, it is an inquest being held over her dead body! there lies it, just as it came out of the water. but, oh! how unlike what it was before being submerged! those gossamer things, silks and laces--the dress worn by her at the ball--no more floating and feather-like, but saturated, mud-stained, "clinging like cerements" around a form whose statuesque outlines, even in death, show the perfection of female beauty. and her chrome yellow hair, cast in loose coils about, has lost its silken gloss, and grown darker in hue: while the rich rose red is gone from her cheeks, already swollen and discoloured; so soon had the ruthless water commenced its ravages! no one would know gwen wynn now. seeing that form prostrate and pulseless, who could believe it the same, which but a few nights before was there moving about, erect, lissome, and majestic? or in that face, dark and disfigured, who could recognise the once radiant countenance of llangorren's young heiress? sad to contemplate those mute motionless lips, so late wreathed with smiles, and speaking pleasant words! and those eyes, dulled with "muddy impurity," that so short while ago shone bright and gladsome, rejoicing in the gaiety of youth and the glory of beauty--sparkling, flashing, conquering! all is different now; her hair dishevelled, her dress disordered and dripping, the only things upon her person unchanged being the rings on her fingers, the wrist bracelets, the locket still pendant to her neck-all gemmed and gleaming as ever, the impure water affecting not their costly purity. and their presence has a significance, proclaiming an important fact, soon to be considered. the coroner, summoned in haste, has got upon the ground, selected his jury, and gone through the formularies for commencing the inquest. these over, the first point to be established is the identification of the body. there is little difficulty in this; and it is solely through routine, and for form's sake, that the aunt of the deceased lady, her cousin, the lady's-maid, and one or two other domestics are submitted to examination. all testify to their belief that the body before them is that of gwendoline wynn. miss linton, after giving her testimony, is borne off to her room in hysterics; while eleanor lees is led away weeping. then succeeds inquiry as to how the death has been brought about; whether it be a case of suicide or assassination? if murder the motive cannot have been robbery. the jewellery, of grand value, forbids the supposition of this, checking all conjecture. and if suicide, why? that miss wynn should have taken her own life--made away with herself-is equally impossible of belief. some time is occupied in the investigation of facts, and drawing deductions. witnesses of all classes and kinds thought worth the calling are called and questioned. everything already known, or rumoured, is gone over again, till at length they arrive at the relations of captain ryecroft with the drowned lady. they are brought out in various ways, and by different witnesses; but only assume a sinister aspect in the eyes of the jury, on their hearing the tale of the french _femme de chambre_--strengthened, almost confirmed, by the incident of that ring found on the floor of the summer-house. the finder is not there to tell how; but miss linton, miss lees, and mr musgrave, vouch for the fact at second hand. the one most wanted is vivian ryecroft himself, and next to him the waterman wingate. neither has yet made appearance at llangorren, nor has either been heard of. the policeman sent after the last has returned to report a bootless expedition. no word of the boatman at chepstow, nor anywhere else down the river. and no wonder there is not; since young powell and his friends have taken jack's boat beyond the river's mouth--duck-shooting along the shores of the severn sea--there camping out, and sleeping in places far from towns, or stations of the rural constabulary. and the first is not yet expected--cannot be. from london george shenstone had telegraphed:--"captain ryecroft gone to paris, where he (shenstone) would follow him." there has been no _telegram_ later to know whether the followed has been found. even if he have, there has not been time for return from the french metropolis. just as this conclusion has been reached by the coroner, his jury, the justices, and other gentlemen interested in and assisting at the investigation inside the hall, to the surprise of those on the sweep without, george shenstone presents himself in their midst; their excited movement with the murmur of voices proclaiming his advent. still greater their astonishment when, shortly after--within a few seconds-captain ryecroft steps upon the same ground, as though the two had come thither in companionship! and so might it have been believed, but for two hotel hackneys seen drawn up on the drive outside the skirts of the crowd where they delivered their respective fares, after having brought them separately from the railway station. fellow travellers they have been, but whether friends or not, the people are surprised at the manner of their arrival; or rather, at seeing captain ryecroft so present himself. for in the days just past he has been the subject of a horrid suspicion, with the usual guesses and conjectures relating to it and him. not only has he been freely calumniated, but doubts thrown out that ryecroft is his real name, and denial of his being an officer of the army, or ever having been; with bold, positive asseveration that he is a swindler and adventurer! all that while gwen wynn was but missing. now that her body is found, since its discovery, still harsher have been the terms applied to him; at length, to culminate, in calling him a murderer! instead of voluntarily presenting himself at llangorren alone, arms and limbs free, they expected to see him--if seen at all--with a policeman by his side, and manacles on his wrists! astonished, also, are those within the hall, though in a milder degree, and from different causes. they did not look for the man to be brought before them handcuffed; but no more did they anticipate seeing him enter almost simultaneously, and side by side, with george shenstone; they, not having the hackney carriages in sight, taking it for granted that the two have been travelling together. however strange or incongruous the companionship, those noting have no time to reflect about it; their attention being called to a scene that, for a while, fixes and engrosses it. going wider apart as they approach the table, on which lies the body, shenstone and ryecroft take opposite sides--coming to a stand, each in his own attitude. from information already imparted to them they have been prepared to see a corpse, but not such as that! where is the beautiful woman, by both beloved, fondly, passionately? can it be possible, that what they are looking upon is she who once was gwendoline wynn? whatever their reflections, or whether alike, neither makes them known in words. instead, both stand speechless, stunned--withered-like, as two strong trees simultaneously scathed by lightning--the bolt which has blasted them lying between! volume two, chapter xxv. a plentiful correspondence. if captain ryecroft's sudden departure from herefordshire brought suspicion upon him, his reappearance goes far to remove it. for that this is voluntary soon becomes known. the returned policeman has communicated the fact to his fellow-professionals, it is by them further disseminated among the people assembled outside. from the same source other information is obtained in favour of the man they have been so rashly and gravely accusing. the time of his starting off, the mode of making his journey, without any attempt to conceal his route of travel or cover his tracks--instead, leaving them so marked that any messenger, even the simplest, might have followed and found him. only a fool fleeing from justice would have so fled, or one seeking to escape punishment for some trivial offence. but not a man guilty of murder. besides, is he not back there--come of his own accord--to confront his accusers, if any there still be? so runs the reasoning throughout the crowd on the carriage sweep. with the gentlemen inside the house, equally complete is the revolution of sentiment in his favour. for, after the first violent outburst of grief, young shenstone, in a few whispered words, makes known to them the particulars of his expedition to boulogne, with that interview in the house of major mahon. himself convinced of his rival's innocence, he urges his conviction on the others. but before their eyes is a sight almost confirmatory of it. that look of concentrated anguish in captain ryecroft's eyes cannot be counterfeit. a soldier who sheds tears could not be an assassin; and as he stands in bent attitude, leaning over the table on which lies the corpse, tears are seen stealing down his cheeks, while his bosom rises and falls in quick, convulsive heaving. shenstone is himself very similarly affected, and the bystanders beholding them are convinced that, in whatever way gwendoline wynn may have come by her death, the one is innocent of it as the other. for all, justice requires that the accusations already made, or menaced, against captain ryecroft be cleared up. indeed, he himself demands this, for he is aware of the rumours that have been abroad about him. on this account he is called upon by the coroner to state what he knows concerning the melancholy subject of their enquiry. but first george shenstone is examined--as it were by way of skirmish, and to approach, in a manner delicate as possible, the man mainly, though doubtingly accused. the baronet's son, beginning with the night of the ball--the fatal night--tells how he danced repeatedly with miss wynn; between two sets walked out with her over the lawn, stopped, and stood for some time under a certain tree, where in conversation she made known to him the fact of her being betrothed by showing him the engagement ring. she did not say who gave it, but he surmised it to be captain ryecroft--was sure of its being he--even without the evidence of the engraved initials afterwards observed by him inside it. as it has already been identified by others, he is only asked to state the circumstances under which he found it. which he does, telling how he picked it up from the floor of the summer-house; but without alluding to his own motives for being there, or acting as he has throughout. as he is not questioned about these, why should he? but there are many hearing him who guess them--not a few quite comprehending all. george shenstone's mad love for miss wynn has been no secret, neither his pursuit of her for many long months, however hopeless it might have seemed to the initiated. his melancholy bearing now, which does not escape observation, would of itself tell the tale. his testimony makes ready the ground for him who is looked upon less in the light of a witness than as one accused, by some once more, and more than ever so. for there are those present who not only were at the ball, but noticed that triangular byplay upon which shenstone's tale, without his intending it, has thrown a sinister light. alongside the story of clarisse, there seems to have been motive, almost enough for murder. an engagement angrily broken off--an actual quarrel--gwendoline wynn never afterwards seen alive! that quarrel, too, by the water's edge, on a cliff at whose base her body has been found! strange-altogether improbable--that she should have drowned herself. far easier to believe that he, her _fiance_, in a moment of mad, headlong passion, prompted by fell jealousy, had hurled her over the high bank. against this returned current of adverse sentiment, captain ryecroft is called upon to give his account, and state all he knows. what he will say is weighted with heavy consequences to himself. it may leave him at liberty to depart from the spot voluntarily, as he came, or be taken from it in custody. but he is yet free, and so left to tell his tale, no one interrupting. and without circumlocution he tells it, concealing nought that may be needed for its comprehension--not even his delicate relations to the unfortunate lady. he confesses his love--his proposal of marriage--its acceptance--the bestowal of the ring--his jealousy and its cause--the ebullition of angry words between him and his betrothed--the so-called quarrel--her returning the ring, with the way, and why he did not take it back--because at that painful crisis be neither thought of nor cared for such a trifle. then parting with, and leaving her within the pavilion, he hastened away to his boat, and was rowed off. but, while passing up stream, he again caught sight of her, still standing in the summer-house, apparently leaning upon, and looking over, its baluster rail. his boat moving on, and trees coming between he no more saw her; but soon after heard a cry--his waterman as well--startling both. it is a new statement in evidence, which startles those listening to him. he could not comprehend, and cannot explain it; though now knowing it must have been the voice of gwendoline wynn--perhaps her last utterance in life. he had commanded his boatman to hold way, and they dropped back down stream again to get within sight of the summer-house, but then to see it dark, and to all appearance deserted. afterwards he proceeded home to his hotel, there to sit up for the remainder of the night, packing and otherwise preparing for his journey--of itself a consequence of the angry parting with his betrothed, and the pledge so slightingly returned. in the morning he wrote to her, directing the letter to be dropped into the post office; which he knew to have been done before his leaving the hotel for the railway station. "has any letter reached llangorren court?" enquires the coroner, turning from the witness, and putting the question in a general way. "i mean for miss wynn--since the night of that ball?" the butler present, stepping forward, answers in the affirmative, saying-"there are a good many for miss gwen since--some almost coming in every post." although there is, or was, but one miss gwen wynn at llangorren, the head servant, as the others, from habit calls her `miss gwen,' speaking of her as if she were still alive. "it is your place to look after the letters, i believe?" "yes; i attend to that." "what have you done with those addressed to miss wynn?" "i gave them to gibbons, miss gwen's lady's-maid." "let gibbons be called again!" directs the coroner. the girl is brought in the second time, having been already examined at some length, and, as before, confessing her neglect of duty. "mr williams," proceeds the examiner, "gave you some letters for your late mistress. what have you done with them?" "i took them upstairs to miss gwen's room." "are they there still?" "yes; on the dressing table, where she always had the letters left for her." "be good enough to bring them down here. bring all." another pause in the proceedings while gibbons is off after the now posthumous correspondence of the deceased lady, during which whisperings are interchanged between the coroner and jurymen, asking questions of one another. they relate to a circumstance seeming strange; that nothing has been said about these letters before--at least to those engaged in the investigation. the explanation, however, is given--a reason evident and easily understood. they have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are--miss linton almost beside herself, eleanor lees not far from the same. in the excitement of occurrences neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. it might not have been seen by them then, but for gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. these facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand. she is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fashion. counted there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. a general favourite--to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches--she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by "almost every post"--that but once a day, however, llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography--all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. in the presence of her to whom they were addressed-now speechless and unprotesting--no breach of confidence to open them. one after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury--those of the lady correspondents first. not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern--double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners. fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to "at homes," dinner-parties, and such like. recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pass them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. these the coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed "george shenstone," the other "vivian ryecroft." nobody present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is ryecroft's. they have been expecting it so. but not that the other is from the son of sir george shenstone. a word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. for as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the coroner has directed both to be read aloud. whether by chance or otherwise, that of shenstone is taken first. it is headed-"ormeston hall, 4 a.m., apres le bal." the date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him. something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are-"dear gwen,--i've got home, but can't turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad i feel at what you've told me--and sad i am, god knows--if you think i shouldn't come near you any more--and from what i noticed last night, perhaps i ought not--only say so, and i will not. your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. that one is,-"yours devotedly, if despairingly,-"george shenstone. "p.s.--do not take the trouble of writing an answer. i would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, i will call at the court in the afternoon. then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there.--g.s." the writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. it is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed, his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. but he is too sad to feel it now; and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the coroner. nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. all are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger. it carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of shenstone's. no doubt, at the self-same moment the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to gwendoline wynn--she who now can never read them. very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. but, so too, are the circumstances that dictated them, that of ryecroft reads thus:-"gwendoline,--while you are reading this i shall be on my way to london, where i shall stay to receive your answer--if you think it worth while to give one. after parting as we've done, possibly you will not. when you so scornfully cast away that little love-token it told me a tale--i may say a bitter one--that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. is that true, gwendoline? if not, and i am wronging you, may god forgive me. and i would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. but if true--and you know best--then you can take it up--supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it--fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it. "vivian ryecroft." to this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript:-"i shall be at the langham hotel, london, till to-morrow noon; where your answer, if any, will reach me. should none come, i shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address. "y.r." the contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be assumed or pretended. beyond doubt, it was written under the circumstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer's statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence. which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and, when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from llangorren court in the character of a criminal. volume two, chapter xxvi. found drowned. as a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the coroner and his jury. but only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. there is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a noble stag, instead of a treacherous wicked wolf. not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of captain ryecroft--not the shadow of one. if there were, it is soon to be dissipated. for while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of some one fresh arrived and received triumphantly. they are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. one of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who--the man after captain ryecroft himself most wanted. no need saying it is jack wingate. but a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. it is all in a nutshell. but the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the shores of the severn sea, with his boat brought back by road--on a donkey cart. on arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the court as if rowing in a regatta. in the _patois_ of the american prairies he is now "arrove," and, still panting for breath, is brought before the coroner's court, and submitted to examination. his testimony confirms that of his old fare--in every particular about which he can testify. all the more credible is it from his own character. the young waterman is well known as a man of veracity--incapable of bearing false witness. when he tells them that after the captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of llangorren--when he positively swears to the fact--no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. for soon as wingate has finished giving evidence, george shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all-"forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! i now make reparation for it in the only way i can--by declaring that i believe you as innocent as myself." the generous behaviour of the baronet's son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence. but the inquest is not yet ended--not for hours. over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom. in view of the new facts brought out by captain ryecroft and his boatman--above all that cry heard by them--suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him. as everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close. first they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats--the _gwendoline_ and _mary_--lying just as they were on that night when captain ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other. he is with the coroner--so is wingate--and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief _resume_ going over the circumstances that preceded and followed it. the next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it--the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. not that there is any doubt about the truth of captain ryecroft's statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. the measuring is only to assist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers' quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection--much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other. again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by george shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. and outside, standing on the cliff's brink, ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after. remaining a while longer on the cliff, the coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. it is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. there is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. but beyond doubt it has been there. such is the conclusion arrived at by the coroner's jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. for though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. but now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff--scratches on the red sandstone--distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock-unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of gwendoline wynn? they see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff's base, broken, but still clinging. through that the falling form must have descended! there is no further doubting the fact. there went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man's violence. in other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder? to the last many circumstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. a woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. still the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life beforehand. this last thought, or surmise, carries coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. in which they are assisted by medical men--surgeons and physicians--several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of miss linton. there is none of them who has attended gwendoline wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind. their _post-mortem_ examining does not extend to dissection. there is no need. without it there are tests which tell the cause of death--that of drowning. beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever. flung back on reasoning of the analytical kind, the coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down. among the people outside pass many surmises, guesses, and conjectures. suspicions also, but no more pointing to captain ryecroft. they take another, and more natural, direction. still nothing has transpired to inculpate any one, or, in the finding of a coroner's jury, connect man or woman with it. this is at length pronounced in the usual formula, with its customary tag:--"found drowned. but how, etc, etc." with such ambiguous rendering the once beautiful body of gwendoline wynn is consigned to a coffin, and in due time deposited in the family vault, under the chancel of llangorren church. volume two, chapter xxvii. a man who thinks it murder. had gwendoline wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young lady--owner of estates--the world would soon have ceased to think of her. as it is most people have settled down to the belief that she has simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident. only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide. the theory of _felo de se_ is not entertained, because not entertainable. for, in addition to the testimony taken at the coroner's inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. a lover's quarrel of a night's, still less an hour's duration, could not so result. and that there was nothing beyond this miss linton is able to say assuredly. still more eleanor lees, who, by confidences exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly _au fait_ to the feelings of her relative and friend--knew her hopes, and her fears, and that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair. doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with gwen wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. she was satisfied that vivian ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. how could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. altogether impossible she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last leap into eternity. more likely standing on the cliff's edge, anxiously straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger, her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood. so argues eleanor lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the close of the inquest, and for some time after. and if not self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery. the valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition of that. if murder, the motive must have been other than the possession of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery. so reasons the world at large, naturally enough. for all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having been foul play; but not now with any reference to captain ryecroft. nor are they the same who had suspected him. those yet doubting the accidental death are the intimate friends of the wynn family, who knew of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the llangorren estates were held. up to this time only a limited number of individuals has been aware of their descent to lewin murdock. and when at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people revert to the mystery of miss wynn's death, so unsatisfactory cleared up at the coroner's inquest. still the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new man suspected. nor are they many. beyond the obscure corner of bugg's ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him. outside the pale of "society," with most part of his life passed abroad, he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most of the common people as well. jack wingate chanced to have heard of him by reason of his proximity to bugg's ferry, and his own necessity for oft going there. but possibly as much on the account of the intimate relations existing between the owner of glyngog house and coracle dick. others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is told that a mr lewin murdock has succeeded to the estates of llangorren--at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of her whom death has deprived of them--to the general public the succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that the lady had no nearer relative. therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited. but as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal belief, that for the death of gwendoline wynn nobody is to blame. even george shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. of unsuspicious nature--incapable of believing in a crime so terrible--a deed so dark, as that would infer--he cannot suppose that the gentleman now his nearest neighbour--for the lands of llangorren adjoin those of his father--has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder. his father may think differently, he knowing more of lewin murdock. not much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and antecedents. still sir george is silent, whatever his thoughts. it is not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon. there is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she came to her death--this one is captain ryecroft. he, too, might have yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has yet kept to himself. he had not forgotten what was, at an early period, communicated to him by the waterman wingate, about the odd-looking old house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of gwendoline wynn, when once in conversation with her he referred to the place and its occupier. this, with jack's original story, and other details added, besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him vividly on hearing that the owner of glyngog has also become owner of llangorren. it is some time before this news reaches him. for just after the inquest an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his own, which required his presence in dublin--there for days detaining him. having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where he had been the summer sojourning. nor came he back on errand aimless, but with a purpose. ill-satisfied with the finding of the coroner's jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way. accident he does not believe in--least of all, that the lady having made a false step, had fallen over the cliff. when he last saw her she was inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high; protected by it. if gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her as good a view as she could have. why should she have gone outside? and the cry heard so soon after? it was not like that of one falling, and so far. in descent it would have been repeated, which it was not! of suicide he has never entertained a thought--above all, for the reason suggested--jealousy of himself. how could he, while so keenly suffering it for her! no, it could not be that; nor suicide from any cause. the more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that gwendoline wynn has been the victim of a villainous murder. and it is for this reason he has returned to the wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact; then, if possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice. as no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point; his suspicions finally becoming fixed on lewin murdock. he may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. and to obtain it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the remainder of his fortune. for what are either now to him? in life he has had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. she who inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep--lying cold in her tomb-his love and memory of her alone remaining warm. his grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed and he can reflect calmly--more carefully consider, what he should do. from the first some thoughts about murdock were in his mind; still only vague. now, on returning to herefordshire, and hearing what has happened meanwhile--for during his absence there has been a removal from glyngog to llangorren--the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train of reflection, placing things in a clearer light. as the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by finding the slot fresher, so he. and so will he follow it to the end-the last trace or sign. for no game, however grand--elephant, lion, or tiger--could attract like that he believes himself to be after--a human tiger--a murderer. end of volume two. volume three, chapter i. once more upon the river. nowhere in england, perhaps nowhere in europe, is the autumnal foliage more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the wye, where it runs through the shire of hereford. there vaga threads her way amid woods that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the famed american forests. the beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose-colours along their edges, and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit. here and there along the high-pitched hill sides flecks of crimson proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows. it is autumn now, and the woods of the wye have donned its dress; no livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen, its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. brown october elsewhere, is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of the beholder. instead, the gaudy tapestry hanging from the trees, and the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. still further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. for the woods of wyeside are not voiceless, even in winter. within them the birds ever sing, and although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its leading tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike splendidly attuned. bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shyer cousin the thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey. -----------------------------------------------------------------------october it is; and where the wye's silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. there are two men in it; one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. the same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. for he at the oars is jack wingate, the steerer captain ryecroft. little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare. he has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. too glad once more to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-a-vis_ with the captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. all he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business. for it is twilight. his excursion has a different object; but what the boatman cannot tell. no inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking. "row me down the river, jack!" distance and all else left undefined. and down jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank. yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. for they are thinking of cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory. ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,-"this must be about the place where we heard it." although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:-"it's the very spot, captain." "ah! you know it?" "i do--am sure. you see that big poplar standing on the bank there?" "yes; well?" "we wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. in course we must a heard the screech just then." "hold way now! pull back a length or two. steady her. keep opposite the tree!" the boatman obeys; first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft against the current. once more relapsing into silence, ryecroft sends his gaze down stream, as though noting the distance to llangorren court, whose chimneys are visible in the moonlight now on. then, as if satisfied with some mental observation, he directs the other to row off. but as the kiosk-like structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between. part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. but once within the bye-way it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the waterman gets the word to pull into it. he is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. it is the way to llangorren court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living there are not friends of his fare--not even acquaintances, so far as he has heard. surely the captain is not going to call on mr lewin murdock--in amicable intercourse? so queries jack wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving answer. one way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling himself, he rows on into the narrower channel. not much farther before getting convinced that the captain has no intention of making a call at the court, nor is the _mary_ to enter that little dock, where more than once she has lain moored beside the _gwendoline_. when opposite the summer-house he is once more commanded to bring to, with the intimation added: "i'm not going any farther, jack." jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from drifting. ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its facade from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or trigonometrical calculation. the waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to have a glimmer of comprehension. it is clearer when he is directed to scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. soon as he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff's base, ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. he then rises to his feet, and leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. on that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the drowned lady in her downward descent. where he stands they are close to his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. and so doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he doubted the finding of the coroner's jury, and the belief of every one that gwendoline wynn had there fallen over. bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he doubts no more, but is sure--convinced of the contrary! jack wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the same time exclaiming,-"i thought as much! no accident!--no suicide--murdered!" still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. whatever it may mean, he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient. his patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. only a few moments more, during which ryecroft bends over the boat's side, takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again! to his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric manipulation, leaving jack to guesses. only when it is over, and he is apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,-"way, wingate! row back--up the river!" with alacrity the waterman obeys; but too glad to get out of that shadowy passage. for a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when thinking of his own lost love. moving out into the main channel and on up stream, ryecroft is once more silent and musing. but on reaching the place from which the pavilion can be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. it startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof--a woman!--how different from that he last saw there! the ex-cocotte of paris--faded flower of the jardin mabille--has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom of wyeside--blighted in its bloom! volume three, chapter ii. the crushed juniper. notwithstanding the caution with which captain ryecroft made his reconnaissance, it was nevertheless observed. and from beginning to end. before his boat drew near the end of the eyot, above the place where for the second time it had stopped, it came under the eye of a man who chanced to be standing on the cliff by the side of the summer-house. that he was there by accident, or at all events not looking out for a boat could be told by his behaviour on first sighting this; neither by change of attitude nor glance of eye evincing any interest in it. his reflection is-"some fellows after salmon, i suppose. have been up to that famous catching place by the ferry, and are on the way home downward--to rock weir, no doubt? ha!" the ejaculation is drawn from him by seeing the boat come to a stop, and remain stationary in the middle of the stream. "what's that for?" he asks himself, now more carefully examining the craft. it is still full four hundred yards from him, but the moonlight being in his favour he makes it out to be a pair-oared skiff with two men in it. "they don't seem to be dropping a net," he observes, "nor engaged about anything. that's odd!" before they came to a stop he heard a murmur of voices, as of speech, a few words, exchanged between them, but too distant for him to distinguish what they had said. now they are silent, sitting without stir; only a slight movement in the arms of the oarsman to keep the boat in its place. all this seems strange to him observing: not less when a flood of moonlight brighter than usual falls over the boat, and he can tell by the attitude of the man in the stern, with face turned upward, that he is regarding the structure on the cliff. he is not himself standing beside it now. soon as becoming interested by the behaviour of the men in the boat, from its seeming eccentricity, he had glided back behind a bush, and there now crouches, an instinct prompting him to conceal himself. soon after he sees the boat moving on, and then for a few seconds it is out of sight, again coming under his view near the upper end of the islet, evidently setting in for the old channel. and while he watches, it enters! as this is a sort of private way, the eyot itself being an adjunct of the ornamental grounds of llangorren, he wonders whose boat it can be, and what its business there. by the backwash it must be making for the dock and stair; the men in it, or one of them, for the court. while still surprisedly conjecturing, his ears admonish him that the oars are at rest, and another stoppage has taken place. he cannot see the skiff now, as the high bank hinders. besides, the narrow passage is arcaded over by trees still in thick foliage; and, though the moon is shining brightly above, scarce a ray reaches the surface of the water. but an occasional creak of an oar in its rowlock, and some words spoken in low tone--so low he cannot make them out--tell him that the stoppage is directly opposite the spot where he is crouching--as predatory animal in wait for its prey. what was at first mere curiosity, and then matter of but slight surprise, is now an object of keen solicitude. for of all places in the world, to him there is none invested with greater interest than that where the boat has been brought to. why has it stopped there? why is it staying? for he can tell it is by the silence continuing. above all, who are the men in it? he asks these questions of himself, but does not stay to reason out the answers. he will best get them by his eyes; and to obtain sight of the skiff and its occupants, he glides a little way along the cliff, looking out for a convenient spot. finding one, he drops first to his knees, then upon all fours, and crawls out to its edge. craning his head over, but cautiously, and with a care it shall be under cover of some fern leaves, he has a view of the water below, with the boat on it--only indistinct on account of the obscurity. he can make out the figures of the two men, though not their faces, nor anything by which he may identify them--if already known. but he sees that which helps to a conjecture, at the same sharpening his apprehensions. the boat once more in motion, not moving off, but up into the little cove, where a dead body late lay! then, as one of the men strikes a match and sets light to a lamp, lighting up his own face with that of the other opposite, he on the bank above at length recognises both. but it is no longer a surprise to him. the presence of the skiff there, the movements of the men in it--like his own, evidently under restraint and stealthy--have prepared him for seeing whom he now sees--captain ryecroft and the waterman wingate. still he cannot think of what they are after, though he has his suspicions; the place, with something only known to himself, suggesting them--conjecture at first soon becoming certainty, as he sees the ex-officer of hussars rise to his feet, hold his lamp close to the cliff's face, and inspect the abrasions on the rock! he is not more certain, but only more apprehensive, when the crushed juniper twigs are taken in hand, examined, and let go again. for he has by this divined the object of it all. if any doubt lingered, it is set at rest by the exclamatory words following, which, though but muttered, reach him on the cliff above, heard clear enough-"no accident--no suicide--murdered!" they carry tremor to his heart, making him feel as a fox that hears the tongue of hound on its track. still distant, but for all causing it fear, and driving it to think of subterfuge. and of this thinks he, as he lies with his face among the ferns; ponders upon it till the boat has passed back up the dark passage out into the river, and he hears the last light dipping of its oars in the far distance. he even forgets a woman, for whom he was waiting at the summer-house, and who there without finding him has flitted off again. at length rising to his feet, and going a little way, he too gets into a boat--one he finds, with oars aboard, down in the dock. it is not the _gwendoline_--she is gone. seating himself on the mid thwart, he takes up the oars, and pulls towards the place lately occupied by the skiff of the waterman. when inside the cove he lights a match, and holds it close to the face of the rock where ryecroft held his lamp. it burns out and he draws a second across the sand paper; this to show him the broken branches of the juniper, which he also takes in hand and examines. soon also dropping them, with a look of surprise, followed by the exclamatory phrases-"prodigiously strange! i see his drift now. cunning fellow! on the track he has discovered the trick, and 'twill need another trick to throw him off it. this bush must be uprooted--destroyed." he is in the act of grasping the juniper to pluck it out by the roots. a dwarf thing, this could be easily done. but a thought stays him-another precautionary forecast, as evinced by his words-"that won't do." after repeating them, he drops back on the boat's thwart, and sits for a while considering, with eyes turned toward the cliff, ranging it up and down. "ah!" he exclaims at length, "the very thing; as if the devil himself had fixed it for me! that _will_ do; smash the bush to atoms--blot out everything, as if an earthquake had gone over llangorren." while thus oddly soliloquising, his eyes are still turned upward, apparently regarding a ledge which, almost loose as a boulder, projects from the bank above. it is directly over the juniper, and if detached from its bed, as it easily might be, would go crashing down, carrying the bush with it. and that same night it does go down. when the morning sun lights up the cliff, there is seen a breakage upon its face just underneath the summer-house. of course, a landslip, caused by the late rains acting on the decomposed sandstone. but the juniper bush is no longer there; it is gone, root and branch! volume three, chapter iii. reasoning by analysis. captain ryecroft's start at seeing: a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. when he last saw his betrothed alive it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude--leaning over the baluster rail. besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. he has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her. the incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent; in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. his thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. an important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived, almost proving it correct. of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. before deciding they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. but with their first impression unaltered--or only strengthened-that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. and what but the body of gwendoline wynn? living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. hence the ambiguity of their verdict. very different the result reached by captain ryecroft after viewing the same. in his indian campaigns the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "light," had his share of scouting experience. it enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came _down_, since they had been _made from below_! and by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. then the branches of the juniper. soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken _inward_, their drooping tops turned _toward_ the cliff, not _from_ it! a falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! everything indicated their having been crushed from below; not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it! it was on reaching this conclusion that captain ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart. and upon it the ex-officer of hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream. since the command given to wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above--though the other has observed it also. facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. but the bearing of the captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections. these are: that gwendoline wynn has been surely assassinated: though not by being thrown over the cliff. possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found--conveyed thither after life was extinct! the scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead; as it had misled everybody but himself. to him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood--done by the hand of another. "no accident--no suicide--murdered!" he is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. the last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. to such a man as he has heard lewin murdock to be, an estate worth 10,000 pounds a-year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal--bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. it may be difficult, impossible; but he will do his best. embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue--pondering upon it. he is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. he is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. a false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. for this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself; not having given a hint of it to any one. from jack wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. that the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted. first, to find out what jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. for since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. only a few words on the day of the inquest; when captain ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind. once more opposite the poplar he directs the skiff to be brought to. which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball; apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is. for a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. but no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the llangorren grounds. the summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it. the waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,--"don't you believe, wingate, the cry came from above--i mean from the top of the cliff?" "i'm a'most sure it did. i thought at the time it comed from higher ground still--the house itself. you remember my sayin' so, captain; and that i took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there?" "i do remember--you did. it was not, alas! but their mistress." "yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! we now know that." "think back, jack! recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted--everything. can you?" "i can, an' do. i could all but fancy i hear it now!" "well; did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff--by accident or otherwise?" "it didn't; an' i don't yet believe it wor--accydent or no accydent." "no! what are your reasons for doubting it?" "why, if it had been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd a gied tongue a second time--aye, a good many times--'fore getting silenced. it must a been into the water; an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. she'd a riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. we couldn't a helped hearin' it. ye remember, captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell, just precedin' the thunderstorm. when that cry come ye might a heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. but it worn't repeated--not so much as a mutter." "quite true. but what do you conclude from its not having been?" "that she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garotters." "you said nothing of this at the inquest?" "no, i didn't; for several reasons. one, i wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelins--only about the facts o' the case. i answered all his questions, clear as i could remember, an' far's i then understood things. but not as i understand them now." "ah! you have learnt something since?" "not a thing, captain. only what i've been thinkin' o'--by rememberin' a circumstance i'd forgot." "what?" "well; whiles i wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, i heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls." "indeed! what sort of sound?" "the plashing o' oars. there wor sartin another boat about there, besides this one." "in what direction did you hear them?" "from above. it must ha' been that way. if't had been a boat gone up from below, i'd ha' noticed the stroke again, across the strip o' island. but i didn't." "the same if one had passed on down." "just so; an' for that reason i now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped; somewhere just outside the backwash." an item of intelligence new to the captain, as it is significant. he recalls the hour--between two and three o'clock in the morning. what boat could have been there but his own? and if other, what its business? "you're quite sure there was a boat, wingate?" he asks, after a pause. "the oars o' one--that i'm quite sure o'. an' where there's smoke fire can't be far off. yes, captain, there wor a boat about there. i'm willin' to swear to it." "have you any idea whose?" "well, no; only some conjecters. first hearin' the oar, i wor under the idea it might be dick dempsey, out salmon stealin'. but at the second plunge i could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. they gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed." "you don't think it was dick and his coracle, then?" "i'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'stead, from what happened that night, an's been a' happenin' ever since, i b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat." "you think there were others?" "i do--leastways suspect it." "and who do you suspect besides?" "for one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in llangorren." they have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the cuckoo's glen, going on. it is to glyngog house wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows--for it is untenanted. "you mean mr murdock?" "the same, captain. though he worn't at the ball, as i've heerd say-and might a' know'd without tellin'--i've got an idea he beant far off when 'twor breakin' up. an' there wor another there, too, beside dick dempsey." "a third! who?" "he as lives a bit further above." "you mean--?" "the french priest. them three ain't often far apart; an' if i beant astray in my recknin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh llangorren court. they're all in, or about, it now--the precious tribang--an' i'd bet big they've got foot in there by the foulest o' foul play. yes, captain; sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered--the men as done it bein' lewin murdock, dick dempsey, and the roman priest o' rogues!" volume three, chapter iv. a suspicious craft. to the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, captain ryecroft makes no rejoinder. the last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him. and on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. for it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself--a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of; but now recalled with vivid distinctness. all the more as he listens to the conjectures of wingate--about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be. the number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. the time as well; since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. the place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman--rather confirming it. on his way to the court--his black dress kerseymere protected by india-rubber overalls--ryecroft, as known, had ridden to wingate's house, and was thence rowed to llangorren. his going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. the prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. besides, his calls at the court were usually made in the same way; his custom being to ride as far as the wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. between his town and the waterman's house there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one which follows the trend of the stream along its edge where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. this, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route captain ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the wyeside. in addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him; since only at rare intervals is house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. even where it passes rugg's ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterises it. for this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream; all save the chapel, and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees. with the topography of this plan he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. for on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. he had got a little beyond the crossing of the ford road, where it leads out from the river--himself on the other going downwards--when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. the sky at the time moonless he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it--the thing itself being stationary. despite the obscurity he could make them out to be men, busied around a boat. something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner--too cautious for honesty--prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. he had himself no need to take precautions for concealment; the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches; arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern. nor was he called upon to stay long there--only a few seconds after drawing bridle--just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them--when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river. even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near. soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. had the road kept along the river's bank he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch; and while ascending this, he ceased to think of them. he might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. there such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. but the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below--up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come. recalling all this, with what jack wingate has just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects: "might not that boat have been the same whose oars jack heard down below? and the men in it those whose names he has mentioned? three of them--that at least in curious correspondence! but the time? about nine, or a little after, as i passed rugg's ferry. that appears too early for the after event? no! they may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. odd, though, their knowing _she_ would be out there. but they need not have known that-likely did not. more like they meant to enter the house, after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. a night different from the common, everything in confusion, the servants sleeping sounder than usual from having indulged in drink--some of them overcome by it, as i saw myself before leaving. yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration--surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient--in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them! poor girl!" all this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence; at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying-"you've come afoot, captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. ye'll let me row you up the river--leastways for a couple o' miles further? then ye can take the footpath through powell's meadows." roused as from a reverie, the captain looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. after a little reflection he says in reply:-"well, jack; if it wasn't that i dislike over-working you--" "don't mention it!" interrupts jack, "i'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. it a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. besides, i've got to go up to the ferry anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. i may as well do it in the boat--'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads." "in that case i consent. but you must let me take the oars." "no, captain. i'd prefer workin' 'em myself; if it be all the same to you." the captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling. nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. after reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. and for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, for the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the ferry. it is that he may consider this--be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted--he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern. by a fresh spurt the _mary_ is carried beyond her mooring-place; as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. it is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight--his mother. volume three, chapter v. maternal solicitude. "the poor lad! his heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'! that's plain--spite o' all he try hide it." it is the widow wingate, who thus compassionately reflects--the subject her son. she is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. captain ryecroft has taken him down the river. it is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at llangorren is inspected by lamplight. but she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did jack himself at starting. a little before sunset, the captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. she saw they went down stream--that is all. she was some little surprised, though; not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. had llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. but in view of the late sad occurrence at the court, with the change of proprietorship consequent--about all of which she has been made aware--she knows the captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour--night just drawing down? she would have asked, but had no opportunity. her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the captain appeared to be in haste. hence, jack's going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where. it is not this that is now fidgeting her. she is far from being of an inquisitive turn--least of all with her son--and never seeks to pry into his secrets. she knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind--in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence. and just this it is she is now bemoaning. she observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from abergann brought him tidings of mary morgan's fatal mishap. of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile--not once! she begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. she has heard of broken hearts-his may be one. not strange her solicitude. "what make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death, by makin' her come out to meet him!"--jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it from beginning to end.--"that hadn't a thing to do wi' it. what happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. when i dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, i feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the meadows, i wor' althegither convinced. when _it_ burn no human creetur' ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. who could 'a carried it across the river--that night especial, wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? no mortal man, nor woman neyther!" as a native of pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the _ignis fatuus_ is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the inhuman wrecker, mrs wingate's dream of the _canwyll corph_ was natural enough--a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chaunted over her cradle. but her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. and the man was richard dempsey, who below had ferried father rogier across on his way to the farm of abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. the priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle. but with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to rugg's ferry. this carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it. not so much wonder, then, in mrs wingate believing she saw the _canwyll corph_. no more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate. "yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "i knowed it would come! ah, me! it have come. poor thing! i hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't a been so fond o' her. if she'd had badness in her, jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now." though right in the premises--for mary morgan was a good girl--mrs wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. but, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. it is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow. it is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there he any sign of them returning. from the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below. placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. in addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. jack was just about starting off for the ferry to replace them when the captain came. now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach rugg's before the shop closes. if not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. in the widow wingate's life candles seem to play an important part! however, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant but recognisable. often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son. for jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the wye has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. his mother can tell it, as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb. that it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. in a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between. and now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash--its docking place; when jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done. while thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. the skiff is passing onward--proceeding up the river! but she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft--the salute telling her she is herself seen; and that jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. it will no doubt terminate at the ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone. contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light--forgetting even the _canwyll corph_. volume three, chapter vi. a sacrilegious hand. between wingate's cottage and rugg's captain ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it--chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. he seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. and just this is he thinking of: his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward. whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. the time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. it will, but not to-night. he has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. it is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the roman catholic chapel at rugg's. soon as abreast of it he commands-"hold way, jack! keep her steady awhile!" the waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. he is himself interrogated the instant after--thus:-"you see that shadowed spot under the bank--by the wall?" "i do, captain." "is there any landing-place there for a boat?" "none, as i know of. course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank beant eyther a cliff or a quagmire. the reg'lar landin' place be above--where the ferry punt lays." "but have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?" the question has reference to the place first spoken of. "i have, captain; my own. that but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'twar the night after my poor mary wor buried, when i comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. i may say i stole there to do it; not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their romish lot. exceptin' my own, i never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid along there." "all right! now on!" and on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with. for ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking; his thoughts concentrated on the one theme--endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself--but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities--how gwendoline wynn came by her death. he is still absorbed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking-"do you weesh me to set you out here, captain? there be the right o' way path through powell's meadows. or would ye rather be took on up to the town? say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me." "thanks, jack; it's very kind of you, but i prefer the walk up the meadows. there'll be moonlight enough yet. and as i shall want your boat to-morrow--it may be for the whole of the day--you'd better get home and well rested. besides, you say you've an errand at rugg's--to the shop there. you must make haste, or it will be closed." "ah! i didn't think o' that. obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. i promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her--for a good deal." "pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! and, jack! not a word to any one about where i've been, or what doing. keep that to yourself." "i will--you may rely on me, captain." the boat is brought against the bank; ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back "good night," and strikes off along the footpath. not a moment delays the waterman; but shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut. he is in good time, however; and reaches rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open. going in he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man, who has come to the ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. it is joseph preece, "old joe," erst boatman of llangorren court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large. though the acquaintance between him and wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them--stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. for of late, in the exercise of their respective _metiers_, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the _gwendoline's_ dock. it is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, joe being chief spokesman. and now that he has done his shopping, jack can spare the time to listen. it will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. she saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand. so the two stand conversing till the gossipy joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in the delivery. then they part, the ex-charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff. stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down. a few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. there is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly. he in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. but he is not gazing, only thinking. a thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. a back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank. he steps ashore; ties the painter to a withy; and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him. dark as is now the night he has no difficulty in finding it. he has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. there are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. but he needs not their guidance. as a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of its master, so he, with memories quickened by affection, makes his way to the place where repose the remains of mary morgan. standing over her grave he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. then becoming calmer he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. it is the lord's--he knows no other. enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his overcharged heart. feeling better he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him--a remembrance--"the flower of love-lies-bleeding." is it growing? not the flower, but the plant. he knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. but the latter--is it still alive and flourishing? in the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch. once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. he finds the spot, but not the plant. it is gone! nothing left of it--not a remnant! a sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him! in strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable. "it's that d--d rascal, dick dempsey, as ha' done it. can't a been anybody else? an' if i can but get proof o't, i'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. i will, by the livin' god!" thus angrily soliloquising, he strides back to his skiff, and getting in rows off. but more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain--threats against coracle dick. volume three, chapter vii. a late tea. mrs wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. the dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. jack has often made the return trip to rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. how is the odd time being spent by him? her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. for the moon having gone down it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. the wye is not a smooth swan pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims-strong men as women. and her son is upon it! "where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. he may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back. while thus conjecturing a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way--on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch. "poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. i only wish he had." "how black that sky do look," she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "an' threatenin' storm, if i bean't mistook. lucky, jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and rugg's--if he hain't goed farther. what a blessin' the boy don't gie way to drink, an's otherways careful! well, i 'spose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. for all, i don't like his bein' so late. mercy me! nigh on the stroke o' eleven? ha! what's that? him i hope." she steps hastily out, and behind the house, which fronting the road, has its back towards the river. on turning the corner she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber--the sound of oars being unshipped. it comes from the _mary_, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, mrs wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full--in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. she knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed--a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff. met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods and together they go in; when he is questioned as to the cause of delay. "whatever ha kep' ye, jack? ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the ferry an' back!" "the ferry! i went far beyond; up to the footpath over squire powell's meadows. there i set captain out." "oh! that be it." his answer being satisfactory he is not further interrogated. for she has become busied with an earthenware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "horniman's" just brought home--one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot--the orthodox quantity. it is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the captain, and mrs wingate would not consider supper as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating. the pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed;" and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick. occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light. nor till she is handing the cup across to him. then, the fresh lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. not the sad melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. that has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received! "whatever be the matter wi' ye, jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "there ha' something happened?" "oh! nothin' much, mother." "nothin' much! then why be ye looking so black?" "what makes you think i'm lookin' that way?" "how can i help thinkin' it? why, lad; your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. come, now tell the truth! bean't there somethin' amiss?" "well, mother; since you axe me that way i will tell the truth. somethin' be amiss; or i ought better say, _missin'_." "missin'! be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? the balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?" "no it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'stead a thing as ha' been destroyed." "what thing?" "the flower--the plant." "flower! plant!" "yes; the love-lies-bleedin' i set on mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. ye remember my tellin' you, mother?" "yes--yes; i do." "well, it ain't there now." "ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun' then?" "i have." "but what made ye go there, jack?" "well, mother; passin' the place, i took a notion to go in--a sort o' sudden inclinashun, i couldn't resist. i thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer might do somethin' to lift the weight off o' my heart. it would a done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower warn't there. fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till i discovered it wor gone." "but how gone? ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?" "clear plucked out by the roots. not a vestige o' it left!" "maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. they often get into a graveyard; and if i beant mistook i've seen some in that o' the ferry chapel. they may have ate it up?" the idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. not long, however; only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. a sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more. "no, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand--i ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. no, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!" "ye suspect somebody, then?" "suspect! i'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' dick dempsey. but i mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. if he pluck it up, an' i know it, they'll need dig another grave in the rogue's ferry buryin' groun'--that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else--the d--d scoundrel!" "dear jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. richard dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the lord will deal wi' him in his own way, an' sure punish him. so leave him to the lord. after all, what do it matter--only a bit o' weed?" "weed! mother, you mistake. that weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to mary's. settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort i can't describe to ye. an' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. in the spring i hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an' like it lies bleedin'. but--well, it seems as i can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as i warn't able while she wor livin'." he covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks. "oh, my son! don't take on so. think that she be happy now--in heaven. sure she is, from all i ha' heerd o' her." "yes, mother!" he earnestly affirms, "she is. if ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there." "well, that ought to comfort ye." "it do some. but to think of havin' lost her for good--never again to look at her sweet face. oh! that be dreadful!" "sure, it be. but think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. it's the lot o' all--rich folks as well as we poor ones. look at the captain, there! he be sufferin' like yourself. poor man! i pity him, too." "so do i, mother. an' i ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. i seed it the day--several times noticed tears in his eyes, when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' miss wynn. when a soldier--a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been--gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. no doubt, he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself." "but that an't right, jack. it isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. besides, it be sinful." "well, mother, i'll try to think more cheerful; submittin' to the will o' heaven." "ah! there's a good lad! that's the way; an' be assured heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. now, let's not say any more about it. you an't eating your supper!" "i han't no great appetite after all." "never mind; ye must eat, an' the tea'll cheer ye. hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again." he passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically. "it be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "but i've something else for you that's better--before you go to bed." "ye take too much care o' me, mother." "nonsense, jack. ye've had a hard day's work o't. but ye hain't told me what the captain tooked ye out for, nor where ye went down the river. how far?" "only as far as llangorren court." "but there be new people there now, ye sayed?" "yes; the murdocks. bad lot both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone." "sure, then, the captain han't been to visit them?" "no, not likely. he an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now." "but there were other ladies livin' at llangorren. what ha' become o' they?" "they ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river--a smaller one it's sayed. the old lady as wor miss wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, an' the other be livin' 'long wi' her. for the rest there's been a clean out--all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a french girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress--that's the aunt. she's now the same to the new one, who be french, like herself." "where ha' ye heerd all this, jack?" "from joseph preece. i met him up at the ferry, as i wor comin' away from the shop." "he's out too, then?" asks mrs wingate, who has of late come to know him. "yes; same's the others." "where be the poor man abidin' now?" "well; that's odd, too. where do you suppose, mother?" "how should i know, my son? where?" "in the old house where coracle dick used to live!" "what be there so odd in that?" "why, because dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor--head keeper." "ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! that be settin' thief to catch thief!" "somethin' besides thief, he! a deal worse than that!" "but," pursues mrs wingate, without reference to the reflection on coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the captain took down the river." "i an't at liberty to tell any one. ye understand me, mother?" "yes, yes; i do." "the captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, i don't know much about them myself. but what i do know, i'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it--even wi' you, mother." she appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation. "in time," he adds, "i'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. maybe, the morrow." "ye're to see him the morrow, then?" "yes; he wants the boat." "what hour?" "he didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. so i may look out for him early--first thing in the mornin'." "that case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. first take this. it be the somethin' i promised ye--better than tea." the something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainty superior to port prepared in the same way. quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy--then into it--at length capsized to a sad symphony--the shrieks of a drowning woman! volume three, chapter viii. the new mistress of the mansion. at llangorren court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. lewin murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might. there was none to say nay. by the failure of ambrose wynn's heirs--in the line through his son and bearing his name--the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom lewin murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. he of glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. this they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal. lewin murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. but in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better half. she has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of miss linton, which had been speedily removed by her--transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady's-maid, more especially one so expensive as clarisse; who, as jack wingate said, has been dismissed from miss linton's establishment--at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. that clever _demoiselle_ was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the court, to dance attendance on the _ancien belle_ of mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of cheltenham. pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. the french adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. oft gazed she across the wye at those smiling grounds of llangorren, as the fallen angel back over its walls into the garden of eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour--ah! in her estimation, more than angels--women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial--the nearer pleasures of earth and sense. those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very paradise in which they disported themselves! nor does she despair of seeing them at llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had gwendoline wynn. brought up under the _regime_ of louis and trained in the school of eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? true, she is in england, not france; but she thinks it is all the same. and not without some reason for so thinking. the ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated--ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of paris, was affectionately elapsed by a queen on the dock head of cherbourg. the taint of that touch felt throughout all england, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature--novel writers who know neither decency nor shame--newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity--theatres little better than licensed _bagnios_, and stock exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in english history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind--all the old landmarks of england's morality being rapidly obliterated. and all the better for olympe, _nee_ renault. like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the _monde immonde_ of the second empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of llangorren expects to profit by it. nor has she the slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter society. it will not much longer taboo her. she knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000 pounds a-year will introduce her into a royal drawing-room--aye, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of hurlingham nor those of chiswick's garden. in this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the restoration and regency, recalling the painted dolls of the second charles, and the delilahs of the fourth george; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either. the wife of lewin murdock hopes ere long to be among them--once more a _celebrite_, as she was in the bois de boulogne, and the _bals_ of the demi-monde. true, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. for by a singular perverseness--unlike nature's laws in the animal and vegetable world--the outer tentacles of this called "society" are the last to take hold. but they will yet. money is all powerful in this free and easy age. having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the faubourg montmartre for her mother, _la blanchisseuse_. she is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the _court journal_ or _morning post_ in the list of royal receptions:--"_mrs lewin murdock, presented by the countess of devilacare_." and to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if jenkins be true to his instincts. she need not fear him--he will. she can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the polar that of magnetic needle. her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. if, during his adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. but there is another passion to which he now gives loose--his old, unconquerable vice--gaming. little cares he for the cards of visitors, while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter--more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. besides, some of his old cronies of the "welsh harp," who have now _entree_ at llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood--the black sheep of their respective flocks--are not above being of his company. where the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the "leg" fraternity--in farther flight from london--have found their way into herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the court. night after night, tables are there set out for loo, _ecarte_, _rouge et noir_, or whatever may be called for--in a small way resembling the hells of homburg, baden, and monaco--wanting only the women. volume three, chapter ix. the gamblers at llangorren. among the faces now seen at llangorren--most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect--there is one familiar to us. sinister as any; since it is that of father rogier. at no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. frequent as were his visits to glyngog, they are still more so to llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary, and somewhat humble, dwelling at rugg's ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in: the luxurious couch spread for him at the court having greater attractions. whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality, or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead as if demanding it. one ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine _him_ its master. nor would the supposition be so far astray. as the king-mater controls the king, so can gregoire rogier the new lord of llangorren--influence him at his will. and this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. that would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. the sword of loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger--a weapon more suitable to ultramontanism. only in protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed. but the priest of rugg's ferry is not in france; and, under the roof of an english gentleman, though a roman catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty--before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. they are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. they are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at llangorren court. so proceed matters under its new administration. -----------------------------------------------------------------------on the same evening that captain ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the court; the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into wingate's skiff. the hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and lewin murdock's guests are men not much given to follow fashions. besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. no spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. on their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them--packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside. pretty sight to mr murdock's lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect--each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host's house with more or less of that host's money in his pocket. murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? if he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it. hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed. their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. as said, gambling is his passion--has been for most part of his life--and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. a hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife--the only lady at the table--who, taking the hint, retires. the gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing--only a _petit verre_ of cognac by way of "corrector." then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive; from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters; with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the backyard of a london beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman's mansion! while the new master of llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company--as much as any of them engrossed in the game--its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. she is in the drawing-room, though not alone--father rogier alone with her. he, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. in his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company; though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. but just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of llangorren, about the way things are going on. however much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview--some words about it having previously passed between them. seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. but before a dozen words have been exchanged they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it. the interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow mrs murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but--as her husband late was--of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. for all having a whole eye to female beauty; which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the frenchwoman--the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milk-maid nine times dipped in dew. the wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue; for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait; to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. but the intruder is too tipsy to notice them; and advancing invites himself to a seat in front of mrs murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her. rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then muttering a word of excuse saunters off out of the room. she knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. were it upon a bench of the bois, or an arbour in the jardin, she would make short work of it. but the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer; some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers. she at length gets rid of him, on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. she will be down again by and by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman's presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment. once outside the room, instead of turning up the stair-way, she glides along the corridor; then on through the entrance-hall, and then out by the front door. nor stays she an instant on the steps, or carriage sweep; but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. for there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature. on reaching the place she is disappointed--some little surprised. rogier is not there; nor can she see him anywhere around! for all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it--only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts, just then of an exciting nature, he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. not loudly though; since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. besides, she does not think it necessary; he will come yet, without calling. she steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him; only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards. but without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs. by this there is another boat in motion; for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock. "where can gregoire have gone?" she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient. several times she puts the question without receiving answer; and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock. "can it be he?" continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. it cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? that must now be far away, while this is near--in the bye-water just below her. but can it be the priest who is in it? yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff's edge. for then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match--itself looking like that of lucifer! what can he be doing down there? why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself? she would call down to him, and inquire. but possibly better not? he may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. she will wait for his coming up. and wait she does, at the boat's dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion. "what is it?" she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, "_quelque chose a tort_?" "more than that. a veritable danger!" "_comment_? explain!" "there's a hound upon our track! one of sharpest scent." "who?" "_le capitaine de hussards_!" the dialogue that succeeds, between olympe renault and gregoire rogier, has no reference to lewin murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way. which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do. volume three, chapter x. an unwilling novice. "am i myself? dreaming? or, is it insanity?" it is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. a beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair, golden hued. but what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? as the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a convent. an english girl, though the convent is in france--in the city of boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached _pensionnat_ the sister of major mahon is receiving education. she is not the girl, for kate mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very opposite. besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school--she is beyond the years for that. neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the _pensionnaires_ are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the lady superior. a small apartment the young girl occupies--bedchamber and sitting-room in one--in short, a nun's cloister. furnished, as such, are, in a style of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin--these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer--and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs--that is all. the walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner. on the table are some four or five books, including a testament and missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. a literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it. that she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. one seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself--insane! a supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health. still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. seen for only a moment--that particular moment--such would be the conclusion regarding her. but her speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses--only under terrible agitation--distraught with some great trouble. "it must be a convent! but how have i come into it? into france, too; for surely am i there? the woman who brings my meals is french. so the other--sister of mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. the furniture--bed, table, chairs, washstand--everything of french manufacture. and in all england there is not such a jug and basin as those!" regarding the lavatory utensils--so diminutive as to recall "gulliver's travels in lilliput," if ever read by her--she for a moment seems to forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque. it is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue--not of marble, but a cheap plaster of paris cast--and she reads the inscription underneath, "_la mere de dieu_." the symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of france! "oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! i am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!" the knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself: "am i myself? is it a dream? or have my senses indeed forsaken me?" she clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. she presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched! it is so, or she would not reason as she does. "everything around shows i am in france. but how came i to it? who has brought me? what offence have i given god or man, to be dragged from home, from country--and confined--imprisoned! convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned i am! the door constantly kept locked! that window, so high, i cannot see over its sill! the dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. oh! instead of cheering it tantalises-tortures me!" despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things present, but reverting to the past. "let me think again! what can i remember? that night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! the end of my life, as i thought, if i had a thought at that time. it was not, though, or i shouldn't be here, but in heaven i hope. would i were in heaven now! when i recall _his_ words--those last words and think--" "your thoughts are sinful, child!" the remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. a woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black--the orthodox garb of the holy sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. a tall thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. the intruder is "sister ursule." she has opened the door noiselessly--as cloister doors are made to open--and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy _silhouette_ in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well-thumbed. that she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud. "yes?" she continues, "sinful--very sinful! you should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness. and of anything before that you have been thinking of--the wickedness of all." she thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. it is not the first visit of sister ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. at the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation; defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. but the proudest spirit can be humbled. even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will became subdued, if not tamed. therefore the imprisoned english girl makes reply, meekly and appealingly-"sister of mercy, as you are called; have mercy upon me! tell me why i am here?" "for the good of your soul and its salvation." "but how can that concern any one save myself?" "ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading; and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. they cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty--nay, a direct command from god--to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his divine favour. he is all-merciful." "true: he is. i do not need to be told it. only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how i have come to be here, surely i may know?" "you shall in time, _ma fille_. now you cannot--must not--for many reasons." "what reasons?" "well; for one, you have been very ill--nigh unto death, indeed." "i know that, without knowing how." "of course. the accident which came so near depriving you of life was of that sudden nature; and your senses--but i mustn't speak further about it. the doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. be satisfied with knowing, that they who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. i've brought you this little volume for perusal. it will help to enlighten you." she stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book--one of those "aids to faith" relied upon by the apostles of the _propaganda_. the girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her. "how good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive. "how wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "i am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. but i shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind." so saying, sister ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock. "o god!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "am i myself, and dreaming? or am i mad? in mercy, heaven, tell me what it means!" volume three, chapter xi. a cheerful kitchen. of all the domestics turned adrift from llangorren one alone interests us--joseph preece--"old joe," as his young mistress used familiarly to call him. as jack wingate has made his mother aware, joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by coracle dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man ere while lived as one of the retainers of the wynn family. beyond this the exchange has not extended. richard dempsey, under the new _regime_ at llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by joseph preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. instead, the versatile joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether--that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages and other kinds of wicker-work. rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of squire wynn. having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, joe has laid by a little _pecunium_, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. the old man of many _metiers_ has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it. is is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of dick dempsey, though dick had nothing to do with it. the poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a "withey bed" belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. this last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands--and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture--he has taken a lease of it along with the house. under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation-almost ruin--the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. he has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor--in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable. among other improvements he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. more still, neatly and tastefully furnished it; the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany framed glass on top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras. for himself? no; he has a bedroom besides. and this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel, suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pincushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. they cannot be the belongings of "old joe's" wife, nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of benedict has not been. a bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter. who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? in a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper--his own. but before entering on parlour duties at the court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. by her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give him gratification. the old servitor of squire wynn is in his way a _gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things. his accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of amy--amy preece, for she is his brother's child. and she is pretty as her name, a bright blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well-rounded, and flesh firm as a ribston pippin. her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark scowling features of coracle dick--brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware or the whitewash upon its walls. old joe rejoices; and if he have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. but this thought suggests another contradicting it. how could he while his young mistress lived? she so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. this she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly, in contrast! and as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. it is now lying just below, at the brook's mouth by the withey bed, where joe has made a mooring-place for it. the handsome thing would fetch 50 pounds; and many a wye waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling! all in vain. old joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with that boat. it oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her--aye for the rest of his life. if he has lost the lady he will cling to the souvenir, which carries her honoured name! but, however, faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling gwendoline wynn to remembrance. on other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. and never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with jack wingate, when both were a shopping at rugg's ferry. for there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home; which was gladly and off-hand accepted. "a bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old boatman's words specifying the entertainment. the night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. for, to let out a little secret, the french lady's-maid was not the only feminine at llangorren court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing captain ryecroft. raising the curtain still higher, amy preece's position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither. not strange then, but altogether natural. she is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. she would work her fingers off for jack wingate. possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. if not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. for never in all his life has old joe met one he so greatly cottons to. his intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. if his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the expected guest. a gentle tapping at the door tells him the trigger is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out-"that you, jack wingate? o' course it be. come in!" and in jack wingate comes. volume three, chapter xii. queer bric-a-brac. stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping. old joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for amy to carry on her culinary operations. there are still a few touches to be added--a sauce to be concocted--before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it. host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old joe is an oracle. as the other, too, has spent all his days on vaga's banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. it is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. if they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. it reminds him of many a pleasant christmas night in the grand servants' hall at the court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon. his guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful--almost himself again. his mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving--not righteous, but sinful. and now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged--and all on his account--he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. at all events his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. not that he is untrue to the memory of mary morgan. far from it. his feelings are but natural, inevitable. with that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him. but his feelings for amy preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. it even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth the girl's beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. and she possesses something more than beauty--a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by jack wingate--modesty. he has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company--contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the court--clarisse. and now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals--best from the forest of dean. and he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, _vis-a-vis_ to her uncle, and distributing the viands. these are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. he has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, amy is something of an _artiste de cuisine_. an excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, jack wingate might catch himself so reflecting. but not now; not to-night. such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing. the conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management. it continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. amy knows her uncle's weakness--which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the "barley bree" that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate. as the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted. answered in the negative, she bids both "good night," withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed. but not immediately to fall asleep. instead she lies awake thinking of jack wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. the french _femme de chambre_ would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. not so the young english girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment. on the instant of her withdrawal, old joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together. "yer good health, jack." "same to yerself, joe." after this exchange the ex-charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them--the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing. "queer sort o' chap, that coracle dick! an't he, jack?" "course he be. but why do ye ask? you knowed him afore, well enough." "not so well's now. he never comed about the court, 'ceptin' once when fetched there--afore the old squire on a poachin' case. lor! what a change! he now head keeper o' the estate." "ye say ye know him better than ye did? ha' ye larned anythin' 'bout him o' late?" "that hae i; an' a goodish deal too. more'n one thing as seems kewrous." "if ye don't object tellin' me, i'd like to hear what they be." "well, one are, that dick dempsey ha' been in the practice of somethin' besides poachin'." "that an't no news to me, i ha' long suspected him o' doin's worse than that." "amongst them did ye include forgin'?" "no; because i never thought o' it. but i believe him to be capable o' it, or anything else. what makes ye think he a' been a forger?" "well, i won't say forger, for he mayn't a made the things. but for sure he ha' been engaged in passin' them off." "passin' what off!" "them!" rejoins joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table--over a score of coins to all appearance half-crown pieces. "counterfeits--every one o' 'em!" he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise. "where did you find them?" asks jack. "in the corner o' an old cubbord. furbishin' up the place, i comed across them--besides a goodish grist o' other kewrosities. what would ye think o' my predecessor here bein' a burglar as well as smasher?" "i wouldn't think that noways strange neyther. as i've sayed already, i b'lieve dick dempsey to be a man who'd not mind takin' a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad. burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. but what led ye to think he ha' been also in the housebreaking line?" "these!" answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor, not the table; as he does so exclaiming, "theere be a lot o' oddities! a complete set o' burglar's tools--far as i can understand them." and so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys--in short, every implement of the cracksman's calling. "and ye found them in the cubbert too?" "no, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. the big bag, wi' its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks--the clift at the back o' the house." "odd, all o' it! an' the oddest his leavin' such things behind--to tell the tale o' his guilty doin's; i suppose bein' full o' his new fortunes, he's forgot all about them." "but ye han't waited for me to gie the whole o' the cat'logue. there be somethin' more to come." "what more?" asks the young waterman, suprisedly, and with renewed interest. "a thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. i can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an' the house-breakin' implements; but the other beats me dead down, an' i don't know what to make o't. maybe you can tell. i foun' it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi' a stone in front exact fittin' to an' fillin' its mouth." while speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff--apparently linen--loosely rolled. unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds:-"theer be the eydentical article!" no wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it. for it is a _shroud_! white, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast! "o god!" cries jack wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. "that's the shroud mary morgan wor buried in! i can swear to 't. i seed her mother stitch on that cross an' them letters--the ineetials o' her name. an' i seed it on herself in the coffin 'fore't wor closed. heaven o' mercy! what do it mean?" amy preece, lying awake in her bed, hears jack wingate's voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. but she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour--even into morning. for before the two men part they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping! volume three, chapter xiii. a brace of body-snatchers. what with the high hills that shut in the valley of the wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "you couldn't see your hand before you." i have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road. such a night has drawn down over rugg's ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the welsh harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, no longer to be seen. in the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed. some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. if so they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it. for all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. the place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where captain ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. these are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it. soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. then facing back towards the boat, he says:-"hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!" "ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. the things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately, as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. there is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank. he who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. the younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent. inside the sacred precincts they pause; partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. seen, they could not be, before or now. becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper-"it be all right, i think. every livin' sinner--an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. as for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home. good as sure down at llangorren court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. we hain't nothin' to fear, i take it. let's on to the place. you lay hold o' my skirt, and i'll gie ye the lead. i know the way, every inch o' it." saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step. a few paces further, and they arrive at a grave; beside which they again make stop. in daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. a month, or so, since the turf had been smoothed over it. the men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. but, before going further in their design--body-snatching, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted. not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river. at length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to leave no traces of their theft. that done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. then, seizing hold of the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside. they have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even shorter than they anticipated. within less than eighteen inches of the surface their tools come in contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin. soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying-"i tolt ye so--listen!" with the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. it returns a hollow sound--too hollow for aught to be inside it! "no body in there!" he adds. "hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other. "sartint we had--an' will." once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely--the screws all drawn and gone! flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin--not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else. there is nothing--only emptiness. the house of the dead is untenanted-its tenant has been taken away! "i know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "i know'd my poor mary wor no longer here!" it is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but jack wingate, his companion being joseph preece. after which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. he is less sad than thoughtful now. but he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf--adjusting the sods with as much exactitude, as though they were laying tesselated tiles! then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off. on return down stream they reflect in different ways; the old boatman of llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by coracle dick, for the doctors--with a view to earning a dishonest penny. far otherwise the thoughts of jack wingate. he thinks, nay hopes-almost happily believes--that the body exhumed was not dead--never has been--but that mary morgan still lives, breathes, and has being! volume three, chapter xiv. in want of help. "drowned? no! dead before she ever went under the water. murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt." it is captain ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. and to himself, being alone, within his room in the wyeside hotel; for he is still in herefordshire. more in conjecture, he proceeds--"they first smothered, i suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? a double death as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. poor girl! i hope not." in prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with jack wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. this partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. it is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt new serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy. he has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it in the day time, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. it was for this he had bespoken wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. there and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff. but not any more misleading him. if the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. no natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! and within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below! had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints! that man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. for he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of sysiphus, was no other than father rogier. the priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot. not this time crouching among the ferns; but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. still near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the _debacle_, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it. "_un limier veritable_! a hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. aha! the game must be got out of his way. llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner the better." at the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of gregoire rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "no accident--no suicide-murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "this makes me all the more sure of it. miserable trick! not much mr lewin murdock will gain by it." so thought he then. but now, days after, though still believing murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." for the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. though himself convinced that gwendoline wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others--much less a legal tribunal. he is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned. he now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing that murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it. "the man's wife must know all about it?" he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that french priest--he probably the instigator of it? aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? there have been such cases recorded--many of them. exercising great authority at llangorren--as jack has learned from his friend joe--there commanding everybody and everything! and the fellow dempsey--poacher, and what not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! why all this? only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. yes; all four acting conjointly have brought it about! "and how am i to bring it home to them? 'twill be difficult, indeed, if at all possible. even that slight sign destined has increased the difficulty. "no use taking the `great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. to submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. that isn't the way--will not do! "and yet i must have some one to assist me. for there is truth in the old saw `two heads better than one.' wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. i want a man of my own class; one who--stay! george shenstone? no! the young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. i could trust his heart, not his head. where is he who has both to be relied upon? ha! mahon! the man--the very man! experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his irish blood up against the sassenachs--above all devoted to me, as i know; has never forgotten that little service i did him at delhi. and he has nothing to do--plenty of time at his disposal. yes; the major's my man! "shall i write and ask him to come over here. on second thoughts, no! better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. to boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. the scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as well as now. if we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. now i think of it, something may be learnt about them in boulogne itself; or at all events of the priest. since i've had a good look at his forbidding face, i feel certain it's the same i saw inside the doorway of that convent. if not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other. "in any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. perchance, also, a trifle concerning mr and mrs lewin murdock. it appears that both husband and wife are well known at homburg, baden, and other like resorts. gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the french seaport, to get their hands in for those grander hells beyond. i'll go over to boulogne!" a knock at the door. on the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. "well?" "your waterman, sir, wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?" "tell him to step up!" "what can jack be coming after? anyhow i'm glad he has come. 'twill save me the trouble of sending for him; as i'd better settle his account before starting off." [jack has a new score against the captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "besides there's something i wish to say--a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. come in, jack!" this, as a shuffling in the corridor outside, tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door mat. the door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. more like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him. "what is it?" asks the captain, observing his distraught manner. "somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed." "ah! let me hear it!" demands ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind. "i will, captain. but it'll take time in the tellin'." "take as much as you like. i'm at your service. be seated." jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the captain is sitting--by a table. then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in grave, solemn voice: "i do believe, captain, _she be still alive_!" volume three, chapter xv. still alive. impossible to depict the expression on vivian ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. it is more than surprise--more than astonishment--intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it. "still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "alive!" he mechanically repeats. "what do you mean, wingate? and who?" "my poor girl, captain. you know." "_his_ girl, not _mine_! mary morgan, not gwendoline wynn!" reflects ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow. "i'm almost sure she be still livin'," continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why. controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly:-"what leads you to think that way, wingate? have you a reason?" "yes, have i; more'n one. it's about that i ha' come to consult ye." "you've come to astonish me! but proceed!" "well, sir, as i ha' sayed, it'll take a good bit o' tellin', and a lot o' explanation beside. but since ye've signified i'm free to your time, i'll try and make the story short's i can." "don't curtail it in any way. i wish to hear all!" the waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life--those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, mary morgan. he tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of coracle dick, and the sinister interference of father rogier. in addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm--their last--and the sad episode soon after succeeding. something of all this ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. what he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farm-house of abergann, while mary morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. the first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl's mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. then the strange behaviour of father rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl's face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up--a haste noticed by others as well as jack wingate. "but what do you make of all that?" asks ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other, and still stranger revelations. "how can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? quite its contrary, i should say." "stay, captain! there be more to come." the captain does stay, listening on. to hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! he speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. then goes on to give account of the evening spent with joseph preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars' tools, and finally the shroud--that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight! his narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman. "last night," he says, proceeding with the relation, "or i ought to say this same mornin'--for 'twar after midnight hour--joe an' myself took the skiff, an' stole up to the chapel graveyard; where we opened her grave, an' foun' the coffin empty! now, captain, what do ye think o' the whole thing?" "on my word, i hardly know what to think of it. mystery seems the measure of the time! this you tell me of is strange--if not stranger than any! what are your own thoughts about it, jack?" "well, as i've already sayed, my thoughts be, an' my hopes, that mary's still in the land o' the livin'." "i hope she is." the tone of ryecroft's rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following. "but you saw her in her coffin? waked for two days, as i understood you; then laid in her grave? how could she have lived throughout all that? surely she was dead!" "so i thought at the time, but don't now." "my good fellow, i fear you are deceiving yourself. i'm sorry having to think so. why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive--that seems physically impossible!" "well, captain, it's just about the possibility of the thing i come to ask your opinion; thinkin' ye'd be acquainted wi' the article itself." "what article?" "the new medicine; it as go by the name o' chloryform." "ha! you have a suspicion--" "that she ha' been chloryformed, an' so kep' asleep--to be waked up when they wanted her. i've heerd say, they can do such things." "but then she was drowned also? fell from a foot plank, you told me? and was in the water some time?" "i don't believe it, a bit. it be true enough she got somehow into the water, an' wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o' herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o' the brook. but that wor short after, an' she might still a' ben alive not with standin'. my notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an' knew all along she warn't dead, nohow." "my dear jack, the thing cannot be possible. even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father--all of them--must have been cognisant of these facts--if facts?" "i don't forget it, captain. 'stead i believe they all wor cognisant o' them--leastways, the mother." "but why should she assist in such a dangerous deception--at risk of her daughter's life?" "that's easy answered. she did it partly o' herself; but more at the biddin' o' the priest, whom she daren't disobey--the weak-minded creature most o' her time given up to sayin' prayers and paternosters. they all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. wi' her willing i could a' defied the whole lot o' them. bein' aware o' that their only chance wor to get her out o' my way by some trick--as they ha' indeed got her. ye may think it strange their takin' all that trouble; but if ye'd seen her ye wouldn't. there worn't on all wyeside so good lookin' a girl!" ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance. despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says--jack's earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him. "and supposing her to be alive," he asks, "where do you think she is now? have you any idea?" "i have--leastways a notion." "where?" "over the water--in france--the town o' bolone." "boulogne!" exclaims the captain, with a start. "what makes you suppose she is there?" "something, sir, i han't yet spoke to ye about. i'd a'most forgot the thing, an' might never a thought o't again, but for what ha' happened since. ye'll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin' ye i had an engagement the next day to take the young powells down the river?" "i remember it perfectly." "well; i took them, as agreed; an' that day we went down's fur's chepstow. but they wor bound for the severn side a duck shootin'; and next mornin' we started early, afore daybreak. as we were passin' the wharf below chepstow bridge, where there wor several craft lyin' in, i noticed one sloop-rigged ridin' at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin' to put to sea. by the light o' a lamp as hung over the taffrail, i read the name on her starn, showin' she wor french, an' belonged to bolone. i shouldn't ha' thought that anythin' odd, as there be many foreign craft o' the smaller kind puts in at chepstow. but what did appear odd, an' gied me a start too, wor my seein' a boat by the sloop's side wi' a man in it, who i could a'most sweared wor the rogue's ferry priest. there wor others in the boat besides, an' they appeared to be gettin' some sort o' bundle out o' it, an' takin' it up the man-ropes, aboard o' the sloop. but i didn't see any more, as we soon passed out o' sight, goin' on down. now, captain, it's my firm belief that man must ha' been the priest, and that thing, i supposed to be a bundle o' marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o' mary morgan--not dead, but livin'!" "you astound me, wingate! certainly a most singular circumstance! coincidence too! boulogne--boulogne!" "yes, captain; by the letterin' on her starn the sloop must ha' belonged there; an' _i'm goin' there myself_." "i too, jack! we shall go together!" volume three, chapter xvi. a strange father confessor. "he's gone away--given it up! be glad, madame!" father rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of llangorren court, where mrs murdock is seated. "what, gregoire?"--were her husband present it would be "pere;" but she is alone--"who's gone away? and why am i to rejoice?" "_le capitaine_." "ha!" she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one. "are you sure of it? the news seems too good for truth." "it's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. whether to stay away is another matter. we must hope he will." "i hope it with all my heart." "and well you may, madame; as i myself. we had more to fear from that _chien de chasse_ than all the rest of the pack--ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which i fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock-slide. a lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaissance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! wasn't it, _cherie_?" "superb! the whole thing from beginning to end! you've proved yourself a wonderful man, gregoire rogier." "and i hope worthy of olympe renault?" "you have." "_merci_! so far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. but there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. and it must be done quickly, too. i pine to cast off this priestly garb--in which i've been so long miserably masquerading--and enter into the real enjoyments of life. but there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day--any hour. le capitaine ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one." "richard--_le braconnier_--you're thinking of?" "no, no, no! of him we needn't have the slightest fear. i hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose i can draw tight at the shortest notice. i am far more apprehensive of monsieur, _votre mari_!" "in what way?" "more than one; but for one, his tongue. there's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and monsieur murdock is hardly ever out of them. suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about--well, i needn't say what. there's still suspicion abroad--plenty of it,--and like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze." "_c'est vrai_!" "fortunately, mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the _fiance_ and the other lover--the rustic and rejected one--shenstone _fils_. of him we need take no account. even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the _ancien hussard_, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. luck too, in his having no intimacies here, or i believe anywhere in the shire of hereford. had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him." "and you do think he has gone for good?" "i do; at least it would seem so. on his second return to the hotel--in haste as it was--he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. so i learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for london. of course that means nothing. he may be _en route_ for anywhere beyond--round the globe, if he feel inclined to circumnavigation. and i shall be delighted if he do." he would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred--that in getting his ticket captain ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for boulogne. still less might father rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for london; a first-class for the captain himself, and a second for the waterman wingate--travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life. having heard nothing of this, the sham priest--as he has now acknowledged himself--is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. in short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. alone the king stands, he tottering; for lewin murdock is fast drinking himself to death. it is of him the priest speaks as king:-"has he signed the will?" "_oui_." "when?" "this morning, before he went out. the lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness--" "i know all that," interrupts the priest, "as i should, having sent them. let me have a look at the document. you have it in the house, i hope?" "in my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment; "_le voila_!" she spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it, only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. a testament made by lewin murdock, which, at his death, leaves the llangorren estate--as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it--to his wife olympe--_nee_ renault--for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to gregoire rogier, priest of the roman catholic church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the convent of --, boulogne-sur-mer, france. "for that last clause, which is yours, gregoire, the nuns of boulogne should be grateful to you, or at all events, the abbess, lady superior, or whatever she's called." "so she will," he rejoins with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. unfortunately for her the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. nay!" he adds in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the llangorren estate left for any one--not even for yourself, madame. under the fingers of monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices--avalanches!" "_mon dieu_!" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed. "i wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. when i left the ferry he was in the welsh harp, as i was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, `heads and tails, who wins?' not he, you may be sure. no doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards--jews' eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these _chevaliers d'industrie_ facetiously term their money. if we don't bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. _comprenez-vous, cherie_?" "_parfaitement_! but how is it to be brought to a termination. for myself i haven't an idea. has any occurred to you, gregoire?" as the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. he knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put--both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. still he does not answer it directly. even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. for it is murder--the murder of lewin murdock! "_le pauvre homme_!" ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. "the cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and i don't believe he can last much longer. it seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. thanks to the school in which i was trained, i have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that." a gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman--an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband! "you think only _days_?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. but the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is. "only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "still days count in a thing of this kind--aye, even hours. who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? others have done the like before now--gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names--rich in one hour, beggars in the next. i can remember more than one." "ah! so can i." "englishmen, too; who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. true, monsieur hasn't any much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us--myself as well as you. i've risked everything--reputation, which i care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then--i need not tell you. what we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an english gaol. monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly." "_vraiment_! i ask you again--have you thought of anything, gregoire?" he does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. when at length given it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about. "would it greatly surprise you, if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?" "certainly not--in the least. why should it? it wouldn't be the first time by scores--hundreds--for him to stay all night away from me. aye, and at that same welsh harp, too--many's the night." "to your great annoyance, no doubt; if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?" she breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless, as was ever heard in an _allee_ of the jardin mabille. when it is ended she adds gravely:-"the time was when he might have made me so; i may as well admit that. not now, as you know, gregoire. now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, i'd only be too glad to think i should never see his face again. _le brute ivrogne_!" to this monstrous declaration rogier laconically rejoins:-"you may not." then placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, "if all prosper, as planned, _you will not_!" she neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. she knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband, she no longer care? for, to both become inconvenient. and from what has gone before, she can rely on rogier with its execution. volume three, chapter xvii. a queer catechist. a boat upon the wye, being polled upward, between llangorren court and rugg's ferry. there are two men in it, not vivian ryecroft and jack wingate, but gregoire rogier and richard dempsey. the _ci-devant_ poacher is at the oars; for in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff, which has replaced the _gwendoline_. this same morning he rowed his master up to rugg's, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home. the two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road round about, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, lewin murdock moreover an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day. it is the same on which father rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it. for he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. but on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back. no scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to gregoire rogier. instead, one of satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that _tete-a-tete_ with her he has called "cherie." though requiring a boat for its execution and an oarsman of a peculiar kind--adroit at something besides the handling of oars--not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. for all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest's moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. no supply of poached fish or game. things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. still he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be; though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. the first is-"you're not afraid of water, are you, dick?" "not partickler, your reverence. why should i?" "well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face--if i am right in my reckoning, only once a week--may plead my excuse for asking the question." "oh, father rogier! that wor only in the time past, when i lived alone, and the thing worn't worth while. now, going more into respectable company, i do a little washin' every day." "i'm glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you've had. but my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions; rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. if i mistake not, you can swim like a fish?" "no, not equal to a fish. that ain't possible." "an otter, then?" "somethin' nearer he, if ye like," answers coracle, laughingly. "i supposed as much. never mind. about the degree of your natatory powers we needn't dispute. i take it they're sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized and you in it?" "lor, father rogier! that wouldn't be nothin'! i could swim to eyther shore, if 'twor miles off." "but could you as you are now--with clothes on, boots, and everything?" "sartin could i, and carry weight beside." "that will do," rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied. then lapsing into silence, and leaving dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated. the speechless interregnum is not for long. after a minute or two, rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks-"would it upset this skiff if i were to step on the side of it--i mean bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?" "that would it, your reverence; though ye be but a light weight; tip it over like a tub." "quite turn it upside down--as your old truckle, eh?" "well; not so ready as the truckle. still 'twould go bottom upward. though a biggish boat, it be one o' the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi' the lightiest o' men standin' on its gunn'l rail." "and surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?" "i shouldn't like to try--your reverence bein' wi' me in the boat." "how would you like, somebody else being with you in it--_if made worth your while_?" coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. he begins to see the drift of the _sub jove_ confessional to which he is being submitted. "how'd i like it, your reverence? well enough; if, as you say, made worth my while. i don't mind a bit o' a wettin' when there's anythin' to be gained by it. many's the one i've had on a chilly winter's night, as this same be, all for the sake o' a salmon, i wor 'bleeged to sell at less'n half-price. if only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, i wouldn't wait for the upsettin' o' the boat, but jump overboard at oncst." "that's game in you, monsieur dick. but to earn the honest penny you speak of, the upsetting of the boat might be a necessary condition." "be it so, your reverence. i'm willing to fulfil that, if ye only bid me. maybe," he continues in tone of confidential suggestion, "there be somebody as you think ought to get a duckin' beside myself?" "there is somebody, who ought," rejoins the priest, coming nearer to his point. "nay, must," he continues, "for if he don't the chances are we shall all go down together, and that soon." coracle sculls on without questioning. he more than half comprehends the figurative speech, and is confident he will ere long receive complete explanation of it. he is soon led a little way further by the priest observing-"no doubt, _mon ancien braconnier_, you've been gratified by the change that's of late taken place in your circumstances. but perhaps it hasn't quite satisfied you, and you expect to have something more; as i have the wish you should. and you would ere this, but for one who obstinately sets his face against it." "may i know who that one is, father rogier?" "you may, and shall; though i should think you scarce need telling. without naming names, it's he who will be in this boat with you going back to llangorren." "i thought so. an' if i an't astray, he be the one your reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?" "instead, all the better for it. it may cure him of his evil courses-drinking, card-playing, and the like. if he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. he'll have to go back to beggary, as at glyngog; while you, monsieur coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night-netting, and all the etceteras. would you desire that?" "daanged if i would! an' won't do it if i can help. shan't if your reverence'll only show me the way." "there's but one i can think of." "what may that be, father rogier?" "simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards." "it shall be done. when, and where?" "when you are coming back down. the where you may choose for yourself-such place as may appear safe and convenient. only take care you don't drown yourself." "no fear o' that. there an't water in the wye as'll ever drown dick dempsey." "no," jocularly returns the priest; "i don't suppose there is. if it be your fate to perish by asphyxia--as no doubt it is--strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed--that being more appropriate to the life you have led. ha! ha! ha!" coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. for the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. but remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at abergann he silently submits to it. he may not much longer. he, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of llangorren court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the philistines of gaza, have it dragged down about their ears. but the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the _role_ of samson; and however galling the _jeu d'esprit_ of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it. in truth there is no time for further exchange of speech, at least in the skiff. by this they have arrived at the rugg's ferry landing-place, where father rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in coracle's ear, and then goes off. his words were-"a hundred pounds, dick, if you do it. twice that for your doing it adroitly!" volume three, chapter xviii. almost a "vert." major mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiacre_ driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend. he does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door. "captain ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "glad to see you back in boulogne." then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "part of your belongings, isn't he?" "yes, major; my old wye waterman, jack wingate, of whom i spoke to you. and if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two--" "don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. the longer you stay with me you'll be conferring the greater favour. your old room is gaping to receive you; and murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. murt!" to the ex-royal irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has also come forth, "take charge of captain ryecroft's traps, along with mr wingate here, and see all safety bestowed. now, old fellow, step inside. they'll look after the things. you're just in time to do dinner with me. i was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully lamenting my loneliness. well; one never knows what luck's in the wind. rather hard lines for you, however. if i mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. but i know you're neither _gourmand_ nor _gourmet_; and that's some consolation. in!" in go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiacre_ fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to jack wingate. -----------------------------------------------------------------------soon as captain ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the dining-room. when seated at the table, the major asks-"what on earth has delayed you, vivian? you promised to be back in a week at most. its months now! despairing of your return, i had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, `if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' ha! ha!" ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever. in hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the major rolls on in his rich hibernian brogue-"you've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. and now i have you here i mean to keep you. so, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in boulogne-sur-mer. you will, won't you?" "it's very kind of you, mahon; but that must depend on--" "on what?" "how i prosper in my errand." "oh! this time you _have_ an errand? some business?" "i have." "well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. but speaking seriously, ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may i know its nature?" "not only may, but it's meant you should. nay, more, mahon; i want your help in it." "that you can count upon, whatever it be--from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. only say how i can serve you." "well, major, in the first place i would seek your assistance in some inquiries i am about to make." "inquiries! have they regard to that young lady you said was lost-missing from her home! surely she has been found?" "she has--found drowned!" "found drowned! god bless me!" "yes, mahon. the home from which she was missing knows her no more. gwendoline wynn is now in her long home--in heaven!" the solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker's face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener's mind. it is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them. the major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation. which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together. he gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. but mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly-"then you have a suspicion there's been what's commonly called foul play?" "more than a suspicion. i'm sure of it." "the devil! but who do you suspect?" "who should i, but he now in possession of the property--her cousin, mr lewin murdock. though i've reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a frenchman. indeed, it's chiefly to make inquiry about him i've come over to boulogne." "a frenchman. you know his name?" "i do; at least that he goes by on the other side of the channel. you remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister's at school, our seeing a carriage there--a hackney, or whatever it was?" "certainly i do." "and my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest i'd seen but a day or two before?" "of course i remember all that; and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep; where all are so nearly of the same hue--that black. something of the sort i said. but what's your argument?" "no argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my herefordshire priest. i've seen him several times since--had a good square look at him--and feel sure 'twas he." "you haven't yet told me his name?" "rogier--father rogier. so he is called upon the wye." "and, supposing him identified, what follows?" "a great deal follows, or rather depends on his identification." "explain, ryecroft. i shall listen with patience." ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the jesuit on wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of jack wingate's love and loss--the last so strangely resembling his own--the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject. "a strange tale, truly!" observes the major, after hearing it to the end. "but does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart and brought her over here with the intention of of shutting her up in a nunnery?" "he does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave." "'twould be a wonderful story, if true--i mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. that's possible, and probable where priests of the jesuitical school are concerned. and so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. oh! yes; ultramontane magicians can do anything!" "but why," asks ryecroft, "should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl--the daughter of a small herefordshire farmer,--with possibly at the most a hundred pounds, or so, for her dowry? that's what mystifies me!" "it needn't," laconically observes the major. "these jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. was the girl good looking?" he asks after musing a moment. "well, of myself i never saw her. by jack's description she must have been a superb creature--on a par with the angels. true, a lover's judgment is not much to be relied on, but i've heard from others, that miss morgan was really a rustic belle--something beyond the common." "faith! and that may account for the whole thing. i know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; i suppose, for purposes of proselytising, if nothing more. they'd give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way; have been already bidding for her. by heavens! i'd rather see her laid in her grave!" the major's strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues-"you've come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about--what's the girl's name?--ah! morgan." "more than the convent matter; though it's in the same connection. i've come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. and, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of mr lewin murdock and his french wife; for which i may probably go on to paris, if not further. to sum up everything, i've determined to sift this mystery to the bottom--unravel it to its last thread. i've already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. but i want one to assist me. like a lone hunter on a lost trail, i need counsel from a companion--and help too. you'll stand by me, mahon?" "to the death, my dear boy! i was going to say the last shilling in my purse. as you don't need that, i say, instead, to the last breath in my body!" "you shall be thanked with the last in mine." "i'm sure of that. and now for a drop of the `crayther,' to warm us to our work. ho! there, murt! bring in the `matayreals.'" which murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed. soon as punches have been mixed, the major returns to the subject, saying-"now then; to enter upon particulars. what step do you wish me to take, first?" "first, to find out who father rogier is, and what. that is, on this side; i know what he is on the other. if we can but learn his relations with the convent it might give us a key, capable of opening more than one lock." "there won't be much difficulty in doing that, i take it. all the less, from my little sister kate being a great pet of the lady superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! not if i know it! soon as her schooling's completed she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. you see, old fellow, i'm not very bigoted about our holy faith, and in some danger of becoming a `vert.' as for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she'd never have seen the inside of one, with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. but money's money; and though the legacy isn't a large one, for her sake i couldn't afford to forfeit it. you comprehend?" "quite. and you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?" "pretty sure of it. kate's no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. she'll manage it for me, with the instructions i mean giving her. after all, it may not be so much trouble. in these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother's child of them--nuns and novices alike. gossip's the chief occupation of their lives. if there's been an occurrence such as you speak of--a new bird caged there--above all an english one--it's sure to have got wind--that is inside the walls. and i can trust kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. so, vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. i think i can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of, be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing." -----------------------------------------------------------------------kate mahon proves equal to the occasion; showing herself quick witted, as her brother boasted her to be. on the third day after, she is able to report to him; that some time previously, how long not exactly known, a young english girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named rogier. the girl is a candidate for the holy sisterhood--voluntary of course--to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. miss mahon has not seen the new novice; only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. nor have any of the other _pensionnaires_ been permitted to see or speak with her. all they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair--a grand wealth of it--and goes by the name of "soeur marie." "sister mary!" exclaims jack wingate, as ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence--at the same time translating the "soeur marie." "it's mary morgan--my mary! an' by the heavens of mercy," he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, "she shall come out o' that convent, or i'll lay my life down at its door." volume three, chapter xix. the last of lewin murdock. once more a boat upon the wye, passing between rugg's ferry and llangorren court, but this time descending. it is the same boat, and as before with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. one of them is--coracle dick, still at the oars; while father rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another; not sitting upright as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart. this man is lewin murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety--in common parlance, drunk. he has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the "welsh harp," where he has been all day carousing; and delivered to dempsey, who now at a late hour of the night is conveying him homeward. his hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demi-lune of dark purplish colour underneath. but for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk. verily, is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed lewin murdock is doing his best to destroy himself--drinking suicidally! for all, he is not destined thus to die. his end will come even sooner, and it may be easier. it is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the conversation late exchanged between him and father rogier. for in those dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when within springing distance of its prey. nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his cadaverous cheeks. possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand gas-lighted _salon_, with tables of _tapis vert_, carrying packs of playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. or the _mise en scene_ of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd and even, "heads or tails." but if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him. else, far gone as he is, he would be aroused--instinctively--to make a last struggle for life. for the thing so near is death! the fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition--as it were holding lewin murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand--has unquestionably determined upon taking it. why he does not do so at once is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to the spilling of blood. the heart of the _ci-devant_ poacher, counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such silly and sensitive scruples. the postponement of his hellish purpose is due to a mere question of convenience. he dislikes the idea of having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments! true, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry--every stitch. but that would not do. for there will be another coroner's inquest, at which he will have to be present. he has escaped the two preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal witness. therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as well. into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to llangorren. so ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and destroyed! silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. between rugg's ferry and llangorren court he is as familiar with the river's channel as a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion; knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored them while paddling his little "truckle." and now, sculling the larger craft, it is all the same. and he pulls on, without once looking over his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him; lewin murdock lying motionless at his feet. as if himself moved by a sudden impulse--impatience, or the thought it might be as well to have the dangerous work over--he ceases pulling, and acts as though he were about to unship the oars. but again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed walls of the widow wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that the main road passes by it. what if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen in the act of capsizing his own boat? true, it is after midnight, and not likely any one abroad--even the latest wayfarer. but there might be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out. that place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself! thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he proceeds onward; summoning up before his mind the different turns and reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon. for, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip. he is growing nervously impatient--almost apprehensive of failure, through fear of being seen--when rounding a bend he has before him the very thing he is in search of--the place itself. it is a short straight reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and trees overhanging, whose shadows meeting across shut off the hated light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. it is but a little way above the lone farm-house of abergann, and the mouth of the brook which there runs in. but coracle dick is not thinking of either; only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design. and, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about its execution--carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. having unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart, there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. then, stepping to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's weight borne upon it. in an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling lewin murdock, as himself, into the mad surging river! the drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation of his dream! satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. he has enough to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes, even to the boots. he reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted; shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on plinlimmon, and its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream. but the chill of the wye's water is nought compared with that sent through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he has crawled out upon the spot--the self-same spot--where the waves gave back another body he had consigned to them--that of mary morgan! for a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end. the blood curdling in his veins. then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place--by himself accursed--taking the direction of llangorren, but giving a wide berth to abergann. he has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead knows that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed--as he is! mrs murdock sits up late for lewin--though with little expectation of his coming home. looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the portico. rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims in counterfeit surprise-"you, monsieur richard! not my husband!" when coracle dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry of distress. instead, it is one of ecstatic delight, she is unable to restrain, at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head, and the land for miles around it! volume three, chapter xx. a chapter diplomatic. another day has dawned, another sun set upon boulogne; and major mahon is again in his dining-room, with captain ryecroft, his sole guest. the cloth has been removed, the major's favourite after-dinner beverage brought upon the table, and, with punches "brewed" and cigars set alight, they have commenced conversation upon the incidents of the day-those especially relating to ryecroft's business in boulogne. the major has had another interview with his sister--a short one, snatched while she was out with her school companions for afternoon promenade. it has added some further particulars to those they had already learnt, both about the english girl confined within the nunnery and the priest who conveyed her thither. that the latter was father rogier is placed beyond a doubt by a minute description of his person given to miss mahon, well known to the individual who gave it. to the nuns within that convent the man's name is familiar--even to his baptismal appellation, gregoire; for although the major has pronounced all the sacerdotal fraternity alike, in being black, this particular member of it is of a shade deeper than common--a circumstance of itself going a good way towards his identification. even within that sacred precinct where he is admitted, a taint attaches to him; though what its nature the young lady has not yet been able to ascertain. the information thus obtained tallies with the estimate of the priest's character, already formed; in correspondence, too, with the theory that he is capable of the crime captain ryecroft believes him to have abetted, if not actually committed. nor is it contradicted by the fact of his being a frequent visitor to the nunnery, and a favourite with the administration thereof; indeed an intimate friend of the abbess herself. something more, in a way accounting for all: that the new novice is not the first _agneau d'angleterre_ he has brought over to boulogne, and guided into that same fold, more than one of them having ample means, not only to provision themselves, but a surplus for the support of the general sisterhood. there is no word about any of these english lambs having been other than voluntary additions to the french flock; but a whisper circulates within the convent walls, that father rogier's latest contribution is a recusant, and if she ever become a nun it will be a _forced_ one; that the thing is _contre coeur_--in short, she protests against it. jack wingate can well believe that; still under full conviction that "soeur marie" is mary morgan; and, despite all its grotesque strangeness and wild improbability, captain ryecroft has pretty nearly come to the same conclusion; while the major, with less knowledge of antecedent circumstances, but more of nunneries, never much doubted it. "about the best way to get the girl out. what's your idea, mahon?" ryecroft asks the question in no careless or indifferent way; on the contrary, with a feeling earnestness. for, although the daughter of the wyeside farmer is nought to him, the wye waterman is; and he has determined on seeing the latter through--to the end of the mysterious affair. in difficulties jack wingate has stood by him, and he will stand by jack, _coute-qui-coute_. besides, figuratively speaking, they are still in the same boat. for if wingate's dead sweetheart, so strangely returned to life, can be also restored to liberty, the chances are she may be the very one wanted to throw light on the other and alas! surer death. therefore, captain ryecroft is not all unselfish in backing up his boatman; nor, as he puts the question, being anxious about the answer. "we'll have to use strategy," returns the major; not immediately, but after taking a grand gulp out of his tumbler, and a vigorous draw at his _regalia_. "but why should we?" impatiently demands the captain. "if the girl have been forced in there, and's kept against her will--which by all the probabilities she is--surely she can be got out, on demand being made by her friends?" "that's just what isn't sure--though the demand were made by her own mother, with the father to back it. you forget, old fellow, that you're in france, not england." "but there's a british consul in boulogne." "aye, and a british foreign minister, who gives that consul his instructions; with some queer ideas besides, neither creditable to himself nor his country. i'm speaking of that jaunty diplomat--the `judicious bottle-holder,' who is accustomed to cajole the british public with his blarney about `civis romanus sum.'" "true, but does that bear upon our affair?" "it does--almost directly." "in what way? i do not comprehend." "because you're not up to what's passing over here--i mean at headquarters--the tuilleries, or st. cloud, if you prefer it. there the man--if man he can be called--is ruled by the woman; she in her turn the devoted partisan of pio nono and the unprincipled antonelli." "i can understand all that; still i don't quite see its application, or how the english foreign minister can be interested in those you allude to?" "i do. but for him, not one of the four worthies spoken of would be figuring as they are. in all probability france would still be a republic instead of an empire, wicked as the world ever saw; and rome another republic--it maybe all italy--with either mazzini or garibaldi at its head. for, certain as you sit there, old boy, it was the judicious bottle-holder who hoisted nap into an imperial throne, over that presidential chair, so ungratefully spurned--scurvily kicked behind after it had served his purpose. a fact of which the english people appear to be yet in purblind ignorance! as they are of another, equally notable, and alike misunderstood: that it was this same _civis romanus sum_ who restored old pio to his apostolic chair; those red-breeched ruffians, the zouaves, being but so much dust thrown into people's eyes--a bone to keep the british bull-dog quiet. he would have growled then, and will yet, when he comes to understand all these transactions; when the cloak of that scoundrelly diplomacy which screens them has rotted into shreds, letting the light of true history shine upon them." "why, mahon! i never knew you were such a politician! much less such a radical!" "nothing much of either, old fellow. only a man who hates tyranny in every shape and form--whether religious or political. above all, that which owes its existence to the cheapest--the very shabbiest chicanery the world was ever bamboozled with. i like open dealing in all things." "but you are not recommending it, now--in this little convent matter?" "all! that's quite a different affair! there are certain ends that justify certain means--when the devil must be fought with his own weapons. ours is of that kind, and we must either use strategy, or give the thing up altogether. by open measures there wouldn't be the slightest chance of our getting this girl out of the convent's clutches. even then we may fail; but, if successful, it will only be by great craft, some luck, and possibly a good deal of time spent before we accomplish our purpose." "poor fellow!" rejoins ryecroft, speaking of the wye waterman, "he won't like the idea of long waiting. he's madly, terribly impatient. this afternoon as we were passing the convent i had a difficulty to restrain him from rushing up to its door, ringing the bell, and demanding an interview with the `soeur marie'--having his mary, as he calls her, restored to him on the instant." "it's well you succeeded in hindering that little bit of rashness. had he done so, 'twould have ended not only in the door being slammed in his face, but another door shut behind his back--that of a gaol; from which he would never have issued till embarking on a voyage to new caledonia or cayenne. aye, both of you might have been so served. for would you believe it ryecroft, that you, an officer of the boasted h.b.r.a.; rich, and with powerful friends--even you could be not only here imprisoned, but _deporte_, without any one who has interest in you being the wiser; or, if so, having no power to prevent it. france, under the regime of napoleon le petit, is not so very different from what it was under the rule of louis le grand, and _lettres de cachet_ are now rife as then. nay, more of them now written, consigning men to a hundred bastilles instead of one. never was a people so enslaved as these johnny crapauds are at this present time; not only their speech fettered, but their very thoughts held in bondage, or so constrained, they may not impart them to one another. even intimate friends forbear exchanging confidences, lest one prove false to the other! nothing free but insincerity and sin; both fostered and encouraged from that knowledge intuitive among tyrants; that wickedness weakens a people, making them easier to rule and ride over. so, my boy, you perceive the necessity of our acting with caution in this business, whatever trouble or time it may take-don't you?" "i do." "after all," pursues the major, "it seems to me that time isn't of so much consequence. as regards the girl, they're not going to eat her up. and for the other matters concerning yourself, they'll keep, too. as you say, the scent's become cold; and a few days more or less can't make any difference. beside, the trails we intend following may in the end all run into one. i shouldn't be at all surprised if this captive damsel has come to the knowledge of something connected with the other affair. faith, that may be the very reason for their having her conveyed over here, to be cooped up for the rest of her life. in any case, the fact of her abduction, in such an odd outrageous way, would of itself be damning collateral evidence against whoever has done it, showing him or them good for anything. so, the first work on our hands, as the surest, is to get the waterman's sweetheart out of the convent, and safe back to her home in herefordshire. "that's our course, clearly. but have you any thoughts as to how we should proceed?" "i have; more than thoughts--hopes of success--and sanguine ones." "good! i'm glad to hear it. upon what do you base them?" "on that very near relative of mine--sister kate. as i've told you, she's a pet of the lady superior; admitted into the very _arcana_ of the establishment. and with such privilege, if she can't find a way to communicate with any one therein closeted, she must have lost the mother wit born to her, and brought thither from the `brightest gem of the say.' i don't think she has, or that it's been a bit blunted in boulogne. instead, somewhat sharpened by communion with these holy sisters; and i've no fear but that 'twill be sharp enough to serve us in the little scheme i've in part sketched out." "let me hear it, mahon?" "kate must obtain an interview with the english girl; or, enough if she can slip a note into her hand. that would go some way towards getting her out--by giving her intimation that friends are near." "i see what you mean," rejoins the captain, pulling away at his cigar, the other left to finish giving details of the plan he has been mentally projecting. "we'll have to do a little bit of burglary, combined with abduction. serve them out in their own coin; as it were hoisting the priest on his own petard!" "it will be difficult, i fear." "of course it will; and dangerous. likely more the last than the first. but it'll have to be done; else we may drop the thing entirely." "never, mahon! no matter what the danger, i for one am willing to risk it. and we can reckon on jack wingate. he'll be only too ready to rush into it." "ah! there might be more danger through his rashness. but it must be held in check. after all, i don't apprehend so much difficulty if things be dexterously managed. fortunately there's a circumstance in our favour." "what is it?" "a window." "ah! where?" "in the convent of course. that which gives light--not much of it either--to the cloister where the girl is confined. by a lucky chance my sister has learnt the particular one, and seen the window from the outside. it looks over the grounds where the nuns take recreation, now and then allowed intercourse with the school girls. she says it's high up, but not higher than the top of the garden wall; so a ladder that will enable us to scale the one should be long enough to reach the other. i'm more dubious about the dimensions of the window itself. kate describes it as only a small affair, with an upright bar in the middle--iron, she believes. wood or iron, we may manage to remove that; but if the herefordshire bacon has made your farmer's daughter too big to screw herself through the aperture, then it'll be all up a tree with us. however, we must find out before making the attempt to extract her. from what sister has told me, i fancy we can see the window from the ramparts above. if so, we may make a distant measurement of it by guess work. now," continues the major, coming to his programme of action, "what's got to be done first is that your wye boatman write a billet doux to his old sweetheart--in the terms i shall dictate to him. then my sister must contrive, in some way, to put it in the girl's hands, or see that she gets it." "and what after?" "well, nothing much after; only that we must make preparations for the appointment the waterman will make in his epistle." "it may as well be written now--may it not?" "certainly; i was just thinking of that. the sooner the better. shall i call him in?" "do as you think proper, mahon. i trust everything to you." the major, rising, rings a bell; which brings murtagh to the dining-room door. "murt, tell your guest in the kitchen, we wish a word with him." the face of the irish soldier vanishes from view, soon after replaced by that of the welsh waterman. "step inside, wingate!" says the captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted. "you can write, jack--can't you?" it is ryecroft who puts the inquiry. "well, captain; i ain't much o' a penman; but i can scribble a sort o' rough hand after a fashion." "a fair enough hand for mary morgan to read it, i dare say." "oh, sir, i only weesh there wor a chance o' her gettin' a letter from me!" "there is a chance. i think we can promise that. if you'll take this pen and put down what my friend major mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long." never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to jack wingate. then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write. the major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. not so, however. instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. for its solution he appeals to ryecroft, asking:-"how about the moon?" "the moon?" "yes. which quarter is she in? for the life of me, i can't tell." "nor i," rejoins the captain. "i never think of such a thing." "she's in her last," puts in the boatman, accustomed to take note of lunar changes. "it be an old moon now shining all the night, when the sky an't clouded." "you're right, jack!" says ryecroft. "now i remember; it is the old moon." "in which case," adds the major, "we must wait for the new one. we want darkness after midnight--must have it--else we cannot act. let me see; when will that be?" "the day week," promptly responds the waterman. "then she'll be goin' down, most as soon as the sun's self." "that'll do," says the major. "now to the pen!" squaring himself to the table, and the sheet of paper spread before him, wingate writes to dictation. no words of love, but what inspires him with a hope he may once more speak such in the ears of his beloved mary! volume three, chapter xxi. a quick conversion. "when is this horror to have an end? only with my life? am i, indeed, to pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? days so happy, till that the happiest of all--its ill-starred night! and my love so strong, so confident--its reward seeming so nigh--all to be for nought--sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished! nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place, everywhere around me! oh, it is agony! when will it be over?" it is the english girl who thus bemoans her fate--still confined in the convent, and the same cloister. herself changed, however. though but a few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. her form, too, has fallen away from the full ripe rounding that characterised it, though the wreck is concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. for soeur marie now wears the garb of the holy sisterhood--hating it, as her words show. she is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre soliloquy; and without change of attitude continues it:-"imprisoned i am--that certain! and for no crime. it may be without hostility on the part of those who have done it. perhaps, better it were so? then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. as it is, there is none--none! i comprehend all now--the reason for bringing me here--keeping me--everything. and that reason remains-must, as long as i am alive! merciful heaven!" the exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. for hingeing upon that is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have deliverance! stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses--even thought for the time stayed. but the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now in more conjectural strain:-"strange that no friend has come after me? no one caring for my fate-even to inquire! and _he_--no, that is not strange--only sadder, harder to think of. how could i expect, or hope, he would? "but surely it is not so? i may be wronging them all--friends-relatives--even him? they may not know where i am? cannot! how could they? i know not myself! only that it is france, and in a nunnery. but what part of france, and how i came to it, likely they are ignorant as i. "and they may never know! never find out! if not, oh! what is to become of me? father in heaven! merciful saviour! help me in my helplessness!" after this frenzied outburst a calmer interval succeeds; in which human instincts as thoughts direct her. she thinks:-"if i could but find means to communicate with my friends--make known to them where i am, and how, then--ah! 'tis hopeless. no one allowed near me but the attendant and that sister ursule. for compassion from either, i might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! the sister seems to take delight in torturing me--every day doing or saying some disagreeable thing. i suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her purpose--that the taking of the veil. a nun! never! it is not in my nature, and i would rather die than dissemble it!" "dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "that word helps me to a thought. why should i not dissemble? i _will_." thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. then paces the floor to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair. "they want me to take the veil--the _black_ one! so shall i; the blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it--aye, crape if they insist on it? yes, i am resigned now--to that--anything. they can prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested mummery; i am prepared, willing, to put them on. it's the only way--my only hope of regaining liberty. i see--am sure of it!" she pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on-"i am compelled to this deception! is it a sin? if so, god forgive me! but no--it cannot be! 'tis justified by my wrongs--my sufferings!" another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect. after it--saying: "i shall do so--pretend compliance. and begin this day--this very hour, if the opportunity arise. what should be my first pretence? i must think of it; practice, rehearse it. let me see. ah! i have it. the world has forsaken, forgotten me. why then should i cling to it! instead, why not in angry spite fling it off--as it has me. that's the way!" a creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock. slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. the instant before half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation! her attitude different also. from striding tragically over the floor she has taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously perusing. it is that "aid to faith" recommended, but hitherto unread. she is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. how natural her start, as she hears a voice, and looking up beholds soeur ursule! "ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "glad, marie, to find you so employed! it promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good of your soul. you've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind: wickedly too. what is to compare with that to come? as dross-dirt, to gold or diamonds! the book you hold in your hand will tell you so. doesn't it?" "it does, indeed." "then profit by its instructions; and be sorry you have not sooner taken counsel from it." "i am sorry, sister ursule." "it would have comforted you--will now." "it has already. ah! so much! i would not have believed any book could give me the view of life it has done. i begin to understand what you've been telling me--to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other life. oh! why did i not know it before?" at this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that convent cell--two female figures, one seated, the other standing--novice and nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly as old. and still in greater contrast, the expression upon their faces. that of the girl's downcast, demure, lids over the eyes less as if in innocence than repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased surprise, struggling against incredulity! her suspicion still in the ascendant, soeur ursule stands regarding the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to penetrate her very soul. it is borne without sign of quailing, and she at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. nor is it strange she should so deceive herself. it is far from being the first novice _contre coeur_ she has broken upon the wheel of despair and made content to taking a vow of life-long seclusion from the world. convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the english girl, and gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock pious tone: "blessed be holy mary for this new mercy! on your knees _ma fille_, and pray to her to complete the work she has begun!" and upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun as if deeming herself _de trop_ in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister, silently shutting the door. volume three, chapter xxii. a sudden relapse. for some time after the exit of soeur ursule, the english girl retains her seat, with the same demure look she had worn in the presence of the nun; while before her face the book is again open, as though she had returned to reading it. one seeing this might suppose her intensely interested in its contents. but she is not even thinking of them! instead, of a sharp skinny ear, and a steel grey eye--one or other of which she suspects to be covering the keyhole. her own ear is on the alert to catch sounds outside--the shuffling of feet, the rattle of rosary beads, or the swishing of a dress against the door. she hears none; and at length satisfied that sister ursule's suspicions are spent, or her patience exhausted, she draws a free breath--the first since the _seance_ commenced. then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell, not commanded by the keyhole; and there dashes the hook down, as though it had been burning her fingers! "my first scene of deception," she mutters to herself--"first act of hypocrisy. have i not played it to perfection?" she draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. for she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it. "now that i've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "i must think what's to be done in continuance; and how the false pretence is to be kept up. what will _they_ do?--and think? they'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! but that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole. when i've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, i may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. ah! little care i for the comfort, if convenient,--with a window out of which one could look. then i might have a hope of seeing--speaking to some one--with heart less hard than sister ursule's, and that other creature--a very hag!" "i wonder where the place is? whether in the country, or in a town among houses? it may be the last--in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! they build these religious prisons with walls so thick! and the voices, i from time to time hear, are all women's. not one of a man amongst them! they must be the convent people themselves! nuns and novices! myself one of the latter! ha! ha! i shouldn't have known it if sister ursule hadn't informed me. novice, indeed--soon to be a nun! no! but a free woman--or dead! death would be better than life like this!" the derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features passes off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. for she again recalls what she has read in books--very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside--of girls, young and beautiful as herself--high-born ladies--surreptitiously taken from their homes--shut up as she--never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds. the prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh--almost a groan. "ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "there are voices now! still of women! laughter! how strange it sounds! so sweet! i've not heard such since i've been here. it's the voice of a girl? it must be--so clear, so joyous. yes! surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? they are never joyful--never laugh." she remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. the sound comes in with the light--it could not well enter otherwise--and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. for the window is far above her head. "would that i could see out! if i only had something on which to stand!" she sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand--all too low. standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill. she is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. with wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement--she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. she can do that by upending the bedstead! rash she would raise it on the instant. but she is not so; instead considerate, more than ever cautious. and so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. then, dragging bed clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. and as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps. a moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge. the window itself is a casement on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. small, though big enough for a human body to pass through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it. she balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. at the first _coup d'oeil_, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weathercocks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches. dropping her eyes lower they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses. at a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. for, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. they are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose flowing robes of sombre hue. a few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are--the _pensionnaires_ of the establishment. her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school girls; who linked arm in arm are walking backward and forward, directly in front. why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside in which she feels an interest! her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth--as in fear of being observed by the others. even her promenading companion seems unaware of them. she inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others. "what can it mean?" she asks herself. "so unlike the rest! surely not french! can she be english? she is very--very beautiful!" the last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around--all of them being of the french facial type, while hers are pronouncedly irish. by this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass--dim with dust and spiders' webs--a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her. she starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it-"keep quiet! i know all about you, and why you are there." the gesture is not lost upon the captive. but before she can reflect upon its significance the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter skelter. for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the _angelus_. in a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one--the schoolgirl with the irish features and eyes. she, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it significantly exposing something white, she holds half hidden between her fingers! it needs no further gesture to make known her intent. the english girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. on the instant of its opening the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and like a flash of light passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor. not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away; so speedily she is still in time to join the _queue_ moving on towards the convent chapel. cautiously reclosing the window, soeur marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside! despite her burning impatience she does not open it, till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. for now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons. at length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads:- "mary,--monday night next after midnight--if you look out of your window you will see friends; among them:- "jack wingate." "jack wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "a voice from dear old wyeside! hope of delivery at last!" and overcome by her emotion she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most _devotee_ nun in the convent. volume three, chapter xxiii. a justifiable abduction. it is a moonless november night, and a fog drifting down from the _pas de calais_ envelopes boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. the great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. if a foot passenger be abroad he is some belated individual groping his way home from the _cafe de billars_ he frequents, or the _cercle_ to which he belongs. even the _sergens de ville_ are scarcer than usual; those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded. it is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. for all, there are three men in the streets of boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for. they who thus delight in darkness are major mahon, captain ryecroft, and the waterman, wingate. not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a captive from captivity. the night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the soeur marie is to see friends in front of her window. they are the friends; about to attempt taking her out of it. they are not going blindly about the thing. unlikely old campaigners as mahon and ryecroft would. during the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. they are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design. just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from mahon's house; and, turning up the rue tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient _cite_. the two officers walk arm in arm, ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. it is nevertheless a thing altogether different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. the errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant. they proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. when any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and stand listening--speech passing among themselves only in whispers. but as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and, in less than twenty minutes after leaving the major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. this is in the narrow lane which runs along: the _enceinte_ of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself. they know the _allee_ well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days, as nights, and could go through it blindfold. and they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions. while its bearer is easing it off his shoulders, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the major saying-"we won't all three be needed for the work inside. one of us may remain here--nay, must! those _sergens de ville_ might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. if caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing--aye, or without them--'twould go ill with us." "quite true," assents the captain. "which of us do you propose staying here? jack?" "yes, certainly. and for more reasons than one. excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms he'd be all on fire--perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl, that had intruded into the rookery. besides, there's a staff of male servants--for they have such--half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. a big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. therefore, master jack _must_ remain here. you tell him he must." jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. endorsing them, the major says-"don't be so impatient, my good fellow! it will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. the fight in the front will be easy. our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear guard." he thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. how could he otherwise? he is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. and is it not for him they are there; risking liberty--it may be life? having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do. simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is _not_ to reply to it. the signal so arranged, mahon and ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his mary is, and yet how far off she still may be! once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot, which is their objective point. they go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. the very cats of the convent could not traverse its grounds more silently. their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it-a picture of madonna on a back ground of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled. but though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving, that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. with that voice from the wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! they have indeed come. a woman of weak nerves would under the circumstances be excited-possibly cry out. but soeur marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently, waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of macaroni. it is ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them. only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her:-"keep up your courage, mary! your jack is waiting for you outside the wall. here, take my hand--" "mary! my jack! and you--you--" her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall! "she's swooning--has fainted!" mutters the major; which ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth. "it's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "we must carry her, major. you go ahead with the ladder, i can manage the girl myself." while speaking he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. no light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather. the major going in advance with the ladder guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, mahon giving a low whistle as he approachs. it is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear. and in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still resting in ryecroft's arms. the waterman wishes to relieve him, agonised by the thought that his sweetheart, who has passed unscathed, as it were, through the very gates of death, may after all be dead! he urges it; but mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any sentimental interference, commanding jack to re-shoulder the ladder and follow as before. then striking off in indian file, the major first, the captain with his burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their steps towards the rue tintelleries. if ryecroft but knew who he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her recovery from that swoon. it is only after she is out of his arms; and lying upon a couch in major mahon's house--the hood drawn back and the light shining on her face-that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal man! no wonder--seeing it is gwendoline wynn! "gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and opened eyes tell of returned consciousness. "vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious contact. poor jack wingate! volume three, chapter xxiv. starting on a continental tour. lewin murdock is dead, and buried--has been for days. not in the family vault of the wynns, though he had the right of having his body there laid. but his widow, who had control of the interment, willed it otherwise. she has repugnance to opening that receptacle of the dead, holding a secret she may well dread disclosure of. there was no very searching enquiry into the cause of the man's death; none such seeming needed. a coroner's inquest, true; but of the most perfunctory kind. several habitues of the welsh harp; with its staff of waiters, testified to having seen him at that hostelry till a late hour of the night on which he was drowned, and far gone in drink. the landlord advanced the narrative a stage, by telling how he conveyed him to the boat, and delivered him to his boatman, richard dempsey--all true enough; while coracle capped the story by a statement of circumstances, in part facts, but the major part fictitious:--how the inebriate gentleman, after lying a while quiet at the bottom of the skiff, suddenly sprung upon his feet, and staggering excitedly about, capsized the craft, spilling both into the water! some corroboration of this, in the boat having been found floating keel upwards, and the boatman arriving home at llangorren soaking wet. to his having been in this condition several of the court domestics, at the time called out of their beds, with purpose _prepense_, were able to bear witness. but dempsey's testimony is further strengthened, even to confirmation, by himself having since taken to bed, where he now lies dangerously ill of a fever, the result of a cold caught from that chilling _douche_. in this latest inquest the finding of the jury is set forth in two simple words, "drowned accidentally." no suspicion attaches to any one; and his widow, now wearing the weeds of sombre hue, sorrows profoundly. but her grief is great only in the eyes of the outside world, and the presence of the llangorren domestics. alone within her chamber she shows little signs of sorrow; and if possible less when gregoire rogier is her companion; which he almost constantly is. if more than half his time at the court while lewin murdock was alive, he is now there nearly the whole of it. no longer as a guest, but as much its master as she is its mistress! for that, matter indeed more; if inference _may_ be drawn from a dialogue occurring between them some time after her husband's death. they are in the library, where there is a strong chest, devoted to the safe keeping of legal documents, wills, leases, and the like--all the paraphernalia of papers relating to the administration of the estate. rogier is at a table upon which many of these lie, with writing materials besides. a sheet of foolscap is before him, on which he has just scribbled the rough copy of an advertisement intended to be sent to several newspapers. "i think this will do," he says to the widow, who, in an easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, is sipping chartreuse, and smoking paper cigarettes. "shall i read it to you?" "no. i don't want to be bothered with the thing in detail. enough, if you let me hear its general purport." he gives her this in briefest epitome:-"_the llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc, etc_." "_tres bien_! have you put down the date? it should be soon." "you're right, _cherie_. should, and must be. so soon, i fear we won't realise three-fourths of the value. but there's no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening--hanging over our necks like a very sword of damocles." "you mean the tongue of _le braconnier_?" she has reason to dread it. "no i don't; not in the slightest. there's a sickle too near his own-in the hands of the reaper, death." "he's dying, then?" she speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse. "he is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone; "i've just come from his bedside." "from the cold he caught that night, i suppose?" "yes; that's partly the cause. but," he adds, with a diabolical grin, "more the medicine he has taken for it." "what mean you, gregoire?" "only that monsieur dick has been delirious, and i saw danger in it. he was talking too wildly." "you've done something to keep him quiet?" "i have." "what?" "given him a sleeping draught." "but he'll wake up again; and then--" "then i'll administer another dose of the anodyne." "what sort of anodyne?" "a _hypodermic_." "hypodermic! i've never heard of the thing; not even the name!" "a wonderful cure it is--for noisy tongues!" "you excite one's curiosity. tell me something of its nature?" "oh, it's very simple; exceedingly so. only a drop of liquid introduced into the blood; not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the throat, but direct injection into the veins. the process in itself is easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. the skill consists in the _kind_ of liquid to be injected. that's one of the occult sciences i learnt in italy, land of lucrezia and tophana; where such branches of knowledge still flourish. elsewhere it's not much known, and perhaps it's well it isn't; or there might be more widowers, with a still larger proportion of widows." "poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "was it, gregoire?" "poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "that's too plain a word, and the idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as that i've performed. possibly, in monsieur coracle's case the effect will be somewhat similar; but not the after symptoms. if i haven't made miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over it will send him to his eternal sleep; and i'll defy all the medical experts in england to detect traces of poison in him. so don't enquire further, _cherie_. be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. and," he adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself." she starts, recoiling in horror. not at the repulsive confessions she has listened to, but more through personal fear. though herself steeped in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! she has long known him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power of the famed basilisk to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes! "bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to construe it otherwise. "why all this emotion about such a _miserable_? he'll have no widow to lament him--inconsolable like yourself. ha! ha! besides, for our safety--both of us--his death is as much needed as was the other. after killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops, it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. i only wish, there were nothing but he between us, and complete security." "but is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face. "certainly there is." "what?" "that little convent matter." "_mon dieu_! i supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger." "probability is the word you mean. in this sweet world there's nothing sure except money--that, too, in hard cash coin. even at the best we'll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us--_messieurs les jesuites_. if i could only, as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of herefordshire into a portable shape, i'd cheat them yet; as i've done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent _doctrinaires_. then, _chere amie_, we could at once move from llangorren court to a palace by some lake of como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which monsieur bulwer's sham prince humbugged the lyonese shopkeeper's daughter. ha! ha! ha!" "but why can't it be done?" "ah! there the word _impossible_, if you like. what! convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, _presto-instanter_, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! the thing can't be accomplished anywhere; least of all in this slow-moving angleterre, where men look at their money twice--twenty times--before parting with it. even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks--may be months-without losing quite the moiety of value. but a _bona fide_ sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! oh! it's damnable. the thing's been a blunder from beginning to end; all through the squeamishness of monsieur, _votre mari_. had he agreed to what i first proposed, and done with mademoiselle, what should have been done, he might himself still--the simpleton, sot--soft heart, and softer head! well; it's of no use reviling him now. he paid the forfeit for being a fool. and 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. in the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. but what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the rugg's ferry chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes--only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! a comical scene, of which i'd like being a spectator. ha! ha! ha!" she joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. and while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance. it is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope--at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch. it bears the address "rev. gregoire rogier, rugg's ferry, herefordshire," and when opened the telegram is seen to have been sent from folkestone. its wording is:-"_the bird has escaped from its cage. prenez garde_!" well for the pseudo-priest, and his _chere amie_, that before they read it, the butler had left the room. for though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them. and with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted! he is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless; while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger! it is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at llangorren. and no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or authoritatively. the after hours of that night are spent by both of them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of breaking it! up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from room to room--attended only by clarisse, who carries the candle-ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of _bijouterie_ and _vertu_, of little weight but large value, and packing them in trunks and travelling bags. all of which, under the grey light of morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the court carriages--a large drag-barouche--inside which ride rogier and madame murdock _veuve_; her _femme de chambre_ having a seat beside the coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour. -----------------------------------------------------------------------and so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned. instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of. since their career, after a years interval, ended in _deportation_ to cayenne, for some crime committed by them in the south of france. so said the _semaphore_ of marseilles. volume three, chapter xxv. coracle dick on his death-bed. as next morning's sun rises over llangorren court, it shows a mansion without either master or mistress! not long to remain so. if the old servants of the establishment had short notice of dismissal, still more brief is that given to its latest retinue. about meridian of that day, after the departure of their mistress, while yet in wonder where she has gone, they receive another shock of surprise, and a more unpleasant one, at seeing a hackney carriage-drive up to the hall door, out of which step two men, evidently no friends to her from whom they have their wages. for one of the men is captain ryecroft, the other a police superintendent; who, after the shortest possible parley, directs the butler to parade the complete staff of his fellow domestics, male and female. this with an air and in a tone of authority, which precludes supposition that the thing is a jest. summoned from all quarters, cellar to garret, and out doors as well, their names, with other particulars, are taken down; and they are told that their services will be no longer required at llangorren. in short, they are one and all dismissed, without a word about the month's wages or warning! if they get either, 'twill be only as a grace. then they receive orders to pack up and be off; while joseph preece, ex-charon, who has crossed the river in his boat, with appointment to meet the hackney there, is authorised to take temporary charge of the place; jack wingate, similarly bespoke, having come down in his skiff, to stand by him in case of any opposition. none arises. however chagrined by their hasty _sans facon_ discharge, the outgoing domestics seem not so greatly surprised at it. from what they have observed for some time going on, as also something whispered about, they had no great reliance on their places being permanent. so, in silence all submit, though somewhat sulkily; and prepare to vacate quarters they had found fairly snug. there is one, however, who cannot be thus conveniently, or unceremoniously, dismissed--the head-gamekeeper, richard dempsey. for, while the others are getting their _mandamus_ to move, the report is brought in that he is lying on his death-bed! so the parish doctor has prognosticated. also, that he is just then delirious, and saying queer things; some of which repeated to the police "super," tell him his proper place, at that precise moment, is by the bedside of the sick man. without a second's delay he starts off towards the lodge in which coracle has been of late domiciled--under the guidance of its former occupant joseph preece--accompanied by captain ryecroft and jack wingate. the house being but a few hundred yards distant from the court, they are soon inside it, and standing over the bed on which lies the fevered patient; not at rest, but tossing to and fro--at intervals, in such violent manner as to need restraint. the superintendent at once sees it would be idle putting questions to him. if asked his own name, he could not declare it. for he knows not himself--far less those who are around. his face is something horrible to behold. it would but harrow sensitive feelings to give a portraiture of it. enough to say, it is more like that of demon than man. and his speech, poured as in a torrent from his lips, is alike horrifying--admission of many and varied crimes; in the same breath denying them and accusing others; his contradictory ravings garnished with blasphemous ejaculations. a specimen will suffice, omitting the blasphemy. "it's a lie!" he cries out, just as they are entering the room. "a lie, every word o't! i didn't murder mary morgan. served her right if i had, the jade! she jilted me; an' for that wasp wingate--dog--cur! i didn't kill her. no; only fixed the plank. if she wor fool enough to step on't that warn't my fault. she did--she did! ha! ha! ha!" for a while he keeps up the horrid cachinnation, as the glee of satan exulting over some feat of foul _diablerie_. then his thoughts changing to another crime, he goes on:-"the grand girl--the lady! she arn't drowned; nor dead eyther! the priest carried her off in that french schooner. i had nothing to do with it. 'twar the priest and mr murdock. ha! murdock! i _did_ drown _him_. no, i didn't. that's another lie! 'twas himself upset the boat. let me see--was it? no! he couldn't, he was too drunk. i stood up on the skiff's rail. slap over it went. what a duckin' i had for it, and a devil o' a swim too! but i did the trick--neatly! didn't i, your reverence? now for the hundred pounds. and you promised to double it--you did! keep to your bargain, or i'll peach upon you--on all the lot of you--the woman, too--the french woman! she kept that fine shawl, indian they said it wor. she's got it now. she wanted the diamonds, too, but daren't keep _them_. the shroud! ha! the shroud! that's all they left _me_. i ought to a' burnt it. but then the devil would a' been after and burned me! how fine mary looked in that grand dress, wi' all them gewgaws, rings,--chains, an' bracelets, all pure gold! but i drownded her, an' she deserved it. drownded her twice-ha--ha--ha!" again he breaks off with a peal of demoniac laughter, long continued. more than an hour they remain listening to his delirious ramblings, and with interest intense. for despite its incoherence, the disconnected threads joined together make up a tale they can understand; though so strange, so brimful of atrocities, as to seem incredible. all the while he is writhing about on the bed; till at length, exhausted, his head droops over upon the pillow, and he lies for a while quiet--to all appearance dead! but no; there is another throe yet, one horrible as any that has preceded. looking up, he sees the superintendent's uniform and silver buttons; a sight which produces a change in the expression of his features, as though it had recalled him to his senses. with arms flung out as in defence, he shrieks:-"keep back, you--policeman! hands off, or i'll brain you! hach! you've got the rope round my neck! curse the thing! it's choking me. hach!" and with his fingers clutching at his throat, as if to undo a noose, he gasps out in husky voice: "gone by god." at this he drops over dead, his last word an oath, his last thought a fancy, that there is a rope around his neck! what he has said in his unconscious confessions lays open many seeming mysteries of this romance, hitherto unrevealed. how the pseudo-priest, father rogier, observing a likeness between miss wynn and mary morgan-causing him that start as he stood over the coffin, noticed by jack wingate--had exhumed the dead body of the latter, the poacher and murdock assisting him. then how they had taken it down in the boat to dempsey's house; soon after, going over to llangorren, and seizing the young lady, as she stood in the summer-house, having stifled her cries by chloroform. then, how they carried her across to dempsey's, and substituted the corpse for the living body--the grave clothes changed for the silken dress with all its adornments--this the part assigned to mrs murdock, who had met them at coracle's cottage. then, dick himself hiding away the shroud, hindered by superstitious fear from committing it to the flames. in fine, how gwendoline wynn, drugged and still kept in a state of coma, was taken down in a boat to chepstow, and there put aboard the french schooner _la chouette_; carried across to boulogne, to be shut up in a convent for life! all these delicate matters, managed by father rogier, backed by _messieurs les jesuites_, who had furnished him with the means! one after another, the astounding facts come forth as the raving man continues his involuntary admissions. supplemented by others already known to ryecroft and the rest, with the deductions drawn, they complete the unities of a drama, iniquitous as ever enacted. its motives declare themselves; all wicked save one. this a spark of humanity that had still lingered in the breast of lewin murdock; but for which gwendoline wynn would never have seen the inside of a nunnery. instead, while under the influence of the narcotic, her body would have been dropped into the wye, just as was that wearing her ball dress! and that same body is now wearing another dress, supposed to have been prepared for her--another shroud--reposing in the tomb where all believed gwen wynn to have been laid! this last fact is brought to light on the following day; when the family vault of the wynns is re-opened, and mrs morgan--by marks known only to herself--identifies the remains found there as those of her own daughter! volume three, chapter xxvi. the calm after the storm. twelve months after the events recorded in this romance of the wye, a boat-tourist descending the picturesque river, and inquiring about a pagoda-like structure he will see on its western side, would be told it is a summer-house, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. if he ask who the gentleman is, the answer would be, captain vivian ryecroft! for the ex-officer of hussars is now the master of llangorren; and, what he himself values higher, the husband of gwendoline wynn, once more its mistress. were the tourist an acquaintance of either, and on his way to make call at the court, bringing in by the little dock, he would there see a row-boat, on its stern board, in gold lettering "_the gwendoline_." for the pretty pleasure craft has been restored to its ancient moorings. still, however, remaining the property of joseph preece, who no longer lives in the cast-off cottage of coracle dick, but, like the boat itself, is again back and in service at llangorren. if the day be fine this venerable and versatile individual will be loitering beside it, or seated on one of its thwarts, pipe in mouth, indulging in the _dolce far niente_. and little besides has he to do, since his pursuits are no longer varied, but now exclusively confined to the calling of waterman to the court. he and his craft are under charter for the remainder of his life, should he wish it so--as he surely will. the friendly visitor keeping on up to the house, if at the hour of luncheon, will in all likelihood there meet a party of old acquaintances--ours, if not his. besides the beautiful hostess at the table's head, he will see a lady of the "antique brocaded type," who herself once presided there, by name miss dorothea linton; another known as miss eleanor lees; and a fourth, youngest of the quartette, _yclept_ kate mahon. for the school girl of the boulogne convent has escaped from its austere studies; and is now most; part of her time resident with the friend she helped to escape from its cloisters. men there will also be at the llangorren luncheon table; likely three of them, in addition to the host himself. one will be major mahon; a second the reverend william musgrave; and the third, mr george shenstone! yes; george shenstone, under the roof, and seated at the table of gwendoline wynn, now the wife of vivian ryecroft! to explain a circumstance seemingly so singular, it is necessary to call in the aid of a saying, culled from that language richest of all others in moral and metaphysical imagery--the spanish. it has a proverb, _un claco saca otro claco_--"one nail drives out the other." and, watching the countenance of the baronet's son, so long sad and clouded, seeing how, at intervals, it brightens up--these intervals when his eyes meet those of kate mahon--it were easy predicting that in his case the adage will ere long have additional verification. -----------------------------------------------------------------------were the same tourist to descend the wye at a date posterior, and again make a call at llangorren, he would find that some changes had taken place in the interval of his absence. at the boat dock old joe would likely be. but not as before in sole charge of the pleasure craft; only pottering about, as a pensioner retired on full pay; the acting and active officer being a younger man, by name wingate, who is now waterman to the court. between these two, however, there is no spite about the displacement--no bickerings nor heartburnings. how could there, since the younger addresses the older as "uncle"; himself in return being styled "nevvy?" no need to say, that this relationship has been brought about by the bright eyes of amy preece. nor is it so new. in the lodge where jack and joe live together is a brace of chubby chicks; one of them a boy-the possible embryo of a wye waterman--who, dandled upon old joe's knees, takes delight in weeding his frosted whiskers, while calling him "good grandaddy." as jack's mother--who is also a member of this happy family--forewarned him, the wildest grief must in time give way, and nature's laws assert their supremacy. so has he found it; and though still holding mary morgan in sacred, honest remembrance, he--as many a true man before, and others as true to come--has yielded to the inevitable. proceeding on to the court the friendly visitor will at certain times there meet the same people he met before; but the majority of them having new names or titles. an added number in two interesting olive branches there also, with complexions struggling between _blonde_ and _brunette_, who call captain and mrs ryecroft their papa and mamma; while the lady who was once eleanor lees--the "companion"--is now mrs musgrave, life companion not to the _curate_ of llangorren church, but its _rector_. the living having become vacant, and in the bestowal of llangorren's heiress, has been worthily bestowed on the reverend william. two other old faces, withal young ones, the returned tourist will see at llangorren--their owners on visit as himself. he might not know either of them by the names they now bear--sir george and lady shenstone. for when he last saw them the gentleman was simply mr shenstone, and the lady miss mahon. the old baronet is dead, and the young one, succeeding to the title, has also taken upon himself another title--that of husband--proving the spanish apothegm true, both in the spirit and to the letter. if there be any nail capable of driving out another, it is that sent home by the glance of an irish girl's eye--at least so thinks sir george shenstone, with good reason for thinking it. there are two other individuals, who come and go at the court--the only ones holding out, and likely to hold, against change of any kind. for major mahon is still major mahon, rolling on in his rich irish brogue as ever abhorrent of matrimony. no danger of his becoming a benedict! and as little of miss linton being transformed into a sage woman. it would be strange if she should, with the love novels she continues to devour, and the "court intelligence" she gulps down, keeping alive the hallucination that she is still a belle at bath and cheltenham. so ends our "romance of the wye;" a drama of happy _denouement_ to most of the actors in it; and, as hoped, satisfactory to all who have been spectators. the end. gods and fighting men: the story of the tuatha de danaan and of the fianna of ireland, arranged and put into english by lady gregory. with a preface by w.b. yeats 1905 dedication to the members of the irish literary society of new york my friends, those i know and those i do not know, i am glad in the year of the birth of your society to have this book to offer you. it has given great courage to many workers here--working to build up broken walls--to know you have such friendly thoughts of them in your minds. a few of you have already come to see us, and we begin to hope that one day the steamers across the atlantic will not go out full, but come back full, until some of you find your real home is here, and say as some of us say, like finn to the woman of enchantments-[illustration: irish gaelic] "we would not give up our own country--ireland--if we were to get the whole world as an estate, and the country of the young along with it." augusta gregory. preface i a few months ago i was on the bare hill of allen, "wide almhuin of leinster," where finn and the fianna lived, according to the stories, although there are no earthen mounds there like those that mark the sites of old buildings on so many hills. a hot sun beat down upon flowering gorse and flowerless heather; and on every side except the east, where there were green trees and distant hills, one saw a level horizon and brown boglands with a few green places and here and there the glitter of water. one could imagine that had it been twilight and not early afternoon, and had there been vapours drifting and frothing where there were now but shadows of clouds, it would have set stirring in one, as few places even in ireland can, a thought that is peculiar to celtic romance, as i think, a thought of a mystery coming not as with gothic nations out of the pressure of darkness, but out of great spaces and windy light. the hill of teamhair, or tara, as it is now called, with its green mounds and its partly wooded sides, and its more gradual slope set among fat grazing lands, with great trees in the hedgerows, had brought before one imaginations, not of heroes who were in their youth for hundreds of years, or of women who came to them in the likeness of hunted fawns, but of kings that lived brief and politic lives, and of the five white roads that carried their armies to the lesser kingdoms of ireland, or brought to the great fair that had given teamhair its sovereignty, all that sought justice or pleasure or had goods to barter. ii it is certain that we must not confuse these kings, as did the mediæval chroniclers, with those half-divine kings of almhuin. the chroniclers, perhaps because they loved tradition too well to cast out utterly much that they dreaded as christians, and perhaps because popular imagination had begun the mixture, have mixed one with another ingeniously, making finn the head of a kind of militia under cormac macart, who is supposed to have reigned at teamhair in the second century, and making grania, who travels to enchanted houses under the cloak of angus, god of love, and keeps her troubling beauty longer than did helen hers, cormac's daughter, and giving the stories of the fianna, although the impossible has thrust its proud finger into them all, a curious air of precise history. it is only when one separates the stories from that mediæval pedantry, as in this book, that one recognises one of the oldest worlds that man has imagined, an older world certainly than one finds in the stories of cuchulain, who lived, according to the chroniclers, about the time of the birth of christ. they are far better known, and one may be certain of the antiquity of incidents that are known in one form or another to every gaelic-speaking countryman in ireland or in the highlands of scotland. sometimes a labourer digging near to a cromlech, or bed of diarmuid and crania as it is called, will tell one a tradition that seems older and more barbaric than any description of their adventures or of themselves in written text or story that has taken form in the mouths of professed story-tellers. finn and the fianna found welcome among the court poets later than did cuchulain; and one finds memories of danish invasions and standing armies mixed with the imaginations of hunters and solitary fighters among great woods. one never hears of cuchulain delighting in the hunt or in woodland things; and one imagines that the story-teller would have thought it unworthy in so great a man, who lived a well-ordered, elaborate life, and had his chariot and his chariot-driver and his barley-fed horses to delight in. if he is in the woods before dawn one is not told that he cannot know the leaves of the hazel from the leaves of the oak; and when emer laments him no wild creature comes into her thoughts but the cuckoo that cries over cultivated fields. his story must have come out of a time when the wild wood was giving way to pasture and tillage, and men had no longer a reason to consider every cry of the birds or change of the night. finn, who was always in the woods, whose battles were but hours amid years of hunting, delighted in the "cackling of ducks from the lake of the three narrows; the scolding talk of the blackbird of doire an cairn; the bellowing of the ox from the valley of the berries; the whistle of the eagle from the valley of victories or from the rough branches of the ridge of the stream; the grouse of the heather of cruachan; the call of the otter of druim re coir." when sorrow comes upon the queens of the stories, they have sympathy for the wild birds and beasts that are like themselves: "credhe wife of cael came with the others and went looking through the bodies for her comely comrade, and crying as she went. and as she was searching she saw a crane of the meadows and her two nestlings, and the cunning beast the fox watching the nestlings; and when the crane covered one of the birds to save it, he would make a rush at the other bird, the way she had to stretch herself out over the birds; and she would sooner have got her own death by the fox than the nestlings to be killed by him. and credhe was looking at that, and she said: 'it is no wonder i to have such love for my comely sweetheart, and the bird in that distress about her nestlings.'" iii one often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a man's eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious of many things that we cannot perceive at all. as life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away. although the gods come to cuchulain, and although he is the son of one of the greatest of them, their country and his are far apart, and they come to him as god to mortal; but finn is their equal. he is continually in their houses; he meets with bodb dearg, and angus, and manannan, now as friend with friend, now as with an enemy he overcomes in battle; and when he has need of their help his messenger can say: "there is not a king's son or a prince, or a leader of the fianna of ireland, without having a wife or a mother or a foster-mother or a sweetheart of the tuatha de danaan." when the fianna are broken up at last, after hundreds of years of hunting, it is doubtful that he dies at all, and certain that he comes again in some other shape, and oisin, his son, is made king over a divine country. the birds and beasts that cross his path in the woods have been fighting men or great enchanters or fair women, and in a moment can take some beautiful or terrible shape. one thinks of him and of his people as great-bodied men with large movements, that seem, as it were, flowing out of some deep below the narrow stream of personal impulse, men that have broad brows and quiet eyes full of confidence in a good luck that proves every day afresh that they are a portion of the strength of things. they are hardly so much individual men as portions of universal nature, like the clouds that shape themselves and re-shape themselves momentarily, or like a bird between two boughs, or like the gods that have given the apples and the nuts; and yet this but brings them the nearer to us, for we can remake them in our image when we will, and the woods are the more beautiful for the thought. do we not always fancy hunters to be something like this, and is not that why we think them poetical when we meet them of a sudden, as in these lines in "pauline": "an old hunter talking with gods; or a nigh-crested chief sailing with troops of friends to tenedos" iv one must not expect in these stories the epic lineaments, the many incidents, woven into one great event of, let us say, the story of the war for the brown bull of cuailgne, or that of the last gathering at muirthemne. even diarmuid and grania, which is a long story, has nothing of the clear outlines of deirdre, and is indeed but a succession of detached episodes. the men who imagined the fianna had the imagination of children, and as soon as they had invented one wonder, heaped another on top of it. children--or, at any rate, it is so i remember my own childhood--do not understand large design, and they delight in little shut-in places where they can play at houses more than in great expanses where a country-side takes, as it were, the impression of a thought. the wild creatures and the green things are more to them than to us, for they creep towards our light by little holes and crevices. when they imagine a country for themselves, it is always a country where one can wander without aim, and where one can never know from one place what another will be like, or know from the one day's adventure what may meet one with to-morrow's sun. i have wished to become a child again that i might find this book, that not only tells one of such a country, but is fuller than any other book that tells of heroic life, of the childhood that is in all folk-lore, dearer to me than all the books of the western world. children play at being great and wonderful people, at the ambitions they will put away for one reason or another before they grow into ordinary men and women. mankind as a whole had a like dream once; everybody and nobody built up the dream bit by bit, and the ancient story-tellers are there to make us remember what mankind would have been like, had not fear and the failing will and the laws of nature tripped up its heels. the fianna and their like are themselves so full of power, and they are set in a world so fluctuating and dream-like, that nothing can hold them from being all that the heart desires. i have read in a fabulous book that adam had but to imagine a bird, and it was born into life, and that he created all things out of himself by nothing more important than an unflagging fancy; and heroes who can make a ship out of a shaving have but little less of the divine prerogatives. they have no speculative thoughts to wander through eternity and waste heroic blood; but how could that be otherwise, for it is at all times the proud angels who sit thinking upon the hill-side and not the people of eden. one morning we meet them hunting a stag that is "as joyful as the leaves of a tree in summer-time"; and whatever they do, whether they listen to the harp or follow an enchanter over-sea, they do for the sake of joy, their joy in one another, or their joy in pride and movement; and even their battles are fought more because of their delight in a good fighter than because of any gain that is in victory. they live always as if they were playing a game; and so far as they have any deliberate purpose at all, it is that they may become great gentlemen and be worthy of the songs of poets. it has been said, and i think the japanese were the first to say it, that the four essential virtues are to be generous among the weak, and truthful among one's friends, and brave among one's enemies, and courteous at all times; and if we understand by courtesy not merely the gentleness the story-tellers have celebrated, but a delight in courtly things, in beautiful clothing and in beautiful verse, one understands that it was no formal succession of trials that bound the fianna to one another. only the table round, that is indeed, as it seems, a rivulet from the same river, is bound in a like fellowship, and there the four heroic virtues are troubled by the abstract virtues of the cloister. every now and then some noble knight builds himself a cell upon the hill-side, or leaves kind women and joyful knights to seek the vision of the grail in lonely adventures. but when oisin or some kingly forerunner--bran, son of febal, or the like--rides or sails in an enchanted ship to some divine country, he but looks for a more delighted companionship, or to be in love with faces that will never fade. no thought of any life greater than that of love, and the companionship of those that have drawn their swords upon the darkness of the world, ever troubles their delight in one another as it troubles iseult amid her love, or arthur amid his battles. it is one of the ailments of our speculation that thought, when it is not the planning of something, or the doing of something or some memory of a plain circumstance separates us from one another because it makes us always more unlike, and because no thought passes through another's ear unchanged. companionship can only be perfect when it is founded on things, for things are always the same under the hand, and at last one comes to hear with envy of the voices of boys lighting a lantern to ensnare moths, or of the maids chattering in the kitchen about the fox that carried off a turkey before breakfast. this book is full of fellowship untroubled like theirs, and made noble by a courtesy that has gone perhaps out of the world. i do not know in literature better friends and lovers. when one of the fianna finds osgar dying the proud death of a young man, and asks is it well with him, he is answered, "i am as you would have me be." the very heroism of the fianna is indeed but their pride and joy in one another, their good fellowship. goll, old and savage, and letting himself die of hunger in a cave because he is angry and sorry, can speak lovely words to the wife whose help he refuses. "'it is best as it is,' he said, 'and i never took the advice of a woman east or west, and i never will take it. and oh, sweet-voiced queen,' he said, 'what ails you to be fretting after me? and remember now your silver and your gold, and your silks ... and do not be crying tears after me, queen with the white hands,' he said, 'but remember your constant lover aodh, son of the best woman of the world, that came from spain asking for you, and that i fought on corcar-an-dearg; and go to him now,' he said, 'for it is bad when a woman is without a good man.'" vi they have no asceticism, but they are more visionary than any ascetic, and their invisible life is but the life about them made more perfect and more lasting, and the invisible people are their own images in the water. their gods may have been much besides this, for we know them from fragments of mythology picked out with trouble from a fantastic history running backward to adam and eve, and many things that may have seemed wicked to the monks who imagined that history, may have been altered or left out; but this they must have been essentially, for the old stories are confirmed by apparitions among the country-people to-day. the men of dea fought against the mis-shapen fomor, as finn fights against the cat-heads and the dog-heads; and when they are overcome at last by men, they make themselves houses in the hearts of hills that are like the houses of men. when they call men to their houses and to their country under-wave they promise them all that they have upon earth, only in greater abundance. the god midhir sings to queen etain in one of the most beautiful of the stories: "the young never grow old; the fields and the flowers are as pleasant to be looking at as the blackbird's eggs; warm streams of mead and wine flow through that country; there is no care or no sorrow on any person; we see others, but we ourselves are not seen." these gods are indeed more wise and beautiful than men; but men, when they are great men, are stronger than they are, for men are, as it were, the foaming tide-line of their sea. one remembers the druid who answered, when some one asked him who made the world, "the druids made it." all was indeed but one life flowing everywhere, and taking one quality here, another there. it sometimes seems to one as if there is a kind of day and night of religion, and that a period when the influences are those that shape the world is followed by a period when the greater power is in influences that would lure the soul out of the world, out of the body. when oisin is speaking with s. patrick of the friends and the life he has outlived, he can but cry out constantly against a religion that has no meaning for him. he laments, and the country-people have remembered his words for centuries: "i will cry my fill, but not for god, but because finn and the fianna are not living." vii old writers had an admirable symbolism that attributed certain energies to the influence of the sun, and certain others to the lunar influence. to lunar influence belong all thoughts and emotions that were created by the community, by the common people, by nobody knows who, and to the sun all that came from the high disciplined or individual kingly mind. i myself imagine a marriage of the sun and moon in the arts i take most pleasure in; and now bride and bridegroom but exchange, as it were, full cups of gold and silver, and now they are one in a mystical embrace. from the moon come the folk-songs imagined by reapers and spinners out of the common impulse of their labour, and made not by putting words together, but by mixing verses and phrases, and the folk-tales made by the capricious mixing of incidents known to everybody in new ways, as one deals out cards, never getting the same hand twice over. when one hears some fine story, one never knows whether it has not been hazard that put the last touch of adventure. such poetry, as it seems to me, desires an infinity of wonder or emotion, for where there is no individual mind there is no measurer-out, no marker-in of limits. the poor fisher has no possession of the world and no responsibility for it; and if he dreams of a love-gift better than the brown shawl that seems too common for poetry, why should he not dream of a glove made from the skin of a bird, or shoes made from the skin of a fish, or a coat made from the glittering garment of the salmon? was it not aeschylus who said he but served up fragments from the banquet of homer?--but homer himself found the great banquet on an earthen floor and under a broken roof. we do not know who at the foundation of the world made the banquet for the first time, or who put the pack of cards into rough hands; but we do know that, unless those that have made many inventions are about to change the nature of poetry, we may have to go where homer went if we are to sing a new song. is it because all that is under the moon thirsts to escape out of bounds, to lose itself in some unbounded tidal stream, that the songs of the folk are mournful, and that the story of the fianna, whenever the queens lament for their lovers, reminds us of songs that are still sung in country-places? their grief, even when it is to be brief like grania's, goes up into the waste places of the sky. but in supreme art or in supreme life there is the influence of the sun too, and the sun brings with it, as old writers tell us, not merely discipline but joy; for its discipline is not of the kind the multitudes impose upon us by their weight and pressure, but the expression of the individual soul turning itself into a pure fire and imposing its own pattern, its own music, upon the heaviness and the dumbness that is in others and in itself. when we have drunk the cold cup of the moon's intoxication, we thirst for something beyond ourselves, and the mind flows outward to a natural immensity; but if we have drunk from the hot cup of the sun, our own fullness awakens, we desire little, for wherever one goes one's heart goes too; and if any ask what music is the sweetest, we can but answer, as finn answered, "what happens." and yet the songs and stories that have come from either influence are a part, neither less than the other, of the pleasure that is the bride-bed of poetry. viii gaelic-speaking ireland, because its art has been made, not by the artist choosing his material from wherever he has a mind to, but by adding a little to something which it has taken generations to invent, has always had a popular literature. one cannot say how much that literature has done for the vigour of the race, for one cannot count the hands its praise of kings and high-hearted queens made hot upon the sword-hilt, or the amorous eyes it made lustful for strength and beauty. one remembers indeed that when the farming people and the labourers of the towns made their last attempt to cast out england by force of arms they named themselves after the companions of finn. even when gaelic has gone, and the poetry with it, something of the habit of mind remains in ways of speech and thought and "come-all-ye"s and poetical saying; nor is it only among the poor that the old thought has been for strength or weakness. surely these old stories, whether of finn or cuchulain, helped to sing the old irish and the old norman-irish aristocracy to their end. they heard their hereditary poets and story-tellers, and they took to horse and died fighting against elizabeth or against cromwell; and when an english-speaking aristocracy had their place, it listened to no poetry indeed, but it felt about it in the popular mind an exacting and ancient tribunal, and began a play that had for spectators men and women that loved the high wasteful virtues. i do not think that their own mixed blood or the habit of their time need take all, or nearly all, credit or discredit for the impulse that made our modern gentlemen fight duels over pocket-handkerchiefs, and set out to play ball against the gates of jerusalem for a wager, and scatter money before the public eye; and at last, after an epoch of such eloquence the world has hardly seen its like, lose their public spirit and their high heart and grow querulous and selfish as men do who have played life out not heartily but with noise and tumult. had they understood the people and the game a little better, they might have created an aristocracy in an age that has lost the meaning of the word. when one reads of the fianna, or of cuchulain, or of some great hero, one remembers that the fine life is always a part played finely before fine spectators. there also one notices the hot cup and the cold cup of intoxication; and when the fine spectators have ended, surely the fine players grow weary, and aristocratic life is ended. when o'connell covered with a dark glove the hand that had killed a man in the duelling field, he played his part; and when alexander stayed his army marching to the conquest of the world that he might contemplate the beauty of a plane-tree, he played his part. when osgar complained as he lay dying, of the keening of the women and the old fighting men, he too played his part; "no man ever knew any heart in me," he said, "but a heart of twisted horn, and it covered with iron; but the howling of the dogs beside me," he said, "and the keening of the old fighting men and the crying of the women one after another, those are the things that are vexing me." if we would create a great community--and what other game is so worth the labour?--we must recreate the old foundations of life, not as they existed in that splendid misunderstanding of the eighteenth century, but as they must always exist when the finest minds and ned the beggar and seaghan the fool think about the same thing, although they may not think the same thought about it. ix when i asked the little boy who had shown me the pathway up the hill of allen if he knew stories of finn and oisin, he said he did not, but that he had often heard his grandfather telling them to his mother in irish. he did not know irish, but he was learning it at school, and all the little boys he knew were learning it. in a little while he will know enough stories of finn and oisin to tell them to his children some day. it is the owners of the land whose children might never have known what would give them so much happiness. but now they can read this book to their children, and it will make slieve-na-man, allen, and benbulben, the great mountain that showed itself before me every day through all my childhood and was yet unpeopled, and half the country-sides of south and west, as populous with memories as are dundealgan and emain macha and muirthemne; and after a while somebody may even take them to some famous place and say, "this land where your fathers lived proudly and finely should be dear and dear and again dear"; and perhaps when many names have grown musical to their ears, a more imaginative love will have taught them a better service. x i need say nothing about the translation and arrangement of this book except that it is worthy to be put beside "cuchulain of muirthemne." such books should not be commended by written words but by spoken words, were that possible, for the written words commending a book, wherein something is done supremely well, remain, to sound in the ears of a later generation, like the foolish sound of church bells from the tower of a church when every pew is full. w.b. yeats. contents part i. the gods book i. the coming of the tuatha de danaan chap. i. the fight with the firbolgs ii. the reign of bres book ii. lugh of the long hand chap. i. the coming of lugh ii. the sons of tuireann iii. the great battle of magh tuireadh iv. the hidden house of lugh book iii. the coming of the gael chap. i. the landing ii. the battle of tailltin book iv. the ever-living living ones chap. i. bodb dearg ii. the dagda iii. angus og iv. the morrigu v. aine vi. aoibhell vii. midhir and etain viii. manannan ix. manannan at play x. his call to bran xi. his three calls to cormac xii. cliodna's wave xiii. his call to connla xiv. tadg in manannan's islands xv. laegaire in the happy plain book v. the fate of the children of lir part ii. the fianna book i. finn, son of cumhal chap. i. the coming of finn ii. finn's household iii. birth of bran iv. oisin's mother v. the best men of the fianna book ii. finn's helpers chap. i. the lad of the skins ii. black, brown, and grey iii. the hound iv. red ridge book iii. the battle of the white strand chap. i. the enemies of ireland ii. cael and credhe iii. conn crither iv. glas, son of dremen v. the help of the men of dea vi. the march of the fianna vii. the first fighters viii. the king of ulster's son ix. the high king's son x. the king of lochlann and his sons xi. labran's journey xii. the great fight xiii. credhe's lament book iv. huntings and enchantments chap. i. the king of britain's son ii. the cave of ceiscoran iii. donn, son of midhir iv. the hospitality of cuanna's house v. cat-heads and dog-heads vi. lomna's head vii. ilbrec of ess ruadh viii. the cave of cruachan ix. the wedding at ceann slieve x. the shadowy one xi. finn's madness xii. the red woman xiii. finn and the phantoms xiv. the pigs of angus xv. the hunt of slieve cuilinn book v. oisin's children book vi. diarmuid chap. i. birth of diarmuid ii. how diarmuid got his love-spot iii. the daughter of king under-wave iv. the hard servant v. the house of the quicken trees book vii. diarmuid and grania chap. i. the flight from teamhair ii. the pursuit iii. the green champions iv. the wood of dubhros v. the quarrel vi. the wanderers vii. fighting and peace viii. the boar of beinn gulbain book viii. cnoc-an-air chap. i. tailc, son of treon ii. meargach's wife iii. ailne's revenge book ix. the wearing away of the fianna chap. i. the quarrel with the sons of morna ii. death of goll iii. the battle of gabhra book x. the end of the fianna chap. i. death of bran ii. the call of oisin iii. the last of the great men book xi. oisin and patrick chap. i. oisin's story ii. oisin in patrick's house iii. the arguments iv. oisin's laments gods and fighting men. part one: the gods. book one: the coming of the tuatha de danaan. chapter i. the fight with the firbolgs it was in a mist the tuatha de danaan, the people of the gods of dana, or as some called them, the men of dea, came through the air and the high air to ireland. it was from the north they came; and in the place they came from they had four cities, where they fought their battle for learning: great falias, and shining gorias, and finias, and rich murias that lay to the south. and in those cities they had four wise men to teach their young men skill and knowledge and perfect wisdom: senias in murias; and arias, the fair-haired poet, in finias; and urias of the noble nature in gorias; and morias in falias itself. and they brought from those four cities their four treasures: a stone of virtue from falias, that was called the lia fail, the stone of destiny; and from gorias they brought a sword; and from finias a spear of victory; and from murias the fourth treasure, the cauldron that no company ever went away from unsatisfied. it was nuada was king of the tuatha de danaan at that time, but manannan, son of lir, was greater again. and of the others that were chief among them were ogma, brother to the king, that taught them writing, and diancecht, that understood healing, and neit, a god of battle, and credenus the craftsman, and goibniu the smith. and the greatest among their women were badb, a battle goddess; and macha, whose mast-feeding was the heads of men killed in battle; and the morrigu, the crow of battle; and eire and fodla and banba, daughters of the dagda, that all three gave their names to ireland afterwards; and eadon, the nurse of poets; and brigit, that was a woman of poetry, and poets worshipped her, for her sway was very great and very noble. and she was a woman of healing along with that, and a woman of smith's work, and it was she first made the whistle for calling one to another through the night. and the one side of her face was ugly, but the other side was very comely. and the meaning of her name was breo-saighit, a fiery arrow. and among the other women there were many shadow-forms and great queens; but dana, that was called the mother of the gods, was beyond them all. and the three things they put above all others were the plough and the sun and the hazel-tree, so that it was said in the time to come that ireland was divided between those three, coll the hazel, and cecht the plough, and grian the sun. and they had a well below the sea where the nine hazels of wisdom were growing; that is, the hazels of inspiration and of the knowledge of poetry. and their leaves and their blossoms would break out in the same hour, and would fall on the well in a shower that raised a purple wave. and then the five salmon that were waiting there would eat the nuts, and their colour would come out in the red spots of their skin, and any person that would eat one of those salmon would know all wisdom and all poetry. and there were seven streams of wisdom that sprang from that well and turned back to it again; and the people of many arts have all drank from that well. it was on the first day of beltaine, that is called now may day, the tuatha de danaan came, and it was to the north-west of connacht they landed. but the firbolgs, the men of the bag, that were in ireland before them, and that had come from the south, saw nothing but a mist, and it lying on the hills. eochaid, son of erc, was king of the firbolgs at that time, and messengers came to him at teamhair, and told him there was a new race of people come into ireland, but whether from the earth or the skies or on the wind was not known, and that they had settled themselves at magh rein. they thought there would be wonder on eochaid when he heard that news; but there was no wonder on him, for a dream had come to him in the night, and when he asked his druids the meaning of the dream, it is what they said, that it would not be long till there would be a strong enemy coming against him. then king eochaid took counsel with his chief advisers, and it is what they agreed, to send a good champion of their own to see the strangers and to speak with them. so they chose out sreng, that was a great fighting man, and he rose up and took his strong red-brown shield, and his two thick-handled spears, and his sword, and his head-covering, and his thick iron club, and he set out from teamhair, and went on towards the place the strangers were, at magh rein. but before he reached it, the watchers of the tuatha de danaan got sight of him, and they sent out one of their own champions, bres, with his shield and his sword and his two spears, to meet him and to talk with him. so the two champions went one towards the other slowly, and keeping a good watch on one another, and wondering at one another's arms, till they came near enough for talking; and then they stopped, and each put his shield before his body and struck it hard into the ground, and they looked at one another over the rim. bres was the first to speak, and when sreng heard it was irish he was talking, his own tongue, he was less uneasy, and they drew nearer, and asked questions as to one another's family and race. and after a while they put their shields away, and it was what sreng said, that he had raised his in dread of the thin, sharp spears bres had in his hand. and bres said he himself was in dread of the thick-handled spears he saw with sreng, and he asked were all the arms of the firbolgs of the same sort. and sreng took off the tyings of his spears to show them better, and bres wondered at them, being so strong and so heavy, and so sharp at the sides though they had no points. and sreng told him the name of those spears was craisech, and that they would break through shields and crush flesh and bones, so that their thrust was death or wounds that never healed. and then he looked at the sharp, thin, hard-pointed spears that were with bres. and in the end they made an exchange of spears, the way the fighters on each side would see the weapons the others were used to. and it is the message bres sent to the firbolgs, that if they would give up one half of ireland, his people would be content to take it in peace; but if they would not give up that much, there should be a battle. and he and sreng said to one another that whatever might happen in the future, they themselves would be friends. sreng went back then to teamhair and gave the message and showed the spear; and it is what he advised his people, to share the country and not to go into battle with a people that had weapons so much better than their own. but eochaid and his chief men consulted together, and they said in the end: "we will not give up the half of the country to these strangers; for if we do," they said, "they will soon take the whole." now as to the men of dea, when bres went back to them, and showed them the heavy spear, and told them of the strong, fierce man he had got it from, and how sturdy he was and well armed, they thought it likely there would soon be a battle. and they went back from where they were to a better place, farther west in connacht, and there they settled themselves, and made walls and ditches on the plain of magh nia, where they had the great mountain, belgata, in their rear. and while they were moving there and putting up their walls, three queens of them, badb and macha and the morrigu, went to teamhair where the firbolgs were making their plans. and by the power of their enchantments they brought mists and clouds of darkness over the whole place, and they sent showers of fire and of blood over the people, the way they could not see or speak with one another through the length of three days. but at the end of that time, the three druids of the firbolgs, cesarn and gnathach and ingnathach, broke the enchantment. the firbolgs gathered their men together then, and they came with their eleven battalions and took their stand at the eastern end of the plain of magh nia. and nuada, king of the men of dea, sent his poets to make the same offer he made before, to be content with the half of the country if it was given up to him. king eochaid bade the poets to ask an answer of his chief men that were gathered there; and when they heard the offer they would not consent. so the messengers asked them when would they begin the battle. "we must have a delay," they said; "for we want time to put our spears and our armour in order, and to brighten our helmets and to sharpen our swords, and to have spears made like the ones you have. and as to yourselves," they said, "you will be wanting to have spears like our craisechs made for you." so they agreed then to make a delay of a quarter of a year for preparation. it was on a midsummer day they began the battle. three times nine hurlers of the tuatha de danaan went out against three times nine hurlers of the firbolgs, and they were beaten, and every one of them was killed. and the king, eochaid, sent a messenger to ask would they have the battle every day or every second day. and it is what nuada answered that they would have it every day, but there should be just the same number of men fighting on each side. eochaid agreed to that, but he was not well pleased, for there were more men of the firbolgs than of the men of dea. so the battle went on for four days, and there were great feats done on each side, and a great many champions came to their death. but for those that were alive at evening, the physicians on each side used to make a bath of healing, with every sort of healing plant or herb in it, the way they would be strong and sound for the next day's fight. and on the fourth day the men of dea got the upper hand, and the firbolgs were driven back. and a great thirst came on eochaid, their king, in the battle, and he went off the field looking for a drink, and three fifties of his men protecting him; but three fifties of the tuatha de danaan followed after them till they came to the strand that is called traigh eothaile, and they had a fierce fight there, and at the last king eochaid fell, and they buried him there, and they raised a great heap of stones over his grave. and when there were but three hundred men left of the eleven battalions of the firbolgs, and sreng at the head of them, nuada offered them peace, and their choice among the five provinces of ireland. and sreng said they would take connacht; and he and his people lived there and their children after them. it is of them ferdiad came afterwards that made such a good fight against cuchulain, and erc, son of cairbre, that gave him his death. and that battle, that was the first fought in ireland by the men of dea, was called by some the first battle of magh tuireadh. and the tuatha de danaan took possession of teamhair, that was sometimes called druim cain, the beautiful ridge, and liathdruim, the grey ridge, and druim na descan, the ridge of the outlook, all those names were given to teamhair. and from that time it was above all other places, for its king was the high king over all ireland. the king's rath lay to the north, and the hill of the hostages to the north-east of the high seat, and the green of teamhair to the west of the hill of the hostages. and to the north-east, in the hill of the sidhe, was a well called nemnach, and out of it there flowed a stream called nith, and on that stream the first mill was built in ireland. and to the north of the hill of the hostages was the stone, the lia fail, and it used to roar under the feet of every king that would take possession of ireland. and the wall of the three whispers was near the house of the women that had seven doors to the east, and seven doors to the west; and it is in that house the feasts of teamhair used to be held. and there was the great house of a thousand soldiers, and near it, to the south, the little hill of the woman soldiers. chapter ii. the reign of bres but if nuada won the battle, he lost his own arm in it, that was struck off by sreng; and by that loss there came troubles and vexation on his people. for it was a law with the tuatha de danaan that no man that was not perfect in shape should be king. and after nuada had lost the battle he was put out of the kingship on that account. and the king they chose in his place was bres, that was the most beautiful of all their young men, so that if a person wanted to praise any beautiful thing, whether it was a plain, or a dun, or ale, or a flame, or a woman, or a man, or a horse, it is what he would say, "it is as beautiful as bres." and he was the son of a woman of the tuatha de danaan, but who his father was no one knew but herself. but in spite of bres being so beautiful, his reign brought no great good luck to his people; for the fomor, whose dwelling-place was beyond the sea, or as some say below the sea westward, began putting tribute on them, the way they would get them under their own rule. it was a long time before that the fomor came first to ireland; dreadful they were to look at, and maimed, having but one foot or one hand, and they under the leadership of a giant and his mother. there never came to ireland an army more horrible or more dreadful than that army of the fomor. and they were friendly with the firbolgs and content to leave ireland to them, but there was jealousy between them and the men of dea. and it was a hard tax they put on them, a third part of their corn they asked, and a third part of their milk, and a third part of their children, so that there was not smoke rising from a roof in ireland but was under tribute to them. and bres made no stand against them, but let them get their way. and as to bres himself, he put a tax on every house in ireland of the milk of hornless dun cows, or of the milk of cows of some other single colour, enough for a hundred men. and one time, to deceive him, nechtan singed all the cows of ireland in a fire of fern, and then he smeared them with the ashes of flax seed, the way they were all dark brown. he did that by the advice of the druid findgoll, son of findemas. and another time they made three hundred cows of wood with dark brown pails in place of udders, and the pails were filled with black bog stuff. then bres came to look at the cows, and to see them milked before him, and cian, father of lugh, was there. and when they were milked it was the bog stuff that was squeezed out; and bres took a drink of it thinking it to be milk, and he was not the better of it for a long time. and there was another thing against bres; he was no way open-handed, and the chief men of the tuatha de danaan grumbled against him, for their knives were never greased in his house, and however often they might visit him there was no smell of ale on their breath. and there was no sort of pleasure or merriment in his house, and no call for their poets, or singers, or harpers, or pipers, or horn-blowers, or jugglers, or fools. and as to the trials of strength they were used to see between their champions, the only use their strength was put to now was to be doing work for the king. ogma himself, the shining poet, was under orders to bring firing to the palace every day for the whole army from the islands of mod; and he so weak for want of food that the sea would sweep away two-thirds of his bundle every day. and as to the dagda, he was put to build raths, for he was a good builder, and he made a trench round rath brese. and he used often to be tired at the work, and one time he nearly gave in altogether for want of food, and this is the way that happened. he used to meet in the house an idle blind man, cridenbel his name was, that had a sharp tongue, and that coveted the dagda's share of food, for he thought his own to be small beside it. so he said to him: "for the sake of your good name let the three best bits of your share be given to me." and the dagda gave in to that every night; but he was the worse of it, for what the blind man called a bit would be the size of a good pig, and with his three bits he would take a full third of the whole. but one day, as the dagda was in the trench, he saw his son, angus og, coming to him. "that is a good meeting," said angus; "but what is on you, for you have no good appearance to-day?" "there is a reason for that," said the dagda, "for every evening, cridenbel, the blind man, makes a demand for the three best bits of my share of food, and takes them from me." "i will give you an advice," said angus. he put his hand in his bag then, and took out three pieces of gold and gave them to him. "put these pieces of gold into the three bits you will give this evening to cridenbel," he said, "and they will be the best bits in the dish, and the gold will turn within him the way he will die." so in the evening the dagda did that; and no sooner had cridenbel swallowed down the gold than he died. some of the people said then to the king: "the dagda has killed cridenbel, giving him some deadly herb." the king believed that, and there was anger on him against the dagda, and he gave orders he should be put to death. but the dagda said: "you are not giving the right judgment of a prince." and he told all that had happened, and how cridenbel used to say, "give me the three best bits before you, for my own share is not good to-night." "and on this night," he said, "the three pieces of gold were the best things before me, and i gave them to him, and he died." the king gave orders then to have the body cut open. and they found the gold inside it, and they knew it was the truth the dagda had told. and angus came to him again the next day, and he said: "your work will soon be done, and when you are given your wages, take nothing they may offer you till the cattle of ireland are brought before you, and choose out a heifer then, black and black-maned, that i will tell you the signs of." so when the dagda had brought his work to an end, and they asked him what reward he wanted, he did as angus had bidden him. and that seemed folly to bres; he thought the dagda would have asked more than a heifer of him. there came a day at last when a poet came to look for hospitality at the king's house, corpre, son of etain, poet of the tuatha de danaan. and it is how he was treated, he was put in a little dark narrow house where there was no fire, or furniture, or bed; and for a feast three small cakes, and they dry, were brought to him on a little dish. when he rose up on the morrow he was no way thankful, and as he was going across the green, it is what he said: "without food ready on a dish; without milk enough for a calf to grow on; without shelter; without light in the darkness of night; without enough to pay a story-teller; may that be the prosperity of bres." and from that day there was no good luck with bres, but it is going down he was for ever after. and that was the first satire ever made in ireland. now as to nuada: after his arm being struck off, he was in his sickness for a while, and then diancecht, the healer, made an arm of silver for him, with movement in every finger of it, and put it on him. and from that he was called nuada argat-lamh, of the silver hand, for ever after. now miach, son of diancecht, was a better hand at healing than his father, and had done many things. he met a young man, having but one eye, at teamhair one time, and the young man said: "if you are a good physician you will put an eye in the place of the eye i lost." "i could put the eye of that cat in your lap in its place," said miach. "i would like that well," said the young man. so miach put the cat's eye in his head; but he would as soon have been without it after, for when he wanted to sleep and take his rest, it is then the eye would start at the squeaking of the mice, or the flight of the birds, or the movement of the rushes; and when he was wanting to watch an army or a gathering, it is then it was sure to be in a deep sleep. and miach was not satisfied with what his father had done to the king, and he took nuada's own hand that had been struck off, and brought it to him and set it in its place, and he said: "joint to joint, and sinew to sinew." three days and three nights he was with the king; the first day he put the hand against his side, and the second day against his breast, till it was covered with skin, and the third day he put bulrushes that were blackened in the fire on it, and at the end of that time the king was healed. but diancecht was vexed when he saw his son doing a better cure than himself, and he threw his sword at his head, that it cut the flesh, but the lad healed the wound by means of his skill. then diancecht threw it a second time, that it reached the bone, but the lad was able to cure the wound. then he struck him the third time and the fourth, till he cut out the brain, for he knew no physician could cure him after that blow; and miach died, and he buried him. and herbs grew up from his grave, to the number of his joints and sinews, three hundred and sixty-five. and airmed, his sister, came and spread out her cloak and laid out the herbs in it, according to their virtue. but diancecht saw her doing that, and he came and mixed up the herbs, so that no one knows all their right powers to this day. then when the tuatha de danaan saw nuada as well as he was before, they gathered together to teamhair, where bres was, and they bade him give up the kingship, for he had held it long enough. so he had to give it up, though he was not very willing, and nuada was put back in the kingship again. there was great vexation on bres then, and he searched his mind to know how could he be avenged on those that had put him out, and how he could gather an army against them; and he went to his mother, eri, daughter of delbaith, and bade her tell him what his race was. "i know that well," she said; and she told him then that his father was a king of the fomor, elathan, son of dalbaech, and that he came to her one time over a level sea in some great vessel that seemed to be of silver, but she could not see its shape, and he himself having the appearance of a young man with yellow hair, and his clothes sewed with gold, and five rings of gold about his neck. and she that had refused the love of all the young men of her own people, gave him her love, and she cried when he left her. and he gave her a ring from his hand, and bade her give it only to the man whose finger it would fit, and he went away then the same way as he had come. and she brought out the ring then to bres, and he put it round his middle finger, and it fitted him well. and they went then together to the hill where she was the time she saw the silver vessel coming, and down to the strand, and she and bres and his people set out for the country of the fomor. and when they came to that country they found a great plain with many gatherings of people on it, and they went to the gathering that looked the best, and the people asked where did they come from, and they said they were come from ireland. "have you hounds with you?" they asked them then, for it was the custom at that time, when strangers came to a gathering, to give them some friendly challenge. "we have hounds," said bres. so the hounds were matched against one another, and the hounds of the tuatha de danaan were better than the hounds of the fomor. "have you horses for a race?" they asked then. "we have," said bres. and the horses of the tuatha de danaan beat the horses of the fomor. then they asked was any one among them a good hand with the sword, and they said bres was the best. but when he put his hand to his sword, elathan, his father, that was among them, knew the ring, and he asked who was this young man. then his mother answered him and told the whole story, and that bres was his own son. there was sorrow on his father then, and he said: "what was it drove you out of the country you were king over?" and bres said: "nothing drove me out but my own injustice and my own hardness; i took away their treasures from the people, and their jewels, and their food itself. and there were never taxes put on them before i was their king." "that is bad," said his father; "it is of their prosperity you had a right to think more than of your own kingship. and their good-will would be better than their curses," he said; "and what is it you are come to look for here?" "i am come to look for fighting men," said bres, "that i may take ireland by force." "you have no right to get it by injustice when you could not keep it by justice," said his father. "what advice have you for me then?" said bres. and elathan bade him go to the chief king of the fomor, balor of the evil eye, to see what advice and what help would he give him. book two: lugh of the long hand. chapter i. the coming of lugh now as to nuada of the silver hand, he was holding a great feast at teamhair one time, after he was back in the kingship. and there were two door-keepers at teamhair, gamal, son of figal, and camel, son of riagall. and a young man came to the door where one of them was, and bade him bring him in to the king. "who are you yourself?" said the door-keeper. "i am lugh, son of cian of the tuatha de danaan, and of ethlinn, daughter of balor, king of the fomor," he said; "and i am foster-son of taillte, daughter of the king of the great plain, and of echaid the rough, son of duach." "what are you skilled in?" said the door-keeper; "for no one without an art comes into teamhair." "question me," said lugh; "i am a carpenter." "we do not want you; we have a carpenter ourselves, luchtar, son of luachaid." "then i am a smith." "we have a smith ourselves, colum cuaillemech of the three new ways." "then i am a champion." "that is no use to us; we have a champion before, ogma, brother to the king." "question me again," he said; "i am a harper." "that is no use to us; we have a harper ourselves, abhean, son of bicelmos, that the men of the three gods brought from the hills." "i am-a poet," he said then, "and a teller of tales." "that is no use to us; we have a teller of tales ourselves, ere, son of ethaman." "and i am a magician." "that is no use to us; we have plenty of magicians and people of power." "i am a physician," he said. "that is no use; we have diancecht-for our physician." "let me be a cup-bearer," he said. "we do not want you; we have nine cup-bearers ourselves." "i am a good worker in brass." "we have a worker in brass ourselves, that is credne cerd." then lugh said: "go and ask the king if he has any one man that can do all these things, and if he has, i will not ask to come into teamhair." the door-keeper went into the king's house then and told him all that. "there is a young man at the door," he said, "and his name should be the ildánach, the master of all arts, for all the things the people of your house can do, he himself is able to do every one of them." "try him with the chess-boards," said nuada. so the chess-boards were brought out, and every game that was played, lugh won it. and when nuada was told that, he said: "let him in, for the like of him never came into teamhair before." then the door-keeper let him pass, and he came into the king's house and sat down in the seat of knowledge. and there was a great flag-stone there that could hardly be moved by four times twenty yoke of oxen, and ogma took it up and hurled it out through the house, so that it lay on the outside of teamhair, as a challenge to lugh. but lugh hurled it back again that it lay in the middle of the king's house. he played the harp for them then, and he had them laughing and crying, till he put them asleep at the end with a sleepy tune. and when nuada saw all the things lugh could do, he began to think that by his help the country might get free of the taxes and the tyranny put on it by the fomor. and it is what he did, he came down from his throne, and he put lugh on it in his place, for the length of thirteen days, the way they might all listen to the advice he would give. this now is the story of the birth of lugh. the time the fomor used to be coming to ireland, balor of the strong blows, or, as some called him, of the evil eye, was living on the island of the tower of glass. there was danger for ships that went near that island, for the fomor would come out and take them. and some say the sons of nemed in the old time, before the firbolgs were in ireland, passed near it in their ships, and what they saw was a tower of glass in the middle of the sea, and on the tower something that had the appearance of men, and they went against it with druid spells to attack it. and the fomor worked against them with druid spells of their own; and the sons of nemed attacked the tower, and it vanished, and they thought it was destroyed. but a great wave rose over them then, and all their ships went down and all that were in them. and the tower was there as it was before, and balor living in it. and it is the reason he was called "of the evil eye," there was a power of death in one of his eyes, so that no person could look at it and live. it is the way it got that power, he was passing one time by a house where his father's druids were making spells of death, and the window being open he looked in, and the smoke of the poisonous spells was rising up, and it went into his eye. and from that time he had to keep it closed unless he wanted to be the death of some enemy, and then the men that were with him would lift the eyelid with a ring of ivory. now a druid foretold one time that it was by his own grandson he would get his death. and he had at that time but one child, a daughter whose name was ethlinn; and when he heard what the druid said, he shut her up in the tower on the island. and he put twelve women with her to take charge of her and to guard her, and he bade them never to let her see a man or hear the name of a man. so ethlinn was brought up in the tower, and she grew to be very beautiful; and sometimes she would see men passing in the currachs, and sometimes she would see a man in her dreams. but when she would speak of that to the women, they would give her no answer. so there was no fear on balor, and he went on with war and robbery as he was used, seizing every ship that passed by, and sometimes going over to ireland to do destruction there. now it chanced at that time there were three brothers of the tuatha de danaan living together in a place that was called druim na teine, the ridge of the fire, goibniu and samthainn and cian. cian was a lord of land, and goibniu was the smith that had such a great name. now cian had a wonderful cow, the glas gaibhnenn, and her milk never failed. and every one that heard of her coveted her, and many had tried to steal her away, so that she had to be watched night and day. and one time cian was wanting some swords made, and he went to goibniu's forge, and he brought the glas gaibhnenn with him, holding her by a halter. when he came to the forge his two brothers were there together, for samthainn had brought some steel to have weapons made for himself; and cian bade samthainn to hold the halter while he went into the forge to speak with goibniu. now balor had set his mind for a long time on the glas gaibhnenn, but he had never been able to get near her up to this time. and he was watching not far off, and when he saw samthainn holding the cow, he put on the appearance of a little boy, having red hair, and came up to him and told him he heard his two brothers that were in the forge saying to one another that they would use all his steel for their own swords, and make his of iron. "by my word," said samthainn, "they will not deceive me so easily. let you hold the cow, little lad," he said, "and i will go in to them." with that he rushed into the forge, and great anger on him. and no sooner did balor get the halter in his hand than he set out, dragging the glas along with him, to the strand, and across the sea to his own island. when cian saw his brother coming in he rushed out, and there he saw balor and the glas out in the sea. and he had nothing to do then but to reproach his brother, and to wander about as if his wits had left him, not knowing what way to get his cow back from balor. at last he went to a druid to ask an advice from him; and it is what the druid told him, that so long as balor lived, the cow would never be brought back, for no one would go within reach of his evil eye. cian went then to a woman-druid, birog of the mountain, for her help. and she dressed him in a woman's clothes, and brought him across the sea in a blast of wind, to the tower where ethlinn was. then she called to the women in the tower, and asked them for shelter for a high queen she was after saving from some hardship, and the women in the tower did not like to refuse a woman of the tuatha de danaan, and they let her and her comrade in. then birog by her enchantments put them all into a deep sleep, and cian went to speak with ethlinn. and when she saw him she said that was the face she had seen in her dreams. so she gave him her love; but after a while he was brought away again on a blast of wind. and when her time came, ethlinn gave birth to a son. and when balor knew that, he bade his people put the child in a cloth and fasten it with a pin, and throw him into a current of the sea. and as they were carrying the child across an arm of the sea, the pin dropped out, and the child slipped from the cloth into the water, and they thought he was drowned. but he was brought away by birog of the mountain, and she brought him to his father cian; and he gave him to be fostered by taillte, daughter of the king of the great plain. it is thus lugh was born and reared. and some say balor came and struck the head off cian on a white stone, that has the blood marks on it to this day; but it is likely it was some other man he struck the head off, for it was by the sons of tuireann that cian came to his death. and after lugh had come to teamhair, and made his mind up to join with his father's people against the fomor, he put his mind to the work; and he went to a quiet place in grellach dollaid, with nuada and the dagda, and with ogma; and goibniu and diancecht were called to them there. a full year they stopped there, making their plans together in secret, the way the fomor would not know they were going to rise against them till such time as all would be ready, and till they would know what their strength was. and it is from that council the place got the name afterwards of "the whisper of the men of dea." and they broke up the council, and agreed to meet again that day three years, and every one of them went his own way, and lugh went back to his own friends, the sons of manannan. and it was a good while after that, nuada was holding a great assembly of the people on the hill of uisnech, on the west side of teamhair. and they were not long there before they saw an armed troop coming towards them from the east, over the plain; and there was a young man in front of the troop, in command over the rest, and the brightness of his face was like the setting sun, so that they were not able to look at him because of its brightness. and when he came nearer they knew it was lugh lamh-fada, of the long hand, that had come back to them, and along with him were the riders of the sidhe from the land of promise, and his own foster-brothers, the sons of manannan, sgoith gleigeil, the white flower, and goitne gorm-shuileach, the blue-eyed spear, and sine sindearg, of the red ring, and donall donn-ruadh, of the red-brown hair. and it is the way lugh was, he had manannan's horse, the aonbharr, of the one mane, under him, that was as swift as the naked cold wind of spring, and the sea was the same as dry land to her, and the rider was never killed off her back. and he had manannan's breast-plate on him, that kept whoever was wearing it from wounds, and a helmet on his head with two beautiful precious stones set in the front of it and one at the back, and when he took it off, his forehead was like the sun on a dry summer day. and he had manannan's sword, the freagarthach, the answerer, at his side, and no one that was wounded by it would ever get away alive; and when that sword was bared in a battle, no man that saw it coming against him had any more strength than a woman in child-birth. and the troop came to where the king of ireland was with the tuatha de danaan, and they welcomed one another. and they were not long there till they saw a surly, slovenly troop coming towards them, nine times nine of the messengers of the fomor, that were coming to ask rent and taxes from the men of ireland; and the names of the four that were the hardest and the most cruel were eine and eathfaigh and coron and compar; and there was such great dread of these four on the tuatha de danaan, that not one of them would so much as punish his own son or his foster-son without leave from them. they came up then to where the king of ireland was with the riders of the sidhe, and the king and all the tuatha de danaan stood up before them. and lugh of the long hand said: "why do you rise up before that surly, slovenly troop, when you did not rise up before us?" "it is needful for us to do it," said the king; "for if there was but a child of us sitting before them, they would not think that too small a cause for killing him." "by my word," said lugh, "there is a great desire coming on me to kill themselves." "that is a thing would bring harm on us," said the king, "for we would meet our own death and destruction through it." "it is too long a time you have been under this oppression," said lugh. and with that he started up and made an attack on the fomor, killing and wounding them, till he had made an end of eight nines of them, but he let the last nine go under the protection of nuada the king. "and i would kill you along with the others," he said, "but i would sooner see you go with messages to your own country than my own people, for fear they might get any ill-treatment." so the nine went back then till they came to lochlann, where the men of the fomor were, and they told them the story from beginning to end, and how a young well-featured lad had come into ireland and had killed all the tax-gatherers but themselves, "and it is the reason he let us off," they said, "that we might tell you the story ourselves." "do you know who is the young man?" said balor of the evil eye then. "i know well," said ceithlenn, his wife; "he is the son of your daughter and mine. and it was foretold," she said, "that from the time he would come into ireland, we would never have power there again for ever." then the chief men of the fomor went into a council, eab, son of neid, and seanchab, grandson of neid, and sital salmhor, and liath, son of lobais, and the nine poets of the fomor that had learning and the gift of foreknowledge, and lobais the druid, and balor himself and his twelve white-mouthed sons, and ceithlenn of the crooked teeth, his queen. and it was just at that time bres and his father elathan were come to ask help of the fomor, and bres said: "i myself will go to ireland, and seven great battalions of the riders of the fomor along with me, and i will give battle to this ildánach, this master of all arts, and i will strike his head off and bring it here to you, to the green of berbhe." "it would be a fitting thing for you to do," said they all. "let my ships be made ready for me," said bres, "and let food and provisions be put in them." so they made no delay, but went and got the ships ready, and they put plenty of food and drink in them, and the two swift luaths were sent out to gather the army to bres. and when they were all gathered, they made ready their armour and their weapons, and they set out for ireland. and balor the king followed them to the harbour, and he said: "give battle to that ildánach, and strike off his head; and tie that island that is called ireland to the back of your ships, and let the destroying water take its place, and put it on the north side of lochlann, and not one of the men of dea will follow it there to the end of life and time." then they pushed out their ships and put up their painted sails, and went out from the harbour on the untilled country, on the ridges of the wide-lying sea, and they never turned from their course till they came to the harbour of eas dara. and from that they sent out an army through west connacht and destroyed it altogether, through and through. and the king of connacht at that time was bodb dearg, son of the dagda. chapter ii. the sons of tuireann and lugh of the long hand was at that time at teamhair with the king of ireland, and it was showed to him that the fomor were after landing at eas dara. and when he knew that, he made ready manannan's horse, the aonbharr, at the time of the battle of the day and night; and he went where nuada the king was, and told him how the fomor had landed at eas dara and had spoiled bodb dearg's country; "and it is what i want," he said, "to get help from you to give battle to them." but nuada was not minded to avenge the destruction that was done on bodb dearg and not on himself, and lugh was not well pleased with his answer, and he went riding out of teamhair westward. and presently he saw three armed men coming towards him, his own father cian, with his brothers cu and ceithen, that were the three sons of cainte, and they saluted him. "what is the cause of your early rising?" they said. "it is good cause i have for it," said lugh, "for the fomor are come into ireland and have robbed bodb dearg; and what help will you give me against them?" he said. "each one of us will keep off a hundred from you in the battle," said they. "that is a good help," said lugh; "but there is a help i would sooner have from you than that: to gather the riders of the sidhe to me from every place where they are." so cu and ceithen went towards the south, and cian set out northward, and he did not stop till he reached the plain of muirthemne. and as he was going across the plain he saw three armed men before him, that were the three sons of tuireann, son of ogma. and it is the way it was between the three sons of tuireann and the three sons of cainte, they were in hatred and enmity towards one another, so that whenever they met there was sure to be fighting among them. then cian said: "if my two brothers had been here it is a brave fight we would make; but since they are not, it is best for me to fall back." then he saw a great herd of pigs near him, and he struck himself with a druid rod that put on him the shape of a pig of the herd, and he began rooting up the ground like the rest. then brian, one of the sons of tuireann, said to his brothers: "did you see that armed man that was walking the plain a while ago?" "we did see him," said they. "do you know what was it took him away?" said brian. "we do not know that," said they. "it is a pity you not to be keeping a better watch over the plains of the open country in time of war," said brian; "and i know well what happened him, for he struck himself with his druid rod into the shape of a pig of these pigs, and he is rooting up the ground now like any one of them; and whoever he is, he is no friend to us." "that is bad for us," said the other two, "for the pigs belong to some one of the tuatha de danaan, and even if we kill them all, the druid pig might chance to escape us in the end." "it is badly you got your learning in the city of learning," said brian, "when you cannot tell an enchanted beast from a natural beast." and while he was saying that, he struck his two brothers with his druid rod, and he turned them into two thin, fast hounds, and they began to yelp sharply on the track of the enchanted pig. and it was not long before the pig fell out from among the others, and not one of the others made away but only itself, and it made for a wood, and at the edge of the wood brian gave a cast of his spear that went through its body. and the pig cried out, and it said: "it is a bad thing you have done to have made a cast at me when you knew me." "it seems to me you have the talk of a man," said brian. "i was a man indeed," said he; "i am cian, son of cainte, and give me your protection now." "i swear by the gods of the air," said brian, "that if the life came back seven times to you, i would take it from you every time." "if that is so," said cian, "give me one request: let me go into my own shape again." "we will do that," said brian, "for it is easier to me to kill a man than a pig." so cian took his own shape then, and he said: "give me mercy now." "we will not give it," said brian. "well, i have got the better of you for all that," said cian; "for if it was in the shape of a pig you had killed me there would only be the blood money for a pig on me; but as it is in my own shape you will kill me, there never was and never will be any person killed for whose sake a heavier fine will be paid than for myself. and the arms i am killed with," he said, "it is they will tell the deed to my son." "it is not with weapons you will be killed, but with the stones lying on the ground," said brian. and with that they pelted him with stones, fiercely and roughly, till all that was left of him was a poor, miserable, broken heap; and they buried him the depth of a man's body in the earth, and the earth would not receive that murder from them, but cast it up again. brian said it should go into the earth again, and they put it in the second time, and the second time the earth would not take it. and six times the sons of tuireann buried the body, and six times it was cast up again; but the seventh time it was put underground the earth kept it. and then they went on to join lugh of the long hand for the battle. now as to lugh; upon parting with his father he went forward from teamhair westward, to the hills that were called afterwards gairech and ilgairech, and to the ford of the shannon that is now called athluain, and to bearna nah-eadargana, the gap of separation, and over magh luirg, the plain of following, and to corr slieve na seaghsa, the round mountain of the poet's spring, and to the head of sean-slieve, and through the place of the bright-faced corann, and from that to magh mor an aonaigh, the great plain of the fair, where the fomor were, and the spoils of connacht with them. it is then bres, son of elathan, rose up and said: "it is a wonder to me the sun to be rising in the west to-day, and it rising in the east every other day." "it would be better for us it to be the sun," said the druids. "what else is it?" said he. "it is the shining of the face of lugh, son of ethlinn," said they. lugh came up to them then and saluted them. "why do you come like a friend to us?" said they. "there is good cause for that," he said, "for there is but one half of me of the tuatha de danaan, and the other half of yourselves. and give me back now the milch cows of the men of ireland," he said. "may early good luck not come to you till you get either a dry or a milch cow here," said a man of them, and anger on him. but lugh stopped near them for three days and three nights, and at the end of that time the riders of the sidhe came to him. and bodb dearg, son of the dagda, came with twenty-nine hundred men, and he said: "what is the cause of your delay in giving battle?" "waiting for you i was," said lugh. then the kings and chief men of the men of ireland took their armour on them, and they raised the points of their spears over their heads, and they made close fences of their shields. and they attacked their enemies on magh mor an aonaigh, and their enemies answered them, and they threw their whining spears at one another, and when their spears were broken they drew their swords from their blue-bordered sheaths and began to strike at one another, and thickets of brown flames rose above them from the bitterness of their many-edged weapons. and lugh saw the battle pen where bres, son of elathan, was, and he made a fierce attack on him and on the men that were guarding him, till he had made an end of two hundred of them. when bres saw that, he gave himself up to lugh's protection. "give me my life this time," he said, "and i will bring the whole race of the fomor to fight it out with you in a great battle; and i bind myself to that, by the sun and the moon, the sea and the land," he said. on that lugh gave him his life, and then the druids that were with him asked his protection for themselves. "by my word," said lugh, "if the whole race of the fomor went under my protection they would not be destroyed by me." so then bres and the druids set out for their own country. now as to lugh and the sons of tuireann. after the battle of magh mor an aonaigh, he met two of his kinsmen and asked them did they see his father in the fight. "we did not," said they. "i am sure he is not living," said lugh; "and i give my word," he said, "there will no food or drink go into my mouth till i get knowledge by what death my father died." then he set out, and the riders of the sidhe after him, till they came to the place where he and his father parted from one another, and from that to the place where his father went into the shape of a pig when he saw the sons of tuireann. and when lugh came to that place the earth spoke to him, and it said: "it is in great danger your father was here, lugh, when he saw the sons of tuireann before him, and it is into the shape of a pig he had to go, but it is in his own shape they killed him." then lugh told that to his people, and he found the spot where his father was buried, and he bade them dig there, the way he would know by what death the sons of tuireann had made an end of him. then they raised the body out of the grave and looked at it, and it was all one bed of wounds. and lugh said: "it was the death of an enemy the sons of tuireann gave my dear father." and he gave him three kisses, and it is what he said: "it is bad the way i am myself after this death, for i can hear nothing with my ears, and i can see nothing with my eyes, and there is not a living pulse in my heart, with grief after my father. and you gods i worship," he said, "it is a pity i not to have come here the time this thing was done. and it is a great thing that has been done here," he said, "the people of the gods of dana to have done treachery on one another, and it is long they will be under loss by it and be weakened by it. and ireland will never be free from trouble from this out, east and west," he said. then they put cian under the earth again, and after that there was keening made over his grave, and a stone was raised on it, and his name was written in ogham, and lugh said: "this hill will take its name from cian, although he himself is stripped and broken. and it was the sons of tuireann did this thing," he said, "and there will grief and anguish fall on them from it, and on their children after them. and it is no lying story i am telling you," he said; "and it is a pity the way i am, and my heart is broken in my breast since cian, the brave man, is not living." then he bade his people to go before him to teamhair, "but do not tell the story till i tell it myself," he said. and when lugh came to teamhair he sat in the high seat of the king, and he looked about him and he saw the three sons of tuireann. and those were the three that were beyond all others at teamhair at that time for quickness and skill, for a good hand in battle, for beauty and an honourable name. then lugh bade his people to shake the chain of silence, and they did so, and they all listened. and lugh said: "what are your minds fixed on at this time, men of dea?" "on yourself indeed," said they. "i have a question to ask of you," he said. "what is the vengeance each one of you would take on the man that would kill your father?" there was great wonder on them when they heard that, and one of the chief men among them said: "tell us was it your own father that was killed?" "it was indeed," said lugh; "and i see now in this house," he said, "the men that killed him, and they know themselves what way they killed him better than i know it." then the king said: "it is not a death of one day only i would give the man that had killed my father, if he was in my power, but to cut off one of his limbs from day to day till i would make an end of him." all the chief men said the same, and the sons of tuireann like the rest. "there are making that answer," said lugh, "the three men that killed my father; and let them pay the fine for him now, since you are all together in the one place. and if they will not," he said, "i will not break the protection of the king's house, but they must make no attempt to quit this house till they have settled with me." "if it was i myself had killed your father," said the king, "i would be well content you to take a fine from me for him." "it is at us lugh is saying all this," said the sons of tuireann among themselves. "let us acknowledge the killing of his father to him," said iuchar and iucharba. "i am in dread," said brian, "that it is wanting an acknowledgment from us he is, in the presence of all the rest, and that he will not let us off with a fine afterwards." "it is best to acknowledge it," said the others; "and let you speak it out since you are the eldest." then brian, son of tuireann, said: "it is at us you are speaking, lugh, for you are thinking we went against the sons of cainte before now; and we did not kill your father," he said, "but we will pay the fine for him the same as if we did kill him." "i will take a fine from you that you do not think of," said lugh, "and i will say here what it is, and if it is too much for you, i will let you off a share of it." "let us hear it from you," said they. "here it is," said lugh; "three apples, and the skin of a pig, and a spear, and two horses, and a chariot, and seven pigs, and a dog's whelp, and a cooking-spit, and three shouts on a hill. that is the fine i am asking," he said; "and if it is too much for you, a part of it will be taken off you presently, and if you do not think it too much, then pay it" "it is not too much," said brian, "or a hundred times of it would not be too much. and we think it likely," he said, "because of its smallness that you have some treachery towards us behind it." "i do not think it too little of a fine," said lugh; "and i give you the guarantee of the tuatha de danaan i will ask no other thing, and i will be faithful to you, and let you give the same pledge to me." "it is a pity you to ask that," said brian, "for our own pledge is as good as any pledge in the world." "your own pledge is not enough," said lugh, "for it is often the like of you promised to pay a fine in this way, and would try to back out of it after." so then the sons of tuireann bound themselves by the king of ireland, and by bodb dearg, son of the dagda, and by the chief men of the tuatha de danaan, that they would pay that fine to lugh. "it would be well for me now," said lugh, "to give you better knowledge of the fine." "it would be well indeed," said they. "this is the way of it then," said lugh. "the three apples i asked of you are the three apples from the garden in the east of the world, and no other apples will do but these, for they are the most beautiful and have most virtue in them of the apples of the whole world. and it is what they are like, they are of the colour of burned gold, and they are the size of the head of a child a month old, and there is the taste of honey on them, and they do not leave the pain of wounds or the vexation of sickness on any one that eats them, and they do not lessen by being eaten for ever. and the skin i asked of you," he said, "is the pig skin of tuis, king of greece, and it heals all the wounds and all the sickness of the world, and whatever danger a man may be in, if it can but overtake the life in him, it will cure him; and it is the way it was with that pig, every stream of water it would go through would be turned into wine to the end of nine days after, and every wound it touched was healed; and it is what the druids of greece said, that it is not in itself this virtue was, but in the skin, and they skinned it, and the skin is there ever since. and i think, too, it will not be easy for you to get it, with or without leave." "and do you know what is the spear i am asking of you?" he said. "we do not," said they. "it is a very deadly spear belonging to the king of persia, the luin it is called, and every choice thing is done by it, and its head is kept steeped in a vessel of water, the way it will not burn down the place where it is, and it will be hard to get it. and do you know what two horses and what chariot i am asking of you? they are the chariot and the two wonderful horses of dobar, king of siogair, and the sea is the same as land to them, and there are no faster horses than themselves, and there is no chariot equal to that one in shape and in strength. "and do you know what are the seven pigs i asked of you? they are the pigs of easal, king of the golden pillars; and though they are killed every night, they are found alive again the next day, and there will be no disease or no sickness on any person that will eat a share of them. "and the whelp i asked of you is fail-inis, the whelp belonging to the king of ioruaidh, the cold country. and all the wild beasts of the world would fall down at the sight of her, and she is more beautiful than the sun in his fiery wheels, and it will be hard to get her. "and the cooking-spit i asked of you is a spit of the spits of the women of inis cenn-fhinne, the island of caer of the fair hair. and the three shouts you are to give on a hill must be given on the hill of miochaoin in the north of lochlann. and miochaoin and his sons are under bonds not to allow any shouts to be given on that hill; and it was with them my father got his learning, and if i would forgive you his death, they would not forgive you. and if you get through all your other voyages before you reach to them, it is my opinion they themselves will avenge him on you. and that is the fine i have asked of you," said lugh. there was silence and darkness on the sons of tuireann when they heard that. and they went to where their father was, and told him the fine that had been put on them. "it is bad news that is," said tuireann; "and it is to your death and your destruction you will be going, looking for those things. but for all that, if lugh himself had a mind to help you, you could work out the fine, and all the men of the world could not do it but by the power of manannan or of lugh. go then and ask the loan of manannan's horse, the aonbharr, from lugh, and if he has any wish to get the fine, he will give it to you; but if he does not wish it he will say the horse is not his, and that he would not give the loan of a loan. ask him then for the loan of manannan's curragh, the scuabtuinne, the sweeper of the waves. and he will give that, for he is under bonds not to refuse a second request, and the curragh is better for you than the horse," he said. so the sons of tuireann went to where lugh was, and they saluted him, and they said they could not bring him the fine without his own help, and for that reason it would be well for them to get a loan of the aonbharr. "i have that horse only on loan myself," said lugh, "and i will not give a loan of a loan." "if that is so, give us the loan of manannan's curragh," said brian. "i will give that," said lugh. "what place is it?" said they. "at brugh na boinn," said lugh. then they went back again to where tuireann was, and his daughter ethne, their sister, with him, and they told him they had got the curragh. "it is not much the better you will be for it," said tuireann, "although lugh would like well to get every part of this fine he could make use of before the battle with the fomor. but he would like yourselves to come to your death looking for it." then they went away, and they left tuireann sorrowful and lamenting, and ethne went with them to where the curragh was. and brian got into it, and he said: "there is place but for one other person along with me here." and he began to find fault with its narrowness. "you ought not to be faulting the curragh," said ethne; "and o my dear brother," she said, "it was a bad thing you did, to kill the father of lugh of the long hand; and whatever harm may come to you from it, it is but just." "do not say that, ethne," they said, "for we are in good heart, and we will do brave deeds. and we would sooner be killed a hundred times over," they said, "than to meet with the death of cowards." "my grief," said ethne, "there is nothing more sorrowful than this, to see you driven out from your own country." then the three pushed out their curragh from the beautiful clear-bayed shore of ireland. "what course shall we take first?" said they. "we will go look for the apples," said brian, "as they were the first thing we were bade bring. and so we ask of you, curragh of manannan that is under us, to sail to the garden in the east of the world." and the curragh did not neglect that order, but it sailed forward over the green-sided waves and deep places till it came to its harbour in the east of the world. and then brian asked his brothers: "what way have you a mind to get into the garden? for i think," he said, "the king's champions and the fighting men of the country are always guarding it, and the king himself is chief over them." "what should we do," said his brothers, "but to make straight at them and attack them, and bring away the apples or fall ourselves, since we cannot escape from these dangers that are before us without meeting our death in some place." "it would be better," said brian, "the story of our bravery and our craftiness to be told and to live after us, than folly and cowardice to be told of us. and what is best for us to do now," he said, "is to go in the shape of swift hawks into the garden, and the watchers have but their light spears to throw at us, and let you take good care to keep out of their reach; and after they have thrown them all, make a quick flight to the apples and let each of you bring away an apple of them in your claws, and i will bring away the third." they said that was a good advice, and brian struck himself and the others with his druid rod, and changed them into beautiful hawks. and they flew towards the garden, and the watchers took notice of them and shouted on every side of them, and threw showers of spears and darts, but the hawks kept out of their reach as brian had bade them, till all the spears were spent, and then they swept down bravely on the apples, and brought them away with them, without so much as a wound. and the news went through the city and the whole district, and the king had three wise, crafty daughters, and they put themselves into the shape of three ospreys, and they followed the hawks to the sea, and sent flashes of lightning before them and after them, that scorched them greatly. "it is a pity the way we are now," said the sons of tuireann, "for we will be burned through and through with this lightning if we do not get some relief." "if i can give you relief i will do it," said brian. with that he struck himself and his brothers with the druid rod, and they were turned into three swans, and they went down quickly into the sea, and the ospreys went away from them then, and the sons of tuireann went into their boat. after that they consulted together, and it is what they agreed, to go to greece and to bring away the skin of the pig, with or without leave. so they went forward till they came near to the court of the king of greece. "what appearance should we put on us going in here?" said brian. "what appearance should we go in with but our own?" said the others. "that is not what i think best," said brian; "but to go in with the appearance of poets from ireland, the way the high people of greece will hold us in respect and in honour." "it would be hard for us to do that," they said, "and we without a poem, and it is little we know how to make one." however, they put the poet's tie on their hair, and they knocked at the door of the court, and the door-keeper asked who was in it. "we are poets of ireland," said brian, "and we are come with a poem to the king." the door-keeper went in and told the king that there were poets from ireland at the door. "let them in," said the king, "for it is in search of a good man they came so far from their own country." and the king gave orders that everything should be well set out in the court, the way they would say they had seen no place so grand in all their travels. the sons of tuireann were let in then, having the appearance of poets, and they fell to drinking and pleasure without delay; and they thought they had never seen, and there was not in the world, a court so good as that or so large a household, or a place where they had met with better treatment. then the king's poets got up to give out their poems and songs. and then brian, son of tuireann, bade his brothers to say a poem for the king. "we have no poem," said they; "and do not ask any poem of us, but the one we know before, and that is to take what we want by the strength of our hand if we are the strongest, or to fall by those that are against us if they are the strongest." "that is not a good way to make a poem," said brian. and with that he rose up himself and asked a hearing. and they all listened to him, and it is what he said: "o tuis, we do not hide your fame; we praise you as the oak among kings; the skin of a pig, bounty without hardness, this is the reward i ask for it. "the war of a neighbour against an ear; the fair ear of his neighbour will be against him; he who gives us what he owns, his court will not be the scarcer for it. "a raging army and a sudden sea are a danger to whoever goes against them. the skin of a pig, bounty without hardness, this is the reward i ask, o tuis." "that is a good poem," said the king; "but i do not know a word of its meaning." "i will tell you its meaning," said brian. "'o tuis, we do not hide your fame; we praise you as the oak above the kings.' that is, as the oak is beyond the kingly trees of the wood, so are you beyond the kings of the world for open-handedness and for grandeur. "'the skin of a pig, bounty without hardness.' that is, the skin of a pig you own is what i would wish to get from you as a reward for my poem. "'the war of a neighbour against an ear, the fair ear of his neighbour will be against him.' that is, you and i will be by the ears about the skin, unless i get it with your consent. "and that is the meaning of the poem," said brian. "i would praise your poem," said the king, "if there was not so much about my pig-skin in it; and you have no good sense, man of poetry," he said, "to be asking that thing of me, and i would not give it to all the poets and the learned men and the great men of the world, since they could not take it away without my consent. but i will give you three times the full of the skin of gold as the price of your poem," he said. "may good be with you, king," said brian, "and i know well it was no easy thing i was asking, but i knew i would get a good ransom for it. and i am that covetous," he said, "i will not be satisfied without seeing the gold measured myself into the skin." the king sent his servants with them then to the treasure-house to measure the gold. "measure out the full of it to my brothers first," said brian, "and then give good measure to myself, since it was i made the poem." but when the skin was brought out, brian made a quick sudden snatch at it with his left hand, and drew his sword and made a stroke at the man nearest him, and made two halves of him. and then he kept a hold of the skin and put it about himself, and the three of them rushed out of the court, cutting down every armed man before them, so that not one escaped death or wounding. and then brian went to where the king himself was, and the king made no delay in attacking him, and they made a hard fight of it, and at the end the king of greece fell by the hand of brian, son of tuireann. the three brothers rested for a while after that, and then they said they would go and look for some other part of the fine. "we will go to pisear, king of persia," said brian, "and ask him for the spear." so they went into their boat, and they left the blue streams of the coast of greece, and they said: "we are well off when we have the apples and the skin." and they stopped nowhere till they came to the borders of persia. "let us go to the court with the appearance of poets," said brian, "the same as we went to the king of greece." "we are content to do that," said the others, "as all turned out so well the last time we took to poetry; not that it is easy for us to take to a calling that does not belong to us." so they put the poet's tie on their hair, and they were as well treated as they were at the other court; and when the time came for poems brian rose up, and it is what he said: "it is little any spear looks to pisear; the battles of enemies are broken, it is not too much for pisear to wound every one of them. "a yew, the most beautiful of the wood, it is called a king, it is not bulky. may the spear drive on the whole crowd to their wounds of death." "that is a good poem," said the king, "but i do not understand why my own spear is brought into it, o man of poetry from ireland." "it is because it is that spear of your own i would wish to get as the reward of my poem," said brian. "it is little sense you have to be asking that of me," said the king; "and the people of my court never showed greater respect for poetry than now, when they did not put you to death on the spot." when brian heard that talk from the king, he thought of the apple that was in his hand, and he made a straight cast and hit him in the forehead, so that his brains were put out at the back of his head, and he bared the sword and made an attack on the people about him. and the other two did not fail to do the same, and they gave him their help bravely till they had made an end of all they met of the people of the court. and then they found the spear, and its head in a cauldron of water, the way it would not set fire to the place. and after a while they said it was time for them to go and look for the rest of the great fine that was on them, and they asked one another what way should they go. "we will go to the king of the island of siogair," said brian, "for it is with him are the two horses and the chariot the ildánach asked of us." they went forward then and brought the spear with them, and it is proud the three champions were after all they had done. and they went on till they were come to the court of the king of siogair. "it is what we will do this time," said brian, "we will go in with the appearance of paid soldiers from ireland, and we will make friends with the king, the way we will get to know in what place the horses and the chariot are kept." and when they had settled on that they went forward to the lawn before the king's house. the king and the chief men that were with him rose up and came through the fair that was going on there, and they saluted the king, and he asked who were they. "we are trained fighting men from ireland," they said, "and we are earning wages from the kings of the world." "is it your wish to stop with me for a while?" said the king. "that is what we are wanting," said they. so then they made an agreement and took service with him. they stopped in the court a fortnight and a month, and they never saw the horses through that time. then brian said: "this is a bad way we are in, to have no more news of the horses now than the first day we came to the place." "what is best for us to do now?" said his brothers. "let us do this," said brian, "let us take our arms and gather our things together, and go to the king and tell him we will leave the country and this part of the world unless he will show us those horses." so they went to the king that very day, and he asked them what did they mean by getting themselves ready for a journey. "you will hear that, high king," said brian; "it is because trained fighting men from ireland, like ourselves, have always trust put in them by the kings they guard, and we are used to be told the secrets and the whispers of any person we are with, and that is not the way you have treated us since we came to you. for you have two horses and a chariot that are the best in the world, as we have been told, and we have not been given a sight of them yet." "it would be a pity you to go on that account," said the king, "when i would have showed them to you the first day, if i had known you had a wish to see them. and if you have a mind to see them now," he said, "you may see them; for i think there never came soldiers from ireland to this place that were thought more of by myself and by my people than yourselves." he sent for the horses then, and they were yoked to the chariot, and their going was as fast as the cold spring wind, and the sea was the same as the land to them. and brian was watching the horses closely, and on a sudden he took hold of the chariot and took the chariot driver out and dashed him against the nearest rock, and made a leap into his place himself, and made a cast of the persian spear at the king, that went through his heart. and then he and his brothers scattered the people before them, and brought away the chariot. "we will go now to easal, the king of the golden pillars," said brian, "to look for the seven pigs the ildánach bade us bring him." they sailed on then without delay or drawback to that high country. and it is the way the people of that country were, watching their harbours for fear of the sons of tuireann, for the story of them had been told in all parts, how they had been sent out of ireland by force, and how they were bringing away with them all the gifted treasures of the whole world. easal came to the edge of the harbour to meet them, and he asked was it true what he heard, that the king of every country they had gone to had fallen by them. brian said it was true, whatever he might wish to do to them for it. "what was it made you do that?" said easal. brian told him then it was the oppression and the hard sentence of another had put them to it; and he told him all that had happened, and how they had put down all that offered to stand against them until that time. "what did you come to this country now for?" said the king. "for the pigs belonging to yourself," said brian; "for to bring them away with us is a part of the fine." "what way do you think to get them?" said the king. "if we get them with good-will," said brian, "we are ready to take them thankfully; and if we do not, we are ready to do battle with yourself and your people on the head of them, that you may fall by us, and we may bring away the pigs in spite of you." "if that is to be the end of it," said the king, "it would be a pity to bring my people into a battle." "it would be a pity indeed," said brian. then the king whispered and took advice with his people about the matter, and it is what they agreed, to give up the pigs of their own free will to the sons of tuireann, since they could not see that any one had been able to stand against them up to that time. then the sons of tuireann gave their thanks to easal, and there was wonder on them to have got the pigs like that, when they had to fight for every other part of the fine. and more than that, they had left a share of their blood in every other place till then. easal brought them to his own house that night, and they were served with food, and drink, and good beds, and all they could wish for. and they rose up on the morrow and came into the king's presence, and the pigs were given to them. "it is well you have done by us, giving us these pigs," said brian, "for we did not get any share of the fine without fighting but these alone." and he made a poem for the king then, praising him, and putting a great name on him for what he had done. "what journey are you going to make now, sons of tuireann?" said easal. "we are going," they said, "to the country of ioruaidh, on account of a whelp that is there." "give me one request," said easal, "and that is to bring me with you to the king of ioruaidh, for a daughter of mine is his wife, and i would wish to persuade him to give you the whelp without a battle." "that will please us well," they said. so the king's ship was made ready, and we have no knowledge of what happened till they came to the delightful, wonderful coast of ioruaidh. the people and the armies were watching the harbours and landing-places before them, and they knew them at once and shouted at them. then easal went on shore peaceably, and he went to where his son-in-law, the king, was, and told him the story of the sons of tuireann from beginning to end. "what has brought them to this country?" said the king of ioruaidh. "to ask for the hound you have," said easal. "it was a bad thought you had coming with them to ask it," said the king, "for the gods have not given that much luck to any three champions in the world, that they would get my hound by force or by good-will." "it would be better for you to let them have the hound," said easal, "since they have put down so many of the kings of the world." but all he could say was only idleness to the king. so he went then to where the sons of tuireann were, and gave them the whole account. and when they heard the king's answer, they made no delay, but put quick hands on their arms, and offered to give battle to the army of ioruaidh. and when they met, there was a brave battle fought on both sides. and as for the sons of tuireann, they began to kill and to strike at the men of ioruaidh till they parted from one another in the fight, so that iuchar and iucharba chanced to be on one side, and brian by himself on the other side. it was a gap of danger and a breaking of ranks was before brian in every path he took, till he came to the king of ioruaidh in the battle pen where he was. and then the two brave champions began a fierce fight together, and they did not spare one another in it. and at the last brian overcame the king, and bound him, and brought him through the middle of the army, till he came to the place where easal was, and it is what he said: "there is your son-in-law for you, and i swear by my hand of valour, i would think it easier to kill him three times than to bring him to you once like this." so then the whelp was given to the sons of tuireann, and the king was unbound, and peace was made between them. and when they had brought all this to an end, they bade farewell to easal and to all the rest. now as to lugh of the long hand, it was showed to him that the sons of tuireann had got all the things that were wanting to him against the battle with the fomor; and on that he sent a druid spell after them to put forgetfulness on them of the rest of the fine that they had not got. and he put a great desire and longing on them to go back to ireland; so they forgot that a part of the fine was wanting to them, and they turned back again toward home. and it is the place where lugh was at the time, at a gathering of the people for a fair on the green outside teamhair, and the king of ireland along with him. and it was made known to lugh that the sons of tuireann were landed at brugh na boinn. and he went into the city of teamhair, and shut the gate after him, and he put on manannan's smooth armour, and the cloak, of the daughters of flidais, and he took his own arms in his hand. and the sons of tuireann came where the king was, and they were made welcome by him and by the tuatha de danaan. and the king asked them did they get the fine. "we did get it," said they; "and where is lugh till we give it to him?" "he was here a while ago," said the king. and the whole fair was searched for him, but he was not found. "i know the place where he is," said brian; "for it has been made known to him that we are come to ireland, and these deadly arms with us, and he is gone into teamhair to avoid us." messengers were sent to him then, and it is the answer he gave them that he would not come, but that the fine should be given to the king. so the sons of tuireann did that, and when the king had taken the fine they all went to the palace in teamhair; and lugh came out on the lawn and the fine was given to him, and it is what he said: "there is a good payment here for any one that ever was killed or that ever will be killed. but there is something wanting to it yet that it is not lawful to leave out. and where is the cooking-spit?" he said; "and where are the three shouts on the hill that you did not give yet?" and when the sons of tuireann heard that there came clouds of weakness on them. and they left the place and went to their father's house that night, and they told him all they had done, and the way lugh had treated them. there was grief and darkness on tuireann then, and they spent the night together. and on the morrow they went to their ship, and ethne, their sister, with them, and she was crying and lamenting, and it is what she said: "it is a pity, brian of my life, it is not to teamhair your going is, after all the troubles you have had before this, even if i could not follow you. "o salmon of the dumb boinn, o salmon of the lifé river, since i cannot keep you here i am loath to part from you. "o rider of the wave of tuaidh, the man that stands best in the fight, if you come back again, i think it will not be pleasing to your enemy. "is there pity with you for the sons of tuireann leaning now on their green shields? their going is a cause for pity, my mind is filled up with it. "you to be to-night at beinn edair till the heavy coming of the morning, you who have taken forfeits from brave men, it is you have increased our grief. "it is a pity your journey is from teamhair, and from the pleasant plains, and from great uisnech of midhe; there is nothing so pitiful as this." after that complaint they went out on the rough waves of the green sea; and they were a quarter of a year on the sea without getting any news of the island. then brian put on his water dress and he made a leap, and he was a long time walking in the sea looking for the island of the fair-haired women, and he found it in the end. and he went looking for the court, and when he came to it, all he found was a troop of women doing needlework and embroidering borders. and among all the other things they had with them, there was the cooking-spit. and when brian saw it, he took it up in his hand and he was going to bring it with him to the door. and all the women began laughing when they saw him doing that, and it is what they said: "it is a brave deed you put your hand to; for even if your brothers were along with you, the least of the three times fifty women of us would not let the spit go with you or with them. but for all that," they said, "take a spit of the spits with you, since you had the daring to try and take it in spite of us." brian bade them farewell then, and went to look for the boat. and his brothers thought it was too long he was away from them, and just as they were going to leave the place they were, they saw him coming towards them, and that raised their courage greatly. and he went into the boat, and they went on to look for the hill of miochaoin. and when they came there, miochaoin, that was the guardian of the hill, came towards them; and when brian saw him he attacked him, and the fight of those two champions was like the fight of two lions, till miochaoin fell at the last. and after miochaoin had fallen, his three sons came out to fight with the three sons of tuireann. and if any one ever came from the east of the world to look at any fight, it is to see the fight of these champions he had a right to come, for the greatness of their blows and the courage of their minds. the names of the sons of miochaoin were core and conn and aedh, and they drove their three spears through the bodies of the sons of tuireann, and that did not discourage them at all and they put their own three spears through the bodies of the sons of miochaoin, so that they fell into the clouds and the faintness of death. and then brian said: "what way are you now, my dear brothers?" "we are near our death," said they. "let us rise up," he said, "and give three shouts upon the hill, for i see the signs of death coming on us." "we are not able to do that," said they. then brian rose up and raised each of them with one hand, and he shedding blood heavily all the time, until they gave the three shouts. after that brian brought them with him to the boat, and they were travelling the sea for a long time, but at last brian said: "i see beinn edair and our father's dun, and teamhair of the kings." "we would have our fill of health if we could see that," said the others; "and for the love of your good name, brother," they said, "raise up our heads on your breast till we see ireland again, and life or death will be the same to us after that. and o brian," they said, "flame of valour without treachery, we would sooner death to bring ourselves away, than to see you with wounds upon your body, and with no physician to heal you." then they came to beinn edair, and from that they went on to their father's house, and brian said to tuireann: "go, dear father, to teamhair, and give this spit to lugh, and bring the skin that has healing in it for our relief. ask it from him for the sake of friendship," he said, "for we are of the one blood, and let him not give hardness for hardness. and o dear father," he said, "do not be long on your journey, or you will not find us alive before you." then tuireann went to teamhair, and he found lugh of the long hand before him, and he gave him the spit, and he asked the skin of him to heal his children, and lugh said he would not give it and tuireann came back to them and told them he had not got the skin. and brian said: "bring me with you to lugh, to see would i get it from him." so they went to lugh, and brian asked the skin of him. and lugh said he would not give it, and that if they would give him the breadth of the earth in gold for it, he would not take it from them, unless he was sure their death would come on them in satisfaction for the deed they had done. when brian heard that, he went to the place his two brothers were, and he lay down between them, and his life went out from him, and out from the other two at the same time. and their father cried and lamented over his three beautiful sons, that had the making of a king of ireland in each of them, and his strength left him and he died; and they were buried in the one grave. chapter iii. the great battle of magh tuireadh and it was not long after lugh had got the fine from the sons of tuireann that the fomor came and landed at scetne. the whole host of the fomor were come this time, and their king, balor, of the strong blows and of the evil eye, along with them; and bres, and indech, son of de domnann, a king of the fomor, and elathan, son of lobos, and goll and ingol, and octriallach, son of indech, and elathan, son of delbaeth. then lugh sent the dagda to spy out the fomor, and to delay them till such time as the men of ireland would come to the battle. so the dagda went to their camp, and he asked them for a delay, and they said he might have that. and then to make sport of him, the fomor made broth for him, for he had a great love for broth. so they filled the king's cauldron with four times twenty gallons of new milk, and the same of meal and fat, and they put in goats and sheep and pigs along with that, and boiled all together, and then they poured it all out into a great hole in the ground. and they called him to it then, and told him he should eat his fill, the way the fomor would not be reproached for want of hospitality the way bres was. "we will make an end of you if you leave any part of it after you," said indech, son of de domnann. so the dagda took the ladle, and it big enough for a man and a woman to lie in the bowl of it, and he took out bits with it, the half of a salted pig, and a quarter of lard a bit would be. "if the broth tastes as well as the bits taste, this is good food," he said. and he went on putting the full of the ladle into his mouth till the hole was empty; and when all was gone he put down his hand and scraped up all that was left among the earth and the gravel. sleep came on him then after eating the broth, and the fomor were laughing at him, for his belly was the size of the cauldron of a great house. but he rose up after a while, and, heavy as he was, he made his way home; and indeed his dress was no way sightly, a cape to the hollow of the elbows, and a brown coat, long in the breast and short behind, and on his feet brogues of horse hide, with the hair outside, and in his hand a wheeled fork it would take eight men to carry, so that the track he left after him was deep enough for the boundary ditch of a province. and on his way he saw the battle-crow, the morrigu, washing herself in the river unius of connacht, and one of her two feet at ullad echne, to the south of the water, and the other at loscuinn, to the north of the water, and her hair hanging in nine loosened locks. and she said to the dagda, that she would bring the heart's blood of indech, son of de domnann, that had threatened him, to the men of ireland. and while he was away lugh had called together the druids, and smiths, and physicians, and law-makers, and chariot-drivers of ireland, to make plans for the battle. and he asked the great magician mathgen what could he do to help them. "it is what i can do," said mathgen, "through my power i can throw down all the mountains of ireland on the fomor, until their tops will be rolling on the ground. and the twelve chief mountains of ireland will bring you their help," he said, "and will fight for you: slieve leag and denda ulad, and bennai boirche and bri ruri, and slieve bladma and slieve snechtae, and slieve mis and blai-slieve, and nemthann and slieve macca belgodon, and segois and cruachan aigle." then he asked the cup-bearers what help they could give. "we will put a strong thirst on the fomor," they said, "and then we will bring the twelve chief lochs of ireland before them, and however great their thirst may be, they will find no water in them: derc-loch, loch luimnech, loch orbsen, loch righ, loch mescdhae, loch cuan, loch laeig, loch echach, loch febail, loch decket, loch riach, mor-loch. and we will go," they said, "to the twelve chief rivers of ireland: the buas, the boinn, the banna, the nem, the laoi, the sionnan, the muaid, the sligech, the samair, the fionn, the ruirtech, the siuir; and they will all be hidden away from the fomor the way they will not find a drop in them. but as for the men of ireland," they said, "there will be drink for them if they were to be in the battle to the end of seven years." and figol, son of mamos, the druid, was asked then what he would do, and he said: "it is what i will do, i will cause three showers of fire to pour on the faces of the army of the fomor, and i will take from them two-thirds of their bravery and their strength, and i will put sickness on their bodies, and on the bodies of their horses. but as to the men of ireland," he said, "every breath they breathe will be an increase of strength and of bravery to them; and if they are seven years in the battle they will never be any way tired." then lugh asked his two witches, bechulle and dianan: "what power can you bring to the battle?" "it is easy to say that," they said. "we will put enchantment on the trees and the stones and the sods of the earth, till they become an armed host against the fomor, and put terror on them and put them to the rout." then lugh asked carpre, the poet, son of etain, what could he do. "it is not hard to say that," said carpre. "i will make a satire on them at sunrise, and the wind from the north, and i on a hill-top and my back to a thorn-tree, and a stone and a thorn in my hand. and with that satire," he said, "i will put shame on them and enchantment, the way they will not be able to stand against fighting men." then he asked goibniu the smith what would he be able to do. "i will do this," he said. "if the men of ireland stop in the battle to the end of seven years, for every sword that is broken and for every spear that is lost from its shaft, i will put a new one in its place. and no spear-point that will be made by my hand," he said, "will ever miss its mark; and no man it touches will ever taste life again. and that is more than dolb, the smith of the fomor, can do," he said. "and you, credne," lugh said then to his worker in brass, "what help can you give to our men in the battle?" "it is not hard to tell that," said credne, "rivets for their spears and hilts for their swords and bosses and rims for their shields, i will supply them all." "and you, luchta," he said then to his carpenter, "what will you do?" "i will give them all they want of shields and of spear shafts," said luchta. then he asked diancecht, the physician, what would he do, and it is what he said: "every man that will be wounded there, unless his head is struck off, or his brain or his marrow cut through, i will make him whole and sound again for the battle of the morrow." then the dagda said: "those great things you are boasting you will do, i will do them all with only myself." "it is you are the good god!" said they, and they all gave a great shout of laughter. then lugh spoke to the whole army and put strength in them, so that each one had the spirit in him of a king or a great lord. then when the delay was at an end, the fomor and the men of ireland came on towards one another till they came to the plain of magh tuireadh. that now was not the same magh tuireadh where the first battle was fought, but it was to the north, near ess dara. and then the two armies threatened one another. "the men of ireland are daring enough to offer battle to us," said bres to indech, son of de domnann. "i give my word," said indech, "it is in small pieces their bones will be, if they do not give in to us and pay their tribute." now the men of dea had determined not to let lugh go into the battle, because of the loss his death would be to them; and they left nine of their men keeping a watch on him. and on the first day none of the kings or princes went into the battle, but only the common fighting men, and they fierce and proud enough. and the battle went on like that from day to day with no great advantage to one or the other side. but there was wonder on the fomor on account of one thing. such of their own weapons as were broken or blunted in the fight lay there as they were, and such of their own men as were killed showed no sign of life on the morrow; but it was not so with the tuatha de danaan, for if their men were killed or their weapons were broken to-day, they were as good as before on the morrow. and this is the way that happened. the well of slaine lay to the west of magh tuireadh to the east of loch arboch. and diancecht and his son octruil and his daughter airmed used to be singing spells over the well and to be putting herbs in it; and the men that were wounded to death in the battle would be brought to the well and put into it as dead men, and they would come out of it whole and sound, through the power of the spells. and not only were they healed, but there was such fire put into them that they would be quicker in the fight than they were before. and as to the arms, it is the way they were made new every day. goibniu the smith used to be in the forge making swords and spears, and he would make a spear-head by three turns, and then luchta the carpenter would make the shaft by three cuts, and the third cut was a finish, and would set it in the ring of the spear. and when the spear-heads were stuck in the side of the forge, he would throw the shaft and the rings the way they would go into the spear-head and want no more setting. and then credne the brazier would make the rivets by three turns and would cast the rings of the spears to them, and with that they were ready and were set together. and all this went against the fomor, and they sent one of their young men to spy about the camp and to see could he find out how these things were done. it was ruadan, son of bres and of brigit daughter of the dagda they sent, for he was a son and grandson of the tuatha de danaan. so he went and saw all that was done, and came back to the fomor. and when they heard his story it is what they thought, that goibniu the smith was the man that hindered them most. and they sent ruadan back again, and bade him make an end of him. so he went back again to the forge, and he asked goibniu would he give him a spear-head. and then he asked rivets of credne, and a shaft of the carpenter, and all was given to him as he asked. and there was a woman there, cron, mother to fianlug, grinding the spears. and after the spear being given to ruadan, he turned and threw it at goibniu, that it wounded him. but goibniu pulled it out and made a cast of it at ruadan, that it went through him and he died; and bres, his father, and the army of the fomor, saw him die. and then brigit came and keened her son with shrieking and with crying. and as to goibniu, he went into the well and was healed. but after that octriallach, son of indech, called to the fomor and bade each man of them bring a stone of the stones of drinnes and throw them into the well of slane. and they did that till the well was dried up, and a cairn raised over it, that is called octriallach's cairn. and it was while goibniu was making spear-heads for the battle of magh tuireadh, a charge was brought against his wife. and it was seen that it was heavy news to him, and that jealousy came on him. and it is what he did, there was a spear-shaft in his hand when he heard the story, nes its name was; and he sang spells over the spear-shaft, and any one that was struck with that spear afterwards, it would burn him up like fire. and at last the day of the great battle came, and the fomor came out of their camp and stood in strong ranks. and there was not a leader or a fighting man of them was without good armour to his skin, and a helmet on his head, a broad spear in his right hand, a heavy sword in his belt, a strong shield on his shoulder. and to attack the army of the fomor that day was to strike the head against a rock, or to go up fighting against a fire. and the men of dea rose up and left lugh and his nine comrades keeping him, and they went on to the battle; and midhir was with them, and bodb dearg and diancecht. and badb and macha and the morrigu called out that they would go along with them. and it was a hard battle was fought, and for a while it was going against the tuatha de danaan; and nuada of the silver hand, their king, and macha, daughter of emmass, fell by balor, king of the fomor. and cass-mail fell by octriallach, and the dagda got a dreadful wound from a casting spear that was thrown by ceithlenn, wife of balor. but when the battle was going on, lugh broke away from those that were keeping him, and rushed out to the front of the men of dea. and then there was a fierce battle fought, and lugh was heartening the men of ireland to fight well, the way they would not be in bonds any longer. for it was better for them, he said, to die protecting their own country than to live under bonds and under tribute any longer. and he sang a song of courage to them, and the hosts gave a great shout as they went into battle, and then they met together, and each of them began to attack the other. and there was great slaughter, and laying low in graves, and many comely men fell there in the stall of death. pride and shame were there side by side, and hardness and red anger, and there was red blood on the white skin of young fighting men. and the dashing of spear against shield, and sword against sword, and the shouting of the fighters, and the whistling of casting spears and the rattling of scabbards was like harsh thunder through the battle. and many slipped in the blood that was under their feet, and they fell, striking their heads one against another; and the river carried away bodies of friends and enemies together. then lugh and balor met in the battle, and lugh called out reproaches to him; and there was anger on balor, and he said to the men that were with him: "lift up my eyelid till i see this chatterer that is talking to me." then they raised balor's eyelid, but lugh made a cast of his red spear at him, that brought the eye out through the back of his head, so that it was towards his own army it fell, and three times nine of the fomor died when they looked at it. and if lugh had not put out that eye when he did, the whole of ireland would have been burned in one flash. and after this, lugh struck his head off. and as for indech, son of de domnann, he fell and was crushed in the battle, and blood burst from his mouth, and he called out for leat glas, his poet, as he lay there, but he was not able to help him. and then the morrigu came into the battle, and she was heartening the tuatha de danaan to fight the battle well; and, as she had promised the dagda, she took the full of her two hands of indech's blood, and gave it to the armies that were waiting at the ford of unius; and it was called the ford of destruction from that day. and after that it was not a battle any more, but a rout, and the fomor were beaten back to the sea. and lugh and his comrades were following them, and they came up with bres, son of elathan, and no guard with him, and he said: "it is better for you to spare my life than to kill me. and if you spare me now," he said, "the cows of ireland will never go dry." "i will ask an advice about that from our wise men," said lugh. so he told maeltine mor-brethach, of the great judgments, what bres was after saying. but maeltine said: "do not spare him for that, for he has no power over their offspring, though he has power so long as they are living." then bres said: "if you spare me, the men of ireland will reap a harvest of corn every quarter." but maeltine said: "the spring is for ploughing and sowing, and the beginning of summer for the strength of corn, and the beginning of autumn for its ripeness, and the winter for using it." "that does not save you," said lugh then to bres. but then to make an excuse for sparing him, lugh said: "tell us what is the best way for the men of ireland to plough and to sow and to reap." "let their ploughing be on a tuesday, and their casting seed into the field on a tuesday, and their reaping on a tuesday," said bres. so lugh said that would do, and he let him go free after that. it was in this battle ogma found orna, the sword of tethra, a king of the fomor, and he took it from its sheath and cleaned it. and when the sword was taken out of the sheath, it told all the deeds that had been done by it, for there used to be that power in swords. and lugh and the dagda and ogma followed after the fomor, for they had brought away the dagda's harp with them, that was called uaitne. and they came to a feasting-house, and in it they found bres and his father elathan, and there was the harp hanging on the wall. and it was in that harp the dagda had bound the music, so that it would not sound till he would call to it. and sometimes it was called dur-da-bla, the oak of two blossoms, and sometimes coir-cethar-chuin, the four-angled music. and when he saw it hanging on the wall it is what he said: "come summer, come winter, from the mouth of harps and bags and pipes." then the harp sprang from the wall, and came to the dagda, and it killed nine men on its way. and then he played for them the three things harpers understand, the sleepy tune, and the laughing tune, and the crying tune. and when he played the crying tune, their tearful women cried, and then he played the laughing tune, till their women and children laughed; and then he played the sleepy tune, and all the hosts fell asleep. and through that sleep the three went away through the fomor that would have been glad to harm them. and when all was over, the dagda brought out the heifer he had got as wages from bres at the time he was making his dun. and she called to her calf, and at the sound of her call all the cattle of ireland the fomor had brought away as tribute, were back in their fields again. and cé, the druid of nuada of the silver hand, was wounded in the battle, and he went southward till he came to carn corrslebe. and there he sat down to rest, tired with his wounds and with the fear that was on him, and the journey. and he saw a smooth plain before him, and it full of flowers, and a great desire came on him to reach to that plain, and he went on till he came to it, and there he died. and when his grave was made there, a lake burst out over it and over the whole plain, and it was given the name of loch cé. and there were but four men of the fomor left in ireland after the battle, and they used to be going through the country, spoiling corn and milk and fruit, and whatever came from the sea, till they were driven out one samhain night by the morrigu and by angus og, that the fomor might never be over ireland again. and after the battle was won, and the bodies were cleared away, the morrigu gave out the news of the great victory to the hosts and to the royal heights of ireland and to its chief rivers and its invers, and it is what she said: "peace up to the skies, the skies down to earth, the earth under the skies; strength to every one." and as to the number of men that fell in the battle, it will not be known till we number the stars of the sky, or flakes of snow, or the dew on the grass, or grass under the feet of cattle, or the horses of the son of lir in a stormy sea. and lugh was made king over the men of dea then, and it was at nas he had his court. and while he was king, his foster-mother taillte, daughter of magh mor, the great plain, died. and before her death she bade her husband duach the dark, he that built the fort of the hostages in teamhair, to clear away the wood of cuan, the way there could be a gathering of the people around her grave. so he called to the men of ireland to cut down the wood with their wide-bladed knives and bill-hooks and hatchets, and within a month the whole wood was cut down. and lugh buried her in the plain of midhe, and raised a mound over her, that is to be seen to this day. and he ordered fires to be kindled, and keening to be made, and games and sports to be held in the summer of every year out of respect to her. and the place they were held got its name from her, that is taillten. and as to lugh's own mother, that was tall beautiful ethlinn, she came to teamhair after the battle of magh tuireadh, and he gave her in marriage to tadg, son of nuada. and the children that were born to them were muirne, mother of finn, the head of the fianna of ireland, and tuiren, that was mother of bran. chapter iv. the hidden house of lugh and after lugh had held the kingship for a long time, the dagda was made king in his place. and lugh went away out of ireland, and some said he died at uisnech, the place where the five provinces meet, and the first place there was ever a fire kindled in ireland. it was by mide, son of brath, it was kindled, for the sons of nemed, and it was burning through six years, and it was from that fire every chief fire was kindled in ireland. but lugh was seen again in ireland at the time conchubar and the men of the red branch went following white birds southward to the boinn at the time of cuchulain's birth. and it was he came and kept watch over cuchulain in his three days' sleep at the time of the war for the bull of cuailgne. and after that again he was seen by conn of the hundred battles, and this is the way that happened. conn was in teamhair one time, and he went up in the early morning to the rath of the kings at the rising of the sun, and his three druids with him, maol and bloc and bhuice; and his three poets, ethain and corb and cesarn. and the reason he had for going up there with them every day, was to look about on every side, the way if any men of the sidhe would come into ireland they would not come unknown to him. and on this day he chanced to stand upon a stone that was in the rath, and the stone screamed under his feet, that it was heard all over teamhair and as far as bregia. then conn asked his chief druid how the stone came there, and what it screamed for. and the druid said he would not answer that till the end of fifty-three days. and at the end of that time, conn asked him again, and it is what the druid said: "the lia fail is the name of the stone; it is out of falias it was brought, and it is in teamhair it was set up, and in teamhair it will stay for ever. and as long as there is a king in teamhair it is here will be the gathering place for games, and if there is no king to come to the last day of the gathering, there will be hardness in that year. and when the stone screamed under your feet," he said, "the number of the screams it gave was a foretelling of the number of kings of your race that would come after you. but it is not i myself will name them for you," he said. and while they were in the same place, there came a great mist about them and a darkness, so that they could not know what way they were going, and they heard the noise of a rider coming towards them. "it would be a great grief to us," said conn, "to be brought away into a strange country." then the rider threw three spears at them, and every one came faster than the other. "it is the wounding of a king indeed," said the druids, "any one to cast at conn of teamhair." the rider stopped casting his spears on that, and he came to them and bade conn welcome, and asked him to come to his house. they went on then till they came to a beautiful plain, and there they saw a king's rath, and a golden tree at its door, and inside the rath a grand house with a roof of white bronze. so they went into the house, and the rider that had come to meet them was there before them, in his royal seat, and there had never been seen a man like him in teamhair for comeliness or for beauty, or the wonder of his face. and there was a young woman in the house, having a band of gold on her head, and a silver vessel with hoops of gold beside her, and it full of red ale, and a golden bowl on its edge, and a golden cup at its mouth. she said then to the master of the house: "who am i to serve drink to?" "serve it to conn of the hundred battles," he said, "for he will gain a hundred battles before he dies." and after that he bade her to pour out the ale for art of the three shouts, the son of conn; and after that he went through the names of all the kings of ireland that would come after conn, and he told what would be the length of their lifetime. and the young woman left the vessel with conn, and the cup and the bowl, and she gave him along with that the rib of an ox and of a hog; twenty-four feet was the length of the ox-rib. and the master of the house told them the young woman was the kingship of ireland for ever. "and as for myself," he said, "i am lugh of the long hand, son of ethlinn." book three: the coming of the gael. chapter i. the landing it is not known, now, for what length of time the tuatha de danaan had the sway over ireland, and it is likely it was a long time they had it, but they were put from it at last. it was at inver slane, to the north of leinster, the sons of gaedhal of the shining armour, the very gentle, that were called afterwards the sons of the gael, made their first attempt to land in ireland to avenge ith, one of their race that had come there one time and had met with his death. it is under the leadership of the sons of miled they were, and it was from the south they came, and their druids had told them there was no country for them to settle in till they would come to that island in the west. "and if you do not get possession of it yourselves," they said, "your children will get possession of it." but when the tuatha de danaan saw the ships coming, they flocked to the shore, and by their enchantments they cast such a cloud over the whole island that the sons of miled were confused, and all they could see was some large thing that had the appearance of a pig. and when they were hindered from landing there by enchantments, they went sailing along the coast till at last they were able to make a landing at inver sceine in the west of munster. from that they marched in good order as far as slieve mis. and there they were met by a queen of the tuatha de danaan, and a train of beautiful women attending on her, and her druids and wise men following her. amergin, one of the sons of miled, spoke to her then, and asked her name, and she said it was banba, wife of mac cuill, son of the hazel. they went on then till they came to slieve eibhline, and there another queen of the tuatha de danaan met them, and her women and her druids after her, and they asked her name, and she said it was fodhla, wife of mac cecht, son of the plough. they went on then till they came to the hill of uisnech, and there they saw another woman coming towards them. and there was wonder on them while they were looking at her, for in the one moment she would be a wide-eyed most beautiful queen, and in another she would be a sharp-beaked, grey-white crow. she came on to where eremon, one of the sons of miled, was, and sat down before him, and he asked her who was she, and she said: "i am eriu, wife of mac greine, son of the sun." and the names of those three queens were often given to ireland in the after time. the sons of the gael went on after that to teamhair, where the three sons of cermait honey-mouth, son of the dagda, that had the kingship between them at that time held their court. and these three were quarrelling with one another about the division of the treasures their father had left, and the quarrel was so hot it seemed likely it would come to a battle in the end. and the sons of the gael wondered to see them quarrelling about such things, and they having so fruitful an island, where the air was so wholesome, and the sun not too strong, or the cold too bitter, and where there was such a plenty of honey and acorns, and of milk, and of fish, and of corn, and room enough for them all. great grandeur they were living in, and their druids about them, at the palace of teamhair. and amergin went to them, and it is what he said, that they must give up the kingship there and then, or they must leave it to the chance of a battle. and he said he asked this in revenge for the death of ith, of the race of the gael, that had come to their court before that time, and that had been killed by treachery. when the sons of cermait honey-mouth heard amergin saying such fierce words, there was wonder on them, and it is what they said, that they were not willing to fight at that time, for their army was not ready. "but let you make an offer to us," they said, "for we see well you have good judgment and knowledge. but if you make an offer that is not fair," they said, "we will destroy you with our enchantments." at that amergin bade the men that were with him to go back to inver sceine, and to hurry again into their ships with the rest of the sons of the gael, and to go out the length of nine waves from the shore. and then he made his offer to the tuatha de danaan, that if they could hinder his men from landing on their island, he and all his ships would go back again to their own country, and would never make any attempt to come again; but that if the sons of the gael could land on the coast in spite of them, then the tuatha de danaan should give up the kingship and be under their sway. the tuatha de danaan were well pleased with that offer, for they thought that by the powers of their enchantments over the winds and the sea, and by their arts, they would be well able to keep them from ever setting foot in the country again. so the sons of the gael did as amergin bade them and they went back into their ship and drew up their anchors, and moved out to the length of nine waves from the shore. and as soon as the men of dea saw they had left the land, they took to their enchantments and spells, and they raised a great wind that scattered the ships of the gael, and drove them from one another. but amergin knew it was not a natural storm was in it, and arranan, son of miled, knew that as well, and he went up in the mast of his ship to look about him. but a great blast of wind came against him, and he fell back into the ship and died on the moment. and there was great confusion on the gael, for the ships were tossed to and fro, and had like to be lost. and the ship that donn, son of miled, was in command of was parted from the others by the dint of the storm, and was broken in pieces, and he himself and all with him were drowned, four-and-twenty men and women in all. and ir, son of miled, came to his death in the same way, and his body was cast on the shore, and it was buried in a small island that is now called sceilg michill. a brave man ir was, leading the sons of the gael to the front of every battle, and their help and their shelter in battle, and his enemies were in dread of his name. and heremon, another of the sons of miled, with his share of the ships, was driven to the left of the island, and it is hardly he got safe to land. and the place where he landed was called inver colpa, because colpa of the sword, another of the sons of miled, was drowned there, and he trying to get to land. five of the sons of miled in all were destroyed by the storm and the winds the men of dea had raised by their enchantments, and there were but three of them left, heber, and heremon, and amergin. and one of them, donn, before he was swept into the sea, called out: "it is treachery our knowledgeable men are doing on us, not to put down this wind." "there is no treachery," said amergin, his brother. and he rose up then before them, and whatever enchantment he did on the winds and the sea, he said these words along with it: "that they that are tossing in the great wide food-giving sea may reach now to the land. "that they may find a place upon its plains, its mountains, and its valleys; in its forests that are full of nuts and of all fruits; on its rivers and its streams, on its lakes and its great waters. "that we may have our gatherings and our races in this land; that there may be a king of our own in teamhair; that it may be the possession of our many kings. "that the sons of miled may be seen in this land, that their ships and their boats may find a place there. "this land that is now under darkness, it is for it we are asking; let our chief men, let their learned wives, ask that we may come to the noble woman, great eriu." after he had said this, the wind went down and the sea was quiet again on the moment. and those that were left of the sons of miled and of the sons of the gael landed then at inver sceine. and amergin was the first to put his foot on land, and when he stood on the shore of ireland, it is what he said: "i am the wind on the sea; i am the wave of the sea; i am the bull of seven battles; i am the eagle on the rock; i am a flash from the sun; i am the most beautiful of plants; i am a strong wild boar; i am a salmon in the water; i am a lake in the plain; i am the word of knowledge; i am the head of the spear in battle; i am the god that puts fire in the head; who spreads light in the gathering on the hills? who can tell the ages of the moon? who can tell the place where the sun rests?" chapter ii. the battle of tailltin and three days after the landing of the gael, they were attacked by eriu, wife of mac greine, son of the sun, and she having a good share of men with her. and they fought a hard battle, and many were killed on both sides. and this was the first battle fought between the sons of the gael and the men of dea for the kingship of ireland. it was in that battle fais, wife of un, was killed in a valley at the foot of the mountain, and it was called after her, the valley of fais. and scota, wife of miled, got her death in the battle, and she was buried in a valley on the north side of the mountain near the sea. but the sons of the gael lost no more than three hundred men, and they beat back the men of dea and killed a thousand of them. and eriu was beaten back to tailltin, and as many of her men as she could hold together; and when she came there she told the people how she had been worsted in the battle, and the best of her men had got their death. but the gael stopped on the battle-field, and buried their dead, and they gave a great burial to two of their druids, aer and eithis, that were killed in the fight. and after they had rested for a while, they went on to inver colpa in leinster, and heremon and his men joined them there. and then they sent messengers to the three kings of ireland, the three sons of cermait honey-mouth, and bade them to come out and fight a battle that would settle the ownership of the country once for all. so they came out, and the best of the fighters of the tuatha de danaan with them, to tailltin. and there they attacked one another, and the sons of the gael remembered the death of ith, and there was great anger on them, and they fell on the men of dea to avenge him, and there was a fierce battle fought. and for a while neither side got the better of the other, but at the last the gael broke through the army of the men of dea and put them to the rout, with great slaughter, and drove them out of the place. and their three kings were killed in the rout, and the three queens of ireland, eriu and fodhla and banba. and when the tuatha de danaan saw their leaders were dead they fell back in great disorder, and the sons of the gael followed after them. but in following them they lost two of their best leaders, cuailgne, son of breagan, at slieve cuailgne, and fuad, his brother, at slieve fuad. but they were no way daunted by that, but followed the men of dea so hotly that they were never able to bring their army together again, but had to own themselves beaten, and to give up the country to the gael. and the leaders, the sons of miled, divided the provinces of ireland between them. heber took the two provinces of munster, and he gave a share of it to amergin; and heremon got leinster and connacht for his share, and ulster was divided between eimhir, son of ir, son of miled, and some others of their chief men. and it was of the sons of eimhir, that were called the children of rudraighe, and that lived in emain macha for nine hundred years, some of the best men of ireland came; fergus, son of rogh, was of them, and conall cearnach, of the red branch of ulster. and from the sons of ith, the first of the gael to get his death in ireland, there came in the after time fathadh canaan, that got the sway over the whole world from the rising to the setting sun, and that took hostages of the streams and the birds and the languages. and it is what the poets of ireland used to be saying, that every brave man, good at fighting, and every man that could do great deeds and not be making much talk about them, was of the sons of the gael; and that every skilled man that had music and that did enchantments secretly, was of the tuatha de danaan. but they put a bad name on the firbolgs and the men of domnand and the gaileoin, for lies and for big talk and injustice. but for all that there were good fighters among them, and ferdiad, that made so good a stand against cuchulain, in the war for the bull of cuailgne was one of them. and the gaileoin fought well in the same war; but the men of ireland had no great liking for them, and their druids drove them out of the country afterwards. book four: the ever-living living ones. chapter i. bodb dearg but as to the tuatha de danaan after they were beaten, they would not go under the sway of the sons of miled, but they went away by themselves. and because manannan, son of lir, understood all enchantments, they left it to him to find places for them where they would be safe from their enemies. so he chose out the most beautiful of the hills and valleys of ireland for them to settle in; and he put hidden walls about them, that no man could see through, but they themselves could see through them and pass through them. and he made the feast of age for them, and what they drank at it was the ale of goibniu the smith, that kept whoever tasted it from age and from sickness and from death. and for food at the feast he gave them his own swine, that though they were killed and eaten one day, would be alive and fit for eating again the next day, and that would go on in that way for ever. and after a while they said: "it would be better for us one king to be over us, than to be scattered the way we are through the whole of ireland." now the men among them that had the best chance of getting the kingship at that time were bodb dearg, son of the dagda; and ilbrech of ess ruadh; and lir of sidhe fionnachaidh, the hill of the white field, on slieve fuad; and midhir the proud of bri leith, and angus og, son of the dagda; but he did not covet the kingship at all, but would sooner be left as he was. then all the chief men but those five went into council together, and it is what they agreed, to give the kingship to bodb dearg, for the sake of his father, for his own sake, and because he was the eldest among the children of the dagda. it was in sidhe femen bodb dearg had his house, and he put great enchantments about it. cliach, the harper of the king of the three rosses in connacht, went one time to ask one of his daughters in marriage, and he stayed outside the place through the whole length of a year, playing his harp, and able to get no nearer to bodb or to his daughter. and he went on playing till a lake burst up under his feet, the lake that is on the top of a mountain, loch bel sead. it was bodb's swineherd went to da derga's inn, and his squealing pig along with him, the night conaire, the high king of ireland, met with his death; and it was said that whatever feast that swineherd would go to, there would blood be shed before it was over. and bodb had three sons, angus, and artrach, and aedh. and they used often to be living among men in the time of the fianna afterwards. artrach had a house with seven doors, and a free welcome for all that came, and the king's son of ireland, and of alban, used to be coming to angus to learn the throwing of spears and darts; and troops of poets from alban and from ireland used to be with aedh, that was the comeliest of bodb's sons, so that his place used to be called "the rath of aedh of the poets." and indeed it was a beautiful rath at that time, with golden-yellow apples in it and crimson-pointed nuts of the wood. but after the passing away of the fianna, the three brothers went back to the tuatha de danaan. and bodb dearg was not always in his own place, but sometimes he was with angus at brugh na boinn. three sons of lugaidh menn, king of ireland, eochaid, and fiacha, and ruide, went there one time, for their father refused them any land till they would win it for themselves. and when he said that, they rose with the ready rising of one man, and went and sat down on the green of brugh na boinn, and fasted there on the tuatha de danaan, to see if they could win some good thing from them. and they were not long there till they saw a young man, quiet and with pleasant looks, coming towards them, and he wished them good health, and they answered him the same way. "where are you come from?" they asked him then. "from the rath beyond, with the many lights," he said. "and i am bodb dearg, son of the dagda," he said, "and come in with me now to the rath." so they went in, and supper was made ready for them, but they did not use it. bodb dearg asked them then why was it they were using nothing. "it is because our father has refused land to us," said they; "and there are in ireland but the two races, the sons of the gael and the men of dea, and when the one failed us we are come to the other." then the men of dea consulted together. and the chief among them was midhir of the yellow hair, and it is what he said: "let us give a wife to every one of these three men, for it is from a wife that good or bad fortune comes." so they agreed to that, and midhir's three daughters, doirenn, and aife, and aillbhe, were given to them. then midhir asked bodb to say what marriage portion should be given to them. "i will tell you that," said bodb. "we are three times fifty sons of kings in this hill; let every king's son give three times fifty ounces of red gold. and i myself," he said, "will give them along with that, three times fifty suits of clothing of all colours." "i will give them a gift," said a young man of the tuatha de danaan, from rachlainn in the sea. "a horn i will give them, and a vat. and there is nothing wanting but to fill the vat with pure water, and it will turn into mead, fit to drink, and strong enough to make drunken. and into the horn," he said, "you have but to put salt water from the sea, and it will turn into wine on the moment." "a gift to them from me," said lir of sidhe fionnachaidh, "three times fifty swords, and three times fifty well-riveted long spears." "a gift from me," said angus og, son of the dagda, "a rath and a good town with high walls, and with bright sunny houses, and with wide houses, in whatever place it will please them between rath chobtaige and teamhair." "a gift to them from me," said aine, daughter of modharn, "a woman-cook that i have, and there is _geasa_ on her not to refuse food to any; and according as she serves it out, her store fills up of itself again." "another gift to them from me," said bodb dearg, "a good musician that i have, fertuinne, son of trogain; and although there were women in the sharpest pains of childbirth, and brave men wounded early in the day, in a place where there were saws going through wood, they would sleep at the sweetness of the music he makes. and whatever house he may be in, the people of the whole country round will hear him." so they stopped in brugh na boinne three days and three nights, and when they left it, angus bade them bring away from the oak-wood three apple-trees, one in full bloom, and one shedding its blossom, and the third covered with ripe fruit. they went then to their own dun that was given them, and it is a good place they had there, and a troop of young men, and great troops of horses and of greyhounds; and they had three sorts of music that comely kings liked to be listening to, the music of harps and of lutes, and the chanting of trogain's son; and there were three great sounds, the tramping on the green, and the uproar of racing, and the lowing of cattle; and three other sounds, the grunting of good pigs with the fat thick on them, and the voices of the crowd on the green lawn, and the noise of men drinking inside the house. and as to eochaid, it was said of him that he never took a step backwards in flight, and his house was never without music or drinking of ale. and it was said of fiacha that there was no man of his time braver than himself, and that he never said a word too much. and as to ruide, he never refused any one, and never asked anything at all of any man. and when their lifetime was over, they went back to the tuatha de danaan, for they belonged to them through their wives, and there they have stopped ever since. and bodb dearg had a daughter, scathniamh, the flower of brightness, that gave her love to caoilte in the time of the fianna; and they were forced to part from one another, and they never met again till the time caoilte was, old and withered, and one of the last that was left of the fianna. and she came to him out of the cave of cruachan, and asked him for the bride-price he had promised her, and that she was never able to come and ask for till then. and caoilte went to a cairn that was near and that was full up of gold, that was wages earned by conan maol and hidden there, and he gave the gold to bodb dearg's daughter. and the people that were there wondered to see the girl so young and comely, and caoilte so grey and bent and withered. "there is no wonder in that," said caoilte, "for i am of the sons of miled that wither and fade away, but she is of the tuatha de danaan that never change and that never die." chapter ii. the dagda and it was at brugh na boinne the dagda, the red man of all knowledge, had his house. and the most noticeable things in it were the hall of the morrigu, and the bed of the dagda, and the birthplace of cermait honey-mouth, and the prison of the grey of macha that was cuchulain's horse afterwards. and there was a little hill by the house that was called the comb and the casket of the dagda's wife; and another that was called the hill of dabilla, that was the little hound belonging to boann. and the valley of the mata was there, the sea-turtle that could suck down a man in armour. and it is likely the dagda put up his cooking oven there, that druimne, son of luchair, made for him at teamhair. and it is the way it was, the axle and the wheel were of wood, and the body was iron, and there were twice nine wheels in its axle, that it might turn the faster; and it was as quick as the quickness of a stream in turning, and there were three times nine spits from it, and three times nine pots. and it used to lie down with the cinders and to rise to the height of the roof with the flame. the dagda himself made a great vat one time for ainge, his daughter, but she was not well satisfied with it, for it would not stop from dripping while the sea was in flood, though it would not lose a drop during the ebb-tide. and she gathered a bundle of twigs to make a new vat for herself, but gaible, son of nuada of the silver hand, stole it from her and hurled it away. and in the place where it fell a beautiful wood grew up, that was called gaible's wood. and the dagda had his household at brugh na boinne, and his steward was dichu, and len linfiaclach was the smith of the brugh. it was he lived in the lake, making the bright vessels of fand, daughter of flidhais; and every evening when he left off work he would make a cast of the anvil eastward to indeoin na dese, the anvil of the dese, as far as the grave end. three showers it used to cast, a shower of fire, and a shower of water, and a shower of precious stones of pure purple. but tuirbe, father of goibniu the smith, used to throw better again, for he would make a cast of his axe from tulach na bela, the hill of the axe, in the face of the flood tide, and he would put his order on the sea, and it would not come over the axe. and corann was the best of the harpers of the household; he was harper to the dagda's son, diancecht. and one time he called with his harp to cailcheir, one of the swine of debrann. and it ran northward with all the strength of its legs, and the champions of connacht were following after it with all their strength of running, and their hounds with them, till they got as far as ceis corain, and they gave it up there, all except niall that went on the track of the swine till he found it in the oak-wood of tarba, and then it made away over the plain of ai, and through a lake. and niall and his hound were drowned in following it through the lake. and the dagda gave corann a great tract of land for doing his harping so well. but however great a house the dagda had, angus got it away from him in the end, through the help of manannan, son of lir. for manannan bade him to ask his father for it for the length of a day and a night, and that he by his art would take away his power of refusing. so angus asked for the brugh, and his father gave it to him for a day and a night. but when he asked it back again, it is what angus said, that it had been given to him for ever, for the whole of life and time is made up of a day and a night, one following after the other. so when the dagda heard that he went away and his people and his household with him, for manannan had put an enchantment on them all. but dichu the steward was away at the time, and his wife and his son, for they were gone out to get provisions for a feast for manannan and his friends. and when he came back and knew his master was gone, he took service with angus. and angus stopped in brugh na boinne, and some say he is there to this day, with the hidden walls about him, drinking goibniu's ale and eating the pigs that never fail. as to the dagda, he took no revenge, though he had the name of being revengeful and quick in his temper. and some say it was at teamhair he made his dwelling-place after that, but wherever it was, a great misfortune came on him. it chanced one time corrgenn, a great man of connacht, came to visit him, and his wife along with him. and while they were there, corrgenn got it in his mind that there was something that was not right going on between his wife and aedh, one of the sons of the dagda. and great jealousy and anger came on him, and he struck at the young man and killed him before his father's face. every one thought the dagda would take corrgenn's life then and there in revenge for his son's life. but he would not do that, for he said if his son was guilty, there was no blame to be put on corrgenn for doing what he did. so he spared his life for that time, but if he did, corrgenn did not gain much by it. for the punishment he put on him was to take the dead body of the young man on his back, and never to lay it down till he would find a stone that would be its very fit in length and in breadth, and that would make a gravestone for him; and when he had found that, he could bury him in the nearest hill. so corrgenn had no choice but to go, and he set out with his load; but he had a long way to travel before he could find a stone that would fit, and it is where he found one at last, on the shore of loch feabhail. so then he left the body up on the nearest hill, and he went down and raised the stone and brought it up and dug a grave and buried the dagda's son. and it is many an ochone! he gave when he was putting the stone over him, and when he had that done he was spent, and he dropped dead there and then. and the dagda brought his two builders, garbhan and imheall, to the place, and he bade them build a rath there round the grave. it was garbhan cut the stones and shaped them, and imheall set them all round the house till the work was finished, and then he closed the top of the house with a slab. and the place was called the hill of aileac, that is, the hill of sighs and of a stone, for it was tears of blood the dagda shed on account of the death of his son. chapter iii. angus og and as to angus og, son of the dagda, sometimes he would come from brugh na boinn and let himself be seen upon the earth. it was a long time after the coming of the gael that he was seen by cormac, king of teamhair, and this is the account he gave of him. he was by himself one day in his hall of judgment, for he used to be often reading the laws and thinking how he could best carry them out. and on a sudden he saw a stranger, a very comely young man, at the end of the hall; and he knew on the moment it was angus og, for he had often heard his people talking of him, but he himself used to be saying he did not believe there was any such person at all. and when his people came back to the hall, he told them how he had seen angus himself, and had talked with him, and angus had told him his name, and had foretold what would happen him in the future. "and he was a beautiful young man," he said, "with high looks, and his appearance was more beautiful than all beauty, and there were ornaments of gold on his dress; in his hand he held a silver harp with strings of red gold, and the sound of its strings was sweeter than all music under the sky; and over the harp were two birds that seemed to be playing on it. he sat beside me pleasantly and played his sweet music to me, and in the end he foretold things that put drunkenness on my wits." the birds, now, that used to be with angus were four of his kisses that turned into birds and that used to be coming about the young men of ireland, and crying after them. "come, come," two of them would say, and "i go, i go," the other two would say, and it was hard to get free of them. but as to angus, even when he was in his young youth, he used to be called the frightener, or the disturber; for the plough teams of the world, and every sort of cattle that is used by men, would make away in terror before him. and one time he appeared in the shape of a land-holder to two men, ribh and eocho, that were looking for a place to settle in. the first place they chose was near bregia on a plain that was belonging to angus; and it was then he came to them, leading his horse in his hand, and told them they should not stop there. and they said they could not carry away their goods without horses. then he gave them his horse, and bade them to put all they had a mind to on that horse and he would carry it, and so he did. but the next place they chose was magh find, the fine plain, that was the playing ground of angus and of midhir. and that time midhir came to them in the same way and gave them a horse to put their goods on, and he went on with them as far as magh dairbthenn. and there were many women loved angus, and there was one enghi, daughter of elcmair, loved him though she had not seen him. and she went one time looking for him to the gathering for games between cletech and sidhe in broga; and the bright troops of the sidhe used to come to that gathering every samhain evening, bringing a moderate share of food with them, that is, a nut. and the sons of derc came from the north, out of sidhe findabrach, and they went round about the young men and women without their knowledge and they brought away elcmair's daughter. there were great lamentations made then, and the name the place got was cnoguba, the nut lamentation, from the crying there was at that gathering. and derbrenn, eochaid fedlech's daughter, was another that was loved by angus, and she had six fosterlings, three boys and three girls. but the mother of the boys, dalb garb, the rough, put a spell on them she made from a gathering of the nuts of caill ochuid, that turned them into swine. and angus gave them into the care of buichet, the hospitaller of leinster, and they stopped a year with him. but at the end of that time there came a longing on buichet's wife to eat a bit of the flesh of one of them. so she gathered a hundred armed men and a hundred hounds to take them. but the pigs made away, and went to brugh na boinn, to angus, and he bade them welcome, and they asked him to give them his help. but he said he could not do that till they had shaken the tree of tarbga, and eaten the salmon of inver umaill. so they went to glascarn, and stopped a year in hiding with derbrenn. and then they shook the tree of tarbga, and they went on towards inver umaill. but maeve gathered the men of connacht to hunt them, and they all fell but one, and their heads were put in a mound, and it got the name of duma selga, the mound of the hunting. and it was in the time of maeve of cruachan that angus set his love on caer ormaith, of the province of connacht, and brought her away to brugh na boinn. chapter iv. the morrigu as to the morrigu, the great queen, the crow of battle, where she lived after the coming of the gael is not known, but before that time it was in teamhair she lived. and she had a great cooking-spit there, that held three sorts of food on it at the one time: a piece of raw meat, and a piece of dressed meat, and a piece of butter. and the raw was dressed, and the dressed was not burned, and the butter did not melt, and the three together on the spit. nine men that were outlaws went to her one time and asked for a spit to be made for themselves. and they brought it away with them, and it had nine ribs in it, and every one of the outlaws would carry a rib in his hand wherever he would go, till they would all meet together at the close of day. and if they wanted the spit to be high, it could be raised to a man's height, and at another time it would not be more than the height of a fist over the fire, without breaking and without lessening. and mechi, the son the morrigu had, was killed by mac cecht on magh mechi, that till that time had been called magh fertaige. three hearts he had, and it is the way they were, they had the shapes of three serpents through them. and if mechi had not met with his death, those serpents in him would have grown, and what they left alive in ireland would have wasted away. and mac cecht burned the three hearts on magh luathad, the plain of ashes, and he threw the ashes into the stream; and the rushing water of the stream stopped and boiled up, and every creature in it died. and the morrigu used often to be meddling in ireland in cuchulain's time, stirring up wars and quarrels. it was she came and roused up cuchulain one time when he was but a lad, and was near giving in to some enchantment that was used against him. "there is not the making of a hero in you," she said to him, "and you lying there under the feet of shadows." and with that cuchulain rose up and struck off the head of a shadow that was standing over him, with his hurling stick. and the time conchubar was sending out finched to rouse up the men of ulster at the time of the war for the bull of cuailgne, he bade him to go to that terrible fury, the morrigu, to get help for cuchulain. and she had a dispute with cuchulain one time he met her, and she bringing away a cow from the hill of cruachan; and another time she helped talchinem, a druid of the household of conaire mor, to bring away a bull his wife had set her mind on. and indeed she was much given to meddling with cattle, and one time she brought away a cow from odras, that was of the household of the cow-chief of cormac hua cuined, and that was going after her husband with cattle. and the morrigu brought the cow away with her to the cave of cruachan, and the hill of the sidhe. and odras followed her there till sleep fell on her in the oak-wood of falga; and the morrigu awoke her and sang spells over her, and made of her a pool of water that went to the river that flows to the west of slieve buane. and in the battle of magh rath, she fluttered over congal claen in the shape of a bird, till he did not know friend from foe. and after that again at the battle of cluantarbh, she was flying over the head of murchadh, son of brian; for she had many shapes, and it was in the shape of a crow she would sometimes fight her battles. and if it was not the morrigu, it was badb that showed herself in the battle of dunbolg, where the men of ireland were fighting under aedh, son of niall; and brigit was seen in the same battle on the side of the men of leinster. chapter v. aine and as to aine, that some said was a daughter of manannan, but some said was the morrigu herself, there was a stone belonging to her that was called cathair aine. and if any one would sit on that stone he would be in danger of losing his wits, and any one that would sit on it three times would lose them for ever. and people whose wits were astray would make their way to it, and mad dogs would come from all parts of the country, and would flock around it, and then they would go into the sea to aine's place there. but those that did cures by herbs said she had power over the whole body; and she used to give gifts of poetry and of music, and she often gave her love to men, and they called her the leanan sidhe, the sweet-heart of the sidhe. and it was no safe thing to offend aine, for she was very revengeful. oilioll oluim, a king of ireland, killed her brother one time, and it is what she did, she made a great yew-tree by enchantment beside the river maigh in luimnech, and she put a little man in it, playing sweet music on a harp. and oilioll's son was passing the river with his step-brother, and they saw the tree and heard the sweet music from it. and first they quarrelled as to which of them would have the little harper, and then they quarrelled about the tree, and they asked a judgment from oilioll, and he gave it for his own son. and it was the bad feeling about that judgment that led to the battle of magh mucruimhe, and oilioll and his seven sons were killed there, and so aine got her revenge. chapter vi. aoibhell and aoibhell, another woman of the sidhe, made her dwelling-place in craig liath, and at the time of the battle of cluantarbh she set her love on a young man of munster, dubhlaing ua artigan, that had been sent away in disgrace by the king of ireland. but before the battle he came back to join with murchadh, the king's son, and to fight for the gael. and aoibhell came to stop him; and when he would not stop with her she put a druid covering about him, the way no one could see him. and he went where murchadh was fighting, and he made a great attack on the enemies of ireland, and struck them down on every side. and murchadh looked around him, and he said; "it seems to me i hear the sound of the blows of dubhlaing ua artigan, but i do not see himself." then dubhlaing threw off the druid covering that was about him, and he said: "i will not keep this covering upon me when you cannot see me through it. and come now across the plain to where aoibhell is," he said, "for she can give us news of the battle." so they went where she was, and she bade them both to quit the battle, for they would lose their lives in it. but murchadh said to her, "i will tell you a little true story," he said; "that fear for my own body will never make me change my face. and if we fall," he said, "the strangers will fall with us; and it is many a man will fall by my own hand, and the gael will be sharing their strong places." "stop with me, dubhlaing," she said then, "and you will have two hundred years of happy life with myself." "i will not give up murchadh," he said, "or my own good name, for silver or gold." and there was anger on aoibhell when he said that, and she said: "murchadh will fall, and you yourself will fall, and your proud blood will be on the plain to-morrow." and they went back into the battle, and got their death there. and it was aoibhell gave a golden harp to the son of meardha the time he was getting his learning at the school of the sidhe in connacht and that he heard his father had got his death by the king of lochlann. and whoever heard the playing of that harp would not live long after it. and meardha's son went where the three sons of the king of lochlann were, and played on his harp for them, and they died. it was that harp cuchulain heard the time his enemies were gathering against him at muirthemne, and he knew by it that his life was near its end. chapter vii. midhir and etain and midhir took a hill for himself, and his wife fuamach was with him there, and his daughter, bri. and leith, son of celtchar of cualu, was the most beautiful among the young men of the sidhe of ireland at that time, and he loved bri, midhir's daughter. and bri went out with her young girls to meet him one time at the grave of the daughters beside teamhair. and leith came and his young men along with him till he was on the hill of the after repentance. and they could not come nearer to one another because of the slingers on midhir's hill that were answering one another till their spears were as many as a swarm of bees on a day of beauty. and cochlan, leith's servant, got a sharp wound from them and he died. then the girl turned back to midhir's hill, and her heart broke in her and she died. and leith said: "although i am not let come to this girl, i will leave my name with her." and the hill was called bri leith from that time. after a while midhir took etain echraide to be his wife. and there was great jealousy on fuamach, the wife he had before, when she saw the love that midhir gave to etain, and she called to the druid, bresal etarlaim to help her, and he put spells on etain the way fuamach was able to drive her away. and when she was driven out of bri leith, angus og, son of the dagda, took her into his keeping; and when midhir asked her back, he would not give her up, but he brought her about with him to every place he went. and wherever they rested, he made a sunny house for her, and put sweet-smelling flowers in it, and he made invisible walls about it, that no one could see through and that could not be seen. but when news came to fuamach that etain was so well cared by angus, anger and jealousy came on her again, and she searched her mind for a way to destroy etain altogether. and it is what she did, she persuaded midhir and angus to go out and meet one another and to make peace, for there had been a quarrel between them ever since the time etain was sent away. and when angus was away from brugh na boinn, fuamach went and found etain there, in her sunny house. and she turned her with druid spells into a fly, and then she sent a blast of wind into the house, that swept her away through the window. but as to midhir and angus, they waited a while for fuamach to come and join them. and when she did not come they were uneasy in their minds, and angus hurried back to brugh na boinn. and when he found the sunny house empty, he went in search of fuamach, and it was along with etarlaim, the druid, he found her, and he struck her head off there and then. and for seven years etain was blown to and fro through ireland in great misery. and at last she came to the house of etar, of inver cechmaine, where there was a feast going on, and she fell from a beam of the roof into the golden cup that was beside etar's wife. and etar's wife drank her down with the wine, and at the end of nine months she was born again as etar's daughter. and she had the same name as before, etain; and she was reared as a king's daughter, and there were fifty young girls, daughters of princes, brought up with her to keep her company. and it happened one day etain and all the rest of the young girls were out bathing in the bay at inver cechmaine, and they saw from the water a man, with very high looks, coming towards them over the plain, and he riding a bay horse with mane and tail curled. a long green cloak he had on him, and a shirt woven with threads of red gold, and a brooch of gold that reached across to his shoulders on each side. and he had on his back a shield of silver with a rim of gold and a boss of gold, and in his hand a sharp-pointed spear covered with rings of gold from heel to socket. fair yellow hair he had, coming over his forehead, and it bound with a golden band to keep it from loosening. and when he came near them he got down from his horse, and sat down on the bank, and it is what he said: "it is here etain is to-day, at the mound of fair women. it is among little children is her life on the strand of inver cechmaine. "it is she healed the eye of the king from the well of loch da lig; it is she was swallowed in a heavy drink by the wife of etar. "many great battles will happen for your sake to echaid of midhe; destruction will fall upon the sidhe, and war on thousands of men." and when he had said that, he vanished, and no one knew where he went. and they did not know the man that had come to them was midhir of bri leith. and when etain was grown to be a beautiful young woman, she was seen by eochaid feidlech, high king of ireland, and this is the way that happened. he was going one time over the fair green of bri leith, and he saw at the side of a well a woman, with a bright comb of gold and silver, and she washing in a silver basin having four golden birds on it, and little bright purple stones set in the rim of the basin. a beautiful purple cloak she had, and silver fringes to it, and a gold brooch; and she had on her a dress of green silk with a long hood, embroidered in red gold, and wonderful clasps of gold and silver on her breasts and on her shoulder. the sunlight was falling on her, so that the gold and the green silk were shining out. two plaits of hair she had, four locks in each plait, and a bead at the point of every lock, and the colour of her hair was like yellow flags in summer, or like red gold after it is rubbed. there she was, letting down her hair to wash it, and her arms out through the sleeve-holes of her shift. her soft hands were as white as the snow of a single night, and her eyes as blue as any blue flower, and her lips as red as the berries of the rowan-tree, and her body as white as the foam of a wave. the bright light of the moon was in her face, the highness of pride in her eyebrows, a dimple of delight in each of her cheeks, the light of wooing in her eyes, and when she walked she had a step that was steady and even like the walk of a queen. and eochaid sent his people to bring her to him, and he asked her name, and she told him her name was etain, daughter of etar, king of the riders of the sidhe. and eochaid gave her his love, and he paid the bride-price, and brought her home to teamhair as his wife, and there was a great welcome before her there. and after a while there was a great feast made at teamhair, and all the chief men of ireland came to it, and it lasted from the fortnight before samhain to the fortnight after it. and king eochaid's brother ailell, that was afterwards called ailell anglonach, of the only fault, came to the feast. and when he saw his brother's wife etain, he fell in love with her on the moment, and all through the length of the feast he was not content unless he could be looking at her. and a woman, the daughter of luchta lamdearg, of the red hand, took notice of it, and she said: "what far thing are you looking at, ailell? it is what i think, that to be looking the way you are doing is a sign of love." then ailell checked himself, and did not look towards etain any more. but when the feast was at an end, and the gathering broken up, great desire and envy came on ailell, so that he fell sick, and they brought him to a house in teffia. and he stopped there through the length of a year, and he was wasting away, but he told no one the cause of his sickness. and at the end of the year, eochaid came to visit his brother, and he passed his hand over his breast, and ailell let a groan. "what way are you?" said eochaid then. "are you getting any easier, for you must not let this illness come to a bad end." "by my word," said ailell, "it is not easier i am, but worse and worse every day and every night." "what is it ails you?" said eochaid. "and what is it that is coming against you." "by my word, i cannot tell you that," said ailell. "i will bring one here that will know the cause of your sickness," said the king. with that he sent fachtna, his own physician, to ailell; and when he came he passed his hand over ailell's heart, and at that he groaned again. "this sickness will not be your death," said fachtna then; "and i know well what it comes from. it is either from the pains of jealousy, or from love you have given, and that you have not found a way out of." but there was shame on ailell, and he would not confess to the physician that what he said was right. so fachtna went away then and left him. as to king eochaid, he went away to visit all the provinces of ireland that were under his kingship, and he left etain after him, and it is what he said: "good etain," he said, "take tender care of ailell so long as he is living; and if he should die from us, make a sodded grave for him, and raise a pillar stone over it, and write his name on it in ogham." and with that he went away on his journey. one day, now, etain went into the house where ailell was lying in his sickness, and they talked together, and then she made a little song for him, and it is what she said: "what is it ails you, young man, for it is a long time you are wasted with this sickness, and it is not the hardness of the weather has stopped your light footstep." and ailell answered her in the same way, and he said: "i have good cause for my hurt; the music of my own harp does not please me; there is no sort of food is pleasant to me, and so i am wasted away." then etain said: "tell me what is it ails you, for i am a woman that is wise. tell me is there anything that would cure you, the way i may help you to it?" and ailell answered her: "o kind, beautiful woman, it is not good to tell a secret to a woman, but sometimes it may be known through the eyes." and etain said: "though it is bad to tell a secret, yet it ought to be told now, or how can help be given to you?" and ailell answered: "my blessing on you, fair-haired etain. it is not fit i am to be spoken with; my wits have been no good help to me; my body is a rebel to me. all ireland knows, o king's wife, there is sickness in my head and in my body." and etain said: "if there is a woman of the fair-faced women of ireland tormenting you this way, she must come to you here if it pleases you; and it is i myself will woo her for you," she said. then ailell said to her: "woman, it would be easy for you yourself to put my sickness from me. and my desire," he said, "is a desire that is as long as a year; but it is love given to an echo, the spending of grief on a wave, a lonely fight with a shadow, that is what my love and my desire have been to me." and it is then etain knew what was the sickness that was on him, and it was a heavy trouble to her. but she came to him every day to tend him, and to make ready his food, and to pour water over his hands, and all she could do she did for him, for it was a grief to her, he to wither away and to be lost for her sake. and at last one day she said to him: "rise up, ailell, son of a king, man of high deeds, and i will do your healing." then he put his arms about her, and she kissed him, and she said: "come at the morning of to-morrow at the break of day to the house outside the dun, and i will give you all your desire." that night ailell lay without sleep until the morning was at hand. and at the very time he should have risen to go to her, it was at that time his sleep settled down upon him, and he slept on till the full light of day. but etain went to the house outside the dun, and she was not long there when she saw a man coming towards her having the appearance of ailell, sick and tired and worn. but when he came near and she looked closely at him, she saw it was not ailell that was in it. then he went away, and after she had waited a while, she herself went back into the dun. and it was then ailell awoke, and when he knew the morning had passed by, he would sooner have had death than life, and he fretted greatly. and etain came in then, and he told her what had happened him. and she said: "come to-morrow to the same place." but the same thing happened the next day. and when it happened on the third day, and the same man came to meet etain, she said to him: "it is not you at all i come to meet here, and why is it that you come to meet me? and as to him i came to meet," she said, "indeed it is not for gain or through lightness i bade him come to me, but to heal him of the sickness he is lying under for my sake." then the man said: "it would be more fitting for you to come to meet me than any other one. for in the time long ago," he said, "i was your first husband, and your first man." "what is it you are saying," she said, "and who are you yourself?" "it is easy to tell that," he said; "i am midhir of bri leith." "and what parted us if i was your wife?" said etain. "it was through fuamach's sharp jealousy and through the spells of bresal etarlaim, the druid, we were parted. and will you come away with me now?" he said. but etain said: "it is not for a man whose kindred is unknown i will give up the high king of ireland." and midhir said: "surely it was i myself put that great desire for you on ailell, and it was i hindered him from going to meet you, the way you might keep your good name." and when she went back to ailell's house, she found his sickness was gone from him, and his desire. and she told him all that had happened, and he said: "it has turned out well for us both: i am well of my sickness and your good name is not lessened." "we give thanks to our gods for that," said etain, "for we are well pleased to have it so." and just at that time eochaid came back from his journey, and they told him the whole story, and he was thankful to his wife for the kindness she had showed to ailell. it was a good while after that, there was a great fair held at teamhair, and etain was out on the green looking at the games and the races. and she saw a rider coming towards her, but no one could see him but herself; and when he came near she saw he had the same appearance as the man that came and spoke with her and her young girls the time they were out in the sea at inver cechmaine. and when he came up to her he began to sing words to her that no one could hear but herself. and it is what he said: "o beautiful woman, will you come with me to the wonderful country that is mine? it is pleasant to be looking at the people there, beautiful people without any blemish; their hair is of the colour of the flag-flower, their fair body is as white as snow, the colour of the foxglove is on every cheek. the young never grow old there; the fields and the flowers are as pleasant to be looking at as the blackbird's eggs; warm, sweet streams of mead and of wine flow through that country; there is no care and no sorrow on any person; we see others, but we ourselves are not seen. "though the plains of ireland are beautiful, it is little you would think of them after our great plain; though the ale of ireland is heady, the ale of the great country is still more heady. o beautiful woman, if you come to my proud people it is the flesh of pigs newly killed i will give you for food; it is ale and new milk i will give you for drink; it is feasting you will have with me there; it is a crown of gold you will have upon your hair, o beautiful woman! "and will you come there with me, etain?" he said. but etain said she would not leave eochaid the high king. "will you come if eochaid gives you leave?" midhir said then. "i will do that," said etain. one day, after that time, eochaid the high king was looking out from his palace at teamhair, and he saw a strange man coming across the plain. yellow hair he had, and eyes blue and shining like the flame of a candle, and a purple dress on him, and in his hand a five-pronged spear and a shield having gold knobs on it. he came up to the king, and the king bade him welcome. "who are you yourself?" he said; "and what are you come for, for you are a stranger to me?" "if i am a stranger to you, you are no stranger to me, for i have known you this long time," said the strange man. "what is your name?" said the king. "it is nothing very great," said he; "i am called midhir of bri leith." "what is it brings you here?" said eochaid. "i am come to play a game of chess with you," said the stranger. "are you a good player?" said the king. "a trial will tell you that," said midhir. "the chessboard is in the queen's house, and she is in her sleep at this time," said eochaid. "that is no matter," said midhir, "for i have with me a chess-board as good as your own." and with that he brought out his chessboard, and it made of silver, and precious stones shining in every corner of it. and then he brought out the chessmen, and they made of gold, from a bag that was of shining gold threads. "let us play now," said midhir. "i will not play without a stake," said the king. "what stake shall we play for?" said midhir. "we can settle that after the game is over," said the king. they played together then, and midhir was beaten, and it is what the king asked of him, fifty brown horses to be given to him. and then they played the second time, and midhir was beaten again, and this time the king gave him four hard things to do: to make a road over moin lamraide, and to clear midhe of stones, and to cover the district of tethra with rushes, and the district of darbrech with trees. so midhir brought his people from bri leith to do those things, and it is bard work they had doing them. and eochaid used to be out watching them, and he took notice that when the men of the sidhe yoked their oxen, it was by the neck and the shoulder they used to yoke them, and not by the forehead and the head. and it was after eochaid taught his people to yoke them that way, he was given the name of eochaid airem, that is, of the plough. and when all was done, midhir came to eochaid again, looking thin and wasted enough with the dint of the hard work he had been doing, and he asked eochaid to play the third game with him. eochaid agreed, and it was settled as before, the stake to be settled by the winner. it was midhir won the game that time, and when the king asked him what he wanted, "it is etain, your wife, i want," said he. "i will not give her to you," said the king. "all i will ask then," said midhir, "is to put my arms about her and to kiss her once." "you may do that," said the king, "if you will wait to the end of a month." so midhir agreed to that, and went away for that time. at the end of the month he came back again, and stood in the great hall at teamhair, and no one had ever seen him look so comely as he did that night. and eochaid had all his best fighting men gathered in the hall, and he shut all the doors of the palace when he saw midhir come in, for fear he would try to bring away etain by force. "i am come to be paid what is due to me," said midhir. "i have not been thinking of it up to this time," said eochaid, and there was anger on him. "you promised me etain, your wife," said midhir. the redness of shame came on etain when she heard that, but midhir said: "let there be no shame on you, etain, for it is through the length of a year i have been asking your love, and i have offered you every sort of treasure and riches, and you refused to come to me till such a time as your husband would give you leave." "it is true i said that," said etain, "i will go if eochaid gives me up to you." "i will not give you up," said eochaid; "i will let him do no more than put his arms about you in this place, as was promised him." "i will do that," said midhir. with that he took his sword in his left hand, and he took etain in his right arm and kissed her. all the armed men in the house made a rush at him then, but he rose up through the roof bringing etain with him, and when they rushed out of the house to follow him, all they could see was two swans high up in the air, linked together by a chain of gold. there was great anger on eochaid then, and he went and searched all through ireland, but there were no tidings of them to be had, for they were in the houses of the sidhe. it was to the brugh of angus on the boinn they went first, and after they had stopped there a while they went to a hill of the sidhe in connacht. and there was a serving-maid with etain at that time, cruachan croderg her name was, and she said to midhir: "is this your own place we are in?" "it is not," said midhir; "my own place is nearer to the rising of the sun." she was not well pleased to stop there when she heard that, and midhir said to quiet her: "it is your own name will be put on this place from this out." and the hill was called the hill of cruachan from that time. then they went to bri leith; and etain's daughter esa came to them there, and she brought a hundred of every sort of cattle with her, and midhir fostered her for seven years. and all through that time eochaid the high king was making a search for them. but at last codal of the withered breast took four rods of yew and wrote oghams on them, and through them and through his enchantments he found out that etain was with midhir in bri leith. so eochaid went there, and made an attack on the place, and he was for nine years besieging it, and midhir was driving him away. and then his people began digging through the hill; and when they were getting near to where etain was, midhir sent three times twenty beautiful women, having all of them the appearance of etain, and he bade the king choose her out from among them. and the first he chose was his own daughter esa. but then etain called to him, and he knew her, and he brought her home to teamhair. and eochaid gave his daughter esa her choice of a place for herself. and she chose it, and made a rath there, that got the name of rath esa. and from it she could see three notable places, the hill of the sidhe in broga, and the hill of the hostages in teamhair, and dun crimthain on beinn edair. but there was great anger on midhir and his people because of their hill being attacked and dug into. and it was in revenge for that insult they brought conaire, high king of ireland, that was grandson of eochaid and of etain, to his death afterwards at da derga's inn. chapter viii. manannan now as to manannan the proud, son of lir, after he had made places for the rest of the tuatha de danaan to live in, he went away out of ireland himself. and some said he was dead, and that he got his death by uillenn faebarderg, of the red edge, in battle. and it is what they said, that the battle was fought at magh cuilenn, and that manannan was buried standing on his feet, and no sooner was he buried than a great lake burst up under his feet in the place that was a red bog till that time. and the lake got the name of loch orbson, from one of the names of manannan. and it was said that red badb was glad and many women were sorry at that battle. but he had many places of living, and he was often heard of in ireland after. it was he sent a messenger to etain, mother of conaire the high king, the time she was hidden in the cowherd's house. and it was he brought up deirdre's children in emhain of the apple trees, and it was said of that place, "a house of peace is the hill of the sidhe of emhain." and it was he taught diarmuid of the fianna the use of weapons, and it was he taught cuchulain the use of the gae bulg, and some say it was he was deirdre's father, and that he brought conchubar, king of ulster, to the place she was hidden, and he running with the appearance of a hare before the hounds of the men of ulster to bring them there. and it is what they say, that the time conchubar had brought the sons of usnach to emain macha, and could not come at them to kill them because of their bravery, it was to manannan he went for help. and manannan said he would give him no help, for he had told him at the time he brought deirdre away that she would be the cause of the breaking up of his kingdom, and he took her away in spite of him. but conchubar asked him to put blindness for a while on the sons of usnach, or the whole army would be destroyed with their blows. so after a while he consented to that. and when the sons of usnach came out again against the army of ulster, the blindness came on them, and it was at one another they struck, not seeing who was near them, and it was by one another's hands they fell. but more say manannan had no hand in it, and that it was cathbad, the druid, put a sea about them and brought them to their death by his enchantments. and some say culain, the smith, that gave his name to cuchulain afterwards, was manannan himself, for he had many shapes. anyway, before culain came to ulster, he was living in the island of falga, that was one of manannan's places. and one time before conchubar came into the kingdom, he went to ask advice of a druid, and the druid bade him to go to the island of falga and to ask culain, the smith he would find there, to make arms for him. so conchubar did so, and the smith promised to make a sword and spear and shield for him. and while he was working at them conchubar went out one morning early to walk on the strand, and there he saw a sea-woman asleep on the shore. and he put bonds on her in her sleep, the way she would not make her escape. but when she awoke and saw what had happened, she asked him to set her free. "and i am tiabhal," she said, "one of the queens of the sea. and bid culain," she said, "that is making your shield for you, to put my likeness on it and my name about it. and whenever you will go into a battle with that shield the strength of your enemies will lessen, and your own strength and the strength of your people will increase." so conchubar let her go, and bade the smith do as she had told him. and when he went back to ireland he got the victory wherever he brought that shield. and he sent for culain then, and offered him a place on the plains of muirthemne. and whether he was or was not manannan, it is likely he gave cuchulain good teaching the time he stopped with him there after killing his great dog. manannan had good hounds one time, but they went hunting after a pig that was destroying the whole country, and making a desert of it. and they followed it till they came to a lake, and there it turned on them, and no hound of them escaped alive, but they were all drowned or maimed. and the pig made for an island then, that got the name of muc-inis, the pigs island afterwards; and the lake got the name of loch conn, the lake of the hounds. and it was through manannan the wave of tuaig, one of the three great waves of ireland, got its name, and this is the way that happened. there was a young girl of the name of tuag, a fosterling of conaire the high king, was reared in teamhair, and a great company of the daughters of the kings of ireland were put about her to protect her, the way she would be kept for a king's asking. but manannan sent fer ferdiad, of the tuatha de danaan, that was a pupil of his own and a druid, in the shape of a woman of his own household, and he went where tuag was, and sang a sleep-spell over her, and brought her away to inver glas. and there he laid her down while he went looking for a boat, that he might bring her away in her sleep to the land of the ever-living women. but a wave of the flood-tide came over the girl, and she was drowned, and manannan killed fer ferdiad in his anger. and one time manannan's cows came up out of the sea at baile cronin, three of them, a red, and a white, and a black, and the people that were there saw them standing on the strand for a while, as if thinking, and then they all walked up together, side by side, from the strand. and at that time there were no roads in ireland, and there was great wonder on the people when they saw a good wide road ready before the three cows to walk on. and when they got about a mile from the sea they parted; the white cow went to the north-west, towards luimnech, and the red cow went to the south-west, and on round the coast of ireland, and the black cow went to the north-east, towards lis mor, in the district of portlairge, and a road opened before each of them, that is to be seen to this day. and some say it was manannan went to finn and the fianna in the form of the gilla decair, the bad servant, and brought them away to land-under-wave. anyway, he used often to go hunting with them on cnoc aine, and sometimes he came to their help. chapter ix. manannan at play and it was he went playing tricks through ireland a long time after that again, the time he got the name of o'donnell's kern. and it is the way it happened, aodh dubh o'donnell was holding a feast one time in bel-atha senaig, and his people were boasting of the goodness of his house and of his musicians. and while they were talking, they saw a clown coming towards them, old striped clothes he had, and puddle water splashing in his shoes, and his sword sticking out naked behind him, and his ears through the old cloak that was over his head, and in his hand he had three spears of hollywood scorched and blackened. he wished o'donnell good health, and o'donnell did the same to him, and asked where did he come from. "it is where i am," he said, "i slept last night at dun monaidhe, of the king of alban; i am a day in ile, a day in cionn-tire, a day in rachlainn, a day in the watchman's seat in slieve fuad; a pleasant, rambling, wandering man i am, and it is with yourself i am now, o'donnell," he said. "let the gate-keeper be brought to me," said o'donnell. and when the gate-keeper came, he asked was it he let in this man, and the gate-keeper said he did not, and that he never saw him before. "let him off, o'donnell," said the stranger, "for it was as easy for me to come in, as it will be to me to go out again." there was wonder on them all then, any man to have come into the house without passing the gate. the musicians began playing their music then, and all the best musicians of the country were there at the time, and they played very sweet tunes on their harps. but the strange man called out: "by my word, o'donnell, there was never a noise of hammers beating on iron in any bad place was so bad to listen to as this noise your people are making." with that he took a harp, and he made music that would put women in their pains and wounded men after a battle into a sweet sleep, and it is what o'donnell said: "since i first heard talk of the music of the sidhe that is played in the hills and under the earth below us, i never heard better music than your own. and it is a very sweet player you are," he said. "one day i am sweet, another day i am sour," said the clown. then o'donnell bade his people to bring him up to sit near himself. "i have no mind to do that," he said; "i would sooner be as i am, an ugly clown, making sport for high-up people." then o'donnell sent him down clothes, a hat and a striped shirt and a coat, but he would not have them. "i have no mind," he said, "to let high-up people be making a boast of giving them to me." they were afraid then he might go from them, and they put twenty armed horsemen and twenty men on foot to hold him back from leaving the house, and as many more outside at the gate, for they knew him not to be a man of this world. "what are these men for?" said he. "they are to keep you here," said o'donnell. "by my word, it is not with you i will be eating my supper to-morrow," he said, "but at cnoc aine, where seaghan, son of the earl is, in desmumain." "if i find you giving one stir out of yourself, between this and morning, i will knock you into a round lump there on the ground," said o'donnell. but at that the stranger took up the harp again, and he made the same sweet music as before. and when they were all listening to him, he called out to the men outside: "here i am coming, and watch me well now or you will lose me." when the men that were watching the gate heard that, they lifted up their axes to strike at him, but in their haste it was at one another they struck, till they were all lying stretched in blood. then the clown said to the gate-keeper: "let you ask twenty cows and a hundred of free land of o'donnell as a fee for bringing his people back to life. and take this herb," he said, "and rub it in the mouth of each man of them, and he will rise up whole and well again." so the gate-keeper did that, and he got the cows and the land from o'donnell, and he brought all the people to life again. now at that time seaghan, son of the earl, was holding a gathering on the green in front of his dun, and he saw the same man coming towards him, and dressed in the same way, and the water splashing in his shoes. but when he asked who was he, he gave himself the name of a very learned man, duartane o'duartane, and he said it was by ess ruadh he was come, and by ceiscorainn and from that to corrslieve, and to magh lorg of the dagda, and into the district of hy'conaill gabhra, "till i came to yourself," he said, "by cruachan of magh ai." so they brought him into the house, and gave him wine for drinking and water for washing his feet, and he slept till the rising of the sun on the morrow. and at that time seaghan, son of the earl, came to visit him, and he said: "it is a long sleep you had, and there is no wonder in that, and your journey so long yesterday. but i often heard of your learning in books and of your skill on the harp, and i would like to hear you this morning," he said. "i am good in those arts indeed," said the stranger. so they brought him a book, but he could not read a word of it, and then they brought him a harp, and he could not play any tune. "it is likely your reading and your music are gone from you," said seaghan; and he made a little rann on him, saying it was a strange thing duartane o'duartane that had such a great name not to be able to read a line of a book, or even to remember one. but when the stranger heard how he was being mocked at, he took up the book, and read from the top to the bottom of the page very well and in a sweet-sounding voice. and after that he took the harp and played and sang the same way he did at o'donnell's house the day before. "it is a very sweet man of learning you are," said seaghan. "one day i am sweet, another day i am sour," said the stranger. they walked out together then on cnoc aine, but while they were talking there, the stranger was gone all of a minute, and seaghan, son of the earl, could not see where he went. and after that he went on, and he reached sligach just at the time o'conchubar was setting out with the men of connacht to avenge the connacht hag's basket on the hag of munster. and this time he gave himself the name of the gilla decair, the bad servant. and he joined with the men of connacht, and they went over the sionnan westward into munster, and there they hunted and drove every creature that could be made travel, cattle and horses and flocks, into one place, till they got the hornless bull of the munster hag and her two speckled cows, and o'conchubar brought them away to give to the connacht hag in satisfaction for her basket. but the men of munster made an attack on them as they were going back; and the gilla decair asked o'conchubar would he sooner have the cows driven, or have the munster men checked, and he said he would sooner have the munster men checked. so the gilla decair turned on them, and with his bow and twenty-four arrows he kept them back till o'conchubar and his people were safe out of their reach in connacht. but he took some offence then, on account of o'conchubar taking the first drink himself when they came to his house, and not giving it to him, that had done so much, and he took his leave and went from them on the moment. after that he went to where tadg o'cealaigh was, and having his old striped clothes and his old shoes as before. and when they asked him what art he had, he said: "i am good at tricks. and if you will give me five marks i will show you a trick," he said. "i will give that," said tadg. with that the stranger put three rushes on the palm of his hand. "i will blow away the middle rush now," he said, "and the other two will stop as they are." so they told him to do that, and he put the tops of two of his fingers on the two outside rushes, and blew the middle one away. "there is a trick now for you, tadg o'cealaigh," he said then. "by my word, that is not a bad trick," said o'cealaigh. but one of his men said: "that there may be no good luck with him that did it. and give me the half of that money now, tadg," he said, "and i will do the same trick for you myself." "i will give you the half of what i got if you will do it," said the stranger. so the other put the rushes on his hand, but if he did, when he tried to do the trick, his two finger-tips went through the palm of his hand. "ob-ob-ob!" said the stranger, "that is not the way i did the trick. but as you have lost the money," he said, "i will heal you again." "i could do another trick for you," he said; "i could wag the ear on one side of my head and the ear on the other side would stay still." "do it then," said o'cealaigh. so the man of tricks took hold of one of his ears and wagged it up and down. "that is a good trick indeed," said o'cealaigh. "i will show you another one now," he said. with that he took from his bag a thread of silk, and gave a cast of it up into the air, that it was made fast to a cloud. and then he took a hare out of the same bag, and it ran up the thread; and then took out a little dog and laid it on after the hare, and it followed yelping on its track; and after that again he brought out a little serving-boy and bade him to follow dog and hare up the thread. then out of another bag he had with him he brought out a beautiful, well-dressed young woman, and bade her to follow after the hound and the boy, and to take care and not let the hare be torn by the dog. she went up then quickly after them, and it was a delight to tadg o'cealaigh to be looking at them and to be listening to the sound of the hunt going on in the air. all was quiet then for a long time, and then the man of tricks said: "i am afraid there is some bad work going on up there." "what is that?" said o'cealaigh. "i am thinking," said he, "the hound might be eating the hare, and the serving-boy courting the girl." "it is likely enough they are," said o'cealaigh. with that the stranger drew in the thread, and it is what he found, the boy making love to the girl and the hound chewing the bones of the hare. there was great anger on the man of tricks when he saw that, and he took his sword and struck the head off the boy. "i do not like a thing of that sort to be done in my presence," said tadg o'cealaigh. "if it did not please you, i can set all right again," said the stranger. and with that he took up the head and made a cast of it at the body, and it joined to it, and the young man stood up, but if he did his face was turned backwards. "it would be better for him to be dead than to be living like that," said o'cealaigh. when the man of tricks heard that, he took hold of the boy and twisted his head straight, and he was as well as before. and with that the man of tricks vanished, and no one saw where was he gone. that is the way manannan used to be going round ireland, doing tricks and wonders. and no one could keep him in any place, and if he was put on a gallows itself, he would be found safe in the house after, and some other man on the gallows in his place. but he did no harm, and those that would be put to death by him, he would bring them to life again with a herb out of his bag. and all the food he would use would be a vessel of sour milk and a few crab-apples. and there never was any music sweeter than the music he used to be playing. chapter x. his call to bran and there were some that went to manannan's country beyond the sea, and that gave an account of it afterwards. one time bran, son of febal, was out by himself near his dun, and he heard music behind him. and it kept always after him, and at last he fell asleep with the sweetness of the sound. and when he awoke from his sleep he saw beside him a branch of silver, and it having white blossoms, and the whiteness of the silver was the same as the whiteness of the blossoms. and he brought the branch in his hand into the royal house, and when all his people were with him they saw a woman with strange clothing standing in the house. and she began to make a song for bran, and all the people were looking at her and listening to her, and it is what she said: "i bring a branch of the apple-tree from emhain, from the far island around which are the shining horses of the son of lir. a delight of the eyes is the plain where the hosts hold their games; curragh racing against chariot in the white silver plain to the south. "there are feet of white bronze under it, shining through life and time; a comely level land through the length of the world's age, and many blossoms falling on it. "there is an old tree there with blossoms, and birds calling from among them; every colour is shining there, delight is common, and music, in the gentle-voiced plain, in the silver cloud plain to the south. "keening is not used, or treachery, in the tilled familiar land; there is nothing hard or rough, but sweet music striking on the ear. "to be without grief, without sorrow, without death, without any sickness, without weakness; that is the sign of emhain; it is not common wonder that is. "there is nothing to liken its mists to, the sea washes the wave against the land; brightness falls from its hair. "there are riches, there are treasures of every colour in the gentle land, the bountiful land. sweet music to be listening to; the best of wine to drink. "golden chariots in the plain of the sea, rising up to the sun with the tide; silver chariots and bronze chariots on the plain of sports. "gold-yellow horses on the strand, and crimson horses, and others with wool on their backs, blue like the colour of the sky. "it is a day of lasting weather, silver is dropping on the land; a pure white cliff on the edge of the sea, getting its warmth from the sun. "the host race over the plain of sports; it is beautiful and not weak their game is; death or the ebbing of the tide will not come to them in the many-coloured land. "there will come at sunrise a fair man, lighting up the level lands; he rides upon the plain that is beaten by the waves, he stirs the sea till it is like blood. "an army will come over the clear sea, rowing to the stone that is in sight, that a hundred sounds of music come from. "it sings a song to the army; it is not sad through the length of time; it increases music with hundreds singing together; they do not look for death or the ebb-tide. "there are three times fifty far islands in the ocean to the west of us, and every one of them twice or three times more than ireland. "it is not to all of you i am speaking, though i have made all these wonders known. let bran listen from the crowd of the world to all the wisdom that has been told him. "do not fall upon a bed of sloth; do not be overcome by drunkenness; set out on your voyage over the clear sea, and you may chance to come to the land of women." with that the woman went from them, and they did not know where she went. and she brought away her branch with her, for it leaped into her hand from bran's hand, and he had not the strength to hold it. then on the morrow bran set out upon the sea, and three companies of nine along with him; and one of his foster-brothers and comrades was set over each company of nine. and when they had been rowing for two days and two nights, they saw a man coming towards them in a chariot, over the sea. and the man made himself known to them, and he said that he was manannan, son of lir. and then manannan spoke to him in a song, and it is what he said: "it is what bran thinks, he is going in his curragh over the wonderful, beautiful clear sea; but to me, from far off in my chariot, it is a flowery plain he is riding on. "what is a clear sea to the good boat bran is in, is a happy plain with many flowers to me in my two-wheeled chariot. "it is what bran sees, many waves beating across the clear sea; it is what i myself see, red flowers without any fault. "the sea-horses are bright in summer-time, as far as bran's eyes can reach; there is a wood of beautiful acorns under the head of your little boat. "a wood with blossom and with fruit, that has the smell of wine; a wood without fault, without withering, with leaves of the colour of gold. "let bran row on steadily, it is not far to the land of women; before the setting of the sun you will reach emhain, of many-coloured hospitality." with that bran went from him; and after a while he saw an island, and he rowed around it, and there was a crowd on it, wondering at them, and laughing; and they were all looking at bran and at his people, but they would not stop to talk with them, but went on giving out gusts of laughter. bran put one of his men on the island then, but he joined with the others, and began to stare the same way as the men of the island. and bran went on rowing round about the island; and whenever they went past his own man, his comrades would speak to him, but he would not answer them, but would only stare and wonder at them. so they went away and left him on that island that is called the island of joy. it was not long after that they reached to the land of women. and they saw the chief one of the women at the landing-place, and it is what she said: "come hither to land, bran, son of febal, it is welcome your coming is." but bran did not dare to go on shore. then the woman threw a ball of thread straight to him, and he caught it in his hand, and it held fast to his palm, and the woman kept the thread in her own hand, and she pulled the curragh to the landing-place. on that they went into a grand house, where there was a bed for every couple, three times nine beds. and the food that was put on every dish never came to an end, and they had every sort of food and of drink they wished for. and it seemed to them they were only a year there when the desire of home took hold on one of them, nechtan, son of collbrain, and his kinsmen were begging and praying bran to go back with him to ireland. the woman said there would be repentance on them if they went; but in spite of that they set out in the end. and the woman said to them not to touch the land when they would come to ireland, and she bade them to visit and to bring with them the man they left in the island of joy. so they went on towards ireland till they came to a place called srub bruin. and there were people on the strand that asked them who they were that were coming over the sea. and bran said: "i am bran, son of febal." but the people said: "we know of no such man, though the voyage of bran is in our very old stories." then nechtan, son of collbrain, made a leap out of the curragh, and no sooner did he touch the shore of ireland than he was a heap of ashes, the same as if he had been in the earth through hundreds of years. and then bran told the whole story of his wanderings to the people, from the beginning. and after that he bade them farewell, and his wanderings from that time are not known. chapter xi. his three calls to cormac and another that went to manannan's country was cormac, grandson of conn, king of teamhair, and this is the way it happened. he was by himself in teamhair one time, and he saw an armed man coming towards him, quiet, with high looks, and having grey hair; a shirt ribbed with gold thread next his skin, broad shoes of white bronze between his feet and the ground, a shining branch, having nine apples of red gold, on his shoulder. and it is delightful the sound of that branch was, and no one on earth would keep in mind any want, or trouble, or tiredness, when that branch was shaken for him; and whatever trouble there might be on him, he would forget it at the sound. then cormac and the armed man saluted one another, and cormac asked where did he come from. "i come," he said, "from a country where there is nothing but truth, and where there is neither age nor withering away, nor heaviness, nor sadness, nor jealousy nor envy, nor pride." "that is not so with us," said cormac, "and i would be well pleased to have your friendship," he said. "i am well pleased to give it," said the stranger. "give me your branch along with it," said cormac. "i will give it," said the stranger, "if you will give me the three gifts i ask in return." "i will give them to you indeed," said cormac. then the strange man left the branch and went away, and cormac did not know where was he gone to. he went back then into the royal house, and there was wonder on all the people when they saw the branch. and he shook it at them, and it put them all asleep from that day to the same time on the morrow. at the end of a year the strange man came back again, and he asked for the first of his three requests. "you will get it," said cormac. "i will take your daughter, aille, to-day," said the stranger. so he brought away the girl with him, and the women of ireland gave three loud cries after the king's daughter. but cormac shook the branch at them, until it put away sorrow from them, and put them all into their sleep. that day month the stranger came again, and he brought cormac's son, carpre lifecar, away with him. there was crying and lamenting without end in teamhair after the boy, and on that night no one ate or slept, and they were all under grief and very downhearted. but when cormac shook the branch their sorrow went from them. then the stranger came the third time, and cormac asked him what did he want. "it is your wife, ethne, i am asking this time," he said. and he went away then, bringing ethne, the queen, along with him. but cormac would not bear that, and he went after them, and all his people were following him. but in the middle of the plain of the wall, a thick mist came on them, and when it was gone, cormac found himself alone on a great plain. and he saw a great dun in the middle of the plain, with a wall of bronze around it, and in the dun a house of white silver, and it half thatched with the white wings of birds. and there was a great troop of the riders of the sidhe all about the house, and their arms full of white birds' wings for thatching. but as soon as they would put on the thatch, a blast of wind would come and carry it away again. then he saw a man kindling a fire, and he used to throw a thick oak-tree upon it. and when he would come back with a second tree, the first one would be burned out. "i will be looking at you no longer," cormac said then, "for there is no one here to tell me your story, and i think i could find good sense in your meanings if i understood them," he said. then he went on to where there was another dun, very large and royal, and another wall of bronze around it, and four houses within it. and he went in and saw a great king's house, having beams of bronze and walls of silver, and its thatch of the wings of white birds. and then he saw on the green a shining well, and five streams flowing from it, and the armies drinking water in turn, and the nine lasting purple hazels of buan growing over it. and they were dropping their nuts into the water, and the five salmon would catch them and send their husks floating down the streams. and the sound of the flowing of those streams is sweeter than any music that men sing. then he went into the palace, and he found there waiting for him a man and a woman, very tall, and having clothes of many colours. the man was beautiful as to shape, and his face wonderful to look at; and as to the young woman that was with him, she was the loveliest of all the women of the world, and she having yellow hair and a golden helmet. and there was a bath there, and heated stones going in and out of the water of themselves, and cormac bathed himself in it. "rise up, man of the house," the woman said after that, "for this is a comely traveller is come to us; and if you have one kind of food or meat better than another, let it be brought in." the man rose up then and he said: "i have but seven pigs, but i could feed the whole world with them, for the pig that is killed and eaten to-day, you will find it alive again to-morrow." another man came into the house then, having an axe in his right hand, and a log in his left hand, and a pig behind him. "it is time to make ready," said the man of the house, "for we have a high guest with us to-day." then the man struck the pig and killed it, and he cut the logs and made a fire and put the pig on it in a cauldron. "it is time for you to turn it," said the master of the house after a while. "there would be no use doing that," said the man, "for never and never will the pig be boiled until a truth is told for every quarter of it." "then let you tell yours first," said the master of the house. "one day," said the man, "i found another man's cows in my land, and i brought them with me into a cattle pound. the owner of the cows followed me, and he said he would give me a reward to let the cows go free. so i gave them back to him, and he gave me an axe, and when a pig is to be killed, it is with the axe it is killed, and the log is cut with it, and there is enough wood to boil the pig, and enough for the palace besides. and that is not all, for the log is found whole again in the morning. and from that time till now, that is the way they are." "it is true indeed that story is," said the man of the house. they turned the pig in the cauldron then, and but one quarter of it was found to be cooked. "let us tell another true story," they said. "i will tell one," said the master of the house. "ploughing time had come, and when we had a mind to plough that field outside, it is the way we found it, ploughed, and harrowed, and sowed with wheat. when we had a mind to reap it, the wheat was found in the haggard, all in one thatched rick. we have been using it from that day to this, and it is no bigger and no less." then they turned the pig, and another quarter was found to be ready. "it is my turn now," said the woman. "i have seven cows," she said, "and seven sheep. and the milk of the seven cows would satisfy the whole of the men of the world, if they were in the plain drinking it, and it is enough for all the people of the land of promise, and it is from the wool of the seven sheep all the clothes they wear are made." and at that story the third quarter of the pig was boiled. "if these stories are true," said cormac to the man of the house, "you are manannan, and this is manannan's wife; for no one on the whole ridge of the world owns these treasures but himself. it was to the land of promise he went to look for that woman, and he got those seven cows with her." they said to cormac that it was his turn now. so cormac told them how his wife, and his son, and his daughter, had been brought away from him, and how he himself had followed them till he came to that place. and with that the whole pig was boiled, and they cut it up, and cormac's share was put before him. "i never used a meal yet," said he, "having two persons only in my company." the man of the house began singing to him then, and put him asleep. and when he awoke, he saw fifty armed men, and his son, and his wife, and his daughter, along with them. there was great gladness and courage on him then, and ale and food were given out to them all. and there was a gold cup put in the hand of the master of the house, and cormac was wondering at it, for the number of the shapes on it, and for the strangeness of the work. "there is a stranger thing yet about it," the man said; "let three lying words be spoken under it, and it will break into three, and then let three true words be spoken under it, and it will be as good as before." so he said three lying words under it, and it broke in three pieces. "it is best to speak truth now under it," he said, "and to mend it. and i give my word, cormac," he said, "that until to-day neither your wife or your daughter has seen the face of a man since they were brought away from you out of teamhair, and that your son has never seen the face of a woman." and with that the cup was whole again on the moment. "bring away your wife and your children with you now," he said, "and this cup along with them, the way you will have it for judging between truth and untruth. and i will leave the branch with you for music and delight, but on the day of your death they will be taken from you again." "and i myself," he said, "am manannan, son of lir, king of the land of promise, and i brought you here by enchantments that you might be with me to-night in friendship. "and the riders you saw thatching the house," he said, "are the men of art and poets, and all that look for a fortune in ireland, putting together cattle and riches. for when they go out, all that they leave in their houses goes to nothing, and so they go on for ever. "and the man you saw kindling the fire," he said, "is a young lord that is more liberal than he can afford, and every one else is served while he is getting the feast ready, and every one else profiting by it. "and the well you saw is the well of knowledge, and the streams are the five streams through which all knowledge goes. and no one will have knowledge who does not drink a draught out of the well itself or out of the streams. and the people of many arts are those who drink from them all." and on the morning of the morrow, when cormac rose up, he found himself on the green of teamhair, and his wife, and his son, and his daughter, along with him, and he having his branch and his cup. and it was given the name of cormac's cup, and it used to judge between truth and falsehood among the gael. but it was not left in ireland after the night of cormac's death, as manannan had foretold him. chapter xii. cliodna's wave and it was in the time of the fianna of ireland that ciabhan of the curling hair, the king of ulster's son, went to manannan's country. ciabhan now was the most beautiful of the young men of the world at that time, and he was as far beyond all other kings' sons as the moon is beyond the stars. and finn liked him well, but the rest of the fianna got to be tired of him because there was not a woman of their women, wed or unwed, but gave him her love. and finn had to send him away at the last, for he was in dread of the men of the fianna because of the greatness of their jealousy. so ciabhan went on till he came to the strand of the cairn, that is called now the strand of the strong man, between dun sobairce and the sea. and there he saw a curragh, and it having a narrow stern of copper. and ciabhan got into the curragh, and his people said: "is it to leave ireland you have a mind, ciabhan?" "it is indeed," he said, "for in ireland i get neither shelter or protection." he bade farewell to his people then, and he left them very sorrowful after him, for to part with him was like the parting of life from the body. and ciabhan went on in the curragh, and great white shouting waves rose up about him, every one of them the size of a mountain; and the beautiful speckled salmon that are used to stop in the sand and the shingle rose up to the sides of the curragh, till great dread came on ciabhan, and he said: "by my word, if it was on land i was i could make a better fight for myself" and he was in this danger till he saw a rider coming towards him on a dark grey horse having a golden bridle, and he would be under the sea for the length of nine waves, and he would rise with the tenth wave, and no wet on him at all. and he said: "what reward would you give to whoever would bring you out of this great danger?" "is there anything in my hand worth offering you?" said ciabhan. "there is," said the rider, "that you would give your service to whoever would give you his help." ciabhan agreed to that, and he put his hand into the rider's hand. with that the rider drew him on to the horse, and the curragh came on beside them till they reached to the shore of tir tairngaire, the land of promise. they got off the horse there, and came to loch luchra, the lake of the dwarfs, and to manannan's city, and a feast was after being made ready there, and comely serving-boys were going round with smooth horns, and playing on sweet-sounding harps till the whole house was filled with the music. then there came in clowns, long-snouted, long-heeled, lean and bald and red, that used to be doing tricks in manannan's house. and one of these tricks was, a man of them to take nine straight willow rods, and to throw them up to the rafters of the house, and to catch them again as they came down, and he standing on one leg, and having but one hand free. and they thought no one could do that trick but themselves, and they were used to ask strangers to do it, the way they could see them fail. so this night when one of them had done the trick, he came up to ciabhan, that was beyond all the men of dea or the sons of the gael that were in the house, in shape and in walk and in name, and he put the nine rods in his hand. and ciabhan stood up and he did the feat before them all, the same as if he had never learned to do any other thing. now gebann, that was a chief druid in manannan's country, had a daughter, cliodna of the fair hair, that had never given her love to any man. but when she saw ciabhan she gave him her love, and she agreed to go away with him on the morrow. and they went down to the landing-place and got into a curragh, and they went on till they came to teite's strand in the southern part of ireland. it was from teite brec the freckled the strand got its name, that went there one time for a wave game, and three times fifty young girls with her, and they were all drowned in that place. and as to ciabhan, he came on shore, and went looking for deer, as was right, under the thick branches of the wood; and he left the young girl in the boat on the strand. but the people of manannan's house came after them, having forty ships. and iuchnu, that was in the curragh with cliodna, did treachery, and he played music to her till she lay down in the boat and fell asleep. and then a great wave came up on the strand and swept her away. and the wave got its name from cliodna of the fair hair, that will be long remembered. chapter xiii. his call to connla and it is likely it was manannan sent his messenger for connla of the red hair the time he went away out of ireland, for it is to his country connla was brought; and this is the way he got the call. it chanced one day he was with his father conn, king of teamhair, on the hill of uisnach, and he saw a woman having wonderful clothing coming towards him. "where is it you come from?" he asked her. "i come," she said, "from tir-nam-beo, the land of the ever-living ones, where no death comes. we use feasts that are lasting," she said, "and we do every kind thing without quarrelling, and we are called the people of the sidhe." "who are you speaking to, boy?" said conn to him then, for no one saw the strange woman but only connla. "he is speaking to a high woman that death or old age will never come to," she said. "i am asking him to come to magh mell, the pleasant plain where the triumphant king is living, and there he will be a king for ever without sorrow or fret. come with me, connla of the red hair," she said, "of the fair freckled neck and of the ruddy cheek; come with me, and your body will not wither from its youth and its comeliness for ever." they could all hear the woman's words then, though they could not see her, and it is what conn said to coran his druid: "help me, coran, you that sing spells of the great arts. there is an attack made on me that is beyond my wisdom and beyond my power, i never knew so strong an attack since the first day i was a king. there is an unseen figure fighting with me; she is using her strength against me to bring away my beautiful son; the call of a woman is bringing him away from the hands of the king." then coran, the druid, began singing spells against the woman of the sidhe, the way no one would hear her voice, and connla could not see her any more. but when she was being driven away by the spells of the druid, she threw an apple to connla. and through the length of a month from that time, connla used no other food nor drink but that apple, for he thought no other food or drink worth the using. and for all he ate of it, the apple grew no smaller, but was whole all the while. and there was great trouble on connla on account of the woman he had seen. and at the end of a month connla was at his father's side in magh archomnim, and he saw the same woman coming towards him, and it is what she said: "it is a high place indeed connla has among dying people, and death before him. but the ever-living living ones," she said, "are asking you to take the sway over the people of tethra, for they are looking at you every day in the gatherings of your country among your dear friends." when conn, the king, heard her voice, he said to his people: "call coran, the druid to me, for i hear the sound of the woman's voice again." but on that she said: "o conn, fighter of a hundred, it is little love and little respect the wonderful tribes of traig mor, the great strand, have for druids; and where its law comes, it scatters the spells on their lips." then conn looked to his son connla to see what he would say, and connla said: "my own people are dearer to me than any other thing, yet sorrow has taken hold of me because of this woman." then the woman spoke to him again, and it is what she said: "come now into my shining ship, if you will come to the plain of victory. there is another country it would not be worse for you to look for; though the bright sun is going down, we shall reach to that country before night. that is the country that delights the mind of every one that turns to me. there is no living race in it but women and girls only." and when the woman had ended her song, connla made a leap from his people into the shining boat, and they saw him sailing away from them far off and as if in a mist, as far as their eyes could see. it is away across the sea they went, and they have never come back again, and only the gods know where was it they went. chapter xiv. tadg in manannan's islands and another that went to the land of the ever-living ones, but that came back again, was tadg, son of cian, son of olioll; and this is the way that happened. it was one time tadg was going his next heir's round, into the west of munster, and his two brothers, airnelach and eoghan, along with him. and cathmann, son of tabarn, that was king of the beautiful country of fresen that lay to the south-east of the great plain, was searching the sea for what he could find just at that time, and nine of his ships with him. and they landed at beire do bhunadas, to the west of munster, and the country had no stir in it, and so they slipped ashore, and no one took notice of them till all were surrounded, both men and cattle. and tadg's wife liban, daughter of conchubar abratrudh of the red brows, and his two brothers, and a great many of the people of munster, were taken by the foreigners and brought away to the coasts of fresen. and cathmann took liban to be his own wife, and he put hardship on tadg's two brothers: eoghan he put to work a common ferry across a channel of the coast, and airnelach to cut firing and to keep up fires for all the people; and all the food they got was barley seed and muddy water. and as to tadg himself, it was only by his courage and the use of his sword he made his escape, but there was great grief and discouragement on him, his wife and his brothers to have been brought away. but he had forty of his fighting men left that had each killed a man of the foreigners, and they had brought one in alive. and this man told them news of the country he came from. and when tadg heard that, he made a plan in his own head, and he gave orders for a curragh to be built that would be fit for a long voyage. very strong it was, and forty ox-hides on it of hard red leather, that was after being soaked in bark. and it was well fitted with masts, and oars, and pitch, and everything that was wanting. and they put every sort of meat, and drink, and of clothes in it, that would last them through the length of a year. when all was ready, and the curragh out in the tide, tadg said to his people: "let us set out now on the high sea, looking for our own people that are away from us this long time." they set out then over the stormy, heavy flood, till at last they saw no land before them or behind them, but only the hillsides of the great sea. and farther on again they heard the singing of a great flock of unknown birds; and pleasant white-bellied salmon were leaping about the curragh on every side, and seals, very big and dark, were coming after them, breaking through the shining wash of the oars; and great whales after them again, so that the young men liked to be looking at them, for they were not used to see the like before. they went on rowing through twenty days and twenty nights, and at the end of that time they got sight of a high land, having a smooth coast. and when they reached it they all landed, and they pulled up the curragh and lit their fires, and food was given out to them, and they were not long making an end of it. they made beds for themselves then on the beautiful green grass, and enjoyed their sleep till the rising of the sun on the morrow. tadg rose up then and put on his arms, and went out, and thirty of his men along with him, to search the whole island. they went all through it, but they found no living thing on it, man or beast, but only flocks of sheep. and the size of the sheep was past all telling, as big as horses they were, and the whole island was filled with their wool. and there was one great flock beyond all the others, all of very big rams, and one of them was biggest of all, nine horns he had, and he charged on tadg's chief men, attacking them and butting at them. there was vexation on them then, and they attacked him again, and there was a struggle between them. and at the first the ram broke through five of their shields. but tadg took his spear that there was no escape from, and made a lucky cast at the ram and killed him. and they brought the ram to the curragh and made it ready for the young men to eat, and they stopped three nights on the island, and every night it was a sheep they had for their food. and they gathered a good share of the wool and put it in the curragh because of the wonder and the beauty of it. and they found the bones of very big men on the island, but whether they died of sickness or were killed by the rams they did not know. they left that island then and went forward till they found two strange islands where there were great flocks of wonderful birds, like blackbirds, and some of them the size of eagles or of cranes, and they red with green heads on them, and the eggs they had were blue and pure crimson. and some of the men began eating the eggs, and on the moment feathers began to grow out on them. but they went bathing after that, and the feathers dropped off them again as quick as they came. it was the foreigner they had with them gave them the course up to this time, for he had been on the same track before. but now they went on through the length of six weeks and never saw land, and he said then, "we are astray on the great ocean that has no boundaries." then the wind with its sharp voice began to rise, and there was a noise like the tramping of feet in the sea, and it rose up into great mountains hard to climb, and there was great fear on tadg's people, for they had never seen the like. but he began to stir them up and to rouse them, and he bade them to meet the sea like men. "do bravery," he said, "young men of munster, and fight for your lives against the waves that are rising up and coming at the sides of the curragh." tadg took one side of the curragh then and his men took the other side, and he was able to pull it round against the whole twenty-nine of them, and to bale it out and keep it dry along with that. and after a while they got a fair wind and put up their sail, the way less water came into the curragh, and then the sea went down and lay flat and calm, and there were strange birds of many shapes singing around them in every part. they saw land before them then, with a good coast, and with that courage and gladness came on them. and when they came nearer to the land they found a beautiful inver, a river's mouth, with green hills about it, and the bottom of it sandy and as bright as silver, and red-speckled salmon in it, and pleasant woods with purple tree-tops edging the stream. "it is a beautiful country this is," said tadg, "and it would be happy for him that would be always in it; and let you pull up the ship now," he said, "and dry it out." a score of them went forward then into the country, and a score stopped to mind the curragh. and for all the cold and discouragement and bad weather they had gone through, they felt no wish at all for food or for fire, but the sweet smell of the crimson branches in the place they were come to satisfied them. they went on through the wood, and after a while they came to an apple garden having red apples in it, and leafy oak-trees, and hazels yellow with nuts. "it is a wonder to me," said tadg, "to find summer here, and it winter time in our own country." it was a delightful place they were in, but they went on into another wood, very sweet smelling, and round purple berries in it, every one of them bigger than a man's head, and beautiful shining birds eating the berries, strange birds they were, having white bodies and purple heads and golden beaks. and while they were eating the berries they were singing sweet music, that would have put sick men and wounded men into their sleep. tadg and his men went farther on again till they came to a great smooth flowery plain with a dew of honey over it, and three steep hills on the plain, having a very strong dun on every one of them. and when they got to the nearest hill they found a white-bodied woman, the best of the women of the whole world, and it is what she said: "your coming is welcome, tadg, son of cian, and there will be food and provision for you as you want it." "i am glad of that welcome," said tadg; "and tell me now, woman of sweet words," he said, "what is that royal dun on the hill, having walls of white marble around it?" "that is the dun of the royal line of the kings of ireland, from heremon, son of miled, to conn of the hundred battles, that was the last to go into it." "what is the name of this country?" tadg said then. "it is inislocha, the lake island," she said, "and there are two kings over it, rudrach and dergcroche, sons of bodb." and then she told tadg the whole story of ireland, to the time of the coming of the sons of the gael. "that is well," said tadg then, "and you have good knowledge and learning. and tell me now," he said, "who is living in that middle dun that has the colour of gold?" "it is not myself will tell you that," she said, "but go on to it yourself and you will get knowledge of it." and with that she went from them into the dun of white marble. tadg and his men went on then till they came to the middle dun, and there they found a queen of beautiful shape, and she wearing a golden dress. "health to you, tadg," she said. "i thank you for that," said tadg. "it is a long time your coming on this journey was foretold," she said. "what is your name?" he asked then. "i am cesair," she said, "the first that ever reached ireland. but since i and the men that were with me came out of that dark, unquiet land, we are living for ever in this country." "tell me, woman," said tadg, "who is it lives in that dun having a wall of gold about it?" "it is not hard to tell that," she said, "every king, and every chief man, and every noble person that was in a high place of all those that had power in ireland, it is in that dun beyond they are; parthalon and nemed, firbolgs and tuatha de danaan." "it is good knowledge and learning you have," said tadg. "indeed i have good knowledge of the history of the world," she said, "and this island," she said, "is the fourth paradise of the world; and as to the others, they are inis daleb to the south, and inis ercandra to the north, and adam's paradise in the east of the world." "who is there living in that dun with the silver walls?" said tadg then. "i will not tell you that, although i have knowledge of it," said the woman; "but go to the beautiful hill where it is, and you will get knowledge of it." they went on then to the third hill, and on the top of the hill was a very beautiful resting-place, and two sweethearts there, a boy and a girl, comely and gentle. smooth hair they had, shining like gold, and beautiful green clothes of the one sort, and any one would think them to have had the same father and mother. gold chains they had around their necks, and bands of gold above those again. and tadg spoke to them: "o bright, comely children," he said, "it is a pleasant place you have here." and they answered him back, and they were praising his courage and his strength and his wisdom, and they gave him their blessing. and it is how the young man was, he had a sweet-smelling apple, having the colour of gold, in his hand, and he would eat a third part of it, and with all he would eat, it would never be less. and that was the food that nourished the two of them, and neither age or sorrow could touch them when once they had tasted it. "who are you yourself?" tadg asked him then. "i am son to conn of the hundred battles," he said. "is it connla you are?" said tadg. "i am indeed," said the young man, "and it is this girl of many shapes that brought me here." and the girl said: "i have given him my love and my affection, and it is because of that i brought him to this place, the way we might be looking at one another for ever, and beyond that we have never gone." "that is a beautiful thing and a strange thing," said tadg, "and a thing to wonder at. and who is there in that grand dun with the silver walls?" he said. "there is no one at all in it," said the girl. "what is the reason of that?" said tadg. "it is for the kings that are to rule ireland yet," she said; "and there will be a place in it for yourself, tadg. and come now," she said, "till you see it." the lovers went on to the dun, and it is hardly the green grass was bent under their white feet. and tadg and his people went along with them. they came then to the great wonderful house that was ready for the company of the kings; it is a pleasant house that was, and any one would like to be in it. walls of white bronze it had, set with crystal and with carbuncles, that were shining through the night as well as through the day. tadg looked out from the house then, and he saw to one side of him a great sheltering apple-tree, and blossoms and ripe fruit on it. "what is that apple tree beyond?" said tadg. "it is the fruit of that tree is food for the host in this house," said the woman. "and it was an apple of that apple-tree brought connla here to me; a good tree it is, with its white-blossomed branches, and its golden apples that would satisfy the whole house." and then connla and the young girl left them, and they saw coming towards them a troop of beautiful women. and there was one among them was most beautiful of all, and when she was come to them she said: "a welcome to you, tadg." "i thank you for that welcome," said tadg; "and tell me," he said, "who are you yourself?" "i am cliodna of the fair hair," she said, "daughter of gebann, son of treon, of the tuatha de danaan, a sweetheart of ciabhan of the curling hair; and it is from me cliodna's wave on the coast of munster got its name; and i am a long time now in this island, and it is the apples of that tree you saw that we use for food." and tadg was well pleased to be listening to her talk, but after a while he said: "it is best for us to go on now to look for our people." "we will be well pleased if you stop longer with us," said the woman. and while she was saying those words they saw three beautiful birds coming to them, one of them blue and his head crimson, and one was crimson and his head green, and the third was speckled and his head the colour of gold, and they lit on the great apple-tree, and every bird of them ate an apple, and they sang sweet music then, that would put sick men into their sleep. "those birds will go with you," cliodna said then; "they will give you guidance on your way, and they will make music for you, and there will be neither sorrow or sadness on you, by land or by sea, till you come to ireland. and bring away this beautiful green cup with you," she said, "for there is power in it, and if you do but pour water into it, it will be turned to wine on the moment. and do not let it out of your hand," she said, "but keep it with you; for at whatever time it will escape from you, your death will not be far away. and it is where you will meet your death, in the green valley at the side of the boinn; and it is a wandering wild deer will give you a wound, and after that, it is strangers will put an end to you. and i myself will bury your body, and there will be a hill over it, and the name it will get is croidhe essu." they went out of the shining house then, and cliodna of the fair hair went with them to the place they had left their ship, and she bade their comrades a kindly welcome; and she asked them how long had they been in that country. "it seems to us," they said, "we are not in it but one day only." "you are in it through the whole length of a year," said she, "and through all that time you used neither food nor drink. but however long you would stop here," she said, "cold or hunger would never come on you." "it would be a good thing to live this way always," said tadg's people when they heard that. but he himself said: "it is best for us to go on and to look for our people. and we must leave this country, although it is displeasing to us to leave it." then cliodna and tadg bade farewell to one another, and she gave her blessing to him and to his people. and they set out then over the ridges of the sea; and they were downhearted after leaving that country until the birds began to sing for them, and then their courage rose up, and they were glad and light-hearted. and when they looked back they could not see the island they had come from, because of a druid mist that came on it and hid it from them. then by the leading of the birds they came to the country of fresen, and they were in a deep sleep through the whole voyage. and then they attacked the foreigners and got the better of them, and tadg killed cathmann, the king, after a hard fight; and liban his wife made no delay, and came to meet her husband and her sweetheart, and it is glad she was to see him. and after they had rested a while they faced the sea again, and tadg and his wife liban, and his two brothers, and a great many other treasures along with them, and they came home to ireland safely at the last. chapter xv. laegaire in the happy plain and another that went to visit magh mell, the happy plain, was laegaire, son of the king of connacht, crimthan cass. he was out one day with the king, his father, near loch na-n ean, the lake of birds, and the men of connacht with them, and they saw a man coming to them through the mist. long golden-yellow hair he had, and it streaming after him, and at his belt a gold-hilted sword, and in his hand two five-barbed darts, a gold-rimmed shield on his back, a five-folded crimson cloak about his shoulders. "give a welcome to the man that is coming towards you," said laegaire, that had the best name of all the men of connacht, to his people. and to the stranger he said: "a welcome to the champion we do not know." "i am thankful to you all," said he. "what is it you are come for, and where are you going?" said laegaire then. "i am come to look for the help of fighting men," said the stranger. "and my name," he said, "is fiachna, son of betach, of the men of the sidhe; and it is what ails me, my wife was taken from my pillow and brought away by eochaid, son of sal. and we fought together, and i killed him, and now she is gone to a brother's son of his, goll, son of dalbh, king of a people of magh mell. seven battles i gave him, but they all went against me; and on this very day there is another to be fought, and i am come to ask help. and to every one that deserves it, i will give a good reward of gold and of silver for that help." and it is what he said: "the most beautiful of plains is the plain of the two mists; it is not far from this; it is a host of the men of the sidhe full of courage are stirring up pools of blood upon it. "we have drawn red blood from the bodies of high nobles; many women are keening them with cries and with tears. "the men of the host in good order go out ahead of their beautiful king; they march among blue spears, white troops of fighters with curled hair. "they scatter the troops of their enemies, they destroy every country they make an attack on; they are beautiful in battle, a host with high looks, rushing, avenging. "it is no wonder they to have such strength: every one of them is the son of a king and a queen; manes of hair they have of the colour of gold. "their bodies smooth and comely; their eyes blue and far-seeing; their teeth bright like crystal, within their thin red lips. "white shields they have in their hands, with patterns on them of white silver; blue shining swords, red horns set with gold. "they are good at killing men in battle; good at song-making, good at chess-playing. "the most beautiful of plains is the plain of the two mists; the men of the sidhe are stirring up pools of blood on it; it is not far from this place." "it would be a shameful thing not to give our help to this man," said laegaire. fiachna, son of betach, went down into the lake then, for it was out of it he had come, and laegaire went down into it after him, and fifty fighting men along with him. they saw a strong place before them then, and a company of armed men, and goll, son of dalbh, at the head of them. "that is well," said laegaire, "i and my fifty men will go out against this troop." "i will answer you," said goll, son of dalbh. the two fifties attacked one another then, and goll fell, but laegaire and his fifty escaped with their lives and made a great slaughter of their enemies, that not one of them made his escape. "where is the woman now?" said laegaire. "she is within the dun of magh mell, and a troop of armed men keeping guard about it," said fiachna. "let you stop here, and i and my fifty will go there," said laegaire. so he and his men went on to the dun, and laegaire called out to the men that were about it: "your king has got his death, your chief men have fallen, let the woman come out, and i will give you your own lives." the men agreed to that, and they brought the woman out. and when she came out she made this complaint: "it is a sorrowful day that swords are reddened for the sake of the dear dead body of goll, son of dalbh. it was he that loved me, it was himself i loved, it is little laegaire liban cares for that. "weapons were hacked and were split by goll; it is to fiachna, son of betach, i must go; it is goll son of dalbh, i loved." and that complaint got the name of "the lament of the daughter of eochaid the dumb." laegaire went back with her then till he put her hand in fiachna's hand. and that night fiachna's daughter, deorgreine, a tear of the sun, was given to laegaire as his wife, and fifty other women were given to his fifty fighting men, and they stopped with them there to the end of a year. and at the end of that time, laegaire said: "let us go and ask news of our own country." "if you have a mind to go," said fiachna, "bring horses with you; but whatever happens," he said, "do not get off from them." so they set out then; and when they got back to ireland, they found a great gathering of the whole of the men of connacht that were keening them. and when the men of connacht saw them coming they rose up to meet them, and to bid them welcome. but laegaire called out: "do not come to us, for it is to bid you farewell we are here." "do not go from us again," said crimthan, his father, "and i will give you the sway over the three connachts, their silver and their gold, their horses and their bridles, and their beautiful women, if you will not go from us." and it is what laegaire said: "in the place we are gone to, the armies move from kingdom to kingdom, they listen to the sweet-sounding music of the sidhe, they drink from shining cups, we talk with those we love, it is beer that falls instead of rain. "we have brought from the dun of the pleasant plain thirty cauldrons, thirty drinking horns; we have brought the complaint that was sung by the sea, by the daughter of eochaid the dumb. "there is a wife for every man of the fifty; my own wife to me is the tear of the sun; i am made master of a blue sword; i would not give for all your whole kingdom one night of the nights of the sidhe." with that laegaire turned from them, and went back to the kingdom. and he was made king there along with fiachna, son of betach, and his daughter, and he did not come out of it yet. book five: the fate of the children of lir now at the time when the tuatha de danaan chose a king for themselves after the battle of tailltin, and lir heard the kingship was given to bodb dearg, it did not please him, and he left the gathering without leave and with no word to any one; for he thought it was he himself had a right to be made king. but if he went away himself, bodb was given the kingship none the less, for not one of the five begrudged it to him but only lir, and it is what they determined, to follow after lir, and to burn down his house, and to attack himself with spear and sword, on account of his not giving obedience to the king they had chosen. "we will not do that," said bodb dearg, "for that man would defend any place he is in; and besides that," he said, "i am none the less king over the tuatha de danaan, although he does not submit to me." all went on like that for a good while, but at last a great misfortune came on lir, for his wife died from him after a sickness of three nights. and that came very hard on lir, and there was heaviness on his mind after her. and there was great talk of the death of that woman in her own time. and the news of it was told all through ireland, and it came to the house of bodb, and the best of the men of dea were with him at that time. and bodb said: "if lir had a mind for it," he said, "my help and my friendship would be good for him now, since his wife is not living to him. for i have here with me the three young girls of the best shape, and the best appearance, and the best name in all ireland, aobh, aoife, and ailbhe, the three daughters of oilell of aran, my own three nurselings." the men of dea said then it was a good thought he had, and that what he said was true. messages and messengers were sent then from bodb dearg to the place lir was, to say that if he had a mind to join with the son of the dagda and to acknowledge his lordship, he would give him a foster-child of his foster-children. and lir thought well of the offer, and he set out on the morrow with fifty chariots from sidhe fionnachaidh; and he went by every short way till he came to bodb's dwelling-place at loch dearg, and there was a welcome before him there, and all the people were merry and pleasant before him, and he and his people got good attendance that night. and the three daughters of oilell of aran were sitting on the one seat with bodb dearg's wife, the queen of the tuatha de danaan, that was their foster-mother. and bodb said: "you may have your choice of the three young girls, lir." "i cannot say," said lir, "which one of them is my choice, but whichever of them is the eldest, she is the noblest, and it is best for me to take her." "if that is so," said bodb, "it is aobh is the eldest, and she will be given to you, if it is your wish." "it is my wish," he said. and he took aobh for his wife that night, and he stopped there for a fortnight, and then he brought her away to his own house, till he would make a great wedding-feast. and in the course of time aobh brought forth two children, a daughter and a son, fionnuala and aodh their names were. and after a while she was brought to bed again, and this time she gave birth to two sons, and they called them fiachra and conn. and she herself died at their birth. and that weighed very heavy on lir, and only for the way his mind was set on his four children he would have gone near to die of grief. the news came to bodb dearg's place, and all the people gave out three loud, high cries, keening their nursling. and after they had keened her it is what bodb dearg said: "it is a fret to us our daughter to have died, for her own sake and for the sake of the good man we gave her to, for we are thankful for his friendship and his faithfulness. however," he said, "our friendship with one another will not be broken, for i will give him for a wife her sister aoife." when lir heard that, he came for the girl and married her, and brought her home to his house. and there was honour and affection with aoife for her sister's children; and indeed no person at all could see those four children without giving them the heart's love. and bodb dearg used often to be going to lir's house for the sake of those children; and he used to bring them to his own place for a good length of time, and then he would let them go back to their own place again. and the men of dea were at that time using the feast of age in every hill of the sidhe in turn; and when they came to lir's hill those four children were their joy and delight, for the beauty of their appearance; and it is where they used to sleep, in beds in sight of their father lir. and he used to rise up at the break of every morning, and to lie down among his children. but it is what came of all this, that a fire of jealousy was kindled in aoife, and she got to have a dislike and a hatred of her sister's children. then she let on to have a sickness, that lasted through nearly the length of a year. and the end of that time she did a deed of jealousy and cruel treachery against the children of lir. and one day she got her chariot yoked, and she took the four children in it, and they went forward towards the house of bodb dearg; but fionnuala had no mind to go with her, for she knew by her she had some plan for their death or their destruction, and she had seen in a dream that there was treachery against them in aoife's mind. but all the same she was not able to escape from what was before her. and when they were on their way aoife said to her people: "let you kill now," she said, "the four children of lir, for whose sake their father has given up my love, and i will give you your own choice of a reward out of all the good things of the world." "we will not do that indeed," said they; "and it is a bad deed you have thought of, and harm will come to you out of it." and when they would not do as she bade them, she took out a sword herself to put an end to the children with; but she being a woman and with no good courage, and with no great strength in her mind, she was not able to do it. they went on then west to loch dairbhreach, the lake of the oaks, and the horses were stopped there. and aoife bade the children of lir to go out and bathe in the lake, and they did as she bade them. and as soon as aoife saw them out in the lake she struck them with a druid rod, and put on them the shape of four swans, white and beautiful. and it is what she said: "out with you, children of the king, your luck is taken away from you for ever; it is sorrowful the story will be to your friends; it is with flocks of birds your cries will be heard for ever." and fionnuala said: "witch, we know now what your name is, you have struck us down with no hope of relief; but although you put us from wave to wave, there are times when we will touch the land. we shall get help when we are seen; help, and all that is best for us; even though we have to sleep upon the lake, it is our minds will be going abroad early." and then the four children of lir turned towards aoife, and it is what fionnuala said: "it is a bad deed you have done, aoife, and it is a bad fulfilling of friendship, you to destroy us without cause; and vengeance for it will come upon you, and you will fall in satisfaction for it, for your power for our destruction is not greater than the power of our friends to avenge it on you; and put some bounds now," she said, "to the time this enchantment is to stop on us." "i will do that," said aoife, "and it is worse for you, you to have asked it of me. and the bounds i set to your time are this, till the woman from the south and the man from the north will come together. and since you ask to hear it of me," she said, "no friends and no power that you have will be able to bring you out of these shapes you are in through the length of your lives, until you have been three hundred years on loch dairbhreach, and three hundred years on sruth na maoile between ireland and alban, and three hundred years at irrus domnann and inis gluaire; and these are to be your journeys from this out," she said. but then repentance came on aoife, and she said: "since there is no other help for me to give you now, you may keep your own speech; and you will be singing sweet music of the sidhe, that would put the men of the earth to sleep, and there will be no music in the world equal to it; and your own sense and your own nobility will stay with you, the way it will not weigh so heavy on you to be in the shape of birds. and go away out of my sight now, children of lir," she said, "with your white faces, with your stammering irish. it is a great curse on tender lads, they to be driven out on the rough wind. nine hundred years to be on the water, it is a long time for any one to be in pain; it is i put this on you through treachery, it is best for you to do as i tell you now. "lir, that got victory with so many a good cast, his heart is a kernel of death in him now; the groaning of the great hero is a sickness to me, though it is i that have well earned his anger." and then the horses were caught for aoife, and the chariot yoked for her, and she went on to the palace of bodb dearg, and there was a welcome before her from the chief people of the place. and the son of the dagda asked her why she did not bring the children of lir with her. "i will tell you that," she said. "it is because lir has no liking for you, and he will not trust you with his children, for fear you might keep them from him altogether." "i wonder at that," said bodb dearg, "for those children are dearer to me than my own children." and he thought in his own mind it was deceit the woman was doing on him, and it is what he did, he sent messengers to the north to sidhe fionnachaidh. and lir asked them what did they come for. "on the head of your children," said they. "are they not gone to you along with aoife?" he said. "they are not," said they; "and aoife said it was yourself would not let them come." it is downhearted and sorrowful lir was at that news, for he understood well it was aoife had destroyed or made an end of his children. and early in the morning of the morrow his horses were caught, and he set out on the road to the south-west. and when he was as far as the shore of loch dairbhreach, the four children saw the horses coming towards them, and it is what fionnuala said: "a welcome to the troop of horses i see coming near to the lake; the people they are bringing are strong, there is sadness on them; it is us they are following, it is for us they are looking; let us move over to the shore, aodh, fiachra, and comely conn. those that are coming can be no others in the world but only lir and his household." then lir came to the edge of the lake, and he took notice of the swans having the voice of living people, and he asked them why was it they had that voice. "i will tell you that, lir," said fionnuala. "we are your own four children, that are after being destroyed by your wife, and by the sister of our own mother, through the dint of her jealousy." "is there any way to put you into your own shapes again?" said lir. "there is no way," said fionnuala, "for all the men of the world could not help us till we have gone through our time, and that will not be," she said, "till the end of nine hundred years." when lir and his people heard that, they gave out three great heavy shouts of grief and sorrow and crying. "is there a mind with you," said lir, "to come to us on the land, since you have your own sense and your memory yet?" "we have not the power," said fionnuala, "to live with any person at all from this time; but we have our own language, the irish, and we have the power to sing sweet music, and it is enough to satisfy the whole race of men to be listening to that music. and let you stop here to-night," she said, "and we will be making music for you." so lir and his people stopped there listening to the music of the swans, and they slept there quietly that night. and lir rose up early on the morning of the morrow and he made this complaint:-"it is time to go out from this place. i do not sleep though i am in my lying down. to be parted from my dear children, it is that is tormenting my heart. "it is a bad net i put over you, bringing aoife, daughter of oilell of aran, to the house. i would never have followed that advice if i had known what it would bring upon me. "o fionnuala, and comely conn, o aodh, o fiachra of the beautiful arms; it is not ready i am to go away from you, from the border of the harbour where you are." then lir went on to the palace of bodb dearg, and there was a welcome before him there; and he got a reproach from bodb dearg for not bringing his children along with him. "my grief!" said lir. "it is not i that would not bring my children along with me; it was aoife there beyond, your own foster-child and the sister of their mother, that put them in the shape of four white swans on loch dairbhreach, in the sight of the whole of the men of ireland; but they have their sense with them yet, and their reason, and their voice, and their irish." bodb dearg gave a great start when he heard that, and he knew what lir said was true, and he gave a very sharp reproach to aoife, and he said: "this treachery will be worse for yourself in the end, aoife, than to the children of lir. and what shape would you yourself think worst of being in?" he said. "i would think worst of being a witch of the air," she said. "it is into that shape i will put you now," said bodb. and with that he struck her with a druid wand, and she was turned into a witch of the air there and then, and she went away on the wind in that shape, and she is in it yet, and will be in it to the end of life and time. as to bodb dearg and the tuatha de danaan they came to the shore of loch dairbhreach, and they made their camp there to be listening to the music of the swans. and the sons of the gael used to be coming no less than the men of dea to hear them from every part of ireland, for there never was any music or any delight heard in ireland to compare with that music of the swans. and they used to be telling stories, and to be talking with the men of ireland every day, and with their teachers and their fellow-pupils and their friends. and every night they used to sing very sweet music of the sidhe; and every one that heard that music would sleep sound and quiet whatever trouble or long sickness might be on him; for every one that heard the music of the birds, it is happy and contented he would be after it. these two gatherings now of the tuatha de danaan and of the sons of the gael stopped there around loch dairbhreach through the length of three hundred years. and it is then fionnuala said to her brothers: "do you know," she said, "we have spent all we have to spend of our time here, but this one night only." and there was great sorrow on the sons of lir when they heard that, for they thought it the same as to be living people again, to be talking with their friends and their companions on loch dairbhreach, in comparison with going on the cold, fretful sea of the maoil in the north. and they came early on the morrow to speak with their father and with their foster-father, and they bade them farewell, and fionnuala made this complaint:-"farewell to you, bodb dearg, the man with whom all knowledge is in pledge. and farewell to our father along with you, lir of the hill of the white field. "the time is come, as i think, for us to part from you, o pleasant company; my grief it is not on a visit we are going to you. "from this day out, o friends of our heart, our comrades, it is on the tormented course of the maoil we will be, without the voice of any person near us. "three hundred years there, and three hundred years in the bay of the men of domnann, it is a pity for the four comely children of lir, the salt waves of the sea to be their covering by night. "o three brothers, with the ruddy faces gone from you, let them all leave the lake now, the great troop that loved us, it is sorrowful our parting is." after that complaint they took to flight, lightly, airily, till they came to sruth na maoile between ireland and alban. and that was a grief to the men of ireland, and they gave out an order no swan was to be killed from that out, whatever chance there might be of killing one, all through ireland. it was a bad dwelling-place for the children of lir they to be on sruth na maoile. when they saw the wide coast about them, they were filled with cold and with sorrow, and they thought nothing of all they had gone through before, in comparison to what they were going through on that sea. now one night while they were there a great storm came on them, and it is what fionnuala said: "my dear brothers," she said, "it is a pity for us not to be making ready for this night, for it is certain the storm will separate us from one another. and let us," she said, "settle on some place where we can meet afterwards, if we are driven from one another in the night." "let us settle," said the others, "to meet one another at carraig na ron, the rock of the seals, for we all have knowledge of it." and when midnight came, the wind came on them with it, and the noise of the waves increased, and the lightning was flashing, and a rough storm came sweeping down, the way the children of lir were scattered over the great sea, and the wideness of it set them astray, so that no one of them could know what way the others went. but after that storm a great quiet came on the sea, and fionnuala was alone on sruth na maoile; and when she took notice that her brothers were wanting she was lamenting after them greatly, and she made this complaint:-"it is a pity for me to be alive in the state i am; it is frozen to my sides my wings are; it is little that the wind has not broken my heart in my body, with the loss of aodh. "to be three hundred years on loch dairbhreach without going into my own shape, it is worse to me the time i am on sruth na maoile. "the three i loved, och! the three i loved, that slept under the shelter of my feathers; till the dead come back to the living i will see them no more for ever. "it is a pity i to stay after fiachra, and after aodh, and after comely conn, and with no account of them; my grief i to be here to face every hardship this night." she stopped all night there upon the rock of the seals until the rising of the sun, looking out over the sea on every side till at last she saw conn coming to her, his feathers wet through and his head hanging, and her heart gave him a great welcome; and then fiachra came wet and perished and worn out, and he could not say a word they could understand with the dint of the cold and the hardship he had gone through. and fionnuala put him under her wings, and she said: "we would be well off now if aodh would but come to us." it was not long after that, they saw aodh coming, his head dry and his feathers beautiful, and fionnuala gave him a great welcome, and she put him in under the feathers of her breast, and fiachra under her right wing and conn under her left wing, the way she could put her feathers over them all. "and och! my brothers," she said, "this was a bad night to us, and it is many of its like are before us from this out." they stayed there a long time after that, suffering cold and misery on the maoil, till at last a night came on them they had never known the like of before, for frost and snow and wind and cold. and they were crying and lamenting the hardship of their life, and the cold of the night and the greatness of the snow and the hardness of the wind. and after they had suffered cold to the end of a year, a worse night again came on them, in the middle of winter. and they were on carraig na ron, and the water froze about them, and as they rested on the rock, their feet and their wings and their feathers froze to the rock, the way they were not able to move from it. and they made such a hard struggle to get away, that they left the skin of their feet and their feathers and the tops of their wings on the rock after them. "my grief, children of lir," said fionnuala, "it is bad our state is now, for we cannot bear the salt water to touch us, and there are bonds on us not to leave it; and if the salt water goes into our sores," she said, "we will get our death." and she made this complaint:-"it is keening we are to-night; without feathers to cover our bodies; it is cold the rough, uneven rocks are under our bare feet. "it is bad our stepmother was to us the time she played enchantments on us, sending us out like swans upon the sea. "our washing place is on the ridge of the bay, in the foam of flying manes of the sea; our share of the ale feast is the salt water of the blue tide. "one daughter and three sons; it is in the clefts of the rocks we are; it is on the hard rocks we are, it is a pity the way we are." however, they came on to the course of the maoil again, and the salt water was sharp and rough and bitter to them, but if it was itself, they were not able to avoid it or to get shelter from it. and they were there by the shore under that hardship till such time as their feathers grew again, and their wings, and till their sores were entirely healed. and then they used to go every day to the shore of ireland or of alban, but they had to come back to sruth na maoile every night. now they came one day to the mouth of the banna, to the north of ireland, and they saw a troop of riders, beautiful, of the one colour, with well-trained pure white horses under them, and they travelling the road straight from the south-west. "do you know who those riders are, sons of lir?" said fionnuala. "we do not," they said; "but it is likely they might be some troop of the sons of the gael, or of the tuatha de danaan." they moved over closer to the shore then, that they might know who they were, and when the riders saw them they came to meet them until they were able to hold talk together. and the chief men among them were two sons of bodb dearg, aodh aithfhiosach, of the quick wits, and fergus fithchiollach, of the chess, and a third part of the riders of the sidhe along with them, and it was for the swans they had been looking for a long while before that, and when they came together they wished one another a kind and loving welcome. and the children of lir asked for news of all the men of dea, and above all of lir, and bodb dearg and their people. "they are well, and they are in the one place together," said they, "in your father's house at sidhe fionnachaidh, using the feast of age pleasantly and happily, and with no uneasiness on them, only for being without yourselves, and without knowledge of what happened you from the day you left loch dairbhreach." "that has not been the way with us," said fionnuala, "for we have gone through great hardship and uneasiness and misery on the tides of the sea until this day." and she made this complaint:-"there is delight to-night with the household of lir! plenty of ale with them and of wine, although it is in a cold dwelling-place this night are the four children of the king. "it is without a spot our bedclothes are, our bodies covered over with curved feathers; but it is often we were dressed in purple, and we drinking pleasant mead. "it is what our food is and our drink, the white sand and the bitter water of the sea; it is often we drank mead of hazel-nuts from round four-lipped drinking cups. "it is what our beds are, bare rocks out of the power of the waves; it is often there used to be spread out for us beds of the breast-feathers of birds. "though it is our work now to be swimming through the frost and through the noise of the waves, it is often a company of the sons of kings were riding after us to the hill of bodb. "it is what wasted my strength, to be going and coming over the current of the maoil the way i never was used to, and never to be in the sunshine on the soft grass. "fiachra's bed and conn's bed is to come under the cover of my wings on the sea. aodh has his place under the feathers of my breast, the four of us side by side. "the teaching of manannan without deceit, the talk of bodb dearg on the pleasant ridge; the voice of angus, his sweet kisses; it is by their side i used to be without grief." after that the riders went on to lir's house, and they told the chief men of the tuatha de danaan all the birds had gone through, and the state they were in. "we have no power over them," the chief men said, "but we are glad they are living yet, for they will get help in the end of time." as to the children of lir, they went back towards their old place in the maoil, and they stopped there till the time they had to spend in it was spent. and then fionnuala said: "the time is come for us to leave this place. and it is to irrus domnann we must go now," she said, "after our three hundred years here. and indeed there will be no rest for us there, or any standing ground, or any shelter from the storms. but since it is time for us to go, let us set out on the cold wind, the way we will not go astray." so they set out in that way, and left sruth na maoile behind them, and went to the point of irrus domnann, and there they stopped, and it is a life of misery and a cold life they led there. and one time the sea froze about them that they could not move at all, and the brothers were lamenting, and fionnuala was comforting them, for she knew there would help come to them in the end. and they stayed at irrus domnann till the time they had to spend there was spent. and then fionnuala said: "the time is come for us to go back to sidhe fionnachaidh, where our father is with his household and with all our own people." "it pleases us well to hear that," they said. so they set out flying through the air lightly till they came to sidhe fionnachaidh; and it is how they found the place, empty before them, and nothing in it but green hillocks and thickets of nettles, without a house, without a fire, without a hearthstone. and the four pressed close to one another then, and they gave out three sorrowful cries, and fionnuala made this complaint:-"it is a wonder to me this place is, and it without a house, without a dwelling-place. to see it the way it is now, ochone! it is bitterness to my heart. "without dogs, without hounds for hunting, without women, without great kings; we never knew it to be like this when our father was in it. "without horns, without cups, without drinking in the lighted house; without young men, without riders; the way it is to-night is a foretelling of sorrow. "the people of the place to be as they are now, ochone! it is grief to my heart! it is plain to my mind to-night the lord of the house is not living. "och, house where we used to see music and playing and the gathering of people! i think it a great change to see it lonely the way it is to-night. "the greatness of the hardships we have gone through going from one wave to another of the sea, we never heard of the like of them coming on any other person. "it is seldom this place had its part with grass and bushes; the man is not living that would know us, it would be a wonder to him to see us here." however, the children of lir stopped that night in their father's place and their grandfather's, where they had been reared, and they were singing very sweet music of the sidhe. and they rose up early on the morning of the morrow and went to inis gluaire, and all the birds of the country gathered near them on loch na-n ean, the lake of the birds. and they used to go out to feed every day to the far parts of the country, to inis geadh and to accuill, the place donn, son of miled, and his people that were drowned were buried, and to all the western islands of connacht, and they used to go back to inis gluaire every night. it was about that time it happened them to meet with a young man of good race, and his name was aibric; and he often took notice of the birds, and their singing was sweet to him and he loved them greatly, and they loved him. and it is this young man that told the whole story of all that had happened them, and put it in order. and the story he told of what happened them in the end is this. it was after the faith of christ and blessed patrick came into ireland, that saint mochaomhog came to inis gluaire. and the first night he came to the island, the children of lir heard the voice of his bell, ringing near them. and the brothers started up with fright when they heard it "we do not know," they said, "what is that weak, unpleasing voice we hear." "that is the voice of the bell of mochaomhog," said fionnuala; "and it is through that bell," she said, "you will be set free from pain and from misery." they listened to that music of the bell till the matins were done, and then they began to sing the low, sweet music of the sidhe. and mochaomhog was listening to them, and he prayed to god to show him who was singing that music, and it was showed to him that the children of lir were singing it. and on the morning of the morrow he went forward to the lake of the birds, and he saw the swans before him on the lake, and he went down to them at the brink of the shore. "are you the children of lir?" he said. "we are indeed," said they. "i give thanks to god for that," said he, "for it is for your sakes i am come to this island beyond any other island, and let you come to land now," he said, "and give your trust to me, that you may do good deeds and part from your sins." they came to the land after that, and they put trust in mochaomhog, and he brought them to his own dwelling-place, and they used to be hearing mass with him. and he got a good smith and bade him make chains of bright silver for them, and he put a chain between aodh and fionnuala, and a chain between conn and fiachra. and the four of them were raising his heart and gladdening his mind, and no danger and no distress that was on the swans before put any trouble on them now. now the king of connacht at that time was lairgnen, son of colman, son of cobthach, and deoch, daughter of finghin, was his wife. and that was the coming together of the man from the north and the woman from the south, that aoife had spoken of. and the woman heard talk of the birds, and a great desire came on her to get them, and she bade lairgnen to bring them to her, and he said he would ask them of mochaomhog. and she gave her word she would not stop another night with him unless he would bring them to her. and she set out from the house there and then. and lairgnen sent messengers after her to bring her back, and they did not overtake her till she was at cill dun. she went back home with them then, and lairgnen sent messengers to ask the birds of mochaomhog, and he did not get them. there was great anger on lairgnen then, and he went himself to the place mochaomhog was, and he asked was it true he had refused him the birds. "it is true indeed," said he. at that lairgnen rose up, and he took hold of the swans, and pulled them off the altar, two birds in each hand, to bring them away to deoch. but no sooner had he laid his hand on them than their bird skins fell off, and what was in their place was three lean, withered old men and a thin withered old woman, without blood or flesh. and lairgnen gave a great start at that, and he went out from the place. it is then fionnuala said to mochaomhog: "come and baptize us now, for it is short till our death comes; and it is certain you do not think worse of parting with us than we do of parting with you. and make our grave afterwards," she said, "and lay conn at my right side and fiachra on my left side, and aodh before my face, between my two arms. and pray to the god of heaven," she said, "that you may be able to baptize us." the children of lir were baptized then, and they died and were buried as fionnuala had desired; fiachra and conn one at each side of her, and aodh before her face. and a stone was put over them, and their names were written in ogham, and they were keened there, and heaven was gained for their souls. and that is the fate of the children of lir so far. part two: the fianna. book one: finn, son of cumhal. chapter i. the coming of finn at the time finn was born his father cumhal, of the sons of baiscne, head of the fianna of ireland, had been killed in battle by the sons of morna that were fighting with him for the leadership. and his mother, that was beautiful long-haired muirne, daughter of tadg, son of nuada of the tuatha de danaan and of ethlinn, mother of lugh of the long hand, did not dare to keep him with her; and two women, bodhmall, the woman druid, and liath luachra, came and brought him away to care him. it was to the woods of slieve bladhma they brought him, and they nursed him secretly, because of his father's enemies, the sons of morna, and they kept him there a long time. and muirne, his mother, took another husband that was king of carraighe; but at the end of six years she came to see finn, going through every lonely place till she came to the wood, and there she found the little hunting cabin, and the boy asleep in it, and she lifted him up in her arms and kissed him, and she sang a little sleepy song to him; and then she said farewell to the women, and she went away again. and the two women went on caring him till he came to sensible years; and one day when he went out he saw a wild duck on the lake with her clutch, and he made a cast at her that cut the wings off her that she could not fly, and he brought her back to the cabin, and that was his first hunt. and they gave him good training in running and leaping and swimming. one of them would run round a tree, and she having a thorn switch, and finn after her with another switch, and each one trying to hit at the other; and they would leave him in a field, and hares along with him, and would bid him not to let the hares quit the field, but to keep before them whichever way they would go; and to teach him swimming they would throw him into the water and let him make his way out. but after a while he went away with a troop of poets, to hide from the sons of morna, and they hid him in the mountain of crotta cliach; but there was a robber in leinster at that time, fiacuil, son of codhna, and he came where the poets were in fidh gaible and killed them all. but he spared the child and brought him to his own house, that was in a cold marsh. but the two women, bodhmall and liath, came looking for him after a while, and fiacuil gave him up to them, and they brought him back to the same place he was before. he grew up there, straight and strong and fair-haired and beautiful. and one day he was out in slieve bladhma, and the two women along with him, and they saw before them a herd of the wild deer of the mountain. "it is a pity," said the old women, "we not to be able to get a deer of those deer." "i will get one for you," said finn; and with that he followed after them, and caught two stags of them and brought them home to the hunting cabin. and after that he used to be hunting for them every day. but at last they said to him: "it is best for you to leave us now, for the sons of morna are watching again to kill you." so he went away then by himself, and never stopped till he came to magh lifé, and there he saw young lads swimming in a lake, and they called to him to swim against them. so he went into the lake, and he beat them at swimming. "fair he is and well shaped," they said when they saw him swimming, and it was from that time he got the name of finn, that is, fair. but they got to be jealous of his strength, and he went away and left them. he went on then till he came to loch lein, and he took service there with the king of finntraigh; and there was no hunter like him, and the king said: "if cumhal had left a son, you would be that son." he went from that king after, and he went into carraighe, and there he took service with the king, that had taken his mother muirne for his wife. and one day they were playing chess together, and he won seven games one after another. "who are you at all?" said the king then. "i am a son of a countryman of the luigne of teamhair," said finn. "that is not so," said the king, "but you are the son that muirne my wife bore to cumhal. and do not stop here any longer," he said, "that you may not be killed under my protection." from that he went into connacht looking for his father's brother, crimall, son of trenmor; and as he was going on his way he heard the crying of a lone woman. he went to her, and looked at her, and tears of blood were on her face. "your face is red with blood, woman," he said. "i have reason for it," said she, "for my only son is after being killed by a great fighting man that came on us." and finn followed after the big champion and fought with him and killed him. and the man he killed was the same man that had given cumhal his first wound in the battle where he got his death, and had brought away his treasure-bag with him. now as to that treasure-bag, it is of a crane skin it was made, that was one time the skin of aoife, the beautiful sweetheart of ilbrec, son of manannan, that was put into the shape of a crane through jealousy. and it was in manannan's house it used to be, and there were treasures kept in it, manannan's shirt and his knife, and the belt and the smith's hook of goibniu, and the shears of the king of alban, and the helmet of the king of lochlann, and a belt of the skin of a great fish, and the bones of asal's pig that had been brought to ireland by the sons of tuireann. all those treasures would be in the bag at full tide, but at the ebbing of the tide it would be empty. and it went from manannan to lugh, son of ethlinn, and after that to cumhal, that was husband to muirne, ethlinn's daughter. and finn took the bag and brought it with him till he found crimall, that was now an old man, living in a lonely place, and some of the old men of the fianna were with him, and used to go hunting for him. and finn gave him the bag, and told him his whole story. and then he said farewell to crimall, and went on to learn poetry from finegas, a poet that was living at the boinn, for the poets thought it was always on the brink of water poetry was revealed to them. and he did not give him his own name, but he took the name of deimne. seven years, now, finegas had stopped at the boinn, watching the salmon, for it was in the prophecy that he would eat the salmon of knowledge that would come there, and that he would have all knowledge after. and when at the last the salmon of knowledge came, he brought it to where finn was, and bade him to roast it, but he bade him not to eat any of it. and when finn brought him the salmon after a while he said: "did you eat any of it at all, boy?" "i did not," said finn; "but i burned my thumb putting down a blister that rose on the skin, and after doing that, i put my thumb in my mouth." "what is your name, boy?" said finegas. "deimne," said he. "it is not, but it is finn your name is, and it is to you and not to myself the salmon was given in the prophecy." with that he gave finn the whole of the salmon, and from that time finn had the knowledge that came from the nuts of the nine hazels of wisdom that grow beside the well that is below the sea. and besides the wisdom he got then, there was a second wisdom came to him another time, and this is the way it happened. there was a well of the moon belonging to beag, son of buan, of the tuatha de danaan, and whoever would drink out of it would get wisdom, and after a second drink he would get the gift of foretelling. and the three daughters of beag, son of buan, had charge of the well, and they would not part with a vessel of it for anything less than red gold. and one day finn chanced to be hunting in the rushes near the well, and the three women ran out to hinder him from coming to it, and one of them that had a vessel of the water in her hand, threw it at him to stop him, and a share of the water went into his mouth. and from that out he had all the knowledge that the water of that well could give. and he learned the three ways of poetry; and this is the poem he made to show he had got his learning well:-"it is the month of may is the pleasant time; its face is beautiful; the blackbird sings his full song, the living wood is his holding, the cuckoos are singing and ever singing; there is a welcome before the brightness of the summer. "summer is lessening the rivers, the swift horses are looking for the pool; the heath spreads out its long hair, the weak white bog-down grows. a wildness comes on the heart of the deer; the sad restless sea is asleep. "bees with their little strength carry a load reaped from the flowers; the cattle go up muddy to the mountains; the ant has a good full feast. "the harp of the woods is playing music; there is colour on the hills, and a haze on the full lakes, and entire peace upon every sail. "the corncrake is speaking, a loud-voiced poet; the high lonely waterfall is singing a welcome to the warm pool, the talking of the rushes has begun. "the light swallows are darting; the loudness of music is around the hill; the fat soft mast is budding; there is grass on the trembling bogs. "the bog is as dark as the feathers of the raven; the cuckoo makes a loud welcome; the speckled salmon is leaping; as strong is the leaping of the swift fighting man. "the man is gaining; the girl is in her comely growing power; every wood is without fault from the top to the ground, and every wide good plain. "it is pleasant is the colour of the time; rough winter is gone; every plentiful wood is white; summer is a joyful peace. "a flock of birds pitches in the meadow; there are sounds in the green fields, there is in them a clear rushing stream. "there is a hot desire on you for the racing of horses; twisted holly makes a leash for the hound; a bright spear has been shot into the earth, and the flag-flower is golden under it. "a weak lasting little bird is singing at the top of his voice; the lark is singing clear tidings; may without fault, of beautiful colours. "i have another story for you; the ox is lowing, the winter is creeping in, the summer is gone. high and cold the wind, low the sun, cries are about us; the sea is quarrelling. "the ferns are reddened and their shape is hidden; the cry of the wild goose is heard; the cold has caught the wings of the birds; it is the time of ice-frost, hard, unhappy." and after that, finn being but a young lad yet, made himself ready and went up at samhain time to the gathering of the high king at teamhair. and it was the law at that gathering, no one to raise a quarrel or bring out any grudge against another through the whole of the time it lasted. and the king and his chief men, and goll, son of morna, that was now head of the fianna, and caoilte, son of ronan, and conan, son of morna, of the sharp words, were sitting at a feast in the great house of the middle court; and the young lad came in and took his place among them, and none of them knew who he was. the high king looked at him then, and the horn of meetings was brought to him, and he put it into the boy's hand, and asked him who was he. "i am finn, son of cumhal," he said, "son of the man that used to be head over the fianna, and king of ireland; and i am come now to get your friendship, and to give you my service." "you are son of a friend, boy," said the king, "and son of a man i trusted." then finn rose up and made his agreement of service and of faithfulness to the king; and the king took him by the hand and put him sitting beside his own son, and they gave themselves to drinking and to pleasure for a while. every year, now, at samhain time, for nine years, there had come a man of the tuatha de danaan out of sidhe finnachaidh in the north, and had burned up teamhair. aillen, son of midhna, his name was, and it is the way he used to come, playing music of the sidhe, and all the people that heard it would fall asleep. and when they were all in their sleep, he would let a flame of fire out of his mouth, and would blow the flame till all teamhair was burned. the king rose up at the feast after a while, and his smooth horn in his hand, and it is what he said: "if i could find among you, men of ireland, any man that would keep teamhair till the break of day to-morrow without being burned by aillen, son of midhna, i would give him whatever inheritance is right for him to have, whether it be much or little." but the men of ireland made no answer, for they knew well that at the sound of the sweet pitiful music made by that comely man of the sidhe, even women in their pains and men that were wounded would fall asleep. it is then finn rose up and spoke to the king of ireland. "who will be your sureties that you will fulfil this?" he said. "the kings of the provinces of ireland," said the king, "and cithruadh with his druids." so they gave their pledges, and finn took in hand to keep teamhair safe till the breaking of day on the morrow. now there was a fighting man among the followers of the king of ireland, fiacha, son of conga, that cumhal, finn's father, used to have a great liking for, and he said to finn: "well, boy," he said, "what reward would you give me if i would bring you a deadly spear, that no false cast was ever made with?" "what reward are you asking of me?" said finn. "whatever your right hand wins at any time, the third of it to be mine," said fiacha, "and a third of your trust and your friendship to be mine." "i will give you that," said finn. then fiacha brought him the spear, unknown to the sons of morna or to any other person, and he said: "when you will hear the music of the sidhe, let you strip the covering off the head of the spear and put it to your forehead, and the power of the spear will not let sleep come upon you." then finn rose up before all the men of ireland, and he made a round of the whole of teamhair. and it was not long till he heard the sorrowful music, and he stripped the covering from the head of the spear, and he held the power of it to his forehead. and aillen went on playing his little harp, till he had put every one in their sleep as he was used; and then he let a flame of fire out from his mouth to burn teamhair. and finn held up his fringed crimson cloak against the flame, and it fell down through the air and went into the ground, bringing the four-folded cloak with it deep into the earth. and when aillen saw his spells were destroyed, he went back to sidhe finnachaidh on the top of slieve fuad; but finn followed after him there, and as aillen was going in at the door he made a cast of the spear that went through his heart. and he struck his head off then, and brought it back to teamhair, and fixed it on a crooked pole and left it there till the rising of the sun over the heights and invers of the country. and aillen's mother came to where his body was lying, and there was great grief on her, and she made this complaint:-"ochone! aillen is fallen, chief of the sidhe of beinn boirche; the slow clouds of death are come on him. och! he was pleasant, och! he was kind. aillen, son of midhna of slieve fuad. "nine times he burned teamhair. it is a great name he was always looking for, ochone, ochone, aillen!" and at the breaking of day, the king and all the men of ireland came out upon the lawn at teamhair where finn was. "king," said finn, "there is the head of the man that burned teamhair, and the pipe and the harp that made his music. and it is what i think," he said, "that teamhair and all that is in it is saved." then they all came together into the place of counsel, and it is what they agreed, the headship of the fianna of ireland to be given to finn. and the king said to goll, son of morna: "well, goll," he said, "is it your choice to quit ireland or to put your hand in finn's hand?" "by my word, i will give finn my hand," said goll. and when the charms that used to bring good luck had done their work, the chief men of the fianna rose up and struck their hands in finn's hand, and goll, son of morna, was the first to give him his hand the way there would be less shame on the rest for doing it. and finn kept the headship of the fianna until the end; and the place he lived in was almhuin of leinster, where the white dun was made by nuada of the tuatha de danaan, that was as white as if all the lime in ireland was put on it, and that got its name from the great herd of cattle that died fighting one time around the well, and that left their horns there, speckled horns and white. and as to finn himself, he was a king and a seer and a poet; a druid and a knowledgeable man; and everything he said was sweet-sounding to his people. and a better fighting man than finn never struck his hand into a king's hand, and whatever any one ever said of him, he was three times better. and of his justice it used to be said, that if his enemy and his own son had come before him to be judged, it is a fair judgment he would have given between them. and as to his generosity it used to be said, he never denied any man as long as he had a mouth to eat with, and legs to bring away what he gave him; and he left no woman without her bride-price, and no man without his pay; and he never promised at night what he would not fulfil on the morrow, and he never promised in the day what he would not fulfil at night, and he never forsook his right-hand friend. and if he was quiet in peace he was angry in battle, and oisin his son and osgar his son's son followed him in that. there was a young man of ulster came and claimed kinship with them one time, saying they were of the one blood. "if that is so," said oisin, "it is from the men of ulster we took the madness and the angry heart we have in battle." "that is so indeed," said finn. chapter ii. finn's household and the number of the fianna of ireland at that time was seven score and ten chief men, every one of them having three times nine righting men under him. and every man of them was bound to three things, to take no cattle by oppression, not to refuse any man, as to cattle or riches; no one of them to fall back before nine fighting men. and there was no man taken into the fianna until his tribe and his kindred would give securities for him, that even if they themselves were all killed he would not look for satisfaction for their death. but if he himself would harm others, that harm was not to be avenged on his people. and there was no man taken into the fianna till he knew the twelve books of poetry. and before any man was taken, he would be put into a deep hole in the ground up to his middle, and he having his shield and a hazel rod in his hand. and nine men would go the length of ten furrows from him and would cast their spears at him at the one time. and if he got a wound from one of them, he was not thought fit to join with the fianna. and after that again, his hair would be fastened up, and he put to run through the woods of ireland, and the fianna following after him to try could they wound him, and only the length of a branch between themselves and himself when they started. and if they came up with him and wounded him, he was not let join them; or if his spears had trembled in his hand, or if a branch of a tree had undone the plaiting of his hair, or if he had cracked a dry stick under his foot, and he running. and they would not take him among them till he had made a leap over a stick the height of himself, and till he had stooped under one the height of his knee, and till he had taken a thorn out from his foot with his nail, and he running his fastest. but if he had done all these things, he was of finn's people. it was good wages finn and the fianna got at that time; in every district a townland, in every house the fostering of a pup or a whelp from samhain to beltaine, and a great many things along with that. but good as the pay was, the hardships and the dangers they went through for it were greater. for they had to hinder the strangers and robbers from beyond the seas, and every bad thing, from coming into ireland. and they had hard work enough in doing that. and besides the fighting men, finn had with him his five druids, the best that ever came into the west, cainnelsciath, of the shining shield, one of them was, that used to bring down knowledge from the clouds in the sky before finn, and that could foretell battles. and he had his five wonderful physicians, four of them belonging to ireland, and one that came over the sea from the east. and he had his five high poets and his twelve musicians, that had among them daighre, son of morna, and suanach, son of senshenn, that was finn's teller of old stories, the sweetest that ever took a harp in his hand in ireland or in alban. and he had his three cup-bearers and his six door-keepers and his horn-players and the stewards of his house and his huntsman, comhrag of the five hundred hounds, and his serving-men that were under garbhcronan, of the rough buzzing; and a great troop of others along with them. and there were fifty of the best sewing-women in ireland brought together in a rath on magh feman, under the charge of a daughter of the king of britain, and they used to be making clothing for the fianna through the whole of the year. and three of them, that were a king's daughters, used to be making music for the rest on a little silver harp; and there was a very great candlestick of stone in the middle of the rath, for they were not willing to kindle a fire more than three times in the year for fear the smoke and the ashes might harm the needlework. and of all his musicians the one finn thought most of was cnu deireoil, the little nut, that came to him from the sidhe. it was at slieve-nam-ban, for hunting, finn was the time he came to him. sitting down he was on the turf-built grave that is there; and when he looked around him he saw a small little man about four feet in height standing on the grass. light yellow hair he had, hanging down to his waist, and he playing music on his harp. and the music he was making had no fault in it at all, and it is much that the whole of the fianna did not fall asleep with the sweetness of its sound. he came up then, and put his hand in finn's hand. "where do you come from, little one, yourself and your sweet music?" said finn. "i am come," he said, "out of the place of the sidhe in slieve-nam-ban, where ale is drunk and made; and it is to be in your company for a while i am come here." "you will get good rewards from me, and riches and red gold," said finn, "and my full friendship, for i like you well." "that is the best luck ever came to you, finn," said all the rest of the fianna, for they were well pleased to have him in their company. and they gave him the name of the little nut; and he was good in speaking, and he had so good a memory he never forgot anything he heard east or west; and there was no one but must listen to his music, and all the fianna liked him well. and there were some said he was a son of lugh lamh-fada, of the long hand. and the five musicians of the fianna were brought to him, to learn the music of the sidhe he had brought from that other place; for there was never any music heard on earth but his was better. these were the three best things finn ever got, bran and sceolan that were without fault, and the little nut from the house of the sidhe in slieve-nam-ban. chapter iii. birth of bran. this, now, is the story of the birth of bran. finn's mother, muirne, came one time to almhuin, and she brought with her tuiren, her sister. and iollan eachtach, a chief man of the fianna of ulster, was at almhuin at the time, and he gave his love to tuiren, and asked her in marriage, and brought her to his own house. but before they went, finn made him gave his word he would bring her back safe and sound if ever he asked for her, and he bade him find sureties for himself among the chief men of the fianna. and iollan did that, and the sureties he got were caoilte and goll and lugaidh lamha, and it was lugaidh gave her into the hand of iollan eachtach. but before iollan made that marriage, he had a sweetheart of the sidhe, uchtdealb of the fair breast; and there came great jealousy on her when she knew he had taken a wife. and she took the appearance of finn's woman-messenger, and she came to the house where tuiren was, and she said: "finn sends health and long life to you, queen, and he bids you to make a great feast; and come with me now," she said, "till i speak a few words with you, for there is hurry on me." so tuiren went out with her, and when they were away from the house the woman of the sidhe took out her dark druid rod from under her cloak and gave her a blow of it that changed her into a hound, the most beautiful that was ever seen. and then she went on, bringing the hound with her, to the house of fergus fionnliath, king of the harbour of gallimh. and it is the way fergus was, he was the most unfriendly man to dogs in the whole world, and he would not let one stop in the same house with him. but it is what uchtdealb said to him: "finn wishes you life and health, fergus, and he says to you to take good care of his hound till he comes himself; and mind her well," she said, "for she is with young, and do not let her go hunting when her time is near, or finn will be no way thankful to you." "i wonder at that message," said fergus, "for finn knows well there is not in the world a man has less liking for dogs than myself. but for all that," he said, "i will not refuse finn the first time he sent a hound to me." and when he brought the hound out to try her, she was the best he ever knew, and she never saw the wild creature she would not run down; and fergus took a great liking for hounds from that out. and when her time came near, they did not let her go hunting any more, and she gave birth to two whelps. and as to finn, when he heard his mother's sister was not living with iollan eachtach, he called to him for the fulfilment of the pledge that was given to the fianna. and iollan asked time to go looking for tuiren, and he gave his word that if he did not find her, he would give himself up in satisfaction for her. so they agreed to that, and iollan went to the hill where uchtdealb was, his sweetheart of the sidhe, and told her the way things were with him, and the promise he had made to give himself up to the fianna. "if that is so," said she, "and if you will give me your pledge to keep me as your sweetheart to the end of your life, i will free you from that danger." so iollan gave her his promise, and she went to the house of fergus fionnliath, and she brought tuiren away and put her own shape on her again, and gave her up to finn. and finn gave her to lugaidh lamha that asked her in marriage. and as to the two whelps, they stopped always with finn, and the names he gave them were bran and sceolan. chapter iv. oisin's mother. it happened one time finn and his men were coming back from the hunting, a beautiful fawn started up before them, and they followed after it, men and dogs, till at last they were all tired and fell back, all but finn himself and bran and sceolan. and suddenly as they were going through a valley, the fawn stopped and lay down on the smooth grass, and bran and sceolan came up with it, and they did not harm it at all, but went playing about it, licking its neck and its face. there was wonder on finn when he saw that, and he went on home to almhuin, and the fawn followed after him playing with the hounds, and it came with them into the house at almhuin. and when finn was alone late that evening, a beautiful young woman having a rich dress came before him, and she told him it was she herself was the fawn he was after hunting that day. "and it is for refusing the love of fear doirche, the dark druid of the men of dea," she said, "i was put in this shape. and through the length of three years," she said, "i have lived the life of a wild deer in a far part of ireland, and i am hunted like a wild deer. and a serving-man of the dark druid took pity on me," she said, "and he said that if i was once within the dun of the fianna of ireland, the druid would have no more power over me. so i made away, and i never stopped through the whole length of a day till i came into the district of almhuin. and i never stopped then till there was no one after me but only bran and sceolan, that have human wits; and i was safe with them, for they knew my nature to be like their own." then finn gave her his love, and took her as his wife, and she stopped in almhuin. and so great was his love for her, he gave up his hunting and all the things he used to take pleasure in, and gave his mind to no other thing but herself. but at last the men of lochlann came against ireland, and their ships were in the bay below beinn edair, and they landed there. and finn and the battalions of the fianna went out against them, and drove them back. and at the end of seven days finn came back home, and he went quickly over the plain of almhuin, thinking to see sadbh his wife looking out from the dun, but there was no sign of her. and when he came to the dun, all his people came out to meet him, but they had a very downcast look. "where is the flower of almhuin, beautiful gentle sadbh?" he asked them. and it is what they said: "while you were away fighting, your likeness, and the likeness of bran and of sceolan appeared before the dun, and we thought we heard the sweet call of the dord fiann. and sadbh, that was so good and so beautiful, came out of the house," they said, "and she went out of the gates, and she would not listen to us, and we could not stop her." "let me go meet my love," she said, "my husband, the father of the child that is not born." and with that she went running out towards the shadow of yourself that was before her, and that had its arms stretched out to her. but no sooner did she touch it than she gave a great cry, and the shadow lifted up a hazel rod, and on the moment it was a fawn was standing on the grass. three times she turned and made for the gate of the dun, but the two hounds the shadow had with him went after her and took her by the throat and dragged her back to him. "and by your hand of valour, finn," they said, "we ourselves made no delay till we went out on the plain after her. but it is our grief, they had all vanished, and there was not to be seen woman, or fawn or druid, but we could hear the quick tread of feet on the hard plain, and the howling of dogs. and if you would ask every one of us in what quarter he heard those sounds, he would tell you a different one." when finn heard that, he said no word at all, but he struck his breast over and over again with his shut hands. and he went then to his own inside room, and his people saw him no more for that day, or till the sun rose over magh lifé on the morrow. and through the length of seven years from that time, whenever he was not out fighting against the enemies of ireland, he went searching and ever searching in every far corner for beautiful sadbh. and there was great trouble on him all the time, unless he might throw it off for a while in hunting or in battle. and through all that time he never brought out to any hunting but the five hounds he had most trust in, bran and sceolan and lomaire and brod and lomluath, the way there would be no danger for sadbh if ever he came on her track. but after the end of seven years, finn and some of his chief men were hunting on the sides of beinn gulbain, and they heard a great outcry among the hounds, that were gone into some narrow place. and when they followed them there, they saw the five hounds of finn in a ring, and they keeping back the other hounds, and in the middle of the ring was a young boy, with high looks, and he naked and having long hair. and he was no way daunted by the noise of the hounds, and did not look at them at all, but at the men that were coming up. and as soon as the fight was stopped bran and sceolan went up to the little lad, and whined and licked him, that any one would think they had forgotten their master. finn and the others came up to him then, and put their hands on his head, and made much of him. and they brought him to their own hunting cabin, and he ate and drank with them, and before long he lost his wildness and was the same as themselves. and as to bran and sceolan, they were never tired playing about him. and it is what finn thought, there was some look of sadbh in his face, and that it might be he was her son, and he kept him always beside him. and little by little when the boy had learned their talk, he told them all he could remember. he used to be with a deer he loved very much, he said, and that cared and sheltered him, and it was in a wide place they used to be, having hills and valleys and streams and woods in it, but that was shut in with high cliffs on every side, that there was no way of escape from it. and he used to be eating fruits and roots in the summer, and in the winter there was food left for him in the shelter of a cave. and a dark-looking man used to be coming to the place, and sometimes he would speak to the deer softly and gently, and sometimes with a loud angry voice. but whatever way he spoke, she would always draw away from him with the appearance of great dread on her, and the man would go away in great anger. and the last time he saw the deer, his mother, the dark man was speaking to her for a long time, from softness to anger. and at the end he struck her with a hazel rod, and with that she was forced to follow him, and she looking back all the while at the child, and crying after him that any one would pity her. and he tried hard to follow after her, and made every attempt, and cried out with grief and rage, but he had no power to move, and when he could hear his mother no more he fell on the grass and his wits went from him. and when he awoke it is on the side of the hill he was, where the hounds found him. and he searched a long time for the place where he was brought up, but he could not find it. and the name the fianna gave him was oisin, and it is he was their maker of poems, and their good fighter afterwards. chapter v. the best men of the fianna and while oisin was in his young youth, finn had other good men along with him, and the best of them were goll, son of morna, and caoilte, son of ronan, and lugaidh's son. as to goll, that was of connacht, he was very tall and light-haired, and some say he was the strongest of all the fianna. finn made a poem in praise of him one time when some stranger was asking what sort he was, saying how hardy he was and brave in battle, and as strong as a hound or as the waves, and with all that so kind and so gentle, and open-handed and sweet-voiced, and faithful to his friends. and the chessboard he had was called the solustairtech, the shining thing, and some of the chessmen were made of gold, and some of them of silver, and each one of them was as big as the fist of the biggest man of the fianna; and after the death of goll it was buried in slieve baune. and as to caoilte, that was a grey thin man, he was the best runner of them all. and he did a good many great deeds; a big man of the fomor he killed one time, and he killed a five-headed giant in a wheeling door, and another time he made an end of an enchanted boar that no one else could get near, and he killed a grey stag that had got away from the fianna through twenty-seven years. and another time he brought finn out of teamhair, where he was kept by force by the high king, because of some rebellion the fianna had stirred up. and when caoilte heard finn had been brought away to teamhair, he went out to avenge him. and the first he killed was cuireach, a king of leinster that had a great name, and he brought his head up to the hill that is above buadhmaic. and after that he made a great rout through ireland, bringing sorrow into every house for the sake of finn, killing a man in every place, and killing the calves with the cows. and every door the red wind from the east blew on, he would throw it open, and go in and destroy all before him, setting fire to the fields, and giving the wife of one man to another. and when he came to teamhair, he came to the palace, and took the clothes off the door-keeper, and he left his own sword that was worn thin in the king's sheath, and took the king's sword that had great power in it. and he went into the palace then in the disguise of a servant, to see how he could best free finn. and when evening came caoilte held the candle at the king's feast in the great hall, and after a while the king said: "you will wonder at what i tell you, finn, that the two eyes of caoilte are in my candlestick." "do not say that," said finn, "and do not put reproach on my people although i myself am your prisoner; for as to caoilte," he said, "that is not the way with him, for it is a high mind he has, and he only does high deeds, and he would not stand serving with a candle for all the gold of the whole world." after that caoilte was serving the king of ireland with drink, and when he was standing beside him he gave out a high sorrowful lament. "there is the smell of caoilte's skin on that lament," said the king. and when caoilte saw he knew him he spoke out and he said: "tell me what way i can get freedom for my master." "there is no way to get freedom for him but by doing one thing," said the king, "and that is a thing you can never do. if you can bring me together a couple of all the wild creatures of ireland," he said, "i will give up your master to you then." when caoilte heard him say that he made no delay, but he set out from teamhair, and went through the whole of ireland to do that work for the sake of finn. it is with the flocks of birds he began, though they were scattered in every part, and from them he went on to the beasts. and he gathered together two of every sort, two ravens from fiodh da bheann; two wild ducks from loch na seillein; two foxes from slieve cuilinn; two wild oxen from burren; two swans from blue dobhran; two owls from the wood of faradhruim; two polecats from the branchy wood on the side of druim da raoin, the ridge of the victories; two gulls from the strand of loch leith; four woodpeckers from white brosna; two plovers from carraigh dhain; two thrushes from leith lomard; two wrens from dun aoibh; two herons from corrain cleibh; two eagles from carraig of the stones; two hawks from fiodh chonnach; two sows from loch meilghe; two water-hens from loch erne; two moor-hens from monadh maith; two sparrow-hawks from dubhloch; two stonechats from magh cuillean; two tomtits from magh tuallainn; two swallows from sean abhla; two cormorants from ath cliath; two wolves from broit cliathach; two blackbirds from the strand of the two women; two roebucks from luachair ire; two pigeons from ceas chuir; two nightingales from leiter ruadh; two starlings from green-sided teamhair; two rabbits from sith dubh donn; two wild pigs from cluaidh chuir; two cuckoos from drom daibh; two lapwings from leanain na furraich; two woodcocks from craobh ruadh; two hawks from the bright mountain; two grey mice from luimneach; two otters from the boinn; two larks from the great bog; two bats from the cave of the nuts; two badgers from the province of ulster; two landrail from the banks of the sionnan; two wagtails from port lairrge; two curlews from the harbour of gallimh; two hares from muirthemne; two deer from sith buidhe; two peacocks from magh mell; two cormorants from ath cliath; two eels from duth dur; two goldfinches from slieve na-n eun; two birds of slaughter from magh bhuilg; two bright swallows from granard; two redbreasts from the great wood; two rock-cod from cala chairge; two sea-pigs from the great sea; two wrens from mios an chuil; two salmon from eas mhic muirne; two clean deer from gleann na smoil; two cows from magh mor; two cats from the cave of cruachan; two sheep from bright sidhe diobhlain; two pigs of the pigs of the son of lir; a ram and a crimson sheep from innis. and along with all these he brought ten hounds of the hounds of the fianna, and a horse and a mare of the beautiful horses of manannan. and when caoilte had gathered all these, he brought them to the one place. but when he tried to keep them together, they scattered here and there from him; the raven went away southward, and that vexed him greatly, but he overtook it again in gleann da bheann, beside loch lurcan. and then his wild duck went away from him, and it was not easy to get it again, but he followed it through every stream to grey accuill till he took it by the neck and brought it back, and it no way willing. and indeed through the length of his life caoilte remembered well all he went through that time with the birds, big and little, travelling over hills and ditches and striving to bring them with him, that he might set finn his master free. and when he came to teamhair he had more to go through yet, for the king would not let him bring them in before morning, but gave him a house having nine doors in it to put them up in for the night. and no sooner were they put in than they raised a loud screech all together, for a little ray of light was coming to them through fifty openings, and they were trying to make their escape. and if they were not easy in the house, caoilte was not easy outside it, watching every door till the rising of the sun on the morrow. and when he brought out his troop, the name the people gave them was "caoilte's rabble," and there was no wonder at all in that. but all the profit the king of ireland got from them was to see them together for that one time. for no sooner did finn get his freedom than the whole of them scattered here and there, and no two of them went by the same road out of teamhair. and that was one of the best things caoilte, son of ronan, ever did. and another time he ran from the wave of cliodna in the south to the wave of rudraige in the north. and colla his son was a very good runner too, and one time he ran a race backwards against the three battalions of the fianna for a chessboard. and he won the race, but if he did, he went backward over beinn edair into the sea. and very good hearing caoilte had. one time he heard the king of the luigne of connacht at his hunting, and blathmec that was with him said, "what is that hunt, caoilte?" "a hunt of three packs of hounds," he said, "and three sorts of wild creatures before them. the first hunt," he said, "is after stags and large deer and the second hunt is after swift small hares, and the third is a furious hunt after heavy boars." "and what is the fourth hunt, caoilte?" said blathmec. "it is the hunting of heavy-sided, low-bellied badgers." and then they heard coming after the hunt the shouts of the lads and of the readiest of the men and the serving-men that were best at carrying burdens. and blathmec went out to see the hunting, and just as caoilte had told him, that was the way it was. and he understood the use of herbs, and one time he met with two women that were very downhearted because their husbands had gone from them to take other wives. and caoilte gave them druid herbs, and they put them in the water of a bath and washed in it, and the love of their husbands came back to them, and they sent away the new wives they had taken. and as to lugaidh's son, that was of finn's blood, and another of the best men of the fianna, he was put into finn's arms as a child, and he was reared up by duban's daughter, that had reared eight hundred fighting men of the fianna, till his twelfth year, and then she gave him all he wanted of arms and of armour, and he went to chorraig conluain and the mountains of slieve bladhma, where finn and the fianna were at that time. and finn gave him a very gentle welcome, and he struck his hand in finn's hand, and made his agreement of service with him. and he stopped through the length of a year with the fianna; but he was someway sluggish through all that time, so that under his leading not more than nine of the fianna got to kill so much as a boar or a deer. and along with that, he used to beat both his servants and his hounds. and at last the three battalions of the fianna went to where finn was, at the point of the fianna on the edge of loch lein, and they made their complaint against lugaidh's son, and it is what they said: "make your choice now, will you have us with you, or will you have lugaidh's son by himself." then lugaidh's son came to finn, and finn asked him, "what is it has put the whole of the fianna against you?" "by my word," said the lad, "i do not know the reason, unless it might be they do not like me to be doing my feats and casting my spears among them." then finn gave him an advice, and it is what he said: "if you have a mind to be a good champion, be quiet in a great man's house; be surly in the narrow pass. do not beat your hound without a cause; do not bring a charge against your wife without having knowledge of her guilt; do not hurt a fool in fighting, for he is without his wits. do not find fault with high-up persons; do not stand up to take part in a quarrel; have no dealings with a bad man or a foolish man. let two-thirds of your gentleness be showed to women and to little children that are creeping on the floor, and to men of learning that make the poems, and do not be rough with the common people. do not give your reverence to all; do not be ready to have one bed with your companions. do not threaten or speak big words, for it is a shameful thing to speak stiffly unless you can carry it out afterwards. do not forsake your lord so long as you live; do not give up any man that puts himself under your protection for all the treasures of the world. do not speak against others to their lord, that is not work for a good man. do not be a bearer of lying stories, or a tale-bearer that is always chattering. do not be talking too much; do not find fault hastily; however brave you may be, do not raise factions against you. do not be going to drinking-houses, or finding fault with old men; do not meddle with low people; this is right conduct i am telling you. do not refuse to share your meat; do not have a niggard for your friend; do not force yourself on a great man or give him occasion to speak against you. hold fast to your arms till the hard fight is well ended. do not give up your opportunity, but with that follow after gentleness." that was good advice finn gave, and he was well able to do that; for it was said of him that he had all the wisdom of a little child that is busy about the house, and the mother herself not understanding what he is doing; and that is the time she has most pride in him. and as to lugaidh's son, that advice stayed always with him, and he changed his ways, and after a while he got a great name among the poets of ireland and of alban, and whenever they would praise finn in their poems, they would praise him as well. and aoife, daughter of the king of lochlann, that was married to mal, son of aiel, king of alban, heard the great praise the poets were giving to lugaidh's son, and she set her love on him for the sake of those stories. and one time mal her husband and his young men went hunting to slieve-mor-monaidh in the north of alban. and when he was gone aoife made a plan in her sunny house where she was, to go over to ireland, herself and her nine foster-sisters. and they set out and went over the manes of the sea till they came to beinn edair, and there they landed. and it chanced on that day there was a hunting going on, from slieve bladhma to beinn edair. and finn was in his hunting seat, and his fosterling, brown-haired duibhruinn, beside him. and the little lad was looking about him on every side, and he saw a ship coming to the strand, and a queen with modest looks in the ship, and nine women along with her. they landed then, and they came up to where finn was, bringing every sort of present with them, and aoife sat down beside him. and finn asked news of her, and she told him the whole story, and how she had given her love to lugaidh's son, and was come over the sea looking for him; and finn made her welcome. and when the hunting was over, the chief men of the fianna came back to where finn was, and every one asked who was the queen that was with him. and finn told them her name, and what it was brought her to ireland. "we welcome her that made that journey," said they all; "for there is not in ireland or in alban a better man than the man she is come looking for, unless finn himself." and as to lugaidh's son, it was on the far side of slieve bladhma he was hunting that day, and he was the last to come in. and he went into finn's tent, and when he saw the woman beside him he questioned finn the same as the others had done, and finn told him the whole story. "and it is to you she is come," he said; "and here she is to you out of my hand, and all the war and the battles she brings with her; but it will not fall heavier on you," he said, "than on the rest of the fianna." and she was with lugaidh's son a month and a year without being asked for. but one day the three battalions of the fianna were on the hill of the poet in leinster, and they saw three armed battalions equal to themselves coming, against them, and they asked who was bringing them. "it is mal, son of aiel, is bringing them," said finn, "to avenge his wife on the fianna. and it is a good time they are come," he said, "when we are gathered together at the one spot." then the two armies went towards one another, and mal, son of aiel, took hold of his arms, and three times he broke through the fianna, and every time a hundred fell by him. and in the middle of the battle he and lugaidh's son met, and they fought against one another with spear and sword. and whether the fight was short or long, it was mal fell by lugaidh's son at the last. and aoife stood on a hill near by, as long as the battle lasted. and from that out she belonged to lugaidh's son, and was a mother of children to him. book two: finn's helpers chapter i. the lad of the skins besides all the men finn had in his household, there were some that would come and join him from one place or another. one time a young man wearing a dress of skins came to finn's house at almhuin, and his wife along with him, and he asked to take service with finn. and in the morning, as they were going to their hunting, the lad of the skins said to finn: "let me have no one with me but myself, and let me go into one part of the country by myself, and you yourself with all your men go to another part." "is it on the dry ridges you will go," said finn, "or is it in the deep bogs and marshes, where there is danger of drowning?" "i will go in the deep boggy places," said he. so they all went out from almhuin, finn and the fianna to one part, and the lad of the skins to another part, and they hunted through the day. and when they came back at evening, the lad of the skins had killed more than finn and all his men together. when finn saw that, he was glad to have so good a servant. but conan said to him: "the lad of the skins will destroy ourselves and the whole of the fianna of ireland unless you will find some way to rid yourself of him." "i never had a good man with me yet, conan," said finn, "but you wanted me to put him away; and how could i put away a man like that?" he said. "the way to put him away," said conan, "is to send him to the king of the floods to take from him the great cauldron that is never without meat, but that has always enough in it to feed the whole world. and let him bring that cauldron back here with him to almhuin," he said. so finn called to the lad of the skins, and he said: "go from me now to the king of the floods and get the great cauldron that is never empty from him, and bring it here to me." "so long as i am in your service i must do your work," said the lad of the skins. with that he set out, leaping over the hills and valleys till he came to the shore of the sea. and then he took up two sticks and put one of them across the other, and a great ship rose out of the two sticks. the lad of the skins went into the ship then, and put up the sails and set out over the sea, and he heard nothing but the whistling of eels in the sea and the calling of gulls in the air till he came to the house of the king of the floods. and at that time there were hundreds of ships waiting near the shore; and he left his ship outside them all, and then he stepped from ship to ship till he stood on land. there was a great feast going on at that time in the king's house, and the lad of the skins went up to the door, but he could get no farther because of the crowd. so he stood outside the door for a while, and no one looked at him, and he called out at last: "this is a hospitable house indeed, and these are mannerly ways, not to ask a stranger if there is hunger on him or thirst." "that is true," said the king; "and give the cauldron of plenty now to this stranger," he said, "till he eats his fill." so his people did that, and no sooner did the lad of the skins get a hold of the cauldron than he made away to the ship and put it safe into it. but when he had done that he said: "there is no use in taking the pot by my swiftness, if i do not take it by my strength." and with that he turned and went to land again. and the whole of the men of the army of the king of the floods were ready to fight; but if they were, so was the lad of the skins, and he went through them and over them all till the whole place was quiet. he went back to his ship then and raised the sails and set out again for ireland, and the ship went rushing back to the place where he made it. and when he came there, he gave a touch of his hand to the ship, and there was nothing left of it but the two sticks he made it from, and they lying on the strand before him, and the cauldron of plenty with them. and he took up the cauldron on his back, and brought it to finn, son of cumhal, at almhuin. and finn gave him his thanks for the work he had done. one day, now, finn was washing himself at the well, and a voice spoke out of the water, and it said: "you must give back the cauldron, finn, to the king of the floods, or you must give him battle in place of it." finn told that to the lad of the skins, but the answer he got from him was that his time was up, and that he could not serve on time that was past. "but if you want me to go with you," he said, "let you watch my wife, that is manannan's daughter, through the night; and in the middle of the night, when she will be combing her hair, any request you make of her, she cannot refuse it. and the request you will make is that she will let me go with you to the king of the floods, to bring the cauldron to his house and to bring it back again." so finn watched manannan's daughter through the night, and when he saw her combing her hair, he made his request of her. "i have no power to refuse you," she said; "but you must promise me one thing, to bring my husband back to me, alive or dead. and if he is alive," she said, "put up a grey-green flag on the ship coming back; but if he is dead, put up a red flag." so finn promised to do that, and he himself and the lad of the skins set out together for the dun of the king of the floods, bringing the cauldron with them. no sooner did the king see them than he gave word to all his armies to make ready. but the lad of the skins made for them and overthrew them, and he went into the king's dun, and finn with him, and they overcame him and brought away again the cauldron that was never empty. but as they were going back to ireland, they saw a great ship coming towards them. and when the lad of the skins looked at the ship, he said: "i think it is an old enemy of my own is in that ship, that is trying to bring me to my death, because of my wife that refused him her love." and when the ship came alongside, the man that was in it called out: "i know you well, and it is not by your dress i know you, son of the king of the hills." and with that he made a leap on to the ship, and the two fought a great battle together, and they took every shape; they began young like two little boys, and fought till they were two old men; they fought from being two young pups until they were two old dogs; from being two young horses till they were two old horses. and then they began to fight in the shape of birds, and it is in that shape they killed one another at the last. and finn threw the one bird into the water, but the other, that was the lad of the skins, he brought with him in the ship. and when he came in sight of ireland, he raised a red flag as he had promised the woman. and when he came to the strand, she was there before him, and when she saw finn, she said: "it is dead you have brought him back to me." and finn gave her the bird, and she asked was that what she was to get in the place of her husband. and she was crying over the bird, and she brought it into a little boat with her, and she bade finn to push out the boat to sea. and he pushed it out, and it was driven by wind and waves till at last she saw two birds flying, having a dead one between them. and the two living birds let down the dead one on an island; and it was not long till it rose up living, and the three went away together. and when manannan's daughter saw that, she said: "there might be some cure for my man on the island, the way there was for that dead bird." and the sea brought the boat to the island, and she went searching around, but all she could find was a tree having green leaves. "it might be in these leaves the cure is," she said; and she took some of the leaves and brought them to where the lad of the skins was, and put them about him. and on that moment he stood up as well and as sound as ever he was. they went back then to ireland, and they came to almhuin at midnight, and the lad of the skins knocked at the door, and he said: "put me out my wages." "there is no man, living or dead, has wages on me but the lad of the skins," said finn; "and i would sooner see him here to-night," he said, "than the wages of three men." "if that is so, rise up and you will see him," said he. so finn rose up and saw him, and gave him a great welcome, and paid him his wages. and after that he went away and his wife with him to wherever his own country was; but there were some said he was gone to the country of his wife's father, manannan, son of the sea. chapter ii. black, brown, and grey finn was hunting one time near teamhair of the kings, and he saw three strange men coming towards him, and he asked what were their names. "dubh and dun and glasan, black, brown, and grey, are our names," they said, "and we are come to find finn, son of cumhal, head of the fianna, and to take service with him." so finn took them into his service, and when evening came he said: "let each one of you watch through a third part of the night." and there was a trunk of a tree there, and he bade them make three equal parts of it, and he gave a part to each of the three men, and he said: "when each one of you begins his watch, let him set fire to his own log, and as long as the wood burns let him watch." then they drew lots, and the lot fell to dubh to go on the first watch. so he set fire to his log, and he went out around the place, and bran with him. he went farther and farther till at last he saw a bright light, and when he came to the place where it was, he saw a large house. he went inside, and there was a great company of very strange-looking men in it, and they drinking out of a single cup. one of the men, that seemed to be the highest, gave the cup to the man nearest him; and after he had drunk his fill he passed it on to the next, and so on to the last. and while it was going round, he said: "this is the great cup that was taken from finn, son of cumhal, a hundred years ago, and however many men may be together, every man of them can drink his fill from it, of whatever sort of drink he has a mind for." dubh was sitting near the door, on the edge of the crowd, and when the cup came to him he took a drink from it, and then he slipped away in the dark, bringing it with him. and when he came to the place where finn was, his log was burned out. then it was the turn of dun to go out, for the second lot had fallen on him, and he put a light to his log, and went out, and bran with him. he walked on through the night till he saw a fire that was shining from a large house, and when he went in he saw a crowd of men, and they fighting. and a very old man that was in a high place above the rest called out: "stop fighting now, for i have a better gift for you than the one you lost to-night." and with that he drew a knife out of his belt and held it up, and said: "this is the wonderful knife, the small knife of division, that was stolen from finn, son of cumhal, a hundred years ago; and you have but to cut on a bone with that knife and you will get your fill of the best meat in the world." then he gave the knife to the man nearest him, and a bare bone with it, and the man began to cut, and there came off the bone slices of the best meat in the world. the knife and the bone were sent round then from man to man till they came to dun, and as soon as he had the knife in his hand he slipped out unknown and hurried back, and he had just got to the well where finn was, when his part of the log burned out. then glasan lighted his log and went out on his watch till he came to the house, the same way the others did. and he looked in and he saw the floor full of dead bodies, and he thought to himself: "there must be some great wonder here. and if i lie down on the floor and put some of the bodies over me," he said, "i will be able to see all that happens." so he lay down and pulled some of the bodies over him, and he was not long there till he saw an old hag coming into the house, having one leg and one arm and one upper tooth, that was long enough to serve her in place of a crutch. and when she came inside the door she took up the first dead body she met with, and threw it aside, for it was lean. and as she went on, she took two bites out of every fat body she met with, and threw away every lean one. she had her fill of flesh and blood before she came to glasan, and she dropped down on the floor and fell asleep, and glasan thought that every breath she drew would bring down the roof on his head. he rose up then and looked at her, and wondered at the bulk of her body. and at last he drew his sword and hit her a slash that killed her; but if he did, three young men leaped out of her body. and glasan made a stroke that killed the first of them, and bran killed the second, but the third made his escape. glasan made his way back then, and just when he got to where finn was, his log of wood was burned out, and the day was beginning to break. and when finn rose up in the morning he asked news of the three watchers, and they gave him the cup and the knife and told him all they had seen, and he gave great praise to dubh and to dun; but to glasan he said: "it might have been as well for you to have left that old hag alone, for i am in dread the third young man may bring trouble on us all." it happened at the end of twenty-one years, finn and the fianna were at their hunting in the hills, and they saw a red-haired man coming towards them, and he spoke to no one, but came and stood before finn. "what is it you are looking for?" said finn. "i am looking for a master for the next twenty-one years," he said. "what wages are you asking?" said finn. "no wages at all, but only if i die before the twenty-one years are up, to bury me on inis caol, the narrow island." "i will do that for you," said finn. so the red-haired man served finn well through the length of twenty years. but in the twenty-first year he began to waste and to wither away, and he died. and when he was dead, the fianna were no way inclined to go to inis caol to bury him. but finn said he would break his word for no man, and that he himself would bring his body there. and he took an old white horse that had been turned loose on the hills, and that had got younger and not older since it was put out, and he put the body of the red-haired man on its back, and let it take its own way, and he himself followed it, and twelve men of the fianna. and when they came to inis caol they saw no trace of the horse or of the body. and there was an open house on the island, and they went in. and there were seats for every man of them inside, and they sat down to rest for a while. but when they tried to rise up it failed them to do it, for there was enchantment on them. and they saw the red-haired man standing before them in that moment. "the time is come now," he said, "for me to get satisfaction from you for the death of my mother and my two brothers that were killed by glasan in the house of the dead bodies." he began to make an attack on them then, and he would have made an end of them all, but finn took hold of the dord fiann, and blew a great blast on it. and before the red-haired man was able to kill more than three of them, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, that had heard the sound of the dord fiann, came into the house and made an end of him, and put an end to the enchantment. and finn, with the nine that were left of the fianna, came back again to almhuin. chapter iii. the hound one day the three battalions of the fianna came to magh femen, and there they saw three young men waiting for them, having a hound with them; and there was not a colour in the world but was on that hound, and it was bigger than any other hound. "where do you come from, young men?" said finn. "out of the greater iruath in the east," said they; "and our names are dubh, the dark, and agh, the battle, and ilar, the eagle." "what is it you came for?" "to enter into service, and your friendship," said they. "what good will it do us, you to be with us?" said finn. "we are three," said they, "and you can make a different use of each one of us." "what uses are those?" said finn. "i will do the watching for all the fianna of ireland and of alban," said one of them. "i will take the weight of every fight and every battle that will come to them, the way they can keep themselves in quiet," said the second. "i will meet every troublesome thing that might come to my master," said the third; "and let all the wants of the world be told to me and i will satisfy them. and i have a pipe with me," he said; "and all the men of the world would sleep at the sound of it, and they in their sickness. and as to the hound," he said, "as long as there are deer in ireland he will get provision for the fianna every second night. and i myself," he said, "will get it on the other nights." "what will you ask of us to be with us like that?" said finn. "we will ask three things," they said: "no one to come near to the place where we have our lodging after the fall of night; nothing to be given out to us, but we to provide for ourselves; and the worst places to be given to us in the hunting." "tell me by your oath now," said finn, "why is it you will let no one see you after nightfall?" "we have a reason," said they; "but do not ask it of us, whether we are short or long on the one path with you. but we will tell you this much," they said, "every third night, one of us three is dead and the other two are watching him, and we have no mind for any one to be looking at us." so finn promised that; but if he did there were some of the fianna were not well pleased because of the ways of those three men, living as they did by themselves, and having a wall of fire about them, and they would have made an end of them but for finn protecting them. about that time there came seven men of poetry belonging to the people of cithruadh, asking the fee for a poem, three times fifty ounces of gold and the same of silver to bring back to cithruadh at teamhair. "whatever way we get it, we must find some way to get that," said a man of the fianna. then the three young men from iruath said: "well, men of learning," they said, "would you sooner get the fee for your poem to-night or to-morrow?" "to-morrow will be time enough," said they. and the three young men went to the place where the hound had his bed a little way off from the rath, and the hound threw out of his mouth before them the three times fifty ounces of gold and three times fifty of silver, and they gave them to the men of poetry, and they went away. another time finn said: "what can the three battalions of the fianna do to-night, having no water?" and one of the men of iruath said: "how many drinking-horns are with you?" "three hundred and twelve," said caoilte. "give me the horns into my hand," said the young man, "and whatever you will find in them after that, you may drink it." he filled the horns then with beer and they drank it, and he did that a second and a third time; and with the third time of filling they were talkative and their wits confused. "this is a wonderful mending of the feast," said finn. and they gave the place where all that happened the name of the little rath of wonders. and one time after that again there came to finn three bald red clowns, holding three red hounds in their hands, and three deadly spears. and there was poison on their clothes and on their hands and their feet, and on everything they touched. and finn asked them who were they. and they said they were three sons of uar, son of indast of the tuatha de danaan; and it was by a man of the fianna, caoilte son of ronan, their father was killed in the battle of the tuatha de danaan on slieve nan ean, the mountain of birds, in the east. "and let caoilte son of ronan give us the blood-fine for him now," they said. "what are your names?" said finn. "aincel and digbail and espaid; ill-wishing and harm and want are our names. and what answer do you give us now, finn?" they said. "no one before me ever gave a blood-fine for a man killed in battle, and i will not give it," said finn. "we will do revenge and robbery on you so," said they. "what revenge is that?" said finn. "it is what i will do," said aincel, "if i meet with two or three or four of the fianna, i will take their feet and their hands from them." "it is what i will do," said digbail, "i will not leave a day without loss of a hound or a serving-boy or a fighting man to the fianna of ireland." "and i myself will be always leaving them in want of people, or of a hand, or of an eye," said espaid. "without we get some help against them," said caoilte, "there will not be one of us living at the end of a year." "well," said finn, "we will make a dun and stop here for a while, for i will not be going through ireland and these men following after me, till i find who are the strongest, themselves or ourselves." so the fianna made little raths for themselves all about slieve mis, and they stopped there through a month and a quarter and a year. and through all that time the three red bald-headed men were doing every sort of hurt and harm upon them. but the three sons of the king of iruath came to speak with finn, and it is what they said: "it is our wish, finn, to send the hound that is with us to go around you three times in every day, and however many may be trying to hurt or to rob you, they will not have power to do it after that. but let there be neither fire nor arms nor any other dog in the house he goes into," they said. "i will let none of these things go into the one house with him," said finn, "and he will go safe back to you." so every day the hound would be sent to finn, having his chain of ridges of red gold around his neck, and he would go three times around finn, and three times he would put his tongue upon him. and to the people that were nearest to the hound when he came into the house it would seem like as if a vat of mead was being strained, and to others there would come the sweet smell of an apple garden. and every harm and sickness the three sons of uar would bring on the fianna, the three sons of the king of iruath would take it off them with their herbs and their help and their healing. and after a while the high king of ireland came to slieve mis with a great, troop of his men, to join with finn and the fianna. and they told the high king the whole story, and how the sons of uar were destroying them, and the three sons of the king of iruath were helping them against them. "why would not the men that can do all that find some good spell that would drive the sons of uar out of ireland?" said the high king. with that caoilte went looking for the three young men from iruath and brought them to the high king. "these are comely men," said the high king, "good in their shape and having a good name. and could you find any charm, my sons," he said, "that will drive out these three enemies that are destroying the fianna of ireland?" "we would do that if we could find those men near us," said they; "and it is where they are now," they said, "at daire's cairn at the end of the raths." "where are garb-cronan, the rough buzzing one, and saltran of the long heel?" said finn. "here we are, king of the fianna," said they. "go out to those men beyond, and tell them i will give according to the judgment of the king of ireland in satisfaction for their father." the messengers went out then and brought them in, and they sat down on the bank of the rath. then the high king said: "rise up, dubh, son of the king of iruath, and command these sons of uar with a spell to quit ireland." and dubh rose up, and he said: "go out through the strength of this spell and this charm, you three enemies of the fianna, one-eyed, lame-thighed, left-handed, of the bad race. and go out on the deep bitter sea," he said, "and let each one of you strike a blow of his sword on the head of his brothers. for it is long enough you are doing harm and destruction on the king of the fianna, finn, son of cumhal." with that the hound sent a blast of wind under them that brought them out into the fierce green sea, and each of them struck a blow on the head of the others. and that was the last that was seen of the three destroying sons of uar, aincel and digbail and espaid. but after the time of the fianna, there came three times in the one year, into west munster, three flocks of birds from the western sea having beaks of bone and fiery breath, and the wind from their wings was as cold as a wind of spring. and the first time they came was at reaping time, and every one of them brought away an ear of corn from the field. and the next time they came they did not leave apple on tree, or nut on bush, or berry on the rowan; and the third time they spared no live thing they could lift from the ground, young bird or fawn or silly little child. and the first day they came was the same day of the year the three sons of uar were put out in the sea. and when caoilte, that was one of the last of the fianna, and that was living yet, heard of them, he remembered the sons of uar, and he made a spell that drove them out into the sea again, and they perished there by one another. it was about the length of a year the three sons of the king of iruath stopped with finn. and at the end of that time donn and dubhan, two sons of the king of ulster, came out of the north to munster. and one night they kept watch for the fianna, and three times they made a round of the camp. and it is the way the young men from iruath used to be, in a place by themselves apart from the fianna, and their hound in the middle between them; and at the fall of night there used a wall of fire to be around them, the way no one could look at them. and the third time the sons of the king of ulster made the round of the camp, they saw the fiery wall, and donn said: "it is a wonder the way those three young men are through the length of a year now, and their hound along with them, and no one getting leave to look at them." with that he himself and his brother took their arms in their hands, and went inside the wall of fire, and they began looking at the three men and at the hound. and the great hound they used to see every day at the hunting was at this time no bigger than a lap-dog that would be with a queen or a high person. and one of the young men was watching over the dog, and his sword in his hand, and another of them was holding a vessel of white silver to the mouth of the dog; and any drink any one of the three would ask for, the dog would put it out of his mouth into the vessel. then one of the young men said to the hound: "well, noble one and brave one and just one, take notice of the treachery that is done to you by finn." when the dog heard that he turned to the king of ulster's sons, and there rose a dark druid wind that blew away the shields from their shoulders and the swords from their sides into the wall of fire. and then the three men came out and made an end of them; and when that was done the dog came and breathed on them, and they turned to ashes on the moment, and there was never blood or flesh or bone of them found after. and the three battalions of the fianna divided themselves into companies of nine, and went searching through every part of ireland for the king of ulster's two sons. and as to finn, he went to teamhair luachra, and no one with him but the serving-lads and the followers of the army. and the companies of nine that were looking for the king of ulster's sons came back to him there in the one night; but they brought no word of them, if they were dead or living. but as to the three sons of the king of iruath and the hound that was with them, they were seen no more by finn and the fianna. chapter iv. red ridge there was another young man came and served finn for a while; out of connacht he came, and he was very daring, and the red ridge was the name they gave him. and he all but went from finn one time, because of his wages that were too long in coming to him. and the three battalions of the fianna came trying to quiet him, but he would not stay for them. and at the last finn himself came, for it is a power he had, if he would make but three verses he would quiet any one. and it is what he said: "daring red ridge," he said, "good in battle, if you go from me to-day with your great name it is a good parting for us. but once at rath cro," he said, "i gave you three times fifty ounces in the one day; and at cam ruidhe i gave you the full of my cup of silver and of yellow gold. and do you remember," he said, "the time we were at rath ai, when we found the two women, and when we ate the nuts, myself and yourself were there together." and after that the young man said no more about going from him. and another helper came to finn one time he was fighting at a ford, and all his weapons were used or worn with the dint of the fight. and there came to him a daughter of mongan of the sidhe, bringing him a flat stone having a chain of gold to it. and he took the stone and did great deeds with it. and after the fight the stone fell into the ford, that got the name of ath liag finn. and that stone will never be found till the woman of the waves will find it, and will bring it to land on a sunday morning; and on that day seven years the world will come to an end. book three: the battle of the white strand. chapter i. the enemies of ireland of all the great battles the fianna fought to keep the foreigners out of ireland, the greatest was the one that was fought at finntraigh the white strand, in munster; and this is the whole story of it, and of the way the fianna came to have so great a name. one time the enemies of ireland gathered together under daire donn, high king of the great world, thinking to take ireland and to put it under tribute. the king of greece was of them, and the king of france, and the king of the eastern world, and lughman of the broad arms, king of the saxons, and fiacha of the long hair, king of the gairean, and tor the son of breogan, king of the great plain, and sligech, son of the king of the men of cepda, and comur of the crooked sword, king of the men of the dog-heads, and caitchenn, king of the men of the cat-heads, and caisel of the feathers, king of lochlann, and madan of the bent neck, son of the king of the marshes, and three kings from the rising of the sun in the east, and ogarmach, daughter of the king of greece, the best woman-warrior that ever came into the world, and a great many other kings and great lords. the king of the world asked then: "who is there can give me knowledge of the harbours of ireland?" "i will do that for you, and i will bring you to a good harbour," said glas, son of bremen, that had been put out of ireland by finn for doing some treachery. then the armies set out in their ships, and they were not gone far when the wind rose and the waves, and they could hear nothing but the wild playing of the sea-women, and the screams of frightened birds, and the breaking of ropes and of sails. but after a while, when the wind found no weakness in the heroes, it rose from them and went up into its own high place. and then the sea grew quiet and the waves grew tame and the harbours friendly, and they stopped for a while at an island that was called the green rock. but the king of the world said then: "it is not a harbour like this you promised me, glas, son of dremen, but a shore of white sand where my armies could have their fairs and their gatherings the time they would not be fighting." "i know a harbour of that sort in the west of ireland," said glas, "the harbour of the white strand in corca duibhne." so they went into their ships again, and went on over the sea towards ireland. chapter ii. cael and credhe now as to finn, when it was shown to him that the enemies of ireland were coming, he called together the seven battalions of the fianna. and the place where they gathered was on the hill that was called fionntulach, the white hill, in munster. they often stopped on that hill for a while, and spear-shafts with spells on them were brought to them there, and they had every sort of thing for food, beautiful blackberries, haws of the hawthorn, nuts of the hazels of cenntire, tender twigs of the bramble bush, sprigs of wholesome gentian, watercress at the beginning of summer. and there would be brought to their cooking-pots birds out of the oak-woods, and squirrels from berramain, and speckled eggs from the cliffs, and salmon out of luimnech, and eels of the sionnan, and woodcocks of fidhrinne, and otters from the hidden places of the doile, and fish from the coasts of buie and beare, and dulse from the bays of cleire. and as they were going to set out southwards, they saw one of their young men, gael, grandson of nemhnain, coming towards them. "where are you come from, cael?" finn asked him. "from brugh na boinne," said he. "what were you asking there?" said finn. "i was asking to speak with muirenn, daughter of derg, that was my own nurse," said he. "for what cause?" said finn. "it was about a high marriage and a woman of the sidhe that was showed to me in a dream; credhe it was i saw, daughter of the king of ciarraighe luachra." "do you know this, cael," said finn, "that she is the greatest deceiver of all the women of ireland; and there is hardly a precious thing in ireland but she has coaxed it away to her own great dun." "do you know what she asks of every man that comes asking for her?" said cael. "i know it," said finn; "she will let no one come unless he is able to make a poem setting out the report of her bowls and her horns and her cups, her grand vessels and all her palaces." "i have all that ready," said cael; "it was given to me by my nurse, muirenn, daughter of derg." they gave up the battle then for that time, and they went on over every hilly place and every stony place till they came to loch cuire in the west; and they came to the door of the hill of the sidhe and knocked at it with the shafts of their long gold-socketted spears. and there came young girls having yellow hair to the windows of the sunny houses; and credhe herself, having three times fifty women with her, came out to speak with them. "it is to ask you in marriage we are come," said finn. "who is it is asking for me?" said she. "it is cael, the hundred-killer, grandson of nemhnain, son of the king of leinster in the east." "i have heard talk of him, but i have never seen him," said credhe. "and has he any poem for me?" she said. "i have that," said cael, and he rose up then and sang his poem: "a journey i have to make, and it is no easy journey, to the house of credhe against the breast of the mountain, at the paps of dana; it is there i must be going through hardships for the length of seven days. it is pleasant her house is, with men and boys and women, with druids and musicians, with cup-bearer and door-keeper, with horse-boy that does not leave his work, with distributer to share food; and credhe of the fair hair having command over them all. "it would be delightful to me in her dun, with coverings and with down, if she has but a mind to listen to me. "a bowl she has with juice of berries in it to make her eyebrows black; crystal vats of fermenting grain; beautiful cups and vessels. her house is of the colour of lime; there are rushes for beds, and many silken coverings and blue cloaks; red gold is there, and bright drinking-horns. her sunny house is beside loch cuire, made of silver and yellow gold; its ridge is thatched without any fault, with the crimson wings of birds. the doorposts are green, the lintel is of silver taken in battle. credhe's chair on the left is the delight of delights, covered with gold of elga; at the foot of the pleasant bed it is, the bed that was made of precious stones by tuile in the east. another bed there is on the right, of gold and silver, it is made without any fault, curtains it has of the colour of the foxglove, hanging on rods of copper. "the people of her house, it is they have delight, their cloaks are not faded white, they are not worn smooth; their hair is fair and curling. wounded men in their blood would sleep hearing the birds of the sidhe singing in the eaves of the sunny house. "if i have any thanks to give to credhe, for whom the cuckoo calls, she will get better praise than this; if this love-service i have done is pleasing to her, let her not delay, let her say, 'your coming is welcome to me.' "a hundred feet there are in her house, from one corner to another; twenty feet fully measured is the width of her great door; her roof has its thatch of the wings of blue and yellow birds, the border of her well is of crystals and carbuncles. "there is a vat there of royal bronze; the juice of pleasant malt is running from it; over the vat is an apple-tree with its heavy fruit; when credhe's horn is filled from the vat, four apples fall into it together. "she that owns all these things both at low water and at flood, credhe from the hill of the three peaks, she is beyond all the women of ireland by the length of a spear-cast. "here is this song for her, it is no sudden bride-gift it is, no hurried asking; i bring it to credhe of the beautiful shape, that my coming may be very bright to her." then credhe took him for her husband, and the wedding-feast was made, and the whole of the fianna stopped there through seven days, at drinking and pleasure, and having every good thing. chapter iii. conn crither finn now, when he had turned from his road to go to credhe's house, had sent out watchmen to every landing-place to give warning when the ships of the strangers would be in sight. and the man that was keeping watch at the white strand was conn crither, son of bran, from teamhair luachra. and after he had been a long time watching, he was one night west from the round hill of the fianna that is called cruachan adrann, and there he fell asleep. and while he was in his sleep the ships came; and what roused him was the noise of the breaking of shields and the clashing of swords and of spears, and the cries of women and children and of dogs and horses that were under flames, and that the strangers were making an attack on. conn crither started up when he heard that, and he said: "it is great trouble has come on the people through my sleep; and i will not stay living after this," he said, "for finn and the fianna of ireland to see me, but i will rush into the middle of the strangers," he said, "and they will fall by me till i fall by them." he put on his suit of battle then and ran down towards the strand. and on the way he saw three women dressed in battle clothes before him, and fast as he ran he could not overtake them. he took his spear then to make a cast of it at the woman was nearest him, but she stopped on the moment, and she said: "hold your hand and do not harm us, for we are not come to harm you but to help you." "who are you yourselves?" said conn crither. "we are three sisters," she said, "and we are come from tir nan og, the country of the young, and we have all three given you our love, and no one of us loves you less than the other, and it is to give you our help we are come." "what way will you help me?" said conn. "we will give you good help," she said, "for we will make druid armies about you from stalks of grass and from the tops of the watercress, and they will cry out to the strangers and will strike their arms from their hands, and take from them their strength and their eyesight. and we will put a druid mist about you now," she said, "that will hide you from the armies of the strangers, and they will not see you when you make an attack on them. and we have a well of healing at the foot of slieve iolair, the eagle's mountain," she said, "and its waters will cure every wound made in battle. and after bathing in that well you will be as whole and as sound as the day you were born. and bring whatever man you like best with you," she said, "and we will heal him along with you." conn crither gave them his thanks for that, and he hurried on to the strand. and it was at that time the armies of the king of the great plain were taking spoils from traigh moduirn in the north to finntraighe in the south. and conn crither came on them, and the druid army with him, and he took their spoils from them, and the druid army took their sight and their strength from them, and they were routed, and they made away to where the king of the great plain was, and conn crither followed, killing and destroying. "stop with me, king-hero," said the king of the great plain, "that i may fight with you on account of my people, since there is not one of them that turns to stand against you." so the two set their banners in the earth and attacked one another, and fought a good part of the day until conn crither struck off the king's head. and he lifted up the head, and he was boasting of what he had done. "by my word," he said, "i will not let myself be parted from this body till some of the fianna, few or many, will come to me." chapter iv. glas, son of bremen the king of the world heard that, and he said: "it is a big word that man is saying," he said; "and rise up now, glas, son of dremen, and see which of the fianna of ireland it is that is saying it." glas left the ship then, and he went to where conn crither was, and he asked who was he. "i am conn crither, son of bran, from teamhair luachra," said he. "if that is so," said glas, "you are of the one blood with myself, for i am glas, son of bremen from teamhair luachra." "it is not right for you to come fighting against me from those foreigners, so," said conn. "it is a pity indeed," said glas; "and but for finn and the fianna driving me from them, i would not fight against you or against one of themselves for all the treasures of the whole world." "do not say that," said conn, "for i swear by my hand of valour," he said, "if you had killed finn's own son and the sons of his people along with him, you need not be in dread of him if only you came under his word and his protection." "i think indeed the day is come for me to fight beside you," said glas, "and i will go back and tell that to the king of the world." he went back then to where the king was, and the king asked him which of the men of the fianna was in it. "it is a kinsman of my own is in it, high king," said glas; "and it is weak my heart is, he to be alone, and i have a great desire to go and help him." "if you go," said the king of the world, "it is what i ask you, to come and to tell me every day how many of the fianna of ireland have fallen by me; and if a few of my own men should fall," he said, "come and tell me who it was they fell by." "it is what i ask you," said glas, "not to let your armies land till the fianna come to us, but to let one man only come to fight with each of us until that time," he said. so two of the strangers were sent against them that day, and they got their death by glas and by conn crither. then they asked to have two men sent against each of them, and that was done; and three times nine fell by them before night. and conn crither was covered with wounds after the day, and he said to glas: "three women came to me from the country of the young, and they promised to put me in a well of healing for my wounds. and let you watch the harbour to-night," he said, "and i will go look for them." so he went to them, and they bathed him in the well of healing, and he was whole of his wounds. and as to glas, son of dremen, he went down to the harbour, and he said: "o king of the world," he said, "there is a friend of mine in the ships, madan of the bent neck, son of the king of the marshes; and it is what he said in the great world in the east, that he himself would be enough to take ireland for you, and that he would bring it under tribute to you by one way or another. and i ask you to let him come alone against me to-night, till we see which of us will fight best for ireland." so madan came to the land, and the two attacked one another, and made a very hard fight; but as it was not in the prophecy that glas would find his death there, it was the son of the king of the marshes that got his death by him. and not long after that conn crither came back to glas, and he gave glas great praise for all he had done. chapter v. the help of the men of dea then taistellach that was one of finn's messengers came to the white strand asking news; and conn bade him go back to where finn was and tell him the way things were. but taistellach would not go until he had wetted his sword in the blood of one of the enemies of ireland, the same as the others had done. and he sent a challenge to the ships, and coimhleathan, a champion that was very big and tall, came and fought with him on the strand, and took him in his arms to bring him back living to the ship of the high king; but taistellach struck his head off in the sea and brought it back to land. "victory and blessing be with you!" said conn crither. "and go now to-night," he said, "to the house of bran, son of febal my father at teamhair luachra, and bid him to gather all the tuatha de danaan to help us; and go on to-morrow to the fianna of ireland." so taistellach went on to bran's house, and he told him the whole story and gave him the message. then bran, son of febal, went out to gather the tuatha de danaan, and he went to dun sesnain in ui conall gabra, where they were holding a feast at that time. and there he found three of the best young men of the tuatha de danaan, ilbrec the many coloured, son of manannan, and nemanach the pearly, son of angus og, and sigmall, grandson of midhir, and they made him welcome and bade him to stop with them. "there is a greater thing than this for you to do, men of dea," said bran; and he told them the whole story, and the way conn crither his son was. "stop with me to-night," said sesnan, "and my son dolb will go to bodb dearg, son of the dagda, and gather in the tuatha de danaan to us." so he stopped there, and dolb, son of sesnan, went to sidhe bean finn above magh femen, and bodb dearg was there at that time, and dolb gave him his message. "young man," said bodb dearg, "we are no way bound to help the men of ireland out of that strait." "do not say that," said dolb, "for there is not a king's son or a prince or a leader of the fianna of ireland without having a wife or a mother or a foster-mother or a sweetheart of the tuatha de danaan; and it is good help they have given you every time you were in want of it." "i give my word," said bodb dearg, "it is right to give a good answer to so good a messenger." with that he sent word to the tuatha de danaan in every place where they were, and they gathered to him. and from that they went on to dun sesnain, and they stopped there through the night and they rose up in the morning and put on their shirts of the dearest silk and their embroidered coats of rejoicing, and they took their green shields and their swords and their spears. and their leaders at that time besides bodb dearg were midhir of bri leith, and lir of sidhe finnachaidh, and abarthach, son of ildathach, and ilbrec, son of manannan, and fionnbhar of magh suil, and argat lamh, the silver hand, from the sionnan, and the man of sweet speech from the boinn. and the whole army of them came into ciarraighe luachra, and to red-haired slieve mis, and from that to the harbour of the white strand. "o men of dea," said abarthach then, "let a high mind and high courage rise within you now in the face of the battle. for the doings of every one among you," he said, "will be told till the end of the world; and let you fulfil now the big words you have spoken in the drinking-houses." "rise up, glas, son of dremen," said bodb dearg then, "and tell out to the king of the world that i am come to do battle." glas went then to the king of the world. "are those the fianna of ireland i see?" said the king. "they are not," said glas, "but another part of the men of ireland that do not dare to be on the face of the earth, but that live in hidden houses under the earth, and it is to give warning of battle from them i am come." "who will answer the tuatha de danaan for me?" said the king of the world. "we will go against them," said two of the kings that were with him, comur cromchenn, king of the men of the dog-heads, and caitchenn, king of the men of the cat-heads. and they had five red-armed battalions with them, and they went to the shore like great red waves. "who is there to match with the king of the dog-heads for me?" said bodb dearg. "i will go against him," said lir of sidhe finnachaidh, "though i heard there is not in the world a man with stronger hands than himself." "who will be a match for the king of the cat-heads?" said bodb dearg. "i will be a match for him," said abarthach, son of ildathach. so lir and the king of the dog-heads attacked one another, and they made a hard fight; but after a while lir was getting the worst of it. "it is a pity the way lir is," said bodb dearg; "and let some of you rise up and help him," he said. then ilbrec, son of manannan, went to his help; but if he did, he got a wound himself and could do nothing. then sigmal, grandson of midhir, went to his help, and after him the five sons of finnaistucan, and others of the men of dea, but they were all driven off by the king of the dog-heads. but at that time abarthach had made an end of the king of the cat-heads, and he rose on his spear, and made a leap, and came down between lir and his enemy. "leave off now and look on at the fight," he said to lir, "and leave it to me and the foreigner." with that he took his sword in his left hand and made a thrust with his spear in through the king's armour. and as the king was raising up his shield, he struck at him with the sword that was in his left hand, and cut off both his legs at the knees, and the king let fall his shield then, and abarthach struck off his head. and the two kings being dead, their people broke away and ran, but the men of dea followed them and made an end of them all; but if they did, they lost a good many of their own men. chapter vi. the march of the fianna ana finn and the fianna were at the house of credhe yet, and they saw taistellach coming towards them. it was the custom, now, with finn when he sent any one looking for news, that it was to himself it was to be told first, the way that if he got bad news he would let on not to mind it; and if it was good news he got, he would have the satisfaction of telling it himself. so taistellach told him how the foreigners were come to the harbour of the white strand. then finn turned to his chief men, and he said: "fianna of ireland, there never came harm or danger to ireland to be put aside this great danger that is come against us now. and you get great tribute and great service from the chief men of ireland," he said, "and if you take that from them it is right for you to defend them now." and the fianna all said they would not go back one step from the defence of ireland. and as to credhe, she gave every one of them a battle dress, and they were taking leave of her, and finn said: "let the woman come along with us till we know is it good or bad the end of this journey will be." so she came with them, bringing a great herd of cattle; and through the whole length of the battle, that lasted a year and a day, she had new milk for them, and it was to her house the wounded were brought for healing. then the fianna set out, and they went to the borders of ciarraighe luachra and across by the shores of the bannlid with their left hand to slieve mis, and they made shelters for themselves that night, and kindled fires. but caoilte and oisin and lugaidh's son said to one another they would go on to the harbour, the way they would have time to redden their hands in the blood of the foreigners before the rest of the fianna would come. and at that time the king of the world bade some of his chief men to go on shore and to bring him back some spoils. so they went to land and they gave out a great shout, and the people of the ships gave out a great shout at the same time. "i swear by the oath my people swear by," said caoilte, "i have gone round the whole world, but i never heard so many voices together in the one place." and with that he himself and oisin and lugaidh's son made an attack on the strangers, and struck great blows at them. and when conn crither and glas, son of bremen, heard the noise of those blows, they knew they were struck by some of the fianna of ireland, and they came and joined with them, and did great destruction on the strangers, till there was not one left of all that had come to land. chapter vii. the first fighters and in the morning they saw finn and all his people coming to the rath that is above the harbour. "my father finn," said oisin than, "let us fight now with the whole of the foreigners altogether." "that is not my advice," said finn, "for the number of their armies is too great for us, and we could not stand against them. but we will send out every day," he said, "some son of a king or of a leader against some king of the kings of the world that is equal in blood to ourselves. and let none of you redden your arms," he said, "but against a king or a chief man at first, for when a king is fallen, his people will be more inclined to give way. and who will give out a challenge of battle from me now?" he said. "i will do that," said the son of cuban, leader of the fianna of munster. "do not go, my son," said finn, "for it is not showed to me that you will have good luck in the battle, and i never sent out any man to fight without i knew he would come back safe to me." "do not say that," said cuban's son, "for i would not for the treasure of the whole world go back from a fight on account of a bad foretelling. and as it is my own country they have done their robbery in first," he said, "i will defend it for you." "it is sorrowful i am for that," said finn, "for whichever of the kings of the world will meet you to-day, yourself and himself will fall together." then glas, son of dremen, gave out a challenge of fight from cuban's son, and the king of greece answered it. and the two fought hand to hand, and the king of greece made a great cast of his thick spear at cuban's son, that went through his body and broke his back in two. but he did not take that blow as a gift, but he paid for it with a strong cast of his own golden spear that went through the ringed armour of the king of greece. and those two fell together, sole to sole, and lip to lip. "there is grief on me, cuban's son to have fallen," said finn, "for no one ever went from his house unsatisfied; and a man that i would not keep, or the high king of ireland would not keep for a week, he would keep him in his house through the length of a year. and let follamain, his son, be called to me now," he said, "and i will give him his father's name and place." they stopped there then till the next morning. "who will go and fight to-day?" said finn then. "i will do that," said goll garb, son of the king of alban and of the daughter of goll, son of morna. so he put on his battle dress, and there came against him the three kings from the rising of the sun in the east, and their three battalions with them. and goll garb rushed among their men, and wounded and maimed and destroyed them, and blinded their eyes for ever, so that their wits went from them, and they called to him to stop his deadly sword for a while. so he did that; and it is what they agreed to take their three kings and to give them over to goll garb that he might stop doing destruction with his sword. "who will go out and fight to-day?" said finn, on the morning of the morrow. "i will go," said oisin, "and the chief men of the sons of baiscne with me; for we get the best share of all the pleasant things of ireland, and we should be first to defend her." "i will answer that challenge," said the king of france, "for it is against finn i am come to ireland, on account of my wife that he brought away from me; and these men will fall by me now," he said, "and finn himself at the last; for when the branches of a tree are cut off, it is not hard to cut down the tree itself." so the king of france and oisin met one another at the eastern end of the strand, and they struck their banners of soft silk into the green hill, and bared their swords and made a quick attack on one another. and at one time the king struck such a great blow that he knocked a groan out of oisin. but for all that he was worsted in the end, and great fear came on him, like the fear of a hundred horses at the sound of thunder, and he ran from oisin, and he rose like a swallow, that his feet never touched the earth at all; and he never stopped till he came to gleann na-n gealt, the valley of wild men. and ever since that time, people that have lost their wits make for that valley; and every mad person in ireland, if he had his way, would go there within twenty-four hours. and there rose great cries of lamentation from the armies of the world when they saw him going from them, and the fianna of ireland raised great shouts of joy. and when the night was coming on, it is what finn said: "it is sad and gloomy the king of the world is to-night; and it is likely he will make an attack on us. and which of you will keep watch over the harbour through the night?" he said. "i will," said oisin, "with the same number that was fighting along with me to-day; for it is not too much for you to fight for the fianna of ireland through a day and a night," he said. so they went down to the harbour, and it was just at that time the king of the world was saying, "it seems to me, men of the world, that our luck of battle was not good to-day. and let a share of you rise up now," he said, "and make an attack on the fianna of ireland." then there rose up the nine sons of garb, king of the sea of icht, that were smiths, and sixteen hundred of their people along with them, and they all went on shore but dolar durba that was the eldest of them. and the sons of baiscne were ready for them, and they fought a great battle till the early light of the morrow. and not one of them was left alive on either side that could hold a weapon but only oisin and one of the sons of garb. and they made rushes at one another, and threw their swords out of their hands, and closed their arms about one another, and wrestled together, so that it was worth coming from the east to the west of the world to see the fight of those two. then the foreigner gave a sudden great fall to oisin, to bring him into the sea, for he was a great swimmer, and he thought to get the better of him there. and oisin thought it would not be worthy of him to refuse any man his place of fighting. so they went into the water together, and they were trying to drown one another till they came to the sand and the gravel of the clear sea. and it was a torment to the heart of the fianna, oisin to be in that strait. "rise up, fergus of the sweet lips," said finn then, "and go praise my son and encourage him." so fergus went down to the edge of the sea, and he said: "it is a good fight you are making, oisin, and there are many to see it, for the armies of the whole world are looking at you, and the fianna of ireland. and show now," he said, "your ways and your greatness, for you never went into any place but some woman of high beauty or some king's daughter set her love on you." then oisin's courage increased, and anger came on him and he linked his hands behind the back of the foreigner and put him down on the sand under the sea with his face upwards, and did not let him rise till the life was gone from him. and he brought the body to shore then, and struck off his head and brought it to the fianna. but there was great grief and anger on dolar durba, the eldest of the sons of garb, that had stopped in the ship, and he made a great oath that he would have satisfaction for his brothers. and he went to the high king, and he said: "i will go alone to the strand, and i will kill a hundred men every day till i have made an end of the whole of the armies of ireland; and if any one of your own men comes to interfere with me," he said, "i will kill him along with them." the next morning finn asked who would lead the battle that day. "i will," said dubhan, son of donn. "do not," said finn, "but let some other one go." but dubhan went to the strand, and a hundred men along with him; and there was no one there before him but dolar durba, and he said he was there to fight with the whole of them. and dubhan's men gave a great shout of laughter when they heard that; but dolar durba rushed on them, and he made an end of the whole hundred, without a man of them being able to put a scratch on him. and then he took a hurling stick and a ball, and he threw up the ball and kept it in the air with the hurl from the west to the east of the strand without letting it touch the ground at all. and then he put the ball on his right foot and kicked it high into the air, and when it was coming down he gave it a kick of his left foot and kept it in the air like that, and he rushing like a blast of march wind from one end of the strand to the other. and when he had done that he walked up and down on the strand making great boasts, and challenging the men of ireland to do the like of those feats. and every day he killed a hundred of the men that were sent against him. chapter viii. the king of ulster's son now it chanced at that time that news of the great battle that was going on reached to the court of the king of ulster. and the king's son, that was only twelve years of age, and that was the comeliest of all the young men of ireland, said to his father: "let me go to help finn, son of cumhal, and his men." "you are not old enough, or strong enough, boy; your bones are too soft," said the king. and when the boy went on asking, his father shut him up in some close place, and put twelve young men, his foster-brothers, in charge of him. there was great anger on the young lad then, and he said to his foster-brothers: "it is through courage and daring my father won a great name for himself in his young youth, and why does he keep me from winning a name for myself? and let you help me now," he said, "and i will be a friend to you for ever." and he went on talking to them and persuading them till he got round them all, and they agreed to go with him to join finn and the fianna. and when the king was asleep, they went into the house where the arms were kept, and every lad of them brought away with him a shield and a sword and a helmet and two spears and two greyhound whelps. and they went across ess ruadh in the north, and through connacht of many tribes, and through caille an chosanma, the woods of defence, that were called the choice of every king and the true honour of every poet, and into ciarraighe, and so on to the white strand. and when they came there dolar durba was on the strand, boasting before the men of ireland. and oisin was rising up to go against him, for he said he would sooner die fighting with him than see the destruction he was doing every day on his people. and all the wise men and the fighting men and the poets and the musicians of the fianna gave a great cry of sorrow when they heard oisin saying that. and the king of ulster's son went to finn and stood before him and saluted him, and finn asked who was he, and where did he come from. "i am the son of the king of ulster," he said; "and i am come here, myself and my twelve foster-brothers, to give you what help we can." "i give you a welcome," said finn. just then they heard the voice of dolar durba, very loud and boastful. "who is that i hear?" said the king's son. "it is a man of the foreigners asking for a hundred of my men to go and meet him," said finn. now, when the twelve foster-brothers heard that, they said no word but went down to the strand, unknown to the king's son and to finn. "you are not a grown man," said conan; "and neither yourself or your comrades are fit to face any fighting man at all." "i never saw the fianna of ireland till this day," said the young lad; "but i know well that you are conan maol, that never says a good word of any man. and you will see now," he said, "if i am in dread of that man on the strand, or of any man in the world, for i will go out against him by myself." but finn kept him back and was talking with him; but then conan began again, and he said: "it is many men dolar durba has made an end of, and there was not a man of all those that could not have killed a hundred of the like of you every day." when the king's son heard that, there was great anger on him, and he leaped up, and just then dolar durba gave a great shout on the strand. "what is he giving, that shout for?" said the king's son. "he is shouting for more men to come against him," said conan, "for he is just after killing your twelve comrades." "that is a sorrowful story," said the king's son. and with that he took hold of his arms, and no one could hold him or hinder him, and he rushed down to the strand where dolar durba was. and all the armies of the strangers gave a great shout of laughter, for they thought all finn's men had been made an end of, when he sent a young lad like that against their best champion. and when the boy heard that, his courage grew the greater, and he fell on dolar durba and gave him many wounds before he knew he was attacked at all. and they fought a very hard fight together, till their shields and their swords were broken in pieces. and that did not stop the battle, but they grappled together and fought and wrestled that way, till the tide went over them and drowned them both. and when the sea went over them the armies on each side gave out a great sorrowful cry. and after the ebb-tide on the morrow, the two bodies were found cold and quiet, each one held fast by the other. but dolar durba was beneath the king's son, so they knew it was the young lad was the best and had got the victory. and they buried him, and put a flag-stone over his grave, and keened him there. chapter ix. the high king's son then finn said he would send a challenge himself to daire bonn, the king of the great world. but caoilte asked leave to do that day's fighting himself. and finn said he would agree to that if he could find enough of men to go with him. and he himself gave him a hundred men, and oisin did the same, and so on with the rest. and he gave out his challenge, and it was the son of the king of the great plain that answered it. and while they were in the heat of the fight, a fleet of ships came into the harbour, and finn thought they were come to help the foreigners. but oisin looked at them, and he said: "it is seldom your knowledge fails you, finn, but those are friends of our own: fiachra, son of the king of the fianna of the bretons, and duaban donn, son of the king of tuathmumain with his own people." and when those that were in the ships came on shore, they saw caoilte's banner going down before the son of the king of the great plain. and they all went hurrying on to his help, and between them they made an end of the king's son and of all his people. "who will keep watch to-night?" said finn then. "we will," said the nine garbhs of the fianna, of slieve mis, and slieve cua, and slieve clair, and slieve crot, and slieve muice, and slieve fuad, and slieve atha moir, and dun sobairce and dundealgan. and they were not long watching till they saw the king of the men of dregan coming towards them, and they fought a fierce battle; and at the end of the night there were left standing but three of the garbhs, and the king of the men of dregan. and they fought till their wits were gone from them; and those four fell together, sole against sole, and lip against lip. and the fight went on from day to day, and from week to week, and there were great losses on both sides. and when fergus of the sweet lips saw that so many of the fianna were fallen, he asked no leave but went to teamhair of the kings, where the high king of ireland was, and he told him the way it was with finn and his people. "that is good," said the high king, "finn to be in that strait; for there is no labouring man dares touch a pig or a deer or a salmon if he finds it dead before him on account of the fianna; and there is no man but is in dread to go from one place to another without leave from finn, or to take a wife till he knows if she has a sweetheart among the fianna of ireland. and it is often finn has given bad judgments against us," he said, "and it would be better for us the foreigners to gain the day than himself." then fergus went out to the lawn where the high king's son was playing at ball. "it is no good help you are giving to ireland," said fergus then, "to be playing a game without lasting profit, and strangers taking away your country from you." and he was urging him and blaming him, and great shame came on the young man, and he threw away the stick and went through the people of teamhair and brought together all the young men, a thousand and twenty of them that were in it. and they asked no leave and no advice from the high king, but they set out and went on till they came to finntraigh. and fergus went to where finn was, and told him the son of the high king of ireland was come with him; and all the fianna rose up before the young man and bade him welcome. and finn said: "young man," he said, "we would sooner see you coming at a time when there would be musicians and singers and poets and high-up women to make pleasure for you than at the time we are in the straits of battle the way we are now." "it is not for playing i am come," said the young man, "but to give you my service in battle." "i never brought a lad new to the work into the breast of battle," said finn, "for it is often a lad coming like that finds his death, and i would not wish him to fall through me." "i give my word," said the young man, "i will do battle with them on my own account if i may not do it on yours." then fergus of the fair lips went out to give a challenge of battle from the son of the high king of ireland to the king of the world. "who will answer the king of ireland's son for me?" said the king of the world. "i will go against him," said sligech, king of the men of cepda; and he went on shore, and his three red battalions with him. and the high king's son went against them, and his comrades were near him, and they were saying to him: "take a good heart now into the fight, for the fianna will be no better pleased if it goes well with you than if it goes well with the foreigner." and when the high king's son heard that, he made a rush through the army of the foreigners, and began killing and overthrowing them, till their chief men were all made an end of. then sligech their king came to meet him, very angry and destroying, and they struck at one another and made a great fight, but at the last the king of ireland's son got the upper hand, and he killed the king of the men of cepda and struck off his head. chapter x. the king of lochlann and his sons and the fighting went on from day to day, and at last finn said to fergus of the sweet lips: "go out, fergus, and see how many of the fianna are left for the fight to-day." and fergus counted them, and he said: "there is one battalion only of the fianna left in good order; but there are some of the men of it," he said, "are able to fight against three, and some that are able to fight against nine or thirty or a hundred." "if that is so," said finn, "rise up and go to where the king of the world is, and bid him to come out to the great battle." so fergus went to the king of the world, and it is the way he was, on his bed listening to the music of harps and pipes. "king of the world," said fergus, "it is long you are in that sleep; and that is no shame for you," he said, "for it will be your last sleep. and the whole of the fianna are gone out to their place of battle," he said, "and let you go out and answer them." "in my opinion," said the king of the world, "there is not a man of them is able to fight against me; and how many are there left of the fianna of ireland?" "one battalion only that is in good order," said fergus. "and how many of the armies of the world are there left?" he said. "thirty battalions came with me to ireland; and there are twenty of them fallen by the fianna, and what is left of them is ten red battalions in good order. and there are eight good fighters of them," he said, "that would put down the men of the whole world if they were against me; that is, myself, and conmail my son, and ogarmach, the daughter of the king of greece, that is the best hand in battle of the whole world after myself, and finnachta of the teeth, the chief of my household, and the king of lochlann, caisel clumach of the feathers, and his three sons, tocha, and forne of the broad shoulders, and mongach of the sea." "i swear by the oath of my people," said the king of lochlann then, "if any man of the armies goes out against the fianna before myself and my three sons, we will not go at all, for we would not get the satisfaction we are used to, unless our swords get their fill of blood." "i will go out against them alone," said forne, the youngest son of the king of lochlann. with that he put on his battle suit, and he went among the fianna of ireland, and a red-edged sword in each of his hands. and he destroyed those of their young men that were sent against him, and he made the strand narrow with their bodies. and finn saw that, and it was torment to his heart, and danger of death and loss of wits to him, and he was encouraging the men of ireland against forne. and fergus of the true lips stood up, and it is what he said: "fianna of ireland," he said, "it is a pity the way you are under hardship and you defending ireland. and one man is taking her from you to-day," he said, "and you are like no other thing but a flock of little birds looking for shelter in a bush from a hawk that is after them. and it is going into the shelter of finn and oisin and caoilte you are," he said; "and not one of you is better than another, and none of you sets his face against the foreigner." "by my oath," said oisin, "all that is true, and no one of us tries to do better than another keeping him off." "there is not one of you is better than another," said fergus. then oisin gave out a great shout against the king of lochlann's son. "stop here with me, king's son," he said, "until i fight with you for the fianna." "i give my word it is short the delay will be," said forne. then he himself and oisin made an attack on one another, and it seemed for a while that the battle was going against oisin. "by my word, man of poetry," said finn then to fergus of the true lips, "it is a pity the way you sent my son against the foreigner. and rise up and praise him and hearten him now," he said. so fergus went down to where the fight was, and he said: "there is great shame on the fianna, oisin, seeing you so low in this fight; and there is many a foot messenger and many a horsemen from the daughters of the kings and princes of ireland looking at you now," he said. and great courage rose in oisin then, and he drove his spear through the body of forne, the king of lochlann's son. and he himself came back to the fianna of ireland. then the armies of the world gave out a great cry, keening forne; and there was anger and not fear on his brothers, for they thought it no right thing he to have fallen by a man of the fianna. and tocha, the second son of the king of lochlann, went on shore to avenge his brother. and he went straight into the middle of the fianna, and gave his sword good feeding on their bodies, till they broke away before him and made no stand till lugaidh's son turned round against him. and those two fought a great fight, till their swords were bent and their spears crumbled away, and they lost their golden shields. and at the last lugaidh's son made a stroke of his sword that cut through the foreigner's sword, and then he made another stroke that cut his heart in two halves. and he came back high and proud to the fianna. then the third son of the king of lochlann, mongach of the sea, rose up, and all the armies rose up along with him. "stop here, men of the world," he said, "for it is not you but myself that has to go and ask satisfaction for the bodies of my brothers." so he went on shore; and it is the way he was, with a strong iron flail in his hand having seven balls of pure iron on it, and fifty iron chains, and fifty apples on every chain, and fifty deadly thorns on every apple. and he made a rush through the fianna to break them up entirely and to tear them into strings, and they gave way before him. and great shame came on fidach, son of the king of the bretons, and he said: "come here and praise me, fergus of the true lips, till i go out and fight with the foreigner." "it is easy to praise you, son," said fergus, and he was praising him for a long time. then the two looked at one another and used fierce, proud words. and then mongach of the sea raised his iron flail and made a great blow at the king of the bretons' son. but he made a quick leap to one side and gave him a blow of his sword that cut off his two hands at the joint; and he did not stop at that, but made a blow at his middle that cut him into two halves. but as he fell, an apple of the flail with its deadly thorns went into fidach's comely mouth and through his brain, and it was foot to foot those two fell, and lip to lip. and the next that came to fight on the strand was the king of lochlann himself, caisel of the feathers. and he came to the battle having his shield on his arm; and it is the way the shield was, that was made for him by the smith of the fomor, there were red flames coming from it; and if it was put under the sea itself, not one of its flames would stop blazing. and when he had that shield on his arm no man could come near him. and there was never such destruction done on the men of ireland as on that day, for the flames of fire that he sent from his shield went through the bodies of men till they blazed up like a splinter of oak that was after hanging through the length of a year in the smoke of a chimney; and any one that would touch the man that was burning would catch fire himself. and every other harm that ever came into ireland before was small beside this. then finn said: "lift up your hands, fianna of ireland, and give three shouts of blessing to whoever will hinder this foreigner." and the fianna gave those three shouts; and the king of lochlann gave a great laugh when he heard them. and druimderg, grandson of the head of the fianna of ulster, was near him, and he had with him a deadly spear, the croderg, the red-socketed, that came down from one to another of the sons of rudraighe. and he looked at the king of lochlann, and he could see no part of him without armour but his mouth that was opened wide, and he laughing at the fianna. then druimderg made a cast with the croderg that hit him in the open mouth, and he fell, and his shield fell along with its master, and its flame went out. and druimderg struck the head from his body, and made great boasts of the things he had done. chapter xi. labran's journey it is then fergus of the true lips set out again and went through the length of ireland till he came to the house of tadg, son of nuada, that was grandfather to finn. and there was great grief on muirne, finn's mother, and on labran of the long hand her brother, and on all her people, when they knew the great danger he was in. and tadg asked his wife who did she think would escape with their lives from the great fighting at the white strand. "it is a pity the way they are there," said she; "for if all the living men of the world were on one side, daire donn, the king of the world, would put them all down; for there are no weapons in the world that will ever be reddened on him. and on the night he was born, the smith of the fomor made a shield and a sword, and it is in the prophecy that he will fall by no other arms but those. and it is to the king of the country of the fair men he gave them to keep, and it is with him they are now." "if that is so," said tadg, "you might be able to get help for finn, son of cumhal, the only son of your daughter. and bid labran lamfada to go and ask those weapons of him," he said. "do not be asking me," said she, "to go against daire donn that was brought up in my father's house." but after they had talked for a while, they went out on the lawn, and they sent labran looking for the weapons in the shape of a great eagle. and he went on from sea to sea, till at noon on the morrow he came to the dun of the king of the country of the fair men; and he went in his own shape to the dun and saluted the king, and the king bade him welcome, and asked him to stop with him for a while. "there is a thing i want more than that," said labran, "for the wife of a champion of the fianna has given me her love, and i cannot get her without fighting for her; and it is the loan of that sword and that shield you have in your keeping i am come asking now," he said. there were seven rooms, now, in the king's house that opened into one another, and on the first door was one lock, and on the second two locks, and so on to the door of the last room that had seven locks; and it was in that the sword and the shield that were made by the smith of the fomor were kept. and they were brought out and were given to labran, and stalks of luck were put with them, and they were bound together with shield straps. then labran of the long hand went back across the seas again, and he reached his father's dun between the crowing of the cock and the full light of day; and the weakness of death came on him. "it is a good message you are after doing, my son," said tadg, "and no one ever went that far in so short a time as yourself." "it is little profit that is to me," said labran, "for i am not able to bring them to finn in time for the fight to-morrow." but just at that time one of tadg's people saw aedh, son of aebinn, that was as quick as the wind over a plain till the middle of every day, and after that, there was no man quicker than he was. "you are come at a good time," said tadg. and with that he gave him the sword and the shield to bring to finn for the battle. so aedh, son of aebinn, went with the swiftness of a hare or of a fawn or a swallow, till at the rising of the day on the morrow he came to the white strand. and just at that time fergus of the true lips was rousing up the fianna for the great fight, and it is what he said: "fianna of ireland," he said, "if there was the length of seven days in one day, you would have work to fill it now; for there never was and there never will be done in ireland a day's work like the work of to-day." then the fianna of ireland rose up, and they saw aedh, son of aebinn, coming towards them with his quick running, and finn asked news from him. "it is from the dun of tadg, son of nuada, i am come," he said, "and it is to yourself i am sent, to ask how it is you did not redden your weapons yet upon the king of the world." "i swear by the oath of my people," said finn, "if i do not redden my weapons on him, i will crush his body within his armour." "i have here for you, king of the fianna," said aedh then, "the deadly weapons that will bring him to his death; and it was labran of the long hand got them for you through his druid arts." he put them in finn's hand then, and finn took the coverings off them, and there rose from them flashes of fire and deadly bubbles; and not one of the fianna could stay looking at them, but it put great courage into them to know they were with finn. "rise up now," said finn to fergus of the true lips, "and go where the king of the world is, and bid him to come out to the place of the great fight." chapter xii. the great fight then the king of the world came to the strand, and all his armies with him; and all that were left of the fianna went out against them, and they were like thick woods meeting one another, and they made great strokes, and there were swords crashing against bones, and bodies that were hacked, and eyes that were blinded, and many a mother was left without her son, and many a comely wife without her comrade. then the creatures of the high air answered to the battle, foretelling the destruction that would be done that day; and the sea chattered of the losses, and the waves gave heavy shouts keening them, and the water-beasts roared to one another, and the rough hills creaked with the danger of the battle, and the woods trembled mourning the heroes, and the grey stones cried out at their deeds, and the wind sobbed telling them, and the earth shook, foretelling the slaughter; and the cries of the grey armies put a blue cloak over the sun, and the clouds were dark; and the hounds and the whelps and the crows, and the witches of the valley, and the powers of the air, and the wolves of the forests, howled from every quarter and on every side of the armies, urging them against one another. it was then conan, son of morna, brought to mind that himself and his kindred had done great harm to the sons of baiscne, and he had a wish to do some good thing for them on account of that, and he raised up his sword and did great deeds. and finn was over the battle, encouraging the fianna; and the king of the world was on the other side encouraging the foreigners. "rise up now, fergus," said finn, "and praise conan for me that his courage may be the greater, for it is good work he is doing on my enemies." so fergus went where conan was, and at that time he was heated with the dust of the fight, and he was gone outside to let the wind go about him. "it is well you remember the old quarrel between the sons of morna and the sons of baiscne, conan," said fergus; "and you would be ready to go to your own death if it would bring harm on the sons of baiscne," he said. "for the love of your good name, man of poetry," said conan, "do not be speaking against me without cause, and i will do good work on the foreigners when i get to the battle again." "by my word," said fergus, "that would be a good thing for you to do." he sang a verse of praise for him then, and conan went back into the battle, and his deeds were not worse this time than they were before. and fergus went back to where finn was. "who is best in the battle now?" said finn. "duban, son of cas, a champion of your own people," said fergus, "for he never gives but the one stroke to any man, and no man escapes with his life from that stroke, and three times nine and eighty men have fallen by him up to this time." and duban donn, great-grandson of the king of tuathmumhain, was there listening to him, and it is what he said: "by my oath, fergus," he said, "all you are saying is true, for there is not a son of a king or of a lord is better in the battle than duban, son of cas; and i will go to my own death if i do not go beyond him." with that he went rushing through the battle like flames over a high hill that is thick with furze. nine times he made a round of the battle, and he killed nine times nine in every round. "who is best in the battle now?" said finn, after a while. "it is duban donn that is after going from us," said fergus. "for there has been no one ahead of him since he was in his seventh year, and there is no one ahead of him now." "rise up and praise him that his courage may be the greater," said finn. "it is right to praise him," said fergus, "and the foreigners running before him on every side as they would run from a heavy drenching of the sea." so fergus praised him for a while, and he went back then to finn. "who is best in the battle now?" said finn. "it is osgar is best in it now," said fergus, "and he is fighting alone against two hundred franks and two hundred of the men of gairian, and the king of the men of gairian himself. and all these are beating at his shield," he said, "and not one of them has given him a wound but he gave him a wound back for it." "what way is caoilte, son of ronan?" said finn. "he is in no great strait after the red slaughter he has made," said fergus. "go to him then," said finn, "and bid him to keep off a share of the foreigners from osgar." so fergus went to him. "caoilte," he said, "it is great danger your friend osgar is in under the blows of the foreigners, and let you rise up and give him some help," he said. caoilte went then to the place where osgar was, and he gave a straight blow of his sword at the man who was nearest him, that made two halves of him. osgar raised his head then and looked at him. "it is likely, caoilte," he said, "you did not dare redden your sword on any one till you struck down a man that was before my sword. and it is a shame for you," he said, "all the men of the great world and the fianna of ireland to be in the one battle, and you not able to make out a fight for yourself without coming to take a share of my share of the battle. and i give my oath," he said, "i would be glad to see you put down in your bed of blood on account of that thing." caoilte's mind changed when he heard that, and he turned again to the army of the foreigners with the redness of anger on his white face; and eighty fighting men fell in that rout. "what way is the battle now?" said finn. "it is a pity," said fergus, "there never came and there never will come any one that can tell the way it is now. for by my word," he said, "the tree-tops of the thickest forest in the whole of the western world are not closer together than the armies are now. for the bosses of their shields are in one another's hands. and there is fire coming from the edges of their swords," he said, "and blood is raining down like a shower on a day of harvest; and there were never so many leaves torn by the wind from a great forest as there are locks of long golden hair, and of black curled hair, cut off by sharp weapons, blowing into the clouds at this time. and there is no person could tell one man from another, now," he said, "unless it might be by their voices." with that he went into the very middle of the fight to praise and to hearten the men of the fianna. "who is first in the battle now, fergus?" said finn, when he came back to him. "by my oath, it is no friend of your own is first in it," said fergus, "for it is daire donn, the king of the world; and it is for you he is searching through the battle," he said, "and three times fifty of his own people were with him. but two of the men of your fianna fell on them," he said, "cairell the battle striker, and aelchinn of cruachan, and made an end of them. but they were not able to wound the king of the world," he said, "but the two of them fell together by him." then the king of the world came towards finn, and there was no one near him but arcallach of the black axe, the first that ever brought a wide axe into ireland. "i give my word," said arcallach, "i would never let finn go before me into any battle." he rose up then and made a terrible great blow of his axe at the king, that went through his royal crown to the hair of his head, but that did not take a drop of blood out of him, for the edge of the axe turned and there went balls of fire over the plain from that blow. and the king of the world struck back at arcallach, and made two halves of him. then finn and the king of the world turned on one another. and when the king saw the sword and the shield in finn's hand, he knew those were the weapons that were to bring him to his death, and great dread came on him, and his comeliness left him, and his fingers were shaking, and his feet were unsteady, and the sight of his eyes was weakened. and then the two fought a great fight, striking at one another like two days of judgment for the possession of the world. but the king, that had never met with a wound before, began to be greatly weakened in the fight. and finn gave great strokes that broke his shield and his sword, and that cut off his left foot, and at the last he struck off his head. but if he did, he himself fell into a faint of weakness with the dint of the wounds he had got. then finnachta of the teeth, the first man of the household of the king of the world, took hold of the royal crown of the king, and brought it where conmail his son was, and put it on his head. "that this may bring you success in many battles, my son," he said. and he gave him his father's weapons along with it; and the young man went through the battle looking for finn, and three fifties of the men of the fianna fell by him. then goll garbh the rough, son of the king of alban, saw him and attacked him, and they fought a hard fight. but the king of albain's son gave him a blow under the shelter of the shield, in his left side, that made an end of him. finnachta of the teeth saw that, and he made another rush at the royal crown, and brought it to where ogarmach was, the daughter of the king of greece. "put on that crown, ogarmach," he said, "as it is in the prophecy the world will be owned by a woman; and it will never be owned by any woman higher than yourself," he said. she went then to look for finn in the battle, and fergus of the true lips saw her, and he went where finn was. "o king of the fianna," he said then, "bring to mind the good fight you made against the king of the world and all your victories before that; for it is a great danger is coming to you now," he said, "and that is ogarmach, daughter of the king of greece." with that the woman-fighter came towards him. "o finn," she said, "it is little satisfaction you are to me for all the kings and lords that have fallen by you and by your people; but for all that," she said, "there is nothing better for me to get than your own self and whatever is left of your people." "you will not get that," said finn, "for i will lay your head in its bed of blood the same as i did to every other one." then those two attacked one another like as if there had risen to smother one another the flooded wave of cliodna, and the seeking wave of tuaigh, and the big brave wave of rudraighe. and though the woman-warrior fought for a long time, a blow from finn reached to her at last and cut through the royal crown, and with a second blow he struck her head off. and then he fell himself in his bed of blood, and was the same as dead, but that he rose again. and the armies of the world and the fianna of ireland were fallen side by side there, and there were none left fit to stand but cael, son of crimthan of the harbours, and the chief man of the household of the king of the world, finnachta of the teeth. and finnachta went among the dead bodies and lifted up the body of the king of the world and brought it with him to his ship, and he said: "fianna of ireland," he said, "although it is bad this battle was for the armies of the world, it was worse for yourselves; and i am going back to tell that in the east of the world," he said. finn heard him saying that, and he lying on the ground in his blood, and the best men of the sons of baiscne about him, and he said: "it is a pity i not to have found death before i heard the foreigner saying those words. and nothing i myself have done, or the fianna of ireland, is worth anything since there is left a man of the foreigners alive to go back into the great world again to tell that story. and is there any one left living near me?" he said. "i am," said fergus of the true lips. "what way is the battle now?" said finn. "it is a pity the way it is," said fergus, "for, by my word," he said, "since the armies met together to-day, no man of the foreigners or of the men of ireland took a step backward from one another till they all fell foot to foot, and sole to sole. and there is not so much as a blade of grass or a grain of sand to be seen," he said, "with the bodies of fighting men that are stretched on them; and there is no man of the two armies that is not stretched in that bed of blood, but only the chief man of the household of the king of the world, and your own foster-son, cael, son of crimthan of the harbours." "rise up and go to him," said finn. so fergus went where cael was, and asked what way was he. "it is a pity the way i am," said cael, "for i swear by my word that if my helmet and my armour were taken from me, there is no part of my body but would fall from the other; and by my oath," he said, "it is worse to me to see that man beyond going away alive than i myself to be the way i am. and i leave my blessing to you, fergus," he said; "and take me on your back to the sea till i swim after the foreigner, and it is glad i would be the foreigner to fall by me before the life goes out from my body." fergus lifted him up then and brought him to the sea, and put him swimming after the foreigner. and finnachta waited for him to reach the ship, for he thought he was one of his own people. and cael raised himself up when he came beside the ship, and finnachta stretched out his hand to him. and cael took hold of it at the wrist, and clasped his fingers round it, and gave a very strong pull at him, that brought him over the side. then their hands shut across one another's bodies, and they went down to the sand and the gravel of the clear sea. chapter xiii. credhe's lament then there came the women and the musicians and the singers and the physicians of the fianna of ireland to search out the kings and the princes of the fianna, and to bury them; and every one that might be healed was brought to a place of healing. and credhe, wife of cael, came with the others, and went looking through the bodies for her comely comrade, and crying as she went. and as she was searching, she saw a crane of the meadows and her two nestlings, and the cunning beast the fox watching the nestlings; and when the crane covered one of the birds to save it, he would make a rush at the other bird, the way she had to stretch herself out over the birds; and she would sooner have got her own death by the fox than her nestlings to be killed by him. and credhe was looking at that, and she said: "it is no wonder i to have such love for my comely sweetheart, and the bird in that distress about her nestlings." then she heard a stag in druim ruighlenn above the harbour, that was making great lamentations for his hind from place to place, for they had been nine years together, and had lived in the wood at the foot of the harbour, fidh leis, and finn had killed the hind, and the stag was nineteen days without tasting grass or water, lamenting after the hind. "it is no shame for me," said credhe, "i to die for grief after cael, since the stag is shortening his life sorrowing after the hind." then she met with fergus of the true lips. "have you news of cael for me, fergus?" she said. "i have news," said fergus, "for he and the last man that was left of the foreigners, finnachta fiaclach, are after drowning one another in the sea." and at that time the waves had put cael back on the strand, and the women and the men of the fianna that were looking for him raised him up, and brought him to the south of the white strand. and credhe came to where he was, and she keened him and cried over him, and she made this complaint:-"the harbour roars, o the harbour roars, over the rushing race of the headland of the two storms, the drowning of the hero of the lake of the two dogs, that is what the waves are keening on the strand. "sweet-voiced is the crane, o sweet-voiced is the crane in the marshes of the ridge of the two strong men; it is she cannot save her nestlings, the wild dog of two colours is taking her little ones. "pitiful the cry, pitiful the cry the thrush is making in the pleasant ridge, sorrowful is the cry of the blackbird in leiter laeig. "sorrowful the call, o sorrowful the call of the deer in the ridge of two lights; the doe is lying dead in druim silenn, the mighty stag cries after her. "sorrowful to me, o sorrowful to me the death of the hero that lay beside me; the son of the woman of the wood of the two thickets, to be with a bunch of grass under his head. "sore to me, o sore to me cael to be a dead man beside me, the waves to have gone over his white body; it is his pleasantness that has put my wits astray. "a woeful shout, o a woeful shout the waves are making on the strand; they that took hold of comely cael, a pity it is he went to meet them. "a woeful crash, o a woeful crash the waves are making on the strand to the north, breaking against the smooth rock, crying after cael now he is gone. "a sorrowful fight, o a sorrowful fight, the sea is making with the strand to the north; my beauty is lessened; the end of my life is measured. "a song of grief, o a song of grief is made by the waves of tulcha leis; all i had is gone since this story came to me. since the son of crimthann is drowned i will love no one after him for ever; many a king fell by his hand; his shield never cried out in the battle." after she had made that complaint, credhe laid herself down beside cael and died for grief after him. and they were put in the one grave, and it was caoilte raised the stone over them. and after that great battle of the white strand, that lasted a year and a day, there was many a sword and shield left broken, and many a dead body lying on the ground, and many a fighting man left with a foolish smile on his face. and the great name that was on the armies of the world went from them to the fianna of ireland; and they took the ships and the gold and the silver and all the spoils of the armies of the world. and from that time the fianna had charge of the whole of ireland, to keep it from the fomor and from any that might come against it. and they never lost power from that time until the time of their last battle, the sorrowful battle of gabhra. book four: huntings and enchantments. chapter i. the king of britain's son arthur, son of the king of britain, came one time to take service with finn, and three times nine men along with him. and they went hunting one day on beinn edair, and finn took his place on the cairn of the fianna between the hill and the sea, and arthur took his stand between the hunt and the sea, the way the deer would not escape by swimming. and while arthur was there he took notice of three of finn's hounds, bran, and sceolan and adhnuall, and he made a plan in his mind to go away across the sea, himself and his three nines, bringing those three hounds along with him. so he did that, and he himself and his men brought away the hounds and crossed the sea, and the place where they landed was inver mara gamiach on the coast of britain. and after they landed, they went to the mountain of lodan, son of lir, to hunt on it. and as to the fianna, after their hunting was done they gathered together on the hill; and as the custom was, all finn's hounds were counted. three hundred full-grown hounds he had, and two hundred whelps; and it is what the poets used to say, that to be counting them was like counting the branches on a tree. now on this day when they were counted, bran and sceolan and adhnuall were missing; and that was told to finn. he bade his people to search again through the three battalions of the fianna, but search as they would, the hounds were not to be found. then finn sent for a long-shaped basin of pale gold, and water in it, and he put his face in the water, and his hand over his face, and it was showed him what had happened, and he said: "the king of britain's son has brought away the hound. and let nine men be chosen out to follow after them," he said. so nine men were chosen out, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne; goll, son of morna; oisin, son of finn; faolan, the friend of the hounds, son of a woman that had come over the sea to give her love to finn; ferdoman, son of bodb dearg; two sons of finn, raighne wide eye and cainche the crimson-red; glas, son of enchered bera, with caoilte and lugaidh's son. and their nine put their helmets on their heads, and took their long spears in their hands, and they felt sure they were a match for any four hundred men from the east to the west of the world. they set out then, till they came to the mountain of lodan, son of lir; and they were not long there till they heard talk of men that were hunting in that place. arthur of britain and his people were sitting on a hunting mound just at that time, and the nine men of the fianna made an attack on them and killed all of them but arthur, that goll, son of morna, put his two arms about and saved from death. then they turned to go back to ireland, bringing arthur with them, and the three hounds. and as they were going, goll chanced to look around him and he saw a dark-grey horse, having a bridle with fittings of worked gold. and then he looked to the left and saw a bay mare that was not easy to get hold of, and it having a bridle of silver rings and a golden bit. and goll took hold of the two, and he gave them into oisin's hand, and he gave them on to diarmuid. they went back to finn then, bringing his three hounds with them, and the king of britain's son as a prisoner; and arthur made bonds with finn, and was his follower till he died. and as to the horse and the mare, they gave them to finn; and the mare bred eight times, at every birth eight foals, and it is of that seed came all the horses of the fair fianna of the gael, for they had used no horses up to that time. and that was not the only time finn was robbed of some of his hounds. for there was a daughter of roman was woman-druid to the tuatha de danaan, and she set her love on finn. but finn said, so long as there was another woman to be found in the world, he would not marry a witch. and one time, three times fifty of finn's hounds passed by the hill where she was; and she breathed on the hounds and shut them up in the hill, and they never came out again. it was to spite finn she did that, and the place got the name of duma na conn, the mound of the hounds. and as to adhnuall, one of the hounds finn thought most of, and that was brought back from the king of britain's son, this is the way he came to his death afterwards. there was a great fight one time between the fianna and macoon, son of macnia, at some place in the province of leinster, and a great many of the fianna were killed. and the hound adhnuall went wandering northward from the battle and went astray; and three times he went round the whole of ireland, and then he came back to the place of the battle, and to a hill where three young men of the fianna that had fallen there were buried after their death, and three daughters of a king of alban that had died for love of them. and when adhnuall came to that hill, he gave three loud howls and he stretched himself out and died. chapter ii. the cave of ceiscoran finn called for a great hunt one time on the plains of magh chonaill and in the forest parts of cairbre of the nuts. and he himself went up to the top of ceiscoran, and his two dogs bran and sceolan with him. and the fianna were shouting through the whole country where they were hunting, the way the deer were roused in their wild places and the badgers in their holes, and foxes in their wanderings, and birds on the wing. and conaran, son of imidd, of the tuatha de danaan, had the sway in ceiscoran at that time, and when he heard the shouting and the cry of the hounds all around, he bade his three daughters that had a great share of enchantments, to do vengeance on finn for his hunting. the three women went then to the opening of a cave that was in the hills, and there they sat down together, and they put three strong enchanted hanks of yarn on crooked holly-sticks, and began to reel them off outside the cave. they were not long there till finn and conan came towards them, and saw the three ugly old hags at their work, their coarse hair tossed, their eyes red and bleary, their teeth sharp and crooked, their arms very long, their nails like the tips of cows' horns, and the three spindles in their hands. finn and conan passed through the hanks of yarn to get a better look at the hags. and no sooner had they done that, than a deadly trembling came on them and a weakness, and the bold hags took hold of them and put them in tight bonds. two other men of the fianna came up then, and the sons of menhann along with them, and they went through the spindles to where finn and conan were, and their strength went from them in the same way, and the hags tied them fast and carried them into the cave. they were not long there till caoilte and lugaidh's son came to the place, and along with them the best men of the sons of baiscne. the sons of morna came as well, and no sooner did they see the hanks than their strength and their bravery went out of them the same as it went from the others. and in the end the whole number of them, gentle and simple, were put in bonds by the hags, and brought into the cave. and there began at the mouth of the cave a great outcry of hounds calling for their masters that had left them there. and there was lying on the hillside a great heap of deer, and wild pigs, and hares, and badgers, dead and torn, that were brought as far as that by the hunters that were tied up now in the cave. then the three women came in, having swords in their hands, to the place where they were lying, to make an end of them. but first they looked out to see was there ever another man of the fianna to bring in and to make an end of with the rest. and they saw coming towards them a very tall man that was goll, son of morna, the flame of battle. and when the three hags saw him they went to meet him, and they fought a hard battle with him. and great anger came on goll, and he made great strokes at the witches, and at the last he raised up his sword, and with one blow he cut the two that were nearest him through and through. and then the oldest of the three women wound her arms about goll, and he beheading the two others, and he turned to face her and they wrestled together, till at last goll gave her a great twist and threw her on the ground. he tied her fast then with the straps of a shield, and took his sword to make an end of her. but the hag said: "o champion that was never worsted, strong man that never went back in battle, i put my body and my life under the protection of your bravery. and it is better for you," she said, "to get finn and the fianna safe and whole than to have my blood; and i swear by the gods my people swear by," she said, "i will give them back to you again." with that goll set her free, and they went together into the hill where the fianna were lying. and goll said: "loose off the fastenings first from fergus of the true lips and from the other learned men of the fianna; and after that from finn, and oisin, and the twenty-nine sons of morna, and from all the rest." she took off the fastenings then, and the fianna made no delay, but rose up and went out and sat down on the side of the hill. and fergus of the sweet lips looked at goll, son of morna, and made great praises of him, and of all that he had done. chapter iii. donn son of midhir one time the fianna were at their hunting at the island of toraig to the north of ireland, and they roused a fawn that was very wild and beautiful, and it made for the coast, and finn and six of his men followed after it through the whole country, till they came to slieve-nam-ban. and there the fawn put down its head and vanished into the earth, and none of them knew where was it gone to. a heavy snow began to fall then that bent down the tops of the trees like a willow-gad, and the courage and the strength went from the fianna with the dint of the bad weather, and finn said to caoilte: "is there any place we can find shelter to-night?" caoilte made himself supple then, and went over the elbow of the hill southward. and when he looked around him he saw a house full of light, with cups and horns and bowls of different sorts in it. he stood a good while before the door of the house, that he knew to be a house of the sidhe, thinking would it be best go in and get news of it, or to go back to finn and the few men that were with him. and he made up his mind to go into the house, and there he sat down on a shining chair in the middle of the floor; and he looked around him, and he saw, on the one side, eight-and-twenty armed men, each of them having a well-shaped woman beside him. and on the other side he saw six nice young girls, yellow-haired, having shaggy gowns from their shoulders. and in the middle there was another young girl sitting in a chair, and a harp in her hand, and she playing on it and singing. and every time she stopped, a man of them would give her a horn to drink from, and she would give it back to him again, and they were all making mirth around her. she spoke to caoilte then. "caoilte, my life," she said, "give us leave to attend on you now." "do not," said caoilte, "for there is a better man than myself outside, finn, son of cumhal, and he has a mind to eat in this house to-night." "rise up, caoilte, and go for finn," said a man of the house then; "for he never refused any man in his own house, and he will get no refusal from us." caoilte went back then to finn, and when finn saw him he said: "it is long you are away from us, caoilte, for from the time i took arms in my hands i never had a night that put so much hardship on me as this one." the six of them went then into the lighted house and their shields and their arms with them. and they sat down on the edge of a seat, and a girl having yellow hair came and brought them to a shining seat in the middle of the house, and the newest of every food, and the oldest of every drink was put before them. and when the sharpness of their hunger and their thirst was lessened, finn said: "which of you can i question?" "question whoever you have a mind to," said the tallest of the men that was near him. "who are you yourself then?" said finn, "for i did not think there were so many champions in ireland, and i not knowing them." "those eight-and-twenty armed men you see beyond," said the tall man, "had the one father and mother with myself; and we are the sons of midhir of the yellow hair, and our mother is fionnchaem, the fair, beautiful daughter of the king of the sidhe of monaid in the east. and at one time the tuatha de danaan had a gathering, and gave the kingship to bodb dearg, son of the dagda, at his bright hospitable place, and he began to ask hostages of myself and of my brothers; but we said that till all the rest of the men of dea had given them, we would not give them. bodb dearg said then to our father: 'unless you will put away your sons, we will wall up your dwelling-place on you.' so the eight-and-twenty brothers of us came out to look for a place for ourselves; and we searched all ireland till we found this secret hidden place, and we are here ever since. and my own name," he said, "is donn, son of midhir. and we had every one of us ten hundred armed men belonging to himself, but they are all worn away now, and only the eight-and-twenty of us left." "what is it is wearing you away?" said finn. "the men of dea," said donn, "that come three times in every year to give battle to us on the green outside." "what is the long new grave we saw on the green outside?" said finn. "it is the grave of diangalach, a man of enchantments of the men of dea; and that is the greatest loss came on them yet," said donn; "and it was i myself killed him," he said. "what loss came next to that?" said finn. "all the tuatha de danaan had of jewels and riches and treasures, horns and vessels and cups of pale gold, we took from them at the one time." "what was the third greatest loss they had?" said finn. "it was fethnaid, daughter of feclach, the woman-harper of the tuatha de danaan, their music and the delight of their minds," said donn. "and to-morrow," he said, "they will be coming to make an attack on us, and there is no one but myself and my brothers left; and we knew we would be in danger, and that we could make no stand against them. and we sent that bare-headed girl beyond to toraig in the north in the shape of a foolish fawn, and you followed her here. it is that girl washing herself, and having a green cloak about her, went looking for you. "and the empty side of the house," he said, "belonged to our people that the men of dea have killed." they spent that night in drinking and in pleasure. and when they rose up in the morning of the morrow, donn, son of midhir, said to finn, "come out with me now on the lawn till you see the place where we fight the battles every year." they went out then and they looked at the graves and the flag-stones, and donn said: "it is as far as this the men of dea come to meet us." "which of them come here?" said finn. "bodb dearg with his seven sons," said donn; "and angus og, son of the dagda, with his seven sons; and finnbharr of cnoc medha with his seventeen sons; lir of sidhe fionnachaidh with his twenty-seven sons and their sons; tadg, son of nuada, out of the beautiful hill of almhuin; donn of the island and donn of the vat; the two called glas from the district of osraige; dobhran dubthaire from the hill of liamhain of the smooth shirt; aedh of the island of rachrainn in the north; ferai and aillinn and lir and fainnle, sons of eogobal, from cnoc aine in munster; cian and coban and conn, three sons of the king of sidhe monaid in alban; aedh minbhreac of ess ruadh with his seven sons; the children of the morrigu, the great queen, her six-and-twenty women warriors, the two luaths from magh life; derg and drecan out of the hill of beinn edair in the east; bodb dearg himself with his great household, ten hundred ten score and ten. those are the chief leaders of the tuatha de danaan that come to destroy our hill every year." finn went back into the hill then, and told all that to his people. "my people," he said, "it is in great need and under great oppression the sons of midhir are, and it is into great danger we are come ourselves. and unless we make a good fight now," he said, "it is likely we will never see the fianna again." "good finn," every one of them said then, "did you ever see any drawing-back in any of us that you give us that warning?" "i give my word," said finn, "if i would go through the whole world having only this many of the fianna of ireland along with me, i would not know fear nor fright. and good donn," he said, "is it by day or by night the men of dea come against you?" "it is at the fall of night they come," said donn, "the way they can do us the most harm." so they waited till night came on, and then finn said: "let one of you go out now on the green to keep watch for us, the way the men of dea will not come on us without word or warning." and the man they set to watch was not gone far when he saw five strong battalions of the men of dea coming towards him. he went back then to the hill and he said: "it is what i think, that the troops that are come against us this time and are standing now around the grave of the man of enchantments are a match for any other fighting men." finn called to his people then, and he said: "these are good fighters are come against you, having strong red spears. and let you all do well now in the battle. and it is what you have to do," he said, "to keep the little troop of brothers, the sons of midhir, safe in the fight; for it would be a treachery to friendship any harm to come on them, and we after joining them; and myself and caoilte are the oldest among you, and leave the rest of the battle to us." then from the covering time of evening to the edge of the morning they fought the battle. and the loss of the tuatha de danaan was no less a number than ten hundred ten score and ten men. then bodb dearg and midhir and fionnbhar said to one another: "what are we to do with all these? and let lir of sidhe fionnachaidh give us an advice," they said, "since he is the oldest of us." and lir said: "it is what i advise, let every one carry away his friends and his fosterlings, his sons and his brothers, to his own place. and as for us that stop here," he said, "let a wall of fire be made about us on the one side, and a wall of water on the other side." then the men of dea put up a great heap of stones, and brought away their dead; and of all the great slaughter that finn and his men and the sons of midhir had made, there was not left enough for a crow to perch upon. and as to finn and his men, they went back into the hill, hurt and wounded and worn-out. and they stopped in the hill with the sons of midhir through the whole length of a year, and three times in the year the men of dea made an attack on the hill, and a battle was fought. and conn, son of midhir, was killed in one of the battles; and as to the fianna, there were so many wounds on them that the clothing was held off from their bodies with bent hazel sticks, and they lying in their beds, and two of them were like to die. and finn and caoilte and lugaidh's son went out on the green, and caoilte said: "it was a bad journey we made coming to this hill, to leave two of our comrades after us." "it is a pity for whoever will face the fianna of ireland," said lugaidh's son, "and he after leaving his comrades after him." "whoever will go back and leave them, it will not be myself," said finn. then bonn, son of midhir, came to them. "good donn," said finn, "have you knowledge of any physician that can cure our men?" "i only know one physician could do that," said donn; "a physician the tuatha de danaan have with them. and unless a wounded man has the marrow of his back cut through, he will get relief from that physician, the way he will be sound at the end of nine days." "how can we bring that man here," said finn, "for those he is with are no good friends to us?" "he goes out every morning at break of day," said donn, "to gather healing herbs while the dew is on them." "find some one, donn," said caoilte, "that will show me that physician, and, living or dead, i will bring him with me." then aedh and flann, two of the sons of midhir, rose up. "come with us, caoilte," they said, and they went on before him to a green lawn with the dew on it; and when they came to it they saw a strong young man armed and having a cloak of the wool of the seven sheep of the land of promise, and it full of herbs of healing he was after gathering for the men of dea that were wounded in the battle. "who is that man?" said caoilte. "that is the man we came looking for," said aedh. "and mind him well now," he said, "that he will not make his escape from us back to his own people." they ran at him together then, and caoilte took him by the shoulders and they brought him away with them to the ford of the slaine in the great plain of leinster, where the most of the fianna were at that time; and a druid mist rose up about them that they could not be seen. and they went up on a little hill over the ford, and they saw before them four young men having crimson fringed cloaks and swords with gold hilts, and four good hunting hounds along with them. and the young man could not see them because of the mist, but caoilte saw they were his own two sons, colla and faolan, and two other young men of the fianna, and he could hear them talking together, and saying it was a year now that finn, son of cumhal, was gone from them. "and what will the fianna of ireland do from this out," said one of them, "without their lord and their leader?" "there is nothing for them to do," said another, "but to go to teamhair and to break up there, or to find another leader for themselves." and there was heavy sorrow on them for the loss of their lord; and it was grief to caoilte to be looking at them. and he and the two sons of midhir went back then by the lake of the two birds to slieve-nam ban, and they went into the hill. and finn and donn gave a great welcome to luibra, the physician, and they showed him their two comrades that were lying in their wounds. "those men are brothers to me," said donn, "and tell me how can they be cured?" luibra looked then at their wounds, and he said: "they can be cured if i get a good reward." "you will get that indeed," said caoilte; "and tell me now," he said, "how long will it take to cure them?" "it will take nine days," said luibra. "it is a good reward you will get," said caoilte, "and this is what it is, your own life to be left to you. but if these young men are not healed," he said, "it is my own hand will strike off your head." and within nine days the physician had done a cure on them, and they were as well and as sound as before. and it was after that time the high king sent a messenger to bring the fianna to the feast of teamhair. and they all gathered to it, men and women, boys and heroes and musicians. and goll, son of morna, was sitting at the feast beside the king. "it is a great loss you have had, fianna of ireland," said the king, "losing your lord and your leader, finn, son of cumhal." "it is a great loss indeed," said goll. "there has no greater loss fallen on ireland since the loss of lugh, son of ethne," said the king. "what orders will you give to the fianna now, king?" said goll. "to yourself, goll," said the king, "i will give the right of hunting over all ireland till we know if the loss of finn is lasting." "i will not take finn's place," said goll, "till he has been wanting to us through the length of three years, and till no person in ireland has any hope of seeing him again." then ailbe of the freckled face said to the king: "what should these seventeen queens belonging to finn's household do?" "let a safe, secret sunny house be given to every one of them," said the king; "and let her stop there and her women with her, and let provision be given to her for a month and a quarter and a year till we have knowledge if finn is alive or dead." then the king stood up, and a smooth drinking-horn in his hand, and he said: "it would be a good thing, men of ireland, if any one among you could get us news of finn in hills or in secret places, or in rivers or invers, or in any house of the sidhe in ireland or in alban." with that berngal, the cow-owner from the borders of slieve fuad, that was divider to the king of ireland, said: "the day finn came out from the north, following after a deer of the sidhe, and his five comrades with him, he put a sharp spear having a shining head in my hand, and a hound's collar along with it, and he bade me to keep them till he would meet me again in the same place." berngal showed the spear and the collar then to the king and to goll, and they looked at them and the king said: "it is a great loss to the men of ireland the man is that owned this collar and this spear. and were his hounds along with him?" he said. "they were," said berngal; "bran and sceolan were with finn, and breac and lainbhui with caoilte, and conuall and comrith with lugaidh's son." the high king called then for fergus of the true lips, and he said: "do you know how long is finn away from us?" "i know that well," said fergus; "it is a month and a quarter and a year since we lost him. and indeed it is a great loss he is to the fianna of ireland," he said, "himself and the men that were with him." "it is a great loss indeed," said the king, "and i have no hope at all of finding those six that were the best men of ireland or of alban." and then he called to cithruadh, the druid, and he said: "it is much riches and many treasures finn gave you, and tell us now is he living or is he dead?" "he is living," said cithruadh then. "but as to where he is, i will give no news of that," he said, "for he himself would not like me to give news of it." there was great joy among them when they heard that, for everything cithruadh had ever foretold had come true. "tell us when will he come back?" said the king. "before the feast of teamhair is over," said the druid, "you will see the leader of the fianna drinking at it." and as to finn and his men, they stopped in the house of the two birds till they had taken hostages for donn, son of midhir, from the tuatha de danaan. and on the last day of the feast of teamhair they came back to their people again. and from that time out the fianna of ireland had not more dealings with the people living in houses than they had with the people of the gods of dana. chapter iv. the hospitality of cuanna's house it happened one day finn and oisin and caoilte and diarmuid and lugaidh's son went up on the top of cairn feargall, and their five hounds with them, bran and sceolan, sear dubh, luath luachar and adhnuall. and they were not long there till they saw a giant coming towards them, very tall and rough and having an iron fork on his back and a squealing pig between the prongs of the fork. and there was a beautiful eager young girl behind the giant, shoving him on before her. "let some one go speak with those people," said finn. so diarmuid went towards them, but they turned away before he came to them. then finn and the rest rose up and went after them, but before they came to the giant and the girl, a dark druid mist rose up that hid the road. and when the mist cleared away, finn and the rest looked about them, and they saw a good light-roofed house at the edge of a ford near at hand. they went on to the house, and there was a green lawn before it, and in the lawn two wells, and on the edge of one well there was a rough iron vessel, and on the edge of the other a copper vessel. they went into the house then, and they found there a very old white-haired man, standing to the right hand of the door, and the beautiful young girl they saw before, sitting near him, and the great rough giant beside the fire, and he boiling a pig. and on the other side of the fire there was an old countryman, having dark-grey hair and twelve eyes in his head, and his twelve eyes were twelve sons of battle. and there was a ram in the house having a white belly and a very black head, and dark-blue horns and green feet. and there was a hag in the end of the house and a worn grey gown on her, and there was no one in the house but those. and the man at the door gave them a welcome, and then the five of them sat down on the floor of the house, and their hounds along with them. "let great respect be shown to finn, son of cumhal, and to his people," said the man at the door. "it is the way i am," said the giant, "to be asking always and getting nothing." but for all that he rose up and showed respect to finn. presently there came a great thirst on finn, and no one took notice of it but caoilte, and he began complaining greatly. "why are you complaining, caoilte?" said the man at the door; "you have but to go out and get a drink for finn at whichever of the wells you will choose." caoilte went out then, and he brought the full of the copper vessel to finn, and finn took a drink from it, and there was the taste of honey on it while he was drinking, and the taste of gall on it after, so that fierce windy pains and signs of death came on him, and his appearance changed, that he would hardly be known. and caoilte made greater complaints than he did before on account of the way he was, till the man at the door bade him to go out and to bring him a drink from the other well. so caoilte did that, and brought in the full of the iron vessel. and finn never went through such great hardship in any battle as he did drinking that draught, from the bitterness of it; but no sooner did he drink it than his own colour and appearance came back to him and he was as well as before, and his people were very glad when they saw that. then the man of the house asked was the pig ready that was in the cauldron. "it is ready," said the giant; "and leave the dividing of it to me," he said. "what way will you divide it?" said the man of the house. "i will give one hind quarter to finn and his dogs," said the giant, "and the other hind quarter to finn's four comrades; and the fore quarter to myself, and the chine and the rump to the old man there by the fire and the hag in the corner; and the entrails to yourself and to the young girl that is beside you." "i give my word," said the man of the house, "you have shared it well." "i give my word," said the ram, "it is a bad division to me, for you have forgotten my share in it." with that he took hold of the quarter that was before the fianna, and brought it into a corner and began to eat it. on that the four of them attacked him with their swords, but with all the hard strokes they gave they could not harm him at all, for the swords slipped from his back the same as they would from a rock. "on my word it is a pity for any one that has the like of you for comrades," said the man with the twelve eyes, "and you letting a sheep bring away your food from you." with that he went up to the ram and took him by the feet and threw him out from the door that he fell on his back, and they saw him no more. it was not long after that, the hag rose up and threw her pale grey gown over finn's four comrades, and they turned to four old men, weak and withered, their heads hanging. when finn saw that there came great dread on him, and the man at the door saw it, and he bade him to come over to him, and to put his head in his breast and to sleep. finn did that, and the hag took her covering off the four men, the way that when finn awoke they were in their own shape again, and it is well pleased he was to see that. "is there wonder on you, finn?" said the man at the door, "at the ways of this house?" "i never wondered more at anything i ever saw," said finn. "i will tell you the meaning of them, so," said the man. "as to the giant you saw first," he said, "having the squealing pig in the prongs of his fork, sluggishness is his name; and the girl here beside me that was shoving him along is liveliness, for liveliness pushes on sluggishness, and liveliness goes farther in the winking of an eye than the foot can travel in a year. the old man there beyond with the twelve bright eyes betokens the world, and he is stronger than any other, and he showed that when he made nothing of the ram. the ram you saw betokens the desires of men. the hag is old age, and her gown withered up your four comrades. and the two wells you drank the two draughts out of," he said, "betoken lying and truth; for it is sweet to people to be telling a lie, but it is bitter in the end. and as to myself," he said, "cuanna from innistuil is my name, and it is not here i am used to be, but i took a very great love for you, finn, because of your wisdom and your great name, and so i put these things in your way that i might see you. and the hospitality of cuanna's house to finn will be the name of this story to the end of the world. and let you and your men come together now," he said, "and sleep till morning." so they did that, and when they awoke in the morning, it is where they were, on the top of cairn feargall, and their dogs and their arms beside them. chapter v. cat-heads and dog-heads nine of the fianna set out one time, looking for a pup they wanted, and they searched through many places before they found it. all through magh leine they searched, and through the valley of the swords, and through the storm of druim cleibh, and it is pleasant the plain of the life looked after it; but not a pup could they find. then they went searching through durlass of the generous men, and great teamhair and dun dobhran and ceanntsaile, men and dogs searching the whole of ireland, but not a pup could they find. and while they were going from place to place, and their people with them, they saw the three armies of the sons of the king of ruadhleath coming towards them. cat-headed one army was, and the one alongside of it was dog-headed, and the men of the third army were white-backed. and when the fianna saw them coming, finn held up his shining spear, and light-hearted caoilte gave out a great shout that was heard in almhuin, and in magh leine, and in teamhair, and in dun reithlein. and that shout was answered by goll, son of morna, and by faolan, finn's son that was with him, and by the stutterers from burren, and by the two sons of maith breac, and by iolunn of the sharp edge, and by cael of the sharp sword, that never gave his ear to tale-bearers. it is pleasant the sound was then of the spears and the armies and of the silken banners that were raised up in the gusty wind of the morning. and as to the banners, finn's banner, the dealb-greine, the sun-shape, had the likeness of the sun on it; and coil's banner was the fulang duaraidh, that was the first and last to move in a battle; and faolan's banner was the coinneal catha, the candle of battle; and oisin's banner was the donn nimhe, the dark deadly one; and caoilte's was the lamh dearg, the red hand; and osgar's was the sguab gabhaidh that had a broom of rowan branches on it, and the only thing asked when the fight was at the hottest was where that broom was; and merry diarmuid's banner was the liath loinneach, the shining grey; and the craobh fuileach, the bloody branch, was the banner of lugaidh's son. and as to conan, it is a briar he had on his banner, because he was always for quarrels and for trouble. and it used to be said of him he never saw a man frown without striking him, or a door left open without going in through it. and when the fianna had raised their banners they attacked the three armies; and first of all they killed the whole of the cat-heads, and then they took the dog-heads in hand and made an end of them, and of the white-backs along with them. and after that they went to a little hill to the south, having a double dun on it, and it is there they found a hound they were able to get a pup from. and by that time they had searched through the whole of ireland, and they did not find in the whole of it a hundred men that could match their nine. and as well as their banners, some of the fianna had swords that had names to them, mac an luin, son of the waves, that belonged to finn; and ceard-nan gallan, the smith of the branches, that was oisin's; and caoilte's cruadh-chosgarach, the hard destroying one; and diarmuid's liomhadoir, the burnisher; and osgar's cosgarach mhor, the great triumphant one. and it is the way they got those swords: there came one time to where finn and caoilte and some others of the fianna were, a young man, very big and ugly, having but one foot and one eye; a cloak of black skins he had over his shoulders, and in his hand a blunt ploughshare that was turning to red. and he told them he was lon, son of liobhan, one of the three smiths of the king of lochlann. and whether he thought to go away from the fianna, or to bring them to his smithy, he started running, and they followed after him all through ireland, to slieve-na-righ, and to luimnech, and to ath luain, and by the right side of cruachan of connacht, and to ess ruadh and to beinn edair, and so to the sea. and wherever it was they found the smithy, they went into it, and there they found four smiths working, and every one of them having seven hands. and finn and caoilte and the rest stopped there watching them till the swords were made, and they brought them away with them then, and it is good use they made of them afterwards. and besides his sword, mac an luin, finn had a shield was called sgiath gailbhinn, the storm shield; and when it called out it could be heard all through ireland. and whether or not it was the storm shield, finn had a wonderful shield that he did great deeds with, and the story of it is this: at the time of the battle of the great battle of magh tuireadh, lugh, after he had struck the head off balor of the evil eye, hung it in the fork of a hazel-tree. and the tree split, and the leaves fell from it with the dint of the poison that dropped from the head. and through the length of fifty years that tree was a dwelling-place of crows and of ravens. and at the end of that time manannan, son of lir, was passing by, and he took notice of the tree that it was split and withered, and he bade his men to dig it up. and when they began to dig, a mist of poison rose up from the roots, and nine of the men got their death from it, and another nine after them, and the third nine were blinded. and luchtaine the carpenter made a shield of the wood of that hazel for manannan. and after a while manannan gave it, and a set of chessmen along with it, to tadg, son of nuada; and from him it came to his grandson, finn, son of muirne and of cumhal. chapter vi. lomna's head finn took a wife one time of the luigne of midhe. and at the same time there was in his household one lomna, a fool. finn now went into tethra, hunting with the fianna, but lomna stopped at the house. and after a while he saw coirpre, a man of the luigne, go in secretly to where finn's wife was. and when the woman knew he had seen that, she begged and prayed of lomna to hide it from finn. and lomna agreed to that, but it preyed on him to have a hand in doing treachery on finn. and after a while he took a four-square rod and wrote an ogham on it, and these were the words he wrote:--"an alder stake in a paling of silver; deadly night-shade in a bunch of cresses; a husband of a lewd woman; a fool among the well-taught fianna; heather on bare ualann of luigne." finn saw the message, and there was anger on him against the woman; and she knew well it was from lomna he had heard the story, and she sent a message to coirpre bidding him to come and kill the fool. so coirpre came and struck his head off, and brought it away with him. and when finn came back in the evening he saw the body, and it without a head. "let us know whose body is this," said the fianna. and then finn did the divination of rhymes, and it is what he said: "it is the body of lomna; it is not by a wild boar he was killed; it is not by a fall he was killed; it is not in his bed he died; it is by his enemies he died; it is not a secret to the luigne the way he died. and let out the hounds now on their track," he said. so they let out the hounds, and put them on the track of coirpre, and finn followed them, and they came to a house, and coirpre in it, and three times nine of his men and he cooking fish on a spit; and lomna's head was on a spike beside the fire. and the first of the fish that was cooked coirpre divided between his men, but he put no bit into the mouth of the head. and then he made a second division in the same way. now that was against the law of the fianna, and the head spoke, and it said: "a speckled white-bellied salmon that grows from a small fish under the sea; you have shared a share that is not right; the fianna will avenge it upon you, coirpre." "put the head outside," said coirpre, "for that is an evil word for us." then the head said from outside: "it is in many pieces you will be; it is great fires will be lighted by finn in luigne." and as it said that, finn came in, and he made an end of coirpre, and of his men. chapter vii. ilbrec of ess ruadh one time caoilte was hunting on beinn gulbain, and he went on to ess ruadh. and when he came near the hill of the sidhe that is there, he saw a young man waiting for him, having a crimson fringed cloak about him, and on his breast a silver brooch, and a white shield, ornamented with linked beasts of red gold, and his hair rolled in a ball at the back, and covered with a golden cup. and he had heavy green weapons, and he was holding two hounds in a silver chain. and when caoilte came up to him he gave him three loving kisses, and sat down beside him on the grass. "who are you, young champion?" said caoilte. "i am derg, son of eoghan of the people of usnach," he said, "and foster-brother of your own." caoilte knew him then, and he said: "and what is your life with your mother's people, the tuatha de danaan in sidhe aedha?" "there is nothing wanting to us there of food or of clothing," said the young man. "but for all that," he said, "i would sooner live the life of the worst treated of the serving-boys of the fianna than the life i am living in the hill of the sidhe." "lonely as you are at your hunting to-day," said caoilte, "it is often i saw you coming to the valley of the three waters in the south, where the siuir and the beoir and the berba come together, with a great company about you; fifteen hundred young men, fifteen hundred serving-boys, and fifteen hundred women." "that was so," said derg; "and although myself and my gentle hound are living in the hill of the sidhe, my mind is always on the fianna. and i remember well the time," he said, "when you yourself won the race against finn's lasting black horse. and come now into the hill," he said, "for the darkness of the night is coming on." so he brought caoilte into the hill with him, and they were set down in their right places. it was at that time, now, there was great war between lir of sidhe fionnachaidh and ilbrec of ess ruadh. there used a bird with an iron beak and a tail of fire to come every evening to a golden window of ilbrec's house, and there he would shake himself till he would not leave sword on pillow, or shield on peg, or spear in rack, but they would come down on the heads of the people of the house; and whatever they would throw at the bird, it is on the heads of some of themselves it would fall. and the night caoilte came in, the hall was made ready for a feast, and the bird came in again, and did the same destruction as before, and nothing they threw at him would touch him at all. "is it long the bird has been doing this?" said caoilte. "through the length of a year now," said derg, "since we went to war with sidhe fionnachaidh." then caoilte put his hand within the rim of his shield, and he took out of it a copper rod he had, and he made a cast of it at the bird, that brought it down on the floor of the hall. "did any one ever make a better cast than that?" said ilbrec. "by my word," said caoilte, "there is no one of us in the fianna has any right to boast against another." then ilbrec took down a sharp spear, having thirty rivets of gold in it, from its place, and he said: "that is the spear of fiacha, son of congha, and it is with that finn made an end of aillen, son of midhna, that used to burn teamhair. and keep it beside you now, caoilte," he said, "till we see will lir come to avenge his bird on us." then they took up their horns and their cups, and they were at drinking and pleasure, and ilbrec said: "well, caoilte," he said, "if lir comes to avenge his bird on us, who will you put in command of the battle?" "i will give the command to derg there beyond," said he. "will you take it in hand, derg?" said the people of the hill. "i will take it," said derg, "with its loss and its gain." so that is how they spent the night, and it was not long in the morning till they heard blowing of horns, and rattling of chariots, and clashing of shields, and the uproar of a great army that came all about the hill. they sent some of their people out then to see were there many in it, and they saw three brave armies of the one size. "it would be a great vexation to me," said aedh nimbrec, the speckled, then, "we to get our death and lir's people to take the hill." "did you never hear, aedh," said caoilte, "that the wild boar escapes sometimes from both hounds and from wolves, and the stag in the same way goes away from the hounds with a sudden start; and what man is it you are most in dread of in the battle?" he said. "the man that is the best fighter of all the men of dea," said they all, "and that is lir of sidhe fionnachaidh." "the thing i have done in every battle i will not give up to-day," said caoilte, "to meet the best man that is in it hand to hand." "the two that are next to him in fighting," they said then, "are donn and dubh." "i will put down those two," said derg. then the host of the sidhe went out to the battle, and the armies attacked one another with wide green spears and with little casting spears, and with great stones; and the fight went on from the rising of the day till midday. and then caoilte and lir met with one another, and they made a very fierce fight, and at the last lir of sidhe fionnachaidh fell by the hand of caoilte. then the two good champions dubh and donn, sons of eirrge, determined to go on with the battle, and it is how they fought, dubh in the front of the whole army, and donn behind all, guarding the rear. but derg saw that, and he put his finger into the thong of his spear and made a cast at the one that was nearest him, and it broke his back and went on into the body of the other, so that the one cast made an end of the two. and that ended the battle, and all that was left of the great army of lir went wearing away to the north. and there was great rejoicing in the hill at ess ruadh, and ilbrec took the spoils of the beaten army for his people, and to caoilte he gave the enchanted spear of fiacha, together with nine rich cloaks and nine long swords with hilts and guards of gold, and nine hounds for hunting. and they said farewell to one another, and caoilte left his blessing to the people of the hill, and he brought their thanks with him. and as hard as the battle had been, it was harder again for derg to part from his comrade, and the day he was parted from finn and from all the fianna was no sadder to him than this day. it was a long time after that caoilte went again to the hill of ilbrec at ess ruadh, and this is the way it happened. it was in a battle at beinn edair in the east that mane, son of the king of lochlann, made a cast at him in the middle of the battle with a deadly spear. and he heard the whistling of the spear, and it rushing to him; and he lifted his shield to protect his head and his body, but that did not save him, for it struck into his thigh, and left its poison in it, so that he had to go in search of healing. and it is where he went, to the hill of the sidhe at ess ruadh, to ask help of bebind, daughter of elcmar of brugh na boinne, that had the drink of healing of the tuatha de danaan, and all that was left of the ale of goibniu that she used to be giving out to them. and caoilte called to cascorach the musician, son of caincenn, and bade him bring his harp and come along with him. and they stopped for a night in the hill of the sidhe of druim nemed in luigne of connacht, and from that they went forward by ess dara, the fall of the oaks, and druim dearg na feinne, the red ridge of the fianna, and ath daim glas, the ford of the grey stag, and to beinn gulbain, and northward into the plain of ceitne, where the men of dea used to pay their tribute to the fomor; and up to the footstep of ess ruadh, and the high place of the boys, where the boys of the tuatha de danaan used to be playing their hurling. and aedh of ess ruadh and ilbrec of ess ruadh were at the door of the hill, and they gave caoilte a true welcome. "i am glad of that welcome," said caoilte. and then bebind, daughter of elcmar of brugh na boinne, came out, and three times fifty comely women about her, and she sat down on the green grass and gave three loving kisses to the three, to caoilte and to cascorach and to fermaise, that had come with them out of the hill of the sidhe in luigne of connacht. and all the people of the hill welcomed them, and they said: "it is little your friendship would be worth if you would not come to help us and we in need of help." "it was not for bravery i was bade come," said cascorach; "but when the right time comes i will make music for you if you have a mind to hear it." "it is not for deeds of bravery we are come," said fermaise, "but we will give you our help if you are in need of it." then caoilte told them the cause of his journey. "we will heal you well," said they. and then they all went into the hill and stayed there three days and three nights at drinking and pleasure. and indeed it was good help caoilte and cascorach gave them after that. for there was a woman-warrior used to come every year with the ships of the men of lochlann to make an attack on the tuatha de danaan. and she had been reared by a woman that knew all enchantments, and there was no precious thing in all the hills of the sidhe but she had knowledge of it, and would bring it away. and just at this time there came a messenger to the door of the hill with news that the harbour was full of ships, and that a great army had landed, and the woman-warrior along with it. and it was cascorach the musician went out against her, having a shield he got the loan of from donn, son of midhir; and she used high words when she saw so young a man coming to fight with her, and he alone. but he made an end of her for all her high talk, and left her lying on the strand with the sea foam washing up to her. and as to caoilte, he went out in a chariot belonging to midhir of the yellow hair, son of the dagda, and a spear was given him that was called ben-badb, the war-woman, and he made a cast of the spear that struck the king of lochlann, that he fell in the middle of his army, and the life went from him. and fermaise went looking for the king's brother, eolus, that was the comeliest of all the men of the world; and he knew him by the band of gold around his head, and his green armour, and his red shield, and he killed him with a cast of a five-pronged spear. and when the men of lochlann saw their three leaders were gone, they went into their ships and back to their own country. and there was great joy through the whole country, both among the men of ireland and the tuatha de danaan, the men of lochlann to have been driven away by the deeds of caoilte and fermaise and cascorach. and that was not all they did, for it was at that time there came three flocks of beautiful red birds from slieve fuad in the north, and began eating the green grass before the hill of the sidhe. "what birds are those?" said caoilte. "three flocks they are that come and destroy the green every year, eating it down to the bare flag-stones, till they leave us no place for our races," said ilbrec. then caoilte and his comrades took up three stones and threw them at the flocks and drove them away. "power and blessings to you," said the people of the sidhe then, "that is a good work you have done. and there is another thing you can do for us," they said, "for there are three ravens come to us every year out of the north, and the time the young lads of the hill are playing their hurling, each one of the ravens carries off a boy of them. and it is to-morrow the hurling will be," they said. so when the full light of day was come on the morrow, the whole of the tuatha de danaan went out to look at the hurling; and to every six men of them was given a chess-board, and a board for some other game to every five, and to every ten men a little harp, and a harp to every hundred men, and pipes that were sharp and powerful to every nine. then they saw the three ravens from the north coming over the sea, and they pitched on the great tree of power that was on the green, and they gave three gloomy screeches, that if such a thing could be, would have brought the dead out of the earth or the hair off the head of the listeners; and as it was, they took the courage out of the whole gathering. then cascorach, son of caincenn, took a man of the chessmen and made a cast at one of the ravens that struck his beak and his throat, and made an end of him; and fermaise killed the second of them, and caoilte the third of them in the same way. "let my cure be done now," said caoilte, "for i have paid my fee for it, and it is time." "you have paid it indeed," said ilbrec. "and where is bebind, daughter of elcmar?" he said. "i am here," said she. "bring caoilte, son of ronan, with you into some hidden place," he said, "and do his cure, and let him be well served, for he has driven every danger from the men of dea and from the sons of the gael. and let cascorach make music for him, and let fermaise, son of eogabil, be watching him and guarding him and attending him." so elcmar's daughter went to the house of arms, and her two sons with her, and a bed of healing was made ready for caoilte, and a bowl of pale gold was brought to her, and it full of water. and she took a crystal vessel and put herbs into it, and she bruised them and put them in the water, and gave the bowl to caoilte, and he drank a great drink out of it, that made him cast up the poison of the spear that was in him. five drinks of it he took, and after that she gave him new milk to drink; but with the dint of the reaching he was left without strength through the length of three days and three nights. "caoilte, my life," she said then, "in my opinion you have got relief." "i have got it indeed," he said, "but that the weakness of my head is troubling me." "the washing of flann, daughter of flidais, will be done for you now," she said, "and the head that washing is done for will never be troubled with pain, or baldness, or weakness of sight." so that cure was done to him for a while; and the people of the hill divided themselves into three parts; the one part of their best men and great nobles, and another of their young men, and another of their women and poets, to be visiting him and making mirth with him as long as he would be on his bed of healing. and everything that was best from their hunting, it was to him they would bring it. and one day, when elcmar's daughter and her two sons and cascorach and fermaise were with caoilte, there was heard a sound of music coming towards them from the waters of ess ruadh, and any one would leave the music of the whole world for that music. and they put their harps on the corners of the pillars and went out, and there was wonder on caoilte that they left him. and he took notice that his strength and the strength of his hands was not come to him yet, and he said: "it is many a rough battle and many a hard fight i went into, and now there is not enough strength in me so much as to go out along with the rest," and he cried tears down. and the others came back to him then, and he asked news of them. "what was that sound of music we heard?" he said. "it was uaine out of the hill of the sidhe, at the wave of cliodna in the south," said they; "and with her the birds of the land of promise; and she is musician to the whole of that country. and every year she goes to visit one of the hills of the sidhe, and it is our turn this time." then the woman from the land of promise came into the house, and the birds came in along with her, and they pitched on the pillars and the beams, and thirty of them came in where caoilte was, began singing together. and cascorach took his harp, and whatever he would play, the birds would sing to it. "it is much music i have heard," said caoilte, "but music so good as that i never heard before." and after that caoilte asked to have the healing of his thigh done, and the daughter of elcmar gave herself to that, and all that was bad was sucked from the wound by her serving people till it was healed. and caoilte stopped on where he was for three nights after that. and then the people of the hill rose up and went into the stream to swim. and caoilte said: "what ails me now not to go swim, since my health has come back to me?" and with that he went into the water. and afterwards they went back into the hill, and there was a great feast made that night. and caoilte bade them farewell after that, and cascorach, but fermaise stopped with them for a while. and the people of the hill gave good gifts to caoilte; a fringed crimson cloak of wool from the seven sheep of the land of promise; and a fish-hook that was called aicil mac mogha, and that could not be set in any river or inver but it would take fish; and along with that they gave him a drink of remembrance, and after that drink there would be no place he ever saw, or no battle or fight he ever was in, but it would stay in his memory. "that is a good help from kinsmen and from friends," said caoilte. then caoilte and cascorach went out from the hill, and the people of it made a great lamentation after them. chapter viii. the cave of cruachan caolite was one time at cruachan of connacht, and cascorach was with him, and there he saw sitting on a heap of stones a man with very rough grey hair, having a dark brown cloak fastened with a pin of bronze, and a long stick of white hazel in his hand; and there was a herd of cattle before him in a fenced field. caoilte asked news of him. "i am steward to the king of ireland," said the old man, "and it is from him i hold this land. and we have great troubles on us in this district," he said. "what troubles are those?" said caoilte. "i have many herds of cattle," he said, "and every year at samhain time, a woman comes out of the hill of the sidhe of cruachan and brings away nine of the best out of every herd. and as to my name, i am bairnech, son of carbh of collamair of bregia." "who was the best man that ever came out of collamair?" said caoilte. "i know, and the men of ireland and of alban know," said he, "it was caoilte, son of ronan. and do you know where is that man now?" he said. "i myself am that man and your own kinsman," said caoilte. when bairnech heard that, he gave him a great welcome, and caoilte gave him three kisses. "it seems to me that to-night is samhain night," said caoilte. "if that is so, it is to-night the woman will come to rob us," said bernech. "let me go to-night to the door of the hill of the sidhe," said cascorach. "you may do that, and bring your arms with you," said caoilte. so cascorach went then, and it was not long till he saw the girl going past him out of the hill of cruachan, having a beautiful cloak of one colour about her; a gown of yellow silk tied up with a knot between her thighs, two spears in her hands, and she not in dread of anything before her or after her. then cascorach blew a blast against her, and put his finger into the thong of his spear, and made a cast at the girl that went through her, and that is the way she was made an end of by cascorach of the music. and then bernech said to caoilte: "caoilte," he said, "do you know the other oppression that is on me in this place?" "what oppression is that?" said caoilte. "three she-wolves that come out of the cave of cruachan every year and destroy our sheep and our wethers, and we can do nothing against them, and they go back into the cave again. and it will be a good friend that will rid us of them," he said. "well, cascorach," said caoilte, "do you know what are the three wolves that are robbing this man?" "i know well," said cascorach, "they are the three daughters of airetach, of the last of the people of oppression of the cave of cruachan, and it is easier for them to do their robbery as wolves than as women." "and will they come near to any one?" said caoilte. "they will only come near to one sort," said cascorach; "if they see the world's men having harps for music, they will come near to them." "and how would it be for me," he said, "to go to-morrow to the cairn beyond, and to bring my harp with me?" so in the morning he rose up and went to the cairn and stopped on it, playing his harp till the coming of the mists of the evening. and while he was there he saw the three wolves coming towards him, and they lay down before him, listening to the music. but cascerach found no way to make an attack on them, and they went back into the cave at the end of the day. cascorach went back then to caoilte and told him what had happened. "go up to-morrow to the same place," said caoilte, "and say to them it would be better for them to be in the shape of women for listening to music than in the shape of wolves." so on the morrow cascorach went out to the same cairn, and set his people about it, and the wolves came there and stretched themselves to listen to the music. and cascorach was saying to them: "if you were ever women," he said, "it would be better for you to be listening to the music as women than as wolves." and they heard that, and they threw off the dark trailing coverings that were about them, for they liked well the sweet music of the sidhe. and when caoilte saw them there side by side, and elbow by elbow, he made a cast of his spear, and it went through the three women, that they were like a skein of thread drawn together on the spear. and that is the way he made an end of the strange, unknown three. and that place got the name of the valley of the shapes of the wolves. chapter ix. the wedding at ceann slieve finn and the fianna made a great hunting one time on the hill of torc that is over loch lein and feara mor. and they went on with their hunting till they came to pleasant green slieve echtge, and from that it spread over other green-topped hills, and through thick tangled woods, and rough red-headed hills, and over the wide plains of the country. and every chief man among them chose the place that was to his liking, and the gap of danger he was used to before. and the shouts they gave in the turns of the hunt were heard in the woods all around, so that they started the deer in the wood, and sent the foxes wandering, and the little red beasts climbing rocks, and badgers from their holes, and birds flying, and fawns running their best. then they let out their angry small-headed hounds and set them hunting. and it is red the hands of the fianna were that day, and it is proud they were of their hounds that were torn and wounded before evening. it happened that day no one stopped with finn but only diorraing, son of domhar. "well, diorraing," said finn, "let you watch for me while i go asleep, for it is early i rose to-day, and it is an early rising a man makes when he cannot see the shadow of his five fingers between himself and the light of day, or know the leaves of the hazel from the leaves of the oak." with that he fell into a quiet sleep that lasted till the yellow light of the evening. and the rest of the fianna, not knowing where he was gone, gave over the hunt. and the time was long to diorraing while finn was asleep, and he roused him and told him the fianna must have given up the hunt, for he could not hear a cry or a whistle from them. "the end of day is come," said finn then, "and we will not follow them to-night. and go now to the wood," he said, "and bring timber and dead branches for a shelter, and i will go looking for food for the night." so diorraing went to the wood, but he was not gone far till he saw a fine well-lighted house of the sidhe before him on the edge of the wood near at hand, and he went back to finn with the news. "let us go to it," said finn, "for we ought not to be working in this place, and people living so near at hand." they went then to the door of the house and knocked at it, and the door-keeper came to it. "whose house is this?" said diorraing. "it belongs to conan of ceann slieve," said the door-keeper. "tell him," said diorraing, "there are two of the fianna of the gael at the door." the door-keeper went in then and told conan there were two men of the fianna at the door. "the one of them," he said, "is young and strong, and quiet and fair-haired, and more beautiful than the rest of the men of the world, and he has in his hand a small-headed, white-breasted hound, having a collar of rubbed gold and a chain of old silver. and the other of them," he said, "is brown and ruddy and white-toothed, and he is leading a yellow-spotted hound by a chain of bright bronze." "it is well you have made your report of them," said conan, "and i know them by it; for the man you spoke of first is finn, son of cumhal, head of the fianna of ireland, and bran in his hand; and the other is diorraing, and sceolan in his hand. and go now quickly and let them in," he said. finn and diorraing were brought in then, and they got good attendance, and their arms were taken from them, and a grand feast was made ready that pleased them well. and the wife of conan was at the one side of finn, and his daughter, finndealbh, of the fair shape, was at his other side. and they had a great deal of talk together, and at last, seeing her so beautiful, the colour of gold on her curled hair, and her eyes as blue as flowers, and a soft four-cornered cloak fastened at her breast with a silver pin, he asked her of conan for his wife. "leave asking that, finn," said conan, "for your own courage is not greater than the courage of the man she is promised to." "who is that?" said finn. "he is fatha, son of the king of ess ruadh," said conan. "your wounds and your danger on yourself," said diorraing; "and it would be right," he said, "that stammering tongue that gave out those words to be tied and to be shortened for ever, and a drink of death to be given to you; for if the whole of the men of dea," he said, "could be put into the one body, finn would be better than them all." "leave off, diorraing," said finn, "for it is not fighting i am here, but asking a wife, and i will get her whether the men of dea think good or bad of it." "i will not be making a quarrel with you," said conan, "but i put you under bonds as a true hero to answer me everything i am going to ask you." "i will do that," said finn. with that conan put questions to finn as to his birth and his rearing, and the deeds he had done since he came to the fianna, and finn gave full answers to them all. and at last he said: "let us go on with this no longer, but if you have musicians with you, let them be brought to us now; for it is not my custom," he said, "to be for a single night without music." "tell me this first," said conan, "who was it made the dord fiann, the mutterer of the fianna, and when was it made?" "i will tell you the truth of that," said finn; "it was made in ireland by the three sons of cearmait honey-mouth; and nine men used to be sounding it, and since it came to me i have fifty men sounding it." "and tell me this," said conan, "what is the music pleased you best of all you ever heard?" "i will tell you that," said finn; "the time the seven battalions of the fianna are gathered in the one place and raise their spear-shafts over their heads, and the sharp whining of the clear, cold wind goes through them, that is very sweet to me. and when the drinking-hall is set out in almhuin, and the cup-bearers give out the bright cups to the chief men of the fianna, that is very sweet to me; and it is sweet to me to be listening to the voice of the sea-gull and the heron, and the noise of the waves of traig liath, the song of the three sons of meardha, the whistle of lugaidh's son, and the voice of the cuckoo in the beginning of summer, and the grunting of the pigs on the plain of eithne, and the shouting of laughter in doire." and it is what he said: "the dord in the green-topped woods, the lasting wash of the waves against the shore, the noise of the waves at traig liath meeting with the river of the white trout; the three men that came to the fianna, a man of them gentle and a man of them rough, another man of them ploughing the clouds, they were sweeter than any other thing. "the grey mane of the sea, the time a man cannot follow its track; the swell that brings the fish to the land, it is sleep-music, its sound is sweet. "feargall, son of fionn, a man that was ready-handed, it is long his leap was, it is well marked his track is; he never gave a story that did not do away with secrets; it is his voice was music of sleep to me." and when finn had answered all the questions so well, conan said he would give him his daughter, and that he would have a wedding-feast ready at the end of a month. they spent the rest of the night then in sleep; but finn saw a dreadful vision through his sleep that made him start three times from his bed. "what makes you start from your bed, finn?" said diorraing. "it was the tuatha de danaan i saw," said he, "taking up a quarrel against me, and making a great slaughter of the fianna." now as to the fianna, they rested at fotharladh of moghna that night, and they were downhearted, having no tidings of finn. and early on the morrow two of them, bran beag and bran mor, rose up and went to mac-an-reith, son of the ram, that had the gift of true knowledge, and they asked him where did finn spend the night. and mac-an-reith was someway unwilling to tell them, but at the last he said it was at the house of conan of ceann slieve. the two brans went on then to conan's house, and finn made them welcome; but they blamed him when they heard he was taking a wife, and none of his people with him. "bid all the fianna to come to the feast at the end of a month," said conan then. so finn and diorraing and the two brans went back to where the fianna were and told them all that had happened, and they went on to almhuin. and when they were in the drinking-hall at almhuin that night, they saw the son of the king of ireland coming to where they were. "it is a pity the king's son to have come," said finn; "for he will not be satisfied without ordering everything in the hall in his own way." "we will not take his orders," said oisin, "but we will leave the half of the hall to him, and keep the other half ourselves." so they did that; but it happened that in the half of the house that was given up to the king of ireland's son, there were sitting two of the men of dea, failbhe mor and failbhe beag; and it is what they said, that it is because they were in that side of the hall it was given up. "it is a pity," said failbhe beag, "this shame and this great insult to have been put on us to-night; and it is likely finn has a mind to do more than that again to us," he said, "for he is going to bring away the woman that is promised to the third best man of the tuatha de danaan, and against the will of her father and mother." and these two went away early in the morning to fionnbhar of magh feabhail, and told him of the insults finn and the fianna of ireland had a mind to put on the tuatha de danaan. and when fionnbhar that was king over the tuatha de danaan heard that, he sent out messengers through the length of ireland to gather them all to him. and there came six good battalions to him on the edge of loch derg dheirc at the end of a month; and it was the same day conan had the wedding-feast made ready for finn and his people. and finn was at teamhair luachra at that time, and when he heard the feast was ready, he set out to go to it. and it chanced that the most of the men he had with him at that time were of the sons of morna. and when they were on their way, finn said to goll, "o goll," he said, "i never felt any fear till now going to a feast. and there are but few of my people with me," he said; "and i know there is no good thing before me, but the men of dea are going to raise a quarrel against me and to kill my people." "i will defend you against anything they may do," said goll. they went on then to conan's house, and there was a welcome before them, and they were brought into the drinking-hall, and finn was put in the place beside the door, and goll on his right and finndeilb, of the fair shape, on his left, and all the rest in the places they were used to. and as to fionnbhar of magh feabhail and the tuatha de danaan, they put a druid mist about themselves and went on, hidden and armed, in sixteen battalions, to the lawn before conan's house. "it is little profit we have being here," they said then, "and goll being with finn against us." "goll will not protect him this time," said ethne, the woman-druid, "for i will entice finn out of the house, however well he is watched." she went on to the house then, and took her stand before finn outside. "who is that before me?" she said then. "it is i myself," said finn. "i put you under the bonds a true hero never broke," she said, "to come out to me here." when finn heard that, he made no delay and went out to her; and for all there were so many in the house, not one of them took notice of him going, only caoilte, and he followed him out. and at the same time the tuatha de danaan let out a flock of blackbirds having fiery beaks, that pitched on the breasts of all the people in the house, and burned them and destroyed them, till the young lads and the women and children of the place ran out on all sides, and the woman of the house, conan's wife, was drowned in the river outside the dun. but as to ethne, the woman-druid, she asked finn would he run against her. "for it is to run a race against you i called you out," she said. "what length of a race?" said finn. "from doire da torc, the wood of the two boars, to ath mor, the great ford," she said. so they set out, but finn got first over the ford. and caoilte was following after them, and finn was urging him, and he said: "it is ashamed of your running you should be, caoilte, a woman to be going past you." on that caoilte made a leap forward, and when he was in front of the witch he turned about and gave a blow of his sword that made two equal halves of her. "power and good luck to you, caoilte!" said finn; "for though it is many a good blow you have struck, you never struck a better one than this." they went back then to the lawn before conan's dun, and there they found the whole company of the tuatha de danaan, that had put the druid mist off them. "it seems to me, caoilte," said finn, "that we are come into the middle of our enemies." with that they turned their backs to one another, and they were attacked on all sides till groans of weakness from the unequal fight were forced from finn. and when goll, that was in the house, heard that, he said: "it is a pity the tuatha de danaan to have enticed finn and caoilte away from us; and let us go to their help and make no delay," he said. then he rushed out, and all that were there of the fianna with him, and conan of ceann slieve and his sons. and great anger came on goll, that he looked like a tall mountain under his grey shield in the battle. and he broke through the tuatha de danaan till he reached to fionnbhar their leader, and they attacked one another, cutting and wounding, till at the last fionnbhar of magh feabhail fell by the strokes of goll. and a great many others fell in that battle, and there never was a harder battle fought in ireland, for there was no man on one side or the other had a mind to go back one step before whoever he was fighting against. for they were the two hardest fighting troops to be found in the four parts of the world, the strong, hardy fianna of the gael, and the beautiful men of dea; and they went near to being all destroyed in that battle. but after a while they saw the rest of the fianna that were not in the battle coming from all parts of ireland. and when the tuatha de danaan saw them coming, they put the druid mist about themselves again and made away. and clouds of weakness came on finn himself, and on them that were with him, with the dint of the fight. and there were many men of the fianna lost in that battle; and as to the rest, it is a long time they stopped in almhuin of leinster, till their wounds were entirely healed. chapter x. the shadowy one and indeed finn had no great luck in going to look for a wife that time; and he had no better luck another time he asked a wife from among the sidhe. and this is the way that happened. it was on the mountain of bearnas mor he was hunting, and a great wild pig turned on the hounds of the fianna and killed the most of them, but bran made an attack on it then and got the best of it. and the pig began to scream, and with that a very tall man came out of the hill and he asked finn to let the pig go free. and when he agreed to that, the man brought them into the hill of the sidhe at glandeirgdeis; and when they came to the door of the house he struck the pig with his druid rod, and on the moment it changed into a beautiful young woman, and the name he called her by was scathach, the shadowy one. and he made a great feast for the fianna, and finn asked the young girl in marriage, and the tall man, her father, said he would give her to him on that very night. but when night came on, scathach asked the loan of a harp, and it was brought to her. one string it had of iron, and one of bronze, and one of silver. and when the iron string would be played, it would set all the hosts of the world crying and ever crying; and when the bright bronze string would be played, it would set them all laughing from the one day to the same hour on the morrow; and when the silver string would be played, all the men of the whole world would fall into a long sleep. and it is the sleepy silver string the shadowy one played upon, till finn and bran and all his people were in their heavy sleep. and when they awoke at the rising of the sun on the morrow, it is outside on the mountain of bearnas they were, where they first saw the wild pig. chapter xi. finn's madness one time finn and the fianna were come to a ford of the slaine, and they sat down for a while. and as they were sitting there they saw on the round rock up over the ford a young woman, having a dress of silk and a green cloak about her, and a golden brooch in the cloak, and the golden crown that is the sign of a queen on her head. "fianna of ireland," she said, "let one of you come now and speak with me." then sciathbreac, of the speckled shield, went towards her. "who is it you are wanting?" he said, "finn, son of cumhal," said she. finn went over then to talk with her. "who are you?" he said, "and what is it you are wanting?" "i am daireann, daughter of bodb dearg, son of the dagda," she said; "and i am come to be your wife if you will give me the bride-gift i ask." "what bride-gift is that?" said finn. "it is your promise," said she, "i to be your only wife through the length of a year, and to have the half of your time after that." "i will not give that promise," said finn, "to any woman of the world, and i will not give it to you," he said. on that the young woman took a cup of white silver from under a covering, and filled it with strong drink, and she gave it to finn. "what is this?" said finn. "it is very strong mead," said she. now there were bonds on finn not to refuse anything belonging to a feast, so he took the cup and drank what was in it, and on the moment he was like one gone mad. and he turned his face towards the fianna, and every harm and every fault and every misfortune in battle that he knew against any one of them, he sprang it on them, through the mad drunkenness the young woman had put on him. then the chief men of the fianna of ireland rose up and left the place to him, every one of them setting out for his own country, till there was no one left upon the hill but finn and caoilte. and caoilte rose up and followed after them, and he said: "fianna of ireland," he said, "do not leave your lord and your leader through the arts and the tricks of a woman of the sidhe." thirteen times he went after them, bringing them back to the hill in that way. and with the end of the day and the fall of night the bitterness went from finn's tongue; and by the time caoilte had brought back the whole of the fianna, his sense and his memory were come back to him, and he would sooner have fallen on his sword and got his death, than have stayed living. and that was the hardest day's work caoilte ever did, unless the day he brought the flock of beasts and birds to teamhair, to ransom finn from the high king of ireland. another time maer, wife of bersa of berramain, fell in love with finn, and she made nine nuts of segair with love charms, and sent them to finn, and bade him eat them. "i will not," said finn; "for they are not nuts of knowledge, but nuts of ignorance; and it is not known what they are, unless they might be an enchantment for drinking love." so he buried them a foot deep in the earth. chapter xii. the red woman one time the fianna were in almhuin with no great work to do, and there came a very misty morning, and finn was in dread that sluggishness would come on his men, and he rose up, and he said: "make yourselves ready, and we will go hunting to gleann-na-smol." they all said the day was too misty to go hunting; but there was no use in talking: they had to do as finn bade them. so they made themselves ready and went on towards gleann-na-smol; and they were not gone far when the mist lifted and the sun came shining out. and when they were on the edge of a little wood, they saw a strange beast coming towards them with the quickness of the wind, and a red woman on its track. narrow feet the beast had, and a head like the head of a boar, and long horns on it; but the rest of it was like a deer, and there was a shining moon on each of its sides. finn stopped, and he said: "fianna of ireland," he said, "did you ever see a beast like that one until now?" "we never did indeed," said they; "and it would be right for us to let out the hounds after it." "wait a while," said finn, "till i speak with the red woman; but do not let the beast go past you," he said. they thought to keep back the beast then, going before it; but they were hardly able to hinder it at all, and it went away through them. and when the red woman was come up to them, finn asked her what was the name of the beast she was following. "i do not know that," she said, "though i am on its track since i left the borders of loch dearg a month ago, and i never lost sight of it since then; and the two moons that are on its two sides shine through the country all around in the night time. and i must follow it till it falls," she said, "or i will lose my own life and the lives of my three sons that are the best fighting men in the whole world." "we will take the beast for you if you have a mind," said finn. "do not try to do that," she said, "for i myself am swifter than you are, and i cannot come up with it." "we will not let it go till we know what sort of a beast is it," said finn. "if you yourself or your share of men go after it, i will bind you hand and foot," said she. "it is too stiff your talk is," said finn. "and do you not know," he said, "i am finn, son of cumhal; and there are fourscore fighting men along with me that were never beaten yet." "it is little heed i give to yourself or your share of men," said the red woman; "and if my three sons were here, they would stand up against you." "indeed it will be a bad day," said finn, "when the threat of a woman will put fear on myself or on the fianna of ireland." with that he sounded his horn, and he said: "let us all follow now, men and dogs, after that beast that we saw." he had no sooner said that word than the woman made a great water-worm of herself, and made an attack on finn, and she would have killed him then and there but for bran being with him. bran took a grip of the worm and shook it, and then it wound itself round bran's body, and would have crushed the life out of her, but finn thrust his sharp sword into its throat. "keep back your hand," said the worm then, "and you will not have the curse of a lonely woman upon you." "it is what i think," said finn, "that you would not leave me my life if you could take it from me; but go out of my sight now," he said, "and that i may never see you again." then she made herself into a red woman again, and went away into the wood. all the fianna were gone on the track of the beast while finn was talking and fighting with the red woman; and he did not know in what place they were, but he went following after them, himself and bran. it was late in the evening when he came up with a share of them, and they still on the track of the beast. the darkness of the night was coming on, but the two moons in the sides of the beast gave a bright light, and they never lost it from sight. they followed it on always; and about midnight they were pressing on it, and it began to scatter blood after it, and it was not long till finn and his men were red from head to foot. but that did not hinder them, and they followed him on till they saw him going in at the foot of cnoc-na-righ at the breaking of day. when they came to the foot of the hill the red woman was standing there before them. "you did not take the beast," she said. "we did not take it, but we know where it is," said finn. she took a druid rod then, and she struck a blow on the side of the hill, and on the moment a great door opened, and they heard sweet music coming from within. "come in now," said the red woman, "till you see the wonderful beast." "our clothing is not clean," said finn, "and we would not like to go in among a company the way we are," he said. she put a horn to her mouth and blew it, and on the moment there came ten young men to her. "bring water for washing," she said, "and four times twenty suits of clothes, and a beautiful suit and a crown of shining stones for finn, son of cumhal." the young men went away then, and they came back at the end of a minute with water and with clothing. when the fianna were washed and dressed, the red woman brought them into a great hall, where there was the brightness of the sun and of the moon on every side. from that she brought them into another great room; and although finn and his men had seen many grand things up to that time, they had never seen any sight so grand as what they saw in this place. there was a king sitting in a golden chair, having clothes of gold and of green, and his chief people were sitting around him, and his musicians were playing. and no one could know what colour were the dresses of the musicians, for every colour of the rainbow was in them. and there was a great table in the middle of the room, having every sort of thing on it, one better than another. the king rose up and gave a welcome to finn and to his men, and he bade them to sit down at the table; and they ate and drank their fill, and that was wanting to them after the hunt they had made. and then the red woman rose up, and she said: "king of the hill, if it is your will, finn and his men have a mind to see the wonderful beast, for they spent a long time following after it, and that is what brought them here." the king struck a blow then on his golden chair, and a door opened behind him, and the beast came through it and stood before the king. and it stooped down before him, and it said: "i am going on towards my own country now; and there is not in the world a runner so good as myself, and the sea is the same to me as the land. and let whoever can come up with me come now," it said, "for i am going." with that the beast went out from the hill as quick as a blast of wind, and all the people that were in it went following after it. it was not long till finn and his men were before the rest, in the front of the hunt, gaining on the beast. and about midday bran made the beast turn, and then she forced it to turn a second time, and it began to put out cries, and it was not long until its strength began to flag; and at last, just at the setting of the sun, it fell dead, and bran was at its side when it fell. then finn and his men came up, but in place of a beast it was a tall man they saw lying dead before them. and the red woman came up at the same time, and she said: "high king of the fianna, that is the king of the firbolgs you have killed; and his people will put great troubles on this country in the time to come, when you yourself, finn, and your people will be under the sod. and i myself am going now to the country of the young," she said, "and i will bring you with me if you have a mind to come." "we give you our thanks for that," said finn, "but we would not give up our own country if we were to get the whole world as an estate, and the country of the young along with it." "that is well," said the red woman; "but you are going home empty after your hunt." "it is likely we will find a deer in gleann-na-smol," said finn. "there is a fine deer at the foot of that tree beyond," said the red woman, "and i will rouse it for you." with that she gave a cry, and the deer started out and away, and finn and his men after it, and it never stopped till it came to gleann-na-smol, but they could not come up with it. then the red woman came to them, and she said: "i think you are tired now with following after the deer; and call your hounds off now," she said, "and i will let out my own little dog after it." so finn sounded a little horn he had at his side, and on the moment the hounds came back to him. and then the red woman brought out a little hound as white as the snow of the mountains, and put it after the deer; and it was not long till it had come up with the deer and killed it, and then it came back and made a leap in under the cloak of the red woman. there was great wonder on finn; but before he could ask a question of the red woman, she was gone out of sight. and as to the deer, finn knew there was enchantment on it, and so he left it there after him. and it is tired and empty the fianna were, going back to almhuin that night. chapter xiii. finn and the phantoms finn went to a gathering one time at aonach clochair, and a great many of the men of munster crowded to it. and the horses of the fianna were brought there, and the horses of the men of munster, and they ran races against one another. and fiachu, son of eoghan, was in it; and when the games were over he gave good presents to finn, a lasting black horse that won the three prizes of the gathering, and a chariot, and a horse for the chariot-driver, and a spear, having a deadly spell, and weapons of silver, and three comely hounds, feirne and derchaem and dialath, having collars of yellow gold and chains of white bronze. and finn rose up and gave his thanks to fiachu, son of eoghan, and he and his people set out to the house of cacher at cluain-da-loch. and they stopped three days feasting in cacher's house, and then finn gave him the price of his feast and of his ale, fifty rings, and fifty horses and fifty cows. and he himself and the fianna went on from that over luachair to the strand at berramain. and finn went trying his black horse on the strand, and caoilte and oisin went racing against him; but it was only folly for them to do that, for he gave a blow to his horse, and away with him to traigh liath and over the plain of health to the old yew of the old valley, and to the inver of the flesc and the inver of the lemain to loch lein, till he came to the hill of bairnech, and caoilte and oisin after him. "night is coming on us," said finn then; "and go look for some place where we can sleep," he said. he looked round then at the rocks on his left hand and he saw a house, and a fire shining out from it in the valley below. "i never knew of a house in this valley," he said. "it is best for us to go see it," said caoilte, "for there are many things we have no knowledge of." the three went on then to the house, and they heard screams and crying from it; and when they came to the house, the people of it were very fierce and rough; and a big grey man took hold of their horses and brought them in and shut the door of the house with iron hooks. "my welcome to you, finn of the great name," he said then; "it is a long time you were in coming here." they sat down then on the hard boards of a bed, and the grey man kindled a fire, and he threw logs of elder-wood on it, till they went near being smothered with the smoke. they saw a hag in the house then having three heads on her lean neck; and there was on the other side a man without a head, having one eye, and it in his breast. "rise up, you that are in the house, and make music for the king of the fianna," said the grey man then. with that nine bodies rose up out of the corner nearest the fianna, and nine heads rose up on the other side of the bed, and they raised nine harsh screeches together, that no one would like to be listening to. and then the hag answered to them, and the headless man answered; and if all of that music was harsh, there was none of it that you would not wish to hear sooner than the music of the one-eyed man. and the music that was sung went near to breaking the bones of their heads; and indeed it is no sweet music that was. then the big grey man rose up and took the axe that was for cutting logs, and he began striking at the horses, flaying and destroying them. then there were brought fifty pointed spits of the rowan-tree, and he put a piece of the horse's flesh on each one of the spits, and settled them on the hearth. but when he took the spits from the fire and put them before finn, it is raw the flesh was on them yet. "take your food away," said finn then, "for i have never eaten meat that was raw, and i never will eat it because of being without food for one day." "if you are come into our house to refuse our food," said the grey man, "we will surely go against yourselves, finn and caoilte and oisin." with that all in the house made an attack on the three; and they were driven back into the corner, and the fire was quenched, and the fight went on through the whole night in the darkness, and but for finn and the way he fought, they would have been put down. and when the sun rose and lighted up the house on the morrow, a mist came into the head of each of the three, so that they fell as if dead on the floor. but after awhile they rose up again, and there was nothing to be seen of the house or of the people of the house, but they had all vanished. and their horses were there, and they took them and went on, very weak and tired, for a long way, till they came to the strand of berramain. and those three that fought against them were the three shapes out of the valley of the yew tree that came to avenge their sister, cuillen of the wide mouth. now as to cuillen, she was a daughter of the king of munster, and her husband was the king of ulster's son. and they had a son that was called fear og, the young man; and there was hardly in ireland a man so good as himself in shape and in courage and in casting a spear. and one time he joined in a game with the fianna, and he did better than them all, and finn gave him a great reward. and after that he went out to a hunt they made, and it was by him and by none of the fianna the first blood was got of pig or of deer. and when they came back, a heavy sickness fell on the young man through the eyes and the envy of the fianna, and it left him without life at the end of nine days. and he was buried under a green hill, and the shining stone he used to hold in his hand, and he doing his feats, was put over his head. and his mother, cuillen, came to his grave keening him every day through the length of a year. and one day she died there for grief after her son, and they put her into the same green hill. but as to finn, he was afraid of no earthly thing, and he killed many great serpents in loch cuilinn and loch neathach, and at beinn edair; and shadow-shapes at loch lein and drom cleib and loch liath, and a serpent and a cat in ath cliath. chapter xiv. the pigs of angus angus og, son of the dagda, made a feast one time at brugh na boinne for finn and the fianna of the gael. ten hundred of them were in it, and they wearing green clothing and crimson cloaks; and as to the people of angus' house, it is clothing of red silk they had. and finn was sitting beside angus in the beautiful house, and it is long since the like of those two were seen in ireland. and any stranger would wonder to see the way the golden cups were going from hand to hand. and angus said out in a loud voice that every one could hear: "it is a better life this is than to be hunting." there was anger on finn then, and he said: "it is a worse life than hunting to be here, without hounds, without horses, without battalions, without the shouting of armies." "why are you talking like that, finn?" said angus, "for as to the hounds you have," he said, "they would not kill so much as one pig." "you have not yourself," said finn, "and the whole host of the tuatha de danaan have not a pig that ever went on dry land that bran and sceolan would not kill." "i will send you a pig," said angus, "that will go from you and your hounds, and that will kill them in the end." the steward of the house called out then in a loud voice: "let every one go now to his bed, before the lightness of drunkenness comes on you." but finn said to his people: "let us make ready and leave this; for we are but a few," he said, "among the men of dea." so they set out and went westward till they came to slieve fuad where the fianna were at that time. and through the whole length of a year after that, the tuatha de danaan were boasting how they would get the better of the fianna, and the fianna were thinking how they could do best in the hunt. and at the end of that time angus sent messengers to finn, asking him with great respect if he was ready to keep his word. and finn said he was, and the hounds were brought out, and he himself was holding bran and sceolan, one in each hand, and caoilte had adhnuall, and oisin had ablach, and merry bran beag had lonn, and diarmuid was holding eachtach, and osgar was holding mac an truim, and garraidh was held by faolan, and rith fada, of the long run, by hungry conan. and they were not long there with their hounds till they saw on the plain to the east a terrible herd of great pigs, every one of them the height of a deer. and there was one pig out in front of the rest was blacker than a smith's coal, and the bristles on its head were like a thicket of thorn-trees. then caoilte let out adhnuall, and she was the first to kill a pig of the herd. and then bran made away from the leash that finn was holding, and the pigs ran their best, but she came up with them, and took hold of a pig of them. and at that angus said: "o bran, fosterling of fair-haired fergus, it is not a right thing you are doing, to kill my own son." but when bran heard that, her ways changed and it was like an enemy she took hold of the pig, and did not let it go, and held her breath back and kept it for the fianna. and it was over slieve cua the hunt went, and slieve crot, and from magh cobha to cruachan, and to fionnabraic and to finnias. and at evening when the hunt was over, there was not one pig of the whole herd without a hurt, and there were but a hundred and ten pigs left living. but if the hunt brought destruction on angus, it brought losses on the fianna as well, for there were ten hundred of their men missing besides serving-lads and dogs. "let us go to brugh na boinne and get satisfaction for our people," said oisin then. "that is the advice of a man without sense," said finn; "for if we leave these pigs the way they are, they will come to life again. and let us burn them," he said, "and throw their ashes in the sea." then the seven battalions of the fianna made seven fires to every battalion; but for all they could do, they could not set fire to one pig. then bran, that had great sense and knowledge, went away, and she came back bringing three logs along with her, but no one knows what wood it was they came from. and when the logs were put on the fire they lit up like a candle, and it is with them the pigs were burned; and after that their ashes were thrown into the sea. then oisin said again: "let us go now to brugh na boinne and avenge the death of our people." so the whole of the fianna set out for brugh na boinne, and every step they made could surely be heard through the whole of the skies. and angus sent out messengers to where finn was, offering any one thing to him if he would spare his people. "i will take no gift at all from you, angus of the slender body," said finn, "so long as there is a room left in your house, north or east, without being burned." but angus said: "although you think bad of the loss of your fine people that you have the sway over, yet, o finn, father of oisin, it is sorrowful to me the loss of my own good son is. for as to the black pig that came before you on the plain," he said, "it was no common pig was in it, but my own son. and there fell along with him," he said, "the son of the king of the narrow sea, and the son of the king of the sea of gulls, and the son of ilbhrec, son of manannan, and seven score of the comely sons of kings and queens. and it is what destroyed my strength and my respect entirely, they to have been burned away from me in a far place. and it is a pity for you, sweet daring bran," he said, "fosterling of fergus of the thirty woods and plains, that you did not do something worth praise before killing your own foster-brother. and i will put a curse on you, bran," he said, "beyond every hound in ireland, that you will never see with your eyes any deer you may ever kill." there was anger on finn when he heard that, and he said: "if you put a curse on bran, angus, there will not be a room left, east or west, in the whole of your great house without being burned." "if you do that," said angus, "i will put trees and stones in front of you in every battle; and i will know what number of men you have in your armies," he said, "looking at them through my ring." then oisin, that was wise, said: "it is best for you to agree between yourselves now; and let us be helpful to one another," he said, "and pay whatever fines are due." so they agreed to that, and they made peace, and gave children to be fostered by one another: a son of finn's to angus, and son of angus og to the fianna. but for all that, it is not very friendly to finn angus was afterwards, at the time he was following after diarmuid and grania through the whole length of ireland. chapter xv. the hunt of slieve cuilinn finn was one time out on the green of almhuin, and he saw what had the appearance of a grey fawn running across the plain. he called and whistled to his hounds then, but neither hound nor man heard him or came to him, but only bran and sceolan. he set them after the fawn, and near as they kept to her, he himself kept nearer to them, till at last they reached to slieve cuilinn in the province of ulster. but they were no sooner at the hill than the fawn vanished from them, and they did not know where was she gone, and finn went looking for her eastward, and the two hounds went towards the west. it was not long till finn came to a lake, and there was sitting on the brink of it a young girl, the most beautiful he had ever seen, having hair of the colour of gold, and a skin as white as lime, and eyes like the stars in time of frost; but she seemed to be some way sorrowful and downhearted. finn asked her did she see his hounds pass that way. "i did not see them," she said; "and it is little i am thinking of your hounds or your hunting, but of the cause of my own trouble." "what is it ails you, woman of the white hands?" said finn; "and is there any help i can give you?" he said. "it is what i am fretting after," said she, "a ring of red gold i lost off my finger in the lake. and i put you under bonds, finn of the fianna," she said, "to bring it back to me out of the lake." with that finn stripped off his clothes and went into the lake at the bidding of the woman, and he went three times round the whole lake and did not leave any part of it without searching, till he brought back the ring. he handed it up to her then out of the water, and no sooner had he done that than she gave a leap into the water and vanished. and when finn came up on the bank of the lake, he could not so much as reach to where his clothes were; for on the moment he, the head and the leader of the fianna of ireland, was but a grey old man, weak and withered. bran and sceolan came up to him then, but they did not know him, and they went on round the lake, searching after their master. in almhuin, now, when he was missed, caoilte began asking after him. "where is finn," he said, "of the gentle rule and of the spears?" but no one knew where was he gone, and there was grief on the fianna when they could not find him. but it is what conan said: "i never heard music pleased me better than to hear the son of cumhal is missing. and that he may be so through the whole year," he said, "and i myself will be king over you all." and downhearted as they were, it is hardly they could keep from laughing when they heard conan saying that. caoilte and the rest of the chief men of the fianna set out then looking for finn, and they got word of him; and at last they came to slieve cuilinn, and there they saw a withered old man sitting beside the lake, and they thought him to be a fisherman. "tell us, old man," said caoilte, "did you see a fawn go by, and two hounds after her, and a tall fair-faced man along with them?" "i did see them," he said, "and it is not long since they left me." "tell us where are they now?" said caoilte. but finn made no answer, for he had not the courage to say to them that he himself was finn their leader, being as he was an ailing, downhearted old man, without leaping, without running, without walk, grey and sorrowful. caoilte took out his sword from the sheath then, and he said: "it is short till you will have knowledge of death unless you will tell us what happened those three." then finn told them the whole story; and when the seven battalions of the fianna heard him, and knew it was finn that was in it, they gave three loud sorrowful cries. and to the lake they gave the name of loch doghra, the lake of sorrow. but conan of the sharp tongue began abusing finn and all the fianna by turns. "you never gave me right praise for my deeds, finn, son of cumhal," he said, "and you were always the enemy of the sons of morna; but we are living in spite of you," he said, "and i have but the one fault to find with your shape, and that is, that it was not put on the whole of the fianna the same as on yourself." caoilte made at him then; "bald, senseless conan," he said, "i will break your mouth to the bone." but conan ran in then among the rest of the fianna and asked protection from them, and peace was made again. and as to finn, they asked him was there any cure to be found for him. "there is," he said; "for i know well the enchantment was put on me by a woman of the sidhe, miluchradh, daughter of cuilinn, through jealousy of her sister aine. and bring me to the hill that belongs to cuilinn of cuailgne," he said, "for he is the only one can give me my shape again." they came around him then, and raised him up gently on their shields, and brought him on their shoulders to the hill of the sidhe in cuailgne, but no one came out to meet them. then the seven battalions began digging and rooting up the whole hill, and they went on digging through the length of three nights and three days. and at the end of that time cuilinn of cuailgne, that some say was manannan, son of lir, came out of the hill, holding in his hand a vessel of red gold, and he gave the vessel into finn's hand. and no sooner did finn drink what was in the vessel than his own shape and his appearance came back to him. but only his hair, that used to be so fair and so beautiful, like the hair of a woman, never got its own colour again, for the lake that cuilinn's daughter had made for finn would have turned all the men of the whole world grey if they had gone into it. and when finn had drunk all that was in the vessel it slipped from his hand into the earth, that was loosened with the digging, and he saw it no more. but in the place where it went into the earth, a tree grew up, and any one that would look at the branches of that tree in the morning, fasting, would have knowledge of all that was to happen on that day. that, now, is the way finn came by his grey hair, through the jealousy of miluchradh of the sidhe, because he had not given his love to her, but to her sister aine. book five: oisin's children now as to oisin, that was so brave and so comely, and that could overtake a deer at its greatest speed, and see a thistle thorn on the darkest night, the wife he took was eibhir of the plaited yellow hair, that was the foreign sweetheart of the high king of ireland. it is beyond the sea she lived, in a very sunny place; and her father's name was lunsa, and her sunny house was thatched with the feathers of birds, and the doorposts were of gold, and the doors of ribbed grass. and oisin went there looking for her, and he fought for her against the high king and against an army of the firbolgs he had helping him; and he got the better of them all, and brought away eibhir of the yellow hair to ireland. and he had a daughter that married the son of oiliol, son of eoghan, and of beara, daughter of the king of spain. it was that eoghan was driven out of ireland one time, and it is to spain he went for safety. and beara, that was daughter of the king of spain, was very shining and beautiful, and her father had a mind to know who would be her husband, and he sent for his druid and asked the question of him. "i can tell you that," said the druid, "for the man that is to be her husband will come to land in spain this very night. and let your daughter go eastward to the river eibhear," he said, "and she will find a crimson-spotted salmon in that river, having shining clothing on him from head to tail. and let her strip that clothing off him," he said, "and make with it a shining shirt for her husband." so beara went to the river eibhear, and found the golden salmon as the druid had said, and she stripped him of his crimson clothing and made a shining shirt of it. and as to eoghan, the waves of the shore put a welcome before him, and he came the same night to the king's house. and the king gave him a friendly welcome; and it is what all the people said, that there was never seen a comelier man than eoghan, or a woman more beautiful than beara, and that it was fitting for them to come together. and eoghan's own people said they would not be sorry for being sent away out of ireland, if only eoghan could get her for his wife. and after a while the king sent his druid to ask eoghan why he did not ask for beara. "i will tell you that," said eoghan; "it would not be fitting for me to be refused a wife, and i am but an exile in this country, and i have brought no treasures or goods with me out of ireland for giving to learned men and to poets. but for all that," he said, "the king's daughter is dear to me, and i think i have the friendship of the king." the druid went back with that message. "that is the answer of a king," said the king of spain; "and bid my daughter to sit at eoghan's right hand," he said, "and i will give her to him this very night." and when beara, the king's daughter, heard that, she sent out her serving-maid to bring the shirt she had made for eoghan, and he put it on him over his armour, and its shining was seen in every place; and it was from wearing that shirt he got the name of eoghan the bright. and oiliol was the first son they had; it was he that had his ear bitten off by aine of the sidhe in revenge for her brother, and it was his son married oisin's daughter afterwards. and as to osgar, that was oisin's son, of all the young men of the fianna he was the best in battle. and when he was but a young child he was made much of by the whole of the fianna, and it is for him they used to keep the marrow bones, and they did not like to put any hardship on him. and he grew up tall and idle, and no one thought he would turn out so strong as he did. and one day there was an attack made on a troop of the fianna, and all that were in it went out to fight, but they left osgar after them. and when he knew the fight was going on, he took a log of wood that was the first thing he could find, and attacked the enemy and made a great slaughter, and they gave way and ran before him. and from that out there was no battle he did not go into; and he was said to be the strongest of all the fianna, though the people of connacht said that goll was the strongest. and he and diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, were comrades and dear friends; and it was diarmuid taught him feats of arms and of skill, and chess-playing. and oisin his father took great pride in him, and his grandfather finn. and one time finn was holding a feast at almhuin, and he asked the chief men of the fianna that were there what was the music they thought the best. "to be playing at games," said conan, "that is the best music i ever heard;" for though conan was a good hand against an enemy, there never was a man had less sense. "the music i like the best is to be talking with a woman," said diarmuid. "my music is the outcry of my hounds, and they putting a deer to its last stand," said lugaidh's son. "the music of the woods is best to me," said oisin; "the sound of the wind and of the cuckoo and the blackbird, and the sweet silence of the crane." and then osgar was asked, and he said: "the best music is the striking of swords in a battle." and it is likely he took after finn in that, for in spite of all the sweet sounds he gave an account of the time he was at conan's house, at ceann slieve, it used to be said by the fianna that the music that was best with finn was what happened. this now is the way osgar met with his wife. one time finn and his men came to slieve crot, and they saw a woman waiting there before them, having a crimson fringed cloak, and a gold brooch in it, and a band of yellow gold on her forehead. finn asked her name, and where she came from. "etain of the fair hair is my name," she said, "daughter of aedh of the white breast, of the hill of the sidhe at beinn edair, son of angus og." "what is it brought you here, girl?" said finn. "to ask a man of the fianna of ireland to run a race with me." "what sort of a runner are you?" said diarmuid. "i am a good runner," said the girl; "for it is the same to me if the ground is long or short under my feet." all of the fianna that were there then set out to run with her, and they ran to the height over badhamair and on to ath cliath, and from that on to the hill of the sidhe at beinn edair. and there was a good welcome before them, and they were brought meat and wine for drinking, and water for washing their feet. and after a while they saw a nice fair-haired girl in front of the vats, and a cup of white silver in her hand, and she giving out drink to every one. "it seems to me that is the girl came asking the fianna to race against her at slieve crot," said finn. "it is not," said aedh of the white breast, "for that is the slowest woman there is among us." "who was it so?" said finn. "it was be-mannair, daughter of ainceol, woman-messenger of the tuatha de danaan. and it is she that changes herself into all shapes; and she will take the shape of a fly, and of a true lover, and every one leaves their secret with her. and it was she outran you coming from the east," he said, "and not this other girl that was drinking and making merry here in the hall." "what is her name?" said finn. "etain of the fair hair," he said; "a daughter of my own, and a darling of the tuatha de danaan. and it is the way with her, she has a lover of the men of the fianna." "that is well," said finn; "and who is that lover?" "it is osgar, son of oisin," said aedh; "and it is she herself sent her messenger for you," he said, "in her own shape, to slieve crot in the south. and the son of the high king of ireland has offered a great bride-price to the men of dea for her," he said, "three hundreds of the land nearest to bregia and to midhe, and to put himself and his weight of gold into a balance, and to give it all to her. but we did not take it," he said, "since she had no mind or wish for it herself, and so we made no dealing or agreement about her." "well," said finn, "and what conditions will you ask of osgar?" "never to leave me for anything at all but my own fault," said the girl. "i will make that agreement with you indeed," said osgar. "give me sureties for it," said she; "give me the sureties of goll for the sons of morna, and of finn, son of cumhal, for the fianna of ireland." so they gave those sureties, and the wedding-feast was made, and they stopped there for twenty nights. and at the end of that time osgar asked finn where would he bring his wife. "bring her to wide almhuin for the first seven years," said finn. but a while after that, in a great battle at beinn edair, osgar got so heavy a wound that finn and the fianna were as if they had lost their wits. and when etain of the fair hair came to the bed where osgar was lying, and saw the way he was, and that the great kinglike shape he had was gone from him, greyness and darkness came on her, and she raised pitiful cries, and she went to her bed and her heart broke in her like a nut; and she died of grief for her husband and her first love. but it was not at that time osgar got his death, but afterwards in the battle of gabhra. book six: diarmuid. chapter i. birth of diarmuid diarmuid, now, was son of bonn, son of duibhne of the fianna, and his mother was crochnuit, that was near in blood to finn. and at the time he was born, bonn was banished from the fianna because of some quarrel they had with him, and angus og took the child from him to rear him up at brugh na boinne. and after a while crochnuit bore another son to roc diocain, that was head steward to angus. roc diocain went then to donn, and asked would he rear up his son for him, the way angus was rearing donn's son. but donn said he would not take the son of a common man into his house, and it would be best for angus to take him. so angus took the child into brugh na boinne, and he and diarmuid were reared up together. and one day finn was on the great hill at almhuin of leinster, and no one with him but donn and a few of the poets and learned men of the fianna, and their hounds and dogs, and bran beag came in and asked did he remember there were bonds on him, not to stop in almhuin for ten nights together. finn asked the people about him then where would he go and be entertained for that night, and donn said: "i will bring you to the house of angus, son of the dagda, where my young son is being reared." so they went together to the house of angus at brugh na boinne, and the child diarmuid was there, and it is great love angus had for him. and the steward's son was with him that night, and the people of the household made as much of him as angus made of diarmuid; and there was great vexation on donn when he saw that. it chanced after a while a great fight rose between two of finn's hounds about some broken meat that was thrown to them; and the women and the common people of the place ran from them, and the others rose up to part them from one another. and in running away, the steward's child ran between the knees of donn, and donn gave the child a strong squeeze between his two knees that killed him on the moment, and he threw him under the feet of the hounds. and when the steward came after that and found his son dead, he gave a long very pitiful cry, and he said to finn: "there is not a man in the house to-night has suffered more than myself from this uproar, for i had but one son only, and he has been killed; and what satisfaction will i get from you for that, finn?" he said. "try can you find the mark of a tooth or of a nail of one of the hounds on him," said finn, "and if you can, i will give you satisfaction for him." so they looked at the child, and there was no scratch or mark of a tooth on him at all. then the steward put finn under the destroying bonds of the druid cave of cruachan, to give him knowledge of who it was killed his son. and finn asked for a chess-board, and for water to be brought to him, in a basin of pale gold, and he searched, and it was shown to him truly that it was donn had killed the steward's son between his two knees. when finn knew that, he said he would take the fine on himself; but the steward would not consent to that, but forced him to tell who was it had done him the wrong. and when he knew it was donn had killed the child, he said: "there is no man in the house it is easier to get satisfaction from than from him, for his own son is here, and i have but to put him between my two knees, and if i let him go from me safe, i will forgive the death of my son." angus was vexed at what the steward said, and as to donn, he thought to strike his head off till finn put him back from him. then the steward came again, having a druid rod with him, and he struck his own son with the rod, and he made of him a wild boar, without bristle or ear or tail, and he said: "i put you under bonds to bring diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, to his death; and your own life will be no longer than his life," he said. with that the wild boar rose up and ran out of the open door; and he was called afterwards the boar of slieve guillion, and it was by him diarmuid came to his death at the last. and when diarmuid came to his full strength he was given a place among the fianna of ireland; and all women loved him, and he did many great deeds, fighting with the enemies of the fianna and of ireland; and one time he fought a wild ox through the length of seven days and seven nights on the top of the mountain of happiness. chapter ii. how diarmuid got his love-spot diarmuid and conan and goll and osgar went one day hunting, and they went so far they could not get home in the evening, and they spent the first part of the night walking through the woods and pulling berries and eating them. and when it was about midnight they saw a light, and they went towards it, and they found a little house before them, and the light shining from it. they went in then, and they saw an old man there, and he bade them welcome, and he called them all by their names. and they saw no one in the house but the old man and a young girl and a cat. and the old man bade the girl to make food ready for the fianna of ireland, for there was great hunger on them. and when the food was ready and put on the table, there came a great wether that was fastened up in the back of the house, and he rose up on the table where they were eating, and when they saw that, they looked at one another. "rise up, conan," said goll, "and fasten that wether in the place it was before." conan rose up and took hold of it, but the wether gave itself a shake that threw conan under one of its feet. the rest were looking at that, and goll said: "let you rise up, diarmuid, and fasten up the wether." so diarmuid rose up and took hold of it, but it gave itself a shake the same way as before; and when diarmuid was down it put one of its feet on him. goll and osgar looked at one another then, and shame came on them, a wether to have done so much as that. and osgar got up, but the wether put him down under one of his feet, so that it had now the three men under him. then goll rose up and took hold of it and threw it down; but if he did, it rose up again in spite of him, and put goll under his fourth foot. "it is a great shame," said the old man then, "the like of that to be done to the fianna of ireland. and rise up now, cat," he said, "and tie the wether in the place where he was." the cat rose up then and took hold of the wether, and brought it over and tied it in its place at the end of the house. the men rose up then, but they had no mind to go on eating, for there was shame on them at what the wether had done to them. "you may go on eating," said the old man; "and when you are done i will show you that now you are the bravest men of the world." so they ate their fill then, and the old man spoke to them, and it is what he said: "goll," he said, "you are the bravest of all the men of the world, for you have wrestled with the world and you threw it down. the strength of the world is in the wether, but death will come to the world itself; and that is death," he said, showing them the cat. they were talking together then, and they had their food eaten, and the old man said their beds were ready for them that they could go to sleep. the four of them went then into the one room, and when they were in their beds the young girl came to sleep in the same room with them, and the light of her beauty was shining on the walls like as if it was the light of a candle. and when conan saw her he went over to the side of the bed where she was. now, it was youth the young girl was, and when she saw conan coming to her: "go back to your bed, conan," she said; "i belonged to you once, and i will never belong to you again." conan went back to his bed then, and osgar had a mind to go over where she was. then she said to him: "where are you going?" "i am going over to yourself for a while," said he. "go back again, osgar," she said; "i belonged to you once, and i will never belong to you again." then diarmuid rose up to go to her: "where are you going, diarmuid?" she said. "i am going over to yourself for a while," said he. "o diarmuid," she said, "that cannot be; i belonged to you once, and i can never belong to you again; but come over here to me, diarmuid," she said, "and i will put a love-spot on you, that no woman will ever see without giving you her love." so diarmuid went over to her, and she put her hand on his forehead, and she left the love-spot there, and no woman that ever saw him after that was able to refuse him her love. chapter iii. the daughter of king under-wave one snowy night of winter the fianna were come into the house after their hunting. and about midnight they heard a knocking at the door, and there came in a woman very wild and ugly, and her hair hanging to her heels. she went to the place finn was lying, and she asked him to let her in under the border of his covering. but when he saw her so strange and so ugly and so wild-looking he would not let her in. she gave a great cry then, and she went to where oisin was, and asked him to let her shelter under the border of his covering. but oisin refused her the same way. then she gave another great scream, and she went over where diarmuid was. "let me in," she said, "under the border of your covering." diarmuid looked at her, and he said: "you are strange-looking and wild and ugly, and your hair is down to your heels. but come in for all that," he said. so she came in under the border of his covering. "o diarmuid," she said then, "i have been travelling over sea and ocean through the length of seven years, and in all that time i never got shelter any night till this night. and let me to the warmth of the fire now," she said. so diarmuid brought her over to the fire, and all the fianna that were sitting there went away from it seeing her so ugly and so dreadful to look at. and she was not long at the fire when she said: "let me go under the warmth of the covering with you now." "it is asking too much you are," said diarmuid; "first it was to come under the border you asked, and then to come to the fire, and now it is under the bed-covering with me you want to be. but for all that you may come," he said. so she came in under the covering, and he turned a fold of it between them. but it was not long till he looked at her, and what he saw was a beautiful young woman beside him, and she asleep. he called to the others then to come over, and he said: "is not this the most beautiful woman that ever was seen?" "she is that," they said, and they covered her up and did not awaken her. but after a while she stirred, and she said: "are you awake, diarmuid?" "i am awake," he said. "where would you like to see the best house built that ever was built?" she said. "up there on the hillside, if i had my choice," said he, and with that he fell asleep. and in the morning two men of the fianna came in, and they said they were after seeing a great house up on the hill, where there was not a house before. "rise up, diarmuid," said the strange woman then; "do not be lying there any longer, but go up to your house, and look out now and see it," she said. so he looked out and he saw the great house that was ready, and he said: "i will go to it, if you will come along with me." "i will do that," she said, "if you will make me a promise not to say to me three times what way i was when i came to you." "i will never say it to you for ever," said diarmuid. they went up then to the house, and it was ready for them, with food and servants; and everything they could wish for they had it. they stopped there for three days, and when the three days were ended, she said: "you are getting to be sorrowful because you are away from your comrades of the fianna." "i am not sorrowful indeed," said diarmuid. "it will be best for you to go to them; and your food and your drink will be no worse when you come back than they are now," said she. "who will take care of my greyhound bitch and her three pups if i go?" said diarmuid. "there is no fear for them," said she. so when he heard that, he took leave of her and went back to the fianna, and there was a great welcome before him. but for all that they were not well pleased but were someway envious, diarmuid to have got that grand house and her love from the woman they themselves had turned away. now as to the woman, she was outside the house for a while after diarmuid going away, and she saw finn, son of cumhal, coming towards her, and she bade him welcome. "you are vexed with me, queen?" he said. "i am not indeed," she said; "and come in now and take a drink of wine from me." "i will go in if i get my request," said finn. "what request is there that you would not get?" said she. "it is what i am asking, one of the pups of diarmuid's greyhound bitch." "that is no great thing to ask," she said; "and whichever one you choose of them you may bring it away." so he got the pup, and he brought it away with him. at the fall of night diarmuid came back to the house, and the greyhound met him at the door and gave a yell when she saw him, and he looked for the pups, and one of them was gone. there was anger on him then, and he said to the woman: "if you had brought to mind the way you were when i let you in, and your hair hanging, you would not have let the pup be brought away from me." "you ought not to say that, diarmuid," said she. "i ask your pardon for saying it," said diarmuid. and they forgave one another, and he spent the night in the house. on the morrow diarmuid went back again to his comrades, and the woman stopped at the house, and after a while she saw oisin coming towards her. she gave him a welcome, and asked him into the house, and he said he would come if he would get his request. and what he asked was another of the pups of the greyhound. so she gave him that, and he went away bringing the pup with him. and when diarmuid came back that night the greyhound met him, and she cried out twice. and he knew that another of the pups was gone, and he said to the greyhound, and the woman standing there: "if she had remembered the way she was when she came to me, she would not have let the pup be brought away." the next day he went back again to the fianna, and when he was gone, the woman saw caoilte coming towards her, and he would not come in to take a drink from her till he had got the promise of one of the pups the same as the others. and when diarmuid came back that night the greyhound met him and gave three yells, the most terrible that ever were heard. there was great anger on him then, when he saw all the pups gone, and he said the third time: "if this woman remembered the way she was when i found her, and her hair down to her heels, she would not have let the pup go." "o diarmuid, what is it you are after saying?" she said. he asked forgiveness of her then, and he thought to go into the house, but it was gone and the woman was gone on the moment, and it was on the bare ground he awoke on the morrow. there was great sorrow on him then, and he said he would search in every place till he would find her again. so he set out through the lonely valleys, and the first thing he saw was the greyhound lying dead, and he put her on his shoulder and would not leave her because of the love he had for her. and after a while he met with a cowherd, and he asked him did he see a woman going the way. "i saw a woman early in the morning of yesterday, and she walking hard," said the cowherd. "what way was she going?" said diarmuid. "down that path below to the strand, and i saw her no more after that," he said. so he followed the path she took down to the strand till he could go no farther, and then he saw a ship, and he leaned on the handle of his spear and made a light leap on to the ship, and it went on till it came to land, and then he got out and lay down on the side of a hill and fell asleep, and when he awoke there was no ship to be seen. "it is a pity for me to be here," he said, "for i see no way of getting from it again." but after a while he saw a boat coming, and a man in the boat rowing it, and he went down and got into the boat, and brought the greyhound with him. and the boat went out over the sea, and then down below it; and diarmuid, when he went down, found himself on a plain. and he went walking along it, and it was not long before he met with a drop of blood. he took it up and put it in a napkin. "it is the greyhound lost this," he said. and after a while he met with another drop of blood, and then with a third, and he put them in the napkin. and after that again he saw a woman, and she gathering rushes as if she had lost her wits. he went towards her and asked her what news had she. "i cannot tell it till i gather the rushes," she said. "be telling it while you are gathering them," said diarmuid. "there is great haste on me," she said. "what is this place where we are?" said diarmuid. "it is land-under-wave," said she. "and what use have you for the rushes when they are gathered?" "the daughter of king under-wave is come home," she said, "and she was for seven years under enchantment, and there is sickness on her now, and all the physicians are gathered together and none of them can do her any good, and a bed of rushes is what she finds the wholesomest." "will you show me where the king's daughter is?" said diarmuid. "i will do that," said the woman; "i will put you in the sheaf of rushes, and i will put the rushes under you and over you, and i will carry you to her on my back." "that is a thing you cannot do," said diarmuid. but she put the rushes about him, and lifted him on her back, and when she got to the room she let down the bundle. "o come here to me," said the daughter of king under-wave, and diarmuid went over to her, and they took one another's hands, and were very joyful at that meeting. "three parts of my sickness is gone from me now," she said then; "but i am not well yet, and i never will be, for every time i thought of you, diarmuid, on my journey, i lost a drop of the blood of my heart." "i have got those three drops here in this napkin," said diarmuid, "and take them now in a drink and you will be healed of your sickness." "they would do nothing for me," she said, "since i have not the one thing in the world that i want, and that is the thing i will never get," she said. "what thing is that?" said diarmuid. "it is the thing you will never get, nor any man in the world," she said, "for it is a long time they have failed to get it." "if it is in any place on the whole ridge of the world i will get it," said diarmuid. "it is three draughts from the cup of the king of magh an ionganaidh, the plain of wonder," she said, "and no man ever got it or ever will get it." "tell me where that cup is to be found," said diarmuid, "for there are not as many men as will keep it from me on the whole ridge of the world." "that country is not far from the boundary of my father's country," she said; "but there is a little river between, and you would be sailing on that river in a ship, having the wind behind it, for a year and a day before you would reach to the plain of wonder." diarmuid set out then, and he came to the little river, and he was a good while walking beside it, and he saw no way to cross it. but at last he saw a low-sized, reddish man that was standing in the middle of the river. "you are in straits, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne," he said; "and come here and put your foot in the palm of my hand and i will bring you through." diarmuid did as he bade him, and put his foot in the red man's palm, and he brought him across the river. "it is going to the king of the plain of wonder you are," he said, "to bring away his cup from him; and i myself will go with you." they went on then till they came to the king's dun, and diarmuid called out that the cup should be sent out to him, or else champions to fight with him should be sent out. it was not the cup was sent out, but twice eight hundred fighting men; and in three hours there was not one of them left to stand against him. then twice nine hundred better fighters again were sent out against him, and within four hours there was not one of them left to stand against him. then the king himself came out, and he stood in the great door, and he said: "where did the man come from that has brought destruction on the whole of my kingdom?" "i will tell you that," said he; "i am diarmuid, a man of the fianna of ireland." "it is a pity you not to have sent a messenger telling me that," said the king, "and i would not have spent my men upon you; for seven years before you were born it was put in the prophecy that you would come to destroy them. and what is it you are asking now?" he said. "it is the cup of healing from your own hand i am asking," said diarmuid. "no man ever got that cup from me but yourself," said the king, "but it is easy for me to give it to you, whether or not there is healing in it." then the king of the plain of wonder gave diarmuid the cup, and they parted from one another; and diarmuid went on till he came to the river, and it was then he thought of the red man, that he had given no thought to while he was at the king's house. but he was there before him, and took his foot in the palm of his hand and brought him over the river. "i know where it is you are going, diarmuid," he said then; "it is to heal the daughter of king under-wave that you have given your love to. and it is to a well i will give you the signs of you should go," he said, "and bring a share of the water of that well with you. and when you come where the woman is, it is what you have to do, to put that water in the cup, and one of the drops of blood in it, and she will drink it, and the same with the second drop and the third, and her sickness will be gone from her from that time. but there is another thing will be gone along with it," he said, "and that is the love you have for her." "that will not go from me," said diarmuid. "it will go from you," said the man; "and it will be best for you make no secret of it, for she will know, and the king will know, that you think no more of her then than of any other woman. and king under-wave will come to you," he said, "and will offer you great riches for healing his daughter. but take nothing from him," he said, "but ask only a ship to bring you home again to ireland. and do you know who am i myself?" he said. "i do not know," said diarmuid. "i am the messenger from beyond the world," he said; "and i came to your help because your own heart is hot to come to the help of another." so diarmuid did as he bade him, and he brought the water and the cup and the drops of blood to the woman, and she drank them, and at the third draught she was healed. and no sooner was she healed than the love he had for her was gone, and he turned away from her. "o diarmuid," she said, "your love is gone from me." "o, it is gone indeed," said he. then there was music made in the whole place, and the lamenting was stopped, because of the healing of the king's daughter. and as to diarmuid, he would take no reward and he would not stop there, but he asked for a ship to bring him home to ireland, to finn and the fianna. and when he came where they were, there was a joyful welcome before him. chapter iv. the hard servant the fianna went hunting one time in the two proud provinces of munster. they went out from almhuin by the nearest paths till they came to the brosna river in slieve bladhma, and from there to the twelve mountains of eiblinne, and on to aine cliach, the harp of aine. they scattered themselves then and hunted through the borders of the forest that is called magh breogain, through blind trackless places and through broken lands, over beautiful level plains and the high hills of desmumum, under pleasant slieve crot and smooth slieve na muc, along the level banks of the blue siuir and over the green plain of feman and the rough plain of eithne, and the dark woods of belach gabrain. and finn was at the side of a hill, and the chief men of the fianna along with him, to watch the hunting; for they liked to be listening to the outcry of the hounds and the hurried cries of the boys, and the noise and the whistling and the shouts of the strong men. finn asked then which of the men that were with him would go and keep watch on the side of the hill where they were. and finnbane, son of bresel, said he would go. and he went on to the top of the hill, where he could see about him on all sides. and he was not long there till he saw coming from the east a very big man, ugly and gloomy and deformed; and it is how he was, a dark-coloured shield on his back, a wide sword on his crooked left thigh, two spears on his shoulder, a torn loose cloak over his limbs, that were as black as a quenched coal. a sulky horse he had with him that had no good appearance, bony and thin as to body, and weak in the legs, and he leading it with a rough iron halter; and it was a great wonder the head was not pulled from the horse's body, or the arms pulled out of his owner, with the sudden stands and stops and the jerks it made. and the big man was striking blows on the horse with an iron cudgel to try and knock some going out of him, and the sound of the blows was like the breaking of strong waves. and when finnbane saw all that, he thought to himself it would not be right to let the like of that stranger go up unknown to finn and the fianna, and he ran back in haste to where they were and told them all he had seen. and when he had told his story, they saw the big man coming towards them; but as short as he was from them he was long in coming, from the badness of his walk and his going. and when he came into finn's presence he saluted him, and bowed his head and bent his knee, making signs of humility. finn raised his hand over his head then, and asked news of him, and if he was of the noble or of the mean blood of the great world. he answered that he had no knowledge who he came from, but only that he was a man of the fomor, travelling in search of wages to the kings of the earth, "and i heard," he said, "that finn never refused wages to any man." "i never did indeed," said finn, "and i will not refuse you. but why is it," he said, "you are without a boy to mind your horse?" "i have a good reason for that," said the big man; "there is nothing in the world is worse to me than a boy to be with me; for it is a hundred men's share of food," he said, "that serves me for one day, and it is little enough i think it, and i would begrudge a boy to be sharing it with me." "what is the name you have?" said finn. "the name i have is the gilla decair, the hard servant," said he. "why did you get that name?" said finn. "there is a good reason for that," said the big man, "for there is nothing in the world is harder to me than to do anything at all for my master, or whatever person i am with. and tell me this, conan, son of morna," he said, "who gets the best wages, a horseman or a man afoot?" "a horseman gets twice as much," said conan. "then i call you to witness, conan," he said, "that i am a horseman, and that it was as a horseman i came to the fianna. and give me your guarantee now, finn, son of cumhal, and the guarantee of the fianna, and i will turn out my horse with your horses." "let him out then," said finn. the big man pulled off the iron halter then from his horse, and it made off as hard as it could go, till it came where the horses of the fianna were; and it began to tear and to kick and to bite at them, killing and maiming. "take your horse out of that, big man," said conan; "and by the earth and the sky," he said, "only it was on the guarantee of finn and the fianna you took the halter off him, i would let out his brains through the windows of his head; and many as is the bad prize finn has found in ireland," he said, "he never got one as bad as yourself." "and i swear by earth and sky as well as yourself," said the big man, "i will never bring him out of that; for i have no serving-boy to do it for me, and it is not work for me to be leading my horse by the hand." conan, son of morna, rose up then and took the halter and put it on the horse, and led it back to where finn was, and held it with his hand. "you would never have done a horse-boy's service, conan," said finn, "to any one of the fianna, however far he might be beyond this fomor. and if you will do what i advise," he said, "you will get up on the horse now, and search out with him all the hills and hollows and flowery plains of ireland, till his heart is broken in his body in payment for the way he destroyed the horses of the fianna." conan made a leap then on to the horse, and struck his heels hard into him, but with all that the horse would not stir. "i know what ails him," said finn, "he will not stir till he has the same weight of horsemen on him as the weight of the big man." on that thirteen men of the fianna went up behind conan, and the horse lay down with them and rose up again. "i think that you are mocking at my horse and at myself," said the big man; "and it is a pity for me to be spending the rest of the year with you, after all the humbugging i saw in you to-day, finn. and i know well," he said, "that all i heard about you was nothing but lies, and there was no cause for the great name you have through the world. and i will quit you now, finn," he said. with that he went from them, slow and weak, dragging himself along till he had put a little hill between himself and the fianna. and as soon as he was on the other side of it, he tucked up his cloak to his waist, and away with him, as if with the quickness of a swallow or a deer, and the rush of his going was like a blast of loud wind going over plains and mountains in spring-time. when the horse saw his master going from him, he could not bear with it, but great as his load was he set out at full gallop following after him. and when finn and the fianna saw the thirteen men behind conan, son of morna, on the horse, and he starting off, they shouted with mocking laughter. and when conan found that he was not able to come down off the horse, he screeched and shouted to them not to let him be brought away with the big man they knew nothing of, and he began abusing and reproaching them. "a cloud of death over water on you, finn," he said, "and that some son of a slave or a robber of the bad blood, one that is a worse son of a father and mother even than yourself, may take all that might protect your life, and your head along with that, unless you follow us to whatever place or island the big man will carry us to, and unless you bring us back to ireland again." finn and the fianna rose up then, and they followed the gilla decair over every bald hill, and through every valley and every river, on to pleasant slieve luachra, into the borders of corca duibhne; and the big man, that was up on the horse then along with conan and the rest, faced towards the deep sea. and liagan luath of luachar took hold of the horse's tail with his two hands, thinking to drag him back by the hair of it; but the horse gave a great tug, and away with him over the sea, and liagan along with him, holding on to his tail. it was a heavy care to finn, those fourteen men of his people to be brought away from him, and he himself under bonds to bring them back. "what can we do now?" oisin asked him. "what should we do, but to follow our people to whatever place or island the big man has brought them, and, whatever way we do it, to bring them back to ireland again." "what can we do, having neither a ship or any kind of boat?" said oisin. "we have this," said finn, "the tuatha de danaan left as a gift to the children of the gael, that whoever might have to leave ireland for a while, had but to go to beinn edair, and however many would go along with him, they would find a ship that would hold them all." finn looked towards the sea then, and he saw two strong armed men coming towards him. the first one had on his back a shield ribbed and of many colours, having shapes of strange, wonderful beasts engraved on it, and a heavy sword at his side, and two thick spears on his shoulders; a cloak of lasting crimson about him, with a gold brooch on the breast; a band of white bronze on his head, gold under each of his feet; and the other was dressed in the same way. they made no delay till they came to where finn was, and they bowed their heads and bent their knees before him, and finn raised his hand over their heads, and bade them to give an account of themselves. "we are sons of the king of the eastern world," they said, "and we are come to ireland asking to be taken into the service of finn; for we heard there was not a man in all ireland," they said, "would be better than yourself to judge of the skill we have." "what is your name, and what skill is that?" said finn. "my name is feradach, the very brave," he said; "and i have a carpenter's axe and a sling, and if there were so many as thirty hundred of the men of ireland along with me in one spot, with three blows of the axe on the sling-stick i could get a ship that would hold them all. and i would ask no more help of them," he said, "than to bow down their heads while i was striking those three blows." "that is a good art," said finn. "and tell me now," he said, "what can the other man do?" "i can do this," he said, "i can follow the track of the teal over nine ridges and nine furrows until i come on her in her bed; and it is the same to me to do it on sea as on land," he said. "that is a good art," said finn; "and it would be a good help to us if you would come following a track with us now." "what is gone from you?" said one of the men. finn told them then the whole story of the hard servant. then feradach, the very brave, struck three blows on his sling-stick with the axe that he had, and the whole of the fianna bowed their heads, and on the moment the whole of the bay and of the harbour was filled with ships and with fast boats. "what will we do with that many ships?" said finn. "we will do away with all you make no use of," he said. caoilte rose up then and let out three great shouts, and all the fianna of ireland, in whatever places they were, heard them, and they thought finn and his people to be in some kind of danger from men from beyond the sea. they came then in small companies as they chanced to be, till they came to the stepping-stones of the cat's head in the western part of corca duibhne. and they asked news of finn, what had happened that he called them away from their hunting, and finn told them all that had happened. then finn and oisin went into council together, and it is what they agreed; that as but fifteen of his people were brought away from finn, he himself with fifteen others would go on their track; oisin to be left at the head of the fianna to guard ireland. and they said farewell to one another, and a grand ship was made ready for finn and his people, and there was food put in it for using and gold for giving away. the young men and the heroes took to their seats then, and took hold of the oars, and they set out over the restless hills and the dark valleys of the great sea. and the sea rose up and bellowed, and there was madness on the broken green waters; but to finn and his people it was a call in the morning and a sleepy time at night to be listening to the roaring and the crooning that was ever and always about the sides of the ship. they went on like that for three days and three nights, and saw no country or island. but at the end of that time a man of them went up into the head of the ship, and he saw out before them a great, rough grey cliff. they went on towards it then, and they saw on the edge of the cliff a high rock, round-shaped, having sides more slippery than an eel's back. and they found the track of the hard servant as far as to the foot of the rock. fergus of the true lips said then to diarmuid: "it is no brave thing you are doing, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, to hold back like this, for it was with manannan the powerful, son of lir, you were reared and got your learning, in the land of promise and in the coasts of the harbours, and with angus og, the dagda's son. and are you without any share of their skill and their daring now," he said, "that would bring finn and his people up this rock?" diarmuid's face reddened when he heard those words, and he took hold of manannan's staves of power that were with him, and he reddened again, and he rose on the staves and gave a leap, and got a standing-place for his two feet on the overhanging rock. he looked down from that on finn and his people, but whatever wish he had to bring them up to where he was, he was not able to do it. he left the rock behind him then, and he was not gone far when he saw a wild tangled place before him, with thick woods that were of all he had ever walked the most leafy and the fullest of the sounds of wind and streams and birds, and of the humming of bees. he went on walking the plain, and as he was looking about him, he saw a great tree with many twigs and branches, and a rock beside it, and a smooth-pointed drinking-horn on it, and a beautiful fresh well at its foot. and there was a great drouth on diarmuid after the sea-journey, and he had a mind to drink a hornful of the water. but when he stooped to it he heard a great noise coming towards him, and he knew then there was enchantment in the water. "i will drink my fill of it for all that," he said. and it was not long after that till he saw a man of enchantments coming towards him armed, having no friendly look. and it was in no friendly way he spoke to diarmuid when he came up to him, but he gave him great abuse. "it is no right thing," he said, "to be walking through my thickets and to be drinking up my share of water." with that they faced one another angrily, and they fought till the end of the day. the enchanter thought it well to leave off fighting then, and he made a leap into the bottom of the well away from him, but there was vexation on diarmuid to be left like that. he looked around him then, and he saw a herd of deer coming through the scrub, and he went towards them, and threw a spear that went through the nearest stag and drove the bowels out of him. he kindled a fire then, and he cut thin bits of the flesh and put them on spits of white hazel, and that night he had his fill of meat and of the water of the well. he rose up early on the morrow, and he found the enchanter at the well before him. "it seems to me, grandson of duibhne," he said, "that it is not enough for you to be walking my scrub and my woods without killing my deer as well." with that they started again, giving one another blow for blow, thrust for thrust, and wound for wound till the end of the day came on them. and diarmuid killed another great deer that night, and in the morning the fight began again. but in the evening, when the enchanter was making his leap into the well, diarmuid threw his arms about his neck, thinking to stop him, but it is what happened, he fell in himself. and when he was at the bottom of the well the enchanter left him. diarmuid went then following after the enchanter, and he found before him a beautiful wide flowery plain, and a comely royal city in the plain, and on the green before the dun he saw a great army; and when they saw diarmuid following after the enchanter, they left a way and a royal road for the enchanter to pass through till he got inside the dun. and then they shut the gates, and the whole army turned on diarmuid. but that put no fear or cowardice on him, but he went through them and over them like a hawk would go through little birds, or a wild dog through a flock of sheep, killing all before him, till some of them made away to the woods and wastes, and another share of them through the gates of the dun, and they shut them, and the gates of the city after them. and diarmuid, all full of hurts and wounds after the hard fight, lay down on the plain. a very strong daring champion came then and kicked at him from behind, and at that diarmuid roused himself up, and put out his brave ready hand for his weapons. "wait a while, grandson of duibhne," the champion said then; "it is not to do you any hurt or harm i am come, but to say to you it is a bad sleeping-place for you to have, and it on your ill-wisher's lawn. and come now with me," he said, "and i will give you a better resting-place." diarmuid followed him then, and they went a long, long way from that, till they came to a high-topped city, and three times fifty brave champions in it, three times fifty modest women, and another young woman on a bench, with blushes in her cheeks, and delicate hands, and having a silken cloak about her, and a dress sewed with gold threads, and on her head the flowing veil of a queen. there was a good welcome before diarmuid for his own sake and the sake of his people, and he was put in a house of healing that was in the city, and good herbs were put to his hurts till he was smooth and sound again. and a feast was made then, and the tables and the benches were set, and no high person was put in the place of the mean, or mean in the place of the high, but every one in his own place, according to his nobility, or his descent, or his art. plenty of good food was brought to them then, and well-tasting strong drinks, and they spent the first part of the night in drinking, and the second part with music and delight and rejoicing of the mind, and the third part in sound sleep that lasted till the sun rose over the heavy sodded earth on the morrow. three days and three nights diarmuid stopped in that city, and the best feast he ever found was given to him all through. and at the end of that time he asked what was the place he was in, and who was head of it. and the champion that brought him there told him it was land-under-wave, and that the man that had fought with him was its king. "and he is an enemy of the red hand to me," he said. "and as to myself," he said, "i was one time getting wages from finn, son of cumhal, in ireland, and i never put a year over me that pleased me better. and tell me now," he said, "what is the journey or the work that is before you?" and diarmuid told him the story of the hard servant then from beginning to end. now, as to finn and his people, when they thought diarmuid was too long away from them, they made ladders of the cords of the ship and put them against the rock, looking for him. and after a while they found the leavings of the meat he had eaten, for diarmuid never ate meat without leaving some after him. finn looked then on every side, and he saw a rider coming towards him over the plain on a dark-coloured beautiful horse, having a bridle of red gold. finn saluted him when he came up, and the rider stooped his head and gave finn three kisses, and asked him to go with him. they went on a long way till they came to a wide, large dwelling-place full of arms, and a great troop of armed men on the green before the fort. three nights and three days finn and his people stopped in the dun, and the best feast they ever got was served out to them. at the end of that time finn asked what country was he in, and the man that brought him there told him it was the land of sorcha, and that he himself was its king. "and i was with yourself one time, finn, son of cumhal," he said, "taking your wages through the length of a year in ireland." then finn and the king of sorcha called a great gathering of the people and a great meeting. and when it was going on they saw a woman-messenger coming to them through the crowd, and the king asked news of her. "i have news indeed," she said; "the whole of the bay and the harbour is full of ships and of boats, and there are armies all through the country robbing all before them." "i know well," said the king, "it is the high king of greece is in it, for he has a mind to put the entire world under him, and to get hold of this country like every other." the king of sorcha looked at finn then, and finn understood it was help from him he was asking, and it is what he said: "i take the protection of this country on myself so long as i am in it." he and his people rose up then, and the king of sorcha along with them, and they went looking for the strange army. and when they came up with it they made great slaughter of its champions, and those they did not kill ran before them, and made no better stand than a flock of frightened birds, till there were hardly enough of them left to tell the story. the high king spoke then, and it is what he said: "who is it has done this great slaughter of my people? and i never heard before," he said, "any talk of the courage or of the doings of the men of ireland either at this time or in the old times. but from this out," he said, "i will banish the sons of the gael for ever to the very ends of the earth." but finn and the king of sorcha raised a green tent in view of the ships of the greeks. the king of the greeks called then for help against finn and the king of sorcha, to get satisfaction for the shame that was put on his people. and the sons of kings of the eastern and southern world came to his help, but they could make no stand against finn and osgar and oisin and goll, son of morna. and at the last the king of greece brought all his people back home, the way no more of them would be put an end to. and then finn and the king of sorcha called another great gathering. and while it was going on, they saw coming towards them a great troop of champions, bearing flags of many-coloured silk, and grey swords at their sides and high spears reared up over their heads. and in the front of them was diarmuid, grandson of duibhne. when finn saw him, he sent fergus of the true lips to ask news of him, and they told one another all that had happened. and it would take too long to tell, and it would tire the hearers, how finn made the hard servant bring home his fifteen men that he had brought away. and when he had brought them back to ireland, the whole of the fianna were watching to see him ride away again, himself and his long-legged horse. but while they were watching him, he vanished from them, and all they could see was a mist, and it stretching out towards the sea. and that is the story of the hard servant, and of diarmuid's adventures on the island under-wave. chapter v. the house of the quicken trees and it is often the fianna would have been badly off without the help of diarmuid. it was he came to their help the time miodac, the son of the king of lochlann, brought them into the enchanted house of the quicken trees. it was by treachery he brought them in, giving himself out to be a poet, and making poems for finn to make out the meaning of. a verse he made about a great army that he saw riding over the plains to victory, and robbing all before it, and the riders of it having no horses but plants and branches. "i understand that," said finn, "it was an army of bees you saw, that was gathering riches from the flowers as it went." and another verse miodac made was about a woman in ireland that was swifter than the swiftest horse. "i know that," said finn, "that woman is the river boinn; and if she goes slow itself, she is swifter in the end than the swiftest horse, for her going never stops." and other verses he made about angus' house at brugh na boinn, but finn made them all out. and after that he said he had a feast ready for them, and he bade them go into his house of the quicken trees till he would bring it. and they did that, and went in, and it was a beautiful house, having walls of every colour, and foreign coverings of every colour on the floor, and a fire that gave out a very pleasant smoke. and they sat down there, and after a while finn said: "it is a wonder such a beautiful house to be here." "there is a greater wonder than that," said goll; "that fire that was so pleasant when we came in is giving out now the worst stench in the world." "there is a greater wonder than that," said glas; "the walls that were of all colours are now but rough boards joined together." "there is a greater wonder than that," said fiacha; "where there were seven high doors to the house there is now but one little door, and it shut." "indeed, there is a more wonderful thing than that," said conan; "for we sat down on beautiful coverings, and now there is nothing between us and the bare ground, and it as cold as the snow of one night." and he tried to rise up, but he could not stir, or any of the rest of them, for there was enchantment that kept them where they were. and it was the treachery of miodac, and the spells of the three kings of the island of the floods that had brought them into that danger. and finn knew by his divination that their enemies were gathering to make an end of them, and he said to his people there was no use in making complaints, but to sound the music of the dord fiann. and some of the fianna that were waiting for him not far off heard that sorrowful music, and came fighting against miodac and his armies, and they fought well, but they could not stand against them. and at the last it was diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, that made an end of miodac that was so treacherous, and of the three kings of the island of the floods, and took the enchantment off the floor of the house of the rowan trees with their blood. and when he was freeing the fianna, conan called out, asking him to bring him a share of the feast miodac had made ready for his own friends, for there was hunger on him. and when diarmuid took no heed of him, he said: "if it was a comely woman was speaking to you, diarmuid, you would not refuse to listen." for if many women loved diarmuid, there were many he himself gave his love to; and if he was often called diarmuid the brave, or the hardy, or the comely, or the hawk of ess ruadh, it is often he was called as well the friend and the coaxer of women, diarmuid-na-man. book seven: diarmuid and grania. chapter i. the flight from teamhair finn rose up one morning early in almhuin of leinster, and he sat out alone on the green lawn without a boy or a servant being with him. and oisin followed him there, and diorraing the druid. "what is the cause of your early rising, finn?" said oisin. "it is not without cause, indeed, i rise early," said finn, "for i am without a wife or a companion since maighneis, daughter of black garraidh, died from me; for quiet sleep is not used to come to a man that is without a fitting wife." "why would you be like that?" said oisin, "for there is not a woman in all green ireland you would throw a look on but we would bring her to you, willing or unwilling." "i myself could find a wife would be fitting for you," said diorraing. "who is that?" said finn. "it is grania, daughter of the high king of ireland," said diorraing; "and she is the woman of the best make and shape and the best speech of the women of the whole world." "by my word, diorraing," said finn, "there is strife and disagreement between the high king and myself this long time, and it would not be pleasing to me to get a refusal from him. and it is best for you two to go together," he said, "and to ask his daughter for me in marriage; the way that if he gives a refusal, it will be to you and not to myself he will give it." "we will go," said oisin, "even if it is little profit we will get by it. and let no one at all know of our going," he said, "until such time as we are come back again." after that the two bade farewell to finn, and set out, and it is not told what they did till they came to teamhair. the king of ireland was holding a gathering at that time on the green of teamhair, and the chief nobles of his people were with him. and there was a friendly welcome given to oisin and to diorraing, and the king put off the gathering till the next day, for he was sure it was some pressing thing had brought these two men of the fianna to teamhair. and oisin went aside with him, and told him it was to ask his daughter grania in marriage they were come from finn, head of the fianna of ireland. the king spoke, and it is what he said: "there is not a son of a king or of a great prince, there is not a champion in ireland my daughter has not given a refusal to, and it is on me they all lay the blame of that. and i will give you no answer at all," he said, "till you go to herself; for it is better for you to get her own answer, than to be displeased with me." so they went together to the sunny house of the women, and the king sat down at the head of the high seat beside grania, and he said: "here, grania, are two of the people of finn, son of cumhal, come to ask you as a wife for him, and what answer have you a mind to give them?" and it is what grania said: "if he is a fitting son-in-law for you, why would he not be a fitting husband for me?" they were satisfied then, and there was a feast made for them that night in grania's sunny house, and the king settled for a meeting a fortnight from that time between himself and finn at teamhair. so oisin and diorraing went back again to almhuin, and told finn their story from beginning to end. and as everything wears away, so did that time of delay. and then finn gathered together the seven battalions of the fianna from every part where they were to almhuin. and they set out in great bands and troops till they came to teamhair. the king was out on the green before them, and the great people of the men of ireland, and there was a great welcome before finn and the fianna. but when grania saw grey-haired finn, she said: "it is a great wonder it was not for oisin finn asked me, for he would be more fitting for me than a man that is older than my father." but they talked together for a while, and finn was putting questions to grania, for she had the name of being very quick with answers. "what is whiter than snow?" he said. "the truth," said grania. "what is the best colour?" said finn. "the colour of childhood," said she. "what is hotter than fire?" "the face of a hospitable man when he sees a stranger coming in, and the house empty." "what has a taste more bitter than poison?" "the reproach of an enemy." "what is best for a champion?" "his doings to be high, and his pride to be low." "what is the best of jewels?" "a knife." "what is sharper than a sword?" "the wit of a woman between two men." "what is quicker than the wind?" said finn then. "a woman's mind," said grania. and indeed she was telling no lie when she said that. and for all their talk together she had no liking for finn, and she felt the blood in her heart to be rising against him. and the wedding-feast was made ready then, and they all went into the king's feasting-house in the middle court. and the king sat down to take his share of drinking and pleasure, and his wife at his left side, and grania beside her again; and finn, son of cumhal, at the right hand of the king, and oisin at the other side, and every other one according to his nobility and his birth. then daire of the poems stood up before grania, and sang the songs and good poems of her fathers to her. and there was sitting near to grania a knowledgeable man, a druid of finn's people, and it was not long until they began to talk together. "tell me now," said grania, "who is that man on the right hand of oisin?" "that is goll, son of morna," said the druid, "the ready fighter." "who is that beside goll?" said grania. "osgar, son of oisin," said the druid. "and who is that thin-legged man beside osgar?" "that is caoilte, son of ronan." "who is that proud, hasty man beside caoilte?" "lugaidh's son of the strong hand." "who is that sweet-worded man," she said then, "with the dark hair, and cheeks like the rowan berry, on the left side of oisin, son of finn?" "that is diarmuid, grandson of duibhne," said the druid, "that is the best lover of women in the whole world." "that is a good company," said grania. and after the feast had gone on a while, their own feast was made for the dogs outside. and the dogs began to fight with one another, and the noise was heard in the hall, and the chief men of the fianna went to drive them away from one another. now diarmuid was used to keep his cap always over the love-spot the woman had left on his forehead, for no woman could see that spot but she would give him her love. and it chanced, while he was driving the dogs apart, the cap fell from him, and grania was looking cut at him as it fell, and great love for him came on her there and then. and she called her serving-maid to her, and bade her bring the great golden cup that held drink for nine times nine men from the sunny house. and when the serving-maid brought the cup, she filled it with wine that had enchantment in it, and she said: "give the cup first to finn, and bid him take a drink from it, and tell him it is i myself sent it to him." so the serving-maid did that, and finn took the cup and drank out of it, and no sooner did he drink than he fell into a deep sleep. and then the cup was given to the king, and the queen, and the sons of kings, and the whole company, but only oisin and osgar and caoilte and diarmuid, and diorraing the druid. and all that drank of it fell into the same heavy sleep. and when they were all in their sleep, grania rose up softly from the seat where she was, and she turned her face to diarmuid, and she said: "will you take my love, diarmuid, son of duibhne, and will you bring me away out of this house to-night?" "i will not," said diarmuid; "i will not meddle with the woman that is promised to finn." "if that is so," said grania, "i put you under druid bonds, to bring me out of this house to-night before the awaking of finn and of the king of ireland from their sleep." "it is under bad bonds you are putting me, grania," said diarmuid. "and why is it," he said, "that you put them on me more than on the great men and sons of kings that are in the middle court to-night? for there is not one of them all but is as well worthy of a woman's love as myself." "by my hand, diarmuid, it is not without cause i laid those bonds on you," said grania; "for i was at the door a while ago when you were parting the dogs," she said, "and my eyes fell on you, and i gave you the love there and then that i never gave to any other, and never will give for ever." "it is a wonder you to give that love to me, and not to finn," said diarmuid, "for there is not in ireland a man is a better lover of a woman than himself. and do you know this, grania," he said, "the night finn is in teamhair it is he himself is the keeper of its gates. and as that is so, we cannot leave the town." "there is a side door of escape at my sunny house," said grania, "and we will go out by it." "it is a thing i will never do," said diarmuid, "to go out by any side door of escape at all." "that may be so," said grania, "but i heard it said that every fighting man has leave to pass over the walls of any dun and of any strong place at all by the shafts of his spears. and i will go out through the door," she said, "and let you follow me like that." with that she went out, and diarmuid spoke to his people, and it is what he said, "o oisin, son of finn, what must i do with these bonds that are laid on me?" "you are not guilty if the bonds were laid on you," said oisin; "and i tell you to follow grania, and to keep yourself well out of the hands of finn." "osgar, son of oisin," he said then, "what must i do with these bonds that are put on me?" "i tell you to follow grania," said osgar, "for it is a pitiful man that would break his bonds." "what advice do you give me, caoilte?" said diarmuid. "it is what i say," said caoilte, "that i myself have a fitting wife; and that it would be better to me than all the riches of the world grania to have given me that love." "what advice do you give me, diorraing?" "i tell you to follow grania," said diorraing, "although you will get your death by it, and that is bad to me." "is that the advice you all give me?" said diarmuid. "it is," said oisin, and all the rest with him. with that diarmuid stood up and stretched out his hand for his weapons, and he said farewell to oisin and the others, and every tear he shed was of the size of a mountain berry. he went out then to the wall of the dun, and he put the shafts of his two spears under him, and he rose with a light leap and he came down on the grassy earth outside, and grania met him there. then diarmuid said: "it is a bad journey you are come on, grania. for it would be better for you to have finn, son of cumhal, as a lover than myself, for i do not know any part or any western corner of ireland that will hide you. and if i do bring you with me," he said, "it is not as a wife i will bring you, but i will keep my faith to finn. and turn back now to the town," he said, "and finn will never get news of what you are after doing." "it is certain i will not turn back," said grania, "and i will never part with you till death parts us." "if that is so, let us go on, grania," said diarmuid. they went on then, and they were not gone far out from the town when grania said: "i am getting tired, indeed." "it is a good time to be tired," said diarmuid, "and go now back again to your own house. for i swear by the word of a true champion," he said, "i will never carry yourself or any other woman to the end of life and time." "that is not what you have to do," said grania, "for my father's horses are in a grass field by themselves, and chariots with them; and turn back now, and bring two horses of them, and i will wait in this place till you come to me again." diarmuid went back then for the horses, and we have no knowledge of their journey till they reached to the ford on the sionnan, that is called now ath-luain. and diarmuid said then to grania: "it is easier to finn to follow our track, the horses being with us." "if that is so," said grania: "leave the horses here, and i will go on foot from this out." diarmuid went down to the river then, and he brought a horse with him over the ford, and left the other horse the far side of the river. and he himself and grania went a good way with the stream westward, and they went to land at the side of the province of connacht. and wherever they went, diarmuid left unbroken bread after him, as a sign to finn he had kept his faith with him. and from that they went on to doire-da-bhoth, the wood of the two huts. and diarmuid cut down the wood round about them, and he made a fence having seven doors of woven twigs, and he set out a bed of soft rushes and of the tops of the birch-tree for grania in the very middle of the wood. chapter ii. the pursuit and as to finn, son of cumhal, i will tell out his story now. all that were in teamhair rose up early in the morning of the morrow, and they found diarmuid and grania were wanting from them, and there came a scorching jealousy and a weakness on finn. he sent out his trackers then on the plain, and bade them to follow diarmuid and grania. and they followed the track as far as the ford on the sionnan, and finn and the fianna followed after them, but they were not able to carry the track across the ford. and finn gave them his word that unless they would find the track again without delay, he would hang them on each side of the ford. then the sons of neamhuin went up against the stream, and they found a horse on each side of it, and then they went on with the stream westward, and they found the track going along the side of the province of connacht, and finn and the fianna of ireland followed it on. and finn said: "i know well where we will find diarmuid and grania now; it is in doire-da-bhoth they are." oisin and osgar and caoilte and diorraing were listening when finn said those words. and osgar spoke to the others, and it is what he said: "there is danger they might be there, and it would be right for us to give them some warning; and look now, osgar, where is bran the hound, for finn himself is no dearer to him than diarmuid, and bid him go now with a warning to him." so osgar told bran, and bran understood him well, and she went to the rear of the whole troop the way finn would not see her, and she followed on the track of diarmuid and grania till she came to doire-da-bhoth, and she put her head into diarmuid's bosom, and he in his sleep. diarmuid started up out of his sleep then, and he awoke grania, and said to her: "here is bran, finn's hound, and she is come with a warning to tell us finn himself is coming." "let us take that warning, then," said grania, "and make your escape." "i will not take it," said diarmuid, "for if i cannot escape finn, i would as soon he took me now as at any other time." when grania heard that, great fear came on her. bran went away from them then, and when oisin saw her coming back, he said: "i am in dread bran found no chance to get to diarmuid, and we should send him some other warning. and look where is fearghoin," he said, "caoilte's serving-man." now it was the way with fearghoin, every shout he would give would be heard in the three nearest hundreds to him. so they made him give out three shouts the way diarmuid would hear him. and diarmuid heard him, and he said to grania: "i hear caoilte's serving-man, and it is with caoilte he is, and it is along with finn caoilte is, and those shouts were sent as a warning to me." "take that warning," said grania. "i will not take it," said diarmuid, "for finn and the fianna will come up with us before we leave the wood." and fear and great dread came on grania when she heard him say that. as for finn, he did not leave off following the track till he came to doire-da-bhoth, and he sent the sons of neamhuin to search through the wood, and they saw diarmuid, and the woman along with him. they came back then where finn was, and he asked them were diarmuid and grania in the wood? "diarmuid is in it," they said, "and there is some woman with him, but we knew diarmuid, and we do not know grania." "may no good come to the friends of diarmuid for his sake," said finn, "and he will not quit that wood till he has given me satisfaction for everything he has done to me." "it is jealousy has put you astray, finn," said oisin; "you to think diarmuid would stop here on the plain of maen mhagh, and no close place in it but doire-da-bhoth, and you following after him." "saying that will do you no good," said finn, "for i knew well when i heard the three shouts caoilte's serving-man gave out, it was you sent them to diarmuid as a warning. and another thing," he said, "it was you sent my own hound bran to him. but none of those things you have done will serve you, for he will not leave doire-da-bhoth till he gives me satisfaction for everything he has done to me, and every disgrace he has put on me." "it is great foolishness for you, finn," said osgar then, "to be thinking diarmuid would stop in the middle of this plain and you waiting here to strike the head off him." "who but himself cut the wood this way," said finn, "and made this close sheltered place with seven woven narrow doors to it. and o diarmuid," he said out then, "which of us is the truth with, myself or oisin?" "you never failed from your good judgment, finn," said diarmuid, "and indeed i myself and grania are here." then finn called to his men to go around diarmuid and grania, and to take them. now it was shown at this time to angus og, at brugh na boinne, the great danger diarmuid was in, that was his pupil at one time, and his dear foster-son. he set out then with the clear cold wind, and did not stop in any place till he came to doire-da-bhoth. and he went unknown to finn or the fianna into the place where diarmuid and grania were, and he spoke kind words to diarmuid, and he said: "what is the thing you have done, grandson of duibhne?" "it is," said diarmuid, "the daughter of the king of ireland that has made her escape with me from her father and from finn, and it is not by my will she came." "let each of you come under a border of my cloak, so," said angus, "and i will bring you out of the place where you are without knowledge of finn or his people." "bring grania with you," said diarmuid, "but i will never go with you; but if i am alive i will follow you before long. and if i do not," he said, "give grania to her father, and he will do well or ill to her." with that angus put grania under the border of his cloak, and brought her out unknown to finn or the fianna, and there is no news told of them till they came to ros-da-shoileach, the headland of the two sallows. and as to diarmuid, after angus and grania going from him, he stood up as straight as a pillar and put on his armour and his arms, and after that he went to a door of the seven doors he had made, and he asked who was at it. "there is no enemy to you here," they said, "for there are here oisin and osgar and the best men of the sons of baiscne along with us. and come out to us now, and no one will have the daring to do any harm or hurt on you." "i will not go out to you," said diarmuid, "till i see at what door finn himself is." he went then to another door of the seven and asked who was at it. "caoilte, son of ronan, and the rest of the sons of ronan along with him; and come out to us now, and we will give ourselves for your sake." "i will not go out to you," said diarmuid, "for i will not put you under finn's anger for any well-doing to myself." he went on to another door then and asked who was at it. "there is conan, son of morna, and the rest of the sons of morna along with him; and it is enemies to finn we are, and you are a great deal more to us than he is, and you may come out and no one will dare lay a hand on you." "i will not indeed," said diarmuid, "for finn would be better pleased to see the death of every one of you than to let me escape." he went then to another door and asked who was at it. "a friend and a comrade of your own, fionn, son of cuadan, head of the fianna of munster, and his men along with him; and we are of the one country and the one soil, and we will give our bodies and our lives for your sake." "i will not go out to you," said diarmuid, "for i would not like finn to have a grudge against you for any good you did to me." he went then to another door and asked who was at it. "it is fionn, son of glor, head of the fianna of ulster, and his men along him; and come out now to us and there is no one will dare hurt or harm you." "i will not go out to you," said diarmuid, "for you are a friend to me, and your father along with you, and i would not like the unfriendliness of finn to be put on you for my sake." he went then to another door, and he asked who was at it. "there is no friend of yours here," they said, "for there is here aodh beag the little from eamhuin, and aodh fada the long from eamhuin, and caol crodha the fierce, and goineach the wounder, and gothan the white-fingered, and aoife his daughter, and cuadan the tracker from eamhuin; and we are unfriendly people to you, and if you come out to us we will not spare you at all, but will make an end of you." "it is a bad troop is in it," said diarmuid; "you of the lies and of the tracking and of the one shoe, and it is not fear of your hands is upon me, but because i am your enemy i will not go out." he went then to the last of the seven doors and asked who was at it. "no friend of yours," they said, "but it is finn, son of cumhal, and four hundred paid fighting men along with him; and if you will come out to us we will make opened marrow of you." "i give you my word, finn," said diarmuid, "that the door you are at yourself is the first door i will pass out of." when finn heard that, he warned his battalions on pain of lasting death not to let diarmuid past them unknown. but when diarmuid heard what he said, he rose on the staves of his spears and he went with a very high, light leap on far beyond finn and his people, without their knowledge. he looked back at them then, and called out that he had gone past them, and he put his shield on his back and went straight on towards the west, and it was not long before he was out of sight of finn and the fianna. then when he did not see any one coming after him, he turned back to where he saw angus and grania going out of the wood, and he followed on their track till he came to ros-da-shoileach. he found angus and grania there in a sheltered, well-lighted cabin, and a great blazing fire kindled in it, and the half of a wild boar on spits. diarmuid greeted them, and the life of grania all to went out of her with joy before him. diarmuid told them his news from beginning to end, and they ate their share that night, and they went to sleep till the coming of the day and of the full light on the morrow. and angus rose up early, and he said to diarmuid: "i am going from you now, grandson of duibhne; and i leave this advice with you," he said, "not to go into a tree with one trunk, and you flying before finn, and not to be going into a cave of the earth that has but one door, and not to be going to an island of the sea that has but one harbour. and in whatever place you cook your share of food," he said, "do not eat it there; and in whatever place you eat it, do not lie down there; and in whatever place you lie down, do not rise up there on the morrow." he said farewell to them after that, and went his way. chapter iii. the green champions then diarmuid and grania went along the right bank of the sionnan westward till they came to garbh-abha-na-fiann, the rough river of the fianna. and diarmuid killed a salmon on the brink of the river, and put it to the fire on a spit. then he himself and grania went across the stream to eat it, as angus bade them; and then they went westward to sleep. they rose up early on the morrow, and they travelled straight westward till they came to the marsh of finnliath. and on the marsh they met with a young man, having a good shape and appearance, but without fitting dress or arms. diarmuid greeted the young man, and asked news of him. "a fighting lad i am, looking for a master," he said, "and muadhan is my name." "what would you do for me, young man?" said diarmuid. "i would be a servant to you in the day, and watch for you in the night," he said. "i tell you to keep that young man," said grania, "for you cannot be always without people." then they made an agreement with him, and bound one another, and they went on together westward till they reached the carrthach river. and then muadhan bade diarmuid and grania to go up on his back till he would carry them over the stream. "that would be a big load for you," said grania. but he put them upon his back and carried them over. then they went on till they came to the beith, and muadhan brought them over on his back the same way. and they went into a cave at the side of currach cinn adhmuid, the woody headland of the bog, over tonn toime, and muadhan made ready beds of soft rushes and tops of the birch for them in the far end of the cave. and he went himself into the scrub that was near, and took a straight long rod of a quicken-tree, and he put a hair and a hook on the rod, and a holly berry on the hook, and he went up the stream, and he took a salmon with the first cast. then he put on a second berry and killed another fish, and he put on a third berry and killed the third fish. then he put the hook and the hair under his belt, and struck the rod into the earth, and he brought the three salmon where diarmuid and grania were, and put them on spits. when they were done, muadhan said: "i give the dividing of the fish to you, diarmuid." "i would sooner you to divide it than myself," said diarmuid. "i will give the dividing of the fish to you, so, grania," said he. "i am better satisfied you to divide it," said grania. "if it was you that divided the fish, diarmuid," said muadhan, "you would have given the best share to grania; and if it was grania divided it, she would have given you the best share; and as it is myself is dividing it, let you have the biggest fish, diarmuid, and let grania have the second biggest, and i myself will have the one is smallest." they spent the night there, and diarmuid and grania slept in the far part of the cave, and muadhan kept watch for them until the rising of the day and the full light of the morrow. diarmuid rose up early, and he bade grania keep watch for muadhan, and that he himself would go and take a walk around the country. he went out then, and he went up on a hill that was near, and he was looking about him, east and west, north and south. he was not long there till he saw a great fleet of ships coming from the west, straight to the bottom of the hill where he was. and when they were come to land, nine times nine of the chief men of the ships came on shore, and diarmuid went down and greeted them, and asked news of them, and to what country they belonged. "three kings we are of the green champions of muir-na-locht," said they; "and finn, son of cumhal, sent looking for us by cause of a thief of the woods, and an enemy of his own that has gone hiding from him; and it is to hinder him we are come. and we are twenty hundred good fighting men, and every one of us is a match for a hundred, and besides that," he said, "we have three deadly hounds with us; fire will not burn them, and water will not drown them, and arms will not redden on them, and we will lay them on his track, and it will be short till we get news of him. and tell us who you are yourself?" they said, "and have you any word of the grandson of duibhne?" "i saw him yesterday," said diarmuid; "and i myself," he said, "am but a fighting man, walking the world by the strength of my hand and by the hardness of my sword. and by my word," he said, "you will know diarmuid's hand when you will meet it." "well, we found no one up to this," said they. "what are your own names?" said diarmuid. "dubh-chosach, the black-footed, fionn-chosach, the fair-footed, and treun-chosach, the strong-footed," they said. "is there wine in your ships?" said diarmuid. "there is," said they. "if you have a mind to bring out a tun of wine," said diarmuid, "i will do a trick for you." they sent men to get the tun, and when it came diarmuid took it between his two hands and drank a drink out of it, and the others drank what was left of it. diarmuid took up the tun after that, and brought it to the top of the hill, and he went up himself on the tun, and let it go down the steep of the hill till it was at the bottom. and then he brought the tun up the hill again, and he himself on it coming and going, and he did that trick three times before the strangers. but they said he was a man had never seen a good trick when he called that a trick; and with that a man of them went up on the tun, but diarmuid gave a stroke of his foot at it and the young man fell from it before it began to move, and it rolled over him and crushed him, that he died. and another man went on it, and another after him again, till fifty of them were killed trying to do diarmuid's trick, and as many of them as were not killed went back to their ships that night. diarmuid went back then to where he left grania; and muadhan put the hair and the hook on the rod till he killed three salmon; and they ate their meal that night, and he kept watch for them the same way he did before. diarmuid went out early the next day again to the hill, and it was not long till he saw the three strangers coming towards him, and he asked them would they like to see any more tricks. they said they would sooner get news of the grandson of duibhne. "i saw a man that saw him yesterday," said diarmuid. and with that he put off his arms and his clothes, all but the shirt that was next his skin, and he struck the crann buidhe, the spear of manannan, into the earth with the point upwards. and then he rose with a leap and lit on the point of the spear as light as a bird, and came down off it again without a wound on him. then a young man of the green champions said: "it is a man has never seen feats that would call that a feat"; and he put off his clothing and made a leap, and if he did he came down heavily on the point of the spear, and it went through his heart, and he fell to the ground. the next day diarmuid came again, and he brought two forked poles out of the wood and put them standing upright on the hill, and he put the sword of angus og, the mor-alltach, the big-fierce one, between the two forks on its edge. then he raised himself lightly over it, and walked on the sword three times from the hilt to the point, and he came down and asked was there a man of them could do that feat. "that is a foolish question," said a man of them then, "for there was never any feat done in ireland but a man of our own would do it." and with that he rose up to walk on the sword; but it is what happened, he came down heavily on it the way he was cut in two halves. the rest of the champions bade him take away his sword then, before any more of their people would fall by it; and they asked him had he any word of the grandson of duibhne. "i saw a man that saw him to-day," said diarmuid, "and i will go ask news of him to-night." he went back then to where grania was, and muadhan killed three salmon for their supper, and kept a watch for them through the night. and diarmuid rose up at the early break of day, and he put his battle clothes on him, that no weapon could go through, and he took the sword of angus, that left no leavings after it, at his left side, and his two thick-handled spears, the gae buidhe and the gae dearg, the yellow and the red, that gave wounds there was no healing for. and then he wakened grania, and he bade her to keep watch for muadhan, and he himself would go out and take a look around. when grania saw him looking so brave, and dressed in his clothes of anger and of battle, great fear took hold of her, and she asked what was he going to do. "it is for fear of meeting my enemies i am like this," said he. that quieted grania, and then diarmuid went out to meet the green champions. they came to land then, and they asked had he news of the grandson of duibhne. "i saw him not long ago," said diarmuid. "if that is so, let us know where is he," said they, "till we bring his head to finn, son of cumhal." "i would be keeping bad watch for him if i did that," said diarmuid, "for his life and his body are under the protection of my valour, and by reason of that i will do no treachery on him." "is that true?" said they. "it is true indeed," said diarmuid. "let you yourself quit this place, so," they said, "or we will bring your head to finn since you are an enemy to him." "it is in bonds i would be," said diarmuid, "the time i would leave my head with you." and with that he drew his sword the mor-alltach out of its sheath, and he made a fierce blow at the head nearest him that put it in two halves. then he made an attack on the whole host of the green champions, and began to destroy them, cutting through the beautiful shining armour of the men of muir-na-locht till there was hardly a man but got shortening of life and the sorrow of death, or that could go back to give news of the fight, but only the three kings and a few of their people that made their escape back to their ships. diarmuid turned back then without wound or hurt on him, and he went to where crania and muadhan were. they bade him welcome, and grania asked him did he hear any news of finn and the fianna of ireland, and he said he did not, and they ate their food and spent the night there. he rose up again with the early light of the morrow and went back to the hill, and when he got there he struck a great blow on his shield that set the strand shaking with the sound. and dubh-chosach heard it, and he said he himself would go fight with diarmuid, and he went on shore there and then. and he and diarmuid threw the arms out of their hands and rushed on one another like wrestlers, straining their arms and their sinews, knotting their hands on one another's backs, fighting like bulls in madness, or like two daring hawks on the edge of a cliff. but at the last diarmuid raised up dubh-chosach on his shoulder and threw his body to the ground, and bound him fast and firm on the spot. and fionn-chosach and treun-chosach came one after the other to fight with him then, and he put the same binding on them; and he said he would strike the heads off them, only he thought it a worse punishment to leave them in those bonds. "for there is no one can free you," he said. and he left them there, worn out and sorrowful. the next morning after that, diarmuid told grania the whole story of the strangers from beginning to end, and of all he had done to them, and how on the fifth day he had put their kings in bonds. "and they have three fierce hounds in a chain ready to hunt me," he said. "did you take the heads off those three kings?" said grania, "i did not," said diarmuid, "for there is no man of the heroes of ireland can loosen those bonds but four only, oisin, son of finn, and osgar, son of oisin, and lugaidh's son of the strong hand, and conan, son of morna; and i know well," he said, "none of those four will do it. but all the same, it is short till finn will get news of them, and it is best for us to be going from this cave, or finn and the three hounds might come on us." after that they left the cave, and they went on till they came to the bog of finnliath. grania began to fall behind them, and muadhan put her on his back and carried her till they came to the great slieve luachra. then diarmuid sat down on the brink of the stream that was flowing through the heart of the mountain, and grania was washing her hands, and she asked his knife from him to cut her nails with. as to the strangers, as many of them as were alive yet, they came to the hill where their three leaders were bound, and they thought to loose them; but it is the way those bonds were, all they did by meddling with them was to draw them tighter. and they were not long there till they saw a woman coming towards them with the quickness of a swallow or a weasel or a blast of wind over bare mountain-tops. and she asked them who was it had done that great slaughter on them. "who are you that is asking that?" said they. "i am the woman of the black mountain, the woman-messenger of finn, son of cumhal," she said; "and it is looking for you finn sent me." "indeed we do not know who it was did this slaughter," they said, "but we will tell you his appearance. a young man he was, having dark curling hair and ruddy cheeks. and it is worse again to us," they said, "our three leaders to be bound this way, and we not able to loose them." "what way did that young man go from you?" said the woman. "it was late last night he left us," they said, "and we do not know where is he gone." "i give you my word," she said, "it was diarmuid himself that was in it; and take your hounds now and lay them on his track, and i will send finn and the fianna of ireland to you." they left a woman-druid then attending on the three champions that were bound, and they brought their three hounds out of the ship and laid them on diarmuid's track, and followed them till they came to the opening of the cave, and they went into the far part of it and found the beds where diarmuid and crania had slept. then they went on westward till they came to the carrthach river, and to the bog of finnliath, and so on to the great slieve luachra. but diarmuid did not know they were after him till he got sight of them with their banners of soft silk and their three wicked hounds in the front of the troop and three strong champions holding them in chains. and when he saw them coming like that he was filled with great hatred of them. there was one of them had a well-coloured green cloak on him, and he came out far beyond the others, and grania gave the knife back to diarmuid. "i think you have not much love for that young man of the green cloak, grania," said diarmuid. "i have not indeed," said grania; "and it would be better if i had never given love to any man at all to this day." diarmuid put the knife in the sheath then, and went on; and muadhan put grania on his back and carried her on into the mountain. it was not long till a hound of the three hounds was loosed after diarmuid, and muadhan said to him to follow grania, and he himself would check the hound. then muadhan turned back, and he took a whelp out of his belt, and put it on the flat of his hand. and when the whelp saw the hound rushing towards him, and its jaws open, he rose up and made a leap from muadhan's hand into the throat of the hound, and came out of its side, bringing the heart with it, and he leaped back again to muadhan's hand, and left the hound dead after him. muadhan went on then after diarmuid and grania, and he took up grania again and carried her a bit of the way into the mountain. then another hound was loosened after them, and diarmuid said to muadhan: "i often heard there is nothing can stand against weapons of druid wounding, and the throat of no beast can be made safe from them. and will you stand now," he said, "till i put the gae dearg, the red spear, through that hound." then muadhan and grania stopped to see the cast. and diarmuid made a cast at the hound, and the spear went through its body and brought out its bowels; and he took up the spear again, and they went forward. it was not long after that the third hound was loosed. and grania said then: "this is the one is fiercest of them, and there is great fear on me, and mind yourself now, diarmuid." it was not long till the hound overtook them, and the place he overtook them was lic dhubhain, the flag-stone of dubhan, on slieve luachra. he rose with a light leap over diarmuid, as if he had a mind to seize on grania, but diarmuid took him by the two hind legs, and struck a blow of his carcase against the side of the rock was nearest, till he had let out his brains through the openings of his head and of his ears. and then diarmuid took up his arms and his battle clothes, and put his narrow-topped finger into the silken string of the gae dearg, and he made a good cast at the young man of the green cloak that was at the head of the troop that killed him. then he made another cast at the second man and killed him, and the third man in the same way. and as it is not the custom to stand after leaders are fallen, the strangers when they saw what had happened took to flight. and diarmuid followed after them, killing and scattering, so that unless any man of them got away over the forests, or into the green earth, or under the waters, there was not a man or messenger of them left to tell the news, but only the woman-messenger of the black mountain, that kept moving around about when diarmuid was putting down the strangers. and it was not long till finn saw her coming towards him where he was, her legs failing, and her tongue muttering, and her eyes drooping, and he asked news of her. "it is very bad news i have to tell you," she said; "and it is what i think, that it is a person without a lord i am." then she told finn the whole story from beginning to end, of the destruction diarmuid had done, and how the three deadly hounds had fallen by him. "and it is hardly i myself got away," she said. "what place did the grandson of duibhne go to?" said finn. "i do not know that," she said. and when finn heard of the kings of the green champions that were bound by diarmuid, he called his men to him, and they went by every short way and every straight path till they reached the hill, and it was torment to the heart of finn to see the way they were. then he said: "oisin," he said, "loosen those three kings for me." "i will not loosen them," said oisin, "for diarmuid put bonds on me not to loosen any man he would bind." "loosen them, osgar," said finn then. "i give my word," said osgar, "it is more bonds i would wish to put on them sooner than to loosen them." neither would conan help them, or lugaidh's son. and any way, they were not long talking about it till the three kings died under the hardness of the bonds that were on them. then finn made three wide-sodded graves for them, and a flag-stone was put over them, and another stone raised over that again, and their names were written in branching ogham, and it is tired and heavy-hearted finn was after that; and he and his people went back to almhuin of leinster. chapter iv. the wood of dubhros and as to diarmuid and grania and muadhan, they went on through ui chonaill gabhra, and left-hand ways to ros-da-shoileach, and diarmuid killed a wild deer that night, and they had their fill of meat and of pure water, and they slept till the morning of the morrow. and muadhan rose up early, and spoke to diarmuid, and it is what he said, that he himself was going away. "it is not right for you to do that," said diarmuid, "for everything i promised you i fulfilled it, without any dispute." but he could not hinder him, and muadhan said farewell to them and left them there and then, and it is sorrowful and downhearted diarmuid and grania were after him. after that they travelled on straight to the north, to slieve echtge, and from that to the hundred of ui fiachrach; and when they got there grania was tired out, but she took courage and went on walking beside diarmuid till they came to the wood of dubhros. now, there was a wonderful quicken-tree in that wood, and the way it came to be there is this: there rose a dispute one time between two women of the tuatha de danaan, aine and aoife, daughters of manannan, son of lir, for aoife had given her love to lugaidh's son, and aine had given her love to a man of her own race, and each of them said her own man was a better hurler than the other. and it came from that dispute that there was a great hurling match settled between the men of dea and the fianna of ireland, and the place it was to be played was on a beautiful plain near loch lein. they all came together there, and the highest men and the most daring of the tuatha de danaan were there, the three garbhs of slieve mis, and the three mases of slieve luachra, and the three yellow-haired murchadhs, and the three eochaidhs of aine, and the three fionns of the white house, and the three sgals of brugh na boinne, and the three ronans of ath na riogh, and the suirgheach suairc, the pleasant wooer from lionan, and the man of sweet speech from the boinn, and ilbrec, the many-coloured, son of manannan, and neamhanach, son of angus og, and bodb dearg, son of the dagda, and manannan, son of lir. they themselves and the fianna were playing the match through the length of three days and three nights, from leamhain to the valley of the fleisg, that is called the crooked valley of the fianna, and neither of them winning a goal. and when the tuatha de danaan that were watching the game on each side of leamhain saw it was so hard for their hurlers to win a goal against the fianna, they thought it as well to go away again without playing out the game. now the provision the men of dea had brought with them from the land of promise was crimson nuts, and apples, and sweet-smelling rowan berries. and as they were passing through the district of ui fiachrach by the muaidh, a berry of the rowan berries fell from them, and a tree grew up from it. and there was virtue in its berries, and no sickness or disease would ever come on any person that would eat them, and those that would eat them would feel the liveliness of wine and the satisfaction of mead in them, and any old person of a hundred years that would eat them would go back to be young again, and any young girl that would eat them would grow to be a flower of beauty. and it happened one time after the tree was grown, there were messengers of the tuatha de danaan going through the wood of dubhros. and they heard a great noise of birds and of bees, and they went where the noise was, and they saw the beautiful druid tree. they went back then and told what they had seen, and all the chief men of the tuatha de danaan when they heard it knew the tree must have grown from a berry of the land of the ever-living living ones. and they enquired among all their people, till they knew it was a young man of them, that was a musician, had dropped the berry. and it is what they agreed, to send him in search of a man of lochlann that would guard the tree by day and sleep in it by night. and the women of the sidhe were very downhearted to see him going from them, for there was no harper could play half so sweetly on his harp as he could play on an ivy leaf. he went on then till he came to lochlann, and he sat down on a bank and sleep came on him. and he slept till the rising of the sun on the morrow; and when he awoke he saw a very big man coming towards him, that asked him who was he. "i am a messenger from the men of dea," he said; "and i am come looking for some very strong man that would be willing to guard a druid tree that is in the wood of dubhros. and here are some of the berries he will be eating from morning to night," he said. and when the big man had tasted the berries, he said: "i will go and guard all the trees of the wood to get those berries." and his name was the searbhan lochlannach, the surly one of lochlann. very black and ugly he was, having crooked teeth, and one eye only in the middle of his forehead. and he had a thick collar of iron around his body, and it was in the prophecy that he would never die till there would be three strokes of the iron club he had, struck upon himself. and he slept in the tree by night and stopped near it in the daytime, and he made a wilderness of the whole district about him, and none of the fianna dared go hunt there because of the dread of him that was on them. but when diarmuid came to the wood of dubhros, he went into it to where the surly one was, and he made bonds of agreement with him, and got leave from him to go hunting in the wood, so long as he would not touch the berries of the tree. and he made a cabin then for himself and for grania in the wood. as for finn and his people, they were not long at almhuin till they saw fifty armed men coming towards them, and two that were taller and handsomer than the rest in the front of them. finn asked did any of his people know them. "we do not know them," they said, "but maybe you yourself know them, finn." "i do not," he said; "but it seems to be they are enemies to myself." the troop of armed men came up to them then and they greeted him, and finn asked news of them, and from what country they came. "i am aonghus, son of art og of the children of morna," one of them said, "and this is aodh, son of andela; and we are enemies of your own, and our fathers were at the killing of your father, and they themselves died for that deed. and it is to ask peace we are come now to you," they said. "where were you the time my father was killed?" "in our mothers' wombs," said they; "and our mothers were two women of the tuatha de danaan, and it is time for us now to get our father's place among the fianna." "i will give you that," said finn, "but i must put a fine on you first in satisfaction for my father's death." "we have neither gold or silver or goods or cattle to give you, finn," said they. "do not put a fine on them, finn," said oisin, "beyond the death of their fathers for your father." "it is what i think," said finn, "if any one killed myself, oisin, it would be easy to pay the fine you would ask. and there will no one come among the fianna," he said, "without giving what i ask in satisfaction for my father's death." "what is it you are asking of us?" said aonghus, son of art og. "i am asking but the head of a champion, or the full of a fist of the berries of the quicken-tree at dubhros." "i will give you a good advice, children of morna," said oisin, "to go back to the place you were reared, and not to ask peace of finn through the length of your lives. for it is not an easy thing finn is asking of you; and do you know whose head he is asking you to bring him?" "we do not," said they. "the head of diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, is the head he is asking of you. and if you were twenty hundred men in their full strength, diarmuid would not let you take that head." "and what are the berries finn is asking of us?" they said then. "there is nothing is harder for you to get than those berries," said oisin. he told them then the whole story of the tree, and of the searbhan, the surly one of lochlann, that was put to mind it by the tuatha de danaan. but aodh, son of andela, spoke then, and it is what he said, that he would sooner get his death looking for those berries than to go home again to his mother's country. and he said to oisin to care his people till he would come back again, and if anything should happen himself and his brother in their journey, to send them back again to the land of promise. and the two said farewell then to oisin and to the chief men of the fianna, and they went forward till they reached dubhros. and they went along the wood till they found a track, and they followed it to the door of the hunting-cabin where diarmuid and grania were. diarmuid heard them coming, and he put his hand on his weapons and asked who was at the door. "we are of the children of morna," they said, "aodh, son of andela, and aonghus, son of art og." "what brings you to this wood?" said diarmuid. "finn, son of cumhal, that put us looking for your head, if you are diarmuid, grandson of duibhne," said they. "i am indeed," said diarmuid. "if that is so," they said, "finn will take nothing from us but your head, or a fistful of the berries of the quicken-tree of dubhros as satisfaction for the death of his father." "it is not easy for you to get either of those things," said diarmuid, "and it is a pity for any one to be under the power of that man. and besides that," he said, "i know it was he himself made an end of your fathers, and that was enough satisfaction for him to get; and if you do bring him what he asks, it is likely he will not make peace with you in the end." "is it not enough for you," said aodh, "to have brought his wife away from finn without speaking ill of him?" "it is not for the sake of speaking ill of him i said that," said diarmuid, "but to save yourselves from the danger he has sent you into." "what are those berries finn is asking?" said grania, "that they cannot be got for him?" diarmuid told her then the whole story of the berry the tuatha de danaan had lost, and of the tree that had sprung up from it, and of the man of lochlann that was keeping the tree. "and at the time finn sent me hiding here and became my enemy," he said, "i got leave from the surly one to hunt, but he bade me never to meddle with the berries. and now, sons of morna," he said, "there is your choice, to fight with me for my head, or to go asking the berries of the surly one." "i swear by the blood of my people," said each of them, "i will fight with yourself first." with that the two young men made ready for the fight. and it is what they chose, to fight with the strength of their hands alone. and diarmuid put them down and bound the two of them there and then. "that is a good fight you made," said grania. "but, by my word," she said, "although the children of morna do not go looking for those berries, i will not lie in a bed for ever till i get a share of them; and i will not live if i do not get them," she said. "do not make me break my peace with the surly one," said diarmuid, "for he will not let me take them." "loose these tyings from us," said the two young men, "and we will go with you, and we will give ourselves for your sake." "you must not come with me," said diarmuid; "for if you got the full of your eyes of that terrible one, you would be more likely to die than to live." "well, do us this kindness," they said then; "loosen these bonds on us, and give us time to go by ourselves and see the fight before you strike off our heads." so diarmuid did that for them. then diarmuid went to the surly one, and he chanced to be asleep before him, and he gave him a stroke of his foot the way he lifted his head and looked up at him, and he said: "have you a mind to break our peace, grandson of duibhne?" "that is not what i want," said diarmuid; "but it is grania, daughter of the high king," he said, "has a desire to taste those berries, and it is to ask a handful of them i am come." "i give my word," said he, "if she is to die for it, she will never taste a berry of those berries." "i would not do treachery on you," said diarmuid; "and so i tell you, willing or unwilling, i will take those berries from you." when the surly one heard that, he rose up on his feet and lifted his club and struck three great blows on diarmuid, that gave him some little hurt in spite of his shield. but when diarmuid saw him not minding himself, he threw down his weapons, and made a great leap and took hold of the club with his two hands. and when he had a hold of the club he struck three great blows on him that put his brains out through his head. and the two young men of the sons of morna were looking at the whole fight; and when they saw the surly one was killed they came out. and diarmuid sat down, for he was spent with the dint of the fight, and he bid the young men to bury the body under the thickets of the wood, the way grania would not see it. "and after that," he said, "let you go back to her and bring her here." so they dragged away the body and buried it, and they went then for grania and brought her to diarmuid. "there are the berries you were asking, grania," he said, "and you may take what you like of them now." "i give my word," said grania, "i will not taste a berry of those berries but the one your own hand will pluck, diarmuid." diarmuid rose up then and plucked the berries for grania, and for the children of morna, and they ate their fill of them. and he said then to the young men: "take all you can of these berries, and bring them with you to finn, and tell him it was yourselves made an end of the surly one of lochlann." "we give you our word," said they, "we begrudge giving any of them to finn." but diarmuid plucked a load of the berries for them, and they gave him great thanks for all he had done; and they went back to where finn was with the fianna. and diarmuid and grania went up into the top of the tree where the bed of the surly one was. and the berries below were but bitter berries beside the ones above in the tree. and when the two young men came to finn, he asked news of them. "we have killed the surly one of lochlann," they said; "and we have brought you berries from the quicken-tree of dubhros, in satisfaction for your father, that we may get peace from you." they gave the berries then into finn's hand, and he knew them, and he said to the young men: "i give you my word," he said, "it was diarmuid himself plucked those berries, for i know the smell of his hand on them; and i know well it was he killed the surly one, and i will go now and see is he himself alive at the quicken-tree." after that he called for the seven battalions of the fianna, and he set out and went forward to dubhros. and they followed the track of diarmuid to the foot of the quicken-tree, and they found the berries without protection, so they ate their fill of them. and the great heat of the day came on them, and finn said they would stop where they were till the heat would be past; "for i know well," he said, "diarmuid is up in the quicken-tree." "it is a great sign of jealousy in you, finn," said oisin, "to think that diarmuid would stop there up in the quicken-tree and he knowing you are wanting to kill him." finn asked for a chess-board after that, and he said to oisin: "i will play a game with you now on this." they sat down then, oisin and osgar and lugaidh's son and diorraing on the one side of the board, and finn on the other side. and they were playing that game with great skill and knowledge, and finn pressed oisin so hard that he had no move to make but the one, and finn said: "there is one move would win the game for you, oisin, and i defy all that are with you to show you that move." then diarmuid said up in the tree where he was, and no one heard him but grania: "it is a pity you be in straits, and without myself to show you that move." "it is worse off you are yourself," said grania, "to be in the bed of the surly one of lochlann in the top of the quicken-tree, and the seven battalions of the fianna round about it to take your life." but diarmuid took a berry of the tree, and aimed at the one of the chessmen that ought to be moved, and oisin moved it and turned the game against finn by that move. it was not long before the game was going against oisin the second time, and when diarmuid saw that he threw another berry at the chessman it was right to move, and oisin moved it and turned the game against finn in the same way. and the third time finn was getting the game from oisin, and diarmuid threw the third berry on the man that would give the game to oisin, and the fianna gave a great shout when the game was won. finn spoke then, and it is what he said: "it is no wonder you to win the game, oisin, and you having the help of osgar, and the watchfulness of diorraing, and the skill of lugaidh's son, and the teaching of the grandson of duibhne with you." "that is a great sign of jealousy in you, finn," said osgar, "to think diarmuid would stop in this tree, and you so near him." "which of us has the truth, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne," finn said out then, "myself or osgar?" "you never lost your good judgment, finn," said diarmuid then; "and i myself and grania are here, in the bed of the surly one of lochlann." then diarmuid rose up and gave three kisses to grania in the sight of finn and the fianna. and a scorching jealousy and a weakness came on finn when he saw that, and he said: "it was worse to me, diarmuid, the seven battalions of the fianna to see what you did at teamhair, taking away grania the night you were yourself my guard. but for all that," he said, "you will give your head for the sake of those three kisses." with that finn called to the four hundred paid fighting men that were with him that they might make an end of diarmuid; and he put their hands into one another's hands around that quicken-tree, and bade them, if they would not lose their lives, not to let diarmuid pass out through them. and he said that to whatever man would take diarmuid, he would give his arms and his armour, and a place among the fianna of ireland. then one of the fianna, garbh of slieve cua, said it was diarmuid had killed his own father, and he would avenge him now, and he went up the quicken-tree to make an end of him. now, about that time it was made known to angus og, in brugh na boinne, the danger diarmuid was in, and he came to his help, unknown to the fianna. and when garbh of slieve cua was coming up the tree, diarmuid gave him a kick of his foot, and he fell down among the hired men, and they struck off his head, for angus og had put the appearance of diarmuid on him. but after he was killed, his own shape came on him again, and the fianna knew that it was garbh was killed. then garbh of slieve crot said it was diarmuid had killed his father, and he went up to avenge him, and the same thing happened. and in the end all the nine garbhs, of slieve guaire, and slieve muice, and slieve mor, and slieve lugha, and ath fraoch, and slieve mis and drom-mor, went trying to take diarmuid's life and lost their own lives, every one of them having the shape and appearance of diarmuid when he died. and finn was very sorry and discouraged when he saw that these nine men had come to their death. then angus said he would bring away grania with him. "do so," said diarmuid; "and if i am living at evening i will follow you." then angus said farewell to diarmuid, and he put his druid cloak about grania and about himself, and they went away in the safety of the cloak, unknown to finn and the fianna, till they came to brugh na boinne. then diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, spoke, and it is what he said: "i will come down to you, finn, and to the fianna. and i will do death and destruction on you and on your people, for i am certain your mind is made up to give me no rest, but to bring me to my death in some place. and i have nowhere to go from this danger," he said, "for i have no friend or comrade under whose protection i could go in any far part of the great world, for it is often i fought against the men of the great world for love of you. for there never came battle or fight, danger or trouble on you, but i would go into it for your sake and the sake of the fianna; and not only that, but i would fight before you and after you. and i give my word, finn," he said, "you will pay hard for me, and you will not get me as a free gift." "it is the truth diarmuid is speaking," said osgar, "and give him forgiveness now, and peace." "i will not do that," said finn, "to the end of life and time; and he will not get peace or rest for ever till i get satisfaction from him for every reproach he has put on me." "it is a great shame and a great sign of jealousy you to say that," said osgar. "and i give the word of a true champion," he said, "that unless the skies come down upon me, or the earth opens under my feet, i will not let you or any one of the fianna of ireland give him cut or wound; and i take his body and his life under the protection of my valour, and i will keep him safe against all the men of ireland." "those are big words you have, osgar," said goll then, "to say you would bring a man away in spite of all the men of ireland." "it is not you will raise them up against me, goll," said osgar, "for none of them would mind what you would say." "if that is what you are saying, you champion of great fights," said goll, "let us see now what you can do." "you will have to go through with the fight you have taken on yourself," said corrioll, son of goll, in a loud voice. and osgar answered him fiercely: "if i do i will shorten your bones, and your father's bones along with them. and come down now, diarmuid," he said, "since finn has no mind to leave you in peace, and i promise on my body and my life there will no harm be done to you to-day." then diarmuid stood up on a high bough of the boughs of the tree, and he rose with a light leap by the shaft of his spear, and lit on the grass far beyond finn and the fianna. and he himself and osgar went towards one another, in spite of the fianna that went between them, and diarmuid struck down those that were in his way; and as to osgar, the throwing of his spears as he scattered the fianna was like the sound of the wind going through a valley, or water falling over flag-stones. and conan, that was always bitter, said: "let the sons of baiscne go on killing one another." but finn, when he saw diarmuid was gone from him, bade them put their weapons up, and turn back again to almhuin. and he sent those of his men that could be healed to places of healing, and the nine garbhs, and the others of his men that were killed, he put into wide-sodded graves. and it is tired and downhearted and sorrowful he was after that, and he made an oath he would take no great rest till he would have avenged on diarmuid all that he had done. chapter v. the quarrel and as to osgar and diarmuid, they went on, and no cut or wound on them, to where angus and grania were at brugh na boinne; and there was a good welcome before them, and diarmuid told them the whole story from beginning to end, and it is much that grania did not die then and there, hearing all he had gone through. and then she and diarmuid set out again, and they went and stopped for a while in a cave that was near the sea. and one night while they were there a great storm came on, so that they went into the far part of the cave. but bad as the night was, a man of the fomor, ciach, the fierce one, his name was, came over the western ocean in a currach, with two oars, and he drew it into the cave for shelter. and diarmuid bade him welcome, and they sat down to play chess together. and he got the best of the game, and what he asked as his winnings was grania to be his wife, and he put his arms about her as if to bring her away. and grania said: "i am this long time going with the third best man of the fianna, and he never came as near as that to me." and diarmuid took his sword to kill ciach, and there was anger on grania when she saw that, and she had a knife in her hand and she struck it into diarmuid's thigh. and diarmuid made an end of the fomor, and he said no word to grania, but ran out and away through the storm. and grania went following after him, and calling to him, but there was great anger on him and he would not answer her. and at last at the break of day she overtook him, and after a while they heard the cry of a heron, and she asked him what was it made the heron cry out. "tell me that," she said, "grandson of duibhne, to whom i gave my love." and diarmuid said: "o grania, daughter of the high king, woman who never took a step aright, it is because she was frozen to the rocks she gave that cry." and grania was asking forgiveness of him, and he was reproaching her, and it is what he said: "o grania of the beautiful hair, though you are more beautiful than the green tree under blossom, your love passes away as quickly as the cold cloud at break of day. and you are asking a hard thing of me now," he said, "and it is a pity what you said to me, grania, for it was you brought me away from the house of my lord, that i am banished from it to this day; and now i am troubled through the night, fretting after its delight in every place. "i am like a wild deer, or a beast that is astray, going ever and always through the long valleys; there is great longing on me to see one of my kindred from the host. "i left my own people that were brighter than lime or snow; their heart was full of generosity to me, like the sun that is high above us; but now they follow me angrily, to every harbour and every strand. "i lost my people by you, and my lord, and my large bright ships on every sea; i lost my treasure and my gold; it is hunger you gave me through your love. "i lost my country and my kindred; my men that were used to serve me; i lost quietness and affection; i lost the men of ireland and the fianna entirely. "i lost delight and music; i lost my own right doing and my honour; i lost the fianna of ireland, my great kinsmen, for the sake of the love you gave me. "o grania, white as snow, it would have been a better choice for you to have given hatred to me, or gentleness to the head of the fianna." and grania said: "o diarmuid of the face like snow, or like the down of the mountains, the sound of your voice was dearer to me than all the riches of the leader of the fianna. "your blue eye is dearer to me than his strength, and his gold and his great hall; the love-spot on your forehead is better to me than honey in streams; the time i first looked on it, it was more to me than the whole host of the king of ireland. "my heart fell down there and then before your high beauty; when you came beside me, it was like the whole of life in one day. "o diarmuid of the beautiful hands, take me now the same as before; it was with me the fault was entirely; give me your promise not to leave me." but diarmuid said: "how can i take you again, you are a woman too fond of words; one day you give up the head of the fianna, and the next day myself, and no lie in it. "it is you parted me from finn, the way i fell under sorrow and grief; and then you left me yourself, the time i was full of affection." and grania said: "do not leave me now this way, and my love for you ever growing like the fresh branches of the tree with the kind long heat of the day." but diarmuid would not give in to her, and he said: "you are a woman full of words, and it is you have put me under sorrow. i took you with myself, and you struck at me for the sake of the man of the fomor." they came then to a place where there was a cave, and water running by it, and they stopped to rest; and grania said: "have you a mind to eat bread and meat now, diarmuid?" "i would eat it indeed if i had it," said diarmuid. "give me a knife, so," she said, "till i cut it." "look for the knife in the sheath where you put it yourself," said diarmuid. she saw then that the knife was in his thigh where she had struck it, for he would not draw it out himself. so she drew it out then; and that was the greatest shame that ever came upon her. they stopped then in the cave. and the next day when they went on again, diarmuid did not leave unbroken bread like he had left every other day as a sign to finn that he had kept his faith with him, but it was broken bread he left after him. chapter vi. the wanderers and they went on wandering after that, all through ireland, hiding from finn in every place, sleeping under the cromlechs, or with no shelter at all, and there was no place they would dare to stop long in. and wherever they went finn would follow them, for he knew by his divination where they went. but one time he made out they were on a mountain, for he saw them with heather under them; and it was beside the sea they were, asleep on heather that diarmuid had brought down from the hills for their bed; and so he went searching the hills and did not find them. and grania would be watching over diarmuid while he slept, and she would make a sleepy song for him, and it is what she would be saying: "sleep a little, a little little, for there is nothing at all to fear, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne; sleep here soundly, soundly, diarmuid, to whom i have given my love. "it is i will keep watch for you, grandchild of shapely duibhne; sleep a little, a blessing on you, beside the well of the strong field; my lamb from above the lake, from the banks of the strong streams. "let your sleep be like the sleep in the south, of dedidach of the high poets, the time he took away old morann's daughter, for all conall could do against him. "let your sleep be like the sleep in the north, of fair comely fionnchadh of ess ruadh, the time he took slaine with bravery as we think, in spite of failbhe of the hard head. "let your sleep be like the sleep in the west, of aine, daughter of gailian, the time she went on a journey in the night with dubhthach from doirinis, by the light of torches. "let your sleep be like the sleep in the east, of deaghadh the proud, the brave fighter, the time he took coincheann, daughter of binn, in spite of fierce decheall of duibhreann. "o heart of the valour of the lands to the west of greece, my heart will go near to breaking if i do not see you every day. the parting of us two will be the parting of two children of the one house; it will be the parting of life from the body, diarmuid, hero of the bright lake of carman." and then to rouse him she would make another song, and it is what she would say: "caoinche will be loosed on your track; it is not slow the running of caoilte will be; do not let death reach to you, do not give yourself to sleep for ever. "the stag to the east is not asleep, he does not cease from bellowing; though he is in the woods of the blackbirds, sleep is not in his mind; the hornless doe is not asleep, crying after her speckled fawn; she is going over the bushes, she does not sleep in her home. "the cuckoo is not asleep, the thrush is not asleep, the tops of the trees are a noisy place; the duck is not asleep, she is made ready for good swimming; the bog lark is not asleep to-night on the high stormy bogs; the sound of her clear voice is sweet; she is not sleeping between the streams." one time they were in a cave of beinn edair, and there was an old woman befriending them and helping them to keep a watch. and one day she chanced to go up to the top of beinn edair, and she saw an armed man coming towards her, and she did now know him to be finn; and when he was come near she asked what was he looking for. "it is looking for a woman i am come," he said, "and for a woman's love. and will you do all i will ask you?" he said. "i will do that," she said; for she thought it was her own love he was asking. "tell me then," he said, "where is diarmuid, grandson of duibhne?" so she told him where he was hiding, and he bade her to keep him in the cave till such time as he would come back with his men. the old woman went back then, and it is what she did, she dipped her cloak in the sea-water before she went into the cave; and diarmuid asked her why was her cloak so wet. "it is," she said, "that i never saw or never heard of the like of this day for cold and for storms. there is frost on every hillside," she said, "and there is not a smooth plain in all elga where there is not a long rushing river between every two ridges. and there is not a deer or a crow in the whole of ireland can find a shelter in any place." and she was shaking the wet off her cloak, and she was making a complaint against the cold, and it is what she said: "cold, cold, cold to-night is the wide plain of lurg; the snow is higher than the mountains, the deer cannot get at their share of food. "cold for ever; the storm is spread over all; every furrow on the hillside is a river, every ford is a full pool, every full loch is a great sea; every pool is a full loch; horses cannot go through the ford of ross any more than a man on his two feet. "the fishes of inisfail are going astray; there is no strand or no pen against the waves; there are no dwellings in the country, there is no bell heard, no crane is calling. "the hounds of the wood of cuan find no rest or no sleep in their dwelling-place; the little wren cannot find shelter in her nest on the slope of lon. "a sharp wind and cold ice have come on the little company of birds; the blackbird cannot get a ridge to her liking or shelter for her side in the woods of cuan. "it is steady our great pot hangs from its hook; it is broken the cabin is on the slope of lon; the snow has made the woods smooth, it is hard to climb to the ridge of bennait bo. "the ancient bird of glen ride gets grief from the bitter wind; it is great is her misery and her pain, the ice will be in her mouth. "mind well not to rise up from coverings and from down, mind this well; there would be no good sense in it. ice is heaped up in every ford; it is for that i am saying and ever saying 'cold.'" the old woman went out after that, and when she was gone, grania took hold of the cloak she had left there and she put her tongue to it, and found the taste of salt water on it. "my grief, diarmuid," she said then, "the old woman has betrayed us. and rise up now," she said, "and put your fighting suit upon you." so diarmuid did that, and he went out, and grania along with him. and no sooner were they outside than they saw finn and the fianna of ireland coming towards them. then diarmuid looked around him and he saw a little boat at hand in the shelter of the harbour, and he himself and grania went into it. and there was a man before them in the boat having beautiful clothes on him, and a wide embroidered golden-yellow cloak over his shoulders behind. and they knew it was angus was in it, that had come again to help them to escape from finn, and they went back with him for a while to brugh na boinne, and osgar came to them there. chapter vii. fighting and peace and after a while finn bade his people to make his ship ready, and to put a store of food and of drink in it. they did that, and he himself and a thousand of his men went into the ship; and they were nine days between sailing and rowing till they came to harbour in the north of alban. they bound the ship to the posts of the harbour then, and finn with five of his people went to the dun of the king of alban, and finn struck a blow with the hand-wood on the door, and the door-keeper asked who was in it, and they told him it was finn, son of cumhal. "let him in," said the king. then finn and his people went in, and the king made them welcome, and he bade finn to sit down in his own place, and they were given strong pleasant drinks, and the king sent for the rest of finn's people and bade them welcome to the dun. then finn told what it was brought him there, and that it was to ask help and advice against the grandson of duibhne he was come. "and you have a right to give me your help," he said, "for it was he that killed your father and your two brothers, and many of your best men along with them." "that is true," said the king; "and i will give you my own two sons and a thousand men with each of them." finn was glad when he heard that, and he and his men took leave of the king and of his household, and left wishes for life and health with them, and the king did the same by them. and it was near brugh na boinne finn and his people came to land, and finn sent messengers to the house of angus to give out a challenge of battle against diarmuid, grandson of duibhne. "what should i do about this, osgar?" said diarmuid. "we will both go out and make a stand against them, and we will not let a serving-man of them escape, but we will make an end of them all," said osgar. so they rose up on the morning of the morrow and they put their suits of battle on their comely bodies; and it would be a pity for those, be they many or few, that would meet those two men, and their anger on them. and they bound the rims of their shields together the way they would not be parted from one another in the right. and the sons of the king of alban said that they themselves and their people would go first to meet them. so they came to shore, and made a rush to meet diarmuid and osgar. but the two fought so well that they beat them back and scattered them, and made a great slaughter, and put great terror on them, so that at the last there was not a man left to stand against them. and after that, finn went out again on the sea, and his people with him, and there is no word of them till they came to the land of promise where finn's nurse was. and when she saw finn coming she was very joyful before him. and finn told her the whole story from beginning to end, and the cause of his quarrel with diarmuid; and he said it was to ask an advice from her he was come, and that it was not possible to put him down by any strength of an army, unless enchantment would put him down. "i will go with you," said the old woman, "and i will do enchantment on him." finn was very glad when he heard that, and he stopped there that night, and they set out for ireland on the morrow. and when they came to brugh na boinne, the nurse put a druid mist around finn and the fianna, the way no one could know they were there. now the day before that, osgar had parted from diarmuid, and diarmuid was out hunting by himself. that was shown to the hag, and she took a drowned leaf having a hole in it, like the quern of a mill, and she rose with that by her enchantments on a blast of druid wind over diarmuid, and began to aim at him through the hole with deadly spears, till she had done him great harm, for all his arms and his clothing, and he could not make away he was so hard pressed. and every danger he was ever in was little beside that danger. and it is what he thought, that unless he could strike the old woman through the hole that was in the leaf, she would give him his death there and then. and he lay down on his back, and the gae dearg, the red spear, in his hand, and he made a great cast of the spear, that it went through the hole, and the hag fell dead on the spot. and he struck off her head and brought it back with him to angus og. and the next morning early, angus rose up, and he went where finn was, and he asked would he make peace with diarmuid, and finn said he would. and then he went to the king of ireland to ask peace for diarmuid, and he said he would agree to it. and then he went back to where diarmuid and grania were, and asked him would he make peace with the high king and with finn. "i am willing," said diarmuid, "if they will give the conditions i will ask." "what conditions are those?" said angus. "the district my father had," said diarmuid, "that is, the district of ui duibhne, without right of hunting to finn, and without rent or tribute to the king of ireland, and with that the district of dumhais in leinster, for they are the best in ireland, and the district of ceis corainn from the king of ireland as a marriage portion with his daughter; and those are the conditions on which i will make peace with them." "would you be peaceable if you got those conditions?" said angus. "it would go easier with me to make peace if i got them," said diarmuid. then angus went with that news to where the king of ireland was with finn. and they gave him all those conditions, and they forgave him all he had done through the whole of the time he had been in his hiding, that was sixteen years. and the place diarmuid and grania settled in was rath grania, in the district of ceis corainn, far away from finn and from teamhair. and grania bore him children there, four sons and one daughter. and they lived there in peace, and the people used to be saying there was not a man living at the same time was richer as to gold and to silver, as to cattle and to sheep, than diarmuid. chapter viii. the boar of beinn gulbain but at last one day grania spoke to diarmuid, and it is what she said, that it was a shame on them, with all the people and the household they had, and all their riches, the two best men in ireland never to have come to the house, the high king, her father, and finn, son of cumhal. "why do you say that, grania," said diarmuid, "and they being enemies to me?" "it is what i would wish," said grania, "to give them a feast, the way you would get their affection." "i give leave for that," said diarmuid. so grania was making ready a great feast through the length of a year, and messengers were sent for the high king of ireland, and for finn and the seven battalions of the fianna; and they came, and they were using the feast from day to day through the length of a year. and on the last night of the year, diarmuid was in his sleep at rath grania; and in the night he heard the voice of hounds through his sleep, and he started up, and grania caught him and put her two arms about him, and asked what had startled him. "the voice of a hound i heard," said he; "and it is a wonder to me to hear that in the night." "safe keeping on you," said grania, "for it is the tuatha de danaan are doing that on you, on account of angus of brugh na boinn, and lie down on the bed again." but for all that no sleep came to him, and he heard the voice of the hound again, and he started up a second time to follow after it. but grania caught hold of him the second time and bade him to lie down, and she said it was no fitting thing to go after the voice of a hound in the night. so he lay down again, and he fell asleep, but the voice of the hound awakened him the third time. and the day was come with its full light that time, and he said: "i will go after the voice of the hound now, since the day is here." "if that is so," said grania, "bring the mor-alltach, the great fierce one, the sword of manannan, with you, and the gae dearg." "i will not," he said; "but i will take the beag-alltach, the little fierce one, and the gae buidhe in the one hand, and the hound mac an chuill, the son of the hazel, in the other hand." then diarmuid went out of rath grania, and made no delay till he came to the top of beinn gulbain, and he found finn before him there, without any one at all in his company. diarmuid gave him no greeting, but asked him was it he was making that hunt. finn said it was not a hunt he was making, but that he and some of the fianna had gone out after midnight; "and one of our hounds that was loose beside us, came on the track of a wild boar," he said, "and they were not able to bring him back yet. and there is no use following that boar he is after," he said, "for it is many a time the fianna hunted him, and he went away from them every time till now, and he has killed thirty of them this morning. and he is coming up the mountain towards us," he said, "and let us leave this hill to him now." "i will not leave the hill through fear of him," said diarmuid. "it would be best for you, diarmuid," said finn, "for it is the earless green boar of beinn gulbain is in it, and it is by him you will come to your death, and angus knew that well when he put bonds on you not to go hunting pigs." "i never knew of those bonds," said diarmuid; "but however it is, i will not quit this through fear of him. and let you leave bran with me now," he said, "along with mac an chuill." "i will not," said finn, "for it is often he met this boar before and could do nothing against him." he went away then and left diarmuid alone on the top of the hill. "i give my word," said diarmuid, "you made this hunt for my death, finn; and if it is here i am to find my death," he said, "i have no use in going aside from it now." the boar came up the face of the mountain then, and the fianna after him. diarmuid loosed mac an chuill from his leash then, but that did not serve him, for he did not wait for the boar, but ran from him. "it is a pity not to follow the advice of a good woman," said diarmuid, "for grania bade me this morning to bring the mor-alltach and the gae dearg with me." then he put his finger into the silken string of the gae buidhe, and took a straight aim at the boar and hit him full in the face; but if he did, the spear did not so much as give him a scratch. diarmuid was discouraged by that, but he drew the beag-alltach, and made a full stroke at the back of the boar, but neither did that make a wound on him, but it made two halves of the sword. then the boar made a brave charge at diarmuid, that cut the sod from under his feet and brought him down; but diarmuid caught hold of the boar on rising, and held on to him, having one of his legs on each side of him, and his face to his hinder parts. and the boar made away headlong down the hill, but he could not rid himself of diarmuid; and he went on after that to ess ruadh, and when he came to the red stream he gave three high leaps over it, backwards and forwards, but he could not put him from his back, and he went back by the same path till he went up the height of the mountain again. and at last on the top of the mountain he freed himself, and diarmuid fell on the ground. and then the boar made a rush at him, and ripped him open, that his bowels came out about his feet. but if he did, diarmuid made a cast at him with the hilt of his sword that was in his hand yet, and dashed out his brains, so that he fell dead there and then. and rath na h-amhrann, the rath of the sword hilt, is the name of that place to this day. it was not long till finn and the fianna of ireland came to the place, and the pains of death were coming on diarmuid at that time. "it is well pleased i am to see you that way, diarmuid," said finn; "and it is a pity all the women of ireland not to be looking at you now, for your great beauty is turned to ugliness, and your comely shape to uncomeliness." "for all that, you have power to heal me, finn," said diarmuid, "if you had a mind to do it." "what way could i heal you?" said finn. "easy enough," said diarmuid, "for the time you were given the great gift of knowledge at the boinn, you got this gift with it, that any one you would give a drink to out of the palms of your hands would be young and well again from any sickness after it." "you are not deserving of that drink from me," said finn. "that is not true," said diarmuid; "it is well i deserve it from you; for the time you went to the house of dearc, son of donnarthadh, and your chief men with you for a feast, your enemies came round the house, and gave out three great shouts against you, and threw fire and firebrands into it. and you rose up and would have gone out, but i bade you to stop there at drinking and pleasure, for that i myself would go out and put them down. and i went out, and put out the flames, and made three red rushes round the house, and i killed fifty in every rush, and i came in again without a wound. and it is glad and merry and in good courage you were that night, finn," he said, "and if it was that night i had asked a drink of you, you would have given it; and it would be right for you to give it to me now." "that is not so," said finn; "it is badly you have earned a drink or any good thing from me; for the night you went to teamhair with me, you took grania away from me in the presence of all the men of ireland, and you being my own guard over her that night." "do not blame me for that, finn," said diarmuid, "for what did i ever do against you, east or west, but that one thing; and you know well grania put bonds on me, and i would not fail in my bonds for the gold of the whole world. and you will know it is well i have earned a drink from you, if you bring to mind the night the feast was made in the house of the quicken tree, and how you and all your men were bound there till i heard of it, and came fighting and joyful, and loosed you with my own blood, and with the blood of the three kings of the island of the floods; and if i had asked a drink of you that night, finn, you would not have refused it. and i was with you in the smiting of lon, son of liobhan, and you are the man that should not forsake me beyond any other man. and many is the strait has overtaken yourself and the fianna of ireland since i came among you, and i was ready every time to put my body and my life in danger for your sake, and you ought not to do this unkindness on me now. and besides that," he said, "there has many a good champion fallen through the things you yourself have done, and there is not an end of them yet; and there will soon come great misfortunes on the fianna, and it is few of their seed will be left after them. and it is not for yourself i am fretting, finn," he said, "but for oisin and osgar, and the rest of my dear comrades, and as for you, oisin, you will be left lamenting after the fianna. and it is greatly you will feel the want of me yet, finn," he said; "and if the women of the fianna knew i was lying in my wounds on this ridge, it is sorrowful their faces would be at this time." and osgar said then: "although i am nearer in blood to you, finn, than to diarmuid, grandson of duibhne, i will not let you refuse him this drink; and by my word," he said, "if any prince in the world would do the same unkindness to diarmuid that you have done, it is only the one of us that has the strongest hand would escape alive. and give him a drink now without delay," he said. "i do not know of any well at all on this mountain," said finn. "that is not so," said diarmuid, "for there is not nine footsteps from you the well that has the best fresh water that can be found in the world." then finn went to the well, and he took the full of his two hands of the water. but when he was no more than half-way back, the thought of grania came on him, and he let the water slip through his hands, and he said he was not able to bring it. "i give my word," said diarmuid, "it was of your own will you let it from you." then finn went back the second time to get the water, but coming back he let it through his hands again at the thought of grania. and diarmuid gave a pitiful sigh of anguish when he saw that. "i swear by my sword and by my spear," said osgar, "that if you do not bring the water without any more delay, finn, there will not leave this hill but yourself or myself." finn went back the third time to the well after what osgar said, and he brought the water to diarmuid, but as he reached him the life went out of his body. then the whole company of the fianna that were there gave three great heavy shouts, keening for diarmuid. and osgar looked very fiercely at finn, and it is what he said, that it was a greater pity diarmuid to be dead than if he himself had died. and the fianna of ireland had lost their yoke of battle by him, he said. "let us leave this hill," said finn then, "before angus and the tuatha de danaan come upon us, for although we have no share in the death of diarmuid, he would not believe the truth from us." "i give my word," said osgar, "if i had thought it was against diarmuid you made the hunt of beinn gulbain, you would never have made it" then finn and the fianna went away from the hill, and finn leading diarmuid's hound mac an chuill. but oisin and osgar and caoilte and lugaidh's son turned back again and put their four cloaks over diarmuid, and then they went after the rest of the fianna. and when they came to the rath, grania was out on the wall looking for news of diarmuid; and she saw finn and the fianna of ireland coming towards her. then she said: "if diarmuid was living, it is not led by finn that mac an chuill would be coming home." and she was at that time heavy with child, and her strength went from her and she fell down from the wall. and when oisin saw the way she was he bade finn and the others to go on from her, but she lifted up her head and she asked finn to leave mac an chuill with her. and he said he would not, and that he did not think it too much for him to inherit from diarmuid, grandson of duibhne. when oisin heard that, he snatched the hound out of finn's hand and gave it to grania, and then he followed after his people. then when grania was certain of diarmuid's death she gave out a long very pitiful cry that was heard through the whole place, and her women and her people came to her, and asked what ailed her to give a cry like that. and she told them how diarmuid had come to his death by the boar of beinn gulbain in the hunt finn had made. "and there is grief in my very heart," she said, "i not to be able to fight myself with finn, and i would not have let him go safe out of this place." when her people heard of the death of diarmuid they gave three great heavy cries in the same way, that were heard in the clouds and the waste places of the sky. and then grania bade the five hundred that she had for household to go to beinn gulbain for the body of diarmuid. and when they were bringing it back, she went out to meet them, and they put down the body of diarmuid, and it is what she said: "i am your wife, beautiful diarmuid, the man i would do no hurt to; it is sorrowful i am after you to-night. "i am looking at the hawk and the hound my secret love used to be hunting with; she that loved the three, let her be put in the grave with diarmuid. "let us be glad to-night, let us make all welcome to-night, let us be open-handed to-night, since we are sitting by the body of a king. "and o diarmuid," she said, "it is a hard bed finn has given you, to be lying on the stones and to be wet with the rain. ochone!" she said, "your blue eyes to be without sight, you that were friendly and generous and pursuing. o love! o diarmuid! it is a pity it is he sent you to your death. "you were a champion of the men of ireland, their prop in the middle of the fight; you were the head of every battle; your ways were glad and pleasant. "it is sorrowful i am, without mirth, without light, but only sadness and grief and long dying; your harp used to be sweet to me, it wakened my heart to gladness. now my courage is fallen down, i not to hear you but to be always remembering your ways. och! my grief is going through me. "a thousand curses on the day when grania gave you her love, that put finn of the princes from his wits; it is a sorrowful story your death is to-day. "many heroes were great and strong about me in the beautiful plain; their hands were good at wrestling and at battle; ochone! that i did not follow them. "you were the man was best of the fianna, beautiful diarmuid, that women loved. it is dark your dwelling-place is under the sod, it is mournful and cold your bed is; it is pleasant your laugh was to-day; you were my happiness, diarmuid." and she went back then into the rath, and bade her people to bring the body to her there. now just at this time, it was showed to angus at brugh na boinne that diarmuid was dead on beinn gulbain, for he had kept no watch over him the night before. and he went on the cold wind towards beinn gulbain, and his people with him, and on the way they met with grania's people that were bringing the body to the rath. and when they saw him they held out the wrong sides of their shields as a sign of peace, and angus knew them; and he and his people gave three great terrible cries over the body of diarmuid. and angus spoke then, and it is what he said: "i was never one night since the time i brought you to brugh na boinne, being nine months old, without keeping watch and protection over you till last night, diarmuid, grandson of duibhne; and now your blood has been shed and you have been cut off sharply, and the boar of beinn gulbain has put you down, diarmuid of the bright face and the bright sword. and it is a pity finn to have done this treachery," he said, "and you at peace with him. "and lift up his body now," he said, "and bring it to the brugh in the lasting rocks. and if i cannot bring him back to life," he said, "i will put life into him the way he can be talking with me every day." then they put his body on a golden bier, and his spears over it pointed upwards, and they went on till they came to brugh na boinne. and grania's people went to her and told her how angus would not let them bring the body into the rath, but brought it away himself to brugh na boinne. and grania said she had no power over him. and she sent out then for her four sons that were being reared in the district of corca ui duibhne. and when they came she gave them a loving welcome, and they came into the rath and sat down there according to their age. and grania spoke to them with a very loud, clear voice, and it is what she said: "my dear children, your father has been killed by finn, son of cumhal, against his own bond and agreement of peace, and let you avenge it well upon him. and here is your share of the inheritance of your father," she said, "his arms and his armour, and his feats of valour and power; and i will share these arms among you myself," she said, "and that they may bring you victory in every battle. here is the sword for donnchadh," she said, "the best son diarmuid had; and the gae dearg for eochaidh; and here is the armour for ollann, for it will keep the body it is put on in safety; and the shield for connla. and make no delay now," she said, "but go and learn every sort of skill in fighting, till such time as you will come to your full strength to avenge your father." so they took leave of her then, and of their household. and some of their people said: "what must we do now, since our lords will be going into danger against finn and the fianna of ireland?" and donnchadh, son of diarmuid, bade them stop in their own places; "for if we make peace with finn," he said, "there need be no fear on you, and if not, you can make your choice between ourselves and him." and with that they set out on their journey. but after a while finn went secretly and unknown to the fianna to the place where grania was, and he got to see her in spite of all her high talk, and he spoke gently to her. and she would not listen to him, but bade him to get out of her sight, and whatever hard thing her tongue could say, she said it. but all the same, he went on giving her gentle talk and loving words, till in the end he brought her to his own will. and there is no news told of them, until such time as they came to where the seven battalions of the fianna were waiting for finn. and when they saw him coming, and grania with him, like any new wife with her husband, they gave a great shout of laughter and of mockery, and grania bowed down her head with shame, "by my word, finn," said oisin, "you will keep a good watch on grania from this out." and some said the change had come on her because the mind of a woman changes like the water of a running stream; but some said it was finn that had put enchantment on her. and as to the sons of diarmuid, they came back at the end of seven years, after learning all that was to be learned of valour in the far countries of the world. and when they came back to rath grania they were told their mother was gone away with finn, son of cumhal, without leaving any word for themselves or for the king of ireland. and they said if that was so, there was nothing for them to do. but after that they said they would make an attack on finn, and they went forward to almhuin, and they would take no offers, but made a great slaughter of every troop that came out against them. but at last grania made an agreement of peace between themselves and finn, and they got their father's place among the fianna; and that was little good to them, for they lost their lives with the rest in the battle of gabhra. and as to finn and grania, they stopped with one another to the end. book eight: cnoc-an-air. chapter i. tailc, son of treon one time the fianna were all gathered together doing feats and casting stones. and after a while the druid of teamhair that was with them said: "i am in dread, finn of the fianna, that there is some trouble near at hand; and look now at those dark clouds of blood," he said, "that are threatening us side by side overhead. and there is fear on me," he said, "that there is some destruction coming on the fianna." finn looked up then, and he saw the great cloud of blood, and he called osgar to look at it. "that need not knock a start from you," said osgar, "with all the strength there is in your arms, and in the men that are with you." then all the fianna looked up at the cloud, and some of them were glad and cheerful and some were downhearted. then the druid bade finn to call all his battalions together and to divide them into two halves, that they could be watching for the coming of the enemy. so finn sounded the dord fiann, and they answered with a shout, every one hurrying to be the first. and finn bade osgar and goll and faolan to keep watch through the night, and he bade conan the bald to stop in the darkness of the cave of liath ard. "for it is you can shout loudest," he said, "to warn us if you see the enemy coming." "that i may be pierced through the middle of my body," said conan, "if i will go watching for troubles or for armies alone, without some more of the fianna being with me." "it is not fitting for you to refuse finn," said lugaidh's son; "and it is you can shout the loudest," he said, "if the enemies come near the height." "do not be speaking to me any more," said conan, "for i will not go there alone, through the length of my days, for finn and the whole of the fianna." "go then, conan," said osgar, "and aodh beag will go with you, and you can bring dogs with you, bran and sceolan and fuaim and fearagan; and let you go now without begrudging it," he said. so conan went then to liath ard, and aodh beag and finn's hounds along with him. and as to finn, he lay down to sleep, and it was not long till he saw through his sleep aodh beag his son, and he without his head. and after that he saw goll fighting with a very strong man. and he awoke from his sleep, and called the druid of the fianna to him, and asked him the meaning of what he saw. "i am in dread there is some destruction coming on the fianna," said the druid; "but aodh beag will not be wounded in the fight, or goll," he said. and it was not long till finn heard a great shout, and he sounded the dord fiann, and then he saw conan running, and the hounds after him. and finn sounded the dord fiann again before conan came up, and when he came, osgar asked him where was aodh beag. "he was at the door of the cave when i left it," said conan, "but i did not look behind me since then," he said; "and it was not aodh beag was troubling me." "what was troubling you then?" said osgar. "nothing troubles me but myself," said conan; "although i am well pleased at any good that comes to you," he said. osgar went then running hard, till he came to the cave, and there he found aodh beag with no fear or trouble on him at all, stopping there till he would hear the noise of the shields. and osgar brought him back to where the fianna were, and they saw a great army coming as if in search of them. and a beautiful woman, having a crimson cloak, came to them over the plain, and she spoke to finn, and her voice was as sweet as music. and finn asked her who was she, and who did she come looking for. "i am the daughter of garraidh, son of dolar dian, the fierce," she said; "and my curse upon the king of greece that bound me to the man that is following after me, and that i am going from, tailc, son of treon." "tell me why are you shunning him, and i will protect you in spite of him," said finn. "it is not without reason i hate him," said she, "for he has no good appearance, and his skin is of the colour of coal, and he has the head and the tail of a cat. and i have walked the world three times," she said, "and i did not leave a king or a great man without asking help from him, and i never got it yet." "i will give you protection," said finn, "or the seven battalions of the fianna will fall for your sake." with that they saw the big strange man, tailc, son of treon, coming towards them, and he said no word at all of greeting to finn, but he called for a battle on account of his wife. so a thousand of the fianna went out to meet him and his men; and if they did they all fell, and not one of them came back again. and then another thousand of the best men of the fianna, having blue and green shields, went out under caoilte, son of ronan, and they were worsted by tailc and his people. and then osgar asked leave of finn to go out and fight the big man. "i will give you leave," said finn, "although i am sure you will fall by him." so osgar went out, and he himself and tailc, son of treon, were fighting through the length of five days and five nights without food or drink or sleep. and at the end of that time, osgar made an end of tailc, and struck his head off. and when the fianna saw that, they gave a shout of lamentation for those they had lost of the fianna, and two shouts of joy for the death of tailc. and as to the young woman, when she saw all the slaughter that had been done on account of her, shame reddened her face, and she fell dead there and then. and to see her die like that, after all she had gone through, preyed more on the fianna than any other thing. chapter ii. meargach's wife and while the fianna were gathered yet on the hill where tailc, son of treon, had been put down, they saw a very great champion coming towards them, having an army behind him. he took no notice of any one more than another, but he asked in a very rough voice where was finn, the head of the fianna. and aodh beag, that had a quiet heart, asked him who was he, and what was he come for. "i will tell you nothing at all, child," said the big man, "for it is short your years are, and i will tell nothing at all to any one but finn." so aodh beag brought him to where finn was, and finn asked him his name. "meargach of the green spears is my name," he said; "and arms were never reddened yet on my body, and no one ever boasted of driving me backwards. and was it you, finn," he said, "put down tailc, son of treon?" "it was not by me he fell," said finn, "but by osgar of the strong hand." "was it not a great shame for you, finn," said meargach then, "to let the queen-woman that had such a great name come to her death by the fianna?" "it was not by myself or by any of the fianna she got her death," said finn; "it was seeing the army lost that brought her to her death. but if it is satisfaction for her death or the death of tailc you want," he said, "you can get it from a man of the fianna, or you can go quietly from this place." then meargach said he would fight with any man they would bring against him, to avenge tailc, son of treon. and it was osgar stood up against him, and they fought a very hard fight through the length of three days, and at one time the fianna thought it was osgar was worsted, and they gave a great sorrowful shout. but in the end osgar put down meargach and struck his head off, and at that the seven battalions of the fianna gave a shout of victory, and the army of meargach keened him very sorrowfully. and after that, the two sons of meargach, ciardan the swift and liagan the nimble, came up and asked who would come against them, hand to hand, that they might get satisfaction for their father. and it was goll stood up against ciardan, and it was not long till he put him down; and conan came out against liagan, and liagan mocked at him and said: "it is foolishness your coming is, bald man!" but conan made a quick blow and struck his head off before the fight was begun at all. and faolan said that was a shameful thing to do, not to stand his ground and make a fair fight. but conan said: "if i could make an end of the whole army by one blow, i would do it, and i would not be ashamed, and the whole of the fianna could not shelter them from me." then the two armies came towards each other, and they were making ready for the attack. and they saw a beautiful golden-haired woman coming towards them, and she crying and ever crying, and the battle was given up on both sides, waiting for her to come; and the army of meargach knew it was their queen, ailne of the bright face, and they raised a great cry of grief; and the fianna were looking at her, and said no word. and she asked where was her husband, and where were her two sons. "high queen," said finn then, "for all they were so complete and quick and strong, the three you are asking for fell in fight." and when the queen-woman heard that, she cried out aloud, and she went to the place where her husband and her two sons were lying, and she stood over their bodies, and her golden hair hanging, and she keened them there. and her own people raised a sharp lamentation listening to her, and the fianna themselves were under grief. and it is what she said: "o meargach," she said, "of the sharp green spears, it is many a fight and many a heavy battle your hard hand fought in the gathering of the armies or alone. "i never knew any wound to be on your body after them; and it is full sure i am, it was not strength but treachery got the upper hand of you now. "it is long your journey was from far off, from your own kind country to inisfail, to come to finn and the fianna, that put my three to death through treachery. "my grief! to have lost my husband, my head, by the treachery of the fianna; my two sons, my two men that were rough in the fight. "my grief! my food and my drink; my grief! my teaching everywhere; my grief! my journey from far off, and i to have lost my high heroes. "my grief! my house thrown down; my grief! my shelter and my shield; my grief! meargach and ciardan; my grief! liagan of the wide chest. "my grief! my protection and my shelter; my grief! my strength and my power; my grief! there is darkness come from this thing; my grief to-night you to be in your weakness. "my grief! my gladness and my pleasure; my grief! my desire in every place; my grief! my courage is gone and my strength; my grief from this night out for ever. "my grief! my guide and my going; my grief! my desire to the day of my death; my grief! my store and my sway; my grief! my heroes that were open-handed. "my grief! my bed and my sleep; my grief! my journey and my coming; my grief! my teacher and my share; my sorrowful grief! my three men. "my grief! my beauty and my ornaments; my grief! my jewels and my riches; my grief! my treasures and my goods; my grief! my three candles of valour. "my grief! my friends and my kindred; my grief! my people and my friends. my grief! my father and my mother; my grief and my trouble! you to be dead. "my grief my portion and my welcome; my grief! my health at every time; my grief! my increase and my light; my sore trouble, you to be without strength. "my grief! your spear and your sword; my grief! your gentleness and your love; my grief! your country and your home; my grief! you to be parted from my reach. "my grief! my coasts and my harbours; my grief! my wealth and my prosperity; my grief! my greatness and my kingdom; my grief and my crying are until death. "my grief! my luck altogether; my grief for you in time of battle; my grief! my gathering of armies; my grief! my three proud lions. "my grief! my games and my drinking; my grief! my music and my delight; my grief! my sunny house and my women; my crying grief, you to be under defeat. "my grief! my lands and my hunting; my grief! my three sure fighters; och! my grief! they are my sorrow, to fall far off by the fianna. "i knew by the great host of the sidhe that were fighting over the dun, giving battle to one another in the valleys of the air, that destruction would put down my three. "i knew by the noise of the voices of the sidhe coming into my ears, that a story of new sorrow was not far from me; it is your death it was foretelling. "i knew at the beginning of the day when my three good men went from me, when i saw tears of blood on their cheeks, that they would not come back to me as winners. "i knew by the voice of the battle-crow over your dun every evening, since you went from me comely and terrible, that misfortune and grief were at hand. "it is well i remember, my three strong ones, how often i used to be telling you that if you would go to ireland, i would not see the joy of victory on your faces. "i knew by the voice of the raven every morning since you went from me, that your fall was sure and certain; that you would never come back to your own country. "i knew, my three great ones, by your forgetting the thongs of your hounds, that you would not gain the day or escape from the treachery of the fianna. "i knew, candles of valour, by the stream near the dun turning to blood when you set out, that there would be treachery in finn. "i knew by the eagle coming every evening over the dun, that it would not be long till i would hear a story of bad news of my three. "i knew by the withering of the tree before the dun, that you would never come back as conquerors from the treachery of finn, son of cumhal." when grania, now, heard what the woman was saying, there was anger on her, and she said: "do not be speaking against finn or the fianna, queen, for it was not by any treachery or any deceit your three men were brought to their end." but ailne made her no answer and gave no heed to her, but she went on with her complaint, and she crying and ever crying. "i knew, looking after you the day you went out from the dun, by the flight of the raven before you, there was no good sign of your coming back again. "i knew by ciardan's hounds that were howling mournfully every evening, that it would not be long till i would have bad news of you. "i knew by my sleep that went from me, by my tears through every lasting night, that there was no luck before you. "i knew by the sorrowful vision that showed myself in danger, my head and my hands cut off, that it was yourselves were without sway. "i knew by the voice of uaithnin, the hound that is dearest to liagan, howling early every morning, that death was certain for my three. "i knew when i saw in a vision a lake of blood in the place of the dun, that my three were put down by the deceit that was always with finn." "do not be faulting finn," said grania then, "however vexed your heart may be. and leave off now," she said, "speaking against the fianna and against himself; for if your men had stopped in their own country," she said, "without coming to avenge the son of treon, there would no harm have happened them." "i would not put any reproach on the fianna, grania," said ailne, "if my three men had been put down in fair battle, but they are not living to bear witness to me," she said; "and it is likely they were put under druid spells at the first, or they would never have given in." "if they were living, queen," said grania, "they would not be running down the fianna, but they would tell you it was by bravery and the strong hand they fell." "i do not believe you or the fianna when you say that," said ailne; "for no one that came to meet them ever got the sway over them by the right of the sword." "if you do not believe what i am saying, beautiful ailne," said grania, "i tell you more of your great army will fall by the fianna, and that not by treachery." "that is not so," said ailne, "but i have good hopes that my own army will do destruction on the fianna, for the sake of the men that are dead." "well, ailne," said grania, "i know it is a far journey you have come. and come now and eat and drink," she said, "with myself and with the fianna." but ailne would not do that, but she said it would not be fitting for her to take food from people that did such deeds, and what she wanted was satisfaction for the death of her husband and her two sons. and first it was settled for two men of each side to go out against one another; and then ailne said that there should be thirty men on each side, and then she said she would not be satisfied to go back to her own country till she brought the head of finn with her, or till the last of his men had fallen. and there was a great battle fought in the end, and it is seldom the fianna fought so hard a battle as that. and it would be too long to tell, and it would tire the hearers, how many good men were killed on each side. but in the end ailne of the bright face was worsted, and she went back with what were left of her men to their own country, and no one knew where they went. and the hill in the west those battles were fought on got the name of cnoc-an-air, the hill of slaughter. chapter iii. ailne's revenge one day finn and his people were hunting on slieve fuad, and a stag stood against them for a while and fought with his great rough horns, and then he turned and ran, and the fianna followed after him till they came to the green hill of liadhas, and from that to rocky cairgin. and there they lost him again for a while, till sceolan started him again, and he went back towards slieve fuad, and the fianna after him. but finn and daire of the songs, that were together, went astray and lost the rest of their people, and they did not know was it east or west they were going. finn sounded the dord fiann then, and daire played some sorrowful music to let their people know where they were. but when the fianna heard the music, it seemed to be a long way off; and sometimes they thought it was in the north it was, and sometimes in the east, and then it changed to the west, the way they did not know in the wide world where was it coming from. and as to finn and daire, a druid mist came about them, and they did not know what way they were going. and after a while they met with a young woman, comely and pleasant, and they asked who was she, and what brought her there. "glanluadh is my name," she said, "and my husband is lobharan; and we were travelling over the plain together a while ago, and we heard the cry of hounds, and he left me and went after the hunt, and i do not know where is he, or what way did he go." "come on then with us," said finn, "and we will take care of you, for we ourselves do not know what way the hunt is gone, east or west." so they went on, and before long they came to a hill, and they heard sleepy music of the sidhe beside them. and after that there came shouts and noises, and then the music began again, and heavy sleep came on finn and daire. and when they awoke from their sleep they saw a very large lighted house before them, and a stormy blue sea around it. then they saw a very big grey man coming through the waves, and he took hold of finn and of daire, and all their strength went from them, and he brought them across the waves and into the house, and he shut the door of the house with iron hooks. "my welcome to you, finn of the great name," he said then in a very harsh voice; "it is long we are waiting here for you." they sat down then on the hard side of a bed, and the woman of the house came to them, and they knew her to be ailne, wife of meargach. "it is long i am looking for you, finn," she said, "to get satisfaction for the treachery you did on meargach and on my two comely young sons, and on tailc, son of treon, and all his people. and do you remember that, finn?" she said. "i remember well," said finn, "that they fell by the swords of the fianna, not by treachery but in fighting." "it was by treachery they fell," said the grey man then; "and it is our witness to it, pleasant ailne to be the way she is, and many a strong army under grief on account of her." "what is ailne to you, man of the rough voice?" said finn. "i am her own brother," said the man. with that he put bonds on the three, finn and daire and glanluadh, and he put them down into some deep shut place. they were very sorrowful then, and they stopped there to the end of five days and five nights, without food, without drink, without music. and ailne went to see them then, and finn said to her: "o ailne," he said, "bring to mind the time you come to cnoc-an-air, and the way the fianna treated you with generosity; and it is not fitting for you," he said, "to keep us now under shame and weakness and in danger of death." "i know well i got kind treatment from grania," said ailne in a sorrowful voice; "but for all that, finn," she said, "if all the fianna were in that prison along with you under hard bonds, it would please me well, and i would not pity their case. and what is it set you following after finn," she said then to glanluadh, "for that is not a fitting thing for you to do, and his own kind wife living yet." then glanluadh told her the whole story, and how she was walking the plain with lobharan her husband, and he followed the hunt, and the mist came about her that she did not know east from west, and how she met then with finn that she never saw before that time. "if that is so," said ailne, "it is not right for you to be under punishment without cause." she called then to her brother the grey man, and bade him take the spells off glanluadh. and when she was set free it is sorry she was to leave daire in bonds, and finn. and when she had bidden them farewell she went out with ailne, and there was food brought to her, but a cloud of weakness came on her of a sudden, that it was a pity to see the way she was. and when ailne saw that, she brought out an enchanted cup of the sidhe and gave her a drink from it. and no sooner did glanluadh drink from the cup than her strength and her own appearance came back to her again; but for all that, she was fretting after finn and daire in their bonds. "it seems to me, glanluadh, you are fretting after those two men," said ailne. "i am sorry indeed," said glanluadh, "the like of those men to be shut up without food or drink." "if it is pleasing to you to give them food you may give it," said ailne, "for i will not make an end of them till i see can i get the rest of the fianna into bonds along with them." the two women brought food and drink then to finn, and to daire; and glanluadh gave her blessing to finn, and she cried when she saw the way he was; but as to ailne, she had no pity at all for the king of the fianna. now as to the grey man, he heard them talking of the fianna, and they were saying that daire had a great name for the sweetness of his music. "i have a mind to hear that sweet music," said he. so he went to the place where they were, and he bade daire to let him hear what sort of music he could make. "my music pleased the fianna well," said daire; "but i think it likely it would not please you." "play it for me now, till i know if the report i heard of you is true," said the grey man. "indeed, i have no mind for music," said daire, "being weak and downhearted the way i am, through your spells that put down my courage." "i will take my spells off you for so long as you play for me," said the grey man. "i could never make music seeing finn in bonds the way he is," said daire; "for it is worse to me, he to be under trouble than myself." "i will take the power of my spells off finn till you play for me," said the grey man. he weakened the spells then, and gave them food and drink, and it pleased him greatly the way daire played the music, and he called to glanluadh and to ailne to come and to listen to the sweetness of it. and they were well pleased with it, and it is glad glanluadh was, seeing them not so discouraged as they were. now as to the fianna, they were searching for finn and for daire in every place they had ever stopped in. and when they came to this place they could hear daire's sweet music; and at first they were glad when they heard it, and then when they knew the way he himself and finn were, they made an attack on ailne's dun to release them. but the grey man heard their shouts, and he put the full power of his spells again on finn and on daire. and the fianna heard the music as if stammering, and then they heard a great noise like the loud roaring of waves, and when they heard that, there was not one of them but fell into a sleep and clouds of death, under those sorrowful spells. and then the grey man and ailne came out quietly from where they were, and they brought the whole of the men of the fianna that were there into the dun. and they put hard bonds on them, and put them where finn and daire were. and there was great grief on finn and daire when they saw them, and they were all left there together for a while. then glanluadh said to the grey man: "if daire's music is pleasing to you, let him play it to us now." "if you have a mind for music," said the grey man, "daire must play it for us, and for finn and his army as well." they went then to where they were, and bade daire to play. "i could never play sweet music," said daire, "the time the fianna are in any trouble; for when they are in trouble, i myself am in trouble, and i could not sound any sweet string," he said, "while there is trouble on any man of them." the grey man weakened the spells then on them all, and daire played first the strings of sweetness, and of the noise of shouting, and then he sang his own grief and the grief of all the fianna. and at that the grey man said it would not be long before he would put the whole of the fianna to death; and then daire played a tune of heavy shouts of lamentation. and then at finn's bidding he played the music of sweet strings for the fianna. they were kept, now, a long time in that prison, and they got very hard treatment; and sometimes ailne's brother would come in and strike the heads off some of them, for none of them could rise up from the seats they were sitting on through his enchantments. but one time he was going to strike the bald head off conan, and conan made a great leap from the seat; but if he did, he left strips of his skin hanging to it, that his back was left bare. and then he came round the grey man with his pitiful words: "stop your hand now," he said, "for that is enough for this time; and do not send me to my death yet awhile, and heal me of my wounds first," he said, "before you make an end of me." and the reason he said that was because he knew ailne to have an enchanted cup in the dun, that had cured glanluadh. and the grey man took pity on his case, and he brought him out and bade ailne to bring the cup to him and to cure his wounds. "i will not bring it," said ailne, "for it would be best give no time at all to him or to the fianna, but to make an end of them." "it is not to be saved from death i am asking, bright-faced ailne," said conan, "but only not to go to my death stripped bare the way i am." when ailne heard that, she brought a sheepskin and she put it on conan's back, and it fitted and grew to him, and covered his wounds. "i will not put you to death, conan," said the grey man then, "but you can stop with myself to the end of your life." "you will never be without grief and danger and the fear of treachery if you keep him with you," said ailne; "for there is treachery in his heart the same as there is in the rest of them." "there is no fear of that," said her brother, "or i will make no delay until i put the whole of the fianna to death." and with that he brought conan to where the enchanted cup was, and he put it in his hand. and just at that moment they heard daire playing very sweet sorrowful music, and the grey man went to listen to it, very quick and proud. and conan followed him there, and after a while the grey man asked him what did he do with the enchanted cup. "i left it where i found it, full of power," said conan. the grey man hurried back then to the place where the treasures of the dun were. but no sooner was he gone than conan took out the cup that he had hidden, and he gave a drink from it to finn and to osgar and to the rest of the fianna. and they that were withered and shaking, without strength, without courage, got back their own appearance and their strength again on the moment. and when the grey man came back from looking for the cup, and saw what had happened, he took his sword and made a stroke at conan. but conan called to osgar to defend him, and osgar attacked the grey man, and it was not long till he made him acquainted with death. and when ailne saw that, with the grief and the dread that came on her, she fell dead then and there. then all the fianna made a feast with what they found of food and of drink, and they were very joyful and merry. but when they rose up in the morning, there was no trace or tidings of the dun, but it was on the bare grass they were lying. but as to conan, the sheepskin never left him; and the wool used to grow on it every year, the same as it would on any other skin. book nine: the wearing away of the fianna. chapter i. the quarrel with the sons of morna one time when the fianna were gone here and there hunting, black garraidh and caoilte were sitting beside finn, and they were talking of the battle where finn's father was killed. and finn said then to garraidh: "tell me now, since you were there yourself, what way was it you brought my father cumhal to his death?" "i will tell you that since you ask me," said garraidh; "it was my own hand and the hands of the rest of the sons of morna that made an end of him." "that is cold friendship from my followers the sons of morna," said finn. "if it is cold friendship," said garraidh, "put away the liking you are letting on to have for us, and show us the hatred you have for us all the while." "if i were to lift my hand against you now, sons of morna," said finn, "i would be well able for you all without the help of any man." "it was by his arts cumhal got the upper hand of us," said garraidh; "and when he got power over us," he said, "he banished us to every far country; a share of us he sent to alban, and a share of us to dark lochlann, and a share of us to bright greece, parting us from one another; and for sixteen years we were away from ireland, and it was no small thing to us to be without seeing one another through that time. and the first day we came back to ireland," he said, "we killed sixteen hundred men, and no lie in it, and not a man of them but would be keened by a hundred. and we took their duns after that," he said, "and we went on till we were all around one house in munster of the red walls. but so great was the bravery of the man in that house, that was your father, that it was easier to find him than to kill him. and we killed all that were of his race out on the hill, and then we made a quick rush at the house where cumhal was, and every man of us made a wound on his body with his spear. and i myself was in it, and it was i gave him the first wound. and avenge it on me now, finn, if you have a mind to," he said. * * * * * it was not long after that, finn gave a feast at almhuin for all his chief men, and there came to it two sons of the king of alban, and sons of the kings of the great world. and when they were all sitting at the feast, the serving-men rose up and took drinking-horns worked by skilled men, and having shining stones in them, and they poured out strong drink for the champions; and it is then mirth rose up in their young men, and courage in their fighting men, and kindness and gentleness in their women, and knowledge and foreknowledge in their poets. and then a crier rose up and shook a rough iron chain to silence the clowns and the common lads and idlers, and then he shook a chain of old silver to silence the high lords and chief men of the fianna, and the learned men, and they all listened and were silent. and fergus of the true lips rose up and sang before finn the songs and the good poems of his forefathers; and finn and oisin and lugaidh's son rewarded him with every good thing. and then he went on to goll, son of morna, and told the fights and the destructions and the cattle-drivings and the courtings of his fathers; and it is well-pleased and high-minded the sons of morna were, listening to that. and goll said then: "where is my woman-messenger?" "i am here, king of the fianna," said she. "have you brought me my hand-tribute from the men of lochlann?" "i have brought it surely," said she. and with that she rose up and laid on the floor of the hall before goll a load of pure gold, the size of a good pig, and that would be a heavy load for a strong man. and goll loosened the covering that was about it, and he gave fergus a good reward from it as he was used to do; for there never was a wise, sharp-worded poet, or a sweet harp-player, or any learned man of ireland or of alban, but goll would give him gold or silver or some good thing. and when finn saw that, he said: "how long is it, goll, you have this rent on the men of lochlann, and my own rent being on them always with it, and one of my own men, ciaran son of latharne, and ten hundred men of his household, guarding it and guarding my right of hunting?" and goll saw there was anger on finn, and he said: "it is a long time, finn, i have that rent on the men of lochlann, from the time your father put war and quarrels on me, and the king of ireland joined with him, and i was made to quit ireland by them. and i went into britain," he said, "and i took the country and killed the king himself and did destruction on his people, but cumhal put me out of it; and from that i went to fionnlochlann, and the king fell by me, and his household, and cumhal put me out of it; and i went from that to the country of the saxons, and the king and his household fell by me, and cumhal put me out of it. but i came back then to ireland, and i fought a battle against your father, and he fell by me there. and it was at that time i put this rent upon the men of lochlann. and, finn," he said, "it is not a rent of the strong hand you have put on them, but it is a tribute for having the protection of the fianna of ireland, and i do not lessen that. and you need not begrudge that tribute to me," he said, "for if i had more than that again, it is to you and to the men of ireland i would give it." there was great anger on finn then, and he said: "you tell me, goll," he said, "by your own story, that you came from the city of beirbhe to fight against my father, and that you killed him in the battle; and it is a bold thing you to tell that to me." "by your own hand," said goll, "if you were to give me the same treatment your father gave me, i would pay you the same way as i paid him." "it would be hard for you to do that," said finn, "for there are a hundred men in my household against every man there is in your household." "that was the same with your father," said goll, "and i avenged my disgrace on him; and i would do the same on yourself if you earned it," he said. then cairell of the white skin, son of finn, said: "it is many a man of finn's household you have put down, goll!" and bald conan when he heard that said: "i swear by my arms, goll was never without having a hundred men in his household, every one of them able to get the better of yourself." "and is it to them you belong, crooked-speaking, bare-headed conan?" said cairell. "it is to them i belong, you black, feeble, nail-scratching, rough-skinned cairell; and i will make you know it was finn was in the wrong," said conan. with that cairell rose up and gave a furious blow of his fist to conan, and conan took it with no great patience, but gave him back a blow in his teeth, and from that they went on to worse blows again. and the two sons of goll rose up to help conan, and osgar went to the help of cairell, and it was not long till many of the chief men of the fianna were fighting on the one side or the other, on the side of finn or on the side of the sons of morna. but then fergus of the true lips rose up, and the rest of the poets of the fianna along with him, and they sang their songs and their poems to check and to quiet them. and they left off their fighting at the sound of the poets' songs, and they let their weapons fall on the floor, and the poets took them up, and made peace between the fighters; and they put bonds on finn and on goll to keep the peace for a while, till they could ask for a judgment from the high king of ireland. and that was the end for that time of the little quarrel at almhuin. but it broke out again, one time there was a falling out between finn and goll as to the dividing of a pig of the pigs of manannan. and at daire tardha, the oak wood of bulls, in the province of connacht, there was a great fight between finn's men and the sons of morna. and the sons of morna were worsted, and fifteen of their men were killed; and they made their mind up that from that time they would set themselves against any friends of finn or of his people. and it was conan the bald gave them that advice, for he was always bitter, and a maker of quarrels and of mischief in every place. and they kept to their word, and spared no one. there was a yellow-haired queen that finn loved, berach brec her name was, and she was wise and comely and worthy of any good man, and she had her house full of treasures, and never refused the asking of any. and any one that came to her house at samhain time might stay till beltaine, and have his choice then to go or to stay. and the sons of morna had fostered her, and they went where she was and bade her to give up finn and she need be in no dread of them. but she said she would not give up her kind lover to please them; and she was going away from them to her ship, and art, son of morna, made a cast of his spear that went through her body, that she died, and her people brought her up from the strand and buried her. and as to goll, he took a little hound that finn thought a great deal of, conbeg its name was, and he drowned it in the sea; and its body was brought up to shore by a wave afterwards, and it was buried under a little green hill by the fianna. and caoilte made a complaint over it, and he said how swift the little hound was after deer, or wild pigs, and how good at killing them, and that it was a pity it to have died, out on the cold green waves. and about that time, nine women of the tuatha de danaan came to meet with nine men of the fianna, and the sons of morna saw them coming and made an end of them. and when caoilte met with goll, he made a cast of his spear at him that struck the golden helmet off his head and a piece of his flesh along with it. but goll took it very proudly, and put on the helmet again and took up his weapons, and called out to his brothers that he was no way ashamed. and finn went looking for the sons of morna in every place to do vengeance on them. they were doing robbery and destruction one time in slieve echtge, that got its name from echtge, daughter of nuada of the silver hand, and finn and the fianna were to the west, at slieve cairn in the district of corcomruadh. and finn was in doubt if the sons of morna were gone southward into munster or north into connacht. so he sent aedan and cahal, two sons of the king of ulster, and two hundred righting men with them, into the beautiful pleasant province of connacht, and every day they used to go looking for the sons of morna from place to place. but after a while the three battalions of the fianna that were in corcomruadh saw the track of a troop of men, and they thought it to be the track of the sons of morna; and they closed round them at night, and made an end of them all. but when the full light came on the morrow, they knew them to be their own people, that were with the king of ulster's sons, and they gave three great heavy cries, keening the friends they had killed in mistake. and caoilte and oisin went to rath medba and brought a great stone and put it over the king's sons, and it was called lia an imracail, the stone of the mistake. and the place where goll brought his men the time he parted from finn in anger got the name of druimscarha, the parting hill of heroes. chapter ii. death of goll and at last it chanced that goll and cairell, son of finn, met with one another, and said sharp words, and they fought in the sea near the strand, and cairell got his death by goll. and there was great anger and great grief on finn, seeing his son, that was so strong and comely, lying dead and grey, like a blighted branch. and as to goll, he went away to a cave that was in a point stretching out into the sea; and he thought to stop there till finn's anger would have passed. and osgar knew where he was, and he went to see him, that had been his comrade in so many battles. but goll thought it was as an enemy he came, and he made a cast of his spear at him, and though osgar got no wound by it, it struck his shield and crushed it. and finn took notice of the way the shield was, and when he knew that goll had made a cast at osgar there was greater anger again on him. and he sent out his men and bade them to watch every path and every gap that led to the cave where goll was, the way they would make an end of him. and when goll knew finn to be watching for his life that way, he made no attempt to escape, but stopped where he was, without food, without drink, and he blinded with the sand that was blowing into his eyes. and his wife came to a rock where she could speak with him, and she called to him to come to her. "come over to me," she said; "and it is a pity you to be blinded where you are, on the rocks of the waste sea, with no drink but the salt water, a man that was first in every fight. and come now to be sleeping beside me," she said; "and in place of the hard sea-water i will nourish you from my own breast, and it is i will do your healing. and the gold of your hair is my desire for ever," she said, "and do not stop withering there like an herb in the winter-time, and my heart black with grief within me." but goll would not leave the spot where he was for all she could say. "it is best as it is," he said, "and i never took the advice of a woman east or west, and i never will take it. and o sweet-voiced queen," he said, "what ails you to be fretting after me; and remember now your silver and your gold, and your silks and stuffs, and remember the seven hounds i gave you at cruadh ceirrge, and every one of them without slackness till he has killed the deer. and do not be crying tears after me, queen with the white hands," he said; "but remember your constant lover, aodh, the son of the best woman of the world, that came out from spain asking for you, and that i fought at corcar-an-deirg; and go to him now," he said, "for it is bad when a woman is in want of a good man." and he lay down on the rocks, and at the end of twelve days he died. and his wife keened him there, and made a great lamentation for her husband that had such a great name, and that was the second best of the fianna of ireland. and when conan heard of the death of goll his brother, there was great anger on him, and he went to garraidh, and asked him to go with him to finn to ask satisfaction for goll. "i am not willing to go," said garraidh, "since we could get no satisfaction for the great son of morna." "whether you have a mind to go or not, i will go," said conan; "and i will make an end of every man i meet with, for the sake of yellow-haired goll; i will have the life of oisin, finn's great son, and of osgar and of caoilte and of daire of the songs; i will have no forgiveness for them; we must show no respect for finn, although we may die in the fight, having no help from goll. and let us take that work in hand, and make no delay," he said; "for if finn is there, his strength will be there, until we put him under his flag-stone." but it is not likely garraidh went with him, and he after speaking such foolish words. and what happened conan in the end is not known. but there is a cairn of stones on a hill of burren, near to corcomruadh, and the people of connacht say it is there he is buried, and that there was a stone found there one time, having on it in the old writing: "conan the swift-footed, the bare-footed." but the munster people say it is on their own side of burren he is buried. chapter iii. the battle of gabhra now, with one thing and another, the high king of ireland had got to be someway bitter against finn and the fianna; and one time that he had a gathering of his people he spoke out to them, and he bade them to remember all the harm that had been done them through the fianna, and all their pride, and the tribute they asked. "and as to myself," he said, "i would sooner die fighting the fianna, if i could bring them down along with me, than live with ireland under them the way it is now." all his people were of the same mind, and they said they would make no delay, but would attack the fianna and make an end of them. "and we will have good days of joy and of feasting," they said, "when once almhuin is clear of them." and the high king began to make plans against finn; and he sent to all the men of ireland to come and help him. and when all was ready, he sent and bade osgar to come to a feast he was making at teamhair. and osgar, that never was afraid before any enemy, set out for teamhair, and three hundred of his men with him. and on the way they saw a woman of the sidhe washing clothes at a river, and there was the colour of blood on the water where she was washing them. and osgar said to her: "there is red on the clothes you are washing; and it is for the dead you are washing them." and the woman answered him, and it is what she said: "it is not long till the ravens will be croaking over your own head after the battle." "is there any weakness in our eyes," said osgar, "that a little story like that would set us crying? and do another foretelling for us now," he said, "and tell us will any man of our enemies fall by us before we ourselves are made an end of?" "there will nine hundred fall by yourself," she said; "and the high king himself will get his death-wound from you." osgar and his men went on then to the king's house at teamhair, and they got good treatment, and the feast was made ready, and they were three days at pleasure and at drinking. and on the last day of the drinking, the high king called out with a loud voice, and he asked osgar would he make an exchange of spears with him. "why do you ask that exchange," said osgar, "when i myself and my spear were often with yourself in time of battle? and you would not ask it of me," he said, "if finn and the fianna were with me now." "i would ask it from any fighting man among you," said the king, "and for rent and tribute along with it." "any gold or any treasure you might ask of us, we would give it to you," said osgar, "but it is not right for you to ask my spear." there were very high words between them then, and they threatened one another, and at the last the high king said: "i will put my spear of the seven spells out through your body." "and i give my word against that," said osgar, "i will put my spear of the nine spells between the meeting of your hair and your beard." with that he and his men rose up and went out of teamhair, and they stopped to rest beside a river, and there they heard the sound of a very sorrowful tune, that was like keening, played on a harp. and there was great anger on osgar when he heard that, and he rose up and took his arms and roused his people, and they went on again to where finn was. and there came after them a messenger from the high king, and the message he brought was this, that he never would pay tribute to the fianna or bear with them at all from that time. and when finn heard that, he sent a challenge of battle, and he gathered together all the fianna that were left to him. but as to the sons of morna, it was to the high king of ireland they gathered. and it was at the hill of gabhra the two armies met, and there were twenty men with the king of ireland for every man that was with finn. and it is a very hard battle was fought that day, and there were great deeds done on both sides; and there never was a greater battle fought in ireland than that one. and as to osgar, it would be hard to tell all he killed on that day; five score of the sons of the gael, and five score fighting men from the country of snow, and seven score of the men of green swords that never went a step backward, and four hundred from the country of the lion, and five score of the sons of kings; and the shame was for the king of ireland. but as to osgar himself, that began the day so swift and so strong, at the last he was like leaves on a strong wind, or like an aspen-tree that is falling. but when he saw the high king near him, he made for him like a wave breaking on the strand; and the king saw him coming, and shook his greedy spear, and made a cast of it, and it went through his body and brought him down on his right knee, and that was the first grief of the fianna. but osgar himself was no way daunted, but he made a cast of his spear of the nine spells that went into the high king at the meeting of the hair and the beard, and gave him his death. and when the men nearest to the high king saw that, they put the king's helmet up on a pillar, the way his people would think he was living yet. but osgar saw it, and he lifted a thin bit of a slab-stone that was on the ground beside him, and he made a cast of it that broke the helmet where it was; and then he himself fell like a king. and there fell in that battle the seven sons of caoilte, and the son of the king of lochlann that had come to give them his help, and it would be hard to count the number of the fianna that fell in that battle. and when it was ended, those that were left of them went looking for their dead. and caoilte stooped down over his seven brave sons, and every living man of the fianna stooped over his own dear friends. and it was a lasting grief to see all that were stretched in that place, but the fianna would not have taken it to heart the way they did, but for being as they were, a beaten race. and as to oisin, he went looking for osgar, and it is the way he found him, lying stretched, and resting on his left arm and his broken shield beside him, and his sword in his hand yet, and his blood about him on every side. and he put out his hand to oisin, and oisin took it and gave out a very hard cry. and osgar said: "it is glad i am to see you safe, my father." and oisin had no answer to give him. and just then caoilte came where they were, and he looked at osgar. "what way are you now, my darling?" he said. "the way you would like me to be," said osgar. then caoilte searched the wound, and when he saw how the spear had torn its way through to the back, he cried out, and a cloud came over him and his strength failed him. "o osgar," he said, "you are parted from the fianna, and they themselves must be parted from battle from this out," he said, "and they must pay their tribute to the king of ireland." then caoilte and oisin raised up osgar on their shields and brought him to a smooth green hill till they would take his dress off. and there was not a hands-breadth of his white body that was without a wound. and when the rest of the fianna saw what way osgar was, there was not a man of them that keened his own son or his brother, but every one of them came keening osgar. and after a while, at noonday, they saw finn coming towards them, and what was left of the sun-banner raised on a spear-shaft. all of them saluted finn then, but he made no answer, and he came up to the hill where osgar was. and when osgar saw him coming he saluted him, and he said: "i have got my desire in death, finn of the sharp arms." and finn said: "it is worse the way you were, my son, on the day of the battle at beinn edair when the wild geese could swim on your breast, and it was my hand that gave you healing." "there can no healing be done for me now for ever," said osgar, "since the king of ireland put the spear of seven spells through my body." and finn said: "it is a pity it was not i myself fell in sunny scarce gabhra, and you going east and west at the head of the fianna." "and if it was yourself fell in the battle," said osgar, "you would not hear me keening after you; for no man ever knew any heart in me," he said, "but a heart of twisted horn, and it covered with iron. but the howling of the dogs beside me," he said, "and the keening of the old righting men, and the crying of the women one after another, those are the things that are vexing me." and finn said: "child of my child, calf of my calf, white and slender, it is a pity the way you are. and my heart is starting like a deer," he said, "and i am weak after you and after the fianna of ireland. and misfortune has followed us," he said; "and farewell now to battles and to a great name, and farewell to taking tributes; for every good thing i ever had is gone from me now," he said. and when osgar heard those words he stretched out his hands, and his eyelids closed. and finn turned away from the rest, and he cried tears down; and he never shed a tear through the whole length of his lifetime but only for osgar and for bran. and all that were left of the fianna gave three gorrowful cries after osgar, for there was not one of the fianna beyond him, unless it might be finn or oisin. and it is many of the fianna were left dead in gabhra, and graves were made for them. and as to lugaidh's son, that was so tall a man and so good a fighter, they made a very wide grave for him, as was fitting for a king. and the whole length of the rath at gabhra, from end to end, it is that was the grave of osgar, son of oisin, son of finn. and as to finn himself, he never had peace or pleasure again from that day. book ten: the end of the fianna. chapter i. death of bran one day finn was hunting, and bran went following after a fawn. and they were coming towards finn, and the fawn called out, and it said: "if i go into the sea below i will never come back again; and if i go up into the air above me, it will not save me from bran." for bran would overtake the wild geese, she was that swift. "go out through my legs," said finn then. so the fawn did that, and bran followed her; and as bran went under him, finn squeezed his two knees on her, that she died on the moment. and there was great grief on him after that, and he cried tears down the same as he did when osgar died. and some said it was finn's mother the fawn was, and that it was to save his mother he killed bran. but that is not likely, for his mother was beautiful muirne, daughter of tadg, son of nuada of the tuatha de danaan, and it was never heard that she was changed into a fawn. it is more likely it was oisin's mother was in it. but some say bran and sceolan are still seen to start at night out of the thicket on the hill of almhuin. chapter ii. the call of oisin one misty morning, what were left of the fianna were gathered together to finn, and it is sorrowful and downhearted they were after the loss of so many of their comrades. and they went hunting near the borders of loch lein, where the bushes were in blossom and the birds were singing; and they were waking up the deer that were as joyful as the leaves of a tree in summer-time. and it was not long till they saw coming towards them from the west a beautiful young woman, riding on a very fast slender white horse. a queen's crown she had on her head, and a dark cloak of silk down to the ground, having stars of red gold on it; and her eyes were blue and as clear as the dew on the grass, and a gold ring hanging down from every golden lock of her hair; and her cheeks redder than the rose, and her skin whiter than the swan upon the wave, and her lips as sweet as honey that is mixed through red wine. and in her hand she was holding a bridle having a golden bit, and there was a saddle worked with red gold under her. and as to the horse, he had a wide smooth cloak over him, and a silver crown on the back of his head, and he was shod with shining gold. she came to where finn was, and she spoke with a very kind, gentle voice, and she said: "it is long my journey was, king of the fianna." and finn asked who was she, and what was her country and the cause of her coming. "niamh of the golden head is my name," she said; "and i have a name beyond all the women of the world, for i am the daughter of the king of the country of the young." "what was it brought you to us from over the sea, queen?" said finn then. "is it that your husband is gone from you, or what is the trouble that is on you?" "my husband is not gone from me," she said, "for i never went yet to any man. but o king of the fianna," she said, "i have given my love and my affection to your own son, oisin of the strong hands." "why did you give your love to him beyond all the troops of high princes that are under the sun?" said finn. "it was by reason of his great name, and of the report i heard of his bravery and of his comeliness," she said. "and though there is many a king's son and high prince gave me his love, i never consented to any till i set my love on oisin." when oisin heard what she was saying, there was not a limb of his body that was not in love with beautiful niamh; and he took her hand in his hand, and he said: "a true welcome before you to this country, young queen. it is you are the shining one," he said; "it is you are the nicest and the comeliest; it is you are better to me than any other woman; it is you are my star and my choice beyond the women of the entire world." "i put on you the bonds of a true hero," said niamh then, "you to come away with me now to the country of the young." and it is what she said: "it is the country is most delightful of all that are under the sun; the trees are stooping down with fruit and with leaves and with blossom. "honey and wine are plentiful there, and everything the eye has ever seen; no wasting will come on you with the wasting away of time; you will never see death or lessening. "you will get feasts, playing and drinking; you will get sweet music on the strings; you will get silver and gold and many jewels. "you will get, and no lie in it, a hundred swords; a hundred cloaks of the dearest silk; a hundred horses, the quickest in battle; a hundred willing hounds. "you will get the royal crown of the king of the young that he never gave to any one under the sun. it will be a shelter to you night and day in every rough fight and in every battle. "you will get a right suit of armour; a sword, gold-hilted, apt for striking; no one that ever saw it got away alive from it. "a hundred coats of armour and shirts of satin; a hundred cows and a hundred calves; a hundred sheep having golden fleeces; a hundred jewels that are not of this world. "a hundred glad young girls shining like the sun, their voices sweeter than the music of birds; a hundred armed men strong in battle, apt at feats, waiting on you, if you will come with me to the country of the young. "you will get everything i have said to you, and delights beyond them, that i have no leave to tell; you will get beauty, strength and power, and i myself will be with you as a wife." and after she had made that song, oisin said: "o pleasant golden-haired queen, you are my choice beyond the women of the world; and i will go with you willingly," he said. and with that he kissed finn his father and bade him farewell, and he bade farewell to the rest of the fianna, and he went up then on the horse with niamh. and the horse set out gladly, and when he came to the strand he shook himself and he neighed three times, and then he made for the sea. and when finn and the fianna saw oisin facing the wide sea, they gave three great sorrowful shouts. and as to finn, he said: "it is my grief to see you going from me; and i am without a hope," he said, "ever to see you coming back to me again." chapter iii. the last of the great men and indeed that was the last time finn and oisin and the rest of the fianna of ireland were gathered together, for hunting, for battle, for chess-playing, for drinking or for music; for they all wore away after that, one after another. as to caoilte, that was old and had lost his sons, he used to be fretting and lonesome after the old times. and one day that there was very heavy snow on the ground, he made this complaint:-"it is cold the winter is; the wind is risen; the fierce high-couraged stag rises up; it is cold the whole mountain is to-night, yet the fierce stag is calling. the deer of slievecarn of the gatherings does not lay his side to the ground; he no less than the stag of the top of cold echtge hears the music of the wolves. "i, caoilte, and brown-haired diarmuid and pleasant light-footed osgar, we used to be listening to the music of the wolves through the end of the cold night. it is well the brown deer sleeps with its hide to the hollow, hidden as if in the earth, through the end of the cold night. "to-day i am in my age, and i know but a few men; i used to shake my spear bravely in the ice-cold morning. it is often i put silence on a great army that is very cold to-night." and after a while he went into a hill of the sidhe to be healed of his old wounds. and whether he came back from there or not is not known; and there are some that say he used to be talking with patrick of the bells the same time oisin was with him. but that is not likely, or oisin would not have made complaints about his loneliness the way he did. but a long time after that again, there was a king of ireland making a journey. and he and his people missed their way, and when night-time came on, they were in a dark wood, and no path before them. and there came to them a very tall man, that was shining like a burning flame, and he took hold of the bridle of the king's horse, and led him through the wood till they came to the right road. and the king of ireland asked him who was he, and first he said: "i am your candlestick"; and then he said: "i was with finn one time." and the king knew it was caoilte, son of ronan, was in it. and three times nine of the rest of the fianna came out of the west one time to teamhair. and they took notice that now they were wanting their full strength and their great name, no one took notice of them or came to speak with them at all. and when they saw that, they lay down on the side of the hill at teamhair, and put their lips to the earth and died. and for three days and a month and a year from the time of the destruction of the fianna of ireland, loch dearg was under mists. * * * * * and as to finn, there are some say he died by the hand of a fisherman; but it is likely that is not true, for that would be no death for so great a man as finn, son of cumhal. and there are some say he never died, but is alive in some place yet. and one time a smith made his way into a cave he saw, that had a door to it, and he made a key that opened it. and when he went in he saw a very wide place, and very big men lying on the floor. and one that was bigger than the rest was lying in the middle, and the dord fiann beside him; and he knew it was finn and the fianna were in it. and the smith took hold of the dord fiann, and it is hardly he could lift it to his mouth, and he blew a very strong blast on it, and the sound it made was so great, it is much the rocks did not come down on him. and at the sound, the big men lying on the ground shook from head to foot. he gave another blast then, and they all turned on their elbows. and great dread came on him when he saw that, and he threw down the dord fiann and ran from the caye and locked the door after him, and threw the key into the lake. and he heard them crying after him, "you left us worse than you found us." and the cave was not found again since that time. but some say the day will come when the dord fiann will be sounded three times, and that at the sound of it the fianna will rise up as strong and as well as ever they were. and there are some say finn, son of cumhal, has been on the earth now and again since the old times, in the shape of one of the heroes of ireland. and as to the great things he and his men did when they were together, it is well they have been kept in mind through the poets of ireland and of alban. and one night there were two men minding sheep in a valley, and they were saying the poems of the fianna while they were there. and they saw two very tall shapes on the two hills on each side of the valley, and one of the tall shapes said to the other: "do you hear that man down below? i was the second doorpost of battle at gabhra, and that man knows all about it better than myself." book eleven: oisin and patrick. chapter i. oisin's story as to oisin, it was a long time after he was brought away by niamh that he came back again to ireland. some say it was hundreds of years he was in the country of the young, and some say it was thousands of years he was in it; but whatever time it was, it seemed short to him. and whatever happened him through the time he was away, it is a withered old man he was found after coming back to ireland, and his white horse going away from him, and he lying on the ground. and it was s. patrick had power at that time, and it was to him oisin was brought; and he kept him in his house, and used to be teaching him and questioning him. and oisin was no way pleased with the way ireland was then, but he used to be talking of the old times, and fretting after the fianna. and patrick bade him to tell what happened him the time he left finn and the fianna and went away with niamh. and it is the story oisin told:--"the time i went away with golden-haired niamh, we turned our backs to the land, and our faces westward, and the sea was going away before us, and filling up in waves after us. and we saw wonderful things on our journey," he said, "cities and courts and duns and lime-white houses, and shining sunny-houses and palaces. and one time we saw beside us a hornless deer running hard, and an eager white red-eared hound following after it. and another time we saw a young girl on a horse and having a golden apple in her right hand, and she going over the tops of the waves; and there was following after her a young man riding a white horse, and having a crimson cloak and a gold-hilted sword in his right hand." "follow on with your story, pleasant oisin," said patrick, "for you did not tell us yet what was the country you went to." "the country of the young, the country of victory, it was," said oisin. "and o patrick," he said, "there is no lie in that name; and if there are grandeurs in your heaven the same as there are there, i would give my friendship to god. "we turned our backs then to the dun," he said, "and the horse under us was quicker than the spring wind on the backs of the mountains. and it was not long till the sky darkened, and the wind rose in every part, and the sea was as if on fire, and there was nothing to be seen of the sun. "but after we were looking at the clouds and the stars for a while the wind went down, and the storm, and the sun brightened. and we saw before us a very delightful country under full blossom, and smooth plains in it, and a king's dun that was very grand, and that had every colour in it, and sunny-houses beside it, and palaces of shining stones, made by skilled men. and we saw coming out to meet us three fifties of armed men, very lively and handsome. and i asked niamh was this the country of the young, and she said it was. 'and indeed, oisin,' she said, 'i told you no lie about it, and you will see all i promised you before you for ever.' "and there came out after that a hundred beautiful young girls, having cloaks of silk worked with gold, and they gave me a welcome to their own country. and after that there came a great shining army, and with it a strong beautiful king, having a shirt of yellow silk and a golden cloak over it, and a very bright crown on his head. and there was following after him a young queen, and fifty young girls along with her. "and when all were come to the one spot, the king took me by the hand, and he said out before them all: 'a hundred thousand welcomes before you, oisin, son of finn. and as to this country you are come to,' he said, 'i will tell you news of it without a lie. it is long and lasting your life will be in it, and you yourself will be young for ever. and there is no delight the heart ever thought of,' he said, 'but it is here against your coming. and you can believe my words, oisin,' he said, 'for i myself am the king of the country of the young, and this is its comely queen, and it was golden-headed niamh our daughter that went over the sea looking for you to be her husband for ever.' i gave thanks to him then, and i stooped myself down before the queen, and we went forward to the royal house, and all the high nobles came out to meet us, both men and women, and there was a great feast made there through the length of ten days and ten nights. "and that is the way i married niamh of the golden hair, and that is the way i went to the country of the young, although it is sorrowful to me to be telling it now, o patrick from rome," said oisin. "follow on with your story, oisin of the destroying arms," said patrick, "and tell me what way did you leave the country of the young, for it is long to me till i hear that; and tell us now had you any children by niamh, and was it long you were in that place." "two beautiful children i had by niamh," said oisin, "two young sons and a comely daughter. and niamh gave the two sons the name of finn and of osgar, and the name i gave to the daughter was the flower. "and i did not feel the time passing, and it was a long time i stopped there," he said, "till the desire came on me to see finn and my comrades again. and i asked leave of the king and of niamh to go back to ireland. 'you will get leave from me,' said niamh; 'but for all that,' she said, 'it is bad news you are giving me, for i am in dread you will never come back here again through the length of your days.' but i bade her have no fear, since the white horse would bring me safe back again from ireland. 'bear this in mind, oisin,' she said then, 'if you once get off the horse while you are away, or if you once put your foot to ground, you will never come back here again. and o oisin,' she said, 'i tell it to you now for the third time, if you once get down from the horse, you will be an old man, blind and withered, without liveliness, without mirth, without running, without leaping. and it is a grief to me, oisin,' she said, 'you ever to go back to green ireland; and it is not now as it used to be, and you will not see finn and his people, for there is not now in the whole of ireland but a father of orders and armies of saints; and here is my kiss for you, pleasant oisin,' she said, 'for you will never come back any more to the country of the young.' "and that is my story, patrick, and i have told you no lie in it," said oisin. "and o patrick," he said, "if i was the same the day i came here as i was that day, i would have made an end of all your clerks, and there would not be a head left on a neck after me." "go on with your story," said patrick, "and you will get the same good treatment from me you got from finn, for the sound of your voice is pleasing to me." so oisin went on with his story, and it is what he said: "i have nothing to tell of my journey till i came back into green ireland, and i looked about me then on all sides, but there were no tidings to be got of finn. and it was not long till i saw a great troop of riders, men and women, coming towards me from the west. and when they came near they wished me good health; and there was wonder on them all when they looked at me, seeing me so unlike themselves, and so big and so tall. "i asked them then did they hear if finn was still living, or any other one of the fianna, or what had happened them. 'we often heard of finn that lived long ago,' said they, 'and that there never was his equal for strength or bravery or a great name; and there is many a book written down,' they said, 'by the sweet poets of the gael, about his doings and the doings of the fianna, and it would be hard for us to tell you all of them. and we heard finn had a son,' they said, 'that was beautiful and shining, and that there came a young girl looking for him, and he went away with her to the country of the young.' "and when i knew by their talk that finn was not living or any of the fianna, it is downhearted i was, and tired, and very sorrowful after them. and i made no delay, but i turned my face and went on to almhuin of leinster. and there was great wonder on me when i came there to see no sign at all of finn's great dun, and his great hall, and nothing in the place where it was but weeds and nettles." and there was grief on oisin then, and he said: "och, patrick! och, ochone, my grief! it is a bad journey that was to me; and to be without tidings of finn or the fianna has left me under pain through my lifetime." "leave off fretting, oisin," said patrick, "and shed your tears to the god of grace. finn and the fianna are slack enough now, and they will get no help for ever." "it is a great pity that would be," said oisin, "finn to be in pain for ever; and who was it gained the victory over him, when his own hand had made an end of so many a hard fighter?" "it is god gained the victory over finn," said patrick, "and not the strong hand of an enemy; and as to the fianna, they are condemned to hell along with him, and tormented for ever." "o patrick," said oisin, "show me the place where finn and his people are, and there is not a hell or a heaven there but i will put it down. and if osgar, my own son, is there," he said, "the hero that was bravest in heavy battles, there is not in hell or in the heaven of god a troop so great that he could not destroy it." "let us leave off quarrelling on each side now," said patrick; "and go on, oisin, with your story. what happened you after you knew the fianna to be at an end?" "i will tell you that, patrick," said oisin. "i was turning to go away, and i saw the stone trough that the fianna used to be putting their hands in, and it full of water. and when i saw it i had such a wish and such a feeling for it that i forgot what i was told, and i got off the horse. and in the minute all the years came on me, and i was lying on the ground, and the horse took fright and went away and left me there, an old man, weak and spent, without sight, without shape, without comeliness, without strength or understanding, without respect. "there, patrick, is my story for you now," said oisin, "and no lie in it, of all that happened me going away and coming back again from the country of the young." chapter ii. oisin in patrick's house and oisin stopped on with s. patrick, but he was not very well content with the way he was treated. and one time he said: "they say i am getting food, but god knows i am not, or drink; and i oisin, son of finn, under a yoke, drawing stones." "it is my opinion you are getting enough," said s. patrick then, "and you getting a quarter of beef and a churn of butter and a griddle of bread every day." "i often saw a quarter of a blackbird bigger than your quarter of beef," said oisin, "and a rowan berry as big as your churn of butter, and an ivy leaf as big as your griddle of bread." s, patrick was vexed when he heard that, and he said to oisin that he had told a lie. there was great anger on oisin then, and he went where there was a litter of pups, and he bade a serving-boy to nail up the hide of a freshly killed bullock to the wall, and to throw the pups against it one by one. and every one that he threw fell down from the hide till it came to the last, and he held on to it with his teeth and his nails. "rear that one," said oisin, "and drown all the rest." then he bade the boy to keep the pup in a dark place, and to care it well, and never to let it taste blood or see the daylight. and at the end of a year, oisin was so well pleased with the pup, that he gave it the name of bran og, young bran. and one day he called to the serving-boy to come on a journey with him, and to bring the pup in a chain. and they set out and passed by slieve-nam-ban, where the witches of the sidhe do be spinning with their spinning-wheels; and then they turned eastward into gleann-na-smol. and oisin raised a rock that was there, and he bade the lad take from under it three things, a great sounding horn of the fianna, and a ball of iron they had for throwing, and a very sharp sword. and when oisin saw those things, he took them in his hands, and he said: "my thousand farewells to the day when you were put here!" he bade the lad to clean them well then; and when he had done that, he bade him to sound a blast on the horn. so the boy did that, and oisin asked him did he see anything strange. "i did not," said the boy. "sound it again as loud as you can," said oisin. "that is as hard as i can sound it, and i can see nothing yet," said the boy when he had done that. then oisin took the horn himself, and he put it to his mouth, and blew three great blasts on it. "what do you see now?" he said. "i see three great clouds coming," he said, "and they are settling down in the valley; and the first cloud is a flight of very big birds, and the second cloud is a flight of birds that are bigger again, and the third flight is of the biggest and the blackest birds the world ever saw." "what is the dog doing?" said oisin. "the eyes are starting from his head, and there is not a rib of hair on him but is standing up." "let him loose now," said oisin. the dog rushed down to the valley then, and he made an attack on one of the birds, that was the biggest of all, and that had a shadow like a cloud. and they fought a very fierce fight, but at last bran og made an end of the big bird, and lapped its blood. but if he did, madness came on him, and he came rushing back towards oisin, his jaws open and his eyes like fire. "there is dread on me, oisin," said the boy, "for the dog is making for us, mad and raging." "take this iron ball and make a cast at him when he comes near," said oisin. "i am in dread to do that," said the boy. "put it in my hand, and turn it towards him," said oisin. the boy did that, and oisin made a cast of the ball that went into the mouth and the throat of the dog, and choked him, and he fell down the slope, twisting and foaming. then they went where the great bird was left dead, and oisin bade the lad to cut a quarter off it with the sword, and he did so. and then he bade him cut open the body, and in it he found a rowan berry, the biggest he had ever seen, and an ivy leaf that was bigger than the biggest griddle. so oisin turned back then, and went to where s. patrick was, and he showed him the quarter of the bird that was bigger than any quarter of a bullock, and the rowan berry that was bigger than a churning of butter, and the leaf. "and you know now, patrick of the bells," he said, "that i told no lie; and it is what kept us all through our lifetime," he said, "truth that was in our hearts, and strength in our arms, and fulfilment in our tongues." "you told no lie indeed," said patrick. and when oisin had no sight left at all, he used every night to put up one of the serving-men on his shoulders, and to bring him out to see how were the cattle doing. and one night the servants had no mind to go, and they agreed together to tell him it was a very bad night. and it is what the first of them said; "it is outside there is a heavy sound with the heavy water dropping from the tops of trees; the sound of the waves is not to be heard for the loud splashing of the rain." and then the next one said: "the trees of the wood are shivering, and the birch is turning black; the snow is killing the birds; that is the story outside." and the third said: "it is to the east they have turned their face, the white snow and the dark rain; it is what is making the plain so cold is the snow that is dripping and getting hard." but there was a serving-girl in the house, and she said: "rise up, oisin, and go out to the white-headed cows, since the cold wind is plucking the trees from the hills." oisin went out then, and the serving-man on his shoulders; but it is what the serving-man did, he brought a vessel of water and a birch broom with him, and he was dashing water in oisin's face, the way he would think it was rain. but when they came to the pen where the cattle were, oisin found the night was quiet, and after that he asked no more news of the weather from the servants. chapter iii. the arguments and s. patrick took in hand to convert oisin, and to bring him to baptism; but it was no easy work he had to do, and everything he would say, oisin would have an answer for it. and it is the way they used to be talking and arguing with one another, as it was put down afterwards by the poets of ireland:-patrick. "oisin, it is long your sleep is. rise up and listen to the psalm. your strength and your readiness are gone from you, though you used to be going into rough fights and battles." olsin. "my readiness and my strength are gone from me since finn has no armies living; i have no liking for clerks, their music is not sweet to me after his." patrick. "you never heard music so good from the beginning of the world to this day; it is well you would serve an army on a hill, you that are old and silly and grey." olsin. "i used to serve an army on a hill, patrick of the closed-up mind; it is a pity you to be faulting me; there was never shame put on me till now. "i have heard music was sweeter than your music, however much you are praising your clerks: the song of the blackbird in leiter laoi, and the sound of the dord fiann; the very sweet thrush of the valley of the shadow, or the sound of the boats striking the strand. the cry of the hounds was better to me than the noise of your schools, patrick. "little nut, little nut of my heart, the little dwarf that was with finn, when he would make tunes and songs he would put us all into deep sleep. "the twelve hounds that belonged to finn, the time they would be let loose facing out from the siuir, their cry was sweeter than harps and than pipes. "i have a little story about finn; we were but fifteen men; we took the king of the saxons of the feats, and we won a battle against the king of greece. "we fought nine battles in spain, and nine times twenty battles in ireland; from lochlann and from the eastern world there was a share of gold coming to finn. "my grief! i to be stopping after him, and without delight in games or in music; to be withering away after my comrades; my grief it is to be living. i and the clerks of the mass books are two that can never agree. "if finn and the fianna were living, i would leave the clerks and the bells; i would follow the deer through the valleys, i would like to be close on his track. "ask heaven of god, patrick, for finn of the fianna and his race; make prayers for the great man; you never heard of his like." patrick. "i will not ask heaven for finn, man of good wit that my anger is rising against, since his delight was to be living in valleys with the noise of hunts." oisin. "if you had been in company with the fianna, patrick of the joyless clerks and of the bells, you would not be attending on schools or giving heed to god." patrick. "i would not part from the son of god for all that have lived east or west; o oisin, o shaking poet, there will harm come on you in satisfaction for the priests." oisin. "it was a delight to finn the cry of his hounds on the mountains, the wild dogs leaving their harbours, the pride of his armies, those were his delights." patrick. "there was many a thing finn took delight in, and there is not much heed given to it after him; finn and his hounds are not living now, and you yourself will not always be living, oisin." oisin. "there is a greater story of finn than of us, or of any that have lived in our time; all that are gone and all that are living, finn was better to give out gold than themselves." patrick. "all the gold you and finn used to be giving out, it is little it does for you now; he is in hell in bonds because he did treachery and oppression." oisin. "it is little i believe of your truth, man from rome with the white books, finn the open-handed head of the fianna to be in the hands of devils or demons." patrick. "finn is in bonds in hell, the pleasant man that gave out gold; in satisfaction for his disrespect to god, he is under grief in the house of pain." oisin. "if the sons of morna were within it, or the strong men of the sons of baiscne, they would take finn out of it, or they would have the house for themselves." patrick. "if the five provinces of ireland were within it, or the strong seven battalions of the fianna, they would not be able to bring finn out of it, however great their strength might be." oisin. "if faolan and goll were living, and brown-haired diarmuid and brave osgar, finn of the fianna could not be held in any house that was made by god or devils." patrick. "if faolan and goll were living, and all the fianna that ever were, they could not bring out finn from the house where he is in pain." oisin. "what did finn do against god but to be attending on schools and on armies? giving gold through a great part of his time, and for another while trying his hounds." patrick. "in payment for thinking of his hounds and for serving the schools of the poets, and because he gave no heed to god, finn of the fianna is held down." oisin. "you say, patrick of the psalms, that the fianna could not take out finn, or the five provinces of ireland along with them. "i have a little story about finn. we were but fifteen men when we took the king of britain of the feasts by the strength of our spears and our own strength. "we took magnus the great, the son of the king of lochlann of the speckled ships; we came back no way sorry or tired, we put our rent on far places. "o patrick, the story is pitiful, the king of the fianna to be under locks; a heart without envy, without hatred, a heart hard in earning victory. "it is an injustice, god to be unwilling to give food and riches; finn never refused strong or poor, although cold hell is now his dwelling-place. "it is what finn had a mind for, to be listening to the sound of druim dearg; to sleep at the stream of ess ruadh, to be hunting the deer of gallimh of the bays. "the cries of the blackbird of leiter laoi, the wave of rudraighe beating the strand, the bellowing of the ox of magh maoin, the lowing of the calf of gleann da mhail. "the noise of the hunt on slieve crot, the sound of the fawns round slieve cua, the scream of the sea-gulls there beyond on iorrus, the screech of the crows over the battle. "the waves vexing the breasts of the boats, the howling of the hounds at druim lis; the voice of bran on cnoc-an-air, the outcry of the streams about slieve mis. "the call of osgar going to the hunt; the voice of the hounds on the road of the fianna, to be listening to them and to the poets, that was always his desire. "a desire of the desires of osgar was to listen to the striking of shields; to be hacking at bones in a battle, it is what he had a mind for always. "we went westward one time to hunt at formaid of the fianna, to see the first running of our hounds. "it was finn was holding bran, and it is with myself sceolan was; diarmuid of the women had fearan, and osgar had lucky adhnuall. "conan the bald had searc; caoilte, son of ronan, had daol; lugaidh's son and goll were holding fuaim and fothran. "that was the first day we loosed out a share of our hounds to a hunting; and och! patrick, of all that were in it, there is not one left living but myself. "o patrick, it is a pity the way i am now, a spent old man without sway, without quickness, without strength, going to mass at the altar. "without the great deer of slieve luchra; without the hares of slieve cuilinn; without going into fights with finn; without listening to the poets. "without battles, without taking of spoils; without playing at nimble feats; without going courting or hunting, two trades that were my delight." patrick. "leave off, old man, leave your foolishness; let what you have done be enough for you from this out. think on the pains that are before you; the fianna are gone, and you yourself will be going." oisin. "if i go, may yourself not be left after me, patrick of the hindering heart; if conan, the least of the fianna, were living, your buzzing would not be left long to you." "or if this was the day i gave ten hundred cows to the headless woman that came to the valley of the two oxen; the birds of the air brought away the ring i gave her, i never knew where she went herself from me." patrick. "that is little to trouble you, oisin; it was but for a while she was with you; it is better for you to be as you are than to be among them again." oisin. "o son of calphurn of the friendly talk, it is a pity for him that gives respect to clerks and bells; i and caoilte my friend, we were not poor when we were together. "the music that put finn to his sleep was the cackling of the ducks from the lake of the three narrows; the scolding talk of the blackbird of doire an cairn, the bellowing of the ox from the valley of the berries. "the whistle of the eagle from the valley of victories, or from the rough branches of the ridge by the stream; the grouse of the heather of cruachan; the call of the otter of druim-re-coir. "the song of the blackbird of doire an cairn indeed i never heard sweeter music, if i could be under its nest. "my grief that i ever took baptism; it is little credit i got by it, being without food, without drink, doing fasting and praying." patrick. "in my opinion it did not harm you, old man; you will get nine score cakes of bread, wine and meat to put a taste on it; it is bad talk you are giving." oisin. "this mouth that is talking with you, may it never confess to a priest, if i would not sooner have the leavings of finn's house than a share of your own meals." patrick. "he got but what he gathered from the banks, or whatever he could kill on the rough hills; he got hell at the last because of his unbelief." oisin. "that was not the way with us at all, but our fill of wine and of meat; justice and a right beginning at the feasts, sweet drinks and every one drinking them. "it is fretting after diarmuid and goll i am, and after fergus of the true lips, the time you will not let me be speaking of them, o new patrick from rome." patrick. "we would give you leave to be speaking of them, but first you should give heed to god. since you are now at the end of your days, leave your foolishness, weak old man." oisin. "o patrick, tell me as a secret, since it is you have the best knowledge, will my dog or my hound be let in with me to the court of the king of grace?" patrick. "old man in your foolishness that i cannot put any bounds to, your dog or your hound will not be let in with you to the court of the king of power." oisin. "if i had acquaintance with god, and my hound to be at hand, i would make whoever gave food to myself give a share to my hound as well. "one strong champion that was with the fianna of ireland would be better than the lord of piety, and than you yourself, patrick." patrick. "o oisin of the sharp blades, it is mad words you are saying. god is better for one day than the whole of the fianna of ireland." oisin. "though i am now without sway and my life is spent to the end, do not put abuse, patrick, on the great men of the sons of baiscne. "if i had conan with me, the man that used to be running down the fianna, it is he would break your head within among your clerks and your priests." patrick. "it is a silly thing, old man, to be talking always of the fianna; remember your end is come, and take the son of god to help you." oisin. "i used to sleep out on the mountain under the grey dew; i was never used to go to bed without food, while there was a deer on the hill beyond." patrick. "you are astray at the end of your life between the straight way and the crooked. keep out from the crooked path of pains, and the angels of god will come beneath your head." oisin. "if myself and open-handed fergus and diarmuid were together now on this spot, we would go in every path we ever went in, and ask no leave of the priests." patrick. "leave off, oisin; do not be speaking against the priests that are telling the word of god in every place. unless you leave off your daring talk, it is great pain you will have in the end." oisin. "when myself and the leader of the fianna were looking for a boar in a valley, it was worse to me not to see it than all your clerks to be without their heads." patrick. "it is pitiful seeing you without sense; that is worse to you than your blindness; if you were to get sight within you, it is great your desire would be for heaven." oisin. "it is little good it would be to me to be sitting in that city, without caoilte, without osgar, without my father being with me. "the leap of the buck would be better to me, or the sight of badgers between two valleys, than all your mouth is promising me, and all the delights i could get in heaven." patrick. "your thoughts are foolish, they will come to nothing; your pleasure and your mirth are gone. unless you will take my advice to-night, you will not get leave on this side or that." oisin. "if myself and the fianna were on the top of a hill to-day drawing our spear-heads, we would have our choice of being here or there in spite of books and priests and bells." patrick. "you were like the smoke of a wisp, or like a stream in a valley, or like a whirling wind on the top of a hill, every tribe of you that ever lived." oisin. "if i was in company with the people of strong arms, the way i was at bearna da coill, i would sooner be looking at them than at this troop of the crooked croziers. "if i had scolb sceine with me, or osgar, that was smart in battles, i would not be without meat to-night at the sound of the bell of the seven tolls." patrick. "oisin, since your wits are gone from you be glad at what i say; it is certain to me you will leave the fianna and that you will receive the god of the stars." oisin. "there is wonder on me at your hasty talk, priest that has travelled in every part, to say that i would part from the fianna, a generous people, never niggardly." patrick. "if you saw the people of god, the way they are settled at feasts, every good thing is more plentiful with them than with finn's people, however great their name was. "finn and the fianna are lying now very sorrowful on the flag-stone of pain; take the son of god in their place; make your repentance and do not lose heaven." oisin. "i do not believe your talk now. o patrick of the crooked staves, finn and the fianna to be there within, unless they find pleasure being in it." patrick. "make right repentance now, before you know when your end is coming; god is better for one hour than the whole of the fianna of ireland." oisin. "that is a daring answer to make to me, patrick of the crooked crozier; your crozier would be in little bits if i had osgar with me now. "if my son osgar and god were hand to hand on the hill of the fianna, if i saw my son put down, i would say that god was a strong man. "how could it be that god or his priests could be better men than finn, the king of the fianna, a generous man without crookedness. "if there was a place above or below better than the heaven of god, it is there finn would go, and all that are with him of his people. "you say that a generous man never goes to the hell of pain; there was not one among the fianna that was not generous to all. "ask of god, patrick, does he remember when the fianna were alive, or has he seen east or west any man better than themselves in their fighting. "the fianna used not to be saying treachery; we never had the name of telling lies. by truth and the strength of our hands we came safe out of every battle. "there never sat a priest in a church, though you think it sweet to be singing psalms, was better to his word than the fianna, or more generous than finn himself. "if my comrades were living to-night, i would take no pleasure in your crooning in the church; as they are not living now, the rough voice of the bells has deafened me. "och! in the place of battles and heavy fights, where i used to have my place and to take my pleasure, the crozier of patrick being carried, and his clerks at their quarrelling. "och! slothful, cheerless conan, it is great abuse i used to be giving you; why do you not come to see me now? you would get leave for making fun and reviling through the whole of the niggardly clerks. "och! where are the strong men gone that they do not come together to help me! o osgar of the sharp sword of victory, come and free your father from his bonds! "where is the strong son of lugaidh? och! diarmuid of all the women! och! caoilte, son of ronan, think of our love, and travel to me!" patrick. "stop your talk, you withered, witless old man; it is my king that made the heavens, it is he that gives blossom to the trees, it is he made the moon and the sun, the fields and the grass." oisin. "it was not in shaping fields and grass that my king took his delight, but in overthrowing fighting men, and defending countries, and bringing his name into every part. "in courting, in playing, in hunting, in baring his banner at the first of a fight; in playing at chess, at swimming, in looking around him at the drinking-hall. "o patrick, where was your god when the two came over the sea that brought away the queen of lochlann of the ships? where was he when dearg came, the son of the king of lochlann of the golden shields? why did not the king of heaven protect them from the blows of the big man? "or when tailc, son of treon, came, the man that did great slaughter on the fianna; it was not by god that champion fell, but by osgar, in the sight of all. "many a battle and many a victory was gained by the fianna of ireland; i never heard any great deed was done by the king of saints, or that he ever reddened his hand. "it would be a great shame for god not to take the locks of pain off finn; if god himself were in bonds, my king would fight for his sake. "finn left no one in pain or in danger without freeing him by silver or gold, or by fighting till he got the victory. "for the strength of your love, patrick, do not forsake the great men; bring in the fianna unknown to the king of heaven. "it is a good claim i have on your god, to be among his clerks the way i am; without food, without clothing, without music, without giving rewards to poets. "without the cry of the hounds or the horns, without guarding coasts, without courting generous women; for all that i have suffered by the want of food, i forgive the king of heaven in my will." oisin said: "my story is sorrowful. the sound of your voice is not pleasant to me. i will cry my fill, but not for god, but because finn and the fianna are not living." chapter iv. oisin's laments and oisin used to be making laments, and sometimes he would be making praises of the old times and of finn; and these are some of them that are remembered yet:- i saw the household of finn; it was not the household of a soft race; i had a vision of that man yesterday. i saw the household of the high king, he with the brown, sweet-voiced son; i never saw a better man. i saw the household of finn; no one saw it as i saw it; i saw finn with the sword, mac an luin. och! it was sorrowful to see it. i cannot tell out every harm that is on my head; free us from our trouble for ever; i have seen the household of finn. it is a week from yesterday i last saw finn; i never saw a braver man. a king of heavy blows; my law, my adviser, my sense and my wisdom, prince and poet, braver than kings, king of the fianna, brave in all countries; golden salmon of the sea, clean hawk of the air, rightly taught, avoiding lies; strong in his doings, a right judge, ready in courage, a high messenger in bravery and in music. his skin lime-white, his hair golden; ready to work, gentle to women. his great green vessels full of rough sharp wine, it is rich the king was, the head of his people. seven sides finn's house had, and seven score shields on every side. fifty fighting men he had about him having woollen cloaks; ten bright drinking-cups in his hall; ten blue vessels, ten golden horns. it is a good household finn had, without grudging, without lust, without vain boasting, without chattering, without any slur on any one of the fianna. finn never refused any man; he never put away any one that came to his house. if the brown leaves falling in the woods were gold, if the white waves were silver, finn would have given away the whole of it. blackbird of doire an chairn, your voice is sweet; i never heard on any height of the world music was sweeter than your voice, and you at the foot of your nest. the music is sweetest in the world, it is a pity not to be listening to it for a while, o son of calphurn of the sweet bells, and you would overtake your nones again. if you knew the story of the bird the way i know it, you would be crying lasting tears, and you would give no heed to your god for a while. in the country of lochlann of the blue streams, finn, son of cumhal, of the red-gold cups, found that bird you hear now; i will tell you its story truly. doire an chairn, that wood there to the west, where the fianna used to be delaying, it is there they put the blackbird, in the beauty of the pleasant trees. the stag of the heather of quiet cruachan, the sorrowful croak from the ridge of the two lakes; the voice of the eagle of the valley of the shapes, the voice of the cuckoo on the hill of brambles. the voice of the hounds in the pleasant valley; the scream of the eagle on the edge of the wood; the early outcry of the hounds going over the strand of the red stones. the time finn lived and the fianna, it was sweet to them to be listening to the whistle of the blackbird; the voice of the bells would not have been sweet to them. there was no one of the fianna without his fine silken shirt and his soft coat, without bright armour, without shining stones on his head, two spears in his hand, and a shield that brought victory. if you were to search the world you would not find a harder man, best of blood, best in battle; no one got the upper hand of him. when he went out trying his white hound, which of us could be put beside finn? one time we went hunting on slieve-nam-ban; the sun was beautiful overhead, the voice of the hounds went east and west, from hill to hill. finn and bran sat for a while on the hill, every man was jealous for the hunt. we let out three thousand hounds from their golden chains; every hound of them brought down two deer. patrick of the true crozier, did you ever see, east or west, a greater hunt than that hunt of finn and the fianna? o son of calphurn of the bells, that day was better to me than to be listening to your lamentations in the church. * * * * * there is no strength in my hands to-night, there is no power within me; it is no wonder i to be sorowful, being thrown down in the sorrow of old age. everything is a grief to me beyond any other man on the face of the earth, to be dragging stones along to the church and the hill of the priests. i have a little story of our people. one time finn had a mind to make a dun on the bald hill of cuailgne, and he put it on the fianna of ireland to bring stones for building it; a third on the sons of morna, a third on myself, and a third on the sons of baiscne. i gave an answer to finn, son of cumhal; i said i would be under his sway no longer, and that i would obey him no more. when finn heard that, he was silent a long time, the man without a he, without fear. and he said to me then: "you yourself will be dragging stones before your death comes to you." i rose up then with anger on me, and there followed me the fourth of the brave battalions of the fianna. i gave my own judgments, there were many of the fianna with me. now my strength is gone from me, i that was adviser to the fianna; my whole body is tired to-night, my hands, my feet, and my head, tired, tired, tired. it is bad the way i am after finn of the fianna; since he is gone away, every good is behind me. without great people, without mannerly ways; it is sorrowful i am after our king that is gone. i am a shaking tree, my leaves gone from me; an empty nut, a horse without a bridle; a people without a dwelling-place, i oisin, son of finn. * * * * * it is long the clouds are over me to-night! it is long last night was; although this day is long, yesterday was longer again to me; every day that comes is long to me! that is not the way i used to be, without fighting, without battles, without learning feats, without young girls, without music, without harps, without bruising bones, without great deeds; without increase of learning, without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without courting, without hunting, the two trades i was used to; without going out to battle, ochone! the want of them is sorrowful to me. no hunting of deer or stag, it is not like that i would wish to be; no leashes for our hounds, no hounds; it is long the clouds are over me to-night! without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are over me to-night! there is no one at all in the world the way i am; it is a pity the way i am; an old man dragging stones; it is long the clouds are over me to-night! i am the last of the fianna, great oisin, son of finn, listening to the voice of bells; it is long the clouds are over me to-night! notes i. the apology the irish text of the greater number of the stories in this book has been published, and from this text i have worked, making my own translation as far as my scholarship goes, and when it fails, taking the meaning given by better scholars. in some cases the irish text has not been printed, and i have had to work by comparing and piecing together various translations. i have had to put a connecting sentence of my own here and there, and i have fused different versions together, and condensed many passages, and i have left out many, using the choice that is a perpetual refusing, in trying to get some clear outline of the doings of the heroes. i have found it more natural to tell the stories in the manner of the thatched houses, where i have heard so many legends of finn and his friends, and oisin and patrick, and the ever-living ones, and the country of the young, rather than in the manner of the slated houses, where i have not heard them. four years ago, dr atkinson, a professor of trinity college, dublin, in his evidence before the commission of intermediate education, said of the old literature of ireland:--"it has scarcely been touched by the movements of the great literatures; it is the untrained popular feeling. therefore it is almost intolerably low in tone--i do not mean naughty, but low; and every now and then, when the circumstance occasions it, it goes down lower than low ... if i read the books in the greek, the latin or the french course, in almost every one of them there is something with an ideal ring about it--something that i can read with positive pleasure--something that has what the child might take with him as a [greek: ktêma eis dei]--a perpetual treasure; but if i read the irish books, i see nothing ideal in them, and my astonishment is that through the whole range of irish literature that i have read (and i have read an enormous range of it), the smallness of the element of idealism is most noticeable ... and as there is very little idealism there is very little imagination ... the irish tales as a rule are devoid of it fundamentally." dr atkinson is an englishman, but unfortunately not only fellow-professors in trinity but undergraduates there have been influenced by his opinion, that irish literature is a thing to be despised. i do not quote his words to draw attention to a battle that is still being fought, but to explain my own object in working, as i have worked ever since that evidence was given, to make a part of irish literature accessible to many, especially among my young countrymen, who have not opportunity to read the translations of the chief scholars, scattered here and there in learned periodicals, or patience and time to disentangle overlapping and contradictory versions, that they may judge for themselves as to its "lowness" and "want of imagination," and the other well-known charges brought against it before the same commission. i believe that those who have once learned to care for the story of cuchulain of muirthemne, and of finn and lugh and etain, and to recognise the enduring belief in an invisible world and an immortal life behind the visible and the mortal, will not be content with my redaction, but will go, first to the fuller versions of the best scholars, and then to the manuscripts themselves. i believe the forty students of old irish lately called together by professor kuno meyer will not rest satisfied until they have explored the scores and scores of uncatalogued and untranslated manuscripts in trinity college library, and that the enthusiasm which the gaelic league has given birth to will lead to much fine scholarship. a day or two ago i had a letter from one of the best greek scholars and translators in england, who says of my "cuchulain": "it opened up a great world of beautiful legend which, though accounting myself as an irishman, i had never known at all. i am sending out copies to irish friends in australia who, i am sure, will receive the same sort of impression, almost an impression of pride in the beauty of the irish mind, as i received myself." and president roosevelt wrote to me a little time ago that after he had read "cuchulain of muirthemne," he had sent for all the other translations from the irish he could get, to take on his journey to the western states. i give these appreciative words not, i think, from vanity, for they are not for me but for my material, to show the effect our old literature has on those who come fresh to it, and that they do not complain of its "want of imagination." i am, of course, very proud and glad in having had the opportunity of helping to make it known, and the task has been pleasant, although toil-some. just now, indeed, on the 6th october, i am tired enough, and i think with sympathy of the old highland piper, who complained that he was "withered with yelping the seven fenian battalions." ii. the age and origin of the stories of the fianna mr alfred nutt says in _ossian and the ossianic literature,_ no. 3 of his excellent series of sixpenny pamphlets, _popular studies in mythology, romance, and folklore_:-"the body of gaelic literature connected with the name of ossian is of very considerable extent and of respectable antiquity. the oldest texts, prose for the most part, but also in verse, are preserved in irish mss. of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and go back to a period from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty years older at least. the bulk of ossianic literature is, however, of later date as far as the form under which it has come down to us is concerned. a number of important texts, prose for the most part, are preserved in mss. of the fourteenth century, but were probably redacted in the thirteenth and twelfth centuries. but by far the largest mass consists of narrative poems, as a rule dramatic in structure. these have come down to us in mss. written in scotland from the end of the fifteenth to the middle of the seventeenth century, in ireland from the sixteenth down to the middle of the nineteenth century. the gaelic-speaking peasantry, alike in ireland and scotland, have preserved orally a large number of these ballads, as also a great mass of prose narratives, the heroes of which are ossian and his comrades. "were all ossianic texts preserved in mss. older than the present century to be printed, they would fill some eight to ten thousand octavo pages. the mere bulk of the literature, even if we allow for considerable repetition of incident, arrests attention. if we further recall that for the last five hundred years this body of romance has formed the chief imaginative recreation of gaeldom, alike in ireland and scotland, and that a peasantry unable to read or write has yet preserved it almost entire, its claims to consideration and study will appear manifest." he then goes on to discuss how far the incidents in the stories can be accepted as they were accepted by irish historical writers of the eleventh century as authentic history:-"fortunately there is little need for me to discuss the credibility or otherwise of the historic records concerning finn, his family, and his band of warriors. they may be accepted or rejected according to individual bent of mind without really modifying our view of the literature. for when we turn to the romances, whether in prose or verse, we find that, although the history is professedly the same as that of the annals, firstly, we are transported to a world entirely romantic, in which divine and semi-divine beings, ungainly monsters and giants, play a prominent part, in which men and women change shapes with animals, in which the lives of the heroes are miraculously prolonged--in short, we find ourselves in a land of faery; secondly, we find that the historic conditions in which the heroes are represented as living do not, for the most part, answer to anything we know or can surmise of the third century. for finn and his warriors are perpetually on the watch to guard ireland against the attacks of over-sea raiders, styled lochlannac by the narrators, and by them undoubtedly thought of as norsemen. but the latter, as is well known, only came to ireland at the close of the eighth century, and the heroic period of their invasions extended for about a century, from 825 to 925; to be followed by a period of comparative settlement during the tenth century, until at the opening of the eleventh century the battle of clontarf, fought by brian, the great south irish chieftain, marked the break-up of the separate teutonic organisations and the absorption of the teutons into the fabric of irish life. in these pages then we may disregard the otherwise interesting question of historic credibility in the ossianic romances: firstly, because they have their being in a land unaffected by fact; secondly, because if they ever did reflect the history of the third century the reflection was distorted in after-times, and a pseudo-history based upon events of the ninth and tenth centuries was substituted for it. what the historian seeks for in legend is far more a picture of the society in which it took rise than a record of the events which it commemorates." in a later part of the pamphlet mr nutt discusses such questions as whether we may look for examples of third-century customs in the stories, what part of the stories first found their way into writing, whether the oisin and patrick dialogues were written under the influence of actual pagan feeling persisting from pagan times, or whether "a change came over the feeling of gaeldom during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries," when the oisin and patrick dialogues in their present form began to be written. his final summing-up is that "well-nigh the same stories that were told of finn and his warrior braves by the gael of the eleventh century are told in well-nigh the same way by his descendant to-day." mr nutt does not enquire how long the stories may have been told before the first story was written down. larminie, however, whose early death was the first great loss of our intellectual movement, pushes them backward for untold ages in the introduction to his _west irish folk tales and romances_. he builds up a detailed and careful argument, for which i must refer readers to his book, to prove that the scottish highlands and ireland have received their folk-lore both from "aryan and non-aryan sources," and that in the highlands there is more non-aryan influence and more non-aryan blood than in ireland. he argues that nothing is more improbable than that all folk-tales are aryan, as has sometimes been supposed, and sums up as follows:-"they bear the stamp of the genius of more than one race. the pure and placid but often cold imagination of the aryan has been at work on some. in others we trace the more picturesque fancy, the fierceness and sensuality, the greater sense of artistic elegance belonging to races whom the aryan, in spite of his occasional faults of hardness and coarseness, has, on the whole, left behind him. but as the greatest results in the realm of the highest art have always been achieved in the case of certain blends of aryan with other blood, i should hardly deem it extravagant if it were asserted that in the humbler regions of the folk-tale we might trace the working of the same law. the process which has gone on may in part have been as follows:--every race which has acquired very definite characteristics must have been for a long time isolated. the aryans during their period of isolation probably developed many of their folk-germs into their larger myths, owing to the greater constructiveness of their imagination, and thus, in a way, they used up part of their material. afterwards, when they became blended with other races less advanced, they acquired fresh material to work on. we have in ireland an instance to hand, of which a brief discussion may help to illustrate the whole race theory. "the larger irish legendary literature divides itself into three cycles--the divine, the heroic, the fenian. of these three the last is so well-known orally in scotland that it has been a matter of dispute to which country it really belongs. it belongs, in fact, to both. here, however, comes in a strange contrast with the other cycles. the first is, so far as i am aware, wholly unknown in scotland, the second comparatively unknown. what is the explanation? professor zimmer not having established his late-historical view as regards finn, and the general opinion among scholars having tended of recent years towards the mythical view, we want to know why there is so much more community in one case than in the other. mr o'grady long since seeing this difficulty, and then believing finn to be historical, was induced to place the latter in point of time before cuchulain and his compeers. but this view is of course inadmissible when finn is seen not to be historical at all. there remains but one explanation. the various bodies of legend in question are, so far as ireland is concerned, only earlier or later, as they came into the island with the various races to which they belonged. the wider prevalence, then, of the finn saga would indicate that it belonged to an early race occupying both ireland and scotland. then entered the aryan gael, and for him henceforth, as the ruler of the island, his own gods and heroes were sung by his own bards. his legends became the subject of what i may call the court poetry, the aristocratic literature. when he conquered scotland, he took with him his own gods and heroes; but in the latter country the bardic system never became established, and hence we find but feeble echoes of the heroic cycle among the mountains of the north. that this is the explanation is shown by what took place in ireland. here the heroic cycle has been handed down in remembrance almost solely by the bardic literature. the popular memory retains but few traces of it. its essentially aristocratic character is shown by the fact that the people have all but forgotten it, if they ever knew it. but the fenian cycle has not been forgotten. prevailing everywhere, still cherished by the conquered peoples, it held its ground in scotland and ireland alike, forcing its way in the latter country even into the written literature, and so securing a twofold lease of existence ... the fenian cycle, in a word, is non-aryan folk-literature partially subjected to aryan treatment." the whole problem is extremely complex, and several other writers have written upon it. mr borlase, for instance, has argued in his big book on the dolmens that the cromlechs, and presumably the diarmuid and crania legend, is connected with old religious rites of an erotic nature coming down from a very primitive state of society. i have come to my own conclusion not so much because of any weight of argument, as because i found it impossible to arrange the stories in a coherent form so long as i considered them a part of history. i tried to work on the foundation of the annalists, and fit the fianna into a definite historical epoch, but the whole story seemed trivial and incoherent until i began to think of them as almost contemporaneous with the battle of magh tuireadh, which even the annalists put back into mythical ages. in this i have only followed some of the story-tellers, who have made the mother of lugh of the long hand the grandmother of finn, and given him a shield soaked with the blood of balor. i cannot think of any of the stories as having had a modern origin, or that the century in which each was written down gives any evidence as to its age. "how diarmuid got his love-spot," for instance, which was taken down only a few years ago from some old man's recitation by dr hyde, may well be as old as "finn and the phantoms," which is in one of the earliest manuscripts. it seems to me that one cannot choose any definite period either from the vast living mass of folk-lore in the country or from the written text, and that there is as good evidence of finn being of the blood of the gods as of his being, as some of the people tell me, "the son of an o'shaughnessy who lived at kiltartan cross." dr douglas hyde, although he placed the fenian after the cuchulain cycle in his _history of irish literature_, has allowed me to print this note:-"while believing in the real objective existence of the fenians as a body of janissaries who actually lived, ruled, and hunted in king cormac's time, i think it equally certain that hundreds of stories, traits, and legends far older and more primitive than any to which they themselves could have given rise, have clustered about them. there is probably as large a bulk of primitive mythology to be found in the finn legend as in that of the red branch itself. the story of the fenians was a kind of nucleus to which a vast amount of the flotsam and jetsam of a far older period attached itself, and has thus been preserved." as i found it impossible to give that historical date to the stories, i, while not adding in anything to support my theory, left out such names as those of cormac and art, and such more or less historical personages, substituting "the high king." and in the "battle of the white strand," i left out the name of caelur, tadg's wife, because i had already followed another chronicler in giving him ethlinn for a wife. in the earlier part i have given back to angus og the name of "the disturber," which had, as i believe, strayed from him to the saint of the same name. iii. the authorities the following is a list of the authorities i have been chiefly helped by in putting these stories together and in translation of the text. but i cannot make it quite accurate, for i have sometimes transferred a mere phrase, sometimes a whole passage from one story to another, where it seemed to fit better. i have sometimes, in the second part of the book, used stories preserved in the scottish gaelic, as will be seen by my references. i am obliged to write these notes away from libraries, and cannot verify them, but i think they are fairly correct. part one. books one, two, and three the coming of the tuatha de danaan, and lugh of the long hand, and the coming of the gael.- o'curry, _manners and customs of the ancient irish_; _mss. materials_; _atlantis_; de jubainville, _cycle mythologique_; hennessy, _chronicum scotorum_; atkinson, _book of leinster_; _annals of the four masters_; nennius, _hist, brit._ (irish version); zimmer, _glossae hibernacae_; whitley stokes, _three irish glossaries_; _revue celtique_ and _irische texte_; _gaedelica_; nutt, _voyage of bran_; _proceedings ossianic societ_; o'beirne crowe, _amra columcille_; dean of lismore's book; windisch, _irische texte_; hennessy and others in _revue celtique_; _kilkenny archaeological journal_; keatinge's _history_; _ogyia_; curtin's _folk tales_; _proceedings royal irish academy_, mss. series; dr sigerson, _bards of gael and gall_; miscellanies, _celtic society_. book four the ever-living living ones i have used many of the above, and for separate stories, i may give these authorities:-midhir and etain.- o'curry, _manners and customs_; whitley stokes, _dinnsenchus_; müller, _revue celtique_; nutt, _voyage of bran_; de jubainville, _epopée celtique_; standish hayes o'grady, ms. lent me by him. manannan at play.- s. hayes o'grady, _silva gaedelica_. his call to bran.- professor kuno meyer in nutt's _voyage of bran_; s. hayes o'grady, _silva gaedelica_; de jubainville, _cycle mythologique_. his three calls to cormac.- whitley stokes, _irische texte_. cliodna's wave.- s. hayes o'grady, _silva gaedelica_; whitley stokes, _dinnsenchus_. his call to connla.- o'beirne crowe, _kilkenny arch. journal_; windisch, _irische texte_. tadg in the islands.- s. hayes o'grady, _silva gaedelica_. laegaire in the happy plain.- s.h. o'grady, _silva gaedelica_; kuno meyer in nutt's _voyage of bran_. fate of the children of lir.- o'curry, _atlantis_. part two. the fianna the coming of finn, and finn's household.- _proceedings ossianic society_; kuno meyer, _four songs of summer and winter_; _revue celtique_; s. hayes o'grady, _silva gaedelica_; curtin's _folk tales_. birth of bran.- _proc. ossianic society_. oisin's mother.- kennedy, _legendary fictions irish celts_; mac innis; _leabhar na feinne_. best men of the fianna.- dean of lismore's book; _silva gaedelica; leabhar na feinne_. lad of the skins.- _waifs and strays of celtic tradition_; larminie's _folk tales_; curtin's _tales_. the hound.- _silva gaedelica_; whitley stokes, _dinnsenchus_. red ridge.- _silva gaedelica_. battle of the white strand.- kuno meyer, _anec. oxonienses_; hanmer's _chronicle_; dean of lismore; curtin's _tales_; _silva gaedelica_. king of britain's son.- _silva gaedelica_. the cave of ceiscoran.- _silva gaedelica_. donn, son of midhir.- _silva gaedelica_. hospitality of cuanna's house.- _proc. ossianic society_. cat-heads and dog-heads.- dean of lismore; _leabhar na feinne_; campbell's _popular tales of the western highlands_. lomna's head.- o'curry, _orc. treith_, o'donovan, ed. stokes. ilbrec of ess ruadh.- _silva gaedelica_. cave of cruachan.- stokes, _irische texts._ wedding at ceann slieve.- _proc. ossianic society_. the shadowy one.- o'curry. finn's madness.- _silva gaedelica_. the red woman.- hyde, _sgealuidhe gaedhealach_. finn and the phantoms.- kuno meyer, _revue celtique_. the pigs of angus.- _proc. ossianic society_. hunt of slieve cuilinn.- _proc. ossianic society_. oisin's children.- o'curry; _leabhar na feinne_; campbell's _popular tales of the western highlands_; stokes, _irische texte_; dean of lismore; _celtic magazine_; _waifs and strays of celtic tradition_. birth of diarmuid.- _pursuit of diarmuid and grania_ (society for preservation of the irish language); campbell's _popular tales_. how diarmuid got his love-spot.- hyde, _sgealuidhe gaedhealach_. daughter of king under-wave.- campbell's _popular tales_. the hard servant.- _silva gaedelica_. house of the quicken trees.- mss. in royal irish academy, and in dr hyde's possession. diarmuid and grania.- text published by s. hayes o'grady, _proc. ossianic society_, and re-edited by n. o'duffey for society for preservation of the irish language; kuno meyer, _revue celtique_, and _four songs_; _leabhar na feinne_; campbell's _popular tales_; _kilkenny arch. journal_; _folk lore_, vol. vii., 1896; dean of lismore; nutt, _waifs and strays of celtic tradition_. cnoc-an-air, etc.- _proc. ossianic society_. wearing away of the fianna.- _silva gaedelica_; dean of lismore; _leabhar na feinne_; campbell's _popular tales_; _proc. ossianic society_; o'curry; _waifs and strays of celtic tradition_; stokes, _irische texte_. the end of the fianna.- hyde, _sgealuidhe gaedhealach_; _proc. ossianic society_; _silva gaedelica_; miss brooke's _reliques_; _annals of the four masters_; _celtic magazine_. oisin and patrick, and oisin's laments.- _proc. ossianic society_; dean of lismore; _kilkenny arch, fournal_; curtin's _tales_. i have taken grania's sleepy song, and the description of finn's shield and of cumhal's treasure-bag, and the fact of finn's descent from ethlinn, from _duanaire finn_, now being edited for the irish texts society by mr john macneill, the proofs of which i have been kindly allowed to see. and i have used sometimes parts of stories, or comments on them gathered directly from the people, who have kept these heroes so much in mind. the story of caoilte coming to the help of the king of ireland in a dark wood is the only one i have given without either a literary or a folk ancestry. it was heard or read by mr yeats, he cannot remember where, but he had, with it in his mind, written of "caoilte's burning hair" in one of his poems. i and my readers owe special thanks to those good workers in the discovery of irish literature, professor kuno meyer and mr whitley stokes, translators of so many manuscripts; and to my friend and kinsman standish hayes o'grady, for what i have taken from that wonderful treasure-house, his _silva gaedelica_. iv. the pronunciation this is the approximate pronunciation of some of the more difficult names: adhnuall ai-noo-al. ailbhe. alva. almhuin all-oon, _or_ alvin. aobh aev, _or_ eev. aodh ae (rhyming to "day"). aoibhill evill. aoife eefa. badb bibe. beltaine, or bealtaine bal-tinna. bladhma bly-ma. bodb dearg bove darrig. caoilte cweeltia. cam ruidhe corn rwee. ciabhan kee-a-van. cliodna cleevna. coincheann kun-kann. crann buidhe cran bwee. credhe crae-a. cumhal coo-al. deaghadh d'ya-a. dubhthach duffach. duibhreann dhiv-ran. duibhrium dhiv-rinn. dun doon. eimher aevir. emhain avvin. eochaid eohee. eoghan owen. fionnchad finn-ach-a. fodhla fóla. fodla fola. gallimh gol-yiv. glas gaibhnenn glos gov-nan. leith laeig leh laeg. loch dairbhreach loch darvragh. lugaidh loo-ee, _or_ lewy. lugh loo. magh an ionganaidh moy-in-eean-ee. magh cuillean moy cullin. magh feabhail moy fowl. magh macraimhe moy mucrivva. magh mell moy mal. magh rein moy raen. magh tuireadh moytirra. manannan mananaun. midhe mee. midhna mec-na. mochaomhog mo-cwecv-og. muadhan moo-aun. murchadh murachu. nemhnain now-nin. niamh nee-av. og og. rath medba, or meadhbha ra maev-a. rudraighe rury. samhain sow-in. scathniamh scau-nee-av. sceolan skolaun. searbhan sharavaun. sidhe shee. slieve echtge sleev acht-ga. tadg teig. teamhair t'yower, _or_ tavvir. tuatha de danaan too-a-ha dae donnan. tuathmumhain too-moon. i have not followed a fixed rule as to the spelling of irish names; i have taken the spelling i give from various good authorities, but they vary so much that, complete accuracy not being easy, i sometimes look to custom and convenience. i use, for instance, "slieve" for "sliabh," because it comes so often, and a mispronunciation would spoil so many names. i have treated "inbhir" (a river mouth) in the same way, spelling it "inver," and even adopting it as an english word, because it is so useful. the forty scholars of the new school of old irish will do us good service if they work at the question both of spelling and of pronunciation of the old names and settle them as far as is possible. v. the place names accuill achill, co. mayo. aine cliach cnoc aine, co. limerick. almhuin near kildare. ath cliath dublin. athluain athlone. ath na riogh athenry. badhamain cahir, co. tipperary. baile cronin barony of imokilty, co. cork. banna the bann. beare berehaven. bearna na eadargana roscommon. bearnas mor co. donegal. beinn gulbain benbulban, co. sligo. beire do bhunadas berehaven. bel-atha senaig ballyshannon. belgata in connemara. benna boirde source of the bann and mourne mountains. berramain near tralee. bhas river bush. boinn river boyne. bri leith co. longford. cairbre carbury. cairgin three miles south of londonderry. carrthach river river carra, near dunkerrin mountains. ceanntaile kinsale. ceiscorainn co. sligo. cill dolun killaloe, co. clare. cliodna's wave at glandore, co. cork. cluantarbh clontarf. cnoc aine co. limerick. cnoc-an-air co. kerry. cnoc na righ co. sligo. corca duibhne corcaguiny, co. kerry. corrslieve carlow mountains. crotta cliach galtee mountains. cruachan co. roscommon. cruachan aigle croagh patrick. doire a cairn derrycarn, co. meath. doire-da-bhoth in slieve echtge. druim cleibh co. sligo. druim lis near loch gill. druimscarha near river arighis, co. cork. dun sobairce dunsevenh, co. antrim. durlas thurles. ess dara near sligo. ess ruadh assaroe, co. donegal. fidh gaible fergill, co. sligo. finntraighe ventry. fionn the finn. fionnabraic kilfenna, co. clare. fionntutach co. limerick. fleisge co. kerry. gabhra near tara. gaibh atha na fiann river leamhar, flows from killarney. gairech and ilgairech hills near mullingar. gallimh galway. gleann na caor co. cork. gullach dollairb barony of rathconrath. hill of bairnech near killarney. hill of uisnech co. westmeath. inver cechmaine east coast of ulster. inver colpa drogheda. inver slane n.e. of leinster. irrus domnann erris, co. mayo. island of toraig tory island, co. donegal. laoi river lee. leith laoi leitrim. linn feic near slaney. loch bel sead co. tipperary. loch cé co. roscommon. loch dairbhreach loch derryvaragh, co. westmeath. loch deirg dheirc loch derg on the shannon. loch eirne loch erne. loch feabhail loch foyle. loch lein killarney. loch orbson loch corrib. loch na-n ean in co. roscommon. lough neatach loch neagh. luimneach limerick. maev mhagh plain about loughrea. magh cobha iveagh, co. down. magh cuilenn moycullen, co. galway. magh femen co. tipperary. magh larg co. roscommon. magh leine king's county. magh luirg co. roscommon. magh maini co. wexford. magh mucraimhe near athenry. magh nia same as magh tuireadh. magh rein co. leitrim. magh tuireadh moytura near sligo, scene of great battle, and moytura, near cong, scene of first battle. march of finnliath river lee, near tralee. midhe meath, west of ardagh. mis geadh in bay of erris. muaid river moy. muc-inis muckinish, off connemara. nas naas. nem the nem. oenach clochan morristown, co. limerick. osraige ossory. paps of dana co. kerry. portlairge waterford. river maigh co. limerick. ros da shioleach limerick. ruirlech liffey. samair r. cumhair, runs through bruff. sionnan river shannon. siuir river suir, co. tipperary. siuir and beoir suir and nore and barrow. and berba slieve baisne co. roscommon. slieve bladmai slieve bloom. slieve buane slieve banne, co. roscommon. slieve conaill border of leitrim and donegal. slieve crot co. tipperary. slieve cua co. waterford. slieve cua and slieve crot in galtee mountains. slieve cuailgne co. louth. slieve echtge co. galway. slieve fuad co. armagh. slieve guaire co. cavan. slieve luchra co. kerry. slieve lugha co. mayo. slieve mis co. kerry. slieve muice co. tipperary. slieve-nam-ban co. tipperary sligach sligo. srub bruin in west kerry. sruth na maoile mull of cantire. tailltin telltown. teamhair tara, co. meath. teunhair luchra near castle island, co. kerry. the beith river behy, barony of dunkerrin. the beoir the berba. the islands of mod in clew bay. the lemain river laune, co. kerry. the muaidh river moy, co. sligo. tonn toime toines, near killarney. traigh eothaile near ballisodare. tuathmumain thomond. ui chonaill gabhra co. limerick. ui fiachraih, fiachraig co. mayo. wave of rudraighe bay of dundrum. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 15202-h.htm or 15202-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/2/0/15202/15202-h/15202-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/2/0/15202/15202-h.zip) young folks' treasury in 12 volumes hamilton wright mabie, editor edward everett hale, associate editor volume ii: myths and legendary heroes hamilton wright mabie, editor new york the university society inc. publishers [illustration: jason snatched off his helmet and hurled it.] partial list of contributors, assistant editors and advisers hamilton wright mabie editor edward everett hale associate editor nicholas murray butler, president columbia university. william r. harper, late president chicago university. hon. theodore roosevelt, ex-president of the united states. hon. grover cleveland, late president of the united states. james cardinal gibbons, american roman catholic prelate. robert c. ogden, partner of john wanamaker. hon. george f. hoar, late senator from massachusetts. edward w. bok, editor "ladies' home journal." henry van dyke, author, poet, and professor of english literature, princeton university. lyman abbott, author, editor of "the outlook." charles g.d. roberts, writer of animal stories. jacob a. riis, author and journalist. edward everett hale, jr., english professor at union college. joel chandler harris, late author and creator of "uncle remus." george gary eggleston, novelist and journalist. ray stannard baker, author and journalist. william blaikie, author of "how to get strong and how to stay so." william davenport hulbert, writer of animal stories. joseph jacobs, folklore writer and editor of the "jewish encyclopedia." mrs. virginia terhune ("marion harland"), author of "common sense in the household," etc. margaret e. sangster, author of "the art of home-making," etc. sarah k. bolton, biographical writer. ellen velvin, writer of animal stories. rev. theodore wood, f.e.s., writer on natural history. w.j. baltzell, editor of "the musician." herbert t. wade, editor and writer on physics. john h. clifford, editor and writer. ernest ingersoll, naturalist and author. daniel e. wheeler, editor and writer. ida prentice whitcomb, author of "young people's story of music," "heroes of history," etc. mark hambourg, pianist and composer. mme. blanche marchesi, opera singer and teacher. contents introduction myths of greece and rome baucis and philemon adapted by c.e. smith pandora adapted by c.e. smith midas adapted by c.e. smith cadmus adapted by c.e. smith proserpina adapted by c.e. smith the story of atalanta adapted by anna klingensmith pyramus and thisbe adapted by alice zimmern orpheus adapted by alice zimmern myths of scandinavia baldur adapted from a. and e. keary's version thor's adventure among the jotuns adapted by julia goddard the apples of idun adapted by hamilton wright mabie the gifts of the dwarfs the punishment of loki adapted from a. and e. keary's version myths of india the blind man, the deaf man, and the donkey adapted by m. frere harisarman why the fish laughed muchie lal adapted by m. frere how the rajah's son won the princess labam adapted by joseph jacobs myths of japan the jellyfish and the monkey adapted by yei theodora ozaki the old man and-the devils autumn and spring adapted by frank kinder the vision of tsunu adapted by frank kinder the star-lovers adapted by frank kinder myths of the slavs the two brothers adapted by alexander chodsko the twelve months adapted by alexander chodsko the sun; or, the three golden hairs of the old man vésèvde adapted by alexander chodsko a myth of america hiawatha adapted from h.r. schoolcraft's version heroes of greece and rome perseus adapted by mary macgregor odysseus adapted by jeanie lang the argonauts adapted by mary macgregor theseus adapted by mary macgregor hercules adapted by thomas cartwright the perilous voyage of æneas adapted by alice zimmern how horatius held the bridge adapted by alfred j. church how cincinnatus saved rome adapted by alfred j. church heroes of great britain beowulf adapted by h.e. marshall how king arthur conquered rome adapted by e. edwardson sir galahad and the sacred cup adapted by mary macgregor the passing of arthur adapted by mary macgregor robin hood adapted by h.e. marshall guy of warwick adapted by h.e. marshall whittington and his cat adapted by ernest rhys tom hickathrift adapted by ernest rhys heroes of scandinavia the story of frithiof adapted by julia goddard havelok adapted by george w. cox and e.h. jones the vikings adapted by mary macgregor hero of germany siegfried adapted by mary macgregor hero of france roland adapted by h.e. marshall hero of spain the cid adapted by robert southey hero of switzerland william tell adapted by h.e. marshall hero of persia rustem adapted by alfred j. church illustrations jason snatched off his helmet and hurled it (frontispiece) out flew a bright, smiling fairy he caught her in his arms and sprang into the chariot orpheus and eurydice the punishment of loki the princess labam ... shines so that she lights up all the country hiawatha in his canoe so danae was comforted and went home with dictys orpheus sang till his voice drowned the song of the sirens they leapt across the pool and came to him theseus looked up into her fair face sir galahad robin hood in an encounter the hero's shining sword pierced the heart of the monster william tell and his friends (many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced by special permission of e.p. dutton & company, owners of american rights.) introduction with such a table of contents in front of this little foreword, i am quite sure that few will pause to consider my prosy effort. nor can i blame any readers who jump over my head, when they may sit beside kind old baucis, and drink out of her miraculous milk-pitcher, and hear noble philemon talk; or join hands with pandora and epimetheus in their play before the fatal box was opened; or, in fact, be in the company of even the most awe-inspiring of our heroes and heroines. for ages the various characters told about in the following pages have charmed, delighted, and inspired the people of the world. like fairy tales, these stories of gods, demigods, and wonderful men were the natural offspring of imaginative races, and from generation to generation they were repeated by father and mother to son and daughter. and if a brave man had done a big deed he was immediately celebrated in song and story, and quite as a matter of course, the deed grew with repetition of these. minstrels, gleemen, poets, and skalds (a scandinavian term for poets) took up these rich themes and elaborated them. thus, if a hero had killed a serpent, in time it became a fiery dragon, and if he won a great battle, the enthusiastic reciters of it had him do prodigious feats--feats beyond belief. but do not fancy from this that the heroes were every-day persons. indeed, they were quite extraordinary and deserved highest praise of their fellow-men. so, in ancient and medieval europe the wandering poet or minstrel went from place to place repeating his wondrous narratives, adding new verses to his tales, changing his episodes to suit locality or occasion, and always skilfully shaping his fascinating romances. in court and cottage he was listened to with breathless attention. he might be compared to a living novel circulating about the country, for in those days books were few or entirely unknown. oriental countries, too, had their professional story-spinners, while our american indians heard of the daring exploits of their heroes from the lips of old men steeped in tradition. my youngest reader can then appreciate how myths and legends were multiplied and their incidents magnified. we all know how almost unconsciously we color and change the stories we repeat, and naturally so did our gentle and gallant singers through the long-gone centuries of chivalry and simple faith. every reader can feel the deep significance underlying the myths we present--the poetry and imperishable beauty of the greek, the strange and powerful conceptions of the scandinavian mind, the oddity and fantasy of the japanese, slavs, and east indians, and finally the queer imaginings of our own american indians. who, for instance, could ever forget poor proserpina and the six pomegranate seeds, the death of beautiful baldur, the luminous princess labam, the stupid jellyfish and shrewd monkey, and the funny way in which hiawatha remade the earth after it had been destroyed by flood? then take our legendary heroes: was ever a better or braver company brought together--perseus, hercules, siegfried, roland, galahad, robin hood, and a dozen others? but stop, i am using too many question-marks. there is no need to query heroes known and admired the world over. as true latter-day story-tellers, both hawthorne and kingsley retold many of these myths and legends, and from their classic pages we have adapted a number of our tales, and made them somewhat simpler and shorter in form. by way of apology for this liberty (if some should so consider it), we humbly offer a paragraph from a preface to the "wonder book" written by its author: "a great freedom of treatment was necessary but it will be observed by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his intellectual furnace, that they are marvelously independent of all temporary modes and circumstances. they remain essentially the same, after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else." now to those who have not jumped over my head, or to those who, having done so, may jump back to this foreword, i trust my few remarks will have given some additional interest in our myths and heroes of lands far and near. daniel edwin wheeler myths of many countries myths of greece and rome baucis and philemon adapted by c.e. smith one evening, in times long ago, old philemon and his wife baucis sat at their cottage door watching the sunset. they had eaten their supper and were enjoying a quiet talk about their garden, and their cow, and the fruit trees on which the pears and apples were beginning to ripen. but their talk was very much disturbed by rude shouts and laughter from the village children, and by the fierce barking of dogs. "i fear," said philemon, "that some poor traveler is asking for a bed in the village, and that these rough people have set the dogs on him." "well, i never," answered old baucis. "i do wish the neighbors would be kinder to poor wanderers; i feel that some terrible punishment will happen to this village if the people are so wicked as to make fun of those who are tired and hungry. as for you and me, so long as we have a crust of bread, let us always be willing to give half of it to any poor homeless stranger who may come along." "indeed, that we will," said philemon. these old folks, you must know, were very poor, and had to work hard for a living. they seldom had anything to eat except bread and milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a little honey from their beehives, or a few ripe pears and apples from their little garden. but they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would have gone without their dinner any day, rather than refuse a slice of bread or a cupful of milk to the weary traveler who might stop at the door. their cottage stood on a little hill a short way from the village, which lay in a valley; such a pretty valley, shaped like a cup, with plenty of green fields and gardens, and fruit trees; it was a pleasure just to look at it. but the people who lived in this lovely place were selfish and hard-hearted; they had no pity for the poor, and were unkind to those who had no home, and they only laughed when philemon said it was right to be gentle to people who were sad and friendless. these wicked villagers taught their children to be as bad as themselves. they used to clap their hands and make fun of poor travelers who were tramping wearily from one village to another, and they even taught the dogs to snarl and bark at strangers if their clothes were shabby. so the village was known far and near as an unfriendly place, where neither help nor pity was to be found. what made it worse, too, was that when rich people came in their carriages, or riding on fine horses, with servants to attend to them, the village people would take off their hats and be very polite and attentive: and if the children were rude they got their ears boxed; as to the dogs--if a single dog dared to growl at a rich man he was beaten and then tied up without any supper. so now you can understand why old philemon spoke sadly when he heard the shouts of the children, and the barking of the dogs, at the far end of the village street. he and baucis sat shaking their heads while the noise came nearer and nearer, until they saw two travelers coming along the road on foot. a crowd of rude children were following them, shouting and throwing stones, and several dogs were snarling at the travelers' heels. they were both very plainly dressed, and looked as if they might not have enough money to pay for a night's lodging. "come, wife," said philemon, "let us go and meet these poor people and offer them shelter." "you go," said baucis, "while i make ready some supper," and she hastened indoors. philemon went down the road, and holding out his hand to the two men, he said, "welcome, strangers, welcome." "thank you," answered the younger of the two travelers. "yours is a kind welcome, very different from the one we got in the village; pray why do you live in such a bad place?" "i think," answered philemon, "that providence put me here just to make up as best i can for other people's unkindness." the traveler laughed heartily, and philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits. he took a good look at him and his companion. the younger man was very thin, and was dressed in an odd kind of way. though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak which was wrapped tightly about him; and he had a cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. there was something queer too about his shoes, but as it was getting dark, philemon could not see exactly what they were like. one thing struck philemon very much, the traveler was so wonderfully light and active that it seemed as if his feet were only kept close to the ground with difficulty. he had a staff in his hand which was the oddest-looking staff philemon had seen. it was made of wood and had a little pair of wings near the top. two snakes cut into the wood were twisted round the staff, and these were so well carved that philemon almost thought he could see them wriggling. the older man was very tall, and walked calmly along, taking no notice either of naughty children or yelping dogs. when they reached the cottage gate, philemon said, "we are very poor folk, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard. my wife baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper." they sat down on the bench, and the younger stranger let his staff fall as he threw himself down on the grass, and then a strange thing happened. the staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and it opened a little pair of wings and half-hopped, half-flew and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. philemon was so amazed that he feared he had been dreaming, but before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger said: "was there not a lake long ago covering the spot where the village now stands?" "never in my day," said old philemon, "nor in my father's, nor my grandfather's: there were always fields and meadows just as there are now, and i suppose there always will be." "that i am not so sure of," replied the stranger. "since the people in that village have forgotten how to be loving and gentle, maybe it were better that the lake should be rippling over the cottages again," and he looked very sad and stern. he was a very important-looking man, philemon felt, even though his clothes were old and shabby; maybe he was some great learned stranger who did not care at all for money or clothes, and was wandering about the world seeking wisdom and knowledge. philemon was quite sure he was not a common person. but he talked so kindly to philemon, and the younger traveler made such funny remarks, that they were all constantly laughing. "pray, my young friend, what is your name?" philemon asked. "well," answered the younger man, "i am called mercury, because i am so quick." "what a strange name!" said philemon; "and your friend, what is he called?" "you must ask the thunder to tell you that," said mercury, "no other voice is loud enough." philemon was a little confused at this answer, but the stranger looked so kind and friendly that he began to tell them about his good old wife, and what fine butter and cheese she made, and how happy they were in their little garden; and how they loved each other very dearly and hoped they might live together till they died. and the stern stranger listened with a sweet smile on his face. baucis had now got supper ready; not very much of a supper, she told them. there was only half a brown loaf and a bit of cheese, a pitcher with some milk, a little honey, and a bunch of purple grapes. but she said, "had we only known you were coming, my goodman and i would have gone without anything in order to give you a better supper." "do not trouble," said the elder stranger kindly. "a hearty welcome is better than the finest of food, and we are so hungry that what you have to offer us seems a feast." then they all went into the cottage. and now i must tell you something that will make your eyes open. you remember that mercury's staff was leaning against the cottage wall? well, when its owner went in at the door, what should this wonderful staff do but spread its little wings and go hop-hop, flutter-flutter up the steps; then it went tap-tap across the kitchen floor and did not stop till it stood close behind mercury's chair. no one noticed this, as baucis and her husband were too busy attending to their guests. baucis filled up two bowls of milk from the pitcher, while her husband cut the loaf and the cheese. "what delightful milk, mother baucis," said mercury, "may i have some more? this has been such a hot day that i am very thirsty." "oh dear, i am so sorry and ashamed," answered baucis, "but the truth is there is hardly another drop of milk in the pitcher." "let me see," said mercury, starting up and catching hold of the handles, "why here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." he poured out a bowlful for himself and another for his companion. baucis could scarcely believe her eyes. "i suppose i must have made a mistake," she thought, "at any rate the pitcher must be empty now after filling both bowls twice over." "excuse me, my kind hostess," said mercury in a little while, "but your milk is so good that i should very much like another bowlful." now baucis was perfectly sure that the pitcher was empty, and in order to show mercury that there was not another drop in it, she held it upside down over his bowl. what was her surprise when a stream of fresh milk fell bubbling into the bowl and overflowed on to the table, and the two snakes that were twisted round mercury's staff stretched out their heads and began to lap it up. "and now, a slice of your brown loaf, pray mother baucis, and a little honey," asked mercury. baucis handed the loaf, and though it had been rather a hard and dry loaf when she and her husband ate some at tea-time, it was now as soft and new as if it had just come from the oven. as to the honey, it had become the color of new gold and had the scent of a thousand flowers, and the small grapes in the bunch had grown larger and richer, and each one seemed bursting with ripe juice. although baucis was a very simple old woman, she could not help thinking that there was something rather strange going on. she sat down beside philemon and told him in a whisper what she had seen. "did you ever hear anything so wonderful?" she asked. "no, i never did," answered philemon, with a smile. "i fear you have been in a dream, my dear old wife." he knew baucis could not say what was untrue, but he thought that she had not noticed how much milk there had really been in the pitcher at first. so when mercury once more asked for a little milk, philemon rose and lifted the pitcher himself. he peeped in and saw that there was not a drop in it; then all at once a little white fountain gushed up from the bottom, and the pitcher was soon filled to the brim with delicious milk. philemon was so amazed that he nearly let the jug fall. "who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" he cried. "your guests, good philemon, and your friends," answered the elder traveler, "and may the pitcher never be empty for kind baucis and yourself any more than for the hungry traveler." the old people did not like to ask any more questions; they gave the guests their own sleeping-room, and then they lay down on the hard floor in the kitchen. it was long before they fell asleep, not because they thought how hard their bed was, but because there was so much to whisper to each other about the wonderful strangers and what they had done. they all rose with the sun next morning. philemon begged the visitors to stay a little till baucis should milk the cow and bake some bread for breakfast. but the travelers seemed to be in a hurry and wished to start at once, and they asked baucis and philemon to go with them a short distance to show them the way. so they all four set out together, and mercury was so full of fun and laughter, and made them feel so happy and bright, that they would have been glad to keep him in their cottage every day and all day long. "ah me," said philemon, "if only our neighbors knew what a pleasure it was to be kind to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs and never allow the children to fling another stone." "it is a sin and shame for them to behave so," said baucis, "and i mean to go this very day and tell some of them how wicked they are." "i fear," said mercury, smiling, "that you will not find any of them at home." the old people looked at the elder traveler and his face had grown very grave and stern. "when men do not feel towards the poorest stranger as if he were a brother," he said, in a deep, grave voice, "they are not worthy to remain on the earth, which was made just to be the home for the whole family of the human race of men and women and children." "and, by the bye," said mercury, with a look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this village you talk about? i do not see anything of it." philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at sunset only the day before they had seen the trees and gardens, and the houses, and the streets with the children playing in them. but there was no longer any sign of the village. there was not even a valley. instead, they saw a broad lake which filled all the great basin from brim to brim, and whose waters glistened and sparkled in the morning sun. the village that had been there only yesterday was now gone! "alas! what has become of our poor neighbors?" cried the kind-hearted old people. "they are not men and women any longer," answered the elder traveler, in a deep voice like distant thunder. "there was no beauty and no use in lives such as theirs, for they had no love for one another, and no pity in their hearts for those who were poor and weary. therefore the lake that was here in the old, old days has flowed over them, and they will be men and women no more." "yes," said mercury, with his mischievous smile, "these foolish people have all been changed into fishes because they had cold blood which never warmed their hearts, just as the fishes have." "as for you, good philemon, and you, kind baucis," said the elder traveler, "you, indeed, gave a hearty welcome to the homeless strangers. you have done well, my dear old friends, and whatever wish you have most at heart will be granted." philemon and baucis looked at one another, and then i do not know which spoke, but it seemed as if the voice came from them both. "let us live together while we live, and let us die together, at the same time, for we have always loved one another." "be it so," said the elder stranger, and he held out his hands as if to bless them. the old couple bent their heads and fell on their knees to thank him, and when they lifted their eyes again, neither mercury nor his companion was to be seen. so philemon and baucis returned to the cottage, and to every traveler who passed that way they offered a drink of milk from the wonderful pitcher, and if the guest was a kind, gentle soul, he found the milk the sweetest and most refreshing he had ever tasted. but if a cross, bad-tempered fellow took even a sip, he found the pitcher full of sour milk, which made him twist his face with dislike and disappointment. baucis and philemon lived a great, great many years and grew very old. and one summer morning when their friends came to share their breakfast, neither baucis nor philemon was to be found! the guests looked everywhere, and all in vain. then suddenly one of them noticed two beautiful trees in the garden, just in front of the door. one was an oak tree and the other a linden tree, and their branches were twisted together so that they seemed to be embracing. no one had ever seen these trees before, and while they were all wondering how such fine trees could possibly have grown up in a single night, there came a gentle wind which set the branches moving, and then a mysterious voice was heard coming from the oak tree. "i am old philemon," it said; and again another voice whispered, "and i am baucis." and the people knew that the good old couple would live for a hundred years or more in the heart of these lovely trees. and oh, what a pleasant shade they flung around! some kind soul built a seat under the branches, and whenever a traveler sat down to rest he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves over his head, and he wondered why the sound should seem to say, "welcome, dear traveler, welcome." pandora adapted by c.e. smith long, long ago, when this old world was still very young, there lived a child named epimetheus. he had neither father nor mother, and to keep him company, a little girl, who was fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his playfellow. this child's name was pandora. the first thing that pandora saw, when she came to the cottage where epimetheus lived, was a great wooden box. "what have you in that box, epimetheus?" she asked. "that is a secret," answered epimetheus, "and you must not ask any questions about it; the box was left here for safety, and i do not know what is in it." "but who gave it you?" asked pandora, "and where did it come from?" "that is a secret too," answered epimetheus. "how tiresome!" exclaimed pandora, pouting her lip. "i wish the great ugly box were out of the way;" and she looked very cross. "come along, and let us play games," said epimetheus; "do not let us think any more about it;" and they ran out to play with the other children, and for a while pandora forgot all about the box. but when she came back to the cottage, there it was in front of her, and instead of paying no heed to it, she began to say to herself: "whatever can be inside it? i wish i just knew who brought it! dear epimetheus, do tell me; i know i cannot be happy till you tell me all about it." then epimetheus grew a little angry. "how can i tell you, pandora?" he said, "i do not know any more than you do." "well, you could open it," said pandora, "and we could see for ourselves!" but epimetheus looked so shocked at the very idea of opening a box that had been given to him in trust, that pandora saw she had better not suggest such a thing again. "at least you can tell me how it came here," she said. "it was left at the door," answered epimetheus, "just before you came, by a queer person dressed in a very strange cloak; he had a cap that seemed to be partly made of feathers; it looked exactly as if he had wings." "what kind of a staff had he?" asked pandora. "oh, the most curious staff you ever saw," cried epimetheus: "it seemed like two serpents twisted round a stick." "i know him," said pandora thoughtfully. "it was mercury, and he brought me here as well as the box. i am sure he meant the box for me, and perhaps there are pretty clothes in it for us to wear, and toys for us both to play with." "it may be so," answered epimetheus, turning away; "but until mercury comes back and tells us that we may open it, neither of us has any right to lift the lid;" and he went out of the cottage. "what a stupid boy he is!" muttered pandora, "i do wish he had a little more spirit." then she stood gazing at the box. she had called it ugly a hundred times, but it was really a very handsome box, and would have been an ornament in any room. it was made of beautiful dark wood, so dark and so highly polished that pandora could see her face in it. the edges and the corners were wonderfully carved. on these were faces of lovely women, and of the prettiest children, who seemed to be playing among the leaves and flowers. but the most beautiful face of all was one which had a wreath of flowers about its brow. all around it was the dark, smooth-polished wood with this strange face looking out from it, and some days pandora thought it was laughing at her, while at other times it had a very grave look which made her rather afraid. the box was not fastened with a lock and key like most boxes, but with a strange knot of gold cord. there never was a knot so queerly tied; it seemed to have no end and no beginning, but was twisted so cunningly, with so many ins and outs, that not even the cleverest fingers could undo it. pandora began to examine the knot just to see how it was made. "i really believe," she said to herself, "that i begin to see how it is done. i am sure i could tie it up again after undoing it. there could be no harm in that; i need not open the box even if i undo the knot." and the longer she looked at it, the more she wanted just to try. so she took the gold cord in her fingers and examined it very closely. then she raised her head, and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face, she thought it was grinning at her. "i wonder whether it is smiling because i am doing wrong," thought pandora, "i have a good mind to leave the box alone and run away." but just at that moment, as if by accident, she gave the knot a little shake, and the gold cord untwisted itself as if by magic, and there was the box without any fastening. "this is the strangest thing i have ever known," said pandora, rather frightened, "what will epimetheus say? how can i possibly tie it up again?" she tried once or twice, but the knot would not come right. it had untied itself so suddenly she could not remember in the least how the cord had been twisted together. so there was nothing to be done but to let the box remain unfastened until epimetheus should come home. "but," thought pandora; "when he finds the knot untied he will know that i have done it; how shall i ever make him believe that i have not looked into the box?" and then the naughty thought came into her head that, as epimetheus would believe that she had looked into the box, she might just as well have a little peep. she looked at the face with the wreath, and it seemed to smile at her invitingly, as much as to say: "do not be afraid, what harm can there possibly be in raising the lid for a moment?" and then she thought she heard voices inside, tiny voices that whispered: "let us out, dear pandora, do let us out; we want very much to play with you if you will only let us out?" "what can it be?" said pandora. "is there something alive in the box? yes, i must just see, only one little peep and the lid will be shut down as safely as ever. there cannot really be any harm in just one little peep." all this time epimetheus had been playing with the other children in the fields, but he did not feel happy. this was the first time he had played without pandora, and he was so cross and discontented that the other children could not think what was the matter with him. you see, up to this time everybody in the world had always been happy, no one had ever been ill, or naughty, or miserable; the world was new and beautiful, and the people who lived in it did not know what trouble meant. so epimetheus could not understand what was the matter with himself, and he stopped trying to play games and went back to pandora. on the way home he gathered a bunch of lovely roses, and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and with these he made a wreath to give pandora, who was very fond of flowers. he noticed there was a great black cloud in the sky, which was creeping nearer and nearer to the sun, and just as ejpimetheus reached the cottage door the cloud went right over the sun and made everything look dark and sad. epimetheus went in quietly, for he wanted to surprise pandora with the wreath of flowers. and what do you think he saw? the naughty little girl had put her hand on the lid of the box and was just going to open it. epimetheus saw this quite well, and if he had cried out at once it would have given pandora such a fright she would have let go the lid. but epimetheus was very naughty too. although he had said very little about the box, he was just as curious as pandora was to see what was inside: if they really found anything pretty or valuable in it, he meant to take half of it for himself; so that he was just as naughty, and nearly as much to blame as his companion. when pandora raised the lid, the cottage had grown very dark, for the black cloud now covered the sun entirely and a heavy peal of thunder was heard. but pandora was too busy and excited to notice this: she lifted the lid right up, and at once a swarm of creatures with wings flew out of the box, and a minute after she heard epimetheus crying loudly: "oh, i am stung, i am stung! you naughty pandora, why did you open this wicked box?" pandora let the lid fall with a crash and started up to find out what had happened to her playmate. the thunder-cloud had made the room so dark that she could scarcely see, but she heard a loud buzz-buzzing, as if a great many huge flies had flown in, and soon she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes darting about, with wings like bats and with terribly long stings in their tails. it was one of these that had stung epimetheus, and it was not long before pandora began to scream with pain and fear. an ugly little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her badly had not epimetheus run forward and brushed it away. now i must tell you that these ugly creatures with stings, which had escaped from the box, were the whole family of earthly troubles. there were evil tempers, and a great many kinds of cares: and there were more than a hundred and fifty sorrows, and there were diseases in many painful shapes. in fact all the sorrows and worries that hurt people in the world to-day had been shut up in the magic-box, and given to epimetheus and pandora to keep safely, in order that the happy children in the world might never be troubled by them. if only these two had obeyed mercury and had left the box alone as he told them, all would have gone well. but you see what mischief they had done. the winged troubles flew out at the window and went all over the world: and they made people so unhappy that no one smiled for a great many days. it was very strange, too, that from this day flowers began to fade, and after a short time they died, whereas in the old times, before pandora opened the box, they had been always fresh and beautiful. meanwhile pandora and epimetheus remained in the cottage: they were very miserable and in great pain, which made them both exceedingly cross. epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back to pandora, while pandora flung herself on the floor and cried bitterly, resting her head on the lid of the fatal box. suddenly, she heard a gentle tap-tap inside. "what can that be?" said pandora, raising her head; and again came the tap, tap. it sounded like the knuckles of a tiny hand knocking lightly on the inside of the box. "who are you?" asked pandora. a sweet little voice came from inside: "only lift the lid and you will see." but pandora was afraid to lift the lid again. she looked across to epimetheus, but he was so cross that he took no notice. pandora sobbed: "no, no, i am afraid; there are so many troubles with stings flying about that we do not want any more?" "ah, but i am not one of these," the sweet voice said, "they are no relations of mine. come, come, dear pandora, i am sure you will let me out." the voice sounded so kind and cheery that it made pandora feel better even to listen to it. epimetheus too had heard the voice. he stopped crying. then he came forward, and said: "let me help you, pandora, as the lid is very heavy." so this time both the children opened the box, and out flew a bright, smiling little fairy, who brought light and sunshine with her. she flew to epimetheus and with her finger touched his brow where the trouble had stung him, and immediately the pain was gone. then she kissed pandora, and her hurt was better at once. [illustration: out flew a bright smiling little fairy.] "pray who are you, kind fairy?" pandora asked. "i am called hope," answered the sunshiny figure. "i was shut up in the box so that i might be ready to comfort people when the family of troubles got loose in the world." "what lovely wings you have! they are just like a rainbow. and will you stay with us," asked epimetheus, "for ever and ever?" "yes," said hope, "i shall stay with you as long as you live. sometimes you will not be able to see me, and you may think i am dead, but you will find that i come back again and again when you have given up expecting me, and you must always trust my promise that i will never really leave you." "yes, we do trust you," cried both children. and all the rest of their lives when the troubles came back and buzzed about their heads and left bitter stings of pain, pandora and epimetheus would remember whose fault it was that the troubles had ever come into the world at all, and they would then wait patiently till the fairy with the rainbow wings came back to heal and comfort them. midas adapted by c.e. smith once upon a time there lived a very rich king whose name was midas, and he had a little daughter whom he loved very dearly. this king was fonder of gold than of anything else in the whole world: or if he did love anything better, it was the one little daughter who played so merrily beside her father's footstool. but the more midas loved his daughter, the more he wished to be rich for her sake. he thought, foolish man, that the best thing he could do for his child was to leave her the biggest pile of yellow glittering gold that had ever been heaped together since the world began. so he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this purpose. when he worked in his garden, he used to wish that the roses had leaves made of gold, and once when his little daughter brought him a handful of yellow buttercups, he exclaimed, "now if these had only been real gold they would have been worth gathering." he very soon forgot how beautiful the flowers, and the grass, and the trees were, and at the time my story begins midas could scarcely bear to see or to touch anything that was not made of gold. every day he used to spend a great many hours in a dark, ugly room underground: it was here that he kept all his money, and whenever midas wanted to be very happy he would lock himself into this miserable room and would spend hours and hours pouring the glittering coins out of his money-bags. or he would count again and again the bars of gold which were kept in a big oak chest with a great iron lock in the lid, and sometimes he would carry a boxful of gold dust from the dark corner where it lay, and would look at the shining heap by the light that came from a tiny window. to his greedy eyes there never seemed to be half enough; he was quite discontented. "what a happy man i should be," he said one day, "if only the whole world could be made of gold, and if it all belonged to me!" just then a shadow fell across the golden pile, and when midas looked up he saw a young man with a cheery rosy face standing in the thin strip of sunshine that came through the little window. midas was certain that he had carefully locked the door before he opened his money-bags, so he knew that no one, unless he were more than a mortal, could get in beside him. the stranger seemed so friendly and pleasant that midas was not in the least afraid. "you are a rich man, friend midas," the visitor said. "i doubt if any other room in the whole world has as much gold in it as this." "may be," said midas in a discontented voice, "but i wish it were much more; and think how many years it has taken me to gather it all! if only i could live for a thousand years, then i might be really rich. "then you are not satisfied?" asked the stranger. midas shook his head. "what would satisfy you?" the stranger said. midas looked at his visitor for a minute, and then said, "i am tired of getting money with so much trouble. i should like everything i touch to be changed into gold." the stranger smiled, and his smile seemed to fill the room like a flood of sunshine. "are you quite sure, midas, that you would never be sorry if your wish were granted?" he asked. "quite sure," said midas: "i ask nothing more to make me perfectly happy." "be it as you wish, then," said the stranger: "from to-morrow at sunrise you will have your desire--everything you touch will be changed into gold." the figure of the stranger then grew brighter and brighter, so that midas had to close his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw only a yellow sunbeam in the room, and all around him glittered the precious gold which he had spent his life in gathering. how midas longed for the next day to come! he scarcely slept that night, and as soon as it was light he laid his hand on the chair beside his bed; then he nearly cried when he saw that nothing happened: the chair remained just as it was. "could the stranger have made a mistake," he wondered, "or had it been a dream?" he lay still, getting angrier and angrier each minute until at last the sun rose, and the first rays shone through his window and brightened the room. it seemed to midas that the bright yellow sunbeam was reflected very curiously from the covering of his bed, and he sat up and looked more closely. what was his delight when he saw that the bedcover on which his hands rested had become a woven cloth of the purest and brightest gold! he started up and caught hold of the bed-post--instantly it became a golden pillar. he pulled aside the window-curtain and the tassel grew heavy in his hand--it was a mass of gold! he took up a book from the table, and at his first touch it became a bundle of thin golden leaves, in which no reading could be seen. midas was delighted with his good fortune. he took his spectacles from his pocket and put them on, so that he might see more distinctly what he was about. but to his surprise he could not possibly see through them: the clear glasses had turned into gold, and, of course, though they were worth a great deal of money, they were of no more use as spectacles. midas thought this was rather troublesome, but he soon forgot all about it. he went downstairs, and how he laughed with pleasure when he noticed that the railing became a bar of shining gold as he rested his hand on it; even the rusty iron latch of the garden door turned yellow as soon as his fingers pressed it. how lovely the garden was! in the old days midas had been very fond of flowers, and had spent a great deal of money in getting rare trees and flowers with which to make his garden beautiful. red roses in full bloom scented the air: purple and white violets nestled under the rose-bushes, and birds were singing happily in the cherry-trees, which were covered with snow-white blossoms. but since midas had become so fond of gold he had lost all pleasure in his garden: this morning he did not even see how beautiful it was. he was thinking of nothing but the wonderful gift the stranger had brought him, and he was sure he could make the garden of far more value than it had ever been. so he went from bush to bush and touched the flowers. and the beautiful pink and red color faded from the roses: the violets became stiff, and then glittered among bunches of hard yellow leaves: and showers of snow-white blossoms no longer fell from the cherry-trees; the tiny petals were all changed into flakes of solid gold, which glittered so brightly in the sunbeams that midas could not bear to look at them. but he was quite satisfied with his morning's work, and went back to the palace for breakfast feeling very happy. just then he heard his little daughter crying bitterly, and she came running into the room sobbing as if her heart would break. "how now, little lady," he said, "pray what is the matter with you this morning?" "oh dear, oh dear, such a dreadful thing has happened!" answered the child. "i went to the garden to gather you some roses, and they are all spoiled; they have grown quite ugly, and stiff, and yellow, and they have no scent. what can be the matter?" and she cried bitterly. midas was ashamed to confess that he was to blame, so he said nothing, and they sat down at the table. the king was very hungry, and he poured out a cup of coffee and helped himself to some fish, but the instant his lips touched the coffee it became the color of gold, and the next moment it hardened into a solid lump. "oh dear me!" exclaimed the king, rather surprised. "what is the matter, father?" asked his little daughter. "nothing, child, nothing," he answered; "eat your bread and milk before it gets cold." then he looked at the nice little fish on his plate, and he gently touched its tail with his finger. to his horror it at once changed into gold. he took one of the delicious hot cakes, and he had scarcely broken it when the white flour changed into yellow crumbs which shone like grains of hard sea-sand. "i do not see how i am going to get any breakfast," he said to himself, and he looked with envy at his little daughter, who had dried her tears and was eating her bread and milk hungrily. "i wonder if it will be the same at dinner," he thought, "and if so, how am i going to live if all my food is to be turned into gold?" midas began to get very anxious and to think about many things he had never thought of before. here was the very richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and yet there was nothing that he could eat! the poorest workman sitting down to a crust of bread and a cup of water was better off than king midas, whose dainty food was worth its weight in gold. he began to doubt whether, after all, riches were the only good thing in the world, and he was so hungry that he gave a groan. his little daughter noticed that her father ate nothing, and at first she sat still looking at him and trying to find out what was the matter. then she got down from her chair, and running to her father, she threw her arms lovingly round his knees. midas bent down and kissed her. he felt that his little daughter's love was a thousand times more precious than all the gold he had gained since the stranger came to visit him. "my precious, precious little girl!" he said, but there was no answer. alas! what had he done? the moment that his lips had touched his child's forehead, a change took place. her sweet, rosy face, so full of love and happiness, hardened and became a glittering yellow color; her beautiful brown curls hung like wires of gold from the small head, and her soft, tender little figure grew stiff in his arms. midas had often said to people that his little daughter was worth her weight in gold, and it had become really true. now when it was too late, he felt how much more precious was the warm tender heart that loved him than all the gold that could be piled up between the earth and sky. he began to wring his hands and to wish that he was the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his money might bring back the rosy color to his dear child's face. while he was in despair he suddenly saw a stranger standing near the door, the same visitor he had seen yesterday for the first time in his treasure-room, and who had granted his wish. "well, friend midas," he said, "pray how are you enjoying your new power?" midas shook his head. "i am very miserable," he said. "very miserable, are you?" exclaimed the stranger. "and how does that happen: have i not faithfully kept my promise; have you not everything that your heart desired?" "gold is not everything," answered midas, "and i have lost all that my heart really cared for." "ah!" said the stranger, "i see you have made some discoveries since yesterday. tell me truly, which of these things do you really think is most worth--a cup of clear cold water and a crust of bread, or the power of turning everything you touch into gold; your own little daughter, alive and loving, or that solid statue of a child which would be valued at thousands of dollars?" "o my child, my child!" sobbed midas, wringing his hands. "i would not have given one of her curls for the power of changing all the world into gold, and i would give all i possess for a cup of cold water and a crust of bread." "you are wiser than you were, king midas," said the stranger. "tell me, do you really wish to get rid of your fatal gift?" "yes," said midas, "it is hateful to me." "go then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that flows at the bottom of the garden: take also a pitcher of the same water, and sprinkle it over anything that you wish to change back again from gold to its former substance." king midas bowed low, and when he lifted his head the stranger was nowhere to be seen. you may easily believe that king midas lost no time in getting a big pitcher, then he ran towards the river. on reaching the water he jumped in without even waiting to take off his shoes. "how delightful!" he said, as he came out with his hair all dripping, "this is really a most refreshing bath, and surely it must have washed away the magic gift." then he dipped the pitcher into the water, and how glad he was to see that it became just a common earthen pitcher and not a golden one as it had been five minutes before! he was conscious, also of a change in himself: a cold, heavy weight seemed to have gone, and he felt light, and happy, and human once more. maybe his heart had been changing into gold too, though he could not see it, and now it had softened again and become gentle and kind. midas hurried back to the palace with the pitcher of water, and the first thing he did was to sprinkle it by handfuls all over the golden figure of his little daughter. you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to her cheeks, and how she began to sneeze and choke, and how surprised she was to find herself dripping wet and her father still throwing water over her. you see she did not know that she had been a little golden statue, for she could not remember anything from the moment when she ran to kiss her father. king midas then led his daughter into the garden, where he sprinkled all the rest of the water over the rose-bushes, and the grass, and the trees; and in a minute they were blooming as freshly as ever, and the air was laden with the scent of the flowers. there were two things left, which, as long as he lived, used to remind king midas of the stranger's fatal gift. one was that the sands at the bottom of the river always sparkled like grains of gold: and the other, that his little daughter's curls were no longer brown. they had a golden tinge which had not been there before that miserable day when he had received the fatal gift, and when his kiss had changed them into gold. cadmus adapted by c.e. smith cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, the three sons of king agenor, were playing near the seashore in their father's kingdom of phoenicia, and their little sister europa was beside them. they had wandered to some distance from the king's palace and were now in a green field, on one side of which lay the sea, sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and with little waves breaking on the shore. the three boys were very happy gathering flowers and making wreaths for their sister europa. the little girl was almost hidden under the flowers and leaves, and her rosy face peeped merrily out among them. she was really the prettiest flower of them all. while they were busy and happy, a beautiful butterfly came flying past, and the three boys, crying out that it was a flower with wings, set off to try to catch it. europa did not run after them. she was a little tired with playing all day long, so she sat still on the green grass and very soon she closed her eyes. for a time she listened to the sea, which sounded, she thought, just like a voice saying, "hush, hush," and telling her to go to sleep. but if she slept at all it was only for a minute. then she heard something tramping on the grass and, when she looked up, there was a snow-white bull quite close to her! where could he have come from? europa was very frightened, and she started up from among the tulips and lilies and cried out, "cadmus, brother cadmus, where are you? come and drive this bull away." but her brother was too far off to hear her, and europa was so frightened that her voice did not sound very loud; so there she stood with her blue eyes big with fear, and her pretty red mouth wide open, and her face as pale as the lilies that were lying on her golden hair. as the bull did not touch her she began to peep at him, and she saw that he was a very beautiful animal; she even fancied he looked quite a kind bull. he had soft, tender, brown eyes, and horns as smooth and white as ivory: and when he breathed you could feel the scent of rosebuds and clover blossoms in the air. the bull ran little races round europa and allowed her to stroke his forehead with her small hands, and to hang wreaths of flowers on his horns. he was just like a pet lamb, and very soon europa quite forgot how big and strong he really was and how frightened she had been. she pulled some grass and he ate it out of her hand and seemed quite pleased to be friends. he ran up and down the field as lightly as a bird hopping in a tree; his hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the grass, and once when he galloped a good long way europa was afraid she would not see him again, and she called out, "come back, you dear bull, i have got you a pink clover-blossom." then he came running and bowed his head before europa as if he knew she was a king's daughter, and knelt down at her feet, inviting her to get on his back and have a ride. at first europa was afraid: then she thought there could surely be no danger in having just one ride on the back of such a gentle animal, and the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to go. what a surprise it would be to cadmus, and phoenix, and cilix if they met her riding across the green field, and what fun it would be if they could all four ride round and round the field on the back of this beautiful white bull that was so tame and kind! "i think i will do it," she said, and she looked round the field. cadmus and his brothers were still chasing the butterfly away at the far end. "if i got on the bull's back i should soon be beside them," she thought. so she moved nearer, and the gentle white creature looked so pleased, and so kind, she could not resist any longer, and with a light bound she sprang up on his back: and there she sat holding an ivory horn in each hand to keep her steady. "go very gently, good bull," she said, and the animal gave a little leap in the air and came down as lightly as a feather. then he began a race to that part of the field where the brothers were, and where they had just caught the splendid butterfly. europa shouted with delight, and how surprised the brothers were to see their sister mounted on the back of a white bull! they stood with their mouths wide open, not sure whether to be frightened or not. but the bull played round them as gently as a kitten, and europa looked down all rosy and laughing, and they were quite envious. then when he turned to take another gallop round the field, europa waved her hand and called out "good-by," as if she was off for a journey, and cadmus, phoenix, and cilix shouted "good-by" all in one breath. they all thought it such good fun. and then, what do you think happened? the white bull set off as quickly as before, and ran straight down to the seashore. he scampered across the sand, then he took a big leap and plunged right in among the waves. the white spray rose in a shower all over him and europa, and the poor child screamed with fright. the brothers ran as fast as they could to the edge of the water, but it was too late. the white bull swam very fast and was soon far away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and tail showing above the water. poor europa was holding on with one hand to the ivory horn and stretching the other back towards her dear brothers. and there stood cadmus and phoenix and cilix looking after her and crying bitterly, until they could no longer see the white head among the waves that sparkled in the sunshine. nothing more could be seen of the white bull, and nothing more of their beautiful sister. this was a sad tale for the three boys to carry back to their parents. king agenor loved his little girl europa more than his kingdom or anything else in the world, and when cadmus came home crying and told how a white bull had carried off his sister, the king was very angry and full of grief. "you shall never see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring back my little europa. begone, and enter my presence no more till you come leading her by the hand;" and his eyes flashed fire and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys did not even wait for supper, but stole out of the palace wondering where they should go first. while they were standing at the gate, the queen came hurrying after them. "dear children," she said, "i will come with you." "oh no, mother," the boys answered, "it is a dark night, and there is no knowing what troubles we may meet with; the blame is ours, and we had better go alone." "alas!" said the poor queen, weeping, "europa is lost, and if i should lose my three sons as well, what would become of me? i must go with my children." the boys tried to persuade her to stay at home, but the queen cried so bitterly that they had to let her go with them. just as they were about to start, their playfellow theseus came running to join them. he loved europa very much, and longed to search for her too. so the five set off together: the queen, and cadmus, and phoenix, and cilix, and theseus, and the last they heard was king agenor's angry voice saying, "remember this, never may you come up these steps again, till you bring back my little daughter." the queen and her young companions traveled many a weary mile: the days grew to months, and the months became years, and still they found no trace of the lost princess. their clothes were worn and shabby, and the peasant people looked curiously at them when they asked, "have you seen a snow-white bull with a little princess on its back, riding as swiftly as the wind?" and the farmers would answer, "we have many bulls in our fields, but none that would allow a little princess to ride on its back: we have never seen such a sight." at last phoenix grew weary of the search. "i do not believe europa will ever be found, and i shall stay here," he said one day when they came to a pleasant spot. so the others helped him to build a small hut to live in, then they said good-by and went on without him. then cilix grew tired too. "it is so many years now since europa was carried away that she would not know me if i found her. i shall wait here," he said. so cadmus and theseus built a hut for him too, and then said good-by. after many long months theseus broke his ankle, and he too had to be left behind, and once more the queen and cadmus wandered on to continue the search. the poor queen was worn and sad, and she leaned very heavily on her son's arm. "cadmus," she said one day, "i must stay and rest." "why, yes, mother, of course you shall, a long, long rest you must have, and i will sit beside you and watch." but the queen knew she could go no further. "cadmus," she said, "you must leave me here, and, go to the wise woman at delphi and ask her what you must do next. promise me you will go!" and cadmus promised. the tired queen lay down to rest, and in the morning cadmus found that she was dead, and he must journey on alone. he wandered for many days till he came in sight of a high mountain which the people told him was called parnassus, and on the steep side of this mountain was the famous city of delphi for which he was looking. the wise woman lived far up the mountain-side, in a hut like those he had helped his brothers to build by the roadside. when he pushed aside the branches he found himself in a low cave, with a hole in the wall through which a strong wind was blowing. he bent down and put his mouth to the hole and said, "o sacred goddess, tell me where i must look now for my dear sister europa, who was carried off so long ago by a bull?" at first there was no answer. then a voice said softly, three times, "seek her no more, seek her no more, seek her no more." "what shall i do, then?" said cadmus. and the answer came, in a hoarse voice, "follow the cow, follow the cow, follow the cow." "but what cow," cried cadmus, "and where shall i follow?" and once more the voice came, "where the stray cow lies down, there is your home;" and then there was silence. "have i been dreaming?" cadmus thought, "or did i really hear a voice?" and he went away thinking he was very little wiser for having done as the queen had told him. i do not know how far he had gone when just before him he saw a brindled cow. she was lying down by the wayside, and as cadmus came along she got up and began to move slowly along the path, stopping now and then to crop a mouthful of grass. cadmus wondered if this could be the cow he was to follow, and he thought he would look at her more closely, so he walked a little faster; but so did the cow. "stop, cow," he cried, "hey brindle, stop," and he began to run; and much to his surprise so did the cow, and though he ran as hard as possible, he could not overtake her. so he gave it up. "i do believe this may be the cow i was told about," he thought. "any way, i may as well follow her and surely she will lie down somewhere." on and on they went. cadmus thought the cow would never stop, and other people who had heard the strange story began to follow too, and they were all very tired and very far away from home when at last the cow lay down. his companions were delighted and began to cut down wood to make a fire, and some ran to a stream to get water. cadmus lay down to rest close beside the cow. he was wishing that his mother and brothers and theseus had been with him now, when suddenly he was startled by cries and shouts and screams. he ran towards the stream, and there he saw the head of a big serpent or dragon, with fiery eyes and with wide open jaws which showed rows and rows of horrible sharp teeth. before cadmus could reach it, the monster had killed all his poor companions and was busy devouring them. the stream was an enchanted one, and the dragon had been told to guard it so that no mortal might ever touch the water, and the people round about knew this, so that for a hundred years none of them had ever come near the spot. the dragon had been asleep and was very hungry, and when he saw cadmus he opened his huge jaws again, ready to devour him too. but cadmus was very angry at the death of all his companions, and drawing his sword he rushed at the monster. with one big bound he leaped right into the dragon's mouth, so far down that the two rows of terrible teeth could not close on him or do him any harm. the dragon lashed with his tail furiously, but cadmus stabbed him again and again, and in a short time the great monster lay dead. "what shall i do now?" he said aloud. all his companions were dead, and he was alone once more. "cadmus," said a voice, "pluck out the dragon's teeth and plant them in the earth." cadmus looked round and there was nobody to be seen. but he set to work and cut out the huge teeth with his sword, and then he made little holes in the ground and planted the teeth. in a few minutes the earth was covered with rows of armed men, fierce-looking soldiers with swords and helmets who stood looking at cadmus in silence. "throw a stone among these men," came the voice again, and cadmus obeyed. at once all the men began to fight, and they cut and stabbed each other so furiously that in a short time only five remained alive out of all the hundreds that had stood before him. "cadmus," said the voice once more, "tell these men to stop fighting and help you to build a palace." and as soon as cadmus spoke, the five big men sheathed their swords, and they began to carry stones, and to carve these for cadmus, as if they had never thought of such a thing as fighting each other! they built a house for each of themselves, and there was a beautiful palace for cadmus made of marble, and of fine kinds of red and green stone, and there was a high tower with a flag floating from a tall gold flag-post. when everything was ready, cadmus went to take possession of his new house, and, as he entered the great hall, he saw a lady coming slowly towards him. she was very lovely and she wore a royal robe which shone like sunbeams, with a crown of stars on her golden hair, and round her neck was a string of the fairest pearls. cadmus was full of delight. could this be his long lost sister europa coming to make him happy after all these weary years of searching and wandering? how much he had to tell her about phoenix, and cilix, and dear theseus and of the poor queen's lonely grave in the wilderness! but as he went forward to meet the beautiful lady he saw she was a stranger. he was thinking what he should say to her, when once again he heard the unknown voice speak. "no, cadmus," it said, "this is not your dear sister whom you have sought so faithfully all over the wide world. this is harmonia, a daughter of the sky, who is given to you instead of sister and brother, and friend and mother. she is your queen, and will make happy the home which you have won by so much suffering." so king cadmus lived in the palace with his beautiful queen, and before many years passed there were rosy little children playing in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and running joyfully to meet king cadmus as he came home from looking after his soldiers and his workmen. and the five old soldiers that sprang from the dragon's teeth grew very fond of these little children, and they were never tired of showing them how to play with wooden swords and to blow on a penny trumpet, and beat a drum and march like soldiers to battle. proserpina adapted by c.e. smith mother ceres was very fond of her little daughter proserpina. she did not of ten let her go alone into the fields for fear she should be lost. but just at the time when my story begins she was very busy. she had to look after the wheat and the corn, and the apples and the pears, all over the world, and as the weather had been bad day after day she was afraid none of them would be ripe when harvest-time came. so this morning mother ceres put on her turban made of scarlet poppies and got into her car. this car was drawn by a pair of winged dragons which went very fast, and mother ceres was just ready to start, when proserpina said, "dear mother, i shall be very lonely while you are away, may i run down to the sands, and ask some of the sea-children to come out of the water to play with me?" "yes, child, you may," answered mother ceres, "but you must take care not to stray away from them, and you are not to play in the fields by yourself with no one to take care of you." proserpina promised to remember what her mother said, and by the time the dragons with their big wings had whirled the car out of sight she was already on the shore, calling to the sea-children to come to play with her. they knew proserpina's voice and came at once: pretty children with wavy sea-green hair and shining faces, and they sat down on the wet sand where the waves could still break over them, and began to make a necklace for proserpina of beautiful shells brought from their home at the bottom of the sea. proserpina was so delighted when they hung the necklace round her neck that she wanted to give them something in return. "will you come with me into the fields," she asked, "and i will gather flowers and make you each a wreath?" "oh no, dear proserpina," said the sea-children, "we may not go with you on the dry land. we must keep close beside the sea and let the waves wash over us every minute or two. if it were not for the salt water we should soon look like bunches of dried sea-weed instead of sea-children." "that is a great pity," said proserpina, "but if you wait for me here, i will run to the fields and be back again with my apron full of flowers before the waves have broken over you ten times. i long to make you some wreaths as beautiful as this necklace with all its colored shells." "we will wait, then," said the sea-children: "we will lie under the water and pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are coming." proserpina ran quickly to a field where only the day before she had seen a great many flowers; but the first she came to seemed rather faded, and forgetting what mother ceres had told her, she strayed a little farther into the fields. never before had she found such beautiful flowers! large sweet-scented violets, purple and white; deep pink roses; hyacinths with the biggest of blue bells; as well as many others she did not know. they seemed to grow up under her feet, and soon her apron was so full that the flowers were falling out of the corners. proserpina was just going to turn back to the sands to make the wreaths for the sea-children, when she cried out with delight. before her was a bush covered with the most wonderful flowers in the world. "what beauties!" said proserpina, and then she thought, "how strange! i looked at that spot only a moment ago; why did i not see the flowers?" they were such lovely ones too. more than a hundred different kinds grew on the one bush: the brightest, gayest flowers proserpina had ever seen. but there was a shiny look about them and about the leaves which she did not quite like. somehow it made her wonder if this was a poison plant, and to tell the truth she was half inclined to turn round and run away. "how silly i am!" she thought, taking courage: "it is really the most beautiful bush i ever saw. i will pull it up by the roots and carry it home to plant in mother's garden." holding her apron full of flowers with one hand, proserpina seized the large shrub with the other and pulled and pulled. what deep roots that bush had! she pulled again with all her might, and the earth round the roots began to stir and crack, so she gave another big pull, and then she let go. she thought there was a rumbling noise right below her feet, and she wondered if the roots went down to some dragon's cave. then she tried once again, and up came the bush so quickly that proserpina nearly fell backwards. there she stood, holding the stem in her hand and looking at the big hole which its roots had left in the earth. to her surprise this hole began to grow wider and wider, and deeper and deeper, and a rumbling noise came out of it. louder and louder it grew, nearer and nearer it came, just like the tramp of horses' feet and the rattling of wheels. proserpina was too frightened now to run away, and soon she saw a wonderful thing. two black horses, with smoke coming out of their nostrils and with long black tails and flowing black manes, came tearing their way out of the earth, and a splendid golden chariot was rattling at their heels. the horses leaped out of the hole, chariot and all, and came close to the spot where proserpina stood. then she saw there was a man in the chariot. he was very richly dressed, with a crown on his head all made of diamonds which sparkled like fire. he was a very handsome man, but looked rather cross and discontented, and he kept rubbing his eyes and covering them with his hand, as if he did not care much for the bright sunshine. as soon as he saw proserpina, the man waved to her to come a little nearer. "do not be afraid," he said. "come! would you not like to ride a little way with me in my beautiful chariot?" but proserpina was very frightened, and no wonder. the stranger did not look a very kind or pleasant man. his voice was so gruff and deep, and sounded just like the rumbling proserpina had heard underneath the earth. she at once began to cry out, "mother, mother! o mother ceres, come quickly and save me!" [illustration: he caught her in his arms and sprang into the chariot.] but her voice was very shaky and too faint for mother ceres to hear, for by this time she was many thousands of miles away making the corn grow in another country. no sooner did proserpina begin to cry out than the strange man leaped to the ground; he caught her in his arms and sprang into the chariot, then he shook the reins and shouted to the two black horses to set off. they began to gallop so fast that it was just like flying, and in less than a minute proserpina had lost sight of the sunny fields where she and her mother had always lived. she screamed and screamed and all the beautiful flowers fell out of her apron to the ground. but mother ceres was too far away to know what was happening to her little daughter. "why are you so frightened, my little girl?" said the strange man, and he tried to soften his rough voice. "i promise not to do you any harm. i see you have been gathering flowers? wait till we come to my palace and i will give you a garden full of prettier flowers than these, all made of diamonds and pearls and rubies. can you guess who i am? they call me pluto, and i am the king of the mines where all the diamonds and rubies and all the gold and silver are found: they all belong to me. do you see this lovely crown on my head? i will let you have it to play with. oh, i think we are going to be very good friends when we get out of this troublesome sunshine." "let me go home," sobbed proserpina, "let me go home." "my home is better than your mother's," said king pluto. "it is a palace made of gold, with crystal windows and with diamond lamps instead of sunshine; and there is a splendid throne; if you like you may sit on it and be my little queen, and i will sit on the footstool." "i do not care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed proserpina. "o mother, mother! take me back to my mother." but king pluto only shouted to his horses to go faster. "you are very foolish, proserpina," he said, rather crossly. "i am doing all i can to make you happy, and i want very much to have a merry little girl to run upstairs and downstairs in my palace and make it brighter with her laughter. this is all i ask you to do for king pluto." "never" answered proserpina, looking very miserable. "i shall never laugh again, till you take me back to my mother's cottage." and the horses galloped on, and the wind whistled past the chariot, and proserpina cried and cried till her poor little voice was almost cried away, and nothing was left but a whisper. the road now began to get very dull and gloomy. on each side were black rocks and very thick trees and bushes that looked as if they never got any sunshine. it got darker and darker, as if night was coming, and still the black horses rushed on leaving the sunny home of mother ceres far behind. but the darker it grew, the happier king pluto seemed to be. proserpina began to peep at him, she thought he might not be such a wicked man after all. "is it much further," she asked, "and will you carry me back when i have seen your palace?" "we will talk of that by and by," answered pluto. "do you see these big gates? when we pass these we are at home; and look! there is my faithful dog at the door! cerberus; cerberus, come here, good dog." pluto pulled the horses' reins, and the chariot stopped between two big tall pillars. the dog got up and stood on his hind legs, so that he could put his paws on the chariot wheel. what a strange dog he was! a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with three heads each fiercer than the other. king pluto patted his heads and the dog wagged his tail with delight. proserpina was much afraid when she saw that his tail was a live dragon, with fiery eyes and big poisonous teeth. "will the dog bite me?" she asked, creeping closer to king pluto. "how very ugly he is." "oh, never fear," pluto answered; "he never bites people unless they try to come in here when i do not want them. down, cerberus. now, proserpina, we will drive on." the black horses started again and king pluto seemed very happy to find himself once more at home. all along the road proserpina could see diamonds, and rubies and precious stones sparkling, and there were bits of real gold among the rocks. it was a very rich place. not far from the gateway they came to an iron bridge. pluto stopped the chariot and told proserpina to look at the river which ran underneath. it was very black and muddy, and flowed slowly, very slowly, as if it had quite forgotten which way it wanted to go, and was in no hurry to flow anywhere. "this is the river lethe," said king pluto; "do you not think it a very pleasant stream?" "i think it is very dismal," said proserpina. "well, i like it," answered pluto, who got rather cross when any one did not agree with him. "it is a strange kind of river. if you drink only a little sip of the water, you will at once forget all your care and sorrow. when we reach the palace, you shall have some in a golden cup, and then you will not cry any more for your mother, and will be perfectly happy with me." "oh no, oh no!" said proserpina, sobbing again. "o mother, mother, i will never forget you; i do not want to be happy by forgetting all about you." "we shall see," said king pluto; "you do not know what good times we will have in my palace. here we are, just at the gate. look at the big pillars; they are all made of solid gold." he got out of the chariot and carried proserpina in his arms up a long stair into the great hall of the palace. it was beautifully lit by hundreds of diamonds and rubies which shone like lamps. it was very rich and splendid to look at, but it was cold and lonely and pluto must have longed for some one to keep him company; perhaps that was why he had stolen proserpina from her sunny home. king pluto sent for his servants and told them to get ready a grand supper with all kinds of dainty food and sweet things such as children like. "and be sure not to forget a golden cup filled with the water of lethe," he said to the servant. "i will not eat anything," said proserpina, "nor drink a single drop, even if you keep me for ever in your palace." "i should be sorry for that," replied king pluto. he really wished to be kind if he had only known how. "wait till you see the nice things my cook will make for you, and then you will be hungry." now king pluto had a secret reason why he wanted proserpina to eat some food. you must understand that when people are carried off to the land of magic, if once they taste any food they can never go back to their friends. if king pluto had offered proserpina some bread and milk she would very likely have taken it as soon as she was hungry, but all the cook's fine pastries and sweets were things she had never seen at home, and, instead of making her hungry, she was afraid to touch them. but now my story must leave king pluto's palace, and we must see what mother ceres has been about. you remember she had gone off in her chariot with the winged dragons to the other side of the world to see how the corn and fruit were growing. and while she was busy in a field she thought she heard proserpina's voice calling her. she was sure her little daughter could not possibly be anywhere near, but the idea troubled her: and presently she left the fields before her work was half done and, ordering her dragons with the chariot, she drove off. in less than an hour mother ceres got down at the door of her cottage. it was empty! at first she thought "oh, proserpina will still be playing on the shore with the sea-children." so she went to find her. "where is proserpina, you naughty sea-children?" she asked; "tell me, have you taken her to your home under the sea?" "oh no, mother ceres," they said, "she left us early in the day to gather flowers for a wreath, and we have seen nothing of her since." ceres hurried off to ask all the neighbors. a poor fisherman had seen her little footprints in the sand as he went home with his basket of fish. a man in the fields had noticed her gathering flowers. several persons had heard the rattling of chariot wheels or the rumbling of distant thunder: and one old woman had heard a scream, but supposed it was only merriment, and had not even looked up. none of the neighbors knew where proserpina was, and mother ceres decided she must seek her daughter further from home. by this time it was night, so she lit a torch and set off, telling the neighbors she would never come back till proserpina was found. in her hurry she quite forgot her chariot with the dragons; may be she thought she could search better on foot. so she started on her sad journey, holding her torch in front of her, and looking carefully along every road and round every corner. she had not gone very far before she found one of the wonderful flowers which proserpina had pulled from the poison bush. "ha!" said mother ceres, examining it carefully, "there is mischief in this flower: it did not grow in the earth by any help of mine; it is the work of magic, and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child." and she hid it in her bosom. all night long ceres sought for her daughter. she knocked at the doors of farm-houses where the people were all asleep, and they came to see who was there, rubbing their eyes and yawning. they were very sorry for the poor mother when they heard her tale--but they knew nothing about proserpina. at every palace door, too, she knocked, so loudly that the servants ran quickly, expecting to find a great queen, and when they saw only a sad lonely woman with a burning torch in her hand, and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they were angry and drove her rudely away. but nobody had seen proserpina, and mother ceres wandered about till the night was passed, without sitting down to rest, and without taking any food. she did not even remember to put out her torch, and it looked very pale and small in the bright morning sunshine. it must have been a magic torch, for it burned dimly all day, and then when night came it shone with a beautiful red light, and neither the wind nor the rain put it out through all these weary days while ceres sought for proserpina. it was not only men and women that mother ceres questioned about her daughter. in the woods and by the streams she met other creatures whose way of talking she could understand, and who knew many things that we have never learned. sometimes she tapped with her finger against an oak tree, and at once its rough bark would open and a beautiful maiden would appear: she was the spirit of the oak, living inside it, and as happy as could be when its green leaves danced in the breeze. then another time ceres would find a spring bubbling out of a little hole in the earth, and she would play with her fingers in the water. immediately up through the sandy bed a nymph with dripping hair would rise and float half out of the water, looking at mother ceres, and swaying up and down with the water bubbles. but when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink of the fountain, the nymph with weeping eyes would answer "no," in a murmuring voice which was just like the sound of a running stream. often, too, she met fauns. these were little people with brown faces who looked as if they had played a great deal in the sun. they had hairy ears and little horns on their brows, and their legs were like goats' legs on which they danced merrily about the woods and fields. they were very kind creatures, and were very sorry for mother ceres when they heard that her daughter was lost. and once she met a rude band of satyrs who had faces like monkeys and who had horses' tails behind; they were dancing and shouting in a rough, noisy manner, and they only laughed when ceres told them how unhappy she was. one day while she was crossing a lonely sheep-field she saw the god pan: he was sitting at the foot of a tall rock, making music on a shepherd's flute. he too had horns on his brow, and hairy ears, and goat's feet. he knew mother ceres and answered her questions kindly, and he gave her some milk and honey to drink out of a wooden bowl. but he knew nothing of proserpina. and so mother ceres went wandering about for nine long days and nights. now and then she found a withered flower, and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because she fancied they might have fallen from her daughter's hand. all day she went on through the hot sunshine, and at night the flame of her torch would gleam on the pathway, and she would continue her weary search without ever sitting down to rest. on the tenth day she came to the mouth of a cave. it was dark inside, but a torch was burning dimly and lit up half of the gloomy place. ceres peeped in and held up her own torch before her, and then she saw what looked like a woman, sitting on a heap of withered leaves, which the wind had blown into the cave. she was a very strange-looking woman: her head was shaped like a dog's, and round it she had a wreath of snakes. as soon as she saw her, mother ceres knew that this was a queer kind of person who was always grumbling and unhappy. her name was hecate, and she would never say a word to other people unless they were unhappy too. "i am sad enough," thought poor ceres, "to talk with hecate:" so she stepped into the cave and sat down on the withered leaves beside the dog-headed woman. "o hecate," she said, "if ever you lose a daughter you will know what sorrow is. tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child proserpina pass by the mouth of your cave?" "no, mother ceres," answered hecate. "i have seen nothing of your daughter. but my ears, you know, are made so that all cries of distress or fright all over the world are heard by them. and nine days ago, as i sat in my cave, i heard the voice of a young girl sobbing as if in great distress. as well as i could judge, some dragon was carrying her away." "you kill me by saying so," cried mother ceres, almost ready to faint; "where was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?" "it passed along very quickly," said hecate, "and there was a rumbling of wheels to the eastward. i cannot tell you any more. i advise you just to come and live here with me, and we will be the two most unhappy women in all the world." "not yet, dark hecate," replied ceres. "will you first come with your torch and help me to seek for my child. when there is no more hope of finding her, then i will come back with you to your dark cave. but till i know that proserpina is dead, i will not allow myself time to sorrow." hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the sunshine, but at last she agreed to go, and they set out together, each carrying a torch, although it was broad daylight and the sun was shining. any people they met ran away without waiting to be spoken to, as soon as they caught sight of hecate's wreath of snakes. as the sad pair wandered on, a thought struck ceres. "there is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my child and can tell me what has become of her. why did i not think of him sooner? it is phoebus." "what!" said hecate, "the youth that always sits in the sunshine! oh! pray do not think of going near him: he is a gay young fellow that will only smile in your face. and, besides, there is such a glare of sunshine about him that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which are weak with so much weeping." "you have promised to be my companion," answered ceres. "come, let us make haste, or the sunshine will be gone and phoebus along with it." so they set off in search of phoebus, both sighing a great deal, and after a long journey they came to the sunniest spot in the whole world. there they saw a young man with curly golden hair which seemed to be made of sunbeams. his clothes were like light summer clouds, and the smile on his face was so bright that hecate held her hands before her eyes and muttered that she wished he would wear a veil! phoebus had a lyre in his hands and was playing very sweet music, at the same time singing a merry song. as ceres and her dismal companion came near, phoebus smiled on them so cheerfully that hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss and hecate wished she was back in her dark cave. but ceres was too unhappy to know whether phoebus smiled or looked angry. "phoebus" she said, "i am in great trouble and have come to you for help. can you tell me what has become of my little daughter proserpina?" "proserpina, proserpina did you call her?" answered phoebus, trying to remember. he had so many pleasant ideas in his head that he sometimes forgot what had happened no longer ago than yesterday. "ah yes! i remember now--a very lovely little girl. i am happy to tell you that i did see proserpina not many days ago. you may be quite easy about her. she is safe and in good hands." "oh, where is my dear child?" cried ceres, clasping her hands and flinging herself at his feet. "why," replied phoebus, "as the little girl was gathering flowers she was snatched up by king pluto and carried off to his kingdom. i have never been there myself, but i am told the royal palace is splendidly built. proserpina will have gold and silver and diamonds to play with, and i am sure even although there is no sunshine, she will have a very happy life." "hush! do not say such a thing," said ceres. "what has she got to love? what are all these splendors if she has no one to care for? i must have her back. good phoebus, will you come with me to demand my daughter from this wicked pluto?" "pray excuse me," answered phoebus, with a bow. "i certainly wish you success, and i am sorry i am too busy to go with you. besides, king pluto does not care much for me. to tell you the truth, his dog with the three heads would never let me pass the gateway. i always carry a handful of sunbeams with me, and those, you know, are not allowed within king pluto's kingdom." so the poor mother said good-by and hastened away along with hecate. ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but she was not any happier than before. indeed, her trouble seemed worse than ever. so long as proserpina was above-ground there was some hope of getting her home again. but now that the poor child was shut up behind king pluto's iron gates, with the three-headed cerberus on guard beside them, there seemed no hope of her escape. the dismal hecate, who always looked on the darkest side of things, told ceres she had better come back with her to the cave and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. but ceres answered that hecate could go back if she wished, but that for her part she would wander about all the world looking for the entrance to king pluto's kingdom. so hecate hurried off alone to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with her dog's face as she went. poor mother ceres! it is sad to think of her all alone, holding up her never-dying torch and wandering up and down the wide, wide world. so much did she suffer that in a very short time she began to look quite old. she wandered about with her hair hanging down her back, and she looked so wild that people took her for some poor mad woman, and never thought that this was mother ceres who took care of every seed which was sown in the ground and of all the fruit and flowers. now she gave herself no trouble about seedtime or harvest; there was nothing in which she seemed to feel any interest, except the children she saw at play or gathering flowers by the wayside. then, indeed, she would stand and look at them with tears in her eyes. and the children seemed to understand her sorrow and would gather in a little group about her knees and look up lovingly into her face, and ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them home and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight. "for if they do," said she, "it may happen to you as it has happened to me: the iron-hearted king pluto may take a liking to your darlings and carry them away in his golden chariot." at last, in her despair, ceres made up her mind that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any vegetable that is good for man or beast, should be allowed to grow till her daughter was sent back. she was so unhappy that she even forbade the flowers to bloom. now you can see what a terrible misfortune had fallen on the earth. the farmer plowed the ground and planted his seed, as usual, and there lay the black earth without a single green blade to be seen. the fields looked as brown in the sunny months of spring as ever they did in winter. the rich man's garden and the flower-plot in front of the laborer's cottage were both empty; even the children's gardens showed nothing but withered stalks. it was very sad to see the poor starving sheep and cattle that followed behind ceres, bleating and lowing as if they knew that she could help them. all the people begged her at least to let the grass grow, but mother ceres was too miserable to care for any one's trouble. "never," she said. "if the earth is ever to be green again, it must grow along the path by which my daughter comes back to me." at last, as there seemed to be no other way out of it, mercury, the favorite messenger of the gods, was sent to king pluto in the hope that he would set everything right again by giving up proserpina. mercury went as quickly as he could to the great iron gates, and with the help of the wings on his shoes, he took a flying leap right over cerberus with his three heads, and very soon he stood at the door of king pluto's palace. the servants all knew him, as he had often been there in his short cloak, and cap, and shoes with the wings, and with his curious staff which had two snakes twisted round it. he asked to see the king immediately, and pluto, who had heard his voice from the top of the stairs, called out to him to come up at once, for he was always glad to listen to mercury's cheery talk. and while they are laughing together we must find out what proserpina had been doing since we last heard about her. you will remember that proserpina had said she would not taste food so long as she was kept a prisoner in king pluto's palace. it was now six months since she had been carried off from her home, and not a mouthful had she eaten, not even when the cook had made all kinds of sweet things and had ordered all the dainties which children usually like best. proserpina was naturally a bright, merry little girl, and all this time she was not so unhappy as you may have thought. in the big palace were a thousand rooms, and each was full of wonderful and beautiful things. it is true there was never any sunshine in these rooms, and proserpina used to fancy that the shadowy light which came from the jeweled lamps was alive: it seemed to float before her as she walked between the golden pillars, and to close softly behind her in the echo of her footsteps. and proserpina knew that all the glitter of these precious stones was not worth a single sunbeam, nor could the rubies and emeralds which she played with ever be as dear to her as the daisies and buttercups she had gathered among the soft green grass. king pluto felt how much happier his palace was since proserpina came, and so did all his servants. they loved to hear her childish voice laughing as she ran from room to room, and they felt less old and tired when they saw again how glad little children can be. "my own little proserpina," king pluto used to say, "i wish you would like me a little better. although i look rather a sad man, i am really fond of children, and if you would stay here with me always, it would make me happier than having hundreds of palaces like this." "ah," said proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you first before carrying me off, and now the best thing you can do is to let me go again; then i might remember you sometimes and think that you were as kind as you knew how to be. perhaps i might come back to pay you a visit one day." "no, no," answered pluto, with his gloomy smile, "i will not trust you for that. you are too fond of living in the sunshine and gathering flowers. what an idle, childish thing to do! do you not think that these diamonds which i have had dug out of the mine for you are far prettier than violets?" "no, oh no! not half so pretty," said proserpina, snatching them from pluto's hand, and flinging them to the other end of the room. "o my sweet purple violets, shall i ever see you again?" and she began to cry bitterly. but like most children, she soon stopped crying, and in a short time she was running up and down the rooms as when she had played on the sands with the sea-children. and king pluto, sad and lonely, watched her and wished that he too was a child, and when proserpina turned and saw the great king standing alone in his splendid hall, so grand and so lonely, with no one to love him, she felt sorry for him. she ran back and for the first time in all those six months she put her small hand in his. "i love you a little," she whispered, looking up into his face. "do you really, dear child?" cried pluto, bending down his dark face to kiss her. but proserpina was a little afraid, he was so dark and severe-looking, and she shrank back. "well," said pluto, "it is just what i deserve after keeping you a prisoner all these months, and starving you besides. are you not dreadfully hungry, is there nothing i can get you to eat?" in asking this pluto was very cunning, as you will remember that if proserpina once tasted any food in his kingdom, she would never again be able to go home. "no, indeed," said proserpina. "your poor fat little cook is always making me all kinds of good things which i do not want. the one thing i should like to eat would be a slice of bread baked by my own mother, and a pear out of her garden." when pluto heard this he began to see that he had made a mistake in his way of trying to tempt proserpina to eat. he wondered why he had never thought of this before, and he at once sent a servant with a large basket to get some of the finest and juiciest pears in the whole world. but this was just at the time when, as we know, mother ceres in her despair had forbidden any flowers or fruit to grow on the earth, and the only thing king pluto's servant could find, after seeking all over the world was a single dried-up pomegranate, so dried up as to be hardly worth eating. still, since there was no better to be had, he brought it back to the palace, put it on a magnificent gold plate, and carried it to proserpina. now it just happened that as the servant was bringing the pomegranate in at the back door of the palace, mercury had gone up to the front steps with his message to king pluto about proserpina. as soon as proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden plate, she told the servant to take it away again. "i shall not touch it, i can assure you," she said. "if i were ever so hungry, i should not think of eating such a dried-up miserable pomegranate as that." "it is the only one in the world," said the servant, and he set down the plate and went away. when he had gone, proserpina could not help coming close to the table and looking at the dried-up pomegranate with eagerness. to tell the truth, when she saw something that really suited her taste, she felt all her six months' hunger come back at once. to be sure it was a very poor-looking pomegranate, with no more juice in it than in an oyster-shell. but there was no choice of such things in king pluto's palace, and this was the first fresh fruit proserpina had ever seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see, and unless she ate it up at once, it would only get drier and drier and be quite unfit to eat. "at least i may smell it," she thought, so she took up the pomegranate and held it to her nose, and somehow, being quite near to her mouth, the fruit found its way into that little red cave. before proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten it of their own accord. just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the hall opened and king pluto came in, followed by mercury, who had been begging him to let his little prisoner go. at the first noise of their coming, proserpina took the pomegranate from her mouth. mercury, who saw things very quickly, noticed that proserpina looked a little uncomfortable, and when he saw the gold plate empty, he was sure she had been eating something. as for king pluto, he never guessed the secret. "my dear little proserpina," said the king, sitting down and drawing her gently between his knees, "here is mercury, who tells me that a great many sad things have happened to innocent people because i have kept you a prisoner down here. and to confess the truth i have been thinking myself that i really had no right to take you away from your mother. it was very stupid of me, but i thought this palace was so dull, and that i should be much happier if i just had a merry little girl to play in it, and i hoped you would take my crown for a toy and let me be your playmate. it was very foolish of me, i know." "no, it was not foolish," said proserpina, "you have been very kind to me, and i have often been quite happy here with you." "thank you, dear," said king pluto, "but i cannot help seeing that you think my palace a dark prison and me the hard-hearted jailor, and i should, indeed, be hard-hearted if i were to keep you longer than six months. so i give you your liberty. go back, dear, with mercury, to your mother." now, although you might not think so, proserpina found it impossible to say good-by to king pluto without being sorry, and she felt she ought to tell him about tasting the pomegranate. she even cried a little when she thought how lonely and dull the great palace with its jeweled lamps would be after she had left. she would like to have thanked him many times, but mercury hurried her away. "come along quickly," he said, "as king pluto may change his mind, and take care above all things that you say nothing about the pomegranate which the servant brought you on the gold plate." in a short time they had passed the great gateway with the golden pillars, leaving cerberus barking and growling with all his three heads at once, and beating his dragon tail on the ground. along the dark, rocky road they went very quickly, and soon they reached the upper world again. you can guess how excited and happy proserpina was to see the bright sunshine. she noticed how green the grass grew on the path behind and on each side of her. wherever she set her foot at once there rose a flower: violets and roses bloomed along the wayside; the grass and the corn began to grow with ten times their usual quickness to make up for the dreary months when mother ceres had forbidden them to appear above ground. the hungry cattle began to eat, and went on eating all day after their long fast. and, i can assure you, it was a busy time with all the farmers when they found that summer was coming with a rush. as to the birds, they hopped about from tree to tree among the fresh, sweet blossoms, and sang for joy that the dreary days were over and the world was green and young again. mother ceres had gone back to her empty cottage, and was sitting very sadly on the doorstep with her burning torch in her hand. she had been looking wearily at the flame for some moments, when all at once it flickered and went out. "what does this mean?" she thought. "it was a magic torch, and should have gone on burning till proserpina was found." she looked up, and was surprised to see the bare brown fields suddenly turning green, just as you sometimes see them turn golden when the sun comes from behind a dark cloud. "does the earth dare to disobey me?" exclaimed mother ceres angrily. "did i not forbid it to be green until my child should be sent back to me?" "then open your arms, mother dear," cried a well-known voice, "and take me back again." and proserpina came running along the pathway and flung herself on her mother's bosom. it would be impossible to tell how happy they were; so happy that they cried a little, for people cry when they are very glad as well as when they are unhappy. after a little while mother ceres looked anxiously at proserpina. "my child," she said, "did you taste any food while you were in king pluto's palace?" "dearest mother," answered proserpina, "i will tell you the whole truth. until this morning not a morsel of food had passed my lips. but a servant brought me a pomegranate on a golden-plate, a very dry pomegranate, with no juice inside, nothing but seeds and skin; and i was so hungry, and had not tasted any food for such a long time, that i took just one bite. the moment i tasted it king pluto and mercury came into the room. i had not swallowed a morsel, but o mother! i hope it was no harm, six pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth and i swallowed them." "o miserable me!" said mother ceres. "for each of these six pomegranate seeds you must spend a month every year in king pluto's palace. you are only half restored to me; you will be six months with me and then six months with the king of darkness!" "do not be so vexed, mother dear," said proserpina. "it was very unkind of king pluto to carry me off, but then, as he says, it was such a dismal life for him to lead in that great palace all alone: and he says he has been much happier since he had me to run about the big rooms and to play beside him. if only he will let me spend six months every year with you, i think i can bear to spend the other six months beside him. after all, he was as kind as he knew how to be, but i am very glad he cannot keep me the whole year round." the story of atalanta adapted by anna klingensmith atalanta was a maiden whose face you might truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy. her fortune had been told, and it was to this effect: "atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." terrified by this oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. to all suitors (for she had many) she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving her of their persecutions, "i will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." in spite of this hard condition some would try. hippomenes was to be judge of the race. "can it be possible that any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. but when he saw her ravishing beauty as she prepared for the race, he changed his mind, and said, "pardon me, youths, i knew not the prize you were competing for." as he surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of anyone that seemed at all likely to win. while such were his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. as she ran she looked more beautiful than ever. the breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. a ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. all her competitors were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "why boast of beating those laggards? i offer myself for the contest." atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not. "what god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away? i pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. i wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so mad, i hope he may outrun me." while she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. then hippomenes addressed a prayer to venus: "help me, venus, for you have led me on." venus heard and was propitious. in the garden of her temple, in her own island of cyprus, is a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. hence she gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them to hippomenes, and told him how to use them. the signal is given; each starts from the goal and skims over the sand. so light their tread, you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or over the waving grain without sinking. the cries of the spectators cheered hippomenes,--"now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain on her! relax not! one more effort!" it was doubtful whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. but his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. at that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. the virgin was all amazement. she stopped to pick it up. hippomenes shot ahead. shouts burst forth from all sides. she redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. again he threw an apple. she stopped again, but again came up with him. the goal was near; one chance only remained. "now, goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off at one side. she looked at it, and hesitated; venus impelled her to turn aside for it. she did so, and was vanquished. the youth carried off his prize. pyramus and thisbe adapted by alice zimmern in babylon, the great and wonderful city on the euphrates, there lived in two adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named pyramus and thisbe. hardly a day passed without their meeting, and at last they came to know and love one another. but when pyramus sought thisbe in marriage, the parents would not hear of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet or speak to each other any more. but though they could no longer be openly together, they saw each other at a distance and sent messages by signs and tokens. one day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack in the wall between the two houses, through which they could hear each other speak. but a few words whispered through a chink in the wall could not satisfy two ardent lovers, and they tried to arrange a meeting. they would slip away one night unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the city. a spot near the tomb of ninus was chosen, where a mulberry tree grew near a pleasant spring of water. at nightfall thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the house unobserved and made her way in haste to the city gates. she was first at the trysting-place and sat down under the tree to wait for her lover. a strange noise made her look up, and she saw by the clear moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the spring. thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her haste ran to hide herself in a neighboring cave. the lioness, who had already eaten, did not care to pursue her, but finding the cloak lying on the ground, pulled it to bits and left the marks of blood on the torn mantle. now pyramus in his turn came to the place and found no thisbe, but only her torn and bloodstained cloak. "surely," he thought, "some beast must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all mangled and bloodstained. alas, that i came too late! her love for me led thisbe to brave the perils of night and danger, and i was not here to protect and save her. she dies a victim to her love, but she shall not perish alone. one same night will see the end of both lovers. come, ye lions, and devour me too, 'tis my one prayer. yet 'tis a coward's part to pray for death when his own hands can give it." with these words he drew thisbe's cloak towards him, and covered it with kisses. "my blood too shall stain you," he cried, and plunged his sword with true aim in his breast. the blood spouted forth as from a fountain and stained the white fruit of the mulberry overhead. while pyramus lay dying under the tree, thisbe had recovered from her fright, and now stole forth from her hiding-place, hoping that her lover might be at hand. what was her dismay when she saw pyramus stretched lifeless on the ground. kneeling down beside him, she washed his wound with her tears, and kissed his cold lips, calling on him in vain to speak. "speak to me, pyramus," she cried, "'tis your beloved thisbe that calls." at the sound of her voice pyramus opened his failing eyes, and gave his love one last look, then he closed them for ever. when thisbe saw her own cloak and the empty sheath, she guessed that, thinking her dead, he had sought death himself. "'twas by your own hand you fell," she cried, "a victim to love, and love will give my hand strength to do the like. since those who were parted in life are united in death, perhaps our sorrowing parents will grant us the boon of a common tomb. may we rest side by side, even as we have fallen, and may this tree, which has witnessed our despair and our death, bear the traces for evermore. let its fruit be clothed in mourning garb for the death of two hapless lovers." with these words she threw herself on the sword of pyramus. her last prayer was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the faithful pair. and since that night the mulberry tree bears purple fruit to recall to all generations of lovers the cruel fate of pyramus and thisbe. orpheus adapted by alice zimmern orpheus, the thracian singer, was the most famous of all the musicians of greece. apollo himself had given him his golden harp, and on it he played music of such wondrous power and beauty that rocks, trees and beasts would follow to hear him. jason had persuaded orpheus to accompany the argonauts when they went to fetch back the golden fleece, for he knew that the perils of the way would be lightened by song. to the sound of his lyre the argo had floated down to the sea, and he played so sweetly when they passed the rocks of the sirens that the dreadful monsters sang their most alluring strains in vain. orpheus wedded the fair nymph eurydice, whom he loved dearly, and who returned his love. but at their marriage the omens were not favorable. hymen, the marriage god, came to it with a gloomy countenance and the wedding torches smoked and would not give forth a cheerful flame. indeed the happiness of orpheus and eurydice was to be but short-lived. for as the new-made bride wandered through the woods with the other nymphs a poisonous serpent stung her heel, and no remedy availed to save her. orpheus was thrown into most passionate grief at his wife's death. he could not believe that he had lost her for ever, but prayed day and night without ceasing to the gods above to restore her to him. when they would not listen, he resolved to make one last effort to win her back. he would go down to the lower world and seek her among the dead, and try whether any prayer or persuasion could move pluto to restore his beloved. near tænarum, in laconia, was a cave among dark and gloomy rocks, through which led one of the entrances to the lower world. this was the road by which hercules descended when he went to carry off cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards the threshold of pluto. undaunted by the terrors of the place, orpheus passed through this gate and down a dark and dismal road to the kingdom of the dead. here he came in safety through the crowd of ghosts and phantoms, and stood at last before the throne of pluto and proserpina. then he touched the chords of his lyre and chanted these words: "great lords of the world below the earth, to which all we mortals must one day come, grant me to tell a simple tale and declare unto you the truth. not to look upon the blackness of tartarus have i come hither, nor yet to bind in chains the snaky heads on cerberus. it is my wife i seek. a viper's sting has robbed her of the years that were her due. i should have borne my loss, indeed i tried to bear it, but i was overcome by love, a god well known in the world above, and i think not without honor in your kingdom, unless the story of proserpina's theft be a lying tale. i beseech you, by the realms of the dead, by mighty chaos and the silence of your vast kingdom, revoke the untimely doom of eurydice. all our lives are forfeit to you. 'tis but a short delay, and late or soon we all hasten towards one goal. hither all our footsteps tend. this is our last home, yours is the sole enduring rule over mankind. she too, when she shall have lived her allotted term of years, will surely come under your sway. till then, i implore you, let her be mine. but if the fates refuse a husband's prayers, i am resolved never to return hence. my death shall give you a double boon." [illustration: orpheus and eurydice.] thus he prayed and touched his harp in tune with his words. all around him the lifeless ghosts came flocking, and as they heard they wept. tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. ixion's wheel stood still, the danaids set aside their leaky urns and sisyphus sat on his stone to listen. never yet had such sweet strains been heard in the world of gloom. then, for the first time, tears moistened the cheeks of the furies, and even the king and queen of the dead were moved to pity. they summoned eurydice, and she came, yet halting from her recent wound. "take her," says pluto, "and lead her back to the light. but she must follow you at a distance, nor must you once turn round to look upon her till you have passed beyond these realms. else the boon we grant you will be but vain." a steep path led upward from the realm of darkness, and the way was hard to find through the gloom. in silence orpheus led on, till the goal was close at hand and the welcoming light of the upper air began to penetrate the darkness. then a sudden fear struck his heart. had eurydice really followed his steps, or had she turned back, and was all his toil in vain? tom with anxiety and longing, he turned to gaze on his beloved. dimly he saw her, but for the last time, for a power she could not resist drew her back. orpheus stretched out his arms and tried to seize her, but he only clasped the empty air. "farewell, a last farewell," she murmured, and vanished from his sight. in vain orpheus tried to follow her, in vain he besought charon to carry him a second time across the waters of acheron. seven days he sat on the further bank without food or drink, nourished by his tears and grief. then at last he knew that the gods below were pitiless; and full of sorrow he returned to the upper earth. for three years he wandered among the mountains of thrace, finding his only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he shunned all men and women and would have no bride after eurydice. one day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the sunshine, and played and sang to beguile his sorrow. as he played, the coolness of shady branches seemed all about him, and looking up he found himself in the midst of a wood. oak, poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine, plane and maple and many another tree had gathered together here, drawn from their distant forest homes by the sounds of orpheus's lyre. yes, and the beasts and the birds of the field came too, and orpheus sat in their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow. suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting and merry-making. for this was one of the feasts of bacchus, and the women were celebrating his rites, wandering over the mountains with dance and revel. when they saw orpheus they set up a shout of derision. "see," they cried, "the wretched singer who mocks at women and will have no bride but the dead. come, let us kill him, and show that no man shall despise us unpunished." with these words they began to throw wands and stones at him, but even the lifeless objects were softened by the music, and fell harmlessly to the ground. then the women raised a wild shout and made such a clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that the soft tones of the harp were drowned by the noise. now at last the shots took effect, and in their fury the women fell upon him, dealing blow on blow. orpheus fell lifeless to the ground. but he was not to die unwept. the little birds of the forest mourned for him, even the stony rocks wept, the trees shed their leaves with grief, and the dryads and naiads tore their hair and put on the garb of sorrow. only the pitiless revelers knew no remorse. they seized the singer's head and threw it with his lyre into the river hebrus. there it floated down stream and, strange to tell, the chords gave forth a lament, and the lifeless tongue uttered words. "eurydice, eurydice," it cried, till head and lyre were carried down to the sea, and on to lesbos, the isle of sweet song, where in after years alcaeus and sappho tuned afresh the lyre of orpheus. but the shade of the dead singer went down to hades, and found entrance at last. thus orpheus and eurydice were re-united, and won in death the bliss that was denied them in life. myths of scandinavia baldur adapted from a, and e. keary's version i the dream upon a summer's afternoon it happened that baldur the bright and bold, beloved of men and the gods, found himself alone in his palace of broadblink. thor was walking among the valleys, his brow heavy with summer heat; frey and gerda sported on still waters in their cloud-leaf ship; odin, for once, slept on the top of air throne; a noon-day stillness pervaded the whole earth; and baldur in broadblink, most sunlit of palaces, dreamed a dream. the dream of baldur was troubled. he knew not whence nor why; but when he awoke he found that a new and weighty care was within him. it was so heavy that baldur could scarcely carry it, and yet he pressed it closely to his heart and said, "lie there, and do not fall on any one but me." then he rose up and walked out from the splendor of his hall, that he might seek his own mother, frigga, and tell her what had happened. he found her in her crystal saloon, calm and kind, and ready to sympathize; so he walked up to her, his hands pressed closely on his heart, and lay down at her feet sighing. "what is the matter, dear baldur?" asked frigga, gently. "i do not know, mother," answered he. "i do not know what the matter is; but i have a shadow in my heart." "take it out, then, my son, and let me look at it," replied frigga. "but i fear, mother, that if i do it will cover the whole earth." then frigga laid her hand upon the heart of her son that she might feel the shadow's shape. her brow became clouded as she felt it; her parted lips grew pale, and she cried out, "oh! baldur, my beloved son! the shadow is the shadow of death!" then said baldur, "i will die bravely, my mother." but frigga answered, "you shall not die at all; for i will not sleep to-night until everything on earth has sworn to me that it will neither kill nor harm you." so frigga stood up, and called to her everything on earth that had power to hurt or slay. first she called all metals to her; and heavy iron-ore came lumbering up the hill into the crystal hall, brass and gold, copper, silver, lead, and steel, and stood before the queen, who lifted her right hand high in the air, saying, "swear to me that you will not injure baldur"; and they all swore, and went. then she called to her all stones; and huge granite came with crumbling sandstone, and white lime, and the round, smooth stones of the seashore, and frigga raised her arm, saying, "swear that you will not injure baldur"; and they swore, and went. then frigga called to her the trees; and wide-spreading oak trees, with tall ash and sombre firs, came rushing up the hill, and frigga raised her hand, and said, "swear that you will not hurt baldur"; and they said, "we swear," and went. after this frigga called to her the diseases, who came blown by poisonous winds on wings of pain to the sound of moaning. frigga said to them, "swear"; and they sighed, "we swear," then flew away. then frigga called to her all beasts, birds, and venomous snakes, who came to her and swore, and disappeared. then she stretched out her hand to baldur, while a smile spread over her face, saying, "now, my son, you cannot die." just then odin came in, and when he had heard from frigga the whole story, he looked even more mournful than she had done; neither did the cloud pass from his face when he was told of the oaths that had been taken. "why do you look so grave, my lord?" demanded frigga at last. "baldur cannot die now." but odin asked very gravely, "is the shadow gone out of our son's heart, or is it still there?" "it cannot be there," said frigga, turning away her head resolutely, and folding her hands before her. but odin looked at baldur, and saw how it was. the hands pressed to the heavy heart, the beautiful brow grown dim. then immediately he arose, saddled sleipnir, his eight-footed steed, mounted him, and, turning to frigga, said, "i know of a dead prophetess, frigga, who, when she was alive, could tell what was going to happen; her grave lies on the east side of helheim, and i am going there to awake her, and ask whether any terrible grief is really coming upon us." so saying odin shook the bridle in his hand, and the eight-footed, with a bound, leaped forth, rushed like a whirlwind down the mountain of asgard, and then dashed into a narrow defile between rocks. sleipnir went on through the defile a long way, until he came to a place where the earth opened her mouth. there odin rode in and down a broad, steep, slanting road which led him to the cavern gnipa, and the mouth of the cavern gnipa yawned upon niflheim. then thought odin to himself, "my journey is already done." but just as sleipnir was about to leap through the jaws of the pit, garm, the voracious dog who was chained to the rock, sprang forward, and tried to fasten himself upon odin. three times odin shook him off, and still garm, as fierce as ever, went on with the fight. at last sleipnir leaped, and odin thrust just at the same moment; then horse and rider cleared the entrance, and turned eastward towards the dead prophetess's grave, dripping blood along the road as they went; while the beaten garm stood baying in the cavern's mouth. when odin came to the grave he got off his horse, and stood with his face northward, looking through barred enclosures into the city of helheim itself. the servants of hela were very busy there making preparations for some new guest--hanging gilded couches with curtains of anguish and splendid misery upon the walls. then odin's heart died within him, and he began to repeat mournful runes in a low tone. the dead prophetess turned heavily in her grave at the sound of his voice, and sat bolt upright. "what man is this," she asked, "who dares disturb my sleep?" then odin, for the first time in his life, said what was not true; the shadow of baldur dead fell upon his lips, and he made answer, "my name is vegtam, the son of valtam." "and what do you want of me?" asked the prophetess. "i want to know," replied odin, "for whom hela is making ready that gilded couch in helheim?" "that is for baldur the beloved," answered the prophetess. "now go away and let me sleep again, for my eyes are heavy." but odin said, "only one word more. is baldur going to helheim?" "yes, i've told you that he is," was the answer. "will he never come back to asgard again?" "if everything on earth should weep for him," said she, "he will go back; if not, he will remain in helheim." then odin covered his face with his hands and looked into darkness. "do go away," said the prophetess, "i'm so sleepy; i cannot keep my eyes open any longer." but odin raised his head and said again, "only tell me one thing. just now, as i looked into darkness, it seemed to me that i saw one on earth who would not weep for baldur. who was it?" at this she grew very angry and said, "how couldst _thou_ see in darkness? i know of only one who, by giving away his eye, gained light. no vegtam art thou but odin, chief of men." at her angry words odin became angry, too, and called out as loudly as he could, "no prophetess nor wise woman, but rather the mother of three giants." "go, go!" answered the prophetess, falling back in her grave; "no man shall waken me again until loki have burst his chains and the twilight of the gods be come." after this odin mounted the eight-footed once more and rode thoughtfully home. ii the peacestead when odin came back to asgard, hermod took the bridle from his father's hand and told him that the rest of the gods were gone to the peacestead--a broad, green plain which lay just outside the city. this was the playground of the gods, where they practised trials of skill and held tournaments and sham fights. these last were always conducted in the gentlest and most honorable manner; for the strongest law of the peacestead was, that no angry blow should be struck, or spiteful word spoken, upon the sacred field; and for this reason some have thought it might be well if children also had a peacestead to play in. odin was too tired from his journey to go to the peacestead that afternoon; so he turned away and shut himself up in his palace of gladsheim. but when he was gone, loki came into the city by another way, and hearing from hermod where the gods were, set off to join them. when he got to the peacestead, loki found that the gods were standing round in a circle shooting at something, and he peeped between the shoulders of two of them to find out what it was. to his surprise he saw baldur standing in the midst, erect and calm, whilst his friends and brothers were aiming their weapons at him. some hewed at him with their swords,--others threw stones at him--some shot arrows pointed with steel, and thor continually swung his great hammer at his head. "well," said loki to himself, "if this is the sport of asgard, what must that of jötunheim be? i wonder what father odin and mother frigga would say if they were here?" but as loki still looked, he became even more surprised, for the sport went on, and baldur was not hurt. arrows aimed at his very heart glanced back again untinged with blood. the stones fell down from his broad, bright brow, and left no bruises there. swords clave, but did not wound him; thor's hammer struck him, and he was not crushed. at this loki grew perfectly furious with envy and hatred. "and why is baldur to be so honored," said he "that even steel and stone shall not hurt him?" then loki changed himself into a little, dark, bent old woman, with a stick, and hobbled away from the peacestead to frigga's crystal saloon. at the door he knocked with the stick. "come in!" said the kind voice of frigga, and loki lifted the latch. now when frigga saw, from the other end of the hall, a little, bent, crippled old woman come hobbling up her crystal floor, she got up with true queenliness and met her halfway, holding out her hand and saying in the kindest manner, "pray sit down, my poor old friend; for it seems to me that you have come from a great distance." "that i have, indeed," answered loki in a tremulous, squeaking voice. "and did you happen to see anything of the gods," asked frigga, "as you came?" "just now i passed by the peacestead and saw them at play." "what were they doing?" "shooting at baldur." then frigga bent over her work with a pleased smile on her face. "and nothing hurt him?" "nothing," answered loki, looking keenly at her. "no, no thing," murmured frigga, still looking down and speaking half musingly to herself; "for all things have sworn to me that they will not." "sworn!" exclaimed loki, eagerly; "what is that you say? has everything sworn then?" "everything," answered she, "excepting the little shrub mistletoe, which grows, you know, on the west side of valhalla, and to which i said nothing, because i thought it was too young to swear." "excellent!" thought loki, and then he got up. "you're not going yet, are you?" said frigga, stretching out her hand and looking up at last into the eyes of the old woman. "i'm quite rested now, thank you," answered loki in his squeaky voice, and then he hobbled out at the door, which clapped after him, and sent a cold gust into the room. frigga shuddered, and thought that a serpent was gliding down the back of her neck. when loki had left the presence of frigga, he changed himself back to his proper shape and went straight to the west side of valhalla, where the mistletoe grew. then he opened his knife and cut off a large bunch, saying these words, "too young for frigga's oaths, but not too weak for loki's work." after which he set off for the peacestead once more, the mistletoe in his hand. when he got there he found that the gods were still at their sport, standing round, taking aim, and talking eagerly, and baldur did not seem tired. but there was one who stood alone, leaning against a tree, and who took no part in what was going on. this was hödur, baldur's blind twin-brother; he stood with his head bent downwards, silent while the others were speaking, doing nothing when they were most eager; and loki thought that there was a discontented expression on his face, just as if he were saying to himself, "nobody takes any notice of me." so loki went up to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "and why are you standing here all alone, my brave friend?" said he. "why don't _you_ throw something at baldur? hew at him with a sword, or show him some attention of that sort." "i haven't a sword," answered hödur, with an impatient gesture; "and you know as well as i do, loki, that father odin does not approve of my wearing warlike weapons, or joining in sham fights, because i am blind." "oh! is that it?" said loki. well, i only know _i_ shouldn't like to be left out of everything. however, i've got a twig of mistletoe here which i'll lend you if you like; a harmless little twig enough, but i shall be happy to guide your arm if you would like to throw it, and baldur might take it as a compliment from his twin-brother." "let me feel it," said hödur, stretching out his groping hands. "this way, this way, my dear friend," said loki, giving him the twig. "now, as hard as ever you can, to do _him honor_; throw!" hödur threw--baldur fell, and the shadow of death covered the whole earth. iii baldur dead one after another they turned and left the peacestead, the friends and brothers of the slain. one after another they turned and went towards the city; crushed hearts, heavy footsteps, no word amongst them, a shadow upon all. the shadow was in asgard, too--had walked through frigga's hall and seated itself upon the threshold of gladsheim. odin had just come out to look at it, and frigga stood by in mute despair as the gods came up. "loki did it! loki did it!" they said at last in confused, hoarse whispers, and they looked from one to another,--upon odin, upon frigga, upon the shadow which they saw before them, and which they felt within. "loki did it! loki, loki!" they went on saying; but it was of no use to repeat the name of loki over and over again when there was another name they were too sad to utter but which filled all their hearts--baldur. frigga said it first, and then they all went to look at him lying down so peacefully on the grass--dead, dead. "carry him to the funeral pyre!" said odin, at length; and four of the gods stooped down and lifted their dead brother. noiselessly they carried the body tenderly to the seashore and laid it upon the deck of the majestic ship, ringhorn, which had been _his_. then they stood waiting to see who would come to the funeral. odin came, and on his shoulders sat his two ravens, whose croaking drew clouds down over the asa's face, for thought and memory sang the same sad song that day. frigga came,--frey, gerda, freyja, thor, hoenir, bragi, and idun. heimdall came sweeping over the tops of the mountains on golden mane, his swift, bright steed. ægir the old groaned from under the deep, and sent his daughters up to mourn around the dead. frost-giants and mountain-giants came crowding round the rimy shores of jötunheim to look across the sea upon the funeral of an asa. nanna came, baldur's fair young wife; but when she saw the dead body of her husband, her own heart broke with grief, and the gods laid her beside him on the stately ship. after this odin stepped forward and placed a ring on the breast of his son, whispering something at the same time in his ear; but when he and the rest of the gods tried to push ringhorn into the sea before setting fire to it, they found their hearts too heavy to do it. so they beckoned to the giantess hyrrokin to come over from jötunheim and help them. she, with a single push, set the ship floating, and then, whilst thor stood up holding his hammer high in the air, odin lighted the funeral pile of baldur and of nanna. so ringhorn went floating towards the deep sea and the funeral fire burnt on. its broad red flame burst forth heavenward, but when the smoke would have gone upward too, the winds came sobbing and carried it away. iv helheim when at last the ship ringhorn had floated out so far to sea that it looked like a dull red lamp on the horizon, frigga turned round and said, "will any one of you, my children, perform a noble action and win my love forever?" "i will," cried hermod, before any one else had time to open his lips. "go, then, hermod," answered frigga, "saddle sleipnir with all speed and ride down to helheim; there seek out hela, the stern mistress of the dead, and entreat her to send our beloved back to us again." hermod was gone in the twinkling of an eye, not in at the mouth of the earth and through the steep cavern down which odin went to the dead prophetess's grave; he chose another way, though not a better one; for, go to helheim as you will, the best is but a downward road, and so hermod found it--downward, slanting, slippery, dark, and very cold. at last he came to the giallar bru--that sounding river which flows between the living and the dead, and to the bridge over it which is paved with stones of glittering gold. hermod was surprised to see gold in such a place; but as he rode over the bridge, and looked down carefully at the stones, he saw that they were only tears which had been shed round the beds of the dying--only tears, and yet they made the way seem brighter. but when hermod reached the other end of the bridge, he found the courageous woman who, for ages and ages, had been sitting there to watch the dead go by, and she stopped him saying: "what a noise you make! who are you? yesterday five troops of dead men went over the giallar bridge and did not shake it so much as you have done. besides," she added, looking more closely at hermod, "you are not a dead man at all. your lips are neither cold nor blue. why, then, do you ride on the way to helheim?" "i seek baldur," answered hermod. "tell me, have you seen him pass?" "baldur," she said, "has ridden over the bridge; but there below, towards the north, lies the way to the abodes of death." so hermod went on the way until he came to the barred gates of helheim itself. there he alighted, tightened his saddle-girths, remounted, clapped both spurs to his horse, and cleared the gate by one tremendous leap. then hermod found himself in a place where no living man had ever been before--the city of the dead. perhaps you think there is a great silence there, but you are mistaken. hermod thought he had never in his life heard so much noise; for the echoes of all words were speaking together--words, some newly uttered and some ages old; but the dead men did not hear who flitted up and down the dark streets, for their ears had been stunned and become cold long since. hermod rode on through the city until he came to the palace of hela, which stood in the midst. precipice was its threshold, the entrance-hall, wide storm, and yet hermod was not too much afraid to seek the innermost rooms; so he went on to the banqueting hall, where hela sat at the head of her table serving her new guests. baldur, alas! sat at her right hand, and on her left his pale young wife. when hela saw hermod coming up the hall she smiled grimly, but beckoned to him at the same time to sit down, and told him that he might sup that night with her. it was a strange supper for a living man to sit down to. hunger was the table; starvation, hela's knife; delay, her man; slowness, her maid; and burning thirst, her wine. after supper hela led the way to the sleeping apartments. "you see," she said, turning to hermod, "i am very anxious about the comfort of my guests. here are beds of unrest provided for all, hung with curtains of weariness, and look how all the walls are furnished with despair." so saying she strode away, leaving hermod and baldur together. the whole night they sat on those unquiet couches and talked. hermod could speak of nothing but the past, and as he looked anxiously round the room his eyes became dim with tears. but baldur seemed to see a light far off, and he spoke of what was to come. the next morning hermod went to hela, and entreated her to let baldur return to asgard. he even offered to take his place in helheim if she pleased; but hela only laughed at this and said: "you talk a great deal about baldur, and boast how much every one loves him; i will prove now if what you have told me be true. let everything on earth, living or dead, weep for baldur, and he shall go home again; but if _one_ thing only refuse to weep, then let helheim hold its own; he shall _not_ go." "every one will weep willingly," said hermod, as he mounted sleipnir and rode towards the entrance of the city. baldur went with him as far as the gate and began to send messages to all his friends in asgard, but hermod would not listen to many of them. "you will soon come back to us," he said, "there is no use in sending messages." so hermod darted homewards, and baldur watched him through the bars of helheim's gateway as he flew along. "not soon, not soon," said the dead asa; but still he saw the light far off, and thought of what was to come. v weeping "well, hermod, what did she say?" asked the gods from the top of the hill as they saw him coming; "make haste and tell us what she said." and hermod came up. "oh! is that all?" they cried, as soon as he had delivered his message. "nothing can be more easy," and then they all hurried off to tell frigga. she was weeping already, and in five minutes there was not a tearless eye in asgard. "but this is not enough," said odin; "the whole earth must know of our grief that it may weep with us." then the father of the gods called to him his messenger maidens--the beautiful valkyries--and sent them out into all worlds with these three words on their lips, "baldur is dead!" but the words were so dreadful that at first the messenger maidens could only whisper them in low tones as they went along, "baldur is dead!" the dull, sad sounds flowed back on asgard like a new river of grief, and it seemed to the gods as if they now wept for the first time--"baldur is dead!" "what is that the valkyries are saying?" asked the men and women in all the country round, and when they heard rightly, men left their labor and lay down to weep--women dropped the buckets they were carrying to the well, and, leaning their faces over them, filled them with tears. the children crowded upon the doorsteps, or sat down at the corners of the streets, crying as if their own mothers were dead. the valkyries passed on. "baldur is dead!" they said to the empty fields; and straightway the grass and the wild field-flowers shed tears. "baldur is dead!" said the messenger maidens to the rocks and stones; and the very stones began to weep. "baldur is dead!" the valkyries cried; and even the old mammoth's bones which had lain for centuries under the hills, burst into tears, so that small rivers gushed forth from every mountain's side. "baldur is dead!" said the messenger maidens as they swept over silent sands; and all the shells wept pearls. "baldur is dead!" they cried to the sea, and to jötunheim across the sea; and when the giants understood it, even they wept, while the sea rained spray to heaven. after this the valkyries stepped from one stone to another until they reached a rock that stood alone in the middle of the sea; then, all together, they bent forward over the edge of it, stooped down and peeped over, that they might tell the monsters of the deep. "baldur is dead!" they said, and the sea monsters and the fish wept. then the messenger maidens looked at one another and said, "surely our work is done." so they twined their arms round one another's waists, and set forth on the downward road to helheim, there to claim baldur from among the dead. after he had sent forth his messenger maidens, odin had seated himself on the top of air throne that he might see how the earth received his message. at first he watched the valkyries as they stepped forth north and south, and east and west; but soon the whole earth's steaming tears rose up like a great cloud and hid everything from him. then he looked down through the cloud and said, "are you all weeping?" the valkyries heard the sound of his voice as they went all together down the slippery road, and they turned round, stretching out their arms towards air throne, their long hair falling back, while, with choked voices and streaming eyes, they answered, "the world weeps, father odin; the world and we." after this they went on their way until they came to the end of the cave gnipa, where garm was chained, and which yawned over niflheim. "the world weeps," they said one to another by way of encouragement, for here the road was so dreadful; but just as they were about to pass through the mouth of gnipa they came upon a haggard witch named thaukt, who sat in the entrance with her back to them, and her face toward the abyss. "baldur is dead! weep, weep!" said the messenger maidens, as they tried to pass her; but thaukt made answer: "what she doth hold, let hela keep; for naught care i, though the world weep, o'er baldur's bale. live he or die with tearless eye, old thaukt shall wail." and with these words leaped into niflheim with a yell of triumph. "surely that cry was the cry of loki," said one of the maidens; but another pointed towards the city of helheim, and there they saw the stern face of hela looking over the wall. "one has not wept," said the grim queen, "and helheim holds its own." so saying she motioned the maidens away with her long, cold hand. then the valkyries turned and fled up the steep way to the foot of odin's throne, like a pale snowdrift that flies before the storm. thor's adventures among the jötuns adapted by julia goddard once upon a time thor set out upon his travels, taking loki with him, for despite loki's spirit of mischief he often aided thor, who doubtless, in the present expedition, felt that loki might be of use to him. so they set off together in thor's chariot, drawn by its two strong he-goats, and as night drew nigh, stopped at the hut of a peasant, where they asked food and shelter. "food i have none to give you," said the peasant. "i am a poor man and not able even to give supper to my children, but if you like to rest under my roof you are welcome to do so." "never mind the food; i can manage that," said thor, dismounting from the chariot and entering the hut. it was a poor place, and not at all fitted to receive one of the asi, but thor was glad enough to meet with it, wretched as it was. "you can kill the goats," said he; "they will make us an excellent meal." the peasant could not help thinking that it was a pity to kill two such fine animals; but wisely thinking that this was no affair of his, and that the stranger had a right to do as he pleased with his own, he set himself to obey thor's orders, and with the help of his daughter raska soon spread a savory repast before the hungry god and his attendant. "sit down, all of you," said thor; "there is enough and to spare." so they all sat down, and the peasant and his children shared a more plentiful meal than had fallen to their lot lately. thor and loki also did ample justice to the food, and when supper was over the thunder-god bade the peasant gather the bones and place them in the goatskins, and making them into a bundle he left them on the floor until the next morning. when the morning came and the early sun shone in through the crevices, thor raised his hammer, and instead of the bundle of bones the peasant and his son and daughter saw the two goats standing as fresh and lively as if nothing had happened to them, saving that one of them halted a little in his walk. when they sought to learn why this should be, it was found that thialfe, the boy, in getting the marrow out of one of the bones, had broken it, and it was this that caused the goat to go lame. thor was very angry, and was very near killing not only thialfe but also the peasant and his daughter raska, but they begged so hard for their lives that he consented to spare them on condition that the boy and girl should follow him in his travels. to this they agreed, and thor, leaving the chariot and goats in the peasant's care, went on his journey, giving thialfe, who was a very swift runner, his wallet to carry. on and on they journeyed until they came to a great sea. "how are we to get over this?" asked loki. "swim across it," replied thor. and in they all plunged, for thialfe and raska were used to a hardy life, and so were able to swim with scarcely more weariness than thor and loki, and were not long in reaching the opposite shore. "the country does not improve," said loki, looking round upon the desolate plain that lay outstretched between them and the borders of a dark forest, which they could just see in the far distance. one or two huge rocks thrust their jagged points high into the air, and great blocks of stone were scattered about, but there was no sign of herbage and not a tree to be seen nearer than the forest belt bounding the horizon. heavy gray clouds were drawing nearer and nearer to the dreary earth, and twilight was fast approaching. "it looks not well," answered thor, "but we must push on and perhaps may find it better as we go onward. besides, night is drawing nigh, and as there are no dwellings to be seen we must try to gain the shelter of the forest before it is too dark to see where we are going." so they pushed on, and though they looked to the right hand and to the left, soon found that they were in a land where no men lived. there was, therefore, nothing to be done but to quicken their speed, in order to reach the shelter of the forest. but though they strove to the utmost, the twilight deepened into darkness and the darkness became so deep by the time they reached the forest, that they only knew they had arrived there by loki's striking his head against a low branch, and soon after this thor cried out: "good luck! i have found a house. follow close after me and we will make ourselves comfortable for the night." for thor in groping along had come to what he supposed to be a wall of solid masonry. "where are you?" asked loki, "for it is so dark that i cannot see you." "here," answered thor, stretching out his hand; "take hold and follow me." so loki clutched thor's arm, and thialfe in turn seized the arm of loki, whilst raska clung to her brother and wished herself safe at home in her father's hut. and thus they groped their way along the wall, seeking to find an entrance to the house. at last thor found a huge entrance opening into a wide, hall, and passing through this they turned to the left into a large room which was quite empty, and here, after eating some food, they stretched themselves upon the hard floor and wearied out with the day's march, soon fell asleep. but they did not sleep long. their slumbers were broken by a rumbling sound as of a coming earthquake; the walls of the house shook, and peals of thunder echoed through the lofty chamber. thor sprang up. "we are scarcely safe here," he said; "let us seek some other room." loki jumped up speedily, as did also thialfe and raska, who were in a great fright, wondering what dreadful thing was going to happen to them. they willingly followed thor, hoping to find a safer place. to the right they saw another room like a long gallery with a huge doorway, and into this loki, thialfe, and raska crept, choosing the farthest corner of it; but thor took his stand at the doorway to be on the watch if any fresh danger should threaten them. after a somewhat uncomfortable rest, loki, thialfe, and raska were not sorry to find that the day had dawned, though as there were no windows in the house, they only knew it by hearing the cock crow. thor was better off, for the doorway was so wide that the sunlight came pouring in without hindrance. indeed the huge size of the doorway made thor think that the builder must have given up all hope of ever finding a door large enough to fit into it. he strolled away from the house, and the first thing that he saw was a huge giant fast asleep upon the greensward; and now he knew that the thunder that had so frightened them in the night had been nothing more or less than the loud snoring of the giant. so wroth was thor at the thought that such a thing should have made him afraid, that he fastened on his belt of strength and drew his sword and made towards the giant as though he would kill him on the spot. but the giant, opening his great round eyes, stared so steadily at thor that the god became mazed and could do nothing but stare in return. at last, however, he found voice to ask, "what is your name?" "my name," said the giant, raising himself on one elbow, thereby causing his head to rise so high into the air that thor thought it was taking flight altogether, "is skrymner; you, i believe, are the god thor?" "i am," answered the god. "do you happen to have picked up my glove?" asked the giant carelessly. then thor knew that what he and his companions had taken for a large house was only the giant's glove, and from this we may judge how huge a giant skrymner must have been. thor made no answer, and skrymner next asked whither thor was traveling; and when he found that he was journeying to utgard, offered to bear him company, as he too was going to the same place. thor accepted the giant's offer, and after eating a hearty meal, all were ready for another day's march. skrymner showed himself a kindly giant, and insisted upon carrying thor's bag of meal, putting it into his own wallet, which he slung across his broad shoulders. it must have been a strange sight, indeed, to see the great giant stalking along with his smaller companions at his heels; and we may well marvel how they managed to keep pace with him, or how thor was able to raise his voice to such a pitch as to reach the giant's ears. nevertheless all went well, and they trudged cheerfully along, never flagging in their talk. once skrymner took raska on his shoulder, but the height made her so giddy that she was glad to come down again and walk quietly by the side of thialfe. when night overtook them they encamped under one of the great oak-trees, for they were not yet out of the bounds of the forest. skrymner, to judge by his loud snoring, fell asleep the moment he lay down upon the ground, but thor and his comrades were not so tired as to forget that they had tasted nothing since breakfast time. accordingly they set to work to open the wallet that skrymner had given into their hands before closing his eyes. but it was no easy task, and with all their efforts they failed to open it. not a knot could they untie, and their fingers were chafed and aching. neither were they more able to awaken skyrmner, and thor's anger waxed exceedingly fierce. "you shall pay for this," said he, flinging his hammer at the giant. skrymner half opened the eye nearest to thor, and said in a very sleepy voice, "why will the leaves drop off the trees?" and then he snored as loudly as before. thor picked up his hammer, and approaching nearer drove it into the hinder part of the giant's head, who again, half waking up, muttered, "how troublesome the dust is!" thor was exceedingly astonished at this, but thought nevertheless that he would once more make trial of his power; so coming up close to skrymner he struck with such force as to drive the hammer up to the handle in the giant's cheek. then skrymner opened both eyes, and lazily lifting his finger to his face said, "i suppose there are birds about, for i fancied i felt a feather fall." now was thor fairly disconcerted; and the next morning, when the giant told him that they must now part, as his road led him another way, he was by no means ill-pleased, and he let skrymner go without so much as bidding him "good speed." skrymner, however, seemed not to notice that thor was glad to be quit of his company, and gave him some very friendly advice before he left him. "if you will take my advice," said the giant, "you will give up this thought of visiting utgard. the people there are all giants of greater stature even than i, and they make nothing of little men, such as you are. nay, more, you yourself are likely to fare but badly amongst them, for i see that you are rather apt to think too much of yourself and to take too much upon you. be wise while there is time, think of what i say, and don't go near the city." "but i will go there," shouted thor, almost choked with rage; "i will go in spite of all the jötuns of jötunheim. none shall hinder me, and the giants shall see and wonder at the mighty power of the god thor." and as he spoke the rising sun fell full upon the city of utgard, whose huge brazen gates glittered in the sunlight. even though they were so far away, thor could see how high they were; and as he drew nearer, their vast size filled him with amazement; but when he reached them his wonder was beyond all words, for he and his companions seemed no larger than grasshoppers, in comparison with their height. the gates were not open, for it was yet early; so thor and his comrades crept through the bars, and entered the city. as they passed along the streets the houses were so tall that it was only by crossing to the opposite side of the broad road that they were able to see the windows in the topmost stories. and the streets were so wide that it was quite a journey across them. once a mouse darted out of a hole, and raska screamed, for she thought it was a grisly bear. the mouse also shrieked and made much more noise than raska, as well it might, for a cat so huge that thialfe half thought it must be the monster of midgard seized it, and giving it a pat with one of its paws laid it dead on the pavement. as for the horses, their hoofs were terrible to look at, and thialfe and raska must have climbed up ladders if they wished to see their heads. the people were quite as large as skrymner had described and thor and his companions were obliged to be very careful lest they should get trodden upon, as it was very doubtful if the people even saw them. still thor walked along with the proud consciousness that he was the god thor; and feeling that though he was so small he was yet a person of some importance, made his way to the palace, and desired to see the king. after some little time he and his fellow travelers were ushered into the presence of utgarda loke, the king of the country. and utgarda loke, hearing the door open, raised his eyes, thinking to see some great courtier enter, but he knew nothing of the bows and greetings of thor, until happening to cast his eyes to the ground, he saw a little man with his companions saluting him with much ceremony. the king had never seen such small men before, and there was something so absurd to him in the sight, that he burst out laughing. and then all the courtiers laughed also, pretending that they had not seen the little creatures before. it was some time before they all left off laughing, but at length there was a pause, and thor essayed to make himself heard. "though we are but small in comparison with the jötuns," said he angrily, "we are by no means to be despised, but are gifted with powers that may surprise you." "really!" answered utgarda loke, raising his eyebrows. and then he and his courtiers laughed louder than before. at last there was another pause in their merriment, and the king added: "however, we are willing to give the strangers a fair trial in order to prove the truth of what their spokesman, whom i take to be the god thor, says. how say you? what can this one do?" and he pointed to loki. "please your majesty, i am very great at eating," returned loki. "nay," answered utgarda loke, "you must grow a little before you are great at anything." at which speech the courtiers again shouted with laughter; but utgarda loke, turning to his servants, bade them make trial of loki's powers. so they brought a great trough full of food, and loki was placed at one end, and a courtier named loge at the other. they both fell to work to devour what was before them, and met at the middle of the trough. but it was found that while loki had eaten the flesh of his portion, loge had eaten, not only the flesh, but the bones also. therefore loki, was, of course, vanquished. then utgarda loke turned to thialfe. "and pray, in what may this youth be specially skilled?" he asked. "i am a swift skater," answered thialfe. "try him," said the king. and thialfe was led to a plain of ice, as smooth as glass, and one named hugr was set to run against him. but though thialfe was the swiftest skater ever known in the world, yet hugr glided past him so fleetly that he had returned to the starting-post before thialfe had done more than a quarter of the distance. three times did thialfe match his speed against hugr, and, three times beaten, withdrew from the contest as disconsolate as loki. "and now may i ask what you can do yourself?" said the king to thor. "i can drain a wine-cup with any one," replied the god. "try him," said utgarda loke. and forthwith the royal cupbearer presented a drinking-horn to thor. "if you are as great as you pretend to be," said the king, "you will drain it at one draught. some people take two pulls at it, but the weakest among us can manage it in three." thor took up the horn, and, being very thirsty, took a steady pull at it. he thought he had done very well, but on removing it from his lips he marveled to see how little had gone. a second time he took a draught, but the horn was far from being emptied. again a third time he essayed to drain it, but it was full almost to the brim. therefore he set it down in despair, and confessed himself unable to drain it. "i am disappointed in you," said utgarda loke; "you are not half the man i took you for. i see it is no use asking you to do warrior's feats; i must try you in a simpler way, in a child's play that we have amongst us. you shall try to lift my cat from the ground." thor turned quite scarlet, and then became white with rage. "are you afraid?" asked utgarde loke; "you look so pale." and a large gray cat came leaping along, and planted itself firmly before thor, showing its sharp claws, and glaring upon him with its fiery eyes. thor seized it, but in spite of all his efforts he was only able to raise one of the cat's paws from the ground. "pooh! pooh!" exclaimed utgarda loke, "you are a mere baby, fit only for the nursery. i believe that my old nurse hela would be more than a match for you. here, hela, come and wrestle with the mighty god thor." and utgarda loke laughed disdainfully. forth stepped a decrepit old woman, with lank cheeks and toothless jaws. her eyes were sunken, her brow furrowed, and her scanty locks were white as snow. she advanced towards thor, and tried to throw him to the ground; but though he put forth his whole strength to withstand her, he was surprised to find how powerful she was, and that it needed all his efforts to keep his feet. for a long time he was successful, but at length she brought him down upon one knee, and thor was obliged to acknowledge himself conquered. ashamed and mortified, he and his companions withdrew to a lodging for the night, and in the morning were making ready to leave the city quietly, when utgarda loke sent for them. he made them a splendid feast, and afterwards went with them beyond the city gates. "now tell me honestly," said he to thor, "what do you think of your success?" "i am beyond measure astounded and ashamed," replied the god. "ha! ha!" laughed utgarda loke. "i knew that you were. however, as we are well out of the city i don't mind telling you a secret or two. doubtless you will receive a little comfort from my doing so, as you confess that your coming hither has been to no purpose. "in the first place, you have been deceived by enchantments ever since you came within the borders of jötunheim. i am the giant you met with on your way hither, and if i had known as much of your power then as i do now, you would never have found your way within the walls of utgard. "certainly i had had some slight experience of it, for the three blows you gave me would have killed me had they fallen upon me. but it was not i, but a huge mountain that you struck at; and if you visit it again, you will find three valleys cleft in the rocks by the strokes of your hammer. "as for the wallet, i had fastened it with a magic chain, so that you need not wonder that you could not open it. "loge, with whom loki strove, was no courtier, but a subtle devouring flame that consumed all before it." here loki uttered an exclamation of delight, but thor bade him be silent, and utgarda loke went on: "thialfe's enemy was hugr, or thought, and let man work away as hard as he pleases, thought will still outrun him. "as for yourself, the end of the drinking-horn, though you did not see it, reached the sea, and as fast as you emptied it, it filled again, so that you never could have drained it dry. but the next time that you stand upon the seashore, you will find how much less the ocean is by your draughts. "the gray cat was no cat, but the great serpent of midgard, that twines round the world, and you lifted him so high that we were all quite frightened. "but your last feat was the most wonderful of all, for hela was none other than death. and never did i see any one before over whom death had so little power. "and now, my friend, go your way, and don't come near my city again, for i tell you plainly i do not want you there, and i shall use all kinds of enchantment to keep you out of it." as he ended his speech, thor raised his hammer, but utgarda loke had vanished. "i will return to the city, and be avenged," said thor. but lo! the giant city was nowhere to be seen. a fair pasture-land spread itself out around him, and through its midst a broad river flowed peacefully along. so thor and his companions, musing upon their wonderful adventures, turned their steps homewards. the apples of idun adapted by hamilton wright mabie once upon a time odin, loki, and hoenir started on a journey. they had often traveled together before on all sorts of errands, for they had a great many things to look after, and more than once they had fallen into trouble through the prying, meddlesome, malicious spirit of loki, who was never so happy as when he was doing wrong. when the gods went on a journey they traveled fast and hard, for they were strong, active spirits who loved nothing so much as hard work, hard blows, storm, peril, and struggle. there were no roads through the country over which they made their way, only high mountains to be climbed by rocky paths, deep valleys into which the sun hardly looked during half the year, and swift-rushing streams, cold as ice, and treacherous to the surest foot and the strongest arm. not a bird flew through the air, not an animal sprang through the trees. it was as still as a desert. the gods walked on and on, getting more tired and hungry at every step. the sun was sinking low over the steep, pine-crested mountains, and the travelers had neither breakfasted nor dined. even odin was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, like the most ordinary mortal, when suddenly, entering a little valley, the famished gods came upon a herd of cattle. it was the work of a minute to kill a great ox and to have the carcass swinging in a huge pot over a roaring fire. but never were gods so unlucky before! in spite of their hunger, the pot would not boil. they piled on the wood until the great flames crackled and licked the pot with their fiery tongues, but every time the cover was lifted there was the meat just as raw as when it was put in. it is easy to imagine that the travelers were not in very good humor. as they were talking about it, and wondering how it could be, a voice called out from the branches of the oak overhead, "if you will give me my fill, i'll make the pot boil." the gods looked first at each other and then into the tree, and there they discovered a great eagle. they were glad enough to get their supper on almost any terms, so they told the eagle he might have what he wanted if he would only get the meat cooked. the bird was as good as his word, and in less time than it takes to tell it supper was ready. then the eagle flew down and picked out both shoulders and both legs. this was a pretty large share, it must be confessed, and loki, who was always angry when anybody got more than he, no sooner saw what the eagle had taken, than he seized a great pole and began to beat the rapacious bird unmercifully. whereupon a very singular thing happened, as singular things always used to happen when the gods were concerned: the pole stuck fast in the huge talons of the eagle at one end, and loki stuck fast at the other end. struggle as he might, he could not get loose, and as the great bird sailed away over the tops of the trees, loki went pounding along on the ground, striking against rocks and branches until he was bruised half to death. the eagle was not an ordinary bird by any means, as loki soon found when he begged for mercy. the giant thjasse happened to be flying abroad in his eagle plumage when the hungry travelers came under the oak and tried to cook the ox. it was into his hands that loki had fallen, and he was not to get away until he had promised to pay roundly for his freedom. if there was one thing which the gods prized above their other treasures in asgard, it was the beautiful fruit of idun, kept by the goddess in a golden casket and given to the gods to keep them forever young and fair. without these apples all their power could not have kept them from getting old like the meanest of mortals. without these apples of idun, asgard itself would have lost its charm; for what would heaven be without youth and beauty forever shining through it? thjasse told loki that he could not go unless he would promise to bring the apples of idun. loki was wicked enough for anything; but when it came to robbing the gods of their immortality, even he hesitated. and while he hesitated the eagle dashed hither and thither, flinging him against the sides of the mountains and dragging him through the great tough boughs of the oaks until his courage gave out entirely, and he promised to steal the apples out of asgard and give them to the giant. loki was bruised and sore enough when he got on his feet again to hate the giant who handled him so roughly, with all his heart, but he was not unwilling to keep his promise to steal the apples, if only for the sake of tormenting the other gods. but how was it to be done? idun guarded the golden fruit of immortality with sleepless watchfulness. no one ever touched it but herself, and a beautiful sight it was to see her fair hands spread it forth for the morning feasts in asgard. the power which loki possessed lay not so much in his own strength, although he had a smooth way of deceiving people, as in the goodness of others who had no thought of his doing wrong because they never did wrong themselves. not long after all this happened, loki came carelessly up to idun as she was gathering her apples to put them away in the beautiful carven box which held them. "good morning, goddess," said he. "how fair and golden your apples are! "yes," answered idun; "the bloom of youth keeps them always beautiful." "i never saw anything like them," continued loki slowly, as if he were talking about a matter of no importance, "until the other day." idun looked up at once with the greatest interest and curiosity in her face. she was very proud of her apples, and she knew no earthly trees, however large and fair, bore the immortal fruit. "where have you seen any apples like them?" she asked. "oh, just outside the gates," said loki indifferently. "if you care to see them i'll take you there. it will keep you but a moment. the tree is only a little way off." idun was anxious to go at once. "better take your apples with you, to compare them with the others," said the wily god, as she prepared to go. idun gathered up the golden apples and went out of asgard, carrying with her all that made it heaven. no sooner was she beyond the gates than a mighty rushing sound was heard, like the coming of a tempest, and before she could think or act, the giant thjasse, in his eagle plumage, was bearing her swiftly away through the air to his desolate, icy home in thrymheim, where, after vainly trying to persuade her to let him eat the apples and be forever young like the gods, he kept her a lonely prisoner. loki, after keeping his promise and delivering idun into the hands of the giant, strayed back into asgard as if nothing had happened. the next morning, when the gods assembled for their feast, there was no idun. day after day went past, and still the beautiful goddess did not come. little by little the light of youth and beauty faded from the home of the gods, and they themselves became old and haggard. their strong, young faces were lined with care and furrowed by age, their raven locks passed from gray to white, and their flashing eyes became dim and hollow. bragi, the god of poetry, could make no music while his beautiful wife was gone he knew not whither. morning after morning the faded light broke on paler and ever paler faces, until even in heaven the eternal light of youth seemed to be going out forever. finally the gods could bear the loss of power and joy no longer. they made rigorous inquiry. they tracked loki on that fair morning when he led idun beyond the gates; they seized him and brought him into solemn council, and when he read in their haggard faces the deadly hate which flamed in all their hearts against his treachery, his courage failed, and he promised to bring idun back to asgard if the goddess freyja would lend him her falcon guise. no sooner said than done; and with eager gaze the gods watched him as he flew away, becoming at last only a dark moving speck against the sky. after long and weary flight loki came to thrymheim, and was glad enough to find thjassa gone to sea and idun alone in his dreary house. he changed her instantly into a nut, and taking her thus disguised in his talons, flew away as fast as his falcon wings could carry him. and he had need of all his speed, for thjasse, coming suddenly home and finding idun and her precious fruit gone, guessed what had happened, and, putting on his eagle plumage, flew forth in a mighty rage, with vengeance in his heart. like the rushing wings of a tempest, his mighty pinions beat the air and bore him swiftly onward. from mountain peak to mountain peak he measured his wide course, almost grazing at times the murmuring pine forests, and then sweeping high in mid-air with nothing above but the arching sky, and nothing beneath but the tossing sea. at last he sees the falcon far ahead, and now his flight becomes like the flash of the lightning for swiftness, and like the rushing of clouds for uproar. the haggard faces of the gods line the walls of asgard and watch the race with tremulous eagerness. youth and immortality are staked upon the winning of loki. he is weary enough and frightened enough, too, as the eagle sweeps on close behind him; but he makes desperate efforts to widen the distance between them. little by little the eagle gains on the falcon. the gods grow white with fear; they rush off and prepare great fires upon the walls. with fainting, drooping wing the falcon passes over and drops exhausted by the wall. in an instant the fires have been lighted, and the great flames roar to heaven. the eagle sweeps across the fiery line a second later and falls, maimed and burned to the ground; where a dozen fierce hands smite the life out of him, and the great giant thjasse perishes among his foes. idun resumes her natural form as bragi rushes to meet her. the gods crowd round her. she spreads the feast, the golden apples gleaming with unspeakable lustre in the eyes of the gods. they eat; and once more their faces glow with the beauty of immortal youth, their eyes flash with the radiance of divine power, and, while idun stands like a star for beauty among the throng, the song of bragi is heard once more; for poetry and immortality are wedded again. the gifts of the dwarfs thor was, you may know, the strongest and noblest of the great giants of the north. he was tall in stature and had fiery brown eyes, from which the light flashed like lightning, while his long red beard waved through the sky as he drove in his goat-drawn chariot. brilliant sparks flew from the hoofs and teeth of the two goats, while a crown of bright stars shone above thor's head. when he was angered the wheels of his chariot rumbled and crashed their passage through the air, until men trembled and hid, telling each other that thor had gone to battle with the rime-giants or other of his enemies. now thor's wife was named sib, and she was most beautiful to look upon. her soft, browny-gold hair was so long and thick that it would cover her from the crown of her head to her little feet, and her deep brown eyes looked into the faces of her friends as those of a mother look into the face of her child. loki, the mischief-maker among the giants, often looked at sib and longed to do her some evil, for he was jealous, thinking that it was not right that she should be praised and loved by everyone; go where he would he could find no one who did not speak well of her. it happened one day when the summer was nearly gone that loki found sib alone and sleeping on a bank near the river, so he drew his knife, and creeping softly nearer and nearer, cut off her beautiful flowing hair quite close to her head. then he joyfully rushed away and strewed it far and wide over the whole earth, so that it became no longer living and golden but faded and turned a dull color as the winds blew it about and the rains beat upon it, and crushed it in between the rocks and stones. when sib awoke and was about to push the hair from her face, she felt that something was wrong. wonderingly she ran to the water and looking at her reflection in the clear depths, saw that nothing but a short stubble stood up all over her head. all her lovely hair was gone! only one would have dared to treat her so badly, and in her grief and anger she called upon thor to come to her aid. loki had of course fled and was hiding far away in another country among the rocks when he heard the distant rumblings of thunder, and tried to shrink deeper into the crevices between the great stones, but the awful sound grew louder, and at last the angry flash from thor's eyes darted to the very spot where the mischievous one lay. then thor pulled him out and shook him from side to side in his enormous hands, and would have crushed his bones upon the hard rocks had not loki in great terror asked what good his death would do, for it certainly would not bring sib's hair back. then thor set the mischief-maker on his feet, though still keeping a tight hold on him, and asked what he would do to repair the evil which he had done. loki promptly answered that he would go down into the mountains to the dwarfs, and get iwald's sons to make some golden hair for sib, as good as that which he had destroyed. now iwald had had seven sons, and these all lived deep below the earth in the great caverns which lie below the mountains, and these sons were small and dark; they did not like the daylight for they were dwarfs who could see best without the sun to dazzle their eyes; they knew where gold and silver grew, and they could tell where to find beautiful shining stones, which were red, and white, and yellow, and green; they knew the way all over the world by running through caverns and passages under the mountains, and wherever they could find precious stones or metals they built a furnace, and made an anvil, and hammer and bellows, and everything that was wanted in a smithy; for they knew how to fashion the most wonderful things from gold and iron and stone, and they had knowledge which made them more powerful than the people who lived above the ground. thor let the mischief-maker go to get the help of the dwarfs to repair the wrong which he had done, and loki sought about the mountain-side until he found a hole which would lead him into iwald's cave, and then he promptly dropped into it. there in a dark cave gleaming with many sparkling lights he went to the two cleverest dwarfs who were named sindri and brok, and told them what it was he wanted, adding that he would be in sore trouble with thor if they could not help him. now sindri and brok knew all about loki perfectly well; they knew all about his mischievous ways and the evil he so often wrought, but as they liked thor and sib they were willing to give the help which was asked of them. thus without more ado, for these dwarfs never wasted their words, sindri and brok began their work. huge blocks of earth-brown stone were cast into the furnace until they were in a white heat, when drop by drop red gold trickled from them into the ashes. this was all gathered together, and the glistening heap taken to the dwarf women, who, crushing it in their hands before it had hardened, drew it out upon their wheels, and spun it into fine soft hair. while they were doing this brok sought amongst his treasures until he found the blue of the ocean and the tough inner pith of an underground tree; these, with other things, were cast into the furnace, and afterwards beaten with his hammer. as the rhythmic strokes fell, the women sang a song which was like the voice of a strong, steady wind. then when this work was finished, the smith drew forth a little ship, which was carefully placed on one side. the third time the dwarf went to a dark corner, and brought out an ugly bent bar of iron, and this, with two feathers from the wings of the wind, was heated to melting whiteness, and wrought with great cunning and extreme care, for it was to be a spear for odin himself, the greatest of all the heroes. then brok and sindri called loki to them and giving him these three things bade him hasten back to the gods at asgard and appease their wrath. loki, however, was already beginning to feel sorry that he had been so successful; he liked teasing folk but he did not like having to atone for his mischief afterwards. he turned the marvelous gifts over scornfully in his hands, and said that he did not see anything very wonderful in _them;_ then, looking at sindri he added, "however, brok has hammered them very skilfully, and i will wager my head that you could not make anything better." now the brother dwarfs had not by any means expected gratitude, but neither had they expected any such rudeness as this, so sindri determined to give loki a lesson. going to one corner of the smithy he picked up a pig-skin and taking the hammer in his hands, told his brother to blow steadily, neither to falter nor to fail until he passed the word that the work was done. then with strength and gentleness he wrought with his tools, having cast nothing into the heat but the pig-skin; with mighty blows and delicate touches he brought thickness and substance into it, until a board looked at him from the flames. loki, fearing for his head, changed himself into an enormous forest fly, and settling upon brok's hand, stung with vicious fury; but the dwarf would not trouble to brush the fly away, and steadily moved the bellows until his brother called to him to stop, when they drew forth a strong flexible boar whose bristles were of the finest gold. then without saying anything or paying any attention to the spiteful words which loki kept uttering, sindri chose from a heap of gold the most solid lump he could find and flung it into the white flames. thrice it was heated and cooled, and the dark elf turned it and worked it with wonderful skill, and in the glow loki saw a broad red ring, which seemed to live and move. again he tried to spoil the work as a fly, and bit deeply into brok's neck, but brok would not so much as raise his hand to rid him of the pain. when the ring was finally laid to cool, so marvelously had it been wrought that from it each ninth night would fall eight rings as beautiful as itself. now came the last test of sindri's cunning. he cast into the furnace a piece of fine iron, and told brok his hand must neither tremble nor stay, or the whole of their work would be useless. then with wild songs of strength upon his lips he hammered and tapped, until those who were in the cave felt that they were out among the roaring waves; they could hear the ice mountains grind and crash to pieces, and the thunder of thor's chariot wheels rushing through the heavens. a frenzied horror seized upon loki's mind. if these wretched dwarfs were going to make anything to add to thor's strength he knew that it would be his own ruin. so, changing himself to a hornet, he sprang upon the forehead of brok, and dug so fiercely into his eyelids that the blood trickled down and blinded him. then the dwarf let go of the bellows for one moment to clear his eyes, and sindri cried out that what lay in the furnace came near to being spoiled, and with that he took a red-hot hammer up with his tongs. it was neither pretty, nor particularly large, while the handle was an inch too short because of loki's spite. then brok and loki set out for asgard, loki carrying the three wonderful things which had been given to him, while brok carried the three marvels which sindri had so cunningly wrought and accompanied the mischief-maker, that the gods might judge who had won the wager so rashly offered by loki. when they reached asgard the gods seated themselves on their high seats agreeing among themselves that odin, thor and frey should be judges in this case. first, loki offered to odin the spear gungner which was so wonderfully made that it never failed to hit the thing at which it was thrown, and it always sped back to the hand which had thrown it. later, when odin carried this spear in battle, if he shook it over his enemies they became so frightened that they all wanted to run away, but if he shook it over his friends they were so filled with courage that they could not be conquered. then thor received the hair, and when it was placed upon sib's head it grew to her like living tresses, curling and waving in the wind. to frey the ship was given, and though it was so small that it could be folded and carried in his pocket, when it was placed upon the waves it would grow large enough to hold an army of warriors with all their war gear; besides, as soon as the sails were hoisted, the wind would blow it whithersoever it was desired that the ship should go. brok then made his offerings, and to odin he gave the ring drapnir which had been made with such magic skill that every ninth night eight other rings dropped off it, though no one could see how they came; this the greatest of the gods ever wore upon his arm, until the death of his beautiful son baldur, when, as token of his great love he placed it upon the dead youth's breast as he lay on his funeral pyre. to frey was given the golden boar, which would run faster than any horse, over the sea or through the air, and wherever it went, there it would be light, because the bristles shone so brightly. to thor brok gave the dull-looking hammer, saying, that whatever he struck with it would be destroyed; that no blow could be hard enough to hurt it; that if he threw it, it would return to him so that he could never lose it; and that as he wished so would its size be--yet there was one fault about it, and that was that the handle was an inch too short. it was with great joy that thor took this treasure, knowing that in it he had something to help him in fighting the evil rime-giants who were always trying to get the whole world for themselves until driven back by him. then the gods decided that of all the gifts the hammer was the best, and that, therefore, loki had lost his wager and must lose his head. loki offered to give all sorts of things to save himself, but the dwarf would not listen to any of them. "catch me, then!" cried the mischievous one; but when brok stretched his hand upon him loki had gone, for he wore shoes which would carry him over the sea or through the air. "catch him!" cried the ugly little dwarf piteously to thor, and in an instant loki stood before them, trembling in thor's strong grasp. then the clever one argued that it was his head only which had been wagered, and that not one little tiny bit of his neck might be taken, or the dwarf would have more than his bargain. at this brok cried impatiently that the head of a wicked person was of no use to him, all that he wanted was to stop loki's tongue so that he could work less evil, and he took a knife and thread and tried to pierce holes in loki's lips, but loki bewitched the knife so that it would not cut. "if only i had sindri's awl," sighed the dwarf, and instantly his brother's awl was in his hand. swiftly it pierced the lips of the mischief-maker, and swiftly brok sewed them together and broke off the thread at the end of the sewing. then the gods gave presents for the dwarfs in return for their wonderful things, and brok returned to his cave. as for loki, it was not long before he loosed his lips and returned to his mischief-making. the punishment of loki adapted from a. and e. keary's version after the death of baldur, loki never again ventured to intrude himself into the presence of the gods. he knew well enough that he had now done what could never be forgiven him, and that, for the future, he must bend all his cunning and vigilance to the task of hiding himself from the gaze of those whom he had so injured, and escaping the just punishment he had brought upon himself. "the world is large, and i am very clever," said loki to himself, as he turned his back upon asgard, and wandered out into manheim; "there is no end to the thick woods, and no measure for the deep waters; neither is there any possibility of counting the various forms under which i shall disguise myself. odin will never be able to find me; i have no cause to fear." but though loki repeated this over and over again to himself, he _was_ afraid. he wandered far into the thick woods, and covered himself with the deep waters; he climbed to the tops of misty hills, and crouched in the dark of hollow caves; but above the wood, and through the water, and down into the darkness, a single ray of calm, clear light seemed always to follow him, and he knew that it came from the eye of odin who was watching him from air throne. then he tried to escape the watchful eye by disguising himself under various shapes. sometimes he was an eagle on a lonely mountain-crag; sometimes he hid himself as one among a troop of timid reindeer; sometimes he lay in the nest of a wood-pigeon; sometimes he swam, a bright-spotted fish, in the sea; but, wherever he was, among living creatures, or alone with dead nature, everything seemed to know him, and to find a voice in which to say to him, "you are loki, and you have killed baldur." air, earth, or water, there was no rest for him anywhere. tired at last of seeking what he could nowhere find, loki built himself a house near a narrow, glittering river which, lower down flashed from a high rock into the sea below. he took care that his house should have four doors in it, that he might look out on every side and catch the first glimpse of the gods when they came, as he knew they would come, to take him away. here his wife, siguna, and his two sons, ali and nari, came to live with him. siguna was a kind woman, far too good and kind for loki. she felt sorry for him now that she saw he was in great fear, and that every living thing had turned against him, and she would have hidden him from the just anger of the gods if she could; but the two sons cared little about their father's dread and danger; they spent all their time in quarreling with each other; and their loud, angry voices, sounding above the waterfall, would speedily have betrayed the hiding-place, even if odin's piercing eye had not already found it out. at last, one day when he was sitting in the middle of his house looking alternately out of all the four doors and amusing himself as well as he could by making a fishing-net, he spied in the distance the whole company of the gods approaching his house. the sight of them coming all together--beautiful, and noble, and free--pierced loki with a pang that was worse than death. he rose without daring to look again, threw his net on a fire that burned on the floor, and, rushing to the side of the little river, he turned himself into a salmon, swam down to the deepest, stillest pool at the bottom, and hid himself between two stones. the gods entered the house, and looked all round in vain for loki, till kvasir, one of odin's sons, famous for his keen sight, spied out the remains of the fishing-net in the fire; then odin knew at once that there was a river near, and that it was there where loki had hidden himself. he ordered his sons to make a new net, and to cast it into the water, and drag out whatever living thing they could find there. it was done as he desired. thor held one end of the net, and all the rest of the gods drew the other through the water. when they pulled it up the first time, however, it was empty, and they would have gone away disappointed had not kvasir, looking earnestly at the meshes of the net, saw that something living had certainly touched them. they then added a weight to the net, and threw it with such force that it reached the bottom of the river, and dragged up the stones in the pool. loki now saw the danger he was in of being caught in the net, and, as there was no other way of escape, he rose to the surface, swam down the river as quickly as he could, and leaped over the net into the waterfall. he swam and leaped quick as a flash of lightning, but not so quickly but that the gods saw him, knew him through his disguise, and resolved that he should no longer escape. they themselves divided into two bands. thor waded down the river to the waterfall; the other gods stood in a group below. loki swam backwards and forwards between them. first he thought he would dart out into the sea, and then that he would spring over the net back again into the river. this last seemed the easiest way of escape, and with the greatest speed he attempted it. thor, however, was watching for him, and as soon as loki leaped out of the water he stretched out his hand and caught him while he was yet turning in the air. loki wriggled his slippery, slimy length through thor's fingers; but the thunderer grasped him tightly by the tail, and, holding him in this manner in this hand, waded to the shore. there father odin and the other gods met him; and, at odin's first searching look, loki was obliged to drop his disguise, and, cowering and frightened, to assume his proper shape before the assembled lords. one by one they turned their faces from him; for, in looking at him, they seemed to see over again the death of baldur the beloved. you were told that there were high rocks looking over the sea near loki's house. one of these, higher than the rest, had midway four projecting stones, and to these the gods resolved to bind loki so that he should never again be able to torment the inhabitants of manheim or asgard by his evil-doings. thor proposed to return to asgard, to bring a chain with which to bind the prisoner; but odin assured him that he had no need to take such a journey. "loki," he said, "has already forged for himself a chain stronger than any you can make. while we have been occupied in catching him, his two sons, ali and nari, transformed into wolves by their evil passions, have fought with and destroyed each other. with their sinews we must make a chain to bind their father, and from that he can never escape." it was done as asa odin said. a rope was made of the dead wolves' sinews, and as soon as it touched loki's body it turned into bands of iron and bound him immovably to the rock. secured in this manner the gods left him. [illustration: the punishment of loki.] but his punishment did not end here. a snake, whose fangs dropped poison, glided to the top of the rock and leaned his head over to peer at loki. the eyes of the two met and fixed each other. the serpent could never move away afterwards; but every moment a burning drop from his tongue fell down on loki's shuddering face. in all the world there was only one who pitied him. his kind wife ever afterwards stood beside him and held a cup over his head to catch the poison. when the cup was full, she was obliged to turn away to empty it, and the deadly drops fell again on loki's face. he shuddered and shrank from them, and the whole earth trembled. so will he lie bound till the twilight of the gods be here. myths of india the blind man, the deaf man, and the donkey adapted by m. frere a blind man and a deaf man once entered into partnership. the deaf man was to see for the blind man, and the blind man was to hear for the deaf man. one day they went together to an entertainment where there was music and dancing. the deaf man said: "the dancing is very good, but the music is not worth listening to"; and the blind man said: "on the contrary, i think the music very good, but the dancing is not worth looking at." after this they went together for a walk in the jungle, and there found a washerman's donkey that had strayed away from its owner, and a great big kettle (such as washermen boil clothes in), which the donkey was carrying with him. the deaf man said to the blind man: "brother, here are a donkey and a washerman's great big kettle, with nobody to own them! let us take them with us--they may be useful to us some day." "very well," said the blind man; "we will take them with us." so the blind man and the deaf man went on their way, taking the donkey and the great big kettle with them. a little farther on they came to an ant's nest, and the deaf man said to the blind man: "here are a number of very fine black ants, much larger than any i ever saw before. let us take some of them home to show our friends." "very well," answered the blind man; "we will take them as a present to our friends." so the deaf man took a silver snuff-box out of his pocket, and put four or five of the finest black ants into it; which done, they continued their journey. but before they had gone very far a terrible storm came on. it thundered and lightened and rained and blew with such fury that it seemed as if the whole heavens' and earth were at war. "oh dear! oh dear!" cried the deaf man, "how dreadful this lightning is! let us make haste and get to some place of shelter." "i don't see that it's dreadful at all," answered the blind man; "but the thunder is very terrible; we had better certainly seek some place of shelter." now, not far off was a lofty building, which looked exactly like a fine temple. the deaf man saw it, and he and the blind man resolved to spend the night there; and having reached the place, they went in and shut the door, taking the donkey and the great big kettle with them. but this building, which they mistook for a temple was in truth no temple at all, but the house of a very powerful rakshas or ogre; and hardly had the blind man, the deaf man, and the donkey got inside and fastened the door, than the rakshas, who had been out, returned home. to his surprise, he found the door fastened and heard people moving about inside his house. "ho! ho!" cried he to himself, "some men have got in here, have they? i'll soon make mince-meat of them." so he began to roar in a voice louder than the thunder, and to cry: "let me into my house this minute, you wretches; let me in, let me in, i say," and to kick the door and batter it with his great fists. but though his voice was very powerful, his appearance was still more alarming, insomuch that the deaf man, who was peeping at him through a chink in the wall, felt so frightened that he did not know what to do. but the blind man was very brave (because he couldn't see), and went up to the door and called out: "who are you, and what do you mean by coming battering at the door in this way at this time of night?" "i'm a rakshas," answered the rakshas angrily, "and this is my house. let me in this instant or i'll kill you." all this time the deaf man, who was watching the rakshas, was shivering and shaking in a terrible fright, but the blind man was very brave (because he couldn't see), and he called out again: "oh, you're a rakshas, are you? well, if you're rakshas, i'm bakshas; and bakshas is as good as rakshas." "bakshas!" roared the rakshas. "bakshas! bakshas! what nonsense is this? there is no such creature as a bakshas!" "go away," replied the blind man, "and don't dare to make any further disturbance, lest i punish you with a vengeance; for know that i'm bakshas, and bakshas is rakshas's father." "my father?" answered the rakshas. "heavens and earth! bakshas, and my father! i never heard such an extraordinary thing in my life. you my father; and in there! i never knew my father was called bakshas!" "yes," replied the blind man; "go away instantly, i command you, for i am your father bakshas." "very well," answered the rakshas (for he began to get puzzled and frightened); "but if you are my father, let me first see your face." (for he thought: "perhaps they are deceiving me.") the blind man and the deaf man didn't know what to do; but at last they opened the door a very tiny chink and poked the donkey's nose out. when the rakshas saw it he thought to himself: "bless me, what a terribly ugly face my father bakshas has!" he then called out: "o father bakshas, you have a very big, fierce face; but people have sometimes very big heads and very little bodies. pray let me see your body as well as head before i go away." then the blind man and the deaf man rolled the washerman's great big kettle with a thundering noise past the chink in the door, and the rakshas, who was watching attentively, was very much surprised when he saw this great black thing rolling along the floor, and he thought: "in truth, my father bakshas has a very big body as well as a big head. he's big enough to eat me up altogether. i'd better go away." but still he could not help being a little doubtful, so he cried: "o bakshas, father bakshas! you have indeed got a very big head and a very big body; but do, before i go away, let me hear you scream," for all rakshas scream fearfully. then the cunning deaf man (who was getting less frightened) pulled the silver snuff-box out of his pocket, and took the black ants out of it, and put one black ant in the donkey's right ear, and another black ant in the donkey's left ear, and another and another. the ants pinched the poor donkey's ears dreadfully, and the donkey was so hurt and frightened he began to bellow as loud as he could: "eh augh! eh augh! eh augh! augh! augh!" and at this terrible noise the rakshas fled away in a great fright, saying: "enough, enough, father bakshas! the sound of your voice would make the most refractory obedient." and no sooner had he gone than the deaf man took the ants out of the donkey's ears, and he and the blind man spent the rest of the night in peace and comfort. next morning the deaf man woke the blind man early, saying: "awake, brother, awake: here we are indeed in luck! the whole floor is covered with heaps of gold and silver and precious stones." and so it was, for the rakshas owned a vast amount of treasure, and the whole house was full of it. "that is a good thing," said the blind man. "show me where it is and i will help you to collect it." so they collected as much treasure as possible and made four great bundles of it. the blind man took one great bundle, the deaf man took another, and, putting the other two great bundles on the donkey, they started off to return home. but the rakshas, whom they had frightened away the night before, had not gone very far off, and was waiting to see what his father bakshas might look like by daylight. he saw the door of his house open and watched attentively, when out walked--only a blind man, a deaf man, and a donkey, who were all three laden with large bundles of his treasure. the blind man carried one bundle, the deaf man carried another bundle, and two bundles were on the donkey. the rakshas was extremely angry, and immediately called six of his friends to help him kill the blind man, the deaf man, and the donkey, and recover the treasure. the deaf man saw them coming (seven great rakshas, with hair a yard long and tusks like an elephant's), and was dreadfully frightened; but the blind man was very brave (because he couldn't see), and said: "brother, why do you lag behind in that way?" "oh!" answered the deaf man, "there are seven great rakshas with tusks like an elephant's coming to kill us! what can we do?" "let us hide the treasure in the bushes," said the blind man; "and do you lead me to a tree; then i will climb up first, and you shall climb up afterward, and so we shall be out of their way." the deaf man thought this good advice; so he pushed the donkey and the bundles of treasure into the bushes, and led the blind man to a high soparee-tree that grew close by; but he was a very cunning man, this deaf man, and instead of letting the blind man climb up first and following him, he got up first and let the blind man clamber after, so that he was farther out of harm's way than his friend. when the rakshas arrived at the place and saw them both perched out of reach in the soparee-tree, he said to his friends: "let us get on each other's shoulders; we shall then be high enough to pull them down." so one rakshas stooped down, and the second got on his shoulders, and the third on his, and the fourth on his, and the fifth on his, and the sixth on his; and the seventh and the last rakshas (who had invited all the others) was just climbing up when the deaf man (who was looking over the blind man's shoulder) got so frightened that in his alarm he caught hold of his friend's arm, crying: "they're coming, they're coming!" the blind man was not in a very secure position, and was sitting at his ease, not knowing how close the rakshas were. the consequence was, that when the deaf man gave him this unexpected push, he lost his balance and tumbled down on to the neck of the seventh rakshas, who was just then climbing up. the blind man had no idea where he was, but thought he had got on to the branch of some other tree; and, stretching out his hand for something to catch hold of, caught hold of the rakshas's two great ears, and pinched them very hard in his surprise and fright. the rakshas couldn't think what it was that had come tumbling down upon him; and the weight of the blind man upsetting his balance, down he also fell to the ground, knocking down in their turn the sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second, and first rakshas, who all rolled one over another, and lay in a confused heap at the foot of the tree together. meanwhile the blind man called out to his friend: "where am i? what has happened? where am i? where am i?" the deaf man (who was safe up in the tree) answered: "well done, brother! never fear! never fear! you're all right, only hold on tight. i'm coming down to help you." but he had not the least intention of leaving his place of safety. however, he continued to call out: "never mind, brother; hold on as tight as you can. i'm coming, i'm coming," and the more he called out, the harder the blind man pinched the rakshas's ears, which he mistook for some kind of palm branches. the six other rakshas, who had succeeded, after a good deal of kicking, in extricating themselves from their unpleasant position, thought they had had quite enough of helping their friend, and ran away as fast as they could; and the seventh, thinking from their going that the danger must be greater than he imagined, and being, moreover, very much afraid of the mysterious creature that sat on his shoulders, put his hands to the back of his ears and pushed off the blind man, and then, (without staying to see who or what he was) followed his six companions as fast as he could. as soon as all the rakshas were out of sight, the deaf man came down from the tree, and, picking up the blind man, embraced him, saying: "i could not have done better myself. you have frightened away all our enemies, but you see i came to help you as fast as possible." he then dragged the donkey and the bundles of treasure out of the bushes, gave the blind man one bundle to carry, took the second himself, and put the remaining two on the donkey, as before. this done, the whole party set off to return home. but when they had got nearly out of the jungle the deaf man said to the blind man: "we are now close to the village; but if we take all this treasure home with us, we shall run great risk of being robbed. i think our best plan would be to divide it equally; then you can take care of your half and i will take care of mine, and each one can hide his share here in the jungle, or wherever pleases him best." "very well," said the blind man; "do you divide what we have in the bundles into two equal portions, keeping one half yourself and giving me the other." the cunning deaf man, however, had no intention of giving up half of the treasure to the blind man; so he first took his own bundle of treasure and hid it in the bushes, and then he took the two bundles off the donkey and hid them in the bushes; and he took a good deal of treasure out of the blind man's bundle, which he also hid. then, taking the small quantity that remained, he divided it into two equal portions, and placing half before the blind man and half in front of himself, said: "there, brother, is your share to do what you please with." the blind man put out his hand, but when he felt what a very little heap of treasure it was, he got very angry, and cried: "this is not fair--you are deceiving me; you have kept almost all the treasure for yourself and only given me a very little." "oh, oh! how can you think so?" answered the deaf man; "but if you will not believe me, feel for yourself. see, my heap of treasure is no larger than yours." the blind man put out his hands again to feel how much his friend had kept; but in front of the deaf man lay only a very small heap, no larger than what he had himself received. at this he got very cross, and said: "come, come, this won't do. you think you can cheat me in this way because i am blind; but i'm not so stupid as all that, i carried a great bundle of treasure, you carried a great bundle of treasure, and there were two great bundles on the donkey. do you mean to pretend that all that made no more treasure than these two little heaps! no, indeed; i know better than that." "stuff and nonsense!" answered the deaf man. "stuff or no stuff," continued the other, "you are trying to take me in, and i won't be taken in by you." "no, i'm not," said the deaf man. "yes, you are," said the blind man; and so they went on bickering, scolding, growling, contradicting, until the blind man got so enraged that he gave the deaf man a tremendous box on the ear. the blow was so violent that it made the deaf man hear! the deaf man, very angry, gave his neighbor in return so hard a blow in the face that it opened the blind man's eyes! so the deaf man could hear as well as see, and the blind man could see as well as hear! this astonished them both so much that they became good friends at once. the deaf man confessed to have hidden the bulk of the treasure, which he thereupon dragged forth from its place of concealment, and having divided it equally, they went home and enjoyed themselves. harisarman there was in a certain village, a certain brahman named harisarman. he was poor and foolish and unhappy for want of employment, and he had very many children. he wandered about begging with his family, and at last he reached a certain city, and entered the service of a rich householder called sthuladatta. his sons became keepers of sthuladatta's cows and other property, and his wife a servant to him, and he himself lived near his house, performing the duty of an attendant. one day there was a feast on account of the marriage of the daughter of sthuladatta, largely attended by many friends of the bridegroom and merry-makers. harisarman hoped that he would be able to fill himself up to the throat with oil and flesh and other dainties, and get the same for his family, in the house of his patron. while he was anxiously expecting to be fed, no one thought of him. then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he said to his wife at night: "it is owing to my poverty and stupidity that i am treated with such disrespect here; so i will pretend by means of an artifice to possess a knowledge of magic, so that i may become an object of respect to this sthuladatta; so, when you get an opportunity, tell him that i possess magical knowledge." he said this to her, and after turning the matter over in his mind, while people were asleep he took away from the house of sthuladatta a horse on which his master's son-in-law rode. he placed it in concealment at some distance, and in the morning the friends of the bridegroom could not find the horse, though they searched in every direction. then, while sthuladatta was distressed at the evil omen, and searching for the thieves who had carried off the horse, the wife of harisarman came and said to him: "my husband is a wise man, skilled in astrology and magical sciences; he can get the horse back for you--why do you not ask him?" when sthuladatta heard that, he called harisarman, who said, "yesterday i was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is stolen, i am called to mind;" and sthuladatta then propitiated the brahman with these words: "i forgot you, forgive me," and asked him to tell him who had taken away their horse. then harisarman drew all kinds of pretended diagrams, and said: "the horse has been placed by thieves on the boundary line south from this place. it is concealed there, and before it is carried off to a distance, as it will be at close of day, go quickly and bring it." when they heard that, many men ran and brought the horse quickly, praising the discernment of harisarman. then harisarman was honored by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in happiness, honored by sthuladatta. now, as days went on, much treasure, both of gold and jewels, had been stolen by a thief from the palace of the king. as the thief was not known, the king quickly summoned harisarman on account of his reputation for knowledge of magic. and he, when summoned, tried to gain time, and said: "i will tell you to-morrow," and then he was placed in a chamber by the king and carefully guarded. and he was sad because he had pretended to have knowledge. now, in that palace there was a maid named jihva (which means tongue), who, with the assistance of her brother, had stolen that treasure from the interior of the palace. she, being alarmed at harisarman's knowledge, went at night and applied her ear to the door of that chamber in order to find out what he was about. and harisarman, who was alone inside, was at that very moment blaming his own tongue, that had made a vain assumption of knowledge. he said: "oh, tongue, what is this that you have done through your greediness? wicked one, you will soon receive punishment in full." when jihva heard this, she thought, in her terror, that she had been discovered by this wise man, and she managed to get in where he was, and, falling at his feet, she said to the supposed wizard: "brahman, here i am, that jihva whom you have discovered to be the thief of the treasure, and after i took it i buried it in the earth in a garden behind the palace, under a pomegranate tree. so spare me, and receive the small quantity of gold which is in my possession." when harisarman heard that, he said to her proudly: "depart, i know all this; i know the past, present, and future, but i will not denounce you, a miserable creature that has implored my protection. but whatever gold is in your possession you must give back to me." when he said this to the maid, she consented, and departed quickly. but harisarman reflected in his astonishment: "fate brings about, as if in sport, things impossible; for, when calamity was so near, who would have thought chance would have brought us success? while i was blaming my jihva, the thief jihva suddenly flung herself at my feet. secret crimes manifest themselves by means of fear." thus thinking, he passed the night happily in the chamber. and in the morning he brought the king, by some skilful parade of pretended knowledge, into the garden and led him up to the treasure, which was buried under the pomegranate tree, and said the thief had escaped with a part of it. then the king was pleased, and gave him the revenue of many villages. but the minister, named devajnanin, whispered in the king's ear: "how can a man possess such knowledge unattainable by men without having studied the books of magic? you may be certain that this is a specimen of the way he makes a dishonest livelihood, by having a secret intelligence with thieves. it will be much better to test him by some new artifice." then the king of his own accord brought a covered pitcher into which he had thrown a frog, and said to harisarman: "brahman, if you can guess what there is in this pitcher, i will do you great honor to-day." when the brahman harisarman heard that, he thought that his last hour had come, and he called to mind the pet name of "froggie," which his father had given him in his childhood in sport; and, impelled by luck, he called to himself by his pet name, lamenting his hard fate, and suddenly called out: "this is a fine pitcher for you, froggie; it will soon become the swift destroyer of your helpless self." the people there, when they heard him say that, raised a shout of applause, because his speech chimed in so well with the object presented to him, and murmured: "ah! a great sage; he knows even about the frog!" then the king, thinking that this was all due to knowledge of divination, was highly delighted, and gave harisarman the revenue of more villages, with gold, an umbrella, and state carriages of all kinds. so harisarman prospered in the world. why the fish laughed as a certain fisherwoman passed by a palace crying her fish, the queen appeared at one of the windows and beckoned her to come near and show what she had. at that moment a very big fish jumped about in the bottom of the basket. "is it a he or a she?" inquired the queen. "i wish to purchase a she-fish." on hearing this the fish laughed aloud. "it's a he," replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds. the queen returned to her room in a great rage; and on coming to see her in the evening, the king noticed that something had disturbed her. "are you indisposed?" he said. "no; but i am very much annoyed at the strange behavior of a fish. a woman brought me one to-day, and on my inquiring whether it was a male or female, the fish laughed most rudely." "a fish laugh! impossible! you must be dreaming." "i am not a fool. i speak of what i have seen with my own eyes and have heard with my own ears." "passing strange! be it so. i will inquire concerning it." on the morrow the king repeated to his vizier what his wife had told him, and bade him investigate the matter, and be ready with a satisfactory answer within six months, on pain of death. the vizier promised to do his best, though he felt almost certain of failure. for five months he labored indefatigably to find a reason for the laughter of the fish. he sought everywhere and from every one. the wise and learned, and they who were skilled in magic and in all manner of trickery, were consulted. nobody, however, could explain the matter; and so he returned broken-hearted to his house, and began to arrange his affairs in prospect of certain death, for he had had sufficient experience of the king to know that his majesty would not go back from his threat. among other things, he advised his son to travel for a time, until the king's anger should have somewhat cooled. the young fellow, who was both clever and handsome, started off whithersoever fate might lead him. he had been gone some days, when he fell in with an old farmer, who also was on a journey to a certain village. finding the old man very pleasant, he asked him if he might accompany him, professing to be on a visit to the same place. the old farmer agreed, and they walked along together. the day was hot, and the way was long and weary. "don't you think it would be pleasanter if you and i sometimes gave each other a lift?" said the youth. "what a fool the man is!" thought the old farmer. presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle, and looking like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze. "is this eaten or not?" said the young man. not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, "i don't know." after a little while the two travelers arrived at a big village, where the young man gave his companion a clasp-knife, and said, "take this, friend, and get two horses with it; but mind and bring it back, for it is very precious." the old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the knife, muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a fool himself, or else trying to play the fool with him. the young man pretended not to notice his reply, and remained almost silent till they reached the city, a short distance outside which was the old farmer's house. they walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque, but nobody saluted them or invited them to come in and rest. "what a large cemetery!" exclaimed the young man. "what does the man mean," thought the old farmer, "calling this largely populated city a cemetery?" on leaving the city their way led through a graveyard where a few people were praying beside a tomb and distributing _chapatis_ and _kulchas_ to passers-by, in the name of their beloved dead. they beckoned to the two travelers and gave them as much as they would. "what a splendid city this is!" said the young man. "now, the man must surely be demented!" thought the old farmer. "i wonder what he will do next? he will be calling the land water, and the water land; and be speaking of light where there is darkness, and of darkness when it is light." however, he kept his thoughts to himself. presently they had to wade through a stream that ran along the edge of the cemetery. the water was rather deep, so the old farmer took off his shoes and pajamas and crossed over; but the young man waded through it with his shoes and pajamas on. "well! i never did see such a perfect fool, both in word and in deed," said the old man to himself. however, he liked the fellow; and thinking that he would amuse his wife and daughter, he invited him to come and stay at his house as long as he had occasion to remain in the village. "thank you very much," the young man replied; "but let me first inquire, if you please, whether the beam of your house is strong." the old farmer left him in despair, and entered his house laughing. "there is a man in yonder field," he said, after returning their greetings. "he has come the greater part of the way with me, and i wanted him to put up here as long as he had to stay in this village. but the fellow is such a fool that i cannot make anything out of him. he wants to know if the beam of this house is all right. the man must be mad!" and saying this, he burst into a fit of laughter. "father," said the farmer's daughter, who was a very sharp and wise girl, "this man, whosoever he is, is no fool, as you deem him. he only wishes to know if you can afford to entertain him." "oh, of course," replied the farmer. "i see. well, perhaps you can help me to solve some of his other mysteries. while we were walking together he asked whether he should carry me or i should carry him, as he thought that would be a pleasanter mode of proceeding." "most assuredly," said the girl; "he meant that one of you should tell a story to beguile the time." "oh yes. well, we were passing through a corn-field, when he asked me whether it was eaten or not." "and didn't you know the meaning of this, father? he simply wished to know if the man was in debt or not; because, if the owner of the field was in debt, then the produce of the field was as good as eaten to him; that is, it would have to go to his creditors." "yes, yes, yes, of course! then, on entering a certain village, he bade me take his clasp-knife and get two horses with it, and bring back the knife to him." "are not two stout sticks as good as two horses for helping one along on the road? he only asked you to cut a couple of sticks and be careful not to lose his knife." "i see," said the farmer. "while we were walking over the city we did not see anybody that we knew, and not a soul gave us a scrap of anything to eat, till we were passing the cemetery; but there some people called to us and put into our hands some _chapatis_ and _kulchas_, so my companion called the city a cemetery, and the cemetery a city." "this also is to be understood, father, if one thinks of the city as the place where everything is to be obtained, and of inhospitable people as worse than the dead. the city, though crowded with people, was as if dead, as far as you were concerned; while, in the cemetery, which is crowded with the dead, you were saluted by kind friends and provided with bread." "true, true!" said the astonished farmer. "then, just now, when we were crossing the stream, he waded through it without taking off his shoes and pajamas." "i admire his wisdom," replied the girl. "i have often thought how stupid people were to venture into that swiftly flowing stream and over those sharp stones with bare feet. the slightest stumble and they would fall, and be wetted from head to foot. this friend of yours is a most wise man. i should like to see him and speak to him." "very well," said the farmer; "i will go and find him, and bring him in." "tell him, father, that our beams are strong enough, and then he will come in. i'll send on ahead a present to the man, to show him that we can afford to have him for our guest." accordingly she called a servant and sent him to the young man with a present of a basin of _ghee_, twelve _chapatis_, and a jar of milk, and the following message: "o friend, the moon is full; twelve months make a year, and the sea is overflowing with water." half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son, who, seeing what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some of the food. his father foolishly complied. presently he saw the young man, and gave him the rest of the present and the message. "give your mistress my salaam," he replied, "and tell her that the moon is new, and that i can find only eleven months in the year, and the sea is by no means full." not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated them word for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus his theft was discovered, and he was severely punished. after a little while the young man appeared with the old farmer. great attention was shown to him, and he was treated in every way as if he were the son of a great man, although his humble host knew nothing of his origin. at length he told them everything--about the laughing of the fish, his father's threatened execution, and his own banishment--and asked their advice as to what he should do. "the laughing of the fish," said the girl, "which seems to have been the cause of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the palace who is plotting against the king's life." "joy, joy!" exclaimed the vizier's son. "there is yet time for me to return and save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and the king from danger." the following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him the farmer's daughter. immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and informed his father of what he had heard. the poor vizier, now almost dead from the expectation of death, was at once carried to the king, to whom he repeated the news that his son had just brought. "never!" said the king. "but it must be so, your majesty," replied the vizier; "and in order to prove the truth of what i have heard, i pray you to call together all the maids in your palace and order them to jump over a pit, which must be dug. we'll soon find out whether there is any man there." the king had the pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the palace to try to jump over it. all of them tried, but only one succeeded. that one was found to be a man! thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved. afterward, as soon as could be, the vizier's son married the old farmer's daughter; and a most happy marriage it was. muchie lal adapted by m. frere once upon a time there were a rajah and ranee who had no children. long had they wished and prayed that the gods would send them a son, but it was all in vain--their prayers were not granted. one day a number of fish were brought into the royal kitchen to be cooked for the rajah's dinner, and amongst them was one little fish that was not dead, but all the rest were dead. one of the palace maid-servants, seeing this, took the little fish and put him in a basin of water. shortly afterward the ranee saw him, and thinking him very pretty, kept him as a pet; and because she had no children she lavished all her affection on the fish and loved him as a son; and the people called him muchie rajah (the fish prince). in a little while muchie rajah had grown too long to live in the small basin, so they put him into a larger one, and then (when he grew too long for that) into a big tub. in time, however, muchie rajah became too large for even the big tub to hold him; so the ranee had a tank made for him, in which he lived very happily, and twice a day she fed him with boiled rice. now, though the people fancied muchie rajah was only a fish, this was not the case. he was, in truth, a young rajah who had angered the gods, and been by them turned into a fish and thrown into the river as a punishment. one morning, when the ranee brought him his daily meal of boiled rice, muchie rajah called out to her and said, "queen mother, queen mother, i am so lonely here all by myself! cannot you get me a wife?" the ranee promised to try, and sent messengers to all the people she knew, to ask if they would allow one of their children to marry her son, the fish prince. but they all answered: "we cannot give one of our dear little daughters to be devoured by a great fish, even though he is the muchie rajah and so high in your majesty's favor." at news of this the ranee did not know what to do. she was so foolishly fond of muchie rajah, however, that she resolved to get him a wife at any cost. again she sent out messengers, but this time she gave them a great bag containing a lac of gold mohurs, and said to them: "go into every land until you find a wife for my muchie rajah, and to whoever will give you a child to be the muchie ranee you shall give this bag of gold mohurs." the messengers started on their search, but for some time they were unsuccessful; not even the beggars were to be tempted to sell their children, fearing the great fish would devour them. at last one day the messengers came to a village where there lived a fakeer, who had lost his first wife and married again. his first wife had had one little daughter, and his second wife also had a daughter. as it happened, the fakeer's second wife hated her little stepdaughter, always gave her the hardest work to do and the least food to eat, and tried by every means in her power to get her out of the way, in order that the child might not rival her own daughter. when she heard of the errand on which the messengers had come, she sent for them when the fakeer was out, and said to them: "give me the bag of gold mohurs, and you shall take my little daughter to marry the muchie rajah." ("for," she thought to herself, "the great fish will certainly eat the girl, and she will thus trouble us no more.") then, turning to her stepdaughter, she said: "go down to the river and wash your _saree_, that you may be fit to go with these people, who will take you to the ranee's court." at these words the poor girl went down to the river very sorrowful, for she saw no hope of escape, as her father was from home. as she knelt by the river-side, washing her _saree_ and crying bitterly, some of her tears fell into the hole of an old seven-headed cobra, who lived on the river-bank. this cobra was a very wise animal, and seeing the maiden, he put his head out of his hole, and said to her: "little girl, why do you cry?" "oh, sir," she answered, "i am very unhappy; for my father is from home, and my stepmother has sold me to the ranee's people to be the wife of the muchie rajah, that great fish, and i know he will eat me up." "do not be afraid, my daughter," said the cobra; "but take with you these three stones and tie them up in the corner of your _saree_;" and so saying, he gave her three little round pebbles. "the muchie rajah, whose wife you are to be, is not really a fish, but a rajah who has been enchanted. your home will be a little room which the ranee has had built in the tank wall. when you are taken there, wait and be sure you don't go to sleep, or the muchie rajah will certainly come and eat you up. but as you hear him coming rushing through the water, be prepared, and as soon as you see him, throw this first stone at him; he will then sink to the bottom of the tank. the second time he comes, throw the second stone, when the same thing will happen. the third time he comes, throw this third stone, and he will immediately resume his human shape." so saying, the old cobra dived down again into his hole. the fakeer's daughter took the stones and determined to do as the cobra had told her, though she hardly believed it would have the desired effect. when she reached the palace the ranee spoke kindly to her, and said to the messengers: "you have done your errand well; this is a dear little girl." then she ordered that she should be let down the side of the tank in a basket to a little room which had been prepared for her. when the fakeer's daughter got there, she thought she had never seen such a pretty place in her life (for the ranee had caused the little room to be very nicely decorated for the wife of her favorite); and she would have felt very happy away from her cruel stepmother and all the hard work she had been made to do, had it not been for the dark water that lay black and unfathomable below the door and the fear of the terrible muchie rajah. after waiting some time she heard a rushing sound, and little waves came dashing against the threshold; faster they came and faster, and the noise got louder and louder, until she saw a great fish's head above the water--muchie rajah was coming toward her open-mouthed. the fakeer's daughter seized one of the stones that the cobra had given her and threw it at him, and down he sank to the bottom of the tank; a second time he rose and came toward her, and she threw the second stone at him, and he again sank down; a third time he came more fiercely than before, when, seizing a third stone, she threw it with all her force. no sooner did it touch him than the spell was broken, and there, instead of a fish, stood a handsome young prince. the poor little fakeer's daughter was so startled that she began to cry. but the prince said to her: "pretty maiden, do not be frightened. you have rescued me from a horrible thraldom, and i can never thank you enough; but if you will be the muchie ranee, we will be married to-morrow." then he sat down on the doorstep, thinking over his strange fate and watching for the dawn. next morning early several inquisitive people came to see if the muchie rajah had eaten up his poor little wife, as they feared he would; what was their astonishment, on looking over the tank wall, to see, not the muchie rajah, but a magnificent prince! the news soon spread to the palace. down came the rajah, down came the ranee, down came all their attendants, and dragged muchie rajah and the fakeer's daughter up the side of the tank in a basket; and when they heard their story there were great and unparalleled rejoicings. the ranee said, "so i have indeed found a son at last!" and the people were so delighted, so happy and so proud of the new prince and princess, that they covered all their path with damask from the tank to the palace, and cried to their fellows, "come and see our new prince and princess! were ever any so divinely beautiful? come see a right royal couple,--a pair of mortals like the gods!" and when they reached the palace the prince was married to the fakeer's daughter. there they lived very happily for some time. the muchie ranee's stepmother, hearing what had happened, came often to see her stepdaughter, and pretended to be delighted at her good fortune; and the ranee was so good that she quite forgave all her stepmother's former cruelty, and always received her very kindly. at last, one day, the muchie ranee said to her husband, "it is a weary while since i saw my father. if you will give me leave, i should much like to visit my native village and see him again." "very well," he replied, "you may go. but do not stay away long; for there can be no happiness for me till you return." so she went, and her father was delighted to see her; but her stepmother, though she pretended to be very kind, was in reality only glad to think she had got the ranee into her power, and determined, if possible, never to allow her to return to the palace again. one day, therefore, she said to her own daughter, "it is hard that your stepsister should have become ranee of all the land instead of being eaten up by the great fish, while we gained no more than a lac of gold mohurs. do now as i bid you, that you may become ranee in her stead." she then went on to instruct her that she must invite the ranee down to the river-bank, and there beg her to let her try on her jewels, and while putting them on give her a push and drown her in the river. the girl consented, and standing by the river-bank, said to her stepsister, "sister, may i try on your jewels?--how pretty they are!" "yes," said the ranee, "and we shall be able to see in the river how they look." so, undoing her necklaces, she clasped them round the other's neck. but while she was doing so her stepsister gave her a push, and she fell backward into the water. the girl watched to see that the body did not rise, and then, running back, said to her mother, "mother, here are all the jewels, and she will trouble us no more." but it happened that just when her stepsister pushed the ranee into the river her old friend the seven-headed cobra chanced to be swimming across it, and seeing the little ranee likely to be drowned, he carried her on his back until he reached his hole, into which he took her safely. now this hole, in which the cobra and his wife and all his little ones lived, had two entrances,--the one under the water and leading to the river, and the other above water, leading out into the open fields. to this upper end of his hole the cobra took the muchie ranee, where he and his wife took care of her; and there she lived with them for some time. meanwhile, the wicked fakeer's wife, having dressed up her own daughter in all the ranee's jewels, took her to the palace, and said to the muchie rajah, "see, i have brought your wife, my dear daughter, back safe and well." the rajah looked at her, and thought, "this does not look like my wife." however, the room was dark and the girl was cleverly disguised, and he thought he might be mistaken. next day he said again: "my wife must be sadly changed or this cannot be she, for she was always bright and cheerful. she had pretty loving ways and merry words, while this woman never opens her lips." still, he did not like to seem to mistrust his wife, and comforted himself by saying, "perhaps she is tired with the long journey." on the third day, however, he could bear the uncertainty no longer, and tearing off her jewels, saw, not the face of his own little wife, but another woman. then he was very angry and turned her out of doors, saying, "begone; since you are but the wretched tool of others, i spare your life." but of the fakeer's wife he said to his guards, "fetch that woman here instantly; for unless she can tell me where my wife is, i will have her hanged." it chanced, however, that the fakeer's wife had heard of the muchie rajah having turned her daughter out of doors; so, fearing his anger, she hid herself, and was not to be found. meantime, the muchie ranee, not knowing how to get home, continued to live in the great seven-headed cobra's hole, and he and his wife and all his family were very kind to her, and loved her as if she had been one of them; and there her little son was born, and she called him muchie lal, after the muchie rajah, his father. muchie lal was a lovely child, merry and brave, and his playmates all day long were the young cobras. when he was about three years old a bangle-seller came by that way, and the muchie ranee bought some bangles from him and put them on her boy's wrists and ankles; but by the next day, in playing, he had broke them all. then, seeing the bangle-seller, the ranee called him again and bought some more, and so on every day until the bangle-seller got quite rich from selling so many bangles for the muchie lal; for the cobra's hole was full of treasure, and he gave the muchie ranee as much money to spend every day as she liked. there was nothing she wished for he did not give her, only he would not let her try to get home to her husband, which she wished more than all. when she asked him he would say: "no, i will not let you go. if your husband comes here and fetches you, it is well; but i will not allow you to wander in search of him through the land alone." and so she was obliged to stay where she was. all this time the poor muchie rajah was hunting in every part of the country for his wife, but he could learn no tidings of her. for grief and sorrow at losing her he had gone almost distracted, and did nothing but wander from place to place, crying, "she is gone! she is gone!" then, when he had long inquired without avail of all the people in her native village about her, he one day met a bangle-seller and said to him, "whence do you come?" the bangle-seller answered, "i have just been selling bangles to some people who live in a cobra's hole in the river-bank." "people! what people?" asked the rajah. "why," answered the bangle-seller, "a woman and a child; the child is the most beautiful i ever saw. he is about three years old, and of course, running about, is always breaking his bangles and his mother buys him new ones every day." "do you know what the child's name is?" said the rajah. "yes," answered the bangle-seller carelessly, "for the lady always calls him her muchie lal." "ah," thought the muchie rajah, "this must be my wife." then he said to him again, "good bangle-seller, i would see these strange people of whom you speak; cannot you take me there?" "not to-night," replied the bangle-seller; "daylight has gone, and we should only frighten them; but i shall be going there again to-morrow, and then you may come too. meanwhile, come and rest at my house for the night, for you look faint and weary." the rajah consented. next morning, however, very early, he woke the bangle-seller, saying, "pray let us go now and see the people you spoke about yesterday." "stay," said the bangle-seller; "it is much too early. i never go till after breakfast." so the rajah had to wait till the bangle-seller was ready to go. at last they started off, and when they reached the cobra's hole the first thing the rajah saw was a fine little boy playing with the young cobras. as the bangle-seller came along, jingling his bangles, a gentle voice from inside the hole called out, "come here, my muchie lal, and try on your bangles." then the muchie rajah, kneeling down at the mouth of the hole, said, "oh, lady, show your beautiful face to me." at the sound of his voice the ranee ran out, crying, "husband, husband! have you found me again?" and she told him how her sister had tried to drown her, and how the good cobra had saved her life and taken care of her and her child. then he said, "and will you now come home with me?" and she told him how the cobra would never let her go, and said, "i will first tell him of your coming; for he has been a father to me." so she called out, "father cobra, father cobra, my husband has come to fetch me; will you let me go?" "yes," he said, "if your husband has come to fetch you, you may go." and his wife said, "farewell, dear lady, we are loath to lose you, for we have loved you as a daughter." and all the little cobras were very sorrowful to think that they must lose their playfellow, the young prince. then the cobra gave the muchie rajah and the muchie ranee and muchie lal all the most costly gifts he could find in his treasure-house; and so they went home, where they lived very happy ever after. how the rajah's son won the princess labam adapted by joseph jacobs in a country there was a rajah who had an only son who every day went out to hunt. one day the ranee his mother, said to him, "you can hunt wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the fourth side." this she said because she knew if he went on the fourth side he would hear of the beautiful princess labam, and that then he would leave his father and mother and seek for the princess. the young prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to hunt on that side. when he got there, he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it. the young rajah shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky. all, that is, but one, and this was their rajah, who was called hiraman parrot. when hiraman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the other parrots, "don't fly away and leave me alone when the rajah's son shoots. if you desert me like this, i will tell the princess labam." then the parrots all flew back to their rajah, chattering. the prince was greatly surprised, and said, "why, these birds can talk!" then he said to the parrots, "who is the princess labam? where does she live?" but the parrots would not tell him where she lived. "you can never get to the princess labam's country." that is all they would say. the prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more; and he threw his gun away and went home. when he got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed very ill. at last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the princess labam. "i must go," he said; "i must see what she is like. tell me where her country is." "we do not know where it is," answered his father and mother. "then i must go and look for it," said the prince. "no, no," they said, "you must not leave us. you are our only son. stay with us. you will never find the princess labam." "i must try and find her," said the prince. "perhaps god will show me the way. if i live and i find her, i will come back to you; but perhaps i shall die, and then i shall never see you again. still i must go." so they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with him. his father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse. and he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other weapons; "for," he said, "i may want them." his father, too, gave him plenty of rupees. then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said good-by to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son. "my child," she said to him, "when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats." he then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. he bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. "now," he said to himself, "i will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and i will drink some water, and then i will continue my journey." he opened his handkerchief and took out a sweetmeat. he found an ant in it. he took out another. there was an ant in that one too. so he laid the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant. "never mind," he said, "i won't eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them." then the ant-rajah came and stood before him and said, "you have been good to us. if ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come to you." the rajah's son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his journey. he rode on and on until he came to another jungle, and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly from the pain. "why do you roar like that?" said the young rajah. "what is the matter with you?" "i have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years," answered the tiger, "and it hurts me so; that is why i roar." "well," said the rajah's son, "i will take it out for you. but perhaps, as you are a tiger, when i have made you well, you will eat me?" "oh no," said the tiger, "i won't eat you. do make me well." then the prince took a little knife from his pocket and cut the thorn out of the tiger's foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than ever--so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the matter. the tiger saw her coming, and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him. "what man hurt you that you roared so loud?" said the wife. "no one hurt me," answered the husband; "but a rajah's son came and took the thorn out of my foot." "where is he? show him to me," said his wife. "if you promise not to kill him, i will call him," said the tiger. "i won't kill him; only let me see him," answered his wife. then the tiger called the rajah's son, and when he came the tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams. then they gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. every day he looked at the tiger's foot, and the third day it was quite healed. then he said good-by to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, "if ever you are in trouble, think of me, and we will come to you." the rajah's son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. here he found four fakeers whose teacher and master had died, and had left four things,--a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war on him, "stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here," and the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up. the four fakeers were quarreling over these four things. one said, "i want this;" another said, "you cannot have it, for i want it;" and so on. the rajah's son said to them, "do not quarrel for these things. i will shoot four arrows in four different directions. whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first thing--the bed. whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall have the second thing--the bag. he who gets to the third arrow, shall have the third thing--the bowl. and he who gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things--the stick and rope." to this they agreed. and the prince shot off his first arrow. away raced the fakeers to get it. when they brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth. while they were away looking for the fourth arrow the rajah's son let his horse loose in the jungle and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him. then he said, "bed, i wish to go to the princess labam's country." the little bed instantly rose up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the princess labam's country, where it settled on the ground. the rajah's son asked some men he saw, "whose country is this?" "the princess labam's country," they answered. then the prince went on till he came to a house where he saw an old woman. "who are you?" she said. "where do you come from?" "i come from a far country," he said; "do let me stay with you to-night." "no," she answered, "i cannot let you stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country. you cannot stay in my house." "you are my aunty," said the prince; "let me remain with you for this one night. you see it is evening, and if i go into the jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me." "well," said that old woman, "you may stay here to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into prison." then she took him into her house, and the rajah's son was very glad. the old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. "aunty," he said, "i will give you food." he put his hand into his bag, saying, "bag, i want some dinner," and the bag gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served up on two gold plates. the old woman and the rajah's son then dined together. when they had finished eating, the old woman said, "now i will fetch some water." "don't go," said the prince. "you shall have plenty of water directly." so he took his bowl and said to it, "bowl, i want some water," and then it filled with water. when it was full, the prince cried out, "stop, bowl!" and the bowl stopped filling. "see, aunty," he said, "with this bowl i can always get as much water as i want." by this time night had come. "aunty," said the rajah's son, "why don't you light a lamp?" "there is no need," she said. "our king has forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his daughter, the princess labam, comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day." when it was quite black night the princess got up. she dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. then she shone like the moon and her beauty made night day. she came out of her room and sat on the roof of her palace. in the daytime she never came out of her house; she only came out at night. all the people in her father's country then went about their work and finished it. the rajah's son, watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. he said to himself, "how lovely she is!" at midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down from her roof and went to her room; and when she was in bed and asleep, the rajah's son got up softly and sat on his bed. "bed," he said to it, "i want to go to the princess labam's bed-room." so the little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep. the young rajah took his bag and said, "i want a great deal of betel-leaf," and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. this he laid near the princess's bed, and then his little bed carried him back to the old woman's house. next morning all the princess's servants found the betel-leaf, and began to eat it. "where did you get all that betel-leaf?" asked the princess. "we found it near your bed," answered the servants. nobody knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there. in the morning the old woman came to the rajah's son. "now it is morning," she said, "and you must go; for if the king finds out all i have done for you, he will seize me." "i am ill to-day, dear aunty," said the prince; "do let me stay till to-morrow morning." "good," said the old woman. so he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water. [illustration: the princess labam ... shines so that she lights up all the country.] when night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve o'clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was soon fast asleep. then the rajah's son sat on his bed, and it carried him to the princess. he took his bag and said, "bag, i want a most lovely shawl." it gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the princess as she lay asleep. then he went back to the old woman's house and slept till morning. in the morning, when the princess saw the shawl she was delighted. "see, mother," she said; "khuda must have given me this shawl, it is so beautiful." her mother was very glad too. "yes, my child," she said; "khuda must have given you this splendid shawl." when it was morning the old woman said to the rajah's son, "now you must really go." "aunty," he answered, "i am not well enough yet. let me stay a few days longer. i will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may see me." so the old woman let him stay. when it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and jewels and sat on her roof. at midnight she went to her room and went to sleep. then the rajah's son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room. there he said to his bag, "bag, i want a very, very beautiful ring." the bag gave him a glorious ring. then he took the princess labam's hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much frightened. "who are you?" she said to the prince. "where do you come from? why do you come to my room?" "do not be afraid, princess," he said; "i am no thief. i am a great rajah's son. hiraman parrot, who lives in the jungle where i went to hunt, told me your name, and then i left my father and mother and came to see you." "well," said the princess, "as you are the son of such a great rajah, i will not have you killed, and i will tell my father and mother that i wish to marry you." the prince then returned to the old woman's house; and when morning came the princess said to her mother, "the son of a great rajah has come to this country, and i wish to marry him." her mother told this to the king. "good," said the king; "but if this rajah's son wishes to marry my daughter, he must first do whatever i bid him. if he fails i will kill him. i will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day. if he cannot do this he shall die." in the morning the rajah's son told the old woman that he intended to marry the princess. "oh," said the old woman, "go away from this country, and do not think of marrying her. a great many rajahs and rajahs' sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them all killed. he says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him. if he can, then he shall marry the princess; if he cannot, the king will have him killed. but no one can do the things the king tells him to do; so all the rajahs and rajahs' sons who have tried have been put to death. you will be killed too, if you try. do go away." but the prince would not listen to anything she said. the king sent for the prince to the old woman's house, and his servants brought the rajah's son to the king's court-house to the king. there the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him to the court-house. "whoever wishes to marry my daughter," he said to the prince, "must first do all i tell him. if he cannot, then i have him killed. so if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed you will die." the prince was very sorry when he heard this. "how can i crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?" he said to himself; "and if i do not, the king will kill me." he took the mustard seed to the old woman's house, and did not know what to do. at last he remembered the ant-rajah, and the moment he did so, the ant-rajah and his ants came to him. "why do you look so sad?" said the ant-rajah. the prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, "how can i crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day? and if i do not take the oil to the king to-morrow morning, he will kill me." "be happy," said the ant-rajah; "lie down and sleep; we will crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king." the rajah's son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him. the prince was very glad when he saw the oil. the next morning he took it to the court-house to the king. but the king said, "you cannot yet marry my daughter. if you wish to do so, you must fight with my two demons, and kill them." the king a long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. he was afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them. so all the rajahs and rajahs' sons who wanted to marry the princess labam had to fight with these demons; "for," said the king to himself, "perhaps the demons may be killed, and then i shall be rid of them." when he heard of the demons the rajah's son was very sad. "what can i do?" he said to himself. "how can i fight with these two demons?" then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and said, "why are you so sad?" the rajah's son answered, "the king has ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. how can i do this?" "do not be frightened," said the tiger. "be happy. i and my wife will fight with them for you." then the rajah's son took out of his bag two splendid coats. they were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. these he put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the king, and said to him, "may these tigers fight your demons for me?" "yes," said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were killed. "then call your demons," said the rajah's son, "and these tigers will fight them." the king did so, and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed the demons. "that is good," said the king. "but you must do something else before i give you my daughter. up in the sky i have a kettle-drum. you must go and beat it. if you cannot do this, i will kill you." the rajah's son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old woman's house and sat on his bed. "little bed," he said, "up in the sky is the king's kettle-drum. i want to go to it." the bed flew up with him, and the rajah's son beat the drum, and the king heard him. still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter. "you have," he said to the prince, "done the three things i told you to do; but you must do one thing more." "if i can, i will," said the rajah's son. then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his court-house. it was a very, very thick trunk. he gave the prince a wax hatchet, and said, "to-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet." the rajah's son went back to the old woman's house. he was very sad, and thought that now the rajah would certainly kill him. "i had his oil crushed out by the ants," he said to himself. "i had his demons killed by the tigers. my bed helped to beat this kettle-drum. but now what can i do? how can i cut that thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet?" at night he went on his bed to see the princess. "to-morrow," he said to her, "your father will kill me." "why?" asked the princess. "he has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet. how can i ever do that?" said the rajah's son. "do not be afraid," said the princess; "do as i bid you, and you will cut it in two quite easily." then she pulled out a hair from her head and gave it to the prince. "to-morrow," she said, "when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, 'the princess labam commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.' then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet's blade." the prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet blade touched the tree-trunk it split into two pieces. the king said, "now you can marry my daughter." then the wedding took place. all the rajahs and kings of the countries round were asked to come to it, and there were great rejoicings. after a few days the bridegroom said to his bride "let us go to my father's country." the princess labam's father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and servants; and they traveled in great state to the distant country, where they lived happily. the prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, stick and rope; only, as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick or rope. myths of japan the jellyfish and the monkey adapted by yei theodora ozaki long, long ago, in old japan, the kingdom of the sea was governed by a wonderful king. he was called rin jin, or the dragon king of the sea. his power was immense, for he was the ruler of all sea creatures both great and small, and in his keeping were the jewels of the ebb and flow of the tide. the jewel of the ebbing tide when thrown into the ocean caused the sea to recede from the land, and the jewel of the flowing tide made the waves to rise mountains high and to flow in upon the shore like a tidal wave. the palace of rin jin was at the bottom of the sea, and was so beautiful that no one has ever seen anything like it even in dreams. the walls were of coral, the roof of jadestone and chalcedony, and the floors were of the finest mother-of-pearl. but the dragon king, in spite of his wide-spreading kingdom, his beautiful palace and all its wonders, and his power, which none disputed throughout the whole sea, was not at all happy, for he reigned alone. at last he thought that if he married he would not only be happier, but also more powerful. so he decided to take a wife. calling all his fish retainers together, he chose several of them as ambassadors to go through the sea and seek for a young dragon princess who would be his bride. at last they returned to the palace bringing with them a lovely young dragon. her scales were of a glittering green like the wings of summer beetles, her eyes threw out glances of fire, and she was dressed in gorgeous robes. all the jewels of the sea worked in with embroidery adorned them. the king fell in love with her at once, and the wedding ceremony was celebrated with great splendor. every living thing in the sea, from the great whales down to the little shrimps, came in shoals to offer their congratulations to the bride and bridegroom and to wish them a long and prosperous life. never had there been such an assemblage or such gay festivities in the fish-world before. the train of bearers who carried the bride's possessions to her new home seemed to reach across the waves from one end of the sea to the other. each fish carried a phosphorescent lantern and was dressed in ceremonial robes, gleaming blue and pink and silver; and the waves as they rose and fell and broke that night seemed to be rolling masses of white and green fire, for the phosphorus shone with double brilliancy in honor of the event. now for a time the dragon king and his bride lived very happily. they loved each other dearly, and the bridegroom day after day took delight in showing his bride all the wonders and treasures of his coral palace, and she was never tired of wandering with him through its vast halls and gardens. life seemed to them both like a long summer's day. two months passed in this happy way, and then the dragon queen fell ill and was obliged to stay in bed. the king was sorely troubled when he saw his precious bride so ill, and at once sent for the fish doctor to come and give her some medicine. he gave special orders to the servants to nurse her carefully and to wait upon her with diligence, but in spite of all the nurses' assiduous care and the medicine that the doctor prescribed, the young queen showed no signs of recovery, but grew daily worse. then the dragon king interviewed the doctor and blamed him for not curing the queen. the doctor was alarmed at rin jin's evident displeasure, and excused his want of skill by saying that although he knew the right kind of medicine to give the invalid, it was impossible to find it in the sea. "do you mean to tell me that you can't get the medicine here?" asked the dragon king. "it is just as you say!" said the doctor. "tell me what it is you want for the queen?" demanded rin jin. "i want the liver of a live monkey!" answered the doctor. "the liver of a live monkey! of course that will be most difficult to get," said the king. "if we could only get that for the queen, her majesty would soon recover," said the doctor. "very well, that decides it; we _must_ get it somehow or other. but where are we most likely to find a monkey?" asked the king. then the doctor told the dragon king that some distance to the south there was a monkey island where a great many monkeys lived. "if only you could capture one of those monkeys?" said the doctor. "how can any of my people capture a monkey?" said the dragon king, greatly puzzled. "the monkeys live on dry land, while we live in the water; and out of our element we are quite powerless! i don't see what we can do!" "that has been my difficulty too," said the doctor. "but amongst your innumerable servants, you surely can find one who can go on shore for that express purpose!" "something must be done," said the king, and calling his chief steward he consulted him on the matter. the chief steward thought for some time, and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, said joyfully: "i know what we must do! there is the _kurage_ (jellyfish). he is certainly ugly to look at, but he is proud of being able to walk on land with his four legs like a tortoise. let us send him to the island of monkeys to catch one." the jellyfish was then summoned to the king's presence, and was told by his majesty what was required of him. the jellyfish, on being told of the unexpected mission which was to be entrusted to him, looked very troubled, and said that he had never been to the island in question, and as he had never had any experience in catching monkeys he was afraid that he would not be able to get one. "well," said the chief steward, "if you depend on your strength or dexterity you will never catch a monkey. the only way is to play a trick on one!" "how can i play a trick on a monkey? i don't know how to do it," said the perplexed jellyfish. "this is what you must do," said the wily chief steward. "when you approach the island of monkeys and meet some of them, you must try to get very friendly with one. tell him that you are a servant of the dragon king, and invite him to come and visit you and see the dragon king's palace. try and describe to him as vividly as you can the grandeur of the palace and the wonders of the sea so as to arouse his curiosity and make him long to see it all!" "but how am i to get the monkey here? you know monkeys don't swim!" said the reluctant jellyfish. "you must carry him on your back. what is the use of your shell if you can't do that!" said the chief steward. "won't he be very heavy?" queried _kurage_ again. "you mustn't mind that, for you are working for the dragon king!" replied the chief steward. "i will do my best then," said the jellyfish, and he swam away from the palace and started off towards the monkey island. swimming swiftly he reached his destination in a few hours, and was landed by a convenient wave upon the shore. on looking round he saw not far away a big pine-tree with drooping branches and on one of those branches was just what he was looking for--a live monkey. "i'm in luck!" thought the jellyfish. "now i must flatter the creature and try to entice him to come back with me to the palace, and my part will be done!" so the jellyfish slowly walked towards the pine-tree. in those ancient days the jellyfish had four legs and a hard shell like a tortoise. when he got to the pine-tree he raised his voice and said: "how do you do, mr. monkey? isn't it a lovely day?" "a very fine day," answered the monkey from the tree. "i have never seen you in this part of the world before. where have you come from and what is your name?" "my name is _kurage_ or jellyfish. i am one of the servants of the dragon king. i have heard so much of your beautiful island that i have come on purpose to see it," answered the jellyfish. "i am very glad to see you," said the monkey. "by-the-bye," said the jellyfish, "have you ever seen the palace of the dragon king of the sea where i live?" "i have often heard of it, but i have never seen it!" answered the monkey. "then you ought most surely to come. it is a great pity for you to go through life without seeing it. the beauty of the palace is beyond all description--it is certainly to my mind the most lovely place in the world," said the jellyfish. "is it so beautiful as all that?" asked the monkey in astonishment. then the jellyfish saw his chance, and went on describing to the best of his ability the beauty and grandeur of the sea king's palace, and the wonders of the garden with its curious trees of white, pink and red coral, and the still more curious fruits like great jewels hanging on the branches. the monkey grew more and more interested, and as he listened he came down the tree step by step so as not to lose a word of the wonderful story. "i have got him at last!" thought the jellyfish, but aloud he said: "mr. monkey, i must now go back. as you have never seen the palace of the dragon king, won't you avail yourself of this splendid opportunity by coming with me? i shall then be able to act as guide and show you all the sights of the sea, which will be even more wonderful to you--a land-lubber." "i should love to go," said the monkey, "but how am i to cross the water? i can't swim, as you surely know!" "there is no difficulty about that. i can carry you on my back." "that will be troubling you too much," said the monkey. "i can do it quite easily. i am stronger than i look, so you needn't hesitate," said the jellyfish, and taking the monkey on his back he stepped into the sea. "keep very still, mr. monkey," said the jellyfish. "you mustn't fall into the sea; i am responsible for your safe arrival at the king's palace." "please don't go so fast, or i am sure i shall fall off," said the monkey. thus they went along, the jellyfish skimming through the waves with the monkey sitting on his back. when they were about halfway, the jellyfish, who knew very little of anatomy, began to wonder if the monkey had his liver with him or not! "mr. monkey, tell me, have you such a thing as a liver with you?" the monkey was very much surprised at this queer question, and asked what the jellyfish wanted with a liver. "that is the most important thing of all," said the stupid jellyfish, "so as soon as i recollected it, i asked you if you had yours with you?" "why is my liver so important to you?" asked the monkey. "oh! you will learn the reason later," said the jellyfish. the monkey grew more and more curious and suspicious, and urged the jellyfish to tell him for what his liver was wanted, and ended up by appealing to his hearer's feelings by saying that he was very troubled at what he had been told. then the jellyfish, seeing how anxious the monkey looked, was sorry for him, and told everything. how the dragon queen had fallen ill, and how the doctor had said that only the liver of a live monkey would cure her, and how the dragon king had sent him to find one. "now i have done as i was told, and as soon as we arrive at the palace the doctor will want your liver, so i feel sorry for you!" said the silly jellyfish. the poor monkey was horrified when he learnt all this, and very angry at the trick played upon him. he trembled with fear at the thought of what was in store for him. but the monkey was a clever animal, and he thought it the wisest plan not to show any sign of the fear he felt, so he tried to calm himself and to think of some way by which he might escape. "the doctor means to cut me open and then take my liver out! why i shall die!" thought the monkey. at last a bright thought struck him, so he said quite cheerfully to the jellyfish: "what a pity it was, mr. jellyfish, that you did not speak of this before we left the island!" "if i had told you why i wanted you to accompany me you would certainly have refused to come," answered the jellyfish. "you are quite mistaken," said the monkey. "monkeys can very well spare a liver or two, especially when it is wanted for the dragon queen of the sea. if i had only guessed of what you were in need, i should have presented you with one without waiting to be asked. i have several livers. but the greatest pity is, that as you did not speak in time, i have left all my livers hanging on the pine-tree." "have you left your liver behind you?" asked the jellyfish. "yes," said the cunning monkey, "during the daytime i usually leave my liver hanging up on the branch of a tree, as it is very much in the way when i am climbing about from tree to tree. to-day, listening to your interesting conversation, i quite forgot it, and left it behind when i came off with you. if only you had spoken in time i should have remembered it, and should have brought it along with me!" the jellyfish was very disappointed when he heard this, for he believed every word the monkey said. the monkey was of no good without a liver. finally the jellyfish stopped and told the monkey so. "well," said the monkey, "that is soon remedied. i am really sorry to think of all your trouble; but if you will only take me back to the place where you found me, i shall soon be able to get my liver." the jellyfish did not at all like the idea of going all the way back to the island again; but the monkey assured him that if he would be so kind as to take him back he would get his very best liver, and bring it with him the next time. thus persuaded, the jellyfish turned his course towards the monkey island once more. no sooner had the jellyfish reached the shore than the sly monkey landed, and getting up into the pine-tree where the jellyfish had first seen him, he cut several capers amongst the branches with joy at being safe home again, and then looking down at the jellyfish said: "so many thanks for all the trouble you have taken! please present my compliments to the dragon king on your return!" the jellyfish wondered at this speech and the mocking tone in which it was uttered. then he asked the monkey if it wasn't his intention to come with him at once after getting his liver. the monkey replied laughingly that he couldn't afford to lose his liver; it was too precious. "but remember your promise!" pleaded the jellyfish, now very discouraged. "that promise was false, and anyhow it is now broken!" answered the monkey. then he began to jeer at the jellyfish and told him that he had been deceiving him the whole time; that he had no wish to lose his life, which he certainly would have done had he gone on to the sea king's palace to the old doctor waiting for him, instead of persuading the jellyfish to return under false pretences. "of course, i won't _give_ you my liver, but come and get it if you can!" added the monkey mockingly from the tree. there was nothing for the jellyfish to do now but to repent of his stupidity, and return to the dragon king of the sea and confess his failure, so he started sadly and slowly to swim back. the last thing he heard as he glided away, leaving the island behind him, was the monkey laughing at him. meanwhile the dragon king, the doctor, the chief steward, and all the servants were waiting impatiently for the return of the jellyfish. when they caught sight of him approaching the palace, they hailed him with delight. they began to thank him profusely for all the trouble he had taken in going to monkey island, and then they asked him where the monkey was. now the day of reckoning had come for the jellyfish. he quaked all over as he told his story. how he had brought the monkey half way over the sea, and then had stupidly let out the secret of his commission; how the monkey had deceived him by making him believe that he had left his liver behind him. the dragon king's wrath was great, and he at once gave orders that the jellyfish was to be severely punished. the punishment was a horrible one. all the bones were to be drawn out from his living body, and he was to be beaten with sticks. the poor jellyfish, humiliated and horrified beyond all words, cried out for pardon. but the dragon king's order had to be obeyed. the servants of the palace forthwith each brought out a stick and surrounded the jellyfish, and after pulling out his bones they beat him to a flat pulp, and then took him out beyond the palace gates and threw him into the water. here he was left to suffer and repent his foolish chattering, and to grow accustomed to his new state of bonelessness. from this story it is evident that in former times the jellyfish once had a shell and bones something like a tortoise, but, ever since the dragon king's sentence was carried out on the ancestor of the jelly fishes, his descendants have all been soft and boneless just as you see them to-day thrown up by the waves high upon the shores of japan. the old man and the devils a long time ago there was an old man who had a big lump on the right side of his face. one day he went into the mountain to cut wood, when the rain began to pour and the wind to blow so very hard that, finding it impossible to return home, and filled with fear, he took refuge in the hollow of an old tree. while sitting there doubled up and unable to sleep, he heard the confused sound of many voices in the distance gradually approaching to where he was. he said to himself: "how strange! i thought i was all alone in the mountain, but i hear the voices of many people." so, taking courage, he peeped out, and saw a great crowd of strange-looking beings. some were red, and dressed in green clothes; others were black, and dressed in red clothes; some had only one eye; others had no mouth; indeed, it is quite impossible to describe their varied and strange looks. they kindled a fire, so that it became as light as day. they sat down in two cross-rows, and began to drink wine and make merry just like human beings. they passed the wine cup around so often that many of them soon drank too much. one of the young devils got up and began to sing a merry song and to dance; so also many others; some danced well, others badly. one said: "we have had uncommon fun to-night, but i would like to see something new." then the old man, losing all fear, thought he would like to dance, and saying, "let come what will, if i die for it, i will have a dance, too," crept out of the hollow tree and, with his cap slipped over his nose and his ax sticking in his belt, began to dance. the devils in great surprise jumped up, saying, "who is this?" but the old man advancing and receding, swaying to and fro, and posturing this way and that way, the whole crowd laughed and enjoyed the fun, saying: "how well the old man dances! you must always come and join us in our sport; but, for fear you might not come, you must give us a pledge that you will." so the devils consulted together, and, agreeing that the lump on his face, which was a token of wealth, was what he valued most highly, demanded that it should be taken. the old man replied: "i have had this lump many years, and would not without good reason part with it; but you may have it, or an eye, or my nose either if you wish." so the devils laid hold of it, twisting and pulling, and took it off without giving him any pain, and put it away as a pledge that he would come back. just then the day began to dawn, and the birds to sing, so the devils hurried away. the old man felt his face and found it quite smooth, and not a trace of the lump left. he forgot all about cutting wood, and hastened home. his wife, seeing him, exclaimed in great surprise, "what has happened to you?" so he told her all that had befallen him. now, among the neighbors there was another old man who had a big lump on the left side of his face. hearing all about how the first old man had got rid of his misfortune, he determined that he would also try the same plan. so he went and crept into the hollow tree, and waited for the devils to come. sure enough, they came just as he was told, and they sat down, drank wine, and made merry just as they did before. the second old man, afraid and trembling, crept out of the hollow tree. the devils welcomed him, saying: "the old man has come; now let us see him dance." this old fellow was awkward, and did not dance as well as the other, so the devils cried out: "you dance badly, and are getting worse and worse; we will give you back the lump which we took from you as a pledge." upon this, one of the devils brought the lump, and stuck it on the other side of his face; so the poor old fellow returned home with a lump on each side. autumn and spring adapted by frank hinder a fair maiden lay asleep in a rice field. the sun was at its height, and she was weary. now a god looked down upon the rice field. he knew that the beauty of the maiden came from within, that it mirrored the beauty of heavenly dreams. he knew that even now, as she smiled, she held converse with the spirit of the wind or the flowers. the god descended and asked the dream-maiden to be his bride. she rejoiced, and they were wed. a wonderful red jewel came of their happiness. long, long afterwards, the stone was found by a farmer, who saw that it was a very rare jewel. he prized it highly, and always carried it about with him. sometimes, as he looked at it in the pale light of the moon, it seemed to him that he could discern eyes in its depths. again, in the stillness of the night, he would awaken and think that a clear soft voice called him by name. one day, the farmer had to carry the midday meal to his workers in the field. the sun was very hot, so he loaded a cow with the bowls of rice, the millet dumplings, and the beans. suddenly, prince ama-boko stood in the path. he was angry, for he thought that the farmer was about to kill the cow. the prince would hear no word of denial; his wrath increased. the farmer became more and more terrified, and, finally, took the precious stone from his pocket and presented it as a peace-offering to the powerful prince. ama-boko marveled at the brilliancy of the jewel, and allowed the man to continue his journey. the prince returned to his home. he drew forth the treasure, and it was immediately transformed into a goddess of surpassing beauty. even as she rose before him, he loved her, and ere the moon waned they were wed. the goddess ministered to his every want. she prepared delicate dishes, the secret of which is known only to the gods. she made wine from the juice of a myriad herbs, wine such as mortals never taste. but, after a time, the prince became proud and overbearing. he began to treat his faithful wife with cruel contempt. the goddess was sad, and said: "you are not worthy of my love. i will leave you and go to my father." ama-boko paid no heed to these words, for he did not believe that the threat would be fulfilled. but the beautiful goddess was in earnest. she escaped from the palace and fled to naniwa, where she is still honored as akaru-hime, the goddess of light. now the prince was wroth when he heard that the goddess had left him, and set out in pursuit of her. but when he neared naniwa, the gods would not allow his vessel to enter the haven. then he knew that his priceless red jewel was lost to him forever. he steered his ship towards the north coast of japan, and landed at tajima. here he was well received, and highly esteemed on account of the treasures which he brought with him. he had costly strings of pearls, girdles of precious stones, and a mirror which the wind and the waves obeyed. prince ama-boko remained at tajima, and was the father of a mighty race. among his children's children was a princess so renowned for her beauty that eighty suitors sought her hand. one after the other returned sorrowfully home, for none found favor in her eyes. at last, two brothers came before her, the young god of the autumn, and the young god of the spring. the elder of the two, the god of autumn, first urged his suit. but the princess refused him. he went to his younger brother and said, "the princess does not love me, neither will you be able to win her heart." but the spring god was full of hope, and replied, "i will give you a cask of rice wine if i do not win her, but if she consents to be my bride, you shall give a cask of _saké_ to me." now the god of spring went to his mother, and told her all. she promised to aid him. thereupon she wove, in a single night, a robe and sandals from the unopened buds of the lilac and white wistaria. out of the same delicate flowers she fashioned a bow and arrows. thus clad, the god of spring made his way to the beautiful princess. as he stepped before the maiden, every bud unfolded, and from the heart of each blossom came a fragrance that filled the air. the princess was overjoyed, and gave her hand to the god of spring. the elder brother, the god of autumn, was filled with rage when he heard how his brother had obtained the wondrous robe. he refused to give the promised cask of _saké_. when the mother learned that the god had broken his word, she placed stones and salt in the hollow of a bamboo cane, wrapped it round with bamboo leaves, and hung it in the smoke. then she uttered a curse upon her first-born: "as the leaves wither and fade, so must you. as the salt sea ebbs, so must you. as the stone sinks, so must you." the terrible curse fell upon her son. while the god of spring remains ever young, ever fragrant, ever full of mirth, the god of autumn is old, and withered, and sad. the vision of tsunu adapted by frank rinder when the five tall pine-trees on the windy heights of mionoseki were but tiny shoots, there lived in the kingdom of the islands a pious man. his home was in a remote hamlet surrounded by mountains and great forests of pine. tsunu had a wife and sons and daughters. he was a woodman, and his days were spent in the forest and on the hillsides. in summer he was up at cock-crow, and worked patiently, in the soft light under the pines, until nightfall. then, with his burden of logs and branches, he went slowly homeward. after the evening meal, he would tell some old story or legend. tsunu was never weary of relating the wondrous tales of the land of the gods. best of all he loved to speak of fuji-yama, the mountain that stood so near his home. in times gone by, there was no mountain where now the sacred peak reaches up to the sky; only a far-stretching plain bathed in sunlight all day. the peasants in the district were astonished, one morning, to behold a mighty hill where before had been the open plain. it had sprung up in a single night, while they slept. flames and huge stones were hurled from its summit; the peasants feared that the demons from the under-world had come to wreak vengeance upon them. but for many generations there have been peace and silence on the heights. the good sun-goddess loves fuji-yama. every evening she lingers on his summit, and when at last she leaves him, his lofty crest is bathed in soft purple light. in the evening the matchless mountain seems to rise higher and higher into the skies, until no mortal can tell the place of his rest. golden clouds enfold fuji-yama in the early morning. pilgrims come from far and near, to gain blessing and health for themselves and their families from the sacred mountain. on the self-same night that fuji-yama rose out of the earth, a strange thing happened in the mountainous district near kyoto. the inhabitants were awakened by a terrible roar, which continued throughout the night. in the morning every mountain had disappeared; not one of the hills that they loved was to be seen. a blue lake lay before them. it was none other than the lute-shaped lake biwa. the mountains had, in truth, traveled under the earth for more than a hundred miles, and now form the sacred fuji-yama. as tsunu stepped out of his hut in the morning, his eyes sought the mountain of the gods. he saw the golden clouds, and the beautiful story was in his mind as he went to his work. one day the woodman wandered farther than usual into the forest. at noon he was in a very lonely spot. the air was soft and sweet, the sky so blue that he looked long at it, and then took a deep breath. tsunu was happy. now his eye fell on a little fox who watched him curiously from the bushes. the creature ran away when it saw that the man's attention had been attracted. tsunu thought, "i will follow the little fox and see where she goes." off he started in pursuit. he soon came to a bamboo thicket. the smooth, slender stems waved dreamily, the pale green leaves still sparkled with the morning dew. but it was not this which caused the woodman to stand spellbound. on a plot of mossy grass beyond the thicket, sat two maidens of surpassing beauty. they were partly shaded by the waving bamboos, but their faces were lit up by the sunlight. not a word came from their lips, yet tsunu knew that the voices of both must be sweet as the cooing of the wild dove. the maidens were graceful as the slender willow, they were fair as the blossom of the cherry-tree. slowly they moved the chessmen which lay before them on the grass. tsunu hardly dared to breathe, lest he should disturb them. the breeze caught their long hair, the sunlight played upon it.... the sun still shone.... the chessmen were still slowly moved to and fro.... the woodman gazed enraptured. "but now," thought tsunu, "i must return, and tell those at home of the beautiful maidens." alas, his knees were stiff and weak. "surely i have stood here for many hours," he said. he leaned for support upon his axe; it crumbled into dust. looking down he saw that a flowing white beard hung from his chin. for many hours the poor woodman tried in vain to reach his home. fatigued and wearied, he came at last to a hut. but all was changed. strange faces peered curiously at him. the speech of the people was unfamiliar. "where are my wife and my children?" he cried. but no one knew his name. finally, the poor woodman came to understand that seven generations had passed since he bade farewell to his dear ones in the early morning. while he had gazed at the beautiful maidens, his wife, his children, and his children's children had lived and died. the few remaining years of tsunu's life were spent as a pious pilgrim to fuji-yama, his well-loved mountain. since his death he has been honored as a saint who brings prosperity to the people of his native country. the star-lovers adapted by frank rinder shokujo, daughter of the sun, dwelt with her father on the banks of the silver river of heaven, which we call the milky way. she was a lovely maiden, graceful and winsome, and her eyes were tender as the eyes of a dove. her loving father, the sun, was much troubled because shokujo did not share in the youthful pleasures of the daughters of the air. a soft melancholy seemed to brood over her, but she never wearied of working for the good of others, and especially did she busy herself at her loom; indeed she came to be called the weaving princess. the sun bethought him that if he could give his daughter in marriage, all would be well; her dormant love would be kindled into a flame that would illumine her whole being and drive out the pensive spirit which oppressed her. now there lived, hard by, a right honest herdsman, named kingen, who tended his cows on the borders of the heavenly stream. the sun-king proposed to bestow his daughter on kingen, thinking in this way to provide for her happiness and at the same time keep her near him. every star beamed approval, and there was joy in the heavens. the love that bound shokujo and kingen to one another was a great love. with its awakening, shokujo forsook her former occupations, nor did she any longer labor industriously at the loom, but laughed, and danced, and sang, and made merry from morn till night. the sun-king was sorely grieved, for he had not foreseen so great a change. anger was in his eyes, and he said, "kingen is surely the cause of this, therefore i will banish him to the other side of the river of stars." when shokujo and kingen heard that they were to be parted, and could thenceforth, in accordance with the king's decree, meet but once a year, and that upon the seventh night of the seventh month, their hearts were heavy. the leave-taking between them was a sad one, and great tears stood in shokujo's eyes as she bade farewell to her lover-husband. in answer to the behest of the sun-king, myriads of magpies flocked together, and, outspreading their wings, formed a bridge on which kingen crossed the river of heaven. the moment that his foot touched the opposite bank, the birds dispersed with noisy chatter, leaving poor kingen a solitary exile. he looked wistfully towards the weeping figure of shokujo, who stood on the threshold of her now desolate home. long and weary were the succeeding days, spent as they were by kingen in guiding his oxen and by shokujo in plying her shuttle. the sun-king was gladdened by his daughter's industry. when night fell and the heavens were bright with countless lights, the lovers were wont, standing on the banks of the celestial stream, to waft across it sweet and tender messages, while each uttered a prayer for the speedy coming of the wondrous night. the long-hoped-for month and day drew nigh, and the hearts of the lovers were troubled lest rain should fall; for the silver river, full at all times, is at that season often in flood, and the bird-bridge might be swept away. the day broke cloudlessly bright. it waxed and waned, and one by one the lamps of heaven were lighted. at nightfall the magpies assembled, and shokujo, quivering with delight, crossed the slender bridge and fell into the arms of her lover. their transport of joy was as the joy of the parched flower, when the raindrop falls upon it; but the moment of parting soon came, and shokujo sorrowfully retraced her steps. year follows year, and the lovers still meet in that far-off land on the seventh night of the seventh month, save when rain has swelled the silver river and rendered the crossing impossible. the hope of a permanent reunion still fills the hearts of the star-lovers, and is to them as a sweet fragrance and a beautiful vision. myths of the slavs the two brothers adapted by alexander chodsko once upon a time there were two brothers whose father had left them but a small fortune. the eldest grew very rich, but at the same time cruel and wicked, whereas there was nowhere a more honest or kinder man than the younger. but he remained poor, and had many children, so that at times they could scarcely get bread to eat. at last, one day there was not even this in the house, so he went to his rich brother and asked him for a loaf of bread. waste of time! his rich brother only called him beggar and vagabond, and slammed the door in his face. the poor fellow, after this brutal reception, did not know which way to turn. hungry, scantily clad, shivering with cold, his legs could scarcely carry him along. he had not the heart to go home, with nothing for the children, so he went towards the mountain forest. but all he found there were some wild pears that had fallen to the ground. he had to content himself with eating these, though they set his teeth on edge. but what was he to do to warm himself, for the east wind with its chill blast pierced him through and through. "where shall i go?" he said; "what will become of us in the cottage? there is neither food nor fire, and my brother has driven me from his door." it was just then he remembered having heard that the top of the mountain in front of him was made of crystal, and had a fire forever burning upon it. "i will try and find it," he said, "and then i may be able to warm myself a little." so he went on climbing higher and higher till he reached the top, when he was startled to see twelve strange beings sitting round a huge fire. he stopped for a moment, but then said to himself, "what have i to lose? why should i fear? god is with me. courage!" so he advanced towards the fire, and bowing respectfully, said: "good people, take pity on my distress. i am very poor, no one cares for me, i have not even a fire in my cottage; will you let me warm myself at yours?" they all looked kindly at him, and one of them said: "my son, come sit down with us and warm yourself." so he sat down, and felt warm directly he was near them. but he dared not speak while they were silent. what astonished him most was that they changed seats one after another, and in such a way that each one passed round the fire and came back to his own place. when he drew near the fire an old man with long white beard and bald head arose from the flames and spoke to him thus: "man, waste not thy life here; return to thy cottage, work, and live honestly. take as many embers as thou wilt, we have more than we need." and having said this he disappeared. then the twelve filled a large sack with embers, and, putting it on the poor man's shoulders, advised him to hasten home. humbly thanking them, he set off. as he went he wondered why the embers did not feel hot, and why they should weigh no more than a sack of paper. he was thankful that he should be able to have a fire, but imagine his astonishment when on arriving home he found the sack to contain as many gold pieces as there had been embers; he almost went out of his mind with joy at the possession of so much money. with all his heart he thanked those who had been so ready to help him in his need. he was now rich, and rejoiced to be able to provide for his family. being curious to find out how many gold pieces there were, and not knowing how to count, he sent his wife to his rich brother for the loan of a quart measure. this time the brother was in a better temper, so he lent what was asked of him, but said mockingly, "what can such beggars as you have to measure?" the wife replied, "our neighbor owes us some wheat; we want to be sure he returns us the right quantity." the rich brother was puzzled, and suspecting something he, unknown to his sister-in-law, put some grease inside the measure. the trick succeeded, for on getting it back he found a piece of gold sticking to it. filled with astonishment, he could only suppose his brother had joined a band of robbers: so he hurried to his brother's cottage, and threatened to bring him before the justice of the peace if he did not confess where the gold came from. the poor man was troubled, and, dreading to offend his brother, told the story of his journey to the crystal mountain. now the elder brother had plenty of money for himself, yet he was envious of the brother's good fortune, and became greatly displeased when he found that his brother won every one's esteem by the good use he made of his wealth. at last, he too determined to visit the crystal mountain. "i may meet with as good luck as my brother," said he to himself. upon reaching the crystal mountain he found the twelve seated round the fire as before, and thus addressed them: "i beg of you, good people, to let me warm myself, for it is bitterly cold, and i am poor and homeless." but one of them replied: "my son, the hour of thy birth was favorable; thou art rich, but a miser; thou art wicked, for thou hast dared to lie to us. well dost thou deserve thy punishment." amazed and terrified he stood silent, not daring to speak. meanwhile the twelve changed places one after another, each at last returning to his own seat. then from the midst of the flames arose the white-bearded old man and spoke thus sternly to the rich man: "woe unto the willful! thy brother is virtuous, therefore have i blessed him. as for thee, thou are wicked, and so shalt not escape our vengeance." at these words the twelve arose. the first seized the unfortunate man, struck him, and passed him on to the second; the second also struck him and passed him on to the third; and so did they all in their turn, until he was given up to the old man, who disappeared with him into the fire. days, weeks, months went by, but the rich man never returned, and none knew what had become of him. i think, between you and me, the younger brother had his suspicions but he very wisely kept them to himself. the twelve months adapted by alexander chodsko there was once a widow who had two daughters, helen, her own child by her dead husband, and marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. she loved helen, but hated the poor orphan, because she was far prettier than her own daughter. marouckla did not think about her good looks, and could not understand why her stepmother should be angry at the sight of her. the hardest work fell to her share; she cleaned out the rooms, cooked, washed, sewed, spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked the cow, and all this without any help. helen, meanwhile, did nothing but dress herself in her best clothes and go to one amusement after another. but marouckla never complained; she bore the scoldings and bad temper of mother and sister with a smile on her lips, and the patience of a lamb. but this angelic behavior did not soften them. they became even more tyrannical and grumpy, for marouckla grew daily more beautiful while helen's ugliness increased. so the stepmother determined to get rid of marouckla, for she knew that while she remained her own daughter would have no suitors. hunger, every kind of privation, abuse, every means was used to make the girl's life miserable. the most wicked of men could not have been more mercilessly cruel than these two vixens. but in spite of it all marouckla grew ever sweeter and more charming. one day in the middle of winter helen wanted some wood-violets. "listen," cried she to marouckla; "you must go up the mountain and find me some violets, i want some to put in my gown; they must be fresh and sweet-scented--do you hear?" "but, my dear sister, who ever heard of violets blooming in the snow?" said the poor orphan. "you wretched creature! do you dare to disobey me?" said helen. "not another word; off with you. if you do not bring me some violets from the mountain forest, i will kill you." the stepmother also added her threats to those of helen, and with vigorous blows they pushed marouckla outside and shut the door upon her. the weeping girl made her way to the mountain. the snow lay deep, and there was no trace of any human being. long she wandered hither and thither, and lost herself in the wood. she was hungry, and shivered with cold, and prayed to die. suddenly she saw a light in the distance, and climbed towards it, till she reached the top of the mountain. upon the highest peak burnt a large fire, surrounded by twelve blocks of stone, on which sat twelve strange beings. of these the first three had white hair, three were not quite so old, three were young and handsome, and the rest still younger. there they all sat silently looking at the fire. they were the twelve months of the year. the great setchène (january) was placed higher than the others; his hair and mustache were white as snow, and in his hand he held a wand. at first marouckla was afraid, but after a while her courage returned and drawing near she said: "men of god, may i warm myself at your fire? i am chilled by the winter cold." the great setchène raised his head and answered: "what brings thee here, my daughter? what dost thou seek?" "i am looking for violets," replied the maiden. "this is not the season for violets; dost thou not see the snow everywhere?" said setchène. "i know well, but my sister helen and my stepmother have ordered me to bring them violets from your mountain: if i return without them they will kill me. i pray you, good shepherds, tell me where they may be found?" here the great setchène arose and went over to the youngest of the months, and placing his wand in his hand, said: "brother brezène (march), do thou take the highest place." brezène obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over the fire. immediately the flames rose towards the sky, the snow began to melt and the tress and shrubs to bud; the grass became green, and from between its blades peeped the pale primrose. it was spring, and the meadows were blue with violets. "gather them quickly, marouckla," said brezène. joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a large bunch she thanked them and ran home. helen and the stepmother were amazed at the sight of the flowers, the scent of which filled the house. "where did you find them?" asked helen. "under the trees on the mountain slope," said marouckla. helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother; she did not even thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken. the next day she desired marouckla to fetch her strawberries. "run," said she, "and fetch me strawberries from the mountain: they must be very sweet and ripe." "but who ever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?" exclaimed marouckla. "hold your tongue, worm; don't answer me; if i don't have my strawberries i will kill you." then the stepmother pushed her into the yard and bolted the door. the unhappy girl made her way towards the mountain and to the large fire round which sat the twelve months. the great setchène occupied the highest place. "men of god, may i warm myself at your fire? the winter cold chills me," said she, drawing near. the great setchène raised his head and asked: "why comest thou here? what dost thou seek?" "i am looking for strawberries," said she. "we are in the midst of winter," replied setchène; strawberries do not grow in the snow." "i know," said the girl sadly, "but my sister and stepmother have ordered me to bring them strawberries; if i do not they will kill me. pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find them." the great setchène arose, crossed over to the month opposite him, and putting the wand into his hand, said: "brother tchervène (june), do thou take the highest place." tchervène obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the fire the flames leapt towards the sky. instantly the snow melted, the earth was covered with verdure, trees were clothed with leaves, birds began to sing, and various flowers blossomed in the forest. it was summer. under the bushes masses of star-shaped flowers changed into ripening strawberries. before marouckla had time to cross herself they covered the glade, making it look like a sea of blood. "gather them quickly, marouckla," said tchervène. joyfully she thanked the months, and having filled her apron ran happily home. helen and her mother wondered at seeing the strawberries, which filled the house with their delicious fragrance. "wherever did you find them?" asked helen crossly. "right up among the mountains; those from under the beech trees are not bad." helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself; not one did she offer to her stepsister. being tired of strawberries, on the third day she took a fancy for some fresh red apples. "run, marouckla," said she, "and fetch me fresh red apples from the mountain." "apples in winter, sister? why, the trees have neither leaves nor fruit." "idle creature, go this minute," said helen; "unless you bring back apples we will kill you." as before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of the house. the poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep snow upon which lay no human footprint, and on towards the fire round which were the twelve months. motionless sat they, and on the highest stone was the great setchène. "men of god, may i warm myself at your fire? the winter cold chills me," said she, drawing near. the great setchène raised his head. "why com'st thou here? what dost thou seek?" asked he. "i am come to look for red apples," replied marouckla. "but this is winter, and not the season for red apples," observed the great setchène. "i know," answered the girl, "but my sister and stepmother, sent me to fetch red apples from the mountain; if i return without them they will kill me." thereupon the great setchène arose and went over to one of the elderly months, to whom he handed the wand, saying: "brother zarè (september), do thou take the highest place." zarè moved to the highest stone and waved his wand over the fire. there was a flare of red flames, the snow disappeared, but the fading leaves which trembled on the trees were sent by a cold northeast wind in yellow masses to the glade. only a few flowers of autumn were visible, such as the fleabane and red gillyflower, autumn colchicums in the ravine, and under the beeches bracken and tufts of northern heather. at first marouckla looked in vain for red apples. then she espied a tree which grew at a great height, and from the branches of this hung the bright red fruit. zarè ordered her to gather some quickly. the girl was delighted and shook the tree. first one apple fell, then another. "that is enough," said zarè, "hurry home." thanking the months, she returned joyfully. helen marveled and the stepmother wondered at seeing the fruit. "where did you gather them?" asked the stepsister. "there are more on the mountain top," answered marouckla. "then why did you not bring more?" said helen angrily; "you must have eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl." "no, dear sister, i have not even tasted them," said marouckla. "i shook the tree twice; one apple fell each time. i was not allowed to shake it again, but was told to return home." "may god smite you with his thunderbolt," said helen, striking her. marouckla prayed to die rather than suffer such ill-treatment. weeping bitterly, she took refuge in the kitchen. helen and her mother found the apples more delicious than any they had ever tasted, and when they had eaten both longed for more. "listen, mother," said helen. "give me my cloak; i will fetch some more apples myself, or else that good-for-nothing wretch will eat them all on the way. i shall be able to find the mountain and the tree. the shepherds may cry 'stop,' but i shall not leave go till i have shaken down all the apples." in spite of her mother's advice she put on her cloak, covered her head with a warm hood, and took the road to the mountain. the mother stood and watched her till she was lost in the distance. snow covered everything, not a human footprint was to be seen on its surface. helen lost herself and wandered hither and thither. after a while she saw a light above her, and following in its direction reached the mountain top. there was the flaming fire, the twelve blocks of stone, and the twelve months. at first she was frightened and hesitated; then she came nearer and warmed her hands. she did not ask permission, nor did she speak one polite word. "what has brought thee here? what dost thou seek?" said the great setchène severely. "i am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard; what business is it of yours?" she replied disdainfully, turning her back on the fire and going towards the forest. the great setchène frowned, and waved his wand over his head. instantly the sky became covered with clouds, the fire went down, snow fell in large flakes, an icy wind howled round the mountain. amid the fury of the storm helen added curses against her stepsister. the cloak failed to warm her benumbed limbs. the mother kept on waiting for her; she looked from the window, she watched from the doorstep, but her daughter came not. the hours passed slowly, but helen did not return. "can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?" thought the mother. then she clad herself in hood and shawl and went in search of her daughter. snow fell in huge masses; it covered all things, it lay untouched by human footsteps. for long she wandered hither and thither; the icy northeast wind whistled in the mountain, but no voice answered her cries. day after day marouckla worked and prayed, and waited; but neither stepmother nor sister returned, they had been frozen to death on the mountain. the inheritance of a small house, a field, and a cow fell to marouckla. in course of time an honest farmer came to share them with her, and their lives were happy and peaceful. the sun; or, the three golden hairs of the old man vsévède adapted by alexander chodsko can this be a true story? it is said that once there was a king who was exceedingly fond of hunting the wild beasts in his forests. one day he followed a stag so far and so long that he lost his way. alone and overtaken by night, he was glad to find himself near a small thatched cottage in which lived a charcoal-burner. "will you kindly show me the way to the highroad? you shall be handsomely rewarded." "i would willingly," said the charcoal-burner, "but god is going to send my wife a little child, and i cannot leave her alone. will you pass the night under our roof? there is a truss of sweet hay in the loft where you may rest, and to-morrow morning i will be your guide." the king accepted the invitation and went to bed in the loft. shortly after a son was born to the charcoal-burner's wife. but the king could not sleep. at midnight he heard noises in the house, and looking through a crack in the flooring he saw the charcoal-burner asleep, his wife almost in a faint, and by the side of the newly-born babe three old women dressed in white, each holding a lighted taper in her hand, and all talking together. now these were the three soudiché or fates, you must know. the first said, "on this boy i bestow the gift of confronting great dangers." the second said, "i bestow the power of happily escaping all these dangers, and of living to a good old age." the third said, "i bestow upon him for wife the princess born at the self-same hour as he, and daughter of the very king sleeping above in the loft." at these words the lights went out and silence reigned around. now the king was greatly troubled, and wondered exceedingly; he felt as if he had received a sword-thrust in the chest. he lay awake all night thinking how to prevent the words of the fates from coming true. with the first glimmer of morning light the baby began to cry. the charcoal-burner, on going over to it, found that his wife was dead. "poor little orphan," he said sadly, "what will become of thee without a mother's care?" "confide this child to me," said the king, "i will look after it. he shall be well provided for. you shall be given a sum of money large enough to keep you without having to burn charcoal." the poor man gladly agreed, and the king went away promising to send some one for the child. the queen and the courtiers thought it would be an agreeable surprise for the king to hear that a charming little princess had been born on the night he was away. but instead of being pleased he frowned and calling one of his servants, said to him, "go to the charcoal-burner's cottage in the, forest, and give the man this purse in exchange for a new-born infant. on your way back drown the child. see well that he is drowned, for if he should in any way escape, you yourself shall suffer in his place." the servant was given the child in a basket, and on reaching the center of a narrow bridge that stretched across a wide and deep river, he threw both basket and baby into the water. "a prosperous journey to you, mr. son-in-law," said the king, on hearing the servant's story; for he fully believed the child was drowned. but it was far from being the case; the little one was floating happily along in its basket cradle, and slumbering as sweetly as if his mother had sung him to sleep. now it happened that a fisherman, who was mending his nets before his cottage door, saw the basket floating down the river. he jumped at once into his boat, picked it up, and ran to tell his wife the good news. "look," said he, "you have always longed for a son; here is a beautiful little boy the river has sent us." the woman was delighted, and took the infant and loved it as her own child. they named him _plavacek_ (the floater), because he had come to them floating on the water. the river flowed on. years passed away. the little baby grew into a handsome youth; in all the villages round there were none to compare with him. now it happened that one summer day the king was riding unattended, and the heat being very great he reined in his horse before the fisherman's door to ask for a drink of water. plavacek brought the water. the king looked at him attentively, then turning to the fisherman, said, "that is a good-looking lad; is he your son?" "he is and he isn't," replied the fisherman. "i found him, when he was quite a tiny baby, floating down the stream in a basket. so we adopted him and brought him up as our own son." the king turned as pale as death, for he guessed that he was the same child he had ordered to be drowned. then recovering himself he got down from his horse and said: "i want a trusty messenger to take a message to the palace, could you send him with it?" "with pleasure! your majesty may be sure of its safe delivery." thereupon the king wrote to the queen as follows: "the man who brings you this letter is the most dangerous of all my enemies. have his head cut off at once; no delay, no pity, he must be executed before my return. such is my will and pleasure." this he carefully folded and sealed with the royal seal. plavacek took the letter and set off immediately. but the forest through which he had to pass was so large, and the trees so thick, that he missed the path and was overtaken by the darkness before the journey was nearly over. in the midst of his trouble he met an old woman who said, "where are you going, plavacek? where are you going?" "i am the bearer of a letter from the king to the queen, but have missed the path to the palace. could you, good mother, put me on the right road?" "impossible to-day, my child; it is getting dark, and you would not have time to get there. stay with me to-night. you will not be with strangers, for i am your godmother." plavacek agreed. thereupon they entered a pretty little cottage that seemed suddenly to sink into the earth. now while he slept the old woman changed his letter for another, which ran thus: "immediately upon the receipt of this letter introduce the bearer to the princess our daughter, i have chosen this young man for my son-in-law, and it is my wish they should be married before my return to the palace. such is my pleasure." the letter was duly delivered, and when the queen had read it, she ordered everything to be prepared for the wedding. both she and her daughter greatly enjoyed plavacek's society, and nothing disturbed the happiness of the newly married pair. within a few days the king returned, and on hearing what had taken place was very angry with the queen. "but you expressly bade me have the wedding before your return. come, read your letter again, here it is," said she. he closely examined the letter; the paper, handwriting, seal--all were undoubtedly his. he then called his son-in-law, and questioned him about his journey. plavacek hid nothing: he told how he had lost his way, and how he had passed the night in a cottage in the forest. "what was the old woman like?" asked the king. from plavacek's description the king knew it was the very same who, twenty years before, had foretold the marriage of the princess with the charcoal-burner's son. after some moments' thought the king said: "what is done is done. but you will not become my son-in-law so easily. no, i' faith! as a wedding present you must bring me three golden hairs from the head of dède-vsévède." in this way he thought to get rid of his son-in-law, whose very presence was distasteful to him. the young fellow took leave of his wife and set off. "i know not which way to go," said he to himself, "but my godmother the witch will surely help me." but he found the way easily enough. he walked on and on and on for a long time over mountain, valley, and river, until he reached the shores of the black sea. there he found a boat and boatman. "may god bless you, old boatman," said he. "and you, too, my young traveler. where are you going?" "to dède-vsévède's castle for three of his golden hairs." "ah, then you are very welcome. for a long weary while i have been waiting for such a messenger as you. i have been ferrying passengers across for these twenty years, and not one of them has done anything to help me. if you will promise to ask dède-vsévède when i shall be released from my toil i will row you across." plavacek promised, and was rowed to the opposite bank. he continued his journey on foot until he came in sight of a large town half in ruins, near which was passing a funeral procession. the king of that country was following his father's coffin, and with the tears running down his cheeks. "may god comfort you in your distress," said plavacek. "thank you, good traveler. where are you going?" "to the house of dède-vsévède in quest of three of his golden hairs." "to the house of dède-vsévède? indeed! what a pity you did not come sooner, we have long been expecting such a messenger as you. come and see me by-and-by." when plavacek presented himself at court the king said to him: "we understand you are on your way to the house of dède-vsévède! now we have an apple-tree here that bears the fruit of everlasting youth. one of these apples eaten by a man, even though he be dying, will cure him and make him young again. for the last twenty years neither fruit nor flower has been found on this tree. will you ask dède-vsévède the cause of it?" "that i will, with pleasure." then plavacek continued his journey, and as he went he came to a large and beautiful city where all was sad and silent. near the gate was an old man who leaned on a stick and walked with difficulty. "may god bless you, good old man." "and you, too, my handsome young traveler. where are you going?" "to dède-vsévède's palace in search of three of his golden hairs." "ah, you are the very messenger i have so long waited for. allow me to take you to my master the king." on their arrival at the palace, the king said, "i hear you are an ambassador to dède-vsévède. we have here a well, the water of which renews itself. so wonderful are its effects that invalids are immediately cured on drinking it, while a few drops sprinkled on a corpse will bring it to life again. for the past twenty years this well has remained dry: if you will ask old dède-vsévède how the flow of water may be restored i will reward you royally." plavacek promised to do so, and was dismissed with good wishes. he then traveled through deep dark forests, in the midst of which might be seen a large meadow: out of it grew lovely flowers, and in the center stood a castle built of gold. it was the home of dède-vsévède. so brilliant with light was it that it seemed to be built of fire. when he entered there was no one there but an old woman spinning. "greeting, plavacek, i am well pleased to see you." she was his godmother, who had given him shelter in her cottage when he was the bearer of the king's letter. "tell me what brings you here from such a distance," she went on. "the king would not have me for his son-in-law, unless i first got him three golden hairs from the head of dède-vsévède. so he sent me here to fetch them." the fate laughed. "dède-vsévède indeed! why, i am his mother, it is the shining sun himself. he is a child at morning time, a grown man at midday, a decrepit old man, looking as if he had lived a hundred years, at eventide. but i will see that you have the three hairs from his head; i am not your godmother for nothing. all the same you must not remain here. my son is a good lad, but when he comes home he is hungry, and would very probably order you to be roasted for his supper. now i will turn this empty bucket upside down, and you shall hide underneath it." plavacek begged the fate to obtain from dède-vsévède the answers to the three questions he had been asked. "i will do so certainly, but you must listen to what he says." suddenly a blast of wind howled round the palace, and the sun entered by a western window. he was an old man with golden hair. "i smell human flesh," cried he, "i am sure of it. mother, you have some one here." "star of day," she replied, "whom could i have here that you would not see sooner than i? the fact is that in your daily journeys the scent of human flesh is always with you, so when you come home at evening it clings to you still." the old man said nothing, and sat down to supper. when he had finished he laid his golden head on the fate's lap and went to sleep. then she pulled out a hair and threw it on the ground. it fell with a metallic sound like the vibration of a guitar string. "what do you want, mother?" asked he. "nothing, my son; i was sleeping, and had a strange dream." "what was it, mother?" "i thought i was in a place where there was a well, and the well was fed from a spring, the water of which cured all diseases. even the dying were restored to health on drinking that water, and the dead who were sprinkled with it came to life again. for the last twenty years the well has run dry. what must be done to restore the flow of water?" "that is very simple. a frog has lodged itself in the opening of the spring, this prevents the flow of water. kill the frog, and the water will return to the well." he slept again, and the old woman pulled out another golden hair, and threw it on the ground. "mother, what do you want?" "nothing, my son, nothing; i was dreaming. in my dream i saw a large town, the name of which i have forgotten. and there grew an apple-tree the fruit of which had the power to make the old young again. a single apple eaten by an old man would restore to him the vigor and freshness of youth. for twenty years this tree has not borne fruit. what can be done to make it fruitful?" "the means are not difficult. a snake hidden among the roots destroys the sap. kill the snake, transplant the tree, and the fruit will grow as before." he again fell asleep, and the old woman pulled out another golden hair. "now mother, why will you not let me sleep?" said the old man, really vexed; and he would have got up. "lie down, my darling son, do not disturb yourself. i am sorry i awoke you, but i have had a very strange dream. it seemed that i saw a boatman on the shores of the black sea, and he complained that he had been toiling at the ferry for twenty years without any one having come to take his place. for how much longer must this poor old man continue to row?" "he is a silly fellow. he has but to place his oars in the hands of the first comer and jump ashore. who ever receives the oars will replace him as ferryman. but leave me in peace now, mother, and do not wake me again. i have to rise very early, and must first dry the eyes of a princess. the poor thing spends all night weeping for her husband who has been sent by the king to get three of my golden hairs." next morning the wind whistled round dède-vsévède's palace, and instead of an old man, a beautiful child with golden hair awoke on the old woman's lap. it was the glorious sun. he bade her good-by, and flew out of the eastern window. the old woman turned up the bucket and said to plavacek: "look, here are the three golden hairs. you now know the answers to your questions. may god direct you and send you a prosperous journey. you will not see me again, for you will have no further need of me." he thanked her gratefully and left her. on arriving at the town with the dried-up well, he was questioned by the king as to what news he had brought. "have the well carefully cleaned out," said he, "kill the frog that obstructs the spring, and the wonderful water will flow again." the king did as he was advised, and rejoiced to see the water return. he gave plavacek twelve swan-white horses, and as much gold and silver as they could carry. on reaching the second town and being asked by the king what news he had brought, he replied, "excellent; one could not wish for better. dig up your apple-tree, kill the snake that lies among the roots, transplant the tree, and it will produce apples like those of former times." and all turned out as he had said, for no sooner was the tree replanted than it was covered with blossoms that gave it the appearance of a sea of roses. the delighted king gave him twelve raven-black horses, laden with as much wealth as they could carry. he then journeyed to the shores of the black sea. there the boatman questioned him as to what news he had brought respecting his release. plavacek first crossed with his twenty-four horses to the opposite bank, and then replied that the boatman might gain his freedom by placing the oars in the hands of the first traveler who wished to be ferried over. plavacek's royal father-in-law could not believe his eyes when he saw dède-vsévède's three golden hairs. as for the princess, his young wife, she wept tears, but of joy, not sadness, to see her dear one again, and she said to him, "how did you get such splendid horses and so much wealth, dear husband?" and he answered her, "all this represents the price paid for the weariness of spirit i have felt; it is the ready money for hardships endured and services given. thus, i showed one king how to regain possession of the apples of youth: to another i told the secret of reopening the spring of water that gives health and life." "apples of youth! water of life!" interrupted the king. "i will certainly go and find these treasures for myself. ah, what joy! having eaten of these apples i shall become young again; having drunk of the water of immortality, i shall live forever." and he started off in search of these treasures. but he has not yet returned from his search. a myth of america hiawatha adapted from h.r. schoolcraft's version hiawatha was living with his grandmother near the edge of a wide prairie. on this prairie he first saw animals and birds of every kind. he there also saw exhibitions of divine power in the sweeping tempests, in the thunder and lightning, and the various shades of light and darkness which form a never ending scene for observation. every new sight he beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark; every new animal or bird an object of deep interest; and every sound uttered by the animal creation a new lesson, which he was expected to learn. he often trembled at what he heard and saw. to this scene his grandmother sent him at an early age to watch. the first sound he heard was that of an owl, at which he was greatly terrified, and quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm to the lodge. "noko! noko!" (grandma) he cried, "i have heard a momendo." she laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of a noise it made. he answered, "it makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho." she told him that he was young and foolish; that what he had heard was only a bird, deriving its name from the noise it made. he went back and continued his watch. while there, he thought to himself, "it is singular that i am so simple, and my grandmother so wise, and that i have neither father nor mother. i have never heard a word about them. i must ask and find out." he went home and sat down silent and dejected. at length his grandmother asked him, "hiawatha, what is the matter with you?" he answered, "i wish you would tell me whether i have any parents living and who my relatives are." knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful disposition, she dreaded telling him the story of his parentage, but he insisted on her compliance. "yes," she said, "you have a father and three brothers living. your mother is dead. she was taken without the consent of her parents by your father the west. your brothers are the north, east, and south, and, being older than yourself, your father has given them great power with the winds, according to their names. you are the youngest of his children. i have nourished you from your infancy, for your mother died in giving you birth, owing to the ill-treatment of your father. i have no relations besides you this side of the planet on which i was born, and from which i was precipitated by female jealousy. your mother was my only child, and you are my only hope." he appeared to be rejoiced to hear that his father was living, for he had already thought in his heart to try and kill him. he told his grandmother he should set out in the morning to visit him. she said it was a long distance to the place where the west lived. but that had no effect to stop him for he had now attained manhood, possessed a giant's height, and was endowed by nature with a giant's strength and power. he set out and soon reached the place, for every step he took covered a large surface of ground. the meeting took place on a high mountain in the west. his father appeared very happy to see him. they spent some days in talking with each other. one evening hiawatha asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth. he replied, "nothing." "but is there not something you dread here? tell me." at last his father said, yielding, "yes, there is a black stone found in such a place. it is the only earthly thing i am afraid of; for if it should hit me, or any part of my body, it would injure me very much." he said this as a secret, and in return asked his son the same question. knowing each other's power, although the son's was limited, the father feared him on account of his great strength. hiawatha answered, "nothing!" intending to avoid the question, or to refer to some harmless object as the one of which he was afraid. he was asked again, and again, and answered, "nothing!" but the west said, "there must be something you are afraid of." "well! i will tell you," said hiawatha, "what it is." but, before he would pronounce the word, he affected great dread. "_ie-ee_--_ie-ee_--it is--it is," said he, "yeo! yeo! i cannot name it; i am seized with a dread." the west told him to banish his fears. he commenced again, in a strain of mock sensitiveness repeating the same words; at last he cried out, "it is the root of the bulrush." he appeared to be exhausted by the effort of pronouncing the word, in all this skilfully acting a studied part. some time after he observed, "i will get some of the black rock;" the west said, "far be it from you; do not so, my son." he still persisted. "well," said the father, "i will also get the bulrush root." hiawatha immediately cried out, "do not--do not," affecting as before, to be in great dread of it, but really wishing, by this course, to urge on the west to procure it, that he might draw him into combat. he went out and got a large piece of the black rock, and brought it home. the west also took care to bring the dreaded root. in the course of conversation he asked his father whether he had been the cause of his mother's death. the answer was "yes!" he then took up the rock and struck him. blow led to blow, and here commenced an obstinate and furious combat, which continued several days. fragments of the rock, broken off under hiawatha's blows, can be seen in various places to this day. the root did not prove as mortal a weapon as his well-acted fears had led his father to expect, although he suffered severely from the blows. this battle commenced on the mountains. the west was forced to give ground. hiawatha drove him across rivers, and over mountains and lakes, and at last he came to the brink of this world. "hold!" cried he, "my son; you know my power, and that it is impossible to kill me. desist, and i will also portion you out with as much power as your brothers. the four quarters of the globe are already occupied; but you can go and do a great deal of good to the people of this earth, which is infested with large serpents, beasts, and monsters, who make great [blank page] havoc among the inhabitants. go and do good. you have the power now to do so, and your fame with the beings of this earth will last forever. when you have finished your work, i will have a place provided for you. you will then go and sit with your brother in the north." [illustration: from the "cosmopolitan magazine" by permission. hiawatha in his canoe.] hiawatha was pacified. he returned to his lodge, where he was confined by the wounds he had received. but owing to his grandmother's skill in medicine he was soon recovered. she told him that his grandfather, who had come to the earth in search of her, had been killed by meg-gis-sog-won, who lived on the opposite side of the great lake. "when he was alive," she continued, "i was never without oil to put on my head, but now my hair is fast falling off for the want of it." "well!" said he, "noko, get cedar bark and make me a line, while i make a canoe." when all was ready, he went out to the middle of the lake to fish. he put his line down, saying, "me-she-nah-ma-gwai (the name of the kingfish), take hold of my bait." he kept repeating this for some time. at last the king of the fishes said, "hiawatha troubles me. here, trout, take hold of his line," which was very heavy, so that his canoe stood nearly perpendicular; but he kept crying out, "wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!" till he could see the trout. as soon as he saw him, he spoke to him. "why did you take hold of my hook? shame, shame you ugly fish." the trout, being thus rebuked, let go. hiawatha put his line again in the water, saying, "king of fishes, take hold of my line." but the king of fishes told a monstrous sunfish to take hold of it; for hiawatha was tiring him with his incessant calls. he again drew up his line with difficulty, saying as before, "wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!" while his canoe was turning in swift circles. when he saw the sunfish, he cried, "shame, shame you odious fish! why did you dirty my hook by taking it in your mouth? let go, i say, let go." the sunfish did so, and told the king of fishes what hiawatha said. just at that moment the bait came near the king, and hearing hiawatha continually crying out, "me-she-nah-ma-gwai, take hold of my hook," at last he did so, and allowed himself to be drawn up to the surface, which he had no sooner reached than, at one mouthful, he took hiawatha and his canoe down. when he came to himself, he found that he was in the fish's belly, and also his canoe. he now turned his thoughts to the way of making his escape. looking in his canoe, he saw his war-club, with which he immediately struck the heart of the fish. he then felt a sudden motion, as if he were moving with great velocity. the fish observed to the others, "i am sick at stomach for having swallowed this dirty fellow, hiawatha." just at this moment he received another severe blow on the heart. hiawatha thought, "if i am thrown up in the middle of the lake, i shall be drowned; so i must prevent it." he drew his canoe and placed it across the fish's throat, and just as he had finished the fish commenced vomiting, but to no effect. in this he was aided by a squirrel, who had accompanied him unperceived until that moment. this animal had taken an active part in helping him to place his canoe across the fish's throat. for this act he named him, saying, "for the future, boys shall always call you ajidaumo [upside down]!" he then renewed his attack upon the fish's heart, and succeeded, by repeated blows, in killing him, which he first knew by the loss of motion, and by the sound of the beating of the body against the shore. he waited a day longer to see what would happen. he heard birds scratching on the body, and all at once the rays of light broke in. he could see the heads of gulls, who were looking in by the opening they had made. "oh!" cried hiawatha, "my younger brothers, make the opening larger, so that i can get out." they told each other that their brother hiawatha was inside of the fish. they immediately set about enlarging the orifice, and in a short time liberated him. after he got out he said to the gulls, "for the future you shall be called kayoshk [noble scratchers]!" the spot where the fish happened to be driven ashore was near his lodge. he went up and told his grandmother to go and prepare as much oil as she wanted. all besides, he informed her, he should keep for himself. some time after this, he commenced making preparations for a war excursion against the pearl feather, the manito who lived on the opposite side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. the abode of his spirit was defended, first, by fiery serpents, who hissed fire so that no one could pass them; and, in the second place, by a large mass of gummy matter lying on the water, so soft and adhesive, that whoever attempted to pass, or whatever came in contact with it, was sure to stick there. he continued making bows and arrows without number, but he had no heads for his arrows. at last noko told him that an old man who lived at some distance could make them. he sent her to get some. she soon returned with her conaus, or wrapper, full. still he told her he had not enough, and sent her again. she returned with as many more. he thought to himself, "i must find out the way of making these heads." cunning and curiosity prompted him to make the discovery. but he deemed it necessary to deceive his grandmother in so doing. "noko," said he, "while i take my drum and rattle, and sing my war-songs, go and try to get me some larger heads for my arrows, for those you brought me are all of the same size. go and see whether the old man cannot make some a little larger." he followed her as she went, keeping at a distance, and saw the old artificer at work, and so discovered his process. he also beheld the old man's daughter, and perceived that she was very beautiful. he felt his breast beat with a new emotion, but said nothing. he took care to get home before his grandmother, and commenced singing as if he had never left his lodge. when the old woman came near, she heard his drum and rattle, without any suspicion that he had followed her. she delivered him the arrow-heads. one evening the old woman said, "my son, you ought to fast before you go to war, as your brothers frequently do, to find out whether you will be successful or not." he said he had no objection, and immediately commenced a fast for several days. he would retire every day from the lodge so far as to be out of the reach of his grandmother's voice. after having finished his term of fasting and sung his war-song from which the indians of the present day derive their custom--he embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war. in addition to the usual implements, he had a plentiful supply of oil. he traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the canoe went. at length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents. he stopped to view them. he saw they were some distance apart, and that the flame only which issued from them reached across the pass. he commenced talking as a friend to them; but they answered, "we know you, hiawatha, you cannot pass." he then thought of some expedient to deceive them, and hit upon this. he pushed his canoe as near as possible. all at once he cried out, with a loud and terrified voice, "what is that behind you?" the serpents instantly turned their heads, when, at a single word, he passed them. "well!" said he, placidly, after he had got by, "how do you like my exploit?" he then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot them, which was easily done, for the serpents were stationary, and could not move beyond a certain spot. they were of enormous length and of a bright color. having overcome the sentinel serpents, he went on in his magic canoe till he came to a soft gummy portion of the lake, called pigiu-wagumee or pitchwater. he took the oil and rubbed it on his canoe, and then pushed into it. the oil softened the surface and enabled him to slip through it with ease, although it required frequent rubbing, and a constant re-application of the oil. just as his oil failed, he extricated himself from this impediment, and was the first person who ever succeeded in overcoming it. he now came in view of land, on which he debarked in safety, and could see the lodge of the shining manito, situated on a hill. he commenced preparing for the fight, putting his arrows and clubs in order, and just at the dawn of day began his attack, yelling and shouting, and crying with triple voices, "surround him! surround him! run up! run up!" making it appear that he had many followers. he advanced crying out, "it was you that killed my grandfather," and with this shot his arrows. the combat continued all day. hiawatha's arrows had no effect, for his antagonist was clothed with pure wampum. he was now reduced to three arrows, and it was only by extraordinary agility that he could escape the blows which the manito kept making at him. at that moment a large woodpecker (the ma-ma) flew past, and lit on a tree. "hiawatha" he cried, "your adversary has a vulnerable point; shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head." he shot his first arrow so as only to draw blood from that part. the manito made one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. he began to parley, but, in the act, received a second arrow, which brought him to his knees. but he again recovered. in so doing, however, he exposed his head, and gave his adversary a chance to fire his third arrow, which penetrated deep, and brought him a lifeless corpse to the ground. hiawatha uttered his saw-saw-quan, and taking his scalp as a trophy, he called the woodpecker to come and receive a reward for his information. he took the blood of the manito and rubbed it on the woodpecker's head, the feathers of which are red to this day. after this victory he returned home, singing songs of triumph and beating his drum. when his grandmother heard him, she came to the shore and welcomed him with songs and dancing. glory fired his mind. he displayed the trophies he had brought in the most conspicuous manner, and felt an unconquerable desire for other adventures. he felt himself urged by the consciousness of his power to new trials of bravery, skill, and necromantic prowess. he had destroyed the manito of wealth, and killed his guardian serpents, and eluded all his charms. he did not long remain inactive. his next adventure was upon the water, and proved him the prince of fishermen. he captured a fish of such a monstrous size, that the fat and oil he obtained from it formed a small lake. he therefore invited all the animals and fowls to a banquet, and he made the order in which they partook of this repast the measure of their fatness. as fast as they arrived, he told them to plunge in. the bear came first, and was followed by the deer, opossum, and such other animals as are noted for their peculiar fatness at certain seasons. the moose and bison came tardily. the partridge looked on till the reservoir was nearly exhausted. the hare and marten came last, and these animals have consequently no fat. when this ceremony was over, he told the assembled animals and birds to dance, taking up his drum and crying, "new songs from the south, come, brothers, dance." he directed them to pass in a circle around him, and to shut their eyes. they did so. when he saw a fat fowl pass by him, he adroitly wrung off its head, at the same time beating his drum and singing with greater vehemence, to drown the noise of the fluttering, and crying out, in a tone of admiration, "that's the way, my brothers, _that's_ the way." at last a small duck [the diver], thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what he was doing. giving a spring and crying, "ha-ha-a! hiawatha is killing us," he made for the water. hiawatha followed him, and, just as the duck was getting into the water, gave him a kick, which is the cause of his back being flattened and his legs being straightened out backward, so that when he gets on land he cannot walk, and his tail feathers are few. meantime the other birds flew off, and the animals ran into the woods. after this hiawatha, set out to travel. he wished to outdo all others, and to see new countries. but after walking over america and encountering many adventures he became satisfied as well as fatigued. he had heard of great feats in hunting, and felt a desire to try his power in that way. one evening, as he was walking along the shores of a great lake, weary and hungry, he encountered a great magician in the form of an old wolf, with six young ones, coming towards him. the wolf, as soon as he saw him, told his whelps to keep out of the way of hiawatha, "for i know," continued he, "that it is he that we see yonder." the young wolves were in the act of running off, when hiawatha cried out, "my grandchildren, where are you going? stop, and i will go with you." he appeared rejoiced to see the old wolf, and asked him whither he was journeying. being told that they were looking for a place where they could find most game, and where they might pass the winter, he said he would like to go with them, and addressed the old wolf in the following words: "brother, i have a passion for the chase; are you willing to change me into a wolf?" he was answered favorably, and his transformation immediately effected. hiawatha was fond of novelty. he found himself a wolf corresponding in size with the others, but he was not quite satisfied with the change, crying out, "oh, make me a little larger." they did so. "a little larger still," he exclaimed. they said, "let us humor him," and granted his request. "well," said he, "_that_ will do." he looked at his tail. "oh!" cried he, "do make my tail a little longer and more bushy." they did so. they then all started off in company, dashing up a ravine. after getting into the woods some distance, they fell in with the tracks of moose. the young ones went after them, hiawatha and the old wolf following at their leisure. "well," said the wolf, "whom do you think is the fastest of the boys? can you tell by the jumps they take?" "why," he replied, "that one that takes such long jumps, he is the fastest, to be sure." "ha! ha! you are mistaken," said the old wolf. "he makes a good start, but he will be the first to tire out; this one who appears to be behind, will be the one to kill the game." they then came to the place where the boys had started in chase. one had dropped his small bundle. "take that, hiawatha," said the old wolf. "esa," he replied, "what will i do with a dirty dogskin?" the wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe. "oh, i will carry it now," said hiawatha. "oh no," replied the wolf, who at the moment exerted his magic power; "it is a robe of pearls!" and from this moment he omitted no occasion to display his superiority, both in the art of the hunter and the magician above his conceited companion. coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey. "why," said the wolf, "this moose is poor. i know by the tracks, for i can always tell whether they are fat or not." they next came to a place where one of the wolves had bit at the moose, and had broken one of his teeth on a tree. "hiawatha," said the wolf, "one of your grandchildren has shot at the game. take his arrow; there it is." "no," he replied; "what will i do with a dirty dog's tooth!" the old wolf took it up, and behold! it was a beautiful silver arrow. when they overtook the youngsters, they had killed a very fat moose. hiawatha was extremely hungry; but, alas! such is the power of enchantment, he saw nothing but the bones picked quite clean. he thought to himself, "just as i expected, dirty, greedy fellows!" however, he sat down without saying a word. at length the old wolf spoke to one of the young ones, saying, "give some meat to your grandfather." one of them obeyed, and, coming near to hiawatha, opened his mouth as if he was about to snarl. hiawatha jumped up saying, "you filthy dog, you have eaten so much that your stomach refuses to hold it. get you gone into some other place." the old wolf, hearing the abuse, went a little to one side to see, and behold, a heap of fresh ruddy meat, with the fat lying all ready prepared. he was followed by hiawatha, who, having the enchantment instantly removed, put on a smiling face. "amazement!" said he; "how fine the meat is." "yes," replied the wolf; "it is always so with us; we know our work, and always get the best. it is not a long tail that makes a hunter." hiawatha bit his lip. they then commenced fixing their winter quarters, while the youngsters went out in search of game, and soon brought in a large supply. one day, during the absence of the young wolves, the old one amused himself in cracking the large bones of a moose. "hiawatha," said he, "cover your head with the robe, and do not look at me while i am at these bones, for a piece may fly in your eye." he did as he was told; but, looking through a rent that was in the robe, he saw what the other was about. just at that moment a piece flew off and hit him on the eye. he cried out, "tyau, why do you strike me, you old dog?" the wolf said, "you must have been looking at me." but deception commonly leads to falsehood. "no, no," he said, "why should i want to look at you?" "hiawatha," said the wolf, "you _must_ have been looking, or you would not have been hurt." "no, no," he replied again, "i was not. i will repay the saucy wolf this," thought he to himself. so, next day, taking up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the wolf, "cover your head and don't look at me, for i fear a piece may fly in your eye." the wolf did so. he then took the leg-bone of the moose, and looking first to see if the wolf was well covered, he hit him a blow with all his might. the wolf jumped up, cried out, and fell prostrate from the effects of the blow. "why," said he, "do you strike me so?" "strike you!" he replied; "no, you must have been looking at me." "no," answered the wolf, "i say i have not." but he persisted in the assertion, and the poor magician had to give up. hiawatha was an expert hunter when he earnestly tried to be. he went out one day and killed a fat moose. he was very hungry, and sat down to eat. but immediately he fell into great doubts as to the proper point to begin. "well," said he, "i do not know where to begin. at the head? no! people will laugh, and say 'he ate him backwards!'" he went to the side. "no!" said he, "they will say i ate him sideways." he then went to the hind-quarter. "no!" said he, "they will say i ate him toward the head. i will begin _here_, say what they will." he took a delicate piece from the rump, and was just ready to put it in his mouth, when a tree close by made a creaking sound, caused by the rubbing of one large branch against another. this annoyed him. "why!" he exclaimed, "i cannot eat while i hear such a noise. stop! stop!" said he to the tree. he was putting the morsel again to his mouth, when the noise was repeated. he put it down, exclaiming, "i _cannot eat_ in such confusion," and immediately left the meat, although very hungry, to go and put a stop to the racket. he climbed the tree and was pulling at the limb, when his arm was caught between two branches so that he could not extricate himself. while thus held fast, he saw a pack of wolves coming in the direction towards his meat. "go that way! go that way!" he cried out; "why do you come here?" the wolves talked among themselves and said, "hiawatha must have something here, or he would not tell us to go another way." "i begin to know him," said an old wolf, "and all his tricks. let us go forward and see." they came on and finding the moose, soon made away with the whole carcass. hiawatha looked on wistfully to see them eat till they were fully satisfied, and they left him nothing but the bare bones. the next heavy blast of wind opened the branches and liberated him. he went home, thinking to himself, "see the effect of meddling with frivolous things when i already had valuable possessions." next day the old wolf addressed him thus: "my brother, i am going to separate from you, but i will leave behind me one of the young wolves to be your hunter." he then departed. in this act hiawatha was disenchanted, and again resumed his mortal shape. he was sorrowful and dejected, but soon resumed his wonted air of cheerfulness. the young wolf that was left with him was a good hunter, and never failed to keep the lodge well supplied with meat. one day he addressed him as follows: "my grandson, i had a dream last night, and it does not portend good. it is of the large lake which lies in _that_ direction. you must be careful never to cross it, even if the ice should appear good. if you should come to it at night weary or hungry, you must make the circuit of it." spring commenced, and the snow was melting fast before the rays of the sun, when one evening the wolf came to the lake weary with the day's chase. he disliked the journey of making its circuit. "hwooh!" he exclaimed, "there can be no great harm in trying the ice, as it appears to be sound. nesho, my grandfather, is over cautious on this point." he had gone but half way across when the ice gave way, and falling in, he was immediately seized by the serpents, who knowing he was hiawatha's grandson, were thirsting for revenge upon him. meanwhile hiawatha sat pensively in his lodge. night came on, but no grandson returned. the second and third night passed, but he did not appear. hiawatha became very desolate and sorrowful. "ah!" said he, "he must have disobeyed me, and has lost his life in that lake i told him of. well!" said he at last, "i must mourn for him." so he took coal and blackened his face. but he was much perplexed as to the right mode of mourning. "i wonder," said he, "how i must do it? i will cry 'oh! my grandson! oh! my grandson!'" he burst out laughing. "no! no! that won't do. i will try 'oh! my heart! oh! my heart! ha! ha! ha!' that won't do either. i will cry, 'oh my drowned grandson.'" this satisfied him, and he remained in his lodge and fasted, till his days of mourning were over. "now," said he, "i will go in search of him." he set out and traveled till he came to the great lake. he then raised the lamentation for his grandson which had pleased him, sitting down near a small brook that emptied itself into the lake, and repeating his cries. soon a bird called ke-ske-mun-i-see came near to him. the bird inquired, "what are you doing here?" "nothing," hiawatha replied; "but can you tell me whether any one lives in this lake, and what brings you here yourself?" "yes!" responded the bird; "the prince of serpents lives here, and i am watching to see whether the body of hiawatha's grandson will not drift ashore, for he was killed by the serpents last spring. but are you not hiawatha himself?" "no," was the reply, with his usual deceit; "how do you think _he_ could get to this place? but tell me, do the serpents ever appear? when? where? tell me all about their habits." "do you see that beautiful white sandy beach?" said the bird. "yes!" he answered. "it is there," continued the bird, "that they bask in the sun. before they come out, the lake will appear perfectly calm; not even a ripple will appear. after midday you will see them." "thank you," he replied; "i am hiawatha. i have come in search of the body of my grandson, and to seek my revenge. come near me that i may put a medal round your neck as a reward for your information." the bird unsuspectingly came near, and received a white medal, which can be seen to this day. while bestowing the medal, he attempted slyly to wring the bird's head off, but it escaped him, with only a disturbance of the crown feathers of its head, which are rumpled backward. he had found out all he wanted to know, and then desired to conceal the knowledge obtained by killing his informant. he went to the sandy beach indicated, and transformed himself into an oak stump. he had not been there long before the lake became perfectly calm. soon hundreds of monstrous serpents came crawling on the beach. one of the number was beautifully white. he was the prince. the others were red and yellow. the prince spoke to those about him as follows: "i never saw that black stump standing there before. it may be hiawatha. there is no knowing but that he may be somewhere about here. he has the power of an evil genius, and we should be on our guard against his wiles." one of the large serpents immediately went and twisted himself around it to the top, and pressed it very hard. the greatest pressure happened to be on his throat; he was just ready to cry out when the serpent let go. eight of them went in succession and did the like, but always let go at the moment he was ready to cry out. "it cannot be he," they said. "he is too great a weak-heart for that." they then coiled themselves in a circle about their prince. it was a long time before they fell asleep. when they did so, hiawatha, took his bow and arrows, and cautiously stepping over the serpents till he came to the prince, drew up his arrow with the full strength of his arm, and shot him in the left side. he then gave a saw-saw-quan and ran off at full speed. the sound uttered by the snakes on seeing their prince mortally wounded, was horrible. they cried, "hiawatha has killed our prince; go in chase of him." meantime he ran over hill and valley, to gain the interior of the country, with all his strength and speed, treading a mile at a step. but his pursuers were also spirits, and he could hear that something was approaching him fast. he made for the highest mountain, and climbed the highest tree on its summit, when, dreadful to behold, the whole lower country was seen to be overflowed, and the water was gaining rapidly on the highlands. he saw it reach to the foot of the mountains, and at length it came up to the foot of the tree, but there was no abatement. the flood rose steadily and perceptibly. he soon felt the lower part of his body to be immersed in it. he addressed the tree; "grandfather, stretch yourself." the tree did so. but the waters still rose. he repeated his request, and was again obeyed. he asked a third time, and was again obeyed; but the tree replied, "it is the last time; i cannot get any higher." the waters continued to rise till they reached up to his chin, at which point they stood, and soon began to abate. hope revived in his heart. he then cast his eyes around the illimitable expanse, and spied a loon. "dive down, my brother," he said to him, "and fetch up some earth, so that i can make a new earth." the bird obeyed, but rose up to the surface a lifeless form. he then saw a muskrat. "dive!" said he, "and if you succeed, you may hereafter live either on land or water, as you please; or i will give you a chain of beautiful little lakes, surrounded with rushes, to inhabit." he dove down, but floated up senseless. he took the body and breathed in his nostrils, which restored him to life. "try again," said he. the muskrat did so. he came up senseless the second time, but clutched a little earth in one of his paws, from which, together with the carcass of the dead loon, he created a new earth as large as the former had been, with all living animals, fowls, and plants. as he was walking to survey the new earth, he heard some one singing. he went to the place, and found a female spirit, in the disguise of an old woman, singing these words, and crying at every pause: "ma nau bo sho, o dó zheem un, ogeem au wun, onis sa waun, hee-ub bub ub bub (crying). dread hiawatha in revenge, for his grandson lost- has killed the chief--the king." "noko," said he, "what is the matter?" "matter!" said she, "where have you been, that you have not heard how hiawatha shot my son, the prince of serpents, in revenge for the loss of his grandson, and how the earth was overflowed, and created anew? so i brought my son here, that he might kill and destroy the inhabitants, as he did on the former earth. but," she continued, casting a scrutinizing glance, "n'yau! indego hiawatha! hub! ub! ub! ub! oh, i am afraid you are hiawatha!" he burst out into a laugh to quiet her fears. "ha! ha! ha! how can that be? has not the old world perished, and all that was in it?" "impossible! impossible!" "but, noko," he continued, "what do you intend doing with all that cedar cord on your back?" "why," said she, "i am fixing a snare for hiawatha, if he should be on this earth; and, in the mean time, i am looking for herbs to heal my son. i am the only person that can do him any good. he always gets better when i sing: "'hiawatha a ne we guawk, koan dan mau wah, ne we guawk, koan dan mau wah, ne we guawk, it is hiawatha's dart, i try my magic power to withdraw." having found out, by conversation with her, all he wished, he put her to death. he then took off her skin, and assuming this disguise, took the cedar cord on his back, and limped away singing her songs. he completely aped the gait and voice of the old woman. he was met by one who told him to make haste; that the prince was worse. at the lodge, limping and muttering, he took notice that they had his grandson's hide to hang over the door. "oh dogs!" said he; "the evil dogs!" he sat down near the door, and commenced sobbing like an aged woman. one observed, "why don't you attend the sick, and not sit there making such a noise?" he took up the poker and laid it on them, mimicking the voice of the old woman. "dogs that you are! why do you laugh at me? you know very well that i am so sorry that i am nearly out of my head." with that he approached the prince, singing the songs of the old woman, without exciting any suspicion. he saw that his arrow had gone in about one half its length. he pretended to make preparations for extracting it, but only made ready to finish his victim; and giving the dart a sudden thrust, he put a period to the prince's life. he performed this act with the power of a giant, bursting the old woman's skin, and at the same moment rushing through the door, the serpents following him, hissing and crying out, "perfidy! murder! vengeance! it is hiawatha." he immediately transformed himself into a wolf, and ran over the plain with all his speed, aided by his father the west wind. when he got to the mountains he saw a badger. "brother," said he, "make a hole quick, for the serpents are after me." the badger obeyed. they both went in, and the badger threw all the earth backward, so that it filled up the way behind. the serpents came to the badger's burrow, and decided to watch, "we will starve him out," said they; so they continue watching. hiawatha told the badger to make an opening on the other side of the mountain, from which he could go out and hunt, and bring meat in. thus they lived some time. one day the badger came in his way and displeased him. he immediately put him to death, and threw out his carcass, saying, "i don't like you to be getting in my way so often." after living in this confinement for some time alone, he decided to go out. he immediately did so; and after making the circuit of the mountain, came to the corpse of the prince, who had been deserted by the serpents to pursue his destroyer. he went to work and skinned him. he then drew on his skin, in which there were great virtues, took up his war-club, and set out for the place where he first went in the ground. he found the serpents still watching. when they saw the form of their dead prince advancing towards them, fear and dread took hold of them. some fled. those who remained hiawatha killed. those who fled went towards the south. having accomplished the victory over the reptiles, hiawatha returned to his former place of dwelling and married the arrow-maker's daughter. legendary heroes of many countries heroes of greece and rome perseus adapted by mary macgregor i perseus and his mother once upon a time there were two princes who were twins. they lived in a pleasant vale far away in hellas. they had fruitful meadows and vineyards, sheep and oxen, great herds of horses, and all that men could need to make them blest. and yet they were wretched, because they were jealous of each other. from the moment they were born they began to quarrel, and when they grew up, each tried to take away the other's share of the kingdom and keep all for himself. and there came a prophet to one of the hard-hearted princes and said, "because you have risen up against your own family, your own family shall rise up against you. because you have sinned against your kindred, by your kindred shall you be punished. your daughter danæ shall bear a son, and by that son's hands you shall die. so the gods have said, and it shall surely come to pass." at that the hard-hearted prince was very much afraid, but he did not mend his ways. for when he became king, he shut up his fair daughter danæ in a cavern underground, lined with brass, that no one might come near her. so he fancied himself more cunning than the gods. now it came to pass that in time danæ bore a son, so beautiful a babe that any but the king would have had pity on it. but he had no pity, for he took danæ and her babe down to the seashore, and put them into a great chest and thrust them out to sea, that the winds and the waves might carry them whithersoever they would. and away and out to sea before the northwest wind floated the mother and her babe, while all who watched them wept, save that cruel king. so they floated on and on, and the chest danced up and down upon the billows, and the babe slept in its mother's arms. but the poor mother could not sleep, but watched and wept, and she sang to her babe as they floated. now they are past the last blue headland and in the open sea. there is nothing round them but waves, and the sky and the wind. but the waves are gentle and the sky is clear, and the breeze is tender and low. so a night passed and a day, and a long day it was to danæ, and another night and day beside, till danæ was faint with hunger and weeping, and yet no land appeared. and all the while the babe slept quietly, and at last poor danæ drooped her head and fell asleep likewise, with her cheek against her babe's. after a while she was awakened suddenly, for the chest was jarring and grinding, and the air was full of sound. she looked up, and over her head were mighty cliffs, and around her rocks and breakers and flying flakes of foam. she clasped her hands together and shrieked aloud for help. and when she cried, help met her, for now there came over the rocks a tall and stately man, and looked down wondering upon poor danæ, tossing about in the chest among the waves. he wore a rough cloak, and on his head a broad hat to shade his face, and in his hand he carried a trident, which is a three-pronged fork for spearing fish, and over his shoulder was a casting net. [illustration: so danae was comforted and went home with dictys.] but danæ could see that he was no common man by his height and his walk, and his flowing golden hair and beard, and by the two servants who came behind him carrying baskets for his fish. she had hardly time to look at him, before he had laid aside his trident and leapt down the rocks, and thrown his casting net so surely over danæ and the chest, that he drew it and her and the babe safe upon a ledge of rock. then the fisherman took danæ by the hand and lifted her out of the chest and said, "o beautiful damsel, what strange chance has brought you to this island in so frail a ship? who are you, and whence? surely you are some king's daughter, and this boy belongs to the gods." and as he spoke he pointed to the babe, for its face shone like the morning star. but danæ only held down her head and sobbed out, "tell me to what land i have come, and among what men i have fallen." and he said, "polydectes is king of this isle, and he is my brother. men call me dictys the netter, because i catch the fish of the shore." then danæ fell down at his feet and embraced his knees and cried, "o sir, have pity upon a stranger, whom cruel doom has driven to your land, and let me live in your house as a servant. but treat me honorably, for i was once a king's daughter, and this my boy is of no common race. i will not be a charge to you, or eat the bread of idleness, for i am more skilful in weaving and embroidery than all the maidens of my land." and she was going on, but dictys stopped her and raised her up and said, "my daughter, i am old, and my hairs are growing gray, while i have no children to make my home cheerful. come with me, then, and you shall be a daughter to me and to my wife, and this babe shall be our grandchild." so danæ was comforted and went home with dictys, the good fisherman, and was a daughter to him and to his wife, till fifteen years were past. ii how perseus vowed a rash vow fifteen years were past and gone, and the babe was now grown to be a tall lad and a sailor. his mother called him perseus, but all the people in the isle called him the king of the immortals. for though he was but fifteen, perseus was taller by a head than any man in the island. and he was brave and truthful, and gentle and courteous, for good old dictys had trained him well, and well it was for perseus that he had done so. for now danæ and her son fell into great danger, and perseus had need of all his strength to defend his mother and himself. polydectes, the king of the island, was not a good man like his brother dictys, but he was greedy and cunning and cruel. and when he saw fair danæ, he wanted to marry her. but she would not, for she did not love him, and cared for no one but her boy. at last polydectes became furious, and while perseus was away at sea, he took poor danæ away from dictys, saying, "if you will not be my wife, you shall be my slave." so danæ was made a slave, and had to fetch water from the well, and grind in the mill. but perseus was far away over the seas, little thinking that his mother was in great grief and sorrow. now one day, while the ship was lading, perseus wandered into a pleasant wood to get out of the sun, and sat down on the turf and fell asleep. and as he slept a strange dream came to him, the strangest dream he had ever had in his life. there came a lady to him through the wood, taller than he, or any mortal man, but beautiful exceedingly, with great gray eyes, clear and piercing, but strangely soft and mild. on her head was a helmet, and in her hand a spear. and over her shoulder, above her long blue robes, hung a goat-skin, which bore up a mighty shield of brass, polished like a mirror. she stood and looked at him with her clear gray eyes. and perseus dropped his eyes, trembling and blushing, as the wonderful lady spoke. "perseus, you must do an errand for me." "who are you, lady? and how do you know my name?" then the strange lady, whose name was athene, laughed, and held up her brazen shield, and cried, "see here, perseus, dare you face such a monster as this and slay it, that i may place its head upon this shield?" and in the mirror of the shield there appeared a face, and as perseus looked on it his blood ran cold. it was the face of a beautiful woman, but her cheeks were pale, and her lips were thin. instead of hair, vipers wreathed about her temples and shot out their forked tongues, and she had claws of brass. perseus looked awhile and then said, "if there is anything so fierce and ugly on earth, it were a noble deed to kill it. where can i find the monster?" then the strange lady smiled again and said, "you are too young, for this is medusa the gorgon. return to your home, and when you have done the work that awaits you there, you may be worthy to go in search of the monster." perseus would have spoken, but the strange lady vanished, and he awoke, and behold it was a dream. so he returned home, and the first thing he heard was that his mother was a slave in the house of polydectes. grinding his teeth with rage, he went out, and away to the king's palace, and through the men's rooms and the women's rooms, and so through all the house, till he found his mother sitting on the floor turning the stone hand-mill, and weeping as she turned it. and he lifted her up and kissed her, and bade her follow him forth. but before they could pass out of the room polydectes came in. when perseus saw the king, he flew upon him and cried, "tyrant! is this thy mercy to strangers and widows? thou shalt die." and because he had no sword he caught up the stone hand-mill, and lifted it to dash out polydectes's brains. but his mother clung to him, shrieking, and good dictys too entreated him to remember that the cruel king was his brother. then perseus lowered his hand, and polydectes, who had been trembling all this while like a coward, let perseus and his mother pass. so perseus took his mother to the temple of athené, and there the priestess made her one of the temple sweepers. and there they knew that she would be safe, for not even polydectes would dare to drag her out of the temple. and there perseus and the good dictys and his wife came to visit her every day. as for polydectes, not being able to get danæ by force, he cast about how he might get her by cunning. he was sure he could never get back danæ as long as perseus was in the island, so he made a plot to get rid of him. first he pretended to have forgiven perseus, and to have forgotten danæ, so that for a while all went smoothly. next he proclaimed a great feast and invited to it all the chiefs and the young men of the island, and among them perseus, that they might all do him homage as their king, and eat of his banquet in his hall. on the appointed day they all came, and as the custom was then, each guest brought with him a present for the king. one brought a horse, another a shawl, or a ring, or a sword, and some brought baskets of grapes, but perseus brought nothing, for he had nothing to bring, being only a poor sailor lad. he was ashamed, however, to go into the king's presence without a gift. so he stood at the door, sorrowfully watching the rich men go in, and his face grew very red as they pointed at him and smiled and whispered, "and what has perseus to give?" perseus blushed and stammered, while all the proud men round laughed and mocked, till the lad grew mad with shame, and hardly knowing what he said, cried out: "a present! see if i do not bring a nobler one than all of yours together!" "hear the boaster! what is the present to be?" cried they all, laughing louder than ever. then perseus remembered his strange dream, and he cried aloud, "the head of medusa the gorgon!" he was half afraid after he had said the words, for all laughed louder than ever, and polydectes loudest of all, while he said: "you have promised to bring me the gorgon's head. then never appear again in this island without it. go!" perseus saw that he had fallen into a trap, but he went out without a word. down to the cliffs he went, and looked across the broad blue sea, and wondered if his dream were true. "athene, was my dream true? shall i slay the gorgon?" he prayed. "rashly and angrily i promised, but wisely and patiently will i perform." but there was no answer nor sign, not even a cloud in the sky. three times perseus called, weeping, "rashly and angrily i promised, but wisely and patiently will i perform." then he saw afar off a small white cloud, as bright as silver. and as it touched the cliffs, it broke and parted, and within it appeared athene, and beside her a young man, whose eyes were like sparks of fire. and they came swiftly towards perseus, and he fell down and worshiped, for he knew they were more than mortal. but athene spoke gently to him and bade him have no fear. "perseus," she said, "you have braved polydectes, and done manfully. dare you brave medusa the gorgon?" perseus answered, "try me, for since you spoke to me, new courage has come into my soul." and athene said, "perseus, this deed requires a seven years' journey, in which you cannot turn back nor escape. if your heart fails, you must die, and no man will ever find your bones." and perseus said, "tell me, o fair and wise athene, how i can do but this one thing, and then, if need be, die." then athene smiled and said, "be patient and listen. you must go northward till you find the three gray sisters, who have but one eye and one tooth amongst them. ask them the way to the daughters of the evening star, for they will tell you the way to the gorgon, that you may slay her. but beware! for her eyes are so terrible that whosoever looks on them is turned to stone." "how am i to escape her eyes?" said perseus; "will she not freeze me too?" "you shall take this polished shield," said athene, "and look, not at her herself, but at her image in the shield, so you may strike her safely. and when you have struck off her head, wrap it, with your face turned away, in the folds of the goat-skin on which the shield hangs. so you bring it safely back to me and win yourself renown and a place among heroes." then said perseus, "i will go, though i die in going. but how shall i cross the seas without a ship? and who will show me the way? and how shall i slay her, if her scales be iron and brass?" but the young man who was with athene spoke, "these sandals of mine will bear you across the seas, and over hill and dale like a bird, as they bear me all day long. the sandals themselves will guide you on the road, for they are divine and cannot stray, and this sword itself will kill her, for it is divine and needs no second stroke. arise and gird them on, and go forth." so perseus arose, and girded on the sandals and the sword. and athene cried, "now leap from the cliff and be gone!" then perseus looked down the cliff and shuddered, but he was ashamed to show his dread, and he leaped into the empty air. and behold! instead of falling, he floated, and stood, and ran along the sky. iii how perseus slew the gorgon so perseus started on his journey, going dryshod over land and sea, and his heart was high and joyful, for the sandals bore him each day a seven days' journey. and at last by the shore of a freezing sea, beneath the cold winter moon, he found the three gray sisters. there was no living thing around them, not a fly, not a moss upon the rocks. they passed their one eye each to the other, but for all that they could not see, and they passed the one tooth from one to the other, but for all that they could not eat, and they sat in the full glare of the moon, but they were none the warmer for her beams. and perseus said, "tell me, o venerable mothers, the path to the daughters of the evening star." they heard his voice, and then one cried, "give me the eye that i may see him," and another, "give me the tooth that i may bite him," but they had no answer for his question. then perseus stepped close to them, and watched as they passed the eye from hand to hand. and as they groped about, he held out his own hand gently, till one of them put the eye into it, fancying that it was the hand of her sister. at that perseus sprang back and laughed and cried, "cruel old women, i have your eye, and i will throw it into the sea, unless you tell me the path to the daughters of the evening star and swear to me that you tell me right." then they wept and chattered and scolded, but all in vain. they were forced to tell the truth, though when they told it, perseus could hardly make out the way. but he gave them back the eye and leaped away to the southward, leaving the snow and ice behind. at last he heard sweet voices singing, and he guessed that he was come to the garden of the daughters of the evening star. when they saw him they trembled and said, "are you come to rob our garden and carry off our golden fruit?" but perseus answered, "i want none of your golden fruit. tell me the way which leads to the gorgon that i may go on my way and slay her." "not yet, not yet, fair boy," they answered, "come dance with us around the trees in the garden." "i cannot dance with you, fair maidens, so tell me the way to the gorgon, lest i wander and perish in the waves." then they sighed and wept, and answered, "the gorgon! she will freeze you into stone." but perseus said, "the gods have lent me weapons, and will give me wisdom to use them." then the fair maidens told him that the gorgon lived on an island far away, but that whoever went near the island must wear the hat of darkness, so that he could not himself be seen. and one of the fair maidens held in her hand the magic hat. while all the maidens kissed perseus and wept over him, he was only impatient to be gone. so at last they put the magic hat upon his head, and he vanished out of their sight. and perseus went on boldly, past many an ugly sight, till he heard the rustle of the gorgons' wings and saw the glitter of their brazen claws. then he knew that it was time to halt, lest medusa should freeze him into stone. he thought awhile with himself and remembered athene's words. then he rose into the air, and held the shield above his head and looked up into it, that he might see all that was below him. and he saw three gorgons sleeping, as huge as elephants. he knew that they could not see him, because the hat of darkness hid him, and yet he trembled as he sank down near them, so terrible were those brazen claws. medusa tossed to and fro restlessly in her sleep. her long neck gleamed so white in the mirror that perseus had not the heart to strike. but as he looked, from among her tresses the vipers' heads awoke and peeped up, with their bright dry eyes, and showed their fangs and hissed. and medusa as she tossed showed her brazen claws, and perseus saw that for all her beauty she was as ugly as the others. then he came down and stepped to her boldly, and looked steadfastly on his mirror, and struck with his sword stoutly once, and he did not need to strike again. he wrapped the head in the goat-skin, turning away his eyes, and sprang into the air aloft, faster than he ever sprang before. and well his brave sandals bore him through cloud and sunshine across the shoreless sea, till he came again to the gardens of the fair maidens. then he asked them, "by what road shall i go homeward again?" and they wept and cried, "go home no more, but stay and play with us, the lonely maidens." but perseus refused and leapt down the mountain, and went on like a sea-gull, away and out to sea. iv how perseus met andromeda so perseus flitted onward to the north-east, over many a league of sea, till he came to the rolling sandhills of the desert. over the sands he went, he never knew how far nor how long, hoping all day to see the blue sparkling mediterranean, that he might fly across it to his home. but now came down a mighty wind, and swept him back southward toward the desert. all day long he strove against it, but even the sandals could not prevail. and when morning came there was nothing to be seen, save the same old hateful waste of sand. at last the gale fell, and he tried to go northward again, but again down came the sandstorms and swept him back into the desert; and then all was calm and cloudless as before. then he cried to athene, "shall i never see my mother more, and the blue ripple of the sea and the sunny hills of hellas?" so he prayed, and after he had prayed there was a great silence. and perseus stood still awhile and waited, and said, "surely i am not here but by the will of the gods, for athené will not lie. were not these sandals to lead me in the right road?" then suddenly his ears were opened and he heard the sound of running water. and perseus laughed for joy, and leapt down the cliff and drank of the cool water, and ate of the dates, and slept on the turf, and leapt up and went forward again, but not toward the north this time. for he said, "surely athene hath sent me hither, and will not have me go homeward yet. what if there be another noble deed to be done before i see the sunny hills of hellas?" so perseus flew along the shore above the sea, and at the dawn of a day he looked towards the cliffs. at the water's edge, under a black rock, he saw a white image stand. "this," thought he, "must surely be the statue of some sea-god. i will go near and see." and he came near, but when he came it was no statue he found, but a maiden of flesh and blood, for he could see her tresses streaming in the breeze. and as he came closer still, he could see how she shrank and shivered when the waves sprinkled her with cold salt spray. her arms were spread above her head and fastened to the rock with chains of brass, and her head drooped either with sleep or weariness or grief. but now and then she looked up and wailed, and called her mother. yet she did not see perseus, for the cap of darkness was on his head. in his heart pity and indignation, perseus drew near and looked upon the maid. her cheeks were darker than his, and her hair was blue-black like a hyacinth. perseus thought, "i have never seen so beautiful a maiden, no, not in all our isles. surely she is a king's daughter. she is too fair, at least, to have done any wrong. i will speak to her," and, lifting the magic hat from his head, he flashed into her sight. she shrieked with terror, but perseus cried, "do not fear me, fair one. what cruel men have bound you? but first i will set you free." and he tore at the fetters, but they were too strong for him, while the maiden cried, "touch me not. i am a victim for the sea-gods. they will slay you if you dare to set me free." "let them try," said perseus, and drawing his sword he cut through the brass as if it had been flax. "now," he said, "you belong to me, and not to these sea-gods, whosoever they may be." but she only called the more on her mother. then he clasped her in his arms, and cried, "where are these sea-gods, cruel and unjust, who doom fair maids to death? let them measure their strength against mine. but tell me, maiden, who you are, and what dark fate brought you here." and she answered, weeping, "i am the daughter of a king, and my mother is the queen with the beautiful tresses, and they call me andromeda. i stand here to atone for my mother's sin, for she boasted of me once that i was fairer than the queen of the fishes. so she in her wrath sent the sea-floods and wasted all the land. and now i must be devoured by a sea-monster to atone for a sin which i never committed." but perseus laughed and said, "a sea-monster! i have fought with worse than he." andromeda looked up at him, and new hope was kindled in her heart, so proud and fair did he stand, with one hand round her, and in the other the glittering sword. but still she sighed and said, "why will you die, young as you are? go you your way, i must go mine." perseus cried, "not so: i slew the gorgon by the help of the gods, and not without them do i come hither to slay this monster, with that same gorgon's head. yet hide your eyes when i leave you, lest the sight of it freeze you too to stone." but the maiden answered nothing, for she could not believe his words. then suddenly looking up, she pointed to the sea and shrieked, "there he comes with the sunrise as they said. i must die now. oh go!" and she tried to thrust him away. and perseus said, "i go, yet promise me one thing ere i go,--that if i slay this beast you will be my wife and come back with me to my kingdom, for i am a king's son. promise me, and seal it with a kiss." then she lifted up her face and kissed him, and perseus laughed for joy and flew upward, while andromeda crouched trembling on the rock. on came the great sea-monster, lazily breasting the ripple and stopping at times by creek or headland. his great sides were fringed with clustering shells and seaweeds, and the water gurgled in and out of his wide jaws as he rolled along. at last he saw andromeda and shot forward to take his prey. then down from the height of the air fell perseus like a shooting star, down to the crests of the waves, while andromeda hid her face as he shouted, and then there was silence for a while. when at last she looked up trembling, andromeda saw perseus springing towards her, and instead of the monster, a long black rock, with the sea rippling quietly round it. who then so proud as perseus, as he leapt back to the rock and lifted his fair andromeda in his arms and flew with her to the cliff-top, as a falcon carries a dove! who so proud as perseus, and who so joyful as the people of the land! and the king and the queen came, and all the people came with songs and dances to receive andromeda back again, as one alive from the dead. then the king said to perseus, "hero of the hellens, stay here with me and be my son-in-law, and i will give you the half of my kingdom." "i will be your son-in-law," said perseus, "but of your kingdom will i have none, for i long after the pleasant land of greece, and my mother who waits for me at home." then said the king, "you must not take my daughter away at once, for she is to us as one alive from the dead. stay with us here a year, and after that you shall return with honor." and perseus consented, but before he went to the palace he bade the people bring stones and wood and build an altar to athené, and there he offered bullocks and rams. then they made a great wedding feast, which lasted seven whole days. but on the eighth night perseus dreamed a dream. he saw standing beside him athené as he had seen her seven long years before, and she stood and called him by name, and said, "perseus, you have played the man, and see, you have your reward. now give me the sword and the sandals, and the hat of darkness, that i may give them back to those to whom they belong. but the gorgon's head you shall keep a while, for you will need it in your land of hellas." and perseus rose to give her the sword, and the cap, and the sandals, but he woke and his dream vanished away. yet it was not altogether a dream, for the goat-skin with the head was in its place, but the sword and the cap and the sandals were gone, and perseus never saw them more. v how perseus came home again when a year was ended, perseus rowed away in a noble galley, and in it he put andromeda and all her dowry of jewels and rich shawls and spices from the east, and great was the weeping when they rowed away. and when perseus reached the land, of hellas he left his galley on the beach, and went up as of old. he embraced his mother and dictys, and they wept over each other, for it was seven years and more since they had parted. then perseus went out and up to the hall of polydectes, and underneath the goat-skin he bore the gorgon's head. when he came to the hall, polydectes sat at the table, and all his nobles on either side, feasting on fish and goats' flesh, and drinking blood-red wine. perseus stood upon the threshold and called to the king by name. but none of the guests knew the stranger, for he was changed by his long journey. he had gone out a boy, and he was come home a hero. but polydectes the wicked, knew him, and scornfully he called, "ah, foundling! have you found it more easy to promise than to fulfil?" "those whom the gods help fulfil their promises," said perseus, as he drew back the goat-skin and held aloft the gorgon's head, saying, "behold!" pale grew polydectes and his guests as they looked upon that dreadful face. they tried to rise from their seats, but from their seats they never rose, but stiffened, each man where he sat, into a ring of cold gray stones. then perseus turned and left them, and went down to his galley in the bay. he gave the kingdom to good dictys, and sailed away with his mother and his bride. and perseus rowed westward till he came to his old home, and there he found that his grandfather had fled. the heart of perseus yearned after his grandfather, and he said, "surely he will love me now that i am come home with honor. i will go and find him and bring him back, and we will reign together in peace." so perseus sailed away, and at last he came to the land where his grandfather dwelt, and all the people were in the fields, and there was feasting and all kinds of games. then perseus did not tell his name, but went up to the games unknown, for he said, "if i carry away the prize in the games, my grandfather's heart will be softened towards me." and when the games began, perseus was the best of all at running and leaping, and wrestling and throwing. and he won four crowns and took them. then he said to himself, "there is a fifth crown to be won. i will win that also, and lay them all upon the knees of my grandfather." so he took the stones and hurled them five fathoms beyond all the rest. and the people shouted, "there has never been such a hurler in this land!" again perseus put out all his strength and hurled. but a gust of wind came from the sea and carried the quoit aside, far beyond all the rest. and it fell on the foot of his grandfather, and he swooned away with the pain. perseus shrieked and ran up to him, but when they lifted the old man up, he was dead. then perseus rent his clothes and cast dust on his head, and wept a long while for his grandfather. at last he rose and called to all people aloud and said, "the gods are true: what they have ordained must be; i am perseus the grandson of this dead man." then he told them how a prophet had said that he should kill his grandfather. so they made great mourning for the old king, and burnt him on a right rich pile. and perseus went to the temple and was purified from the guilt of his death, because he had done it unknowingly. then he went home and reigned well with andromeda, and they had four sons and three daughters. and when they died, the ancients say that athené took them up to the sky. all night long perseus and andromeda shine as a beacon for wandering sailors, but all day long they feast with the gods, on the still blue peaks in the home of the immortals. odysseus adapted by jeanie lang i how odysseus left troyland and sailed for his kingdom past the land of the lotus eaters in the days of long ago there reigned over ithaca, a rugged little island in the sea to the west of greece, a king whose name was odysseus. odysseus feared no man. stronger and braver than other men was he, wiser, and more full of clever devices. far and wide he was known as odysseus of the many counsels. wise, also, was his queen, penelope, and she was as fair as she was wise, and as good as she was fair. while their only child, a boy named telemachus, was still a baby, there was a very great war in troyland, a country far across the sea. the brother of the overlord of all greece beseiged troy, and the kings and princes of his land came to help him. many came from afar, but none from a more distant kingdom than odysseus. wife and child and old father he left behind him and sailed away with his black-prowed ships to fight in troyland. for ten years the siege of troy went on, and of the heroes who fought there, none was braver than odysseus. clad as a beggar he went into the city and found out much to help the greek armies. with his long sword he fought his way out again, and left many of the men of troy lying dead behind him. and many other brave feats did odysseus do. after long years of fighting, troy at last was taken. with much rich plunder the besiegers sailed homewards, and odysseus set sail for his rocky island, with its great mountain, and its forests of trembling leaves. of gladness and of longing his heart was full. with a great love he loved his fair wife and little son and old father, and his little kingdom by the sea was very dear to him. "i can see nought beside sweeter than a man's own country," he said. very soon he hoped to see his dear land again, but many a long and weary day was to pass ere odysseus came home. odysseus was a warrior, and always he would choose to fight rather than to be at peace. as he sailed on his homeward way, winds drove his ships near the shore. he and his company landed, sacked the nearest city, and slew the people. much rich plunder they took, but ere they could return to their ships, a host of people came from inland. in the early morning, thick as leaves and flowers in the spring they came, and fell upon odysseus and his men. all day they fought, but as the sun went down the people of the land won the fight. back to their ships went odysseus and his men. out of each ship were six men slain. while they were yet sad at heart and weary from the fight, a terrible tempest arose. land and sea were blotted out, the ships were driven headlong, and their sails were torn to shreds by the might of the storm. for two days and two nights the ships were at the mercy of the tempests. at dawn on the third day, the storm passed away, and odysseus and his men set up their masts and hoisted their white sails, and drove homeward before the wind. so he would have come safely to his own country, but a strong current and a fierce north wind swept the ships from their course. for nine days were they driven far from their homeland, across the deep sea. on the tenth day they reached the land of the lotus eaters. the dwellers in that land fed on the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus flower. those who ate the lotus ceased to remember that there was a past or a future. all duties they forgot, and all sadness. all day long they would sit and dream and dream idle, happy dreams that never ended. here odysseus and his men landed and drew water. three of his warriors odysseus sent into the country to see what manner of men dwelt there. to them the lotus eaters gave their honey-sweet food, and no sooner had each man eaten than he had no wish ever to return to the ships. he longed for ever to stay in that pleasant land, eating the lotus fruit, and dreaming the happy hours away. back to the ships odysseus dragged the unwilling men, weeping that they must leave so much joy behind. beneath the benches of his ship he tightly bound them, and swiftly he made his ships sail from the shore, lest yet others of his company might eat of the lotus and forget their homes and their kindred. soon they had all embarked, and, with heavy hearts, the men of ithaca smote the gray sea-water with their long oars, and sped away from the land of forgetfulness and of sweet day-dreams. ii how odysseus came to the land of the cyclôpes, and his adventures there on and on across the waves sailed the dark-prowed ships of odysseus, until again they came to land. it was the land of the cyclôpes, a savage and lawless people, who never planted, nor plowed, nor sowed, and whose fields yet gave them rich harvests of wheat and of barley, and vines with heavy clusters of grapes. in deep caves, high up on the hills, these people dwelt, and each man ruled his own wife and children, but himself knew no ruler. outside the harbor of the land of the cyclôpes lay a thickly wooded island. no hunters went there, for the cyclôpes owned neither ships nor boats, so that many goats roamed unharmed through the woods and cropped the fresh green grass. it was a green and pleasant land. rich meadows stretched down to the sea, the vines grew strong and fruitful, and there was a fair harbor where ships might be run right on to the beach. at the head of the harbor was a well of clear water flowing out of a cave, and with poplars growing around it. thither odysseus directed his ships. it was dark night, with no moon to guide, and mist lay deep on either side, yet they passed the breakers and rolling surf without knowing it, and anchored safely on the beach. all night they slept, and when rosy dawn came they explored the island and slew with their bows and long spears many of the wild goats of the woods. all the livelong day odysseus and his men sat and feasted. as they ate and drank, they looked across the water at the land of the cyclôpes, where the smoke of wood fires curled up to the sky, and from whence they could hear the sound of men's voices and the bleating of sheep and goats. when darkness fell, they lay down to sleep on the sea-beach, and when morning dawned odysseus called his men together and said to them: "stay here, all the rest of you, my dear companions, but i will go with my own ship and my ship's company and see what kind of men are those who dwell in this land across the harbor." so saying, he climbed into his ship, and his men rowed him across to the land of the cyclôpes. when they were near the shore they saw a great cave by the sea. it was roofed in with green laurel boughs and seemed to be meant for a fold to shelter sheep and goats. round about it a high outer wall was firmly built with stones, and with tall and leafy pines and oak-trees. in this cave, all alone with his flocks and herds, dwelt a huge and hideous one-eyed giant. polyphemus was his name, and his father was poseidon, god of the sea. taking twelve of his best men with him, odysseus left the others to guard the ship and sallied forth to the giant's cave. with him he carried a goat-skin full of precious wine, dark red, and sweet and strong, and a large sack of corn. soon they came to the cave, but polyphemus was not there. he had taken off his flocks to graze in the green meadows, leaving behind him in the cave folds full of lambs and kids. the walls of the cave were lined with cheeses, and there were great pans full of whey, and giant bowls full of milk. "let us first of all take the cheeses," said the men of odysseus to their king, "and carry them to the ships. then let us return and drive all the kids and lambs from their folds down to the shore, and sail with them in our swift ships homeward over the sea." but odysseus would not listen to what they said. he was too great hearted to steal into the cave like a thief and take away the giant's goods without first seeing whether polyphemus might not treat him as a friend, receiving from him the corn and wine he had brought, and giving him gifts in return. so they kindled a fire, and dined on some of the cheeses, and sat waiting for the giant to return. towards evening he came, driving his flocks before him, and carrying on his back a huge load of firewood, which he cast down on the floor with such a thunderous noise that odysseus and his men fled in fear and hid themselves in the darkest corners of the cave. when he had driven his sheep inside, polyphemus lifted from the ground a rock so huge that two-and-twenty four-wheeled wagons could not have borne it, and with it blocked the doorway. then, sitting down, he milked the ewes and bleating goats, and placed the lambs and kids each beside its own mother. half of the milk he curdled and placed in wicker baskets to make into cheeses, and the other half he left in great pails to drink when he should have supper. when all this was done, he kindled a fire, and when the flames had lit up the dark-walled cave he spied odysseus and his men. "strangers, who are ye?" he asked, in his great, rumbling voice. "whence sail ye over the watery ways? are ye merchants? or are ye sea-robbers who rove over the sea, risking your own lives and bringing evil to other men?" the sound of the giant's voice, and his hideous face filled the hearts of the men with terror, but odysseus made answer: "from troy we come, seeking our home, but driven hither by winds and waves. men of agamemnon, the renowned and most mightily victorious greek general, are we, yet to thee we come and humbly beg for friendship." at this the giant, who had nothing but cruelty in his heart, mocked at odysseus. "thou art a fool," said he, "and i shall not spare either thee or thy company. but tell me where thou didst leave thy good ship? was it near here, or at the far end of the island?" but odysseus of the many counsels knew that the giant asked the question only to bring evil on the men who stayed by the ship, and so he answered: "my ship was broken in pieces by the storm and cast up on the rocks on the shore, but i, with these my men, escaped from death." not one word said polyphemus in reply, but sprang up, clutched hold of two of the men, and dashed their brains out on the stone floor. then he cut them up, and made ready his supper, eating the two men, bones and all, as if he had been a starving lion, and taking great draughts of the milk from the giant pails. when his meal was done, he stretched himself on the ground beside his sheep and goats, and slept. in helpless horror odysseus and his men had watched the dreadful sight, but when the monster slept they began to make plans for their escape. at first odysseus thought it might be best to take his sharp sword and stab polyphemus in the breast. but then he knew that even were he thus to slay the giant, he and his men must die. for strength was not left them to roll away the rock from the cave's mouth, and so they must perish like rats in a trap. all night they thought what they should do, but could think of nought that would avail, and so they could only moan in their bitterness of heart and wait for the dawn. when dawn's rosy fingers touched the sky, polyphemus awoke. he kindled a fire, and milked his flocks, and gave each ewe her lamb. when this work was done he snatched yet other two men, dashed their brains out, and made of them his morning meal. after the meal, he lifted the stone from the door, drove the flocks out, and set the stone back again. then, with a loud shout, he turned his sheep and goats towards the hills and left odysseus and his remaining eight men imprisoned in the cave, plotting and planning how to get away, and how to avenge the death of their comrades. at last odysseus thought of a plan. by the sheepfold there lay a huge club of green olive wood that polyphemus had cut and was keeping until it should be dry enough to use as a staff. so huge was it that odysseus and his men likened it to the mast of a great merchant vessel. from this club odysseus cut a large piece and gave it to his men to fine down and make even. while they did this, odysseus himself sharpened it to a point and hardened the point in the fire. when it was ready, they hid it amongst the rubbish on the floor of the cave. then odysseus made his men draw lots who should help him to lift this bar and drive it into the eye of the giant as he slept, and the lot fell upon the four men that odysseus would himself have chosen. in the evening polyphemus came down from the hills with his flocks and drove them all inside the cave. then he lifted the great doorstone and blocked the doorway, milked the ewes and goats, and gave each lamb and kid to its mother. this done, he seized other two of the men, dashed out their brains, and made ready his supper. from the shadows of the cave odysseus now stepped forward, bearing in his hands an ivy bowl, full of the dark red wine. "drink wine after thy feast of men's flesh," said odysseus, "and see what manner of drink this was that our ship held." polyphemus grasped the bowl, gulped down the strong wine, and smacked his great lips over its sweetness. "give me more," he cried, "and tell me thy name straightway, that i may give thee a gift. mighty clusters of grapes do the vines of our land bear for us, but this is a rill of very nectar and ambrosia." again odysseus gave him the bowl full of wine, and yet again, until the strong wine went to the giant's head and made him stupid. then said odysseus: "thou didst ask me my name, and didst say that thou wouldst give me a gift. noman is my name, and noman they call me, my father and mother and all my fellows." then answered the giant out of his pitiless heart: "i will eat thy fellows first, noman, and thee the last of all. that shall be thy gift." soon the wine made him so sleepy that he sank backwards with his great face upturned and fell fast asleep. as soon as the giant slept, odysseus thrust into the fire the stake he had prepared, and made it red hot, all the while speaking cheerfully and comfortingly to his men. when it was so hot that the wood, green though it was, began to blaze, they drew it out and thrust it into the giant's eye. round and round they whirled the fiery pike, as a man bores a hole in a plank, until the blood gushed out, and the eye frizzled and hissed, and the flames singed and burned the eyelids, and the eye was burned out. with a great and terrible cry the giant sprang to his feet, and odysseus and the others fled from before him. from his eye he dragged the blazing pike, all dripping with his blood, and dashed it to the ground. then, maddened with pain, he called with a great and terrible cry on the other cyclôpes, who dwelt in their caves on the hill-tops round which the wind swept. the giants, hearing his horrid yells, rushed to help him. "what ails thee, polyphemus?" they asked. "why dost thou cry aloud in the night and awake us from our sleep? surely no one stealeth thy flocks? none slayeth thee by force or by craft." from the other side of the great stone moaned polyphemus: "noman is slaying me by craft." then the cyclôpes said: "if no man is hurting thee, then indeed it must be a sickness that makes thee cry so loud, and this thou must bear, for we cannot help." with that they strode away from the cave and left the blind giant groaning and raging with pain. groping with his hands, he found the great stone that blocked the door, lifted it away, and sat himself down in the mouth of the cave, with his arms stretched out, hoping to catch odysseus and his men if they should try to escape. sitting there, he fell asleep, and, as soon as he slept, odysseus planned and plotted how best to win freedom. the rams of the giant's flocks were great strong beasts, with fleeces thick and woolly, and as dark as the violet. with twisted slips of willow odysseus lashed every three of them together, and under the middle ram of each three he bound one of his men. for himself he kept the best ram of the flock, young and strong, and with a fleece wonderfully thick and shaggy. underneath this ram odysseus curled himself, and clung, face upwards, firmly grasping the wool with his hands. in this wise did he and his men wait patiently for the dawn. when rosy dawn came, the ewes in the pens bleated to be milked and the rams hastened out to the hills and green meadows. as each sheep passed him, polyphemus felt along its back, but never guessed that the six remaining men of odysseus were bound beneath the thick-fleeced rams. last of all came the young ram to which odysseus clung, moving slowly, for his fleece was heavy, and odysseus whom he bore was heavier still. on the ram's back polyphemus laid his great hands. "dear ram," said he, "once wert thou the very first to lead the flocks from the cave, the first to nibble the tender buds of the pasture, the first to find out the running streams, and the first to come home when evening fell. but to-day thou art the very last to go. surely thou art sorrowful because the wicked noman hath destroyed my eye. i would thou couldst speak and tell me where noman is hidden. then should i seize him and gladly dash out his brains on the floor of the cave." very, very still lay odysseus while the giant spoke, but the ram slowly walked on past the savage giant, towards the meadows near the sea. soon it was far enough from the cave for odysseus to let go his hold and to stand up. quickly he loosened the bonds of the others, and swiftly then they drove the rams down to the shore where their ship lay. often they looked round, expecting to see polyphemus following them, but they safely reached the ship and got a glad welcome from their friends, who rejoiced over them, but would have wept over the men that the cannibal giant had slain. "there is no time to weep," said odysseus, and he made his men hasten on board the ship, driving the sheep before them. soon they were all on board, and the gray sea-water was rushing off their oars, as they sailed away from the land of the cyclôpes. but before they were out of sight of land, the bold odysseus lifted up his voice and shouted across the water: "hear me, polyphemus, thou cruel monster! thine evil deeds were very sure to find thee out. thou hast been punished because thou hadst no shame to eat the strangers who came to thee as thy guests!" the voice of odysseus rang across the waves, and reached polyphemus as he sat in pain at the mouth of his cave. in a fury the giant sprang up, broke off the peak of a great hill and cast it into the sea, where it fell just in front of the ship of odysseus. so huge a splash did the vast rock give, that the sea heaved up and the backwash of the water drove the ship right to the shore. odysseus snatched up a long pole and pushed the ship off once more. silently he motioned to the men to row hard, and save themselves and their ship from the angry giant. when they were once more out at sea, odysseus wished again to mock polyphemus. in vain his men begged him not to provoke a monster so mighty that he could crush their heads and the timbers of their ship with one cast of a stone. once more odysseus shouted across the water: "polyphemus, if any one shall ask thee who blinded thee, tell them it was odysseus of ithaca." then moaned the giant: "once, long ago, a soothsayer told me that odysseus should make me blind. but ever i looked for the coming of a great and gallant hero, and now there hath come a poor feeble, little dwarf, who made me weak with wine before he dared to touch me." then he begged odysseus to come back, and said he would treat him kindly, and told him that he knew that his own father, the god of the sea, would give him his sight again. "never more wilt thou have thy sight," mocked odysseus; "thy father will never heal thee." then polyphemus, stretching out his hands, and looking up with his sightless eye to the starry sky, called aloud to poseidon, god of the sea, to punish odysseus. "if he ever reaches his own country," he cried, "let him come late and in an evil case, with all his own company lost, and in the ship of strangers, and let him find sorrows in his own house." no answer came from poseidon, but the god of the sea heard his son's prayer. with all his mighty force polyphemus then cast at the ship a rock far greater than the first. it all but struck the end of the rudder, but the huge waves that surged up from it bore on the ship, and carried it to the further shore. there they found the men with the other ships waiting in sorrow and dread, for they feared that the giants had killed odysseus and his company. gladly they drove the rams of polyphemus on to the land, and there feasted together until the sun went down. all night they slept on the sea beach, and at rosy dawn odysseus called to his men to get into their ships and loose the hawsers. soon they had pushed off, and were thrusting their oars into the gray sea-water. their hearts were sore, because they had lost six gallant men of their company, yet they were glad as men saved from death. iii how odysseus met with circe, the sirens, and calypso across the seas sailed odysseus and his men till they came to an island where lived æolus the keeper of the winds. when odysseus again set sail, æolus gave him a great leather bag in which he had placed all the winds except the wind of the west. his men thought the bag to be full of gold and silver, so, while odysseus slept they loosened the silver thong, and, with a mighty gust all the winds rushed out driving the ship far away from their homeland. ere long they reached another island, where dwelt a great enchantress, circe of the golden tresses, whose palace eurylochus discovered. within they heard circe singing, so they called to her and she came forth and bade them enter. heedlessly they followed her, all but eurylochus. then circe smote them with her magic wand and they were turned into swine. when odysseus heard what had befallen his men he was very angry and would have slain her with his sword. but circe cried: "sheathe thy sword, i pray thee, odysseus, and let us be at peace." then said odysseus: "how can i be at peace with thee, circe? how can i trust thee?" then circe promised to do odysseus no harm, and to let him return in safety to his home. then she opened the doors of the sty and waved her wand. and the swine became men again even handsomer and stronger than before. for a whole year odysseus and his men stayed in the palace, feasting and resting. when they at last set sail again the sorceress told odysseus of many dangers he would meet on his homeward voyage, and warned him how to escape from them. in an island in the blue sea through which the ship of odysseus would sail toward home, lived some beautiful mermaids called sirens. even more beautiful than the sirens' faces were their lovely voices by which they lured men to go on shore and there slew them. in the flowery meadows were the bones of the foolish sailors who had seen only the lovely faces and long, golden hair of the sirens, and had lost their hearts to them. against these mermaids circe had warned odysseus, and he repeated her warnings to his men. following her advice he filled the ears of the men with wax and bade them bind him hand and foot to the mast. past the island drove the ship, and the sirens seeing it began their sweet song. "come hither, come hither, brave odysseus," they sang. then odysseus tried to make his men unbind him, but eurylochus and another bound him yet more tightly to the mast. when the island was left behind, the men took the wax from their ears and unbound their captain. after passing the wandering rocks with their terrible sights and sounds the ship came to a place of great peril. beyond them were yet two huge rocks between which the sea swept. one of these ran up to the sky, and in this cliff was a dark cave in which lived scylla a horrible monster, who, as the ship passed seized six of the men with her six dreadful heads. in the cliff opposite lived another terrible creature called charybdis who stirred the sea to a fierce whirlpool. by a strong wind the ship was driven into this whirlpool, but odysseus escaped on a broken piece of wreckage to the shores of an island. on this island lived calypso of the braided tresses, a goddess feared by all men. but, to odysseus she was very kind and he soon became as strong as ever. "stay with me, and thou shalt never grow old and never die," said calypso. a great homesickness had seized odysseus, but no escape came for eight years. then athene begged the gods to help him. they called on hermes, who commanded calypso to let him go. she wanted him to stay with her but promised to send him away. she told him to make a raft which she would furnish with food and clothing for his need. he set out and in eighteen days saw the land of the phæacians appear. but when safety seemed near, poseidon, the sea-god, returned from his wanderings and would have destroyed him had it not been that a fair sea-nymph gave him her veil to wind around his body. this he did and finally reached the shore. iv how odysseus met with nausicaa in the land of the phæacians there dwelt no more beautiful, nor any sweeter maiden, than the king's own daughter. nausicaa was her name, and she was so kind and gentle that every one loved her. to the land of the phæacians the north wind had driven odysseus, and while he lay asleep in his bed of leaves under the olive-trees, the goddess athene went to the room in the palace where nausicaa slept, and spoke to her in her dreams. "some day thou wilt marry, nausicaa," she said, "and it is time for thee to wash all the fair raiment that is one day to be thine. to-morrow thou must ask the king, thy father, for mules and for a wagon, and drive from the city to a place where all the rich clothing may be washed and dried." when morning came nausicaa remembered her dream, and went to tell her father. her mother was sitting spinning yarn of sea-purple stain, and her father was just going to a council meeting. "father, dear," said the princess, "couldst thou lend me a high wagon with strong wheels, that i may take all my fair linen to the river to wash. all yours, too, i shall take, so that thou shalt go to the council in linen that is snowy clean, and i know that my five brothers will also be glad if i wash their fine clothing for them." this she said, for she felt too shy to tell her father what athene had said about her getting married. but the king knew well why she asked. "i do not grudge thee mules, nor anything else, my child," he said. "go, bid the servants prepare a wagon." the servants quickly got ready the finest wagon that the king had, and harnessed the best of the mules. and nausicaa's mother filled a basket with all the dainties that she knew her daughter liked best, so that nausicaa and her maidens might feast together. the fine clothes were piled into the wagon, the basket of food was placed carefully beside them, and nausicaa climbed in, took the whip and shining reins, and touched the mules. then with clatter of hoofs they started. when they were come to the beautiful, clear river, amongst whose reeds odysseus had knelt the day before, they unharnessed the mules and drove them along the banks of the river to graze where the clover grew rich and fragrant. then they washed the clothes, working hard and well, and spread them out to dry on the clean pebbles down by the seashore. then they bathed, and when they had bathed they took their midday meal by the bank of the rippling river. when they had finished, the sun had not yet dried the clothes, so nausicaa and her maidens began to play ball. as they played they sang a song that the girls of that land would always sing as they threw the ball to one another. all the maidens were fair, but nausicaa of the white arms was the fairest of all. from hand to hand they threw the ball, growing always the merrier, until, when it was nearly time for them to gather the clothes together and go home, nausicaa threw it very hard to one of the others. the girl missed the catch. the ball flew into the river, and, as it was swept away to the sea, the princess and all her maidens screamed aloud. their cries awoke odysseus, as he lay asleep in his bed of leaves. "i must be near the houses of men," he said; "those are the cries of girls at play." with that he crept out from the shelter of the olive-trees. he had no clothes, for he had thrown them all into the sea before he began his terrible swim for life. but he broke off some leafy branches and held them round him, and walked down to where nausicaa and her maidens were. like a wild man of the woods he looked, and when they saw him coming the girls shrieked and ran away. some of them hid behind the rocks on the shore, and some ran out to the shoals of yellow sand that jutted into the sea. but although his face was marred with the sea-foam that had crusted on it, and he looked a terrible, fierce, great creature, nausicaa was too brave to run away. shaking she stood there, and watched him as he came forward, and stood still a little way off. then odysseus spoke to her, gently and kindly, that he might take away her fear. he told her of his shipwreck, and begged her to show him the way to the town, and give him some old garment, or any old wrap in which she had brought the linen, so that he might have something besides leaves with which to cover himself. "i have never seen any maiden half so beautiful as thou art," he said. "have pity on me, and may the gods grant thee all thy heart's desire." then said nausicaa: "thou seemest no evil man, stranger, and i will gladly give thee clothing and show thee the way to town. this is the land of the phæacians, and my father is the king." to her maidens then she called: "why do ye run away at the sight of a man? dost thou take him for an enemy? he is only a poor shipwrecked man. come, give him food and drink, and fetch him clothing." the maidens came back from their hiding-places, and fetched some of the garments of nausicaa's brothers which they had brought to wash, and laid them beside odysseus. odysseus gratefully took the clothes away, and went off to the river. there he plunged into the clear water, and washed the salt crust from off his face and limbs and body, and the crusted foam from his hair. then he put on the beautiful garments that belonged to one of the princes, and walked down to the shore where nausicaa and her maidens were waiting. so tall and handsome and strong did odysseus look, with his hair curling like hyacinth flowers around his head, that nausicaa said to her maidens: "this man, who seemed to us so dreadful so short a time ago, now looks like a god. i would that my husband, if ever i have one, should be as he." then she and her maidens brought him food and wine, and he ate hungrily, for it was many days since he had eaten. when he had finished, they packed the linen into the wagon, and yoked the mules, and nausicaa climbed into her place. "so long as we are passing through the fields," she said to odysseus, "follow behind with my maidens, and i will lead the way. but when we come near the town with its high walls and towers, and harbors full of ships, the rough sailors will stare and say, 'hath nausicaa gone to find herself a husband because she scorns the men of phæacia who would wed her? hath she picked up a shipwrecked stranger, or is this one of the gods who has come to make her his wife?' therefore come not with us, i pray thee, for the sailors to jest at. there is a fair poplar grove near the city, with a meadow lying round it. sit there until thou thinkest that we have had time to reach the palace. then seek the palace--any child can show thee the way--and when thou art come to the outer court pass quickly into the room where my mother sits. thou wilt find her weaving yarn of sea-purple stain by the light of the fire. she will be leaning her head back against a pillar, and her maidens will be standing round her. my father's throne is close to hers, but pass him by, and cast thyself at my mother's knees. if she feels kindly towards thee and is sorry for thee, then my father is sure to help thee to get safely back to thine own land." then nausicaa smote her mules with the whip, and they trotted quickly off, and soon left behind them the silver river with its whispering reeds, and the beach with its yellow sand. odysseus and the maidens followed the wagon, and just as the sun was setting they reached the poplar grove in the meadow. there odysseus stayed until nausicaa should have had time to reach the palace. when she got there, she stopped at the gateway, and her brothers came out and lifted down the linen, and unharnessed the mules. nausicaa went up to her room, and her old nurse kindled a fire for her and got ready her supper. when odysseus thought it was time to follow, he went to the city. he marveled at the great walls and at the many gallant ships in the harbors. but when he reached the king's palace, he wondered still more. its walls were of brass, so that from without, when the doors stood open, it looked as if the sun or moon were shining within. a frieze of blue ran round the walls. all the doors were made of gold, the doorposts were of silver, the thresholds of brass, and the hook of the door was of gold. in the halls were golden figures of animals, and of men who held in their hands lighted torches. outside the courtyard was a great garden filled with blossoming pear-trees and pomegranates, and apple-trees with shining fruit, and figs, and olives. all the year round there was fruit in that garden. there were grapes in blossom, and grapes purple and ready to eat, and there were great masses of snowy pear-blossom, and pink apple-blossom, and golden ripe pears, and rosy apples. at all of those wonders odysseus stood and gazed, but it was not for long; for he hastened through the halls to where the queen sat in the firelight, spinning her purple yarn. he fell at her knees, and silence came on all those in the room when they looked at him, so brave and so handsome did he seem. "through many and great troubles have i come hither, queen," said he; "speed, i pray you, my parting right quickly, that i may come to mine own country. too long have i suffered great sorrows far away from my own friends." then he sat down amongst the ashes by the fire, and for a little space no one spoke. at last a wise old courtier said to the king: "truly it is not right that this stranger should sit in the ashes by the fire. bid him arise, and give him meat and drink." at this the king took odysseus by the hand and asked him to rise. he made one of his sons give up his silver inlaid chair, and bade his servants fetch a silver basin and a golden ewer that odysseus might wash his hands. all kinds of dainties to eat and drink he also made them bring, and the lords and the courtiers who were there feasted along with odysseus, until it was time for them to go to their own homes. before they went the king promised odysseus a safe convoy back to his own land. when he was left alone with the king and queen, the latter said to him: "tell us who thou art. i myself made the clothing that thou wearest. from whence didst thou get it?" then odysseus told her of his imprisonment in the island of calypso, of his escape, of the terrible storm that shattered his raft, and of how at length he reached the shore and met with nausicaa. "it was wrong of my daughter not to bring thee to the palace when she came with her maids," said the king. but odysseus told him why it was that nausicaa had bade him stay behind. "be not vexed with this blameless maiden," he said. "truly she is the sweetest and the fairest maiden i ever saw." then odysseus went to the bed that the servants had prepared for him. they had spread fair purple blankets over it, and when it was ready they stood beside it with their torches blazing, golden and red. "up now, stranger, get thee to sleep," said they. "thy bed is made." sleep was very sweet to odysseus that night as he lay in the soft bed with warm blankets over him. he was no longer tossed and beaten by angry seas, no longer wet and cold and hungry. the roar of furious waves did not beat in his ears, for all was still in the great halls where the flickering firelight played on the frieze of blue, and turned the brass walls into gold. next day the king gave a great entertainment for odysseus. there were boxing and wrestling and leaping and running, and in all of these the brothers of nausicaa were better than all others who tried. but when they came to throw the weight, and begged odysseus to try, he cast a stone heavier than all others, far beyond where the phæacians had thrown. that night there was feasting in the royal halls, and the king's minstrels played and sang songs of the taking of troy, and of the bravery of the great odysseus. and odysseus listened until his heart could bear no more, and tears trickled down his cheeks. only the king saw him weep. he wondered much why odysseus wept, and at last he asked him. so odysseus told the king his name, and the whole story of his adventures since he had sailed away from troyland. then the king and queen and their courtiers gave rich gifts to odysseus. a beautiful silver-studded sword was the king's gift to him. nausicaa gave him nothing, but she stood and gazed at him in his purple robes and felt more sure than ever that he was the handsomest and the greatest hero she had ever seen. "farewell, stranger," she said to him when the hour came for her to go to bed, for she knew she would not see him on the morrow. "farewell, stranger. sometimes think of me when thou art in thine own land." then said odysseus: "all the days of my life i shall remember thee, nausicaa, for thou hast given me my life." next day a company of the phæacians went down to a ship that lay by the seashore, and with them went odysseus. they carried the treasures that had been given to him and put them on board, and spread a rug on the deck for him. there odysseus lay down, and as soon as the splash of the oars in the water and the rush and gush of the water from the bow of the boat told him that the ship was sailing speedily to his dear land of ithaca, he fell into a sound sleep. onward went the ship, so swiftly that not even a hawk flying after its prey could have kept pace with her. when the bright morning stars arose, they were close to ithaca. the sailors quickly ran their vessel ashore and gently carried the sleeping odysseus, wrapped round in his rug of bright purple, to where a great olive-tree bent its gray leaves over the sand. they laid him under the tree, put his treasures beside him, and left him, still heavy with slumber. then they climbed into their ship and sailed away. while odysseus slept the goddess athene shed a thick mist round him. when he awoke, the sheltering heavens, the long paths, and the trees in bloom all looked strange to him when seen through the grayness of the mist. "woe is me!" he groaned. "the phæacians promised to bring me to ithaca, but they have brought me to a land of strangers, who will surely attack me and steal my treasures." but while he was wondering what he should do, the goddess athene came to him. she was tall and fair and noble to look upon, and she smiled upon odysseus with her kind gray eyes. under the olive-tree she sat down beside him, and told him all that had happened in ithaca while he was away, and all that he must do to win back his kingdom and his queen. the argonauts adapted by mary macgregor i how the centaur trained the heroes now i have a tale to tell of heroes who sailed away into a distant land, to win themselves renown for ever in the adventures of the golden fleece. and what was the golden fleece? it was the fleece of the wondrous ram who bore a boy called phrixus and a girl called helle across the sea; and the old greeks said that it hung nailed to a beech-tree in the war-god's wood. for when a famine came upon the land, their cruel stepmother wished to kill phrixus and helle, that her own children might reign. she said phrixus and helle must be sacrificed on an altar, to turn away the anger of the gods, who sent the famine. so the poor children were brought to the altar, and the priest stood ready with his knife, when out of the clouds came the golden ram, and took them on his back and vanished. and the ram carried the two children far away, over land and sea, till at a narrow strait helle fell off into the sea, and those narrow straits are called "hellespont" after her, and they bear that name until this day. then the ram flew on with phrixus to the northeast, across the sea which we call the black sea, and at last he stopped at colchis, on the steep sea-coast. and phrixus married the king's daughter there, and offered the ram in sacrifice, and then it was that the ram's fleece was nailed to a beech in the wood of the war-god. after a while phrixus died, but his spirit had no rest, for he was buried far from his native land and the pleasant hills of hellas. so he came in dreams to the heroes of his country, and called sadly by their beds, "come and set my spirit free, that i may go home to my fathers and to my kinsfolk." and they asked, "how shall we set your spirit free?" "you must sail over the sea to colchis, and bring home the golden fleece. then my spirit will come back with it, and i shall sleep with my fathers and have rest." he came thus, and called to them often, but when they woke they looked at each other and said, "who dare sail to colchis or bring home the golden fleece?" and in all the country none was brave enough to try, for the man and the time were not come. now phrixus had a cousin called æson, who was king in iolcos by the sea. and a fierce and lawless stepbrother drove æson out of iolcos by the sea, and took the kingdom to himself and ruled over it. when æson was driven out, he went sadly away out of the town, leading his little son by the hand. and he said to himself, "i must hide the child in the mountains, or my stepbrother will surely kill him because he is the heir." so he went up from the sea, across the valley, through the vineyards and the olive groves, and across the river, toward pelion, the ancient mountain, whose brows are white with snow. he went up and up into the mountain, over marsh, and crag, and down, till the boy was tired and footsore, and æson had to bear him in his arms till he came to the mouth of a lonely cave, at the foot of a mighty cliff. above the cliff the snow-wreaths hung, dripping and cracking in the sun. but at its foot, around the cave's mouth, grew all fair flowers and herbs, as if in a garden. there they grew gaily in the sunshine and in the spray of the torrent from above, while from the cave came the sound of music, and a man's voice singing to the harp. then æson put down the lad, and whispered, "fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall find, lay your hands upon his knees and say, 'in the name of zeus, the father of gods and men, i am your guest from this day forth.'" so the lad went in without trembling, for he too was a hero's son, but when he was within, he stopped in wonder to listen to that magic song. and there he saw the singer, lying upon bear-skins and fragrant boughs, cheiron the ancient centaur, the wisest of all beneath the sky. down to the waist he was a man, but below he was a noble horse. his white hair rolled down over his broad shoulders, and his white beard over his broad brown chest. his eyes were wise and mild, and his forehead like a mountain-wall. in his hands he held a harp of gold, and he struck it with a golden key. and as he struck, he sang till his eyes glittered and filled all the cave with light. as he sang the boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the song. at the last old cheiron was silent, and called the lad with a soft voice. and the lad ran trembling to him, and would have laid his hands upon his knees. but cheiron smiled, and drew the lad to him, and laid his hand upon his golden locks, and said, "are you afraid of my horse's hoofs, fair boy, or will you be my pupil from this day?" "i would gladly have horse's hoofs like you, if i could sing such songs as yours," said the lad. and cheiron laughed and said, "sit here till sundown, when your playfellows will come home, and you shall learn like them to be a king, worthy to rule over gallant men." then he turned to æson, who had followed his son into the cave, and said, "go back in peace. this boy shall not cross the river again till he has become a glory to you and to your house." and æson wept over his son and went away, but the boy did not weep, so full was his fancy of that strange cave, and the centaur and his song, and the playfellows whom he was to see. then cheiron put the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play it, till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout was heard outside. and then in came the sons of the heroes, and great cheiron leapt up joyfully, and his hoofs made the cave resound as the lads shouted, "come out, father cheiron, and see our game!" one cried, "i have killed two deer," and another, "i took a wild cat among the crags," and another shouted, "i have dragged a wild goat by its horns," and another carried under each arm a bear-cub. and cheiron praised them all, each as he deserved. then the lads brought in wood and split it, and lighted a blazing fire. others skinned the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast before the flames. while the venison was cooking, they bathed in the snow-torrent and washed away the dust. and then all ate till they could eat no more, for they had tasted nothing since the dawn, and drank of the clear spring water, for wine is not fit for growing lads. when the remnants of the meal were put away, they all lay down upon the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took the lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his heart. after a while they all went out to a plot of grass at the cave's mouth, and there they boxed and ran and wrestled and laughed till the stones fell from the cliffs. then cheiron took his lyre, and all the lads joined hands, and as he played they danced to his measure, in and out and round and round. there they danced hand in hand, till the night fell over land and sea, while the black glen shone with the gleam of their golden hair. and the lad danced with them, delighted, and then slept a wholesome sleep, upon fragrant leaves of bay and myrtle and flowers of thyme. he rose at the dawn and bathed in the torrent, and became a schoolfellow to the heroes' sons, and forgot iolcos by the sea, and his father and all his former life. but he grew strong and brave and cunning, upon the pleasant downs of pelion, in the keen, hungry mountain-air. and he learned to wrestle, to box and to hunt, and to play upon the harp. next he learned to ride, for old cheiron used to mount him on his back. he learned too the virtue of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds, and cheiron called him jason the healer, and that is his name until this day. ii how jason lost his sandal and ten years came and went, and jason was grown to be a mighty man. now it happened one day that jason stood on the mountain, and looked north and south and east and west. and cheiron stood by him and watched him, for he knew that the time was come. when jason looked south, he saw a pleasant land, with white-walled towns and farms nestling along the shore of a land-locked bay, while the smoke rose blue among the trees, and he knew it for iolcos by the sea. then he sighed and asked, "is it true what the heroes tell me--that i am heir of that fair land?" "and what good would it be to you, jason, if you were heir of that fair land?" "i would take it and keep it." "a strong man has taken it and kept it long. are you stronger than your uncle pelias the terrible?" "i can try my strength with his," said jason. but cheiron sighed and said, "you have many a danger to go through before you rule in iolcos by the sea, many a danger and many a woe, and strange troubles in strange lands, such as man never saw before." "the happier i," said jason, "to see what man never saw before!" cheiron sighed and said, "will you go to iolcos by the sea? then promise me two things before you go! speak harshly to no soul whom you may meet, and stand by the word which you shall speak." jason promised. then he leapt down the mountain, to take his fortune like a man. he went down through the thickets and across the downs of thyme, till he came to the vineyard walls, and the olives in the glen. and among the olives roared the river, foaming with a summer flood. and on the bank of the river sat a woman, all wrinkled, gray and old. her head shook with old age, and her hands shook on her knees. when she saw jason, she spoke, whining, "who will carry me across the flood?" but jason, heeding her not, went towards the waters. yet he thought twice before he leapt, so loud roared the torrent all brown from the mountain rains. the old woman whined again, "i am weak and old, fair youth. for hera's sake, the queen of the immortals, carry me over the torrent." jason was going to answer her scornfully, when cheiron's words, "speak harshly to no soul whom you may meet," came to his mind. so he said, "for hera's sake, the queen of the immortals, i will carry you over the torrent, unless we both are drowned midway." then the old dame leapt upon his back as nimbly as a goat. jason staggered in, wondering, and the first step was up to his knees. the first step was up to his knees, and the second step was up to his waist. the stones rolled about his feet, and his feet slipped about the stones. so he went on, staggering and panting, while the old woman cried upon his back, "fool, you have wet my mantle! do you mock at poor old souls like me?" jason had half a mind to drop her and let her get through the torrent alone, but cheiron's words were in his mind, and he said only, "patience, mother, the best horse may stumble some day." at last he staggered to the shore and set her down upon the bank. he lay himself panting awhile, and then leapt up to go upon his journey, but he first cast one look at the old woman, for he thought, "she should thank me once at least." and as he looked, she grew fairer than all women and taller than all men on earth. her garments shone like the summer sea, and her jewels like the stars of heaven. and she looked down on him with great soft eyes, with great eyes, mild and awful, which filled all the glen with light. jason fell upon his knees and hid his face between his hands. and she spoke: "i am hera, the queen of olympus. as thou hast done to me, so will i do to thee. call on me in the hour of need, and try if the immortals can forget!" when jason looked up, she rose from off the earth, like a pillar of tall white cloud, and floated away across the mountain peaks, towards olympus, the holy hill. then a great fear fell on jason, but after a while he grew light of heart. he blessed old cheiron and said, "surely the centaur is a prophet and knew what would come to pass when he bade me speak harshly to no soul whom i might meet." then he went down towards iolcos, and as he walked he found that he had lost one of his sandals in the flood. and as he went through the streets the people came out to look at him, so tall and fair he was. but some of the elders whispered together, and at last one of them stopped jason and called to him, "fair lad, who are you and whence come you, and what is your errand in the town?" "my name, good father, is jason, and i come from pelion up above. my errand is to pelias your king. tell me, then, where his palace is." but the old man said, "i will tell you, lest you rush upon your ruin unawares. the oracle has said that a man wearing one sandal should take the kingdom from pelias and keep it for himself. therefore beware how you go up to his palace, for he is fiercest and most cunning of all kings." jason laughed a great laugh in his pride. "good news, good father, both for you and me. for that very end, to take his kingdom, i came into the town." then he strode on toward the palace of pelias his uncle, while all the people wondered at the stranger. and he stood in the doorway and cried, "come out, come out, pelias the valiant, and fight for your kingdom like a man." pelias came out, wondering. "who are you, bold youth?" he cried. "i am jason, the son of æson, the heir of all the land." then pelias lifted up his hands and eyes and wept, or seemed to weep, and blessed the gods who had brought his nephew to him, never to leave him more. "for," said he, "i have but three daughters, and no son to be my heir. you shall marry whichsoever of my daughters you shall choose. but come, come in and feast." so he drew jason in and spoke to him so lovingly, and feasted him so well, that jason's anger passed. when supper was ended his three cousins came into the hall, and jason thought he would like well to have one of them for his wife. but soon he looked at pelias, and when he saw that he still wept, he said, "why do you look so sad, my uncle?" then pelias sighed heavily again and again, like a man who had to tell some dreadful story, and was afraid to begin. at last he said, "for seven long years and more have i never known a quiet night, and no more will he who comes after me, till the golden fleece be brought home." then he told jason the story of phrixus and of the golden fleece, and told him what was a lie, that phrixus' spirit tormented him day and night. and his daughters came and told the same tale, and wept and said, "oh, who will bring home the golden fleece, that the spirit of phrixus may rest, and that we may rest also, for he never lets us sleep in peace?" jason sat awhile, sad and silent, for he had often heard of that golden fleece, but he looked on it as a thing hopeless and impossible for any mortal man to win. when pelias saw him silent he began to talk of other things. "one thing there is," said pelias, "on which i need your advice, for, though you are young, i see in you a wisdom beyond your years. there is one neighbor of mine whom i dread more than all men on earth. i am stronger than he now and can command him, but i know that if he stay among us, he will work my ruin in the end. can you give me a plan, jason, by which i can rid myself of that man?" after a while, jason answered half-laughing, "were i you, i would send him to fetch that same golden fleece, for if he once set forth after it, you would never be troubled with him more." at that a little smile came across the lips of pelias, and a flash of wicked joy into his eyes. jason saw it and started, and he remembered the warning of the old man, and his own one sandal and the oracle, and he saw that he was taken in a trap. but pelias only answered gently, "my son, he shall be sent forthwith." "you mean me!" cried jason, starting up, "because i came here with one sandal," and he lifted his fist angrily, while pelias stood up to him like a wolf at bay. whether of the two was the stronger and the fiercer it would be hard to tell. but after a moment pelias spoke gently, "why so rash, my son? i have not harmed you. you will go, and that gladly, for you have a hero's heart within you, and the love of glory." jason knew that he was entrapped, but he cried aloud, "you have well spoken, cunning uncle of mine, i love glory. i will go and fetch the golden fleece. promise me but this in return, and keep your word as i keep mine. treat my father lovingly while i am gone, for the sake of the all-seeing zeus, and give me up the kingdom for my own on the day that i bring back the golden fleece." then pelias looked at him and almost loved him, in the midst of all his hate, and he said, "i promise, and i will perform. it will be no shame to give up my kingdom to the man who wins that fleece." so they both went and lay down to sleep. but jason could not sleep for thinking how he was to win the golden fleece. sometimes phrixus seemed to call him in a thin voice, faint and low, as if it came from far across the sea. sometimes he seemed to see the eyes of hera, and to hear her words again, "call on me in the hour of need, and see if the immortals can forget." on the morrow jason went to pelias and said, "give me a lamb, that i may sacrifice to hera." and as he stood by the altar hera sent a thought into his mind. and he went back to pelias and said, "if you are indeed in earnest, give me two heralds that they may go round to all the princes, who were pupils of the centaur with me. then together we will fit out a ship, and take what shall befall." at that pelias praised his wisdom and hastened to send the heralds out, for he said in his heart, "let all the princes go with jason, and, like him, never return, so shall i be lord of the land and the greatest king in hellas." iii how they built the ship argo so the heralds went out and cried to all the heroes, "who dare come to the adventures of the golden fleece?" and hera stirred the hearts of all the princes, and they came from all their valleys to the yellow sand of iolcos by the sea. all the city came out to meet them, and the men were never tired with looking at their heights and their beauty and the glitter of their arms. but the women sighed over them and whispered, "alas, they are all going to their death!" then the heroes felled the mountain pines and shaped them with the axe, and argus the famed shipbuilder taught them to build a galley, the first long ship which ever sailed the seas. they named her argo, after argus the shipbuilder, and worked at her all day long. but jason went away into a far-off land, till he found orpheus the prince of minstrels, where he dwelt in his cave. and he asked him, "will you leave your mountains, orpheus, my playfellow in old times, and sail with the heroes to bring home the golden fleece? and will you charm for us all men and all monsters with your magic harp and song?" then orpheus sighed, "have i not had enough of toil and of weary wandering far and wide, since i lived in cheiron's cave, above iolcos by the sea? and now must i go out again, to the ends of all the earth, far away into the misty darkness? but a friend's demand must be obeyed." so orpheus rose up sighing, and took his harp. he led jason to the holy oak, and he bade him cut down a bough and sacrifice to hera. and they took the bough and came to iolcos, and nailed it to the prow of the ship. and at last the ship was finished, and they tried to launch her down the beach; but she was too heavy for them to move her, and her keel sank deep into the sand. then all the heroes looked at each other blushing, but jason spoke and said, "let us ask the magic bough; perhaps it can help us in our need." and a voice came from the bough, and jason heard the words it said, and bade orpheus play upon the harp, while the heroes waited round, holding the pine-trunk rollers to help the argo toward the sea. then orpheus took his harp and began his magic song. and the good ship argo heard him and longed to be away and out at sea, till she stirred in every timber, and heaved from stem to stern, and leapt up from the sand upon the rollers, and plunged onward like a gallant horse till she rushed into the whispering sea. and they stored her well with food and water, and settled themselves each man to his oar, keeping time to the harp of orpheus. then away across the bay they rowed southward, while the people lined the cliffs. but the women wept while the men shouted at the starting of that gallant crew. iv how the argonauts won the golden fleece the heroes rowed across the bay, and while they waited there for a southwest wind, they chose themselves a captain from their crew. and some called for the strongest and hugest to be their captain, but more called for jason, because he was the wisest of them all. so jason was chosen captain, and each hero vowed to stand by him faithfully in the adventure of the golden fleece. they sailed onward and northward to pelion. and their hearts yearned for the dear old mountain, as they thought of the days gone by, of the sports of their boyhood, and their hunting, and their lessons in the cave beneath the cliff. then at last they said, "let us land here and climb the dear old hill once more. we are going on a fearful journey. who knows if we shall see pelion again? let us go up to cheiron our master, and ask his blessing ere we start." so the helmsman steered them to the shore, under the crags of pelion, and they went up through the dark pine-forests toward the centaur's cave. then, as cheiron saw them, he leapt up and welcomed them every one, and set a feast of venison before them. and after supper all the heroes clapped their hands and called on orpheus to sing, but he refused, and said, "how can i, who am the younger, sing before our ancient host?" so they called on cheiron to sing. and he sang of heroes who fought with fists and teeth, and how they tore up the pine-trees in their fury, and hurled great crags of stone, while the mountains thundered with the battle, and the land was wasted far and wide. and the heroes praised his song right heartily, for some of them had helped in that great fight. then orpheus took the lyre and sang of the making of the wondrous world. and as he sang, his voice rose from the cave above the crags, and through the tree-tops. the trees bowed their heads when they heard it, and the forest beasts crept close to listen, and the birds forsook their nests and hovered near. and old cheiron clapped his hands together and beat his hoofs upon the ground, for wonder at that magic song. now the heroes came down to the ship, and cheiron came down with them, weeping, and kissed them one by one, and promised to them great renown. and the heroes wept when they left him, till their great hearts could weep no more, for he was kind and just, and wiser than all beasts and men. then cheiron went up to a cliff and prayed for them, that they might come home safe and well, while the heroes rowed away and watched him standing on his cliff above the sea, with his great hands raised toward heaven, and his white locks waving in the wind. they strained their eyes to watch him to the last, for they felt that they should look on him no more. so they rowed on over the long swell of the sea eastward, and out into the open sea which we now call the black sea. all feared that dreadful sea, and its rocks and fogs and bitter storms, and the heroes trembled for all their courage, as they came into that wild black sea, and saw it stretching out before them, without a shore, as far as eye could see. then orpheus spoke and warned them that they must come now to the wandering blue rocks. soon they saw them, and their blue peaks shone like spires and castles of gray glass, while an ice-cold wind blew from them and chilled all the heroes' hearts. as they neared them, they could see the rocks heaving, as they rolled upon the long sea-waves, crashing and grinding together, till the roar went up to heaven. the heroes' hearts sank within them, and they lay upon their oars in fear, but orpheus called to the helmsman, "between the blue rocks we must pass, so look for an opening, and be brave, for hera is with us." the cunning helmsman stood silent, clenching his teeth, till he saw a heron come flying mast-high toward the rocks, and hover awhile before them, as if looking for a passage through. then he cried, "hera has sent us a pilot; let us follow the bird." the heron flapped to and fro a moment till he saw a hidden gap, and into it he rushed like an arrow, while the heroes watched what would befall. and the blue rocks dashed together as the bird fled swiftly through, but they struck but one feather from his tail, and then rebounded at the shock. then the helmsman cheered the heroes, and they shouted, while the oars bent beneath their strokes as they rushed between those toppling ice-crags. but ere the rocks could meet again they had passed them, and were safe out in the open sea. after that they sailed on wearily along the coast, past many a mighty river's mouth, and past many a barbarous tribe. and at day dawn they looked eastward, till, shining above the tree-tops, they saw the golden roofs of king aietes, the child of the sun. then out spoke the helmsman, "we are come to our goal at last, for there are the roofs of aietes, and the woods where all poisons grow. but who can tell us where among them is hid the golden fleece?" but jason cheered the heroes, for his heart was high and bold, and he said, "i will go alone to aietes, and win him with soft words. better so than to go altogether and to come to blows at once." but the heroes would not stay behind so they rowed boldly up the stream. and a dream came to aietes and filled his heart with fear. then he leapt up and bade his servants bring his chariot, that he might go down to the river-side, and appease the nymphs and the heroes whose spirits haunt the bank. so he went down in his golden chariot, and his daughters by his side, medeia, the fair witch-maiden, and chalciope, who had been phrixus' wife, and behind him a crowd of servants and soldiers, for he was a rich and mighty prince. and as he drove down by the reedy river, he saw the argo sliding up beneath the bank, and many a hero in her, like immortals for beauty and strength. but jason was the noblest of all, for hera, who loved him, gave him beauty and height and terrible manhood. when they came near together and looked into each other's eyes, the heroes were awed before aietes as he shone in his chariot like his father, the glorious sun. for his robes were of rich gold tissue, and the rays of his diadem flashed fire. and in his hand he bore a jeweled scepter, which glittered like the stars. sternly aietes looked at the heroes, and sternly he spoke and loud, "who are you, and what want you here that you come to our shore? know this is my kingdom and these are my people who serve me. never yet grew they tired in battle, and well they know how to face a foe." and the heroes sat silent awhile before the face of that ancient king. but hera, the awful goddess, put courage into jason's heart, and he rose and shouted loudly in answer to the king. "we are no lawless men. we come, not to plunder or carry away slaves from your land, but we have come on a quest to bring home the golden fleece. and these too, my bold comrades, they are no nameless men, for some are the sons of immortals, and some of heroes far renowned. we too never tire in battle, and know well how to give blows and to take. yet we wish to be guests at your table; it will be better so for both." then aietes' rage rushed up like a whirlwind, and his eyes flashed fire as he heard; but he crushed his anger down in his heart and spoke mildly. "if you will fight, then many a man must die. but if you will be ruled by me you will find it better far to choose the best man among you, and let him fulfil the labors which i demand. then i will give him the golden fleece for a prize and a glory to you all." so he said, and then turned his horses and drove back in silence to the town. the heroes sat dumb with sorrow, for there was no facing the thousands of king aietes' men and the fearful chance of war. but chalciope, the widow of phrixus, went weeping to the town, for she remembered her husband and all the pleasures of her youth while she watched the fair face of his kinsmen and their long locks of golden hair. and she whispered to medeia, her sister, "why should all these brave men die? why does not my father give up the fleece, that my husband's spirit may have rest?" medeia's heart pitied the heroes, and jason most of all, and she answered, "our father is stern and terrible, and who can win the golden fleece?" but chalciope said, "these men are not like our men; there is nothing which they cannot dare nor do." then medeia thought of jason and his brave countenance, and said, "if there was one among them who knew no fear, i could show him how to win the fleece." so in the dusk of the evening they went down to the river-side, chalciope and medeia the witch-maiden, and with them a lad. and the lad crept forward, among the beds of reeds, till he came to where jason kept ward on shore, leaning upon his lance, full of thought. and the lad said, "chalciope waits for you, to talk about the golden fleece." then jason went boldly with the boy and found the two princesses. when chalciope saw him, she wept and took his hands and cried, "o cousin of my beloved phrixus, go home before you die!" "it would be base to go home now, fair princess, and to have sailed all these seas in vain." then both the princesses besought him, but jason said, "it is too late to return!" "but you know not," said medeia, "what he must do who would win the fleece. he must tame the two brazen-footed bulls, which breathe devouring flame, and with them he must plow ere nightfall four acres in a field. he must sow the acres with serpents' teeth, of which each tooth springs up into an armed man. then he must fight with all these warriors. and little will it profit him to conquer them, for the fleece is guarded by a serpent more huge than any mountain pine. over his body you must step if you would reach the golden fleece." then jason laughed bitterly: "unjustly is that fleece kept here, and by an unjust and lawless king, and unjustly shall i die in my youth, for i will attempt it ere another sun be set." medeia trembled and said, "no mortal man can reach that fleece unless i guide him through." but jason cried, "no wall so high but it may be climbed at last, and no wood so thick but it may be crawled through. no serpent so wary but he may be charmed, and i may yet win the golden fleece, if a wise maiden help bold men." and he looked at medeia with his glittering eye, till she blushed and trembled and said, "who can face the fire of the bulls' breath and fight ten thousand armed men?" "he whom you help," said jason, flattering her, "for your fame is spread over all the earth." and medeia said slowly, "why should you die? i have an ointment here. i made it from the magic ice-flower. anoint yourself with that, and you shall have in you the strength of seven, and anoint your shield with it, and neither fire nor sword shall harm you. anoint your helmet with it, before you sow the serpents' teeth, and when the sons of earth spring up, cast your helmet among them, and every man of them shall perish." then jason fell on his knees before her, and thanked her and kissed her hands, and she gave him the vase of ointment, and fled trembling through the reeds. and jason told his comrades what had happened, and showed them the box of ointment. so at sunrise jason went and bathed and anointed himself from head to foot, and his shield and his helmet and his weapons. and when the sun had risen, jason sent two of his heroes to tell aietes that he was ready for the fight. up among the marble walls they went, and beneath the roofs of gold, and stood in the hall of aietes, while he grew pale with rage. "fulfil your promise to us, child of the blazing sun," the heroes cried to king aietes. "give us the serpents' teeth, and let loose the fiery bulls, for we have found a champion among us, who can win the golden fleece!" aietes grew more pale with rage, for he had fancied that they had fled away by night, but he could not break his promise, so he gave them the serpents' teeth. then he called his chariot and his horses, and sent heralds through all the town, and all the people went out with him to the dreadful war-god's field. there aietes sat upon his throne, with his warriors on each hand, thousands and tens of thousands clothed from head to foot in steel chain mail. and the people and women crowded to every window and bank and wall, while the heroes stood together, a mere handful in the midst of that great host. chalciope was there, and medeia, wrapped closely in her veil; but aietes did not know that she was muttering cunning spells between her lips. then jason cried, "fulfil your promise, and let your fiery bulls come forth!" aietes bade open the gates, and the magic bulls leapt out. their brazen hoofs rang upon the ground as they rushed with lowered heads upon jason, but he never flinched a step. the flame of their breath swept round him, but it singed not a hair of his head. and the bulls stopped short and trembled when medeia began her spell. then jason sprang upon the nearest, and seized him by the horns, and up and down they wrestled, till the bull fell groveling on his knees. for the heart of the bull died within him, beneath the steadfast eye of that dark witch-maiden and the magic whisper of her lips. so both the bulls were tamed and yoked, and jason bound them to the plow and goaded them onward with his lance, till he had plowed the sacred field. and all the heroes shouted, but aietes bit his lips with rage, for half of jason's work was done. then jason took the serpents' teeth and sowed them, and waited what would befall. and medeia looked at him and at his helmet, lest he should forget the lesson she had taught him. now every furrow heaved and bubbled, and out of every clod arose a man. out of the earth they arose by thousands, each clad from head to foot in steel, and drew their swords and rushed on jason where he stood in the midst alone. the heroes grew pale with fear for him, but aietes laughed an angry laugh. then jason snatched off his helmet and hurled it into the thickest of the throng. and hate and fear and suspicion came upon them, and one cried to his fellows, "thou didst strike me," and another, "thou art jason, thou shalt die," and each turned his hand against the rest, and they fought and were never weary, till they all lay dead upon the ground. and the magic furrows opened, and the kind earth took them home again, and jason's work was done. then the heroes rose and shouted, and jason cried to the king, "lead me to the golden fleece this moment before the sun goes down." but aietes thought, "who is this, who is proof against all magic? he may kill the serpent yet!" so he delayed, and sat taking counsel with his princes. afterwards he bade a herald cry, "to-morrow we will meet these heroes and speak about the golden fleece!" then he turned and looked at medeia. "this is your doing, false witch-maid," he said; "you have helped these yellow-haired strangers." medeia shrank and trembled, and her face grew pale with fear, and aietes knew that she was guilty, and he whispered, "if they win the fleece, you die." now the heroes went marching toward their ship, growling, like lions cheated of their prey. "let us go together to the grove and take the fleece by force," they said. but jason held them back, while he praised them for brave heroes, for he hoped for medeia's help. and after a time she came trembling, and wept a long while before she spoke. at last she said, "i must die, for my father has found out that i have helped you." but all the heroes cried, "if you die we die with you, for without you we cannot win the fleece, and home we will never go without it." "you need not die," said jason to the witch-maiden. "flee home with us across the sea. show us but how to win the fleece, and come with us and you shall be my queen, and rule over the rich princes in iolcos by the sea." and all the heroes pressed round and vowed to her that she should be their queen. medeia wept and hid her face in her hands. "must i leave my home and my people?" she sobbed. "but the lot is cast: i will show you how to win the golden fleece. bring up your ship to the woodside, and moor her there against the bank. and let jason come up at midnight and one brave comrade with him, and meet me beneath the wall." then all the heroes cried together, "i will go--and i--and i!" but medeia calmed them and said, "orpheus shall go with jason, and take his magic harp." and orpheus laughed for joy and clapped his hands, because the choice had fallen on him. so at midnight they went up the bank and found medeia, and she brought them to a thicket beside the war-god's gate. and the base of the gate fell down and the brazen doors flew wide, and medeia and the heroes ran forward, and hurried through the poison wood, guided by the gleam of the golden fleece, until they saw it hanging on one vast tree in the midst. jason would have sprung to seize it, but medeia held him back and pointed to the tree-foot, where a mighty serpent lay, coiled in and out among the roots. when the serpent saw them coming, he lifted up his head and watched them with his small bright eyes, and flashed his forked tongue. but medeia called gently to him, and he stretched out his long spotted neck, and licked her hand. then she made a sign to orpheus, and he began his magic song. and as he sung, the forest grew calm, and the leaves on every tree hung still, and the serpent's head sank down and his coils grew limp, and his glittering eyes closed lazily, till he breathed as gently as a child. jason leapt forward warily and stept across that mighty snake, and tore the fleece from off the tree-trunk. then the witch-maiden with jason and orpheus turned and rushed down to the bank where the argo lay. there was silence for a moment, when jason held the golden fleece on high. then he cried, "go now, good argo, swift and steady, if ever you would see pelion more." and she went, as the heroes drove her, grim and silent all, with muffled oars. on and on, beneath the dewy darkness, they fled swiftly down the swirling stream, on and on till they heard the merry music of the surge. into the surge they rushed, and the argo leapt the breakers like a horse, till the heroes stopped, all panting, each man upon his oar, as she slid into the broad sea. then orpheus took his harp and sang a song of praise, till the heroes' hearts rose high again, and they rowed on, stoutly and steadfastly, away into the darkness of the west. v how the argonauts reached home so the heroes fled away in haste, but aietes manned his fleet and followed them. then medeia, the dark witch-maiden, laid a cruel plot, for she killed her young brother who had come with her, and cast him into the sea, and said, "ere my father can take up his body and bury it, he must wait long and be left far behind." and all the heroes shuddered, and looked one at the other in shame. when aietes came to the place he stopped a long while and bewailed his son, and took him up and went home. so the heroes escaped for a time, but zeus saw that evil deed, and out of the heavens he sent a storm and swept the argo far from her course. and at last she struck on a shoal, and the waves rolled over her and through her, and the heroes lost all hope of life. then out spoke the magic bough, which stood upon the argo's prow, "for your guilt, you must sail a weary way to where circe, medeia's sister, dwells among the islands of the west; she shall cleanse you of your guilt." whither they went i cannot tell, nor how they came to circe's isle, but at last they reached the fairy island of the west. and jason bid them land, and as they went ashore they met circe coming down toward the ship, and they trembled when they saw her, for her hair and face and robes shone flame. then circe cried to medeia, "ah, wretched girl, have you forgotten your sins that you come hither, where the flowers bloom all the year round? where is your aged father, and the brother whom you killed? i will send you food and wine, but your ship must not stay here, for she is black with your wickedness." and the heroes prayed, but in vain, and cried, "cleanse us from our guilt!" but she sent them away and said, "go eastward, that you may be cleansed, and after that you may go home." slowly and wearily they sailed on, till one summer's eve they came to a flowery island, and as they neared it they heard sweet songs. [illustration: orpheus sang till his voice drowned the song of the sirens.] medeia started when she heard, and cried, "beware, o heroes, for here are the rocks of the sirens. you must pass close by them, but those who listen to that song are lost." then orpheus spoke, he, the king of all minstrels, "let them match their song against mine;" so he caught up his lyre and began his magic song. now they could see the sirens. three fair maidens, sitting on the beach, beneath a rock red in the setting sun. slowly they sung and sleepily, and as the heroes listened the oars fell from their hands, and their heads dropped, and they closed their heavy eyes, and all their toil seemed foolishness, and they thought of their renown no more. then medeia clapped her hands together and cried, "sing louder, orpheus, sing louder." and orpheus sang till his voice drowned the song of the sirens, and the heroes caught their oars again and cried, "we will be men, and we will dare and suffer to the last." and as orpheus sang, they dashed their oars into the sea and kept time to his music as they fled fast away, and the sirens' voices died behind them, in the hissing of the foam. but when the sirens saw that they were conquered, they shrieked for envy and rage and leapt into the sea, and were changed into rocks. then, as the argonauts rowed on, they came to a fearful whirlpool, and they could neither go back nor forward, for the waves caught them and spun them round and round. while they struggled in the whirlpool, they saw near them on the other side of the strait a rock stand in the water--a rock smooth and slippery, and half way up a misty cave. when orpheus saw the rock he groaned. "little will it help us," he cried, "to escape the jaws of the whirlpool. for in that cave lives a sea-hag, and from her cave she fishes for all things that pass by, and never ship's crew boasted that they came safe past her rock." then out of the depths came thetis, the silver-footed bride of one of the heroes. she came with all her nymphs around her, and they played like snow-white dolphins, diving in from wave to wave before the ship, and in her wake and beside her, as dolphins play. and they caught the ship and guided her, and passed her on from hand to hand, and tossed her through the billows, as maidens do the ball. and when the sea-hag stooped to seize the ship, they struck her, and she shrank back into her cave affrighted, and the argo leapt safe past her, while a fair breeze rose behind. then thetis and her nymphs sank down to their coral caves beneath the sea, and their gardens of green and purple, where flowers bloom all the year round, while the heroes went on rejoicing, yet dreading what might come next. they rowed away for many a weary day till their water was spent and their food eaten, but at last they saw a long steep island. "we will land here," they cried, "and fill our water casks upon the shore." but when they came nearer to the island they saw a wondrous sight. for on the cliffs stood a giant, taller than any mountain pine. when he saw the argo and her crew he came toward them, more swiftly than the swiftest horse, and he shouted to them, "you are pirates, you are robbers! if you land you shall die the death." then the heroes lay on their oars in fear, but medeia spoke: "i know this giant. if strangers land he leaps into his furnace, which flames there among the hills, and when he is red-hot he rushes on them, and burns them in his brazen hands. but he has but one vein in all his body filled with liquid fire, and this vein is closed with a nail. i will find out where the nail is placed, and when i have got it into my hands you shall water your ship in peace." so they took the witch-maiden and left her alone on the shore. and she stood there all alone in her beauty till the giant strode back red-hot from head to heel. when he saw the maiden he stopped. and she looked boldly up into his face and sang a magic song, and she held up a flash of crystal and said, "i am medeia, the witch-maiden. my sister circe gave me this and said, 'go, reward talus, the faithful giant, for his fame is gone out into all lands.' so come and i will pour this into your veins, that you may live for ever young." and he listened to her false words, that simple talus, and came near. but medeia said, "dip yourself in the sea first and cool yourself, lest you burn my tender hands. then show me the nail in your vein, and in that will i pour the liquid from the crystal flask." then that simple talus dipped himself in the sea, and came and knelt before medeia and showed the secret nail. and she drew the nail out gently, but she poured nothing in, and instead the liquid fire streamed forth. talus tried to leap up, crying, "you have betrayed me, false witch-maiden." but she lifted up her hands before him and sang, till he sank beneath her spell. and as he sank, the earth groaned beneath his weight and the liquid fire ran from his heel, like a stream of lava, to the sea. then medeia laughed and called to the heroes, "come and water your ship in peace." so they came and found the giant lying dead, and they fell down and kissed medeia's feet, and watered their ship, and took sheep and oxen, and so left that inhospitable shore. at the next island they went ashore and offered sacrifices, and orpheus purged them from their guilt. and at last, after many weary days and nights, all worn and tired, the heroes saw once more pelion and iolcos by the sea. they ran the ship ashore, but they had no strength left to haul her up the beach, and they crawled out on the pebbles and wept, till they could weep no more. for the houses and the trees were all altered, and all the faces they saw were strange, so that their joy was swallowed up in sorrow. the people crowded round and asked them, "who are you, that you sit weeping here?" "we are the sons of your princes, who sailed in search of the golden fleece, and we have brought it home. give us news of our fathers and mothers, if any of them be left alive on earth." then there was shouting and laughing and weeping, and all the kings came to the shore, and they led away the heroes to their homes, and bewailed the valiant dead. and jason went up with medeia to the palace of his uncle pelias. and when he came in, pelias and æson, jason's father, sat by the fire, two old men, whose heads shook together as they tried to warm themselves before the fire. jason fell down at his father's knee and wept and said, "i am your own son jason, and i have brought home the golden fleece and a princess of the sun's race for my bride." then his father clung to him like a child, and wept, and would not let him go, and cried, "promise never to leave me till i die." and jason turned to his uncle pelias, "now give me up the kingdom and fulfil your promise, as i have fulfilled mine." and his uncle gave him his kingdom. so jason stayed at iolcos by the sea. theseus adapted by mary macgregor i how theseus lifted the stone once upon a time there was a princess called aithra. she had one fair son named theseus, the bravest lad in all the land. and aithra never smiled but when she looked at him, for her husband had forgotten her, and lived far away. aithra used to go up to the temple of the gods, and sit there all day, looking out across the bay, over the purple peaks of the mountains to the attic shore beyond. when theseus was full fifteen years old, she took him up with her to the temple, and into the thickets which grew in the temple yard. she led him to a tall plane-tree, and there she sighed and said, "theseus, my son, go into that thicket and you will find at the plane-tree foot a great flat stone. lift it, and bring me what lies underneath." then theseus pushed his way in through the thick bushes, and searching among their roots he found a great flat stone, all overgrown with ivy and moss. he tried to lift it, but he could not. and he tried till the sweat ran down his brow from the heat, and the tears from his eyes for shame, but all was of no avail. and at last he came back to his mother and said, "i have found the stone, but i cannot lift it, nor do i think that any man could, in all the land." then she sighed and said, "the day may come when you will be a stronger man than lives in all the land." and she took him by the hand and went into the temple and prayed, and came down again with theseus to her home. and when a full year was past, she led theseus up again to the temple and bade him lift the stone, but he could not. then she sighed again and said the same words again, and went down and came again next year. but theseus could not lift the stone then, nor the year after. he longed to ask his mother the meaning of that stone, and what might be underneath it, but her face was so sad that he had not the heart to ask. so he said to himself, "the day shall surely come when i will lift that stone." and in order to grow strong he spent all his days in wrestling and boxing, and hunting the boar and the bull and the deer among rocks, till upon all the mountains there was no hunter so swift as theseus, and all the people said, "surely the gods are with the lad!" when his eighteenth year was past, aithra led him up again to the temple and said, "theseus, lift the stone this day, or never know who you are." and theseus went into the thicket and stood over the stone and tugged at it, and it moved. then he said, "if i break my heart in my body it shall come up." and he tugged at it once more, and lifted it, and rolled it over with a shout. when he looked beneath it, on the ground lay a sword of bronze, with a hilt of glittering gold, and beside it a pair of golden sandals. theseus caught them up and burst through the bushes and leapt to his mother, holding them high above his head. but when she saw them she wept long in silence, hiding her fair face in her shawl. and theseus stood by her and wept also, he knew not why. when she was tired of weeping aithra lifted up her head and laid her finger on her lips, and said, "hide them in your cloak, theseus, my son, and come with me where we can look down upon the sea." they went outside the sacred wall and looked down over the bright blue sea, and aithra said, "do you see the land at our feet?" and theseus said, "yes, this is where i was born and bred." and she asked, "do you see the land beyond?" and the lad answered, "yes, that is attica, where the athenian people live!" "that is a fair land and large, theseus, my son, and it looks towards the sunny south. there the hills are sweet with thyme, and the meadows with violet, and the nightingales sing all day in the thickets. there are twelve towns well peopled, the homes of an ancient race. what would you do, theseus, if you were king of such a land?" theseus stood astonished, as he looked across the broad bright sea and saw the fair attic shore. his heart grew great within him, and he said, "if i were king of such a land, i would rule it wisely and well, in wisdom and in might." and aithra smiled and said, "take, then, the sword and the sandals and go to thy father ægeus, king of athens, and say to him, 'the stone is lifted!' then show him the sword and the sandals, and take what the gods shall send." but theseus wept, "shall i leave you, o my mother?" she answered, "weep not for me." then she kissed theseus and wept over him, and went into the temple, and theseus saw her no more. ii how theseus slew the club-bearer and the pine-bender so theseus stood there alone, with his mind full of many hopes. and first he thought of going down to the harbor and hiring a swift ship and sailing across the bay to athens. but even that seemed too slow for him, and he longed for wings to fly across the sea and find his father. after a while his heart began to fail him, and he sighed and said within himself, "what if my father have other sons around him, whom he loves? what if he will not receive me? he has forgotten me ever since i was born. why should he welcome me now?" then he thought a long while sadly, but at last he cried aloud, "yes, i will make him love me. i will win honor, and do such deeds that ægeus shall be proud of me though he had fifty other sons." "i will go by land and into the mountains, and so round to athens. perhaps there i may hear of brave adventures, and do something which shall win my father's love." so theseus went by land and away into the mountains, with his father's sword upon his thigh. and he went up into the gloomy glens, up and up, till the lowland grew blue beneath his feet, and the clouds drove damp about his head. but he went up and up, ever toiling on through bog and brake, till he came to a pile of stones. on the stones a man was sitting wrapped in a cloak of bear-skin. when he saw theseus, he rose, and laughed till the glens rattled. "who art thou, fair fly, who hast walked into the spider's web?" theseus walked on steadily, and made no answer, but he thought, "is this some robber? has an adventure come to me already?" but the strange man laughed louder than ever and said, "bold fly, know thou not these glens are the web from which no fly ever finds his way out again, and i am the spider who eats the flies? come hither and let me feast upon you. it is of no use to run away, for these glens in the mountain make so cunning a web, that through it no man can find his way home." still theseus came steadily on, and he asked, "and what is your name, bold spider, and where are your spider's fangs?" the strange man laughed again. "men call me the club-bearer, and here is my spider's fang," and he lifted off from the stones at his side a mighty club of bronze. "with this i pound all proud flies," he said. "so give me up that gay sword of yours, and your mantle, and your golden sandals, lest i pound you and by ill-luck you die!" but theseus wrapped his mantle round his left arm quickly, in hard folds, and drew his sword, and rushed upon the club-bearer, and the club-bearer rushed on him. thrice he struck at theseus and made him bend under the blows like a sapling. and thrice theseus sprang upright after the blow, and he stabbed at the club-bearer with his sword, but the loose folds of the bear-skin saved him. then theseus grew angry and closed with him, and caught him by the throat, and they fell and rolled over together. but when theseus rose up from the ground the club-bearer lay still at his feet. so theseus took the strange man's club and his bear-skin and went upon his journey down the glens, till he came to a broad green valley, and he saw flocks and herds sleeping beneath the trees. and by the side of a pleasant fountain were nymphs and shepherds dancing, but no one piped to them as they danced. [illustration: they leapt across the pool and came to him.] when they saw theseus they shrieked, and the shepherds ran off and drove away their flocks, while the nymphs dived into the fountain and vanished. theseus wondered and laughed, "what strange fancies have folks here, who run away from strangers, and have no music when they dance." but he was tired and dusty and thirsty, so he thought no more of them, but drank and bathed in the clear pool, and then lay down in the shade under a plane-tree, while the water sang him to sleep as it trickled down from stone to stone. and when he woke he heard a whispering, and saw the nymphs peeping at him across the fountain from the dark mouth of a cave, where they sat on green cushions of moss. one said, "surely he is not the club-bearer," and another, "he looks no robber, but a fair and gentle youth." then theseus smiled and called them. "fair nymphs, i am not the club-bearer. he sleeps among the kites and crows, but i have brought away his bear-skin and his club." they leapt across the pool, and came to him, and called the shepherds back. and theseus told them how he had slain the club-bearer, and the shepherds kissed his feet and sang, "now we shall feed our flocks in peace, and not be afraid to have music when we dance. for the cruel club-bearer has met his match, and he will listen for our pipes no more." then the shepherds brought him kids' flesh and wine, and the nymphs brought him honey from the rocks. and theseus ate and drank with them, and they begged him to stay, but he would not. "i have a great work to do;" he said, "i must go towards athens." and the shepherds said, "you must look warily about you, lest you meet the robber, called the pine-bender. for he bends down two pine-trees and binds all travelers hand and foot between them, and when he lets the trees go their bodies are torn in sunder." but theseus went on swiftly, for his heart burned to meet that cruel robber. and in a pine-wood at last he met him, where the road ran between high rocks. there the robber sat upon a stone by the wayside, with a young fir-tree for a club across his knees, and a cord laid ready by his side, and over his head, upon the fir-top, hung the bones of murdered men. then theseus shouted to him, "holla, thou valiant pine-bender, hast thou two fir-trees left for me?" the robber leapt to his feet and answered, pointing to the bones above his head, "my larder has grown empty lately, so i have two fir-trees ready for thee." he rushed on theseus, lifting his club, and theseus rushed upon him, and they fought together till the greenwoods rang. then theseus heaved up a mighty stroke and smote the pine-bearer down upon his face, and knelt upon his back, and bound him with his own cord, and said, "as thou hast done to others, so shall it be done to thee." and he bent down two young fir-trees and bound the robber between them for all his struggling and his prayers, and as he let the trees go the robber perished, and theseus went on, leaving him to the hawks and crows. clearing the land of monsters as he went, theseus saw at last the plain of athens before him. and as he went up through athens all the people ran out to see him, for his fame had gone before him, and every one knew of his mighty deeds, and they shouted, "here comes the hero!" but theseus went on sadly and steadfastly, for his heart yearned after his father. he went up the holy stairs to the spot where the palace of ægeus stood. he went straight into the hall and stood upon the threshold and looked round. he saw his cousins sitting at the table, and loud they laughed and fast they passed the wine-cup round, but no ægeus sat among them. they saw theseus and called to him, "holla, tall stranger at the door, what is your will to-day?" "i come to ask for hospitality." "then take it and welcome. you look like a hero and a bold warrior, and we like such to drink with us." "i ask no hospitality of you; i ask it of ægeus the king, the master of this house." at that some growled, and some laughed and shouted, "heyday! we are all masters here." "then i am master as much as the rest of you," said theseus, and he strode past the table up the hall, and looked around for ægeus, but he was nowhere to be seen. the revelers looked at him and then at each other, and each whispered to the man next him, "this is a forward fellow; he ought to be thrust out at the door." but each man's neighbor whispered in return, "his shoulders are broad; will you rise and put him out?" so they all sat still where they were. then theseus called to the servants and said, "go tell king ægeus, your master, that theseus is here and asks to be his guest awhile." a servant ran and told ægeus, where he sat in his chamber with medeia, the dark witch-woman, watching her eye and hand. and when ægeus heard of theseus he turned pale and again red, and rose from his seat trembling, while medeia, the witch, watched him like a snake. "what is theseus to you?" she asked. but he said hastily, "do you not know who this theseus is? the hero who has cleared the country from all monsters. i must go out and welcome him." so ægeus came into the hall, and when theseus saw him his heart leapt into his mouth, and he longed to fall on his neck and welcome him. but he controlled himself and thought, "my father may not wish for me, after all. i will try him before i discover myself." and he bowed low before ægeus and said, "i have delivered the king's realm from many monsters, therefore i am come to ask a reward of the king." old ægeus looked on him and loved him, but he only sighed and said, "it is little that i can give you, noble lad, and nothing that is worthy of you." "all i ask," said theseus, "is to eat and drink at your table." "that i can give you," said ægeus, "if at least i am master in my own hall." then he bade them put a seat for theseus, and set before him the best of the feast, and theseus sat and ate so much that all the company wondered at him, but always he kept his club by his side. but medeia, the dark witch-maiden, was watching all the while, and she saw how the heart of ægeus opened to theseus, and she said to herself, "this youth will be master here, unless i hinder it." then she went back modestly to her chamber, while theseus ate and drank, and all the servants whispered, "this, then, is the man who killed the monsters! how noble are his looks, and how huge his size! ah, would he were our master's son!" presently medeia came forth, decked in all her jewels and her rich eastern robes, and looking more beautiful than the day, so that all the guests could look at nothing else. and in her right hand she held a golden cup, and in her left a flask of gold. she came up to theseus, and spoke in a sweet and winning voice, "hail to the hero! drink of my charmed cup, which gives rest after every toil and heals all wounds;" and as she spoke she poured sparkling wine into the cup. theseus looked up into her fair face and into her deep dark eyes, and as he looked he shrank and shuddered, for they were dry eyes like the eyes of a snake. then he rose and said, "the wine is rich, and the wine-bearer fair. let her pledge me first herself in the cup that the wine may be sweeter." medeia turned pale and stammered, "forgive me, fair hero, but i am ill and dare drink no wine." theseus looked again into her eyes and cried, "thou shalt pledge me in that cup or die!" then medeia shrieked and dashed the cup to the ground and fled, for there was strong poison in that wine. and medeia called her dragon chariot, and sprang into it, and fled aloft, away over land and sea, and no man saw her more. [illustration: theseus looked up into her fair face.] ægeus cried, "what have you done?" but theseus said, "i have rid the land of one enchantment, now i will rid it of one more." and he came close to ægeus and drew from his cloak the sword and the sandals, and said the words which his mother bade him, "the stone is lifted." ægeus stepped back a pace and looked at the lad till his eyes grew dim, and then he cast himself on his neck and wept, and theseus wept, till they had no strength left to weep more. then ægeus turned to all the people and cried, "behold my son!" but the cousins were angry and drew their swords against theseus. twenty against one they fought, and yet theseus beat them all, till at last he was left alone in the palace with his new-found father. but before nightfall all the town came up, with dances and songs, because the king had found an heir to his royal house. so theseus stayed with his father all the winter through, and when spring drew near, he saw all the people of athens grow sad and silent. and he asked the reason of the silence and the sadness, but no one would answer him a word. then he went to his father and asked him, but ægeus turned away his face and wept. but when spring had come, a herald stood in the market-place and cried, "o people and king of athens, where is your yearly tribute?" then a great lamentation arose throughout the city. but theseus stood up before the herald and cried, "i am a stranger here. tell me, then, why you come?" "to fetch the tribute which king ægeus promised to king minos. blood was shed here unjustly, and king minos came to avenge it, and would not leave athens till the land had promised him tribute--seven youths and seven maidens every year, who go with me in a black-sailed ship." then theseus groaned inwardly and said, "i will go myself with these youths and maidens, and kill king minos upon his royal throne." but ægeus shrieked and cried, "you shall not go, my son, you shall not go to die horribly, as those youths and maidens die. for minos thrusts them into a labyrinth, and no one can escape from its winding ways, before they meet the minotaur, the monster who feeds upon the flesh of men. there he devours them horribly, and they never see this land again." and theseus said, "therefore all the more will i go with them, and slay the accursed minotaur." then ægeus clung to his knees, but theseus would not stay, and at last he let him go, weeping bitterly, and saying only this last word, "promise me but this, if you return in peace, though that may hardly be. take down the black sail of the ship, for i shall watch for it all day upon the cliffs, and hoist instead a white sail, that i may know afar off that you are safe." and theseus promised, and went out, and to the market-place, where the herald stood and drew lots for the youths and maidens who were to sail in that sad ship. the people stood wailing and weeping as the lot fell on this one and on that, but theseus strode into the midst and cried, "here is one who needs no lot. i myself will be one of the seven." and the herald asked in wonder, "fair youth, do you know whither you are going?" "i know," answered theseus boldly; "let us go down to the black-sailed ship." so they went down to the black-sailed ship, seven maidens and seven youths, and theseus before them all. and the people followed them, lamenting. but theseus whispered to his companions, "have hope, for the monster is not immortal." then their hearts were comforted a little, but they wept as they went on board; and the cliffs rang with the voice of their weeping. iii how theseus slew the minotaur and the ship sailed slowly on, till at last it reached the land of crete, and theseus stood before king minos, and they looked each other in the face. minos bade take the youths and the maidens to prison, and cast them to the minotaur one by one. then theseus cried, "a boon, o minos! let me be thrown first to the monster. for i came hither, for that very purpose, of my own will and not by lot." "who art thou, thou brave youth?" asked the king. "i am the son of ægeus, the king of athens, and i am come here to end the yearly tribute." and minos pondered a while, looking steadfastly at him, and he thought, "the lad means to atone by his own death for his father's sin;" and he answered mildly, "go back in peace, my son. it is a pity that one so brave should die." but theseus said, "i have sworn that i will not go back till i have seen the monster face to face." at that minos frowned and said, "then thou shalt see him." and they led theseus away into the prison, with the other youths and maidens. now ariadne, the daughter of minos, saw theseus as she came out of her white stone hall, and she loved him for his courage and his beauty, and she said, "it is shameful that such a youth should die." and by night she went down to the prison and told him all her heart, and said, "flee down to your ship at once, for i have bribed the guards before the door. flee, you and all your friends, and go back in peace, and take me with you. for i dare not stay after you are gone. my father will kill me miserably, if he knows what i have done." and theseus stood silent awhile, for he was astonished and confounded by her beauty. but at last he said, "i cannot go home in peace till i have seen and slain this minotaur, and put an end to the terrors of my land." "and will you kill the minotaur? how then will you do it?" asked ariadne in wonder. "i know not, nor do i care, but he must be strong if he be too strong for me," said theseus. then she loved him all the more and said, "but when you have killed him, how will you find your way out of the labyrinth?" "i know not, neither do i care, but it must be a strange road if i do not find it out before i have eaten up the monster's carcass." then ariadne loved him yet more, and said, "fair youth, you are too bold, but i can help you, weak as i am. i will give you a sword, and with that perhaps you may slay the monster, and a clue of thread, and by that perhaps you may find your way out again. only promise me that if you escape you will take me home with you." then theseus laughed and said, "am i not safe enough now?" and he hid his sword, and rolled up the clue in his hand, and then he fell down before ariadne and kissed her hands and her feet, while she wept over him a long while. then the princess went away, and theseus lay down and slept sweetly. when evening came the guards led him away to the labyrinth. and he went down into that doleful gulf, and he turned on the left hand and on the right hand, and went up and down till his head was dizzy, but all the while he held the clue. for when he went in he fastened it to a stone and left it to unroll out of his hand as he went on, and it lasted till he met the minotaur in a narrow chasm between black cliffs. and when he saw the minotaur, he stopped a while, for he had never seen so strange a monster. his body was a man's, but his head was the head of a bull, and his teeth were the teeth of a lion. when he saw theseus, he roared and put his head down and rushed right at him. but theseus stepped aside nimbly, and as the monster passed by, cut him in the knee, and ere he could turn in the narrow path, he followed him, and stabbed him again and again from behind, till the monster fled, bellowing wildly. theseus followed him, holding the clue of thread in his left hand, and at last he came up with him, where he lay panting, and caught him by the horns, and forced his head back, and drove the keen sword through his throat. then theseus turned and went back, limping and weary, feeling his way by the clue of thread, till he came to the mouth of that doleful place, and saw waiting for him--whom but ariadne? and he whispered, "it is done," and showed her the sword. then she laid her finger on her lips, and led him to the prison and opened the doors, and set all the prisoners free, while the guards lay sleeping heavily, for ariadne had drugged them with wine. so they fled to their ship together, and leapt on board and hoisted up the sail, and the night lay dark around them, so that they escaped all safe, and ariadne became the wife of theseus. but that fair ariadne never came to athens with her husband. some say that, as she lay sleeping on the shore, one of the gods found her and took her up into the sky, and some say that the gods drove away theseus, and took ariadne from him by force. but, however that may be, in his haste or his grief, theseus forgot to put up the white sail. now ægeus his father sat on the cliffs and watched day after day, and strained his old eyes across the waters to see the ship afar. and when he saw the black sail he gave up theseus for dead, and in his grief he fell into the sea and was drowned, and it is called the ægean sea to this day. then theseus was king of athens, and he guarded it and ruled it well, and many wise things he did, so that his people honored him after he was dead, for many a hundred years, as the father of their freedom and of their laws. hercules adapted by thomas cartwright i the twelve labors of hercules hercules, the hero of strength and courage, was the son of jupiter and alcmene. his life was one long series of wonders. as soon as he was born, juno, who hated alcmene with an exceeding great hatred, went to the fates and begged them to make the life of the newly-born babe hard and perilous. the fates were three, namely, clotho who spun the thread of life, lachesis who settled the lot of gods and mortals in life, and atropos who cut the thread of life spun by clotho. when once the fates had decided what the lot of any being, whether god or man, was to be, jupiter himself could not alter their decision. it was to these fateful three, then, that juno made her prayer concerning the infant hercules. she could not, however, prevent him from having an honorable career, since it was written that he should triumph over all dangers and difficulties that might beset him. all that was conceded to her was that hercules should be put under the dominion of eurystheus, king of thebes, his eldest brother, a harsh and pitiless man. this only half satisfied the hatred of juno, but it made the life of hercules exceedingly bitter. in fact, hercules was but a child, when juno sent two enormous serpents against him. these serpents, gliding into his cradle, were on the point of biting the child when he, with his own hands, seized them and strangled the life out of their slimy bodies. having grown up to man's estate, hercules did many mighty deeds of valor that need not be recounted here. but the hatred of juno always pursued him. at length, when he had been married several years, she made him mad and impelled him in his madness to kill his own beloved children! when he came again to his sober senses, and learnt that he was the murderer of his own offspring he was filled with horror, and betook himself into exile so that he might hide his face from his fellow men. after a time he went to the oracle at delphi to ask what he should do in atonement for his dreadful deed. he was ordered to serve his brother eurystheus--who, by the help of juno, had robbed him of his kingdom--for twelve years. after this he was to become one of the immortals. eurystheus feared that hercules might use his great strength and courage against him, in punishment for the evil that he had done. he therefore resolved to banish him and to impose such tasks upon him as must certainly bring about his destruction. hence arose the famous twelve labors of hercules. eurystheus first set hercules to keep his sheep at nemea and to kill the lion that ofttimes carried off the sheep, and sometimes the shepherd also. the man-eater lurked in a wood that was hard by the sheep-run. hercules would not wait to be attacked by him. arming himself with a heavy club and with a bow and arrows, he went in search of the lion's lair and soon found it. finding that arrows and club made no impression upon the thick skin of the lion, the hero was constrained to trust entirely to his own thews and sinews. seizing the lion with both hands, he put forth all his mighty strength and strangled the beast just as he had strangled the serpents in his cradle. then, having despoiled the dead man-eater of his skin, hercules henceforth wore this trophy as a garment, and as a shield and buckler. in those days, there was in greece a monstrous serpent known as the hydra of lerna, because it haunted a marsh of that name whence it issued in search of prey. as his second labor, hercules was sent to slay this creature. this reptile had nine heads of which the midmost was immortal. when hercules struck off one of these heads with his club, two others at once appeared in its place. by the help of his servant, hercules burned off the nine heads, and buried the immortal one beneath a huge rock. the blood of the hydra was a poison so subtle that hercules, by dipping the points of his arrows therein, made them so deadly that no mortal could hope to recover from a wound inflicted by them. we shall see later that hercules himself died from the poison of one of these self-same arrows. the third labor imposed upon hercules by eurystheus was the capture of the arcadian stag. this remarkable beast had brazen feet and antlers of solid gold. hercules was to carry the stag alive to eurystheus. it proved no easy task to do this. the stag was so fleet of foot that no one had been able to approach it. for more than a year, over hill and dale, hercules pursued the beast without ever finding a chance of capturing it without killing it. at length he shot at it and wounded it with an arrow--not, you may be sure, with one of the poisoned ones--and, having caught it thus wounded, he carried it on his shoulder to his brother and thus completed the third of his labors. in the neighborhood of mount erymanthus, in arcadia, there lived, in those far-off days, a savage boar that was in the habit of sallying forth from his lair and laying waste the country round about, nor had any man been able to capture or restrain him. to free the country from the ravages of this monster was the fourth labor of hercules. having tracked the animal to his lurking place after chasing him through the deep snow, hercules caught him in a net and bore him away in triumph on his shoulders to the feet of the amazed eurystheus. augeas, king of elis, in greece, not far from mount olympus, owned a herd of oxen 3,000 in number. they were stabled in stables that had not been cleaned out for thirty years. the stench was terrible and greatly troubled the health of the land. eurystheus set hercules the task of cleaning out these augean stables in a single day! but the wit of the hero was equal to the occasion. with his great strength he diverted the flow of two rivers that ran their courses near the stables and made them flow right through the stables themselves, and lo! the nuisance that had been growing for thirty years was no more! such was the fifth labor of hercules. on an island in a lake near stymphalus, in arcadia, there nested in those days some remarkable and terrible birds--remarkable because their claws, wings and beaks were brazen, and terrible because they fed on human flesh and attacked with their terrible beaks and claws all who came near the lake. to kill these dreadful birds was the sixth labor. minerva supplied hercules with a brazen rattle with which he roused the birds from their nests, and then slew them with his poisoned arrows while they were on the wing. this victory made hercules popular throughout the whole of greece, and eurystheus saw that nothing he could devise was too hard for the hero to accomplish. the seventh labor was to capture a mad bull that the sea-god neptune had let loose in the island of crete, of which island minos was at that time king. this ferocious creature breathed out from his nostrils a whirlwind of flaming fire. but hercules was, as you no doubt have guessed, too much for the brazen bull. he not only caught the monster, but tamed him, and bore him aloft on his shoulders, into the presence of the affrighted eurystheus, who was at a loss to find a task impossible for hercules to perform. the taking of the mares of diomedes was the eighth labor. these horses were not ordinary horses, living on corn. they were flesh eaters, and moreover, they devoured human beings, and so were hateful to mankind. on this occasion hercules was not alone. he organised a hunt and, by the help of a few friends, caught the horses and led them to eurystheus. the scene of this labor was thrace, an extensive region lying between the ægean sea, the euxine or black sea, and the danube. seizing the girdle of hippolyte was the next feat set for the hero. this labor was due to the desire of the daughter of eurystheus for the girdle of hippolyte, queen of the amazons--a tribe of female warriors. it is said that the girls had their right breasts cut off in order that they might use the bow with greater ease in battle! this, indeed, is the meaning of the term amazon, which signifies "breastless." after a troublesome journey hercules arrived safely at the court of hippolyte, who received him kindly; and this labor might, perchance, have been a bloodless one had not his old enemy juno stirred up the female warriors against him. in the fight that followed, hercules killed hippolyte--a feat scarcely to be proud of--and carried off her girdle, and thus the vanity of the daughter of eurystheus was gratified. to capture the oxen of geryon was the tenth labor of hercules. in the person of geryon we meet another of those strange beings in which the makers of myths and fairy tales seem to revel. geryon was a three-bodied monster whose cattle were kept by a giant and a two-headed dog! it is said that hercules, on his way to the performance of this tenth labor, formed the pillars of hercules--those two rocky steeps that guard the entrance to the straits of gibraltar, i.e., calpa (gibraltar) and abyla (ceuta)--by rending asunder the one mountain these two rocks are said to have formed, although now they are eighteen miles apart. hercules slew the giant, the two-headed dog and geryon himself, and in due course brought the oxen to eurystheus. sometime afterwards, eurystheus, having heard rumors of a wonderful tree which, in some unknown land, yielded golden apples, was moved with great greed to have some of this remarkable fruit. hence he commanded hercules to make the quest of this tree his eleventh labor. the hero had no notion where the tree grew, but he was bound by his bond to obey the king, so he set out and after a time reached the kingdom of atlas, king of africa. he had been told that atlas could give him news of the tree. i must tell you that king atlas, having in the olden time helped the titans in their wars against the gods, was undergoing punishment for this offence, his penance being to hold up the starry vault of heaven upon his shoulders. this means, perhaps, that in the kingdom of atlas there were some mountains so high that their summits seemed to touch the sky. hercules offered to relieve atlas of his load for a time, if he would but tell him where the famous tree was, upon which grew the golden fruit. atlas consented, and for some days hercules supported the earth and the starry vault of heaven upon his shoulders. then atlas opened the gate of the garden of the hesperides to hercules. these hesperides were none other than the three daughters of atlas, and it was their duty, in which they were helped by a dragon, to guard the golden apples. hercules killed the dragon and carried off the apples, but they were afterwards restored to their place by minerva. cerberus, as perhaps you know, was the triple-headed dog that guarded the entrance to the nether world. to bring up this three-headed monster from the land of the dead was the last of the twelve labors. it was also the hardest. pluto, the god of the nether world, told hercules he might carry off the dog if he could take him without using club or spear--never dreaming that the hero could perform such a difficult feat. hercules penetrated to the entrance of pluto's gloomy regions, and, putting forth his strength succeeded, not only in seizing cerberus, but also in carrying him to eurystheus, and so brought the twelve labors to an end, and was released from his servitude to his cruel brother. these exploits of strength and endurance do not by any means complete the tale of the wonderful doings of the great greek hero. he continued his deeds of daring to the end of his life. one of the last of his exploits was to kill the eagle that daily devoured the liver of prometheus, whose story is both curious and interesting. he is said to have been the great friend of mankind, and was chained to a rock on mount caucasus because he stole fire from heaven and gave it as a gift to the sons of man. while in chains an eagle was sent by jupiter daily to feed on prometheus's liver, which jupiter made to grow again each night. from this continuous torture he was released by hercules, who slew the eagle and burst asunder the bonds of this friend of man. ii hercules in the nether world theseus and pirithous were two athenians, who, after having been at enmity for a long time at last became the very best of friends. they, like hercules, had passed their youth in doing doughty deeds for the benefit of mankind, and their fame had spread abroad throughout the land of greece. this did not prevent them from forming a very foolish project. they actually planned to go down to hades and carry off pluto's wife, proserpina, whom pirithous himself wished to marry. this rashness brought about their ruin, for they were seized by pluto and chained to a rock. all this hercules, who was the friend of theseus, learnt while on one of his journeys, and he resolved to rescue theseus from his eternal punishment. as for pirithous, the prime mover in the attempted outrage, him hercules meant to leave to his fate. hercules had been warned to take a black dog to sacrifice to hecate and a cake to mollify cerberus, as was usual; but he would not listen to such tales and meant to force his way to theseus. when he found himself face to face with cerberus he seized him, threw him down and chained him with strong chains. the next difficulty in the way was black and muddy acheron, the first of the seven rivers that ran round hades, and formed a barrier between the living and the departed. this river had not always run under the vaults of hades. formerly its course was upon the earth. but when the titans attempted to scale the heaven, this river had the ill luck to quench their thirst, and jupiter to punish even the waters of the river for abetting his enemies, turned its course aside into the under world where its waves, slow-moving and filthy, lost themselves in styx, the largest of all the rivers of hades, which ran round pluto's gloomy kingdom no less than nine times. on reaching the banks of styx, hercules was surprised to see flying around him a crowd of disconsolate spirits, whom charon the ferryman refused to row across styx, because they could not pay him his fee of an obol, a greek coin worth about three cents of our money, which the greeks were accustomed to place in the mouths of their dead for the purpose, as they thought, of paying charon his ferry fee. fierce charon frowned when he beheld hercules for he feared his light boat of bark would sink under his weight, it being only adapted for the light and airy spirits of the dead; but when the son of jupiter told him his name he was mollified and allowed the hero to take his place at his side. as soon as the boat had touched the shore, hercules went towards the gloomy palace of pluto where he with difficulty, on account of the darkness, saw pluto seated upon an ebony throne by the side of his beloved proserpina. pluto was not at all pleased to see the hero, as he hated the living and had interest only in the shades of the dead. when hercules announced himself, however, he gave him a permit to go round his kingdom and, in addition, acceded to his prayer for the release of theseus. at the foot of pluto's throne hercules saw death the reaper. he was clothed in a black robe spotted with stars and his fleshless hand held the sharp sickle with which he is said to cut down mortals as the reaper cuts down corn. our hero was glad to escape from this dismal palace and as he did not know exactly where to find theseus he began to make the circuit of hades. during his progress he saw the shades of many people of whom, on earth, he had heard much talk. he had been wandering about some time when, in a gloomy chamber, he saw three old sisters, wan and worn, spinning by the feeble light of a lamp. they were the fates, deities whose duty it was to thread the days of all mortals who appeared on earth, were it but for an instant. clotho, the spinner of the thread of life, was the eldest of the three. she held in her hand a distaff, wound with black and white woollen yarn, with which were sparingly intermixed strands of silk and gold. the wool stood for the humdrum everyday life of man: the silk and gold marked the days of mirth and gladness, always, alas! too few in number. lachesis, the second of the fates, was quickly turning with her left hand a spindle, while her right hand was leading a fine thread which the third sister, atropos by name, used to cut with a pair of sharp shears at the death of each mortal. you may imagine how hard these three sisters worked when you remember that the thread of life of every mortal had to pass through their fateful fingers. hercules would have liked them to tell him how long they had yet to spin for him, but they had no time to answer questions and so the hero passed on. some steps farther he stopped before three venerable looking old men, seated upon a judgment seat, judging, as it seemed, a man newly come to pluto's kingdom. they were minos, æacus and rhadamanthus, the three judges of hades, whose duty it was to punish the guilty by casting them into a dismal gulf, tartarus, whence none might ever emerge, and to reward the innocent by transporting them to the elysian fields where delight followed delight in endless pleasure. these judges could never be mistaken because themis, the goddess of justice, held in front of them a pair of scales in which she weighed the actions of men. their decrees were instantly carried out by a pitiless goddess, nemesis, or vengeance by name, armed with a whip red with the gore of her sinful victims. iii black tartarus and the elysian fields immediately on quitting the presence of the three judges, hercules saw them open out before him an immense gulf whence arose thick clouds of black smoke. this smoke hid from view a river of fire that rolled its fiery waves onwards with a deafening din. not far remote from this rolled cocytus, another endless stream, fed by the tears of the wretches doomed to black tartarus, in which place of eternal torment hercules now found himself. the rulers of these mournful regions were the furies who, with unkempt hair and armed with whips, tormented the condemned without mercy by showing them continually in mirrors the images of their former crimes. into tartarus were thrown, never to come out again, the shades or manes of traitors, ingrates, perjurers, unnatural children, murderers and hypocrites who had during their lives pretended to be upright and honorable in order to deceive the just. but these wretches were not the only denizens of black tartarus. there were to be seen great scoundrels who had startled the world with their frightful crimes. for these pluto and the furies had invented special tortures. among the criminals so justly overtaken by the divine vengeance hercules noticed salmoneus, whom he had formerly met upon earth. this madman, whose pride had overturned his reason, thought himself to be a god equal to the thunderer himself. in order to imitate remotely the rolling of thunder, he used to be driven at night, over a brazen bridge, in a chariot, whence he hurled lighted torches upon his unhappy slaves who were crowded on the bridge and whom his guards knocked down in imitation of jove's thunder-bolts. indignant at the pride and cruelty of the tyrant, jupiter struck him with lightning in deadly earnest and then cast him into the outer darkness of tartarus, where he was for ever burning without being consumed. sisyphus, the brother of salmoneus, was no better than he. when on earth, he had been the terror of attica, where, as a brigand, he had robbed and murdered with relentless cruelty. theseus, whom hercules was bent on freeing from his torment, had met and killed this robber-assassin, and jupiter, for his sins, decreed that the malefactor should continually be rolling up a hill in tartarus a heavy stone which, when with incredible pains he had brought nearly to the top, always rolled back again, and he had to begin over and over again the heart-breaking ascent. some distance from sisyphus hercules came upon tantalus, who, in the flesh, had been king of phrygia, but who now, weak from hunger and parched with thirst, was made to stand to his chin in water with branches of tempting luscious fruit hanging ripe over his head. when he essayed to drink the water it always went from him, and when he stretched out his hand to pluck the fruit, back the branches sprang out of reach. in addition an immense rock, hung over his head, threatened every moment to crush him. it is said that tantalus, when in the flesh, had betrayed the secrets of the gods and also committed other great crimes. for this he was "tantalized" with food and drink, which, seeming always to be within his reach, ever mocked his hopes by eluding his grasp. the groans of a crowd of disheveled women next attracted the affrighted attention of hercules. they were forty-nine of the fifty daughters of danaus, king of argos, who, at the instigation of their father, had killed their husbands because danaus thought they were conspiring to depose him. one only of the fifty, to wit hypermnestra, had the courage to disobey this unlawful command and so saved the life of lynceus, her husband, with whom she fled. later on lynceus returned and slew the cruel king in battle. to punish the forty-nine danaides, jupiter cast them into the outer darkness of black tartarus, where they were ever engaged in the hopeless task of pouring water into a sieve. hypermnestra, on the contrary, was honored while alive, and also after her death, for loving goodness even more than she loved her father. glutted with horror hercules at length quitted gloomy tartarus and beheld in front of him still another river. this was lethe. whoso drank the waters of this river, which separated the place of torment from the abode of the blest, lost memory of all that had been aforetime in his mind, and so was no longer troubled by even the remembrance of human misery. across lethe stretched the elysian fields where the shades of the blest dwelt in bliss without alloy. an enchanting greenness made the sweet-smelling groves as pleasant to the eye as they were to the sense of smell. sunlit, yet never parched with torrid heat, everywhere their verdure charmed the delighted eye, and all things conspired to make the shades of the good and wise, who were privileged to dwell in these elysian fields, delightfully happy. hercules saw, in these shady regions of the blest, a crowd of kings, heroes and men and women of lower degree who, while on earth, had loved and served their fellow men. having at length found and released theseus, hercules set out with him for the upper world. the two left hades by an ivory door, the key of which pluto had confided to their care. what awesome tales they had to recount to their wondering friends of the marvels of black tartarus and of radiant elysium! iv the tunic of nessus the centaur there abode in thessaly, in the days of hercules, a strange race of men who had the head and arms of a man together with the body of a horse. they were called centaurs, or bull-slayers. one of them named cheiron, famous for his knowledge of medicine, music and botany, had been the teacher of hercules. but many of them, although learned, were not good. hercules and theseus had waged war on them and had killed many, so that their numbers were greatly lessened. having married deianira, the daughter of a powerful king of calydon, in greece, hercules was traveling home with her when he came to the banks of a river and was at a loss how to cross it. seeing his perplexity, nessus, one of the centaurs, offered to take deianira on his back and carry her over the stream. this offer hercules gladly accepted. no sooner, however, did the crafty centaur obtain possession of deianira than he made off with her, intending to have her as his own wife. you can easily imagine how angry this outrage made hercules. he shot one of his poisoned arrows with so much force that it went right through the traitor centaur, and wounded him even unto death. but, before dying, nessus had time to tell deianira that if she wanted to keep hercules always true to her she had but to take his shirt, and, when her husband's love was waning, prevail on him to wear it. deianira took the shirt, and shortly afterwards, being afraid that her husband was ceasing to love her, she sent it to him as a present. now, you will remember that hercules had shot through the shirt of nessus one of his poisoned arrows, and you will not be surprised to hear that some of the poison had remained in the shirt. so when hercules put it on, which he did immediately upon receiving it, he was seized with frenzy and, in his madness, he uttered terrible cries and did dreadful deeds. with his powerful hands he broke off huge pieces of rock, tore up pine-trees by their roots and hurled them with resounding din into the valley. he could not take off the fatal shirt, and as he tore off portions of it he tore, at the same time, his quivering flesh. the servant of deianira who had carried him the fatal shirt, and who wished to solace him in his pain, he seized as she approached him and flung headlong into the sea, where she was changed into a rock that long, so runs the legend, kept its human form. but at length the majesty and the courage of the hero asserted themselves, and, although still in agony, his madness left him. calling to his side his friend philoctetes, he wished to embrace him once more before dying; but fearful lest he should, in so doing, infect his friend with the deadly poison that was consuming him, he cried in his agony: "alas, i am not even permitted to embrace thee!" then he gathered together the trees he had uprooted and made a huge funeral pyre, such as was used by the ancients in burning their dead. climbing to the top of the heap, he spread out the skin of the nemean lion, and, supporting himself upon his club, gave the signal for philoctetes to kindle the fire that was to reduce him to ashes. in return for this service he gave philoctetes a quiver full of those deadly arrows that had been dipped in the blood of the hydra of lerna. he further enjoined his friend to let no man know of his departure from life, to the intent that the fear of his approach might prevent fresh monsters and new robbers from ravaging the earth. thus died hercules, and after his death he was received as a god amongst the immortals on mount olympus, where he married hebe, jove's cupbearer. in his honor mortals were commanded to build altars and to raise temples. the perilous voyage of æneas adapted by alice zimmekn once upon a time, nearly three thousand years ago, the city of troy in asia minor was at the height of its prosperity. it was built on a fortified hill on the southern slopes of the hellespont, and encircled by strong walls that the gods had helped to build. through their favor troy became so strong and powerful that she subdued many of the neighboring states and forced them to fight for her and do her bidding. thus it happened that when the greeks came to asia with an army of 100,000 men, troy was able to hold out against them for nine years, and in the tenth was only taken by a trick. in the "iliad" of homer you may read all about the quarrel between the trojans and greeks, the fighting before troy and the brave deeds done by hector and achilles, and many other heroes. you will see there how the gods took part in the quarrel, and how juno, who was the wife of jupiter and queen of heaven, hated troy because paris had given the golden apple to venus as the fairest among goddesses. juno never forgave this insult to her beauty, and vowed that she would not rest till the hated city was destroyed and its very name wiped from the face of the earth. you shall now hear how she carried out her threat, and overwhelmed æneas with disasters. after a siege that lasted ten years troy was taken at last by means of the wooden horse, which the trojans foolishly dragged into the city with their own hands. inside it were hidden a number of greeks, who were thus carried into the heart of the enemy's city. the trojans celebrated the departure of the greeks by feasting and drinking far into the night; but when at last they retired to rest, the greeks stole out of their hiding-place, and opened the gates to their army, which had only pretended to withdraw. before the trojans had recovered their wits the town was full of enemies, who threw blazing torches on the houses and killed every citizen who fell into their hands. among the many noble princes who fought against the greeks none was braver and handsomer than æneas. his mother was the goddess venus, and his father a brave and powerful prince named anchises, while creusa, his wife, was one of king priam's daughters. on that dreadful night, when the greeks were burning and killing in the very streets of troy, æneas lay sleeping in his palace when there appeared to him a strange vision. he thought that hector stood before him carrying the images of the trojan gods and bade him arise and leave the doomed city. "to you troy entrusts her gods and her fortunes. take these images, and go forth beyond the seas, and with their auspices found a new troy on foreign shores." roused from his slumbers æneas sprang up in haste, put on his armor and rushed into the fray. he was joined by a few comrades, and together they made their way through the enemy, killing all who blocked their path. but when they reached the royal palace and found that the greeks had already forced their way in and killed the aged man by his own hearth, æneas remembered his father and his wife and his little son ascanius. since he could not hope to save the city he might at least take thought for his own kin. while he still hesitated whether to retire or continue the fight, his goddess mother appeared and bade him go and succor his household. "your efforts to save the city are vain," she said. "the gods themselves make war on troy. juno stands by the gate urging on the greeks, jupiter supplies them with hope and courage, and neptune is breaking down with his trident the walls he helped to raise. fly, my son, fly. i will bring you safely to your own threshold." guided by her protecting hand, æneas came in safety to his palace, and bade his family prepare in all haste for flight. but his father refused to stir a step. "let me die here at the enemy's hands," he implored. "better thus than to go into exile in my old age. do you go, my son, whither the gods summon you, and leave me to my fate." in vain æneas reasoned and pleaded, in vain he refused to go without his father; neither prayers nor entreaties would move anchises till the gods sent him a sign. suddenly the child's hair burst into flames. the father and mother were terrified, but anchises recognised the good omen, and prayed the gods to show whether his interpretation was the true one. in answer there came a clap of thunder and a star flashed across the sky and disappeared among the woods on mount ida. then anchises was sure that the token was a true one. "delay no more!" he cried. "i will accompany you, and go in hope wheresoever the gods of my country shall lead me. this is a sign from heaven, and the gods, if it be their will, may yet preserve our city." "come then, father!" cried æneas joyfully. "let me take you on my back, for your feeble limbs would move too slowly for the present danger. you shall hold the images of the gods, since it would be sacrilege for me to touch them with my blood-stained hands. little ascanius shall take my hand, and creusa will follow us closely." he now ordered the servants to collect all the most valuable possessions, and bring them to him at the temple of ceres, just outside the city. then he set out with father, wife and son, and they groped their way through the city by the light of burning homesteads. thus they passed at last through the midst of the enemy, and reached the temple of ceres. there, to his dismay, æneas missed creusa. he rushed back to the city and made his way to his own house. he found it in flames, and the enemy were sacking the ruins. nowhere could he find a trace of his wife. wild with grief and anxiety he wandered at random through the city till suddenly he fancied he saw creusa. but it was her ghost, not her living self. she spoke to her distracted husband and bade him grieve no more. "think not," she said, "that this has befallen without the will of the gods. the fates have decided that creusa shall not follow you to your new home. there are long and weary wanderings before you, and you must traverse many stormy seas before you come to the western land where the river tiber pours its gentle stream through the fertile pastures of italy. there shall you find a kingdom and a royal bride. cease then to mourn for creusa." æneas tried to clasp her in his arms, but in vain, for he only grasped the empty air. then he understood that the gods desired him to go forth into the world alone. while æneas was seeking creusa a group of trojans who had escaped the enemy and the flames had collected at the temple of ceres, and he found them ready and willing to join him and follow his fortunes. the first rays of the sun were touching the peaks of ida when aeneas and his comrades turned their backs on the ill-fated city, and went towards the rising sun and the new hope. for several months æneas and his little band of followers lived as refugees among the hills of ida, and their numbers grew as now one, now another, came to join them. all through the winter they were hard at work cutting down trees and building ships, which were to carry them across the seas. when spring came the fleet was ready, and the little band set sail. first they merely crossed the hellespont to thrace, for aeneas hoped to found a city here and revive the name of troy. but bad omens came to frighten the trojans and drive them back to their ships. they now took a southward course, and sailed on without stopping till they reached delos, the sacred isle of apollo. here aeneas entered the temple and offered prayer to the lord of prophecy. "grant us a home, apollo, grant us an abiding city. preserve a second troy for the scanty remnant that escaped the swords of the greeks and the wrath of cruel achilles. tell us whom to follow, whither to turn, where to found our city." his prayer was not offered in vain, for a voice spoke in answer. "ye hardy sons of dardanus, the land that erst sent forth your ancestral race shall welcome you back to its fertile fields. go and seek your ancient mother. there shall the offspring of æneas rule over all the lands, and their children's children unto the furthest generations." when he had heard this oracle, anchises said, "in the middle of the sea lies an island called crete, which is sacred to jupiter. there we shall find an older mount ida, and beside it the cradle of our race. thence, if tradition speaks truth, our great ancestor teucrus set sail for asia and there he founded his kingdom, and named our mountain ida. let us steer our course therefore to crete, and if jupiter be propitious, the third dawn will bring us to its shores." accordingly they set out again full of hope, and passed in and out again among the gleaming islands of the ægean, till at last they came to crete. there they disembarked, and began to build a city. the houses were rising, the citadel was almost ready, the fields were planted and sown, and the young men were seeking wives, when suddenly the crops were stricken by a blight and the men by a pestilence. surely, they thought, this could not be the home promised them by apollo. in this distress anchises bade his son return to delos and implore the gods to vouchsafe further counsel. at night æneas lay down to rest, troubled by many anxieties, when suddenly he was roused by the moonlight streaming through the window and illuminating the images of the trojan gods. it seemed as though they opened their lips and spoke to him. "all that apollo would have told you at delos, we may declare to you here, for he has given us a message to you. we followed your arms after the burning of troy, and traversed the ocean under your guidance, and we shall raise your descendants to the stars and give dominion to their city. but do not seek it here. these are not the shores that apollo assigns you, nor may crete be your abiding place. far to the west lies the land which the greeks called hesperia, but which now bears the name of italy. there is our destined home; thence came dardanus, our great ancestor and the father of our race." amazed at this vision, æneas sprang up and lifted his hands to heaven in prayer. then he hastened to tell anchises of this strange event. they resolved to tarry no longer, but turning their backs on the rising walls they drew their ships down to the sea again, and once more set forth in search of a new country. now they sailed towards the west, and rounded the south of greece into the ionian sea. but a storm drove them out of their course, and the darkness was so thick that they could not tell night from day, and the helmsman, palinurus, knew not whither he was steering. thus they were tossed about aimlessly for three days and nights, till at last they saw land ahead and, lowering their sails, rowed safely into a quiet harbor. not a human being was in sight, but herds of cattle grazed on the pastures, and goats sported untended on the rocks. here was even food in plenty for hungry men. they killed oxen and goats, and made ready a feast for themselves, and a sacrifice for the gods. the repast was prepared, and æneas and his comrades were about to enjoy it, when a sound of rustling wings was heard all round them. horrible creatures, half birds, half women, with long talons and cruel beaks, swooped down on the tables and carried off the food before the eyes of the terrified banqueters. these were the harpies, who had once been sent to plague king phineus, and when they were driven away by two of the argonauts, zetes and calais, took refuge in these islands. in vain the trojans attacked them with their swords, for the monsters would fly out of reach, and then dart back again on a sudden, and pounce once more on the food, while celæno, chief of the harpies, perched on a rock and chanted in hoarse tones a prophecy of ill omen. "you that kill our oxen and seek to drive us from our rightful home, hearken to my words, which jupiter declared to apollo, and apollo told even to me. you are sailing to italy, and you shall reach italy and enter its harbors. but you are not destined to surround your city with a wall, till cruel hunger and vengeance for the wrong you have done us force you to gnaw your very tables with your teeth." when the trojans heard this terrible prophecy their hearts sank within them, and anchises, lifting his hands to heaven, besought the gods to avert this grievous doom. thus, full of sad forebodings, they returned to their ships. their way now lay along the western coast of greece, and they were glad to slip unnoticed past the rocky island of ithaca, the home of ulysses the wily. for they did not know that he was still held captive by the nymph calypso, and that many years were to pass before he should be restored to his kingdom. they next cast anchor off leucadia, and passed the winter in these regions. in spring they sailed north again, and landed in epirus, and here to their surprise they found helenus, one of the sons of priam, ruling over a greek people. he welcomed his kinsman joyfully and, having the gift of prophecy from apollo, foretold the course of his wanderings. "italy, which you deem so near, is a far-distant land, and many adventures await you before you reach that shore where lies your destined home. before you reach it, you will visit sicily, and the realms of the dead and the island of circe. but i will give you a sign whereby you may know the appointed place. when by the banks of a secluded stream you shall see a huge white sow with her thirty young ones, then shall you have reached the limit of your wanderings. be sure to avoid the eastern coast of italy opposite these shores. wicked greek tribes have their dwelling there, and it is safer to pass at once to the western coast. on your left, you will hear in the strait the thundering roar of charybdis, and on the right grim scylla sits scowling in her cave ready to spring on the unwary traveler. better take a long circuit round sicily than come even within sight and sound of scylla. as soon as you touch the western shores of italy, go to the city of cumæ and the sibyl's cavern. try to win her favor, and she will tell you of the nations of italy and the wars yet to come, and how you may avoid each peril and accomplish every labor. one warning would i give you and enjoin it with all my power. if you desire to reach your journey's end in safety, forget not to do homage to juno. offer up prayers to her divinity, load her altars with gifts. then, and then only, may you hope for a happy issue from all your troubles!" so once more the trojans set sail, and obedient to the warnings of helenus they avoided the eastern coast of italy, and struck southward towards sicily. far up the channel they heard the roar of charybdis and hastened their speed in fear. soon the snowy cone of etna came into view with its column of smoke rising heavenward. as they lay at anchor hard by, a ragged, half-starved wretch ran out of the woods calling loudly on æneas for succor. this was one of the comrades of ulysses, who had been left behind by mistake, and lived in perpetual dread of the savage cyclôpes. æneas was moved to pity, and though the man was a greek and an enemy, he took him on board and gave him food and succor. before they left this place they had a glimpse of polyphemus himself. the blind giant came down the cliff with his flock, feeling his way with a huge staff of pine-trunk. he even stepped into the sea, and walked far out without wetting his thighs. the trojans hastily slipped their cables, and made away. polyphemus heard the sound of their oars, and called his brother cyclôpes to come and seize the strangers, but they were too late to overtake the fugitives. after this they continued their southward course, passing the island where syracuse now stands, and rounding the southern coast of sicily. then they sailed past the tall rock of acragas and palm-loving selinus, and so came to the western corner, where the harbor of drepanun gave them shelter. here a sorrow overtook æneas, that neither the harpy nor the seer had foretold. anchises, weary with wandering and sick of long-deferred hope, fell ill and died. sadly æneas sailed from hence without his trusted friend and counselor, and steered his course for italy. at last the goal seemed at hand and the dangers of the narrow strait had been escaped. but æneas had a far more dangerous enemy than scylla and charybdis, for juno's wrath was not yet appeased. he had offered prayer and sacrifice, as helenus bade him, but her long-standing grudge was not so easily forgotten. she hated troy and the trojans with an undying hatred, and would not suffer even these few-storm-tossed wanderers to seek their new home in peace. she knew too that it was appointed by the fates that a descendant of this fugitive trojan should one day found a city destined to eclipse in wealth and glory her favorite city of carthage. this she desired to avert at all costs, and if even the queen of heaven was not strong enough to overrule fate, at least she resolved that the trojans should not enter into their inheritance without many and grievous tribulations. off the northerncoast of sicily lies a group of small islands, still called the æolian isles, after æolus, king of the winds, whose palace stood upon the largest. here he lived in a rock-bound castle, and kept the boisterous winds fast bound in strong dungeons, that they might not go forth unbidden to work havoc and destruction. but for his restraining hand they would have burst forth and swept away land and sea in their fury. to this rocky fortress juno came with a request to æolus. "men of a race hateful to me are now crossing the sea. i beseech you, therefore, send a storm to scatter the ships and drown the men in the waves. as a reward i will give you one of my fairest nymphs in marriage." thus she urged, and at her bidding æolus struck the rock and the prison gates were opened. the winds at once rushed forth in all directions. the clouds gathered and blotted out sky and daylight, thunder roared and lightning flashed, and the trojans thought their last hour had come. even æneas lost heart, and envied the lot of those who fell before troy by the sword of diomede. soon a violent gust struck his ship, the oars were broken, and the prow turned round and exposed the side to the waves. the water closed over it, then opened again, and drew down the vessel, leaving the men floating on the water. three ships were dashed against sunken rocks, three were driven among the shallows and blocked with a mound of sand. another was struck from stem to stern, then sucked down into a whirlpool. one after another the rest succumbed, and it seemed as if each moment must see their utter destruction. meantime neptune in his palace at the bottom of the sea had noticed the sudden disturbance of the waters, and now put out his head above the waves to learn the cause of this commotion. when he saw the shattered trojan ships he guessed that this was juno's work. instantly he summoned the winds and chid them for daring to disturb the waters without his leave. "begone," he said, "and tell your master æolus that the dominion of the sea is mine, not his. let him be content to keep guard over you and see that you do not escape from your prison." while he spoke neptune was busy calming the waters, and it was not long before he put the clouds to flight and brought back the sunshine. nymphs came to push the ships off the rocks, and neptune himself opened a way out of the shallows. then he returned to his chariot, and his white horses carried him lightly across the calm waters. thankful to have saved a few of his ships, all shattered and leaking as they were, æneas bade the helmsman steer for the nearest land. what was their joy to see within easy reach a quiet harbor closed in by a sheltering island. the entrance was guarded by twin cliffs, and a forest background closed in the scene. once within this shelter the weary vessels needed no anchor to secure them. here at last æneas and his comrades could stretch their aching limbs on dry land. they kindled a fire of leaves with a flint, and dried their sodden corn for a scanty meal. æneas now climbed one of the hills to see whether he might catch a glimpse of any of the missing ships. not a sail was in sight, but in the valley below he spied a herd of deer grazing. here was better food for hungry men. drawing an arrow from his quiver, he fitted it to his bow, let fly, and a mighty stag fell to his aim. six others shared its fate, then æneas returned with his booty and bade his friends make merry with venison and sicilian wine from the ships. as they ate and drank, he tried to hearten the trojans. "endure a little longer," he urged. "think of the perils through which we have passed, remember the dreadful cyclôpes and cruel scylla. despair not now, for one day the memory of past sufferings shall delight your hours of ease. through toils and hardships we are making our way to latium, where the gods have promised us a peaceful home and a new and glorious troy. hold out a little while, and wait for the happy days in store." how horatius held the bridge adapted by alfred j. church king tarquin[1] and his son lucius (for he only remained to him of the three) fled to lars porsenna, king of clusium, and besought him that he would help them. "suffer not," they said, "that we, who are tuscans by birth, should remain any more in poverty and exile. and take heed also to thyself and thine own kingdom if thou permit this new fashion of driving forth kings to go unpunished. for surely there is that in freedom which men greatly desire, and if they that be kings defend not their dignity as stoutly as others seek to overthrow it, then shall the highest be made even as the lowest, and there shall be an end of kingship, than which there is nothing more honorable under heaven." with these words they persuaded king porsenna, who judging it well for the etrurians that there should be a king at rome, and that king an etrurian by birth, gathered together a great army and came up against rome. but when men heard of his coming, so mighty a city was clusium in those days, and so great the fame of king porsenna, there was such fear as had never been before. nevertheless they were steadfastly purposed to hold out. and first all that were in the country fled into the city, and round about the city they set guards to keep it, part thereof being defended by walls, and part, for so it seemed, being made safe by the river. but here a great peril had well-nigh over-taken the city; for there was a wooden bridge on the river by which the enemy had crossed but for the courage of a certain horatius cocles. the matter fell out in this wise. [footnote 1: king tarquin had been driven from rome because of his tyranny.] there was a certain hill which men called janiculum on the side of the river, and this hill king porsenna took by a sudden attack. which when horatius saw (for he chanced to have been set to guard the bridge, and saw also how the enemy were running at full speed to the place, and how the romans were fleeing in confusion and threw away their arms as they ran), he cried with a loud voice, "men of rome, it is to no purpose that ye thus leave your post and flee, for if ye leave this bridge behind you for men to pass over, ye shall soon find that ye have more enemies in your city than in janiculum. do ye therefore break it down with axe and fire as best ye can. in the meanwhile i, so far as one man may do, will stay the enemy." and as he spake he ran forward to the farther end of the bridge and made ready to keep the way against the enemy. nevertheless there stood two with him, lartius and herminius by name, men of noble birth both of them and of great renown in arms. so these three for a while stayed the first onset of the enemy; and the men of rome meanwhile brake down the bridge. and when there was but a small part remaining, and they that brake it down called to the three that they should come back, horatius bade lartius and herminius return, but he himself remained on the farther side, turning his eyes full of wrath in threatening fashion on the princes of the etrurians, and crying, "dare ye now to fight with me? or why are ye thus come at the bidding of your master, king porsenna, to rob others of the freedom that ye care not to have for yourselves?" for a while they delayed, looking each man to his neighbor, who should first deal with this champion of the romans. then, for very shame, they all ran forward, and raising a great shout, threw their javelins at him. these all he took upon his shield, nor stood the less firmly in his place on the bridge, from which when they would have thrust him by force, of a sudden the men of rome raised a great shout, for the bridge was now altogether broken down, and fell with a great crash into the river. and as the enemy stayed a while for fear, horatius turned him to the river and said, "o father tiber, i beseech thee this day with all reverence that thou kindly receive this soldier and his arms." and as he spake he leapt with all his arms into the river and swam across to his own people, and though many javelins of the enemy fell about him, he was not one whit hurt. nor did such valor fail to receive due honor from the city. for the citizens set up a statue of horatius in the market-place; and they gave him of the public land so much as he could plow about in one day. also there was this honor paid him, that each citizen took somewhat of his own store and gave it to him, for food was scarce in the city by reason of the siege. how cincinnatus saved rome adapted by alfred j. church it came to pass that the æquians brake the treaty of peace which they had made with rome, and, taking one gacchus cloelius for their leader, marched into the land of tusculum; and when they had plundered the country there-abouts, and had gathered together much booty, they pitched their camp on mount ægidus. to them the romans sent three ambassadors, who should complain of the wrong done and seek redress. but when they would have fulfilled their errand, gracchus the æquin spake, saying, "if ye have any message from the senate of rome, tell it to this oak, for i have other business to do;" for it chanced that there was a great oak that stood hard by, and made a shadow over the general's tent. then one of the ambassadors, as he turned to depart, made reply, "yes, let this sacred oak and all the gods that are in heaven hear how ye have wrongfully broken the treaty of peace; and let them that hear help us also in the day of battle, when we shall avenge on you the laws both of gods and of men that ye set at nought." when the ambassadors had returned to rome the senate commanded that there should be levied two armies; and that minucius the consul should march with the one against the æquians on mount ægidus, and that the other should hinder the enemy from their plundering. this levying the tribunes of the commons sought to hinder; and perchance had done so, but there also came well-nigh to the walls of the city a great host of the sabines plundering all the country. thereupon the people willingly offered themselves and there were levied forthwith two great armies. nevertheless when the consul minucius had marched to mount ægidus, and had pitched his camp not far from the æquians, he did nought for fear of the enemy, but kept himself within his entrenchments. and when the enemy perceived that he was afraid, growing the bolder for his lack of courage, they drew lines about him, keeping him in on every side. yet before that he was altogether shut up there escaped from his camp five horsemen, that bare tidings to rome how that the consul, together with his army, was besieged. the people were sorely dismayed to hear such tidings; nor, when they cast about for help, saw they any man that might be sufficient for such peril, save only cincinnatus. by common consent, therefore, he was made dictator for six months, a thing that may well be noted by those who hold that nothing is to be accounted of in comparison of riches, and that no man may win great honor or show forth singular virtue unless he be well furnished with wealth. for here in this great peril of the roman people there was no hope of safety but in one who was cultivating with his own hand a little plot of scarcely three acres of ground. for when the messengers of the people came to him they found him plowing, or, as some say, digging a ditch. when they had greeted each other, the messengers said, "may the gods prosper this thing to the roman people and to thee. put on thy robe and hear the words of the people." then said cincinnatus, being not a little astonished, "is all well?" and at the same time he called to his wife racilia that she should bring forth his robe from the cottage. so she brought it forth, and the man wiped from him the dust and the sweat, and clad himself in his robe, and stood before the messengers. these said to him, "the people of rome make thee dictator, and bid thee come forthwith to the city." and at the same time they told how the consul and his army were besieged by the æquians. so cincinnatus departed to rome; and when he came to the other side of the tiber there met him first his three sons, and next many of his kinsfolk and friends, and after them a numerous company of the nobles. these all conducted him to his house, the lictors, four and twenty in number, marching before him. there was also assembled a very great concourse of the people, fearing much how the dictator might deal with them, for they knew what manner of man he was, and that there was no limit to his power, nor any appeal from him. the next day, before dawn, the dictator came into the market-place, and appointed one lucius tarquinius to be master of the horse. this tarquinius was held by common consent to excel all other men in exercises of war; only, though, being a noble by birth, he should have been among the horsemen, he had served for lack of means, as a foot soldier. this done he called an assembly of the people and commanded that all the shops in the city should be shut; that no man should concern himself with any private business, but all that were of an age to go to the war should be present before sunset in the field of mars, each man having with him provisions of cooked food for five days, and twelve stakes. as for them that were past the age, they should prepare the food while the young men made ready their arms and sought for the stakes. these last they took as they found them, no man hindering them; and when the time appointed by the dictator was come, all were assembled, ready, as occasion might serve, either to march or to give battle. forthwith they set out, the dictator leading the foot soldiers by their legions, and tarquinius the horsemen, and each bidding them that followed make all haste. "we must needs come," they said, "to our journey's end while it is yet night. remember that the consul and his army have been besieged now for three days, and that no man knows what a day or a night may bring forth." the soldiers themselves also were zealous to obey, crying out to the standard-bearers that they should quicken their steps, and to their fellows that they should not lag behind. thus they came at midnight to mount ædigus, and when they perceived that the enemy was at hand they halted the standards. then the dictator rode forward to see, so far as the darkness would suffer him, how great was the camp of the æquians and after what fashion it was pitched. this done he commanded that the baggage should be gathered together into a heap, and that the soldiers should stand every man in his own place. after this he compassed about the whole army of the enemy with his own army, and commanded that at a set signal every man should shout, and when they had shouted should dig a trench and set up therein the stakes. this the soldiers did, and the noise of the shouting passed over the camp of the enemy and came into the city, causing therein great joy, even as it caused great fear in the camp. for the romans cried, "these be our countrymen and they bring us help." then said the consul, "we must make no delay. by that shout is signified, not that they are come only, but that they are already dealing with the enemy. doubtless the camp of the æquians is even now assailed from without. take ye your arms and follow me." so the legion went forth, it being yet night, to the battle, and as they went they shouted, that the dictator might be aware. now the æquians had set themselves to hinder the making of a ditch and rampart which should shut them in; but when the romans from the camp fell upon them, fearing lest these should make their way through the midst of their camp, they left them that were with cincinnatus to finish their entrenching, and fought with the consul. and when it was now light, lo! they were already shut in, and the romans, having finished their entrenching, began to trouble them. and when the æquians perceived that the battle was now on either side of them, they could withstand no longer, but sent ambassadors praying for peace, and saying, "ye have prevailed; slay us not, but rather permit us to depart, leaving our arms behind us." then said the dictator, "i care not to have the blood of the æquians. ye may depart, but ye shall depart passing under the yoke, that ye may thus acknowledge to all men that ye are indeed vanquished." now the yoke is thus made. there are set up in the ground two spears, and over them is bound by ropes a third spear. so the æquians passed under the yoke. in the camp of the enemy there was found abundance of spoil. this the dictator gave wholly to his own soldiers. "ye were well-nigh a spoil to the enemy," said he to the army of the consul, "therefore ye shall have no share in the spoiling of them. as for thee, minucius, be thou a lieutenant only till thou hast learnt how to bear thyself as a consul." meanwhile at rome there was held a meeting of the senate, at which it was commanded that cincinnatus should enter the city in triumph, his soldiers following him in order of march. before his chariot there were led the generals of the enemy; also the standards were carried in the front; and after these came the army, every man laden with spoil. that day there was great rejoicing in the city, every man setting forth a banquet before his doors in the street. after this, virginius, that had borne false witness against cæso, was found guilty of perjury, and went into exile. and when cincinnatus saw that justice had been done to this evildoer, he resigned his dictatorship, having held it for sixteen days only. heroes of great britain beowulf adapted by h.e. marshall i how beowulf overcame the ogre and the water-witch long ago, there lived in daneland a king, beloved of all, called hrothgar. he was valiant and mighty in war, overcoming all his foes and taking from them much spoil. looking upon his great treasure, king hrothgar said, "i will build me a great hall. it shall be vast and wide, adorned within and without with gold and ivory, with gems and carved work. it shall be a hall of joy and feasting." then king hrothgar called his workmen and gave them commandment to build the hall. they set to work, and becoming each day more fair, the hall was at length finished. it stood upon a height, vast and stately, and as it was adorned with the horns of deer, king hrothgar named it hart hall. the king made a great feast. to it his warriors young and old were called, and he divided his treasure, giving to each rings of gold. and so in the hall there was laughter and song and great merriment. every evening when the shadows fell, and the land grew dark without, the knights and warriors gathered in the hall to feast. and when the feast was over, and the great fire roared upon the hearth, the minstrel took his harp and sang. far over dreary fen and moorland the light glowed cheerfully, and the sound of song and harp awoke the deep silence of the night. within the hall was light and gladness, but without there was wrath and hate. for far on the moor there lived a wicked giant named grendel, prowling at night to see what evil he might do. very terrible was this ogre grendel to look upon. thick black hair hung about his face, and his teeth were long and sharp, like the tusks of an animal. his huge body and great hairy arms had the strength of ten men. he wore no armor, for his skin was tougher than any coat of mail that man or giant might weld. his nails were like steel and sharper than daggers, and by his side there hung a great pouch in which he carried off those whom he was ready to devour. day by day the music of harp and song was a torture to him and made him more and more mad with jealous hate. at length he crept through the darkness to hart hall where the warriors slept after feast and song. arms and armor had been thrown aside, so with ease the ogre slew thirty of the bravest. howling with wicked joy he carried them off and devoured them. the next night, again the wicked one crept stealthily through the darkening moorland until he reached hart hall, stretched forth his hand, and seized the bravest of the warriors. in the morning each man swore that he would not again sleep beneath the roof of the hall. for twelve years it stood thus, no man daring, except in the light of day, to enter it. and now it came to pass that across the sea in far gothland the tale of grendel and his wrath was carried to beowulf the goth, who said he would go to king hrothgar to help him. taking with him fifteen good comrades, he set sail for daneland. when hrothgar was told that beowulf had come to help him, he said, "i knew him when he was yet a lad. his father and his mother have i known. truly he hath sought a friend. i have heard that he is much renowned in war, and hath the strength of thirty men in the grip of his hand. i pray heaven he hath been sent to free us from the horror of grendel. bid beowulf and his warriors to enter." guided by the danish knight, beowulf and his men went into hart hall and stood before the aged hrothgar. after friendly words of greeting beowulf said, "and now will i fight against grendel, bearing neither sword nor shield. with my hands alone will i grapple with the fiend, and foe to foe we will fight for victory." that night beowulf's comrades slept in hart hall. beowulf alone remained awake. out of the mists of the moorland the evil thing strode. loud he laughed as he gazed upon the sleeping warriors. beowulf, watchful and angry, curbed his wrath. grendel seized one of the men, drank his blood, crushed his bones, and swallowed his horrid feast. then beowulf caught the monster and fought till the noise of the contest was as of thunder. the knights awoke and tried to plunge their swords into the hide of grendel, but in vain. by enchantments he had made himself safe. at length the fight came to an end. the sinews in grendel's shoulder burst, the bones cracked. the ogre tore himself free, leaving his arm in beowulf's mighty grip. sobbing forth his death-song, grendel fled till he reached his dwelling in the lake of the water-dragons, and there plunged in. the dark waves closed over him and he sank to his home. loud were the songs of triumph in hart hall, great the rejoicing, for beowulf had made good his boast. he had cleansed the hall of the ogre. a splendid feast was made and much treasure given to beowulf by the king and queen. again did the dane lords sleep in the great hall, but far away in the water-dragons' lake the mother of grendel wept over the dead body of her son, desiring revenge. very terrible to look upon was this water-witch. as the darkness fell she crept across the moorland to hart hall. in she rushed eager for slaughter. a wild cry rang through the hall. the water-witch fled, but in doing so carried off the best beloved of all the king's warriors. quickly was beowulf called and he rode forth to the dark lake. down and down he dived till he came to the cave of the water-witch whom he killed after a desperate struggle. hard by on a couch lay the body of grendel. drawing his sword he smote off the ogre's head. swimming up with it he reached the surface and sprang to land, and was greeted by his faithful thanes. four of them were needed to carry the huge head back to hart hall. his task being done beowulf made haste to return to his own land that he might seek his own king, hygelac, and lay before him the treasures that hrothgar had given him. with gracious words the old king thanked the young warrior, and bade him to come again right speedily. hygelac listened with wonder and delight to all that had happened in daneland and graciously received the splendid gifts. for many years beowulf lived beloved of all, and when it befell that hygelac died in battle, the broad realm of gothland was given unto beowulf to rule. and there for fifty years he reigned a well-loved king. ii how the fire dragon warred with the goth folk and now when many years had come and gone and the realm had long time been at peace, sorrow came upon the people of the goths. and thus it was that the evil came. it fell upon a time that a slave by his misdeeds roused his master's wrath, and when his lord would have punished him he fled in terror. and as he fled trembling to hide himself, he came by chance into a great cave. there the slave hid, thankful for refuge. but soon he had cause to tremble in worse fear than before, for in the darkness of the cave he saw that a fearful dragon lay asleep. then as the slave gazed in terror at the awful beast, he saw that it lay guarding a mighty treasure. never had he seen such a mass of wealth. swords and armor inlaid with gold, cups and vessels of gold and silver set with precious stones, rings and bracelets lay piled around in glittering heaps. for hundreds of years this treasure had lain there in secret. a great prince had buried it in sorrow for his dead warriors. in his land there had been much fighting until he alone of all his people was left. then in bitter grief he gathered all his treasure and hid it in this cave. "take, o earth," he cried, "what the heroes might not keep. lo! good men and true once before earned it from thee. now a warlike death hath taken away every man of my people. there is none now to bear the sword or receive the cup. there is no more joy in the battle-field or in the hall of peace. so here shall the gold-adorned helmet molder, here the coat of mail rust and the wine-cup lie empty." thus the sad prince mourned. beside his treasure he sat weeping both day and night until death took him also, and of all his people there was none left. so the treasure lay hidden and secret for many a day. then upon a time it happened that a great dragon, fiery-eyed and fearful, as it flew by night and prowled seeking mischief, came upon the buried hoard. as men well know, a dragon ever loveth gold. so to guard his new-found wealth lest any should come to rob him of it, he laid him down there and the cave became his dwelling. thus for three hundred years he lay gloating over his treasure, no man disturbing him. but now at length it chanced that the fleeing slave lighted upon the hoard. his eyes were dazzled by the shining heap. upon it lay a cup of gold, wondrously chased and adorned. "if i can but gain that cup," said the slave to himself, "i will return with it to my master, and for the sake of the gold he will surely forgive me." so while the dragon slept, trembling and fearful the slave crept nearer and nearer to the glittering mass. when he came quite near he reached forth his hand and seized the cup. then with it he fled back to his master. it befell then as the slave had foreseen. for the sake of the wondrous cup his misdeeds were forgiven him. but when the dragon awoke his fury was great. well knew he that mortal man had trod his cave and stolen of his hoard. round and round about he sniffed and searched until he discovered the footprints of his foe. eagerly then all over the ground he sought to find the man who, while he slept, had done him this ill. hot and fierce of mood he went backwards and forwards round about his treasure-heaps. all within the cave he searched in vain. then coming forth he searched without. all round the hill in which his cave was he prowled, but no man could he find, nor in all the wilds around was there any man. again the old dragon returned, again he searched among his treasure-heap for the precious cup. nowhere was it to be found. it was too surely gone. but the dragon, as well as loving gold, loved war. so now in angry mood he lay couched in his lair. scarce could he wait until darkness fell, such was his wrath. with fire he was resolved to repay the loss of his dear drinking-cup. at last, to the joy of the great winged beast, the sun sank. then forth from his cave he came, flaming fire. spreading his mighty wings, he flew through the air until he came to the houses of men. then spitting forth flame, he set fire to many a happy homestead. wherever the lightning of his tongue struck, there fire flamed forth, until where the fair homes of men had been there was naught but blackened ruins. here and there, this way and that, through all the land he sped, and wherever he passed fire flamed aloft. the warfare of the dragon was seen from far. the malice of the worm was known from north to south, from east to west. all men knew how the fearful foe hated and ruined the goth folk. then having worked mischief and desolation all night through, the fire-dragon turned back; to his secret cave he slunk again ere break of day. behind him he left the land wasted and desolate. the dragon had no fear of the revenge of man. in his fiery warfare he trusted to find shelter in his hill, and in his secret cave. but in that trust he was misled. speedily to king beowulf were the tidings of the dragon and his spoiling carried. for alas! even his own fair palace was wrapped in flame. before his eyes he saw the fiery tongues lick up his treasures. even the gift-seat of the goths melted in fire. then was the good king sorrowful. his heart boiled within him with angry thoughts. the fire-dragon had utterly destroyed the pleasant homes of his people. for this the war-prince greatly desired to punish him. therefore did beowulf command that a great shield should be made for him, all of iron. he knew well that a shield of wood could not help him in this need. wood against fire! nay, that were useless. his shield must be all of iron. too proud, too, was beowulf, the hero of old time, to seek the winged beast with a troop of soldiers. not thus would he overcome him. he feared not for himself, nor did he dread the dragon's war-craft. for with his valor and his skill beowulf had succeeded many a time. he had been victorious in many a tumult of battle since that day when a young man and a warrior prosperous in victory, he had cleansed hart hall by grappling with grendel and his kin. and now when the great iron shield was ready, he chose eleven of his best thanes and set out to seek the dragon. very wrathful was the old king, very desirous that death should take his fiery foe. he hoped, too, to win the great treasure of gold which the fell beast guarded. for already beowulf had learned whence the feud arose, whence came the anger which had been so hurtful to his people. and the precious cup, the cause of all the quarrel, had been brought to him. with the band of warriors went the slave who had stolen the cup. he it was who must be their guide to the cave, for he alone of all men living knew the way thither. loth he was to be their guide. but captive and bound he was forced to lead the way over the plain to the dragon's hill. unwillingly he went with lagging footsteps until at length he came to the cave hard by the seashore. there by the sounding waves lay the savage guardian of the treasure. ready for war and fierce was he. it was no easy battle that was there prepared for any man, brave though he might be. and now on the rocky point above the sea king beowulf sat himself down. here he would bid farewell to all his thanes ere he began the combat. for what man might tell which from that fight should come forth victorious? beowulf's mind was sad. he was now old. his hair was white, his face was wrinkled and gray. but still his arm was strong as that of a young man. yet something within him warned him that death was not far off. so upon the rocky point he sat and bade farewell to his dear comrades. "in my youth," said the aged king, "many battles have i dared, and yet must i, the guardian of my people, though i be full of years, seek still another feud. and again will i win glory if the wicked spoiler of my land will but come forth from his lair." much he spoke. with loving words he bade farewell to each one of his men, greeting his dear comrades for the last time. "i would not bear a sword or weapon against the winged beast," he said at length, "if i knew how else i might grapple with the wretch, as of old i did with grendel. but i ween this war-fire is hot, fierce, and poisonous. therefore i have clad me in a coat of mail, and bear this shield all of iron. i will not flee a single step from the guardian of the treasure. but to us upon this rampart it shall be as fate will. "now let me make no more vaunting speech. ready to fight am i. let me forth against the winged beast. await ye here on the mount, clad in your coats of mail, your arms ready. abide ye here until ye see which of us twain in safety cometh forth from the clash of battle. "it is no enterprise for you, or for any common man. it is mine alone. alone i needs must go against the wretch and prove myself a warrior. i must with courage win the gold, or else deadly, baleful war shall fiercely snatch me, your lord, from life." then beowulf arose. he was all clad in shining armor, his gold-decked helmet was upon his head, and taking his shield in hand he strode under the stony cliffs towards the cavern's mouth. in the strength of his single arm he trusted against the fiery dragon. no enterprise this for a coward. iii how beowulf overcame the dragon beowulf left his comrades upon the rocky point jutting out into the sea, and alone he strode onward until he spied a great stone arch. from beneath the arch, from out the hillside, flowed a stream seething with fierce, hot fire. in this way the dragon guarded his lair, for it was impossible to pass such a barrier unhurt. so upon the edge of this burning river beowulf stood and called aloud in anger. stout of heart and wroth against the winged beast was he. the king's voice echoed like a war-cry through the cavern. the dragon heard it and was aroused to fresh hate of man. for the guardian of the treasure-hoard knew well the sound of mortal voice. now was there no long pause ere battle raged. first from out the cavern flamed forth the breath of the winged beast. hot sweat of battle rose from out the rock. the earth shook and growling thunder trembled through the air. the dragon, ringed around with many-colored scales, was now hot for battle, and, as the hideous beast crept forth, beowulf raised his mighty shield and rushed against him. already the king had drawn his sword. it was an ancient heirloom, keen of edge and bright. many a time it had been dyed in blood; many a time it had won glory and victory. but ere they closed, the mighty foes paused. each knew the hate and deadly power of the other. the mighty prince, firm and watchful, stood guarded by his shield. the dragon, crouching as in ambush, awaited him. then suddenly like a flaming arch the dragon bent and towered, and dashed upon the lord of the goths. up swung the arm of the hero, and dealt a mighty blow to the grisly, many-colored beast. but the famous sword was all too weak against such a foe. the edge turned and bit less strongly than its great king had need, for he was sore pressed. his shield, too, proved no strong shelter from the wrathful dragon. the warlike blow made greater still the anger of the fiery foe. now he belched forth flaming fire. all around fierce lightnings darted. beowulf no longer hoped for glorious victory. his sword had failed him. the edge was turned and blunted upon the scaly foe. he had never thought the famous steel would so ill serve him. yet he fought on ready to lose his life in such good contest. again the battle paused, again the king and dragon closed in fight. the dragon-guardian of the treasure had renewed his courage. his heart heaved and boiled with fire, and fresh strength breathed from him. beowulf was wrapped in flame. dire was his need. yet of all his comrades none came near to help. nay, as they watched the conflict they were filled with base fear, and fled to the wood hard by for refuge. only one among them sorrowed for his master, and as he watched his heart was wrung with grief. wiglaf was this knight called, and he was beowulf's kinsman. now when he saw his liege lord hard pressed in battle he remembered all the favors beowulf had heaped upon him. he remembered all the honors and the wealth which he owed to his king. then could he no longer be still. shield and spear he seized, but ere he sped to aid his king he turned to his comrades. "when our lord and king gave us swords and armor," he cried, "did we not promise to follow him in battle whenever he had need? when he of his own will chose us for this expedition he reminded us of our fame. he said he knew us to be good warriors, bold helmet-wearers. and although indeed our liege lord thought to do this work of valor alone, without us, because more than any man he hath done glorious and rash deeds, lo! now is the day come that hath need of strength and of good warriors. come, let us go to him. let us help our chieftain although the grim terror of fire be hot. "heaven knoweth i would rather the flame would blast my body than his who gave me gold. it seemeth not fitting to me that we should bear back our shields to our homes unless we may first fell the foe and defend the life of our king. nay, it is not of the old custom of the goths that the king alone should suffer, that he alone should sink in battle. our lord should be repaid for his gifts to us, and so he shall be by me even if death take us twain." but none would hearken to wiglaf. so alone he sped through the deadly smoke and flame, till to his master's side he came offering aid. "my lord beowulf," he cried, "fight on as thou didst in thy youth-time. erstwhile didst thou say that thou wouldst not let thy greatness sink so long as life lasteth. defend thou thy life with all might. i will support thee to the utmost." when the dragon heard these words his fury was doubled. the fell wicked beast came on again belching forth fire, such was his hatred of men. the flame-waves caught wiglaf's shield, for it was but of wood. it was burned utterly, so that only the stud of steel remained. his coat of mail alone was not enough to guard the young warrior from the fiery enemy. but right valiantly he went on fighting beneath the shelter of beowulf's shield now that his own was consumed to ashes by the flames. then again the warlike king called to mind his ancient glories, again he struck with main strength with his good sword upon the monstrous head. hate sped the blow. but alas! as it descended the famous sword nægling snapped asunder. beowulf's sword had failed him in the conflict, although it was an old and well-wrought blade. to him it was not granted that weapons should help him in battle. the hand that swung the sword was too strong. his might overtaxed every blade however wondrously the smith had welded it. and now a third time the fell fire-dragon was roused to wrath. he rushed upon the king. hot, and fiercely grim the great beast seized beowulf's neck in his horrid teeth. the hero's life-blood gushed forth, the crimson stream darkly dyed his bright armor. then in the great king's need his warrior showed skill and courage. heeding not the flames from the awful mouth, wiglaf struck the dragon below the neck. his hand was burned with the fire, but his sword dived deep into the monster's body and from that moment the flames began to abate. the horrid teeth relaxed their hold, and beowulf, quickly recovering himself, drew his deadly knife. battle-sharp and keen it was, and with it the hero gashed the dragon right in the middle. the foe was conquered. glowing in death he fell. they twain had destroyed the winged beast. such should a warrior be, such a thane in need. to the king it was a victorious moment. it was the crown of all his deeds. then began the wound which the fire-dragon had wrought him to burn and to swell. beowulf soon found that baleful poison boiled in his heart. well knew he that the end was nigh. lost in deep thought he sat upon the mound and gazed wondering at the cave. pillared and arched with stone-work it was within, wrought by giants and dwarfs of old time. and to him came wiglaf his dear warrior and tenderly bathed his wound with water. then spake beowulf, in spite of his deadly wound he spake, and all his words were of the ending of his life, for he knew that his days of joy upon this earth were past. "had a son been granted to me, to him i should have left my war-garments. fifty years have i ruled this people, and there has been no king of all the nations round who durst meet me in battle. i have known joys and sorrows, but no man have i betrayed, nor many false oaths have i sworn. for all this may i rejoice, though i be now sick with mortal wounds. the ruler of men may not upbraid me with treachery or murder of kinsmen when my soul shall depart from its body. "but now, dear wiglaf, go thou quickly to the hoard of gold which lieth under the hoary rock. the dragon lieth dead; now sleepeth he for ever, sorely wounded and bereft of his treasure. then haste thee, wiglaf, for i would see the ancient wealth, the gold treasure, the jewels, the curious gems. haste thee to bring it hither; then after that i have seen it, i shall the more contentedly give up my life and the kingship that i so long have held." quickly wiglaf obeyed his wounded lord. into the dark cave he descended, and there outspread before him was a wondrous sight. treasure of jewels, many glittering and golden, lay upon the ground. wondrous vessels of old time with broken ornaments were scattered round. here, too, lay old and rusty helmets, mingled with bracelets and collars cunningly wrought. upon the walls hung golden flags. from one a light shone forth by which the whole cavern was made clear. and all within was silent. no sign was there of any guardian, for without lay the dragon, sleeping death's sleep. quickly wiglaf gathered of the treasures all that he could carry. dishes and cups he took, a golden ensign and a sword curiously wrought. in haste he returned, for he knew not if he should find his lord in life where he had left him. and when wiglaf came again to where beowulf sat he poured the treasure at his feet. but he found his lord in a deep swoon. again the brave warrior bathed beowulf's wound and laved the stricken countenance of his lord, until once more he came to himself. then spake the king: "for this treasure i give thanks to the lord of all. not in vain have i given my life, for it shall be of great good to my people in need. and now leave me, for on this earth longer i may not stay. say to my warriors that they shall raise a mound upon the rocky point which jutteth seaward. high shall it stand as a memorial to my people. let it soar upward so that they who steer their slender barks over the tossing waves shall call it beowulf's mound." the king then took from his neck the golden collar. to wiglaf, his young thane and kinsman, he gave it. he gave also his helmet adorned with gold, his ring and coat of mail, and bade the warrior use them well. "thou art the last of our race," he said. "fate hath swept away all my kinsmen, all the mighty earls. now i too must follow them." that was the last word of the aged king. from his bosom the soul fled to seek the dwellings of the just. at wiglaf's feet he lay quiet and still. how king arthur conquered rome adapted by e. edwardson king arthur had just brought a great war to an end, and in honor of his victory he was holding a royal feast with the kings and princes that were his vassals and all the knights of the round table, when twelve grave and ancient men entered the banquet-hall where he sat at table. they bore each an olive-branch in his hand, to signify that they were ambassadors from lucius the emperor of rome, and after they had reverently made obeisance to king arthur, they delivered their message as follows: "the high and mighty emperor lucius sends you greeting, o king of britain, and he commands you to acknowledge him as your lord, and to pay the tribute which is due from this realm, and which, it is recorded, was paid by your father and others who came before him. yet you rebelliously withhold it and keep it back, in defiance of the statutes and decrees made by the first emperor of rome, the noble julius caesar, who conquered this country. and be assured that if you disobey this command, the emperor lucius will come in his might and make war against you and your kingdom, and will inflict upon you a chastisement that shall serve for ever as a warning to all kings and princes not to withhold the tribute due to that noble empire to which belongs dominion over the whole world." thus they spoke, and king arthur having heard their request, bade them withdraw, saying that he would take the advice of his counselors before giving them his answer; but some of the younger knights that were in the hall declared that it was a disgrace to all who were at the feast that such language should be used to the king in their hearing, and they would fain have fallen upon the ambassadors and slain them. but king arthur, hearing their murmurs, declared that any insult or wrong suffered by the ambassadors should be punished with death. then he sent them to their quarters, escorted by one of his knights, who was ordered to provide them with whatever they wanted. "let nothing be grudged these men of rome," said the king "though the demand they make is an affront alike to me and to you who are of my court. i should be dishonored were the ambassadors not treated with the respect due to them, seeing that they are great lords in their own land." as soon as the ambassadors had left the hall, king arthur asked his knights and lords what was their advice and counsel in the matter. the first to give his opinion was sir cador of cornwall. "sir," said sir cador, "the message brought by these lords is most welcome to me. we have spent full many days at rest and in idleness, and now my hope is that you will wage war against the romans. in that war we shall, i have little doubt, win great honor." "i am sure," answered king arthur, "that this affair is welcome to you, but i seek, above all, your aid in devising a grave and suitable answer to the demand they have made. and let no man doubt that i hold that demand to be a grievous insult. the tribute they claim, in my opinion, not only is not due, but cannot be due; for more than one british knight having been emperor of rome, it is, i hold, the duty of rome to acknowledge the lordship of britain, rather than of britain to acknowledge that of rome. what think ye?" "sir," replied king anguish of scotland, "you ought of right to be lord over all other kings, for throughout christendom there is neither knight nor man of high estate worthy to be compared with you. my advice is, never yield to the romans. when they reigned over us, they oppressed our principal men, and laid heavy and extortionate burdens upon the land. for that cause i, standing here, solemnly vow vengeance upon them for the evil they then did, and, to support you in your quarrel, i will at my own cost furnish twenty thousand good fighting men. this force i will command in person, and i will bring it to your aid whenever you choose to summon me." in like manner, the king of little britain, as brittany was called in those days, undertook to furnish thirty thousand men; and all the others who were present agreed to fight on king arthur's side, and to assist him to the utmost of their power. so he, having thanked them heartily for the courage and good will towards him that they displayed, had the ambassadors summoned back into the banquet-hall and addressed them thus: "i would have you go back to him who sent you, and i would have you say to him that i will pay no heed to any orders or demands that may be brought from him; and as for tribute so far am i from allowing that there is any tribute due from me or to any other man or prince upon earth, be he heathen or christian, that i claim lordship over the empire he now has. and say further to him, that i have determined and resolved to go to rome with my army, to take possession of the empire and to subdue all that behave themselves rebelliously. therefore, let your master and all the other men of rome get themselves ready to do homage to me, and to acknowledge me as their emperor and governor, and let them know that if they refuse, they will be punished befittingly." then king arthur bade his treasurer give handsome gifts to the ambassadors, and repay in full the cost of their journey, and he assigned sir cador as their escort to see them safely out of the country. so they took their leave, and going to sandwich, sailed thence, and passed through flanders and germany over the alps into italy to the court of the emperor. when the emperor heard what message king arthur had entrusted to them, and understood that this was indeed the reply to his demand for tribute, he was grievously angry. "of truth," he said, "i never doubted that king arthur would obey my commands and submit, as it befits him and all other kings to submit themselves to me." "sir," answered one of the ambassadors, "i beseech you not to speak thus boastfully. in very truth my companions and myself were dismayed when we saw king arthur face to face, and my fear is that you have made a rod for your own back, for his intention is to become lord over this empire. his threats, i warn you, are no idle talk. he is a very different man from what you hoped he was, and his court is the most noble upon earth. never had any one of us beheld such magnificence as we beheld there on new year's day, when nine kings, besides other princes, lords, and knights, sat at table with king arthur. nor do i believe that there could be found anywhere another band of knights worthy to be matched with the knights who sit at his round table, nor a more manly man than the king himself. and since i verily believe his ambition is such that he would not be satisfied though he had conquered the whole world, my advice is that you have careful watch kept upon the borders of your lands and upon the ways over the mountains, for i am certain that you would do wisely to guard yourself well against him." "well," answered lucius, "my intention is before easter to cross the alps and to descend into france and seize the lands that belong to him there. with me i shall take my mighty warriors from tuscany and lombardy, and all the subjects and allies i have shall be summoned to my aid." then the emperor picked out wise old knights and sent them east and west throughout asia, africa, and europe, to summon his allies from turkey, syria, portugal, and the other distant lands that were subject to him; and in the meantime he assembled his forces from rome, and from the countries between rome and flanders, and he collected together as his bodyguard fifty giants who were sons of evil spirits. putting himself at the head of this mighty host, lucius departed from rome, and marching through savoy, crossed the mountains, meaning to lay waste the lands king arthur had conquered. he besieged and took a castle near cologne, which he garrisoned with saracens and unbelievers. then he passed on, plundering and pillaging the country, till he entered burgundy, where he halted to collect the whole of his army before invading and laying utterly waste the land of little britain. in the meantime preparations were being made on the side of the british. a parliament was held at york, and there it was resolved that all the navy of the kingdom should be got ready and assembled within fifteen days at sandwich. sir baudewaine of britain, and sir constantine, the son of sir cador of cornwall, were chosen by the king to be his viceroys during his absence; and to them, in the presence of all his lords, he confided the care of his kingdom, and he also entrusted to them queen guinevere. she, when the time drew near for the departure of her lord, wept and lamented so piteously that at last she swooned, and was carried away to her chamber by the ladies that attended upon her. then king arthur mounted his horse, and, putting himself at the head of his troops, made proclamation in a loud voice that should death befall him during this expedition, his wish was that sir constantine, who was his heir by blood, should succeed to his possessions and to his throne. so king arthur and his army came to sandwich, where they found awaiting them a great multitude of galleys and vessels of all sorts, on which they embarked and set out to sea. that night, as the king lay asleep in his cabin, he dreamed a marvelous dream. a dreadful dragon appeared, flying out of the west. its head was all enameled with azure enamel. its wings and its claws glistened like gold. its feet were black as jet. its body was sheathed in scales that shone as armor shines after it has been polished, and it had a very great and remarkable tail. then there came a cloud out of the east. the grimmest beast man ever saw rode upon this cloud; it was a wild boar, roaring and growling so hideously that it was terrifying to hear it. the dragon flew down the wind like a falcon and struck at this boar; but it defended itself with its grisly tusks, and wounded the dragon in the breast so severely that its blood, pouring into the sea in torrents, made all the waves red. then the dragon turned and flew away, and having mounted up to a great height, again swooped down upon the boar and fastened its claws in the beast's back. the boar struggled, and raged, and writhed, but all in vain. it was at the mercy of its foe, and so merciless was the dragon that it never loosened its grip till it had torn the boar limb from limb and bone from bone, and scattered it piecemeal upon the surface of the sea. then king arthur awoke, and, starting up in great dismay, sent for a wise man that was on board the ship and bade him interpret the dream. "sir," the wise man said, "the dragon which you saw in your dream surely betokens your own self, its golden wings signifying the countries you have won with your sword, and its marvelous tail the knights of the round table. as for the boar that was slain, that may betoken either a tyrant that torments his people, or some hideous and abominable giant with whom you are about to fight. and the dream foreshadows victory for you. therefore, though it was very dreadful, you should take comfort from it and be of a good heart." before long the sailors sighted land, and the army disembarked at a port in flanders, where many great lords were awaiting the arrival of king arthur, as had been ordained. and to him, soon after he had arrived, there came a husbandman bringing grievous news. a monstrous giant had for years infested the country on the borders of little britain, and had slain many people and devoured such numbers of children that there were none left for him to prey upon. and being in search of victims, and coming upon the duchess of little britain as she rode with her knights, he had laid hands upon her and carried her off to his den in a mountain. five hundred men that followed the duchess could not rescue her, but they heard such heartrending cries and shrieks that they had little doubt she had been put to death. "now," said the husbandman, "as you are a great and noble king and a valiant conqueror, and as this lady was wife to sir howel, who is your own cousin, take pity on her and on all of us, and avenge us upon this vile giant." "alas," king arthur replied, "this is a grievous and an evil matter. i would give all my kingdom to have been at hand, so that i might have saved that fair lady." then he asked the husbandman whether he could show him the place where the giant would be found, and the man said that was easy to do, for there were always two fires burning outside the den he haunted. in that den, the husbandman believed, was stored more treasure than the whole realm of france contained. then the king took sir kay and sir bedivere apart privately into his tent, and bade them secretly get ready their horses and armor, and his own, for it was his intention that night, after evensong, to set out on a pilgrimage to st. michael's mount with them, and nobody besides them was to accompany him. so when evening came, the king, and sir kay, and sir bedivere armed themselves, and taking their horses, rode as fast as they could to the foot of st. michael's mount. there the king alighted and bade his knights stay where they were, while he himself ascended the mount. he went up the hillside till he came to a huge fire. close to it was a newly made grave, by which was sitting a sorrowful widow wringing her hands and making great lamentation. king arthur saluted her courteously, and asked for whom she was weeping. she prayed him to speak softly, for "yonder," said she, "is a monstrous giant that will come and destroy you should your voice reach his ears. luckless wretch, what brings you to this mountain?" asked the widow. "fifty such knights as you could not hold their ground against the monster." "lady," he replied, "the mighty conqueror king arthur has sent me as his ambassador to this giant, to inquire why he ventures thus to misuse and maltreat the people of the land." "a useless embassy in very truth!" she said. "little does he care for king arthur, or for any other man. not many days have passed since he murdered the fairest lady in the world, the wife of sir howel of little britain; and had you brought with you king arthur's own wife, queen guinevere, he would not be afraid to murder her. yet, if you must needs speak with him, you will find him yonder over the crest of the hill." "this is a fearful warning you give me," said the king. "yet none the less, believe me, will i accomplish the task that has been allotted me." having climbed up to the crest of the hill, king arthur looked down, and close below him he saw the giant basking at his ease by the side of a great fire. "thou villain!" cried the king--"thou villain! short shall be thy life and shameful shall be thy death. rise and defend yourself. my sword shall avenge that fair duchess whom you murdered." starting from the ground, the giant snatched up his great iron club, and aiming a swinging blow at king arthur's head, swept the crest off his helmet. then the king flew at him, and they wrestled and wrestled till they fell, and as they struggled on the ground king arthur again and again smote the giant with his dagger, and they rolled and tumbled down the hill till they reached the sea-beach at its foot, where sir kay and sir bedivere were waiting their lord's return. rushing to his aid, the two knights at once set their master free, for they found that the giant, in whose arms he was locked, was already dead. then king arthur sent sir kay and sir bedivere up the hill to fetch the sword and shield that he had let fall and left there, and also the giant's iron club and cloak, and he told them they might keep whatever treasure they found in his den, for he desired nothing besides the club and the cloak. so they went and did as they were bidden, and brought away as much treasure as they desired. when the news of the oppressor's death was spread abroad, the people came in throngs to thank the king, who had delivered them; but he bade them rather give thanks to heaven. then, having distributed among them the treasure his knights had not needed, and having commanded sir howel to build upon the hill which the giant had haunted a chapel in honor of st. michael, he returned to his army, and led it into the country of champagne, where he pitched his camp in a valley. that evening two men, of whom one was the marshal of france, came into the pavilion where king arthur sat at table. they brought news that the emperor was in burgundy, burning and sacking towns and villages, so that, unless king arthur came quickly to their succor, the men of those parts would be forced to surrender themselves and their goods to rome. hearing this, king arthur summoned four of his knights--sir gawaine, sir bors, sir lionel, and sir badouine--and ordered them to go with all speed to the emperor's camp, and all upon him either to leave the land at once or make ready for battle, since king arthur would not suffer the people to be harried any longer. these four knights, accordingly, rode off with their followers, and before very long they came to a meadow, where, pitched by the side of a stream, they saw many stately tents, and in the middle of them one which, it was plain, must be the emperor's, for above it floated a banner on which was an eagle. then they halted and took counsel what it would be best to do, and it was agreed that the rest of the party should remain in ambush in the wood while sir gawaine and sir bors delivered the message they brought. having heard it, the emperor lucius said they had better return and advise king arthur to make preparations for being subdued by rome and losing all his possessions. to this taunt sir gawaine and sir bors made angry replies, whereupon sir gainus, a knight who was near of kin to the emperor, laughed, and said that british knights behaved as if the whole world rested on their shoulders. sir gawaine was infuriated beyond all measure by these words, and he and sir bors fled as fast as their horses could put legs to the ground, dashing headlong through woods and across streams, till they came to the spot where they had left their comrades in ambush. the romans followed in hot pursuit, and pressed them hard all the way. one knight, indeed, had almost overtaken them, when sir bors turned and ran him through with his spear. then sir lionel and sir badouine came to their assistance, and there was a great and fierce encounter, and such was the bravery of the british that they routed the romans and chased them right up to their tents. there the enemy made a stand, and sir bors was taken prisoner; but sir gawaine, drawing his good sword, vowed that he would either rescue his comrade or never look king arthur in the face again, and falling upon the men that had captured sir bors, he delivered him out of their hands. then the fight waxed hotter and hotter, and the british knights were in such jeopardy that sir gawaine dispatched a messenger to bring him help as quickly as it could be sent, for he was wounded and sorely hurt. king arthur, having received the message, instantly mustered his army; but before he could set out, into the camp rode sir gawaine and his companions, bringing with them many prisoners. and the only one of the band who had suffered any hurt was sir gawaine, whom the king consoled as best he could, bidding his surgeon at once attend to his wounds. thus ended the first battle between the britons and the romans. that night there was great rejoicing in the camp of king arthur; and on the next day all the prisoners were sent to paris, with sir launcelot du lake and sir cador, and many other knights to guard them. on the way, passing through a wood, they were beset by a force the emperor lucius had placed there in ambush. then sir launcelot, though the enemy had six men for every one he had with him, fought with such fury that no one could stand up against him; and at last, in dread of his prowess and might, the romans and their allies the saracens turned and fled as though they had been sheep and sir launcelot a wolf or a lion. but the skirmish had lasted so long that tidings of it had reached king arthur, who arrayed himself and hurried to the aid of his knights. finding them already victorious, he embraced them one by one, saying that they were indeed worthy of whatever honors had been granted them in the past, and that no other king had ever had such noble knights as he had. to this sir cador answered that they might one and all claim at least the merit of not having deserted their posts, but that the honor of the day belonged to sir launcelot, for it passed man's wit to describe all the feats of arms he had performed. then sir cador told the king that certain of his knights were slain, and who they were, whereupon king arthur wept bitterly. "truly," he said, "your valor nearly was the destruction of you all. yet you would not have been disgraced in my eyes had you retreated. to me it seems a rash and foolhardy thing for knights to stand their ground when they find themselves overmatched." "nay," replied sir launcelot, "i think otherwise; for a knight who has once been put to shame may never recover the honor he has forfeited." there was among the romans who escaped from that battle a senator. he went to the emperor lucius and said, "sir, my advice is that you withdraw your army, for this day has proved that grievous blows are all we shall win here. there is not one of king arthur's knights that has not proved himself worth a hundred of ours." "alas," cried lucius, "that is coward's talk and to hear it grieves me more than all the losses i have sustained this day." then he ordered one of his most trusty allies to take a great force and advance as fast as he possibly could, the emperor himself intending to follow in all haste. warning of this having been brought secretly to the british camp, king arthur sent part of his forces to sessoigne to occupy the towns and castles before the romans could reach him. the rest he posted up and down the country, so as to cut off every way by which the enemy might escape. before long the emperor entered the valley of sessoigne, and found himself face to face with king arthur's men, drawn up in battle array. seeing that retreat was impossible--for he was hemmed in by his enemies, and had either to fight his way through them or surrender--he made an oration to his followers, praying them to quit themselves like men that day, and to remember that to allow the britons to hold their ground would bring disgrace upon rome, the mistress of the world. then, at the emperor's command, his trumpeters sounded their trumpets so defiantly that the very earth trembled and shook; and the two hosts joined battle, rushing at one another with mighty shouts. many knights fought nobly that day, but none more nobly than king arthur. riding up and down the battle-field, he exhorted his knights to bear themselves bravely; and wherever the fray was thickest, and his people most sorely pressed, he dashed to the rescue and hewed down the romans with his good sword excalibur. among those he slew was a marvelous great giant called galapus. first of all, king arthur smote off this giant's legs by the knees, saying that made him a more convenient size to deal with, and then he smote off his head. such was the hugeness of the body of galapus, that, as it fell, it crushed six saracens to death. but though king arthur fought thus fiercely, and sir gawaine and all the other knights of the round table did nobly, the host of their enemies was so great that it seemed as if the battle would never come to an end, the britons having the advantage at one moment and the romans at another. now, among the romans, no man fought more bravely than the emperor lucius. king arthur, spying the marvelous feats of arms he performed, rode up and challenged him to a single combat. they exchanged many a mighty blow, and at last lucius struck king arthur across the face, and inflicted a grievous wound. feeling the smart of it, king arthur dealt back such a stroke that his sword excalibur clove the emperor's helmet in half, and splitting his skull, passed right down to his breast-bone. thus lucius, the emperor of the romans, lost his life; and when it was known that he was slain, his whole army turned and fled, and king arthur and his knights chased them, slaying all they could overtake. of the host that followed lucius, more than a hundred thousand men fell that day. king arthur, after he had won the great battle in which the emperor lucius was slain, marched into lorraine, and so on through brabant and flanders into germany, and across the mountains into lombardy, and thence into tuscany, and at last came to rome, and on christmas day he was crowned emperor by the pope with great state and solemnity. and he stayed in rome a little while, setting in order the affairs of his possession, and distributing among his knights posts of honor and dignity, and also great estates, as rewards for their services. after these affairs had been duly arranged, all the british lords and knights assembled in the presence of the king, and said to him: "noble emperor, now that, heaven be thanked for it, this great war is over, and your enemies so utterly vanquished that henceforward, as we believe, no man, however great or mighty he may be, will dare to stand up against you, we beseech you to grant us leave to return to our wives and our homes, that there we may rest ourselves." this request king arthur granted, saying that it would be wise, seeing they had met with such good fortune so far, to be content with it and to return home. also he gave orders that there should be no plundering or pillaging of the country through which they had to pass on their way back, but that they should, on pain of death, pay the full price for victuals or whatever else they took. so king arthur and his host set off from rome and came over the sea and landed at sandwich, where queen guinevere came to meet her lord. and at sandwich and throughout the land there were great festivities, and noble gifts were presented to the king; for his people rejoiced mightily both because he had returned safely home, and because of the great victories he had achieved. sir galahad and the sacred cup adapted by mary macgregor "my strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure," sang galahad gladly. he was only a boy, but he had just been made a knight by sir lancelot, and the old abbey, where he had lived all his life, rang with the echo of his song. sir lancelot heard the boy's clear voice singing in triumph. as he stopped to listen, he caught the words, "my strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure," and the great knight wished he were a boy again, and could sing that song too. [illustration: sir galahad.] twelve nuns lived in the quiet abbey, and they had taught galahad lovingly and carefully, ever since he had come to them as a beautiful little child. and the boy had dwelt happily with them there in the still old abbey, and he would be sorry to leave them, but he was a knight now. he would fight for the king he reverenced so greatly, and for the country he loved so well. yet when sir lancelot left the abbey the next day, galahad did not go with him. he would stay in his old home a little longer, he thought. he would not grieve the nuns by a hurried farewell. sir lancelot left the abbey alone, but as he rode along he met two knights, and together they reached camelot, where the king was holding a great festival. king arthur welcomed sir lancelot and the two knights. "now all the seats at our table will be filled," he said gladly. for it pleased the king when the circle of his knights was unbroken. then all the king's household went to service at the minster, and when they came back to the palace they saw a strange sight. in the dining-hall the round table at which the king and his knights always sat seemed strangely bright. the king looked more closely, and saw that at one place on this round table were large letters. and he read, "this is the seat of sir galahad, the pure-hearted." but only sir lancelot knew that sir galahad was the boy-knight he had left behind him in the quiet old abbey. "we will cover the letters till the knight of the pure heart comes," said sir lancelot; and he took silk and laid it over the glittering letters. then as they sat down to table they were disturbed by sir kay, the steward of the king's kitchen. "you do not sit down to eat at this festival," sir kay reminded the king, "till you have seen or heard some great adventure." and the king told his steward that the writing in gold had made him forget his usual custom. as they waited a squire came hastily into the hall. "i have a strange tale to tell," he said. "as i walked along the bank of the river i saw a great stone, and it floated on the top of the water, and into the stone there has been thrust a sword." then the king and all his knights went down to the river, and they saw the stone, and it was like red marble. and the sword that had been thrust into the stone was strong and fair. the handle of it was studded with precious stones, and among the stones there were letters of gold. the king stepped forward, and bending over the sword read these words: "no one shall take me away save him to whom i belong. i will hang only by the side of the best knight in the world." the king turned to sir lancelot. "the sword is yours, for surely there lives no truer knight." but sir lancelot answered gravely, "the sword is not mine. it will never hang by my side, for i dare not try to take it." the king was sorry that his great knight's courage failed, but he turned to sir gawaine and asked him to try to take the sword. and at first sir gawaine hesitated. but when he looked again at the precious stones that sparkled on the handle, he hesitated no longer. but he no sooner touched the sword than it wounded him, so that he could not use his arm for many days. then the king turned to sir percivale. and because arthur wished it, sir percivale tried to take the sword; but he could not move it. and after that no other knight dared to touch the fair sword; so they turned and went back to the palace. in the dining-hall the king and his knights sat down once more at the round table, and each knight knew his own chair. and all the seats were filled except the chair opposite the writing in gold. it had been a day full of surprise, but now the most wonderful thing of all happened. for as they sat down, suddenly all the doors of the palace shut with a loud noise, but no one had touched the doors. and all the windows were softly closed, but no one saw the hands that closed them. then one of the doors opened, and there came in a very old man dressed all in white, and no one knew whence he came. by his side was a young man in red armor. he had neither sword nor shield, but hanging by his side was an empty sheath. there was a great silence in the hall as the old man said, slowly and solemnly, "i bring you the young knight sir galahad, who is descended from a king. he shall do many great deeds, and he shall see the holy grail." "he shall see the holy grail," the knights repeated, with awe on their faces. for far back, in the days of their boyhood, they had heard the story of the holy grail. it was the sacred cup out of which their lord had drunk before he died. and they had been told how sometimes it was seen carried by angels, and how at other times in a gleam of light. but in whatever way it appeared, it was seen only by those who were pure in heart. and as the old man's words, "he shall see the holy grail," fell on their ears, the knights thought of the story they had heard so long ago, and they were sorry, for they had never seen the sacred cup, and they knew that it was unseen only by those who had done wrong. but the old man was telling the boy-knight to follow him. he led him to the empty chair, and lifted the silk that covered the golden letters. "this is the seat of sir galahad, the pure-hearted," he read aloud. and the young knight sat in the empty seat that belonged to him. then the old man left the palace, and twenty noble squires met him, and took him back to his own country. when dinner was ended, the king went over to the chair where his boy-knight sat, and welcomed him to the circle of the round table. afterwards he took sir galahad's hand, and led him out of the palace to show him the strange red stone that floated on the river. when sir galahad heard how the knights could not draw the sword out of the stone, he knew that this adventure was his. "i will try to take the sword," said the boy-knight, "and place it in my sheath, for it is empty," and he pointed to his side. then he laid his hand on the wonderful sword, and easily drew it out of the stone, and placed it in his sheath. "god has sent you the sword, now he will send you a shield as well," said king arthur. then the king proclaimed that the next day there would be a tournament in the meadows of camelot. for before his knights went out to new adventures, he would see sir galahad proved. and in the morning the meadows lay bright in the sunshine. and the boy-knight rode bravely to his first combat, and over-threw many men; but sir lancelot and sir percivale he could not overthrow. when the tournament was over the king and his knights went home to supper, and each sat in his own seat at the round table. all at once there was a loud crashing noise, a noise that was louder than any peal of thunder. was the king's wonderful palace falling to pieces? but while the noise still sounded a marvelous light stole into the room, a light brighter than any sunbeam. as the knights looked at one another, each seemed to the other to have a new glory and a new beauty in his face. and down the sunbeam glided the holy grail. it was the sacred cup they had all longed to see. but no one saw it, for it was invisible to all but the pure-hearted sir galahad. as the strange light faded away, king arthur heard his knights vowing that they would go in search of the holy grail, and never give up the quest till they had found it. and the boy-knight knew that he too would go over land and sea, till he saw again the wonderful vision. that night the king could not sleep, for his sorrow was great. his knights would wander into far-off countries, and many of them would forget that they were in search of the holy grail. would they not have found the sacred cup one day if they had stayed with their king and helped to clear the country of its enemies? in the morning the streets of camelot were crowded with rich and poor. and the people wept as they watched the knights ride away on their strange quest. and the king wept too, for he knew that now there would be many empty chairs at the round table. the knights rode together to a strange city and stayed there all night. the next day they separated, each going a different way. sir galahad rode on for four days without adventure. at last he came to a white abbey, where he was received very kindly. and he found two knights there, and one was a king. "what adventure has brought you here?" asked the boy-knight. then they told him that in this abbey there was a shield. and if any man tried to carry it, he was either wounded or dead within three days. "but to-morrow i shall try to bear it," said the king. "in the name of god, let me take the shield," said sir galahad gravely. "if i fail, you shall try to bear it," said the king. and galahad was glad, for he had still no shield of his own. then a monk took the king and the young knight behind the altar, and showed them where the shield hung. it was as white as snow, but in the middle there was a red cross. "the shield can be borne only by the worthiest knight in the world," the monk warned the king. "i will try to bear it, though i am no worthy knight," insisted the king; and he took the shield and rode down into the valley. and galahad waited at the abbey, for the king had said he would send his squire to tell the young knight how the shield had protected him. for two miles the king rode through the valley, till he reached a hermitage. and he saw a warrior there, dressed in white armor, and sitting on a white horse. the warrior rode quickly towards the king, and struck him so hard that he broke his armor. then he thrust his spear through the king's right shoulder, as though he held no shield. "the shield can be borne only by a peerless knight. it does not belong to you," said the warrior, as he gave it to the squire, telling him to carry it back to the abbey and to give it to sir galahad with his greeting. "then tell me your name," said the squire. "i will tell neither you nor any one on earth," said the warrior. and he disappeared, and the squire saw him no more. "i will take the wounded king to an abbey, that his wounds may be dressed," thought the squire. and with great difficulty the king and his squire reached an abbey. and the monks thought his life could not be saved, but after many days he was cured. then the squire rode back to the abbey where galahad waited. "the warrior who wounded the king bids you bear this shield," he said. galahad hung the shield round his neck joyfully, and rode into the valley to seek the warrior dressed in white. and when they met they saluted each other courteously. and the warrior told sir galahad strange tales of the white shield, till the knight thanked god that now it was his. and all his life long the white shield with the red cross was one of his great treasures. now galahad rode back to the abbey, and the monks were glad to see him again. "we have need of a pure knight," they said, as they took sir galahad to a tomb in the churchyard. a pitiful noise was heard, and a voice from the tomb cried, "galahad, servant of god, do not come near me." but the young knight went towards the tomb and raised the stone. then a thick smoke was seen, and through the smoke a figure uglier than any man leaped from the tomb, shouting, "angels are round thee, galahad, servant of god. i can do you no harm." the knight stooped down and saw a body all dressed in armor lying there, and a sword lay by its side. "this was a false knight," said sir galahad. "let us carry his body away from this place." "you will stay in the abbey and live with us," entreated the monks. but the boy-knight could not rest. would he see the light that was brighter than any sunbeam again? would his adventures bring him at last to the holy grail? sir galahad rode on many days, till at last he reached a mountain. on the mountain he found an old chapel. it was empty and very desolate. galahad knelt alone before the altar, and asked god to tell him what to do next. and as he prayed a voice said, "thou brave knight, go to the castle of maidens and rescue them." galahad rose, and gladly journeyed on to the castle of maidens. there he found seven knights, who long ago had seized the castle from a maiden to whom it belonged. and these knights had imprisoned her and many other maidens. when the seven knights saw sir galahad they came out of the castle. "we will take this young knight captive, and keep him in prison," they said to each other, as they fell upon him. but sir galahad smote the first knight to the ground, so that he almost broke his neck. and as his wonderful sword flashed in the light, sudden fear fell on the six knights that were left and they turned and fled. then an old man took the keys of the castle to galahad. and the knight opened the gates of the castle, and set free many prisoners. he gave the castle back to the maiden to whom it belonged, and sent for all the knights in the country round about to do her homage. then once again sir galahad rode on in search of the holy grail. and the way seemed long, yet on and on he rode, till at last he reached the sea. there, on the shore, stood a maiden, and when she saw sir galahad, she led him to a ship and told him to enter. the wind rose and drove the ship, with sir galahad on board, between two rocks. but when the ship could not pass that way, the knight left it, and entered a smaller one that awaited him. in this ship was a table, and on the table, covered with a red cloth, was the holy grail. reverently sir galahad sank on his knees. but still the sacred cup was covered. at last the ship reached a strange city, and on the shore sat a crippled man. sir galahad asked his help to lift the table from the ship. "for ten years i have not walked without crutches," said the man. "show that you are willing, and come to me," urged the knight. and the cripple got up, and when he found that he was cured, he ran to sir galahad, and together they carried the wonderful table to the shore. then all the city was astonished, and the people talked only of the great marvel. "the man that was a cripple for ten years can walk," each said to the other. the king of the city heard the wonderful tale, but he was a cruel king and a tyrant. "the knight is not a good man," he said to his people, and he commanded that galahad should be put in prison. and the prison was underneath the palace, and it was dark and cold there. but down into the darkness streamed the light that had made galahad so glad long ago at camelot. and in the light galahad saw the holy grail. a year passed and the cruel king was very ill, and he thought he would die. then he remembered the knight he had treated so unkindly, and who was still in the dark, cold prison. "i will send for him, and ask him to forgive me," murmured the king. and when galahad was brought to the palace, he willingly forgave the tyrant who had put him in prison. then the king died, and there was great dismay in the city, for where would they find a good ruler to sit on the throne? as they wondered, they heard a voice that told them to make sir galahad their king, and in great joy the knight was crowned. then the new king ordered a box of gold and precious stones to be made, and in this box he placed the wonderful table he had carried away from the ship. "and every morning i and my people will come here to pray," he said. for a year sir galahad ruled the country well and wisely. "a year ago they crowned me king," thought galahad gravely, as he woke one morning. he would get up early, and go to pray at the precious table. but before the king reached the table he paused. it was early. surely all the city was asleep. yet some one was already there, kneeling before the table on which, uncovered, stood the sacred cup. the man kneeling there looked holy as the saints look. surrounding him was a circle of angels. was it a saint who kneeled, or was it the lord himself? when the man saw sir galahad, he said, "come near, thou servant of jesus christ, and thou shalt see what thou hast so much longed to see." and with joy sir galahad saw again the holy grail. then as he kneeled before it in prayer, his soul left his body and was carried into heaven. the passing of arthur adapted by mary macgregor it was not to win renown that king arthur had gone far across the sea, for he loved his own country so well, that to gain glory at home made him happiest of all. but a false knight with his followers was laying waste the country across the sea, and arthur had gone to wage war against him. "and you, sir modred, will rule the country while i am gone," the king had said. and the knight smiled as he thought of the power that would be his. at first the people missed their great king arthur, but as the months passed they began to forget him, and to talk only of sir modred and his ways. and he, that he might gain the people's praise, made easier laws than ever arthur had done, till by and by there were many in the country who wished that the king would never come back. when modred knew what the people wished, he was glad, and he made up his mind to do a cruel deed. he would cause letters to be written from beyond the sea, and the letters would tell that the great king arthur had been slain in battle. and when the letters came the people read, "king arthur is dead," and they believed the news was true. and there were some who wept because the noble king was slain, but some had no time to weep. "we must find a new king," they said. and because his laws were easy, these chose sir modred to rule over them. the wicked knight was pleased that the people wished him to be their king. "they shall take me to canterbury to crown me," he said proudly. and the nobles took him there, and amid shouts and rejoicings he was crowned. but it was not very long till other letters came from across the sea, saying that king arthur had not been slain, and that he was coming back to rule over his own country once more. when sir modred heard that king arthur was on his way home, he collected a great army and went to dover to try to keep the king from landing. but no army would have been strong enough to keep arthur and his knights away from the country they loved so well. they fought fiercely till they got on shore and scattered all sir modred's men. then the knight gathered another army, and chose a new battle-field. but king arthur fought so bravely that he and his men were again victorious, and sir modred fled to canterbury. many of the people began to forsake the false knight now, and saying that he was a traitor, they went back to king arthur. but still sir modred wished to conquer the king. he would go through the counties of kent and surrey and raise a new army. now king arthur had dreamed that if he fought with sir modred again he would be slain. so when he heard that the knight had raised another army, he thought, "i will meet this traitor who has betrayed me. when he looks in my face, he will be ashamed and remember his vow of obedience." and he sent two bishops to sir modred. "say to the knight that the king would speak with him alone," said arthur. and the traitor thought, "the king wishes to give me gold or great power, if i send my army away without fighting," "i will meet king arthur," he said to the bishops. but because he did not altogether trust the king he said he would take fourteen men with him to the meeting-place, "and the king must have fourteen men with him too," said sir modred. "and our armies shall keep watch when we meet, and if a sword is lifted it shall be the signal for battle." then king arthur arranged a feast for sir modred and his men. and as they feasted all went merrily till an adder glided out of a little bush and stung one of the knight's men. and the pain was so great, that the man quickly drew his sword to kill the adder. and when the armies saw the sword flash in the light, they sprang to their feet and began to fight, "for this is the signal for battle," they thought. and when evening came there were many thousand slain and wounded, and sir modred was left alone. but arthur had still two knights with him, sir lucan and sir bedivere. when king arthur saw that his army was lost and all his knights slain but two, he said, "would to god i could find sir modred, who has caused all this trouble." "he is yonder," said sir lucan, "but remember your dream, and go not near him." "whether i die or live," said the king, "he shall not escape." and seizing his spear he ran to sir modred, crying, "now you shall die." and arthur smote him under the shield, and the spear passed through his body, and he died. then, wounded and exhausted, the king fainted, and his knights lifted him and took him to a little chapel not far from a lake. as the king lay there, he heard cries of fear and pain from the distant battle-field. "what causes these cries?" said the king wearily. and to soothe the sick king, sir lucan said he would go to see. and when he reached the battle-field, he saw in the moonlight that robbers were on the field stooping over the slain, and taking from them their rings and their gold. and those that were only wounded, the robbers slew, that they might take their jewels too. sir lucan hastened back, and told the king what he had seen. "we will carry you farther off, lest the robbers find us here," said the knights. and sir lucan lifted the king on one side and sir bedivere lifted him on the other. but sir lucan had been wounded in the battle, and as he lifted the king he fell back and died. then arthur and sir bedivere wept for the fallen knight. now the king felt so ill that he thought he would not live much longer, and he turned to sir bedivere: "take excalibur, my good sword," he said, "and go with it to the lake, and throw it into its waters. then come quickly and tell me what you see." sir bedivere took the sword and went down to the lake. but as he looked at the handle with its sparkling gems and the richness of the sword, he thought he could not throw it away. "i will hide it carefully here among the rushes," thought the knight. and when he had hidden it, he went slowly to the king and told him he had thrown the sword into the lake. "what did you see?" asked the king eagerly. "nothing but the ripple of the waves as they broke on the beach," said sir bedivere. "you have not told me the truth," said the king. "if you love me, go again to the lake, and throw my sword into the water." again the knight went to the water's edge. he drew the sword from its hiding-place. he would do the king's will, for he loved him. but again the beauty of the sword made him pause. "it is a noble sword; i will not throw it away," he murmured, as once more he hid it among the rushes. then he went back more slowly, and told the king that he had done his will. "what did you see?" asked the king. "nothing but the ripples of the waves as they broke on the beach," repeated the knight. "you have betrayed me twice," said the king sadly, "and yet you are a noble knight! go again to the lake, and do not betray me for a rich sword." then for the third time sir bedivere went to the water's edge, and drawing the sword from among the rushes, he flung it as far as he could into the lake. and as the knight watched, an arm and a hand appeared above the surface of the lake. he saw the hand seize the sword, and shaking it three times, disappear again under the water. then sir bedivere went back quickly to the king, and told him what he had seen. "carry me to the lake," entreated arthur, "for i have been here too long." and the knight carried the king on his shoulders down to the water's side. there they found a barge lying, and seated in it were three queens, and each queen wore a black hood. and when they saw king arthur they wept. "lay me in the barge," said the king. and when sir bedivere had laid him there, king arthur rested his head on the lap of the fairest queen. and they rowed from land. sir bedivere, left alone, watched the barge as it drifted out of sight, and then he went sorrowfully on his way, till he reached a hermitage. and he lived there as a hermit for the rest of his life. and the barge was rowed to a vale where the king was healed of his wound. and some say that now he is dead, but others say that king arthur will come again, and clear the country of its foes. robin hood adapted by h.e. marshall i how robin hood came to live in the green wood very many years ago there ruled over england a king, who was called richard coeur de lion. coeur de lion is french and means lion-hearted. it seems strange that an english king should have a french name. but more than a hundred years before this king reigned, a french duke named william came to england, defeated the english in a great battle, and declared himself king of all that southern part of britain called england. he brought with him a great many frenchmen, or normans, as they were called from the name of the part of france over which this duke ruled. these normans were all poor though they were very proud and haughty. they came with duke william to help him to fight because he promised to give them money and lands as a reward. now duke william had not a great deal of money nor many lands of his own. so when he had beaten the english, or saxons, as they were called in those days, he stole lands and houses, money and cattle from the saxon nobles and gave them to the normans. the saxon nobles themselves had very often to become the servants of these proud normans. thus it came about that two races lived in england, each speaking their own language, and each hating the other. this state of things lasted for a very long time. even when richard became king, more than a hundred years after the coming of duke william, there was still a great deal of hatred between the two races. richard coeur de lion, as his name tells you, was a brave and noble man. he loved danger; he loved brave men and noble deeds. he hated all mean and cruel acts, and the cowards who did them. he was ever ready to help the weak against the strong, and had he stayed in england after he became king he might have done much good. he might have taught the proud norman nobles that true nobility rests in being kind and gentle to those less strong and less fortunate than ourselves, and not in fierceness and cruelty. yet richard himself was neither meek nor gentle. he was indeed very fierce and terrible in battle. he loved to fight with people who were stronger or better armed than himself. he would have been ashamed to hurt the weak and feeble. but richard did not stay in england. far, far over the seas there is a country called palestine. there our lord was born, lived, and died. christian people in all ages must think tenderly and gratefully of that far-off country. but at this time it had fallen into the hands of the heathen. it seemed to christian people in those days that it would be a terrible sin to allow wicked heathen to live in the holy land. so they gathered together great armies of brave men from every country in the world and sent them to try to win it back. many brave deeds were done, many terrible battles fought, but still the heathen kept possession. then brave king richard of england said he too would fight for the city of our lord. so he gathered together as much money as he could find, and as many brave men as would follow him, and set out for the holy land. before he went away he called two bishops who he thought were good and wise men, and said to them: "take care of england while i am gone. rule my people wisely and well, and i will reward you when i return." the bishops promised to do as he asked. then he said farewell and sailed away. now king richard had a brother who was called prince john. prince john was quite different from king richard in every way. he was not at all a nice man. he was jealous of richard because he was king, and angry because he himself had not been chosen to rule while richard was in palestine. as soon as his brother had gone, john went to the bishops and said, "you must let me rule while the king is away." and the bishops allowed him to do so. deep down in his wicked heart john meant to make himself king altogether, and never let richard come back any more. a very sad time now began for the saxons. john tried to please the haughty normans because they were great and powerful, and he hoped they would help to make him king. he thought the best way to please them was to give them land and money. so as he had none of his own (he was indeed called john lackland) he took it from the saxons and gave it to the normans. thus many of the saxons once more became homeless beggars, and lived a wild life in the forests, which covered a great part of england at this time. now among the few saxon nobles who still remained, and who had not been robbed of their lands and money, there was one called robert, earl of huntingdon. he had one son also named robert, but people called him robin. he was a favorite with every one. tall, strong, handsome, and full of fun, he kept his father's house bright with songs and laughter. he was brave and fearless too, and there was no better archer in all the countryside. and with it all he was gentle and tender, never hurting the weak nor scorning the poor. but robert of huntingdon had a bitter enemy. one day this enemy came with many soldiers behind him, determined to kill the earl and take all his goods and lands. there was a fierce and terrible fight, but in the end robert and all his men were killed. his house was burned to the ground and all his money stolen. only robin was saved, because he was such a splendid archer that no soldier would go near him, either to kill him or take him prisoner. he fought bravely till the last, but when he saw that his father was dead and his home in flames, he had no heart to fight any longer. so taking his bow and arrows, he fled to the great forest of sherwood. very fast he had to run, for prince john's men were close behind him. soon he reached the edge of the forest, but he did not stop there. on and on he went, plunging deeper and deeper under the shadow of the trees. at last he threw himself down beneath a great oak, burying his face in the cool, green grass. his heart felt hot and bitter. he was full of rage and fierce thoughts of revenge. cruel men in one day had robbed him of everything. his father, his home, servants, cattle, land, money, his name even, all were gone. he was bruised, hungry, and weary. yet as he lay pressing his face against the cool, green grass, and clutching the soft, damp moss with his hands, it was not sorrow or pain he felt, but only a bitter longing for revenge. [illustration: robin hood in an encounter.] the great, solemn trees waved gently overhead in the summer breeze, the setting sun sent shafts of golden light into the cool, blue shadows, birds sang their evening songs, deer rustled softly through the underwood, and bright-eyed squirrels leaped noiselessly from branch to branch. everywhere there was calm and peace except in poor robin's angry heart. robin loved the forest. he loved the sights and scents, and the sounds and deep silences of it. he felt as if it were a tender mother who opened her wide arms to him. soon it comforted him, and at last the tears came hot and fast, and sobs shook him as he lay on the grass. the bitterness and anger had all melted out of his heart; only sorrow was left. in the dim evening light robin knelt bareheaded on the green grass to say his prayers. then, still bareheaded, he stood up and swore an oath. this was the oath: "i swear to honor god and the king, to help the weak and fight the strong, to take from the rich and give to the poor, so god will help, me with his power." then he lay down on the grass under the trees with his good longbow beside him, and fell fast asleep. and this is how robin hood first came to live in the green wood and have all his wonderful adventures. ii the meeting of robin hood and little john when robin first came to live in sherwood forest he was rather sad, for he could not at once forget all he had lost. but he was not long lonely. when it became known that he had gone to live in the green wood, other poor men, who had been driven out of their homes by the normans, joined him. they soon formed a band and were known as the "merry men." robin was no longer called robin of huntingdon, but robin of sherwood forest. very soon people shortened sherwood into hood, though some people say he was called hood from the green hoods he and his men wore. how he came to have his name does not matter very much. people almost forgot that he was really an earl, and he became known, not only all over england, but in many far countries, as robin hood. robin was captain of the band of merry men. next to him came little john. he was called little john because he was so tall, just as midge the miller's son was called much because he was so small. robin loved little john best of all his friends. little john loved robin better than any one else in all the world. yet the first time they met they fought and knocked each other about dreadfully. "how they came acquainted, i'll tell you in brief, if you will but listen a while; for this very jest, among all the rest, i think it may cause you to smile." it happened on a bright sunshiny day in early spring. all through the winter robin and his men had had a very dull time. nearly all their fun and adventures happened with people traveling through the forest. as there were no trains, people had to travel on horseback. in winter the roads were bad, and the weather so cold and wet, that most people stayed at home. so it was rather a quiet time for robin and his men. they lived in great caves during the winter, and spent their time making stores of bows and arrows, and mending their boots and clothes. this bright sunshiny morning robin felt dull and restless, so he took his bow and arrows, and started off through the forest in search of adventure. he wandered on for some time without meeting any one. presently he came to a river. it was wide and deep, swollen by the winter rains. it was crossed by a very slender, shaky bridge, so narrow, that if two people tried to pass each other on it, one would certainly fall into the water. robin began to cross the bridge, before he noticed that a great, tall man, the very tallest man he had ever seen, was crossing too from the other side. "go back and wait until i have come over," he called out as soon as he noticed the stranger. the stranger laughed, and called out in reply, "i have as good a right to the bridge as you. _you_ can go back till _i_ get across." this made robin very angry. he was so accustomed to being obeyed that he was very much astonished too. between anger and astonishment he hardly knew what he did. he drew an arrow from his quiver, and fitting it to his bow, called out again, "if you don't go back i'll shoot." "if you do, i'll beat you till you are black and blue," replied the stranger. "quoth bold robin hood, 'thou dost prate like an ass, for, were i to bend my bow, i could send a dart quite through thy proud heart, before thou couldst strike a blow.'" "if i talk like an ass you talk like a coward," replied the stranger. "do you call it fair to stand with your bow and arrow ready to shoot at me when i have only a stick to defend myself with? i tell you, you are a coward. you are afraid of the beating i would give you." robin was not a coward, and he was not afraid. so he threw his bow and arrows on the bank behind him. "you are a big, boastful bully," he said. "just wait there until i get a stick. i hope i may give you as good a beating as you deserve." the stranger laughed. "i won't run away; don't be afraid," he said. robin hood stepped to a thicket of trees and cut himself a good, thick oak stick. while he was doing this, he looked at the stranger, and saw that he was not only taller but much stronger than himself. however, that did not frighten robin in the least. he was rather glad of it indeed. the stranger had said he was a coward. he meant to prove to him that he was not. back he came with a fine big stick in his hand and a smile on his face. the idea of a real good fight had made his bad temper fly away, for, like king richard, robin hood was rather fond of a fight. "we will fight on the bridge," said he, "and whoever first falls into the river has lost the battle." "all right," said the stranger. "whatever you like. i'm not afraid." then they fell to, with right good will. it was very difficult to fight standing on such a narrow bridge. they kept swaying backwards and forwards trying to keep their balance. with every stroke the bridge bent and trembled beneath them as if it would break. all the same they managed to give each other some tremendous blows. first robin gave the stranger such a bang that his very bones seemed to ring. "aha!" said he, "i'll give you as good as i get," and crack he went at robin's crown. bang, smash, crack, bang, they went at each other. their blows fell fast and thick as if they had been threshing corn. "the stranger gave robin a knock on the crown, which caused the blood to appear, then robin enraged, more fiercely engaged, and followed with blows more severe. "so thick and so fast did he lay it on him, with a passionate fury and ire, at every stroke he made him to smoke, as if he had been all on fire." when robin's blows came so fast and furious, the stranger felt he could not stand it much longer. gathering all his strength, with one mighty blow he sent robin backwards, right into the river. head over heels he went, and disappeared under the water. the stranger very nearly fell in after him. he was so astonished at robin's sudden disappearance that he could not think for a minute or two where he had vanished to. he knelt down on the bridge, and stared into the water. "hallo, my good man," he called. "hallo, where are you?" he thought he had drowned robin, and he had not meant to do that. all the same he could not help laughing. robin had looked so funny as he tumbled into the water. "i'm here," called robin, from far down the river. "i'm all right. i'm just swimming with the tide." the current was very strong and had carried him down the river a good way. he was, however, gradually making for the bank. soon he caught hold of the overhanging branches of a tree and pulled himself out. the stranger came running to help him too. "you are not an easy man to beat or to drown either," he said with a laugh, as he helped robin on to dry land again. "well," said robin, laughing too, "i must own that you are a brave man and a good fighter. it was a fair fight, and you have won the battle. i don't want to quarrel with you any more. will you shake hands and be friends with me?" "with all my heart," said the stranger. "it is a long time since i have met any one who could use a stick as you can." so they shook hands like the best of friends, and quite forgot that a few minutes before they had been banging and battering each other as hard as they could. then robin put his bugle-horn to his mouth, and blew a loud, loud blast. "the echoes of which through the valleys did ring, at which his stout bowmen appeared, and clothed in green, most gay to be seen, so up to their master they steered." when the stranger saw all these fine men, dressed in green, and carrying bows and arrows, come running to robin he was very much astonished. "o master dear, what has happened?" cried will stutely, the leader, as he ran up. "you have a great cut in your forehead, and you are soaked through and through," he added, laying his hand on robin's arm. "it is nothing," laughed robin. "this young fellow and i have been having a fight. he cracked my crown and then tumbled me into the river." when they heard that, robin's men were very angry. "if he has tumbled our master into the river, we will tumble him in," said they; "we will see how he likes that." and they seized him, and would have dragged him to the water to drown him, but robin called out, "stop, stop! it was a fair fight. he is a brave man, and we are very good friends now." then turning to the stranger, robin bowed politely to him, saying, "i beg you to forgive my men. they will not harm you now they know that you are my friend, for i am robin hood." the stranger was very much astonished when he heard that he had actually been fighting with bold robin hood, of whom he had heard so many tales. "if you will come and live with me and my merry men," went on robin, "i will give you a suit of lincoln green. i will teach you how to use bow and arrows as well as you use your good stick." "i should like nothing better," replied the stranger. "my name is john little, and i promise to serve you faithfully." "john little!" said will stutely laughing. "john little! what a name for a man that height! john little! why he is seven feet tall if he is an inch!" will laughed and laughed, till the tears ran down his face. he thought it was such a funny name for so big a man. robin laughed because will laughed. then john little laughed because robin laughed. soon they were all laughing as hard as they could. the wind carried the sound of it away, till the folk in the villages round about said, "hark! how robin hood and his merry men do laugh!" "well," said robin at last, "i have heard it said, 'laugh and grow fat,' but if we don't get some dinner soon i think we will all grow very lean. come along, my little john, i'm sure you must be hungry too." "little john," said will stutely, "that's the very name for him. we must christen him again, and i will be his godfather." back to their forest home they all went, laughing and talking as merrily as possible, taking john little along with them. dinner was waiting for them when they arrived. the head cook was looking anxiously through the trees, saying, "i do wish master robin would come, or the roast venison will be too much cooked and the rabbits will be stewed to rags." just at that moment they appeared. the cook was struck dumb at the sight of the giant, stalking along beside robin. "where has master gotten that maypole?" he said, laughing to himself, as he ran away to dish the dinner. they had a very merry dinner. robin found that john was not only a good fighter but that he had a wise head and a witty tongue. he was more and more delighted with his new companion. but will and the others had not forgotten that he was to be christened again. seven of them came behind him, and in spite of all his kicking and struggling wrapped him up in a long, green cloak, pretending he was a baby. it was a very noisy christening. the men all shouted and laughed. john little laughed and screamed in turn, and kicked and struggled all the time. "hush, baby, hush," they said. but the seven-foot baby wouldn't hush. then will stepped up beside him and began to speak. "this infant was called john little, quoth he, which name shall be changed anon, the words we'll transpose, so wherever he goes, his name shall be called little john." they had some buckets of water ready. these they poured over poor little john till he was as wet as robin had been after he fell into the river. the men roared with laughter. little john looked so funny as he rolled about on the grass, trying to get out of his long, wet, green robe. he looked just like a huge green caterpillar. robin laughed as much as any one. at last he said, "now, will, don't you think that is enough?" "not a bit," said will. "you wouldn't let us duck him in the river when we had him there so we have brought the river to him." at last all the buckets were empty, and the christening was over. then all the men stood round in a ring and gave three cheers for little john, robin's new man. "then robin he took the sweet pretty babe, and clothed him from top to toe in garments of green, most gay to be seen, and gave him a curious longbow." after that they sang, danced and played the whole afternoon. then when the sun sank and the long, cool shadows fell across the grass they all said "good night" and went off into their caves to sleep. from that day little john always lived with robin. they became very, very great friends and little john was next to robin in command of the men. "and so ever after as long as he lived, although he was proper and tall, yet, nevertheless, the truth to express, still little john they did him call." iii robin hood and the butcher the sheriff of nottingham hated robin and would have been very glad if any one had killed him. the sheriff was a very unkind man. he treated the poor saxons very badly. he often took away all their money, and their houses and left them to starve. sometimes, for a very little fault, he would cut off their ears or fingers. the poor people used to go into the wood, and robin would give them food and money. sometimes they went home again, but very often they stayed with him, and became his men. the sheriff knew this, so he hated robin all the more, and he was never so happy as when he had caught one of robin's men and locked him up in prison. but try how he might, he could not catch robin. all the same robin used to go to nottingham very often, but he was always so well disguised that the sheriff never knew him. so he always escaped. the sheriff was too much afraid of him to go into the forest to try to take him. he knew his men were no match for robin's. robin's men served him and fought for him because they loved him. the sheriff's men only served him because they feared him. one day robin was walking through the forest when he met a butcher. this butcher was riding gaily along to the market at nottingham. he was dressed in a blue linen coat, with leather belt. on either side of his strong gray pony hung a basket full of meat. in these days as there were no trains, everything had to be sent by road. the roads were so bad that even carts could not go along them very much, for the wheels stuck in the mud. everything was carried on horseback, in sacks or baskets called panniers. the butcher rode gaily along, whistling as he went. suddenly robin stepped from under the trees and stopped him. "what have you there, my man?" he asked. "butcher's meat," replied the man. "fine prime beef and mutton for nottingham market. do you want to buy some?" "yes, i do," said robin. "i'll buy it all and your pony too. how much do you want for it? i should like to go to nottingham and see what kind of a butcher i will make:" so the butcher sold his pony and all his meat to robin. then robin changed clothes with him. he put on the butcher's blue clothes and leather belt, and the butcher went off in robin's suit of lincoln green, feeling very grand indeed. then robin mounted his pony and off he went to nottingham to sell his meat at the market. when he arrived he found the whole town in a bustle. in those days there were very few shops, so every one used to go to market to buy and sell. the country people brought butter and eggs and honey to sell. with the money they got they bought platters and mugs, pots and pans, or whatever they wanted, and took it back to the country with them. all sorts of people came to buy: fine ladies and poor women, rich knights and gentlemen, and humble workers, every one pushing and crowding together. robin found it quite difficult to drive his pony through the crowd to the corner of the market-place where the butchers had their stalls. he got there at last, however, laid out his meat, and began to cry with the best of them. "prime meat, ladies. come and buy. cheapest meat in all the market, ladies. come buy, come buy. twopence a pound, ladies. twopence a pound. come buy. come buy." "what!" said every one, "beef at twopence a pound! i never heard of such a thing. why it is generally tenpence." you see robin knew nothing at all about selling meat, as he never bought any. he and his men used to live on what they shot in the forest. when it became known that there was a new butcher, who was selling his meat for twopence a pound, every one came crowding round his stall eager to buy. all the other butchers stood idle until robin had no more beef and mutton left to sell. as these butchers had nothing to do, they began to talk among themselves and say, "who is this man? he has never been here before." "do you think he has stolen the meat?" "perhaps his father has just died and left him a business." "well, his money won't last long at this rate." "the sooner he loses it all, the better for us. we will never be able to sell anything as long as he comes here giving away beef at twopence a pound." "it is perfectly ridiculous," said one old man, who seemed to be the chief butcher. "these fifty years have i come and gone to nottingham market, and i have never seen the like of it--never. he is ruining the trade, that's what he is doing." they stood at their stalls sulky and cross, while all their customers crowded round robin. shouts of laughter came from his corner, for he was not only selling beef and mutton, but making jokes about it all the time. "i tell you what," said the old butcher, "it is no use standing here doing nothing. we had better go and talk to him, and find out, if we can, who he is. we must ask him to come and have dinner with us and the sheriff in the town hall to-day." for on market days the butchers used to have dinner all together in the town hall, after market was over, and the sheriff used to come and have dinner with them. "so, the butchers stepped up to jolly robin, acquainted with him for to be; come, butcher, one said, we be all of one trade, come, will you go dine with me?" "thank you," said robin, "i should like nothing better. i have had a busy morning and am very hungry and thirsty." "come along, then," said the butchers. the old man led the way with robin, and the others followed two by two. as they walked along, the old butcher began asking robin questions, to try and find out something about him. "you have not been here before?" he said. "have i not?" replied robin. "i have not seen you, at least." "have you not?" "you are new to the business?" "am i?" "well, you seem to be," said the old butcher, getting rather cross. "do i?" replied robin, laughing. at last they came to the town hall, and though they had talked all the time the old butcher had got nothing out of robin, and was not a bit the wiser. the sheriff's house was close to the town hall, so as dinner was not quite ready all the butchers went to say "how do you do?" to the sheriff's wife. she received them very kindly, and was quite interested in robin when she heard that he was the new butcher who had been selling such wonderfully cheap meat. robin had such pleasant manners too, that she thought he was a very nice man indeed. she was quite sorry when the sheriff came and took him away, saying dinner was ready. "i hope to see you again, kind sir," she said when saying good-by. "come to see me next time you have meat to sell." "thank you, lady, i will not forget your kindness," replied robin, bowing low. at dinner the sheriff sat at one end of the table and the old butcher at the other. robin, as the greatest stranger, had the place of honor on the sheriff's right hand. at first the dinner was very dull. all the butchers were sulky and cross, only robin was merry. he could not help laughing to himself at the idea of dining with his great enemy the sheriff of nottingham. and not only dining with him, but sitting on his right hand, and being treated as an honored guest. if the sheriff had only known, poor robin would very soon have been locked up in a dark dungeon, eating dry bread instead of apple-pie and custard and all the fine things they were having for dinner. however, robin was so merry, that very soon the butchers forgot to be cross and sulky. before the end of dinner all were laughing till their sides ached. only the sheriff was grave and thinking hard. he was a greedy old man, and he was saying to himself, "this silly young fellow evidently does not know the value of things. if he has any cattle i might buy them from him for very little. i could sell them again to the butchers for a good price. in that way i should make a lot of money." after dinner he took robin by the arm and led him aside. "see here, young man," he said, "i like your looks. but you seem new to this business. now, don't you trust these men," pointing to the butchers. "they are all as ready as can be to cheat you. you take my advice. if you have any cattle to sell, come to me. i'll give you a good price." "thank you," said robin, "it is most kind of you." "hast thou any horned beasts, the sheriff then said, good fellow, to sell to me? yes, that i have, good master sheriff, i have hundreds two or three. "and a hundred acres of good free land, if you please it for to see; and i'll make you as good assurance of it, as ever my father did me." the sheriff nearly danced for joy when he heard that robin had so many horned cattle for sale. he had quite made up his mind that it would be very easy to cheat this silly young fellow. already he began to count the money he would make. he was such a greedy old man. but there was a wicked twinkle in robin's eye. "now, young man, when can i see these horned beasts of yours?" asked the sheriff. "i can't buy a pig in a poke, you know. i must see them first. and the land too, and the land too," he added, rubbing his hands, and jumping about in excitement. "the sooner the better," said robin. "i start for home to-morrow morning. if you like to ride with me i will show you the horned beasts and the land too." "capital, capital," said the sheriff. "to-morrow morning then, after breakfast, i go with you. and see here, young man," he added, catching hold of robin's coat-tails as he was going away, "you won't go and sell to any one else in the meantime? it is a bargain, isn't it?" "oh, certainly. i won't even speak of it to any one," replied robin; and he went away, laughing heartily to himself. that night the sheriff went into his counting-house and counted out three hundred pounds in gold. he tied it up in three bags, one hundred pounds in each bag. "it's a lot of money," he said to himself, "a lot of money. still, i suppose, i must pay him something for his cattle. but it is a lot of money to part with," and he heaved a big sigh. he put the gold underneath his pillow in case any one should steal it during the night. then he went to bed and tried to sleep. but he was too excited; besides the gold under his pillow made it so hard and knobby that it was most uncomfortable. at last the night passed, and in the morning. "the sheriff he saddled his good palfrey, and with three hundred pounds in gold away he went with bold robin hood, his horned beasts to behold." the sun shone and the birds sang as they merrily rode along. when the sheriff saw that they were taking the road to sherwood forest, he began to feel a little nervous. "there is a bold, bad man in these woods," he said. "he is called robin hood. he robs people, he--do you think we will meet him?" "i am quite sure we won't meet him," replied robin with a laugh. "well, i hope not, i am sure," said the sheriff. "i never dare to ride through the forest unless i have my soldiers with me. he is a bold, bad man." robin only laughed, and they rode on right into the forest. "but when a little farther they came, bold robin he chanced to spy an hundred head of good fat deer come tripping the sheriff full nigh." "look there," he cried, "look! what do you think of my horned beasts?" "i think," said the sheriff, in a trembling voice, "i think i should like to go back to nottingham." "what! and not buy any horned cattle? what is the matter with them? are they not fine and fat? are they not a beautiful color? come, come, sheriff, when you have brought the money for them too." at the mention of money the sheriff turned quite pale and clutched hold of his bags. "young man," he said, "i don't like you at all. i tell you i want to go back to nottingham. this isn't money i have in my bags, it is only pebble-stones." "then robin put his horn to his mouth, and blew out blasts three; then quickly and anon there came little john, and all his company." "good morning, little john," said robin. "good morning, master robin," he replied. "what orders have you for to-day?" "well, in the first place i hope you have something nice for dinner, because i have brought the sheriff of nottingham to dine with us," answered robin. "yes," said little john, "the cooks are busy already as we thought you might bring some one back with you. but we hardly expected so fine a guest as the sheriff of nottingham," he added, making a low bow to him. "i hope he intends to pay honestly." for that was robin hood's way. he always gave a very fine dinner to these naughty men who had stolen money from poor people, and then he made them pay a great deal of money for it. the sheriff was very much afraid when he knew that he had really fallen into the hands of robin hood. he was angry too when he thought that he had actually had robin in his own house the day before, and could so easily have caught and put him in prison, if he had only known. they had a very fine dinner, and the sheriff began to feel quite comfortable and to think he was going to get off easily, when robin said, "now, master sheriff, you must pay for your dinner." "oh! indeed i am a poor man," said the sheriff, "i have no money." "no money! what have you in your saddle-bags, then?" asked robin. "only pebbles, nothing but pebbles, as i told you before," replied the frightened sheriff. "little john, go and search the sheriff's saddle-bags," said robin. little john did as he was told, and counted out three hundred pounds upon the ground. "sheriff," said robin sternly, "i shall keep all this money and divide it among my men. it is not half as much as you have stolen from them. if you had told me the truth about it, i might have given you some back. but i always punish people who tell lies. you have done so many evil deeds," he went on, "that you deserve to be hanged." the poor sheriff shook in his shoes. "hanged you should be," continued robin, "but your good wife was kind to me yesterday. for her sake, i let you go. but if you are not kinder to my people i will not let you off so easily another time." and robin called for the sheriff's pony. "then robin he brought him through the wood, and set him on his dapple gray: oh, have me commended to your wife at home, so robin went laughing away." guy of warwick adapted by h.e. marshall i guy's early adventures and his fight with the dun cow long ago england was divided into several kingdoms, each having a king. in a great battle the king of northumbria was defeated and one of his lords, gordian, lost all he owned. he and his wife brunhilda journeyed forth to seek a new home and at last reached warwick, where gordian was made the steward of lord rohand. not long after brunhilda and gordian went to live in warwick, their little son guy was born. as he grew older he became a great favorite and was often invited to the castle. lord rohand heard of guy and asked him to a great dinner at warwick castle and afterwards to join in a tournament. to guy was given a seat quite near the earl and opposite his lovely daughter phyllis. she was the most beautiful lady in the kingdom and guy longed to show her how well he could fight. never did guy fight so well; he conquered every one of the knights, and won the prize. phyllis crowned him with roses and put the chain of gold around his neck. after this phyllis and guy were much together and at last guy said suddenly, "phyllis, i love thee. i cannot help it." in great anger she sent him away. guy grew very sad and phyllis very lonely and at length she sent for guy and said, "go away and make thyself famous, then will i marry thee." guy rode gaily away and sailed over to germany. there he heard of a great tournament. whoever fought best was to marry the emperor's daughter blanche, which means white. besides marrying the princess, the bravest knight was to receive a pure white horse, two white hounds, and a white falcon. so it was called the white tournament. when guy told the herald that he was the son of lord gordian he was admitted. all the lords and ladies looked at him scornfully because he wore plain black armor with nothing painted upon his shield. as he had not worn spurs, he was not yet a knight. guy entered the lists and met and conquered prince philaner, the emperor's son, duke otto, duke ranier, and duke louvain. guy took the prize offered with the exception of the hand of blanche. "for my fair phyllis alone i keep my love," he said. guy went back to england and heard that a terrible dun-colored cow had appeared in warwickshire. it was twelve feet high and eighteen feet long. its horns were thicker than an elephant's tusks curled and twisted. the king said that whoever would kill the dun cow should be made a knight and receive a great deal of land and money. guy went out to meet him and after a fearful encounter was able to deal a deathblow with his battle-axe behind the beast's ear. then the king gave the new knight a pair of golden spurs, and lady phyllis fastened them on. in memory of guy's deed one rib of the dun cow was hung up at the gate of coventry and another in the castle of warwick. ii travels and deeds in many lands guy next went to france, where he was wounded at a tournament. his enemy, duke otto, bribed fifteen villains to lie in wait, take him and cast him into prison. with the help of his friend heraud, guy was able to slay them all, but one of the traitor men smote heraud so hard that he fell to the ground as if dead. one day news was brought to guy that ledgwin of louvain was shut up in his city of arrascoun sore beset by the emperor. gathering his soldiers and knights together he set out to help his friend and was overjoyed to find heraud in the guise of a pilgrim sitting by the roadside. heraud had been nursed back to health by a kind hermit. at once he put on armor and rode forth with guy to the city of arrascoun to release ledgwin. there was a great battle but the almains who surrounded the city were defeated and the emperor yielded and forgave ledgwin. while in greece, guy went out hunting and came upon a most wonderful sight, a conflict between a lion and a dragon. just when the dragon was about to crush the lion guy drew his sword, and setting spurs to his horse, sprang upon the dragon. the fight was then between the dragon and guy. it seemed at first that the dragon would be the victor, but, like a flash, guy leaped from his horse and plunged his sword deep into the brute's side. for a moment his speckled crest quivered, then all was still. guy thought he would have to kill the lion too, but as it came near it licked guy's feet and fawned upon him, purring softly like a great pussy-cat. when guy rode back the lion trotted after him and lived with him every day. guy had an enemy at court, morgadour, who hated the brave knight and said, "i cannot kill thee, guy of warwick, but i will grieve thee. i will kill thy lion." this he did in secret. the king was angry when the deed was discovered and told guy to meet him in combat, which he did, and slew morgadour. laden with riches, guy reached home again, this time to marry the beautiful phyllis. there was a great and splendid wedding. for fifteen days the feasting and merriment lasted. for some time guy and phyllis lived happily together. then one sad day earl rohand died and guy became earl of warwick. as the new earl was one day thinking of his past life, it seemed to him that he had caused much bloodshed. thereupon he decided to go to the holy land, and there, at the sepulcher of our lord, do penance for his sins. phyllis begged him to stay; but guy said, "i must go." so, dressed in pilgrim robes, with staff in hand he set out on his long journey. one day as he walked he came upon an old man who was sad because the giant ameraunt was keeping his daughter and fifteen sons in a strong castle. "i am earl jonas of durras," he said, "and i seek guy of warwick to help me." guy said if the earl would give him meat and drink, weapons and armor, he would see what he could do. a splendid coat of mail was brought with shield and sword. guy called to the giant to come forth. "that will i," replied the giant, "and make short work with thee." ameraunt stalked forth and the fight began. all day it lasted before guy with his sword cut the giant's head off. taking the keys of the castle, which lay on the ground, he immediately released earl of jonas's children and other noble knights and brave ladies. putting off his armor, he dressed himself once more in his pilgrim's robe, and with his staff in his hand set out again upon his journey. iii how guy fought with the giant colbrand for some time after guy went away phyllis was very sorrowful. she wept and mourned, and was so sad that she longed to die. at times she even thought of killing herself. she would draw out guy's great sword, which he had left behind, and think how easy it would be to run it through her heart. but she remembered that the good fairies had promised to send her a little son, and so she made up her mind to live until he came. when the good fairies brought the baby she called him reinbroun, and he was so pretty and so dear that phyllis was comforted. then, because her lord was far away, and could not attend to his great lands nor to the ruling of his many servants, phyllis did so for him. she ruled and ordered her household well; she made new roads and rebuilt bridges which had been broken down. she journeyed through all the land, seeing that wrong was made right and evildoers punished. she fed the poor, tended the sick, and comforted those in sorrow, and, besides all this, she built great churches and abbeys. so year after year passed, but still guy did not return. all day phyllis was busy and had no time for grief, but when evening came she would go to pace up and down the path (which to this day is called "fair phyllis's walk") where she and guy had often walked together. now as she wandered there alone, the hot, slow tears would come, and she would feel miserable and forsaken. at last, after many years full of adventures and travel, guy reached england once more. he was now an old man. his beard was long, his hair had grown white, and in the weather-beaten pilgrim none could recognize the gallant knight and earl, guy of warwick. when guy landed in england he found the whole country in sore dread. for anlaf, king of denmark, had invaded england with a great army. with fire and sword he had wasted the land, sparing neither tower nor town, man, woman, nor child, but destroying all that came in his path. fight how they might, the english could not drive out the danes. now they were in deep despair, for the enemy lay before the king's city of winchester. with them was a terrible giant called colbrand, and anlaf had sent a message to king athelstane, as the king who now reigned over all england was called, demanding that he should either find a champion to fight with colbrand or deliver over his kingdom. so the king had sent messengers north, south, east, and west, but in all the land no knight could be found who was brave enough to face the awful giant. and now within the great church of winchester the king with his priests and people knelt, praying god to send a champion. "where, then, is heraud?" asked guy of the man who told this tale. "where is heraud, who never yet forsook man in need?" "alas! he has gone far beyond the seas," replied the man, "and so has guy of warwick. we know not where they are." then guy took his staff and turned his steps toward winchester. coming there, he found the king sitting among his wise men. "i bid you," he was saying to them, "give me some counsel how i may defend my country against the danes. is there any knight among you who will fight this giant? half my kingdom he shall have, and that gladly, if he conquer." but all the wise men, knights and nobles, stood silent and looked upon the ground. "oh, we is me!" then cried the king, "that i rule over such cowards. to what have my english come that i may not find one knight among them bold enough to do battle for his king and country? oh that guy of warwick were here!" then through the bright crowd of steel-clad nobles there came a tall old man, dressed in a worn, dark, pilgrim's robe, with bare feet and head, and a staff in his hand. "my lord king," he said, "i will fight for thee." "thou," said the king in astonishment, "thou seemest more fit to pray than to fight for us." "believe me, my lord king," said guy, for of course it was he, "this hand has often held a sword, and never yet have i been worsted in fight." "then since there is none other," said the king, "fight, and god strengthen thee." now guy was very tall, and no armor could be found anywhere to fit him. "send to the countess of warwick," said guy at last. "ask her to lend the earl's weapons and armor for the saving of england." "that is well thought of," said the king. so a swift messenger was sent to warwick castle, and he presently returned with guy's armor. he at once put it on, and the people marveled that it should fit him so well, for none knew, or guessed, that the pilgrim was guy himself. guy went then out to meet the giant, and all the people crowded to the walls of winchester to watch their champion fight. colbrand came forth. he was so huge that no horse could carry him, and he wore a whole wagon-load of weapons. his armor was pitch-black except his shield, which was blood-red and had a white owl painted upon it. he was a fearsome sight to look upon, and as he strode along shaking his spear every one trembled for guy. it was a terrible and unequal fight. tall though guy was, he could reach no higher than the giant's shoulder with his spear, but yet he wounded him again and again. "i have never fought with any like thee," cried colbrand. "yield, and i will ask king anlaf to make thee a general in the danish army. castle and tower shalt thou have, and everything that thou canst desire, if thou but do as i counsel thee." "better death than that," replied guy, and still fought on. at last, taking his battle-axe in both hands, he gave colbrand such a blow that his sword dropped to the ground. as the giant reeled under the stroke, guy raised his battle-axe once more. "his good axe he reared on high with both hands full mightily; he smote him in the neck so well, that the head flew that very deal. the giant dead on the earth lay; the danes made great sorrow that day." seeing their champion fall, the danes fled to their ships. england was saved. then out of the city came all the people with the priests and king in great procession, and singing hymns of praise as they went, they led guy back. the king brought guy to his palace and offered him splendid robes and great rewards, even to the half of the kingdom. but guy would have none of them. "give me my pilgrim's dress again," he said. and, in spite of all the king could say, he put off his fine armor and dressed himself again in his dark pilgrim's robe. "tell me at least thy name," said the king, "so that the minstrels may sing of thy great deeds, and that in years to come the people may remember and bless thee." "bless god, not me," replied guy. "he it was gave me strength and power against the giant." "then if thou wilt not that the people know," said the king, "tell thy name to me alone." "so be it," said guy. "walk with me half a mile out of the city, thou and i alone. then will i tell thee my name." so the king in his royal robes, and the pilgrim in his dull, dark gown, passed together out of the city gate. when they had gone half a mile, guy stood still. "sire," he said, "thou wouldst know my name. i am guy of warwick, thine own knight. once thou didst love me well, now i am as thou dost see me." at first the king could hardly believe that this poor man was really the great earl of warwick, but when he became sure of it he threw his arms round guy and kissed him. "dear friend, we have long mourned for thee as dead," he cried. "now thou wilt come with me and help me to rule, and i will honor thee above all men." but guy would not go back. he made the king promise to tell no man who he was. this he did for the sake of the oath which he had sworn, that he would never again fight for glory but only for a righteous cause. then once more they kissed, and each turned his own way, the king going sadly back to winchester. as he entered the gates the people crowded round him, eager to know who the pilgrim was. but king athelstane held up his hand. "peace," he said, "i indeed know, but i may not tell you. go to your homes, thank god for your deliverance, and pray for him who overcame the giant." iv how at last guy went home after guy left the king, he journeyed on towards warwick. and when he came to the town over which he was lord and master no one knew him. so he mixed with the poor men who came every morning to the castle gates to receive food from the countess. guy listened to what those round him said. he heard them praise and bless phyllis, calling her the best woman that had ever lived, and his heart was glad. pale and trembling, guy bent before his wife, to receive food from her hands. he was so changed that even she did not know him, but she felt very sorry for the poor man who seemed so thin and worn, so she spoke kindly to him and gave him more food than the others, and told him to come every day as long as he lived. guy thanked her, and turned slowly away. he remembered that a hermit lived in a cave not far off, and to him he went. but when he reached the cave he found it empty. the hermit had been dead many years. guy then made up his mind to live in the cave. every morning he went to the castle to receive food from phyllis. but he would only take the simplest things, often eating nothing but bread and drinking water from the spring which flowed near. every evening guy could hear phyllis as she paced to and fro, for her walk was not far from the hermit's cave. but still some strange enchantment, as it were, held him dumb, and although he still loved her, although he knew that she sorrowed and longed for him to return home, he could not say, "i am here." at last one day guy became very ill. he had no longer strength to go to the castle, so calling a passing countryman to him, he gave him a ring. it was the ring which phyllis had given him, and which he had kept ever with him through all his pilgrimage. "take this," he said to the countryman, "and carry it to fair phyllis, the countess of warwick." but the countryman was afraid. "i have never spoken to a great lady, and i do not know how to address her," he said. "besides she may be angry with me, and i shall get into trouble if i carry a ring to the earl's wife." "do not fear," said guy, "the countess will not be angry; rather will she reward thee. tell her to come hastily or i die." so the countryman took the ring, and, coming to the countess fell upon his knees. "lady," he said, "a pilgrim who lives yonder in the forest sends thee this ring." phyllis took the ring, and, as she looked at it, a strange light came into her eyes. like one in a dream she passed her hand over her forehead. "it is mine own lord, sir guy," she cried, and fell senseless to the ground. the countryman was much frightened, but her ladies ran to the countess and raised her, and soon she opened her eyes. "friend," she said to the countryman, "tell me where is he who gave thee this ring?" "he is in the hermit's cave," replied the man, "and he bade me to say that thou must hasten ere he die." right glad was phyllis at the thought of seeing guy again, yet sorrowful lest she should find him dead. so, calling for her mule, she mounted and rode speedily towards the cave, the countryman running before to show the way. and when they came to the cave phyllis went in, and kneeling beside guy, put her arms round him, crying bitterly. "dear," he said, "weep not, for i go where sorrows end." then "he kissed her fair and courteously, with that he died hastily." there was sorrow through all the land when it was known that guy, the great hero, was dead. he was buried with much pomp and ceremony, the king and queen, and all the greatest nobles of the land, coming to the funeral. and phyllis, not caring to live longer, now that she knew that guy was indeed dead, died too, and they were both buried in the same grave. then minstrels sang of guy's valiant deeds, and of how he had slain giants and dragons, and of how he might have been an emperor and a king over many lands, and how he was ever a gentle and courteous knight. "thus endeth the tale of sir guy: god, on his soul have mercy, and on ours when we be dead, and grant us in heaven to have stead." if you ever go to warwick you will see, in the castle there, guy's sword and armor. wise people will tell you that they never belonged to guy, but to some other men who lived much later. well, perhaps they are right. then, when you are at warwick, you must go to guy's cliff, which is about a mile and a half away. there, in the chapel, is a statue of guy, very old and broken. you will also see there fair phyllis's walk, the spring from which guy used to drink, still called guy's well, and the cave where he lived as a hermit, and where he died. upon the walls of the cave is some writing. you will not be able to read it, for it is saxon, but it means, "cast out, thou christ, from thy servant this burden." did guy, i wonder, or some other, in days of loneliness and despair, carve these words? if you ask why guy did these things--why, when he was happy and had everything he could desire, he threw away that happiness, and wandered out into the world to endure hunger, and weariness, and suffering--or why, when at last he came back and found his beautiful wife waiting and longing for his return, he did not go to her and be happy again, i cannot tell you certainly. but perhaps it may be explained in this way. in those far-off days there was nothing for great men to do but fight. what they had they had won by the sword, and they kept it by the sword. so they went swaggering over the world, fighting and shedding blood, and the more men a knight killed, the more blood he shed, the greater was his fame. it was impossible for a man to live in the world and be at peace with his fellows. so when he desired peace he had to cut himself off from the world and all who lived in it, and go to live like a hermit in some lonely cave, or wander as a pilgrim in desolate places. and so it was with guy. whittington and his cat adapted by ernest rhys in the reign of the famous king edward iii. there was a little boy called dick whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very young, so that he remembered nothing at all about them, and was left a ragged little fellow, running about a country village. as poor dick was not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little for his dinner, and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast; for the people who lived in the village were very poor indeed, and could not spare him much more than the parings of potatoes, and now and then a hard crust of bread. for all this dick whittington was a very sharp boy, and was always listening to what everybody talked about. on sunday he was sure to get near the farmers, as they sat talking on the tombstones in the churchyard, before the parson came; and once a week you might see little dick leaning against the sign-post of the village alehouse, where people stopped to drink as they came from the next market town; and when the barber's shop door was open, dick listened to all the news that his customers told one another. in this manner dick heard a great many very strange things about the great city called london; for the foolish country people at that time thought that folks in london were all fine gentlemen and ladies; and that there was singing and music there all day long; and that the streets were all paved with gold. one day a large wagon and eight horses, all with bells at their heads, drove through the village while dick was standing by the sign-post. he thought that this wagon must be going to the fine town of london; so he took courage, and asked the wagoner to let him walk with him by the side of the wagon. as soon as the wagoner heard that poor dick had no father or mother, and saw by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off than he was, he told him he might go if he would, so they set off together. i could never find out how little dick contrived to get meat and drink on the road; nor how he could walk so far, for it was a long way; nor what he did at night for a place to lie down to sleep in. perhaps some good-natured people in the towns that he passed through, when they saw he was a poor little ragged boy, gave him something to eat; and perhaps the wagoner let him get into the wagon at night, and take a nap upon one of the boxes or large parcels in the wagon. dick, however, got safe to london, and was in such a hurry to see the fine streets paved all over with gold, that i am afraid he did not even stay to thank the kind wagoner; but ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, through many of the streets, thinking every moment to come to those that were paved with gold; for dick had seen a guinea three times in his own little village, and remembered what a deal of money it brought in change; so he thought he had nothing to do but to take up some little bits of the pavement, and should then have as much money as he could wish for. poor dick ran till he was tired, and had quite forgot his friend the wagoner; but at last, finding it grow dark, and that every way he turned he saw nothing but dirt instead of gold, he sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep. little dick was all night in the streets; and next morning, being very hungry, he got up and walked about, and asked everybody he met to give him a halfpenny to keep him from starving; but nobody stayed to answer him, and only two or three gave him a halfpenny; so that the poor boy was soon quite weak and faint for the want of victuals. at last a good-natured looking gentleman saw how hungry he looked. "why don't you go to work, my lad?" said he to dick. "that i would, but i do not know how to get any," answered dick. "if you are willing, come along with me," said the gentleman, and took him to a hay-field, where dick worked briskly, and lived merrily till the hay was made. after this he found himself as badly off as before; and being almost starved again, he laid himself down at the door of mr. fitzwarren, a rich merchant. here he was soon seen by the cook, who was an ill-tempered creature, and happened just then to be very busy preparing dinner for her master and mistress; so she called out to poor dick: "what business have you there, you lazy rogue? there is nothing else but beggars; if you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will like a sousing of some dish-water; i have some here hot enough to make you jump." just at that time mr. fitzwarren himself came home to dinner; and when he saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door, he said to him: "why do you lie there, my boy? you seem old enough to work; i am afraid you are inclined to be lazy." "no, indeed, sir," said dick to him, "that is not the case, for i would work with all my heart, but i do not know anybody, and i believe i am very sick for the want of food." "poor fellow, get up; let me see what ails you." dick now tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand, for he had not eaten any food for three days, and was no longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people in the street. so the kind merchant ordered him to be taken into the house, and have a good dinner given him, and be kept to do what dirty work he was able to do for the cook. little dick would have lived very happy in this good family if it had not been for the ill-natured cook, who was finding fault and scolding him from morning to night, and besides, she was so fond of basting, that when she had no meat to baste, she would baste poor dick's head and shoulders with a broom, or anything else that happened to fall in her way. at last her ill-usage of him was told to alice, mr. fitzwarren's daughter, who told the cook she should be turned away if she did not treat him kinder. the ill-humor of the cook was now a little amended; but besides this dick had another hardship to get over. his bed stood in a garret, where there were so many holes in the floor and the walls that every night he was tormented with rats and mice. a gentleman having given dick a penny for cleaning his shoes, he thought he would buy a cat with it. the next day he saw a girl with a cat, and asked her if she would let him have it for a penny. the girl said she would, and at the same time told him the cat was an excellent mouser. dick hid his cat in the garret, and always took care to carry a part of his dinner to her; and in a short time he had no more trouble with the rats and mice, but slept quite sound every night. soon after this, his master had a ship ready to sail; and as he thought it right that all his servants should have some chance for good fortune as well as himself, he called them all into the parlor and asked them what they would send out. they all had something that they were willing to venture except poor dick, who had neither money nor goods, and therefore could send nothing. for this reason he did not come into the parlor with the rest; but miss alice guessed what was the matter, and ordered him to be called in. she then said she would lay down some money for him, from her own purse; but the father told her this would not do, for it must be something of his own. when poor dick heard this, he said he had nothing but a cat which he bought for a penny some time since of a little girl. "fetch your cat then, my good boy," said mr. fitzwarren, "and let her go." dick went upstairs and brought down poor puss, with tears in his eyes, and gave her to the captain; for he said he should now be kept awake again all night by the rats and mice. all the company laughed at dick's odd venture; and miss alice, who felt pity for the poor boy, gave him some money to buy another cat. this, and many other marks of kindness shown him by miss alice made the ill-tempered cook jealous of poor dick, and she began to use him more cruelly than ever, and always made game of him for sending his cat to sea. she asked him if he thought his cat would sell for as much money as would buy a stick to beat him. at last poor dick could not bear this usage any longer, and he thought he would run away from his place; so he packed up his few things, and started very early in the morning, on all-hallow's, which is the first of november. he walked as far as holloway; and there sat down on a stone, which to this day is called whittington's stone, and began to think to himself which road he should take as he went onwards. while he was thinking what he should do, the bells of bow church, which at that time had only six, began to ring, and he fancied their sound seemed to say to him: "turn again, whittington, lord mayor of london." "lord mayor of london!" said he to himself. "why, to be sure, i would put up with almost anything now, to be lord mayor of london, and ride in a fine coach, when i grow to be a man! well, i will go back, and think nothing of the cuffing and scolding of the old cook, if i am to be lord mayor of london at last." dick went back, and was lucky enough to get into the house, and set about his work, before the old cook came downstairs. the ship, with the cat on board, was a long time at sea; and was at last driven by the winds on a part of the coast of barbary, where the only people were the moors, that the english had never known before. the people then came in great numbers to see the sailors, who were of different color to themselves, and treated them very civilly; and, when they became better acquainted, were very eager to buy the fine things that the ship was loaded with. when the captain saw this, he sent patterns of the best things he had to the king of the country; who was so much pleased with them, that he sent for the captain to the palace. here they were placed, as it is the custom of the country, on rich carpets marked with gold and silver flowers. the king and queen were seated at the upper end of the room; and a number of dishes were brought in for dinner. they had not sat long, when a vast number of rats and mice rushed in, helping themselves from almost every dish. the captain wondered at this, and asked if these vermin were not very unpleasant. "oh, yes," said they, "very destructive; and the king would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they assault him in his chamber and even in bed, so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping for fear of them." the captain jumped for joy; he remembered poor whittington and his cat, and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would despatch all these vermin immediately. the king's heart heaved so high at the joy which this news gave him that his turban dropped off his head. "bring this creature to me," says he; "vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say, i will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her." the captain, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of mrs puss. he told his majesty that it would be inconvenient to part with her, as, when she was gone, the rats and mice might destroy the goods in the ship--but to oblige his majesty he would fetch her. "run, run!" said the queen; "i am impatient to see the dear creature." away went the captain to the ship, while another dinner was got ready. he put puss under his arm, and arrived at the place soon enough to see the table full of rats. when the cat saw them, she did not wait for bidding, but jumped out of the captain's arms, and in a few minutes laid almost all the rats and mice dead at her feet. the rest of them in their fright scampered away to their holes. the king and queen were quite charmed to get so easily rid of such plagues, and desired that the creature who had done them so great a kindness might be brought to them for inspection. upon which the captain called: "pussy, pussy, pussy!" and she came to him. he then presented her to the queen, who started back, and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such a havoc among the rats and mice. however, when the captain stroked the cat and called: "pussy, pussy," the queen also touched her and cried "putty, putty," for she had not learned english. he then put her down on the queen's lap, where she, purring, played with her majesty's hand, and then sung herself to sleep. the king, having seen the exploits of mrs. puss, and being informed that her kittens would stock the whole country, bargained with the captain for the whole ship's cargo, and then gave him ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to. the captain then took leave of the royal party, and set sail with a fair wind for england, and after a happy voyage arrived safe in london. one morning mr. fitzwarren had just come to his counting-house and seated himself at the desk, when somebody came tap, tap, at the door. "who's there?" said mr. fitzwarren. "a friend," answered the other; "i come to bring you good news of your ship unicorn." the merchant, bustling up instantly, opened the door, and who should be seen waiting but the captain and factor, with a cabinet of jewels, and a bill of lading, for which the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage. they then told the story of the cat, and showed the rich present that the king and queen had sent for her to poor dick. as soon as the merchant heard this, he called out to his servants, "go fetch him--we will tell him of the same; pray call him mr. whittington by name." mr. fitzwarren now showed himself to be a good man; for when some of his servants said so great a treasure was too much for dick, he answered: "god forbid i should deprive him of the value of a single penny." he then sent for dick, who at that time was scouring pots for the cook, and was quite dirty. mr. fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and so he began to think they were making game of him, at the same time begging them not to play tricks with a poor simple boy, but to let him go down again, if they pleased, to his work. "indeed, mr. whittington," said the merchant, "we are all quite in earnest with you, and i most heartily rejoice in the news these gentlemen have brought you; for the captain has sold your cat to the king of barbary, and brought you in return for her more riches than i possess in the whole world; and i wish you may long enjoy them!" mr. fitzwarren then told the men to open the great treasure they had brought with him; and said: "mr. whittington has nothing to do but to put it in some place of safety." poor dick hardly knew how to behave himself for joy. he begged his master to take what part of it he pleased, since he owed it all to his kindness. "no, no," answered mr. fitzwarren, "this is all your own; and i have no doubt but you will use it well." dick next asked his mistress, and then miss alice, to accept a part of his good fortune; but they would not, and at the same time told him they felt great joy at his good success. but this poor fellow was too kind-hearted to keep it all to himself; so he made a present to the captain, the mate, and the rest of mr. fitzwarren's servants; and even to the ill-natured old cook. after this mr. fitzwarren advised him to send for a proper tradesman and get himself dressed like a gentleman; and told him he was welcome to live in his house till he could provide himself with a better. when whittington's face was washed, his hair curled, his hat cocked, and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes, he was as handsome and genteel as any young man who visited at mr. fitzwarren's; so that miss alice, who had once been so kind to him, and thought of him with pity, now looked upon him as fit to be her sweetheart; and the more so, no doubt, because whittington was now always thinking what he could do to oblige her, and making her the prettiest presents that could be. mr. fitzwarren soon saw their love for each other, and proposed to join them in marriage; and to this they both readily agreed. a day for the wedding was soon fixed; and they were attended to church by the lord mayor, the court aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the richest merchants in london, whom they afterwards treated with a very rich feast. history tells us that mr. whittington and his lady lived in great splendor, and were very happy. they had several children. he was sheriff of london, also mayor, and received the honor of knighthood by henry v. the figure of sir richard whittington with his cat in his arms, carved in stone, was to be seen till the year 1780 over the archway of the old prison of newgate, that stood across newgate street. tom hickathrift adapted by ernest rhys long before william the conqueror, there dwelt a man in the isle of ely, named thomas hickathrift, a poor laboring man, but so strong that he was able to do in one day the ordinary work of two. he had an only son, whom he christened thomas, after his own name. the old man put his son to good learning, but he would take none, for he was none of the wisest, but something soft, and had no docility at all in him. god calling this good man, the father, to his rest, his mother, being tender of him, kept him by her hard labor as well as she could; but this was no easy matter, for tom would sit all day in the chimney-corner, instead of doing anything to help her, and although at the time we were speaking of he was only ten years old, he would eat more than four or five ordinary men, and was five feet and a half in height, and two feet and a half broad. his hand was more like a shoulder of mutton than a boy's hand, and he was altogether like a little monster; but yet his great strength was not known. tom's strength came to be known in this manner: his mother, it seems, as well as himself, for they lived in the days of merry old england, slept upon straw. now, being a tidy old creature, she must every now and then have a new bed, and one day having been promised a bottle of straw by a neighboring farmer, after much begging she got her son to fetch it. tom, however, made her borrow a cart-rope first, before he would budge a step, without saying what he wanted it for; but the poor woman, too glad to gain his help upon any terms, let him have it at once. tom, swinging the rope round his shoulder went to the farmer's, and found him with two men threshing in a barn. having told what he wanted, the farmer said he might take as much straw as he could carry. tom at once took him at his word, and, placing the rope in a right position, rapidly made up a bundle containing at least a cartload, the men jeering at him all the while. their merriment, however, did not last long, for tom flung the enormous bundle over his shoulders, and walked away with it without any difficulty, and left them all gaping after him. after this exploit tom was no longer allowed to be idle. every one tried to secure his services, and we are told many tales of his mighty strength. on one occasion, having been offered as great a bundle of fire wood as he could carry, he marched off with one of the largest trees in the forest. tom was also extremely fond of attending fairs; and in cudgeling, wrestling, or throwing the hammer, there was no one who could compete with him. he thought nothing of flinging a huge hammer into the middle of a river a mile off, and, in fact, performed such extraordinary feats, that the folk began to have a fear of him. at length a brewer at lynn, who required a strong lusty fellow to carry his beer to the marsh and to wisbeach, after much persuasion, and promising him a new suit of clothes and as much as he liked to eat and drink, secured tom for his business. the distance he daily traveled with the beer was upwards of twenty miles, for although there was a shorter cut through the marsh, no one durst go that way for fear of a monstrous giant, who was lord of a portion of the district, and who killed or made slaves of every one he could lay his hands upon. now, in the course of time, tom was thoroughly tired of going such a roundabout way, and without telling his plans to any one, he resolved to pass through the giant's domain, or lose his life in the attempt. this was a bold undertaking, but good living had so increased tom's strength and courage, that venturesome as he was before, his hardiness was so much increased that he would have faced a still greater danger. he accordingly drove his cart in the forbidden direction, flinging the gates wide open, as if for the purpose of making his daring more plain to be seen. at length he was espied by the giant, who was in a rage at his boldness, but consoled himself by thinking that tom and the beer would soon become his prey. "sir," said the monster, "who gave you permission to come this way? do you not know how i make all stand in fear of me? and you, like an impudent rogue, must come and fling my gates open at your pleasure! are you careless of your life? do not you care what you do? but i will make you an example for all rogues under the sun! dost thou not see how many thousand heads hang upon yonder tree--heads of those who have offended against my laws? but thy head shall hang higher than all the rest for an example!" but tom made him answer: "you shall not find me to be one of them." "no!" said the giant, in astonishment and indignation; "and what a fool you must be if you come to fight with such a one as i am, and bring never a weapon to defend yourself!" quoth tom, "i have a weapon here that will make you know you are a traitorous rogue." this speech highly incensed the giant, who immediately ran to his cave for his club, intending to dash out tom's brains at one blow. tom was now much distressed for a weapon, as by some chance he had forgot one, and he began to reflect how very little his whip would help him against a monster twelve feet in height and six feet round the waist. but while the giant was gone for his club, tom bethought himself, and turning his cart upside down, adroitly took out the axletree, which would serve him for a staff, and removing a wheel, fitted it to his arm instead of a shield--very good weapons indeed in time of trouble, and worthy of tom's wit. when the monster returned with his club, he was amazed to see the weapons with which tom had armed himself; but uttering a word of defiance, he bore down upon the poor fellow with such heavy strokes that it was as much as tom could do to defend himself with his wheel. tom, however, at length cut the giant such a blow with the axletree on the side of his head, that he nearly reeled over. "what!" said tom, "have you drunk of my strong beer already?" this inquiry did not, as we may suppose, mollify the giant, who laid on his blows so sharply and heavily that tom was obliged to defend himself. by-and-by, not making any impression on the wheel, the giant grew tired, and was obliged to ask tom if he would let him drink a little, and then he would fight again. "no," said tom, "my mother did not teach me that wit: who would be fool then?" the end may readily be imagined; tom having beaten the giant, cut off his head, and entered the cave, which he found completely filled with gold and silver. the news of this victory rapidly spread throughout the country, for the giant had been a common enemy to the people about. they made bonfires for joy, and showed their respect to tom by every means in their power. a few days afterwards tom took possession of the cave and all the giant's treasure. he pulled down the former, and built a magnificent house on the spot; but as for the land stolen by the giant, part of it he gave to the poor for their common, merely keeping enough for himself and his good old mother, jane hickathrift. tom was now a great man and a hero with all the country folk, so that when any one was in danger or difficulty, it was to tom hickathrift he must turn. it chanced that about this time many idle and rebellious persons drew themselves together in and about the isle of ely, and set themselves to defy the king and all his men. by this time, you must know, tom hickathrift had secured to himself a trusty friend and comrade, almost his equal in strength and courage, for though he was but a tinker, yet he was a great and lusty one. now the sheriff of the country came to tom, under cover of night, full of fear and trembling, and begged his aid and protection against the rebels, "else," said he, "we be all dead men!" tom, nothing loth, called his friend the tinker, and as soon as it was day, led by the sheriff, they went out armed with their clubs to the place where the rebels were gathered together. when they were got thither, tom and the tinker marched up to the leaders of the band, and asked them why they were set upon breaking the king's peace. to this they answered loudly, "our will is our law, and by that alone we will be governed!" "nay," quoth tom, "if it be so, these trusty clubs are our weapons, and by them alone you shall be chastised." these words were no sooner uttered than they madly rushed on the throng of men, bearing all before them, and laying twenty or thirty sprawling with every blow. the tinker struck off heads with such violence that they flew like balls for miles about, and when tom had slain hundreds and so broken his trusty club, he laid hold of a lusty raw-boned miller and made use of him as a weapon till he had quite cleared the field. if tom hickathrift had been a hero before, he was twice a hero now. when the king heard of it all, he sent for him to be knighted, and when he was sir thomas hickathrift nothing would serve him but that he must be married to a great lady of the country. so married he was, and a fine wedding they had of it. there was a great feast given, to which all the poor widows for miles round were invited, because of tom's mother, and rich and poor feasted together. among the poor widows who came was an old woman called stumbelup, who with much ingratitude stole from the great table a silver tankard. but she had not got safe away before she was caught and the people were so enraged at her wickedness that they nearly hanged her. however, sir tom had her rescued, and commanded that she should be drawn on a wheelbarrow through the streets and lanes of cambridge, holding a placard in her hand on which was written- "i am the naughty stumbelup, who tried to steal the silver cup." heroes of scandinavia the story of frithiof adapted by julia goddard i in a cottage overshadowed by wide-spreading oaks, and surrounded by a garden in which bloomed the sweetest flowers of summer, lived an aged peasant named hilding. two children might be seen playing about the garden from sunrise to sunset, but they were not old hilding's children. the handsome boy was the son of the thane thorsten vikingsson; the little girl, with dove-like eyes and silken tresses, was the daughter of good king belé. together the little ones played through the long pleasant days in their foster-father's garden, or wandered through the woods, or climbed the hills that sheltered them from the northern winds. the boy would seek treasures from the birds' nests for his fair companion, not even fearing to rob the mountain eagle, so that he might bring the spoil to ingebjorg. he would also take her far out on the blue sea in his little boat, and ingebjorg never felt afraid as long as frithiof was with her. as frithiof grew older, he became a great hunter, and once he slew without weapons a fierce bear, which he brought home in triumph and laid at ingebjorg's feet. during the winter evenings, they sat by the blazing logs on the hearth, and hilding told them wonderful stories of asgard and all its glories, of odin the king of the gods, and of the beautiful frigga. but frithiof thought she could not be half so beautiful as ingebjorg. and once he said so to her, and it pleased her exceedingly. and he said, moreover, that when he was a man, ingebjorg should be his wife. this also she was glad to hear, for she loved frithiof better than any one in the world. but old hilding told them not to talk nonsense, for ingebjorg was a king's daughter, and frithiof but the son of a thane. ii in a room of his palace stood king belé. he was leaning on his sword, musing over all that was past, and thinking of the future. he was an old man, and he felt that his strength was failing him. with him was his faithful friend thorsten vikingsson. they had grown up to manhood together, they had fought in many a battle side by side. they had been companions at many a feast and revel; and now, when old age had fallen upon them, they drew closer to one another, feeling that the hand of death was raised to summon them into another world. "the end of life is near," said the king; "the shadow of death is cast upon me. no longer do i care for all that men call pleasure. the chase hath lost its charm, the helmet sits heavy upon my brow, and the mead hath lost its flavor. i would that my sons were here so that i might give them my blessing." then the servants summoned to king belé's presence his two sons, helgi and halfdan. dark was the countenance of helgi, and there was blood upon his hands, for he had just been assisting at the midday sacrifice. but the face of halfdan was bright as the early morning, and he was as light and joyous as his brother was dark and gloomy. frithiof also came, for the thane thorsten vikingsson desired to see him, that he too might bless his son when king belé blessed the royal princes. and the two old friends spoke words of wisdom to their children, and prayed that the gods might be with them in peace and war, in joy and sorrow, and grant them a long life and a glorious death. and when their counsels and prayers were ended, king belé said, "and now, o sons, i bid you remember, in that day when death shall claim me and my faithful friend, that ye lay our bones side by side near the shore of the great ocean." iii in due time, king belé died, and helgi and halfdan shared his kingdom between them. thorsten vikingsson died also, and frithiof became lord of his ancestral home of framnäs. rich treasures did that home contain, three of them of magic power. the first was the sword of angurvadel. blood-red it shone in time of war, and wo to him who contended with its owner on the battle-field. next was an arm-ring of pure gold, made by the god völund, and given by him to one of thorsten vikingsson's forefathers. once it was stolen and carried to england by the viking soté, but thorsten and his friend king belé pursued the robber. over the sea they sailed after the viking, and landed at a lonely place where the rocks reared up their sharp points and made the coast dangerous. there were deep caverns which the waters filled when the tide was up, so lone and dark that men were almost afraid to go into them. but thorsten vikingsson and the king his master were not daunted. hither had they come after the pirate, and here it was that he had last been heard of; and they searched along the shore and in the caves, and peered into every hole and cranny, until their eyes grew strained and heavy, but no viking soté was to be seen. they had almost given up hope of finding him, when, looking through a chink that had hitherto escaped their notice, a fearful sight was seen by the valiant thane. within a mighty vault, forming a still, cold tomb, there lay a vessel all complete, with masts and spars and anchor; and on the deck there sat a grim skeleton clad in a robe of flame, and on his skinless arm glittered the golden arm-ring wrought by völund. the figure held in his left hand a blood-stained sword, from which he was trying to scour away the stains. "it is my arm-ring," said thorsten vikingsson; "it is the spirit of the viking soté." and forthwith he forced his way into the tomb, and, after a deadly conflict with the specter, regained his treasure. and the two friends sailed home in triumph. the third great thing that frithiof inherited was the dragon-ship "ellide," which his forefathers had won in the following manner: one of them, a rough, rude viking, with a tender heart, was out at sea, and on a wreck that was fast sinking saw an old man with green locks sitting disconsolately. the good-natured viking picked him up, took him home, gave him of the best of food and of sparkling mead, and would have lodged him in his house; but the green-haired man said he could not tarry, for he had many miles to sail that night. "but when the sun comes up in the east," added the stranger, "look for a thank-gift on the wild seashore." and behold, as morning dawned, the viking saw a goodly vessel making gallant headway. as she drew near the land with streamer flying and broad sails flapping in the wind, the viking saw that there was no soul on board of her; and yet, without steersman to guide her, the vessel avoided the shoals and held her way straight to the spot where he was standing. her prow was a dragon's head, a dragon's tail formed her stern, and dragon's wings bore her along swifter than an eagle before the storm. the green-haired stranger was a sea-god, and the dragon-ship "ellide" was his thank-gift. thus frithiof, though only the son of a thane, had treasures that might have been coveted by kings and princes. he sat in his father's halls, surrounded by his companions; upon his right was seated his bosom friend bjorn, and twelve bold champions clad in steel were ranged around the board. and they drank in silence to the memory of thorsten vikingsson. but suddenly the harps struck up, and the skalds poured forth their songs in honor of the dead thane. and frithiof's eyes filled with tears as he listened to his father's praises. iv in spite of frithiof's wealth, helgi and halfdan looked with disdain upon the son of their father's friend; and when frithiof asked to have ingebjorg for his wife, helgi scornfully answered, "my sister shall not wed the son of a thane. if you like to be our serf, we will make room for you among our servants." then went frithiof away in wrath. there was another suitor for the hand of ingebjorg, good old king ring, who, having lost his wife, thought that the lily of the north would make a tender mother for his little son. and he sent to helgi and halfdan to ask for ingebjorg in marriage, but the brothers treated him as they had treated frithiof; and the old king was roused, and he swore he would revenge himself. helgi and halfdan were afraid when they found that ring was really making ready for war. they began to get their army into order, and placed ingebjorg for safety in the temple of baldur, and in their distress they even sent to frithiof to ask him to come and help them. they chose wisely in the messenger they sent to plead for them, for it was none other than old hilding, who had been so kind to frithiof in his childhood. frithiof was playing at chess with bjorn when hilding arrived. he pretended not to hear the message, and went on with his game. "shall the pawn save the king?" he asked of bjorn. and after a time he added: "there is no other way to save the queen." which showed that he had been all the time occupied with hilding's errand. therefore he returned with the old peasant, and contrived to see ingebjorg in the temple of baldur, and found that she still loved him as much as he loved her, and did not wish to marry any one else. and again he asked helgi and halfdan if they were willing that ingebjorg should be his wife. and again the brothers said, nay, with scorn, and told him that he had profaned the temple of baldur by speaking to ingebjorg within its walls. "for such a misdeed," said helgi, "death or banishment is the doom, and thou art in our power. nevertheless, we are willing, as we wish to make thee useful to us, to forego the penalty. thou shalt therefore sail forth to the distant orkney isles, and compel jarl angantyr to pay the tribute that he owes us." frithiof would have refused to go, but ingebjorg persuaded him to undertake the mission; for she was afraid of her brothers, and knew that frithiof would be safer on the wild seas than in their hands. at last frithiof consented, and he took leave of ingebjorg, and placed the golden bracelet that völund had made upon her arm, praying her to keep it for his sake. and then he sailed away over the heaving waters, and ingebjorg mourned that her lover was gone. v over the sea. it was calm enough when frithiof started; the storm-winds were asleep, and the waters heaved gently as though they would fain help speed the dragon-ship peacefully on her way. but king helgi standing on a rock repented that he had suffered the noble frithiof to escape his malice; and as he watched the good ship "ellide" riding over the sea, he prayed loudly to the ocean-fiends that they would trouble the waters and raise a fierce tempest to swallow up frithiof and the dragon-ship. all at once, the sparkling sea turned leaden gray, and the billows began to roll, the skies grew dark, and the howl of the driving wind was answered by a sullen roar from the depths beneath. suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning played around the vessel, and as it vanished the pealing thunder burst from the clouds. the raging sea foamed, and seethed, and tossed the vessel like a feather upon its angry waves, and deeper sounded the thunder, and more fiercely flashed the lightning round the masts. wilder, wilder, wilder grew the storm. alas, for frithiof! "ho! take the tiller in hand," shouted frithiof to bjorn. "and i will mount to the topmost mast and look out for danger'" and when he looked out, he saw the storm-fiends riding on a whale. one was in form like to a great white bear, the other like unto a terrible eagle. "now help me, o gift of the sea-god! help me, my gallant 'ellide'!" cried frithiof. and the dragon-ship heard her master's voice, and with her keel she smote the whale; so he died, and sank to the bottom of the sea, leaving the storm-fiends tossing upon the waves. "ho, spears and lances, help me in my need!" shouted frithiof, as he took aim at the monsters. and he transfixed the shrieking storm-fiends, and left them entangled in the huge coils of seaweed which the storm had uprooted. "ho, ho!" laughed rugged bjorn, "they are trapped in their own nets." and so they were; and they were so much taken up with trying to free themselves from the seaweed and from frithiof's long darts, that they were unable to give any heed to the storm, which therefore went down, and frithiof and his crew sailed on, and reached the orkney isles in safety. "here comes frithiof," said the viking atlé. "i know him by his dragon-ship." and forthwith the viking rose and went forth; he had heard of the strength of frithiof, and wished to match himself against him. he did not wait to see whether frithiof came in enmity or friendship. fighting was the first thing he thought of, and what he most cared for. however, the viking had the worst of it in the battle. "there is witchcraft in thy sword," said he to frithiof. so frithiof threw his sword aside, and they wrestled together, unarmed, until atlé was brought to the ground. then spake frithiof: "and if i had my sword thou wouldst not long be a living man." "fetch it, then," replied atlé. "i swear by the gods that i will not move until thou dost return." so frithiof fetched his sword, but when he saw the conquered viking still upon the ground, he could not bring himself to slay so honorable a man. "thou art too true and brave to die," said frithiof. "rise, let us be friends." and the two combatants went hand in hand to the banquet hall of angantyr, jarl (earl) of the orkney islands. a splendid hall it was, and a rare company of heroes was there; and all listened eagerly as frithiof told his story, and wherefore he had come. "i never paid tribute to king belé, though he was an old friend of mine," said the jarl, as frithiof ended his speech, "nor will i to his sons. if they want aught of me, let them come and take it." "it was by no choice of my own that i came upon such an errand," returned frithiof, "and i shall be well content to carry back your answer." "take also this purse of gold in token of friendship," continued the jarl, "and remain with us, for i knew thy father." thus frithiof and the jarl became good friends, and frithiof consented to stay for a while in the orkney islands; but after a time he ordered out his good ship "ellide," and set sail for his native land. vi but fearful things had come to pass since he had left his home! framnäas, the dwelling of his fathers, was a heap of ruins, and the land was waste and desolate. and as he stood upon the well-loved spot, striving to find some traces of the past, his faithful hound bounded forth to greet him, and licked his master's hand. and then his favorite steed drew near, and thrust his nose into frithiof's hand, hoping to find therein a piece of bread, as in the days of old. his favorite falcon perched upon his shoulder, and this was frithiof's welcome to the home of his ancestors. there had been a fierce battle, for king ring with his army had come against helgi and halfdan, and the country had been laid waste, and many warriors slain. and when all chance of withstanding him was at an end, the brothers, rather than lose their kingdom, had consented that ingebjorg should be the wife of ring. ingebjorg was married! frithiof's heart was full of deep sorrow, and he turned his steps towards the temple of baldur, hoping that at the altar of the god he might meet with consolation. in the temple he found king helgi, and the sorrow that was weighing down frithiof's heart gave place to hatred and revenge. caring nothing for the sacred place, he rushed madly forward. "here, take thy tribute," said he, and he threw the purse that jarl angantyr had given him with such force against the face of the king that helgi fell down senseless on the steps of the altar. next, seeing his arm-ring on the arm of the statue, for helgi had taken it from ingebjorg and placed it there, he tried to tear it off, and, lo! the image tottered and fell upon the fire that was burning with sweet perfumes before it. scarcely had it touched the fire when it was ablaze, and the flames spreading rapidly on every side, the whole temple was soon a smoldering heap of ruins. then frithiof sought his ship. he vowed that he would lead a viking's life, and leave forever a land where he had suffered so much sorrow. and he put out to sea. but no sooner were his sails spread than he saw ten vessels in chase of him, and on the deck of one stood helgi, who had been rescued from the burning temple, and had come in chase of him. yet frithiof was rescued from the danger as if by miracle; for one by one the ships sank down as though some water-giant had stretched out his strong arm, and dragged them below, and helgi only saved himself by swimming ashore. loud laughed bjorn. "i bored holes in the ships last night," said he; "it is a rare ending to helgi's fleet." "and now," said frithiof, "i will forever lead a viking's life. i care not for aught upon the land. the sea shall be my home. and i will seek climes far away from here." so he steered the good ship "ellide" southward, and among the isles of greece strove to forget the memories of bygone days. vii in and out of the sunny islands that lay like studs of emerald on a silver shield sailed frithiof, and on the deck of the dragon-ship he rested through the summer nights, looking up at the moon, and wondering what she could tell him of the northern land. sometimes he dreamed of his home as it was before the wartime. sometimes he dreamed of the days when he and ingebjorg roamed through the fields and woods together, or listened to old hilding's stories by the blazing hearth; and then he would wake up with a start and stroke his faithful hound, who was ever near him, saying, "thou alone knowest no change; to thee all is alike, so long as thy master is with thee." one night, however, as frithiof was musing on the deck of his vessel, gazing into the cloudless sky, a vision of the past rose up before him: old familiar faces crowded round him, and in their midst he marked one, best beloved of all, pale, sad, with sorrowful eyes; and her lips moved, and he seemed to hear her say, "i am very sad without thee, frithiof." then a great longing came upon frithiof to see ingebjorg once more. he would go northward, even to the country of king ring; he must see ingebjorg. what did he care for danger? he must go. to the cold, dark north. yet he dared not go openly, for king ring looked upon him as an enemy, and would seize him at once, and if he did not kill him would shut him up in prison, so that either way he would not see the beautiful queen. frithiof. therefore disguised himself as an old man, and wrapped in bearskins, presented himself at the palace. the old king sat upon his throne, and at his side was ingebjorg the fair, looking like spring by the side of fading autumn. as the strangely dressed figure passed along, the courtiers jeered, and frithiof, thrown off his guard, angrily seized one of them, and twirled him round with but little effort. "ho!" said the king, "thou art a strong old man, o stranger! whence art thou?" "i was reared in anguish and want," returned frithiof; "sorrow has filled a bitter cup for me, and i have almost drunk it to the dregs. once i rode upon a dragon, but now it lies dead upon the seashore, and i am left in my old age to burn salt upon the strand." "thou art not old," answered the wise king; "thy voice is clear, and thy grasp is strong. throw off thy rude disguise, that we may know our guest." then frithiof threw aside his bearskin, and appeared clad in a mantle of blue embroidered velvet, and his hair fell like a golden wave upon his shoulder. ring did not know him, but ingebjorg did; and when she handed the goblet for him to drink, her color went and came "like to the northern light on a field of snow." and frithiof stayed at the court, until the year came round again, and spring once more put forth its early blossoms. one day a gay hunting train went forth, but old king ring, not being strong, as in former years, lay down to rest upon the mossy turf beneath some arching pines, while the hunters rode on. then frithiof drew near, and in his heart wild thoughts arose. one blow of his sword, and ingebjorg was free to be his wife. but as he looked upon the sleeping king, there came a whisper from a better voice, "it is cowardly to strike a sleeping foe." and frithiof shuddered, for he was too brave a man to commit murder. "sleep on, old man," he muttered gently to himself. but ring's sleep was over. he started up. "o frithiof why hast thou come hither to steal an old man's bride?" "i came not hither for so dark a purpose," answered frithiof; "i came but to look on the face of my loved ingebjorg once more." "i know it," replied the king; "i have tried thee, i have proved thee, and true as tried steel hast thou passed through the furnace. stay with us yet a little longer, the old man soon will be gathered to his fathers, then shall his kingdom and his wife be thine." but frithiof replied that he had already remained too long, and that on the morrow he must depart. yet he went not; for death had visited the palace, and old king ring was stretched upon his bier, while the bards around sang of his wisdom. then arose a cry among the people, "we must choose a king!" and frithiof raised aloft upon his shield the little son of ring. "here is your king," he said, "the son of wise old ring." the blue-eyed child laughed and clapped his hands as he beheld the glittering helmets and glancing spears of the warriors. then tired of his high place, he sprang down into the midst of them. loud uprose the shout, "the child shall be our king, and the jarl frithiof regent. hail to the young king of the northmen!" viii but frithiof in the hour of his good fortune did not forget that he had offended the gods. he must make atonement to baldur for having caused the ruin of his temple. he must turn his steps once more homeward. home! home! and on his father's grave he sank down with a softened heart, and grieved over the passion and revenge that had swayed his deeds. and as he mourned, the voices of unseen spirits answered him, and whispered that he was forgiven. and to his wondering eyes a vision was vouchsafed, and the temple of baldur appeared before him, rebuilt in more than its ancient splendor, and deep peace sank into the soul of frithiof. "rise up, rise up, frithiof, and journey onward." the words came clear as a command to frithiof, and he obeyed them. he rose up, and journeyed to the place where he had left the temple a heap of blackened ruins. and, lo! the vision that had appeared to him was accomplished, for there stood the beautiful building, stately and fair to look upon. so beautiful, that, as he gazed, his thoughts were of valhalla. he entered, and the white-robed, silver-bearded priest welcomed the long-absent viking, and told him that helgi was dead, and halfdan reigned alone. "and know, o frithiof," said the aged man, "that baldur is better pleased when the heart grows soft and injuries are forgiven, than with the most costly sacrifices. lay aside forever all thoughts of hatred and revenge, and stretch out to halfdan the hand of friendship." joy had softened all frithiofs feelings of anger, and, advancing to halfdan, who was standing near the altar, he spoke out manfully. "halfdan," he said, "let us forget the years that have gone by. let all past evil and injury be buried in the grave. henceforth let us be as brothers, and once more i ask thee, give me ingebjorg to be my wife." and halfdan made answer, "thou shalt be my brother." and as he spoke, an inner door flew open, and a sweet chorus of youthful voices was heard. a band of maidens issued forth, and at their head walked ingebjorg, fairer than ever. then halfdan, leading her to frithiof, placed her hand within that of the viking. "behold thy wife," said halfdan. "well hast thou won her. may the gods attend upon your bridal." so ingebjorg became the wife of frithiof at last. thus steps of sorrow had but led them to a height of happiness that poets love to sing. paths thick with thorns had blossomed into roses, and wreaths of everlasting flowers had crowned the winter snows. and midst the lights and shadows of the old northland, their lives flowed on like to two united streams that roll through quiet pastures to the ocean of eternity. havelok adapted by george w. cox and e.h. jones there was once a king of england named athelwold. earl, baron, thane, knight, and bondsman, all loved him; for he set on high the wise and the just man, and put down the spoiler and the robber. at that time a man might carry gold about with him, as much as fifty pounds, and not fear loss. traders and merchants bought and sold at their ease without danger of plunder. but it was bad for the evil person and for such as wrought shame, for they had to lurk and hide away from the king's wrath; yet was it unavailing, for he searched out the evil-doer and punished him, wherever he might be. the fatherless and the widow found a sure friend in the king; he turned not away from the complaint of the helpless, but avenged them against the oppressor, were he never so strong. kind was he to the poor, neither at any time thought he the fine bread upon his own table too good to give to the hungry. but a death-sickness fell on king athelwold, and when he knew that his end was near he was greatly troubled, for he had one little daughter of tender age, named goldborough, and he grieved to leave her. "o my little daughter, heir to all the land, yet so young thou canst not walk upon it; so helpless that thou canst not tell thy wants and yet hast need to give commandment like a queen! for myself i would not care, being old and not afraid to die. but i had hoped to live till thou shouldst be of age to wield the kingdom; to see thee ride on horseback through the land, and round about a thousand knights to do thy bidding. alas, my little child, what will become of thee when i am gone?" then king athelwold summoned his earls and barons, from roxborough to dover, to come and take counsel with him as he lay a-dying on his bed at winchester. and when they all wept sore at seeing the king so near his end, he said, "weep not, good friends, for since i am brought to death's door your tears can in nowise deliver me; but rather give me your counsel. my little daughter that after me shall be your queen; tell me in whose charge i may safely leave both her and england till she be grown of age to rule?" and with one accord they answered him, "in the charge of earl godrich of cornwall, for he is a right wise and a just man, and held in fear of all the land. let him be ruler till our queen be grown." then the king sent for a fair linen cloth, and thereon having laid the mass-book and the chalice and the paton, he made earl godrich swear upon the holy bread and wine to be a true and faithful guardian of his child, without blame or reproach, tenderly to entreat her, and justly to govern the realm till she should be twenty winters old; then to seek out the best, the bravest, and the strongest man as husband for her and deliver up the kingdom to her hand. and when earl godrich had so sworn, the king shrived him clean of all his sins. then having received his saviour he folded his hands, saying, "domine, in manus tuas;" and so he died. there was sorrow and mourning among all the people for the death of good king athelwold. many the mass that was sung for him and the psalter that was said for his soul's rest. the bells tolled and the priests sang, and the people wept; and they gave him a kingly burial. then earl godrich began to govern the kingdom; and all the nobles and all the churls, both free and thrall, came and did allegiance to him. he set in all the castles strong knights in whom he could trust, and appointed justices and sheriffs and peace-sergeants in all the shires. so he ruled the country with a firm hand, and not a single wight dare disobey his word, for all england feared him. thus, as the years went on, the earl waxed wonderly strong and very rich. goldborough, the king's daughter, throve and grew up the fairest woman in all the land, and she was wise in all manner of wisdom that is good and to be desired. but when the time drew on that earl godrich should give up the kingdom to her, he began to think within himself--"shall i, that have ruled so long, give up the kingdom to a girl, and let her be queen and lady over me? and to what end? all these strong earls and barons, governed by a weaker hand than mine, would throw off the yolk and split up england into little baronies, evermore fighting betwixt themselves for mastery. there would cease to be a kingdom, and so there would cease to be a queen. she cannot rule it, and she shall not have it. besides, i have a son. him will i teach to rule and make him king." so the earl let his oath go for nothing, and went to winchester where the maiden was, and fetched her away and carried her off to dover to a castle that is by the seashore. therein he shut her up and dressed her in poor clothes, and fed her on scanty fare; neither would he let any of her friends come near her. now there was in denmark a certain king called birkabeyn, who had three children, two daughters and a son. and birkabeyn fell sick, and knowing that death had stricken him, he called for godard, whom he thought his truest friend, and said, "godard, here i commend my children to thee. care for them, i pray thee, and bring them up as befits the children of a king. when the boy is grown and can bear a helm upon his head and wield a spear, i charge thee to make him king of denmark. till then hold my estate and royalty in charge for him." and godard swore to guard the children zealously, and to give up the kingdom to the boy. then birkabeyn died and was buried. but no sooner was the king laid in his grave than godard despised his oath; for he took the children, havelok and his two little sisters, swanborough and helfled, and shut them up in a castle with barely clothes to cover them. and havelok, the eldest, was scarce three years old. one day godard came to see the children, and found them all crying of hunger and cold; and he said angrily, "how now! what is all this crying about?" the boy havelok answered him, "we are very hungry, for we get scarce anything to eat. is there no more corn, that men cannot make bread and give us? we are very hungry." but his little sisters only sat shivering with the cold, and sobbing, for they were too young to be able to speak. the cruel godard cared not. he went to where the little girls sat, and drew his knife, and took them one after another and cut their throats. havelok, seeing this sorry sight, was terribly afraid, and fell down on his knees begging godard to spare his life. so earnestly he pleaded that godard was fain to listen: and listening he looked upon the knife, red with the children's blood; and when he saw the still, dead faces of the little ones he had slain, and looked upon their brother's tearful face praying for life, his cruel courage failed him quite. he laid down the knife. he would that havelok were dead, but feared to slay him for the silence that would come. so the boy pleaded on; and godard stared at him as though his wits were gone; then turned upon his heel and came out from the castle. "yet," he thought, "if i should let him go, one day he may wreak me mischief and perchance seize the crown. but if he dies, my children will be lords of denmark after me." then godard sent for a fisherman whose name was grim, and he said, "grim, you know you are my bondsman. do now my bidding, and to-morrow i shall make thee free and give thee gold and land. take this child with thee to-night when thou goest a fishing, and at moonrise cast him in the sea, with a good anchor fast about his neck to keep him down. to-day i am thy master and the sin is mine. to-morrow thou art free." then grim took up the child and bound him fast, and having thrust a gag into his mouth so that he could not speak, he put him in a bag and took him on his back and carried him home. when grim got home his wife took the bag from off his shoulders and cast it upon the ground within doors; and grim told her of his errand. now as it drew to midnight he said, "rise up, wife, and blow up the fire to light a candle, and get me my clothes, for i must be stirring." but when the woman came into the room where havelok lay, she saw a bright light round the boy's head, like a sunbeam, and she called to her husband to come and see. and when he came they both marveled at the light and what it might mean, for it was very bright and shining. then they unbound havelok and took away the gag, and turning down his shirt they found a king-mark fair and plain upon his right shoulder. "god help us, wife," said grim, "but this is surely the heir of denmark, son of birkabeyn our king! ay, and he shall be king in spite of godard." then grim fell down at the boy's feet and said, "forgive me, my king, that i knew thee not. we are thy subjects and henceforth will feed and clothe thee till thou art grown a man and can bear shield and spear. then deal thou kindly by me and mine, as i shall deal with thee. but fear not godard. he shall never know, and i shall be a bondsman still, for i will never be free till thou, my king, shall set me free." then was havelok very glad, and he sat up and begged for bread. and they hastened and fetched bread and cheese and butter and milk; and for very hunger the boy ate up the whole loaf, for he was well-nigh famished. and after he had eaten, grim made a fair bed and undressed havelok and laid him down to rest, saying, "sleep, my son; sleep fast and sound and have no care, for nought shall harm thee." on the morrow grim went to godard, and telling him he had drowned the boy, asked for his reward. but godard bade him go home and remain a bondsman, and be thankful that he was not hanged for so wicked a deed. after a while grim, beginning to fear that both himself and havelok might be slain, sold all his goods, his corn, and cattle, and fowls, and made ready his little ship, tarring and pitching it till not a seam nor a crack could be found, and setting a good mast and sail therein. then with his wife, his three sons, his two daughters, and havelok, he entered into the ship and sailed away from denmark; and a strong north wind arose and drove the vessel to england, and carried it up the humber so far as lindesay, where it grounded on the sands. grim got out of the boat with his wife and children and havelok, and then drew it ashore. on the shore he built a house of earth and dwelt therein, and from that time the place was called grimsby, after grim. grim did not want for food, for he was a good fisherman both with net and hook, and he would go out in his boat and catch all manner of fish--sturgeons, turbot, salmon, cod, herrings, mackerel, flounders, and lampreys, and he never came home empty-handed. he had four baskets made for himself and his sons, and in these they used to carry the fish to lincoln, to sell them, coming home laden with meat and meal, and hemp and rope to make new nets and lines. thus they lived for twelve years. but havelok saw that grim worked very hard, and being now grown a strong lad, he bethought him "i eat more than grim and all his five children together, and yet do nothing to earn the bread. i will no longer be idle, for it is a shame for a man not to work." so he got grim to let him have a basket like the rest, and next day took it out heaped with fish, and sold them well, bringing home silver money for them. after that he never stopped at home idle. but soon there arose a great dearth, and corn grew so dear that they could not take fish enough to buy bread for all. then havelok, since he needed so much to eat, determined that he would no longer be a burden to the fisherman. so grim made him a coat of a piece of an old sail, and havelok set off to lincoln barefoot to seek for work. it so befell that earl godrich's cook, bertram, wanted a scullion, and took havelok into his service. there was plenty to eat and plenty to do. havelok drew water and chopped wood, and brought twigs to make fires, and carried heavy tubs and dishes, but was always merry and blythe. little children loved to play with him; and grown knights and nobles would stop to talk and laugh with him, although he wore nothing but rags of old sail-cloth which scarcely covered his great limbs, and all admired how fair and strong a man god had made him. the cook liked havelok so much that he bought him new clothes, with shoes and hose; and when havelok put them on, no man in the kingdom seemed his peer for strength and beauty. he was the tallest man in lincoln, and the strongest in england. earl godrich assembled a parliament in lincoln, and afterward held games. strong men and youths came to try for mastery at the game of putting the stone. it was a mighty stone, the weight of an heifer. he was a stalwart man who could lift it to his knee, and few could stir it from the ground. so they strove together, and he who put the stone an inch farther than the rest was to be made champion. but havelok, though he had never seen the like before, took up the heavy stone, and put it twelve feet beyond the rest, and after that none would contend with him. now this matter being greatly talked about, it came to the ears of earl godrich, who bethought him--"did not athelwold bid me marry his daughter to the strongest man alive? in truth, i will marry her to this cook's scullion. that will abase her pride; and when she is wedded to a bondsman she will be powerless to injure me. that will be better than shutting her up; better than killing her." so he sent and brought goldborough to lincoln, and set the bells ringing, and pretended great joy, for he said, "goldborough, i am going to marry thee to the fairest and stalwartest man living." but goldborough answered she would never wed any one but a king. "ay, ay, my girl; and so thou wouldst be queen and lady over me? but thy father made me swear to give thee to the strongest man in england, and that is havelok, the cook's scullion; so willing or not willing to-morrow thou shalt wed." then the earl sent for havelok and said, "master, will you marry?" "not i," said havelok; "for i cannot feed nor clothe a wife. i have no house, no cloth, no victuals. the very clothes i wear do not belong to me, but to bertram the cook, as i do." "so much the better," said the earl; "but thou shalt either wed her that i shall bring thee, or else hang from a tree. so choose." then havelok said he would sooner wed. earl godrich went back to goldborough and threatened her with burning at the stake unless she yielded to his bidding. so, thinking it god's will, the maid consented. and on the morrow they were wed by the archbishop of york, who had come down to the parliament, and the earl told money out upon the mass-book for her dower. now after he was wed, havelok knew not what to do, for he saw how greatly earl godrich hated him. he thought he would go and see grim. when he got to grimsby he found that grim was dead, but his children welcomed havelok and begged him bring his wife thither, since they had gold and silver and cattle. and when goldborough came, they made a feast, sparing neither flesh nor fowl, wine nor ale. and grim's sons and daughters served havelok and goldborough. sorrowfully goldborough lay down at night, for her heart was heavy at thinking she had wedded a bondsman. but as she fretted she saw a light, very bright like a blaze of fire, which came out of havelok's mouth. and she thought, "of a truth but he must be nobly born." then she looked on his shoulder, and saw the king mark, like a fair cross of red gold, and at the same time she heard an angel say-"goldborough, leave sorrowing, for havelok is a king's son, and shall be king of england and of denmark, and thou queen." then was goldborough glad, and kissed havelok, who, straightway waking, said, "i have had a strange dream. i dreamed i was on a high hill, whence i could see all denmark; and i thought as i looked that it was all mine. then i was taken up and carried over the salt sea to england, and methought i took all the country and shut it within my hand." and goldborough said, "what a good dream is this! rejoice, for it means that thou shalt be king of england and of denmark. take now my counsel and get grim's sons to go with thee to denmark." in the morning havelok went to the church and prayed to god to speed him in his undertaking. then he came home and found grim's three sons just going off fishing. their names were robert the red, william wendut, and hugh raven. he told them who he was, how godard had slain his sisters, and delivered him over to grim to be drowned, and how grim had fled with him to england. then havelok asked them to go with him to denmark, promising to make them rich men. to this they gladly agreed, and having got ready their ship and victualed it, they set sail with havelok and his wife for denmark. the place of their landing was hard by the castle of a danish earl named ubbe, who had been a faithful friend to king birkabeyn. havelok went to earl ubbe, with a gold ring for a present, asking leave to buy and sell goods from town to town in that part of the country. ubbe, beholding the tall, broad-shouldered, thick-chested man, so strong and cleanly made, thought him more fit for a knight than for a peddler. he bade havelok bring his wife and come and eat with him at his table. so havelok went to fetch goldborough, and robert the red and william wendut led her between them till they came to the castle, where ubbe, with a great company of knights, welcomed them gladly. havelok stood a head taller than any of the knights, and when they sat at table ubbe's wife ate with him, and goldborough with ubbe. it was a great feast, and after the feast ubbe sent havelok and his friends to bernard brown, bidding him take care of them till next day. so bernard received the guests and gave them a fine supper. now in the night there came sixty-one thieves to bernard's house. each had a drawn sword and a long knife, and they called to bernard to undo the door. he started up and armed himself, and told them to go away. but the thieves defied him, and with a great boulder broke down the door. then havelok, hearing the din, rose up, and seizing the bar of the door stood on the threshold and threw the door wide open, saying, "come in, i am ready for you!" first came three against him with their swords, but havelok slew these with the door bar at a single blow; the fourth man's crown he broke; he smote the fifth upon the shoulders, the sixth athwart the neck, and the seventh on the breast; so they fell dead. then the rest drew back and began to fling their swords like darts at havelok, till they had wounded him in twenty places. in spite of that, in a little while he had killed a score of the thieves. then hugh raven, waking up, called robert and william wendut. one seized a staff, each of the others a piece of timber as big as his thigh, and bernard his axe, and all three ran out to help havelok. so well did havelok and his fellows fight, breaking ribs and arms and shanks, and cracking crowns, that not a thief of all the sixty-one was left alive. next morning, when ubbe rode past and saw the sixty-one dead bodies, and heard what havelok had done, he sent and brought both him and goldborough to his own castle, and fetched a leech to tend his wounds, and would not hear of his going away; for, said he, "this man is better than a thousand knights." now that same night, after he had gone to bed, ubbe awoke about midnight and saw a great light shining from the chamber where havelok and goldborough lay. he went softly to the door and peeped in to see what it meant. they were lying fast asleep, and the light was streaming from havelok's mouth. ubbe went and called his knights, and they also came in and saw this marvel. it was brighter than a hundred burning tapers; bright enough to count money by. havelok lay on his left side with his back towards them, uncovered to the waist; and they saw the king-mark on his right shoulder sparkle like shining gold and carbuncle. then knew they that it was king birkabeyn's son, and seeing how like he was to his father, they wept for joy. thereupon havelok awoke, and all fell down and did him homage, saying he should be their king. on the morrow ubbe sent far and wide and gathered together earl and baron, dreng [servant] and thane, clerk, knight and burgess, and told them all the treason of godard, and how havelok had been nurtured and brought up by grim in england. then he showed them their king, and the people shouted for joy at having so fair and strong a man to rule them. and first ubbe sware fealty to havelok, and after him the others both great and small. and the sheriffs and constables and all that held castles in town or burg came out and promised to be faithful to him. then ubbe drew his sword and dubbed havelok a knight, and set a crown upon his head and made him king. and at the crowning they held merry sports--jousting with sharp spears, tilting at the shield, wrestling, and putting the shot. there were harpers and pipers and gleemen with their tabors; and for forty days a feast was held with rich meats in plenty and the wine flowed like water. and first the king made robert and william wendut and hugh raven barons, and gave them land and fee. then when the feast was done, he set out with a thousand knights and five thousand sergeants to seek for godard. godard was a-hunting with a great company of men, and robert riding on a good steed found him and bade him to come to the king. godard smote him and set on his knights to fight with robert and the king's men. they fought till ten of godard's men were slain; the rest began to flee. "turn again, o knights!" cried godard; "i have fed you and shall feed you yet. forsake me not in such a plight." so they turned about and fought again. but the king's men slew every one of them, and took godard and bound him and brought him to havelok. then king havelok summoned all his nobles to sit in judgment and say what should be done to such a traitor. and they said, "let him be dragged to the gallows at the mare's tail, and hanged by the heels in fetters, with this writing over him: 'this is he that drove the king out of the land, and took the life of the king's sisters.'" so godard suffered his doom, and none pitied him. then havelok gave his scepter into earl ubbe's hand to rule denmark on his behalf, and after that took ship and came to grimsby, where he built a priory for black monks to pray evermore for the peace of grim's soul. but when earl godrich understood that havelok and his wife were come to england, he gathered together a great army at lincoln on the 17th of march, and came to grimsby to fight with havelok and his knights. it was a great battle, wherein more than a thousand knights were slain. the field was covered with pools of blood. hugh raven and his brothers, robert and william, did valiantly and slew many earls; but terrible was earl godrich to the danes, for his sword was swift and deadly. havelok came to him and reminding him of the oath he sware to athelwold that goldborough should be queen, bade him yield the land. but godrich defied him, and running forward with his heavy sword cut havelok's shield in two. then havelok smote him to the earth with a blow upon the helm; but godrich arose and wounded him upon the shoulder, and havelok, smarting with the cut, ran upon his enemy and hewed off his right hand. then he took earl godrich and bound him and sent him to the queen. and when the english knew that goldborough was the heir of athelwold, they laid by their swords and came and asked pardon of the queen. and with one accord they took earl godrich and bound him to a stake and burned him to ashes, for the great outrage he had done. then all the english nobles came and sware fealty to havelok and crowned him king in london. of grim's two daughters, havelok wedded gunild, the elder, to earl reyner of chester; and levive, the younger, fair as a new rose blossom opening to the sun, he married to bertram, the cook, whom he made earl of cornwall in the room of godrich. sixty years reigned havelok and goldborough in england, and they had fifteen children, who all became kings and queens. all the world spake of the great love that was between them. apart, neither knew joy or happiness. they never grew weary of each other, for their love was ever new; and not a word of anger passed between them all their lives. the vikings adapted by mary macgregor i characters of the vikings in norway, sweden, and denmark, in all the villages and towns around the shores of the baltic, the viking race was born. it has been said that the name "vikings" was first given to those northmen who dwelt in a part of denmark called viken. however that may be, it was the name given to all the northmen who took to a wild, sea-roving life, because they would often seek shelter with their boats in one or another of the numerous bays which abounded along their coasts. thus the vikings were not by any means all kings, as you might think from their name; yet among them were many chiefs of royal descent. these, although they had neither subjects nor kingdoms over which to rule, no sooner stepped on board a viking's boat to take command of the crew, than they were given title of king. the northmen did not, however, spend all their lives in harrying and burning other countries. when the seas were quiet in the long, summer days, they would go off, as i have told you, on their wild expeditions. but when summer was over, and the seas began to grow rough and stormy, the viking bands would go home with their booty and stay there, to build their houses, reap their fields, and, when spring had come again, to sow their grain in the hope of a plenteous harvest. there was thus much that the viking lad had to learn beyond the art of wielding the battle-axe, poising the spear, and shooting an arrow straight to its mark. even a free-born yeoman's son had to work, work as hard as had the slaves or thralls who were under him. the old history books, or sagas, as the norseman called them, have, among other songs, this one about the duties of a well-born lad: "he now learnt to tame oxen and till the ground, to timber houses and build barns, to make carts and form plows." indeed, it would have surprised you to see the fierce warriors and mighty chiefs themselves laying aside their weapons and working in the fields side by side with their thralls, sowing, reaping, threshing. yet this they did. even kings were often to be seen in the fields during the busy harvest season. they would help their men to cut the golden grain, and with their own royal hands help to fill the barn when the field was reaped. to king and yeomen alike, work, well done, was an honorable deed. long before the sagas were written down, the stories of the heroes were sung in halls and on battle-fields by the poets of the nation. these poets were named skalds, and their rank among the northmen was high. sometimes the sagas were sung in prose, at other times in verse. sometimes they were tales which had been handed down from father to son for so many years that it was hard to tell how much of them was history, how much fable. at other times the sagas were true accounts of the deeds of the norse kings. for the skalds were ofttimes to be seen on the battle-fields or battleships of the vikings, and then their songs were of the brave deeds which they had themselves seen done, of the victories and defeats at which they themselves had been present. the battles which the vikings fought were fought on the sea more frequently than on the land. their warships were called long-ships and were half-decked the rowers sat in the center of the boat, which was low, so that their oars could reach the water. sails were used, either red or painted in different stripes, red, blue, yellow, green. these square, brightly colored sails gave the boats a gay appearance which was increased by the round shields which were hung outside the gunwale and which were also painted red, black, or white. at the prow there was usually a beautifully carved and gorgeously painted figurehead. the stem and stern of the ships were high. in the stern there was an upper deck, but in the forepart of the vessel there was nothing but loose planks on which the sailors could step. when a storm was raging or a battle was being fought, the loose planks did not, as you may imagine, offer a very firm foothold. the boats were usually built long and pointed for the sake of speed, and had seats for thirty rowers. besides the rowers, the long-boats could hold from sixty to one hundred and fifty sailors. ii harald fairhair harald fairhair was one of the foremost of the kings of norway. he was so brave a northman that he became king over the whole of norway. in eight hundred and sixty-one, when he began to reign, norway was divided into thirty-one little kingdoms, over each of which ruled a little king. harald fairhair began his reign by being one of these little kings. harald was only a boy, ten years of age, when he succeeded his father; but as he grew up he became a very strong and handsome man, as well as a very wise and prudent one. indeed he grew so strong that he fought with and vanquished five great kings in one battle. after this victory, harald sent, so the old chronicles of the kings of norway say, some of his men to a princess named gyda, bidding them tell her that he wished to make her his queen. but gyda wished to marry a king who ruled over a whole country, rather than one who owned but a small part of norway, and this was the message she sent back to harald: "tell harald," said the maiden, "that i will agree to be his wife if he will first, for my sake, subdue all norway to himself, for only thus methinks can he be called the king of a people." the messengers thought gyda's words too bold, but when king harald heard them, he said, "it is wonderful that i did not think of this before. and now i make a solemn vow and take god to witness, who made me and rules over all things, that never shall i clip or comb my hair until i have subdued the whole of norway with scat [land taxes], and duties, and domains." then, without delay, harald assembled a great force and prepared to conquer all the other little kings who were ruling over the different parts of norway. in many districts the kings had no warning of harald's approach, and before they could collect an army they were vanquished. when their ruler was defeated, many of his subjects fled from the country, manned their ships and sailed away on viking expeditions. others made peace with king harald and became his men. over each district, as he conquered it, harald placed a jarl or earl, that he might judge and do justice, and also that he might collect the scat and fines which harald had imposed upon the conquered people. as the earls were given a third part of the money they thus collected, they were well pleased to take service with king harald. and indeed they grew richer, and more powerful too, than they had ever been before. it took king harald ten long years to do as he had vowed, and make all norway his own. during these years a great many new bands of vikings were formed, and led by their chief or king they left the country, not choosing to become king harald's men. these viking bands went west, over the sea, to shetland and orkney, to the hebrides, and also to england, scotland, and ireland. during the winter they made their home in these lands, but in summer they sailed to the coast of norway and did much damage to the towns that lay along the coast. then, growing bolder, they ventured inland, and because of their hatred against king harald, they plundered and burned both towns and villages. meanwhile harald, having fulfilled his vow, had his hair combed and cut. it had grown so rough and tangled during these ten years that his people had named him harald sufa, which meant "shock-headed harald." now, however, after his long, yellow hair was combed and clipped, he was named harald fairhair, and by this name he was ever after known. nor did the king forget gyda, for whose sake he had made his vow. he sent for her, and she, as she had promised, came to marry the king of all norway. now the raids of the vikings along the coasts of norway angered the king, and he determined that they should end. he therefore set out with a large fleet in search of his rebellious subjects. these, when they heard of his approach, fled to their long-ships and sailed out to sea. but harald reached shetland and slew those vikings who had not fled, then, landing on the orkney isles, he burned and plundered, sparing no northman who crossed his path. on the hebrides king harald met with worthy foes, for here were many who had once themselves been kings in norway. in all the battles that he fought harald was victorious and gained much booty. when he went back to norway the king left one of his jarls to carry on war against the inhabitants of scotland. caithness and sutherland were conquered by this jarl for harald, and thereafter many chiefs, both norsemen and danes, settled there. while harald fairhair was ruling in norway, a grandson of alfred the great became king in england. his name was athelstan the victorious. now athelstan liked to think that he was a greater king than harald fairhair. it pleased him, too, to play what seemed to him a clever trick on his rival across the sea. he sent a beautiful sword to harald. its hilt was covered with gold and silver, and set with precious gems. when athelstan's messenger stood before the king of norway he held out the hilt of the sword toward him, saying "here is a sword that king athelstan doth send to thee." harald at once seized it by the hilt. then the messenger smiled and said, "now shalt thou be subject to the king of england, for thou hast taken the sword by the hilt as he desired thee." to take a sword thus was in those olden days a sign of submission. then harald was very angry, for he knew that athelstan had sent this gift only that he might mock him. he wished to punish the messenger whom athelstan had sent with the sword. nevertheless he remembered his habit whenever he got angry, to first keep quiet and let his anger subside, and then look at the matter calmly. by the time the prudent king had done this, his anger had cooled, and athelstan's messenger departed unharmed. but with athelstan harald still hoped to be equal. the following summer he sent a ship to england. it was commanded by hauk, and into his hands harald intrusted his young son hakon, whom he was sending to king athelstan. for what purpose you shall hear. hauk reached england safely, and found the king in london at a feast. the captain boldly entered the hall where the feasters sat, followed by thirty of his men, each one of whom had his shield hidden under his cloak. carrying prince hakon, who was a child, in his arms, hauk stepped before the king and saluted him. then before athelstan knew what he meant to do, hauk, had placed the little prince on the king's knee. "why hast thou done this?" said athelstan to the bold northman. "harald of norway asks thee to foster his child," answered hauk. but well he knew that his words would make the king of england wroth. for one who became foster-father to a child was usually of lower rank than the real father. this, you see, was harald's way of thanking athelstan for his gift of the sword. well, as hauk expected, the king was very angry when he heard why the little prince had been placed on his knee. he drew his sword as though he would slay the child. hauk, however, was quite undisturbed, and said, "thou hast borne the child on thy knee, and thou canst murder him if thou wilt, but thou canst not make an end of all king harald's sons by so doing." then the viking, with his men, left the hall and strode down to the river, where they embarked, and at once set sail for norway. when hauk reached norway and told the king all that he had done, harald was well content, for the king of england had been forced to become the foster-father of his little son. athelstan's anger against his royal foster-child was soon forgotten, and ere long he loved him better than any of his own kin. he ordered the priest to baptize the little prince, and to teach him the true faith. iii the sea-fight of the jomsvikings while king harald was reigning in denmark, he built on the shores of the baltic a fortress which he called jomsburg. in this fortress dwelt a famous band of vikings named the jomsvikings. it is one of their most famous sea-fights that i am going to tell you now. the leader of the band was earl sigvald, and a bold and fearless leader he had proved himself. it was at a great feast that sigvald made the rash vow which led to this mighty battle. after the horn of mead had been handed round not once or twice only, sigvald arose and vowed that, before three winters had passed, he and his band would go to norway and either kill or chase earl hakon out of the country. in the morning sigvald and his jomsvikings perhaps felt that they had vowed more than they were able to perform, yet it was not possible to withdraw from the enterprise unless they were willing to be called cowards. they therefore thought it would be well to start without delay, that they might, if possible, take earl hakon unawares. in a short time therefore the jomsviking fleet was ready, and sixty warships sailed away toward norway. no sooner did they reach earl hakon's realms than they began to plunder and burn along the coast. but while they gained booty, they lost time. for hakon, hearing of their doings, at once split a war-arrow and sent it all over the realm. it was in this way that hakon heard that the jomsvikings were in his land. in one village the vikings had, as they thought, killed all the inhabitants. but unknown to them a man had escaped with the loss of his hand, and hastening to the shore he sailed away in a light boat in search of the earl. hakon was at dinner when the fugitive stood before him. "art thou sure that thou didst see the jomsvikings?" asked hakon, when he had listened to the man's tidings. for answer, the peasant stretched out the arm from which the hand had been sundered, saying, "here is the token that the jomsvikings are in the land." it was then that hakon sent the war-arrow throughout the land and speedily gathered together a great force. eric one of his sons, also collected troops, but though the preparations for war went on apace, the jomsvikings heard nothing of them, and still thought that they would take earl hakon by surprise. at length the vikings sailed into a harbor about twenty miles north of a town called stad. as they were in want of food some of the band landed, and marched to the nearest village. here they slaughtered the men who could bear arms, burned the houses, and drove all the cattle they could find before them toward the shore. on the way to their ships, however, they met a peasant who said to them, "ye are not doing like true warriors, to be driving cows and calves down to the strand, while ye should be giving chase to the bear, since ye are come near to the bear's den." by the bear the peasant meant earl hakon, as the vikings well knew. "what says the man?" they all cried, together; "can he tell us about earl hakon?" "yesternight he lay inside the island that you can see yonder," said the peasant; "and you can slay him when you like, for he is waiting for his men." "thou shalt have all this cattle," cried one of the vikings, "if thou wilt show us the way to the jarl." then the peasant went on board the vikings' boat, and they hastened to sigvald to tell him that the earl lay in a bay but a little way off. the jomsvikings armed themselves as if they were going to meet a large army, which the peasant said was unnecessary, as the earl had but few ships and men. but no sooner had the jomsvikings come within sight of the bay than they knew that the peasant had deceived them. before them lay more than three hundred war-ships. when the peasant saw that his trick was discovered he jumped overboard, hoping to swim to shore. but one of the vikings flung a spear after him, and the peasant sank and was seen no more. now though the vikings had fewer ships than earl hakon, they were larger and higher, and sigvald hoped that this would help them to gain the victory. slowly the fleets drew together and a fierce battle began. at first hakon's men fell in great numbers, for the jomsvikings fought with all their wonted strength. so many spears also were aimed at hakon himself that his armor was split asunder and he threw it aside. when the earl saw that the battle was going against him, he called his sons together and said, "i dislike to fight against these men, for i believe that none are their equals, and i see that it will fare ill with us unless we hit upon some plan. stay here with the host and i will go ashore and see what can be done." then the jarl went into the depths of a forest, and, sinking on his knees, he prayed to the goddess thorgerd. but when no answer came to his cry, hakon thought she was angry, and to appease her wrath he sacrificed many precious things to her. yet still the goddess hid her face. in his despair hakon then promised to offer human sacrifices, but no sign was given to him that his offering would be accepted. "thou shalt have my son, my youngest son erling!" cried the king, and then at length, so it seemed to hakon, thorgerd was satisfied. he therefore gave his son, who was but seven years old, to his thrall, and bade him offer the child as a sacrifice to the goddess. then hakon went back to his ships, and lo! as the battle raged, the sky began to grow dark though it was but noon, and a storm arose and a heavy shower of hail fell. the hail was driven by the wind in the faces of the vikings, and flashes of lightning blinded them and loud peals of thunder made them afraid. but a short time before the warriors had flung aside their garments because of the heat; now the cold was so intense that they could scarce hold their weapons. while the storm raged, hakon praised the gods and encouraged his men to fight more fiercely. then, as the battle went against them, the jomsvikings saw in the clouds a troll, or fiend. in each finger the troll held an arrow, which, as it seemed to them, always hit and killed a man. sigvald saw that his men were growing fearful, and he, too; felt that the gods were against them. "it seems to me," he said, "that it is not men whom we have to fight to-day but fiends, and it requires some manliness to go boldly against them." but now the storm abated, and once more the vikings began to conquer. then the earl cried again to thorgerd, saying that now he deserved victory, for he had sacrificed to her his youngest son. then once more the storm-cloud crept over the sky and a terrific storm of hail beat upon the vikings, and now they saw, not in the clouds, but in hakon's ship, two trolls, and they were speeding arrows among the enemies of hakon. even sigvald, the renowned leader of the jomsvikings, could not stand before these unknown powers. he called to his men to flee, for, said he, "we did not vow to fight against fiends, but against men." but though sigvald sailed away with thirty-five ships, there were some of his men who scorned to flee even from fiends. twenty-five ships stayed behind to continue the fight. the viking bui was commander of one of these. his ship was boarded by hakon's men, whereupon he took one of his treasures-chests in either hand and jumped into the sea. as he jumped he cried, "overboard, all bui's men," and neither he nor those who followed him were ever seen again. before the day was ended, sigvald's brother had also sailed away with twenty-four boats, so that there was left but one boat out of all the jomsvikings' fleet. it was commanded by the viking vagn. earl hakon sent his son eric to board this boat, and after a brave fight it was captured, for vagn's men were stiff and weary with their wounds, and could scarce wield their battle-axes or spears. with thirty-six of his men vagn was taken prisoner and brought to land, and thus earl hakon had defeated the famous vikings of jomsburg. the victory was due, as hakon at least believed, to the aid of the goddess thorgerd. when the weapons and other booty which they had taken had been divided among the men, earl hakon and his chiefs sat down in their warbooths and appointed a man named thorkel to behead the prisoners. eighteen were beheaded ere the headsman came to vagn. now, as he had a dislike to this brave viking, thorkel rushed at him, holding his sword in both hands. but vagn threw himself suddenly at thorkel's feet, whereupon the headsman tripped over him. in a moment vagn was on his feet, thorkel's sword in his hand, and before any one could stop him he had slain his enemy. then earl eric, hakon's son, who loved brave men, said, "vagn, wilt thou accept life?" "that i will," said the bold viking, "if thou give it to all of us who are still alive." "loose the prisoners!" cried the young earl, and it was done. thus of the famous band of jomsvikings twelve yet lived to do many a valiant deed in days to come. hero of germany siegfried adapted by mary macgregor i mimer the blacksmith siegfried was born a prince and grew to be a hero, a hero with a heart of gold. though he could fight, and was as strong as any lion, yet he could love too and be as gentle as a child. the father and mother of the hero-boy lived in a strong castle near the banks of the great rhine river. siegmund, his father, was a rich king, sieglinde, his mother, a beautiful queen, and dearly did they love their little son siegfried. the courtiers and the high-born maidens who dwelt in the castle honored the little prince, and thought him the fairest child in all the land, as indeed he was. sieglinde, his queen-mother, would oftimes dress her little son in costly garments and lead him by the hand before the proud, strong men-at-arms who stood before the castle walls. naught had they but smiles and gentle words for their little prince. when he grew older, siegfried would ride into the country, yet always would he be attended by king siegmund's most trusted warriors. then one day armed men entered the netherlands, the country over which the king siegmund ruled, and the little prince was sent away from the castle, lest by any evil chance he should fall into the hands of the foe. siegfried was hidden away safe in the thickets of a great forest, and dwelt there under the care of a blacksmith, named mimer. mimer was a dwarf, belonging to a strange race of little folk called nibelungs. the nibelungs lived for the most part in a dark little town beneath the ground. nibelheim was the name of this little town and many of the tiny men who dwelt there were smiths. all the livelong day they would hammer on their little anvils, but all through the long night they would dance and play with tiny little nibelung women. it was not in the little dark town of nibelung that mimer had his forge, but under the trees of the great forest to which siegfried had been sent. as mimer or his pupils wielded their tools the wild beasts would start from their lair, and the swift birds would wing their flight through the mazes of the wood, lest danger lay in those heavy, resounding strokes. but siegfried, the hero-boy, would laugh for glee, and seizing the heaviest hammer he could see he would swing it with such force upon the anvil that it would be splintered into a thousand pieces. then mimer the blacksmith would scold the lad, who was now the strongest of all the lads under his care; but little heeding his rebukes, siegfried would fling himself merrily out of the smithy and hasten with great strides into the gladsome wood. for now the prince was growing a big lad, and his strength was even as the strength of ten. to-day siegfried was in a merry mood. he would repay mimer's rebukes in right good fashion. he would frighten the little blacksmith dwarf until he was forced to cry for mercy. clad in his forest dress of deerskins, with his hair as burnished gold blowing around his shoulders, siegfried wandered away into the depths of the woodland. there he seized the silver horn which hung from his girdle and raised it to his lips. a long, clear note he blew, and ere the sound had died away the boy saw a sight which pleased him well. here was good prey indeed! a bear, a great big shaggy bear was peering at him out of a bush, and as he gazed the beast opened its jaws and growled, a fierce and angry growl. not a whit afraid was siegfried. quick as lightning he had caught the great creature in his arms, and ere it could turn upon him, it was muzzled, and was being led quietly along toward the smithy. mimer was busy at his forge sharpening a sword when siegfried reached the doorway. at the sound of laughter the little dwarf raised his head. it was the prince who laughed. then mimer saw the bear, and letting the sword he held drop to the ground with a clang, he ran to hide himself in the darkest corner of the smithy. then siegfried laughed again. he was no hero-boy to-day, for next he made the big bear hunt the little nibelung dwarf from corner to corner, nor could the frightened little man escape or hide himself in darkness. again and again as he crouched in a shadowed corner, siegfried would stir up the embers of the forge until all the smithy was lighted with a ruddy glow. at length the prince tired of his game, and unmuzzling the bear he chased the bewildered beast back into the shelter of the woodland. mimer, poor little dwarf, all a-tremble with his fear, cried angrily, "thou mayest go shoot if so it please thee, and bring home thy dead prey. dead bears thou mayest bring hither if thou wilt, but live bears shalt thou leave to crouch in their lair or to roam through the forest." but siegfried, the naughty prince, only laughed at the little nibelung's frightened face and harsh, croaking voice. now as the days passed, mimer the blacksmith began to wish that siegfried had never come to dwell with him in his smithy. the prince was growing too strong, too brave to please the little dwarf; moreover, many were the mischievous tricks his pupil played on him. prince though he was, mimer would see if he could not get rid of his tormentor. for indeed though, as i have told you, siegfried had a heart of gold, at this time the gold seemed to have grown dim and tarnished. perhaps that was because the prince had learned to distrust and to dislike, nay, more, to hate the little, cunning dwarf. however that may be, it is certain that siegfried played many pranks upon the little nibelung, and he, mimer, determined to get rid of the quick-tempered, strong-handed prince. one day, therefore, it happened that the little dwarf told siegfried to go deep into the forest to bring home charcoal for the forge. and this mimer did, though he knew that in the very part of the forest to which he was sending the lad there dwelt a terrible dragon, named regin. indeed regin was a brother of the little blacksmith, and would be lying in wait for the prince. it would be but the work of a moment for the monster to seize the lad and greedily to devour him. to siegfried it was always joy to wander afar through the woodland. ofttimes had he thrown himself down on the soft, moss-covered ground and lain there hour after hour, listening to the wood-bird's song. sometimes he would even find a reed and try to pipe a tune as sweet as did the birds, but that was all in vain, as the lad soon found. no tiny songster would linger to hearken to the shrill piping of his grassy reed, and the prince himself was soon ready to fling it far away. it was no hardship then to siegfried to leave the forge and the hated little nibelung, therefore it was that with right good will he set out in search of charcoal for mimer the blacksmith. as he loitered there where the trees grew thickest, siegfried took his horn and blew it lustily. if he could not pipe on a grassy reed, at least he could blow a rousing note on his silver horn. suddenly, as siegfried blew, the trees seemed to sway, the earth to give out fire. regin, the dragon, had roused himself at the blast, and was even now drawing near to the prince. it was at the mighty strides of the monster that the trees had seemed to tremble, it was as he opened his terrible jaws that the earth had seemed to belch out fire. for a little while siegfried watched the dragon in silence. then he laughed aloud, and a brave, gay laugh it was. alone in the forest, with a sword, buckled to his side, the hero was afraid of naught, not even of regin. the ugly monster was sitting now on a little hillock, looking down upon the lad, his victim as he thought. then siegfried called boldly to the dragon, "i will kill thee, for in truth thou art an ugly monster." at those words regin opened his great jaws, and showed his terrible fangs. yet still the boy prince mocked at the hideous dragon. and now regin in his fury crept closer and closer to the lad, swinging his great tail, until he well-nigh swept siegfried from his feet. [illustration: the hero's shining sword pierced the heart of the monster.] swiftly then the prince drew his sword, well tempered as he knew, for had not he himself wrought it in the forge of mimer the blacksmith? swiftly he drew his sword, and with one bound he sprang upon the dragon's back, and as he reared himself, down came the hero's shining sword and pierced into the very heart of the monster. thus as siegfried leaped nimbly to the ground, the dragon fell back dead. regin was no longer to be feared. then siegfried did a curious thing. he had heard the little nibelung men who came to the smithy to talk with mimer, he had heard them say that whoever should bathe in the blood of regin the dragon would henceforth be safe from every foe. for his skin would grow so tough and horny that it would be to him as an armor through which no sword could ever pierce. thinking of the little nibelungs' harsh voices and wrinkled little faces as they had sat talking thus around mimer's glowing forge, siegfried now flung aside his deerskin dress and bathed himself from top to toe in the dragon's blood. but as he bathed, a leaf from off a linden tree was blown upon his shoulders, and on the spot where it rested siegfried's skin was still soft and tender as when he was a little child. it was only a tiny spot which was covered by the linden leaf, but should a spear thrust, or an arrow pierce that tiny spot, siegfried would be wounded as easily as any other man. the dragon was dead, the bath was over, and clad once more in his deerskin, siegfried set out for the smithy. he brought no charcoal for the forge; all that he carried with him was a heart afire with anger, a sword quivering to take the life of the nibelung, mimer. for now siegfried knew that the dwarf had wished to send him forth to death, when he bade him go seek charcoal in the depths of the forest. into the dusky glow of the smithy plunged the hero, and swiftly he slew the traitor mimer. then gaily, for he had but slain evil ones of whom the world was well rid, then gaily siegfried fared through the forest in quest of adventure. ii siegfried wins the treasure now this is what befell the prince. in his wanderings he reached the country called isenland, where the warlike but beautiful queen brunhild reigned. he gazed with wonder at her castle, so strong it stood on the edge of the sea, guarded by seven great gates. her marble palaces also made him marvel, so white they glittered in the sun. but most of all he marveled at this haughty queen, who refused to marry any knight unless he could vanquish her in every contest to which she summoned him. brunhild from the castle window saw the fair face and the strong limbs of the hero, and demanded that he should be brought into her presence, and as a sign of her favor she showed the young prince her magic horse gana. yet siegfried had no wish to conquer the warrior-queen and gain her hand and her broad dominions for his own. siegfried thought only of a wonder-maiden, unknown, unseen as yet, though in his heart he hid an image of her as he dreamed that she would be. it is true that siegfried had no love for the haughty brunhild. it is also true that he wished to prove to her that he alone was a match for all her boldest warriors, and had even power to bewitch her magic steed, gana, if so he willed, and steal it from her side. and so one day a spirit of mischief urged the prince on to a gay prank, as also a wayward spirit urged him no longer to brook queen brunhild's mien. before he left isenland, therefore, siegfried in a merry mood threw to the ground the seven great gates that guarded the queen's strong castle. then he called to gana, the magic steed, to follow him into the world, and this the charger did with a right good will. whether siegfried sent gana back to isenland or not i do not know, but i know that in the days to come queen brunhild never forgave the hero for his daring feat. when the prince had left isenland he rode on and on until he came to a great mountain. here near a cave he found two little dwarfish nibelungs, surrounded by twelve foolish giants. the two little nibelungs were princes, the giants were their counselors. now the king of the nibelungs had but just died in the dark little underground town of nibelheim, and the two tiny princes were the sons of the dead king. but they had not come to the mountain-side to mourn for their royal father. not so indeed had they come, but to divide the great hoard of treasure which the king had bequeathed to them at his death. already they had begun to quarrel over the treasure, and the twelve foolish giants looked on, but did not know what to say or do, so they did nothing, and never spoke at all. the dwarfs had themselves carried the hoard out of the cave where usually it was hidden, and they had spread it on the mountain-side. there it lay, gold as far as the eye could see, and farther. jewels, too, were there, more than twelve wagons could carry away in four days and nights, each going three journeys. indeed, however much you took from this marvelous treasure, never did it seem to grow less. but more precious even than the gold or the jewels of the hoard was a wonderful sword which it possessed. it was named balmung, and had been tempered by the nibelungs in their glowing forges underneath the glad green earth. before the magic strength of balmung's stroke, the strongest warrior must fall, nor could his armor save him, however close its links had been welded by some doughty smith. as siegfried rode towards the two little dwarfs, they turned and saw him, with his bright, fair face, and flowing locks. nimble as little hares they darted to his side, and begged that he would come and divide their treasure. he should have the good sword balmung as reward, they cried. siegfried dismounted, well pleased to do these ugly little men a kindness. but alas! ere long the dwarfs began to mock at the hero with their harsh voices, and to wag their horrid little heads at him, while they screamed in a fury that he was not dividing the treasure as they wished. then siegfried grew angry with the tiny princes, and seizing the magic sword, he cut off their heads. the twelve foolish giants also he slew, and thus became himself master of the marvelous hoard as well as of the good sword balmung. seven hundred valiant champions, hearing the blast of the hero's horn, now gather together to defend the country from this strange young warrior. but he vanquished them all, and forced them to promise that they would henceforth serve no other lord save him alone. and this they did, being proud of his great might. now tidings of the slaughter of the two tiny princes had reached nibelheim, and great was the wrath of the little men and little women who dwelt in the dark town beneath the earth. alberich, the mightiest of all the dwarfs, gathered together his army of little gnomes to avenge the death of the two dwarf princes and also, for alberich was a greedy man, to gain for himself the great hoard. when siegfried saw alberich at the head of his army of little men he laughed aloud, and with a light heart he chased them all into the great cave on the mountain-side. from off the mighty dwarf, alberich, he stripped his famous cloak of darkness, which made him who wore it not only invisible, but strong as twelve strong men. he snatched also from the dwarf's fingers his wishing-rod, which was a magic wand. and last of all he made alberich and his thousands of tiny warriors take an oath, binding them evermore to serve him alone. then hiding the treasure in the cave with the seven hundred champions whom he had conquered, he left alberich and his army of little men to guard it, until he came again. and alberich and his dwarfs were faithful to the hero who had shorn them of their treasure, and served him for evermore. siegfried, the magic sword balmung by his side, the cloak of darkness thrown over his arm, the magic wand in his strong right hand, went over the mountain, across the plains, nor did he tarry until he came again to the castle built on the banks of the river rhine in his own low-lying country of the netherlands. iii siegfried comes home the walls of the old castle rang. king siegmund, his knights and liegemen, all were welcoming prince siegfried home. they had not seen their hero-prince since he had been sent long years before to be under the charge of mimer the blacksmith. he had grown but more fair, more noble, they thought, as they gazed upon his stalwart limbs, his fearless eyes. and what tales of prowess clustered around his name! already their prince had done great deeds as he had ridden from land to land. the king and his liegemen had heard of the slaughter of the terrible dragon, of the capture of the great treasure, of the defiance of the warlike and beautiful brunhild. they could wish for no more renowned prince than their own prince siegfried. thus siegmund and his subjects rejoiced that the heir to the throne was once again in his own country. in the queen's bower, too, there was great joy. sieglinde wept, but her tears were not those of sadness. sieglinde wept for very gladness that her son had come home safe from his wonderful adventures. now siegmund wished to give a great feast in honor of his son. it should be on his birthday which was very near, the birthday on which the young prince would be twenty-one years of age. far and wide throughout the netherlands and into distant realms tidings of the feast were borne. kinsmen and strangers, lords and ladies, all were asked to the banquet in the great castle hall where siegmund reigned supreme. it was the merry month of june when the feast was held, and the sun shone bright on maidens in fair raiment, on knights in burnished armor. siegfried was to be knighted on this june day along with four hundred young squires of his father's realm. the prince was clad in gorgeous armor, and on the cloak flung around his shoulders jewels were seen to sparkle in the sunlight, jewels made fast with gold embroidery worked by the white hands of the queen and her fair damsels. in games and merry pastimes the hours of the day sped fast away, until the great bell of the minster pealed, calling the gay company to the house of god for evensong. siegfried and the four hundred squires knelt before the altar, ere they were knighted by the royal hand of siegmund the king. the solemn service ended, the new-made knights hastened back to the castle, and there in the great hall a mighty tournament was held. knights who had grown gray in service tilted with those who but that day had been given the grace of knighthood. lances splintered, shields fell before the mighty onslaughts of the gallant warriors, until king siegmund bade the tilting cease. then in the great hall feasting and song held sway until daylight faded and the stars shone bright. yet no weariness knew the merrymakers. the next morning, and for six long summer days, they tilted, they sang, they feasted. when at length the great festival drew to a close, siegmund in the presence of his guests gave to his dear son siegfried many lands and strong castles over which he might be lord. to all his son's comrades, too, the king gave steeds and costly raiment, while queen sieglinde bestowed upon them freely coins of gold. such abundant gifts had never before been dreamed of as were thus lavished by siegmund and sieglinde on their guests. as the rich nobles looked upon the brave young prince siegfried, there were some who whispered among themselves that they would fain have him to rule in the land. siegfried heard their whispers, but in no wise did he give heed to the wish of the nobles. never, he thought while his beautiful mother and his bounteous father lived, would he wear the crown. indeed siegfried had no wish to sit upon a throne, he wished but to subdue the evil-doers in the land. or better still, he wished to go forth in search of new adventure. and this right soon he did. iv siegfried at the court of worms at the court of worms in burgundy dwelt the princess kriemhild, whose fame for beauty and kindness had spread to many a far-off land. she lived with her mother queen uté and her three brothers king gunther, king gernot, and king giselher. her father had long been dead. gunther sat upon the throne and had for chief counselor his cruel uncle hagen. one night kriemhild dreamed that a beautiful wild hawk with feathers of gold came and perched upon her wrist. it grew so tame that she took it with her to the hunt. upward it soared when loosed toward the bright blue sky. then the dream-maiden saw two mighty eagles swoop down upon her petted hawk and tear it to pieces. the princess told her dream to her mother, who said, "the hawk, my daughter, is a noble knight who shall be thy husband, but, alas, unless god defend him from his foes, thou shalt lose him ere he has long been thine." kriemhild replied, "o lady mother, i wish no knight to woo me from thy side." "nay," said the queen, "speak not thus, for god will send to thee a noble knight and strong." hearing of the princess, siegfried, who lived in the netherlands, began to think that she was strangely like the unknown maiden whose image he carried in his heart. so he set out to go into burgundy to see the beautiful kriemhild who had sent many knights away. siegfried's father wished to send an army with him but siegfried said, "nay, give me only, i pray thee, eleven stalwart warriors." tidings had reached king gunther of the band of strangers who had so boldly entered the royal city. he sent for hagen, chief counselor, who said they must needs be princes or ambassadors. "one knight, the fairest and the boldest, is, methinks, the wondrous hero siegfried, who has won great treasure from the nibelungs, and has killed two little princely dwarfs, their twelve giants, and seven hundred great champions of the neighboring country with his good sword balmung." graciously then did the king welcome siegfried. "i beseech thee, noble knight," said the king, "tell me why thou hast journeyed to this our royal city?" now siegfried was not ready to speak of the fair princess, so he told the king that he had come to see the splendor of the court and to do great deeds, even to wrest from him the broad realm of burgundy and likewise all his castles. "unless thou dost conquer me i shall rule in my great might in this realm." "we do well to be angry at the words of this bold stripling," said hagen. a quarrel arose, but king gernot, gunther's brother, made peace and siegfried began to think of the wonderlady of his dreams and grew ashamed of his boasting. then all burgundy began to hear of siegfried. at the end of the year burgundy was threatened with invasion. king ludegast and king ludeger threatened mighty wars. when siegfried heard of this he said, "if trouble hath come to thee, my arm is strong to bring thee aid. if thy foes were as many as thirty thousand, yet with one thousand warriors would i destroy them. therefore, leave the battle in my hands." when the rude kings heard that siegfried would fight for burgundy their hearts failed for fear and in great haste they gathered their armies. king gunther meanwhile had assembled his men and the chief command was given to hagen, but siegfried rode forward to seek the foe. in advance of their warriors stood ludegast and ludeger ready for the fray. grasping his good sword balmung, siegfried first met ludegast piercing him through his steel harness with an ugly thrust till he lay helpless at his feet. thirty of the king's warriors rode up and beset the hero, but siegfried slaughtered all save one. he was spared to carry the dire tidings of the capture of ludegast to his army. ludeger had seen the capture of his brother and met the onslaught that siegfried soon made upon him. but with a great blow siegfried struck the shield from ludeger's hold, and in a moment more he had him at his mercy. for the second time that day the prince was victor over a king. when uté, the mother of kriemhild, heard that a grand festival celebrating the prowess of prince siegfried was to be held at court, she made up her mind that she and her daughter would lend their gracious presence. many noble guests were there gathered and when the knights entered the lists the king sent a hundred of his liegemen to bring the queen and the princess to the great hall. when siegfried saw the princess he knew that she was indeed more beautiful than he had ever dreamed. a messenger was sent by the king bidding him greet the princess. "be welcome here, sir siegfried, for thou art a good and noble knight," said the maiden softly, "for right well hast thou served my royal brother." "thee will i serve for ever," cried the happy hero, "thee will i serve for ever, and thy wishes shall ever be my will!" then for twelve glad days were siegfried and kriemhild ofttimes side by side. v. siegfried goes to isenland whitsuntide had come and gone when tidings from beyond the rhine reached the court at worms. no dread tidings were these, but glad and good to hear, of a matchless queen named brunhild who dwelt in isenland. king gunther listened with right good will to the tales of this warlike maiden, for if she were beautiful she was also strong as any warrior. wayward, too, she was, yet gunther would fain have her as his queen to sit beside him on his throne. one day the king sent for siegfried to tell him that he would fain journey to isenland to wed queen brunhild. now siegfried, as you know, had been in isenland and knew some of the customs of this wayward queen. so he answered the king right gravely that it would be a dangerous journey across the sea to isenland, nor would he win the queen unless he were able to vanquish her great strength. he told the king how brunhild would challenge him to three contests, or games, as she would call them. and if she were the victor, as indeed she had been over many a royal suitor, then his life would be forfeited. at her own desire kings and princes had hurled the spear at the stalwart queen, and it had but glanced harmless off her shield, while she would pierce the armor of these valiant knights with her first thrust. this was one of the queen's games. then the knights would hasten to the ring and throw the stone from them as far as might be, yet ever queen brunhild threw it farther. for this was another game of the warrior-queen. the third game was to leap beyond the stone which they had thrown, but ever to their dismay the knights saw this marvelous maiden far outleap them all. these valorous knights, thus beaten in the three contests, had been beheaded, and therefore it was that siegfried spoke so gravely to king gunther. but gunther, so he said, was willing to risk his life to win so brave a bride. now hagen had drawn near to the king, and as he listened to siegfried's words, the grim warrior said, "sire, since the prince knows the customs of isenland, let him go with thee on thy journey, to share thy dangers, and to aid thee in the presence of this warlike queen." and hagen, for he hated the hero, hoped that he might never return alive from isenland. but the king was pleased with his counselor's words. "sir siegfried," he said, "wilt thou help me to win the matchless maiden brunhild for my queen?" "that right gladly will i do," answered the prince, "if thou wilt promise to give me thy sister kriemhild as my bride, should i bring thee back safe from isenland, the bold queen at thy side." then the king promised that on the same day that he wedded brunhild, his sister should wed prince siegfried, and with this promise the hero was well content. "thirty thousand warriors will i summon to go with us to isenland," cried king gunther gaily. "nay," said the prince, "thy warriors would but be the victims of this haughty queen. as plain knight-errants will we go, taking with us none, save hagen the keen-eyed and his brother dankwart." then king gunther, his face aglow with pleasure, went with sir siegfried to his sister's bower, and begged her to provide rich garments in which he and his knights might appear before the beauteous queen brunhild. "thou shalt not beg this service from me," cried the gentle princess, "rather shalt thou command that which thou dost wish. see, here have i silk in plenty. send thou the gems from off thy bucklers, and i and my maidens will work them with gold embroideries into the silk." thus the sweet maiden dismissed her brother, and sending for her thirty maidens who were skilled in needlework she bade them sew their daintiest stitches, for here were robes to be made for the king and sir siegfried ere they went to bring queen brunhild into rhineland. for seven weeks kriemhild and her maidens were busy in their bower. silk white as new-fallen snow, silk green as the leaves in spring did they shape into garments worthy to be worn by the king and sir siegfried, and amid the gold embroideries glittered many a radiant gem. meanwhile down by the banks of the rhine a vessel was being built to carry the king across the sea to isenland. when all was ready the king and sir siegfried went to the bower of the princess. they would put on the silken robes and the beautiful cloaks kriemhild and her maidens had sewed to see that they were neither too long nor too short. but indeed the skilful hands of the princess had not erred. no more graceful or more beautiful garments had ever before been seen by the king or the prince. "sir siegfried," said the gentle kriemhild, "care for my royal brother lest danger befall him in the bold queen's country. bring him home both safe and sound i beseech thee." the hero bowed his head and promised to shield the king from danger, then they said farewell to the maiden, and embarked in the little ship that awaited them on the banks of the rhine. nor did siegfried forget to take with him his cloak of darkness and his good sword balmung. now none was there on the ship save king gunther, siegfried, hagen, and dankwart, but siegfried with his cloak of darkness had the strength of twelve men as well as his own strong right hand. merrily sailed the little ship, steered by sir siegfried himself. soon the rhine river was left behind and they were out on the sea, a strong wind filling their sails. ere evening, full twenty miles had the good ship made. for twelve days they sailed onward, until before them rose the grim fortress that guarded isenland. "what towers are these?" cried king gunther, as he gazed upon the turreted castle which looked as a grim sentinel guarding the land. "these," answered the hero, "are queen brunhild's towers and this is the country over which she rules." then turning to hagen and dankwart siegfried begged them to let him be spokesman to the queen, for he knew her wayward moods. "and king gunther shall be my king," said the prince, "and i but his vassal until we leave isenland." and hagen and dankwart, proud men though they were, obeyed in all things the words of the young prince of the netherlands. vi siegfried subdues brunhild the little ship had sailed on now close beneath the castle, so close indeed that as the king looked up to the window he could catch glimpses of beautiful maidens passing to and fro. sir siegfried also looked and laughed aloud for glee. it would be but a little while until brunhild was won and he was free to return to his winsome lady kriemhild. by this time the maidens in the castle had caught sight of the ship, and many bright eyes were peering down upon king gunther and his three brave comrades. "look well at the fair maidens, sire," said siegfried to the king. "among them all show me her whom thou wouldst choose most gladly as your bride." "seest thou the fairest of the band," cried the king, "she who is clad in a white garment? it is she and no other whom i would wed." right merrily then laughed siegfried. "the maiden," said he gaily, "is in truth none other than queen brunhild herself." the king and his warriors now moored their vessel and leaped ashore, siegfried leading with him the king's charger. for each knight had brought his steed with him from the fair land of burgundy. more bright than ever beamed the bright eyes of the ladies at the castle window. so fair, so gallant a knight never had they seen, thought the damsels as they gazed upon sir siegfried. and all the while king gunther dreamed their glances were bent on no other than himself. siegfried held the noble steed until king gunther had mounted, and this he did that queen brunhild might not know that he was the prince of the netherlands, owing service to no man. then going back to the ship the hero brought his own horse to land, mounted, and rode with the king toward the castle gate. king and prince were clad alike. their steeds as well as their garments were white as snow, their saddles were bedecked with jewels, and on the harness hung bells, all of bright red gold. their shields shone as the sun, their spears they wore before them, their swords hung by their sides. behind them followed hagen and dankwart, their armor black as the plumage of the wild raven, their shields strong and mighty. as they approached the castle gates were flung wide open, and the liegemen of the great queen came out to greet the strangers with words of welcome. they bid their hirelings also take the shields and chargers from their guests. but when a squire demanded that the strangers should also yield their swords, grim hagen smiled his grimmest, and cried, "nay, our swords will we e'en keep lest we have need of them." nor was he too well pleased when siegfried told him that the custom in isenland was that no guest should enter the castle carrying a weapon. it was but sullenly that he let his sword be taken away along with his mighty shield. after the strangers had been refreshed with wine, her liegemen sent to the queen to tell her that strange guests had arrived. "who are the strangers who come thus unheralded to my land?" haughtily demanded brunhild. but no one could tell her who the warriors were, though some murmured that the tallest and fairest might be the great hero siegfried. it may be that the queen thought that if the knight were indeed siegfried she would revenge herself on him now for the mischievous pranks he had played the last time he was in her kingdom. in any case she said, "if the hero is here he shall enter into contest with me, and he shall pay for his boldness with his life, for i shall be the victor." then with five hundred warriors, each with his sword in hand, brunhild came down to the knights from burgundy. "be welcome, siegfried," she cried, "yet wherefore hast thou come again to isenland?" "i thank thee for thy greeting, lady," said the prince, "but thou hast welcomed me before my lord. he, king gunther, ruler over the fair realms of burgundy, hath come hither to wed with thee." brunhild was displeased that the mighty hero should not himself seek to win her as a bride, yet since for all his prowess he seemed but a vassal of the king, she answered, "if thy master can vanquish me in the contests to which i bid him, then i will be his wife, but if i conquer thy master, his life, and the lives of his followers will be forfeited." "what dost thou demand of my master?" asked hagen. "he must hurl the spear with me, throw the stone from the ring, and leap to where it has fallen," said the queen. now while brunhild was speaking, siegfried whispered to the king to fear nothing, but to accept the queen's challenge. "i will be near though no one will see me, to aid thee in the struggle," he whispered. gunther had such trust in the prince that he at once cried boldly, "queen brunhild, i do not fear even to risk my life that i may win thee for my bride." then the bold maiden called for her armor, but when gunther saw her shield, "three spans thick with gold and iron, which four chamberlains could hardly bear," his courage began to fail. while the queen donned her silken fighting doublet, which could turn aside the sharpest spear, siegfried slipped away unnoticed to the ship, and swiftly flung around him his cloak of darkness. then unseen by all, he hastened back to king gunther's side. a great javelin was then given to the queen, and she began to fight with her suitor, and so hard were her thrusts that but for siegfried the king would have lost his life. "give me thy shield," whispered the invisible hero in the king's ear, "and tell no one that i am here." then as the maiden hurled her spear with all her force against the shield which she thought was held by the king, the shock well-nigh drove both gunther and his unseen friend to their knees. but in a moment siegfried's hand had dealt the queen such a blow with the handle of his spear (he would not use the sharp point against a woman) that the maiden cried aloud, "king gunther, thou hast won this fray." for as she could not see siegfried because of his cloak of darkness, she could not but believe that it was the king who had vanquished her. in her wrath the queen now sped to the ring, where lay a stone so heavy that it could scarce be lifted by twelve strong men. but brunhild lifted it with ease, and threw it twelve arms' length beyond the spot on which she stood. then, leaping after it, she alighted even farther than she had thrown the stone. gunther now stood in the ring, and lifted the stone which had again been placed within it. he lifted it with an effort, but at once siegfried's unseen hand grasped it and threw it with such strength that it dropped even beyond the spot to which it had been flung by the queen. lifting king gunther with him siegfried next jumped far beyond the spot on which the queen had alighted. and all the warriors marveled to see their queen thus vanquished by the strange king. for you must remember that not one of them could see that it was siegfried who had done these deeds of prowess. now in the contest, still unseen, siegfried had taken from the queen her ring and her favorite girdle. with angry gestures brunhild called to her liegemen to come and lay their weapons down at king gunther's feet to do him homage. henceforth they must be his thralls and own him as their lord. as soon as the contests were over, siegfried had slipped back to the ship and hidden his cloak of darkness. then boldly he came back to the great hall, and pretending to know nothing of the games begged to be told who had been the victor, if indeed they had already taken place. when he had heard that queen brunhild had been vanquished, the hero laughed, and cried gaily, "then, noble maiden, thou must go with us to rhineland to wed king gunther." "a strange way for a vassal to speak," thought the angry queen, and she answered with a proud glance at the knight, "nay, that will i not do until i have summoned my kinsmen and my good lieges. for i will myself say farewell to them ere ever i will go to rhineland." thus heralds were sent throughout brunhild's realms, and soon from morn to eve her kinsmen and her liegemen rode into the castle, until it seemed as though a mighty army were assembling. "does the maiden mean to wage war against us," said hagen grimly. "i like not the number of her warriors." then said siegfried, "i will leave thee for a little while and go across the sea, and soon will i return with a thousand brave warriors, so that no evil may befall us." so the prince went down alone to the little ship and set sail across the sea. vii siegfried and the princess the ship in which siegfried set sail drifted on before the wind, while those in queen brunhild's castle marveled, for no one was to be seen on board. this was because the hero had again donned his cloak of darkness. on and on sailed the little ship until at length it drew near to the land of the nibelungs. then siegfried left his vessel and again climbed the mountain-side, where long before he had cut off the heads of the little nibelung princes. he reached the cave into which he had thrust the treasure, and knocked loudly at the door. the cave was the entrance to nibelheim the dark, little town beneath the glad, green grass. siegfried might have entered the cave, but he knocked that he might see if the treasure were well guarded. then the porter, who was a great giant, when he heard the knock buckled on his armor and opened the door. seeing, as he thought in his haste, a strange knight standing before him he fell upon him with a bar of iron. so strong was the giant that it was with difficulty that the prince overcame him and bound him hand and foot. alberich meanwhile had heard the mighty blows, which indeed had shaken nibelheim to its foundations. now the dwarf had sworn fealty to siegfried, and when he, as the giant had done, mistook the prince for a stranger, he seized a heavy whip with a gold handle and rushed upon him, smiting his shield with the knotted whip until it fell to pieces. too pleased that his treasures were so well defended to be angry, siegfried now seized the little dwarf by his beard, and pulled it so long and so hard that alberich was forced to cry for mercy. then siegfried bound him hand and foot as he had done the giant. alberich, poor little dwarf, gnashed his teeth with rage. who would guard the treasure now, and who would warn his master that a strong man had found his way to nibelheim? but in the midst of his fears he heard the stranger's merry laugh. nay, it was no stranger, none but the hero-prince could laugh thus merrily. "i am siegfried your master," then said the prince. "i did but test thy faithfulness, alberich," and laughing still, the hero undid the cords with which he had bound the giant and the dwarf. "call me here quickly the nibelung warriors," cried siegfried, "for i have need of them." and soon thirty thousand warriors stood before him in shining armor. choosing one thousand of the strongest and biggest, the prince marched with them down to the seashore. there they embarked in ships and sailed away to isenland. now it chanced that queen brunhild was walking on the terrace of her sea-guarded castle with king gunther when she saw a number of sails approaching. "whose can these ships be?" she cried in quick alarm. "these are my warriors who have followed me from burgundy," answered the king, for thus had siegfried bidden him speak. "we will go to welcome the fleet," said brunhild, and together they met the brave nibelung army and lodged them in isenland. "now will i give of my silver and my gold to my liegemen and to gunther's warriors," said queen brunhild, and she held out the keys of her treasury to dankwart that he might do her will. but so lavishly did the knight bestow her gold and her costly gems and her rich raiment upon the warriors that the queen grew angry. "naught shall i have left to take with me to rhineland," she cried aloud in her vexation. "in burgundy," answered hagen, "there is gold enough and to spare. thou wilt not need the treasures of isenland." but these words did not content the queen. she would certainly take at least twenty coffers of gold as well as jewels and silks with her to king gunther's land. at length, leaving isenland to the care of her brother, queen brunhild, with twenty hundred of her own warriors as a bodyguard, with eighty-six dames and one hundred maidens, set out for the royal city of worms. for nine days the great company journeyed homeward, and then king gunther entreated siegfried to be his herald to worms. "beg queen uté and the princess kriemhild," said the king, "beg them to ride forth to meet my bride and to prepare to hold high festival in honor of the wedding-feast." thus siegfried with four-and-twenty knights sailed on more swiftly than the other ships, and landing at the mouth of the river rhine, rode hastily toward the royal city. the queen and her daughter, clad in their robes of state, received the hero, and his heart was glad, for once again he stood in the presence of his dear lady, kriemhild. "be welcome, my lord siegfried," she cried, "thou worthy knight, be welcome. but where is my brother? has he been vanquished by the warrior-queen? oh, woe is me if he is lost, wo is me that ever i was born," and the tears rolled down the maiden's cheeks. "nay, now," said the prince, "thy brother is well and of good cheer. i have come, a herald of glad tidings. for even now the king is on his way to worms, bringing with him his hard-won bride." then the princess dried her tears, and graciously did she bid the hero to sit by her side. "i would i might give thee a reward for thy services," said the gentle maiden, "but too rich art thou to receive my gold." "a gift from thy hands would gladden my heart," said the gallant prince. blithely then did kriemhild send for four-and-twenty buckles, all inlaid with precious stones, and these did she give to siegfried. siegfried bent low before the lady kriemhild, for well did he love the gracious giver, yet would he not keep for himself her gifts, but gave them, in his courtesy, to her four-and-twenty maidens. then the prince told queen uté that the king begged her and the princess to ride forth from worms to greet his bride, and to prepare to hold high festival in the royal city. "it shall be done even as the king desires," said the queen, while kriemhild sat silent, smiling with gladness, because her knight sir siegfried had come home. in joy and merriment the days flew by, while the court at worms prepared to hold high festival in honor of king gunther's matchless bride. as the royal ships drew near, queen uté and the princess kriemhild, accompanied by many a gallant knight, rode along the banks of the rhine to greet queen brunhild. already the king had disembarked, and was leading his bride toward his gracious mother. courteously did queen uté welcome the stranger, while kriemhild kissed her and clasped her in her arms. some, as they gazed upon the lovely maidens, said that the warlike queen brunhild was more beautiful than the gentle princess kriemhild, but others, and these were the wiser, said that none could excel the peerless sister of the king. in the great plain of worms silk tents and gay pavilions had been placed. and there the ladies took shelter from the heat, while before them knights and warriors held a gay tournament. then, in the cool of the evening, a gallant train of lords and ladies, they rode toward the castle at worms. queen uté and her daughter went to their own apartments, while the king with brunhild went into the banquet-hall where the wedding-feast was spread. but ere the feast had begun, siegfried came and stood before the king. "sire," he said, "hast thou forgotten thy promise, that when brunhild entered the royal city thy lady sister should be my bride?" "nay," cried the king, "my royal word do i ever keep," and going out into the hall he sent for the princess. "dear sister," said gunther, as she bowed before him, "i have pledged my word to a warrior that thou wilt become his bride, wilt thou help me to keep my promise?" now siegfried was standing by the king's side as he spoke. then the gentle maiden answered meekly, "thy will, dear brother, is ever mine. i will take as lord him to whom thou hast promised my hand." and she glanced shyly at siegfried, for surely this was the warrior to whom her royal brother had pledged his word. right glad then was the king, and siegfried grew rosy with delight as he received the lady's troth. then together they went to the banquet-hall, and on a throne next to king gunther sat the hero-prince, the lady kriemhild by his side. when the banquet was ended, the king was wedded to queen brunhild, and siegfried to the maiden whom he loved so well, and though he had no crown to place upon her brow, the princess was well content. hero of france roland adapted by h.e. marshall i blancandrin's mission for seven long years the great emperor charlemagne had been fighting in spain against the saracens; saragossa alone remained unconquered, but word had gone forth that it, too, was doomed. king marsil, not knowing how to save his city from the conqueror, called a council of his wise men. blancandrin, a knight of great valor, was chosen with ten others to set out with olive-branches in their hands, followed by a great train of slaves bearing presents, to seek the court of the great christian king and sue for peace. bending low before charlemagne, blancandrin promised for king marsil vassalage to the emperor and baptism in the name of the holy christ. to assure the truth of his words, he said "we will give thee hostages, i will even send my own son if we keep not faith with thee." in the morning charlemagne called his wise men and told them the message of blancandrin. then roland, one of the twelve chosen knights and the nephew of charlemagne, rose flushed with anger and cried, "believe not this marsil, he was ever a traitor. carry the war to saragossa. war! i say war!" ganelon a knight, who hated roland, strode to the foot of the throne, saying, "listen not to the counsel of fools but accept king marsil's gifts and promises." following the counsel of duke naimes the wisest of the court, charlemagne declared that some one should be sent to king marsil and asked the lords whom he should send. "send me," cried roland. "nay," said oliver, "let me go rather." but the emperor said, "not a step shall ye go, either one or other of you." "ah!" said roland, "if i may not go, then send ganelon my stepfather." "good!" replied the great emperor, "ganelon it shall be." ganelon trembled with passion and said, "this is roland's work," for he knew he would never return alive to his wife and child. the quarrel between roland and ganelon was bitter indeed. "i hate thee," ganelon hissed at last. "i hate thee!" then, struggling to be calm, he turned to the emperor and said, "i am ready to do thy will." "fair sir ganelon," said charlemagne, "this is my message to the heathen king marsil. say to him that he shall bend the knee to gentle christ and be baptized in his name. then will i give him full half of spain to hold in fief. over the other half count roland, my nephew, well beloved, shall reign." without a word of farewell ganelon went to his own house. there he clad himself in his finest armor. commending his wife and child to the care of the knights who pressed round to bid him godspeed, ganelon, with bent head, turned slowly from their sight and rode to join the heathen blancandrin. ii ganelon's treason as ganelon and blancandrin rode along together beneath the olive-trees and through the fruitful vineyards of sunny spain, the heathen began to talk cunningly. "what a wonderful knight is thy emperor," he said. "he hath conquered the world from sea to sea. but why cometh he within our borders? why left he us not in peace?" "it was his will," replied ganelon. "there is no man in all the world so great as he. none may stand against him." "you franks are gallant men indeed," said blancandrin, "but your dukes and counts deserve blame when they counsel the emperor to fight with us now." "there is none deserveth that blame save roland," said ganelon. "such pride as his ought to be punished. oh, that some one would slay him!" he cried fiercely. "then should we have peace." "this roland is very cruel," said blancandrin, "to wish to conquer all the world as he does. but in whom does he trust for help?" "in the franks," said ganelon. "they love him with such a great love that they think he can do no wrong. he giveth them gold and silver, jewels and armor, so they serve him. even to the emperor himself he maketh rich presents. he will not rest until he hath conquered all the world, from east to west." the saracen looked at ganelon out of the corner of his eye. he was a noble knight, but now that his face was dark with wrath and jealousy, he looked like a felon. "listen thou to me," said blancandrin softly. "dost wish to be avenged upon roland? then, by mahomet! deliver him into our hands. king marsil is very generous; for such a kindness he will willingly give unto thee of his countless treasure." ganelon heard the tempter's voice, but he rode onward as if unheeding, his chin sunken upon his breast, his eyes dark with hatred. but long ere the ride was ended and saragossa reached, the heathen lord and christian knight had plotted together for the ruin of roland. at length the journey was over, and ganelon lighted down before king marsil, who awaited him beneath the shadow of his orchard-trees, seated upon a marble throne covered with rich silken rugs. around him crowded his nobles, silent and eager to learn how blancandrin had fared upon his errand. bowing low, blancandrin approached the throne, leading ganelon by the hand. "greeting," he said, "in the name of mahomet. well, o marsil, have i done thy behest to the mighty christian king. but save that he raised his hands to heaven and gave thanks to his god, no answer did he render to me. but unto thee he sendeth one of his nobles, a very powerful man in france. from him shalt thou learn if thou shalt have peace or war." "let him speak," said king marsil. "we will listen." "greeting," said ganelon, "in the name of god--the god of glory whom we ought all to adore. listen ye to the command of charlemagne: thou, o king, shalt receive the christian faith, then half of spain will he leave to thee to hold in fief. the other half shall be given to count roland--a haughty companion thou wilt have there. if thou wilt not agree to this, charlemagne will besiege saragossa, and thou shalt be led captive to aix, there to die a vile and shameful death." king marsil shook with anger and turned pale. in his hand he held an arrow fledged with gold. now, springing from his throne, he raised his arm as if he would strike ganelon. but the knight laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of the scabbard. "sword," he cried, "thou art bright and beautiful; oft have i carried thee at the court of my king. it shall never be said of me that i died alone in a foreign land, among fierce foes, ere thou wert dipped in the blood of their bravest and best." for a few moments the heathen king and the christian knight eyed each other in deep silence. then the air was filled with shouts. "part them, part them!" cried the saracens. the noblest of the saracens rushed between their king and ganelon. "it was a foolish trick to raise thy hand against the christian knight," said marsil's calif, seating him once more upon his throne. "'twere well to listen to what he hath to say." "sir," said ganelon proudly, "thinkest thou for all the threats in the wide world i will be silent and not speak the message which the mighty charlemagne sendeth to his mortal enemy? nay, i would speak, if ye were all against me." and keeping his right hand still upon the golden pommel of his sword, with his left he unclasped his cloak of fur and silk and cast it upon the steps of the throne. there, in his strength and splendor, he stood defying them all. "'tis a noble knight!" cried the heathen in admiration. then once more turning to king marsil, ganelon gave him the emperor's letter. as he broke the seal and read, marsil's brow grew black with anger. "listen, my lords," he cried; "because i slew yonder insolent christian knights, the emperor charlemagne bids me beware his wrath. he commands that i shall send unto him as hostage mine uncle the calif." "this is some madness of ganelon!" cried a heathen knight. "he is only worthy of death. give him unto me, and i will see that justice is done upon him." so saying, he laid his hand upon his sword. like a flash of lightning ganelon's good blade murglies sprang from its sheath, and with his back against a tree, the christian knight prepared to defend himself to the last. but once again the fight was stopped, and this time blancandrin led ganelon away. then, walking alone with the king, blancandrin told of all that he had done, and of how even upon the way hither, ganelon had promised to betray roland, who was charlemagne's greatest warrior. "and if he die," said blancandrin, "then is our peace sure." "bring hither the christian knight to me," cried king marsil. so blancandrin went, and once more leading ganelon by the hand, brought him before the king. "fair sir ganelon," said the wily heathen, "i did a rash and foolish thing when in anger i raised my hand to strike at thee. as a token that thou wilt forget it, accept this cloak of sable. it is worth five hundred pieces of gold." and lifting a rich cloak, he clasped it about the neck of ganelon. "i may not refuse it," said the knight, looking down. "may heaven reward thee!" "trust me, sir ganelon," said king marsil, "i love thee well. but keep thou our counsels secret. i would hear thee talk of charlemagne. he is very old, is he not?--more than two hundred years old. he must be worn out and weary, for he hath fought so many battles and humbled so many kings in the dust. he ought to rest now from his labors in his city of aix." ganelon shook his head. "nay," he said, "such is not charlemagne. all those who have seen him know that our emperor is a true warrior. i know not how to praise him enough before you, for there is nowhere a man so full of valor and of goodness. i would rather die than leave his service." "in truth," said marsil, "i marvel greatly. i had thought that charlemagne had been old and worn. then if it is not so, when will he cease his wars?" "ah," said ganelon, "that he will never do so long as his nephew roland lives. under the arch of heaven there bides no baron so splendid or so proud. oliver, his friend, also is full of prowess and of valor. with them and his peers beside him, charlemagne feareth no man." "fair sir ganelon," said king marsil boldly, knowing his hatred, "tell me, how shall i slay roland?" "that i can tell thee," said ganelon. "promise thou the emperor all that he asketh of thee. send hostages and presents to him. he will then return to france. his army will pass through the valley of roncesvalles. i will see to it that roland and his friend oliver lead the rear-guard. they will lag behind the rest of the army, then there shalt thou fall upon them with all thy mighty men. i say not but that thou shalt lose many a knight, for roland and his peers will fight right manfully. but in the end, being so many more than they, thou shalt conquer. roland shall lie dead, and slaying him thou wilt cut off the right arm of charlemagne. then farewell to the wondrous army of france. never again shall charlemagne gather such a company, and within the borders of spain there shall be peace for evermore." when ganelon had finished speaking, the king threw his arms about his neck and kissed him. then turning to his slaves, he commanded them to bring great treasure of gold, and silver and precious stones, and lay it at the feet of the knight. "but swear to me," said marsil, "that roland shall be in the rear-guard, and swear to me his death." and ganelon, laying his hand upon his sword murglies, swore by the holy relics therein, that he would bring roland to death. then came a heathen knight who gave to ganelon a sword, the hilt of which glittered with gems so that the eyes were dazzled in looking upon it. "let but roland be in the rear-guard," he said, "and it is thine." then he kissed ganelon on both cheeks. soon another heathen knight followed him, laughing joyfully. "here is my helmet," he cried. "it is the richest and best ever beaten out of steel. it is thine so that thou truly bring roland to death and shame." and he, too, kissed ganelon. next came bramimonde, marsil's queen. she was very beautiful. her dark hair was strung with pearls, and her robes of silk and gold swept the ground. her hands were full of glittering gems. bracelets and necklaces of gold, rubies and sapphires fell from her white fingers. "take these," she said, "to thy fair lady. tell her that queen bramimonde sends them to her because of the great service thou hast done." and bowing low, she poured the sparkling jewels into ganelon's hands. thus did the heathen reward ganelon for his treachery. "ho there!" called king marsil to his treasurer, "are my gifts for the emperor ready?" "yea, sire," answered the treasurer, "seven hundred camels' load of silver and gold and twenty hostages, the noblest of the land; all are ready." then king marsil leant his hand on ganelon's shoulder. "wise art thou and brave," he said, "but in the name of all thou holdest sacred, forget not thy promise unto me. see, i give thee ten mules laden with richest treasure, and every year i will send to thee as much again. now take the keys of my city gates, take the treasure and the hostages made ready for thine emperor. give them all to him, tell him that i yield to him all that he asks, but forget not thy promise that roland shall ride in the rear-guard." impatient to be gone, ganelon shook the king's hand from his shoulder. "let me tarry no longer," he cried. then springing to horse he rode swiftly away. meanwhile charlemagne lay encamped, awaiting marsil's answer. and as one morning he sat beside his tent, with his lords and mighty men around him, a great cavalcade appeared in the distance. and presently ganelon, the traitor, drew rein before him. softly and smoothly he began his treacherous tale. "god keep you," he cried; "here i bring the keys of saragossa, with treasure rich and rare, seven hundred camels' load of silver and gold and twenty hostages of the noblest of the heathen host. and king marsil bids me say, thou shalt not blame him that his uncle the calif comes not too, for he is dead. i myself saw him as he set forth with three hundred thousand armed men upon the sea. their vessels sank ere they had gone far from the land, and he and they were swallowed in the waves." thus ganelon told his lying tale. "now praised be heaven!" cried charlemagne. "and thanks, my trusty ganelon, for well hast thou sped. at length my wars are done, and home to gentle france we ride." so the trumpets were sounded, and soon the great army, with pennons waving and armor glittering in the sunshine, was rolling onward through the land, like a gleaming mighty river. but following the christian army, through valleys deep and dark, by pathways secret and unknown, crept the heathen host. they were clad in shining steel from head to foot, swords were by their sides, lances were in their hands, and bitter hatred in their hearts. four hundred thousand strong they marched in stealthy silence. and, alas! the franks knew it not. when night came the franks encamped upon the plain. and high upon the mountain-sides, in a dark forest the heathen kept watch upon them. in the midst of his army king charlemagne lay, and as he slept he dreamed he stood alone in the valley of roncesvalles, spear in hand. there to him came ganelon, who seized his spear and broke it in pieces before his eyes, and the noise of the breaking was as the noise of thunder. in his sleep charlemagne stirred uneasily, but he did not wake. the vision passed, and again he dreamed. it seemed to him that he was now in his own city of aix. suddenly from out a forest a leopard sprang upon him. but even as its fangs closed upon his arm, a faithful hound came bounding from his hall and fell upon the savage beast with fury. fiercely the hound grappled with the leopard. snarling and growling they rolled over and over. now the hound was uppermost, now the leopard. "tis a splendid fight!" cried the franks who watched. but who should win, the emperor knew not, for the vision faded, and still he slept. the night passed and dawn came. a thousand trumpets sounded, the camp was all astir, and the franks made ready once more to march. but charlemagne was grave and thoughtful, musing on the dream that he had dreamed. "my knights and barons," he said, "mark well the country through which we pass. these valleys are steep and straight. it would go ill with us did the false saracen forget his oath, and fall upon us as we pass. to whom therefore shall i trust the rear-guard that we may march in surety?" "give the command to my stepson, roland, there is none so brave as he," said ganelon. as charlemagne listened he looked at ganelon darkly. "thou art a very demon," he said. "what rage possesseth thee? and if i give command of the rear to roland, who, then, shall lead the van?" "there is ogier the dane," said ganelon quickly, "who better?" still charlemagne looked darkly at him. he would not that roland should hear, for well he knew his adventurous spirit. but already roland had heard. "i ought to love thee well, sir stepsire," he cried, "for this day hast thou named me for honor. i will take good heed that our emperor lose not the least of his men, nor charger, palfrey, nor mule that is not paid for by stroke of sword." "that know i right well," replied ganelon, "therefore have i named thee." then to charlemagne roland turned, "give me the bow of office, sire, and let me take command," he said. but the emperor sat with bowed head. in and out of his long white beard he twisted his fingers. tears stood in his eyes, and he kept silence. such was his love for roland and fear lest evil should befall him. then spoke duke naimes, "give the command unto roland, sire; there is none better." so, silently, charlemagne held out the bow of office, and kneeling, roland took it. then was ganelon's wicked heart glad. "nephew," said charlemagne, "half my host i leave with thee." "nay, sire," answered roland proudly, "twenty thousand only shall remain with me. the rest of ye may pass onward in all surety, for while i live ye have naught to fear." then in his heart ganelon laughed. so the mighty army passed onward through the vale of roncesvalles without doubt or dread, for did not roland the brave guard the rear? with him remained oliver his friend, turpin, the bold archbishop of rheims, all the peers, and twenty thousand more of the bravest knights of france. as the great army wound along, the hearts of the men were glad. for seven long years they had been far from home, and now soon they would see their dear ones again. but the emperor rode among them sadly with bowed head. his fingers again twined themselves in his long white beard, tears once more stood in his eyes. beside him rode duke naimes. "tell me, sire," he said, "what grief oppresseth thee?" "alas," said charlemagne, "by ganelon france is betrayed. this night i dreamed i saw him break my lance in twain. and this same ganelon it is that puts my nephew in the rear-guard. and i, i have left him in a strange land. if he die, where shall i find such another?" it was in vain that duke naimes tried to comfort the emperor. he would not be comforted, and all the hearts of that great company were filled with fearful, boding dread for roland. iii roland's pride meanwhile king marsil was gathering all his host. from far and near came the heathen knights, all impatient to fight, each one eager to have the honor of slaying roland with his own hand, each swearing that none of the twelve peers should ever again see france. among them was a great champion called chernuble. he was huge and ugly and his strength was such that he could lift with ease a burden which four mules could scarcely carry. his face was inky black, his lips thick and hideous, and his coarse long hair reached the ground. it was said that in the land from whence he came, the sun never shone, the rain never fell, and the very stones were black as coal. he too, swearing that the franks should die and that france should perish, joined the heathen host. very splendid were the saracens as they moved along in the gleaming sunshine. gold and silver shone upon their armor, pennons of white and purple floated over them, and from a thousand trumpets sounded their battle-song. to the ears of the frankish knights the sound was borne as they rode through the valley of roncesvalles. "sir comrade," said oliver, "it seemeth me there is battle at hand with the saracen foe." "please heaven it may be so," said roland. "our duty is to hold this post for our emperor. let us strike mighty blows, that nothing be said or sung of us in scorn. let us fight these heathen for our country and our faith." as oliver heard the sounds of battle come nearer, he climbed to the top of the hill, so that he could see far over the country. there before him he saw the saracens marching in pride. their helmets, inlaid with gold, gleamed in the sun. gaily painted shields, hauberks of shining steel, spears and pennons waved and shone, rank upon rank in countless numbers. quickly oliver came down from the hill, and went back to the frankish army. "i have seen the heathen," he said to roland. "never on earth hath such a host been gathered. they march upon us many hundred thousand strong, with shield and spear and sword. such battle as awaiteth us have we never fought before." "let him be accursed who fleeth!" cried the franks. "there be few among us who fear death." "it is ganelon the felon, who hath betrayed us," said oliver, "let him be accursed." "hush thee, oliver," said roland; "he is my stepsire. let us hear no evil of him." "the heathen are in fearful force," said oliver, "and our franks are but few. friend roland, sound upon thy horn. then will charlemagne hear and return with all his host to help us." for round roland's neck there hung a magic horn of carved ivory. if he blew upon this in case of need, the sound of it would be carried over hill and dale, far, far onward. if he sounded it now, charlemagne would very surely hear, and return from his homeward march. but roland would not listen to oliver. "nay," he said, "i should indeed be mad to sound upon my horn. if i call for help, i, roland, i should lose my fame in all fair france. nay, i will not sound, but i shall strike such blows with my good sword durindal that the blade shall be red to the gold of the hilt. our franks, too, shall strike such blows that the heathen shall rue the day. i tell thee, they be all dead men." "oh roland, friend, wind thy horn," pleaded oliver. "to the ear of charlemagne shall the sound be borne, and he and all his knights will return to help us." "now heaven forbid that my kin should ever be pointed at in scorn because of me," said roland, "or that fair france should fall to such dishonor. no! i will not sound upon my horn, but i shall strike such blows with my sword durindal that the blade shall be dyed red in the blood of the heathen." in vain oliver implored. "i see no dishonor shouldst thou wind thy horn," he said, "for i have beheld the saracen host. the valleys and the hills and all the plains are covered with them. they are many and great, and we are but a little company." "so much the better," cried roland, "my desire to fight them grows the greater. all the angels of heaven forbid that france, through me, should lose one jot of fame. death is better than dishonor. let us strike such blows as our emperor loveth to see." roland was rash as oliver was wise, but both were knights of wondrous courage, and now oliver pleaded no more. "look," he cried, "look where the heathen come! thou hast scorned, roland, to sound thy horn, and our noble men will this day do their last deeds of bravery." "hush!" cried roland, "shame to him who weareth a coward's heart." and now archbishop turpin spurred his horse to a little hill in front of the army. "my lords and barons," he cried, turning to them, "charlemagne hath left us here to guard the homeward march of his army. he is our king, and we are bound to die for him, if so need be. but now, before ye fight, confess your sins, and pray god to forgive them. if ye die, ye die as martyrs. in god's great paradise your places await you." then the franks leapt from their horses and kneeled upon the ground while the archbishop blessed them, and absolved them from all their sins. "for penance i command that ye strike the heathen full sore," he said. then springing from their knees the franks leapt again into their saddles, ready now to fight and die. "friend," said roland, turning to oliver, "thou wert right. it is ganelon who is the traitor. but the emperor will avenge us upon him. as for marsil, he deemeth that he hath bought us, and that ganelon hath sold us unto him. but he will find it is with our swords that we will pay him." and now the battle began. "montjoie!" shouted the franks. it was the emperor's own battle-cry. it means "my joy," and came from the name of his famous sword joyeuse or joyous. this sword was the most wonderful ever seen. thirty times a day the shimmering light with which it glowed changed. in the gold of the hilt was encased the head of the spear with which the side of christ had been pierced. and because of this great honor the emperor called his sword joyeuse, and from that the franks took their battle-cry "montjoie." now shouting it, and plunging spurs into their horses' sides, they dashed upon the foe. never before had been such pride of chivalry, such splendor of knightly grace. with boasting words, king marsil's nephew came riding in front of the battle. "ho, felon franks!" he cried, "ye are met at last. betrayed and sold are ye by your king. this day hath france lost her fair fame, and from charlemagne is his right hand torn." roland heard him. with spur in side and slackened rein, he dashed upon the heathen, mad with rage. through shield and hauberk pierced his spear, and the saracen fell dead ere his scoffing words were done. "thou dastard!" cried roland, "no traitor is charlemagne, but a right noble king and cavalier." king marsil's brother, sick at heart to see his nephew fall, rode out with mocking words upon his lips. "this day is the honor of france lost," he sneered. but oliver struck his golden spurs into his steed's side! "caitiff, thy taunts are little worth," he cried, and, pierced through shield and buckler, the heathen fell. bishop turpin, too, wielded both sword and lance. "thou lying coward, be silent evermore!" he cried, as a scoffing heathen king fell beneath his blows. "charlemagne our lord is true and good, and no frank shall flee this day." "montjoie! montjoie!" sounded high above the clang of battle, as heathen after heathen was laid low. limbs were lopped, armor flew in splinters. many a heathen knight was cloven from brow to saddle bow. the plain was strewn with the dying and the dead. in roland's hand his lance was shivered to the haft. throwing the splintered wood away, he drew his famous durindal. the naked blade shone in the sun and fell upon the helmet of chernuble, marsil's mighty champion. the sparkling gems with which it shone were scattered on the grass. through cheek and chine, through flesh and bone, drove the shining steel, and chernuble fell upon the ground, a black and hideous heap. "lie there, caitiff!" cried roland, "thy mahomet cannot save thee. not unto such as thou is the victory." on through the press rode roland. durindal flashed and fell and flashed again, and many a heathen bit the dust. oliver, too, did marvelous deeds. his spear, as roland's, was shivered into atoms. but scarcely knowing what he did, he fought still with the broken shaft, and with it brought many a heathen to his death. "comrade, what dost thou?" said roland. "is it now the time to fight with staves? where is thy sword called hauteclere with its crystal pommel and golden guard?" "i lacked time in which to draw it," replied oliver, "there was such need to strike blows fast and hard." but now he drew his shining hauteclere from its scabbard, and with it he dealt such blows that roland cried, "my brother art thou, oliver, from henceforth. ah! such blows our emperor would dearly love to see." furious and more furious waxed the fight. on all sides might be heard the cry of "montjoie! montjoie!" and many a blow did frank and heathen give and take. but although thousands of saracens lay dead, the franks too had lost many of their bravest knights. shield and spear, banner and pennon, broken, bloodstained and trampled, strewed the field. fiercer, wilder still, the battle grew. roland, oliver, archbishop turpin and all the twelve peers of france fought in the thickest of the press. many of the heathen fled, but even in flight they were cut down. meanwhile over france burst a fearful storm. thunder rolled, lightning flashed, the very earth shook and trembled. there was not a town in all the land but the walls of it were cracked and riven. the sky grew black at midday, rain and hail in torrents swept the land. "it is the end of the world," the people whispered in trembling fear. alas, they knew not! it was the earth's great mourning for the death of roland, which was nigh. the battle waxed horrible. the saracens fled, and the franks pursued till of that great heathen host but one was left. of the saracen army which had set out in such splendor, four hundred thousand strong, one heathen king alone remained. and he, king margaris, sorely wounded, his spear broken, his shield pierced and battered, fled with the direful news to king marsil. the franks had won the day, and now mournfully over the plain they moved, seeking their dead and dying comrades. weary men and worn were they, sad at the death of many brother knights, yet glad at the might and victory of france. iv roland sounds his horn alone, king margaris fled, weary and wounded, until he reached king marsil, and fell panting at his feet. "ride! ride! sire," he cried, "thy army is shattered, thy knights to the last man lie dead upon the field; but thou wilt find the franks in evil plight. full half of them also lie dead. the rest are sore wounded and weary. their armor is broken, their swords and spears are shattered. they have naught wherewith to defend themselves. to avenge the death of thy knights were now easy. ride! oh, ride!" in terrible wrath and sorrow king marsil gathered a new army. in twenty columns through the valleys they came marching. the sun shone upon the gems and goldwork of their helmets, upon lances and pennons, upon buckler and embroidered surcoat. seven thousand trumpets sounded to the charge, and the wind carried the clamor afar. "oliver, my comrade," said roland, when he heard it, "oliver, my brother, the traitor ganelon hath sworn our death. here his treachery is plainly to be seen. but the emperor will bring upon him a terrible vengeance. as for us, we must fight again a battle fierce and keen. i will strike with my trusty durindal and thou with thy hauteclere bright. we have already carried them with honor in many battles. with them we have won many a victory. no man may say scorn of us." and so once again the franks made ready for battle. but king marsil was a wily foe. "hearken, my barons all," he cried, "roland is a prince of wondrous strength. two battles are not enough to vanquish him. he shall have three. half of ye shall go forward now, and half remain with me until the franks are utterly exhausted. then shall ye attack them. then shall we see the day when the might of charlemagne shall fall and france shall perish in shame." so king marsil stayed upon the hillside while half of his knights marched upon the franks with battle-cry and trumpet-call. "oh heaven, what cometh now!" cried the franks as they heard the sound. "wo, wo, that ever we saw ganelon the felon." then spoke the brave archbishop to them. "now it is certain that we shall die. but it is better to die sword in hand than in slothful ease. now is the day when ye shall receive great honor. now is the day that ye shall win your crown of flowers. the gates of paradise are glorious, but therein no coward shall enter." "we will not fail to enter," cried the franks. "it is true that we are but few, but we are bold and stanch," and striking their golden spurs into their chargers' flanks, they rode to meet the foe. once more the noise and dust of battle rose. once more the plain was strewn with dead, and the green grass was crimson-dyed, and scattered wide were jewels and gold, splintered weapons, and shattered armor. fearful was the slaughter, mighty the deeds of valor done, until at last the heathen broke and fled amain. after them in hot pursuit rode the franks. their bright swords flashed and fell again and again, and all the way was marked with dead. at length the heathen cries of despair reached even to where king marsil stayed upon the hillside. "marsil, oh our king! ride, ride, we have need of thee!" they cried. even to the king's feet the franks pursued the fleeing foe, slaying them before his face. then marsil, mounting upon his horse, led his last knights against the fearful foe. the franks were nigh exhausted, but still three hundred swords flashed in the sunlight, three hundred hearts still beat with hope and courage. as roland watched oliver ever in the thickest of the fight, dealing blow upon blow unceasingly, his heart swelled anew with love for him. "oh, my comrade leal and true," he cried, "alas! this day shall end our love. alas! this day we shall part on earth for ever." oliver heard him and through the press of fighting he urged his horse to roland's side. "friend," he said, "keep near to me. so it please god we shall at least die together." on went the fight, fiercer and fiercer yet, till but sixty weary franks were left. then, sadly gazing upon the stricken field, roland turned to oliver. "behold! our bravest lie dead," he cried. "well may france weep, for she is shorn of all her most valiant knights. oh my emperor, my friend, alas, why wert thou not here? oliver, my brother, how shall we speed him now our mournful news?" "i know not," said oliver sadly, "rather come death now than any craven deed." "i will sound upon my horn," said roland, all his pride broken and gone. "i will sound upon my horn. charlemagne will hear it and the franks will return to our aid." "shame would that be," cried oliver. "our kin would blush for us and be dishonored all their days. when i prayed of thee thou wouldst not sound thy horn, and now it is not i who will consent to it. sound upon thy horn! no! there is no courage, no wisdom in that now. had the emperor been here we had been saved. but now it is too late, for all is lost. nay," he cried in rising wrath, "if ever i see again my fair sister aude, i swear to thee thou shalt never hold her in thine arms. never shall she be bride of thine." for roland loved oliver's beautiful sister aude and was loved by her, and when roland would return to france she had promised to be his bride. "ah, oliver, why dost thou speak to me with so much anger and hate," cried roland sadly. "because it is thy fault that so many franks lie dead this day," answered oliver. "it is thy folly that hath slain them. hadst thou done as i prayed thee our master charlemagne had been here. this battle had been fought and won. marsil had been taken and slain. thy madness it is, roland, that hath wrought our fate. henceforward we can serve charlemagne never more. and now here endeth our loyal friendship. oh, bitter the parting this night shall see." with terrible grief in his heart, stricken dumb with misery and pain, roland gazed upon his friend. but archbishop turpin had heard the strife between the two, and setting spurs to his horse he rode swiftly towards them. "sir roland, and you, sir oliver," he cried, "i pray you strive not thus. see! we all must die, and thy horn, roland, can avail nothing now. great karl is too far and would return too late. yet it were well to sound it. for the emperor when he hears it will come to avenge our fall, and the heathen will not return joyously to their homes. when the franks come, they will alight from their horses, they will find our bodies, and will bury them with mourning and with tears, so we shall rest in hallowed graves, and the beasts of the field shall not tear our bones asunder." "it is well said," cried roland. then to his lips he laid his horn, and taking a deep breath he blew mightily upon it. with all the strength left in his weary body he blew. full, and clear, and high the horn sounded. from mountain peak to mountain peak the note was echoed, till to the camp of charlemagne, full thirty leagues away, it came. then as he heard it, sweet and faint, borne upon the summer wind, the emperor drew rein, and bent his ear to listen. "our men give battle; it is the horn of roland," he cried. "nay," laughed ganelon scornfully, "nay, sire, had any man but thee said it i had deemed he lied." so slowly and sad at heart, with many a backward glance, the emperor rode on. again roland put his horn to his mouth. he was weary now and faint. blood was upon his pale lips, the blue veins in his temples stood out like cords. very mournfully he blew upon his horn, but the sound of it was carried far, very far, although it was so feeble and so low. again to the soft, sweet note charlemagne bent his ear. duke naimes, too, and all the frankish knights, paused at the sound. "it is the horn of roland," cried the emperor, "and very surely had there been no battle, he had not sounded it." "there is no battle," said ganelon in fretful tones. "thou art grown old and fearful. thou talkest as a frightened child. well thou knowest the pride of roland, the strong, bold, great and boastful roland, that god hath suffered so long upon his earth. for one hare roland would sound his horn all day long. doubtless now he laughs among his peers. and besides, who would dare to attack roland? who so bold? of a truth there is none. ride on, sire, ride on. why halt? our fair land is still very far in front." so again, yet more unwillingly, the emperor rode on. crimson-stained were the lips of roland. his cheeks were sunken and white, yet once again he raised his horn. faintly now, in sadness and in anguish, once again he blew. the soft, sweet notes took on a tone so pitiful, they wrung the very heart of charlemagne, where, full thirty leagues afar, he onward rode. "that horn is very long of breath," he sighed, looking backward anxiously. "it is roland," cried duke naimes. "it is roland who suffers yonder. on my soul, i swear, there is battle. some one hath betrayed him. if i mistake not, it is he who now deceives thee. arm, sire, arm! sound the trumpets of war. long enough hast thou hearkened to the plaint of roland." quickly the emperor gave command. quickly the army turned about, and came marching backward. the evening sunshine fell upon their pennons of crimson, gold and blue, it gleamed upon helmet and corslet, upon lance and shield. fiercely rode the knights. "oh, if we but reach roland before he die," they cried, "oh, what blows we will strike for him." alas! alas! they are late, too late! the evening darkened, night came, yet on they rode. through all the night they rode, and when at length the rising sun gleamed like flame upon helmet, and hauberk and flowing pennon, they still pressed onward. foremost the emperor rode, sunk in sad thought, his fingers twisted in his long white beard which flowed over his cuirass, his eyes filled with tears. behind him galloped his knights--strong men though they were, every one of them with a sob in his throat, a prayer in his heart, for roland, roland the brave and fearless. one knight only had anger in his heart. that knight was ganelon. and he by order of the emperor had been given over to the keeping of the kitchen knaves. calling the chief among them, "guard me well this felon," said charlemagne, "guard him as a traitor, who hath sold all mine house to death." then the chief scullion and a hundred of his fellows surrounded ganelon. they plucked him by the hair and buffeted him, each man giving him four sounding blows. around his neck they then fastened a heavy chain, and leading him as one might lead a dancing bear, they set him upon a common baggage-horse. thus they kept him until the time should come that charlemagne would ask again for the felon knight. v the return of charlemagne roland was dead and bright angels had already carried his soul to heaven, when charlemagne and all his host at last rode into the valley of roncesvalles. what a dreadful sight was there! not a path nor track, not a yard nor foot of ground but was covered with slain franks and heathen lying side by side in death. charlemagne gazed upon the scene with grief and horror. "where art thou, roland?" he called. "the archbishop, where is he? oliver, where art thou?" all the twelve peers he called by name. but none answered. the wind moaned over the field, fluttering here and there a fallen banner, but voice to answer there was none. "alas," sighed charlemagne, "what sorrow is mine that i was not here ere this battle was fought!" in and out of his long white beard his fingers twisted, and tears of grief and anger stood in his eyes. behind him, rank upon rank, crowded his knights and barons full of wrath and sorrow. not one among them but had lost a son or brother, a friend or comrade. for a time they stood dumb with grief and horror. then spoke duke naimes. wise in counsel, brave in battle was he. "look, sire," he cried, "look where two leagues from us the dust arises upon the great highway. there is gathered the army of the heathen. ride, sire, ride and avenge our wrongs." and so it was, for those who had fled from the battle-field were gathered together and were now crowding onward to saragossa. "alas!" said charlemagne, "they are already far away. yet they have taken from me the very flower of france, so for the sake of right and honor i will do as thou desirest." then the emperor called to him four of his chief barons. "rest here," he said, "guard the field, the valleys and the hills. leave the dead lying as they are, but watch well that neither lion nor any other savage beast come nigh to them. neither shall any servant or squire touch them. i forbid ye to let man lay hand upon them till we return." "sire we will do thy will," answered the four. then, leaving a thousand knights to be with them, charlemagne sounded his war trumpets, and the army set forth upon the pursuit of the heathen. furiously they rode and fast, but already the foe was far. anxiously the emperor looked to the sun as it slowly went down toward the west. night was at hand and the enemy still afar. then, alighting from his horse, charlemagne kneeled upon the green grass. "oh lord, i pray thee," he cried, "make the sun to stop. say thou to the night, 'wait.' say thou to the day, 'remain.'" and as the emperor prayed, his guardian angel stooped down and whispered to him, "ride onward, charlemagne! light shall not fail thee. thou hast lost the flower of france. the lord knoweth it right well. but thou canst now avenge thee upon the wicked. ride!" hearing these words, charlemagne sprang once more to horse and rode onward. and truly a miracle was done for him. the sun stood motionless in the sky, the heathen fled, the franks pursued, until in the valley of darkness they fell upon them and beat them with great slaughter. the heathen still fled, but the franks surrounded them, closing every path, and in front flowed the river ebro wide and deep. across it there was no bridge, upon it no boat, no barge. calling upon their gods tervagan and apollin and upon mahomet to save them, the heathen threw themselves into the water. but there no safety they found. many, weighted with their heavy armor, sank beneath the waves. others, carried by the tide, were swept away, and all were drowned, king marsil alone fleeing towards saragossa. when charlemagne saw that all his enemies were slain, he leapt from his horse, and, kneeling upon the ground, gave thanks to heaven. and even as he rose from his knees the sun went down and all the land was dim in twilight. "now is the hour of rest," said the emperor. "it is too late to return to roncesvalles, for our steeds are weary and exhausted. take off their saddles and their bridles, and let them refresh themselves upon the field." "sire, it is well said," replied the franks. so the knights, leaping from their horses, took saddle and bridle from them, and let them wander free upon the green meadows by the river-side. then, being very weary, the franks lay down upon the grass, all dressed as they were in their armor, and with their swords girded to their sides, and slept. so worn were they with battle and with grief, that none that night kept watch, but all alike slept. the emperor too slept upon the ground among his knights and barons. like them he lay in his armor. and his good sword joyeuse was girt about him. the night was clear and the moon shone brightly. and charlemagne, lying on the grass, thought bitterly of roland and of oliver, and of all the twelve peers of france who lay dead upon the field of roncesvalles. but at last, overcome with grief and weariness, he fell asleep. as the emperor slept, he dreamed. he thought he saw the sky grow black with thunder-clouds, then jagged lightning flashed and flamed, hail fell and wild winds howled. such a storm the earth had never seen, and suddenly in all its fury it burst upon his army. their lances were wrapped in flame, their shields of gold were melted, hauberks and helmets were crushed to pieces. then bears and wolves from out the forests sprang upon the dismayed knights, devouring them. monsters untold, serpents, fiery fiends, and more than thirty thousand griffins, all rushed upon the franks with greedy, gaping jaws. "arm! arm! sire," they cried to him. and charlemagne, in his dream, struggled to reach his knights. but something, he knew not what, held him bound and helpless. then from out the depths of the forest a lion rushed upon him. it was a fierce, terrible, and proud beast. it seized upon the emperor, and together they struggled, he fighting with his naked hands. who would win, who would be beaten, none knew, for the dream passed and the emperor still slept. again charlemagne dreamed. he stood, he thought, upon the marble steps of his great palace of aix holding a bear by a double chain. suddenly out of the forest there came thirty other bears to the foot of the steps where charlemagne stood. they all had tongues and spoke like men. "give him back to us, sire," they said, "he is our kinsman, and we must help him. it is not right that thou shouldest keep him so long from us." then from out the palace there came a hound. bounding among the savage beasts he threw himself upon the largest of them. over and over upon the grass they rolled, fighting terribly. who would be the victor, who the vanquished? charlemagne could not tell. the vision passed, and he slept till daybreak. as the first dim light of dawn crept across the sky, charlemagne awoke. soon all the camp was astir, and before the sun rose high the knights were riding back over the wide roads to roncesvalles. when once again they reached the dreadful field, charlemagne wandered over all the plain until he came where roland lay. then taking him in his arms he made great moan. "my friend, my roland, who shall now lead my army? my nephew, beautiful and brave, my pride, my glory, all are gone. alas the day! alas!" thus with tears and cries he mourned his loss. then said one, "sire, grieve not overmuch. command rather that we search the plain and gather together all our men who have been slain by the heathen. then let us bury them with chant, and song and solemn ceremony, as befits such heroes." "yea," said charlemagne, "it is well said. sound your trumpets!" so the trumpets were sounded, and over all the field the franks searched, gathering their slain brothers and comrades. with the army there were many bishops, abbots and monks, and so with chant and hymn, with prayer and incense, the franks were laid to rest. with great honor they were buried. then, for they could do no more, their comrades left them. only the bodies of roland, oliver and archbishop turpin, they did not lay in spanish ground. in three white marble coffins covered with silken cloths they were placed on chariots, ready to be carried back to the fair land of france. hero of spain the cid adapted by robert southey i rodrigo and the leper rodrigo forthwith set out upon the road, and took with him twenty knights. and as he went he did great good, and gave alms, feeding the poor and needy. and upon the way they found a leper, struggling in a quagmire, who cried out to them with a loud voice to help him for the love of god; and when rodrigo heard this, he alighted from his beast and helped him, and placed him upon the beast before him, and carried him with him in this manner to the inn where he took up his lodging that night. at this were his knights little pleased. when supper was ready he bade his knights take their seats, and he took the leper by the hand, and seated him next himself, and ate with him out of the same dish. the knights were greatly offended at this foul sight, insomuch that they rose up and left the chamber. but rodrigo ordered a bed to be made ready for himself and for the leper, and they twain slept together. when it was midnight and rodrigo was fast asleep, the leper breathed against him between his shoulders, and that breath was so strong that it passed through him, even through his breast; and he awoke, being astounded, and felt for the leper by him, and found him not; and he began to call him, but there was no reply. then he arose in fear, and called for a light, and it was brought him; and he looked for the leper and could see nothing; so he returned into the bed, leaving the light burning. and he began to think within himself what had happened, and of that breath which had passed through him, and how the leper was not there. after a while, as he was thus musing, there appeared before him one in white garments, who said unto him, "sleepest thou or wakest thou, rodrigo?" and he answered and said, "i do not sleep: but who art thou that bringest with thee such brightness and so sweet an odor?" said he, "i am saint lazarus, and know that i was a leper to whom thou didst so much good and so great honor for the love of god; and because thou didst this for his sake hath god now granted thee a great gift; for whensoever that breath which thou hast felt shall come upon thee, whatever thing thou desirest to do, and shalt then begin, that shalt thou accomplish to thy heart's desire, whether it be in battle or aught else, so that thy honor shall go on increasing from day to day; and thou shalt be feared both by moors and christians, and thy enemies shall never prevail against thee, and thou shalt die an honorable death in thine own house, and in thy renown, for god hath blessed thee therefore go thou on, and evermore persevere in doing good;" and with that he disappeared. and rodrigo arose and prayed to our lady and intercessor st. mary, that she would pray to her blessed son for him to watch over his body and soul in all his undertakings; and he continued in prayer till the day broke. then he proceeded on his way, and performed his pilgrimage, doing much good for the love of god and of st. mary. ii the knighting of rodrigo now it came to pass that while the king lay before coimbra, there came a pilgrim from the land of greece on pilgrimage to santiago; his name was estiano, and he was a bishop. and as he was praying in the church he heard certain of the townsmen and of the pilgrims saying that santiago was wont to appear in battle like a knight, in aid of the christians. and when he heard this, it nothing pleased him, and he said unto them, "friends, call him not a knight, but rather a fisherman." upon this it pleased god that he should fall asleep, and in his sleep santiago appeared to him with a good and cheerful countenance, holding in his hand a bunch of keys, and said unto him, "thou thinkest it a fable that they should call me a knight, and sayest that i am not so: for this reason am i come unto thee that thou never more mayest doubt concerning my knighthood; for a knight of jesus christ i am, and a helper of the christians against the moors." then a horse was brought him the which was exceeding white, and the apostle santiago mounted upon it, being well clad in bright and fair armor, after the manner of a knight. and he said to estiano, "i go to help king don ferrando, who has lain these seven months before coimbra, and to-morrow, with these keys which thou seest, will i open the gates of the city unto him at the third hour, and deliver it into his hand." having said this, he departed. and the bishop, when he woke in the morning, called together the clergy and people of compostella, and told them what he had seen and heard. and as he said, even so did it come to pass; for tidings came, that on that day, and at the third hour, the gates of the city had been opened. king don ferrando then assembled his counts and chief captains, and told them all that the monks of lorvam had done, in bringing him to besiege the city, and in supplying his army in their time of need: and the counts and chief captains made answer and said, "certes, o king, if the monks had not given us the stores of their monastery, thou couldest not have taken the city at this time." the king then called for the abbot and the brethren, for they were with him in the host, and said the hours to him daily, and mass in st. andre's, and buried there and in their monastery as many as had died during the siege, either of arrow-wounds or by lances, or of their own infirmities. so they came before him and gave him joy of his conquest; and he said unto them, "take ye now of this city as much as ye desire, since by god's favor and your counsel i have won it." but they made answer, "thanks be to god and to you, and to your forefathers, we have enough and shall have, if so be that we have your favor and dwell among christians. only for the love of god, and for the remedy of your own soul, give us one church with its dwelling-houses within the city, and confirm unto us the gifts made to us in old times by your forefathers." with that the king turned to his sons and his soldiers, and said, "of a truth, by our creator, they who desire so little are men of god. i would have given them half the city, and they will have only a single church! now therefore, since they require but this, on the part of god almighty let us grant and confirm unto them what they ask, to the honor of god and st. mamede." and the brethren brought him their charters of king ramiro, and king bermudo, and king alfonso, and of gonzalo moniz, who was a knight and married a daughter of king bermudo, and of other good men. and the king confirmed them, and he bade them make a writing of all which had passed between him and them at the siege of coimbra; and when they brought him the writing, they brought him also a crown of silver and of gold, which had been king bermudo's, and which gonzalo moniz had given to the monastery in honor of god and st. mamede. the king saw the crown, set with precious stones, and said, "to what end bring ye hither this crown?" and they said, "that you should take it, sire, in return for the good which you have done us." but he answered, "far be it from me that i should take from your monastery what the good men before me have given to it! take ye back the crown, and take also ten marks of silver, and make with the money a good cross, to remain with you forever. and he who shall befriend you, may god befriend him; but he who shall disturb you or your monastery, may he be cursed by the living god and by his saints." so the king signed the writing which he had commanded to be made, and his sons and chief captains signed it also, and in the writing he enjoined his children and his children's children, as many as should come after him, to honor and protect the monastery of lorvam; upon his blessing he charged them so to do, because he had found the brethren better than all the other monks in his dominions. then king don ferrando knighted rodrigo of bivar in the great mosque of coimbra, which he dedicated to st. mary. and the ceremony was after this manner: the king girded on his sword, and gave him the kiss, but not the blow. to do him honor the queen gave him his horse, and the infanta dona urraca fastened on his spurs; and from that day forth he was called ruydiez. then the king commanded him to knight nine noble squires with his own hand; and he took his sword before the altar, and knighted them. the king then gave coimbra to the keeping of don sisnando, bishop of iria; a man who, having more hardihood than religion, had by reason of his misdeeds gone over to the moors, and sorely infested the christians in portugal. but during the siege he had come to the king's service, and bestirred himself well against the moors; and therefore the king took him into his favor, and gave him the city to keep, which he kept, and did much evil to the moors till the day of his death. and the king departed and went to compostella, to return thanks to santiago. but then benalfagi, who was the lord of many lands in estremadura, gathered together a great power of the moors and built up the walls of montemor, and from thence waged war against coimbra, so that they of coimbra called upon the king for help. and the king came up against the town, and fought against it, and took it. great honor did ruydiez win at that siege; for having to protect the foragers, the enemy came out upon him, and thrice in one day was he beset by them; but he, though sorely pressed by them, and in great peril, nevertheless would not send to the camp for succor, but put forth his manhood and defeated them. and from that day che king gave more power into his hands, and made him head over all his household. now the men of leon besought the king that he should repeople zamora, which had lain desolate since it was destroyed by almanzor. and he went thither and peopled the city, and gave to it good privileges. and while he was there came messengers from the five kings who were vassals to ruydiez of bivar, bringing him their tribute; and they came to him, he being with the king, and called him cid, which signifieth lord, and would have kissed his hands, but he would not give them his hand till they had kissed the hand of the king. and ruydiez took the tribute and offered the fifth thereof to the king, in token of his sovereignty; and the king thanked him, but would not receive it; and from that time he ordered that ruydiez should be called the cid, because the moors had so called him. iii how the cid made a coward into a brave man at this time martin pelaez the asturian came with a convoy of laden beasts, carrying provisions to the host of the cid; and as he passed near the town the moors sallied out in great numbers against him; but he, though he had few with him, defended the convoy right well, and did great hurt to the moors, slaying many of them, and drove them into the town. this martin pelaez who is here spoken of, did the cid make a right good knight, of a coward, as ye shall hear. when the cid first began to lay seige to the city of valencia, this martin pelaez came unto him; he was a knight, a native of santillana in asturias, a hidalgo, great of body and strong of limb, a well-made man and of goodly semblance, but withal a right coward at heart, which he had shown in many places when he was among feats of arms. and the cid was sorry when he came unto him, though he would not let him perceive this; for he knew he was not fit to be of his company. howbeit he thought that since he was come, he would make him brave, whether he would or not. when the cid began to war upon the town, and sent parties against it twice and thrice a day, for the cid was alway upon the alert, there was fighting and tourneying every day. one day it fell out that the cid and his kinsmen and friends and vassals were engaged in a great encounter, and this martin pelaez was well armed; and when he saw that the moors and christians were at it, he fled and betook himself to his lodging, and there hid himself till the cid returned to dinner. and the cid saw what martin pelaez did, and when he had conquered the moors he returned to his lodging to dinner. now it was the custom of the cid to eat at a high table, seated on his bench, at the head. and don alvar fañez, and pero bermudez, and other precious knights, ate in another part, at high tables, full honorably, and none other knights whatsoever dared take their seats with them, unless they were such as deserved to be there; and the others who were not so approved in arms ate upon _estrados_, at tables with cushions. this was the order in the house of the cid, and every one knew the place where he was to sit at meat, and every one strove all he could to gain the honor of sitting at the table of don alvar fañez and his companions, by strenuously behaving himself in all feats of arms; and thus the honor of the cid was advanced. martin pelaez, thinking none had seen his badness, washed his hands in turn with the other knights, and would have taken his place among them. and the cid went unto him, and took him by the hand and said, "you are not such a one as deserves to sit with these, for they are worth more than you or than me; but i will have you with me:" and he seated him with himself at table. and he, for lack of understanding, thought that the cid did this to honor him above all the others. on the morrow the cid and his company rode towards valencia, and the moors came out to the tourney; and martin pelaez went out well armed, and was among the foremost who charged the moors, and when he was in among them he turned the reins, and went back to his lodging; and the cid took heed to all that he did, and saw that though he had done badly he had done better than the first day. and when the cid had driven the moors into the town he returned to his lodging, and as he sat down to meat he took this martin pelaez by the hand, and seated him with himself, and bade him eat with him in the same dish, for he had deserved more that day than he had the first. and the knight gave heed to that saying, and was abashed; howbeit he did as the cid commanded him: and after he had dined he went to his lodging and began to think upon what the cid had said unto him, and perceived that he had seen all the baseness which he had done; and then he understood that for this cause he would not let him sit at board with the other knights who were precious in arms, but had seated him with himself, more to affront him than to do him honor, for there were other knights there better than he, and he did not show them that honor. then resolved he in his heart to do better than he had done heretofore. another day it happened that the cid and his company, along with martin pelaez, rode toward valencia, and the moors came out to the tourney full resolutely, and martin pelaez was among the first, and charged them right boldly; and he smote down and slew presently a good knight, and he lost there all the bad fear which he had had, and was that day one of the best knights there: and as long as the tourney lasted there he remained, smiting and slaying and overthrowing the moors, till they were driven within the gates, in such manner that the moors marveled at him, and asked where that devil came from, for they had never seen him before. and the cid was in a place where he could see all that was going on, and he gave good heed to him, and had great pleasure in beholding him, to see how well he had forgotten the great fear which he was wont to have. and when the moors were shut up within the town, the cid and all his people returned to their lodging, and martin pelaez full leisurely and quietly went to his lodging also, like a good knight. and when it was the hour of eating, the cid waited for martin pelaez; and when he came, and they had washed, the cid took him by the hand and said, "my friend, you are not such a one as deserves to sit with me from henceforth; but sit you here with don alvar fañez, and with these other good knights, for the good feats which you have done this day have made you a companion for them;" and from that day forward he was placed in the company of the good. the history saith that from that day forward this knight martin pelaez was a right good one, and a right valiant, and a right precious, in all places where he chanced among feats of arms, and he lived alway with the cid, and served him right well and truly. and the history saith, that after the cid had won the city of valencia, on the day when they conquered and discomfited the king of seville, this martin pelaez was so good a one, that setting aside the body of the cid himself, there was no such good knight there, nor one who bore such part, as well in the battle as in the pursuit. and so great was the mortality which he made among the moors that day, that when he returned from the business the sleeves of his mail were clotted with blood, up to the elbow; insomuch that for what he did that day his name is written in this history, that it may never die. and when the cid saw him come in that guise, he did him great honor, such as he never had done to any knight before that day, and from thenceforward gave him a place in all his actions and in all his secrets, and he was his great friend. in this knight martin pelaez was fulfilled the example which saith, that he who betaketh himself to a good tree, hath good shade, and he who serves a good lord winneth good guerdon; for by reason of the good service which he did the cid, he came to such good state that he was spoken of as ye have heard: for the cid knew how to make a good knight, as a good groom knows how to make a good horse. iv how the cid ruled valencia on the following day after the christians had taken possession of the town, the cid entered it with a great company, and he ascended the highest tower of the wall and beheld all the city; and the moors came unto him, and kissed his hand, saying he was welcome. and the cid did great honor unto them. and then he gave order that all the windows of the towers which looked in upon the town should be closed up, that the christians might not see what the moors did in their houses; and the moors thanked him for this greatly. and he commanded and requested the christians that they should show great honor to the moors, and respect them, and greet them when they met: and the moors thanked the cid greatly for the honor which the christians did them, saying that they had never seen so good a man, nor one so honorable, nor one who had his people under such obedience. now abeniaf thought to have the love of the cid; and calling to mind the wrath with which he had formerly been received, because he had not taken a gift with him, he took now great riches which he had taken from those who sold bread for so great a price during the siege of valencia, and this he carried to the cid as a present. among those who had sold it were some men from the islands of majorca, and he took from them all that they had. this the cid knew, and he would not accept his gifts. and the cid caused proclamation to be made in the town and throughout the whole district thereof, that the honorable men and knights and castellans should assemble together in the garden of villa nueva, where the cid at that time sojourned. and when they were all assembled, he went out unto them, to a place which was made ready with carpets and with mats, and he made them take their seats before him full honorable, and began to speak unto them, saying: "i am a man who have never possessed a kingdom, neither i nor any man of my lineage. but the day when i first beheld this city i was well pleased therewith, and coveted it that i might be its lord; and i besought the lord our god that he would give it me. see now what his power is, for the day when i sat down before juballa i had no more than four loaves of bread, and now by god's mercy i have won valencia. "if i administer right and justice here, god will let me enjoy it; if i do evil, and demean myself proudly and wrongfully, i know that he will take it away. now then, let every one go to his own lands, and possess them even as he was wont to have and to hold them. he who shall find his field, or his vineyard, or his garden, desert, let him incontinently enter thereon; and he who shall find his husbanded, let him pay him that hath cultivated it the cost of his labor, and of the seed which he hath sown therein, and remain with his heritage, according to the law of the moors. moreover, i have given order that they who collect my dues take from you no more than the tenth, because so it is appointed by the custom of the moors, and it is what ye have been wont to pay. and i have resolved in my heart to hear your complaints two days in the week, on the monday and the thursday; but if causes should arise which require haste, come to me when ye will and i will give judgment, for i do not retire with women to sing and to drink, as your lords have done, so that ye could obtain no justice, but will myself see to these things, and watch over ye as friend over his friend, and kinsman over his kinsman. and i will be cadi and guazil, and when dispute happens among ye i will decide it." when he had said these things, they all replied that they prayed god to preserve him through long and happy years; and four of the most honorable among them arose and kissed his hands, and the cid bade them take their seats again. then the cid spake unto them and said: "it is told me that abeniaf hath done much evil, and committed great wrong toward some of ye, in that he hath taken great riches from ye to present them to me, saying, that this he did because ye sold food for a great price during the siege. but i will accept no such gift; for if i were minded to have your riches, i could take them, and need not ask them neither from him, nor from any other; but thing so unseemly as to take that which is his from any one, without just cause, i will not do. they who have gotten wealth thus, god hath given it them; let them go to abeniaf, and take back what he hath forced from them, for i will order him to restore the whole." then he said, "ye see the riches which i took from the messengers who went to murcia; it is mine by right, for i took it in war because they brake the covenant which they had made, and would have deceived me: nevertheless i will restore it to the uttermost centesimo, that nothing thereof shall be lost. and ye shall do homage to me that ye will not withdraw yourselves, but will abide here, and do my bidding in all things, and never depart from the covenant which ye make with me; for i love ye, and am grieved to think of the great evil and misery which ye endured from the great famine, and of the mortality which there was. and if ye had done that before which ye have done now, ye would not have been brought to these sufferings and have bought the _cafiz_ of wheat at a thousand _maravedis_; but i trust in god to bring it to one _maravedi_. be ye now secure in your lands, and till your fields, and rear cattle; for i have given order to my men that they offer ye no wrong, neither enter into the town to buy nor to sell; but that they carry on all their dealings in alcudia, and this i do that ye may receive no displeasure. moreover i command them not to take any captive into the town, but if this should be done, lay ye hands on the captive and set him free, without fear, and if any one should resist, kill him and fear not. i myself will not enter your city nor dwell therein, but i will build me a place beside the bridge of alcantara, where i may go and disport myself at times, and repair when it is needful." when he had said these things he bade them go their way. well pleased were the moors when they departed from him, and they marveled at the greatness of his promises, and they set their hearts at rest, and put away the fear which they had had, thinking all their troubles were over; for in all the promises which the cid had made unto them, they believed that he spake truth; but he said these things only to quiet them, and to make them come to what he wished, even as came to pass. and when he had done, he sent his almoxarife, abdalla adiz, to the custom-house, and made him appoint men to collect the rents of the town for him, which was done accordingly. and when the cid had given order concerning his own affairs at his pleasure, the moors would fain have entered again into possession of their heritages as he told them; but they found it all otherwise, for of all the fields which the christians had husbanded, they would not yield up one; albeit they let them enter upon such as were left waste: some said that the cid had given them the lands that year, instead of their pay, and other some that they rented them and had paid rent for the year. the moors waited till thursday, when the cid was to hear complaints, as he had said unto them. when thursday came all the honorable men went to the garden, but the cid sent to say unto them that he could not come out that day, because of other causes which he had to determine; and he desired that they would go their way for that time, and come again on the monday: this was to show his mastery. and when it was monday they assembled again in the garden, and the cid came out to them, and took his seat upon the _estrado_, and the moors made their complaint. and when he had heard them he began to make similitudes, and offer reasons which were not like those which he had spoken the first day; for he said to them, "i ask of ye, whether it is well that i should be left without men? or if i were without them, i should be like unto one who hath lost his right arm, or to a bird that hath no wings, or to one who should do battle and hath neither spear nor sword. the first thing which i have to look to is to the well-being of my people, that they may live in wealth and honor, so that they may be able to serve me, and defend my honor: for since it has pleased god to give me the city of valencia, i will not that there be any other lord here than me. therefore i say unto you and command you, if you would be well with me, and would that i should show favor unto you, that ye see how to deliver that traitor abeniaf into my hands. ye all know the great treason which he committed upon king yahia, his lord and yours, how he slew him, and the misery which he brought upon you in the siege; and since it is not fitting that a traitor who hath slain his lord should live among you, and that his treason should be confounded with your loyalty, see to the obeyment of my command." when the honorable moors heard this, they were dismayed; verily they knew that he spake truth touching the death of the king, but it troubled them that he departed form the promise which he had made; and they made answer that they would take counsel concerning what he had said, and then reply. then five of the best and most honorable among them withdrew, and went to abdalla adiz, and said unto him, "give us thy counsel now the best and truest that thou canst, for thou art of our law, and oughtest to do this: and the reason why we ask counsel of thee is this. the cid promised us many things, and now behold he says nothing to us of what he said before, but moveth other new reasons, at which great dismay hath seized us. and because thou better knowest his ways, tell us now what is his pleasure, for albeit we might wish to do otherwise, this is not a time wherein anything but what he shall command can be done." when the almoxarife heard this he made answer, "good men, it is easy to understand what he would have, and to do what should be done. we all know the great treason which abeniaf committed against ye all in killing your lord the king; for albeit at that time ye felt the burden of the christians, yet was it nothing so great as after he had killed him, neither did ye suffer such misery. and since god hath brought him who was the cause to this state, see now by all means how ye may deliver him into the hands of the cid; and fear not, neither take thought for the rest; for though the cid may do his pleasure in some things, better is it to have him for lord than this traitor who hath brought so much evil upon ye. moreover the things of this world soon pass away, and my heart tells me that we shall ere long come out of the bondage of the cid, and of the christians; for the cid is well-nigh at the full of his days, and we who remain alive after his death shall then be masters of our city." the good men thanked him much, and held themselves to be well advised, and said that they would do willingly what he bade them; and they returned forthwith to the cid, and said unto him that they would fulfill his commandment. incontinently did the good men dispeed themselves of the cid, and they went into the city, and gathered together a great posse of armed men, and went to the place where abeniaf dwelt; and they assaulted the house and brake the doors, and entered in and laid hands on him, and his son, and all his company, and carried them before the cid. and the cid ordered abeniaf to be cast into prison, and all those who had taken counsel with him for the death of king yahia. when this was done, the cid said unto the good men, "now that ye have fulfilled my bidding, i hold it good to show favor unto you in that which ye yourselves shall understand to be fitting for me to grant. say therefore what ye would have, and i will do that which i think behooveth me: but in this manner, that my dwelling-place be within the city of valencia, in the alcazar, and that my christian men have all the fortresses in the city." and when the good men heard this, they were greatly troubled; howbeit they dissembled the sorrow which they resented, and said unto him, "sir cid, order it as you think good, and we consent thereto." then said he unto them that he would observe towards them all the uses and customs of their law, and that he would have the power, and be lord of all; and they should till their fields and feed their flocks and herds, and give him his tenth, and he would take no more. when the moors heard this they were pleased; and since they were to remain in the town, and in their houses and their inheritances, and with their uses and customs, and that their mosques were to be left them, they held themselves not to be badly off. then they asked the cid to let their guazil be the same as he had first appointed, and that he would give them for their cadi the alfaqui alhagi, and let him appoint whom he would to assist him in distributing justice to the moors; and thus he himself would be relieved of the wearisomeness of hearing them, save only when any great occasion might befall. and the cid granted this which they required, and they kissed his hand, and returned into the town. nine months did the cid hold valencia besieged, and at the end of that time it fell into his power, and he obtained possession of the walls, as ye have heard. and one month he was practising with the moors that he might keep them quiet, till abeniaf was delivered into his hands; and thus ten months were fulfilled, and they were fulfilled on thursday, the last day of june, in the year of the era one thousand one hundred and thirty and one, which was in the year one thousand ninety and three of the incarnation of our lord jesus christ. and when the cid had finished all his dealings with the moors, on this day he took horse with all his company in good array, his banner being carried before him, and his arms behind; and in this guise, with great rejoicings he entered the city of valencia. and he alighted at the alcazar, and gave order to lodge all his men round about it; and he bade them plant his banner upon the highest tower of the alcazar. glad was the campeador, and all they who were with him, when they saw his banner planted in that place. and from that day forth was the cid possessed of all the castles and fortresses which were in the kingdom of valencia, and established in what god had given him, and he and all his people rejoiced. v the cid's last victory three days after the cid had died king bucar came into the port of valencia, and landed with all his power, which was so great that there is not a man in the world who could give account of the moors whom he brought. and there came with him thirty and six kings, and one moorish queen, who was a negress, and she brought with her two hundred horsewomen, all negresses like herself, all having their hair shorn save a tuft on the top, and this was in token that they came as if upon a pilgrimage, and to obtain the remission of their sins; and they were all armed in coats of mail and with turkish bows. king bucar ordered his tents to be pitched round about valencia, and abenalfarax, who wrote this history in arabic, saith that there were full fifteen thousand tents; and he bade that moorish negress with her archers to take their station near the city. and on the morrow they began to attack the city, and they fought against it three days strenuously; and the moors received great loss, for they came blindly up to the walls and were slain there. and the christians defended themselves right well; and every time that they went upon the walls, they sounded trumpets and tambours, and made great rejoicings, as the cid had commanded. this continued for eight days or nine, till the companions of the cid had made ready everything for their departure, as he had commanded. and king bucar and his people thought that the cid dared not come out against them; and they were the more encouraged, and began to think of making bastiles and engines wherewith to combat the city, for certes they weened that the cid ruydiez dared not come out against them, seeing that he tarried so long. all this while the company of the cid were preparing all things to go into castile, as he had commanded before his death; and his trusty gil diaz did nothing else but labor at this. and the body of the cid was thus prepared: first it was embalmed and anointed, and the virtue of the balsam and myrrh was such that the flesh remained firm and fair, having its natural color, and his countenance as it was wont to be, and the eyes open, and his long beard in order, so that there was not a man who would have thought him dead if he had seen him and not known it. and on the second day after he had departed, gil diaz placed the body upon a right noble saddle, and this saddle with the body upon it he put upon a frame; and he dressed the body in a _gambax_ of fine sendal, next the skin. and he took two boards and fitted them to the body, one to the breast and the other to the shoulders; these were so hollowed out and fitted that they met at the sides and under the arms, and the hind one came up to the pole, and the other up to the beard. these boards were fastened into the saddle, so that the body could not move. all this was done by the morning of the twelfth day; and all that day the people of the cid were busied in making ready their arms, and in loading beasts with all that they had, so that they left nothing of any price in the whole city of valencia, save only the empty houses. when it was midnight they took the body of the cid, fastened to the saddle as it was, and placed it upon his horse bavieca, and fastened the saddle well; and the body sat so upright and well that it seemed as if he was alive. and it had on painted hose of black and white, so cunningly painted that no man who saw them would have thought but that they were greaves and cuishes, unless he had laid his hand upon them; and they put on it a surcoat of green sendal, having his arms blazoned thereon, and a helmet of parchment, which was cunningly painted that every one might have believed it to be iron; and his shield was hung round his neck, and they placed the sword tizona in his hand, and they raised his arm, and fastened it up so subtilely that it was a marvel to see how upright he held the sword. and the bishop don hieronymo went on one side of him, and the trusty gil diaz on the other, and he led the horse bavieca, as the cid had commanded him. and when all this had been made ready, they went out from valencia at midnight, through the gate of roseros, which is towards castile. pero bermudez went first with the banner of the cid, and with him five hundred knights who guarded it, all well appointed. and after these came all the baggage. then came the body of the cid, with an hundred knights, all chosen men, and behind them dona ximena with all her company, and six hundred knights in the rear. all these went out so silently, and with such a measured pace, that it seemed as if there were only a score. and by the time that they had all gone out it was broad day. now alvar fañez minaya had set the host in order, and while the bishop don hieronymo and gil diaz led away the body of the cid, and dona ximena, and the baggage, he fell upon the moors. first he attacked the tents of that moorish queen the negress, who lay nearest to the city; and this onset was so sudden, that they killed full a hundred and fifty moors before they had time to take arms or go to horse. but that moorish negress was so skilful in drawing the turkish bow, that it was held for a marvel; and it is said that they called her in arabic _nugueymat turya_, which is to say, the star of the archers. and she was the first that got on horseback, and with some fifty that were with her, did some hurt to the company of the cid; but in fine they slew her, and her people fled to the camp. and so great was the uproar and confusion, that few there were who took arms, but instead thereof they turned their backs and fled toward the sea. and when king bucar and his kings saw this, they were astonished. and it seemed to them that there came against them on the part of the christians full seventy thousand knights, all as white as snow: and before them a knight of great stature upon a white horse with a bloody cross, who bore in one hand a white banner, and in the other a sword which seemed to be of fire, and he made a great mortality among the moors who were flying. and king bucar and the other kings were so greatly dismayed that they never checked the reins till they had ridden into the sea; and the company of the cid rode after them, smiting and slaying and giving them no respite; and they smote down so many that it was marvelous, for the moors did not turn their heads to defend themselves. and when they came to the sea, so great was the press among them to get to the ships, that more than ten thousand died in the water. and of the six and thirty kings, twenty and two were slain. and king bucar and they who escaped with him hoisted sails and went their way, and never more turned their heads. alvar fañez and his people, when they had discomfited the moors, spoiled the field, and the spoil thereof was so great that they could not carry it away. and they loaded camels and horses with the noblest things which they found, and went after the bishop don hieronymo and gil diaz, who, with the body of the cid, and doña ximena, and the baggage, had gone on till they were clear of the host, and then waited for those who were gone against the moors. and so great was the spoil of that day, that there was no end to it: and they took up gold, and silver, and other precious things as they rode through the camp, so that the poorest man among the christians, horseman or on foot, became rich with what he won that day. hero of switzerland william tell adapted by h.e. marshall i gessler's tyranny far away in the heart of europe there lies a little country called switzerland. it seems wonderful that when great and powerful kings and princes swept over the world, fighting and conquering, little switzerland should not have been conquered and swallowed up by one or other of the great countries which lay around. but the swiss have always been a brave and fearless people. at one time one of the great princes of europe tried to conquer switzerland and take away the freedom of its people. but the people fought so bravely that instead of being conquered they conquered the tyrants and drove them away. in those far-off times the greatest ruler in europe was the emperor, and his empire was divided into many states, over each of which ruled a prince or king who acknowledged the emperor as overlord. when an emperor died the kings and princes met together and chose another emperor from among their number. switzerland was one of the countries which owned the emperor as overlord. but the swiss were a free people. they had no king or prince over them, but a governor only, who was appointed by the emperor. austria was another of the states of the great empire, and at one time a duke of austria was made ruler of switzerland. because of its great beauty, this duke cast greedy eyes upon switzerland and longed to possess it for his very own. but the swiss would not give up their freedom; and three cantons, as the divisions of switzerland are called, joined together, and swore to stand by each other, and never to submit to austria. uri, schwyz, and unterwalden were the names of these three cantons. a little later another canton joined the three. these four cantons lie round a lake which is called the lake of the four forest cantons. when albrecht, duke of austria was chosen emperor he said to himself that now truly he would be lord and master of switzerland. so he sent two nobles to the swiss to talk to them, and persuade them to own him as their king. some of the people of switzerland were persuaded to belong to austria, but all the people of the free cantons replied that they wished to remain free. so the messengers went back to albrecht and told him what the people said. when he heard the message he was very angry. "the proud peasants," he cried, "they will not yield. then i will bend and break them. they will be soft and yielding enough when i have done with them." months went by and the emperor appointed no ruler over switzerland. at last the people, feeling that they must have a governor, sent messengers to the emperor, begging him to appoint a ruler, as all the emperors before him had done. "a governor you shall have." said albrecht. "go home and await his coming. whom i send to you, him you must obey in all things." when they had gone, albrecht smiled grimly to himself. "they will not yield," he said, "but i will oppress them and ill-treat them until i force them to rebel. then i will fight against them and conquer them, and at last switzerland will be mine." a few days later albrecht made his friends hermann gessler and beringer of landenberg governors over the free cantons, telling them to take soldiers with them to enforce the law and to tax the people in order to pay the soldiers. "you will punish all wrong-doers severely," he said, "i will endure no rebels within my empire." hard and bitter days began when gessler and landenberg settled there. they delighted in oppressing the people. they loaded them with taxes; nothing could be either bought or sold but the governors claimed a great part of the money; the slightest fault was punished with long imprisonment and heavy fines. the people became sad and downcast, but still they would not yield to austria. gessler lived in a great castle at küssnacht in schwyz. in it were dreadful dungeons where he imprisoned the people and tortured them according to his wicked will. but he was not pleased to have only one castle, and he made up his mind to build another in uri. so he began to build one near the little town of altorf, which lay at the other end of the lake of the forest cantons. gessler forced the men of uri to build this castle, and he meant to use it not only as a house for himself, but as a prison for the people. "what will you call your castle?" asked a friend one day, as they stood to watch the building. "i will call it the curb of uri," said gessler, with a cruel laugh, "for with it i will curb the proud spirit of these peasants." after watching the work for some time, gessler and his friend rode away. "my friend," said gessler, as he rode, "we will go back to kiissnacht by another way. i have heard that an insolent peasant called werner stauffacher has built himself a new house. i wish to see it. there is no end to the impudence of these peasants." "but what will you do?" asked his friend. "do" said gessler, "why, turn him out, to be sure. what need have these peasants for great houses?" so they rode on to stauffacher's house. "whose house is this?" he demanded. stauffacher answered quietly, "my lord, this house belongs to the emperor, and is yours and mine in fief to hold and use for his service." "i rule this land," said gessler, "in the name of the emperor, and i will not allow peasants to build houses without asking leave. i will have you understand that." and he rode from the doorway. stauffacher told his wife what had happened and she advised him to call a secret meeting of his friends to plan to free themselves from the governor's rule. werner stauffacher spent some days in going from village to village, trying to find out how the peasants and common people felt, and everywhere heard complaints and groans. coming to altorf, where his friend walter fürst lived, he heard in the market-place a great noise of shouting and trampling of feet. down the street a party of austrian soldiers came marching. one of them carried a long pole, and another a red cap with a peacock's feather in it. then the pole with the red cap on the top of it was firmly planted in the ground. as soon as the pole was set up a herald stepped out, blew his trumpet and cried, "se ye this cap here set up? it is his majesty's will and commandment that ye do all bow the knee and bend the head as ye do pass it by." this was a new insult to a free people. stauffacher went to the house of walter fürst, where he met arnold of melchthal, who had suffered much from landenberg. calling upon god and his saints, these three men swore a solemn oath to protect each other and promised to meet in a little meadow called the rütli, the wednesday before martinmas. three weeks passed, and in the darkness and quiet the men stole to the place of meeting with other friends of freedom whom they had brought. near walter fürst stood a young man straight and tall with clear and honest eyes. "william tell," said arnold, "and the best shot in all switzerland. i have seen him shoot an apple from a tree a hundred paces off." then they swore never to betray each other, to be true to the emperor, but to drive the austrian governor, his friends, his servants, and his soldiers out of the land. ii william tell and his great shot william tell did not live in altorf, but in another village some way off, called bürglen. his wife, who was called hedwig, was walter fürst's daughter. tell and hedwig had two sons, william and walter. walter, the younger, was about six years old. william tell loved his wife and his children very much, and they all lived happily together in a pretty little cottage at bürglen. "hedwig," said tell one morning, some days after the meeting mentioned above, "i am going into altorf to see your father." hedwig looked troubled. "do be careful, william," she said. "must you really go? you know the governor is there just now, and he hates you." "oh, i am quite safe," said tell; "i have done nothing for which he could punish me. but i will keep out of his way," and he lifted his crossbow and prepared to go. "do not take your bow," said hedwig, still feeling uneasy. "leave it here." "why, hedwig, how you trouble yourself for nothing," said tell, smiling at her. "why should i leave my bow behind? i feel lost without it." "o father, where are you going?" said walter, running into the room at this minute. "i am going to altorf to see grandfather. would you like to come?" "oh, may i? may i, mother?" "yes, dear, if you like," said hedwig. "and you will be careful, won't you?" she added, turning to tell. "yes, i will," he replied, and walter, throwing his arms round her neck, said, "it's all right, mother, i will take care of father." then they set off merrily together. it was a great thing to go to altorf with father, and walter was so happy that he chattered all the way, asking questions about everything. "how far can you shoot, father?" "oh, a good long way." "as high as the sun?" asked walter, looking up at it. "oh dear, no, not nearly so high as that." "well, how high? as high as the snow-mountains?" "oh no." "why is there always snow on the mountains, father?" asked walter, thinking of something else. and so he went on, asking questions about one thing after another, until his father was quite tired of answering. walter was chattering so much that tell forgot all about the hat upon the pole, and, instead of going round by another way to avoid it, as he had meant to do, he went straight through the market-place to reach walter fürst's house. "father, look," said walter, "look, how funny! there is a hat stuck up on a pole. what is it for?" "don't look, walter," said tell, "the hat has nothing to do with us, don't look at it." and taking walter by the hand, he led him hurriedly away. but it was too late. the soldier, who stood beside the pole to guard it and see that people bowed in passing, pointed his spear at tell and bade him stop. "stand, in the emperor's name," he cried. "let be, friend," said tell, "let me past." "not till you obey the emperor's command. not till you bow to the hat." "it is no command of the emperor," said tell. "it is gessler's folly and tyranny. let me go." "nay, but you must not speak of my lord the governor in such terms. and past you shall not go until you bow to the cap. and, if you bow not, to prison i will lead you. such is my lord's command." "why should i bow to a cap?" said tell, his voice shaking with rage. "were the emperor himself here, then would i bend the knee and bow my head to him with all reverence. but to a hat! never!" and he tried to force his way past heinz the soldier. but heinz would not let him pass, and kept his spear pointed at tell. hearing loud and angry voices, many people gathered to see what the cause might be. soon there was quite a crowd around the two. every one talked at once, and the noise and confusion were great. heinz tried to take tell prisoner, and the people tried to take him away. "help! help!" shouted heinz, hoping that some of his fellow-soldiers would hear him and come to his aid,--"help, help! treason, treason!" then over all the noise of the shouting there sounded the tramp of horses' hoofs and the clang and jangle of swords and armor. "room for the governor. room, i say," cried a herald. the shouting ceased and the crowd silently parted, as gessler, richly dressed, haughty and gloomy, rode through it, followed by a gay company of his friends and soldiers. he checked his horse and, gazing angrily round the crowd, "what is this rioting?" he asked. "my lord," said heinz, stepping forward, "this scoundrel here will not bow to the cap, according to your lordship's command." "eh, what?" said gessler, his dark face growing more dark and angry still. "who dares to disobey my orders?" "'tis william tell of bürglen, my lord." "tell?" said gessler, turning in his saddle and looking at tell as he stood among the people, holding little walter by the hand. there was silence for a few minutes while gessler gazed at tell in anger. "i hear you are a great shot, tell," said gessler at last, laughing scornfully, "they say you never miss." "that is quite true," said little walter eagerly, for he was very proud of his father's shooting. "he can hit an apple on a tree a hundred yards off." "is that your boy?" said gessler, looking at him with an ugly smile. "yes, my lord." "have you other children?" "another boy, my lord." "you are very fond of your children, tell?" "yes, my lord." "which of them do you love best?" tell hesitated. he looked down at little walter with his rosy cheeks and curly hair. then he thought of william at home with his pretty loving ways. "i love them both alike, my lord," he said at last. "ah," said gessler, and thought a minute. "well, tell," he said after a pause. "i have heard so much of this boast of yours about hitting apples, that i should like to see something of it. you shall shoot an apple off your boy's head at a hundred yards' distance. that will be easier than shooting off a tree." "my lord," said tell, turning pale, "you do not mean that? it is horrible. i will do anything rather than that." "you will shoot an apple off your boy's head," repeated gessler in a slow and scornful voice. "i want to see your wonderful skill, and i command you to do it at once. you have your crossbow there. do it." "i will die first," said tell. "very well," said gessler, "but you need not think in that way to save your boy. he shall die with you. shoot, or die both of you. and, mark you, tell, see that you aim well, for if you miss you will pay for it with your life." tell turned pale. his voice trembled as he replied, "my lord, it was but thoughtlessness. forgive me this once, and i will always bow to the cap in future." proud and brave although he was, tell could not bear the thought that he might kill his own child. "have done with this delay," said gessler, growing yet more angry. "you break the laws, and when, instead of punishing you as you deserve, i give you a chance of escape, you grumble and think yourself hardly used. were peasants ever more unruly and discontented? have done, i say. heinz, bring me an apple." the soldier hurried away. "bind the boy to that tree," said gessler, pointing to a tall lime-tree near by. two soldiers seized walter and bound him fast to the tree. he was not in the least afraid, but stood up against the trunk straight and quiet. then, when the apple was brought, gessler rode up to him and, bending from the saddle, himself placed the apple upon his head. all this time the people crowded round silent and wondering, and tell stood among them as if in a dream, watching everything with a look of horror in his eyes. "clear a path there," shouted gessler, and the soldiers charged among the people, scattering them right and left. when a path had been cleared, two soldiers, starting from the tree to which walter was bound, marched over the ground, measuring one hundred paces, and halted. "one hundred paces, my lord," they said, turning to gessler. gessler rode to the spot, calling out, "come, tell, from here you shall shoot." tell took his place. he drew an arrow from his quiver, examined it carefully, and then, instead of fitting it to his bow, he stuck it in his belt. then, still carefully, he chose another arrow and fitted it to his bow. a deep silence fell upon every one as tell took one step forward. he raised his bow. a mist was before his eyes, his arm trembled, his bow dropped from his hand. he could not shoot. the fear that he might kill his boy took away all his skill and courage. a groan broke from the people as they watched. then from far away under the lime-tree came walter's voice, "shoot, father, i am not afraid. you cannot miss." once more tell raised his bow. the silence seemed deeper than ever. the people of altorf knew and loved tell, and fürst, and little walter. and so they watched and waited with heavy hearts and anxious faces. "ping!" went the bowstring. the arrow seemed to sing through the frosty air, and, a second later, the silence was broken by cheer after cheer. the apple lay upon the ground pierced right through the center. one man sprang forward and cut the rope with which walter was bound to the tree; another picked up the apple and ran with it to gessler. but tell stood still, his bow clutched in his hand, his body bent forward, his eyes wild and staring, as if he were trying to follow the flight of the arrow. yet he saw nothing, heard nothing. "he has really done it!" exclaimed gessler in astonishment, as he turned the apple round and round in his hand. "who would have thought it? right in the center, too." little walter, quite delighted, came running to his father. "father," he cried, "i knew you could do it. i knew you could, and i was not a bit afraid. was it not splendid?" and he laughed and pressed his curly head against his father. then suddenly tell seemed to wake out of his dream, and taking walter in his arms he held him close, kissing him again and again. "you are safe, my boy. you are safe," was all he said. but strong man though he was his eyes were full of tears, and he was saying to himself, "i might have killed him. i might have killed my own boy." meanwhile gessler sat upon his horse watching them with a cruel smile upon his wicked face. "tell," he said at last, "that was a fine shot, but for what was the other arrow?" tell put walter down and, holding his hand, turned to gessler, "it is always an archer's custom, my lord, to have a second arrow ready," he said. "nay, nay," said gessler, "that answer will not do, tell. speak the truth." tell was silent. "speak, man," said gessler, "and if you speak the truth, whatever it may be, i promise you your life." "then," said tell, throwing his shoulders back and looking straight at gessler, "since you promise me my life, hear the truth, if that first arrow had struck my child, the second one was meant for you, and be sure i had not missed my mark a second time." gessler's face grew dark with rage. for a moment or two he could not speak. when at last he did speak, his voice was low and terrible, "you dare," he said, "you dare to tell me this! i promised you your life indeed. your life you shall have, but you shall pass it in a dark and lonely prison, where neither sun nor moon shall send the least glimmer of light. there you shall lie, so that i may be safe from you. ah, my fine archer, your bows and arrows will be of little use to you henceforth. seize him, men, and bind him, lest he do murder even now." in a moment the soldiers sprang forward, and tell was seized and bound. as gessler sat watching them, he looked round at all the angry faces of the crowd. "tell has too many friends here," he said to himself. "if i imprison him in the curb of uri, they may find some way to help him to escape. i will take him with me in my boat to klissnacht. there he can have no friends. there he will be quite safe." then aloud he said, "follow me, my men. bring him to the boat." as he said these words, there was a loud murmur from the crowd. "that is against the law," cried many voices. "law, law?" growled gessler. "who makes the law, you or i?" walter fürst had been standing among the crowd silent and anxious. now he stepped forward and spoke boldly. "my lord," he said, "it has ever been a law among the swiss that no one shall be imprisoned out of his own canton. if my son-in-law, william tell, has done wrong, let him be tried and imprisoned here, in uri, in altorf. if you do otherwise you wrong our ancient freedom and rights." "your freedom! your rights!" said gessler roughly. "i tell you, you are here to obey the laws, not to teach me how i shall rule." then turning his horse and calling out, "on, men, to the boat with him," he rode towards the lake, where, at a little place called fliielen, his boat was waiting for him. but walter clung to his father, crying bitterly. tell could not take him in his arms to comfort him, for his hands were tied. but he bent over him to kiss him, saying, "little walter, little walter, be brave. go with thy grandfather and comfort thy mother." so tell was led to gessler's boat, followed by the sorrowing people. their hearts were full of hot anger against the tyrant. yet what could they do? he was too strong for them. tell was roughly pushed into the boat, where he sat closely guarded on either side by soldiers. his bow and arrows, which had been taken from him, were thrown upon a bench beside the steersman. gessler took his seat. the boat started, and was soon out on the blue water of the lake. as the people of altorf watched tell go, their hearts sank. they had not known, until they saw him bound and a prisoner, how much they had trusted and loved him. iii the escape of william tell on the lakes of switzerland storms of wind arise very quickly. the swiss used to dread these storms so much that they gave names to the winds as if they were people. the south wind, which is the fiercest, they called the föhn. there used to be a law that when the föhn arose, all fires were to be put out. for the wind whistled and blew down the wide chimneys like great bellows, till the fires flared up so fiercely that the houses, which were built of wood, were in danger of being burned to the ground. now one of these fierce storms arose. no one noticed when gessler's boat pushed off from the shore how dark the sky had grown nor how keenly the wind was blowing. but before the boat had gone very far the waves began to rise, and the wind to blow fiercer and fiercer. soon the little boat was tossing wildly on great white-crested waves. the rowers bent to the oars and rowed with all their might. but in spite of all they could do, the waves broke over the boat, filling it with water. they were tossed here and there, until it seemed every minute that they would sink. pale with fear, the captain stood at the helm. he was an austrian who knew nothing of the swiss lakes, and he had never before been in such a storm. he was helpless, and he knew that very soon the boat would be a wreck. wrapped in his mantle, gessler sat silent and still, watching the storm. he, too, knew the danger. as the waves dashed over him, one of gessler's servants staggered to his master's feet. "my lord," he said, "you see our need and danger, yet methinks there is one man on board who could save us." "who is that?" asked gessler. "william tell, your prisoner," replied the man. "he is known to be one of the best sailors on this lake. he knows every inch of it. if any one can save the boat, he can." "bring him here," said gessler. "it seems you are a sailor as well as an archer, tell," said gessler, when his prisoner had been brought before him. "can you save the boat and bring us to land?" "yes," said tell. "unbind him, then," said gessler to the soldier, "but mark you, tell, you go not free. even although you save us, you are still my prisoner. do not think to have any reward." the rope which bound tell's hands was cut, and he took his place at the helm. the waves still dashed high, the wind still howled, but under tell's firm hand the boat seemed to steady itself, and the rowers bent to their work with new courage and strength in answer to his commanding voice. tell, leaning forward, peered through the darkness and the spray. there was one place where he knew it would be possible to land--where a bold and desperate man at least might land. he was looking for that place. nearer and nearer to the shore he steered. at last he was quite close to it. he glanced quickly round. his bow and arrows lay beside him. he bent and seized them. then with one great leap he sprang ashore, and as he leaped he gave the boat a backward push with his foot, sending it out again into the stormy waters of the lake. there was a wild outcry from the sailors, but tell was free, for no one dared to follow him. quickly clambering up the mountain-side, he disappeared among the trees. as tell vanished, gessler stood up and shouted in anger, but the little boat, rocking and tossing on the waves, drifted out into the lake, and the austrian sailors, to whom the shore was unknown, dared not row near to it again, lest they should be dashed to pieces upon the rocks. even as it was, they expected every moment that the boat would sink, and that all would be drowned. but despair seemed to give the sailors fresh strength, and soon the wind fell and the waves became quieter. a few hours later, wet, weary, but safe, gessler and his company landed on the shore of schwyz. [illustration: william tell and his friends.] iv tell's second shot as soon as gessler landed, he called for his horse, and silent and gloomy, his heart full of bitter hate against tell and all the swiss, he mounted and rode towards his castle at küssnacht. but tell's heart, too, was full of hate and anger. that morning he had been a gentle, peace-loving man. now all was changed. gessler's cruel jest had made him hard and angry. he could not forget that he might have killed his own boy. he seemed to see always before him walter bound to the tree with the apple on his head. tell made up his mind that gessler should never make any one else suffer so much. there was only one thing to do. that was to kill gessler, and that tell meant to do. if gessler escaped from the storm, tell was sure that he would go straight to his castle at küssnacht. there was only one road which led from the lake to the castle, and at a place called the hollow way it became very narrow, and the banks rose steep and rugged on either side. there tell made up his mind to wait for gessler. there he meant to free his country from the cruel tyrant. without stopping for food or rest, tell hurried through the woods until he came to the hollow way. there he waited and watched. many people passed along the road. there were herds with their flocks, and travelers of all kinds, among them a poor woman whose husband had been put in prison by gessler, so that now she had no home, and had to wander about with her children begging. she stopped and spoke to tell, and the story she told of gessler's cruelty made tell's heart burn with anger, and made him more sure than ever that the deed he meant to do was just and right. the day went on, and still gessler did not come, and still tell waited. at last he heard the distant tramp of feet and the sound of voices. surely he had come at last. but as the sounds came nearer, tell knew that it could not be gessler, for he heard music and laughter, and through the hollow way came a gaily dressed crowd. it was a wedding-party. laughing and merry, the bride and bridegroom with their friends passed along. when they were out of sight the wind brought back the sound of their merry voices to tell, as he waited upon the bank. they, at least, had for a time forgotten gessler. at last, as the sun was setting, tell heard the tramp of horses, and a herald dashed along the road, shouting, "room for the governor. room, i say." as gessler came slowly on behind, tell could hear him talking in a loud and angry voice to a friend. "obedience i will have," he was saying. "i have been far too mild a ruler over this people. they grow too proud. but i will break their pride. let them prate of freedom, indeed. i will crush--" the sentence was never finished. an arrow whizzed through the air, and with a groan gessler fell, dead. tell's second arrow had found its mark. immediately everything was in confusion. gessler's soldiers crowded round, trying to do something for their master. but it was useless. he was dead. tell's aim had been true. "who has done this foul murder?" cried one of gessler's friends, looking round. "the shot was mine," answered tell, from where he stood on the high bank. "but no murder have i done. i have but freed an unoffending people from a base and cowardly tyrant. my cause is just, let god be the judge." at the sound of his voice every one turned to look at tell, as he stood above them calm and unafraid. "seize him!" cried the man who had already spoken, as soon as he recovered from his astonishment. "seize him, it is tell the archer." five or six men scrambled up the steep bank as fast as they could. but tell slipped quietly through the bushes, and when they reached the top he was nowhere to be found. the short winter's day was closing in fast, and tell found it easy to escape in the darkness from gessler's soldiers. they soon gave up the chase, and, returning to the road, took up their master's dead body and carried it to his castle at küssnacht there was little sorrow for him, for he had been a hard master. the austrian soldiers did not grieve, and the swiss, wherever they heard the news, rejoiced. as soon as he was free of the soldiers, tell turned and made for stauffacher's house. all through the night he walked, until he came to the pretty house with its red roofs and many windows which had made gessler so angry. now there was no light in any of the windows, and all was still and quiet. but tell knew in which of the rooms stauffacher slept, and he knocked softly upon the window until he had aroused his friend. "william tell!" said stauffacher in astonishment. "i heard from walter fürst that you were a prisoner. thank heaven that you are free again." "i am free," said tell; "you, too, are free. gessler is dead." "gessler dead!" exclaimed stauffacher. "now indeed have we cause for thankfulness. tell me, how did it happen?" and he drew william tell into the house. tell soon told all his story. then stauffacher, seeing how weary he was, gave him food and made him rest. that night tell slept well. all next day he remained hidden in stauffacher's house. "you must not go," said his friend, "gessler's soldiers will be searching for you." but when evening came tell crept out into the dark again, and kind friends rowed him across the lake back to flüelen. there, where a few days before he had been a prisoner, he landed, now free. tell went at once to walter fürst's house, and soon messengers were hurrying all through the land to gather together again the confederates, as those who had met on that eventful night were called. this time they gathered with less fear and less secrecy, for was not the dreaded governor dead? not one but was glad, yet some of the confederates blamed tell, for they had all promised to wait until the first of january before doing anything. "i know," said tell, "but he drove me to it." and every man there who had left a little boy at home felt that he too might have done the same thing. now that tell had struck the first blow, some of the confederates wished to rise at once. but others said, "no, it is only a few weeks now until new year's day. let us wait." so they waited, and everything seemed quiet and peaceful in the land, for the emperor sent no governor to take gessler's place, as he was far away in austria, too busy fighting and quarreling there to think of switzerland in the meantime. "when i have finished this war," he said, "it will be time enough to crush these swiss rebels." hero of persia rustem adapted by alfred j. church i the seven adventures of rustem king keïkobad died, and his son kaoüs sat upon his throne. at first he was a moderate and prudent prince; but finding his riches increase, and his armies grow more and more numerous, he began to believe that there was no one equal to him in the whole world, and that he could do what he would. one day as he sat drinking in one of the chambers of his palace, and boasting after his custom, a genius, disguised as a minstrel, came to the king's chamberlain, and desired to be admitted to the royal presence. "i came," he said, "from the country of the genii, and i am a sweet singer. maybe the king, if he were to hear me, would give me a post in his court." the chamberlain went to the king, and said, "there is a minstrel at the gate; he has a harp in his hand, and his voice is marvelously sweet." "bring him up," said the king. so they brought him in, and gave him a place among the musicians, and commanded that he should give them a trial of his powers. so the minstrel, after playing a prelude on his harp, sang a song of the land of the genii. "there is no land in all the world" this was the substance of his song--"like mazanderan, the land of the genii. all the year round the rose blooms in its gardens and the hyacinth on its hills. it knows no heat nor cold, only an eternal spring. the nightingales sing in its thicket, and through its valleys wander the deer, and the water of its stream is as the water of roses, delighting the soul with its perfume. of its treasures there is no end; the whole country is covered with gold and embroidery and jewels. no man can say that he is happy unless he has seen mazanderan." when the king heard this song, he immediately conceived the thought of marching against this wonderful country. turning, therefore, to his warriors, he said: "we are given over to feasting; but the brave must not suffer himself to rest in idleness. i am wealthier and, i doubt not, stronger than all the kings that have gone before me; it becomes me also to surpass them in my achievements. we will conquer the land of genii." the warriors of the king were little pleased to hear such talk from his lips. no one ventured to speak, but their hearts were full of trouble and fear, for they had no desire to fight against the genii. "we are your subjects, o king," they said, "and will do as you desire." but when they were by themselves, and could speak openly, they said one to another, "what a trouble is this that has come of our prosperous fortune! unless by good fortune the king forgets this purpose of his, we and the whole country are lost. jemshid, whom the genii and the peris and the very birds of the air used to obey, never ventured to talk in this fashion of mazanderan, or to seek war against the genii; and feridun, though he was the wisest of kings, and skilful in all magical arts, never cherished such a plan." so they sat, overwhelmed with anxiety. at last one of them said, "my friends, there is only one way of escaping from this danger. let us send a swift dromedary to zal of the white hair, with this message: 'though your head be covered with dust, do not stay to wash it, but come.' perhaps zal will give the king wise advice, and, telling him that this plan of his is nothing but a counsel of satan, will persuade him to change his purpose. otherwise we are lost, small and great." the nobles listened to this advice, and sent a messenger to zal, mounted on a swift dromedary. when zal heard what had happened, he said: "the king is self-willed. he has not yet felt either the cold or the heat of the world. he thinks that all men, great and small, tremble at his sword, and it must needs be that he learn better by experience. however, i will go; i will give him the best advice that i can. if he will be persuaded by me, it will be well; but if not, the way is open, and rustem shall go with his army." all night long he revolved these matters in his heart. the next morning he went his way, and arrived at the court of the king. the king received him with all honor, bade him sit by his side, and inquired how he had borne the fatigue of his journey, and of the welfare of rustem, his son. then zal spoke: "i have heard, my lord, that you are forming plans against the land of the genii. will it please you to listen to me? there have been mighty kings before you, but never during all my years, which now are many, has any one of them conceived in his heart such a design as this. this land is inhabited by genii that are skilful in all magical arts. they can lay such bonds upon men that no one is able to hurt them. no sword is keen enough to cut them through; riches and wisdom and valor are alike powerless against them. i implore you, therefore, not to waste your riches, and the riches of your country and the blood of your warriors, on so hopeless an enterprise." the king answered, "doubtless it is true that the kings my predecessors never ventured to entertain such a plan. but am i not superior to them in courage, in power and wealth? had they such warriors as you, and rustem your son? do not think to turn me from my purpose. i will go against the country of these accursed magicians, and verily i will not leave one single soul alive in it, for they are an evil race. if you do not care to come with me, at least refrain from advising me to sit idle upon my throne." when zal heard this answer, he said: "you are the king, and we are your slaves. whatever you ordain is right and just, and it is only by thy good pleasure that we breathe and move. i have said what was in my heart. all that remains now is to obey, and to pray that the ruler of the world may prosper your counsels." when he had thus spoken, zal took leave of the king, and departed for his own country. the very next day the king set out with his army for the land of the genii, and, after marching for several days, pitched his tent at the foot of mount asprus, and held a great revel all the night long with his chiefs. the next morning he said, "choose me two thousand men who will break down the gates of mazanderan with their clubs. and take care that when you have taken the city you spare neither young nor old, for i will rid the world of these magicians." they did as the king commanded, and in a short space of time the city, which was before the richest and most beautiful in the whole world, was made into a desert. when the king of mazanderan heard of these things he called a messenger, and said: "go to the white genius and say to him, 'the persians have come with a great army and are destroying everything. make haste and help me, or there will be nothing left to preserve.'" the white genius said, "tell the king not to be troubled; i will see to these persians." that same night the whole army of king kaoüs was covered with a wonderful cloud. the sky was dark as pitch, and there fell from it such a terrible storm of hailstones that no one could stand against them. when the next morning came, lo! the king and all that had not fled--for many fled to their own country--or been killed by the hailstones, were blind. seven days they remained terrified and helpless. on the eighth day they heard the voice, loud as a clap of thunder, of the white genius. "king," said he, "you coveted the land of mazanderan, you entered the city, you slew and took prisoners many of the people; but you did not know what i could do. and now, see, you have your desire. your lot is of your own contriving." the white genius then gave over the king and his companions to the charge of an army of twelve thousand genii, and commanded that they should be kept in prison, and have just so much food given them as should keep them alive from day to day. kaoüs, however, contrived to send by one of his warriors a message to zal the white-haired, telling him of all the troubles that had come upon him. when zal heard the news he was cut to the heart, and sent without delay for rustem. "rustem," said he, "this is no time for a man to eat and drink and take his pleasure. the king is in the hands of satan, and we must deliver him. as for me, i am old and feeble; but you are of the age for war. saddle raksh, your horse, and set forth without a moment's delay. the white genius must not escape the punishment of his misdeeds at your hands." "the way is long," said rustem; "how shall i go?" "there are two ways," answered zal, "and both are difficult and dangerous. the king went by the longer way. the other is by far the shorter, a two-weeks' march and no more; but it is full of lions and evil genii, and it is surrounded by darkness. still, i would have you go by it. god will be your helper; and difficult as the way may be, it will have an end, and your good horse raksh will accomplish it. and if it be the will of heaven that you should fall by the hand of the white genius, who can change the ordering of destiny? sooner or later we must all depart, and death should be no trouble to him who has filled the earth with his glory." "my father, i am ready to do your bidding," said rustem. "nevertheless, the heroes of old cared not to go of their own accord into the land of death; and it is only he who is weary of life that throws himself in the way of a roaring lion. still i go, and i ask for no help but from the justice of god. with that on my side i will break the charm of the magicians. the white genius himself shall not escape me." rustem armed himself, and went on his way. rustem made such speed that he accomplished two days' journey in one. but at last, finding himself hungry and weary, and seeing that there were herds of wild asses in the plain which he was traversing, he thought that he would catch one of them for his meal, and rest for the night. so pressing his knees into his horse's side, he pursued one of them. there was no escape for the swiftest beast when rustem was mounted on raksh, and in a very short time a wild ass was caught with the lasso. rustem struck a light with a flintstone, and making a fire with brambles and branches of trees, roasted the ass and ate it for his meal. this done he took the bridle from his horse, let him loose to graze upon the plain, and prepared himself to sleep in a bed of rushes. now in the middle of this bed of rushes was a lion's lair, and at the end of the first watch the lion came back, and was astonished to see lying asleep on the rushes a man as tall as an elephant, with a horse standing near him. the lion said to himself, "i must first tear the horse, and then the rider will be mine whenever i please." so he leaped at raksh; but the horse darted at him like a flash of fire, and struck him on the head with his fore feet. then he seized him by the back with his teeth, and battered him to pieces on the earth. when rustem awoke and saw the dead lion, which indeed was of a monstrous size, he said to raksh, "wise beast, who bade you fight with a lion? if you had fallen under his claws, how should i have carried to mazanderan this cuirass and helmet, this lasso, my bow and my sword?" then he went to sleep again; but awaking at sunrise, saddled raksh and went on his way. he had now to accomplish the most difficult part of his journey, across a waterless desert, so hot that the very birds could not live in it. horse and rider were both dying of thirst, and rustem, dismounting, could scarcely struggle along while he supported his steps by his spear. when he had almost given up all hope, he saw a well-nourished ram pass by. "where," said he to himself, "is the reservoir from which this creature drinks?" accordingly he followed the ram's footsteps, holding his horse's bridle in one hand and his sword in the other, and the ram led him to a spring. then rustem lifted up his eyes to heaven and thanked god for his mercies; afterwards he blessed the ram, saying, "no harm come to thee forever! may the grass of the valleys and the desert be always green for thee, and may the bow of him that would hunt thee be broken, for thou hast saved rustem; verily, without thee he would have been torn to pieces by the wild beasts of the desert." after this he caught another wild ass, and roasted him for his meal. then having bathed in the spring, he lay down to sleep; but before he lay down, he said to raksh, his horse: "do not seek quarrel or friendship with any. if an enemy come, run to me; and do not fight either with genius or lion." after this he slept; and raksh now grazed, and now galloped over the plain. now it so happened that there was a great dragon that had its bed in this part of the desert. so mighty a beast was it, that not even a genius had dared to pass by that way. the dragon was astonished to see a man asleep and a horse by his side, and began to make its way to the horse. raksh did as he had been bidden, and running towards his master, stamped with his feet upon the ground. rustem awoke, and seeing nothing when he looked about him--for the dragon meanwhile had disappeared--was not a little angry. he rebuked raksh, and went to sleep again. then the dragon came once more out of the darkness, and the horse ran with all speed to his master, tearing up the ground and kicking. a second time the sleeper awoke, but as he saw nothing but darkness round him, he was greatly enraged, and said to his faithful horse: "why do you disturb me? if it wearies you to see me asleep, yet you cannot bring the night to an end. i said that if a lion came to attack you, i would protect you; but i did not tell you to trouble me in this way. verily, if you make such a noise again, i will cut off your head and go on foot, carrying all my arms and armor with me to mazanderan." a third time rustem slept, and a third time the dragon came. this time raksh, who did not venture to come near his master, fled over the plain; he was equally afraid of the dragon and of rustem. still his love for his master did not suffer him to rest. he neighed and tore up the earth, till rustem woke up again in a rage. but this time god would not suffer the dragon to hide himself, and rustem saw him through the darkness, and, drawing his sword, rushed at him. but first he said, "tell me your name; my hand must not tear your soul from your body before i know your name." the dragon said, "no man can ever save himself from my claws; i have dwelt in this desert for ages, and the very eagles have not dared to fly across. tell me then your name, bold man. unhappy is the mother that bore you." "i am rustem, son of zal of the white hair," said the hero, "and there is nothing on earth that i fear." then the dragon threw itself upon rustem. but the horse raksh laid back his ears, and began to tear the dragon's back with his teeth, just as a lion might have torn it. the hero stood astonished for a while; then, drawing his sword, severed the monster's head from his body. then, having first bathed, he returned thanks to god, and mounting on raksh, went his way. all that day he traveled across the plain, and came at sunset to the land of the magicians. just as the daylight was disappearing, he spied a delightful spot for his night's encampment. there were trees and grass, and a spring of water. and beside the spring there was a flagon of red wine, and a roast kid, with bread and salt and confectionery neatly arranged. rustem dismounted, unsaddled his horse, and looked with astonishment at the provisions thus prepared. it was the meal of certain magicians, who had vanished when they saw him approach. of this he knew nothing, but sitting down without question, filled a cup with wine, and taking a harp which he found lying by the side of the flagon, sang: "the scourge of the wicked am i, and my days still in battle go by; not for me is the red wine that glows in the reveler's cup, nor the rose that blooms in the land of delight; but with monsters and demons to fight." the music and the voice of the singer reached the ears of a witch that was in those parts. forthwith, by her art, she made her face as fair as spring, and, approaching rustem, asked him how he fared, and sat down by his side. the hero thanked heaven that he had thus found in the desert such good fare and excellent company; for he did not know that the lovely visitor was a witch. he welcomed her, and handed her a cup of wine; but, as he handed it, he named the name of god, and at the sound her color changed, and she became as black as charcoal. when rustem saw this, quick as the wind he threw his lasso over her head. "confess who you are," he cried; "show yourself in your true shape." then the witch was changed into a decrepit, wrinkled old woman. rustem cut her in halves with a blow of his sword. the next day he continued his journey with all the speed that he could use, and came to a place where it was utterly dark. neither sun, nor moon, nor stars could be seen; and all that the hero could do was to let the reins fall on his horse's neck, and ride on as chance might direct. in time he came to a most delightful country, where the sun was shining brightly, and where the ground was covered with green. rustem took off his cuirass of leopard-skin, and his helmet, and let raksh find pasture where he could in the fertile fields, and lay down to sleep. when the keeper of the fields saw the horse straying among them and feeding, he was filled with rage; and running up to the hero, dealt him with his stick a great blow upon the feet. rustem awoke. "son of satan," said the keeper, "why do you let your horse stray in the cornfields?" rustem leaped upon the man, and without uttering a word good or bad, wrenched his ears from his head. now the owner of this fertile country was a young warrior of renown named aulad. the keeper ran up to him with his ears in his hand, and said: "there has come to this place a son of satan, clad in a cuirass of leopard-skin, with an iron helmet. i was going to drive his horse out of the cornfields, when he leaped upon me, tore my ears from my head without saying a single word, and then lay down to sleep again." aulad was about to go hunting with his chiefs; but when he heard the keeper's story he altered his plan, and set out to the place where he heard that rustem had been seen. rustem, as soon as he saw him approach, and a great company with him, ran to raksh, leaped on his back, and rode forward. aulad said to him, "who are you? what are you doing here? why did you pluck off my keeper's ears and let your horse feed in the cornfields?" "if you were to hear my name," said rustem, "it would freeze the blood in your heart." so saying he drew his sword, and fastening his lasso to the bow of his saddle, rushed as a lion rushes into the midst of a herd of oxen. with every blow of his sword he cut off a warrior's head, till the whole of aulad's company was either slain or scattered. aulad himself he did not kill, but throwing his lasso, caught him by the neck, dragged him from his horse, and bound his hands. "now," said he, "if you will tell me the truth, and, without attempting to deceive, will show me where the white genius dwells, and will guide me to where king kaoüs is kept prisoner, then i will make you king of mazanderan. but if you speak a word of falsehood you die." "it is well," said aulad; "i will do what you desire. i will show you where the king is imprisoned. it is four hundred miles from this place; and four hundred miles farther, a difficult and dangerous way, is the dwelling of the white genius. it is a cavern so deep that no man has ever sounded it, and it lies between two mountains. twelve thousand genii watch it during the night, for the white genius is the chief and master of all his tribe. you will find him a terrible enemy, and, for all your strong arms and hands, your keen sword, your lance and your club, you will scarcely be able to conquer him; and when you have conquered him, there will still be much to be done. in the city of the king of mazanderan there are thousands of warriors, and not a coward among them; and besides these, there are two hundred war-elephants. were you made of iron, could you venture to deal alone with these sons of satan?" rustem smiled when he heard this, and said, "come with me, and you will see what a single man, who puts his trust in god, can do. and now show me first the way to the king's prison." rustem mounted on raksh, and rode gaily forward, and aulad ran in front of him. for a whole day and night he ran, nor ever grew tired, till they reached the foot of mount asprus, where king kaoüs had fallen into the power of the genii. about midnight they heard a great beating of drums, and saw many fires blaze up. rustem said to aulad, "what mean these fires that are blazing up to right and left of us?" aulad answered, "this is the way into mazanderan. the great genius arzeng must be there." then rustem went to sleep; and when he woke in the morning he took his lasso and fastened aulad to the trunk of a tree. then hanging his grandfather's club to his saddlebow, he rode on. his conflict with arzeng, the chief of the army of the genii, was soon finished. as he approached the camp he raised his battle-cry. his shout was loud enough, one would have said, to split the very mountains; and arzeng, when he heard it, rushed out of his tent. rustem set spurs to his horse, and galloping up to the genius, caught him by the head, tore it from the body, and threw it into the midst of the army. when the genii saw it, and caught sight also of the great club, they fled in the wildest confusion, fathers trampling upon their sons in their eagerness to escape. the hero put the whole herd of them to the sword, and then returned as fast as he could to the place where he had left aulad bound to the tree. he unloosed the knots of the lasso, and bidding him lead the way to the prison-house of the king, set spurs to raksh, aulad running in front as before. when they entered the town, raksh neighed. his voice was as loud as thunder, and the king heard it, and in a moment understood all that had happened. "that is the voice of raksh," he said to the persians that were with him; "our evil days are over. this was the way in which he neighed in king kobad's time, when he made war on the scythians." the persians said to themselves, "our poor king has lost his senses, or he is dreaming. there is no help for us." but they had hardly finished speaking when the hero appeared, and did homage to the king. kaoüs embraced him, and then said: "if you are to help me, you must go before the genii know of your coming. so soon as the white genius shall hear of the fall of arzeng, he will assemble such an army of his fellows as shall make all your pains and labor lost. but you must know that you have great difficulties to overcome. first, you must cross seven mountains, all of them occupied by troops of genii; then you will see before you a terrible cavern--more terrible, i have heard say, than any other place in the world. the entrance to it is guarded by warrior genii, and in it dwells the white genius himself. he is both the terror and the hope of his army. conquer him, and all will be well. a wise physician tells me that the only remedy for my blindness is to drop into my eyes three drops of the white genius's blood. go and conquer, if you would save your king." without any delay rustem set forth, raksh carrying him like the wind. when he reached the great cavern, he said to aulad, who had guided him on his way as before, "the time of conflict is come. show me the way." aulad answered, "when the sun shall grow hot, the genii will go to sleep. that will be your time to conquer them." rustem waited till the sun was at its highest, and then went forth to battle. the genii that were on guard fled at the sound of his voice, and he went on without finding any to resist him till he came to the great cavern of which the king had spoken. it was a terrible place to see, and he stood for a while with his sword in his hand, doubting what he should do. no one would choose such a spot for battle; and as for escaping from it, that was beyond all hope. long he looked into the darkness, and at last he saw a monstrous shape, which seemed to reach across the whole breadth of the cave. it was the white genius that was lying asleep. rustem did not attempt to surprise him in his sleep, but woke him by shouting his battle-cry. when the white genius saw him, he rushed at once to do battle with him. first he caught up from the ground a stone as big as a millstone and hurled it at him. for the first time rustem felt a thrill of fear, so terrible was his enemy. nevertheless, gathering all his strength, he struck at him a great blow with his sword and cut off one of his feet. the monster, though having but one foot, leaped upon him like a wild elephant, and seized him by the breast and arms, hoping to throw him to the ground, and tore from his body great pieces of flesh, so that the whole place was covered with blood. rustem said to himself, "if i escape to-day i shall live forever;" and the white genius thought, "even if i do deliver myself from the claws of this dragon, i shall never see mazanderan again." still he did not lose courage, but continued to struggle against the hero with all his might. so the two fought together, the blood and sweat running from them in great streams. at last rustem caught the genius round the body, and, putting out all his strength, hurled him to the ground with such force that his soul was driven out of his body. then he plunged his poinard into the creature's heart, and tore the liver out of his body. this done he returned to aulad, whom he had left bound with his lasso, loosed him, and set out for the place where he had left the king. but first aulad said to him, "i have the marks of your bonds upon me; my body is bruised with the knots of your lasso; i beseech you to respect the promise which you made me of a reward. a hero is bound to keep his word." rustem said: "i promised that you should be king of mazanderan, and king you shall be. but i have much to do before my word can be kept. i have a great battle to fight, in which i may be conquered, and i must rid this country of the magicians with whom it is encumbered. but be sure that, when all is done, i will not fail of the promises which i have made." so rustem returned to king kaoüs, and, dropping the blood of the white genius into his eyes, gave him back his sight. seven days the king and his nobles feasted together, rustem having the chief place. on the eighth day they set out to clear the country of the accursed race of magicians. when they had done this, the king said, "the guilty have now been punished. let no others suffer. and now i will send a letter to the king of mazanderan." so the king wrote a letter in these words: "you see how god has punished the wrong-doers--how he has brought to naught the genii and the magicians. quit then your town, and come here to pay homage and tribute to me. if you will not, then your life shall be as the life of arzeng and the white genius." this letter was carried to the king by a certain chief named ferbad. when the king had read it, he was greatly troubled. three days he kept ferbad as his guest, and then sent back by him this answer: "shall the water of the sea be equal to wine? am i one to whom you can say, 'come down from your throne, and present yourself before me?' make ready to do battle with me, for verily i will bring upon the land of persia such destruction that no man shall be able to say what is high and what is low." ferbad hastened back to the king of persia. "the man," he said, "is resolved not to yield." then the king sent to rustem. and rustem said, "send me with a letter that shall be as keen as a sword and a message like a thunder-cloud." so the king sent for a scribe, who, making the point of his reed as fine as an arrowhead, wrote thus: "these are foolish words, and do not become a man of sense. put away your arrogance, and be obedient to my words. if you refuse, i will bring such an army against you as shall cover your land from one sea to the other; and the ghost of the white genius shall call the vultures to feast on your brains." the king set his seal to this letter, and rustem departed with it, with his club hanging to his saddlebow. when the king of mazanderan heard of his coming, he sent some of his nobles to meet him. when rustem saw them, he caught a huge tree that was by the wayside in his hands, twisted it with all his might, and tore it up, roots and all. then he poised it in his hand as if it were a javelin. one of the nobles, the strongest of them all, rode up to him, caught one of his hands, and pressed it with all his might. rustem only smiled; but when in his turn he caught the noble's hand in his, he crushed all the veins and bones, so that the man fell fainting from his horse. when the king heard what had been done, he called one of his warriors, kalahour by name, the strongest man in his dominions, and said to him, "go and meet this messenger; show him your prowess, and cover his face with shame." so kalahour rode to meet rustem, and, taking him by the hand, wrung it with all the strength of an elephant. the hand turned blue with the pain, but the hero did not flinch or give any sign of pain. but when in his turn he wrung the hand of kalahour, the nails dropped from it as the leaves drop from a tree. kalahour rode back, his hand hanging down, and said to the king, "it will be better for you to make peace than to fight with this lion, whose strength is such that no man can stand against him. pay this tribute, and we will make it good to you. otherwise we are lost." at this moment rustem rode up. the king gave him a place at his right hand, and asked him of his welfare. rustem, for answer, gave him the letter of kei-kaöus. when the king had read the letter, his face became black as thunder. then he said, "carry back this answer to your master: 'you are lord of persia, and i of mazanderan. be content; seek not that which is not yours. otherwise your pride will lead you to your fall.'" the king would have given rustem royal gifts, robes of honor, and horses, and gold. but the hero would have none of them, but went away in anger. when he had returned to the king of persia, he said to him, "fear nothing, but make ready for battle. as for the warriors of this land of mazanderan, they are nothing; i count them no better than a grain of dust." meanwhile the king of the magicians prepared for war. he gathered an army, horsemen and foot-soldiers and elephants, that covered the face of the earth, and approached the borders of persia; and, on the other hand, king kaoüs marshaled his men of war and went out to encounter him. the king himself took his place in the center of the line of battle, and in front of all stood the great rustem. one of the nobles of mazanderan came out of their line, with a great club in his hands, and approaching the persian army, cried in a loud voice, "who is ready to fight with me? he should be one who is able to change water into dust." none of the persian nobles answered him, and king kaoüs said, "why is it, ye men of war, that your faces are troubled, and your tongues silent before this genius?" but still the nobles made no answer. then rustem caught the rein of his horse, and, putting the point of his lance over his shoulder, rode up to the king, and said, "will the king give me permission to fight with this genius?" the king said, "the task is worthy of you, for none of the persians dare to meet this warrior. go and prosper!" so rustem set spurs to raksh, and rode against the warrior who had challenged the persians. "hear," he said, as soon as he came near, "your name is blotted out of the list of the living; for the moment is come when you shall suffer the recompense of all your misdeeds." the warrior answered, "boast not yourself so proudly. my sword makes mothers childless." when rustem heard this, he cried with a voice of thunder, "i am rustem!" and the warrior, who had no desire to fight the champion of the world, turned his back and fled. but rustem pursued him, and thrust at him with his lance where the belt joins the coat of mail, and pierced him through, for the armor could not turn the point of the great spear. then he lifted him out of his saddle, and raised him up in the air, as if he were a bird which a man had run through with a spit. this done, he dashed him down dead upon the ground, and all the nobles of mazanderan stood astonished at the sight. after this the two armies joined battle. the air grew dark, and the flashing of the swords and clubs flew like the lightning out of a thunder-cloud, and the mountains trembled with the cries of the combatants. never had any living man seen so fierce a fight before. for seven days the battle raged, and neither the one side nor the other could claim the victory. on the eighth day king kaoüs bowed himself before god, taking his crown from his head, and prayed with his face to the ground, saying, "o lord god, give me, i beseech thee, the victory over the genii who fear thee not." then he set his helmet on his head, and put himself at the head of his army. first of all rustem began the attack, charging the center of the enemy's army. he directed his course straight to the place where the king of mazanderan stood, surrounded with his chiefs and a great host of elephants. when the king saw the shine of his lance, he lost courage, and would have fled. but rustem, with a cry like a lion's roar, charged him, and struck him on the girdle with his spear. the spear pierced the steel, and would have slain the king, but that by his magic art he changed himself, before the eyes of all the persian army, into a mass of rock. rustem stood astonished to see such a marvel. when king kaoüs came up with his warriors, he said to rustem, "what is it? what ails you that you tarry here, doing no thing?" "my lord," answered rustem, "i charged the king of mazanderan, spear in hand; i struck him on the girdle, but when i thought to see him fall from his saddle, he changed himself into a rock before my eyes, and now he feels nothing that i can do." then king kaoüs commanded that they should take up the rock and put it before his throne. but when the strongest men in the army came to handle the rock, or sought to draw it with cords, they could do nothing; it remained immovable. rustem, however, without any one to help him, lifted it from the earth, and carrying it into the camp, threw it down before the king's tent, and said, "give up these cowardly tricks and the art of magic, else i will break this rock into pieces." when the king of mazanderan heard this, he made himself visible, black as a thunder-cloud, with a helmet of steel upon his head and a coat of mail upon his breast. rustem laughed, and caught him by the hand, and brought him before the king. "see," said he, "this lump of rock, who, for fear of the hatchet has given himself up to me!" when kaoüs looked at him and observed how savage of aspect he was, with the neck and tusks of a wild boar, he saw that he was not worthy to sit upon a throne, and bade the executioner take him away and cut him in pieces. this done, he sent to the enemies' camp, and commanded that all the spoil, the king's throne, and his crown and girdle, the horses and the armor, the swords and jewels, should be gathered together. then he called up his army, and distributed to them rewards in proportion to what they had done and suffered. after this he spent seven days in prayer, humbling himself before god, and offering up thanksgiving. on the eighth day he seated himself on his throne, and opened his treasures, and gave to all that had need. thus he spent another seven days. on the fifteenth day, he called for wine and cups of amber and rubies, and sat for seven days on his throne, with the wine-cup in his hand. he sent for rustem, and said, "it is of your doing, by your strength and courage, that i have recovered my throne." rustem answered, "a man must do his duty. as for the honors that you would give me, i owe them all to aulad, who has always guided me on the right way. he hopes to be made king of mazanderan. let the king, therefore, if it please him, invest him with the crown." and this the king did. the next day kaoüs and his army set out to return to the land of persia. when he had reached his palace, he seated himself upon his throne, and sending for rustem, put him at his side. rustem said, "my lord, permit me to go back to the old man zal, my father." the king commanded that they should bring splendid presents for the hero. the presents were these: a throne of turquoise, adorned with rams' heads; a royal crown set about with jewels; a robe of brocade of gold, such as is worn by the king of kings; a bracelet and a chain of gold; a hundred maidens, with faces fair as the full moon, and girdles of gold; a hundred youths, whose hair was fragrant with musk; a hundred horses, harnessed with gold and silver; a hundred mules with black hair, with loads of brocade that came from the land of room and from persia. after these they brought and laid at the hero's feet a hundred purses filled with gold pieces; a cup of rubies, filled with pure musk; another cup of turquoise, filled with attar of roses; and, last of all, a letter written on pages of silk, in ink made of wine and aloes and amber and the black of lamps. by this letter the king of kings gave anew to rustem the kingdom of the south. then kaoüs blessed him, and said: "may you live as long as men shall see the sun and the moon in heaven! may the great of the earth join themselves to you! may your own soul be full of modesty and tenderness!" rustem prostrated himself on the earth, and kissed the throne; and so took his departure. list of best books of myths and legends ashton, t. _romances of chivalry_ baldwin, j. _the story of siegfried_ baldwin, j. _the story of roland_ baring-gould, s. _curious myths of the middle ages_ brooks, e. _the story of the æneid_ brooks, e. _the story of the odyssey_ bulfinch, t. _the age of chivalry_ bulfinch, t. _legends of charlemagne_ burns, j. _popular tales and legends_ clodd, e. _the birth and growth of myths_ clodd, e. _the childhood of religions_ cooker, f.j. _nature myths and stories_ cox, g.w. _tales of ancient greece_ cox, g.w. _popular romances of the middle ages_ crane, f.t. _italian popular tales_ crommelin, mary _famous legends_ curtin, j. _myths and folk tales of the russians_ drake, s.a. _north-east legends_ du maurier, george. _legend of camelot_ edwardson, e. _the courteous knight_ emmerson, ellen russell _indian myths_ fisk, john. _myths and myth makers_ francillon, r.e. _gods and heroes_ gayley, f. _classic myths_ grinnel, g.b. _blackfoot lodge tales_ guerber, h.a. _myths of northern lands_ guerber, h.a. _myths of greece and rome_ hall, j. _legends of the west_ hawthorne, nathaniel _tanglewood tales_ hawthorne, nathaniel _the wonder book_ hearn, lafcadio _some chinese ghosts_ holbrook, f. _the book of nature's myths_ hulme, f.e. _mythland_ hunt, r. _popular romances of the west of england_ irving, washington _the legend of sleepy hollow_ jacobs, joseph _the book of wonder voyages_ kennedy, patrick _legendary fictions of the irish celts_ kingsley, charles. _greek heroes_ kupler, grace h._stories of long ago_ lang, andrew _modern mythology_ lanier, sydney _the boy's king arthur_ lanier, sydney _the boy's mabinogion_ lanier, sydney _the boy's percy_ lanier, sydney _the boy's froissart_ leitz, a.f. _legends and stories_ lover, samuel _legends and stories of ireland_ mabie, h.w. _norse tales_ mabie, h.w. (ed.) _myths that every child should know_ macaulay, lord _lays of ancient rome_ macdonald, george _the light princess_ magnusson and morris _the saga library_ mitchell, s.w. _prince little boy_ nutt, alfred _folk lore_ pratt-chadwick, m.l. _legends of the red children_ pyle, howard. _story of king arthur_ ralston, w.r.s._russian folk tales_ saintine, x.b. _myths of the rhine_ schrammem, j. _legends of german heroes of the middle ages_ scudder, h.e. _the book of legends_ scudder, h.e. _the children's book_ scudder, h.e. _the book of folk stories_ skinner, c.m. _myths and legends_ southey, r. _chronicles of the cid_ tanner, d. _legends from the red man's forest_ tappan, e.m. _robin hood: his book_ wilde, lady _ancient legends_ everyman's library founded 1906 by j. m. dent (d. 1926) edited by ernest rhys (d. 1946) essays & belles-lettres sartor resartus _and_ on heroes by thomas carlyle · introduction by professor w. h. hudson thomas carlyle, born in 1795 at ecclefechan, the son of a stonemason. educated at edinburgh university. schoolmaster for a short time, but decided on a literary career, visiting paris and london. retired in 1828 to dumfriesshire to write. in 1834 moved to cheyne row, chelsea, and died there in 1881. sartor resartus on heroes hero worship thomas carlyle london: j. m. dent & sons ltd. new york: e. p. dutton & co. inc. _all rights reserved made in great britain at the temple press letchworth for j. m. dent & sons ltd. aldine house bedford st. london first published in this edition 1908 last reprinted 1948_ introduction one of the most vital and pregnant books in our modern literature, "sartor resartus" is also, in structure and form, one of the most daringly original. it defies exact classification. it is not a philosophic treatise. it is not an autobiography. it is not a romance. yet in a sense it is all these combined. its underlying purpose is to expound in broad outline certain ideas which lay at the root of carlyle's whole reading of life. but he does not elect to set these forth in regular methodic fashion, after the manner of one writing a systematic essay. he presents his philosophy in dramatic form and in a picturesque human setting. he invents a certain herr diogenes teufelsdröckh, an erudite german professor of "allerley-wissenschaft," or things in general, in the university of weissnichtwo, of whose colossal work, "die kleider, ihr werden und wirken" (on clothes: their origin and influence), he represents himself as being only the student and interpreter. with infinite humour he explains how this prodigious volume came into his hands; how he was struck with amazement by its encyclopædic learning, and the depth and suggestiveness of its thought; and how he determined that it was his special mission to introduce its ideas to the british public. but how was this to be done? as a mere bald abstract of the original would never do, the would-be apostle was for a time in despair. but at length the happy thought occurred to him of combining a condensed statement of the main principles of the new philosophy with some account of the philosopher's life and character. thus the work took the form of a "life and opinions of herr teufelsdröckh," and as such it was offered to the world. here, of course, we reach the explanation of its fantastic title--"sartor resartus," or the tailor patched: the tailor being the great german "clothes-philosopher," and the patching being done by carlyle as his english editor. as a piece of literary mystification, teufelsdröckh and his treatise enjoyed a measure of the success which nearly twenty years before had been scored by dietrich knickerbocker and his "history of new york." the question of the professor's existence was solemnly discussed in at least one important review; carlyle was gravely taken to task for attempting to mislead the public; a certain interested reader actually wrote to inquire where the original german work was to be obtained. all this seems to us surprising; the more so as we are now able to understand the purposes which carlyle had in view in devising his dramatic scheme. in the first place, by associating the clothes-philosophy with the personality of its alleged author (himself one of carlyle's splendidly living pieces of characterisation), and by presenting it as the product and expression of his spiritual experiences, he made the mystical creed intensely human. stated in the abstract, it would have been a mere blank _-ism_; developed in its intimate relations with teufelsdröckh's character and career, it is filled with the hot life-blood of natural thought and feeling. secondly, by fathering his own philosophy upon a german professor carlyle indicates his own indebtedness to german idealism, the ultimate source of much of his own teaching. yet, deep as that indebtedness was, and anxious as he might be to acknowledge it, he was as a humourist keenly alive to certain glaring defects of the great german writers; to their frequent tendency to lose themselves among the mere minutiæ of erudition, and thus to confuse the unimportant and the important; to their habit of rising at times into the clouds rather than above the clouds, and of there disporting themselves in regions "close-bordering on the impalpable inane;" to their too conspicuous want of order, system, perspective. the dramatic machinery of "sartor resartus" is therefore turned to a third service. it is made the vehicle of much good-humoured satire upon these and similar characteristics of teutonic scholarship and speculation; as in the many amusing criticisms which are passed upon teufelsdröckh's volume as a sort of "mad banquet wherein all courses have been confounded;" in the burlesque parade of the professor's "omniverous reading" (_e.g._, book i, chap. v); and in the whole amazing episode of the "six considerable paper bags," out of the chaotic contents of which the distracted editor in search of "biographic documents" has to make what he can. nor is this quite all. teufelsdröckh is further utilised as the mouthpiece of some of carlyle's more extravagant speculations and of such ideas as he wished to throw out as it were tentatively, and without himself being necessarily held responsible for them. there is thus much point as well as humour in those sudden turns of the argument, when, after some exceptionally wild outburst on his _eidolon's_ part, carlyle sedately reproves him for the fantastic character or dangerous tendency of his opinions. it is in connection with the dramatic scheme of the book that the third element, that of autobiography, enters into its texture, for the story of teufelsdröckh is very largely a transfigured version of the story of carlyle himself. in saying this, i am not of course thinking mainly of carlyle's outer life. this, indeed, is in places freely drawn upon, as the outer lives of dickens, george eliot, tolstoi are drawn upon in "david copperfield," "the mill on the floss," "anna karénina." entepfuhl is only another name for ecclefechan; the picture of little diogenes eating his supper out-of-doors on fine summer evenings, and meanwhile watching the sun sink behind the western hills, is clearly a loving transcript from memory; even the idyllic episode of blumine may be safely traced back to a romance of carlyle's youth. but to investigate the connection at these and other points between the mere externals of the two careers is a matter of little more than curious interest. it is because it incorporates and reproduces so much of carlyle's inner history that the story of teufelsdröckh is really important. spiritually considered, the whole narrative is, in fact, a "symbolic myth," in which the writer's personal trials and conflicts are depicted with little change save in setting and accessories. like teufelsdröckh, carlyle while still a young man had broken away from the old religious creed in which he had been bred; like teufelsdröckh, he had thereupon passed into the "howling desert of infidelity;" like teufelsdröckh, he had known all the agonies and anguish of a long period of blank scepticism and insurgent despair, during which, turn whither he would, life responded with nothing but negations to every question and appeal. and as to teufelsdröckh in the rue saint-thomas de l'enfer in paris, so to carlyle in leith walk, edinburgh, there had come a moment of sudden and marvellous illumination, a mystical crisis from which he had emerged a different man. the parallelism is so obvious and so close as to leave no room for doubt that the story of teufelsdröckh is substantially a piece of spiritual autobiography. this admitted, the question arises whether carlyle had any purpose, beyond that of self-expression, in thus utilising his own experiences for the human setting of his philosophy. it seems evident that he had. as he conceived them, these experiences possessed far more than a merely personal interest and meaning. he wrote of himself because he saw in himself a type of his restless and much-troubled epoch; because he knew that in a broad sense his history was the history of thousands of other young men in the generation to which he belonged. the age which followed upon the vast upheaval of the revolution was one of widespread turmoil and perplexity. men felt themselves to be wandering aimlessly "between two worlds, one dead, the other powerless to be born." the old order had collapsed in shapeless ruin; but the promised utopia had not been realised to take its place. in many directions the forces of reaction were at work. religion, striving to maintain itself upon the dogmatic creeds of the past, was rapidly petrifying into a mere "dead letter of religion," from which all the living spirit had fled; and those who could not nourish themselves on hearsay and inherited formula knew not where to look for the renewal of faith and hope. the generous ardour and the splendid humanitarian enthusiasms which had been stirred by the opening phases of the revolutionary movement, had now ebbed away; revulsion had followed, and with it the mood of disillusion and despair. the spirit of doubt and denial was felt as a paralysing power in every department of life and thought, and the shadow of unbelief lay heavy on many hearts. it was for the men of this "sad time" that carlyle wrote teufelsdröckh's story; and he wrote it not merely to depict the far-reaching consequences of their pessimism but also to make plain to them their true path out of it. he desired to exhibit to his age the real nature of the strange malady from which it was suffering in order that he might thereupon proclaim the remedy. what, then, is the moral significance of carlyle's "symbolic myth"? what are the supreme lessons which he uses it to convey? we must begin by understanding his diagnosis. for him, all the evils of the time could ultimately be traced back to their common source in what may be briefly described as its want of real religion. of churches and creeds there were plenty; of living faith little or nothing was left. men had lost all vital sense of god in the world; and because of this, they had taken up a fatally wrong attitude to life. they looked at it wholly from the mechanical point of view, and judged it by merely utilitarian standards. the "body-politic" was no longer inspired by any "soul-politic." men, individually and in the mass, cared only for material prosperity, sought only outward success, made the pursuit of happiness the end and aim of their being. the divine meaning of virtue, the infinite nature of duty, had been forgotten, and morality had been turned into a sort of ledger-philosophy, based upon calculations of profit and loss. it was thus that carlyle read the signs of the times. in such circumstances what was needed? nothing less than a spiritual rebirth. men must abandon their wrong attitude to life, and take up the right attitude. everything hinged on that. and that they might take up this right attitude it was necessary first that they should be convinced of life's essential spirituality, and cease in consequence to seek its meaning and test its value on the plane of merely material things. carlyle thus throws passionate emphasis upon religion as the only saving power. but it must be noted that he does not suggest a return to any of the dogmatic creeds of the past. though once the expression of a living faith, these were now for him mere lifeless formulas. nor has he any new dogmatic creed to offer in their place. that mystical crisis which had broken the spell of the everlasting no was in a strict sense--he uses the word himself--a conversion. but it was not a conversion in the theological sense, for it did not involve the acceptance of any specific articles of faith. it was simply a complete change of front; the protest of his whole nature, in a suddenly aroused mood of indignation and defiance, against the "spirit which denies;" the assertion of his manhood against the cowardice which had so long kept him trembling and whimpering before the facts of existence. but from that change of front came presently the vivid apprehension of certain great truths which his former mood had thus far concealed from him; and in these truths he found the secret of that right attitude to life in the discovery of which lay men's only hope of salvation from the unrest and melancholy of their time. from this point of view the burden of carlyle's message to his generation will be readily understood. men were going wrong because they started with the thought of self, and made satisfaction of self the law of their lives; because, in consequence, they regarded happiness as the chief object of pursuit and the one thing worth striving for; because, under the influence of the current rationalism, they tried to escape from their spiritual perplexities through logic and speculation. they had, therefore, to set themselves right upon all these matters. they had to learn that not self-satisfaction but self-renunciation is the key to life and its true law; that we have no prescriptive claim to happiness and no business to quarrel with the universe if it withholds it from us; that the way out of pessimism lies, not through reason, but through honest work, steady adherence to the simple duty which each day brings, fidelity to the right as we know it. such, in broad statement, is the substance of carlyle's religious convictions and moral teaching. like kant he takes his stand on the principles of ethical idealism. god is to be sought, not through speculation, or syllogism, or the learning of the schools, but through the moral nature. it is the soul in action that alone finds god. and the finding of god means, not happiness as the world conceives it, but blessedness, or the inward peace which passes understanding. the connection between the transfigured autobiography which serves to introduce the directly didactic element of the book and that element itself, will now be clear. stripped of its whimsicalities of phraseology and its humorous extravagances, carlyle's philosophy stands revealed as essentially idealistic in character. spirit is the only reality. visible things are but the manifestations, emblems, or clothings of spirit. the material universe itself is only the vesture or symbol of god; man is a spirit, though he wears the wrappings of the flesh; and in everything that man creates for himself he merely attempts to give body or expression to thought. the science of carlyle's time was busy proclaiming that, since the universe is governed by natural laws, miracles are impossible and the supernatural is a myth. carlyle replies that the natural laws are themselves only the manifestation of spiritual force, and that thus miracle is everywhere and all nature supernatural. we, who are the creatures of time and space, can indeed apprehend the absolute only when he weaves about him the visible garments of time and space. thus god reveals himself to sense through symbols. but it is as we regard these symbols in one or other of two possible ways that we class ourselves with the foolish man or with the wise. the foolish man sees only the symbol, thinks it exists for itself, takes it for the ultimate fact, and therefore rests in it. the wise man sees the symbol, knows that it is only a symbol, and penetrates into it for the ultimate fact or spiritual reality which it symbolises. remote as such a doctrine may at first sight seem to be from the questions with which men are commonly concerned, it has none the less many important practical bearings. since "all forms whereby spirit manifests itself to sense, whether outwardly or in the imagination, are clothes," civilisation and everything belonging to it--our languages, literatures and arts, our governments, social machinery and institutions, our philosophies, creeds and rituals--are but so many vestments woven for itself by the shaping spirit of man. indispensable these vestments are; for without them society would collapse in anarchy, and humanity sink to the level of the brute. yet here again we must emphasise the difference, already noted, between the foolish man and the wise. the foolish man once more assumes that the vestments exist for themselves, as ultimate facts, and that they have a value of their own. he, therefore, confuses the life with its clothing; is even willing to sacrifice the life for the sake of the clothing. the wise man, while he, too, recognises the necessity of the vestments, and indeed insists upon it, knows that they have no independent importance, that they derive all their potency and value from the inner reality which they were fashioned to represent and embody, but which they often misrepresent and obscure. he therefore never confuses the life with the clothing, and well understands how often the clothing has to be sacrificed for the sake of the life. thus, while the utility of clothes has to be recognised to the full, it is still of the essence of wisdom to press hard upon the vital distinction between the outer wrappings of man's life and that inner reality which they more or less adequately enfold. the use which carlyle makes of this doctrine in his interpretation of the religious history of the world and of the crisis in thought of his own day, will be anticipated. all dogmas, forms and ceremonials, he teaches, are but religious vestments--symbols expressing man's deepest sense of the divine mystery of the universe and the hunger and thirst of his soul for god. it is in response to the imperative necessities of his nature that he moulds for himself these outward emblems of his ideas and aspirations. yet they are only emblems; and since, like all other human things, they partake of the ignorance and weakness of the times in which they were framed, it is inevitable that with the growth of knowledge and the expansion of thought they must presently be outgrown. when this happens, there follows what carlyle calls the "superannuation of symbols." men wake to the fact that the creeds and formulas which have come down to them from the past are no longer living for them, no longer what they need for the embodiment of their spiritual life. two mistakes are now possible, and these are, indeed, commonly made together. on the one hand, men may try to ignore the growth of knowledge and the expansion of thought, and to cling to the outgrown symbols as things having in themselves some mysterious sanctity and power. on the other hand, they may recklessly endeavour to cast aside the reality symbolised along with the discredited symbol itself. given such a condition of things, and we shall find religion degenerating into formalism and the worship of the dead letter, and, side by side with this, the impatient rejection of all religion, and the spread of a crude and debasing materialism. religious symbols, then, must be renewed. but their renewal can come only from within. form, to have any real value, must grow out of life and be fed by it. the revolutionary quality in the philosophy of "sartor resartus" cannot, of course, be overlooked. everything that man has woven for himself must in time become merely "old clothes"; the work of his thought, like that of his hands, is perishable; his very highest symbols have no permanence or finality. carlyle cuts down to the essential reality beneath all shows and forms and emblems: witness his amazing vision of a naked house of lords. under his penetrating gaze the "earthly hulls and garnitures" of existence melt away. men's habit is to rest in symbols. but to rest in symbols is fatal, since they are at best but the "adventitious wrappages" of life. clothes "have made men of us"--true; but now, so great has their influence become that "they are threatening to make clothes-screens of us." hence "the beginning of all wisdom is to look fixedly on clothes ... till they become transparent." the logical tendency of such teaching may seem to be towards utter nihilism. but that tendency is checked and qualified by the strong conservative element which is everywhere prominent in carlyle's thought. upon the absolute need of "clothes" the stress is again and again thrown. they "have made men of us." by symbols alone man lives and works. by symbols alone can he make life and work effective. thus even the world's "old clothes"--its discarded forms and creeds--should be treated with the reverence due to whatever has once played a part in human development. thus, moreover, we must be on our guard against the impetuosity of the revolutionary spirit and all rash rupture with the past. to cast old clothes aside before new clothes are ready--this does not mean progress, but sansculottism, or a lapse into nakedness and anarchy. * * * * * the lectures "on heroes and hero-worship," here printed with "sartor resartus," contain little more than an amplification, through a series of brilliant character-studies, of those fundamental ideas of history which had already figured among teufelsdröckh's social speculations. simple in statement and clear in doctrine, this second work needs no formal introduction. it may, however, be of service just to indicate one or two points at which, apart from its set theses, it expresses or implies certain underlying principles of all carlyle's thought. in the first place, his philosophy of history rests entirely on "the great man theory." "universal history, the history of what man has accomplished in the world," is for him "at bottom the history of the great men who have worked here." this conception, of course, brings him into sharp conflict with that scientific view of history which was already gaining ground when "heroes and hero-worship" was written, and which since then has become even more popular under the powerful influence of the modern doctrine of evolution. a scientific historian, like buckle or taine, seeks to explain all changes in thought, all movements in politics and society, in terms of general laws; his habit is, therefore, to subordinate, if not quite to eliminate, the individual; the greatest man is treated as in a large measure the product and expression of the "spirit of the time." for carlyle, individuality is everything. while, as he is bound to admit, "no one works save under conditions," external circumstances and influences count little. the great man is supreme. he is not the creature of his age, but its creator; not its servant, but its master. "the history of the world is but the biography of great men." anti-scientific in his reading of history, carlyle is also anti-democratic in the practical lessons he deduces from it. he teaches that our right relations with the hero are discipular relations; that we should honestly acknowledge his superiority, look up to him, reverence him. thus on the personal side he challenges that tendency to "level down" which he believed to be one alarming result of the fast-spreading spirit of the new democracy. but more than this. he insists that the one hope for our distracted world of to-day lies in the strength and wisdom of the few, not in the organised unwisdom of the many. the masses of the people can never be safely trusted to solve for themselves the intricate problems of their own welfare. they need to be guided, disciplined, at times even driven, by those great leaders of men, who see more deeply than they see into the reality of things, and know much better than they can ever know what is good for them, and how that good is to be attained. political machinery, in which the modern world had come to put so much faith, is only another delusion of a mechanical age. the burden of history is for him always the need of the able man. "i say, find me the true _könning_, king, able man, and he _has_ a divine right over me." carlyle thus throws down the gauntlet at once to the scientific and to the democratic movements of his time. his pronounced antagonism to the modern spirit in these two most important manifestations must be kept steadily in mind in our study of him. finally, we have to remember that in the whole tone and temper of his teaching carlyle is fundamentally the puritan. the dogmas of puritanism he had indeed outgrown; but he never outgrew its ethics. his thought was dominated and pervaded to the end, as froude rightly says, by the spirit of the creed he had dismissed. by reference to this one fact we may account for much of his strength, and also for most of his limitations in outlook and sympathy. those limitations the reader will not fail to notice for himself. but whatever allowance has to be made for them, the strength remains. it is, perhaps, the secret of carlyle's imperishable greatness as a stimulating and uplifting power that, beyond any other modern writer, he makes us feel with him the supreme claims of the moral life, the meaning of our own responsibilities, the essential spirituality of things, the indestructible reality of religion. if he had thus a special message for his own generation, that message has surely not lost any of its value for ours. "put carlyle in your pocket," says dr. hal to paul kelver on his starting out in life. "he is not all the voices, but he is the best maker of men i know." and as a maker of men, carlyle's appeal to us is as great as ever. william henry hudson. _life of schiller_ (_lond. mag._, 1823-4), 1825, 1845. (supplement published in the people's edition, 1873). _wilhelm meister apprenticeship_, 1824. _elements of geometry and trigonometry_ (from the french of legendre), 1824. _german romance_, 1827. _sartor resartus_ (_fraser's mag._, 1833-4), 1835 (boston), 1838. _french revolution_, 1837, 1839. _critical and miscellaneous essays_, 1839, 1840, 1847, 1857. (in these were reprinted articles from _edinburgh review_, _foreign review_, _foreign quarterly review_, _fraser's magazine_, _westminster review_, _new monthly magazine_, _london and westminster review_, _keepsake proceedings of the society of antiquaries of scotland_, _times_). _chartism_, 1840. _heroes, hero-worship, and the heroic in history_, 1841. _past and present_, 1843. _oliver cromwell's letters and speeches: with elucidations_, 1845. _thirty-five unpublished letters of oliver cromwell_, 1847 (fraser). _original discourses on the negro question_ (fraser, 1849), 1853. _latter-day pamphlets_, 1850. _life of john sterling_, 1851. _history of friedrich ii. of prussia_, 1858-65. _inaugural address at edinburgh_, 1866. _shooting niagara: and after?_ 1867 (from "macmillan"). _the early kings of norway; also an essay on the portraits of john knox_, 1875. there were also contributions to brewster's _edinburgh encyclopædia_, vols. xiv., xv., and xvi.; to _new edinburgh review_, 1821, 1822; _fraser's magazine_, 1830, 1831; _the times_, 19 june, 1844 ("mazzini"); 28 november, 1876; 5 may, 1877; _examiner_, 1848; _spectator_, 1848. first collected edition of works, 1857-58 (16 vols.). _reminiscences_, ed. by froude in 1881, but superseded by c. e. norton's edition of 1887. norton has also edited two volumes of _letters_ (1888), and carlyle's correspondence with emerson (1883) and with goethe (1887). other volumes of correspondence are _new letters_ (1904), _carlyle intime_ (1907), _love letters_ (1909), _letters to mill, sterling, and browning_ (1923), all ed. by alexander carlyle. see also _last words of carlyle_, 1892. the fullest _life_ is that by d. a. wilson. the first of six volumes appeared in 1923, and by 1934 only one remained to be published. contents sartor resartus book i chap. page i. preliminary 1 ii. editorial difficulties 5 iii. reminiscences 9 iv. characteristics 20 v. the world in clothes 25 vi. aprons 31 vii. miscellaneous-historical 34 viii. the world out of clothes 37 ix. adamitism 43 x. pure reason 47 xi. prospective 52 book ii i. genesis 61 ii. idyllic 68 iii. pedagogy 76 iv. getting under way 90 v. romance 101 vi. sorrows of teufelsdröckh 112 vii. the everlasting no 121 viii. centre of indifference 128 ix. the everlasting yea 138 x. pause 149 book iii i. incident in modern history 156 ii. church-clothes 161 iii. symbols 163 iv. helotage 170 v. the phoenix 174 vi. old clothes 179 vii. organic filaments 183 viii. natural supernaturalism 191 ix. circumspective 201 x. the dandiacal body 204 xi. tailors 216 xii. farewell 219 appendix--testimonies of authors 225 summary 231 on heroes, hero-worship, and the heroic in history lecture i the hero as divinity. odin. paganism: scandinavian mythology 239 lecture ii the hero as prophet. mahomet: islam 277 lecture iii the hero as poet. dante; shakspeare 311 lecture iv the hero as priest. luther; reformation: knox; puritanism 346 lecture v the hero as man of letters. johnson, rousseau, burns 383 lecture vi the hero as king. cromwell, napoleon: modern revolutionism 422 index 469 sartor resartus book first chapter i preliminary considering our present advanced state of culture, and how the torch of science has now been brandished and borne about, with more or less effect, for five-thousand years and upwards; how, in these times especially, not only the torch still burns, and perhaps more fiercely than ever, but innumerable rush-lights, and sulphur-matches, kindled thereat, are also glancing in every direction, so that not the smallest cranny or doghole in nature or art can remain unilluminated,--it might strike the reflective mind with some surprise that hitherto little or nothing of a fundamental character, whether in the way of philosophy or history, has been written on the subject of clothes. our theory of gravitation is as good as perfect: lagrange, it is well known, has proved that the planetary system, on this scheme, will endure forever; laplace, still more cunningly, even guesses that it could not have been made on any other scheme. whereby, at least, our nautical logbooks can be better kept; and water-transport of all kinds has grown more commodious. of geology and geognosy we know enough: what with the labours of our werners and huttons, what with the ardent genius of their disciples, it has come about that now, to many a royal society, the creation of a world is little more mysterious than the cooking of a dumpling; concerning which last, indeed, there have been minds to whom the question, _how the apples were got in_, presented difficulties. why mention our disquisitions on the social contract, on the standard of taste, on the migrations of the herring? then, have we not a doctrine of rent, a theory of value; philosophies of language, of history, of pottery, of apparitions, of intoxicating liquors? man's whole life and environment have been laid open and elucidated; scarcely a fragment or fibre of his soul, body, and possessions, but has been probed, dissected, distilled, desiccated, and scientifically decomposed: our spiritual faculties, of which it appears there are not a few, have their stewarts, cousins, royer collards: every cellular, vascular, muscular tissue glories in its lawrences, majendies, bichâts. how, then, comes it, may the reflective mind repeat, that the grand tissue of all tissues, the only real tissue, should have been quite overlooked by science,--the vestural tissue, namely, of woollen or other cloth; which man's soul wears as its outmost wrappage and overall; wherein his whole other tissues are included and screened, his whole faculties work, his whole self lives, moves, and has its being? for if, now and then, some straggling, broken-winged thinker has cast an owl's-glance into this obscure region, the most have soared over it altogether heedless; regarding clothes as a property, not an accident, as quite natural and spontaneous, like the leaves of trees, like the plumage of birds. in all speculations they have tacitly figured man as a _clothed animal_; whereas he is by nature a _naked animal_; and only in certain circumstances, by purpose and device, masks himself in clothes. shakespeare says, we are creatures that look before and after: the more surprising that we do not look round a little, and see what is passing under our very eyes. but here, as in so many other cases, germany, learned, indefatigable, deep-thinking germany comes to our aid. it is, after all, a blessing that, in these revolutionary times, there should be one country where abstract thought can still take shelter; that while the din and frenzy of catholic emancipations, and rotten boroughs, and revolts of paris, deafen every french and every english ear, the german can stand peaceful on his scientific watch-tower; and, to the raging, struggling multitude here and elsewhere, solemnly, from hour to hour, with preparatory blast of cowhorn, emit his _höret ihr herren und lasset's euch sagen_; in other words, tell the universe, which so often forgets that fact, what o'clock it really is. not unfrequently the germans have been blamed for an unprofitable diligence; as if they struck into devious courses, where nothing was to be had but the toil of a rough journey; as if, forsaking the gold-mines of finance and that political slaughter of fat oxen whereby a man himself grows fat, they were apt to run goose-hunting into regions of bilberries and crowberries, and be swallowed up at last in remote peat-bogs. of that unwise science, which, as our humorist expresses it,- 'by geometric scale doth take the size of pots of ale;' still more, of that altogether misdirected industry, which is seen vigorously thrashing mere straw, there can nothing defensive be said. in so far as the germans are chargeable with such, let them take the consequence. nevertheless, be it remarked, that even a russian steppe has tumuli and gold ornaments; also many a scene that looks desert and rock-bound from the distance, will unfold itself, when visited, into rare valleys. nay, in any case, would criticism erect not only finger-posts and turnpikes, but spiked gates and impassable barriers, for the mind of man? it is written, 'many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.' surely the plain rule is, let each considerate person have his way, and see what it will lead to. for not this man and that man, but all men make up mankind, and their united tasks the task of mankind. how often have we seen some such adventurous, and perhaps much-censured wanderer light on some out-lying, neglected, yet vitally-momentous province; the hidden treasures of which he first discovered, and kept proclaiming till the general eye and effort were directed thither, and the conquest was completed;--thereby, in these his seemingly so aimless rambles, planting new standards, founding new habitable colonies, in the immeasurable circumambient realm of nothingness and night! wise man was he who counselled that speculation should have free course, and look fearlessly towards all the thirty-two points of the compass, whithersoever and howsoever it listed. perhaps it is proof of the stunted condition in which pure science, especially pure moral science, languishes among us english; and how our mercantile greatness, and invaluable constitution, impressing a political or other immediately practical tendency on all english culture and endeavour, cramps the free flight of thought,--that this, not philosophy of clothes, but recognition even that we have no such philosophy, stands here for the first time published in our language. what english intellect could have chosen such a topic, or by chance stumbled on it? but for that same unshackled, and even sequestered condition of the german learned, which permits and induces them to fish in all manner of waters, with all manner of nets, it seems probable enough, this abstruse inquiry might, in spite of the results it leads to, have continued dormant for indefinite periods. the editor of these sheets, though otherwise boasting himself a man of confirmed speculative habits, and perhaps discursive enough, is free to confess, that never, till these last months, did the above very plain considerations, on our total want of a philosophy of clothes, occur to him; and then, by quite foreign suggestion. by the arrival, namely, of a new book from professor teufelsdröckh of weissnichtwo; treating expressly of this subject, and in a style which, whether understood or not, could not even by the blindest be overlooked. in the present editor's way of thought, this remarkable treatise, with its doctrines, whether as judicially acceded to, or judicially denied, has not remained without effect. '_die kleider, ihr werden und wirken_ (clothes, their origin and influence): _von diog. teufelsdröckh, j.u.d. etc._ _stillschweigen und co^{gnie}._ _weissnichtwo_, 1831. 'here,' says the _weissnichtwo'sche anzeiger_, 'comes a volume of that extensive, close-printed, close-meditated sort, which, be it spoken with pride, is seen only in germany, perhaps only in weissnichtwo. issuing from the hitherto irreproachable firm of stillschweigen and company, with every external furtherance, it is of such internal quality as to set neglect at defiance.' * * * * 'a work,' concludes the wellnigh enthusiastic reviewer, 'interesting alike to the antiquary, the historian, and the philosophic thinker; a masterpiece of boldness, lynx-eyed acuteness, and rugged independent germanism and philanthropy (_derber kerndeutschheit und menschenliebe_); which will not, assuredly, pass current without opposition in high places; but must and will exalt the almost new name of teufelsdröckh to the first ranks of philosophy, in our german temple of honour.' mindful of old friendship, the distinguished professor, in this the first blaze of his fame, which however does not dazzle him, sends hither a presentation-copy of his book; with compliments and encomiums which modesty forbids the present editor to rehearse; yet without indicated wish or hope of any kind, except what may be implied in the concluding phrase: _möchte es_ (this remarkable treatise) _auch im brittischen boden gedeihen_! chapter ii editorial difficulties if for a speculative man, 'whose seedfield,' in the sublime words of the poet, 'is time,' no conquest is important but that of new ideas, then might the arrival of professor teufelsdröckh's book be marked with chalk in the editor's calendar. it is indeed an 'extensive volume,' of boundless, almost formless contents, a very sea of thought; neither calm nor clear, if you will; yet wherein the toughest pearl-diver may dive to his utmost depth, and return not only with sea-wreck but with true orients. directly on the first perusal, almost on the first deliberate inspection, it became apparent that here a quite new branch of philosophy, leading to as yet undescried ulterior results, was disclosed; farther, what seemed scarcely less interesting, a quite new human individuality, an almost unexampled personal character, that, namely, of professor teufelsdröckh the discloser. of both which novelties, as far as might be possible, we resolved to master the significance. but as man is emphatically a proselytising creature, no sooner was such mastery even fairly attempted, than the new question arose: how might this acquired good be imparted to others, perhaps in equal need thereof: how could the philosophy of clothes, and the author of such philosophy, be brought home, in any measure, to the business and bosoms of our own english nation? for if new-got gold is said to burn the pockets till it be cast forth into circulation, much more may new truth. here, however, difficulties occurred. the first thought naturally was to publish article after article on this remarkable volume, in such widely-circulating critical journals as the editor might stand connected with, or by money or love procure access to. but, on the other hand, was it not clear that such matter as must here be revealed, and treated of, might endanger the circulation of any journal extant? if, indeed, all party-divisions in the state could have been abolished, whig, tory, and radical, embracing in discrepant union; and all the journals of the nation could have been jumbled into one journal, and the philosophy of clothes poured forth in incessant torrents therefrom, the attempt had seemed possible. but, alas, what vehicle of that sort have we, except _fraser's magazine_? a vehicle all strewed (figuratively speaking) with the maddest waterloo-crackers, exploding distractively and destructively, wheresoever the mystified passenger stands or sits; nay, in any case, understood to be, of late years, a vehicle full to overflowing, and inexorably shut! besides, to state the philosophy of clothes without the philosopher, the ideas of teufelsdröckh without something of his personality, was it not to insure both of entire misapprehension? now for biography, had it been otherwise admissible, there were no adequate documents, no hope of obtaining such, but rather, owing to circumstances, a special despair. thus did the editor see himself, for the while, shut out from all public utterance of these extraordinary doctrines, and constrained to revolve them, not without disquietude, in the dark depths of his own mind. so had it lasted for some months; and now the volume on clothes, read and again read, was in several points becoming lucid and lucent; the personality of its author more and more surprising, but, in spite of all that memory and conjecture could do, more and more enigmatic; whereby the old disquietude seemed fast settling into fixed discontent,--when altogether unexpectedly arrives a letter from herr hofrath heuschrecke, our professor's chief friend and associate in weissnichtwo, with whom we had not previously corresponded. the hofrath, after much quite extraneous matter, began dilating largely on the 'agitation and attention' which the philosophy of clothes was exciting in its own german republic of letters; on the deep significance and tendency of his friend's volume; and then, at length, with great circumlocution, hinted at the practicability of conveying 'some knowledge of it, and of him, to england, and through england to the distant west': a work on professor teufelsdröckh 'were undoubtedly welcome to the _family_, the _national_, or any other of those patriotic _libraries_, at present the glory of british literature'; might work revolutions in thought; and so forth;--in conclusion, intimating not obscurely, that should the present editor feel disposed to undertake a biography of teufelsdröckh, he, hofrath heuschrecke, had it in his power to furnish the requisite documents. as in some chemical mixture, that has stood long evaporating, but would not crystallise, instantly when the wire or other fixed substance is introduced, crystallisation commences, and rapidly proceeds till the whole is finished, so was it with the editor's mind and this offer of heuschrecke's. form rose out of void solution and discontinuity; like united itself with like in definite arrangement: and soon either in actual vision and possession, or in fixed reasonable hope, the image of the whole enterprise had shaped itself, so to speak, into a solid mass. cautiously yet courageously, through the twopenny post, application to the famed redoubtable oliver yorke was now made: an interview, interviews with that singular man have taken place; with more of assurance on our side, with less of satire (at least of open satire) on his, than we anticipated;--for the rest, with such issue as is now visible. as to those same 'patriotic _libraries_,' the hofrath's counsel could only be viewed with silent amazement; but with his offer of documents we joyfully and almost instantaneously closed. thus, too, in the sure expectation of these, we already see our task begun; and this our _sartor resartus_, which is properly a 'life and opinions of herr teufelsdröckh,' hourly advancing. * * * * * of our fitness for the enterprise, to which we have such title and vocation, it were perhaps uninteresting to say more. let the british reader study and enjoy, in simplicity of heart, what is here presented him, and with whatever metaphysical acumen and talent for meditation he is possessed of. let him strive to keep a free, open sense; cleared from the mists of prejudice, above all from the paralysis of cant; and directed rather to the book itself than to the editor of the book. who or what such editor may be, must remain conjectural, and even insignificant:[1] it is a voice publishing tidings of the philosophy of clothes; undoubtedly a spirit addressing spirits: whoso hath ears, let him hear. [1] with us even he still communicates in some sort of mask, or muffler: and, we have reason to think, under a feigned name!--o. y. on one other point the editor thinks it needful to give warning: namely, that he is animated with a true though perhaps a feeble attachment to the institutions of our ancestors; and minded to defend these, according to ability, at all hazards; nay, it was partly with a view to such defence that he engaged in this undertaking. to stem, or if that be impossible, profitably to divert the current of innovation, such a volume as teufelsdröckh's, if cunningly planted down, were no despicable pile, or floodgate, in the logical wear. for the rest, be it nowise apprehended, that any personal connexion of ours with teufelsdröckh, heuschrecke, or this philosophy of clothes can pervert our judgment, or sway us to extenuate or exaggerate. powerless, we venture to promise, are those private compliments themselves. grateful they may well be; as generous illusions of friendship; as fair mementos of bygone unions, of those nights and suppers of the gods, when, lapped in the symphonies and harmonies of philosophic eloquence, though with baser accompaniments, the present editor revelled in that feast of reason, never since vouchsafed him in so full measure! but what then? _amicus plato, magis amica veritas_; teufelsdröckh is our friend, truth is our divinity. in our historical and critical capacity, we hope we are strangers to all the world; have feud or favour with no one,--save indeed the devil, with whom, as with the prince of lies and darkness, we do at all times wage internecine war. this assurance, at an epoch when puffery and quackery have reached a height unexampled in the annals of mankind, and even english editors, like chinese shopkeepers, must write on their door-lintels _no cheating here_,--we thought it good to premise. chapter iii reminiscences to the author's private circle the appearance of this singular work on clothes must have occasioned little less surprise than it has to the rest of the world. for ourselves, at least, few things have been more unexpected. professor teufelsdröckh, at the period of our acquaintance with him, seemed to lead a quite still and self-contained life: a man devoted to the higher philosophies, indeed; yet more likely, if he published at all, to publish a refutation of hegel and bardili, both of whom, strangely enough, he included under a common ban; than to descend, as he has here done, into the angry noisy forum, with an argument that cannot but exasperate and divide. not, that we can remember, the philosophy of clothes once touched upon between us. if through the high, silent, meditative transcendentalism of our friend we detected any practical tendency whatever, it was at most political, and towards a certain prospective, and for the present quite speculative, radicalism; as indeed some correspondence, on his part, with herr oken of jena was now and then suspected; though his special contribution to the _isis_ could never be more than surmised at. but, at all events, nothing moral, still less anything didactico-religious, was looked for from him. well do we recollect the last words he spoke in our hearing; which indeed, with the night they were uttered in, are to be forever remembered. lifting his huge tumbler of _gukguk_,[2] and for a moment lowering his tobacco-pipe, he stood up in full coffee-house (it was _zur grünen gans_, the largest in weissnichtwo, where all the virtuosity, and nearly all the intellect of the place assembled of an evening); and there, with low, soul-stirring tone, and the look truly of an angel, though whether of a white or of a black one might be dubious, proposed this toast: _die sache der armen in gottes und teufels namen_ (the cause of the poor, in heaven's name and ----'s)! one full shout, breaking the leaden silence; then a gurgle of innumerable emptying bumpers, again followed by universal cheering, returned him loud acclaim. it was the finale of the night: resuming their pipes; in the highest enthusiasm, amid volumes of tobacco-smoke; triumphant, cloud-capt without and within, the assembly broke up, each to his thoughtful pillow. _bleibt doch ein echter spassund galgen-vogel_, said several; meaning thereby that, one day, he would probably be hanged for his democratic sentiments. _wo steckt doch der schalk?_ added they, looking round: but teufelsdröckh had retired by private alleys, and the compiler of these pages beheld him no more. [2] gukguk is unhappily only an academical-beer. in such scenes has it been our lot to live with this philosopher, such estimate to form of his purposes and powers. and yet, thou brave teufelsdröckh, who could tell what lurked in thee? under those thick locks of thine, so long and lank, overlapping roof-wise the gravest face we ever in this world saw, there dwelt a most busy brain. in thy eyes too, deep under their shaggy brows, and looking out so still and dreamy, have we not noticed gleams of an ethereal or else a diabolic fire, and half-fancied that their stillness was but the rest of infinite motion, the _sleep_ of a spinning-top? thy little figure, there as, in loose, ill-brushed threadbare habiliments, thou sattest, amid litter and lumber, whole days, to 'think and smoke tobacco,' held in it a mighty heart. the secrets of man's life were laid open to thee; thou sawest into the mystery of the universe, farther than another; thou hadst _in petto_ thy remarkable volume on clothes. nay, was there not in that clear logically-founded transcendentalism of thine; still more, in thy meek, silent, deep-seated sansculottism, combined with a true princely courtesy of inward nature, the visible rudiments of such speculation? but great men are too often unknown, or what is worse, misknown. already, when we dreamed not of it, the warp of thy remarkable volume lay on the loom; and silently, mysterious shuttles were putting in the woof! * * * * * how the hofrath heuschrecke is to furnish biographical data, in this case, may be a curious question; the answer of which, however, is happily not our concern, but his. to us it appeared, after repeated trial, that in weissnichtwo, from the archives or memories of the best-informed classes, no biography of teufelsdröckh was to be gathered; not so much as a false one. he was a stranger there, wafted thither by what is called the course of circumstances; concerning whose parentage, birthplace, prospects, or pursuits, curiosity had indeed made inquiries, but satisfied herself with the most indistinct replies. for himself, he was a man so still and altogether unparticipating, that to question him even afar off on such particulars was a thing of more than usual delicacy: besides, in his sly way, he had ever some quaint turn, not without its satirical edge, wherewith to divert such intrusions, and deter you from the like. wits spoke of him secretly as if he were a kind of melchizedek, without father or mother of any kind; sometimes, with reference to his great historic and statistic knowledge, and the vivid way he had of expressing himself like an eye-witness of distant transactions and scenes, they called him the _ewige jude_, everlasting, or as we say, wandering jew. to the most, indeed, he had become not so much a man as a thing; which thing doubtless they were accustomed to see, and with satisfaction; but no more thought of accounting for than for the fabrication of their daily _allgemeine zeitung_, or the domestic habits of the sun. both were there and welcome; the world enjoyed what good was in them, and thought no more of the matter. the man teufelsdröckh passed and repassed, in his little circle, as one of those originals and nondescripts, more frequent in german universities than elsewhere; of whom, though you see them alive, and feel certain enough that they must have a history, no history seems to be discoverable; or only such as men give of mountain rocks and antediluvian ruins: that they may have been created by unknown agencies, are in a state of gradual decay, and for the present reflect light and resist pressure; that is, are visible and tangible objects in this phantasm world, where so much other mystery is. it was to be remarked that though, by title and diploma, _professor der allerley-wissenschaft_, or as we should say in english, 'professor of things in general,' he had never delivered any course; perhaps never been incited thereto by any public furtherance or requisition. to all appearance, the enlightened government of weissnichtwo, in founding their new university, imagined they had done enough, if 'in times like ours,' as the half-official program expressed it, 'when all things are, rapidly or slowly, resolving themselves into chaos, a professorship of this kind had been established; whereby, as occasion called, the task of bodying somewhat forth again from such chaos might be, even slightly, facilitated.' that actual lectures should be held, and public classes for the 'science of things in general,' they doubtless considered premature; on which ground too they had only established the professorship, nowise endowed it; so that teufelsdröckh, 'recommended by the highest names,' had been promoted thereby to a name merely. great, among the more enlightened classes, was the admiration of this new professorship: how an enlightened government had seen into the want of the age (_zeitbedürfniss_); how at length, instead of denial and destruction, we were to have a science of affirmation and reconstruction; and germany and weissnichtwo were where they should be, in the vanguard of the world. considerable also was the wonder at the new professor, dropt opportunely enough into the nascent university; so able to lecture, should occasion call; so ready to hold his peace for indefinite periods, should an enlightened government consider that occasion did not call. but such admiration and such wonder, being followed by no act to keep them living, could last only nine days; and, long before our visit to that scene, had quite died away. the more cunning heads thought it was all an expiring clutch at popularity, on the part of a minister, whom domestic embarrassments, court intrigues, old age, and dropsy soon afterwards finally drove from the helm. as for teufelsdröckh, except by his nightly appearances at the _grüne gans_, weissnichtwo saw little of him, felt little of him. here, over his tumbler of gukguk, he sat reading journals; sometimes contemplatively looking into the clouds of his tobacco-pipe, without other visible employment: always, from his mild ways, an agreeable phenomenon there; more especially when he opened his lips for speech; on which occasions the whole coffee-house would hush itself into silence, as if sure to hear something noteworthy. nay, perhaps to hear a whole series and river of the most memorable utterances; such as, when once thawed, he would for hours indulge in, with fit audience: and the more memorable, as issuing from a head apparently not more interested in them, not more conscious of them, than is the sculptured stone head of some public fountain, which through its brass mouth-tube emits water to the worthy and the unworthy; careless whether it be for cooking victuals or quenching conflagrations; indeed, maintains the same earnest assiduous look, whether any water be flowing or not. to the editor of these sheets, as to a young enthusiastic englishman, however unworthy, teufelsdröckh opened himself perhaps more than to the most. pity only that we could not then half guess his importance, and scrutinise him with due power of vision! we enjoyed, what not three men in weissnichtwo could boast of, a certain degree of access to the professor's private domicile. it was the attic floor of the highest house in the wahngasse; and might truly be called the pinnacle of weissnichtwo, for it rose sheer up above the contiguous roofs, themselves rising from elevated ground. moreover, with its windows it looked towards all the four _orte_, or as the scotch say, and we ought to say, _airts_: the sitting-room itself commanded three; another came to view in the _schlafgemach_ (bedroom) at the opposite end; to say nothing of the kitchen, which offered two, as it were, _duplicates_, and showing nothing new. so that it was in fact the speculum or watch-tower of teufelsdröckh; wherefrom, sitting at ease, he might see the whole life-circulation of that considerable city; the streets and lanes of which, with all their doing and driving (_thun und treiben_), were for the most part visible there. "i look down into all that wasp-nest or bee-hive," have we heard him say, "and witness their wax-laying and honey-making, and poison-brewing, and choking by sulphur. from the palace esplanade, where music plays while serene highness is pleased to eat his victuals, down to the low lane, where in her door-sill the aged widow, knitting for a thin livelihood, sits to feel the afternoon sun, i see it all; for, except the schlosskirche weathercock, no biped stands so high. couriers arrive bestrapped and bebooted, bearing joy and sorrow bagged-up in pouches of leather: there, top-laden, and with four swift horses, rolls-in the country baron and his household; here, on timber-leg, the lamed soldier hops painfully along, begging alms: a thousand carriages, and wains, and cars, come tumbling-in with food, with young rusticity, and other raw produce, inanimate or animate, and go tumbling out again with produce manufactured. that living flood, pouring through these streets, of all qualities and ages, knowest thou whence it is coming, whither it is going? _aus der ewigkeit, zu der ewigkeit hin_: from eternity, onwards to eternity! these are apparitions: what else? are they not souls rendered visible: in bodies, that took shape and will lose it, melting into air? their solid pavement is a picture of the sense; they walk on the bosom of nothing, blank time is behind them and before them. or fanciest thou, the red and yellow clothes-screen yonder, with spurs on its heels and feather in its crown, is but of today, without a yesterday or a tomorrow; and had not rather its ancestor alive when hengst and horsa overran thy island? friend, thou seest here a living link in that tissue of history, which inweaves all being: watch well, or it will be past thee, and seen no more." "_ach, mein lieber!_" said he once, at midnight, when we had returned from the coffee-house in rather earnest talk, "it is a true sublimity to dwell here. these fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of night, what thinks boötes of them, as he leads his hunting-dogs over the zenith in their leash of sidereal fire? that stifled hum of midnight, when traffic has lain down to rest; and the chariot-wheels of vanity, still rolling here and there through distant streets, are bearing her to halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch for her; and only vice and misery, to prowl or to moan like nightbirds, are abroad: that hum, i say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick life, is heard in heaven! oh, under that hideous covelet of vapours, and putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid! the joyful and the sorrowful are there; men are dying there, men are being born; men are praying,--on the other side of a brick partition, men are cursing; and around them all is the vast, void night. the proud grandee still lingers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask curtains; wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw: in obscure cellars, _rouge-et-noir_ languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard hungry villains; while councillors of state sit plotting, and playing their high chess-game, whereof the pawns are men. the lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready; and she, full of hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders: the thief, still more silently, sets-to his picklocks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes. gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and high-swelling hearts; but, in the condemned cells, the pulse of life beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look-out through the darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stern last morning. six men are to be hanged on the morrow: comes no hammering from the _rabenstein_?--their gallows must even now be o' building. upwards of five-hundred-thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie round us, in horizontal positions; their heads all in nightcaps, and full of the foolishest dreams. riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame; and the mother, with streaming hair, kneels over her pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now moisten.--all these heaped and huddled together, with nothing but a little carpentry and masonry between them;--crammed in, like salted fish in their barrel;--or weltering, shall i say, like an egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling to get its _head above_ the others: _such_ work goes on under that smoke-counterpane!--but i, _mein werther_, sit above it all; i am alone with the stars." we looked in his face to see whether, in the utterance of such extraordinary night-thoughts, no feeling might be traced there; but with the light we had, which indeed was only a single tallow-light, and far enough from the window, nothing save that old calmness and fixedness was visible. these were the professor's talking seasons: most commonly he spoke in mere monosyllables, or sat altogether silent, and smoked; while the visitor had liberty either to say what he listed, receiving for answer an occasional grunt; or to look round for a space, and then take himself away. it was a strange apartment; full of books and tattered papers, and miscellaneous shreds of all conceivable substances, 'united in a common element of dust.' books lay on tables, and below tables; here fluttered a sheet of manuscript, there a torn handkerchief, or nightcap hastily thrown aside; ink-bottles alternated with bread-crusts, coffee-pots, tobacco-boxes, periodical literature, and blücher boots. old lieschen (lisekin, 'liza), who was his bed-maker and stove-lighter, his washer and wringer, cook, errand-maid, and general lion's-provider, and for the rest a very orderly creature, had no sovereign authority in this last citadel of teufelsdröckh; only some once in the month she half-forcibly made her may thither, with broom and duster, and (teufelsdröckh hastily saving his manuscripts) effected a partial clearance, a jail-delivery of such lumber as was not literary. these were her _erdbeben_ (earthquakes), which teufelsdröckh dreaded worse than the pestilence; nevertheless, to such length he had been forced to comply. glad would he have been to sit here philosophising forever, or till the litter, by accumulation, drove him out of doors: but lieschen was his right-arm, and spoon, and necessary of life, and would not be flatly gainsayed. we can still remember the ancient woman; so silent that some thought her dumb; deaf also you would often have supposed her; for teufelsdröckh, and teufelsdröckh only, would she serve or give heed to; and with him she seemed to communicate chiefly by signs; if it were not rather by some secret divination that she guessed all his wants, and supplied them. assiduous old dame! she scoured, and sorted, and swept, in her kitchen, with the least possible violence to the ear; yet all was tight and right there: hot and black came the coffee ever at the due moment; and the speechless lieschen herself looked out on you, from under her clean white coif with its lappets, through her clean withered face and wrinkles, with a look of helpful intelligence, almost of benevolence. few strangers, as above hinted, had admittance hither: the only one we ever saw there, ourselves excepted, was the hofrath heuschrecke, already known, by name and expectation, to the readers of these pages. to us, at that period, herr heuschrecke seemed one of those purse-mouthed, crane-necked, clean-brushed, pacific individuals, perhaps sufficiently distinguished in society by this fact, that, in dry weather or in wet, 'they never appear without their umbrella.' had we not known with what 'little wisdom' the world is governed; and how, in germany as elsewhere, the ninety-and-nine public men can for most part be but mute train-bearers to the hundredth, perhaps but stalking-horses and willing or unwilling dupes,--it might have seemed wonderful how herr heuschrecke should be named a rath, or councillor, and counsellor, even in weissnichtwo. what counsel to any man, or to any woman, could this particular hofrath give; in whose loose, zigzag figure; in whose thin visage, as it went jerking to and fro, in minute incessant fluctuation,--you traced rather confusion worse confounded; at most, timidity and physical cold? some indeed said withal, he was 'the very spirit of love embodied': blue earnest eyes, full of sadness and kindness; purse ever open, and so forth; the whole of which, we shall now hope, for many reasons, was not quite groundless. nevertheless friend teufelsdröckh's outline, who indeed handled the burin like few in these cases, was probably the best: _er hat gemüth und geist, hat wenigstens gehabt, doch ohne organ, ohne schicksals-gunst; ist gegenwärtig aber halb-zerrüttet, halb-erstarrt_, "he has heart and talent, at least has had such, yet without fit mode of utterance, or favour of fortune; and so is now half-cracked, half-congealed."--what the hofrath shall think of this when he sees it, readers may wonder: we, safe in the stronghold of historical fidelity, are careless. the main point, doubtless, for us all, is his love of teufelsdröckh, which indeed was also by far the most decisive feature of heuschrecke himself. we are enabled to assert that he hung on the professor with the fondness of a boswell for his johnson. and perhaps with the like return; for teufelsdröckh treated his gaunt admirer with little outward regard, as some half-rational or altogether irrational friend, and at best loved him out of gratitude and by habit. on the other hand, it was curious to observe with what reverent kindness, and a sort of fatherly protection, our hofrath, being the elder, richer, and as he fondly imagined far more practically influential of the two, looked and tended on his little sage, whom he seemed to consider as a living oracle. let but teufelsdröckh open his mouth, heuschrecke's also unpuckered itself into a free doorway, besides his being all eye and all ear, so that nothing might be lost: and then, at every pause in the harangue, he gurgled-out his pursy chuckle of a cough-laugh (for the machinery of laughter took some time to get in motion, and seemed crank and slack), or else his twanging nasal, _bravo! das glaub' ich_; in either case, by way of heartiest approval. in short, if teufelsdröckh was dalai-lama, of which, except perhaps in his self-seclusion, and god-like indifference, there was no symptom, then might heuschrecke pass for his chief talapoin, to whom no dough-pill he could knead and publish was other than medicinal and sacred. in such environment, social, domestic, physical, did teufelsdröckh, at the time of our acquaintance, and most likely does he still, live and meditate. here, perched-up in his high wahngasse watch-tower, and often, in solitude, outwatching the bear, it was that the indomitable inquirer fought all his battles with dulness and darkness; here, in all probability, that he wrote this surprising volume on _clothes_. additional particulars: of his age, which was of that standing middle sort you could only guess at; of his wide surtout; the colour of his trousers, fashion of his broad-brimmed steeple-hat, and so forth, we might report, but do not. the wisest truly is, in these times, the greatest; so that an enlightened curiosity, leaving kings and suchlike to rest very much on their own basis, turns more and more to the philosophic class: nevertheless, what reader expects that, with all our writing and reporting, teufelsdröckh could be brought home to him, till once the documents arrive? his life, fortunes, and bodily presence, are as yet hidden from us, or matter only of faint conjecture. but, on the other hand, does not his soul lie enclosed in this remarkable volume, much more truly than pedro garcia's did in the buried bag of doubloons? to the soul of diogenes teufelsdröckh, to his opinions, namely, on the 'origin and influence of clothes,' we for the present gladly return. chapter iv characteristics it were a piece of vain flattery to pretend that this work on clothes entirely contents us; that it is not, like all works of genius, like the very sun, which, though the highest published creation, or work of genius, has nevertheless black spots and troubled nebulosities amid its effulgence,--a mixture of insight, inspiration, with dulness, double-vision, and even utter blindness. without committing ourselves to those enthusiastic praises and prophesyings of the _weissnichtwo'sche anzeiger_, we admitted that the book had in a high degree excited us to self-activity, which is the best effect of any book; that it had even operated changes in our way of thought; nay, that it promised to prove, as it were, the opening of a new mine-shaft, wherein the whole world of speculation might henceforth dig to unknown depths. more especially it may now be declared that professor teufelsdröckh's acquirements, patience of research, philosophic and even poetic vigour, are here made indisputably manifest; and unhappily no less his prolixity and tortuosity and manifold ineptitude; that, on the whole, as in opening new mine-shafts is not unreasonable, there is much rubbish in his book, though likewise specimens of almost invaluable ore. a paramount popularity in england we cannot promise him. apart from the choice of such a topic as clothes, too often the manner of treating it betokens in the author a rusticity and academic seclusion, unblamable, indeed inevitable in a german, but fatal to his success with our public. of good society teufelsdröckh appears to have seen little, or has mostly forgotten what he saw. he speaks-out with a strange plainness; calls many things by their mere dictionary names. to him the upholsterer is no pontiff, neither is any drawing-room a temple, were it never so begilt and overhung: 'a whole immensity of brussels carpets, and pier-glasses, and or-molu,' as he himself expresses it, 'cannot hide from me that such drawing-room is simply a section of infinite space, where so many god-created souls do for the time meet together.' to teufelsdröckh the highest duchess is respectable, is venerable; but nowise for her pearl bracelets and malines laces: in his eyes, the star of a lord is little less and little more than the broad button of birmingham spelter in a clown's smock; 'each is an implement,' he says, 'in its kind; a tag for _hooking-together_; and, for the rest, was dug from the earth, and hammered on a smithy before smith's fingers.' thus does the professor look in men's faces with a strange impartiality, a strange scientific freedom; like a man unversed in the higher circles, like a man dropped thither from the moon. rightly considered, it is in this peculiarity, running through his whole system of thought, that all these short-comings, over-shootings, and multiform perversities, take rise: if indeed they have not a second source, also natural enough, in his transcendental philosophies, and humour of looking at all matter and material things as spirit; whereby truly his case were but the more hopeless, the more lamentable. to the thinkers of this nation, however, of which class it is firmly believed there are individuals yet extant, we can safely recommend the work: nay, who knows but among the fashionable ranks too, if it be true, as teufelsdröckh maintains, that 'within the most starched cravat there passes a windpipe and weasand, and under the thickliest embroidered waistcoat beats a heart,'--the force of that rapt earnestness may be felt, and here and there an arrow of the soul pierce through? in our wild seer, shaggy, unkempt, like a baptist living on locusts and wild honey, there is an untutored energy, a silent, as it were unconscious, strength, which, except in the higher walks of literature, must be rare. many a deep glance, and often with unspeakable precision, has he cast into mysterious nature, and the still more mysterious life of man. wonderful it is with what cutting words, now and then, he severs asunder the confusion; shears down, were it furlongs deep, into the true centre of the matter; and there not only hits the nail on the head, but with crushing force smites it home, and buries it.--on the other hand, let us be free to admit, he is the most unequal writer breathing. often after some such feat, he will play truant for long pages, and go dawdling and dreaming, and mumbling and maundering the merest commonplaces, as if he were asleep with eyes open, which indeed he is. of his boundless learning, and how all reading and literature in most known tongues, from _sanchoniathon_ to _dr lingard_, from your oriental _shasters_, and _talmuds_, and _korans_, with cassini's _siamese tables_, and laplace's _mécanique céleste_, down to _robinson crusoe_ and the _belfast town and country almanack_, are familiar to him,--we shall say nothing: for unexampled as it is with us, to the germans such universality of study passes without wonder, as a thing commendable, indeed, but natural, indispensable, and there of course. a man that devotes his life to learning, shall he not be learned? in respect of style our author manifests the same genial capability, marred too often by the same rudeness, inequality, and apparent want of intercourse with the higher classes. occasionally, as above hinted, we find consummate vigour, a true inspiration; his burning thoughts step forth in fit burning words, like so many full-formed minervas, issuing amid flame and splendour from jove's head; a rich, idiomatic diction, picturesque allusions, fiery poetic emphasis, or quaint tricksy turns; all the graces and terrors of a wild imagination, wedded to the clearest intellect, alternate in beautiful vicissitude. were it not that sheer sleeping and soporific passages; circumlocutions, repetitions, touches even of pure doting jargon, so often intervene! on the whole, professor teufelsdröckh is not a cultivated writer. of his sentences perhaps not more than nine-tenths stand straight on their legs; the remainder are in quite angular attitudes, buttressed-up by props (of parentheses and dashes), and ever with this or the other tagrag hanging from them; a few even sprawl-out helplessly on all sides, quite broken-backed and dismembered. nevertheless, in almost his very worst moods, there lies in him a singular attraction. a wild tone pervades the whole utterance of the man, like its keynote and regulator; now screwing itself aloft as into the song of spirits, or else the shrill mockery of fiends; now sinking in cadences, not without melodious heartiness, though sometimes abrupt enough, into the common pitch, when we hear it only as a monotonous hum; of which hum the true character is extremely difficult to fix. up to this hour we have never fully satisfied ourselves whether it is a tone and hum of real humour, which we reckon among the very highest qualities of genius, or some echo of mere insanity and inanity, which doubtless ranks below the very lowest. under a like difficulty, in spite even of our personal intercourse, do we still lie with regard to the professor's moral feeling. gleams of an ethereal love burst forth from him, soft wailings of infinite pity; he could clasp the whole universe into his bosom, and keep it warm; it seems as if under that rude exterior there dwelt a very seraph. then again he is so sly and still, so imperturbably saturnine; shows such indifference, malign coolness towards all that men strive after; and ever with some half-visible wrinkle of a bitter sardonic humour, if indeed it be not mere stolid callousness,--that you look on him almost with a shudder, as on some incarnate mephistopheles, to whom this great terrestrial and celestial round, after all, were but some huge foolish whirligig, where kings and beggars, and angels and demons, and stars and street-sweepings, were chaotically whirled, in which only children could take interest. his look, as we mentioned, is probably the gravest ever seen: yet it is not of that cast-iron gravity frequent enough among our own chancery suitors; but rather the gravity as of some silent, high-encircled mountain-pool, perhaps the crater of an extinct volcano; into whose black deeps you fear to gaze: those eyes, those lights that sparkle in it, may indeed be reflexes of the heavenly stars, but perhaps also glances from the region of nether fire! certainly a most involved, self-secluded, altogether enigmatic nature, this of teufelsdröckh! here, however, we gladly recall to mind that once we saw him _laugh_; once only, perhaps it was the first and last time in his life; but then such a peal of laughter, enough to have awakened the seven sleepers! it was of jean paul's doing: some single billow in that vast world-mahlstrom of humour, with its heaven-kissing coruscations, which is now, alas, all congealed in the frost of death! the large-bodied poet and the small, both large enough in soul, sat talking miscellaneously together, the present editor being privileged to listen; and now paul, in his serious way, was giving one of those inimitable 'extra-harangues'; and, as it chanced, on the proposal for a _cast-metal king_: gradually a light kindled in our professor's eyes and face, a beaming, mantling, loveliest light; through those murky features, a radiant, ever-young apollo looked; and he burst forth like the neighing of all tattersall's,--tears streaming down his cheeks, pipe held aloft, foot clutched into the air,--loud, long-continuing, uncontrollable; a laugh not of the face and diaphragm only, but of the whole man from head to heel. the present editor, who laughed indeed, yet with measure, began to fear all was not right: however, teufelsdröckh composed himself, and sank into his old stillness; on his inscrutable countenance there was, if anything, a slight look of shame; and richter himself could not rouse him again. readers who have any tincture of psychology know how much is to be inferred from this; and that no man who has once heartily and wholly laughed can be altogether irreclaimably bad. how much lies in laughter: the cipher-key, wherewith we decipher the whole man! some men wear an everlasting barren simper; in the smile of others lies a cold glitter as of ice: the fewest are able to laugh, what can be called laughing, but only sniff and titter and snigger from the throat outwards; or at best, produce some whiffling husky cachinnation, as if they were laughing through wool: of none such comes good. the man who cannot laugh is not only fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; but his whole life is already a treason and a stratagem. considered as an author, herr teufelsdröckh has one scarcely pardonable fault, doubtless his worst: an almost total want of arrangement. in this remarkable volume, it is true, his adherence to the mere course of time produces, through the narrative portions, a certain show of outward method; but of true logical method and sequence there is too little. apart from its multifarious sections and subdivisions, the work naturally falls into two parts; a historical-descriptive, and a philosophical-speculative: but falls, unhappily, by no firm line of demarcation; in that labyrinthic combination, each part overlaps, and indents, and indeed runs quite through the other. many sections are of a debatable rubric or even quite nondescript and unnameable; whereby the book not only loses in accessibility, but too often distresses us like some mad banquet, wherein all courses had been confounded, and fish and flesh, soup and solid, oyster-sauce, lettuces, rhine-wine and french mustard, were hurled into one huge tureen or trough, and the hungry public invited to help itself. to bring what order we can out of this chaos shall be part of our endeavour. chapter v the world in clothes 'as montesquieu wrote a _spirit of laws_,' observes our professor, 'so could i write a _spirit of clothes_; thus, with an _esprit des lois_, properly an _esprit de coutumes_, we should have an _esprit de costumes_. for neither in tailoring nor in legislating does man proceed by mere accident, but the hand is ever guided on by mysterious operations of the mind. in all his modes, and habilatory endeavours, an architectural idea will be found lurking; his body and the cloth are the site and materials whereon and whereby his beautified edifice, of a person, is to be built. whether he flow gracefully out in folded mantles, based on light sandals; tower-up in high headgear, from amid peaks, spangles and bell-girdles; swell-out in starched ruffs, buckram stuffings, and monstrous tuberosities; or girth himself into separate sections, and front the world an agglomeration of four limbs,--will depend on the nature of such architectural idea: whether grecian, gothic, later-gothic, or altogether modern, and parisian or anglo-dandiacal. again, what meaning lies in colour! from the soberest drab to the high-flaming scarlet, spiritual idiosyncrasies unfold themselves in choice of colour: if the cut betoken intellect and talent, so does the colour betoken temper and heart. in all which, among nations as among individuals, there is an incessant, indubitable, though infinitely complex working of cause and effect: every snip of the scissors has been regulated and prescribed by ever-active influences, which doubtless to intelligences of a superior order are neither invisible nor illegible. 'for such superior intelligences a cause-and-effect philosophy of clothes, as of laws, were probably a comfortable winter-evening entertainment: nevertheless, for inferior intelligences, like men, such philosophies have always seemed to me uninstructive enough. nay, what is your montesquieu himself but a clever infant spelling letters from a hieroglyphical prophetic book, the lexicon of which lies in eternity, in heaven?--let any cause-and-effect philosopher explain, not why i wear such and such a garment, obey such and such a law; but even why _i_ am _here_, to wear and obey anything!--much, therefore, if not the whole, of that same _spirit of clothes_ i shall suppress, as hypothetical, ineffectual, and even impertinent: naked facts, and deductions drawn therefrom in quite another than that omniscient style, are my humbler and proper province.' acting on which prudent restriction, teufelsdröckh has nevertheless contrived to take-in a well-nigh boundless extent of field; at least, the boundaries too often lie quite beyond our horizon. selection being indispensable, we shall here glance-over his first part only in the most cursory manner. this first part is, no doubt, distinguished by omnivorous learning, and utmost patience and fairness: at the same time, in its results and delineations, it is much more likely to interest the compilers of some _library_ of general, entertaining, useful, or even useless knowledge than the miscellaneous readers of these pages. was it this part of the book which heuschrecke had in view, when he recommended us to that joint-stock vehicle of publication, 'at present the glory of british literature'? if so, the library editors are welcome to dig in it for their own behoof. to the first chapter, which turns on paradise and fig-leaves, and leads us into interminable disquisitions of a mythological, metaphorical, cabalistico-sartorial and quite antediluvian cast, we shall content ourselves with giving an unconcerned approval. still less have we to do with 'lilis, adam's first wife, whom, according to the talmudists, he had before eve, and who bore him, in that wedlock, the whole progeny of aerial, aquatic, and terrestrial devils,'--very needlessly, we think. on this portion of the work, with its profound glances into the _adam-kadmon_, or primeval element, here strangely brought into relation with the _nifl_ and _muspel_ (darkness and light) of the antique north, it may be enough to say, that its correctness of deduction, and depth of talmudic and rabbinical lore have filled perhaps not the worst hebraist in britain with something like astonishment. but, quitting this twilight region, teufelsdröckh hastens from the tower of babel, to follow the dispersion of mankind over the whole habitable and habilable globe. walking by the light of oriental, pelasgic, scandinavian, egyptian, otaheitean, ancient and modern researches of every conceivable kind, he strives to give us in compressed shape (as the nürnbergers give an _orbis pictus_) an _orbis vestitus_; or view of the costumes of all mankind, in all countries, in all times. it is here that to the antiquarian, to the historian, we can triumphantly say: fall to! here is learning: an irregular treasury, if you will; but inexhaustible as the hoard of king nibelung, which twelve wagons in twelve days, at the rate of three journeys a day, could not carry off. sheepskin cloaks and wampum belts; phylacteries, stoles, albs; chlamydes, togas, chinese silks, afghaun shawls, trunk-hose, leather breeches, celtic philibegs (though breeches, as the name _gallia braccata_ indicates, are the more ancient), hussar cloaks, vandyke tippets, ruffs, fardingales, are brought vividly before us,--even the kilmarnock nightcap is not forgotten. for most part, too, we must admit that the learning, heterogeneous as it is, and tumbled-down quite pell-mell, is true concentrated and purified learning, the drossy parts smelted out and thrown aside. philosophical reflections intervene, and sometimes touching pictures of human life. of this sort the following has surprised us. the first purpose of clothes, as our professor imagines, was not warmth or decency, but ornament. 'miserable indeed,' says he, 'was the condition of the aboriginal savage, glaring fiercely from under his fleece of hair, which with the beard reached down to his loins, and hung round him like a matted cloak; the rest of his body sheeted in its thick natural fell. he loitered in the sunny glades of the forest, living on wild-fruits; or, as the ancient caledonian, squatted himself in morasses, lurking for his bestial or human prey; without implements, without arms, save the ball of heavy flint, to which, that his sole possession and defence might not be lost, he had attached a long cord of plaited thongs; thereby recovering as well as hurling it with deadly unerring skill. nevertheless, the pains of hunger and revenge once satisfied, his next care was not comfort but decoration (_putz_). warmth he found in the toils of the chase; or amid dried leaves, in his hollow tree, in his bark shed, or natural grotto: but for decoration he must have clothes. nay, among wild people we find tattooing and painting even prior to clothes. the first spiritual want of a barbarous man is decoration, as indeed we still see among the barbarous classes in civilised countries. 'reader, the heaven-inspired melodious singer; loftiest serene highness; nay thy own amber-locked, snow-and-rose-bloom maiden, worthy to glide sylphlike almost on air, whom thou lovest, worshippest as a divine presence, which, indeed, symbolically taken, she is,--has descended, like thyself, from that same hair-mantled, flint-hurling aboriginal anthropophagus! out of the eater cometh forth meat; out of the strong cometh forth sweetness. what changes are wrought, not by time, yet in time! for not mankind only, but all that mankind does or beholds, is in continual growth, regenesis and self-perfecting vitality. cast forth thy act, thy word, into the ever-living, ever-working universe: it is a seed-grain that cannot die; unnoticed to-day (says one), it will be found flourishing as a banyan-grove (perhaps, alas, as a hemlock-forest!) after a thousand years. 'he who first shortened the labour of copyists by device of _movable types_ was disbanding hired armies, and cashiering most kings and senates, and creating a whole new democratic world: he had invented the art of printing. the first ground handful of nitre, sulphur, and charcoal drove monk schwartz's pestle through the ceiling: what will the last do? achieve the final undisputed prostration of force under thought, of animal courage under spiritual. a simple invention it was in the old-world grazier,--sick of lugging his slow ox about the country till he got it bartered for corn or oil,--to take a piece of leather, and thereon scratch or stamp the mere figure of an ox (or _pecus_); put it in his pocket, and call it _pecunia_, money. yet hereby did barter grow sale, the leather money is now golden and paper, and all miracles have been out-miracled: for there are rothschilds and english national debts; and whoso has sixpence is sovereign (to the length of sixpence) over all men; commands cooks to feed him, philosophers to teach him, kings to mount guard over him,--to the length of sixpence.--clothes too, which began in foolishest love of ornament, what have they not become! increased security and pleasurable heat soon followed: but what of these? shame, divine shame (_schaam_, modesty), as yet a stranger to the anthropophagous bosom, arose there mysteriously under clothes; a mystic grove-encircled shrine for the holy in man. clothes gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; clothes have made men of us; they are threatening to make clothes-screens of us. 'but, on the whole,' continues our eloquent professor, 'man is a tool-using animal (_handthierendes thier_). weak in himself, and of small stature, he stands on a basis, at most for the flattest-soled, of some half-square foot, insecurely enough; has to straddle out his legs, lest the very wind supplant him. feeblest of bipeds! three quintals are a crushing load for him; the steer of the meadow tosses him aloft, like a waste rag. nevertheless he can use tools, can devise tools: with these the granite mountain melts into light dust before him; he kneads glowing iron, as if it were soft paste; seas are his smooth highway, winds and fire his unwearying steeds. nowhere do you find him without tools; without tools he is nothing, with tools he is all.' here may we not, for a moment, interrupt the stream of oratory with a remark, that this definition of the tool-using animal, appears to us, of all that animal-sort, considerably the precisest and best? man is called a laughing animal: but do not the apes also laugh, or attempt to do it; and is the manliest man the greatest and oftenest laugher? teufelsdröckh himself, as we said, laughed only once. still less do we make of that other french definition of the cooking animal; which, indeed, for rigorous scientific purposes, is as good as useless. can a tartar be said to cook, when he only readies his steak by riding on it? again, what cookery does the greenlander use, beyond stowing-up his whale-blubber, as a marmot, in the like case, might do? or how would monsieur ude prosper among those orinocco indians, who, according to humboldt, lodge in crow-nests, on the branches of trees; and, for half the year, have no victuals but pipe-clay, the whole country being under water? but, on the other hand, show us the human being, of any period or climate, without his tools: those very caledonians, as we saw, had their flint-ball, and thong to it, such as no brute has or can have. 'man is a tool-using animal,' concludes teufelsdröckh in his abrupt way; 'of which truth clothes are but one example: and surely if we consider the interval between the first wooden dibble fashioned by man, and those liverpool steam-carriages, or the british house of commons, we shall note what progress he has made. he digs up certain black stones from the bosom of the earth, and says to them, _transport me and this luggage at the rate of five-and-thirty miles an hour_; and they do it: he collects, apparently by lot, six-hundred and fifty-eight miscellaneous individuals, and says to them, _make this nation toil for us, bleed for us, hunger and sorrow and sin for us_; and they do it.' chapter vi aprons one of the most unsatisfactory sections in the whole volume is that on _aprons_. what though stout old gao, the persian blacksmith, 'whose apron, now indeed hidden under jewels, because raised in revolt which proved successful, is still the royal standard of that country'; what though john knox's daughter, 'who threatened sovereign majesty that she would catch her husband's head in her apron, rather than he should lie and be a bishop'; what though the landgravine elizabeth, with many other apron worthies,--figure here? an idle wire-drawing spirit, sometimes even a tone of levity, approaching to conventional satire, is too clearly discernible. what, for example, are we to make of such sentences as the following? 'aprons are defences; against injury to cleanliness, to safety, to modesty, sometimes to roguery. from the thin slip of notched silk (as it were, the emblem and beatified ghost of an apron), which some highest-bred housewife, sitting at nürnberg workboxes and toyboxes, has gracefully fastened on; to the thick-tanned hide, girt round him with thongs, wherein the builder builds, and at evening sticks his trowel; or to those jingling sheet-iron aprons, wherein your otherwise half-naked vulcans hammer and smelt in their smelt-furnace,--is there not range enough in the fashion and uses of this vestment? how much has been concealed, how much has been defended in aprons! nay, rightly considered, what is your whole military and police establishment, charged at uncalculated millions, but a huge scarlet-coloured, iron-fastened apron, wherein society works (uneasily enough); guarding itself from some soil and stithy-sparks, in this devil's-smithy (_teufelsschmiede_) of a world? but of all aprons the most puzzling to me hitherto has been the episcopal or cassock. wherein consists the usefulness of this apron? the overseer (_episcopus_) of souls, i notice, has tucked-in the corner of it, as if his day's work were done: what does he shadow forth thereby?' &c. &c. or again, has it often been the lot of our readers to read such stuff as we shall now quote? 'i consider those printed paper aprons, worn by the parisian cooks, as a new vent, though a slight one, for typography; therefore as an encouragement to modern literature, and deserving of approval: nor is it without satisfaction that i hear of a celebrated london firm having in view to introduce the same fashion, with important extensions, in england.'--we who are on the spot hear of no such thing; and indeed have reason to be thankful that hitherto there are other vents for our literature, exuberant as it is.--teufelsdröckh continues: 'if such supply of printed paper should rise so far as to choke-up the highways and public thoroughfares, new means must of necessity be had recourse to. in a world existing by industry, we grudge to employ fire as a destroying element, and not as a creating one. however, heaven is omnipotent, and will find us an outlet. in the mean while, is it not beautiful to see five-million quintals of rags picked annually from the laystall; and annually, after being macerated, hot-pressed, printed-on, and sold,--returned thither; filling so many hungry mouths by the way? thus is the laystall, especially with its rags or clothes-rubbish, the grand electric battery, and fountain-of-motion, from which and to which the social activities (like vitreous and resinous electricities) circulate, in larger or smaller circles, through the mighty, billowy, storm-tost chaos of life, which they keep alive!'--such passages fill us, who love the man, and partly esteem him, with a very mixed feeling. farther down we meet with this: 'the journalists are now the true kings and clergy: henceforth historians, unless they are fools, must write not of bourbon dynasties, and tudors and hapsburgs; but of stamped broad-sheet dynasties, and quite new successive names, according as this or the other able editor, or combination of able editors, gains the world's ear. of the british newspaper press, perhaps the most important of all, and wonderful enough in its secret constitution and procedure, a valuable descriptive history already exists, in that language, under the title of _satan's invisible world displayed_; which, however, by search in all the weissnichtwo libraries, i have not yet succeeded in procuring (_vermöchte nicht aufzutreiben_).' thus does the good homer not only nod, but snore. thus does teufelsdröckh, wandering in regions where he had little business, confound the old authentic presbyterian witchfinder with a new, spurious, imaginary historian of the _brittische journalistik_; and so stumble on perhaps the most egregious blunder in modern literature! chapter vii miscellaneous-historical happier is our professor, and more purely scientific and historic, when he reaches the middle ages in europe, and down to the end of the seventeenth century; the true era of extravagance in costume. it is here that the antiquary and student of modes comes upon his richest harvest. fantastic garbs, beggaring all fancy of a teniers or a callot, succeed each other, like monster devouring monster in a dream. the whole too in brief authentic strokes, and touched not seldom with that breath of genius which makes even old raiment live. indeed, so learned, precise, graphical, and everyway interesting have we found these chapters, that it may be thrown-out as a pertinent question for parties concerned, whether or not a good english translation thereof might henceforth be profitably incorporated with mr. merrick's valuable work _on ancient armour_? take, by way of example, the following sketch; as authority for which paulinus's _zeitkürzende lust_ (ii. 678) is, with seeming confidence, referred to: 'did we behold the german fashionable dress of the fifteenth century, we might smile; as perhaps those bygone germans, were they to rise again, and see our haberdashery, would cross themselves, and invoke the virgin. but happily no bygone german, or man, rises again; thus the present is not needlessly trammelled with the past; and only grows out of it, like a tree, whose roots are not intertangled with its branches, but lie peaceably underground. nay it is very mournful, yet not useless, to see and know, how the greatest and dearest, in a short while, would find his place quite filled-up here, and no room for him; the very napoleon, the very byron, in some seven years, has become obsolete, and were now a foreigner to his europe. thus is the law of progress secured; and in clothes, as in all other external things whatsoever, no fashion will continue. 'of the military classes in those old times, whose buff-belts, complicated chains and gorgets, huge churn-boots, and other riding and fighting gear have been bepainted in modern romance, till the whole has acquired somewhat of a sign-post character,--i shall here say nothing: the civil and pacific classes, less touched upon, are wonderful enough for us. 'rich men, i find, have _teusinke_' (a perhaps untranslateable article); 'also a silver girdle, whereat hang little bells; so that when a man walks, it is with continual jingling. some few, of musical turn, have a whole chime of bells (_glockenspiel_) fastened there; which, especially in sudden whirls, and the other accidents of walking, has a grateful effect. observe too how fond they are of peaks, and gothic-arch intersections. the male world wears peaked caps, an ell long, which hang bobbing over the side (_schief_): their shoes are peaked in front, also to the length of an ell, and laced on the side with tags; even the wooden shoes have their ell-long noses: some also clap bells on the peak. further, according to my authority, the men have breeches without seat (_ohne gesäss_): these they fasten peakwise to their shirts; and the long round doublet must overlap them. 'rich maidens, again, flit abroad in gowns scolloped out behind and before, so that back and breast are almost bare. wives of quality, on the other hand, have train-gowns four or five ells in length; which trains there are boys to carry. brave cleopatras, sailing in their silk-cloth galley, with a cupid for steersman! consider their welts, a handbreadth thick, which waver round them by way of hem; the long flood of silver buttons, or rather silver shells, from throat to shoe, wherewith these same welt-gowns are buttoned. the maidens have bound silver snoods about their hair, with gold spangles, and pendent flames (_flammen_), that is, sparkling hair-drops: but of their mother's headgear who shall speak? neither in love of grace is comfort forgotten. in winter weather you behold the whole fair creation (that can afford it) in long mantles, with skirts wide below, and, for hem, not one but two sufficient hand-broad welts; all ending atop in a thick well-starched ruff, some twenty inches broad: these are their ruff-mantles (_kragenmäntel_). 'as yet among the womankind hoop-petticoats are not; but the men have doublets of fustian, under which lie multiple ruffs of cloth, pasted together with batter (_mit teig zusammengekleistert_), which create protuberance enough. thus do the two sexes vie with each other in the art of decoration; and as usual the stronger carries it.' our professor, whether he hath humour himself or not, manifests a certain feeling of the ludicrous, a sly observance of it, which, could emotion of any kind be confidently predicated of so still a man, we might call a real love. none of those bell-girdles, bushel-breeches, cornuted shoes, or other the like phenomena, of which the history of dress offers so many, escape him: more especially the mischances, or striking adventures, incident to the wearers of such, are noticed with due fidelity. sir walter raleigh's fine mantle, which he spread in the mud under queen elizabeth's feet, appears to provoke little enthusiasm in him; he merely asks, whether at that period the maiden queen 'was red-painted on the nose, and white-painted on the cheeks, as her tire-women, when from spleen and wrinkles she would no longer look in any glass, were wont to serve her?' we can answer that sir walter knew well what he was doing, and had the maiden queen been stuffed parchment dyed in verdigris, would have done the same. thus too, treating of those enormous habiliments, that were not only slashed and galooned, but artificially swollen-out on the broader parts of the body, by introduction of bran,--our professor fails not to comment on that luckless courtier, who having seated himself on a chair with some projecting nail on it, and therefrom rising, to pay his _devoir_ on the entrance of majesty, instantaneously emitted several pecks of dry wheat-dust: and stood there diminished to a spindle, his galoons and slashes dangling sorrowful and flabby round him. whereupon the professor publishes this reflection: 'by what strange chances do we live in history? erostratus by a torch; milo by a bullock; henry darnley, an unfledged booby and bustard, by his limbs; most kings and queens by being born under such and such a bed-tester; boileau despréaux (according to helvetius) by the peck of a turkey; and this ill-starred individual by a rent in his breeches,--for no memoirist of kaiser otto's court omits him. vain was the prayer of themistocles for a talent of forgetting: my friends, yield cheerfully to destiny, and read since it is written.'--has teufelsdröckh to be put in mind that, nearly related to the impossible talent of forgetting, stands that talent of silence, which even travelling englishmen manifest? 'the simplest costume,' observes our professor, 'which i anywhere find alluded to in history, is that used as regimental, by bolivar's cavalry, in the late columbian wars. a square blanket, twelve feet in diagonal, is provided (some were wont to cut-off the corners, and make it circular): in the centre a slit is effected eighteen inches long; through this the mother-naked trooper introduces his head and neck: and so rides shielded from all weather, and in battle from many strokes (for he rolls it about his left arm); and not only dressed, but harnessed and draperied.' with which picture of a state of nature, affecting by its singularity, and old-roman contempt of the superfluous, we shall quit this part of our subject. chapter viii the world out of clothes if in the descriptive-historical portion of this volume, teufelsdröckh, discussing merely the _werden_ (origin and successive improvement) of clothes, has astonished many a reader, much more will he in the speculative-philosophical portion, which treats of their _wirken_, or influences. it is here that the present editor first feels the pressure of his task; for here properly the higher and new philosophy of clothes commences: an untried, almost inconceivable region, or chaos; in venturing upon which, how difficult, yet how unspeakably important is it to know what course, of survey and conquest, is the true one; where the footing is firm substance and will bear us, where it is hollow, or mere cloud, and may engulf us! teufelsdröckh undertakes no less than to expound the moral, political, even religious influences of clothes; he undertakes to make manifest, in its thousandfold bearings, this grand proposition, that man's earthly interests 'are all hooked and buttoned together, and held up, by clothes.' he says in so many words, 'society is founded upon cloth'; and again, 'society sails through the infinitude on cloth, as on a faust's mantle, or rather like the sheet of clean and unclean beasts in the apostle's dream; and without such sheet or mantle, would sink to endless depths, or mount to inane limboes, and in either case be no more.' by what chains, or indeed infinitely complected tissues, of meditation this grand theorem is here unfolded, and innumerable practical corollaries are drawn therefrom, it were perhaps a mad ambition to attempt exhibiting. our professor's method is not, in any case, that of common school logic, where the truths all stand in a row, each holding by the skirts of the other; but at best that of practical reason, proceeding by large intuition over whole systematic groups and kingdoms; whereby, we might say, a noble complexity, almost like that of nature, reigns in his philosophy, or spiritual picture of nature: a mighty maze, yet, as faith whispers, not without a plan. nay we complained above, that a certain ignoble complexity, what we must call mere confusion, was also discernible. often, also, we have to exclaim: would to heaven those same biographical documents were come! for it seems as if the demonstration lay much in the author's individuality; as if it were not argument that had taught him, but experience. at present it is only in local glimpses, and by significant fragments, picked often at wide-enough intervals from the original volume, and carefully collated, that we can hope to impart some outline or foreshadow of this doctrine. readers of any intelligence are once more invited to favour us with their most concentrated attention: let these, after intense consideration, and not till then, pronounce, whether on the utmost verge of our actual horizon there is not a looming as of land; a promise of new fortunate islands, perhaps whole undiscovered americas, for such as have canvas to sail thither?--as exordium to the whole, stand here the following long citation: 'with men of a speculative turn,' writes teufelsdröckh, 'there come seasons, meditative, sweet, yet awful hours, when in wonder and fear you ask yourself that unanswerable question: who am _i_; the thing that can say "i" (_das wesen das sich_ ich _nennt_)? the world, with its loud trafficking, retires into the distance; and, through the paper-hangings, and stone-walls, and thick-plied tissues of commerce and polity, and all the living and lifeless integuments (of society and a body), wherewith your existence sits surrounded,--the sight reaches forth into the void deep, and you are alone with the universe, and silently commune with it, as one mysterious presence with another. 'who am i; what is this me? a voice, a motion, an appearance;--some embodied, visualised idea in the eternal mind? _cogito, ergo sum._ alas, poor cogitator, this takes us but a little way. sure enough, i am; and lately was not: but whence? how? whereto? the answer lies around, written in all colours and motions, uttered in all tones of jubilee and wail, in thousand-figured, thousand-voiced, harmonious nature: but where is the cunning eye and ear to whom that god-written apocalypse will yield articulate meaning? we sit as in a boundless phantasmagoria and dream-grotto; boundless, for the faintest star, the remotest century, lies not even nearer the verge thereof: sounds and many-coloured visions flit round our sense; but him, the unslumbering, whose work both dream and dreamer are, we see not; except in rare half-waking moments, suspect not. creation, says one, lies before us, like a glorious rainbow; but the sun that made it lies behind us, hidden from us. then, in that strange dream, how we clutch at shadows as if they were substances; and sleep deepest while fancying ourselves most awake! which of your philosophical systems is other than a dream-theorem; a net quotient, confidently given out, where divisor and dividend are both unknown? what are all your national wars, with their moscow retreats, and sanguinary hate-filled revolutions, but the somnambulism of uneasy sleepers? this dreaming, this somnambulism is what we on earth call life; wherein the most indeed undoubtingly wander, as if they knew right hand from left; yet they only are wise who know that they know nothing. 'pity that all metaphysics had hitherto proved so inexpressibly unproductive! the secret of man's being is still like the sphinx's secret: a riddle that he cannot rede; and for ignorance of which he suffers death, the worst death, a spiritual. what are your axioms, and categories, and systems, and aphorisms? words, words. high air-castles are cunningly built of words, the words well bedded also in good logic-mortar, wherein, however, no knowledge will come to lodge. _the whole is greater than the part_: how exceedingly true! _nature abhors a vacuum_: how exceedingly false and calumnious! again, _nothing can act but where it is_: with all my heart; only, where is it? be not the slave of words: is not the distant, the dead, while i love it, and long for it, and mourn for it, here, in the genuine sense, as truly as the floor i stand on? but that same where, with its brother when, are from the first the master-colours of our dream-grotto; say rather, the canvas (the warp and woof thereof) whereon all our dreams and life-visions are painted! nevertheless, has not a deeper meditation taught certain of every climate and age, that the where and when, so mysteriously inseparable from all our thoughts, are but superficial terrestrial adhesions to thought; that the seer may discern them where they mount up out of the celestial everywhere and forever: have not all nations conceived their god as omnipresent and eternal; as existing in a universal here, an everlasting now? think well, thou too wilt find that space is but a mode of our human sense, so likewise time; there _is_ no space and no time: we are--we know not what;--light-sparkles floating in the æther of deity! 'so that this so solid-seeming world, after all, were but an air-image, our me the only reality: and nature, with its thousandfold production and destruction, but the reflex of our own inward force, the "phantasy of our dream"; or what the earth-spirit in _faust_ names it, _the living visible garment of god_: "in being's floods, in action's storm, i walk and work, above, beneath, work and weave in endless motion! birth and death, an infinite ocean; a seizing and giving the fire of living: 'tis thus at the roaring loom of time i ply, and weave for god the garment thou seest him by." of twenty millions that have read and spouted this thunder-speech of the _erdgeist_, are there yet twenty units of us that have learned the meaning thereof? 'it was in some such mood, when wearied and fordone with these high speculations, that i first came upon the question of clothes. strange enough, it strikes me, is this same fact of there being tailors and tailored. the horse i ride has his own whole fell: strip him of the girths and flaps and extraneous tags i have fastened round him, and the noble creature is his own sempster and weaver and spinner; nay his own bootmaker, jeweller, and man-milliner; he bounds free through the valleys, with a perennial rain-proof court-suit on his body; wherein warmth and easiness of fit have reached perfection; nay, the graces also have been considered, and frills and fringes, with gay variety of colour, featly appended, and ever in the right place, are not wanting. while i--good heaven!--have thatched myself over with the dead fleeces of sheep, the bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, the hides of oxen or seals, the felt of furred beasts; and walk abroad a moving rag-screen, overheaped with shreds and tatters raked from the charnel-house of nature, where they would have rotted, to rot on me more slowly! day after day, i must thatch myself anew; day after day, this despicable thatch must lose some film of its thickness; some film of it, frayed away by tear and wear, must be brushed-off into the ashpit, into the laystall; till by degrees the whole has been brushed thither, and i, the dust-making, patent rag-grinder, get new material to grind down. o subter-brutish! vile! most vile! for have not i too a compact all-enclosing skin, whiter or dingier? am i a botched mass of tailors' and cobblers' shreds, then; or a tightly-articulated, homogeneous little figure, automatic, nay alive? 'strange enough how creatures of the human-kind shut their eyes to plainest facts; and by the mere inertia of oblivion and stupidity, live at ease in the midst of wonders and terrors. but indeed man is, and was always, a blockhead and dullard; much readier to feel and digest, than to think and consider. prejudice, which he pretends to hate, is his absolute lawgiver; mere use-and-wont everywhere leads him by the nose; thus let but a rising of the sun, let but a creation of the world happen _twice_, and it ceases to be marvellous, to be noteworthy, or noticeable. perhaps not once in a lifetime does it occur to your ordinary biped, of any country or generation, be he gold-mantled prince or russet-jerkined peasant, that his vestments and his self are not one and indivisible; that _he_ is naked, without vestments, till he buy or steal such, and by forethought sew and button them. 'for my own part, these considerations, of our clothes-thatch, and how, reaching inwards even to our heart of hearts, it tailorises and demoralises us, fill me with a certain horror at myself and mankind; almost as one feels at those dutch cows, which, during the wet season, you see grazing deliberately with jackets and petticoats (of striped sacking), in the meadows of gouda. nevertheless there is something great in the moment when a man first strips himself of adventitious wrappages; and sees indeed that he is naked, and, as swift has it, "a forked straddling animal with bandy legs"; yet also a spirit, and unutterable mystery of mysteries.' chapter ix adamitism let no courteous reader take offence at the opinions broached in the conclusion of the last chapter. the editor himself, on first glancing over that singular passage, was inclined to exclaim: what, have we got not only a sansculottist, but an enemy to clothes in the abstract? a new adamite, in this century, which flatters itself that it is the nineteenth, and destructive both to superstition and enthusiasm? consider, thou foolish teufelsdröckh, what benefits unspeakable all ages and sexes derive from clothes. for example, when thou thyself, a watery, pulpy, slobbery freshman and new-comer in this planet, sattest muling and puking in thy nurse's arms; sucking thy coral, and looking forth into the world in the blankest manner, what hadst thou been without thy blankets, and bibs, and other nameless hulls? a terror to thyself and mankind! or hast thou forgotten the day when thou first receivedst breeches, and thy long clothes became short? the village where thou livedst was all apprised of the fact; and neighbour after neighbour kissed thy pudding-cheek, and gave thee, as handsel, silver or copper coins, on that the first gala-day of thy existence. again, wert not thou, at one period of life, a buck, or blood, or macaroni, or incroyable, or dandy, or by whatever name, according to year and place, such phenomenon is distinguished? in that one word lie included mysterious volumes. nay, now when the reign of folly is over, or altered, and thy clothes are not for triumph but for defence, hast thou always worn them perforce, and as a consequence of man's fall; never rejoiced in them as in a warm movable house, a body round thy body, wherein that strange thee of thine sat snug, defying all variations of climate? girt with thick double-milled kerseys; half-buried under shawls and broad-brims, and overalls and mud-boots, thy very fingers cased in doeskin and mittens, thou hast bestrode that 'horse i ride'; and, though it were in wild winter, dashed through the world, glorying in it as if thou wert its lord. in vain did the sleet beat round thy temples; it lighted only on thy impenetrable, felted or woven, case of wool. in vain did the winds howl,--forests sounding and creaking, deep calling unto deep,--and the storms heap themselves together into one huge arctic whirlpool: thou flewest through the middle thereof, striking fire from the highway; wild music hummed in thy ears, thou too wert as a 'sailor of the air'; the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds was thy element and propitiously wafting tide. without clothes, without bit or saddle, what hadst thou been; what had thy fleet quadruped been?--nature is good, but she is not the best: here truly was the victory of art over nature. a thunderbolt indeed might have pierced thee; all short of this thou couldst defy. or, cries the courteous reader, has your teufelsdröckh forgotten what he said lately about 'aboriginal savages,' and their 'condition miserable indeed'? would he have all this unsaid; and us betake ourselves again to the 'matted cloak,' and go sheeted in a 'thick natural fell'? nowise, courteous reader! the professor knows full well what he is saying; and both thou and we, in our haste, do him wrong. if clothes, in these times, 'so tailorise and demoralise us,' have they no redeeming value; can they not be altered to serve better; must they of necessity be thrown to the dogs? the truth is, teufelsdröckh, though a sansculottist, is no adamite; and much perhaps as he might wish to go forth before this degenerate age 'as a sign,' would nowise wish to do it, as those old adamites did, in a state of nakedness. the utility of clothes is altogether apparent to him: nay perhaps he has an insight into their more recondite, and almost mystic qualities, what we might call the omnipotent virtue of clothes, such as was never before vouchsafed to any man. for example: 'you see two individuals,' he writes, 'one dressed in fine red, the other in coarse threadbare blue: red says to blue, "be hanged and anatomised"; blue hears with a shudder, and (o wonder of wonders!) marches sorrowfully to the gallows; is there noosed-up, vibrates his hour, and the surgeons dissect him, and fit his bones into a skeleton for medical purposes. how is this; or what make ye of your _nothing can act but where it is_? red has no physical hold of blue, no _clutch_ of him, is nowise in _contact_ with him: neither are those ministering sheriffs and lord-lieutenants and hangmen and tipstaves so related to commanding red, that he can tug them hither and thither; but each stands distinct within his own skin. nevertheless, as it is spoken, so is it done: the articulated word sets all hands in action; and rope and improved-drop perform their work. 'thinking reader, the reason seems to me twofold: first, that _man is a spirit_, and bound by invisible bonds to _all men_; secondly, that _he wears clothes_, which are the visible emblems of that fact. has not your red hanging-individual a horsehair wig, squirrel-skins, and a plush-gown; whereby all mortals know that he is a judge?--society, which the more i think of it astonishes me the more, is founded upon cloth. 'often in my atrabiliar-moods, when i read of pompous ceremonials, frankfort coronations, royal drawing-rooms, levees, couchees; and how the ushers and macers and pursuivants are all in waiting; how duke this is presented by archduke that, and colonel a by general b, and innumerable bishops, admirals, and miscellaneous functionaries, are advancing gallantly to the anointed presence; and i strive, in my remote privacy, to form a clear picture of that solemnity,--on a sudden, as by some enchanter's wand, the--shall i speak it?--the clothes fly-off the whole dramatic corps; and dukes, grandees, bishops, generals, anointed presence itself, every mother's son of them, stand straddling there, not a shirt on them; and i know not whether to laugh or weep. this physical or psychical infirmity, in which perhaps i am not singular, i have, after hesitation, thought right to publish, for the solace of those afflicted with the like.' would to heaven, say we, thou hadst thought right to keep it secret! who is there now that can read the five columns of presentations in his morning newspaper without a shudder? hypochondriac men, and all men are to a certain extent hypochondriac, should be more gently treated. with what readiness our fancy, in this shattered state of the nerves, follows out the consequences which teufelsdröckh, with a devilish coolness, goes on to draw: 'what would majesty do, could such an accident befall in reality; should the buttons all simultaneously start, and the solid wool evaporate, in very deed, as here in dream? _ach gott!_ how each skulks into the nearest hiding-place; their high state tragedy (_hauptund staats-action_) becomes a pickleherring-farce to weep at, which is the worst kind of farce; _the tables_ (according to horace), and with them, the whole fabric of government, legislation, property, police, and civilised society, _are dissolved_, in wails and howls.' lives the man that can figure a naked duke of windlestraw addressing a naked house of lords? imagination, choked as in mephitic air, recoils on itself, and will not forward with the picture. the woolsack, the ministerial, the opposition benches--_infandum! infandum!_ and yet why is the thing impossible? was not every soul, or rather every body, of these guardians of our liberties, naked, or nearly so, last night; 'a forked radish with a head fantastically carved'? and why might he not, did our stern fate so order it, walk out to st stephen's, as well as into bed, in that no-fashion; and there, with other similar radishes, hold a bed of justice? 'solace of those afflicted with the like!' unhappy teufelsdröckh, had man ever such a 'physical or psychical infirmity' before? and now how many, perhaps, may thy unparalleled confession (which we, even to the sounder british world, and goaded-on by critical and biographical duty, grudge to re-impart) incurably infect therewith! art thou the malignest of sansculottists, or only the maddest? 'it will remain to be examined,' adds the inexorable teufelsdröckh, 'in how far the scarecrow, as a clothed person, is not also entitled to benefit of clergy, and english trial by jury: nay perhaps, considering his high function (for is not he too a defender of property, and sovereign armed with the _terrors_ of the law?), to a certain royal immunity and inviolability; which, however, misers and the meaner class of persons are not always voluntarily disposed to grant him.' * * * * * * 'o my friends, we are (in yorick sterne's words) but as "turkeys driven with a stick and red clout, to the market": or if some drivers, as they do in norfolk, take a dried bladder and put peas in it, the rattle thereof terrifies the boldest!' chapter x pure reason it must now be apparent enough that our professor, as above hinted, is a speculative radical, and of the very darkest tinge; acknowledging, for most part, in the solemnities and paraphernalia of civilised life, which we make so much of, nothing but so many cloth-rags, turkey-poles, and 'bladders with dried peas.' to linger among such speculations, longer than mere science requires, a discerning public can have no wish. for our purposes the simple fact that such a _naked world_ is possible, nay actually exists (under the clothed one), will be sufficient. much, therefore, we omit about 'kings wrestling naked on the green with carmen,' and the kings being thrown: 'dissect them with scalpels,' says teufelsdröckh; 'the same viscera, tissues, livers, lights, and other life-tackle are there: examine their spiritual mechanism; the same great need, great greed, and little faculty; nay ten to one but the carman, who understands draught-cattle, the rimming of wheels, something of the laws of unstable and stable equilibrium, with other branches of wagon-science, and has actually put forth his hand and operated on nature, is the more cunningly gifted of the two. whence, then, their so unspeakable difference? from clothes.' much also we shall omit about confusion of ranks, and joan and my lady, and how it would be everywhere 'hail fellow well met,' and chaos were come again: all which to any one that has once fairly pictured-out the grand mother-idea, _society in a state of nakedness_, will spontaneously suggest itself. should some sceptical individual still entertain doubts whether in a world without clothes, the smallest politeness, polity, or even police, could exist, let him turn to the original volume, and view there the boundless serbonian bog of sansculottism, stretching sour and pestilential: over which we have lightly flown; where not only whole armies but whole nations might sink! if indeed the following argument, in its brief riveting emphasis, be not of itself incontrovertible and final: 'are we opossums; have we natural pouches, like the kangaroo? or how, without clothes, could we possess the master-organ, soul's seat, and true pineal gland of the body social: i mean, a purse?' nevertheless, it is impossible to hate professor teufelsdröckh; at worst, one knows not whether to hate or to love him. for though, in looking at the fair tapestry of human life, with its royal and even sacred figures, he dwells not on the obverse alone, but here chiefly on the reverse; and indeed turns out the rough seams, tatters, and manifold thrums of that unsightly wrong-side, with an almost diabolic patience and indifference, which must have sunk him in the estimation of most readers,--there is that within which unspeakably distinguishes him from all other past and present sansculottists. the grand unparalleled peculiarity of teufelsdröckh is, that with all this descendentalism, he combines a transcendentalism, no less superlative; whereby if on the one hand he degrade man below most animals, except those jacketed gouda cows, he, on the other, exalts him beyond the visible heavens, almost to an equality with the gods. 'to the eye of vulgar logic,' says he, 'what is man? an omnivorous biped that wears breeches. to the eye of pure reason what is he? a soul, a spirit, and divine apparition. round his mysterious me, there lies, under all those wool-rags, a garment of flesh (or of senses), contextured in the loom of heaven; whereby he is revealed to his like, and dwells with them in union and division; and sees and fashions for himself a universe, with azure starry spaces, and long thousands of years. deep-hidden is he under that strange garment; amid sounds and colours and forms, as it were, swathed-in, and inextricably over-shrouded: yet it is sky-woven, and worthy of a god. stands he not thereby in the centre of immensities, in the conflux of eternities? he feels; power has been given him to know, to believe; nay does not the spirit of love, free in its celestial primeval brightness, even here, though but for moments, look through? well said saint chrysostom, with his lips of gold, "the true shekinah is man": where else is the god's-presence manifested not to our eyes only, but to our hearts, as in our fellow-man?' in such passages, unhappily too rare, the high platonic mysticism of our author, which is perhaps the fundamental element of his nature, bursts forth, as it were, in full flood: and, through all the vapour and tarnish of what is often so perverse, so mean in his exterior and environment, we seem to look into a whole inward sea of light and love;--though, alas, the grim coppery clouds soon roll together again, and hide it from view. such tendency to mysticism is everywhere traceable in this man; and indeed, to attentive readers, must have been long ago apparent. nothing that he sees but has more than a common meaning, but has two meanings: thus, if in the highest imperial sceptre and charlemagne-mantle, as well as in the poorest ox-goad and gipsy-blanket, he finds prose, decay, contemptibility; there is in each sort poetry also, and a reverend worth. for matter, were it never so despicable, is spirit, the manifestation of spirit: were it never so honourable, can it be more? the thing visible, nay the thing imagined, the thing in any way conceived as visible, what is it but a garment, a clothing of the higher, celestial invisible, 'unimaginable, formless, dark with excess of bright'? under which point of view the following passage, so strange in purport, so strange in phrase, seems characteristic enough: 'the beginning of all wisdom is to look fixedly on clothes, or even with armed eyesight, till they become _transparent_. "the philosopher," says the wisest of this age, "must station himself in the middle": how true! the philosopher is he to whom the highest has descended, and the lowest has mounted up; who is the equal and kindly brother of all. 'shall we tremble before clothwebs and cobwebs, whether woven in arkwright looms, or by the silent arachnes that weave unrestingly in our imagination? or, on the other hand, what is there that we cannot love; since all was created by god? 'happy he who can look through the clothes of a man (the woollen, and fleshly, and official bank-paper and state-paper clothes) into the man himself; and discern, it may be, in this or the other dread potentate, a more or less incompetent digestive-apparatus; yet also an inscrutable venerable mystery, in the meanest tinker that sees with eyes!' for the rest, as is natural to a man of this kind, he deals much in the feeling of wonder; insists on the necessity and high worth of universal wonder; which he holds to be the only reasonable temper for the denizen of so singular a planet as ours. 'wonder,' says he, 'is the basis of worship: the reign of wonder is perennial, indestructible in man; only at certain stages (as the present), it is, for some short season, a reign _in partibus infidelium_.' that progress of science, which is to destroy wonder, and in its stead substitute mensuration and numeration, finds small favour with teufelsdröckh, much as he otherwise venerates these two latter processes. 'shall your science,' exclaims he, 'proceed in the small chink-lighted, or even oil-lighted, underground workshop of logic alone; and man's mind become an arithmetical mill, whereof memory is the hopper, and mere tables of sines and tangents, codification, and treatises of what you call political economy, are the meal? and what is that science, which the scientific head alone, were it screwed off, and (like the doctor's in the arabian tale) set in a basin to keep it alive, could prosecute without shadow of a heart,--but one other of the mechanical and menial handicrafts, for which the scientific head (having a soul in it) is too noble an organ? i mean that thought without reverence is barren, perhaps poisonous; at best, dies like cookery with the day that called it forth; does not live, like sowing, in successive tilths and wider-spreading harvests, bringing food and plenteous increase to all time.' in such wise does teufelsdröckh deal hits, harder or softer, according to ability; yet ever, as we would fain persuade ourselves, with charitable intent. above all, that class of 'logic-choppers, and treble-pipe scoffers, and professed enemies to wonder; who, in these days, so numerously patrol as night-constables about the mechanics' institute of science, and cackle, like true old-roman geese and goslings round their capitol, on any alarm, or on none; nay who often, as illuminated sceptics, walk abroad into peaceable society, in full day-light, with rattle and lantern, and insist on guiding you and guarding you therewith, though the sun is shining, and the street populous with mere justice-loving men': that whole class is inexpressibly wearisome to him. hear with what uncommon animation he perorates: 'the man who cannot wonder, who does not habitually wonder (and worship) were he president of innumerable royal societies, and carried the whole _mécanique céleste_ and _hegel's philosophy_, and the epitome of all laboratories and observatories with their results, in his single head,--is but a pair of spectacles behind which there is no eye. let those who have eyes look through him, then he may be useful. 'thou wilt have no mystery and mysticism; wilt walk through thy world by the sunshine of what thou callest truth, or even by the hand-lamp of what i call attorney-logic; and "explain" all, "account" for all, or believe nothing of it? nay, thou wilt attempt laughter; whoso recognises the unfathomable, all-pervading domain of mystery, which is everywhere under our feet and among our hands; to whom the universe is an oracle and temple, as well as a kitchen and cattlestall,--he shall be a delirious mystic; to him thou, with sniffing charity, wilt protrusively proffer thy hand-lamp, and shriek, as one injured, when he kicks his foot through it?--_armer teufel!_ doth not thy cow calve, doth not thy bull gender? thou thyself, wert thou not born, wilt thou not die? "explain" me all this, or do one of two things: retire into private places with thy foolish cackle; or, what were better, give it up, and weep, not that the reign of wonder is done, and god's world all disembellished and prosaic, but that thou hitherto art a dilettante and sandblind pedant.' chapter xi prospective the philosophy of clothes is now to all readers, as we predicted it would do, unfolding itself into new boundless expansions, of a cloudclapt, almost chimerical aspect, yet not without azure loomings in the far distance, and streaks as of an elysian brightness; the highly questionable purport and promise of which it is becoming more and more important for us to ascertain. is that a real elysian brightness, cries many a timid wayfarer, or the reflex of pandemonian lava? is it of a truth leading us into beatific asphodel meadows, or the yellow-burning marl of a hell-on-earth? our professor, like other mystics, whether delirious or inspired, gives an editor enough to do. ever higher and dizzier are the heights he leads us to; more piercing, all-comprehending, all-confounding are his views and glances. for example, this of nature being not an aggregate but a whole: 'well sang the hebrew psalmist: "if i take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the universe, god is there." thou thyself, o cultivated reader, who too probably art no psalmist, but a prosaist, knowing god only by tradition, knowest thou any corner of the world where at least force is not? the drop which thou shakest from thy wet hand, rests not where it falls, but to-morrow thou findest it swept away; already on the wings of the northwind, it is nearing the tropic of cancer. how came it to evaporate, and not lie motionless? thinkest thou there is aught motionless; without force, and utterly dead? 'as i rode through the schwarzwald, i said to myself: that little fire which grows star-like across the dark-growing (_nachtende_) moor, where the sooty smith bends over his anvil, and thou hopest to replace thy lost horse-shoe,--is it a detached, separated speck, cut-off from the whole universe; or indissolubly joined to the whole? thou fool, that smithy-fire was (primarily) kindled at the sun; is fed by air that circulates from before noah's deluge, from beyond the dogstar; therein, with iron force, and coal force, and the far stranger force of man, are cunning affinities and battles and victories of force brought about; it is a little ganglion, or nervous centre, in the great vital system of immensity. call it, if thou wilt, an unconscious altar, kindled on the bosom of the all; whose iron sacrifice, whose iron smoke and influence reach quite through the all; whose dingy priest, not by word, yet by brain and sinew, preaches forth the mystery of force; nay preaches forth (exoterically enough) one little textlet from the gospel of freedom, the gospel of man's force, commanding, and one day to be all-commanding. 'detached, separated! i say there is no such separation: nothing hitherto was ever stranded, cast aside; but all, were it only a withered leaf, works together with all; is borne forward on the bottomless, shoreless flood of action, and lives through perpetual metamorphoses. the withered leaf is not dead and lost, there are forces in it and around it, though working in inverse order; else how could it _rot_? despise not the rag from which man makes paper, or the litter from which the earth makes corn. rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows, through which the philosophic eye looks into infinitude itself.' again, leaving that wondrous schwarzwald smithy-altar, what vacant, high-sailing air-ships are these, and whither will they sail with us? 'all visible things are emblems; what thou seest is not there on its own account; strictly taken, is not there at all: matter exists only spiritually, and to represent some idea, and _body_ it forth. hence clothes, as despicable as we think them, are so unspeakably significant. clothes, from the king's mantle downwards, are emblematic not of want only, but of a manifold cunning victory over want. on the other hand, all emblematic things are properly clothes, thought-woven or hand-woven: must not the imagination weave garments, visible bodies, wherein the else invisible creations and inspirations of our reason are, like spirits, revealed, and first become all-powerful;--the rather if, as we often see, the hand too aid her, and (by wool clothes or otherwise) reveal such even to the outward eye? 'men are properly said to be clothed with authority, clothed with beauty, with curses, and the like. nay, if you consider it, what is man himself, and his whole terrestrial life, but an emblem; a clothing or visible garment for that divine me of his, cast hither, like a light-particle, down from heaven? thus is he said also to be clothed with a body. 'language is called the garment of thought: however, it should rather be, language is the flesh-garment, the body, of thought. i said that imagination wove this flesh-garment; and does not she? metaphors are her stuff: examine language; what, if you except some few primitive elements (of natural sound), what is it all but metaphors, recognised as such, or no longer recognised; still fluid and florid, or now solid-grown and colourless? if those same primitive elements are the osseous fixtures in the flesh-garment, language,--then are metaphors its muscles and tissues and living integuments. an unmetaphorical style you shall in vain seek for: is not your very _attention_ a _stretching-to_? the difference lies here: some styles are lean, adust, wiry, the muscle itself seems osseous; some are even quite pallid, hunger-bitten and dead-looking; while others again glow in the flush of health and vigorous self-growth, sometimes (as in my own case) not without an apoplectic tendency. moreover, there are sham metaphors, which overhanging that same thought's-body (best naked), and deceptively bedizening, or bolstering it out, may be called its false stuffings, superfluous show-cloaks (_putz-mäntel_), and tawdry woollen rags: whereof he that runs and reads may gather whole hampers,--and burn them.' than which paragraph on metaphors did the reader ever chance to see a more surprisingly metaphorical? however, that is not our chief grievance; the professor continues: 'why multiply instances? it is written, the heavens and the earth shall fade away like a vesture; which indeed they are: the time-vesture of the eternal. whatsoever sensibly exists, whatsoever represents spirit to spirit, is properly a clothing, a suit of raiment, put on for a season, and to be laid off. thus in this one pregnant subject of clothes, rightly understood, is included all that men have thought, dreamed, done, and been: the whole external universe and what it holds is but clothing; and the essence of all science lies in the philosophy of clothes.' towards these dim infinitely-expanded regions, close-bordering on the impalpable inane, it is not without apprehension, and perpetual difficulties, that the editor sees himself journeying and struggling. till lately a cheerful daystar of hope hung before him, in the expected aid of hofrath heuschrecke; which daystar, however, melts now, not into the red of morning, but into a vague, gray half-light, uncertain whether dawn of day or dusk of utter darkness. for the last week, these so-called biographical documents are in his hand. by the kindness of a scottish hamburg merchant, whose name, known to the whole mercantile world, he must not mention; but whose honourable courtesy, now and often before spontaneously manifested to him, a mere literary stranger, he cannot soon forget,--the bulky weissnichtwo packet, with all its custom-house seals, foreign hieroglyphs, and miscellaneous tokens of travel, arrived here in perfect safety, and free of cost. the reader shall now fancy with what hot haste it was broken up, with what breathless expectation glanced over; and, alas, with what unquiet disappointment it has, since then, been often thrown down, and again taken up. hofrath heuschrecke, in a too long-winded letter, full of compliments, weissnichtwo politics, dinners, dining repartees, and other ephemeral trivialities, proceeds to remind us of what we know well already: that however it may be with metaphysics, and other abstract science originating in the head (_verstand_) alone, no life-philosophy (_lebensphilosophie_), such as this of clothes pretends to be, which originates equally in the character (_gemüth_), and equally speaks thereto, can attain its significance till the character itself is known and seen; 'till the author's view of the world (_weltansicht_), and how he actively and passively came by such view, are clear: in short till a biography of him has been philosophico-poetically written, and philosophico-poetically read.' 'nay,' adds he, 'were the speculative scientific truth even known, you still, in this inquiring age, ask yourself, whence came it, and why, and how?--and rest not, till, if no better may be, fancy have shaped-out an answer; and either in the authentic lineaments of fact, or the forged ones of fiction, a complete picture and genetical history of the man and his spiritual endeavour lies before you. but why,' says the hofrath, and indeed say we, 'do i dilate on the uses of our teufelsdröckh's biography? the great herr minister von goethe has penetratingly remarked that "man is properly the _only_ object that interests man": thus i too have noted, that in weissnichtwo our whole conversation is little or nothing else but biography or auto-biography; ever humano-anecdotical (_menschlich-anekdotisch_). biography is by nature the most universally profitable, universally pleasant of all things: especially biography of distinguished individuals. 'by this time, _mein verehrtester_ (my most esteemed),' continues he, with an eloquence which, unless the words be purloined from teufelsdröckh, or some trick of his, as we suspect, is well-nigh unaccountable, 'by this time you are fairly plunged (_vertieft_) in that mighty forest of clothes-philosophy; and looking round, as all readers do, with astonishment enough. such portions and passages as you have already mastered, and brought to paper, could not but awaken a strange curiosity touching the mind they issued from; the perhaps unparalleled psychical mechanism, which manufactured such matter, and emitted it to the light of day. had teufelsdröckh also a father and mother; did he, at one time, wear drivel-bibs, and live on spoon-meat? did he ever, in rapture and tears, clasp a friend's bosom to his; looks he also wistfully into the long burial-aisle of the past, where only winds, and their low harsh moan, give inarticulate answer? has he fought duels;--good heaven! how did he comport himself when in love? by what singular stair-steps, in short, and subterranean passages, and sloughs of despair, and steep pisgah hills, has he reached this wonderful prophetic hebron (a true old-clothes jewry) where he now dwells? 'to all these natural questions the voice of public history is as yet silent. certain only that he has been, and is, a pilgrim, and traveller from a far country; more or less footsore and travel-soiled; has parted with road-companions; fallen among thieves, been poisoned by bad cookery, blistered with bug-bites; nevertheless at every stage (for they have let him pass), has had the bill to discharge. but the whole particulars of his route, his weather-observations, the picturesque sketches he took, though all regularly jotted down (in indelible sympathetic-ink by an invisible interior penman), are these nowhere forthcoming? perhaps quite lost: one other leaf of that mighty volume (of human memory) left to fly abroad, unprinted, unpublished, unbound up, as waste paper; and to rot, the sport of rainy winds? 'no, _verehrtester herr herausgeber_, in no wise! i here, by the unexampled favour you stand in with our sage, send not a biography only, but an autobiography: at least the materials for such; wherefrom, if i misreckon not, your perspicacity will draw fullest insight: and so the whole philosophy and philosopher of clothes will stand clear to the wondering eyes of england, nay thence, through america, through hindostan, and the antipodal new holland, finally conquer (_einnehmen_) great part of this terrestrial planet!' and now let the sympathising reader judge of our feeling when, in place of this same autobiography with 'fullest insight,' we find--six considerable paper-bags, carefully sealed, and marked successively, in gilt china-ink, with the symbols of the six southern zodiacal signs, beginning at libra; in the inside of which sealed bags lie miscellaneous masses of sheets, and oftener shreds and snips, written in professor teufelsdröckh's scarce legible _cursiv-schrift_; and treating of all imaginable things under the zodiac and above it, but of his own personal history only at rare intervals, and then in the most enigmatic manner. whole fascicles there are, wherein the professor, or, as he here, speaking in the third person, calls himself, 'the wanderer,' is not once named. then again, amidst what seems to be a metaphysico-theological disquisition, 'detached thoughts on the steam-engine,' or, 'the continued possibility of prophecy,' we shall meet with some quite private, not unimportant biographical fact. on certain sheets stand dreams, authentic or not, while the circumjacent waking actions are omitted. anecdotes, oftenest without date of place or time, fly loosely on separate slips, like sibylline leaves. interspersed also are long purely autobiographical delineations; yet without connexion, without recognisable coherence; so unimportant, so superfluously minute, they almost remind us of 'p.p. clerk of this parish.' thus does famine of intelligence alternate with waste. selection, order, appears to be unknown to the professor. in all bags the same imbroglio; only perhaps in the bag _capricorn_, and those near it, the confusion a little worse confounded. close by a rather eloquent oration, 'on receiving the doctor's-hat,' lie washbills, marked _bezahlt_ (settled). his travels are indicated by the street-advertisements of the various cities he has visited; of which street-advertisements, in most living tongues, here is perhaps the completest collection extant. so that if the clothes-volume itself was too like a chaos, we have now instead of the solar luminary that should still it, the airy limbo which by intermixture will farther volatilise and discompose it! as we shall perhaps see it our duty ultimately to deposit these six paper-bags in the british museum, farther description, and all vituperation of them, may be spared. biography or autobiography of teufelsdröckh there is, clearly enough, none to be gleaned here: at most some sketchy, shadowy fugitive likeness of him may, by unheard-of efforts, partly of intellect, partly of imagination, on the side of editor and of reader; rise up between them. only as a gaseous-chaotic appendix to that aqueous-chaotic volume can the contents of the six bags hover round us, and portions thereof be incorporated with our delineation of it. daily and nightly does the editor sit (with green spectacles) deciphering these unimaginable documents from their perplexed _cursiv-schrift_; collating them with the almost equally unimaginable volume, which stands in legible print. over such a universal medley of high and low, of hot, cold, moist and dry, is he here struggling (by union of like with like, which is method) to build a firm bridge for british travellers. never perhaps since our first bridge-builders, sin and death, built that stupendous arch from hell-gate to the earth, did any pontifex, or pontiff, undertake such a task as the present editor. for in this arch too, leading, as we humbly presume, far otherwards than that grand primeval one, the materials are to be fished-up from the weltering deep, and down from the simmering air, here one mass, there another, and cunningly cemented, while the elements boil beneath: nor is there any supernatural force to do it with; but simply the diligence and feeble thinking faculty of an english editor, endeavouring to evolve printed creation out of a german printed and written chaos, wherein, as he shoots to and fro in it, gathering, clutching, piercing the why to the far-distant wherefore, his whole faculty and self are like to be swallowed up. patiently, under these incessant toils and agitations, does the editor, dismissing all anger, see his otherwise robust health declining; some fraction of his allotted natural sleep nightly leaving him, and little but an inflamed nervous-system to be looked for. what is the use of health, or of life, if not to do some work therewith? and what work nobler than transplanting foreign thought into the barren domestic soil; except indeed planting thought of your own, which the fewest are privileged to do? wild as it looks, this philosophy of clothes, can we ever reach its real meaning, promises to reveal new-coming eras, the first dim rudiments and already-budding germs of a nobler era, in universal history. is not such a prize worth some striving? forward with us, courageous reader; be it towards failure, or towards success! the latter thou sharest with us; the former also is not all our own. book second chapter i genesis in a psychological point of view, it is perhaps questionable whether from birth and genealogy, how closely scrutinised soever, much insight is to be gained. nevertheless, as in every phenomenon the beginning remains always the most notable moment; so, with regard to any great man, we rest not till, for our scientific profit or not, the whole circumstances of his first appearance in this planet, and what manner of public entry he made, are with utmost completeness rendered manifest. to the genesis of our clothes-philosopher, then, be this first chapter consecrated. unhappily, indeed, he seems to be of quite obscure extraction; uncertain, we might almost say, whether of any: so that this genesis of his can properly be nothing but an exodus (or transit out of invisibility into visibility); whereof the preliminary portion is nowhere forthcoming. 'in the village of entepfuhl,' thus writes he, in the bag _libra_, on various papers, which we arrange with difficulty, 'dwelt andreas futteral and his wife; childless, in still seclusion, and cheerful though now verging towards old age. andreas had been grenadier sergeant, and even regimental schoolmaster under frederick the great; but now, quitting the halbert and ferule for the spade and pruning-hook, cultivated a little orchard, on the produce of which he, cincinnatus-like, lived not without dignity. fruits, the peach, the apple, the grape, with other varieties came in their season; all which andreas knew how to sell: on evenings he smoked largely, or read (as beseemed a regimental schoolmaster), and talked to neighbours that would listen about the victory of rossbach; and how fritz the only (_der einzige_) had once with his own royal lips spoken to him, had been pleased to say, when andreas as camp-sentinel demanded the pass-word, "_schweig hund_ (peace, hound)!" before any of his staff-adjutants could answer. "_das nenn' ich mir einen könig_, there is what i call a king," would andreas exclaim: "but the smoke of kunersdorf was still smarting his eyes." 'gretchen, the housewife, won like desdemona by the deeds rather than the looks of her now veteran othello, lived not in altogether military subordination; for, as andreas said, "the womankind will not drill (_wer kann die weiberchen dressiren_)": nevertheless she at heart loved him both for valour and wisdom; to her a prussian grenadier sergeant and regiment's schoolmaster was little other than a cicero and cid: what you see, yet cannot see over, is as good as infinite. nay, was not andreas in very deed a man of order, courage, downrightness (_geradheit_); that understood büsching's _geography_, had been in the victory of rossbach, and left for dead in the camisade of hochkirch? the good gretchen, for all her fretting, watched over him and hovered round him as only a true housemother can: assiduously she cooked and sewed and scoured for him; so that not only his old regimental sword and grenadier-cap, but the whole habitation and environment, where on pegs of honour they hung, looked ever trim and gay: a roomy painted cottage, embowered in fruit-trees and forest-trees, evergreens and honeysuckles; rising many-coloured from amid shaven grass-plots, flowers struggling-in through the very windows; under its long projecting eaves nothing but garden-tools in methodic piles (to screen them from rain), and seats where, especially on summer nights, a king might have wished to sit and smoke, and call it his. such a _bauergut_ (copyhold) had gretchen given her veteran; whose sinewy arms, and long-disused gardening talent, had made it what you saw. 'into this umbrageous man's-nest, one meek yellow evening or dusk, when the sun, hidden indeed from terrestrial entepfuhl, did nevertheless journey visible and radiant along the celestial balance (_libra_), it was that a stranger of reverend aspect entered; and, with grave salutation, stood before the two rather astonished housemates. he was close-muffled in a wide mantle; which without further parley unfolding, he deposited therefrom what seemed some basket, overhung with green persian silk; saying only: _ihr lieben leute, hier bringe ein unschätzbares verleihen; nehmt es in aller acht, sorgfältigst benützt es: mit hohem lohn, oder wohl mit schweren zinsen, wird's einst zurückgefordert._ "good christian people, here lies for you an invaluable loan; take all heed thereof, in all carefulness employ it: with high recompense, or else with heavy penalty, will it one day be required back." uttering which singular words, in a clear, bell-like, forever memorable tone, the stranger gracefully withdrew; and before andreas or his wife, gazing in expectant wonder, had time to fashion either question or answer, was clean gone. neither out of doors could aught of him be seen or heard; he had vanished in the thickets, in the dusk; the orchard-gate stood quietly closed: the stranger was gone once and always. so sudden had the whole transaction been, in the autumn stillness and twilight, so gentle, noiseless, that the futterals could have fancied it all a trick of imagination, or some visit from an authentic spirit. only that the green-silk basket, such as neither imagination nor authentic spirits are wont to carry, still stood visible and tangible on their little parlour-table. towards this the astonished couple, now with lit candle, hastily turned their attention. lifting the green veil, to see what invaluable it hid, they descried there, amid down and rich white wrappages, no pitt diamond or hapsburg regalia, but, in the softest sleep, a little red-coloured infant! beside it, lay a roll of gold friedrichs, the exact amount of which was never publicly known; also a _taufschein_ (baptismal certificate), wherein unfortunately nothing but the name was decipherable; other document or indication none whatever. 'to wonder and conjecture was unavailing, then and always thenceforth. nowhere in entepfuhl, on the morrow or next day, did tidings transpire of any such figure as the stranger; nor could the traveller, who had passed through the neighbouring town in coach-and-four, be connected with this apparition, except in the way of gratuitous surmise. meanwhile, for andreas and his wife, the grand practical problem was: what to do with this little sleeping red-coloured infant? amid amazements and curiosities, which had to die away without external satisfying, they resolved, as in such circumstances charitable prudent people needs must, on nursing it, though with spoon-meat, into whiteness, and if possible into manhood. the heavens smiled on their endeavour: thus has that same mysterious individual ever since had a status for himself in this visible universe, some modicum of victual and lodging and parade-ground; and now expanded in bulk, faculty and knowledge of good and evil, he, as herr diogenes teufelsdröckh, professes or is ready to profess, perhaps not altogether without effect, in the new university of weissnichtwo, the new science of things in general.' our philosopher declares here, as indeed we should think he well might, that these facts, first communicated, by the good gretchen futteral, in his twelfth year, 'produced on the boyish heart and fancy a quite indelible impression. who this reverend personage,' he says, 'that glided into the orchard cottage when the sun was in libra, and then, as on spirit's wings, glided out again, might be? an inexpressible desire, full of love and of sadness, has often since struggled within me to shape an answer. ever, in my distresses and my loneliness, has fantasy turned, full of longing (_sehnsuchtsvoll_), to that unknown father, who perhaps far from me, perhaps near, either way invisible, might have taken me to his paternal bosom, there to lie screened from many a woe. thou beloved father, dost thou still, shut out from me only by thin penetrable curtains of earthly space, wend to and fro among the crowd of the living? or art thou hidden by those far thicker curtains of the everlasting night, or rather of the everlasting day, through which my mortal eye and outstretched arms need not strive to reach? alas, i know not, and in vain vex myself to know. more than once, heart-deluded, have i taken for thee this and the other noble-looking stranger; and approached him wistfully, with infinite regard; but he too had to repel me; he too was not thou. 'and yet, o man born of woman,' cries the autobiographer, with one of his sudden whirls, 'wherein is my case peculiar? hadst thou, any more than i, a father whom thou knowest? the andreas and gretchen, or the adam and eve, who led thee into life, and for a time suckled and pap-fed thee there, whom thou namest father and mother; these were, like mine, but thy nursing-father and nursing-mother: thy true beginning and father is in heaven, whom with the bodily eye thou shalt never behold, but only with the spiritual.' 'the little green veil,' adds he, among much similar moralising, and embroiled discoursing, 'i yet keep; still more inseparably the name, diogenes teufelsdröckh. from the veil can nothing be inferred: a piece of now quite faded persian silk, like thousands of others. on the name i have many times meditated and conjectured; but neither in this lay there any clue. that it was my unknown father's name i must hesitate to believe. to no purpose have i searched through all the herald's books, in and without the german empire, and through all manner of subscriber-lists (_pränumeranten_), militia-rolls, and other name-catalogues; extraordinary names as we have in germany, the name teufelsdröckh, except as appended to my own person, nowhere occurs. again, what may the unchristian rather than christian "diogenes" mean? did that reverend basket-bearer intend, by such designation, to shadow-forth my future destiny, or his own present malign humour? perhaps the latter, perhaps both. thou ill-starred parent, who like an ostrich hadst to leave thy ill-starred offspring to be hatched into self-support by the mere sky-influences of chance, can thy pilgrimage have been a smooth one? beset by misfortune thou doubtless hast been; or indeed by the worst figure of misfortune, by misconduct. often have i fancied how, in thy hard life-battle, thou wert shot at, and slung at, wounded, hand-fettered, hamstrung, browbeaten and bedevilled by the time-spirit (_zeitgeist_) in thyself and others, till the good soul first given thee was seared into grim rage; and thou hadst nothing for it but to leave in me an indignant appeal to the future, and living speaking protest against the devil, as that same spirit not of the time only, but of time itself, is well named! which appeal and protest, may i now modestly add, was not perhaps quite lost in air. 'for indeed, as walter shandy often insisted, there is much, nay almost all, in names. the name is the earliest garment you wrap round the earth-visiting me; to which it thenceforth cleaves, more tenaciously (for there are names that have lasted nigh thirty centuries) than the very skin. and now from without, what mystic influences does it not send inwards, even to the centre; especially in those plastic first-times, when the whole soul is yet infantine, soft, and the invisible seedgrain will grow to be an all overshadowing tree! names? could i unfold the influence of names, which are the most important of all clothings, i were a second greater trismegistus. not only all common speech, but science, poetry itself is no other, if thou consider it, than a right _naming_. adam's first task was giving names to natural appearances: what is ours still but a continuation of the same; be the appearances exotic-vegetable, organic, mechanic, stars or starry movements (as in science); or (as in poetry) passions, virtues, calamities, god-attributes, gods?--in a very plain sense the proverb says, _call one a thief, and he will steal_; in an almost similar sense may we not perhaps say, _call one diogenes teufelsdröckh, and he will open the philosophy of clothes?_' * * * * * 'meanwhile the incipient diogenes, like others, all ignorant of his why, his how or whereabout, was opening his eyes to the kind light; sprawling-out his ten fingers and toes; listening, tasting, feeling; in a word, by all his five senses, still more by his sixth sense of hunger, and a whole infinitude of inward, spiritual, half-awakened senses, endeavouring daily to acquire for himself some knowledge of this strange universe where he had arrived, be his task therein what it might. infinite was his progress; thus in some fifteen months, he could perform the miracle of--speech! to breed a fresh soul, is it not like brooding a fresh (celestial) egg; wherein as yet all is formless, powerless; yet by degrees organic elements and fibres shoot through the watery albumen; and out of vague sensation grows thought, grows fantasy and force, and we have philosophies, dynasties, nay poetries and religions! 'young diogenes, or rather young gneschen, for by such diminutive had they in their fondness named him, travelled forward to those high consummations, by quick yet easy stages. the futterals, to avoid vain talk, and moreover keep the roll of gold friedrichs safe, gave-out that he was a grand-nephew; the orphan of some sister's daughter, suddenly deceased, in andreas's distant prussian birthland; of whom, as of her indigent sorrowing widower, little enough was known at entepfuhl. heedless of all which, the nurseling took to his spoon-meat, and throve. i have heard him noted as a still infant, that kept his mind much to himself; above all, that seldom or never cried. he already felt that time was precious; that he had other work cut-out for him than whimpering.' * * * * * such, after utmost painful search and collation among these miscellaneous paper-masses, is all the notice we can gather of herr teufelsdröckh's genealogy. more imperfect, more enigmatic it can seem to few readers than to us. the professor, in whom truly we more and more discern a certain satirical turn, and deep undercurrents of roguish whim, for the present stands pledged in honour, so we will not doubt him: but seems it not conceivable that, by the 'good gretchen futteral,' or some other perhaps interested party, he has himself been deceived? should these sheets, translated or not, ever reach the entepfuhl circulating library, some cultivated native of that district might feel called to afford explanation. nay, since books, like invisible scouts, permeate the whole habitable globe, and timbuctoo itself is not safe from british literature, may not some copy find out even the mysterious basket-bearing stranger, who in a state of extreme senility perhaps still exists; and gently force even him to disclose himself; to claim openly a son, in whom any father may feel pride? chapter ii idyllic 'happy season of childhood!' exclaims teufelsdröckh: 'kind nature, that art to all a bountiful mother; that visitest the poor man's hut with auroral radiance; and for thy nurseling hast provided, a soft swathing of love, and infinite hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers, danced-round (_umgaukelt_) by sweetest dreams! if the paternal cottage still shuts us in, its roof still screens us; with a father we have as yet a prophet, priest and king, and an obedience that makes us free. the young spirit has awakened out of eternity, and knows not what we mean by time; as yet time is no fast-hurrying stream, but a sportful sunlit ocean; years to the child are as ages: ah! the secret of vicissitude, of that slower or quicker decay and ceaseless down-rushing of the universal world-fabric, from the granite mountain to the man or day-moth, is yet unknown; and in a motionless universe, we taste, what afterwards in this quick-whirling universe is forever denied us, the balm of rest. sleep on, thou fair child, for thy long rough journey is at hand! a little while, and thou too shalt sleep no more, but thy very dreams shall be mimic battles; thou too, with old arnauld, wilt have to say in stern patience: "rest? rest? shall i not have all eternity to rest in?" celestial nepenthe! though a pyrrhus conquer empires, and an alexander sack the world, he finds thee not; and thou hast once fallen gently, of thy own accord, on the eyelids, on the heart of every mother's child. for as yet, sleep and waking are one: the fair life-garden rustles infinite around, and everywhere is dewy fragrance, and the budding of hope; which budding, if in youth, too frostnipt, it grow to flowers, will in manhood yield no fruit, but a prickly, bitter-rinded stone-fruit, of which the fewest can find the kernel.' in such rose-coloured light does our professor, as poets are wont, look back on his childhood; the historical details of which (to say nothing of much other vague oratorical matter) he accordingly dwells on with an almost wearisome minuteness. we hear of entepfuhl standing 'in trustful derangement' among the woody slopes; the paternal orchard flanking it as extreme out-post from below; the little kuhbach gushing kindly by, among beech-rows, through river after river, into the donau, into the black sea, into the atmosphere and universe; and how 'the brave old linden,' stretching like a parasol of twenty ells in radius, overtopping all other rows and clumps, towered-up from the central _agora_ and _campus martius_ of the village, like its sacred tree; and how the old men sat talking under its shadow (gneschen often greedily listening), and the wearied labourers reclined, and the unwearied children sported, and the young men and maidens often danced to flute-music. 'glorious summer twilights,' cries teufelsdröckh, 'when the sun, like a proud conqueror and imperial taskmaster, turned his back, with his gold-purple emblazonry, and all his fireclad body-guard (of prismatic colours); and the tired brickmakers of this clay earth might steal a little frolic, and those few meek stars would not tell of them!' then we have long details of the _weinlesen_ (vintage), the harvest-home, christmas, and so forth; with a whole cycle of the entepfuhl children's-games, differing apparently by mere superficial shades from those of other countries. concerning all which, we shall here, for obvious reasons, say nothing. what cares the world for our as yet miniature philosopher's achievements under that 'brave old linden'? or even where is the use of such practical reflections as the following? 'in all the sports of children, were it only in their wanton breakages and defacements, you shall discern a creative instinct (_schaffenden trieb_): the mankin feels that he is a born man, that his vocation is to work. the choicest present you can make him is a tool; be it knife or pen-gun, for construction or for destruction; either way it is for work, for change. in gregarious sports of skill or strength, the boy trains himself to coöperation, for war or peace, as governor or governed: the little maid again, provident of her domestic destiny, takes with preference to dolls.' perhaps, however, we may give this anecdote, considering who it is that relates it: 'my first short-clothes were of yellow serge; or rather, i should say, my first short-cloth, for the vesture was one and indivisible, reaching from neck to ankle, a mere body with four limbs: of which fashion how little could i then divine the architectural, how much less the moral significance!' more graceful is the following little picture: 'on fine evenings i was wont to carry-forth my supper (bread-crumb boiled in milk), and eat it out-of-doors. on the coping of the orchard-wall, which i could reach by climbing, or still more easily if father andreas would set-up the pruning-ladder, my porringer was placed: there, many a sunset, have i, looking at the distant western mountains, consumed, not without relish, my evening meal. those hues of gold and azure, that hush of world's expectation as day died, were still a hebrew speech for me; nevertheless i was looking at the fair illuminated letters, and had an eye for their gilding.' with 'the little one's friendship for cattle and poultry' we shall not much intermeddle. it may be that hereby he acquired a 'certain deeper sympathy with animated nature': but when, we would ask, saw any man, in a collection of biographical documents, such a piece as this: 'impressive enough (_bedeutungsvoll_) was it to hear, in early morning, the swineherd's horn; and know that so many hungry happy quadrupeds were, on all sides, starting in hot haste to join him, for breakfast on the heath. or to see them at eventide, all marching-in again, with short squeak, almost in military order; and each, topographically correct, trotting-off in succession to the right or left, through its own lane, to its own dwelling; till old kunz, at the village-head, now left alone, blew his last blast, and retired for the night. we are wont to love the hog chiefly in the form of ham; yet did not these bristly thick-skinned beings here manifest intelligence, perhaps humour of character; at any rate, a touching, trustful submissiveness to man,--who, were he but a swineherd, in darned gabardine, and leather breeches more resembling slate or discoloured-tin breeches, is still the hierarch of this lower world?' it is maintained, by helvetius and his set, that an infant of genius is quite the same as any other infant, only that certain surprisingly favourable influences accompany him through life, especially through childhood, and expand him, while others lie closefolded and continue dunces. herein, say they, consists the whole difference between an inspired prophet and a double-barrelled game-preserver: the inner man of the one has been fostered into generous development; that of the other, crushed-down perhaps by vigour of animal digestion, and the like, has exuded and evaporated, or at best sleeps now irresuscitably stagnant at the bottom of his stomach. 'with which opinion,' cries teufelsdröckh, 'i should as soon agree as with this other, that an acorn might, by favourable or unfavourable influences of soil and climate, be nursed into a cabbage, or the cabbage-seed into an oak. 'nevertheless,' continues he, 'i too acknowledge the all-but omnipotence of early culture and nurture: hereby we have either a doddered dwarf bush, or a high-towering, wide-shadowing tree; either a sick yellow cabbage, or an edible luxuriant green one. of a truth, it is the duty of all men, especially of all philosophers, to note-down with accuracy the characteristic circumstances of their education, what furthered, what hindered, what in any way modified it: to which duty, nowadays so pressing for many a german autobiographer, i also zealously address myself.'--thou rogue! is it by short-clothes of yellow serge, and swineherd horns, that an infant of genius is educated? and yet, as usual, it ever remains doubtful whether he is laughing in his sleeve at these autobiographical times of ours, or writing from the abundance of his own fond ineptitude. for he continues: 'if among the ever-streaming currents of sights, hearings, feelings for pain or pleasure, whereby, as in a magic hall, young gneschen went about environed, i might venture to select and specify, perhaps these following were also of the number: 'doubtless, as childish sports call forth intellect, activity, so the young creature's imagination was stirred up, and a historical tendency given him by the narrative habits of father andreas; who, with his battle-reminiscences, and gay austere yet hearty patriarchal aspect, could not but appear another ulysses and "much-enduring man." eagerly i hung upon his tales, when listening neighbours enlivened the hearth; from these perils and these travels, wild and far almost as hades itself, a dim world of adventure expanded itself within me. incalculable also was the knowledge i acquired in standing by the old men under the linden-tree: the whole of immensity was yet new to me; and had not these reverend seniors, talkative enough, been employed in partial surveys thereof for nigh fourscore years? with amazement i began to discover that entepfuhl stood in the middle of a country, of a world; that there was such a thing as history, as biography; to which i also, one day, by hand and tongue, might contribute. 'in a like sense worked the _postwagen_ (stage-coach), which, slow-rolling under its mountains of men and luggage, wended through our village: northwards, truly, in the dead of night; yet southwards visibly at eventide. not till my eighth year did i reflect that this postwagen could be other than some terrestrial moon, rising and setting by mere law of nature, like the heavenly one; that it came on made highways, from far cities towards far cities; weaving them like a monstrous shuttle into closer and closer union. it was then that, independently of schiller's _wilhelm tell_, i made this not quite insignificant reflection (so true also in spiritual things): _any road, this simple entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the world!_ 'why mention our swallows, which, out of far africa, as i learned, threading their way over seas and mountains, corporate cities and belligerent nations, yearly found themselves, with the month of may, snug-lodged in our cottage lobby? the hospitable father (for cleanliness' sake) had fixed a little bracket plumb under their nest: there they built, and caught flies, and twittered, and bred; and all, i chiefly, from the heart loved them. bright, nimble creatures, who taught _you_ the mason-craft; nay, stranger still, gave you a masonic incorporation, almost social police? for if, by ill chance, and when time pressed, your house fell, have i not seen five neighbourly helpers appear next day; and swashing to and fro, with animated, loud, long-drawn chirpings, and activity almost super-hirundine, complete it again before nightfall? 'but undoubtedly the grand summary of entepfuhl child's-culture, where as in a funnel its manifold influences were concentrated and simultaneously poured-down on us, was the annual cattle-fair. here, assembling from all the four winds, came the elements of an unspeakable hurly-burly. nutbrown maids and nutbrown men, all clear-washed, loud-laughing, bedizened and beribanded; who came for dancing, for treating, and if possible, for happiness. topbooted graziers from the north; swiss brokers, italian drovers, also topbooted, from the south; these with their subalterns in leather jerkins, leather skull-caps, and long oxgoads; shouting in half-articulate speech, amid the inarticulate barking and bellowing. apart stood potters from far saxony, with their crockery in fair rows; nürnberg pedlars, in booths that to me seemed richer than ormuz bazaars; showmen from the lago maggiore; detachments of the _wiener schub_ (offscourings of vienna) vociferously superintending games of chance. ballad-singers brayed, auctioneers grew hoarse; cheap new wine (_heuriger_) flowed like water, still worse confounding the confusion; and high over all, vaulted, in ground-and-lofty tumbling, a particoloured merry-andrew, like the genius of the place and of life itself. 'thus encircled by the mystery of existence; under the deep heavenly firmament; waited-on by the four golden seasons, with their vicissitudes of contribution, for even grim winter brought its skating-matches and shooting-matches, its snow-storms and christmas-carols,--did the child sit and learn. these things were the alphabet, whereby in aftertime he was to syllable and partly read the grand volume of the world; what matters it whether such alphabet be in large gilt letters or in small ungilt ones, so you have an eye to read it? for gneschen, eager to learn, the very act of looking thereon was a blessedness that gilded all: his existence was a bright, soft element of joy; out of which, as in prospero's island, wonder after wonder bodied itself forth, to teach by charming. 'nevertheless, i were but a vain dreamer to say, that even then my felicity was perfect. i had, once for all, come down from heaven into the earth. among the rainbow colours that glowed on my horizon, lay even in childhood a dark ring of care, as yet no thicker than a thread, and often quite overshone; yet always it reappeared, nay ever waxing broader and broader; till in after-years it almost over-shadowed my whole canopy, and threatened to engulf me in final night. it was the ring of necessity whereby we are all begirt; happy he for whom a kind heavenly sun brightens it into a ring of duty, and plays round it with beautiful prismatic diffractions; yet ever, as basis and as bourne for our whole being, it is there. * * * * * 'for the first few years of our terrestrial apprenticeship, we have not much work to do; but, boarded and lodged gratis, are set down mostly to look about us over the workshop, and see others work, till we have understood the tools a little, and can handle this and that. if good passivity alone, and not good passivity and good activity together, were the thing wanted, then was my early position favourable beyond the most. in all that respects openness of sense, affectionate temper, ingenuous curiosity, and the fostering of these, what more could i have wished? on the other side, however, things went not so well. my active power (_thatkraft_) was unfavourably hemmed-in; of which misfortune how many traces yet abide with me! in an orderly house, where the litter of children's sports is hateful enough, your training is too stoical; rather to bear and forbear than to make and do. i was forbid much: wishes in any measure bold i had to renounce; everywhere a strait bond of obedience inflexibly held me down. thus already freewill often came in painful collision with necessity; so that my tears flowed, and at seasons the child itself might taste that root of bitterness, wherewith the whole fruitage of our life is mingled and tempered. 'in which habituation to obedience, truly, it was beyond measure safer to err by excess than by defect. obedience is our universal duty and destiny; wherein whoso will not bend must break: too early and too thoroughly we cannot be trained to know that would, in this world of ours, is as mere zero to should, and for most part as the smallest of fractions even to shall. hereby was laid for me the basis of worldly discretion, nay, of morality itself. let me not quarrel with my upbringing! it was rigorous, too frugal, compressively secluded, everyway unscientific: yet in that very strictness and domestic solitude might there not lie the root of deeper earnestness, of the stem from which all noble fruit must grow? above all, how unskilful soever, it was loving, it was well-meant, honest; whereby every deficiency was helped. my kind mother, for as such i must ever love the good gretchen, did me one altogether invaluable service: she taught me, less indeed by word than by act and daily reverent look and habitude, her own simple version of the christian faith. andreas too attended church; yet more like a parade-duty, for which he in the other world expected pay with arrears,--as, i trust, he has received; but my mother, with a true woman's heart, and fine though uncultivated sense, was in the strictest acceptation religious. how indestructibly the good grows, and propagates itself, even among the weedy entanglements of evil! the highest whom i knew on earth i here saw bowed down, with awe unspeakable, before a higher in heaven: such things, especially in infancy, reach inwards to the very core of your being; mysteriously does a holy of holies build itself into visibility in the mysterious deeps; and reverence, the divinest in man, springs forth undying from its mean envelopment of fear. wouldst thou rather be a peasant's son that knew, were it never so rudely, there was a god in heaven and in man; or a duke's son that only knew there were two-and-thirty quarters on the family-coach?' to which last question we must answer: beware, o teufelsdröckh, of spiritual pride! chapter iii pedagogy hitherto we see young gneschen, in his indivisible case of yellow serge, borne forward mostly on the arms of kind nature alone; seated, indeed, and much to his mind, in the terrestrial workshop; but (except his soft hazel eyes, which we doubt not already gleamed with a still intelligence) called upon for little voluntary movement there. hitherto, accordingly, his aspect is rather generic, that of an incipient philosopher and poet in the abstract; perhaps it would trouble herr heuschrecke himself to say wherein the special doctrine of clothes is as yet foreshadowed or betokened. for with gneschen, as with others, the man may indeed stand pictured in the boy (at least all the pigments are there); yet only some half of the man stands in the child, or young boy, namely, his passive endowment, not his active. the more impatient are we to discover what figure he cuts in this latter capacity; how when, to use his own words, 'he understands the tools a little, and can handle this or that,' he will proceed to handle it. here, however, may be the place to state that, in much of our philosopher's history, there is something of an almost hindoo character: nay perhaps in that so well-fostered and everyway excellent 'passivity' of his, which, with no free development of the antagonist activity, distinguished his childhood, we may detect the rudiments of much that, in after days, and still in these present days, astonishes the world. for the shallow-sighted, teufelsdröckh is oftenest a man without activity of any kind, a no-man; for the deep-sighted, again, a man with activity almost superabundant, yet so spiritual, close-hidden, enigmatic, that no mortal can foresee its explosions, or even when it has exploded, so much as ascertain its significance. a dangerous, difficult temper for the modern european; above all, disadvantageous in the hero of a biography! now as heretofore it will behove the editor of these pages, were it never so unsuccessfully, to do his endeavour. among the earliest tools of any complicacy which a man, especially a man of letters, gets to handle, are his class-books. on this portion of his history, teufelsdröckh looks down professedly as indifferent. reading he 'cannot remember ever to have learned'; so perhaps had it by nature. he says generally: 'of the insignificant portion of my education, which depended on schools, there need almost no notice be taken. i learned what others learn; and kept it stored-by in a corner of my head, seeing as yet no manner of use in it. my schoolmaster, a downbent, brokenhearted, underfoot martyr, as others of that guild are, did little for me, except discover that he could do little: he, good soul, pronounced me a genius, fit for the learned professions; and that i must be sent to the gymnasium, and one day to the university. meanwhile, what printed thing soever i could meet with i read. my very copper pocket-money i laid-out on stall-literature; which, as it accumulated, i with my own hands sewed into volumes. by this means was the young head furnished with a considerable miscellany of things and shadows of things: history in authentic fragments lay mingled with fabulous chimeras, wherein also was reality; and the whole not as dead stuff, but as living pabulum, tolerably nutritive for a mind as yet so peptic.' that the entepfuhl schoolmaster judged well, we now know. indeed, already in the youthful gneschen, with all his outward stillness, there may have been manifest an inward vivacity that promised much; symptoms of a spirit singularly open, thoughtful, almost poetical. thus, to say nothing of his suppers on the orchard-wall, and other phenomena of that earlier period, have many readers of these pages stumbled, in their twelfth year, on such reflections as the following? 'it struck me much, as i sat by the kuhbach, one silent noontide, and watched it flowing, gurgling, to think how this same streamlet had flowed and gurgled, through all changes of weather and of fortune, from beyond the earliest date of history. yes, probably on the morning when joshua forded jordan; even as at the midday when cæsar, doubtless with difficulty, swam the nile, yet kept his _commentaries_ dry,--this little kuhbach, assiduous as tiber, eurotas or siloa, was murmuring on across the wilderness, as yet unnamed, unseen: here, too, as in the euphrates and the ganges, is a vein or veinlet of the grand world-circulation of waters, which, with its atmospheric arteries, has lasted and lasts simply with the world. thou fool! nature alone is antique, and the oldest art a mushroom; that idle crag thou sittest on is six-thousand years of age.' in which little thought, as in a little fountain, may there not lie the beginning of those well-nigh unutterable meditations on the grandeur and mystery of time, and its relation to eternity, which play such a part in this philosophy of clothes? over his gymnasic and academic years the professor by no means lingers so lyrical and joyful as over his childhood. green sunny tracts there are still; but intersected by bitter rivulets of tears, here and there stagnating into sour marshes of discontent. 'with my first view of the hinterschlag gymnasium,' writes he, 'my evil days began. well do i still remember the red sunny whitsuntide morning, when, trotting full of hope by the side of father andreas, i entered the main street of the place, and saw its steeple-clock (then striking eight) and _schuldthurm_ (jail), and the aproned or disaproned burghers moving-in to breakfast: a little dog, in mad terror, was rushing past; for some human imps had tied a tin-kettle to its tail; thus did the agonised creature, loud-jingling, career through the whole length of the borough, and become notable enough. fit emblem of many a conquering hero, to whom fate (wedding fantasy to sense, as it often elsewhere does) has malignantly appended a tin-kettle of ambition, to chase him on; which the faster he runs, urges him the faster, the more loudly and more foolishly! fit emblem also of much that awaited myself, in that mischievous den; as in the world, whereof it was a portion and epitome! 'alas, the kind beech-rows of entepfuhl were hidden in the distance: i was among strangers, harshly, at best indifferently, disposed towards me; the young heart felt, for the first time, quite orphaned and alone.' his schoolfellows, as is usual, persecuted him: 'they were boys,' he says, 'mostly rude boys, and obeyed the impulse of rude nature, which bids the deerherd fall upon any stricken hart, the duck-flock put to death any broken-winged brother or sister, and on all hands the strong tyrannise over the weak.' he admits, that though 'perhaps in an unusual degree morally courageous,' he succeeded ill in battle, and would fain have avoided it; a result, as would appear, owing less to his small personal stature (for in passionate seasons he was 'incredibly nimble'), than to his 'virtuous principles': 'if it was disgraceful to be beaten,' says he, 'it was only a shade less disgraceful to have so much as fought; thus was i drawn two ways at once, and in this important element of school-history, the war-element, had little but sorrow.' on the whole, that same excellent 'passivity,' so notable in teufelsdröckh's childhood, is here visibly enough again getting nourishment. 'he wept often; indeed to such a degree that he was nicknamed _der weinende_ (the tearful), which epithet, till towards his thirteenth year, was indeed not quite unmerited. only at rare intervals did the young soul burst-forth into fire-eyed rage, and, with a stormfulness (_ungestüm_) under which the boldest quailed, assert that he too had rights of man, or at least of mankin.' in all which, who does not discern a fine flower-tree and cinnamon-tree (of genius) nigh choked among pumpkins, reed-grass and ignoble shrubs; and forced if it would live, to struggle upwards only, and not outwards; into a _height_ quite sickly, and disproportioned to its _breadth_? we find, moreover, that his greek and latin were 'mechanically' taught; hebrew scarce even mechanically; much else which they called history, cosmography, philosophy, and so forth, no better than not at all. so that, except inasmuch as nature was still busy; and he himself 'went about, as was of old his wont, among the craftsmen's workshops, there learning many things'; and farther lighted on some small store of curious reading, in hans wachtel the cooper's house, where he lodged,--his time, it would appear, was utterly wasted. which facts the professor has not yet learned to look upon with any contentment. indeed, throughout the whole of this bag _scorpio_, where we now are, and often in the following bag, he shows himself unusually animated on the matter of education, and not without some touch of what we might presume to be anger. 'my teachers,' says he, 'were hide-bound pedants, without knowledge of man's nature, or of boy's; or of aught save their lexicons and quarterly account-books. innumerable dead vocables (no dead language, for they themselves knew no language) they crammed into us, and called it fostering the growth of mind. how can an inanimate, mechanical gerund-grinder, the like of whom will, in a subsequent century, be manufactured at nürnberg out of wood and leather, foster the growth of anything; much more of mind, which grows, not like a vegetable (by having its roots littered with etymological compost), but like a spirit, by mysterious contact of spirit; thought kindling itself at the fire of living thought? how shall _he_ give kindling, in whose own inward man there is no live coal, but all is burnt-out to a dead grammatical cinder? the hinterschlag professors knew syntax enough; and of the human soul thus much: that it had a faculty called memory, and could be acted-on through the muscular integument by appliance of birch-rods. 'alas, so is it everywhere, so will it ever be; till the hodman is discharged, or reduced to hodbearing, and an architect is hired, and on all hands fitly encouraged: till communities and individuals discover, not without surprise, that fashioning the souls of a generation by knowledge can rank on a level with blowing their bodies to pieces by gunpowder; that with generals and fieldmarshals for killing, there should be world-honoured dignitaries, and were it possible, true god-ordained priests, for teaching. but as yet, though the soldier wears openly, and even parades, his butchering-tool, nowhere, far as i have travelled, did the schoolmaster make show of his instructing-tool: nay, were he to walk abroad with birch girt on thigh, as if he therefrom expected honour, would there not, among the idler class, perhaps a certain levity be excited?' in the third year of this gymnasic period, father andreas seems to have died: the young scholar, otherwise so maltreated, saw himself for the first time clad outwardly in sables, and inwardly in quite inexpressible melancholy. 'the dark bottomless abyss, that lies under our feet, had yawned open; the pale kingdoms of death, with all their innumerable silent nations and generations, stood before him; the inexorable word, never! now first showed its meaning. my mother wept, and her sorrow got vent; but in my heart there lay a whole lake of tears, pent-up in silent desolation. nevertheless the unworn spirit is strong; life is so healthful that it even finds nourishment in death: these stern experiences, planted down by memory in my imagination, rose there to a whole cypress-forest, sad but beautiful; waving, with not unmelodious sighs, in dark luxuriance, in the hottest sunshine, through long years of youth:--as in manhood also it does, and will do; for i have now pitched my tent under a cypress-tree; the tomb is now my inexpugnable fortress, ever close by the gate of which i look upon the hostile armaments, and pains and penalties of tyrannous life placidly enough, and listen to its loudest threatenings with a still smile. o ye loved ones, that already sleep in the noiseless bed of rest, whom in life i could only weep for and never help; and ye, who wide-scattered still toil lonely in the monster-bearing desert, dyeing the flinty ground with your blood,--yet a little while, and we shall all meet there, and our mother's bosom will screen us all; and oppression's harness, and sorrow's fire-whip, and all the gehenna bailiffs that patrol and inhabit ever-vexed time, cannot thenceforth harm us any more!' close by which rather beautiful apostrophe, lies a laboured character of the deceased andreas futteral; of his natural ability, his deserts in life (as prussian sergeant); with long historical inquiries into the genealogy of the futteral family, here traced back as far as henry the fowler: the whole of which we pass over, not without astonishment. it only concerns us to add, that now was the time when mother gretchen revealed to her foster-son that he was not at all of this kindred, or indeed of any kindred, having come into historical existence in the way already known to us. 'thus was i doubly orphaned,' says he; 'bereft not only of possession, but even of remembrance. sorrow and wonder, here suddenly united, could not but produce abundant fruit. such a disclosure, in such a season, struck its roots through my whole nature: ever till the years of mature manhood, it mingled with my whole thoughts, was as the stem whereon all my day-dreams and night-dreams grew. a certain poetic elevation, yet also a corresponding civic depression, it naturally imparted: _i was like no other_; in which fixed-idea, leading sometimes to highest, and oftener to frightfullest results, may there not lie the first spring of tendencies, which in my life have become remarkable enough? as in birth, so in action, speculation, and social position, my fellows are perhaps not numerous.' * * * * * in the bag _sagittarius_, as we at length discover, teufelsdröckh has become a university man; though, how, when, or of what quality, will nowhere disclose itself with the smallest certainty. few things, in the way of confusion and capricious indistinctness, can now surprise our readers; not even the total want of dates, almost without parallel in a biographical work. so enigmatic, so chaotic we have always found, and must always look to find, these scattered leaves. in _sagittarius_, however, teufelsdröckh begins to show himself even more than usually sibylline: fragments of all sorts; scraps of regular memoir, college-exercises, programs, professional testimoniums, milkscores, torn billets, sometimes to appearance of an amatory cast; all blown together as if by merest chance, henceforth bewilder the sane historian. to combine any picture of these university, and the subsequent, years; much more, to decipher therein any illustrative primordial elements of the clothes-philosophy, becomes such a problem as the reader may imagine. so much we can see; darkly, as through the foliage of some wavering thicket: a youth of no common endowment, who has passed happily through childhood, less happily yet still vigorously through boyhood, now at length perfect in 'dead vocables,' and set down, as he hopes, by the living fountain, there to superadd ideas and capabilities. from such fountain he draws, diligently, thirstily, yet never or seldom with his whole heart, for the water nowise suits his palate; discouragements, entanglements, aberrations are discoverable or supposable. nor perhaps are even pecuniary distresses wanting; for 'the good gretchen, who in spite of advices from not disinterested relatives has sent him hither, must after a time withdraw her willing but too feeble hand.' nevertheless in an atmosphere of poverty and manifold chagrin, the humour of that young soul, what character is in him, first decisively reveals itself; and, like strong sunshine in weeping skies, gives out variety of colours, some of which are prismatic. thus, with the aid of time and of what time brings, has the stripling diogenes teufelsdröckh waxed into manly stature; and into so questionable an aspect, that we ask with new eagerness, how he specially came by it, and regret anew that there is no more explicit answer. certain of the intelligible and partially significant fragments, which are few in number, shall be extracted from that limbo of a paper-bag, and presented with the usual preparation. as if, in the bag _scorpio_, teufelsdröckh had not already expectorated his antipedagogic spleen; as if, from the name _sagittarius_, he had thought himself called upon to shoot arrows, we here again fall-in with such matter as this: 'the university where i was educated still stands vivid enough in my remembrance, and i know its name well; which name, however, i, from tenderness to existing interests and persons, shall in nowise divulge. it is my painful duty to say that, out of england and spain, ours was the worst of all hitherto discovered universities. this is indeed a time when right education is, as nearly as may be, impossible: however, in degrees of wrongness there is no limit: nay, i can conceive a worse system than that of the nameless itself; as poisoned victual may be worse than absolute hunger. 'it is written, when the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch: wherefore, in such circumstances, may it not sometimes be safer, if both leader and led simply--sit still? had you, anywhere in crim tartary; walled-in a square enclosure; furnished it with a small, ill-chosen library; and then turned loose into it eleven-hundred christian striplings, to tumble about as they listed, from three to seven years: certain persons, under the title of professors, being stationed at the gates, to declare aloud that it was a university, and exact considerable admission-fees,--you had, not indeed in mechanical structure, yet in spirit and result, some imperfect resemblance of our high seminary. i say, imperfect; for if our mechanical structure was quite other, so neither was our result altogether the same: unhappily, we were not in crim tartary, but in a corrupt european city, full of smoke and sin; moreover, in the middle of a public, which, without far costlier apparatus than that of the square enclosure, and declaration aloud, you could not be sure of gulling. 'gullible, however, by fit apparatus, all publics are; and gulled, with the most surprising profit. towards anything like a _statistics of imposture_, indeed, little as yet has been done: with a strange indifference, our economists, nigh buried under tables for minor branches of industry, have altogether overlooked the grand all-overtopping hypocrisy branch; as if our whole arts of puffery, of quackery, priestcraft, kingcraft, and the innumerable other crafts and mysteries of that genus, had not ranked in productive industry at all! can any one, for example, so much as say, what moneys, in literature and shoeblacking, are realised by actual instruction and actual jet polish; what by fictitious-persuasive proclamation of such; specifying, in distinct items, the distributions, circulations, disbursements, incomings of said moneys, with the smallest approach to accuracy? but to ask, how far, in all the several infinitely-complected departments of social business, in government, education, in manual, commercial, intellectual fabrication of every sort, man's want is supplied by true ware; how far by the mere appearance of true ware:--in other words, to what extent, by what methods, with what effects, in various times and countries, deception takes the place of wages of performance: here truly is an inquiry big with results for the future time, but to which hitherto only the vaguest answer can be given. if for the present, in our europe, we estimate the ratio of ware to appearance of ware so high even as at one to a hundred (which, considering the wages of a pope, russian autocrat, or english game-preserver, is probably not far from the mark),--what almost prodigious saving may there not be anticipated, as the _statistics of imposture_ advances, and so the manufacturing of shams (that of realities rising into clearer and clearer distinction therefrom) gradually declines, and at length becomes all but wholly unnecessary! 'this for the coming golden ages. what i had to remark, for the present brazen one, is, that in several provinces, as in education, polity, religion, where so much is wanted and indispensable, and so little can as yet be furnished, probably imposture is of sanative, anodyne nature, and man's gullibility not his worst blessing. suppose your sinews of war quite broken; i mean your military chest insolvent, forage all but exhausted; and that the whole army is about to mutiny, disband, and cut your and each other's throat,--then were it not well could you, as if by miracle, pay them in any sort of fairy-money, feed them on coagulated water, or mere imagination of meat; whereby, till the real supply came up, they might be kept together and quiet? such perhaps was the aim of nature, who does nothing without aim, in furnishing her favourite, man, with this his so omnipotent or rather omnipatient talent of being gulled. 'how beautifully it works, with a little mechanism; nay, almost makes mechanism for itself! these professors in the nameless lived with ease, with safety, by a mere reputation, constructed in past times, and then too with no great effort, by quite another class of persons. which reputation, like a strong, brisk-going undershot wheel, sunk into the general current, bade fair, with only a little annual repainting on their part, to hold long together, and of its own accord assiduously grind for them. happy that it was so, for the millers! they themselves needed not to work; their attempts at working, at what they called educating, now when i look back on it, filled me with a certain mute admiration. 'besides all this, we boasted ourselves a rational university; in the highest degree hostile to mysticism; thus was the young vacant mind furnished with much talk about progress of the species, dark ages, prejudice, and the like; so that all were quickly enough blown out into a state of windy argumentativeness; whereby the better sort had soon to end in sick, impotent scepticism; the worser sort explode (_crepiren_) in finished self-conceit, and to all spiritual intents become dead.--but this too is portion of mankind's lot. if our era is the era of unbelief, why murmur under it; is there not a better coming, nay come? as in long-drawn systole and long-drawn diastole, must the period of faith alternate with the period of denial; must the vernal growth, the summer luxuriance of all opinions, spiritual representations and creations, be followed by, and again follow, the autumnal decay, the winter dissolution. for man lives in time, has his whole earthly being, endeavour and destiny shaped for him by time: only in the transitory time-symbol is the ever-motionless eternity we stand on made manifest. and yet, in such winter-seasons of denial, it is for the nobler-minded perhaps a comparative misery to have been born, and to be awake and work; and for the duller a felicity, if, like hibernating animals, safe-lodged in some salamanca university, or sybaris city, or other superstitious or voluptuous castle of indolence, they can slumber-through, in stupid dreams, and only awaken when the loud-roaring hailstorms have all done their work, and to our prayers and martyrdoms the new spring has been vouchsafed.' that in the environment, here mysteriously enough shadowed forth, teufelsdröckh must have felt ill at ease, cannot be doubtful. 'the hungry young,' he says, 'looked up to their spiritual nurses; and, for food, were bidden eat the east-wind. what vain jargon of controversial metaphysic, etymology, and mechanical manipulation falsely named science, was current there, i indeed learned, better perhaps than the most. among eleven-hundred christian youths, there will not be wanting some eleven eager to learn. by collision with such, a certain warmth, a certain polish was communicated; by instinct and happy accident, i took less to rioting (_renommiren_), than to thinking and reading, which latter also i was free to do. nay from the chaos of that library, i succeeded in fishing-up more books perhaps than had been known to the very keepers thereof. the foundation of a literary life was hereby laid : i learned, on my own strength, to read fluently in almost all cultivated languages, on almost all subjects and sciences; farther, as man is ever the prime object to man, already it was my favourite employment to read character in speculation, and from the writing to construe the writer. a certain groundplan of human nature and life began to fashion itself in me; wondrous enough, now when i look back on it; for my whole universe, physical and spiritual, was as yet a machine! however, such a conscious, recognised groundplan, the truest i had, _was_ beginning to be there, and by additional experiments might be corrected and indefinitely extended.' thus from poverty does the strong educe nobler wealth; thus in the destitution of the wild desert does our young ishmael acquire for himself the highest of all possessions, that of self-help. nevertheless a desert this was, waste, and howling with savage monsters. teufelsdröckh gives us long details of his 'fever-paroxysms of doubt'; his inquiries concerning miracles, and the evidences of religious faith; and how 'in the silent night-watches, still darker in his heart than over sky and earth, he has cast himself before the all-seeing, and with audible prayers cried vehemently for light, for deliverance from death and the grave. not till after long years, and unspeakable agonies, did the believing heart surrender; sink into spell-bound sleep, under the night-mare, unbelief; and, in this hag-ridden dream, mistake god's fair living world for a pallid, vacant hades and extinct pandemonium. but through such purgatory pain,' continues he, 'it is appointed us to pass; first must the dead letter of religion own itself dead, and drop piecemeal into dust, if the living spirit of religion, freed from this its charnel-house, is to arise on us, newborn of heaven, and with new healing under its wings.' to which purgatory pains, seemingly severe enough, if we add a liberal measure of earthly distresses, want of practical guidance, want of sympathy, want of money, want of hope; and all this in the fervid season of youth, so exaggerated in imagining, so boundless in desires, yet here so poor in means,--do we not see a strong incipient spirit oppressed and overloaded from without and from within; the fire of genius struggling-up among fuel-wood of the greenest, and as yet with more of bitter vapour than of clear flame? from various fragments of letters and other documentary scraps, it is to be inferred that teufelsdröckh, isolated, shy, retiring as he was, had not altogether escaped notice: certain established men are aware of his existence; and, if stretching-out no helpful hand, have at least their eyes on him. he appears, though in dreary enough humour, to be addressing himself to the profession of law;--whereof, indeed, the world has since seen him a public graduate. but omitting these broken, unsatisfactory thrums of economical relation, let us present rather the following small thread of moral relation; and therewith, the reader for himself weaving it in at the right place, conclude our dim arras-picture of these university years. 'here also it was that i formed acquaintance with herr towgood, or, as it is perhaps better written, herr toughgut; a young person of quality (_von adel_), from the interior parts of england. he stood connected, by blood and hospitality, with the counts von zähdarm, in this quarter of germany; to which noble family i likewise was, by his means, with all friendliness, brought near. towgood had a fair talent, unspeakably ill-cultivated; with considerable humour of character: and, bating his total ignorance, for he knew nothing except boxing and a little grammar, showed less of that aristocratic impassivity, and silent fury, than for most part belongs to travellers of his nation. to him i owe my first practical knowledge of the english and their ways; perhaps also something of the partiality with which i have ever since regarded that singular people. towgood was not without an eye, could he have come at any light. invited doubtless by the presence of the zähdarm family, he had travelled hither, in the almost frantic hope of perfecting his studies; he, whose studies had as yet been those of infancy, hither to a university where so much as the notion of perfection, not to say the effort after it, no longer existed! often we would condole over the hard destiny of the young in this era: how, after all our toil, we were to be turned-out into the world, with beards on our chins indeed, but with few other attributes of manhood; no existing thing that we were trained to act on, nothing that we could so much as believe. "how has our head on the outside a polished hat," would towgood exclaim, "and in the inside vacancy, or a froth of vocables and attorney-logic! at a small cost men are educated to make leather into shoes; but at a great cost, what am i educated to make? by heaven, brother! what i have already eaten and worn, as i came thus far, would endow a considerable hospital of incurables."--"man, indeed," i would answer, "has a digestive faculty, which must be kept working, were it even partly by stealth. but as for our mis-education, make not bad worse; waste not the time yet ours, in trampling on thistles because they have yielded us no figs. _frisch zu, bruder!_ here are books, and we have brains to read them; here is a whole earth and a whole heaven, and we have eyes to look on them: _frisch zu!_" 'often also our talk was gay; not without brilliancy, and even fire. we looked-out on life, with its strange scaffolding, where all at once harlequins dance, and men are beheaded and quartered: motley, not unterrific was the aspect; but we looked on it like brave youths. for myself, these were perhaps my most genial hours. towards this young warmhearted, strongheaded and wrongheaded herr towgood i was even near experiencing the now obsolete sentiment of friendship. yes, foolish heathen that i was, i felt that, under certain conditions, i could have loved this man, and taken him to my bosom, and been his brother once and always. by degrees, however, i understood the new time, and its wants. if man's _soul_ is indeed, as in the finnish language, and utilitarian philosophy, a kind of _stomach_, what else is the true meaning of spiritual union but an eating together? thus we, instead of friends, are dinner-guests; and here as elsewhere have cast away chimeras.' so ends, abruptly as is usual, and enigmatically, this little incipient romance. what henceforth becomes of the brave herr towgood, or toughgut? he has dived-under, in the autobiographical chaos, and swims we see not where. does any reader 'in the interior parts of england' know of such a man? chapter iv getting under way 'thus, nevertheless,' writes our autobiographer, apparently as quitting college, 'was there realised somewhat; namely, i, diogenes teufelsdröckh: a visible temporary figure (_zeitbild_), occupying some cubic feet of space, and containing within it forces both physical and spiritual; hopes, passions, thoughts; the whole wondrous furniture, in more or less perfection, belonging to that mystery, a man. capabilities there were in me to give battle, in some small degree, against the great empire of darkness: does not the very ditcher and delver, with his spade, extinguish many a thistle and puddle; and so leave a little order, where he found the opposite? nay your very daymoth has capabilities in this kind; and ever organises something (into its own body, if no otherwise), which was before inorganic; and of mute dead air makes living music, though only of the faintest, by humming. 'how much more, one whose capabilities are spiritual; who has learned, or begun learning, the grand thaumaturgic art of thought! thaumaturgic i name it; for hitherto all miracles have been wrought thereby, and henceforth innumerable will be wrought; whereof we, even in these days, witness some. of the poet's and prophet's inspired message, and how it makes and unmakes whole worlds, i shall forbear mention: but cannot the dullest hear steam-engines clanking around him? has he not seen the scottish brassmith's idea (and this but a mechanical one) travelling on fire-wings round the cape, and across two oceans; and stronger than any other enchanter's familiar, on all hands unweariedly fetching and carrying: at home, not only weaving cloth, but rapidly enough overturning the whole old system of society; and, for feudalism and preservation of the game, preparing us, by indirect but sure methods, industrialism and the government of the wisest? truly a thinking man is the worst enemy the prince of darkness can have; every time such a one announces himself, i doubt not, there runs a shudder through the nether empire; and new emissaries are trained, with new tactics, to, if possible, entrap him, and hoodwink and handcuff him. 'with such high vocation had i too, as denizen of the universe, been called. unhappy it is, however, that though born to the amplest sovereignty, in this way, with no less than sovereign right of peace and war against the time-prince (_zeitfürst_), or devil, and all his dominions, your coronation-ceremony costs such trouble, your sceptre is so difficult to get at, or even to get eye on!' by which last wiredrawn similitude does teufelsdröckh mean no more than that young men find obstacles in what we call 'getting under way'? 'not what i have,' continues he, 'but what i do is my kingdom. to each is given a certain inward talent, a certain outward environment of fortune; to each, by wisest combination of these two, a certain maximum of capability. but the hardest problem were ever this first: to find by study of yourself, and of the ground you stand on, what your combined inward and outward capability specially is. for, alas, our young soul is all budding with capabilities, and we see not yet which is the main and true one. always too the new man is in a new time, under new conditions; his course can be the _fac-simile_ of no prior one, but is by its nature original. and then how seldom will the outward capability fit the inward: though talented wonderfully enough, we are poor, unfriended, dyspeptical, bashful; nay what is worse than all, we are foolish. thus, in a whole imbroglio of capabilities, we go stupidly groping about, to grope which is ours, and often clutch the wrong one: in this mad work must several years of our small term be spent, till the purblind youth, by practice, acquire notions of distance, and become a seeing man. nay, many so spend their whole term, and in ever-new expectation, ever-new disappointment, shift from enterprise to enterprise, and from side to side: till at length, as exasperated striplings of threescore-and-ten, they shift into their last enterprise, that of getting buried. 'such, since the most of us are too ophthalmic, would be the general fate; were it not that one thing saves us: our hunger. for on this ground, as the prompt nature of hunger is well known, must a prompt choice be made: hence have we, with wise foresight, indentures and apprenticeships for our irrational young; whereby, in due season, the vague universality of a man shall find himself ready-moulded into a specific craftsman; and so thenceforth work, with much or with little waste of capability as it may be; yet not with the worst waste, that of time. nay even in matters spiritual, since the spiritual artist too is born blind, and does not, like certain other creatures, receive sight in nine days, but far later, sometimes never,--is it not well that there should be what we call professions, or bread-studies (_brodzwecke_), pre-appointed us? here, circling like the gin-horse, for whom partial or total blindness is no evil, the bread-artist can travel contentedly round and round, still fancying that it is forward and forward; and realise much: for himself victual; for the world an additional horse's power in the grand corn-mill or hemp-mill of economic society. for me too had such a leading-string been provided; only that it proved a neck-halter, and had nigh throttled me, till i broke it off. then, in the words of ancient pistol, did the world generally become mine oyster, which i, by strength or cunning, was to open, as i would and could. almost had i deceased (_fast wär ich umgekommen_), so obstinately did it continue shut.' we see here, significantly foreshadowed, the spirit of much that was to befall our autobiographer; the historical embodiment of which, as it painfully takes shape in his life, lies scattered, in dim disastrous details, through this bag _pisces_, and those that follow. a young man of high talent, and high though still temper, like a young mettled colt, 'breaks-off his neck-halter,' and bounds forth, from his peculiar manger, into the wide world; which, alas, he finds all rigorously fenced-in. richest clover-fields tempt his eye; but to him they are forbidden pasture: either pining in progressive starvation, he must stand; or, in mad exasperation, must rush to and fro, leaping against sheer stone-walls, which he cannot leap over, which only lacerate and lame him; till at last, after thousand attempts and endurances, he, as if by miracle, clears his way; not indeed into luxuriant and luxurious clover, yet into a certain bosky wilderness where existence is still possible, and freedom, though waited on by scarcity, is not without sweetness. in a word, teufelsdröckh having thrown-up his legal profession, finds himself without landmark of outward guidance; whereby his previous want of decided belief, or inward guidance, is frightfully aggravated. necessity urges him on; time will not stop, neither can he, a son of time; wild passions without solacement, wild faculties without employment, ever vex and agitate him. he too must enact that stern monodrama, _no object and no rest_; must front its successive destinies, work through to its catastrophe, and deduce therefrom what moral he can. yet let us be just to him, let us admit that his 'neck-halter' sat nowise easy on him; that he was in some degree forced to break it off. if we look at the young man's civic position, in this nameless capital, as he emerges from its nameless university, we can discern well that it was far from enviable. his first law-examination he has come through triumphantly; and can even boast that the _examen rigorosum_ need not have frightened him: but though he is hereby 'an _auscultator_ of respectability,' what avails it? there is next to no employment to be had. neither, for a youth without connexions, is the process of expectation very hopeful in itself; nor for one of his disposition much cheered from without. 'my fellow auscultators,' he says, 'were auscultators: they dressed, and digested, and talked articulate words; other vitality showed they almost none. small speculation in those eyes, that they did glare withal! sense neither for the high nor for the deep, nor for aught human or divine, save only for the faintest scent of coming preferment.' in which words, indicating a total estrangement on the part of teufelsdröckh, may there not also lurk traces of a bitterness as from wounded vanity? doubtless these prosaic auscultators may have sniffed at him, with his strange ways; and tried to hate, and what was much more impossible, to despise him. friendly communion, in any case, there could not be: already has the young teufelsdröckh left the other young geese; and swims apart, though as yet uncertain whether he himself is cygnet or gosling. perhaps, too, what little employment he had was performed ill, at best unpleasantly. 'great practical method and expertness' he may brag of; but is there not also great practical pride, though deep-hidden, only the deeper-seated? so shy a man can never have been popular. we figure to ourselves, how in those days he may have played strange freaks with his independence, and so forth: do not his own words betoken as much? 'like a very young person, i imagined it was with work alone, and not also with folly and sin, in myself and others, that i had been appointed to struggle.' be this as it may, his progress from the passive auscultatorship, towards any active assessorship, is evidently of the slowest. by degrees, those same established men, once partially inclined to patronise him, seem to withdraw their countenance, and give him up as 'a man of genius': against which procedure he, in these papers, loudly protests. 'as if,' says he, 'the higher did not presuppose the lower; as if he who can fly into heaven, could not also walk post if he resolved on it! but the world is an old woman, and mistakes any gilt farthing for a gold coin; whereby being often cheated, she will thenceforth trust nothing but the common copper.' how our winged sky-messenger, unaccepted as a terrestrial runner, contrived, in the mean while, to keep himself from flying skyward without return, is not too clear from these documents. good old gretchen seems to have vanished from the scene, perhaps from the earth; other horn of plenty, or even of parsimony, nowhere flows for him; so that 'the prompt nature of hunger being well known,' we are not without our anxiety. from private tuition, in never so many languages and sciences, the aid derivable is small; neither, to use his own words, 'does the young adventurer hitherto suspect in himself any literary gift; but at best earns bread-and-water wages, by his wide faculty of translation. nevertheless,' continues he, 'that i subsisted is clear, for you find me even now alive.' which fact, however, except upon the principle of our true-hearted, kind old proverb, that 'there is always life for a living one,' we must profess ourselves unable to explain. certain landlords' bills, and other economic documents, bearing the mark of settlement, indicate that he was not without money; but, like an independent hearth-holder, if not house-holder, paid his way. here also occur, among many others, two little mutilated notes, which perhaps throw light on his condition. the first has now no date, or writer's name, but a huge blot; and runs to this effect: 'the (_inkblot_), tied-down by previous promise, cannot, except by best wishes, forward the herr teufelsdröckh's views on the assessorship in question; and sees himself under the cruel necessity of forbearing, for the present, what were otherwise his duty and joy, to assist in opening the career for a man of genius, on whom far higher triumphs are yet waiting.' the other is on gilt paper; and interests us like a sort of epistolary mummy now dead, yet which once lived and beneficently worked. we give it in the original: '_herr teufelsdröckh wird von der frau gräfinn, auf donnerstag, zum_ æsthetischen thee _schönstens eingeladen._' thus, in answer to a cry for solid pudding, whereof there is the most urgent need, comes, epigrammatically enough, the invitation to a wash of quite fluid _æsthetic tea!_ how teufelsdröckh, now at actual handgrips with destiny herself, may have comported himself among these musical and literary dilettanti of both sexes, like a hungry lion invited to a feast of chickenweed, we can only conjecture. perhaps in expressive silence, and abstinence: otherwise if the lion, in such case, is to feast at all, it cannot be on the chickenweed, but only on the chickens. for the rest, as this frau gräfinn dates from the _zähdarm house_, she can be no other than the countess and mistress of the same; whose intellectual tendencies, and good-will to teufelsdröckh, whether on the footing of herr towgood, or on his own footing, are hereby manifest. that some sort of relation, indeed, continued, for a time, to connect our autobiographer, though perhaps feebly enough, with this noble house, we have elsewhere express evidence. doubtless, if he expected patronage, it was in vain; enough for him if he here obtained occasional glimpses of the great world, from which we at one time fancied him to have been always excluded. 'the zähdarms,' says he, 'lived in the soft, sumptuous garniture of aristocracy; whereto literature and art, attracted and attached from without, were to serve as the handsomest fringing. it was to the _gnädigen frau_ (her ladyship) that this latter improvement was due: assiduously she gathered, dextrously she fitted-on, what fringing was to be had; lace or cobweb, as the place yielded.' was teufelsdröckh also a fringe, of lace or cobweb; or promising to be such? 'with his _excellenz_ (the count),' continues he, 'i have more than once had the honour to converse; chiefly on general affairs, and the aspect of the world, which he, though now past middle life, viewed in no unfavourable light; finding indeed, except the outrooting of journalism (_die auszurottende journalistik_), little to desiderate therein. on some points, as his _excellenz_ was not uncholeric, i found it more pleasant to keep silence. besides, his occupation being that of owning land, there might be faculties enough, which, as superfluous for such use, were little developed in him.' that to teufelsdröckh the aspect of the world was nowise so faultless, and many things besides 'the outrooting of journalism' might have seemed improvements, we can readily conjecture. with nothing but a barren auscultatorship from without, and so many mutinous thoughts and wishes from within, his position was no easy one. 'the universe,' he says, 'was as a mighty sphinx-riddle, which i knew so little of, yet must rede, or be devoured. in red streaks of unspeakable grandeur, yet also in the blackness of darkness, was life, to my too-unfurnished thought, unfolding itself. a strange contradiction lay in me; and i as yet knew not the solution of it; knew not that spiritual music can spring only from discords set in harmony; that but for evil there were no good, as victory is only possible by battle.' 'i have heard affirmed (surely in jest),' observes he elsewhere, 'by not unphilanthropic persons, that it were a real increase of human happiness, could all young men from the age of nineteen be covered under barrels, or rendered otherwise invisible; and there left to follow their lawful studies and callings, till they emerged, sadder and wiser, at the age of twenty-five. with which suggestion, at least as considered in the light of a practical scheme, i need scarcely say that i nowise coincide. nevertheless it is plausibly urged that, as young ladies (_mädchen_) are, to mankind, precisely the most delightful in those years; so young gentlemen (_bübchen_) do then attain their maximum of detestability. such gawks (_gecken_) are they; and foolish peacocks, and yet with such a vulturous hunger for self-indulgence; so obstinate, obstreperous, vainglorious; in all senses, so froward and so forward. no mortal's endeavour or attainment will, in the smallest, content the as yet unendeavouring, unattaining young gentleman; but he could make it all infinitely better, were it worthy of him. life everywhere is the most manageable matter, simple as a question in the rule-of-three: multiply your second and third term together, divide the product by the first, and your quotient will be the answer,--which you are but an ass if you cannot come at. the booby has not yet found-out, by any trial, that, do what one will, there is ever a cursed fraction, oftenest a decimal repeater, and no net integer quotient so much as to be thought of.' in which passage does not there lie an implied confession that teufelsdröckh himself, besides his outward obstructions, had an inward, still greater, to contend with; namely, a certain temporary, youthful, yet still afflictive derangement of head? alas, on the former side alone, his case was hard enough. 'it continues ever true,' says he, 'that saturn, or chronos, or what we call time, devours all his children: only by incessant running, by incessant working, may you (for some threescore-and-ten years) escape him; and you too he devours at last. can any sovereign, or holy alliance of sovereigns, bid time stand still; even in thought, shake themselves free of time? our whole terrestrial being is based on time, and built of time; it is wholly a movement, a time-impulse; time is the author of it, the material of it. hence also our whole duty, which is to move, to work,--in the right direction. are not our bodies and our souls in continual movement, whether we will or not; in a continual waste, requiring a continual repair? utmost satisfaction of our whole outward and inward wants were but satisfaction for a space of time; thus, whatso we have done, is done, and for us annihilated, and ever must we go and do anew. o time-spirit, how hast thou environed and imprisoned us, and sunk us so deep in thy troublous dim time-element, that only in lucid moments can so much as glimpses of our upper azure home be revealed to us! me, however, as a son of time, unhappier than some others, was time threatening to eat quite prematurely; for, strive as i might, there was no good running, so obstructed was the path, so gyved were the feet.' that is to say, we presume, speaking in the dialect of this lower world, that teufelsdröckh's whole duty and necessity was, like other men's, 'to work,--in the right direction,' and that no work was to be had; whereby he became wretched enough. as was natural: with haggard scarcity threatening him in the distance; and so vehement a soul languishing in restless inaction, and forced thereby, like sir hudibras's sword by rust, to eat into itself for lack of something else to hew and hack! but on the whole, that same 'excellent passivity,' as it has all along done, is here again vigorously flourishing; in which circumstance may we not trace the beginnings of much that now characterises our professor; and perhaps, in faint rudiments, the origin of the clothes-philosophy itself? already the attitude he has assumed towards the world is too defensive; not, as would have been desirable, a bold attitude of attack. 'so far hitherto,' he says, 'as i had mingled with mankind, i was notable, if for anything, for a certain stillness of manner, which, as my friends often rebukingly declared, did but ill express the keen ardour of my feelings. i, in truth, regarded men with an excess both of love and of fear. the mystery of a person, indeed, is ever divine to him that has a sense for the god-like. often, notwithstanding, was i blamed, and by half-strangers hated, for my so-called hardness (_härte_), my indifferentism towards men; and the seemingly ironic tone i had adopted, as my favourite dialect in conversation. alas, the panoply of sarcasm was but as a buckram case, wherein i had striven to envelop myself; that so my own poor person might live safe there, and in all friendliness, being no longer exasperated by wounds. sarcasm i now see to be, in general, the language of the devil; for which reason i have long since as good as renounced it. but how many individuals did i, in those days, provoke into some degree of hostility thereby! an ironic man, with his sly stillness, and ambuscading ways, more especially an ironic young man, from whom it is least expected, may be viewed as a pest to society. have we not seen persons of weight and name coming forward, with gentlest indifference, to tread such a one out of sight, as an insignificancy and worm, start ceiling-high (_balkenhoch_), and thence fall shattered and supine, to be borne home on shutters, not without indignation, when he proved electric and a torpedo!' alas, how can a man with this devilishness of temper make way for himself in life; where the first problem, as teufelsdröckh too admits, is 'to unite yourself with some one and with somewhat (_sich anzuschliessen_)'? division, not union, is written on most part of his procedure. let us add too that, in no great length of time, the only important connexion he had ever succeeded in forming, his connexion with the zähdarm family, seems to have been paralysed, for all practical uses, by the death of the 'not uncholeric' old count. this fact stands recorded, quite incidentally, in a certain _discourse on epitaphs_, huddled into the present bag, among so much else; of which essay the learning and curious penetration are more to be approved of than the spirit. his grand principle is, that lapidary inscriptions, of what sort soever, should be historical rather than lyrical. 'by request of that worthy nobleman's survivors,' says he, 'i undertook to compose his epitaph; and not unmindful of my own rules, produced the following; which however, for an alleged defect of latinity, a defect never yet fully visible to myself, still remains unengraven';--wherein, we may predict, there is more than the latinity that will surprise an english reader: hic jacet philippus zaehdarm, cognomine magnus, zaehdarmi comes, ex imperii concilio, velleris aurei, periscelidis, necnon vulturis nigri eques. qui dum sub luna agebat, quinquies mille perdices plumbo confecit: varii cibi centumpondia millies centena millia, per se, perque servos quadrupedes bipedesve haud sine tumultu devolvens, in stercus palam convertit. nunc a labore requiescentem opera sequuntur. si monumentum quæris, fimetum adspice. primum in orbe dejecit [_sub dato_]; postremum [_sub dato_]. chapter v romance 'for long years,' writes teufelsdröckh, 'had the poor hebrew, in this egypt of an auscultatorship, painfully toiled, baking bricks without stubble, before ever the question once struck him with entire force: for what?--_beym himmel!_ for food and warmth! and are food and warmth nowhere else, in the whole wide universe, discoverable?--come of it what might, i resolved to try.' thus then are we to see him in a new independent capacity, though perhaps far from an improved one. teufelsdröckh is now a man without profession. quitting the common fleet of herring-busses and whalers, where indeed his leeward, laggard condition was painful enough, he desperately steers-off, on a course of his own, by sextant and compass of his own. unhappy teufelsdröckh! though neither fleet, nor traffic, nor commodores pleased thee, still was it not _a fleet_, sailing in prescribed track, for fixed objects; above all, in combination, wherein, by mutual guidance, by all manner of loans and borrowings, each could manifoldly aid the other? how wilt thou sail in unknown seas; and for thyself find that shorter north-west passage to thy fair spice-country of a nowhere?--a solitary rover, on such a voyage, with such nautical tactics, will meet with adventures. nay, as we forthwith discover, a certain calypso-island detains him at the very outset; and as it were falsifies and oversets his whole reckoning. 'if in youth,' writes he once, 'the universe is majestically unveiling, and everywhere heaven revealing itself on earth, nowhere to the young man does this heaven on earth so immediately reveal itself as in the young maiden. strangely enough, in this strange life of ours, it has been so appointed. on the whole, as i have often said, a person (_persönlichkeit_) is ever holy to us: a certain orthodox anthropomorphism connects my _me_ with all _thees_ in bonds of love: but it is in this approximation of the like and unlike, that such heavenly attraction, as between negative and positive, first burns-out into a flame. is the pitifullest mortal person, think you, indifferent to us? is it not rather our heartfelt wish to be made one with him; to unite him to us, by gratitude, by admiration, even by fear; or failing all these, unite ourselves to him? but how much more, in this case of the like-unlike! here is conceded us the higher mystic possibility of such a union, the highest in our earth; thus, in the conducting medium of fantasy, flames-forth that _fire_-development of the universal spiritual electricity, which, as unfolded between man and woman, we first emphatically denominate love. 'in every well-conditioned stripling, as i conjecture, there already blooms a certain prospective paradise, cheered by some fairest eve; nor, in the stately vistas, and flowerage and foliage of that garden, is a tree of knowledge, beautiful and awful in the midst thereof, wanting. perhaps too the whole is but the lovelier, if cherubim and a flaming sword divide it from all footsteps of men; and grant him, the imaginative stripling, only the view, not the entrance. happy season of virtuous youth, when shame is still an impassable celestial barrier; and the sacred air-cities of hope have not shrunk into the mean clay-hamlets of reality; and man, by his nature, is yet infinite and free! 'as for our young forlorn,' continues teufelsdröckh, evidently meaning himself, 'in his secluded way of life, and with his glowing fantasy, the more fiery that it burnt under cover, as in a reverberating furnace, his feeling towards the queens of this earth was, and indeed is, altogether unspeakable. a visible divinity dwelt in them; to our young friend all women were holy, were heavenly. as yet he but saw them flitting past, in their many-coloured angel-plumage; or hovering mute and inaccessible on the outskirts of _æsthetic tea_: all of air they were, all soul and form; so lovely, like mysterious priestesses, in whose hand was the invisible jacob's-ladder, whereby man might mount into very heaven. that he, our poor friend, should ever win for himself one of these gracefuls (_holden_)--_ach gott!_ how could he hope it; should he not have died under it? there was a certain delirious vertigo in the thought. 'thus was the young man, if all-sceptical of demons and angels such as the vulgar had once believed in, nevertheless not unvisited by hosts of true sky-born, who visibly and audibly hovered round him whereso he went; and they had that religious worship in his thought, though as yet it was by their mere earthly and trivial name that he named them. but now, if on a soul so circumstanced, some actual air-maiden, incorporated into tangibility and reality, should cast any electric glance of kind eyes, saying thereby, "thou too mayest love and be loved"; and so kindle him,--good heaven, what a volcanic, earthquake-bringing, all-consuming fire were probably kindled!' such a fire, it afterwards appears, did actually burst-forth, with explosions more or less vesuvian, in the inner man of herr diogenes; as indeed how could it fail? a nature, which, in his own figurative style, we might say, had now not a little carbonised tinder, of irritability; with so much nitre of latent passion, and sulphurous humour enough; the whole lying in such hot neighbourhood, close by 'a reverberating furnace of fantasy': have we not here the components of driest gunpowder, ready, on occasion of the smallest spark, to blaze-up? neither, in this our life-element, are sparks anywhere wanting. without doubt, some angel, whereof so many hovered round, would one day, leaving 'the outskirts of _æsthetic tea_,' flit nigher; and, by electric promethean glance, kindle no despicable firework. happy, if it indeed proved a firework, and flamed-off rocketwise, in successive beautiful bursts of splendour, each growing naturally from the other, through the several stages of a happy youthful love; till the whole were safely burnt-out; and the young soul relieved with little damage! happy, if it did not rather prove a conflagration and mad explosion; painfully lacerating the heart itself; nay perhaps bursting the heart in pieces (which were death); or at best, bursting the thin walls of your 'reverberating furnace,' so that it rage thenceforth all unchecked among the contiguous combustibles (which were madness): till of the so fair and manifold internal world of our diogenes, there remained nothing, or only the 'crater of an extinct volcano!' from multifarious documents in this bag _capricornus_, and in the adjacent ones on both sides thereof, it becomes manifest that our philosopher, as stoical and cynical as he now looks, was heartily and even frantically in love: here therefore may our old doubts whether his heart were of stone or of flesh give way. he loved once; not wisely but too well. and once only: for as your congreve needs a new case or wrappage for every new rocket, so each human heart can properly exhibit but one love, if even one; the 'first love which is infinite' can be followed by no second like unto it. in more recent years, accordingly, the editor of these sheets was led to regard teufelsdröckh as a man not only who would never wed, but who would never even flirt; whom the grand-climacteric itself, and _st. martin's summer_ of incipient dotage, would crown with no new myrtle-garland. to the professor, women are henceforth pieces of art; of celestial art, indeed; which celestial pieces he glories to survey in galleries, but has lost thought of purchasing. psychological readers are not without curiosity to see how teufelsdröckh, in this for him unexampled predicament, demeans himself; with what specialties of successive configuration, splendour and colour, his firework blazes-off. small, as usual, is the satisfaction that such can meet with here. from amid these confused masses of eulogy and elegy, with their mad petrarchan and werterean ware lying madly scattered among all sorts of quite extraneous matter, not so much as the fair one's name can be deciphered. for, without doubt, the title _blumine_, whereby she is here designated, and which means simply goddess of flowers, must be fictitious. was her real name flora, then? but what was her surname, or had she none? of what station in life was she; of what parentage, fortune, aspect? specially, by what pre-established harmony of occurrences did the lover and the loved meet one another in so wide a world; how did they behave in such meeting? to all which questions, not unessential in a biographic work, mere conjecture must for most part return answer. 'it was appointed,' says our philosopher, 'that the high celestial orbit of blumine should intersect the low sublunary one of our forlorn; that he, looking in her empyrean eyes, should fancy the upper sphere of light was come down into this nether sphere of shadows; and finding himself mistaken, make noise enough.' we seem to gather that she was young, hazel-eyed, beautiful, and some one's cousin; highborn, and of high spirit; but unhappily dependent and insolvent; living, perhaps, on the not-too-gracious bounty of monied relatives. but how came 'the wanderer' into her circle? was it by the humid vehicle of _æsthetic tea_, or by the arid one of mere business? was it on the hand of herr towgood; or of the gnädige frau, who, as ornamental artist, might sometimes like to promote flirtation, especially for young cynical nondescripts? to all appearance, it was chiefly by accident, and the grace of nature. 'thou fair waldschloss,' writes our autobiographer, 'what stranger ever saw thee, were it even an absolved auscultator, officially bearing in his pocket the last _relatio ex actis_ he would ever write, but must have paused to wonder! noble mansion! there stoodest thou, in deep mountain amphitheatre, on umbrageous lawns, in thy serene solitude; stately, massive, all of granite; glittering in the western sunbeams, like a palace of el dorado, overlaid with precious metal. beautiful rose up, in wavy curvature, the slope of thy guardian hills; of the greenest was their sward, embossed with its dark-brown frets of crag, or spotted by some spreading solitary tree and its shadow. to the unconscious wayfarer thou wert also as an ammon's temple, in the libyan waste; where, for joy and woe, the tablet of his destiny lay written. well might he pause and gaze; in that glance of his were prophecy and nameless forebodings.' but now let us conjecture that the so presentient auscultator has handed-in his _relatio ex actis_; been invited to a glass of rhine-wine; and so, instead of returning dispirited and athirst to his dusty town-home, is ushered into the gardenhouse, where sit the choicest party of dames and cavaliers: if not engaged in æsthetic tea, yet in trustful evening conversation, and perhaps musical coffee, for we hear of 'harps and pure voices making the stillness live.' scarcely, it would seem, is the gardenhouse inferior in respectability to the noble mansion itself. 'embowered amid rich foliage, rose-clusters, and the hues and odours of thousand flowers, here sat that brave company; in front, from the wide-opened doors, fair outlook over blossom and bush, over grove and velvet green, stretching, undulating onwards to the remote mountain peaks: so bright, so mild, and everywhere the melody of birds and happy creatures: it was all as if man had stolen a shelter from the sun in the bosom-vesture of summer herself. how came it that the wanderer advanced thither with such forecasting heart (_ahndungsvoll_), by the side of his gay host? did he feel that to these soft influences his hard bosom ought to be shut; that here, once more, fate had it in view to try him; to mock him, and see whether there were humour in him? 'next moment he finds himself presented to the party; and especially by name to--blumine! peculiar among all dames and damosels glanced blumine, there in her modesty, like a star among earthly lights. noblest maiden! whom he bent to, in body and in soul; yet scarcely dared look at, for the presence filled him with painful yet sweetest embarrassment. 'blumine's was a name well known to him; far and wide was the fair one heard of, for her gifts, her graces, her caprices: from all which vague colourings of rumour, from the censures no less than from the praises, had our friend painted for himself a certain imperious queen of hearts, and blooming warm earth-angel, much more enchanting than your mere white heaven-angels of women, in whose placid veins circulates too little naphtha-fire. herself also he had seen in public places; that light yet so stately form; those dark tresses, shading a face where smiles and sunlight played over earnest deeps: but all this he had seen only as a magic vision, for him inaccessible, almost without reality. her sphere was too far from his; how should she ever think of him; o heaven! how should they so much as once meet together? and now that rose-goddess sits in the same circle with him; the light of _her_ eyes has smiled on him; if he speak, she will hear it! nay, who knows, since the heavenly sun looks into lowest valleys, but blumine herself might have aforetime noted the so unnotable; perhaps, from his very gainsayers, as he had from hers, gathered wonder, gathered favour for him? was the attraction, the agitation mutual, then; pole and pole trembling towards contact, when once brought into neighbourhood? say rather, heart swelling in presence of the queen of hearts; like the sea swelling when once near its moon! with the wanderer it was even so: as in heavenward gravitation, suddenly as at the touch of a seraph's wand, his whole soul is roused from its deepest recesses; and all that was painful and that was blissful there, dim images, vague feelings of a whole past and a whole future, are heaving in unquiet eddies within him. 'often, in far less agitating scenes, had our still friend shrunk forcibly together; and shrouded-up his tremors and flutterings, of what sort soever, in a safe cover of silence, and perhaps of seeming stolidity. how was it, then, that here, when trembling to the core of his heart, he did not sink into swoons, but rose into strength, into fearlessness and clearness? it was his guiding genius (_dämon_) that inspired him; he must go forth and meet his destiny. show thyself now, whispered it, or be forever hid. thus sometimes it is even when your anxiety becomes transcendental, that the soul first feels herself able to transcend it; that she rises above it, in fiery victory; and borne on new-found wings of victory, moves so calmly, even because so rapidly, so irresistibly. always must the wanderer remember, with a certain satisfaction and surprise, how in this case he sat not silent, but struck adroitly into the stream of conversation; which thenceforth, to speak with an apparent not a real vanity, he may say that he continued to lead. surely, in those hours, a certain inspiration was imparted him, such inspiration as is still possible in our late era. the self-secluded unfolds himself in noble thoughts, in free, glowing words; his soul is as one sea of light, the peculiar home of truth and intellect; wherein also fantasy bodies-forth form after form, radiant with all prismatic hues.' it appears, in this otherwise so happy meeting, there talked one 'philistine'; who even now, to the general weariness, was dominantly pouring-forth philistinism (_philistriositäten_); little witting what hero was here entering to demolish him! we omit the series of socratic, or rather diogenic utterances, not unhappy in their way, whereby the monster, 'persuaded into silence,' seems soon after to have withdrawn for the night. 'of which dialectic marauder,' writes our hero, 'the discomfiture was visibly felt as a benefit by most: but what were all applauses to the glad smile, threatening every moment to become a laugh, wherewith blumine herself repaid the victor? he ventured to address her, she answered with attention: nay what if there were a slight tremor in that silver voice; what if the red glow of evening were hiding a transient blush! 'the conversation took a higher tone, one fine thought called forth another: it was one of those rare seasons, when the soul expands with full freedom, and man feels himself brought near to man. gaily in light, graceful abandonment, the friendly talk played round that circle; for the burden was rolled from every heart; the barriers of ceremony, which are indeed the laws of polite living, had melted as into vapour; and the poor claims of _me_ and _thee_, no longer parted by rigid fences, now flowed softly into one another; and life lay all harmonious, many-tinted, like some fair royal champaign, the sovereign and owner of which were love only. such music springs from kind hearts, in a kind environment of place and time. and yet as the light grew more aërial on the mountain-tops, and the shadows fell longer over the valley, some faint tone of sadness may have breathed through the heart; and, in whispers more or less audible, reminded every one that as this bright day was drawing towards its close, so likewise must the day of man's existence decline into dust and darkness; and with all its sick toilings, and joyful and mournful noises sink in the still eternity. 'to our friend the hours seemed moments; holy was he and happy: the words from those sweetest lips came over him like dew on thirsty grass; all better feelings in his soul seemed to whisper: it is good for us to be here. at parting, the blumine's hand was in his: in the balmy twilight, with the kind stars above them, he spoke something of meeting again, which was not contradicted; he pressed gently those small soft fingers, and it seemed as if they were not hastily, not angrily withdrawn.' poor teufelsdröckh! it is clear to demonstration thou art smit: the queen of hearts would see a 'man of genius' also sigh for her; and there, by art-magic, in that preternatural hour, has she bound and spell-bound thee. 'love is not altogether a delirium,' says he elsewhere; 'yet has it many points in common therewith. i call it rather a discerning of the infinite in the finite, of the idea made real; which discerning again may be either true or false, either seraphic or demoniac, inspiration or insanity. but in the former case too, as in common madness, it is fantasy that superadds itself to sight; on the so petty domain of the actual plants its archimedes-lever, whereby to move at will the infinite spiritual. fantasy i might call the true heaven-gate and hell-gate of man: his sensuous life is but the small temporary stage (_zeitbühne_), whereon thick-streaming influences from both these far yet near regions meet visibly, and act tragedy and melodrama. sense can support herself handsomely, in most countries, for some eighteenpence a day; but for fantasy planets and solar-systems will not suffice. witness your pyrrhus conquering the world, yet drinking no better red wine than he had before.' alas! witness also your diogenes, flame-clad, scaling the upper heaven, and verging towards insanity, for prize of a 'high-souled brunette,' as if the earth held but one and not several of these! he says that, in town, they met again: 'day after day, like his heart's sun, the blooming blumine shone on him. ah! a little while ago, and he was yet in all darkness; him what graceful (_holde_) would ever love? disbelieving all things, the poor youth had never learned to believe in himself. withdrawn, in proud timidity, within his own fastnesses; solitary from men, yet baited by night-spectres enough, he saw himself, with a sad indignation, constrained to renounce the fairest hopes of existence. and now, o now! "she looks on thee," cried he: "she the fairest, noblest; do not her dark eyes tell thee, thou art not despised? the heaven's-messenger! all heaven's blessings be hers!" thus did soft melodies flow through his heart; tones of an infinite gratitude; sweetest intimations that he also was a man, that for him also unutterable joys had been provided. 'in free speech, earnest or gay, amid lambent glances, laughter, tears, and often with the inarticulate mystic speech of music: such was the element they now lived in; in such a many-tinted, radiant aurora, and by this fairest of orient light-bringers must our friend be blandished, and the new apocalypse of nature unrolled to him. fairest blumine! and, even as a star, all fire and humid softness, a very light-ray incarnate! was there so much as a fault, a "caprice," he could have dispensed with? was she not to him in very deed a morning-star; did not her presence bring with it airs from heaven? as from æolian harps in the breath of dawn, as from the memnon's statue struck by the rosy finger of aurora, unearthly music was around him, and lapped him into untried balmy rest. pale doubt fled away to the distance; life bloomed-up with happiness and hope. the past, then, was all a haggard dream; he had been in the garden of eden, then, and could not discern it! but lo now! the black walls of his prison melt away; the captive is alive, is free. if he loved his disenchantress? _ach gott!_ his whole heart and soul and life were hers, but never had he named it love: existence was all a feeling, not yet shaped into a thought.' nevertheless, into a thought, nay into an action, it must be shaped; for neither disenchanter nor disenchantress, mere 'children of time,' can abide by feeling alone. the professor knows not, to this day, 'how in her soft, fervid bosom the lovely found determination, even on hest of necessity, to cut-asunder these so blissful bonds.' he even appears surprised at the 'duenna cousin,' whoever she may have been, 'in whose meagre, hunger-bitten philosophy, the religion of young hearts was, from the first, faintly approved of.' we, even at such distance, can explain it without necromancy. let the philosopher answer this one question: what figure, at that period, was a mrs. teufelsdröckh likely to make in polished society? could she have driven so much as a brass-bound gig, or even a simple iron-spring one? thou foolish 'absolved auscultator,' before whom lies no prospect of capital, will any yet known 'religion of young hearts' keep the human kitchen warm? pshaw! thy divine blumine when she 'resigned herself to wed some richer,' shows more philosophy, though but 'a woman of genius,' than thou, a pretended man. our readers have witnessed the origin of this love-mania, and with what royal splendour it waxes, and rises. let no one ask us to unfold the glories of its dominant state; much less the horrors of its almost instantaneous dissolution. how from such inorganic masses, henceforth madder than ever, as lie in these bags, can even fragments of a living delineation be organised? besides, of what profit were it? we view, with a lively pleasure, the gay silk montgolfier start from the ground, and shoot upwards, cleaving the liquid deeps, till it dwindle to a luminous star: but what is there to look longer on, when once, by natural elasticity, or accident of fire, it has exploded? a hapless air-navigator, plunging amid torn parachutes, sand-bags, and confused wreck, fast enough into the jaws of the devil! suffice it to know that teufelsdröckh rose into the highest regions of the empyrean, by a natural parabolic track, and returned thence in a quick perpendicular one. for the rest, let any feeling reader, who has been unhappy enough to do the like, paint it out for himself: considering only that if he, for his perhaps comparatively insignificant mistress, underwent such agonies and frenzies, what must teufelsdröckh's have been, with a fire-heart, and for a nonpareil blumine! we glance merely at the final scene: 'one morning, he found his morning-star all dimmed and dusky-red; the fair creature was silent, absent, she seemed to have been weeping. alas, no longer a morning-star, but a troublous skyey portent, announcing that the doomsday had dawned! she said, in a tremulous voice, they were to meet no more.' the thunder-struck air-sailor is not wanting to himself in this dread hour: but what avails it? we omit the passionate expostulations, entreaties, indignations, since all was vain, and not even an explanation was conceded him; and hasten to the catastrophe. '"farewell, then, madam!" said he, not without sternness, for his stung pride helped him. she put her hand in his, she looked in his face, tears started to her eyes: in wild audacity he clasped her to his bosom; their lips were joined, their two souls, like two dew-drops, rushed into one,--for the first time, and for the last!' thus was teufelsdröckh made immortal by a kiss. and then? why, then--'thick curtains of night rushed over his soul, as rose the immeasurable crash of doom; and through the ruins as of a shivered universe was he falling, falling, towards the abyss.' chapter vi sorrows of teufelsdröckh we have long felt that, with a man like our professor, matters must often be expected to take a course of their own; that in so multiplex, intricate a nature, there might be channels, both for admitting and emitting, such as the psychologist had seldom noted; in short, that on no grand occasion and convulsion, neither in the joy-storm nor in the woe-storm, could you predict his demeanour. to our less philosophical readers, for example, it is now clear that the so passionate teufelsdröckh, precipitated through 'a shivered universe' in this extraordinary way, has only one of three things which he can next do: establish himself in bedlam; begin writing satanic poetry; or blow-out his brains. in the progress towards any of which consummations, do not such readers anticipate extravagance enough; breast-beating, brow-beating (against walls), lion-bellowings of blasphemy and the like, stampings, smitings, breakages of furniture, if not arson itself? nowise so does teufelsdröckh deport him. he quietly lifts his _pilgerstab_ (pilgrim-staff), 'old business being soon wound-up'; and begins a perambulation and circumambulation of the terraqueous globe! curious it is, indeed, how with such vivacity of conception, such intensity of feeling, above all, with these unconscionable habits of exaggeration in speech, he combines that wonderful stillness of his, that stoicism in external procedure. thus, if his sudden bereavement, in this matter of the flower-goddess, is talked of as a real doomsday and dissolution of nature, in which light doubtless it partly appeared to himself, his own nature is nowise dissolved thereby; but rather is compressed closer. for once, as we might say, a blumine by magic appliances has unlocked that shut heart of his, and its hidden things rush-out tumultuous, boundless, like genii enfranchised from their glass phial: but no sooner are your magic appliances withdrawn, than the strange casket of a heart springs-to again; and perhaps there is now no key extant that will open it; for a teufelsdröckh, as we remarked, will not love a second time. singular diogenes! no sooner has that heart-rending occurrence fairly taken place, than he affects to regard it as a thing natural, of which there is nothing more to be said. 'one highest hope, seemingly legible in the eyes of an angel, had recalled him as out of death-shadows into celestial life: but a gleam of tophet passed-over the face of his angel; he was rapt away in whirlwinds, and heard the laughter of demons. it was a calenture,' adds he, 'whereby the youth saw green paradise-groves in the waste ocean-waters: a lying vision, yet not wholly a lie, for _he_ saw it.' but what things soever passed in him, when he ceased to see it; what ragings and despairings soever teufelsdröckh's soul was the scene of, he has the goodness to conceal under a quite opaque cover of silence. we know it well; the first mad paroxysm past, our brave gneschen collected his dismembered philosophies, and buttoned himself together; he was meek, silent, or spoke of the weather and the journals: only by a transient knitting of those shaggy brows, by some deep flash of those eyes, glancing one knew not whether with tear-dew or with fierce fire,--might you have guessed what a gehenna was within; that a whole satanic school were spouting, though inaudibly, there. to consume your own choler, as some chimneys consume their own smoke; to keep a whole satanic school spouting, if it must spout, inaudibly, is a negative yet no slight virtue, nor one of the commonest in these times. nevertheless, we will not take upon us to say, that in the strange measure he fell upon, there was not a touch of latent insanity; whereof indeed the actual condition of these documents in _capricornus_ and _aquarius_ is no bad emblem. his so unlimited wanderings, toilsome enough, are without assigned or perhaps assignable aim; internal unrest seems his sole guidance; he wanders, wanders, as if that curse of the prophet had fallen on him, and he were 'made like unto a wheel.' doubtless, too, the chaotic nature of these paper-bags aggravates our obscurity. quite without note of preparation, for example, we come upon the following slip: 'a peculiar feeling it is that will rise in the traveller, when turning some hill-range in his desert road, he descries lying far below, embosomed among its groves and green natural bulwarks, and all diminished to a toybox, the fair town, where so many souls, as it were seen and yet unseen, are driving their multifarious traffic. its white steeple is then truly a starward-pointing finger; the canopy of blue smoke seems like a sort of life-breath: for always, of its own unity, the soul gives unity to whatsoever it looks on with love; thus does the little dwelling place of men, in itself a congeries of houses and huts, become for us an individual, almost a person. but what thousand other thoughts unite thereto, if the place has to ourselves been the arena of joyous or mournful experiences; if perhaps the cradle we were rocked in still stands there, if our loving ones still dwell there, if our buried ones there slumber!' does teufelsdröckh, as the wounded eagle is said to make for its own eyrie, and indeed military deserters, and all hunted outcast creatures, turn as if by instinct in the direction of their birthland,--fly first, in this extremity, towards his native entepfuhl; but reflecting that there no help awaits him, take but one wistful look from the distance, and then wend elsewhither? little happier seems to be his next flight: into the wilds of nature; as if in her mother-bosom he would seek healing. so at least we incline to interpret the following notice, separated from the former by some considerable space, wherein, however, is nothing noteworthy: 'mountains were not new to him; but rarely are mountains seen in such combined majesty and grace as here. the rocks are of that sort called primitive by the mineralogists, which always arrange themselves in masses of a rugged, gigantic character; which ruggedness, however, is here tempered by a singular airiness of form, and softness of environment: in a climate favourable to vegetation, the gray cliff, itself covered with lichens, shoots-up through a garment of foliage or verdure; and white, bright cottages, tree-shaded, cluster round the everlasting granite. in fine vicissitude, beauty alternates with grandeur: you ride through stony hollows, along straight passes, traversed by torrents, overhung by high walls of rock; now winding amid broken shaggy chasms, and huge fragments; now suddenly emerging into some emerald valley, where the streamlet collects itself into a lake, and man has again found a fair dwelling, and it seems as if peace had established herself in the bosom of strength. 'to peace, however, in this vortex of existence, can the son of time not pretend: still less if some spectre haunt him from the past; and the future is wholly a stygian darkness, spectre-bearing. reasonably might the wanderer exclaim to himself: are not the gates of this world's happiness inexorably shut against thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad? nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly, or in the original greek if that suit better: "whoso can look on death will start at no shadows." 'from such meditations is the wanderer's attention called outwards; for now the valley closes-in abruptly, intersected by a huge mountain mass, the stony water-worn ascent of which is not to be accomplished on horseback. arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into the evening sunset light; and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there. an upland irregular expanse of wold, where valleys in complex branchings are suddenly or slowly arranging their descent towards every quarter of the sky. the mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together: only the loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes also lie clear and earnest in their solitude. no trace of man now visible; unless indeed it were he who fashioned that little visible link of highway, here, as would seem, scaling the inaccessible, to unite province with province. but sunwards, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of mountains, the diadem and centre of the mountain region! a hundred and a hundred savage peaks, in the last light of day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst, like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in their solitude, even as on the night when noah's deluge first dried! beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our wanderer. he gazed over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire; never till this hour had he known nature, that she was one, that she was his mother, and divine. and as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the sky, and the sun had now departed, a murmur of eternity and immensity, of death and of life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if death and life were one, as if the earth were not dead, as if the spirit of the earth had its throne in that splendour, and his own spirit were therewith holding communion. 'the spell was broken by a sound of carriage-wheels. emerging from the hidden northward, to sink soon into the hidden southward, came a gay barouche-and-four: it was open; servants and postillions wore wedding-favours: that happy pair, then, had found each other, it was their marriage evening! few moments brought them near: _du himmel!_ it was herr towgood and--blumine! with slight unrecognising salutation they passed me; plunged down amid the neighbouring thickets, onwards, to heaven, and to england; and i, in my friend richter's words, _i remained alone, behind them, with the night_.' were it not cruel in these circumstances, here might be the place to insert an observation, gleaned long ago from the great _clothes-volume_, where it stands with quite other intent: 'some time before small-pox was extirpated,' says the professor, 'there came a new malady of the spiritual sort on europe: i mean the epidemic, now endemical, of view-hunting. poets of old date, being privileged with senses, had also enjoyed external nature; but chiefly as we enjoy the crystal cup which holds good or bad liquor for us; that is to say, in silence, or with slight incidental commentary: never, as i compute, till after the _sorrows of werter_, was there man found who would say: come let us make a description! having drunk the liquor, come let us eat the glass! of which endemic the jenner is unhappily still to seek.' too true! we reckon it more important to remark that the professor's wanderings, so far as his stoical and cynical envelopment admits us to clear insight, here first take their permanent character, fatuous or not. that basilisk-glance of the barouche-and-four seems to have withered-up what little remnant of a purpose may have still lurked in him: life has become wholly a dark labyrinth; wherein, through long years, our friend, flying from spectres, has to stumble about at random, and naturally with more haste than progress. foolish were it in us to attempt following him, even from afar, in this extraordinary world-pilgrimage of his; the simplest record of which, were clear record possible, would fill volumes. hopeless is the obscurity, unspeakable the confusion. he glides from country to country, from condition to condition; vanishing and reappearing, no man can calculate how or where. through all quarters of the world he wanders, and apparently through all circles of society. if in any scene, perhaps difficult to fix geographically, he settles for a time, and forms connexions, be sure he will snap them abruptly asunder. let him sink out of sight as private scholar (_privatisirender_), living by the grace of god in some european capital, you may next find him as hadjee in the neighbourhood of mecca. it is an inexplicable phantasmagoria, capricious, quick-changing; as if our traveller, instead of limbs and high-ways, had transported himself by some wishing-carpet, or fortunatus' hat. the whole, too, imparted emblematically, in dim multifarious tokens (as that collection of street-advertisements); with only some touch of direct historical notice sparingly interspersed: little light-islets in the world of haze! so that, from this point, the professor is more of an enigma than ever. in figurative language, we might say he becomes, not indeed a spirit, yet spiritualised, vaporised fact unparalleled in biography: the river of his history, which we have traced from its tiniest fountains, and hoped to see flow onward, with increasing current, into the ocean, here dashes itself over that terrific lover's leap; and, as a mad-foaming cataract, flies wholly into tumultuous clouds of spray! low down it indeed collects again into pools and plashes; yet only at a great distance, and with difficulty, if at all, into a general stream. to cast a glance into certain of those pools and plashes, and trace whither they run, must, for a chapter or two, form the limit of our endeavour. for which end doubtless those direct historical notices, where they can be met with, are the best. nevertheless, of this sort too there occurs much, which, with our present light, it were questionable to emit. teufelsdröckh, vibrating everywhere between the highest and the lowest levels, comes into contact with public history itself. for example, those conversations and relations with illustrious persons, as sultan mahmoud, the emperor napoleon, and others, are they not as yet rather of a diplomatic character than of a biographic? the editor, appreciating the sacredness of crowned heads, nay perhaps suspecting the possible trickeries of a clothes-philosopher, will eschew this province for the present; a new time may bring new insight and a different duty. if we ask now, not indeed with what ulterior purpose, for there was none, yet with what immediate outlooks; at all events, in what mood of mind, the professor undertook and prosecuted this world-pilgrimage,--the answer is more distinct than favourable. 'a nameless unrest,' says he, 'urged me forward; to which the outward motion was some momentary lying solace. whither should i go? my loadstars were blotted out; in that canopy of grim fire shone no star. yet forward must i; the ground burnt under me; there was no rest for the sole of my foot. i was alone, alone! ever too the strong inward longing shaped fantasms for itself: towards these, one after the other, must i fruitlessly wander. a feeling i had, that for my fever-thirst there was and must be somewhere a healing fountain. to many fondly imagined fountains, the saints' wells of these days, did i pilgrim; to great men, to great cities, to great events: but found there no healing. in strange countries, as in the well-known; in savage deserts, as in the press of corrupt civilisation, it was ever the same: how could your wanderer escape from--_his own shadow_? nevertheless still forward! i felt as if in great haste; to do i saw not what. from the depths of my own heart, it called to me, forwards! the winds and the streams, and all nature sounded to me, forwards! _ach gott_, i was even, once for all, a son of time.' from which is it not clear that the internal satanic school was still active enough? he says elsewhere: 'the _enchiridion of epictetus_ i had ever with me, often as my sole rational companion; and regret to mention that the nourishment it yielded was trifling.' thou foolish teufelsdröckh! how could it else? hadst thou not greek enough to understand thus much: _the end of man is an action, and not a thought_, though it were the noblest? 'how i lived?' writes he once: 'friend, hast thou considered the "rugged all-nourishing earth," as sophocles well names her; how she feeds the sparrow on the house-top, much more her darling, man? while thou stirrest and livest, thou hast a probability of victual. my breakfast of tea has been cooked by a tartar woman, with water of the amur, who wiped her earthen kettle with a horse-tail. i have roasted wild-eggs in the sand of sahara; i have awakened in paris _estrapades_ and vienna _malzleins_, with no prospect of breakfast beyond elemental liquid. that i had my living to seek saved me from dying,--by suicide. in our busy europe, is there not an everlasting demand for intellect, in the chemical, mechanical, political, religious, educational, commercial departments? in pagan countries, cannot one write fetishes? living! little knowest thou what alchemy is in an inventive soul; how, as with its little finger, it can create provision enough for the body (of a philosopher); and then, as with both hands, create quite other than provision; namely, spectres to torment itself withal.' poor teufelsdröckh! flying with hunger always parallel to him; and a whole infernal chase in his rear; so that the countenance of hunger is comparatively a friend's! thus must he, in the temper of ancient cain, or of the modern wandering jew,--save only that he feels himself not guilty and but suffering the pains of guilt,--wend to and fro with aimless speed. thus must he, over the whole surface of the earth (by footprints), write his _sorrows of teufelsdröckh_; even as the great goethe, in passionate words, had to write his _sorrows of werter_, before the spirit freed herself, and he could become a man. vain truly is the hope of your swiftest runner to escape 'from his own shadow'! nevertheless, in these sick days, when the born of heaven first descries himself (about the age of twenty) in a world such as ours, richer than usual in two things, in truths grown obsolete, and trades grown obsolete,--what can the fool think but that it is all a den of lies, wherein whoso will not speak lies and act lies, must stand idle and despair? whereby it happens that, for your nobler minds, the publishing of some such work of art, in one or the other dialect, becomes almost a necessity. for what is it properly but an altercation with the devil, before you begin honestly fighting him? your byron publishes his _sorrows of lord george_, in verse and in prose, and copiously otherwise: your bonaparte represents his _sorrows of napoleon_ opera, in an all-too stupendous style; with music of cannon-volleys, and murder-shrieks of a world; his stage-lights are the fires of conflagration; his rhyme and recitative are the tramp of embattled hosts and the sound of falling cities.--happier is he who, like our clothes-philosopher, can write such matter, since it must be written, on the insensible earth, with his shoe-soles only; and also survive the writing thereof! chapter vii the everlasting no under the strange nebulous envelopment, wherein our professor has now shrouded himself, no doubt but his spiritual nature is nevertheless progressive, and growing: for how can the 'son of time,' in any case, stand still? we behold him, through those dim years, in a state of crisis, of transition: his mad pilgrimings, and general solution into aimless discontinuity, what is all this but a mad fermentation; wherefrom, the fiercer it is, the clearer product will one day evolve itself? such transitions are ever full of pain: thus the eagle when he moults is sickly; and, to attain his new beak, must harshly dash-off the old one upon rocks. what stoicism soever our wanderer, in his individual acts and motions, may affect, it is clear that there is a hot fever of anarchy and misery raging within; coruscations of which flash out: as, indeed, how could there be other? have we not seen him disappointed, bemocked of destiny, through long years? all that the young heart might desire and pray for has been denied; nay, as in the last worst instance, offered and then snatched away. ever an 'excellent passivity'; but of useful, reasonable activity, essential to the former as food to hunger, nothing granted: till at length, in this wild pilgrimage, he must forcibly seize for himself an activity, though useless, unreasonable. alas, his cup of bitterness, which had been filling drop by drop, ever since that first 'ruddy morning' in the hinterschlag gymnasium, was at the very lip; and then with that poison-drop, of the towgood-and-blumine business, it runs over, and even hisses over in a deluge of foam. he himself says once, with more justice than originality: 'man is, properly speaking, based upon hope, he has no other possession but hope; this world of his is emphatically the place of hope.' what, then, was our professor's possession? we see him, for the present, quite shut-out from hope; looking not into the golden orient, but vaguely all round into a dim copper firmament, pregnant with earthquake and tornado. alas, shut-out from hope, in a deeper sense than we yet dream of! for, as he wanders wearisomely through this world, he has now lost all tidings of another and higher. full of religion, or at least of religiosity, as our friend has since exhibited himself, he hides not that, in those days, he was wholly irreligious: 'doubt had darkened into unbelief,' says he; 'shade after shade goes grimly over your soul, till you have the fixed, starless, tartarean black.' to such readers as have reflected, what can be called reflecting, on man's life, and happily discovered, in contradiction to much profit-and-loss philosophy, speculative and practical, that soul is _not_ synonymous with stomach; who understand, therefore, in our friend's words, 'that, for man's well-being, faith is properly the one thing needful; how, with it, martyrs, otherwise weak, can cheerfully endure the shame and the cross; and without it, worldlings puke-up their sick existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury': to such it will be clear that, for a pure moral nature, the loss of his religious belief was the loss of everything. unhappy young man! all wounds, the crush of long-continued destitution, the stab of false friendship and of false love, all wounds in thy so genial heart, would have healed again, had not its life-warmth been withdrawn. well might he exclaim, in his wild way: 'is there no god, then; but at best an absentee god, sitting idle, ever since the first sabbath, at the outside of his universe, and _see_ing it go? has the word duty no meaning; is what we call duty no divine messenger and guide, but a false earthly fantasm, made-up of desire and fear, of emanations from the gallows and from dr. graham's celestial-bed? happiness of an approving conscience! did not paul of tarsus, whom admiring men have since named saint, feel that _he_ was "the chief of sinners"; and nero of rome, jocund in spirit (_wohlgemuth_), spend much of his time in fiddling? foolish word-monger and motive-grinder, who in thy logic-mill hast an earthly mechanism for the godlike itself, and wouldst fain grind me out virtue from the husks of pleasure,--i tell thee, nay! to the unregenerate prometheus vinctus of a man, it is ever the bitterest aggravation of his wretchedness that he is conscious of virtue, that he feels himself the victim not of suffering only, but of injustice. what then? is the heroic inspiration we name virtue but some passion; some bubble of the blood, bubbling in the direction others _profit_ by? i know not: only this i know, if what thou namest happiness be our true aim, then are we all astray. with stupidity and sound digestion man may front much. but what, in these dull unimaginative days, are the terrors of conscience to the diseases of the liver! not on morality, but on cookery, let us build our stronghold: there brandishing our frying-pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the devil, and live at ease on the fat things _he_ has provided for his elect!' thus has the bewildered wanderer to stand, as so many have done, shouting question after question into the sibyl-cave of destiny, and receive no answer but an echo. it is all a grim desert, this once-fair world of his; wherein is heard only the howling of wild-beasts, or the shrieks of despairing, hate-filled men; and no pillar of cloud by day, and no pillar of fire by night, any longer guides the pilgrim. to such length has the spirit of inquiry carried him. 'but what boots it (_was thut's_)?' cries he: 'it is but the common lot in this era. not having come to spiritual majority prior to the _siècle de louis quinze_, and not being born purely a loghead (_dummkopf_), thou hadst no other outlook. the whole world is, like thee, sold to unbelief; their old temples of the godhead, which for long have not been rainproof, crumble down; and men ask now: where is the godhead; our eyes never saw him?' pitiful enough were it, for all these wild utterances, to call our diogenes wicked. unprofitable servants as we all are, perhaps at no era of his life was he more decisively the servant of goodness, the servant of god, than even now when doubting god's existence. 'one circumstance i note,' says he: 'after all the nameless woe that inquiry, which for me, what it is not always, was genuine love of truth, had wrought me, i nevertheless still loved truth, and would bate no jot of my allegiance to her. "truth"! i cried, "though the heavens crush me for following her: no falsehood! though a whole celestial lubberland were the price of apostasy." in conduct it was the same. had a divine messenger from the clouds, or miraculous handwriting on the wall, convincingly proclaimed to me _this thou shalt do_, with what passionate readiness, as i often thought, would i have done it, had it been leaping into the infernal fire. thus, in spite of all motive-grinders, and mechanical profit-and-loss philosophies, with the sick ophthalmia and hallucination they had brought on, was the infinite nature of duty still dimly present to me: living without god in the world, of god's light i was not utterly bereft; if my as yet sealed eyes, with their unspeakable longing, could nowhere see him, nevertheless in my heart he was present, and his heaven-written law still stood legible and sacred there.' meanwhile, under all these tribulations, and temporal and spiritual destitutions, what must the wanderer, in his silent soul, have endured! 'the painfullest feeling,' writes he, 'is that of your own feebleness (_unkraft_); ever, as the english milton says, to be weak is the true misery. and yet of your strength there is and can be no clear feeling, save by what you have prospered in, by what you have done. between vague wavering capability and fixed indubitable performance, what a difference! a certain inarticulate self-consciousness dwells dimly in us; which only our works can render articulate and decisively discernible. our works are the mirror wherein the spirit first sees its natural lineaments. hence, too, the folly of that impossible precept, _know thyself_; till it be translated into this partially possible one, _know what thou canst work-at_. 'but for me, so strangely unprosperous had i been, the net-result of my workings amounted as yet simply to--nothing. how then could i believe in my strength, when there was as yet no mirror to see it in? ever did this agitating, yet, as i now perceive, quite frivolous question, remain to me insoluble: hast thou a certain faculty, a certain worth, such even as the most have not; or art thou the completest dullard of these modern times? alas! the fearful unbelief is unbelief in yourself; and how could i believe? had not my first, last faith in myself, when even to me the heavens seemed laid open, and i dared to love, been all-too cruelly belied? the speculative mystery of life grew ever more mysterious to me: neither in the practical mystery had i made the slightest progress, but been everywhere buffeted, foiled, and contemptuously cast-out. a feeble unit in the middle of a threatening infinitude, i seemed to have nothing given me but eyes, whereby to discern my own wretchedness. invisible yet impenetrable walls, as of enchantment, divided me from all living: was there, in the wide world, any true bosom i could press trustfully to mine? o heaven, no, there was none! i kept a lock upon my lips: why should i speak much with that shifting variety of so-called friends, in whose withered, vain and too-hungry souls friendship was but an incredible tradition? in such cases, your resource is to talk little, and that little mostly from the newspapers. now when i look back, it was a strange isolation i then lived in. the men and women around me, even speaking with me, were but figures; i had, practically, forgotten that they were alive, that they were not merely automatic. in midst of their crowded streets and assemblages, i walked solitary; and (except as it was my own heart, not another's, that i kept devouring) savage also, as the tiger in his jungle. some comfort it would have been, could i, like a faust, have fancied myself tempted and tormented of the devil; for a hell, as i imagine, without life, though only diabolic life, were more frightful: but in our age of down-pulling and disbelief, the very devil has been pulled down, you cannot so much as believe in a devil. to me the universe was all void of life, of purpose, of volition, even of hostility: it was one huge, dead, immeasurable steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind me limb from limb. o, the vast, gloomy, solitary golgotha, and mill of death! why was the living banished thither companionless, conscious? why, if there is no devil; nay, unless the devil is your god'? a prey incessantly to such corrosions, might not, moreover, as the worst aggravation to them, the iron constitution even of a teufelsdröckh threaten to fail? we conjecture that he has known sickness; and, in spite of his locomotive habits, perhaps sickness of the chronic sort. hear this, for example: 'how beautiful to die of broken-heart, on paper! quite another thing in practice; every window of your feeling, even of your intellect, as it were, begrimed and mud-bespattered, so that no pure ray can enter; a whole drugshop in your inwards; the fordone soul drowning slowly in quagmires of disgust!' putting all which external and internal miseries together, may we not find in the following sentences, quite in our professor's still vein, significance enough? 'from suicide a certain aftershine (_nachschein_) of christianity withheld me: perhaps also a certain indolence of character; for, was not that a remedy i had at any time within reach? often, however, was there a question present to me: should some one now, at the turning of that corner, blow thee suddenly out of space, into the other world, or other no-world, by pistol-shot,--how were it? on which ground, too, i have often, in sea-storms and sieged cities and other death-scenes, exhibited an imperturbability, which passed, falsely enough, for courage.' 'so had it lasted,' concludes the wanderer, 'so had it lasted, as in bitter protracted death-agony, through long years. the heart within me, unvisited by any heavenly dewdrop, was smouldering in sulphurous, slow-consuming fire. almost since earliest memory i had shed no tear; or once only when i, murmuring half-audibly, recited faust's deathsong, that wild _selig der den er im siegesglanze findet_ (happy whom _he_ finds in battle's splendour), and thought that of this last friend even i was not forsaken, that destiny itself could not doom me not to die. having no hope, neither had i any definite fear, were it of man or of devil: nay, i often felt as if it might be solacing, could the arch-devil himself, though in tartarean terrors, but rise to me, that i might tell him a little of my mind. and yet, strangely enough, i lived in a continual, indefinite, pining fear; tremulous, pusillanimous, apprehensive of i knew not what: it seemed as if all things in the heavens above and the earth beneath would hurt me; as if the heavens and the earth were but boundless jaws of a devouring monster, wherein i, palpitating, waited to be devoured. 'full of such humour, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole french capital or suburbs, was i, one sultry dog-day, after much perambulation, toiling along the dirty little _rue saint-thomas de l'enfer_, among civic rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and over pavements hot as nebuchadnezzar's furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits were little cheered; when, all at once, there rose a thought in me, and i asked myself: "what _art_ thou afraid of? wherefore, like a coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go cowering and trembling? despicable biped! what is the sum-total of the worst that lies before thee? death? well, death; and say the pangs of tophet too, and all that the devil and man may, will or can do against thee! hast thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer whatsoever it be; and, as a child of freedom, though outcast, trample tophet itself under thy feet, while it consumes thee? let it come, then; i will meet it and defy it!" and as i so thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my whole soul; and i shook base fear away from me forever. i was strong, of unknown strength; a spirit, almost a god. ever from that time, the temper of my misery was changed: not fear or whining sorrow was it, but indignation and grim fire-eyed defiance. 'thus had the everlasting no (_das ewige nein_) pealed authoritatively through all the recesses of my being, of my me; and then was it that my whole me stood up, in native god-created majesty, and with emphasis recorded its protest. such a protest, the most important transaction in life, may that same indignation and defiance, in a psychological point of view, be fitly called. the everlasting no had said: "behold, thou are fatherless, outcast, and the universe is mine (the devil's)"; to which my whole me now made answer: "_i_ am not thine, but free, and forever hate thee!" 'it is from this hour that i incline to date my spiritual new-birth, or baphometic fire-baptism; perhaps i directly thereupon began to be a man.' chapter viii centre of indifference though, after this 'baphometic fire-baptism' of his, our wanderer signifies that his unrest was but increased; as, indeed, 'indignation and defiance,' especially against things in general, are not the most peaceable inmates; yet can the psychologist surmise that it was no longer a quite hopeless unrest; that henceforth it had at least a fixed centre to revolve round. for the fire-baptised soul, long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own freedom, which feeling is its baphometic baptism: the citadel of its whole kingdom it has thus gained by assault, and will keep inexpugnable; outwards from which the remaining dominions, not indeed without hard battling, will doubtless by degrees be conquered and pacificated. under another figure, we might say, if in that great moment, in the _rue saint-thomas de l'enfer_, the old inward satanic school was not yet thrown out of doors, it received peremptory judicial notice to quit;--whereby, for the rest, its howl-chantings, ernulphus-cursings, and rebellious gnashings of teeth, might, in the meanwhile, become only the more tumultuous, and difficult to keep secret. accordingly, if we scrutinise these pilgrimings well, there is perhaps discernible henceforth a certain incipient method in their madness. not wholly as a spectre does teufelsdröckh now storm through the world; at worst as a spectre-fighting man, nay who will one day be a spectre-queller. if pilgriming restlessly to so many 'saints' wells,' and ever without quenching of his thirst, he nevertheless finds little secular wells, whereby from time to time some alleviation is ministered. in a word, he is now, if not ceasing, yet intermitting to 'eat his own heart'; and clutches round him outwardly on the not-me for wholesomer food. does not the following glimpse exhibit him in a much more natural state? 'towns also and cities, especially the ancient, i failed not to look upon with interest. how beautiful to see thereby, as through a long vista, into the remote time; to have, as it were, an actual section of almost the earliest past brought safe into the present, and set before your eyes! there, in that old city, was a live ember of culinary fire put down, say only two thousand years ago; and there, burning more or less triumphantly, with such fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns, and thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof. ah! and the far more mysterious live ember of vital fire was then also put down there; and still miraculously burns and spreads; and the smoke and ashes thereof (in these judgment-halls and churchyards), and its bellows-engines (in these churches), thou still seest; and its flame, looking out from every kind countenance, and every hateful one, still warms thee or scorches thee. 'of man's activity and attainment the chief results are aeriform, mystic, and preserved in tradition only: such are his forms of government, with the authority they rest on; his customs, or fashions both of cloth-habits and of soul-habits; much more his collective stock of handicrafts, the whole faculty he has acquired of manipulating nature: all these things, as indispensable and priceless as they are, cannot in any way be fixed under lock and key, but must flit, spirit-like, on impalpable vehicles, from father to son; if you demand sight of them, they are nowhere to be met with. visible ploughmen and hammermen there have been, ever from cain and tubalcain downwards: but where does your accumulated agricultural, metallurgic, and other manufacturing skill lie warehoused? it transmits itself on the atmospheric air, on the sun's rays (by hearing and by vision); it is a thing aeriform, impalpable, of quite spiritual sort. in like manner, ask me not, where are the laws; where is the government? in vain wilt thou go to schönbrunn, to downing street, to the palais bourbon: thou findest nothing there but brick or stone houses, and some bundles of papers tied with tape. where, then, is that same cunningly-devised almighty government of theirs to be laid hands on? everywhere, yet nowhere: seen only in its works, this too is a thing aeriform, invisible; or if you will, mystic and miraculous. so spiritual (_geistig_) is our whole daily life: all that we do springs out of mystery, spirit, invisible force; only like a little cloud-image, or armida's palace, air-built, does the actual body itself forth from the great mystic deep. 'visible and tangible products of the past, again, i reckon-up to the extent of three: cities, with their cabinets and arsenals; then tilled fields, to either or to both of which divisions roads with their bridges may belong; and thirdly----books. in which third truly, the last invented, lies a worth far surpassing that of the two others. wondrous indeed is the virtue of a true book. not like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly needing repair; more like a tilled field, but then a spiritual field: like a spiritual tree, let me rather say, it stands from year to year, and from age to age (we have books that already number some hundred-and-fifty human ages); and yearly comes its new produce of leaves (commentaries, deductions, philosophical, political systems; or were it only sermons, pamphlets, journalistic essays), every one of which is talismanic and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. o thou who art able to write a book, which once in the two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not him whom they name city-builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they name conqueror or city-burner! thou too art a conqueror and victor: but of the true sort, namely over the devil: thou too hast built what will outlast all marble and metal, and be a wonder-bringing city of the mind, a temple and seminary and prophetic mount, whereto all kindreds of the earth will pilgrim.--fool! why journeyest thou wearisomely, in thy antiquarian fervour, to gaze on the stone pyramids of geeza, or the clay ones of sacchara? these stand there, as i can tell thee, idle and inert, looking over the desert, foolishly enough, for the last three-thousand years: but canst thou not open thy hebrew bible, then, or even luther's version thereof?' no less satisfactory is his sudden appearance not in battle, yet on some battle-field; which, we soon gather, must be that of wagram; so that here, for once, is a certain approximation to distinctness of date. omitting much, let us impart what follows: 'horrible enough! a whole marchfeld strewed with shell-splinters, cannon-shot, ruined tumbrils, and dead men and horses; stragglers still remaining not so much as buried. and those red mould heaps: ay, there lie the shells of men, out of which all the life and virtue has been blown; and now are they swept together, and crammed-down out of sight, like blown egg-shells!--did nature, when she bade the donau bring down his mould-cargoes from the carinthian and carpathian heights, and spread them out here into the softest, richest level,--intend thee, o marchfeld, for a corn-bearing nursery, whereon her children might be nursed; or for a cockpit, wherein they might the more commodiously be throttled and tattered? were thy three broad highways, meeting here from the ends of europe, made for ammunition-wagons, then? were thy wagrams and stillfrieds but so many ready-built casemates, wherein the house of hapsburg might batter with artillery, and with artillery be battered? könig ottokar, amid yonder hillocks, dies under rodolf's truncheon; here kaiser franz falls a-swoon under napoleon's: within which five centuries, to omit the others, how has thy breast, fair plain, been defaced and defiled! the greensward is torn-up and trampled-down; man's fond care of it, his fruit-trees, hedgerows, and pleasant dwellings, blown-away with gunpowder; and the kind seedfield lies a desolate, hideous place of sculls.--nevertheless, nature is at work; neither shall these powder-devilkins with their utmost devilry gainsay her: but all that gore and carnage will be shrouded-in, absorbed into manure; and next year the marchfeld will be green, nay greener. thrifty unwearied nature, ever out of our great waste educing some little profit of thy own,--how dost thou, from the very carcass of the killer, bring life for the living! 'what, speaking in quite unofficial language, is the net-purport and upshot of war? to my own knowledge, for example, there dwell and toil, in the british village of dumdrudge, usually some five-hundred souls. from these, by certain "natural enemies" of the french, there are successively selected, during the french war, say thirty able-bodied men: dumdrudge, at her own expense, has suckled and nursed them: she has, not without difficulty and sorrow, fed them up to manhood, and even trained them to crafts, so that one can weave, another build, another hammer, and the weakest can stand under thirty stone avoirdupois. nevertheless, amid much weeping and swearing, they are selected; all dressed in red; and shipped away, at the public charges, some two-thousand miles, or say only to the south of spain; and fed there till wanted. and now to that same spot, in the south of spain, are thirty similar french artisans, from a french dumdrudge, in like manner wending: till at length, after infinite effort, the two parties come into actual juxtaposition; and thirty stands fronting thirty, each with a gun in his hand. straightway the word "fire!" is given: and they blow the souls out of one another; and in place of sixty brisk useful craftsmen, the world has sixty dead carcasses, which it must bury, and anew shed tears for. had these men any quarrel? busy as the devil is, not the smallest! they lived far enough apart; were the entirest strangers; nay, in so wide a universe, there was even, unconsciously, by commerce, some mutual helpfulness between them. how then? simpleton! their governors had fallen-out; and, instead of shooting one another, had the cunning to make these poor blockheads shoot.--alas, so is it in deutschland, and hitherto in all other lands; still as of old, "what devilry soever kings do, the greeks must pay the piper!"--in that fiction of the english smollet, it is true, the final cessation of war is perhaps prophetically shadowed forth; where the two natural enemies, in person, take each a tobacco-pipe, filled with brimstone; light the same, and smoke in one another's faces, till the weaker gives in: but from such predicted peace-era, what blood-filled trenches, and contentious centuries, may still divide us!' thus can the professor, at least in lucid intervals, look away from his own sorrows, over the many-coloured world, and pertinently enough note what is passing there. we may remark, indeed, that for the matter of spiritual culture, if for nothing else, perhaps few periods of his life were richer than this. internally, there is the most momentous instructive course of practical philosophy, with experiments, going on; towards the right comprehension of which his peripatetic habits, favourable to meditation, might help him rather than hinder. externally, again, as he wanders to and fro, there are, if for the longing heart little substance, yet for the seeing eye sights enough: in these so boundless travels of his, granting that the satanic school was even partially kept down, what an incredible knowledge of our planet, and its inhabitants and their works, that is to say, of all knowable things, might not teufelsdröckh acquire! 'i have read in most public libraries,' says he, 'including those of constantinople and samarcand: in most colleges, except the chinese mandarin ones, i have studied, or seen that there was no studying. unknown languages have i oftenest gathered from their natural repertory, the air, by my organ of hearing; statistics, geographics, topographics came, through the eye, almost of their own accord. the ways of man, how he seeks food, and warmth, and protection for himself, in most regions, are ocularly known to me. like the great hadrian, i meted-out much of the terraqueous globe with a pair of compasses that belonged to myself only. 'of great scenes why speak? three summer days, i lingered reflecting, and even composing (_dichtete_), by the pinechasms of vaucluse; and in that clear lakelet moistened my bread. i have sat under the palm-trees of tadmor; smoked a pipe among the ruins of babylon. the great wall of china i have seen; and can testify that it is of gray brick, coped and covered with granite, and shows only second-rate masonry.--great events, also, have not i witnessed? kings sweated-down (_ausgemergelt_) into berlin-and-milan customhouse-officers; the world well won, and the world well lost; oftener than once a hundred-thousand individuals shot (by each other) in one day. all kindreds and peoples and nations dashed together, and shifted and shovelled into heaps, that they might ferment there, and in time unite. the birth-pangs of democracy, wherewith convulsed europe was groaning in cries that reached heaven, could not escape me. 'for great men i have ever had the warmest predilection; and can perhaps boast that few such in this era have wholly escaped me. great men are the inspired (speaking and acting) texts of that divine book of revelations, whereof a chapter is completed from epoch to epoch, and by some named history; to which inspired texts your numerous talented men, and your innumerable untalented men, are the better or worse exegetic commentaries, and wagonload of too-stupid, heretical or orthodox, weekly sermons. for my study the inspired texts themselves! thus did not i, in very early days, having disguised me as tavern-waiter, stand behind the field-chairs, under that shady tree at treisnitz by the jena highway; waiting upon the great schiller and greater goethe; and hearing what i have not forgotten. for----' ----but at this point the editor recalls his principle of caution, some time ago laid down, and must suppress much. let not the sacredness of laurelled, still more, of crowned heads, be tampered with. should we, at a future day, find circumstances altered, and the time come for publication, then may these glimpses into the privacy of the illustrious be conceded; which for the present were little better than treacherous, perhaps traitorous eavesdroppings. of lord byron, therefore, of pope pius, emperor tarakwang, and the 'white water-roses' (chinese carbonari) with their mysteries, no notice here! of napoleon himself we shall only, glancing from afar, remark that teufelsdröckh's relation to him seems to have been of very varied character. at first we find our poor professor on the point of being shot as a spy; then taken into private conversation, even pinched on the ear, yet presented with no money; at last indignantly dismissed, almost thrown out of doors, as an 'ideologist.' 'he himself,' says the professor, 'was among the completest ideologists, at least ideopraxists: in the idea (_in der idee_) he lived, moved and fought. the man was a divine missionary, though unconscious of it; and preached, through the cannon's throat, that great doctrine, _la carrière ouverte aux talens_ (the tools to him that can handle them), which is our ultimate political evangel, wherein alone can liberty lie. madly enough he preached, it is true, as enthusiasts and first missionaries are wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy rant; yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted. or call him, if you will, an american backwoodsman, who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom, notwithstanding, the peaceful sower will follow, and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.' more legitimate and decisively authentic is teufelsdröckh's appearance and emergence (we know not well whence) in the solitude of the north cape, on that june midnight. he has 'a light-blue spanish cloak' hanging round him, as his 'most commodious, principal, indeed sole upper garment'; and stands there, on the world-promontory, looking over the infinite brine, like a little blue belfry (as we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready, if stirred, to ring quaintest changes. 'silence as of death,' writes he; 'for midnight, even in the arctic latitudes, has its character: nothing but the granite cliffs ruddy-tinged, the peaceable gurgle of that slow-heaving polar ocean, over which in the utmost north the great sun hangs low and lazy, as if he too were slumbering. yet is his cloud-couch wrought of crimson and cloth-of-gold; yet does his light stream over the mirror of waters, like a tremulous fire-pillar, shooting downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under my feet. in such moments, solitude also is invaluable; for who would speak, or be looked on, when behind him lies all europe and africa, fast asleep, except the watchmen; and before him the silent immensity, and palace of the eternal, whereof our sun is but a porch-lamp? 'nevertheless, in this solemn moment comes a man, or monster, scrambling from among the rock-hollows; and, shaggy, huge as the hyperborean bear, hails me in russian speech: most probably, therefore, a russian smuggler. with courteous brevity, i signify my indifference to contraband trade, my humane intentions, yet strong wish to be private. in vain: the monster, counting doubtless on his superior stature, and minded to make sport for himself, or perhaps profit, were it with murder, continues to advance; ever assailing me with his importunate train-oil breath; and now has advanced, till we stand both on the verge of the rock, the deep sea rippling greedily down below. what argument will avail? on the thick hyperborean, cherubic reasoning, seraphic eloquence were lost. prepared for such extremity, i, deftly enough, whisk aside one step; draw out, from my interior reservoirs, a sufficient birmingham horse-pistol, and say, "be so obliging as retire, friend (_er ziehe sich zurück, freund_), and with promptitude!" this logic even the hyperborean understands; fast enough, with apologetic, petitionary growl, he sidles off; and, except for suicidal as well as homicidal purposes, need not return. 'such i hold to be the genuine use of gunpowder: that it makes all men alike tall. nay, if thou be cooler, cleverer than i, if thou have more _mind_, though all but no body whatever, then canst thou kill me first, and art the taller. hereby, at last, is the goliath powerless, and the david resistless; savage animalism is nothing, inventive spiritualism is all. 'with respect to duels, indeed, i have my own ideas. few things, in this so surprising world, strike me with more surprise. two little visual spectra of men, hovering with insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the unfathomable, and to dissolve therein, at any rate, very soon,--make pause at the distance of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and, simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into dissolution; and off-hand become air, and non-extant! deuce on it (_verdammt_), the little spitfires!--nay, i think with old hugo von trimberg: "god must needs laugh outright, could such a thing be, to see his wondrous manikins here below."' * * * * * but amid these specialties, let us not forget the great generality, which is our chief quest here: how prospered the inner man of teufelsdröckh under so much outward shifting? does legion still lurk in him, though repressed; or has he exorcised that devil's brood? we can answer that the symptoms continue promising. experience is the grand spiritual doctor; and with him teufelsdröckh has now been long a patient, swallowing many a bitter bolus. unless our poor friend belong to the numerous class of incurables, which seems not likely, some cure will doubtless be effected. we should rather say that legion, or the satanic school, was now pretty well extirpated and cast out, but next to nothing introduced in its room; whereby the heart remains, for the while, in a quiet but no comfortable state. 'at length, after so much roasting,' thus writes our autobiographer, 'i was what you might name calcined. pray only that it be not rather, as is the more frequent issue, reduced to a _caput-mortuum_! but in any case, by mere dint of practice, i had grown familiar with many things. wretchedness was still wretched; but i could now partly see through it, and despise it. which highest mortal, in this inane existence, had i not found a shadow-hunter, or shadow-hunted; and, when i looked through his brave garnitures, miserable enough? thy wishes have all been sniffed aside, thought i: but what, had they even been all granted! did not the boy alexander weep because he had not two planets to conquer; or a whole solar system; or after that, a whole universe? _ach gott_, when i gazed into these stars, have they not looked down on me as if with pity, from their serene spaces; like eyes glistening with heavenly tears over the little lot of man! thousands of human generations, all as noisy as our own, have been swallowed-up of time, and there remains no wreck of them any more; and arcturus and orion and sirius and the pleiades are still shining in their courses, clear and young, as when the shepherd first noted them in the plain of shinar. pshaw! what is this paltry little dog-cage of an earth; what art thou that sittest whining there? thou art still nothing, nobody: true; but who, then, is something, somebody? for thee the family of man has no use; it rejects thee; thou art wholly as a dissevered limb: so be it; perhaps it is better so!' too-heavy-laden teufelsdröckh! yet surely his bands are loosening; one day he will hurl the burden far from him, and bound forth free and with a second youth. 'this,' says our professor, 'was the centre of indifference i had now reached; through which whoso travels from the negative pole to the positive must necessarily pass.' chapter ix the everlasting yea 'temptations in the wilderness!' exclaims teufelsdröckh: 'have we not all to be tried with such? not so easily can the old adam, lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. our life is compassed round with necessity; yet is the meaning of life itself no other than freedom, than voluntary force: thus have we a warfare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle. for the god-given mandate, _work thou in welldoing_, lies mysteriously written, in promethean prophetic characters, in our hearts; and leaves us no rest, night or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted gospel of freedom. and as the clay-given mandate, _eat thou and be filled_, at the same time persuasively proclaims itself through every nerve,--must not there be a confusion, a contest, before the better influence can become the upper? 'to me nothing seems more natural than that the son of man, when such god-given mandate first prophetically stirs within him, and the clay must now be vanquished, or vanquish,--should be carried of the spirit into grim solitudes, and there fronting the tempter do grimmest battle with him; defiantly setting him at naught, till he yield and fly. name it as we choose: with or without visible devil, whether in the natural desert of rocks and sands, or in the populous moral desert of selfishness and baseness,--to such temptation are we all called. unhappy if we are not! unhappy if we are but half-men, in whom that divine handwriting has never blazed forth, all-subduing, in true sun-splendour; but quivers dubiously amid meaner lights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under earthly vapours!--our wilderness is the wide world in an atheistic century; our forty days are long years of suffering and fasting: nevertheless, to these also comes an end. yes, to me also was given, if not victory, yet the consciousness of battle, and the resolve to persevere therein while life or faculty is left. to me also, entangled in the enchanted forests, demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after weariest wanderings, to work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes--of that mountain which has no summit, or whose summit is in heaven only!' he says elsewhere, under a less ambitious figure; as figures are, once for all, natural to him: 'has not thy life been that of most sufficient men (_tüchtigen männer_) thou hast known in this generation? an out-flush of foolish young enthusiasm, like the first fallow-crop, wherein are as many weeds as valuable herbs: this all parched away, under the droughts of practical and spiritual unbelief, as disappointment, in thought and act, often-repeated gave rise to doubt, and doubt gradually settled into denial! if i have had a second-crop, and now see the perennial greensward, and sit under umbrageous cedars, which defy all drought (and doubt); herein too, be the heavens praised, i am not without examples, and even exemplars.' so that, for teufelsdröckh also, there has been a 'glorious revolution': these mad shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted pilgrimings of his were but some purifying 'temptation in the wilderness,' before his apostolic work (such as it was) could begin; which temptation is now happily over, and the devil once more worsted! was 'that high moment in the _rue de l'enfer_,' then, properly the turning-point of the battle; when the fiend said, _worship me or be torn in shreds_; and was answered valiantly with an _apage satana_?--singular teufelsdröckh, would thou hadst told thy singular story in plain words! but it is fruitless to look there, in those paper-bags, for such. nothing but innuendoes, figurative crotchets: a typical shadow, fitfully wavering, prophetico-satiric; no clear logical picture. 'how paint to the sensual eye,' asks he once, 'what passes in the holy-of-holies of man's soul; in what words, known to these profane times, speak even afar-off of the unspeakable?' we ask in turn: why perplex these times, profane as they are, with needless obscurity, by omission and by commission? not mystical only is our professor, but whimsical; and involves himself, now more than ever, in eye-bewildering _chiaroscuro_. successive glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our more gifted readers must endeavour to combine for their own behoof. he says: 'the hot harmattan wind had raged itself out; its howl went silent within me; and the long-deafened soul could now hear. i paused in my wild wanderings; and sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was as if the hour of change drew nigh. i seemed to surrender, to renounce utterly, and say: fly, then, false shadows of hope; i will chase you no more, i will believe you no more. and ye too, haggard spectres of fear, i care not for you; ye too are all shadows and a lie. let me rest here: for i am way-weary and life-weary; i will rest here, were it but to die: to die or to live is alike to me; alike insignificant.'--and again: 'here, then, as i lay in that centre of indifference; cast, doubtless by benignant upper influence, into a healing sleep, the heavy dreams rolled gradually away, and i awoke to a new heaven and a new earth. the first preliminary moral act, annihilation of self (_selbst-tödtung_), had been happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes were now unsealed, and its hands ungyved.' might we not also conjecture that the following passage refers to his locality, during this same 'healing sleep'; that his pilgrim-staff lies cast aside here, on 'the high table-land'; and indeed that the repose is already taking wholesome effect on him? if it were not that the tone, in some parts, has more of riancy, even of levity, than we could have expected! however, in teufelsdröckh, there is always the strangest dualism: light dancing, with guitar-music, will be going on in the fore-court, while by fits from within comes the faint whimpering of woe and wail. we transcribe the piece entire: 'beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey tent, musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front of the mountains; over me, as roof, the azure dome, and around me, for walls, four azure-flowing curtains,--namely, of the four azure winds, on whose bottom-fringes also i have seen gilding. and then to fancy the fair castles that stood sheltered in these mountain hollows; with their green flower-lawns, and white dames and damosels, lovely enough: or better still, the straw-roofed cottages, wherein stood many a mother baking bread, with her children round her:--all hidden and protectingly folded-up in the valley-folds; yet there and alive, as sure as if i beheld them. or to see, as well as fancy, the nine towns and villages, that lay round my mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal tongue; and, in almost all weather, proclaimed their vitality by repeated smoke-clouds; whereon, as on a culinary horologe, i might read the hour of the day. for it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their husbands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose up into the air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the nine, saying, as plainly as smoke could say: such and such a meal is getting ready here. not uninteresting! for you have the whole borough, with all its love-makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and contentments, as in miniature, and could cover it all with your hat.--if, in my wide wayfarings, i had learned to look into the business of the world in its details, here perhaps was the place for combining it into general propositions, and deducing inferences therefrom. 'often also could i see the black tempest marching in anger through the distance: round some schreckhorn, as yet grim-blue, would the eddying vapour gather, and there tumultuously eddy, and flow down like a mad witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished, and, in the clear sunbeam, your schreckhorn stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had held snow. how thou fermentest and elaboratest, in thy great fermenting-vat and laboratory of an atmosphere, of a world, o nature!--or what is nature? ha! why do i not name thee god? art not thou the "living garment of god"? o heavens, is it, in very deed, he, then, that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me? 'fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splendours, of that truth, and beginning of truths, fell mysteriously over my soul. sweeter than dayspring to the shipwrecked in nova zembla; ah, like the mother's voice to her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in unknown tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music to my too-exasperated heart, came that evangel. the universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres; but godlike, and my father's! 'with other eyes, too, could i now look upon my fellow man; with an infinite love, an infinite pity. poor, wandering, wayward man! art thou not tired, and beaten with stripes, even as i am? ever, whether thou bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; and thy bed of rest is but a grave. o my brother, my brother, why cannot i shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears from thy eyes! truly, the din of many-voiced life, which, in this solitude, with the mind's organ, i could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a melting one; like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of heaven are prayers. the poor earth, with her poor joys, was now my needy mother, not my cruel stepdame; man, with his so mad wants and so mean endeavours, had become the dearer to me; and even for his sufferings and his sins, i now first named him brother. thus was i standing in the porch of that "_sanctuary of sorrow_;" by strange, steep ways had i too been guided thither; and ere long its sacred gates would open, and the "_divine depth of sorrow_" lie disclosed to me.' the professor says, he here first got eye on the knot that had been strangling him, and straightway could unfasten it, and was free. 'a vain interminable controversy,' writes he, 'touching what is at present called origin of evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul, since the beginning of the world; and in every soul, that would pass from idle suffering into actual endeavouring, must first be put an end to. the most, in our time, have to go content with a simple, incomplete enough suppression of this controversy; to a few some solution of it is indispensable. in every new era, too, such solution comes-out in different terms; and ever the solution of the last era has become obsolete, and is found unserviceable. for it is man's nature to change his dialect from century to century; he cannot help it though he would. the authentic _church-catechism_ of our present century has not yet fallen into my hands: meanwhile, for my own private behoof, i attempt to elucidate the matter so. man's unhappiness, as i construe, comes of his greatness; it is because there is an infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the finite. will the whole finance ministers and upholsterers and confectioners of modern europe undertake, in jointstock company, to make one shoeblack happy? they cannot accomplish it, above an hour or two; for the shoeblack also has a soul quite other than his stomach; and would require, if you consider it, for his permanent satisfaction and saturation, simply this allotment, no more, and no less: _god's infinite universe altogether to himself_, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every wish as fast as it rose. oceans of hochheimer, a throat like that of ophiuchus: speak not of them; to the infinite shoeblack they are as nothing. no sooner is your ocean filled, than he grumbles that it might have been of better vintage. try him with half of a universe, of an omnipotence, he sets to quarrelling with the proprietor of the other half, and declares himself the most maltreated of men.--always there is a black spot in our sunshine: it is even as i said, the _shadow of ourselves_. 'but the whim we have of happiness is somewhat thus. by certain valuations, and averages, of our own striking, we come upon some sort of average terrestrial lot; this we fancy belongs to us by nature, and of indefeasible right. it is simple payment of our wages, of our deserts; requires neither thanks nor complaint; only such _overplus_ as there may be do we account happiness; any _deficit_ again is misery. now consider that we have the valuation of our own deserts ourselves, and what a fund of self-conceit there is in each of us,--do you wonder that the balance should so often dip the wrong way, and many a blockhead cry: see there, what a payment; was ever worthy gentleman so used!--i tell thee, blockhead, it all comes of thy vanity; of what thou _fanciest_ those same deserts of thine to be. fancy that thou deservest to be hanged (as is most likely), thou wilt feel it happiness to be only shot: fancy that thou deservest to be hanged in a hair-halter, it will be a luxury to die in hemp. 'so true is it, what i then say, that _the fraction of life can be increased in value not so much by increasing your numerator as by lessening your denominator_. nay, unless my algebra deceive me, _unity_ itself divided by _zero_ will give _infinity_. make thy claim of wages a zero, then; thou hast the world under thy feet. well did the wisest of our time write: "it is only with renunciation (_entsagen_) that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin." 'i asked myself: what is this that, ever since earliest years, thou hast been fretting and fuming, and lamenting and self-tormenting, on account of? say it in a word: is it not because thou art not happy? because the thou (sweet gentleman) is not sufficiently honoured, nourished, soft-bedded, and lovingly cared for? foolish soul! what act of legislature was there that _thou_ shouldst be happy? a little while ago thou hadst no right to _be_ at all. what if thou wert born and predestined not to be happy, but to be unhappy! art thou nothing other than a vulture, then, that fliest through the universe seeking after somewhat to _eat_; and shrieking dolefully because carrion enough is not given thee? close thy _byron_; open thy _goethe_.' '_es leuchtet mir ein_, i see a glimpse of it!' cries he elsewhere: 'there is in man a higher than love of happiness: he can do without happiness, and instead thereof find blessedness! was it not to preach-forth this same higher that sages and martyrs, the poet and the priest, in all times, have spoken and suffered; bearing testimony, through life and through death, of the godlike that is in man, and how in the godlike only has he strength and freedom? which god-inspired doctrine art thou also honoured to be taught; o heavens! and broken with manifold merciful afflictions, even till thou become contrite, and learn it! o, thank thy destiny for these; thankfully bear what yet remain: thou hadst need of them; the self in thee needed to be annihilated. by benignant fever-paroxysms is life rooting out the deep-seated chronic disease, and triumphs over death. on the roaring billows of time, thou art not engulfed, but borne aloft into the azure of eternity. love not pleasure; love god. this is the everlasting yea, wherein all contradiction is solved: wherein whoso walks and works, it is well with him.' and again: 'small is it that thou canst trample the earth with its injuries under thy feet, as old greek zeno trained thee: thou canst love the earth while it injures thee, and even because it injures thee; for this a greater than zeno was needed, and he too was sent. knowest thou that "_worship of sorrow_"? the temple thereof, founded some eighteen centuries ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with jungle, the habitation of doleful creatures: nevertheless, venture forward; in a low crypt, arched out of falling fragments, thou findest the altar still there, and its sacred lamp perennially burning.' without pretending to comment on which strange utterances, the editor will only remark, that there lies beside them much of a still more questionable character; unsuited to the general apprehension; nay wherein he himself does not see his way. nebulous disquisitions on religion, yet not without bursts of splendour; on the 'perennial continuance of inspiration;' on prophecy; that there are 'true priests, as well as baal-priests, in our own day:' with more of the like sort. we select some fractions, by way of finish to this farrago. 'cease, my much-respected herr von voltaire,' thus apostrophises the professor: 'shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed thee seems finished. sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this proposition, considerable or otherwise: that the mythus of the christian religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the eighth. alas, were thy six-and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and folios, and flying sheets or reams, printed before and since on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so little! but what next? wilt thou help us to embody the divine spirit of that religion in a new mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our souls, otherwise too like perishing, may live? what! thou hast no faculty in that kind? only a torch for burning, no hammer for building? take our thanks, then, and--thyself away. 'meanwhile what are antiquated mythuses to me? or is the god present, felt in my own heart, a thing which herr von voltaire will dispute out of me; or dispute into me? to the "_worship of sorrow_" ascribe what origin and genesis thou pleasest, _has_ not that worship originated, and been generated; is it not _here_? feel it in thy heart, and then say whether it is of god! this is belief; all else is opinion,--for which latter whoso will let him worry and be worried.' 'neither,' observes he elsewhere, 'shall ye tear-out one another's eyes, struggling over "plenary inspiration," and suchlike: try rather to get a little even partial inspiration, each of you for himself. one bible i know, of whose plenary inspiration doubt is not so much as possible; nay with my own eyes i saw the god's-hand writing it: thereof all other bibles are but leaves,--say, in picture-writing to assist the weaker faculty.' or, to give the wearied reader relief, and bring it to an end, let him take the following perhaps more intelligible passage: 'to me, in this our life,' says the professor, 'which is an internecine warfare with the time-spirit, other warfare seems questionable. hast thou in any way a contention with thy brother, i advise thee, think well what the meaning thereof is. if thou gauge it to the bottom, it is simply this: "fellow, see! thou art taking more than thy share of happiness in the world, something from _my_ share: which, by the heavens, thou shall not; nay i will fight thee rather."--alas, and the whole lot to be divided is such a beggarly matter, truly a "feast of shells," for the substance has been spilled out: not enough to quench one appetite; and the collective human species clutching at them!--can we not, in all such cases, rather say: "take it, thou too-ravenous individual; take that pitiful additional fraction of a share, which i reckoned mine, but which thou so wantest; take it with a blessing: would to heaven i had enough for thee!"--if fichte's _wissenschaftslehre_ be, "to a certain extent, applied christianity," surely to a still greater extent, so is this. we have here not a whole duty of man, yet a half duty, namely the passive half: could we but do it, as we can demonstrate it! 'but indeed conviction, were it never so excellent, is worthless till it convert itself into conduct. nay properly conviction is not possible till then; inasmuch as all speculation is by nature endless, formless, a vortex amid vortices: only by a felt indubitable certainty of experience does it find any centre to revolve round, and so fashion itself into a system. most true is it, as a wise man teaches us, that "doubt of any sort cannot be removed except by action." on which ground, too, let him who gropes painfully in darkness or uncertain light, and prays vehemently that the dawn may ripen into day, lay this other precept well to heart, which to me was of invaluable service: "_do the duty which lies nearest thee_," which thou knowest to be a duty! thy second duty will already have become clearer. 'may we not say, however, that the hour of spiritual enfranchisement is even this: when your ideal world, wherein the whole man has been dimly struggling and inexpressibly languishing to work, becomes revealed, and thrown open; and you discover, with amazement enough, like the lothario in _wilhelm meister_, that your "america is here or nowhere"? the situation that has not its duty, its ideal, was never yet occupied by man. yes here, in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy ideal: work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free. fool! the ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself: thy condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same ideal out of: what matters whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? o thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth: the thing thou seekest is already with thee, "here or nowhere," couldst thou only see! 'but it is with man's soul as it was with nature: the beginning of creation is--light. till the eye have vision, the whole members are in bonds. divine moment, when over the tempest-tost soul, as once over the wild-weltering chaos, it is spoken: let there be light! ever to the greatest that has felt such moment, is it not miraculous and god-announcing; even as, under simpler figures, to the simplest and least. the mad primeval discord is hushed; the rudely-jumbled conflicting elements bind themselves into separate firmaments: deep silent rock-foundations are built beneath; and the skyey vault with its everlasting luminaries above: instead of a dark wasteful chaos, we have a blooming, fertile, heaven-encompassed world. 'i too could now say to myself: be no longer a chaos, but a world, or even worldkin. produce! produce! were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a product, produce it, in god's name! 'tis the utmost thou hast in thee: out with it, then. up, up! whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might. work while it is called today; for the night cometh, wherein no man can work.' chapter x pause thus have we, as closely and perhaps satisfactorily as, in such circumstances, might be, followed teufelsdröckh through the various successive states and stages of growth, entanglement, unbelief, and almost reprobation, into a certain clearer state of what he himself seems to consider as conversion. 'blame not the word,' says he; 'rejoice rather that such a word, signifying such a thing, has come to light in our modern era, though hidden from the wisest ancients. the old world knew nothing of conversion; instead of an _ecce homo_, they had only some _choice of hercules_. it was a new-attained progress in the moral development of man: hereby has the highest come home to the bosoms of the most limited; what to plato was but a hallucination, and to socrates a chimera, is now clear and certain to your zinzendorfs, your wesleys, and the poorest of their pietists and methodists.' it is here, then, that the spiritual majority of teufelsdröckh commences: we are henceforth to see him 'work in well-doing,' with the spirit and clear aims of a man. he has discovered that the ideal workshop he so panted for is even this same actual ill-furnished workshop he has so long been stumbling in. he can say to himself: 'tools? thou hast no tools? why, there is not a man, or a thing, now alive but has tools. the basest of created animalcules, the spider itself, has a spinning-jenny, and warping-mill, and power-loom within its head: the stupidest of oysters has a papin's-digester, with stone-and-lime house to hold it in: every being that can live can do something: this let him _do_.--tools? hast thou not a brain, furnished, furnishable with some glimmerings of light; and three fingers to hold a pen withal? never since aaron's rod went out of practice, or even before it, was there such a wonder-working tool: greater than all recorded miracles have been performed by pens. for strangely in this so solid-seeming world, which nevertheless is in continual restless flux, it is appointed that _sound_, to appearance the most fleeting, should be the most continuing of all things. the word is well said to be omnipotent in this world; man, thereby divine, can create as by a _fiat_. awake, arise! speak forth what is in thee; what god has given thee, what the devil shall not take away. higher task than that of priesthood was allotted to no man: wert thou but the meanest in that sacred hierarchy, is it not honour enough therein to spend and be spent? 'by this art, which whoso will may sacrilegiously degrade into a handicraft,' adds teufelsdröckh, 'have i thenceforth abidden. writings of mine, not indeed known as mine (for what am _i_?), have fallen, perhaps not altogether void, into the mighty seed-field of opinion; fruits of my unseen sowing gratifyingly meet me here and there. i thank the heavens that i have now found my calling; wherein, with or without perceptible result, i am minded diligently to persevere. 'nay how knowest thou,' cries he, 'but this and the other pregnant device, now grown to be a world-renowned far-working institution; like a grain of right mustard-seed once cast into the right soil, and now stretching-out strong boughs to the four winds, for the birds of the air to lodge in,--may have been properly my doing? some one's doing, it without doubt was; from some idea, in some single head, it did first of all take beginning: why not from some idea in mine?' does teufelsdröckh here glance at that 'society for the conservation of property (_eigenthums-conservirende gesellschaft_),' of which so many ambiguous notices glide spectre-like through these inexpressible paper-bags? 'an institution,' hints he, 'not unsuitable to the wants of the time; as indeed such sudden extension proves: for already can the society number, among its office-bearers or corresponding members, the highest names, if not the highest persons, in germany, england, france; and contributions, both of money and of meditation, pour-in from all quarters; to, if possible, enlist the remaining integrity of the world, and, defensively and with forethought, marshal it round this palladium.' does teufelsdröckh mean, then, to give himself out as the originator of that so notable _eigenthums-conservirende_ ('owndom-conserving') _gesellschaft_; and if so, what, in the devil's name, is it? he again hints: 'at a time when the divine commandment, _thou shalt not steal_, wherein truly, if well understood, is comprised the whole hebrew decalogue, with solon's and lycurgus's constitutions, justinian's pandects, the code napoléon, and all codes, catechisms, divinities, moralities whatsoever, that man has hitherto devised (and enforced with altar-fire and gallows-ropes) for his social guidance: at a time, i say, when this divine commandment has all-but faded away from the general remembrance; and, with little disguise, a new opposite commandment, _thou shalt steal_, is everywhere promulgated,--it perhaps behooved, in this universal dotage and deliration, the sound portion of mankind to bestir themselves and rally. when the widest and wildest violations of that divine right of property, the only divine right now extant or conceivable, are sanctioned and recommended by a vicious press, and the world has lived to hear it asserted that _we have no property in our very bodies, but only an accidental possession and life-rent_, what is the issue to be looked for? hangmen and catchpoles may, by their noose-gins and baited fall-traps, keep-down the smaller sort of vermin; but what, except perhaps some such universal association, can protect us against whole meat-devouring and man-devouring hosts of boa-constrictors? if, therefore, the more sequestered thinker have wondered, in his privacy, from what hand that perhaps not ill-written _program_ in the public journals, with its high _prize-questions_ and so liberal _prizes_, could have proceeded,--let him now cease such wonder; and, with undivided faculty, betake himself to the _concurrenz_ (competition).' we ask: has this same 'perhaps not ill-written _program_,' or any other authentic transaction of that property-conserving society, fallen under the eye of the british reader, in any journal foreign or domestic? if so, what are those _prize-questions_; what are the terms of competition, and when and where? no printed newspaper-leaf, no farther light of any sort, to be met with in these paper-bags! or is the whole business one other of those whimsicalities and perverse inexplicabilities, whereby herr teufelsdröckh, meaning much or nothing, is pleased so often to play fast-and-loose with us? * * * * * here, indeed, at length, must the editor give utterance to a painful suspicion, which, through late chapters, has begun to haunt him; paralysing any little enthusiasm that might still have rendered his thorny biographical task a labour of love. it is a suspicion grounded perhaps on trifles, yet confirmed almost into certainty by the more and more discernible humoristico-satirical tendency of teufelsdröckh, in whom underground humours and intricate sardonic rogueries, wheel within wheel, defy all reckoning: a suspicion, in one word, that these autobiographical documents are partly a mystification! what if many a so-called fact were little better than a fiction; if here we had no direct camera-obscura picture of the professor's history; but only some more or less fantastic adumbration, symbolically, perhaps significantly enough, shadowing-forth the same! our theory begins to be that, in receiving as literally authentic what was but hieroglyphically so, hofrath heuschrecke, whom in that case we scruple not to name hofrath nose-of-wax, was made a fool of, and set adrift to make fools of others. could it be expected, indeed, that a man so known for impenetrable reticence as teufelsdröckh, would all at once frankly unlock his private citadel to an english editor and a german hofrath; and not rather deceptively _in_lock both editor and hofrath in the labyrinthic tortuosities and covered-ways of said citadel (having enticed them thither), to see, in his half-devilish way, how the fools would look? of one fool, however, the herr professor will perhaps find himself short. on a small slip, formerly thrown aside as blank, the ink being all-but invisible, we lately notice, and with effort decipher, the following: 'what are your historical facts; still more your biographical? wilt thou know a man, above all a mankind, by stringing-together beadrolls of what thou namest facts? the man is the spirit he worked in; not what he did, but what he became. facts are engraved hierograms, for which the fewest have the key. and then how your blockhead (_dummkopf_) studies not their meaning; but simply whether they are well or ill cut, what he calls moral or immoral! still worse is it with your bungler (_pfuscher_): such i have seen reading some rousseau, with pretences of interpretation; and mistaking the ill-cut serpent-of-eternity for a common poisonous reptile.' was the professor apprehensive lest an editor, selected as the present boasts himself, might mistake the teufelsdröckh serpent-of-eternity in like manner? for which reason it was to be altered, not without underhand satire, into a plainer symbol? or is this merely one of his half-sophisms, half-truisms, which if he can but set on the back of a figure, he cares not whither it gallop? we say not with certainty; and indeed, so strange is the professor, can never say. if our suspicion be wholly unfounded, let his own questionable ways, not our necessary circumspectness, bear the blame. but be this as it will, the somewhat exasperated and indeed exhausted editor determines here to shut these paper-bags for the present. let it suffice that we know of teufelsdröckh, so far, if 'not what he did, yet what he became:' the rather, as his character has now taken its ultimate bent, and no new revolution, of importance, is to be looked for. the imprisoned chrysalis is now a winged psyche: and such, wheresoever be its flight, it will continue. to trace by what complex gyrations (flights or involuntary waftings) through the mere external life element, teufelsdröckh reaches his university professorship, and the psyche clothes herself in civic titles, without altering her now fixed nature,--would be comparatively an unproductive task, were we even unsuspicious of its being, for us at least, a false and impossible one. his outward biography, therefore, which, at the blumine lover's-leap, we saw churned utterly into spray-vapour, may hover in that condition, for aught that concerns us here. enough that by survey of certain 'pools and plashes,' we have ascertained its general direction; do we not already know that, by one way and other, it _has_ long since rained-down again into a stream; and even now, at weissnichtwo, flows deep and still, fraught with the _philosophy of clothes_, and visible to whoso will cast eye thereon? over much invaluable matter, that lies scattered, like jewels among quarry-rubbish, in those paper-catacombs we may have occasion to glance back, and somewhat will demand insertion at the right place: meanwhile be our tiresome diggings therein suspended. if now, before reopening the great _clothes-volume_, we ask what our degree of progress, during these ten chapters, has been, towards right understanding of the _clothes-philosophy_, let not our discouragement become total. to speak in that old figure of the hell-gate bridge over chaos, a few flying pontoons have perhaps been added, though as yet they drift straggling on the flood; how far they will reach, when once the chains are straightened and fastened, can, at present, only be matter of conjecture. so much we already calculate: through many a little loop-hole, we have had glimpses into the internal world of teufelsdröckh; his strange mystic, almost magic diagram of the universe, and how it was gradually drawn, is not henceforth altogether dark to us. those mysterious ideas on time, which merit consideration, and are not wholly unintelligible with such, may by and by prove significant. still more may his somewhat peculiar view of nature, the decisive oneness he ascribes to nature. how all nature and life are but one _garment_, a 'living garment,' woven and ever a-weaving in the 'loom of time;' is not here, indeed, the outline of a whole _clothes-philosophy_; at least the arena it is to work in? remark, too, that the character of the man, nowise without meaning in such a matter, becomes less enigmatic: amid so much tumultuous obscurity, almost like diluted madness, do not a certain indomitable defiance and yet a boundless reverence seem to loom-forth, as the two mountain-summits, on whose rock-strata all the rest were based and built? nay further, may we not say that teufelsdröckh's biography, allowing it even, as suspected, only a hieroglyphical truth, exhibits a man, as it were preappointed for clothes-philosophy? to look through the shows of things into things themselves he is led and compelled. the 'passivity' given him by birth is fostered by all turns of his fortune. everywhere cast out, like oil out of water, from mingling in any employment, in any public communion, he has no portion but solitude, and a life of meditation. the whole energy of his existence is directed, through long years, on one task: that of enduring pain, if he cannot cure it. thus everywhere do the shows of things oppress him, withstand him, threaten him with fearfullest destruction: only by victoriously penetrating into things themselves can he find peace and a stronghold. but is not this same looking through the shows, or vestures, into the things, even the first preliminary to a _philosophy of clothes_? do we not, in all this, discern some beckonings towards the true higher purport of such a philosophy; and what shape it must assume with such a man, in such an era? perhaps in entering on book third, the courteous reader is not utterly without guess whither he is bound: nor, let us hope, for all the fantastic dream-grottoes through which, as is our lot with teufelsdröckh, he must wander, will there be wanting between whiles some twinkling of a steady polar star. book third chapter i incident in modern history as a wonder-loving and wonder-seeking man, teufelsdröckh, from an early part of this clothes-volume, has more and more exhibited himself. striking it was, amid all his perverse cloudiness, with what force of vision and of heart he pierced into the mystery of the world; recognising in the highest sensible phenomena, so far as sense went, only fresh or faded raiment; yet ever, under this, a celestial essence thereby rendered visible: and while, on the one hand, he trod the old rags of matter, with their tinsels, into the mire, he on the other everywhere exalted spirit above all earthly principalities and powers, and worshipped it, though under the meanest shapes, with a true platonic mysticism. what the man ultimately purposed by thus casting his greek-fire into the general wardrobe of the universe; what such, more or less complete, rending and burning of garments throughout the whole compass of civilized life and speculation, should lead to; the rather as he was no adamite, in any sense, and could not, like rousseau, recommend either bodily or intellectual nudity, and a return to the savage state: all this our readers are now bent to discover; this is, in fact, properly the gist and purport of professor teufelsdröckh's philosophy of clothes. be it remembered, however, that such purport is here not so much evolved, as detected to lie ready for evolving. we are to guide our british friends into the new gold-country, and show them the mines; nowise to dig-out and exhaust its wealth, which indeed remains for all time inexhaustible. once there, let each dig for his own behoof, and enrich himself. neither, in so capricious inexpressible a work as this of the professor's can our course now more than formerly be straightforward, step by step, but at best leap by leap. significant indications stand-out here and there; which for the critical eye, that looks both widely and narrowly, shape themselves into some ground-scheme of a whole: to select these with judgment, so that a leap from one to the other be possible, and (in our old figure) by chaining them together, a passable bridge be effected: this, as heretofore, continues our only method. among such light-spots, the following, floating in much wild matter about _perfectibility_, has seemed worth clutching at: 'perhaps the most remarkable incident in modern history,' says teufelsdröckh, 'is not the diet of worms, still less the battle of austerlitz, waterloo, peterloo, or any other battle; but an incident passed carelessly over by most historians, and treated with some degree of ridicule by others: namely, george fox's making to himself a suit of leather. this man, the first of the quakers, and by trade a shoemaker, was one of those, to whom, under ruder or purer form, the divine idea of the universe is pleased to manifest itself; and, across all the hulls of ignorance and earthly degradation, shine through, in unspeakable awfulness, unspeakable beauty, on their souls: who therefore are rightly accounted prophets, god-possessed; or even gods, as in some periods it has chanced. sitting in his stall; working on tanned hides, amid pincers, paste-horns, rosin, swine-bristles, and a nameless flood of rubbish, this youth had, nevertheless, a living spirit belonging to him; also an antique inspired volume, through which, as through a window, it could look upwards, and discern its celestial home. the task of a daily pair of shoes, coupled even with some prospect of victuals, and an honourable mastership in cordwainery, and perhaps the post of thirdborough in his hundred, as the crown of long faithful sewing,--was nowise satisfaction enough to such a mind: but ever amid the boring and hammering came tones from that far country, came splendours and terrors; for this poor cordwainer, as we said, was a man; and the temple of immensity, wherein as man he had been sent to minister, was full of holy mystery to him. 'the clergy of the neighbourhood, the ordained watchers and interpreters of that same holy mystery, listened with unaffected tedium to his consultations, and advised him, as the solution of such doubts, to "drink beer and dance with the girls." blind leaders of the blind! for what end were their tithes levied and eaten; for what were their shovel-hats scooped-out, and their surplices and cassock-aprons girt-on; and such a church-repairing, and chaffering, and organing, and other racketing, held over that spot of god's earth,--if man were but a patent digester, and the belly with its adjuncts the grand reality? fox turned from them, with tears and a sacred scorn, back to his leather-parings and his bible. mountains of encumbrance, higher than ætna, had been heaped over that spirit: but it was a spirit, and would not lie buried there. through long days and nights of silent agony, it struggled and wrestled, with a man's force, to be free: how its prison-mountains heaved and swayed tumultuously, as the giant spirit shook them to this hand and that, and emerged into the light of heaven! that leicester shoe-shop, had men known it, was a holier place than any vatican or loretto-shrine.--"so bandaged, and hampered, and hemmed in," groaned he, "with thousand requisitions, obligations, straps, tatters, and tagrags, i can neither see nor move: not my own am i, but the world's; and time flies fast, and heaven is high, and hell is deep: man! bethink thee, if thou hast power of thought! why not; what binds me here? want, want!--ha, of what? will all the shoe-wages under the moon ferry me across into that far land of light? only meditation can, and devout prayer to god. i will to the woods: the hollow of a tree will lodge me, wild-berries feed me; and for clothes, cannot i stitch myself one perennial suit of leather!" 'historical oil-painting,' continues teufelsdröckh, 'is one of the arts i never practised; therefore shall i not decide whether this subject were easy of execution on the canvas. yet often has it seemed to me as if such first outflashing of man's freewill, to lighten, more and more into day, the chaotic night that threatened to engulf him in its hindrances and its horrors, were properly the only grandeur there is in history. let some living angelo or rosa, with seeing eye and understanding heart, picture george fox on that morning, when he spreads-out his cutting-board for the last time, and cuts cowhides by unwonted patterns, and stitches them together into one continuous all-including case, the farewell service of his awl! stitch away, thou noble fox: every prick of that little instrument is pricking into the heart of slavery, and world-worship, and the mammon-god. thy elbows jerk, and in strong swimmer-strokes, and every stroke is bearing thee across the prison-ditch, within which vanity holds her workhouse and ragfair, into lands of true liberty; were the work done, there is in broad europe one free man, and thou art he! 'thus from the lowest depth there is a path to the loftiest height; and for the poor also a gospel has been published. surely if, as d'alembert asserts, my illustrious namesake, diogenes, was the greatest man of antiquity, only that he wanted decency, then by stronger reason is george fox the greatest of the moderns; and greater than diogenes himself: for he too stands on the adamantine basis of his manhood, casting aside all props and shoars; yet not, in half-savage pride, undervaluing the earth; valuing it rather, as a place to yield him warmth and food, he looks heavenward from his earth, and dwells in an element of mercy and worship, with a still strength, such as the cynic's tub did nowise witness. great, truly, was that tub; a temple from which man's dignity and divinity was scornfully preached abroad: but greater is the leather hull, for the same sermon was preached there, and not in scorn but in love.' * * * * * george fox's 'perennial suit,' with all that it held, has been worn quite into ashes for nigh two centuries: why, in a discussion on the _perfectibility of society_, reproduce it now? not out of blind sectarian partisanship: teufelsdröckh himself is no quaker; with all his pacific tendencies, did not we see him, in that scene at the north cape, with the archangel smuggler, exhibit fire-arms? for us, aware of his deep sansculottism, there is more meant in this passage than meets the ear. at the same time, who can avoid smiling at the earnestness and boeotian simplicity (if indeed there be not an underhand satire in it), with which that 'incident' is here brought forward; and, in the professor's ambiguous way, as clearly perhaps as he durst in weissnichtwo, recommended to imitation! does teufelsdröckh anticipate that, in this age of refinement, any considerable class of the community, by way of testifying against the 'mammon-god,' and escaping from what he calls 'vanity's workhouse and ragfair,' where doubtless some of them are toiled and whipped and hoodwinked sufficiently,--will sheathe themselves in close-fitting cases of leather? the idea is ridiculous in the extreme. will majesty lay aside its robes of state, and beauty its frills and train-gowns, for a second-skin of tanned hide? by which change huddersfield and manchester, and coventry and paisley, and the fancy-bazaar, were reduced to hungry solitudes; and only day and martin could profit. for neither would teufelsdröckh's mad daydream, here as we presume covertly intended, of levelling society (_levelling_ it indeed with a vengeance, into one huge drowned marsh!), and so attaining the political effects of nudity without its frigorific or other consequences,--be thereby realised. would not the rich man purchase a waterproof suit of russia leather; and the high-born belle step-forth in red or azure morocco, lined with shamoy: the black cowhide being left to the drudges and gibeonites of the world; and so all the old distinctions be re-established? or has the professor his own deeper intention; and laughs in his sleeve at our strictures and glosses, which indeed are but a part thereof? chapter ii church-clothes not less questionable is his chapter on _church-clothes_, which has the farther distinction of being the shortest in the volume. we here translate it entire: 'by church-clothes, it need not be premised that i mean infinitely more than cassocks and surplices; and do not at all mean the mere haberdasher sunday clothes that men go to church in. far from it! church-clothes are, in our vocabulary, the forms, the _vestures_, under which men have at various periods embodied and represented for themselves the religious principle; that is to say, invested the divine idea of the world with a sensible and practically active body, so that it might dwell among them as a living and life-giving word. 'these are unspeakably the most important of all the vestures and garnitures of human existence. they are first spun and woven, i may say, by that wonder of wonders, society; for it is still only when "two or three are gathered together," that religion, spiritually existent, and indeed indestructible, however latent, in each, first outwardly manifests itself (as with "cloven tongues of fire"), and seeks to be embodied in a visible communion and church militant. mystical, more than magical, is that communing of soul with soul, both looking heavenward: here properly soul first speaks with soul; for only in looking heavenward, take it in what sense you may, not in looking earthward, does what we can call union, mutual love, society, begin to be possible. how true is that of novalis: "it is certain my belief gains quite _infinitely_ the moment i can convince another mind thereof"! gaze thou in the face of thy brother, in those eyes where plays the lambent fire of kindness, or in those where rages the lurid conflagration of anger; feel how thy own so quiet soul is straightway involuntarily kindled with the like, and ye blaze and reverberate on each other, till it is all one limitless confluent flame (of embracing love, or of deadly-grappling hate); and then say what miraculous virtue goes out of man into man. but if so, through all the thick-plied hulls of our earthly life; how much more when it is of the divine life we speak, and inmost me is, as it were, brought into contact with inmost me! 'thus was it that i said, the church-clothes are first spun and woven by society; outward religion originates by society, society becomes possible by religion. nay, perhaps, every conceivable society, past and present, may well be figured as properly and wholly a church, in one or other of these three predicaments: an audibly preaching and prophesying church, which is the best; second, a church that struggles to preach and prophesy, but cannot as yet, till its pentecost come; and third and worst, a church gone dumb with old age, or which only mumbles delirium prior to dissolution. whoso fancies that by church is here meant chapterhouses and cathedrals, or by preaching and prophesying, mere speech and chanting, let him,' says the oracular professor, 'read on, light of heart (_getrosten muthes_). 'but with regard to your church proper, and the church-clothes specially recognised as church-clothes, i remark, fearlessly enough, that without such vestures and sacred tissues society has not existed, and will not exist. for if government is, so to speak, the outward skin of the body politic, holding the whole together and protecting it; and all your craft-guilds, and associations for industry, of hand or of head, are the fleshly clothes, the muscular and osseous tissues (lying _under_ such skin), whereby society stands and works;--then is religion the inmost pericardial and nervous tissue, which ministers life and warm circulation to the whole. without which pericardial tissue the bones and muscles (of industry) were inert, or animated only by a galvanic vitality; the skin would become a shrivelled pelt, or fast-rotting raw-hide; and society itself a dead carcass,--deserving to be buried. men were no longer social, but gregarious; which latter state also could not continue, but must gradually issue in universal selfish discord, hatred, savage isolation, and dispersion;--whereby, as we might continue to say, the very dust and dead body of society would have evaporated and become abolished. such, and so all-important, all-sustaining, are the church-clothes to civilised or even to rational men. 'meanwhile, in our era of the world, those same church-clothes have gone sorrowfully out-at-elbows; nay, far worse, many of them have become mere hollow shapes, or masks, under which no living figure or spirit any longer dwells; but only spiders and unclean beetles, in horrid accumulation, drive their trade; and the mask still glares on you with its glass-eyes, in ghastly affectation of life,--some generation-and-half after religion has quite withdrawn from it, and in unnoticed nooks is weaving for herself new vestures, wherewith to reappear, and bless us, or our sons or grandsons. as a priest, or interpreter of the holy, is the noblest and highest of all men, so is a sham-priest (_schein-priester_) the falsest and basest; neither is it doubtful that his canonicals, were they popes' tiaras, will one day be torn from him, to make bandages for the wounds of mankind; or even to burn into tinder, for general scientific or culinary purposes. 'all which, as out of place here, falls to be handled in my second volume, _on the palingenesia, or newbirth of society_; which volume, as treating practically of the wear, destruction, and retexture of spiritual tissues, or garments, forms, properly speaking, the transcendental or ultimate portion of this my work _on clothes_, and is already in a state of forwardness.' and herewith, no farther exposition, note, or commentary being added, does teufelsdröckh, and must his editor now, terminate the singular chapter on church-clothes! chapter iii symbols probably it will elucidate the drift of these foregoing obscure utterances, if we here insert somewhat of our professor's speculations on _symbols_. to state his whole doctrine, indeed, were beyond our compass: nowhere is he more mysterious, impalpable, than in this of 'fantasy being the organ of the god-like;' and how 'man thereby, though based, to all seeming, on the small visible, does nevertheless extend down into the infinite deeps of the invisible, of which invisible, indeed, his life is properly the bodying forth.' let us, omitting these high transcendental aspects of the matter, study to glean (whether from the paper-bags or the printed volume) what little seems logical and practical, and cunningly arrange it into such degree of coherence as it will assume. by way of proem, take the following not injudicious remarks: 'the benignant efficacies of concealment,' cries our professor, 'who shall speak or sing? silence and secrecy! altars might still be raised to them (were this an altar-building time) for universal worship. silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together; that at length they may emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the daylight of life, which they are thenceforth to rule. not william the silent only, but all the considerable men i have known, and the most undiplomatic and unstrategic of these, forbore to babble of what they were creating and projecting. nay, in thy own mean perplexities, do thou thyself but _hold thy tongue for one day_: on the morrow, how much clearer are thy purposes and duties; what wreck and rubbish have those mute workmen within thee swept away, when intrusive noises were shut out! speech is too often not, as the frenchman defined it, the art of concealing thought; but of quite stifling and suspending thought, so that there is none to conceal. speech too is great, but not the greatest. as the swiss inscription says: _sprechen ist silbern, schweigen ist golden_ (speech is silvern, silence is golden); or as i might rather express it: speech is of time, silence is of eternity. 'bees will not work except in darkness; thought will not work except in silence; neither will virtue work except in secrecy. let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth! neither shalt thou prate even to thy own heart of "those secrets known to all." is not shame (_schaam_) the soil of all virtue, of all good manners and good morals? like other plants, virtue will not grow unless its root be hidden, buried from the eye of the sun. let the sun shine on it, nay do but look at it privily thyself, the root withers, and no flower will glad thee. o my friends, when we view the fair clustering flowers that over-wreathe, for example, the marriage-bower, and encircle man's life with the fragrance and hues of heaven, what hand will not smite the foul plunderer that grubs them up by the roots, and with grinning, grunting satisfaction, shows us the dung they flourish in! men speak much of the printing-press with its newspapers: _du himmel!_ what are these to clothes and the tailor's goose?' 'of kin to the so incalculable influences of concealment, and connected with still greater things, is the wondrous agency of _symbols_. in a symbol there is concealment and yet revelation: here therefore, by silence and by speech acting together, comes a double significance. and if both the speech be itself high, and the silence fit and noble, how expressive will their union be! thus in many a painted device, or simple seal-emblem, the commonest truth stands-out to us proclaimed with quite new emphasis. 'for it is here that fantasy with her mystic wonderland plays into the small prose domain of sense, and becomes incorporated therewith. in the symbol proper, what we can call a symbol, there is ever, more or less distinctly and directly, some embodiment and revelation of the infinite; the infinite is made to blend itself with the finite, to stand visible, and as it were, attainable there. by symbols, accordingly, is man guided and commanded, made happy, made wretched. he everywhere finds himself encompassed with symbols, recognised as such or not recognised: the universe is but one vast symbol of god; nay if thou wilt have it, what is man himself but a symbol of god; is not all that he does symbolical; a revelation to sense of the mystic god-given force that is in him; a "gospel of freedom," which he, the "messias of nature," preaches, as he can, by act and word? not a hut he builds but is the visible embodiment of a thought; but bears visible record of invisible things; but is, in the transcendental sense, symbolical as well as real.' 'man,' says the professor elsewhere, in quite antipodal contrast with these high-soaring delineations, which we have here cut short on the verge of the inane, 'man is by birth somewhat of an owl. perhaps, too, of all the owleries that ever possessed him, the most owlish, if we consider it, is that of your actually existing motive-millwrights. fantastic tricks enough man has played, in his time; has fancied himself to be most things, down even to an animated heap of glass; but to fancy himself a dead iron-balance for weighing pains and pleasures on, was reserved for this his latter era. there stands he, his universe one huge manger, filled with hay and thistles to be weighed against each other; and looks long-eared enough. alas, poor devil! spectres are appointed to haunt him: one age he is hag-ridden, bewitched; the next, priestridden, befooled; in all ages, bedevilled. and now the genius of mechanism smothers him worse than any nightmare did; till the soul is nigh choked out of him, and only a kind of digestive, mechanic life remains. in earth and in heaven he can see nothing but mechanism; has fear for nothing else, hope in nothing else: the world would indeed grind him to pieces; but cannot he fathom the doctrine of motives, and cunningly compute these, and mechanise them to grind the other way? 'were he not, as has been said, purblinded by enchantment, you had but to bid him open his eyes and look. in which country, in which time, was it hitherto that man's history, or the history of any man, went on by calculated or calculable "motives"? what make ye of your christianities, and chivalries, and reformations, and marseillese hymns, and reigns of terror? nay, has not perhaps the motive-grinder himself been _in love_? did he never stand so much as a contested election? leave him to time, and the medicating virtue of nature.' 'yes, friends,' elsewhere observes the professor, 'not our logical, mensurative faculty, but our imaginative one is king over us; i might say, priest and prophet to lead us heavenward; our magician and wizard to lead us hellward. nay, even for the basest sensualist, what is sense but the implement of fantasy; the vessel it drinks out of? ever in the dullest existence there is a sheen either of inspiration or of madness (thou partly hast it in thy choice, which of the two), that gleams-in from the circumambient eternity, and colours with its own hues our little islet of time. the understanding is indeed thy window, too clear thou canst not make it; but fantasy is thy eye, with its colour-giving retina, healthy or diseased. have not i myself known five-hundred living soldiers sabred into crows'-meat for a piece of glazed cotton, which they called their flag; which, had you sold it at any market-cross, would not have brought above three groschen? did not the whole hungarian nation rise, like some tumultuous moon-stirred atlantic, when kaiser joseph pocketed their iron crown; an implement, as was sagaciously observed, in size and commercial value little differing from a horse-shoe? it is in and through _symbols_ that man, consciously or unconsciously, lives, works, and has his being: those ages, moreover, are accounted the noblest which can the best recognise symbolical worth, and prize it the highest. for is not a symbol ever, to him who has eyes for it, some dimmer or clearer revelation of the godlike? 'of symbols, however, i remark farther, that they have both an extrinsic and intrinsic value; oftenest the former only. what, for instance, was in that clouted shoe, which the peasants bore aloft with them as ensign in their _bauernkrieg_ (peasants' war)? or in the wallet-and-staff round which the netherland _gueux_, glorying in that nickname of beggars, heroically rallied and prevailed, though against king philip himself? intrinsic significance these had none: only extrinsic; as the accidental standards of multitudes more or less sacredly uniting together; in which union itself, as above noted, there is ever something mystical and borrowing of the godlike. under a like category, too, stand, or stood, the stupidest heraldic coats-of-arms; military banners everywhere; and generally all national or other sectarian costumes and customs: they have no intrinsic, necessary divineness, or even worth; but have acquired an extrinsic one. nevertheless through all these there glimmers something of a divine idea; as through military banners themselves, the divine idea of duty, of heroic daring; in some instances of freedom, of right. nay, the highest ensign that men ever met and embraced under, the cross itself, had no meaning save an accidental extrinsic one. 'another matter it is, however, when your symbol has intrinsic meaning, and is of itself _fit_ that men should unite round it. let but the godlike manifest itself to sense; let but eternity look, more or less visibly, through the time-figure (_zeitbild_)! then is it fit that men unite there; and worship together before such symbol; and so from day to day, and from age to age, superadd to it new divineness. 'of this latter sort are all true works of art: in them (if thou know a work of art from a daub of artifice) wilt thou discern eternity looking through time; the godlike rendered visible. here too may an extrinsic value gradually superadd itself: thus certain _iliads_, and the like, have, in three-thousand years, attained quite new significance. but nobler than all in this kind, are the lives of heroic god-inspired men; for what other work of art is so divine? in death too, in the death of the just, as the last perfection of a work of art, may we not discern symbolic meaning? in that divinely transfigured sleep, as of victory, resting over the beloved face which now knows thee no more, read (if thou canst for tears) the confluence of time with eternity, and some gleam of the latter peering through. 'highest of all symbols are those wherein the artist or poet has risen into prophet, and all men can recognise a present god, and worship the same: i mean religious symbols. various enough have been such religious symbols, what we call _religions_; as men stood in this stage of culture or the other, and could worse or better body-forth the godlike: some symbols with a transient intrinsic worth; many with only an extrinsic. if thou ask to what height man has carried it in this manner, look on our divinest symbol: on jesus of nazareth, and his life, and his biography, and what followed therefrom. higher has the human thought not yet reached: this is christianity and christendom; a symbol of quite perennial, infinite character: whose significance will ever demand to be anew inquired into, and anew made manifest. 'but, on the whole, as time adds much to the sacredness of symbols, so likewise in his progress he at length defaces or even desecrates them; and symbols, like all terrestrial garments, wax old. homer's epos has not ceased to be true; yet it is no longer _our_ epos, but shines in the distance, if clearer and clearer, yet also smaller and smaller, like a receding star. it needs a scientific telescope, it needs to be reinterpreted and artificially brought near us, before we can so much as know that it _was_ a sun. so likewise a day comes when the runic thor, with his eddas, must withdraw into dimness; and many an african mumbo-jumbo and indian pawaw be utterly abolished. for all things, even celestial luminaries, much more atmospheric meteors, have their rise, their culmination, their decline.' 'small is this which thou tellest me, that the royal sceptre is but a piece of gilt-wood; that the pyx has become a most foolish box, and truly, as ancient pistol thought, "of little price." a right conjuror might i name thee, couldst thou conjure back into these wooden tools the divine virtue they once held.' 'of this thing, however, be certain: wouldst thou plant for eternity, then plant into the deep infinite faculties of man, his fantasy and heart; wouldst thou plant for year and day, then plant into his shallow superficial faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding, what will grow there. a hierarch, therefore, and pontiff of the world will we call him, the poet and inspired maker; who, prometheus-like, can shape new symbols, and bring new fire from heaven to fix it there. such too will not always be wanting; neither perhaps now are. meanwhile, as the average of matters goes, we account him legislator and wise who can so much as tell when a symbol has grown old, and gently remove it. 'when, as the last english coronation[3] was preparing,' concludes this wonderful professor, 'i read in their newspapers that the "champion of england," he who has to offer battle to the universe for his new king, had brought it so far that he could now "mount his horse with little assistance," i said to myself: here also we have a symbol well-nigh superannuated. alas, move whithersoever you may, are not the tatters and rags of superannuated worn-out symbols (in this ragfair of a world) dropping off everywhere, to hoodwink, to halter, to tether you; nay, if you shake them not aside, threatening to accumulate, and perhaps produce suffocation?' [3] that of george iv.--ed. chapter iv helotage at this point we determine on adverting shortly, or rather reverting, to a certain tract of hofrath heuschrecke's, entitled _institute for the repression of population_; which lies, dishonourable enough (with torn leaves, and a perceptible smell of aloetic drugs), stuffed into the bag _pisces_. not indeed for the sake of the tract itself, which we admire little; but of the marginal notes, evidently in teufelsdröckh's hand, which rather copiously fringe it. a few of these may be in their right place here. into the hofrath's _institute_, with its extraordinary schemes, and machinery of corresponding boards and the like, we shall not so much as glance. enough for us to understand that heuschrecke is a disciple of malthus; and so zealous for the doctrine, that his zeal almost literally eats him up. a deadly fear of population possesses the hofrath; something like a fixed-idea; undoubtedly akin to the more diluted forms of madness. nowhere, in that quarter of his intellectual world, is there light; nothing but a grim shadow of hunger; open mouths opening wider and wider; a world to terminate by the frightfullest consummation: by its too dense inhabitants, famished into delirium, universally eating one another. to make air for himself in which strangulation, choking enough to a benevolent heart, the hofrath founds, or proposes to found, this _institute_ of his, as the best he can do. it is only with our professor's comments thereon that we concern ourselves. first, then, remark that teufelsdröckh, as a speculative radical, has his own notions about human dignity; that the zähdarm palaces and courtesies have not made him forgetful of the futteral cottages. on the blank cover of heuschrecke's tract we find the following indistinctly engrossed: 'two men i honour, and no third. first, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and makes her man's. venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre of this planet. venerable too is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike. o, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! hardly-entreated brother! for us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed: thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. for in thee too lay a god-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour: and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. yet toil on, toil on: _thou_ art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, for daily bread. 'a second man i honour, and still more highly: him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life. is not he too in his duty; endeavouring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low? highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavour are one: when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! if the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality?--these two, in all their degrees, i honour: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth. 'unspeakably touching is it, however, when i find both dignities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. sublimer in this world know i nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be met with. such a one will take thee back to nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendour of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great darkness.' and again: 'it is not because of his toils that i lament for the poor: we must all toil, or steal (howsoever we name our stealing), which is worse; no faithful workman finds his task a pastime. the poor is hungry and a-thirst; but for him also there is food and drink: he is heavy-laden and weary; but for him also the heavens send sleep, and of the deepest; in his smoky cribs, a clear dewy heaven of rest envelops him, and fitful glitterings of cloud-skirted dreams. but what i do mourn over is, that the lamp of his soul should go out; that no ray of heavenly, or even of earthly knowledge, should visit him; but only, in the haggard darkness, like two spectres, fear and indignation bear him company. alas, while the body stands so broad and brawny, must the soul lie blinded, dwarfed, stupefied, almost annihilated! alas, was this too a breath of god; bestowed in heaven, but on earth never to be unfolded!--that there should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this i call a tragedy, were it to happen more than twenty times in the minute, as by some computations it does. the miserable fraction of science which our united mankind, in a wide universe of nescience, has acquired, why is not this, with all diligence, imparted to all?' quite in an opposite strain is the following: 'the old spartans had a wiser method; and went out and hunted-down their helots, and speared and spitted them, when they grew too numerous. with our improved fashions of hunting, herr hofrath, now after the invention of fire-arms, and standing-armies, how much easier were such a hunt! perhaps in the most thickly-peopled country, some three days annually might suffice to shoot all the able-bodied paupers that had accumulated within the year. let governments think of this. the expense were trifling: nay the very carcasses would pay it. have them salted and barrelled; could not you victual therewith, if not army and navy, yet richly such infirm paupers, in workhouses and elsewhere, as enlightened charity, dreading no evil of them, might see good to keep alive?' 'and yet,' writes he farther on, 'there must be something wrong. a full-formed horse will, in any market, bring from twenty to as high as two-hundred friedrichs d'or: such is his worth to the world. a full-formed man is not only worth nothing to the world, but the world could afford him a round sum would he simply engage to go and hang himself. nevertheless, which of the two was the more cunningly-devised article, even as an engine? good heavens! a white european man, standing on his two legs, with his two five-fingered hands at his shackle-bones, and miraculous head on his shoulders, is worth, i should say, from fifty to a hundred horses!' 'true, thou gold-hofrath,' cries the professor elsewhere: 'too crowded indeed! meanwhile, what portion of this inconsiderable terraqueous globe have ye actually tilled and delved, till it will grow no more? how thick stands your population in the pampas and savannas of america; round ancient carthage, and in the interior of africa; on both slopes of the altaic chain, in the central platform of asia; in spain, greece, turkey, crim tartary, the curragh of kildare? one man, in one year, as i have understood it, if you lend him earth, will feed himself and nine others. alas, where now are the hengsts and alarics of our still-glowing, still-expanding europe; who, when their home is grown too narrow, will enlist, and, like fire-pillars, guide onwards those superfluous masses of indomitable living valour; equipped, not now with the battle-axe and war-chariot, but with the steam-engine and ploughshare? where are they?--preserving their game!' chapter v the phoenix putting which four singular chapters together, and alongside of them numerous hints, and even direct utterances, scattered over these writings of his, we come upon the startling yet not quite unlooked-for conclusion, that teufelsdröckh is one of those who consider society, properly so called, to be as good as extinct; and that only the gregarious feelings, and old inherited habitudes, at this juncture, hold us from dispersion, and universal national, civil, domestic and personal war! he says expressly: 'for the last three centuries, above all for the last three quarters of a century, that same pericardial nervous tissue (as we named it) of religion, where lies the life-essence of society, has been smote-at and perforated, needfully and needlessly; till now it is quite rent into shreds; and society, long pining, diabetic, consumptive, can be regarded as defunct; for those spasmodic, galvanic sprawlings are not life; neither indeed will they endure, galvanise as you may, beyond two days.' 'call ye that a society,' cries he again, 'where there is no longer any social idea extant; not so much as the idea of a common home, but only of a common over-crowded lodging-house? where each, isolated, regardless of his neighbour, turned against his neighbour, clutches what he can get, and cries "mine!" and calls it peace, because, in the cut-purse and cut-throat scramble, no steel knives, but only a far cunninger sort, can be employed? where friendship, communion, has become an incredible tradition; and your holiest sacramental supper is a smoking tavern dinner, with cook for evangelist? where your priest has no tongue but for plate-licking: and your high guides and governors cannot guide; but on all hands hear it passionately proclaimed: _laissez faire_; leave us alone of _your_ guidance, such light is darker than darkness; eat you your wages, and sleep! 'thus, too,' continues he, 'does an observant eye discern everywhere that saddest spectacle: the poor perishing, like neglected, foundered draught-cattle, of hunger and over-work; the rich, still more wretchedly, of idleness, satiety, and over-growth. the highest in rank, at length, without honour from the lowest; scarcely, with a little mouth-honour, as from tavern-waiters who expect to put it in the bill. once-sacred symbols fluttering as empty pageants, whereof men grudge even the expense; a world becoming dismantled: in one word, the church fallen speechless, from obesity and apoplexy; the state shrunken into a police-office, straitened to get its pay!' we might ask, are there many 'observant eyes,' belonging to practical men in england or elsewhere, which have descried these phenomena; or is it only from the mystic elevation of a german _wahngasse_ that such wonders are visible? teufelsdröckh contends that the aspect of a 'deceased or expiring society' fronts us everywhere, so that whoso runs may read. 'what, for example,' says he, 'is the universally-arrogated virtue, almost the sole remaining catholic virtue, of these days? for some half century, it has been the thing you name "independence." suspicion of "servility," of reverence for superiors, the very dogleech is anxious to disavow. fools! were your superiors worthy to govern, and you worthy to obey, reverence for them were even your only possible freedom. independence, in all kinds, is rebellion; if unjust rebellion, why parade it, and everywhere prescribe it?' but what then? are we returning, as rousseau prayed, to the state of nature? 'the soul politic having departed,' says teufelsdröckh, 'what can follow but that the body politic be decently interred, to avoid putrescence! liberals, economists, utilitarians enough i see marching with its bier, and chanting loud pæans, towards the funeral-pile, where, amid wailings from some, and saturnalian revelries from the most, the venerable corpse is to be burnt. or, in plain words, that these men, liberals, utilitarians, or whatsoever they are called, will ultimately carry their point, and dissever and destroy most existing institutions of society, seems a thing which has some time ago ceased to be doubtful. 'do we not see a little subdivision of the grand utilitarian armament come to light even in insulated england? a living nucleus, that will attract and grow, does at length appear there also; and under curious phasis; properly as the inconsiderable fag-end, and so far in the rear of the others as to fancy itself the van. our european mechanisers are a sect of boundless diffusion, activity, and co-operative spirit: has not utilitarianism flourished in high places of thought, here among ourselves, and in every european country, at some time or other, within the last fifty years? if now in all countries, except perhaps england, it has ceased to flourish, or indeed to exist, among thinkers, and sunk to journalists and the popular mass,--who sees not that, as hereby it no longer preaches, so the reason is, it now needs no preaching, but is in full universal action, the doctrine everywhere known, and enthusiastically laid to heart? the fit pabulum, in these times, for a certain rugged workshop intellect and heart, nowise without their corresponding workshop strength and ferocity, it requires but to be stated in such scenes to make proselytes enough.--admirably calculated for destroying, only not for rebuilding! it spreads like a sort of dog-madness; till the whole world-kennel will be rabid: then woe to the huntsmen, with or without their whips! they should have given the quadrupeds water,' adds he; 'the water, namely, of knowledge and of life, while it was yet time.' thus, if professor teufelsdröckh can be relied on, we are at this hour in a most critical condition; beleaguered by that boundless 'armament of mechanisers' and unbelievers, threatening to strip us bare! 'the world,' says he, 'as it needs must, is under a process of devastation and waste, which, whether by silent assiduous corrosion, or open quicker combustion, as the case chances, will effectually enough annihilate the past forms of society; replace them with what it may. for the present, it is contemplated that when man's whole spiritual interests are once _divested_, these innumerable stript-off garments shall mostly be burnt; but the sounder rags among them be quilted together into one huge irish watchcoat for the defence of the body only!'--this, we think, is but job's-news to the humane reader. 'nevertheless,' cries teufelsdröckh, 'who can hinder it; who is there that can clutch into the wheel-spokes of destiny, and say to the spirit of the time: turn back, i command thee?--wiser were it that we yielded to the inevitable and inexorable, and accounted even this the best.' nay, might not an attentive editor, drawing his own inferences from what stands written, conjecture that teufelsdröckh individually had yielded to this same 'inevitable and inexorable' heartily enough; and now sat waiting the issue, with his natural diabolico-angelical indifference, if not even placidity? did we not hear him complain that the world was a 'huge ragfair,' and the 'rags and tatters of old symbols' were raining-down everywhere, like to drift him in, and suffocate him? what with those 'unhunted helots' of his; and the uneven _sic-vos-non-vobis_ pressure and hard-crashing collision he is pleased to discern in existing things; what with the so hateful 'empty masks,' full of beetles and spiders, yet glaring out on him, from their glass eyes, 'with a ghastly affectation of life,'--we feel entitled to conclude him even willing that much should be thrown to the devil, so it were but done gently! safe himself in that 'pinnacle of weissnichtwo,' he would consent, with a tragic solemnity, that the monster utilitaria, held back, indeed, and moderated by nose-rings, halters, foot-shackles, and every conceivable modification of rope, should go forth to do her work;--to tread down old ruinous palaces and temples with her broad hoof, till the whole were trodden down, that new and better might be built! remarkable in this point of view are the following sentences. 'society,' says he, 'is not dead: that carcass, which you call dead society, is but her mortal coil which she has shuffled off, to assume a nobler; she herself, through perpetual metamorphoses, in fairer and fairer development, has to live till time also merge in eternity. wheresoever two or three living men are gathered together, there is society; or there it will be, with its cunning mechanisms and stupendous structures, overspreading this little globe, and reaching upwards to heaven and downwards to gehenna: for always, under one or the other figure, it has two authentic revelations, of a god and of a devil; the pulpit, namely, and the gallows.' indeed, we already heard him speak of 'religion, in unnoticed nooks, weaving for herself new vestures';--teufelsdröckh himself being one of the loom-treadles? elsewhere he quotes without censure that strange aphorism of saint-simon's, concerning which and whom so much were to be said: _l'âge d'or, qu'une aveugle tradition a placé jusqu'ici dans le passé, est devant nous_; the golden age, which a blind tradition has hitherto placed in the past, is before us.'--but listen again: 'when the phoenix is fanning her funeral pyre, will there not be sparks flying! alas, some millions of men, and among them such as a napoleon, have already been licked into that high-eddying flame, and like moths consumed there. still also have we to fear that incautious beards will get singed. 'for the rest, in what year of grace such phoenix-cremation will be completed, you need not ask. the law of perseverance is among the deepest in man: by nature he hates change; seldom will he quit his old house till it has actually fallen about his ears. thus have i seen solemnities linger as ceremonies, sacred symbols as idle-pageants, to the extent of three-hundred years and more after all life and sacredness had evaporated out of them. and then, finally, what time the phoenix death-birth itself will require, depends on unseen contingencies.--meanwhile, would destiny offer mankind, that after, say two centuries of convulsion and conflagration, more or less vivid, the fire-creation should be accomplished, and we too find ourselves again in a living society, and no longer fighting but working,--were it not perhaps prudent in mankind to strike the bargain?' thus is teufelsdröckh content that old sick society should be deliberately burnt (alas! with quite other fuel than spicewood); in the faith that she is a phoenix; and that a new heaven-born young one will rise out of her ashes! we ourselves, restricted to the duty of indicator, shall forbear commentary. meanwhile, will not the judicious reader shake his head, and reproachfully, yet more in sorrow than in anger, say or think: from a _doctor utriusque juris_, titular professor in a university, and man to whom hitherto, for his services, society, bad as she is, has given not only food and raiment (of a kind), but books, tobacco and gukguk, we expected more gratitude to his benefactress; and less of a blind trust in the future, which resembles that rather of a philosophical fatalist and enthusiast, than of a solid householder paying scot-and-lot in a christian country. chapter vi old clothes as mentioned above, teufelsdröckh, though a sansculottist, is in practice probably the politest man extant: his whole heart and life are penetrated and informed with the spirit of politeness; a noble natural courtesy shines through him, beautifying his vagaries; like sunlight, making a rosy-fingered, rainbow-dyed aurora out of mere aqueous clouds; nay brightening london-smoke itself into gold vapour, as from the crucible of an alchemist. hear in what earnest though fantastic wise he expresses himself on this head: 'shall courtesy be done only to the rich, and only by the rich? in good-breeding, which differs, if at all, from high-breeding, only as it gracefully remembers the rights of others, rather than gracefully insists on its own rights, i discern no special connexion with wealth or birth: but rather that it lies in human nature itself, and is due from all men towards all men. of a truth, were your schoolmaster at his post, and worth anything when there, this, with so much else, would be reformed. nay, each man were then also his neighbour's schoolmaster; till at length a rude-visaged, unmannered peasant could no more be met with, than a peasant unacquainted with botanical physiology, or who felt not that the clod he broke was created in heaven. 'for whether thou bear a sceptre or a sledgehammer, art thou not alive; is not this thy brother alive? "there is but one temple in the world," says novalis, "and that temple is the body of man. nothing is holier than this high form. bending before men is a reverence done to this revelation in the flesh. we touch heaven, when we lay our hands on a human body." 'on which ground, i would fain carry it farther than most do; and whereas the english johnson only bowed to every clergyman, or man with a shovel-hat, i would bow to every man with any sort of hat, or with no hat whatever. is not he a temple, then; the visible manifestation and impersonation of the divinity? and yet, alas, such indiscriminate bowing serves not. for there is a devil dwells in man, as well as a divinity; and too often the bow is but pocketed by the _former_. it would go to the pocket of vanity (which is your clearest phasis of the devil, in these times); therefore must we withhold it. 'the gladder am i, on the other hand, to do reverence to those shells and outer husks of the body, wherein no devilish passion any longer lodges, but only the pure emblem and effigies of man: i mean, to empty, or even to cast clothes. nay, is it not to clothes that most men do reverence: to the fine frogged broadcloth, nowise to the "straddling animal with bandy legs" which it holds, and makes a dignitary of? who ever saw any lord my-lorded in tattered blanket fastened with wooden skewer? nevertheless, i say, there is in such worship a shade of hypocrisy, a practical deception: for how often does the body appropriate what was meant for the cloth only! whoso would avoid falsehood, which is the essence of all sin, will perhaps see good to take a different course. that reverence which cannot act without obstruction and perversion when the clothes are full, may have free course when they are empty. even as, for hindoo worshippers, the pagoda is not less sacred than the god; so do i too worship the hollow cloth garment with equal fervour, as when it contained the man: nay, with more, for i now fear no deception, of myself or of others. 'did not king _toomtabard_, or, in other words, john baliol, reign long over scotland; the man john baliol being quite gone, and only the "toom tabard" (empty gown) remaining? what still dignity dwells in a suit of cast clothes! how meekly it bears its honours! no haughty looks, no scornful gesture: silent and serene, it fronts the world; neither demanding worship, nor afraid to miss it. the hat still carries the physiognomy of its head: but the vanity and the stupidity, and goose-speech which was the sign of these two, are gone. the coat-arm is stretched out, but not to strike; the breeches, in modest simplicity, depend at ease, and now at last have a graceful flow; the waistcoat hides no evil passion, no riotous desire; hunger or thirst now dwells not in it. thus all is purged from the grossness of sense, from the carking cares and foul vices of the world; and rides there, on its clothes-horse; as, on a pegasus, might some skyey messenger, or purified apparition, visiting our low earth. 'often, while i sojourned in that monstrous tuberosity of civilised life, the capital of england; and meditated, and questioned destiny, under that ink-sea of vapour, black, thick, and multifarious as spartan broth; and was one lone soul amid those grinding millions;--often have i turned into their old-clothes market to worship. with awe-struck heart i walk through that monmouth street, with its empty suits, as through a sanhedrim of stainless ghosts. silent are they, but expressive in their silence: the past witnesses and instruments of woe and joy, of passions, virtues, crimes, and all the fathomless tumult of good and evil in "the prison men call life." friends! trust not the heart of that man for whom old clothes are not venerable. watch, too, with reverence, that bearded jewish high-priest, who with hoarse voice, like some angel of doom, summons them from the four winds! on his head, like the pope, he has three hats,--a real triple tiara; on either hand are the similitude of wings, whereon the summoned garments come to alight; and ever, as he slowly cleaves the air, sounds forth his deep fateful note, as if through a trumpet he were proclaiming: "ghosts of life, come to judgment!" reck not, ye fluttering ghosts: he will purify you in his purgatory, with fire and with water; and, one day, new-created ye shall reappear. o, let him in whom the flame of devotion is ready to go out, who has never worshipped, and knows not what to worship, pace and repace, with austerest thought, the pavement of monmouth street, and say whether his heart and his eyes still continue dry. if field lane, with its long fluttering rows of yellow handkerchiefs, be a dionysius' ear, where, in stifled jarring hubbub, we hear the indictment which poverty and vice bring against lazy wealth, that it has left them there cast-out and trodden under foot of want, darkness and the devil,--then is monmouth street a mirza's hill, where, in motley vision, the whole pageant of existence passes awfully before us; with its wail and jubilee, mad loves and mad hatreds, church-bells and gallows-ropes, farce-tragedy, beast-godhood,--the bedlam of creation!' * * * * * to most men, as it does to ourselves, all this will seem overcharged. we too have walked through monmouth street; but with little feeling of 'devotion': probably in part because the contemplative process is so fatally broken in upon by the brood of money-changers who nestle in that church, and importune the worshipper with merely secular proposals. whereas teufelsdröckh might be in that happy middle state, which leaves to the clothes-broker no hope either of sale or of purchase, and so be allowed to linger there without molestation.--something we would have given to see the little philosophical figure, with its steeple-hat and loose flowing skirts, and eyes in a fine frenzy, 'pacing and repacing in austerest thought' that foolish street; which to him was a true delphic avenue, and supernatural whispering-gallery, where the 'ghosts of life' rounded strange secrets in his ear. o thou philosophic teufelsdröckh, that listenest while others only gabble, and with thy quick tympanum hearest the grass grow! at the same time, is it not strange that, in paper-bag documents destined for an english work, there exists nothing like an authentic diary of this his sojourn in london; and of his meditations among the clothes-shops only the obscurest emblematic shadows? neither, in conversation (for, indeed, he was not a man to pester you with his travels), have we heard him more than allude to the subject. for the rest, however, it cannot be uninteresting that we here find how early the significance of clothes had dawned on the now so distinguished clothes-professor. might we but fancy it to have been even in monmouth street, at the bottom of our own english 'ink-sea,' that this remarkable volume first took being, and shot forth its salient point in his soul,--as in chaos did the egg of eros, one day to be hatched into a universe! chapter vii organic filaments for us, who happen to live while the world-phoenix is burning herself, and burning so slowly that, as teufelsdröckh calculates, it were a handsome bargain would she engage to have done 'within two centuries,' there seems to lie but an ashy prospect. not altogether so, however, does the professor figure it. 'in the living subject,' says he, 'change is wont to be gradual: thus, while the serpent sheds its old skin, the new is already formed beneath. little knowest thou of the burning of a world-phoenix, who fanciest that she must first burn-out, and lie as a dead cinereous heap; and therefrom the young one start-up by miracle, and fly heavenward. far otherwise! in that fire-whirlwind, creation and destruction proceed together; ever as the ashes of the old are blown about, do organic filaments of the new mysteriously spin themselves: and amid the rushing and the waving of the whirlwind-element come tones of a melodious deathsong, which end not but in tones of a more melodious birthsong. nay, look into the fire-whirlwind with thy own eyes, and thou wilt see.' let us actually look, then: to poor individuals, who cannot expect to live two centuries, those same organic filaments, mysteriously spinning themselves, will be the best part of the spectacle. first, therefore, this of mankind in general: 'in vain thou deniest it,' says the professor; 'thou _art_ my brother. thy very hatred, thy very envy, those foolish lies thou tellest of me in thy splenetic humour: what is all this but an inverted sympathy? were i a steam-engine, wouldst thou take the trouble to tell lies of me? not thou! i should grind all unheeded, whether badly or well. 'wondrous truly are the bonds that unite us one and all; whether by the soft binding of love, or the iron chaining of necessity, as we like to choose it. more than once have i said to myself, of some perhaps whimsically strutting figure, such as provokes whimsical thoughts: "wert thou, my little brotherkin, suddenly covered-up within the largest imaginable glass-bell,--what a thing it were, not for thyself only, but for the world! post letters, more or fewer, from all the four winds, impinge against thy glass walls, but have to drop unread: neither from within comes there question or response into any postbag; thy thoughts fall into no friendly ear or heart, thy manufacture into no purchasing hand: thou art no longer a circulating venous-arterial heart, that, taking and giving, circulatest through all space and all time: there has a hole fallen-out in the immeasurable, universal world-tissue, which must be darned-up again!" 'such venous-arterial circulation, of letters, verbal messages, paper and other packages, going out from him and coming in, are a blood-circulation, visible to the eye: but the finer nervous circulation, by which all things, the minutest that he does, minutely influence all men, and the very look of his face blesses or curses whomso it lights on, and so generates ever new blessing or new cursing: all this you cannot see, but only imagine. i say, there is not a red indian, hunting by lake winnipic, can quarrel with his squaw, but the whole world must smart for it: will not the price of beaver rise? it is a mathematical fact that the casting of this pebble from my hand alters the centre of gravity of the universe. 'if now an existing generation of men stand so woven together, not less indissolubly does generation with generation. hast thou ever meditated on that word, tradition: how we inherit not life only, but all the garniture and form of life; and work, and speak, and even think and feel, as our fathers, and primeval grandfathers, from the beginning, have given it us?--who printed thee, for example, this unpretending volume on the philosophy of clothes? not the herren stillschweigen and company; but cadmus of thebes, faust of mentz, and innumerable others whom thou knowest not. had there been no moesogothic ulfila, there had been no english shakspeare, or a different one. simpleton! it was tubalcain that made thy very tailor's needle, and sewed that court-suit of thine. 'yes, truly; if nature is one, and a living indivisible whole, much more is mankind, the image that reflects and creates nature, without which nature were not. as palpable life-streams in that wondrous individual mankind, among so many life-streams that are not palpable, flow on those main-currents of what we call opinion; as preserved in institutions, polities, churches, above all in books. beautiful it is to understand and know that a thought did never yet die; that as thou, the originator thereof, hast gathered it and created it from the whole past, so thou wilt transmit it to the whole future. it is thus that the heroic heart, the seeing eye of the first times, still feels and sees in us of the latest; that the wise man stands ever encompassed, and spiritually embraced, by a cloud of witnesses and brothers; and there is a living, literal _communion of saints_, wide as the world itself, and as the history of the world. 'noteworthy also, and serviceable for the progress of this same individual, wilt thou find his subdivision into generations. generations are as the days of toilsome mankind: death and birth are the vesper and the matin bells, that summon mankind to sleep, and to rise refreshed for new advancement. what the father has made, the son can make and enjoy; but has also work of his own appointed him. thus all things wax, and roll onwards; arts, establishments, opinions, nothing is completed, but ever completing. newton has learned to see what kepler saw; but there is also a fresh heaven-derived force in newton; he must mount to still higher points of vision. so too the hebrew lawgiver is, in due time, followed by an apostle of the gentiles. in the business of destruction, as this also is from time to time a necessary work, thou findest a like sequence and perseverance: for luther it was as yet hot enough to stand by that burning of the pope's bull; voltaire could not warm himself at the glimmering ashes, but required quite other fuel. thus likewise, i note, the english whig has, in the second generation, become an english radical; who, in the third again, it is to be hoped, will become an english rebuilder. find mankind where thou wilt, thou findest it in living movement, in progress faster or slower: the phoenix soars aloft, hovers with outstretched wings, filling earth with her music; or, as now, she sinks, and with spheral swan-song immolates herself in flame, that she may soar the higher and sing the clearer.' let the friends of social order, in such a disastrous period, lay this to heart, and derive from it any little comfort they can. we subjoin another passage, concerning titles: 'remark, not without surprise,' says teufelsdröckh, 'how all high titles of honour come hitherto from fighting. your _herzog_ (duke, _dux_) is leader of armies; your earl (_jarl_) is strong man; your marshal cavalry horse-shoer. a millennium, or reign of peace and wisdom, having from of old been prophesied, and becoming now daily more and more indubitable, may it not be apprehended that such fighting-titles will cease to be palatable, and new and higher need to be devised? 'the only title wherein i, with confidence, trace eternity, is that of king. _könig_ (king), anciently _könning_, means ken-ning (cunning), or which is the same thing, can-ning. ever must the sovereign of mankind be fitly entitled king.' 'well, also,' says he elsewhere, 'was it written by theologians: a king rules by divine right. he carries in him an authority from god, or man will never give it him. can i choose my own king? i can choose my own king popinjay, and play what farce or tragedy i may with him: but he who is to be my ruler, whose will is to be higher than my will, was chosen for me in heaven. neither except in such obedience to the heaven-chosen is freedom so much as conceivable.' * * * * * the editor will here admit that, among all the wondrous provinces of teufelsdröckh's spiritual world, there is none he walks in with such astonishment, hesitation, and even pain, as in the political. how, with our english love of ministry and opposition, and that generous conflict of parties, mind warming itself against mind in their mutual wrestle for the public good, by which wrestle, indeed, is our invaluable constitution kept warm and alive; how shall we domesticate ourselves in this spectral necropolis, or rather city both of the dead and of the unborn, where the present seems little other than an inconsiderable film dividing the past and the future? in those dim longdrawn expanses, all is so immeasurable; much so disastrous, ghastly; your very radiances and straggling light-beams have a supernatural character. and then with such an indifference, such a prophetic peacefulness (accounting the inevitably coming as already here, to him all one whether it be distant by centuries or only by days), does he sit;--and live, you would say, rather in any other age than in his own! it is our painful duty to announce, or repeat, that, looking into this man, we discern a deep, silent, slow-burning, inextinguishable radicalism, such as fills us with shuddering admiration. thus, for example, he appears to make little even of the elective franchise; at least so we interpret the following: 'satisfy yourselves,' he says, 'by universal, indubitable experiment, even as ye are now doing or will do, whether freedom, heavenborn and leading heavenward, and so vitally essential for us all, cannot peradventure be mechanically hatched and brought to light in that same ballot-box of yours; or at worst, in some other discoverable or devisable box, edifice, or steam-mechanism. it were a mighty convenience; and beyond all feats of manufacture witnessed hitherto.' is teufelsdröckh acquainted with the british constitution, even slightly?--he says, under another figure: 'but after all, were the problem, as indeed it now everywhere is, to rebuild your old house from the top downwards (since you must live in it the while), what better, what other, than the representative machine will serve your turn? meanwhile, however, mock me not with the name of free, "when you have but knit-up my chains into ornamental festoons."'--or what will any member of the peace society make of such an assertion as this: 'the lower people everywhere desire war. not so unwisely; there is then a demand for lower people--to be shot!' gladly, therefore, do we emerge from those soul-confusing labyrinths of speculative radicalism, into somewhat clearer regions. here, looking round, as was our hest, for 'organic filaments,' we ask, may not this, touching 'hero-worship,' be of the number? it seems of a cheerful character; yet so quaint, so mystical, one knows not what, or how little, may lie under it. our readers shall look with their own eyes: 'true is it that, in these days, man can do almost all things, only not obey. true likewise that whoso cannot obey cannot be free, still less bear rule; he that is the inferior of nothing, can be the superior of nothing, the equal of nothing. nevertheless, believe not that man has lost his faculty of reverence; that if it slumber in him, it has gone dead. painful for man is that same rebellious independence, when it has become inevitable; only in loving companionship with his fellows does he feel safe; only in reverently bowing down before the higher does he feel himself exalted. 'or what if the character of our so troublous era lay even in this: that man had forever cast away fear, which is the lower; but not yet risen into perennial reverence, which is the higher and highest? 'meanwhile, observe with joy, so cunningly has nature ordered it, that whatsoever man ought to obey, he cannot but obey. before no faintest revelation of the godlike did he ever stand irreverent; least of all, when the godlike showed itself revealed in his fellow-man. thus is there a true religious loyalty forever rooted in his heart; nay in all ages, even in ours, it manifests itself as a more or less orthodox _hero-worship_. in which fact, that hero-worship exists, has existed, and will forever exist, universally among mankind, mayest thou discern the corner-stone of living-rock, whereon all polities for the remotest time may stand secure.' do our readers discern any such corner-stone, or even so much as what teufelsdröckh is looking at? he exclaims, 'or hast thou forgotten paris and voltaire? how the aged, withered man, though but a sceptic, mocker, and millinery court-poet, yet because even he seemed the wisest, best, could drag mankind at his chariot-wheels, so that princes coveted a smile from him, and the loveliest of france would have laid their hair beneath his feet! all paris was one vast temple of hero-worship; though their divinity, moreover, was of feature too apish. 'but if such things,' continues he, 'were done in the dry tree, what will be done in the green? if, in the most parched season of man's history, in the most parched spot of europe, when parisian life was at best but a scientific _hortus siccus_, bedizened with some italian gumflowers, such virtue could come out of it; what is to be looked for when life again waves leafy and bloomy, and your hero-divinity shall have nothing apelike, but be wholly human? know that there is in man a quite indestructible reverence for whatsoever holds of heaven, or even plausibly counterfeits such holding. show the dullest clodpole, show the haughtiest featherhead, that a soul higher than himself is actually here; were his knees stiffened into brass, he must down and worship.' organic filaments, of a more authentic sort, mysteriously spinning themselves, some will perhaps discover in the following passage: 'there is no church, sayest thou? the voice of prophecy has gone dumb? this is even what i dispute: but in any case, hast thou not still preaching enough? a preaching friar settles himself in every village; and builds a pulpit, which he calls newspaper. therefrom he preaches what most momentous doctrine is in him, for man's salvation; and dost not thou listen, and believe? look well, thou seest everywhere a new clergy of the mendicant orders, some bare-footed, some almost bare-backed, fashion itself into shape, and teach and preach, zealously enough, for copper alms and the love of god. these break in pieces the ancient idols; and, though themselves too often reprobate, as idol-breakers are wont to be, mark out the sites of new churches, where the true god-ordained, that are to follow, may find audience, and minister. said i not, before the old skin was shed, the new had formed itself beneath it?' perhaps also in the following; wherewith we now hasten to knit-up this ravelled sleeve: 'but there is no religion?' reiterates the professor. 'fool! i tell thee, there is. hast thou well considered all that lies in this immeasurable froth-ocean we name literature? fragments of a genuine church-_homiletic_ lie scattered there, which time will assort: nay fractions even of a _liturgy_ could i point out. and knowest thou no prophet, even in the vesture, environment, and dialect of this age? none to whom the god-like had revealed itself, through all meanest and highest forms of the common; and by him been again prophetically revealed: in whose inspired melody, even in these rag-gathering and rag-burning days, man's life again begins, were it but afar off, to be divine? knowest thou none such? i know him, and name him--goethe. 'but thou as yet standest in no temple; joinest in no psalm-worship; feelest well that, where there is no ministering priest, the people perish? be of comfort! thou art not alone, if thou have faith. spake we not of a communion of saints, unseen, yet not unreal, accompanying and brother-like embracing thee, so thou be worthy? their heroic sufferings rise up melodiously together to heaven, out of all lands, and out of all times, as a sacred _miserere_; their heroic actions also, as a boundless everlasting psalm of triumph. neither say that thou hast now no symbol of the godlike. is not god's universe a symbol of the godlike; is not immensity a temple; is not man's history, and men's history, a perpetual evangel? listen, and for organ-music thou wilt ever, as of old, hear the morning stars sing together.' chapter viii natural supernaturalism it is in his stupendous section, headed _natural supernaturalism_, that the professor first becomes a seer; and, after long effort, such as we have witnessed, finally subdues under his feet this refractory clothes-philosophy, and takes victorious possession thereof. phantasms enough he has had to struggle with; 'cloth-webs and cob-webs,' of imperial mantles, superannuated symbols, and what not: yet still did he courageously pierce through. nay, worst of all, two quite mysterious, world-embracing phantasms, time and space, have ever hovered round him, perplexing and bewildering: but with these also he now resolutely grapples, these also he victoriously rends asunder. in a word, he has looked fixedly on existence, till, one after the other, its earthly hulls and garnitures have all melted away; and now, to his rapt vision, the interior celestial holy of holies lies disclosed. here, therefore, properly it is that the philosophy of clothes attains to transcendentalism; this last leap, can we but clear it, takes us safe into the promised land, where _palingenesia_, in all senses, may be considered as beginning. 'courage, then!' may our diogenes exclaim, with better right than diogenes the first once did. this stupendous section we, after long painful meditation, have found not to be unintelligible; but, on the contrary, to grow clear, nay radiant, and all-illuminating. let the reader, turning on it what utmost force of speculative intellect is in him, do his part; as we, by judicious selection and adjustment, shall study to do ours: 'deep has been, and is, the significance of miracles,' thus quietly begins the professor; 'far deeper perhaps than we imagine. meanwhile, the question of questions were: what specially is a miracle? to that dutch king of siam, an icicle had been a miracle; whoso had carried with him an air-pump, and vial of vitriolic ether, might have worked a miracle. to my horse, again, who unhappily is still more unscientific, do not i work a miracle, and magical "_open sesame!_" every time i please to pay twopence, and open for him an impassable _schlagbaum_, or shut turnpike? '"but is not a real miracle simply a violation of the laws of nature?" ask several. whom i answer by this new question: what are the laws of nature? to me perhaps the rising of one from the dead were no violation of these laws, but a confirmation; were some far deeper law, now first penetrated into, and by spiritual force, even as the rest have all been, brought to bear on us with its material force. 'here too may some inquire, not without astonishment: on what ground shall one, that can make iron swim, come and declare that therefore he can teach religion? to us, truly, of the nineteenth century, such declaration were inept enough; which nevertheless to our fathers, of the first century, was full of meaning. '"but is it not the deepest law of nature that she be constant?" cries an illuminated class: "is not the machine of the universe fixed to move by unalterable rules?" probable enough, good friends: nay i, too, must believe that the god, whom ancient inspired men assert to be "without variableness or shadow of turning," does indeed never change; that nature, that the universe, which no one whom it so pleases can be prevented from calling a machine, does move by the most unalterable rules. and now of you, too, i make the old inquiry: what those same unalterable rules, forming the complete statute-book of nature, may possibly be? 'they stand written in our works of science, say you; in the accumulated records of man's experience?--was man with his experience present at the creation, then, to see how it all went on? have any deepest scientific individuals yet dived-down to the foundations of the universe, and gauged everything there? did the maker take them into his counsel; that they read his groundplan of the incomprehensible all; and can say, this stands marked therein, and no more than this? alas, not in anywise! these scientific individuals have been nowhere but where we also are; have seen some handbreadths deeper than we see into the deep that is infinite, without bottom as without shore. 'laplace's book on the stars, wherein he exhibits that certain planets, with their satellites, gyrate round our worthy sun, at a rate and in a course, which, by greatest good fortune, he and the like of him have succeeded in detecting,--is to me as precious as to another. but is this what thou namest "mechanism of the heavens," and "system of the world"; this, wherein sirius and the pleiades, and all herschel's fifteen-thousand suns per minute, being left out, some paltry handful of moons, and inert balls, had been--looked at, nicknamed, and marked in the zodiacal way-bill; so that we can now prate of their whereabout; their how, their why, their what, being hid from us, as in the signless inane? 'system of nature! to the wisest man, wide as is his vision, nature remains of quite _infinite_ depth, of quite infinite expansion; and all experience thereof limits itself to some few computed centuries and measured square-miles. the course of nature's phases, on this our little fraction of a planet, is partially known to us: but who knows what deeper courses these depend on; what infinitely larger cycle (of causes) our little epicycle revolves on? to the minnow every cranny and pebble, and quality and accident, of its little native creek may have become familiar: but does the minnow understand the ocean tides and periodic currents, the trade-winds, and monsoons, and moon's eclipses; by all which the condition of its little creek is regulated, and may, from time to time (_un_miraculously enough), be quite overset and reversed? such a minnow is man; his creek this planet earth; his ocean the immeasurable all; his monsoons and periodic currents the mysterious course of providence through æons of æons. 'we speak of the volume of nature: and truly a volume it is,--whose author and writer is god. to read it! dost thou, does man, so much as well know the alphabet thereof? with its words, sentences, and grand descriptive pages, poetical and philosophical, spread out through solar systems, and thousands of years, we shall not try thee. it is a volume written in celestial hieroglyphs, in the true sacred-writing; of which even prophets are happy that they can read here a line and there a line. as for your institutes, and academies of science, they strive bravely; and, from amid the thick-crowded, inextricably intertwisted hieroglyphic writing, pick-out, by dextrous combination, some letters in the vulgar character, and therefrom put together this and the other economic recipe, of high avail in practice. that nature is more than some boundless volume of such recipes, or huge, well-nigh inexhaustible domestic-cookery book, of which the whole secret will in this manner one day evolve itself, the fewest dream. * * * * * 'custom,' continues the professor, 'doth make dotards of us all. consider well, thou wilt find that custom is the greatest of weavers; and weaves air-raiment for all the spirits of the universe; whereby indeed these dwell with us visibly, as ministering servants, in our houses and workshops; but their spiritual nature becomes, to the most, forever hidden. philosophy complains that custom has hoodwinked us, from the first; that we do everything by custom, even believe by it; that our very axioms, let us boast of free-thinking as we may, are oftenest simply such beliefs as we have never heard questioned. nay, what is philosophy throughout but a continual battle against custom; an ever-renewed effort to _transcend_ the sphere of blind custom, and so become transcendental? 'innumerable are the illusions and legerdemain-tricks of custom: but of all these, perhaps the cleverest is her knack of persuading us that the miraculous, by simple repetition, ceases to be miraculous. true, it is by this means we live; for man must work as well as wonder: and herein is custom so far a kind nurse, guiding him to his true benefit. but she is a fond foolish nurse, or rather we are false foolish nurslings, when, in our resting and reflecting hours, we prolong the same deception. am i to view the stupendous with stupid indifference, because i have seen it twice, or two-hundred, or two-million times? there is no reason in nature or in art why i should: unless, indeed, i am a mere work-machine, for whom the divine gift of thought were no other than the terrestrial gift of steam is to the steam-engine; a power whereby cotton might be spun, and money and money's worth realised. 'notable enough too, here as elsewhere, wilt thou find the potency of names; which indeed are but one kind of such custom-woven, wonder-hiding garments. witchcraft, and all manner of spectre-work, and demonology, we have now named madness and diseases of the nerves. seldom reflecting that still the new question comes upon us: what is madness, what are nerves? ever, as before, does madness remain a mysterious-terrific, altogether _infernal_ boiling-up of the nether chaotic deep, through this fair-painted vision of creation, which swims thereon, which we name the real. was luther's picture of the devil less a reality, whether it were formed within the bodily eye, or without it? in every the wisest soul lies a whole world of internal madness, an authentic demon empire; out of which, indeed, his world of wisdom has been creatively built together, and now rests there, as on its dark foundations does a habitable flowery earth-rind. * * * * * 'but deepest of all illusory appearances, for hiding wonder, as for many other ends, are your two grand fundamental world-enveloping appearances, space and time. these, as spun and woven for us from before birth itself, to clothe our celestial me for dwelling here, and yet to blind it,--lie all embracing, as the universal canvas, or warp and woof, whereby all minor illusions, in this phantasm existence, weave and paint themselves. in vain, while here on earth, shall you endeavour to strip them off; you can, at best, but rend them asunder for moments, and look through. 'fortunatus had a wishing hat, which when he put on, and wished himself anywhere, behold he was there. by this means had fortunatus triumphed over space, he had annihilated space; for him there was no where, but all was here. were a hatter to establish himself, in the wahngasse of weissnichtwo, and make felts of this sort for all mankind, what a world we should have of it! still stranger, should, on the opposite side of the street, another hatter establish himself; and as his fellow-craftsman made space-annihilating hats, make time-annihilating! of both would i purchase, were it with my last groschen; but chiefly of this latter. to clap-on your felt, and, simply by wishing that you were any_where_, straightway to be _there_! next to clap-on your other felt, and, simply by wishing that you were any_when_, straightway to be _then_! this were indeed the grander: shooting at will from the fire-creation of the world to its fire-consummation; here historically present in the first century, conversing face to face with paul and seneca; there prophetically in the thirty-first, conversing also face to face with other pauls and senecas, who as yet stand hidden in the depth of that late time! 'or thinkest thou it were impossible, unimaginable? is the past annihilated, then, or only past; is the future non-extant, or only future? those mystic faculties of thine, memory and hope, already answer: already through those mystic avenues, thou the earth-blinded summonest both past and future, and communest with them, though as yet darkly, and with mute beckonings. the curtains of yesterday drop down, the curtains of tomorrow roll up; but yesterday and tomorrow both _are_. pierce through the time-element, glance into the eternal. believe what thou findest written in the sanctuaries of man's soul, even as all thinkers, in all ages, have devoutly read it there: that time and space are not god, but creations of god: that with god as it is a universal here, so is it an everlasting now. 'and seest thou therein any glimpse of immortality?--o heaven! is the white tomb of our loved one, who died from our arms, and had to be left behind us there, which rises in the distance, like a pale, mournfully receding milestone, to tell how many toilsome uncheered miles we have journeyed on alone,--but a pale spectral illusion! is the lost friend still mysteriously here, even as we are here mysteriously, with god!--know of a truth that only the time-shadows have perished, or are perishable; that the real being of whatever was, and whatever is, and whatever will be, _is_ even now and forever. this, should it unhappily seem new, thou mayest ponder at thy leisure; for the next twenty years, or the next twenty centuries: believe it thou must; understand it thou canst not. 'that the thought-forms, space and time, wherein, once for all, we are sent into this earth to live, should condition and determine our whole practical reasonings, conceptions, and imagines or imaginings,--seems altogether fit, just, and unavoidable. but that they should, furthermore, usurp such sway over pure spiritual meditation, and blind us to the wonder everywhere lying close on us, seems nowise so. admit space and time to their due rank as forms of thought; nay even, if thou wilt, to their quite undue rank of realities: and consider, then, with thyself how their thin disguises hide from us the brightest god-effulgences! thus, were it not miraculous, could i stretch forth my hand and clutch the sun? yet thou seest me daily stretch forth my hand and therewith clutch many a thing, and swing it hither and thither. art thou a grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight; and not to see that the true inexplicable god-revealing miracle lies in this, that i can stretch forth my hand at all; that i have free force to clutch aught therewith? innumerable other of this sort are the deceptions, and wonder-hiding stupefactions, which space practises on us. 'still worse is it with regard to time. your grand anti-magician, and universal wonder-hider, is this same lying time. had we but the time-annihilating hat, to put on for once only, we should see ourselves in a world of miracles, wherein all fabled or authentic thaumaturgy, and feats of magic, were outdone. but unhappily we have not such a hat; and man, poor fool that he is, can seldom and scantily help himself without one. 'were it not wonderful, for instance, had orpheus, or amphion, built the walls of thebes by the mere sound of his lyre? yet tell me, who built these walls of weissnichtwo; summoning-out all the sandstone rocks, to dance along from the _steinbruch_ (now a huge troglodyte chasm, with frightful green-mantled pools); and shape themselves into doric and ionic pillars, squared ashlar houses and noble streets? was it not the still higher orpheus, or orpheuses, who, in past centuries, by the divine music of wisdom, succeeded in civilising man? our highest orpheus walked in judea, eighteen hundred years ago: his sphere-melody, flowing in wild native tones, took captive the ravished souls of men; and, being of a truth sphere-melody, still flows and sounds, though now with thousandfold accompaniments, and rich symphonies, through all our hearts; and modulates, and divinely leads them. is that a wonder, which happens in two hours; and does it cease to be wonderful if happening in two million? not only was thebes built by the music of an orpheus; but without the music of some inspired orpheus was no city ever built, no work that man glories-in ever done. 'sweep away the illusion of time; glance, if thou hast eyes, from the near moving-cause to its far-distant mover: the stroke that came transmitted through a whole galaxy of elastic balls, was it less a stroke than if the last ball only had been struck, and sent flying? o, could i (with the time-annihilating hat) transport thee direct from the beginnings to the endings, how were thy eyesight unsealed, and thy heart set flaming in the light-sea of celestial wonder! then sawest thou that this fair universe, were it in the meanest province thereof, is in very deed the star-domed city of god; that through every star, through every grass-blade, and most through every living soul, the glory of a present god still beams. but nature, which is the time-vesture of god, and reveals him to the wise, hides him from the foolish. 'again, could anything be more miraculous than an actual authentic ghost? the english johnson longed, all his life, to see one; but could not, though he went to cock lane, and thence to the church-vaults, and tapped on coffins. foolish doctor! did he never, with the mind's eye as well as with the body's, look round him into that full tide of human life he so loved; did he never so much as look into himself? the good doctor was a ghost, as actual and authentic as heart could wish; well-nigh a million of ghosts were travelling the streets by his side. once more i say, sweep away the illusion of time; compress the threescore years into three minutes: what else was he, what else are we? are we not spirits, that are shaped into a body, into an appearance; and that fade-away again into air and invisibility? this is no metaphor, it is a simple scientific _fact_: we start out of nothingness, take figure, and are apparitions; round us, as round the veriest spectre, is eternity; and to eternity minutes are as years and æons. come there not tones of love and faith, as from celestial harp-strings, like the song of beautified souls? and again, do not we squeak and jibber (in our discordant, screech-owlish debatings and recriminatings); and glide bodeful, and feeble, and fearful; or uproar (_poltern_), and revel in our mad dance of the dead,--till the scent of the morning air summons us to our still home; and dreamy night becomes awake and day? where now is alexander of macedon: does the steel host, that yelled in fierce battle-shouts at issus and arbela, remain behind him; or have they all vanished utterly, even as perturbed goblins must? napoleon too, and his moscow retreats and austerlitz campaigns! was it all other than the veriest spectre-hunt; which has now, with its howling tumult that made night hideous, flitted away?--ghosts! there are nigh a thousand-million walking the earth openly at noontide; some half-hundred have vanished from it, some half-hundred have arisen in it, ere thy watch ticks once. 'o heaven, it is mysterious, it is awful to consider that we not only carry each a future ghost within him; but are, in very deed, ghosts! these limbs, whence had we them; this stormy force; this life-blood with its burning passion? they are dust and shadow; a shadow-system gathered round our me; wherein, through some moments or years, the divine essence is to be revealed in the flesh. that warrior on his strong war-horse, fire flashes through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and heart: but warrior and war-horse are a vision; a revealed force, nothing more. stately they tread the earth, as if it were a firm substance: fool! the earth is but a film; it cracks in twain, and warrior and war-horse sink beyond plummet's sounding. plummet's? fantasy herself will not follow them. a little while ago, they were not; a little while, and they are not, their very ashes are not. 'so has it been from the beginning, so will it be to the end. generation after generation takes to itself the form of a body; and forth-issuing from cimmerian night, on heaven's mission appears. what force and fire is in each he expends: one grinding in the mill of industry; one hunter-like climbing the giddy alpine heights of science; one madly dashed in pieces on the rocks of strife, in war with his fellow:--and then the heaven-sent is recalled; his earthly vesture falls away, and soon even to sense becomes a vanished shadow. thus, like some wild-flaming, wild-thundering train of heaven's artillery, does this mysterious mankind thunder and flame, in long-drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, through the unknown deep. thus, like a god-created, fire-breathing spirit-host, we emerge from the inane; haste stormfully across the astonished earth; then plunge again into the inane. earth's mountains are levelled, and her seas filled up, in our passage: can the earth, which is but dead and a vision, resist spirits which have reality and are alive? on the hardest adamant some footprint of us is stamped-in; the last rear of the host will read traces of the earliest van. but whence?--o heaven, whither? sense knows not; faith knows not; only that it is through mystery to mystery, from god and to god. "we _are such stuff_ as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep!"' chapter ix circumspective here, then, arises the so momentous question: have many british readers actually arrived with us at the new promised country; is the philosophy of clothes now at last opening around them? long and adventurous has the journey been: from those outmost vulgar, palpable woollen-hulls of man; through his wondrous flesh-garments, and his wondrous social garnitures; inwards to the garments of his very soul's soul, to time and space themselves! and now does the spiritual, eternal essence of man, and of mankind, bared of such wrappages, begin in any measure to reveal itself? can many readers discern, as through a glass darkly, in huge wavering outlines, some primeval rudiments of man's being, what is changeable divided from what is unchangeable? does that earth-spirit's speech in _faust_,- ''tis thus at the roaring loom of time i ply, and weave for god the garment thou see'st him by'; or that other thousand-times repeated speech of the magician, shakspeare,- 'and like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, and all which it inherit, shall dissolve; and like this unsubstantial pageant faded, leave not a wrack behind'; begin to have some meaning for us? in a word, do we at length stand safe in the far region of poetic creation and palingenesia, where that phoenix death-birth of human society, and of all human things, appears possible, is seen to be inevitable? along this most insufficient, unheard-of bridge, which the editor, by heaven's blessing, has now seen himself enabled to conclude if not complete, it cannot be his sober calculation, but only his fond hope, that many have travelled without accident. no firm arch, overspanning the impassable with paved highway, could the editor construct; only, as was said, some zigzag series of rafts floating tumultuously thereon. alas, and the leaps from raft to raft were too often of a breakneck character; the darkness, the nature of the element, all was against us! nevertheless, may not here and there one of a thousand, provided with a discursiveness of intellect rare in our day, have cleared the passage, in spite of all? happy few! little band of friends! be welcome, be of courage. by degrees, the eye grows accustomed to its new whereabout; the hand can stretch itself forth to work there: it is in this grand and indeed highest work of palingenesia that ye shall labour, each according to ability. new labourers will arrive; new bridges will be built; nay, may not our own poor rope-and-raft bridge, in your passings and repassings, be mended in many a point, till it grow quite firm, passable even for the halt? meanwhile, of the innumerable multitude that started with us, joyous and full of hope, where now is the innumerable remainder, whom we see no longer by our side? the most have recoiled, and stand gazing afar off, in unsympathetic astonishment, at our career: not a few, pressing forward with more courage, have missed footing, or leaped short; and now swim weltering in the chaos-flood, some towards this shore, some towards that. to these also a helping hand should be held out; at least some word of encouragement be said. or, to speak without metaphor, with which mode of utterance teufelsdröckh unhappily has somewhat infected us,--can it be hidden from the editor that many a british reader sits reading quite bewildered in head, and afflicted rather than instructed by the present work? yes, long ago has many a british reader been, as now, demanding with something like a snarl: whereto does all this lead; or what use is in it? in the way of replenishing thy purse, or otherwise aiding thy digestive faculty, o british reader, it leads to nothing, and there is no use in it; but rather the reverse, for it costs thee somewhat. nevertheless, if through this unpromising horn-gate, teufelsdröckh, and we by means of him, have led thee into the true land of dreams; and through the clothes-screen, as through a magical _pierre-pertuis_, thou lookest, even for moments, into the region of the wonderful, and seest and feelest that thy daily life is girt with wonder, and based on wonder, and thy very blankets and breeches are miracles,--then art thou profited beyond money's worth; and hast a thankfulness towards our professor; nay, perhaps in many a literary tea-circle wilt open thy kind lips, and audibly express that same. nay farther, art not thou too perhaps by this time made aware that all symbols are properly clothes; that all forms whereby spirit manifests itself to sense, whether outwardly or in the imagination, are clothes; and thus not only the parchment magna charta, which a tailor was nigh cutting into measures, but the pomp and authority of law, the sacredness of majesty, and all inferior worships (worthships) are properly a vesture and raiment; and the thirty-nine articles themselves are articles of wearing-apparel (for the religious idea)? in which case, must it not also be admitted that this science of clothes is a high one, and may with infinitely deeper study on thy part yield richer fruit: that it takes scientific rank beside codification, and political economy, and the theory of the british constitution; nay rather, from its prophetic height looks down on all these, as on so many weaving-shops and spinning-mills, where the vestures which _it_ has to fashion, and consecrate and distribute, are, too often by haggard hungry operatives who see no farther than their nose, mechanically woven and spun? but omitting all this, much more all that concerns natural supernaturalism, and indeed whatever has reference to the ulterior or transcendental portion of the science, or bears never so remotely on that promised volume of the _palingenesie der menschlichen gesellschaft_ (newbirth of society),--we humbly suggest that no province of clothes-philosophy, even the lowest, is without its direct value, but that innumerable inferences of a practical nature may be drawn therefrom. to say nothing of those pregnant considerations, ethical, political, symbolical, which crowd on the clothes-philosopher from the very threshold of his science; nothing even of those 'architectural ideas,' which, as we have seen, lurk at the bottom of all modes, and will one day, better unfolding themselves, lead to important revolutions,--let us glance for a moment, and with the faintest light of clothes-philosophy, on what may be called the habilatory class of our fellow-men. here too overlooking, where so much were to be looked on, the million spinners, weavers, fullers, dyers, washers, and wringers, that puddle and muddle in their dark recesses, to make us clothes, and die that we may live,--let us but turn the reader's attention upon two small divisions of mankind, who, like moths, may be regarded as cloth-animals, creatures that live, move and have their being in cloth: we mean, dandies and tailors. in regard to both which small divisions it may be asserted without scruple, that the public feeling, unenlightened by philosophy, is at fault; and even that the dictates of humanity are violated. as will perhaps abundantly appear to readers of the two following chapters. chapter x the dandiacal body first, touching dandies, let us consider, with some scientific strictness, what a dandy specially is. a dandy is a clothes-wearing man, a man whose trade, office and existence consists in the wearing of clothes. every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse and person is heroically consecrated to this one object, the wearing of clothes wisely and well: so that as others dress to live, he lives to dress. the all-importance of clothes, which a german professor of unequalled learning and acumen, writes his enormous volume to demonstrate, has sprung up in the intellect of the dandy without effort, like an instinct of genius; he is inspired with cloth, a poet of cloth. what teufelsdröckh would call a 'divine idea of cloth' is born with him; and this, like other such ideas, will express itself outwardly, or wring his heart asunder with unutterable throes. but, like a generous, creative enthusiast, he fearlessly makes his idea an action; shows himself in peculiar guise to mankind; walks forth, a witness and living martyr to the eternal worth of clothes. we called him a poet: is not his body the (stuffed) parchment-skin whereon he writes, with cunning huddersfield dyes, a sonnet to his mistress' eyebrow? say, rather, an epos, and _clotha virumque cano_, to the whole world, in macaronic verses, which he that runs may read. nay, if you grant, what seems to be admissible, that the dandy has a thinking-principle in him, and some notions of time and space, is there not in this life-devotedness to cloth, in this so willing sacrifice of the immortal to the perishable, something (though in reverse order) of that blending and identification of eternity with time, which, as we have seen, constitutes the prophetic character? and now, for all this perennial martyrdom, and poesy, and even prophecy, what is it that the dandy asks in return? solely, we may say, that you would recognise his existence; would admit him to be a living object; or even failing this, a visual object, or thing that will reflect rays of light. your silver or your gold (beyond what the niggardly law has already secured him) he solicits not; simply the glance of your eyes. understand his mystic significance, or altogether miss and misinterpret it; do but look at him, and he is contented. may we not well cry shame on an ungrateful world, which refuses even this poor boon; which will waste its optic faculty on dried crocodiles, and siamese twins; and over the domestic wonderful wonder of wonders, a live dandy, glance with hasty indifference, and a scarcely concealed contempt! him no zoologist classes among the mammalia, no anatomist dissects with care: when did we see any injected preparation of the dandy in our museums; any specimen of him preserved in spirits? lord herringbone may dress himself in a snuff-brown suit, with snuff-brown shirt and shoes: it skills not; the undiscerning public, occupied with grosser wants, passes by regardless on the other side. the age of curiosity, like that of chivalry, is indeed, properly speaking, gone. yet perhaps only gone to sleep: for here arises the clothes-philosophy to resuscitate, strangely enough, both the one and the other! should sound views of this science come to prevail, the essential nature of the british dandy, and the mystic significance that lies in him, cannot always remain hidden under laughable and lamentable hallucination. the following long extract from professor teufelsdröckh may set the matter, if not in its true light, yet in the way towards such. it is to be regretted, however, that here, as so often elsewhere, the professor's keen philosophic perspicacity is somewhat marred by a certain mixture of almost owlish purblindness, or else of some perverse, ineffectual, ironic tendency; our readers shall judge which: * * * * * 'in these distracted times,' writes he, 'when the religious principle, driven-out of most churches, either lies unseen in the hearts of good men, looking and longing and silently working there towards some new revelation; or else wanders homeless over the world, like a disembodied soul seeking its terrestrial organisation,--into how many strange shapes, of superstition and fanaticism, does it not tentatively and errantly cast itself! the higher enthusiasm of man's nature is for the while without exponent; yet does it continue indestructible, unweariedly active, and work blindly in the great chaotic deep: thus sect after sect, and church after church, bodies itself forth, and melts again into new metamorphosis. 'chiefly is this observable in england, which, as the wealthiest and worst-instructed of european nations, offers precisely the elements (of heat, namely, and of darkness), in which such moon-calves and monstrosities are best generated. among the newer sects of that country, one of the most notable, and closely connected with our present subject, is that of the _dandies_; concerning which, what little information i have been able to procure may fitly stand here. 'it is true, certain of the english journalists, men generally without sense for the religious principle, or judgment for its manifestations, speak, in their brief enigmatic notices, as if this were perhaps rather a secular sect, and not a religious one; nevertheless, to the psychologic eye its devotional and even sacrificial character plainly enough reveals itself. whether it belongs to the class of fetish-worships, or of hero-worships or polytheisms, or to what other class, may in the present state of our intelligence remain undecided (_schweben_). a certain touch of manicheism, not indeed in the gnostic shape, is discernible enough: also (for human error walks in a cycle, and reappears at intervals) a not-inconsiderable resemblance to that superstition of the athos monks, who by fasting from all nourishment, and looking intensely for a length of time into their own navels, came to discern therein the true apocalypse of nature, and heaven unveiled. to my own surmise, it appears as if this dandiacal sect were but a new modification, adapted to the new time, of that primeval superstition, _self-worship_; which zerdusht, quangfoutchee, mohamed, and others, strove rather to subordinate and restrain than to eradicate; and which only in the purer forms of religion has been altogether rejected. wherefore, if any one chooses to name it revived ahrimanism, or a new figure of demon-worship, i have, so far as is yet visible, no objection. 'for the rest, these people, animated with the zeal of a new sect, display courage and perseverance, and what force there is in man's nature, though never so enslaved. they affect great purity and separatism; distinguish themselves by a particular costume (whereof some notices were given in the earlier part of this volume); likewise, so far as possible, by a particular speech (apparently some broken _lingua-franca_, or english-french); and, on the whole, strive to maintain a true nazarene deportment, and keep themselves unspotted from the world. 'they have their temples, whereof the chief, as the jewish temple did, stands in their metropolis; and is named _almack's_, a word of uncertain etymology. they worship principally by night; and have their highpriests and highpriestesses, who, however, do not continue for life. the rites, by some supposed to be of the menadic sort, or perhaps with an eleusinian or cabiric character, are held strictly secret. nor are sacred books wanting to the sect; these they call _fashionable novels_: however, the canon is not completed, and some are canonical and others not. 'of such sacred books i, not without expense, procured myself some samples; and in hope of true insight, and with the zeal which beseems an inquirer into clothes, set to interpret and study them. but wholly to no purpose: that tough faculty of reading, for which the world will not refuse me credit, was here for the first time foiled and set at naught. in vain that i summoned my whole energies (_mich weidlich anstrengte_), and did my very utmost; at the end of some short space, i was uniformly seized with not so much what i can call a drumming in my ears, as a kind of infinite, unsufferable, jews-harping and scrannel-piping there; to which the frightfullest species of magnetic sleep soon supervened. and if i strove to shake this away, and absolutely would not yield, there came a hitherto unfelt sensation, as of _delirium tremens_, and a melting into total deliquium: till at last, by order of the doctor, dreading ruin to my whole intellectual and bodily faculties, and a general breaking-up of the constitution, i reluctantly but determinedly forbore. was there some miracle at work here; like those fire-balls, and supernal and infernal prodigies, which, in the case of the jewish mysteries, have also more than once scared-back the alien? be this as it may, such failure on my part, after best efforts, must excuse the imperfection of this sketch; altogether incomplete, yet the completest i could give of a sect too singular to be omitted. 'loving my own life and senses as i do, no power shall induce me, as a private individual, to open another _fashionable novel_. but luckily, in this dilemma, comes a hand from the clouds; whereby if not victory, deliverance is held out to me. round one of those book-packages, which the _stillschweigen'sche buchhandlung_ is in the habit of importing from england, come, as is usual, various waste printed-sheets (_maculatur blätter_), by way of interior wrappage: into these the clothes-philosopher, with a certain mohamedan reverence even for waste-paper, where curious knowledge will sometimes hover, disdains not to cast his eye. readers may judge of his astonishment when on such a defaced stray-sheet, probably the outcast fraction of some english periodical, such as they name _magazine_, appears something like a dissertation on this very subject of _fashionable novels_! it sets out, indeed, chiefly from a secular point of view; directing itself, not without asperity, against some to me unknown individual named _pelham_, who seems to be a mystagogue, and leading teacher and preacher of the sect; so that, what indeed otherwise was not to be expected in such a fugitive fragmentary sheet, the true secret, the religious physiognomy and physiology of the dandiacal body, is nowise laid fully open there. nevertheless, scattered lights do from time to time sparkle out, whereby i have endeavoured to profit. nay, in one passage selected from the prophecies, or mythic theogonies, or whatever they are (for the style seems very mixed) of this mystagogue, i find what appears to be a confession of faith, or whole duty of man, according to the tenets of that sect. which confession or whole duty, therefore, as proceeding from a source so authentic, i shall here arrange under seven distinct articles, and in very abridged shape lay before the german world; therewith taking leave of this matter. observe also, that to avoid possibility of error, i, as far as may be, quote literally from the original: 'articles of faith. '"1. coats should have nothing of the triangle about them; at the same time, wrinkles behind should be carefully avoided. '"2. the collar is a very important point: it should be low behind, and slightly rolled. '"3. no license of fashion can allow a man of delicate taste to adopt the posterial luxuriance of a hottentot. '"4. there is safety in a swallow-tail. '"5. the good sense of a gentleman is nowhere more finely developed than in his rings. '"6. it is permitted to mankind, under certain restrictions, to wear white waistcoats. '"7. the trousers must be exceedingly tight across the hips." 'all which propositions i, for the present, content myself with modestly but peremptorily and irrevocably denying. 'in strange contrast with this dandiacal body stands another british sect, originally, as i understand, of ireland, where its chief seat still is; but known also in the main island, and indeed everywhere rapidly spreading. as this sect has hitherto emitted no canonical books, it remains to me in the same state of obscurity as the dandiacal, which has published books that the unassisted human faculties are inadequate to read. the members appear to be designated by a considerable diversity of names, according to their various places of establishment: in england they are generally called the _drudge_ sect; also, unphilosophically enough, the _white negroes_; and, chiefly in scorn by those of other communions, the _ragged-beggar_ sect. in scotland, again, i find them entitled _hallanshakers_, or the _stook of duds_ sect; any individual communicant is named _stook of duds_ (that is, shock of rags), in allusion, doubtless, to their professional costume. while in ireland, which, as mentioned, is their grand parent hive, they go by a perplexing multiplicity of designations, such as _bogtrotters_, _redshanks_, _ribbonmen_, _cottiers_, _peep-of-day boys_, _babes of the wood_, _rockites_, _poor-slaves_; which last, however, seems to be the primary and generic name; whereto, probably enough, the others are only subsidiary species, or slight varieties; or, at most, propagated offsets from the parent stem, whose minute subdivisions, and shades of difference, it were here loss of time to dwell on. enough for us to understand, what seems indubitable, that the original sect is that of the _poor-slaves_; whose doctrines, practices, and fundamental characteristics pervade and animate the whole body, howsoever denominated or outwardly diversified. 'the precise speculative tenets of this brotherhood: how the universe, and man, and man's life, picture themselves to the mind of an irish poor-slave; with what feelings and opinions he looks forward on the future, round on the present, back on the past, it were extremely difficult to specify. something monastic there appears to be in their constitution: we find them bound by the two monastic vows, of poverty and obedience; which vows, especially the former, it is said, they observe with great strictness; nay, as i have understood it, they are pledged, and be it by any solemn nazarene ordination or not, irrevocably consecrated thereto, even _before_ birth. that the third monastic vow, of chastity, is rigidly enforced among them, i find no ground to conjecture. 'furthermore, they appear to imitate the dandiacal sect in their grand principle of wearing a peculiar costume. of which irish poor-slave costume no description will indeed be found in the present volume; for this reason, that by the imperfect organ of language it did not seem describable. their raiment consists of innumerable skirts, lappets and irregular wings, of all cloths and of all colours; through the labyrinthic intricacies of which their bodies are introduced by some unknown process. it is fastened together by a multiplex combination of buttons, thrums and skewers; to which frequently is added a girdle of leather, of hempen or even of straw rope, round the loins. to straw rope, indeed, they seem partial, and often wear it by way of sandals. in head-dress they affect a certain freedom: hats with partial brim, without crown, or with only a loose, hinged, or valve crown; in the former case, they sometimes invert the hat, and wear it brim uppermost, like a university-cap, with what view is unknown. 'the name poor-slaves seems to indicate a slavonic, polish, or russian origin: not so, however, the interior essence and spirit of their superstition, which rather displays a teutonic or druidical character. one might fancy them worshippers of hertha, or the earth: for they dig and affectionately work continually in her bosom; or else, shut-up in private oratories, meditate and manipulate the substances derived from her; seldom looking-up towards the heavenly luminaries, and then with comparative indifference. like the druids, on the other hand, they live in dark dwellings; often even breaking their glass-windows, where they find such, and stuffing them up with pieces of raiment, or other opaque substances, till the fit obscurity is restored. again, like all followers of nature-worship, they are liable to outbreakings of an enthusiasm rising to ferocity; and burn men, if not in wicker idols, yet in sod cottages. 'in respect of diet, they have also their observances. all poor-slaves are rhizophagous (or root-eaters); a few are ichthyophagous, and use salted herrings: other animal food they abstain from; except indeed, with perhaps some strange inverted fragment of a brahminical feeling, such animals as die a natural death. their universal sustenance is the root named potato, cooked by fire alone; and generally without condiment or relish of any kind, save an unknown condiment named _point_, into the meaning of which i have vainly inquired; the victual _potatoes-and-point_ not appearing, at least not with specific accuracy of description, in any european cookery-book whatever. for drink, they use, with an almost epigrammatic counterpoise of taste, milk, which is the mildest of liquors, and _potheen_, which is the fiercest. this latter i have tasted, as well as the english _blue-ruin_, and the scotch _whisky_, analogous fluids used by the sect in those countries: it evidently contains some form of alcohol, in the highest state of concentration, though disguised with acrid oils; and is, on the whole, the most pungent substance known to me,--indeed, a perfect liquid fire. in all their religious solemnities, potheen is said to be an indispensable requisite, and largely consumed. 'an irish traveller, of perhaps common veracity, who presents himself under the to me unmeaning title of _the late john bernard_, offers the following sketch of a domestic establishment, the inmates whereof, though such is not stated expressly, appear to have been of that faith. thereby shall my german readers now behold an irish poor-slave, as it were with their own eyes; and even see him at meat. moreover, in the so-precious waste-paper sheet above mentioned, i have found some corresponding picture of a dandiacal household, painted by that same dandiacal mystagogue, or theogonist: this also, by way of counterpart and contrast, the world shall look into. 'first, therefore, of the poor-slave, who appears likewise to have been a species of innkeeper. i quote from the original: _poor-slave household_ '"the furniture of this caravansera consisted of a large iron pot, two oaken tables, two benches, two chairs, and a potheen noggin. there was a loft above (attainable by a ladder), upon which the inmates slept; and the space below was divided by a hurdle into two apartments; the one for their cow and pig, the other for themselves and guests. on entering the house we discovered the family, eleven in number, at dinner: the father sitting at the top, the mother at the bottom, the children on each side, of a large oaken board, which was scooped-out in the middle, like a trough, to receive the contents of their pot of potatoes. little holes were cut at equal distances to contain salt; and a bowl of milk stood on the table: all the luxuries of meat and beer, bread, knives and dishes were dispensed with." the poor-slave himself our traveller found, as he says, broad-backed, black-browed, of great personal strength, and mouth from ear to ear. his wife was a sun-browned but well-featured woman; and his young ones, bare and chubby, had the appetite of ravens. of their philosophical or religious tenets or observances, no notice or hint. 'but now, secondly, of the dandiacal household; in which, truly, that often-mentioned mystagogue and inspired penman himself has his abode: _dandiacal household_ '"a dressing-room splendidly furnished; violet-coloured curtains, chairs and ottomans of the same hue. two full-length mirrors are placed, one on each side of a table, which supports the luxuries of the toilet. several bottles of perfumes, arranged in a peculiar fashion, stand upon a smaller table of mother-of-pearl: opposite to these are placed the appurtenances of lavation richly wrought in frosted silver. a wardrobe of buhl is on the left; the doors of which, being partly open, discover a profusion of clothes; shoes of a singularly small size monopolise the lower shelves. fronting the wardrobe a door ajar gives some slight glimpse of a bathroom. folding-doors in the background.--enter the author," our theogonist in person, "obsequiously preceded by a french valet, in white silk jacket and cambric apron." * * * * * 'such are the two sects which, at this moment, divide the more unsettled portion of the british people; and agitate that ever-vexed country. to the eye of the political seer, their mutual relation, pregnant with the elements of discord and hostility, is far from consoling. these two principals of dandiacal self-worship or demon-worship, and poor-slavish or drudgical earth-worship, or whatever that same drudgism may be, do as yet indeed manifest themselves under distant and nowise considerable shapes: nevertheless, in their roots and subterranean ramifications, they extend through the entire structure of society, and work unweariedly in the secret depths of english national existence; striving to separate and isolate it into two contradictory, uncommunicating masses. 'in numbers, and even individual strength, the poor-slaves or drudges, it would seem, are hourly increasing. the dandiacal, again, is by nature no proselytising sect; but it boasts of great hereditary resources, and is strong by union; whereas the drudges, split into parties, have as yet no rallying-point; or at best only co-operate by means of partial secret affiliations. if, indeed, there were to arise a _communion of drudges_, as there is already a communion of saints, what strangest effects would follow therefrom! dandyism as yet affects to look-down on drudgism: but perhaps the hour of trial, when it will be practically seen which ought to look down, and which up, is not so distant. 'to me it seems probable that the two sects will one day part england between them; each recruiting itself from the intermediate ranks, till there be none left to enlist on either side. those dandiacal manicheans, with the host of dandyising christians, will form one body: the drudges, gathering round them whosoever is drudgical, be he christian or infidel pagan; sweeping-up likewise all manner of utilitarians, radicals, refractory potwallopers, and so forth, into their general mass, will form another. i could liken dandyism and drudgism to two bottomless boiling whirlpools that had broken-out on opposite quarters of the firm land: as yet they appear only disquieted, foolishly bubbling wells, which man's art might cover-in; yet mark them, their diameter is daily widening: they are hollow cones that boil-up from the infinite deep, over which your firm land is but a thin crust or rind! thus daily is the intermediate land crumbling-in, daily the empire of the two buchan-bullers extending; till now there is but a foot-plank, a mere film of land between them; this too is washed away: and then--we have the true hell of waters, and noah's deluge is outdeluged! 'or better, i might call them two boundless, and indeed unexampled electric machines (turned by the "machinery of society"), with batteries of opposite quality; drudgism the negative, dandyism the positive: one attracts hourly towards it and appropriates all the positive electricity of the nation (namely, the money thereof); the other is equally busy with the negative (that is to say the hunger), which is equally potent. hitherto you see only partial transient sparkles and sputters: but wait a little, till the entire nation is in an electric state; till your whole vital electricity, no longer healthfully neutral, is cut into two isolated portions of positive and negative (of money and of hunger); and stands there bottled-up in two world-batteries! the stirring of a child's finger brings the two together; and then--what then? the earth is but shivered into impalpable smoke by that doom's-thunderpeal; the sun misses one of his planets in space, and thenceforth there are no eclipses of the moon.--or better still, i might liken'-oh! enough, enough of likenings and similitudes; in excess of which, truly, it is hard to say whether teufelsdröckh or ourselves sin the more. we have often blamed him for a habit of wire-drawing and over-refining; from of old we have been familiar with his tendency to mysticism and religiosity, whereby in everything he was still scenting-out religion: but never perhaps did these amaurosis-suffusions so cloud and distort his otherwise most piercing vision, as in this of the _dandiacal body_! or was there something of intended satire; is the professor and seer not quite the blinkard he affects to be? of an ordinary mortal we should have decisively answered in the affirmative; but with a teufelsdröckh there ever hovers some shade of doubt. in the mean while, if satire were actually intended, the case is little better. there are not wanting men who will answer: does your professor take us for simpletons? his irony has overshot itself; we see through it, and perhaps through him. chapter xi tailors thus, however, has our first practical inference from the clothes-philosophy, that which respects dandies, been sufficiently drawn; and we come now to the second, concerning tailors. on this latter our opinion happily quite coincides with that of teufelsdröckh himself, as expressed in the concluding page of his volume, to whom, therefore, we willingly give place. let him speak his own last words, in his own way: * * * * * 'upwards of a century,' says he, 'must elapse, and still the bleeding fight of freedom be fought, whoso is noblest perishing in the van, and thrones be hurled on altars like pelion on ossa, and the moloch of iniquity have his victims, and the michael of justice his martyrs, before tailors can be admitted to their true prerogatives of manhood, and this last wound of suffering humanity be closed. 'if aught in the history of the world's blindness could surprise us, here might we indeed pause and wonder. an idea has gone abroad, and fixed itself down into a wide-spreading rooted error, that tailors are a distinct species in physiology, not men, but fractional parts of a man. call any one a _schneider_ (cutter, tailor), is it not, in our dislocated, hood-winked, and indeed delirious condition of society, equivalent to defying his perpetual fellest enmity? the epithet _schneider-mässig_ (tailor-like) betokens an otherwise unapproachable degree of pusillanimity: we introduce a _tailor's-melancholy_, more opprobrious than any leprosy, into our books of medicine; and fable i know not what of his generating it by living on cabbage. why should i speak of hans sachs (himself a shoemaker, or kind of leather-tailor), with his _schneider mit dem panier_? why of shakspeare, in his _taming of the shrew_, and elsewhere? does it not stand on record that the english queen elizabeth, receiving a deputation of eighteen tailors, addressed them with a "good morning, gentlemen both!" did not the same virago boast that she had a cavalry regiment, whereof neither horse nor man could be injured; her regiment, namely, of tailors on mares? thus everywhere is the falsehood taken for granted, and acted-on as an indisputable fact. 'nevertheless, need i put the question to any physiologist, whether it is disputable or not? seems it not at least presumable, that, under his clothes, the tailor has bones and viscera, and other muscles than the sartorious? which function of manhood is the tailor not conjectured to perform? can he not arrest for debt? is he not in most countries a tax-paying animal? 'to no reader of this volume can it be doubtful which conviction is mine. nay if the fruit of these long vigils, and almost preternatural inquiries, is not to perish utterly, the world will have approximated towards a higher truth; and the doctrine, which swift, with the keen forecast of genius, dimly anticipated, will stand revealed in clear light: that the tailor is not only a man, but something of a creator or divinity. of franklin it was said, that "he snatched the thunder from heaven and the sceptre from kings": but which is greater, i would ask, he that lends, or he that snatches? for, looking away from individual cases, and how a man is by the tailor new-created into a nobleman, and clothed not only with wool but with dignity and a mystic dominion,--is not the fair fabric of society itself, with all its royal mantles and pontifical stoles, whereby, from nakedness and dismemberment, we are organised into polities, into nations, and a whole co-operating mankind, the creation, as has here been often irrefragably evinced, of the tailor alone?--what too are all poets and moral teachers, but a species of metaphorical tailors? touching which high guild the greatest living guild-brother has triumphantly asked us: "nay if thou wilt have it, who but the poet first made gods for men; brought them down to us; and raised us up to them?" 'and this is he, whom sitting downcast, on the hard basis of his shopboard, the world treats with contumely, as the ninth part of a man! look up, thou much-injured one, look up with the kindling eye of hope, and prophetic bodings of a noble better time. too long hast thou sat there, on crossed legs, wearing thy ankle-joints to horn; like some sacred anchorite, or catholic fakir, doing penance, drawing down heaven's richest blessings, for a world that scoffed at thee. be of hope! already streaks of blue peer through our clouds; the thick gloom of ignorance is rolling asunder, and it will be day. mankind will repay with interest their long-accumulated debt: the anchorite that was scoffed at will be worshipped; the fraction will become not an integer only, but a square and cube. with astonishment the world will recognise that the tailor is its hierophant and hierarch, or even its god. 'as i stood in the mosque of st. sophia, and looked upon these four-and-twenty tailors, sewing and embroidering that rich cloth, which the sultan sends yearly for the caaba of mecca, i thought within myself: how many other unholies has your covering art made holy, besides this arabian whinstone! 'still more touching was it when, turning the corner of a lane, in the scottish town of edinburgh, i came upon a signpost, whereon stood written that such and such a one was "breeches-maker to his majesty"; and stood painted the effigies of a pair of leather breeches, and between the knees these memorable words, sic itur ad astra. was not this the martyr prison-speech of a tailor sighing indeed in bonds, yet sighing towards deliverance, and prophetically appealing to a better day? a day of justice, when the worth of breeches would be revealed to man, and the scissors become forever venerable. 'neither, perhaps, may i now say, has his appeal been altogether in vain. it was in this high moment, when the soul, rent, as it were, and shed asunder, is open to inspiring influence, that i first conceived this work on clothes: the greatest i can ever hope to do; which has already, after long retardations, occupied, and will yet occupy, so large a section of my life; and of which the primary and simpler portion may here find its conclusion.' chapter xii farewell so have we endeavoured, from the enormous, amorphous plum-pudding, more like a scottish haggis, which herr teufelsdröckh had kneaded for his fellow mortals, to pick-out the choicest plums, and present them separately on a cover of our own. a laborious, perhaps a thankless enterprise; in which, however, something of hope has occasionally cheered us, and of which we can now wash our hands not altogether without satisfaction. if hereby, though in barbaric wise, some morsel of spiritual nourishment have been added to the scanty ration of our beloved british world, what nobler recompense could the editor desire? if it prove otherwise, why should he murmur? was not this a task which destiny, in any case, had appointed him; which having now done with, he sees his general day's-work so much the lighter, so much the shorter? of professor teufelsdröckh it seems impossible to take leave without a mingled feeling of astonishment, gratitude and disapproval. who will not regret that talents, which might have profited in the higher walks of philosophy, or in art itself, have been so much devoted to a rummaging among lumber-rooms; nay too often to a scraping in kennels, where lost rings and diamond-necklaces are nowise the sole conquests? regret is unavoidable; yet censure were loss of time. to cure him of his mad humours british criticism would essay in vain: enough for her if she can, by vigilance, prevent the spreading of such among ourselves. what a result, should this piebald, entangled, hyper-metaphorical style of writing, not to say of thinking, become general among our literary men! as it might so easily do. thus has not the editor himself, working over teufelsdröckh's german, lost much of his own english purity? even as the smaller whirlpool is sucked into the larger, and made to whirl along with it, so has the lesser mind, in this instance, been forced to become portion of the greater, and like it, see all things figuratively: which habit time and assiduous effort will be needed to eradicate. nevertheless, wayward as our professor shows himself, is there any reader that can part with him in declared enmity? let us confess, there is that in the wild, much-suffering, much-inflicting man, which almost attaches us. his attitude, we will hope and believe, is that of a man who had said to cant, begone; and to dilettantism, here thou canst not be; and to truth, be thou in place of all to me: a man who had manfully defied the 'time-prince,' or devil, to his face; nay perhaps, hannibal-like, was mysteriously consecrated from birth to that warfare, and now stood minded to wage the same, by all weapons, in all places, at all times. in such a cause, any soldier, were he but a polack scythe-man, shall be welcome. still the question returns on us: how could a man occasionally of keen insight, not without keen sense of propriety, who had real thoughts to communicate, resolve to emit them in a shape bordering so closely on the absurd? which question he were wiser than the present editor who should satisfactorily answer. our conjecture has sometimes been, that perhaps necessity as well as choice was concerned in it. seems it not conceivable that, in a life like our professor's, where so much bountifully given by nature had in practice failed and misgone, literature also would never rightly prosper: that striving with his characteristic vehemence to paint this and the other picture, and ever without success, he at last desperately dashes his sponge, full of all colours, against the canvas, to try whether it will paint foam? with all his stillness, there were perhaps in teufelsdröckh desperation enough for this. a second conjecture we hazard with even less warranty. it is, that teufelsdröckh is not without some touch of the universal feeling, a wish to proselytise. how often already have we paused, uncertain whether the basis of this so enigmatic nature were really stoicism and despair, or love and hope only seared into the figure of these! remarkable, moreover, is this saying of his: 'how were friendship possible? in mutual devotedness to the good and true: otherwise impossible; except as armed neutrality, or hollow commercial league. a man, be the heavens ever praised, is sufficient for himself; yet were ten men, united in love, capable of being and of doing what ten thousand singly would fail in. infinite is the help man can yield to man.' and now in conjunction therewith consider this other: 'it is the night of the world, and still long till it be day: we wander amid the glimmer of smoking ruins, and the sun and the stars of heaven are as if blotted out for a season; and two immeasurable phantoms, hypocrisy and atheism, with the gowl, sensuality, stalk abroad over the earth, and call it theirs: well at ease are the sleepers for whom existence is a shallow dream.' but what of the awestruck wakeful who find it a reality? should not these unite; since even an authentic spectre is not visible to two?--in which case were this enormous clothes-volume properly an enormous pitchpan, which our teufelsdröckh in his lone watch-tower had kindled, that it might flame far and wide through the night, and many a disconsolately wandering spirit be guided thither to a brother's bosom!--we say as before, with all his malign indifference, who knows what mad hopes this man may harbour? meanwhile there is one fact to be stated here, which harmonises ill with such conjecture; and, indeed, were teufelsdröckh made like other men, might as good as altogether subvert it. namely, that while the beacon-fire blazed its brightest, the watchman had quitted it; that no pilgrim could now ask him: watchman, what of the night? professor teufelsdröckh, be it known is no longer visibly present at weissnichtwo, but again to all appearance lost in space! some time ago, the hofrath heuschrecke was pleased to favour us with another copious epistle; wherein much is said about the 'population-institute'; much repeated in praise of the paper-bag documents, the hieroglyphic nature of which our hofrath still seems not to have surmised; and, lastly, the strangest occurrence communicated, to us for the first time, in the following paragraph: '_ew. wohlgeboren_ will have seen from the public prints, with what affectionate and hitherto fruitless solicitude weissnichtwo regards the disappearance of her sage. might but the united voice of germany prevail on him to return; nay, could we but so much as elucidate for ourselves by what mystery he went away! but, alas, old lieschen experiences or affects the profoundest deafness, the profoundest ignorance: in the wahngasse all lies swept, silent, sealed up; the privy council itself can hitherto elicit no answer. 'it had been remarked that while the agitating news of those parisian three days flew from mouth to mouth, and dinned every ear in weissnichtwo, herr teufelsdröckh was not known, at the _gans_ or elsewhere, to have spoken, for a whole week, any syllable except once these three: _es geht an_ (it is beginning). shortly after, as _ew. wohlgeboren_ knows, was the public tranquillity here, as in berlin, threatened by a sedition of the tailors. nor did there want evil-wishers, or perhaps mere desperate alarmists, who asserted that the closing chapter of the clothes-volume was to blame. in this appalling crisis, the serenity of our philosopher was indescribable; nay, perhaps through one humble individual, something thereof might pass into the _rath_ (council) itself, and so contribute to the country's deliverance. the tailors are now entirely pacificated.-'to neither of these two incidents can i attribute our loss: yet still comes there the shadow of a suspicion out of paris and its politics. for example, when the _saint-simonian society_ transmitted its propositions hither, and the whole _gans_ was one vast cackle of laughter, lamentation and astonishment, our sage sat mute; and at the end of the third evening said merely: "here also are men who have discovered, not without amazement, that man is still man; of which high, long-forgotten truth you already see them make a false application." since then, as has been ascertained by examination of the post-director, there passed at least one letter with its answer between the messieurs bazard-enfantin and our professor himself; of what tenor can now only be conjectured. on the fifth night following, he was seen for the last time! 'has this invaluable man, so obnoxious to most of the hostile sects that convulse our era, been spirited away by certain of their emissaries; or did he go forth voluntarily to their head-quarters to confer with them and confront them? reason we have, at least of a negative sort, to believe the lost still living; our widowed heart also whispers that ere long he will himself give a sign. otherwise, indeed, his archives must, one day, be opened by authority; where much, perhaps the _palingenesie_ itself, is thought to be reposited.' * * * * * thus far the hofrath; who vanishes, as is his wont, too like an ignis fatuus, leaving the dark still darker. so that teufelsdröckh's public history were not done, then, or reduced to an even, unromantic tenor; nay, perhaps the better part thereof were only beginning? we stand in a region of conjectures, where substance has melted into shadow, and one cannot be distinguished from the other. may time, which solves or suppresses all problems, throw glad light on this also! our own private conjecture, now amounting almost to certainty, is that, safe-moored in some stillest obscurity, not to lie always still, teufelsdröckh is actually in london! here, however, can the present editor, with an ambrosial joy as of over-weariness falling into sleep, lay down his pen. well does he know, if human testimony be worth aught, that to innumerable british readers likewise, this is a satisfying consummation; that innumerable british readers consider him, during these current months, but as an uneasy interruption to their ways of thought and digestion; and indicate so much, not without a certain irritancy and even spoken invective. for which, as for other mercies, ought not he to thank the upper powers? to one and all of you, o irritated readers, he, with outstretched arms and open heart, will wave a kind farewell. thou too, miraculous entity, who namest thyself yorke and oliver, and with thy vivacities and genialities, with thy all-too irish mirth and madness, and odour of palled punch, makest such strange work, farewell; long as thou canst, fare-_well!_ have we not, in the course of eternity, travelled some months of our life-journey in partial sight of one another; have we not existed together, though in a state of quarrel? appendix testimonies of authors this questionable little book was undoubtedly written among the mountain solitudes, in 1831; but, owing to impediments natural and accidental, could not, for seven years more, appear as a volume in england;--and had at last to clip itself in pieces, and be content to struggle out, bit by bit, in some courageous _magazine_ that offered. whereby now, to certain idly curious readers, and even to myself till i make study, the insignificant but at last irritating question, what its real history and chronology are, is, if not insoluble, considerably involved in haze. to the first english edition, 1838, which an american, or two american had now opened the way for, there was slightingly prefixed, under the title '_testimonies of authors_,' some straggle of real documents, which, now that i find it again, sets the matter into clear light and sequence;--and shall here, for removal of idle stumbling-blocks and nugatory guessings from the path of every reader, be reprinted as it stood. (_author's note of 1868._) testimonies of authors i. highest class, bookseller's taster _taster to bookseller._--"the author of _teufelsdröckh_ is a person of talent; his work displays here and there some felicity of thought and expression, considerable fancy and knowledge: but whether or not it would take with the public seems doubtful. for a _jeu d'esprit_ of that kind it is too long; it would have suited better as an essay or article than as a volume. the author has no great tact; his wit is frequently heavy; and reminds one of the german baron who took to leaping on tables, and answered that he was learning to be lively. _is_ the work a translation?" _bookseller to editor._--"allow me to say that such a writer requires only a little more tact to produce a popular as well as an able work. directly on receiving your permission, i sent your _ms._ to a gentleman in the highest class of men of letters, and an accomplished german scholar: i now inclose you his opinion, which, you may rely upon it, is a just one; and i have too high an opinion of your good sense to" &c. &c.--_ms._ (_penes nos_), _london, 17th september 1831_. ii. critic of the sun "_fraser's magazine_ exhibits the usual brilliancy, and also the" &c. "_sartor resartus_ is what old dennis used to call 'a heap of clotted nonsense,' mixed however, here and there, with passages marked by thought and striking poetic vigour. but what does the writer mean by 'baphometic fire-baptism'? why cannot he lay aside his pedantry, and write so as to make himself generally intelligible? we quote by way of curiosity a sentence from the _sartor resartus_; which may be read either backwards or forwards, for it is equally intelligible either way. indeed, by beginning at the tail, and so working up to the head, we think the reader will stand the fairest chance of getting at its meaning: 'the fire-baptised soul, long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own freedom; which feeling is its baphometic baptism: the citadel of its whole kingdom it has thus gained by assault, and will keep inexpugnable; outwards from which the remaining dominions, not indeed without hard battering, will doubtless by degrees be conquered and pacificated.' here is a"--....--_sun newspaper_, _1st april 1834_. iii. north-american reviewer ... "after a careful survey of the whole ground, our belief is that no such persons as professor teufelsdröckh or counsellor heuschrecke ever existed; that the six paper-bags, with their china-ink inscriptions and multifarious contents, are a mere figment of the brain; that the 'present editor' is the only person who has ever written upon the philosophy of clothes; and that the _sartor resartus_ is the only treatise that has yet appeared upon that subject;--in short, that the whole account of the origin of the work before us, which the supposed editor relates with so much gravity, and of which we have given a brief abstract, is, in plain english, a _hum_. "without troubling our readers at any great length with our reasons for entertaining these suspicions, we may remark, that the absence of all other information on the subject, except what is contained in the work, is itself a fact of a most significant character. the whole german press, as well as the particular one where the work purports to have been printed, seems to be under the control of _stillschweigen and co._,--silence and company. if the clothes-philosophy and its author are making so great a sensation throughout germany as is pretended, how happens it that the only notice we have of the fact is contained in a few numbers of a monthly magazine published at london? how happens it that no intelligence about the matter has come out directly to this country? we pique ourselves here in new england upon knowing at least as much of what is going on in the literary way in the old dutch mother-land as our brethren of the fast-anchored isle; but thus far we have no tidings whatever of the 'extensive close-printed close-meditated volume,' which forms the subject of this pretended commentary. again, we would respectfully inquire of the 'present editor' upon what part of the map of germany we are to look for the city of _weissnichtwo_,--'know-not-where,'--at which place the work is supposed to have been printed, and the author to have resided. it has been our fortune to visit several portions of the german territory, and to examine pretty carefully, at different times and for various purposes, maps of the whole; but we have no recollection of any such place. we suspect that the city of _know-not-where_ might be called, with at least as much propriety, _nobody-knows-where_, and is to be found in the kingdom of _nowhere_. again, the village of _entepfuhl_--'duck-pond,' where the supposed author of the work is said to have passed his youth, and that of _hinterschlag_, where he had his education, are equally foreign to our geography. duck-ponds enough there undoubtedly are in almost every village in germany, as the traveller in that country knows too well to his cost, but any particular village denominated duck-pond is to us altogether _terra incognita_. the names of the personages are not less singular than those of the places. who can refrain from a smile at the yoking together of such a pair of appellatives as diogenes teufelsdröckh? the supposed bearer of this strange title is represented as admitting, in his pretended autobiography, that 'he had searched to no purpose through all the heralds' books in and without the german empire, and through all manner of subscribers'-lists, militia-rolls, and other name-catalogues,' but had nowhere been able to find the 'name teufelsdröckh, except as appended to his own person.' we can readily believe this, and we doubt very much whether any christian parent would think of condemning a son to carry through life the burden of so unpleasant a title. that of counsellor heuschrecke--'grasshopper,' though not offensive, looks much more like a piece of fancy work than a 'fair business transaction.' the same may be said of _blumine_--'flower-goddess'--the heroine of the fable; and so of the rest. "in short, our private opinion is, as we have remarked, that the whole story of a correspondence with germany, a university of nobody-knows-where, a professor of things in general, a counsellor grasshopper, a flower-goddess blumine, and so forth, has about as much foundation in truth as the late entertaining account of sir john herschel's discoveries in the moon. fictions of this kind are, however, not uncommon, and ought not, perhaps, to be condemned with too much severity; but we are not sure that we can exercise the same indulgence in regard to the attempt, which seems to be made to mislead the public as to the substance of the work before us, and its pretended german original. both purport, as we have seen, to be upon the subject of clothes, or dress. _clothes, their origin and influence_, is the title of the supposed german treatise of professor teufelsdröckh, and the rather odd name of _sartor resartus_--the tailor patched,--which the present editor has affixed to his pretended commentary, seems to look the same way. but though there is a good deal of remark throughout the work in a half-serious, half-comic style upon dress, it seems to be in reality a treatise upon the great science of things in general, which teufelsdröckh is supposed to have professed at the university of nobody-knows-where. now, without intending to adopt a too rigid standard of morals, we own that we doubt a little the propriety of offering to the public a treatise on things in general, under the name and in the form of an essay on dress. for ourselves, advanced as we unfortunately are in the journey of life, far beyond the period when dress is practically a matter of interest, we have no hesitation in saying, that the real subject of the work is to us more attractive than the ostensible one. but this is probably not the case with the mass of readers. to the younger portion of the community, which constitutes everywhere the very great majority, the subject of dress is one of intense and paramount importance. an author who treats it appeals, like the poet, to the young men and maidens--_virginibus puerisque_,--and calls upon them, by all the motives which habitually operate most strongly upon their feelings, to buy his book. when, after opening their purses for this purpose, they have carried home the work in triumph, expecting to find in it some particular instruction in regard to the tying of their neckcloths, or the cut of their corsets, and meet with nothing better than a dissertation on things in general, they will,--to use the mildest term--not be in very good humour. if the last improvements in legislation, which we have made in this country, should have found their way to england, the author, we think, would stand some chance of being _lynched_. whether his object in this piece of _supercherie_ be merely pecuniary profit, or whether he takes a malicious pleasure in quizzing the dandies, we shall not undertake to say. in the latter part of the work, he devotes a separate chapter to this class of persons, from the tenour of which we should be disposed to conclude, that he would consider any mode of divesting them of their property very much in the nature of a spoiling of the egyptians. "the only thing about the work, tending to prove that it is what it purports to be, a commentary on a real german treatise, is the style, which is a sort of babylonish dialect, not destitute, it is true, of richness, vigour, and at times a sort of singular felicity of expression, but very strongly tinged throughout with the peculiar idiom of the german language. this quality in the style, however, may be a mere result of a great familiarity with german literature, and we cannot, therefore, look upon it as in itself decisive, still less as outweighing so much evidence of an opposite character."--_north-american review_, _no. 89_, _october 1835_. iv. new england editors "the editors have been induced, by the express desire of many persons, to collect the following sheets out of the ephemeral pamphlets[4] in which they first appeared, under the conviction that they contain in themselves the assurance of a longer date. [4] _fraser's_ (london) _magazine_, 1833-4. "the editors have no expectation that this little work will have a sudden and general popularity. they will not undertake, as there is no need, to justify the gay costume in which the author delights to dress his thoughts, or the german idioms with which he has sportively sprinkled his pages. it is his humour to advance the gravest speculations upon the gravest topics in a quaint and burlesque style. if his masquerade offend any of his audience, to that degree that they will not hear what he has to say, it may chance to draw others to listen to his wisdom; and what work of imagination can hope to please all? but we will venture to remark that the distaste excited by these peculiarities in some readers is greatest at first, and is soon forgotten; and that the foreign dress and aspect of the work are quite superficial, and cover a genuine saxon heart. we believe, no book has been published for many years, written in a more sincere style of idiomatic english, or which discovers an equal mastery over all the riches of the language. the author makes ample amends for the occasional eccentricity of his genius, not only by frequent bursts of pure splendour, but by the wit and sense which never fail him. "but what will chiefly commend the book to the discerning reader is the manifest design of the work, which is, a criticism upon the spirit of the age,--we had almost said, of the hour,--in which we live; exhibiting in the most just and novel light the present aspects of religion, politics, literature, arts, and social life. under all his gaiety the writer has an earnest meaning, and discovers an insight into the manifold wants and tendencies of human nature, which is very rare among our popular authors. the philanthropy and the purity of moral sentiment, which inspire the work, will find their way to the heart of every lover of virtue."--_preface to sartor resartus_: _boston_, 1836, 1837. sunt, fuerunt vel fuere. london, _30th june 1838_. summary book i chap. i. _preliminary_ no philosophy of clothes yet, notwithstanding all our science. strangely forgotten that man is by nature a _naked_ animal. the english mind all-too practically absorbed for any such inquiry. not so, deep-thinking germany. advantage of speculation having free course. editor receives from professor teufelsdröckh his new work on clothes (p. 1). chap. ii. _editorial difficulties_ how to make known teufelsdröckh and his book to english readers; especially _such_ a book? editor receives from the hofrath heuschrecke a letter promising biographic documents. negotiations with oliver yorke. _sartor resartus_ conceived. editor's assurances and advice to his british reader (p. 5). chap. iii. _reminiscences_ teufelsdröckh at weissnichtwo. professor of things in general at the university there: outward aspect and character; memorable coffee-house utterances; domicile and watch-tower: sights thence of city-life by day and by night; with reflections thereon. old 'liza and her ways. character of hofrath heuschrecke, and his relation to teufelsdröckh (p. 9). chap. iv. _characteristics_ teufelsdröckh and his work on clothes: strange freedom of speech: transcendentalism; force of insight and expression; multifarious learning: style poetic, uncouth: comprehensiveness of his humour and moral feeling. how the editor once saw him laugh. different kinds of laughter and their significance (p. 20). chap. v. _the world in clothes_ futile cause-and-effect philosophies. teufelsdröckh's orbis vestitus. clothes first invented for the sake of ornament. picture of our progenitor, the aboriginal savage. wonders of growth and progress in mankind's history. man defined as a tool-using animal (p. 25). chap. vi. _aprons_ divers aprons in the world with divers uses. the military and police establishment society's working apron. the episcopal apron with its corner tucked in. the laystall. journalists now our only kings and clergy (p. 31). chap. vii. _miscellaneous-historical_ how men and fashions come and go. german costume in the fifteenth century. by what strange chances do we live in history! the costume of bolivar's cavalry (p. 34). chap. viii. _the world out of clothes_ teufelsdröckh's theorem, "society founded upon cloth"; his method, intuition quickened by experience.--the mysterious question, who am i? philosophic systems, all at fault: a deeper meditation has always taught, here and there an individual, that all visible things are appearances only; but also emblems and revelations of god. teufelsdröckh first comes upon the question of clothes: baseness to which clothing may bring us (p. 37). chap. ix. _adamatism_ the universal utility of clothes, and their higher mystic virtue, illustrated. conception of mankind stripped naked; and immediate consequent dissolution of civilised society (p. 43). chap. x. _pure reason_ a naked world possible, nay actually exists, under the clothed one. man, in the eye of pure reason, a visible god's presence. the beginning of all wisdom, to look fixedly on clothes till they become transparent. wonder, the basis of worship: perennial in man. modern sciolists who cannot wonder: teufelsdröckh's contempt for, and advice to them (p. 47). chap. xi. _prospective_ nature not an aggregate, but a whole. all visible things are emblems, clothes; and exist for a time only. the grand scope of the philosophy of clothes.--biographic documents arrive. letter from heuschrecke on the importance of biography. heterogeneous character of the documents: editor sorely perplexed; but desperately grapples with his work (p. 52). book ii chap. i. _genesis_ old andreas futteral and gretchen his wife: their quiet home. advent of a mysterious stranger, who deposits with them a young infant, the future herr diogenes teufelsdröckh. after-yearnings of the youth for his unknown father. sovereign power of names and naming. diogenes a flourishing infant (p. 61). chap. ii. _idyllic_ happy childhood! entepfuhl: sights, hearings and experiences of the boy teufelsdröckh; their manifold teaching. education; what it can do, what cannot. obedience our universal duty and destiny. gneschen sees the good gretchen pray (p. 68). chap. iii. _pedagogy_ teufelsdröckh's school. his education. how the ever-flowing kuhbach speaks of time and eternity. the hinterschlag gymnasium; rude boys; and pedant professors. the need of true teachers, and their due recognition. father andreas dies: and teufelsdröckh learns the secret of his birth: his reflections thereon. the nameless university. statistics of imposture much wanted. bitter fruits of rationalism: teufelsdröckh's religious difficulties. the young englishman herr towgood. modern friendship (p. 76). chap. iv. _getting under way_ the grand thaumaturgic art of thought. difficulty in fitting capability to opportunity, or of getting underway. the advantage of hunger and bread-studies. teufelsdröckh has to enact the stern mono-drama of _no object and no rest_. sufferings as auscultator. given up as a man of genius, zähdarm house. intolerable presumption of young men. irony and its consequences. teufelsdröckh's epitaph on count zähdarm (p. 90). chap. v. _romance_ teufelsdröckh gives up his profession. the heavenly mystery of love. teufelsdröckh's feeling of worship towards women. first and only love. blumine. happy hearts and free tongues. the infinite nature of fantasy. love's joyful progress; sudden dissolution; and final catastrophe (p. 101). chap. vi. _sorrows of teufelsdröckh_ teufelsdröckh's demeanour thereupon. turns pilgrim. a last wistful look on native entepfuhl: sunset amongst primitive mountains. basilisk-glance of the barouche-and-four. thoughts on view-hunting. wanderings and sorrowings (p. 112). chap. vii. _the everlasting no_ loss of hope, and of belief. profit-and-loss philosophy, teufelsdröckh in his darkness and despair still clings to truth and follows duty. inexpressible pains and fears of unbelief. fever-crisis: protest against the everlasting no: baphometic fire-baptism (p. 121). chap. viii. _centre of indifference_ teufelsdröckh turns now outwardly to the _not-me_; and finds wholesomer food. ancient cities: mystery of their origin and growth: invisible inheritances and possessions. power and virtue of a true book. wagram battlefield: war. great scenes beheld by the pilgrim: great events, and great men. napoleon, a divine missionary, preaching _la carrière ouverte aux talens_. teufelsdröckh at the north cape: modern means of self-defence. gunpowder and duelling. the pilgrim, despising his miseries, reaches the centre of indifference (p. 128). chap. ix. _the everlasting yea_ temptations in the wilderness: victory over the tempter. annihilation of self. belief in god, and love to man. the origin of evil, a problem ever requiring to be solved anew: teufelsdröckh's solution. love of happiness a vain whim: a higher in man than love of happiness. the everlasting yea. worship of sorrow. voltaire: his task now finished. conviction worthless, impossible, without conduct. the true ideal, the actual: up and work! (p. 138). chap. x. _pause_ conversion; a spiritual attainment peculiar to the modern era. teufelsdröckh accepts authorship as his divine calling. the scope of the command _thou shalt not steal_.--editor begins to suspect the authenticity of the biographical documents; and abandons them for the great clothes volume. result of the preceding ten chapters: insight into the character of teufelsdröckh: his fundamental beliefs, and how he was forced to seek and find them (p. 149). book iii chap. i. _incident in modern history_ story of george fox the quaker; and his perennial suit of leather. a man god-possessed, witnessing for spiritual freedom and manhood (p. 156). chap. ii. _church-clothes_ church-clothes defined; the forms under which the religious principle is temporarily embodied. outward religion originates by society: society becomes possible by religion. the condition of church-clothes in our time (p. 161). chap. iii. _symbols_ the benignant efficacies of silence and secrecy. symbols; revelations of the infinite in the finite: man everywhere encompassed by them; lives and works by them. theory of motive-millwrights, a false account of human nature. symbols of an extrinsic value; as banners, standards: of intrinsic value; as works of art, lives and deaths of heroic men. religious symbols; christianity. symbols hallowed by time; but finally defaced and desecrated. many superannuated symbols in our time, needing removal (p. 163). chap. iv. _helotage_ heuschrecke's malthusian tract, and teufelsdröckh's marginal notes thereon. the true workman, for daily bread, or spiritual bread, to be honoured; and no other. the real privation of the poor not poverty or toil, but ignorance. over-population: with a world like ours and wide as ours, can there be too many men? emigration (p. 170). chap. v. _the phoenix_ teufelsdröckh considers society as _dead_; its soul (religion) gone, its body (existing institutions) going. utilitarianism, needing little farther preaching, is now in full activity of destruction.--teufelsdröckh would yield to the inevitable, accounting that the best: assurance of a fairer living society, arising, phoenix-like, out of the ruins of the old dead one. before that phoenix death-birth is accomplished, long time, struggle, and suffering must intervene (p. 174). chap. vi. _old clothes_ courtesy due from all men to all men: the body of man a revelation in the flesh. teufelsdröckh's respect for old clothes, as the 'ghosts of life.' walk in monmouth street, and meditations there (p. 179). chap. vii. _organic filaments_ destruction and creation ever proceed together; and organic filaments of the future are even now spinning. wonderful connection of each man with all men; and of each generation with all generations, before and after: mankind is one. sequence and progress of all human work, whether of creation or destruction, from age to age.--titles, hitherto derived from fighting, must give way to others. kings will remain and their title. political freedom, not to be attained by any mechanical contrivance. hero-worship, perennial amongst men; the cornerstone of polities in the future. organic filaments of the new religion: newspapers and literature. let the faithful soul take courage! (p. 183). chap. viii. _natural supernaturalism_ deep significance of miracles. littleness of human science: divine incomprehensibility of nature. custom blinds us to the miraculousness of daily-recurring miracles; so do names. space and time, appearances only; forms of human thought: a glimpse of immortality. how space hides from us the wondrousness of our commonest powers; and time, the divinely miraculous course of human history (p. 191). chap. ix. _circumspective_ recapitulation. editor congratulates the few british readers who have accompanied teufelsdröckh through all his speculations. the true use of the _sartor resartus_, to exhibit the wonder of daily life and common things; and to show that all forms are but clothes, and temporary. practical inferences enough will follow (p. 201). chap. x. _the dandiacal body_ the dandy defined. the dandiacal sect a new modification of the primeval superstition self-worship: how to be distinguished. their sacred books (fashionable novels) unreadable. dandyism's articles of faith.--brotherhood of poor-slaves: vowed to perpetual poverty; worshippers of earth; distinguished by peculiar costume and diet. picture of a poor-slave household; and of a dandiacal. teufelsdröckh fears these two sects may spread, till they part all england between them, and then frightfully collide (p. 204). chap. xi. _tailors_ injustice done to tailors, actual and metaphorical. their rights and great services will one day be duly recognised (p. 216). chap. xii. _farewell_ teufelsdröckh's strange manner of speech, but resolute, truthful character: his purpose seemingly to proselytise, to unite the wakeful earnest in these dark times. letter from hofrath heuschrecke announcing that teufelsdröckh has disappeared from weissnichtwo. editor guesses he will appear again, friendly farewell (p. 219). on heroes, hero-worship, and the heroic in history lecture i the hero as divinity. odin. paganism: scandinavian mythology [_tuesday, 5th may 1840_] we have undertaken to discourse here for a little on great men, their manner of appearance in our world's business, how they have shaped themselves in the world's history, what ideas men formed of them, what work they did;--on heroes, namely, and on their reception and performance; what i call hero-worship and the heroic in human affairs. too evidently this is a large topic; deserving quite other treatment than we can expect to give it at present. a large topic; indeed, an illimitable one; wide as universal history itself. for, as i take it, universal history, the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the great men who have worked here. they were the leaders of men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are properly the outer material result, the practical realisation and embodiment, of thoughts that dwelt in the great men sent into the world: the soul of the whole world's history, it may justly be considered, were the history of these. too clearly it is a topic we shall do no justice to in this place! one comfort is, that great men, taken up in any way, are profitable company. we cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without gaining something by him. he is the living light-fountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. the light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as i say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness;--in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them. on any terms whatsoever, you will not grudge to wander in such neighbourhood for a while. these six classes of heroes, chosen out of widely-distant countries and epochs, and in mere external figure differing altogether, ought, if we look faithfully at them, to illustrate several things for us. could we see _them_ well, we should get some glimpses into the very marrow of the world's history. how happy, could i but, in any measure, in such times as these, make manifest to you the meanings of heroism; the divine relation (for i may well call it such) which in all times unites a great man to other men; and thus, as it were, not exhaust my subject, but so much as break ground on it! at all events, i must make the attempt. it is well said, in every sense, that a man's religion is the chief fact with regard to him. a man's, or a nation of men's. by religion i do not mean here the church-creed which he professes, the articles of faith which he will sign and, in words or otherwise, assert; not this wholly, in many cases not this at all. we see men of all kinds of professed creeds attain to almost all degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any of them. this is not what i call religion, this profession and assertion; which is often only a profession and assertion from the outworks of the man, from the mere argumentative region of him, if even so deep as that. but the thing a man does practically believe (and this is often enough _without_ asserting it even to himself, much less to others); the thing a man does practically lay to heart, and know for certain, concerning his vital relations to this mysterious universe, and his duty and destiny there, that is in all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively determines all the rest. that is his _religion_; or it may be, his mere scepticism and _no-religion_: the manner it is in which he feels himself to be spiritually related to the unseen world or no-world; and i say, if you tell me what that is, you tell me to a very great extent what the man is, what the kind of things he will do is. of a man or of a nation we inquire, therefore, first of all, what religion they had? was it heathenism,--plurality of gods, mere sensuous representation of this mystery of life, and for chief recognised element therein physical force? was it christianism; faith in an invisible, not as real only, but as the only reality; time, through every meanest moment of it, resting on eternity; pagan empire of force displaced by a nobler supremacy, that of holiness? was it scepticism, uncertainty and inquiry whether there was an unseen world, any mystery of life except a mad one;--doubt as to all this, or perhaps unbelief and flat denial? answering of this question is giving us the soul of the history of the man or nation. the thoughts they had were the parents of the actions they did; their feelings were parents of their thoughts: it was the unseen and spiritual in them that determined the outward and actual;--their religion, as i say, was the great fact about them. in these discourses, limited as we are, it will be good to direct our survey chiefly to that religious phasis of the matter. that once known well, all is known. we have chosen as the first hero in our series, odin the central figure of scandinavian paganism; an emblem to us of a most extensive province of things. let us look for a little at the hero as divinity, the oldest primary form of heroism. surely it seems a very strange-looking thing this paganism; almost inconceivable to us in these days. a bewildering, inextricable jungle of delusions, confusions, falsehoods and absurdities, covering the whole field of life! a thing that fills us with astonishment, almost, if it were possible, with incredulity,--for truly it is not easy to understand that sane men could ever calmly, with their eyes open, believe and live by such a set of doctrines. that men should have worshipped their poor fellow-man as a god, and not him only, but stocks and stones, and all manner of animate and inanimate objects; and fashioned for themselves such a distracted chaos of hallucinations by way of theory of the universe: all this looks like an incredible fable. nevertheless it is a clear fact that they did it. such hideous inextricable jungle of misworships, misbeliefs, men, made as we are, did actually hold by, and live at home in. this is strange. yes, we may pause in sorrow and silence over the depths of darkness that are in man; if we rejoice in the heights of purer vision he has attained to. such things were and are in man; in all men; in us too. some speculators have a short way of accounting for the pagan religion: mere quackery, priestcraft, and dupery, say they; no sane man ever did believe it,--merely contrived to persuade other men, not worthy of the name of sane, to believe it! it will be often our duty to protest against this sort of hypothesis about men's doings and history; and i here, on the very threshold, protest against it in reference to paganism, and to all other _isms_ by which man has ever for a length of time striven to walk in this world. they have all had a truth in them, or men would not have taken them up. quackery and dupery do abound; in religions, above all in the more advanced decaying stages of religions, they have fearfully abounded: but quackery was never the originating influence in such things; it was not the health and life of such things, but their disease, the sure precursor of their being about to die! let us never forget this. it seems to me a most mournful hypothesis, that of quackery giving birth to any faith even in savage men. quackery gives birth to nothing; gives death to all things. we shall not see into the true heart of anything, or if we look merely at the quackeries of it; if we do not reject the quackeries altogether; as mere diseases, corruptions, with which our and all men's sole duty is to have done with them, to sweep them out of our thoughts as out of our practice. man everywhere is the born enemy of lies. i find grand lamaism itself to have a kind of truth in it. read the candid, clear-sighted, rather sceptical mr turner's _account of his embassy_ to that country, and see. they have their belief, these poor thibet people, that providence sends down always an incarnation of himself into every generation. at bottom some belief in a kind of pope! at bottom still better, belief that there is a _greatest_ man; that _he_ is discoverable; that, once discovered, we ought to treat him with an obedience which knows no bounds! this is the truth of grand lamaism; the 'discoverability' is the only error here. the thibet priests have methods of their own of discovering what man is greatest, fit to be supreme over them. bad methods: but are they so much worse than our methods,--of understanding him to be always the eldest born of a certain genealogy? alas, it is a difficult thing to find good methods for!--we shall begin to have a chance of understanding paganism, when we first admit that to its followers it was, at one time, earnestly true. let us consider it very certain that men did believe in paganism; men with open eyes, sound senses, men made altogether like ourselves; that we, had we been there, should have believed in it. ask now, what paganism could have been? another theory, somewhat more respectable, attributes such things to allegory. it was a play of poetic minds, say these theorists; a shadowing-forth, in allegorical fable, in personification and visual form, of what such poetic minds had known and felt of this universe. which agrees, add they, with a primary law of human nature, still everywhere observably at work, though in less important things, that what a man feels intensely, he struggles to speak-out of him, to see represented before him in visual shape, and as if with a kind of life and historical reality in it. now doubtless there is such a law, and it is one of the deepest in human nature; neither need we doubt that it did operate fundamentally in this business. the hypothesis which ascribes paganism wholly or mostly to this agency, i call a little more respectable; but i cannot yet call it the true hypothesis. think, would _we_ believe, and take with us as our life-guidance, an allegory, a poetic sport? not sport but earnest is what we should require. it is a most earnest thing to be alive in this world; to die is not sport for a man. man's life never was a sport to him; it was a stern reality, altogether a serious matter to be alive! i find, therefore, that though these allegory theorists are on the way towards truth in this matter, they have not reached it either. pagan religion is indeed an allegory, a symbol of what men felt and knew about the universe; and all religions are symbols of that, altering always as that alters: but it seems to me a radical perversion, and even _in_version, of the business, to put that forward as the origin and moving cause, when it was rather the result and termination. to get beautiful allegories, a perfect poetic symbol, was not the want of men; but to know what they were to believe about this universe, what course they were to steer in it; what, in this mysterious life of theirs, they had to hope and to fear, to do and to forbear doing. the _pilgrim's progress_ is an allegory, and a beautiful, just and serious one: but consider whether bunyan's allegory could have _preceded_ the faith it symbolises! the faith had to be already there, standing believed by everybody;--of which the allegory could _then_ become a shadow; and, with all its seriousness, we may say a _sportful_ shadow, a mere play of the fancy, in comparison with that awful fact and scientific certainty which it poetically strives to emblem. the allegory is the product of the certainty, not the producer of it; not in bunyan's, nor in any other case. for paganism, therefore, we have still to inquire, whence came that scientific certainty, the parent of such a bewildered heap of allegories, errors and confusions? how was it, what was it? surely it were a foolish attempt to pretend 'explaining,' in this place, or in any place, such a phenomenon as that far-distant distracted cloudy imbroglio of paganism,--more like a cloudfield than a distant continent of firm land and facts! it is no longer a reality, yet it was one. we ought to understand that this seeming cloudfield was once a reality; that not poetic allegory, least of all that dupery and deception was the origin of it. men, i say, never did believe idle songs, never risked their soul's life on allegories; men in all times, especially in early earnest times, have had an instinct for detecting quacks, for detesting quacks. let us try if, leaving out both the quack theory and the allegory one, and listening with affectionate attention to that far-off confused rumour of the pagan ages, we cannot ascertain so much as this at least, that there was a kind of fact at the heart of them; that they too were not mendacious and distracted, but in their own poor way true and sane! you remember that fancy of plato's, of a man who had grown to maturity in some dark distance, and was brought on a sudden into the upper air to see the sun rise. what would his wonder be, his rapt astonishment at the sight we daily witness with indifference! with the free open sense of a child, yet with the ripe faculty of a man, his whole heart would be kindled by that sight, he would discern it well to be godlike, his soul would fall down in worship before it. now, just such a childlike greatness was in the primitive nations. the first pagan thinker among rude men, the first man that began to think, was precisely this child-man of plato's. simple, open as a child, yet with the depth and strength of a man. nature had as yet no name to him; he had not yet united under a name the infinite variety of sights, sounds, shapes and motions, which we now collectively name universe, nature, or the like,--and so with a name dismiss it from us. to the wild deep-hearted man all was yet new, not veiled under names or formulas; it stood naked, flashing-in on him there, beautiful, awful, unspeakable. nature was to this man, what to the thinker and prophet it forever is, _preter_natural. this green flowery rock-built earth, the trees, the mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas;--that great deep sea of azure that swims overhead; the winds sweeping through it; the black cloud fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now hail and rain; what _is_ it? ay, what? at bottom we do not yet know; we can never know at all. it is not by our superior insight that we escape the difficulty; it is by our superior levity, our inattention, our _want_ of insight. it is by _not_ thinking that we cease to wonder at it. hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of traditions, hearsays, mere _words_. we call that fire of the black thundercloud 'electricity,' and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but _what_ is it? what made it? whence comes it? whither goes it? science has done much for us; but it is a poor science that would hide from us the great deep sacred infinitude of nescience, whither we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere superficial film. this world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, _magical_ and more, to whosoever will _think_ of it. that great mystery of time, were there no other: the illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which _are_, and then _are not_: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb,--for we have no word to speak about it. this universe, ah me--what could the wild man know of it; what can we yet know? that it is a force, and thousandfold complexity of forces; a force which is _not we_. that is all; it is not we, it is altogether different from _us_. force, force, everywhere force; we ourselves a mysterious force in the centre of that. 'there is not a leaf rotting on the highway but has force in it: how else could it rot?' nay surely, to the atheistic thinker, if such a one were possible, it must be a miracle too, this huge illimitable whirlwind of force, which envelops us here; never-resting whirlwind, high as immensity, old as eternity. what is it? god's creation, the religious people answer; it is the almighty god's! atheistic science babbles poorly of it, with scientific nomenclatures, experiments and what-not, as if it were a poor dead thing, to be bottled up in leyden jars and sold over counters: but the natural sense of man, in all times, if he will honestly apply his sense, proclaims it to be a living thing,--ah, an unspeakable, godlike thing; towards which the best attitude for us, after never so much science, is awe, devout prostration and humility of soul; worship if not in words, then in silence. but now i remark farther: what in such a time as ours it requires a prophet or poet to teach us, namely, the stripping-off of those poor undevout wrappages, nomenclatures and scientific hearsays,---this, the ancient earnest soul, as yet unencumbered with these things, did for itself. the world, which is now divine only to the gifted, was then divine to whosoever would turn his eye upon it. he stood bare before it face to face. 'all was godlike or god:'--jean paul still finds it so; the giant jean paul, who has power to escape out of hearsays: but there then were no hearsays. canopus shining-down over the desert, with its blue diamond brightness (that wild blue spirit-like brightness, far brighter than we ever witness here), would pierce into the heart of the wild ishmaelitish man, whom it was guiding through the solitary waste there. to his wild heart, with all feelings in it, with no _speech_ for any feeling, it may seem a little eye, that canopus, glancing-out on him from the great deep eternity; revealing the inner splendour to him. cannot we understand how these men _worshipped_ canopus; became what we call sabeans, worshipping the stars? such is to me the secret of all forms of paganism. worship is transcendent wonder; wonder for which there is now no limit or measure; that is worship. to these primeval men, all things and everything they saw exist beside them were an emblem of the godlike, of some god. and look what perennial fibre of truth was in that. to us also, through every star, through every blade of grass, is not a god made visible, if we will open our minds and eyes? we do not worship in that way now: but is it not reckoned still a merit, proof of what we call a 'poetic nature,' that we recognise how every object has a divine beauty in it; how every object still verily is 'a window through which we may look into infinitude itself'? he that can discern the loveliness of things, we call him poet, painter, man of genius, gifted, lovable. these poor sabeans did even what he does,--in their own fashion. that they did it, in what fashion soever, was a merit: better than what the entirely stupid man did, what the horse and camel did,--namely, nothing! but now if all things whatsoever that we look upon are emblems to us of the highest god, i add that more so than any of them is man such an emblem. you have heard of st. chrysostom's celebrated saying in reference to the shekinah, or ark of testimony, visible revelation of god, among the hebrews: "the true shekinah is man!" yes, it is even so: this is no vain phrase; it is veritably so. the essence of our being, the mystery in us that calls itself "i,"--ah, what words have we for such things?--is a breath of heaven; the highest being reveals himself in _man_. this body, these faculties, this life of ours, is it not all as a vesture for that unnamed? 'there is but one temple in the universe,' says the devout novalis, 'and that is the body of man. nothing is holier than that high form. bending before men is a reverence done to this revelation in the flesh. we touch heaven when we lay our hand on a human body!' this sounds much like a mere flourish of rhetoric; but it is not so. if well meditated, it will turn out to be a scientific fact; the expression, in such words as can be had, of the actual truth of the thing. _we_ are the miracle of miracles,--the great inscrutable mystery of god. we cannot understand it, we know not how to speak of it; but we may feel and know, if we like, that it is verily so. well; these truths were once more readily felt than now. the young generations of the world, who had in them the freshness of young children, and yet the depth of earnest men, who did not think that they had finished-off all things in heaven and earth by merely giving them scientific names, but had to gaze direct at them there, with awe and wonder: they felt better what of divinity is in man and nature;--they, without being mad, could _worship_ nature, and man more than anything else in nature. worship, that is, as i said above, admire without limit: this, in the full use of their faculties, with all sincerity of heart, they could do. i consider hero-worship to be the grand modifying element in that ancient system of thought. what i called the perplexed jungle of paganism sprang, we may say, out of many roots: every admiration, adoration of a star or natural object, was a root or fibre of a root; but hero-worship is the deepest root of all; the tap-root, from which in a great degree all the rest were nourished and grown. and now if worship even of a star had some meaning in it, how much more might that of a hero! worship of a hero is transcendent admiration of a great man. i say great men are still admirable; i say there is, at bottom, nothing else admirable! no nobler feeling than this of admiration for one higher than himself dwells in the breast of man. it is to this hour, and at all hours, the vivifying influence in man's life. religion i find stand upon it; not paganism only, but far higher and truer religions,--all religion hitherto known. hero-worship, heartfelt prostrate admiration, submission, burning, boundless, for a noblest godlike form of man,--is not that the germ of christianity itself? the greatest of all heroes is one--whom we do not name here! let sacred silence meditate that sacred matter; you will find it the ultimate perfection of a principle extant throughout man's whole history on earth. or coming into lower, less _un_speakable provinces, is not all loyalty akin to religious faith also? faith is loyalty to some inspired teacher, some spiritual hero. and what therefore is loyalty proper, the life-breath of all society, but an effluence of hero-worship, submissive admiration for the truly great? society is founded on hero-worship. all dignities of rank, on which human association rests, are what we may call a _hero_archy (government of heroes),--or a hierarchy, for it is 'sacred' enough withal! the duke means _dux_, leader; king is _kön-ning_, _kan-ning_, man that _knows_ or _cans_. society everywhere is some representation, not _in_supportably inaccurate, of a graduated worship of heroes;--reverence and obedience done to men really great and wise. not _in_supportably inaccurate, i say! they are all as bank-notes, these social dignitaries, all representing gold;--and several of them, alas, always are _forged_ notes. we can do with some forged false notes; with a good many even; but not with all, or the most of them forged! no: there have to come revolutions then; cries of democracy, liberty, and equality, and i know not what:--the notes being all false, and no gold to be had for _them_, people take to crying in their despair that there is no gold, that there never was any!--'gold,' hero-worship, _is_ nevertheless, as it was always and everywhere, and cannot cease till man himself ceases. i am well aware that in these days hero-worship, the thing i call hero-worship, professes to have gone out, and finally ceased. this, for reasons which it will be worth while some time to inquire into, is an age that as it were denies the existence of great men; denies the desirableness of great men. show our critics a great man, a luther for example, they begin to what they call 'account' for him; not to worship him, but take the dimensions of him,--and bring him out to be a little kind of man! he was the 'creature of the time,' they say; the time called him forth, the time did everything, he nothing--but what we the little critic could have done too! this seems to me but melancholy work. the time call forth? alas, we have known times _call_ loudly enough for their great man; but not find him when they called! he was not there; providence had not sent him; the time, _calling_ its loudest, had to go down to confusion and wreck because he would not come when called. for if we will think of it, no time need have gone to ruin, could it have _found_ a man great enough, a man wise and good enough: wisdom to discern truly what the time wanted, valour to lead it on the right road thither; these are the salvation of any time. but i liken common languid times, with their unbelief, distress, perplexity, with their languid doubting characters and embarrassed circumstances, impotently crumbling-down into ever worse distress towards final ruin;--all this i liken to dry dead fuel, waiting for the lightning out of heaven that shall kindle it. the great man, with his free force direct out of god's own hand, is the lightning. his word is the wise healing word which all can believe in. all blazes round him now, when he has once struck on it, into fire like his own. the dry mouldering sticks are thought to have called him forth. they did want him greatly; but as to calling him forth--!--those are critics of small vision, i think, who cry: "see, is it not the sticks that made the fire?" no sadder proof can be given by a man of his own littleness than disbelief in great men. there is no sadder symptom of a generation than such general blindness to the spiritual lightning, with faith only in the heap of barren dead fuel. it is the last consummation of unbelief. in all epochs of the world's history, we shall find the great man to have been the indispensable saviour of his epoch;--the lightning, without which the fuel never would have burnt. the history of the world, i said already, was the biography of great men. such small critics do what they can to promote unbelief and universal spiritual paralysis; but happily they cannot always completely succeed. in all times it is possible for a man to arise great enough to feel that they and their doctrines are chimeras and cobwebs. and what is notable, in no time whatever can they entirely eradicate out of living men's hearts a certain altogether peculiar reverence for great men; genuine admiration, loyalty, adoration, however dim and perverted it may be. hero-worship endures for ever while man endures. boswell venerates his johnson, right truly even in the eighteenth century. the unbelieving french believe in their voltaire; and burst-out round him into very curious hero-worship, in that last act of his life when they 'stifle him under roses.' it has always seemed to me extremely curious this of voltaire. truly, if christianity be the highest instance of hero-worship, then we may find here in voltaireism one of the lowest! he whose life was that of a kind of antichrist, does again on this side exhibit a curious contrast. no people ever were so little prone to admire at all as those french of voltaire. _persiflage_ was the character of their whole mind; adoration had nowhere a place in it. yet see! the old man of ferney comes up to paris; an old, tottering, infirm man of eighty-four years. they feel that he too is a kind of hero; that he has spent his life in opposing error and injustice, delivering calases, unmasking hypocrites in high places;--in short that _he_ too, though in a strange way, has fought like a valiant man. they feel withal that, if _persiflage_ be the great thing, there never was such a _persifleur_. he is the realised ideal of every one of them; the thing they are all wanting to be; of all frenchmen the most french. _he_ is properly their god,--such god as they are fit for. accordingly all persons, from the queen antoinette to the douanier at the porte st. denis, do they not worship him? people of quality disguise themselves as tavern-waiters. the maître de poste, with a broad oath, orders his postillion, "_va bon train_; thou art driving m. de voltaire." at paris his carriage is 'the nucleus of a comet, whose train fills whole streets.' the ladies pluck a hair or two from his fur, to keep it as a sacred relic. there was nothing highest, beautifulest, noblest in all france, that did not feel this man to be higher, beautifuler, nobler. yes, from norse odin to english samuel johnson, from the divine founder of christianity to the withered pontiff of encyclopedism, in all times and places, the hero has been worshipped. it will ever be so. we all love great men; love, venerate, and bow down submissive before great men: nay can we honestly bow down to anything else? ah, does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him? no nobler or more blessed feeling dwells in man's heart. and to me it is very cheering to consider that no sceptical logic, or general triviality, insincerity and aridity of any time and its influences can destroy this noble inborn loyalty and worship that is in man. in times of unbelief, which soon have to become times of revolution, much down-rushing, sorrowful decay and ruin is visible to everybody. for myself in these days, i seem to see in this indestructibility of hero-worship the everlasting adamant lower than which the confused wreck of revolutionary things cannot fall. the confused wreck of things crumbling and even crashing and tumbling all round us in these revolutionary ages, will get down so far; _no_ farther. it is an eternal corner-stone, from which they can begin to build themselves up again. that man, in some sense or other, worships heroes; that we all of us reverence and must ever reverence great men: this is, to me, the living rock amid all rushings-down whatsoever;--the one fixed point in modern revolutionary history, otherwise as if bottomless and shoreless. * * * * * so much of truth, only under an ancient obsolete vesture, but the spirit of it still true, do i find in the paganism of old nations. nature is still divine, the revelation of the workings of god; the hero is still worshipable: this, under poor cramped incipient forms, is what all pagan religions have struggled, as they could, to set forth. i think scandinavian paganism, to us here, is more interesting than any other. it is, for one thing, the latest; it continued in these regions of europe till the eleventh century: eight-hundred years ago the norwegians were still worshippers of odin. it is interesting also as the creed of our fathers; the men whose blood still runs in our veins, whom doubtless we still resemble in so many ways. strange: they did believe that, while we believe so differently. let us look a little at this poor norse creed, for many reasons. we have tolerable means to do it; for there is another point of interest in these scandinavian mythologies: that they have been preserved so well. in that strange island iceland,--burst-up, the geologists say, by fire from the bottom of the sea; a wild land of barrenness and lava; swallowed many months of every year in black tempests, yet with a wild gleaming beauty in summer-time; towering up there, stern and grim, in the north ocean; with its snow jokuls, roaring geysers, sulphur-pools and horrid volcanic chasms, like the waste chaotic battle-field of frost and fire;--where of all places we least looked for literature or written memorials, the record of these things was written down. on the seaboard of this wild land is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of them and of what the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who had deep thoughts in them, and uttered musically their thoughts. much would be lost, had iceland not been burst-up from the sea, not been discovered by the northmen! the old norse poets were many of them natives of iceland. sæmund, one of the early christian priests there, who perhaps had a lingering fondness for paganism, collected certain of their old pagan songs, just about becoming obsolete then,--poems or chants of a mythic, prophetic, mostly all of a religious character: that is what norse critics call the _elder_ or poetic _edda_. _edda_, a word of uncertain etymology, is thought to signify _ancestress_. snorro sturleson, an iceland gentleman, an extremely notable personage, educated by this sæmund's grandson, took in hand next, near a century afterwards, to put together, among several other books he wrote, a kind of prose synopsis of the whole mythology; elucidated by new fragments of traditionary verse. a work constructed really with great ingenuity, native talent, what one might call unconscious art; altogether a perspicuous clear work, pleasant reading still: this is the _younger_ or prose _edda_. by these and the numerous other _sagas_, mostly icelandic, with the commentaries, icelandic or not, which go on zealously in the north to this day, it is possible to gain some direct insight even yet; and see that old norse system of belief, as it were, face to face. let us forget that it is erroneous religion; let us look at it as old thought, and try if we cannot sympathise with it somewhat. the primary characteristic of this old northland mythology i find to be impersonation of the visible workings of nature. earnest simple recognition of the workings of physical nature, as a thing wholly miraculous, stupendous and divine. what we now lecture of as science, they wondered at, and fell down in awe before, as religion. the dark hostile powers of nature they figure to themselves as '_jötuns_,' giants, huge shaggy beings of a demonic character. frost, fire, sea-tempest; these are jötuns. the friendly powers again, as summer-heat, the sun, are gods. the empire of this universe is divided between these two; they dwell apart, in perennial internecine feud. the gods dwell above in asgard, the garden of the asen, or divinities; jötunheim, a distant dark chaotic land, is the home of the jötuns. curious all this; and not idle or inane, if we will look at the foundation of it! the power of _fire_, or _flame_, for instance, which we designate by some trivial chemical name, thereby hiding from ourselves the essential character of wonder that dwells in it as in all things, is with these old northmen, loke, a most swift subtle _demon_, of the brood of the jötuns. the savages of the ladrones islands too (say some spanish voyagers) thought fire, which they never had seen before, was a devil or god, that bit you sharply when you touched it, and that lived upon dry wood. from us too no chemistry, if it had not stupidity to help it, would hide that flame is a wonder. what _is_ flame?--_frost_ the old norse seer discerns to be a monstrous hoary jötun, the giant _thrym_, _hrym_: or _rime_, the old word now nearly obsolete here, but still used in scotland to signify hoar-frost. _rime_ was not then as now a dead chemical thing, but a living jötun or devil; the monstrous jötun _rime_ drove home his horses at night, sat 'combing their manes,'--which horses were _hail-clouds_, or fleet _frost-winds_. his cows--no, not his, but a kinsman's, the giant hymir's cows are _icebergs_: this hymir 'looks at the rocks' with his devil-eye, and they _split_ in the glance of it. thunder was not then mere electricity, vitreous or resinous; it was the god donner (thunder) or thor,--god also of beneficent summer-heat. the thunder was his wrath; the gathering of the black clouds is the drawing down of thor's angry brows; the fire-bolt bursting out of heaven is the all-rending hammer flung from the hand of thor: he urges his loud chariot over the mountain-tops,--that is the peal: wrathful he 'blows in his red beard,'--that is the rustling storm-blast before the thunder begin. balder again, the white god, the beautiful, the just and benignant (whom the early christian missionaries found to resemble christ), is the sun--beautifulest of visible things; wondrous too, and divine still, after all our astronomies and almanacs! but perhaps the notablest god we hear tell-of is one of whom grimm the german etymologist finds trace: the god _wünsch_, or wish. the god _wish_; who could give us all that we _wished_! is not this the sincerest yet rudest voice of the spirit of man? the _rudest_ ideal that man ever formed; which still shows itself in the latest forms of our spiritual culture. higher considerations have to teach us that the god _wish_ is not the true god. of the other gods or jötuns i will mention only for etymology's sake, that sea-tempest is the jötun _aegir_, a very dangerous jötun;--and now to this day, on our river trent, as i learn, the nottingham bargemen, when the river is in a certain flooded state (a kind of back-water, or eddying swirl it has, very dangerous to them), call it _eager_; they cry out, "have a care, there is the _eager_ coming!" curious; that word surviving, like the peak of a submerged world! the _oldest_ nottingham bargemen had believed in the god aegir. indeed, our english blood too in good part is danish, norse; or rather, at bottom, danish and norse and saxon have no distinction, except a superficial one,--as of heathen and christian, or the like. but all over our island we are mingled largely with danes proper,--from the incessant invasions there were: and this, of course, in a greater proportion along the east coast; and greatest of all, as i find, in the north country. from the humber upwards, all over scotland, the speech of the common people is still in a singular degree icelandic; its germanism has still a peculiar norse tinge. they too are 'normans,' northmen,--if that be any great beauty!-of the chief god, odin, we shall speak by and by. mark at present so much; what the essence of scandinavian and indeed of all paganism is: a recognition of the forces of nature as godlike, stupendous, personal agencies,--as gods and demons. not inconceivable to us. it is the infant thought of man opening itself, with awe and wonder, on this ever-stupendous universe. to me there is in the norse system something very genuine, very great and manlike. a broad simplicity, rusticity, so very different from the light gracefulness of the old greek paganism, distinguishes this scandinavian system. it is thought; the genuine thought of deep, rude, earnest minds, fairly opened to the things about them; a face-to-face and heart-to-heart inspection of the things,--the first characteristic of all good thought in all times. not graceful lightness, half-sport, as in the greek paganism; a certain homely truthfulness and rustic strength, a great rude sincerity, discloses itself here. it is strange, after our beautiful apollo statues and clear smiling mythuses, to come down upon the norse gods 'brewing ale' to hold their feast with aegir, the sea-jötun; sending out thor to get the caldron for them in the jötun country; thor, after many adventures, clapping the pot on his head, like a huge hat, and walking off with it,--quite lost in it, the ears of the pot reaching down to his heels! a kind of vacant hugeness, large awkward gianthood, characterises that norse system; enormous force, as yet altogether untutored, stalking helpless with large uncertain strides. consider only their primary mythus of the creation. the gods, having got the giant ymer slain, a giant made by 'warm wind,' and much confused work, out of the conflict of frost and fire,--determined on constructing a world with him. his blood made the sea; his flesh was the land, the rocks his bones; of his eyebrows they formed asgard their gods'-dwelling; his skull was the great blue vault of immensity, and the brains of it became the clouds. what a hyper-brobdignagian business! untamed thought, great, giantlike, enormous;--to be tamed in due time into the compact greatness, not giant-like, but godlike and stronger than gianthood, of the shakspeares, the goethes!--spiritually as well as bodily these men are our progenitors. i like, too, that representation they have of the tree igdrasil. all life is figured by them as a tree. igdrasil, the ash-tree of existence, has its roots deep-down in the kingdoms of hela or death; its trunk reaches up heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole universe: it is the tree of existence. at the foot of it, in the death-kingdom, sit three _nornas_, fates,--the past, present, future; watering its roots from the sacred well. its 'boughs,' with their buddings and disleafings,--events, things suffered, things done, catastrophes,--stretch through all lands and times. is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre there an act or word? its boughs are histories of nations. the rustle of it is the noise of human existence, onwards from of old. it grows there, the breath of human passion rustling through it;--or stormtost, the stormwind howling through it like the voice of all the gods. it is igdrasil, the tree of existence. it is the past, the present, and the future; what was done, what is doing, what will be done; 'the infinite conjugation of the verb _to do_.' considering how human things circulate, each inextricably in communion with all,--how the word i speak to you to-day is borrowed, not from ulfila the moesogoth only, but from all men since the first man began to speak,--i find no similitude so true as this of a tree. beautiful; altogether beautiful and great. the '_machine_ of the universe,'--alas, do but think of that in contrast! * * * * * well, it is strange enough this old norse view of nature; different enough from what we believe of nature. whence it specially came, one would not like to be compelled to say very minutely! one thing we may say: it came from the thoughts of norse men;--from the thought, above all, of the _first_ norse man who had an original power of thinking. the first norse 'man of genius,' as we should call him! innumerable men had passed by, across this universe, with a dumb vague wonder, such as the very animals may feel; or with a painful, fruitlessly inquiring wonder, such as men only feel;--till the great thinker came, the _original_ man, the seer; whose shaped spoken thought awakes the slumbering capability of all into thought. it is ever the way with the thinker, the spiritual hero. what he says, all men were not far from saying, were longing to say. the thoughts of all start up, as from painful enchanted sleep, round his thought; answering to it, yes, even so! joyful to men as the dawning of day from night; _is_ it not, indeed, the awakening for them from no-being into being, from death into life? we still honour such a man; call him poet, genius, and so forth: but to these wild men he was a very magician, a worker of miraculous unexpected blessing for them; a prophet, a god!--thought once awakened does not again slumber; unfolds itself into a system of thought; grows, in man after man, generation after generation,--till its full stature is reached, and _such_ system of thought can grow no farther, but must give place to another. for the norse people, the man now named odin, and chief norse god, we fancy, was such a man. a teacher, and captain of soul and of body; a hero, of worth _im_measurable; admiration for whom, transcending the known bounds, became adoration. has he not the power of articulate thinking; and many other powers, as yet miraculous? so, with boundless gratitude, would the rude norse heart feel. has he not solved for them the sphinx-enigma of this universe; given assurance to them of their own destiny there? by him they know now what they have to do here, what to look for hereafter. existence has become articulate, melodious by him; he first has made life alive!--we may call this odin, the origin of norse mythology: odin, or whatever name the first norse thinker bore while he was a man among men. his view of the universe once promulgated, a like view starts into being in all minds; grows, keeps ever growing, while it continues credible there. in all minds it lay written, but invisibly, as in sympathetic ink; at his word it starts into visibility in all. nay, in every epoch of the world, the great event, parent of all others, is it not the arrival of a thinker in the world!-one other thing we must not forget; it will explain, a little, the confusion of these norse eddas. they are not one coherent system of thought; but properly the _summation_ of several successive systems. all this of the old norse belief which is flung-out for us, in one level of distance in the edda, like a picture painted on the same canvas, does not at all stand so in the reality. it stands rather at all manner of distances and depths, of successive generations since the belief first began. all scandinavian thinkers, since the first of them, contributed to the scandinavian system of thought; in ever-new elaboration and addition, it is the combined work of them all. what history it had, how it changed from shape to shape, by one thinker's contribution after another, till it got to the full final shape we see it under in the _edda_, no man will now ever know: _its_ councils of trebisond, councils of trent, athanasiuses, dantes, luthers, are sunk without echo in the dark night! only that it had such a history we can all know. wheresoever a thinker appeared, there in the thing he thought-of was a contribution, accession, a change or revolution made. alas, the grandest 'revolution' of all, the one made by the man odin himself, is not this too sunk for us like the rest! of odin what history? strange rather to reflect that he _had_ a history! that this odin, in his wild norse vesture, with his wild beard and eyes, his rude norse speech and ways, was a man like us; with our sorrows, joys, with our limbs, features;--intrinsically all one as we: and did such a work! but the work, much of it, has perished; the worker, all to the name. "_wednes_day," men will say to-morrow; odin's day! of odin there exists no history; no document of it; no guess about it worth repeating. snorro indeed, in the quietest manner, almost in a brief business style, writes down, in his _heimskringla_, how odin was a heroic prince, in the black-sea region, with twelve peers, and a great people straitened for room. how he led these _asen_ (asiatics) of his out of asia; settled them in the north parts of europe, by warlike conquest; invented letters, poetry and so forth,--and came by and by to be worshipped as chief god by these scandinavians, his twelve peers made into twelve sons of his own, gods like himself: snorro has no doubt of this. saxo grammaticus, a very curious northman of that same century, is still more unhesitating; scruples not to find out a historical fact in every individual mythus, and writes it down as a terrestrial event in denmark or elsewhere. torfæus, learned and cautious, some centuries later, assigns by calculation a _date_ for it: odin, he says, came into europe about the year 70 before christ. of all which, as grounded on mere uncertainties, found to be untenable now, i need say nothing. far, very far beyond the year 70! odin's date, adventures, whole terrestrial history, figure and environment are sunk from us forever into unknown thousands of years. nay grimm, the german antiquary, goes so far as to deny that any man odin ever existed. he proves it by etymology. the word _wuotan_, which is the original form of _odin_, a word spread, as name of their chief divinity, over all the teutonic nations everywhere; this word, which connects itself, according to grimm, with the latin _vadere_, with the english _wade_ and suchlike,--means primarily _movement_, source of movement, power; and is the fit name of the highest god, not of any man. the word signifies divinity, he says, among the old saxon, german and all teutonic nations; the adjectives formed from it all signify _divine_, _supreme_, or something pertaining to the chief god. like enough! we must bow to grimm in matters etymological. let us consider it fixed that _wuotan_ means _wading_, force of _movement_. and now still, what hinders it from being the name of a heroic man and _mover_, as well as of a god? as for the adjectives, and words formed from it,--did not the spaniards in their universal admiration for lope, get into the habit of saying 'a lope flower,' a 'lope _dama_,' if the flower or woman were of surpassing beauty? had this lasted, _lope_ would have grown, in spain, to be an adjective signifying _godlike_ also. indeed, adam smith, in his _essay on language_, surmises that all adjectives whatsoever were formed precisely in that way: some very green thing chiefly notable for its greenness, got the appellative name _green_, and then the next thing remarkable for that quality, a tree for instance, was named the _green_ tree,--as we still say 'the _steam coach_,' 'four-horse coach,' or the like. all primary adjectives, according to smith, were formed in this way; were at first substantives and things. we cannot annihilate a man for etymologies like that! surely there was a first teacher and captain; surely there must have been an odin, palpable to the sense at one time; no adjective, but a real hero of flesh and blood! the voice of all tradition, history or echo of history, agrees with all that thought will teach one about it, to assure us of this. how the man odin came to be considered a _god_, the chief god?--that surely is a question which nobody would wish to dogmatise upon. i have said, his people knew no _limits_ to their admiration of him; they had as yet no scale to measure admiration by. fancy your own generous heart's-love of some greatest man expanding till it _transcended_ all bounds, till it filled and overflowed the whole field of your thought! or what if this man odin,--since a great deep soul, with the afflatus and mysterious tide of vision and impulse rushing on him he knows not whence, is ever an enigma, a kind of terror and wonder to himself,--should have felt that perhaps _he_ was divine; that _he_ was some effluence of the 'wuotan,' '_movement_,' supreme power and divinity, of whom to his rapt vision all nature was the awful flame-image; that some effluence of _wuotan_ dwelt here in him! he was not necessarily false; he was but mistaken, speaking the truest he knew. a great soul, any sincere soul, knows not _what_ he is,--alternates between the highest height and the lowest depth; can, of all things, the least measure--himself! what others take him for, and what he guesses that he may be; these two items strangely act on one another, help to determine one another. with all men reverently admiring him; with his own wild soul full of noble ardours and affections, of whirlwind chaotic darkness and glorious new light; a divine universe bursting all into godlike beauty round him, and no man to whom the like ever had befallen, what could he think himself to be? "wuotan?" all men answered, "wuotan!"-and then consider what mere time will do in such cases; how if a man was great while living, he becomes tenfold greater when dead. what an enormous _camera-obscura_ magnifier is tradition! how a thing grows in the human memory, in the human imagination, when love, worship and all that lies in the human heart, is there to encourage it. and in the darkness, in the entire ignorance; without date or document, no book, no arundel-marble; only here and there some dumb monumental cairn. why, in thirty or forty years, were there no books, any great man would grow _mythic_, the contemporaries who had once seen him, being all dead. and in three-hundred years, and three-thousand years--!--to attempt _theorising_ on such matters would profit little: they are matters which refuse to be _theoremed_ and diagramed; which logic ought to know that she _cannot_ speak of. enough for us to discern, far in the uttermost distance, some gleam as of a small real light shining in the centre of that enormous camera-obscura image; to discern that the centre of it all was not a madness and nothing, but a sanity and something. this light, kindled in the great dark vortex of the norse mind, dark but living, waiting only for light; this is to me the centre of the whole. how such light will then shine out, and with wondrous thousandfold expansion spread itself, in forms and colours, depends not on _it_, so much as on the national mind recipient of it. the colours and forms of your light will be those of the _cut-glass_ it has to shine through.--curious to think how, for every man, any the truest fact is modelled by the nature of the man! i said, the earnest man, speaking to his brother men, must always have stated what seemed to him a _fact_, a real appearance of nature. but the way in which such appearance or fact shaped itself,--what sort of _fact_ it became for him,--was and is modified by his own laws of thinking; deep, subtle, but universal, ever-operating laws. the world of nature, for every man, is the phantasy of himself; this world is the multiplex 'image of his own dream.' who knows to what unnameable subtleties of spiritual law all these pagan fables owe their shape! the number _twelve_, divisiblest of all, which could be halved, quartered, parted into three, into six, the most remarkable number,--this was enough to determine the _signs of the zodiac_, the number of odin's _sons_, and innumerable other twelves. any vague rumour of number had a tendency to settle itself into twelve. so with regard to every other matter. and quite unconsciously too,--with no notion of building-up 'allegories'! but the fresh clear glance of those first ages would be prompt in discerning the secret relations of things, and wholly open to obey these. schiller finds in the _cestus of venus_ an everlasting æsthetic truth as to the nature of all beauty; curious:--but he is careful not to insinuate that the old greek mythists had any notion of lecturing about the 'philosophy of criticism'!----on the whole we must leave those boundless regions. cannot we conceive that odin was a reality? error indeed, error enough: but sheer falsehood, idle fables, allegory aforethought,--we will not believe that our fathers believed in these. * * * * * odin's _runes_ are a significant feature of him. runes, and the miracles of 'magic' he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition. runes are the scandinavian alphabet; suppose odin to have been the inventor of letters, as well as 'magic,' among that people! it is the greatest invention man has ever made, this of marking down the unseen thought that is in him by written characters. it is a kind of second speech, almost as miraculous as the first. you remember the astonishment and incredulity of atahualpa the peruvian king; how he made the spanish soldier who was guarding him scratch _dios_ on his thumb-nail, that he might try the next soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible. if odin brought letters among his people, he might work magic enough! writing by runes has some air of being original among the norsemen: not a phoenician alphabet, but a native scandinavian one. snorro tells us farther that odin invented poetry; the music of human speech, as well as that miraculous runic marking of it. transport yourselves into the early childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning-light of our europe, when all yet lay in fresh young radiance as of a great sunrise, and our europe was first beginning to think, to be! wonder, hope; infinite radiance of hope and wonder, as of a young child's thoughts, in the hearts of these strong men! strong sons of nature; and here was not only a wild captain and fighter; discerning with his wild flashing eyes what to do, with his wild lion-heart daring and doing it; but a poet too, all that we mean by a poet, prophet, great devout thinker and inventor,--as the truly great man ever is. a hero is a hero at all points; in the soul and thought of him first of all. this odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to speak. a great heart laid open to take in this great universe, and man's life here, and utter a great word about it. a hero, as i say, in his own rude manner; a wise, gifted, noble-hearted man. and now, if we still admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild norse souls, first awakened into thinking, have made of him! to them, as yet without names for it, he was noble and noblest; hero, prophet, god; _wuotan_, the greatest of all. thought is thought, however it speak or spell itself. intrinsically, i conjecture, this odin must have been of the same sort of stuff as the greatest kind of men. a great thought in the wild deep heart of him! the rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots of those english words we still use? he worked so, in that obscure element. but he was as a _light_ kindled in it; a light of intellect, rude nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet; a hero, as i say: and he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little lighter,--as is still the task of us all. we will fancy him to be the type norseman; the finest teuton whom that race had yet produced. the rude norse heart burst-up into _boundless_ admiration round him; into adoration. he is as a root of so many great things; the fruit of him is found growing, from deep thousands of years, over the whole field of teutonic life. our own wednesday, as i said, is it not still odin's day? wednesbury, wansborough, wanstead, wandsworth: odin grew into england too, these are still leaves from that root! he was the chief god to all the teutonic peoples; their pattern norseman;--in such way did _they_ admire their pattern norseman; that was the fortune he had in the world. thus if the man odin himself have vanished utterly, there is this huge shadow of him which still projects itself over the whole history of his people. for this odin once admitted to be god, we can understand well that the whole scandinavian scheme of nature, or dim no-scheme, whatever it might before have been, would now begin to develop itself altogether differently, and grow thenceforth in a new manner. what this odin saw into, and taught with his runes and his rhymes, the whole teutonic people laid to heart and carried forward. his way of thought became their way of thought:--such, under new conditions, is the history of every great thinker still. in gigantic confused lineaments, like some enormous camera-obscura shadow thrown upwards from the dead deeps of the past, and covering the whole northern heaven, is not that scandinavian mythology in some sort the portraiture of this man odin? the gigantic image of _his_ natural face, legible or not legible there, expanded and confused in that manner! ah, thought, i say, is always thought. no great man lives in vain. the history of the world is but the biography of great men. to me there is something very touching in this primeval figure of heroism; in such artless, helpless, but hearty entire reception of a hero by his fellow-men. never so helpless in shape, it is the noblest of feelings, and a feeling in some shape or other perennial as man himself. if i could show in any measure, what i feel deeply for a long time now, that it is the vital element of manhood, the soul of man's history here in our world,--it would be the chief use of this discoursing at present. we do not now call our great men gods, nor admire _without_ limit; ah, no, _with_ limit enough! but if we have no great men, or do not admire at all,--that were a still worse case. this poor scandinavian hero-worship, that whole norse way of looking at the universe, and adjusting oneself there, has an indestructible merit for us. a rude childlike way of recognising the divineness of nature, the divineness of man; most rude, yet heartfelt, robust, giantlike; betokening what a giant of a man this child would grow to!--it was a truth, and is none. is it not as the half-dumb stifled voice of the long-buried generations of our own fathers, calling out of the depths of ages to us, in whose veins their blood still runs: "this then, this is what _we_ made of the world: this is all the image and notion we could form to ourselves of this great mystery of a life and universe. despise it not. you are raised high above it, to large free scope of vision; but you too are not yet at the top. no, your notion too, so much enlarged, is but a partial, imperfect one: that matter is a thing no man will ever, in time or out of time, comprehend; after thousands of years of ever-new expansion, man will find himself but struggling to comprehend again a part of it: the thing is larger than man, not to be comprehended by him; an infinite thing!" * * * * * the essence of the scandinavian, as indeed of all pagan mythologies, we found to be recognition of the divineness of nature; sincere communion of man with the mysterious invisible powers visibly seen at work in the world round him. this, i should say, is more sincerely done in the scandinavian than in any mythology i know. sincerity is the great characteristic of it. superior sincerity (far superior) consoles us for the total want of old grecian grace. sincerity, i think, is better than grace. i feel that these old northmen were looking into nature with open eye and soul: most earnest, honest; childlike, and yet manlike; with a great-hearted simplicity and depth and freshness, in a true, loving, admiring, unfearing way. a right valiant, true old race of men. such recognition of nature one finds to be the chief element of paganism: recognition of man, and his moral duty, though this too is not wanting, comes to be the chief element only in purer forms of religion. here, indeed, is a great distinction and epoch in human beliefs; a great landmark in the religious development of mankind. man first puts himself in relation with nature and her powers, wonders and worships over those; not till a later epoch does he discern that all power is moral, that the grand point is the distinction for him of good and evil, of _thou shalt_ and _thou shalt not_. with regard to all these fabulous delineations in the _edda_, i will remark, moreover, as indeed was already hinted, that most probably they must have been of much newer date; most probably, even from the first, were comparatively idle for the old norsemen, and as it were a kind of poetic sport. allegory and poetic delineation, as i said above, cannot be religious faith; the faith itself must first be there, then allegory enough will gather round it, as the fit body round its soul. the norse faith, i can well suppose, like other faiths, was most active while it lay mainly in the silent state, and had not yet much to say about itself, still less to sing. among those shadowy _edda_ matters, amid all that fantastic congeries of assertions, and traditions, in their musical mythologies, the main practical belief a man could have was probably not much more than this: of the _valkyrs_ and the _hall of odin_; of an inflexible _destiny_; and that the one thing needful for a man was _to be brave_. the _valkyrs_ are choosers of the slain: a destiny inexorable, which it is useless trying to bend or soften, has appointed who is to be slain; this was a fundamental point for the norse believer;--as indeed it is for all earnest men everywhere, for a mahomet, a luther, for a napoleon too. it lies at the basis this for every such man; it is the woof out of which his whole system of thought is woven. the _valkyrs_; and then that these _choosers_ lead the brave to a heavenly _hall of odin_; only the base and slavish being thrust elsewhither, into the realms of hela the death-goddess: i take this to have been the soul of the whole norse belief. they understood in their heart that it was indispensable to be brave; that odin would have no favour for them, but despise and thrust them out, if they were not brave. consider too whether there is not something in this! it is an everlasting duty, valid in our day as in that, the duty of being brave. _valour_ is still _value_. the first duty of a man is still that of subduing _fear_. we must get rid of fear; we cannot act at all till then. a man's acts are slavish, not true but specious: his very thoughts are false, he thinks too as a slave and coward, till he have got fear under his feet. odin's creed, if we disentangle the real kernel of it, is true to this hour. a man shall and must be valiant; he must march forward, and quit himself like a man--trusting imperturbably in the appointment and _choice_ of the upper powers; and, on the whole, not fear at all. now and always, the completeness of his victory over fear will determine how much of a man he is. it is doubtless very savage that kind of valour of the old northmen. snorro tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh, that odin might receive them as warriors slain. old kings, about to die, had their body laid into a ship; the ship sent forth, with sails set and slow fire burning it; that, once out at sea, it might blaze-up in flame, and in such manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean! wild bloody valour; yet valour of its kind; better, i say, than none. in the old sea-kings too, what an indomitable rugged energy! silent, with closed lips, as i fancy them, unconscious that they were specially brave; defying the wild ocean with its monsters, and all men and things;--progenitors of our own blakes and nelsons! no homer sang these norse sea-kings; but agamemnon's was a small audacity, and of small fruit in the world, to some of them;--to hrolf's of normandy, for instance! hrolf, or rollo duke of normandy, the wild sea-king, has a share in governing england at this hour. nor was it altogether nothing, even that wild sea-roving and battling, through so many generations. it needed to be ascertained which was the _strongest_ kind of men; who were to be ruler over whom. among the northland sovereigns, too, i find some who got the title _wood-cutter_; forest-felling kings. much lies in that. i suppose at bottom many of them were forest-fellers as well as fighters, though the skalds talk mainly of the latter,--misleading certain critics not a little; for no nation of men could ever live by fighting alone; there could not produce enough come out of that! i suppose the right good fighter was oftenest also the right good forest-feller,--the right good improver, discerner, doer and worker in every kind; for true valour, different enough from ferocity, is the basis of all. a more legitimate kind of valour that; showing itself against the untamed forests and dark brute powers of nature, to conquer nature for us. in the same direction have not we their descendants since carried it far? may such valour last forever with us! that the man odin, speaking with a hero's voice and heart, as with an impressiveness out of heaven, told his people the infinite importance of valour, how man thereby became a god; and that his people, feeling a response to it in their own hearts, believed this message of his, and thought it a message out of heaven, and him a divinity for telling it them: this seems to me the primary seed-grain of the norse religion, from which all manner of mythologies, symbolic practices, speculations, allegories, songs and sagas would naturally grow. grow,--how strangely! i called it a small light shining and shaping in the huge vortex of norse darkness. yet the darkness itself was _alive_; consider that. it was the eager inarticulate uninstructed mind of the whole norse people, longing only to become articulate, to go on articulating ever farther! the living doctrine grows, grows;--like a banyan-tree; the first _seed_ is the essential thing: any branch strikes itself down into the earth, becomes a new root; and so, in endless complexity, we have a whole wood, a whole jungle, one seed the parent of it all. was not the whole norse religion, accordingly, in some sense, what we called 'the enormous shadow of this man's likeness'? critics trace some affinity in some norse mythuses, of the creation and suchlike, with those of the hindoos. the cow adumbla, 'licking the rime from the rocks,' has a kind of hindoo look. a hindoo cow, transported into frosty countries. probably enough; indeed we may say undoubtedly, these things will have a kindred with the remotest lands, with the earliest times. thought does not die, but only is changed. the first man that began to think in this planet of ours, he was the beginner of all. and then the second man, and the third man:--nay, every true thinker to this hour is a kind of odin, teaches men _his_ way of thought, spreads a shadow of his own likeness over sections of the history of the world. * * * * * of the distinctive poetic character or merit of this norse mythology i have not room to speak; nor does it concern us much. some wild prophecies we have, as the _völuspa_ in the _elder edda_; of a rapt, earnest, sibylline sort. but they were comparatively an idle adjunct of the matter, men who as it were but toyed with the matter, these later skalds; and it is _their_ songs chiefly that survive. in later centuries, i suppose, they would go on singing, poetically symbolising, as our modern painters paint, when it was no longer from the innermost heart, or not from the heart at all. this is everywhere to be well kept in mind. gray's fragments of norse lore, at any rate, will give one no notion of it;--any more than pope will of homer. it is no square-built gloomy palace of black ashlar marble, shrouded in awe and horror, as gray gives it us: no; rough as the north rocks, as the iceland deserts, it is; with a heartiness, homeliness, even a tint of good humour and robust mirth in the middle of these fearful things. the strong old norse heart did not go upon theatrical sublimities; they had not time to tremble. i like much their robust simplicity; their veracity, directness of conception. thor 'draws down his brows' in a veritable norse rage; 'grasps his hammer till the _knuckles grow white_.' beautiful traits of pity too, an honest pity. balder 'the white god' dies; the beautiful, benignant; he is the sungod. they try all nature for a remedy; but he is dead. frigga, his mother, sends hermoder to seek or see him: nine days and nine nights he rides through gloomy deep valleys, a labyrinth of gloom; arrives at the bridge with its gold roof: the keeper says, "yes, balder did pass here; but the kingdom of the dead is down yonder, far towards the north." hermoder rides on; leaps hell-gate, hela's gate: does see balder, and speak with him: balder cannot be delivered. inexorable! hela will not, for odin or any god, give him up. the beautiful and gentle has to remain there. his wife had volunteered to go with him, to die with him. they shall forever remain there. he sends his ring to odin; nanna his wife sends her _thimble_ to frigga, as a remembrance--ah me!-for indeed valour is the fountain of pity too;--of truth, and all that is great and good in man. the robust homely vigour of the norse heart attaches one much, in these delineations. is it not a trait of right honest strength, says uhland, who has written a fine _essay_ on thor, that the old norse heart finds its friend in the thunder-god? that it is not frightened away by his thunder; but finds that summer-heat, the beautiful noble summer, must and will have thunder withal! the norse heart _loves_ this thor and his hammer-bolt; sports with him. thor is summer-heat; the god of peaceable industry as well as thunder. he is the peasant's friend; his true henchman and attendant is thialfi, _manual labour_. thor himself engages in all manner of rough manual work, scorns no business for its plebeianism; is ever and anon travelling to the country of the jötuns, harrying those chaotic frost-monsters, subduing them, at least straitening and damaging them. there is a great broad humour in some of these things. thor, as we saw above, goes to jötun-land, to seek hymir's caldron, that the gods may brew beer. hymir the huge giant enters, his grey beard all full of hoar-frost; splits pillars with the very glance of his eye; thor, after much rough tumult, snatches the pot, claps it on his head; the 'handles of it reach down to his heels.' the norse skald has a kind of loving sport with thor. this is the hymir whose cattle, the critics have discovered, are icebergs. huge untutored brobdignag genius,--needing only to be tamed-down; into shakspeares, dantes, goethes! it is all gone now, that old norse work,--thor the thunder-god changed into jack the giant-killer: but the mind that made it is here yet. how strangely things grow, and die, and do not die! there are twigs of that great world-tree of norse belief still curiously traceable. this poor jack of the nursery, with his miraculous shoes of swiftness, coat of darkness, sword of sharpness, he is one. _hynde etin_, and still more decisively _red etin of ireland_, in the scottish ballads, these are both derived from norseland; _etin_ is evidently a _jötun_. nay, shakspeare's _hamlet_ is a twig too of this same world-tree; there seems no doubt of that. hamlet, _amleth_, i find, is really a mythic personage; and his tragedy, of the poisoned father, poisoned asleep by drops in his ear, and the rest, is a norse mythus! old saxo, as his wont was, made it a danish history; shakspeare, out of saxo, made it what we see. that is a twig of the world-tree that has _grown_, i think;--by nature or accident that one has grown! in fact, these old norse songs have a _truth_ in them, an inward perennial truth and greatness,--as, indeed, all must have that can very long preserve itself by tradition alone. it is a greatness not of mere body and gigantic bulk, but a rude greatness of soul. there is a sublime uncomplaining melancholy traceable in these old hearts. a great free glance into the very deeps of thought. they seem to have seen, these brave old northmen, what meditation has taught all men in all ages, that this world is after all but a show,--a phenomenon or appearance, no real thing. all deep souls see into that,--the hindoo mythologist, the german philosopher,--the shakspeare, the earnest thinker, wherever he may be: 'we are such stuff as dreams are made of!' one of thor's expeditions, to utgard (the _outer_ garden, central seat of jötun-land), is remarkable in this respect. thialfi was with him, and loke. after various adventures they entered upon giant-land; wandered over plains, wild uncultivated places, among stones and trees. at nightfall they noticed a house; and as the door, which indeed formed one whole side of the house, was open, they entered. it was a simple habitation; one large hall, altogether empty. they stayed there. suddenly in the dead of the night loud noises alarmed them. thor grasped his hammer; stood in the door, prepared for fight. his companions within ran hither and thither in their terror, seeking some outlet in that rude hall; they found a little closet at last, and took refuge there. neither had thor any battle: for, lo, in the morning it turned-out that the noise had been only the _snoring_ of a certain enormous but peaceable giant, the giant skrymir, who lay peaceably sleeping near by; and this that they took for a house was merely his _glove_, thrown aside there; the door was the glove-wrist; the little closet they had fled into was the thumb! such a glove;--i remark too that it had not fingers as ours have, but only a thumb, and the rest undivided: a most ancient, rustic glove! skrymir now carried their portmanteau all day; thor, however, had his own suspicions, did not like the ways of skrymir; determined at night to put an end to him as he slept. raising his hammer, he struck down into the giant's face a right thunderbolt blow, of force to rend rocks. the giant merely awoke; rubbed his cheek, and said, did a leaf fall? again thor struck, so soon as skrymir again slept; a better blow than before: but the giant only murmured, was that a grain of sand? thor's third stroke was with both his hands (the 'knuckles white' i suppose), and seemed to dint deep into skrymir's visage; but he merely checked his snore, and remarked, there must be sparrows roosting in this tree, i think; what is that they have dropt?--at the gate of utgard, a place so high that you had to 'strain your neck bending back to see the top of it,' skrymir went his ways. thor and his companions were admitted; invited to take share in the games going on. to thor, for his part, they handed a drinking-horn; it was a common feat, they told him, to drink this dry at one draught. long and fiercely, three times over, thor drank; but made hardly any impression. he was a weak child, they told him; could he lift that cat he saw there? small as the feat seemed, thor with his whole godlike strength could not; he bent-up the creature's back, could not raise its feet off the ground, could at the utmost raise one foot. why, you are no man, said the utgard people; there is an old woman that will wrestle you! thor, heartily ashamed, seized this haggard old woman; but could not throw her. and now, on their quitting utgard, the chief jötun, escorting them politely a little way, said to thor: "you are beaten then:--yet be not so much ashamed; there was deception of appearance in it. that horn you tried to drink was the _sea_: you did make it ebb; but who could drink that, the bottomless! the cat you would have lifted,--why, that is the _midgard-snake_, the great world-serpent, which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps-up the whole created world; had you torn that up, the world must have rushed to ruin! as for the old woman, she was _time_, old age, duration; with her what can wrestle? no man nor no god with her; gods or men, she prevails over all! and then those three strokes you struck,--look at these _three valleys_; your three strokes made these!" thor looked at his attendant jötun: it was skrymir;--it was, say norse critics, the old chaotic rocky _earth_ in person, and that glove-_house_ was some earth-cavern! but skrymir had vanished; utgard with its skyhigh gates, when thor grasped his hammer to smite them, had gone to air; only the giant's voice was heard mocking: "better come no more to jötunheim!"-this is of the allegoric period, as we see, and half play, not of the prophetic and entirely devout: but as a mythus is there not real antique norse gold in it? more true metal, rough from the mimerstithy, than in many a famed greek mythus _shaped_ far better! a great broad brobdignag grin of true humour is in this skrymir; mirth resting on earnestness and sadness, as the rainbow on black tempest: only a right valiant heart is capable of that. it is the grim humour of our own ben jonson, rare old ben; runs in the blood of us, i fancy; for one catches tones of it, under a still other shape, out of the american backwoods. that is also a very striking conception, that of the _ragnarök_, consummation, or _twilight of the gods_. it is in the _völuspa_ song; seemingly a very old, prophetic idea. the gods and jötuns, the divine powers and the chaotic brute ones, after long contest and partial victory by the former, meet at last in universal world-embracing wrestle and duel; world-serpent against thor, strength against strength; mutually extinctive; and ruin, 'twilight' sinking into darkness, swallows the created universe. the old universe with its gods is sunk; but it is not final death: there is to be a new heaven and a new earth; a higher supreme god, and justice to reign among men. curious: this law of mutation, which also is a law written in man's inmost thought, had been deciphered by these old earnest thinkers in their rude style; and how, though all dies, and even gods die, yet all death is but a phoenix fire-death, and new-birth into the greater and the better! it is the fundamental law of being for a creature made of time, living in this place of hope. all earnest men have seen into it; may still see into it. and now, connected with this, let us glance at the _last_ mythus of the appearance of thor; and end there. i fancy it to be the latest in date of all these fables; a sorrowing protest against the advance of christianity,--set forth reproachfully by some conservative pagan. king olaf has been harshly blamed for his over-zeal in introducing christianity; surely i should have blamed him far more for an under-zeal in that! he paid dear enough for it; he died by the revolt of his pagan people, in battle, in the year 1033, at stickelstad, near that drontheim, where the chief cathedral of the north has now stood for many centuries, dedicated gratefully to his memory as _saint_ olaf. the mythus about thor is to this effect. king olaf, the christian reform king, is sailing with fit escort along the shore of norway, from haven to haven; dispensing justice, or doing other royal work: on leaving a certain haven, it is found that a stranger, of grave eyes and aspect, red beard, of stately robust figure, has stept in. the courtiers address him; his answers surprise by their pertinency and depth: at length he is brought to the king. the stranger's conversation here is not less remarkable, as they sail along the beautiful shore; but after some time, he addresses king olaf thus: "yes, king olaf, it is all beautiful, with the sun shining on it there; green, fruitful, a right fair home for you, and many a sore day had thor, many a wild fight with the rock jötuns, before he could make it so. and now you seem minded to put away thor. king olaf, have a care!" said the stranger, drawing-down his brows;--and when they looked again, he was nowhere to be found.--this is the last appearance of thor on the stage of this world! do we not see well enough how the fable might arise, without unveracity on the part of any one? it is the way most gods have come to appear among men: thus, if in pindar's time 'neptune was seen once at the nemean games,' what was this neptune too but a 'stranger of noble grave aspect,' _fit_ to be 'seen'! there is something pathetic, tragic for me in this last voice of paganism. thor is vanished, the whole norse world has vanished; and will not return ever again. in like fashion to that pass away the highest things. all things that have been in this world, all things that are or will be in it, have to vanish, we have our sad farewell to give them. that norse religion, a rude but earnest, sternly impressive _consecration of valour_ (so we may define it), sufficed for these old valiant northmen. consecration of valour is not a _bad_ thing! we will take it for good, so far as it goes. neither is there no use in _knowing_ something about this old paganism of our fathers. unconsciously, and combined with higher things, it is in _us_ yet, that old faith withal! to know it consciously, brings us into closer and clearer relation with the past--with our own possessions in the past. for the whole past, as i keep repeating, is the possession of the present; the past had always something _true_, and is a precious possession. in a different time, in a different place, it is always some other _side_ of our common human nature that has been developing itself. the actual true is the _sum_ of all these; not any one of them by itself, constitutes what of human nature is hitherto developed. better to know them all than misknow them. "to which of these three religions do you specially adhere?" inquires meister of his teacher. "to all the three!" answers the other: "to all the three: for they by their union first constitute the true religion." lecture ii the hero as prophet. mahomet: islam [_friday, 8th may 1840_] from the first rude times of paganism among the scandinavians in the north, we advance to a very different epoch of religion, among a very different people: mahometanism among the arabs. a great change; what a change and progress is indicated here, in the universal condition and thoughts of men! the hero is not now regarded as a god among his fellowmen; but as one god-inspired, as a prophet. it is the second phasis of hero-worship; the first or oldest, we may say, has passed away without return; in the history of the world there will not again be any man, never so great, whom his fellowmen will take for a god. nay we might rationally ask, did any set of human beings ever really think the man they _saw_ there standing beside them a god, the maker of this world? perhaps not: it was usually some man they remembered, or _had_ seen. but neither can this any more be. the great man is not recognised henceforth as a god any more. it was a rude gross error, that of counting the great man a god. yet let us say that it is at all times difficult to know _what_ he is, or how to account of him and receive him! the most significant feature in the history of an epoch is the manner it has of welcoming a great man. ever, to the true instincts of men, there is something godlike in him. whether they shall take him to be a god, to be a prophet, or what they shall take him to be? that is ever a grand question; by their way of answering that, we shall see, as through a little window, into the very heart of these men's spiritual condition. for at bottom the great man, as he comes from the hand of nature, is ever the same kind of thing: odin, luther, johnson, burns; i hope to make it appear that these are all originally of one stuff; that only by the world's reception of them, and the shapes they assume, are they so immeasurably diverse. the worship of odin astonishes us--to fall prostrate before the great man, into _deliquium_ of love and wonder over him, and feel in their hearts that he was a denizen of the skies, a god! this was imperfect enough: but to welcome, for example, a burns as we did, was that what we can call perfect? the most precious gift that heaven can give to the earth; a man of 'genius' as we call it: the soul of a man actually sent down from the skies with a god's-message to us--this we waste away as an idle artificial firework, sent to amuse us a little, and sink it into ashes, wreck and ineffectuality: _such_ reception of a great man i do not call very perfect either! looking into the heart of the thing, one may perhaps call that of burns a still uglier phenomenon, betokening still sadder imperfections in mankind's ways, than the scandinavian method itself! to fall into mere unreasoning _deliquium_ of love and admiration, was not good; but such unreasoning, nay irrational supercilious no-love at all is perhaps still worse!--it is a thing forever changing, this of hero-worship: different in each age, difficult to do well in any age. indeed, the heart of the whole business of the age, one may say, is to do it well. we have chosen mahomet not as the most eminent prophet, but as the one we are freest to speak of. he is by no means the truest of prophets; but i do esteem him a true one. farther, as there is no danger of our becoming, any of us, mahometans, i mean to say all the good of him i justly can. it is the way to get at his secret: let us try to understand what _he_ meant with the world; what the world meant and means with him, will then be a more answerable question. our current hypotheses about mahomet, that he was a scheming impostor, a falsehood incarnate, that his religion is a mere mass of quackery and fatuity, begins really to be now untenable to any one. the lies, which well-meaning zeal has heaped round this man, are disgraceful to ourselves only. when pococke inquired of grotius, where the proof was of that story of the pigeon, trained to pick peas from mahomet's ear, and pass for an angel dictating to him? grotius answered that there was no proof! it is really time to dismiss all that. the word this man spoke has been the life-guidance now of a hundred-and-eighty millions of men these twelve-hundred years. these hundred-and-eighty millions were made by god as well as we. a greater number of god's creatures believe in mahomet's word at this hour than in any other word whatever. are we to suppose that it was a miserable piece of spiritual legerdemain, this which so many creatures of the almighty have lived by and died by? i, for my part, cannot form any such supposition. i will believe most things sooner than that. one would be entirely at a loss what to think of this world at all, if quackery so grew and were sanctioned here. alas, such theories are very lamentable. if we would attain to knowledge of anything in god's true creation, let us disbelieve them wholly! they are the product of an age of scepticism; they indicate the saddest spiritual paralysis, and mere death-life of the souls of men: more godless theory, i think, was never promulgated in this earth. a false man found a religion? why, a false man cannot build a brick house! if he do not know and follow _truly_ the properties of mortar, burnt clay and what else he works in, it is no house that he makes, but a rubbish-heap. it will not stand for twelve centuries, to lodge a hundred-and-eighty millions; it will fall straightway. a man must conform himself to nature's laws, _be_ verily in communion with nature and the truth of things, or nature will answer him, no, not at all! speciosities are specious--ah, me!--a cagliostro, many cagliostros, prominent world-leaders, do prosper by their quackery, for a day. it is like a forged bank-note; they get it passed out of _their_ worthless hands: others, not they, have to smart for it. nature bursts-up in fire-flame, french revolutions and suchlike, proclaiming with terrible veracity that forged notes are forged. but of a great man especially, of him i will venture to assert that it is incredible he should have been other than true. it seems to me the primary foundation of him, and of all that can lie in him, this. no mirabeau, napoleon, burns, cromwell, no man adequate to do anything, but is first of all in right earnest about it; what i call a sincere man. i should say _sincerity_, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is the first characteristic of all men in any way heroic. not the sincerity that calls itself sincere; ah, no, that is a very poor matter indeed;--a shallow braggart conscious sincerity; oftenest self-conceit mainly. the great man's sincerity is of the kind he cannot speak of, is not conscious of: nay, i suppose, he is conscious rather of _in_sincerity; for what man can walk accurately by the law of truth for one day? no, the great man does not boast himself sincere, far from that; perhaps does not ask himself if he is so: i would say rather, his sincerity does not depend on himself; he cannot help being sincere! the great fact of existence is great to him. fly as he will, he cannot get out of the awful presence of this reality. his mind is so made; he is great by that, first of all. fearful and wonderful, real as life, real as death, is this universe to him. though all men should forget its truth, and walk in a vain show, he cannot. at all moments the flame-image glares-in upon him; undeniable, there, there!--i wish you to take this as my primary definition of a great man. a little man may have this, it is competent to all men that god has made: but a great man cannot be without it. such a man is what we call an _original_ man: he comes to us at first-hand. a messenger he, sent from the infinite unknown with tidings to us. we may call him poet, prophet, god;--in one way or other, we all feel that the words he utters are as no other man's words. direct from the inner fact of things;--he lives, and has to live, in daily communion with that. hearsays cannot hide it from him; he is blind, homeless, miserable, following hearsays; _it_ glares-in upon him. really his utterances, are they not a kind of 'revelation;'--what we must call such for want of some other name? it is from the heart of the world that he comes; he is portion of the primal reality of things. god has made many revelations: but this man too, has not god made him, the latest and newest of all? the 'inspiration of the almighty giveth _him_ understanding:' we must listen before all to him. this mahomet, then, we will in no wise consider as an inanity and theatricality, a poor conscious ambitious schemer; we cannot conceive him so. the rude message he delivered was a real one withal; an earnest confused voice from the unknown deep. the man's words were not false, nor his workings here below; no inanity and simulacrum; a fiery mass of life cast-up from the great bosom of nature herself. to _kindle_ the world; the world's maker had ordered it so. neither can the faults, imperfections, insincerities even, of mahomet, if such were never so well proved against him, shake this primary fact about him. on the whole, we make too much of faults; the details of the business hide the real centre of it. faults? the greatest of faults, i should say, is to be conscious of none. readers of the bible above all, one would think, might know better. who is called there 'the man according to god's own heart'? david, the hebrew king, had fallen into sins enough; blackest crimes; there was no want of sins. and thereupon the unbelievers sneer and ask, is this your man according to god's own heart? the sneer, i must say, seems to me but a shallow one. what are faults, what are the outward details of a life; if the inner secret of it, the remorse, temptations, true, often-baffled, never-ended struggle of it, be forgotten? 'it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.' of all acts, is not, for a man, _repentance_ the most divine? the deadliest sin, i say, were that same supercilious consciousness of no sin;--that is death; the heart so conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility and fact; is dead: it is 'pure' as dead dry sand is pure. david's life and history, as written for us in those psalms of his, i consider to be the truest emblem ever given of a man's moral progress and warfare here below. all earnest souls will ever discern in it the faithful struggle of an earnest human soul towards what is good and best. struggle often baffled, sore baffled, down as into entire wreck; yet a struggle never ended; ever, with tears, repentance, true unconquerable purpose, begun anew. poor human nature! is not a man's walking, in truth, always that: 'a succession of falls'? man can do no other. in this wild element of a life, he has to struggle onwards; now fallen, deep-abased; and ever, with tears, repentance, with bleeding heart, he has to rise again, struggle again still onwards. that his struggle _be_ a faithful unconquerable one: that is the question of questions. we will put-up with many sad details, if the soul of it were true. details by themselves will never teach us what it is. i believe we misestimate mahomet's faults even as faults: but the secret of him will never be got by dwelling there. we will leave all this behind us; and assuring ourselves that he did mean some true thing, ask candidly what it was or might be. * * * * * these arabs mahomet was born among are certainly a notable people. their country itself is notable; the fit habitation for such a race. savage inaccessible rock-mountains, great grim deserts, alternating with beautiful strips of verdure: wherever water is, there is greenness, beauty; odoriferous balm-shrubs, date-trees, frankincense-trees. consider that wide waste horizon of sand, empty, silent, like a sand-sea, dividing habitable place from habitable. you are all alone there, left alone with the universe; by day a fierce sun blazing down on it with intolerable radiance; by night the great deep heaven with its stars. such a country is fit for a swift-handed, deep-hearted race of men. there is something most agile, active, and yet most meditative, enthusiastic in the arab character. the persians are called the french of the east, we will call the arabs oriental italians. a gifted noble people; a people of wild strong feelings, and of iron restraint over these: the characteristic of noblemindedness, of genius. the wild bedouin welcomes the stranger to his tent, as one having right to all that is there; were it his worst enemy, he will slay his foal to treat him, will serve him with sacred hospitality for three days, will set him fairly on his way;--and then, by another law as sacred, kill him if he can. in words too, as in action. they are not a loquacious people, taciturn rather; but eloquent, gifted when they do speak. an earnest truthful kind of men. they are, as we know, of jewish kindred: but with that deadly terrible earnestness of the jews they seem to combine something graceful, brilliant, which is not jewish. they had 'poetic contests' among them before the time of mahomet. sale says, at ocadh, in the south of arabia, there were yearly fairs, and there, when the merchandising was done, poets sang for prizes:--the wild people gathered to hear that. one jewish quality these arabs manifest; the outcome of many or of all high qualities; what we may call religiosity. from of old they had been zealous workers, according to their light. they worshipped the stars, as sabeans; worshipped many natural objects,--recognised them as symbols, immediate manifestations, of the maker of nature. it was wrong; and yet not wholly wrong. all god's works are still in a sense symbols of god. do we not, as i urged, still account it a merit to recognise a certain inexhaustible significance, 'poetic beauty' as we name it, in all natural objects whatsoever? a man is a poet, and honoured, for doing that, and speaking or singing it,--a kind of diluted worship. they had many prophets, these arabs; teachers each to his tribe, each according to the light he had. but indeed, have we not from of old the noblest of proofs, still palpable to every one of us, of what devoutness and noblemindedness had dwelt in these rustic thoughtful peoples? biblical critics seem agreed that our own _book of job_ was written in that region of the world. i call that, apart from all theories about it, one of the grandest things ever written with pen. one feels, indeed, as if it were not hebrew; such a noble universality, different from noble patriotism or sectarianism, reigns in it. a noble book; all men's book! it is our first, oldest statement of the never-ending problem,--man's destiny, and god's ways with him here in this earth. and all in such free flowing outlines; grand in its sincerity, in its simplicity; in its epic melody, and repose of reconcilement. there is the seeing eye, the mildly understanding heart. so _true_ everywhere; true eyesight and vision for all things; material things no less than spiritual; the horse,--'hast thou clothed his neck with _thunder_?'--he '_laughs_ at the shaking of the spear!' such living likenesses were never since drawn. sublime sorrow, sublime reconciliation: oldest choral melody as of the heart of mankind;--so soft, and great; as the summer midnight, as the world with its seas and stars! there is nothing written, i think, in the bible or out of it, of equal literary merit.-to the idolatrous arabs one of the most ancient universal objects of worship was that black stone, still kept in the building called caabah at mecca. diodorus siculus mentions this caabah in a way not to be mistaken, as the oldest, most honoured temple in his time; that is, some half-century before our era. silvestre de sacy says there is some likelihood that the black stone is an aerolite. in that case, some one might _see_ it fall out of heaven! it stands now beside the well zemzem; the caabah is built over both. a well is in all places a beautiful affecting object, gushing out like life from the hard earth;--still more so in these hot dry countries, where it is the first condition of being. the well zemzem has its name from the bubbling sound of the waters, _zem-zem_; they think it is the well which hagar found with her little ishmael in the wilderness: the aerolite and it have been sacred now, and had a caabah over them, for thousands of years. a curious object, that caabah! there it stands at this hour, in the black cloth-covering the sultan sends it yearly; 'twenty-seven cubits high;' with circuit, with double circuit of pillars, with festoon-rows of lamps and quaint ornaments: the lamps will be lighted again _this_ night,--to glitter again under the stars. an authentic fragment of the oldest past. it is the _keblah_ of all moslem: from delhi all onwards to morocco, the eyes of innumerable praying men are turned towards _it_, five times, this day and all days: one of the notablest centres in the habitation of men. it had been from the sacredness attached to this caabah stone and hagar's well, from the pilgrimings of all tribes of arabs thither, that mecca took its rise as a town. a great town once, though much decayed now. it has no natural advantage for a town; stands in a sandy hollow amid bare barren hills, at a distance from the sea; its provisions, its very bread, have to be imported. but so many pilgrims needed lodgings: and then all places of pilgrimage do, from the first, become places of trade. the first day pilgrims meet, merchants have also met: where men see themselves assembled for one object, they find that they can accomplish other objects which depend on meeting together. mecca became the fair of all arabia. and thereby indeed the chief staple and warehouse of whatever commerce there was between the indian and western countries, syria, egypt, even italy. it had at one time a population of 100,000; buyers, forwarders of those eastern and western products; importers for their own behoof of provisions and corn. the government was a kind of irregular aristocratic republic, not without a touch of theocracy. ten men of a chief tribe, chosen in some rough way, were governors of mecca, and keepers of the caabah. the koreish were the chief tribe in mahomet's time; his own family was of that tribe. the rest of the nation, fractioned and cut-asunder by deserts, lived under similar rude patriarchal governments by one or several: herdsmen, carriers, traders, generally robbers too; being oftenest at war one with another, or with all: held together by no open bond, if it were not this meeting at the caabah, where all forms of arab idolatry assembled in common adoration;--held mainly by the _inward_ indissoluble bond of a common blood and language. in this way had the arabs lived for long ages, unnoticed by the world: a people of great qualities, unconsciously waiting for the day when they should become notable to all the world. their idolatries appear to have been in a tottering state; much was getting into confusion and fermentation among them. obscure tidings of the most important event ever transacted in this world, the life and death of the divine man in judea, at once the symptom and cause of immeasurable change to all people in the world, had in the course of centuries reached into arabia too; and could not but, of itself, have produced fermentation there. * * * * * it was among this arab people, so circumstanced, in the year 570 of our era, that the man mahomet was born. he was of the family of hashem, of the koreish tribe as we said; though poor, connected with the chief persons of his country. almost at his birth he lost his father; at the age of six years his mother too, a woman noted for her beauty, her worth and sense: he fell to the charge of his grandfather, an old man, a hundred years old. a good old man: mahomet's father, abdallah, had been his youngest favourite son. he saw in mahomet, with his old life-worn eyes, a century old, the lost abdallah come back again, all that was left of abdallah. he loved the little orphan boy greatly; used to say, they must take care of that beautiful little boy, nothing in their kindred was more precious than he. at his death, while the boy was still but two years old, he left him in charge to abu thaleb the eldest of the uncles, as to him that now was head of the house. by this uncle, a just and rational man as everything betokens, mahomet was brought-up in the best arab way. mahomet, as he grew up, accompanied his uncle on trading journeys and suchlike; in his eighteenth year one finds him a fighter following his uncle in war. but perhaps the most significant of all his journeys is one we find noted as of some years' earlier date: a journey to the fairs of syria. the young man here first came in contact with a quite foreign world,--with one foreign element of endless moment to him: the christian religion. i know not what to make of that 'sergius, the nestorian monk,' whom abu thaleb and he are said to have lodged with; or how much any monk could have taught one still so young. probably enough it is greatly exaggerated, this of the nestorian monk. mahomet was only fourteen; had no language but his own: much in syria must have been a strange unintelligible whirlpool to him. but the eyes of the lad were open; glimpses of many things would doubtless be taken-in, and lie very enigmatic as yet, which were to ripen in a strange way into views, into beliefs and insights one day. these journeys to syria were probably the beginning of much to mahomet. one other circumstance we must not forget: that he had no school-learning; of the thing we call school-learning none at all. the art of writing was but just introduced into arabia; it seems to be the true opinion that mahomet never could write! life in the desert, with its experiences, was all his education. what of this infinite universe he, from his dim place, with his own eyes and thoughts, could take in, so much and no more of it was he to know. curious, if we will reflect on it, this of having no books. except by what he could see for himself, or hear of by uncertain rumour of speech in the obscure arabian desert, he could know nothing. the wisdom that had been before him or at a distance from him in the world, was in a manner as good as not there for him. of the great brother souls, flame-beacons through so many lands and times, no one directly communicates with this great soul. he is alone there, deep down in the bosom of the wilderness; has to grow up so,--alone with nature and his own thoughts. but, from an early age, he had been remarked as a thoughtful man. his companions named him '_al amin_, the faithful.' a man of truth and fidelity; true in what he did, in what he spake and thought. they noted that _he_ always meant something. a man rather taciturn in speech; silent when there was nothing to be said; but pertinent, wise, sincere, when he did speak; always throwing light on the matter. this is the only sort of speech _worth_ speaking! through life we find him to have been regarded as an altogether solid, brotherly, genuine man. a serious, sincere character; yet amiable, cordial, companionable, jocose even;--a good laugh in him withal: there are men whose laugh is as untrue as anything about them; who cannot laugh. one hears of mahomet's beauty: his fine sagacious honest face, brown florid complexion, beaming black eyes;--i somehow like too that vein on the brow, which swelled-up black when he was in anger: like the '_horse-shoe_ vein' in scott's _redgauntlet_. it was a kind of feature in the hashem family, this black swelling vein in the brow; mahomet had it prominent, as would appear. a spontaneous, passionate, yet just, true-meaning man! full of wild faculty, fire and light: of wild worth, all uncultured; working out his life-task in the depths of the desert there. how he was placed with kadijah, a rich widow, as her steward, and travelled in her business, again to the fairs of syria; how he managed all, as one can well understand, with fidelity, adroitness; how her gratitude, her regard for him grew: the story of their marriage is altogether a graceful intelligible one, as told us by the arab authors. he was twenty-five; she forty, though still beautiful. he seems to have lived in a most affectionate, peaceable, wholesome way with this wedded benefactress; loving her truly, and her alone. it goes greatly against the impostor theory, the fact that he lived in this entirely unexceptionable, entirely quiet and commonplace way, till the heat of his years was done. he was forty before he talked of any mission from heaven. all his irregularities, real and supposed, date from after his fiftieth year, when the good kadijah died. all his 'ambition,' seemingly, had been, hitherto, to live an honest life; his 'fame,' the mere good opinion of neighbours that knew him, had been sufficient hitherto. not till he was already getting old, the prurient heat of his life all burnt out, and _peace_ growing to be the chief thing this world could give him, did he start on the 'career of ambition;' and, belying all his past character and existence, set-up as a wretched empty charlatan to acquire what he could now no longer enjoy! for my share, i have no faith whatever in that. ah no: this deep-hearted son of the wilderness, with his beaming black eyes and open social deep soul, had other thoughts in him than ambition. a silent great soul; he was one of those who cannot _but_ be in earnest; whom nature herself has appointed to be sincere. while others walk in formulas and hearsays, contented enough to dwell there, this man could not screen himself in formulas; he was alone with his own soul and the reality of things. the great mystery of existence, as i said, glared-in upon him, with its terrors, with its splendours; no hearsays could hide that unspeakable fact, "here am i!" such _sincerity_, as we named it, has in very truth something of divine. the word of such a man is a voice direct from nature's own heart. men do and must listen to that as to nothing else;--all else is wind in comparison. from of old, a thousand thoughts, in his pilgrimings and wanderings, had been in this man: what am i? what _is_ this unfathomable thing i live in, which men name universe? what is life; what is death? what am i to believe? what am i to do? the grim rocks of mount hara, of mount sinai, the stern sandy solitudes answered not. the great heaven rolling silent overhead, with its blue-glancing stars, answered not. there was no answer. the man's own soul, and what of god's inspiration dwelt there, had to answer! it is the thing which all men have to ask themselves; which we too have to ask, and answer. this wild man felt it to be of _infinite_ moment; all other things of no moment whatever in comparison. the jargon of argumentative greek sects, vague traditions of jews, the stupid routine of arab idolatry, there was no answer in these. a hero, as i repeat, has this first distinction, which indeed we may call first and last, the alpha and omega of his whole heroism, that he looks through the shows of things into _things_. use and wont, respectable hearsay, respectable formula: all these are good, or are not good. there is something behind and beyond all these, which all these must correspond with, be the image of, or they are--_idolatries_: 'bits of black wood pretending to be god;' to the earnest soul a mockery and abomination. idolatries never so gilded, waited on by heads of the koreish, will do nothing for this man. though all men walk by them, what good is it? the great reality stands glaring there upon _him_. he there has to answer it, or perish miserably. now, even now, or else through all eternity never! answer it; _thou_ must find an answer.--ambition? what could all arabia do for this man; with the crown of greek heraclius, of persian chosroes, and all crowns in the earth;--what could they all do for him? it was not of the earth he wanted to hear tell; it was of the heaven above and of the hell beneath. all crowns and sovereignties whatsoever, where would _they_ in a few brief years be? to be sheik of mecca or arabia, and have a bit of gilt wood put into your hand,--will that be one's salvation? i decidedly think, not. we will leave it altogether, this impostor hypothesis, as not credible; not very tolerable even, worthy chiefly of dismissal by us. mahomet had been wont to retire yearly, during the month ramadhan, into solitude and silence; as indeed was the arab custom; a praiseworthy custom, which such a man, above all, would find natural and useful. communing with his own heart, in the silence of the mountains; himself silent; open to the 'small still voices:' it was a right natural custom! mahomet was in his fortieth year, when having withdrawn to a cavern in mount hara, near mecca, during this ramadhan, to pass the month in prayer, and meditation on those great questions, he one day told his wife kadijah, who with his household was with him or near him this year, that by the unspeakable special favour of heaven he had now found it all out; was in doubt and darkness no longer, but saw it all. that all these idols and formulas were nothing, miserable bits of wood; that there was one god in and over all; and we must leave all idols, and look to him. that god is great; and that there is nothing else great! he is the reality. wooden idols are not real; he is real. he made us at first, sustains us yet; we and all things are but the shadow of him; a transitory garment veiling the eternal splendour. '_allah akbar_, god is great;'--and then also '_islam_,' that we must _submit_ to god. that our whole strength lies in resigned submission to him, whatsoever he do to us. for this world, and for the other! the thing he sends to us, were it death and worse than death, shall be good, shall be best; we resign ourselves to god.--'if this be _islam_,' says goethe, 'do we not all live in _islam_?' yes, all of us that have any moral life; we all live so. it has ever been held the highest wisdom for a man not merely to submit to necessity,--necessity will make him submit,--but to know and believe well that the stern thing which necessity had ordered was the wisest, the best, the thing wanted there. to cease his frantic pretension of scanning this great god's-world in his small fraction of a brain; to know that it _had_ verily, though deep beyond his soundings, a just law, that the soul of it was good;--that his part in it was to conform to the law of the whole, and in devout silence follow that; not questioning it, obeying it as unquestionable. i say, this is yet the only true morality known. a man is right and invincible, virtuous and on the road towards sure conquest, precisely while he joins himself to the great deep law of the world, in spite of all superficial laws, temporary appearances, profit-and-loss calculations; he is victorious while he coöperates with that great central law, not victorious otherwise:--and surely his first chance of coöperating with it, or getting into the course of it, is to know with his whole soul that it _is_; that it is good, and alone good! this is the soul of islam; it is properly the soul of christianity;--for islam is definable as a confused form of christianity; had christianity not been, neither had it been. christianity also commands us, before all, to be resigned to god. we are to take no counsel with flesh-and-blood; give ear to no vain cavils, vain sorrows and wishes: to know that we know nothing; that the worst and cruelest to our eyes is not what it seems; that we have to receive whatsoever befalls us as sent from god above, and say, it is good and wise, god is great! "though he slay me, yet will i trust in him." islam means in its way denial of self, annihilation of self. this is yet the highest wisdom that heaven has revealed to our earth. such light had come, as it could, to illuminate the darkness of this wild arab soul. a confused dazzling, splendour as of life and heaven, in the great darkness which threatened to be death: he called it revelation and the angel gabriel;--who of us yet can know what to call it? it is the 'inspiration of the almighty that giveth us understanding.' to _know_; to get into the truth of anything, is ever a mystic act,--of which the best logics can but babble on the surface. 'is not belief the true god-announcing miracle?' says novalis.--that mahomet's whole soul, set in flame with this grand truth vouchsafed him, should feel as if it were important and the only important thing, was very natural. that providence had unspeakably honoured _him_ by revealing it, saving him from death and darkness; that he therefore was bound to make known the same to all creatures: this is what was meant by 'mahomet is the prophet of god;' this too is not without its true meaning.-the good kadijah, we can fancy, listened to him with wonder, with doubt: at length she answered: yes, it was _true_ this that he said. one can fancy too the boundless gratitude of mahomet; and how of all the kindnesses she had done him, this of believing the earnest struggling word he now spoke was the greatest. 'it is certain,' says novalis, 'my conviction gains infinitely, the moment another soul will believe in it.' it is a boundless favour.--he never forgot this good kadijah. long afterwards, ayesha his young favourite wife, a woman who indeed distinguished herself among the moslem, by all manner of qualities, through her whole long life; this young brilliant ayesha was, one day, questioning him: "now am not i better than kadijah? she was a widow; old, and had lost her looks: you love me better than you did her?"--"no, by allah!" answered mahomet: "no, by allah! she believed in me when none else would believe. in the whole world i had but one friend, and she was that!"--seid, his slave, also believed in him; these with his young cousin ali, abu thaleb's son, were his first converts. he spoke of his doctrine to this man and that; but the most treated it with ridicule, with indifference; in three years, i think, he had gained but thirteen followers. his progress was slow enough. his encouragement to go on, was altogether the usual encouragement that such a man in such a case meets. after some three years of small success, he invited forty of his chief kindred to an entertainment; and there stood-up and told them what his pretension was: that he had this thing to promulgate abroad to all men; that it was the highest thing, the one thing: which of them would second him in that? amid the doubt and silence of all, young ali, as yet a lad of sixteen, impatient of the silence, started-up, and exclaimed in passionate fierce language, that he would! the assembly, among whom was abu thaleb, ali's father, could not be unfriendly to mahomet; yet the sight there, of one unlettered elderly man, with a lad of sixteen, deciding on such an enterprise against all mankind, appeared ridiculous to them; the assembly broke-up in laughter. nevertheless it proved not a laughable thing; it was a very serious thing! as for this young ali, one cannot but like him. a noble-minded creature, as he shows himself, now and always afterwards; full of affection, of fiery daring. something chivalrous in him; brave as a lion; yet with a grace, a truth and affection worthy of christian knighthood. he died by assassination in the mosque at bagdad; a death occasioned by his own generous fairness, confidence in the fairness of others: he said, if the wound proved not unto death, they must pardon the assassin; but if it did, then they must slay him straightway, that so they two in the same hour might appear before god, and see which side of that quarrel was the just one! mahomet naturally gave offence to the koreish, keepers of the caabah, superintendents of the idols. one or two men of influence had joined him: the thing spread slowly, but it was spreading. naturally, he gave offence to everybody: who is this that pretends to be wiser than we all; that rebukes us all, as mere fools and worshippers of wood! abu thaleb the good uncle spoke with him: could he not be silent about all that; believe it all for himself, and not trouble others, anger the chief men, endanger himself and them all, talking of it? mahomet answered: if the sun stood on his right hand and the moon on his left, ordering him to hold his peace, he could not obey! no: there was something in this truth he had got which was of nature herself; equal in rank to sun, or moon, or whatsoever thing nature had made. it would speak itself there, so long as the almighty allowed it, in spite of sun and moon, and all koreish and all men and things. it must do that, and could do no other. mahomet answered so; and, they say, 'burst into tears.' burst into tears: he felt that abu thaleb was good to him; that the task he had got was no soft, but a stern and great one. he went on speaking to who would listen to him; publishing his doctrine among the pilgrims as they came to mecca; gaining adherents in this place and that. continual contradiction, hatred, open or secret danger attended him. his powerful relations protected mahomet himself; but by and by, on his own advice, all his adherents had to quit mecca, and seek refuge in abyssinia over the sea. the koreish grew ever angrier; laid plots, and swore oaths among them, to put mahomet to death with their own hands. abu thaleb was dead, the good kadijah was dead. mahomet is not solicitous of sympathy from us; but his outlook at this time was one of the dismalest. he had to hide in caverns, escape in disguise; fly hither and thither; homeless, in continual peril of his life. more than once it seemed all-over with him; more than once it turned on a straw, some rider's horse taking fright or the like, whether mahomet and his doctrine had not ended there, and not been heard of at all. but it was not to end so. in the thirteenth year of his mission, finding his enemies all banded against him, forty sworn men, one out of every tribe, waiting to take his life, and no continuance possible at mecca for him any longer, mahomet fled to the place then called yathreb, where he had gained some adherents; the place they now call medina, or '_medinat al nabi_, the city of the prophet,' from that circumstance. it lay some 200 miles off, through rocks and deserts; not without great difficulty, in such mood as we may fancy, he escaped thither, and found welcome. the whole east dates its era from this flight, _hegira_ as they name it: the year 1 of this hegira is 622 of our era, the fifty-third of mahomet's life. he was now becoming an old man; his friends sinking round him one by one: his path desolate, encompassed with danger: unless he could find hope in his own heart, the outward face of things was but hopeless for him. it is so with all men in the like case. hitherto mahomet had professed to publish his religion by the way of preaching and persuasion alone. but now, driven foully out of his native country, since unjust men had not only given no ear to his earnest heaven's-message, the deep cry of his heart, but would not even let him live if he kept speaking it,--the wild son of the desert resolved to defend himself, like a man and arab. if the koreish will have it so, they shall have it. tidings, felt to be of infinite moment to them and all men, they would not listen to these; would trample them down by sheer violence, steel and murder: well, let steel try it then! ten years more this mahomet had: all of fighting, of breathless impetuous toil and struggle; with what result we know. much has been said of mahomet's propagating his religion by the sword. it is no doubt far nobler what we have to boast of the christian religion, that it propagated itself peaceably in the way of preaching and conviction. yet withal, if we take this for an argument of the truth or falsehood of a religion, there is a radical mistake in it. the sword indeed: but where will you get your sword! every new opinion, at its starting, is precisely in a _minority of one_. in one man's head alone, there it dwells as yet. one man alone of the whole world believes it; there is one man against all men. that _he_ take a sword, and try to propagate with that, will do little for him. you must first get your sword! on the whole, a thing will propagate itself as it can. we do not find, of the christian religion either, that it always disdained the sword, when once it had got one. charlemagne's conversion of the saxons was not by preaching. i care little about the sword: i will allow a thing to struggle for itself in this world, with any sword or tongue or implement it has, or can lay hold of. we will let it preach, and pamphleteer, and fight, and to the uttermost bestir itself, and do, beak and claws, whatsoever is in it; very sure that it will, in the long-run, conquer nothing which does not deserve to be conquered. what is better than itself, it cannot put away, but only what is worse. in this great duel, nature herself is umpire, and can do no wrong: the thing which is deepest-rooted in nature, what we call _truest_, that thing and not the other will be found growing at last. here however, in reference to much that there is in mahomet and his success, we are to remember what an umpire nature is; what a greatness, composure of depth and tolerance there is in her. you take wheat to cast into the earth's bosom: your wheat may be mixed with chaff, chopped straw, barn-sweepings, dust and all imaginable rubbish; no matter: you cast it into the kind just earth; she grows the wheat,--the whole rubbish she silently absorbs, shrouds _it_ in, says nothing of the rubbish. the yellow wheat is growing there; the good earth is silent about all the rest,--has silently turned all the rest to some benefit too, and makes no complaint about it! so everywhere in nature! she is true and not a lie; and yet so great, and just, and motherly in her truth. she requires of a thing only that it _be_ genuine of heart; she will protect it if so; will not, if not so. there is a soul of truth in all the things she ever gave harbour to. alas, is not this the history of all highest truth that comes or ever came into the world? the _body_ of them all is imperfection, an element of light _in_ darkness: to us they have to come embodied in mere logic, in some merely _scientific_ theorem of the universe; which _cannot_ be complete; which cannot but be found, one day, incomplete, erroneous, and so die and disappear. the body of all truth dies; and yet in all, i say, there is a soul which never dies; which in new and ever-nobler embodiment lives immortal as man himself! it is the way with nature. the genuine essence of truth never dies. that it be genuine, a voice from the great deep of nature, there is the point at nature's judgment-seat. what _we_ call pure or impure, is not with her the final question. not how much chaff is in you; but whether you have any wheat. pure? i might say to many a man: yes, you are pure; pure enough; but you are chaff,--insincere hypothesis, hearsay, formality; you never were in contact with the great heart of the universe at all; you are properly neither pure nor impure; you _are_ nothing, nature has no business with you. mahomet's creed we called a kind of christianity; and really, if we look at the wild rapt earnestness with which it was believed and laid to heart, i should say a better kind than that of those miserable syrian sects, with their vain janglings about _homoiousion_ and _homoousion_, the head full of worthless noise, the heart empty and dead! the truth of it is embedded in portentous error and falsehood; but the truth of it makes it be believed, not the falsehood: it succeeded by its truth. a bastard kind of christianity, but a living kind; with a heart-life in it: not dead, chopping barren logic merely! out of all that rubbish of arab idolatries, argumentative theologies, traditions, subtleties, rumours and hypotheses of greeks and jews, with their idle wire-drawings, this wild man of the desert, with his wild sincere heart, earnest as death and life, with his great flashing natural eyesight, had seen into the kernel of the matter. idolatry is nothing: these wooden idols of yours, 'ye rub them with oil and wax, and the flies stick on them,'--these are wood, i tell you! they can do nothing for you; they are an impotent blasphemous pretence; a horror and abomination, if ye knew them. god alone is; god alone has power; he made us, he can kill us and keep us alive: '_allah akbar_, god is great.' understand that his will is the best for you; that howsoever sore to flesh-and-blood, you will find it the wisest, best: you are bound to take it so; in this world and in the next, you have no other thing that you can do! and now if the wild idolatrous men did believe this, and with their fiery hearts laid hold of it to do it, in what form soever it came to them, i say it was well worthy of being believed. in one form or the other, i say it is still the one thing worthy of being believed by all men. man does hereby become the high-priest of this temple of a world. he is in harmony with the decrees of the author of this world; coöperating with them, not vainly withstanding them: i know, to this day, no better definition of duty than that same. all that is _right_ includes itself in this of coöperating with the real tendency of the world; you succeed by this (the world's tendency will succeed), you are good, and in the right course there. _homoiousion_, _homoousion_, vain logical jangle, then or before or at any time, may jangle itself out, and go whither and how it likes: this is the _thing_ it all struggles to mean, if it would mean anything. if it do not succeed in meaning this, it means nothing. not that abstractions, logical propositions, be correctly worded or incorrectly; but that living concrete sons of adam do lay this to heart: that is the important point. islam devoured all these vain jangling sects; and i think had right to do so. it was a reality, direct from the great heart of nature once more. arab idolatries, syrian formulas, whatsoever was not equally real, had to go up in flame,--mere dead _fuel_, in various senses, for this which was _fire_. * * * * * it was during these wild warfarings and strugglings, especially after the flight to mecca, that mahomet dictated at intervals his sacred book, which they name _koran_, or _reading_, 'thing to be read.' this is the work he and his disciples made so much of, asking all the world, is not that a miracle? the mahometans regard their koran with a reverence which few christians pay even to their bible. it is admitted everywhere as the standard of all law and all practice; the thing to be gone-upon in speculation and life: the message sent direct out of heaven, which this earth has to conform to, and walk by; the thing to be read. their judges decide by it; all moslem are bound to study it, seek in it for the light of their life. they have mosques where it is all read daily; thirty relays of priests take it up in succession, get through the whole each day. there, for twelve-hundred years, has the voice of this book, at all moments, kept sounding through the ears and the hearts of so many men. we hear of mahometan doctors that had read it seventy-thousand times! very curious: if one sought for 'discrepancies of national taste,' here surely were the most eminent instance of that! we also can read the koran; our translation of it, by sale, is known to be a very fair one. i must say, it is as toilsome reading as i ever undertook. a wearisome confused jumble, crude, incondite; endless iterations, long-windedness, entanglement; most crude, incondite;--insupportable stupidity, in short! nothing but a sense of duty could carry any european through the koran. we read in it, as we might in the state-paper office, unreadable masses of lumber, that perhaps we may get some glimpses of a remarkable man. it is true we have it under disadvantages: the arabs see more method in it than we. mahomet's followers found the koran lying all in fractions, as it had been written-down at first promulgation; much of it, they say, on shoulder-blades of mutton, flung pellmell into a chest: and they published it, without any discoverable order as to time or otherwise;--merely trying, as would seem, and this not very strictly, to put the longest chapters first. the real beginning of it, in that way, lies almost at the end: for the earliest portions were the shortest. read in its historical sequence it perhaps would not be so bad. much of it, too, they say, is rhythmic; a kind of wild chanting song, in the original. this may be a great point; much perhaps has been lost in the translation here. yet with every allowance, one feels it difficult to see how any mortal ever could consider this koran as a book written in heaven, too good for the earth; as a well-written book, or indeed as a _book_ at all; and not a bewildered rhapsody; _written_, so far as writing goes, as badly as almost any book ever was. so much for national discrepancies, and the standard of taste. yet i should say, it was not unintelligible how the arabs might so love it. when once you get this confused coil of a koran fairly off your hands, and have it behind you at a distance, the essential type of it begins to disclose itself; and in this there is a merit quite other than the literary one. if a book come from the heart, it will contrive to reach other hearts; all art and authorcraft are of small amount to that. one would say the primary character of the koran is that of its _genuineness_, of its being a _bonâ-fide_ book. prideaux, i know, and others have represented it as a mere bundle of juggleries; chapter after chapter got-up to excuse and varnish the author's successive sins, forward his ambitions and quackeries: but really it is time to dismiss all that. i do not assert mahomet's continual sincerity: who is continually sincere? but i confess i can make nothing of the critic, in these times, who would accuse him of deceit _prepense_; of conscious deceit generally, or perhaps at all;--still more, of living in a mere element of conscious deceit, and writing this koran as a forger and juggler would have done! every candid eye, i think, will read the koran far otherwise than so. it is the confused ferment of a great rude human soul; rude, untutored, that cannot even read; but fervent, earnest, struggling vehemently to utter itself in words. with a kind of breathless intensity he strives to utter himself; the thoughts crowd on him pellmell: for very multitude of things to say, he can get nothing said. the meaning that is in him shapes itself into no form of composition, is stated in no sequence, method, or coherence;--they are not _shaped_ at all, these thoughts of his; flung-out unshaped, as they struggle and tumble there, in their chaotic inarticulate state. we said 'stupid:' yet natural stupidity is by no means the character of mahomet's book; it is natural uncultivation rather. the man has not studied speaking; in the haste and pressure of continual fighting, has not time to mature himself into fit speech. the panting breathless haste and vehemence of a man struggling in the thick of battle for life and salvation; this is the mood he is in! a headlong haste; for very magnitude of meaning, he cannot get himself articulated into words. the successive utterances of a soul in that mood, coloured by the various vicissitudes of three-and-twenty years; now well uttered, now worse: this is the koran. for we are to consider mahomet, through these three-and-twenty years, as the centre of a world wholly in conflict. battles with the koreish and heathen, quarrels among his own people, backslidings of his own wild heart; all this kept him in a perpetual whirl, his soul knowing rest no more. in wakeful nights, as one may fancy, the wild soul of the man, tossing amid these vortices, would hail any light of a decision for them as a veritable light from heaven; _any_ making-up of his mind, so blessed, indispensable for him there, would seem the inspiration of a gabriel. forger and juggler? no, no! this great fiery heart, seething, simmering like a great furnace of thoughts, was not a juggler's. his life was a fact to him; this god's universe an awful fact and reality. he has faults enough. the man was an uncultured semi-barbarous son of nature, much of the bedouin still clinging to him: we must take him for that. but for a wretched simulacrum, a hungry impostor without eyes or heart, practising for a mess of pottage such blasphemous swindlery, forgery of celestial documents, continual high-treason against his maker and self, we will not and cannot take him. sincerity, in all senses, seems to me the merit of the koran; what had rendered it precious to the wild arab men. it is, after all, the first and last merit in a book; gives rise to merits of all kinds,--nay, at bottom, it alone can give rise to merit of any kind. curiously, through these incondite masses of tradition, vituperation, complaint, ejaculation in the koran, a vein of true direct insight, of what we might almost call poetry, is found straggling. the body of the book is made-up of mere tradition, and as it were vehement enthusiastic extempore preaching. he returns forever to the old stories of the prophets as they went current in the arab memory: how prophet after prophet, the prophet abraham, the prophet hud, the prophet moses, christian and other real and fabulous prophets, had come to this tribe and to that, warning men of their sin; and been received by them even as he mahomet was,--which is a great solace to him. these things he repeats ten, perhaps twenty times; again and ever again with wearisome iteration; has never done repeating them. a brave samuel johnson, in his forlorn garret, might con-over the biographies of authors in that way! this is the great staple of the koran. but curiously, through all this, comes ever and anon some glance as of the real thinker and seer. he has actually an eye for the world, this mahomet: with a certain directness and rugged vigour, he brings home still, to our heart, the thing his own heart has been opened to. i make but little of his praises of allah, which many praise; they are borrowed i suppose mainly from the hebrew, at least they are far surpassed there. but the eye that flashes direct into the heart of things, and _sees_ the truth of them; this is to me a highly interesting object. great nature's own gift; which she bestows on all; but which only one in the thousand does not cast sorrowfully away: it is what i call sincerity of vision; the test of a sincere heart. mahomet can work no miracles; he often answers impatiently: i can work no miracles. i? 'i am a public preacher;' appointed to preach this doctrine to all creatures. yet the world, as we can see, had really from of old been all one great miracle to him. look over the world, says he; is it not wonderful, the work of allah; wholly 'a sign to you,' if your eyes were open! this earth, god made it for you: 'appointed paths in it;' you can live in it, go to and fro on it.--the clouds in the dry country of arabia, to mahomet they are very wonderful: great clouds, he says, born in the deep bosom of the upper immensity, where do they come from! they hang there, the great black monsters; pour-down their rain deluges 'to revive a dead earth,' and grass springs, and tall leafy palm-trees with their date-clusters hanging round. is not that a sign?' your cattle too,--allah made them; serviceable dumb creatures; they change the grass into milk; you have your clothing from them, very strange creatures; they come ranking home at evening-time, 'and,' adds he, 'and are a credit to you!' ships also,--he talks often about ships: huge moving mountains, they spread-out their cloth wings, go bounding through the water there, heaven's wind driving them; anon they lie motionless, god has withdrawn the wind, they lie dead, and cannot stir! miracles? cries he; what miracle would you have? are not you yourselves there? god made _you_, 'shaped you out of a little clay.' ye were small once; a few years ago ye were not at all. ye have beauty, strength, thoughts, 'ye have compassion on one another.' old age comes-on you, and gray hairs; your strength fades into feebleness; ye sink down, and again are not. 'ye have compassion on one another:' this struck me much: allah might have made you having no compassion on one another,--how had it been then! this is a great direct thought, a glance at first-hand into the very fact of things. rude vestiges of poetic genius, of whatsoever is best and truest, are visible in this man. a strong untutored intellect: eyesight, heart; a strong wild man,--might have shaped himself into poet, king, priest, any kind of hero. to his eyes it is forever clear that this world wholly is miraculous. he sees what, as we said once before, all great thinkers, the rude scandinavians themselves, in one way or other, have contrived to see: that this so solid-looking material world is, at bottom, in very deed, nothing; is a visual and tactual manifestation of god's power and presence,--a shadow hung-out by him on the bosom of the void infinite; nothing more. the mountains, he says, these great rock-mountains, they shall dissipate themselves 'like clouds;' melt into the blue as clouds do, and not be! he figures the earth, in the arab fashion, sale tells us, as an immense plain or flat plate of ground, the mountains are set on that to _steady_ it. at the last day they shall disappear 'like clouds;' the whole earth shall go spinning, whirl itself off into wreck, and as dust and vapour vanish in the inane. allah withdraws his hand from it, and it ceases to be. the universal empire of allah, presence everywhere of an unspeakable power, a splendour, and a terror not to be named, as the true force, essence and reality, in all things whatsoever, was continually clear to this man. what a modern talks-of by the name, forces of nature, laws of nature; and does not figure as a divine thing; not even as one thing at all, but as a set of things, undivine enough,--saleable, curious, good for propelling steamships! with our sciences and cyclopædias, we are apt to forget the _divineness_, in these laboratories of ours. we ought not to forget it! that once well forgotten, i know not what else were worth remembering. most sciences, i think, were then a very dead thing; withered, contentious, empty;--a thistle in late autumn. the best science, without this, is but as the dead _timber_; it is not the growing tree and forest,--which gives ever-new timber, among other things! man cannot _know_ either, unless he can _worship_ in some way. his knowledge is a pedantry, and dead thistle, otherwise. much has been said and written about the sensuality of mahomet's religion; more than was just. the indulgences, criminal to us, which he permitted, were not of his appointment; he found them practised, unquestioned from immemorial time in arabia; what he did was to curtail them, restrict them, not on one but on many sides. his religion is not an easy one: with rigorous fasts, lavations, strict complex formulas, prayers five times a day, and abstinence from wine, it did not 'succeed by being an easy religion.' as if indeed any religion, or cause holding of religion, could succeed by that! it is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense,--sugar-plums of any kind, in this world or the next! in the meanest mortal there lies something nobler. the poor swearing soldier, hired to be shot, has his 'honour of a soldier,' different from drill-regulations and the shilling a day. it is not to taste sweet things, but to do noble and true things, and vindicate himself under god's heaven as a god-made man, that the poorest son of adam dimly longs. show him the way of doing that, the dullest daydrudge kindles into a hero. they wrong man greatly who say he is to be seduced by ease. difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death are the _allurements_ that act on the heart of man. kindle the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns-up all lower considerations. not happiness, but something higher: one sees this even in the frivolous classes, with their 'point of honour' and the like. not by flattering our appetites; no, by awakening the heroic that slumbers in every heart, can any religion gain followers. mahomet himself, after all that can be said about him, was not a sensual man. we shall err widely if we consider this man as a common voluptuary, intent mainly on base enjoyments,--nay on enjoyments of any kind. his household was of the frugalest; his common diet barley-bread and water: sometimes for months there was not a fire once lighted on his hearth. they record with just pride that he would mend his own shoes, patch his own cloak. a poor, hard-toiling, ill-provided man; careless of what vulgar men toil for. not a bad man, i should say; something better in him than _hunger_ of any sort,--or these wild arab men, fighting and jostling three-and-twenty years at his hand, in close contact with him always, would not have reverenced him so! they were wild men, bursting ever and anon into quarrel, into all kinds of fierce sincerity; without right worth and manhood, no man could have commanded them. they called him prophet, you say? why, he stood there face to face with them; bare, not enshrined in any mystery; visibly clouting his own cloak, cobbling his own shoes; fighting, counselling, ordering in the midst of them: they must have seen what kind of a man he _was_, let him be _called_ what you like! no emperor with his tiaras was obeyed as this man in a cloak of his own clouting. during three-and-twenty years of rough actual trial. i find something of a veritable hero necessary for that, of itself. his last words are a prayer; broken ejaculations of a heart struggling-up, in trembling hope, towards its maker. we cannot say that his religion made him _worse_; it made him better; good, not bad. generous things are recorded of him: when he lost his daughter, the thing he answers is, in his own dialect, everyway sincere, and yet equivalent to that of christians, 'the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the lord.' he answered in like manner of seid, his emancipated well-beloved slave, the second of the believers. seid had fallen in the war of tabûc, the first of mahomet's fightings with the greeks. mahomet said, it was well; seid had done his master's work, seid had now gone to his master: it was all well with seid. yet seid's daughter found him weeping over the body;--the old gray-haired man melting in tears! "what do i see?" said she.--"you see a friend weeping over his friend."--he went out for the last time into the mosque, two days before his death; asked, if he had injured any man? let his own back bear the stripes. if he owed any man? a voice answered, "yes, me three drachms," borrowed on such an occasion. mahomet ordered them to be paid: "better be in shame now," said he, "than at the day of judgment."--you remember kadijah, and the "no, by allah!" traits of that kind show us the genuine man, the brother of us all, brought visible through twelve centuries,--the veritable son of our common mother. withal i like mahomet for his total freedom from cant. he is a rough self-helping son of the wilderness; does not pretend to be what he is not. there is no ostentatious pride in him; but neither does he go much upon humility: he is there as he can be, in cloak and shoes of his own clouting; speaks plainly to all manner of persian kings, greek emperors, what it is they are bound to do; knows well enough, about himself, 'the respect due unto thee.' in a life-and-death war with bedouins, cruel things could not fail; but neither are acts of mercy, of noble natural pity and generosity wanting. mahomet makes no apology for the one, no boast of the other. they were each the free dictate of his heart; each called-for, there and then. not a mealy-mouthed man! a candid ferocity, if the case call for it, is in him; he does not mince matters! the war of tabûc is a thing he often speaks of: his men refused, many of them, to march on that occasion: pleaded the heat of the weather, the harvest, and so forth; he can never forget that. your harvest? it lasts for a day. what will become of your harvest through all eternity? hot weather? yes, it was hot; 'but hell will be hotter!' sometimes a rough sarcasm turns-up: he says to the unbelievers, ye shall have the just measure of your deeds at that great day. they will be weighed-out to you; ye shall not have short weight!--everywhere he fixes the matter in his eye; he _sees_ it: his heart, now and then, is as if struck dumb by the greatness of it. 'assuredly,' he says: that word, in the koran, is written-down sometimes as a sentence by itself: 'assuredly.' no _dilettantism_ in this mahomet; it is a business of reprobation and salvation with him, of time and eternity: he is in deadly earnest about it! dilettantism, hypothesis, speculation, a kind of amateur-search for truth, toying and coquetting with truth: this is the sorest sin. the root of all other imaginable sins. it consists in the heart and soul of the man never having been _open_ to truth;--'living in a vain show.' such a man not only utters and produces falsehoods, but _is_ himself a falsehood. the rational moral principle, spark of the divinity, is sunk deep in him, in quiet paralysis of life-death. the very falsehoods of mahomet are truer than the truths of such a man. he is the insincere man: smooth-polished, respectable in some times and places: inoffensive, says nothing harsh to anybody; most _cleanly_,--just as carbonic acid is, which is death and poison. we will not praise mahomet's moral precepts as always of the superfinest sort; yet it can be said that there is always a tendency to good in them; that they are the true dictates of a heart aiming towards what is just and true. the sublime forgiveness of christianity, turning of the other cheek when the one has been smitten, is not here: you _are_ to revenge yourself, but it is to be in measure, not overmuch, or beyond justice. on the other hand, islam, like any great faith, and insight into the essence of man, is a perfect equaliser of men: the soul of one believer outweighs all earthly kingships; all men, according to islam too, are equal. mahomet insists not on the propriety of giving alms, but on the necessity of it; he marks-down by law how much you are to give, and it is at your peril if you neglect. the tenth part of a man's annual income, whatever that may be, is the _property_ of the poor, of those that are afflicted and need help. good all this: the natural voice of humanity, of pity and equity dwelling in the heart of this wild son of nature speaks _so_. mahomet's paradise is sensual, his hell sensual: true; in the one and the other there is enough that shocks all spiritual feeling in us. but we are to recollect that the arabs already had it so; that mahomet, in whatever he changed of it, softened and diminished all this. the worst sensualities, too, are the work of doctors, followers of his, not his work. in the koran there is really very little said about the joys of paradise; they are intimated rather than insisted on. nor is it forgotten that the highest joys even there shall be spiritual; the pure presence of the highest, this shall infinitely transcend all other joys. he says, 'your salutation shall be, peace.' _salam_, have peace!--the thing that all rational souls long for, and seek, vainly here below, as the one blessing. 'ye shall sit on seats, facing one another: all grudges shall be taken away out of your hearts.' all grudges! ye shall love one another freely; for each of you, in the eyes of his brothers, there will be heaven enough! in reference to this of the sensual paradise and mahomet's sensuality, the sorest chapter of all for us, there were many things to be said; which it is not convenient to enter upon here. two remarks only i shall make, and therewith leave it to your candour. the first is furnished me by goethe; it is a casual hint of his which seems well worth taking note of. in one of his delineations, in _meister's travels_ it is, the hero comes-upon a society of men with very strange ways, one of which was this: "we require," says the master, "that each of our people shall restrict himself in one direction," shall go right against his desire in one matter, and _make_ himself do the thing he does not wish, "should we allow him the greater latitude on all other sides." there seems to me a great justness in this. enjoying things which are pleasant; that is not the evil: it is the reducing of our moral self to slavery by them that is. let a man assert withal that he is king over his habitudes; that he could and would shake them off, on cause shown: this is an excellent law. the month ramadhan for the moslem, much in mahomet's religion, much in his own life, bears in that direction; if not by forethought, or clear purpose of moral improvement on his part, then by a certain healthy manful instinct, which is as good. but there is another thing to be said about the mahometan heaven and hell. this namely, that, however gross and material they may be, they are an emblem of an everlasting truth, not always so well remembered elsewhere. that gross sensual paradise of his; that horrible flaming hell; the great enormous day of judgment he perpetually insists on: what is all this but a rude shadow, in the rude bedouin imagination, of that grand spiritual fact, and beginning of facts, which it is ill for us too if we do not all know and feel: the infinite nature of duty? that man's actions here are of _infinite_ moment to him, and never die or end at all; that man, with his little life, reaches upwards high as heaven, downwards low as hell, and in his threescore years of time holds an eternity fearfully and wonderfully hidden: all this had burnt itself, as in flame-characters, into the wild arab soul. as in flame and lightning, it stands written there; awful, unspeakable, ever present to him. with bursting earnestness, with a fierce savage sincerity, halt, articulating, not able to articulate, he strives to speak it, bodies it forth in that heaven and that hell. bodied forth in what way you will, it is the first of all truths. it is venerable under all embodiments. what is the chief end of man here below? mahomet has answered this question, in a way that might put some of _us_ to shame! he does not, like a bentham, a paley, take right and wrong, and calculate the profit and loss, ultimate pleasure of the one and of the other; and summing all up by addition and subtraction into a net result, ask you, whether on the whole the right does not preponderate considerably? no, it is not _better_ to do the one than the other; the one is to the other as life is to death,--as heaven is to hell. the one must in nowise be done, the other in nowise left undone. you shall not measure them; they are incommensurable: the one is death eternal to a man, the other is life eternal. benthamee utility, virtue by profit and loss; reducing this god's-world to a dead brute steam-engine, the infinite celestial soul of man to a kind of hay-balance for weighing hay and thistles on, pleasures and pains on:--if you ask me which gives, mahomet or they, the beggarlier and falser view of man and his destinies in this universe, i will answer, it is not mahomet!---on the whole, we will repeat that this religion of mahomet's is a kind of christianity; has a genuine element of what is spiritually highest looking through it, not to be hidden by all its imperfections. the scandinavian god _wish_, the god of all rude men,--this has been enlarged into a heaven by mahomet; but a heaven symbolical of sacred duty, and to be earned by faith and welldoing, by valiant action, and a divine patience which is still more valiant. it is scandinavian paganism, and a truly celestial element superadded to that. call it not false; look not at the falsehood of it, look at the truth of it. for these twelve centuries, it has been the religion and life-guidance of the fifth part of the whole kindred of mankind. above all things, it has been a religion heartily _believed_. these arabs believe their religion, and try to live by it! no christians, since the early ages, or only perhaps the english puritans in modern times, have ever stood by their faith as the moslem do by theirs,--believing it wholly, fronting time with it, and eternity with it. this night the watchman on the streets of cairo when he cries "who goes?" will hear from the passenger, along with his answer, "there is no god but god." _allah akbar, islam_, sounds through the souls, and whole daily existence, of these dusky millions. zealous missionaries preach it abroad among malays, black papuans, brutal idolaters;--displacing what is worse, nothing that is better or good. to the arab nation it was as a birth from darkness into light; arabia first became alive by means of it. a poor shepherd people, roaming unnoticed in its deserts since the creation of the world: a hero-prophet was sent down to them with a word they could believe: see, the unnoticed becomes world-notable, the small has grown world-great; within one century afterwards, arabia is at grenada on this hand, at delhi on that;--glancing in valour and splendour and the light of genius, arabia shines through long ages over a great section of the world. belief is great, life-giving. the history of a nation becomes fruitful, soul-elevating, great, so soon as it believes. these arabs, the man mahomet, and that one century,--is it not as if a spark had fallen, one spark, on a world of what seemed black unnoticeable sand; but lo, the sand proves explosive powder, blazes heaven-high from delhi to grenada! i said, the great man was always as lightning out of heaven; the rest of men waited for him like fuel, and then they too would flame. lecture iii the hero as poet. dante; shakspeare. [_tuesday, 12th may 1840_] the hero as divinity, the hero as prophet, are productions of old ages; not to be repeated in the new. they presuppose a certain rudeness of conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end to. there needs to be, as it were, a world vacant, or almost vacant of scientific forms, if men in their loving wonder are to fancy their fellow-man either a god or one speaking with the voice of a god. divinity and prophet are past. we are now to see our hero in the less ambitious, but also less questionable, character of poet; a character which does not pass. the poet is a heroic figure belonging to all ages; whom all ages possess, when once he is produced, whom the newest age as the oldest may produce;--and will produce, always when nature pleases. let nature send a hero-soul; in no age is it other than possible that he may be shaped into a poet. hero, prophet, poet,--many different names, in different times and places, do we give to great men; according to varieties we note in them, according to the sphere in which they have displayed themselves! we might give many more names, on this same principle. i will remark again, however, as a fact not unimportant to be understood, that the different _sphere_ constitutes the grand origin of such distinction; that the hero can be poet, prophet, king, priest or what you will, according to the kind of world he finds himself born into. i confess, i have no notion of a truly great man that could not be _all_ sorts of men. the poet who could merely sit on a chair, and compose stanzas, would never make a stanza worth much. he could not sing the heroic warrior, unless he himself were at least a heroic warrior too. i fancy there is in him the politician, the thinker, legislator, philosopher;--in one or the other degree, he could have been, he is all these. so too i cannot understand how a mirabeau, with that great glowing heart, with the fire that was in it, with the bursting tears that were in it, could not have written verses, tragedies, poems, touched all hearts in that way, had his course of life and education led him thitherward. the grand fundamental character is that of great man; that the man be great. napoleon has words in him which are like austerlitz battles. louis fourteenth's marshals are a kind of poetical men withal; the things turenne says are full of sagacity and geniality, like sayings of samuel johnson. the great heart, the clear deep-seeing eye: there it lies; no man whatever, in what province soever, can prosper at all without these. petrarch and boccaccio did diplomatic messages, it seems, quite well: one can easily believe it; they had done things a little harder than these! burns, a gifted song-writer, might have made a still better mirabeau. shakspeare,--one knows not what _he_ could not have made, in the supreme degree. true, there are aptitudes of nature too. nature does not make all great men, more than all other men, in the self-same mould. varieties of aptitude doubtless; but infinitely more of circumstance; and far oftenest it is the _latter_ only that are looked to. but it is as with common men in the learning of trades. you take any man, as yet a vague capability of a man, who could be any kind of craftsman; and make him into a smith, a carpenter, a mason: he is then and thenceforth that and nothing else. and if, as addison complains, you sometimes see a street-porter staggering under his load on spindle-shanks, and near at hand a tailor with the frame of a samson handling a bit of cloth and small whitechapel needle,--it cannot be considered that aptitude of nature alone has been consulted here either!--the great man also, to what shall he be bound apprentice? given your hero, is he to become conqueror, king, philosopher, poet? it is an inexplicably complex controversial-calculation between the world and him! he will read the world and its laws; the world with its laws will be there to be read. what the world, on _this_ matter, shall permit and bid is, as we said, the most important fact about the world.- * * * * * poet and prophet differ greatly in our loose modern notions of them. in some old languages, again, the titles are synonymous; _vates_ means both prophet and poet: and indeed at all times, prophet and poet, well understood, have much kindred of meaning. fundamentally indeed they are still the same; in this most important respect especially, that they have penetrated both of them into the sacred mystery of the universe; what goethe calls 'the open secret.' "which is the great secret?" asks one.--"the _open_ secret,"--open to all, seen by almost none! that divine mystery, which lies everywhere in all beings, 'the divine idea of the world, that which lies at the bottom of appearance,' as fichte styles it; of which all appearance, from the starry sky to the grass of the field, but especially the appearance of man and his work, is but the _vesture_, the embodiment that renders it visible. this divine mystery _is_ in all times and in all places; veritably is. in most times and places it is greatly overlooked; and the universe, definable always in one or the other dialect, as the realised thought of god, is considered a trivial, inert, commonplace matter,--as if, says the satirist, it were a dead thing, which some upholsterer had put together! it could do no good at present, to _speak_ much about this; but it is a pity for every one of us if we do not know it, live ever in the knowledge of it. really a most mournful pity;--a failure to live at all, if we live otherwise! but now, i say, whoever may forget this divine mystery, the _vates_, whether prophet or poet, has penetrated into it; is a man sent hither to make it more impressively known to us. that always is his message; he is to reveal that to us,--that sacred mystery which he more than others lives ever present with. while others forget it, he knows it;--i might say, he has been driven to know it; without consent asked of _him_, he finds himself living in it, bound to live in it. once more, here is no hearsay, but a direct insight and belief; this man too could not help being a sincere man! whosoever may live in the shows of things, it is for him a necessity of nature to live in the very fact of things. a man once more, in earnest with the universe, though all others were but toying with it. he is a _vates_, first of all, in virtue of being sincere. so far poet and prophet, participators in the 'open secret,' are one. with respect to their distinction again: the _vates_ prophet, we might say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as good and evil, duty and prohibition; the _vates_ poet on what the germans call the æsthetic side, as beautiful, and the like. the one we may call a revealer of what we are to do, the other of what we are to love. but indeed these two provinces run into one another, and cannot be disjoined. the prophet too has his eye on what we are to love: how else shall he know what it is we are to do? the highest voice ever heard on this earth said withal, "consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." a glance, that, into the deepest deep of beauty. 'the lilies of the field,'--dressed finer than earthly princes, springing-up there in the humble furrow-field; a beautiful _eye_ looking-out on you, from the great inner sea of beauty! how could the rude earth make these, if her essence, rugged as she looks and is, were not inwardly beauty? in this point of view, too, a saying of goethe's, which has staggered several, may have meaning: 'the beautiful,' he intimates, 'is higher than the good: the beautiful includes in it the good.' the _true_ beautiful; which however, i have said somewhere, 'differs from the _false_ as heaven does from vauxhall!' so much for the distinction and identity of poet and prophet.-in ancient and also in modern periods we find a few poets who are accounted perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with. this is noteworthy; this is right: yet in strictness it is only an illusion. at bottom, clearly enough, there is no perfect poet! a vein of poetry exists in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of poetry. we are all poets when we _read_ a poem well. the 'imagination that shudders at the hell of dante,' is not that the same faculty, weaker in degree, as dante's own? no one but shakspeare can embody, out of _saxo grammaticus_, the story of _hamlet_ as shakspeare did: but every one models some kind of story out of it; every one embodies it better or worse. we need not spend time in defining. where there is no specific difference, as between round and square, all definition must be more or less arbitrary. a man that has _so_ much more of the poetic element developed in him as to have become noticeable, will be called poet by his neighbours. world-poets too, those whom we are to take for perfect poets, are settled by critics in the same way. one who rises _so_ far above the general level of poets will, to such and such critics, seem a universal poet; as he ought to do. and yet it is, and must be, an arbitrary distinction. all poets, all men, have some touches of the universal; no man is wholly made of that. most poets are very soon forgotten: but not the noblest shakspeare or homer of them can be remembered _forever_;--a day comes when he too is not! nevertheless, you will say, there must be a difference between true poetry and true speech not poetical: what is the difference? on this point many things have been written, especially by late german critics, some of which are not very intelligible at first. they say, for example, that the poet has an _infinitude_ in him; communicates an _unendlichkeit_, a certain character of 'infinitude,' to whatsoever he delineates. this, though not very precise, yet on so vague a matter is worth remembering: if well meditated, some meaning will gradually be found in it. for my own part, i find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction of poetry being _metrical_, having music in it, being a song. truly, if pressed to give a definition, one might say this as soon as anything else: if your delineation be authentically _musical_, musical, not in word only, but in heart and substance, in all the thoughts and utterances of it, in the whole conception of it, then it will be poetical; if not, not.--musical: how much lies in that! a _musical_ thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated into the inmost heart of the thing; detected the inmost mystery of it, namely the _melody_ that lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of coherence which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right to be, here in this world. all inmost things, we may say, are melodious; naturally utter themselves in song. the meaning of song goes deep. who is there that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us? a kind of inarticulate unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that! nay all speech, even the commonest speech, has something of song in it: not a parish in the world but has its parish-accent;--the rhythm or _tune_ to which the people there _sing_ what they have to say! accent is a kind of chanting; all men have accent of their own,--though they only _notice_ that of others. observe too how all passionate language does of itself become musical,--with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song. all deep things are song. it seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls! the primal element of us; of us, and of all things. the greeks fabled of sphere-harmonies; it was the feeling they had of the inner structure of nature; that the soul of all her voices and utterances was perfect music. poetry, therefore, we will call _musical thought_. the poet is he who _thinks_ in that manner. at bottom, it turns still on power of intellect; it is a man's sincerity and depth of vision that makes him a poet. see deep enough, and you see musically; the heart of nature _being_ everywhere music, if you can only reach it. the _vates_ poet, with his melodious apocalypse of nature, seems to hold a poor rank among us, in comparison with the _vates_ prophet; his function, and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight. the hero taken as divinity; the hero taken as prophet; then next the hero taken only as poet: does it not look as if our estimate of the great man, epoch after epoch, were continually diminishing? we take him first for a god, then for one god-inspired; and now in the next stage of it, his most miraculous word gains from us only the recognition that he is a poet, beautiful verse-maker, man of genius, or suchlike!--it looks so; but i persuade myself that intrinsically it is not so. if we consider well, it will perhaps appear that in man still there is the _same_ altogether peculiar admiration for the heroic gift, by what name soever called, that there at any time was. i should say, if we do not now reckon a great man literally divine, it is that our notions of god, of the supreme unattainable fountain of splendour, wisdom and heroism, are ever rising _higher_; not altogether that our reverence for these qualities, as manifested in our like, is getting lower. this is worth taking thought of. sceptical dilettantism, the curse of these ages, a curse which will not last forever, does indeed in this the highest province of human things, as in all provinces, make sad work; and our reverence for great men, all crippled, blinded, paralytic as it is, comes out in poor plight, hardly recognisable. men worship the shows of great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to worship. the dreariest, fatalest faith; believing which, one would literally despair of human things. nevertheless look, for example, at napoleon! a corsican lieutenant of artillery; that is the show of _him_: yet is he not obeyed, _worshipped_ after his sort, as all the tiaraed and diademed of the world put together could not be? high duchesses, and ostlers of inns, gather round the scottish rustic, burns;--a strange feeling dwelling in each that they had never heard a man like this; that, on the whole, this is the man! in the secret heart of these people it still dimly reveals itself, though there is no accredited way of uttering it at present, that this rustic, with his black brows and flashing sun-eyes, and strange words moving laughter and tears, is of a dignity far beyond all others, incommensurable with all others. do not we feel it so? but now, were dilettantism, scepticism, triviality, and all that sorrowful brood, cast-out of us,--as, by god's blessing, they shall one day be; were faith in the shows of things entirely swept-out, replaced by clear faith in the _things_, so that a man acted on the impulse of that only, and counted the other non-extant; what a new livelier feeling towards this burns were it! nay here in these pages, such as they are, have we not two mere poets, if not deified, yet we may say beatified? shakspeare and dante are saints of poetry; really, if we will think of it, _canonised_, so that it is impiety to meddle with them. the unguided instinct of the world, working across all these perverse impediments, has arrived at such result. dante and shakspeare are a peculiar two. they dwell apart, in a kind of royal solitude; none equal, none second to them: in the general feeling of the world, a certain transcendentalism, a glory as of complete perfection, invests these two. they _are_ canonised, though no pope or cardinals took hand in doing it! such, in spite of every perverting influence, in the most unheroic times, is still our indestructible reverence for heroism.--we will look a little at these two, the poet dante and the poet shakspeare: what little it is permitted us to say here of the hero as poet will most fitly arrange itself in that fashion. * * * * * many volumes have been written by way of commentary on dante and his book; yet, on the whole, with no great result. his biography is, as it were, irrecoverably lost for us. an unimportant, wandering, sorrowstricken man, not much note was taken of him while he lived; and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that now intervenes. it is five centuries since he ceased writing and living here. after all commentaries, the book itself is mainly what we know of him. the book;--and one might add that portrait commonly attributed to giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining to think genuine, whoever did it. to me it is a most touching face; perhaps of all faces that i know, the most so. lonely there, painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory which is also deathless;--significant of the whole history of dante! i think it is the mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. there is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud hopeless pain. a soft ethereal soul looking-out so stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed ice! withal it is a silent pain too, a silent scornful one: the lip is curled in a kind of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating-out his heart,--as if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle were greater than it. the face of one wholly in protest, and life-long unsurrendering battle, against the world. affection all converted into indignation: an implacable indignation; slow, equable, silent, like that of a god! the eye too, it looks-out as in a kind of _surprise_, a kind of inquiry, why the world was of such a sort? this is dante: so he looks, this 'voice of ten silent centuries,' and sings us 'his mystic unfathomable song.' the little that we know of dante's life corresponds well enough with this portrait and this book. he was born at florence, in the upper class of society, in the year 1265. his education was the best then going; much school-divinity, aristotelean logic, some latin classics,--no inconsiderable insight into certain provinces of things: and dante, with his earnest intelligent nature, we need not doubt, learned better than most all that was learnable. he has a clear cultivated understanding, and of great subtlety; the best fruit of education he had contrived to realise from these scholastics. he knows accurately and well what lies close to him; but, in such a time, without printed books or free intercourse, he could not know well what was distant: the small clear light, most luminous for what is near, breaks itself into singular _chiaroscuro_ striking on what is far off. this was dante's learning from the schools. in life, he had gone through the usual destinies; been twice out campaigning as a soldier for the florentine state, been on embassy; had in his thirty-fifth year, by natural gradation of talent and service, become one of the chief magistrates of florence. he had met in boyhood a certain beatrice portinari, a beautiful little girl of his own age and rank, and grown-up thenceforth in partial sight of her, in some distant intercourse with her. all readers know his graceful affecting account of this; and then of their being parted; of her being wedded to another, and of her death soon after. she makes a great figure in dante's poem; seems to have made a great figure in his life. of all beings it might seem as if she, held apart from him, far apart at last in the dim eternity, were the only one he had ever with his whole strength of affection loved. she died: dante himself was wedded; but it seems not happily, far from happily. i fancy, the rigorous earnest man, with his keen excitabilities, was not altogether easy to make happy. we will not complain of dante's miseries: had all gone right with him as he wished it, he might have been prior, podestà, or whatsoever they call it, of florence, well accepted among neighbours,--and the world had wanted one of the most notable words ever spoken or sung. florence would have had another prosperous lord mayor; and the ten dumb centuries continued voiceless, and the ten other listening centuries (for there will be ten of them and more) had no _divina commedia_ to hear! we will complain of nothing. a nobler destiny was appointed for this dante; and he, struggling like a man led towards death and crucifixion, could not help fulfilling it. give _him_ the choice of his happiness! he knew not, more than we do, what was really happy, what was really miserable. in dante's priorship, the guelf-ghibelline, bianchi-neri, or some other confused disturbance rose to such a height, that dante, whose party had seemed the stronger, was with his friends cast unexpectedly forth into banishment; doomed thenceforth to a life of woe and wandering. his property was all confiscated and more; he had the fiercest feeling that it was entirely unjust, nefarious in the sight of god and man. he tried what was in him to get reinstated; tried even by warlike surprisal, with arms in his hand: but it would not do; bad only had become worse. there is a record, i believe, still extant in the florence archives, dooming this dante, wheresoever caught, to be burnt alive. burnt alive; so it stands, they say: a very curious civic document. another curious document, some considerable number of years later, is a letter of dante's to the florentine magistrates, written in answer to a milder proposal of theirs, that he should return on condition of apologising and paying a fine. he answers, with fixed stern pride: "if i cannot return without calling myself guilty, i will never return, _nunquam revertar_." for dante there was now no home in this world. he wandered from patron to patron, from place to place; proving in his own bitter words, 'how hard is the path, _come è duro calle_.' the wretched are not cheerful company. dante, poor and banished, with his proud earnest nature, with his moody humours, was not a man to conciliate men. petrarch reports of him that being at can della scala's court, and blamed one day for his gloom and taciturnity, he answered in no courtier-like way. della scala stood among his courtiers, with mimes and buffoons (_nebulones ac histriones_) making him heartily merry; when turning to dante, he said: "is it not strange, now, that this poor fool should make himself so entertaining; while you, a wise man, sit there day after day, and have nothing to amuse us with at all?" dante answered bitterly: "no, not strange; your highness is to recollect the proverb, _like to like_;"--given the amuser, the amusee must also be given! such a man, with his proud silent ways, with his sarcasms and sorrows, was not made to succeed at court. by degrees, it came to be evident to him that he had no longer any resting-place, or hope of benefit, in this earth. the earthly world had cast him forth, to wander, wander; no living heart to love him now; for his sore miseries there was no solace here. the deeper naturally would the eternal world impress itself on him; that awful reality over which, after all, this time-world, with its florences and banishments, only flutters as an unreal shadow. florence thou shalt never see: but hell and purgatory and heaven thou shalt surely see! what is florence, can della scala, and the world and life altogether? eternity: thither, of a truth, not elsewhither, art thou and all things bound! the great soul of dante, homeless on earth, made its home more and more in that awful other world. naturally his thoughts brooded on that, as on the one fact important for him. bodied or bodiless, it is the one fact important for all men:--but to dante, in that age, it was bodied in fixed certainty of scientific shape; he no more doubted of that _malebolge_ pool, that it all lay there with its gloomy circles, with its _alti guai_, and that he himself should see it, than we doubt that we should see constantinople if we went thither. dante's heart, long filled with this, brooding over it in speechless thought and awe, bursts forth at length into 'mystic unfathomable song;' and this his _divine comedy_, the most remarkable of all modern books, is the result. it must have been a great solacement to dante, and was, as we can see, a proud thought for him at times, that he, here in exile, could do this work; that no florence, nor no man or men, could hinder him from doing it, or even much help him in doing it. he knew too, partly, that it was great; the greatest a man could do. 'if thou follow thy star, _se tu segui tua stella_,'--so could the hero, in his forsakenness, in his extreme need, still say to himself: "follow thou thy star, thou shalt not fail of a glorious haven!" the labour of writing, we find, and indeed could know otherwise, was great and painful for him; he says, this book, 'which has made me lean for many years.' ah yes, it was won, all of it, with pain and sore toil,--not in sport, but in grim earnest. his book, as indeed most good books are, has been written, in many senses, with his heart's blood. it is his whole history, this book. he died after finishing it; not yet very old, at the age of fifty-six;--broken-hearted rather, as is said. he lies buried in his death-city ravenna: _hic claudor dantes patriis extorris ab oris._ the florentines begged back his body, in a century after; the ravenna people would not give it. "here am i dante laid, shut-out from my native shores." i said, dante's poem was a song: it is tieck who calls it 'a mystic unfathomable song;' and such is literally the character of it. coleridge remarks very pertinently somewhere, that wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is something deep and good in the meaning too. for body and soul, word and idea, go strangely together here as everywhere. song: we said before, it was the heroic of speech! all _old_ poems, homer's and the rest, are authentically songs. i would say, in strictness, that all right poems are; that whatsoever is not _sung_ is properly no poem, but a piece of prose cramped into jingling lines,--to the great injury of the grammar, to the great grief of the reader, for most part! what we want to get at is the _thought_ the man had, if he had any: why should he twist it into jingle, if he _could_ speak it out plainly? it is only when the heart of him is rapt into true passion of melody, and the very tones of him, according to coleridge's remark, become musical by the greatness, depth and music of his thoughts, that we can give him right to rhyme and sing; that we call him a poet, and listen to him as the heroic of speakers,--whose speech _is_ song. pretenders to this are many; and to an earnest reader, i doubt, it is for most part a very melancholy, not to say an insupportable business, that of reading rhyme! rhyme that had no inward necessity to be rhymed;--it ought to have told us plainly, without any jingle, what it was aiming at. i would advise all men who _can_ speak their thought, not to sing it; to understand that, in a serious time, among serious men, there is no vocation in them for singing it. precisely as we love the true song, and are charmed by it as by something divine, so shall we hate the false song, and account it a mere wooden noise, a thing hollow, superfluous, altogether an insincere and offensive thing. i give dante my highest praise when i say of his _divine comedy_ that it is, in all senses, genuinely a song. in the very sound of it there is a _canto fermo_; it proceeds as by a chant. the language, his simple _terza rima_, doubtless helped him in this. one reads along naturally with a sort of _lilt_. but i add, that it could not be otherwise; for the essence and material of the work are themselves rhythmic. its depth, and rapt passion and sincerity, makes its musical;--go _deep_ enough, there is music everywhere. a true inward symmetry, what one calls an architectural harmony, reigns in it, proportionates it all: architectural; which also partakes of the character of music. the three kingdoms, _inferno_, _purgatorio_, _paradiso_, look-out on one another like compartments of a great edifice; a great supernatural world-cathedral, piled-up there, stern, solemn, awful; dante's world of souls! it is, at bottom, the _sincerest_ of all poems; sincerity, here too, we find to be the measure of worth. it came deep out of the author's heart of hearts; and it goes deep, and through long generations, into ours. the people of verona, when they saw him on the streets, used to say, "_eccovi l' uom ch' è stato all' inferno_, see, there is the man that was in hell!" ah, yes, he had been in hell;--in hell enough, in long severe sorrow and struggle; as the like of him is pretty sure to have been. commedias that come-out _divine_ are not accomplished otherwise. thought, true labour of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it not the daughter of pain? born as out of the black whirlwind;--true _effort_, in fact, as of a captive struggling to free himself: that is thought. in all ways we are 'to become perfect through _suffering_.'--but, as i say, no work known to me is so elaborated as this of dante's. it has all been as if molten, in the hottest furnace of his soul. it had made him 'lean' for many years. not the general whole only; every compartment of it is worked-out, with intense earnestness, into truth, into clear visuality. each answers to the other; each fits in its place, like a marble stone accurately hewn and polished. it is the soul of dante, and in this the soul of the middle ages, rendered forever rhythmically visible there. no light task; a right intense one: but a task which is _done_. perhaps one would say, _intensity_, with the much that depends on it, is the prevailing character of dante's genius. dante does not come before us as a large catholic mind; rather as a narrow and even sectarian mind: it is partly the fruit of his age and position, but partly too of his own nature. his greatness has, in all senses, concentered itself into fiery emphasis and depth. he is world-great not because he is world-wide, but because he is world-deep. through all objects he pierces as it were down into the heart of being. i know nothing so intense as dante. consider, for example, to begin with the outermost development of his intensity, consider how he paints. he has a great power of vision; seizes the very type of a thing; presents that and nothing more. you remember that first view he gets of the hall of dite: _red_ pinnacle, redhot cone of iron glowing through the dim immensity of gloom;--so vivid, so distinct, visible at once and forever! it is as an emblem of the whole genius of dante. there is a brevity, an abrupt precision in him: tacitus is not briefer, more condensed; and then in dante it seems a natural condensation, spontaneous to the man. one smiting word; and then there is silence, nothing more said. his silence is more eloquent than words. it is strange with what a sharp decisive grace he snatches the true likeness of a matter: cuts into the matter as with a pen of fire. plutus, the blustering giant, collapses at virgil's rebuke; it is 'as the sails sink, the mast being suddenly broken.' or that poor brunetto latini, with the _cotto aspetto_, 'face _baked_,' parched brown and lean; and the 'fiery snow,' that falls on them there, a 'fiery snow without wind,' slow, deliberate, never-ending! or the lids of those tombs; square sarcophaguses, in that silent dim-burning hall, each with its soul in torment; the lids laid open there; they are to be shut at the day of judgment, through eternity. and how farinata rises; and how cavalcante falls--at hearing of his son, and the past tense '_fue_'! the very movements in dante have something brief; swift, decisive, almost military. it is of the inmost essence of his genius this sort of painting. the fiery, swift italian nature of the man, so silent, passionate, with its quick abrupt movements, its silent 'pale rages,' speaks itself in these things. for though this of painting is one of the outermost developments of a man, it comes like all else from the essential faculty of him; it is physiognomical of the whole man. find a man whose words paint you a likeness, you have found a man worth something; mark his manner of doing it, as very characteristic of him. in the first place, he could not have discerned the object at all, or seen the vital type of it, unless he had, what we may call, _sympathised_ with it,--had sympathy in him to bestow on objects. he must have been _sincere_ about it too; sincere and sympathetic: a man without worth cannot give you the likeness of any object; he dwells in vague outwardness, fallacy and trivial hearsay, about all objects. and indeed may we not say that intellect altogether expresses itself in this power of discerning what an object is? whatsoever of faculty a man's mind may have will come out here. is it even of business, a matter to be done? the gifted man is he who _sees_ the essential point, and leaves all the rest aside as surplusage: it is his faculty too, the man of business's faculty, that he discern the true _likeness_, not the false superficial one, of the thing he has got to work in. and how much of _morality_ is in the kind of insight we get of anything; 'the eye seeing in all things what it brought with it the faculty of seeing'! to the mean eye all things are trivial, as certainly as to the jaundiced they are yellow. raphael, the painters tell us, is the best of all portrait-painters withal. no most gifted eye can exhaust the significance of any object. in the commonest human face there lies more than raphael will take-away with him. dante's painting is not graphic only, brief, true, and of a vividness as of fire in dark night; taken on the wider scale, it is everyway noble, and the outcome of a great soul. francesca and her lover, what qualities in that! a thing woven as out of rainbows, on a ground of eternal black. a small flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there, into our very heart of hearts. a touch of womanhood in it too; _della bella persona, che mi fu tolta_; and how, even in the pit of woe, it is a solace that _he_ will never part from her! saddest tragedy in these _alti guai_. and the racking winds, in that _aer bruno_, whirl them away again, to wail forever!--strange to think: dante was the friend of this poor francesca's father; francesca herself may have sat upon the poet's knee, as a bright innocent little child. infinite pity, yet also infinite rigour of law: it is so nature is made; it is so dante discerned that she was made. what a paltry notion is that of his _divine comedy's_ being a poor splenetic impotent terrestrial libel; putting those into hell whom he could not be avenged-upon on earth! i suppose if ever pity, tender as a mother's, was in the heart of any man, it was in dante's. but a man who does not know rigour cannot pity either. his very pity will be cowardly, egoistic,--sentimentality, or little better. i know not in the world an affection equal to that of dante. it is a tenderness, a trembling, longing, pitying love: like the wail of æolean harps, soft, soft; like a child's young heart;--and then that stern, sore-saddened heart! these longings of his towards his beatrice; their meeting together in the _paradiso_; his gazing in her pure transfigured eyes, her that had been purified by death so long, separated from him so far:--one likens it to the song of angels; it is among the purest utterances of affection, perhaps the very purest, that ever came out of a human soul. for the _intense_ dante is intense in all things; he has got into the essence of all. his intellectual insight as painter, on occasion too as reasoner, is but the result of all other sorts of intensity. morally great, above all, we must call him; it is the beginning of all. his scorn, his grief are as transcendent as his love;--as indeed, what are they but the _inverse_ or _converse_ of his love? '_a dio spiacenti ed a' nemici sui_, hateful to god and to the enemies of god:' lofty scorn, unappeasable silent reprobation and aversion; '_non ragionam di lor_, we will not speak of _them_, look only and pass.' or think of this; 'they have not the _hope_ to die, _non han speranza di morte_.' one day, it had risen sternly benign on the scathed heart of dante, that he, wretched, never-resting, worn as he was, would full surely _die_; 'that destiny itself could not doom him not to die.' such words are in this man. for rigour, earnestness and depth, he is not to be paralleled in the modern world; to seek his parallel we must go into the hebrew bible, and live with the antique prophets there. i do not agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring the _inferno_ to the two other parts of the divine _commedia_. such preference belongs, i imagine, to our general byronism of taste, and is like to be a transient feeling. the _purgatorio_ and _paradiso_, especially the former, one would almost say, is even more excellent than it. it is a noble thing that _purgatorio_, 'mountain of purification'; an emblem of the noblest conception of that age. if sin is so fatal, and hell is and must be so rigorous, awful, yet in repentance too is man purified; repentance is the grand christian act. it is beautiful how dante works it out. the _tremolar dell' onde_ that 'trembling' of the ocean-waves, under the first pure gleam of morning, dawning afar on the wandering two, is as the type of an altered mood. hope has now dawned; never-dying hope, if in company still with heavy sorrow. the obscure sojourn of dæmons and reprobate is underfoot; a soft breathing of penitence mounts higher and higher, to the throne of mercy itself. "pray for me," the denizens of that mount of pain all say to him. "tell my giovanna to pray for me," my daughter giovanna; "i think her mother loves me no more!" they toil painfully up by that winding steep, 'bent-down like corbels of a building,' some of them,--crushed-together so 'for the sin of pride'; yet nevertheless in years, in ages and æons, they shall have reached the top, which is heaven's gate, and by mercy shall have been admitted in. the joy too of all, when one has prevailed; the whole mountain shakes with joy, and a psalm of praise rises, when one soul has perfected repentance and got its sin and misery left behind! i call all this a noble embodiment of a true noble thought. but indeed the three compartments mutually support one another, are indispensable to one another. the _paradiso_, a kind of inarticulate music to me, is the redeeming side of the _inferno_; the _inferno_ without it were untrue. all three make-up the true unseen world, as figured in the christianity of the middle ages; a thing forever memorable, forever true in the essence of it, to all men. it was perhaps delineated in no human soul with such depth of veracity as in this of dante's; a man _sent_ to sing it, to keep it long memorable. very notable with what brief simplicity he passes out of the every-day reality, into the invisible one; and in the second or third stanza, we find ourselves in the world of spirits; and dwell there, as among things palpable, indubitable! to dante they _were_ so; the real world, as it is called, and its facts, was but the threshold to an infinitely higher fact of a world. at bottom, the one was as _preter_-natural as the other. has not each man a soul? he will not only be a spirit, but is one. to the earnest dante it is all one visible fact; he believes it, sees it; is the poet of it in virtue of that. sincerity, i say again, is the saving merit, now as always. dante's hell, purgatory, paradise, are a symbol withal, an emblematic representation of his belief about this universe:--some critic in a future age, like those scandinavian ones the other day, who has ceased altogether to think as dante did, may find this too all an 'allegory,' perhaps an idle allegory! it is a sublime embodiment, or sublimest, of the soul of christianity. it expresses, as in huge worldwide architectural emblems, how the christian dante felt good and evil to be the two polar elements of this creation, on which it all turns; that these two differ not by _preferability_ of one to the other, but by incompatibility absolute and infinite; that the one is excellent and high as light and heaven, the other hideous, black as gehenna and the pit of hell! everlasting justice, yet with penitence, with everlasting pity,--all christianism, as dante and the middle ages had it, is emblemed here. emblemed: and yet, as i urged the other day, with what entire truth of purpose; how unconscious of any embleming! hell, purgatory, paradise: these things were not fashioned as emblems; was there, in our modern european mind, any thought at all of their being emblems? were they not indubitable awful facts; the whole heart of man taking them for practically true, all nature everywhere confirming them? so is it always in these things. men do not believe an allegory. the future critic, whatever his new thought may be, who considers this of dante to have been all got-up as an allegory, will commit one sore mistake!--paganism we recognised as a veracious expression of the earnest awe-struck feeling of man towards the universe; veracious, true once, and still not without worth for us. but mark here the difference of paganism and christianism; one great difference. paganism emblemed chiefly the operations of nature; the destinies, efforts, combinations, vicissitudes of things and men in this world; christianism emblemed the law of human duty, the moral law of man. one was for the sensuous nature: a rude helpless utterance of the _first_ thought of men,--the chief recognised virtue, courage, superiority to fear. the other was not for the sensuous nature, but for the moral. what a progress is here, if in that one respect only!- * * * * * and so in this dante, as we said, had ten silent centuries, in a very strange way, found a voice. the _divina commedia_ is of dante's writing; yet in truth _it_ belongs to ten christian centuries, only the finishing of it is dante's. so always. the craftsman there, the smith with that metal of his, with these tools, with these cunning methods,--how little of all he does is properly _his_ work! all past inventive men work there with him;--as indeed with all of us, in all things. dante is the spokesman of the middle ages; the thought they lived by stands here in everlasting music. these sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the fruit of the christian meditation of all the good men who had gone before him. precious they; but also is not he precious? much, had not he spoken, would have been dumb; not dead, yet living voiceless. on the whole, is it not an utterance, this mystic song, at once of one of the greatest human souls, and of the highest thing that europe had hitherto realised for itself? christianism, as dante sings it, is another than paganism in the rude norse mind; another than 'bastard christianism' half-articulately spoken in the arab desert seven-hundred years before!--the noblest _idea_ made _real_ hitherto among men, is sung, and emblemed-forth abidingly, by one of the noblest men. in the one sense and in the other, are we not right glad to possess it? as i calculate, it may last yet for long thousands of years. for the thing that is uttered from the inmost parts of a man's soul, differs altogether from what is uttered by the outer part. the outer is of the day, under the empire of mode; the outer passes away, in swift endless changes; the inmost is the same yesterday, today and forever. true souls, in all generations of the world, who look on this dante, will find a brotherhood in him; the deep sincerity of his thoughts, his woes and hopes, will speak likewise to their sincerity; they will feel that this dante too was a brother. napoleon in saint-helena is charmed with the genial veracity of old homer. the oldest hebrew prophet, under a vesture the most diverse from ours, does yet, because he speaks from the heart of man, speak to all men's hearts. it is the one sole secret of continuing long memorable. dante, for depth of sincerity, is like an antique prophet too; his words, like theirs, come from his very heart. one need not wonder if it were predicted that his poem might be the most enduring thing our europe has yet made; for nothing so endures as a truly spoken word. all cathedrals, pontificalities, brass and stone, and outer arrangement never so lasting, are brief in comparison to an unfathomable heart-song like this: one feels as if it might survive, still of importance to men, when these had all sunk into new irrecognisable combinations, and had ceased individually to be. europe has made much; great cities, great empires, encyclopædias, creeds, bodies of opinion and practice: but it has made little of the class of dante's thought. homer yet _is_, veritably present face to face with every open soul of us; and greece, where is _it_? desolate for thousands of years; away, vanished; a bewildered heap of stones and rubbish, the life and existence of it all gone. like a dream; like the dust of king agamemnon! greece was; greece, except in the _words_ it spoke, is not. the uses of this dante? we will not say much about his 'uses.' a human soul who has once got into that primal element of _song_, and sung-forth fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the _depths_ of our existence; feeding through long times the life-_roots_ of all excellent human things whatsoever,--in a way that 'utilities' will not succeed well in calculating! we will not estimate the sun by the quantity of gas-light it saves us; dante shall be invaluable, or of no value. one remark i may make: the contrast in this respect between the hero-poet and the hero-prophet. in a hundred years, mahomet, as we saw, had his arabians at grenada and at delhi; dante's italians seem to be yet very much where they were. shall we say, then, dante's effect on the world was small in comparison? not so: his arena is far more restricted: but also it is far nobler, clearer;--perhaps not less but more important. mahomet speaks to great masses of men, in the coarse dialect adapted to such; a dialect filled with inconsistencies, crudities, follies: on the great masses alone can he act, and there with good and with evil strangely blended. dante speaks to the noble, the pure and great, in all times and places. neither does he grow obsolete, as the other does. dante burns as a pure star, fixed there in the firmament, at which the great and the high of all ages kindle themselves: he is the possession of all the chosen of the world for uncounted time. dante, one calculates, may long survive mahomet. in this way the balance may be made straight again. but, at any rate, it is not by what is called their effect on the world by what _we_ can judge of their effect there, that a man and his work are measured. effect? influence? utility? let a man _do_ his work; the fruit of it is the care of another than he. it will grow its own fruit; and whether embodied in caliph thrones and arabian conquests, so that it 'fills all morning and evening newspapers,' and all histories, which are a kind of distilled newspapers; or not embodied so at all;--what matters that? that is not the real fruit of it! the arabian caliph, in so far only as he did something, was something. if the great cause of man, and man's work in god's earth, got no furtherance from the arabian caliph, then no matter how many scimetars he drew, how many gold piasters pocketed, and what uproar and blaring he made in this world--he was but a loud-sounding inanity and futility; at bottom, he _was_ not at all. let us honour the great empire of _silence_, once more! the boundless treasury which we do _not_ jingle in our pockets, or count up and present before men! it is perhaps, of all things, the usefulest for each of us to do, in these loud times.--- * * * * * as dante, the italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically the religion of the middle ages, the religion of our modern europe, its inner life; so shakspeare, we may say, embodies for us the outer life of our europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humours, ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, men then had. as in homer we may still construe old greece; so in shakspeare and dante, after thousands of years, what our modern europe was, in faith and in practice, will still be legible. dante has given us the faith or soul; shakspeare, in a not less noble way, has given us the practice or body. this latter also we were to have: a man was sent for it, the man shakspeare. just when that chivalry way of life had reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it. two fit men: dante, deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; shakspeare, wide, placid, far-seeing, as the sun, the upper light of the world. italy produced the one world-voice; we english had the honour of producing the other. curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us. i think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this shakspeare, had the warwickshire squire not prosecuted him for deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a poet! the woods and skies, the rustic life of man in stratford there, had been enough for this man! but indeed that strange outbudding of our whole english existence, which we call the elizabethan era, did not it too come as of its own accord? the 'tree igdrasil' buds and withers by its own laws,--too deep for our scanning. yet it does bud and wither, and every bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a sir thomas lucy but comes at the hour fit for him. curious, i say, and not sufficiently considered: how everything does coöperate with all; not a leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognisably or irrecognisably, on all men! it is all a tree: circulation of sap and influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the whole. the tree igdrasil, that has its roots down in the kingdoms of hela and death, and whose boughs overspread the highest heaven!-in some sense it may be said that this glorious elizabethan era with its shakspeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, is itself attributable to the catholicism of the middle ages. the christian faith, which was the theme of dante's song, had produced this practical life which shakspeare was to sing. for religion then, as it now and always is, was the soul of practice; the primary vital fact in men's life. and remark here, as rather curious, that middle-age catholicism was abolished, so far as acts of parliament could abolish it, before shakspeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance. he did make his appearance nevertheless. nature at her own time, with catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking small thought of acts of parliament. king-henrys, queen-elizabeths go their way; and nature too goes hers. acts of parliament, on the whole, are small, notwithstanding the noise they make. what act of parliament, debate at st. stephen's, on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that brought this shakspeare into being? no dining at freemasons' tavern, opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other jangling and true or false endeavouring! this elizabethan era, and all its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of ours. priceless shakspeare was the free gift of nature; given altogether silently;--received altogether silently, as if it had been a thing of little account. and yet, very literally, it is a priceless thing. one should look at that side of matters too. of this shakspeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; i think the best judgment not of this country only, but of europe at large, is slowly pointing to the conclusion, that shakspeare is the chief of all poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left record of himself in the way of literature. on the whole, i know not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all the characters of it, in any other man. such a calmness of depth; placid joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! it has been said, that in the constructing of shakspeare's dramas there is, apart from all other 'faculties' as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to that in bacon's _novum organum_. that is true; and it is not a truth that strikes every one. it would become more apparent if we tried, any of us for himself, how, out of shakspeare's dramatic materials, _we_ could fashion such a result! the built house seems all so fit,--everyway as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of things,--we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. the very perfection of the house, as if nature herself had made it, hides the builder's merit. perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may call shakspeare in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, what condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and its relation to them is. it is not a transitory glance of insight that will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a calmly _seeing_ eye; a great intellect, in short. how a man, of some wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind of picture and delineation he will give of it,--is the best measure you could get of what intellect is in the man. which circumstance is vital and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; where is the true _beginning_, the true sequence and ending? to find out this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man. he must _understand_ the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, will the fitness of his answer be. you will try him so. does like join itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so that its embroilment becomes order? can the man say, _fiat lux_, let there be light; and out of chaos make a world? precisely as there is _light_ in himself, will he accomplish this. or indeed we may say again, it is in what i called portrait-painting, delineating of men and things, especially of men, that shakspeare is great. all the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. it is unexampled, i think, that calm creative perspicacity of shakspeare. the thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost heart, and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in light before him, so that he discerns the perfect structure of it. creative, we said: poetic creation, what is this too but _seeing_ the thing sufficiently? the _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such clear intense sight of the thing. and is not shakspeare's _morality_, his valour, candour, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, visible there too? great as the world! no _twisted_, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; a perfectly _level_ mirror;--that is to say withal, if we will understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man. it is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes-in all kinds of men and objects, a falstaff, an othello, a juliet, a coriolanus; sets them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the equal brother of all. _novum organum_, and all the intellect you will find in bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthly, material, poor in comparison with this. among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost nothing of the same rank. goethe alone, since the days of shakspeare, reminds me of it. of him too you say that he _saw_ the object; you may say what he himself says of shakspeare: 'his characters are like watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible.' the seeing eye! it is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; what nature meant, what musical idea nature has wrapped-up in these often rough embodiments. something she did mean. to the seeing eye that something were discernible. are they base, miserable things? you can laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other genially relate yourself to them;--you can, at lowest, hold your peace about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them! at bottom, it is the poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect enough. he will be a poet if he have: a poet in word; or failing that, perhaps still better, a poet in act. whether he write at all; and if so, whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who knows on what extremely trivial accidents,--perhaps on his having had a singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood! but the faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result of habits or accidents, but the gift of nature herself; the primary outfit for a heroic man in what sort soever. to the poet, as to every other, we say first of all, _see_. if you cannot do that, it is of no use to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each other, and _name_ yourself a poet; there is no hope for you. if you can, there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of hope. the crabbed old schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a new pupil, "but are ye sure he's _not a dunce_?" why, really one might ask the same thing in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful: are ye sure he's not a dunce? there is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person. for, in fact, i say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct measure of the man. if called to define shakspeare's faculty, i should say superiority of intellect, and think i had included all under that. what indeed are faculties? we talk of faculties as if they were distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, fancy, &c, as he has hands, feet and arms. that is a capital error. then again, we hear of a man's 'intellectual nature,' and of his 'moral nature,' as if these again were divisible, and existed apart. necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we must speak, i am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all. but words ought not to harden into things for us. it seems to me, our apprehension of this matter is, for the most part, radically falsified thereby. we ought to know withal, and to keep for ever in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but _names_; that man's spiritual nature, the vital force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are but different figures of the same power of insight, all indissolubly connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one of them, we might know all of them. morality itself, what we call the moral quality of a man, what is this but another _side_ of the one vital force whereby he is and works? all that a man does is physiognomical of him. you may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes. he is _one_; and preaches the same self abroad in all these ways. without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider it,--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! to know a thing, what we can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathise with it: that is, be _virtuously_ related to it. if he have not the justice to put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the dangerous-true at every turn, how shall he know? his virtues, all of them, will lie recorded in his knowledge. nature, with her truth, remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a sealed book: what such can know of nature is mean, superficial, small; for the uses of the day merely.--but does not the very fox know something of nature? exactly so: it knows where the geese lodge! the human reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know but this and the like of this? nay, it should be considered, too, that if the fox had not a certain vulpine _morality_, he could not even know where the geese were, or get at the geese! if he spent his time in splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by nature, fortune and other foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, he would catch no geese. we may say of the fox too, that his morality and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same internal unity of vulpine life!--these things are worth stating; for the contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this time: what limitations, modifications they require, your own candour will supply. if i say, therefore, that shakspeare is the greatest of intellects, i have said all concerning him. but there is more in shakspeare's intellect than we have yet seen. it is what i call an unconscious intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of. novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those dramas of his are products of nature too, deep as nature herself. i find a great truth in this saying. shakspeare's art is not artifice; the noblest worth of it is not there by plan or precontrivance. it grows-up from the deeps of nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of nature. the latest generations of men will find new meanings in shakspeare, new elucidations of their own human being; 'new harmonies with the infinite structure of the universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities with the higher powers and senses of man.' this well deserves meditating. it is nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul, that he get thus to be a _part of herself_. such a man's works, whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall accomplish, grow up withal unconsciously, from the unknown deeps in him;--as the oak-tree grows from the earth's bosom, as the mountains and waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on nature's own laws, conformable to all truth whatsoever. how much in shakspeare lies hid; his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not known at all, not speakable at all; like _roots_, like sap and forces working underground! speech is great; but silence is greater. withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. i will not blame dante for his misery: it is as battle without victory; but true battle,--the first, indispensable thing. yet i call shakspeare greater than dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. doubt it not, he had his own sorrows: those _sonnets_ of his will even testify expressly in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life;--as what man like him ever failed to have to do? it seems to me a heedless notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang forth, free and offhand, never knowing the troubles of other men. not so; with no man is it so. how could a man travel forward from rustic deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall-in with sorrows by the way? or, still better, how could a man delineate a hamlet, a coriolanus, a macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own heroic heart had never suffered?--and now, in contrast with all this, observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter! you would say, in no point does he _exaggerate_ but only in laughter. fiery objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in shakspeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what johnson would remark as a specially 'good hater.' but his laughter seems to pour from him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you would say, with his whole heart laughs. and then, if not always the finest, it is always a genial laughter. not at mere weakness, at misery or poverty; never. no man who _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will laugh at these things. it is some poor character only _desiring_ to laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. laughter means sympathy; good laughter is not 'the crackling of thorns under the pot.' even at stupidity and pretension this shakspeare does not laugh otherwise than genially. dogberry and verges tickle our very hearts; and we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter: but we like the poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on well there, and continue presidents of the city-watch. such laughter, like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me. * * * * * we have no room to speak of shakspeare's individual works; though perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head. had we, for instance, all his plays reviewed as _hamlet_, in _wilhelm meister_, is! a thing which might, one day, be done. august wilhelm schlegel has a remark on his historical plays, _henry fifth_ and the others, which is worth remembering. he calls them a kind of national epic. marlborough, you recollect, said, he knew no english history but what he had learned from shakspeare. there are really, if we look to it, few as memorable histories. the great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as schlegel says, _epic_;--as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be. there are right beautiful things in those pieces, which indeed together form one beautiful thing. that battle of agincourt strikes me as one of the most perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of shakspeare's. the description of the two hosts: the worn-out, jaded english; the dread hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that deathless valour: "ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in england!" there is a noble patriotism in it,--far other than the 'indifference' you sometimes hear ascribed to shakspeare. a true english heart breathes, calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; all the better for that. there is a sound in it like the ring of steel. this man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that! but i will say, of shakspeare's works generally, that we have no full impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. his works are so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in him. all his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note of the full utterance of the man. passages there are that come upon you like splendour out of heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very heart of the thing: you say, "that is _true_, spoken once and forever; wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be recognised as true!" such bursts, however, make us feel that the surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is, in part, temporary, conventional. alas, shakspeare had to write for the globe play-house: his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other mould. it was with him, then, as it is with us all. no man works save under conditions. the sculptor cannot set his own free thought before us; but his thought as he could translate it into the stone that was given, with the tools that were given. _disjecta membra_ are all that we find of any poet, or of any man. * * * * * whoever looks intelligently at this shakspeare may recognise that he too was a _prophet_, in his way; of an insight analogous to the prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. nature seemed to this man also divine; unspeakable, deep as tophet, high as heaven: 'we are such stuff as dreams are made of!' that scroll in westminster abbey, which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer. but the man sang; did not preach, except musically. we called dante the melodious priest of middle-age catholicism. may we not call shakspeare the still more melodious priest of a _true_ catholicism, the 'universal church' of the future and of all times? no narrow superstition, harsh asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousandfold hidden beauty and divineness dwells in all nature; which let all men worship as they can! we may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal psalm out of this shakspeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among the still more sacred psalms. not in disharmony with these, if we understood them, but in harmony!--i cannot call this shakspeare a 'sceptic,' as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological quarrels of his time misleading them. no: neither unpatriotic, though he says little about his patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little about his faith. such 'indifference' was the fruit of his greatness withal: his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may call it such): these other controversies, vitally important to other men, were not vital to him. but call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious thing, and set of things, this that shakspeare has brought us? for myself, i feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact of such a man being sent into this earth. is he not an eye to us all; a blessed heaven-sent bringer of light?--and, at bottom, was it not perhaps far better that this shakspeare, everyway an unconscious man, was _conscious_ of no heavenly message? he did not feel, like mahomet, because he saw into those internal splendours, that he specially was the 'prophet of god:' and was he not greater than mahomet in that? greater; and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in dante's case, more successful. it was intrinsically an error that notion of mahomet's, of his supreme prophethood: and has come down to us inextricably involved in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable step for me here and now to say, as i have done, that mahomet was a true speaker at all, and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no speaker, but a babbler! even in arabia, as i compute, mahomet will have exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this shakspeare, this dante may still be young;--while this shakspeare may still pretend to be a priest of mankind, of arabia as of other places, for unlimited periods to come! compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with æschylus or homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them? he is _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal and perennial. but as for mahomet, i think it had been better for him _not_ to be so conscious! alas, poor mahomet; all that he was _conscious_ of was a mere error; a futility and triviality,--as indeed such ever is. the truly great in him too was the unconscious: that he was a wild arab lion of the desert, and did speak-out with that great thunder-voice of his, not by words which he _thought_ to be great, but by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ great! his koran has become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him, that god wrote that! the great man here too, as always, is a force of nature: whatsoever is truly great in him springs-up from the inarticulate deeps. * * * * * well: this is our poor warwickshire peasant, who rose to be manager of a playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the earl of southampton cast some kind glances on; whom sir thomas lucy, many thanks to him, was for sending to the treadmill! we did not account him a god, like odin, while he dwelt with us;--on which point there were much to be said. but i will say rather, or repeat: in spite of the sad state hero-worship now lies in, consider what this shakspeare has actually become among us. which englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which million of englishmen, would we not give-up rather than the stratford peasant? there is no regiment of highest dignitaries that we would sell him for. he is the grandest thing we have yet done. for our honour among foreign nations, as an ornament to our english household, what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him? consider now, if they asked us, will you give-up your indian empire or your shakspeare, you english; never have had any indian empire, or never have had any shakspeare? really it were a grave question. official persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our part too, should not we be forced to answer: indian empire, or no indian empire; we cannot do without shakspeare! indian empire will go, at any rate, some day; but this shakspeare does not go, he lasts forever with us; we cannot give-up our shakspeare! nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, marketable, tangibly-useful possession. england, before long, this island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the english: in america, in new holland, east and west to the very antipodes, there will be a saxondom covering great spaces of the globe. and now, what is it that can keep all these together into virtually one nation, so that they do not fall-out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping one another? this is justly regarded as the greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and governments are here to accomplish: what is it that will accomplish this? acts of parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot. america is parted from us, so far as parliament could part it. call it not fantastic, for there is much reality in it: here, i say, is an english king, whom no time or chance, parliament or combination of parliaments, can dethrone! this king shakspeare, does not he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; indestructible; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever? we can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the nations of englishmen, a thousand years hence. from paramatta, from new york, wheresoever, under what sort of parish-constable soever, english men and women are, they will say to one another: "yes, this shakspeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him." the most common-sense politician too, if he pleases, may think of that. yes, truly, it is a great thing for a nation that it get an articulate voice; that it produce a man who will speak-forth melodiously what the heart of it means! italy, for example, poor italy lies dismembered, scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at all; yet the noble italy is actually _one_: italy produced its dante; italy can speak! the czar of all the russias, he is strong, with so many bayonets, cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a tract of earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak. something great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. he has had no voice of genius, to be heard of all men and times. he must learn to speak. he is a great dumb monster hitherto. his cannons and cossacks will all have rusted into nonentity, while that dante's voice is still audible. the nation that has a dante is bound together as no dumb russia can be.--we must here end what we had to say of the _hero-poet_. lecture iv the hero as priest. luther; reformation: knox; puritanism. [_friday, 15th may 1840_] our present discourse is to be of the great man as priest. we have repeatedly endeavoured to explain that all sorts of heroes are intrinsically of the same material; that given a great soul, open to the divine significance of life, then there is given a man fit to speak of this, to sing of this, to fight and work for this, in a great, victorious, enduring manner; there is given a hero,--the outward shape of whom will depend on the time and the environment he finds himself in. the priest too, as i understand it, is a kind of prophet; in him too there is required to be a light of inspiration, as we must name it. he presides over the worship of the people; is the uniter of them with the unseen holy. he is the spiritual captain of the people; as the prophet is their spiritual king with many captains: he guides them heavenward, by wise guidance through this earth and its work. the ideal of him is, that he too be what we can call a voice from the unseen heaven; interpreting, even as the prophet did, and in a more familiar manner unfolding the same to men. the unseen heaven,--the 'open secret of the universe,'--which so few have an eye for! he is the prophet shorn of his more awful splendour; burning with mild equable radiance, as the enlightener of daily life. this, i say, is the ideal of a priest. so in old times; so in these, and in all times. one knows very well that, in reducing ideals to practice, great latitude of tolerance is needful; very great. but a priest who is not this at all, who does not any longer aim or try to be this, is a character--of whom we had rather not speak in this place. luther and knox were by express vocation priests, and did faithfully perform that function in its common sense. yet it will suit us better here to consider them chiefly in their historical character, rather as reformers than priests. there have been other priests perhaps equally notable, in calmer times, for doing faithfully the office of a leader of worship; bringing down, by faithful heroism in that kind, a light from heaven into the daily life of their people; leading them forward, as under god's guidance, in the way wherein they were to go. but when this same _way_ was a rough one, of battle, confusion and danger, the spiritual captain, who led through that, becomes, especially to us who live under the fruit of his leading, more notable than any other. he is the warfaring and battling priest; who led his people, not to quiet faithful labour as in smooth times, but to faithful valorous conflict, in times all violent, dismembered: a more perilous service, and a more memorable one, be it higher or not. these two men we will account our best priests, inasmuch as they were our best reformers. nay i may ask, is not every true reformer, by the nature of him, a _priest_ first of all? he appeals to heaven's invisible justice against earth's visible force; knows that it, the invisible, is strong and alone strong. he is a believer in the divine truth of things; a _seer_, seeing through the shows of things; a worshipper, in one way or the other, of the divine truth of things; a priest, that is. if he be not first a priest, he will never be good for much as a reformer. thus, then, as we have seen great men, in various situations, building up religions, heroic forms of human existence in this world, theories of life worthy to be sung by a dante, practices of life by a shakspeare,--we are now to see the reverse process; which also is necessary, which also may be carried on in the heroic manner. curious how this should be necessary; yet necessary it is. the mild shining of the poet's light has to give place to the fierce lightning of the reformer: unfortunately the reformer too is a personage that cannot fail in history! the poet indeed, with his mildness, what is he but the product and ultimate adjustment of reform, or prophecy with its fierceness? no wild saint dominics and thebaïd eremites, there had been no melodious dante; rough practical endeavour, scandinavian and other, from odin to walter raleigh, from ulfila to cranmer, enabled shakspeare to speak. nay the finished poet, i remark sometimes, is a symptom that his epoch itself has reached perfection and is finished; that before long there will be a new epoch, new reformers needed. doubtless it were finer, could we go along always in the way of _music_; be tamed and taught by our poets, as the rude creatures were by their orpheus of old. or failing this rhythmic _musical_ way, how good were it could we get so much as into the _equable_ way; i mean, if _peaceable_ priests, reforming from day to day, would always suffice us! but it is not so; even this latter has not yet been realised. alas, the battling reformer too is, from time to time, a needful and inevitable phenomenon. obstructions are never wanting: the very things that were once indispensable furtherances become obstructions; and need to be shaken off, and left behind us,--a business often of enormous difficulty. it is notable enough, surely, how a theorem or spiritual representation, so we may call it, which once took in the whole universe, and was completely satisfactory in all parts of it to the highly-discursive acute intellect of dante, one of the greatest in the world,--had in the course of another century become dubitable to common intellects; become deniable; and is now, to every one of us, flatly incredible, obsolete as odin's theorem! to dante, human existence, and god's ways with men, were all well represented by those _malebolges_, _purgatorios_; to luther not well. how was this? why could not dante's catholicism continue; but luther's protestantism must needs follow? alas, nothing will _continue_. i do not make much of 'progress of the species,' as handled in these times of ours; nor do i think you would care to hear much about it. the talk on that subject is too often of the most extravagant, confused sort. yet i may say, the fact itself seems certain enough; nay we can trace out the inevitable necessity of it in the nature of things. every man, as i have stated somewhere, is not only a learner but a doer: he learns with the mind given him what has been; but with the same mind he discovers farther, he invents and devises somewhat of his own. absolutely without originality there is no man. no man whatever believes, or can believe, exactly what his grandfather believed: he enlarges somewhat, by fresh discovery, his view of the universe, and consequently his theorem of the universe,--which is an _infinite_ universe, and can never be embraced wholly or finally by any view or theorem, in any conceivable enlargement: he enlarges somewhat, i say; finds somewhat that was credible to his grandfather incredible to him, false to him, inconsistent with some new thing he has discovered or observed. it is the history of every man; and in the history of mankind we see it summed-up into great historical amounts,--revolutions, new epochs. dante's mountain of purgatory does _not_ stand 'in the ocean of the other hemisphere,' when columbus has once sailed thither! men find no such thing extant in the other hemisphere. it is not there. it must cease to be believed to be there. so with all beliefs whatsoever in this world,--all systems of belief, and systems of practice that spring from these. if we add now the melancholy fact, that when belief waxes uncertain, practice too becomes unsound, and errors, injustices and miseries everywhere more and more prevail, we shall see material enough for revolution. at all turns, a man who will _do_ faithfully, needs to believe firmly. if he have to ask at every turn the world's suffrage; if he cannot dispense with the world's suffrage, and make his own suffrage serve, he is a poor eye-servant; the work committed to him will be _mis_done. every such man is a daily contributor to the inevitable downfall. whatsoever work he does, dishonestly, with an eye to the outward look of it, is a new offence, parent of new misery to somebody or other. offences accumulate till they become insupportable; and are then violently burst through, cleared off as by explosion. dante's sublime catholicism, incredible now in theory, and defaced still worse by faithless, doubting and dishonest practice, has to be torn asunder by a luther; shakspeare's noble feudalism, as beautiful as it once looked and was, has to end in a french revolution. the accumulation of offences is, as we say, too literally _exploded_, blasted asunder volcanically; and there are long troublous periods before matters come to a settlement again. surely it were mournful enough to look only at this face of the matter, and find in all human opinions and arrangements merely the fact that they were uncertain, temporary, subject to the law of death! at bottom, it is not so: all death, here too we find, is but of the body, not of the essence or soul; all destruction, by violent revolution or howsoever it be, is but new creation on a wider scale. odinism was _valour_; christianism was _humility_, a nobler kind of valour. no thought that ever dwelt honestly as true in the heart of man but _was_ an honest insight into god's truth on man's part, and _has_ an essential truth in it which endures through all changes, an everlasting possession for us all. and, on the other hand, what a melancholy notion is that, which has to represent all men, in all countries and times except our own, as having spent their life in blind condemnable error, mere lost pagans, scandinavians, mahometans, only that we might have the true ultimate knowledge! all generations of men were lost and wrong, only that this present little section of a generation might be saved and right. they all marched forward there, all generations since the beginning of the world, like the russian soldiers into the ditch of schweidnitz fort, only to fill-up the ditch with their dead bodies, that we might march-over and take the place! it is an incredible hypothesis. such incredible hypothesis we have seen maintained with fierce emphasis; and this or the other poor individual man, with his sect of individual men, marching as over the dead bodies of all men, towards sure victory: but when he too, with his hypothesis and ultimate infallible credo, sank into the ditch, and became a dead body, what was to be said?--withal, it is an important fact in the nature of man, that he tends to reckon his own insight as final, and goes upon it as such. he will always do it, i suppose, in one or the other way; but it must be in some wider, wiser way than this. are not all true men that live, or that ever lived, soldiers of the same army, enlisted, under heaven's captaincy, to do battle against the same enemy, the empire of darkness and wrong? why should we misknow one another, fight not against the enemy but against ourselves, from mere difference of uniform? all uniforms shall be good, so they hold in them true valiant men. all fashions of arms, the arab turban and swift scimetar, thor's strong hammer smiting down _jötuns_, shall be welcome. luther's battle-voice, dante's march-melody, all genuine things are with us, not against us. we are all under one captain, soldiers of the same host.--let us now look a little at this luther's fighting; what kind of battle it was, and how he comported himself in it. luther too was of our spiritual heroes; a prophet to his country and time. as introductory to the whole, a remark about idolatry will perhaps be in place here. one of mahomet's characteristics, which indeed belongs to all prophets, is unlimited implacable zeal against idolatry. it is the grand theme of prophets: idolatry, the worshipping of dead idols as the divinity, is a thing they cannot away-with, but have to denounce continually, and brand with inexpiable reprobation; it is the chief of all the sins they see done under the sun. this is worth noting. we will not enter here into the theological question about idolatry. idol is _eidolon_, a thing seen, a symbol. it is not god, but a symbol of god; and perhaps one may question whether any the most benighted mortal ever took it for more than a symbol. i fancy, he did not think that the poor image his own hands had made _was_ god; but that god was emblemed by it, that god was in it some way or another. and now in this sense, one may ask, is not all worship whatsoever a worship by symbols, by _eidola_, or things seen? whether _seen_, rendered visible as an image or picture to the bodily eye; or visible only to the inward eye, to the imagination, to the intellect: this makes a superficial, but no substantial difference. it is still a thing seen, significant of godhead; an idol. the most rigorous puritan has his confession of faith, and intellectual representation of divine things, and worships thereby; thereby is worship first made possible for him. all creeds, liturgies, religious forms, conceptions that fitly invest religious feelings, are in this sense _eidola_, things seen. all worship whatsoever must proceed by symbols, by idols:--we may say, all idolatry is comparative, and the worst idolatry is only _more_ idolatrous. where, then, lies the evil of it? some fatal evil must lie in it, or earnest prophetic men would not on all hands so reprobate it. why is idolatry so hateful to prophets? it seems to me as if, in the worship of those poor wooden symbols, the thing that had chiefly provoked the prophet, and filled his inmost soul with indignation and aversion, was not exactly what suggested itself to his own thought, and came out of him in words to others, as the thing. the rudest heathen that worshipped canopus, or the caabah black-stone, he, as we saw, was superior to the horse that worshipped nothing at all! nay there was a kind of lasting merit in that poor act of his; analogous to what is still meritorious in poets: recognition of a certain endless _divine_ beauty and significance in stars and all natural objects whatsoever. why should the prophet so mercilessly condemn him? the poorest mortal worshipping his fetish, while his heart is full of it, may be an object of pity, of contempt and avoidance, if you will; but cannot surely be an object of hatred. let his heart _be_ honestly full of it, the whole space of his dark narrow mind illuminated thereby; in one word, let him entirely _believe_ in his fetish,--it will then be, i should say, if not well with him, yet as well as it can readily be made to be, and you will leave him alone, unmolested there. but here enters the fatal circumstance of idolatry, that, in the era of the prophets, no man's mind _is_ any longer honestly filled with his idol or symbol. before the prophet can arise who, seeing through it, knows it to be mere wood, many men must have begun dimly to doubt that it was little more. condemnable idolatry is _insincere_ idolatry. doubt has eaten-out the heart of it: a human soul is seen clinging spasmodically to an ark of the covenant, which it half-feels now to have become a phantasm. this is one of the balefulest sights. souls are no longer _filled_ with their fetish; but only pretend to be filled, and would fain make themselves feel that they are filled. "you do not believe," said coleridge; "you only believe that you believe." it is the final scene in all kinds of worship and symbolism; the sure symptom that death is now nigh. it is equivalent to what we call formulism, and worship of formulas, in these days of ours. no more immoral act can be done by a human creature; for it is the beginning of all immorality, or rather it is the impossibility henceforth of any morality whatsoever: the innermost moral soul is paralysed thereby, cast into fatal magnetic sleep! men are no longer _sincere_ men. i do not wonder that the earnest man denounces this, brands it, prosecutes it with unextinguishable aversion. he and it, all good and it, are at death-feud. blamable idolatry is _cant_, and even what one may call sincere-cant. sincere-cant: that is worth thinking of! every sort of worship ends with this phasis. i find luther to have been a breaker of idols, no less than any other prophet. the wooden gods of the koreish, made of timber and bees-wax, were not more hateful to mahomet than tetzel's pardons of sin, made of sheepskin and ink, were to luther. it is the property of every hero, in every time, in every place and situation, that he come back to reality; that he stand upon things, and not shows of things. according as he loves, and venerates, articulately or with deep speechless thought, the awful realities of things, so will the hollow shows of things, however regular, decorous, accredited by koreishes or conclaves, be intolerable and detestable to him. protestantism too is the work of a prophet: the prophet-work of that sixteenth century. the first stroke of honest demolition to an ancient thing grown false and idolatrous; preparatory afar off to a new thing, which shall be true, and authentically divine!-at first view it might seem as if protestantism were entirely destructive to this that we call hero-worship, and represent as the basis of all possible good, religious or social, for mankind. one often hears it said that protestantism introduced a new era, radically different from any the world had ever seen before: the era of 'private judgment,' as they call it. by this revolt against the pope, every man became his own pope; and learnt, among other things, that he must never trust any pope, or spiritual hero-captain, any more! whereby, is not spiritual union, all hierarchy and subordination among men, henceforth an impossibility? so we hear it said.--now i need not deny that protestantism was a revolt against spiritual sovereignties, popes and much else. nay i will grant that english puritanism, revolt against earthly sovereignties, was the second act of it; that the enormous french revolution itself was the third act, whereby all sovereignties earthly and spiritual were, as might seem, abolished or made sure of abolition. protestantism is the grand root from which our whole subsequent european history branches out. for the spiritual will always body itself forth in the temporal history of men; the spiritual is the beginning of the temporal. and now, sure enough, the cry is everywhere for liberty and equality, independence and so forth: instead of _kings_, ballot-boxes and electoral suffrages; it seems made out that any hero-sovereign, or loyal obedience of men to a man, in things temporal or things spiritual, has passed away forever from the world. i should despair of the world altogether, if so. one of my deepest convictions is, that it is not so. without sovereigns, true sovereigns, temporal and spiritual, i see nothing possible but an anarchy: the hatefulest of things. but i find protestantism, whatever anarchic democracy it have produced, to be the beginning of new genuine sovereignty and order. i find it to be a revolt against _false_ sovereigns; the painful but indispensable first preparative for _true_ sovereigns getting place among us! this is worth explaining a little. let us remark, therefore, in the first place, that this of 'private judgment' is, at bottom, not a new thing in the world, but only new at that epoch of the world. there is nothing generically new or peculiar in the reformation; it was a return to truth and reality in opposition to falsehood and semblance, as all kinds of improvement and genuine teaching are and have been. liberty of private judgment, if we will consider it, must at all times have existed in the world. dante had not put-out his eyes, or tied shackles on himself; he was at home in that catholicism of his, a free-seeing soul in it, if many a poor hogstraten, tetzel and dr. eck had now become slaves in it. liberty of judgment? no iron chain, or outward force of any kind, could ever compel the soul of a man to believe or to disbelieve: it is his own indefeasible light, that judgment of his; he will reign, and believe there, by the grace of god alone! the sorriest sophistical bellarmine, preaching sightless faith and passive obedience, must first, by some kind of _conviction_, have abdicated his right to be convinced. his 'private judgment' indicated that, as the advisablest step _he_ could take. the right of private judgment will subsist, in full force, wherever true men subsist. a true man _believes_ with his whole judgment, with all the illumination and discernment that is in him, and has always so believed. a false man, only struggling to 'believe that he believes,' will naturally manage it in some other way. protestantism said to this latter, woe! and to the former, well done! at bottom, it was no new saying; it was a return to all old sayings that ever had been said. be genuine, be sincere: that was, once more, the meaning of it. mahomet believed with his whole mind; odin with his whole mind,--he, and all _true_ followers of odinism. they, by their private judgment, had 'judged'--_so_. and now, i venture to assert, that the exercise of private judgment, faithfully gone about, does by no means necessarily end in selfish independence, isolation; but rather ends necessarily in the opposite of that. it is not honest inquiry that makes anarchy; but it is error, insincerity, half-belief and untruth that make it. a man protesting against error is on the way towards uniting himself with all men that believe in truth. there is no communion possible among men who believe only in hearsays. the heart of each is lying dead; has no power of sympathy even with _things_,--or he would believe _them_ and not hearsays. no sympathy even with things; how much less with his fellow-men! he cannot unite with men; he is an anarchic man. only in a world of sincere men is unity possible;--and there, in the longrun, it is as good as _certain_. for observe one thing, a thing too often left out of view, or rather altogether lost sight of, in this controversy: that it is not necessary a man should himself have _discovered_ the truth he is to believe in, and never so _sincerely_ to believe in. a great man, we said, was always sincere, as the first condition of him. but a man need not be great in order to be sincere; that is not the necessity of nature and all time, but only of certain corrupt unfortunate epochs of time. a man can believe, and make his own, in the most genuine way, what he has received from another;--and with boundless gratitude to that other! the merit of _originality_ is not novelty; it is sincerity. the believing man is the original man; whatsoever he believes, he believes it for himself, not for another. every son of adam can become a sincere man, an original man, in this sense; no mortal is doomed to be an insincere man. whole ages, what we call ages of faith, are original; all men in them, or the most of men in them, sincere. these are the great and fruitful ages: every worker, in all spheres, is a worker not on semblance but on substance; every work issues in a result: the general sum of such work is great; for all of it, as genuine, tends towards one goal; all of it is _additive_, none of it subtractive. there is true union, true kingship, loyalty, all true and blessed things, so far as the poor earth can produce blessedness for men. hero-worship? ah me, that a man be self-subsistent, original, true, or what we call it, is surely the farthest in the world from indisposing him to reverence and believe other men's truth! it only disposes, necessitates and invincibly compels him to disbelieve other men's dead formulas, hearsays and untruths. a man embraces truth with his eyes open, and because his eyes are open: does he need to shut them before he can love his teacher of truth? he alone can love, with a right gratitude and genuine loyalty of soul, the hero-teacher who has delivered him out of darkness into light. is not such a one a true hero and serpent-queller; worthy of all reverence! the black monster, falsehood, our one enemy in this world, lies prostrate by his valour; it was he that conquered the world for us!--see, accordingly, was not luther himself reverenced as a true pope, or spiritual father, _being_ verily such? napoleon, from amid boundless revolt of sansculottism, became a king. hero-worship never dies, nor can die. loyalty and sovereignty are everlasting in the world:--and there is this in them, that they are grounded not on garnitures and semblances, but on realities and sincerities. not by shutting your eyes, your 'private judgment;' no, but by opening them, and by having something to see! luther's message was deposition and abolition to all false popes and potentates, but life and strength, though afar off, to new genuine ones. all this of liberty and equality, electoral suffrages, independence and so forth, we will take, therefore, to be a temporary phenomenon, by no means a final one. though likely to last a long time, with sad enough embroilments for us all, we must welcome it, as the penalty of sins that are past, the pledge of inestimable benefits that are coming. in all ways, it behoved men to quit simulacra and return to fact; cost what it might, that did behove to be done. with spurious popes, and believers having no private judgment,--quacks pretending to command over dupes,--what can you do? misery and mischief only. you cannot make an association out of insincere men; you cannot build an edifice except by plummet and level,--at _right_-angles to one another! in all this wild revolutionary work, from protestantism downwards, i see the blessedest result preparing itself: not abolition of hero-worship, but rather what i would call a whole world of heroes. if hero mean _sincere man_, why may not every one of us be a hero? a world all sincere, a believing world: the like has been; the like will again be,--cannot help being. that were the right sort of worshippers for heroes: never could the truly better be so reverenced as where all were true and good!--but we must hasten to luther and his life. * * * * * luther's birthplace was eisleben in saxony; he came into the world there on the 10th of november 1483. it was an accident that gave this honour to eisleben. his parents, poor mine-labourers in a village of that region, named mohra, had gone to the eisleben winter-fair: in the tumult of this scene the frau luther was taken with travail, found refuge in some poor house there, and the boy she bore was named martin luther. strange enough to reflect upon it. this poor frau luther, she had gone with her husband to make her small merchandisings; perhaps to sell the lock of yarn she had been spinning, to buy the small winter-necessaries for her narrow hut or household; in the whole world, that day, there was not a more entirely unimportant-looking pair of people than this miner and his wife. and yet what were all emperors, popes and potentates, in comparison? there was born here, once more, a mighty man; whose light was to flame as the beacon over long centuries and epochs of the world; the whole world and its history was waiting for this man. it is strange, it is great. it leads us back to another birth-hour, in a still meaner environment, eighteen hundred years ago,--of which it is fit that we _say_ nothing, that we think only in silence; for what words are there! the age of miracles past? the age of miracles is forever here!-i find it altogether suitable to luther's function in this earth, and doubtless wisely ordered to that end by the providence presiding over him and us and all things, that he was born poor, and brought-up poor, one of the poorest of men. he had to beg, as the schoolchildren in those times did; singing for alms and bread, from door to door. hardship, rigorous necessity was the poor boy's companion; no man nor no thing would put-on a false face to flatter martin luther. among things, not among the shows of things, had he to grow. a boy of rude figure, yet with weak health, with his large greedy soul, full of all faculty and sensibility, he suffered greatly. but it was his task to get acquainted with _realities_, and keep acquainted with them, at whatever cost: his task was to bring the whole world back to reality, for it had dwelt too long with semblance! a youth nursed-up in wintry whirlwinds, in desolate darkness and difficulty, that he may step-forth at last from his stormy scandinavia, strong as a true man, as a god: a christian odin,--a right thor once more, with his thunder-hammer, to smite asunder ugly enough _jötuns_ and giant-monsters! perhaps the turning incident of his life, we may fancy, was that death of his friend alexis, by lightning, at the gate of erfurt. luther had struggled-up through boyhood, better and worse; displaying, in spite of all hindrances, the largest intellect, eager to learn: his father judging doubtless that he might promote himself in the world, set him upon the study of law. this was the path to rise; luther, with little will in it either way, had consented: he was now nineteen years of age. alexis and he had been to see the old luther people at mansfeldt; were got back again near erfurt, when a thunderstorm came on; the bolt struck alexis, he fell dead at luther's feet. what is this life of ours?--gone in a moment, burnt-up like a scroll, into the blank eternity! what are all earthly preferments, chancellorships, kingships? they lie shrunk together--there! the earth has opened on them; in a moment they are not, and eternity is. luther, struck to the heart, determined to devote himself to god and god's service alone. in spite of all dissuasions from his father and others, he became a monk in the augustine convent at erfurt. this was probably the first light-point in the history of luther, his purer will now first decisively uttering itself; but, for the present, it was still as one light-point in an element all of darkness. he says he was a pious monk, _ich bin ein frommer mönch gewesen_; faithfully, painfully struggling to work-out the truth of this high act of his; but it was to little purpose. his misery had not lessened; had rather, as it were, increased into infinitude. the drudgeries he had to do, as novice in his convent, all sorts of slave-work, were not his grievance: the deep earnest soul of the man had fallen into all manner of black scruples, dubitations; he believed himself likely to die soon, and far worse than die. one hears with a new interest for poor luther that, at this time, he lived in terror of the unspeakable misery; fancied that he was doomed to eternal reprobation. was it not the humble sincere nature of the man? what was he, that he should be raised to heaven! he that had known only misery, and mean slavery: the news was too blessed to be credible. it could not become clear to him how, by fasts, vigils, formalities and mass-work, a man's soul could be saved. he fell into the blackest wretchedness; had to wander staggering as on the verge of bottomless despair. it must have been a most blessed discovery, that of an old latin bible which he found in the erfurt library about this time. he had never seen the book before. it taught him another lesson than that of fasts and vigils. a brother monk too, of pious experience, was helpful. luther learned now that a man was saved not by singing masses, but by the infinite grace of god: a more credible hypothesis. he gradually got himself founded, as on the rock. no wonder he should venerate the bible, which had brought this blessed help to him. he prized it as the word of the highest must be prized by such a man. he determined to hold by that; as through life and to death he firmly did. this, then, is his deliverance from darkness, his final triumph over darkness, what we call his conversion; for himself the most important of all epochs. that he should now grow daily in peace and clearness; that, unfolding now the great talents and virtues implanted in him, he should rise to importance in his convent, in his country, and be found more and more useful in all honest business of life, is a natural result. he was sent on missions by his augustine order, as a man of talent and fidelity fit to do their business well: the elector of saxony, friedrich, named the wise, a truly wise and just prince, had cast his eye on him as a valuable person; made him professor in his new university of wittenberg, preacher too at wittenberg; in both which capacities, as in all duties he did, this luther, in the peaceable sphere of common life, was gaining more and more esteem with all good men. it was in his twenty-seventh year that he first saw rome; being sent thither, as i said, on mission from his convent. pope julius the second, and what was going-on at rome, must have filled the mind of luther with amazement. he had come as to the sacred city, throne of god's highpriest on earth; and he found it--what we know! many thoughts it must have given the man; many which we have no record of, which perhaps he did not himself know how to utter. this rome, this scene of false priests, clothed not in the beauty of holiness, but in far other vesture, is _false_: but what is it to luther? a mean man he, how shall he reform a world? that was far from his thoughts. a humble, solitary man, why should he at all meddle with the world? it was the task of quite higher men than he. his business was to guide his own footsteps wisely through the world. let him do his own obscure duty in it well; the rest, horrible and dismal as it looks, is in god's hand, not in his. it is curious to reflect what might have been the issue, had roman popery happened to pass this luther by; to go on in its great wasteful orbit, and not come athwart his little path, and force him to assault it! conceivable enough that, in this case, he might have held his peace about the abuses of rome; left providence, and god on high, to deal with them! a modest quiet man; not prompt he to attack irreverently persons in authority. his clear task, as i say, was to do his own duty; to walk wisely in this world of confused wickedness, and save his own soul alive. but the roman highpriesthood did come athwart him: afar off at wittenberg he, luther, could not get lived in honesty for it; he remonstrated, resisted, came to extremity; was struck-at, struck again, and so it came to wager of battle between them! this is worth attending to in luther's history. perhaps no man of so humble, peaceable a disposition ever filled the world with contention. we cannot but see that he would have loved privacy, quiet diligence in the shade; that it was against his will he ever became a notoriety. notoriety: what would that do for him? the goal of his march through this world was the infinite heaven; an indubitable goal for him: in a few years, he should either have attained that, or lost it forever! we will say nothing at all, i think, of that sorrowfulest of theories, of its being some mean shopkeeper grudge, of the augustine monk against the dominican, that first kindled the wrath of luther, and produced the protestant reformation. we will say to the people who maintain it, if indeed any such exist now: get first into the sphere of thought by which it is so much as possible to judge of luther, or of any man like luther, otherwise than distractedly; we may then begin arguing with you. the monk tetzel, sent out carelessly in the way of trade, by leo tenth,--who merely wanted to raise a little money, and for the rest seems to have been a pagan rather than a christian, so far as he was anything,--arrived at wittenberg, and drove his scandalous trade there. luther's flock bought indulgences: in the confessional of his church, people pleaded to him that they had already got their sins pardoned. luther, if he would not be found wanting at his own post, a false sluggard and coward at the very centre of the little space of ground that was his own and no other man's, had to step-forth against indulgences, and declare aloud that _they_ were a futility and sorrowful mockery, that no man's sins could be pardoned by _them_. it was the beginning of the whole reformation. we know how it went; forward from this first public challenge of tetzel, on the last day of october 1517, through remonstrance and argument;--spreading ever wider, rising ever higher; till it became unquenchable, and enveloped all the world. luther's heart's-desire was to have this grief and other griefs amended; his thought was still far other than that of introducing separation in the church, or revolting against the pope, father of christendom.--the elegant pagan pope cared little about this monk and his doctrines; wished, however, to have done with the noise of him: in a space of some three years, having tried various softer methods, he thought good to end it by _fire_. he dooms the monk's writings to be burnt by the hangman, and his body to be sent bound to rome,--probably for a similar purpose. it was the way they had ended with huss, with jerome, the century before. a short argument, fire. poor huss: he came to that constance council, with all imaginable promises and safe-conducts; an earnest, not rebellious kind of man: they laid him instantly in a stone dungeon 'three-feet wide, six-feet high, seven-feet long;' _burnt_ the true voice of him out of this world; choked it in smoke and fire. that was _not_ well done! i, for one, pardon luther for now altogether revolting against the pope. the elegant pagan, by this fire-decree of his, had kindled into noble just wrath the bravest heart then living in this world. the bravest, if also one of the humblest, peaceablest; it was now kindled. these words of mine, words of truth and soberness, aiming faithfully, as human inability would allow, to promote god's truth on earth, and save men's souls, you, god's vicegerent on earth, answer them by the hangman and fire? you will burn me and them, for answer to the god's-message they strove to bring you? _you_ are not god's vicegerent; you are another's than his, i think i take your bull, as an emparchmented lie, and burn _it_. you will do what you see good next: this is what i do.--it was on the 10th of december 1520, three years after the beginning of the business, that luther, 'with a great concourse of people,' took this indignant step of burning the pope's fire-decree 'at the elster-gate of wittenberg.' wittenberg looked on 'with shoutings;' the whole world was looking on. the pope should not have provoked that 'shout'! it was the shout of the awakening of nations. the quiet german heart, modest, patient of much, had at length got more than it could bear. formulism, pagan popeism, and other falsehood and corrupt semblance had ruled long enough: and here once more was a man found who durst tell all men that god's world stood not on semblances but on realities; that life was a truth, and not a lie! at bottom, as was said above, we are to consider luther as a prophet idol-breaker; a bringer-back of men to reality. it is the function of great men and teachers. mahomet said, these idols of yours are wood; you put wax and oil on them, the flies stick on them: they are not god, i tell you, they are black wood! luther said to the pope, this thing of yours that you call a pardon of sins, it is a bit of rag-paper with ink. it _is_ nothing else; it, and so much like it, is nothing else. god alone can pardon sins. popeship, spiritual fatherhood of god's church, is that a vain semblance, of cloth and parchment? it is an awful fact. god's church is not a semblance, heaven and hell are not semblances. i stand on this, since you drive me to it. standing on this, i a poor german monk am stronger than you all. i stand solitary, friendless, but on god's truth; you with your tiaras, triple-hats, with your treasuries and armories, thunders spiritual and temporal, stand on the devil's lie, and are not so strong!-the diet of worms, luther's appearance there on the 17th of april 1521, may be considered as the greatest scene in modern european history; the point, indeed, from which the whole subsequent history of civilisation takes its rise. after multiplied negotiations, disputations, it had come to this. the young emperor charles fifth, with all the princes of germany, papal nuncios, dignitaries spiritual and temporal, are assembled there: luther is to appear and answer for himself, whether he will recant or not. the world's pomp and power sits there on this hand: on that, stands-up for god's truth, one man, the poor miner hans luther's son. friends had reminded him of huss, advised him not to go; he would not be advised. a large company of friends rode-out to meet him, with still more earnest warnings; he answered, "were there as many devils in worms as there are roof-tiles, i would on." the people, on the morrow, as he went to the hall of the diet, crowded the windows and housetops, some of them calling out to him, in solemn words, not to recant: "whosoever denieth me before men!" they cried to him,--as in a kind of solemn petition and adjuration. was it not in reality our petition too, the petition of the whole world, lying in dark bondage of soul, paralysed under a black spectral nightmare and triple-hatted chimera, calling itself father in god, and what not: "free us; it rests with thee; desert us not!" luther did not desert us. his speech, of two hours, distinguished itself by its respectful, wise and honest tone; submissive to whatsoever could lawfully claim submission, not submissive to any more than that. his writings, he said, were partly his own, partly derived from the word of god. as to what was his own, human infirmity entered into it; unguarded anger, blindness, many things doubtless which it were a blessing for him could he abolish altogether. but as to what stood on sound truth and the word of god, he could not recant it. how could he? "confute me," he concluded, "by proofs of scripture, or else by plain just arguments: i cannot recant otherwise. for it is neither safe nor prudent to do ought against conscience. here stand i; i can do no other: god assist me!"--it is, as we say, the greatest moment in the modern history of men. english puritanism, england and its parliaments, americas, and vast work these two centuries; french revolution, europe and its work everywhere at present: the germ of it all lay there: had luther in that moment done other, it had all been otherwise! the european world was asking him: am i to sink ever lower into falsehood, stagnant putrescence, loathsome accursed death; or, with whatever paroxysm, to cast the falsehoods out of me, and be cured and live?- * * * * * great wars, contentions and disunion followed out of this reformation; which last down to our day, and are yet far from ended. great talk and crimination has been made about these. they are lamentable, undeniable; but after all what has luther or his cause to do with them? it seems strange reasoning to charge the reformation with all this. when hercules turned the purifying river into king augeas's stables, i have no doubt the confusion that resulted was considerable all around: but i think it was not hercules's blame; it was some other's blame! the reformation might bring what results it liked when it came, but the reformation simply could not help coming. to all popes and popes' advocates, expostulating, lamenting and accusing, the answer of the world is: once for all, your popehood has become untrue. no matter how good it was, how good you say it is, we cannot believe it; the light of our whole mind, given us to walk-by from heaven above, finds it henceforth a thing unbelievable. we will not believe it, we will not try to believe it,--we dare not! the thing is _untrue_; we were traitors against the giver of all truth, if we durst pretend to think it true. away with it; let whatsoever likes come in the place of it: with _it_ we can have no farther trade!--luther and his protestantism is not responsible for wars; the false simulacra that forced him to protest, they are responsible. luther did what every man that god has made has not only the right, but lies under the sacred duty, to do: answered a falsehood when it questioned him, dost thou believe me?--no!--at what cost soever, without counting of costs, this thing behoved to be done. union, organisation spiritual and material, a far nobler than, any popedom or feudalism in their truest days, i never doubt, is coming for the world; sure to come. but on fact alone, not on semblance and simulacrum, will it be able either to come, or to stand when come. with union grounded on falsehood, and ordering us to speak and act lies, we will not have anything to do. peace? a brutal lethargy is peaceable, the noisome grave is peaceable. we hope for a living peace, not a dead one! and yet, in prizing justly the indispensable blessings of the new, let us not be unjust to the old. the old _was_ true, if it no longer is. in dante's days it needed no sophistry, self-blinding, or other dishonesty, to get itself reckoned true. it was good then; nay there is in the soul of it a deathless good. the cry of 'no popery' is foolish enough in these days. the speculation that popery is on the increase, building new chapels and so forth, may pass for one of the idlest ever started. very curious: to count-up a few popish chapels, listen to a few protestant logic-choppings,--to much dull-droning, drowsy inanity that still calls itself protestant, and say: see, protestantism is _dead_; popeism is more alive than it, will be alive after it!--drowsy inanities, not a few, that call themselves protestant are dead; but _protestantism_ has not died yet, that i hear of! protestantism, if we will look, has in these days produced its goethe, its napoleon; german literature and the french revolution; rather considerable signs of life! nay, at bottom, what else is alive _but_ protestantism? the life of most else that one meets is a galvanic one merely,--not a pleasant, not a lasting sort of life! popery can build new chapels; welcome to do so, to all lengths. popery cannot come back, any more than paganism can,--_which_ also still lingers in some countries. but, indeed, it is with these things, as with the ebbing of the sea: you look at the waves oscillating hither, thither on the beach; for _minutes_ you cannot tell how it is going; look in half an hour where it is,--look in half a century where your popehood is! alas, would there were no greater danger to our europe than the poor old pope's revival! thor may as soon try to revive.--and withal this oscillation has a meaning. the poor old popehood will not die away entirely, as thor has done, for some time yet; nor ought it. we may say, the old never dies till this happen, till all the soul of good that was in it have got itself transfused into the practical new. while a good work remains capable of being done by the romish form; or, what is inclusive of all, while a _pious life_ remains capable of being led by it, just so long, if we consider, will this or the other human soul adopt it, go about as a living witness of it. so long it will obtrude itself on the eye of us who reject it, till we in our practice too have appropriated whatsoever of truth was in it. then, but also not till then, it will have no charm more for any man. it lasts here for a purpose. let it last as long as it can.- * * * * * of luther i will add now, in reference to all these wars and bloodshed, the noticeable fact that none of them began so long as he continued living. the controversy did not get to fighting so long as he was there. to me it is proof of his greatness in all senses, this fact. how seldom do we find a man that has stirred-up some vast commotion, who does not himself perish, swept-away in it! such is the usual course of revolutionists. luther continued, in a good degree, sovereign of this greatest revolution; all protestants, of what rank or function soever, looking much to him for guidance: and he held it peaceable, continued firm at the centre of it. a man to do this must have a kingly faculty: he must have the gift to discern at all turns where the true heart of the matter lies, and to plant himself courageously on that, as a strong true man, that other true men may rally round him there. he will not continue leader of men otherwise. luther's clear deep force of judgment, his force of all sorts, of _silence_, of tolerance and moderation, among others, are very notable in these circumstances. tolerance, i say; a very genuine kind of tolerance: he distinguishes what is essential, and what is not; the unessential may go very much as it will. a complaint comes to him that such and such a reformed preacher, 'will not preach without a cassock.' well, answers luther, what harm will a cassock do the man? 'let him have a cassock to preach in; let him have three cassocks if he find benefit in them!' his conduct in the matter of karlstadt's wild image-breaking; of the anabaptists; of the peasants' war, shows a noble strength, very different from spasmodic violence. with sure prompt insight he discriminates what is what: a strong just man, he speaks-forth what is the wise course, and all men follow him in that. luther's written works give similar testimony of him. the dialect of these speculations is now grown obsolete for us; but one still reads them with a singular attraction. and indeed the mere grammatical diction is still legible enough; luther's merit in literary history is of the greatest; his dialect became the language of all writing. they are not well written, these four-and-twenty quartos of his; written hastily, with quite other than literary objects. but in no books have i found a more robust, genuine, i will say noble faculty of a man than in these. a rugged honesty, homeliness, simplicity; a rugged sterling sense and strength. he flashes-out illumination from him; his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to cleave into the very secret of the matter. good humour too, nay tender affection, nobleness, and depth: this man could have been a poet too! he had to _work_ an epic poem, not write one. i call him a great thinker; as indeed his greatness of heart already betokens that. richter says of luther's words, 'his words are half-battles.' they may be called so. the essential quality of him was, that he could fight and conquer; that he was a right piece of human valour. no more valiant man, no mortal heart to be called _braver_, that one has record of, ever lived in that teutonic kindred, whose character is valour. his defiance of the 'devils' in worms was not a mere boast, as the like might be if now spoken. it was a faith of luther's that there were devils, spiritual denizens of the pit, continually besetting men. many times, in his writings, this turns-up; and a most small sneer has been grounded on it by some. in the room of the wartburg where he sat translating the bible, they still show you a black spot on the wall; the strange memorial of one of these conflicts. luther sat translating one of the psalms; he was worn-down with long labour, with sickness, abstinence from food: there rose before him some hideous indefinable image, which he took for the evil one, to forbid his work: luther started-up, with fiend-defiance; flung his inkstand at the spectre, and it disappeared! the spot still remains there; a curious monument of several things. any apothecary's apprentice can now tell us what we are to think of this apparition, in a scientific sense: but the man's heart that dare rise defiant, face to face, against hell itself, can give no higher proof of fearlessness. the thing he will quail before exists not on this earth or under it.--fearless enough! 'the devil is aware,' writes he on one occasion, 'that this does not proceed out of fear in me. i have seen and defied innumerable devils. duke george,' of leipzig, a great enemy of his, 'duke george is not equal to one devil,'--far short of a devil! 'if i had business at leipzig, i would ride into leipzig, though it rained duke-georges for nine days running.' what a reservoir of dukes to ride into!-at the same time, they err greatly who imagine that this man's courage was ferocity, mere coarse disobedient obstinacy and savagery, as many do. far from that. there may be an absence of fear which arises from the absence of thought or affection, from the presence of hatred and stupid fury. we do not value the courage of the tiger highly! with luther it was far otherwise; no accusation could be more unjust than this of mere ferocious violence brought against him. a most gentle heart withal, full of pity and love, as indeed the truly valiant heart ever is. the tiger before a _stronger_ foe--flies: the tiger is not what we call valiant, only fierce and cruel. i know few things more touching than those soft breathings of affection, soft as a child's or a mother's, in this great wild heart of luther. so honest, unadulterated with any cant; homely, rude in their utterance; pure as water welling from the rock. what, in fact, was all that downpressed mood of despair and reprobation, which we saw in his youth, but the outcome of pre-eminent thoughtful gentleness, affections too keen and fine? it is the course such men as the poor poet cowper fall into. luther to a slight observer might have seemed a timid, weak man; modesty, affectionate shrinking tenderness the chief distinction of him. it is a noble valour which is roused in a heart like this, once stirred-up into defiance, all kindled into a heavenly blaze. in luther's _table-talk_, a posthumous book of anecdotes and sayings collected by his friends, the most interesting now of all the books proceeding from him, we have many beautiful unconscious displays of the man, and what sort of nature he had. his behaviour at the deathbed of his little daughter, so still, so great and loving, is among the most affecting things. he is resigned that his little magdalene should die, yet longs inexpressibly that she might live;--follows, in awe-struck thought, the flight of her little soul through those unknown realms. awe-struck; most heartfelt, we can see; and sincere,--for after all dogmatic creeds and articles, he feels what nothing it is that we know, or can know: his little magdalene shall be with god, as god wills; for luther too that is all; _islam_ is all. once, he looks-out from his solitary patmos, the castle of coburg, in the middle of the night: the great vault of immensity, long flights of clouds sailing through it,--dumb, gaunt, huge:--who supports all that? "none ever saw the pillars of it; yet it is supported." god supports it. we must know that god is great, that god is good; and trust, where we cannot see.--returning home from leipzig once, he is struck by the beauty of the harvest-fields: how it stands, that golden yellow corn, on its fair taper stem, its golden head bent, all rich and waving there,--the meek earth, at god's kind bidding, has produced it once again; the bread of man!--in the garden at wittenburg one evening at sunset, a little bird was perched for the night: that little bird, says luther, above it are the stars and deep heaven of worlds; yet it has folded its little wings; gone trustfully to rest there as in its home: the maker of it has given it too a home!--neither are mirthful turns wanting: there is a great free human heart in this man. the common speech of him has a rugged nobleness, idiomatic, expressive, genuine; gleams here and there with beautiful poetic tints. one feels him to be a great brother man. his love of music, indeed, is not this, as it were, the summary of all these affections in him? many a wild unutterability he spoke-forth from him in the tones of his flute. the devils fled from his flute, he says. death-defiance on the one hand, and such love of music on the other; i could call these the two opposite poles of a great soul; between these two all great things had room. luther's face is to me expressive of him; in kranach's best portraits i find the true luther. a rude plebeian face; with its huge crag-like brows and bones, the emblem of rugged energy; at first, almost a repulsive face. yet in the eyes especially there is a wild silent sorrow; an unnamable melancholy, the element of all gentle and fine affections; giving to the rest the true stamp of nobleness. laughter was in this luther, as we said; but tears also were there. tears also were appointed him; tears and hard toil. the basis of his life was sadness, earnestness. in his latter days, after all triumphs and victories, he expresses himself heartily weary of living; he considers that god alone can and will regulate the course things are taking, and that perhaps the day of judgment is not far. as for him, he longs for one thing: that god would release him from his labour, and let him depart and be at rest. they understand little of the man who cite this in _dis_credit of him!--i will call this luther a true great man; great in intellect, in courage, affection and integrity; one of our most lovable and precious men. great, not as a hewn obelisk; but as an alpine mountain,--so simple, honest, spontaneous, not setting-up to be great at all; there for quite another purpose than being great! ah yes, unsubduable granite, piercing far and wide into the heavens; yet in the clefts of it fountains, green beautiful valleys with flowers! a right spiritual hero and prophet; once more, a true son of nature and fact, for whom these centuries, and many that are to come yet, will be thankful to heaven. the most interesting phasis which the reformation anywhere assumes, especially for us english, is that of puritanism. in luther's own country protestantism soon dwindled into a rather barren affair: not a religion or faith, but rather now a theological jangling of argument, the proper seat of it not the heart; the essence of it sceptical contention: which indeed has jangled more and more, down to voltaireism itself,--through gustavus-adolphus contentions onward to french-revolution ones! but in our island there arose a puritanism, which even got itself established as a presbyterianism and national church among the scotch; which came forth as a real business of the heart; and has produced in the world very notable fruit. in some senses, one may say it is the only phasis of protestantism that ever got to the rank of being a faith, a true heart-communication with heaven, and of exhibiting itself in history as such. we must spare a few words for knox; himself a brave and remarkable man; but still more important as chief priest and founder, which one may consider him to be, of the faith that became scotland's, new england's, oliver cromwell's. history will have something to say about this, for some time to come! we may censure puritanism as we please; and no one of us, i suppose, but would find it a very rough defective thing. but we, and all men, may understand that it was a genuine thing; for nature has adopted it, and it has grown, and grows. i say sometimes, that all goes by wager-of-battle in this world; that _strength_, well understood, is the measure of all worth. give a thing time; if it can succeed, it is a right thing. look now at american saxondom; and at that little fact of the sailing of the mayflower, two hundred years ago, from delft haven in holland! were we of open sense as the greeks were, we had found a poem here; one of nature's own poems; such as she writes in broad facts over great continents. for it was properly the beginning of america: there were straggling settlers in america before, some material as of a body was there; but the soul of it was first this. these poor men, driven-out of their country, not able well to live in holland, determine on settling in the new world. black untamed forests are there, and wild savage creatures; but not so cruel as starchamber hangmen. they thought the earth would yield them food, if they tilled honestly; the everlasting heaven would stretch there too, overhead; they should be left in peace, to prepare for eternity by living well in this world of time; worshipping in what they thought the true, not the idolatrous way. they clubbed their small means together; hired a ship, the little ship mayflower, and made ready to set sail. in neal's _history of the puritans_[5] is an account of the ceremony of their departure: solemnity, we might call it rather, for it was a real act of worship. their minister went down with them to the beach, and their brethren whom they were to leave behind; all joined in solemn prayer, that god would have pity on his poor children, and _go_ with them into that waste wilderness, for he also had made that, he was there also as well as here.--hah! these men, i think, had a work! the weak thing, weaker than a child, becomes strong one day, if it be a true thing. puritanism was only despicable, laughable then; but nobody can manage to laugh at it now. puritanism has got weapons and sinews; it has fire-arms, war-navies; it has cunning in its ten fingers, strength in its right arm; it can steer ships, fell forests, remove mountains;--it is one of the strongest things under the sun at present! [5] neal (london, 1755), i. 490. in the history of scotland, too, i can find properly but one epoch: we may say it contains nothing of world-interest at all but this reformation by knox. a poor barren country, full of continual broils, dissensions, massacrings; a people in the last state of rudeness and destitution, little better perhaps than ireland at this day. hungry fierce barons, not so much as able to form any arrangement with each other _how to divide_ what they fleeced from these poor drudges; but obliged, as the columbian republics are at this day, to make of every alteration a revolution; no way of changing a ministry but by hanging the old ministers on gibbets: this is a historical spectacle of no very singular significance! 'bravery' enough, i doubt not; fierce fighting in abundance: but not braver or fiercer than that of their old scandinavian sea-king ancestors; _whose_ exploits we have not found worth dwelling on! it is a country as yet without a soul: nothing developed in it but what is rude, external, semi-animal. and now at the reformation, the internal life is kindled, as it were, under the ribs of this outward material death. a cause, the noblest of causes kindles itself, like a beacon set on high; high as heaven, yet attainable from earth;--whereby the meanest man becomes not a citizen only, but a member of christ's visible church; a veritable hero, if he prove a true man! well; this is what i mean by a whole 'nation of heroes;' a _believing_ nation. there needs not a great soul to make a hero; there needs a god-created soul which will be true to its origin; that will be a great soul! the like has been seen, we find. the like will be again seen, under wider forms than the presbyterian: there can be no lasting good done till then.--impossible! say some. possible? has it not _been_, in this world, as a practised fact? did hero-worship fail in knox's case? or are we made of other clay now? did the westminster confession of faith add some new property to the soul of man? god made the soul of man. he did not doom any soul of man to live as a hypothesis and hearsay, in a world filled with such, and with the fatal work and fruit of such!---but to return: this that knox did for his nation, i say, we may really call a resurrection as from death. it was not a smooth business; but it was welcome surely, and cheap at that price, had it been far rougher. on the whole, cheap at any price;--as life is. the people began to _live_: they needed first of all to do that, at what cost and costs soever. scotch literature and thought, scotch industry; james watt, david hume, walter scott, robert burns: i find knox and the reformation acting in the heart's core of every one of these persons and phenomena; i find that without the reformation they would not have been. or what of scotland? the puritanism of scotland became that of england, of new england. a tumult in the high church of edinburgh spread into a universal battle and struggle over all these realms;--there came out, after fifty years' struggling, what we call the '_glorious_ revolution,' a _habeas-corpus_ act, free parliaments, and much else!--alas, is it not too true what we said, that many men in the van do always, like russian soldiers, march into the ditch of schweidnitz, and fill it up with their dead bodies, that the rear may pass over them dry-shod and gain the honour? how many earnest rugged cromwells, knoxes, poor peasant covenants, wrestling, battling for very life, in rough miry places, have to struggle, and suffer, and fall, greatly censured, _bemired_,--before a beautiful revolution of eighty-eight can step-over them in official pumps and silk-stockings, with universal three-times-three! it seems to me hard measure that this scottish man, now after three-hundred years, should have to plead like a culprit before the world; intrinsically for having been, in such way as it was then possible to be, the bravest of all scotchmen! had he been a poor half-and-half, he could have crouched into the corner, like so many others; scotland had not been delivered; and knox had been without blame. he is the one scotchman to whom, of all others, his country and the world owe a debt. he has to plead that scotland would forgive him for having been worth to it any million 'unblamable' scotchmen that need no forgiveness! he bared his breast to the battle; had to row in french galleys, wander forlorn in exile, in clouds and storms; was censured, shot-at through his windows; had a right sore fighting life: if this world were his place of recompense, he had made but a bad venture of it. i cannot apologise for knox. to him it is very indifferent, these two-hundred-and-fifty years or more, what men say of him. but we, having got above all those details of his battle, and living now in clearness on the fruits of his victory, we, for our own sake, ought to look through the rumours and controversies enveloping the man, into the man himself. for one thing, i will remark that this post of prophet to his nation was not of his seeking; knox had lived forty years quietly obscure, before he became conspicuous. he was the son of poor parents; had got a college education; become a priest; adopted the reformation, and seemed well content to guide his own steps by the light of it, nowise unduly intruding it on others. he had lived as tutor in gentlemen's families; preaching when any body of persons wished to hear his doctrine: resolute he to walk by the truth, and speak the truth when called to do it; not ambitious of more; not fancying himself capable of more. in this entirely obscure way he had reached the age of forty; was with the small body of reformers who were standing siege in st andrew's castle,--when one day in their chapel, the preacher after finishing his exhortation to these fighters in the forlorn hope, said suddenly, that there ought to be other speakers, that all men who had a priest's heart and gift in them ought now to speak;--which gifts and heart one of their own number, john knox the name of him, had: had he not? said the preacher, appealing to all the audience: what then is _his_ duty? the people answered affirmatively; it was a criminal forsaking of his post, if such a man held the word that was in him silent. poor knox was obliged to stand-up; he attempted to reply; he could say no word;--burst into a flood of tears, and ran out. it is worth remembering, that scene. he was in grievous trouble for some days. he felt what a small faculty was his for this great work. he felt what a baptism he was called to be baptised withal. he 'burst into tears.' our primary characteristic of a hero, that he is sincere, applies emphatically to knox. it is not denied anywhere that this, whatever might be his other qualities or faults, is among the truest of men. with a singular instinct he holds to the truth and fact; the truth alone is there for him, the rest a mere shadow and deceptive nonentity. however feeble, forlorn the reality may seem, on that and that only _can_ he take his stand. in the galleys of the river loire, whither knox and the others, after their castle of st andrew's was taken, had been sent as galley-slaves,--some officer or priest, one day, presented them an image of the virgin mother, requiring that they, the blasphemous heretics, should do it reverence. mother? mother of god? said knox, when the turn came to him: this is no mother of god: this is 'a _pented bredd_,'--a piece of wood, i tell you, with paint on it! she is fitter for swimming, i think, than for being worshipped, added knox, and flung the thing into the river. it was not very cheap jesting there: but come of it what might, this thing to knox was and must continue nothing other than the real truth; it was a _pented bredd_; worship it he would not. he told his fellow-prisoners, in this darkest time, to be of courage; the cause they had was the true one, and must and would prosper; the whole world could not put it down. reality is of god's making; it is alone strong. how many _pented bredds_, pretending to be real, are fitter to swim than to be worshipped!--this knox cannot live but by fact: he clings to reality as the shipwrecked sailor to the cliff. he is an instance to us how a man, by sincerity itself, becomes heroic: it is the grand gift he has. we find in knox a good honest intellectual talent, no transcendent one;--a narrow, inconsiderable man, as compared with luther: but in heartfelt instinctive adherence to truth, in _sincerity_, as we say, he has no superior; nay, one might ask, what equal he has? the heart of him is of the true prophet cast. "he lies there," said the earl of morton at his grave, "who never feared the face of man." he resembles, more than any of the moderns, an old-hebrew prophet. the same inflexibility, intolerance, rigid narrow-looking adherence to god's truth, stern rebuke in the name of god to all that forsake truth: an old-hebrew prophet in the guise of an edinburgh minister of the sixteenth century. we are to take him for that; not require him to be other. knox's conduct to queen mary, the harsh visits he used to make in her own palace, to reprove her there, have been much commented upon. such cruelty, such coarseness fills us with indignation. on reading the actual narrative of the business, what knox said, and what knox meant, i must say one's tragic feeling is rather disappointed. they are not so coarse, these speeches; they seem to me about as fine as the circumstances would permit! knox was not there to do the courtier; he came on another errand. whoever, reading these colloquies of his with the queen, thinks they are vulgar insolences of a plebeian priest to a delicate high lady, mistakes the purport and essence of them altogether. it was unfortunately not possible to be polite with the queen of scotland, unless one proved untrue to the nation and cause of scotland. a man who did not wish to see the land of his birth made a hunting-field for intriguing ambitious guises, and the cause of god trampled underfoot of falsehoods, formulas and the devil's cause, had no method of making himself agreeable! "better that women weep," said morton, "than that bearded men be forced to weep." knox was the constitutional opposition-party in scotland: the nobles of the country, called by their station to take that post, were not found in it; knox had to go or no one. the hapless queen;--but the still more hapless country, if _she_ were made happy! mary herself was not without sharpness enough, among her other qualities: "who are you," said she once, "that presume to school the nobles and sovereign of this realm?"--"madam, a subject born within the same," answered he. reasonably answered! if the 'subject' have truth to speak, it is not the 'subject's' footing that will fail him here.-we blame knox for his intolerance. well, surely it is good that each of us be as tolerant as possible. yet, at bottom, after all the talk there is and has been about it, what is tolerance? tolerance has to tolerate the _un_essential; and to see well what that is. tolerance has to be noble, measured, just in its very wrath, when it can tolerate no longer. but, on the whole, we are not altogether here to tolerate! we are here to resist, to control and vanquish withal. we do not 'tolerate' falsehoods, thieveries, iniquities, when they fasten on us; we say to them, thou art false, thou art not tolerable! we are here to extinguish falsehoods, and put an end to them, in some wise way! i will not quarrel so much with the way; the doing of the thing is our great concern. in this sense knox was, full surely, intolerant. a man sent to row in french galleys, and suchlike, for teaching the truth in his own land, cannot always be in the mildest humour! i am not prepared to say that knox had a soft temper; nor do i know that he had what we call an ill-temper. an ill nature he decidedly had not. kind honest affections dwell in the much-enduring, hard-worn, ever-battling man. that he _could_ rebuke queens, and had such weight among those proud turbulent nobles, proud enough whatever else they were; and could maintain to the end a kind of virtual presidency and sovereignty in that wild realm, he who was only 'a subject born within the same:' this of itself will prove to us that he was found, close at hand, to be no mean acrid man; but at heart a healthful, strong, sagacious man. such alone can bear rule in that kind. they blame him for pulling-down cathedrals, and so forth, as if he were a seditious rioting demagogue: precisely the reverse is seen to be the fact, in regard to cathedrals and the rest of it, if we examine! knox wanted no pulling-down of stone edifices; he wanted leprosy and darkness to be thrown out of the lives of men. tumult was not his element; it was the tragic feature of his life that he was forced to dwell so much in that. every such man is the born enemy of disorder; hates to be in it: but what then? smooth falsehood is not order; it is the general sum-total of _dis_order. order is _truth_,--each thing standing on the basis that belongs to it: order and falsehood cannot subsist together. withal, unexpectedly enough, this knox has a vein of drollery in him; which i like much, in combination with his other qualities. he has a true eye for the ridiculous. his _history_, with its rough earnestness, is curiously enlivened with this. when the two prelates, entering glasgow cathedral, quarrel about precedence; march rapidly up, take to hustling one another, twitching one another's rochets, and at last flourishing their crosiers like quarter-staves, it is a great sight for him everyway! not mockery, scorn, bitterness alone; though there is enough of that too. but a true, loving, illuminating laugh mounts-up over the earnest visage; not a loud laugh; you would say, a laugh in the _eyes_ most of all. an honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the high, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both. he has his pipe of bourdeaux too, we find, in that old edinburgh house of his; a cheery social man, with faces that loved him! they go far wrong who think this knox was a gloomy, spasmodic, shrieking fanatic. not at all: he is one of the solidest of men. practical, cautious-hopeful, patient; a most shrewd, observing, quietly discerning man. in fact, he has very much the type of character we assign to the scotch at present: a certain sardonic taciturnity is in him; insight enough; and a stouter heart than he himself knows of. he has the power of holding his peace over many things which do not vitally concern him,--"they? what are they?" but the thing which does vitally concern him, that thing he will speak of; and in a tone the whole world shall be made to hear: all the more emphatic for his long silence. this prophet of the scotch is to me no hateful man!--he had a sore fight of an existence: wrestling with popes and principalities; in defeat, contention, life-long struggle; rowing as a galley-slave, wandering as an exile. a sore fight: but he won it. "have you hope?" they asked him in his last moment, when he could no longer speak. he lifted his finger, 'pointed upwards with his finger,' and so died. honour to him! his works have not died. the letter of his work dies, as of all men's; but the spirit of it never. one word more as to the letter of knox's work. the unforgivable offence in him is, that he wished to set-up priests over the head of kings. in other words he strove to make the government of scotland a _theocracy_. this indeed is properly the sum of his offences, the essential sin; for which what pardon can there be? it is most true, he did, at bottom, consciously or unconsciously, mean a theocracy, or government of god. he did mean that kings and prime ministers, and all manner of persons, in public or private, diplomatising or whatever else they might be doing, should walk according to the gospel of christ, and understand that this was their law, supreme over all laws. he hoped once to see such a thing realised; and the petition, _thy kingdom come_, no longer an empty word. he was sore grieved when he saw greedy worldly barons clutch hold of the church's property; when he expostulated that it was not secular property, that it was spiritual property, and should be turned to _true_ churchly uses, education, schools, worship;--and the regent murray had to answer, with a shrug of the shoulders, "it is a devout imagination!" this was knox's scheme of right and truth; this he zealously endeavoured after, to realise it. if we think this scheme of truth was too narrow, was not true, we may rejoice that he could not realise it; that it remained after two centuries of effort, unrealisable, and is a 'devout imagination' still. but how shall we blame _him_ for struggling to realise it? theocracy, government of god, is precisely the thing to be struggled for! all prophets, zealous priests, are there for that purpose. hildebrand wished a theocracy; cromwell wished it, fought for it; mahomet attained it. nay, is it not what all zealous men, whether called priests, prophets, or whatsoever else called, do essentially wish, and must wish? that right and truth, or god's law, reign supreme among men, this is the heavenly ideal (well named in knox's time, and namable in all times, a revealed 'will of god') towards which the reformer will insist that all be more and more approximated. all true reformers, as i said, are by the nature of them priests, and strive for a theocracy. how far such ideals can ever be introduced into practice, and at what point our impatience with their non-introduction ought to begin, is always a question. i think we may say safely, let them introduce themselves as far as they can contrive to do it! if they are the true faith of men, all men ought to be more or less impatient always where they are not found introduced. there will never be wanting regent murrays enough to shrug their shoulders, and say, "a devout imagination!" we will praise the hero-priest, rather, who does what is in _him_ to bring them in; and wears out, in toil, calumny, contradiction, a noble life, to make a god's kingdom of this earth. the earth will not become too godlike! lecture v the hero as a man of letters. johnson, rousseau, burns. [_tuesday, 19th may 1840_] hero-gods, prophets, poets, priests are forms of heroism that belong to the old ages, make their appearance in the remotest times; some of them have ceased to be possible long since, and cannot any more show themselves in this world. the hero as _man of letters_, again, of which class we are to speak today, is altogether a product of these new ages; and so long as the wondrous art of _writing_, or of ready-writing which we call _printing_, subsists, he may be expected to continue, as one of the main forms of heroism for all future ages. he is, in various respects, a very singular phenomenon. he is new, i say; he has hardly lasted above a century in the world yet. never, till about a hundred years ago, was there seen any figure of a great soul living apart in that anomalous manner; endeavouring to speak-forth the inspiration that was in him by printed books, and find place and subsistence by what the world would please to give him for doing that. much had been sold and bought, and left to make its own bargain in the marketplace; but the inspired wisdom of a heroic soul never till then, in that naked manner. he, with his copy-rights and copy-wrongs, in his squalid garret, in his rusty coat; ruling (for this is what he does), from his grave, after death, whole nations and generations who would, or would not, give him bread while living,--is a rather curious spectacle! few shapes of heroism can be more unexpected. alas, the hero from of old has had to cramp himself into strange shapes: the world knows not well at any time what to do with him, so foreign is his aspect in the world! it seemed absurd to us, that men, in their rude admiration, should take some wise great odin for a god, and worship him as such, some wise great mahomet for one god-inspired, and religiously follow his law for twelve centuries: but that a wise great johnson, a burns, a rousseau, should be taken for some idle non-descript, extant in the world to amuse idleness, and have a few coins and applauses thrown in, that he might live thereby; _this_ perhaps, as before hinted, will one day seem a still absurder phasis of things!--meanwhile, since it is the spiritual always that determines the material, this same man-of-letters hero must be regarded as our most important modern person. he, such as he may be, is the soul of all. what he teachers, the whole world will do and make. the world's manner of dealing with him is the most significant feature of the world's general position. looking well at his life, we may get a glance, as deep as is readily possible for us, into the life of those singular centuries which have produced him, in which we ourselves live and work. there are genuine men of letters, and not genuine; as in every kind there is a genuine and a spurious. if _hero_ be taken to mean genuine, then i say the hero as man of letters will be found discharging a function for us which is ever honourable, ever the highest; and was once well known to be the highest. he is uttering-forth, in such a way as he has, the inspired soul of him; all that a man, in any case, can do. i say _inspired_; for what we call 'originality,' 'sincerity,' 'genius,' the heroic quality we have no good name for, signifies that. the hero is he who lives in the inward sphere of things, in the true, divine and eternal, which exists always, unseen to most, under the temporary, trivial: his being is in that; he declares that abroad, by act or speech as it may be, in declaring himself abroad. his life, as we said before, is a piece of the everlasting heart of nature herself: all men's life is,--but the weak many know not the fact, and are untrue to it, in most times; the strong few are strong, heroic, perennial, because it cannot be hidden from them. the man of letters, like every hero, is there to proclaim this in such sort as he can. intrinsically it is the same function which the old generations named a man prophet, priest, divinity for doing; which all manner of heroes, by speech or by act, are sent into the world to do. fichte the german philosopher delivered, some forty years ago at erlangen, a highly remarkable course of lectures on this subject: '_ueber das wesen des gelehrten_, on the nature of the literary man.' fichte, in conformity with the transcendental philosophy, of which he was a distinguished teacher, declares first: that all things which we see or work with in this earth, especially we ourselves and all persons, are as a kind of vesture or sensuous appearance: that under all there lies, as the essence of them, what he calls the 'divine idea of the world;' this is the reality which 'lies at the bottom of all appearance.' to the mass of men no such divine idea is recognisable in the world; they live merely, says fichte, among the superficialities, practicalities and shows of the world, not dreaming that there is anything divine under them. but the man of letters is sent hither specially that he may discern for himself, and make manifest to us, this same divine idea: in every new generation it will manifest itself in a new dialect; and he is there for the purpose of doing that. such is fichte's phraseology; with which we need not quarrel. it is his way of naming what i here, by other words, am striving imperfectly to name; what there is at present no name for: the unspeakable divine significance, full of splendour, of wonder and terror, that lies in the being of every man, of every thing,--the presence of the god who made every man and thing. mahomet taught this in his dialect; odin in his: it is the thing which all thinking hearts, in one dialect or another, are here to teach. fichte calls the man of letters, therefore, a prophet, or as he prefers to phrase it, a priest, continually unfolding the godlike to men: men of letters are a perpetual priesthood, from age to age, teaching all men that a god is still present in their life; that all 'appearance,' whatsoever we see in the world, is but as a vesture for the 'divine idea of the world,' for 'that which lies at the bottom of appearance.' in the true literary man there is thus ever, acknowledged or not by the world, a sacredness: he is the light of the world; the world's priest:--guiding it, like a sacred pillar of fire, in its dark pilgrimage through the waste of time. fichte discriminates with sharp zeal the _true_ literary man, what we here call the _hero_ as man of letters, from multitudes of false unheroic. whoever lives not wholly in this divine idea, or living partially in it, struggles not, as for the one good, to live wholly in it,--he is, let him live where else he like, in what pomps and prosperities he like, no literary man; he is, says fichte, a 'bungler, _stümper_.' or at best, if he belong to the prosaic provinces, he may be a 'hodman;' fichte even calls him elsewhere a 'nonentity,' and has in short no mercy for him, no wish that _he_ should continue happy among us! this is fichte's notion of the man of letters. it means, in its own form, precisely what we here mean. in this point of view, i consider that, for the last hundred years, by far the notablest of all literary men is fichte's countryman, goethe. to that man too, in a strange way, there was given what we may call a life in the divine idea of the world; vision of the inward divine mystery: and strangely, out of his books, the world rises imaged once more as godlike, the workmanship and temple of a god. illuminated all, not in fierce impure fire-splendour as of mahomet, but in mild celestial radiance;--really a prophecy in these most unprophetic times; to my mind, by far the greatest, though one of the quietest, among all the great things that have come to pass in them. our chosen specimen of the hero as literary man would be this goethe. and it were a very pleasant plan for me here to discourse of his heroism: for i consider him to be a true hero; heroic in what he said and did, and perhaps still more in what he did not say and did not do; to me a noble spectacle: a great heroic ancient man, speaking and keeping silence as an ancient hero, in the guise of a most modern, high-bred, high-cultivated man of letters! we have had no such spectacle; no man capable of affording such, for the last hundred-and-fifty years. but at present, such is the general state of knowledge about goethe, it were worse than useless to attempt speaking of him in this case. speak as i might, goethe, to the great majority of you would remain problematic, vague; no impression but a false one could be realised. him we must leave to future times. johnson, burns, rousseau, three great figures from a prior time, from a far inferior state of circumstances, will suit us better here. three men of the eighteenth century; the conditions of their life far more resemble what those of ours still are in england, than what goethe's in germany were. alas, these men did not conquer like him; they fought bravely, and fell. they were not heroic bringers of the light, but heroic seekers of it. they lived under galling conditions; struggling as under mountains of impediment, and could not unfold themselves into clearness, or victorious interpretation of that 'divine idea.' it is rather the _tombs_ of three literary heroes that i have to show you. there are the monumental heaps, under which three spiritual giants lie buried. very mournful, but also great and full of interest for us. we will linger by them for a while. complaint is often made, in these times, of what we call the disorganised condition of society: how ill many arranged forces of society fulfil their work; how many powerful forces are seen working in a wasteful, chaotic, altogether unarranged manner. it is too just a complaint, as we all know. but perhaps if we look at this of books and the writers of books, we shall find here, as it were, the summary of all other disorganisation;--a sort of _heart_, from which, and to which, all other confusion circulates in the world! considering what book-writers do in the world, and what the world does with book-writers, i should say, it is the most anomalous thing the world at present has to show.--we should get into a sea far beyond sounding, did we attempt to give account of this: but we must glance at it for the sake of our subject. the worst element in the life of these three literary heroes was, that they found their business and position such a chaos. on the beaten road there is tolerable travelling; but it is sore work, and many have to perish, fashioning a path through the impassable! our pious fathers, feeling well what importance lay in the speaking of man to men, founded churches, made endowments, regulations; everywhere in the civilised world there is a pulpit, environed with all manner of complex dignified appurtenances and furtherances, that therefrom a man with the tongue may, to best advantage, address his fellow-men. they felt that this was the most important thing; that without this there was no good thing. it is a right pious work, that of theirs; beautiful to behold! but now with the art of writing, with the art of printing, a total change has come over that business. the writer of a book, is not he a preacher preaching not to this parish or that, on this day or that, but to all men in all times and places? surely it is of the last importance that _he_ do his work right, whoever do it wrong;--that the _eye_ report not falsely, for then all the other members are astray! well; how he may do his work, whether he do it right or wrong, or do it at all, is a point which no man in the world has taken the pains to think of. to a certain shopkeeper, trying to get some money for his books, if lucky, he is of some importance; to no other man of any. whence he came, whither he is bound, by what ways he arrived, by what he might be furthered on his course, no one asks. he is an accident in society. he wanders like a wild ishmaelite, in a world of which he is as the spiritual light, either the guidance or the misguidance! certainly the art of writing is the most miraculous of all things man has devised. odin's _runes_ were the first form of the work of a hero; _books_, written words, are still miraculous _runes_, of the latest form! in books lies the _soul_ of the whole past time; the articulate audible voice of the past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. mighty fleets and armies, harbours and arsenals, vast cities, high-domed, many-engined,--they are precious, great: but what do they become? agamemnon, the many agamemnons, pericleses, and their greece; all is gone now to some ruined fragments, dumb mournful wrecks and blocks: but the books of greece! there greece, to every thinker, still very literally lives; can be called-up again into life. no magic _rune_ is stranger than a book. all that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books. they are the chosen possession of men. do not books still accomplish _miracles_ as _runes_ were fabled to do? they persuade men. not the wretchedest circulating-library novel, which foolish girls thumb and con in remote villages but will help to regulate the actual practical weddings and households of those foolish girls. so 'celia' felt, so 'clifford' acted: the foolish theorem of life, stamped into those young brains, comes out as a solid practice one day. consider whether any _rune_ in the wildest imagination of mythologist ever did such wonders as, on the actual firm earth, some books have done! what built st paul's cathedral? look at the heart of the matter, it was that divine hebrew book,--the word partly of the man moses, an outlaw tending his midianitish herds, four thousand years ago, in the wildernesses of sinai! it is the strangest of things, yet nothing is truer. with the art of writing, of which printing is a simple, an inevitable and comparatively insignificant corollary, the true reign of miracles for mankind commenced. it related, with a wondrous new contiguity and perpetual closeness, the past and distant with the present in time and place; all times and all places with this our actual here and now. all things were altered for men; all modes of important work of men: teaching, preaching, governing, and all else. to look at teaching, for instance. universities are a notable, respectable product of the modern ages. their existence too is modified, to the very basis of it, by the existence of books. universities arose while there were yet no books procurable; while a man, for a single book, had to give an estate of land. that, in those circumstances, when a man had some knowledge to communicate, he should do it by gathering the learners round him, face to face, was a necessity for him. if you wanted to know what abelard knew, you must go and listen to abelard. thousands, as many as thirty-thousand, went to hear abelard and that metaphysical theology of his. and now for any other teacher who had something of his own to teach, there was a great convenience opened: so many thousands eager to learn were already assembled yonder; of all places the best place for him was that. for any third teacher it was better still; and grew ever the better, the more teachers there came. it only needed now that the king took notice of this new phenomenon; combined or agglomerated the various schools into one school; gave it edifices, privileges, encouragements, and named it _universitas_, or school of all sciences: the university of paris, in its essential characters, was there. the model of all subsequent universities; which down even to these days, for six centuries now, have gone on to found themselves. such, i conceive, was the origin of universities. it is clear, however, that with this simple circumstance, facility of getting books, the whole conditions of the business from top to bottom were changed. once invent printing, you metamorphosed all universities, or superseded them! the teacher needed not now to gather men personally round him, that he might _speak_ to them what he knew: print it in a book, and all learners far and wide, for a trifle, had it each at his own fireside, much more effectually to learn it!--doubtless there is still peculiar virtue in speech; even writers of books may still, in some circumstances, find it convenient to speak also,--witness our present meeting here! there _is_, one would say, and must ever remain while man has a tongue, a distinct province for speech as well as for writing and printing. in regard to all things this must remain; to universities among others. but the limits of the two have nowhere yet been pointed out, ascertained; much less put in practice: the university which would completely take-in that great new fact, of the existence of printed books, and stand on a clear footing for the nineteenth century as the paris one did for the thirteenth, has not yet come into existence. if we think of it, all that a university, or final highest school can do for us, is still but what the first school began doing,--teach us to _read_. we learn to _read_, in various languages, in various sciences; we learn the alphabet and letters of all manner of books. but the place where we go to get knowledge, even theoretic knowledge, is the books themselves! it depends on what we read, after all manner of professors have done their best for us. the true university of these days is a collection of books. but to the church itself, as i hinted already, all is changed, in its preaching, in its working, by the introduction of books. the church is the working recognised union of our priests or prophets, of those who by wise teaching guide the souls of men. while there was no writing, even while there was no easy-writing or _printing_, the preaching of the voice was the natural sole method of performing this. but now with books!--he that can write a true book, to persuade england, is not he the bishop and archbishop, the primate of england and of all england? i many a time say, the writers of newspapers, pamphlets, poems, books, these _are_ the real working effective church of a modern country. nay not only our preaching, but even our worship, is not it too accomplished by means of printed books? the noble sentiment which a gifted soul has clothed for us in melodious words, which brings melody into our hearts,--is not this essentially, if we will understand it, of the nature of worship? there are many, in all countries, who, in this confused time, have no other method of worship. he who, in any way, shows us better than we knew before that a lily of the fields is beautiful, does he not show it us as an effluence of the fountain of all beauty; as the _handwriting_, made visible there, of the great maker of the universe? he has sung for us, made us sing with him, a little verse of a sacred psalm. essentially so. how much more he who sings, who says, or in any way brings home to our heart the noble doings, feelings, darings and endurances of a brother man! he has verily touched our hearts as with a live coal _from the altar_. perhaps there is no worship more authentic. literature, so far as it is literature, is an 'apocalypse of nature,' a revealing of the 'open secret.' it may well enough be named, in fichte's style; a 'continuous revelation' of the godlike in the terrestrial and common. the godlike does ever, in very truth, endure there; is brought out, now in this dialect, now in that, with various degrees of clearness: all true gifted singers and speakers are, consciously or unconsciously, doing so. the dark stormful indignation of a byron, so wayward and perverse, may have touches of it; nay the withered mockery of a french sceptic,--his mockery of the false, a love and worship of the true. how much more the sphere-harmony of a shakspeare, of a goethe; the cathedral-music of a milton! they are something too, those humble genuine lark-notes of a burns,--skylark, starting from the humble furrow, far overhead into the blue depths, and singing to us so genuinely there! for all true singing is of the nature of worship; as indeed all true _working_ may be said to be,--whereof such _singing_ is but the record, and fit melodious representation, to us. fragments of a real 'church liturgy' and 'body of homilies,' strangely disguised from the common eye, are to be found weltering in that huge froth-ocean of printed speech we loosely call literature! books are our church too. or turning now to the government of men. witenagemote, old parliament, was a great thing. the affairs of the nation were there deliberated and decided; what we were to _do_ as a nation. but does not, though the name parliament subsists, the parliamentary debate go on now, everywhere and at all times, in a far more comprehensive way, _out_ of parliament altogether? burke said there were three estates in parliament; but, in the reporters' gallery yonder, there sat a _fourth estate_ more important far than they all. it is not a figure of speech, or a witty saying; it is a literal fact,--very momentous to us in these times. literature is our parliament too. printing, which comes necessarily out of writing, i say often, is equivalent to democracy: invent writing, democracy is inevitable. writing brings printing; brings universal every-day extempore printing, as we see at present. whoever can speak, speaking now to the whole nation, becomes a power, a branch of government, with inalienable weight in law-making, in all acts of authority. it matters not what rank he has, what revenues or garnitures: the requisite thing is, that he have a tongue which others will listen to; this and nothing more is requisite. the nation is governed by all that has tongue in the nation: democracy is virtually _there_. add only, that whatsoever power exists will have itself, by and by, organised; working secretly under bandages, obscurations, obstructions, it will never rest till it get to work free, unencumbered, visible to all. democracy virtually extant will insist on becoming palpably extant.-on all sides, are we not driven to the conclusion that, of the things which man can do or make here below, by far the most momentous, wonderful and worthy are the things we call books! those poor bits of rag-paper with black ink on them;--from the daily newspaper to the sacred hebrew book, what have they not done, what are they not doing!--for indeed, whatever be the outward form of the thing (bits of paper, as we say, and black ink), is it not verily, at bottom, the highest act of man's faculty that produces a book? it is the _thought_ of man; the true thaumaturgic virtue; by which man works all things whatsoever. all that he does, and brings to pass, is the vesture of a thought. this london city, with all its houses, palaces, steam-engines, cathedrals, and huge immeasurable traffic and tumult, what is it but a thought, but millions of thoughts made into one;--a huge immeasurable spirit of a thought, embodied in brick, in iron, smoke, dust, palaces, parliaments, hackney coaches, katherine docks, and the rest of it! not a brick was made but some man had to _think_ of the making of that brick.--the thing we called 'bits of paper with traces of black ink,' is the _purest_ embodiment a thought of man can have. no wonder it is, in all ways, the activest and noblest. all this, of the importance and supreme importance of the man of letters in modern society, and how the press is to such a degree superseding the pulpit, the senate, the _senatus academicus_ and much else, has been admitted for a good while; and recognised often enough, in late times, with a sort of sentimental triumph and wonderment. it seems to me, the sentimental by and by will have to give place to the practical. if men of letters _are_ so incalculably influential, actually performing such work for us from age to age, and even from day to day, then i think we may conclude that men of letters will not always wander like unrecognised unregulated ishmaelites among us! whatsoever thing, as i said above, has virtual unnoticed power will castoff its wrappages, bandages, and step-forth one day with palpably articulated, universally visible power. that one man wear the clothes, and take the wages, of a function which is done by quite another: there can be no profit in this; this is not right, it is wrong. and yet, alas, the _making_ of it right,--what a business, for long times to come! sure enough, this that we call organisation of the literary guild is still a great way off, encumbered with all manner of complexities. if you asked me what were the best possible organisation for the men of letters in modern society; the arrangement of furtherance and regulation, grounded the most accurately on the actual facts of their position and of the world's position,--i should beg to say that the problem far exceeded my faculty! it is not one man's faculty; it is that of many successive men turned earnestly upon it, that will bring-out even an approximate solution. what the best arrangement were, none of us could say. but if you ask, which is the worst? i answer: this which we now have, that chaos should sit umpire in it; this is the worst. to the best, or any good one, there is yet a long way. one remark i must not omit, that royal or parliamentary grants of money are by no means the chief thing wanted! to give our men of letters stipends, endowments and all furtherance of cash, will do little towards the business. on the whole, one is weary of hearing about the omnipotence of money. i will say rather that, for a genuine man, it is no evil to be poor; that there ought to be literary men poor,--to show whether they are genuine or not! mendicant orders, bodies of good men doomed to _beg_, were instituted in the christian church; a most natural and even necessary development of the spirit of christianity. it was itself founded on poverty, on sorrow, contradiction, crucifixion, every species of worldly distress and degradation. we may say, that he who has not known those things, and learned from them the priceless lessons they have to teach, has missed a good opportunity of schooling. to beg, and go barefoot, in coarse woollen cloak with a rope round your loins, and be despised of all the world, was no beautiful business;--nor an honourable one in any eye, till the nobleness of those who did so had made it honoured of some! begging is not in our course at the present time: but for the rest of it, who will say that a johnson is not perhaps the better for being poor? it is needful for him, at all rates, to know that outward profit, that success of any kind is _not_ the goal he has to aim at. pride, vanity, ill-conditioned egoism of all sorts, are bred in his heart, as in every heart; need, above all, to be cast-out of his heart,--to be, with whatever pangs, torn-out of it, cast-forth from it, as a thing worthless. byron, born rich and noble, made-out even less than burns, poor and plebeian. who knows but, in that same 'best possible organisation' as yet far off, poverty may still enter as an important element? what if our men of letters, men setting-up to be spiritual heroes, were still _then_, as they now are, a kind of 'involuntary monastic order;' bound still to this same ugly poverty,--till they had tried what was in it too, till they had learned to make it too do for them! money, in truth, can do much, but it cannot do all. we must know the province of it, and confine it; and even spurn it back, when it wishes to get farther. besides, were the money-furtherances, the proper season for them, the fit assigner of them, all settled,--how is the burns to be recognised that merits these? he must pass through the ordeal, and prove himself. _this_ ordeal; this wild welter of a chaos which is called literary life; this too is a kind of ordeal! there is clear truth in the idea that a struggle from the lower classes of society, towards the upper regions and rewards of society, must ever continue. strong men are born there, who ought to stand elsewhere than there. the manifold, inextricably complex, universal struggle of these constitutes, and must constitute, what is called the progress of society. for men of letters, as for all other sorts of men. how to regulate that struggle? there is the whole question. to leave it as it is, at the mercy of blind chance; a whirl of distracted atoms, one cancelling the other; one of the thousand arriving saved, nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine lost by the way; your royal johnson languishing inactive in garrets, or harnessed to the yoke of printer cave; your burns dying broken-hearted as a gauger; your rousseau driven into mad exasperation, kindling french revolutions by his paradoxes: this, as we said, is clearly enough the _worst_ regulation. the _best_, alas, is far from us! and yet there can be no doubt but it is coming; advancing on us, as yet hidden in the bosom of centuries: this is a prophecy one can risk. for so soon as men get to discern the importance of a thing, they do infallibly set about arranging it, facilitating, forwarding it; and rest not till, in some approximate degree, they have accomplished that. i say, of all priesthoods, aristocracies, governing classes at present extant in the world, there is no class comparable for importance to that priesthood of the writers of books. this is a fact which he who runs may read,--and draw inferences from. "literature will take care of itself," answered mr pitt, when applied-to for some help for burns. "yes," adds mr southey, "it will take care of itself; _and of you too_, if you do not look to it!" the result to individual men of letters is not the momentous one; they are but individuals, an infinitesimal fraction of the great body; they can struggle on, and live or else die, as they have been wont. but it deeply concerns the whole society, whether it will set its _light_ on high places, to walk thereby; or trample it under foot, and scatter it in all ways of wild waste (not without conflagration), as heretofore! light is the one thing wanted for the world. put wisdom in the head of the world, the world will fight its battle victoriously, and be the best world man can make it. i call this anomaly of a disorganic literary class the heart of all other anomalies, at once product and parent; some good arrangement for that would be as the _punctum saliens_ of a new vitality and just arrangement for all. already, in some european countries, in france, in prussia, one traces some beginnings of an arrangement for the literary class; indicating the gradual possibility of such. i believe that it is possible; that it will have to be possible. by far the most interesting fact i hear about the chinese is one on which we cannot arrive at clearness, but which excites endless curiosity even in the dim state: this namely, that they do attempt to make their men of letters their governors! it would be rash to say, one understood how this was done, or with what degree of success it was done. all such things must be very unsuccessful; yet a small degree of success is precious; the very attempt how precious! there does seem to be, all over china, a more or less active search everywhere to discover the men of talent that grow up in the young generation. schools there are for every one: a foolish sort of training, yet still a sort. the youths who distinguish themselves in the lower school are promoted into favourable stations in the higher, that they may still more distinguish themselves,--forward and forward: it appears to be out of these that the official persons, and incipient governors, are taken. these are they whom they _try_ first, whether they can govern or not. and surely with the best hope: for they are the men that have already shown intellect. try them: they have not governed or administered as yet; perhaps they cannot; but there is no doubt they _have_ some understanding, without which no man can! neither is understanding a _tool_, as we are too apt to figure; 'it is a _hand_ which can handle any tool.' try these men: they are of all others the best worth trying.--surely there is no kind of government, constitution, revolution, social apparatus or arrangement, that i know of in this world, so promising to one's scientific curiosity as this. the man of intellect at the top of affairs: this is the aim of all constitutions and revolutions, if they have any aim. for the man of true intellect, as i assert and believe always, is the noblehearted man withal, the true, just, humane and valiant man. get _him_ for governor, all is got; fail to get him, though you had constitutions plentiful as blackberries, and a parliament in every village, there is nothing yet got!-these things look strange, truly; and are not such as we commonly speculate upon. but we are fallen into strange times; these things will require to be speculated upon; to be rendered practicable, to be in some way put in practice. these and many others. on all hands of us, there is the announcement, audible enough, that the old empire of routine has ended; that to say a thing has long been, is no reason for its continuing to be. the things which have been are fallen into decay, are fallen into incompetence; large masses of mankind, in every society of our europe, are no longer capable of living at all by the things which have been. when millions of men can no longer by their utmost exertion gain food for themselves, and 'the third man for thirty-six weeks each year is short of third-rate potatoes,' the things which have been must decidedly prepare to alter themselves!--i will now quit this of the organisation of men of letters. * * * * * alas, the evil that pressed heaviest on those literary heroes of ours was not the want of organisation for men of letters, but a far deeper one; out of which, indeed, this and so many other evils for the literary man, and for all men, had, as from their fountain, taken rise. that our hero as man of letters had to travel without highway, companionless, through an inorganic chaos,--and to leave his own life and faculty lying there, as a partial contribution towards _pushing_ some highway through it: this, had not his faculty itself been so perverted and paralysed, he might have put up with, might have considered to be but the common lot of heroes. his fatal misery was the _spiritual paralysis_, so we may name it, of the age in which his life lay; whereby his life too, do what he might, was half-paralysed! the eighteenth was a _sceptical_ century; in which little word there is a whole pandora's box of miseries. scepticism means not intellectual doubt alone, but moral doubt; all sorts of _in_fidelity, insincerity, spiritual paralysis. perhaps, in few centuries that one could specify since the world began, was a life of heroism more difficult for a man. that was not an age of faith,--an age of heroes! the very possibility of heroism had been, as it were, formally abnegated in the minds of all. heroism was gone forever; triviality, formulism and commonplace were come forever. the 'age of miracles' had been, or perhaps had not been; but it was not any longer. an effete world; wherein wonder, greatness, godhood could not now dwell;--in one word, a godless world! how mean, dwarfish are their ways of thinking, in this time,--compared not with the christian shakspeares and miltons, but with the old pagan skalds, with any species of believing men! the living tree igdrasil, with the melodious prophetic waving of its world-wide boughs, deep-rooted as hela, has died-out into the clanking of a world-machine. 'tree' and 'machine': contrast these two things. i, for my share, declare the world to be no machine! i say that it does not go by wheel-and-pinion 'motives,' self-interests, checks, balances; that there is something far other in it than the clank of spinning-jennies, and parliamentary majorities; and, on the whole, that it is not a machine at all!--the old norse heathen had a truer notion of god's-world than these poor machine-sceptics: the old heathen norse were _sincere_ men. but for these poor sceptics there was no sincerity, no truth. half-truth and hearsay was called truth. truth, for most men, meant plausibility; to be measured by the number of votes you could get. they had lost any notion that sincerity was possible, or of what sincerity was. how many plausibilities asking, with unaffected surprise and the air of offended virtue, what! am not i sincere? spiritual paralysis, i say, nothing left but a mechanical life, was the characteristic of that century. for the common man, unless happily he stood _below_ his century and belonged to another prior one, it was impossible to be a believer, a hero; he lay buried, unconscious, under these baleful influences. to the strongest man, only with infinite struggle and confusion was it possible to work himself half-loose; and lead as it were, in an enchanted, most tragical way, a spiritual death-in-life, and be a half-hero! scepticism is the name we give to all this; as the chief symptom, as the chief origin of all this. concerning which so much were to be said! it would take many discourses, not a small fraction of one discourse, to state what one feels about that eighteenth century and its ways. as indeed this, and the like of this, which we now call scepticism, is precisely the black malady and life-foe, against which all teaching and discoursing since man's life began has directed itself: the battle of belief against unbelief is the never-ending battle! neither is it in the way of crimination that one would wish to speak. scepticism, for that century, we must consider as the decay of old ways of believing, the preparation afar off for new better and wider ways,--an inevitable thing. we will not blame men for it; we will lament their hard fate. we will understand that destruction of old _forms_ is not destruction of everlasting _substances_; that scepticism, as sorrowful and hateful as we see it, is not an end but a beginning. the other day speaking, without prior purpose that way, of bentham's theory of man and man's life, i chanced to call it a more beggarly one than mahomet's. i am bound to say, now when it is once uttered, that such is my deliberate opinion. not that one would mean offence against the man jeremy bentham, or those who respect and believe him. bentham himself, and even the creed of bentham, seems to me comparatively worthy of praise. it is a determinate _being_ what all the world, in a cowardly, half-and-half manner, was tending to be. let us have the crisis; we shall either have death or the cure. i call this gross, steam-engine utilitarianism an approach towards new faith. it was a laying down of cant; a saying to oneself: "well then, this world is a dead iron machine, the god of it gravitation and selfish hunger; let us see what, by checking and balancing, and good adjustment of tooth and pinion, can be made of it!" benthamism has something complete, manful, in such fearless committal of itself to what it finds true; you may call it heroic, though a heroism with its _eyes_ put out! it is the culminating point, and fearless ultimatum, of what lay in the half-and-half state, pervading man's whole existence in that eighteenth century. it seems to me, all deniers of godhood, and all lip-believers of it, are bound to be benthamites, if they have courage and honesty. benthamism is an _eyeless_ heroism: the human species, like a hapless blinded samson grinding in the philistine mill, clasps convulsively the pillars of its mill; brings huge ruin down, but ultimately deliverance withal. of bentham i meant to say no harm. but this i do say, and would wish all men to know and lay to heart, that he who discerns nothing but mechanism in the universe has in the fatalest way missed the secret of the universe altogether. that all godhood should vanish out of men's conception of this universe seems to me precisely the most brutal error,--i will not disparage heathenism by calling it a heathen error,--that men could fall into. it is not true; it is false at the very heart of it. a man who thinks so will think _wrong_ about all things in the world; this original sin will vitiate all other conclusions he can form. one might call it the most lamentable of delusions,--not forgetting witchcraft itself! witchcraft worshipped at least a living devil: but this worships a dead iron devil; no god, not even a devil!--whatsoever is noble, divine, inspired, drops thereby out of life. there remains everywhere in life a despicable _caput-mortuum_; the mechanical hull, all soul fled out of it. how can a man act heroically? the 'doctrine of motives' will teach him that it is, under more or less disguise, nothing but a wretched love of pleasure, fear of pain; that hunger, of applause, of cash, of whatsoever victual it may be, is the ultimate fact of man's life. atheism, in brief;--which does indeed frightfully punish itself. the man, i say, is become spiritually a paralytic man; this god-like universe a dead mechanical steam-engine, all working by motives, checks, balances, and i know not what; wherein, as in the detestable belly of some phalaris'-bull of his own contriving, he the poor phalaris sits miserably dying! belief i define to be the healthy act of a man's mind. it is a mysterious indescribable process, that of getting to believe;--indescribable, as all vital acts are. we have our mind given us, not that it may cavil and argue, but that it may see into something, give us clear belief and understanding about something, whereon we are then to proceed to act. doubt, truly, is not itself a crime. certainly we do not rush out, clutch-up the first thing we find, and straightway believe that! all manner of doubt, inquiry, [greek: skepsis] as it is named, about all manner of objects, dwells in every reasonable mind. it is the mystic working of the mind, on the object it is _getting_ to know and believe. belief comes out of all this, above ground, like the tree from its hidden _roots_. but now if, even on common things, we require that a man keep his doubts _silent_, and not babble of them till they in some measure become affirmations or denials; how much more in regard to the highest things, impossible to speak of in words at all! that a man parade his doubt, and get to imagine that debating and logic (which means at best only the manner of _telling_ us your thought, your belief or disbelief, about a thing) is the triumph and true work of what intellect he has: alas, this is as if you should _overturn_ the tree, and instead of green boughs, leaves, and fruits, show us ugly taloned roots turned-up into the air,--and no growth, only death and misery going on! for the scepticism, as i said, is not intellectual only; it is moral also; a chronic atrophy and disease of the whole soul. a man lives by believing something; not by debating and arguing about many things. a sad case for him when all that he can manage to believe is something he can button in his pocket, and with one or the other organ eat and digest! lower than that he will not get. we call those ages in which he gets so low the mournfulest, sickest, and meanest of all ages. the world's heart is palsied, sick: how can any limb of it be whole? genuine acting ceases in all departments of the world's work; dextrous similitude of acting begins. the world's wages are pocketed, the world's work is not done. heroes have gone out; quacks have come in. accordingly, what century, since the end of the roman world, which also was a time of scepticism, simulacra and universal decadence, so abounds with quacks as that eighteenth! consider them, with their tumid sentimental vapouring about virtue, benevolence,--the wretched quack-squadron, cagliostro at the head of them! few men were without quackery; they had got to consider it a necessary ingredient and amalgam for truth. chatham, our brave chatham himself, comes down to the house, all wrapt and bandaged; he 'has crawled out in great bodily suffering,' and so on;--_forgets_, says walpole, that he is acting the sick man; in the fire of debate, snatches his arm from the sling, and oratorically swings and brandishes it! chatham himself lives the strangest mimetic life, half hero, half quack, all along. for indeed the world is full of dupes; and you have to gain the _world's_ suffrage! how the duties of the world will be done in that case, what quantities of error, which means failure, which means sorrow and misery, to some and to many, will gradually accumulate in all provinces of the world's business, we need not compute. it seems to me, you lay your finger here on the heart of the world's maladies, when you call it a sceptical world. an insincere world; a godless untruth of a world! it is out of this, as i consider, that the whole tribe of social pestilences, french revolutions, chartisms, and what not, have derived their being, their chief necessity to be. this must alter. till this alter, nothing can beneficially alter. my one hope of the world, my inexpugnable consolation in looking at the miseries of the world, is that this is altering. here and there one does now find a man who knows, as of old, that this world is a truth, and no plausibility and falsity; that he himself is alive, not dead or paralytic; and that the world is alive, instinct with godhood, beautiful and awful, even as in the beginning of days! one man once knowing this, many men, all men, must by and by come to know it. it lies there clear, for whosoever will take the _spectacles_ off his eyes and honestly look, to know! for such a man, the unbelieving century, with its unblessed products, is already past: a new century is already come. the old unblessed products and performances, as solid as they look, are phantasms, preparing speedily to vanish. to this and the other noisy, very great-looking simulacrum with the whole world huzzahing at its heels, he can say, composedly stepping aside: thou art not _true_; thou art not extant, only semblant; go thy way!--yes, hollow formulism, gross benthamism, and other unheroic atheistic insincerity is visibly and even rapidly declining. an unbelieving eighteenth century is but an exception,--such as now and then occurs. i prophesy that the world will once more become _sincere_; a believing world: with _many_ heroes in it, a heroic world! it will then be a victorious world; never till then! or indeed what of the world and its victories? men speak too much about the world. each one of us here, let the world go how it will, and be victorious or not victorious, has he not a life of his own to lead? one life; a little gleam of time between two eternities; no second chance to us forevermore! it were well for _us_ to live not as fools and simulacra, but as wise and realities. the world's being saved will not save us; nor the world's being lost destroy us. we should look to ourselves: there is great merit here in the 'duty of staying at home'! and, on the whole, to say truth, i never heard of 'worlds' being 'saved' in any other way. that mania of saving worlds is itself a piece of the eighteenth century with its windy sentimentalism. let us not follow it too far. for the saving of the _world_ i will trust confidently to the maker of the world; and look a little to my own saving, which i am more competent to!--in brief, for the world's sake, and for our own, we will rejoice greatly that scepticism, insincerity, mechanical atheism, with all their poison-dews, are going, and as good as gone.-now it was under such conditions, in those times of johnson, that our men of letters had to live. times in which there was properly no truth in life. old truths had fallen nigh dumb; the new lay yet hidden, not trying to speak. that man's life here below was a sincerity and fact, and would forever continue such, no new intimation, in that dusk of the world, had yet dawned. no intimation; not even any french revolution,--which we define to be a truth once more, though a truth clad in hellfire! how different was the luther's pilgrimage, with its assured goal, from the johnson's, girt with mere traditions, suppositions, grown now incredible, unintelligible! mahomet's formulas were of 'wood waxed and oiled,' and could be _burnt_ out of one's way: poor johnson's were far more difficult to burn.--the strong man will ever find _work_, which means difficulty, pain, to the full measure of his strength. but to make-out a victory, in those circumstances of our poor hero as man of letters, was perhaps more difficult than in any. not obstruction, disorganisation, bookseller osborne and fourpence-halfpenny a day; not this alone; but the light of his own soul was taken from him. no landmark on the earth; and, alas, what is that to having no loadstar in the heaven! we need not wonder that none of those three men rose to victory. that they fought truly is the highest praise. with a mournful sympathy we will contemplate, if not three living victorious heroes, as i said, the tombs of three fallen heroes! they fell for us too; making a way for us. there are the mountains which they hurled abroad in their confused war of the giants; under which, their strength and life spent, they now lie buried. * * * * * i have already written of these three literary heroes, expressly or incidentally; what i suppose is known to most of you; what need not be spoken or written a second time. they concern us here as the singular _prophets_ of that singular age; for such they virtually were; and the aspect they and their world exhibit, under this point of view, might lead us into reflections enough! i call them, all three, genuine men more or less; faithfully, for most part unconsciously, struggling to be genuine, and plant themselves on the everlasting truth of things. this to a degree that eminently distinguishes them from the poor artificial mass of their contemporaries; and renders them worthy to be considered as speakers, in some measure, of the everlasting truth, as prophets in that age of theirs. by nature herself, a noble necessity was laid on them to be so. they were men of such magnitude that they could not live on unrealities,--clouds, froth and all inanity gave-way under them: there was no footing for them but on firm earth; no rest or regular motion for them, if they got not footing there. to a certain extent, they were sons of nature once more in an age of artifice; once more, original men. as for johnson, i have always considered him to be, by nature, one of our great english souls. a strong and noble man; so much left undeveloped in him to the last: in a kindlier element what might he not have been,--poet, priest, sovereign ruler! on the whole, a man must not complain of his 'element,' of his 'time,' or the like; it is thriftless work doing so. his time is bad: well then, he is there to make it better!--johnson's youth was poor, isolated, hopeless, very miserable. indeed, it does not seem possible that, in any the favourablest outward circumstances, johnson's life could have been other than a painful one. the world might have had more of profitable _work_ out of him, or less; but his _effort_ against the world's work could never have been a light one. nature, in return for his nobleness, had said to him, live in an element of diseased sorrow. nay, perhaps the sorrow and the nobleness were intimately and even inseparably connected with each other. at all events, poor johnson had to go about girt with continual hypochondria, physical and spiritual pain. like a hercules with the burning nessus'-shirt on him, which shoots-in on him dull incurable misery: the nessus'-shirt not to be stript-off, which is his own natural skin! in this manner _he_ had to live. figure him there, with his scrofulous diseases, with his great greedy heart, and unspeakable chaos of thoughts; stalking mournful as a stranger in this earth; eagerly devouring what spiritual thing he could come at: school-languages and other merely grammatical stuff, if there were nothing better! the largest soul that was in all england; and provision made for it of 'fourpence-halfpenny a day.' yet a giant invincible soul; a true man's. one remembers always that story of the shoes at oxford: the rough, seamy-faced, rawboned college servitor stalking about, in winter-season, with his shoes worn-out; how the charitable gentleman commoner secretly places a new pair at his door; and the rawboned servitor, lifting them, looking at them near, with his dim eyes, with what thoughts,--pitches them out of window! wet feet, mud, frost, hunger or what you will; but not beggary: we cannot stand beggary! rude stubborn self-help here; a whole world of squalor, rudeness, confused misery and want, yet of nobleness and manfulness withal. it is a type of the man's life, this pitching-away of the shoes. an original man;--not a secondhand, borrowing or begging man. let us stand on our own basis, at any rate! on such shoes as we ourselves can get. on frost and mud, if you will, but honestly on that;--on the reality and substance which nature gives _us_, not on the semblance, on the thing she has given another than us!-and yet with all this rugged pride of manhood and self-help was there ever soul more tenderly affectionate, loyally submissive to what was really higher than he? great souls are always loyally submissive, reverent to what is over them; only small mean souls are otherwise. i could not find a better proof of what i said the other day, that the sincere man was by nature the obedient man; that only in a world of heroes was there loyal obedience to the heroic. the essence of _originality_ is not that it be _new_: johnson believed altogether in the old; he found the old opinions credible for him, fit for him; and in a right heroic manner lived under them. he is well worth study in regard to that. for we are to say that johnson was far other than a mere man of words and formulas; he was a man of truths and facts. he stood by the old formulas; the happier was it for him that he could so stand: but in all formulas that _he_ could stand by, there needed to be a most genuine substance. very curious how, in that poor paper-age, so barren, artificial, thick-quilted with pedantries, hearsays, the great fact of this universe glared in, forever wonderful, indubitable, unspeakable, divine-infernal, upon this man too! how he harmonised his formulas with it, how he managed at all under such circumstances: that is a thing worth seeing. a thing 'to be looked at with reverence, with pity, with awe.' that church of st. clement danes, where johnson still _worshipped_ in the era of voltaire, is to me a venerable place. it was in virtue of his _sincerity_, of his speaking still in some sort from the heart of nature, though in the current artificial dialect, that johnson was a prophet. are not all dialects 'artificial'? artificial things are not all false;--nay every true product of nature will infallibly _shape_ itself; we may say all artificial things are, at the starting of them, _true_. what we call 'formulas' are not in their origin bad; they are indispensably good. formula is _method_, habitude; found wherever man is found. formulas fashion themselves as paths do, as beaten highways, leading towards some sacred or high object, whither many men are bent. consider it. one man, full of heartfelt earnest impulse, finds-out a way of doing somewhat,--were it of uttering his soul's reverence for the highest, were it but of fitly saluting his fellow-man. an inventor was needed to do that, a _poet_; he has articulated the dim-struggling thought that dwelt in his own and many hearts. this is his way of doing that; these are his footsteps, the beginning of a 'path.' and now see: the second man travels naturally in the footsteps of his foregoer, it is the _easiest_ method. in the footsteps of his foregoer; yet with improvements, with changes where such seem good; at all events with enlargements, the path ever _widening_ itself as more travel it;--till at last there is a broad highway whereon the whole world may travel and drive. while there remains a city or shrine, or any reality to drive to, at the farther end, the highway shall be right welcome! when the city is gone, we will forsake the highway. in this manner all institutions, practices, regulated things in the world have come into existence, and gone out of existence. formulas all begin by being _full_ of substance; you may call them the _skin_, the articulation into shape, into limbs and skin, of a substance that is already there: _they_ had not been there otherwise. idols, as we said, are not idolatrous till they become doubtful, empty for the worshipper's heart. much as we talk against formulas, i hope no one of us is ignorant withal of the high significance of _true_ formulas; that they were, and will ever be, the indispensablest furniture of our habitation in this world.---mark, too, how little johnson boasts of his 'sincerity.' he has no suspicion of his being particularly sincere,--of his being particularly anything! a hard-struggling, weary-hearted man, or 'scholar' as he calls himself, trying hard to get some honest livelihood in the world, not to starve, but to live--without stealing! a noble unconsciousness is in him. he does not 'engrave _truth_ on his watch-seal;' no, but he stands by truth, speaks by it, works and lives by it. thus it ever is. think of it once more. the man whom nature has appointed to do great things is, first of all, furnished with that openness to nature which renders him incapable of being _in_sincere! to his large, open, deep-feeling heart nature is a fact: all hearsay is hearsay; the unspeakable greatness of this mystery of life, let him acknowledge it or not, nay even though he seem to forget it or deny it, is ever present to _him_,--fearful and wonderful, on this hand and on that. he has a basis of sincerity; unrecognised, because never questioned or capable of question. mirabeau, mahomet, cromwell, napoleon: all the great men i ever heard-of have this as the primary material of them. innumerable commonplace men are debating, are talking everywhere their commonplace doctrines, which they have learned by logic, by rote, at secondhand: to that kind of man all this is still nothing. he must have truth; truth which _he_ feels to be true. how shall he stand otherwise? his whole soul, at all moments, in all ways, tells him that there is no standing. he is under the noble necessity of being true. johnson's way of thinking about this world is not mine, any more than mahomet's was: but i recognise the everlasting element of heart-_sincerity_ in both; and see with pleasure how neither of them remains ineffectual. neither of them is as _chaff_ sown; in both of them is something which the seed-field will _grow_. johnson was a prophet to his people; preached a gospel to them,--as all like him always do. the highest gospel he preached we may describe as a kind of moral prudence: 'in a world where much is to be done, and little is to be known,' see how you will _do_ it! a thing well worth preaching. 'a world where much is to be done, and little is to be known:' do not sink yourselves in boundless bottomless abysses of doubt, of wretched god-forgetting unbelief;--you were miserable then, powerless, mad: how could you _do_ or work at all? such gospel johnson preached and taught;--coupled, theoretically and practically, with this other great gospel, 'clear your mind of cant!' have no trade with cant: stand on the cold mud in the frosty weather, but let it be in your own _real_ torn shoes: 'that will be better for you,' as mahomet says! i call this, i call these two things _joined together_, a great gospel, the greatest perhaps that was possible at that time. johnson's writings, which once had such currency and celebrity, are now, as it were, disowned by the young generation. it is not wonderful; johnson's opinions are fast becoming obsolete: but his style of thinking and of living, we may hope, will never become obsolete. i find in johnson's books the indisputablest traces of a great intellect and great heart:--ever welcome, under what obstructions and perversions soever. they are _sincere_ words, those of his; he means things by them. a wondrous buckram style,--the best he could get to then; a measured grandiloquence, stepping or rather stalking along in a very solemn way, grown obsolete now; sometimes a tumid _size_ of phraseology not in proportion to the contents of it: all this you will put-up with. for the phraseology, tumid or not, has always _something within it_. so many beautiful styles and books, with _nothing_ in them;--a man is a _male_factor to the world who writes such! _they_ are the avoidable kind!--had johnson left nothing but his _dictionary_, one might have traced there a great intellect, a genuine man. looking to its clearness of definition, its general solidity, honesty, insight, and successful method, it may be called the best of all dictionaries. there is in it a kind of architectural nobleness; it stands there like a great solid square-built edifice, finished, symmetrically complete: you judge that a true builder did it. one word, in spite of our haste, must be granted to poor bozzy. he passes for a mean, inflated, gluttonous creature; and was so in many senses. yet the fact of his reverence for johnson will ever remain noteworthy. the foolish conceited scotch laird, the most conceited man of his time, approaching in such awestruck attitude the great dusty irascible pedagogue in his mean garret there: it is a genuine reverence for excellence; a _worship_ for heroes, at a time when neither heroes nor worship were surmised to exist. heroes, it would seem exist always, and a certain worship of them! we will also take the liberty to deny altogether that of the witty frenchman, that no man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre. or if so, it is not the hero's blame, but the valet's: that his soul, namely, is a mean _valet_-soul! he expects his hero to advance in royal stage-trappings, with measured step, trains borne behind him, trumpets sounding before him. it should stand rather, no man can be a _grand-monarque_ to his valet-de-chambre. strip your louis quatorze of his king-gear, and there _is_ left nothing but a poor forked radish with a head fantastically carved;--admirable to no valet. the valet does not know a hero when he sees him! alas, no: it requires a kind of _hero_ to do that;--and one of the world's wants, in _this_ as in other senses, is for the most part want of such. on the whole, shall we not say, that boswell's admiration was well bestowed; that he could have found no soul in all england so worthy of bending down before? shall we not say, of this great mournful johnson too, that he guided his difficult confused existence wisely; led it _well_, like a right-valiant man? that waste chaos of authorship by trade; that waste chaos of scepticism in religion and politics, in life-theory and life-practice; in his poverty, in his dust and dimness, with the sick body and the rusty coat: he made it do for him, like a brave man. not wholly without a loadstar in the eternal; he had still a loadstar, as the brave all need to have: with his eye set on that, he would change his course for nothing in these confused vortices of the lower sea of time. 'to the spirit of lies, bearing death and hunger, he would in no wise strike his flag.' brave old samuel: _ultimus romanorum_! * * * * * of rousseau and his heroism i cannot say so much. he is not what i call a strong man. a morbid, excitable, spasmodic man; at best, intense rather than strong. he had not 'the talent of silence,' an invaluable talent; which few frenchmen, or indeed men of any sort in these times, excel in! the suffering man ought really 'to consume his own smoke;' there is no good in emitting _smoke_ till you have made it into _fire_,--which, in the metaphorical sense too, all smoke is capable of becoming! rousseau has not depth or width, not calm force for difficulty; the first characteristic of true greatness. a fundamental mistake to call vehemence and rigidity strength! a man is not strong who takes convulsion-fits; though six men cannot hold him then. he that can walk under the heaviest weight without staggering, he is the strong man. we need forever, especially in these loud-shrieking days, to remind ourselves of that. a man who cannot _hold his peace_, till the time come for speaking and acting, is no right man. poor rousseau's face is to me expressive of him. a high but narrow contracted intensity in it: bony brows; deep, straight-set eyes, in which there is something bewildered-looking,--bewildered, peering with lynx-eagerness. a face full of misery, even ignoble misery, and also of the antagonism against that; something mean, plebeian there, redeemed only by _intensity_: the face of what is called a fanatic,--a sadly _contracted_ hero! we name him here because, with all his drawbacks, and they are many, he has the first and chief characteristic of a hero: he is heartily _in earnest_. in earnest, if ever man was; as none of these french philosophes were. nay, one would say, of an earnestness too great for his otherwise sensitive, rather feeble nature; and which indeed in the end drove him into the strangest incoherences, almost delirations. there had come, at last, to be a kind of madness in him: his ideas _possessed_ him like demons; hurried him so about, drove him over steep places!-the fault and misery of rousseau was what we easily name by a single word _egoism_; which is indeed the source and summary of all faults and miseries whatsoever. he had not perfected himself into victory over mere desire; a mean hunger, in many sorts, was still the motive principle of him. i am afraid he was a very vain man; hungry for the praises of men. you remember genlis's experience of him. she took jean jacques to the theatre; he bargaining for a strict incognito,--"_he_ would not be seen there for the world!" the curtain did happen nevertheless to be drawn aside: the pit recognised jean jacques, but took no great notice of him! he expressed the bitterest indignation; gloomed all evening, spake no other than surly words. the glib countess remained entirely convinced that his anger was not at being seen, but at not being applauded when seen. how the whole nature of the man is poisoned; nothing but suspicion, self-isolation, fierce moody ways! he could not live with anybody. a man of some rank from the country, who visited him often, and used to sit with him, expressing all reverence and affection for him, comes one day, finds jean jacques full of the sourest unintelligible humour. "monsieur," said jean jacques, with flaming eyes, "i know why you come here. you come to see what a poor life i lead; how little is in my poor pot that is boiling there. well, look into the pot! there is half a pound of meat, one carrot and three onions; that is all: go and tell the whole world that, if you like, monsieur!"--a man of this sort was far gone. the whole world got itself supplied with anecdotes for light laughter, for a certain theatrical interest, from these perversions and contortions of poor jean jacques. alas, to him they were not laughing or theatrical; too real to him! the contortions of a dying gladiator: the crowded amphitheatre looks-on with entertainment; but the gladiator is in agonies and dying. and yet this rousseau, as we say, with his passionate appeals to mothers, with his _contrat-social_, with his celebrations of nature, even of savage life in nature, did once more touch upon reality, struggle towards reality; was doing the function of a prophet to his time. as _he_ could, and as the time could! strangely through all that defacement, degradation and almost madness, there is in the inmost heart of poor rousseau a spark of real heavenly fire. once more, out of the element of that withered mocking philosophism, scepticism and persiflage, there has arisen in that man the ineradicable feeling and knowledge that this life of ours is _true_; not a scepticism, theorem, or persiflage, but a fact, an awful reality. nature had made that revelation to him; had ordered him to speak it out. he got it spoken out; if not well and clearly, then ill and dimly,--as clearly as he could. nay what are all errors and perversities of his, even those stealings of ribbons aimless confused miseries and vagabondisms, if we will interpret them kindly, but the blinkard dazzlements and staggerings to and fro of a man sent on an errand he is too weak for, by a path he cannot yet find? men are led by strange ways. one should have tolerance for a man, hope of him; leave him to try yet what he will do. while life lasts, hope lasts for every man. of rousseau's literary talents, greatly celebrated still among his countrymen, i do not say much. his books, like himself, are what i call unhealthy; not the good sort of books. there is a sensuality in rousseau. combined with such an intellectual gift as his, it makes pictures of a certain gorgeous attractiveness: but they are not genuinely poetical. not white sunlight: something _operatic_; a kind of rosepink, artificial bedizenment. it is frequent, or rather it is universal, among the french since his time. madame de staël has something of it; st. pierre; and down onwards to the present astonishing convulsionary 'literature of desperation,' it is everywhere abundant. that same _rosepink_ is not the right hue. look at a shakspeare, at a goethe, even at a walter scott! he who has once seen into this, has seen the difference of the true from the sham-true, and will discriminate them ever afterwards. we had to observe in johnson how much good a prophet, under all disadvantages and disorganisations, can accomplish for the world. in rousseau we are called to look rather at the fearful amount of evil which, under such disorganisation, may accompany the good. historically it is a most pregnant spectacle, that of rousseau. banished into paris garrets, in the gloomy company of his own thoughts and necessities there; driven from post to pillar; fretted, exasperated till the heart of him went mad, he had grown to feel deeply that the world was not his friend nor the world's law. it was expedient, if anyway possible, that such a man should _not_ have been set in flat hostility with the world. he could be cooped into garrets, laughed at as a maniac, left to starve like a wild beast in his cage;--but he could not be hindered from setting the world on fire. the french revolution found its evangelist in rousseau. his semi-delirious speculations on the miseries of civilised life, the preferability of the savage to the civilised, and suchlike, helped well to produce a whole delirium in france generally. true, you may well ask, what could the world, the governors of the world, do with such a man? difficult to say what the governors of the world could do with him! what he could do with them is unhappily clear enough,--_guillotine_ a great many of them! enough now of rousseau. * * * * * it was a curious phenomenon, in the withered, unbelieving, secondhand eighteenth century, that of a hero starting up, among the artificial pasteboard figures and productions, in the guise of a robert burns. like a little well in the rocky desert places,--like a sudden splendour of heaven in the artificial vauxhall! people knew not what to make of it. they took it for a piece of the vauxhall fire-work; alas, it _let_ itself be so taken, though struggling half-blindly, as in bitterness of death, against that! perhaps no man had such a false reception from his fellow-men. once more a very wasteful life-drama was enacted under the sun. the tragedy of burns's life is known to all of you. surely we may say, if discrepancy between place held and place merited constitute perverseness of lot for a man, no lot could be more perverse than burns's. among those secondhand acting-figures, _mimes_ for most part, of the eighteenth century, once more a giant original man; one of those men who reach down to the perennial deeps, who take rank with the heroic among men: and he was born in a poor ayrshire hut. the largest soul of all the british lands came among us in the shape of a hard-handed scottish peasant. his father, a poor toiling man, tried various things; did not succeed in any; was involved in continual difficulties. the steward, factor as the scotch call him, used to send letters and threatenings, burns says, 'which threw us all into tears.' the brave, hard-toiling, hard-suffering father, his brave heroine of a wife; and those children, of whom robert was one! in this earth, so wide otherwise, no shelter for _them_. the letters 'threw us all into tears:' figure it. the brave father, i say always;--a _silent_ hero and poet; without whom the son had never been a speaking one! burns's schoolmaster came afterwards to london, learnt what good society was; but declares that in no meeting of men did he ever enjoy better discourse than at the hearth of this peasant. and his poor 'seven acres of nursery-ground,'--not that, nor the miserable patch of clay-farm, nor anything he tried to get a living by, would prosper with him; he had a sore unequal battle all his days. but he stood to it valiantly; a wise, faithful, unconquerable man;--swallowing-down how many sore sufferings daily into silence; fighting like an unseen hero,--nobody publishing newspaper paragraphs about his nobleness; voting pieces of plate to him! however, he was not lost: nothing is lost. robert is there; the outcome of him,--and indeed of many generations of such as him. this burns appears under every disadvantage: uninstructed, poor, born only to hard manual toil; and writing, when it came to that, in a rustic special dialect, known only to a small province of the country he lived in. had he written, even what he did write, in the general language of england, i doubt not he had already become universally recognised as being, or capable to be, one of our greatest men. that he should have tempted so many to penetrate through the rough husk of that dialect of his, is proof that there lay something far from common within it. he has gained a certain recognition, and is continuing to do so over all quarters of our wide saxon world: wheresoever a saxon dialect is spoken, it begins to be understood, by personal inspection of this and the other, that one of the most considerable saxon men of the eighteenth century was an ayrshire peasant named robert burns. yes, i will say, here too was a piece of the right saxon stuff: strong as the harz-rock, rooted in the depths of the world;--rock, yet with wells of living softness in it! a wild impetuous whirlwind of passion and faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly _melody_ dwelling in the heart of it. a noble rough genuineness; homely, rustic, honest; true simplicity of strength: with its lightning-fire, with its soft dewy pity;--like the old norse thor, the peasant-god!-burns's brother gilbert, a man of much sense and worth, has told me that robert, in his young days, in spite of their hardship, was usually the gayest of speech; a fellow of infinite frolic, laughter, sense and heart; far pleasanter to hear there, stript cutting peats in the bog, or suchlike, than he ever afterwards knew him. i can well believe it. this basis of mirth ('_fond gaillard_,' as old marquis mirabeau calls it), a primal-element of sunshine and joyfulness, coupled with his other deep and earnest qualities, is one of the most attractive characteristics of burns. a large fund of hope dwells in him; spite of his tragical history, he is not a mourning man. he shakes his sorrows gallantly aside; bounds forth victorious over them. it is as the lion shaking 'dew-drops from his mane;' as the swift-bounding horse, that _laughs_ at the shaking of the spear.--but indeed, hope, mirth, of the sort like burns's, are they not the outcome properly of warm generous affection,--such as is the beginning of all to every man? you would think it strange if i called burns the most gifted british soul we had in all that century of his: and yet i believe the day is coming when there will be little danger in saying so. his writings, all that he _did_ under such obstructions, are only a poor fragment of him. professor stewart remarked very justly, what indeed is true of all poets good for much, that his poetry was not any particular faculty; but the general result of a naturally vigorous original mind expressing itself in that way. burns's gifts, expressed in conversation, are the theme of all that ever heard him. all kinds of gifts: from the gracefulest utterances of courtesy, to the highest fire of passionate speech; loud floods of mirth, soft wailings of affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing insight; all was in him. witty duchesses celebrate him as a man whose speech 'led them off their feet.' this is beautiful: but still more beautiful that which mr. lockhart has recorded, which i have more than once alluded to, how the waiters and ostlers at inns would get out of bed, and come crowding to hear this man speak! waiters and ostlers:--they too were men, and here was a man! i have heard much about his speech; but one of the best things i ever heard of it was, last year, from a venerable gentleman long familiar with him. that it was speech distinguished by always _having something in it_. "he spoke rather little than much," this old man told me; "sat rather silent in those early days, as in the company of persons above him; and always when he did speak, it was to throw new light on the matter." i know not why any one should ever speak otherwise!--but if we look at his general force of soul, his healthy _robustness_ everyway, the rugged down-rightness, penetration, generous valour and manfulness that was in him,--where shall we readily find a better-gifted man? among the great men of the eighteenth century, i sometimes feel as if burns might be found to resemble mirabeau more than any other. they differ widely in vesture; yet look at them intrinsically. there is the same burly thick-necked strength of body as of soul;--built, in both cases, on what the old marquis calls a _fond gaillard_. by nature, by course of breeding, indeed by nation, mirabeau has much more of bluster; a noisy, forward, unresting man. but the characteristic of mirabeau too is veracity and sense, power of true _insight_, superiority of vision. the thing that he says is worth remembering. it is a flash of insight into some object or other: so do both these men speak. the same raging passions; capable too in both of manifesting themselves as the tenderest noble affections. wit, wild laughter, energy, directness, sincerity: these were in both. the types of the two men are not dissimilar. burns too could have governed, debated in national assemblies; politicised, as few could. alas, the courage which had to exhibit itself in capture of smuggling schooners in the solway frith; in keeping _silence_ over so much, where no good speech, but only inarticulate rage was possible: this might have bellowed forth ushers de brézé and the like; and made itself visible to all men, in managing of kingdoms, in ruling of great ever-memorable epochs! but they said to him reprovingly, his official superiors said, and wrote: 'you are to work, not think.' of your _thinking_-faculty, the greatest in this land, we have no need; you are to gauge beer there; for that only are _you_ wanted. very notable;--and worth mentioning, though we know what is to be said and answered! as if thought, power of thinking, were not, at all times, in all places and situations of the world, precisely the thing that _was_ wanted. the fatal man, is he not always the _un_thinking man, the man who cannot think and _see_; but only grope, and hallucinate, and _mis_see the nature of the thing he works with? he missees it, mis_takes_ it as we say; takes it for one thing, and it _is_ another thing,--and leaves him standing like a futility there! he is the fatal man; unutterably fatal, put in the high places of men.--"why complain of this?" say some: "strength is mournfully denied its arena; that was true from of old." doubtless; and the worse for the _arena_, answer i! _complaining_ profits little; stating of the truth may profit. that a europe, with its french revolution just breaking out, finds no need of a burns except for gauging beer,--is a thing i, for one, cannot _rejoice_ at!-once more we have to say here, that the chief quality of burns is the _sincerity_ of him. so in his poetry, so in his life. the song he sings is not of fantasticalities; it is of a thing felt, really there; the prime merit of this, as of all in him, and of his life generally, is truth. the life of burns is what we may call a great tragic sincerity. a sort of savage sincerity,--not cruel, far from that; but wild, wrestling naked with the truth of things. in that sense, there is something of the savage in all great men. hero-worship,--odin, burns? well; these men of letters too were not without a kind of hero-worship: but what a strange condition has that got into now! the waiters and ostlers of scotch inns, prying about the door, eager to catch any word that fell from burns, were doing unconscious reverence to the heroic. johnson had his boswell for worshipper. rousseau had worshippers enough; princes calling on him in his mean garret; the great, the beautiful doing reverence to the poor moonstruck man. for himself a most portentous contradiction; the two ends of his life not to be brought into harmony. he sits at the tables of grandees; and has to copy music for his own living. he cannot even get his music copied. "by dint of dining out," says he, "i run the risk of dying by starvation at home." for his worshippers too a most questionable thing! if doing hero-worship well or badly be the test of vital wellbeing or illbeing to a generation, can we say that _these_ generations are very first-rate?--and yet our heroic men of letters do teach, govern, are kings, priests, or what you like to call them; intrinsically there is no preventing it by any means whatever. the world _has_ to obey him who thinks and sees in the world. the world can alter the manner of that; can either have it as blessed continuous summer sunshine, or as unblessed black thunder and tornado,--with unspeakable difference of profit for the world! the manner of it is very alterable; the matter and fact of it is not alterable by any power under the sky. light; or, failing that, lightning: the world can take its choice. not whether we call an odin god, prophet, priest, or what we call him; but whether we believe the word he tells us: there it all lies. if it be a true word, we shall have to believe it; believing it, we shall have to do it. what _name_ or welcome we give him or it, is a point that concerns ourselves mainly. _it_, the new truth, new deeper revealing of the secret of this universe, is verily of the nature of a message from on high; and must and will have itself obeyed.-my last remark is on that notablest phasis of burns's history,--his visit to edinburgh. often it seems to me as if his demeanour there were the highest proof he gave of what a fund of worth and genuine manhood was in him. if we think of it, few heavier burdens could be laid on the strength of a man. so sudden; all common _lionism_, which ruins innumerable men, was as nothing to this. it is as if napoleon had been made a king of, not gradually, but at once from the artillery lieutenancy in the regiment la fère. burns, still only in his twenty-seventh year, is no longer even a ploughman; he is flying to the west indies to escape disgrace and a jail. this month he is a ruined peasant, his wages seven pounds a year, and these gone from him: next month he is in the blaze of rank and beauty, handing down jewelled duchesses to dinner; the cynosure of all eyes! adversity is sometimes hard upon a man; but for one man who can stand prosperity, there are a hundred that will stand adversity. i admire much the way in which burns met all this. perhaps no man one could point out, was ever so sorely tried, and so little forgot himself. tranquil, unastonished; not abashed, not inflated, neither awkwardness nor affectation: he feels that _he_ there is the man robert burns; that the 'rank is but the guinea-stamp;' that the celebrity is but the candle-light, which will show _what_ man, not in the least make him a better or other man! alas, it may readily, unless he look to it, make him a _worse_ man; a wretched inflated wind-bag,--inflated till he _burst_ and become a _dead_ lion; for whom, as some one has said, 'there is no resurrection of the body;' worse than a living dog!--burns is admirable here. and yet, alas, as i have observed elsewhere, these lion-hunters were the ruin and death of burns. it was they that rendered it impossible for him to live! they gathered round him in his farm; hindered his industry; no place was remote enough from them. he could not get his lionism forgotten, honestly as he was disposed to do so. he falls into discontents, into miseries, faults; the world getting ever more desolate for him; health, character, peace of mind all gone;--solitary enough now. it is tragical to think of! these men came but to _see_ him; it was out of no sympathy with him, nor no hatred to him. they came to get a little amusement: they got their amusement;--and the hero's life went for it! richter says, in the island of sumatra, there is a kind of 'light-chafers,' large fire-flies, which people stick upon spits, and illuminate the ways with at night. persons of condition can thus travel with a pleasant radiance, which they much admire. great honour to the fire-flies! but--!-lecture vi the hero as king. cromwell, napoleon: modern revolutionism. [_friday, 22nd may 1840_] we come now to the last form of heroism; that which we call kingship. the commander over men; he to whose will our wills are to be subordinated, and loyally surrender themselves, and find their welfare in doing so, may be reckoned the most important of great men. he is practically the summary for us of _all_ the various figures of heroism; priest, teacher, whatsoever of earthly or of spiritual dignity we can fancy to reside in a man, embodies itself here, to _command_ over us, to furnish us with constant practical teaching, to tell us for the day and hour what we are to _do_. he is called _rex_, regulator, _roi_: our own name is still better; king, _könning_, which means _can_-ning, ableman. numerous considerations, pointing towards deep, questionable, and indeed unfathomable regions, present themselves here: on the most of which we must resolutely for the present forbear to speak at all. as burke said that perhaps fair _trial by jury_ was the soul of government, and that all legislation, administration, parliamentary debating, and the rest of it, went on, in 'order to bring twelve impartial men into a jury-box;'--so, by much stronger reason, may i say here, that the finding of your _ableman_ and getting him invested with the _symbols of ability_, with dignity, worship (_worth_-ship), royalty, kinghood, or whatever we call it, so that _he_ may actually have room to guide according to his faculty of doing it,--is the business, well or ill accomplished, of all social procedure whatsoever in this world! hustings-speeches, parliamentary motions, reform bills, french revolutions, all mean at heart this; or else nothing. find in any country the ablest man that exists there; raise _him_ to the supreme place, and loyally reverence him: you have a perfect government for that country; no ballot-box, parliamentary eloquence, voting, constitution-building, or other machinery whatsoever can improve it a whit. it is in the perfect state: an ideal country. the ablest man; he means also the truest-hearted, justest, the noblest man: what he _tells us to do_ must be precisely the wisest, fittest, that we could anywhere or anyhow learn;--the thing which it will in all ways behove us, with right loyal thankfulness, and nothing doubting, to do! our _doing_ and life were then, so far as government could regulate it, well regulated; that were the ideal of constitutions. alas, we know very well that ideals can never be completely embodied in practice. ideals must ever lie a very great way off; and we will right thankfully content ourselves with any not intolerable approximation thereto! let no man, as schiller says, too querulously 'measure by a scale of perfection the meagre product of reality' in this poor world of ours. we will esteem him no wise man; we will esteem him a sickly, discontented, foolish man. and yet, on the other hand, it is never to be forgotten that ideals do exist; that if they be not approximated to at all, the whole matter goes to wreck! infallibly. no bricklayer builds a wall _perfectly_ perpendicular, mathematically this is not possible; a certain degree of perpendicularity suffices him; and he, like a good bricklayer, who must have done with his job, leaves it so. and yet if he sway _too much_ from the perpendicular; above all, if he throw plummet and level quite away from him, and pile brick on brick heedless, just as it comes to hand--! such bricklayer, i think, is in a bad way. _he_ has forgotten himself: but the law of gravitation does not forget to act on him; he and his wall rush-down into confused welter of ruin!-this is the history of all rebellions, french revolutions, social explosions in ancient or modern times. you have put the too _un_able man at the head of affairs! the too ignoble, unvaliant, fatuous man. you have forgotten that there is any rule, or natural necessity whatever, of putting the able man there. brick must lie on brick as it may and can. unable simulacrum of ability, _quack_, in a word, must adjust himself with quack, in all manner of administration of human things;--which accordingly lie unadministered, fermenting into unmeasured masses of failure, of indigent misery: in the outward, and in the inward or spiritual, miserable millions stretch-out the hand for their due supply, and it is not there. the 'law of gravitation' acts; nature's laws do none of them forget to act. the miserable millions burst-forth into sansculottism, or some other sort of madness; bricks and bricklayers lie as a fatal chaos!-much sorry stuff, written some hundred years ago or more, about the 'divine right of kings,' moulders unread now in the public libraries of this country. far be it from us to disturb the calm process by which it is disappearing harmlessly from the earth, in those repositories! at the same time, not to let the immense rubbish go without leaving us, as it ought, some soul of it behind--i will say that it did mean something; something true, which it is important for us and all men to keep in mind. to assert that in whatever man you chose to lay hold of (by this or the other plan of clutching at him); and clapt a round piece of metal on the head of, and called king,--there straightway came to reside a divine virtue, so that _he_ became a kind of god, and a divinity inspired him with faculty and right to rule over you to all lengths: this,--what can we do with this but leave it to rot silently in the public libraries? but i will say withal, and that is what these divine-right men meant, that in kings, and in all human authorities, and relations that men god-created can form among each other, there is verily either a divine right or else a diabolic wrong; one or the other of these two! for it is false altogether, what the last sceptical century taught us, that this world is a steam-engine. there is a god in this world; and a god's-sanction, or else the violation of such, does look-out from all ruling and obedience, from all moral acts of men. there is no act more moral between men than that of rule and obedience. woe to him that claims obedience when it is not due; woe to him that refuses it when it is! god's law is in that, i say, however the parchment-laws may run: there is a divine right or else a diabolic wrong at the heart of every claim that one man makes upon another. it can do none of us harm to reflect on this: in all the relations of life it will concern us; in loyalty and royalty, the highest of these. i esteem the modern error, that all goes by self-interest and the checking and balancing of greedy knaveries, and that, in short, there is nothing divine whatever in the association of men, a still more despicable error, natural as it is to an unbelieving century, than that of a 'divine right' in people _called_ kings. i say, find me the true _könning_, king, or able-man, and he _has_ a divine right over me. that we knew in some tolerable measure how to find him, and that all men were ready to acknowledge his divine right when found: this is precisely the healing which a sick world is everywhere, in these ages, seeking after! the true king, as guide of the practical, has ever something of the pontiff in him,--guide of the spiritual, from which all practice has its rise. this too is a true saying, that the _king_ is head of the _church_.--but we will leave the polemic stuff of a dead century to lie quiet on its bookshelves. * * * * * certainly it is a fearful business, that of having your ableman to _seek_, and not knowing in what manner to proceed about it! that is the world's sad predicament in these times of ours. they are times of revolution, and have long been. the bricklayer with his bricks, no longer heedful of plummet or the law of gravitation, have toppled, tumbled, and it all welters as we see! but the beginning of it was not the french revolution; that is rather the _end_, we can hope. it were truer to say, the _beginning_ was three centuries farther back: in the reformation of luther. that the thing which still called itself christian church had become a falsehood, and brazenly went about pretending to pardon men's sins for metallic coined money, and to do much else which in the everlasting truth of nature it did _not_ now do: here lay the vital malady. the inward being wrong, all outward went ever more and more wrong. belief died away; all was doubt, disbelief. the builder _cast away_ his plummet; said to himself, "what is gravitation? brick lies on brick there!" alas, does it not still sound strange to many of us, the assertion that there is a god's truth in the business of god-created men; that all is not a kind of grimace, an 'expediency,' diplomacy, one knows not what!-from that first necessary assertion of luther's, "you, self-styled _papa_, you are no father in god at all; you are--a chimera, whom i know not how to name in polite language!"--from that onwards to the shout which rose round camille desmoulins in the palais-royal, "_aux armes!_" when the people had burst-up against _all_ manner of chimeras,--i find a natural historical sequence. that shout too, so frightful, half-infernal, was a great matter. once more the voice of awakened nations; starting confusedly, as out of nightmare, as out of death-sleep, into some dim feeling that life was real; that god's-world was not an expediency and diplomacy! infernal;--yes, since they would not have it otherwise. infernal, since not celestial or terrestrial!--hollowness, insincerity _has_ to cease;--sincerity of some sort has to begin. cost what it may, reigns of terror, horrors of french revolution or what else, we have to return to truth. here is a truth, as i said: a truth clad in hell-fire, since they would not but have it so!-a common theory among considerable parties of men in england and elsewhere used to be, that the french nation had, in those days, as it were gone _mad_; that the french revolution was a general act of insanity, a temporary conversion of france and large sections of the world into a kind of bedlam. the event had risen and raged; but was a madness and nonentity,--gone now happily into the region of dreams and the picturesque!--to such comfortable philosophers, the three days of july 1830 must have been a surprising phenomenon. here is the french nation risen again, in musketry and death-struggle, out shooting and being shot, to make that same mad french revolution good! the sons and grandsons of those men, it would seem, persist in the enterprise: they do not disown it; they will have it made good; will have themselves shot, if it be not made good! to philosophers who had made-up their life-system on that 'madness' quietus, no phenomenon could be more alarming. poor niebuhr, they say, the prussian professor and historian, fell broken-hearted in consequence; sickened, if we can believe it, and died of the three days! it was surely not a very heroic death;--little better than racine's, dying because louis fourteenth looked sternly on him once. the world had stood some considerable shocks, in its time; might have been expected to survive the three days too, and be found turning on its axis after even them! the three days told all mortals that the old french revolution, mad as it might look, was not a transitory ebullition of bedlam, but a genuine product of this earth where we all live; that it was verily a fact, and that the world in general would do well everywhere to regard it as such. truly, without the french revolution, one would not know what to make of an age like this at all. we will hail the french revolution, as shipwrecked mariners might the sternest rock, in a world otherwise all of baseless sea and waves. a true apocalypse, though a terrible one, to this false withered artificial time; testifying once more that nature is _preter_natural; if not divine, then diabolic; that semblance is not reality; that it has to become reality, or the world will take-fire under it,--burn _it_ into what it is, namely nothing! plausibility has ended; empty routine has ended; much has ended. this, as with a trump of doom, has been proclaimed to all men. they are the wisest who will learn it soonest. long confused generations before it be learned; peace impossible till it be! the earnest man, surrounded, as ever, with a world of inconsistencies, can await patiently, patiently strive to do _his_ work, in the midst of that. sentence of death is written down in heaven against all that; sentence of death is now proclaimed on the earth against it: this he with his eyes may see. and surely, i should say, considering the other side of the matter, what enormous difficulties lie there, and how fast, fearfully fast, in all countries, the inexorable demand for solution of them is pressing on,--he may easily find other work to do than labouring in the sansculottic province at this time of day! to me, in these circumstances, that of 'hero-worship' becomes a fact inexpressibly precious; the most solacing fact one sees in the world at present. there is an everlasting hope in it for the management of the world. had all traditions, arrangements, creeds, societies that men ever instituted, sunk away, this would remain. the certainty of heroes being sent us; our faculty, our necessity, to reverence heroes when sent: it shines like a polestar through smoke-clouds, dust-clouds, and all manner of down-rushing and conflagration. hero-worship would have sounded very strange to those workers and fighters in the french revolution. not reverence for great men; not any hope or belief, or even wish, that great men could again appear in the world! nature, turned into a 'machine,' was as if effete now; could not any longer produce great men:--i can tell her, she may give-up the trade altogether, then; we cannot do without great men!--but neither have i any quarrel with that of 'liberty and equality;' with the faith that, wise great men being impossible, a level immensity of foolish small men would suffice. it was a natural faith then and there. "liberty and equality; no authority needed any longer. hero-worship, reverence for _such_ authorities, has proved false, is itself a falsehood; no more of it! we have had such _forgeries_, we will now trust nothing. so many base plated coins passing in the market, the belief has now become common that no gold any longer exists,--and even that we can do very well without gold!" i find this, among other things, in that universal cry of liberty and equality; and find it very natural, as matters then stood. and yet surely it is but the _transition_ from false to true. considered as the whole truth, it is false altogether;--the product of entire sceptical blindness, as yet only _struggling_ to see. hero-worship exists forever, and everywhere: not loyalty alone; it extends from divine adoration down to the lowest practical regions of life. 'bending before men,' if it is not to be a mere empty grimace, better dispensed with than practised, is hero-worship,--a recognition that there does dwell in that presence of our brother something divine; that every created man, as novalis said, is a 'revelation in the flesh.' they were poets too, that devised all those graceful courtesies which make life noble! courtesy is not a falsehood or grimace; it need not be such. and loyalty, religious worship itself, are still possible; nay still inevitable. may we not say, moreover, while so many of our late heroes have worked rather as revolutionary men, that nevertheless every great man, every genuine man, is by the nature of him a son of order, not of disorder? it is a tragical position for a true man to work in revolutions. he seems an anarchist; and indeed a painful element of anarchy does encumber him at every step,--him to whose whole soul anarchy is hostile, hateful. his mission is order; every man's is. he is here to make what was disorderly, chaotic, into a thing ruled, regular. he is the missionary of order. is not all work of man in this world a _making of order_? the carpenter finds rough trees: shapes them, constrains them into square fitness, into purpose and use. we are all born enemies of disorder: it is tragical for us all to be concerned in image-breaking and down-pulling; for the great man, _more_ a man than we, it is doubly tragical. thus too all human things, maddest french sansculottisms, do and must work towards order. i say, there is not a _man_ in them, raging in the thickest of the madness, but is impelled withal, at all moments, towards order. his very life means that; disorder is dissolution, death. no chaos but it seeks a _centre_ to revolve round. while man is man, some cromwell or napoleon is the necessary finish of a sansculottism.--curious: in those days when hero-worship was the most incredible thing to every one, how it does come-out nevertheless, and assert itself practically, in a way which all have to credit. divine _right_, take it on the great scale, is found to mean divine _might_ withal! while old false formulas are getting trampled everywhere into destruction, new genuine substances unexpectedly unfold themselves indestructible. in rebellious ages, when kingship itself seems dead and abolished, cromwell, napoleon step-forth again as kings. the history of these men is what we have now to look at, as our last phasis of heroism. the old ages are brought back to us; the manner in which kings were made, and kingship itself first took rise, is again exhibited in the history of these two. * * * * * we have had many civil-wars in england; wars of red and white roses, wars of simon de montfort; wars enough, which are not very memorable. but that war of the puritans has a significance which belongs to no one of the others. trusting to your candour, which will suggest on the other side what i have not room to say, i will call it a section once more of that great universal war which alone makes-up the true history of the world,--the war of belief against unbelief! the struggle of men intent on the real essence of things, against men intent on the semblances and forms of things. the puritans, to many, seem mere savage iconoclasts, fierce destroyers of forms; but it were more just to call them haters of _untrue_ forms. i hope we know how to respect laud and his king as well as them. poor laud seems to me to have been weak and ill-starred, not dishonest; an unfortunate pedant rather than anything worse. his 'dreams' and superstitions, at which they laugh so, have an affectionate, lovable kind of character. he is like a college-tutor, whose whole world is forms, college-rules; whose notion is that these are the life and safety of the world. he is placed suddenly, with that unalterable luckless notion of his, at the head not of a college but of a nation, to regulate the most complex deep-reaching interests of men. he thinks they ought to go by the old decent regulations; nay that their salvation will lie in extending and improving these. like a weak man, he drives with spasmodic vehemence towards his purpose; cramps himself to it, heeding no voice of prudence, no cry of pity: he will have his college-rules obeyed by his collegians; that first; and till that, nothing. he is an ill-starred pedant, as i said. he would have it the world was a college of that kind, and the world _was not_ that. alas, was not his doom stern enough? whatever wrongs he did, were they not all frightfully avenged on him? it is meritorious to insist on forms; religion and all else naturally clothes itself in forms. everywhere the _formed_ world is the only habitable one. the naked formlessness of puritanism is not the thing i praise in the puritans; it is the thing i pity,--praising only the spirit which had rendered that inevitable! all substances clothe themselves in forms: but there are suitable true forms, and then there are untrue unsuitable. as the briefest definition, one might say, forms which _grow_ round a substance, if we rightly understand that, will correspond to the real nature and purport of it, will be true, good; forms which are consciously _put_ round a substance, bad. i invite you to reflect on this. it distinguishes true from false in ceremonial form, earnest solemnity from empty pageant, in all human things. there must be a veracity, a natural spontaneity in forms. in the commonest meeting of men, a person making, what we call, 'set speeches,' is not he an offence? in the mere drawing-room, whatsoever courtesies you see to be grimaces, prompted by no spontaneous reality within, are a thing you wish to get away from. but suppose now it were some matter of vital concernment, some transcendent matter (as divine worship is), about which your whole soul, struck dumb with its excess of feeling, knew not how to _form_ itself into utterance at all, and preferred formless silence to any utterance there possible,--what should we say of a man coming forward to represent or utter it for you in the way of upholsterer-mummery? such a man,--let him depart swiftly, if he love himself! you have lost your only son; are mute, struck down, without even tears: an importunate man importunately offers to celebrate funeral games for him in the manner of the greeks! such mummery is not only not to be accepted,--it is hateful, unendurable. it is what the old prophets called 'idolatry,' worshipping of hollow _shows_; what all earnest men do and will reject. we can partly understand what those poor puritans meant. laud dedicating that st. catherine creed's church, in the manner we have it described; with his multiplied ceremonial bowings, gesticulations, exclamations: surely it is rather the rigorous formal _pedant_, intent on his 'college-rules,' than the earnest prophet, intent on the essence of the matter! puritanism found _such_ forms insupportable; trampled on such forms;--we have to excuse it for saying, no form at all rather than such! it stood preaching in its bare pulpit, with nothing but the bible in its hand. nay, a man preaching from his earnest _soul_ into the earnest _souls_ of men: is not this virtually the essence of all churches whatsoever? the nakedest, savagest reality, i say, is preferable to any semblance, however dignified. besides, it will clothe itself with _due_ semblance by and by, if it be real. no fear of that; actually no fear at all. given the living _man_, there will be found _clothes_ for him; he will find himself clothes. but the suit-of-clothes pretending that _it_ is both clothes and man--!--we cannot 'fight the french' by three-hundred-thousand red uniforms; there must be _men_ in the inside of them! semblance, i assert, must actually _not_ divorce itself from reality. if semblance do,--why then there must be men found to rebel against semblance, for it has become a lie! these two antagonisms at war here, in the case of laud and the puritans, are as old nearly as the world. they went to fierce battle over england in that age; and fought-out their confused controversy to a certain length, with many results for all of us. * * * * * in the age which directly followed that of the puritans, their cause or themselves were little likely to have justice done them. charles second and his rochesters were not the kind of men you would set to judge what the worth or meaning of such men might have been. that there could be any faith or truth in the life of a man, was what these poor rochesters, and the age they ushered-in, had forgotten. puritanism was hung on gibbets,--like the bones of the leading puritans. its work nevertheless went on accomplishing itself. all true work of a man, hang the author of it on what gibbet you like, must and will accomplish itself. we have our _habeas-corpus_, our free representation of the people; acknowledgment, wide as the world, that all men are, or else must, shall, and will become, what we call _free_ men;--men with their life grounded on reality and justice, not on tradition, which has become unjust and a chimera! this in part and much besides this, was the work of the puritans. and indeed, as these things became gradually manifest, the character of the puritans began to clear itself. their memories were, one after another, taken _down_ from the gibbet; nay a certain portion of them are now, in these days, as good as canonised. eliot, hampden, pym, nay ludlow, hutchinson, vane himself, are admitted to be a kind of heroes; political conscript fathers, to whom in no small degree we owe what makes us a free england: it would not be safe for anybody to designate these men as wicked now. few puritans of note but find their apologists somewhere, and have a certain reverence paid them by earnest men. one puritan, i think, and almost he alone, our poor cromwell, seems to hang yet on the gibbet, and find no hearty apologist anywhere. him neither saint nor sinner will acquit of great wickedness. a man of ability, infinite talent, courage, and so forth: but he betrayed the cause. selfish ambition, dishonesty, duplicity; a fierce, coarse, hypocritical _tartufe_; turning all that noble struggle for constitutional liberty into a sorry farce played for his own benefit: this and worse is the character they give of cromwell. and then there come contrasts with washington and others; above all, with these noble pyms and hampdens, whose noble work he stole for himself, and ruined into a futility and deformity. this view of cromwell seems to me the not unnatural product of a century like the eighteenth. as we said of the valet, so of the sceptic: he does not know a hero when he sees him! the valet expected purple mantles, gilt sceptres, body-guards and flourishes of trumpets: the sceptic of the eighteenth century looks for regulated respectable formulas, 'principles,' or what else he may call them; a style of speech and conduct which has got to seem 'respectable,' which can plead for itself in a handsome articulate manner, and gain the suffrages of an enlightened sceptical eighteenth century! it is, at bottom, the same thing that both the valet and he expect: the garnitures of some _acknowledged_ royalty, which _then_ they will acknowledge! the king coming to them in the rugged _un_formulistic state shall be no king. for my own share, far be it from me to say or insinuate a word of disparagement against such characters as hampden, eliot, pym; whom i believe to have been right worthy and useful men. i have read diligently what books and documents about them i could come at;--with the honestest wish to admire, to love and worship them like heroes; but i am sorry to say, if the real truth must be told, with very indifferent success! at bottom, i found that it would not do. they are very noble men, these; step along in their stately way, with their measured euphemisms, philosophies, parliamentary eloquences, ship-moneys, _monarchies of man_; a most constitutional, unblamable, dignified set of men. but the heart remains cold before them; the fancy alone endeavours to get-up some worship of them. what man's heart does, in reality, break-forth into any fire of brotherly love for these men? they are become dreadfully dull men! one breaks-down often enough in the constitutional eloquence of the admirable pym, with his 'seventhly and lastly.' you find that it may be the admirablest thing in the world, but that it is heavy,--heavy as lead, barren as brick-clay; that, in a word, for you there is little or nothing now surviving there! one leaves all these nobilities standing in their niches of honour: the rugged out-cast cromwell, he is the man of them all in whom one still finds human stuff. the great savage _baresark_: he could write no euphemistic _monarchy of man_; did not speak, did not work with glib regularity; had no straight story to tell for himself anywhere. but he stood bare, not cased in euphemistic coat-of-mail; he grappled like a giant, face to face, heart to heart, with the naked truth of things! that, after all, is the sort of man for one. i plead guilty to valuing such a man beyond all other sorts of men. smooth-shaven respectabilities not a few one finds, that are not good for much. small thanks to a man for keeping his hands clean, who would not touch the work but with gloves on! neither, on the whole, does this constitutional tolerance of the eighteenth century for the other happier puritans seem to be a very great matter. one might say, it is but a piece of formulism and scepticism, like the rest. they tell us, it was a sorrowful thing to consider that the foundation of our english liberties should have been laid by 'superstition.' these puritans came forward with calvinistic incredible creeds, anti-laudisms, westminster confessions; demanding, chiefly of all, that they should have liberty to _worship_ in their own way. liberty to _tax_ themselves: that was the thing they should have demanded! it was superstition, fanaticism, disgraceful ignorance of constitutional philosophy to insist on the other thing!--liberty to _tax_ oneself? not to pay-out money from your pocket except on reason shown? no century, i think, but a rather barren one would have fixed on that as the first right of man! i should say, on the contrary, a just man will generally have better cause than _money_ in what shape soever, before deciding to revolt against his government. ours is a most confused world; in which a good man will be thankful to see any kind of government maintain itself in a not insupportable manner; and here in england, to this hour, if he is not ready to pay a great many taxes which _he_ can see very small reason in, it will not go well with him, i think! he must try some other climate than this. taxgatherer? money? he will say: "take my money, since you _can_, and it is so desirable to you; take it,--and take yourself away with it; and leave me alone to my work here. _i_ am still here; can still work, after all the money you have taken from me!" but if they come to him, and say, "acknowledge a lie; pretend to say you are worshipping god, when you are not doing it: believe not the thing that _you_ find true, but the thing that i find, or pretend to find true!" he will answer: "no; by god's help, no! you may take my purse; but i cannot have my moral self annihilated. the purse is any highwayman's who might meet me with a loaded pistol: but the self is mine and god my maker's; it is not yours; and i will resist you to the death, and revolt against you, and, on the whole, front all manner of extremities, accusations and confusions, in defence of that!"-really, it seems to me the one reason which could justify revolting, this of the puritans. it has been the soul of all just revolts among men. not _hunger_ alone produced even the french revolution: no, but the feeling of the insupportable all-pervading _falsehood_ which had now embodied itself in hunger, in universal material scarcity and nonentity, and thereby become _indisputably_ false in the eyes of all! we will leave the eighteenth century with its 'liberty to tax itself.' we will not astonish ourselves that the meaning of such men as the puritans remained dim to it. to men who believe in no reality at all, how shall a _real_ human soul, the intensest of all realities, as it were the voice of this world's maker still speaking to _us_,--be intelligible? what it cannot reduce into constitutional doctrines relative to 'taxing,' or other the like material interest, gross, palpable to the sense, such a century will needs reject as an amorphous heap of rubbish. hampdens, pyms, and ship-money will be the theme of much constitutional eloquence, striving to be fervid;--which will glitter, if not as fire does, then as _ice_ does: and the irreducible cromwell will remain a chaotic mass of 'madness,' 'hypocrisy,' and much else. * * * * * from of old, i will confess, this theory of cromwell's falsity has been incredible to me. nay i cannot believe the like, of any great man whatever. multitudes of great men figure in history as false selfish men; but if we will consider it, they are but _figures_ for us, unintelligible shadows; we do not see into them as men that could have existed at all. a superficial unbelieving generation only, with no eye but for the surfaces and semblances of things, could form such notions of great men. can a great soul be possible without a _conscience_ in it, the essence of all _real_ souls, great or small?--no, we cannot figure cromwell as a falsity and fatuity; the longer i study him and his career, i believe this the less. why should we? there is no evidence of it. is it not strange that, after all the mountains of calumny this man has been subject to, after being represented as the very prince of liars, who never, or hardly ever, spoke truth, but always some cunning counterfeit of truth, there should not yet have been one falsehood brought clearly home to him? a prince of liars, and no lie spoken by him. not one that i could yet get sight of. it is like pococke asking grotius, where is your _proof_ of mahomet's pigeon? no proof!--let us leave all these calumnious chimeras, as chimeras ought to be left. they are not portraits of the man; they are distracted phantasms of him, the joint product of hatred and darkness. looking at the man's life with our own eyes, it seems to me, a very different hypothesis suggests itself. what little we know of his earlier obscure years, distorted as it has come down to us, does it not all betoken an earnest, affectionate, sincere kind of man? his nervous melancholic temperament indicates rather a seriousness too deep for him. of those stories of 'spectres;' of the white spectre in broad daylight, predicting that he should be king of england, we are not bound to believe much;--probably no more than of the other black spectre, or devil in person, to whom the officer _saw_ him sell himself before worcester fight! but the mournful, over-sensitive, hypochondriac humour of oliver, in his young years, is otherwise indisputably known. the huntingdon physician told sir philip warwick himself, he had often been sent for at midnight; mr. cromwell was full of hypochondria, thought himself near dying, and "had fancies about the town-cross." these things are significant. such an excitable deep-feeling nature, in that rugged stubborn strength of his, is not the symptom of falsehood; it is the symptom and promise of quite other than falsehood! the young oliver is sent to study law; falls, or is said to have fallen, for a little period, into some of the dissipations of youth; but if so, speedily repents, abandons all this: not much above twenty, he is married, settled as an altogether grave and quiet man. 'he pays-back what money he had won at gambling,' says the story;--he does not think any gain of that kind could be really _his_. it is very interesting, very natural, this 'conversion,' as they well name it; this awakening of a great true soul from the worldly slough, to see into the awful _truth_ of things;--to see that time and its shows all rested on eternity, and this poor earth of ours was the threshold either of heaven or of hell! oliver's life at st ives or ely, as a sober industrious farmer, is it not altogether as that of a true and devout man? he has renounced the world and its ways; _its_ prizes are not the thing that can enrich him. he tills the earth; he reads his bible; daily assembles his servants round him to worship god. he comforts persecuted ministers, is fond of preachers; nay can himself preach,--exhorts his neighbours to be wise, to redeem the time. in all this what 'hypocrisy,' 'ambition,' 'cant,' or other falsity? the man's hopes, i do believe, were fixed on the other higher world; his aim to get well _thither_, by walking well through his humble course in _this_ world. he courts no notice: what could notice here do for him? 'ever in his great taskmaster's eye.' it is striking, too, how he comes-out once into public view; he, since no other is willing to come: in resistance to a public grievance. i mean, in that matter of the bedford fens. no one else will go to law with authority; therefore he will. that matter once settled, he returns back into obscurity, to his bible and his plough. 'gain influence'? his influence is the most legitimate; derived from personal knowledge of him, as a just, religious, reasonable and determined man. in this way he has lived till past forty; old age is now in view of him, and the earnest portal of death and eternity; it was at this point that he suddenly became 'ambitious'! i do not interpret his parliamentary mission in that way! his successes in parliament, his successes through the war, are honest successes of a brave man; who has more resolution in the heart of him, more light in the head of him than other men. his prayers to god; his spoken thanks to the god of victory, who had preserved him safe, and carried him forward so far, through the furious clash of a world all set in conflict, through desperate-looking envelopments at dunbar; through the death-hail of so many battles; mercy after mercy; to the 'crowning mercy' of worcester fight: all this is good and genuine for a deep-hearted calvinistic cromwell. only to vain unbelieving cavaliers, worshipping not god but their own 'lovelocks,' frivolities and formalities, living quite apart from contemplations of god, living _without_ god in the world, need it seem hypocritical. nor will his participation in the king's death involve him in condemnation with us. it is a stern business killing of a king! but if you once go to war with him, it lies _there_; this and all else lies there. once at war, you have made wager of battle with him: it is he to die, or else you. reconciliation is problematic; may be possible, or, far more likely, is impossible. it is now pretty generally admitted that the parliament, having vanquished charles first, had no way of making any tenable arrangement with him. the large presbyterian party, apprehensive now of the independents, were most anxious to do so; anxious indeed as for their own existence; but it could not be. the unhappy charles, in those final hampton-court negotiations, shows himself as a man fatally incapable of being dealt with. a man who, once for all, could not and would not _understand_:--whose thought did not in any measure represent to him the real fact of the matter; nay worse, whose _word_ did not at all represent his thought. we may say this of him without cruelty, with deep pity rather: but it is true and undeniable. forsaken there of all but the _name_ of kingship, he still, finding himself treated with outward respect as a king, fancied that he might play-off party against party, and smuggle himself into his old power by deceiving both. alas, they both _discovered_ that he was deceiving them. a man whose _word_ will not inform you at all what he means or will do, is not a man you can bargain with. you must get out of that man's way, or put him out of yours! the presbyterians, in their despair, were still for believing charles, though found false, unbelievable again and again. not so cromwell: "for all our fighting," says he, "we are to have a little bit of paper?" no!-in fact, everywhere we have to note the decisive practical _eye_ of this man; how he drives towards the practical and practicable; has a genuine insight into what _is_ fact. such an intellect, i maintain, does not belong to a false man: the false man sees false shows, plausibilities, expediences: the true man is needed to discern even practical truth. cromwell's advice about the parliament's army, early in the contest, how they were to dismiss their city-tapsters, flimsy riotous persons, and choose substantial yeomen, whose heart was in the work, to be soldiers for them: this is advice by a man who _saw_. fact answers, if you see into fact. cromwell's _ironsides_ were the embodiment of this insight of his; men fearing god; and without any other fear. no more conclusively genuine set of fighters ever trod the soil of england, or of any other land. neither will we blame greatly that word of cromwell's to them; which was so blamed: "if the king should meet me in battle, i would kill the king." why not? these words were spoken to men who stood as before a higher than kings. they had set more than their own lives on the cast. the parliament may call it, in official language, a fighting '_for_ the king;' but we, for our share, cannot understand that. to us it is no dilettante work, no sleek officiality; it is sheer rough death and earnest. they have brought it to the calling-forth of _war_; horrid internecine fight, man grappling with man in fire-eyed rage,--the _infernal_ element in man called forth, to try it by that! _do_ that therefore; since that is the thing to be done.--the successes of cromwell seem to me a very natural thing! since he was not shot in battle, they were an inevitable thing. that such a man, with the eye to see, with the heart to dare, should advance, from post to post, from victory to victory, till the huntingdon farmer became, by whatever name you might call him, the acknowledged strongest man in england, virtually the king of england, requires no magic to explain it!-truly it is a sad thing for a people, as for a man, to fall into scepticism, into dilettantism, insincerity; not to know a sincerity when they see it. for this world, and for all worlds, what curse is so fatal? the heart lying dead, the eye cannot see. what intellect remains is merely the _vulpine_ intellect. that a true _king_ be sent them is of small use; they do not know him when sent. they say scornfully, is this your king? the hero wastes his heroic faculty in bootless contradiction from the unworthy; and can accomplish little. for himself he does accomplish a heroic life, which is much, which is all; but for the world he accomplishes comparatively nothing. the wild rude sincerity, direct from nature, is not glib in answering from the witness-box; in your small-debt _pie-powder_ court, he is scouted as a counterfeit. the vulpine intellect 'detects' him. for being a man worth any thousand men, the response, your knox, your cromwell gets, is an argument for two centuries, whether he was a man at all. god's greatest gift to this earth is sneeringly flung away. the miraculous talisman is a paltry plated coin, not fit to pass in the shops as a common guinea. lamentable this! i say, this must be remedied. till this be remedied in some measure, there is nothing remedied. 'detect quacks'? yes do, for heaven's sake; but know withal the men that are to be trusted! till we know that, what is all our knowledge; how shall we even so much as 'detect'? for the vulpine sharpness, which considers itself to be knowledge, and 'detects' in that fashion, is far mistaken. dupes indeed are many: but, of all _dupes_, there is none so fatally situated as he who lives in undue terror of being duped. the world does exist; the world has truth in it or it would not exist! first recognise what is true, we shall _then_ discern what is false; and properly never till then. 'know the men that are to be trusted:' alas, this is yet, in these days, very far from us. the sincere alone can recognise sincerity. not a hero only is needed, but a world fit for him; a world not of _valets_;--the hero comes almost in vain to it otherwise! yes, it is far from us: but it must come; thank god, it is visibly coming. till it do come, what have we? ballot-boxes, suffrages, french revolutions:--if we are as valets, and do not know the hero when we see him, what good are all these? a heroic cromwell comes; and for a hundred-and-fifty years he cannot have a vote from us. why, the insincere, unbelieving world is the _natural property_ of the quack, and of the father of quacks and quackeries! misery, confusion, unveracity are alone possible there. by ballot-boxes we alter the _figure_ of our quack; but the substance of him continues. the valet-world _has_ to be governed by the sham-hero, by the king merely _dressed_ in king-gear. it is his; he is its! in brief, one of two things: we shall either learn to know a hero, a true governor and captain, somewhat better, when we see him; or else go on to be forever governed by the unheroic;--had we ballot-boxes clattering at every street-corner, there were no remedy in these. poor cromwell,--great cromwell! the inarticulate prophet; prophet who could not _speak_. rude, confused, struggling to utter himself, with his savage depth, with his wild sincerity; and he looked so strange, among the elegant euphemisms, dainty little falklands, didactic chillingworths, diplomatic clarendons! consider him. an outer hull of chaotic confusion, visions of the devil, nervous dreams, almost semi-madness; and yet such a clear determinate man's-energy working in the heart of that. a kind of chaotic man. the ray as of pure starlight and fire, working in such an element of boundless hypochondria, _un_formed black of darkness! and yet withal this hypochondria, what was it but the very greatness of the man? the depth and tenderness of his wild affections: the quantity of _sympathy_ he had with things,--the quantity of insight he would yet get into the heart of things, the mastery he would yet get over things: this was his hypochondria. the man's misery, as man's misery always does, came of his greatness. samuel johnson too is that kind of man. sorrow-stricken, half-distracted; the wide element of mournful _black_ enveloping him,--wide as the world. it is the character of a prophetic man; a man with his whole soul _seeing_, and struggling to see. on this ground, too, i explain to myself cromwell's reputed confusion of speech. to himself the internal meaning was sun-clear; but the material with which he was to clothe it in utterance was not there. he had _lived_ silent; a great unnamed sea of thought round him all his days; and in his way of life little call to attempt _naming_ or uttering that. with his sharp power of vision, resolute power of action, i doubt not he could have learned to write books withal, and speak fluently enough:--he did harder things than writing of books. this kind of man is precisely he who is fit for doing manfully all things you will set him on doing. intellect is not speaking and logicising; it is seeing and ascertaining. virtue, _vir-tus_, manhood, _hero_-hood, is not fair-spoken immaculate regularity; it is first of all, what the germans well name it, _tugend_ (_taugend_, _dow_-ing or _dough_-tiness), courage and the faculty to _do_. this basis of the matter cromwell had in him. one understands moreover how, though he could not speak in parliament, he might _preach_, rhapsodic preaching; above all, how he might be great in extempore prayer. these are the free outpouring utterances of what is in the heart: method is not required in them; warmth, depth, sincerity are all that is required. cromwell's habit of prayer is a notable feature of him. all his great enterprises were commenced with prayer. in dark inextricable-looking difficulties, his officers and he used to assemble, and pray alternately, for hours, for days, till some definite resolution rose among them, some 'door of hope,' as they would name it, disclosed itself. consider that. in tears, in fervent prayers, and cries to the great god, to have pity on them, to make his light shine before them. they, armed soldiers of christ, as they felt themselves to be; a little band of christian brothers, who had drawn the sword against a great black devouring world not christian, but mammonish, devilish,--they cried to god in their straits, in their extreme need, not to forsake the cause that was his. the light which now rose upon them,--how could a human soul, by any means at all, get better light? was not the purpose so formed like to be precisely the best, wisest, the one to be followed without hesitation any more? to them it was as the shining of heaven's own splendour in the waste-howling darkness; the pillar of fire by night, that was to guide them on their desolate perilous way. _was_ it not such? can a man's soul, to this hour, get guidance by any other method than intrinsically by that same,--devout prostration of the earnest struggling soul before the highest, the giver of all light; be such _prayer_ a spoken, articulate, or be it a voiceless, inarticulate one? there is no other method. 'hypocrisy'? one begins to be weary of all that. they who call it so, have no right to speak on such matters. they never formed a purpose, what one can call a purpose. they went about balancing expediences, plausibilities; gathering votes, advices; they never were alone with the _truth_ of a thing at all.--cromwell's prayers were likely to be 'eloquent,' and much more than that. his was the heart of a man who _could_ pray. but indeed his actual speeches, i apprehend, were not nearly so ineloquent, incondite, as they look. we find he was, what all speakers aim to be, an impressive speaker, even in parliament; one who, from the first, had weight. with that rude passionate voice of his, he was always understood to _mean_ something, and men wished to know what. he disregarded eloquence, nay despised and disliked it; spoke always without premeditation of the words he was to use. the reporters, too, in those days seem to have been singularly candid; and to have given the printer precisely what they found on their own notepaper. and withal, what a strange proof is it of cromwell's being the premeditative ever-calculating hypocrite, acting a play before the world, that to the last he took no more charge of his speeches! how came he not to study his words a little, before flinging them out to the public? if the words were true words, they could be left to shift for themselves. but with regard to cromwell's 'lying,' we will make one remark. this, i suppose, or something like this, to have been the nature of it. all parties found themselves deceived in him; each party understood him to be meaning _this_, heard him even say so, and behold he turns-out to have been meaning _that_! he was, cry they, the chief of liars. but now, intrinsically, is not all this the inevitable fortune, not of a false man in such times, but simply of a superior man? such a man must have _reticences_ in him. if he walk wearing his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at, his journey will not extend far! there is no use for any man's taking-up his abode in a house built of glass. a man always is to be himself the judge how much of his mind he will show to other men; even to those he would have work along with him. there are impertinent inquiries made: your rule is, to leave the inquirer _un_informed on that matter; not, if you can help it, _mis_informed; but precisely as dark as he was! this, could one hit the right phrase of response, is what the wise and faithful man would aim to answer in such a case. cromwell, no doubt of it, spoke often in the dialect of small subaltern parties; uttered to them a _part_ of his mind. each little party thought him all its own. hence their rage, one and all, to find him not of their party, but of his own party! was it his blame? at all seasons of his history he must have felt, among such people, how, if he explained to them the deeper insight he had, they must either have shuddered aghast at it, or believing it, their own little compact hypothesis must have gone wholly to wreck. they could not have worked in his province any more; nay perhaps they could not now have worked in their own province. it is the inevitable position of a great man among small men. small men, most active, useful, are to be seen everywhere, whose whole activity depends on some conviction which to you is palpably a limited one; imperfect, what we call an _error_. but would it be a kindness always, is it a duty always or often, to disturb them in that? many a man, doing loud work in the world, stands only on some thin traditionality, conventionality; to him indubitable, to you incredible: break that beneath him, he sinks to endless depths! "i might have my hand full of truth," said fontenelle, "and open only my little finger." and if this be the fact even in matters of doctrine, how much more in all departments of practice! he that cannot withal _keep his mind to himself_ cannot practise any considerable thing whatever. and we call it 'dissimulation,' all this? what would you think of calling the general of an army a dissembler because he did not tell every corporal and private soldier, who pleased to put the question, what his thoughts were about everything?--cromwell, i should rather say, managed all this in a manner we must admire for its perfection. an endless vortex of such questioning 'corporals' rolled confusedly round him through his whole course; whom he did answer. it must have been as a great true-seeing man that he managed this too. not one proved falsehood, as i said; not one! of what man that ever wound himself through such a coil of things will you say so much?- * * * * * but in fact there are two errors, widely prevalent, which pervert to the very basis our judgments formed about such men as cromwell; about their 'ambition,' 'falsity,' and such-like. the first is what i might call substituting the _goal_ of their career for the course and starting point of it. the vulgar historian of a cromwell fancies that he had determined on being protector of england, at the time when he was ploughing the marsh lands of cambridgeshire. his career lay all mapped-out: a program of the whole drama; which he then step by step dramatically unfolded, with all manner of cunning, deceptive dramaturgy, as he went on,--the hollow, scheming [greek: hypokritês], or play-actor that he was! this is a radical perversion; all but universal in such cases. and think for an instant how different the fact is! how much does one of us foresee of his own life? short way ahead of us it is all dim; an _un_wound skein of possibilities, of apprehensions, attemptabilities, vague-looming hopes. this cromwell had _not_ his life lying all in that fashion of program, which he needed then, with that unfathomable cunning of his, only to enact dramatically, scene after scene! not so. we see it so; but to him it was in no measure so. what absurdities would fall-away of themselves, were this one undeniable fact kept honestly in view by history! historians indeed will tell you that they do keep it in view;--but look whether such is practically the fact! vulgar history, as in this cromwell's case, omits it altogether; even the best kinds of history only remember it now and then. to remember it duly with rigorous perfection, as in the fact it _stood_, requires indeed a rare faculty; rare, nay impossible. a very shakspeare for faculty; or more than shakspeare; who could _enact_ a brother-man's biography, see with the brother-man's eyes at all points of his course what things _he_ saw; in short, _know_ his course and him, as few 'historians' are like to do. half or more of all the thick-plied perversions which distort our image of cromwell, will disappear, if we honestly so much as try to represent them so; in sequence, as they _were_; not in the lump, as they are thrown-down before us. but a second error, which i think the generality commit, refers to this same 'ambition' itself. we exaggerate the ambition of great men; we mistake what the nature of it is. great men are not ambitious in that sense; he is a small poor man that is ambitious so. examine the man who lives in misery because he does not shine above other men; who goes about producing himself, pruriently anxious about his gifts and claims; struggling to force everybody, as it were begging everybody for god's sake, to acknowledge him a great man, and set him over the heads of men! such a creature is among the wretchedest sights seen under this sun. a _great_ man? a poor morbid prurient empty man; fitter for the ward of a hospital, than for a throne among men. i advise you to keep-out of his way. he cannot walk on quiet paths; unless you will look at him, wonder at him, write paragraphs about him, he cannot live. it is the _emptiness_ of the man, not his greatness. because there is nothing in himself, he hungers and thirsts that you would find something in him. in good truth, i believe no great man, not so much as a genuine man who had health and real substance in him of whatever magnitude, was ever much tormented in this way. your cromwell, what good could it do him to be 'noticed' by noisy crowds of people? god his maker already noticed him. he, cromwell, was already there; no notice would make _him_ other than he already was. till his hair was grown gray; and life from the downhill slope was all seen to be limited, not infinite but finite, and all a measurable matter _how_ it went,--he had been content to plough the ground, and read his bible. he in his old days could not support it any longer, without selling himself to falsehood, that he might ride in gilt carriages to whitehall, and have clerks with bundles of papers haunting him, "decide this, decide that," which in utmost sorrow of heart no man can perfectly decide! what could gilt carriages do for this man? from of old, was there not in his life a weight of meaning, a terror and a splendour as of heaven itself? his existence there as man set him beyond the need of gilding. death, judgment and eternity: these already lay as the background of whatsoever he thought or did. all his life lay begirt as in a sea of nameless thoughts, which no speech of a mortal could name. god's word, as the puritan prophets of that time had read it: this was great, and all else was little to him. to call such a man 'ambitious,' to figure him as the prurient windbag described above, seems to me the poorest solecism. such a man will say: "keep your gilt carriages and huzzaing mobs, keep your red-tape clerks, your influentialities, your important businesses. leave me alone, leave me alone; there is _too much of life_ in me already!" old samuel johnson, the greatest soul in england in his day, was not ambitious. 'corsica boswell' flaunted at public shows with printed ribbons round his hat; but the great old samuel stayed at home. the world-wide soul wrapt-up in its thoughts, in its sorrows;--what could paradings, and ribbons in the hat, do for it? ah yes, i will say again: the great _silent_ men! looking round on the noisy inanity of the world, words with little meaning, actions with little worth, one loves to reflect on the great empire of _silence_. the noble silent men, scattered here and there, each in his department; silently thinking, silently working; whom no morning newspaper makes mention of! they are the salt of the earth. a country that has none or few of these is in a bad way. like a forest which had no _roots_; which had all turned into leaves and boughs;--which must soon wither and be no forest. woe for us if we had nothing but what we can _show_, or speak. silence, the great empire of silence: higher than the stars; deeper than the kingdoms of death! it alone is great; all else is small.--i hope we english will long maintain our _grand talent pour le silence_. let others that cannot do without standing on barrel-heads, to spout, and be seen of all the market-place, cultivate speech exclusively,--become a most green forest without roots! solomon says, there is a time to speak; but also a time to keep silence. of some great silent samuel, not urged to writing, as old samuel johnson says he was, by _want of money_, and nothing other, one might ask, "why do not you too get up and speak; promulgate your system, found your sect?" "truly," he will answer, "i am _continent_ of my thought hitherto; happily i have yet had the ability to keep it in me, no compulsion strong enough to speak it. my 'system' is not for promulgation first of all; it is for serving myself to live by. that is the great purpose of it to me. and then the 'honour'? alas, yes;--but as cato said of the statue: so many statues in that forum of yours, may it not be better if they ask, where is cato's statue?"-but, now, by way of counterpoise to this of silence, let me say that there are two kinds of ambition; one wholly blamable, the other laudable and inevitable. nature has provided that the great silent samuel shall not be silent too long. the selfish wish to shine over others, let it be accounted altogether poor and miserable. 'seekest thou great things, seek them not:' this is most true. and yet, i say, there is an irrepressible tendency in every man to develop himself according to the magnitude which nature has made him of; to speak-out, to act-out, what nature has laid in him. this is proper, fit, inevitable; nay it is a duty, and even the summary of duties for a man. the meaning of life here on earth might be defined as consisting in this: to unfold your _self_, to work what thing you have the faculty for. it is a necessity for the human being, the first law of our existence. coleridge beautifully remarks that the infant learns to _speak_ by this necessity it feels.--we will say therefore: to decide about ambition, whether it is bad or not, you have two things to take into view. not the coveting of the place alone, but the fitness of the man for the place withal: that is the question. perhaps the place was _his_; perhaps he had a natural right, and even obligation, to seek the place! mirabeau's ambition to be prime minister, how shall we blame it, if he were 'the only man in france that could have done any good there'? hopefuler perhaps had he not so clearly _felt_ how much good he could do! but a poor necker, who could do no good, and had even felt that he could do none, yet sitting broken-hearted because they had flung him out, and he was now quit of it, well might gibbon mourn over him.--nature, i say, has provided amply that the silent great man shall strive to speak withal; _too_ amply, rather! fancy, for example, you had revealed to the brave old samuel johnson, in his shrouded-up existence, that it was possible for him to do priceless divine work for his country and the whole world. that the perfect heavenly law might be made law on this earth; that the prayer he prayed daily, 'thy kingdom come,' was at length to be fulfilled! if you had convinced his judgment of this; that it was possible, practicable; that he the mournful silent samuel was called to take a part in it! would not the whole soul of the man have flamed up into a divine clearness, into noble utterance and determination to act; casting all sorrows and misgivings under his feet, counting all affliction and contradiction small,--the whole dark element of his existence blazing into articulate radiance of light and lightning? it were a true ambition this! and think now how it actually was with cromwell. from of old, the sufferings of god's church, true zealous preachers of the truth flung into dungeons, whipt, set on pillories, their ears cropt off, god's gospel-cause trodden under foot of the unworthy: all this had lain heavy on his soul. long years he had looked upon it, in silence, in prayer; seeing no remedy on earth; trusting well that a remedy in heaven's goodness would come,--that such a course was false, unjust, and could not last forever. and now behold the dawn of it; after twelve years silent waiting, all england stirs itself; there is to be once more a parliament, the right will get a voice for itself: inexpressible well-grounded hope has come again into the earth. was not such a parliament worth being a member of? cromwell threw down his ploughs and hastened thither. he spoke there,--rugged bursts of earnestness, of a self-seen truth, where we get a glimpse of them. he worked there; he fought and strove, like a strong true giant of a man, through cannon-tumult and all else,--on and on, till the cause _triumphed_, its once so formidable enemies all swept from before it, and the dawn of hope had become clear light of victory and certainty. that _he_ stood there as the strongest soul of england, the undisputed hero of all england,--what of this? it was possible that the law of christ's gospel could now establish itself in the world! the theocracy which john knox in his pulpit might dream of as a 'devout imagination,' this practical man, experienced in the whole chaos of most rough practice, dared to consider as capable of being _realised_. those that were highest in christ's church, the devoutest wisest men, were to rule the land: in some considerable degree, it might be so and should be so. was it not _true_, god's truth? and if _true_, was it not then the very thing to do? the strongest practical intellect in england dared to answer, yes! this i call a noble true purpose; is it not, in its own dialect, the noblest that could enter into the heart of statesman or man? for a knox to take it up was something; but for a cromwell, with his great sound sense and experience of what our world _was_,--history, i think, shows it only this once in such a degree. i account it the culminating point of protestantism; the most heroic phasis that 'faith in the bible' was appointed to exhibit here below. fancy it: that it were made manifest to one of us, how we could make the right supremely victorious over wrong, and all that we had longed and prayed for, as the highest good to england and all lands, an attainable fact! well, i must say, the _vulpine_ intellect, with its knowingness, its alertness and expertness in 'detecting hypocrites,' seems to me a rather sorry business. we have had one such statesman in england; one man, that i can get sight of, who ever had in the heart of him any such purpose at all. one man, in the course of fifteen hundred years; and this was his welcome. he had adherents by the hundred or the ten; opponents by the million. had england rallied all round him,--why, then, england might have been a _christian_ land! as it is, vulpine knowingness sits yet at its hopeless problem, 'given a world of knaves, to educe an honesty from their united action;'--how cumbrous a problem, you may see in chancery law-courts, and some other places! till at length, by heaven's just anger, but also by heaven's great grace, the matter begins to stagnate; and this problem is becoming to all men a _palpably_ hopeless one.- * * * * * but with regard to cromwell and his purposes: hume and a multitude following him, come upon me here with an admission that cromwell _was_ sincere at first; a sincere 'fanatic' at first, but gradually became a 'hypocrite' as things opened round him. this of the fanatic-hypocrite is hume's theory of it; extensively applied since,--to mahomet and many others. think of it seriously, you will find something in it; not much, not all, very far from all. sincere hero hearts do not sink in this miserable manner. the sun flings forth impurities, gets balefully incrusted with spots; but it does not quench itself, and become no sun at all, but a mass of darkness! i will venture to say that such never befell a great, deep cromwell; i think, never. nature's own lion-hearted son! antæus-like, his strength is got by _touching the earth_, his mother; lift him up from the earth, lift him up into hypocrisy, inanity, his strength is gone. we will not assert that cromwell was an immaculate man; that he fell into no faults, no insincerities among the rest. he was no dilettante professor of 'perfections,' 'immaculate conducts.' he was a rugged orson, rending his rough way through actual true _work_,--doubtless with many a _fall_ therein. insincerities, faults, very many faults daily and hourly: it was too well known to him; known to god and him! the sun was dimmed many a time; but the sun had not himself grown a dimness. cromwell's last words, as he lay waiting for death, are those of a christian heroic man. broken prayers to god, that he would judge him and this cause, he since man could not, in justice yet in pity. they are most touching words. he breathed out his wild great soul, its toils and sins all ended now, into the presence of his maker, in this manner. i, for one, will not call the man a hypocrite! hypocrite, mummer, the life of him a mere theatricality; empty barren quack, hungry for the shouts of mobs? the man had made obscurity do very well for him till his head was gray; and now he _was_, there as he stood recognised unblamed, the virtual king of england. cannot a man do without king's coaches and cloaks? is it such a blessedness to have clerks forever pestering you with bundles of papers in red tape? a simple diocletian prefers planting of cabbages; a george washington, no very immeasurable man, does the like. one would say, it is what any genuine man could do; and would do. the instant his real work were out in the matter of kingship,--away with it! let us remark, meanwhile, how indispensable everywhere a _king_ is, in all movements of men. it is strikingly shown, in this very war, what becomes of men when they cannot find a chief man, and their enemies can. the scotch nation was all but unanimous in puritanism; zealous and of one mind about it, as in this english end of the island was far from being the case. but there was no great cromwell among them; poor tremulous, hesitating, diplomatic argyles and suchlike; none of them had a heart true enough for the truth, or durst commit himself to the truth. they had no leader; and the scattered cavalier party in that country had one: montrose, the noblest of all the cavaliers; an accomplished, gallant-hearted, splendid man; what one may call the hero-cavalier. well, look at it; on the one hand subjects without a king; on the other a king without subjects! the subjects without king can do nothing; the subjectless king can do something. this montrose, with a handful of irish or highland savages, few of them so much as guns in their hands, dashes at the drilled puritan armies like a wild whirlwind; sweeps them, time after time, some five times over, from the field before him. he was at one period, for a short while, master of all scotland. one man; but he was a man: a million zealous men, but _without_ the one; they against him were powerless! perhaps of all the persons in that puritan struggle, from first to last, the single indispensable one was verily cromwell. to see and dare, and decide; to be a fixed pillar in the welter of uncertainty;--a king among them, whether they called him so or not. * * * * * precisely here, however, lies the rub for cromwell. his other proceedings have all found advocates, and stand generally justified; but this dismissal of the rump parliament and assumption of the protectorship, is what no one can pardon him. he had fairly grown to be king in england; chief man of the victorious party in england: but it seems he could not do without the king's cloak, and sold himself to perdition in order to get it. let us see a little how this was. england, scotland, ireland, all lying now subdued at the feet of the puritan parliament, the practical question arose, what was to be done with it? how will you govern these nations, which providence in a wondrous way has given-up to your disposal? clearly those hundred surviving members of the long parliament, who sit there as supreme authority, cannot continue for ever to sit. what _is_ to be done?--it was a question which theoretical constitution-builders may find easy to answer; but to cromwell, looking there into the real practical facts of it, there could be none more complicated. he asked of the parliament, what it was they would decide upon? it was for the parliament to say. yet the soldiers too, however contrary to formula, they who had purchased this victory with their blood, it seemed to them that they also should have something to say in it! we will not "for all our fighting have nothing but a little piece of paper." we understand that the law of god's gospel, to which he through us has given the victory, shall establish itself, or try to establish itself, in this land! for three years, cromwell says, this question had been sounded in the ears of the parliament. they could make no answer; nothing but talk, talk. perhaps it lies in the nature of parliamentary bodies; perhaps no parliament could in such case make any answer but even that of talk, talk! nevertheless the question must and shall be answered. you sixty men there, becoming fast odious, even despicable, to the whole nation, whom the nation already calls rump parliament, _you_ cannot continue to sit there: who or what then is to follow? 'free parliament,' right of election, constitutional formulas of one sort or the other,--the thing is a hungry fact coming on us, which we must answer or be devoured by it! and who are you that prate of constitutional formulas, rights of parliament? you have had to kill your king, to make pride's purges, to expel and banish by the law of the stronger whosoever would not let your cause prosper: there are but fifty or three-score of you left there, debating in these days. tell us what we shall do; not in the way of formula, but of practicable fact! how they did finally answer, remains obscure to this day. the diligent godwin himself admits that he cannot make it out. the likeliest is, that this poor parliament still would not, and indeed could not dissolve and disperse; that when it came to the point of actually dispersing, they again, for the tenth or twentieth time, adjourned it,--and cromwell's patience failed him. but we will take the favourablest hypothesis ever started for the parliament; the favourablest, though i believe it is not the true one, but too favourable. according to this version: at the uttermost crisis, when cromwell and his officers were met on the one hand, and the fifty or sixty rump members on the other, it was suddenly told cromwell that the rump in its despair _was_ answering in a very singular way; that in their splenetic envious despair, to keep-out the army at least, these men were hurrying through the house a kind of reform bill,--parliament to be chosen by the whole of england; equable electoral division into districts; free suffrage, and the rest of it! a very questionable, or indeed for _them_ an unquestionable thing. reform bill, free suffrage of englishmen? why, the royalists themselves, silenced indeed but not exterminated, perhaps out_number_ us; the great numerical majority of england was always indifferent to our cause, merely looked at it and submitted to it. it is in weight and force, not by counting of heads, that we are the majority! and now with your formulas and reform bills, the whole matter, sorely won by our swords, shall again launch itself to sea; become a mere hope, and likelihood, _small_ even as a likelihood? and it is not a likelihood; it is a certainty, which we have won, by god's strength and our own right hands, and do now hold _here_. cromwell walked down to these refractory members; interrupted them in that rapid speed of their reform bill;--ordered them to begone, and talk there no more.--can we not forgive him? can we not understand him? john milton, who looked on it all near at hand, could applaud him. the reality had swept the formulas away before it. i fancy, most men who were realities in england might see into the necessity of that. the strong daring man, therefore, has set all manner of formulas and logical superficialities against him; has dared appeal to the genuine fact of this england, whether it will support him or not? it is curious to see how he struggles to govern in some constitutional way; find some parliament to support him; but cannot. his first parliament, the one they call barebones's parliament, is, so to speak, a _convocation of the notables_. from all quarters of england the leading ministers and chief puritan officials nominate the men most distinguished by religious reputation, influence and attachment to the true cause: these are assembled to shape-out a plan. they sanctioned what was past; shaped as they could what was to come. they were scornfully called _barebones's parliament_, the man's name, it seems, was not _barebones_, but barbone,--a good enough man. nor was it a jest, their work; it was a most serious reality,--a trial on the part of these puritan notables how far the law of christ could become the law of this england. there were men of sense among them, men of some quality; men of deep piety i suppose the most of them were. they failed, it seems, and broke down, endeavouring to reform the court of chancery! they dissolved themselves, as incompetent; delivered-up their power again into the hands of the lord-general cromwell, to do with it what he liked and could. what _will_ he do with it? the lord-general cromwell, 'commander-in chief of all the forces raised and to be raised;' he hereby sees himself, at this unexampled juncture, as it were the one available authority left in england, nothing between england and utter anarchy but him alone. such is the undeniable fact of his position and england's, there and then. what will he do with it? after deliberation, he decides that he will _accept_ it; will formally, with public solemnity, say and vow before god and men, "yes, the fact is so, and i will do the best i can with it!" protectorship, instrument of government,--these are the external forms of the thing; worked-out and sanctioned as they could in the circumstances be, by the judges, by the leading official people, 'council of officers and persons of interest in the nation:' and as for the thing itself, undeniably enough, at the pass matters had now come to, there _was_ no alternative but anarchy or that. puritan england might accept it or not; but puritan england was, in real truth, saved from suicide thereby!--i believe the puritan people did, in an inarticulate, grumbling, yet on the whole grateful and real way, accept this anomalous act of oliver's; at least, he and they together made it good, and always better to the last. but in their parliamentary _articulate_ way, they had their difficulties, and never knew fully what to say to it!-oliver's second parliament, properly his _first_ regular parliament, chosen by the rule laid-down in the instrument of government, did assemble, and worked;--but got, before long, into bottomless questions as to the protector's _right_, as to 'usurpation,' and so forth; and had at the earliest legal day to be dismissed. cromwell's concluding speech to these men is a remarkable one. so likewise to his third parliament, in similar rebuke for their pedantries and obstinacies. most rude, chaotic, all these speeches are; but most earnest-looking. you would say, it was a sincere helpless man; not used to _speak_ the great inorganic thought of him, but to act it rather! a helplessness of utterance, in such bursting fulness of meaning. he talks much about 'births of providence:' all these changes, so many victories and events, were not forethoughts, and theatrical contrivances of men, of _me_ or of men; it is blind blasphemers that will persist in calling them so! he insists with a heavy sulphurous wrathful emphasis on this. as he well might. as if a cromwell in that dark huge game he had been playing, the world wholly thrown into chaos round him, had _foreseen_ it all, and played it all off like a precontrived puppetshow by wood and wire! these things were foreseen by no man, he says; no man could tell what a day would bring forth: they were 'births of providence,' god's finger guided us on, and we came at last to clear height of victory, god's cause triumphant in these nations; and you as a parliament could assemble together, and say in what manner all this could be _organised_, reduced into rational feasibility among the affairs of men. you were to help with your wise counsel in doing that. "you have had such an opportunity as no parliament in england ever had." christ's law, the right and true, was to be in some measure made the law of this land. in place of that, you have got into your idle pedantries, constitutionalities, bottomless cavillings and questionings about written laws for _my_ coming here;--and would send the whole matter into chaos again, because i have no notary's parchment, but only god's voice from the battle-whirlwind, for being president among you! that opportunity is gone; and we know not when it will return. you have had your constitutional logic; and mammon's law, not christ's law, rules yet in this land. "god be judge between you and me!" these are his final words to them: take you your constitution-formulas in your hand; and i my _in_formal struggles, purposes, realities and acts; and "god be judge between you and me!"-we said above what shapeless, involved chaotic things the printed speeches of cromwell are. _wilfully_ ambiguous, unintelligible, say the most: a hypocrite shrouding himself in confused jesuitic jargon! to me they do not seem so. i will say rather, they afforded the first glimpses i could ever get into the reality of this cromwell, nay into the possibility of him. try to believe that he means something, search lovingly what that may be: you will find a real _speech_ lying imprisoned in these broken rude tortuous utterances; a meaning in the great heart of this inarticulate man! you will, for the first time, begin to see that he was a man; not an enigmatic chimera, unintelligible to you, incredible to you. the histories and biographies written of this cromwell, written in shallow sceptical generations that could not know or conceive of a deep believing man, are far more _obscure_ than cromwell's speeches. you look through them only into the infinite vague of black and the inane. 'heats and jealousies,' says lord clarendon himself: 'heats and jealousies,' mere crabbed whims, theories and crochets; these induced slow sober quiet englishmen to lay down their ploughs and work; and fly into red fury of confused war against the best-conditioned of kings! _try_ if you can find that true. scepticism writing about belief may have great gifts; but it is really _ultra vires_ there. it is blindness laying-down the laws of optics.-cromwell's third parliament split on the same rock as his second. ever the constitutional formula: how came _you_ there? show us some notary parchment! blind pedants:--"why, surely the same power which makes you a parliament, that, and something more, made me a protector!" if my protectorship is nothing, what in the name of wonder is your parliamenteership, a reflex and creation of that?-parliaments having failed, there remained nothing but the way of despotism. military dictators, each with his district, to _coerce_ the royalists and other gainsayers, to govern them, if not by act of parliament, then by the sword. formula shall _not_ carry it, while the reality is here! i will go on, protecting oppressed protestants abroad, appointing just judges, wise managers, at home, cherishing true gospel ministers; doing the best i can to make england a christian england, greater than old rome, the queen of protestant christianity; i, since you will not help me; i while god leaves me life!--why did he not give it up; retire into obscurity again, since the law would not acknowledge him? cry several. that is where they mistake. for him there was no giving of it up! prime ministers have governed countries, pitt, pombal, choiseul; and their word was a law while it held: but this prime minister was one that _could not get resigned_. let him once resign, charles stuart and the cavaliers waited to kill him; to kill the cause _and_ him. once embarked, there is no retreat, no return. this prime minister could _retire_ nowhither except into his tomb. one is sorry for cromwell in his old days. his complaint is incessant of the heavy burden providence has laid on him. heavy; which he must bear till death. old colonel hutchinson, as his wife relates it, hutchinson, his old battle-mate, coming to see him on some indispensable business, much against his will,--cromwell 'follows him to the door,' in a most fraternal, domestic, conciliatory style; begs that he would be reconciled to him, his old brother in arms; says how much it grieves him to be misunderstood, deserted by true fellow-soldiers, dear to him from of old: the rigorous hutchinson, cased in his republican formula, sullenly goes his way.--and the man's head now white; his strong arm growing weary with its long work! i think always too of his poor mother, now very old, living in that palace of his; a right brave woman: as indeed they lived all an honest god-fearing household there: if she heard a shot go off, she thought it was her son killed. he had to come to her at least once a day, that she might see with her own eyes that he was yet living. the poor old mother!----what had this man gained; what had he gained? he had a life of sore strife and toil, to his last day. fame, ambition, place in history? his dead body was hung in chains; his 'place in history,'--place in history forsooth!--has been a place of ignominy, accusation, blackness and disgrace; and here, this day, who knows if it is not rash in me to be among the first that ever ventured to pronounce him not a knave and a liar, but a genuinely honest man! peace to him. did he not, in spite of all, accomplish much for us? _we_ walk smoothly over his great rough heroic life; step-over his body sunk in the ditch there. we need not _spurn_ it, as we step on it!--let the hero rest. it was not to _men's_ judgment that he appealed; nor have men judged him very well. * * * * * precisely a century and a year after this of puritanism had got itself hushed-up into decent composure, and its results made smooth in 1688, there broke-out a far deeper explosion, much more difficult to hush-up, known to all mortals, and like to be long known, by the name of french revolution. it is properly the third and final act of protestantism; the explosive confused return of mankind to reality and fact, now that they were perishing of semblance and sham. we call our english puritanism the second act: "well then, the bible is true; let us go by the bible!" "in church," said luther; "in church and state," said cromwell, "let us go by what actually is god's truth." men have to return to reality; they cannot live on semblance. the french revolution, or third act, we may well call the final one; for lower than that savage _sansculottism_ men cannot go. they stand there on the nakedest haggard fact, undeniable in all seasons and circumstances; and may and must begin again confidently to build-up from that. the french explosion, like the english one, got its king,--who had no notary parchment to show for himself. we have still to glance for a moment at napoleon, our second modern king. napoleon does by no means seem to me so great a man as cromwell. his enormous victories which reached over all europe, while cromwell abode mainly in our little england, are but as the high _stilts_ on which the man is seen standing; the stature of the man is not altered thereby. i find in him no such _sincerity_ as in cromwell; only a far inferior sort. no silent walking, through long years, with the awful unnamable of this universe; 'walking with god,' as he called it; and faith and strength in that alone: _latent_ thought and valour, content to lie latent, then burst out as in blaze of heaven's lightning! napoleon lived in an age when god was no longer believed; the meaning of all silence, latency, was thought to be nonentity: he had to begin not out of the puritan bible, but out of poor sceptical _encyclopédies_. this was the length the man carried it. meritorious to get so far. his compact, prompt, everyway articulate character is in itself perhaps small, compared with our great chaotic inarticulate cromwell's. instead of '_dumb_ prophet struggling to speak,' we have a portentous mixture of the quack withal! hume's notion of the fanatic-hypocrite, with such truth as it has, will apply much better to napoleon than it did to cromwell, to mahomet or the like,--where indeed taken strictly it has hardly any truth at all. an element of blamable ambition shows itself, from the first, in this man; gets the victory over him at last, and involves him and his work in ruin. 'false as a bulletin' became a proverb in napoleon's time. he makes what excuse he could for it: that it was necessary to mislead the enemy, to keep up his own men's courage, and so forth. on the whole, there are no excuses. a man in no case has liberty to tell lies. it had been, in the long-run, _better_ for napoleon too if he had not told any. in fact, if a man have any purpose reaching beyond the hour and day, meant to be found extant _next_ day, what good can it ever be to promulgate lies? the lies are found-out; ruinous penalty is exacted for them. no man will believe the liar next time even when he speaks truth, when it is of the last importance that he be believed. the old cry of wolf!--a lie is _no_-thing; you cannot of nothing make something; you make _nothing_ at last, and lose your labour into the bargain. yet napoleon _had_ a sincerity; we are to distinguish between what is superficial and what is fundamental in insincerity. across these outer manoeuvrings and quackeries of his, which were many and most blamable, let us discern withal that the man had a certain instinctive ineradicable feeling for reality; and did base himself upon fact, so long as he had any basis. he has an instinct of nature better than his culture was. his _savans_, bourrienne tells us, in that voyage to egypt were one evening busily occupied arguing that there could be no god. they had proved it, to their satisfaction, by all manner of logic. napoleon looking up into the stars, answers, "very ingenious, messieurs: but _who made_ all that?" the atheistic logic runs-off from him like water; the great fact stares him in the face: "who made all that?" so too in practice: he, as every man that can be great, or have victory in this world, sees, through all entanglements, the practical heart of the matter; drives straight towards that. when the steward of his tuileries palace was exhibiting the new upholstery, with praises, and demonstration how glorious it was, and how cheap withal, napoleon, making little answer, asked for a pair of scissors, clipt one of the gold tassels from a window-curtain, put it in his pocket, and walked on. some days afterwards, he produced it at the right moment, to the horror of his upholstery functionary; it was not gold but tinsel! in saint helena, it is notable how he still, to his last days, insists on the practical, the real. "why talk and complain; above all, why quarrel with one another? there is no _result_ in it; it comes to nothing that one can _do_. say nothing, if one can do nothing!" he speaks often so, to his poor discontented followers; he is like a piece of silent strength in the middle of their morbid querulousness there. and accordingly was there not what we can call a _faith_ in him, genuine so far as it went? that this new enormous democracy asserting itself here in the french revolution is an insuppressible fact, which the whole world, with its old forces and institutions cannot put down; this was a true insight of his, and took his conscience and enthusiasm along with it,--a _faith_. and did he not interpret the dim purport of it well? '_la carrière ouverte aux talens_, the implements to him who can handle them:' this actually is the truth, and even the whole truth; it includes whatever the french revolution, or any revolution, could mean. napoleon, in his first period, was a true democrat. and yet by the nature of him, fostered too by his military trade, he knew that democracy, if it were a true thing at all could not be an anarchy: the man had a heart-hatred for anarchy. on that twentieth of june (1792), bourrienne and he sat in a coffee-house, as the mob rolled by: napoleon expresses the deepest contempt for persons in authority that they do not restrain this rabble. on the tenth of august he wonders why there is no man to command these poor swiss; they would conquer if there were. such a faith in democracy, yet hatred of anarchy, it is that carries napoleon through all his great work. through his brilliant italian campaigns, onwards to the peace of leoben, one would say, his inspiration is: 'triumph to the french revolution; assertion of it against these austrian simulacra that pretend to call it a simulacrum!' withal, however, he feels, and has a right to feel, how necessary a strong authority is; how the revolution cannot prosper or last without such. to bridle-in that great devouring, self-devouring french revolution; to _tame_ it, so that its intrinsic purpose can be made good, that it may become _organic_, and be able to live among other organisms and _formed_ things, not as a wasting destruction alone: is not this still what he partly aimed at, as the true purport of his life; nay what he actually managed to do? through wagrams, austerlitzes; triumph after triumph,--he triumphed so far. there was an eye to see in this man, a soul to dare and do. he rose naturally to be the king. all men saw that he _was_ such. the common soldiers used to say on the march: "these babbling _avocats_, up at paris; all talk and no work! what wonder it runs all wrong? we shall have to go and put our _petit caporal_ there!" they went, and put him there; they and france at large. chief-consulship, emperorship, victory over europe;--till the poor lieutenant of _la fère_, not unnaturally, might seem to himself the greatest of all men that had been in the world for some ages. but at this point, i think, the fatal charlatan-element got the upper hand. he apostatised from his old faith in facts: took to believing in semblances; strove to connect himself with austrian dynasties, popedoms, with the old false feudalities which he once saw clearly to be false;--considered that _he_ would found "his dynasty" and so forth; that the enormous french revolution meant only that! the man was 'given-up to strong delusion, that he should believe a lie;' a fearful but most sure thing. he did not know true from false now when he looked at them,--the fearfulest penalty a man pays for yielding to untruth of heart. _self_ and false ambition had now become his god: _self_-deception once yielded to, _all_ other deceptions follow naturally more and more. what a paltry patch-work of theatrical paper-mantles, tinsel and mummery, had this man wrapt his own great reality in, thinking to make it more real thereby! his hollow pope's-_concordat_, pretending to be a re-establishment of catholicism, felt by himself to be the method of extirpating it, "_la vaccine de la religion_:" his ceremonial coronations, consecrations by the old italian chimera in notre-dame,--"wanting nothing to complete the pomp of it," as augereau said, "nothing but the half-million of men who had died to put an end to all that"! cromwell's inauguration was by the sword and bible; what we must call a genuinely _true_ one. sword and bible were borne before him, without any chimera: were not these the _real_ emblems of puritanism; its true decoration and insignia? it had used them both in a very real manner, and pretended to stand by them now! but this poor napoleon mistook: he believed too much in the _dupeability_ of men; saw no fact deeper in men than hunger and this! he was mistaken. like a man that should build upon cloud; his house and he fall down in confused wreck, and depart out of the world. alas, in all of us this charlatan-element exists; and _might_ be developed, were the temptation strong enough. 'lead us not into temptation'! but it is fatal, i say, that it _be_ developed. the thing into which it enters as a cognisable ingredient is doomed to be altogether transitory; and, however huge it may _look_, is in itself small. napoleon's working, accordingly, what was it with all the noise it made? a flash as of gunpowder wide-spread; a blazing-up as of dry heath. for an hour the whole universe seems wrapt in smoke and flame; but only for an hour. it goes out: the universe with its old mountains and streams, its stars above and kind soil beneath, is still there. the duke of weimar told his friends always, to be of courage; this napoleonism was _unjust_, a falsehood, and could not last. it is true doctrine. the heavier this napoleon trampled on the world, holding it tyrannously down, the fiercer would the world's recoil against him be, one day. injustice pays itself with frightful compound-interest. i am not sure but he had better have lost his best park of artillery, or had his best regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor german bookseller, palm! it was a palpable tyrannous murderous injustice, which no man, let him paint an inch thick, could make-out to be other. it burnt deep into the hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the eyes of men, as they thought of it,--waiting their day! which day _came_: germany rose round him.--what napoleon _did_ will in the long-run amount to what he did _justly_; what nature with her laws will sanction. to what of reality was in him; to that and nothing more. the rest was all smoke and waste. _la carrière ouverte aux talens_: that great true message, which has yet to articulate and fulfil itself everywhere, he left in a most inarticulate state. he was a great _ébauche_, a rude-draught never completed; as indeed what great man is other? left in _too_ rude a state, alas! his notions of the world, as he expresses them there at st. helena, are almost tragical to consider. he seems to feel the most unaffected surprise that it has all gone so; that he is flung-out on the rock here, and the world is still moving on its axis. france is great, and all-great; and at bottom, he is france. england itself, he says, is by nature only an appendage of france; "another isle of oleron to france." so it was _by nature_, by napoleon-nature; and yet look how in fact,--here am i! he cannot understand it: inconceivable that the reality has not corresponded to his program of it; that france was not all-great, that he was not france. 'strong delusion,' that he should believe the thing to be which _is_ not! the compact, clear-seeing, decisive italian nature of him, strong, genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half-dissolved itself, in a turbid atmosphere of french fanfaronade. the world was not disposed to be trodden-down underfoot; to be bound into masses, and built together, as _he_ liked, for a pedestal to france and him: the world had quite other purposes in view! napoleon's astonishment is extreme. but alas, what help now? he had gone that way of his; and nature also had gone her way. having once parted with reality, he tumbles helpless in vacuity; no rescue for him. he had to sink there, mournfully as man seldom did; and break his great heart, and die,--this poor napoleon: a great implement too soon wasted, till it was useless: our last great man! * * * * * _our_ last, in a double sense. for here finally these wide roamings of ours through so many times and places, in search and study of heroes, are to terminate. i am sorry for it: there was pleasure for me in this business, if also much pain. it is a great subject, and a most grave and wide one, this which, not to be too grave about it, i have named _hero-worship_. it enters deeply, as i think, into the secret of mankind's ways and vitalest interests in this world, and is well worth explaining at present. with six months, instead of six days, we might have done better. i promised to break-ground on it; i know not whether i have even managed to do that. i have had to tear it up in the rudest manner in order to get into it at all. often enough, with these abrupt utterances thrown-out isolated, unexplained, has your tolerance been put to the trial. tolerance, patient candour, all-hoping favour and kindness, which i will not speak of at present. the accomplished and distinguished, the beautiful, the wise, something of what is best in england, have listened patiently to my rude words. with many feelings, i heartily thank you all; and say, good be with you all! index abdallah, father of mahomet, 286 abelard, theology of, 389 abu thaleb, uncle of mahomet, 286, 387, 294 action the true end of man, 119, 121 actual, the, the true ideal, 148, 149 adamitism, 43 afflictions, merciful, 145 agincourt, shakspeare's battle of, 341 alexis, luther's friend, his sudden death, 359 ali, young, mahomet's kinsman and convert, 293 allegory, the sportful shadow of earnest faith, 243, 267 ambition, fate's appendage of, 78; foolish charge of, 447; laudable ambition, 449 apprenticeships, 92 aprons, use and significance of, 31 arabia and the arabs, 282, 310 art, all true works of, symbolic, 163 balder, the white sungod, 255, 271 baphometic fire-baptism, 128 barebone's parliament, 456 battle-field, a, 131 battle, life-, our, 65; with folly and sin, 94, 97 being, the boundless phantasmagoria of, 39 belief and opinion, 146, 147 belief, the true god-announcing miracle, 292, 311, 375, 401; war of, 430. _see_ religion, scepticism. benthamism, 309, 400 bible of universal history, 134, 146 biography, meaning and uses of, 56; significance of biographic facts, 152 blumine, 104; her environment, 105; character and relation to teufelsdröckh, 106; blissful bonds rent asunder, 109; on her way to england, 116 bolivar's cavalry-uniform, 37 books, miraculous influence of, 130, 149, 388, 392; our modern university, church and parliament, 390 boswell, his reverence for johnson, 410 banyan's _pilgrim's progress_, 244 burns, gilbert, 417 burns, robert, his birth, and humble heroic parents, 415; rustic dialect of, 416; the most gifted british soul of his century, 417; his resemblance to mirabeau, 418; his sincerity, 419; his visit to edinburgh, 420; lion-hunters the ruin and death of, 421 caabah, the, with its black stone and sacred well, 284, 285 canopus, the worship of, 247 charles i. fatally incapable of being dealt with, 439 childhood, happy season of, 68; early influences and sports, 69 china, literary governors of, 397 christian faith, a good mother's simple version of the, 75; temple of the, now in ruins, 145; passive-half of, 147 christian love, 143, 145 church. _see_ books. church-clothes, 161; living and dead churches, 162; the modern church, and its newspaper-pulpits, 189 circumstances, influence of, 71 clergy, the, with their surplices and cassock-aprons girt-on, 32, 158 clothes, not a spontaneous growth of the human animal, but an artificial device, 2; analogy between the costumes of the body and the customs of the spirit, 25; decoration the first purpose of clothes, 28; what clothes have done for us, and what they threaten to do, 30, 43; fantastic garbs of the middle ages, 34; a simple costume, 35; tangible and mystic influences of clothes, 36, 45; animal and human clothing contrasted, 41; a court-ceremonial _minus_ clothes, 45; necessity for clothes, 47; transparent clothes, 49; all emblematic things are clothes, 54, 203; genesis of the modern clothes-philosopher, 61; character and conditions needed, 153, 156; george fox's suit of leather, 159; church-clothes, 161; old-clothes, 179; practical inferences, 203 codification, 50 combination, value of, 101, 221 commons, british house of, 31 concealment. _see_ secrecy. constitution, our invaluable british, 187 conversion, 149 courtesy, due to all men, 179 courtier, a luckless, 36 cromwell, 430; his hypochondria, 437, 442; early marriage and conversion, 437; an industrious farmer, 438; his victories and participation in the king's death, 439; practicalness of, 440; his ironsides, 440; his speeches, 444, 459; his 'ambition' and such-like, 446; a 'fanatic,' but gradually became a 'hypocrite,' 452; his dismissal of the rump parliament, 456; protectorship and parliamentary futilities, 457; his last days, and closing sorrows, 460 custom the greatest of weavers, 194 dandy, mystic significance of the, 204; dandy worship, 206; sacred books, 208; articles of faith, 209; a dandy household, 213; tragically undermined by growing drudgery, 214 dante and his book, 318; biography in his book, and portrait, 319; his birth, education and early career, 319, 320; his love for beatrice portinari, 320; unhappy marriage, 320; banishment, 321; uncourtier-like ways of, 321; his _divina commedia_ genuinely a song, 322; the unseen world, as figured in the christianity of the middle ages, 329; the 'uses' of dante, 332 david, the hebrew king, 281 death, nourishment even in, 81, 127 della scala, the court of, 321 devil, internecine war with the, 9, 90, 128, 139; cannot now so much as believe in him, 127 dilettantes and pedants, 52; patrons of literature, 96 diodorus siculus, 284 diogenes, 159 divine right of kings, 424 doubt can only be removed by action, 147. _see_ unbelief. drudgery contrasted with dandyism, 210; 'communion of drudges,' and what may come of it, 214 duelling, a picture of, 136 duty, no longer a divine messenger and guide, but a false earthly fantasm, 122, 123; infinite nature of, 147, 309; definition of, 267, 298; sceptical spiritual paralysis, 398 edda, the scandinavian, 253 editor's first acquaintance with teufelsdröckh and his philosophy of clothes, 4; efforts to make known his discovery to british readers, 7; admitted into the teufelsdröckh watch-tower, 14, 25; first feels the pressure of his task, 37; his bulky weissnichtwo packet, 55; strenuous efforts to evolve some historic order out of such interminable documentary confusion, 59; partial success, 67, 76, 117; mysterious hints, 152, 177; astonishment and hesitation, 163; congratulations, 201; farewell, 219 education, influence of early, 71; insignificant portion depending on schools, 77; educational architects, 79; the inspired thinker, 171 eighteenth century, the sceptical, 398, 404, 433 eisleben, the birthplace of luther, 358 eliot, 433, 434 elizabethan era, the, 334 emblems, all visible things, 54 emigration, 173 eternity, looking through time, 15, 55, 168 evil, origin of, 143 eyes and spectacles, 51 facts, engraved hierograms, for which the fewest have the key, 153 faith, the one thing needful, 122 fantasy, the true heaven-gate or hell-gate of man, 109, 165 fashionable novels, 208 fatherhood, 65 faults, his, not the criterion of any man 281 feebleness, the true misery, 124 fichte's theory of literary men, 385 fire, and vital fire, 53, 129; miraculous nature of, 254 force, universal presence of, 53 forms, necessity for, 431 fortunatus' wishing-hat, 195, 197 fox's, george, heavenward aspirations and earthly independence, 159 _fraser's magazine_, 6, 227 frederick the great, symbolic glimpse of, 61 friendship, now obsolete, 89; an incredible tradition, 125, 174; how it were possible, 161, 221 frost. _see_ fire. futteral and his wife, 61 future, organic filaments of the, 183 genius, the world's treatment of, 94 german speculative thought, 2, 9, 20, 24, 41; historical researches, 26, 56 gerund-grinding, 80 ghost, an authentic, 198 giotto, his portrait of dante, 319 god, the unslumbering, omnipresent, eternal, 40; god's presence manifested to our eyes and hearts, 49; an absentee god, 122 goethe's inspired melody, 190; 'characters,' 337; notablest of literary men, 386 good, growth and propagation of, 75 graphic, secret of being, 325 gray's misconception of norse lore, 270 great men, 134. _see_ man. grimm the german antiquary, and odin, 260 gullibility, blessings of, 84 gunpowder, use of, 29, 136 habit, how, makes dullards of us all, 42 hagar, the well of, 284, 285 half-men, 139 hampden, 433, 434 happiness, the whim of, 144 hegira, the, 295 heroes, universal history of the united biographies of, 139, 266; how 'little critics' account for great men, 250; all heroes fundamentally of the same stuff, 265, 277, 312, 346, 383, 418; intellect the primary outfit, 338; heroism possible to all, 358, 375; no man a hero to a valet-soul, 411, 433, 441 hero-worship, the corner-stone of all society, 189; the tap-root of all religion, 248-252, 277; perennial in man, 252, 317, 357, 428 heuschrecke and his biographic documents, 7; his loose, zigzag, thin-visaged character, 18; unaccustomed eloquence, and interminable documentary superfluities, 56; bewildered darkness, 223 history, all-inweaving tissue of, 15; by what strange chances do we live in, 36; a perpetual revelation, 134, 148, 190 homer's iliad, 169 hope, this world emphatically the place of, 122; false shadows of, 140 horse, his own tailor, 41 hutchinson and cromwell, 433, 460 iceland, the home of norse poets, 253 ideal, the, exists only in the actual, 148, 149 idolatry, 351; criminal only when insincere, 353 igdrasil, the life-tree, 257, 334 imagination. _see_ fantasy. immortality, a glimpse of, 196 imposture, statistics of, 84 independence, foolish parade of, 175, 188 indifference, centre of, 128 infant intuitions and acquirements, 68; genius and dulness, 71 inspiration, perennial, 147, 157, 190 intellect, the summary of man's gifts, 338, 397 invention, 29, 120 invisible, the, nature the visible garment of, 41; invisible bonds, binding all men together, 45; the visible and invisible, 49, 164 irish, the, poor-slave, 213 islam, 291 isolation, 81 jesus of nazareth, our divinest symbol, 168, 171 job, the book of, 284 johnson's difficulties, poverty, hypochondria, 405, 406; rude self-help; stands genuinely by the old formulas, 406; his noble unconscious sincerity, 408; twofold gospel, of prudence and hatred of cant, 409; his _dictionary_, 410; the brave old samuel, 411, 450 jötuns, 254, 272 julius the second, pope, 361 kadijah, the good, mahomet's first wife, 288, 292 king, our true, chosen for us in heaven, 187; the, a summary of all the various figures of heroism, 424; indispensable in all movements of men, 453 kingdom, a man's, 91 know thyself, and what thou canst work at, 124 knox's influence on scotland, 374; the bravest of all scotchmen, 376; his unassuming career, 377; is sent to the french galleys, 377; his colloquies with queen mary, 378; vein of drollery, 380; a brother to high and to low, 380; his death, 381 koran, the, 298 koreish, the, keepers of the caabah, 293, 294, 354 kranach's portrait of luther, 372 labour, sacredness of, 171 ladrones islands, what the natives of, thought regarding fire, 254 lamaism, grand, 242 land-owning, trade of, 96 language, the garment of thought, 54; dead vocables, 80 laughter, significance of, 24 leo x., the elegant pagan pope, 363 liberty and equality, 357, 428 lieschen, 17 life, human, picture of, 14, 115, 129, 141; life-purpose, 101; speculative mystery of, 125, 181, 198; the most important transaction in, 128; nothingness of; 138, 139 light the beginning of all creation, 148 literary men, 383; in china, 397 literature, chaotic condition of, 387; not our heaviest evil, 398 logic-mortar and wordy air-castles, 40; underground workshop of logic, 50, 166 louis xv., ungodly age of, 123 love, what we emphatically name, 102; pyrotechnic phenomena of, 103, 166; not altogether a delirium, 109; how possible, in its highest form, 145, 161, 221 ludicrous, feeling and instances of the, 36, 136 luther's birth and parentage, 358; hardship and rigorous necessity; death of his friend alexis, 359; becomes a monk; his religious despair; finds a bible, 360; his deliverance from darkness; at rome, 361; tetzel, 362; burns the pope's bull, 363, 364; at the diet of worms, 364; king of the reformation, 368; 'duke georges for nine days running,' 370; his little daughter's deathbed; his solitary patmos, 371; his portrait, 372 magna charta, 203 mahomet's birth, boyhood, and youth, 286; marries kadijah, 288; quiet, unambitious life, 288; divine commission, 290; the good kadijah believes him, 292; seid, his slave, 293; his cousin ali, 293; his offences and sore struggles, 293; flight from mecca; being driven to take the sword, he uses it, 295; the koran, 298; a veritable hero, 305; seid's death, 306; freedom from cant, 306; the infinite nature of duty, 309 malthus's over-population panic, 170 man, by nature _naked_, 2, 42, 46; essentially a tool-using animal, 30; the true shekinah, 49; a divine emblem, 54, 165, 167, 180, 199; two men alone honourable, 171. _see_ thinking man. mary, queen, and knox, 378 mayflower, sailing of the, 373 mecca, its rise, 285; mahomet's flight from, 294, 295 metaphors, the stuff of language, 54 metaphysics inexpressibly unproductive, 40, 51 middle ages, represented by dante and shakspeare, 329, 333 milton, 124 mirabeau, his ambition, 450 miracles, significance of, 191, 197 monmouth street, and its 'ou' clo'' angels of doom, 181 montrose, the hero-cavalier, 453, 454 mother's, a, religious influence, 75 motive-millwrights, 166 mountain scenery, 115 musical, all deep things, 317 mystery, all-pervading domain of, 51 nakedness and hypocritical clothing, 42, 47; a naked court-ceremonial, 45; a naked duke addressing a naked house of lords, 46 names, significance and influence of, 65, 195 napoleon and his political evangel, 135; compared with cromwell, 461; a portentous mixture of quack and hero, 462; his instinct for the practical, 463; his democratic _faith_ 463; his hatred of anarchy, 464; apostatised from his old faith in facts, and took to believing in semblances, 464, 465; this napoleonism was _unjust_, and could not last, 466 nature, the god-written apocalypse of,39, 49; not an aggregate but a whole, 52, 116, 185, 193; nature alone antique, 79; sympathy with, 115, 135; the 'living garment of god,' 142; laws of nature, 192; all one great miracle, 245, 302, 371; a righteous umpire, 296 necessity, brightened into duty, 74 newspaper editors, 33; our mendicant friars, 189, 190 nothingness of life, 138, 139 nottingham bargemen, 255, 256 novalis, on man, 248; on belief, 292; on shakspeare, 339 obedience, the lesson of, 74, 75 odin, the first norse 'man of genius,' 258; historic rumours and guesses, 259; how he came to be deified, 261; invented 'runes,' 263; hero, prophet, god, 264 olaf, king, and thor, 275 original man the _sincere_ man, 280, 356 orpheus, 197 over-population, 170 own, conservation of a man's, 151 paganism, scandinavian, 241; not mere allegory, 243; nature-worship, 245, 266; hero-worship, 248; creed of our fathers, 253, 272, 274; impersonation of the visible workings of nature, 254; contrasted with greek paganism, 256; the first norse thinker, 258; main practical belief; indispensable to be brave, 267; hearty, homely, rugged mythology, 270; balder and thor, 271; consecration of valour, 276 paradise and fig-leaves, 27; prospective paradises, 102, 110 parliaments superseded by books, 392; cromwell's parliaments, 454 passivity and activity, 74, 121 past, the, inextricably linked with the present, 129; forever extant, 196; the whole, the possession of the present, 277 paupers, what to do with, 173 peace-era, the much-predicted, 133 peasant saint, the, 172 _pelham_, and the whole duty of dandies, 209 perseverance, law of, 178 person, mystery of a, 48, 101, 103, 179 philosophies, cause-and-effect, 26 phoenix death-birth, 178, 183, 201 pitt, mr., his reply when asked for help to burns, 396 plato, the child-man of, 245 poet, the, and prophet, 313, 332, 342 poetry and prose, distinction of, 315, 323 popery, 367 poverty, advantages of, 334 priest, the true, a kind of prophet, 346 printing, consequences of, 392 private judgment, 354 progress of the species, 349 property, 150 prose. _see_ poetry. proselytising, 6, 221 protestantism, the root of modern european history, 364; not dead yet, 367; its living fruit, 373, 425 purgatory, noble catholic conception of, 328 puritanism, founded by knox, 373; true beginning of america, 373; the one epoch of scotland, 374; theocracy, 381; puritanism in england, 430, 432, 453 pym, 433, 434 quackery originates nothing, 242, 279; age of, 403; quacks and dupes, 441 radicalism, speculative, 10, 20, 47, 188 ragnarök, 275 raleigh's, sir walter, fine mantle, 36 ramadhan, the month of, 290 raphael, the best of portrait-painters, 326 reformer, the true, 347 religion, dead letter and living spirit of, 87; weaving new vestures, 162, 207; a man's, the chief fact with regard to him, 240; based on hero-worship, 248; propagating by the sword, 295; cannot succeed by being 'easy,' 304 reverence, early growth of, 75; indispensability of, 188 revolution, 423; the french, 423, 461 richter, 24, 369 right and wrong, 309, 329 rousseau, not a strong man, 411; his portrait; egoism, 412; his passionate appeals, 413; his books, like himself, unhealthy; the evangelist of the french revolution, 414 runes, 263, 264, 388 sabeans, the worship of, 247, 283 sæmund, an early christian priest, 253, 254 st. clement danes, church of, 407 saints, living communion of, 185, 190 sarcasm, the panoply of, 99 _sartor resartus_, genesis of, 7; its purpose, 201 saturn or chronos, 98 savage, the aboriginal, 28 scarecrow, significance of the, 46 sceptical goose-cackle, 51 scepticism, a spiritual paralysis, 398-405, 433 schlegel, august wilhelm, 341 school education, insignificance of, 78, 80; tin-kettle terrors and incitements, 78; need of soul-architects, 80 science, the torch of, 1; the scientific head, 51 scotland awakened into life by knox, 374 secrecy, benignant efficacies of, 164 secret, the open, 313 seid, mahomet's slave and friend, 293, 306 self-activity, 20 self-annihilation, 141 shakspeare and the elizabethan era, 334; his all-sufficing intellect, 335, 338; his characters, 337; his dramas, a part of nature herself, 340; his joyful tranquillity, and overflowing love of laughter, 340; his hearty patriotism, 342; glimpses of the world that was in him, 342; a heaven-sent light-bringer, 343; a king of saxondom, 345 shame, divine, mysterious growth of, 30; the soil of all virtue, 165 shekinah, man the true, 247 silence, 135; the element in which all great things fashion themselves, 164; the great empires of, 333, 449 simon's, saint-, aphorism of the golden age, 178; a false application, 223 sincerity, better than gracefulness, 267; the first characteristic of heroism and originality, 280, 289, 356, 358, 384 smoke, advantage of consuming one's, 114 snorro, his description of odin, 260, 264, 268 society founded upon cloth, 38, 45, 47; how society becomes possible, 162; social death and new-birth, 163, 178, 183, 201; as good as extinct, 174 solitude. _see_ silence. sorrow-pangs of self-deliverance, 115, 120, 121; divine depths of sorrow, 143; worship of sorrow, 146 southey, and literature, 396 space and time, the dream-canvas upon which life is imaged, 40, 49, 192, 195 spartan wisdom, 172 speculative intuition, 38. _see_ german. speech, great, but not greatest, 164 sphinx-riddle, the universe a, 97 star worship, 247, 283 stealing, 151, 172 stupidity, blessings of, 123 style, varieties of, 54 suicide, 126 summary, 231 sunset, 70, 116 swallows, migrations and co-operative instincts of, 72 swineherd, the, 70 symbols, 163; wondrous agency of, 164; extrinsic and intrinsic, 167; superannuated, 169, 175 tabûc, the war of, 306 tailors, symbolic significance of, 217 temptations in the wilderness, 138 testimonies of authors, 227 tetzel, the monk, 362, 363 teufelsdröckh's philosophy of clothes, 4; he proposes a toast, 10; his personal aspect, and silent deep-seated sansculottism, 11; thawed into speech, 13; memorable watch-tower utterances, 14; alone with the stars, 16; extremely miscellaneous environment, 17; plainness of speech, 21; universal learning, and multiplex literary style, 22; ambiguous-looking morality, 23; one instance of laughter, 24; almost total want of arrangement, 25; feeling of the ludicrous, 36; speculative radicalism, 47; a singular character, 58; genesis properly an exodus, 62; unprecedented name, 65; infantine experience, 66; pedagogy, 76; an almost hindoo passivity, 76; schoolboy jostling, 79; heterogeneous university life, 83; fever-paroxysms of doubt, 87; first practical knowledge of the english, 88; getting under way, 90; ill success, 94; glimpse of high life, 96; casts himself on the universe, 101; reverent feeling towards women, 102; frantically in love, 104; first interview with blumine, 106; inspired moments, 108; short of practical kitchen-stuff, 111; ideal bliss and actual catastrophe, 112; sorrows and peripatetic stoicism, 113; a parting glimpse of his beloved on her way to england, 116; how he overran the whole earth, 118; doubt darkened unto unbelief, 122; love of truth, 124; a feeble unit, amidst a threatening infinitude, 125; baphometic fire-baptism, 128; placid indifference, 129; a hyperborean intruder, 136; nothingness of life, 138; temptations in the wilderness, 138; dawning of a better day, 141; the ideal in the actual, 148; finds his true calling, 149; his biography a symbolic adumbration, significant to those who can decipher it, 152; a wonder-lover, seeker and worker, 156; in monmouth street among the hebrews, 181; concluding hints, 219; his public history not yet done, perhaps the better part only beginning, 223 theocracy, a, striven for by all true reformers, 382, 451 thinking man, a, the worst enemy of the prince of darkness, 91, 150; true thought can never die, 185 thor, and his adventures, 255, 271-274; his last appearance, 275 thought, miraculous influence of, 258, 266, 393; _musical_ thought, 316 thunder. _see_ thor. time, the great mystery of, 246 time-spirit, life-battle with the, 65, 98; time, the universal wonder-hider, 197 titles of honour, 186 tolerance, true and false, 368, 379 tools, influence of, 30; the pen, most miraculous of tools, 150 trial by jury, burke's opinion of, 422 turenne, 312 unbelief, era of, 86, 112; doubt darkening into, 121; escape from, 139 universities, 83, 389 utgard, thor's expedition to, 273, 274 utilitarianism, 121, 176 valkyrs, the, 267, 268 valour, the basis of all virtue, 268, 271; norse consecration of, 276; christian valour, 351 _vates_, the, 313, 314, 317 view-hunting and diseased self-consciousness, 117 voltaire, 146; the parisian divinity, 189; voltaire-worship, 251, 252 war, 131 wisdom, 50 wish, the norse god, 255; enlarged into a heaven by mahomet, 310 woman's influence, 102 wonder the basis of worship, 50; region of, 51 words, slavery to, 40; word-mongering and motive-grinding, 123 workshop of life, 149. _see_ labour. worms, luther at, 364 worship, transcendent wonder, 247. _see_ hero-worship. young men and maidens, 97 zemzem, the sacred well, 284 the end